I fought it as long as I could. But even I must admit, there is a void in my life. A vast wasteland of nothingness that is as gray and desolate as the surface of the moon (minus the dazzling view of Earth). Yes, I'm speaking of that annual three-fortnight span known as sports purgatory.
It's a term I first introduced you to in 2009, referring to the space between the end of football season and the beginning of March Madness. You may recall that in past years to try and fill the void, I resorted to things like becoming an avid curling fan and leading the Chicago Bulls to the 1992 NBA title.
This year, for the first couple of weeks, I actually thought I might sneak through without those familiar feelings of despondency and hollowness returning. Oh, foolhearted self!
At first, it was going OK. But eventually, the euphoric afterglow of another Bama national championship began to fade a bit. I mean, there's only so many times you can re-watch a game. (Currently, I'm at five.) And so, I found myself back where I always knew I'd be -- grasping at straws to once again try and fill the empty spaces.
How bad has it gotten? Well, I'm glad you asked.
This week was Alabama's pro day. For those of you who don't live-eat-sleep-and-breathe college football 366 days a year (it's a leap year), that is the day when players hoping to be drafted work out for NFL scouts and coaches. They're measured for things like vertical jump and 40-yard dash time.
So after reading every article I could find about how all the players did, I went out and ran a 5.3 40. I was pretty proud of my time, although the people at work were looking at me kinda funny when I was sprinting across the parking lot.
In other God-help-me-I-need-some-sports-in-my-life news:
I watched two NBA games. All the way through. And not even playoffs. Regular season games. How many games do they play anyway, like sixty?!?! And they're calling this a short season???
The other night I was bored, so I started shooting free throws on my Nerf goal. I sank 23 out of 25. It was probably my best sporting accomplishment in several years. (Actually, I can't blame this one on sports purgatory, as I'm apt to do this at any time throughout the year. And yes, I have a Nerf goal. In my living room. How old am I? Why do you ask?)
I've also gotten into The Voice. Me! I detest reality shows. Oh, and I'm pretty sure I've developed an unhealthy man-crush on Adam Levine. Like I want us to be friends and hang out. Just me and him though, no one else. I'd get jealous.
Tonight, I watched part of the Louisville-Cincinnati basketball game. Did I enjoy it? Not really. It's more of an IV drip just to keep me alive until March Madness, which cannot get here fast enough.
Literally.
I couldn't wait. I filled out a bracket today. I don't even know who's playing yet. The brackets don't come out until Sunday evening. You think that's easy? This is what comes from living under purgatorial conditions. Besides, I figure I've probably picked North Carolina to make the Final Four seventeen out of the last twenty years, might as well go ahead and pick them again.
When assessing the effects this year's sports purgatory has had on my behavior, however, perhaps no single thing is more telling than this: I've actually gone out and done stuff a couple of times this week. With people!
I don't even know who I am anymore.
"If you're going through hell, keep on going. Don't slow down. If you're scared, don't show it. You might get out 'fore the devil even knows you're there..."
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
"Now I know how Jimmy Buffett feels..."
I've always considered myself and Jimmy Buffett to be kindred spirits. Let's take a look at the facts: We both love the beach. We've both blown out a flip-flop, granted with varying degrees of notoriety. He writes songs. I wish I could write songs. He's the son of a son of a sailor. I've.... been on a boat before. I think we can all agree that any more examples would only serve to cloud my point.
And so, when I saw he was coming to Birmingham, subtle hints were strategically dropped into everyday conversation.
Things like:
"Jimmy Buffett is coming to Birmingham!"
"Hint, hint, birthday, hint."
"That would probably make a really great gift for someone who has a birthday in February." (Ed.'s note: The "someone" in that sentence is really me.)
OK, so not so subtle. But it got the job done. Tickets were procured and a concert was attended.
I must say it was a little odd to be wearing a winter coat to a Jimmy Buffett concert. But temps were supposed to be in the thirties for once, and I'm just manly like that.
