Moonlight and time.

My oldest, Joe, went for a sleepover to his Grandmother's house.  Things transpired, as things usually do, and the phone rang at 10pm with a little voice on the other side telling us he wanted to come home.  He had that little tremble in his voice, so we didn't press him much and told him that I'd be there shortly.

The sky was clear, and he was quiet in the back seat until he looked up at the moon.

HIM:  Papa.  Why is the moon so bright?
ME:  (Trying to be as honest as possible, and thinking it would all make sense.) Because the sun is shining on it, man.
HIM:  (Immediately irritated.) No.  The sun is asleep, papa.
ME:  Not on the other side of the world.
HIM:  No.  That's not right.
ME:  (I've given up on giving him any truthful information, and consider my next move.)
HIM:  So?  Why is it so bright?  Really.
ME:  Well.  It's a kind of magic.  (He lets me continue.) The Man in the Moon needs to see what's going on down here, so the magic light shines from his face on nights like this.
HIM:  Whaaaat?  A Man in the Moon?  That's not right, either, papa.
ME:  Yes huh.  Look up there.  Don't you see the eyes and nose and mouth?  And anyway, what if there was no light?  We couldn't see anything at night.  (I look in the mirror and see him smashing his face into the glass to look at the moon.)
HIM:  Hm.  A face.  Okay.

You see it too, don't you?

 

(from L. Frank Baum's "The Woggle-Bug Book" at Gutenberg.org)

==========

A writer whose work I was quite familiar with died suddenly last week.  During the days that followed many of his peers offered their condolences, and one in particular had an impact.

"We made another of our long-standing pledges to 'get dinner soon,' and of course we never did because we always assumed there'd be more time later. Let that be your takeaway from today, as it is mine: if there's someone you admire or respect, someone whose laugh you'd miss if it were suddenly gone, someone who inspires you, pick up the phone right now and let them know. Don't wait. Time is the enemy of all living things. Use yours well..." 

-Mark Waid, as taken from Comicbookresources.com   

So I wrote a few simple notes this week to people telling them various things I should tell them more often.

Well, hello there.

The Denver Nuggets are irrelevant, and have been since 1994.

Yes, 1994.  The year they beat the top-seeded Seattle Supersonics in the first round of the playoffs.  Don't get me wrong:  we've had good teams.  Hell, they've been in the playoffs for the past seven years.  Imagine being a basketball fan in Minnesota, Memphis, Washington, or Toronto.  Things have been bleak for many other clubs for many, many years.  But, does the likelihood of a playoff appearance imbue a team with relevance?  Not really.  The only thing that should matter, in a market like Denver, is whether they can contend for a championship.

And sadly, since Mr. Anthony was drafted, this team has never had a chance.  They've had one glaring weakness that no championship-caliber team can do without:  Dominance in the paint.  (No, the playoff run of 2009 doesn't amount to much, either.  They finished without a title.)

Hard workers, brilliant scorers, and great leaders have all helped to bring some luster back to the franchise and fill seats in the Pepsi Center.  However, they've only been pieces to a puzzle that won't be complete any time soon.  I'm not doubting the ability, character, or intelligence (well...there's one guy on the roster who still doesn't get it), of any of our current or recently-removed Nuggets.  I'm just stating the obvious.  The current iteration of Nuggets are relevant only for news sidebars and personal interest stories. The last big man to make a difference in the paint for the Nuggets was born in Kinshasa in 1966.

Until we have another beast like him in the middle, consider me unimpressed.
==========

The next one has been much tougher to answer.  Should the St. Louis Cardinals pay The Machine the money he's asking?

Cons
-It's $300 million dollars.  Honestly, I have no idea what that much money would even look like.
-He (reportedly) wants a 10-year contract.  That would put him at 42 when the contract expires.  For a baseball player, that's "getting the early-bird dinner at 3:00pm" old.
-It (along with one other severely bloated contract) could ruin the Cardinals payroll structure and prohibit them from doing virtually anything to build for Pujols' future seasons.
-It is fiscally irresponsible.

Pros
-From a numbers standpoint, he's established himself as the best offensive player in the game for the past ten seasons.
-Barring injury, he will continue to produce.
-He is a draw for attendance.
-The big What If:  What if he can stay healthy and be a dangerous hitter into his late thirties and early forties?  Wouldn't that be worth it?

I'm sure I've left out some more elegant elements of the entire saga, but I think I've finally come to an opinion.  They have to let him go.  As good as he is, I'll stand by the time-honored baseball cliche:  Pitching wins championships.  With Pujols and Holliday being paid what they would be, there would be little left to form a long-term, stellar pitching staff.

In short, Matt Holliday's contract hosed this entire thing up.
==========

I'm quite happy with the progress I'm making on my current story about two men who hate one another but are forced to travel to the same place to tend to something important.  Yes, there's a supernatural element to it, and I imagine it will be done and sent out within the month.

Then, I have one more short story to wrap up before I get to work on the book.
==========

I wonder if this would be updated on a more regular basis if I thought of it like a newspaper column.  Dedicate myself to writing something once a week.  The problem is, I usually don't have much to say.  And those columnists all get paid for thinking of things to say, so there's that.

A book, a goal, and a temper.

I was in the mood for a good Western.

It might have been some kind of personal record, reading 850 pages or so in a week.  I would have finished in a matter of days, had that pesky work not intruded on Lonesome Dove.  I'd heard my father speak fondly of the television mini-series, was familiar with Larry McMurtry's name, but was rather ignorant of the novel.  This should be required reading for anyone who fancies themselves 'a reader.' 

And it's not a subjective thing.  You'll finish and agree.  It's size is intimidating, but once you're in, you'll be surprised at how quickly everything moves.  Dove is original, heroic, tragic, and devoid of any Western-Gunslinging-Male'centric' cliches.  McMurtry's women are independent, intelligent; the men, young and old, are immature and flawed.  The players are incomplete and therefore completely believable; there wasn't a landscape I couldn't imagine in my mind or a loss that didn't hurt.

