"Tourists Want The Hammer"

Yesterday, on what turned out to be a magnificent day, Liz, Jesseca and I headed down to the National Gallery for some ice skating. Some clarification may be in order: 1) there is an ice skating rink outside the National Gallery, we were not recreating scenes from LA Story; and 2) WE were not skating at all, THEY were skating. The last time I went ice skating was as a senior in college. To describe my efforts that evening as ice skating is much like comparing a toddler who pulls himself up to stand using the coffee table to Martha Graham. In each case the participant is wholly overmatched by gravity, entirely without grace, barely stable, and eager to celebrate even the most basic level of proficiency--which in due course returns them to their humbled normative status. Oh and there's also a good chance that in each case their failure has made their pants wet. As a senior Charlotte and I went to the rink and I tried my best to skate. I really did. The first major problem seems to be that to skate one needs ankles that are built like the Israeli embassy in Syria. I'm talking reinforced, structurally impenetrable ankles. I don't have those. Even before injuring my ankle I had ankles with more sway than Jack Abramoff at a Young Republican Convention, more wobble than a truckload of Weebles. When not outright falling on my kness, ass, side, etc I was trying to gain traction by putting weight on the inside of my ankles. So then, in this fantasy underwhich I labored, I could push off and glide effortlessy around the rink. Not so much. I found myself with the balls of BOTH ankles about 1 inch off the surface of the ice. A transgression against my knees and ankles that I will probably pay for all at once when I turn 30.

All of this is simply a longwinded and sorta self indulgent way of explaining that when Liz and Jesseca went skating, I went sitting. I sat and photographed them as they skated. Apparently when you grow up in Alaska and are under constant threat of being killed by polar bears, penguins and the Ruskies learning to skate efficiently and without routine ass-ice encounters is a good thing. At least that's the story I tell myself to explain why Jesseca can really skate. Charlotte could as well. I guess if you live in a place where SNOW isn't a four letter word then maybe skating is more common. (and yes I know about the number of letters in snow...geez, no faith).

Liz was also quite a strong skater and got better as the afternoon wore on. All in all watching people skate is pretty pleasant. Several former figure skaters showed up and they (women, both) had incredible grace and even staged a little skate off. My favorite of the two was, I believe, more graceful, but the other woman could jump. She completed a single toe loop (I think that's the one) which means that in the vernacular of the times, my girl got served. But what can you do. I can't ever pick winners. For the record, neither Jesseca nor Liz fell. Nearly an hour of skating, all of it on ice no less...and no falling. I can't play an hour of ultimate without hitting the ground. Oh well.

After skating we headed over to the Mall and threw a frisbee. That's right I got to throw a frisbee, and what's more Jesseca did too. Last weekend she asked me to teach her to throw. It's such an important thing in my life she (wonderfully) asked to learn how to do it and get a better sense of what the hell we (most of my friends) were talking about. It's hard to explain how nice it is that Jesseca wants to learn. If she never plays or doesn't ever want to toss again that'll be fine. Just the thought and effort to risk a little embarassment and discomfort to learn about what I love, well that's a big deal to me.

The good news is, she's really quite good. For a person who never really played a fine motor sport (tennis, golf, baseball, hockey, soccer) to pickup frisbee is pretty incredible. She has what is becoming a solid backhad and is working on a pretty good foundation for a forehand. More impressively, she can catch. She moves towards the disc to catch it. She doesn't back away, and she seems to intuitively read the disc, taking a good angle of attack. All of which is pretty fucking cool. But again, if she doesn't ever want to do it again..so be it.

Yesterday however, the three of us tossed on the Mall. To set the stage you have to picture a glorious 45 degree day. It's sunny. I'm with my girlfriend and one of my closest friends in DC. Behind Jesseca is the Capitol Dome and behind Liz is the Washington Monument. I'm getting to throw a frisbee and teach someone I love to do something I love. So all in all...it's a good day. But can it get better, oh yes. Oh yes indeed. After a somewhat errant throw by Liz--actually it was barely above my outstretched arm which if I could jump would be incredibly easy, but instead I watched sail over me. Grrr. I ambled over to get the disc and two tourists came to meet me at the disc and asked for directions to the Holocaust Museum. I ably gave them directions (which still feels cool and reminds me I really live here) and as they were leaving they asked me: "Can you throw a hammer?" I spun around and fired off a beautiful hammer to Jesseca which went about 15 feet over her head, so maybe beautiful is the wrong term here. As I threw I shouted, "Tourists Wanted the Hammer."* You gotta listen to the fans. Always.



*For the non-players in my readership, ultimate players will often heckle one another into taking stupid risks and making bad throws. The most common heckle is for a player on the sideline to shout to a teamate, "Fans want the hammer." Ostensibily trying to trick them into throwing a silly throw. Yeah, I know it sounds lame, and maybe it is, but it's also fun to taunt. So that a fan/tourist ACTUALLY wanted me to throw a hammer, well that's just too much for me to pass up.

Unremarkable

After quite a bit of hassle with scheduling and trying to work with my doctor (who remains a dreadful moron) I managed to get an appointment for an MRI. Initially WRA (Washington Radiology Associates) had me scheduled for an MRI without contrast. Without contrast, as best I can ascertain, means that I don't have to have both ankles filmed and don't have to get a shot. So I was pretty jazzed about without contrast, and even better it is far more common so there are more slots available. Well, this was not to be. My doctor insisted on getting my MRI with contrast. He never explained why, but I thought, he does have a degree there is at least an outside chance that he knows what's wrong and how best to fix it. Yeah, that's simply wishful thinking.

Getting the MRI with contrast meant I had to wait an additional three weeks to get my ankle scoped, by which time they would actually be using Carbon-14 dating to figure out what was wrong with my ankle. Needless to say I wasn't excited about this, but I had little choice. My doctor wouldn't send me to an orthopedist until I had the MRI. So I waited. After less than three weeks a slot opened up and I was seen early. Hooray! I dutifully fasted before the MRI in preparation for the contrast procedure.

Here's the thing, contrast wasn't necessary. You know why? Because, according to the technician, you get contrast MRI when you suspect cancer or when there has been surgery in the area. See these are things that a doctor should know. It makes me wonder if presented with the option to prescribe a Super Duper MRI with a Half Twist if he'd do so. I half expect to be sent to get tested by the LHC. I'm sure there is some test they could perform on my ankle.

So since I don't have any reason to suspect cancer and haven't had surgery I was tested without contrast. The Tech, despite knowing something about contrast, was yet another thread in the fabric of medical ineptitude I've faced in DC. It's a garment of incredible itchiness, and bereft of use. It's like some kind of burlap do-rag. Something that pointless. This tech asked how I'd injured myself, and I said I was playing ultimate frisbee and sprained my ankle. He looked at me with pure uncensored condescencion. "Ultimate frisbee, are there professionals for that." No, I replied. But there are World Championships, which football doesn't have. Yeah, it's a pointless argument, but all the same, it's annoying to defend your injury. As I'm about to go into the tube he tells me, "Yours is the second worst injury I've ever seen. The worst was some guy who got hurt skateboarding. He was 35!!" Basic message is that getting hurt playing frisbee is preposterous. Not a pleasant fellow.

The procedure, for those who haven't had one, is about 45 minutes of laying down inside a giant tube/tunnel. Sometimes the tunnel makes a low humming sound, other times it sounds like a broken unoiled Transformer trying to convert into something else. It's loud. But I've found that I can fall asleep in nearly any position and at nearly any time, if I really want or need to. So I fell asleep during my MRI. As so many other things are, it's a badge of perverse honor.

So that was the process of getting an MRI. But wait, I still had to get my results. This required at least 4 phone calls to my doctor to find out if they received the report. Finally I was told that they had the report and that I had something wrong, "a tear maybe, I think it was something in your meniscus, though I'm not really sure. Can't remember." Now anyone who has had as many friends with knee injuries as I have knows the meniscus is located there and not for instance in ones ankle. It's only fitting that my doctor's office continues to confuse the knee and the ankle. It's not a new problem for them.

Not trusting my doctor I wanted to get my results on my own. I called WRA and eventually got my report.

As I'd long suspect I had a Grade II sprain. I tore my anteriorfibular ligament and the calcaneofibular ligament. After some time on WebMD I have a sense of where those are and what they do. Basically they are the ligaments that prevent inversion (or eversion, I think) of the ankle. They're the basic ligaments that you tear when you hurt your ankle. It's a pretty solid injury, nothing to poo-poo, but I didn't get all the way (thankfully) to Grade III.

My favorite part of the MRI report was this passage:

There is no evidence of plantar fasciitis. The extensor tendons are unremarkable. The surrounding musculature is also unremarkable, no mass identified.

Here's the thing. I have been trying to go to the gym, and I've been working on my calves. I KNOW they're unremarkable. They're sorta scrawny and best described as an empty roll of paper towels. But come on, do you really have to call them unremarkable, and without mass. Jerks.

Longing

In preparation for Libby's Minnesota Party (quite exciting, really) I've been trying to think of a suitable costume. I feel some (self imposed) pressure to come up with something good. Afterall I'm something of an adopted Minnesotan and take a certain measure of silly pride in being able to come up with funny, inventive suggestions for others. But I'm struggling for myself. I have some notions, but nothing that sets me to tizzying (yes, I've made it a verb). What of it?

So I went in search of inspiration. I found this web site of photos of Minneapolis. No help with the costume, but man do I miss living there. I love it here in DC, don't get me wrong. I'm fortunate to have great friends. I have a good job. I have an easy commute. I don't have to drive. And yet, there are times when I dearly miss Minneapolis (and others when it's for Seattle that I Pine*). Something about the neighborhoods, the easy sensibility of the place just appeals to me. I love the lakes, the parks, the sculpture garden. I never have this longing about Westerville. I wish I did. I wish I were as zealous about my hometown as I am about my adopted homes.

