The greatest rivalry in college football - Michigan over Ohio State as we all know - may soon be bested by the other greatest rivalry in college football between the two winningest teams in college football history.
The contract between Michigan and Notre Dame has been extended through 2031 season. The two most storied teams in college college football will play each other every year for decades.
By the time this contract expires I expect Notre Dame to realize the mutual benefits of joining the Big Ten conference. Then these two schools will play each other every year forever.
And at some point the Michigan over Notre Dame rivalry will become the greatest. Ohio State will take its place in the second toughest rivalry back seat exactly where it belongs... behind a classier school with a stronger heritage.
Face it red and silver, more people just like green and gold...
almost as much as maize and blue.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The Buick Is Dead
On Monday, last Monday, I did a bit of work at The Second City in Novi with Amy Duffy, stage manager. I helped her build a new set for the upcoming months. It was fun.
I drove out there in my proud vibrant colorful car of character. Though some of us do not, I know most of us like the Buick... some of us love it.
But on that fateful evening, after I made my way to the car
parked just adjacent to the fancy restaurant patio
for all the rich food eaters to marvel upon,
I found it would not start. This has been a problem for weeks, ever since I returned from my trip out west.
She had trouble starting once on Ann Arbor, but we were able to resuscitate her with help of Mitch from MSU's baby black Beamer.
She had trouble starting once when I stopped at a gas station for a refill. It almost seemed to much for her, but a mechanic helped me revive her.
And then she failed to start again outside The Second City Novi. Amy tried to help me bring her back once more. We tried for a half hour... maybe more. But... but it was hopeless. I had to pull the plug. I couldn't bear hearing her struggle just to crank her engine once. Every turn of the key built a larger frog in my throat. On the verge of tears, I told Amy, "It's over."
I called my father to come help me unload my belongings - the trunk of fun, the Buick paint, the change I kept in her console we would use to pay the occasional parking meter. She would have to carry these burdens no longer.
Before I left her, I painted her over one last time, making sure to tag under her hood and around her interior. I wanted to leave her as pretty as ever.
Now I have.
Her empty shell sits in the rear of a lot in Novi adjacent a barren swamp. As much as I know her soul rests in a better place now, I cannot help but miss our rides together. For my own selfish reasons, I long for her to come back. But she cannot live forever.
Although there is the possibility - perhaps the probability - that what is left of the Buick will become part of a new public sculpture being called The Detroit Dream Project.
Nevertheless our days together are over. Things may never be the same.
I drove out there in my proud vibrant colorful car of character. Though some of us do not, I know most of us like the Buick... some of us love it.
But on that fateful evening, after I made my way to the car
parked just adjacent to the fancy restaurant patio
for all the rich food eaters to marvel upon,
I found it would not start. This has been a problem for weeks, ever since I returned from my trip out west.
She had trouble starting once on Ann Arbor, but we were able to resuscitate her with help of Mitch from MSU's baby black Beamer.
She had trouble starting once when I stopped at a gas station for a refill. It almost seemed to much for her, but a mechanic helped me revive her.
And then she failed to start again outside The Second City Novi. Amy tried to help me bring her back once more. We tried for a half hour... maybe more. But... but it was hopeless. I had to pull the plug. I couldn't bear hearing her struggle just to crank her engine once. Every turn of the key built a larger frog in my throat. On the verge of tears, I told Amy, "It's over."
I called my father to come help me unload my belongings - the trunk of fun, the Buick paint, the change I kept in her console we would use to pay the occasional parking meter. She would have to carry these burdens no longer.
Before I left her, I painted her over one last time, making sure to tag under her hood and around her interior. I wanted to leave her as pretty as ever.
Now I have.
Her empty shell sits in the rear of a lot in Novi adjacent a barren swamp. As much as I know her soul rests in a better place now, I cannot help but miss our rides together. For my own selfish reasons, I long for her to come back. But she cannot live forever.
Although there is the possibility - perhaps the probability - that what is left of the Buick will become part of a new public sculpture being called The Detroit Dream Project.Nevertheless our days together are over. Things may never be the same.
It's Been Long Enough
I think I'm ready to post again. Tomorrow.
Prepare for the sad news tomorrow. 'Cause that's what it will be. A sad news post.
In the meantime... an early sunrise from 30,000 feet up...
and south of Kalamazoo-ish, MI
Prepare for the sad news tomorrow. 'Cause that's what it will be. A sad news post.
In the meantime... an early sunrise from 30,000 feet up...
and south of Kalamazoo-ish, MI
Saturday, July 21, 2007
I am Lloyd Dobler
I think... that I am Lloyd Dobler.
I just watched 'Say Anything' for the first time today...
and I think it was a mistake..to have never known this story before.
Lloyd is a gentleman.
Everyone trusts Lloyd because he exudes responsibility and confidence, but at times he is nervous or fidgety.
Even when he is unsure of himself, at least he does what he believes in, what he wants.
That Ione Skye has a nice smile. It's big. And happy. And resonates a lot of the same things that Lloyd is.
Lloyd is also hopeless.
Lloyd is also vulnerable.
But he is passionate, persistent...
"I'm not going to meet someone like Diane Court at a kegger."
Lloyd rambles in the same way that I think.
Lloyd makes sacrifices for his friends.
Is Lloyd charming?
Am I Lloyd Dobler?
Maybe I give myself too much credit.
I mean, I'm not a fictional character...
but I think I try to be...
at least, a little bit...
sometimes.
"Nobody really thinks it's going to work..."
I just watched 'Say Anything' for the first time today...
and I think it was a mistake..to have never known this story before.
Lloyd is a gentleman.
Everyone trusts Lloyd because he exudes responsibility and confidence, but at times he is nervous or fidgety.
Even when he is unsure of himself, at least he does what he believes in, what he wants.
That Ione Skye has a nice smile. It's big. And happy. And resonates a lot of the same things that Lloyd is.
Lloyd is also hopeless.
Lloyd is also vulnerable.
But he is passionate, persistent...
"I'm not going to meet someone like Diane Court at a kegger."
Lloyd rambles in the same way that I think.
Lloyd makes sacrifices for his friends.
Is Lloyd charming?
Am I Lloyd Dobler?
Maybe I give myself too much credit.
I mean, I'm not a fictional character...
but I think I try to be...
at least, a little bit...
sometimes.
"Nobody really thinks it's going to work..."
Jeremy Blake Swam Out to Sea
This is a modern day Romeo & Juliet tragedy...
Jeremy Blake wrote a love note, removed his clothes and swam out to sea one week after his love, Theresa Duncan, committed suicide.
Blake was a guest in Ann Arbor as a part of the Penny Stamps Distingushed Visitors Series operated by the University of Michigan School of Art & Design, March 25, 2004. I saw him speak of his work... animating as a painter paints... and on film projects such as Punch Drunk Love. I was impressed with his art and his accomplishments at a relatively young age.
Romantic or insane? I would argue both. And Shakespeare would agree.
Maybe I would do the same.
Beck "Round the Bend" video by Jeremy Blake
Jeremy Blake wrote a love note, removed his clothes and swam out to sea one week after his love, Theresa Duncan, committed suicide.
Blake was a guest in Ann Arbor as a part of the Penny Stamps Distingushed Visitors Series operated by the University of Michigan School of Art & Design, March 25, 2004. I saw him speak of his work... animating as a painter paints... and on film projects such as Punch Drunk Love. I was impressed with his art and his accomplishments at a relatively young age.
Romantic or insane? I would argue both. And Shakespeare would agree.
Maybe I would do the same.
Beck "Round the Bend" video by Jeremy Blake
Friday, July 20, 2007
Better Than Me
I love playing basketball with people who are better than me. They make me want to work harder to earn what I want. And playing ball with them makes me want to be a better player. They make me want to be more fit. They make me want to play more ball.
And not just basketball. I want to play more sports. It's good for me. It makes me feel healthier. It makes me feel confident and accomplished, at least in terms of sports.
Fun is healthy.
And not just basketball. I want to play more sports. It's good for me. It makes me feel healthier. It makes me feel confident and accomplished, at least in terms of sports.
Fun is healthy.
I Cook an Omelette Like It's My Job
handpicked greenest beans and delicate fragments of cheddar embedded into a white and yellow pigment brushed with brownness,
a fillet of egg-ly divinity
...my job
Want
There are a number of things I want. I know what these things are. Some I want more than others. Some are petty. Some I feel I simply need.
A Louisiana hick (read:populist) governor Willie Stark was scripted once to have said, "Sometime... a man so full o want, he plain forget... what't is he want."
Words of wisdom from a "(?)wise(?)" man...?
I'm not so sure this wasn't false. Or maybe he had us all fooled.
But I know I want. And I really want somethings. And I think I know so. And I am pretty certain what they are and are not.
At this point I'm not sure I know what I'm talking about.
3AM!... no, 4!
A Louisiana hick (read:populist) governor Willie Stark was scripted once to have said, "Sometime... a man so full o want, he plain forget... what't is he want."
Words of wisdom from a "(?)wise(?)" man...?
I'm not so sure this wasn't false. Or maybe he had us all fooled.
But I know I want. And I really want somethings. And I think I know so. And I am pretty certain what they are and are not.
At this point I'm not sure I know what I'm talking about.
3AM!... no, 4!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
My Good Mornings Are Often After Noon
As I've said, I operate while unemployed on an awkward schedule. I cannot seem to fall asleep before 2AM, and I definitely struggle waking before 10AM. Of course, when others are awake in the house, I struggle sleeping too.
I seem to get more work done when everyone is a asleep. When the house is calm and quiet, I can focus on tasks at hand. I can read steadily without distraction. I can write these posts in no time. I am productive when my family appears absent. Sometimes I get lucky when they are all gone during the day. I need an office... or a place of my own.
This morning I woke at 12:40. This is in fact not morning but afternoon. My family is either gone or sleeping still on this unusual day. I've knocked a lot of my routine out in only half an hour. I am making eggs... oatmeal... and pancakes for breakfast...
or maybe just pancakes, well see if anyone else shows up to help me eat them.
Good Aftermorning.
I seem to get more work done when everyone is a asleep. When the house is calm and quiet, I can focus on tasks at hand. I can read steadily without distraction. I can write these posts in no time. I am productive when my family appears absent. Sometimes I get lucky when they are all gone during the day. I need an office... or a place of my own.
This morning I woke at 12:40. This is in fact not morning but afternoon. My family is either gone or sleeping still on this unusual day. I've knocked a lot of my routine out in only half an hour. I am making eggs... oatmeal... and pancakes for breakfast...
or maybe just pancakes, well see if anyone else shows up to help me eat them.
Good Aftermorning.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I am not XL
Folding (read: sorting and laying "neatly" in rows on the former entertainment center that is now my "dresser") some of my clothes today, I noticed a fraction of shirts that are labeled XL. I do not wear these shirts because against my slender physique, they resemble man-sails. Most of these - actually now that I'm thinking of it - all of these XLs are gifts from family members. I have once in my life purchased a XXXL fleece hoodie, huge and unbelievably warm, like a blanket for wearing.
