Best Movie Of The Year. So Far...

Was one of the first to see the Simpsons Movie. It was pretty funny. Pretty hilarious. Pretty much worth the five dollars I spent on it. Actually I spent $8 on the movie because the first theater we went to, we got there late and would've missed the opening of the movie -- which you can't do -- so we had to go to another theater where we ended up waiting for 45 minutes. All that said, I spent three more dollars on pinball. I love pinball. Could play it all the time.

I also loved this movie. It dragged where everyone said it did. But was the perfect length -- unlike others I couldn't have done more. Did I mention it was hilarious? The off-beat jabs at pop-culture are my favorite. I'm not sure if I should be pleased about that. Because it just means I know enough about pop-culture to get the references and is that something that's really funny or really sad?

Also of note was the social commentary. Interesting what they chose to comment on. I could have done without it. Could have been satisfied with 87 minutes of musings on a Spider Pig. (Where does it come from? Is it really "just a pig"? What does a Spider Pig do? What comes first, the spider or the pig?) The commentary just seemed too simple for the Simpsons. Too easy an issue to target. That's not to say they didn't hit the bulls-eye, it's just to say it was a pretty large target. It's not like Matt Groening is Rick Ankiel.

I also did enjoy watching the movie with people the Simpsons generally makes fun of. The people who don't really get the jokes (noted by the lack of laughter at some of the funnier, more bitingly sarcastic moments). Who talk through the entire movie. Who provide a running commentary, like "Look at that, the bomb just exploded." Really? Must have missed that explosion myself on this 80-foot screen! Couple that irony with the overall good-natured ribald from The Simpsons Movie, and the humor during those 87-minutes was unmeasurable.

In the end, best movie of the year. So far. And stay through the credits if you choose to go.

When This Tree Falls

It will land somewhere. Come down into someones hands. Lie at rest for perhaps a moment. Float haphazardly for seconds in McCovey Cove. Then it will be the most sought after piece of memorabilia, arguably, in baseball history. But it will mean nothing. It is all straw. It will echo the sentiments of melodies like "Roll to Me" and "Jump Around" and "Breakfast at Tiffany's". A literal one-hit wonder.

Much has been written and said about Bonds' chase for 755. My opinions fluctuated like American culture until this morning. ESPN.com's headline featured the number 754. Then it hit me. Some records were not meant to be broken. Not meant to be surpassed. Not worthy of their holder.

Have your own opinions on Bonds. I have my own opinions of Hank Aaron. Growing up my dad told me about his pursuit of Ruth's record. The hatred. The animosity. The disdain for his efforts. Aaron was a model baseball player. Consistent. Hard-working. Blue-collar. Loaded with integrity and respect. A sense of perspective. Honorable. And perhaps the greatest player to ever play. Aaron's record leaps from the mere pages of history. Standing as not only a testament to the greatest record in the greatest game, but a testament to fortitude, courage, the triumph of the will and human spirit and to the equality of all men.

The video of Aaron's 715th homer is indelibly stamped in my generation X head. It sailing over the fence. Hammerin' Hank rounding the bases. Fans running up to shake his hand as he hits third. It's only when you realize that he could have been just as easily stabbed or shot or punched in that same moment that you can begin to garner the respect for Aaron's effort.

As Bonds rewrites history in the next few days. I may or may not be watching. I'm one for wanting to see history as it unfolds. And it's always with the respect for a new history. For saying, "I was here when this happened". Not this time.

755 has always been a number. For me, in the baseball sense, it's always represented that which nothing greater can be conceived. Meaning, it was a lot more than a number. Aaron's accomplishment, his struggle, his perseverance, his humility, his respect is worthy of much more than assigning a number to it. Worth more than being resigned to the highest number I can think of only to have you come along and think of one higher.

With numbers there's always one greater. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

My plea is for whomever that ball falls near, fans just separate themselves from it. Move away from it's landing. Don't claw after it. Don't scuffle for it. Let it rest. Let it fall silently. Let the cameras focus on it as the crowd recoils. Please. It is a one-hit wonder.

