Yo, Money...It Must Be The Shoes!

(I haven't seen the Spike Lee commercial in years, but I think that's how the line went.)

While Jordan and his Nikes turned out to be a pretty successful pair, I wonder if Spike would consider bringing back his tag line for, maybe...Garrison Keillor and his Sauconys.

Not the same allure, probably. But knowing what I know now, if I had to choose between going to see Michael Jordan or Garrison Keillor, I think I'd opt for the Sauconys.

Garrison Keillor: syndicated columnist, novelist, host of the Prairie Home Companion radio show on National Public Radio, proud Democrat, storyteller extraordinaire. And all-around odd duck.

I don't know what the significance of the red shoes and socks is, but in many of his photos online, and in this one taken by yours truly, there they are. They seem to be part of his trademark, along with a tie that he likes to tie a good four or five inches too long.

Several months ago, I barely knew who he was. I'd heard the name before, but that's about as much knowledge I had of him. A buddy of mine mentioned him several times in e-mails or in conversation: "I just read in Garrison Keillor's column this week that..."; or "Keillor told a great story about..."; or "You remind me so much of Garrison Keillor, except that you're a much better writer and should be way more famous than he is." (I may have stretched that last one a bit too far.)

My point is, I was bombarded with enough Keillor references that I started reading his columns, and when I found out that he was coming to Milwaukee as part of his promotional book tour, I found myself on the interstate, driving to see an author about whom I knew very little.

And I can't wait to go back.

Mr. Keillor has instantly vaulted up my list of favorites to somewhere near the top, and I now own two of his books, one called "Pontoon," a fourth book in his series of tales of Lake Wobegon, a fictitious town in his native Minnesota "where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average."

I was forced to buy that book as part of admission to see him that night, a bad rule in principle...but in hindsight, so well worth it. It cost me $37 for the book and admission to spend an hour and a half in his presence, and I think I'd pay that next time, even without the book!

The other book on his table of goodies that I couldn't resist purchasing was "Homegrown Democrat." Suffice it to say he's not the biggest George W. Bush supporter in the nation, often referring to him as the Current Occupant in his columns and books.

The evening with Keillor was engaging, entertaining, and filled with more than the occasional burst of laughter from the 900-ish people in the theater. His dry wit and command of the English language have made me an instant fan, and regular reader.


He often stood in front of the crowd with his hands stuffed into his suitcoat pockets, or his eyes closed as he reflected on a story, or possibly invented it as he went along. He was unassuming, perhaps a bit frumpy, but addicting at the same time.

As he walked out onto the stage and got close enough to the mic, he said, "It's good to be in Milwaukee, home of...the full serving." As he peered down at his belly: "The stains down the front of my...shirt, are...frozen custard from Leon's."

His timing was part of what made him so engaging, I think. He inserted pauses in his conversation that made you hang on his last word, anxious to hear what he was going to follow it up with.

Much of his monologue included his thoughts on turning 65 earlier this year. He has a residence in New York as well as Minnesota, and he spent some time out east for a while, saying, "New York is a great place to walk around when you're brooding." So much activity and life whirring around you, but people leave you alone for the most part.

Another observation of getting older: "We used to talk about ideas, and now we talk about medications."

He focused on the different generations and how they viewed life as they went through it, because he's got a son who's 38, and a daughter who's 9, and he's trying to make sense of how their lives, and his own, too, are different.

Back when he was a child, he said, they could stand up on the seat of a car while it was in motion; they ate ground beef and ground pork; and my favorite...they always made it to school, no matter what the weather. "School never closed when I was a boy. That is why we know how to spell!"

Also reflecting on days gone by: "We typed on an Underwood, and hit the keys hard. You had to mean it when you wrote something."

He's been on the radio with his Prairie Home Companion show for 37 years, and he said, "That's why there has to be someone on the radio, someone who knows this stuff. So that you remember there was a time before your time."

I could have listened to him all night, skipped work the next morning, and not cared one bit.

In describing his newest book, he said he was anxious to get back to writing a comic novel again, talking about how much he enjoyed writing this one. "It's not too long of a book, because you can't be funny for very long. Or, you shouldn't try."

To close the night, he took more than a handful of questions from the audience (next time I'll ask him about the shoes and socks!), and then regaled us with an a cappella Gospel tune called, "Lord, Won't You Come Down Here?" to which several members of the crowd joined in singing.

For the record...with Keillor, it's so much more than the shoes.
It's the words.

(although I think with Jordan, it was probably more than the shoes, too.)

"Some luck lies in not getting what you
thought you wanted but getting what you have,
which once you have got it you may be
smart enough to see is what you would

have wanted had you known."
—Garrison Keillor

"The funniest line in English is, 'Get it?'
When you say that, everyone chortles."
—Garrison Keillor

This Would Make Two. In A Row.

So remember last night, when I said I was a Last-Minute Larry for signing up like a day before this madness started, and was happy to see a few hundred people sneaking through the gates after me?

Apparently there's been a mad rush all damn day, of people pushing and shoving, trying to get their NaBloPoMo spot, and there are currently 4598 participants...more than 1700 of those signed up after me. (I would admit here to spending much of my day and night hitting the refresh button, and watching the number of members steadily increase, but that would be an unfair and inaccurate portrayal of my idea of "fun," so I won't admit it.)

I realize that eventually that number is going to hit a ceiling, because it'll stop being Nov. 1 pretty much everywhere, and start being Nov. 2, ya know? And then what's the point of BloPo'ing, if you've already failed before you've begun?

— • — • —

In the interest of not rambling on and on about things that contain Blo or Po or Na in every single entry during this month, today I'd like to share a Web site that I read about recently and spent part of the evening exploring.

MyElectionDecision.org is a site created by a professor of education at Lawrence University in Appleton, designed to give clear, concise views on several of the important issues being discussed by the presidential candidates vying for their party's nominations and to help people decide which candidate best matches their viewpoints.

Readers take a series of surveys, voting for their positions on these issues. They also read through several anonymous statements made by the four front-running candidates in each party, and are asked to vote whether or not they agree with these statements.

After all the votes are tallied, your ideal candidate is spit out of the machine and displayed on the screen before your very eyes. (at least...that's how I think it's supposed to work. it's somewhat of an involved process, and I haven't gotten all the way through it yet.)

The one unfortunate part about the site is that you're required to go through an annoying registration process before you can take the surveys. I usually don't bother with those, but I was curious enough to see how the site works that I'm a full-blown "member," if you will, of the site.

The article I read that led me to the site stated that after the primaries are over, the site will be retooled so that it's able to be used for the general election as well. Not that many people need a Web site to help them decipher which candidates suit them best, but I thought the idea was one worth exploring. And sharing.

Maybe the site will be smarter than I'm giving it credit for. Say, for instance, I reveal a penchant for Wrangler jeans, gunslingers and martial artists...I'm assuming that the site would delve deep into its computer memory banks and tell me that my ideal presidential candidate would be Walker, Texas Ranger. Or Brett Favre.