He, of course, came on stage in shorts and flip-flops. Then again, I'm fairly certain he didn't have to hike ten blocks to get to the arena. It's all about the free parking for me. It's more the principle than the cost, or so I tell myself.
This was my first Buffett concert and one of the curiosities I had was whether all the Parrotheads would also be potheads. Much like when I attended that Willie Nelson concert a couple of years ago, I wondered if I would experience a second-hand high. Or low. Or whatever you get. I don't know, I've never even smoked a cigarette.
Those concerns seemed to be unfounded. For I have walked amongst the Parrotheads, and maintained my inhibitions. Although after the show I did notice I scarfed down my food at Chili's like I hadn't eaten in two weeks.
Buffett, as comfortable on stage as he (or I) would be on the open sea, moved seamlessly through familiar favorites "Volcano," "Fins," "Come Monday," "Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes," and of course, "Margaritaville." There was newer fare, such as "Trip Around The Sun," "It's Five O'clock Somewhere," and "Knee Deep," which featured a guest appearance by a member of the Zac Brown Band.
He also sang several songs about Alabama, which is one of 3 or 4 home states claimed by the Head Parrot. There was the expected "Bama Breeze" and "Sweet Home Alabama" (replete with audience chants of "Roll Tide Roll"). But there were also a couple of songs I'd forgotten about: "Birmingham" and "Stars Fell On Alabama."
Then following an encore of three or four songs, the band left the stage again. But Jimmy stayed behind to do one last number, by himself, for the home-state crowd. Almost like he didn't want to leave.
After that, we went our separate ways -- he to his Hush-Puppy-wearing, island-hopping, sponge-cake-nibblin' ways; me to begin the ten-block hike back to reality.
The guy who wrote Wikipedia describes Jimmy Buffett's music as "often portraying an 'island escapism' lifestyle." Now there's an ideology I can embrace!
Yep, kindred spirits.
"I got a school boy heart, a novelist's eye, a stout sailor's legs and a license to fly. I got a bartender's ear and a beachcomber's style..."
And so, when I saw he was coming to Birmingham, subtle hints were strategically dropped into everyday conversation.
Things like:
"Jimmy Buffett is coming to Birmingham!"
"Hint, hint, birthday, hint."
"That would probably make a really great gift for someone who has a birthday in February." (Ed.'s note: The "someone" in that sentence is really me.)
OK, so not so subtle. But it got the job done. Tickets were procured and a concert was attended.
I must say it was a little odd to be wearing a winter coat to a Jimmy Buffett concert. But temps were supposed to be in the thirties for once, and I'm just manly like that.
He, of course, came on stage in shorts and flip-flops. Then again, I'm fairly certain he didn't have to hike ten blocks to get to the arena. It's all about the free parking for me. It's more the principle than the cost, or so I tell myself.
This was my first Buffett concert and one of the curiosities I had was whether all the Parrotheads would also be potheads. Much like when I attended that Willie Nelson concert a couple of years ago, I wondered if I would experience a second-hand high. Or low. Or whatever you get. I don't know, I've never even smoked a cigarette.
Those concerns seemed to be unfounded. For I have walked amongst the Parrotheads, and maintained my inhibitions. Although after the show I did notice I scarfed down my food at Chili's like I hadn't eaten in two weeks.
Buffett, as comfortable on stage as he (or I) would be on the open sea, moved seamlessly through familiar favorites "Volcano," "Fins," "Come Monday," "Changes In Latitudes, Changes In Attitudes," and of course, "Margaritaville." There was newer fare, such as "Trip Around The Sun," "It's Five O'clock Somewhere," and "Knee Deep," which featured a guest appearance by a member of the Zac Brown Band.
He also sang several songs about Alabama, which is one of 3 or 4 home states claimed by the Head Parrot. There was the expected "Bama Breeze" and "Sweet Home Alabama" (replete with audience chants of "Roll Tide Roll"). But there were also a couple of songs I'd forgotten about: "Birmingham" and "Stars Fell On Alabama."