If a tree falls and no one hears it, does it make a noise? Let this make no sound.

On The Games We Play

I may have played this card before, at least a card of the same suit, but sports are very much a relative endeavor. And I use that term in its philosophical sense, not its West Virginia sense. Baseball, basketball... the arbitrariness with which they are governed is quite evident.

For example, in a baseball game, the strike zone is the most relative, un-objective ruling in sports. It depends on batter size, where the catcher sits, how the pitcher is pitching and any other atrocious calls made during the same game. It's relative within the game it's playing for sure, but it's still relative. Basketball: also relative in it's regulation. For example, a ref might be working for the mob and need to call a foul so he makes money. In Football, the decision to call holding? Pass interference?

Sports are very indicative of our post-modern culture. I know I made a rather broad jump there, from baseball to some rogue French philosophers, but I believe it was right. Oversimplified? Most definitely.

Then there's golf. A game, I believe, that co-mingles relativity and absolutes. A game much more at home in the post-modern view I tend to have (read: I don't believe it's all relative). Without getting Bagger Vance on you, hear me out. Golf has a set of rules laid forth. Standards. Absolutes, if you will. But it's up to the golfer to play by those rules. To govern himself on the course. Unplayable lie? That's your call. Hit a putt you considered a gimmie but missed it because you didn't go through the routine and decide that if you did go through the routine you would have hit it so you don't count the stroke? Your call again. Casual water? Mulligans? It's left up to you to govern yourself according to those absolutes. Sure, there are times where you are completely in the right to make a call in your favor, one that you wouldn't make "only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law."

Kant would have been a terrible golfer. John Stuart Mill, more of a team sports kind of guy. Aristotle seems like he would have been good on one hole, and terrible on the next. Satre and Foucault, seven shots per hole would go down as a one on the scorecard. Jesus, well, I'm going with a par golfer. Remember, he would play the course perfectly. Avoid bunkers and other hazards. One putt every green. Playing a course perfectly doesn't mean aces on every hole (even though that's how the Jesus/Golf jokes go). I think we misunderstand perfection sometimes. It means, I think, doing exactly what you should do. Not doing something completely unattainable. For example, in baseball a perfect game is not a 27 pitch, 27 out task. Or 27 strikeouts on 81 pitches. It's doing exactly what you should do, not letting the other team get a hit or get on base.

Back to golf. I realize in golf, the professionals anyway, can get rulings. Appealing to someone else for a more "objective" and "absolute" decision on how to play the game. But for the most part, on municipal, private and public courses around the world, golf is played out with the individual as judge and jury.

Imagine, if in life, you could ask for "rulings"? You get more change back than you should have and you ask the official to determine whether or not you should give the money back? Or need to lie -- get a ruling. It might work in your favor or it might not, it might be an unplayable lie and you'll need to take the penalty.

Remember, there's always a penalty for truth. For playing by the rules.

This Is What I'm Saying

It occurs to me that I frequently take the names of others in vain. Not that I'm technically breaking a commandment or anything, or plan to stop, but it still feels odd. So I'm pondering this morning the origins of the following saying, playing my own game of balderdash -- rather, malarky with them:

1. "Great Scott". I can't think of any great Scotts. Other than Scotty. I'm thinking the phrase refers more to great Scots. There've been a few of them. The creator and progenitors of the game of golf, Dr. Livingstone and this guy. Though I wonder if the term was intended more tongue-in-cheek by those cheeky British chaps. The Scots being their version, perhaps, of the American South.

2. "Geez Louise". I've got nothing clever for this one. Maybe Louisa May Alcott?

3. "Starvin Marvin". My thoughts immediately go back to this fellow from my childhood. Please get him some food.

4. "Jumpin' Jehosaphat". I'm sure this has Biblical overtones. In fact, I'm quite sure it does. Yet, I find irony in the expression. Obviously, Joe was really fat, so the fact that he was jumping was quite impressive, quite extraordinary.

