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.