Continued from Mysterious, Part Two...
Adrian's Cafe boasts a mean egg salad sandwich. Adrian's also boasts an owner who does an unintentionally spot-on impression of Nathan Lane. And Adrian's Cafe boasts a particularly precocious counter girl.
I'd guess she's college age or so, but it's really quite difficult to tell these days. She's very chatty and enjoys engaging in conversation that delves into more than just the weather, often at the shock and embarrassment of the conversational participant.
Normally, I visit Adrian's flanked by a couple of co-workers, as it's one of our mutually favorite places to grab lunch. Recently, though, and on this day, I was on my own with only a book in hand as my company.
"So, whatchya readin' today?"
"Breakfast At Tiffany's."
At this point, she stopped what she was doing and stared at me as if I had just run over her dog. Repeatedly.
After about five seconds of being uncomfortably stared at, I said, "Is this a problem?"
She snapped out of her stupor as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers.
"Oh! Oh, no; not at all! It's just that, well, I didn't think that you'd be reading a book like that."
The last time I was in, I was reading "On The Road" and she registered her disdain in saying she felt it was more of a "guy's book".
"Well, I like to read all sorts of things," I said.
She finally gathered herself and started ringing me up.
She asked, "So, what do you do?"
"I sit behind a desk all day, dreaming about the time that I get to go to lunch and read about more interesting things."
"Where do you work that you can dress like that?"
The definition of "that" was a gray and black striped collared shirt and reasonably fashionable jeans.
Rather than saying, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I instead said,
"I work at Cargill in Corporate Woods around the corner."
"Oh! Don't we deliver sandwiches to you guys a lot?"
"Indeed."
"Wow. You are mysterious."
This being the first time that anyone has actually recognized my innate mysteriousness, I was momentarily stunned. While she dreamily rang up my order, I tried not to ruin my newfound reputation.
xxxx
So, like I said, maybe it's the stubble. There doesn't seem to be any other common factors involved in all three of the aforementioned encounters. That is, not unless you count charm, humor, respect and politeness. But none of those factors have worked a lick in the preceding handful of years. So, I really don't know.
Mysterious?
Mysterious, indeed.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Mysterious, Part Two
Continued from Mysterious, Part One...
The only regularly scheduled exercise I get is playing Ultimate Frisbee on Sunday afternoons. Ultimate Frisbee is a game that resembles soccer but utilizes a Frisbee instead. Lots of running back and forth, if you're in decent shape; lots of loafing and walking if you're in my kind of shape. Our game is a co-ed game with players of various skill levels. Thankfully, my skill level is high enough that I can loaf when I'm tired. Or when I feel like loafing. Which came in especially handy on this day.
We had already played one game and we were sitting around drinking water and taking a short break before starting up the next game. I noticed a fit, blonde girl running the path that encircles the park. Nothing out of the ordinary. But as we started playing the second game, I noticed that she had come over to where we had just taken our break and was watching us play. We're an inclusive group, so we shouted out for her to join us. She ended up joining the team opposite of me and we just happened to end up on the same side of the field. Which, of course, I was pleased about.
Since we were on the same side of the field, naturally I covered her. She was still trying to figure out exactly how the game was played so we chatted about how to play as we leisurely went through the motions. This was pleasant for me on numerous levels, including the fact that I was able to save some energy for later. As it turned out, I was going to need it.
As the game wore on, we were becoming friendly and she was starting to catch on to how the game is played. Once she finally got comfortable with the game, she started putting her athletic ability to use. While we were lollygagging in the end zone, she put a juke on me and scored a point. She whooped it up and talked some trash as I smiled wryly and headed back to my side of the field in momentary defeat. Play started up again and she started running me all over Creation, culminating in my failed diving attempt to keep her from scoring the game-winning point. She spiked the Frisbee and celebrated as if she had just won the Super Bowl.
As folks were packing up their gear and getting ready to head home, we exchanged typical post-game pleasantries. I complimented her on a good game and gently ribbed her about sandbagging early on only to stick it to me in the end. She returned the good-natured ribbing and apologized for outplaying me. Which was nice. Sort of. In a pride-injuring way.
Skip to next Sunday. Due to laundry choice, we were on the same team as dictated by the fact that we were both wearing dark shirts. While warming up, she came over and playfully pushed me around as we exchanged salutations.
Then, as the teams were heading to their respective sides to start the game, she literally jumped on me. I'm standing there with a fine, athletic, young specimen clasping her arms around my neck, feet off the ground, firmly attached to my left hip.
If there's a better way to start a game, I haven't stumbled across it. If there's a better way to completely lose focus on the game, I have yet to discover it, also.
She spent the rest of the game pushing me up the field, giving me congratulatory pats and finding whatever other excuses she could to lay her hands on me. I spent the rest of the game wondering if I had somehow become a test customer for Disney World-KC, A Place Where Dreams Really Do Come True.
Even so, that was not the last in this series of rare encounters.
To be continued...
The only regularly scheduled exercise I get is playing Ultimate Frisbee on Sunday afternoons. Ultimate Frisbee is a game that resembles soccer but utilizes a Frisbee instead. Lots of running back and forth, if you're in decent shape; lots of loafing and walking if you're in my kind of shape. Our game is a co-ed game with players of various skill levels. Thankfully, my skill level is high enough that I can loaf when I'm tired. Or when I feel like loafing. Which came in especially handy on this day.
We had already played one game and we were sitting around drinking water and taking a short break before starting up the next game. I noticed a fit, blonde girl running the path that encircles the park. Nothing out of the ordinary. But as we started playing the second game, I noticed that she had come over to where we had just taken our break and was watching us play. We're an inclusive group, so we shouted out for her to join us. She ended up joining the team opposite of me and we just happened to end up on the same side of the field. Which, of course, I was pleased about.
Since we were on the same side of the field, naturally I covered her. She was still trying to figure out exactly how the game was played so we chatted about how to play as we leisurely went through the motions. This was pleasant for me on numerous levels, including the fact that I was able to save some energy for later. As it turned out, I was going to need it.
As the game wore on, we were becoming friendly and she was starting to catch on to how the game is played. Once she finally got comfortable with the game, she started putting her athletic ability to use. While we were lollygagging in the end zone, she put a juke on me and scored a point. She whooped it up and talked some trash as I smiled wryly and headed back to my side of the field in momentary defeat. Play started up again and she started running me all over Creation, culminating in my failed diving attempt to keep her from scoring the game-winning point. She spiked the Frisbee and celebrated as if she had just won the Super Bowl.
As folks were packing up their gear and getting ready to head home, we exchanged typical post-game pleasantries. I complimented her on a good game and gently ribbed her about sandbagging early on only to stick it to me in the end. She returned the good-natured ribbing and apologized for outplaying me. Which was nice. Sort of. In a pride-injuring way.
Skip to next Sunday. Due to laundry choice, we were on the same team as dictated by the fact that we were both wearing dark shirts. While warming up, she came over and playfully pushed me around as we exchanged salutations.
Then, as the teams were heading to their respective sides to start the game, she literally jumped on me. I'm standing there with a fine, athletic, young specimen clasping her arms around my neck, feet off the ground, firmly attached to my left hip.
If there's a better way to start a game, I haven't stumbled across it. If there's a better way to completely lose focus on the game, I have yet to discover it, also.
She spent the rest of the game pushing me up the field, giving me congratulatory pats and finding whatever other excuses she could to lay her hands on me. I spent the rest of the game wondering if I had somehow become a test customer for Disney World-KC, A Place Where Dreams Really Do Come True.
Even so, that was not the last in this series of rare encounters.
To be continued...
Mysterious, Part One
Maybe it's the stubble. I don't know.
I say it might be the stubble because I've become quite lax in my shaving habits. I generally have an average of three days growth at any given time. And I recently saw the results of a survey that said women prefer men's facial hair in this order:
1. Stubble
2. Full beard
3. Clean shaven
Now, I didn't really believe that when I read it. Nonetheless, being a man of the people, I decided to allow my lazy ways to assimilate to the results of this highly scientific study.
And, whaddaya know: Women have started flirting with me. Three, in fact, in the last month. Allow me take you through each incident.
xxxx
The population of available women in my office is low. The population of attractive available women in my office is zero. Which makes this first incident flattering, yet unfulfilling.
