The night I got married, my father had to be taken to a hospital. He was having trouble breathing. No longer was he the invincible man, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, able to outrun a locomotive. He was a man, a vulnerable man, afraid to die. His eyes were wide with fear when he said to me, "I think I had a heart attack."
I was a drunken sot, thanks to a night of open bar and that special concoction they make in Maui, the name of which I'll recall later. When I met up with my new wife in the hotel room, I had been crying like a colicky newborn baby. Thank goodness she didn't annul the marriage right there.
As it turns out, he just had the flu. But my perception of my father was changed forever. I knew now that he would die someday, as ridiculously obvious as that revelation seems. And as little as I rely on him for anything more than a pat on the back, which still puffs me up like dry sponge dipped in water, he won't be around forever to lean on.
So my heart goes out to my friend whom I've never met in person, who nonetheless has encouraged me in so many ways to be a writer, and is an inspiration to a great many others as well.
I'm sorry for your loss Janey.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Jeffrey Report
The name Jeffrey seems to have some significance in my life. When I bring the name up with my wife, she has to ask for clarification. Well, there are three that I refer to in varying frequency.
Jeffrey Roberts was my very good friend until he wasn't. He was like the lid on a mason jar of fireflies. Once removed, the fireflies scattered into the night, leaving me holding the empty container. I feel bad for my part in things, but my wife won't let me blame myself. Still, I know that for my part, I behaved badly.
But how much belly aching can I do? I hate losing friends, but sometimes it's a natural part of growing up. I was touched by a quote from Ernest Hemingway ala Tobias Wolff (which means Hemingway didn't actually say this):
He later repeats the most important advice he gave in that passage: Hold on to your friends. The impression I'm left with, is that towards the end of the man's life, he came to regret letting go when it was in his power to do otherwise. That really makes me think.
As for Jeff Starr, I recently wrote about a phone message he left me declaring that he had found the one. Then, a couple weeks later, that he had run into the wall that too easily erects to staunch the invasion of true feelings. But I found out recently that all systems are normally functioning once again. It seems that she was only testing him when she asked for the month moratorium on what Clinton referred to as sexual relations, and was testing too when she asked to see other people. I'm suspect, but then again, I'm not a well man.
Last but not least, Jeff found my "hit me buddy" post and responded in such a way as to preclude any doubt that it was truly him, by correctly identifying the censored expression "(insert bad word)smack" as his inspired creation "cocksmack." Not even my word processor knows what it means.
It was great to hear from you old buddy. I've decided to post some pictures of myself and my family on Flickr. I'll post a link here in a couple of days. Some of my long time blog buddies will finally see the man behind the mask. This will discredit once and for all the rumors circulating the blogosphere that I moonlight as a Chippendale's dancer. For all my old college buddies, brace yourselves. I'm not a kid anymore.
Jeffrey Roberts was my very good friend until he wasn't. He was like the lid on a mason jar of fireflies. Once removed, the fireflies scattered into the night, leaving me holding the empty container. I feel bad for my part in things, but my wife won't let me blame myself. Still, I know that for my part, I behaved badly.
But how much belly aching can I do? I hate losing friends, but sometimes it's a natural part of growing up. I was touched by a quote from Ernest Hemingway ala Tobias Wolff (which means Hemingway didn't actually say this):
Don't talk about your writing. If you talk about your writing you will touch something you shouldn't touch and it will fall apart and you will have nothing. Get up at first light and work like hell. Let your wife sleep in, it'll pay off later. Watch your blood pressure. Read. Read James Joyce and Bill Faulkner and Isak Dinesen -- that beautiful writer. Read Scott Fitzgerald. Hold on to your friends. Write like hell and make enough money to go someplace else, some other country where the . . . Feds can't get at you.
He later repeats the most important advice he gave in that passage: Hold on to your friends. The impression I'm left with, is that towards the end of the man's life, he came to regret letting go when it was in his power to do otherwise. That really makes me think.
As for Jeff Starr, I recently wrote about a phone message he left me declaring that he had found the one. Then, a couple weeks later, that he had run into the wall that too easily erects to staunch the invasion of true feelings. But I found out recently that all systems are normally functioning once again. It seems that she was only testing him when she asked for the month moratorium on what Clinton referred to as sexual relations, and was testing too when she asked to see other people. I'm suspect, but then again, I'm not a well man.
Last but not least, Jeff found my "hit me buddy" post and responded in such a way as to preclude any doubt that it was truly him, by correctly identifying the censored expression "(insert bad word)smack" as his inspired creation "cocksmack." Not even my word processor knows what it means.
It was great to hear from you old buddy. I've decided to post some pictures of myself and my family on Flickr. I'll post a link here in a couple of days. Some of my long time blog buddies will finally see the man behind the mask. This will discredit once and for all the rumors circulating the blogosphere that I moonlight as a Chippendale's dancer. For all my old college buddies, brace yourselves. I'm not a kid anymore.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Quick Update
A quick update.
If you have not watched Friday Night Lights, then I really think you should. Ostensibly, this show is about a small town high school football team -- the coach, his family, the players and their friends and family. But it's about so much more. As with Battlestar Galactica, this show is about drama first; all the rest is just setting. I'm not sure if it got nominated -- my wife thinks not -- and that's a damn shame.
Mr. Schprock is promising to post again, squelching any rumors of his untimely demise.
I'm going to be a soccer coach next season. When I told my dad, he asked, "What do you know about soccer?" Good point. My answer: a hell of a lot more than the guy coaching my son today. It's a funny little society. I told one of the other coaches that I will be doing this, and she told that she already knew. They were desperate she said.
Ahem. My kids will be ready to play, so bring it!