Please read this book.  However, skip the author's introduction.  McMurtry includes a sentence or two about the book's conclusion which dampens one of several surprises.

==========
Several beginning-of-the-year writing goals include finishing three new stories by mid-year and spending the second half of the year working on one long story, that will, most likely, turn into a novel.  Should any of the stories (unwritten or those three currently waiting with fingers crossed) be accepted anywhere, I thought that might be a reasonable occasion to create a damned Facebook page already.

But, then again...I might not.

==========
Lastly, there's been an interesting development with my youngest son, Jack, which I'm certain I haven't detailed.

Little ones get frustrated quite easily.  Either us foolish adults can't understand what they want, they don't understand our rules and regulations, they don't like the way our food tastes, don't feel like being tickled at such a serious time, or there are times they would just rather be difficult.  They'll cry, collapse on the floor, throw things, attack, slam doors, etc.  But not our little Jack.

He growls.

No, I'm not kidding.  He throttles whatever action figure he's holding, and you can hear the anger build in his chest and burn up to his throat.  Then, he'll stare us dead in the face and growl.  Like a wolverine.  Here's a sample:

US: What, Jack?
HIM: mumble, mumble, mamapapajoejoe.
US: Buddy.  Do you want a snack?
HIM: Face turns red, and he looks cross.  No words.
US: Milk?
HIM: Grinds his teeth and the growl bursts loose.  He is trying to rip the action figure in two for no apparent reason.
US: We look at each other and wonder if we should laugh or be afraid.  And from another part of the room, the older brother jumps in to help.
JOE: Jaaaack.  What's your problem? A giggle.

Jack turns on his brother and the fighting begins.

Fun times!

End of the Year Things

The Best and Worst Things of 2010, as decided by me:

Film
My wife and I spend less time at the theaters now due to 1.) Cost and 2.) Babysitter availability, so we research and discuss and plan our next adventure with extreme caution.  Thankfully, due to several trusted websites and reviewers, we avoid many of the most rotten movies, but also miss out of some of the better ones.  The only potential for change lies in "The Best" category, with True Grit and The King's Speech being the final two we'll see this year.

The Worst:
Valentine's Day

The One That Made Me Laugh Enough To Make My Stomach Hurt:
The Other Guys

The Best Surprise:
Unstoppable

The Best:
Inception

Books
The One I Started Twice But Found I Wasn't In The Mood For:
The Grapes of Wrath
-I know, I know.  Classic.  I'm a terrible person.  It'll get read in 2011.

The Best Short Story:
The Whisperer in Darkness
-The first thing I've read in quite some time that kept me from sleeping well.  Seriously.

The Best:
Watership Down
-I am so thankful to have read this.  Absolute perfection.

Other
Worst Day:
The adventure of temporary daycare.  The boys had spent several days with their new daycare provider and seemed to be enjoying themselves.  They took walks, played with gentle dogs and cats and turtles, were eating and sleeping well, and felt safe.

So, we get to The Day.  It was a Wednesday, if memory serves.  Everything about that Wednesday was rather forgettable in its normalcy.  Conversation, breakfast routines, music, whatever...all as it should be.  Yet, when we arrived at the house and walked to the door, there was a definite change in everyone's posture.  We were...tense.

My youngest, Jack, began shrieking the moment he left my arms, and the oldest, Joe, seemed resolute with his Brave Face.  We squeezed one another tightly there in the doorway, and he moved off towards the toys, stopping with every other step to turn and wave goodbye and say 'I love you.'  I heard the sudden panic crack in his voice and as he turned one final time, everything fell away and he ran back to me, sobbing and pleading.

I stayed a few minutes to calm and reassure, but that was an awful several minutes.  I will say, though, the woman who cared for them was a marvel.  Compassionate and friendly, she genuinely cared for them both and kept them safe and loved.  Thank you, Stacy.

Best Achievement:
Running the half-marathon.  Holy crap, did that hurt.

Jack's Best New Word:
"Co-co."  Short for "cookie."

Biggest Cry About Anything:
The finale of Lost.  I talked about it here, so I'll not repeat.  I was a mess.

==========
Please have a memorable, merry Christmas full of smiles, love, good food and drink, and magic.  Thank you to any of you who happened to read some of the words I've put down this year...I greatly appreciate it.

Some Catching Up

There have been numerous forces prohibiting me from updating this quiet little space for some time, and for that I apologize.  Between Thanksgiving and Christmas preparation, work schedules going a bit wonky, a new story developing steadily, and reading like a maniac, I consistently lost track both of time and The Great Things I'd planned to write about.

But, no matter.  I'm sure the two or three of you reading this weren't that heartbroken.

==========
Albeit a month ago, it seems I was quite right about the path upon which Mr. McDaniels was treading.  I imagine once the season is over we'll hear about a new 'organizational structure' with a true GM and another Executive in Charge of Player Development kind of thing, followed by a few years of mediocrity.  I'm sure it will take quite some time to untie the mess that Mr. McDaniels knotted, redefine everything about the Broncos, and start winning again.

Good grief.

==========
The new story is about a courier.  He delivers troubling things for a company (about which he knows very little) to troubling places inhabited by shadowed, troubling individuals.  But, he gets a regular paycheck, free room and board, and doesn't let it trouble his sleep.  Until it does.

No news on the other strange stories that are being passed to and fro out there somewhere...hopefully someone enjoys one of them enough to pass it along.

==========
As mentioned, I went through a reading frenzy for about three weeks, and finished three books.  The Left Hand of Darkness, Old Man's War, and The Hobbit (for the fourth time) were all enjoyed thoroughly moved to their new place amongst the "finished" pile.  The "unread" pile is finally getting thin, with the exception of two enormously fat volumes that consistently dare me to pick them up.  But I'm saving those for some other day when I'm brave.

On a somewhat related note, in the next few weeks, I'll probably include some of my Best Things from 2010 here.  Anyway, off to the roof I go.  These Christmas lights aren't going to put themselves up...

Miscellanea from the week.