Perhaps I'll stick to Iraq, immigration, energy, and health care.

"We have a presidential election coming up.

And I think the big problem, of course,

is that someone will win."

—Barry Crimmins

Oh-Oh! It's NaBloPoMo!

As I glance at my atomic clock, the time reads 12:05am, and I can now state that I am officially in over my head.

For those of you who aren't aware, or haven't seen my badge proudly displayed in the sidebar, it's NaBloPoMo!

("huh?" you ask.)

National. Blog. Posting. Month.

The rules, as they say, are simple. Post every day during the month of November. For those of you who know the frequency with which I've been posting lately, it's easy to agree that while I'm 6'4", the hole I've dug myself by attempting to participate in this "contest" is perhaps nine or ten feet deep. Way...waaayyy...over my head.

I've talked a little bit in the past about NaNoWriMo, which is the thing that started all this nonsense. National Novel Writing Month was founded by a freelance writer from San Francisco, who, along with a few friends, decided to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. No editing, no cares about plot or structure. Just write, just write, just write...and when it's over, mine the prose for the nuggets of ideas worth keeping and building upon. Or...if you're really good, give it a quick edit, send it off to a publisher, and sit back and wait for your advance.

NaNoWriMo grew by leaps and bounds each year with the power of The Internets, and while I attempted it a couple years in a row, I usually bombed out by about 10K words. I think the idea is amazing, and Chris Baty (The Man) got a lot of people writing. And for that, he should win a prize. I hope to someday give that a more legitimate shot, and come closer to the 50K finish line.

Enter NaBloPoMo, born last year as far as I'm aware, as an alternative to NaNoWriMo. Same concept, though. A bit of a push to get you writing and keep you writing...an organized event in which your blog comes knockin' on your noggin every day, saying, "hey. remember me? let's get some words down today, buddy." and you're supposed to listen.

After clicking around on the blogroll of last year's participants, I found many who finished, some who were stopped short, and others who posted the occasional entry that said, "I don't know what to post today, but I wanted to sign in and write something. See you tomorrow."

(if I include entries like that during my NaBloPoMo attempt, please take the most venomous verbs you can find, and hurl them at me in the comments section. and call me a cheater.)

Truth be told, with the level of inspiration I've had in the last few months in regard to the writing process, I might be finished by...oh, Monday, perhaps. But I always kept it in my head that this little activity was approaching, and pondered whether or not to make it official by signing up. This year the NaBlo founder has a cool Web site with registrations and forums and other goodies, and I was compelled to join. I signed up late Tuesday night, and was member No. 2870, and as I write these words now, there are 3381 members. So apparently I wasn't the only Last-Minute Larry to add my name and blog to the party.

Being a bit of night owl (ok, fine...I'm an insomniac), I will probably be able to use that to my advantage on this NaBlo quest. You might find me posting at 11pm one night, and then at 12:30am the next "morning." Still within the rules of posting every day, but perhaps a bit of creative clock management coming into play there. (hey, maybe I'll get an NFL coaching job if I do well enough, seeing as how some don't know how to run an efficient two-minute drill.)

I really don't know what to expect over the next month, so I can't give you much of a preview. Maybe I'll post some photo entries, maybe I'll post a couple dozen links some days, I just don't know.

All I know is that my life better get a lot more exciting, and quickly. And if that's not possible, then it's my job to make the mundane seem exciting.

Oh boy. Are we in for a rocky road ahead or what??

One down. Twenty-nine to go.

"Once we discover how to appreciate

the timeless values in our daily experiences,

we can enjoy the best things in life."

—Harry Hepner

Awww...How Sweet!

This post will be much shorter than the posts you're used to here at Ton-Fifty-ONE, because it's late...but I had to share this. I realize that by the time all of you read this, the day will be past, but I learned today at work that this day, October 30, is National Candy Corn Day! How could I let the day go by without announcing it to my faithful readers? Especially since candy corn was my very most favoritest Halloween candy ever!

I bought a bag of candy corn a couple weeks ago, on an impulse buy, because it was on display in the middle of an aisle, and it was Brach's. And only Brach's candy corn will do. So yeah...I bought a bag, I reminisced, and I wrote a column about it. I'm sure my readers were ecstatic.

And now today I found out that the day before Halloween is a day devoted completely to candy corn.

The National Confectioners Association claims that more than 35 million pounds of candy corn will be produced this year. This equates to approximately the same amount I used to eat each Halloween when I was a kid.

I have to admit that by the time I was half finished with the pound-and-a-half bag I bought recently, I was sick of it. Maybe it's just a kid thing, I don't know. Or maybe sugar isn't quite as important when you reach your (*sigh*) late 30s.

Although according to that Web site, one serving of candy corn contains only about 140 calories. What they don't tell you, though, is that one serving is that tiny white tip of each kernel. When you get down into the orange and yellow sections, you're diving into three- and four-serving territory in a big big hurry.

Anyway, I couldn't help but share the news of National Candy Corn Day. And while it's a day late as you read this, maybe you can think back to some of your own favorite Halloween candies when you were younger...and some you never outgrew.

What candy could you simply not resist?

(see you all on Thursday. which, also by the time you read this, is the same as saying, "see you all tomorrow.")

(here we go.)

"I'll bet living in a nudist colony

takes all the fun out of Halloween."

—Charles Swartz

The Insanity of Apostrophe(')s

Clearly, I'm a dork.
I must be, because I've got myself worked into such a tizzy over nothing. And I don't even have a clue what a tizzy is!

(Webster does, though: a highly excited and distracted state of mind. Yes, yes I believe it's true. I'm officially in a tizzy.)

I was driving home earlier tonight, listening to ESPN Radio. Doug Gottlieb's show, "The Pulse," was on, and he was talking baseball. Makes sense, seeing as how there are some pretty important baseball games on these days.

As filler material in between calls and e-mails, he was tossing around the question of the correct usage of the term "RBI." A single run batted in is an RBI, but how are multiple runs batted in supposed to be abbreviated? If you say RBIs, then you're literally saying, "runs batted ins," right?

For the record, the Associated Press Stylebook says the correct usage is RBI (s.) and RBIs (pl.). I happen to agree with that, but it doesn't chafe my hide either way if people want to say RBI or RBIs when talking about multiple runs batted in.

If you say, "Manny drove in three RBI, but the Sox still lost by four," it doesn't affect me any more or less than if you say, "Jeter's nine RBIs in the last game couldn't save Joe Torre's job, because the Steinbrenners are total assholes."

I say and write "RBIs," simply because I think it flows better, not because the AP Stylebook tells me so. I've put up my dukes against AP style before, and will again in the future, to be sure.