I don't know when or why my family decided to promote me from Medium to XL, but they did so without my acknowledgment. Sometime when I became the tallest person in the family, their perception of me changed.
Perhaps there logic was that my new height determines a new girth.
Perhaps they thought that because my father wears XL that I being taller now should.
Perhaps they thought better to be safe than sorry: too big rather than too small.
None of this makes sense to me.
Granted clothes are scarcely made in my size. Stores rarely sell tall pants trim enough, or long sleeves long enough. And XL sweats always shrink baring too much forearm or belt.
Granted I am taller, but have never been as thick as my father (and by thick, I mean strong, Dad.) I've never even been able to borrow a belt.
And granted too small is ridiculous, but too big is just goofy. I like to be comfortable in my clothes, not constricted, and not robed.
I am not a giant. I am not Big&Tall. I am not extra large.
Family, please stop gifting me clothes. Just... don't.
PS. I may be more stylish than yous anyhow.
I don't know when or why my family decided to promote me from Medium to XL, but they did so without my acknowledgment. Sometime when I became the tallest person in the family, their perception of me changed.
Perhaps there logic was that my new height determines a new girth.
Perhaps they thought that because my father wears XL that I being taller now should.
Perhaps they thought better to be safe than sorry: too big rather than too small.
None of this makes sense to me.
Granted clothes are scarcely made in my size. Stores rarely sell tall pants trim enough, or long sleeves long enough. And XL sweats always shrink baring too much forearm or belt.
Granted I am taller, but have never been as thick as my father (and by thick, I mean strong, Dad.) I've never even been able to borrow a belt.
And granted too small is ridiculous, but too big is just goofy. I like to be comfortable in my clothes, not constricted, and not robed.
I am not a giant. I am not Big&Tall. I am not extra large.
Family, please stop gifting me clothes. Just... don't.
PS. I may be more stylish than yous anyhow.
Another AllNighter
I thought I was done with all-nighters when I graduated from college, but here I am awake at 4AM on a Tuesday night, Wednesday morning - or somewhere in between. When will I never learn? Probably forever. Who knows else what? I'm lost-ifused...
ate some ice cream that me dad had mixed hand-picked cherries into. I (h)ated it, and spit all the fruit out... of my mouth.
(((gibberish)))mumble
,
I'm tired but not sleepy
insomnirific music videos
nocturnal state not a goo-
smashing bottles over cowboys heads, and Slash on guitar
,,,whooaaaaaaaaaaaah -OA.
I feel dead in my eyes. I slept all day almost til the sun was down except it wasnt really up today(yesterday) because it was rainy all day which I liked but I slept
this is my favourite picture
little josheye
ate some ice cream that me dad had mixed hand-picked cherries into. I (h)ated it, and spit all the fruit out... of my mouth.
(((gibberish)))mumble
,
I'm tired but not sleepy
insomnirific music videos
nocturnal state not a goo-
smashing bottles over cowboys heads, and Slash on guitar
,,,whooaaaaaaaaaaaah -OA.
I feel dead in my eyes. I slept all day almost til the sun was down except it wasnt really up today(yesterday) because it was rainy all day which I liked but I slept
this is my favourite picture
little josheye
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Dreams 7.17.07
I had like four dreams last night/this morning. Crazy. Let's see what scraps I can recall from them...
In one dream I could float around. My shoes were like some sort of hover shoes or something because I just glided around an inch or so off the ground, but I definitely felt like Gumby.
With the slickness of my new sweet ass shoes, I sneaked into a corporate office building to try and find a friend who has refused to speak to me for a while. I "skated" (or "coasted," or "Gumby-ed") my way around a maze of peach-walled cubicles only to be stopped and questioned by random nagging staff. I thought at some point I had seen this friend but was influenced to leave rather than continue searching.
As I hovered my way out front - it was night by the way, and I know not why - this friend came chasing out after me. We talked awkwardly for a minute. Friend offered to call me soon sometime to hang out... as if there had never been anything wrong. Then I woke up, wondered about the shoes, and went back to sleep hoping to dream something better.
In another dream I was walking down a street, reasons unknown. It was also night. I passed a bank heading into a parking lot, and saw two young guys with guns preparing to enter said bank. I don't think I cared, so I pretended like hadn't seen them, but one gunman called to me telling me to "come on inside" with them. I ran. Ducking around one brick wall, I was forced to try escaping into none other than a McDonald's. (This may have been worse than being taken hostage, but I was spooked.)
I hid under a cashier's counter as the gunman barged in. He jabbered on something about looking for me. People screamed a bit, but not much. And eventually, because in this dream I am too big to fit under a counter, he spotted me. As I stood to face him he said something cocky, pointed his gun at me and fired.
I flinched, but instead of feeling a bullet hit me in the chest or arm, I felt it wedge in my right ear... not like a bullet shooting my ear, but like an ear plugbeing pressed in. I looked back at the stunned gunman, and pulled his bullet from my ear. It was unscathed, looked brand new. Then another bullet sprouted in my ear... and another in the other ear. What the hell, indeed! I pulled these out, but alas, two more. We chuckled over it. The gunman hesitated to try and shoot me again. Feeling mildly invincible, I offered the gunman the bullets in my hand. He asked me for more. I continued to pull bullets from ears until he was satisfied.
Thank God I woke up from that one.
In another dream - also night - I was stuck in a house with people I do not know. One reminded me of Colonel Sanders. He was the grandfather. I was one of three kids, a friend of the grandson.
I can't seem to remember much of this dream, but it involved some supernatural gift the grandson had that chased some evil from invading our home, or dimension, or planet... I guess.
At the end, the grandfather crashed out in the garage where he lived. My friend's older sister came home wondering what was up. I tried to flirt with her for a minute; she ignored me; and before I knew it, I was boarding a bus home in front of their house... in the middle of the night.
Writing about those dreams made me forget the fourth one.
If I remember it ever, I will come back to this entry and tell yous... but that is unlikely.
In one dream I could float around. My shoes were like some sort of hover shoes or something because I just glided around an inch or so off the ground, but I definitely felt like Gumby.
With the slickness of my new sweet ass shoes, I sneaked into a corporate office building to try and find a friend who has refused to speak to me for a while. I "skated" (or "coasted," or "Gumby-ed") my way around a maze of peach-walled cubicles only to be stopped and questioned by random nagging staff. I thought at some point I had seen this friend but was influenced to leave rather than continue searching.
As I hovered my way out front - it was night by the way, and I know not why - this friend came chasing out after me. We talked awkwardly for a minute. Friend offered to call me soon sometime to hang out... as if there had never been anything wrong. Then I woke up, wondered about the shoes, and went back to sleep hoping to dream something better.
In another dream I was walking down a street, reasons unknown. It was also night. I passed a bank heading into a parking lot, and saw two young guys with guns preparing to enter said bank. I don't think I cared, so I pretended like hadn't seen them, but one gunman called to me telling me to "come on inside" with them. I ran. Ducking around one brick wall, I was forced to try escaping into none other than a McDonald's. (This may have been worse than being taken hostage, but I was spooked.)
I hid under a cashier's counter as the gunman barged in. He jabbered on something about looking for me. People screamed a bit, but not much. And eventually, because in this dream I am too big to fit under a counter, he spotted me. As I stood to face him he said something cocky, pointed his gun at me and fired.
I flinched, but instead of feeling a bullet hit me in the chest or arm, I felt it wedge in my right ear... not like a bullet shooting my ear, but like an ear plugbeing pressed in. I looked back at the stunned gunman, and pulled his bullet from my ear. It was unscathed, looked brand new. Then another bullet sprouted in my ear... and another in the other ear. What the hell, indeed! I pulled these out, but alas, two more. We chuckled over it. The gunman hesitated to try and shoot me again. Feeling mildly invincible, I offered the gunman the bullets in my hand. He asked me for more. I continued to pull bullets from ears until he was satisfied.
Thank God I woke up from that one.
In another dream - also night - I was stuck in a house with people I do not know. One reminded me of Colonel Sanders. He was the grandfather. I was one of three kids, a friend of the grandson.
I can't seem to remember much of this dream, but it involved some supernatural gift the grandson had that chased some evil from invading our home, or dimension, or planet... I guess.
At the end, the grandfather crashed out in the garage where he lived. My friend's older sister came home wondering what was up. I tried to flirt with her for a minute; she ignored me; and before I knew it, I was boarding a bus home in front of their house... in the middle of the night.
Writing about those dreams made me forget the fourth one.
If I remember it ever, I will come back to this entry and tell yous... but that is unlikely.
Monday, July 16, 2007
One Firework Experiment
I don't know why it took me eleven days to post it. Maybe I just had to think about it for a while. But this is what happened the first time I tried to photograph a firework.
It's a little messy, but in a way that makes you want to play with it...
like finger paint.
It's a little messy, but in a way that makes you want to play with it...
like finger paint.
Who Am I in My Dreams?
I have already forgotten my dream from last night, but this story is not about that dream. It is about who I am or who I become when I fall asleep each night.
Granted I have plenty of trouble remembering most of the time. Many times I am simply myself in usual or unusual situations, like going on a road trip with people I know. Few times I may not even be in the dream. Sometimes I am watching from that third person floating-over-people point of view. But sometimes I am someone whom I aspire to be.
My dream Saturday night/Sunday morning - while I don't recall the most of it including the plot line - involved me being a pilot. Well... not an experienced or even a trained pilot, but I was flying a plane. I was a co-pilot in a commercial jet. The pilot was trying to teach me how to operate the controls. Most of the buttons were labeled with labels from buttons that I have actually seen before, like on a laptop keyboard or a cash register... or an arcade game.
At some point - I think after the first landing - the pilot skipped town. I was left to pilot the plane, AND I was given a new apprentice to teach how to fly it. Needless to say, I did try to teach him, but we mostly ended up doing aerial acrobatics in our commercial airliner and landing (safely) in the water while we played with the buttons.
I often become a "me" that I daydream of being: a pilot, an undercover agent, a chef. These are all on my list of back up jobs in case I fail as an artist or filmmaker.
But what bothers me is that I have never in my dreams been a baseball player or an astronaut. These are at the top of my list. In fact, I would give up (at least for some time) being who I am now to be play baseball or go into space. But I do not dream at night of being these "me"s. I wonder if this is because actually becoming either of these seems so far-fetched or out of reach. I could be a chef quite easily, but how much closer I am to becoming a secret agent, or a pilot.
Knowing that chances are slim that I may ever play in the Major Leagues or leave the Earth's atmosphere, I would love to at least dream that I can.... even if it's just once.
Granted I have plenty of trouble remembering most of the time. Many times I am simply myself in usual or unusual situations, like going on a road trip with people I know. Few times I may not even be in the dream. Sometimes I am watching from that third person floating-over-people point of view. But sometimes I am someone whom I aspire to be.