I've figured out why I've been so down at work. I'm a senior guy doing junior work, but I'm taking a stand and doing what I was originally hired to do -- design a new system. They derailed those efforts and have been sabotaging me in meetings with "minor" objections to the designs I have presented for review, causing me major headaches. It's been dragging me down to the point of giving up. Now it's time for the old Scott to step up to the plate and start losing friends and pissing off people. So fuck you Dale Carnegie, I'm doing it my way.
I saw a news story this morning. A lady stands in front of a lions cage and knocks, waking it up from a deep sleep. It rears onto its hind legs, reaches through the bars and wraps its paws around her shoulders and literally kisses her. It was so touching. The affection was so human. The woman, as it turns out, rescued the lion as a cub from starvation and nursed it to health. Wow.
If I ever find a video online, I'll post it. You just have to see it.
*** Update ***
Toni found it on BBC. I can't link it directly, but look to the right of the screen and see the video called "Woman embraced by Lion."
*** Update ***
That's all the news fit for print people.
If you have not watched Friday Night Lights, then I really think you should. Ostensibly, this show is about a small town high school football team -- the coach, his family, the players and their friends and family. But it's about so much more. As with Battlestar Galactica, this show is about drama first; all the rest is just setting. I'm not sure if it got nominated -- my wife thinks not -- and that's a damn shame.
Mr. Schprock is promising to post again, squelching any rumors of his untimely demise.
I'm going to be a soccer coach next season. When I told my dad, he asked, "What do you know about soccer?" Good point. My answer: a hell of a lot more than the guy coaching my son today. It's a funny little society. I told one of the other coaches that I will be doing this, and she told that she already knew. They were desperate she said.
Ahem. My kids will be ready to play, so bring it!
I've figured out why I've been so down at work. I'm a senior guy doing junior work, but I'm taking a stand and doing what I was originally hired to do -- design a new system. They derailed those efforts and have been sabotaging me in meetings with "minor" objections to the designs I have presented for review, causing me major headaches. It's been dragging me down to the point of giving up. Now it's time for the old Scott to step up to the plate and start losing friends and pissing off people. So fuck you Dale Carnegie, I'm doing it my way.
I saw a news story this morning. A lady stands in front of a lions cage and knocks, waking it up from a deep sleep. It rears onto its hind legs, reaches through the bars and wraps its paws around her shoulders and literally kisses her. It was so touching. The affection was so human. The woman, as it turns out, rescued the lion as a cub from starvation and nursed it to health. Wow.
If I ever find a video online, I'll post it. You just have to see it.
*** Update ***
Toni found it on BBC. I can't link it directly, but look to the right of the screen and see the video called "Woman embraced by Lion."
*** Update ***
That's all the news fit for print people.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
An Inconvenient Truth
Just a quick note to recommend this movie. I can tell you, as a right leaner, I have never liked Al Gore. But after this movie... I was moved. I'm not one to fall for political bullshit, but Al Gore has sold me hook, line and sinker. He cares about the environment, and every one of us better take heed--and soon. I've supported the administration about some things, but they have blantantly ignored alternative fuels, aside from lip service in the State of the Union.
I'm not a persuasive writer. Just see this movie, no matter how you lean.
I'm not a persuasive writer. Just see this movie, no matter how you lean.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Blue Jay
Out of the clear blue, an old friend called me up to say he was coming to Boston this weekend. I've written about him in the past. He was one of my beautiful friends, beside which I was nearly invisible at nightclubs and on our co-ed dormitory floor. Now he is engaged, and was here to visit with her family.
My wife doesn't like Jay, because he did this once before when we lived in San Francisco, but never showed. My wife wanted me to go with her to visit her Grandfather, who died soon after the visit. I stayed home and waited for Jay instead. She doesn't like him for other reasons. If you read about him, you will most likely understand.
It's like I told her before going out to see him, and several times after. My past is important to me. And what is harder to explain, is that despite all his faults--his ego, his selfishness, his need to be the alpha dog in our relationship--he was my friend. I could never sell that to my wife, and I understand how she sees it. I suppose any self-respecting person would see it her way too. But you had to be there.
You had to see what I was.
His fiance was just what I expected, and nothing like I expected at all. I expected her to be beautiful, and she was. But she was sweet, and quite moved when I told the story of how I met my wife. When we parted, she hugged me and said I was the highlight of her trip to Boston.
In many ways, Jay has found his opposite.
Jay looked the same, and nothing like he did before. I had a hard time seeing the young man that the ladies all swooned for. He still had his hair, but it was slightly disheveled. The old Jay was quite sharp and overly conscious of his appearance. He seemed slightly stooped with age, and his face, once smooth and perfect, was wrinkled and sagging just a bit.
He thinks I still look young. I thought he was just being nice, but when I look at my face in the mirror, in contrast to what he sees when he looks in his, maybe I can understand what he means. I'm not young anymore; nor do I look it. But I have aged gracefully. I'm not a sad reflection of what I used to be, though when I do see my old photos, I wonder why I had such a problem with my looks.
It was maturity that kept me from realizing any early potential. Jay helped me work through some of my issues. He wasn't perfect himself by any stretch, but he once told me, when I was on the verge of socking him in the eye, to stop being like my father. You're a better man than he is.
I reminded him that he told me that. His fiance kissed him when she heard this, and told me with no small amount of pride, that the people he manages at work would kill for him.
My wife doesn't like Jay, because he did this once before when we lived in San Francisco, but never showed. My wife wanted me to go with her to visit her Grandfather, who died soon after the visit. I stayed home and waited for Jay instead. She doesn't like him for other reasons. If you read about him, you will most likely understand.