You see, she isn't ugly, per se. But she would blend in well within a community of elves or gnomes or some other race of diminutive, woodland peoples. I'm sure she was cute as a child. Now? Not so much. On top of that, she appears to be in her forties, has a hairstyle from the fifties and may or may not live with her mother who is probably in her sixties. The worst part, though, is that she's nice. I take that back; it's not that being nice is a problem, it's that she's overly eager. When most people pass each other in the halls, they acknowledge each other with a nod, a grin or a short hello. She looks longingly into my eyes and won't look away. When lunch is brought in for the office, she'll make a special trip to my desk to make sure that I get something to eat. To hell with everyone else, they can starve for all she cares. Somebody's fax didn't go through? Who gets the first visit to inquire if it may have been theirs? That's right, little old me.
But the incident that gets recorded here makes those minor irritations take a backseat. It wasn't a prolonged encounter, but the feeling remained for quite a while:
She touched me.
Bare hand on bare arm. For no other reason than I was just passing by. Now, I don't know about your office, but mine is not a touchy-feely place. Many of us have worked together for seven or eight years and could be considered friends, even outside of work. But we don't touch each other during work. Which is why this was so unsettling. In all my life, that was as close to feeling violated as I've ever come. And it made me understand why we have such strict sexual harassment laws in place.
I realize this might sound like an extreme reaction to a rather mild occurrence. But it just came off as really strange and uncomfortable. However, it was just the beginning in a series of events that one might find in an AXE deodorant commercial.
To be continued...
I say it might be the stubble because I've become quite lax in my shaving habits. I generally have an average of three days growth at any given time. And I recently saw the results of a survey that said women prefer men's facial hair in this order:
1. Stubble
2. Full beard
3. Clean shaven
Now, I didn't really believe that when I read it. Nonetheless, being a man of the people, I decided to allow my lazy ways to assimilate to the results of this highly scientific study.
And, whaddaya know: Women have started flirting with me. Three, in fact, in the last month. Allow me take you through each incident.
xxxx
The population of available women in my office is low. The population of attractive available women in my office is zero. Which makes this first incident flattering, yet unfulfilling.
You see, she isn't ugly, per se. But she would blend in well within a community of elves or gnomes or some other race of diminutive, woodland peoples. I'm sure she was cute as a child. Now? Not so much. On top of that, she appears to be in her forties, has a hairstyle from the fifties and may or may not live with her mother who is probably in her sixties. The worst part, though, is that she's nice. I take that back; it's not that being nice is a problem, it's that she's overly eager. When most people pass each other in the halls, they acknowledge each other with a nod, a grin or a short hello. She looks longingly into my eyes and won't look away. When lunch is brought in for the office, she'll make a special trip to my desk to make sure that I get something to eat. To hell with everyone else, they can starve for all she cares. Somebody's fax didn't go through? Who gets the first visit to inquire if it may have been theirs? That's right, little old me.
But the incident that gets recorded here makes those minor irritations take a backseat. It wasn't a prolonged encounter, but the feeling remained for quite a while:
She touched me.
Bare hand on bare arm. For no other reason than I was just passing by. Now, I don't know about your office, but mine is not a touchy-feely place. Many of us have worked together for seven or eight years and could be considered friends, even outside of work. But we don't touch each other during work. Which is why this was so unsettling. In all my life, that was as close to feeling violated as I've ever come. And it made me understand why we have such strict sexual harassment laws in place.
I realize this might sound like an extreme reaction to a rather mild occurrence. But it just came off as really strange and uncomfortable. However, it was just the beginning in a series of events that one might find in an AXE deodorant commercial.
To be continued...
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Freedom
I just got up from my desk at work to use the restroom and felt a sudden surge of adrenaline.
"I'm free! I can walk anywhere I want to right now! I can walk to the restroom, I can walk out of the building, I can spend the rest of the afternoon walking up and down the stairs!"
It momentarily reminded me of being in school and having to raise my hand to ask permission to use the restroom. Or to get a drink. Or to get sick and head to the nurse's office. Not much freedom there, where you can't even fulfill your body's natural requirements without someone monitoring your every movement.
It then occurred to me that with freedom comes responsibility. I can run laps around my office all day if I choose, but I will probably lose my job (not to mention, my lunch and my credibility). It also occurred to me that my elementary school lack of freedom also required responsibility, namely being responsible enough to not lose control of my bladder during class (and, subsequently, causing my classmates to lose their lunches and me to lose more credibility).
So, what's the point of all this? I'm not sure except that maybe responsibility is overrated.
"I'm free! I can walk anywhere I want to right now! I can walk to the restroom, I can walk out of the building, I can spend the rest of the afternoon walking up and down the stairs!"
It momentarily reminded me of being in school and having to raise my hand to ask permission to use the restroom. Or to get a drink. Or to get sick and head to the nurse's office. Not much freedom there, where you can't even fulfill your body's natural requirements without someone monitoring your every movement.
It then occurred to me that with freedom comes responsibility. I can run laps around my office all day if I choose, but I will probably lose my job (not to mention, my lunch and my credibility). It also occurred to me that my elementary school lack of freedom also required responsibility, namely being responsible enough to not lose control of my bladder during class (and, subsequently, causing my classmates to lose their lunches and me to lose more credibility).
So, what's the point of all this? I'm not sure except that maybe responsibility is overrated.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
Observations from last night's ballgame out at Kauffman Stadium...
THE GOOD: The Rube Goldberg-ian machinations of batting practice.
THE BAD: Watching Justin Morneau audition for his 10th inning, game-winning homerun.
THE GOOD: Joey Gathright bunted for a couple of hits and stole a base.
THE BAD: Tony Pena, Jr. couldn't get down one lousy sacrifice bunt, his only tangible offensive skill.
THE GOOD: Zack Greinke pitched eight excellent innings.
THE BAD: Zack Greinke somehow managed to walk the un-walkable Delmon Young TWICE.
THE GOOD: The Good Lord answered my prayers and sent two single women to sit next to me at the game.
THE BAD: Both women were north of 70 years of age.
THE GOOD: The Kiss Cam didn't feature me and one of the blue-hairs to my left.
THE BAD: The guy participating in the 3-hat, hidden ball contest got it wrong.
THE BAD: A Royals fan tore in half the homemade sign of a Twins fan.
THE GOOD: Said Royals fan later apologized and made up with said Twins fan.
THE GOOD: The Royals offense woke up and scored eight runs.
THE BAD: The Royals pitching erased that positive occurrence by giving up nine runs.
THE UGLY: Five of those nine runs came in the ninth inning, further demoralizing the handful of Royals fans that still crawl upon the Earth.
-----
Side note that helped lessen the blow of last night's catastrophe:
I arrived at Kauffman Stadium early yesterday to watch the Twins take batting practice before they tore the hearts out of Jose Guillen and myself. There were a lot of Twins fans around and some of them were hollering up to the press box to try to catch the attention of Bert Blyleven, who calls Twins games on TV.
These guys managed to pique Bert's interest and before long, Bert started throwing peanuts from the press box (a good 50-foot toss) in an attempt to get them in the Twins fan's cap. After a couple of misses, he started hitting the fan's cap with regularity and probably threw about a dozen before smiling, waving and returning to more announcer-ly duties.
When you're a Royals fan, you have to find joy in the little things, even if it means watching your opponent's broadcast team shoot 50-foot free throws into the caps of eager fans.
THE GOOD: The Rube Goldberg-ian machinations of batting practice.
THE BAD: Watching Justin Morneau audition for his 10th inning, game-winning homerun.
THE GOOD: Joey Gathright bunted for a couple of hits and stole a base.
THE BAD: Tony Pena, Jr. couldn't get down one lousy sacrifice bunt, his only tangible offensive skill.
THE GOOD: Zack Greinke pitched eight excellent innings.
THE BAD: Zack Greinke somehow managed to walk the un-walkable Delmon Young TWICE.
THE GOOD: The Good Lord answered my prayers and sent two single women to sit next to me at the game.
THE BAD: Both women were north of 70 years of age.
THE GOOD: The Kiss Cam didn't feature me and one of the blue-hairs to my left.
THE BAD: The guy participating in the 3-hat, hidden ball contest got it wrong.
THE BAD: A Royals fan tore in half the homemade sign of a Twins fan.
THE GOOD: Said Royals fan later apologized and made up with said Twins fan.
THE GOOD: The Royals offense woke up and scored eight runs.
THE BAD: The Royals pitching erased that positive occurrence by giving up nine runs.
THE UGLY: Five of those nine runs came in the ninth inning, further demoralizing the handful of Royals fans that still crawl upon the Earth.
