In those bright and blinding lights in that crowded lonely place, I remember your smile. It hardly left your face that night. And if you were happy, I was happy. Maybe it hadn't always been that way, but it had come to be that way.

I remember you ordered some fruity girly drink I had never heard of, then you ordered a second one. We watched too much karaoke and caught up on the last year. You went and put our names on the list to sing -- Love Shack by the B-52's. But we ended up leaving before we got a chance to sing our song.

There were a hundred times that night I could have leaned over and kissed you. How you would have reacted is a question I'll never know the answer to. It is pointless to even ponder such a thing.

Maybe if I had known that was the last chance I would have. Maybe if I could have seen that we were coming to a fork in the road of our lives that would take us in different directions and worlds apart. Maybe if I could have seen beyond those bright and blinding lights and your intoxicating smile. Maybe then I would have kissed you.

But who can ever really say?

All I know is that you were happy. For one night. The last time I saw you.

"Well you do what you do and you pay for your sins and there's no such thing as what might have been. That's a waste of time. Drive you out of your mind..."

I think I must have needed some time to decompress following the phenomenon that was Blogtober. But don't think there hasn't been plenty going on, because there has -- depending on your definition of plenty. Not the least of which is that I'm drinking again.

Coffee, that is.

That's right, I'm back on the java wagon. (Or is it off the wagon?) All aboard the Colombian Express. I believe you know our wagon master, Mister Juan Valdez.

It all started a few weeks ago in the midst of my up-every-night-until-at-least-1-AM phase when I was certain the TV gods were conspiring to put irresistible programming on just as I was getting ready to lie down. I mean, Rocky I coming on at 12:30 in the morning? That's not happenstance, people. One morning I was feeling especially tired so I stopped on the way to work and got a large coffee.

I've only had two previous bouts with coffee addiction and neither lasted very long. One was in high school which I barely remember, and the other was three or four years ago when I discovered lattes. I would stop on my way to work every morning. At first, there was a cute female barista who I looked forward to seeing. Then this guy took over and I would think to myself, "This guy seems pretty cool" or "I wonder how you get to be a barista." It's like he replaced the girl and I hardly noticed because all I cared about was the latte. It was actually kinda scary. Am I talking fast? It's very hard to tell.

In other less exciting news -- if that's even possible -- I bought a brace for my ankle the other day, at Kroger. Where else would one go for all of one's self-diagnosed medical needs?

This is the same ankle that I messed up sliding into second base during a fall league softball game in 2004. I never played softball again. Though that really doesn't have anything to do with the injury, I just haven't been asked to be on a team since then.

The orthopedist I saw at the time basically did nothing. He took a few X-Rays, sold me an air cast, charged me a fortune and said I'd be fine. I kept asking him was if he sure I didn't need surgery. Yes, he was. My ankle has never been exactly right since.

I should probably include some sort of disclaimer here so as to avoid any kind of defamation charges. Let's see... No representation is made that the quality of medical services performed was greater than the quality of medical services performed at your average slaughterhouse.

Anyway, my ankle would ache occasionally and be sore after a run but never caused any significant problems until a few weeks ago. That's when a sudden and immense pain brought my evening run in the park to an abrupt end. Now, some might say I have a low tolerance for pain, but I prefer to think of it as having a heightened sensitivity to all stimuli. Almost super-human really. I always require at least three shots of Novocaine at the dentist's before I stop kicking violently. They love me there.

I tried resting it for a week or so, but that didn't seem to help. So I've been taping it up with some athletic tape (also available at Kroger and other fine grocery stores everywhere). That's been working OK, but it's a hassle. So I'm looking forward to trying out my new ankle brace. Excited, even. Nothing makes a runner want to run more than not being able to run.

Before we close today, I'd like to broach a rather serious topic. Recently, the decision was made to allow Kywana Jr. to have her own Facebook account. Now I was not consulted on the decision. However, since she is sort of my god-niece or something, I felt compelled to investigate the situation.

I mean, why should I let my vast reservoir of knowledge and opinions about parenting go to waste simply because I have not managed to impregnate anyone up until and including today? Besides, is there anything people like more than receiving unsolicited advice on how to raise their children?

