I Love My Red Sox

October Nights

So I like that idea. The one about Bible-black October nights. About the cold and bound silences of a now early evening darkness. Of the unseen and barely perceptible stirring of a leaf loosed from its moorings. Every noise and silence and motion is different. Nature is preparing for what's coming. For when, it is unsure, but the hatches are being battened down. And a chill sweeps over the land. We are mostly unaware, moved on by the perpetual kinetic energy in our own lives. But October is a cosmic catalyst for a new season. It is the thunderstorm of seasons. The hot summer nights colliding with the cool winter breezes. Some days and nights, the summer wins; it is the winter that emerges victorious. And in the Bible-black cover of night, we feel it most deeply, most religiously.

Now I realize it's a juxtaposition of ideas. A mixing, or, rather, a misuse of metaphor, but October is the perfect month for the baseball playoffs. Of silence and shouts; of loosed screams of joy and, if we're fortunate enough, a Felix Culpa. Every pitch means something different. Every cut fastball, called third strike, ground ball to third, double to right. It's all different. It's all for something that's coming. That's just around the next corner. Victory is sweet. I have tasted it. Felt it cool down my scream-torn throat. Basked in it's warmth, overcome by it's chilling reality: victory.

So listen for that imperceptible sign. That noise or silence that brings it all down in a rush. We will fight sleep and our kinetic lives to sit in quiet on cool couches in warm breezes on these cataclysmic nights. These Bible-black October nights.

May we not go silently into these good nights.

On Starbucks

Let's be clear: I'm not advocating or attempting to justify spending $3.95 for a cup of coffee. I'm really not. I think it's absurd, inane and just plain silly to spend that much. But then again I like doing stupid and silly and absurd things. So this morning, after a late but victorious night, I stopped off for a Venti Caffe Mocha.

Now I know I'm paying way more than I need to. Forget the fact that I've got coffee at home I could've made. Forget the fact that the gas station sells it real cheap or that it's free at work. Forget the fact Tim Horton's Cafe Mocha (only one F for Canandiens) is a buck and a half cheaper (though not as big and lacking a cool, motivating, mind-blowing quote). And I know, especially, above all else, that the coffee isn't really all that good. But I like Starbucks every now and then.

For starters, the service at our local area Starbucks is more than pleasant, more than timely, and tends to lead to conversation with employees. I once spent 10 minutes in the drive-thru at 5:15 in the morning talking about how it's not that bad to have to go into work that early. Secondly, today I got a free music download (Jokerman, Bob Dylan -- already own the CD). And to top it off I got a buy-one-get-one-free coupon too. And every now and then that's a nice thing.

I once read a expose on how Starbucks contributed to the benefits of post-modernism as far as communication goes. I can't quite remember the example and I'm not at home to look it up in the book and offer a summary (but here's the book. It's really quite good and worth the read). But it was a good analogy. Plus, there's the whole free trade issue. And I suppose that's a good thing to support.

But lest you think I'm justifying or disillusioning myself: I spent $3.95 for a cup of coffee that I could have made at home with my coffee maker and some Swiss Miss.

And Here We Go

Had I been a true blogger I would've posted the night the Red Sox clinched their first division title in 12 years. Don't think less of me. I was up, watching the Sox game that night. Then, I flipped over on MLB.tv to watch the end of the Yankee game. Even with 2 outs, the bases loaded and a former Red Sox at the plate, I was hopeful that the Orioles could erase a 3 run deficit. And when they did, I silently screamed so as not to wake the Mrs. or Isaac. With the bases loaded and 1 out and another ex-Sox at the plate in the 10th for the O's, I actually thought of getting Isaac up for this moment. I didn't. It was probably a good thing too, the way I reacted when Mora laid the bunt (BUNT!) down with two outs. That was a fantastic moment.

The Mrs. is out of town for the next couple of days with Isaac. She proffered that I should go golfing today. When I declined the invitation she was shocked. I said I had a paper to write and another book to finish. She replied that she'd be working the next several nights so I would have the evenings, after Isaac was asleep, to myself to get those things done. I still said no. She was shocked and tried to further convince me that I should go golfing this afternoon, that the work I had to get done could wait, saying, "Honestly, you'll have Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday night!" Finally I replied that I didn't have Wednesday night or Friday night.

"Why not?"

"The Red Sox are on."

She smiled and shook her head, not saying anything.

And what can you say? What can you write? How can you capture the anticipation? It's the like the long awaited release of the newest book by your favorite author or your favorite group releasing it's latest CD (Magic releases tomorrow, FYI). And you can't say how it'll turn out because, well, you just can't.

All you can do is curl up with it under a bible-black October night, or close your eyes and just listen.

Here we go.