Then following an encore of three or four songs, the band left the stage again. But Jimmy stayed behind to do one last number, by himself, for the home-state crowd. Almost like he didn't want to leave.
After that, we went our separate ways -- he to his Hush-Puppy-wearing, island-hopping, sponge-cake-nibblin' ways; me to begin the ten-block hike back to reality.
The guy who wrote Wikipedia describes Jimmy Buffett's music as "often portraying an 'island escapism' lifestyle." Now there's an ideology I can embrace!
Yep, kindred spirits.
"I got a school boy heart, a novelist's eye, a stout sailor's legs and a license to fly. I got a bartender's ear and a beachcomber's style..."
Monday, February 27, 2012
February 77
I didn't know it could get that hot in February. Yet here it was, 77 degrees on a Thursday. So I went for a run in the park. There were a ton of people there -- a few walkers, some frisbee golfers, and the local high school baseball team beginning practice.
It's like you know it isn't supposed to be this warm, but rather than ponder what we've done to the Earth or what else this might mean, you figure you'll take advantage of the weather while you still can.
One of the frisbee golfers was topless. It was not a woman. Although he did seem to possess a couple of budding physical attributes normally associated with the female anatomy.
The wind had blown all day -- gusty and unrelenting -- like I rarely remember. I don't know where the wind comes from, but I think it must be from someplace in the past, because it so often awakens some memory. I sped up, trying to outrun this particular one.
It should have been a beautiful day -- the breeze, the sun, the familiar ping of a bat piercing the air and signifying that summer wouldn't be too long. But something was eerie. It wasn't supposed to be this warm. Not yet.
I continued to ponder as I ran one extra lap than my usual, an attractive girl sitting by herself in the grass unknowingly serving as my motivation. The wind continued whipping as if we were oceanside. And you knew a storm was probably on the way.
But it never stormed.
I thought for all the world it would. But the rest of the evening, all night, and into the next morning, there was only the wind -- the past.
Swirling. Howling. Beckoning.
"I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought that I'd see you again..."
It's like you know it isn't supposed to be this warm, but rather than ponder what we've done to the Earth or what else this might mean, you figure you'll take advantage of the weather while you still can.
One of the frisbee golfers was topless. It was not a woman. Although he did seem to possess a couple of budding physical attributes normally associated with the female anatomy.
The wind had blown all day -- gusty and unrelenting -- like I rarely remember. I don't know where the wind comes from, but I think it must be from someplace in the past, because it so often awakens some memory. I sped up, trying to outrun this particular one.
It should have been a beautiful day -- the breeze, the sun, the familiar ping of a bat piercing the air and signifying that summer wouldn't be too long. But something was eerie. It wasn't supposed to be this warm. Not yet.
I continued to ponder as I ran one extra lap than my usual, an attractive girl sitting by herself in the grass unknowingly serving as my motivation. The wind continued whipping as if we were oceanside. And you knew a storm was probably on the way.
But it never stormed.
I thought for all the world it would. But the rest of the evening, all night, and into the next morning, there was only the wind -- the past.
Swirling. Howling. Beckoning.
"I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought that I'd see you again..."
Friday, February 17, 2012
...and holding
The passing of another year in one's life is met with a variety of feelings and reactions, often largely dependent on what particular year it happens to be. Well, this particular year happened to be the big one for me.
No, not that big one. That's next year. But as I can't promise I won't be under 24-hour psychiatric care by then...
Now if you think I'm going to sit here and ramble on about getting old or the blinding speed of the passing of time, and that I'm gonna be all pensive and self-wallowing, well then, I must say, you know me quite well. Frighteningly well, as a matter of fact. It's actually making me a bit uncomfortable. Stop it.
Thirty-nine arrived this past weekend. And I turned and ran like a little girl. I'm so not ready for this.