I just don't feel connected spiritually, culturally, aesthetically or politically to Central Ohio. I can name more political leaders and restaurants in Minneapolis than in Westerville or Columbus. I'm not sure why that is, but it's very much the case.

I don't know if I'd want to live there now. I think I'd really miss my friends and Winter is quite strong in Minneapolis. But man, do I miss being there. Oh well. At least I have photos.

*(Sometimes I also Pike for Seattle)

Be careful what you wish for.

While perusing BoingBoing.net (which for what it's worth is probably the best site on the internet, and in my estimation exactly the reason there is and should be an internet) I saw this article on the last pre-neolithic a tribe in the world. This tribe, which lives in the Pacific, numbers about 50-200 people and has assaulted those who've made attempts to colonize or interact. Essentially it's a tribe of people who still hunt and gather and great modern visitors to the island with a shower of arrows.

This section of the article was particularly bothersome:

On some visits the party would see Sentinelese; on others they would not. Invariably, however, they would try to land - at a place out of bow-shot, if there were natives on the beach - and leave gifts. These included sacks of coconuts, bananas, and bits of iron conveniently sized to be hammered and scraped into arrowheads; occasionally they brought special presents like mirrors, red ribbons, rubber balls, and bead necklaces.

It's funny, or maybe horribly sad that people keep leaving things in the hopes of triggering some desire to make tools.I wonder why everyone is so eager to make them like us. The whole reason they are interesting is that they're not. If they became a tribe with access to rubber balls and spatulas...wouldn't that be destroying the very entity causing our amazement, curiosity and wonder. It's as if people cannot help themselves they feel a need to destroy something so different so amazing. It's bothersome, to say the least. On the other hand the Sentinelese seem to be doing a fine job of mainting their space by launching arrows at fat interlopers.

And to think mine just makes me look old enough to drive

Apparently I am not putting my capacity to grow facial hair to good enough use. It appears there can be a competitive aspect to the endeavor. I know I am able to grow a faster fuller beard than Mark, and I think Brian. But who knew there were other competitions.



Nice, right.

I like this guy, his beard looks like an explanation of quantum physics and probability clouds. You can never know both the location and trajectory of any particular hair. Only the probability that you will find it within his electron field-y facial hair



http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/

http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/Gallery/gallery.html

Party Time Excellent II or How Air Cast becomes Aaron Can't.

I am generally not certain of how to behave at parties. I consider myself quite adept at talking to nearly anyone about nearly anything. I'm not worried about having nothing to say, or about having no ability to talk about my conversation partner's life. But some of the other basic skills elude me.

For instance:

Last night at Scott's MLK party (which was really quite excellent, good music, good people, pleasant all around) I found myself in a conversation with some of his friends from college. Midway through this conversation I mentioned I worked for Howard Dean in Iowa. A voice from behind me and to the right started out. This woman's voice was powerfully familiar. I couldn't place it, but as I turned to see who it was I realized I had never met her before. But not only did she have the voice of some friend of mine she herself appeared to be a composite of several friends. She was like this meta-memory. Oh, and named Trish. Strange, right. It is at this point that I should explain the basic conversational geography. I'm in a narrow "hallway" within the kitchen. I'm backed up to the side of the refrigerator, and I have to lean in to hear this woman speak. Scott has vacated the area by this point. Okay, back to the story(ies). We exchange pleasantries, I explain where I've lived, how I came to this party, this city. I ask the same. Further reinforcing my belief that I can talk about nearly anything, we proceed to have a 20 minute conversation about Uzbekistan. Not only about Uzbekistan (the country where she did the PeaceCorps) but about Uzbek handicrafts. As trusted friends, I'll let all you readers in on the very very obvious secret at work here, I don't know shit about Uzbekistan. I'm quite certain that a) she knew that and was just being polite, and enjoyed talking to someone who was genuinely (I was) interested in learning more or b) had had some wine and was on conversational autopilot. I have no idea which is more likely, as I am a terrible judge of the BAC of my friends and interlocutors. Suffice to say we had a relatively pleasant conversation, you know basic 20something party talk. I asked about the forms of Uzbek handicrafts, whether or not it was mainly fiber work, and whether or not said pieces were largely devotional or more familial. I learned that Uzbeks are mostly Muslim and that their handicrafts are largely ceramic and dedicated to familial scenes with some devotional elements. So there you go, next time I'm in a conversation about Central Asian NGOs w/r/t said NGOs art pieces, I'll have one more thing to say.

All in all a pleasant conversation. However, there's really only so far you can take that conversation before you want to... what's the right word. Stop. I'm pretty good at starting conversations and can be compelling in the middle but I have no earthly idea how to finish one. I'm the Neal Stephenson of conversation. It was at this point that I did the scan. You know where you scan for something, or more often someone whose presence necessitates immediate and solo attention. The, "hey, I'm going to talk to person X for reason Y." As I was pinned against the refrigerator with no familiar persons in my field of view, I was stuck. I imagine she felt just as much stuck. And at that moment I realized I was sporting the party goers magic bullet. I reached down to my left pant leg, pulled it up about 6 inches revealing my air cast and said, "I think I'm going to go and grab a seat, nice to have met you." And like a shot, like a man with two fully functioning ankles, I was off. Leaving her to more interesting conversation, and me to hang out with my frisbee friends. Again, it's not a matter of her being annoying, far from it, but I just can't get out of conversations. But now. But now, I'm imbued with THE TOOL.

Later in the party some of the more rhythmically competent attendees began to shake: "groove things" and "what your momma gave yous" and generally proceed to "get down." Someone came over and asked if I'd add my awkwardness to the assembled appendages and asses. I slyly reached for my left pant leg. Sorry can't.

I think I may start bringing the air cast to parties when I'm healthy. God bless you AirCast. You protect my ankles and my pride.

Restaurant Week.

Restaurant week has overtaken most of the gourmands, and aspiring gourmands this week. As neither, I ended up just getting roped into it (thankfully) by Liz and others.

Thursday, Liz, Paul, Irene and I met at Taberna Del something. It's Spanish, and as tapas is my primary association with Spanish, I was less excited. But I figured it's a chance to eat super pricey food for cheap, and besides it'll be great fun to see friends during the work day.

Located at 1776 I St*, it's a nice place. I felt conspiculously underdressed. Largely because I was conspicious in the degree to which I was underdressed. So at least my perception and objective reality were insync. Check.

We made our way to the table, on which sat a large red fruit. About the size of a softball, my friends knew it to be a pomegranate. Me, I had no clue what it was. Apparently it's not a red softball, or some faux Spanish bocce ball-esque thing. Irene is immediately concerned with whether or not she will be permitted to eat said PG. All I know about the fruit is its relation to the Persephone myth, and even that, I soon reveal, is poorly understood. 4 seeds, 4 seasons...makes sense, why didn't I remember that. Alas.

Since it's restaurant week we order off fixed price menus. Apparently the salted nuts on the table represent an appetizer. Who knew. If only sports bars had maitre d's they too could call nuts in a bowl an appetizer. But I digress.

Now, as I've said there is a fixed menu. We have two choices for starter, main course and desert. Between salad and a hearty fish stew, I confidently select the stew. It's hearty. Sounds like the opposite of tapas. I'm excited. Between the chicken and the scallops is a harder call, but I pick scallops and feel pretty okay with that. Finally it's mousse or rice pudding...and I all but scoff. Mousse is vastly, and in all ways, superior to rice pudding. And with that I've made my selections.

The stew arrives minutes later. It's hearty in the same way Katherine Hepburn is at the beginning of The African Queen. The soup was brothy. Well that's false, I don't think you can describe something as brothy if at its most basic it is, in fact, the platonic ideal of broth. There was little to recommend the soup which seemed to be served at what I can only roughly estimate was 80 degrees. And no, it was not some tongue in cheek effort at gazpacho. It was cold limp soup.

Then comes the waiting game. During which time we open and eat the pomegranate. Turns out its wonderful. So wonderful that the following night I have a dream about a new desert. (new to me at least). In said desert one takes and hollows out a PG and coats the inside with a layer of crust forming chocolate onto (into) which is scooped vanilla ice cream and then topped with a layer of pomegranate seeds. I enjoyed the pomegranate, would be the shorter version of this anecdote.

The scallops are taking quite a bit of time. Surprising since there are only two choices. You'd figure they make a bunch of both. Apparently not. You'd think, with the time we had to wait they were inventing a new country from which to have a cuisine. So first they had to find land, cultivate a culture. get invaded. retake the country. develop a national identity. find and sew local crops. build a cuisine. export said cusine to DC...and then make and serve our food. I feel like an entire Jared Diamond book about the rise and fall of Spanish food could have been written in the time it took to actually get our food. But then again, I think maybe I'm being a little overdramatic. Like I said, it felt like a long time.

And yet it was worth it. The scallops were perfect. Tender. Sweet. The sauce was balanced, lots of neat flavors. I found myself wishing I could find more items to dip into the sauce that coated the scallops. And then there was the mousse. The mousse was a little limp. But bitter and rich. It was clearly not just some shitty Hershey's mix in a fancy cup.

All told it was a great time. Ended up taking nearly 2 hours. Which for me is an eternity. I only went out once but for all the time spent it surely felt like restaurant *week.*



*Do you figure that rent for any building with 1776 as its address is more expensive here? Seems like it must be a factor. 1776 K St is probably incredibly pricey, some symbolism loving lobbyist paid a pretty penny to work there.

My Sweet Imagination

It's been something of a week. As extroverted as I am (nearly definitionally so) there are times when I need to recharge. Times when I need to be alone with my few non-public thoughts. Someone (and I know this anecdote would be better if I had a name there, instead of "someone" but I don't know it) was once famously described as never having a private thought. I've sometimes felt that applied to me. I tend to find it relatively easy to share my thoughts. And really in this case share suggests that my thoughts are things I believe to be of value to others. I don't. I recognize that sometimes my sharing is really more like junk mail.