5. "Even Steven". First off, I'm not sure how to spell it. Seeing as how there's an internal rhyme I went with the 'v', but it could just as easily be 'ph'. And I've got little to offer in this area. My guess is it's origins have more to do with it's congenial sound than any historical significance. The only famous Steven I know was the one who got stoned and maybe Stephen Foster.

6. "Johnny Come Lately". Another odd one. From Johnny Tremain? That song that talks about Johnny coming home again? Hurrah, hurrah.

These sayings are interesting. Idioms; colloquialisms were not sure how they came to be. We use them. Throw them out at moments of frustration or surprise. Yet everyone knows what they mean, just not why they mean what they mean. Sometimes, I just happen to wonder why.

I'm trying to come up with something for my name. So that years from now when people stub their toe, run into a wall or display great valor, they will use an antiquated expression, not quite sure what it means, but certain that it references someone great. For lack of something creative this morning, I'm going with: Ava Aaron.

The Existentialist Golfer

I've been enjoying breakfast at The Open Championship this weekend. Every morning; with a cup of coffee. Easily it's the golf major I look forward to the most. The Masters is beautiful, a nice moment that occurs annually; The Open is past, present and future all at once. Where the history of a 500-year-old game and a future collide; old land juxtaposed with new technology. Where the past cannot be forgotten; echoes of those who've gone before heard on every hole. It's haunting in its setting. Along the coasts of England where the fog is dense. Where you expect to find wrecks of ships, abandoned mansions and ne'er a place to hide if you fear danger. I'm guessing, walking those holes is quite fearful when the magnitude of the game, it's history, is present in the form it is at The Open. And there's no where to run and hide.

If you've been watching you know it's at Carnoustie; where Jean Van de Velde had his infamous guffaw some 8 years ago. Up 3 on the final hole, triple bogeyed the 18th and lost in a playoff. They've brought it up a few times; aired an interview with the man. In it, he was asked why he didn't just hit something other than driver, why he didn't play the hole safe. He replied that he wouldn't hit something safe if he was playing to beat a friend at a municipal course, he wouldn't hit anything less to win a major. The interviewer replied that while that is admirable, one can't deny that the stakes were higher, that the meaning was, well, more meaningful.

"Meaning is relative," was his short, quick and lofted response. Uttered like he was a swinging a wedge into deep rough and catching the ball clean, spinning it close to the hole.

I enjoyed this response. The philosophical French golfer. Schooled in Foucault and Satre while swinging irons and drivers and wedges. Meaning may very well be relative. Especially if you lose. I'm sure if you win, it's absolute; no one can deny you've won. That's the thing about history, it's not relative.

Out on the Scottish links this weekend, history's certainly present and loud and ringing; there's no where to hide or run or cower. That's why I love The Open, where history is heard and the future is sought after if only so that it, too, can be remembered in the past. If that means anything.

On My Anniversary

Hard to believe five years ago today I was in a small church in Lewisburg, WV gazing upon the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever seen. My wife. Walking down the aisle. I craned my neck to the right, catching only glimpses of her as she made her way down the aisle. People were standing. I was standing. But I couldn't see.

Moments before I had been in the back room of the church playing blackjack with the minister. The night before I had been playing basketball in the old gym of the medical school with my friends. We then proceeded onto a digital game of monopoly that ended with my brother throwing his controller across the room after someone traded someone else for a monopoly and a player to be named later. A couple of weeks before I had seen my best friend cry as his father served him communion at his own wedding.

There I was, looking directly in front of me but being unable to see her. My entire life I had waited for that moment when my wife would first appear in her dress that had been hidden from me. And now, here I was, shuffling to the side and all but vocally imploring people to sit down so I could see her.

Then she turned the corner, coming around the final pew at the front of the chapel, there was my wife. Hair pulled back tightly. A veil covering her countenance. Flowers in her hand. I saw my wife for the first time. Radiant. Glorious. Beautiful.

It's been five years. Longer at times than others. Tougher at times than others. There have been mountains and valleys, plateaus and sunsets. Unemployment, tests, moments a whole future was riding on, laughter, frustration, more laughter, quiet solitude together, surprises and things you plan for but could never quite believe until it happens. Marriage is an adventure, a journey. T.S. Eliot writes about taking a journey, setting out for years at a time. But the entire point of that journey is to arrive where "you first started, and know it again for the first time."