It's like I told her before going out to see him, and several times after. My past is important to me. And what is harder to explain, is that despite all his faults--his ego, his selfishness, his need to be the alpha dog in our relationship--he was my friend. I could never sell that to my wife, and I understand how she sees it. I suppose any self-respecting person would see it her way too. But you had to be there.
You had to see what I was.
His fiance was just what I expected, and nothing like I expected at all. I expected her to be beautiful, and she was. But she was sweet, and quite moved when I told the story of how I met my wife. When we parted, she hugged me and said I was the highlight of her trip to Boston.
In many ways, Jay has found his opposite.
Jay looked the same, and nothing like he did before. I had a hard time seeing the young man that the ladies all swooned for. He still had his hair, but it was slightly disheveled. The old Jay was quite sharp and overly conscious of his appearance. He seemed slightly stooped with age, and his face, once smooth and perfect, was wrinkled and sagging just a bit.
He thinks I still look young. I thought he was just being nice, but when I look at my face in the mirror, in contrast to what he sees when he looks in his, maybe I can understand what he means. I'm not young anymore; nor do I look it. But I have aged gracefully. I'm not a sad reflection of what I used to be, though when I do see my old photos, I wonder why I had such a problem with my looks.
It was maturity that kept me from realizing any early potential. Jay helped me work through some of my issues. He wasn't perfect himself by any stretch, but he once told me, when I was on the verge of socking him in the eye, to stop being like my father. You're a better man than he is.
I reminded him that he told me that. His fiance kissed him when she heard this, and told me with no small amount of pride, that the people he manages at work would kill for him.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Guantlet
Christmas was lazy and far from white--just the way I like it. The kids loved pretty much everything they got, including the pair of light sabers that I just had to open first.
My wife and I went to a production of A Christmas Carol, and I shant say where, to protect the innocent. It was a musical of all things, the music having been written by someone local. Ebenezer was an amazing actor but a poor, poor singer. Some of the music was so bad that I did my best not to laugh out loud.
There were a great many faith elements to the story I had never noticed before. Jesus was mentioned on several occasions, and God was credited for Ebenezer's eventual turnaround. Ebenezer sings praise to Jesus near the end, just before he wakes up and makes everything right with the people he has abused. The song was just awful, and reminded me of Elmer Fudd. So, I leaned over and sang lightly in my wife's ear, "Oh what have I done? I've killed the bunny waaaaabit." My wife cracked up, earning me a severe glance from the teenaged couple two rows up. I felt bad. It's a lot of work to put on such an elaborate production. I'm not a heckler, but sometimes the joke is there and I can't resist lighting it up.
Well, it turns out it was a church production. They wanted us to fill out a survey. Flyers were waved in my face from church representatives up the aisle and out the door, where the entire cast sang Christmas carols.
It felt like a cult, a gang plank, and a gauntlet. Still, it was very nice, just a little shocking.
The couple we went with, who invited us and bought the tickets, apologized profusely. They didn't know that would happen. No problem. It was, well, different--the spice of life. The next day, they called and asked if we would like to join the church with them. Just joking, she said laughing.
My wife and I went to a production of A Christmas Carol, and I shant say where, to protect the innocent. It was a musical of all things, the music having been written by someone local. Ebenezer was an amazing actor but a poor, poor singer. Some of the music was so bad that I did my best not to laugh out loud.
There were a great many faith elements to the story I had never noticed before. Jesus was mentioned on several occasions, and God was credited for Ebenezer's eventual turnaround. Ebenezer sings praise to Jesus near the end, just before he wakes up and makes everything right with the people he has abused. The song was just awful, and reminded me of Elmer Fudd. So, I leaned over and sang lightly in my wife's ear, "Oh what have I done? I've killed the bunny waaaaabit." My wife cracked up, earning me a severe glance from the teenaged couple two rows up. I felt bad. It's a lot of work to put on such an elaborate production. I'm not a heckler, but sometimes the joke is there and I can't resist lighting it up.
Well, it turns out it was a church production. They wanted us to fill out a survey. Flyers were waved in my face from church representatives up the aisle and out the door, where the entire cast sang Christmas carols.
It felt like a cult, a gang plank, and a gauntlet. Still, it was very nice, just a little shocking.
The couple we went with, who invited us and bought the tickets, apologized profusely. They didn't know that would happen. No problem. It was, well, different--the spice of life. The next day, they called and asked if we would like to join the church with them. Just joking, she said laughing.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Thrice rubbed and twice scratched
My wife needed a good shoulder rub last night, just as we sat down for dinner, and she got way more than she bargained for. I was in one of those benevolent moods, and gave her more than the obligatory two minute variety.
Jackson decided to supplement my work when I was done. He asked her to stand up after he finished with the shoulders. She asked him why. So I can scratch your back he said. So she complied, and when he had finished, she gave him a hug and a kiss.
It was pretty cute.
Then Emmett got out of his seat.
He's just turned three mind you.
He reaches up from behind her where she sat, and two tiny hands, barely reaching the height, started working quite ineffectively on her shoulders while we all laughed that awww-how-cute laugh. When he finished, of course, like his brother, he made her stand again so he could scratch her back.
Jackson decided to supplement my work when I was done. He asked her to stand up after he finished with the shoulders. She asked him why. So I can scratch your back he said. So she complied, and when he had finished, she gave him a hug and a kiss.
It was pretty cute.
Then Emmett got out of his seat.
He's just turned three mind you.
He reaches up from behind her where she sat, and two tiny hands, barely reaching the height, started working quite ineffectively on her shoulders while we all laughed that awww-how-cute laugh. When he finished, of course, like his brother, he made her stand again so he could scratch her back.
