When offering my opinions on relationships it may interest my readers to consider my credibility in this field which consists of approximately no success whatsoever. Having said that I obstreperously maintain that the best way to achieve a valuable romantic relationship is to begin with friendship. There are at least two arguments against this philosophy.
1). If you're pretending to be a friend when you really want to be a lover then you're being dishonest about your true objectives.
As for the first argument, I don't see it as pretending. You should truly apply yourself to being a friend with the understanding that it may never develop into anything more. The importance of valuable friendships in life cannot be overemphasized. So you dedicate yourself to being someone's friend which means you listen to them carefully and convey how interested you are in pretty much everything they say or think and you offer them honest insightful supportive feedback. And they will most likely come gradually to appreciate you immensely. And if that's as far as it goes what have you lost? But I imagine as they grow tired of the more typical antics of the other people vying for their attention they will one day experience an epiphany whereby you stand alone as someone they would like to spend most of their life with. You've been there. You've cared about them. You make them feel important like no one else ever has.
2.) Certain things can happen under these circumstances that may cause you discomfort and unhappiness.
As for the second argument... Part of being a friend to someone is that you listen to them talk about the people they are romantically and/or passionately interested in. Over and over again you have to suppress your ego and listen patiently and attentively as they say things you wish they would only say about you. During these times I try to project myself as more of a family member than a friend. For example if a girl shows me messages on her phone that were sent to her by a guy that she likes and while examining her phone I notice that all the messages I've sent to her have been deleted, it's better if I just think of myself as her brother. This helps me detach myself from being too sensitive and demanding consideration that isn't quite reasonable just yet. While I wouldn't want the girl of my dreams to dismiss my messages so easily, it wouldn't bother me at all if my sister deleted them.
To some extent all of the above constitutes a game and there is a natural prejudice against playing games in relationships. Also it's fair to say that I'm recommending manipulation as well. But I justify these things by insisting that the friendship is genuine... that there is always the acceptance of the possibility that nothing more than friendship may ever develop and there's never anything wrong with that. Furthermore if you know yourself to care about someone and to have someone's welfare and happiness as extremely high priorities then I think it's permissable to be discreet with your deeper feelings. The first time I see a pretty girl I don't walk up to her and say "I'm thinking about what kind of girlfriend you might be and I think you would look great in a bikini." Does that mean I'm playing games when instead I ask her about her day? Does that mean I'm manipulating her when I refrain from announcing how sexually appealing I find her to be? I'm not against expressing your feelings. I'm just promoting the idea of timing. Confess your feelings eventually, but first give the other person a chance to cultivate some feelings of their own.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
My Insulted Intelligence
The voice of the narrator sounds sad. . . emotionally pulverized by the depravity he's been subjected to. The nefarious images are slammed down upon your conciousness in black and white. . . mostly black. . . lurking in dusty shadows. There's the tired emaciated face of a villainous politician. He looks confused and morally bankrupt as thunder echoes in the background. I think I've heard this music before in a movie. . . maybe when Darth Vador appears on the screen or is it when Hannibal Lechtor is about to get his munch on? Suddenly the picture changes to a colorful field vivid with blue and gold flowers waving gracefully in a warm summer breeze as the other candidate strolls along smiling at the beautiful laughing child holding his hand. The sunlight rests upon him illuminating the edge of his profile and creating an almost celestial effect. The music changes to something played on a piano sweet and melodious and the narrator's voice softens too. . . evoking optimism and security and courageous pride. The bold words on the screen ameliorate from stark condemnations to red, white, and blue happy words like trust and prosperity and success. It makes me wish I could vote right now. Not for the good guy in the commercial. Not for the bad guy. I just want to vote for someone who doesn't think I'm stupid. Any suggestions?
