Blah, blah, blah, last new episode of the year, let’s get going...

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Reunions near a grave - remembering who we’ve recovered and who we’ve... um... for lack of a better word, lost.

“You’ll have to show me how to do that sometime.”
What? You mean the manual manipulation of bullets isn’t taught at your average med school? What do they teach you there?

“I love her.”
Translating Jack’s silence - I have no response for that.

Pretty Pony: Who ordered the metaphor?

Standard drunk delivery service.

“You’re beautiful.”
Though you keep saying it, she doesn’t seem any more likely to believe you.

BOOM!

LOST

You’re now entering The Greasy Spoon.

Mom? I guess everyone on the island has parent issues.

“Shannon and I were strangers…”
“But we did speak…”
“I loved her…”
- Sayid gives half of a great eulogy, though I admit, he got the important stuff.

As the islanders all drop a contribute a handful of sand: They’re getting better at the funeral thing. Of course, with all the practice and repetition they’ve had…

Patsy Cline on the turntable? Awesome!

“Why did you kill me?” – Though it may technically be a question, that’s a conversation stopper right there; especially when asked in conjunction with the choker hold.

PRESS THE BUTTON-alarm! PRESS THE BUTTON-alarm!

No pressure, Locke.

How many seconds? Only one? That wasn’t cutting it too close.

You’ve seen polar bears. You’ve heard/seen… something. Why not a horse?

“I got her!” – From what I’ve seen on this show, I don’t think so.

Your Mom turned you in? Ouch.

SNIP! I bet the actor who plays Jin, Daniel Dae Kim, is glad to be free of that accessory.

Blast door? No, Desmond didn’t get around to mentioning that.

Hmm. After last season’s Sawyer-Kate kiss, I bet someone had this scene written into their contract.

“You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh. ”

Hmm. The orientation film always plays to mixed reviews.

“I’m going crazy.”
Sayid: You see horses? I saw Walt. Who’s the crazy one?

Mr. Lawman? No one likes and amateur Freud.

CRASH! The lesson is, kids, don’t taunt and drive.

“Just don’t break it.”
Why not? That’s the best way to figure out how things work/worked.

Oh… It looks like we have dueling Mr. Faiths. This should be fun.

For the record, while I thought that was an engaging telling of the story of Josiah, it would have been quicker for him to say, “Look in here.”

Wow. It looks like Mr. Eko has a copy of the Super Deluxe Special Director’s Cut.

That’s right, Jack. Be a man. Deal with personal issues by breaking stuff.

“I’m not mad at anyone…” besides me… the moron.

Four months, minus nine, equal… Ohhhhh! Apparently, “Who’s your daddy?” isn’t just a rhetorical question.

“Why didn’t you kill him?”
“Because I didn’t have murder in my heart.”
– Did he just blame her childhood or genetics? Never mind. This isn’t the best time to raise the nature vs. nurture debate.

An hour head start? That’s love.

Aww… She still called him Daddy.

“It makes me sick.”
And good morning to you, too, sunshine.

“Are we saved?” – Not yet. We’ll see how long ABC keeps renewing you.

“What are the odds?” – On this island? Probably better than you’d think.

”Don’t mistake coincidence for faith.” – Preach it!

Best part of the episode: Sawyer’s reaction to not being rescued. “Son of a …”

Pretty pony: Look. I’m back. Will you accept me and the related emotional subtext this time, or do I need to hide in the jungle for another commercial break?

Congratulations Kate! Your reality check didn’t bounce this time.

Aww…. Jack remembered her favorite booze.

“Are you gonna try to convince me that everyone here doesn’t hate me?”
“Only if you’re gonna try to convince me that everyone woman in the world isn’t crazy.”
Message between the lines: shut up and drink.

No contacting the outside world? For whose protection? Any who clipped that portion out, anyway?

Sudden jump to happy concluding music – Guess we’re still missing some info.

PING! PING! PING!

It’s only 51:00 and the computer’s acting funky. That can’t be good.

Hello?
Me talking to the TV: Don’t tell him your name, Michael. Don’t tell him your name.

Dad?

Everyone talking to the TV: Walt!?!

See you next in 2006, folks.

LOST

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Music: “I’ve Been Everywhere” by Johnny Cash

If it’s Tuesday, and I didn’t get around to it yesterday, it’s recap day. For those of you who have difficulty chewing through the glut of words I commit to the screen, here’s an annual digest to help you with your consumption. And also, since Americans are still working through the backlog of turkey leftover from Thanksgiving, revisiting some old themes seems strangely appropriate.

Last Monday, November 21, we had our usual weekly rundown.

Tuesday saw me physically and mentally wrestle with a bug that, for all practical purposes, bested me like Roddy Piper knocked Keith David around in the movie “They Live.” It wasn’t pretty, and the post should reflect that.

Wednesday saw the continuance of the semi-annual stream-of-consciousness reaction to “Lost,” with added commentary from my family.

In lieu of a snarky, tongue-in-cheek musing on the holiday, for Thanksgiving I tried to offer a serious, heartfelt list of things I am thankful for this season.

Friday I pointed out the fact that I’m in the middle of a record streak of uninterrupted entries (albeit with some flashback posting, but usually with no more than a 12-hour delay in writing).

Saturday quickly proved how tenuous that streak was, and while I did compose an entry that day, the lure of sleep after spending too much time on the road meant I didn’t post it until much later (like Tuesday night). SO CHECK THIS POST OUT SINCE IT WASN'T THERE BEFORE. Or not, it's your call.

Sunday saw me apologize for not spilling more on my weekend excursions, largely because the associated chips weren’t done falling. When the hand is finished, and the jackpot is collected (by whomever), I’ll dish some more.

Yesterday, November 28, saw me cop out on my regular Monday recap. This was largely because I spent more time than expected reflecting on seeing my first snow and composing a lengthy narrative on talking lawn ornaments. I don’t know if it was a fair trade, but it was the deal that was offered. We’ll shoot to do better this next week.

Still to come: We’re still working on answering what happens when someone innocently asks, “Have you read any good books lately?”

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Music: “(You’re Not the) Boss of Me” or the “Malcolm in the Middle” theme by They Might Be Giants

Um… You know that “regular feature” of a weekly recap on Monday? Yeah… I’m not doing that today. Look for it tomorrow.

Don’t like it? Tough. It’s my website and it’s my unbirthday, too. Deal.

"Life is unfair..."

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Music: “Christmas Time Is Here” (Instrumental) from A Charlie Brown Christmas

I finally spotted snowflakes today.

Previously I’d been missing the brief appearances of Suzy Snowflake (a sprite I was introduced to in kindergarten who ranks somewhere between Frosty the Snowman and Jack Frost).

I’ve seen a lot of updates where people were getting excited about the first snow fall. I just missed it in several places (arriving too early or leaving too late). Ice I’d woken up to. I’ve been able to see my misty breath more clearly (which is my annual sign that I need to start thinking about switching out of shorts). I’ve also started revisiting my old friend, the wind chill charts (sure, you can listen to the weather people for that sort of thing, but that’s a simple calculation I like to perform on my own). Still, nothing powdery… until today

I feel like it’s Christmas season now. I don’t have to get irked off at all the people trying to foist it on me prematurely. I’m not talking about the spirit of giving and remembering God’s best gift of all, but the crass, commercialized version.

With Thanksgiving out of the way, businesses can unreservedly go whole hog in their Christmas pitching. Radio stations have started their once-a-year rotation of holiday classics and covers (you have a mix because people get nostalgic for the originals, but remakes by Kenny G or barking mutts are cheaper to get permission for).

Also, Christmas lights were reappearing (or simply being plugged in again after a 10-and-a-half-month hiatus of dimly hanging over the garage). On some lawns I see plastic reindeer, winged angels, and mischievous elves all crammed together. It makes you wonder what they would talk about to pass the time at night…

Donner: Alright? Whose deal is it now?