Humor Me

What is it that makes us laugh? Is there a type of Stephen Hawking, "One principle to 'Rule Them All'" quality to humor? Now I've got quite a broad sense of humor. From the dry, deadpan sarcasm of the Brits, aka The Alan Parsons Project and Monty Python, to the physical comedy of Americans, aka the Three Stooges and Adam Sandler punching out Bob Barker. I like the refined wit and charm of Oscar Wilde while at the same time am all-to-eager to settle for fart and poop noises. Pretty much, the penultimate example of humor for me would be someone walking into a wall while asking: "What's the soup d'jour?"

Recently I was remarking with a co-worker on how surprisingly funny a new show on T.V. was. She responded with a quote from said show that I did not find even remotely funny. Not the first time they used it in the show. Not the second time. And, just as surprising, not even the third time they tried the schtick in the show. It proved to me we all have differing senses of humor.

Apparently, humor is not like beauty. It is much more subjective. Where beauty depends on the beholder at times, there's still un-objectable grandeur in the sunset that no one can really deny. But humor and comedy and making people laugh has not that same quality. What's funny for one is not always funny for another. And certainly there's not the "sunset" of humor.

But if you're in the mood for a laugh...

McSweeney's (particularly the list section)
Monty Python's The Dead Parrot Sketch
Dumb and Dumber Highlights

Because It's Oh So Close

For The Home Team

If you didn't grow up a sports fan, it's tough to understand the mindset, the obsession, the unparalleled devotion one can have towards a certain team. Questions on the efficacy of "rooting" for and espousing a collective "we" attitude towards a team seem inane. Obviously, you didn't hit the homerun or catch the pass or bury the jumper. But there's a misapprehension there. No one ever said we did those things. I don't believe I did those things, literally or figuratively. But my team did, our team did. And understanding the idea of a team is crucial towards this "sports fan" attitude.

I'm a Red Sox fan. We're a whole different psychological study. For 162 days and nights from April to September, I live and breathe the Red Sox. Follow the box scores. Question pitching changes, pitches themselves, the idea behind swinging with a 3-0 count and read countless articles filled with inane drivel about my team. I know a great deal about the Red Sox, and I don't even live in Boston. If I did, it would be much, much worse.

But back to this collective "we" in regards to rooting for the home team. The idea behind a team is a group of players pointed towards a goal of achieving some significant accomplishment within their respective sport. For the Royals, and let's be honest, it's not losing 100 games. For the Red Sox, it's winning the World Series. Where the "we" comes in is that we want the team to reach this goal. We share the same end. So we follow our team, extolling the decisions in the win and letting go vitriols in the loss. In this we become a part of the make-up of the team, in a very small sense, an honorary member. We may not be hitting or catching or scoring, but we're rooting for all of it. And that gives us a stake in it -- a dog in the fight. We devote a proportional amount of time and support -- sometimes too much-- and so we have every right to exclaim "we" won.

There's more to being a part of a team than being physically on the team. If you've ever lived in Boston, or spent a decent amount of time there, it's fascinating to watch how much the city -- for good or for bad-- hinges on the fate of the Sox. It hovers over every conversation, news of the team fills every sports page and radio broadcast. The city is the team and the team is the city. We do, unfortunately, a little more than "root, root, root" -- we obsess. But that's neither here nor there to this discussion.

A few weeks ago Ohio State opened their season against some awful team. I went out to grab a bite to eat near the stadium just around kickoff. There was a palpable excitement. Even in the people bringing groceries to their car, you could see it their eyes. It reminded me of Boston. A lot. Of course, CFB fans are stupid because achieving the ultimate goal never rests fully in their team's performance on the field. But I can at least sympathize and come alongside them in their passion -- however foolishly unfounded it is.

But I digress. Back to my point: Go Red Sox.

Engendering

So today our best friends find out the sex of their baby. As we know, their are only two choices: boy or girl. They wanted a girl, but after witnessing how awesome Isaac is they now want a boy.

It was funny how they told us they were pregnant to begin with. The Mrs. had an inkling. So strong in fact that I got a call at work during which time she explored this hypothesis that turned out to be correct. We found out officially when Eric was up in Columbus. He got his Mrs. on the phone and together they gave us souvenirs from their recent trip to Europe. Before we got through the first gift, his eager Mrs. blurted out: "The other gift we're bringing back from Europe won't come until February."At that point there was a lot of screaming, crying and laughing and I don't remember much else other than being very excited.

Well today marks another point on their journey into parenthood. And a not insignificant one either. They're not convinced of the baby's sex one way or the other, though I secretly think they think it's a boy though because they want a boy they don't want to jinx it so are saying they're not sure either way. But I also know they couldn't be more excited about the monumental stop on this road of parenthood. And neither could we.

One request: if it's a boy, go ahead and name it Aaron. But if it's a girl: do not.

UPDATE: THEY ARE HAVING A BOY. STILL NO WORD ON WHETHER THEY WILL NAME HIM AFTER ME OR NOT. BUT I'M LEANING TOWARDS YES.

