Over The Falls In A Barrel

During our late summer escape to Bayfield, Wis., about a month ago, one of the sights Jessica and I had on our list of must-sees was Copper Falls State Park, which was recommended by two friends.

Blanketed by gray, dreary skies on the drive up on Thursday, we postponed the visit until Sunday, assuming we'd make a brief stop, stare at some water falling down into a pool of other water, ooh and ahh a little, snap a few photos, and continue our drive home.

Not...so...fast.

Inside the park, we discovered a scenic, hilly, mile-and-a-half trail that contained several falls, a section of cascades, and more nature than perhaps we were ready to explore at the end of a long weekend. But it was a gorgeous hike on an impeccably maintained trail, and we're both eager to return.

If you're driving up Highway 13 in Ashland County next summer, I recommend a couple-hour visit. I promise the views are more spectacular than my photos.

"Many a calm river begins as a turbulent waterfall,

yet none hurtles and foams all the way to the sea."

—Mikhail Lermontov

Three Feet Plus One Butt Plus Two HandsEquals A Touchdown. Or At Least It Should.

Waking up on the first Sunday of the NFL regular season is akin to waking up on Christmas morning. For some of us, it's even better.

I'd been looking forward to this morning for most of the pre-season, because while we've been inundated for months with news of holdouts and injuries and trades and predictions, there's a different feel when the regular season gets under way. The blemishes on a team's record stay with them all season. Don't screw up, or you might not be playing past the first Sunday in January.

As a Detroit Lions fan for the past 20 years, I've seen more screwing up than one fan should have to endure, with the majority of the team's off-seasons beginning immediately after the last second ticks away from their final regular season game.

This year, I'm more optimistic. Not necessarily about a playoff run, mind you. I'm more of a realist than that. The Lions are at least a couple (hundred) years away from being a playoff team.

But they drafted well and were active in free agency, and I expected them to win a few more than the two or three (or, um...zero) games they'd won in recent seasons.

My Christmas Day of football was marred very early, however, by a couple of huge boulders of coal in my athletic sweat sock.

Near the end of the first half, the Lions' young quarterback and only hope to make that offense click, Matthew Stafford, was planted on his shoulder by a Bears linebacker, and could potentially be out several weeks with an injury.

Lump No. 1.

Late in the game, after allowing the Bears to climb out of an 11-point hole and take a five-point lead, Detroit still had a chance to win, and a pass from backup quarterback Shaun Hill found superstar receiver Calvin Johnson in the back of the end zone, who outjumped the defender, grabbed it with both hands, landed in bounds, sat down, rolled over, let the ball go, and stood up to celebrate.

Touchdown, right?
Wrong. The refs called it a touchdown, then huddled up and reversed the call to an incomplete pass. After several minutes of review, it was confirmed that it was indeed an incomplete pass, according to the rules—the stupid, stupid rules—of the NFL.

Lump No. 2...delivered with a sledgehammer.

The rule states that the receiver has to maintain possession of the ball "through the entire process of the catch."

The entire process, eh? When exactly does the process end? Before the team's first practice on Tuesday?? Does Johnson have to shower with the ball after the game to show he still has possession?

It was a lousy call, one that generated plenty of comments on the social sides of the Interwebs. Cris Carter from ESPN said he knew as soon as they signaled a touchdown that it wasn't really a touchdown because the receiver didn't stand up with the ball in his possession, able to hand it to the official.

So, perhaps a correct call...but a lousy rule. I don't know all the tiny details buried in the rulebook.

But I do know the Lions are 0-1 instead of 1-0, a position in which they've grown to feel quite comfortable.

But this particular fan...on this particular football Sunday...hasn't.

"The rule is perfect: in all matters of opinion

our adversaries are insane."

—Mark Twain

(inspiration for post title via...and of course, John Madden)

True Colors Painted Over

Condescending and self-absorbed, reducing his own mistakes to microscopic missteps while magnifying others’ with the Hubble telescope, he was a rotten person. He passed blame better than a professional quarterback.

All the grunts at the mill knew it, but if he knew it himself, he never let on. He’d worn a flimsy façade of superiority for so many years, he probably wouldn’t recognize his true self if he searched for days in the mirror. The only person he’d fooled was the bumbling, introverted, moderately talented hack buried beneath the act.

Rotten and clueless. What a way to stumble through life.

— • — • —

My entry in the 100 Words Challenge, with the prompt, "rotten."

The Haves and Have-Nots

The light changed and he stepped off of the curb, crossing in front of four lanes of cars rushing home from work on Friday evening.

He wore a faded, frayed, rumpled, red jacket to shield himself from the early fall chill, and geometrical print shorts that were once probably bright yellow, but were now only a loud fashion statement. A crooked baseball cap covered spriggy, unkempt hair, and white socks rose to mid-calf from his black shoes.

As he shuffled across the intersection, his right arm hung limp at his side, while the left swayed with his step, propelling him toward the other curb.

One of the drivers eyed the pedestrian’s every step, noticing the effort exerted by his spindly white legs.

The driver looked down at his own blue jeans, baggy shirt, name-brand tennis shoes, lively music spilling out of his car speakers to signal the beginning of the weekend.

Maybe...maybe I don’t have it so bad after all, he thought.

"Nowadays people can be divided into

three classes: the haves, the have-nots

and the have-not-paid-for-what-they-haves."

—Earl Wilson

Seventeen Syllables...Give or Take

Do you haiku?
If you don't, you should.