My dream Saturday night/Sunday morning - while I don't recall the most of it including the plot line - involved me being a pilot. Well... not an experienced or even a trained pilot, but I was flying a plane. I was a co-pilot in a commercial jet. The pilot was trying to teach me how to operate the controls. Most of the buttons were labeled with labels from buttons that I have actually seen before, like on a laptop keyboard or a cash register... or an arcade game.
At some point - I think after the first landing - the pilot skipped town. I was left to pilot the plane, AND I was given a new apprentice to teach how to fly it. Needless to say, I did try to teach him, but we mostly ended up doing aerial acrobatics in our commercial airliner and landing (safely) in the water while we played with the buttons.
I often become a "me" that I daydream of being: a pilot, an undercover agent, a chef. These are all on my list of back up jobs in case I fail as an artist or filmmaker.
But what bothers me is that I have never in my dreams been a baseball player or an astronaut. These are at the top of my list. In fact, I would give up (at least for some time) being who I am now to be play baseball or go into space. But I do not dream at night of being these "me"s. I wonder if this is because actually becoming either of these seems so far-fetched or out of reach. I could be a chef quite easily, but how much closer I am to becoming a secret agent, or a pilot.
Knowing that chances are slim that I may ever play in the Major Leagues or leave the Earth's atmosphere, I would love to at least dream that I can.... even if it's just once.
Battle Scar Make Me Proud
I like my shiner. It is too bad it is only temporary. It makes me feel tough. Sometimes I squint my eye just to make it hurt because it makes me feel tough. Behold, my battle scar.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Only Two Certainties
Right now there are only two certainties in my life.
One is the necessity for a glass of milk each morning. I simply cannot function properly if I do not drink a glass of milk when I wake up. It's like a cup of coffee. Or if I don't have it, I may as well have woken up on the wrong side of the bed.
The other is basketball, which is the only extracurricular thing (aside from searching for employment) that I do with any regularity. Well I don't do basketball, I play it, but... it is... it gives me some kind of routine to attach on to for now. And it's good exercise to boot.
One is the necessity for a glass of milk each morning. I simply cannot function properly if I do not drink a glass of milk when I wake up. It's like a cup of coffee. Or if I don't have it, I may as well have woken up on the wrong side of the bed.
The other is basketball, which is the only extracurricular thing (aside from searching for employment) that I do with any regularity. Well I don't do basketball, I play it, but... it is... it gives me some kind of routine to attach on to for now. And it's good exercise to boot.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Dream 7.14.07
Yesterday was my dad's birthday.
So in my dream, it was also my dad's birthday. I decided to take him golfing. My stepmom and little sister also came along though they do not golf, but they wanted to spend time with Dad.
We went to this new upscale golf course. The place was packed. Obviously it was very popular... and very expensive. At the only counter - I don't remember waiting in any line - we could order pretty much anything you would find a pro shop, or a bar. Naturally we needed:
a tee time for two,
golf balls,
lunch,
a membership (I think,)
two golf bag strollers because there was no way golf carts could drive this course - I'm pretty sure there was an elevator somewhere -
and two kegs... which could be carried on the strollers. (I guess we were thirsty.)
Unfortunately because this place was so new and fancy, the bill totaled over $600. I put it on my credit card. I don't how it went through because my credit card is overdrawn right now, but... over $600.
The first tee was on the close side of the building on the second floor. By the time we hiked up to it, the line at the counter ran outside, and a line had hiked up behind us at the tee. I looked out across the course.
It was like nothing you've ever seen before. It was indoors in a massive warehouse-sized complex. This place was bigger than a WalMart. Each hole was corridored off from the others by ceiling-high nets and plexiglas walls. Arranged in a maze, the holes wound around corners where the doglegs were more like U-turns. Golfers were banking shots off of walls. Some holes overlapped others above or below as each seemed to move up or down multiple floors. This strange course reminded me of an uncanny mixture of an indoor driving range, a mini-golf course, and a carnival fun house, but on a much larger scale.
My dad and his new clubs were already prepared to tee off. And as he took his first swing, I was still trying to strap the keg and my bag onto the stroller. People waiting behind us began to heckle. While I tried to hurry faster, they only grew more impatient. My dad had banked his first shot around the corner and onto the floor below, so he offered to go ahead and play the rest of the hole while I was catching up. We could play back together on the second hole. He, stepmom, and Racheal walked downstairs.
Meanwhile - this is where things get worse, not better - I thought I had strapped everything in properly. I looked for my driver, but my clubs are an incomplete set and some of them get misplaced once in a while. The driver was gone. I could've borrowed one of my dad's, but he had gone ahead. 'Come on,' people continued to harass me. The line was building. And the counter attendants were peering up the hill (or corridor, or incline, whatever.) I just grabbed a club, dropped my ball, and swung. I topped the ball. It bounced between the walls a bit. I dropped another. I swung again. I missed. Then the keg and my bag fell off the stroller. People were getting loud. I started to look for my family, but I didn't see them.
As I tried to pick up my things and pack them onto the stroller, a couple golfers jumped in front of me. They teed off, and the line gradually edged me against the wall. I threw my bag over my shoulder and pulled the keg along on the stroller. (I'm pretty sure I left a club behind.)
I took off cutting across fairways wandering throughout the second floor. I began calling for my dad who was forced to continue playing without me. I felt like a little boy lost in an amusement park. Here I am standing in the center of this maze that is some insane golfing complex looking for my family because we've been separated. I spun searching in every direction, but saw no one I recognized. I could hear only golf balls flying by. The passing golfers ignored me as they played through. I sat down and started to cry...
I had tried to do something nice for my dad and my family. I had found this amazing new adventure. I paid for a very expensive outing, which I had not even been a part of yet, and it was coming closer to an end with each passing minute. Watching the feet of each passing golfer felt like clubs swinging against my chest.
I got hit in the ribs with a golf ball. No one bothered to yell 'Fore.' I staggered to my feet, and started down the path to the front counter. At the bottom of the hill, my dad had just arrived up front as well. He was looking for me at the counter asking if they had seen me. I came up beside him. I tried to explain what happened, but I was still shaken. I didn't need to; he understood.
We gave the owners (or managers, or counterpersons, whatever) some hassle over the trouble we had. They tried to give us trouble back. But in the end we gave them their kegs, they gave us our money back, and we played through... from the fifth hole where my dad had stopped golfer traffic in order to find me.
So in my dream, it was also my dad's birthday. I decided to take him golfing. My stepmom and little sister also came along though they do not golf, but they wanted to spend time with Dad.
We went to this new upscale golf course. The place was packed. Obviously it was very popular... and very expensive. At the only counter - I don't remember waiting in any line - we could order pretty much anything you would find a pro shop, or a bar. Naturally we needed:
a tee time for two,
golf balls,
lunch,
a membership (I think,)
two golf bag strollers because there was no way golf carts could drive this course - I'm pretty sure there was an elevator somewhere -
and two kegs... which could be carried on the strollers. (I guess we were thirsty.)
Unfortunately because this place was so new and fancy, the bill totaled over $600. I put it on my credit card. I don't how it went through because my credit card is overdrawn right now, but... over $600.
The first tee was on the close side of the building on the second floor. By the time we hiked up to it, the line at the counter ran outside, and a line had hiked up behind us at the tee. I looked out across the course.
It was like nothing you've ever seen before. It was indoors in a massive warehouse-sized complex. This place was bigger than a WalMart. Each hole was corridored off from the others by ceiling-high nets and plexiglas walls. Arranged in a maze, the holes wound around corners where the doglegs were more like U-turns. Golfers were banking shots off of walls. Some holes overlapped others above or below as each seemed to move up or down multiple floors. This strange course reminded me of an uncanny mixture of an indoor driving range, a mini-golf course, and a carnival fun house, but on a much larger scale.
My dad and his new clubs were already prepared to tee off. And as he took his first swing, I was still trying to strap the keg and my bag onto the stroller. People waiting behind us began to heckle. While I tried to hurry faster, they only grew more impatient. My dad had banked his first shot around the corner and onto the floor below, so he offered to go ahead and play the rest of the hole while I was catching up. We could play back together on the second hole. He, stepmom, and Racheal walked downstairs.
Meanwhile - this is where things get worse, not better - I thought I had strapped everything in properly. I looked for my driver, but my clubs are an incomplete set and some of them get misplaced once in a while. The driver was gone. I could've borrowed one of my dad's, but he had gone ahead. 'Come on,' people continued to harass me. The line was building. And the counter attendants were peering up the hill (or corridor, or incline, whatever.) I just grabbed a club, dropped my ball, and swung. I topped the ball. It bounced between the walls a bit. I dropped another. I swung again. I missed. Then the keg and my bag fell off the stroller. People were getting loud. I started to look for my family, but I didn't see them.
As I tried to pick up my things and pack them onto the stroller, a couple golfers jumped in front of me. They teed off, and the line gradually edged me against the wall. I threw my bag over my shoulder and pulled the keg along on the stroller. (I'm pretty sure I left a club behind.)
I took off cutting across fairways wandering throughout the second floor. I began calling for my dad who was forced to continue playing without me. I felt like a little boy lost in an amusement park. Here I am standing in the center of this maze that is some insane golfing complex looking for my family because we've been separated. I spun searching in every direction, but saw no one I recognized. I could hear only golf balls flying by. The passing golfers ignored me as they played through. I sat down and started to cry...
I had tried to do something nice for my dad and my family. I had found this amazing new adventure. I paid for a very expensive outing, which I had not even been a part of yet, and it was coming closer to an end with each passing minute. Watching the feet of each passing golfer felt like clubs swinging against my chest.
I got hit in the ribs with a golf ball. No one bothered to yell 'Fore.' I staggered to my feet, and started down the path to the front counter. At the bottom of the hill, my dad had just arrived up front as well. He was looking for me at the counter asking if they had seen me. I came up beside him. I tried to explain what happened, but I was still shaken. I didn't need to; he understood.
We gave the owners (or managers, or counterpersons, whatever) some hassle over the trouble we had. They tried to give us trouble back. But in the end we gave them their kegs, they gave us our money back, and we played through... from the fifth hole where my dad had stopped golfer traffic in order to find me.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Thank God Nothing Bad Happened Today
Apparently today was Friday the 13th and I missed it. If anything bad had happened I wouldn't have been able to blame it on the unfortunate coincidence that today is both a Friday and the 13th day of July.
Aren't I lucky?
Aren't I lucky?
...which reminds me.
There are at least four separate cordless phones in my house.
When someone calls the house, no two ring simultaneously...
and no two share the same ring tone...
but every ring sounds like a chirping bird - a different chirping bird,
so when someone calls, the house sounds full of chirping birds...
and since we collectively rarely answer the house phone,
each chorus of chirping birds is followed by the typical answering machine recording... and a finale of two quick and sharp dog barks.
I hate it because I think it is funny,
and I think it is funny because I hate it.
When someone calls the house, no two ring simultaneously...
and no two share the same ring tone...
but every ring sounds like a chirping bird - a different chirping bird,
so when someone calls, the house sounds full of chirping birds...
and since we collectively rarely answer the house phone,
each chorus of chirping birds is followed by the typical answering machine recording... and a finale of two quick and sharp dog barks.
