A new segment (blogment?), in which I don't particularly feel like writing and instead, ask you to indulge me in a youtube clip of a favorite song by a favorite artist. Tonight, a twofer. But let's start with John Cale. Cale's album Vintage Violence is one of my all time favorites and in particular, this song. What it lacks in visuals, it makes up for in ...music:
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Better Than Sleep
I wait for them to go to bed, but not just the first time. There’ll be ups and downs. In the meantime, I'll lie on the floor and watch tv so quietly, I have to strain to hear it. She can sleep some nights, uninterrupted, for 15 hours at a time. Other nights, a creak on the stairs is enough to wake the whole household for hours. These waits are the hardest.
I wait expectantly these nights and impatiently. Their sleep offers me admission, but my body is a co-conspirator. Inside it, a lagging Pacific circadian reminds me I’m out of place again. I’ll be up all night and always asking the same question. These things happened, right?
I-75 runs through their backyard and across it, planted improbably in an old corn field, sits a mosque. There were some concerns when the farmer finally sold. Near-native son Muhammad Ali came for its dedication. Sometimes, the police cruiser doesn't even have to stay the night anymore. It’s changing here. Likely as a concession to the neighbors, the Mosque only broadcasts the call to prayer during Ramadan. Rarely, I’ll be home in late summer and I can hear the muezzin.
I'll put down my things and I’ll walk outside and listen.
Make haste towards worship
Prayer is better than sleep
I bear witness
I wait expectantly these nights and impatiently. Their sleep offers me admission, but my body is a co-conspirator. Inside it, a lagging Pacific circadian reminds me I’m out of place again. I’ll be up all night and always asking the same question. These things happened, right?
I-75 runs through their backyard and across it, planted improbably in an old corn field, sits a mosque. There were some concerns when the farmer finally sold. Near-native son Muhammad Ali came for its dedication. Sometimes, the police cruiser doesn't even have to stay the night anymore. It’s changing here. Likely as a concession to the neighbors, the Mosque only broadcasts the call to prayer during Ramadan. Rarely, I’ll be home in late summer and I can hear the muezzin.
I'll put down my things and I’ll walk outside and listen.
Make haste towards worship
Prayer is better than sleep
I bear witness
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
In Between Blog, Trying To Scheme Blog
This rambling effort marks my 50th post! It's been a difficult blogging week because all of my personal reserves are tied up in making it through this work week. It's been a long time since I've been the sole entertainer of kids for 5-6 hour stretches and I'm convinced the only person that likes being 'on' that much is Robin Williams on a 70's coke bender. I have exhausted all free possibilities for pre-teen youth within a 30 minute driving radius and reached my idea nadir when, on a foggy day last week, I just drove them to a cemetery and told them it was haunted. Then we did grave rubbings. This seemed sufficient.
This week we were invited, photo-op style, to Safeco Field to learn about steroids (*COUGH*potcallingthekettleblack*COUGH*). About 80 of us got to sit ...fieldside(?)and hear a talk from a trainer who'd lost a brother to steroid abuse. Despite my cynical mien, the talk was sincere and pretty affecting, or at least it was up until the point when he asked for crowd participation on a question about steroids' effects and some kids from the Police Athletic League said "It makes you grow TITTIES!" and then couldn't stop laughing.So......
After that, relief pitcher Mark Lowe, rakishly handsome in jeans that cost $mycarpayment, talked to us about how he developed diabetes. He's only 26 and just found out two seasons ago that he had the disease. He delivered a pretty good talk, making a tangible connection between his formerly poor eating habits and his culpability in developing the disease. He's very skinny in person and talked about carb regulation a lot. One of the most fascinating aspects of his talk was that he said, as a relief pitcher, he has to be ready at a moment's notice to go into the game and so he has to spend a lot of time checking his blood sugar in the dugout. Once he gets the warning he will be up to pitch in a while, he checks it one last time and either eats or injects so that he is in his ideal blood sugar pitching window. This seems like a hassle and you have to give him credit for what a pain in the butt this must be. Also, when a developmentally disabled girl asked a really long, rambling question, he gallantly answered and even made a joke to make her feel more comfortable. I can't express how this basic kindness made me feel relieved. I'm not sure that professional athletes are held to even the most basic standards of civil behavior, so him going above and beyond made me pleased.
Finally (FINALLY), we were allowed out onto the field and got to have M's first base coach (and former Mariner, Red Sox, Phillies and then Mariners again player)Lee Tinsley run us through warmups that despite their doofy appearance, made me sweaty and winded in no time.The best Tinsley moment was when I overheard a spirited debate between some of my kids as to whether or not Tinsley was Ken Griffey Jr. Clearly, these kids did not grow up in the Junior era.