10 Years Ago Yesterday

I was reminded of it this morning on a post on this site. Hard to believe. I remember hearing the news over the answering machine about a week after it happened. I was getting back from a weekend retreat and our youth pastor's voice cackled over the speaker, telling us Rich had been killed in a car accident. So much for going out like Elijah I recall thinking.

Some 10 years later, Rich Mullins music still influences me. I spent many nights in my youth sitting, looking out the window, listening to songs about praise rising over prairies. Many nights up at Grammie and Grandpa's camp trying not to sing along as "Creed" bellowed over the headphones. And it was "Hold Me Jesus" that was playing through my headphones as I sat praying outside of the gymnasium in 1998 at Asbury College on a cool February evening, making the decision to attend the school. These days, it's most often Songs that I listen to. Especially, lately, "Boy Like Me/Man Like You" -- for obvious reasons.

I've always liked his music. It's something I always come back to. For all my forays into Ray LaMontagne, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews Band, Damien Rice, Wilco, it's Rich Mullins that I can't ever seem to turn off. Whether it's the underlying dulcimer, the haunting, poetic, transporting lyrics, or the simple voice echoing a simple faith of a simple man living a simple life who was transfixed by a simple fact: Jesus loved him -- Rich's music is new and fresh and ancient with each listen. Some new experience I attach to a lyric, song, melody, phrase, beat.

That's Rich. That's his music. As best as I can remember it.

What About My Friends?

So it would behoove me to have some better friends. Not that there's anything wrong with my friends. Nothing at all in fact. It's just that they could do a little more for me. So if you're reading this, and you're one of my friends and would like to stay as such, it would do you a world of good to try your hand at the following.

1. Airline Employee. That way I could get away. Free flights; peanuts; exit rows; first class; and all the carry-on's I can muster.

2. Sports Team Employee. Free tickets; inside info; meet and greets.

3. Movie Theater Employee. Free movies; popcorn; private screenings.

4. Gap Employee. 20-50% discounts.

Nope. I have no friends who can give me these things. Though I've got eternity covered; several friends are involved in pastoral offices. Then I'm married to a doctor so I've got my health discounts. But I need to work on having the material things accounted for. I need a little help from my friends.

It's interesting what my friends do. A nice cross-section of talent, gifts and life choices. But of no use to me materially. But then again, friends aren't for that.

Coffeespoons And God: An Allegorical Dialogue

Enter into modern looking coffee shop. Lights are dimmed low. The room, divided by couches and recliners, is scattered with magazines and tables. Obscure, but easy going music plays underneath.

Rick, the hero of the story, gets in the cue (queue) that has formed of well-dressed twenty-somethings.

Rick peruses the menu, spotting the item he wants. Quietly he taps his foot to the music. He glances at his watch, noting how much time has passed. He is a little impatient. Finally, it's his turn.

The clerk/coffee shop worker, in her mid-20s, attired in casual, but official looking garb, greets him. Her name is Susan.

Susan: We're glad you could join us. We're so glad and happy you've decided to come here.

Rick (taken aback, but warmed by the greeting) : Yes. Well. Yes. Good to be here too. Um. Well. I'd like to order...

Susan (interrupting): Before we can give you your coffee, allow me to explain how our drive-thru works.

Rick (quixotically): But I'm not using the drive-thru. I'm here now.

Susan: And we completely recognize this fact. That's why we're going to skip the directions on how to get here. Obviously you're here. But we would like to go over our drive-thru with you.

Rick (slowly): Okay.

Susan: Here's how our drive-thru works. First, you pull up to the section marked "Drive-Thru" in your car. Then you will see several headers regarding our different items on the large and very colorful menu full of cool fonts and pictures. From there, for example, there's the coffee section which, if you choose that, has our different flavors of coffee we're currently offering. Then, there is the tea section -- if you want tea-- we certainly have just as many flavors for tea lovers.

Rick: Look, I really would just like...

Susan: Sir. This is important. After you have perused our different headers on our main menu. You will be able to speak with an attendant who will greet you with their name. They're one of our many workers who are employed here at the coffee shop.

Rick (amusingly): If they don't say hello do I get a free coffee.

Susan (unamused): After they greet you. Then you can place your order by speaking into our state of the art two way intercom system that works much like the speaker phone on your home phone.

Susan: After you have done this you can pull forward in the drive-thru, collect your drink, and pay. It's all quite easy. We've made it as user-friendly as we can. Do you have any questions?

Rick: Can I order my coffee now?

Susan: In a moment. First, do you have any questions about our drive-thru?

Rick: Uh. No. Think I'm okay on that. But I'll be sure to remember these entirely useful and instructive directions as soon as I use the drive-thru again.

Susan: That's wonderful sir. I'm so glad, again, that you're here and I'd be glad to take your order now.

Rick: Large Coffee. Black.