The following IM conversation occurred between myself and the female portion of Kywana last week as I was checking over Kywana Jr.'s Facebook friend list. I noticed a gray-haired man that looked alarmingly out of place. He appeared to be in his 50s or 60s, somewhat strange to see on the friend list of a ten-year-old girl, no? I sprang into action.

Bone: You better keep a watch on her.
Bone: Do we know this Bob Paine guy?
Bone: Sounds a little shady to me. (Also sounds made up.)

FPK (female portion of Kywana): He's my pastor.
FPK: ROFL

Bone: Oh.
Bone: Well, I suppose that's OK.
Bone: Just keep an eye on him. Could all be a ruse.

"I don't drink as much as I used to. Lately, it just ain't my style. And the hard times don't hurt like they ought to. They pass quicker, like when I was a child..."

Labels: addictions, Blogtober, caffeine, coffee, dentist, Facebook, health, Juan Valdez, Kroger, Kywana, kywana jr., latte, Novocaine, Rocky I, running

Blogtober may have gone, but the posts live on. This is from a writing exercise I did last month out of a book that I have. You were supposed to start the story with the opening line they gave, which I think is horrible, but nevertheless...

Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel!

I go faster, it goes faster. I slow down, it slows down. I hop off for a nap, but then I wake up and get right back on. The world doesn't stop spinning just because I'm having a bad day or I don't want to go to work tomorrow.

Vacations and holidays help to ease the monotony of it all, providing a brief respite from the shampoo bottle regiment of sleep, work, eat, rinse, repeat. But when they end--and they always end--it's right back on the wheel.

I've thought a lot about New Orleans since our weekend there back in January. We had an absolute blast. The food, the night life, the culture, the architecture--it's a wonderful and unique city. But trips like that end up feeding my wanderlust and leave me jonesing to move some place like that permanently.

As long as I can remember, part of me has wondered what it would be like to just up and move somewhere far away. Quit my job and leave Alabama behind for the beach, or California. Or move to Nashville and live in my car until I find a job.

I suppose it's mostly nonsense, especially in this economy. And honestly, it feels a little embarrassing to even admit such a thing. But I know it can be done. I mean, people have done it, I've heard and read about them. Stories like that always make me smile. They provide a glimmer of hope, and also leave me more than a little bit envious. After all, isn't that really living life? Well, isn't it?

It's hard to know which dreams to chase and which are nothing more than nonsensical fantasies. Or perhaps it's just easier to toss them all into the latter category and be done with it.

Sometimes it's not enough simply to be alive. Sometimes you need to feel alive.

Maybe everybody has these thoughts. That deep-down yearning for something more. Maybe it's not unique to humans, either. Maybe that's why sometimes the gerbil hops off his wheel, chews his way out of the cage, and escapes.

"I'm always on the move but never gainin' ground. And the brightly painted ponies, they have feelings inside. Like me, do they ever want to get off of this ride?"

Labels: Blogtober, California, dreams, nashville, New Orleans, philosophical Bone

Do you know what it's like to have no control over a relationship? You're anxious and sick to your stomach all the time. And even when you have a good day, you worry about what might go wrong the next time. Do you know what that's like?

Well, I sure do. I saw this quote online last week and found it really appropriate for my situation:

"What happens to you when you're like that is that you don't enjoy what you accomplish because you live in a constant state of anxiety with small moments of relief. And that's something that just doesn't change."

The quote is from one, Nicholas Lou Saban, relatively unknown in relationship guru circles but somewhat of an expert on the 3-4 defense and pattern-matching pass defense. Upon reading it, I immediately copied and pasted it in an email to Axl with the subject line "THIS is exactly how I feel...EVERY GAME!" I'm referring, of course, to my relationship with Alabama football.

"A constant state of anxiety with small moments of relief." Nothing could sum up my experience of watching a Bama game better than those ten words. I basically said as much last year, when I wrote that watching a game was "95% anxiety, 5% elation and relief." In hindsight, I may have overestimated the elation and relief percentage.

Saturday's game was an exercise in frustration. We couldn't score a touchdown. By the 4th quarter, I had pretty much stopped cheering. Everyone around me was cheering, but there I stood with arms folded, completely sick about how we had played on offense. I even asked my sister at one point in the 4th quarter if she was ready to leave because, quote, "I'm tired of watching this. This is pitiful." And this was when we were WINNING 12 to 3!