Then, one of the trainers came to take us through some different exercises, though his main role was to answer the roughly 250 Ichiro-related questions the kids had. Here's some of what I learned:
-Ichiro is the most disciplined player this trainer has seen in 27 years
-Ichiro goes to bed and wakes at exactly the same times everyday, whereupon
-Ichiro eats the same breakfast every day prior to
-Ichiro doing the same morning calisthenics before
-Ichiro drives to the ballpark to work out
-Also, Ichiro is the only player that works out daily on the road (how could this be true, I wonder)
-Ichiro's body fat is 5.8%, the lowest on the team
-Ichiro regularly tells his trainer he plans on playing until he is 50 and they don't think he's kidding
On our way out, the kids were each given an autographed picture of Mark Lowe and I stood in line for mine, too, because I could. We were also given a promotional poster of a kids' Jackie Robinson night from 2003, because...not sure. I took that, too.
I had a very big day.
This week we were invited, photo-op style, to Safeco Field to learn about steroids (*COUGH*potcallingthekettleblack*COUGH*). About 80 of us got to sit ...fieldside(?)and hear a talk from a trainer who'd lost a brother to steroid abuse. Despite my cynical mien, the talk was sincere and pretty affecting, or at least it was up until the point when he asked for crowd participation on a question about steroids' effects and some kids from the Police Athletic League said "It makes you grow TITTIES!" and then couldn't stop laughing.So......
After that, relief pitcher Mark Lowe, rakishly handsome in jeans that cost $mycarpayment, talked to us about how he developed diabetes. He's only 26 and just found out two seasons ago that he had the disease. He delivered a pretty good talk, making a tangible connection between his formerly poor eating habits and his culpability in developing the disease. He's very skinny in person and talked about carb regulation a lot. One of the most fascinating aspects of his talk was that he said, as a relief pitcher, he has to be ready at a moment's notice to go into the game and so he has to spend a lot of time checking his blood sugar in the dugout. Once he gets the warning he will be up to pitch in a while, he checks it one last time and either eats or injects so that he is in his ideal blood sugar pitching window. This seems like a hassle and you have to give him credit for what a pain in the butt this must be. Also, when a developmentally disabled girl asked a really long, rambling question, he gallantly answered and even made a joke to make her feel more comfortable. I can't express how this basic kindness made me feel relieved. I'm not sure that professional athletes are held to even the most basic standards of civil behavior, so him going above and beyond made me pleased.
Finally (FINALLY), we were allowed out onto the field and got to have M's first base coach (and former Mariner, Red Sox, Phillies and then Mariners again player)Lee Tinsley run us through warmups that despite their doofy appearance, made me sweaty and winded in no time.The best Tinsley moment was when I overheard a spirited debate between some of my kids as to whether or not Tinsley was Ken Griffey Jr. Clearly, these kids did not grow up in the Junior era.
Then, one of the trainers came to take us through some different exercises, though his main role was to answer the roughly 250 Ichiro-related questions the kids had. Here's some of what I learned:
-Ichiro is the most disciplined player this trainer has seen in 27 years
-Ichiro goes to bed and wakes at exactly the same times everyday, whereupon
-Ichiro eats the same breakfast every day prior to
-Ichiro doing the same morning calisthenics before
-Ichiro drives to the ballpark to work out
-Also, Ichiro is the only player that works out daily on the road (how could this be true, I wonder)
-Ichiro's body fat is 5.8%, the lowest on the team
-Ichiro regularly tells his trainer he plans on playing until he is 50 and they don't think he's kidding
On our way out, the kids were each given an autographed picture of Mark Lowe and I stood in line for mine, too, because I could. We were also given a promotional poster of a kids' Jackie Robinson night from 2003, because...not sure. I took that, too.
I had a very big day.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Thursdays With Morrie
I just had the following heartwarming conversation with an elderly man at Subway. Let's call him Morrie:
Morrie: (remarking on my UK t-shirt) KENTUCKY! That's where I grew up!
Me: Oh really? Where?
Morrie: Ft. Mitchell!
Me: Oh, I'm from Cincinnati.
Awkward pause.
Me: Do you ever miss it?
Morrie: ......What? No! I mean, you've been other places, right? There's a lot more to see in the world than that place.
Me: I hear you.
So, here's a question for you guys. Since I've had some recent success getting validation from other friends (ok, just Pam) that she too can feel/sense other people's um....energy vibrations (*blogjumpingtheshark*), I'm interested in knowing, can you discern the atmospheric differences in different parts of the country you visit? Before I go further, allow me to acknowledge that I am aware I sound like a nutball. For instance, when I think back to different states I've lived in, I can recall not only sights and smells, but also the kind of twing or hum I felt in my head when I was there.It doesn't have anything to do with how much I like or dislike a place.
If you think I'm crazy, consider this:
A man named FLIP SPICELAND backs me up on this. I'm not sure if I'm happier about this or the fact that the website where I found this thinks that if I like that video, I may also be interested in one called, "How to masturbate as a women," sic, obviously.
Oh, and the atmospheric twing I associate with Kentucky might be described as "sinusylethargicdrone."
Morrie: (remarking on my UK t-shirt) KENTUCKY! That's where I grew up!
Me: Oh really? Where?
Morrie: Ft. Mitchell!
Me: Oh, I'm from Cincinnati.
Awkward pause.
Me: Do you ever miss it?
Morrie: ......What? No! I mean, you've been other places, right? There's a lot more to see in the world than that place.