I hate it because I think it is funny,
and I think it is funny because I hate it.
Lack of Frequency?
I haven't been in a particularly articulate mood lately. Hence the infrequency of stories. I have been in listening mode, or in a mood to listen to people... and to think about things... and to be discrete, I guess. Still today I am not feeling articulate, so... short stories are shorter.
Also, look for a link to an online photo portfolio by me... sooner than later... hopefully.
And featuring classics such as...
a softly-lit portrait of Stella, the overdramatic parakeet.
Also, look for a link to an online photo portfolio by me... sooner than later... hopefully.
And featuring classics such as...
a softly-lit portrait of Stella, the overdramatic parakeet.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
David the Distraction
We were trying to work on a photo portfolio. I thought I could use his help or at least his encouragement, but all he wants to do is play games.
David the (Thieving) Gnome... and my wallet
David the (Thieving) Gnome... and my wallet
Basketball Vs. Face
I have the prettiest shiner. I earned it playing basketball on Tuesday when I caught a 230-pound elbow on the cheek.
You can barely see it under my right eye, but I can feel it.
And it - well, it barely hurts, and only when I squint...
or smile.
You can barely see it under my right eye, but I can feel it.
And it - well, it barely hurts, and only when I squint...
or smile.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Good People Want to Do Good...
No Matter How Much They Must Sacrifice
I am afraid I am a good person.
Does being a good person hurt me?
At what point is the sacrifice too much?
Am I taken advantage of on account of my kindness?
Should I ever stop being a good person,
even for a moment,
and help myself?
Does being a good person hurt me?
At what point is the sacrifice too much?
Am I taken advantage of on account of my kindness?
Should I ever stop being a good person,
even for a moment,
and help myself?
Tooths = Magnets
Today my teeth are magnets for licorice.
Not black licorice-flavored licorice, but the red licorice that they claim to be flavored like strawberries, but it isn't flavored like strawberries 'cause it tastes more like red-colored sugar than strawberries, and I hate strawberries - have nothing to do with 'em - and this sure as hell don't taste like no strawberries...
taste like...
I'll tell you what it taste like: taste like a little bit of love, little bit of warm in my soul.
These particular licorice, for the moment, plug any holes that may be there.
Red non-strawberry licorice...
filling my happiness back up for the time being...
because it's red...
but mostly because it's sweet.
Not black licorice-flavored licorice, but the red licorice that they claim to be flavored like strawberries, but it isn't flavored like strawberries 'cause it tastes more like red-colored sugar than strawberries, and I hate strawberries - have nothing to do with 'em - and this sure as hell don't taste like no strawberries...
taste like...
I'll tell you what it taste like: taste like a little bit of love, little bit of warm in my soul.
These particular licorice, for the moment, plug any holes that may be there.
Red non-strawberry licorice...
filling my happiness back up for the time being...
because it's red...
but mostly because it's sweet.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Gusts to 27mph
93º
42% humidity
It is hot, but breezy.
The aroma of thunderstorms,
Approaching whitecaps loom over the western horizon
Shade in the backyard...
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim,
David Sedaris, Ben Folds, Plain White T's
Flies eye my lunch:
Tuna fish, home-made salsa, spinach dip,
Ham-cheese-onion omelet,
All on whole wheat burger buns,
A can of ginger ale, and a glass of water
The sun hides for a moment
Though there are no raindrops
Yet
Anxiously awaiting the first strike of lightning
Amidst the orchestra of upturned leaves,
I will have a solid photo portfolio by days end...
42% humidity
It is hot, but breezy.
The aroma of thunderstorms,
Approaching whitecaps loom over the western horizon
Shade in the backyard...
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim,
David Sedaris, Ben Folds, Plain White T's
Flies eye my lunch:
Tuna fish, home-made salsa, spinach dip,
Ham-cheese-onion omelet,
All on whole wheat burger buns,
A can of ginger ale, and a glass of water
The sun hides for a moment
Though there are no raindrops
Yet
Anxiously awaiting the first strike of lightning
Amidst the orchestra of upturned leaves,
I will have a solid photo portfolio by days end...
Underappreciated Lifesavers in Seoul
Drinkers in Korea Dial for Designated Drivers nytimes.com
Chronically fatigued, underpaid, and overworked overnight, I have a great respect for someone who has the courage to perform such a job. I would hope they realize the that they not only provide a transportation service, but a lifesaving service. When this business picks up more world-wide, and statistics are readily available on these designated drivers for hire, I expect the numbers of lives they save (i.e. the decline in drunk driving accidents) to be comparable to the lives that firefighters or policeman save.
Great public service. Kudos, South Koreans.
Spider Vs. Sleeping Joey, Postponed
Go figure, the only female I ever find randomly lying in my bed is a spider.
Some luck.
Had I not caught her under my covers, one of us surely would have paid for it. Tonight I chased her out.
But if she returns, perhaps we will lie awake all night talking about how much we long for the comfort of -
Yes, right.
If I ever found a random lying in my bed, I would ask her who she is and how she got here, regardless of how single I am at the time. I would heroically help her find wherever she was lost from. Fighting bad guys along the way, I would reunite her with her lost love. I would receive gracious thanks and praise from the townspeople for my noble deeds. And riding off into the sunset, preferably on a faithful steed, back to my bachelor-esque life of rescuing the people, I could be heard singing most debonairly the theme to Batman.
And if I find that spider in my bed again, I will probably have to kill it.
This makes me sound insensitive, I think to myself, as I drift into a deep slumber. The venom of her sultry sting coursing through m-
You'll have to forgive me. It's late.
And I just don't feel like deleting this because it makes me laugh.
Some luck.
Had I not caught her under my covers, one of us surely would have paid for it. Tonight I chased her out.
But if she returns, perhaps we will lie awake all night talking about how much we long for the comfort of -
Yes, right.
If I ever found a random lying in my bed, I would ask her who she is and how she got here, regardless of how single I am at the time. I would heroically help her find wherever she was lost from. Fighting bad guys along the way, I would reunite her with her lost love. I would receive gracious thanks and praise from the townspeople for my noble deeds. And riding off into the sunset, preferably on a faithful steed, back to my bachelor-esque life of rescuing the people, I could be heard singing most debonairly the theme to Batman.
And if I find that spider in my bed again, I will probably have to kill it.
This makes me sound insensitive, I think to myself, as I drift into a deep slumber. The venom of her sultry sting coursing through m-
You'll have to forgive me. It's late.
And I just don't feel like deleting this because it makes me laugh.
Monday, July 9, 2007
"Doctors are now medicating unhappiness..."
It looks like there is a solution to waking up in the morning.
CDC: Antidepressants most prescribed drugs in U.S.
"'Depression is a major public health issue,' said Dr. Kelly Posner." And here I thought it was a fact of life.
"She added that 25 percent of adults will have a major depressive episode." I thought we all would. Is it not everyone? This would be depressing.
I understand that some people can be clinically depressed, but prescribing drugs to make someone happier = just one more reason I am disappointed in America.
CDC: Antidepressants most prescribed drugs in U.S.
"'Depression is a major public health issue,' said Dr. Kelly Posner." And here I thought it was a fact of life.
"She added that 25 percent of adults will have a major depressive episode." I thought we all would. Is it not everyone? This would be depressing.
I understand that some people can be clinically depressed, but prescribing drugs to make someone happier = just one more reason I am disappointed in America.
I read the news like it's my job.
Really. I wake up every morning and feel like my day cannot begin without checking up on the world. Perhaps I need to make sure it is taking good care of itself. Do I need to save the day? Or do I just need to know it is safe to go outside?
The News is like my 'Good Morning' cup of coffee... although I hate coffee. It's usually a glass of milk I can't go without. Erases that parched feeling, you know.
In the morning, I always look at (in this order):
** the "Headlines" RSS feed in the Firefox toolbar - usually links to BBC
** CNN.com for straight-to-the-point fact-based news
** NYTimes.com for creative stories I more enjoy reading - if I were biased this is all I would read
** ESPN.com for sports news obviously
Then I link or search to wherever the stories I have read might lead me. Whether it's some new technology, a big game recap, discoveries in space or on Mars (my favorite,) or - what I expect myself to keep up on - art/film news, I always seem to look for something extra to read... especially if what I've read so far seems boring. I wouldn't want to start my day off feeling like the world is going to be boring today.
Today's topics of interest:
** a plastic plane - well... mostly
** the case of the missing lake
** “The Case Against Perfection”
** homeruns bound for "the drink" - I have no idea where I got that from. "The drink?"
** and the biggest annual bicycle race in the world
Naturally I am drawn to the articles with the most photos, or sometimes the prettiest photos. Some of which are just photo essays. Others are friends' blogs, especially when they keep them up-to-date. And sometimes... sometimes it's the facebook that has the best photos of the day. I usually don't even read a story if there isn't at least one picture.
Movie trailers are good to keep up on. I have a special place in my heart for talking robots. Not the lame-ass fictional kind, but more realistic ones.
And often enough, I have a soft place.
Oh. And I always check the weather too. Ann Arbor's, not Westland's, regardless of where I'll be. Dangerously hot today...
I think I'll go play some basketball before I get back to job searching... and law fighting.
The News is like my 'Good Morning' cup of coffee... although I hate coffee. It's usually a glass of milk I can't go without. Erases that parched feeling, you know.
In the morning, I always look at (in this order):
** the "Headlines" RSS feed in the Firefox toolbar - usually links to BBC
** CNN.com for straight-to-the-point fact-based news
** NYTimes.com for creative stories I more enjoy reading - if I were biased this is all I would read
** ESPN.com for sports news obviously
Then I link or search to wherever the stories I have read might lead me. Whether it's some new technology, a big game recap, discoveries in space or on Mars (my favorite,) or - what I expect myself to keep up on - art/film news, I always seem to look for something extra to read... especially if what I've read so far seems boring. I wouldn't want to start my day off feeling like the world is going to be boring today.
Today's topics of interest:
** a plastic plane - well... mostly
** the case of the missing lake
** “The Case Against Perfection”
** homeruns bound for "the drink" - I have no idea where I got that from. "The drink?"
** and the biggest annual bicycle race in the world
Naturally I am drawn to the articles with the most photos, or sometimes the prettiest photos. Some of which are just photo essays. Others are friends' blogs, especially when they keep them up-to-date. And sometimes... sometimes it's the facebook that has the best photos of the day. I usually don't even read a story if there isn't at least one picture.
Movie trailers are good to keep up on. I have a special place in my heart for talking robots. Not the lame-ass fictional kind, but more realistic ones.
And often enough, I have a soft place.
Oh. And I always check the weather too. Ann Arbor's, not Westland's, regardless of where I'll be. Dangerously hot today...
I think I'll go play some basketball before I get back to job searching... and law fighting.
How many clicks does it take 'til you get to _____________ ?
Nine clicks got me here (...or there) - http://artmakers.blogspot.com/ - where I saw Scotch Tape sculptures.