I'm kind of hooked on haiku. Or at least I was. I haven't written many lately, save for the one on this blog a few days ago.

It doesn't take long...usually. They're only 17 syllables, after all...three little lines, of five syllables, seven syllables and five again. That's the traditional format, but many poets break that rule, and loosely define a haiku as a poem consisting of three short lines, often about nature, but sometimes...not. (strict, aren't they?)

Last winter, I participated in a haiku challenge, writing 100 haiku in 100 days. If you skipped the 23rd day, for example, you started over at No. 1 until you wrote for 100 consecutive days.

Sometimes they came easily, appearing in my head almost fully formed after a single glance out the window for inspiration. Other times...it came down to the last minute of the day, and I hastily scribbled terms like "pleasant pachyderm" as my third line...only because it had five syllables, not because I have an affinity for elephants.

A couple of other poets and I completed the 100 days (I may have tripped up three weeks into it and had to start over at syllable one), and I plan to publish the 300 haiku in a compilation. Hopefully we'll attempt another 100 soon.

A couple of examples among my 100 haiku include:

feeling old these days

scrape across and shave away

salt and pepper scruff

— • — • —

one winter drawback

snow fluttering softly down

my car has dandruff

When Jessica was in Paris in spring, she bought a book for me from Shakespeare and Co., called Book of Haikus, by Jack Kerouac. He rarely followed the 5—7—5 format, but it's fascinating to read these brief glimpses into his thoughts:

Terraces of fern

in the dripping

Redwood shade

— • — • —

Mayonnaise—

mayonnaise comes in cans

Down the river

— • — • —

Here comes the nightly

moth, to his nightly

Death, at my lamp

If you've never written a haiku before, I recommend you find your best (or any) 17 syllables, and leave them in the comments section. And if you have written a haiku before...might I suggest 100 in 100 days?

"Above all, a haiku must be very simple

and free of all poetic trickery and make

a little picture and yet be as airy and

graceful as a Vivaldi pastorella."

—Jack Kerouac

The Magic of a Bluesky Mountain

For the last 15 years, I've been planning a trip.

By "planning," I mean "dreaming about," because if I'd really been planning it, I'm sure I would have gone by now. Over the years, however, other vacations have leapfrogged this particular trip, such as three trips to Vegas in the past seven years.

I'd like to say I'm finished with Vegas for a while, but a few friends were there last weekend, and a latenight voicemail bragging about how much fun they were having at the Hard Rock caused me to feel the familiar tug, luring me back. Hopefully I've snipped those strings.

I'd also like to spend a long weekend in Key West, watching the sun dip into the Gulf of Mexico at day's end and perhaps finding writing inspiration from a gust of Hemingway in the air.

I digress.
Back to my trip, yes?

Someday, I'm going to hang in Taos, New Mexico, for a few days, or a week, or...I don't know how long.

Years ago in college, I was assigned writing guru Natalie Goldberg's book, Writing Down The Bones, in a creative writing class, and I was hooked. On writing...on Goldberg...all of the above. She lives and teaches in Taos, and in several of her books, she describes the bluest blues of the Taos sky, and the magic of Taos Mountain.

Taos Mountain (via)

Taos is a popular retreat for artists, writers and creative types, and it sounds like such a laid-back, barefoot kinda place. So someday...I'm going to pack my car with shorts, shirts, sandals (or not), several notebooks and a dozen pens, my laptop, my camera and a good supply of batteries and memory cards...and I'm going to take off.

Drive down through St.Louis and Oklahoma City and northern Texas, stopping when and where the urge strikes...and when I arrive in Taos, find a tiny adobe house with a view of the mountain, and stay until I'm feeling restored (which may take months). Then drive home through Denver, bringing a trunkful of that creative energy from Taos back to the Midwest.

Someday.

Where are some of your dream destinations...near or far?

"Life is not orderly. No matter how we try

to make life so, right in the middle of it we die,

lose a leg, fall in love, drop a jar of applesauce."

—Natalie Goldberg

A Picasso or a Garfunkel...

(via)

Tonight's art-related topic is...
...Art Garfunkel.

(thanks for the nudge, Barenaked Ladies.)

I received tickets in May to see Art Garfunkel in concert in July...along with his more famous singing partner, Paul Simon, of course. Because...not to be mean, but who'd go see Garfunkel without Simon? (probably millions of people. I apologize.)

A couple of weeks after the tickets were purchased, the tour promoters sent out an e-mail, notifying eager concert-goers that the rest of the current Simon & Garfunkel tour had been postponed (read: canceled), because Art had come down with a throat condition with a fancy name that made it sound more serious than a sore throat.

Hard to sing without your best stuff, right? Hence...no Simon. No Garfunkel. Just the sound...of silence. (that was too easy. feel free to boo for that one.)

Truth be told, I was never the biggest Simon & Garfunkel fan. I liked them, and I knew many of their hits. But I didn't own their music, and was never an over-the-top fan. Until...I knew I had tickets. And then learned that they'd been taken away. Then, for some reason, I wanted to hear Bridge Over Troubled Water more than any other song that had ever been written. (thank you for wading through the hyperbole. I hope it wasn't too messy.)

I hope Art is feeling better.
And I hope he and Paul hit the road again soon.

(via)

"I don't think that Simon & Garfunkel

as a live act compares to

Simon & Garfunkel as a studio act."

—Paul Simon

Artistic Vision or Spilled Paint Can?