-----
Side note that helped lessen the blow of last night's catastrophe:
I arrived at Kauffman Stadium early yesterday to watch the Twins take batting practice before they tore the hearts out of Jose Guillen and myself. There were a lot of Twins fans around and some of them were hollering up to the press box to try to catch the attention of Bert Blyleven, who calls Twins games on TV.
These guys managed to pique Bert's interest and before long, Bert started throwing peanuts from the press box (a good 50-foot toss) in an attempt to get them in the Twins fan's cap. After a couple of misses, he started hitting the fan's cap with regularity and probably threw about a dozen before smiling, waving and returning to more announcer-ly duties.
When you're a Royals fan, you have to find joy in the little things, even if it means watching your opponent's broadcast team shoot 50-foot free throws into the caps of eager fans.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Collaboration
While waiting for Dave to get out of school yesterday, Samantha and I joined forces and wrote the following piece. We mostly followed the pattern of writing every other sentence, but not strictly. See if you can figure out who wrote what:
One day there was a guy named Bob. Bob didn't like to throw up. But he liked to fart. So he would experiment with the foods that he ate to see which foods would make big, juicy farts but didn't make him barf.
So, the other day, he was in his front yard and he farted so big that he now lives on Mars. Except now he's kind of hungry because there isn't a lot to eat on Mars. He invented a machine called the "Fart Pack". When he farts in this tube, it blows him into the air and takes him to any planet. He made lots of money marketing his "Fart Pack" to people on Earth and the other planets he visited.
When he got back to Earth, he ate twelve pounds of beans and packed a bunch of food. Then he made a huge fart that too him past the Milky Way to some old solar system. He landed on Planet Zarnack and met some of the aliens that lived there. They tried to eat him but when he farted, the air turned orange and green. So the aliens passed out and left their spaceship available. He was glad that he didn't become a Zarnack snack and decided to see if he could operate their spaceship. He got it turned on but when he pushed the gas, it went full speed into the Moon and the Moon hit Earth. The Earth bounced closer to the sun and affirmed Al Gore's fears about global warming.
The North and South poles started to go bye-bye and the water said, "Hi-hi!" Soon, there were beaches in Bob's home state of Kansas. When Bob went to the beach, a huge tsunami hit and killed Bob. Uh, oh.
Bob's family was stricken with grief over Bob's death and worried about the Earth's imminent demise, so they strapped on some "Fart Packs" and traveled to Pluto. They got there and they all dressed up in leotards, tutus and ballerina slippers. Then they all started jumping around and dancing. Bob's granny was old but she could jump and dance really well because of the low level of gravity. But Grandpa, on the other hand, fell off Pluto and landed on a meteorite. It crashed into the Earth and he drowned. Since Grandpa was old and had lived a full life, they weren't as upset as they were about Bob's death. So instead of crying, they had a party because they didn't have to clean his dentures any more.
This was a great celebration because his dentures were always covered in mold and slime and barnacles. So, in memory, the lake was shaped like open dentures with a spider in between the two front teeth. The spider was named Earl and he would decide who would and who wouldn't swim at his lake. He only let the two members of the family that were left (Grandma and Aunt) swim. Mom and Dad crashed 50 years ago in an airplane. Aunt Trudy could only doggy-paddle, so she would climb trees instead. She accidentally fell off one and broke her neck. The doctors had bad news.
Trudy was dead, leaving poor, poor Granny all alone, swimming in a lake shaped like dentures and guarded by a talking spider. The spider was secretly stalking her, so after an hour, the spider attacked her and ate her hair. Grandma died from shock and baldy-ness-phobia!
One day there was a guy named Bob. Bob didn't like to throw up. But he liked to fart. So he would experiment with the foods that he ate to see which foods would make big, juicy farts but didn't make him barf.
So, the other day, he was in his front yard and he farted so big that he now lives on Mars. Except now he's kind of hungry because there isn't a lot to eat on Mars. He invented a machine called the "Fart Pack". When he farts in this tube, it blows him into the air and takes him to any planet. He made lots of money marketing his "Fart Pack" to people on Earth and the other planets he visited.
When he got back to Earth, he ate twelve pounds of beans and packed a bunch of food. Then he made a huge fart that too him past the Milky Way to some old solar system. He landed on Planet Zarnack and met some of the aliens that lived there. They tried to eat him but when he farted, the air turned orange and green. So the aliens passed out and left their spaceship available. He was glad that he didn't become a Zarnack snack and decided to see if he could operate their spaceship. He got it turned on but when he pushed the gas, it went full speed into the Moon and the Moon hit Earth. The Earth bounced closer to the sun and affirmed Al Gore's fears about global warming.
The North and South poles started to go bye-bye and the water said, "Hi-hi!" Soon, there were beaches in Bob's home state of Kansas. When Bob went to the beach, a huge tsunami hit and killed Bob. Uh, oh.
Bob's family was stricken with grief over Bob's death and worried about the Earth's imminent demise, so they strapped on some "Fart Packs" and traveled to Pluto. They got there and they all dressed up in leotards, tutus and ballerina slippers. Then they all started jumping around and dancing. Bob's granny was old but she could jump and dance really well because of the low level of gravity. But Grandpa, on the other hand, fell off Pluto and landed on a meteorite. It crashed into the Earth and he drowned. Since Grandpa was old and had lived a full life, they weren't as upset as they were about Bob's death. So instead of crying, they had a party because they didn't have to clean his dentures any more.
This was a great celebration because his dentures were always covered in mold and slime and barnacles. So, in memory, the lake was shaped like open dentures with a spider in between the two front teeth. The spider was named Earl and he would decide who would and who wouldn't swim at his lake. He only let the two members of the family that were left (Grandma and Aunt) swim. Mom and Dad crashed 50 years ago in an airplane. Aunt Trudy could only doggy-paddle, so she would climb trees instead. She accidentally fell off one and broke her neck. The doctors had bad news.
Trudy was dead, leaving poor, poor Granny all alone, swimming in a lake shaped like dentures and guarded by a talking spider. The spider was secretly stalking her, so after an hour, the spider attacked her and ate her hair. Grandma died from shock and baldy-ness-phobia!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
An Ode to Distraction
As I sit on my couch
With my notebook in hand
And the radio tuned
To the A.M. band
I would like to create
And God knows that I've tried
But I can't concentrate
Guess my brain must be fried
You see, all my attention
Has been grabbed by the game
And my sheer lack of focus
Will keep me from fame
My love for the Royals
Divides my weak brain
And to root for this team
Has rarely seemed sane
But this year is different
As they've really been good
The pitching's been solid
Not so much for the wood
And now my pen has failed me
It literally broke
Frustration increases
The M's bats have awoke
It was a tie ballgame
But we're now down by six
And my pen's replacement
Learned the former pen's tricks
The ink has stopped flowing
Just the same, Royals runs
And as for this poem
I believe I am done
With my notebook in hand
And the radio tuned
To the A.M. band
I would like to create
And God knows that I've tried
But I can't concentrate
Guess my brain must be fried
You see, all my attention
Has been grabbed by the game
And my sheer lack of focus
Will keep me from fame
My love for the Royals
Divides my weak brain
And to root for this team
Has rarely seemed sane
But this year is different
As they've really been good
The pitching's been solid
Not so much for the wood
And now my pen has failed me
It literally broke
Frustration increases
The M's bats have awoke
It was a tie ballgame
But we're now down by six
And my pen's replacement
Learned the former pen's tricks
The ink has stopped flowing
Just the same, Royals runs
And as for this poem
I believe I am done
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Gee Whiz
The first four batters in the Royals's lineup today are:
Gathright
Grudzielanek
Gordon, and
Guillen
Batting seventh is:
Gload
Pitching?
Greinke
Gee Whiz
Gathright
Grudzielanek
Gordon, and
Guillen
Batting seventh is:
Gload
Pitching?
Greinke
Gee Whiz
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Walking Home
This week, I began in earnest my plan to ride the bus to and from work on the weeks that I don't have to take the kids to school. I've always enjoyed using public transportation, probably because I've lived my whole life in a city that doesn't really use or value public transportation. And, being an infrequent patron, I've probably romanticized the notion.
But today, the part of my journey that struck a chord wasn't the bus ride but the walk home.
It is a bright, sunny, cloud-free day. According to the Mission Bank thermometer, it is 58 degrees. The sunshine makes it feel warmer, but an occasional breeze reminds me that summer isn't making an early appearance. The breeze makes my hooded sweatshirt proud to do its job.