When I think of thirty-nine, I think of a guy with a beer belly who's out of shape and helps coach his kid's little league team, but really has no clue what he's doing, and besides, his kid isn't even interested in baseball and would rather be in band but he continues forcing him into sports. No one in particular, just a general guy.
It just sounds so... grown-up. So... not me. And yet, it is me. There's nothing I can do about it. I mean, if Ponce de Leon couldn't find the Fountain of Youth, what chance do I have? Although with GPS technology being what it is these days... Hmm.
Anyway, I celebrated -- or more aptly, commemorated -- the occasion by having dinner in Nashville on Saturday night with friends. We ate at a Mexican restaurant called Tito's. Then I closed out the evening by singing their baby girl to sleep. My friends', not the restaurant owners'.
Sunday was spent with family, a blessing I treasure more and more as the years continue to pass. It nearly freaks me out every time we're out to eat and Mom orders off the senior menu. My Mom!? In my mind, she should still be forty.
How did this happen? Where did my thirties go? For that matter, where did my twenties go? And are they now in the same place comparing notes and saying things to each other like, "Really? He did the exact same thing when he was with me."
I know all the platitudes. Life begins at, er, after thirty-nine. Thirty-nine is the new twenty-nine, or whatever. But I, for one, happened to like the old twenty-nine just fine. In fact, I've made a unilateral decision: I will not be having any more birthdays.
Allow me to clarify. I'll still be accepting presents, I'll just no longer be counting years.
And heaven help the person who dares put an ad in the paper next year with a photo of Baby Bone that says "Lordy Lordy, Bone is..." Well, you know.
Anyway, I thank you for allowing me to freak out a bit as I prepare to approach that age which shall forever remain unspoken. Thus begins my attempt to ward off a crisis of the mid-life variety which, by some acounts, may have already begun. That should make for some fun blog posts in the coming year, wouldn't you say?
I figure at best, I'll continue to age gracefully and achieve my goal of being the youngest 39-year-old you know. At worst, I'll go kicking and screaming every step of the way, torturing myself daily with the question of what have I done with my life, and maybe wind up with my own Scott-Baio-Is-45-&-Single-esque reality show. Or at least, some good meds.
Either way, I realize that someday we'll look back on this -- yes, even this -- with wistful heart and older eyes.
"She said, you're pretty good with words, but words won't save your life. And they didn't, so he died..."
Monday, February 06, 2012
XXI to XVII
For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, we have a special treat for you today. Seeing as I basically live-tweeted the Super Bowl yesterday, I thought I might share said tweets with you.
Think of it sort of like when the cable company offers free HBO for the weekend. A brief glimpse into the premium side of Bone. Or if you missed the game, think of this as the Cliff's Notes. This is all you really need.
So sit back, pretend you're on the couch there with me as we take in the sights and sounds of Super Bowl XLVI. Or I'll even let you sit on my Bama beanbag if you want. And I hope you brought a friend. Otherwise, there could be some weird tension if it's just the two of us.
(Note: I dozed off a couple hours before kickoff.)
/Begin Twitter log
I just dreamt I was chewing like twenty pieces of gum -- Wrigley's, Spearmint and Doublemint. #nap #subconscious
Aaaaand I missed Kelly Clarkson.
Why don't they keep score with #RomanNumerals? OK, I will. That's IX to... Wait, what's zero in Rome?
Apparently, there is no Roman Numeral for zero. #IGuessThatsWhy
Officially abandoning my quest to elliptical the whole first half. Can't hear the commercials.
IX to III. Ah, much better.
My Mom, the other day: "Tom Brady's nearly too pretty to be a football player." What's an appropriate response to that? "Uh, yes, he is?"
Speed dating! Bahaha.
There's way too much football game in between these commercials.
X to IX. VIII seconds left in the half.
What's Madonna gonna sing? I'm hoping for "Papa Don't Preach."
Oh! That was a G.I. Joe movie trailer. I thought it was gonna be a kickin' Mountain Dew commercial when it started out.