Gottlieb has a cutesy little name for guests on his show that he's known for a while, introducing them as a "Friend of Doug," or an "FOD." Blending this with the RBI query, someone called in and asked if two or more guests were on at once, would they still be "FOD," or would they now be known as "FODs?" Got a chuckle out of me that he was blabbering on and on about RBIs and FODs, and I was enjoying the listeners' responses.


Here comes the tizzy part. After a few listeners called in to voice their opinions, some guy gets on the air and says, "Hey Doug, I've got your RBI answer. I teach English, and if there are more than one, then it's plural, so it needs an apostrophe s."

Gottlieb kind of interrupted him before he was finished with what he was saying, so I looked at my radio to make sure that I didn't just hear what I thought I just heard. But Gottlieb was kind enough to confirm it for me. After a little bit of conversation, he asked the caller, "So you're saying the correct way to say it and write it is 'R-B-I-apostrophe-s.'"

"Exaaaactly," was the English teacher's reply.

I nearly stood up in my driver's seat as I reached to pull out my hair, glaring at my radio's display, and shouting, "Nnnnooooo!!"

Just because this guy said he was an English teacher from Albany, he had Gottlieb convinced that he knew what he was talking about, and that his word was now law. But RBIs are not possessive. They don't own...anything. (I suppose a good example to the contrary could be: "The RBI's effect on the outcome of the game is still being argued by amateur baseball analysts around office water coolers nationwide.")

I've never called in to any ESPN Radio talk shows, even though I listen to many of them when I'm driving. But before I knew it, I was reaching for my phone, traffic accidents be damned. I had to rush to an English emergency!

1-888-SAY-ESPN
*busy signal*

1-888-SAY-ESPN
*busy signal*

1-888-SAY ESPN
*busy signal*

(repeat about a dozen more times for effect.)
(actually...I just checked my phone log. I dialed it 18 times before giving up. this was serious stuff! I don't take apostrophe abuse lightly.)

Obviously, Gottlieb's show is over by now, and the urgency with which I needed to reach the host has passed. I haven't sent him an e-mail since I've been home, but I also haven't ruled that possibility out, either. I wanted to come and rant on my blog, first, and release a little of this stress.

So to recap, I don't care if you say RBI or RBIs, but if you ever catch someone writing RBI's, please point them in the direction of this blog entry, and not toward an English classroom in Albany!

I can just feeeel the ulcer starting to fester.
I need some milk.
And perhaps three or four pain-relieving tablet's.

"If the English language made any sense,

a catastrophe would be an

apostrophe with fur."

—Doug Larson

Juuust A Bit Outside!

Since I started this blog, I haven't done a whole lot of blogging about darts, which is probably for the best, because let's face it...it's not exactly a hangin'-on-the-edge-of-your-seat topic, is it?

But since it's the pastime that actually gave this blog its name, and since I had a chance at that elusive ton-fifty-one a couple nights ago, I figured I'd tell y'all a story.

Tuesday night was my first night of dart league for the year, as I'd skipped the first week for a chance to see one of my new favorite writers who happened to be passing through the state. (talk about a good move! hilarious, popular, engaging writer, or...dart league. what would you pick? I know I made the right choice, and he'll be the subject of a blog post in the next few days.) Anyway...last week our team had a bye, so three weeks into the season, I got my first chance to shoot some darts, after not having picked one up since the season-ending state tournament in Green Bay back in mid-May (where I shot like a second grader, I might add. and that's an insult to second graders! not......a pretty way to end my season.)

I got to the bar a little early, which doesn't happen too often during the season. Usually, I just show up at about the time we're starting, and am ready to roll without any warm-up darts. But I knew there'd be substantial rust to shake off, so I wanted to throw at least a couple dozen before they counted.

And boy was there rust! Every time I tried to shoot a straight, hard dart, it'd fly about two inches above the bullseye, and I couldn't correct it. I resigned myself to the fact that I might be in for a lonnng, embarrassing night.

Thing is...there's something about shooting practice darts vs. shooting darts in a game that counts for league, or in a tournament game. Often times (not always, mind you...or I might be some kind of touring pro by now) I can flip a switch and if the darts count for something, they start to find their way to their intended target with a lot more regularity than when I'm practicing. I think part of it is just because I've been doing it for so long, that when it's time to get serious, it's easy enough to focus and concentrate on upholding my good name as a dart god. (yes, I just wrote that. no, I'm not going to delete it. and no, I'm really not one.)

I must admit here, however, that this psychic, magical power becomes a totally moot point as soon as I cross the county line. I wish I knew why, and how to fix it, but it's been proven over the years. When we were über-serious about our darts, we used to shoot a lot of tournaments on weekends. And anywhere in the county, we were good. Really good. Like, "Run for your lives! Tommy and Gregg are here, they're gonna wear out all the bulls and triples on the board and take all our beer money!" (I'm embellishing just a tad.)

When we'd go to Green Bay or Appleton or Oshkosh to shoot, however, my darts took an embarrassing downturn. I'd still shoot...OK...but I have very few tournament titles and very little prize money during my "career" that came from outside the county. Some, but not enough to brag about. Over the years, our league team has shot state tournaments in La Crosse, Milwaukee, Stevens Point, Appleton, Green Bay, Wisconsin Dells...and we'd always shoot well enough on the weekend to make it to the Sunday morning final round, only to bomb out and pout all the way home.

I guess that's why it's just a pastime, eh?

Sorry. Back to Tuesday.

League began, and my darts were hitting the bull quite a bit more often than when I first arrived. Before I knew it, I had a handful of tons and a couple/few hat tricks and a few wins on the stat sheet. Whoo hoo! I didn't totally sully my image of dart godliness on the very first night. That would have been depressing.

As I hinted up above, one of the hat tricks I had was at the beginning of a game, which meant I was left with (ready for it?) a ton-fifty-one for my second round. A perfect game just three darts away. Not an easy three darts...but three darts, nonetheless.

My first dart of my second round found the bullseye, and.........so did my second. One dart left in my hand. One triple-17 left to hit for a perfect game. One very cool way to start my season.

I wish I could tell you here that I paused for a moment, stepped off the line, closed my eyes and got a mental image in my head of my blog title, gathering up all the hopes and dreams of my dozens and dozens of readers (ok, three) inside of me and as I let go of that dart it guided itself into the triple-17, and lights flashed, fireworks exploded, dancing girls...danced. (and that's how it'll be when they make the movie of my life, I can guarantee you that right now.)

Instead, I let out one big exhale, leaned in and aimed...and let 'er fly.

While it's only about eight feet from the line to the board, sometimes you can tell just as soon as the dart leaves your fingertips how badly you've fucked up. And my dart, sticking in the board about two inches north of the triple-17, was evidence that I'll have to wait for another day to proclaim the great news that I got my six-dart out for the season.

But it sure is fun to shoot five bulls in a row, and have that chance.
I'll get one for ya this year. Hell, I'll get one for me this year.
And you'll be the first to read about it.

