Music: “Greensleeves” a traditional ballad
- Yes, I know the Muses are from Greek mythology. The thing is, I don’t really know any Greek music. I watched two-thirds of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” but I didn’t pay close attention to the music, and as it is, I doubt is was properly representative of the ancient Greeks. So with no musical foundation to build on there, my brain skips to the next section of the library it has materials for, namely Renaissance music.
And so we come to “Greensleeves,” a song about a guy who swears that he cares for his lady love, but doesn’t seem to know anything about her other than she dresses in green, and that she doesn’t seem to like him despite multiple verses. All things said and done, however, after all this clunky transition, this ode/pitiful plea to an unhearing lady seems more appropriate than a period piece.
Dear Muse,
Where the heck were you?
I waited all evening, pen in hand, notebook at the ready, waiting for you to arrive. I waited… and waited.
I resisted urges to go watch TV or fire up the CD player and consult another book. I was patient, I was true.
Where were you?
Can I speak honestly here? It’s been a bit hit or miss with you lately. I don’t mean to be cruel, but this standing me up is no longer just a rare occurrence.
I haven’t been keeping tallies. I’m not that kind of guy. Besides, one thing about not being inspired by you is that I don’t even have the energy to write down that I’m not inspired.
Yours has become a legacy of blank, unfilled pages. I spend time preparing for an evening together, clear my schedule of all possible distractions, and end up being left to spend the night by myself, lying next to a blank tablet, tracing designs on the ceiling with my eyeballs.
I know you’re not only devoted to me. I understood from the start you wanted an open relationship and I respected that. Jingles need to be written, marble needs to be carved into statues, graffiti needs to be scrawled and parked railroad cars. You are attentive to the varied needs of many people, and that is greatly laudable.
However, I’d like some respect in return. I have many needs that I need your help with. I have a blog, several short stories I am working on, and don’t even get me started on the unfinished/unstarted novels (though I will take the blame on the last points).
I know we’re not close enough that I can expect you to drop everything for my sake at a whim. Nevertheless, when we make a date in the future, and I have stated writing goals and everything, please show some common courtesy and arrive.
Or at least call ahead and say you aren’t coming.
I realize things were really lax when you first started out, togas and ivy laurels and all, but we’re progressed a bit since then and I would expect your efficiency to go up as well.
Thanks for letting me be so frank. I know such directness hurts sometimes, but that can be unavoidable when dealing with the truth. I hope you understand.
If you would be kind enough to show up on Tuesday night, I’d like to put some things to paper that have been circling around in my mental windmill for a while now. I hope to see you there.
Your ever devoted, albeit often beleaguered, devotee,
- Caleb
P.S. – While you’re out with other guys, can you do a better job whispering in ad executives’ ears? As a whole I think your output has been lacking in this area. I’m not asking for something like the Handel’s “Messiah” of car commercials or anything, but I’d be pleased with something simple that isn’t quite as insipid or irritating with repeated viewings as the current batch. Just thought I’d mention it. I still love your iPod commercials, though. That’s good work. Let’s see more like that. – CMS
Friday, March 31, 2006
3:10 PM - An Open Letter to the Muse: We Need to Talk
Thursday, March 30, 2006
11:53 AM - Tip for the Road
Music: “Blue” by Eiffel 65
Advice of the Day: Don’t mix blue-flavored Gatorade with nachos from the local drug store/soda counter.
Trust me on this one.
Advice of the Day: Don’t mix blue-flavored Gatorade with nachos from the local drug store/soda counter.
Trust me on this one.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
11:58 AM - From the Notebook: Why Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves Don’t Like Us
Music: “King of the Road (Trailers for Sale or Rent)” by Roger Miller
When one is working nightside at the paper, there is a palpable change in the work environment in the evening. Sometimes, after the sun has been down a couple hours, some things seem funnier than they would appear in daylight. I’m not trying to excuse the phenomenon or the resulting actions; I simply want to explain the concept.
Keep this in mind when you read the quote log that concludes with a series of hobo-related comments.
And Jacqueline Schmidt, aka Gypsy Moon, aka the Queen of the Hobos, please accept my apologies in advance.
Juggling the phone:
Fumble, fumble…
“Everything’s under control.”
“When you have to say that, things are never under control.”
Upon returning from the West Coast:
“You don’t look any tanner.”
“We didn’t get to go outside when the sun was out.”
A male reporter relates how on one of the group’s trips out in California, he caught the eye of two guys and was told by the female members of the troupe to stare at his shoes”
“So you were leading them on?”
“I didn’t even see them.”
“So you were playing hard to get.”
I didn’t catch the context on this, but it still makes me laugh:
“He died the way he lived, beating an animal with a stick.”
“Don’t stand too close to me. God’s going to strike me dead.”
“Where are my pencils?”
“We may have looted your desk once we were done with Stephanie’s. We were in a mood.”
“It’s hard to stop once you start looting, it really is.”
Coming back from dinner after a day filled with technical troubles:
“Is everything okay?”
“Yep. No smoke coming from the computers.”
“Well, there was smoke earlier, but we beat them until they stopped.”
“Well, as long as they stopped.”
Someone brings in a book of antiquated insults and slurs:
“Hmm. ‘Meretriculate – to deceive, as does a whore.’ I’m writing that down.”
“I will pay you $50 to go to City Council dressed as Aunt Jemima.”
After going through the checklist for the printer:
“And then you can do my laundry.”
“Uh… that’s not in the stylebook.”
“You mean you would do it if it was in the stylebook, because that can be arranged.”
A photo is turned in of a defaced statute:
“Justin, why did you spray graffiti all over the WWI monument?”
“Because I was always a fan of the Kaiser.”
“A fan of the Kaiser, or did you just like those pointed helmets?”
“I just really liked the pointed helmets. And I was upset about the treaty.”
“That was a pretty bad treaty.”
“Worst treaty ever!”
How does one become a mining engineer, besides study, that is:
“Or guess really well on the aptitude test. ‘She scored a 97, but she put down C every time.’”
“We need a harder test.”
On the front page being black and white:
“Of course, this will be the day two cars of clowns collide in the street.”
“In two little, mini cars.”
“Blood and gore and balloons everywhere!”
More bad names for children:
“This is my kid, Chumbawamba.”
“He gets beat up a lot – don’t know why.”
“But when he gets knocked down, he gets up again.”
Half of a phone conversation when a reporter is sent out on a possible fire:
“No fire.”
“Tell him to hit a hobo on the way back and take a picture of it for the front page.”
“You’re supposed to hit a hobo and take a picture of it for the front page… How many?”
“Tell him it’s a personal challenge.”
The boss weighs in on the assignment of antagonizing hobos:
“I’m holding you two responsible if he is kidnapped by hobos.”
Imaging the reporter’s life among the hobos:
“Can you imagine if he got Stockholm Syndrome?”
“We’d get him back, dressed in rags, and he’d be like ‘Ahh! Soap!’”
Whispered: “What are we going to do if he actually hits a hobo?”
“I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to say it was your idea.”
Sometimes the brain refuses to let go of topics it has latched on to:
“Amanda, could you check for obituaries to help insert some sanity back into the conversation.”
“There could be hobits!”
Research is performed on the subject:
“Did you know there is a queen of the hobos?”
“She’s not much of a looker.”
The reporter returns:
“So, what was the final score?”
“No fire.”
“No… The hobos.”
“I’m not going to kill any hobos for you or the paper.”
“We didn’t ask you to kill hobos. Psycho!”
When one is working nightside at the paper, there is a palpable change in the work environment in the evening. Sometimes, after the sun has been down a couple hours, some things seem funnier than they would appear in daylight. I’m not trying to excuse the phenomenon or the resulting actions; I simply want to explain the concept.
Keep this in mind when you read the quote log that concludes with a series of hobo-related comments.
And Jacqueline Schmidt, aka Gypsy Moon, aka the Queen of the Hobos, please accept my apologies in advance.
Juggling the phone:
Fumble, fumble…
“Everything’s under control.”
“When you have to say that, things are never under control.”
Upon returning from the West Coast:
“You don’t look any tanner.”
“We didn’t get to go outside when the sun was out.”
A male reporter relates how on one of the group’s trips out in California, he caught the eye of two guys and was told by the female members of the troupe to stare at his shoes”
“So you were leading them on?”
“I didn’t even see them.”
“So you were playing hard to get.”
I didn’t catch the context on this, but it still makes me laugh:
“He died the way he lived, beating an animal with a stick.”
“Don’t stand too close to me. God’s going to strike me dead.”
“Where are my pencils?”
“We may have looted your desk once we were done with Stephanie’s. We were in a mood.”
“It’s hard to stop once you start looting, it really is.”
Coming back from dinner after a day filled with technical troubles:
“Is everything okay?”
“Yep. No smoke coming from the computers.”
“Well, there was smoke earlier, but we beat them until they stopped.”
“Well, as long as they stopped.”
Someone brings in a book of antiquated insults and slurs:
“Hmm. ‘Meretriculate – to deceive, as does a whore.’ I’m writing that down.”
“I will pay you $50 to go to City Council dressed as Aunt Jemima.”
After going through the checklist for the printer:
“And then you can do my laundry.”
“Uh… that’s not in the stylebook.”
“You mean you would do it if it was in the stylebook, because that can be arranged.”
A photo is turned in of a defaced statute:
“Justin, why did you spray graffiti all over the WWI monument?”
“Because I was always a fan of the Kaiser.”
“A fan of the Kaiser, or did you just like those pointed helmets?”
“I just really liked the pointed helmets. And I was upset about the treaty.”
“That was a pretty bad treaty.”
“Worst treaty ever!”
How does one become a mining engineer, besides study, that is:
“Or guess really well on the aptitude test. ‘She scored a 97, but she put down C every time.’”
“We need a harder test.”
On the front page being black and white:
“Of course, this will be the day two cars of clowns collide in the street.”
“In two little, mini cars.”
“Blood and gore and balloons everywhere!”
More bad names for children:
“This is my kid, Chumbawamba.”
“He gets beat up a lot – don’t know why.”
“But when he gets knocked down, he gets up again.”
Half of a phone conversation when a reporter is sent out on a possible fire:
“No fire.”
“Tell him to hit a hobo on the way back and take a picture of it for the front page.”
“You’re supposed to hit a hobo and take a picture of it for the front page… How many?”
“Tell him it’s a personal challenge.”
The boss weighs in on the assignment of antagonizing hobos:
“I’m holding you two responsible if he is kidnapped by hobos.”
Imaging the reporter’s life among the hobos:
“Can you imagine if he got Stockholm Syndrome?”
“We’d get him back, dressed in rags, and he’d be like ‘Ahh! Soap!’”
Whispered: “What are we going to do if he actually hits a hobo?”
“I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to say it was your idea.”
Sometimes the brain refuses to let go of topics it has latched on to:
“Amanda, could you check for obituaries to help insert some sanity back into the conversation.”
“There could be hobits!”
Research is performed on the subject:
“Did you know there is a queen of the hobos?”
“She’s not much of a looker.”
The reporter returns:
“So, what was the final score?”
“No fire.”
“No… The hobos.”
“I’m not going to kill any hobos for you or the paper.”
“We didn’t ask you to kill hobos. Psycho!”
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
11:10 AM - When She Ain’t a Lady
Music: “A Good Run of Bad” by Clint Black
Conversation repeated in millions of workplaces across America:
“What the…?”
“I know!”
The NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship may not be over until April 3, but the office betting pool is already over.
Thanks to a series of upsets over the weekend, following a trend of unexpected underdog victories, everyone’s brackets were in shambles. As of Monday, only two people had a single team in the Final Four, and each person had picked that team to lose.
The good news in all this was that we could divvy out the money early.
The bad news, from my perspective at least, is that I didn’t get it.
This didn’t surprise me, however. When chipping in my contribution to the pool, I had completely written off my portion, mentally designating it as having gone to “entertainment purposes.”
I told people I put my money in fully expecting to lose it.
Of course, people said in return, that’s why it’s called gambling and not winning.
I laughed and decided not to get too involved in the process… Then somehow I ended up in third place after a week.
This threw me off. I have long said I have paid more attention to women’s basketball than men’s games. This is primarily for two reasons. One, is the men’s team at the University of Missouri hasn’t been decent since 2002. The fact the team didn’t even earn an NIT bid this year is only the latest illustrative example in a long-declining trend.
Two, being a four-year player in the pep band for the MU women’s team, my spring breaks were tied to the team’s successes or losses. Trying out for the men’s team was never an option to me. For many years, the pep squad for the men’s team, Mini Mizzou, was the premiere show band at the university. They had the highest profile gigs and did the most traveling in the post-season. For that they accepted only the top musicians, so the group was primarily dominated by music majors. This didn’t bother me because I thought such dedicated people deserved something for all those extra hours spent practicing. That and for many years band members in Mini Mizzou were expected to wear frilly tuxedo shirts, which I have never taken a liking to.
Being only a casual musician, and being much sharper on the kazoo than trumpet, my best shot at a gig was the pep band for the women’s team. I came to prefer these games. Though the crowds were smaller, the fans were certainly more invested in the team. I was amongst scrappier musicians like myself, who relied less on practicing and more on playing by ear. And best of all, since we weren’t as high profile, less people were watching us so we could get away with more stunts.
For reasons I will not get into here, the Smurfs theme will always bring back warm basketball memories.
It was with the women’s team that I would travel to Arizona for the NCAA tournament during spring break the first year the men’s team started to tank (and it had been running and fumes for a while). When the women’s team scored another NCAA berth this past season and the men’s team got diddly, I wasn’t surprised.
It was for all that – plus loses by Iowa, Kansas, and Oklahoma (stupid Big 10, Big XII loyalty) – that I was surprised to find myself in any decent running in the office pool. I realized I had probably peaked, but I still found myself more invested in the outcomes.
Of course, as the upsets mounted, and I saw my chances dwindling, I was comforted by the fact that almost everyone else was just as hard off.
“Gambling is a vice – especially when I’m losing!”
“Of course! When you’re winning, it’s a profitable hobby.”
After Duke lost to LSU, which put a dent in nearly everyone’s bracket, some of us handled it somewhat crazily.
“I saw we write a sternly-worded letter to Duke telling them how disappointed we are in them.”
After Connecticut, which the majority of workers had picked at the conference champions, lost to George Mason, some of us handled that more poorly.
“Okay I say we bypass the strongly-worded letter to Duke and all get on the letter bomb to George Mason.”