This ability to be perfectly public about most thoughts has some benefits, however. For instance this past week I was unafraid. In a week where my ex (Ann) hung out repeatedly with Jesseca, I was unafraid. Paul kept insinuating (or flat out declaring) that there were things to be feared. They would snicker and conspire, share notes and remind one another my myriad foibles. But the thing is, neither of them had to seek an external source for a retelling of any story. I'll tell pretty much any story involving me. From the most laudatory to the most repellent. They're all a part of who I am, and I'm okay with that person. I'm not ashamed, even when overwhelming evidence suggests that such a position might be more warranted. But it turns out they had a great time.

Ann arrived on Thursday. In fewer than 24 hours she would find herself in the middle of a large coterie of my voluble (mostly), frisbee playing (mostly) friends. Turns out everyone got along famously. The incredible generosity of the party guests meant I ACQUIRED beer by the end of the evening. Note to self, continue to invite generous lightweights.

We played Mafia. I am attrocious at this game. It's entirely predicated upong misdirection, lying and false accusations. I tried to get into the spirit of the game, but lying stirs in my stomach the same sensation as poorly prepared Chinese. There is the suggestion of a "reversal of fortune." So we can safely assume I was the weakest link. Except, of course for Libby, whom I will say is even less capable of lying than I am. Or maybe it's more a function of failed secret-keeping.

The other main attraction of Friday's party was my "corpse-foot, " as Paul dubbed the swollen, discolored and generally Rubenesque appendage.

Corpse-foot (hereinafter CF) was reanimated and given a chance to prove its mettle on Saturday. Ann and I set out to see the city. We walked down 18th. Travelling through Adams Morgan and down to Dupont. CF was by this time reminding me, quite vociferously that its appearance was, in fact, not accidental, but rather an effort to communicate persistent injury. My pain receptors often seem to be pretty useless in passing along pertinent information like, "Hey fuck up, your ankle is screwed up. This is a good time to stop walking." So I pressed on, aware that my foot didn't feel *good*, but not really understanding the degree to which this was true.

We took lunch at Moby Dick's, and then made our to Eastern Market. More walking. I found some great old maps that I loved. It's strange I love giving maps as a gift, but can't really recall ever getting one, or buying one for myself. Maybe when Mark and Stacy visit I'll get a map. After Eastern Market we headed home. My foot was, by this time, quite insistent that some sort of line had been crossed. It was sore. That's what I'm trying to say. The little pain receptors apparently returned from lunch to find many missed calls...and they worked dilligently to return all those calls. Oh, I should also explain that I forgot to take any Ibuprofen that day, so my, oh let's call it, "call waiting" was not working.

Upon arriving home, I collapsed on the couch and Ann did the same. We both nodded off. Later Jesseca called and the three of us moseyed (with IB having been eagerly and voraciously ingested hours before) to Tonic and got burgers and other curatives.

As I am growing weary of writing this like a fucking 4th grade bookreport, I'll skip around a bit. Next day was brunch at Rosemary's Thyme. A caper-filled omlette is a thing of indescribable beauty, so we'll just say, I liked it quite well. Took a cab home. Makes me feel decadent to ride in cabs. I generally don't like that feeling, but CF was clear to remind me of the value of motorized transportation. Spent the rest of the day watching movies on my couch. 12 Angry Men, Catch me if you can. Immediately after this bonanza of movies, I collapsed. There is only so much time you can devote to a needy CF, an old friend, to worrying about the previous two items, etc. I just checked out. To be clear, Ann was a joy to have as a guest. But most of the stress of hosting is self-imposed. I felt myself lacking as a host and by 7PM on Sunday was excessively weary. Falling asleep face down in a pool (I can only imagine) of my own drool, I made myself an even less capable host. But it had to be done. Basic biological rules dictated as much. I woke up to the sound of Jesseca and Ann talking, and fresh pizza being served. Mirage or not it tasted quite nice and I regained some of my strength.

I believed I would need it as Monday was the day I was supposed to see Jen.

I had been really worried about seeing Jen. I hadn't seen her since leaving Seattle. Anyone who knows me knows the intensity of that relationship. Part of this fall was spent feeling really low, and generally awful, in part due to a moronic desire to rehash and rethink that relationship. So seeing Jen was inbued with a lot of psychic energy. Turns out, it didn't have to be. It was a great time. TDP came along and we just talked and had a good time. The best of all hoped for results was achieved. I remembered all the reasons I really like and respect Jen, and I was reminded that we shouldn't be together. So I left that dinner knowing I was in the right place in my life. Dating Jesseca is, and of course must be, very different. But on the whole, I'm really quite happy. We do a good job of listening to one another and make space for eachothers troubles and worries. Which is tricky, because I sometimes bring a lot of both to the conversation.

Simultaneously across town, Ann and Melissa (another ex) were sitting down to their first meeting since college. Our senior year ended poorly. Ann and Melissa did not speak at the end of college. Monday's dinner sounded quite pleasant. Apparently time does heal wounds, or at least bring focus to greater problems.

It's much easier to be angry about someone having something you want when you feel it's the only one. Melissa and Noah are happily (as best I can gather) dating and have been for a long time. The initial shitty part of any ended relationship is the realization that you've lost certainty. You've changed from one person back to the entire universe of options. And that opening of choices can be scary, especially when you don't know what's out there. Ie, I was irrationally frustrated for some of the fall at having "lost" Jen. A little perspective reminds me that, sure there is only one Jen, but that clearly wanting to be with Jen is silly. What I want are the good parts of that relationship. And there's no functional limit on the number of people with whom I could have those experiences. And what's more, I am having those kinds of great times with someone right now. It's pretty nice. A little bit of perspective, and some much needed medicine, and well, things start to make more sense. I'm in a better place (CF notwithstanding) than I have been in a long time.

As I return home from dinner I recall that tomorrow evening Trish will be coming to visit DC. This means that on Tuesday night, Washington DC (and its metro environs) housed every person I've ever "dated" in any real way. (and I realize that is a fairly strange definition, but go with me on this).

How strange. Not that it's a particularly large number, rather small in fact. But it made me laugh to think about all of them getting together.

Tuesday morning I got an email from Stacy. She asked if the week had met my sweet imagination. Many thanks to Paul Simon. It's the perfect summation.

If you took all the girls I knew
When I was single
And brought them all together for one night
I know they'd never match
my sweet imagination
everything looks worse in black and white

Ankles aweigh my boy, ankles aweigh.

Spent yet another day home on the couch with my ankle propped up. Fortunately it has moved from grapefruit-ishly swollen to softball and today I would say it was closer to a racquetball. Here's to tiddly winks in the near future.

There is a good deal less pain and quite a bit less swelling. Things are definitely moving in the right direction. There may even be some recovery lesson to be learned...ie, when you get hurt take it seriously and it'll go away more quickly. I guess that could be one of the lessons, but I'll give you even odds on whether I learn it.

I was, fortunately, able to work from home today. It's both reassuring and somewhat remarkable to me that I was basically just as productive working from home in my pajamas as I would have been in the office. And the music was better.

Speaking of which, while I was home in Ohio over break I was able to get to the Ipod store at Easton and my mini has been replaced. They gave me a brand new one. My old one was flawed in a severe way, it would just flash the logo and shut off...over and again. So I'm now the proud owner...again of a semi functional ipod. Spent a good deal of time the past few nights trying to make the software and hardware work together. I think I finally have it. hooray for technology.

It will be strange to be spending the night on the couch instead of the fields. Tonight is normally reserved for Gunston pickup. I love the lights and the astroturf and hate knowing that somewhere my friends are having fun and playing frisbee without me. Though clearly tonight I would not have much fun playing, but still it's the principle of the matter. Instead I will be eating leftover Indian take out with Jesseca. And we will both be icing our ankles. Her ankle has been messed up for a while. Couples ankle icing. Not quite as cool or TV worthy as couples figure skating, or ice dancing. I just hope she decides to come over, you know what they say about couples that ice their ankles together...they risk getting cold feet.

The photos, as promised

The photos.

There are a lot of Giles. Since I couldn't sky anyone I was left with the capacity to photograph others (giles, mainly) taking flight. After rehabing my ankle he better watch out, lest he end up on the unflattering end of some photos.

Big as grapefruit, yes sir.

New Years was quite pleasant. I spent it with good friends at Casa de Libby. We hung out, talked, drank a bit and shared our favorite memories from the past 365 days. The next morning many of us roused our somewhat addled and merriment-aftermathed selves and headed out for the Hangover Classic: the annual pickup game on January 1st. I rose (un-hungover) and biked down to the fields. Most of the early arrivals were older and not terribly strong players. A game began and I played well. About 10 points into the day (maybe 10:45am) I went up for a disc. In so doing, I planted (on the left, as always) and sprung upward. Except I planted directly on another players foot, my ankle began to roll as I was leaping. Halfway up I knew something was wrong. As I came down my foot was tucked under. And while I know very little about human physiology, I do know that shoe makers put the cleats on the bottom of shoes because feet work better when their bottoms make contact with the ground. Not surprisingly, when the top of your foot makes contact with the ground things are not going so well. I guess if my foot was supposed to work like that there would be cleats instead of laces there.

I went down. And stayed down.

Usually if I get hurt, I hobble off, collect some sympathy and maybe a handful of advil and then in a few minutes I'm back out there good as new. Almost immediately I knew it wasn't going to be like that. My ankle began to quiver. I can't really fully describe the feeling, but I like the term I used to explain it to Jared. I said, my ankle doesn't really hurt yet, but it's shaking, it's "scared." I stood up and my ankle worked alright. I tossed a little on the sidelines, and realized that simply throwing was hurting it. So I laid down, elevated my ankle, and took more Ibu. Soon thereafter Liz and Paul arrived and I began to wear Liz's anklebrace.