"Wit is a treacherous dart. It is perhaps

the only weapon with which it is possible

to stab oneself in one's own back."

—Geoffrey Bocca

Do I Have To Take Your Order??

[OK, one or two more of these blog entries where I cheat and pull stuff from my archives, and then I hope to get back to writing in real time again, rather than copying and pasting. But in keeping with the theme of strangers helping me to write my columns, I wanted to share this one, mostly because of the reaction it got after it was published, which I've included in this entry as an Addendum at the bottom. I have to admit that it made me grin pretty big to know that the story written below was seen by the right eyes. Oh, and the references to the Olympics should make it pretty obvious that this column was pulled from 2004.]

I had originally intended for this week’s column to be an Olympic wrap-up of sorts, touching on some of the big stories of the games.

I thought I’d comment on Paul Hamm’s controversial gold medal (keep it) and the U.S. men’s basketball team and the medal they brought home. (Doesn’t quite match all the bling they wear around their necks, does it?)

But instead, I’ve been inspired to go on a bit of a rant, so join me if you will.

I’d like to use this space to make a plea to fast food establishments everywhere that if you don’t wish to serve food up until the closing time of your posted open hours, then please edit your signage to read as such.

A couple days ago I walked into such a place to buy myself a late dinner. I knew it was getting close to closing, but I looked at the clock and still had a dozen minutes to spare, and I even asked if they were still serving, to which I received a “yes” response.

So I placed my order, overjoyed that I wouldn’t go hungry, or be forced to eat a tube of crackers as a meal.

And then...it began. Tension so thick you could have cut it with an oven mitt. Apparently, what this person really wanted to say when asked if I could still get my dinner was, “Umm, no. If I’m gonna get out of here two seconds after we close, there’s no way you can order anything. Goodbye.”

I stood there quietly and observed as things were not-so-gently flung about, and got the heaviest silent guilt trip laid on me, because I had the audacity to commit such a heinous crime as (stay with me on this one) entering a place of business during its open hours and offering to drop another 15 bucks into its till before it closes that day’s business.

I should be flogged.

The inconvenience I must have caused this person by asking her to do...her...job...had to be monumental.

Now, I’ve never worked fast food before, and I’m sure there’s a closing procedure that gets knocked out of kilter when a Johnny-Come-Lately like me tries to get a bite to eat before things are shut down.

But again...did I show up two minutes after closing and demand that my order be filled? No. I was there 12 minutes before.

This type of customer abuse (I’m scarred for life, by the way) can be prevented if these establishments would only clarify their hours of operation by requesting that all orders be completed 20 minutes before the posted closing time, so that employees can bolt for the door the second the business’s “Closed” sign gets flipped.

And if I did something wrong, I’d appreciate it if someone well-versed in fast food etiquette would point it out to me.

Rather than fanning the fire by refusing my order after it was filled and walking out, or making some sort of formal complaint to management, I simply sat back and took it all in, and thought to myself, “Thanks for the column!”

And by the way...if they add an Olympic customer service event in the Beijing Olympics in 2008, I can guarantee you one American who’ll never even make it to the trials.

“Your most unhappy customers are
your greatest source of learning.”
—Bill Gates

[Addendum: A couple days after this column appeared in the newspaper, I received a voicemail from the owner of three franchises like the one in which this episode occurred. He was concerned whether this took place in one of his restaurants (it didn't), and he also asked me if I would be opposed to him hanging my column on the wall in the back of his restaurants as a reminder to his employees of how to treat their customers (I wasn't). So I can only assume now that the employees of those three restaurants aren't real big fans of the guy who wrote that column, and they look at my byline and ask, "Who the hell is this asshole?" waiting to for me to come in and buy something so they can run the janitor's mop over my food before serving it to me, or replace my "extra pickles" order with extra dust balls instead. I've tried to avoid such retaliation by using the following line when I go into any of these three establishments: "Hi, I'm Bill! I'd like to place an order, please." So far, it's been working.]

Good Times...Noodle Salad

[The following column was written four years ago, after spending about five minutes next to a curious, clueless individual at a deli counter.]

There’s an old business maxim that says, “The customer is always right.”

Not a bad rule to promote a successful business. But what if the customer is crazy?

I was waiting in line at the deli counter at an area grocery store the other day, and was lucky enough to observe a girl trying to buy noodle salad who would have tested the sanity of even the most tolerant of those in the customer service business.

First, she wasn’t certain what size container she wanted. The half-pound container was too small, but she didn’t think she wanted the one-pound container completely filled. There’s a fraction in between there somewhere, so she settled on a three-quarter-pound purchase.

The girl even pointed to an imaginary mark exactly where she thought she wanted the noodles in her not-quite-filled one-pound container to reach.

“How much will that cost?” she asked, before the clerk could start scooping.

“It’s a dollar ninety-nine per pound with your savings card,” was the clerk’s reply.

“So that’d be like...Wait, how much was this again?” she asked, grabbing the half-pound container off of the counter.

“That’s the half-pound container that you said was too small,” said the clerk. “That would be a dollar.”

“OK, so this one not quite full would be...a dollar fifty?”

“Is that enough for a meal?” was her next question.

I know customer service people are supposed to have all the answers, but how was she supposed to know the appetite of this girl that was causing her so much grief?

“Umm, I dunno,” was the clerk’s indifferent reply.

After confirming the girl’s request, the clerk disappeared into the back with the empty container to get a mystery salad that wasn’t at the counter.

Miss Picky continued to browse the deli selections, unaware of the people standing near her...namely, me. Soon I felt the awkward closeness of a personal space invader, and tried to lean a bit to make it not quite as obvious.

That just brought her another nudge closer to me. After a few more clicks to the left, I realized that I couldn’t lean at a 45-degree angle without falling over, and I figured one person causing a scene at the deli counter was enough, so I took a small step backwards and out of her way.

That’s all the opening she needed and she moved right in, as she wasn’t going to let a 250-pound roadblock like myself deter her from getting closer to the seafood pasta and mustard potato salad in front of me.

The clerk emerged soon after, and presented a beautifully packed container of noodle salad...not too full, not too empty, and as level on top as you can get without borrowing carpenter’s tools.

“Oh,” was the customer’s first reaction, as she studied her selection. “That looks like a lot. I think...umm...yeah, I think I’m gonna keep looking.”

“So you don’t want it? You want me to put this back in the case?” the clerk asked, as our eyes met briefly and I could tell that we were both sharing the same thought. I only hoped that she knew that I was a single customer at her deli.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Off went the clerk, back into hiding for as long as it took, I can only assume, for Miss Indecision to move along to Aisle 3.

As I was placing my order, the girl went back to her routine, this time with another clerk who was trying to fill someone else’s order.

“Miss? Miss?” she said, pointing. “Is this any good, this Oriental coleslaw? Is that like Mexican, or what does it taste like?”