This all being said, the pot was won by the person who picked all his matches by statistics. Of course, when you remember that he still had 75 percent of his Final Four picks wrong and 100 percent of his picks for the final two, you realize he won the money by employing mathematics to be slightly less wrong than those who went by gut picks.
I’ll leave the final words to our office champion: “This proves that math sucks.”
Conversation repeated in millions of workplaces across America:
“What the…?”
“I know!”
The NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship may not be over until April 3, but the office betting pool is already over.
Thanks to a series of upsets over the weekend, following a trend of unexpected underdog victories, everyone’s brackets were in shambles. As of Monday, only two people had a single team in the Final Four, and each person had picked that team to lose.
The good news in all this was that we could divvy out the money early.
The bad news, from my perspective at least, is that I didn’t get it.
This didn’t surprise me, however. When chipping in my contribution to the pool, I had completely written off my portion, mentally designating it as having gone to “entertainment purposes.”
I told people I put my money in fully expecting to lose it.
Of course, people said in return, that’s why it’s called gambling and not winning.
I laughed and decided not to get too involved in the process… Then somehow I ended up in third place after a week.
This threw me off. I have long said I have paid more attention to women’s basketball than men’s games. This is primarily for two reasons. One, is the men’s team at the University of Missouri hasn’t been decent since 2002. The fact the team didn’t even earn an NIT bid this year is only the latest illustrative example in a long-declining trend.
Two, being a four-year player in the pep band for the MU women’s team, my spring breaks were tied to the team’s successes or losses. Trying out for the men’s team was never an option to me. For many years, the pep squad for the men’s team, Mini Mizzou, was the premiere show band at the university. They had the highest profile gigs and did the most traveling in the post-season. For that they accepted only the top musicians, so the group was primarily dominated by music majors. This didn’t bother me because I thought such dedicated people deserved something for all those extra hours spent practicing. That and for many years band members in Mini Mizzou were expected to wear frilly tuxedo shirts, which I have never taken a liking to.
Being only a casual musician, and being much sharper on the kazoo than trumpet, my best shot at a gig was the pep band for the women’s team. I came to prefer these games. Though the crowds were smaller, the fans were certainly more invested in the team. I was amongst scrappier musicians like myself, who relied less on practicing and more on playing by ear. And best of all, since we weren’t as high profile, less people were watching us so we could get away with more stunts.
For reasons I will not get into here, the Smurfs theme will always bring back warm basketball memories.
It was with the women’s team that I would travel to Arizona for the NCAA tournament during spring break the first year the men’s team started to tank (and it had been running and fumes for a while). When the women’s team scored another NCAA berth this past season and the men’s team got diddly, I wasn’t surprised.
It was for all that – plus loses by Iowa, Kansas, and Oklahoma (stupid Big 10, Big XII loyalty) – that I was surprised to find myself in any decent running in the office pool. I realized I had probably peaked, but I still found myself more invested in the outcomes.
Of course, as the upsets mounted, and I saw my chances dwindling, I was comforted by the fact that almost everyone else was just as hard off.
“Gambling is a vice – especially when I’m losing!”
“Of course! When you’re winning, it’s a profitable hobby.”
After Duke lost to LSU, which put a dent in nearly everyone’s bracket, some of us handled it somewhat crazily.
“I saw we write a sternly-worded letter to Duke telling them how disappointed we are in them.”
After Connecticut, which the majority of workers had picked at the conference champions, lost to George Mason, some of us handled that more poorly.
“Okay I say we bypass the strongly-worded letter to Duke and all get on the letter bomb to George Mason.”
This all being said, the pot was won by the person who picked all his matches by statistics. Of course, when you remember that he still had 75 percent of his Final Four picks wrong and 100 percent of his picks for the final two, you realize he won the money by employing mathematics to be slightly less wrong than those who went by gut picks.
I’ll leave the final words to our office champion: “This proves that math sucks.”
Monday, March 27, 2006
11:23 AM - The Weekly Recap, Grab Bag Edition
March 20 to March 27
Music: “Volcano” by Presidents of the United States of America
If it’s Monday, and if it’s been an especially eclectic week, it’s recap day.
Yeah, it seemed that the topics were much more varied than normal (quiz results don’t always transition into a thanatopsis, or a meditation on death [an old vocabulary word I use for the sake of the high school English teacher that pounded it into my head]).
I skipped Thursday, for various reasons, but more than doubled my usual output on Saturday. This is the combination of what happens when I let certain subjects stew too long and the accumulative effect of walking past a cemetery every day.
Anyway, here’s the recap.
Last Monday, March 20, I wrested with the elements and finally concluded the long-delayed Valentine’s epic.
Tuesday I recount a bizarre phone call and how it seemed to freak other people out more than me.
Wednesday was a standard quote log day, where some of us displayed our musical inclinations… or our lyrical mental disorders. I’m still not entirely sure.
Thursday I didn’t post. Sue me.
Friday I indulge in the time-honored and brain cell-saving practice of doing online quizzes. Strange results and personal commentary on the previously mentioned results follow.
Saturday I give a voice to some long brewing observations and opinions about obituary conduct. I think it’s better to say something nice today than save the good lines for tomorrow (but if you still want to repeat the flowery words after someone’s death, pay for an advertisement and save yourself and a copyeditor some trouble).
To come: Babblings on insurance benefits, the monthly music review, and whatever catches my fancy… probably something shiny.
If it’s Monday, and if it’s been an especially eclectic week, it’s recap day.
Yeah, it seemed that the topics were much more varied than normal (quiz results don’t always transition into a thanatopsis, or a meditation on death [an old vocabulary word I use for the sake of the high school English teacher that pounded it into my head]).
I skipped Thursday, for various reasons, but more than doubled my usual output on Saturday. This is the combination of what happens when I let certain subjects stew too long and the accumulative effect of walking past a cemetery every day.
Anyway, here’s the recap.
Last Monday, March 20, I wrested with the elements and finally concluded the long-delayed Valentine’s epic.
Tuesday I recount a bizarre phone call and how it seemed to freak other people out more than me.
Wednesday was a standard quote log day, where some of us displayed our musical inclinations… or our lyrical mental disorders. I’m still not entirely sure.
Thursday I didn’t post. Sue me.
Friday I indulge in the time-honored and brain cell-saving practice of doing online quizzes. Strange results and personal commentary on the previously mentioned results follow.
Saturday I give a voice to some long brewing observations and opinions about obituary conduct. I think it’s better to say something nice today than save the good lines for tomorrow (but if you still want to repeat the flowery words after someone’s death, pay for an advertisement and save yourself and a copyeditor some trouble).
To come: Babblings on insurance benefits, the monthly music review, and whatever catches my fancy… probably something shiny.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
4:25 PM - Start the Eulogy without Me
Music: “One Dying and a Burying” by Roger Miller
“It's foolproof - well, it's foolhardy, maybe, but who knows?”
It is a pro and con that I get to read almost everything in the newspaper. As a copyeditor, there are very few sections of the paper I haven’t read in some form (be it reading press releases, editing drafts or looking over proofs). How many people can say they get paid to peruse the comics and Dear Abby?
Of course, there are some sections I don’t forward to reading. One of the rougher things I have to do on a regular basis is edit obituaries.
It’s typically a sobering task to work on the final appearance most people will make in the newspapers. It can be rough to see some people only rate a few lines or see how someone died “before their (expected) time.”
In addition to the morose tone, one has a lot of pressure to get all the information right. Messing up an obit is about the worst thing you can do in a newspaper. It’s worse than accidentally leaving in a sarcastic story lead like “And in other Middle East violence” or transposing the letters U.S. Senate candidate Hilter’s last name in a headline such as “Hitler comes to town, kisses babies.”
Okay, it may not be as bad as the last example (for with all the clippings your co-workers will collect of your mistakes -- not to mention copies made by competing papers -- you would have to leave the time zone to escape that mistake), but on a personal level it is close.
Some of the most cutting comments I’ve heard are in regards to perceived wrongs in the obituaries. It may not matter that the funeral home gave us incorrect information or that three people interpreting a handwritten eulogy had trouble with the sloppy cursive handwriting. In most cases the bereaved see the incorrect final product and call those who touched it last, the newspaper staff.
In working with obituaries for nearly five years, the most striking feedback I ever heard on the subject was the general observation: “You have no respect for the dead.”
I didn’t hear this comment directly, though I had talked with the person who would ultimately make this declaration. The verve and venom contained in this quote got me thinking about the general setup of the obituary.
After some time I came to the conclusion that the person was right, though probably not for the editorial concerns she voiced.
We don’t respect the dead because obituaries are for the living. They are to help people remember and help the grieving in the reflecting process, but they don’t directly impact the dead.
Anything you have to say about those who are deceased – good or bad – doesn’t impact them. Those who are left behind may take offense “on their behalf,” which is really their behalf, but it doesn’t touch those who have already died.
In my “death notice,” or whatever you want to call it, insinuate that I frequently engaged in “improper” acts with sheep. I won’t care, though I’d like to think a number of people will be around to call the libeler on it.
To make sure no one has to “speak on my behalf” in the future, outside of the whole pig debacle, let me give some personal guidelines for the way I would want my obituary to read.
Note: I’m not expecting an imminent departure or what not; I just want this stuff on record somewhere. I’ve voiced some of these opinions to my parents, but as any lawyer will tell you, it doesn’t hurt to have multiple copies of these things lying around.
Number one, and most important, if you want to have an untouched, unedited obituary appear in the newspaper, take out an advertisement. That way the words will appear exactly how you approve them.
Most newspaper style guides have you cut out stuff like “dearly beloved” or “he was noted for being a friend to all he met.” Not only are these wordy and clunky, but they aren’t necessarily true. I’ve certainly made enemies along the way – not always on purpose, but some people have at times despised my guts.
Unless you want to pay the extra money to have these questionable statements remain, and I’d say it’s not worth the investment, trim them out and save some copyeditor the trouble of doing the same. Stick to straight-forward, declarative statements that aren’t subjective.
Two, say I died. If I go, I won’t “pass away” or “enter in my eternal reward.” These are unnecessary phrases used to take the sting out of death. Be honest and say I died. I understand if when relaying the messages vocally some tact is employed to cushion the blow (you don’t say, “Madam, I’m sorry but Monsieur Smith snuffed it this afternoon,”) but that is not necessary in print.
The one exception I would allow would be the phrase “kicked the bucket.” This is so obviously a dodge that I wouldn’t mind my name appearing before it.
Three, feel free to trim my biography. Please don’t include every job and accolade earned. I don’t want to be remembered for my Wal-Mart work. I did well in college, but don’t include my GPA or academic honors. Hit the highlights. I would like to think they’re obvious.
If I ever do something really noteworthy like stop a burning fuel truck or rescue my family from the remains of a destroyed sinking battleship, throw that in, but otherwise, employ some brevity.
Four, about my hobbies, you can skip them. The fact I liked hiking or writing or collecting pink flamingos isn’t really noteworthy in my opinion. Only include references to them in other areas like great accomplishments (if I ever get a Pulitzer, then you can mention my writing). Otherwise, you can let them slide.
Five, concerning survivors, I get torn here. While I don’t want a list of like 50 relations, because I doubt I was very close to that many people, I understand why so many names are included. People are touched with a relative dies, albeit to varying degrees, and others like to know if their neighbor lost an uncle or grandfather. To my survivors, I say feel free to tack on as many names as you wish, just don’t go overboard with the extra information. Don’t list the geographical locations of my cousins, or the spouses of any nieces of nephews. As is the general rule, use common sense and economy of space.
And one exception to the previously stated rule, include my pets. They should be at the end of the list (though I do enjoy the irony of the hierarchy being “parents, cat, sister,” that’s pushing the deal too far), but I think they deserve to be there. That’s just me, of course.
Six, about the services, I am willing to get survivors latitude in this area as well. Shoot my ashes out of a cannon, donate my body to science, do the standard suit and box special, I don’t care. To return to my original point, obituaries, eulogies, funerals – these are all out of respect to the living and the memories they carry.
I don’t like the idea of pre-med students carving up my corpse and/or sending parts of me to friends as part of Halloween pranks, but hey, it’s not like I’ll be around. Let them make jokes about the condition of the body I left behind; I’ll have other things to be focusing on.
This post may be macabre, but it’s something I’m forced to face almost everyday. I mean this list of wishes as a reminder of people to have a sense of humor concerning death and to remember the seriousness of the matter as well. Since obituaries are for the living, don’t save all the good lines for after people have “gone to worm town” (another acceptable phase in lieu of “kicked the bucket.”) Say those things now, while people can still be touched by them.
It’s not easy, but it beats the alternative. I would wish you all a bright day, but since you just got done reading this prolonged post about death and legacy, I will instead wish you a fun time reflecting upon your own mortality.
Memento mori: Remember you will die.
Toodles.
“It's foolproof - well, it's foolhardy, maybe, but who knows?”
It is a pro and con that I get to read almost everything in the newspaper. As a copyeditor, there are very few sections of the paper I haven’t read in some form (be it reading press releases, editing drafts or looking over proofs). How many people can say they get paid to peruse the comics and Dear Abby?
Of course, there are some sections I don’t forward to reading. One of the rougher things I have to do on a regular basis is edit obituaries.
It’s typically a sobering task to work on the final appearance most people will make in the newspapers. It can be rough to see some people only rate a few lines or see how someone died “before their (expected) time.”
In addition to the morose tone, one has a lot of pressure to get all the information right. Messing up an obit is about the worst thing you can do in a newspaper. It’s worse than accidentally leaving in a sarcastic story lead like “And in other Middle East violence” or transposing the letters U.S. Senate candidate Hilter’s last name in a headline such as “Hitler comes to town, kisses babies.”
Okay, it may not be as bad as the last example (for with all the clippings your co-workers will collect of your mistakes -- not to mention copies made by competing papers -- you would have to leave the time zone to escape that mistake), but on a personal level it is close.
Some of the most cutting comments I’ve heard are in regards to perceived wrongs in the obituaries. It may not matter that the funeral home gave us incorrect information or that three people interpreting a handwritten eulogy had trouble with the sloppy cursive handwriting. In most cases the bereaved see the incorrect final product and call those who touched it last, the newspaper staff.
In working with obituaries for nearly five years, the most striking feedback I ever heard on the subject was the general observation: “You have no respect for the dead.”
I didn’t hear this comment directly, though I had talked with the person who would ultimately make this declaration. The verve and venom contained in this quote got me thinking about the general setup of the obituary.
After some time I came to the conclusion that the person was right, though probably not for the editorial concerns she voiced.
We don’t respect the dead because obituaries are for the living. They are to help people remember and help the grieving in the reflecting process, but they don’t directly impact the dead.