This is an allegory (is it an actual allegory if you have to say it's an allegory?) after a church experience the Mrs, me and a friend had yesterday. Trying a church closer to the house, we attended on good recommendations. In the middle of the atmospheric service, and that's all I'll say about that, we sat through a ten-minute tutorial on how to use their website. In the middle of the service. Ten minutes.

Postgate

Look. I'm just as upset. Just as furious. Extremely embarrassed. Taking it from all sides too, seeing as how I work with a decent number of Bengals and Browns fans. Though the Browns fans are, themselves, too depressed to be as clever as Bengals fans. But then again Bengals fan are too much of Bengals fans to be clever. Anyway, this whole cheating thing as caught me with my proverbial pants down.

But, it's not like I've lost some sort of virginal quality here. We've known for a long time that baseball players cheat. Albeit from steroids or from stealing signs (the Sox have been accused of this numerous times in the past few years), teams will do whatever it takes to get an edge. Doesn't make it right. But sports isn't the Republic or Nicomachean Ethics. It's not a philosophical treaty on morality. Sure. It would be nice if everyone played within the rules. Like, if, say, all-too-talkative Charger players wouldn't take steroids, the world would be a slightly better place. This whole thing is what it is. Players and teams and coaches will cheat. But they'll get caught. At least there's some moral in that. As for asterikin' the titles, c'mon. They're not the first. They won't be the last. And at least they're not taking steroids. Well. At least not all of them.

One question. Why is it that every "scandal" has to have the suffix -gate buttressed on to it. Patriotgate. Spygate. Videogate. Illegal-taping-of-defensive-coaches-hand-signals-from-the-sidelines-even-though-it's-ok-to-do-the-same-thing-from-the-coaches-box-gate. I understand the origins. I'm familiar with Watergate. But really. Some 30+ years removed and we still think we're being clever? It's more annoying than the accusations themselves.

Almostgate.

Ruins And Love

Now with these hands,

With these hands,

With these hands,

I pray Lord

With these hands,

With these hands,

I pray for the strength, Lord

With these hands,

With these hands,

I pray for the faith, Lord

We pray for your love, Lord

We pray for the lost, Lord

We pray for this world, Lord

We pray for the strength, Lord

We pray for the strength, Lord

Come on, rise up

"My City's In Ruins", Bruce Springsteen

Six years later, we still search for words. For strength. For prayer. For God. May we have the strength to never forget. To always remember. To approach comprehension of the sacrifice and unwavering courage of man. To Love. Above all else, may we be searching for strength to love.

You Keep Using That Word

I'm not sure where I came across it, but the word desultory has popped into my head like a bad jingle. I fell asleep last night wondering whether I was being desultory or not. Whether dinner was desultory. Whether the Patriots convincing win was desultory. Whether I did a desultory job de-grouting the bathroom tile.

I jest with you not. I have wanted use this word in just about every sentence I've concocted over the past 20 hours. I have not, for fear that I will keep using the word and it will not mean what I think it means.

Where and when I stumbled across the word, I'm still not sure. Nor am I certain how it has snowballed into wanting to tell everyone how desultory they are being this Monday morning. But for all of that and all of this, I take solace and delight in the irony that I have the perfect word to describe the situation.

I'm Ready! Are You?

The Loneliest Number

So it occurs to me while listening to Three Dog Night's expose on the loneliest of numbers, that one might not, in fact, be the loneliest of numbers. Of course it all determines how one would define loneliness. Is the amount of something directly proportional to the perceived loneliness a person would feel? I'd argue that where there are more people, there is a greater tendency to feel lonely. For instance, in a throng of people that are unknown to an individual -- say on a first day at a new school, or waiting in line at the DMV -- it's easier and more likely to feel loneliness.

And if we go along these lines, in the same way that there is always a number greater than the one you can think of, there is also one number lonelier than the number you can think of. Say 345. Well, 344 is a lonelier number. Of course, the loneliest number in this argument ends up being one so it actually proves the lyrics of the song: One is the loneliest number, worse than two.

All this to say that I don't think quantity determines how alone a person is or may feel, as prefaced by the former of my arguments. Just remember, regardless of quantity -- if you're by yourself or with a lot of others, if you're in the middle of a large crowd and you notice how "alone" and small you are in comparison to all that is around you:

"Man was always small compared to the nearest tree."

G.K. Chesterton

Also remember that Jeremiah was a bullfrog. I'm just not sure what he is now.

September And The Denouement

I've many times alluded to how baseball plays itself out like a good novel. And if you know my love and passion for the Red Sox, you'll note I consider them to play out like a Tolstoy novel. The season runs its course every year, winding through spring showers (sometimes filled with snow) to muggy nights of ball in May and June, to sweltering dog days of July and August. But it always runs its course to September -- the mouth of the entire season (sorry for mixing metaphors).

And here we are. The ninth month named for something in French that means seven has arrived. To continue a literature analogy, this would be the denouement. Only, there's no falling action in baseball. The entire season's been building like musicians tuning their instruments. Now, the symphony begins. The characters and plots and sub-plots and settings will converge and collide. Here is the action. Here is the cusp, the apex, the pinnacle, the paramount for the paramours of baseball.