I push the cross-walk button and wait patiently for the red hand to give way to the white stick figure. Birds are singing. People are out walking. A police car rolls by with its lights flashing, but not in pursuit of anyone. The final bits of another eight hours of work day experiences start to blow away while the first tiny particles of "I'm home!"-excitement sweep in behind them.
All of this suddenly reminds me of walking home from school in second grade. It was days like this when I would stuff my jacket in my backpack in mini-rebellion towards Mom and in reverence towards Spring and the warmer days to come. Of course, I'd pull out that jacket and put it back on a block from home so that Mom wouldn't know I hadn't been wearing it. Of course, she would find out anyway.
There was a crossing guard that would guide me safely across the street then. In addition to birds singing, I would hear geese honking; one house kept several of them as pets rather than the more conventional dogs or cats. And I would stop the police if they were driving by to see if they had any Royals baseball cards left to hand out. I would look forward to getting home and riding my Big Wheel in the driveway or playing with my Star Wars guys in the front yard.
A lot of things have changed since I was in second grade. Today, I kept my jacket on and didn't encounter any geese. And my Chevy Metro, while small, is no Big Wheel. But I'm glad some things remain the same.
But today, the part of my journey that struck a chord wasn't the bus ride but the walk home.
It is a bright, sunny, cloud-free day. According to the Mission Bank thermometer, it is 58 degrees. The sunshine makes it feel warmer, but an occasional breeze reminds me that summer isn't making an early appearance. The breeze makes my hooded sweatshirt proud to do its job.
I push the cross-walk button and wait patiently for the red hand to give way to the white stick figure. Birds are singing. People are out walking. A police car rolls by with its lights flashing, but not in pursuit of anyone. The final bits of another eight hours of work day experiences start to blow away while the first tiny particles of "I'm home!"-excitement sweep in behind them.
All of this suddenly reminds me of walking home from school in second grade. It was days like this when I would stuff my jacket in my backpack in mini-rebellion towards Mom and in reverence towards Spring and the warmer days to come. Of course, I'd pull out that jacket and put it back on a block from home so that Mom wouldn't know I hadn't been wearing it. Of course, she would find out anyway.
There was a crossing guard that would guide me safely across the street then. In addition to birds singing, I would hear geese honking; one house kept several of them as pets rather than the more conventional dogs or cats. And I would stop the police if they were driving by to see if they had any Royals baseball cards left to hand out. I would look forward to getting home and riding my Big Wheel in the driveway or playing with my Star Wars guys in the front yard.
A lot of things have changed since I was in second grade. Today, I kept my jacket on and didn't encounter any geese. And my Chevy Metro, while small, is no Big Wheel. But I'm glad some things remain the same.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
National League Haiku
Pittsburgh has both sides
PNC Park is gorgeous
Pirates? Not so much
Griffey's twentieth
He still flips his cap backwards
Hey, baseball is fun!
Ausmus still employed?
At least the 'Stros have Hunter
To squeeze the Juice Box
They've got Prince Albert
And arguably best fans
Denkinger haunts, though
Wrigley Field is great
Almost as good as Fenway
Less World Series wins
Bernie Brewer goes
Down slide, into the beer mug
Sausage races? Eh
Nationals are dull
MLB stole the Expos
Thanks, Commish Selig
Miami has flair
Only Hanley's got it, though
Please give him some help!
Smoltz keeps on tickin'
Glavine's back, but not Maddux
Glory days still gone
Ryan Howard rakes
Jimmy Rollins sure can burn
Sounds more like yardwork
Most talent in league
Wright, Reyes, Johan; Oh, my!
Mets are Amazin'
So long, Barry Bonds
Giants will sink to the depths
Of McCovey Cove
Edged by the Rockies
San Diego was not pleased
Pads will overcome
Joe Torre in town
Can he bring Yankee magic?
Just play the youngsters
Rocks had a great run
All the way to the Series
Won't happen again
D-Backs battle heat
And some tough division foes
To rise once again
PNC Park is gorgeous
Pirates? Not so much
Griffey's twentieth
He still flips his cap backwards
Hey, baseball is fun!
Ausmus still employed?
At least the 'Stros have Hunter
To squeeze the Juice Box
They've got Prince Albert
And arguably best fans
Denkinger haunts, though
Wrigley Field is great
Almost as good as Fenway
Less World Series wins
Bernie Brewer goes
Down slide, into the beer mug
Sausage races? Eh
Nationals are dull
MLB stole the Expos
Thanks, Commish Selig
Miami has flair
Only Hanley's got it, though
Please give him some help!
Smoltz keeps on tickin'
Glavine's back, but not Maddux
Glory days still gone
Ryan Howard rakes
Jimmy Rollins sure can burn
Sounds more like yardwork
Most talent in league
Wright, Reyes, Johan; Oh, my!
Mets are Amazin'
So long, Barry Bonds
Giants will sink to the depths
Of McCovey Cove
Edged by the Rockies
San Diego was not pleased
Pads will overcome
Joe Torre in town
Can he bring Yankee magic?
Just play the youngsters
Rocks had a great run
All the way to the Series
Won't happen again
D-Backs battle heat
And some tough division foes
To rise once again
American League Haiku
Spring's almost here
Royal blue optimism
Only exists now
I hope Zack Greinke
Continues his improvement
And finds his eephus
Sweeney hits the road
I'll surely miss his heart but
Not his injuries
Chicago Pale Hose
Totally uninspiring
Royals could pass them
Traded their best guy
Play in a dump of a park
Twinkies fans are screwed
"Mistake By The Lake"
No longer applicable
Cleveland boys can play
Tigers grow more claws
Picked up Miggy and D-Train
Motown is Go-town
A's roster gutted
Of stars by genius GM
Potential simmers
Not Subway's Jared
But Saltalamacchia
Rangers hope bat's fat
Ichiro is fast
Seattle gets lots of rain
Death, taxes exist
Inside, outside or
Completely over his head
Vladdy will connect
Tropicana blows
Hurricane of young talent
Rays still can't catch Sox
Toronto Blue Jays
I can't think of a single
Interesting thing
O's look to the youth
Miggy and the ace are gone
Pass the crab cakes
ARod is unreal
The other guys should step up
You, too, Cap'n Jetes
Hard to argue with
The success of Theo's Sox
Dynasty in place
Royal blue optimism
Only exists now
I hope Zack Greinke
Continues his improvement
And finds his eephus
Sweeney hits the road
I'll surely miss his heart but
Not his injuries
Chicago Pale Hose
Totally uninspiring
Royals could pass them
Traded their best guy
Play in a dump of a park
Twinkies fans are screwed
"Mistake By The Lake"
No longer applicable
Cleveland boys can play
Tigers grow more claws
Picked up Miggy and D-Train
Motown is Go-town
A's roster gutted
Of stars by genius GM
Potential simmers
Not Subway's Jared
But Saltalamacchia
Rangers hope bat's fat
Ichiro is fast
Seattle gets lots of rain
Death, taxes exist
Inside, outside or
Completely over his head
Vladdy will connect
Tropicana blows
Hurricane of young talent
Rays still can't catch Sox
Toronto Blue Jays
I can't think of a single
Interesting thing
O's look to the youth
Miggy and the ace are gone
Pass the crab cakes
ARod is unreal
The other guys should step up
You, too, Cap'n Jetes
Hard to argue with
The success of Theo's Sox
Dynasty in place
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Smoke Scenes
Three people are huddled together. They stand outside the rear entrance of their office building. One doesn't have a jacket, the other two are bundled in their warmest winter wrappings. It's 12 degrees above zero outside.
"Why aren't you wearing a coat?" one of the swathed says to the hunched and trembling one.
"I don't want it to stink."
The trio mutters succinct anecdotes about their work day to each other between drags. Somehow, this both calms and exhilirates them.
-----
Your buddy picks up a twig from your yard and lights the end on fire. He puts the non-flaming end in his mouth and encourages you to emulate him. You are confused as to why this seems like a sensible activity in which to participate.
-----
Jack and Becky are a little on edge. They've been in the air for nearly seven consecutive hours. They've been to Hawai'i numerous times, but this time they're going to stay and start a new chapter in life.
The plane touches down in Honolulu and proceeds to taxi to the gate. Jack fidgets in his seat and repeatedly think to himself,"C'mon! Hurry it up!" Becky digs through her purse, locates a new pack and moves it to the top of the pile.
