2006/10/31 10:19
I Don't Recall Superman Wearing a Jacket
Another Halloween has come, and I surprise nobody with my continued apathy.
Actually, that surprises a lot of people. "You don't like Halloween?" they ask, astounded and confounded. "But it's so fun! You get to dress up in costumes and eat candy and go to parties!"
Hey, that sounds great! Are you inviting me? Because no one else is. This may come as a shock to you, given the time I devote to chronicling minutiae on the Internet, but I'm not really cool or popular. Around the time people stopped trick-or-treating and started going to parties, I was practicing my saxophone and studying Greek roots. Popular kids don't invite that guy, and they haven't since, at least not consistently.
Then there's the candy. I love candy as much as the next guy, probably more (have you seen my waistline?). But once I was able to start growing a mustache, adults started to think maybe I was too old to be getting the candy, and that maybe I should go buy my own. That doesn't sound bad until you know I had said facial hair seedlings at age 13. Sure, by then I had an allowance, but the candy bar you buy yourself somehow isn't as sweet.
As for the big one: Call me a spoilsport, call me a wussy, call me whatever you want, but I just don't like playing dress-up. Never have. In fact, the last few years I hit the streets in the quest for free candy, my costumes were mostly things I had around the house. The Superman cape I had as a kid served double duty with a white shirt to become a vampire costume. My Pittsburgh Penguins jersey paired with inline skates and a 99-cent Jason mask made me a hockey player. It didn't make sense to me (and still doesn't) to spend money on something I would only wear once. I eventually got tired of doing the same thing, and just stopped trying.
Trendy costumes don't do it for me either. Last time I dressed up, I was a pirate, as were three others at the party I attended. I'd wanted to do something original, but poor planning, a swiftly-approaching deadline, and spousal appeasement meant it was Captain Hook or shave and be Prince Charming to her Cinderella. Since I wasn't willing to part with my beloved beard for Disney (at least not unless they paid me), I became the lamest pirate at the party. Other people wearing my costume was bad enough, but that theirs were so much better than mine really irked me. (On the plus side, Sed was Tinkerbell, who wears a much shorter skirt than Cindy.)
Don't get me wrong -- there's a lot I do like about Halloween. I like giving treats to the neighborhood kids. I like that it's one day out of the year when people trust each other and go knocking on random doors, even if it is motivated by free candy. And I really like carving pumpkins, letting my artistic side out through an inexpensive, disposable medium. But as a childless, friendless adult whose wife is too busy for fun, I don't see a reason to get into the rest of it.
I'm not sure I see that changing when Margarita comes, either. But I'm not about to deprive her of all the fun I had running around with my friends and sorting candy at the end of the night. It may be futile to improve my own station, but I can certainly get a kick out of her enjoyment.
Actually, that surprises a lot of people. "You don't like Halloween?" they ask, astounded and confounded. "But it's so fun! You get to dress up in costumes and eat candy and go to parties!"
Hey, that sounds great! Are you inviting me? Because no one else is. This may come as a shock to you, given the time I devote to chronicling minutiae on the Internet, but I'm not really cool or popular. Around the time people stopped trick-or-treating and started going to parties, I was practicing my saxophone and studying Greek roots. Popular kids don't invite that guy, and they haven't since, at least not consistently.
Then there's the candy. I love candy as much as the next guy, probably more (have you seen my waistline?). But once I was able to start growing a mustache, adults started to think maybe I was too old to be getting the candy, and that maybe I should go buy my own. That doesn't sound bad until you know I had said facial hair seedlings at age 13. Sure, by then I had an allowance, but the candy bar you buy yourself somehow isn't as sweet.
As for the big one: Call me a spoilsport, call me a wussy, call me whatever you want, but I just don't like playing dress-up. Never have. In fact, the last few years I hit the streets in the quest for free candy, my costumes were mostly things I had around the house. The Superman cape I had as a kid served double duty with a white shirt to become a vampire costume. My Pittsburgh Penguins jersey paired with inline skates and a 99-cent Jason mask made me a hockey player. It didn't make sense to me (and still doesn't) to spend money on something I would only wear once. I eventually got tired of doing the same thing, and just stopped trying.
Trendy costumes don't do it for me either. Last time I dressed up, I was a pirate, as were three others at the party I attended. I'd wanted to do something original, but poor planning, a swiftly-approaching deadline, and spousal appeasement meant it was Captain Hook or shave and be Prince Charming to her Cinderella. Since I wasn't willing to part with my beloved beard for Disney (at least not unless they paid me), I became the lamest pirate at the party. Other people wearing my costume was bad enough, but that theirs were so much better than mine really irked me. (On the plus side, Sed was Tinkerbell, who wears a much shorter skirt than Cindy.)
Don't get me wrong -- there's a lot I do like about Halloween. I like giving treats to the neighborhood kids. I like that it's one day out of the year when people trust each other and go knocking on random doors, even if it is motivated by free candy. And I really like carving pumpkins, letting my artistic side out through an inexpensive, disposable medium. But as a childless, friendless adult whose wife is too busy for fun, I don't see a reason to get into the rest of it.
I'm not sure I see that changing when Margarita comes, either. But I'm not about to deprive her of all the fun I had running around with my friends and sorting candy at the end of the night. It may be futile to improve my own station, but I can certainly get a kick out of her enjoyment.
2006/10/28 22:54
NaNoBloPoWriWoMoLaTi ... Ah, Just Friggin' Write
November is just around the corner, and you know what that means! No, not a hog trough of cranberry sauce, although that is another bonus. I'm talking about exhortations to write from strangers on the Internet.