Monday, December 18, 2006
What I Should Be Doing
I had some plans for a meaningless post about what I've been doing with my life, to make sense of why I haven't been around as much. But in making my rounds, I found a surprising post on Beth's blog (Shirk Ethic, December 16th 2006) concerning the abysmal work ethic of the average American. Don't be afraid to click through, no matter what end of the aisle you stand on.
When I was a teenager, I was probably no different than most boys my age. I didn't have an eye on the future, even as it was clamping down on me like one of those anvils that the road runner would drop from a high cliff onto the coyotes head. I think my dad finally figured out that I wasn't going to make much of myself, that he hadn't taught me a backup skill in case I didn't go to or do well in college.
His friend George had three sons, each being a master carpenter by the time they graduated from high school. On this point I am deadly serious, because they could, without their father, build a home from a grassy field. Me, I wasn't qualified to carry any of them a handful of nails. So my dad decided that I would learn.
On Friday and Saturday nights, I drank until two or three in the morning, but when the rooster crowed, my dad kicked me out of bed, and the hangover would be sweated out while packing sheetrock on my shoulders, and laziness was not abided. Full tilt was the only speed setting I had, and if I stumbled, my dad was there to kick my ass.
Fast forward five or six years, and I've got my own crew, building roofs and barking orders, up at the crack of dawn, running on my own steam. I was proud and I was good.
Fast forward fifteen more years, and I'm sitting behind a computer, surfing the net, writing this blog post, commenting on yours, dreaming about writing a novel, doing what I can to get by, knowing that there really isn't much chance of getting caught. I once worshipped Ayn Rand for the work ethic she espoused, even though she was a bit harsh, still, there was a romance to the notion of working hard and earning every dollar I make.
But that isn't so.
I do good work, when I do it, but I'm not that young man that sinks nails with a single swat anymore.
If I want to make a difference, if I want to squawk about the influx of foreign labor, and the exportation of jobs to India and other nations abroad, shouldn't I be doing the best job that I am capable of doing?
When I was a teenager, I was probably no different than most boys my age. I didn't have an eye on the future, even as it was clamping down on me like one of those anvils that the road runner would drop from a high cliff onto the coyotes head. I think my dad finally figured out that I wasn't going to make much of myself, that he hadn't taught me a backup skill in case I didn't go to or do well in college.
His friend George had three sons, each being a master carpenter by the time they graduated from high school. On this point I am deadly serious, because they could, without their father, build a home from a grassy field. Me, I wasn't qualified to carry any of them a handful of nails. So my dad decided that I would learn.
On Friday and Saturday nights, I drank until two or three in the morning, but when the rooster crowed, my dad kicked me out of bed, and the hangover would be sweated out while packing sheetrock on my shoulders, and laziness was not abided. Full tilt was the only speed setting I had, and if I stumbled, my dad was there to kick my ass.
Fast forward five or six years, and I've got my own crew, building roofs and barking orders, up at the crack of dawn, running on my own steam. I was proud and I was good.
Fast forward fifteen more years, and I'm sitting behind a computer, surfing the net, writing this blog post, commenting on yours, dreaming about writing a novel, doing what I can to get by, knowing that there really isn't much chance of getting caught. I once worshipped Ayn Rand for the work ethic she espoused, even though she was a bit harsh, still, there was a romance to the notion of working hard and earning every dollar I make.
But that isn't so.
I do good work, when I do it, but I'm not that young man that sinks nails with a single swat anymore.
If I want to make a difference, if I want to squawk about the influx of foreign labor, and the exportation of jobs to India and other nations abroad, shouldn't I be doing the best job that I am capable of doing?
Monday, December 11, 2006
Ice Water To The Face
I am an earthling once again.
As Parcells once said to Peter King, "Do you know how hard it is to win a Superbowl?" This in response to the question, "How long will it take you to rebuild this team into a champion?" Bill also said, "When will you win the Pulitzer prize?"
It's a relief in a way. I haven't done much else besides read everything there is to read about the Dallas Cowboys.
I admit it. I'm a freak.
My writing has suffered as a result, but I am still pecking away at it slowly. My class draws to a close this weekend. I have written and rewritten the same scene three different times, but am finally coming to a conclusion that I may finally know just who this bit character is that I am about to throw away.
It's hard.
I'm reading Bernard Cornwell, The Archer's Tale. On Netflix I ordered up a helping of a screen adaptation of Sharpe's Rifles, for which Cornwell is famous. I absolutely love Historical Fiction.
Life is good. It will be better once football season is over.
My kids make my heart thump. I snuck into Jackson's room, a little melancholy for being so upset about a stupid game. I rubbed his forehead and he stirred, put his hands behind his head, elbows pointed out--then snored.
As for football, I should be writing my own fantasies, not praying for one to play out, especially when I have no control.
As Parcells once said to Peter King, "Do you know how hard it is to win a Superbowl?" This in response to the question, "How long will it take you to rebuild this team into a champion?" Bill also said, "When will you win the Pulitzer prize?"
It's a relief in a way. I haven't done much else besides read everything there is to read about the Dallas Cowboys.
I admit it. I'm a freak.
My writing has suffered as a result, but I am still pecking away at it slowly. My class draws to a close this weekend. I have written and rewritten the same scene three different times, but am finally coming to a conclusion that I may finally know just who this bit character is that I am about to throw away.
It's hard.
I'm reading Bernard Cornwell, The Archer's Tale. On Netflix I ordered up a helping of a screen adaptation of Sharpe's Rifles, for which Cornwell is famous. I absolutely love Historical Fiction.
Life is good. It will be better once football season is over.
My kids make my heart thump. I snuck into Jackson's room, a little melancholy for being so upset about a stupid game. I rubbed his forehead and he stirred, put his hands behind his head, elbows pointed out--then snored.