Finally, the paggengers deplane and Jack & Becky have one thing on their minds: The open-air terminal!
They hurriedly drag their carry-on luggage through the bricks-and-mortar until they reach paradise. Becky has already begun peeling off the silvery packaging while Jack rummages in his pocket for some matches.
At last, they each light one up and take a deep drag. After a pronounced exhalation, Jack says, "God, I love the fresh, clean Hawai'i air!"
-----
A kid sits through the "Just Say No!" presentation. He fills out the survey that asks him about his reactions to drinking, smoking and drugs. He feels like it's pretty much a waste of time, but he understands the message they're trying to convey. He hands in his questionaire and heads out the classroom door.
He drops his bike in the yard and enters his front door. His backpack gets flung into room and he makes his way to the kitchen for something to eat. Before he gets there, he pauses at his mom's office door. Since neither his mom nor his dad are at home, he walks in and opens the bottom, righ-hand drawer of the desk. It's no secret -- this is where she keeps her supply. He takes a pack out of the carton and shuffles the rest of the packs to look as if nothing ever happened. He runs to the kitchen to grab a pack of fruit roll-ups and call his mom.
"I'm going to play across the street, Mom."
"Okay, honey; just be back for dinner."
"Okay, Mom. Love you!"
"Love you, too!"
-----
Dad lays dying in the tiny emergency room. As the doctors prepare to run some tests, one of them pulls us aside and says that if there are any other family members that would like to say goodbye, you should get them here, post haste. I turn to my mom and brother and we all have a frantic look in our eyes.
I said, "I'll go home and grab the kids."
Before I left, the three of us stepped back in to see Dad. We each said, "I love you!" and Dad mouthed "I love you" back to us three times.
I rushed to the car and hurried home. The rest of the family piled in the car and we made for the hospital as quickly as possible.
Once we got back, the doctors were moving Dad to a more private room so that we could all be together as a family. But on the way there, Dad couldn't hold out any longer. He left us in the hallway.
Mom screamed, "Hurry!" as we were walking towards the rolling procession. We ran to catch up, but he was already gone.
Dad had finally quit smoking a couple of years back, but the forty-plus years preceeding finally caught up to him.
"Why aren't you wearing a coat?" one of the swathed says to the hunched and trembling one.
"I don't want it to stink."
The trio mutters succinct anecdotes about their work day to each other between drags. Somehow, this both calms and exhilirates them.
-----
Your buddy picks up a twig from your yard and lights the end on fire. He puts the non-flaming end in his mouth and encourages you to emulate him. You are confused as to why this seems like a sensible activity in which to participate.
-----
Jack and Becky are a little on edge. They've been in the air for nearly seven consecutive hours. They've been to Hawai'i numerous times, but this time they're going to stay and start a new chapter in life.
The plane touches down in Honolulu and proceeds to taxi to the gate. Jack fidgets in his seat and repeatedly think to himself,"C'mon! Hurry it up!" Becky digs through her purse, locates a new pack and moves it to the top of the pile.
Finally, the paggengers deplane and Jack & Becky have one thing on their minds: The open-air terminal!
They hurriedly drag their carry-on luggage through the bricks-and-mortar until they reach paradise. Becky has already begun peeling off the silvery packaging while Jack rummages in his pocket for some matches.
At last, they each light one up and take a deep drag. After a pronounced exhalation, Jack says, "God, I love the fresh, clean Hawai'i air!"
-----
A kid sits through the "Just Say No!" presentation. He fills out the survey that asks him about his reactions to drinking, smoking and drugs. He feels like it's pretty much a waste of time, but he understands the message they're trying to convey. He hands in his questionaire and heads out the classroom door.
He drops his bike in the yard and enters his front door. His backpack gets flung into room and he makes his way to the kitchen for something to eat. Before he gets there, he pauses at his mom's office door. Since neither his mom nor his dad are at home, he walks in and opens the bottom, righ-hand drawer of the desk. It's no secret -- this is where she keeps her supply. He takes a pack out of the carton and shuffles the rest of the packs to look as if nothing ever happened. He runs to the kitchen to grab a pack of fruit roll-ups and call his mom.
"I'm going to play across the street, Mom."
"Okay, honey; just be back for dinner."
"Okay, Mom. Love you!"
"Love you, too!"
-----
Dad lays dying in the tiny emergency room. As the doctors prepare to run some tests, one of them pulls us aside and says that if there are any other family members that would like to say goodbye, you should get them here, post haste. I turn to my mom and brother and we all have a frantic look in our eyes.
I said, "I'll go home and grab the kids."
Before I left, the three of us stepped back in to see Dad. We each said, "I love you!" and Dad mouthed "I love you" back to us three times.
I rushed to the car and hurried home. The rest of the family piled in the car and we made for the hospital as quickly as possible.
Once we got back, the doctors were moving Dad to a more private room so that we could all be together as a family. But on the way there, Dad couldn't hold out any longer. He left us in the hallway.
Mom screamed, "Hurry!" as we were walking towards the rolling procession. We ran to catch up, but he was already gone.
Dad had finally quit smoking a couple of years back, but the forty-plus years preceeding finally caught up to him.
Reverse
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Airplane Observations
This guy's haircut evokes a caricature of Elvis. A little flip in the front, a sideburn for each side and perfectly jet black. The red fleece pullover and burgeoning bald spot slowly dissipate the comparison...
This other guy wears a hunting shirt. Who the hell wears a hunting shirt? Not a hunting vest or a camouflage, multi-pocketed jobby, but a shirt that at first glance seems camouflage, but is actually just depicting some kick-ass bow hunting scenes. So as to not hide himself completely in the wooded environment of an airplane cabin, he dons a Sesame Street-green ballcap. He does keep a neatly-trimmed beard, so he's got that going for him. As he flips through the SkyMall magazine, I wonder if he secretly wishes that he'll stumble across the one rifle scope he's been dreaming about his entire life. I'm secretly hoping that he doesn't happen to look back at what I'm writing and start pummeling me, air rage consequences be damned. While I wouldn't mind being mildly famous, I don't desire the infamy of landing on the national news becaue my plane had to touch down in Des Moines to allow the flight attendants to scrape my bloody carcass from my seat in Coach.
Now we're taxiing toward the runway. If you think about it, it's a little confusing. I normally equate the word "taxi" with a taxi cab. Yet I don't see too many folks standing along the tarmac, arms outstretched, lips pursed and whistling, attempting to hail an airplane. I also like how we call them "airplanes". Are there planes that don't fly through the air? Maybe we should start calling boats "waterplanes" and cars "roadplanes".
This is starting to sound like an Andy Rooney piece. I guess I shouldn't complain; I'd love to get paid to come up with one semi-coherent rant per week and still be revered as a clever old curmudgeon.
I look out the window and realize that I'm staring at an engine. I've always been fascinated with the occasional occurrence of an engine falling off a plane and landing in someone's yard or on someone's roof. I think it would be fun to witness something like this first-hand. Maybe not smashing through my roof and certainly not injuring or killing anyone. Which makes the recent story of a mid-air collision of two planes both disturbing and morbidly interesting. Apparently (obviously), body parts were dropping from the sky.
I have nothing else to add here.
This other guy wears a hunting shirt. Who the hell wears a hunting shirt? Not a hunting vest or a camouflage, multi-pocketed jobby, but a shirt that at first glance seems camouflage, but is actually just depicting some kick-ass bow hunting scenes. So as to not hide himself completely in the wooded environment of an airplane cabin, he dons a Sesame Street-green ballcap. He does keep a neatly-trimmed beard, so he's got that going for him. As he flips through the SkyMall magazine, I wonder if he secretly wishes that he'll stumble across the one rifle scope he's been dreaming about his entire life. I'm secretly hoping that he doesn't happen to look back at what I'm writing and start pummeling me, air rage consequences be damned. While I wouldn't mind being mildly famous, I don't desire the infamy of landing on the national news becaue my plane had to touch down in Des Moines to allow the flight attendants to scrape my bloody carcass from my seat in Coach.
Now we're taxiing toward the runway. If you think about it, it's a little confusing. I normally equate the word "taxi" with a taxi cab. Yet I don't see too many folks standing along the tarmac, arms outstretched, lips pursed and whistling, attempting to hail an airplane. I also like how we call them "airplanes". Are there planes that don't fly through the air? Maybe we should start calling boats "waterplanes" and cars "roadplanes".