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Mr. Shabo and Captain Gilmer
It was my first day at a new school when I met him in the parking lot of Captain Gilmer Elementary in North Carolina. Mr. Shabo was going to be my 7th grade teacher. He was very business like and serious as he introduced himself to my mother. My first impression was that my life for the next nine months would be the exact opposite of fun. But in some ways that school year was perhaps the most formative. Mr. Shabo was a great story teller. Sometimes he would stop in the middle of a lesson and have us write down a reminder in our notes for him to tell us about such and such a story. He was from Seattle and represented the only Seahawks fan in our school. One project he assigned to us was to make miniature cabins out of balsa wood. I also recall the day he taught us how to argue. He showed us how senseless arguing gets us nowhere, but if you organize the advantages and disadvantages of any proposition then you can utilize and address the facts more effectively. He cared about us. It wasn't just math and history. He wanted us to grow up to be good husbands and wives and fathers and mothers. He wanted us to be good citizens and responsible members of our communities. He took us on a field trip in which we brought along trash bags to fill up with trash we found along the side of the road. And he had local politicians come in and talk to us about the pending elections. He split our class in two and had one side bring in signs for the Republican party and the other side for Democrats.
He had us keep our own grade books too. We were on the honor system. It was definitely the trend for the more competitive students to doctor up their grades and I was caught up in this as well... except it weighed on my conscience and one day when I couldn't take it anymore I confessed to Mr. Shabo that I had cheated on my grades. Without making a big deal about it he answered, "I already knew. Don't do it anymore." Which humbled me and inspired me at the same time.
I became friends with four other students that school year. They were all girls. Heidi Possinger was the graceful, delicate, angelic one. She wore these plastic slippers that looked like something Cinderella might have worn. It seems like she didn't belong in our class which was dominated by crude adolescent boys, but I don't remember her ever expressing any contempt for them. She was quiet, but not noticeably judgemental or stuck up. I was in puppy love with her, but she probably never knew. I guess I was already developing some kind of class consciousness inasmuch as her father was a doctor while my mother worked for him as a receptionist. Somehow I felt she could see right through me.
Her best friend was Melissa Johnson, another good girl who seemed out of place. She would grow up to learn sign language and to marry a gentleman who was deaf.
Tammy Coon and Karen Duncan were my other two friends. Twice a week they would leave for a couple hours and attend a class at Fletcher Academy just over the hill where they practiced playing their clarinets. Karen is the one I was probably closest to, but I developed a serious crush on Tammy. My nickname for her was KCE (Kitty Cat Eyes). Tammy had straight black hair and wore very attractive skirts that I would tease her about mercilessly. I remember writing a rather melancholy poem for her. Something about the warfare of love. I figured I must be the next literary genius when I made "sorrow" rhyme with "tomorrow." Unfortunately she was infatuated with some guy at the academy named Kenny.
At recess the five of us would often find ourselves bored with soccer or football or softball and we'd wander off into the nearby mountain trails that bordered our little Seventh Day Adventist school. I was egotistical enough to enjoy the sensation of being the only guy to hang out with four girls at the same time. But I was going through some kind of crisis. Not an easy one to explain either. Walking along those trails I would extend my hands out into the briers and collect scratches with the intention of causing scars. Also at times I wouldn't want to talk to anyone. And classmates were worried about me... which was nice because I've always... always... loved attention. Mr. Shabo was a little concerned too and he persuaded my mother to let me stay with his family for a couple weeks.
I guess I pretty much loathed my own family at the time and it was a real treat to see how a "normal" family did things for a while. I was given a bedroom in the newly renovated downstairs and Mr. Shabo hooked me up with a radio. As though it were yesterday I remember falling asleep to the dulcet tones of Barry Manilow singing "Can't Smile Without You" or Albert Morris singing "Feelings."
Controversy rocked the school before the year was out. Mr. Shabo was accused of harrassing some of the girls in our class and he was informed that he would not be invited back the following year. I was furious. I always believed the charges were fabricated. My mother saw how upset I was and when she came to talk to me about it I read to her from Ellen G. White's religious classic, The Desire of Ages, a graphic description of how Jesus was persecuted. My mother didn't much care for my implication that Mr. Shabo was Jesus, but of course I only meant to compare their innocence and tranquil attitudes in the face of unfair accusations.