I also invoked a new rule mid-game Saturday, telling my sister I was no longer cheering for field goals. I want touchdowns! Then I forgot and cheered when we hit a 50-yarder in the 4th quarter.

"I thought you weren't gonna cheer for field goals," she asked, ever the observant one. And that is when I, ever the master of making up the rules as I go, wrote and passed the first amendment to the Field Goal Act of 2009.
"Oh... alright, I'm only cheering if they're fifty-plus yards or game-winners."

Why does it always have to be like this for me? Can't I just be happy that we scored at all, that we're ahead in the game? Apparently not. If we're not looking particularly good doing it, then I'm griping about the problems we're having and "well we might beat Tennessee, but if we play like this we'll never beat LSU."

But it's the coach's job to worry, not mine. I'm a fan. I should be enjoying this. So why do I continue to go through the same thing, every game, every season, every year of my life?

Things had been on the verge of turning disastrous Saturday night. Leading 12-10 with seconds to play, our opponents lined up to attempt what would have been the game-winning field goal. Then, as my mother would say (and probably was saying) the Bear looked down on us. Our defense blocked the field goal as time expired and sent everyone in crimson home happy.

Well, maybe not everyone.

All I want is complete and total domination for four quarters and for the other team not to score. Is that too much to ask?

I suppose maybe there's a 12-step program for people like me. The problem is I really have no desire to get better. I wouldn't know how to act without this thing to care about and pour every ounce of my emotion into. Sure it might be unhealthy, but I need this! And let's face it, with my deep-seated mommy issues this is more than likely the only kind of relationship I will ever know.

"And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me. Out of all the hours, thinking somehow I've lost my mind. I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell..."

Labels: Axl, Bama, Bear Bryant, football, Mom, Nick Saban, sister, sports

I set a new personal record last night, by drinking milk four days past the date on the carton. That broke my previous all-time personal best of three days, achieved on numerous occasions, most recently the day before yesterday.

Why did I do this?

Why not? Isn't that what life is about? Setting goals for oneself and having the courage to go after them. Consider me the Michael Phelps of lactose. (But really, I just had some Double Stuff Oreos and didn't feel like getting dressed and going to the store to buy fresh milk at the almost-witching hour of 9 PM.)

In other news, I think my fall social season is winding down at last. I've really been making the toddler birthday party scene this year. In the past couple of months, I have attended no less than three parties for one-year-olds.

At the most recent cake and diaper mixer, I ran into fave cousin, which isn't a huge surprise as it was his daughter who was turning one. Anyway, he asked if I had been working out. I thought he was kidding, so I gave him the you're-kidding-right snicker, but he responded with a no-I'm-serious-you're-huge look, then he mentioned something about my arms looking bigger. This would make a much better story if he was a girl. And also not my cousin.

But that's how things go sometimes. I believe the Beastie Boys may have articulated it best when they said, "Lookin' for a girl, I ran into a guy."

Life hasn't been all fun and LeapFrog games, however. Sometimes there are lulls. Some days I put on my pajama pants as soon as I get home from work with no intention of even so much as opening the front door until the next morning, then I stay up 'til 2:30 AM because TruTV decides to show six Forensics Files in a row and what am I supposed to do, not watch?

Some days life is about as exciting as a scoliosis screening.

And that's OK, because if there is one thing I have learned in all my misadventures, it is that you do not want a scoliosis screening to become exciting.

"The secret of life is gettin' up early. The secret of life is stayin' up late. The secret of life is try not to hurry, but don't wait, don't wait..."

Labels: beastie boys, Double Stuff, fave cousin, Forensic Files, LeapFrog, Michael Phelps, philosophical Bone, television, TruTV

As Blogtober passes the halfway mark, I've managed to write every day except one. I didn't get home from the Bama game until after 1:30 this morning and was just too worn out to try and write. Maybe I can write an hour or more tomorrow to make up for it. You know, double up on my prescription. That's always worked really well for me with pain medication.