Some thoughts from the last several days:

-A personal aside: I'd long considered the implications of such a decision, but I'm fine with it now: I no longer care about the 'someday' release of George R.R. Martin's forthcoming A Dance With Dragons.  I was a huge fan of the series, but the five year gap between stories, for me, eroded all interest.  I'll not criticize Mr. Martin's writing practices, as his words and plans belong distinctly to him to use as he sees fit, but I will say the long wait has been...disappointing.

-The power went out and my mind wandered and somehow tripped on this one:  Jim Carrey and Matthew McConaughey confound me.  I consider several of their movies fantastic: great stories, great acting, but I leave the theater wondering, "What the hell is going on here?  Why can't they do that all the time?"  I just don't get it.

-Finished the first volume of H.P. Lovecraft (Penguin classics edition), and I'm in desperate need for more.  Such is my adoration of the stories that I hope someday to visit the Brown University library (with an appointment, of course) and see what primary sources of Mr. Lovecraft's yet remain.

-The second episode of 'The Walking Dead' was quite a drop-off from the pilot.  An irritating C+.

-I think I'm finally watching the beginning of the end of Josh McDaniels' term of service.  It may not be this year or the next, but this relationship isn't going to be a lasting thing.

==========
A lovely, yet heartbreaking-because-I'm-a-parent chat I had with my oldest son, Joe, yesterday morning as we walked out of the store.  I was surprised that the answers were natural and just sat there in my mouth, waiting for the next question .  I was holding one of his hands, his other was on the white paper bag which held his precious Wednesday doughnut:

(This is was yesterday, and as close to verbatim as I can get.) 
HIM: Papa, will you always love me? 
ME: Of course!  Forever and ever.  And then forever some more.  No matter what. 
HIM:  Even when I go up to Heaven? 
(I pause for a second because a huge lump of emotion is choking me.  Dammit.) 
ME: Of course!  Will you always love me?
HIM: Yes! Forever and ever.  Even when you go up to Heaven. 
ME: Well, thank you. 
HIM: Papa, will I go up to Heaven by myself?
ME: No.  You'll never be alone, buddy.  I'll always be there. 
HIM: Papa, when I'm in Heaven, will God and Jesus be there to talk to me? 
ME:  I'm sure they'll be there to say hello and talk for a while.  I'm sure they have a lot to do up there. 
HIM: Yeah.  Papa, you and mama and the puppies will all be up in Heaven when I'm there, right? 
ME:  Absolutely, my man. 
HIM: Hm. Good.
ME: Okay.  Let's stop the Heaven talk because that's a long ways away.
HIM: Can I have my doughnut now, please?

Good grief.  Nothing like a nice little chat about the afterlife with a four-year-old on a snowy Wednesday morning, huh?

==========
Congratulations to Troy Tulowitzki and Carlos Gonzalez for their first Gold Glove Awards...here's to many more!

==========
One last thing.  Most of us have lists of things in our heads that I'll call 'Other Things I Should Be Doing With My Time Right Now.'  I don't like them.  Please do me a favor and make sure that whenever you stop and think about the current moment that you are doing precisely what you want to be doing.  If you're not, get up and go and do whatever you really should be doing with your time.

Don't put things off.  Otherwise, you may find vast, maddening gulfs of your life have been spent doing 'Other Things.' And that's no good.

Another wonderful idea from Mr. Gaiman...and some other things

The big boy turned four this week.  There was a party, good food, laughs, and his hoard of action figures grew exponentially.  As difficult as his four-year-oldishness can be some days, I must say that I have never been more proud of anything in my life than I am of him (and someday his brother, I'm sure...he's just not old enough to know what the hell is going on).

==========
The Most Valuable Player awards for this season have yet to be handed out, but our Carlos Gonzalez just earned two of the most impressive awards possible in his first full season with the Rocks.  Earlier in the week, the players in the NL voted him the most outstanding player. Yesterday, his peers continued to recognize his excellence, and he was voted player of the year for the entire league.

The "major" awards for the 2010 MLB season, the MVP and Cy Young, are determined by sportswriters.  As a collective, I'm sure they've all forgotten more baseball than I'll ever know, and due to their breadth of statistical and comparative data, I'm sure they get it right when it comes time to cast their votes.  But for young CarGo to get such high praise from his peers...it's quite an accomplishment for a player who will be a huge name in baseball for years to come.

==========
The cold autumn has arrived.  The icy fall winds have eliminated most of the leaves, so the cold weather running begins.  I bundle and wrap myself in various colors and fabrics and look a bit absurd.  The tears cement at the corners of my eyes as I go.  Snot gets wiped on sleeves and cuffs and so they are crisp when I return home.  Sometimes, the snow and ice blow at my face and it all sticks to my hood and I look like a ragged gypsy popsicle.

And ordinarily, I'm not that tough.  I'm quite pitiful when I'm ill, or when the library doesn't have what I need.  But running in the cold...it's an hour that lets me feel like maybe a small part of me is made of tougher stuff than the other guy.

==========

My favorite modern author, Neil Gaiman, had another wonderful idea.  Read about it HERE!  I plan on participating in such things.  You should, too.

Please find a way to have a strange, frightening, and curious Halloween.  And, should you have a moment, raise a glass to the master of all things terrifying:

Some new information

I still can't believe this happened.  I swore to myself during my youth and early adulthood and now full-grown adultness that I wouldn't submit to it.  That it stunts my growth or something.  But now, nearly every morning, the dark call is irresistable and beautiful.

Coffee is amazing.

Years ago, the taste of the stuff was repellent and I thought it absurd that there was such a thing as coffee-flavored ice cream.  Who would allow such nonsense?  But, roughly a year and a half ago when my second boy was introduced to the world, I was damn tired.  Not the mind-warping, bone-aching exhaustion that my wife slogged through, but still.  I was sleepy.  One afternoon, I stumbled through the market for some random, but now somehow necessary item that we needed to maintain our sanity, and fell victim to the Red Bull display.  Caffeine sounded wonderful.

