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).

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.