Dry Leaves

Strange weather in columbus, ohio. After weeks of nothing, the rain decided to open up and really let loose. It spits and it showers, and fog hangs in the air, making everything seem dank like I how I always imagine London to be. We moved recently and my trek into work at the great and wonderful state university of ohio now includes a drive through the city on one of columbus’ major highway instead of around the side like I used to. It’s nice on mornings like this. Clouds hang around the tops of the buildings, obscuring the tops, giving them room to whisper at each other in the rain, telling stories about the people who scurry about below, oblivious to everything going on above them.

Time’s moving fast again. Last I checked it was early spring and summer was just around the corner. Now it’s almost fall. The recent hot dryness has turned the edges of green tree leaves brown, forcing them inward in a manner that reminds you of fall. It isn’t fall; not yet. Jen tells me it’s just the lack of water, but it feels like fall; it smells like fall. And even if it isn’t quite the real thing yet, the crispness of everything might very well be the beginning, that reminder that the wild beauty of nature’s death dance is not to far off.

Time is moving fast again. Summer passed me bye much faster than it usually does. A lot has happened these past few months to distract me and, maybe I’ll go into that here sometime soon. Maybe I won’t. Right now I’ll just sit on the deck and watch the leaves change.

Whether it’s a lack of water or the real thing doesn’t matter. It’s still beautiful.

Bench in the park

My wife and I sat on that bench a little over two years ago. This was when we were still dating. It was daytime then and the trees were dressed in their summer leaves. We had walked all over centre island and we sat here for a bit to rest and listen to the sounds of the birds in the trees and fishermen who sat in their boats in the next cove, arguing about the fish and whether they were biting. I kissed her. Then some kids came along on the walking path and we stopped. We got up a minute later and left. It was a nice moment.

Other Worlds

When I was a kid, we had this fire pit in our backyard. It was built of bricks and concrete and it had a small chimney that reached maybe four to five feet in the air. It may have been shorter, though. I was much smaller back then. I used to dream that our fire pit wasn’t actually a fire pit. I imagined it was an actual chimney for an underground house. I imagined an entire civilization of subterranean people, scurrying around just beneath us, going about their sunless lives oblivious to the world that existed just above them. I believed in this place so strongly that I would often look out my bedroom window at night to see if I could catch the smoke rising out of the chimney, evidence that this other world existed.

When I was a boy there was this tree, this gnarled behemoth that stood on the hill next to our apartment. A series of mean roots ripped through the ground, coalescing into a trunk covered in knotholes and crevasses and impossibly brittle bark and then, just a few feet off the ground, split into three or four large branches that danced and jigged sideways, just above the ground. The branches spread out in all directions, in and among each other, twisting their way towards the heavens. The tree never seemed to sway, even in the strongest wind, and the leaves, which turned a dark and ugly brown in autumn, were always the last to fall. I imagined the tree was a witch’s hand, sent from the depths of hell to snatch the neighborhood kids who always seemed to want to play on it.

When I was little we had this field down the hill behind the Chalmers parking lot that was covered by a lush carpet of thick, green grass that grew long and swayed in the summer breezes. I imaged invisible warriors fighting legendary battles in this field, their invisible, heavy feet moving the grass as they fought against invisible monsters to keep control of the field and protect the people who lived nearby. Some days, when it was less windy and the field stood relatively still, I searched the grass, looking for arrowheads, broken pieces of metal, and flecks of red on the green blades that covered the ground; evidence of the battle I was certain had taken place.

When I was young I found a large bone buried in the ground just past the giant tire in the playground behind my school. My friends and I spent all year trying to dig it up. We found sticks from the nearby woods and we dug into the ground near the bone, looking for the rest of the dinosaur. Of course it was a dinosaur bone. We all knew it. We hoped to dig it up by the end of the year and present our findings to the teacher, who would put us on television and give us medals for our smarts and our bravery. Everyone would love us, we told ourselves. All we needed to go was dig up that bone.

When I was a kid there were other worlds than the one in which I lived. Many other worlds.

My wife and I spent most of last night reorganizing our kitchen. We stayed up pretty late building some shelves we plan to use for wine storage and we were pretty tired by the time we went to bed. Just before we fell asleep, my wife rolled over and said, “We’re thirty. Isn’t that weird.”

“We’re not thirty yet,” I said, “We’re only twenty ten.”

“No. We’re thirty.”

“Does that mean we’re old?”

“I think so,” she said. Then she paused and continued. “Thirty. How did that happen?”

We both fell asleep shortly thereafter but, just before I nodded off, I remembered a lot of the things I used to believe when I was a kid. I thought of the chimney and the tree and the field and dinosaur bone. I haven’t thought of those things for a very, very long time.