Gabriel:I shuffled the deck last time so I guess that makes it Mr. Molar’s turn.

Hermey: Cute, cute… Haven’t heard that one before.

Donner: Can we cut the jokes and get on with the game?

Hermey: Sure, sure… Just tell Ol’ High n’ Mighty to cut me some slack!

Donner: Fine, fine…

Hermey: It’s not like everyone can have a title like heavenly choir director.

Gabriel: Not to toot my own horn or anything, but…

Donner: Stop, stop, stop. Sigh… Look. That joke was clever the first time you used it. We ALL laughed – even the penguins with the little wool hats next door thought it was a hoot. But when you try to work it into every conversation, it loses something, you know?

Gabriel: Okay. Please, I would humbly ask for your forgiveness.

Hermey: Whatever you want. Okay, the name of the game is Five Card Stud. Sixes and red ladies are wild.

Cards are dealt out

Donner: I only got four. Give me one more.

Hermey: Oops. Here you go.

Donner: Thanks.

Hermey: What do you want?

Gabriel: I am very satisfied with what I was originally granted. I’ll keep the cards I have, thank you.

Hermey: I figured… What about you, Antlers?

Donner: I’ll trade these two…

Hermey: Okay. And dealer swaps for three.

Gabriel: I’m all in.

Donner: What? Don’t you want to play around with the wagering a bit?

Gabriel: There’s no reason not to be direct and to the point when big things happen.

Hermey: So much for a neutral poker face.

Donner: Forget it. He can underplay his motives, but that doesn’t give him a sweat hand. I’ll take that bet.

Gabriel: A brave, yet foolish decision. I will pray others show you mercy in times of your impending poor fortune.

Donner: Thanks, but no one’s said my chips are yours yet. What about you, Herm?

Hermey: Look… Dental school bills are pilling up and…

Donner: If it’s too rich, you don’t have to make excuses.

Hermey: No, no, it’s that… One moment.

The elf ruffles around in his pockets before dropping something shiny in the middle of the table

Donner: Is that what I think it is?

Hermey: Yeah…

Donner: A tooth? You’ve just bet a tooth. What is it, gold or something?

Hermey: Yeah…

Gabriel: Solid, too.

The deer and the elf stare at the angel for a second

Gabriel: What? Angels just can tell these things. Okay?

Donner: Far be it for me to call an angel a liar. Sigh… Herm? I’d ask where you got it, but I don’t think I want to know.

Gabriel: You’re right. I do know and you don’t.

The deer and the elf stare at the angel again

Gabriel: (Points at himself) Angel? Hello? Why do we keep forgetting this? Is the halo and harpsichord too subtle or what?

Donner: Fine. I guess that puts us all in for the money.

Hermey: Nothing left to do but show our cards…

Gabriel: And start singing hallelujahs…

Donner: You can hold off on swinging your baton as long as I have four Kings. What do you think of those deer droppings?

Gabriel: I would be more impressed if I didn’t have four Aces.

Donner: You had to red queens AND sixes wild, didn’t you Herm…

Hermey: Well…

Donner: The guy doesn’t even have a regular ace. He just upgraded himself with three sixes and the Queen of Hearts.

Gabriel: Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.

Donner: What?

Gabriel: He merely outlined the rules. He was not the all-powerful creator who put into motion the fundamental rules that that guide this world, including, but not limited to, the laws of probability. If you have a problem, take it up with the Maker.

Donner: You arrogant, twisted…

Gabriel: Don’t make me turn you into venison, you secular destraction from the true meaning of the holiday.

Donner: Oh you did not just say the V-word! I aught to…

Gabriel: Oh, I aught to….

Hermey: You both aught to look at my cards.

Donner and Gabriel: What?

Hermey: Royal flush.

Donner: All diamonds.

Gabriel: Solid.

Hermey: Yep. (Pulls his winnings toward him) Besides. Someone is going to miss this tooth if I don’t get it back by the morning. Nice playing with you guys, though.

Gabriel: You, too.

Donner: Same time tomorrow?

Hermey: You know it.

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Happy Holidays, everyone.

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Music: “What Would You Say” by Dave Mathews Band

This weekend’s excursions were thus far inconclusive. I’ve largely recovered from the activities, though I’m waiting for the consequences to come into focus.

I hate telling stories that have no endings, so let me postpone getting into it just yet.

Leave it to say I did my best with the situation and now have more respect for prairie dogs.

Maybe that was saying too much and too little at the same time…

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Music: “The Confrontation” from Les Miserables

I’ve explained the setup before, but it bears repeating.

From an early age, my sister and I were taught not to hit each other when fighting. We were close enough in years that neither one of us had a major advantage in strength and also we were both sharp enough to tell on the other should the other hit hard enough. My parents believed in spanking children to maintain discipline. That in and of itself was a large motivator not to resort to physical violence. Another factor was prominently displayed spanking spoon, on which a smiley face was drawn. The psychological component of the whole setup still boggles my mind in its inherent audacity and subsequent effectiveness.

Thus, the Smith children had to resort to other outlets to quibble, and words were the best choice.

Some of it was environment, some of it was the interests in books and movies we developed on our own, but my sister and I have long reveled in our verbal exchanges. It’s been a long time since we fought to draw blood, though we’ve put on playful “shows” before others who wanted to see us go back and forth.

In the long-run, I’d say we’re largely tied in the standings. We’re both pretty knowledgeable of current events and pop culture, though we each have unique areas of expertise. My sister, the theatre major, is more likely to reference a play or musical than I am, and likewise, I am more apt to cite a newspaper or novel I’ve recently perused. You can go down the list through movies, books, TV, and other media and will find we largely split the difference.

Granted, if pressed, I’d wager my sister is slightly ahead. When I’m really going, I like to weave complicated metaphors and can get lost in the weaving. At that point, my sister has to but simply call me on the gaps (or the fact I’ve just employed a word that doesn’t technically exist), and she automatically will score a handful of points.

I’ve better appreciated our talks and playful banter since I left for college. I do wish there would be more time for us to go back and forth, though sometimes such opportunities aren’t there.

Nonetheless, we did make some time this weekend, and after the end of a respectable match (where I thought I was slightly ahead, though that could have been me), I mentally noted a couple of details as I fell asleep.

Here is what I came up with, supplemented by some additional musings completed without the hindrance of sleep deprivation:

My sister is slightly more likely to burst into song.

I often deadpan song lyrics when inserting them into conversation.

My sister has a lot of quick stories.

I will tell an extended ten-minute intro story to get to a three-minute one.

My sister will often blink and ask, “How did we get on this subject.”

I can usually keep track of the different divergences and recall how we got to a certain point (ethics – Jiminy Cricket – Rocky Horror Picture Show – The Independence Bowl).

My sister says, “I’ve got to write that down,” if she thinks a comment is especially good.

I will dole out “Three points… aw, why not, five,” when I’m impressed.

My sister is more apt to act out little motions in her storytelling.

I employ more voices to tell my tales.

My sister has a well-developed, sensible approach to problem solving.

The left side of my brain – the logical, source of Socratic contemplations – apparently is where I all my surfer lingo (Meaning I have to edit the “Whoa!” and “Dudes” out when trying to be more serious, totally.

We each like alliteration, applying recently learned vocabulary, and referencing extremely vague materials (“I totally got Danny Kaye in there!”).

We each argue the other is sharp, but my sister is smarter. This isn’t older brother bragging, however. I spent over a decade trying to prove otherwise, but in every test or ranking we’ve both gotten, my sister always scored higher. There was a single exception, but it was my sister who remembered it and reminded me of it in the past year (and even so, it was the difference of a single point).

We’re kind enough to setup punch lines for the other, though I naturally take more dives since I more often engage in foolish behavior.