Parking is always an issue at the Bama games. The place we'd parked the past two years was turned into an RV lot a few weeks ago. So at the last game, we paid ten bucks to park over a mile away from the stadium. Thing is, I have a little issue with paying for parking, more specifically, paying to park over a mile away from the event. I adhere to the George Costanza theory, which is loosely translated (or exactly as he said it word-for-word): "It's like going to a prostitute. Why should I pay, when if I apply myself, maybe I could get it for free?"

So through talking to a few people and Google-mapping the area, we found a new place to park yesterday, for free. And mostly legal.

Last night was also the first cold-weather Bama game. The low temperature was in the upper 30's, which was a problem for me because I couldn't remember how 38 degrees feels. It's been so long since last winter, plus how often am I out in the cold for four or five hours? Two, three times a year, max? Thus, I wasn't sure what to wear.

What we need is a program where you enter the expected temperature and wind speed along with how long you're going to be outside, and it would tell you what to wear.

For example, I'd input 38 degrees at 10 mph for 4 hours, and it would spit out: "ear muffs or a toboggan, gloves, wool socks (preferably Argyle), thermal underwear, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt under either a sweatshirt or a stylish cardigan." (Speaking of, whatever happened to The Cardigans? Love me, love me, saaaay that you love me...)

My device could be called the Outfit Forecaster. Maybe I could somehow combine it with my Outfit Flow Chart of a couple years back. That would seriously cut down on the amount of mental energy I expend each day trying to figure out what to wear. Then I would have more time and energy to spend pondering important issues such as, well, whatever happened to the Cardigans.

In the end, I think the ensemble I chose for the game worked out OK, except that I didn't bring any gloves. Also, the band of my thermal underwear got a little itchy. Sometime during second quarter, one of my fingers started going numb. (This had to do with the gloves, not the underwear.) I looked down and all my other fingers were flesh-colored, but this one was a scary yellowish-white.

I might have had a brief, mostly internal panic attack. I'm too young to have circulation problems! How will I blog?! I showed it to my sister and she said, and I quote, "You're probably gonna get gangrene and your finger will fall off. You should have put plastic bags on your hands. Didn't Dad ever teach you anything?"

Fortunately, I returned home with all my digits. And now I remember quite well how 38 degrees feels. In mid-October, nonetheless.

Welcome to Alabama: The new North Dakota.

"This evening has been, been hoping that you'd drop in, so very nice. I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice..."

Labels: Bama, Blogtober, Bone-ventions, clothes, fashion, football, George Costanza, Google maps, Outfit Flow Chart, parking, sister, The Cardigans, Tuscaloosa, weather

Growing up here wasn't all that exciting. Town closed down on Sunday, except for one of the four drug stores. If you needed to do any other business, you either drove to the city or it just didn't get done until Monday. To this day it's still a dry town and county (meaning you can't buy alcohol there, at least not legally).

There was no mall, no bowling alley, and no movie theater. Well there was, but it had been closed down for years. But we found things to do, we made our own trouble and our own fun. When I was little, the teenagers all cruised the town square on Saturday nights. By the time I was old enough to drive, the Winn-Dixie parking lot was the place to be.

There were five stop lights that I can remember. If you timed it just right, you could miss every one. But the four-way stop sign out at the main highway could get backed up four or five cars deep some Friday nights.

There was a little store where they would pump your gas. You could get a fresh-sliced bologna sandwich, an old bottled Coke and a Sunbeam honey bun. But if you were going, you better get there by sundown, because they closed early just like everything else. Growing up here was inconvenient at times.

Everybody I knew went to church on Sunday morning. We prayed before the high school football games and before we sat down to eat. To a lot of folks today that might seem a little backward. But I didn't think so then, and I don't think so now.

It seemed like the whole town was at the county fair. If you brought your ticket stub from the high school football game on Friday night, you got in free. They had bingo every night of the fair starting at 8. I remember for the first few years, Mom wouldn't let me play. It was too close to gambling, I guess.

Growing up here, you knew all your neighbors. They knew your business and you knew theirs. You knew the cops in town and more importantly, they knew your parents. And if you got in trouble at school, somehow your momma found out about it before you even got home.