This is starting to sound like an Andy Rooney piece. I guess I shouldn't complain; I'd love to get paid to come up with one semi-coherent rant per week and still be revered as a clever old curmudgeon.
I look out the window and realize that I'm staring at an engine. I've always been fascinated with the occasional occurrence of an engine falling off a plane and landing in someone's yard or on someone's roof. I think it would be fun to witness something like this first-hand. Maybe not smashing through my roof and certainly not injuring or killing anyone. Which makes the recent story of a mid-air collision of two planes both disturbing and morbidly interesting. Apparently (obviously), body parts were dropping from the sky.
I have nothing else to add here.
Dreams & Onions
As I sit alone in the back room of the coffee shop, rubbing my face in dismay, I realize my fingers smell like hamburger and onions. What a shitty thing to discover about yourself. I smell like onions.
The permeating punk music isn't helping matters. But then neither does the deafening roar of the recently-activated furnace. Oh, yeah; my iced chai tastes like somebody forgot to wash the glass.
Awesome.
So I sit here thinking about what an overwhelming task it is to actually follow my dream when I finally decide to just write out what is most immediately annoying to me. Friend of the coffee shop owner? Your voluminous ranting has just deposited another ounce of ink to my pen. Milky shadows gliding along the wall? You give me axiety that your owner will walk in and see me staring at you. Kitschy lampshade emblazoned with constellations? You remind me that I only recognize Orion and his freaking belt...
Mmm...another sip of dishwater. With any luck, there will be just enough soap residue in my drink that I'll wake up in the middle of the night with diarrhea. Which would be great because I have to be up two hours earlier than normal to get to the airport. To travel to Minnesota. Where it's -6. At least I'll be back the same day. Just in time to miss three quarters of the KU basketball game.
I think I just saw a guy who lives in my apartment complex. I didn't see his face, but I recognized his walk. He walks on his tip-toes all the time. I wonder if he walks like that because he is eager to get to what's next. I wonder if he knows any other star formations besides Orion. I wonder if his drink was mixed correctly. I wonder if he is following his dream. I wonder if he smells like onions.
The permeating punk music isn't helping matters. But then neither does the deafening roar of the recently-activated furnace. Oh, yeah; my iced chai tastes like somebody forgot to wash the glass.
Awesome.
So I sit here thinking about what an overwhelming task it is to actually follow my dream when I finally decide to just write out what is most immediately annoying to me. Friend of the coffee shop owner? Your voluminous ranting has just deposited another ounce of ink to my pen. Milky shadows gliding along the wall? You give me axiety that your owner will walk in and see me staring at you. Kitschy lampshade emblazoned with constellations? You remind me that I only recognize Orion and his freaking belt...
Mmm...another sip of dishwater. With any luck, there will be just enough soap residue in my drink that I'll wake up in the middle of the night with diarrhea. Which would be great because I have to be up two hours earlier than normal to get to the airport. To travel to Minnesota. Where it's -6. At least I'll be back the same day. Just in time to miss three quarters of the KU basketball game.
I think I just saw a guy who lives in my apartment complex. I didn't see his face, but I recognized his walk. He walks on his tip-toes all the time. I wonder if he walks like that because he is eager to get to what's next. I wonder if he knows any other star formations besides Orion. I wonder if his drink was mixed correctly. I wonder if he is following his dream. I wonder if he smells like onions.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Toy Box
It is time to try something new. In my constant search for inspiration, I have found something worth exploring. The concept of artistic collaboration has been an underlying theme that I've been looking to experiment with. But until recently, I didn't know how to go about executing this process. Now, after doing some reading and conversing with a fellow artist, I've found a small toy chest of opportunities to play with.
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Dad
It's taken a while to figure out when was the best time to write this one. I've been thinking about it off and on for some time now. And since Dad would always tell Seth and me “Remember, your mom's birthday is coming up,” and “Don't forget to get something for your mom,” I thought this would be a pretty good time to finally put these thoughts down.
I learned to love Dad. I didn't think he was the greatest dad around when I was young. And I suppose he wasn't. But he was a lot different then. At least it seemed that way to me. He could be gruff and blunt. He didn't always seem interested in what we were doing. He definitely wanted us to be quiet and not cause a lot of racket. But there were a lot of unique things about him, some that I picked up over time and some that I didn't realize until much later.
He was a morning guy. An early bird. Some of that had to do with the fact that he had to be at work so early in the morning, but I'm sure most of it was just his personality. The early mornings were his quiet time. He would spend that time sipping coffee, reading the newspaper and getting ready for the day. I never much understood the allure of this lifestyle, being a late night person, myself. I found it particularly distasteful when he would wake me up before I wanted to be up. His signature move? Flipping on the light and going back to the living room, making me get up to turn off the light, subsequently ensuring that I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. I also remember early Saturday morning lawn mowings that seemed to linger right outside my window. At least I thought they were early. He'd probably been up for over four hours by then.
Because he had to be at work so early in the morning, this meant that he was finished with work fairly early in the afternoon. This enabled him sufficient time to partake in one of his favorite chores/hobbies: fixing dinner. The kids at school thought this was a little strange, having your dad cook rather than your mom. But I didn't care so long as somebody was making dinner. Of course, he had his favorites and sometimes it seemed as if we were on a never-ending cycle. Monday was pork chops. Tuesday was cube steaks. Wednesday was goulash. No matter what day it was, though, there was going to be some sort of meat served. The weekends were reserved for other meat-themed treats. Saturdays often found dad out on the deck grilling the biggest burgers you'd ever seen. And Sundays were always pot roast, slow-cooked in the crockpot all day. Unless he was feeling adventerous. Then he would give the crockpot a little variety and cook up the best chili in history. Whatever it was he was cooking, he enjoyed the process, the creativity.
Creativity was something that I had no idea my dad possessed when I was young. I always just thought that he was a slave to routine and didn't want to venture outside the unknown. But looking back, I realized that this wasn't true at all. Dad seemed willing to take on new things and try out new ideas. Not all the time, but often enough to make me understand that he wasn't as boring as I thought.
He and his buddies built a deck in our backyard. I remember thinking how cool it was that my dad had all those tools and actually knew what to do with them. He had a quadrophonic stereo system, basically surround sound for the 70's. I always wanted to duplicate that in my own place. When he had an addition built onto our house, he employed alternate energy sources, like passive solar and a wood-burning stove. He built the coolest bunk beds that two kids could ever want. He embraced soccer before the term “soccer mom” was ever invented and even bought season tickets for the local indoor squad, the Kansas City Comets.
His passion for soccer, though, was a mixed bag for me. He thought the sport was so great and fun that he wanted Seth and I to play. And we did. A lot. And it was fun and we were good. Dad even coached my team for a while, which was great. What I didn't realize at the time, though, is that my great passion was being squelched.
I had always loved baseball from as far back as I can remember. I owned a 1980 “George Brett for President” bumper sticker and a Hal McRae t-shirt. I had a sack full of 1982 Fleer baseball cards. I played Whiffle ball in my grandparents front yard, drawing up the lineup cards of the current Royals teams and pretending to be each one of them as I threw the ball up to myself and hit it around the neighborhood. But I never played organized baseball as a kid because Dad had convinced me that soccer was the greatest thing going. And, like I said, I was good so I didn't really complain too much because it's always fun when you're good at something. But as time passed and my passion for baseball grew, my interest in soccer waned.
I told Dad and everyone I knew that I wanted to be a Major League baseball player when I grew up. Dad always did his best to keep me well-grounded by reminding me that the chances of becoming a baseball player of that caliber were slim to none. Regardless, he took me to the batting cages and even bought me time with an instructor. I fought hard and made the baseball team at Shawnee Mission North my junior year, but by then I realized that he was right; I might be good enough to make my summer league all-star team but I wasn't going to the Major Leagues unless I bought myself a ticket.
The best thing about playing baseball for those few years came one summer when my summer league team was short on pitching. My coach asked if I would be willing to try pitching. I had never done it before and I knew my arm wasn't particularly strong, but I agreed to do it anyway. Since I knew very little about how to pitch, I asked Dad. I had heard stories about how he was a pitcher when he was a kid in Little League, so I knew he would be able to at least give me the basics of what I needed to know. So, out to the yard we went. He would tell me how to set up on the pitching rubber, how to throw from the wind-up and the stretch, how to keep an eye on the baserunner to keep him close to the bag. I would throw and throw, doing my best not to chuck it past him or throw it in the dirt. He would occasionally grimace when the ball would hit his glove. Of all the times he tought me how to do something, this was the only time I can remember not really getting frustrated. I somehow managed to appreciate the moment of him taking time to show me how to do something he had once done in an area of interest I loved so much.