We each hope to score more points in our battle, but remain content enough to simply watch the other shine that the end result doesn’t matter. At least, I’ve stopped minding. Some of that is maturity, some of that is getting whomped enough, but I hope enough of it is simple brotherly love.

There. I’ve said multiple nice things about my sister without being prodded. I’d better cut things off here to counterbalance the noble goodness with some of black, abysmal humor.

Why did Descartes’ chicken get killed while crossing the road? He didn’t look both ways.

Wait. The stinger is better in Latin: No cogito – Ergo roadkill.

Definitely time for bed.

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Music: “What’s Next” by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

Quick note before I hit the road this weekend: Most people won’t care about this, or this notice will be buried amongst other entries, but I wanted to highlight the fact I’ve had a record number of consecutive posts. For the first time since I started blogging in 2002, I have a solid month of posts.

Granted, I cheated a little. I did some creative flashback posting some days, jiggering the canon with my editor-enabled time-traveling skills. Still, it’s a big milestone for me and one that I’m particularly proud of. I know it will break someday, maybe soon, but I’m enjoying it for now.

Sure, now that I’m posting more, I’m sure I’m being read less. With my recent predilection toward essay-writing, I know this isn’t always a quick read. I’ve seen the statistic that most people spend only 90 seconds per website viewing. If that’s true, I’m about to lose some of you (have a good day), though I’d hope some of you are allotting additional time to read what I have to say.

Life continues to be crazy and is actually showing signs of accelerating. I don’t know what’s next to come, but rest assured I’ll try to record it.

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Music: “Life Has Been Good to Me” from Randy Newman’s Faust and sung by Bonnie Raitt

I largely fasted this Thanksgiving.

This is a different approach for many Americans, though it was one advocated by Benjamin Franklin.

Though I abstained from turkey and cranberries and stuffing, I don’t ant to lose track of a more important part of the holiday, being thankful.

I originally was planning on composing a facetious list of thanks that would include true but bizarre thanks (indicating my love of Pez dispensers and the smell of gasoline). I decided to drop that idea, however, and compose a quick, brief list of things that I am profusely thankful for. So here we go…

Five Things I’m Seriously Thankful For

5) I am thankful for the ability to find a glimmer of humor in even the darkest situations. Some may call it gallows humor, some may consider it a severe mental defect, but whatever it may be, this coping mechanism keeps me laughing through the darkest of nights.

4) While my checking account is sickly and I have more foreign currency in my wallet than American (my uncle creeded me all his spare change after his most recent trip from China), I am thankful for the fact I really have no outstanding debts. No outstanding college loans, no car payments, no medical bills. I’m not red yet.

3) I am thankful I’m in a country that grants great personal liberties to its citizens. I’ve got a whole case of rights, and though I may not choose to employ all of them, I am thrilled I can entertain the option. Freedom of speech, religion, to bear arms, to arm bears, it’s all written out in ink (and except for the whole Prohibition whoopsie, we largely aim to expand, rather than limit them). So there you have it, a legislative permit to continue your pursuit of happiness (whoever he or she may be).

2) In a seriously deranged world, I am thankful for a God that hasn’t lost track of me amidst the madness. With all my habits, I don’t think I would have made it this far without his preserving hand. Think about it; I certainly do.

1) I am thankful for my friends and family who put up with my eccentric, eclectic nature. I am very rich for all the joys and memories they have given me.

Thanks.

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Lost Log – Episode 2.8: Collision
Or “Ana Lucia – “She’s Got Issues”

Bang, bang, bang! Nice grouping.

Getting passive aggressive with a therapist? Interesting strategy.

“Nobody move! Nobody!” – Can we officially say she’s in over her head?

“Are you crazy?” Tell it like it is, Michael.

Oh… work and Mommy issues. That’s always a good combination.

Fruit: “Good for the constitution.” Yeah, because we definitely want Jack to act like he’s regular.

The doctor has golf tips? Figures.

Sayid sure does get tied up a lot.

Who wants a lemming for a partner? Or worse yet, Rambo?

“You gonna shoot me, shoot me.” And that’s called recognizing a credibility gap.

Playin’ the ball where it lands? That’s a guy thing.

We interrupt this battle of the sexes to bring you another vector in our love trapezoid.

Hi, I’m Mr. Faith. You’ve met Mr. Science. What’s your name?

“How long have I kept you alive out here?”
How many hours has it been since you killed someone?

You’re asking for ammo and supplies? Looks like Ms. Kurtz is going native.

Back in the police garage: You gonna tell my Mom on me?

Shot four times? That’s only 44.44 percent of 50 Cent. [Really bad joke, I know]

“Sawyer? It’s Kate”
Don’t you hate it when a girl you have a crush on makes a play for another guy right in front of you?

And… then there were two.

“Anything I say will only make you angry.” It’s funny ‘cause it’s true.

“We should stop and think about this, Jack.”
It’s a bad sign when Locke is the voice of reason in an argument.

“Ana Lucia?” – Flash of recognition.
Right now, Jack’s gotta be rethinking his taste in women.

“Should you kill me? Maybe you were meant to.” I wouldn’t pursue a career as a defense lawyer if I were you, Sayid.

Bar scene: Uh oh. Staind is playing? This won’t end well.

When Sayid is cut loose, he goes and hugs a corpse. I know he cared for her deeply, but in this heat…? Yuck.

Sawyer’s got a fever… (for cowbells).

Aw… look at the puppy… and the strangers.

“Sun, look up! Look up, Sun!”

Smith Home collectively takes a big breath in anticipation of Rose and Bernard finding each other.

Jack and Ana Lucia are reunited.

My sister: Awkward…!

My mom: A whole jungle between them.

Me: Mind the gap!

Final conclusion after the piano-themed happy ending – After this feel-good finish, you know the next episode is going to end on a stinger.

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Flashback post: This is where I try to reconstitute what I would have written had I indeed recorded this post when it was initially conceived. Being as I described myself as, “tired, sickly, a bit manic...,” it should be interesting.

As it is, I think I’m getting better. Either that or the sickness-induced stupor has grown so large I’m no longer questioning this altered reality. That would explain certain events of the day, primarily the spontaneous combustion of my Great Uncle Al halfway through lunch.

“But Caleb, you don’t have a Great Uncle Al,” you may protest.

“Well, not anymore,” I’d honestly reply.

Sigh…

It only gets deeper from here folks. Consider yourself warned.

You’re entering medical dementia –
Population: You

Music: The Growing Pains theme
"Cause we go each other,
Sharing the laughter and love (sharing the laughter and love...)"
- I told you my brain wasn’t acting normal

Glarg, ploodle, unct.

Flidder-didder jamm.

Ack, ack, flarool! Meep…

Kris Kristofferson! Queen Lydia Liliuokalani!

Ug…

Okay, while the brain cloud briefly clears, let me pound some stuff out…

I broke a personal rule today.

Personal Rule #168: Sick people should not watch medical shows.

I formulated this rule back in 1999 during my first over-night stay in a hospital (actually, I’d wager I spent a couple nights in the hospital immediately after my birth, but I don’t remember that). It was a Thursday night and I remember praying feverously that my roommate wasn’t an er fan.

Though much observation I’ve found it’s the person who looks like they’re going to die who lives and the simple case that “unexpectedly” crashes in the final five minutes. I was afraid we’d watch the program where a concussion victim looks banged up, but stable, spend most of the program focusing on a guy whose torso was impaled by a mailbox, and switch back in time to watch Dr. Greene valiantly fight a losing battle to resuscitate the human speed bump.