My ankle began to feel better so I was able to stay and watch my friends play. I heckled, and when Libby brought my camera (it was left at her place) I had a purpose. I was going to photograph the game I love. I took about 110 photographs. Many of them are wholly worthless, and only a few are even interesting. And from those few there are a couple that are particularly nice, or so I think.

I will post those photos here, or to flickr later today or later this week.

I'm able to post today because I'm not about to go to work. After frisbee I went with Paul and Jared to dinner and then to Paul's to watch the Redskins game. When I finally examined my ankle it was swollen to a degree I've never seen. Come to think of it, I've never had anything swell, and so it's somewhat novel to see your ankle look like a grapefruit. The novel visual was combined with the novel concept of intense pain. Usually I can walk most things off, or just kind of play through it or at least deal with it. This is something entirely different. Right now, walking the 8 steps (trust me I know how many it is) to the bathroom is incredibly painful. It's odd to fear having to use a body part. Very foreign.

On the plus side, I have a wonderful laptop. Wireless internet. And a chance to read the 10-15 books I've started.

This week promises to be an exciting one. Jesseca returns to DC today. Eager to see her. Ann comes on Thurdsday. Jen comes to town on Saturday. It's a cavalcade of exes. Since melissa lives in town, I could pretty easily have an ex girlfriend convention. We could have breakout sessions, topics like: Aaron's messy room: Was he raised in a barn?, or Beard, Goatee, Shadow or Clean Shaven: Tolerating the face of change.

Top Ten Songs of the Year

While making a playlist/cd for tonight's party (Libby and I are cohosting a New Year's party at her place) I thought back to all the strange places I've been in the past 365 days, and the music that has been the soundtrack to those travels and travails.

Turns out it's not quite what I would expect.

Here are the songs I've played the most on my laptop

New Slang by the Shins. Not sure it's going to change my life, but it sure got played a lot.
Changes--Tupac. I guess it's fitting that in a year filled with changes, this became a semi-anthem
HOVA--Jay Z. What can I say, when do you not want to hear the live version of HOVA. Never.
Forgot about Dre--Eminem. Apparently I did not forget about Dre. In fact I remembered him a lot.
Popular Mechanics f0r Lovers--Beulah. This song was on repeat throughout August. It's fucking inspired.
Raise Up--Petey Pablo. This is part of my pregame psych up mix, so it got a lot of play. Plus I captained a team named Raze...so you have to figure I played this twice or three times before every game we played. Like I said, a lot.
July, July--The Decemberists. Just as PMFL was August's soundtrack, this song was September's. All day, nearly everyday. Great song, strange, Neutral Milk Hotely. Worth a listen.
Yeah--Lil Jon and Usher. Um, yeah, I listened to this a lot. Usually involved me gesticulating around my kitchen in some strange new variation on Tom Cruise's Risky Business dance. Needless to say I'm glad people don't walk by too often. Yikes.
Jesus Walks--Kanye West. Part of the psych up cd. After watching Jarhead I couldn't get enough of this song. The opening 8 notes or so are like musical crack. As familar as the bum bum from Law and Order.
Down to the River to Pray--Allison Krause. A new favorite. A late bloomer, it became a huge part of November's music for me. Wonderous.
Such Great Heights--Postal Service. This song defines my time in Seattle. So it's with mixed feelings that I think about it. I cannot hear it without thinking of the Spaceneedle, and sadly, without thinking of Jen. I recently realized that it's again song that I enjoy listening to. For a while it was like picking at a scab, not that that stopped me. But now it's back to a good song that makes me think of the good times in Seattle, and with Jen....but without me feeling bad about my life now. I guess that's part of the lesson of this year.

I finish this year on a much stronger mental footing (strange image, I know) than last year, and certainly than a lot of this year. I'm happy with work, I have amazing friends, and I'm enjoying dating Jesseca. In fact it's going really quite well. Do I sometimes have miss things with Jen--or at least have bitter sweet thoughts.? Of course. Do I sometimes miss Seattle, or have those same bitter sweet thoughts (ie, it's so beautiful...but oh, right, it's also rainy and dark)? Yes. Do I miss DAPAC? Fuck no. I realized just how fortunate I am upon my return to DC. I was planning on Metroing home but earlier in the day got an email from Paul asking if I'd like a ride. I replied quickly and affirmatively. Right after I landed I got a phone call from Liz. "We're outside, have you landed?"

Me: "we?"

Liz: "Sure, we all came."

Paul, Liz and Libby had all come to pick me up at the airport. My friends. Nearly enough to make me weep. I'm a fortunate man. This year made me wonder about my luck and worth a few times. But in the end, I leave it feeling more confident and loved than ever before. Not too shabby.

While cleaning my desk at work.

Woody Allen once famously said that 80% of life is just showing up. Yesterday at work that percent approached 100. Work was a cobbling together of effort at appearing busy with the full recognition that it was on all accounts recognizably false. I moved papers, quite literally across my desk. Piles of reports moved like the shadow on a sundial, charting my progress through the day. While cleaning I did come across a notebook that I bought immediately before visiting DC in May. The notebook is filled with jotted, slant-written notes on meetings with people in polling. Interspersed with notes like, "learn to talk about numbers," and "call Diane Feldman," are other nearly journal like sections.

It's a good chart of my thoughts as I first came to terms with life and work in Washington. A couple of notes republished here:

"Numbers when presented correctly can gain the force and fluidity of language, the power, perusasion and meaning of wordsa not just the tally of items. To take disaggregated truths and make of them a coherent reality that's the great pay off."

What can I say, I was trying to figure out how to talk about numbers. Apparently the only way I can talk about numbers is to make them more word like. When in doubt change topics..."numbers, yeah those are great, especially when they're like words. Did I mention I like words."

"A man should carry a pen. A strong, heavy pen. Something that suggest in form a seriousness and weight of thought if not of intellect. A heavy pen reminds a man to choose carefully his words for excess is strain." Not really sure if I believe this. It feels like something from a long discarded Thoreau-vian effort. It's an aphorism for someone not named Aaron. Lord knows I love the excess of verbosity. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but witty people are annoying. So full of themselves...oooh look at me I'm able to communicate profound thoughts without wasting thousands of characters. Jerks.

Later in the journal/notebook there is a section of date ideas. Haven't used any of them. Maybe I shouldn't publish them here for fear that I'll be thought unoriginal, though stealing from yourself seems fair game. I guess it's finding things like this notebook that make me wish I'd kept a journal. And then I realize, I have. This blog. I sometimes forget that I can go back and look at the archives. it somehow seems regressive or overly nostalgic, maybe even a little self-congratulatory to go back and look at what I've written. Inevitably I am surprised by what I read, not the ideas mentioned but the words I've used. They are either more accurate than I knew, or more naive than I'd like to admit.

2005 has been a pretty remarkable year for me. I started it in Washington and will finish it in Washington. The two dates are separated by 3,000 miles and 12 months, two jobs, two frisbee teams, new friends blended with old. And some other changes as well. Mainly I'm happy to be where I am, emotionally, physically, and geographically. Here's to the changes to come. I know I'll have this space as a place to return in a year and realize all the strange changes that defined my next year.

I am not alone

BoingBoing notes that NPR's online game reviewer sides with me. That's right me.

From npr.org: 'Robert Holt is a manager for NPR.org and an avid player of online games. He reviews games for NPR's All Things Considered. His first online gaming experience was in 1986, playing the strategy game Diplomacy on a computer bulletin board system. Holt explains some of the terminology and methods of paying to play -- and why he thinks it ruins the gaming experience'

"Sure, it's great to be all-powerful, or 'uber' in game parlance. But at what cost? I consider it cheating to buy your way in to an uber character. In order to be truly 'uber,' you need to earn it. Besides, it takes a lot of skill to use a high-level character's abilities to their fullest, so an inexperienced player that has purchased a high-level character will very often lose a battle or die because they don't have the experience of all that playing time.

For me, the point of playing these games is not to win -- it's to be immersed in the worlds, and to interact with fellow players. You miss out on truly experiencing the world if you don't earn your items and character abilities."

Almost Heaven

A couple of weekends ago, Jesseca and I decided to get out of the city. I guess it wasn't until this trip that I realized just how much I missed being out and about in the woods. Washington DC is treating my exceedingly well, better than I may deserve, and certainly better than I would have expected. But while it has monuments they are nothing compared to mountains. The reflecting pool is nice, but it's no lake, etc. My frustration with being confined to a city must be nothing compared to that of a lifelong resident of Alaska. I grew up in and among sprawl. She grew up with Applebees, sure, but it was next to a fucking mountain, and I have to assume only accessible by dogsled or snowshoe.

So we made plans to rent a car and head to West Virginia. The day began fairly early with us heading over to Union Station and picking up the car. As a relatively poor guy, with some vague belief in environmental causes (I'm pretty sure it's in that order), I wanted to rent the smallest car available. Instead we ended up with an HHR. It's not unlike the PT Cruiser. It handles pretty well, though it has god-awful visibility. It's like driving while wearing a knight's armor. Oddly enough as we left Union Station, Tom and Ray Magliozzi were talking about how great the HHR was. Right about that time, coincidentally, I just happened to decide that I didn't mind driving it nearly as much as I had before. Funny how those things work.

We made our way to Ikea where I promptly fell into a bit of a funk. Realized the last time I was in Ikea was with Jen, and under very different circumstances-- made me sad. But you know what, that's just going to happen, and I'm getting better about having it just be something that I let wash over me, instead of swimming in the currents of self doubt and obsession.