Where will the 'Next Blog>>' button take you?
Where will the 'Next Blog>>' button take you?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Now On... and on
I like these guys.
In June, while I was out in LA working on a documentary, they introduced me to some of the hip-hop scene. (I ran into Andrew Kligier at a show they host, Elevation.)
They let us crash at their place a few nights too. And introduced us to some killer breakfast.
Good people... Now On:
DJ Haircut, IX Lives, and Jackson Perry
= Drew Cohen, Mike Demps, and Jackson Perry
In June, while I was out in LA working on a documentary, they introduced me to some of the hip-hop scene. (I ran into Andrew Kligier at a show they host, Elevation.)
They let us crash at their place a few nights too. And introduced us to some killer breakfast.
Good people... Now On:
DJ Haircut, IX Lives, and Jackson Perry
= Drew Cohen, Mike Demps, and Jackson Perry
Am I Not Dreaming?
I have not had - or I don't remember having - a dream since the last time I played basketball... last Sunday, nearly a week ago.
Before then, I had been getting exercise pretty regularly, something intense every other day and at least stretching every day. I had also been dreaming. I wrote about a couple of them here. They were obviously decent vivid memorable dreams. But now I have been very busy sitting on my ass for five straight days. Mostly at the computer trying to get some photography favors done and feeling more and more pressured to find for work... (so they can get me outta the house. They could not want this more than I do.)
I cannot help but think that this lack of exercise is somehow related to my lack of dreams, and probably lack of imagination lately. But why? Is it simply because I haven't exercised and kept my body healthy? Is it because I've been cramming on things that "need" to get done, and stressing about them? Is it because I haven't played and released some of this stress? Is it because the blood circulating through my brain is stagnant?
I went swimming yesterday. I went out to the bar last night. Still I do not remember dreaming before I woke this morning. Maybe I need to do something that makes me sweat and think. Maybe I just really need to exercise both my body and my brain if I want to dream. From the sound of it, I think I do.
Before then, I had been getting exercise pretty regularly, something intense every other day and at least stretching every day. I had also been dreaming. I wrote about a couple of them here. They were obviously decent vivid memorable dreams. But now I have been very busy sitting on my ass for five straight days. Mostly at the computer trying to get some photography favors done and feeling more and more pressured to find for work... (so they can get me outta the house. They could not want this more than I do.)
I cannot help but think that this lack of exercise is somehow related to my lack of dreams, and probably lack of imagination lately. But why? Is it simply because I haven't exercised and kept my body healthy? Is it because I've been cramming on things that "need" to get done, and stressing about them? Is it because I haven't played and released some of this stress? Is it because the blood circulating through my brain is stagnant?
I went swimming yesterday. I went out to the bar last night. Still I do not remember dreaming before I woke this morning. Maybe I need to do something that makes me sweat and think. Maybe I just really need to exercise both my body and my brain if I want to dream. From the sound of it, I think I do.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
If Westland had a water tower...
we could paint 'Save Joey' on it. We could spread the word that I am terminally ill. We could collect donations at school. We could advertise in the newspapers. We could start social action groups. We could foil every effort of our meddling principal to spoil our fun. We could have messenger - particularly a singing nurse - visit my home to wish me well. And we could throw a benefit concert... to save Joey.
And by we could, I mean everyone else I know could do all of these great things, while I took my best friend and a special lady out on the town on such a nice day.
I could borrow a rich man's under-appreciated 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California. I could dine at a fine restaurant posing as a local business baron . I could sing in a parade while regular citizens break out into choreographed song and dance; Danke Schoen and Twist and Shout are perfect options. I could visit a museum and consider my place in the world. I could catch a homerun at a baseball game, and be on TV. I could - and by I could, I mean we could - accomplish all of this in one "day off" from the typical mundanity of our everyday lives. Because it's just too nice too go to school today. Then when all is said and done, and I am so close to getting caught in my independent and people-loving ways of spreading joy throughout the world, fate would make everything OK, because what I(we) do will be good.
(And Rooney is an old confused man, whose outlook on life will hopefully improve.)
Hey. They could even make a movie about our adventures.
...
Wait. Ann Arbor has a water tower.
And by we could, I mean everyone else I know could do all of these great things, while I took my best friend and a special lady out on the town on such a nice day.
I could borrow a rich man's under-appreciated 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California. I could dine at a fine restaurant posing as a local business baron . I could sing in a parade while regular citizens break out into choreographed song and dance; Danke Schoen and Twist and Shout are perfect options. I could visit a museum and consider my place in the world. I could catch a homerun at a baseball game, and be on TV. I could - and by I could, I mean we could - accomplish all of this in one "day off" from the typical mundanity of our everyday lives. Because it's just too nice too go to school today. Then when all is said and done, and I am so close to getting caught in my independent and people-loving ways of spreading joy throughout the world, fate would make everything OK, because what I(we) do will be good.
(And Rooney is an old confused man, whose outlook on life will hopefully improve.)
Hey. They could even make a movie about our adventures.
...
Wait. Ann Arbor has a water tower.
Friday, July 6, 2007
"There'd Be Days Like This," My Momma Said.
I received a call from the Levy County court in Florida yesterday. A representative was contacting me regarding the letters I had written contesting a citation and another contesting a judgment on the case... a judgment made, mind you, without my knowledge.
She basically offered, in not so few words - and as I grew increasingly upset - three options: pay the fine, have my license suspended, or appear in court... in Florida. Obviously I am not in any capacity to pay the fine or fly to Florida for an afternoon. I was so much more than upset, but I was able to refrain from cussing anyone out, or choking them through the phone.
Let's rewind a few weeks. I had been written this bogus ticket. I was not guilty. I had to do something about it before I went to the west coast to work on a documentary. I wrote the Levy County court in Florida a letter not pleading, but stating my case (i.e. the facts.)
In this letter I detailed my character and my current situation.
I explained how I have a reputation for honesty and leadership. My record is CLEAN.
I had just graduated from college.
I was helping my mother leave, who was among many friends and family who were leaving around this short period of time. This was difficult for me.
I did not have a job yet due in part to living in Michigan. I had little money to survive on until I found a job. My debt will soon come calling for payment. Though it has proven a greater challenge I would like to stay in Detroit to make change in my city.
I was under a lot of stress at the moment, and a fraudulent police citation was not something else I needed on my mind.
And in this letter I detailed the event, and by detailed, I mean every detail.
The whole letter was over three pages long. This is the bulk of it:
"
On May 10th, 2007, I was traveling with my mother along US-19/98 (aka SR-55) southbound entering Inglis, FL. We were on a moving trip from the Metro-Detroit, MI, area. We had stopped to see family in Cincinnati and New Orleans. This final leg of our journey would take us to Clearwater, our moving destination, my parents’ new home, where my stepfather was awaiting our arrival.
As you may remember, the days surrounding the 10th of May were quite eventful. A number of forest/swamp fires were breaking out. And a tropical depression was sweeping the resulting smoke clouds across the gulf coast of the state. These dense and dark clouds consequence of the fires lied at ground level and contributed to a significantly lower visibility than normal. The sun was drowned out of the sky. And though the air seemed fog-like, the particles were not a clear or white moisture, but rather a black burnt ash.
As stated, I was traveling southbound entering Inglis. As one may know, the speed limits change regularly along this highway from 65mph in rural areas outside cities to 45mph while in some range of a city or town. Entering Inglis, there is such a shift in speed limit from 65mph to 45mph.
As I approached Inglis city limits, the “45 mph speed limit” sign marking this change in speed limit from 65mph came into my visibility, albeit slightly later than usual as a result of lower visibility due to forest fire smoke. The moment I saw this sign I immediately began to decelerate from the approximately 65mph I was traveling in cruise control. I specifically made all safe effort to slow to the 45 mph speed limit before reaching the precise intersection/turnaround where the speed limit zones, in fact, change just within paces of the speed limit sign. As I watched my speed I realized I was able to slow to between 45-50mph upon reaching the 45mph zone, and continued to slow to approximately 40mph.
As my glances toward the speedometer returned focus to the road, I noticed a police vehicle parked at this turnaround just opposite the intersection from the 45mph speed limit sign. I cannot confirm whether he was waiting to radar vehicles, as he appeared to be stationary in an actual traffic lane, but he would later claim to have recorded my speed at 66mph, its peak assuming my cruise control was, in fact, set to 66mph, just over the approximate 65mph. The officer must have proceeded to pull out behind me, and follow our right turn at the next light, Follow Your Dream Drive, or Road, because it was then I noticed I was being pulled over. For what, I could not imagine because in no way did I violate any laws I am familiar with.
As he approached our vehicle, I pondered reasons why he may want to speak to me. Perhaps he felt I braked to quickly and wanted to suggest I be more careful in the unusually smoky weather. Perhaps he noticed out-of-state plates and was suspicious. Perhaps he noticed there were dogs in the car without seatbelts on. Needless to say speeding was the last concern on my mind because – just as I had been careful during the 2000+ miles I had driven already – I specifically avoided driving more than 5mph over any speed limit.
(For lack of legibility on the citation I continue to refer to the officer as “the officer.”)
The officer reached my unrolled window and asked for my license and registration. We offered it to him. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Mr. Ostrander?” he asked.
Of course, I didn’t offer the reasons I had pondered as I hesitate to accuse an officer for pulling me over for not breaking a law. “I really have no idea, sir.”
This is the point where the police officer (of the law) tries to tell me he clocked me going 66mph in a 45mph zone. This statement is untrue for all the reasons explained above. I may have been at some peak speed moment been traveling at 66mph, but a radar recording of 66mph certainly could only have occurred before my braking while still in the 65mph zone. In fact, as the officer had virtually been at the 45mph sign, he could only have been able to read any speed I was traveling in excess of 50mph while I was still in the 65mph zone.
I do not claim that the officer was lying. Perhaps he was simply mistaken. Perhaps he believed he saw something that did not happen. Perhaps it may seem that an out-of-state plate signifies a tourist. Perhaps tourists seem likely candidates to break traffic laws. Perhaps tourists are easy targets. (Why would a tourist return to Florida from 1000 miles away to fight a ticket?) Regardless of why, the fact of the matter stands that he did falsely illegitimately accuse me.
I refused to even consider contesting his claim directly for fear that he was intentionally falsifying it, and would take it to the next level, trying to arrest me. This would have upset my mother incredibly. As a recovering cancer survivor with heart problems, unnecessary stress is the last thing her body needs.
After the officer claimed I was speeding, he continued to ask me why I had turned off the highway onto Follow That Dream Pkwy, as if accusing me of trying to run from him, which is absurd because I wasn’t even aware he had decided to follow me. I had to explain that I was helping my mother move. She was telling me about this “great little house with cabins that [she] could have bought and turned into a bed and breakfast.” She and my aunt could have just years before, and I wouldn’t believe what the name of the road is that the house is on. Of course, to my surprise it is on Follow That Dream Pkwy. And, as it turns out, someone did buy this house and cabins… and he or she did turn it into a bed and breakfast. (Forgive me as the name escapes me, but it couldn’t be but a mile or so west of SR-55.) But my mother was telling me about this place, and wanted to show it to me. This is why I turned.