I did that a few more times, but started hearing the whispers from the one appliance in the kitchen that was still a complete mystery to me:

It: "Hey.  Try some."
Me: I curse at it.
The next morning it continued.
It:  "Really.  Get over yourself."
Me:  No reply.  I ate my cereal and turned the volume up to hear the oh-so-clever banter on SportsCenter. 
It:  "I can warm you up the morning.  Try it with some cream."
Me:  I looked over my shoulder at it.
It:  "Only crazy people drink it black.  And only pansies need sugar.  You need some.  You look sleepy."

That weekend, I learned my wife was in league with the thing when she asked me if I wanted some.  I was hopelessly outnumbered and had little choice but to yield.

And I'm so happy.

==========
An incredible local news story (as reported by CBS4 in Denver):

1.) A woman stops her car along a county road because she thinks she has a flat tire.
2.) As she checks the tire, she is knocked flat by something.
3.) She turns over and sees a mountain lion behind her, pacing.
4.) The thing moves towards her.
5.) The woman does nothing.  Just waits.
6.) The lion gets closer.
7.) And she kicks it in the head.
8.) Lion screams and runs away.

Holy crap.

==========
I love The Twilight Zone.  The original series, of course.  The expense of the complete collection on DVD always seemed too great to justify owning it, so I learned to live without.  Occasionally I was rescued when the Sci-Fi Network (now called SyFy for some ridiculous reason) would air a marathon.  I'd call my father and let him know, drag my wife in to watch, and everything would be swell.

Last weekend in a mad craving, I learned that the Great and Glorious Internet had somehow felt my despair.  A service of our cable provider has some forty episodes, spanning three seasons, all available on-line.  We watched several episodes, the classic "A Stop at Willoughby" among them.

And, if memory serves, I watched them with a hot cup of coffee at the ready.  Thank you, magical Internet.  Thank you.

Rockies, Research, and a Fireball.

Season over.

Cardinals manager Tony Larussa had it right when asked about the Rockies' hot and cold September.  We came within one and a half game of first place in the NL West, and the roof caved in.  Larussa suggested that in situations like that, teams can exhaust themselves in the mad rush to tie or reach the top of the division, and then find themselves worn out and beaten down when they have to maintain that same level of play for the final stretch.

Were the Rockies tired?  I doubt they were physically worn out...their bodies know what 162 games feels like.  However, I'm willing to bet that there were several members of the team who at the middle of September were, mentally, on empty.  But, as the saying goes...there's always next year.

Amidst the collapse, I was pissed.  And the illogical pathology of baseball fandom began:  whenever I tuned into a game and things turned south, I was convinced it was  all my fault, and turned the damn thing off.  Then, when it all ended in St. Louis I was a bit upset, but after a few days of some therapeutic sulking, I realized something.  This feeling is yet another reason to love the game.  Baseball fans hope for a postseason or World Series appearance each season, but in the dark, logical corners of our minds hides the very real possibility that this is not the year.  We're all connected in our misery, though some more than others.

And yes, I'm looking at you Cubs fans.  And this year's Padres fans.  It's over, and our boys aren't in it...but I suppose it isn't the end of the world.  Now, we wait for Spring and the chance to try again.
==========

I wonder if others find the term 'research' as ridiculous as I do.  Well, 'research' as it applies to headlining, loud, bold news stories.  Lately, it seems most frequently tied to food and eating and health: "Research shows that two cups of melted chocolate a day will prevent Armageddon...Research shows raw garlic is actually good for your breath...Research shows that eating five cheesecakes a day may prevent you from ever losing your keys again."

We see nonsense like this constantly!  Research shows thing 'A' is good for you.  Then, usually a year later, that thing 'A' has been shown to prevent back pain, but those tested now bleed continuously from both eyes.

I just don't get it.  I'm sure there are wonderful people conducting valuable research that benefits everyone, but I usually take it all with a massive grain of salt.  Although, research shows that salt is bad for you.  Or maybe it's good now.  I'm not really sure.
==========

In my never-ending quest to become Clark W. Griswold, there was a near-catastrophe at my house yesterday.  The 'ignite' button on the grill is fickle, and only works when it wants to.  It wasn't cooperating last night, so I went to the kitchen for the lighter, and put it in the small 'lighter-hole' at the grill's base.  Bear in mind I''ve done this many, many times before.

Don't laugh.  You've done it too, dammit.

So, imagine my surprise when an enormous yellow, blue, and orange fireball exploded from the thing at my face.  I froze to make sure I was still alive, smelled and tasted the propane burn in my nose, panicked and reached for my hair.  You know.  To make sure I wasn't on fire or anything.

I'm happy to relate that everything was in one piece (but a little singed), and dinner tasted wonderfully.

So there.

Several things, including wallpaper.

So you visit the internet, peck around in various different places, and usually, read something.  Invariably, that "thing" you've just read has some space for some sort of commenting.  Some fancy rating scale such as "Golly That's A Neat Article!" or "Jeepers I Don't Agree With That And You Get a Thumbs Down!"  Or, an empty comment awaiting the words of its readership to pile in.  My question:  Why are people so damn angry about everything?  And why do the well-known, fancy news organizations even allow people to comment?

It seems that disagreement breeds contempt in those places.  They all usually start the same way, with people thanking the author, agreeing with or conceding the point, adding their own unnecessary and unrequested anecdotes, or auditioning their god-awful stand-up material. 

Then, someone disagrees.

Rather than offering counterpoints, everyone gets defensive or clever, the patience vanishes, things are thrown and broken while screaming, and the entire thread becomes a therapy session.  The anonymous nature of the commenting allows the anger to blossom and if you're unlucky, you may even forget what the original article was about.  It's frustrating.

Maybe that pink river of anger-inducing slime from Ghostbusters 2 is for real.  Someone should check on that.

==========
Wallpaper is a terrible idea.

Please stop.

It won't make the room look cute or "different."  Actually, it makes the room look ugly.  It's a huge pain in the ass.  And really, it just ruins everything.  So, please stop.