He had us keep our own grade books too. We were on the honor system. It was definitely the trend for the more competitive students to doctor up their grades and I was caught up in this as well... except it weighed on my conscience and one day when I couldn't take it anymore I confessed to Mr. Shabo that I had cheated on my grades. Without making a big deal about it he answered, "I already knew. Don't do it anymore." Which humbled me and inspired me at the same time.
I became friends with four other students that school year. They were all girls. Heidi Possinger was the graceful, delicate, angelic one. She wore these plastic slippers that looked like something Cinderella might have worn. It seems like she didn't belong in our class which was dominated by crude adolescent boys, but I don't remember her ever expressing any contempt for them. She was quiet, but not noticeably judgemental or stuck up. I was in puppy love with her, but she probably never knew. I guess I was already developing some kind of class consciousness inasmuch as her father was a doctor while my mother worked for him as a receptionist. Somehow I felt she could see right through me.
Her best friend was Melissa Johnson, another good girl who seemed out of place. She would grow up to learn sign language and to marry a gentleman who was deaf.
Tammy Coon and Karen Duncan were my other two friends. Twice a week they would leave for a couple hours and attend a class at Fletcher Academy just over the hill where they practiced playing their clarinets. Karen is the one I was probably closest to, but I developed a serious crush on Tammy. My nickname for her was KCE (Kitty Cat Eyes). Tammy had straight black hair and wore very attractive skirts that I would tease her about mercilessly. I remember writing a rather melancholy poem for her. Something about the warfare of love. I figured I must be the next literary genius when I made "sorrow" rhyme with "tomorrow." Unfortunately she was infatuated with some guy at the academy named Kenny.
At recess the five of us would often find ourselves bored with soccer or football or softball and we'd wander off into the nearby mountain trails that bordered our little Seventh Day Adventist school. I was egotistical enough to enjoy the sensation of being the only guy to hang out with four girls at the same time. But I was going through some kind of crisis. Not an easy one to explain either. Walking along those trails I would extend my hands out into the briers and collect scratches with the intention of causing scars. Also at times I wouldn't want to talk to anyone. And classmates were worried about me... which was nice because I've always... always... loved attention. Mr. Shabo was a little concerned too and he persuaded my mother to let me stay with his family for a couple weeks.
I guess I pretty much loathed my own family at the time and it was a real treat to see how a "normal" family did things for a while. I was given a bedroom in the newly renovated downstairs and Mr. Shabo hooked me up with a radio. As though it were yesterday I remember falling asleep to the dulcet tones of Barry Manilow singing "Can't Smile Without You" or Albert Morris singing "Feelings."
Controversy rocked the school before the year was out. Mr. Shabo was accused of harrassing some of the girls in our class and he was informed that he would not be invited back the following year. I was furious. I always believed the charges were fabricated. My mother saw how upset I was and when she came to talk to me about it I read to her from Ellen G. White's religious classic, The Desire of Ages, a graphic description of how Jesus was persecuted. My mother didn't much care for my implication that Mr. Shabo was Jesus, but of course I only meant to compare their innocence and tranquil attitudes in the face of unfair accusations.
Heidi, Karen, and Russell
Summer 1985
No less than 24 years have elapsed since then. Karen lived for one or two of them before she was killed in a drunk driving accident. Heidi died about ten years later of leukemia. It breaks my heart to wonder how their parents survived these tragic events. In my mind they live on forever as 7th graders. Beautiful girls that would go hiking with me at recess and express concern when I was too quiet and morose. Tammy and I exchanged a few letters and phone calls in the early 90's. She became the proud mother of an adorable little girl, but we eventually lost touch. Melissa and I enjoyed a short~lived correspondence as well and she was generous to invite me to her wedding, but I wasn't able to attend.
Recently I was pondering all these characters and discovered with a little research that Mr. Shabo moved back to Seattle. It's possible that he is the principal of a little school about 40 miles north of where I live now also I think maybe his wife teaches in Puyallup maybe ten minutes from here though the information I've found could be outdated. Sometimes I think I should try to get in touch with Mr. Shabo. I'm trying to imagine the surprise it would cause if I just walked into his school unannounced. He hasn't seen me since 1985 when I was 14 years old.