It's five years later. We are still in that church in West Virginia. I am on the platform. In the audience, standing, is the past five years. Keeping me from seeing all but mere glimpses of you fluttering down the aisle. Then, you turn the corner. And I am seeing you for the first time. You look beautiful.

Happy Anniversary, My Love.

How To View My Bookshelf

It is one of my favorite things to do when we move: organize my bookshelf. For years I have compiled a small, but respectable amount of books (limited only by space. Until now). There are enough books to fill an entire bookshelf, one that stretches from floor to ceiling. The challenge is always arranging them.

I never have the same arrangement when I move. I don't take the books down in order so that I many put them back up the same way. Much of how my shelf is arranged depends on where the shelf sits in the room, it's overall size and access from other key areas. Also: climate changes are a factor. In the new house, it's located behind the desk, easily visible as you come down stairs and a shelf you walk by when going to the laundry room. You can't miss it.

There are several ways one can arrange a shelf.

1. In alphabetical order, either ascending or descending down the shelf. I detest this method. It shows no care, no love for the books. It proves nothing, other than you know your alphabet. Books should be arranged proving you read them; not arbitrarily by author. It's degrading to them and to your efforts in reading them.

2. By topic. This is a little more typical of many shelves I've come across (indeed it is the first thing I look for and take note of upon visiting a new home: where are their books and what are they). For me, topics include: philosophy, theology, classic literature, sci-fi, a couple of sports books, Calvin and Hobbes. This way shows a little more effort. Shows you put some care into the organization of the shelf. That you remembered what you read enough to place it accordingly. But it's not quite enough.

3. Syntopically. Borrowing from Adler's great work, this is how I elected, this time, to arrange my shelf. Not only are my books arranged by topic, they are arranged by transitioning from topic to topic through a synergy of similar ideas present in the books. In short, in order to 'read' my bookshelf, you've got to understand a little about the books on it.

For example, I've got a philosophy shelf. It goes from left to right from eras (Plato, Aristotle) to subject (several books on moral philosophy) and ends with the Problem of Evil (more than 5 books on the subject). Then, at the end of the shelf I've placed two books by Dostoevsky (Brothers and Crime and Punishment). Unless you've read or are familiar with the books, the transition from the Problem of Evil to The Brothers Karamazov will seem haphazard; trivial.

A couple of shelves above that, where one's eye is even with the shelf, I've included my favorite books, all the, what I believe, are the most enjoyable in my collection. This transitions down the line to three books, the best, not only in my collection, but the best books ever written: Summa Theologica, Orthodoxy, Mere Christianity. Of note, these books have been laid lengthwise, on their backs. An obvious eye catcher because they are laid differently. Like I am saying, look at these books.

On the highest of the shelves, I've include more literary works that are part of my collection, but not necessarily my favorite. In the center of this shelf is the lynch pin, the Rosetta Stone to my arrangement. Lying lengthwise: How To Read a Book. If you've read it you'll understand my madness. If you have not, you'll note the book's significance at the very least because it is laid differently.

Laying on top of this book is something equally important. It's a book a friend gave me at one of the most difficult times in my life. It's not a great work. Not something I recommend really (a very difficult read). But my friend wrote his own words on the inside cover. Those words mean quite a great deal to me. Their impact on me then and now is immense. It is his words belong on my shelf, just above the key to the entire arrangement. In plain view for me to see and be reminded of.

The book is all everyone sees. But I see those words and I remember the day I received it from him in the mail. How I was feeling before and how I felt after. How much strength, encouragement and hope he gave me during a difficult time. How he gave me a book.

That's how you arrange books. Prove you read them. Prove they had an impact on your life. Prove they are more than words or bindings or authors. Prove they are books.

