Life takes its blows when we least need them. Literally.
A good friend only a few weeks from marriage suffered an accidental shiner (I'll keep the reason confidential since I am talking about someone else's business).
When she popped over to my desk wearing glasses - which she'd not donned in years - I knew something was wrong, so my eyes zeroed in on the irregular black and blue crescent beneath her right eye. Then she took off the glasses, and there were stitches above it.
While the stitches over the eye are a few days from removal, the actual bruise's purple only seems to deepen. Now, she's hoping there's no need to wear pancake as she walks down the aisle. There are a truckload of awful jokes springing to mind about a bride sporting a shiner, and it's taking all I have to constrain them.
Not ever expecting to be a bride myself, I can only imagine that no matter how much pain the bruise emits, the feeling is made worse by the short distance to the altar.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Dead Celebrities, eat your hearts out
No, the rich and famous are not rising from the grave to feast on living flesh --- But the Dead Celebrities 5K will soon fall to No. 2 on my Roughest 5K list.
High temperature for Saturday, date of the second Frigid 5K in western Delaware County, is 19 degrees, with a low of 13. And there's no accounting for the windchill in there.
The coldest day yet this winter, and I'm ready to clock 3.1 miles.
Methinks a trip to Frontrunner is in order... or a trip to the psychiatrist, because I'm definitely running the thing.
After all, I have to trump a lousy time from the last Frigid 5K - and those below freezing mornings I've taken to the Columbus streets will not go to waste.
High temperature for Saturday, date of the second Frigid 5K in western Delaware County, is 19 degrees, with a low of 13. And there's no accounting for the windchill in there.
The coldest day yet this winter, and I'm ready to clock 3.1 miles.
Methinks a trip to Frontrunner is in order... or a trip to the psychiatrist, because I'm definitely running the thing.
After all, I have to trump a lousy time from the last Frigid 5K - and those below freezing mornings I've taken to the Columbus streets will not go to waste.
Monday, January 29, 2007
A colt I never knew
Less than a year after his dominating romp to victory at Churchill Downs, Barbaro is gone.
Though his owners euthanized him Monday morning, he's lucky for the time he had after the gruesome leg injury at the Preakness. As work's resident expert on the ponies told me, horses which grievous injuries often receive the lethal dose right on the track to stop the pain.
The owners long said as long as the young horse wasn't suffering, they would try to lengthen his life, but those hopes ran out on over the weekend, as various afflictions conspired to put the colt in a lot of pain.
What is about a race horse that captivate millions? He's had as eyes following his life since his injury as those calculating his Triple Crown odds heading into the Preakness. They look at those odds for every Derby winner, but people were gushing at the possibilities for Barbaro.
Maybe it was his overwhelming win. We saw a champion go down severely, with the leg injury that would claim his life.
I worried about him back in the fall, when he sounded as if he might hold on. His owner kept saying the young horse made it more difficult because every time he was near the outdoors, the rustle of dead leaves would pique his interest.
The way we watched his progress and decline with bated breath brought to mind the A.E. Housman poem, “To an athlete dying young.” I first heard it in eight grade, when we published it in the yearbook next to a photo of a ninth-grader who died terribly, when his father lost it, killed his two sons who stood in the way when he tried to kill his wife, then killed himself.
We always remember the ones who die young ( I didn't know the boys who died, but I still remember).
Male horses end their careers young, then enjoy the easy life of being put out to stud and living like kings – all except a princely colt named Barbaro, and the future lost with a pulverized, dangling leg in the Preakness.
Though his owners euthanized him Monday morning, he's lucky for the time he had after the gruesome leg injury at the Preakness. As work's resident expert on the ponies told me, horses which grievous injuries often receive the lethal dose right on the track to stop the pain.
The owners long said as long as the young horse wasn't suffering, they would try to lengthen his life, but those hopes ran out on over the weekend, as various afflictions conspired to put the colt in a lot of pain.
What is about a race horse that captivate millions? He's had as eyes following his life since his injury as those calculating his Triple Crown odds heading into the Preakness. They look at those odds for every Derby winner, but people were gushing at the possibilities for Barbaro.
Maybe it was his overwhelming win. We saw a champion go down severely, with the leg injury that would claim his life.
I worried about him back in the fall, when he sounded as if he might hold on. His owner kept saying the young horse made it more difficult because every time he was near the outdoors, the rustle of dead leaves would pique his interest.
The way we watched his progress and decline with bated breath brought to mind the A.E. Housman poem, “To an athlete dying young.” I first heard it in eight grade, when we published it in the yearbook next to a photo of a ninth-grader who died terribly, when his father lost it, killed his two sons who stood in the way when he tried to kill his wife, then killed himself.
We always remember the ones who die young ( I didn't know the boys who died, but I still remember).
Male horses end their careers young, then enjoy the easy life of being put out to stud and living like kings – all except a princely colt named Barbaro, and the future lost with a pulverized, dangling leg in the Preakness.
"A minute seems like a lifetime, baby when I feel this way"
- Led Zeppelin, "Tea for One"
"We're all alone when the lights dim ...unless we're not."
That's what I keep telling myself as this new habit of going to the movie theater alone has shown tremendous staying power. Let the theater crew cut the lights, and those feelings no longer matter. I wish it were that simple.
Blame the repressed English major in me, but when I finish a movie, I want to talk about it; the rich, visceral symbolism and story twists stuck with me, and I had little choice but home and The Beast.
Since November, I've caught five movies by myself (I would have hit six, but the material in Children of Men was entirely too weighty for the first half of a double feature bookended with Babel). I caught Rocky Balboa with my dad and For Your Consideration with a pair of friends who share my affinity for Studio 35, but don't find its single screen as accessible.
At some point in the recent past, all my movie-going friends either left for better climes, friendships gently disintegrated and circumstances shifted away from where I stand.
These symptoms aim at a larger problem, one I struggle with constantly.
I fight against the tug of a smaller world, with an ever-dwindling population and faces which once seemed so vital to the storyline turning to be no more important than waiters rushing in and out of our lives.
I was thinking of tunneling through the mounds of poetry I've written over the years, to narrow them down into tight collection. But that's a rough task on my own - I've always needed a good editor, and so rarely find one interested enough.
It's a tough thing to ask, no matter how well I know someone. With such a time commitment involved, it's no wonder I keep these things to myself, and the gulf between me and the rest of the world sometimes feels unconquerable.
Of course, I could shorten it by offering my pro bono editor a portion of the prize money if I win (or a nice dinner for other results).
"We're all alone when the lights dim ...unless we're not."
That's what I keep telling myself as this new habit of going to the movie theater alone has shown tremendous staying power. Let the theater crew cut the lights, and those feelings no longer matter. I wish it were that simple.
Blame the repressed English major in me, but when I finish a movie, I want to talk about it; the rich, visceral symbolism and story twists stuck with me, and I had little choice but home and The Beast.
Since November, I've caught five movies by myself (I would have hit six, but the material in Children of Men was entirely too weighty for the first half of a double feature bookended with Babel). I caught Rocky Balboa with my dad and For Your Consideration with a pair of friends who share my affinity for Studio 35, but don't find its single screen as accessible.
At some point in the recent past, all my movie-going friends either left for better climes, friendships gently disintegrated and circumstances shifted away from where I stand.
These symptoms aim at a larger problem, one I struggle with constantly.
I fight against the tug of a smaller world, with an ever-dwindling population and faces which once seemed so vital to the storyline turning to be no more important than waiters rushing in and out of our lives.
I was thinking of tunneling through the mounds of poetry I've written over the years, to narrow them down into tight collection. But that's a rough task on my own - I've always needed a good editor, and so rarely find one interested enough.
It's a tough thing to ask, no matter how well I know someone. With such a time commitment involved, it's no wonder I keep these things to myself, and the gulf between me and the rest of the world sometimes feels unconquerable.
Of course, I could shorten it by offering my pro bono editor a portion of the prize money if I win (or a nice dinner for other results).
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Then there's this guy, you remember him, Count Chocula's stand-in?
The field grows more crowded every day, and one of the most widely known yet tarnished names in the mix finally gets cued into the obvious.
Of course, I'm talking about John Kerry not bothering to run for president next year (yuck, is it that soon already?). He came clean yesterday.
This was unsurprising for a couple of big reasons:
1. As a rule, Democrats are generally unkind to their own presidential also-rans and don't give them another chance.
This excludes the outside chance of an Al Gore candicacy in 2008, because he won the popular vote and could easily transform into an anti-Hillary.
Kerry trailed badly behind Hillary, Obama and others in the early polls.
2. Kerry's 2008 candidacy was really over a week before the 2006 mid-term elections, when he mumbled his line about not studying hard and getting "stuck in Iraq," a poorly-worded attack on the president which Republicans rolled into a slur of American troops.
With a tight, crucial election raging, Democrats everywhere cancelled events with Kerry.
Until they won back majorities in both houses of Congress, he was Public Enemy Number One for his own party and Easy Target Number one for Republicans.
Too bad he didn't start the announcement with "You won't have John Kerry to swift-boat anymore," in homage to the last presidential candidate as stiff as he was.
Of course, I'm talking about John Kerry not bothering to run for president next year (yuck, is it that soon already?). He came clean yesterday.
This was unsurprising for a couple of big reasons:
1. As a rule, Democrats are generally unkind to their own presidential also-rans and don't give them another chance.
This excludes the outside chance of an Al Gore candicacy in 2008, because he won the popular vote and could easily transform into an anti-Hillary.