And while I never became good enough to play baseball beyond high school, Dad still managed to connect to my passion through another one of his creative ideas: He decided to buy the baseball card shop that I'd spent so much time (and his money) at as a kid. The baseball card industry was booming at the time and he must have figured that it would be a decent risk to get in the game. I was like a kid in a candy store. I was now required to spend my time at the baseball card shop now, instead of having to beg to go there. My expertise was leaned upon as Mom and Dad learned the ins and outs of the baseball card business. I learned a lot about retail business, people, baseball and my dad because of that shop.
By this time, my dad had become less gruff and more personable, less irritable and more patient. I appreciated the fact that he listened to and respected my input regarding the shop, even though I was still young. Of course, he would still get on me if I did something stupid. For instance, the time that he came to the back room of the shop and asked my opinion on whether Walt Whitman was any good or not. I was sitting right by the door when I laughed and said that, yeah, I'm sure he was a pretty decent poet but I didn't know about his basketball skills. Dad shot me the evil eye and whispered at me to shut up, that the customer who had asked about Walt Williams was standing right outside the door and that I should be more respectful of customers and less of a smart-ass.
The shop seemed to be successful enough that eventually Dad decided to retire early. This was another decision that wasn't exactly by-the-book, but one that I thought was cool nonetheless. He didn't have to work the crummy job he'd been working at for over 20 years and that seemed to breathe some life into him. Enough life, in fact, that he started drawing up designs on his next big idea: permanently moving to Hawaii.
After the baseball strike in 1994, the shop took a hit and never quite recovered. Eventually, Mom and Dad closed it up and started figuring out how to take this next big step. Dad had seen his mom die young, crushing his dad and their dreams together in the process, and decided that he wasn't going to let that happen to him. So up they moved, Mom and Dad, to Hawaii to live out his dream. I thought it was a bullshit move at the time, because my two kids were under the age of five and I wanted them to know their grandparents like I had known mine. But after I had visited them their the first time, I realized how right it was. And while I still wish that we would have been able to spend more time together, I'm proud of my dad for taking the risk and living out his dream.
Unfortunately, he didn't get to live his dream as long as he might have wanted. While he got to spend a quarter of his adult life (10 years) with Mom out in paradise, he didn't make it to his 60th birthday. But he lived his life pretty fully and I learned a lot from him. I may not have learned how to change the oil in my car from him or how the stock market works, but I learned that it's okay to pursue your ideas and dreams, even if they're unconventional. He and Mom bought me the computer that I'm writing this on as an encouragement to keep pursuing my other passion, writing. And I know that he was proud of me for what I've written and what I will write. And I know he loved me. And I know that I loved him and still do.
I learned to love Dad. I didn't think he was the greatest dad around when I was young. And I suppose he wasn't. But he was a lot different then. At least it seemed that way to me. He could be gruff and blunt. He didn't always seem interested in what we were doing. He definitely wanted us to be quiet and not cause a lot of racket. But there were a lot of unique things about him, some that I picked up over time and some that I didn't realize until much later.
He was a morning guy. An early bird. Some of that had to do with the fact that he had to be at work so early in the morning, but I'm sure most of it was just his personality. The early mornings were his quiet time. He would spend that time sipping coffee, reading the newspaper and getting ready for the day. I never much understood the allure of this lifestyle, being a late night person, myself. I found it particularly distasteful when he would wake me up before I wanted to be up. His signature move? Flipping on the light and going back to the living room, making me get up to turn off the light, subsequently ensuring that I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. I also remember early Saturday morning lawn mowings that seemed to linger right outside my window. At least I thought they were early. He'd probably been up for over four hours by then.
Because he had to be at work so early in the morning, this meant that he was finished with work fairly early in the afternoon. This enabled him sufficient time to partake in one of his favorite chores/hobbies: fixing dinner. The kids at school thought this was a little strange, having your dad cook rather than your mom. But I didn't care so long as somebody was making dinner. Of course, he had his favorites and sometimes it seemed as if we were on a never-ending cycle. Monday was pork chops. Tuesday was cube steaks. Wednesday was goulash. No matter what day it was, though, there was going to be some sort of meat served. The weekends were reserved for other meat-themed treats. Saturdays often found dad out on the deck grilling the biggest burgers you'd ever seen. And Sundays were always pot roast, slow-cooked in the crockpot all day. Unless he was feeling adventerous. Then he would give the crockpot a little variety and cook up the best chili in history. Whatever it was he was cooking, he enjoyed the process, the creativity.
Creativity was something that I had no idea my dad possessed when I was young. I always just thought that he was a slave to routine and didn't want to venture outside the unknown. But looking back, I realized that this wasn't true at all. Dad seemed willing to take on new things and try out new ideas. Not all the time, but often enough to make me understand that he wasn't as boring as I thought.
He and his buddies built a deck in our backyard. I remember thinking how cool it was that my dad had all those tools and actually knew what to do with them. He had a quadrophonic stereo system, basically surround sound for the 70's. I always wanted to duplicate that in my own place. When he had an addition built onto our house, he employed alternate energy sources, like passive solar and a wood-burning stove. He built the coolest bunk beds that two kids could ever want. He embraced soccer before the term “soccer mom” was ever invented and even bought season tickets for the local indoor squad, the Kansas City Comets.
His passion for soccer, though, was a mixed bag for me. He thought the sport was so great and fun that he wanted Seth and I to play. And we did. A lot. And it was fun and we were good. Dad even coached my team for a while, which was great. What I didn't realize at the time, though, is that my great passion was being squelched.
I had always loved baseball from as far back as I can remember. I owned a 1980 “George Brett for President” bumper sticker and a Hal McRae t-shirt. I had a sack full of 1982 Fleer baseball cards. I played Whiffle ball in my grandparents front yard, drawing up the lineup cards of the current Royals teams and pretending to be each one of them as I threw the ball up to myself and hit it around the neighborhood. But I never played organized baseball as a kid because Dad had convinced me that soccer was the greatest thing going. And, like I said, I was good so I didn't really complain too much because it's always fun when you're good at something. But as time passed and my passion for baseball grew, my interest in soccer waned.
I told Dad and everyone I knew that I wanted to be a Major League baseball player when I grew up. Dad always did his best to keep me well-grounded by reminding me that the chances of becoming a baseball player of that caliber were slim to none. Regardless, he took me to the batting cages and even bought me time with an instructor. I fought hard and made the baseball team at Shawnee Mission North my junior year, but by then I realized that he was right; I might be good enough to make my summer league all-star team but I wasn't going to the Major Leagues unless I bought myself a ticket.
The best thing about playing baseball for those few years came one summer when my summer league team was short on pitching. My coach asked if I would be willing to try pitching. I had never done it before and I knew my arm wasn't particularly strong, but I agreed to do it anyway. Since I knew very little about how to pitch, I asked Dad. I had heard stories about how he was a pitcher when he was a kid in Little League, so I knew he would be able to at least give me the basics of what I needed to know. So, out to the yard we went. He would tell me how to set up on the pitching rubber, how to throw from the wind-up and the stretch, how to keep an eye on the baserunner to keep him close to the bag. I would throw and throw, doing my best not to chuck it past him or throw it in the dirt. He would occasionally grimace when the ball would hit his glove. Of all the times he tought me how to do something, this was the only time I can remember not really getting frustrated. I somehow managed to appreciate the moment of him taking time to show me how to do something he had once done in an area of interest I loved so much.
And while I never became good enough to play baseball beyond high school, Dad still managed to connect to my passion through another one of his creative ideas: He decided to buy the baseball card shop that I'd spent so much time (and his money) at as a kid. The baseball card industry was booming at the time and he must have figured that it would be a decent risk to get in the game. I was like a kid in a candy store. I was now required to spend my time at the baseball card shop now, instead of having to beg to go there. My expertise was leaned upon as Mom and Dad learned the ins and outs of the baseball card business. I learned a lot about retail business, people, baseball and my dad because of that shop.