Recently I was pondering all these characters and discovered with a little research that Mr. Shabo moved back to Seattle. It's possible that he is the principal of a little school about 40 miles north of where I live now also I think maybe his wife teaches in Puyallup maybe ten minutes from here though the information I've found could be outdated. Sometimes I think I should try to get in touch with Mr. Shabo. I'm trying to imagine the surprise it would cause if I just walked into his school unannounced. He hasn't seen me since 1985 when I was 14 years old.
Friday, September 5, 2008
The Artichoke Heart is a Lonely Hunter
I paid off the entire balances of two credit cards last month and felt like celebrating… so I went to Borders. On the sidewalk they had displayed dozens of books at bargain prices and one that caught my eye was 501 Must~See Movies. I picked it up and entered the store. My traditional procedure for spending the day at Borders is to collect several books and periodicals until my arms are full and then to sit down at one of the convenient tables and to pore through the contents which ordinarily will prompt additional forays into the aisles and shelves hunting for whatsoever materials have been thus cited or promoted. Such was the case on this day and in the movie book I found a description of a French/German film called Amélie starring Audrey Tautou who later played the leading lady in The Da Vinci Code. The review intrigued me and off I went in search of the DVD which I found and bought and watched. One quote that amused me is delivered by the main character when she sees a produce merchant belittling an employee by calling him a vegetable. Amélie chimes in by saying: "At least you'll never be a vegetable - even artichokes have hearts."
Now… don’t get the wrong idea… the impression this made on me was not that I should be kinder to cretins or anything so philanthropic as that. Sooner or later I will be inspired with an enlightenment of that sort and will faithfully share my findings with my adoring subscribers, but on this more pedestrian occasion I was impressed instead with a contemplation of artichokes. It happens that one of the tastiest items you can ever order from a menu is the Spinach and Artichoke Dip listed as an appetizer at the Olive Garden.
So there I am at home watching this foreign film and it occurs to me I’ve not enjoyed that culinary favorite of mine in a long time. And I’ll tell you why. It’s the same reason why I haven’t gone to see The Dark Knight yet. It just feels like the sort of thing you would do with a date and I’m not currently dating anyone. Interesting… now that I think about it because that was Amélie’s dilemma too. She was extraordinarily creative and interesting… but basically too cowardly to pursue a relationship. Meanwhile… until my cowardice dissipates a little I decided I could pay a visit to the Olive Garden with only my own company to enjoy.
That was the plan, but as the time drew near I had all kinds of inclinations to contact my beautiful and most recent ex~girlfriend and invite her to join me. It was always one of her favorite places to dine and she was amazed at how many breadsticks we were able to consume in a single meal. The temptation was formidable and even leaving my phone at home did not completely diffuse the potential for breaking a silence imposed last April when she discharged me from our friendship, for as I drew closer to my destination I considered taking a detour to her house and inviting her in person.
Sometimes I will catalog the several occurrences that have nearly provoked my capitulation in this abstinence.
It happens that the manager of the restaurant is an acquaintance of mine and she welcomed me in the most delightful fashion. I glutinously devoured the appetizer that had inspired my visit and did some damage to an order of cheese raviolis as well. I wrote a little in my memoirs and read a chapter from The Heart is a Lonely Hunter which is about a mute that seems to have a Jesus Christ effect on everyone around him. He’s much beloved simply because he seems to be listening to what people are saying. It probably doesn’t matter much if he really is listening… simply his inability to interrupt rather automatically secures for him an unrivaled popularity. Any self~help book worth its weight in confetti will tell you the secret to cultivating better friendships is to become a good listener. And it is my supreme goal to work on this just as soon as I discover someone on the other side of the table for me to listen to.
Now… don’t get the wrong idea… the impression this made on me was not that I should be kinder to cretins or anything so philanthropic as that. Sooner or later I will be inspired with an enlightenment of that sort and will faithfully share my findings with my adoring subscribers, but on this more pedestrian occasion I was impressed instead with a contemplation of artichokes. It happens that one of the tastiest items you can ever order from a menu is the Spinach and Artichoke Dip listed as an appetizer at the Olive Garden.