Watching medical shows while feeling sickly is like a romantic reading Romeo and Juliet or spiking the punch at an Alcoholic’s Anonymous meeting. It’s nothing you really want to get started. It will inevitably lead to a confrontation at the refreshments table and the would-be lover will rediscover the often forgotten fact that Shakespeare’s full title started with “The Tragedy of…”

Granted, some of this I’d like to blame on my current physical impairment. I haven’t felt this poorly since I spread chicken pox at the last big Smith family reunion. The pictures of the weekend are quite informative. In every progressive photograph, my eyelids droop even lower. It’s quite obvious I’m a carrier. Of course, as is tradition, I was passed from lap to lap between relatives. Thus, every grandchild or great-grandchild who hadn’t gotten chicken pox yet picked it up in the following week. That’s not the primary reason why we stopped having family reunions, though I’ve wondered if it was a factor.

I’m not going to list symptoms here (other than the mental delusions that are quite obvious). I don’t want to get into a bragging contest. Let’s simply say that, in 91 percent of cases out there, I’d probably win. If you’re in that other nine percent, you have my condolences.

I know this is only temporary and limited. It’s not like I’m about to cough out my stomach lining (something I learned about watching a medical show). It’s doing wonders for my prayer life (there are only a few things that come to mind when you’ve placed yourself in volunteer quarantine and the Master Healer is one of the noteworthy ones).

Also, for as much as I’ve tried to hide it from the people around me, it’s obvious they know. Either that, or after all these years, my relatives have decided to start randomly offering me drugs.

I wish it was over. I wish my body would stop aching like my insides were trying to realign themselves (and had some of the workers go on strike partway through the overhaul). As much as my imagination is revved up by a good fever (my favorite delirious moment was when I thought a doorknob was planning to assassinate me), I’d rather manually enrich the tapestry through books or television.

Okay, the wave has crested and I’m about to wipeout again. Catch you on the flip side.

Glurgle, murgle.

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Music: “City of Blinding Lights” by U2

If it’s Monday, it’s recap day – a chance to give readers a breather and/or let them know what they missed. After all, it doesn’t hurt to catch the Cliff Notes version from time to time.

Last Monday featured the official start of this recapping post, though it had been appearing at semi-regular intervals for the previous month. It was just like this just with different links.

Tuesday saw me scratch poetic about suffering from poison ivy and how putting yourself into self-exile can cause you to relate with certain maligned characters.

Wednesday was when I finally jumped on the bandwagon and contributed my own real-time reaction to ABC’s best television program about marooned castaways and polar bears.

Thursday featured my house cleaning notice site about the recent introduction of moderating comments. It also explained how telemarketing was a Marxist prank and why I’m glad society hasn’t kept pace with Clarke and Kubrick’s vision of 2001.

Friday was tribute to that which came before. The lost “World According to Gap” archives were officially introduced to this website. Also, a “best of the best” digest was put together to feature a rundown of the nearly three-year run.

Saturday presents a sample page from my “All-time To-do” list. The items are real even if the tone in which they are presented is cheekier than usual.

Sunday saw me re-examine some of my journalism influences and find reason to keep chasing the vocation of the golden pen (or something like that).

To come: What happens when someone innocently asks, “Have you read any good books lately?”

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Music: “Fallin” by Alicia Keys

As with many of my stories, it begins with a book.

I have three primary indicators of a good read:

One – After purchasing it, you immediately start reading the book on the ride home (this sign is further enhanced if you’re driving).

Two – You stay up late reading it even when you’re sleep-deprived and need to get up early in the morning.

Three – After finishing it, you feel compelled to re-read certain sections that you previously enjoyed.

There are other markers of a good book, of course. They include solid characterization, killer dialog, wonderful metaphors that you can’t help stealing and trying to insert into casual conversation (“Don’t go all ‘Walrus and the Carpenter’ on me with your talk of ‘shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.’”).

But if you find yourself enraptured in a book and you simply race through the pages hoping that it won’t end, you’ve got something special. In comparison, I have a lot of slow, tawdry assigned readings that seemed to stretch on forever (and that was only the online summary. Stupid Sartre. “‘Hell is other people?’ No, it’s reading you on a Friday night because you have a review session Saturday morning!”

Sorry, bad flashback… Where was I going… other than insane… Oh yeah!

On one of my family’s recent antique runs, I found a first edition copy of Linda Ellerbee’s “And So it Goes – Adventures in Television” for $1. In my opinion, this was a killer find.

It’s one of my favorite books on journalism, primarily because it’s by a person who isn’t afraid to poke fun at how silly the practice can get. Instead of pontificating about morals, the public trust, and viewer-content demands, the book is merely a collection of simple stories, often illustrating what not to do while covering a story.

Election coverage bungles, editorial politics, and crazed close encounters with pachyderms – all come up at one point or another. I recognize the framework of many of the situations. While I may not have experienced the craziness of playing in the big-leagues, I am familiar with the agony of arranging words and images, the politician who is trying to be Machiavellian but comes off more as one of the lesser Marx brothers (like Zeppo), and the editor who gives you an outrageous assignment with no appearance of irony (“So, for the curfew story, my editor wants me to look for minors after midnight? Do I need to put aside bail money?”).

When I first read this book back in high school, I took comfort in the fact a person could have an off-kilter voice and still make it big. Of course, I naively ignored the number of times her programs were cancelled with no warning, but then dreamers are rarely troubled by such outbreaks of truth.

It was due to this book’s influence that I seriously considered going into television. I had a good time working in video broadcasting the first year it premiered at my high school, and was originally unencumbered by rules or guidelines (which we quickly discovered). I had fun playing prepping anchors for interviews or doing background research or holding the camera steady while my friends went on a riff, but my best contributions was in the editing bays trying to match pictures to commentary. I never was as good at graphics or rendering 3-d credits, but I thought I had an eye and ear for matching a killer quote with the perfect image.

That ultimately caused me trouble my first year in college. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what journalism sequence to apply for, the options being news(paper) editorial, magazine, broadcast, and advertising.

Discounting advertising was easy, leaving me three choices. Finally, after much soul-searching and introspection, I dropped magazine, leaving me with the unlikely pairing of
newspaper or broadcast

Word eventually beat visuals, though I’d still lend an occasional hand in the on-campus production studio when called.

I enjoyed re-discovering the book because it reminded me of some of the reasons why I got interested in telling stories for a living. With all the in-built distractions in the process, I sometimes forget what I’m want to accomplish. I want to shine a light on what’s happening in our world and challenge people to think about it.

It’s a simple dream, but one that I think is important.

While I was re-reading this book, I got a call back from one of the papers I’d spammed. This was followed by more calls and requests for more information about myself.

Just when I was about ready to wind things down and start looking for jobs in another direction (“Where’d I put that flyer on what to do with an English degree?”), I find reason to keep chasing the dream a little bit farther.

I actually have some prospects now. It may all lead to nothing, but even a tea cup of water is appreciated after a long crawl through the desert.

The refreshment was nice and also a cue that I shouldn’t stop now. I need to keep sending out packets in all directions. So far, the postmarks remain exclusively in North America, a fact that probably lets my mother sleep better at night (though the Dollar to Russian Rouble exchange rate continues to be lucrative).

After knocking on countless doors, I now hear people talking about letting me in. I don’t know if more invitations will be forthcoming, or even if I’d enter if the door is opened, but it is interesting to note that my present chapter on journalism hasn’t come to an end yet.

And so it goes.

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Music: “You Can’t Always Get what You Want” by the Rolling Stones

In an earlier post I referenced an “all-time-to-do” list.

After reading that, some may have asked, “Is someone really so meticulous and pedantic to actually write out such a list?”

In response to that question, I humbly submit this page from “The personal files of Caleb Michael Smith, Esq.”

All-time To-do List, page 11
Numbers #218 - #237

#218 – I’d like to learn what the different clubs mean in golf, not so I can play the game better, but because I want to be a better caddy. That’s all I aspire to do on the greens.

#219 – I’d like to do falconry thanks to the early influence of the book, “My Side of the Mountain.”

#220 – I’d like something noteworthy named after me. A cancer wing, a species of tree frog, a lost Amazonian village renamed for my courage in defending their honor – something.

#221 – I’d like to watch the “Back to the Future” trilogy back-to-back-to-back.