On Bending It

So Beckham mania has landed in the U.S. Couldn't be more thrilled except that he's playing for the MLS. I was excited years ago when the MLS began. When the Revolution became New England's contribution to American soccer. Then I watched a game. Yup. The Revolution were certainly contributing to American soccer.

I've played soccer since I was five. And there are videos to prove it. Videos that show me slide-tackling the other team at 7 years old. As my sister point out, "You were playing dirty at 7!". And there's some suspect audio of me yelling at a ref. Proud moments on the pitch, let me tell you. The highlight coming when I slid at the ball, over-slid and locked my arm around the ball, rolling over with the ball, and continuing to bring the ball up-field. That's a handball. It's illegal in soccer.

I watched those videos upon my trip to Maine, having heard about their existence for a couple of years. It was thoroughly entertaining. That, along with the running commentary my brother and I provided, critiquing both of our pre-pubescent abilities on the pitch.

There's not much difference between the talent in those videos and the MLS. I represented the future of soccer in America at one point. Proudly, too. But 20 years later, the future of American soccer is still as murky and unclear and as woefully unsteady as my attempt to sell that handball. Beckham will steady the ship. Generate some buzz. And be thoroughly entertaining to watch. Even if he is washed up. Even if this stint with the Galaxy are not much more than Jordan's allegedly playing with the Wizards (I contend that never happened).

My hope is this will bend things for American soccer. Bending it around a wall of mediocrity. Extending the metaphor, this shot doesn't have to even be close to scoring, doesn't have to hit the post or go in, it just needs to bend around the wall.

The future of American soccer is on the other side.

NOTE: My attempt at joining the legions of EPL fans fell miserably short this year. My new cable system gives me La Liga games, primarily only those featuring Real Madrid. But expect more posts on soccer in the future.

A Moment To Brag

By nature, I'm not a proud person. Not one prone fits of grandeur. Quite aware, under normal circumstances, of my limitations. No self-delusions. Not necessarily humble. But not proud either. So indulge me for a moment.

I've been going back to school for the better part of a year. Originally, it was to garner a Master's in Theology. That changed last fall. I've always felt called to be a writer, or to write in some fashion. Reason number one why I started this Internets adventure. So a degree in theology didn't feel or seem quite right. Seemed rather the safe thing to do. I've always liked theology and philosophy. Always done rather well in classes and discussions on the subject. But my approach to it was never worthy of the analysis true philosophers bring to the table. I argue and think apart from reason. My instincts are more imaginative. Realizing this, and after much prayer (much prayer for I never do anything, apart from swallowing, without praying about it first and can't help but wonder if one did pray before they swallowed would that prevent me from choking but I surmise my choking on my food has more to do with my inability to not talk while eating and less to do with the God of the universe wanting to use the Heimlich Maneuver to teach me a lesson but you never know. Jesus used to cast out demons, maybe he used the Heimlich to do it?) and much discussion with the Mrs., decided to go for a Master's in Creative Writing.

It was hard work, changing horses midstream as the saying goes. Finishing up a philosophy class on the Problem of Evil -- which I never did quite solve -- studying for the GRE and composing about 30 pages of original content (which I discussed long ago). Long story short, I got in to the University of Dayton moments after Isaac was born. On a conditional status -- which was fair seeing as how my only English class in college was on Shakespeare -- meaning I had to complete two undergradute English courses, passing both with a 3.0. Well, I'm well on my way.

Mired in the midst of both classes right now, I've gotten grades back on one class dealing with American Literature. First grade: A-; second grade: A. Both papers received praise from my professor for their insight. My last paper was on The Hamlet by Faulkner. One of the better books I've ever read. In the other class, on British Literature, I'm just setting out, having to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. But I feel good about the material.

All of this to say it feels good. Not to be doing so well in the classes (though I am and that does feel rather outstanding), but to be doing something I love. And more so, to feel confirmed with every page I read, write and mull over, that this is what I am called to do. It's rather sublime. Rather mystical. Rather like waking up much earlier and on less sleep than you intended but feeling ever so refreshed. I may not every be good at it -- the boulder might knock me back down the hill quite soon. Not like these authors or their critics. But I enjoy it like they do. And I know that I am supposed to be doing it.