I can't remember the first time I had a glass of sweet tea, but I sure remember my first taste of unsweet. I recall countless evenings playing out in the yard or at someone else's house in the neighborhood, and our parents calling us home when it was time eat.

We shot off fireworks in the backyard on the 4th of July, and usually the 2nd and 3rd and 5th, too. Not once did the neighbors ever complain. A lot of times they'd even come out to watch. Everybody handed out candy on Halloween, except for one lady who always handed out fruit.

Growing up here, we never locked our car doors. It's just something you never thought about. I remember my parents did neighborhood watch one summer when I was little. About the most exciting thing that ever happened was somebody's cow getting out, inside the city limits of course.

There were rocking chairs on porches, clothes out on the line, and miles and miles of cotton fields. Every so often you were bound to get behind a tractor going down the road. But not to worry, he'd eventually wave you around when it was clear.

There was a hardware store, a furniture store and two drug stores on the town square, and a barber shop with a barber shop pole. Everybody would throw up a hand when they passed you driving down the street, even when you had no idea who they were. People would bring over fresh vegetables they'd picked from their garden. And the women would cook and take food when someone got bad sick.

I don't live in that town anymore, but I never strayed very far away, either in body or soul. And when I drive by that sleepy little brick house with the blue shutters, gravel driveway, and the back screen door which seemed to squeak louder the later it was, I find myself missing so many things.

I guess growing up here wasn't all that bad.

"Erwin Nichols there with Judge Lee playin' checkers at the gin. When I dream about the Southland this is where it all begins..."

Labels: Bone--the early days, coke, home, Mom, small towns

I don't know if any of you have noticed or not, but lately I have been drifting, aimlessly. I had no center, no direction. Sometimes it felt as if I were merely existing, rather than living. Well, I finally figured out what was missing in my life. A girl? A family? Motivation? Ambition? A social life?

No! Seinfeld!

It was revealed to me a couple of weeks ago when I saw a commercial for the new season of Curb Your Enthusiasm. And what were they promoting but a Seinfeld reunion!

Of course. How did I not see it before? In the eleven years since the show went off the air, I still haven't moved on. Oh sure, I have a pretty steady thing going with The Office now, but I've never really gotten over my one true love. To this day I still reference Seinfeld every chance I get, to the delight of all, I'm sure. And somewhere in that deepest part of my heart which holds my most secret desires and dreams, I clung to the past, and a tiny shred of hope that someday there would be a reunion.

Now the day I have been waiting for, lo, these many years has arrived. My ship has finally come in.

Of course, Curb Your Enthusiasm comes on HBO, which I don't have, but thankfully you can watch everything online these days. Not that I wouldn't have ordered HBO or found some way to get it illegally. That's not to imply that I'm getting any channels illegally right now, nor have I or would I ever. What I meant to say is that maybe I could get a free trial period of HBO from my cable or satellite provider--whose name happens to be Mason. As in, jar, or Dixon. He can also start your car or get into your house without any keys. And he only accepts cash, or ammunition.

Now if this had been the only piece of good news I received all year, that alone would have been enough to make this one of the best years of my life--right up there with the year I got an Atari, the year I discovered Clorox disinfectant wipes, and the year I stopped peeing the bed. But more good tidings were yet to come.

Days later, General Hospital posted a message on Facebook that Jonathan Jackson would be reprising his role as Lucky Spencer beginning in October.

This had been my dream! For years, I told the Darryls and anyone else who would listen that I wished the original Lucky would come back. (Also, that Frisco and Felicia would come back, and Robert and Anna and the WSB, but let's stick to one dream at a time here.) I could scarcely believe my eyes. I even Google news'd it to make sure it wasn't a hoax. It wasn't. No more weird middle Lucky or lame third Lucky. (Sure, third Lucky has lustrous hair and rugged good looks, but I need more. The character had become about as exciting as an all-day scoliosis screening.) At long last, the original Lucky is returning!

I simply cannot believe my luck. It's as if a genie visited me while I was in a deep sleep one night and granted me three wishes, two of which have already come true. I'm bursting! We're talking Tom-Cruise-on-Oprah's-couch happy. No, happy as a lark. I'm a lark jumping up and down on Oprah's couch.