As for football, I should be writing my own fantasies, not praying for one to play out, especially when I have no control.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
On raising children
Let the children play. And if it's not too much to ask, get out of the way
Me: Just Now
Move on if you beat your kids or condone it. It's one of those days.
You've been warned.
I was in the right aisle now, looking for the smallest and cheapest bottle of dish soap. The kids found a box of ice scrapers and pulled out one apiece. The store was practically empty; but a frumpy, graying woman browsed the same aisle, clearly annoyed that the kids ran back and forth between me and the scraper box.
Jackson's scraper knocked on the ground, so the lady turned to him and practically spat, "Those aren't hockey sticks!"
I turned to her and boomed, "Thank you!"
We stared at each other for a spell, me with raised eyebrows. She scrutinized my face for intent, but I wore the mask of amusement.
"My kids are all grown up," she told me, "and moved away."
I'll bet they wasted no time. I didn't reply. I turned to the kids. "Put the hockey sticks away; it's time to go."
"It's the hardest job in the world, raising children," she said to my retreating back.
I turned and looked at her. "Actually, I think it's a lot of fun."
Now, I know the waitresses of the world are spitting coffee at the computer monitor, thinking of all the little shits that have run under their feet, and all the youngsters and crusty curmudgeons are reliving every flight they've taken with a screaming kid a seat away.
Frankly Miss Scarlett, I don't give a damn.
I won't argue with you. You can hate kids, or live in that gray shadowland in between and call it what you will.
I'm not raising my kids to make you happy. I'm raising them to be happy.
Want to tell me that I'm not raising them right, that someday they'll land in jail because they haven't been prepared for the realities of the world? Go ahead. Check with me in twenty years and we'll compare notes. I'll take my chances.
I'm a product of "spare the rod" parenting, and I turned out just fine. But I'll never be happy. Not really. I'll come as close as one can come to being happy without really being happy, because deep inside I'll always be that kid whose mother left, whose step-mother beat, whose life was uprooted on a whim, who came in second, third, fourth and last in all things, always seen and not heard, the poster child for the strict discipline to which America so pines to return.
I won't debate it. I know what you think. It used to make me sad. I used to think I could make you see. But I realize that it doesn't matter any more. But don't step in my way anymore because I am tired of straddling the fence. Try to impress me with your morals anymore, and I will impress upon you back.
But it's not your fault, and I have to remember that.
How long until we figure out that love is the answer, and not a leather strap, a swiss cheese paddle, the back side of a hand, an open slap, a balled fist, or biting words of derision to a three year old child who doesn't know the meaning of the word share?
Answer: never. We are delusional and damn smug about it.
I see New England moms yelling at kids, shaming them for answering the call of their mercurial spirit. Don't worry parents. You will win the fight. You always do. That little spirit is large, but then so is a mountain. Tell that to the river and it will tell you that time is on its side. Your kids will grow up just like you, whether they like it or not. And that is why they will hate themselves and never fit in.
And you will be proud because they will hide it, never confront you, and even console you when you cry out in a fit of momentary clarity.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Mark It Down
It's been one hell of a weekend.
In a good way.
This isn't a football post, but every Thanksgiving I am lucky to watch my favorite team since the days of Stauback and Dorsett play the great game of football. And let me be a tremendous Homer and say that this is the beginning of a new Cowboy's era.
Mark that down. 2006: the start of a new era.
And write this down: Tony Romo will eclipse Troy Aikman as the next and possibly greatest of Cowboy's quarterbacks. And despite your team affiliation, I will be so bold as to say, that means being the greatest of any quarterback period. The position of quarterback on the Dallas Cowboys is the marquis position in all of sports.
Want to be there when it all began? Tune in this Sunday in the Meadowlands and watch the rise of a legend.
Tony Romo.
Mark that down.
Oh, to hell with it. This is a football post. I'll tell you about my weekend later. But it's been a good one.
In a good way.
This isn't a football post, but every Thanksgiving I am lucky to watch my favorite team since the days of Stauback and Dorsett play the great game of football. And let me be a tremendous Homer and say that this is the beginning of a new Cowboy's era.
Mark that down. 2006: the start of a new era.
And write this down: Tony Romo will eclipse Troy Aikman as the next and possibly greatest of Cowboy's quarterbacks. And despite your team affiliation, I will be so bold as to say, that means being the greatest of any quarterback period. The position of quarterback on the Dallas Cowboys is the marquis position in all of sports.
Want to be there when it all began? Tune in this Sunday in the Meadowlands and watch the rise of a legend.
Tony Romo.
Mark that down.
Oh, to hell with it. This is a football post. I'll tell you about my weekend later. But it's been a good one.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Perils of Laying Brick
I found this in my travels.
The following letter was mailed to the Liberty Mutual Insurance Company.
Dear Sirs:
I am writing in response to your request for additional information in Block 3 of the Accident Report Form. I put "poor planning" as the cause of my accident. You said in your letter that I should explain more fully, and I trust that the following details will be sufficient.
I am a bricklayer by trade. On the day of the accident, I was working alone on the roof of my new six-story building; when I completed my work, I discovered I had about 500 pounds of bricks left over. Rather than carry the bricks down by hand, I decided to lower them in a barrel by using a pulley which fortunately, was attached to the side of the building at the sixth floor.
Securing the rope at ground level, I went up to the roof, swung the barrel out and loaded the bricks into it. Then I went back to the ground and untied the rope, holding it tightly to insure a slow descent of the 500 pounds of bricks. You will note in Block 11 of the Accident Report Form, that my weight is 175 pounds.