How did that happen?

Seasonal Employment

So Jen and I got part time, seasonal jobs to help us pay off some debt. We're hoping that we might one day be able to pay off the massive debt we accumulated in the pursuit of our four useless degrees (between the two of us). She's working at a temp agency. It's tough for her and she's tired when she comes home from work.

This is how I feel about my job...

Happy Slapsgiving, Everyone

Did I say that out loud?

You know you've checked out of your job when, in response to a co-worker's suggestion about a particular course of action, you utter the following:

"You might want to try to get [boss] to pimp that one, because my pimp hand isn't strong enough for that."

Countdown to new employment: 9 days

Intelligence

Intelligence: n

1. Wait until late June to address the broken air conditioning in the building, leaving my office to roast at over 100 degrees until almost Independence Day.
2. Turn the air conditioning off September 1, when the temperature outside is still quite warm. Temp in my office: 103.
   
3. In response to complaints, wait for temperature to dip into the 60s, then turn the a/c back on. Temp in my office: 40.
   
4. In response to complaints, turn on heat in the building. Temp outside creeps back into the 80s. Temp in my office: 105.
   
5. Temp outside continues to rise. Heat is still on. People complain vociferously.
   
6. Facilities responds by turning on the heat for the second floor and the a/c for the first floor. Temp on first floor: 40. Temp on second floor: 95. temp in my office: 101.
   

Screaming

Me: Did I tell you? We might move to the bigger office downstairs soon.
My Student Assistant (MSA): Really?
ME: Yeah. It's the one with windows.
MSA: Is there room for a jousting ring?
Me: Probably.
MSA: Awesome.

(pause)

MSA: Wait...Can we shut the office door to keep all the screaming in side?
Me: Um ... What do you plan to do in this new office?
MSA: I don't know. But I'm not gonna be the one screaming.

756

Josh Gibson is unimpressed.

Business Time

Harry Potter Spoilers

I found these spoilers online Highlight the following text, if you dare:

"1. The boat sinks.
2. Harry sees dead people.
3. Hermione, really a guy.
4. Kreacher killed him in the conservatory with a lead pipe.
5. Voldemort is blown up after a rag tag bunch of fighters shoot a photon torpedo up his hidden vent hole.
6: The death eaters were created when the ministry tried to pacify an entire planet using an airborne drug.
7: Hagrid is shot off of the owl tower by biplanes.
8: Harry originally got his magic when he took the red pill.
9: Dobby throws his sock into the volcano.
10: Voldemort got his power when a cursed spider bit him.
11: Harry and Hermionie, twins separtaed at birth. Oh yeah, and Voldemort's his dad.
12: Hagrid's zoo gets out of control, takes over the island.
13: Monkeys.
14: He uses the wall of the outhouse as a sail.
15: Draco uses the magic amulet to wipe out all the vampires.
16: Rosebud is a broom.
17: Snape is really Tyler Durden.
18: Hogsmead is actually in the middle of downtown London, but no one knows it.
19: Harry is saved by a living statue sent back in time by himself.
20: Hagrid tunnels out using a little rock hammer hidden in Hogwarts, a history.
21: Neville is Kaiser Soze
22: It's Mrs Weasley's head in the box they give to Mr. weasley.
23: Everyone is arrested at the castle after a cop car pulls up and takes them off to jail.
24: Lucius Malfoy gets lost in the maze and freezes to death.
25: The entire D.A. dies defending the bridge.
26: Luna blows the monster out the airlock. She is wearing only her underwear
27: Voldemort is really just part of Snape's split personality.
28: Hogwarts is just a modern nature preserve.
29: Ron, Hermione, and Harry sit in Hogsmeade drinking butter Beer. One after another, Death eaters enter the bar, giving the trio menacing looks. Voldemort walks in and orders an apple pie. Harry puts a tune on the Jukebox and then ... the last 11 pages of Book 7 are blank.
30: Taking a cue from Fox television, Bloomsbury cancels the release of book 7 due to a false perception of falling sales.
"

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Blur

The Big Spoon called me today to return the book of sheet music Jen and I had given him prior to the wedding in hopes that he'd be able to work out some of the songs on guitar and play them at the ceremony. He didn't have the time (which was perfectly fine), and he just now got around to giving the book of songs back to me.

We ate lunch together and, after he left, I retreated to my office, opened the book of music, and attempted to see how much my sight reading skills had diminished since last I picked up Ye Olde Trumpete. I put the cd into my computer, looked for the fastest, most difficult song in the book, hit play, and hoped I'd be able to follow along with trumpet fingerings in my brain as the music played.