In fact, Ikea ended up being tons of fun, for any number of reasons. I've found that the time I spend with Jesseca is remarkably hassle free. It's pleasant and easy. And she is truly understanding of my little freakout moments, though I have to imagine they're really hard to deal with (hopefully they'll be less frequent in the weeks to come). Ikea was a special treat, no matter my mental health. Think of it miles of well designed furniture, all seemingly cheaper than makes sense. I wanted to get a duvet, duvet cover and a bookshelf. We found a fine flarke bookshelf. Later after some agonizing and lots of squeezing, I settled on a quilt and still later on a cover. Pretty good deal, all things considered.

After Ikea we headed out to Virginia to watch the OSU-Michigan game with Susan. It was a great time, made that much better by getting to watch an OSU win.

Then we finally, at 4PM headed west. Leaving Virginia on our way through Maryland to Shepherdstown, Maryland. The drive was easy and uneventful. We found the little town and settled in for the night. No camping for us, it was all king sized bed. Not a bad deal for a person who until about 2 weeks ago was sleeping on an airmattress. We went to dinner at a cute little place, and then spent the evening lazing around the room watching the Food Network. Bliss.

Next morning we headed towards Sharpsburg and into the mountains. We hiked a portion of the Appalachian Trail (Annapolis Rock). The entire hike was something like 5.6 miles. A nice hike. At the crest the trail opens out onto a wonderful view of the valley punctuated with some really nice rocky outcroppings. We saw what I have been assuming (though JKD can maybe confirm) were buzzards. Or maybe turkey vultures. Hideous creatures. They should be cross bred with puppies or something to increase their attractiveness quotient.

Photographic evidence of birds, and that we in fact hiked and "summited."



Jesseca and I are the ones who don't look like horrifyingly mangy birds that would eat your soul.

After hiking we returned to Shepherdstown and ate at Stone Soup, a local organic place. One of the best meals I've had in years. Now some of that is probably a function of fresh air, hiking, and pleasant company. But my garlic and herb roast beef sandwich was transcendent. But when complemented with a Sam Smith's Oatmeal Stout it was almost heaven (with apologies to John Denver).

Lunch was followed by a drive around the Antietam Battlefield. It took me nearly 20 minutes to realize that the markers with CSA on them referred to the Confederate States of America. For some reason this caused me to fly into a rage. That there was this battle field, where 23,000 men died, and we still have this deferential view of the South. You know what, fuck off. You tried to leave our country. They tried to destroy this nation that they now pretend to be overly patriotic about. Irrational, sure, but man was I livid. Thousands and thousands of people lay dead beneath me, and the heirs to that legacy are busy explaining that it's not hatred, it's heritage. Even if I granted the argument that the symbols of the Confederacy are not the symbols of racial violence and oppression...they're still the symbols (the flag) of an army which tried to destroy this country, and slaughtered 12,000 American soldiers in a single day.

The actual cemetary is surprisingly small and, to my thinking, fairly unimpressive. I believe I may have violated some basic principle of human decency, by setting up my camera and taking this photo of Jesseca and I. Not sure that's teh right thing to do. But it came out pretty well, so maybe it's worth it.

After Antietam we drove back to DC. At this point in the trip I'm loving having a car. I am seriously considering bringing Norman (my white saturn) to the District. Having a car would be so wonderful, I am thinking. Then I tried to park the HHR. And I was quickly returned to the world of harsh realities. Namely, I live in a neighborhood where trying to park on a regular basis would cause me to stroke out.

All in all, it was a pretty terrific weekend. Good purchases (I love my duvet), good games (go Bucks!), good company, good weather, good bed, good tv, good hiking, great food-- pretty hard to argue with 48 hours spent in such good conditions.

Two photos

I should be able (and eager) to post more photos later tonight or maybe mid-week. I have some shots from the trip Jesseca and I took to West Virginia, and some of my family, etc.

But for today, I'll just post these two, old photos of me playing ultimate. These come from Minnesota, when I'd play a weekly pickup game with Wellstone staffers.

Not the greatest game, nor the greatest photos, but each fun in their own way.

As you might imagine, I am the person laying out.


As you might imagine I am not the incredibly muscular shirtless guy. But I am the person about ready to score. So I got that going for me.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

After my last frisbee outing (the clique league tournament) my knee was really sore. It was stiff and falling in many of its knee-ly duties, most importantly the part about allowing my lower leg to move without pain and in a stable fashion. In what I can only hope becomes a trend, I decided rather than whine and wait I would see a doctor and get it looked at.

As a true liberal (old use of the world) I tend to believe that education and training improve a person. These things make a person more capable of understanding their world, and improve their ability to function within their chosen field. When politicians run for office as an "outsider" and decry the damage that Washington experience does to ones judgement or capacity to govern, I often recall a little witicism (I like to believe it's witty, though maybe I'm a bit self-congratulatory, here) I came up with in a class back at Oberlin: "When I need brain surgery, I'd prefer a doctor not a dockworker." I think that specializing and training make you better at something. I don't expect my doctor to know how to use a fork lift, or how to move freight. That's not their job, that's not the skill set they've chosen to enhance through training and education and prolonged experience.

Yeah, well sadly, I think my doctor may be trying to practice medicine like our president practices politics, as a purposefully ignorant outsider. Upon arriving at the office on Monday I was promptly greeted by the first of two exceedingly helpful nurses. The nurses asked me about my knee and about the other cause for which I was visiting. They seemed able to judge the importance of various words I used, and were able, as best I could tell to faithfully relay information gleaned through listening into their short term memories, supplementing their recollection of my injuries by carefully writing down what I had said. This seemed neither novel, nor like it would be the most demonstrable sign of competence I was to witness this visit. Sadly, it was. After weighing and measuring me (I am now, officially, by independent standards exactly 6 feet tall. No more guessing. That's it, that's all. I am also 158 lbs, meaning I've lost about 14 lbs since I lived in Seattle.) I had my blood pressure checked. I'm pleased to report that my blood courses through my veins at a healthy 120/80.

After all the basic steps, I was ready to see the doctor, and shortly thereafter he was ready to see me. Dr. Theobalds is a rounded man. He seems to have had some of his features worn my time, and travail. He gives off an appearance of kind wisdom, which is why the incompetence he so ably embodies is something of a shock. He promptly asked me about the non-knee condition. We talked for a bit and without really talking about changes in health, age, weight, work, or anyother factors normally related--he represcribed medication for me that I haven't really taken since I was 21. So that was the first sign that there might be some bad doctoring going on. He then proceeded to prescribe a dosage of a medication that, upon visiting a pharmacist later, I came to find does not exist.

After dispensing with the non-knee concern, we turned our attention to my knee. Actually, that's a lie. I turned my attention to my knee, rolling up my pant leg and indicating the knee with such terms as, "this is the knee that hurts, my right knee." The doctor, for his part, turned his attention to my foot. "Let's have a look at that foot." To which I helpfully responded, "actually it's my knee."

Doctor: "Oh, right." [pause] "So how long has your foot hurt."

Nurse: "Doctor, it's his knee."

Doctor: "Foot?"

Me: "Knee."

It felt a little like the Simpsons where Marge tries to order something besides beer in Australia. Or quite like the King from Monty Python and the Holy Grail who is constitutionally unable to count to 3. I'd prefer that my medical professional's behavior not call to mind such images.

I figure that medicine is hard. I have friends in med school and some who have just graduated. They're bright people, able to memorize many obscure things, competent in what I believe to be a challenging field. I never once figured that in order to be more capable than my doctor all I would need to have done is memorize the children's song "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." Because, I can safely say that having learned that song, I, unlike my doctor know what and more importantly where a knee is.

After convincing the doctor that my knee was injured, I hoped his years of training might equip him to offer insight as to why it hurt. Alas, twas not to be. He put his hand in the knee and moved my leg towards him once. Then back. Then he pulled my lower leg slightly to the left and then to the right. That's it. When I was injured at Regionals, Shana (an Oberlin alum) playing on the team we faced came over and conducted, a considerably more thorough exam with me laying on the ground.

Dr. Theobalds then said, what I later had retranslated into English, that I needed to get an x-ray to determine if I had degenerative arthritis and then when that was negative (as it will almost undoubtedly be) that I should get an MRI. No other questions, no other advice. Nothing. I have conducted more thorough examinations of fishing rods, and cantaloupes. I realize that an MRI is necessary to properly diagnose a knee injury, but that he could offer no possible insight beyond that, is surprising.

There is something wholly unsatisfying about going to a professional and knowing in your heart that the only service you received was that a person whom others have certified as compentent looked at you. Nothing he did in my presence required him to know anything about medicine. He didn't do anything except give me, no questions asked, medication in the dosage I requested (though he did change my request for 2 20mginto one non-existant 40mg), and send me to someone else to look at my knee. To make it worse the only thing he actively did, he did wrong. After receiving a faulty prescription I returned later in the week to get the prescription re-written, but this time for a drug that actually exists, I asked for him to prescribe a dosage that would permit me to get a generic. He protested saying that the generic has less of the active ingredient, and "you know you get what you pay for." The only definitive statement I've heard him make, is factually incorrect.

I still believe that experience and education matter, but just to be certain I'm calling Blue Cross and seeing if there are any dockworkers in my network.

So maybe I could be a grad student

After work I came back to the apartment, a man with a mission. Opened up my laptop, loaded excel and spent the next 3 hours entering numbers, creating variables and basically trying to find something interesting. Now, the only problem was that the subject was not work, nor was it politics, nor any other subject legitimately considered academic.

I was analyzing the results from the UPA Championships. Some interesting thoughts, do teams with a larger roster do better in close games? Do they play more close games? Are teams that play and win close games more likley to be ranked highly in the spirit rankings? What factors most directly correlate (I still can't really run regressions) with high spirit rankings? What region has the largest roster size? How does playing a game where the final score is less than 15 (ie, meaning a lot of turnovers, or, more likely a lot of foul calls) correlate to spirit rankings. And then finally if success in terms of games won and success in terms of spirit are considered who are the BEST (of both worlds) TEAMS in frisbee, this year.