By now, I'm sure we all know about NaNoWriMo, a worldwide challenge to write a novella-length narrative in a month. The general undertone here is "writing good," but many are daunted by the thought of writing a novel. Fortunately for the cause, several permutations of pursuing perfection of the pen over the course of thirty days, most in shorter forms, have sprung up to cover the bases NaNoWriMo leaps over. Most recently, I learned of NaBloPoMo, in which as a new blogger I'm essentially required to participate. However, I will also be pursuing the lofty goal of NaNoWriMo, as I am certifiably batshit insane.
I've tackled the one-month novel project in the past. In fact, before it was ever an Internet phenomenon (indeed, before you had the Internet) I attempted to write a full novel between spring break and graduation of my senior year. I thought the pressure of my creative writing grade riding on its completion would push me through, but I quit about thirty pages in (and still got an A, mind you). When I first learned of NaNoWriMo in 2001, I tried again, and failed again. It took two more Novembers before I realized the story just wasn't very good.
So by 2004 I'd had enough. I'd fought this one story idea, a story I've carried since sixth grade, to the death, and I wouldn't be trying again. But then I had the right idea. The story very nearly leapt fully-formed from my head, like Athena but with fewer swords. I had an outline within hours (as you technically can't start writing until November 1), broke the 50,000 word tape on the 18th, and wrote the final word a few days into December.
It needs a lot of refinement, though. Sure, they have a NaNoEdMo in March, but I wasn't ready to revisit it quite that soon. Besides, I've let it breathe for two years, and the more distance I get from that initial spurt the more I realize I haven't quite told the story I wanted. What's more, I don't think anything short of a full rewrite will get me there. So here I go again, telling the same story, with fewer characters, more location detail, and as always 50% fewer insect parts. But I don't think I'll abandon this one.
(For the curious: I did try again last year, but it's difficult to focus on a story when all of one's mental energy is devoted to blocking out the fact that one works in a buffet at Disney World. Except the interactions with a half-undressed Cinderella.)
By now, I'm sure we all know about NaNoWriMo, a worldwide challenge to write a novella-length narrative in a month. The general undertone here is "writing good," but many are daunted by the thought of writing a novel. Fortunately for the cause, several permutations of pursuing perfection of the pen over the course of thirty days, most in shorter forms, have sprung up to cover the bases NaNoWriMo leaps over. Most recently, I learned of NaBloPoMo, in which as a new blogger I'm essentially required to participate. However, I will also be pursuing the lofty goal of NaNoWriMo, as I am certifiably batshit insane.
I've tackled the one-month novel project in the past. In fact, before it was ever an Internet phenomenon (indeed, before you had the Internet) I attempted to write a full novel between spring break and graduation of my senior year. I thought the pressure of my creative writing grade riding on its completion would push me through, but I quit about thirty pages in (and still got an A, mind you). When I first learned of NaNoWriMo in 2001, I tried again, and failed again. It took two more Novembers before I realized the story just wasn't very good.
So by 2004 I'd had enough. I'd fought this one story idea, a story I've carried since sixth grade, to the death, and I wouldn't be trying again. But then I had the right idea. The story very nearly leapt fully-formed from my head, like Athena but with fewer swords. I had an outline within hours (as you technically can't start writing until November 1), broke the 50,000 word tape on the 18th, and wrote the final word a few days into December.
It needs a lot of refinement, though. Sure, they have a NaNoEdMo in March, but I wasn't ready to revisit it quite that soon. Besides, I've let it breathe for two years, and the more distance I get from that initial spurt the more I realize I haven't quite told the story I wanted. What's more, I don't think anything short of a full rewrite will get me there. So here I go again, telling the same story, with fewer characters, more location detail, and as always 50% fewer insect parts. But I don't think I'll abandon this one.
(For the curious: I did try again last year, but it's difficult to focus on a story when all of one's mental energy is devoted to blocking out the fact that one works in a buffet at Disney World. Except the interactions with a half-undressed Cinderella.)
2006/10/27 14:36
Perfectly Roasted
Five days after the fact, there's still a lot of talk floating around about the brown smudge on Kenny Rogers' pitching hand.
Officially, the umpires ruled it as dirt, which, as was eloquently stated by supervisor Steve Palermo, is "what we play on" and therefore not illegal. Rogers said it was dirt, spit and resin, left over from when he rubbed down the game balls in the bullpen. Detroit closer Todd Jones speculated that it was chocolate cake. Naturally, St. Louis manager Tony LaRussa thought it a more specious substance, but he didn't make a big deal either -- he just asked that it be gone and it was gone, and Rogers went on to pitch seven more scoreless innings.
So here's the question: If the other team's manager let it go, the umpires let it go, and the pitcher arguably did better without it, why won't the media drop it?
We Tigers fans naturally feel put upon by these accusations of cheating. Our boys have done so well this summer, we can't help but think writers are undermining their accomplishments. It's hurtful to think that a title would come with an asterisk, that the first winning season in fourteen years would be all but entirely negated by doubt, that our star pitcher would have to endure PineTarWatch 2007. (If the Cardinals win, of course, the world will forget all about Kenny in its mad rush to buy red caps.)
The thing we have to remember, though, is it's not just a Detroit team being overlooked again, like the Pistons in 2004. Maybe it would be if Ron Artest was a Piston. Because Kenny Rogers isn't the same hard-working nobody you expect to see on a working-class Detroit team. No, Kenny Rogers and the media have a history. They go way back.
This is the guy who beat up a cameraman while he was playing for Texas. This is the guy who was recently accused of assaulting a fan and his son outside Comerica Park. This is the guy who, until his dominant performance these last two weeks, had never won a baseball game in the postseason. This is a guy who used to play for the New York Yankers, and God knows we love to hate them. So anything that can call his sudden resurgence and relevance into question is going to be used against him. It's nothing personal against us, Tigers fans. It's personal against Kenny Rogers.