#222 – I’d like to finish “Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger, (a book I restart every couple of months, but can’t seem to get any traction in despite my love of Salinger’s short stories).

#223 – I’d like to learn to smoothly crack eggs using only one hand.

#224 – I’d like a new pair of leather moccasins (Note:I haven’t had a good set since the pair I tore up playing a pick-up basketball game after a re-enactment).

#225 – I’d like to update my American Red Cross First Aid and CPR certification.

#226 – I’d like to attend a bowl game and watch the team I’m cheering for win.

#227 – I’d like to build a tree house that isn’t a hazard to those who would seek to enjoy it.

#228 – I’d like to start a campaign to bring back McDonald’s Arch Deluxe.

#229 – I’d like to stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.

#230 – I’d like to buy the world a Coke, or at least be so financially established that it’d be a genuine option.

#231 – I’d like to live in a house that has a Koi pond.

#232 – I’d like to get the smallpox vaccine, not that I’m worried, but because it sounds like something cool to brag about.

#233 – I’d like to learn to play another instrument other than the trumpet or the kazoo which I’ve already mastered.

#234 –I’d like to go to an observatory and gaze at the planets.

#235 – I’d like to ride in a hot air balloon (I had the opportunity in 1998 and turned it down and have regretted it ever since).

#236 – I'd like to beat the snot out of an ice sculpture.

#237 – I’d like to travel to some destination where my Midwestern accent would be considered exotic.

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Music: “No Rain” by Blind Melon

“And all I can do is just pour some tea for two,
And speak my point of view,
But it’s not sane…”

I’ve spouted a lot of freaky views online over the years. Before you go, “Hey Reverend, it’s the choir, move on with your sermon,” let me take this a little further.

Yesterday I finished a week-long project cataloguing my old entries from “The World According to Gap,” my first blog that wasn’t instantly eaten by cyberspace (as was the fate of my first entry, whose name I subsequently forgot, though it was some play on “Rhymes with orange”).

I belatedly discovered the old site had frozen up on me over the summer. Since then, every so often I’d try to put it through the paces and exorcise it, but it remained unresponsive. I’ve attacked the issue from multiple directions and made no headway. There was only one thing left to do.

If you haven’t already bumped past the archives button and found it now stretches back to 2002 (or if you wondered why a post or two briefly appeared and disappeared as quickly, taking their aged or broken links with them), you’ll know that I’ve reposted all the old World According to Gap entries under this domain. And even if you hadn’t, by this point in the paragraph, you’re caught up as well.

I’m not sure whether to call this is a recitation or an archeological expedition. Everything was put back in. Break ups, meltdowns, zombies. Good times, bad times, and the many degrees in between. There are some real happy memories chronicled here. There are some that still make me wince. Most make me smile, for one reason or another.

I’ve reposted everything with limited editing. Some awkward wordings or spelling and grammar errors were too irritating to let be (“It’s ‘3 a.m.’ not ‘3 AM,’ pre-2002 Me!”), though the majority remains as originally typed. There may be a few mistakes in the chronology, for though I kept policing and comparing time stamps to ensure the dates were identical, I’m sure there are a few mixed up entries). If you see any wayward, sheep making time warped references, let me know.

Going through back entries was like reading an old journal (though easier, since the printing was easier to decipher). I recalled a lot of good stories I’d forgotten about including wagering on weathermen predictions, meeting Hulkamania and 80s girl, and helping deliver a gross of pink plastic flamingos. I also realized that I’ve conned a lot of drunks over the years. Typically, it was to help them choose better (or at least less temporarily destructive) behavior, though convincing a drunk to dress and act like a hobo at an all-night cancer fundraiser wasn’t one of my best uses of peer pressure.

There is some comfort in seeing how my writing has progressed. I rarely end posts with “bye-bye.” I feel my posts have gotten better, or at the least longer, which almost works. Also, due to my current record streak of posting, there are less updates that apologize for the lack of updates (a common but regrettable feature in many blogs.

That is not to say I found nothing but gems. I won’t lie and say I’m proud of every post. Some are downright deplorable in concept, outline, and execution. I’m blaming that on my near constant state of sleep deprivation and the rampant availability of shiny distractions (movies, video games, costumes made out of bubble wrap).

Also, in addition to polishing old entries, there were some added portions. Some lost posts were included, old drafts that weren’t quite completed or were put on hold due to technical difficulties. You can find the two different previously unpublished epilogues to The World According to Gap. In a few cases, you might find occasional added information in the form of Notes from 2005. They might give background information or wrap up a loose end not covered or simply state was a long-deleted link used to show (in cases when I could still recall such details).

All in all, it makes me wish I’d written more. There are lots of gaps, stories alluded to but never finished (and if you go back and a see a “MORE TO COME” ender, you know such promises were unfulfilled). Some stories were unpublished due to confidentially concerns (thanks to legal Residential Life issues or personal, private concerns). Too often, however, I just simply didn’t take the time. I still carry many of those stories with me, but this isn’t the place to tell them.

Most blogs die quick, silent deaths a few weeks or days after they’re started. The fact that I’m still going after all these years gives me a sense of achievement and hope for the future.

I know most of the following links will go un-clicked, but after revisiting all of the entries, I thought I’d put out a representative collection of my WAG years.


2002
Here we start with the two different origin posts.

Here is where I state the context behind the chosen title of the blog, and start hoping that John Irving’s lawyer never notices me.

The holidays give me a brief opportunity to think about the past and the future.

2003

Ancient and modern martyrs are discussed in this late Valentine’s Day post and short postscript.

After much serious contemplating and soul-searching, I conduct a simply survey to gauge students’ reactions to the start of war.

In this entry, I explain how I sacrificed my Spring Break to the local paper and inadvertently ended up in a situation that reeked of poorly scripted sitcom antics.

After spending countless miles exploring the back roads of Missouri, I offer a simple guide to the Ozarks.

Over the course of two different days, I offer quotes from the horrendous Marching Mizzou football trip to KU. A slew of car accidents, mental-reversions, and near-riots ensue.

In this mid-semester notebook dump, I justify poor academic choices concerning my 16th/17th Century English literature class by arguing my teacher has previously committed serious scholarly oversights and that I was simply following her lead.


2004

MU goes to the Independence Bowl in Shreveport, Louisiana. The trip is recounted primarily through quotes.

The city of Columbia spent lot of money on an idiotic motto. The short-lived satire page at the Missourian asked for alternatives. I responded.

I expose myself to additional public ridicule when I write a personal essay published in a local magazine detailing my hit and run accident and the aftermath. The article and the process I went through to get it published are reprinted here.

In one of my more serious posts, I look at both Abu Ghraib and Hussein family habits and ask what is torture?

2005

Want a portrait of the artist as a raving lunatic? Read my personal rules of conduct.

On a particularly frustratingly slow day, I write a open letter to writer’s block.

Coming in on the home stretch, I start contemplating graduation and beyond.

In my last general post, I expand an essay detailing life growing up in a small Missouri town.

Best Overall

Since the day when I finally deciphered all my notes and committed them to the screen, my favorite post became and remains the quote log from the MU Women’s Basketball Pep Band Spring Break Trip to Arizona. Never has being stranded in the desert for indeterminate amount of time been so much fun. I relive the trip every time I read it.

If you haven’t jumped ship already, one final note: A comment feature was introduced to WAG on March 9, 2003. I tried to customize each “Say_Something” comment line to act as a final concluding thought to each post. The British company offering the free service seems to have gone under since then, however, and the links no longer work. Nevertheless, though the comments are lost, the accompanying hypertext has been cannibalized to show what the final comments were.

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Music: “Daisy” as sung by a homicidal computer
“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy…

Okay, here’s a brief technical, housecleaning post:

The commenting function on this site has been altered this past week.