The good news is that for 3 hours I sat in rapt attention staring at my little 15 inch screen. The bad news is that I don't know the answers. At least not completely.

I can say (with not so much confidence) that teams with larger rosters play and win more close games. Though it's a pretty low correlation (.385). Teams that win more games (overall) are ranked lower in the spirit rankings. (-.348). Teams that win more games where the final score never reaches 15 are less likely to have high spirit rankings (-.206). But since I can't really do regression analysis I can't figure out how relevant each of these factors is in determining success or spirit. And because it's a game, you can't really factor in that Sockeye has Alex Nord who does things like this. So for instance, my correlations don't include what we'll call the NORD factor. (No Other Reasonable Determinant).

All the same it reminded me that if interested I can sit and focus and play with numbers. Just think what I could do if I had more numbers or was dealing with politics. It's exciting to say the least.

The Last Shall be First and the First Shall be Last..

would be a great headline if we'd stormed through our pool and won a bunch.

We didn't. We played hard, and we played really well. But we picked up only 1 win today.

First game: Harshmellows. Funny team name. Generally annoying and entitled. I've rarely been on a field where the other team just figured you owed it to them to quit and let them win. These guys (and to some extent their women) were salty and surly. I play fairly well. I start the morning winded. Something about not eating more than 4 meals in the last four days...apparently that's not a good choice. It's funny I make a big deal of training for frisbee, but I do things like skip meals (repeatedly) in the week before the tournament. Despite not being able to catch my breath for most of the day, I have a great time in game one and play really quite well. The team does well and we make it closer than the 15-8? score suggests. We force these guys to actually play defense, but as a veteran squad they're able to clamp down and roll through the second half.

Game Two: Sludge. Also veterans, but much nicer. They run zone all day and we do a good job of getting through it. RAZE does not have the strongest handlers on earth, and we sometimes (myself primarily) make some dumb hero throws (as in...this is really hard, but if it works I'll be a hero). Midway through, I have a huge layout (don't get the disc, stupidly) and really come down hard. Entire left side of my body is sore. Shoulder, hip, and chest. The strain sets off some vaguely spasm-y things in my lower back. And midway through the game it hurts to cut because of a bruise on my left heel. And yet, it's a great game and I'm loving it. We lose.

Game Three: Cardinal Sins. Mainly this team has 4 weapons. A guy named Dave Epping who is, throughout the DC ultimate scene, known for being a jerk. A foul calling machine, he's a decent handler but in general not a nice guy. True to form, a couple of points in I sky him (my waist at his shoulders) come down turn and throw. And a couple of seconds later I hear him call "foul." His explanation, "I feel like you might have pushed me to get to the disc." This, of course, did not happen, but we send the disc back, and play on, because I don't play well angry. Arguing it won't make it better.

Their other weapons are much nicer, Chris Schultz (played on the D-line for Drive Through Liquor, a perennial nationals team from Colorado) and his wife Kiska, and this guy Bobbins. I spend most of the game being guarded by Schultz, and find myself able to fairly easily get the disc. Turns out I'm able to play with nationals level players. Good to know. We go up a point or two. They take half. We come out flat after half, then rally and finally fail. Throughout the game we're losing players to injury. Shamik goes down (comes back). Matt has a calf cramp. Tin (is cramping). It's frustrating. Certainly a game we could have won. But it's B league, which to me means that it's not worth being really concerned about. So following our third loss we get the...

BYE. We have a 3rd round bye. The team hangs out and we get in some pretty stellar heckling. Shamik and I go heckle for heckle, each getting some good ones. The harshest was mine which can written but was never used--as it was too vicious: "His hucks are like old people's bladders: inconsistent and with frequently embarassing results." Funny, but too harsh to be said to anyone. Especially coming from a guy like me, who generates a bunch of turnovers.

Game Four: Sunday's at Six. We win. They're exhausted, we're tired and stiff from our bye. Mainly it's chance to play with and against friends (several BRDMers on their team). Good time. Nothing terribly remarkable.

So we finished the season at 2 and 9, winning our first game and our last game.

As I head off to bed, I realize that I can finally breathe fully (my chest hurt until a few minutes ago), that while my hip and leg ache, they still work and it's only a bruise. Though I have discovered that my knee is swelling or at least not functioning very well. And yet, as you already know from reading this: 1) I wish I could play more 2) I will play more 3) I'll complain, but next weekend I'll wish there were a tournament at which I could again reinjure myself.

Such is the nature of my obsession, such is the depth of my addiction.

===
The next morning update: After nearly 12 hours of sleep, my hip still hurts, though not too much. My back is realigned and no longer sore. My knee is not doing well. It doesn't hurt A LOT but it certainly hurts. But, and this is great, I have a doctor's appointment at 10am on Monday. So I'll be able to get my knee checked out. How's that for good timing.

RAZE Up

So tomorrow is the tournament for B league. The rag tag team of misfits that I've been captaining, RAZE, goes into the tournament seeded...oh let's just say, if it's not last it's pretty close. We've been bad this year, we've lost every game except for the first one. It's been sorta ugly. But tomorrow is another day. We have four games and a chance to break seed. I've decided that to the best of my ability I'm going to try and be a dominant presence in these games. Somedays I just sort of play and let things happen around me, and other days I decide I want the goddamn disc and go and make plays. I'm hoping tomorrow can be one of those days. If not, I'll be plenty content to spend a day hanging out with Libby and JKD and Shamik and running around, shouting silly things. Then tomorrow evening I get to hang out with Neil and Aaron, and Dave. Life is favoring me. Quite nicely.

We'll see what I have to write when the games are done. My captaincy has not been marked by the best win loss record. I'd like to think it's about personel, but I think it may just be that I'm a shitty captain. Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

Greatest Hits

So I'm thinking of putting a new feature on the side bar.

I was going to have a couple of categories and within each have links to "best of" posts.

Just wondering what posts people would put into a best of collection. if I can get a list of maybe 10 or so I'll try to think of logical categories and group them.

So assuming you've read a couple of posts and liked any of them...what should I put into the best of?

Aaron

Sorry to be such a downer

I'm sorry this blog has so frequently been a downer recently. Yet again, as in Seattle I'm finding that as frisbee season ends and the weather gets colder and the days shorter that I'm not doing as well. But I know that I have a good group of friends here in DC. They've pushed me to make sure I go to the doctor and do basic things like take care of myself. It's a good group of people and I'm lucky to have them.

In other good news: I have a tournament this weekend (Saturday only). In better news Neil and Aaron are coming down to visit. That's right it's Neil, Aaron and myself together again. I'm very excited. I believe there will be some singing of Silver Jews, some smoking of cigars. Undoubtedly some mocking of Dave, who is coming down for the festivities. It promises to be a good weekend. A reminder that while I may have lost some friends I've retained many more.

In other good news, next weekend I'll be watching the OSU Buckeyes take on, and hopefully beat Michigan, afterwards Jesseca and I are heading out to go for a hike in Boonsboro. Then Sunday we may see Antietam (sp). Should be a good time. Looking forward to being out of the city. I love little vacations. And since I'm old I can rent cars. It'll be the first time I've driven a car in roughly 6 months. Yikes.

It'll be nice to put some miles on the car. I, sadly, have missed driving, quite a bit.

Updates since the 25th

Some basic updates:

1. Round about the 27th...I think I decided that in the not terribly distant future (next 2 years or so) I will go to grad school. I want to be a politics professor. It remains an occupation that I thnk I could do well. And moreover it's one that I think is important and one that I would enjoy. So, that's something.

2. There are rumblings and stirrings that one Ms. Willemssen may find herself relocating to DC. This is very good news. I will have to assemble a greeting party of wonderful, elligible bachelors to greet her at the airport. Or maybe just some dorky guys like me. It'd be strange to live in the same city as both Ann and Melissa. Hell, maybe Jen will end up here, there are plenty of public health jobs.

3. Halloween party. I cohosted (with my upstairs neighbor) a tremendously well received Halloween Party. A good time was had by all. I dressed up, for the first time since I was 12 when I was Bernie Kosar. This year I went as Richie Tenenbaum. And I have to say, I was stunning. Seriously I looked good as R.T. Though I also had a few drinks and therefore my self (and really all) perception was a bit screwy. Libby carved beautiful pumpkin art, Liz came as Waldo, Jesseca as a flapper, Jared came as me, etc. It was a great evening.

4. Last weekend I went up towards Philly for PADA MOSH. A tournament up in the Philly area. A recap would take a while. Suffice to say, it was one of the best Saturday's I've spent at a tournament. I guarded and was guarded by people who the weekend before had been playing at Nationals. And I took it to them (especially Knappy from Donkey Bomb). I felt good. It felt good. Laughed, and lost my voice. It was an amazing day. Sunday was less good, but you know what, a bad tournament is still better than most things I can imagine.

5. Work continues apace. We do good work. I sometimes wonder if I am doing good work. I feel like I am a poor writer. I described my writing style as like that of streetballers, able to get by with flashes of brillance but never fundamentally sound. I dunk well. But I don't play much help defense. Something like that.

So that's the news from Mt. Pleasant, where all the men are neurotic, the women are talented, and the children are spoiled.

Neglect

I find myself tonight with a bit of time and a lot to think about. I'm not certain whether I'll be able to commit most of these thoughts to this blog as they're either too roughly sketched, or too deeply felt (and potentially too raw). I've been thinking a bit tonight about neglect. About how I've neglected this blog, how I've frequently in my life and at the present time, in fact, neglected my own most basic needs. I haven't eaten more than one real meal each day this week. I've neglected to clean my room, except for a few work shirts I've neglected to launder my clothes. I need a hair cut. In general I am failing at the basic essence of being alive, self control and preservation.