(via)

In the movie L.A. Story (rent it, you'll laugh), Steve Martin's character accompanies several friends to an art gallery, and as they stand in front of a painting, the camera angle not revealing the painting to the viewer, Martin gives his interpretation:

"I like the relationships. I mean each character has his own story. The puppy is a bit too much but you have to overlook things like that in these kinds of paintings. But...the way he's holding her. It's almost...filthy. I mean he's...he's about to kiss her, and she's...pulling away. The way his leg's sort of smashed up against her. Look how he's painted the blouse sort of...translucent, you can just make out her...breast underneath, and it's...you know, sort of touching him about...here. It's really...pretty torrid, don't you think?

Then of course you have the...onlookers, peeking at them from behind the doorway, like they're all shocked...

...they wish!

Yeah, I must admit when I see a painting like this, I get, uh...emotionallyyy...erect."

The camera flashes to the painting on the wall, showing a four-by-eight-foot rectangular mass of red that could have been applied with a roller...a few subtle shadows barely visible, but nothing else of distinction to the painting.

When I visit an art gallery, which is...OK, never (rarely)...I always think of that scene, and wonder what I'm missing in the paintings that a seasoned art critic would see. For instance, what do you see here? I see something that's going to need a second bottle of Windex before it's clean.

(via)

"Abstract art: a product of the untalented

sold by the unprincipled to the utterly bewildered."

—Al Capp

Flying, But Grounded

flying, but grounded

tethered by many

lifelines...family and friends

until the strings snap

Kites Over Lake Michigan, at Neshotah Beach in Two Rivers, Wis.
What a great way to use a beach!

"Throw your dreams into space like a kite,

and you do not know what it will bring back,

a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country."

—Anais Nin

Monet On A Plate

Food is art.
Or at least...it can be.

Perhaps a glop of day-old macaroni & cheese at the college dining hall doesn't qualify as art, but one can hardly argue that it isn't worthy of such labels as "abstract" or "impressionistic."

Truly artsy food is a dab here, a morsel there, a drizzle over both. With enough room left on the plate for a couple of slices of take-out pizza.

(via)

I've eaten at all points on the spectrum: from pizza on paper plates to pasty thick macaroni & cheese to appetizers and entrées with acres of pristine whiteness surrounding the tiny bites of food. And I like it all.

Trouble is, sometimes the artsy foods are served with a heavy dose of pretension, and that—coupled with the exorbitant price per ounce of the food you're sampling—can make for a thoroughly unenjoyable dining experience.

We recently dined at one of these restaurants, and as our server was explaining to us the contents of the barren plate, she remarked about the imported Maraschino cherries in one corner.

Uh...I believe she misspoke, and should have more correctly said Maraschino cherry...singular...as there was only one, sliced in half, sitting all by its lonesome self.

Gee. That didn't really fill me up. Could I maybe have half a grape, too, please? And how much extra will that cost?

One should enjoy all dining experiences, but at restaurants like those, it's best to be prepared to hoist your nose up in the air as high as your server, lest you not fit in.

Also...have the number of the nearest pizza joint handy, because you'll probably go home hungry.

"Too many people just eat to consume calories.

Try dining for a change."

—John Walters

Leaving Las Vegas

“Tink we can trust ’im, Boss?” the shifty-eyed punk asked his stocky superior. “A guy fingers his own bruddah, ain’t no tellin’ who he’s gonna bust next!”

Backed into a corner of the dank parking garage below the Strip, I noticed rats scurrying about...none bigger than me.

I’d arrived three years ago and the city immediately sunk its claws into me. Strung out on glitz, gambling, and girls, I’d done despicable things to people I loved.

As the thugs patted their Smith & Wesson bulges, I heard, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

I was...staying...in Vegas.

— • — • —

My entry in the 100 Words Challenge, with the prompt, "fingers."

(The word count may appear to be a few words short, because of how ellipses affect the way the words are counted, but there are exactly 100 words here...trust me. And I know I overuse the ellipsis...almost to a fault.)

A Starry Encore

Between songs on her live disc, "Miles of Aisles," Joni Mitchell explains to the crowd what she sees as the difference between the performing arts and the visual arts:

"That's one thing that's always like, uh...been a major difference between, like, the performing arts to me and being a painter, you know. Like a painter does a painting...and he does a painting, that's it, you know he's had the joy of creating it and he hangs it on some wall, somebody buys it...somebody buys it again, or maybe nobody buys it and it sits up in a loft somewhere till he dies. But he's never...nobody ever says to him...you know, nobody ever said to Van Gogh...'Paint a Starry Night again, man!' You know? He painted it, that was it."

Vincent van Gogh's "Starry Night" (via)

Van Gogh probably never went on tour, or had to paint the same painting 250 nights a year.

"Moons and Junes and ferris wheels

the dizzy dancing way you feel

as ev'ry fairy tale comes real.

I've looked at love that way."

—Joni Mitchell, "Both Sides Now"

A Caricature of My Present Self

Everyone has a dream job, right?

Years ago, mine was—and probably still is, to a degree—to be an editorial cartoonist. Or the CCP (chief creative pencil) of a wildly popular comic strip. (Calvin and Hobbes immediately springs to mind. I miss those guys.)

I've written about it before, and continue to be fascinated by those who can turn a blank page into a panel or strip that's smart, funny, and creatively drawn.

Problem is...I'm not always smart, only occasionally funny, and...creative with a pencil? Rarely, if ever.

Last year at the Manitowoc library, we saw Joe Heller, a cartoonist based at the Green Bay Press Gazette, and syndicated in more than 350 newspapers. He shared the story of how his career grew over 30-plus years, and his process for creating award-winning cartoons.