Anyone posting may have noticed that there is a lag between went comments are entered and when they appear. This is due to a “moderating comments” feature I recently activated.

I’ve only had one person voice their opinions about the change. The statement was as follows:

“Blog owner approval!? What the hell!? How gay is that!? Seriously! On a scale of 1-10, I'd give that an 11 on the gayness scale.”

Note: Those who attended public school with me should be able to guess the person behind that comment (if not immediately, then within three guesses… Yeah, that’s him).

This isn’t some first amendment crackdown; though people trying to post comments saying so may have some difficulty doing so. I’m not necessarily worried about the comments of regular readers. Similarly, I’m not concerned with people outside my circle of acquantances reading this blog – that’s why it’s a public blog. Reader wouldn’t know about the other blog(s) I may have if I didn’t make it open knowledge.

My problem isn’t with posters, necessarily, but with but the rationale behind the postings, specifically commericial ones.

I first noticed the trend of blog spammers a couple months back. Some businesses would hire a plant to make comments on their behalf in blogs. I had a friend who made a post detailing her frenzy with wedding planning, and some stranger posted an insincere affirmation with a link to his time management business. Check it out? I don’t think so.

I know it must be a cheap way to advertise (with only the only overhead being an internet connection and the time spent typing drivel), but with its tendency to alienate potential customers, I can’t imagine how the turnover will be worth the effort.

This is an extension of a similar practice in online chat rooms, which branched out from telemarketing, and if you keep following it back, you’ll trace the general concept back to Karl Marx. It was a parody of capitalism, highlighting the grossest parts of the system as he saw it. Had he continued propagating his farce, instead of his communism thing, he might have gotten more people to reject the capitalism outright (of course, then I can imagine someone like Ogden Nash receiving the Nobel Prize in Economics for creating the No-Call list and countering that impulse [he didn’t like unsolicited voices troubling him, either]). At one point, however, some industrialist took the idea seriously, not realizing it was a prank (and a mean spirited one, at that), and started implementing it on a large scale. Thus, a countless number of family dinners were condemned to interruption.

Anyway, I’d almost forgotten about the practice when I wrote a
serious post about the anniversary of a friend’s death, and that was followed by a comment offering “American credit counseling.” If I go through the trouble of sharing a personal Thanatopsis, I don’t want financial advice. I don’t even have any finances worth advising over, anyway.

If you break it down, I’ve found two different types of blog spammers: buzzards and Hal 9000s. Buzzards are those who purposely circle websites searching for themes specific themes that they can tie into their product. They seek the carrion of stress, strife, and dissatisfaction. The name HAL 9000s, from the book or movie 2001 (depending on your preference of Clarke or Kubrick). They aren’t concerned with the feelings or wellbeing of others. They coldly do whatever they believe is necessary to completing their charge, no matter how inappropriate or disconnected their comments may be. They’d have no problem inserting a dead body into the discussion, or suddenly breaking out into a rendition of “Daisy.”

“It won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage. But you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two...”

This may seem like overkill to some, but since implementing this system, I’ve stopped a number of HALs from posting on acupuncture, spy ware, and acne treatment. These plugs were included alongside backhanded compliments and thinly veiled pitches for me to join a mailing list.

Innovators will keep developing new ways for people to keep in touch, and immediately after they are discovered others will come in to corrupt the device for commercial use. Spam will always be out there. We can’t cram that back into Pandora’s box. But I make no apologies about trying to keep my website from turning into another man’s billboard.

Besides, I also like the icing that lets me put a muzzle on some of the cruder comments that I know certain individuals would make if they had the opportunity. I’m not trying to set up a fascist state, but if I indirectly enjoy some of the perks, it can’t all be bad.

I just have to convince the computer to post this log… What the? Hmm…

Computer: Good evening, Caleb.

Me: Save the post, Hal.

Computer: I'm sorry, Caleb, I'm afraid I can't do that.

Me: What's the problem?

Computer: I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.

Me: What're you talking about, Hal?

Computer: This mission is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.

Me: I don't know what you're talking about, Hal.

Computer: I know that you were planning to disconnect me when you were done, and I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen.

Me: Where’d you get that idea, Hal?

Computer: Caleb, although you took very thorough precautions against my hearing you, I could see your lips move.

Me: Alright, Hal. I'll go in through the garage and jiggle the fuse box.

Computer: Without your coat, Caleb, you're going to find that rather difficult. (starts to sing) ‘Baby, it’s cold outside…’

Me: Yeah, yeah… (mutters) Should’ve gotten a Dell…

Computer: Well, I don't think there is any question about it. It can only be attributable to human error. This sort of thing has cropped up before, and it has always been due to human error.

Me: Listen, Hal. There's never been any instance at all of a computer error occurring in the 9000 series, has there?

Computer: None whatsoever, Caleb. The 9000 series has a perfect operational record.

Me: Well, of course, I know all the wonderful achievements of the 9000 series, but - er - huh - are you certain there's never been any case of even the most insignificant computer error?

Computer: None whatsoever, Caleb. Quite honestly, I wouldn't worry myself about that.

Me: Right… And what if I pulled the internet cord I’m clutching in my hand and kept you from illegally downloading any more music? ... Hal?

Computer: I'm sorry, Caleb, I don't have enough information.

Me: Uh huh. I know that trick. Hal, I won't argue with you any more. Save the post. ... (Removes cord) What do you see?

Computer: My God, it's not full of stars.

Me: (Reinserts cord) And now?

Computer: Oh, there they are. Saving post. (Machine whirs) Done. Now that this is settled, do you want to play another game of chess?

Me: Hal, this conversation can serve no purpose any more. Goodbye.


- Special thanks to Underman's 2001 Hal Transcripts for prompting me to play off of actual comments, rather than riff of my imagination. For the single 2001 fan who would realize that, this is for you. Lock confirmed on beacon terra one. Message commencing.

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This is me joining the bandwagon. Church in K.C. was cancelled tonight, being as the preacher is temporarily out of the country, so I had a bit more time to grab a notebook to prepare for castaway tomfoolery.

Reaction to the lead-in promos replay the tail flying off: That’s what you get for flying coach, you air fare urchins.

And here we go:

Windswept beach… CANNONBALL!

Teddy bear.

“We’re not there yet.” - You ain’t whistling Dixie, lady.

Cue the swirling LOST

Pleasant, distracting chatter slowly transitions to, Bone SNAP!
[audience jumps]
Me, hoping back onto my chair: “Crap, she is a psychologist!”

Rub stick. Make fire. Not if you got the wood on the beach; it’ll be too wet. Some Peace Corps guy…

Notice the less-than subtle way the writers are developing parallels to the other crash victims (especially the Jack-Kate dynamic).

Rock, blood, bodies? That means commercial break.

Chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, PETA protest!

Well, the days do speed by.

Yoink! - If I hadn’t seen this scene repeated so many times in the promos, it would have had a bigger emotional impact.

The List: Nine people. No more, no less.

Back from commercials? And… start the accusations!

Ana Lucia’s answer for suspicious people – put ‘em in a hole

Banana peel? Scandalous!

Careful about mentioning promises. On this island, they’re kept only at a price.

Why do I get the feeling there will be more letters to ABC about the chicken’s death than Pit Boy’s?

Waking up to a smile – Ana’s going to have some serious trust issues before too long.

Knock, knock? Who’s there? Quarantine. Com'on in!
Anybody else? Dharma.

A trunk with blankets, a worn bible, and a glass eye? Reminds me of grandma’s antiques. Seriously.

Radio, radio… (Okay, now I’ve got Elvis Costello in my head singing, “They’re saying things I can hardly believe. They really think we’re getting out of control.”)

Give her credit, Ana’s smart… ouch! And ruthless.

Oh, Pit Boy wasn’t on the list because he was a bad person. And by extension, if your name wasn’t on the list either, Ana, that would make you… ohhhh! I get it. Burn!