Kerry trailed badly behind Hillary, Obama and others in the early polls.
2. Kerry's 2008 candidacy was really over a week before the 2006 mid-term elections, when he mumbled his line about not studying hard and getting "stuck in Iraq," a poorly-worded attack on the president which Republicans rolled into a slur of American troops.
With a tight, crucial election raging, Democrats everywhere cancelled events with Kerry.
Until they won back majorities in both houses of Congress, he was Public Enemy Number One for his own party and Easy Target Number one for Republicans.
Too bad he didn't start the announcement with "You won't have John Kerry to swift-boat anymore," in homage to the last presidential candidate as stiff as he was.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Wine's other country (a leftover post from western New York)
Gazing down at Lake Erie from the slow hill topped by the Noble Winery, the summer lushness of wine's other country was difficult to imagine, almost beyond conception with the brown, dormant vines snaking across trellises reaching down to the flat land.
Nestled in Iroquois territory, the lake's cooling winds turn those plucky mountains into the grape-rich territory unseen outside of California.
Mr. and Mrs. Noble are a story unto themselves. Both career workers with the New York Department of Transportation they bough this sloping land that overlooks the New York Thruway nearly three decades ago, and only began making wine when Mr. Noble retired in the early Double Aughts.
We were deep in Concord country, and the grape jelly I'd known since childhood was suddenly flavoring some of the sampled wines. The original headquarters of Welch's Grape Juice was right in Westfield, with the large vineyards on its outskirts. The city itself is old and beautiful in a way suburbs never are, with unique flourishes like the small vineyard patches, tended by subsistence winemakers, sitting next to broad-porched houses.
Beyond the Concords, a bushel of other local grapes had to be learned. Ohio-discovered Catawba and Delaware along with Niagara (guess where that came from) produced wines starkly different in taste from the Californian, Australian and Italian imports I normally chose.
With their unbridled enthusiasm for their second careers in wine and giving samples to visitors, they made our little group forget the frosty reception delivered at our first stop to one of the long-established area wineries.
We saw one more before our day of wine caught up with us, but nothing else, not even the final tasting room carved from the front parlor of century-old house, could take my thoughts away from the fledgling winemakers on the little hill watching the lake.
Nestled in Iroquois territory, the lake's cooling winds turn those plucky mountains into the grape-rich territory unseen outside of California.
Mr. and Mrs. Noble are a story unto themselves. Both career workers with the New York Department of Transportation they bough this sloping land that overlooks the New York Thruway nearly three decades ago, and only began making wine when Mr. Noble retired in the early Double Aughts.
We were deep in Concord country, and the grape jelly I'd known since childhood was suddenly flavoring some of the sampled wines. The original headquarters of Welch's Grape Juice was right in Westfield, with the large vineyards on its outskirts. The city itself is old and beautiful in a way suburbs never are, with unique flourishes like the small vineyard patches, tended by subsistence winemakers, sitting next to broad-porched houses.
Beyond the Concords, a bushel of other local grapes had to be learned. Ohio-discovered Catawba and Delaware along with Niagara (guess where that came from) produced wines starkly different in taste from the Californian, Australian and Italian imports I normally chose.
With their unbridled enthusiasm for their second careers in wine and giving samples to visitors, they made our little group forget the frosty reception delivered at our first stop to one of the long-established area wineries.
We saw one more before our day of wine caught up with us, but nothing else, not even the final tasting room carved from the front parlor of century-old house, could take my thoughts away from the fledgling winemakers on the little hill watching the lake.
The real reason behind Obama's popularity
Why do Democrats - and others - love Barack Obama, two-year U.S. Senate resident? Do we credit his youth, his optimism, his photogenic demeanor? Are Americans hunting for their first Illinois president since 1865?
It's the voice, people, that wonderfully deep, smooth and articulate tone he strikes, possibly due to his smoking habit.
More importantly, do we consider the junior Senator from Illinois constructed from presidential timber because of a previous president's voice ..... or from a television president's voice?
Let's call it the David Palmer Factor, because that's who Obama's voice brings to my mind. Thanks to David Palmer, the Senator running for president, then president in 24, America is ready for an African-American president. Some have suggested Dennis Haysbert, the actor who played him and now stars in The Unit after a sniper's bullet killed Palmer to start last season. But Obama's the real deal .... I mean, voice.
A lot of Americans want a president who would sound just as good hosting a jazz hour.
Once while covering City Council, I suggest to my fellow reporters that the human resources director (black man with a tremendous voice and nothing to talk about) should be allowed to speak for the Finance Director (little white guy with soft, clinical voice). I mean no offense to either man, but it would just make the meetings more interesting.
If Obama ends up in the White House, the weekly presidential radio address would probably become more popular than any since television rose.
Should his presidential ambitions fall short of the big chair, then at least he has a future in commercial narration.
It's the voice, people, that wonderfully deep, smooth and articulate tone he strikes, possibly due to his smoking habit.
More importantly, do we consider the junior Senator from Illinois constructed from presidential timber because of a previous president's voice ..... or from a television president's voice?
Let's call it the David Palmer Factor, because that's who Obama's voice brings to my mind. Thanks to David Palmer, the Senator running for president, then president in 24, America is ready for an African-American president. Some have suggested Dennis Haysbert, the actor who played him and now stars in The Unit after a sniper's bullet killed Palmer to start last season. But Obama's the real deal .... I mean, voice.
A lot of Americans want a president who would sound just as good hosting a jazz hour.
Once while covering City Council, I suggest to my fellow reporters that the human resources director (black man with a tremendous voice and nothing to talk about) should be allowed to speak for the Finance Director (little white guy with soft, clinical voice). I mean no offense to either man, but it would just make the meetings more interesting.
If Obama ends up in the White House, the weekly presidential radio address would probably become more popular than any since television rose.
Should his presidential ambitions fall short of the big chair, then at least he has a future in commercial narration.
Sorry, National Restaurant Association
But maybe this organization should have pointed out that Nationwide is paying K-Fed for this commercial, which is by far the greater crime than insulting fast-food employees. I rarely frequent fast-food places these days (thank you, Eric Schlosser) but I catch plenty of people who act like K-Fed behind the counter.
Personally, I feel this guy should be forced to work behind the bulletproof glass at a 24-hour gas station in a rough neighborhood. How long would his empty playa routine last there?
Don't long now, but the Gas & Convenience Store Association will be after me soon. Apparently, no one but Jerry Jurgensen wants anything to do with K-Fed. He's too comforting a punching bag.
Personally, I feel this guy should be forced to work behind the bulletproof glass at a 24-hour gas station in a rough neighborhood. How long would his empty playa routine last there?
Don't long now, but the Gas & Convenience Store Association will be after me soon. Apparently, no one but Jerry Jurgensen wants anything to do with K-Fed. He's too comforting a punching bag.
Early man ran like crazy, while modern man just grew old
Since returning from New York, I've encountered a bad habit of Ben Franklinesque proportions. I've been crashing between 9 and 10:30 then waking around 4 or 5 in morning ( usually I have a paw in the face to help me along, so the habit isn't mine alone. Some tiredness comes from the return to running. The rest comes from rising so early and missing out on naps, once a favorite pastime in the years preceding The Beast.
So if my sleep patterns continue to trend early, I have no choice but to embrace them. So temperatures below freezing or not, I'm taking to the streets to run in the pre-dawn glazed over by nocturnal ice. I have to credit Ed, the 5K guy, who tells me he runs every morning with his purebred Siberian huskie because it's the best time to go.
If I'm unable to sleep again, I might as well fill the time with something fruitful. I think exercise so early should help with other problems. Should the naps return as well, I can shrug off the premature nightly departure time.
Sure 'nuff, Ed was right. Outside of crack dens and people delivering newspapers, the world is dead at 5 a.m. Employees of businesses opening at 6 began their arrival as I ran, but in numbers so few that I worried little about them running me over.
As always, five minutes into a jog, the outside temperature matters little, because a properly bundled body soaks the inner layers of clothing with sweat. Moist breath clouds eyeglasses when I stopped, but overall, it isn't the awful experience I expect on the 3.5-mile zigzag run.
Even if it was, there was no one else there to see it.
So if my sleep patterns continue to trend early, I have no choice but to embrace them. So temperatures below freezing or not, I'm taking to the streets to run in the pre-dawn glazed over by nocturnal ice. I have to credit Ed, the 5K guy, who tells me he runs every morning with his purebred Siberian huskie because it's the best time to go.
If I'm unable to sleep again, I might as well fill the time with something fruitful. I think exercise so early should help with other problems. Should the naps return as well, I can shrug off the premature nightly departure time.
Sure 'nuff, Ed was right. Outside of crack dens and people delivering newspapers, the world is dead at 5 a.m. Employees of businesses opening at 6 began their arrival as I ran, but in numbers so few that I worried little about them running me over.
As always, five minutes into a jog, the outside temperature matters little, because a properly bundled body soaks the inner layers of clothing with sweat. Moist breath clouds eyeglasses when I stopped, but overall, it isn't the awful experience I expect on the 3.5-mile zigzag run.
Even if it was, there was no one else there to see it.
Monday, January 22, 2007
When the earth won't yield and the air sears industrious lungs
Returning to the 5K circuit was a lot harder on minimal training in sub-freezing temperatures than I anticipated. While the body warms up quickly, the toll taken by cold air on the lungs rises quickly.
But that doesn't mean I missed out on fun (the final mile exempted, of course, due to the bundle of cramps hitting me from nape to navel).