Anything you have to say about those who are deceased – good or bad – doesn’t impact them. Those who are left behind may take offense “on their behalf,” which is really their behalf, but it doesn’t touch those who have already died.
In my “death notice,” or whatever you want to call it, insinuate that I frequently engaged in “improper” acts with sheep. I won’t care, though I’d like to think a number of people will be around to call the libeler on it.
To make sure no one has to “speak on my behalf” in the future, outside of the whole pig debacle, let me give some personal guidelines for the way I would want my obituary to read.
Note: I’m not expecting an imminent departure or what not; I just want this stuff on record somewhere. I’ve voiced some of these opinions to my parents, but as any lawyer will tell you, it doesn’t hurt to have multiple copies of these things lying around.
Number one, and most important, if you want to have an untouched, unedited obituary appear in the newspaper, take out an advertisement. That way the words will appear exactly how you approve them.
Most newspaper style guides have you cut out stuff like “dearly beloved” or “he was noted for being a friend to all he met.” Not only are these wordy and clunky, but they aren’t necessarily true. I’ve certainly made enemies along the way – not always on purpose, but some people have at times despised my guts.
Unless you want to pay the extra money to have these questionable statements remain, and I’d say it’s not worth the investment, trim them out and save some copyeditor the trouble of doing the same. Stick to straight-forward, declarative statements that aren’t subjective.
Two, say I died. If I go, I won’t “pass away” or “enter in my eternal reward.” These are unnecessary phrases used to take the sting out of death. Be honest and say I died. I understand if when relaying the messages vocally some tact is employed to cushion the blow (you don’t say, “Madam, I’m sorry but Monsieur Smith snuffed it this afternoon,”) but that is not necessary in print.
The one exception I would allow would be the phrase “kicked the bucket.” This is so obviously a dodge that I wouldn’t mind my name appearing before it.
Three, feel free to trim my biography. Please don’t include every job and accolade earned. I don’t want to be remembered for my Wal-Mart work. I did well in college, but don’t include my GPA or academic honors. Hit the highlights. I would like to think they’re obvious.
If I ever do something really noteworthy like stop a burning fuel truck or rescue my family from the remains of a destroyed sinking battleship, throw that in, but otherwise, employ some brevity.
Four, about my hobbies, you can skip them. The fact I liked hiking or writing or collecting pink flamingos isn’t really noteworthy in my opinion. Only include references to them in other areas like great accomplishments (if I ever get a Pulitzer, then you can mention my writing). Otherwise, you can let them slide.
Five, concerning survivors, I get torn here. While I don’t want a list of like 50 relations, because I doubt I was very close to that many people, I understand why so many names are included. People are touched with a relative dies, albeit to varying degrees, and others like to know if their neighbor lost an uncle or grandfather. To my survivors, I say feel free to tack on as many names as you wish, just don’t go overboard with the extra information. Don’t list the geographical locations of my cousins, or the spouses of any nieces of nephews. As is the general rule, use common sense and economy of space.
And one exception to the previously stated rule, include my pets. They should be at the end of the list (though I do enjoy the irony of the hierarchy being “parents, cat, sister,” that’s pushing the deal too far), but I think they deserve to be there. That’s just me, of course.
Six, about the services, I am willing to get survivors latitude in this area as well. Shoot my ashes out of a cannon, donate my body to science, do the standard suit and box special, I don’t care. To return to my original point, obituaries, eulogies, funerals – these are all out of respect to the living and the memories they carry.
I don’t like the idea of pre-med students carving up my corpse and/or sending parts of me to friends as part of Halloween pranks, but hey, it’s not like I’ll be around. Let them make jokes about the condition of the body I left behind; I’ll have other things to be focusing on.
This post may be macabre, but it’s something I’m forced to face almost everyday. I mean this list of wishes as a reminder of people to have a sense of humor concerning death and to remember the seriousness of the matter as well. Since obituaries are for the living, don’t save all the good lines for after people have “gone to worm town” (another acceptable phase in lieu of “kicked the bucket.”) Say those things now, while people can still be touched by them.
It’s not easy, but it beats the alternative. I would wish you all a bright day, but since you just got done reading this prolonged post about death and legacy, I will instead wish you a fun time reflecting upon your own mortality.
Memento mori: Remember you will die.
Toodles.
Friday, March 24, 2006
2:11 PM - Obvious Friday Filler
Music: “Soak Up the Sun” by Sheryl Crow
It may look like I’m copping out… because I am. But this is a blog, afterall, and posting song lyrics and quiz results is one of the most common uses of blogs (and you'd better be thankful I don't kvetch about who's dating who and who's cheating who, which is the other major topic of blogs).
Here’s some lightweight quiz results with commentary. Enjoy.
Personal Comment: Sure. Why not? Can someone help me pronounce that?
Personal Comment: I'd normally contest this, but recent explosive experiments in the newspaper parking lot come to mind.
Personal Comment: I'd agree with everything but the love affair thing. Yeah... That ain't me.
Personal Comment: I think it stresses power too much, but hey, most poeple do.
Personal Comment: But isn't he dead?
Personal Comment: If life were a crime noir novel, I'd totally answer to this name.
Personal Comment: Parts of this song are more easily related to than others, but I'm not telling which.
Personal Comment: Interesting. Being practical can sometimes get you labeled Machiavellian. I'm not sure whether I should get more cynical or paranoid at that thought.
Personal Comment: Funny. I would have thought it was green.
Personal Comment: Well, I passed it once. You would hope I could pass it again... even if I was guess on the neutron question.
Personal Comment: Right, if I ever get that multi-trilogy epic out of my brain and onto paper, we'll see if this is true.
And because you've all been asking :
Personal Comment: Tell me the truth, this doesn't surprise anybody, does it?
It may look like I’m copping out… because I am. But this is a blog, afterall, and posting song lyrics and quiz results is one of the most common uses of blogs (and you'd better be thankful I don't kvetch about who's dating who and who's cheating who, which is the other major topic of blogs).
Here’s some lightweight quiz results with commentary. Enjoy.
| Your Hawaiian Name is: |
 |
Personal Comment: Sure. Why not? Can someone help me pronounce that?
| In a Past Life... |
 You Were: A Blind Beekeeper. Where You Lived: Peru. How You Died: Natural causes. |
Personal Comment: Wow. I would never have guessed that.
| You Are Dr. Bunsen Honeydew |
 You take the title "mad scientist" to the extreme -with very scary things coming out of your lab. And you've invented some pretty cool things, from a banana sharpener to a robot politician. But while you're busy turning gold into cottage cheese, you need to watch out for poor little Beaker! "Oh, that's very naughty, Beaker! Now you eat these paper clips this minute." |
Personal Comment: I'd normally contest this, but recent explosive experiments in the newspaper parking lot come to mind.
| You Have a Sanguine Temperament |
 You are an optimistic person who is easily content. You enjoy casual, light tasks - never wanting to delve too deep into anything. A bit fickle, it's easy for you to change plans or paths when presented with something better. You enjoy all of the great things life has to offer - food, friends, and fun. A great talker, you can keep the conversation going for hours. You are optimistic and sure of your success. If you fail, you don't worry about it too much. At your worst, you are vain. You are obsessed with your own attractiveness. A horrible flirt, you tend to jump into love affairs and relationship drama easily. You're very jealous - which just magnifies the craziness around you. |
Personal Comment: I'd agree with everything but the love affair thing. Yeah... That ain't me.
You Are External - Skeptic - Powerful |
You feel your life is controlled externally. You tend to attribute most things to luck or karma. You don't own your successes or your failures. You tend to take life as it comes, but you're also apt to feel helpless. You are a total skeptic when it comes to luck. You believe that people use luck as a crutch to avoid responsibility. You control your own destiny. The universe has nothing to do with it. You believe everything can be explained - and you tend to over analyze situations. When it comes to who's in charge, it's you. Life is a kingdom, and you're the grand ruler. You don't care much about what others think. But they better care what you think! |
Personal Comment: I think it stresses power too much, but hey, most poeple do.
| Who Should Paint You: Roy Lichtenstein |
 Larger than life, your personality overshadows everyone in the room A painter would tend to portray you with a bit of added flair! |
Personal Comment: But isn't he dead?
| Your 1920's Name is: |
 |
Personal Comment: If life were a crime noir novel, I'd totally answer to this name.
| Your Christmas Song Is |
 Redneck 12 Days of Christmas Twelve-pack of Bud Eleven Wrastling tickets Ten o' Copenhagen Nine years probation Eight table dancers Seven packs of Redman Six cans of Spam Five flannel shirts Four big mud tires Three shotgun shells Two hunting dogs ... And some parts to a Mustang GT. You don't think that 27 strings of Christmas lights are tacky And you swear that eggnog from last year is still good! |
Personal Comment: Parts of this song are more easily related to than others, but I'm not telling which.
| You Are Somewhat Machiavellian |
 You're not going to mow over everyone to get ahead... But you're also powerful enough to make things happen for yourself. You understand how the world works, even when it's an ugly place. You just don't get ugly yourself - unless you have to! |
| Your Hair Should Be Purple |
 Intense, thoughtful, and unconventional. You're always philosophizing and inspiring others with your insights. |
Personal Comment: Funny. I would have thought it was green.
| You Passed 8th Grade Science |
 Congratulations, you got 8/8 correct! |
Personal Comment: Well, I passed it once. You would hope I could pass it again... even if I was guess on the neutron question.
| You Should Be a Science Fiction Writer |
 Your ideas are very strange, and people often wonder what planet you're from. And while you may have some problems being "normal," you'll have no problems writing sci-fi. Whether it's epic films, important novels, or vivid comics... Your own little universe could leave an important mark on the world! |
Personal Comment: Right, if I ever get that multi-trilogy epic out of my brain and onto paper, we'll see if this is true.
And because you've all been asking :
| Your Sexy Red Shoes Are |
 |
Personal Comment: Tell me the truth, this doesn't surprise anybody, does it?
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
11:43 AM - From the Notebook: Musical March Madness
Music: “I Think We’re Alone Now”” covered by Tiffany
Because people asked for it, and other post topics weren’t ready yet, we have the weekly quote log. In it, I hope to prove there is a method to our madness, or at least a downbeat.
To the tune of “I Think We’re Alone Now”
“Are you, ‘typing just as fast as you can?’”
There are groans but no other response.
“Oh com’on. ‘I think we’re all done now. There doesn’t seem to be any more to ty-pe.”
Checking an AWOL employee’s calendar:
“February 23 – ‘Dead in a ditch.’ Well, he planned that out well.”
“And he doesn’t have anything planned after that, so at least he didn’t leave anyone hanging.”
“You’re an electrical engineer (minor) and you say cooking is complicated?”
“It is!”
“Haven’t you seen Einstein’s unfinished cookie theorem?”
This is never good:
“My Rico Suave points are down.”
On being unable to participate in a conversation:
“I don’t spend a lot of time shopping at lingerie stores.”
“No, he goes in, grabs what he wants, and gets out.”
An accurate, yet unlikely prediction:
“I swear to God, if you go to prison, you’re going to get shived.”
On circling, vulture-like behavior:
“Stop looting. I haven’t even left yet.”
Reading over the shoulder:
“I’m a big doofus.”
“Did I spell ‘doofus’ wrong?”
“He didn’t say that.”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
“Then take it out of quotes.”
“Did you start that riot like I asked?”
The reporter nods affirmatively.
“Good man.”
To the beat of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”
Hmm, hmm, hmm, hm, hmmm.”
“We’re not starting a round!”
Musical cues spread:
“She’s infecting us all. It’s like Ebola, only more lyrical.”
“‘In the Ghetto…’ I told you it was contagious.”
“I’m going to start singing Barry Manilow songs; and to warn you, I’m really good at Copacabana.”
“And the musical Cold War begins to heat up.”
Questions about comments over the police scanner:
“Did they say ‘terrorist organization number?’”
“Hi. I’m with the Local 555.”
One of those days:
“I’m going on a five-minute walk outside.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Three minutes.”
On cultural genders:
“Some Native American tribes had one sexes… I mean, more than two.”
“I assumed I knew what you meant… They have two now? That’s awesome.”
“I want my own state park.”
“There’s a Caleb Smith State Park.”
“Well, whoop de doo!”
During a stressful day, someone starts to eye a letter opener:
“Can I borrow that? It may be bloody when I give it back.”
“Wyoming has two seasons: Winter and construction.”
After repeated calls:
“Beep, beep, beep, beeeeep…”
“Look, I know you’re a fax machine, but stop calling this number.”
Because you don’t want to be associated with some good deeds:
“What’s this?”
“It’s a cell phone I found.”
“Just turn it in, or leave it on the counter that says ‘This is a bomb.’”
“‘Signed, Zac Wiggy.’”
More developments in the relationship between local government and the press:
“They’re getting together to declare March 15 Anti-Justin Day.”
“Cool! I’ll mark my calendar. ‘Beware the Ides of March.’”
Because people asked for it, and other post topics weren’t ready yet, we have the weekly quote log. In it, I hope to prove there is a method to our madness, or at least a downbeat.
To the tune of “I Think We’re Alone Now”
“Are you, ‘typing just as fast as you can?’”
There are groans but no other response.
“Oh com’on. ‘I think we’re all done now. There doesn’t seem to be any more to ty-pe.”
Checking an AWOL employee’s calendar:
“February 23 – ‘Dead in a ditch.’ Well, he planned that out well.”
“And he doesn’t have anything planned after that, so at least he didn’t leave anyone hanging.”
“You’re an electrical engineer (minor) and you say cooking is complicated?”
“It is!”
“Haven’t you seen Einstein’s unfinished cookie theorem?”
This is never good:
“My Rico Suave points are down.”
On being unable to participate in a conversation:
“I don’t spend a lot of time shopping at lingerie stores.”
“No, he goes in, grabs what he wants, and gets out.”
An accurate, yet unlikely prediction:
“I swear to God, if you go to prison, you’re going to get shived.”
On circling, vulture-like behavior:
“Stop looting. I haven’t even left yet.”
Reading over the shoulder:
“I’m a big doofus.”
“Did I spell ‘doofus’ wrong?”
“He didn’t say that.”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
“Then take it out of quotes.”
“Did you start that riot like I asked?”
The reporter nods affirmatively.
“Good man.”
To the beat of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”
Hmm, hmm, hmm, hm, hmmm.”
“We’re not starting a round!”
Musical cues spread:
“She’s infecting us all. It’s like Ebola, only more lyrical.”
“‘In the Ghetto…’ I told you it was contagious.”