==========
Something discussed at work yesterday:

Isn't it time someone redesigned the tissue box?  On the one hand, those massive extra-sized boxes are a comforting sight when you're sick, but when the box is half empty, and you reach for one, it has the potential to completely destroy the next several minutes of your life.

Because you want one.  Your fingers scrabble on the top of the soft white pile of tissue for the seam.  That's not working, so you look into the box, and either you don't see the seam, or it's at the far edge.  So, you lift your eyes with this new knowledge and try again, and it still isn't working as you'd hoped.  Now you're pissed, you grab an entire pile and rip them out of them box, take your one, and leave the rest sitting on top of the box, which looks tacky.

So, you important thinkers and planners out there reading this, please send some unsolicited ideas to Kleenex to help them remain on the cutting edge of snot removal.

Memories and McFly

A brief, but interesting conversation occurred this week after I threw something away.  It went something like this:

HER: You threw them away???
ME:  ...Yeah.
HER:  What?  Seriously?
ME:  ...Yeah.
HER:  But what if you want to look at them again?  To see what people wrote?  To show the boys?  You threw them away???
ME:  ...Yeah.
HER:  Silent, flabbergasted.
ME:  Beginning to wonder if I should go dig them back out of the trash.  But...I never really looked at them.  And, well, they were heavy.  And I was sick of carrying heavy things.
HER:  You're crazy.  I don't get it.  Seriously?
ME:  Yup.  It'll be okay.  Now wondering if it really will be okay...

I'm sure many of us have a "childhood memory" stash somewhere.  In the crawlspace, attic, basement, garage, storage facility, mom and dad's house, wherever.  Massive plastic containers or bags with grade school report cards, baseball cards, letters written, scattered pictures, stuffed animals, youth sports jerseys, baby clothes, blankets, toys, and the like.  And I'm sure that you don't look through those containers too often.  Or ever.  But you just can't part with them because they're pieces of you, somehow.

Or perhaps you do look through them.  Several times a year, you sift through everything, smile, laugh at it, and organize it.  Clean it up.  Fossilize them in a scrapbook or photo album, maybe scan them and upload them onto your computer.  However, I'll bet the larger the pile of boxes and books and papers, the less you actually look through the thing, and the more it becomes an actual piece of unused, dusty furniture.

So, this week, as I was cleaning and finding places for things, I threw my yearbooks away.  All of them.  Seriously, they were heavy.  I kept all of the other lightweight memory "stuff" that looked interesting, but only later did the Culling of the Books make me think.

I wonder how much of our personal memory is tied to, or rekindled by, physical objects.  Will I remember some classmates and friend's faces forever due to the place they have in the development of who I am?  Or does it naturally fade away in time?  And if it does, is it okay that they fade because they're making room for newer, equally important memories?  I don't have an answer yet.  And I figure that I won't have the answer until I search for that face in the yearbook, only to remember that I threw the damned thing away.

==========

No happy updates on the multiple short stories that are floating around out there in the ether and whether or not they'll make it into a publication any time soon.  I'll continue to keep my head down and keep writing and keep sending, and hopefully, someone somewhere will give one of them a shot.  I don't really worry about getting discouraged, but rather becoming a cliche.  You know that guy.  The one who writes strange stories that nobody reads and eventually becomes a caricature of George McFly, stumbling around with greasy hair, poor social skills, worrying that someone from planet Vulcan will melt their brain.

Open.

(I sort of imagine one of those ugly, flickering neon diner signs being plugged back in right now.)

So, I took the summer off.  You know, in case you didn't notice.

But, things are back in order, school has started, and I think I'll get back to doing this on an erratic, semi-occasional basis when something interesting occurs to me.  So, rather than having a structured, flowing, thick paragraph kind of thing for my first post since The Break, I'll just list some things to catch everyone up:

-I started my own damn book club with myself.  Ostensibly, it was to read as many of the books cited by Lost writers Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse as influences on both their writing and themes of the show.  It started off better than I could have ever hoped.  Watership Down became one of the greatest books that I have ever read.  Words of praise from little 'ol me wouldn't do it justice, so I'll leave it be.  If you haven't read it, you should.

-Then came Slaughterhouse-Five.  Eh.  Occasionally, it's tough for me to impacted by a story shaped entirely around some massive culture war that occurred way-back-when.  Such was the case with Slaughterhouse-Five.  Also, I wasn't to keen on Vonnegut's voice in this one, and ultimately, I didn't care about Billy Pilgrim.

-So, I moved on to Stranger in a Strange Land.  Same thing.  I really didn't care.  This one, even more culturally confined than Slaughterhouse, was very interesting in the beginning, and then tailed off for me.  It certainly wasn't the technique, for Heinlein puts things together very skillfully, but rather the story.

-So, now I'm not sure which way to go.  I was considering The Stand, but I saw the made-for-television miniseries when I was young and I still recall the ending, which I'm told is one thing the movie shares with the book.  Would knowing how it all wraps up, and the more basic elements of the plot and action hinder my enjoyment of it?  Methinks so.  I'll keep you posted on the next one.

-As many critics have noted, this summer was god awful at the theaters.  Thankfully, though, I saw Inception.  Incredible.  And, I agree with the optimists view of the ending.

-One short story has been sent to several potential publishers, and possibly many more before I can announce it will appear somewhere cool.  A new story is coming along nicely, and should be finished within a month or two.

-The Rockies finished the first half of the season with a club record in wins, two games back in the division...and then it fell apart.  Massive issues at first base, Hawpe on waivers, Barmes possibly on his way out, troublesome pitching, and a voodoo hex on the offense during any road trip were some of the common topics in the sports sections here.  And, the NFL preseason is well underway...but who gives a crap.  It's preseason and therefore a total waste of time.  And the Nuggets are in free fall mode:  The two top executives were canned, Melo wants out, J.R. may be traded, Andersen and Martin will miss time due to surgery, Karl is confused, and they have a new (sort of) owner.  Fun times.

-More to come.  Sometime.