All that said, I feel confident that I can say I try mightly to avoid neglecting others. I take care of me when I get a chance (sometimes not at all), others I like to worry about. It seems like I'm far better at listening to another person's problems and helping think of positive thoughts for them, than I am about my own problems. A friend called recently because she was going through a rough relationship patch. We talked. It was a good chance to catch up. I talked because I like her a bunch, but also because I know in my worst moments that there is something powerful about being a "good person." There is something that's reassuring about knowing you're not selfish-- a reward for helping someone out. A belief that you're a giving person. Someone who would care for others. But in knowing that, maybe you are being selfish. I've been toying around wth this idea. I don't really know how to think about that. Is it wrong to do something beneficial for another person if you know that part of the reason you're doing the right thing is because you want to be known as the person who does the right thing. Does self awareness destroy the goodness of an act.

The idea of neglect (maybe the wrong term here) is also fresh in my mind because I feel like I have several friends who have basically just cut me off. I'm no longer in their immediate day to day lives and they've decided that it's better that way. Either they never really liked me as much as I imagined, or something about me, now, rubs them the wrong way. Or something else all togheter, but still there was, that I know of, no falling out, just simply their decision that my role in their lives needed to end or be severely limited. I guess neglect isn't the right word, but I can think of few things more painful than being told (without the courtesy of words, no less) that you're no longer worth the effort (minimal as it may be). I've never found myself (even on a campaign) that busy, so I presume it's not simply a function of schedule rather a choice. A prioritizing. And I guess there's no use lamenting it, because why would you want to be friends with someone who doesn't want to be your friend. And yet, at the end of the day it's certainly no less hurtful than it was in kindergarten when you would brazenly ask one another, "Do you want to be my friend." There was a social contract even at that age, you could never answer no. I guess for the first time in a while, I've been told "no." "No, I don't want to be your friend." Maybe I'm overreacting. Quite possible. That's the thing about the lack of communication. It's easy to misinterpret it. Maybe it's more complex than that, more nuance, more intricacies. But unless I'm missing something, neglecting some delicate aspect of interpersonal discourse, I'm being told "No, no you can't be my friend." or at least "I'd rather you not be my friend anymore." and you know, just as I'd imagined as a child, it's none too pleasant.

3yrs.

3yrs.

Today's weather is eerily familiar, the Mid Atlantic's version of that day in Minnesota.

I miss Minnesota. I miss Paul. Somedays, like today, I miss knowing that the work I do touches millions. Say something important to someone important, seems like the right thing to do today.

The best speech about Paul and one of the best I've ever heard.

I cry nearly every time I hear it, and get goosebumps every single time. You don't have to, I just do.

Aaron Leavy: Trendsetter.

At 6PM this evening I will be conveyed to New York by that most noble of steads: the Chinatown Bus. Washington DC has a Chinatown, though the veracity of that title is highly questionable. There are a couple of Chinese restaurants and a few grocery stores. But mainly there is the MCI Center. I have to figure that a parade of hockey fans sorta overwhelms what little Chinatown-y vibes may exist.

On the other end (in NYC) I'll get to see Mark and Stacy and of course Brian. Should be a good weekend. I have no idea what we'll be doing. But I'm hoping it's cheap.

I'm bringing my BRDM jersey. Time for some guerilla brand awareness in the mecca of hip. Soon some asipring designer will dredge up from the recesses of their memory the image of an oh-so cool guy with a wonderful red machine logo...and I can only imagine what kind of brilliant gear will result from that. Soon everyone will want to wear our jersey. We will become, as Paul says, more of a marketing phenomenon than a team. Or maybe not.

The Wheels on the Bike Go Round and Flat.

This week I've decided that, as a time and money saving measure, I will bike to work. My bike, purchased in Fort Collins in order to create another point of shared harmony with Jen, is heavy and in general not so great. But it is certainly good enough to meet my most basic bike needs. Ie, I can sit on it, and traverse the distance between home and work in a time that is less than or equal to the bus. That's it. Those are the needs.

Yesterday I get up and am feeling great about this decision. I get this sanctimonious feeling as I pass buses on the way to work. Thinking about how good I am (me personally) for the environment, and how fit and buff I'll be after all this biking. How rewarding this will be. It's a glorious morning, crisp and cool. I start to head down 16th and encounter a long hill, but as with everything this morning it's all downhill. Nothing to stand in my way.

Yeah, well that's not entirely true. Even as I'm enjoying this great morning, I realize, my tires need some air. Well that's not entirely accurate. It's my tubes inside my tires that need some air. And well, that's not entirely correct because some suggests that there is any air in my tubes to start with. As I finish coasting down the hill I realize that the normal rhythm of the bike tires on the ground has started to have a little more bass than usual. I'm sounding more like Snoop than I'd like, as there is a fairly consistent (every revolution as it turns out) sound coming from my back tire. My tire separated from the rim.

I am forced to abort my glorious ride and address the harsh reality that I'm walking my bike to work. So I walk the last 8 blocks to work and lock my bike. Locking my bike is a challenge as the U-lock is too short as is the cable lock. So the brilliant inter-locking patterns of my mind, whereby I am completely secure become something more akin to a taut tie between my bike and the rack. But I digress.

After trying with Paul's help to inflate the tube (no luck, though a special thanks to Paul for the effort), I take my bike to the bike shop. It is then that I meet the biking equivalent of every indie rock record store clerk. He is dismissive and basically scoffs at my bike. As we are walking out he says, in a strangely confrontational yet paternalistic tone: "Given 6 hours I could make this a good bike." I say, oh, what's wrong with it. Knowing full well several things, but wanting an appraisal, not a reprisal. Well I get the second. His answer: Oh...everything, but you don't care. You don't care do you. I feel like my pedatrician is accusing me of replacing formula with gin. I'm trying to be a good bike owner (having now spent nearly 80 bucks on a bike worth 150, just to lock and inflate it). So I pay and leave. The bike ride home is nice. The hill on 16th mocks me on my return trip. Every push of the pedal reminds me that for every stretch of downhill, there's always an uphill on the way back.

It makes the world go 'round, and makes me nutty

It's pricey to live in Washington, DC.

And not really even for the reasons you might assume. I pay less in rent here, than I did in Seattle. I don't have a car, and therefore don't have to pay for gas. Though I do still have to pay for insurance--the car lives at my parent's house, it's like after years of unfaithful service it's been put out to stud, to procreate and annoy future generations of car owners. But having friends and little time to cook, that destroys my budgets like a paper airplane in a forest fire. Summary of expenses of the past 24 hours.

Metro to frisbee: 1.35
Metro from frisbee to lunch: 1.35
Lunch (ordering very cheaply): 10.71
Bookstore browsing: free
Movie (matinee): 6.75
Metro home: 1.35
Metrobus to work: 1.25
Breakfast burrito: 3.85
Lunch: 5.45
Metro to Paul's: 1.35
Bike lock: 34.00
Bike reflector: 12.00
REI membership: 15.00
Total for the past day and a half: 94.41

And it's certainly not as though I'm leading an extravagant lifestyle. I'm grateful that to be with my friends I don't have to go and drink, because I'd be even poorer. And yes the bike lock was bought for several good reasons: 1) to promote me exercising more, 2) cutting down on Metro fare. And the bike reflector is so I don't die, which seems like an expense worth making.

It's just annoying. I spend so much of my time worrying about money. I don't know what it's like to be unconcerned about it. I always have this fear of some horrible expense, or being fired, or some other financially destructive wave. It's really fucking annoying, frankly. I don't spend lavishly. I don't travel. (much). I don't drink (much). I don't smoke (at all). I don't buy Cds, one in the past 6 months. I spend less than 6 bucks at lunch nearly every day. I don't use a car. and yet I always seem to find some way to fuck up my budget. One month it was replacing my glasses. One month it was paying for the next 6months of car insurance. There's always something. I'm sick of it.

I usually try to have these posts have some arc, some whining, some good part, some funny, some earnest. This one doesn't have those features, it's really just me being frustrated with the cost of living, and not sure what to do. I guess I will have to wake up earlier and make lunches. That'll help a little. And I figure if I bike a few days a week I can save maybe 20 bucks a month that way.

Sorry for the tirade. I'm sure the next post will be much happier. And things will get back to normal.

Bright Smile.

A fairly normal weekend this one. The amazing thing is how fortunate I feel to have weekends (at all) like this. I'm certainly in the right place these days.

At 6P I left work and walked to my bank, dropped off my check and wandered over to 2nd Story books. I feel, irrationally, like I'm cheating on a lover whenever I go to any bookstore in DC that's not Kramer Books and Afterwards. I look around to make sure no one I know sees me going in. I had about 20 minutes to kill before I met my friends at the Metro. I spent the time eagerly and gingerly going through hundreds of maps, lithographs and woodblock prints-- most under 30 bucks. When I get a little more money, or a little less self-restraint (more likely of the two options) I'll pick up a few lithographs to decorate the house. I had this long time where I found lithograpsh really lacking. But after spending time at the Met and really looking at the works and thinking about how they are constructed, I became something of a convert. So it'll be nice to get one of those for the bare concrete walls of my apartment.

After 2nd Story I met JKD, Liz, Jesseca and Amanda. We were heading to Virginia to see Josh Ritter and the Frames. I have burned Josh cds for Amanda (when we were in Minnesota), and Jesseca and Liz. I'm like the Johnny Appleseed of Josh Ritter.

We jumped on the Metro and headed deep (well sorta) into Virginia. I, for one, don't like Virginia. I don't like visiting, I don't like being there really at all. It's a place that just feels weird and for reasons that I cannot fully articulate I just don't like it. It's a bit like trying to explain the feeling right before you sneeze. It doesn't really make sense or compare to any other feelings...but I have that kind of feeling about Virginia, it's like something awkward, loud and phlegmy is going to happen. Yuck.

We get to the venue, get some tix and head out for Thai food. Great Thai food. Good conversation. The evening is working well.