I ran into Ed and Pat, the two runners I've met at almost every race since Conquer the Creek in November. They're nice guys, a bit older and more dedicated at running than me.
The run path slashed across a park that was otherwise too small for such a race. And though the snow fell a day later, ice created obstacle courses on the gravel path, forcing runners onto the frozen, spiky grass. Rougher still was the woods - on the second route through the park, shortly after the one-mile marker, it made for exceptionally cautious running, since the frozen, uneven ground threatened to turn the ankles of haphazard runners.
Passing the giant clock around 29:30, I didn't exactly feel celebratory. But I finished as always, and now have a time to train down in the two weeks before the next Frigid 5K.
But that doesn't mean I missed out on fun (the final mile exempted, of course, due to the bundle of cramps hitting me from nape to navel).
I ran into Ed and Pat, the two runners I've met at almost every race since Conquer the Creek in November. They're nice guys, a bit older and more dedicated at running than me.
The run path slashed across a park that was otherwise too small for such a race. And though the snow fell a day later, ice created obstacle courses on the gravel path, forcing runners onto the frozen, spiky grass. Rougher still was the woods - on the second route through the park, shortly after the one-mile marker, it made for exceptionally cautious running, since the frozen, uneven ground threatened to turn the ankles of haphazard runners.
Passing the giant clock around 29:30, I didn't exactly feel celebratory. But I finished as always, and now have a time to train down in the two weeks before the next Frigid 5K.
Why work usuallly stays off the blog
Because I could write all day never tell the full story of poisonous toadying, superiors covering your name in muck the moment you leave earshot, middle-aged men pouting because their columns missed one paper out of 22, and spinsters who don't know the first word about writing given critical beats.
And the people I just mentioned only account for a small minority. Most of them, I like. But working with people you like won't the down payment on a condemned house in Columbus.
You see? My venom is at maximim potency when it comes to this edifice of slash-and-burn budgeting.
And the people I just mentioned only account for a small minority. Most of them, I like. But working with people you like won't the down payment on a condemned house in Columbus.
You see? My venom is at maximim potency when it comes to this edifice of slash-and-burn budgeting.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Deutschland uber alles
I have no umlauts for the title - swiped from what is actually a good national anthem - so I'll explain more about this cryptic post when I find them.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Everyone's favorite emasculated man
Brutal title, don't you think? How could any man allow himself to fall into such a state of disrepair? Like most major problems in my life, it's self-inflicted.
People ask what I prefer and right now, the only answer is, "A pulse." A little too simplistic, because while I know what I like - a sharp, challenging mind and a pretty face - it's pretty hard to find those things in a lot of the places I frequent. My hobbies tend to be the solitary type -- cycling, running, reading, writing, listening to music at clubs --- which doesn't help much.
Not only that, but I've Columbus to be a clique-driven town, one which people tend to wall off their little social groups and call it good. As someone who has never fit the mold of any social group (I have friends here and there, but rarely a group to call my own), that's tough. It makes it hard to meet people. I've tried to follow the personal ad route a few times; even with a ad co-written with one of my girliest friends, the ad drew no response.
When I do meet them is when the real problems begin. I either:
a. Have trouble meeting people in the first place.
b. Let the good ole shy streak pop up and do my best to blend in with the wall.
c. Turn overly assertive in my pursuit and look like a complete desperate asshole.
d. Attract total freaks as a result of the shyness.
e. Hold back from the ones who are worthwhile (because of my lousy experience with the freaks) and end up alone again.
Yet I have a ton of female friends, and very few male friends. Guys night out, you say? Not in my world.
I've always been a few steps out of sync with everyone else. I'm fond of the idea that I was born a month late and have been trying to catch up every day since.
But there's a bigger problem: I'm safe. Ken Doll safe, if you will. Playing cards with the girls on a weeknight safe. And I'm still not sure how to find the middle ground for the nice, not always safe guy. I tend to overcompensate and look like the raving loon no one wants to admit to owning.
Well, at least I know whose fault it is.
Forgive the bluntness. I've apparently listened to Plastic Ono Band too many times and John Lennon's raw, naked emotion songs have shown me that sometimes just throwing it all out there is for the best.
People ask what I prefer and right now, the only answer is, "A pulse." A little too simplistic, because while I know what I like - a sharp, challenging mind and a pretty face - it's pretty hard to find those things in a lot of the places I frequent. My hobbies tend to be the solitary type -- cycling, running, reading, writing, listening to music at clubs --- which doesn't help much.
Not only that, but I've Columbus to be a clique-driven town, one which people tend to wall off their little social groups and call it good. As someone who has never fit the mold of any social group (I have friends here and there, but rarely a group to call my own), that's tough. It makes it hard to meet people. I've tried to follow the personal ad route a few times; even with a ad co-written with one of my girliest friends, the ad drew no response.
When I do meet them is when the real problems begin. I either:
a. Have trouble meeting people in the first place.
b. Let the good ole shy streak pop up and do my best to blend in with the wall.
c. Turn overly assertive in my pursuit and look like a complete desperate asshole.
d. Attract total freaks as a result of the shyness.
e. Hold back from the ones who are worthwhile (because of my lousy experience with the freaks) and end up alone again.
Yet I have a ton of female friends, and very few male friends. Guys night out, you say? Not in my world.
I've always been a few steps out of sync with everyone else. I'm fond of the idea that I was born a month late and have been trying to catch up every day since.
But there's a bigger problem: I'm safe. Ken Doll safe, if you will. Playing cards with the girls on a weeknight safe. And I'm still not sure how to find the middle ground for the nice, not always safe guy. I tend to overcompensate and look like the raving loon no one wants to admit to owning.
Well, at least I know whose fault it is.
Forgive the bluntness. I've apparently listened to Plastic Ono Band too many times and John Lennon's raw, naked emotion songs have shown me that sometimes just throwing it all out there is for the best.
Back in the race of one runner
It snowed in an annoyingly Central Ohio fashion Thursday, but I ran anyway.
Due to a bum right foot and sinus infection, several weeks passed since my last foot tour of Clintonville, so I geared up (the gloves were graciously warm, Teterbot), topped myself off with a red Team Zissou ski cap and charged up High Street.
Maybe I took some inspiration from the workout montage in Rocky Balboa, when he huffs his way through Philly among the wide snowflakes turning liquid as they smash into the pavement. I'm not heading for the ring anytime soon, but I've got my own milestones to meet.
In truth I had no choice: After sitting out a few weeks and with a 5K lurking on Saturday morning, I needed to punish my muscles a little.
Rather than follow the usual grid, I ran through Walnut Grove Cemetery in Worthington (because the dead won't laugh at an out-of-shape jogger, perhaps) then down and up several streets that terminate at the river.
This new route will bear fruit -- the streets slope down to the river, so with a little practice, I'll improve my performance on hillier runs.
As for the chilly ones, I'm holding my own.
Due to a bum right foot and sinus infection, several weeks passed since my last foot tour of Clintonville, so I geared up (the gloves were graciously warm, Teterbot), topped myself off with a red Team Zissou ski cap and charged up High Street.
Maybe I took some inspiration from the workout montage in Rocky Balboa, when he huffs his way through Philly among the wide snowflakes turning liquid as they smash into the pavement. I'm not heading for the ring anytime soon, but I've got my own milestones to meet.
In truth I had no choice: After sitting out a few weeks and with a 5K lurking on Saturday morning, I needed to punish my muscles a little.
Rather than follow the usual grid, I ran through Walnut Grove Cemetery in Worthington (because the dead won't laugh at an out-of-shape jogger, perhaps) then down and up several streets that terminate at the river.
This new route will bear fruit -- the streets slope down to the river, so with a little practice, I'll improve my performance on hillier runs.
As for the chilly ones, I'm holding my own.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Why wouldn't you appoint him?
Click on this post's title and visit a Dispatch article from today's edition that struck me, for reasons obvious to regular readers. That the new Ohio MRDD director has a severely handicapped son makes more sense than I care to write about anymore.
From a broken date ....
Before a date this summer, this girl involved asked me to bring my favorite record. When the rest sputtered and never materialized, I was left standing there, but at least I had picked a favorite.
It took a while, which is why I finally decided to write it out. The Top Five came first, then an arduous choice of one.
I went strictly with albums to foster a greater challenge. I like too many musicians who write great songs yet produce inconsistent albums, eliminating Tom Waits, Radiohead, Husker Du and Morphine.
Favorite albums (in no particular order):
My Bloody Valentine ~ Loveless: It often amazes me how few people have heard this. I loaned this to someone not long ago and he was shocked that it was of 1991 vintage. Pieces of this album got picked up by better-known bands across the alt-rock spectrum; Billy Corgan's ears should be ringing, because he listened to this way too many times. MBV never released a follow-up, but really, how could they?
Neil Young ~ After the Gold Rush: If you've not felt an “after the gold rush” moment, you've not lived life. When that song turns too disheartening, then it's time for “Don't Let It Bring You Down,” another classic on an album of them.
The White Stripes ~ De Stijl: By far their best album, though I enjoyed everything since. Get Behind Me Satan was not shock if you heard this diverse number first. The Stripes take leap from their self-titled debut: The blues is wonderfully raw and “I'm Bound to Pack It In” and “You're Pretty Good Looking” show a new bite in Jack White's songwriting. Better yet, I found it in the $5 rack at Used Kids Records.