However, underneath my journalistic background, I remain devoted to Motown and its mighty Bengals, and feel the need to defend my team. Therefore, I hold steadfast that the smudge was, in fact, honey-bourbon barbecue sauce.
Officially, the umpires ruled it as dirt, which, as was eloquently stated by supervisor Steve Palermo, is "what we play on" and therefore not illegal. Rogers said it was dirt, spit and resin, left over from when he rubbed down the game balls in the bullpen. Detroit closer Todd Jones speculated that it was chocolate cake. Naturally, St. Louis manager Tony LaRussa thought it a more specious substance, but he didn't make a big deal either -- he just asked that it be gone and it was gone, and Rogers went on to pitch seven more scoreless innings.
So here's the question: If the other team's manager let it go, the umpires let it go, and the pitcher arguably did better without it, why won't the media drop it?
We Tigers fans naturally feel put upon by these accusations of cheating. Our boys have done so well this summer, we can't help but think writers are undermining their accomplishments. It's hurtful to think that a title would come with an asterisk, that the first winning season in fourteen years would be all but entirely negated by doubt, that our star pitcher would have to endure PineTarWatch 2007. (If the Cardinals win, of course, the world will forget all about Kenny in its mad rush to buy red caps.)
The thing we have to remember, though, is it's not just a Detroit team being overlooked again, like the Pistons in 2004. Maybe it would be if Ron Artest was a Piston. Because Kenny Rogers isn't the same hard-working nobody you expect to see on a working-class Detroit team. No, Kenny Rogers and the media have a history. They go way back.
This is the guy who beat up a cameraman while he was playing for Texas. This is the guy who was recently accused of assaulting a fan and his son outside Comerica Park. This is the guy who, until his dominant performance these last two weeks, had never won a baseball game in the postseason. This is a guy who used to play for the New York Yankers, and God knows we love to hate them. So anything that can call his sudden resurgence and relevance into question is going to be used against him. It's nothing personal against us, Tigers fans. It's personal against Kenny Rogers.
However, underneath my journalistic background, I remain devoted to Motown and its mighty Bengals, and feel the need to defend my team. Therefore, I hold steadfast that the smudge was, in fact, honey-bourbon barbecue sauce.
2006/10/23 21:04
Born to Party
Getting an obstetrician pregnant has its distinct advantages.
For example, almost as soon as she took the first positive home pregnancy test, Sed was able to pinpoint a due date. Looking it up at work later proved she was only a few days off from the actual forecast of May 5.
It's manifested in other ways, too. Obviously, I'm not expected to know the technical details, but since she's already so well-versed I barely even have to know the basic overview. Where most first-time fathers-to-be are reading books and studying techniques and trying to alleviate their mates' worries, I can just sit back -- after all, there's nothing I can learn or say that she hasn't heard and said herself dozens of times a day. As she's told me, my part is pretty much over, except for the cheering.
Perhaps the most startling and important edge we've had so far, though, is that she knows a doctor who can tell the sex at twelve weeks.
Apparently, at this stage in the game the genitalia have started to form, creating what's technically known as the "nubbin." However, before about week 18 (the usual benchmark for sex determination) the pee-pee and the hoo-ha are still the same size and shape. (These are highly scientific medical terms; don't worry if you can't follow along.) But this doctor has learned that from the appropriate angle, he can see a distinct difference. If it's a boy, the nubbin tilts up, and if it's a girl it tilts down. It's an inexact science, he admits, but as long as he's been practicing (he's an attending doctor, so that's several years) he's never been wrong.
A lot of people like to be surprised by the sex of their baby. That doesn't make any sense to me. If the technology's available, I don't see any reason to wait -- it's a kid, not a Christmas present. You can return one ugly shirt, but a couple hundred bucks worth of wrong-gender baby clothes might be frowned upon. Besides, being something of an iconoclast, I want to know which opposite gender stereotype I'll be embracing. As for Sed, she can't handle suspense. She still pries open the wrapping on her actual Christmas gifts in advance, trying to sneak a peek, like we did when we were kids. Working near a sonogram machine all day every day for the next six and a half months would eventually prove too much for her sensibilities, even if she did want a surprise.
So now we come back to the name. And, similarly, to the due date. Look at it, for God's sake. Cinco de Mayo may not be a real Mexican holiday, but it's something we, as drinkers, love to celebrate nonetheless. It's as much a part of our household as birthdays and Thanksgiving. So we really don't feel we can justify giving our daughter a less apt name than Margarita Azul y Corona de Moya.
(Count your blessings. If she was a boy, she'd have been Jose Cuervo.)
For example, almost as soon as she took the first positive home pregnancy test, Sed was able to pinpoint a due date. Looking it up at work later proved she was only a few days off from the actual forecast of May 5.
It's manifested in other ways, too. Obviously, I'm not expected to know the technical details, but since she's already so well-versed I barely even have to know the basic overview. Where most first-time fathers-to-be are reading books and studying techniques and trying to alleviate their mates' worries, I can just sit back -- after all, there's nothing I can learn or say that she hasn't heard and said herself dozens of times a day. As she's told me, my part is pretty much over, except for the cheering.
Perhaps the most startling and important edge we've had so far, though, is that she knows a doctor who can tell the sex at twelve weeks.
Apparently, at this stage in the game the genitalia have started to form, creating what's technically known as the "nubbin." However, before about week 18 (the usual benchmark for sex determination) the pee-pee and the hoo-ha are still the same size and shape. (These are highly scientific medical terms; don't worry if you can't follow along.) But this doctor has learned that from the appropriate angle, he can see a distinct difference. If it's a boy, the nubbin tilts up, and if it's a girl it tilts down. It's an inexact science, he admits, but as long as he's been practicing (he's an attending doctor, so that's several years) he's never been wrong.