The officer began to walk away before I finished my explanation as if he hadn’t even been listening… or lost interest. During the minutes we sat waiting for him to return with our documentation, ash and bugs had decided to swarm into my open window. This added to our dissatisfied mood, but still I held my calm.
When the officer returned, he explained that he only wrote me a ticket for 64mph in a 45mph zone. This was supposed to offer some sort of financial break and driver license point break. Naturally I was in complete awe that he could have the audacity to write me a ticket for on offense I did not commit, but later I understand that it is very possible this was not done in deceit but in mistake. The officer explained my options regarding accepting guilt and paying the ticket or completing a driving course, or contesting the ticket. I confidently asked him what procedures I would need to take to contest the ticket. This seemed to throw him off a bit – I am sure he didn’t expect my confidence, or perhaps it influenced him to question his call – as he hesitated in… finding the words to explain how I would have to request a hearing with the, uh, clerk of court.
The officer told me I had to sign the ticket. I did. He ripped off and handed me my copy of the citation, suggested I have a nice day to which I thanked him, and walked away. Watching him return to his car, I folded the ticket placing it in the console, and waited to get my driver’s license back. Oops, he called to me, “Mr. Ostrander. Here’s your license.” Yes, clearly my confidence had thrown him… a bit.
I hope this letter/document finds you(s) in good spirit. I hope it finds Florida in better shape than the fires of early May allowed. I hope you understand that the words I write are truth. And I hope you can overturn this citation, the fine, and point penalties that would otherwise infect my clean record.
Thank you for your attention,
Joseph Ostrander
BFA, UofMichigan, 2007
Proud Citizen of Detroit and its MetroArea
"
If you were a judge completely removed from the actual event and truly unbiased reading this letter, would you find it in your heart to believe it and waive this citation? It is the truth after all. And not only is it the truth, but - and excuse my pride for a moment - the victim here is a good person who has earned better than this kind of harassment.
The judge offered me, in one vintage carbon-copied form, a plea of 'No Contest' and no points on my license if I paid the $182.50 fine. I declined. I wrote another letter explaining how I had not pled 'No Contest.' As I am not guilty I ought not be required to pay any fine. Therefore I will not. And I asked why I was not offered a hearing as the officer and the citation claimed they would.
The next week I received the phone call.
I'm considering talking to a lawyer though I cannot pay one.
I'm considering writing more letters weekly until they waive the ticket.
I'm not considering paying the fine.
Otherwise, I am not sure what else I can do.
She basically offered, in not so few words - and as I grew increasingly upset - three options: pay the fine, have my license suspended, or appear in court... in Florida. Obviously I am not in any capacity to pay the fine or fly to Florida for an afternoon. I was so much more than upset, but I was able to refrain from cussing anyone out, or choking them through the phone.
Let's rewind a few weeks. I had been written this bogus ticket. I was not guilty. I had to do something about it before I went to the west coast to work on a documentary. I wrote the Levy County court in Florida a letter not pleading, but stating my case (i.e. the facts.)
In this letter I detailed my character and my current situation.
I explained how I have a reputation for honesty and leadership. My record is CLEAN.
I had just graduated from college.
I was helping my mother leave, who was among many friends and family who were leaving around this short period of time. This was difficult for me.
I did not have a job yet due in part to living in Michigan. I had little money to survive on until I found a job. My debt will soon come calling for payment. Though it has proven a greater challenge I would like to stay in Detroit to make change in my city.
I was under a lot of stress at the moment, and a fraudulent police citation was not something else I needed on my mind.
And in this letter I detailed the event, and by detailed, I mean every detail.
The whole letter was over three pages long. This is the bulk of it:
"
On May 10th, 2007, I was traveling with my mother along US-19/98 (aka SR-55) southbound entering Inglis, FL. We were on a moving trip from the Metro-Detroit, MI, area. We had stopped to see family in Cincinnati and New Orleans. This final leg of our journey would take us to Clearwater, our moving destination, my parents’ new home, where my stepfather was awaiting our arrival.
As you may remember, the days surrounding the 10th of May were quite eventful. A number of forest/swamp fires were breaking out. And a tropical depression was sweeping the resulting smoke clouds across the gulf coast of the state. These dense and dark clouds consequence of the fires lied at ground level and contributed to a significantly lower visibility than normal. The sun was drowned out of the sky. And though the air seemed fog-like, the particles were not a clear or white moisture, but rather a black burnt ash.
As stated, I was traveling southbound entering Inglis. As one may know, the speed limits change regularly along this highway from 65mph in rural areas outside cities to 45mph while in some range of a city or town. Entering Inglis, there is such a shift in speed limit from 65mph to 45mph.
As I approached Inglis city limits, the “45 mph speed limit” sign marking this change in speed limit from 65mph came into my visibility, albeit slightly later than usual as a result of lower visibility due to forest fire smoke. The moment I saw this sign I immediately began to decelerate from the approximately 65mph I was traveling in cruise control. I specifically made all safe effort to slow to the 45 mph speed limit before reaching the precise intersection/turnaround where the speed limit zones, in fact, change just within paces of the speed limit sign. As I watched my speed I realized I was able to slow to between 45-50mph upon reaching the 45mph zone, and continued to slow to approximately 40mph.
As my glances toward the speedometer returned focus to the road, I noticed a police vehicle parked at this turnaround just opposite the intersection from the 45mph speed limit sign. I cannot confirm whether he was waiting to radar vehicles, as he appeared to be stationary in an actual traffic lane, but he would later claim to have recorded my speed at 66mph, its peak assuming my cruise control was, in fact, set to 66mph, just over the approximate 65mph. The officer must have proceeded to pull out behind me, and follow our right turn at the next light, Follow Your Dream Drive, or Road, because it was then I noticed I was being pulled over. For what, I could not imagine because in no way did I violate any laws I am familiar with.
As he approached our vehicle, I pondered reasons why he may want to speak to me. Perhaps he felt I braked to quickly and wanted to suggest I be more careful in the unusually smoky weather. Perhaps he noticed out-of-state plates and was suspicious. Perhaps he noticed there were dogs in the car without seatbelts on. Needless to say speeding was the last concern on my mind because – just as I had been careful during the 2000+ miles I had driven already – I specifically avoided driving more than 5mph over any speed limit.
(For lack of legibility on the citation I continue to refer to the officer as “the officer.”)
The officer reached my unrolled window and asked for my license and registration. We offered it to him. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Mr. Ostrander?” he asked.
Of course, I didn’t offer the reasons I had pondered as I hesitate to accuse an officer for pulling me over for not breaking a law. “I really have no idea, sir.”
This is the point where the police officer (of the law) tries to tell me he clocked me going 66mph in a 45mph zone. This statement is untrue for all the reasons explained above. I may have been at some peak speed moment been traveling at 66mph, but a radar recording of 66mph certainly could only have occurred before my braking while still in the 65mph zone. In fact, as the officer had virtually been at the 45mph sign, he could only have been able to read any speed I was traveling in excess of 50mph while I was still in the 65mph zone.
I do not claim that the officer was lying. Perhaps he was simply mistaken. Perhaps he believed he saw something that did not happen. Perhaps it may seem that an out-of-state plate signifies a tourist. Perhaps tourists seem likely candidates to break traffic laws. Perhaps tourists are easy targets. (Why would a tourist return to Florida from 1000 miles away to fight a ticket?) Regardless of why, the fact of the matter stands that he did falsely illegitimately accuse me.
I refused to even consider contesting his claim directly for fear that he was intentionally falsifying it, and would take it to the next level, trying to arrest me. This would have upset my mother incredibly. As a recovering cancer survivor with heart problems, unnecessary stress is the last thing her body needs.
After the officer claimed I was speeding, he continued to ask me why I had turned off the highway onto Follow That Dream Pkwy, as if accusing me of trying to run from him, which is absurd because I wasn’t even aware he had decided to follow me. I had to explain that I was helping my mother move. She was telling me about this “great little house with cabins that [she] could have bought and turned into a bed and breakfast.” She and my aunt could have just years before, and I wouldn’t believe what the name of the road is that the house is on. Of course, to my surprise it is on Follow That Dream Pkwy. And, as it turns out, someone did buy this house and cabins… and he or she did turn it into a bed and breakfast. (Forgive me as the name escapes me, but it couldn’t be but a mile or so west of SR-55.) But my mother was telling me about this place, and wanted to show it to me. This is why I turned.
The officer began to walk away before I finished my explanation as if he hadn’t even been listening… or lost interest. During the minutes we sat waiting for him to return with our documentation, ash and bugs had decided to swarm into my open window. This added to our dissatisfied mood, but still I held my calm.
When the officer returned, he explained that he only wrote me a ticket for 64mph in a 45mph zone. This was supposed to offer some sort of financial break and driver license point break. Naturally I was in complete awe that he could have the audacity to write me a ticket for on offense I did not commit, but later I understand that it is very possible this was not done in deceit but in mistake. The officer explained my options regarding accepting guilt and paying the ticket or completing a driving course, or contesting the ticket. I confidently asked him what procedures I would need to take to contest the ticket. This seemed to throw him off a bit – I am sure he didn’t expect my confidence, or perhaps it influenced him to question his call – as he hesitated in… finding the words to explain how I would have to request a hearing with the, uh, clerk of court.
The officer told me I had to sign the ticket. I did. He ripped off and handed me my copy of the citation, suggested I have a nice day to which I thanked him, and walked away. Watching him return to his car, I folded the ticket placing it in the console, and waited to get my driver’s license back. Oops, he called to me, “Mr. Ostrander. Here’s your license.” Yes, clearly my confidence had thrown him… a bit.
I hope this letter/document finds you(s) in good spirit. I hope it finds Florida in better shape than the fires of early May allowed. I hope you understand that the words I write are truth. And I hope you can overturn this citation, the fine, and point penalties that would otherwise infect my clean record.
Thank you for your attention,
Joseph Ostrander
BFA, UofMichigan, 2007
Proud Citizen of Detroit and its MetroArea
"
If you were a judge completely removed from the actual event and truly unbiased reading this letter, would you find it in your heart to believe it and waive this citation? It is the truth after all. And not only is it the truth, but - and excuse my pride for a moment - the victim here is a good person who has earned better than this kind of harassment.
The judge offered me, in one vintage carbon-copied form, a plea of 'No Contest' and no points on my license if I paid the $182.50 fine. I declined. I wrote another letter explaining how I had not pled 'No Contest.' As I am not guilty I ought not be required to pay any fine. Therefore I will not. And I asked why I was not offered a hearing as the officer and the citation claimed they would.
The next week I received the phone call.
I'm considering talking to a lawyer though I cannot pay one.
I'm considering writing more letters weekly until they waive the ticket.
I'm not considering paying the fine.
Otherwise, I am not sure what else I can do.