He has a great job: every day he absorbs as much news and gossip as he can, and then scribbles down a drawing four times a week...very often thought-provoking, and very often funny.

Every so often he'll post an update on Facebook that says, "My latest cartoon was just picked up by the New York Times!" And my reaction is always, "Way to go, Joe!" Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

As a young boy, I attempted to put pencil to paper, and I speak the truth when I say it's for the best that I'm sitting in front of this keyboard instead of an easel or drafting table.

What's your dream job?

"No one blames themselves if they don't understand a cartoon,

as they might with a painting or "real" art;

they simply think it's a bad cartoon."

—Chris Ware

— • — • —

The September theme for NaBloPoMo is "art."
I'm not promising or forecasting anything. I'm just sayin'.

Road To Nowhere

The sterile, bright, fluorescent lights shone down on him from the ceiling as he was wheeled down the long corridor, their narrow, semi-opaque fixtures imitating the dashed center line on the highway he’d been traveling only minutes before.

From his horizontal vantage point, he saw hanging above him a clear plastic bag, with a thin tube leading to...where?

Suddenly, the lights sped more quickly past him, and footsteps behind him quickened.

“Get him in here, stat!” shouted an important voice.

As the end of the gurney where his feet lay kicked open the swinging doors, the lights began to dim.

— • — • —

My entry in the 100 Words Challenge, with the prompt, "corridor."

Running Out of Options

“Failure...is not...an option!!” bellowed the drill sergeant, the straight bill of his cap tapping the recruit on the forehead.

Ironic, thought the newbie. His entire life until now had been a failure.

Failed to get the grades.

Failed to get the girl.

Failed to make his parents proud.

And now he’s told it’s no longer an option?

He stood rigid, naked except for his one-size-too-big skivvies, wide awake, the rising sun’s first rays peeking through the window, while his daddy for the next 13 weeks sprayed spittle in his face as he barked orders.

Failed to make the right decision?

— • — • —

My entry in the 100 Words Challenge, with the prompt, "failed."

I'm An Alright Guy, Too

Back in the winter/spring of 1995, I was working for a builder...swinging a hammer, framing walls, sheeting walls, hefting walls...freely throwing around words like, "joist."

While this post is not about my brief career as a carpenter, I will forever remember the last house I framed, because it was where I was introduced to a pot-smoking, folk-singing storyteller.

Almost every day, Todd Snider's "Alright Guy" would come blaring through the speakers of the boom box. And after hearing it a handful of times, I looked forward to those four minutes every day when he'd come on and tell me how alright he was.



I purchased his debut album, "Songs For The Daily Planet," released on Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville Records label (which I don't think exists today), and found that Snider was more than a one-hit wonder, although the radio stations only seemed to pick up on one other of his tunes, a quirky little ditty called, "Beer Run." (b--double e--double r--u--n...beer ruunnnn! all you need is a ten and a fiver, a car, a key and a sober driver.)

I kept up with his albums for a while, but lost touch with his newer releases. I nearly wore out the three I owned, though.

Several weeks ago, I saw in a entertainment newspaper an ad for the annual Acoustic Fest in Manitowoc, with a day-long lineup that's usually filled with local talent. I glanced down the list and saw Snider's name as the headliner. He'd been in Green Bay two nights before.

Not only would I get to see him live for the first time...I'd get to see him free!...and in my own town, within walking distance of my home. (Did I mention that ice-cold beers were only two bucks?? They were. I didn't count how many I had.)

We arrived an hour or so ahead of Snider's showtime and sat on the grass in the small park until Michael McDermott came on stage (he was a late addition to the lineup, and quite talented...check out some of his stuff), when we went and stood off to the side of the stage for a closer view. Shortly before McDermott's set was over, a long white car pulled up behind the band shell and Snider exited the vehicle, immediately attracting a crowd of about a dozen people who recognized him.

I bolted over for a chance to say hi, and when Jessica saw the direction I took, she and a buddy of ours followed.

After Snider posed for a couple of photos, he turned to walk into the door behind the band shell, and I stopped him with, "Hey, Todd, ya got time for one more? I've been a fan since your Alright Guy days."

"Oh, sure, I'll play that one tonight," was his reply.

I bet he plays that one at all of his shows, though. Duh. Whyyy didn't I reach for a more obscure title?!?

A couple of alright guys. (I'm the hatless, tieless, harmonicaless, beer-holding alright guy.)

Jessica was ready with her camera, and thus...I met the man whose stories I'd been listening to for 15 years...over and over and over.

He played for a little over an hour (can't expect much more from a free show) and was as entertaining in person as on his records. We sat on the ground in the front row, and heard "Alright Guy," and "I Spoke As A Child," and "Conservative Christian Right-Wing Republican Straight White American Male." (I highly recommend looking up that last one. Aw, hell...here you go.)

I won't wait again to see him until he returns to my city. I'll go find him next time he's in Wisconsin.

Because he really is an alright guy.

"They say 3 percent of the people use 5 to 6 percent of their brain;

97 percent use 3 percent and the rest goes down the drain.

I'll never know which one I am but I'll bet you my last dime,

99 percent think we're 3 percent 100 percent of the time."

—Todd Snider, "Statistician's Blues"

Time To Lift The Cloud and Peek At Summer

I'm in kind of a pissy mood.
(I know. Months and months of nothing,
and I come back with a first sentence like that?? Sorry.)

Where was I?...oh, yeah.
I'm in kind of a pissy mood.