Getting into the venue is tricky. I have my messenger bag and am forced to throw out my bottle of water, and I have to argue and plead to avoid having to throw out the tupperwear container with Paul's lasagna from the night before (sadly I forgot to refrigerate it). JKD is unable to bring in a thermos, apparently there is some great concern about contraband liquid in the venue.

The concert itself is amazing. Josh comes out in a long coat. He's in good voice, energetic. and it's clear that my friends are enjoying themselves. Which was probably my biggest concern. I think some people may have gone mainly to humor/placate me. And knowing that they weren't going to regret that decision was great. Mixed with cheap PBR, familiar songs and good friends the evening was a pleasure.

Josh is, as ever, smiley and dopey. "Our little rockstar," as JKD calls him.

The Frames are tremendous. High energy. Clearly having fun. They cover To Be of Use by Smog (with the memorable lyric, "Most of my fantasies are of making someone else come.") They cover as part of another song Pure Imagination from Willy Wonka. It's a great fucking evening. Just a hoot.

Saturday:
I wake up early. Far too early. Put on some Petey Pable (Raise Up) and get ready for Raze's game. I head over to JKD's and meet Amanda and Libby there and we drive to Virgina (grrr) for a game. I'm fired up. I am sick of losing and decide that I am going to be dominant in this game. I am going to get open all the time, I am going to throw well, and most importantly that I am going to shut my guy down on defense. And you know what, I did those things. It felt incredible. I played really strong defense and it was, for the first time, more fun than offense. And yet. We lost.

A wonderful leisurely drive back to the District under a heroically blue sky. I got home and just hung out for the rest of the day. Made some guacamole, drank a beer or two, watched Almost Famous.

Later in the evening I went to Jesseca's friends' party. The preponderance of Jesseca's friends in the district are Jewish. I walked into a room filled will relatively short, semitic looking guys with scruffy beards, with names like Micah and Juda and Chaim (okay that I made up, but seriously it was an incredible assemblage of 20 something Jews). There were 3 Brandeis grads. I'm glad I started growing my beard earlier in the week, otherwise I'd have been cast out. It was a good time. Good conversation, good beer, great goat cheese. A fine evening. Sadly the hosts of the party were throwing the party as a last hooray before they move. I'm quite certain I'd be good friends with them, and it's sad to know that's not going to happen now (or at least less likely).

Sunday:
Pickup at the Polo fields. Decent turn out. The energy I mustered for defense on Saturday was wholly absent on Sunday. I did have spiffy new socks courtesy of Ms. Sproat. Quite nice. Sadly my play was considerably less spiffy than my socks, but a good time was had by all. Afterwards headed to Dupont for lunch/dinner, book shopping, and a movie (The Aristocrats). Now I'm going to remove my contacts, pour myself a Magic Hat, plant myself on the 14yr old makeout couch and remind myself why I loved The Great Gatsby as a 10th grader.

I lead a blessed life, and I try hard to remember just how fortunate I am. I have friends whom I adore. People to learn from (and make eggs with , and get socks from, and make stupid jokes to)...life isn't too shabby for Aaron.

Like Oprah, kinda.

So as I child I remember shopping with my mom and walking to the checkout counter and seeing a tabloid with the inside scoop into Oprah's miraculous weight loss or her terrifying weight gain. Well this is the requiste post about Aaron's facial hair. Starting Tuesday morning...I began Operation Winterize. I'm bringing back the beard. A focus group of close friends reveals that attitudes are mixed on the issue. Some friends see the beard as a sexy choice, one that fits with their values. Others see the beard as a barrier towards ones kissibility. I may later conduct some polling to gain a more projectable sense of the public's opinion on the matter. For now I'm behaving like the bold leader we always knew I was...bravely acting even in the face of uncertain polling numbers. That's right, I don't make decisions based on polls. I'm far more whimsy-prone than that.

We'll see how long this lasts. Turns out I can grow facial hair pretty quickly. I'm past the indie-rock stubble and towards what Mark would certainly call a respectable beard after less than a week.

What month am I...

I was talking with my friend Katie White. She has recently moved with her boyfriend to Florida. she was recounting the incredible heat and the consistent weather. I realized why this bothered me (for her specifically). I've always associated Katie with the period in Late fall before Winter comes. She's a november person. She seems to best emody her own specific talents, values, and virtues in that time. I got to wondering, what season to I think best fits other people I know.

Brian is August. Baseball season, dark shoes, black shorts.
Mark is trickier, I'd say September. His birthday. When we met. The start of school. the start of football season. it's the time when his relentless belief that things can be better and different seems most real, most true.

What about others? do people associate themselves, me, others with a month.

Who belongs to what month, who belongs in what season.

I think I'm May. Something about the liminal state between spring and summer. The transition from growing to blossoming. The period when late afternoon naps spent under a single sheet with the windows open are possible.

After After Ashley

Went with Brian (who is visiting this weekend, or at least for part of it) to see Susan's play: After Ashely. Sadly it's been, I calculated, nearly 3 years since I've seen any theater. That's terrible. Same thing with dance (I have seen one piece since Ann and I broke up). So this week I am rectifying these transgressions against my artistic health.

After Ashley was, first and foremost, great fun. It was interesting, funnny, and challenging. And it was free. So maybe that's first. I think the show itself warrants its own post. When I was in HS and did theater people brought you flowers when they came to see your show. So I thought, well I'll get Susan some flowers and bring them to her. Apparently this was above and beyond. All the cast were shocked to see the ASM (assistant stage manager) with flowers. I just figured it was a nice thing to do for a friend in the "biz."

After "After Ashley" we went to Jaleo for tapas. I hate tapas. I find it over priced, over hyped and wholly underwhelming. But we went to tapas. I cannot stress enough the degree to which I find tapas to be the most annoying of new trends. The food always seems greasy and prepared haphazardly. Over presented and under cooked or underwhelming and over priced. I think of tapas sort of like Polly Pocket. Being small and easily shared doesn't make something distasteful better. It just makes it smaller, and supposedly cute. I for one, have no use for cute food. I love appetizers. I love sharing food. But something about the tapas I've had has left me unsatisfied.

I ordered a full plate meal. It consisted of chicken. just a bunch of chicken, poorly seasoned, ill prepared and exceedingly chewy. Jaleo and I are not friends. We will, god willing, not be seeing any more of eachother.

Winter goals

1. ENDURANCE I. I want to be able to play at full intensity 3-5 more points per game. I usually can play 80% of my points at full intensity and then the rest at 75%. I want another 3-5 at full speed, full recover.
2. ENDURANCE II. I'd like to be able to play long all game. I've played so much handler that or mid that I don't really have the stamina to play long (with 5 yard set ups and 40 yard cuts) for long points all game. This needs to change and to do so I need to start to run. I've never run more than 3 miles in my life. This winter I want to finish being able to run 6.
3. VERTICAL. I want 3-5 inches on my vertical. Any increase in my vertical will result in a stronger first step. and lord knows that can't hurt.
4. BACKHAND BREAK. I didn't break mark at Regionals with a backhand. This needs to change.
5. HECKLING. I'm a good heckler. But I need to really think about the essence of mockery, really explore the mental space and find ways to taunt while educating, humiliate while being humorous.

In service of these goals, I went for a little run this evening. 2.8 miles in about 25 minutes. Felt nice.


Completely unrelated thoughts: I'm trying to think of songs (ideally well travelled hip hop or something easily recognized) to turn into frisbee songs that we can sing on the sidelines during games.

One team started their game by singing Milkshake by Kelis. I'm proposing Nothing But a G Thang, maybe Holiday Inn...something that has a fun chorus that people know, and we can adapt. Thoughts?

Belarus and Spinal Tap

A couple of random anecdotes from the past week or two.

1. A couple of weeks ago when Rita was bearing down on Houston (etc) a friend remarked that meteorologists were forced to reclassify Rita. It was larger than a Category 5 so they called it a monster. See this is bad science. If there are categories for hurricanes you really need to have one that encompasses all kinds of hurricanes. Seriously, just make there be a Category 6. For instance maybe Category 6 is a hurricane that is so giantic that it causes the earth to spin against its own axis. You can't have something that's beyond the Category system. Reminds me of the scene from Spinal Tap. This one goes to 11. Why don't you make 10 higher... Same thought.

2. My coworker answers the phone, "Belden, Russonello and Stewart" and gets this perplexed look on her face. Finally after a few slowly spoken sentences she says, "I'm pretty sure you have the wrong number." She hangs up and begins laughing uncontrollably. Turns out the caller was asking for the Belarus Embassay. I guess it's not that hard to confuse Beldon, Russonello and Stewart with Belarus...and I'm pretty sure that BRS (our abbreviation is the same as that for Belarus).

This word hero, I don't think it means what you think it means

"I think that if Barbara Lee would read the history of Joe McCarthy she would realize that he was a hero for America."

Strange. I am struggling to invent a sentence that's less true.

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In highly unrelated news: I'm playing in Regionals this weekend. This will be my first trip to Regionals. I realized that I have the least big tournament experience of anyone on my team. I will be on the starting line (most likely) at Regionals, and everyone else will know that feeling but me. It's like I missed a couple of steps along the way. You're supposed to work your way up, playing with increasingly strong teams. I apparently skipped that step. Went from teams that would get bageled at Regionals to playing an integral role for a team that will be competitive. I don't harbor delusions that we're going to make nationals or that we'll finish in the top 5-6. But it's certainly possible for us to finish around 8. No matter the finish, I'm excited about next year and thrilled to be playing with this team. Good people, good approach (overall). Should be fun. Here's hoping I can walk come Monday. I make no promises. I hear that ACLs are valuable. And groins, hamstrings are pretty sweet from what I can gather, ankles do their thing and you love them for it. I'm just hoping that my parts love me after this weekend. Lord knows I'm a horrible abuser, but they seem to take me back time and again.