So there I am at home watching this foreign film and it occurs to me I’ve not enjoyed that culinary favorite of mine in a long time. And I’ll tell you why. It’s the same reason why I haven’t gone to see The Dark Knight yet. It just feels like the sort of thing you would do with a date and I’m not currently dating anyone. Interesting… now that I think about it because that was Amélie’s dilemma too. She was extraordinarily creative and interesting… but basically too cowardly to pursue a relationship. Meanwhile… until my cowardice dissipates a little I decided I could pay a visit to the Olive Garden with only my own company to enjoy.
That was the plan, but as the time drew near I had all kinds of inclinations to contact my beautiful and most recent ex~girlfriend and invite her to join me. It was always one of her favorite places to dine and she was amazed at how many breadsticks we were able to consume in a single meal. The temptation was formidable and even leaving my phone at home did not completely diffuse the potential for breaking a silence imposed last April when she discharged me from our friendship, for as I drew closer to my destination I considered taking a detour to her house and inviting her in person.
Sometimes I will catalog the several occurrences that have nearly provoked my capitulation in this abstinence.
- I wanted to wish her a happy Mother’s Day in May.
- I wanted to invite her to a retirement party for an older gentleman that she and I both admire very much.
- One morning after work I watched the film Enchanted on cable and the fairytale princess reminds me relentlessly of my ex. I thought about ordering the DVD on Amazon and having it delivered to her address.
- One time her son came into the poker room where I work and afterward it seemed like a plausible excuse for me to call her and say “Hey, guess who I ran into today!”
- Another time I believe I saw her in traffic turning into her place of employment and I was tempted to give her a call.
- I wish I could discuss the election campaigns with her. We used to have the most passionate conversations about the differences between liberals and conservatives. The galactic emergence of Governor Palin only magnifies this inasmuch as they have so much in common and I can almost guarantee that my ex would be extolling this candidate's virtues.
It happens that the manager of the restaurant is an acquaintance of mine and she welcomed me in the most delightful fashion. I glutinously devoured the appetizer that had inspired my visit and did some damage to an order of cheese raviolis as well. I wrote a little in my memoirs and read a chapter from The Heart is a Lonely Hunter which is about a mute that seems to have a Jesus Christ effect on everyone around him. He’s much beloved simply because he seems to be listening to what people are saying. It probably doesn’t matter much if he really is listening… simply his inability to interrupt rather automatically secures for him an unrivaled popularity. Any self~help book worth its weight in confetti will tell you the secret to cultivating better friendships is to become a good listener. And it is my supreme goal to work on this just as soon as I discover someone on the other side of the table for me to listen to.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Birds and the B~Words
There I was once more testing the limits of my physical abilities on the track around the Tacoma Community College soccer field. I had just timed myself walking a mile in 13 minutes and 25 seconds. I was about to time myself running the same distance, but was sitting on the bleachers for a minute allowing myself to rest and regain a little energy before doing so. That's when I noticed all the Canadian Geese. So many, in fact, that I found myself counting them and learned there were 36. And it so happens that by counting them my perspicacity for observation was slightly enhanced and I further noticed that the geese were gathered in several groups... usually comprised of two or three creatures each. So I watched them for several more moments than I initially expected to and pondered these smaller groups... wondering if they consisted of couples. If two geese were together maybe a few yards away from any other birds, was it reasonable to suppose they were in a relationship together? And if so what kinds of issues did they engage? What dominates the mentality of a fowl when choosing a mate?
The Romantics wrote poetry about how they longed to be as the birds flying about between heaven and earth with nothing stressing them out. But this has never seemed so terribly inviting to me. Whatever criteria they use in pairing up... (I'm speaking of the geese here... not the Romantics)... I'm sure it's not nearly so sophisticated as my own. Quite probably that helps to explain why they're about 75,000 times more successful when it comes to finding someone compatible. But what do they really think about? What do they really do? Besides hunting and pecking for something palatable to nibble on and gulp down... Besides migrating... Besides crapping huge gobs all over creation... what really fascinates them?