Bueller!!!! FTW!
I sure hope everybody's at a Super Bowl party. Else I'm probably losing lots of followers tonight.
Off night for Budweiser. Wow.
Collinsworth: "You get an offsides, and then that 3rd and 8 turns into 3rd and 2." Evidently they're giving 6 yards for offsides now.
Hyundai tonight.#winning
Also loved the Seinfeld commercial. Betcha never could've guessed that.
And then there's the ads that make me never want to buy a product from that company. Ever. #Samsung
And your Roman Numeral final tally: XXI to XVII
/End Twitter log
If you would like to join me on Twitter -- and after that, well how could you not -- just leave your Twitter handle in the comments and I'll follow you. But hurry, I plan to cut it off at a thousand followers. (For those who are curious, I currently have 22.)
If you would like to subscribe to HBO, contact your cable or satellite provider. Then you can DVR Curb Your Enthusiasm and invite Bone over for a TV night.
I know, BYOB... Bring your own beanbag.
"Papa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep. Papa don't preach, I've been losing sleep..."
Think of it sort of like when the cable company offers free HBO for the weekend. A brief glimpse into the premium side of Bone. Or if you missed the game, think of this as the Cliff's Notes. This is all you really need.
So sit back, pretend you're on the couch there with me as we take in the sights and sounds of Super Bowl XLVI. Or I'll even let you sit on my Bama beanbag if you want. And I hope you brought a friend. Otherwise, there could be some weird tension if it's just the two of us.
(Note: I dozed off a couple hours before kickoff.)
/Begin Twitter log
I just dreamt I was chewing like twenty pieces of gum -- Wrigley's, Spearmint and Doublemint. #nap #subconscious
Aaaaand I missed Kelly Clarkson.
Why don't they keep score with #RomanNumerals? OK, I will. That's IX to... Wait, what's zero in Rome?
Apparently, there is no Roman Numeral for zero. #IGuessThatsWhy
Officially abandoning my quest to elliptical the whole first half. Can't hear the commercials.
IX to III. Ah, much better.
My Mom, the other day: "Tom Brady's nearly too pretty to be a football player." What's an appropriate response to that? "Uh, yes, he is?"
Speed dating! Bahaha.
There's way too much football game in between these commercials.
X to IX. VIII seconds left in the half.
What's Madonna gonna sing? I'm hoping for "Papa Don't Preach."
Oh! That was a G.I. Joe movie trailer. I thought it was gonna be a kickin' Mountain Dew commercial when it started out.
Bueller!!!! FTW!
I sure hope everybody's at a Super Bowl party. Else I'm probably losing lots of followers tonight.
Off night for Budweiser. Wow.
Collinsworth: "You get an offsides, and then that 3rd and 8 turns into 3rd and 2." Evidently they're giving 6 yards for offsides now.
Hyundai tonight.#winning
Also loved the Seinfeld commercial. Betcha never could've guessed that.
And then there's the ads that make me never want to buy a product from that company. Ever. #Samsung
And your Roman Numeral final tally: XXI to XVII
/End Twitter log
If you would like to join me on Twitter -- and after that, well how could you not -- just leave your Twitter handle in the comments and I'll follow you. But hurry, I plan to cut it off at a thousand followers. (For those who are curious, I currently have 22.)
If you would like to subscribe to HBO, contact your cable or satellite provider. Then you can DVR Curb Your Enthusiasm and invite Bone over for a TV night.
I know, BYOB... Bring your own beanbag.
"Papa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep. Papa don't preach, I've been losing sleep..."
Friday, February 03, 2012
I got ninety-nine blog ideas, but Groundhog Day ain't one
(That title made a lot more sense yesterday. Trust me.)
Some people do a New Year's post on the last day of the year. Some wait until the first day of the new year. But I, I have taken the road less traveled by -- and by less traveled by, I mean probably not traveled by at all. For I have chosen this early February spring day for my obligatory New Year's post.