“It’s kinda sweet,” said the clerk.

“Ohhh, so it’s like Chinese food,” the girl said with a giggle. Maybe she thought all Chinese food was sweet, or maybe she had just then realized that Oriental coleslaw and Mexican food were on two totally different sides of the plate.

I wasn’t about to crawl inside her brain to try and figure it out. I was having my fun just eavesdropping and taking mental notes. A lot of them! Quickly.

Anyway, that clerk went about her business of filling the order she had originally been working on, and the girl was again left alone to ponder.

I got my order filled...14/37 of a pound of Mexican-flavored Oriental potato salad...and was on my way. I wanted to hang around for the exciting deli conclusion, but that might have made me late for work Monday morning.

And I knew that with what I had witnessed, I had way more than my requisite 600 words for this week’s column.

Another old adage states: “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
Ya think?

“There is only one boss. The customer.
And he can fire everybody in the company
from the chairman on down, simply by
spending his money somewhere else.”
—Sam Walton

Yes...I Always Do That.

Uncle Kracker has left the building!!

(or...at least moved out of the way, that if you aren't totally sick of looking at him for the past month and a half, you have to scroll down to see him again.)

Hello?

Helloooooo...hellooooo...elloo...llo...lo...lo.

Dammit, just what I thought. Empty.

— • — • —

As some of you may know, I write a weekly column in the paper for which I work. Kind of along the same lines as this blog, where I can write about whatever strikes me, and whatever I find to ramble about for six or seven hundred words.

Thing is, the big difference between my column and this blog is that if I don't submit a column every week, it won't take too long and I'll lose it. And that space will ultimately get filled with an AP story on luxury taxes for the middle class or a recipe on how best to prepare hog jowls for the holidays.

If I take a step or two away from this blog...and then return eons later...it's still here, waiting for me. Of course, all my readers have vanished, and I'll have to go and purchase new ones now. But the blog, that's still intact.

[Wanted: People who enjoy reading, and who have internet access, to commit to a blog whose author is fully committed to updating at least once a we..uhh...once a mo.......is committed to updating on his own personal whim. Topics of conversation include hot dog gluttony, spam poetry and gospel music. Come one, come all. Next entry to be posted any time before February. Comments always welcome.]

Sometimes coming up with a column topic is about as easy as admitting aloud that I'm a Lions fan. It hurts more than a little. The weekend comes, and I start thinking I better find something to write about, and before I know it it's Sunday afternoon, and Sunday evening, and after obsessing over football scores and highlights, I think, "Uh-oh. Column!!" You can write only so many columns bashing Britney Spears or commenting on unseasonably warm weather before the natives get restless. They want content...good content. Or else they'll sue!! (I made that part up.)

But sometimes...just by going through life and keeping my eyes and ears open, my columns write themselves, with the help of some unknowing citizens. Remember the blog entry (decades ago?) about the drunk woman at the wayside who couldn't find her Saturn? I didn't drive away from that thinking, "What a kook!" The first thing that popped into my head was, "Score! My column's written!"

That's happened to me more than once, and in the interest of easing back into this blogging thing after being gone for a while, I'm going to post a few examples over the next few days in which being in the right place at the right time, and observing, got me a free pass for my column that week. Those are my favorite ones to write, too. The ones that I'm not expecting.


The first one happened a couple months ago, when I walked into a convenience store to buy a few, um, conveniences. A bag of Gummi Bears and a Vitamin Water (the yellow "energy" flavor, if you're interested in trying something that'll immediately turn you into a Vitamin Water addict).

I walked to the cashier in the tiny store, and as I placed my two items on the counter, she looked at me and asked, "Do you always do that?"

With a blank stare, unsure of how to answer her because I had no idea if I did or didn't do whatever it was she was asking, my reply was something like, "......huh?" (a scintillating conversationalist, I am not.)

"Do you always shuffle past the first item and take the second or third one behind it?"

Apparently, she'd been watching me take the Gummi Bears off of the peg. I had scanned the clear front panel of the first few bags and settled on purchasing one a couple bags deep.

"Oh, that," I said. "I was just looking for the bag with the most red and orange Gummis in it, and while I know it's probably not true, this one looked like it had more."

After a short pause, I continued, "But...yeah, come to think of it, I do always do that!"

"I do that with evvvrything," she said. "Everything."

"Well, that first one's just for display. Nobody wants that one, right?"

"Yeah," she said. "Everybody touches that one."

After our brief exchange, I walked out the door, knowing she'd just written about 80 percent of this column, and all I had to do was let it spill out of my brain. But I began to wonder how often I really do bypass the first item for one behind it or below it or next to it or...wherever.

I did it with the Gummi Bears, under the excuse that I was looking for more reds and oranges, and fewer greens and clears.

But I didn't do it with the Vitamin Water. First one in the rack is the one I grabbed.

I do it with newspapers at a newsstand. I never grab the top paper on the stack. Why is that? Better news down below? Less smudging on the newsprint, perhaps? Better coupons?? (which I don't clip anyway.) Doubtful. Just a foolish habit.

I rarely buy a loaf of bread without squeezing at least three of them. Not hard enough to put an imprint in 'em or anything. But for a quick freshness check. Sometimes I go back to the first one I squeezed, but not after I've tested one or two others.

Now that I've revealed what a totally neurotic shopper I am, I hope I don't get bombarded everywhere I go with the same vague, confusing question:

"Do you always do that?"

[coming sooner than you might think: strange ladies at deli counters, and surly fast food employees.]

"You've got bad eating habits if you

use a grocery cart in 7-Eleven, OK?"

—Dennis Miller

Happy, Humble, Famous or Rich.

I'm a bit of an Uncle Kracker fan, and think that, from beginning to end, his disc, "No Stranger To Shame," is a pretty good overall musical effort. Maybe a couple hiccups here and there, but fun music with a unique sound, and an occasional message thrown in.

At the end of the disc, he's got a hidden track called, "After School Special," a rap about how he grew up as a dumb school kid and followed his dream, transforming into a millionaire recording artist.

About halfway through the song, there's a verse in which the Voice of Wisdom is talking to Uncle Kracker, describing what his life became when he started getting some money and fame, and the choices he had to make. Every time I hear these lyrics, they make me stop and think:

How many times must I give you your options?
Happy...Humble...Famous...or Rich.
You only get two and only you can pick!

Not the easiest selection to make, is it?...if you only get two.

The two that I imagine most people would be drawn to first would be Happy and Rich. Everyone wants to be Happy, and hey, Rich is always cool, too, right? Many people couldn't care less about Fame, but then there's that other one...Humble. If you're Happy and Rich, then according to those lyrics, you'll be lacking in Humility. Which I can only assume would mean that the people around you would think of you as an arrogant asshole. Not that you would care, because you'd have your Happiness, right? But since you're not Famous, the people you surround yourself with most often would be family and close friends. And do you really want them having that opinion of you?