A lot of people like to be surprised by the sex of their baby. That doesn't make any sense to me. If the technology's available, I don't see any reason to wait -- it's a kid, not a Christmas present. You can return one ugly shirt, but a couple hundred bucks worth of wrong-gender baby clothes might be frowned upon. Besides, being something of an iconoclast, I want to know which opposite gender stereotype I'll be embracing. As for Sed, she can't handle suspense. She still pries open the wrapping on her actual Christmas gifts in advance, trying to sneak a peek, like we did when we were kids. Working near a sonogram machine all day every day for the next six and a half months would eventually prove too much for her sensibilities, even if she did want a surprise.
So now we come back to the name. And, similarly, to the due date. Look at it, for God's sake. Cinco de Mayo may not be a real Mexican holiday, but it's something we, as drinkers, love to celebrate nonetheless. It's as much a part of our household as birthdays and Thanksgiving. So we really don't feel we can justify giving our daughter a less apt name than Margarita Azul y Corona de Moya.
(Count your blessings. If she was a boy, she'd have been Jose Cuervo.)
Screw You, I Know What I'm Zzzzz
"Until you know how Lunesta affects you, you shouldn't drive or operate machinery."
Wait a minute. Lunesta is a sleep aid. Your commercial shows people in bed, wearing pajamas, being kissed off to slumberland by a glowing green butterfly. They're not playing volleyball or hurling their grandkids around. Is there really a need to pander to the lowest common denominator right now?
Besides, who's the guy who says, "You know, I think I'll take my sleeping pill that will make me hallucinate flying insects and then drive home"?
2006/10/22 12:57
Inge Was Framed
I defy anybody to watch this video and tell me that Scott Rolen was not deliberately trying to run down Brandon Inge as he rounded third base during the sixth inning of yesterday's World Series game.
I haven't played a lot of baseball, but I've certainly played and watched enough to know that when you're rounding third and heading for home, you cut most of the corner before you touch the bag. In fact, Rolen did just that. However, he clearly saw opportunity, and simultaneously realized that Inge's wild throw to home had been recovered, so he went for it, knowing he'd get the call just because he's a Cardinal.
This happens all too often in sports -- not necessarily cheating, but the predetermined idea of one team deserving to win more than the other suddenly taking root in the minds of officials, announcers, and the public. St. Louis has been a good team for years, whereas the sports world at large still thinks of Detroit as the losers. The Tigers dropped a record-high 119 just three years ago. Last year they didn't even post a winning record. How can they possibly be good enough to win the World Series?
Watching this play unfold, I was strongly reminded of the American League series game in 2004 when Alex Rodriguez slapped the ball out of Doug Mientkiewicz' glove as he approached first base. The only difference was that Rodriguez and New York were the villains in that series. Everyone wanted Boston to beat the Yankers, except for murderers, misanthropes, rapists and Communists. Runner interference is a rare call, but it was justly called on A-Rod then, and it certainly should have been called on Rolen for veering out of the base path, arms extended, attempting to take out one of the Tigers' prominent defensive threats.
Of course, this was run No. 7 of the night for the Cardinals, so even if it were overturned Detroit still would have lost by four. Therefore, keep your eyes open for my next piece, "Albert Pujols' Two-Run Homer in the Third Was an Illusion Caused by Swamp Gas Reflecting Off Venus."
I haven't played a lot of baseball, but I've certainly played and watched enough to know that when you're rounding third and heading for home, you cut most of the corner before you touch the bag. In fact, Rolen did just that. However, he clearly saw opportunity, and simultaneously realized that Inge's wild throw to home had been recovered, so he went for it, knowing he'd get the call just because he's a Cardinal.
This happens all too often in sports -- not necessarily cheating, but the predetermined idea of one team deserving to win more than the other suddenly taking root in the minds of officials, announcers, and the public. St. Louis has been a good team for years, whereas the sports world at large still thinks of Detroit as the losers. The Tigers dropped a record-high 119 just three years ago. Last year they didn't even post a winning record. How can they possibly be good enough to win the World Series?
Watching this play unfold, I was strongly reminded of the American League series game in 2004 when Alex Rodriguez slapped the ball out of Doug Mientkiewicz' glove as he approached first base. The only difference was that Rodriguez and New York were the villains in that series. Everyone wanted Boston to beat the Yankers, except for murderers, misanthropes, rapists and Communists. Runner interference is a rare call, but it was justly called on A-Rod then, and it certainly should have been called on Rolen for veering out of the base path, arms extended, attempting to take out one of the Tigers' prominent defensive threats.
Of course, this was run No. 7 of the night for the Cardinals, so even if it were overturned Detroit still would have lost by four. Therefore, keep your eyes open for my next piece, "Albert Pujols' Two-Run Homer in the Third Was an Illusion Caused by Swamp Gas Reflecting Off Venus."
2006/10/16 12:11
Stop With the Kicking
I covered soccer (both men's and women's) for my college newspaper for about a semester in 1997. My articles never got published, though, mostly because I didn't really know how to file correctly but also because the teams weren't any good. Lobos men's soccer may be nationally ranked now, but boy, did they stink up the Western Athletic Conference in 1997. Still, getting into every game for free was enough for me to appreciate the sport, and over the term I actually started to understand it.
There are two levels to understanding soccer. It's not hard to get that one team is trying to put the ball in the other team's goal, and if they do it more than the other team, they win. After that, though, it's a sheer scale to get up to rules like offsides and substitutions and penalties and the like. There's no in-between, like in many sports; with soccer, you either know it or you don't. And I don't. Man, I'm not even close. But it's still fun to watch talented teams.