“I’m going to start singing Barry Manilow songs; and to warn you, I’m really good at Copacabana.”
“And the musical Cold War begins to heat up.”
Questions about comments over the police scanner:
“Did they say ‘terrorist organization number?’”
“Hi. I’m with the Local 555.”
One of those days:
“I’m going on a five-minute walk outside.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Three minutes.”
On cultural genders:
“Some Native American tribes had one sexes… I mean, more than two.”
“I assumed I knew what you meant… They have two now? That’s awesome.”
“I want my own state park.”
“There’s a Caleb Smith State Park.”
“Well, whoop de doo!”
During a stressful day, someone starts to eye a letter opener:
“Can I borrow that? It may be bloody when I give it back.”
“Wyoming has two seasons: Winter and construction.”
After repeated calls:
“Beep, beep, beep, beeeeep…”
“Look, I know you’re a fax machine, but stop calling this number.”
Because you don’t want to be associated with some good deeds:
“What’s this?”
“It’s a cell phone I found.”
“Just turn it in, or leave it on the counter that says ‘This is a bomb.’”
“‘Signed, Zac Wiggy.’”
More developments in the relationship between local government and the press:
“They’re getting together to declare March 15 Anti-Justin Day.”
“Cool! I’ll mark my calendar. ‘Beware the Ides of March.’”
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
11:09 AM - Reach Out and Phone Freak Someone
Music: “Jenny (867-5309)” by Tommy Tutone
“I got it! (I got it!) I got it!
I got your number on the wall!”
I had a friend who, back in middle school, liked to pass out slips of paper with phone numbers written on them. They were prefaced with the typical, “For a good time call…”
I’m not sure if anyone ever followed up on the invitation, but if they did, they would be put in touch with the Walt Disney World information desk in Orlando, Florida. You have to admit my friend could never be pegged with false advertising.
I told that story to potentially explain the next. I’m not sure how the number got into the caller’s hands; all we know is that the person didn’t wait to use it.
Friday night was nutty at the paper. Granted, as some can tell from the various quote logs, most nights are a bit crazy, but preparing for the weekend edition always requires a bit more effort.
I was a bit behind compared to where I would like to be, and was furiously preparing wire stories for the jump page. While I am quick to answer the phone during slower moments, during rushed times, I prefer to let one of the reporters pick up the line.
“Daily Rocket-Miner,” I vaguely heard the reporter say, still pounding away at my keyboard. It took a second or two to realize the reporter was trying to catch my attention.
“Caleb. Call for you on line one. There’s a guy who says he can see you through the window and wants to know what you’re doing.”
I’ll admit I didn’t get the full gist of what he had said. My taxed brain had largely focused on the “call on line one” part. My brain was still processing the second half as I tapped the buttons to take the caller off hold.
“Newsdesk, how may I help you?”
“Yes, I’m at a concert and I was curious if you’re the person I can see through the second floor window of the paper.”
Seeing was sitting in the corner of the building next to the only window that was opened, I indicated it was probably me.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m currently removing codes from a wire story about wolves.”
“Wolves… cool….”
Somewhere in my brain, I’d made the decision to concentrate on the screen and not turn around. My co-workers, however, were peering out through the neighboring windows trying to get a glimpse at the guy at the so-called “concert” within sight of the newspaper.
Growing tired of the distraction, who was probably fueled by something both green-colored and alcoholic, I quickly informed him that I was on deadline and unless he had some pressing news, I needed to get back to work.
He told me no problem, and after thanking him for his interest in the journalism industry, I hung up and turned back to my computer screen.
About then the whole weirdness of the situation hit me like a gross of brick-filled sock monkeys.
“Um…. I can’t remember what I was working on.”
The jokes of my co-workers didn’t help, though I can admit I would have joined in the fray had another person been in the window’s spotlight. I had to get up, take a quick walk around the newsroom and get a quick drink before my brain was ready to go back to the grind (“Oh yeah… wolves…”).
Having had a bit more time to digest the situation, I’ve come to a few conclusions.
One, and I’ve said this before, but my autopilot subconscious is hilarious. The fact that my brain went into old Residential Life mode and briefly humored the speaker is interesting. When one is expected to write up reports, sometimes you are expected to initially repress certain jokes or outbursts because you will be expected to recount your actions. It’s better to save the commentary for the write-up, rather than explain why the subject may have been provoked by your sarcastic remark (even when I “thanked” the caller for their “interest,” it was in a calm, neutral voice).
Two, I find it interesting that the caller actually had the paper’s phone number. While we have a bright, light-up sign on the building telling people what we are, the number isn’t listed anywhere outside. This indicates the caller took an extra step than usual in his drunk dialing. Somewhere he called information or grabbed a copy of the paper to call us.
Third, though this was strange, I don’t plan on having it influence my actions in regards to paranoia. This was obviously a random, out-there act. Though the story may have prompted some concern in some of my co-workers, I’m not that bothered. I doubt the person entirely remembers the exchange, let alone will be able to identify me by the shape of the back of my head.
As I left work Monday night, my boss warned me to be watchful for freaks and crazies. I politely told her I would. She called after me, the trick is to act freakier or crazier than them. I’ll certainly keep that in mind, I promised her.
So this is me keeping an open mind, but also keeping the curtains open.
If I disappear one of these nights, you all know to search the phone records; though for all I know the guy simply picked up a scrap of paper that read "For a good time, call the newspaper at 307..."
“I got it! (I got it!) I got it!
I got your number on the wall!”
I had a friend who, back in middle school, liked to pass out slips of paper with phone numbers written on them. They were prefaced with the typical, “For a good time call…”
I’m not sure if anyone ever followed up on the invitation, but if they did, they would be put in touch with the Walt Disney World information desk in Orlando, Florida. You have to admit my friend could never be pegged with false advertising.
I told that story to potentially explain the next. I’m not sure how the number got into the caller’s hands; all we know is that the person didn’t wait to use it.
Friday night was nutty at the paper. Granted, as some can tell from the various quote logs, most nights are a bit crazy, but preparing for the weekend edition always requires a bit more effort.
I was a bit behind compared to where I would like to be, and was furiously preparing wire stories for the jump page. While I am quick to answer the phone during slower moments, during rushed times, I prefer to let one of the reporters pick up the line.
“Daily Rocket-Miner,” I vaguely heard the reporter say, still pounding away at my keyboard. It took a second or two to realize the reporter was trying to catch my attention.
“Caleb. Call for you on line one. There’s a guy who says he can see you through the window and wants to know what you’re doing.”
I’ll admit I didn’t get the full gist of what he had said. My taxed brain had largely focused on the “call on line one” part. My brain was still processing the second half as I tapped the buttons to take the caller off hold.
“Newsdesk, how may I help you?”
“Yes, I’m at a concert and I was curious if you’re the person I can see through the second floor window of the paper.”
Seeing was sitting in the corner of the building next to the only window that was opened, I indicated it was probably me.
“What are you working on?”
“I’m currently removing codes from a wire story about wolves.”
“Wolves… cool….”
Somewhere in my brain, I’d made the decision to concentrate on the screen and not turn around. My co-workers, however, were peering out through the neighboring windows trying to get a glimpse at the guy at the so-called “concert” within sight of the newspaper.
Growing tired of the distraction, who was probably fueled by something both green-colored and alcoholic, I quickly informed him that I was on deadline and unless he had some pressing news, I needed to get back to work.
He told me no problem, and after thanking him for his interest in the journalism industry, I hung up and turned back to my computer screen.
About then the whole weirdness of the situation hit me like a gross of brick-filled sock monkeys.
“Um…. I can’t remember what I was working on.”
The jokes of my co-workers didn’t help, though I can admit I would have joined in the fray had another person been in the window’s spotlight. I had to get up, take a quick walk around the newsroom and get a quick drink before my brain was ready to go back to the grind (“Oh yeah… wolves…”).
Having had a bit more time to digest the situation, I’ve come to a few conclusions.
One, and I’ve said this before, but my autopilot subconscious is hilarious. The fact that my brain went into old Residential Life mode and briefly humored the speaker is interesting. When one is expected to write up reports, sometimes you are expected to initially repress certain jokes or outbursts because you will be expected to recount your actions. It’s better to save the commentary for the write-up, rather than explain why the subject may have been provoked by your sarcastic remark (even when I “thanked” the caller for their “interest,” it was in a calm, neutral voice).
Two, I find it interesting that the caller actually had the paper’s phone number. While we have a bright, light-up sign on the building telling people what we are, the number isn’t listed anywhere outside. This indicates the caller took an extra step than usual in his drunk dialing. Somewhere he called information or grabbed a copy of the paper to call us.
Third, though this was strange, I don’t plan on having it influence my actions in regards to paranoia. This was obviously a random, out-there act. Though the story may have prompted some concern in some of my co-workers, I’m not that bothered. I doubt the person entirely remembers the exchange, let alone will be able to identify me by the shape of the back of my head.
As I left work Monday night, my boss warned me to be watchful for freaks and crazies. I politely told her I would. She called after me, the trick is to act freakier or crazier than them. I’ll certainly keep that in mind, I promised her.
So this is me keeping an open mind, but also keeping the curtains open.
If I disappear one of these nights, you all know to search the phone records; though for all I know the guy simply picked up a scrap of paper that read "For a good time, call the newspaper at 307..."
Monday, March 20, 2006
11:50 AM - The Weekly Recap, Struggling to Be Spring Edition
March 13 to March 20
Music: “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park” by Tom Lehrer
If it’s Monday, and I didn’t sleep in past noon, it’s recap day.
This weekend desperately tried to be spring-like. It was quite sunny midday Saturday, but then some darker clouds moved in. Fluries began to swoop down, but it was so warm the flakes largely melted on impact, seemingly acting more like rain. Furthermore cloud cover was sporadic, so at times sunbeams dances around the snow. And being the twerp I can be, I refused to zip up my jacket.
I know you can’t change the weather by refusing to acknowledge it, but I would still argue it wasn’t that bad.
Some people may need to remind me of that midweek when the next major storm is expected to hit.
That all being said, here’s the rundown:
Last Monday, March 13, I recounted how another snowstorm mixed up my weekend plans, but that otherwise things were as normal as they ever get (which, admittedly, is only so close).
Tuesday, after a month’s gap I provide a summary of the two previous Valentine’s banquet entries in the hopes of finally finishing the recital of the tale. The brief recaps also buy me one more day to get my notes (and act) together.
Wednesday after many delays, promises, and fudging, we have the concluding entry in the Valentine’s dinner saga. We finally learn how the trumpeter coped with a stolen act, why boys should not be left unsupervised around ice and water, and how the pastor proved it really was a “sweetheart’s dinner.”
Thursday the weekly quote log touches topics including evil clowns, technical difficulties, and the love-hate relationship the press enjoys with politicians.
On St. Patrick’s Day I dug out the old green Matrix coding. Granted, one doesn’t need to have imbued various green liquids to be entertained by the dropping letters – I personally enjoy the effect while sober – but I figured it didn’t hurt.
Saturday I didn’t post but spent my library time trying to catch up on e-mail. I doubt any of you were concerned or even curious, but there’s a free tidbit on me.
To come: A personal obituary notice, of sorts...
If it’s Monday, and I didn’t sleep in past noon, it’s recap day.
This weekend desperately tried to be spring-like. It was quite sunny midday Saturday, but then some darker clouds moved in. Fluries began to swoop down, but it was so warm the flakes largely melted on impact, seemingly acting more like rain. Furthermore cloud cover was sporadic, so at times sunbeams dances around the snow. And being the twerp I can be, I refused to zip up my jacket.
I know you can’t change the weather by refusing to acknowledge it, but I would still argue it wasn’t that bad.
Some people may need to remind me of that midweek when the next major storm is expected to hit.
That all being said, here’s the rundown:
Last Monday, March 13, I recounted how another snowstorm mixed up my weekend plans, but that otherwise things were as normal as they ever get (which, admittedly, is only so close).
Tuesday, after a month’s gap I provide a summary of the two previous Valentine’s banquet entries in the hopes of finally finishing the recital of the tale. The brief recaps also buy me one more day to get my notes (and act) together.
Wednesday after many delays, promises, and fudging, we have the concluding entry in the Valentine’s dinner saga. We finally learn how the trumpeter coped with a stolen act, why boys should not be left unsupervised around ice and water, and how the pastor proved it really was a “sweetheart’s dinner.”
Thursday the weekly quote log touches topics including evil clowns, technical difficulties, and the love-hate relationship the press enjoys with politicians.
On St. Patrick’s Day I dug out the old green Matrix coding. Granted, one doesn’t need to have imbued various green liquids to be entertained by the dropping letters – I personally enjoy the effect while sober – but I figured it didn’t hurt.
Saturday I didn’t post but spent my library time trying to catch up on e-mail. I doubt any of you were concerned or even curious, but there’s a free tidbit on me.
To come: A personal obituary notice, of sorts...
Friday, March 17, 2006
12:28 PM -
Music: “I Feel Lucky” by Mary Chapin Carpenter
Granted, this is just an excuse to bring out the Matrix-drop box, but I like watching it, and it's my site, so there.
Enjoy your corned beef and green-tinged beveridges.
Happy St. Patrick's Day
Granted, this is just an excuse to bring out the Matrix-drop box, but I like watching it, and it's my site, so there.
Enjoy your corned beef and green-tinged beveridges.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
11:10 AM - From the Notebook: Warm and Fuzzy Thoughts
Music: “California Dreaming” covered by the Beach Boys
It’s time for the (practically) weekly quote log. Some of these quotes are about a month old, but I think the exchanges are so good they shouldn’t just be skipped. Of course, that’s just my opinion. Only time, and the co-workers who read this site, will tell.
On carving ice sculptures with fire:
“Well, we’re not talking welding hot here; hot enough to melt ice.”
“So 33 degrees?”
“Do they have a permit for that?”
On Lanky the Clown, a standard fixture at the county fair:
“He’s going down this year.”
“So were you bit by a clown at a young age?”
“I hate that clown.”
During a lunch break, the background on a certain computer get’s changed to tiled clown:
“Zac is evil tonight.”
“It’s all Lanky.”
“Do you think she’ll let him live?”
Trying to explain cattle brands:
“It’s an N.”
“No, it’s a lazy Z because it’s on it’s back.”
“It’s an N.”
A poor apartment heater guarantees additional work output:
“It’s cold out there.”
“So if you ever get your heater fixed, then we’ll have to worry about you not coming back?”
“Pretty much.”
A well-trained employee:
“Hey, Zac!”