Due to my surprise at being jerked off the ground suddenly, I lost my presence of mind and forgot to let go of the rope. Needless to say, I proceeded at a rather rapid rate up the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel which was now proceeding in a downward direction at an equally impressive rate of speed. This explains the fractured skull, minor abrasions, and the broken collarbone, as listed in Section III of the Accident Report Form.
Slowed only slightly, I continued my rapid ascent, not stopping until the fingers of my right hand were two knuckles deep into the pulley which I mentioned in Paragraph 2 of this correspondence.
Fortunately, by this time, I had regained my presence of mind and was able to hold tightly to the rope, in spite of the excruciating pain I was now beginning to experience. At approximately the same time, however, the barrel of bricks hit the ground and the bottom fell out of the barrel. Devoid of the weight of the bricks, the barrel now weighed approximately 50 pounds.
I refer again to my weight in Block 11. As you might imagine, I began a rapid descent down the side of the building. In the vicinity of the third floor, I met the barrel coming up. This accounts for the two fractured ankles, broken tooth, and the severe lacerations on my legs and lower body.
Here my luck began to change slightly. The encounter with the barrel seemed to slow me enough to lessen my injuries when I fell into the pile of bricks and, fortunately, only three vertebrae were cracked.
I am sorry to report, however, that as I lay there on the pile of bricks in pain, unable to move and watching the empty barrel six stories above me, I again lost my composure and presence of mind and let go of the rope!
Sincerely yours,
Name withheld
BMI
I found an AP story on the internet quoting the government's frustration that we are all getting just a little too fat. I'm sure that most of you don't want to post your BMI, especially the ladies--and it is rude of me to ask. 25 is considered the cutoff, beyond which means too many donuts. Mine is 27.77, not nearly what I thought it would be. Geez, with a little bit of exercise...
Here is how you figure yours:
First, multiply your weight in pounds by .45 to get kilograms. Next, convert your height to inches. Multiply this number by .0254 to get meters. Multiply that number by itself. Then divide this into your weight in kilograms.
According to the government, you are likely to land in the 20s or low 30s.
Here is how you figure yours:
First, multiply your weight in pounds by .45 to get kilograms. Next, convert your height to inches. Multiply this number by .0254 to get meters. Multiply that number by itself. Then divide this into your weight in kilograms.
According to the government, you are likely to land in the 20s or low 30s.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Love is but a dung hill
Thanks for dropping in on me while I've been away. Yes, I am working daily on my novel. It's a lot of work, but I am making steady progress. How long did it take the river to carve out the Grand Canyon?
As for my friend Jeff...
Sadly, I think it is not working out with his new love. I am reminded of an old relationship I had. I'll update later with links, but she was hardly worth the trouble when it was all said and done. She had me turned around backwards and inside out. I was so busy playing defense that I never had the time to wonder if she was really right for me. Towards the end, in an effort to let me down easy, she asked for a thirty day break, to see if she actually missed me when it was over. I was such a schlep that I went along with it, and it was her that couldn't take it after a week and a half. And when I agreed to see her, it went right back to where it was before, only worse.
Jeff's new love is a Republican, and told him flatly that she could never marry a Democrat.
She neglected to tell some of her guy friends that she has a new boyfriend.
She asked for a thirty day cessation of sex.
Is that a magic number?
I'm sorry old buddy, but you have to walk away. If you want to leave the light on, go right ahead. But if she cared about you the way you care about her, her friends and her friend's friends would be sick and tired of hearing about you. Whatever you do, don't ever change who you are to please somebody else. If she can't take a difference of opinion, then that might explain why she is still single in her August years.
And as for a thirty day break, say that you'll see her thirty and raise her a lifetime.
As for my friend Jeff...
Sadly, I think it is not working out with his new love. I am reminded of an old relationship I had. I'll update later with links, but she was hardly worth the trouble when it was all said and done. She had me turned around backwards and inside out. I was so busy playing defense that I never had the time to wonder if she was really right for me. Towards the end, in an effort to let me down easy, she asked for a thirty day break, to see if she actually missed me when it was over. I was such a schlep that I went along with it, and it was her that couldn't take it after a week and a half. And when I agreed to see her, it went right back to where it was before, only worse.
Jeff's new love is a Republican, and told him flatly that she could never marry a Democrat.
She neglected to tell some of her guy friends that she has a new boyfriend.
She asked for a thirty day cessation of sex.
Is that a magic number?
I'm sorry old buddy, but you have to walk away. If you want to leave the light on, go right ahead. But if she cared about you the way you care about her, her friends and her friend's friends would be sick and tired of hearing about you. Whatever you do, don't ever change who you are to please somebody else. If she can't take a difference of opinion, then that might explain why she is still single in her August years.
And as for a thirty day break, say that you'll see her thirty and raise her a lifetime.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Love Happens
My friend Jeff is the proverbial open book. Jeff is a simple man who gives his heart with every degree of intensity he has. His wife of several years died a couple years back of cancer, and he was left alone to raise his children. It took years for the cancer to take her, and so they lived in the dark terrible shadow of death, such that when it finally came, everyone had said their goodbyes, and the relief was palpable.
Love false-started for Jeff a few start months ago. The object of his affection didn't return his enthusiasm, much less his calls. He's in his forties now, like me, and the playing field is harsher than the NFL when it comes to viable shelf-life. I didn't have high hopes that he would meet someone nice.
Imagine if you will, a man with a soft kind voice, simple and honest. Think Opie Taylor all grown up. Jeff is like a puppy, in that you could kick him and he would keep coming back--all because he loves you. Surely, even in this jaded world, there is a woman who can appreciate what is not hard to get.
There is.