So when SMU, the consensus No. 1 team in the nation, played a conference game at UCF, I felt like I had to go. It wasn't just my history talking. One of my oldest friends graduated from SMU, and he had a particular affinity for this soccer team. The Mustangs had also played at UNM earlier this year, and the Lobos handed them their only non-win (a 1-1 tie). Besides, I'm always willing to support my local teams, as long as the tickets are free.
You can imagine my surprise when the Golden Knights (3-7-1) jumped out to a two-goal lead in the first half. This is the top-ranked team in the United States, after all; a piddly non-power like UCF certainly shouldn't even be competitive. SMU eventually came back to tie the game, but I was gone by then as some genius decided to close the concession stand before halftime. (Note to whoever's in charge: Free tickets beat no tickets, and your audience is more likely to buy a hot dog then, but you must make it available.)
I wonder what it means that the only blemishes on SMU's record came against schools to which I'm connected. Could it be that I have some higher soccer powers? Am I a constant cause for good to whatever collegiate home team I back? Is it possible that these powers can only be activated by my departure? Does it not then follow that UNM's ascent to the NCAA final last year was also related to these powers?
Nah, it probably just means I'm a self-centered dork and I think too much.
There are two levels to understanding soccer. It's not hard to get that one team is trying to put the ball in the other team's goal, and if they do it more than the other team, they win. After that, though, it's a sheer scale to get up to rules like offsides and substitutions and penalties and the like. There's no in-between, like in many sports; with soccer, you either know it or you don't. And I don't. Man, I'm not even close. But it's still fun to watch talented teams.
So when SMU, the consensus No. 1 team in the nation, played a conference game at UCF, I felt like I had to go. It wasn't just my history talking. One of my oldest friends graduated from SMU, and he had a particular affinity for this soccer team. The Mustangs had also played at UNM earlier this year, and the Lobos handed them their only non-win (a 1-1 tie). Besides, I'm always willing to support my local teams, as long as the tickets are free.
You can imagine my surprise when the Golden Knights (3-7-1) jumped out to a two-goal lead in the first half. This is the top-ranked team in the United States, after all; a piddly non-power like UCF certainly shouldn't even be competitive. SMU eventually came back to tie the game, but I was gone by then as some genius decided to close the concession stand before halftime. (Note to whoever's in charge: Free tickets beat no tickets, and your audience is more likely to buy a hot dog then, but you must make it available.)
I wonder what it means that the only blemishes on SMU's record came against schools to which I'm connected. Could it be that I have some higher soccer powers? Am I a constant cause for good to whatever collegiate home team I back? Is it possible that these powers can only be activated by my departure? Does it not then follow that UNM's ascent to the NCAA final last year was also related to these powers?
Nah, it probably just means I'm a self-centered dork and I think too much.
2006/10/14 12:18
Can You See the Baby?
I haven't made a baby update in a little while, as you may have noticed. A big part of that is the fact that I'm not carrying it, so I don't always think to type out the minutiae of what Sed's feeling and what she's thinking about. And as she's not a blogger, you are sadly bereft of the daily "I was fine before I got home, but now I'm sick."
We did have a pretty big moment this week, though, when she showed me the latest sonogram image. Our baby is starting to take shape!
Sed showed me this shot and said, "See it?" I didn't, being a layman and not sure what I was looking for in this 2 1/2 x 4 photograph. So she circled it, hoping if I focused on the general area I'd be able to pick it out.
Well, I still couldn't really tell from that. She had to pull out a pencil and trace the outline for me.
Whaddaya know, it's got limbs! My baby's gonna be capable of independent movement! I am so proud. Hopefully it'll have eyes too, so someone can tell Dad what he's looking at.
We did have a pretty big moment this week, though, when she showed me the latest sonogram image. Our baby is starting to take shape!
Sed showed me this shot and said, "See it?" I didn't, being a layman and not sure what I was looking for in this 2 1/2 x 4 photograph. So she circled it, hoping if I focused on the general area I'd be able to pick it out.
Well, I still couldn't really tell from that. She had to pull out a pencil and trace the outline for me.
Whaddaya know, it's got limbs! My baby's gonna be capable of independent movement! I am so proud. Hopefully it'll have eyes too, so someone can tell Dad what he's looking at.
2006/10/12 22:04
But Maybe the Shininess Will Blind Them
So I'm wandering around on campus during my lunch break, and I happen across what passes for a football pep rally at a commuter university. Tomorrow UCF is playing nationally-ranked Pittsburgh, so to raise local excitement to a fever pitch, athletics boosters erected this makeshift stage in front of the student union and are handing out free T-shirts from it to the fifteen or so people who've bothered to show up.
"Black out the Bowl!" they shout as they hurl these prizes into the eager arms of the listless throng with a frenzy normally reserved for calling bingo matches. "Let's show Pitt our spirit! We'll black out the stadium!"
The only thing I'm not clear on is how they plan to accomplish this goal by passing out gold shirts.
"Black out the Bowl!" they shout as they hurl these prizes into the eager arms of the listless throng with a frenzy normally reserved for calling bingo matches. "Let's show Pitt our spirit! We'll black out the stadium!"
The only thing I'm not clear on is how they plan to accomplish this goal by passing out gold shirts.
2006/10/10 21:09
Putting the Laughter Back Into Vehicular Manslaughter
My first car was a hand-me-down, an eight-year-old economy coupe with no acceleration. My mom had bought it new, giving her plenty of time to become intimately familiar with the car's inability to get up to speed with anything resembling expediency. This car went zero to 60 in my imagination. So of course, being a mom, she thought it a perfect fit for a seventeen-year-old boy's first vehicle. If I was incapable of reaching the speed limit, after all, I certainly wouldn't be breaking it.