A Villain! and a Bradbury

Mama Fratelli, The Goonies

(Also, please remember that I'm writing about the less iconic, less discussed and scrutinized villains here.  The mounds of mail clogging my inbox from those suggesting I'm a moron for not including the magnificence of [insert favorite villain] are missing the point.  I like wondering at the impact the less-highlighted ones had in the larger stories surrounding them.)

"The only thing we serve here is tongue.  You boys like tongue?"

Mama Fratelli served two purposes for the film: First, she was a parenting cautionary tale for many impressionable young people.  During the film's climactic escape-from-the-underground-and-freeing-of-One Eyed Willy's-spirit-and-ship sequence, we learn why the newest Goonie, Sloth, looks the way he does.  She is a negligent mother who thought the best way to parent her over-sized boy was to chain him to a basement wall, and rather than repair his broken visage, spend the money on his whiny brother Francis' toupee.  Don't treat your kids like this, children.  If you do, don't be surprised when your child tosses your frumpy arse off the plank of a derelict pirate ship.  

Second, she was a generalization of the cold, mean, unfeeling world of the adult.  Mikey spends a majority of the film lamenting the potential loss of his childhood if his family is forced to move.  He wants everything to remain as it is, his friends to remain where they are, and the giant Rube Goldberg machine entrance to his house that his parents are strangely oblivious to remain locked and loaded.  For a film about the magic of childhood, dirt, traps, pirate treasure, and the true fun we all can have with a fat kid, the equation desperately needed a polar opposite.  And mean old Mama Fratelli played along perfectly.

==========

Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine is yet another of the multitude of books that have sat on my shelves, untouched, for years.  I started it a few weeks ago as a literary beginning to Summer, and it has been completely perfect.  It is a semi-autobiographical story of the author's childhood in Illinois during the 1920s, and the character, feel, and joy of Summer are all immediately palpable.  Due to the tale's structure and shortened chapters, the reader can experience pieces of it here and there, all the while stopping to remember their own world of Summers past.

Mark Twain and 'Lost,' and a graduation

The best story in television is over.  It ended, for the audience, in much the same way it began: with all of us discussing and sharing the exhilarating mystery of the experience.  I'll not dive into a massive dissection of the finale of 'Lost,' nor discuss where it ranks among other notable shows, as I have missed many of the 'other' stories that have received such high praise over the years.  I've never had HBO, so I'm excluded from the original airings of 'The Sopranos,' 'Six Feet Under,' 'Deadwood,' and the like.  Nor did I watch 'The Shield,' or the most current award winners, 'Mad Men,' and 'Breaking Bad.'

So yes, I suppose my view is a bit narrow and naturally biased, but as the Man in Black suggested, in my own space and time I've made my own rules.

The 'Lost' finale was perfect for me.  The conclusion was an extremely appropriate resolution for the characters involved, deeply emotional, and beautifully acted.  More importantly, the themes that developed throughout the past six years paid off in a very powerful, mentally engaging two and a half hours.  I'll not discredit those who claim it fell short and left too many questions unanswered, or moved too far from the show's more mythological and paranormal chapters.  During the six year telling of this story, there were certainly some lackluster episodes, certain characters that weren't completely developed, and certain ideas that weren't explored as exhaustively as some would have preferred.  Many had a different reading and appreciation of the finale than I, and that is completely fine.  They appreciated the journey, but perhaps disagreed with the final destination.

However, those who feel the entire 'Lost' experience ruined due to short-sighted writing are complete and utter fools.  Several sites I visited for my weekly 'Lost' discussions overflowed with the reactionary loudmouths who proclaimed rubbish such as this:

"...they really wrote themselves into a corner..."
"...they had no idea what they were doing or where they were going..."
"...this is evidence they made things up as they went..."
"...simply lazy writing..."

Know this, oh nations of people poring over these words:  Any of you who happened to be invested members of 'Lost' and agree with any of the above, get the hell off my lawn.  You're a damned fool, and you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground.

Writers Cuse and Lidelof had a story they wanted to tell because it was important to them.  They didn't scrap things together week to week, drawing what connections they could as they went.  This story, as illustrated by the finale, is one that was extremely personal to them, and one they felt would be important to many others as well.  For me, the show has had a tremendous impact on my heart and mind, and will continue to do so for many, many years.  I am saddened to see the story close, but incredibly thankful to have been a part of the audience for this beautiful tale.

And, for those concerned with the unanswered questions, I'll offer this:

"We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that the savage has because we know how it is made.  We have lost as much as we gained by prying into that..."

-Mark Twain

==========

My son finished his first year of preschool today, and there were celebrations and food and cheering.

I watched him smile and quietly eat his lunch, interact with his friends, play in the grass and summer winds beneath the trees, and I saw it happen.  He is thinking longer.  Growing.  Aging.  Moving fluidly away from a dependence on us and becoming his own.  I watched this happen today as I held onto my youngest and felt the parental sadness of time swallowing things.  He sat back down on the plastic blue chair with his preschool diploma and smiled out at us.  The smile was big and reassuring.

As much as he grows and learns, it said, he'll always be my little boy.

The Finish Line

Two hours, ten minutes.

13.1 miles.

I finished a half marathon on Sunday as I hoped, without stopping.  The run went, more or less, as I expected it would.  As they always went.  I ran alone with thoughts and sounds and sights and memories washing ashore in my head, and I did my best to have a conversation with each as I moved.  Pain arrived, and I moved along with it, felt it, moved with it.  Severe pain blossomed in new places, and I heard people in my heart telling me it was going to be okay and that I didn't need to stop just yet.

The clapping and smiling from the faces at the finish line weren't there, for I was somewhere else completely.  I finished, and was happy with myself.  Somewhere in this necessarily isolated, and somewhat selfish exercise, down no specific road, I'd convinced myself that I could do this.  That no matter what, I could accomplish this one thing, this finishing, and the emotion that burned in my chest when I stepped over the line was the best surprise of all.

I learned some very important things about myself, and what I am capable of during the past five months.

And, until my body yields, I will continue to run.  I will run to find those new places inside and answer those questions that have yet to be asked.