I rang in the new year at Axl's. The night was replete with old school Nelly, multiple complaints from the neighbor, and chopping wood. The latter is not a euphemism. Oh, how I wish it were.
Axl had recently reconnected with a high school classmate of ours, and she was on hand for the chopping of the wood, er... party. At some point, Axl disappeared upstairs, returning a few minutes later with several of his high school yearbooks -- En Retrospect, they were always titled. I believe it's Latin, meaning "to commiserate over wasted years." And so the three of us spent entirely too much time doing just that.
At first it was interesting, as we discussed what we remembered about each other. "I remember Bone always used to sit in the back of the class. And you were always drawing or writing something." That was news to me, as I didn't realize I was writing, even then. And after all, surely there is some value to knowing how others view you.
But then it got to be a bit much. "Even though H won Most Likely To Succeed, I voted for you." "I still think you're the most likely to succeed, Bone."
See, I don't need to hear that. What good does that do me? For me, New Year's isn't about remembering and learning from past mistakes or thinking about the ways you can do better, it's all about forgetting. Actually, that's not just New Year's, that's kinda how I view every day: I don't want to think too much about the past, and I sure don't want to ponder the future.
Beyond that, it was a bit of a backwards year for me. The Januarys arrived in November. And December was just a lot of days. I had six weeks of the blahs. For the first time in my life, I found myself dreading Christmas. And usually, I'm Mister Christmas. No, really, I actually had someone say to me, "What's wrong with you? You're usually Mister Christmas." Although I'm not sure how official any of these titles really are.
Nothing very devastating happened. I was just going through some things, stuff was weighing on my mind, and that definitely contributed to a lack of blogging. But then January was nothing like itself. There was another Bama national championship to celebrate, and re-watch multiple times. I saw Gordon Lightfoot in concert. And the weather has felt more like April.
So a most belated Happy New Year to you. And there's reason to believe, maybe this year...
"I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower, about the things you could not show her..."
Some people do a New Year's post on the last day of the year. Some wait until the first day of the new year. But I, I have taken the road less traveled by -- and by less traveled by, I mean probably not traveled by at all. For I have chosen this early February spring day for my obligatory New Year's post.
I rang in the new year at Axl's. The night was replete with old school Nelly, multiple complaints from the neighbor, and chopping wood. The latter is not a euphemism. Oh, how I wish it were.
Axl had recently reconnected with a high school classmate of ours, and she was on hand for the chopping of the wood, er... party. At some point, Axl disappeared upstairs, returning a few minutes later with several of his high school yearbooks -- En Retrospect, they were always titled. I believe it's Latin, meaning "to commiserate over wasted years." And so the three of us spent entirely too much time doing just that.
At first it was interesting, as we discussed what we remembered about each other. "I remember Bone always used to sit in the back of the class. And you were always drawing or writing something." That was news to me, as I didn't realize I was writing, even then. And after all, surely there is some value to knowing how others view you.
But then it got to be a bit much. "Even though H won Most Likely To Succeed, I voted for you." "I still think you're the most likely to succeed, Bone."
See, I don't need to hear that. What good does that do me? For me, New Year's isn't about remembering and learning from past mistakes or thinking about the ways you can do better, it's all about forgetting. Actually, that's not just New Year's, that's kinda how I view every day: I don't want to think too much about the past, and I sure don't want to ponder the future.
Beyond that, it was a bit of a backwards year for me. The Januarys arrived in November. And December was just a lot of days. I had six weeks of the blahs. For the first time in my life, I found myself dreading Christmas. And usually, I'm Mister Christmas. No, really, I actually had someone say to me, "What's wrong with you? You're usually Mister Christmas." Although I'm not sure how official any of these titles really are.
Nothing very devastating happened. I was just going through some things, stuff was weighing on my mind, and that definitely contributed to a lack of blogging. But then January was nothing like itself. There was another Bama national championship to celebrate, and re-watch multiple times. I saw Gordon Lightfoot in concert. And the weather has felt more like April.