“I can’t hear you, but I agree with everything you said.”
“You guys are all crack heads, just deal with it.
“You can’t do anything to hurt me.”
“We could break into your house and erase your saved games.”
“Oooh…”
“Dude, have a heart.”
An extra slot opens on the Burbank business trip:
“Does Zac know he’s going to California, and if not, can we tell him?”
After much taunting and veiled hints, the reporter gets in touch with the publisher:
“No, I don’t know where I’m going. No one will tell me!”
Shortly after:
“Sure I can go. I don’t have anything going on but work and stuff.”
An unacceptable start to an article:
(Reading over a shoulder) “‘Wyoming residents wanting to commit a little incest ill face more jail time if convicted.’”
“Justin!”
“I said ‘if convicted.’”
“How come all the Spanish you know centers around ‘taco stores’?”
Imagined conversation with an unhelpful source:
“Listen you little pasty-faced scrout!”
“You might want to leave some of those words out. ‘Listen’ was good.”
“Leave out ‘listen’? Okay. You little pasty-faced scrout!”
“What are you doing today?”
“Do you mean today or in the existential sense?”
“I guess today.”
“Well, that’s less interesting.”
On eating worms:
“Well how do you know they don’t taste good? Fancy cheese tastes bad and people like it.”
“Well tell you what, Zac. I’ll go get some and you can eat it.”
“Worms or fancy cheese?”
“I like your glasses. I didn’t recognize you.”
“That’s how Superman does it.”
“Let’s call Holly and tell her we broke the copy machine by putting a sandwich in it.” (Switches to a whiny voice) “We were all hungry, but we only had one sandwich, and now the machine doesn’t work and the sandwich tastes funny.”
I forget the context, but I can’t dispute the sentiments expressed:
“Caleb’s confusing fantasy and reality, again!”
“People are psycho. Psycho, psycho, psycho muffins.”
“That’s three psychos?”
“Yeah. Not one, or two, but three.”
Craziness craves company:
“The good news is that he fits in here. The bad news is that it’s kinda a testament to the place.”
Relations with city officials:
“They hate us, yet they find us useful.”
“That’s the major advantage of the press.”
It’s time for the (practically) weekly quote log. Some of these quotes are about a month old, but I think the exchanges are so good they shouldn’t just be skipped. Of course, that’s just my opinion. Only time, and the co-workers who read this site, will tell.
On carving ice sculptures with fire:
“Well, we’re not talking welding hot here; hot enough to melt ice.”
“So 33 degrees?”
“Do they have a permit for that?”
On Lanky the Clown, a standard fixture at the county fair:
“He’s going down this year.”
“So were you bit by a clown at a young age?”
“I hate that clown.”
During a lunch break, the background on a certain computer get’s changed to tiled clown:
“Zac is evil tonight.”
“It’s all Lanky.”
“Do you think she’ll let him live?”
Trying to explain cattle brands:
“It’s an N.”
“No, it’s a lazy Z because it’s on it’s back.”
“It’s an N.”
A poor apartment heater guarantees additional work output:
“It’s cold out there.”
“So if you ever get your heater fixed, then we’ll have to worry about you not coming back?”
“Pretty much.”
A well-trained employee:
“Hey, Zac!”
“I can’t hear you, but I agree with everything you said.”
“You guys are all crack heads, just deal with it.
“You can’t do anything to hurt me.”
“We could break into your house and erase your saved games.”
“Oooh…”
“Dude, have a heart.”
An extra slot opens on the Burbank business trip:
“Does Zac know he’s going to California, and if not, can we tell him?”
After much taunting and veiled hints, the reporter gets in touch with the publisher:
“No, I don’t know where I’m going. No one will tell me!”
Shortly after:
“Sure I can go. I don’t have anything going on but work and stuff.”
An unacceptable start to an article:
(Reading over a shoulder) “‘Wyoming residents wanting to commit a little incest ill face more jail time if convicted.’”
“Justin!”
“I said ‘if convicted.’”
“How come all the Spanish you know centers around ‘taco stores’?”
Imagined conversation with an unhelpful source:
“Listen you little pasty-faced scrout!”
“You might want to leave some of those words out. ‘Listen’ was good.”
“Leave out ‘listen’? Okay. You little pasty-faced scrout!”
“What are you doing today?”
“Do you mean today or in the existential sense?”
“I guess today.”
“Well, that’s less interesting.”
On eating worms:
“Well how do you know they don’t taste good? Fancy cheese tastes bad and people like it.”
“Well tell you what, Zac. I’ll go get some and you can eat it.”
“Worms or fancy cheese?”
“I like your glasses. I didn’t recognize you.”
“That’s how Superman does it.”
“Let’s call Holly and tell her we broke the copy machine by putting a sandwich in it.” (Switches to a whiny voice) “We were all hungry, but we only had one sandwich, and now the machine doesn’t work and the sandwich tastes funny.”
I forget the context, but I can’t dispute the sentiments expressed:
“Caleb’s confusing fantasy and reality, again!”
“People are psycho. Psycho, psycho, psycho muffins.”
“That’s three psychos?”
“Yeah. Not one, or two, but three.”
Craziness craves company:
“The good news is that he fits in here. The bad news is that it’s kinda a testament to the place.”
Relations with city officials:
“They hate us, yet they find us useful.”
“That’s the major advantage of the press.”
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
11:12 AM -
Fire, Ice, and Hearts – A Valentine’s Banquet
Part Three: Apparently Now Accepting Applications
Music: “Kiss an Angel Good Morning” by Charley PrideSome statements are more believable if only stated once. With repetition, some declarations become increasingly difficult to believe.
If one is constantly saying, “Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” the reassurance quickly begins to lose effect.
And some proclamations like, “I am not a crook,” or “Did not have sexual relations with that woman,” are instantly unbelievable the moment they are heard.
A more recent example of the “less is more believable” was worn into the ground at the Valentine’s dinner I attended.
“This is not a sweetheart’s dinner. This is a fellowship dinner,” the pastor said.
Uh huh, I mentally said to myself. Right.
Though skeptical, I did my best to stifle my reaction every time this statement was made. I was good and limited my outward response to a knowing smile.
Valentine’s Day (with the St. being optional to some) is admittedly many things to many people. For some it honors a man was allegedly martyred for promoting Christianity (one offense was said to be conducting marriages). For some it’s a capitalistic creation meant to boost sales of flowers and chocolates. For others it’s just another day on the calendar.
However, few would dispute the primary, dominant meaning is for couples to do something special to honor their relationships and commitments to each other.
I have enough self confidence that I can attend a Valentine’s dinner by myself, but don’t expect me to buy into the hype that it’s not a “sweetheart dinner.” I kept my peace about my beliefs, but I certainly wasn’t fooled going in.
And I would soon find my expectations to be fully justified by those who had long said otherwise.
I have this long lead in to illustrate my mindset at the dinner, which should in turn explain my subsequent actions.
When we left off the previous narrative, one or two moons back, I had a young friend whose intended solo had already been performed by another group that evening. Many of us, especially his brothers, were attempting to calm him down. Little did we know how effective we were about to be.
Our pastor took the stage after someone who had performed a long reading about love. I wasn’t sure whether it was poetry or prose or at least blank verse (this is a nod to all you English majors out there). The only thing I did know was that it had spread its topic on thick. Between the bits about former lonely days and warmth overflowing, or something, the observation was made, “If I was single, I’d be really depressed now.” After a few seconds, this statement was followed with, “Oh wait. I am single. Crap!”
The master of ceremonies, my church’s pastor, started to do a little riff off the previous entertainer. There were polite nods in the crowd at his words, and then the whole deal took a twist.
The pastor pointed out my friend who sat next to me – the would-be car mechanic. The pastor asked him to wave his hand, which he did… after a pause. The pastor then began to describe his talents and his good deeds and the pastor’s personal conviction that this would make him a good boyfriend, if someone was interested. He then asked my friend to identify himself once again.
My friend refused to wave this time, but being the helpful guy I am, I picked up a candle sitting on the table and used it to indicate his location. My friend never thanked me (or maybe “thanked” would be more accurate) for, but that was largely I soon got a dose of the same medicine.
Shortly after my directing light assistance, the pastor shifted aim, slightly.
“And then there’s his friend Caleb, sitting next to him. Could you wave Caleb?”
Okay. I’d earned that. Knowing the score, I immediately swalowed my crow and waved for the sake of the audience.
As the pastor went on about my college degree, employment, and steady paycheck, I told my spotlighted friend, “I apologize for all the things I said or was about to say before he picked me out.”
Having made our peace, we heard the pastor conclude his speech by saying my friend and I were now accepting applications.
The evening would move on, though the impact was made. My friend and I would both be stopped by multiple old ladies in our church inquiring about our “status” and seeking to make connections on our behalf.
Of course, one man’s humiliation is another man’s confidence builder. I leaned over the table and told the trumpeter that he could rest easy, because no matter what happened with his performance, my friend and I had already attained a level of public embarrassment that he couldn’t hope to reach. We’d set the bar high enough for him to be safe.
The rest of the evening went well. The trumpeter’s performance went great, though he’d turned down a final offer of interpretive back-up dancers. I believe he played his song twice as fast as the time signature indicated, but the double-time didn’t impair his playing ability.
As the non-sweetheart dinner progressed, and the guest speaker started going into depth about relationships and commitments, my table sought comfort in our own devices. Most of the brothers and my friend focused on throwing ice cubes at each other, as I did my best to drink as much water to deprive them of ammunition. Also, when I wasn’t dodging water volleys, I found myself playing with the candle and the dripping wax.
I wish I could say this was not a normal practice for me, but those who have sat next to me at a candlelight service know this is not the case. After all my work of angling and dangling, the people at the table agreed we had the coolest looking candle.
After the banquet, getting to the door was a bit tricky, for all the previously mentioned offerings of assistance on the “application process.” In time, however, my friend and I made it to the car and started our way home.
My friend usually leaves the radio dial on one of the many local country stations. On the way we heard Charlie Pride on the radio singing, “Kiss an angel good morning, and love her like the devil when you get back home.”
We both thought it was a strangely appropriate conclusion to a church Valentine dinner.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
12:41 PM -
Some stories require some gestation time between when a story occurs and when it is later repeated. Some stories simply require time to transcribe the scribblings from one of my many notebooks. You can make your own guesses as to which factor delayed this post more, since I’m not telling.
As it is, I spent so much time reviewing and editing the old entries and generally setting the scene, I’m going to run out of library time before I can start the next part. So consider today a simple review and/or required reading for tomorrow’s concluding post (as with many of my stories, it takes a while to tell and building in some studying time can’t hurt).Fire, Ice, and Hearts – A Valentine’s Banquet
Music: “The Intermission” from Monty Python’s Spamalot
Note: In the previous posts, I included a tongue-in-cheek summary of the previous events. Now, after over a month’s gap, these synopses are truly vital to the narrative.
Previously on Live Paradox: I agree to go to a Valentine’s Day celebration hosted by my church that will bring together several congregations in the area for “fellowship dinner.” Soon after arriving at the banquet hall, a friend and I are asked to look into a car problem (or more specifically, I nod a lot and provide a wind break as my friend doesn’t the serious tweaking). Killing time before the food is served, we work laboriously first to fix, and later – as all the wire tugging and rearranging do no noticeable improvement – we try to keep from further impairing the vehicle. Only later will we discover an important adjective was left out in our instructions.
Also previously on Live Paradox (though not at previously as the previous “previously”): Heading inside, and switching seats to be with other members of our church, my friend and I get a floor show from a set of three brothers. They are all a lively bunch, but one is particularly hopping with excitement/nerves. He has been convinced (emphasis on the “con”) by the pastor’s wife to play a trumpet solo for the crowd as part of the evenings entertainment; all the churches were to provide a couple different entertainers for the evening. Early in the program, the very first act in fact, the trumpeter turns pale as an elderly couple starts singing the song he had been rehearsing for weeks. Alternative acts are suggested, including an interpretive dance number, but he musician remains stressed as the evening progresses. Little does he know the turn that the dinner is about to take that will take the stress off him and re-direct it toward some other characters.
stay tuned for the rest of the story, which, in theory, should be related tomorrow…
As it is, I spent so much time reviewing and editing the old entries and generally setting the scene, I’m going to run out of library time before I can start the next part. So consider today a simple review and/or required reading for tomorrow’s concluding post (as with many of my stories, it takes a while to tell and building in some studying time can’t hurt).
Fire, Ice, and Hearts – A Valentine’s Banquet
Interlude: Catching Up on the Action
Music: “The Intermission” from Monty Python’s SpamalotNote: In the previous posts, I included a tongue-in-cheek summary of the previous events. Now, after over a month’s gap, these synopses are truly vital to the narrative.
Previously on Live Paradox: I agree to go to a Valentine’s Day celebration hosted by my church that will bring together several congregations in the area for “fellowship dinner.” Soon after arriving at the banquet hall, a friend and I are asked to look into a car problem (or more specifically, I nod a lot and provide a wind break as my friend doesn’t the serious tweaking). Killing time before the food is served, we work laboriously first to fix, and later – as all the wire tugging and rearranging do no noticeable improvement – we try to keep from further impairing the vehicle. Only later will we discover an important adjective was left out in our instructions.
Also previously on Live Paradox (though not at previously as the previous “previously”): Heading inside, and switching seats to be with other members of our church, my friend and I get a floor show from a set of three brothers. They are all a lively bunch, but one is particularly hopping with excitement/nerves. He has been convinced (emphasis on the “con”) by the pastor’s wife to play a trumpet solo for the crowd as part of the evenings entertainment; all the churches were to provide a couple different entertainers for the evening. Early in the program, the very first act in fact, the trumpeter turns pale as an elderly couple starts singing the song he had been rehearsing for weeks. Alternative acts are suggested, including an interpretive dance number, but he musician remains stressed as the evening progresses. Little does he know the turn that the dinner is about to take that will take the stress off him and re-direct it toward some other characters.
stay tuned for the rest of the story, which, in theory, should be related tomorrow…
Monday, March 13, 2006
11:17 AM - The Weekly Recap, Situation Normal Edition
March 6 to March 13
Music: “Small Town on a Saturday Night” by Hal Ketchum
If it’s Tuesday, and I flashback posted to be back on track for Monday, it’s a belated recap day.
My weekend was supposed to be different, but due to a change of plans, it largely remained the same. A major storm canceled the concert I had planned to attend in Salt Lake City, so I went about my usual weekend routine – eating out, hitting the book store, grocery store, library and church.
I’m told the concert may be rescheduled for mid-April. We’ll see.