I am "stretching myself in this sea" having "gotten my head into the heavens".

On The Small Goodbyes

Now that we've officially moved to the other side of Columbus, I'm getting used to new people. The people who are infused in our lives but we don't give much thought to. Of the places I frequent, there is a new Blockbuster, Tim Horton's, Starbucks and Subway that I must familiarize myself with. I must find a new Sam, Norm and Cliff.

But in all the moving, I never officially had my last Frappe, Spicy Italian, Donut or rented my final movie from the places I spent the last two and a half years visiting. And I will miss those people. I will miss Karen, the Blockbuster owner who knew me by name. Who gave me a hard time because I never wanted to sign up for Blockbuster Online because I got movies for free via Discover Card. Who always had an opinion on the movie I was renting. Who got mad at me when I knocked over a shelf. I'll miss one of her managers, Todd who shared a similar taste in movies and who's opinion of movies I came to value.

Then there's the Subway guy. When we talked, he talked about high school basketball. I just listened. Mostly we shared bemused glances because there was always something or someone weird every time we were in there together.

I won't really miss the Tim Horton's people. Every time I got a Boston Creme Donut they took little care in giving it to me. Throwing it into the bag and that inevitably resulted in the chocolate, the best part, getting stuck to the inner linings of the bag. It was a sigh of relief when this morning, from my new TH, I received the same donut in a box. Resulting in an unspoilt layer of chocolate.

I'm not sure what it is or was about these people, but I've come to miss them. Miss that I never got to say goodbye. That I just stopped showing up. Stopped being able to enjoy a conversation with them. They were like characters in a novel I got to know. Then the book ended. There was no final episode. No highlight show. So grand send-off.

These are the small goodbyes. The trifle things that are no more and really weren't much when they were. But in the loss there is a loss of sorts. A loss of the way things were. And that's the toughest of goodbyes.

On The Little Wonders That Still Remain

They've, or, apparently, we've named the new 7 Wonders of the World. Congratulations. You have chosen wisely.

I disagree little with this list. In fact, I don't think I disagree with it at all. There's no denying the architectural masterpieces. Indelible contributions of the genius of man to the sustenance of the human race.

My nomination for this list is Machu Pichu. Though I also like Petra -- as referenced earlier -- but not the group.

But why is it limited to 7? Seems a rather arbitrary number. One for each day of the week? Why not 13? Or 22? Or even 1? If the latter is to be the case, the Pyramids win, hands down. Though the Great Wall has a 'dog in that fight'.

I have been intrigued by architecture since I read The Fountainhead. Awed by it's genius. Fascinated by it as an art form -- an idea I never considered before I read the book.

And while I think it rather sophomoric that we should in some way belittle the other masterpieces on this list because they are the geeks at this architectural prom they just had online, I do believe that voters got it right.

But honestly, how could you get it wrong? It's like being in a room of every flavor of ice cream and asked to pick the best. It's ice cream! There's no such thing as bad ice cream.

Things like this are subjective. I grant you that, beauty in the eye of the beholder and all. But, like Plato posited: beautiful things are beautiful things. And not just because we say they are. But is there a more beautiful sight than this? I say not.

On The Fog

Coming in this morning there was just about every shade of blue imaginable filling the sky. Including the color of my kitchen in the northwest part of the atmosphere. There was also a thick layer of fog settling down around houses, street lamps and baseball fields.

"Ah yah, it was as thick as a pea soup, it was, ah yah."

That's the saying, anyway. Not quite sure how it came about. Pea soup, if you've ever had it, is not exactly a breakfast food, which is the time of day your most likely to come across thick fog. But I can see why other soups aren't used. Wedding Soup, Chicken Noodle Soup, even Broccoli and Cheddar, just don't quite describe the thickness of the fog, nor do they have the same ring to it. 'As thick as Lobster Bisque?' No. Maybe Campbell's could advertise the thickness of their Chunky's brand by trying to re-invent the expression.