So a most belated Happy New Year to you. And there's reason to believe, maybe this year...
"I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower, about the things you could not show her..."
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Where have you gone to, Jimmy Wales?
The internet died today. Well, dead to me anyway.
Wikipedia, yon bastion of free knowledge, shut its virtual doors today. For 24 hours. That may not sound like much to you. But to me, it's eighty-six thousand, four hundred elongated seconds of nothingness. Outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Wikipedia has become my source for all knowledge of all things. Written by people who I like to imagine might have even less of a life than me. (Sure, it's possible there might be an occasional error. But that's why there's Snopes.)
And now? It's gone. I knew something like this was gonna happen after Steve Jobs died!
But even I never realized how deeply this would affect me. That is, until I found myself twenty minutes into an episode of Sesame Street this morning, giving a running commentary on Gmail.
Some excerpts:
"Sarah Jessica Parker is on Sesame Street? I never really think of her as kid-friendly."
"Now there are salt and pepper shakers on there. One of them has a moustache, and just put on a pink skirt! WTF! The volume is down so I'm not sure if they're trying to say it's OK for men to cross-dress, or if they're trying to hint that women may sometimes need to remember to shave their upper lip area. Probably the latter."
"If they're still filming new episodes, why do the kids look like they're wearing the same outfits they wore when I watched in the seventies?"
"They are shoving Elmo down our throats! He's had like six scenes and I haven't seen Big Bird once. Not to mention Grover. Grover always gets the shaft. He must not be in the union."
"I mean, what does Elmo even do? He's not big and dorky. He doesn't have an accent. He doesn't have a male roommate. He's not grumpy. He's just... red."
"Oh, apparently there's another red one. Who knew! I was confusing Elmo part of the time with someone named Murray Monster? My apologies to Elmo nation."
My top five Sesame Street characters:
1. Ernie
2. Grover
3. Cookie Monster (although admittedly he is a bit of a one-trick pony.)
4. The Count
5. Bert
(tie) Guy Smiley
I need help. Look at what I've become after only a few hours with no Wiki. The Earth cannot revolute fast enough for me today. Wikipedia, please come back. SOPA, PIPA, whatever it is, I'm sure we can work this out. Make a personal appeal. I'll donate!
And please hurry. For crying out loud, I just Asked Jeeves!
"Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away. On my way to where the air is sweet..."
Friday, December 09, 2011
When second base was but a distant dream
This is what I like to consider a motivational post. Not really for you, but rather to hopefully motivate me to post something else soon so that this one doesn't remain at the top of the page.
Travel back with me if you will, to a simpler time: 1989. Tone-Loc was in his prime. I may or may not have still been tight-rolling my 550 Levis. And I didn't know nearly as much about girls as I do now -- which, granted, still isn't... well, anyway.
I was teacher aide for Coach A's 8th grade social studies class. I mean, come on -- a coach's class, 8th grade girls swooning (in my mind) over me, a junior -- I had it all. Plus, I loved grading papers. In fact, if I could go back and do it all over again, I'd have been a teacher. Or a writer. Or maybe a professional Scrabble player.
Anyway, for some reason, I had a rep as a good student, so Coach A would let me leave the classroom pretty much whenever I wanted. It just so happens a girl I kinda liked was an office aide for the assistant principal at the same time. (In fact, now that I think about it, it's possible the impetus for our entire "relationship" was that we were both aides during the same period. Sigh. Love was so simple then.)
So at some point during that year, we started sneaking out into the hall to make out. To that point, it was the wildest thing I'd ever done.
There is but one caveat to this story: we never used our tongues.
The first time was awkward, as you might imagine. Subsequent make out sessions were downright uncomfortable.
Now some of you might be wondering, how is that even possible -- tongue-less making out? Let me see if I can describe it.... You both have your mouths open. Your lips are touching. But nothing's crossing the border.