Anyway, here’s the rundown:
Last Monday, March 6, I tell how my co-workers and I huddled down for a week without solid technical support. This also meant less supervision in general, which would eventually lead to the science experimentation in the parking lot.
Tuesday I state the obvious fact that, a minute after suffering a solid bump/scrap in a vehicle, you don’t want to be parked, hearing a steady pitter-patter sound, and be asked the question, “Do you smell gasoline?”
Wednesday was quote log day, guest staring Martina McBride.
Thursday I mention the unexpected snowfall, give an update on soap, and then dive into a detailed digression about the “To come” feature and the difference between its intended and actual use.
Friday I explain my little moments of "divine hilarity," how I usually only allow myself one per month, and though they will probably ultimately land in a loony bin why they are the ultimate stress busters.
Saturday I challenged myself to start and finish a quirky tale before the library closed on me. A strange battle of wills between a frenzied mother and her three children ensued.
To come: A long-delayed valentine - for real, I think, this time.
If it’s Tuesday, and I flashback posted to be back on track for Monday, it’s a belated recap day.
My weekend was supposed to be different, but due to a change of plans, it largely remained the same. A major storm canceled the concert I had planned to attend in Salt Lake City, so I went about my usual weekend routine – eating out, hitting the book store, grocery store, library and church.
I’m told the concert may be rescheduled for mid-April. We’ll see.
Anyway, here’s the rundown:
Last Monday, March 6, I tell how my co-workers and I huddled down for a week without solid technical support. This also meant less supervision in general, which would eventually lead to the science experimentation in the parking lot.
Tuesday I state the obvious fact that, a minute after suffering a solid bump/scrap in a vehicle, you don’t want to be parked, hearing a steady pitter-patter sound, and be asked the question, “Do you smell gasoline?”
Wednesday was quote log day, guest staring Martina McBride.
Thursday I mention the unexpected snowfall, give an update on soap, and then dive into a detailed digression about the “To come” feature and the difference between its intended and actual use.
Friday I explain my little moments of "divine hilarity," how I usually only allow myself one per month, and though they will probably ultimately land in a loony bin why they are the ultimate stress busters.
Saturday I challenged myself to start and finish a quirky tale before the library closed on me. A strange battle of wills between a frenzied mother and her three children ensued.
To come: A long-delayed valentine - for real, I think, this time.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
3:56 PM - Personal challenge (with less than 40 minutes of library time left):
Music: “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn
Grab a book on the shelf to your right (to reach the shelves on the right you would have to get out of your seat, and thus, waste valuable composition time… just explaining this is taking too long).
Flip through the pages randomly, pulling out 10 words/phrases of note and write them down.
I’ll wait…
Ah… “Crowell’s Handbook of Classical Mythology.” Nice pick.
And the list is…
Hades
Dismembered body
Python
Eternal years
Embarrassment
Memphis (I’m know this refers to Egypt, but Tennessee connections will be allowed)
Treatise on rhetoric
Redundant self-sacrifice
Protector
Voyage
Good, good… Now, in the time remaining, the challenge is to use all the words and terms in a very short story… in the order they were selected. You are to highlight, underline or otherwise bring attention to the used words. The clock is ticking… literally. I’d start writing if I were you.
“Aw, Hades!”
“Watch your mouth young man. Don’t you know there are little ones listening?” she said gesturing at the small ones in the backseat.
“What? Am I supposed to say ‘H-E-multiple hockey sticks?’ They’ll learn the words soon enough; and that’s if the TV hasn’t taught them the words yet.”
Concern settled into well-worn creases on Mrs. Carlton’s forehead. She couldn’t have been more flustered if she was hosting a party and went to check the neighbor’s coats, and a dismembered body tumbled out of the closet (“And Lord knows,” she thought, “Ida May is a person that wouldn’t let you forget something like that.”) Could the precious dear hearts be so easily corrupted? Was there no chance of doing things right this time and preventing them from turning out like the surly sitting to her right.
Up the road, a squirrel paused partway when crossing the pavement. The simple nut-addled mind didn’t seem to notice the impending danger in the approaching metal behemoth with its distracted driver. The squirrel merely chirped and switched its bushy tail.
The moody teenager was a little more alert, however, and made a break with his attitude to point out the clueless mammal.
“Um, Mom?”
“What now!?”
She had been concentrating on the idea of v-chip technology, wondering if it could actually be implanted in children and would temporarily render them blind if they looked at something inappropriate. The idea had drawn her in like a python luring its prey with its weaving head, and she didn’t appreciate being snapped out of the trance.”
BUMP! BUMP!
“Never mind,” the teenager mumbled and punctuated with a shrug.
A sickening realization dawned on the driver. The squirrel had moved on to its eternal years. The mother, however, was especially feeling her advancing age and her mortality at the twins in the backseat directed their curiosity at the unexpected noise.
“What was that, Mommy?”
“Yeah, what that?”
“Uh…” a groan escaped from Mrs. Carlton’s lips. Embarrassment streaked her cheeks. She glanced over at her older son for support. By the expectant grin on his lips, it seems he had decided to go from openly resistant to silently subversive.
“Mommy?! What made that boom-boom noise,” the first twin still asked.
“Yeah, what boom-boom?” The second twin, having been bested in birthing by 15 minutes, he had been following his brother’s lead ever since.
Having instantly forgotten her former concern about poisonous outside influences, Mrs. Carlton wished she had allowed her husband to spring for a mini-van that had one of those backseat DVD players. In lieu of directly addressing the fuzzy speed bump behind them, she switched on the radio.
“Walking in Memphis” began to come over the speakers.
“Now security they did not see him, they just hovered `round his tomb.”
“Wow. That’s ironic, don’t you think, Mom?”
She gave no other initial response than switching off the switch. She thought, “How quickly one can go on offense to defense.” Mrs. Carton kept starting a mental treatise on rhetoric, but it always collapsed before she could put syllables to words.
Fortunately for her, the backseat twins had already moved on to one of their favorite subjects: food.
“I’m hungry, Mommy? When we gonna eat?” said the young ringleader.
“Yeah, hungry. When eat?”
Mrs. Carlton was no fool and seized upon this graciously offered out.
“As I told you when we first got in the car, dears, we are going to the store to pick up food for Daddy’s barbeque.”
Her eldest son noticed his mother’s escape attempt and with a chutzpah only found in adolescents, decided to bar the exit.
“It’s too bad that squirrel didn’t know we were looking for meat elsewhere. That makes it kinda a redundant self-sacrifice, don’t you think?”
“Sqwirl? What sqwirl? I want to see the sqwirl, Mommy!”
“Yeah! Want see sqwirl.”
In lieu of her eldest’s attitude and the poor enunciation of her youngest, Mrs. Carlton briefly considered rolling the vehicle.
She took a breath, however, and tried to think positive.
“Mothers are supposed to be supportive,” she thought. “There are supposed to act as nurturers and protectors.”
“And the mortgage won’t be paid off for another six years, still.”
“What’s that, Mom?”
Mrs. Carlton hadn’t noticed she’d started to vocalize her thoughts, but that last bit of verve helped her find her backbone. Teenagers aren’t the only ones who can employ attitude.
“Honey, did you ever think of your allowance as a right or a suspendable privilege. With your answer, please keep in mind your recent actions and the impending school trip to Florida.”
And then she gave him a toothy smile that reminded him that, in nature, some mothers eat their young. This was the first time he could remember his mother winning a verbal bout, and as much as this thought pained him, his brain refused to come up with a final retort in the pearly glow of that grin.
For the rest of the trip to the store, and the subsequent voyage home, the teenager was silently submissive, even lugging the groceries into the house without being reminded.
With the final point, it was game-set-match for Mrs. Carlton.
“And all it took,” she thought, “was one squirrel being sent to it's divine reward.”
“Or maybe Hades,” she said.
She giggled at that thought. And then, after making sure no one like Ida May had heard her, she went into her house to finish getting ready for the barbeque.
Grab a book on the shelf to your right (to reach the shelves on the right you would have to get out of your seat, and thus, waste valuable composition time… just explaining this is taking too long).
Flip through the pages randomly, pulling out 10 words/phrases of note and write them down.
I’ll wait…
Ah… “Crowell’s Handbook of Classical Mythology.” Nice pick.
And the list is…
Hades
Dismembered body
Python
Eternal years
Embarrassment
Memphis (I’m know this refers to Egypt, but Tennessee connections will be allowed)
Treatise on rhetoric
Redundant self-sacrifice
Protector
Voyage
Good, good… Now, in the time remaining, the challenge is to use all the words and terms in a very short story… in the order they were selected. You are to highlight, underline or otherwise bring attention to the used words. The clock is ticking… literally. I’d start writing if I were you.
“Aw, Hades!”
“Watch your mouth young man. Don’t you know there are little ones listening?” she said gesturing at the small ones in the backseat.
“What? Am I supposed to say ‘H-E-multiple hockey sticks?’ They’ll learn the words soon enough; and that’s if the TV hasn’t taught them the words yet.”
Concern settled into well-worn creases on Mrs. Carlton’s forehead. She couldn’t have been more flustered if she was hosting a party and went to check the neighbor’s coats, and a dismembered body tumbled out of the closet (“And Lord knows,” she thought, “Ida May is a person that wouldn’t let you forget something like that.”) Could the precious dear hearts be so easily corrupted? Was there no chance of doing things right this time and preventing them from turning out like the surly sitting to her right.
Up the road, a squirrel paused partway when crossing the pavement. The simple nut-addled mind didn’t seem to notice the impending danger in the approaching metal behemoth with its distracted driver. The squirrel merely chirped and switched its bushy tail.
The moody teenager was a little more alert, however, and made a break with his attitude to point out the clueless mammal.
“Um, Mom?”
“What now!?”
She had been concentrating on the idea of v-chip technology, wondering if it could actually be implanted in children and would temporarily render them blind if they looked at something inappropriate. The idea had drawn her in like a python luring its prey with its weaving head, and she didn’t appreciate being snapped out of the trance.”
BUMP! BUMP!
“Never mind,” the teenager mumbled and punctuated with a shrug.
A sickening realization dawned on the driver. The squirrel had moved on to its eternal years. The mother, however, was especially feeling her advancing age and her mortality at the twins in the backseat directed their curiosity at the unexpected noise.
“What was that, Mommy?”
“Yeah, what that?”
“Uh…” a groan escaped from Mrs. Carlton’s lips. Embarrassment streaked her cheeks. She glanced over at her older son for support. By the expectant grin on his lips, it seems he had decided to go from openly resistant to silently subversive.
“Mommy?! What made that boom-boom noise,” the first twin still asked.
“Yeah, what boom-boom?” The second twin, having been bested in birthing by 15 minutes, he had been following his brother’s lead ever since.
Having instantly forgotten her former concern about poisonous outside influences, Mrs. Carlton wished she had allowed her husband to spring for a mini-van that had one of those backseat DVD players. In lieu of directly addressing the fuzzy speed bump behind them, she switched on the radio.
“Walking in Memphis” began to come over the speakers.
“Now security they did not see him, they just hovered `round his tomb.”
“Wow. That’s ironic, don’t you think, Mom?”
She gave no other initial response than switching off the switch. She thought, “How quickly one can go on offense to defense.” Mrs. Carton kept starting a mental treatise on rhetoric, but it always collapsed before she could put syllables to words.
Fortunately for her, the backseat twins had already moved on to one of their favorite subjects: food.
“I’m hungry, Mommy? When we gonna eat?” said the young ringleader.
“Yeah, hungry. When eat?”
Mrs. Carlton was no fool and seized upon this graciously offered out.
“As I told you when we first got in the car, dears, we are going to the store to pick up food for Daddy’s barbeque.”
Her eldest son noticed his mother’s escape attempt and with a chutzpah only found in adolescents, decided to bar the exit.
“It’s too bad that squirrel didn’t know we were looking for meat elsewhere. That makes it kinda a redundant self-sacrifice, don’t you think?”
“Sqwirl? What sqwirl? I want to see the sqwirl, Mommy!”
“Yeah! Want see sqwirl.”
In lieu of her eldest’s attitude and the poor enunciation of her youngest, Mrs. Carlton briefly considered rolling the vehicle.
She took a breath, however, and tried to think positive.
“Mothers are supposed to be supportive,” she thought. “There are supposed to act as nurturers and protectors.”
“And the mortgage won’t be paid off for another six years, still.”
“What’s that, Mom?”
Mrs. Carlton hadn’t noticed she’d started to vocalize her thoughts, but that last bit of verve helped her find her backbone. Teenagers aren’t the only ones who can employ attitude.
“Honey, did you ever think of your allowance as a right or a suspendable privilege. With your answer, please keep in mind your recent actions and the impending school trip to Florida.”
And then she gave him a toothy smile that reminded him that, in nature, some mothers eat their young. This was the first time he could remember his mother winning a verbal bout, and as much as this thought pained him, his brain refused to come up with a final retort in the pearly glow of that grin.
For the rest of the trip to the store, and the subsequent voyage home, the teenager was silently submissive, even lugging the groceries into the house without being reminded.
With the final point, it was game-set-match for Mrs. Carlton.
“And all it took,” she thought, “was one squirrel being sent to it's divine reward.”
“Or maybe Hades,” she said.
She giggled at that thought. And then, after making sure no one like Ida May had heard her, she went into her house to finish getting ready for the barbeque.
Friday, March 10, 2006
12:18 PM - Hyena Howls: Reaching the Monthly Quota
Music: “The Laughing Song (Vermont version)” a Traditional Folk Song
“Oh my name is Ticklish Ruben, from way down in ol’ Vermont. I’ve been ticked by almost everything --
I’ve been tickled by a feather.
I’ve been tickled by a wasp.
I’ve been tickled by a yell’er bumble bee.”
(repeat Hah, hahs… ad infinitum)
So yesterday, after writing in the library about the sudden snow fall and the bright blue skies, I turned in the laptop, checked out a book, and headed for the exit.
I paused, again, as I was confronted with a wall of white. Blinking, I realized a whirling storm had kicked up. Snow was whipping around having come, apparently, from the boundless canopy of gray skies.
To wake up to blue skies and an unforeseen carpeting of snow to a feverous storm in less than two hours just triggered something in me.
For a few seconds, my maniacal laughter bounced off the glass panels in the entryway doors.
As I charged into the storm, I thought, “Well there’s my one psychotic laugh for March.”
Let me backtrack a bit…
I have been often told, “You have a funny laugh, Caleb.”
I typically respond with a clarification, “I have a lot of funny laughs.”