For years, it seemed that my mom's twist of logic worked. I drove for years without ever receiving a traffic ticket. Even after I sold the car I had not-so-affectionately nicknamed "Dammit," the one that followed kept me out of trouble with the law and kept my driving record spic-and-span.
Then I moved to Florida.
Police in Florida are a very different breed of animal than they were in New Mexico. There, they kept their eyes open all the time, enforced the law when they saw it broken, and maintained control. Here, they lull you into a false sense of security, committing the very same infraction in front of you that you will receive a ticket for when they set up a trap in that spot one year later.
Destroying an unblemished twelve-year span, I've gotten two traffic tickets in the sixteen months I've lived in Florida. The first was about a year ago, when my new car proved that not only was it capable of exceeding the speed limit, but that it could do so with gusto and panache and ironic timing. I'd just gotten done flaunting my spotless record to my carpool buddy when the sheriff's deputy stepped into the road some two hundred yards ahead. He tagged me for doing 59 in a 50, even though he'd clocked me at 67. (Luckily, I'd just come down from 75.) To add insult to injury, this speed trap was on Disney property. That's right -- I got a speeding ticket at the Happiest Place on Earth.
About three months ago, I got the second ticket. In a moment of unusually heavy traffic, I followed two cars through a red light, turning right while cross traffic had a left turn arrow. It became clear why we were moving so slow when the officer stepped in front of me (and, please note, not the guy ahead of me). These guys must have some good body armor, because I certainly don't trust Florida drivers enough to bet my life.
The thing is, I was determined to fight this ticket. The first I couldn't refute -- let's face it, on most open straightaways I probably couldn't go any faster if my shoe was made out of lead. But this intersection had a right turn lane, emptying directly into a dedicated merging lane. What's more, there are no signs leading to the intersection stating that I must stop or yield before turning right. Maybe I was technically wrong according to the "law," but I felt I could make a case by pretending to be stupid. I mean, the tag on a cardboard car sun shield that says "Do not drive with sun shield in place" didn't get there by itself. The line on the road and the red light said to stop, Your Honor, but other than that there was no warning.
Unfortunately, as it turns out, I have a conscience. Or maybe I'm just chicken. The court hearing was today, and with the judge, bailiff, and ticketing officer all staring at me, I backed down and pleaded no contest. Basically, this means "I did it, but look how good my driving record is; you totally want to suspend the fine and/or points on my license now."
The points part worked. But next time I gotta wear shabby clothes. God forbid there is a next time, but you never know where the cops will set up their next trap. They might catch me for backing out of my driveway without a valid handgun. This is Florida, after all.
For years, it seemed that my mom's twist of logic worked. I drove for years without ever receiving a traffic ticket. Even after I sold the car I had not-so-affectionately nicknamed "Dammit," the one that followed kept me out of trouble with the law and kept my driving record spic-and-span.
Then I moved to Florida.
Police in Florida are a very different breed of animal than they were in New Mexico. There, they kept their eyes open all the time, enforced the law when they saw it broken, and maintained control. Here, they lull you into a false sense of security, committing the very same infraction in front of you that you will receive a ticket for when they set up a trap in that spot one year later.
Destroying an unblemished twelve-year span, I've gotten two traffic tickets in the sixteen months I've lived in Florida. The first was about a year ago, when my new car proved that not only was it capable of exceeding the speed limit, but that it could do so with gusto and panache and ironic timing. I'd just gotten done flaunting my spotless record to my carpool buddy when the sheriff's deputy stepped into the road some two hundred yards ahead. He tagged me for doing 59 in a 50, even though he'd clocked me at 67. (Luckily, I'd just come down from 75.) To add insult to injury, this speed trap was on Disney property. That's right -- I got a speeding ticket at the Happiest Place on Earth.
About three months ago, I got the second ticket. In a moment of unusually heavy traffic, I followed two cars through a red light, turning right while cross traffic had a left turn arrow. It became clear why we were moving so slow when the officer stepped in front of me (and, please note, not the guy ahead of me). These guys must have some good body armor, because I certainly don't trust Florida drivers enough to bet my life.
The thing is, I was determined to fight this ticket. The first I couldn't refute -- let's face it, on most open straightaways I probably couldn't go any faster if my shoe was made out of lead. But this intersection had a right turn lane, emptying directly into a dedicated merging lane. What's more, there are no signs leading to the intersection stating that I must stop or yield before turning right. Maybe I was technically wrong according to the "law," but I felt I could make a case by pretending to be stupid. I mean, the tag on a cardboard car sun shield that says "Do not drive with sun shield in place" didn't get there by itself. The line on the road and the red light said to stop, Your Honor, but other than that there was no warning.
Unfortunately, as it turns out, I have a conscience. Or maybe I'm just chicken. The court hearing was today, and with the judge, bailiff, and ticketing officer all staring at me, I backed down and pleaded no contest. Basically, this means "I did it, but look how good my driving record is; you totally want to suspend the fine and/or points on my license now."
The points part worked. But next time I gotta wear shabby clothes. God forbid there is a next time, but you never know where the cops will set up their next trap. They might catch me for backing out of my driveway without a valid handgun. This is Florida, after all.
2006/10/08 23:42
It's Like, It's Coming Out of the Ass of the Ass
So I'm flipping channels, not yet ready to fall asleep, and I stop on a commercial trailer for Jackass Number Two. You know the one, where they show all the good clips of morons injuring themselves, thereby pre-empting any actual need to pay for the movie. But the bit that really catches my eye comes at the end, when they flash the tagline up on the screen: "Number Two is number one."