We sit 7 games up in the East. But we are not at rest. Not idle. Not in our denouement. September is here. But it is not time for fall. It is time for the authors of this fantastic season to write the ending. And we, the viewers, listeners, readers, canoers (going back to the river analogy) are here. Perched on the edges of our seats, at the end of each day, waiting for the action to play out. For Pedroia and Buck, for Schill and Coco, for Beckett and Papi and Paps and Manny all to take us out and up and away from the chilling month. To take us out to a ball game. A September ball game.

Phew. I feel like James Earl Jones.

Bound For Santa Fe

We've gotten a new car. Circumstances as they were on the 12-year old Blazer, (no AC, CD player not working, wipers malfunctioning, an embarrassing, squeaking, cacophony every time the car accelerated, check engine light, broken gas meter, et al) necessity predicated the new vehicle. We shopped around, test drove a few cars, and settled on the 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe. And we got a good deal on it. Low miles. Roomy. Cheap. Good on gas (better than the 17 mpg Blazer anyway).

But in doing this we had to dispense with the Blazer. The car that has served us with dignity these past 5 years, and the Mrs. herself for 5 years beyond that. There were a lot of memories tied up in this vehicle. It was our first car. The one they covered in Styrofoam peanuts as we left for our honeymoon. The car the Mrs. and I first talked about marriage in. Where I first told her I loved her.

I tend to not get attached to things. I'm more of a place person. I remember and still miss all our homes. Long to go back. But tangible objects? Never really gets me. Until last night as we drove away from the dealer, passing the Blazer for the last time. We reminisced on all our experiences in the car. Some good. Some bad. We were both a little moved. That car, we surmised, had been the one constant through our entire marriage. The most reliable thing we owned. No matter where we had lived or worked, all those transient occurrences over the past five years, that car was the constant.

At least this new car has a theme song. One that's rather appropriate for our new family. And seeing how it's the Mrs.' car, appropriate given her crush on Christian Bale.

Ready For Fantasy Football

Had my draft last night. Easily, one of my favorite things to do. I could do a fantasy football draft every day... well maybe that's hyperbole. But I like it a lot. Time to think on your feet; to stick to a game plan; to feel out the other competitors; to trash talk.

Really, there wasn't a lot of the latter last night. If I may speak humbly, I had the best line of the night after Drew Brees was selected very early in the second round: "Look I know it's the anniversary of Katrina, but that pick's ridiculous."

Why, you may ask? Our league is weighted almost against QBs: 50 yds = 1 pt; TD = 3 pts; INT = -1 pt. Meanwhile our league allows one the option of starting a third WR or just a TE. Outside of Gates, there's no TE worth his weight to start over a wideout. Yet, people were still taking TE over WR. RBs and WRs are the most coveted position in this league. Or should've been.

I drew the 2nd pick in the draft in this 12-team league. My strategery was simple: draft 2 RBs, 3 WR in the first 5 rounds; see if there was a good QB left for the 6th; then take a DEF or backup WR and RBs in the 7-10; under no circumstances fall in with the masses and take a K or DEF or QB too early; make sure I get good backups. Well, here's what I got and I'm quite proud, if (there's always an if) Portis stays healthy:

1. Stephen Jackson
2. Clinton Portis (if he's healthy... remember he went Top 5 in most drafts last year)
3. Chad Johnson
4. Andre Johnson
5. Hines Ward
6. Eli Manning (I hate this pick but there were no QBs left; I was eyeing Rivers)
7. Philadelphia
8. DeShaun Foster
9. Donte Stallworth
10. Kevin Jones (great pick if his leg holds up)
11. Rex Grossman
12. Matt Stover
13. Dominic Rhodes
14. Mike Furrey (I know Detriot's got Calvin now, but he was a 1,000+ yd receiver)
15. Leon Washington
16. Brady Quinn (for reasons I will make clear momentarily)

Not a bad draft. It's not like I've got sleepers. I've got a good mix of stars and backups. Foster and Jones could be steals. With Furrey, you just don't know. Stallworth could also be a good pickup. As for Eli -- let's just say I'd never name my kid Eli (though Jen likes the name) because I detest the Mannings so much. But he was the best QB left on the board.

As for Brady Quinn. Well, I do live in Ohio... But more than that, my team name is TomBradyManCrush and I thought I should have a Brady on my team. Plus, he could easily supplant Grossman or Manning before the season is over.

Winner of this league gets a free T-shirt. It's so worth it.

For The US America

By now, you all must have seen this video, such as:

Then there's this edited version of it that's even funnier -- if you recognize the movie:


But now, there's the MapsForUs.org. Dedicated to bringing, such as, maps to US Americans and not to the Iraqs, such as. South Africa.

It's a humorous website. Fascinating maps.