So let this be a lesson to us all. People may tell you not to cling to the past, but clearly that has been proven wrong. And sure, most hopes and dreams die hard, never having been realized or even chased, but... uh, I need something uplifting here. Hmm..... well, anyway.

As for my third wish? I have considered several obvious possibilities: A Wham! reunion; that Tab would make a comeback; that just once I could play the word QUETZALS in Scrabble covering two triple word scores and get the maximum 347 possible points.

But in the end, I passed them all over. Now I don't want to jinx anything by telling you what I finally decided on, but I will give you a couple of clues.

Clue #1. Two words: Brandon. Walsh.

Clue #2. Blank-0-2-1-0.

Happy sleuthing!

"I'm a genie in a bottle. You gotta rub me the right way. If you wanna be with me, I can make your wish come true..."

Labels: Atari 2600, Beverly Hills 90210, Brandon Walsh, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Frisco Jones, General Hospital, Jonathan Jackson, Oprah, Resplendent Quetzel, Scrabble, Seinfeld, Seinfeld reunion, Tab, Wham

Autumn arrived on a Monday this year, not according to some number on a wall, but just as she always does, with a familiar and unmistakable change in the air. A certain chill which serves notice that while winter may not be imminent, it is also not all that far away.

Autumn is a reminder. First, of autumns gone before. Then, of itself, of all the things that autumn is--windy days, a high school football game, Halloween and Thanksgiving, trees surrendering their leaves in grand displays of oranges, yellows and reds as the Earth slowly falls to sleep.

The autumn wind seems to stir up a rustle of memories. I think of Homecoming dances and driving my Ford Escort to school, rolling yards and backyard football games. I think of camping out, singing every song we could think of, and no one complaining when I broke into my beyond bad falsetto to sing "Sherry, Baby." I think of girls I knew and almost knew. And I think of jumping into big piles of leaves as a kid, and Thanksgivings when everybody I loved was still here.

Every year has one and only one, that first day of chill in the air when summer finally relents, knowing its hottest days have been spent.

There's a comfortableness. And yet something nostalgic. It's nothing you can grasp or hold in your hand. Just something you feel, and know, without being able to explain.

Summer is freedom--sunglasses and a smile. Winter is harsh and lonesome. Spring holds promise of things new and fresh, and the hope of something better.

But autumn?

Autumn remembers.

"The last time I saw her it was turning colder, but that was years ago. Last I heard, she had moved to Boulder. But where she's now I don't know..."

Labels: autumn, fall, football, Ford Escort, Four Seasons, halloween, high school, leaves, October, Thanksgiving

I've gotta make some changes in my life. A total of four blog entries in September? I'm embarrassed. Coming here after each seven-to-ten-day absence feels like calling to wish your mother a happy birthday a week late. I think it's got to be all or nothing for me. I'm not a person who can be happy doing things halfway. Well, other than relationships.

And so, I hereby do proclaim this the month of Blogtober. What does this mean? It means that I am going to make myself spend at least thirty minutes writing for the next thirty-one days. Except that I'm four days late--that's what she said--so make it the next twenty-seven days.

Will I post everything that I write? No. None of you have done anything terrible enough to me to deserve that. But I do hope this will result in a few more posts this month anyway.

For those who make it to the end of the month, rumor has it there will be a big celebration across the United States as well as the Motherland, where not only will you be able to dress up in costumes but apparently some people will be buying up candy by the bagfuls and just giving it away.

So welcome to Blogtober. Now get ready to read some crap!

In other news, I went to a county fair last weekend. My favorite part of the fair is the food. On this particular evening, I enjoyed a corn dog, fries and lemonade, with a caramel apple for dessert. My least favorite part of the fair is when I see some adult--excuse me, over-grown kid--hogging the rides and dominating the fishing game, playing against children. Then later you see him on the merry-go-round, making horsey noises. It's just sad, really. For example, this guy:



Caption? "The Almost-NASCAR Driving Experience wasn't quite what Bone had expected." Feel free to come up with your own.

"Well baby you know I just love the sound of that pipe organ on the merry-go-round, baby down at the county fair..."

Labels: blogging, Blogtober, channeling Michael Scott, county fair, NASCAR, pictures, writing