Which is fitting when you consider the similarity of the first one to that other No. 2.
Which is fitting when you consider the similarity of the first one to that other No. 2.
2006/10/06 10:10
Open Letters (first in a series)
Dear Rachael Ray,
Enough is enough. I love it that you know how to quickly assemble a healthy meal that doesn't taste like cardboard; it's helped me countless nights when I'm stumped and tired. But we're all starting to get a little sick of the over-perkiness. We can tell it's forced -- nobody is that passionate about a friggin' waffle at a fast-food restaurant. Maybe you should remind your image consultant why America fell in love with you in the first place.
Love,
Mo
Dear Pier One,
With what you're charging for four ounces of wax with a string in it, I think you could afford the extra ink to put a verb in your slogan.
Sincerely,
Mo
Dear Yahoo Sports,
I'm fully aware that there are college football games being played this weekend. However, I've told you numerous times of my deep and abiding love for the Detroit Tigers, and given that this is their first postseason in nineteen years, maybe I want to see how they fared against the perennial pennant juggernaut New York Yankers before you shove a joke of a game like Clemson-Wake Forest in my face. Just for future reference.
Thanks,
Mo
Dear Brandon Inge,
What is up with the soul patch? I mean, seriously.
Your friend,
Mo
Enough is enough. I love it that you know how to quickly assemble a healthy meal that doesn't taste like cardboard; it's helped me countless nights when I'm stumped and tired. But we're all starting to get a little sick of the over-perkiness. We can tell it's forced -- nobody is that passionate about a friggin' waffle at a fast-food restaurant. Maybe you should remind your image consultant why America fell in love with you in the first place.
Love,
Mo
Dear Pier One,
With what you're charging for four ounces of wax with a string in it, I think you could afford the extra ink to put a verb in your slogan.
Sincerely,
Mo
Dear Yahoo Sports,
I'm fully aware that there are college football games being played this weekend. However, I've told you numerous times of my deep and abiding love for the Detroit Tigers, and given that this is their first postseason in nineteen years, maybe I want to see how they fared against the perennial pennant juggernaut New York Yankers before you shove a joke of a game like Clemson-Wake Forest in my face. Just for future reference.
Thanks,
Mo
Dear Brandon Inge,
What is up with the soul patch? I mean, seriously.
Your friend,
Mo
Labels: open letters
2006/10/03 20:04
Masters Of the Neighborhood
Making my usual rounds of the Internet, I happened upon this article in The Morning News. Now, I'm not political at all, but I still thought the author raised an interesting point:
I was probably six or seven years old when He-Man became popular, and it became requisite among my peer group to own the toys. If you didn't have them all, you had to at least have the Man Himself, preferably the one with the battle armor that spun around with a punch, and Orko too because he had a rip cord that would make him spin around and dive off the lunch table. Of course, most of my peer group had wealthy parents, new to the area that mine had moved to when it was still cheap due to its location in the middle of nowhere. Add to that the low opinion my mom had of merchandised cartoon characters, and I came out with just one He-Man action figure. Not He-Man, not even a good guy -- I had Hordak. Nobody wanted to play with you if all you could bring was a bad guy who wasn't even the leader. Especially if you were the quiet kid who liked to make up his own stories.
There was one kid on my block in particular who had a reputation for having every He-Man toy ever made. Well, he also had a reputation for being a sociopath, but as a second-grader I had no place for large words in my vocabulary. I just wanted to play with He-Man. So every day I'd end up at this kid's house (let's call him "Eric" because that was his name) and every day I'd let him bully me around and shrink my self-worth a little more, just so I could play with his toys.
And to my sensibilities at the time, it was totally worth it, because Eric had more than just He-Man. Yes, the Castle Greyskull play set was the centerpiece of his toy shelf, but that shelf took up an entire towering wall of his room, and was filled to overflowing with Transformers, squirt guns, GI Joes, Nerf footballs, games that required batteries and made loud noises, Muscle wrestlers, Archie comics, and (nearest and dearest to my heart, though forgotten to everyone else) the MASK vehicles that switched from car to plane with a simple button press. Toys R Us had nothing on this shelf, and I haven't even gotten into the stuff in his closet and under his bed. If a seven-year-old boy could have multiple orgasms, it would look like Eric's bedroom.
And Eric knew that as long as he had the toys, he didn't have to be nice to us because we'd keep coming over to his house. He knew we'd eventually get bored with his collection, too, but he knew how to convince his parents to get him the new great thing that would bring us running back. By the time I was nine, I'd almost successfully extricated myself from his talons, but then his parents bought him a Nintendo and I was back in. I knew my relationship with Eric was an unhealthy one, but I just had to have a hit of that sweet, sweet pixelated pleasure. When my brother and I got our own NES, I finally broke free -- try as he might to lure me back with heavy metal iconography, Eric no longer had anything I desired that I couldn't get for myself.
Reading the article brought all of this flooding back, with the sudden realization that just as He-Man was considered the good guy because he had the castle, so too did Eric consider himself for the same reason. His toys were a form of evangelism, trying to get us to join his side, to disregard his bullying tactics and instead consider the stuff as collateral for his hero candidacy. But no matter the benefits, I couldn't stay behind someone who treated me like something that had come out of his. I paid the price for my defection in school, but my mental state was a lot better for it.
I've long thanked my mom for not buying into the forced morality of my childhood TV shows. It would have been really easy to let me obey the same black-and-white, good-versus-evil mantra my peers were following, rather than forcing me to use my imagination and think for myself. So if Eric, in his head-on, hard-line ways, was a bullying He-Man, did that make me Skeletor? I don't think so ... but maybe sometimes, what we think is evil really is just shy, complacent, and misunderstood.