And I don't know why.

Things are good.
I'm in a place that's infinitely better for my soul than the last place I was in.

I spend substantial portions of my day laughing and talking and listening and thinking and laughing some more.

Summer is right around the corner, if not already squarely landed on top of us.

And I have rocks on my blog, where there used to be no rocks.

How can life be bad?

Um...I dunno.

The last couple of days have been real downers for me.
And what better way to rid yourself of the downers than to come and whine about it on your blog, right? Right.

I know they won't last long. They rarely do. They come and go, and often I'm quite skilled in tricking them into...going.

I thought I'd jump back into this whole blogging thing by making a list of definite/probable/possible activities I have planned for my summer, and (hopefully) reading a little feedback about what your summer holds. (that is...if I have any readers who continue to check this URL. it's been dormant for...wow. never mind.) Help rid me of my pre-summer blahs by telling me all about your swell-weather plans!

• My summers—and other seasons, for that matter—always contain music. And this season will be no different. My biggest musical event will be Simon & Garfunkel in mid-July, which was an early birthday gift from the sweetest person I know. We briefly considered buying tickets to see them in early May, but other conflicts prevented it. And now, just a couple of months later, I get to see them anyway! (I'd previously listed this as a "holy balls" moment, so...) Holy balls!

• Other lesser-known musical entertainment on the agenda includes BoDeans, John Eddie, Stephen Kellogg & The Sixers, and possibly a Will Hoge show. Not to mention a band or two or seven at Summerfest. So there will most definitely be music!

• We've talked about taking a drive way up into northern Wisconsin and spending a day or two among the Apostle Islands on Lake Superior. I've never been that far north in my own state. It's time to go.

• Other travel plans will include a a trip or two around the lake into Michigan, and possibly a ride across the big pond on the Badger.

• Reading. Writing. Photography. These are things I claim to be interested in. Hmm...I wish someone would tell me why I don't spend more time doing them.

• I hope to explore more farmer's markets, buying vegetables and learning more about cooking meats and vegetables, and savoring the aforementioned...cooked meats and vegetables.

• Bocce ball! Because what is summer without bocce ball?!? (Answer: Winter.)

• Organizing. Sorting. Downsizing. After my move last month, I still have plenty of all of those to do, and will make some progress toward that end before the leaves turn colors. I hope.

• I'd like to find a blog theme and background and header and actual posts that I'm happy with, and that I am eager to return to in order to rant and rave about my summer thoughts and activities and events.

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but I see I haven't lost my knack for rambling. In general, it looks to be a low-key summer, but if you want to click down to the comments section and brag about a trip abroad or the new Jaguar you're going to own by the Fourth of July, please do! I'd love to hear it all.

Perhaps I'll return again before September.

Perhaps.

(I can feel my mood lifting already.)

"People don't notice whether it's

winter or summer when they're happy."

—Anton Chekhov

Sorry, Tom.

As we celebrate my favorite holiday of the year today...my favorite day of the year, to be more precise...I thought I’d give the guest of honor a little face time.

This particular turkey greeted me recently when we stopped to visit some friends, and he didn’t seem too keen on having his photo taken.

I kept moving closer to take some better shots, and he staked his claim to his territory by sounding his gobble and strutting in my direction.

If I crouched down to take a shot from a better angle, he made a more aggressive move toward me. (The turkey’s owner told me that my crouching stance was a sign of confrontation, to which tom didn’t take too kindly.)

After a few photos from various angles, I’d had enough and stopped my photo shoot just short of being pecked in the shins.

Seeing this guy, I almost feel bad for eating one of his brothers on this, my favorite day of the year. Almost.

(Did I mention he acted a bit too cocky for his waddle?)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

“Thanksgiving dinners take 18 hours
to prepare. They are consumed in
12 minutes. Halftimes take 12 minutes.
This is not coincidence.”
—Erma Bombeck

And A Glowing Light Shall Strand Them

“Our first stop has to be a gas station,” he said, glancing down at the golden glowing fuel light on the dash as he backed out of the parking ramp after a full weekend, ready for a long, latenight drive home.

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking at the fuel gauge needle. “And I really need to find a bathroom before we hit the road, too.”

They drove down the main drag, many of the stores long closed for the business day, but confident there would be at least a half dozen gas stations to choose from before the big city turned to lonely road.

A Mobil sign and well-lit parking lot signaled a destination with a solution to the empty fuel tank, and they pulled in, noticing a minor inconvenience.

“That’s one of those little half convenience stores,” he said, motioning to the tiny building that may or may not have had the caffeine he craved for the journey home.

“And they probably have those gross outdoor bathrooms, too,” she added, “where you have to go inside for the key, and then back outside to find the bathroom door.”

He drove slowly through the lot, surveying the situation, and continued out the back exit.

“There will be something right up the street. We still have a couple miles of main street left,” he said.

About a half mile after pulling back on to the main road, he saw a sign guiding him to the interstate highway that would lead them home.

“Isn’t that the way to our highway?” he asked, veering on to the exit ramp before she had a chance to answer. “Looks like an easy way to catch our road.”

As they continued in their new direction, the atmosphere in the car changed noticeably, as he realized what he’d done. And so did she.

“I, um...uh...maybe I shouldn’t have taken this,” he offered, noting his error.

She said nothing.

The lights of the main drag disappeared, leaving the couple to travel into the darkness of the connecting highway. The darkness punctuated only by the now brighter glow of the fuel light, staring up and mocking him for his decision as he drove into the drizzly, chilly, late night.