A time machine and a Villain

I considered myself extremely lucky yesterday.  Lately, the boy with the yellow hair who is an artist and gentle and a thinker doesn't bring his work to anyone's attention unless they ask.  But yesterday, he slid a piece of paper across the table and asked what I thought of his time machine.  I looked it over and asked him to tell me about it because he was very excited and smiley.  And to be clear, I'm not making this stuff up.

Him:  The time thing is in a jet!
Me:  Huh?
Him:  The time thing is in this jet.  Inside.  There.
Me:  Huh?  Oh.  The time machine is a jet.
Him:  Yeah!
Me:  So, what are these things floating here?  Jellyfish?
Him:  Those are missiles.
Me:  Why would a time machine need missiles?
Him:  Because jets have missiles.  So they can shoot 'stuth' if there's bad guys.
Me:  Good point.
Him:  Yeah.
Me:  What's this thing behind the jet time machine?  A schoolbus?
Him:  Gahhh...you don't know anythiiing!
Me:  (Silence)
Him:  That's where the other people who aren't flying the jet can sit and relax.  (Here he anticipates my next question, a common one, for all of his creations have one fatal flaw.)  And there's no bathroom!  So they all have to poop on the floor!  And whoever does has to clean up their own mess.
Me:  Well, yeah.  That's only fair.  (Me, trying to steer away from the giggles of the bathroom talk) So, tell me how your time machine works.
Him:  Well, the engine is made of all the car engines in the world, but only they're smaller and then they put them all together like one big machine and put it in the jet.
Me:  Gotcha.  What about the fuel?  What kind of fuel does it need?
Him:  All three kinds of gas combined.
Me:  Like, from a gas station?
Him:  Yeah.
Me:  So you just have to park this jet and the back part with the people in a gas station and then mix all the gasses together and it's ready?
Him:  Yup.
Me:  Nice.  So, I have to ask.  Your time machine jet is ready to go.  Where would you go?
Him:  Huh?
Me:  You can travel back in time, forward in time, see dinosaurs, see pirates and knights...where would you go?
Him:  Legoland.

==========

Villainy!
Brick Top, Snatch

"You need at least sixteen pigs to finish the job in one sitting, so be wary of any man who keeps a pig farm.  They will go through a body that weighs 200 pounds in about eight minutes.  That means that a single pig can consume two pounds of uncooked flesh every minute.  Hence, the expression, 'As greedy as a pig'."

Prior to his explanation of his corpse-disposal methods, the audience understood that Brick Top was a powerful gangster who controlled the unsanctioned, bare-knuckle boxing matches of the London underground.  He employed a varied amount of witless thugs, and snarled darkly humorous threats of castration or death to anyone who happened to piss him off.  However, once he ranted about the benefits of pig farms, Brick Top became intensely remorseless and much, much more dangerous to our protagonists.

Fully self-aware that he was the film's nemesis, he also provided many of the film's laughs, uncomfortable as they may have been.  The source of much of his anger, I would argue, was due to the idiocy and haplessness of his employees, clients, and enemies.  Brick Top wants to run an efficient, sustainable, and profitable business, and all of the players that find themselves 'in his pocket' never make things easy.  They botch the simplest of requests, and then have the audacity to act surprised that they're being punished.

Thus, the need for a pig farm.

The taser thing and another Villain

He ran, he dropped, he twitched:
17-year old Philly fan jumps onto the field, runs across the outfield, eludes the grasp of the bumbling and wheezing stadium security guards, traipses in circles waving his t-shirt, and shortly thereafter is blasted by a Philadelphia officer's taser and drops like a sack of rocks.  People on the radio and television are still wondering if the use of the taser was appropriate or excessive, and the Philadelphia police department has issued their support of the officer's decision.

This one was quite easy for me to categorize.  If anyone should be foolish enough to jump onto the field of play during any major sporting event, the use of tasers should be allowed at the officer's discretion.  Unless ballparks start filling their security ranks with the fastest, most athletic guards capable of running down any on-field violater, there isn't much recourse.  The officers are trained in the use of this equipment, and as stated in the Philly case, the weapon was used because the initial attempts to tackle the kid were (quite humorously) unsuccessful.

Will the prospect of getting filled with 50,000 volts be the ultimate deterrent to someone who really wants to get on the field?  No.  Will it always stop a maniac from racing to the first or third baseman with the intent to harm the players?  Probably not.  But, it should remain an option.  It allows the police force a way in which to trump the usually less-than-agile crack security forces manning the field, and hopefully, keep the length of the disruption to a minimum.

Also, there's the added bonus of being able to watch those foolish people twitch, face down on the grass, the following day on the internet.

==========

Villainy!
Teddy 'KGB,' Rounders

Identifying the one, true antagonist in Rounders is difficult.  On the one side is the devilish side of Mike's conscience, his long time friend and newly-paroled cheater, Worm.  Worm is the voice in Mike's ear, urging him back into the hazy poker rooms filled with the tourists who desperately need someone to take their money.  Furthermore, Worm doesn't insist that they play the game on the straight, but thirsts for the rush that accompanies hustling.  One could certainly argue that Mike himself is part of the problem here, due to his exceptionally poor decisions.

However, the most solid and identifiable villain of this film would be that of the Russian poker madman, Teddy KGB.  Malkovich's KGB lies at the end of each debt, and every bad decision Mike fumbles his way through, culminating with one final game that should Mike lose, the Russian won't let him walk away with his hands in his penniless pockets.  Mike simply would not be heard from again.

The beauty of Malkovich's many roles is that you immediately feel that you're watching a tangible, complete character develop on screen, rather than watching the actor John Malkovich play a character.  Beneath each of his creations is a roiling emotion that inevitably explodes at some point, and the fun is precisely that anticipation of when the explosion will happen, and what the outcome will be.  In Rounders, we are immediately close to Mike, and desperately hope that when KGB bursts that Mike will make it out in one piece.

Sport and Opinion

(For those of you who find sports talk distasteful, pay no attention.)