And I think it is going to make this country we live in a better place.

Apocalypto

Finally watched the film last night, after I rented it Saturday night. Excellent film. Not nearly the graphic violence I had thought. Not like Braveheart or The Passion.

Important to understanding this film is the opening quote from Will Durant:

"A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within"

When I see this statement, I think of Rome. I think how much the empire had decayed before the Visigoths conquered it. Apocalypto bears much the same commentary. Say what you will about Gibson -- and there is much to be said. He knows how to develop themes and ideas in his movies.

It's difficult to rate the acting and writing because of the language and unfamiliarity I have with the subject matter. It's hard to rate the cinematography because it's what you should expect: good and not getting in the way of the movie. After all, the entire film is shot in the jungle. That leaves the directing and a director's job whose point it is to make the movie clear. And there is a clear theme, a clear direction this movie takes.

And I make no analogy when I say this movie raced through the jungle, chased by its theme, by the above quote, finally coming to the clearing. And kneeling in the sand on a foggy beach we watch the theme come sweeping in towards the shore and we are moved. It is tragic.

Excellent movie. Highly recommended.

On The Changes

As you can see I've made some changes. New colors. New organization. Same format though. Same title. Same explanation. Same web address.

Don't expect me to stray too much, or really at all, from the status quo on my posts. Though I do hope to improve the quality and frequency of them.

In the meantime, riddle me this.

Character's Welcome

I just finished E.M. Forster's "Howard's End" this week. Cover to cover in about two days. Easily a great work of literature. From the themes, plot, prose, issues and characters, it's a thrilling read. And having finished that book and the class that accompanied it, I picked up a 'fun' read at Borders yesterday -- along with a new pair of jeans! (Those I didn't get at Borders, however).

The new book is called "Genius" by Harold Bloom. It's about whom he thinks are the geniuses of literature. By no means a comprehensive list, but an intriguing list nonetheless. I've only gotten through the pater familias of authors: Shakespeare. If, for no other reason, we can consider him the greatest literary genius because of the characters he gave us. From Falstaff to Lear, Rosalind to Juliet, Iago to Claudius, Hamlet to Edmund -- Shakespeare "invented" the human character in literary form. No other before did quite what he did. And we all stand on his shoulders now. Also, of note, another intriguing entry into the creative superpower of his mind, was his ability to churn out comedies and tragedies. And not Jim Carrey level either. Hamlet. As You Like It. Twelfth Night. King Lear. Henry IV. Love's Labour's Lost. Absolutely startling how great he was.

Anyway, these memorable characters got me thinking about Leonard Bast, the cast-off character in Howard's End. I felt it then and feel it these days later. His character was tragic in the most tragic sense. Profound in the most profound. And to think, Forster only turned out one of these greats. Shakespeare had how many?

Characters are fascinating foci of novels. Great novels move along through them, the bad, populist one's disregard them. Same with movies. Same with music. Same with life. It's the characters we cling hard and fast to. It's not the plots, the twists, the tragedies, it's the characters. And I don't suppose I truly ever thought about it like that before.

By the way, among all of Shakespeare's characters, Falstaff is my favorite. In fact, when I took a class on The Bard in college, our professor challenged us to pick themes from the plays we'd read (Love's Labour's Lost, King Lear, Henry IV) and create a presentation. Our group chose Time as our theme. Don't worry, we used that record of Hootie and the Blowfish. But I had the great honor of portraying Falstaff's view of Time in a famous monologue. And to be true to Falstaff, I did the monologue on the toilet a la Ian McKellen and the urinal in Richard III. We got an "A". My professor, admitting my interpretation was correct on Falstaff when pushed, had trouble seeing his most beloved character portrayed as such. What can I say, I'm a character alright.

Dark Nights

Read an interesting article this morning on a forthcoming book about Mother Teresa. The author and point of the book seems to be surprised that such a woman struggled with her faith so deeply. It recounts years of darkness in her spiritual walk. They even get, in the article, a psychologist to explain such a struggle.

That's the thing about faith, and I think the precis of this book gets at it. It's not easy. It's not a one-way ticket to spiritual bliss. "I have faith and all is well!" That's not faith. Not the faith I know. Not the faith I have. It constantly comes under suspicions. Is constantly examined and tried and found wanting. Recedes into dark corners of wariness. Undergoes this "dark night of the soul."

This "revelation" doesn't revolutionize my opinion of her. Doesn't occur a polar shift. I don't go around thinking now that "Wow she really struggled with her faith." Christ struggled with his faith. We are all Jacob's wrestling with God in this world, in our own Peniels. In this time of prosperity gospels and "faith is easy" mentalities, this will be a refreshing examination of proper notions of what it means to have faith.

Many will see it but a commentary on wacko religious belief. Evidence of opiates for masses.

Then I'll have what she's having.