“Didn’t I just say that our first stop had to be a gas station??” he asked, incredulous at his poor judgment. “We were at...a Mobil…gas station! And we left!”

He watched the fuel light as much as he watched the road ahead, as they drove.

“I have Triple-A!” she offered with a smile and a lilt in her voice, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

He chuckled nervously, and replied, “We may need it!”

The conversation subsided, save for a few more chuckles, as they both thought it best not to vocalize what was really going through their minds.

But they both knew.

Their night might have...just maybe...grown a bit longer.

“We were right there! At a gas station!” he repeated with a laugh, rolling through his brain the predicament he’d put them in.

A few uncomfortable miles down the road, they saw a sign for the next exit, which was still a couple of miles away. Another mile, and they passed a sign for an upcoming convenience center.

“Kwik Trips are open 24 hours, aren’t they?” he asked, not really searching for an answer.

“I think so,” she answered. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they are.”

They approached their exit, the vehicle thankfully still powered by what little fuel must have been left in the tank, and saw a different glow than before. This time...the glow of a Kwik Trip sign and lights shining down on the fuel pumps they sought.

The tension lifted as they pulled next to a pump.

“I thought this was an 11-gallon tank, with about a gallon left when the fuel light comes on,” he said as he started pumping fuel. The gauge went past 11, all the way to 14 gallons.

“I might have been a bit off with my numbers,” he grinned at her, and she laughed.

As they went in to pay, they noticed they’d found one of the biggest, fanciest Kwik Trips they’d ever seen, complete with a latenight clerk who tried to sell them doughnuts and pizza and everything else in the store before ringing up just the fuel. And the caffeine.

They’d found their pot of gold at the end of the driving-on-fumes rainbow. And they turned toward home.

 

“Restore human legs as a means of travel.
Pedestrians rely on food for fuel and
need no special parking facilities.”
—Lewis Mumford

How Long Will My 100 Days Take??

I read a tweet Tuesday from @WritingSpirit, in which she asked about people's goals for the last 100 days of 2009, seeing as how Wednesday was the first day of the last 100 days.

She outlined a 100-day challenge whereby participants agree to do a certain task for 100 consecutive days...whether it be working on a book or other writing project, or sticking to an exercise regimen...and if during the 100 days, one day is missed, then the 100 days starts over.

Good motivation not to miss a day. Would you want to start over after, like, Day 64?!? Me, either.

I pondered what I might do for the final 100 days of the year, and how I could make them count. (no, I'm not going to blog for 100 consecutive days. I am a realist, after all.)

My mission is to do something...anything...creative with words. Every day. From now until 2010. Might seem like a simple goal, but with my recent level of slackitude, it's what I need to nudge me back in the right direction.

So blog entries, columns, first drafts, finished drafts, morning pages (popularized by Julia Cameron), poems...they all count.

I have a tiny crutch I can use when I'm feeling only 17 syllables of creativity, which is a 100 Haiku In 100 Days challenge that I'm publishing on Twitter. Check it out if you're into haiku. (and who isn't?!?)

I hope to pay more attention to other areas of my writing during these 100 days, but even if I look back as I begin 2010 and have a hundred haiku to show for this challenge, I'll consider it a success.

Your 100 days can start any time. So why don't you jump in and join me?

You just may soar past me when I stumble on Day 23 and have to begin again.

"Friends are like melons;
shall I tell you why?
To find one good
you must one hundred try."
—Claude Mermet

All's "Fair" In Love and Carnie Games

“I want to see you play a game,” she said as we strolled among the ring tosses and dart games and water gun races at the Manitowoc County Fair recently.

I could say that I was forced into foolishly spending money to play a game I couldn’t win, just to impress a girl and win a prize I didn’t even want.

But I knew I was going to play one particular game as soon as I saw it. This game and I had history, and I wanted to show it that I was still the master.

The game of choice involved three pieces of four-inch PVC pipe, sitting on a shelf about six feet high, with two pieces side by side on the shelf with about an inch of space between them, and the third piece centered on top of the bottom two.

The objective: throw a softball at the three pieces of PVC and knock all of them off of the shelf at once. Aim it correctly, and you’ve won yourself a prize. Nothing to it, right?

That’s what I thought several years ago when I first saw the game at a fireman’s picnic in Sun Prairie.

There was a big, stuffed Tigger hanging there as a prize that year, and for reasons that escape me now, I wanted that Tigger.

So I bought my two balls for five bucks, leaned up as far as I could, took careful aim, and threw the softball with a dart shooter’s motion at a contact point I thought would work. One or two of the pieces fell, and my attempt fell short.

“No, no, no,” said a buddy of mine who’d had a few beers earlier that evening. “You have to throw the ball…get some velocity on it to knock ‘em all down.”

So I backed up a few feet and wound up for my second one, missing my target completely. (I may have had a few beers that night, too.)

I bought a couple more balls, went back to my up-close dart shooter’s strategy, and continued to almost win...two balls and five bucks at a time.

Eventually I hit the right spot, and they all tumbled off of the shelf, and I took home my $20 Tigger.

When I saw the game at the fair, I scanned the back wall of stuffed prizes and saw nothing I wanted to take home. All I knew is I wanted to make those three pieces of PVC drop.

I paid my five bucks, threw my first ball, and didn’t even come close enough to get excited, hitting all three pieces but leaving two of them still resting on the shelf. I slid a few feet over to another stack and threw my second ball, knocking two of them down this time.