But I never got the chance. As the music sped forward, I realized that my eyesight has deteriorated to the point where I can no longer distinguish which notes are on the line and which are in the spaces. And I can't tell if a marking is a sharp or just an accidental.

This means I can't play the trumpet anymore. I'm only 29 and I already have to acquiesce to old age.

It's not devastating. I don't play music professionally. in fact, I've only busted out Ye Olde Trumpete a few times since I played in college, and I sound more and more like a dying cow each time. But it certainly is a sad thing to learn that what was once such an integral part of my life will never be again, no matter how much I want it to, unless I get new eyeballs or spontaneously learn how to play free form jazz.

Sad.

Marriage and Old Farts

Hey there, people. It's been a while since last I spoke, and a lot has happened in the interim. I've moved twice, I got married, and I spent an entire day at work listening to old broadcasts of "A Prairie Home Companion" online. That last one might sound lame to you, but who cares what you think, eh? It's better than listening to the drunken lady next door habitually call her insurance company to swear at them about their overinflated rates.

I liked the show so much, I even sent in a letter, which I usually only do when I'm mad about something (and rarely at that). And wouldn't you know it, they put my letter on the front page with a response from GK his self! Either that or they had some lowly intern do it. As of this post, my letter is #2 on the front page here, but you can still read it here once that goes the way of the dodo.

Marriage is good, too. I'd like to tell you all about the things I've learned thus far in my career as a newly minted husband. Unfortunately for you (and fortunately for me), that kind of knowledge isn't safe for all audiences.

Try getting that image out of your mind. I dare you!

P.S.
I started counting backwards once I hit 27 so, yes, I'm still in my mid-twenties. Shut the hell up.

Good Guys, Bad Guys, Explosions (as far as the eye can see)

88:14:25:36

Modern American Poetry

Jen and I sat around this evening, surfing the intarweb and eating applesauce. I noted that my Google talk icon was a bear, and she noted that hers was a red wheelbarrow. It is, in fact, a picture of a red wheelbarrow accompanied by some text which asks, "Does anything really depend upon a red wheelbarrow?" She explained that this was in response to a poem she had to read for a modern American poetry class when she was in college. She then found an explanation of the poem, which seemed both pretentious and stupid to me.

"Does this person sound full of shit, or is it just me?" I querried.

"Yes!" she countered. "The only reason I made it though modern American poetry was because Lorraine and I shared chocolate covered espresso beans at 3am, making sense of things."

"Hey!" I screamed. "That sounds like a modern American poem all by itself." And, so I repeated it, in poetic verse, which I will now share with you.

Meaning, by my fiance

Chocolate covered espresso beans.

at 3 am

making sense of things.

There is also the following haiku, which I found earlier this week when I was supposed to be working:

Haikus can be fun.
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

Don't even try to understand it. It's too complex for your tiny brain.

Heavy Weather

An e-mail from my roommate this morning:

It was 62 degrees when I left work this morning. Of course it's 34 degrees right now and the wind is gusting to 60 mph. I watched the neighbors' roof blow right off his carport. If it weren't for the stand of trees I was too lazy to cut down when I first moved in, that roof would be in Michigan right now. I couldn't help but laugh. I'm not really a sadist, but another neighbor has this huge dog kennel, they also have a huge dog. The kennel was lifted right off the ground and tossed about 30 feet. It ended up in the alley behind my house, so did the dog. Fortunately the dog appears to be ok. He's sitting right in front of the roof to the carport barking at it. He's seems to be encouraging it to get free as well. Who knows, its a crazy day, maybe they will run away and have a very happy life together. Perhaps my roommate will write a play about it. "Dog on a cold tin roof." Right now I'm just wondering when me and my house will blow away. Maybe we could land on a wicked witch. I really need more sleep.

My response:

The play is already written. It's scheduled for performance this spring, starring Al Pacino as the dog and Rosie O'Donnell as the roof. I've already been contacted about the Pulitzer. If the house blows away this afternoon, perhaps you will land closer to church and will not then have to put up with rush hour traffic on the way there this evening! Either way, I expect you to pay me real, green money for losing all the stuff in my room.

There's at least $27.52 worth of useless junk in there

Today is a lazy Friday indeed!

The Fever Sets In

It's been a while since I posted anything. Sorry about that. Rather than write a real post, however, I have decided to mine the depths of my past, pulling out an article I wrote for Swine, Inc. back when I was in college. It is, in fact, one of the articles I submitted to the Society of Professional Journalists who, in response, gave me some kind of award for journalistic excellence. Which I found amusing. Because I wrote the thing in 20 minutes while nursing a hangover.