I mean the one thing that kind of tires me out the most is also the one thing I would probably miss the most were I to trade places with a member of any other species. I daresay I would miss the drama which lately seems to feature a neat trick perfected by the gentler sex of being in relationships that they don't tell anyone about. You see if you have a boyfriend and you don't tell me about it, there's a good chance that I'll make a hopeless fool of myself lavishing you with all kinds of flattery and attention. Not that you really wish to date me or even talk to me about anything interesting... but hey... all that attention makes you feel so gorgeous and special... why should you risk losing that merely for the sake of some goddamned integrity?
Several times in your life you will be inspired by the music you're listening to at any given moment and such was the case for me in 1989 when I was futiley attempting to wash the dough out of the pots in a bakery in Madison, Tennessee. Suddenly a song named "Dream On" by Aerosmith blared over the radio including this verse:
I know nobody knows
Where it comes and where it goes
I know it's everybody's sin;
You got to lose to know how to win.
It's these last words that help make drama indispensable. Because no matter what kind of emotional hell you go through and no matter how empty it leaves you feeling... when you finally meet someone who loves you and makes love seem rather simple and natural... you'll have that wacky drama you survived to thank... because without it... you wouldn't know how lucky you are to finally discover relationship nirvana.
The Romantics wrote poetry about how they longed to be as the birds flying about between heaven and earth with nothing stressing them out. But this has never seemed so terribly inviting to me. Whatever criteria they use in pairing up... (I'm speaking of the geese here... not the Romantics)... I'm sure it's not nearly so sophisticated as my own. Quite probably that helps to explain why they're about 75,000 times more successful when it comes to finding someone compatible. But what do they really think about? What do they really do? Besides hunting and pecking for something palatable to nibble on and gulp down... Besides migrating... Besides crapping huge gobs all over creation... what really fascinates them?
I mean the one thing that kind of tires me out the most is also the one thing I would probably miss the most were I to trade places with a member of any other species. I daresay I would miss the drama which lately seems to feature a neat trick perfected by the gentler sex of being in relationships that they don't tell anyone about. You see if you have a boyfriend and you don't tell me about it, there's a good chance that I'll make a hopeless fool of myself lavishing you with all kinds of flattery and attention. Not that you really wish to date me or even talk to me about anything interesting... but hey... all that attention makes you feel so gorgeous and special... why should you risk losing that merely for the sake of some goddamned integrity?
Several times in your life you will be inspired by the music you're listening to at any given moment and such was the case for me in 1989 when I was futiley attempting to wash the dough out of the pots in a bakery in Madison, Tennessee. Suddenly a song named "Dream On" by Aerosmith blared over the radio including this verse:
I know nobody knows
Where it comes and where it goes
I know it's everybody's sin;
You got to lose to know how to win.
It's these last words that help make drama indispensable. Because no matter what kind of emotional hell you go through and no matter how empty it leaves you feeling... when you finally meet someone who loves you and makes love seem rather simple and natural... you'll have that wacky drama you survived to thank... because without it... you wouldn't know how lucky you are to finally discover relationship nirvana.
Friday, July 25, 2008
A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing
I arrived in Washington on the first day of the first month of the first year of the first decade of the first century of this millenium. I moved here because I had spent my whole life living in places because of other people. I was born in New York because that's where my parents lived. I lived in Maine because my father got a job there. I lived in North Carolina because my parents wanted a home with mild winters. I lived in West Virginia because my father bought a farm there. I lived in Tennessee because my mother moved there to be closer to my eventual stepfather who was incarcerated in Nashville. I moved to Illinois because my big brother invited me to come up there and share his apartment. But I moved to Washington because I looked at a map of the United States and said, "that's where I'm going next."