By this time, my dad had become less gruff and more personable, less irritable and more patient. I appreciated the fact that he listened to and respected my input regarding the shop, even though I was still young. Of course, he would still get on me if I did something stupid. For instance, the time that he came to the back room of the shop and asked my opinion on whether Walt Whitman was any good or not. I was sitting right by the door when I laughed and said that, yeah, I'm sure he was a pretty decent poet but I didn't know about his basketball skills. Dad shot me the evil eye and whispered at me to shut up, that the customer who had asked about Walt Williams was standing right outside the door and that I should be more respectful of customers and less of a smart-ass.
The shop seemed to be successful enough that eventually Dad decided to retire early. This was another decision that wasn't exactly by-the-book, but one that I thought was cool nonetheless. He didn't have to work the crummy job he'd been working at for over 20 years and that seemed to breathe some life into him. Enough life, in fact, that he started drawing up designs on his next big idea: permanently moving to Hawaii.
After the baseball strike in 1994, the shop took a hit and never quite recovered. Eventually, Mom and Dad closed it up and started figuring out how to take this next big step. Dad had seen his mom die young, crushing his dad and their dreams together in the process, and decided that he wasn't going to let that happen to him. So up they moved, Mom and Dad, to Hawaii to live out his dream. I thought it was a bullshit move at the time, because my two kids were under the age of five and I wanted them to know their grandparents like I had known mine. But after I had visited them their the first time, I realized how right it was. And while I still wish that we would have been able to spend more time together, I'm proud of my dad for taking the risk and living out his dream.
Unfortunately, he didn't get to live his dream as long as he might have wanted. While he got to spend a quarter of his adult life (10 years) with Mom out in paradise, he didn't make it to his 60th birthday. But he lived his life pretty fully and I learned a lot from him. I may not have learned how to change the oil in my car from him or how the stock market works, but I learned that it's okay to pursue your ideas and dreams, even if they're unconventional. He and Mom bought me the computer that I'm writing this on as an encouragement to keep pursuing my other passion, writing. And I know that he was proud of me for what I've written and what I will write. And I know he loved me. And I know that I loved him and still do.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
The Man
The Man.
He's walking his dog. He's getting exercise.
The Man.
He's got a good job and a well-groomed goatee. He's got a separate pair of shoes for work and for running and for nights out on the town.
The Man.
He keeps up the maintenance on his sensible car. He drops his punctually-paid bills into the mailbox.
The Man.
He regularly attends his place of worship. He volunteers at least once a month.
The Man.
He mows his lawn on Saturdays and calls his parents on Sundays.
The Man.
He does all the things he's supposed to do. But he still feels like there's something he's missing.
The Man.
He's walking his dog. He's getting exercise.
The Man.
He's got a good job and a well-groomed goatee. He's got a separate pair of shoes for work and for running and for nights out on the town.
The Man.
He keeps up the maintenance on his sensible car. He drops his punctually-paid bills into the mailbox.
The Man.
He regularly attends his place of worship. He volunteers at least once a month.
The Man.
He mows his lawn on Saturdays and calls his parents on Sundays.
The Man.
He does all the things he's supposed to do. But he still feels like there's something he's missing.
The Man.
Friday, October 19, 2007
An Open Letter To The Men Who Work On My Floor
Dear Sirs -
It has been a sheer delight to share the same floor of this office building in Corporate Woods with you for the past 7-plus years. The fact that we've been working shoulder-to-shoulder as soldiers of industry and capitalism has imbued upon me a great sense of pride and patriotism. If not for the vast army of men collectively named "Joe Lunchpail", this country would come to a standstill.
That being said, I have a concern that I feel I must bring to your attention.
As you all are obviously aware, we share a single men's restroom on our floor. It is not a large restroom, like the women's restroom that has a separate changing/smoking/napping/deep-tissue massage room. No, we are left with two urinals, two stalls and three sinks. Since we have upwards of 20 men working on this floor, that means we have a lot of traffic coming through our tiny place of refuge. Add in the handful of men who commute from the 3rd floor while their restroom is being remodeled, and you have a lot of waste being eliminated in a small area.
This brings me to my issue: Half of the time I go to use the urinal, there is urine remaining from the previous person's discharge. And why is that? Because many of you continue to retain the mind-boggling habit of flushing midway through your expulsion yet NOT flushing after you are completed, leaving half of your legacy to remain for the next poor sap who comes in to relieve himself.
This leads me to ask: Are you not repulsed by the presence of urine in the fixture you're about to use? Are you not affected by the smell of said urine, left to marinate until the next person comes along? The only response I can reasonably predict from you is a resounding "Maybe."
Maybe it is a case of revenge: "Someone left this gift for me, so I will, in turn, leave a gift of my own!" If this is the case, I vehemently urge you to PLEASE break the cycle. It is like the never-ending cycle of child abuse, handed down from one generation to the next. Or the Kansas City Chiefs' never-ending cycle of fielding competitive football teams that, year after year, fail to win even a single playoff game. The cycle must be broken!
Maybe you are just hopelessly lazy: "Flush the toilet TWO times?!?! You must think time grows on trees!" If this is the case, may I suggest looking at this situation as a matter of timing, then? If you just wait 15-20 seconds longer, you can flush both the previous man's urine as well as your own urine away in one bold stroke.
I hope you will give careful consideration to my concerns and possible resolutions. I would really hate to have to start using the 1st floor restroom; those guys are just animals.
Yours in bathroom etiquette,
--Nick
It has been a sheer delight to share the same floor of this office building in Corporate Woods with you for the past 7-plus years. The fact that we've been working shoulder-to-shoulder as soldiers of industry and capitalism has imbued upon me a great sense of pride and patriotism. If not for the vast army of men collectively named "Joe Lunchpail", this country would come to a standstill.
That being said, I have a concern that I feel I must bring to your attention.
As you all are obviously aware, we share a single men's restroom on our floor. It is not a large restroom, like the women's restroom that has a separate changing/smoking/napping/deep-tissue massage room. No, we are left with two urinals, two stalls and three sinks. Since we have upwards of 20 men working on this floor, that means we have a lot of traffic coming through our tiny place of refuge. Add in the handful of men who commute from the 3rd floor while their restroom is being remodeled, and you have a lot of waste being eliminated in a small area.
This brings me to my issue: Half of the time I go to use the urinal, there is urine remaining from the previous person's discharge. And why is that? Because many of you continue to retain the mind-boggling habit of flushing midway through your expulsion yet NOT flushing after you are completed, leaving half of your legacy to remain for the next poor sap who comes in to relieve himself.
This leads me to ask: Are you not repulsed by the presence of urine in the fixture you're about to use? Are you not affected by the smell of said urine, left to marinate until the next person comes along? The only response I can reasonably predict from you is a resounding "Maybe."
Maybe it is a case of revenge: "Someone left this gift for me, so I will, in turn, leave a gift of my own!" If this is the case, I vehemently urge you to PLEASE break the cycle. It is like the never-ending cycle of child abuse, handed down from one generation to the next. Or the Kansas City Chiefs' never-ending cycle of fielding competitive football teams that, year after year, fail to win even a single playoff game. The cycle must be broken!
Maybe you are just hopelessly lazy: "Flush the toilet TWO times?!?! You must think time grows on trees!" If this is the case, may I suggest looking at this situation as a matter of timing, then? If you just wait 15-20 seconds longer, you can flush both the previous man's urine as well as your own urine away in one bold stroke.
I hope you will give careful consideration to my concerns and possible resolutions. I would really hate to have to start using the 1st floor restroom; those guys are just animals.
Yours in bathroom etiquette,
--Nick
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Hearing, But Not Listening
Two attractive, blond, young women sit on a park bench just outside their office. For them, it is break time, a time to vent about what's going on inside or with their boyfriends or how their families are completely loony. They sit casually, cross-legged and turned towards each other. There is a slight breeze but not enough to justify how often they each touch/adjust/flip/pull their hair. They take turns speaking, as those who possess manners tend to do. There is much hand gesturing and animation while one of them talks and what appears to be thoughtful, polite attention from the one who is listening. But upon closer inspection, one wonders whether they are really listening or just hearing. The body language speaks volumes. While the expressive, earnest story is being told, the other will occasionally look at the cars that glide past in the parking lot. Or she'll adjust her skirt. Or look to see who's coming in and out of the building. It even sounds like she's listening because on cue she'll offer up an encouraging head nod or say "I totally know what you mean!" But really she's just listening for the hint that tells her it is her time to speak again. And once she starts talking, the other girl picks up where the former left off. Both girls look forward to their daily breaks when they can go outside and get a few things off their chests. But neither of them feels any better afterwards and they can't quite pinpoint why.
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