So, Abbie, to answer a question you have asked me on several occasions...THAT is why I have no respect for journalists.

Here's the article:

I saw a Christmas commercial on t.v. last week, and I wanted to find the nearest pencil and jam it into my ear. Christmas isn't a holiday anymore. It's an institution. It's a business as big as Starbucks, McDonald's, Microsoft, and Disney all rolled into one gigantic ball of plastic smiles and fake happiness.

It's only supposed to happen once a year, but we know better. Christmas sneaks in earlier each time around. First we had Santa right where he should be, sitting happily in his sleigh for the last few weeks of December. Next we had whispers of reindeer and elves at Thanksgiving. After a while, we started seeing kids dress up as Rudolph and Mrs. Claus for Halloween, and now we have idiots hanging Christmas lights just after labor day, planning their decorations to match the leaves as they change color.

The Christmas season is now almost a quarter of a year. That’s a longer lifespan than your average grasshopper.

Pretty soon we'll see Santa sticking his fat ass into summer barbecues, March Madness, Easter. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around we'll have out-of-control snipers taking potshots at the big guy during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. We'll have effigies and protests, and ritualistic Santa hunts involving double barrell shotgun toting rednecks stalking mall Santas at shopping megaplexes, laying out the carcasses on the third floor of the parking garage to clean and dress the kill.

“Look here, Mary Sue,” they’ll say. “I shot me ten Santas. Call the kids in from the mud harvest. We’s eatin’ good this year!”

What happened? When did Christmas turn from a regular holiday into a culturally accepted, cannibalistic religion celebrated by excessive debt and self-immolation? Has our culture really sunk this low? Do we work like frenzied dogs all year just to buy our friends and family expensive crap they don't want or need?

It's a disease and none of us is immune. We look at our credit slips and bank account statements each January, when sanity has returned, and we say to ourselves, "Never again." But when the weather turns cold and the leaves change color, the fever sets in again like it always does. Going broke every December doesn't dissuade consumers from buying into this feeding frenzy. All the department stores have to do is play "Jingle Bell Rock" or "Here Comes Santa Claus," and we’re off to see the wizard. Our eyes glaze over, our pulse quickens, and our battle-worn credit cards come out for yet another season of bad carnage.

We lose our minds for weeks at a time, like a heroin junkie in search of his next fix. We know what we're doing is wrong, but we can't help it. It's all in the name of fun, after all, and we tell ourselves that we deserve this, even as we spend ourselves into oblivion. No wonder the rest of the world thinks we're crazy and selfish. We spend the better part of the year either preparing for or recovering from the drunken orgy of mass consumerism, paying no heed to the problems of the rest of the world or our place in it.

Christmas is no longer just a holiday. It's the holiday. It’s no longer a celebration of one's faith and a time to bask in the joy of family gatherings, unless of course you consider two-for-one lawnmower sales in the middle of winter a heartfelt expression of Godly worship. The dilution of a joyous holiday is sickening and only goes to show how far down the drain we have come.

But never mind that now! Sears is having a special on wool socks and ratchet sets. The time has come. The fever has set in. Grab your money and let's go!

Imagine what I could have done if I'd sold my soul and become a Real Journalist(tm)!

The Sasquatch Speaking Tour, 2006

The library at the large state university in Ohio where I work puts on these public readings on a weekly basis where staff members, faculty, students and the like choose their favorite books and read them out loud to a group consisting of one or two people who dig that sort of thing and a bunch of completely uninterested college students who just happened to be in the area. Because I record the library news podcasts, and because my responsibilities at work leave me with a great deal of free time, the organizers of this event asked me to be on call as a last-minute fill-in, just in case somebody backed out at the last minute.

They, too, are followers of the, "if you can't go with the best, go with the Sasquatch" way of life, apparently. And for that I applaud them!

A few weeks ago, I got the call that a professor who had planned to read something about Brazil or Portugal (one of those obscure eastern European countries, anyway) had backed out in favor of trekking downtown in search of new and exciting ways to fill his incessant needs for heroin and crack cocaine. In short, they needed the vocal stylings of the Sasquatch, and they needed them in short order. So I grabbed a book from my shelf and proceeded to WOW! the five or so people sitting in the seats next to where this glorius event takes place. I did such a great job that two or maybe three of them were still awake at the end.

A student worker from the Office of Information Technology was on hand to record the event, and even though she fell asleep midway through and started drooling all over the equipment, she did a fine job. If you're interested in hearing my pathetic warblings, go here (and click about 30 minutes in) to listen as I read chapter 1 from To Own a Dragon by Donald Miller.

At the very least, I'll put you to sleep with my dulcet tones!