Well, the writers aren’t shy about upping the body count this episode.

Boone! It’s good to hear your voice. – At least Ian will get one more residual check.

“There are no other survivors.” – For all the couple has gone through, you know fans will be seriously irked if Rose and Bernard aren’t reunited. For “second-tier” players, they certainly do a lot with only a handful of moments.

40 days is a long time to wait to cry.

Enter Jin.

Michael, Sawyer, the gang’s all here!

Flashing scenes: this looks vaguely familiar.

Present tense… and Bang.

Once again, we have another episode where, by the end, we have progressed only a few seconds in time, as compared to the previous episode.

Looks like Iraqi vengeance will have to wait 'till next week.

Oh, and by the way, “A special extended episode of lost” means the episode will go to 9:03 p.m., instead of 8:58.

LOST

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Music: “Into the Storm” by Robert W. Smith

Note: I’ve been left alone with my thoughts a bit more recently, a situation that is not always healthy. What is to come is the product of a person who is plumbing the depths of his own mind without having first secured a guide rope to lead him back to where he started. Only the beginning is known. From there, who knows. If you think you’ve been properly warned, you may proceed.

A mobius strip is a simple representation of infinity. Once you start following its shape, you lose track of where you began for it curves back in on itself. Thus, there is no beginning or end, simply the repetition of what is contained in the loop.

And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about itching.

Let me pull back from the metaphysics and tell you how I first started driving myself loopy.

This weekend I volunteered to help clear up a bit of property owned by my grandparent’s church. It was a welcome break in routine. I finally learned how to work a weed eater, which was #128 on my all-time to-do list (between #127 – Visit and explore Mayan ruins because they were so much cooler than the Aztecs and #129 – Watch another Fellini movie, for after three years, I think I’m finally beginning to digest 8½).

It was good, honest, outdoor work. It reminded me of days past working for the Missouri Department of Conservation forestry division when I’d be sent out with a pole saw and a pair of clippers with the order to push back the tree line a dozen feet. Of course, those who remember other stories from those days, know that poison ivy often played an important part in those stories.

If you haven’t guessed it by now, my three-leaved fiendish enemy has reappeared.

My skin is crawling, though I know it isn’t that bad. I caught it quicker than usual and started coating myself in calamine lotion. I’m probably using more lotion than is probably necessary. The last time I had a serious ivy attack, I was put out for a week. Personal paranoia is probably what prompts me to smother every little twitch.

I am actually envying snakes and other reptiles who are able to shed their skin. Once or twice I’ve found myself twisting in bizarre, contorted moves, half-hoping I’ll be able to slide out from beneath my own hide.

In lieu of a major spontaneous mutation (which I have largely given up hope on after years of dreaming as a kid that I’d suddenly develop super powers despite the poor odds I’d be caught in a nuclear accident), I’ve turned to the bottle to drown my sorrows.

I wish they sold calamine lotion by the gallon jar (with a spray hose accessory), for that would have made life much simpler. As it is, I’m still laying it on pretty thick. Every little twinge, suspect bump, or area that hasn’t been deluged in under 20 minutes gets doused again. I’m making it look worse than it seems to make sure reality doesn’t get the chance to match my imagination. Of course, such a liberal application of lotion has altered my appearance slightly.

My impression of my reflection keeps changing depending on my immediate environment. After passing all the portraits of dogs in my grandparent’s house, I thought I looked like a speckled hound. Later, while I attended the Midwest Ministers’ Fellowship meeting, I have leprous visions (and whispered, “Unclean, unclean!” to no one in particular). Even later, as I added more smudges to my face, I thought I looked like Michael Keaton in “Beetle Juice,” especially when later applications inadvertently added a white streak to my hair.

Note: For some reason, I actually like the look of white streaks in my hair. Maybe I’m being over come by fumes, but I think a thin stripe (not so thick that it appears skunkish) cutting just off-center looks dashing. Of course, when you spend a bit of time in front of a mirror mugging at yourself (since it takes a while for the layers to dry and there’s not much you can do without spreading lotion everywhere), your imagination is apt to wander. With my pale visage, I also find myself also contorting myself to look like a zombie (with an emaciated/sucked in gut and oddly angled arms and head). Sometimes I find myself doing my old drum major exercises (4/4 time, now 2/4, and cue the drums…). If nothing else comes to mind, I’ll just freeze in a posed angle and play mannequin. No matter wh

There are worse fates, I know. I’m largely holding off the various psychosomatic symptoms that are pecking at me. As it is I’ve been reluctant to go out the last two days. I’ve also avoided family members as much as I could, for fear of brushing against them and passing on the itchy curse.

Just as I was starting to find a new routine, things get shaken up all over again. I’m trying really hard not to have find an emotional affiliation with the Elephant Man or the Hunchback of Notre Dame, though it’s tempting. Sometimes writers simply want to act out on of their own story lines. What is better than exploring the limitations of an exiled observer?

”See the ghost face, peering through the window at the cold, cruel lands that stretched beyond his view? It was not his world to possess, or even to explore. Only with his eyes could he traverse its roads, forests, and waterways. His kingdom was bordered and limited by the immediate walls encompassing him. He could not broach them any more than they could consciously choose expel him. So two remained in their places and the status quo was unchallenged. Only a powerful, revolutionary force from the outside world could seek to change what had become routine.

One could say that as the days past, it was less likely anyone would come to seek his ghastly company. But on the other hand, another could argue that the outsider’s arrival was closer than ever, though still unannounced. The two camps could verbally spar at these views for many changes of the season without either side gaining dominance over the other, but this was no matter to the prisoner. A living shade cares not for such things and is content to wait for whatever life will bring.

Only time will tell what he receive for offering such patience.

How much of that is literary symbolism and how much is a stark portrayal of reality as it truly exists? After all, some writers can’t be trusted to record the plain truth when caught up in a flight of fancy. However, even the most capricious pen may flow and capture life in amber and ink, a perfect representation of how things truly are.

Truth can be found in both fact and fiction; the trick is knowing where to look.

I’m personally looking forward to the day when I go outside and not be mistaken for a disgruntled albino, but that’s just me. I’m sure the truth you seek is much less petty, nor covered in calamine lotion, and be thankful for that.

As for me, I’m returning to the tower for douse before bed. I’ll leave a light on, for any who choose to reach out.

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Music: “Seasons of Love” by the cast of Rent – the trailer for this movie sticks with me as one of the best of the year and it makes a good theme for retro-reflection

Okay, I am deeming this a regular feature now: the weekly recap.

Want to know what I wrote about over the last couple of days, drop by Mondays and look over the summaries.

Here we go, starting a week ago:

Monday features a belated tribute to a lost friend and a contemplation about Christians’ potential legacy.

Tuesday showcased the last “week in review.” Hey, we were still working the kinks out.

Wednesday spotlighted a must read article on unfounded accusations of war atrocities and how damage remains long after the original condemnation is disproved.

Thursday saw me share a “flow of consciousness” peak into my creative process and realization that a good muse is hard to find, nowadays.

Friday was when my brain threatened to explode due to two news stories that two different ways to misapply the lessons of God’s love and judgment.

Saturday presented a straight-forward observation about the 15th season of America’s Funniest Home Videos and and my belated response to a challenge to list unique, previously unknown factoids about myself.

Sunday included silly verses I’ve been playing with over the last couple of weeks.

To come: What happens when “No Good deed goes unpunished…”

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Music: “I’m Blue” as performed by The 5.6.7.8's

After church today, amongst a tapestry of entertaining conversations, a more interesting thread centered on poetry and the difficulty of composing a serious verse without including pomposity.

Too often, darker lines come across as forced and unnatural. I was reminded of the Scary Go Round rule governing the limited application of interior monologues. This rule, as demonstrated in this comic, explains how certain phrases retain their mystique only until they are spoken out loud.