Let's try to pick two more: the ever-popular cliché, Rich and Famous. Robin Leach made a living showcasing their lifestyles. But as two shining examples, I give you...Britney Spears. And Michael Vick. They're both Rich and Famous. But are either of them Happy lately? Or Humble? (how 'bout stooopid? or crazy?)

I would very quickly dismiss Rich and Famous. I've gotta work some Happy in there somehow. Which means my options have been diminished greatly. I'm left with Happy and Humble, Happy and Famous, or Happy and Rich.

I don't want to be Famous. I don't think I'd handle it well. And it matters to me what family and friends think of me. So I guess I need a dose of Humble to counteract any assholeness that may occur. My options have apparently been set...Happy, and Humble. One thing I sort of assume as a given is that if you're Happy, you're not faced with too many financial worries and struggles. So while you may not be Rich, you're probably doing pretty well. And that's good enough for me.

Who's got some other combination of two of the four that you'd choose? And what led you to make your decision on those two? Share some different perspectives.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to Humbly drive to the corner convenience store and buy a Powerball ticket. Because winning $245 million on Wednesday night would make me, umm...Happy.

"Sometimes I feel like somethin' is gone here,

somethin' is wrong here, I don't belong here.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in town,

and I've lost what I've found.

It'll all turn around."

—Uncle Kracker, "In A Little While"

The Writing's On The Wall...But Can You Read It?

I was skimming one of Mark Cuban's blog entries the other day, and found myself nodding my head, totally able to relate.

Of course, I do this often when I read his blog, because Cuban and I have so many similarities: We've got approximately the same net worth, give or take about nine zeros. He owns a basketball team; I own a basketball. He's the co-founder of HDNet; I enjoy surfing the Net. He's a technological genius; I own a basketball.

If you haven't already clicked over to it, the title of his blog post was, "I Forgot How To Write!" where he lamented his bad fortune when he was forced to take notes longhand—that's right, pen and paper style—in a meeting because he didn't have anything with a keyboard near him.

Relying so heavily on PDAs and laptops and other devices with keypads, Cuban literally found it difficult to scribble one letter after another.

While I don't have as many funky gadgets as he does, I've been in exactly the same boat when trying to write cursive letters. Obviously, a keyboard is my first option, both at work and at home, but I don't have a laptop (yet), so I'm not exactly mobile in that regard.

For as many years as I can remember, when I put pen to paper, I almost always print. I'm one of those people with the small-caps style of printing, and I'm pretty happy with my printing. It's always legible, looks pretty neat most of the time, and I can move the pen across the paper at a decent clip.

There are times, however, when cursive writing is the path best attempted, if you've got pages of stuff to write, for instance. And every time I try to write, instead of print, I fumble my way through the letters, improvising on some strokes, cheating on others and generally getting a rather sloppy page. Sometimes it's downright hideous. It didn't used to be so bad. (and, no, the handwriting sample isn't mine. I was too lazy to write one out, take a photo, crop it and upload it...so I just searched for one instead.)

A buddy and I started using the small caps printing style way back in middle school, so I haven't had a lot of practice with cursive writing since then. Some, but not a lot. And lately...even less than that. And it shows.

I'm not saying I want to go back and re-learn cursive writing and practice it until my pages flow. I'll always opt for a keyboard, and for the small caps. But to quote Mr. Cuban, "I forgot how to write!" So sad.

My mom's got nearly flawless penmanship, and if you were ever to get a handwritten letter from her, you'd think you just opened to page 36 in a penmanship textbook. It's that good. And when my dad reaches for a pen, he produces really cool-looking small caps. I used to be able to do both of them fairly well, but I liked the look of the small caps a lot better, so I stuck with that.

And I've found that the skill I haven't used for so many years, has nearly disappeared. Maybe I need to enroll in an elementary class this fall.

But I don't think I'd fit in the desk.

"Letter writing is the only device for

combining solitude with good company."

—Lord Byron

Don't Expect Frost, or Kipling. Or Seuss.

This is truly a "squib" of a topic, but I really wanted to bring that header back to my blog. It's been gone for far too many Sundays. Who knows when it may show its face again? I'm hoping for next Sunday, but that might be optimistic.

And I wanted to give a blog entry like this a try. Here's the backstory: Scattered across the Internets, I've discovered some bloggers and other creative sites that boast samples of "Spam Haiku," or poetry created totally out of spam subject lines or body copy. I always thought that was a clever idea. So I gathered all of my spam subject lines and wrote them out into a list, and thought I might try to rearrange them into something resembling a poem. (no rhyming, unless I get lucky...and no syllable counting, at least for this experiment. while haiku might be a more inspired way to display spam, I'm too lazy to count three lines of five, seven and five syllables. consider this spam freeverse, if you will.)

Each line of the poem was a spam subject line...unedited, uncensored, untouched. And minimal punctuation. I feel like freaking e.e. cummings. Except, you know, with spam. And bad.

Hello, my dearest friend

How things looking

Feeling cold inside out

Things getting better

Time for change

Have u heard that

These positions will help you reach your peak

Think i can help you with this

You have to get your horse going

goon

Good girls love bad boys

Is this right

What are your thoughts

U know what i think

Hey man, stop throwing away your money

Stop waiting

Gloria sent you a zzwrong.hk! Greeting

Did you get this, buddy

She will love you more than any other guy

frisky

Great stuff. Love it

Bet this is the one

Make her worship you

We provide you a real advantage to turn her on

Go magnify yourselves atlantica

At loneliness in moorefield

IF YOU DO VENTURE OUT ONTO THE LAKES

Don't get left behind

If you go for the sun

Help is on the way

Can you help

Thx for all ur help

Hope you can make better

Can't wait anymore

The death of the bicycle has had a tremendous effect on blackman

The definition of Freudian slip

For this sahara

lowly tape recorder

Saw them all

In supermarket

%START_WORD a coffeyville

This is great. Count on it

You've received a postcard from a School mate!

But he's loyal to George Bush, and that's key

I know I'll take flack for it — but I liked it

Crazy stuff

When will this finish

— • — • —

Uhh...I'm guessing this will finish right about here. I think I've figured out the reason why others have used the haiku format for this. Because after seventeen syllables it gets pretty damn boring.

Spam poetry is best taken in small doses. Or perhaps...no doses at all. I apologize for wasting your valuable Sunday minutes.

Here's a haiku to finish up:

No regrets. Great choice

Just wanted to drop a line

Ladies will love you

"To be nobody but yourself in a world

which is doing its best day and night

to make you like everybody else

means to fight the hardest battle

which any human being can fight and

never stop fighting."

—e.e. cummings

It's Like Plastic Gold!

You know what’s almost more fun than using a free Barnes & Noble gift card?

Sometimes...not using it.

I recently received one of these cards, which, in my eyes, always looks more attractive than a gold brick or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. I mean...don’t people realize that this thin rectangular card entitles the owner to...*gasp!*...free books?