Bob Dylan ~ Highway 61 Revisited: another army of classics outfitted in the sharpest literary lyric ever to grace a rock record. "Like a Rolling Stone," "Ballad of a Thin Man," "Queen Jane Approximately" and "Desolation Row" rarely leave my stereo for long.
Johnny Cash ~ American Recordings: 40 years into his recording career, Cash had yet to cut an album just with himself and a guitar. Here's why it was long overdue. What he and Rick Rubin cut on subsequent albums never quite rivalled this.
In the end, Loaded edged them all.
The Velvet Underground's last studio album was Lou Reed's conscious effort to write a batch of hit songs (without the drug and sex references, as requested by Atlantic Records founder Ahmet Ertegun, according to rock apocrypha). Though it contains the band's best known songs (“Sweet Jane” and “Rock and Roll”), the entirety holds up, even if some of the lines in “Who Loves the Sun” can't help but cause laughter. They trade the noise experiments of earlier albums for polished songs like “New Age”, “Head Held High” and “Train 'Round the Bend” that sacrifice none of the Velvet's character ("Lonesome Cowboy Bill" is a obvious favorite).
But for my ears, it's all about “Oh! Sweet Nuthin,” Lou Reed's epic closer than can only be described as an underground rock “Hey Jude.” Like the rest of Loaded, the seven-minute tune never gets old.
And could anyone ask for a better song title for a date that never happened?
It took a while, which is why I finally decided to write it out. The Top Five came first, then an arduous choice of one.
I went strictly with albums to foster a greater challenge. I like too many musicians who write great songs yet produce inconsistent albums, eliminating Tom Waits, Radiohead, Husker Du and Morphine.
Favorite albums (in no particular order):
My Bloody Valentine ~ Loveless: It often amazes me how few people have heard this. I loaned this to someone not long ago and he was shocked that it was of 1991 vintage. Pieces of this album got picked up by better-known bands across the alt-rock spectrum; Billy Corgan's ears should be ringing, because he listened to this way too many times. MBV never released a follow-up, but really, how could they?
Neil Young ~ After the Gold Rush: If you've not felt an “after the gold rush” moment, you've not lived life. When that song turns too disheartening, then it's time for “Don't Let It Bring You Down,” another classic on an album of them.
The White Stripes ~ De Stijl: By far their best album, though I enjoyed everything since. Get Behind Me Satan was not shock if you heard this diverse number first. The Stripes take leap from their self-titled debut: The blues is wonderfully raw and “I'm Bound to Pack It In” and “You're Pretty Good Looking” show a new bite in Jack White's songwriting. Better yet, I found it in the $5 rack at Used Kids Records.
Bob Dylan ~ Highway 61 Revisited: another army of classics outfitted in the sharpest literary lyric ever to grace a rock record. "Like a Rolling Stone," "Ballad of a Thin Man," "Queen Jane Approximately" and "Desolation Row" rarely leave my stereo for long.
Johnny Cash ~ American Recordings: 40 years into his recording career, Cash had yet to cut an album just with himself and a guitar. Here's why it was long overdue. What he and Rick Rubin cut on subsequent albums never quite rivalled this.
In the end, Loaded edged them all.
The Velvet Underground's last studio album was Lou Reed's conscious effort to write a batch of hit songs (without the drug and sex references, as requested by Atlantic Records founder Ahmet Ertegun, according to rock apocrypha). Though it contains the band's best known songs (“Sweet Jane” and “Rock and Roll”), the entirety holds up, even if some of the lines in “Who Loves the Sun” can't help but cause laughter. They trade the noise experiments of earlier albums for polished songs like “New Age”, “Head Held High” and “Train 'Round the Bend” that sacrifice none of the Velvet's character ("Lonesome Cowboy Bill" is a obvious favorite).
But for my ears, it's all about “Oh! Sweet Nuthin,” Lou Reed's epic closer than can only be described as an underground rock “Hey Jude.” Like the rest of Loaded, the seven-minute tune never gets old.
And could anyone ask for a better song title for a date that never happened?
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
My father, my friend
We were enemies once, and his misdeeds metastized those usual teenage feelings toward authority figures. Our tense silence sliced through every family meal, gathering and what not. Everything went unsaid. Blood boiled and came close to spilling a few times.
After a major blow-up and immediate reconciliation, we've nurtured a good relationship in six years since.
Except when he calls. Repeatedly. For no particular reason beyond recycling the same movies quotes we've used for for years as amusement in the slow moments --- the Karate Kid I-III, Die Hard (only the first), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Clear and Present Danger, the Rocky series, the Rambo series, Full Metal Jacket and so on. The pattern is clear.
There are cell phone junkies, then there's my father, who abuses a phone like few others.
Today he called all my numbers and a busy day at work prevent an answer. He just wanted to talk. Dad would never admit it, but he's lonely. He has a few work friends, but likes to know there's someone who will pick up and bullshit with him. Most days, it's good to know we can rattle off a few lines and catch up on what's happening around the world during work's crawling moments.
After a major blow-up and immediate reconciliation, we've nurtured a good relationship in six years since.
Except when he calls. Repeatedly. For no particular reason beyond recycling the same movies quotes we've used for for years as amusement in the slow moments --- the Karate Kid I-III, Die Hard (only the first), Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Clear and Present Danger, the Rocky series, the Rambo series, Full Metal Jacket and so on. The pattern is clear.
There are cell phone junkies, then there's my father, who abuses a phone like few others.
Today he called all my numbers and a busy day at work prevent an answer. He just wanted to talk. Dad would never admit it, but he's lonely. He has a few work friends, but likes to know there's someone who will pick up and bullshit with him. Most days, it's good to know we can rattle off a few lines and catch up on what's happening around the world during work's crawling moments.
Bob's Bar, is there anything you can't do?
When I first moved to Columbus, Bob's Bar was a joke - just a North End dive attracting the same cadre of weathered regulars it had for decades.
Then they went under, two investors from Worthington bought it, scowered the inside and kept the name.
Two years after that, their half-decent beer selection (before I snobbed out and Bud Light was still a viable option) surged to 100-plus bottles and some choice microbews on tap.
Those old regulars returned with the new ownership, but Bob's was the only bar at this end of town to obey Columbus' indoor smoking ban when it became law in early 2005. Their business dried up, but some heaters and a covered patio later, the place is more popular than it's ever been (since I've known it, at least). During a December Browns-Steelers game on a bitter cold Thursday, just walking through the place was difficult --- and not because of obnoxious Steelers fans or Browns fans crying on the bar.
Bob's rundown facade conceals an intriguing little tavern unlike any other I know in Columbus.
Which brings me to Tuesday.
My friends C&M searched far and wide for bars with free wireless; none of the classier places they investigate came through, and even the franchise bars only had it at an hourly rate.
Except for Bob's, and its recent addition of a third beer cooler with 50 new options. So our little research project had a home for the night 1,000 feet from my front door.
Having a business that caters to my love for well-crafted brew so close would be a detriment .... if I didn't know I could take my laptop and polish off some work while there.
Then they went under, two investors from Worthington bought it, scowered the inside and kept the name.
Two years after that, their half-decent beer selection (before I snobbed out and Bud Light was still a viable option) surged to 100-plus bottles and some choice microbews on tap.
Those old regulars returned with the new ownership, but Bob's was the only bar at this end of town to obey Columbus' indoor smoking ban when it became law in early 2005. Their business dried up, but some heaters and a covered patio later, the place is more popular than it's ever been (since I've known it, at least). During a December Browns-Steelers game on a bitter cold Thursday, just walking through the place was difficult --- and not because of obnoxious Steelers fans or Browns fans crying on the bar.
Bob's rundown facade conceals an intriguing little tavern unlike any other I know in Columbus.
Which brings me to Tuesday.
My friends C&M searched far and wide for bars with free wireless; none of the classier places they investigate came through, and even the franchise bars only had it at an hourly rate.
Except for Bob's, and its recent addition of a third beer cooler with 50 new options. So our little research project had a home for the night 1,000 feet from my front door.
Having a business that caters to my love for well-crafted brew so close would be a detriment .... if I didn't know I could take my laptop and polish off some work while there.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Fresh from the earth, our new feature columnist Lazarus
OK, I shouldn't be bugged by this, but our Competitive Daily habitually puts little blurbs on the front of its section when its columnists take vacation. They don't all sound so sweet.
It's redundant from the start; no one really misses columnists when they disappear for a week or so. Often, those complaining about a column's omission are planted critics. They're just friends writing on behalf of their missing columnist, just as candidates for council and school board have friends write letters to the Editor touting their integrity and/or love of community. Like everything else, cut below the surface and a little more truth emerges.
But the twisted part of these blurbs is in the Life section. Rather than use the columnist's real name, let's go with a pseudonym that best reveals the problem: "Lazarus will return to Life Thursday."
Woah. Hold on. That implies a little bit more than a weeklong casino junket or Caribbean cruise.
Is he resting comfortably in a hyperbaric chamber somewhere? Did the paper's executive editors bury him alive in a shallow grave(a la Kill Bill Volume 2) so he could scratch his way free and then pen a few Pulitzer contending columns following his ordeal? Do they have a staff member capable of resurrection, only bringing out columnists when deadlines loom?
With thoughts like these, it's a wonder I'm not a ward of the state.
It's redundant from the start; no one really misses columnists when they disappear for a week or so. Often, those complaining about a column's omission are planted critics. They're just friends writing on behalf of their missing columnist, just as candidates for council and school board have friends write letters to the Editor touting their integrity and/or love of community. Like everything else, cut below the surface and a little more truth emerges.