Momma Told Me There'd Be Days Like This
In Florida not long ago, I was written a speeding ticket. I was not speeding. The officer lied - or perhaps, he was mistaken - but he wrote me a ticket nonetheless.
(I will continue this story in the morning...
"days like this" indeed.)
(I will continue this story in the morning...
"days like this" indeed.)
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Not All Good People Are Sane & Not All Sane People Are Good
I think this is a general rule that could apply to any set of terms.
Not the rule of 'good' vs. 'sane,' but the rule defined as:
Not all of us who are this are also that, and not all of us who are that are also this. While some people are A and B, being A doesn't make you B, and vice versa.
An obvious example:
Not all parents are responsible (as opposed to what we may expect.) Likewise, and obviously, not all who are responsible are parents, or will be parents, or could be, or in some opinions should be...
What even surprises me is the peculiar accuracy behind this claim. Could you find truth in any pair of labels that you plug into this definition?
Try it.
Think of two groups/types/labels of people. Some may seem obvious; some silly; some outrageous or completely absurd. But for any pair of labels, I'd bet that I can justify your claim, or question your doubt.
Not the rule of 'good' vs. 'sane,' but the rule defined as:
Not all of us who are this are also that, and not all of us who are that are also this. While some people are A and B, being A doesn't make you B, and vice versa.
An obvious example:
Not all parents are responsible (as opposed to what we may expect.) Likewise, and obviously, not all who are responsible are parents, or will be parents, or could be, or in some opinions should be...
What even surprises me is the peculiar accuracy behind this claim. Could you find truth in any pair of labels that you plug into this definition?
Try it.
Think of two groups/types/labels of people. Some may seem obvious; some silly; some outrageous or completely absurd. But for any pair of labels, I'd bet that I can justify your claim, or question your doubt.
19 Hours Since Last Post
Is my imagination on hold?
Yes. I am on a photo editing spree.
I should getting paid for this. But who would pay me? Me? With what cash flow? I cannot afford to pay you - me. Ouch.
Don't let your head implode.
That was close...?
*phew*
I'm feeling much better now.
Time to break - oh, I should eat something already.
^gawh^
Up... Up... Stop typing. Then get up.
Yes. I am on a photo editing spree.
I should getting paid for this. But who would pay me? Me? With what cash flow? I cannot afford to pay you - me. Ouch.
Don't let your head implode.
That was close...?
*phew*
I'm feeling much better now.
Time to break - oh, I should eat something already.
^gawh^
Up... Up... Stop typing. Then get up.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Broken Stasis
I have a sister.
My sister dates a boy.
This boy is in a band.
The band has four members.
These members are taking active steps to become recognized by an audience that could build them into a working and paid band, a mainstay, a name. And in doing so, they are earning the right to call themselves Broken Stasis.
My sister dates a boy.
This boy is in a band.
The band has four members.
These members are taking active steps to become recognized by an audience that could build them into a working and paid band, a mainstay, a name. And in doing so, they are earning the right to call themselves Broken Stasis.
dream 4th of july?
it would seem waking is always inevitable too.
i'm glad i could cut that dream off. i wasn't even in it.
it was like some stupid-ass reality game challenge show being filmed. i was watching all this dumb bickering going down among a bunch of characters i never even met. talk about off the wall... i'm not sure this dream was ever even on it... the wall, that is.
i'll knock it up to too much junk food before bed. and call it a nightmare.
back to sleep.
i'm glad i could cut that dream off. i wasn't even in it.
it was like some stupid-ass reality game challenge show being filmed. i was watching all this dumb bickering going down among a bunch of characters i never even met. talk about off the wall... i'm not sure this dream was ever even on it... the wall, that is.
i'll knock it up to too much junk food before bed. and call it a nightmare.
back to sleep.
Sleep is always inevitable.
I have no idea how I manage to slip from waking up late and going to bed late into waking up early and going to bed early, and from sleeping barely to sleeping too much, back into sleeping too late and staying awake til 3-frickin-30 AM.
This cannot be healthy, but right now I am barely tired. Of course, I was having fun with the family... well, those who are still here, in Westland. Fun can trump sleep sometimes, for a while.
If I read something I will fall asleep.
Or if I simply stay... try to stay awake - no , then I would probably be awake when the sun came up. My family would keep me awake with their constant stepping on the floor, and cooking, and watching TV, and opening doors, and doing chores. I would not sleep until they left. But then, tomorrow is Independence Day. Everyone will be home. In fact, more family and friends would probably come over. I would not sleep tomorrow.
I really don't want to waste my time sleeping right now actually. I think I have enough energy to get some work done. I have a lot of photos to edit. I can write some more. I always seem to get more work done at night when the world is sleeping... at least on this third (or so) of it. The air is quiet. I don't have to listen to the rush of traffic or mass of muffled conversations... or fireworks, like the past ten days straight every night. At night when everyone else is sleeping I can find some peace and concentrate.
I didn't have this problem when I did not live with family. When I lived with friends, with people in school on the same type of schedule facing the same deadlines under the same pressure, we could find some accord, and feed off of that.
I need some more of that. I need to look for a place, a job, an opportunity to be in that kind of environment again. Then I would not have to sleep. I could pull a five-day week when I only sleep sporadically while waiting for the computer to finish its rendering or what-not it takes its time doing. I could be a pink battery-powered bunny, going and going and going until-
...
... ¬zz..
This cannot be healthy, but right now I am barely tired. Of course, I was having fun with the family... well, those who are still here, in Westland. Fun can trump sleep sometimes, for a while.
If I read something I will fall asleep.
Or if I simply stay... try to stay awake - no , then I would probably be awake when the sun came up. My family would keep me awake with their constant stepping on the floor, and cooking, and watching TV, and opening doors, and doing chores. I would not sleep until they left. But then, tomorrow is Independence Day. Everyone will be home. In fact, more family and friends would probably come over. I would not sleep tomorrow.
I really don't want to waste my time sleeping right now actually. I think I have enough energy to get some work done. I have a lot of photos to edit. I can write some more. I always seem to get more work done at night when the world is sleeping... at least on this third (or so) of it. The air is quiet. I don't have to listen to the rush of traffic or mass of muffled conversations... or fireworks, like the past ten days straight every night. At night when everyone else is sleeping I can find some peace and concentrate.
I didn't have this problem when I did not live with family. When I lived with friends, with people in school on the same type of schedule facing the same deadlines under the same pressure, we could find some accord, and feed off of that.
I need some more of that. I need to look for a place, a job, an opportunity to be in that kind of environment again. Then I would not have to sleep. I could pull a five-day week when I only sleep sporadically while waiting for the computer to finish its rendering or what-not it takes its time doing. I could be a pink battery-powered bunny, going and going and going until-
...
... ¬zz..
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Today I am proudest of a piece of paper.
I am even afraid to open the envelope. I should wash my hands and put on gloves. But even then, where will I put it without a frame or something. What if I crease it? Will it lose some value? I mean, for God's sake it's not a baseball card, but actually it is more valuable.
I know if I never even received the piece of paper that represents my degree, I still have a Bachelor's of Fine Arts. The paper doesn't confirm this. Like I said it is just some tangible symbol for what I've accomplished.
But still I treat it like a newborn child plated in 24K gold. My piece of paper will be well taken care of.
And if anyone thinks of touching it, expect to lose a finger.
And if anyone thinks of looking at it, I'll be selling tickets.
And if I see a dingo come 'round eying my baby, he better be bulletproof.
Today I feel like I have a college degree.
While it is only a piece of paper, it has multiplied my confidence (think of a good number...) at least five-fold.
I know if I never even received the piece of paper that represents my degree, I still have a Bachelor's of Fine Arts. The paper doesn't confirm this. Like I said it is just some tangible symbol for what I've accomplished.
But still I treat it like a newborn child plated in 24K gold. My piece of paper will be well taken care of.
And if anyone thinks of touching it, expect to lose a finger.
And if anyone thinks of looking at it, I'll be selling tickets.
And if I see a dingo come 'round eying my baby, he better be bulletproof.
Today I feel like I have a college degree.
While it is only a piece of paper, it has multiplied my confidence (think of a good number...) at least five-fold.
And what if...?
When we use this question "What if..?" we most often consider our regrets. We speak in the past tense. We wonder what life would be like now had we done things differently before.
What if my brother had admitted that it was he who let the dog out front?
What if I had left the cake in the oven longer?
What if I hadn't struck out so much?
What if I had tried harder?
What if I had been on time?
What if I had asked her?
What if I had done things the way I dreamed I could have?
In doing this, we consider that things could be better if we hadn't screwed up. We sulk; we look for sympathy; we dwell on what could have been.
Few times we ask ourselves this question in considering our potential.
What if I order the lasagna?
What if the leaves raked themselves?
What if I drink too much?
What if I stop at three?
What if I run away?
What if I wait?
What if I try again?
When we ask like this, we long for something different. We consider that things can still be better than they are. We dream; we look for answers; we decide what can be.
"What if...?" offers despair; and "What if...?" offers hope. I think one could not exist without the other, but do we need both despair and hope? To learn? To desire? To move on? To dream?
What if we did not ask ourselves these questions? What if we were apathetic toward how things have been, or content with how things will be? And what if I were satisfied exactly where I am now?
I think it would be over.
So if you're interested in the end or if you just don't care, then forget about it. Whatever, you know. Otherwise, what if you do something... today? What if you offer me a back rub?
What if my brother had admitted that it was he who let the dog out front?
What if I had left the cake in the oven longer?
What if I hadn't struck out so much?
What if I had tried harder?
What if I had been on time?
What if I had asked her?
What if I had done things the way I dreamed I could have?
In doing this, we consider that things could be better if we hadn't screwed up. We sulk; we look for sympathy; we dwell on what could have been.
Few times we ask ourselves this question in considering our potential.
What if I order the lasagna?
What if the leaves raked themselves?
What if I drink too much?
What if I stop at three?
What if I run away?
What if I wait?
What if I try again?
When we ask like this, we long for something different. We consider that things can still be better than they are. We dream; we look for answers; we decide what can be.
"What if...?" offers despair; and "What if...?" offers hope. I think one could not exist without the other, but do we need both despair and hope? To learn? To desire? To move on? To dream?
What if we did not ask ourselves these questions? What if we were apathetic toward how things have been, or content with how things will be? And what if I were satisfied exactly where I am now?
I think it would be over.
So if you're interested in the end or if you just don't care, then forget about it. Whatever, you know. Otherwise, what if you do something... today? What if you offer me a back rub?
Monday, July 2, 2007
Basketball Vs. Fear
I leave my shoes - my basketball shoes that get damp with sweat - outside after I come home from an afternoon on the court. Sometimes I forget they are out there. Other times I just don't want to bring them in. My family appreciates this, though they've never had to realize how much so.
Today I went to get them. They were lying outside the garage door, and had been so since Saturday. In the shade, one sat on its sole with my ankle brace peaking out of it. The other rested on its side in the grass near some small bushes and the brick wall. As I leaned over to pick them up, I noticed a spider web... but no spider.