Could there be anything better? I think not.

Anyway, the day after I received the card, I had a trip scheduled to Green Bay for a different purpose, so I stowed the card in my wallet to have at the ready in the event that I stopped to browse. Who was I kidding?...I purposely left my entire afternoon free so I’d have several uninterrupted hours.

Those gift cards never last too long in my possession, and during my time at the bookstore, I found a small semi load of books that I’d love to add to my collection.

As I wandered the aisles, though, a thought crossed my mind and the more I pondered it, the smarter it started to sound.

I had another excursion planned the very next day down to Milwaukee, where they build some of the Barneses a little bigger. So I decided to to keep my gift card securely tucked in my back pocket, and would hit the road a couple hours earlier than planned the next day to do some more book browsing.

As I walked out the door of the Green Bay store, I thought to myself, “All that picking and planning over which books to buy, salivating over this one and that...and now I get to do it all again tomorrow, too!”

I was stretching the value of my gift without too much effort. Granted, I didn’t have any new books in my hands, but the idea of new books was still fresh and real.

The next day I walked into my idea of heaven on earth and began my routine all over again...checking the bargain shelves, wandering among the classics, perusing the tables set out specifically for “great summer reads” to see what knowledgeable book people are recommending.

And then, according to plan, I made my way over to the “Writing/Reference” section, and knew that this is where I would surrender my gift card in exchange for books on the writing craft.

Many of my gift cards are spent in this section, and my bookshelves overflow with volumes on creativity and fiction writing and tips on writing memoirs and how to overcome writer’s block.

You know those writers you read about who spend more time reading about writing than they actually do writing? That would be yours truly.

I selected a book dedicated to getting you writing and keeping you writing, another that called itself a writer’s portable therapist (no jokes from the peanut gallery about how I should have opted for the unabridged encyclopedic version instead), a small volume by Ray Bradbury with his thoughts on the writing life, and an entertaining dictionary of sorts called, “Word Nerd.”

As I placed my four books on the counter by the saleslady, she shuffled through them and gave me a smile, saying, “These look like some fun books!”

I quietly remarked about it being one of my favorite subjects.

And as she rang me up and tried to sell me on becoming a book club member (which she did; guess that means I’ll have to spend more time at Barnes!), she commented, “Well, when you’re a famous writer you’ll have to come back here and do a reading for us.”

That line made me laugh, and I said, “It’s a date. I’ll mark it on my calendar.”

So now I’ve got my first gig. All I’ve got to take care of is the “getting famous” part.

Hmm...does anyone know any good books on how to write?

“When you write down your life,

every page should contain something

no one has ever heard about.”
—Elias Canetti

Drunken Strangers: A WWYD Quiz

So I'm driving along the lakeshore on my way home a few nights back, and the moon is about as full and as bright as I've seen it in a long, long time. If you don't already know this about me, I'm mesmerized by the moon and the stars. I hope to one day own lakefront (seafront?) property on the Sea of Tranquility.

Seeing it shimmering off of Lake Michigan, I decided to try my luck at some nighttime photography, already resigned to the fact that I don't have the skills...and perhaps not the camera...necessary to figure out the correct camera settings to capture on a memory card what I'm absorbing in person.

(want proof? completely embarrassing sample of "moonlit lake" appears to the right. I promise there's a lake out there somewhere. you just can't, umm, see it. this image is sooo not copyrighted. please, go ahead...steal it. and replace it with a better one.)

I pulled into a wayside along the lake, and snapped a few shots, fooling around with the camera's scene modes and its manual settings, adding the flash for a few shots to get the weeds and rocks along the shore in a couple of the photos. Not expecting much, but finished with my experiment, I turned to walk back to my car, and noticed someone else in the parking lot, maybe 50 feet to my right.

As I got to my car door, that someone spoke up: "Sir...excuse me, sir, could you help me?" asked a middle-aged woman walking slowly in my direction.

"Um, what do you need?" I replied.

"Could you help me find my Saturn?"

"Your...what??"
(after just having the moon on my brain for the last 15 minutes, I thought maybe she was an extraterrestrial trying to find her way to her home planet.)

"Could you..." **stumble — shuffling of feet — more with the stumbling** "...I'm drunk. I'm sorry, I'm drunk. My car. It's a Saturn."

"Uhh. Where did you leave it?"

"Well, I was just walking down there, and I thought I left it here and was in the right place, but now I can't seem to find it," was her answer. [sober ed. note: the "down there" to which she was referring is a trail that runs along the lakeshore, several feet from the waysides and rest stops along the highway.]

"Did you check the other waysides?" There was another one a short walk up the trail.

"I thought I did, but...maybe I'm just mixed up," she said.

Unsure of where her car was, or if she was even wandering the correct Great Lake, I decided that she was not going to get in my car, or else I might not get her out without her passing out, puking, or worse...stabbing me in the neck with her car keys and driving off without leaving a trace of evidence.

I could envision the headlines already, after investigators checked the SD card in my camera for clues: "Amateur Photographer, Unable to Comprehend f-stops, Ends Life Under Fuzzy Glow of Moonlight."

"Sorry, but I don't think I can help you," I told the woman.

"Thaaanks, dude!" was her sarcastic reply as she stepped almost immediately to her left and stumbled back toward the trail.

I got in my car and pulled out onto the road, and drove to the wayside about a quarter mile away. Sure enough, there in the parking lot was a gray Saturn, with Indiana license plates.

Having a bit of fun with this adventure, I drove back to where I'd originally found Ms. Stumbledrunk, not sure what action I'd take, but at least hoping to inform her where her car was located. She was nowhere in sight, however, and I wasn't feeling generous enough to go hiking the trail looking for her.

And as I slowly circled the parking lot, I thought it was probably best that I didn't find her. She wasn't in any shape to walk, much less drive.

So that's where the story ended, and I didn't make any more wayside pit stops on my drive home.

I hope she found her way back to Saturn, and enjoyed the view of the moon along the way.

— • — • —

Here's the quiz part: What Would You Do? How much help would you have given this stumbling drunk stranger? Which one of the following would mostly likely have been your response:

"Lady, go sleep it off on the grass. You'll find your car when you sober up."

— or —

"Sure, get in. I have nothing better to do than drive around aimlessly, chauffeuring some drunk who barely knows what planet she's on, much less what planet she's from."

— or —

"Do you happen to have a tripod handy? And......if I go with an f2.8 and a shutter speed of maybe 1/4 of a second, will that give me at least a couple ripples on the lake when I open this up in Photoshop?"

"The scientific theory that I like best

is that the rings of Saturn are composed

entirely of lost airline luggage."

—Mark Russell

How To Meet Someone New

Sometimes I long for the days of being 5 years old, when life was simple and making new friends took all of about two minutes.