But the twisted part of these blurbs is in the Life section. Rather than use the columnist's real name, let's go with a pseudonym that best reveals the problem: "Lazarus will return to Life Thursday."
Woah. Hold on. That implies a little bit more than a weeklong casino junket or Caribbean cruise.
Is he resting comfortably in a hyperbaric chamber somewhere? Did the paper's executive editors bury him alive in a shallow grave(a la Kill Bill Volume 2) so he could scratch his way free and then pen a few Pulitzer contending columns following his ordeal? Do they have a staff member capable of resurrection, only bringing out columnists when deadlines loom?
With thoughts like these, it's a wonder I'm not a ward of the state.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Stick me two times, babe, stick me twice today
That's with a needle, so I can donate blood, you ... fucking ... sickos.
It's bandaged arms like mine that keep people from lining up when blood drives arrive. When giving a donation ends with a dose of pain, it's a different story.
First off, I came up one day short of qualifying for a double red cell treatment --- they draw twice the amount of blood, but only separate the red blood cells and return everything else. While they get what they really want, double red cell also doubles the amount of time until the next donation date. But that wasn't to be.
The nurse hooking me up asked what arm, so I went with left. After some wrangling to scare out a usable vein - years of hard drug intake have tapped out a few * - and the gut feeling turns to "She's going to screw up some part of this."
I hate being right: After what appeared to be a successful placement of the needle, I hear, "We got to take it out. There's a hematoma (gathering of blood from a broken vessel)."
A switch to the right arm and a new needle later, I'm well on the way to being down a pint. At the left elbow sits a an ice pack slowing the advance of the violet blotch beneath the skin. Both arms aches as they haven't seen I was in college and shallow veins led to five needle pricks before those medical experts hit a vein.
Usually giving blood it an easy way to spend an hour every eight weeks (and in fairness, just for donating, everyone wins a free zoo pass).
Before today, however, I never ended that hour in any sort of pain.
* That was my James Frey moment. I've seen Trainspotting enough to never possess an interest in shooting heroine. But everyone already knew that.
The veins were shallow because it was a cold day and I was slightly dehydrated from drinking green tea all morning.
It's bandaged arms like mine that keep people from lining up when blood drives arrive. When giving a donation ends with a dose of pain, it's a different story.
First off, I came up one day short of qualifying for a double red cell treatment --- they draw twice the amount of blood, but only separate the red blood cells and return everything else. While they get what they really want, double red cell also doubles the amount of time until the next donation date. But that wasn't to be.
The nurse hooking me up asked what arm, so I went with left. After some wrangling to scare out a usable vein - years of hard drug intake have tapped out a few * - and the gut feeling turns to "She's going to screw up some part of this."
I hate being right: After what appeared to be a successful placement of the needle, I hear, "We got to take it out. There's a hematoma (gathering of blood from a broken vessel)."
A switch to the right arm and a new needle later, I'm well on the way to being down a pint. At the left elbow sits a an ice pack slowing the advance of the violet blotch beneath the skin. Both arms aches as they haven't seen I was in college and shallow veins led to five needle pricks before those medical experts hit a vein.
Usually giving blood it an easy way to spend an hour every eight weeks (and in fairness, just for donating, everyone wins a free zoo pass).
Before today, however, I never ended that hour in any sort of pain.
* That was my James Frey moment. I've seen Trainspotting enough to never possess an interest in shooting heroine. But everyone already knew that.
The veins were shallow because it was a cold day and I was slightly dehydrated from drinking green tea all morning.
Just names crowded onto highway signs
Mentor. Erie. Presque Isle. Headlands Beach State Park. The Bayfront connector ... and those only start the list.
If we left the highway, the trip to and from NY could have easily collapsed into the Bill Melville Memory Trail - I've spent far too much of my life bound to that cold stretch of asphalt spanning gentle valleys dropping into Lake Erie.
But those are old details.
My memories for high school and earlier are still sharp, but I rarely visit there anymore, aside from a few thoughts Friday about the one time I nearly fought in school (in seventh grade, Jason Kekelis tripped me though I didn't drop my books, I rose to face him and we started shoving each other, even though I knew well I was going to end up on the losing end -- this kid was a dealer at a time when I'd never seen the harsh stuff outside of DARE videos. A ninth-grader slammed us both against cinderblock wall, then threatened to kick both of our asses if we tried that again. We never . Kekelis would die the night the rest of us graduated high school, when he accidently shot and killed his best friend, then turned the pistol on himself. I can remember the details, but I can't tell you how I felt about that. I still can't.
[End digression - Have you learned not to question my memory again?]
I'm not advocating pull the drawstrings and set your past at the curb. But without the people, the places are never the same. Most of the buildings where I partied in college no longer exist, as a little liberal arts school - in a town on a Youngstown-esque decline) grabbed more land for its sweeling student body. Those that are just can't shake their emptiness when crowded.
Not all is lost in Erie: One good friend and her boyfriend remain, plus a handful of profs I'd still happily tip pints with, but the college itself is a mausoleum.
Mentor fares poorly. Not a single friend from high school still lives there.
In March, starting a lightning trip to Connecticut, I ended up in Mentor, back on Chillicothe Road with a mouth drooping from novocaine and dental work two hours earlier.
Minus the picket fence closing the backyard a few docorative trees in the little front courtyard, it looked close to my home of 12 years, epicenter of a million crazed moments both fun and far less so.
As I passed the meek house made whiter by the snowfall, I felt not a single pang of nostalgia, or anything else, actually.
I could blame it on the novocaine, but knew better.
If we left the highway, the trip to and from NY could have easily collapsed into the Bill Melville Memory Trail - I've spent far too much of my life bound to that cold stretch of asphalt spanning gentle valleys dropping into Lake Erie.
But those are old details.
My memories for high school and earlier are still sharp, but I rarely visit there anymore, aside from a few thoughts Friday about the one time I nearly fought in school (in seventh grade, Jason Kekelis tripped me though I didn't drop my books, I rose to face him and we started shoving each other, even though I knew well I was going to end up on the losing end -- this kid was a dealer at a time when I'd never seen the harsh stuff outside of DARE videos. A ninth-grader slammed us both against cinderblock wall, then threatened to kick both of our asses if we tried that again. We never . Kekelis would die the night the rest of us graduated high school, when he accidently shot and killed his best friend, then turned the pistol on himself. I can remember the details, but I can't tell you how I felt about that. I still can't.
[End digression - Have you learned not to question my memory again?]
I'm not advocating pull the drawstrings and set your past at the curb. But without the people, the places are never the same. Most of the buildings where I partied in college no longer exist, as a little liberal arts school - in a town on a Youngstown-esque decline) grabbed more land for its sweeling student body. Those that are just can't shake their emptiness when crowded.
Not all is lost in Erie: One good friend and her boyfriend remain, plus a handful of profs I'd still happily tip pints with, but the college itself is a mausoleum.
Mentor fares poorly. Not a single friend from high school still lives there.
In March, starting a lightning trip to Connecticut, I ended up in Mentor, back on Chillicothe Road with a mouth drooping from novocaine and dental work two hours earlier.
Minus the picket fence closing the backyard a few docorative trees in the little front courtyard, it looked close to my home of 12 years, epicenter of a million crazed moments both fun and far less so.
As I passed the meek house made whiter by the snowfall, I felt not a single pang of nostalgia, or anything else, actually.
I could blame it on the novocaine, but knew better.
Hide and seek
From a basement in a quiet house, you hear everything - every word, every footfall, doors creaking open, even the flipping of light switches. It's an essential ability in a game of Hide N Seek, with only a few random candles to light the house. You need to know when your pursuers draw near.
My friend Melissa made that game an order of the first night we spent at her parents' vacation house in western New York. She was our Seeker.
As she counted, I ran upstairs, closed several doors, then barreled back down to the basement's lakeview bedroom -- and in the corner, almost hit Jeff, Melissa's boyfriend. We agreed not to rat each other out, and I quickly scanned the dark for a new spot.
Five steps later I collided with the pool table, knelt to look at its underside and grinned -- a plastic guard supported the legs, but left enough space below it for me to crawl beneath. Sitting inside was almost comfortable.
If it stayed dark, no one would find me. It didn't. The dark house spooked our Seeker, who started flipping on overhead lights.
She caught her old friend Liz first, then Jeff in the bedroom closet. Both knew where I was but didn't rat me out. Gotta love good soldiers. Melissa's roommate Gretchen wasn't found either, but came out and joined the hunt.
As our Seeker prowled, I bit my hand to keep any laughs from giving me away ... and that was no small amount of laughter when I heard this:
"Bill, I'm going to find you, motherfucker."
I sat right in the middle of them, almost in plain sight, and was not yet caught. At one point, Melissa looked down and our eyes met squarely. I knew I was busted - until she went off for another search upstairs. But when she and Gretchen returned downstairs, Gretchen caught sight of my blue jeans, and it was over.
But well worth hiding for ... motherfucker.
My friend Melissa made that game an order of the first night we spent at her parents' vacation house in western New York. She was our Seeker.
As she counted, I ran upstairs, closed several doors, then barreled back down to the basement's lakeview bedroom -- and in the corner, almost hit Jeff, Melissa's boyfriend. We agreed not to rat each other out, and I quickly scanned the dark for a new spot.
Five steps later I collided with the pool table, knelt to look at its underside and grinned -- a plastic guard supported the legs, but left enough space below it for me to crawl beneath. Sitting inside was almost comfortable.