When you move by yourself to a new region of the country where you don't know anyone at all there are basically three things you can do to combat the inevitable onslaught of homesickness:
When you move by yourself to a new region of the country where you don't know anyone at all there are basically three things you can do to combat the inevitable onslaught of homesickness:
- You can go shopping and buy new stuff for your empty apartment.
- You can establish traditions that make you feel closer to home like making spaghetti every Friday.
- And you can find ways to meet new people.
In my attempt to accomplish this last, I sought out what's called a chess scene (a place where people gather to play chess). And so I found Bertolino's. Bertonlino's is a coffee bar open 24 hours. Its ambience is enhanced with old wooden tables and chairs that have seen their better day. And in one of the bookcases there are stored several chess boards with pieces probably conglomerated together from nearly ten different sets. Over the years this has become my favorite place to hang out. It's especially perfect for reading inasmuch as reading at home is too easily compromised with the accessibility of the internet and cable television. Also I'm in the habit of taking my journal for writing and my sketchpad for drawing.
Dave is the graveyard barista at Bertolino's and we've gotten to know each other. He hates me for being a Yankee fan. We both have horror stories about ex~girlfriends. It makes him batty that I can read the first six Harry Potter books and then postpone the seventh one for several weeks until I've finished various other reading projects.
Last year when I was setting my record for abstinence from gambling he was very supportive. And then when I relapsed he offered me an incentive to do better. He began asking me if I was up to 100 days and hinted that when I reached that milestone he would have something for me. It took a few crash~landings, but last week I reached the elusive 100 days and last night I went to my coffee bar to claim my prize. I still don't know what it is because Dave was unable to locate it in the stores about town and ended up ordering it online. But when he came to work... his wonderful (and basically genius) girlfriend, Carol, sauntered in with him carrying an apple pie that she had baked so recently that it was still hot. The aluminum foil covering the pie was inscribed with the words:
For Shannon
Congratulations!
From Dave and Carol
We convivially discussed book collecting and monster illustrations. Carol explained to me what an abracadrium is and we argued about which of all the Bonds we like the best.
I don't know how else to say this. It was a hell of a nice thing for them to do to make an event out of my own personal dragon~slaying quest.
And I don't want to turn a nice thing like that into a lecture on the irrelevancy of church (but I'm going to anyway). I think it was kind of a Christian thing for them to do. And Dave is an atheist.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Birds Are Migratory?
I'm going to Las Vegas in December to see twin sisters, Paulina and Mercedes, competing in dance competitions. For some reason it's never quite slipped off the edge of my memory that Mercedes was once my girlfriend... living proof of my conviction that there is such a thing as love at first sight. Thanks to the balmy medicinal magic of time we find ourselves friends. Mildly sweet to each other after nearly a decade's estrangement. So while there is none of the feverish passion and drama remaining from our college years, there is an unmistakable determination on my part to look good when I arrive in Las Vegas. I mean I am motivated to manufacture lean sculpted muscle anatomically wide... biceps... triceps... pectorals... quads... pentaceps... hectoceps.... whatever.
Imagine my disappointment this past week, then, when I developed a little cold. No one wants to challenge themselves physically when they are sick, do they? So from Tuesday until Friday I did nothing but stay in bed , take medicine, and watch as all my physical fitness drained away. Today I woke up feeling a little more capable, consumed a dark chocolate Acess nutrition drink (distributed by Melaleuca), and headed out to the track across the street. On my way I saw this little bird... so little... and I stopped to watch him only a few feet away as he was hunting and pecking at every little speck of potential food within a ten foot expanse of embankment. I watched him for nearly a minute imagining that I was James Audobon or Charles Darwin and intensely fascinated by every little characteristic of this bird. I noticed how slender were the legs upon which his entire weight was balanced and at what angles they were supporting him. I noticed how these legs were not used at all to hop from one spot to another... nor were the wings perceptibly employed... but that apparently the body of the bird simply willed itself to flit about sporadically. This is all foreshadowing... done most artfully except that in really stellar literature this particular asseveration mentioning the foreshadowing itself in a none too subtle fashion would be omitted.