This is the message I found on my cell phone a couple weekends ago. Transcribed literally:
Love false-started for Jeff a few start months ago. The object of his affection didn't return his enthusiasm, much less his calls. He's in his forties now, like me, and the playing field is harsher than the NFL when it comes to viable shelf-life. I didn't have high hopes that he would meet someone nice.
Imagine if you will, a man with a soft kind voice, simple and honest. Think Opie Taylor all grown up. Jeff is like a puppy, in that you could kick him and he would keep coming back--all because he loves you. Surely, even in this jaded world, there is a woman who can appreciate what is not hard to get.
There is.
This is the message I found on my cell phone a couple weekends ago. Transcribed literally:
Hey Scott, this is Jeff.
Hey, I had an unbelievable weekend, it was epic. It was the best weekend... almost of my whole life. This gal is gorgeous--great personality, fun to be around.
Um... we hit it off big time, just sparks everywhere, had the best time in my life.
The water was pure calm out in the straights, it was just phenomenal. Anyway, um, you won't believe when I tell you this one, but this is the gal I'm gonna marry--absolutely.
Um, heck, she's... she's... you know, makes-really-good-money, and she's a great woman. So anyway, um, anyway that's where it's gonna be headin' here, because she's... she's just awesome.
I told her to go offline. I won't be here unless she's only with me only. And then she said, yeah, that's all I'm gonna do.
So anyway... I'll talk to you later.
Bye
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Work work work
Why can't they invent some other way to make a living? The ancient Romans apparently had a system where the people, the ones living in the governing city, didn't have to do any work at all. I've seen DC, so there would be a tradeoff, but I could handle it.
My youngest son is going to be three this weekend. He just called me to let me know that he wants a Lightning McQueen racetrack. Roughly speaking, I believe he has told me this around fifty times. It's already in the back of my SUV--a Saturn with better gas mileage than some hybrids if anyone is planning to have me killed.
My eldest is excited about reading. Oh, that's right, I already said. But I'm excited about it, so it bears repeating.
I got sick of exclusively writing my novel outline, so yesterday I got to work on another chapter. I borrowed from a short story that I abandoned after writing around six thousand words. I figured it out. If every chapter is basically a short story, with a possible twist ending, it could actually turn out to be an interesting read. Start with hum-drum, life is normal, then like the old Batman serial--CRASH! Boom! Bam! Ka-pow!!!
Anyway, I'm just checking in. I've got another month of work to do in a week, and the best I can manage is a feeble effort. My heart is somewhere else.
My youngest son is going to be three this weekend. He just called me to let me know that he wants a Lightning McQueen racetrack. Roughly speaking, I believe he has told me this around fifty times. It's already in the back of my SUV--a Saturn with better gas mileage than some hybrids if anyone is planning to have me killed.
My eldest is excited about reading. Oh, that's right, I already said. But I'm excited about it, so it bears repeating.
I got sick of exclusively writing my novel outline, so yesterday I got to work on another chapter. I borrowed from a short story that I abandoned after writing around six thousand words. I figured it out. If every chapter is basically a short story, with a possible twist ending, it could actually turn out to be an interesting read. Start with hum-drum, life is normal, then like the old Batman serial--CRASH! Boom! Bam! Ka-pow!!!
Anyway, I'm just checking in. I've got another month of work to do in a week, and the best I can manage is a feeble effort. My heart is somewhere else.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Thinking Like a Winner
Life is sifting itself into the right places.
A while ago, probably three months or more, my youngest son lost the nail on his ring finger. It came clean off. Almost to the person I got assurance that they grow back. But one man, an ex-navyman, said something that resonated with me most. He lost something like three nails and they never grew back. Thanks! So I adjusted my thinking. But as you may have guessed by now, because I am not the master of indirection, that it did indeed grow back. I didn't believe it at first, and wouldn't believe it until it grew past the skin and needed to be clipped.
Next up: the pool. For all you spoiled brats that live in tropical climates, know that in New England, winter means death to swimming pools that haven't been closed properly. Last year I spent probably a thousand dollars in chemicals, repairs, opening and closing that damn pool. This year I put my foot down, went to New Hampshire where purchases are tax-free, and bought all my chemicals and implements. I opened it myself, maintained it, and closed it this last weekend. Total cost: $150. The pool has to be covered with a tarp and weighted down with 2 by 8 water balloons. Last season, the closers found holes in all but two of my balloons, and sold me new ones for fifteen bucks a apiece. I needed ten. Cha-ching! This season, since I did it all myself, they all miraculously survived the winter--and I bought a stock-pile of them for 2.50 apiece. I blew the water out of my pipes with a Sears shop-vac.
I swear, it was easy. It goes to show how helpless the average person is when it comes to taking care of himself. What would we do if suddenly we had to go it alone?
You may also remember a certain toilet installation that went wrong for me. I replaced the last toilet in our house over this last weekend (busy weekend, yes). I had similar difficulties, but at least this time I knew to turn the water off first. I got out the soldering equipment and made quick work of it. Live and learn. I don't need no stinkin' plumber or a pool guy.
Or a tutor if things progress like they are. My oldest son is learning to read. I've read him three stories a night almost every night since he was old enough to control the muscles in his neck. Last night I picked out a stack of easy readers at the library and had him read to me. He did stunningly well. And what's more, he totally enjoyed it. Far from being frustrated and giving up, he worked through the harder words and celebrated his successes. He read to me and my younger son, then turned the light on over his bed and read another one to himself. Later, his mother was laying next to him in bed while he read to her.
If you are a parent, you just know what I mean. A picture in time, the two of them together; him with that grim look of determination, her with an adoring, encouraging smile, and me in the doorway peeking in, thinking that I must have done something right in this life to deserve this.