I chuckle, guffaw, yelp, silently quiver, hoot, snicker, chortle and otherwise express my hysterics.
Whatever vocal tact I choose, it is often piercing. More than once in college I remember attending lectures in crowded auditoriums and friends later telling me, “I didn’t see you in class today, but because of your laugh, I knew you were in there somewhere.”
There’s one laugh I try not to share, however.
Every once in a full moon, I have a brief, disconnected howling fit. They’re like three- to eight-second breaks with reality where, for a moment, I completely lose everything in a moment of laughter.
They are strangely relaxing, but I try to avoid them. If anything is a sign of mental disease, uncontrollable, hysteric laughter is probably an indicator. When these bouts happen I worry that A) someone might see me and have me committed and/or B) one of these times I won’t stop laughing.
The crazed laughter eerily reminds me of cackling mad scientists from the movies who are reveling in the latest accomplishment concerning their creature(s).
“Yes…. YESS!!! BRING IT TOO LIFE! HA, HA, HAH!!!!!!!”
And while the mad scientist plunges into a series of cavortations, f the camera ever panned to the corner I bet you could see a very concerned Igor reevaluating his career choices.
One look in his crossed eyes would tell you he’s thinking, “Wow. Victor’s lost it. I really need to think about getting another job. Boy, in retrospect, dropping out of community college to join a jug band was not a smart decision.”
To avoid blank, Igor-like stares, I try to limit my moments of madness to about once a month (though I allow two for months with major holidays and three for around Christmas for, well, obvious reasons. Craziness is always closer to the surface during those times).
I’ve been worried once or twice because I sometimes have the monthly moment early on. I was really concerned a couple months back because I found myself cackling on the first day of the month. “It’s going to be a long 30 days,” thought. “Or maybe just 29. Is this one of the shorter months? Thirty days past September, April, June, and November…”
So anyway, I’ve had my big laugh for the month, but only have to wait a week or two before the counter resets.
I know the Bible says a merry heart is like a medicine, but when one starts guzzling cough syrup, it moves past preventative measures and starts becoming extreme.
I’ve had enough of Emily Dickinson’s divinest sense for now… at least for this month.
“Oh my name is Ticklish Ruben, from way down in ol’ Vermont. I’ve been ticked by almost everything --
I’ve been tickled by a feather.
I’ve been tickled by a wasp.
I’ve been tickled by a yell’er bumble bee.”
(repeat Hah, hahs… ad infinitum)
So yesterday, after writing in the library about the sudden snow fall and the bright blue skies, I turned in the laptop, checked out a book, and headed for the exit.
I paused, again, as I was confronted with a wall of white. Blinking, I realized a whirling storm had kicked up. Snow was whipping around having come, apparently, from the boundless canopy of gray skies.
To wake up to blue skies and an unforeseen carpeting of snow to a feverous storm in less than two hours just triggered something in me.
For a few seconds, my maniacal laughter bounced off the glass panels in the entryway doors.
As I charged into the storm, I thought, “Well there’s my one psychotic laugh for March.”
Let me backtrack a bit…
I have been often told, “You have a funny laugh, Caleb.”
I typically respond with a clarification, “I have a lot of funny laughs.”
I chuckle, guffaw, yelp, silently quiver, hoot, snicker, chortle and otherwise express my hysterics.
Whatever vocal tact I choose, it is often piercing. More than once in college I remember attending lectures in crowded auditoriums and friends later telling me, “I didn’t see you in class today, but because of your laugh, I knew you were in there somewhere.”
There’s one laugh I try not to share, however.
Every once in a full moon, I have a brief, disconnected howling fit. They’re like three- to eight-second breaks with reality where, for a moment, I completely lose everything in a moment of laughter.
They are strangely relaxing, but I try to avoid them. If anything is a sign of mental disease, uncontrollable, hysteric laughter is probably an indicator. When these bouts happen I worry that A) someone might see me and have me committed and/or B) one of these times I won’t stop laughing.
The crazed laughter eerily reminds me of cackling mad scientists from the movies who are reveling in the latest accomplishment concerning their creature(s).
“Yes…. YESS!!! BRING IT TOO LIFE! HA, HA, HAH!!!!!!!”
And while the mad scientist plunges into a series of cavortations, f the camera ever panned to the corner I bet you could see a very concerned Igor reevaluating his career choices.
One look in his crossed eyes would tell you he’s thinking, “Wow. Victor’s lost it. I really need to think about getting another job. Boy, in retrospect, dropping out of community college to join a jug band was not a smart decision.”
To avoid blank, Igor-like stares, I try to limit my moments of madness to about once a month (though I allow two for months with major holidays and three for around Christmas for, well, obvious reasons. Craziness is always closer to the surface during those times).
I’ve been worried once or twice because I sometimes have the monthly moment early on. I was really concerned a couple months back because I found myself cackling on the first day of the month. “It’s going to be a long 30 days,” thought. “Or maybe just 29. Is this one of the shorter months? Thirty days past September, April, June, and November…”
So anyway, I’ve had my big laugh for the month, but only have to wait a week or two before the counter resets.
I know the Bible says a merry heart is like a medicine, but when one starts guzzling cough syrup, it moves past preventative measures and starts becoming extreme.
I’ve had enough of Emily Dickinson’s divinest sense for now… at least for this month.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
11:54 AM -
A side note that will have nothing to do with the post about to follow: Okay, I was earlier joking about the weather, but this is freakish. I’d repeated told people that since the snow had largely melted from the previous near-blizzard, we were overdue for a powdering. I said this tongue in cheek with the record highs we’ve been experiencing for this year and a weather radar map that looked squeaky clean.
This morning when I stepped out into the yard, I was temporarily dumbstruck. There was a bright, sunny blue sky with floating clouds and about two inches of snow on the ground. When I got back from work last night, there was no inclination of any forthcoming precipitation. All the snow had seemingly dropped from nowhere.
I actually double checked my watch to make sure I hadn’t pulled a Rip Van Winkle, and missed a day.
So the news is I have snow to walk though on the way to work. I’m just gearing up for the day when I tell the great-grand kids about walking 15 miles just to work (because the distance will have stretched with the re-tellings over the years), frequently fighting semi-rabid coyotes over my peanut butter and sandwiches (“I need this protein more than you, you varmints”), and often getting to the paper and seeing that I was the only one who had carved his way through the glacier-like conditions and being forced to write, edit, and design the paper myself (even putting together the comics and crossword puzzles on my own).
“Great-grandpa needs to take his medication more often,” they will say to each other… and then go fly their rocket-moon cars to Pluto, or something like that.
Also while I’m on the topic of disconnected, way-out-there observations. I finally used up all the soap I’d hoarded during my initial two-week stay in a Rock Springs hotel. Just thought I’d mention it.
Okay. My attention span is all over the place today, in case you hadn’t noticed, and if I can dangle something shiny in front of it for long enough, I ought to be able to come clean about a hinted at, but never directly explained component of this site.
Note: The management certainly doesn’t believe in full disclosure, that’s the type of thing that ruins a good surprise birthday party, but we do strive to shine a light on the behind the scenes process as much as we can.
On the weekly recaps, at the end of the summaries is a brief section that read, “To come.” It usually has a short section of teasers for future topics.
Those of you who compare what is mentioned as forthcoming and what often appears during the week, and I know some of you to take note of such things, have noticed there is often a discrepancy between the promises and the deliveries.
One could make the excuse that “to come” doesn’t specifically name a time frame for the post to be completed, but that’s deceptive in the light that it is meant to form a framework for the week’s posts.
When it comes down to it, the differences are all a matter of time.
When I had more time to write, as in when I was unemployed, I had the great luxury of sitting in front of a keyboard for several hours at a time. I guess I still do that today, but I have less control about what appears on the monitor than I used to.
The point is I could sometimes take the extra hour or two to pound out a post that wasn’t ready yet. If a writer’s block stumbled into the road, I had a greater ability to work around it, or even try to wait it out an see if the stone would remove itself (with, admittedly, mixed results).
I’ve long said I like to mill over ideas and let them mentally gestate. In the past, it was sometimes used as an excuse to delay sitting down at the keyboard.
A regularly repeated college conversation:
“Have you started working on your assignment.”
“Yep.”
“Have you started writing your assignment?”
“No.”
Still, I do spend lots of time mentally mulling over phrases, word arrangement, and other literary concerns before I put pen to paper or fingertips to the keypad.
Friends that I regularly converse with can back be up, for more than once I’ve admitted telling a story to help me gauge the way I’ll recount the story online. Certain jokes may be repeated (or deleted) based on the reaction.
I simply have a full brain. I tell people I have a semi-psychotic subconscious, but people don’t always believe me. I really am telling the truth when I say I am often simultaneously working on about a dozen ideas on any given day.
Topics currently traipsing around my mind include, but certainly aren’t limited to: robots, hobos, zombies, homesickness, Munich/the Oscars, the conclusion to the Valentine series, musical scales, bad dogs, mice, fires, and a nonsense short story.
I’ll tell you, it certainly makes for a rich dream life, I can tell you.
If I ever get a more private internet connection, which still looks to be a while, I will be able to follow through on more promised posts in a timely manner. I know it’s funny; I went from fretting about the sporadic nature of posts to thinking about the timeliness of pledged topics.
The management seeks to please.
That all being said, if you are interested to know how my Valentine’s Dinner ended, why I think my friend is a robot in disguise, and what I plan on doing to survive a zombie holocaust… check back next week… or the week after… I’ll let you know.
This morning when I stepped out into the yard, I was temporarily dumbstruck. There was a bright, sunny blue sky with floating clouds and about two inches of snow on the ground. When I got back from work last night, there was no inclination of any forthcoming precipitation. All the snow had seemingly dropped from nowhere.
I actually double checked my watch to make sure I hadn’t pulled a Rip Van Winkle, and missed a day.
So the news is I have snow to walk though on the way to work. I’m just gearing up for the day when I tell the great-grand kids about walking 15 miles just to work (because the distance will have stretched with the re-tellings over the years), frequently fighting semi-rabid coyotes over my peanut butter and sandwiches (“I need this protein more than you, you varmints”), and often getting to the paper and seeing that I was the only one who had carved his way through the glacier-like conditions and being forced to write, edit, and design the paper myself (even putting together the comics and crossword puzzles on my own).
“Great-grandpa needs to take his medication more often,” they will say to each other… and then go fly their rocket-moon cars to Pluto, or something like that.
Also while I’m on the topic of disconnected, way-out-there observations. I finally used up all the soap I’d hoarded during my initial two-week stay in a Rock Springs hotel. Just thought I’d mention it.
A Digression on What’s “To Come”
Music: “Up Around the Bend” by Creedance Clearwater RevivalOkay. My attention span is all over the place today, in case you hadn’t noticed, and if I can dangle something shiny in front of it for long enough, I ought to be able to come clean about a hinted at, but never directly explained component of this site.
Note: The management certainly doesn’t believe in full disclosure, that’s the type of thing that ruins a good surprise birthday party, but we do strive to shine a light on the behind the scenes process as much as we can.
On the weekly recaps, at the end of the summaries is a brief section that read, “To come.” It usually has a short section of teasers for future topics.
Those of you who compare what is mentioned as forthcoming and what often appears during the week, and I know some of you to take note of such things, have noticed there is often a discrepancy between the promises and the deliveries.
One could make the excuse that “to come” doesn’t specifically name a time frame for the post to be completed, but that’s deceptive in the light that it is meant to form a framework for the week’s posts.
When it comes down to it, the differences are all a matter of time.
When I had more time to write, as in when I was unemployed, I had the great luxury of sitting in front of a keyboard for several hours at a time. I guess I still do that today, but I have less control about what appears on the monitor than I used to.
The point is I could sometimes take the extra hour or two to pound out a post that wasn’t ready yet. If a writer’s block stumbled into the road, I had a greater ability to work around it, or even try to wait it out an see if the stone would remove itself (with, admittedly, mixed results).
I’ve long said I like to mill over ideas and let them mentally gestate. In the past, it was sometimes used as an excuse to delay sitting down at the keyboard.
A regularly repeated college conversation:
“Have you started working on your assignment.”
“Yep.”
“Have you started writing your assignment?”
“No.”
Still, I do spend lots of time mentally mulling over phrases, word arrangement, and other literary concerns before I put pen to paper or fingertips to the keypad.
Friends that I regularly converse with can back be up, for more than once I’ve admitted telling a story to help me gauge the way I’ll recount the story online. Certain jokes may be repeated (or deleted) based on the reaction.
I simply have a full brain. I tell people I have a semi-psychotic subconscious, but people don’t always believe me. I really am telling the truth when I say I am often simultaneously working on about a dozen ideas on any given day.
Topics currently traipsing around my mind include, but certainly aren’t limited to: robots, hobos, zombies, homesickness, Munich/the Oscars, the conclusion to the Valentine series, musical scales, bad dogs, mice, fires, and a nonsense short story.
I’ll tell you, it certainly makes for a rich dream life, I can tell you.
If I ever get a more private internet connection, which still looks to be a while, I will be able to follow through on more promised posts in a timely manner. I know it’s funny; I went from fretting about the sporadic nature of posts to thinking about the timeliness of pledged topics.
The management seeks to please.
That all being said, if you are interested to know how my Valentine’s Dinner ended, why I think my friend is a robot in disguise, and what I plan on doing to survive a zombie holocaust… check back next week… or the week after… I’ll let you know.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
11:47 AM - From the Notebook: All Fired Up
Music: “Independence Day” by Martina McBride
It’s time for another quote log. For my co-workers who read these and think they’re dated, you’re right. These come from my old steno pad while I’ve already moved on to another ever-present notebook. For the rest of you, you shouldn’t notice any difference. Forget I said anything.
“Wyoming – where we don’t have a lottery, but you can buy fireworks big enough to shoot down a plane.”
“Where’s Stephanie?”
“Zac fired her.”
“He doesn’t have the authority to do that.”
“We didn’t tell her that.”
“What’s wrong with goat cheese?”
“It’s made from goats.”
Strange office bets:
“I could totally eat a ream of paper.”
“Women can see more colors than men can, which is why I can’t dress myself. I need spousal approval.”
“I’m not doing anything that involves touching animals at the fair.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“I’m not touching any animals at the fair!”
“The chance of snow is ‘100 percent.’ I don’t believe that. Nothing is 100 percent.”
“‘Fink’ is an unfortunate name to have in politics.”
Dictionary debate:
“What dictionary are you using?”
“Merriam-Webster.”
“It’s a crock.”
“But Webster was a…”
“No. I agree. Webster was great. Merriam sucks.”