Read: Close Call

The latest book I've gone through: Howard's End. I'm still digesting it. Fantastic novel. But I was disturbed. Because I've had to read it at a furious clip (read: less than two days) to get my paper in reasonably late. In order to accomplish that, I've had to read whenever and wherever I could. As it's not always fashionable or appropriate to pull out a book and start reading, I discovered another option I swore I'd never institute: reading on the computer.

There's a lot to be said for the intangible tangible quality of reading a book. Of holding the words in your hand. Connecting to them physically as you attach yourself to them mentally. There's certainly a transitive property conveyed by the words through holding them in your hands. But as I soon discovered, I was reading more efficiently on the computer. I was distraught.

Until last night. With some 80+ pages to plow through (mind you this is not fun reading per say, this is active reading, having to memorize sections, make notes, leave myself opportunity to effectively write a 30pg paper. In other words, I'm not reading Harry Potter) I was worried. Would I have to use the computer to be assure that I'd get it finished? That I wouldn't fall asleep?

A cup of coffee in hand, I got through it in less than 3 hrs. Not only did I get through it, but I felt like I actually finished it. That I physically and mentally conquered it. I was awake and alive and energized. So much so that I began writing the paper immediately. Reading on a computer screen doesn't give you that important sense of physical accomplishment. I spend a good deal of time on the computer, reading and writing.

But with books, it's different. I can't do to them what I've done to my music.

And for now, I don't have to. Until I procrastinate another paper. Another book.

Ouch Cream

My sister and I have this tradition, one that was broken this weekend. Every time she comes to visit, we go to Graeter's. A local ice cream shoppe that puts chunks of chocolate in their ice cream. Not only that, but they serve the greatest flavor of all-time: Black Raspberry. Many ice cream shoppes don't offer this flavor. While it's not chocolate or strawberry or even Bubble Gum, why it's not on every menu befuddles me. Black Raspberry is that oft-forgotten, yet truly loved, flavor. You remind someone of it and they're inevitably like, "Yeah. Black Raspberry. That IS a good flavor." They are like this, unless, of course, they have no soul.

Black Raspberry is that one-hit wonder. That movie that constantly replays on TV. It's the Shawshank and "(I'm The One) To Be With You" of ice cream. You don't change the channel. You don't change the station. You think, "That IS good." And you have to get it.

But Sarah and I could not get our Black Raspberry. Could not indulge in the sensory delight that is Graeter's Ice Cream. The one shoppe around here was closed. For re-modeling. In the middle of the summer. Seems if I'm going to remodel my ice cream parlor, I'm not doing it at the time when I typically make the most money. That's just asinine. But if she comes for Christmas, we should be good.

No worries though. We had ColdStone. Also quite good. Only they make up for the lack of quality of their ice cream by the fandango way the make it. And there's no Shawshank. No Mr. Big. Just 'Hey Mickey'.

But you know what, that WAS fine.

It Was A Dark

There's this surreal quality about storms. And by storms I mean the teeth-rattling kind. The kind that wake you up in the night. The kind that you can see even with your eyes closed. Last night, Central Ohio was walloped. Isaac slept through it. But the Mrs. and I took a seat on the couch and opened the blinds.

Ever since I was a kid I have been fascinated by storms. By the lightning; the thunder; the danger. My dad and I used to watch them from our porch; in fact my father still gets up and sits either outside or in front of a window to watch them. I am like my father.

The lightning flashed and the thunder roared voraciously. Unrelenting activity. The rain pounded the west end of the house. I enjoyed this expose on evening rain. But I much more enjoyed experiencing it this morning. Blinking in fear when the lightning flashed. Clenched and on-alert for the thunder to follow. Following the rolling thunder across the ceiling. Feeling it when it finally dropped. It was a dark and stormy night.

And there is this surreal quality for those of us who enjoy a good thunderstorm. A raw and passionate glimpse of nature. Electric and loud; wet and windy; bright and clear. A glimpse at her soul. A look at her most dangerous moments. At her rage. At her temper. At her passion. When nature has a character; a personality; an identity. At her suffering in the hope of glory:

For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated...

More On The Little Way

"Surely, this is happiness."

I was reading Remains of The Day. Sitting in the chair. In the background, the Red Sox were playing. Tim Wakefield was pitching. Throwing a gem -- no hitting the Devil Rays -- but throwing a gem. In the recliner, the Mrs. sat holding Isaac. A long day of work put well behind her. Isaac was still awake. Dancing about like that knuckleball. Doing everything to keep from sleeping. To keep from losing time with his mom.

There he was. Bouncing his head around from shoulder to shoulder in silence but with eyes wide open. Reaching often to feel his mothers face. Occasionally cocking his head in my direction. His blue eyes bright enough to pull me from my pages. There remained little in this day. The hours pushing into morning. But there was this moment.