"Yeah," Mark said, "I liked that show for a while. Until I realized that He-Man was the bad guy."
At which point I proceeded to kick his ass. Or would have, had we not been drinking -- beer makes me more amicable than bellicose. Instead, I just challenged him to back up his outrageous slander.
"Dude, he lives in a giant skull," Mark pointed out. "Think about it. He-Man wouldn't build a castle in the shape of a skull, he'd build a castle shaped like a, you know, sword or a quadricep or something.
I raised a finger to rebut, but his logic was unassailable.
"Who would build a castle shaped like a skull?" he asked. "Skeletor. Castle Grayskull is obviously Skeletor's house but, at some point, He-Man came along and stole it. That's why Skeletor is always trying to get it back. He's the aggrieved party here."
At which point I proceeded to kick his ass. Or would have, had we not been drinking -- beer makes me more amicable than bellicose. Instead, I just challenged him to back up his outrageous slander.
"Dude, he lives in a giant skull," Mark pointed out. "Think about it. He-Man wouldn't build a castle in the shape of a skull, he'd build a castle shaped like a, you know, sword or a quadricep or something.
I raised a finger to rebut, but his logic was unassailable.
"Who would build a castle shaped like a skull?" he asked. "Skeletor. Castle Grayskull is obviously Skeletor's house but, at some point, He-Man came along and stole it. That's why Skeletor is always trying to get it back. He's the aggrieved party here."
I was probably six or seven years old when He-Man became popular, and it became requisite among my peer group to own the toys. If you didn't have them all, you had to at least have the Man Himself, preferably the one with the battle armor that spun around with a punch, and Orko too because he had a rip cord that would make him spin around and dive off the lunch table. Of course, most of my peer group had wealthy parents, new to the area that mine had moved to when it was still cheap due to its location in the middle of nowhere. Add to that the low opinion my mom had of merchandised cartoon characters, and I came out with just one He-Man action figure. Not He-Man, not even a good guy -- I had Hordak. Nobody wanted to play with you if all you could bring was a bad guy who wasn't even the leader. Especially if you were the quiet kid who liked to make up his own stories.
There was one kid on my block in particular who had a reputation for having every He-Man toy ever made. Well, he also had a reputation for being a sociopath, but as a second-grader I had no place for large words in my vocabulary. I just wanted to play with He-Man. So every day I'd end up at this kid's house (let's call him "Eric" because that was his name) and every day I'd let him bully me around and shrink my self-worth a little more, just so I could play with his toys.
And to my sensibilities at the time, it was totally worth it, because Eric had more than just He-Man. Yes, the Castle Greyskull play set was the centerpiece of his toy shelf, but that shelf took up an entire towering wall of his room, and was filled to overflowing with Transformers, squirt guns, GI Joes, Nerf footballs, games that required batteries and made loud noises, Muscle wrestlers, Archie comics, and (nearest and dearest to my heart, though forgotten to everyone else) the MASK vehicles that switched from car to plane with a simple button press. Toys R Us had nothing on this shelf, and I haven't even gotten into the stuff in his closet and under his bed. If a seven-year-old boy could have multiple orgasms, it would look like Eric's bedroom.
And Eric knew that as long as he had the toys, he didn't have to be nice to us because we'd keep coming over to his house. He knew we'd eventually get bored with his collection, too, but he knew how to convince his parents to get him the new great thing that would bring us running back. By the time I was nine, I'd almost successfully extricated myself from his talons, but then his parents bought him a Nintendo and I was back in. I knew my relationship with Eric was an unhealthy one, but I just had to have a hit of that sweet, sweet pixelated pleasure. When my brother and I got our own NES, I finally broke free -- try as he might to lure me back with heavy metal iconography, Eric no longer had anything I desired that I couldn't get for myself.
Reading the article brought all of this flooding back, with the sudden realization that just as He-Man was considered the good guy because he had the castle, so too did Eric consider himself for the same reason. His toys were a form of evangelism, trying to get us to join his side, to disregard his bullying tactics and instead consider the stuff as collateral for his hero candidacy. But no matter the benefits, I couldn't stay behind someone who treated me like something that had come out of his. I paid the price for my defection in school, but my mental state was a lot better for it.
I've long thanked my mom for not buying into the forced morality of my childhood TV shows. It would have been really easy to let me obey the same black-and-white, good-versus-evil mantra my peers were following, rather than forcing me to use my imagination and think for myself. So if Eric, in his head-on, hard-line ways, was a bullying He-Man, did that make me Skeletor? I don't think so ... but maybe sometimes, what we think is evil really is just shy, complacent, and misunderstood.
2006/10/02 21:28
The Power of Punctuation
I think I figured out what happened.
A few months ago, when we first bought our tickets to Las Vegas to celebrate our best friends' first wedding anniversary, Sed and I made a pact to each lose fifteen pounds by the time we got on the plane. We set up a workout schedule, printed up a chart, and tacked it on the bathroom wall, replete with a handwritten title by Sed.
And perhaps through the sheer power of conscious suggestion, it worked. Or at least the title did.
Just think -- one comma and we'd have been in the best shape of our adult lives.
A few months ago, when we first bought our tickets to Las Vegas to celebrate our best friends' first wedding anniversary, Sed and I made a pact to each lose fifteen pounds by the time we got on the plane. We set up a workout schedule, printed up a chart, and tacked it on the bathroom wall, replete with a handwritten title by Sed.
And perhaps through the sheer power of conscious suggestion, it worked. Or at least the title did.
Just think -- one comma and we'd have been in the best shape of our adult lives.