Now imagine doing that for what felt like... fifteen seconds. Maybe thirty. Each time.
It's kinda like non-invasive surgery. Laparoscopic kissing! That's what it was.
At this point it strikes me to ask the question, can it even be considered making out if you don't use your tongue? I should create an urban dictionary term for a tongue-less make out session. We could just called it a "bone." Hmph, turns out that term is already in use. Oh well.
Back to our story of young love, or... something. As one might expect, with the absence of a papillae-and-taste bud-covered apparatus as part of our steamy 6th-period trysts, our romance fizzled within a few weeks.
I wonder if she ever told anyone about us. What am I saying? Of course she did. Girls tell everything! She probably told all the girls in our class, which might help explain why I only dated girls from other schools for the remainder of my high school career. And suddenly I wonder if any of this had anything to do with my dating drought of '93!
It's good to reminisce, isn't it?
Today, anytime someone asks me to describe what it was like to be living in those days, to be, quote, "heading for the nineties, living in the wild, wild West," needless to say, this is not the story I tell.
(Editor's note: When I write the Revisionist History Of Me: Volume 4, I will have been thirteen years old when all this occurred, and she will have been sixteen. And my babysitter.)
"Dancin' meant everything. We were young and we were improvin'. Laughin', laughin', with our friends. Holdin' hands meant somethin', baby..."
Travel back with me if you will, to a simpler time: 1989. Tone-Loc was in his prime. I may or may not have still been tight-rolling my 550 Levis. And I didn't know nearly as much about girls as I do now -- which, granted, still isn't... well, anyway.
I was teacher aide for Coach A's 8th grade social studies class. I mean, come on -- a coach's class, 8th grade girls swooning (in my mind) over me, a junior -- I had it all. Plus, I loved grading papers. In fact, if I could go back and do it all over again, I'd have been a teacher. Or a writer. Or maybe a professional Scrabble player.
Anyway, for some reason, I had a rep as a good student, so Coach A would let me leave the classroom pretty much whenever I wanted. It just so happens a girl I kinda liked was an office aide for the assistant principal at the same time. (In fact, now that I think about it, it's possible the impetus for our entire "relationship" was that we were both aides during the same period. Sigh. Love was so simple then.)
So at some point during that year, we started sneaking out into the hall to make out. To that point, it was the wildest thing I'd ever done.
There is but one caveat to this story: we never used our tongues.
The first time was awkward, as you might imagine. Subsequent make out sessions were downright uncomfortable.
Now some of you might be wondering, how is that even possible -- tongue-less making out? Let me see if I can describe it.... You both have your mouths open. Your lips are touching. But nothing's crossing the border.
Now imagine doing that for what felt like... fifteen seconds. Maybe thirty. Each time.
It's kinda like non-invasive surgery. Laparoscopic kissing! That's what it was.
At this point it strikes me to ask the question, can it even be considered making out if you don't use your tongue? I should create an urban dictionary term for a tongue-less make out session. We could just called it a "bone." Hmph, turns out that term is already in use. Oh well.
Back to our story of young love, or... something. As one might expect, with the absence of a papillae-and-taste bud-covered apparatus as part of our steamy 6th-period trysts, our romance fizzled within a few weeks.
I wonder if she ever told anyone about us. What am I saying? Of course she did. Girls tell everything! She probably told all the girls in our class, which might help explain why I only dated girls from other schools for the remainder of my high school career. And suddenly I wonder if any of this had anything to do with my dating drought of '93!
It's good to reminisce, isn't it?
Today, anytime someone asks me to describe what it was like to be living in those days, to be, quote, "heading for the nineties, living in the wild, wild West," needless to say, this is not the story I tell.
(Editor's note: When I write the Revisionist History Of Me: Volume 4, I will have been thirteen years old when all this occurred, and she will have been sixteen. And my babysitter.)
"Dancin' meant everything. We were young and we were improvin'. Laughin', laughin', with our friends. Holdin' hands meant somethin', baby..."
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