If it stayed dark, no one would find me. It didn't. The dark house spooked our Seeker, who started flipping on overhead lights.
She caught her old friend Liz first, then Jeff in the bedroom closet. Both knew where I was but didn't rat me out. Gotta love good soldiers. Melissa's roommate Gretchen wasn't found either, but came out and joined the hunt.
As our Seeker prowled, I bit my hand to keep any laughs from giving me away ... and that was no small amount of laughter when I heard this:
"Bill, I'm going to find you, motherfucker."
I sat right in the middle of them, almost in plain sight, and was not yet caught. At one point, Melissa looked down and our eyes met squarely. I knew I was busted - until she went off for another search upstairs. But when she and Gretchen returned downstairs, Gretchen caught sight of my blue jeans, and it was over.
But well worth hiding for ... motherfucker.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Welcome aboard, feral kitten
Well, for all of you that haven't seen him, here is a image of The Beast, also known as Percy (and Persistance, Percy J. Fong, Percival, and Squeaky Caramel for his fur color and unending chatter).
I've not written about him much lately (he's still wild, but aside from climbing my new TV and getting a squirt from the spray bottle for his efforts, there's not much new to report).
Frosting Man No More
The wedding cake's creator now plans to attend the wedding, so I'm off the hook and back to just a trunkful of luggage.
Which is too bad, as you know, because I wanted to transport it.
For what reason, I really don't know. It sounded cool, that's all.
Which is too bad, as you know, because I wanted to transport it.
For what reason, I really don't know. It sounded cool, that's all.
As if vacations offered any rest at all
The lead-up to any vacation brings the busiest days, not just in trip preparations, but in polishing off everything at work that needs to be covered while absent. No one I know has the priviledge of dropping everything to leave.
I'm just taking one day, but even that moves up the entire schedule, because no one will sub while you're gone (if I take a deadline day, that's a different story).
Instead of turning around a column over the weekend, I must spit out something in by the end of business tomorrow, along with a freelance story with an extended deadline and my job's other mundane details.
The feet grow heaviest as the finish line nears.
It's a crescendo, but much like the Beatles "A Day in the Life," the orchestra's swell reaches its peak then finishes on a final ringing note.
I'm hopeful the ringing won't go too late on Thursday evening.
I'm just taking one day, but even that moves up the entire schedule, because no one will sub while you're gone (if I take a deadline day, that's a different story).
Instead of turning around a column over the weekend, I must spit out something in by the end of business tomorrow, along with a freelance story with an extended deadline and my job's other mundane details.
The feet grow heaviest as the finish line nears.
It's a crescendo, but much like the Beatles "A Day in the Life," the orchestra's swell reaches its peak then finishes on a final ringing note.
I'm hopeful the ringing won't go too late on Thursday evening.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
BCS Championship mea culpa
To all my Buckeye fans out there, you need a scapegoat, and that goat is me.
Always scared off by the most fundamentalist of OSU fans, I was not much of a fan. Beyond my 2003 national championship T-shirt, there were few signs I ever even watched the Buckeyes on a lazy Saturday.
But I watched them a lot this year, and excluding the Michigan game, I saw blowout after blowout. Sure, you can pick the cream puffs on their schedule, but they steamrolled Big Ten teams that ended up in their own bowl games. They broke the Longhorns. I came to believe that this team could not be refused and the SEC champs would be the final bedpost notch on a perfect season.
I even talked trash on that theme an hour before the game, hitting that note many times.
I predicted a blowout. Just not the one I saw.
After an ugly first quarter left me tasting shoe leather for my prediction, I had to see how the rest of Columbus was dealing with this game. Not well at all, I soon discovered.
My friend Schaney and I walked down to the corner bar for the second quarter. That scary, absolutist fandom was in full swing.
One tipsy women at the bar questioned my lack of Buckeye apparel; Schaney, a recent Columbus transplant who cheers for the Steelers and the WVU Mountaineers, jumped right in and questioned me too. I love the pack mentality, even if his was pure B.S.
The stop on fourth-and-one, then the Troy Smith fumble on the next drive turned the mood even uglier. I don't know if I've ever seen so many people shout obscenities at TV screens before.
A staggering crew sat down at the booth next to us, and their angry drunkedness threatened to spill over, so we down our pints and got out.
Bad predictions aside, a scene like that, with fan enthusiasm turning into drunken rage, can always turn uglier.
Always scared off by the most fundamentalist of OSU fans, I was not much of a fan. Beyond my 2003 national championship T-shirt, there were few signs I ever even watched the Buckeyes on a lazy Saturday.
But I watched them a lot this year, and excluding the Michigan game, I saw blowout after blowout. Sure, you can pick the cream puffs on their schedule, but they steamrolled Big Ten teams that ended up in their own bowl games. They broke the Longhorns. I came to believe that this team could not be refused and the SEC champs would be the final bedpost notch on a perfect season.
I even talked trash on that theme an hour before the game, hitting that note many times.
I predicted a blowout. Just not the one I saw.
After an ugly first quarter left me tasting shoe leather for my prediction, I had to see how the rest of Columbus was dealing with this game. Not well at all, I soon discovered.
My friend Schaney and I walked down to the corner bar for the second quarter. That scary, absolutist fandom was in full swing.
One tipsy women at the bar questioned my lack of Buckeye apparel; Schaney, a recent Columbus transplant who cheers for the Steelers and the WVU Mountaineers, jumped right in and questioned me too. I love the pack mentality, even if his was pure B.S.
The stop on fourth-and-one, then the Troy Smith fumble on the next drive turned the mood even uglier. I don't know if I've ever seen so many people shout obscenities at TV screens before.
A staggering crew sat down at the booth next to us, and their angry drunkedness threatened to spill over, so we down our pints and got out.
Bad predictions aside, a scene like that, with fan enthusiasm turning into drunken rage, can always turn uglier.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Outside in
The world is quickly pairing off.
I tallied it up, and weddings could occupy a lot of 2007 travel time: I've got 2 weddings for sure, and another two possibilities in the running, though neither is definite. But plenty of nuptials of await, plenty of drinking, revelry and chain-smoking to hide my discomfort. The single people are vanishing; some fade slowly, others blink into marriage.
Post college, you see the college/high school sweethearts marry off and think little of it: Where those relationships were headed was obvious. Seven years post-college: the cycle moves further. The post-college relationships turn over into marriage, the earlier ones arrive at parenthood in three years or less (only a handful of wedded friends bucked the trend). Friends' lives change rapidly, just as my own feet feel rapped in concrete shoes.
This isn't about jealousy. I'm not. Though my age dictates I should be close to those junctures, my situation does not. This is about one particular Nowhere Man knowing exactly what he's missing because for most of his life, he's relished in being a mystery. Now that he wants to open his trench coat and flash every detail(OK not those details - at least, not yet), everyone has turned away with the world. Nowhere Man, the Human Vault, the Walking Mystery -- I don't want to be those guys anymore.
I see these cycle of life and feel like a child again, staring at the year's must-have toys in the department store window display. And the displays are off limits; no matter how many hours I wonder the aisles and scout from the escalators, I'm not finding my way to what I want.
But I'm drafting a road map. Or so I hope, right now, because hope is all I really own. That, and a Corolla past 60,000 miles.
I tallied it up, and weddings could occupy a lot of 2007 travel time: I've got 2 weddings for sure, and another two possibilities in the running, though neither is definite. But plenty of nuptials of await, plenty of drinking, revelry and chain-smoking to hide my discomfort. The single people are vanishing; some fade slowly, others blink into marriage.
Post college, you see the college/high school sweethearts marry off and think little of it: Where those relationships were headed was obvious. Seven years post-college: the cycle moves further. The post-college relationships turn over into marriage, the earlier ones arrive at parenthood in three years or less (only a handful of wedded friends bucked the trend). Friends' lives change rapidly, just as my own feet feel rapped in concrete shoes.
This isn't about jealousy. I'm not. Though my age dictates I should be close to those junctures, my situation does not. This is about one particular Nowhere Man knowing exactly what he's missing because for most of his life, he's relished in being a mystery. Now that he wants to open his trench coat and flash every detail(OK not those details - at least, not yet), everyone has turned away with the world. Nowhere Man, the Human Vault, the Walking Mystery -- I don't want to be those guys anymore.
I see these cycle of life and feel like a child again, staring at the year's must-have toys in the department store window display. And the displays are off limits; no matter how many hours I wonder the aisles and scout from the escalators, I'm not finding my way to what I want.
But I'm drafting a road map. Or so I hope, right now, because hope is all I really own. That, and a Corolla past 60,000 miles.
You gotta quit your lowdown Good Samaritan ways
One of these days I will learn to shove down the urge to help people. It isn't something I brag about, because if you commit a good deed with the sole intent of crowing about it, what's the point?
I walked out of my apartment building and across the street, a man about my age moved slowly toward his car while clutching a 25-plus inch TV. All the rear car doors were closed, so I asked if he wanted help.
Actually, all the rear car doors were locked and when I ran around to the front to unlock them from the door console, I of course locked them all by just blindly punching at the button, and the man went for his keys.
Then, a massive crash, a plume of dusty glass and television components scattered on the sidewalk.
For a second we stood there and said nothing, then I apologized for the bad luck that came attached to my offer of help.
"That's alright, homey. It was my fault. I dropped it."
I apologized a few more times, and he said not to worry as he went back inside to finish his move.
I, however, ran all the way to Kroger anyway in case he and his friends changed their minds.