“You’re close, buddy! You’ve got the right idea,” said the guy working the game.

Just what I was looking for. False encouragement from a guy who wanted only one thing. Another five bucks.

I paused for a bit, took a few steps back to talk strategy with the girl I was trying to impress, and stepped forward again, plunking down another five bucks.

Same result. Good aim, good motion...ohhh, so very close. But no prize.

Meanwhile, a lady in her 60s with about five grandchildren in tow came walking up and bought a couple balls, too. With a wild-armed throwing motion she missed with her first attempt.

But on her second one, she found the target and all three pieces of pipe went flying off the shelf.

A couple of us who saw it ooh-ed and ahh-ed and clapped for her, and she came over to me and said, “Not bad for an old grandma, eh??” Then she picked out a stuffed monkey/ape/primate-type thing with a T-shirt that said, “I’m bringing SEXY back!” on it, handed it to one of the children and said, “Come on, kids, let’s go.”

And off they all went to claim another prize at another game.

The guy working the game caught my attention and said to me, with a little bit of a grin, “I’ll give you three balls for five bucks. You were so close before. You almost had it!”

And away we walked, empty-handed, and only ten bucks down.

Anybody wanna buy a big, stuffed Tigger? I’ll sell him cheap. Twelve bucks.

“The economic game is not supposed to be
rigged like some shady ring toss
on a carnival midway.”
—Arianna Huffington

Julie and Julia. (they come as a pair.)

Julia Child has come back to life on the big screen this week, thanks to a stellar performance (does she give any other kind?) by Meryl Streep.

I went to see the movie, Julie & Julia, on its opening night last Friday, which had been eagerly anticipated by some, including the foodie with whom I watched it. (by the way, that foodie knows more about food...and words...than I could ever hope to learn. go check out her take on the movie.)

I don’t know if I would place myself in the “eagerly anticipated” category, but the film had Streep, which is never a bad thing; it had blogging as at least a secondary theme, a topic about which I know a fair amount; and it had food, which, while I can’t match the culinary skills of even a C- or D-list chef, I’m a big fan of eating.

So I was game for the movie.
And my two-word review: Great. Flick.

If you’ve seen even one or two of Child’s cooking shows, you’ll appreciate the skill with which Streep portrayed the legend. In a discussion after the movie, I predicted that Streep’s performance will earn her yet another Oscar nomination, but that there will be an as-yet-unseen role that may edge her out for the statue.

Take that opinion for what it’s worth, though, as I’ve been made aware of how little I know about what makes a movie, um...good.

In reading a select few reviews of the movie, I became annoyed as I saw one critic in particular, A.O. Scott of the New York Times, dismiss Amy Adams’ role in the movie as basically unnecessary.

Adams plays Julie Powell, a young woman from Queens who takes on the challenge of cooking every recipe in Child’s classic book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in one year, and writing a blog about her experience.

Scott compares Adams’ acting ability to Streep’s, and Powell’s personality to Child’s, and concludes that the former are bland and lifeless when matched with the latter.

Can we please compare apples to apples here, and not apples to elephants?

Several commenters on Scott’s review agree with him, saying, “the movie didn’t need Julie.” Then might I suggest that when a movie titled, The Life and Soufflés of Julia Child, is released, they buy their popcorn and go sit in the front row.

I may not be a big-shot movie critic for the Times, and I may only see a handful or fewer of movies in the theater each year, and maybe I just don’t get it.

But this movie needed both storylines, and both were entertaining and engaging.

Of course, Meryl Streep acted circles around everyone else in the movie, and of course, the highlight of the movie was Child’s larger-than-life persona. Isn’t that what we’d all expect as we sat in the theater, even before the previews rolled?

And, no, Adams probably shouldn’t spend her time sitting by the telephone, waiting for her own Oscar nod. But the Powell storyline was quite necessary, and her angst over creating 534 recipes in 365 days, along with her excitement of watching a fledgling blog take off and gain a readership, added plenty to the movie.

Go see this movie. Enjoy perhaps the greatest actress of her generation as she portrays such a wild and wonderful personality. But don’t snooze or take a bathroom break during the Julie scenes, or you just might miss something.

I’ll say it again: Great. Flick.

“The only time to eat diet food
is while you’re waiting for
the steak to cook.”
—Julia Child

(photo via metronews)

Torture...In 140-Character Increments

I follow @detroitlions on Twitter.

I don't know why.

Perhaps it's because I enjoy having my pain served to me 140 characters at a time, with a hyperlink added for good measure if I wish to click and endure more.

NFL training camps opened last week, which means that the Lions' Twitter account has seen much more daily activity. And while I'm trying to remain optimistic heading into a new season...some of the snippets I'm reading are making it difficult to believe this year might be different from last. Although...can any team really go winless two seasons in a row? (don't answer that.)

Here is a sampling of tweets I've received on my phone in the last couple of weeks. The first few can kinda drag a fan down, but after half a dozen or so, you learn to chuckle and use the old standby excuse of, "Same...old...Lions."

Louis Delmas nervous as he signs with the Lions.

Jim Schwartz: Training camp will be just like the rest of the offseason program, except with pads.

At first team meeting, Lions' Jim Schwartz pokes fun at a rookie.

Sammie Hill, two other flunk Lions' conditioning test.

Lion's Bryant Johnson involved in golf cart accident.

GM Martin Mayhew: Lions have "areas of concern."

Landon Cohen celebrates his birthday by pushing people around.

Today's 7-on-7 drill was the worst of the Lions' camp.