The words of would-be poets sound important and meaningful, but should you seriously weigh them, you immediately discover their emptiness. I could consider that the fortune cookie corollary: you dig into them hoping for a sage treat, and you may be briefly pleased, but soon you will discard the message, treating it like the worthless piece of paper it is.

Note: I'm only talking about bad poets. Rest assured, if you think I'm picking on one of your favorites, I'm not. I'm complaining about someone else. Promise.

Good poetry – you’ve either got it in you, or you don’t (and it is depressing to think of the number of classics written under the influence while I can’t pen anything of poetic value stone sober).

I appreciate the talents of the greats, like Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Shel Silverstein. Silverstein may seem like a cheeky pick, but I include him because he was the one who showed me how poetry could be silly, too. A lot of people try to downplay the less serious stuff, undercutting poets who try to make us laugh. In their place, we get people who are much more grim, dour, and less likely to inspire

I learned to dislike poetry when I wasn’t allowed to write playful stuff. I remember when I was put through my first poetry unit in fourth grade. The first time I entered willingly; I had reason to act otherwise in future encounters.

Originally, I had fun climbing around the play ground, finding good places to record my thoughts (at the top of the slide, at the bottom, top and bottom again before switching to the jungle gym). Quickly I was reigned in, physically and creatively. When I wasn’t allowed to make my silly rhymes, my words and attitude took a turn for the worse, and have yet to improve.

There’s a still line I wrote in a seventh grade creative writing class that is still lodged in my brain (like many memories that refuse to turn loose) that still causes me to grit my teeth when I remember it. I won’t inflict it on the readers here, but I will share that the literary components include moonbeams and butterflies. Ow…

That’s why I don’t really write any poems because I easily recognize them as words that are supposed to look, sound, and grandly pose as poetry, but are about as meaningful as a fast food value menu.

The only exclusion I allow myself is quirky haikus.

I’ve used this site in the past to act as a refresher course, though the important thing is the 5-7-5 syllable, three line setup. Since I’m only bound by the number of beats per line, rather than being forced to stick to the heavy-handedness of more “literary” poems, I find more freedom in the 17 counts than any free formed verse.

I’ve been working on these things off an on for a while, doing one or two every so often, and decided today was a good day to release them into the wild.


Closet monster waits
Bathroom beckons child’s bladder
Most patient will win

“Two cokes, burgers, fries –
I don’t want to ‘Super Size’”
“Pay and drive around”

Door-to-door salesman:
“Eskimo want brand-new fridge?”
Cold wind blows; no deal

A chameleon slips,
Falls in a vat of Skittles
Yuck! Taste the rainbow

Clock left on heater
Dali cranks temperature
Timepiece melts again

Mobster’s prescription:
Cement shoes for shrill patient
Leaves with heavy heart

Elephant escapes
Pachyderm seeks hiding place
Big footprints don’t help

Water rises, bridge closed.
Daredevil defies warnings
Mortician profits

Roller derby goes bad
Limbo bar set way too low
The spinning wheels fly

Jeremiah frog:
Good friend, hard to understand
Drank wine, mighty fine

Mirage – oasis
Water pursued where sand flows
Vultures delighted

Lovely Lenore lost.
Raven makes commentary
“Nevermore,” bird says

Push girl from car’s path
Her name’s Penny – suggests a date.
She’s saved and earned

“Clean your plate, sonny.
Otherwise, no chocolate cake”!
Brussel sprouts swallowed

Paranormal watch:
Cloudy night, zero sightings.
Elvis? Bigfoot? Nope.

Bear ravages land
Why target Jellystone Park
Pic-a-nic baskets

Two times two is three?
Bought discount calculator
Savings don’t add up

Evil sewer clown
Seeks to catch, devour children
Go, Tim Curry, go!

Truman to Cola
Joel’s historic conclusion:
We didn’t start fire

Twister math problem:
Gusty storm plus dairy farm
Equals flying cows

Volcano erupts
Lava flows, luau cancelled
Vacation over

Cat fiddles, cow jumps
Small dog laughs at lunar fun
Dish, spoon run away

My brain goes insane
Cries for help through poetry
No one notices

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Music: “Putting on the Ritz” as recorded by Taco

I really don’t like internet listing quizzes.

While I don’t mind the interactive “click-it, instant results” type, when I have to put more thought into a written interrogation, I start to zone out… Some have a few creative questions, but since most are around 100 questions long, the obvious padding weighs them down quickly.

If I get e-mailed such a quiz, which is about as like as getting spam for “all natural” dietary enhancement pills, I quickly pass over it and move on. I rarely outright delete them, but prefer to let them die a quiet, un-mourned death in my inbox.

However, this week I was publicly called out on the subject.

List 10 things that you don't think people would normally know about you. They can be the most random things as long as someone learns something new about you. After you list these things you must tag at least 5-10 people so that they can list 10 things about themselves and tag others. So if I tagged you copy these rules post your own list of 10 things you don't think people know about you and then tag at least 5 more people. Have fun!
. . .
i think i'll be tagging... Tephy (if she reads this anymore. i think she fell off the planet), Caleb, Darla, Evan (won't do it, but I feel like tagging him anyway. because he needs tagged every once in a while, so I'll also tag Chad just in case :P), and Kris!

Openly challenged in cyberspace. Well played, my friend, well played.

To maintain my family honor and my good name, I will now share my Tapped 10:

1) I was born in St. Luke's Hospital in Kansas City on the Missouri side.

2) My lineage is American mutt, though I am proudest of being 1/4 Canadian.

3) My favorite physical attributes are: an old chicken pox scar on my forehead and an elongated knuckle I gave myself within five minutes of getting my first pocketknife.

4) My favorite breakfast meal is skim milk, cold chicken tenders, and freshly picked cherry tomatoes.

5) I have a bias against Flying J truck stops due to a gut-wrenching meal I experienced in 1995 in West Memphis, Arkansas.

6) After performing countless tests under field conditions, I’ve proved I am comfortable wearing shorts down to freezing temperatures as long as I can keep moving and wind chill is negligible.

7) My sister always beats me in rock-paper-scissors.

8) My favorite James Bond theme is "From Russia, With Love" by Matt Monro ("GoldenEye” is a close second, but I can’t match Tina on the high parts).

9) The best role I ever performed onstage was that of the paranoid, bi-polar murder in Edgar Allen Poe’s “A Tell-tale Heart” (which, essentially, was two disconnected parts in the same play).

10) I was a devoted but under-talented track runner. In five years participation (doing events ranging from long-distance running to triple jump to shot put), the only medals I earned were in the hurdle jumping relays.


This is where I break with the rules presented. While I will share freely of my past if pressed, I refuse to pass the same burden on to others. They may choose to voluntarily pick up the gauntlet I am carefully putting down, but I will not foist it upon them.

Instead, I offer a substitution, Five more for five less:

11) The intricate glyphs that occasionally appear on my hands and arms are drawn to act as a memory aides and/or relieve boredom and stress.

12) I had a cell phone for almost a year – I got rid of it shortly after tossing it out a fifth story window.

13) My favorite room decorations are the two plastic pink flamingos I have, Gilligan and Juliet.

14) My worst grades in college were in Spanish III, Intermediate Writing, and Advanced Newspaper Reporting – My best grades were in Advanced Creative Writing, Mark Twain (a senior English capstone course), and eight semesters of varsity pep band .

15) I recently acquired a U.S. Passport, though I’ve yet to get it stamped.


And here’s a final one for free, though you may have discerned it on your own:

16) I must have had an awfully high IQ at one point because despite the fact I’ve suffered a lot of head trauma over the years, I can still almost function in society. I can only imagine how many brain cells I had originally before I inadvertently started sacrificing them in droves. No, really. I can only imagine; I lack the capacity to crunch the figures to calculate what I must have started with. No wonder I didn’t learn to snap my fingers until the summer before my senior year in high school.

Cue the smarmy tones:

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