Only while running did I look down to see my left hand freckled with tiny cuts from bits of glass. It took all of 30 seconds to spin around my thoughts of helping people.
Poor help isn't really help at all. Sure, he might have dropped the TV anyway without a supervision, but it sticks in my gut a little.
Samaritan urges, stay in the shallow end for a while. Really.
I walked out of my apartment building and across the street, a man about my age moved slowly toward his car while clutching a 25-plus inch TV. All the rear car doors were closed, so I asked if he wanted help.
Actually, all the rear car doors were locked and when I ran around to the front to unlock them from the door console, I of course locked them all by just blindly punching at the button, and the man went for his keys.
Then, a massive crash, a plume of dusty glass and television components scattered on the sidewalk.
For a second we stood there and said nothing, then I apologized for the bad luck that came attached to my offer of help.
"That's alright, homey. It was my fault. I dropped it."
I apologized a few more times, and he said not to worry as he went back inside to finish his move.
I, however, ran all the way to Kroger anyway in case he and his friends changed their minds.
Only while running did I look down to see my left hand freckled with tiny cuts from bits of glass. It took all of 30 seconds to spin around my thoughts of helping people.
Poor help isn't really help at all. Sure, he might have dropped the TV anyway without a supervision, but it sticks in my gut a little.
Samaritan urges, stay in the shallow end for a while. Really.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
I am the cakeman. I am the cakeman. I am the walrus .... Goo Goo Ga-joob
Call me the cake protector.
Tuesday afternoon a friend suddenly confronted me with a little notice that I might end up driving our mutual friends' wedding cake from Columbus to Frederick, MD, because the cake artist is now doubtful for the actual wedding.
That means my trunk must now be filled with the boxes ferrying its layers 309 miles east. Admittedly, it will be easier to put separated, boxed layers in the trunk than to figure out the logistics for moving it when assembled. Not having done anything at a wedding more complex than ushering women to their seats, I would not know.
Now here is only one guarantee for this wedding - The Friday I spend en route will be filled with snow. This eternal stumbler has taken on a task requiring delicacy, so there must be a slick white path ahead of me.
I envision driving 20 mph in whiteout conditions while praying no one rear-ends my Corolla. I cringe at the bride and groom (well, the bride) finding a single twirl of icing smudged or out of place.
They won't, of course, but I still worry a little. People want everything perfect at their weddings. And while that cake will assuredly wind up smashed on the happy couple's faces, every flourish must be in its right place.
But as long as I do not arrive in Maryland with cake-smeared trunk, my little courier job will go smoothly.
Tuesday afternoon a friend suddenly confronted me with a little notice that I might end up driving our mutual friends' wedding cake from Columbus to Frederick, MD, because the cake artist is now doubtful for the actual wedding.
That means my trunk must now be filled with the boxes ferrying its layers 309 miles east. Admittedly, it will be easier to put separated, boxed layers in the trunk than to figure out the logistics for moving it when assembled. Not having done anything at a wedding more complex than ushering women to their seats, I would not know.
Now here is only one guarantee for this wedding - The Friday I spend en route will be filled with snow. This eternal stumbler has taken on a task requiring delicacy, so there must be a slick white path ahead of me.
I envision driving 20 mph in whiteout conditions while praying no one rear-ends my Corolla. I cringe at the bride and groom (well, the bride) finding a single twirl of icing smudged or out of place.
They won't, of course, but I still worry a little. People want everything perfect at their weddings. And while that cake will assuredly wind up smashed on the happy couple's faces, every flourish must be in its right place.
But as long as I do not arrive in Maryland with cake-smeared trunk, my little courier job will go smoothly.
Because everyone deserves to know about my blocked sinuses
I'm noseless at the moment. Don't bother looking - it isn't obvious.
This isn't Futurama, and it hasn't been harvested as "human horn."
But the shrewd alliance of dry winter and a sinus infection all but stole my sense of smell.
There's a blockade posted, and only with the random clearing of the passage does relief arrive.
Actually, I can live with getting sick this time.
I was overdue, having gone nearly two years without a major cold (aside from a feverish day, bed-confined day in April 2006).
Plus, non-stop partying, eating and general merriment wore me out. Even since Thanksgiving, the volume of old friends coming into town has been relentless. Turn around, and some face from the past has arrived in Columbus. It's time for a little quiet - yes, even sickly quiet.
I needed downtime, so body and mind crossed the aisle to agree this time. I'll stop drinking while waiting for my body to heal.
My feet and shins, still tender from the late autumn running, get a little time off, though I seem to reinjure my right foot's outside edge every time I pass the one-mile marker.
So while the aches and plugged nostrils make soldiering through the day more difficult, at least I'm away from trouble.
Is that .... dare I say it ... a silver lining from Bill Melville? What a strange new year we live in.
This isn't Futurama, and it hasn't been harvested as "human horn."
But the shrewd alliance of dry winter and a sinus infection all but stole my sense of smell.
There's a blockade posted, and only with the random clearing of the passage does relief arrive.
Actually, I can live with getting sick this time.
I was overdue, having gone nearly two years without a major cold (aside from a feverish day, bed-confined day in April 2006).
Plus, non-stop partying, eating and general merriment wore me out. Even since Thanksgiving, the volume of old friends coming into town has been relentless. Turn around, and some face from the past has arrived in Columbus. It's time for a little quiet - yes, even sickly quiet.
I needed downtime, so body and mind crossed the aisle to agree this time. I'll stop drinking while waiting for my body to heal.
My feet and shins, still tender from the late autumn running, get a little time off, though I seem to reinjure my right foot's outside edge every time I pass the one-mile marker.
So while the aches and plugged nostrils make soldiering through the day more difficult, at least I'm away from trouble.
Is that .... dare I say it ... a silver lining from Bill Melville? What a strange new year we live in.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
A few words on rock critics Bob Dylan Lovefest
Twilight Dylan: Critical love collides with reality
by Bill Melville
Nov. 16, 2006
In his old age, even rusty uneven Bob Dylan gets dipped into critical gold. After the latest spat of gushing over Modern Times, the legend's latest long-player, I can sit silent no longer; playing the Basement Tapes in the background no longer soothes me.
Not even a playback of Dylan's quirky, highly relevant satellite radio show will tame my anger at the Dylan Lovefest theme soiling nearly every review of that album. Dylan, like any number of critical darlings, earns mountains of leeway. No problem there; with his incalculable influence on popular music and a dozen records given to classic status, he deserves it.
But anytime Rolling Stone trots out a five-star review, alarms go off. Ever since they slapped “instant classic” status on Mick Jagger's Goddess in the Doorway, I must subject all future 5-star albums to blistering scrutiny.
To these ears, weaned on Dylan classic and contemporary, the prophetic and the putrid (lookin' squarely at you, Down in the Groove), the record is flat. All the critics so quick to anoint it with a five-starred crown and place it in the pantheon seemed to miss that. Nor do I see it as finishing a trilogy with the starkly introspective Time Out of Mind (a true masterpiece) and 2001's lesser yet vibrant Love and Theft.
Now down to a smoke-weakened growl, Dylan's voice barely crests above the music. He doesn't have the fortune of Willie Nelson, whose unique twangy whine wafts unchanged throughout his latest records. Modern Times shuffles along, coming nowhere near the speed of the sweet cruising machine from the 1940s adorning its cover. Signs of life creep in periodically, creep being the operative word on the closing track, “Ain't Talkin,” with Dylan snarling away to the listener's content.
But just arriving at “Ain't Talkin' is a chore – a moribund version of “The Levee's Gonna Break” contributes nothing to set it apart from versions of it written in the past century. It lacks the panache of a Time Out of Mind tune like "Cold Irons Bound" and sounds impersonal at best, and with nothing of the charming distance Dylan exhibits between the words of earlier songs.
The lyric viscosity in these songs is fleeting. Nothing close to a “Lovesick” or the brutal “Not Dark Yet” rises from the tracklist, with the exception of “Workingman's Blues #2,” which offers a delicate stylistic synthesis of two preceding albums.
Objectivity of any sort grows difficult with a Dylan record. With more than 40 to his credit, no one can sit down with a new Dylan record and judge it in a vacuum. Too many highlights precede it.
Glance back at a few decades of reviews and this becomes apparent: A pronouncement of Dylan's return to form, for whatever that means in a 40-year career of style changes, comes with almost every record from Blood on the Tracks onward.
The outrage over Self-Portrait (which famous caused Greil Marcus to open his RS review with “What is this shit?”) and other off-the-weathered-path albums has dissipated into perpetual love for the unassuming master musician. Any new Dylan drowns in praise.
Ever since the magnificent Time Out of Mind, Dylan can perform no crime. What critics overlook is a recharged Dylan unplugging to delve back into traditional music on the two previous albums to great effect, most notably on World Gone Wrong. The elder statesman phase began quietly, with only a man, his guitar and the tradition songbook from where he started.
The man has churned out visionary records and inhabits a body of work only similar giants approach. He's got nothing to prove, if he ever did in the first place.
But dig into the track record (the early 1970s, the bulk of the '80s) and not everything drowns in gold or even silver. Some of it is plain aluminum, and Modern Times dents too easily to stand up with a Highway 61 Revisited, Blood on the Tracks or even the first two chapters in the "infallible" late-career trilogy hordes of critics praise it for allegedly completing. Now look at the year-end lists – it's almost a bold critical choice to go with anything else as Number 1.