Pepper spray defense:
“Did you ever think that if you cover yourself in bacon fat the mace would roll off?”
“You’ve thought about this?”
“What did he say?”
One of life’s imponderables:
“Would you prefer death by Pauly Shore or Carrot Top?”
“I want to go someplace warmer and bigger, which means I will be forced to go to a town of 5,000… in Alaska.”
The internet goes out:
“We’re crippled! We can’t access useless information at a moment’s notice.”
With the system down, efficiency strangely improves:
“We’re going to have the paper done by 8:00.”
“Jeez! We were bored. There was nothing to do but work.”
Our publisher’s final failsafe for a network meltdown:
“Worst comes to worst, we still have a manual typewriter.”
“You question my pirating skills?”
“I question your pirating skills! Two legs, two eyes – what kind of pirate are you?”
When people dress the same, the color of envy becomes an issue:
“Even Kermit [the stuffed animal on my desk] is green.”
“Don’t you feel left out, Zac?”
“I feel like such a loser.”
“If you do, it shouldn’t be for that. There are so many other reasons.”
Commenting on the collective common sense of this season’s “Survivor” outcasts:
“On Gilligan’s Island, these are the people who would have voted the Professor off first.”
Job security ain’t what it used to be:
“We decided to replace you with five monkeys.”
“At least I rated five.”
Commenting on a headline concerning Martina McBride:
“‘McBride retains Kansas values.’ So… corn and corn. What else do they value in Kansas?”
“Tornado shelters?”
“You walked back and forth to Hastings. Are you mad?”
“Driven.”
“Bored?”
“Bored.”
It’s time for another quote log. For my co-workers who read these and think they’re dated, you’re right. These come from my old steno pad while I’ve already moved on to another ever-present notebook. For the rest of you, you shouldn’t notice any difference. Forget I said anything.
“Wyoming – where we don’t have a lottery, but you can buy fireworks big enough to shoot down a plane.”
“Where’s Stephanie?”
“Zac fired her.”
“He doesn’t have the authority to do that.”
“We didn’t tell her that.”
“What’s wrong with goat cheese?”
“It’s made from goats.”
Strange office bets:
“I could totally eat a ream of paper.”
“Women can see more colors than men can, which is why I can’t dress myself. I need spousal approval.”
“I’m not doing anything that involves touching animals at the fair.”
“You might not have a choice.”
“I’m not touching any animals at the fair!”
“The chance of snow is ‘100 percent.’ I don’t believe that. Nothing is 100 percent.”
“‘Fink’ is an unfortunate name to have in politics.”
Dictionary debate:
“What dictionary are you using?”
“Merriam-Webster.”
“It’s a crock.”
“But Webster was a…”
“No. I agree. Webster was great. Merriam sucks.”
Pepper spray defense:
“Did you ever think that if you cover yourself in bacon fat the mace would roll off?”
“You’ve thought about this?”
“What did he say?”
One of life’s imponderables:
“Would you prefer death by Pauly Shore or Carrot Top?”
“I want to go someplace warmer and bigger, which means I will be forced to go to a town of 5,000… in Alaska.”
The internet goes out:
“We’re crippled! We can’t access useless information at a moment’s notice.”
With the system down, efficiency strangely improves:
“We’re going to have the paper done by 8:00.”
“Jeez! We were bored. There was nothing to do but work.”
Our publisher’s final failsafe for a network meltdown:
“Worst comes to worst, we still have a manual typewriter.”
“You question my pirating skills?”
“I question your pirating skills! Two legs, two eyes – what kind of pirate are you?”
When people dress the same, the color of envy becomes an issue:
“Even Kermit [the stuffed animal on my desk] is green.”
“Don’t you feel left out, Zac?”
“I feel like such a loser.”
“If you do, it shouldn’t be for that. There are so many other reasons.”
Commenting on the collective common sense of this season’s “Survivor” outcasts:
“On Gilligan’s Island, these are the people who would have voted the Professor off first.”
Job security ain’t what it used to be:
“We decided to replace you with five monkeys.”
“At least I rated five.”
Commenting on a headline concerning Martina McBride:
“‘McBride retains Kansas values.’ So… corn and corn. What else do they value in Kansas?”
“Tornado shelters?”
“You walked back and forth to Hastings. Are you mad?”
“Driven.”
“Bored?”
“Bored.”
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
11:38 AM - A Molehill High Enough
Music: “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Diana Ross
Car trouble. We decided that we would simply refer to it as “car trouble.”
My friend who gives me a ride to church on Sunday evenings and I had car trouble.
It all happened because there was no noticeable precipitation this past week, or at least that’s what I’m blaming it on.
Last week, when my ride picked me up early he decided to show me some of the popular muddin’ areas within a short distance of the church. Muddin’ for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is driving through boggy or miry places and bounding up, down, and through sticky places spraying brackish water and grime anywhere (and you really want to keep spraying it, because if you ever sink so deep that you’re no longer launching large chunks of earth, you’re probably going to be out of foot very shortly, and up to your hips in mud immediately after that).
I haven’t really gone muddin’ for a couple years. I didn’t have a vehicle of my own in college. Thus I wasn’t comfortable turning someone else’s vehicle in a mud splattered jalopy (and with my luck in vehicles, I didn’t want to have to worry about calling a friend with a power four-wheel drive to get me out of a particularly tricky ditch).
My friend repeatedly told me we’d be better of in his other vehicle, but we still tried some slopes. Some hills, however, were unassailable at that time. Some were to crazy to try with the ground and engine being what they were. Some we tried, repeatedly, but couldn’t get the necessary traction. We still got to church early and without having to trample through the muck in dress pants.
This week, the sun came out and dried everything up. You can still find a few mounds of snow clinging on in shadowy corners, but the sidewalks and yards are primarily clear. My ride picked me up, and since we still had some time to spend, decided to give certain hills another go.
The second round was a bit more interesting than the first. It’s something to gaze over the deep, dried out grooves and go, “Yep, that’s as far as we made it last week,” and then cruise on past them. Mounting firmer terra firma, we were able to make it up all the inclines that had repealed us earlier. This also provided us with some nice views of the town, the church, and the Bureau of Land Management wild horse pens. Moments of gunning the engine were interspersed with moments of reflection, like, “Boy, that’s a lot of manure.”
Around this point, I was asked if I wanted to drive. I chuckled a bit before responding, assertively, no. I’m several months out of practice driving, I was on unfamiliar ground (in a landscape with plenty of character), and riding in a vehicle I didn’t know that well.
My friend pressed me, but I told him I was more comfortable riding. I didn’t want to be in the position where I was later lamenting hitting the gas when I should have hit the breaks (or versa vice) or berating myself for not double checking the clearance of the vehicle).
We had climbed to the top of the final hill we hadn’t dare challenge the week before. The sides had a particularly steep angle, and once again I was asked if I simply wanted to drive her down. I politely declined again, colorful images of my previous driving excursions playing in my read (you don’t end up with three wheels on the road with the fourth spinning over the edge of a bridge without being somewhat paranoid). My friend shrugged and we rode the emergency brake down.
I thought we would head directly to the church parking lot – we weren’t even 250 meters away from it anyway – when my friend decided to do one last series of twists and tight turns.
The previous week, there were several mounds of snow that we had raced doughnuts and corkscrews around. Thanks to the sunlight of the previous week, with all the snow gone I could see the original humps of snow had formed around a series of knolls that were largely rounded, but still had some rocky bits sticking out of them.
The previous week, we had heard snow scrape against the side of the vehicle, providing padding when a twirl got too sharp. We had nearly weaved our way through all the piles when I saw one final bump in our path. The thought, “What is the clearance on this…” was interrupted by a solid bang. It was the kind that, thanks to the vibrations, you knew occurred directly beneath your seat.
To break the tension I joked that when we got to the church, we would need to check back after five minutes to see if anything was dripping. We returned to the parking lot without any more snaking or looping.
Trouble became obvious as soon as the engine was turned off. A pitta-patta, pitta-patta echoed somewhere below us. We looked at each other in silence. The question was asked, “Can you smell gasoline?”
We tumbled out of the vehicle to get a look at the “car trouble” that was steadily streaming fuel onto the church parking lot. After a quick phone call to his parents, and against my leanings, my friend decided to make a hurried drive home, racing the gas tank the whole way.
I offered him my prayers and told him to call if he didn’t make it.
The pastor’s wife, who was the only other person at the church at that point, was very polite in listening to the tale. She was also kind enough to tell me, “You smell like gasoline, dear.”
I washed up the best I could in the bathroom. I looked around and spied a can of strawberry air deodorizer. I squeezed out a small cloud and walked through it. And that was how I came to smell like a strawberry Molotov cocktail throughout the evening service.
My friend later called to tell me he was fine. He had won the race against the drips. I still feel bad for what happened, though short of refusing to go muddin’ whatsoever, I can’t think of anything else I could have done to avoid the accident. I gave my common sense response in regards to all the queries I was asked (“Do you think we should try that hill?” “Yeah. I’m sure we can make that hill.” “How about that one?” “I don’t think so.”), but the last bunch of twists were undertaken wordlessly and without warning after we cleared the final hill.
He still has some maturing to do. I can certainly think of many foolish things I did at that age (and my parents and other associates could quickly fill any gaps that I would miss/omit). I pray hmy friend is not put out too long, though I may be a bit more reluctant to go out muddin’ the next time I’m asked, depending on the clearance of the vehicle.
We may conquer mountains, but we still need to worry about tripping over the molehills.
Car trouble. We decided that we would simply refer to it as “car trouble.”
My friend who gives me a ride to church on Sunday evenings and I had car trouble.
It all happened because there was no noticeable precipitation this past week, or at least that’s what I’m blaming it on.
Last week, when my ride picked me up early he decided to show me some of the popular muddin’ areas within a short distance of the church. Muddin’ for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is driving through boggy or miry places and bounding up, down, and through sticky places spraying brackish water and grime anywhere (and you really want to keep spraying it, because if you ever sink so deep that you’re no longer launching large chunks of earth, you’re probably going to be out of foot very shortly, and up to your hips in mud immediately after that).
I haven’t really gone muddin’ for a couple years. I didn’t have a vehicle of my own in college. Thus I wasn’t comfortable turning someone else’s vehicle in a mud splattered jalopy (and with my luck in vehicles, I didn’t want to have to worry about calling a friend with a power four-wheel drive to get me out of a particularly tricky ditch).
My friend repeatedly told me we’d be better of in his other vehicle, but we still tried some slopes. Some hills, however, were unassailable at that time. Some were to crazy to try with the ground and engine being what they were. Some we tried, repeatedly, but couldn’t get the necessary traction. We still got to church early and without having to trample through the muck in dress pants.
This week, the sun came out and dried everything up. You can still find a few mounds of snow clinging on in shadowy corners, but the sidewalks and yards are primarily clear. My ride picked me up, and since we still had some time to spend, decided to give certain hills another go.
The second round was a bit more interesting than the first. It’s something to gaze over the deep, dried out grooves and go, “Yep, that’s as far as we made it last week,” and then cruise on past them. Mounting firmer terra firma, we were able to make it up all the inclines that had repealed us earlier. This also provided us with some nice views of the town, the church, and the Bureau of Land Management wild horse pens. Moments of gunning the engine were interspersed with moments of reflection, like, “Boy, that’s a lot of manure.”
Around this point, I was asked if I wanted to drive. I chuckled a bit before responding, assertively, no. I’m several months out of practice driving, I was on unfamiliar ground (in a landscape with plenty of character), and riding in a vehicle I didn’t know that well.
My friend pressed me, but I told him I was more comfortable riding. I didn’t want to be in the position where I was later lamenting hitting the gas when I should have hit the breaks (or versa vice) or berating myself for not double checking the clearance of the vehicle).
We had climbed to the top of the final hill we hadn’t dare challenge the week before. The sides had a particularly steep angle, and once again I was asked if I simply wanted to drive her down. I politely declined again, colorful images of my previous driving excursions playing in my read (you don’t end up with three wheels on the road with the fourth spinning over the edge of a bridge without being somewhat paranoid). My friend shrugged and we rode the emergency brake down.
I thought we would head directly to the church parking lot – we weren’t even 250 meters away from it anyway – when my friend decided to do one last series of twists and tight turns.
The previous week, there were several mounds of snow that we had raced doughnuts and corkscrews around. Thanks to the sunlight of the previous week, with all the snow gone I could see the original humps of snow had formed around a series of knolls that were largely rounded, but still had some rocky bits sticking out of them.
The previous week, we had heard snow scrape against the side of the vehicle, providing padding when a twirl got too sharp. We had nearly weaved our way through all the piles when I saw one final bump in our path. The thought, “What is the clearance on this…” was interrupted by a solid bang. It was the kind that, thanks to the vibrations, you knew occurred directly beneath your seat.
To break the tension I joked that when we got to the church, we would need to check back after five minutes to see if anything was dripping. We returned to the parking lot without any more snaking or looping.
Trouble became obvious as soon as the engine was turned off. A pitta-patta, pitta-patta echoed somewhere below us. We looked at each other in silence. The question was asked, “Can you smell gasoline?”
We tumbled out of the vehicle to get a look at the “car trouble” that was steadily streaming fuel onto the church parking lot. After a quick phone call to his parents, and against my leanings, my friend decided to make a hurried drive home, racing the gas tank the whole way.
I offered him my prayers and told him to call if he didn’t make it.
The pastor’s wife, who was the only other person at the church at that point, was very polite in listening to the tale. She was also kind enough to tell me, “You smell like gasoline, dear.”
I washed up the best I could in the bathroom. I looked around and spied a can of strawberry air deodorizer. I squeezed out a small cloud and walked through it. And that was how I came to smell like a strawberry Molotov cocktail throughout the evening service.
My friend later called to tell me he was fine. He had won the race against the drips. I still feel bad for what happened, though short of refusing to go muddin’ whatsoever, I can’t think of anything else I could have done to avoid the accident. I gave my common sense response in regards to all the queries I was asked (“Do you think we should try that hill?” “Yeah. I’m sure we can make that hill.” “How about that one?” “I don’t think so.”), but the last bunch of twists were undertaken wordlessly and without warning after we cleared the final hill.
He still has some maturing to do. I can certainly think of many foolish things I did at that age (and my parents and other associates could quickly fill any gaps that I would miss/omit). I pray hmy friend is not put out too long, though I may be a bit more reluctant to go out muddin’ the next time I’m asked, depending on the clearance of the vehicle.
We may conquer mountains, but we still need to worry about tripping over the molehills.
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