1.  Watching the Nuggets over the past month has been painful.  For those who initially thought their poor play was not due to the absence of their coach (myself included), their first round playoff catastrophe with the Jazz has been decisive evidence to the contrary.  Regardless of who is on the floor, they are getting outworked, outplayed, out coached, and quite simply, embarrassed.

Not even our beloved Chauncey can herd these cats on the floor.  With no one to provide a calming, emotionally stable influence, the Nuggets are coming unglued.  Their failures are certainly known by the players and coaching staff, but changes have not been made.  They're simply not moving the ball, and when they do, they play careless and turn it over.  In their three losses, the Nuggets averaged 15.6 assists per game, and a loathsome 16.3 turnovers per game.  Good heavens.

And now, down 3-1 to the Jazz, good 'ol J.R. Smith offered up this gem via his Twitter account:

"You play selfish you lose selfish that's all I'm saying about the game!"

Golly J.R., thank you for enlightening us.  For the series he's shot 15-44 from the field, just in case any of you were curious.

2.  The near 24-hour NFL draft coverage this year was completely out of hand, as was the non-stop discussion of the Broncos selection of Tim Tebow.  All of the broadcasters, analysts, and irate fans really need to calm down and take a walk, have a drink, eat some cookies or something other than wring your hands at the decision.  We've now been inundated with talk of his ability, his leadership, his faith, his lack of technique, his eye black, his favorite cereal, playing in a spread offense, his work ethic, and all of his future failures.

I plan on being patient, and watching this whole thing play out, good or bad.  Because the fact is, none of those high-profile bigmouths that were smeared all over our screens during the draft coverage have any damn clue what will happen here with Mr. Tebow.  Time will tell.

And, if you happen to be curious, you should go back through some archived draft coverage to see what the "experts" had to say about the player who was drafted in the sixth round of the 2000 NFL Draft at pick number 199.

3.  The Hype Machine is already screwing with the Rockies.  Jorge De La Rosa has a torn tendon band in his middle finger, and he'll be sent to the DL for an undefined length of time.  Oh, and another starting pitcher, Jason Hammel has a strained groin and will be out for a bit.  Oh, and Chris Iannetta is being sent down to the minors to figure out what's wrong with his swing.

Damn the hype.

Flying houses and A Wrinkle

Yesterday, I moved over to the pack of tiny children working ferociously at their legos to see what new empires or fleets were being built.  The only one who acknowledged my presence was the blond one from this conversation some time ago.  He looked up and smiled and we talked about his newest creation.

Him:  Do you like my house?
Me:  I do!  Why is there no roof on this thing?  What if it rains?
Him:  He already looks irritated with me for asking such nonsense.  So I can build stuth inside it.  I'll add a roof at the end.
Me:  Ahhh, I get it.  You're not done yet.  Well, tell me about it.
Him:  Well this is my room and there's a movie theatre in it that can also play video games and my bed is right here and it's big so my dogs can sleep with me and this is the kitchen and the other TV room and this is the secret entrance where all of the weapons go for fighting the bad guys if they come up the mountain and get over the big pit and this is the other TV room with a couch right here and a chair over there.
Me:  Whoa, dude.  Take a breath.
Him:  Huh?
Me:  Nevermind.  Whatever.  What's this on the side?  A propeller?
Him:  Well, yeah.  He raises his eyebrows, cocks his head to one side and scolds me for asking another dumb question.
Me:  So, wait.  This thing can fly?  Or is this just a fan?
Him:  Oh no, it can flyyy.
Me:  This is maybe the coolest house I've ever seen.  But.
Him:  But whaaaat?
Me:  Where's the bathroom?
Him:  His eyes go wide, and he scans the place nervously.  He's frantic and looking for an answer.  It's right here.
Me:  Inside that wall?
Him:  Yes.
Me:  False.  You just made that up.
Him:  NOoooo  I didn't!  Well, then it's over here.
Me:  Under that brick?
Him:  Yeah.
Me:  No.  That's against code.  And there's no room for a terlet.  And no door.
Him:  FINE!  There is no bathroom!
Me:  So...what then?  Where do people go if the need to 'go?'
Him:  He's pissed off now and turns away.  I don't know.  They just go out the window.
Me:  Okay.  Fair enough.  Cool house, man.


He never got a roof on that thing either, in case you were wondering.

==========

I diverted from my original reading list and am splitting time between some of Hemingway's short stories which are remarkable, and A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L'Engle.   I read the book and it's sequels back in middle school, if memory serves, and I remember they left a very deep impression on me.  The first one received the Newbery Award in 1963, and it is fantastic.  Creating a story that feels so genuinely dangerous and unsettling is a testament to L'Engle's mastery of character building in only a very few pages.

At some point, I'm sure many of us read this one in school or are familiar with the name.  If it's been a while for you as well, I highly recommend a re-read of this classic.

Behind the Curtain: The Running

My dad asked, "Why the hell are you running now?"  I tried to think of an appropriate answer, but was called away by the sound of my son shrieking and slobbering on something antique that shouldn't be handled so violently.

I'm not entirely sure where this started.  Somehow, the idea of running a marathon wiggled into my mind and it became of those Things I Want To Accomplish Someday.  So, I started running with no particular goal or date or distance or time in mind.  I wanted to determine if this thing was as detestable as it was during 5:30am basketball practice.

It was entirely different.  I was doing it for me.  The solitary aspect of it was immediately soothing, and the feel of fire in my legs and lungs was no longer an enemy.  It was something to know and remember and push through.  Above it all, though, is the simple sense of accomplishment.  Finishing the run is important, and the knowledge that I'm capable of overcoming those little doubts that blossom in my head each time I'm out there makes me happy.  I've registered for my first half-marathon in mid-May, and I already know that I'll finish all 13.1 miles without incident.

Health benefits aside, running is this constantly moving place to learn and find and hear things inside me that I didn't know were there.  It is a constant journey along the roads and paths through the quiet neighborhoods and the avenues of my mind and heart, and I am enjoying it immensely.