Modern Times isn't terrible, nor a mistake; it just falls short of the “Epic Scale Dylan” label critics sprang too quickly to apply.
by Bill Melville
Nov. 16, 2006
In his old age, even rusty uneven Bob Dylan gets dipped into critical gold. After the latest spat of gushing over Modern Times, the legend's latest long-player, I can sit silent no longer; playing the Basement Tapes in the background no longer soothes me.
Not even a playback of Dylan's quirky, highly relevant satellite radio show will tame my anger at the Dylan Lovefest theme soiling nearly every review of that album. Dylan, like any number of critical darlings, earns mountains of leeway. No problem there; with his incalculable influence on popular music and a dozen records given to classic status, he deserves it.
But anytime Rolling Stone trots out a five-star review, alarms go off. Ever since they slapped “instant classic” status on Mick Jagger's Goddess in the Doorway, I must subject all future 5-star albums to blistering scrutiny.
To these ears, weaned on Dylan classic and contemporary, the prophetic and the putrid (lookin' squarely at you, Down in the Groove), the record is flat. All the critics so quick to anoint it with a five-starred crown and place it in the pantheon seemed to miss that. Nor do I see it as finishing a trilogy with the starkly introspective Time Out of Mind (a true masterpiece) and 2001's lesser yet vibrant Love and Theft.
Now down to a smoke-weakened growl, Dylan's voice barely crests above the music. He doesn't have the fortune of Willie Nelson, whose unique twangy whine wafts unchanged throughout his latest records. Modern Times shuffles along, coming nowhere near the speed of the sweet cruising machine from the 1940s adorning its cover. Signs of life creep in periodically, creep being the operative word on the closing track, “Ain't Talkin,” with Dylan snarling away to the listener's content.
But just arriving at “Ain't Talkin' is a chore – a moribund version of “The Levee's Gonna Break” contributes nothing to set it apart from versions of it written in the past century. It lacks the panache of a Time Out of Mind tune like "Cold Irons Bound" and sounds impersonal at best, and with nothing of the charming distance Dylan exhibits between the words of earlier songs.
The lyric viscosity in these songs is fleeting. Nothing close to a “Lovesick” or the brutal “Not Dark Yet” rises from the tracklist, with the exception of “Workingman's Blues #2,” which offers a delicate stylistic synthesis of two preceding albums.
Objectivity of any sort grows difficult with a Dylan record. With more than 40 to his credit, no one can sit down with a new Dylan record and judge it in a vacuum. Too many highlights precede it.
Glance back at a few decades of reviews and this becomes apparent: A pronouncement of Dylan's return to form, for whatever that means in a 40-year career of style changes, comes with almost every record from Blood on the Tracks onward.
The outrage over Self-Portrait (which famous caused Greil Marcus to open his RS review with “What is this shit?”) and other off-the-weathered-path albums has dissipated into perpetual love for the unassuming master musician. Any new Dylan drowns in praise.
Ever since the magnificent Time Out of Mind, Dylan can perform no crime. What critics overlook is a recharged Dylan unplugging to delve back into traditional music on the two previous albums to great effect, most notably on World Gone Wrong. The elder statesman phase began quietly, with only a man, his guitar and the tradition songbook from where he started.
The man has churned out visionary records and inhabits a body of work only similar giants approach. He's got nothing to prove, if he ever did in the first place.
But dig into the track record (the early 1970s, the bulk of the '80s) and not everything drowns in gold or even silver. Some of it is plain aluminum, and Modern Times dents too easily to stand up with a Highway 61 Revisited, Blood on the Tracks or even the first two chapters in the "infallible" late-career trilogy hordes of critics praise it for allegedly completing. Now look at the year-end lists – it's almost a bold critical choice to go with anything else as Number 1.
Modern Times isn't terrible, nor a mistake; it just falls short of the “Epic Scale Dylan” label critics sprang too quickly to apply.
They're posting screenshots of the hanging
With apologies to Mr. Zimmerman of Hibbing and his opening line to "Desolation Row," this recording of Saddam's execution goes well beyond good taste's boundaries.
Granted, this is a nation that since his ouster has frequently exported videos of captured Americans getting beheaded by masked insurgents. But even CNN displayed a photo of his corpse after the execution. They hid it behind a skimpy "mature content" warning - you know, the type of disclaimer ignored by web surfers of all ages.
And now a security guard is under arrest for allegedly smuggling a camera phone into chamber and recording the raucous last moments of Saddam's life, with the guards taunting him, witnesses shouting and Saddam mocking them in return.
I know several people who hunted online for the video of the dictator being hanged (It is "hanged," remember - "hung" means something very different).
No wonder the insurgents are blowing holes in their country at will - in America, you can't sneak a camera phone into a movie preview screening, but in Iraq, you can get one into the secret exeuction site of its deposed dictator. Or maybe the lesson is that even at a hanging, someone's going to show off how important they are by flashing the cell phone. I'm waiting for his death to provoke stability in the fractured wartorn country; I might be here awhile.
CNN isn't the only culprit. Rolling Stone continued its morbid fascination with a casket shot from James Brown's viewing at the Apollo Theatre. In some form, they kept it on the front page of their Web site for a almost a week.
Anyone who's attended an open casket funeral knows its rare for the departed to bear more than a passing resemblance to their living selves. Brown's looks as if it might have been stolen from Madame Tussaud's. So really, why bother?
Perhaps it deals with Brown's last major moment in the public eye, the infamous bathrobe mugshot taken by police after Brown was arrested on domestic violence charges. It's hard to forget that jet-black hair paired with Brown's alpine white facial hair.
No matter their actions in life, photos of the dead should not be paraded around or tucked under a toothless warning. The Saddam videos were just about amusement (in America) and outrage (among Iraq's Sunni minority).
None of those images ever belong on a postcard - or in a screenshot, for that matter.
Granted, this is a nation that since his ouster has frequently exported videos of captured Americans getting beheaded by masked insurgents. But even CNN displayed a photo of his corpse after the execution. They hid it behind a skimpy "mature content" warning - you know, the type of disclaimer ignored by web surfers of all ages.
And now a security guard is under arrest for allegedly smuggling a camera phone into chamber and recording the raucous last moments of Saddam's life, with the guards taunting him, witnesses shouting and Saddam mocking them in return.
I know several people who hunted online for the video of the dictator being hanged (It is "hanged," remember - "hung" means something very different).
No wonder the insurgents are blowing holes in their country at will - in America, you can't sneak a camera phone into a movie preview screening, but in Iraq, you can get one into the secret exeuction site of its deposed dictator. Or maybe the lesson is that even at a hanging, someone's going to show off how important they are by flashing the cell phone. I'm waiting for his death to provoke stability in the fractured wartorn country; I might be here awhile.
CNN isn't the only culprit. Rolling Stone continued its morbid fascination with a casket shot from James Brown's viewing at the Apollo Theatre. In some form, they kept it on the front page of their Web site for a almost a week.
Anyone who's attended an open casket funeral knows its rare for the departed to bear more than a passing resemblance to their living selves. Brown's looks as if it might have been stolen from Madame Tussaud's. So really, why bother?
Perhaps it deals with Brown's last major moment in the public eye, the infamous bathrobe mugshot taken by police after Brown was arrested on domestic violence charges. It's hard to forget that jet-black hair paired with Brown's alpine white facial hair.
No matter their actions in life, photos of the dead should not be paraded around or tucked under a toothless warning. The Saddam videos were just about amusement (in America) and outrage (among Iraq's Sunni minority).
None of those images ever belong on a postcard - or in a screenshot, for that matter.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Running in the new year
Impatient with the drunk suburbanites delaying our cab ride, I got out some hasty good-byes and started to trot down West Fifth Avenue's deserted sidewalks.
Dave and Wendi, good friends of mine soon to marry, always celebrate the New Year at Brazenhead, so this year I joined. We inched through a mass of drunken revelers to a somewhat quiet corner of the basement bar and celebrated the passing of 2006 as much as the arrival of 2007.
A cab turned up surprisingly quick after the ball dropped, but competition was stiff for those seats. Since I didn't choose "improved patience" as a resolution, walking back in the 590-degree weather felt right.
So an hour into the new hour, a old lesson popped back into view - never run in Italian loafers. I learned this long ago, but adrenaline paired with the desire to avoid the losing end of a New Year's Eve accident report drove me to run most the mile between the Brazenhead and the party house we left. I crossed the gurgling Olentangy, dialed off a few 2007 salutations and returned without incident to the house party where the night began. For the night, I felt the work did some good, as fresh, slightly cool air usually does when I exit crowded places.
Two days later, nerves fire in my lower legs with every footfall. Welcome aboard, 2007.
Dave and Wendi, good friends of mine soon to marry, always celebrate the New Year at Brazenhead, so this year I joined. We inched through a mass of drunken revelers to a somewhat quiet corner of the basement bar and celebrated the passing of 2006 as much as the arrival of 2007.
A cab turned up surprisingly quick after the ball dropped, but competition was stiff for those seats. Since I didn't choose "improved patience" as a resolution, walking back in the 590-degree weather felt right.
So an hour into the new hour, a old lesson popped back into view - never run in Italian loafers. I learned this long ago, but adrenaline paired with the desire to avoid the losing end of a New Year's Eve accident report drove me to run most the mile between the Brazenhead and the party house we left. I crossed the gurgling Olentangy, dialed off a few 2007 salutations and returned without incident to the house party where the night began. For the night, I felt the work did some good, as fresh, slightly cool air usually does when I exit crowded places.
Two days later, nerves fire in my lower legs with every footfall. Welcome aboard, 2007.
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