Last, and second only to the latter, I am working on an outline for my novel concept. It is growing and really working itself out. I know that getting published is a hard thing to do, but have you read some of the popular fiction out there today? I picked up a copy of Stephen Frey's The Power Broker, and am amazed at how badly written it is. And his book was displayed like the holy grail at Barnes and Noble. He says things like (I'm paraphrasing), "Things were bad, but they were just about to get a whole lot worse." I almost threw up on that one. Mine is a library copy, but I'm thinking of buying it so I can mark it up and bring it to my writing class. It's not all bad, but lines like that one, that tack 12 on the cheese-richter scale, should be encouraging to aspiring (forgive the term, but I think its appropriate Bernita!) writers. If this shite makes it through...
My story has heft. All I need to do is write it (thanks Dixie!) and rub out any passages like the aforementioned, refine and add some spice.
Mark my words. I will sell this one. A friend of mine used to say, if you want to be a winner, you have to think like a winner.
A while ago, probably three months or more, my youngest son lost the nail on his ring finger. It came clean off. Almost to the person I got assurance that they grow back. But one man, an ex-navyman, said something that resonated with me most. He lost something like three nails and they never grew back. Thanks! So I adjusted my thinking. But as you may have guessed by now, because I am not the master of indirection, that it did indeed grow back. I didn't believe it at first, and wouldn't believe it until it grew past the skin and needed to be clipped.
Next up: the pool. For all you spoiled brats that live in tropical climates, know that in New England, winter means death to swimming pools that haven't been closed properly. Last year I spent probably a thousand dollars in chemicals, repairs, opening and closing that damn pool. This year I put my foot down, went to New Hampshire where purchases are tax-free, and bought all my chemicals and implements. I opened it myself, maintained it, and closed it this last weekend. Total cost: $150. The pool has to be covered with a tarp and weighted down with 2 by 8 water balloons. Last season, the closers found holes in all but two of my balloons, and sold me new ones for fifteen bucks a apiece. I needed ten. Cha-ching! This season, since I did it all myself, they all miraculously survived the winter--and I bought a stock-pile of them for 2.50 apiece. I blew the water out of my pipes with a Sears shop-vac.
I swear, it was easy. It goes to show how helpless the average person is when it comes to taking care of himself. What would we do if suddenly we had to go it alone?
You may also remember a certain toilet installation that went wrong for me. I replaced the last toilet in our house over this last weekend (busy weekend, yes). I had similar difficulties, but at least this time I knew to turn the water off first. I got out the soldering equipment and made quick work of it. Live and learn. I don't need no stinkin' plumber or a pool guy.
Or a tutor if things progress like they are. My oldest son is learning to read. I've read him three stories a night almost every night since he was old enough to control the muscles in his neck. Last night I picked out a stack of easy readers at the library and had him read to me. He did stunningly well. And what's more, he totally enjoyed it. Far from being frustrated and giving up, he worked through the harder words and celebrated his successes. He read to me and my younger son, then turned the light on over his bed and read another one to himself. Later, his mother was laying next to him in bed while he read to her.
If you are a parent, you just know what I mean. A picture in time, the two of them together; him with that grim look of determination, her with an adoring, encouraging smile, and me in the doorway peeking in, thinking that I must have done something right in this life to deserve this.
Last, and second only to the latter, I am working on an outline for my novel concept. It is growing and really working itself out. I know that getting published is a hard thing to do, but have you read some of the popular fiction out there today? I picked up a copy of Stephen Frey's The Power Broker, and am amazed at how badly written it is. And his book was displayed like the holy grail at Barnes and Noble. He says things like (I'm paraphrasing), "Things were bad, but they were just about to get a whole lot worse." I almost threw up on that one. Mine is a library copy, but I'm thinking of buying it so I can mark it up and bring it to my writing class. It's not all bad, but lines like that one, that tack 12 on the cheese-richter scale, should be encouraging to aspiring (forgive the term, but I think its appropriate Bernita!) writers. If this shite makes it through...
My story has heft. All I need to do is write it (thanks Dixie!) and rub out any passages like the aforementioned, refine and add some spice.
Mark my words. I will sell this one. A friend of mine used to say, if you want to be a winner, you have to think like a winner.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Come Back Friday
I have a big presentation of my system designs, stuff I've been working on for months. Tomorrow. Also, I'd like to wrap up the next chapter of my latest story, which I plan to read in class tomorrow. So big day coming up. There is a very nice girl at my office that is reading my work in progress, the one I started online a couple weeks ago, and has been quite complimentary in a way that convinces me that, so far, this is really working. She offered some great ideas about story structure that would maximize the suspense and final impact. I'm getting excited. Perhaps, just perhaps, I have started my first novel.
This was supposed to be a short story for a contest Dixie Belle turned me on to. But my goal is novel. Novel. Novel. NOVEL. Novel!
Catch my drift? I just have to go for it. Even though I have no idea where the meaty middle part is going--no, that's not true. I do know. Not everything, but I have an idea. The thing is, I have so many movies running through my head, and so many themes of unfulfilled promises in my life, that I am starting to believe I can do it.
I have to. Most of you who come by know exactly what I mean.
So come back on Friday. Better yet, I'll come get you. This week I need dedicate myself to getting my homework done.
This was supposed to be a short story for a contest Dixie Belle turned me on to. But my goal is novel. Novel. Novel. NOVEL. Novel!
Catch my drift? I just have to go for it. Even though I have no idea where the meaty middle part is going--no, that's not true. I do know. Not everything, but I have an idea. The thing is, I have so many movies running through my head, and so many themes of unfulfilled promises in my life, that I am starting to believe I can do it.
I have to. Most of you who come by know exactly what I mean.
So come back on Friday. Better yet, I'll come get you. This week I need dedicate myself to getting my homework done.
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