Where was this spider?, I wondered.
Could it have climbed in my shoe?
What kind of spider is it? Could it be poisonous? Aren't there poisonous spiders around here? Of course, there are, especially in summer. Remembering one of those stories - the ones your parents tell you when you're young to scare you into behaving or being safe - about how spiders, mostly Black Widows, like to hide in cool damp places in the summer, I was careful to pick up my shoes by their soles.
Stretching my arms out as far as I could push the shoes away from my body, I circled the house to the back patio, and threw them at the concrete. I picked one up by the toe and shook the brace out of it. No spider yet. I picked the other up. Still pushing the shoes away, I tried smacking them together.
I clicked their heels.
I banged the soles.
I turned each upside down smacking it against the concrete, but still no spider.
Determined to get it out of my shoe - or both shoes?! - I found a stick. The stick jabbed around for a minute in one shoe, then the other, and back to the other shoe for a moment. Still it came up with nothing.
The shoes are black on the outside with a white stripe, and black on the inside. They are very dark. I cannot see into the toe part of them.
I put the shoes inside the house at the front door. I think I'll wait an hour, or more, before I try sticking my feet in there.
But I'm ready to play basketball now.
...
Today I went to get them. They were lying outside the garage door, and had been so since Saturday. In the shade, one sat on its sole with my ankle brace peaking out of it. The other rested on its side in the grass near some small bushes and the brick wall. As I leaned over to pick them up, I noticed a spider web... but no spider.
Where was this spider?, I wondered.
Could it have climbed in my shoe?
What kind of spider is it? Could it be poisonous? Aren't there poisonous spiders around here? Of course, there are, especially in summer. Remembering one of those stories - the ones your parents tell you when you're young to scare you into behaving or being safe - about how spiders, mostly Black Widows, like to hide in cool damp places in the summer, I was careful to pick up my shoes by their soles.
Stretching my arms out as far as I could push the shoes away from my body, I circled the house to the back patio, and threw them at the concrete. I picked one up by the toe and shook the brace out of it. No spider yet. I picked the other up. Still pushing the shoes away, I tried smacking them together.
I clicked their heels.
I banged the soles.
I turned each upside down smacking it against the concrete, but still no spider.
Determined to get it out of my shoe - or both shoes?! - I found a stick. The stick jabbed around for a minute in one shoe, then the other, and back to the other shoe for a moment. Still it came up with nothing.
The shoes are black on the outside with a white stripe, and black on the inside. They are very dark. I cannot see into the toe part of them.
I put the shoes inside the house at the front door. I think I'll wait an hour, or more, before I try sticking my feet in there.
But I'm ready to play basketball now.
...
living at home is such a drag
I have not seen the sky this morning yet, and it's almost afternoon.
As the son, naturally I get stuck with a room on the basement floor, while everyone else sleeps on the second floor - parents, sister, a computer room, and even the guest bedroom where my other sister usually sleeps when she visits. She is visiting this week.
Sleeping on the lowest level of the house has its perks... sometimes. It stays cold down here year round. So while the rest of those upper level family members sweat in their high class bedrooms, I can at least retreat to my chilled hole in the floor, and wrap myself in a comforter... even in the midst of summer.
Usually the house stays pretty quiet in the mornings. My young sister goes to school before the sun rises, my father to work even earlier, my sister lives in New Orleans, and when Stepmom has not gone out in the morning, she often sticks to the second floor.
But, today is different. Dad is off work all week, the older sister is in town, the younger sister is out of school for the summer, and Stepmom wakes up with everyone else now. And everyone wakes up when Dad wakes up.
See the basement floor is cool and quiet, but the first floor is all hardwood. Every word spoken, every conversation, can be heard clear as day below. Every step that is taken echoes. Every time any water faucet is turned open, the orchestra of pipes running throughout my ceiling hiss. And when the youngest finally rises from her coffin and hovers downstairs, the screeching begins, and of course, the television begins its regular operating hours of ALL DAY.
I can usually sleep through some of this, or doze in and out, but its the water hissing that kills it.
Finally it is noon...
I think I will quietly sneak and creak my way up stairs to a bowl of cereal and a glass of sweet tea - thank you, New Orleans.
Maybe if I don't encounter any of the beasts, they won't harass me about how late they think I have "slept."
Maybe I will get a chance to enjoy the partly cloudy blue sky, some fresh air, and decide that today can still be a good day.
I'll put on my swim trunks, and have some Wheaties.
As the son, naturally I get stuck with a room on the basement floor, while everyone else sleeps on the second floor - parents, sister, a computer room, and even the guest bedroom where my other sister usually sleeps when she visits. She is visiting this week.
Sleeping on the lowest level of the house has its perks... sometimes. It stays cold down here year round. So while the rest of those upper level family members sweat in their high class bedrooms, I can at least retreat to my chilled hole in the floor, and wrap myself in a comforter... even in the midst of summer.
Usually the house stays pretty quiet in the mornings. My young sister goes to school before the sun rises, my father to work even earlier, my sister lives in New Orleans, and when Stepmom has not gone out in the morning, she often sticks to the second floor.
But, today is different. Dad is off work all week, the older sister is in town, the younger sister is out of school for the summer, and Stepmom wakes up with everyone else now. And everyone wakes up when Dad wakes up.
See the basement floor is cool and quiet, but the first floor is all hardwood. Every word spoken, every conversation, can be heard clear as day below. Every step that is taken echoes. Every time any water faucet is turned open, the orchestra of pipes running throughout my ceiling hiss. And when the youngest finally rises from her coffin and hovers downstairs, the screeching begins, and of course, the television begins its regular operating hours of ALL DAY.
I can usually sleep through some of this, or doze in and out, but its the water hissing that kills it.
Finally it is noon...
I think I will quietly sneak and creak my way up stairs to a bowl of cereal and a glass of sweet tea - thank you, New Orleans.
Maybe if I don't encounter any of the beasts, they won't harass me about how late they think I have "slept."
Maybe I will get a chance to enjoy the partly cloudy blue sky, some fresh air, and decide that today can still be a good day.
I'll put on my swim trunks, and have some Wheaties.
the weight of the soul?
"
How many lives do we live?
How many times do we die?
They say we all lose 21 grams... at the exact moment of our death.
Everyone.
And how much fits into 21 grams?
How much is lost?
When do we lose 21 grams?
How much goes with them?
How much is gained?
How much is gained?
Twenty-one grams.
The weight of a stack of five nickels.
The weight of a hummingbird.
A chocolate bar.
How much did 21 grams weigh?"
Sean Penn, 21 Grams
written by Guillermo Arriaga
How many lives do we live?
How many times do we die?
They say we all lose 21 grams... at the exact moment of our death.
Everyone.
And how much fits into 21 grams?
How much is lost?
When do we lose 21 grams?
How much goes with them?
How much is gained?
How much is gained?
Twenty-one grams.
The weight of a stack of five nickels.
The weight of a hummingbird.
A chocolate bar.
How much did 21 grams weigh?"
Sean Penn, 21 Grams
written by Guillermo Arriaga
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Will it be a good day?
You can always tell if it'll be a good day when you wake up and look at the sky in the morning.
Today's sky was deep blue. The sun shone warm, but not too bright. The air was temperate and a gentle cool breeze washed about.
Though most importantly, the clouds were those small spotty yet thick clouds like good quality whip cream - Cool Whip - or handfuls of bleached cotton balls. They littered the sky as far and as densely as could be seen.
Today was one of those Sundays for which you work all summer... so you can chill outside, even if it's just one time this year.
Today's sky was deep blue. The sun shone warm, but not too bright. The air was temperate and a gentle cool breeze washed about.
Though most importantly, the clouds were those small spotty yet thick clouds like good quality whip cream - Cool Whip - or handfuls of bleached cotton balls. They littered the sky as far and as densely as could be seen.
Today was one of those Sundays for which you work all summer... so you can chill outside, even if it's just one time this year.
blogging is difficult.
html is difficult.
I think I'd rather learn French, or even Japanese... or a speakable language.
This reminds me of why I left studying computer science to concentrate on art.
I uploaded the same photo a dozen times before I got it the way I wanted it.
good morning.
I think I'd rather learn French, or even Japanese... or a speakable language.
This reminds me of why I left studying computer science to concentrate on art.
I uploaded the same photo a dozen times before I got it the way I wanted it.
good morning.
Family Expectations
My family - the entire extended family, that is, moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc - expects each and every one of us to attend every function.
If you are late, someone calls you to check on what the hold up is.
If you hadn't planned on coming, someone calls you to check on what the hold up is.
If you've moved out of state, you're still expected to make an effort to be there.
If you've gone out of town, you will be called, teased, harassed, and pranked as they wonder why you did not work your schedule around the family's event.
*ring* 'A documentary in California for three weeks? But Malerie's graduation party is coming up. Can't that wait?'
*ring* 'We've already started eating. Where are you?' "I'm reading." 'Aunt Lisa says to get over here now.'
*ring* 'Why did you leave me at the bar, asshole?' "But I'm in Florida!" 'What? How come you didn't tell me?'
And of course, even if they don't tell you about it, you're expected to have gotten informed somehow anyway. (I have often been left out of the loop having lived away from home during school.)
*ring* 'How are you getting to Isaiah's birthday party on Sunday?' "Isaiah's birthday is Sunday?" 'I told you.' "Mom, you haven't talked to me in over a week. No one ever tells me these things."
You'd think I would start getting my own invitations at some point. They've started to get the clue finally. I got a wedding invitation and two graduation invites this year.
Maybe now my family has caught on to the fact that I am all growed up...
but they still wonder where my mother, brothers, and sisters are when I show up independently.
Why didn't they come with me?
I just don't know. I had never considered the notion that they should.
If you are late, someone calls you to check on what the hold up is.
If you hadn't planned on coming, someone calls you to check on what the hold up is.
If you've moved out of state, you're still expected to make an effort to be there.
If you've gone out of town, you will be called, teased, harassed, and pranked as they wonder why you did not work your schedule around the family's event.
*ring* 'A documentary in California for three weeks? But Malerie's graduation party is coming up. Can't that wait?'
*ring* 'We've already started eating. Where are you?' "I'm reading." 'Aunt Lisa says to get over here now.'
*ring* 'Why did you leave me at the bar, asshole?' "But I'm in Florida!" 'What? How come you didn't tell me?'
And of course, even if they don't tell you about it, you're expected to have gotten informed somehow anyway. (I have often been left out of the loop having lived away from home during school.)
*ring* 'How are you getting to Isaiah's birthday party on Sunday?' "Isaiah's birthday is Sunday?" 'I told you.' "Mom, you haven't talked to me in over a week. No one ever tells me these things."
You'd think I would start getting my own invitations at some point. They've started to get the clue finally. I got a wedding invitation and two graduation invites this year.
Maybe now my family has caught on to the fact that I am all growed up...
but they still wonder where my mother, brothers, and sisters are when I show up independently.
Why didn't they come with me?
I just don't know. I had never considered the notion that they should.
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