So I arrived at the track and surprised myself with running two miles in just under 17.5 minutes... my best time since February... perhaps I've not suffered so bad from being sick as I feared.
And while I'm bragging I might mention that at midnight I will have abstained from gambling for 100 days (42 short of the record).
So when I get home I hear this fantastic tumult up in the ceiling somewhere. My apartment has a vaulted ceiling with windows in it all the way across its apex. At first I imagined some large and menacing wasp or hornet, but really it generated too much noise for that. And upon further investigation I confirmed it was a small bird. See how that foreshadowing thing works? Really useless literary device if you ask me. What's wonderful in literature is when you don't know what to expect. So why, unless you wanted to be intellectually irrelevant, would you go around all the time giving hints about what's goig to happen at the end of your story?
So pretty quickly I gave up on diplomatically persuading this frantic creature to depart from my home. I realized my best chance was to invite the feline half of my apartment's residents to take a rare excursion into the outdoors inasmuch as her incessant inarticulate announcements that she would like nothing better than to use her jaws as a makeshift guillotine with which to decapitate the little bird were not helping. That being done... the bird commenced to make a little less noise, but still seems ridiculously certain that the only way to vacate my humble abode is through one of the window panes in the ceiling.
And that's how I came to ask myself, "birds are migratory, aren't they?" I mean seriously... how is it they fly back and forth each year from Alberta to Peru and yet the one chirping away in my ceiling right now can't remember that he flew in through the goddamned sliding glass door which is even more open now than when he entered it approximately 45 minutes ago?
Imagine my disappointment this past week, then, when I developed a little cold. No one wants to challenge themselves physically when they are sick, do they? So from Tuesday until Friday I did nothing but stay in bed , take medicine, and watch as all my physical fitness drained away. Today I woke up feeling a little more capable, consumed a dark chocolate Acess nutrition drink (distributed by Melaleuca), and headed out to the track across the street. On my way I saw this little bird... so little... and I stopped to watch him only a few feet away as he was hunting and pecking at every little speck of potential food within a ten foot expanse of embankment. I watched him for nearly a minute imagining that I was James Audobon or Charles Darwin and intensely fascinated by every little characteristic of this bird. I noticed how slender were the legs upon which his entire weight was balanced and at what angles they were supporting him. I noticed how these legs were not used at all to hop from one spot to another... nor were the wings perceptibly employed... but that apparently the body of the bird simply willed itself to flit about sporadically. This is all foreshadowing... done most artfully except that in really stellar literature this particular asseveration mentioning the foreshadowing itself in a none too subtle fashion would be omitted.
So I arrived at the track and surprised myself with running two miles in just under 17.5 minutes... my best time since February... perhaps I've not suffered so bad from being sick as I feared.
And while I'm bragging I might mention that at midnight I will have abstained from gambling for 100 days (42 short of the record).
So when I get home I hear this fantastic tumult up in the ceiling somewhere. My apartment has a vaulted ceiling with windows in it all the way across its apex. At first I imagined some large and menacing wasp or hornet, but really it generated too much noise for that. And upon further investigation I confirmed it was a small bird. See how that foreshadowing thing works? Really useless literary device if you ask me. What's wonderful in literature is when you don't know what to expect. So why, unless you wanted to be intellectually irrelevant, would you go around all the time giving hints about what's goig to happen at the end of your story?
So pretty quickly I gave up on diplomatically persuading this frantic creature to depart from my home. I realized my best chance was to invite the feline half of my apartment's residents to take a rare excursion into the outdoors inasmuch as her incessant inarticulate announcements that she would like nothing better than to use her jaws as a makeshift guillotine with which to decapitate the little bird were not helping. That being done... the bird commenced to make a little less noise, but still seems ridiculously certain that the only way to vacate my humble abode is through one of the window panes in the ceiling.
And that's how I came to ask myself, "birds are migratory, aren't they?" I mean seriously... how is it they fly back and forth each year from Alberta to Peru and yet the one chirping away in my ceiling right now can't remember that he flew in through the goddamned sliding glass door which is even more open now than when he entered it approximately 45 minutes ago?
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