Still dancing silently in her arms, she caved. Sat him on her lap. His eyes glowing. His eyes looking at me. Behind the two of us was our day. Lots of laughter and fun and giggling on the floor. I even read him his own book, "Who Loves Baby?". He wanted a little more. He wanted to laugh. The Mrs. bent over in front of him. But he shifted his head around hers, looking for me. Smiling.

I smiled. Cackled. Made noises. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Wiggling around like a knuckleball in his mothers lap. She watched him. Watched us. Her eyes were tired. But her countenance glowed. She felt the laughter. Felt the smiles. It went on like this for minutes and minutes. Me making him laugh. He eagerly awaiting the chance to laugh, to smile and letting me give him the opportunity.

She held him tight. Rocked him to sleep. Held on to him so tightly. Like she had caught a knuckleball.

"Surely, this is happiness."

We Had A Deal

I fully recognize the man's contribution to American Television. Jeopardy. Wheel of Fortune. But Merv Griffin was the man who gave Seinfield this gem.

Foreign Pick-Up Lines

I'm getting my hair(s) cut today when I hear this rather peculiar accent. It was the woman not cutting my hair. She was working on another gentleman's coif -- a middle-aged man who ran nursing homes out of Washington, D.C. for a living. She spoke eloquently. With a tinge of England and Ireland in her voice, but without the accent's natural rhythm. It was more guttural. More earthy. But not Scottish.

I assumed, in the end she was a stylist from England -- odd enough to find in the Grandview section of Columbus -- at a Great Clips no less. Quickly, I tried to place it. It didn't feel like an English brogue. Having worked with quite a few Brits, Celts, Scots and Kiwi's I tried to place her words on nursing homes into the mouths of those I had worked with. No luck.

Then the gentleman asked her where she was from. The answer to my inaudible inquiry at last! South Africa. Of course! I knew it was familiar. I knew it could be placed. South Africa!

In 2000 I spent 10+ weeks there on a mission trip with church. It was remarkable and amazing and trying and an unforgettable experience (except, obviously, for the accents). I remember little of the language however. Though I'm sure this woman before me spoke Afrikaans. That much I could place. Turns out the only language I remember from South Africa is Afrikaans.

Before I left in double aught, a friend who had been there before gave me some words to remember -- not telling me what they meant. One particular saying has stuck with me because of it's meaning. I won't phonetically write it out, nor try to spell it, only know that it was a pick up line, going something like this:

I am beautiful. Give me a kiss.

Of course, not knowing the meaning I decided to use it anyway. On the ladies. Let's just say it was a hit. With the Home League. And nursing homes.

The Loneliest Number

With one swing a lifetime of work is undone. Shattered. Splintered. There is now a new fence to swing for. A new record. The flight of the ball cut through the heart of the field last night. Soared into the stands. Out of reach. For now. So much for silence. For controlled and perpetrated apathy by baseball fans. Money always wins.

Chills run down my back still as I watch it. But there is no joy. No happiness. Mudville fans were more delighted in their misfortune than I am at baseball's misfortune. To have the mightiest record in sports fall in such a way. To have the sacred spit upon like a Perry pitch. To round the bases like a vulture circling a helpless, dying soul. And then you stood at home.

No. 756 brings me no joy. Brings me no happiness. But I applaud your achievement. Your life's work. Measured only in numbers.

This one, number 756, the loneliest of all.

On Metaphors

There has been so little to do and so much time over the past week... Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. The folks were in for a week, helping us with Isaac and the new house. My dad and I set to work on several projects: repairing sections of the fence, rebuilding the side of the shed, re-grouting the bathroom. We didn't get it all completed, but got a rather large portion of it all done.

Over this past weekend, we accomplished the bulk of our tasks. None of which originally included a geyser of blood, a pulled back muscle, a fear of little bugs or a tetanus shot. But as is expected when you have things to do and little time to do it, the unforeseen happens. Of note, three out of the four unforeseen events happened to me. I stabbed myself in the knee with a cro-bar. I punctured my hand with a rusty nail. I really can't deal with small bugs that flitter and flatter and creep up over your foot or your hand when you pick up a piece of wood. It was my father who hurt his back this week... golfing.

But I built something. With my own two...er... hand and a half. When we went to repair a small section of the shed apart, we found the problem went much, much deeper. One that led to a new floor and completely re-enforcing the foundation. But we rebuilt it; even added some new doors.

The poet Stanley Kunitz once told prospective poets this:

"Do something else, develop any other skill ... turn to any other branch of knowledge. Learn how to use your hands. Try woodworking, birdwatching, gardening, sailing, weaving, pottery, archaeology, oceanography, spelunking, animal husbandry — take your pick. Whatever activity you engage in, as a trade or hobby or field study, will tone up your body and clear your head. At the very least it will help you with your metaphors."

I've certainly got some new metaphors. But I'm not trying to be a poet. At least I don't think so. Who knows with school coming up. Maybe I'm an old shed that needs a new foundation. Maybe grad school is the repair job that will rip away and rebuild.

Maybe I still need to work on my metaphors.

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.