We always describe things in terms of other things. Like fog and pea soup. Like the morning sky and my kitchen. But I'm not entirely sure how to describe things as they intrinsically exist.

Besides, my grandfather's expression wouldn't have resonated with me had he waxed on about the opacity and the paradox of the magnificent translucency of the morning fog, dense with vapors of a coming day, yearning to burn off and reveal the hours before us, hours that were hinted at by stray rays of sunlight here and there, sunlight already searing through an otherwise wall of whiteness. One that disappeared the moment you tried to touch it. The future comes to us, we must wait for it to reveal itself. Ah yah.

Pea soup says it much better.

A Self-Titled Day

Picked up a new CD yesterday. Not a common practice for me these days. Especially since I've discovered the Library -- where I can get all the music I want, for free, and rip it to the computer. I'm very particular about music -- as many of you know. But truth be told, my musical taste reflects my taste in clothes, most notably my penchant for wearing the same jeans over and over again. All this to say, I don't go for much more than what I already have.

But in the recent year I've grown fond of a group called Wilco. It's not music for everyone. Many times, it's hard to listen to. Uneasy on the ears. If it's ever playing when the Mrs. is home I am frequently asked to change the song. It's just not something that plays in the background. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was a pretty darn good album. Slightly over-hyped, though. A Ghost is Born got little play from me. But their newest release, Sky Blue Sky, is something I can listen to at 5:20am on my way to work, with my father-in-law on the way to the Man Store and something the Mrs. will enjoy.

That's not to mistake the album presenting a sort of conforming quality to the tastes of others (i.e. how everyone can listen to Hootie or Chicago), but rather evidence to the musical pallete present on the album and how it pulls from the colors that everyone knows. Those primary colors, the reds, blues and yellows that influence every other color. It's music that's not made much anymore, but music that sounds like it's always existed. Lyrically it reminds me much of ee Cummings and how it dances in and out of a "stream of thought stringing of words". (Don't expect to find "I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue"-type lyrics. For good or for bad).

Ever have a day that your not sure how to refer to it? Reminds me of how every now and then a band puts out a "Self-Titled" album. And when you try to tell others about it, you're like "Hey check out so-and-so's new album, ______"? Always a challenge. Especially when it's not the group's first album, or the group's latest album.

Anyway, that was yesterday. If I had to tell you about three years from now, I'm not sure how I'd refer to it. Or even if I could. We all have these Self-Titled days.

One thing I will remember about it, it was clear, cool and breezy. And over my head, ringing in my ears, there was this blue sky.

On Playing Catch

There's a lot that can be said about playing catch. From infancy we are prodded to catch things. If you're a boy, that develops from stuffed plush-toys to baseballs and softballs, footballs and basketballs, and, for some, fish. I've had my own version of catch my brother and I used to play. And it wasn't because regular catch was boring, sometimes a steak just needs a little A1 sauce.

There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.

But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.

A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.

They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.

Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.

We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.

Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.

On Having A Home

The move is complete. At least, the part that involved the transfer of everything we owned into the largest thing we've ever owned. There's still much, much work left to be done. "So little to do, so much time." Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. All apologies to my readers, but the blog takes a backseat to that.

It's quite a surreal feeling, owning a home. We've been in and out of our place for the last month: fixing walls, carpeting, washing floors, painting, etc.. But sleeping in the house last night, waking up early this morning and locking the doors as a stepped out into the chilled morning air, I looked out on the neighborhood that had a slight fog settling over it. I was leaving home.

On tap for today is the living room -- setting up all the entertainment related stuff, sofa, chairs and what not. Then it's off to the Man Store to by a grill so we can cook tonight. I'd already planned to get a nice grill sometime this week, but a faux pas on my part resulted in us not having any gas in the house, i.e. no hot water. So in order to avoid eating out for the 15th straight day, it's off to buy a grill. Then tonight, I imagine, we'll grill out, sit on the lawn and enjoy what should be a very nice evening.

Of course, for all that to happen, I have this little thing I must do that will set it all in motion. This simple, but slightly profound exertion on my part. This soon-to-be taken for granted practice. After I leave work: Go Home.