Schmoopy

So I proposed to Jen on Sunday. I had this big thing planned, too. When I got back from my conference in California, I was going to take her out to a nice French Restaurant, stop at the build a bear store (because to say that she likes stuffed bears is like saying Winston Churchill “liked” to drink on occasion), and then head over to this cool fountain where I planned to pop the question. This was where we got together back in February to have dinner when she was in town briefly. It was very cold that night, and we joked about how we should go to Canada sometime when it got warm. I remember walking along the shops at Easton, thinking that if I saw her look at me the way she did in the moonlight that evening, I could be happy.

So, like I said, I had this big thing planned. I went out last Thursday with Meg to look at rings and, in less than hour, found what I thought was the perfect one. Christy went back with me on Saturday to confirm it. I dropped some cash on the table, they slid the ring across with a knowing, sideways glance, and I set my mind on waiting for the big day to come. I was nervous and excited at the prospect, but I kept in all in check by repeating my plan, which I felt was a good one, if somewhat generic.

Then stuff changed. She hung out at my place late on Saturday night. I drove her home because she was too tired, and then brought her car back to my place. I then drove her car to church Sunday morning where everybody met (she lives with some friends of ours and caught a ride with them). After church, she and another friend went consignment shopping and I rode back to her place with our mutual friends.

Jen got home from shopping around 5 or 6, and everybody hung out for a while. Jen and Christy watched television while Chad (Christy's husband) and I worked on [project deleted until release forms signed] Later, we all watched some television. We hung out. We talked. It was nice.

It started getting late, so Jen drove me home. She sang along with the radio the whole way and maybe it had something to do with the way the moonlight came in through the window, but all I could do was stare at her and smile the whole way. Instead of dropping me off and heading straight home, she came in to visit for a while. She lives at "party central" for our group of friends so we don't get much time for just us. It's nice to have some time alone, even if it is late on a school night.

We got to talking about the usual stuff and that talk turned to our plans for marriage. It was the joking, kidding kind of stuff, and maybe it was the moonlight again or maybe it was the way she kissed me back when I tried to kiss her goodnight, but I just couldn't help noticing how spectacularly beautiful she was (and still is). It was like that night in February all over again. If I could just get up the courage. If I could just get up the courage.

"Hypothetically speaking, what kind of ring would you like?" I said.

"I don't know,” she said. “Something unique."

"What about an elephant-shaped diamond? Would you like an elephant-shaped diamond?"

"No."

"Would you say no if I proposed to you right now with an elephant-shaped diamond?" I asked, smiling.

"No. I'd say yes."

"What about a pink, heart-shaped diamond?"

"You wouldn't buy that even if you knew I really wanted one, which I don't,” she said. “I know you better than that."

"Right," I said. Then I waited a second and continued, "What about a twenty dollar bill that’s been folded up to look like a ring? Would you say no to me if I proposed with one of those?"

She laughed and said, "No. I'd say yes. Then I'd take the ring and use it to buy gasoline."

"You wouldn’t be able to drive your car, then." I said. "Becuase you'd think the gas was too precious a gift to use so flippantly."

"Right," she said. “ I guess you know me, too.”

"Ok. So elephant rings and no dollar bills. I know! What about a plastic ring from a cracker jack box? Would you say yes to that?"

"Yes. If you proposed with a plastic ring from a cracker jack box, I'd say yes."

"Hold on," I said. "I've got one in my room. I'll go get it."

I went into my room and, at first, I planned to come back out and say that I couldn’t locate it, that it was probably gone forever, and that she would never be able to marry me because I had lost the plastic cracker jack ring. I didn't think I would do it this way. Then something changed. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the weekend, I don’t know, but I pulled out the real ring instead. And I went back to the living room and said, "I'm sorry. I couldn't find the plastic ring. All I could find was this."

Then I opened the box and revealed the ring I'd picked up just that morning. She started crying. And her mouth fell open in shock. And she covered her face with her hand the way women sometimes do when they're overwhelmed. And she looked at me with the most beautiful, surprised look I have ever seen. I told her about the big event I had planned, that it was really going to be awesome, that she would really have loved it. I told her that I really wanted to make it a special proposal, because I wanted it to be something she'd remember, and that maybe it was the moonlight or maybe it was just the fact that she's the most beautiful woman in the world, but I just couldn't wait any longer.

And then I said, "Will you marry me?"

And then she said something I couldn’t hear and I said, "Could you repeat that? I couldn't hear you."

And then she smiled and said "yes."

I put the ring on her finger. I kissed her, and she kissed me back. And then we sat like that for a while. Holding each other. In the moonlight.