A couple Saturdays ago I rode along with my parents and my niece, Grace, to the EAA AirVenture show in Oshkosh, where we’d be meeting my sister and brother-in-law later in the day.

We found a shade tree just outside the grounds and set up some chairs to watch the nonstop aerial shows the dozens of planes were putting on.

It didn’t take long, and Gracie was getting to know the lady next to us who was also enjoying the shade and the air show.

Then, during one of a few scheduled bathroom breaks in which Grandma and Gracie were gone, a little girl and her younger brother came to sit down about three feet away from me, the girl setting up a fold-out lounge chair and commenting to no one in particular, “I think I’ll sit...right...here.”

I smiled at her but didn’t say anything, and turned back to watch the planes, anxious to see Grace’s reaction when she came back to our spot in the shade.

And sure enough, it didn’t disappoint. Uncles and grandparents and new older lady friends are all well and good, but other little kids are always much more important to little kids.


Gracie was in full jabber mode as she walked with Grandma, but when she saw the two newcomers to my left, the conversation ceased and she stopped in her tracks to survey the situation.

I was sprawled out on the grass with my legs extended, and she came and stood alongside me, her feet tucked under my right leg, silent and staring for about a minute. Then, she stepped over my legs and stood and stared some more. Another minute or so, and she sat down on the ground and nestled against my arm, still observing, but also safely resting against “familiar territory.”

A couple minutes later, she scooted along the ground to move closer to her peers, and I was no longer necessary. I’d served my purpose as a couple-stage buffer, but now Grace felt brave enough to invite herself into the conversation that the girl and her brother were having, nodding and saying, “yeah,” and “mm hmm.”

When a plane came in for a landing along the runway nearest to us, the little girl said out loud, “Wow, that’s a biiigg plane!!” and Gracie answered back with, “Yeahhh, that is a big one!” and voila!...a new friend was made, and the conversation continued.


With a little bit of eavesdropping on my part, I was entertained for a good hour with some very random snippets of getting-to-know-you conversation.

“I’m 5,” said Grace. “How old are you?”

“I’m 4, and a haaalf!” replied the girl.

“Well I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

“You look like you’re 3.”

“No, I doh-uuun’t.” (don’t you just love it how little kids can take a one-syllable word and stretch it out into a really long two?)

On the EAA grounds, some smoke bombs were being set off as planes flew by to give the effect of a wartime demonstration, and that also became a topic of conversation.

“Are you scared of the bombs and the smoke out there? I’m not,” said Grace.

“I’m not, either,” answered the little girl.

“Do you like shrimp?” asked Grace.

I didn’t hear the answer to that one. And did I mention these bytes of conversation were, um, random? Yeah.

During a short lull of silence, the girl blurted out, “I’m Bailey!!”

“That’s your name? My name’s Grace.”

The rest of their time together was spent running races to see who was faster, and sharing grapes. And when Bailey had to leave, the older people once again became a little more interesting.

I like to think I learned a little something about interpersonal communication skills, and might have to test it out among the older crowd in a barroom environment.

“I’m 38, how old are you? You look like you’re 3.”

And of course the one to catch 'em off guard: “Do you like shrimp?”

Think that’ll get me a phone number?

“He had occasional flashes of silence
that made his conversation
perfectly delightful.”
—Sydney Smith

No Gifts, Please

A year ago today, I sat down with a bunch of jumbled ideas in my head, connected a few dots, filled in a few holes and and knitted together my very first blog entry. I've been told, and I'm not sure that I can disagree, that the first one still qualifies as my best effort to date. Considering I've written, what...nine posts in the last year? (give or take one or two)...I didn't give myself much of a chance to top that intro, did I?

I've read many different blogs over the past several years, and have seen some of them mention their one- or two- or five-year blogiversaries. I wasn't sure if I was going to do the same when mine came around, because let's be honest...it's been a rather unceremonious year. (which is why, when I went searching for a pic to add to this post, I immediately chose the badly drawn slice of cake instead of a high-res photo of a perfectly baked, immaculately frosted whole. I don't deserve it.)

When I signed up for my Blogger account, I did it with a few layers of uncertainty as to whether I'd keep it up. A year later, I can say I stuck with it...sort of. I've had the occasional flurry of two or three posts in a week, but for the most part it's been once a week, or worse.

Turns out...and this is the part that I'm still trying to process..."blog" is a verb. (fuckin' action words.)

And here I thought a blog was just something to have to make you look cool so you could say things like, "Hey, go check out my blog." or "I really tell it like it is on my blog." or "They cancelled my blog!!"

Not true. You actually have to work at a blog. You've gotta, um, blog. (see? I told you it was a verb.)

I tried to coerce myself when the new year rolled around to pay more attention to this thing. I set goals. And quickly dismissed them. I gave myself pep talks: "blahblahblah post more often blahblahblah write better blahblahblah getcher ass off that damn couch blah. blah blah.

I spent (and spend) more time reading other people's blogs than working on my own. And in an odd twist, I found myself reading more and more blogs about...blogging. Trying to find a spark or a tip or an "aha!!" to get me motivated.

I read just about everywhere that most good bloggers use, or should use, WordPress. So my neurotic self immediately concluded, "I might not be a good blogger, but if I start using WordPress...ohhhh boy, I'll be more motivated and my blog will be cooler and I'm gonna get better before the ink on my registration page is even dry." This actually stuck in my head for longer than I care to admit. You'll notice, however, that my blogiversary has passed and I've still got a Blogger address. Because I sorta stepped outside myself, shook some sense into myself and said, "Dude!! First concentrate on the blogging part of it...then, if you get a handle on that, then you can go where the cool people blog." (apparently, I spoke to myself using lots of italics.)

The bottom line to this big long one-year-inspired rant is that I enjoy coming here. I'd miss it if I deleted it. I'd just like to discipline myself to come here on a slightly more consistent basis.

It's not that I'm gonna make a big pile of money if I start posting four times a week, and I'm not going to suddenly draw in hundreds upon hundreds of new readers. But there's something satisfying, often therapeutic, about the writing process.

A blog is a unique animal. You can come here, post a few words and a link, and call it a day. If you're feeling particularly whiny, but not particularly motivated, you can log in, say, "My feet hurt. Time for some new shoes." and hit Publish. Done. Or, you can go the route that I seem to take most often, which is to ramble for six or seven thousand words, not knowing when to quit. You can say "fuck" whenever you want, and not worry about censors. That doesn't go over too well in a community newspaper column. (not that I've tried.) And I don't care what anyone says...it's a great word. A versatile word. A powerful word.

I have no idea what my second year will hold, but I hope it delivers more words. And who knows?...maybe for my second blogiversary, I'll announce that I'm moving to WordPress. Meanwhile, I'll try to heed the mantra I learned many many years ago, from one of my favorite teachers: Just write. Just write. Just write.

"Anyone who says he wants to be

a writer and isn't writing, doesn't."

—Ernest Hemingway