Me: I hear you.
So, here's a question for you guys. Since I've had some recent success getting validation from other friends (ok, just Pam) that she too can feel/sense other people's um....energy vibrations (*blogjumpingtheshark*), I'm interested in knowing, can you discern the atmospheric differences in different parts of the country you visit? Before I go further, allow me to acknowledge that I am aware I sound like a nutball. For instance, when I think back to different states I've lived in, I can recall not only sights and smells, but also the kind of twing or hum I felt in my head when I was there.It doesn't have anything to do with how much I like or dislike a place.
If you think I'm crazy, consider this:
A man named FLIP SPICELAND backs me up on this. I'm not sure if I'm happier about this or the fact that the website where I found this thinks that if I like that video, I may also be interested in one called, "How to masturbate as a women," sic, obviously.
Oh, and the atmospheric twing I associate with Kentucky might be described as "sinusylethargicdrone."
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Fall Party
Ingredients:
1 VHS copy Legend of Sleepy Hollow (if not available, replace with It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown)
2 Pumpkins (carved)
6-10 Maple Bars
Apples, assorted
Sweaters, any variety
1 store bought pumpkin pie, gross crusts removed
Coffee
Cider, alcoholic or otherwise
Mix with smell of burning leaves, let steep in nostalgia. Repeat yearly.
1 VHS copy Legend of Sleepy Hollow (if not available, replace with It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown)
2 Pumpkins (carved)
6-10 Maple Bars
Apples, assorted
Sweaters, any variety
1 store bought pumpkin pie, gross crusts removed
Coffee
Cider, alcoholic or otherwise
Mix with smell of burning leaves, let steep in nostalgia. Repeat yearly.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Joy and Pain
This compelling visual juxtaposition below is pretty much a scene right out of my life. The dancing lady is me, minding my own (as you do) and the fighting juiceboxes represent my scary-ass neighbors. Not just one set of neighbors, mind you, but an entire building of, as my dad abbreviates it, NLC's (or, No Library Card). By an accident of zoning or ill providence, our two buildings face one another across an alley. Directly. About 12 feet apart. Their building is like one of those Richard Scarry cross sections where you can see what people are up to as they go about their daily lives. As my friend Kiley best described it upon seeing it for the first time, "Oh no. Bedsheets used as curtains means dysfunction."
And without further ado:
And without further ado:
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Issues Facing White People
So I've noticed a disconcerting trend at my local farmer's market (farmers' market? I don't really know where the apostrophe goes). One aspect of the trend, Parade of Dogs, I can totally get behind. I love dogs. I frankly can't get enough of them and consider a dog's absence from my life a much greater misfortune than my lingering singletude.I think all dogs, small and yippy, large and foreboding, are worthy of love.Which brings me to my concern: the escalating exotic breed oneupsmanship that I see going on amongst all those out buying swiss chard and goat flesh out of Coleman coolers from strangers.
I have never before seen, in person, some of the breeds I've seen this summer at the market. Great Pyranees, Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Bouvier des Flanders (look it up), to name a few. And these aren't even the ones that weird me out. No, it's the giant dogs. The Irish Wolfhounds, the Neapolitan Mastiffs, the Newfoundlands (miserable looking in the heat), and last week, the Leonberger. I know these names because I ask the owners who invariably seem a little annoyed to constantly be answering questions about their dogs, but COME ON. When your dog is the size of a Smart Car, it draws attention and you love it. You know you do, weirdos.
And there's nothing wrong with pure breed dogs. I get it. But the sheer number of such unusual dogs (and of such heft and general thickness) is starting to make the dog ownership feel kind of icky and fetishistic to me, like all the white guys in Seattle who only date Asian girls. The dog trend is particularly galling given the staggering number of healthy dogs that have to be euthanized at shelters. It's all enough to make me paraphrase Jennifer Aniston's take on Brad after he left her: I think they must have a sensitivity chip missing or something.I didn't think this blog would ever see a Jennifer Aniston quote, but there it is.
I have never before seen, in person, some of the breeds I've seen this summer at the market. Great Pyranees, Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Bouvier des Flanders (look it up), to name a few. And these aren't even the ones that weird me out. No, it's the giant dogs. The Irish Wolfhounds, the Neapolitan Mastiffs, the Newfoundlands (miserable looking in the heat), and last week, the Leonberger. I know these names because I ask the owners who invariably seem a little annoyed to constantly be answering questions about their dogs, but COME ON. When your dog is the size of a Smart Car, it draws attention and you love it. You know you do, weirdos.
And there's nothing wrong with pure breed dogs. I get it. But the sheer number of such unusual dogs (and of such heft and general thickness) is starting to make the dog ownership feel kind of icky and fetishistic to me, like all the white guys in Seattle who only date Asian girls. The dog trend is particularly galling given the staggering number of healthy dogs that have to be euthanized at shelters. It's all enough to make me paraphrase Jennifer Aniston's take on Brad after he left her: I think they must have a sensitivity chip missing or something.I didn't think this blog would ever see a Jennifer Aniston quote, but there it is.
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