Damion Cook goes on IR, a dozen other Lions are sidelined.

Lions' drill: Quarterbacks work on throwing the ball away (really).

Doesn't exactly inspire, um...hope...for a winning season, does it?

To be fair, there are some positive tweets to come out of Lions' camp once in a while. Such as:

Scott Linehan on Lions' Matthew Stafford: "I don't feel like I'm coaching a rookie."

With 40-some million guaranteed, and 70-plus mil at the top end of the contract, it's probably a good thing that Stafford doesn't look like a "rookie." For that kind of dough, he better be doing his best savior impression, and get the Lions a double-digit win total.

But that might be wishful thinking. First let's start with a couple/few more victories than last year, OK? And a few tweets that make me smile as a fan...instead of chuckle.

"I quit because I didn't feel like
the Detroit Lions had a chance to win.
It just killed my enjoyment of the game."
—Barry Sanders

The small town that makes me “ooh” and “ahh.”

[Apologetic Note: This blog entry begs for photos. It screeeams for at least a couple photographic examples of what I witnessed, moon-wise and fireworks-wise, over the Fourth of July. However, I’m not currently too skilled at nighttime photography, and I was also on a crowded pontoon boat where setting up a tripod and immersing myself in experimentation mode wasn’t exactly an option. So, um...please use your imagination. Thank you.]

There’s something to be said for small-town fireworks. And on the Fourth of July, that “something” was, “Ooh.” And, “Ahh.”

We watched the fireworks from what is quickly becoming my favorite place to see the night sky light up...on a pontoon boat on a small inland lake in northern Wisconsin.

Three times I’ve been a passenger as we slowly make our way over the glasslike water shortly after dusk, passing the silhouettes of the trees and buildings surrounding the lake as the last hues of pink and orange and salmon disappear from the sky.

And one of my favorite sights is even before the fireworks begin, as we move to join the armada of already anchored boats on the water’s surface, their guide lights identifying them, residents and visitors to the lake preparing to be bedazzled by the light show to celebrate the holiday.

This year we had to wait until about a half-hour after dusk, but I didn’t mind the wait, as others grew a bit impatient. I just soaked it all in, and stared at the brilliant moon disappearing behind the clouds, and then peeking back out again through a hole that seemed to be expertly positioned in the clouds just to give us one more view.

Part of the fun of being out on the pontoon boat is hearing the reactions of the handful of kids along for the show.

The “oohs” and “ahhs” aren’t the same if they’re not sprinkled in with one little girl’s reaction as she sees her first-ever fireworks display. She must have exclaimed, “A fiyah-wook!!” a couple dozen times as the sky lit up.

And no matter how excited I was to see them, I cannot duplicate the expression of a 4-year-old boy watching a colorful explosion in the sky and then screaming, “That was AWEsome!!”

I’ve seen some impressive fireworks displays in my years, from the days we’d spend all day on the beach in Two Rivers and then at night could see three sets of them going off down the lakeshore...from Two Rivers, Manitowoc, and, faintly, Sheboygan.

And Kohler has a great homey Americana feel to its celebration, with the Kiel band and just the right number of people in its small bowl-shaped park.

I don’t know if the small lakes in northern Wisconsin received a chunk of the stimulus package to spend on holiday celebrations, or what, but...the only display I’ve seen that was more impressive was on opening night of Summerfest a few years ago.

And that’s Milwaukee! To open the biggest musical celebration in the Midwest. Up Nort is most definitely not, um...Milwaukee.

This show had everything required for a spectacular display...the big explosions that seemed to fill the sky from top to bottom, the little fizzly ones that made curly, quirky patterns, a few good white-light boomers, plenty of static cling-sounding choices, and everything in between.

Plus the bonus of being right on the water, among so many other small boats.

At about three different times during the show, we thought it was coming to an end, and at one point I even said, “That’s the exclamation point on a great fireworks display!” But then...they kept going.

And my buddy a few seats away said, “No, Gregg. That was just a comma.”

How true, punctuationally speaking.

Because when the finale came...oh, we knew it! And it was AWEsome!!

So where’s the best place you’ve ever ooh-ed and ahh-ed?

“All architecture is great architecture
after sunset; perhaps architecture is really
a nocturnal art, like the art of fireworks.”
—Gilbert K. Chesterton

Where Have You Gone, Steven Page?

It probably doesn’t take too great of a leap to agree with the statement that, when listening to live music, the lead singer makes or breaks the experience.

But let me give you a bit of a back story as one example to the contrary.

Many years ago when I saw Sister Hazel for the first time, at the county fair in Wausau, the band was arriving very close to the starting time of its performance, and for whatever reason, the lead singer was on a different flight than the rest of the group, and his flight was delayed.

The event organizers pushed back the start of the concert for as long as they could, but eventually a decision had to be made, and Sister Hazel came out on stage, sans one lead singer.

“Great,” I thought. “Drove a couple hours to see a talented new band, and what am I going to see?”

Turns out, the rest of the group came on stage and rocked the crowd. The performance was definitely missing a certain unique voice, but the other band members covered surprisingly well, and to this day I joke about what a great performance Sister Hazel gave the first time I saw them…minus one very important member.

Fast forward to last weekend. Summerfest.

We’d discussed going down on Saturday, and a Barenaked Ladies concert at 10 p.m. was going to (hopefully) be the highlight of that day.

After a group of us made plans to meet on the Summerfest grounds, a buddy sent me a link late last week to a story that lead singer Steven Page had left BNL a few months earlier, after charges of drug possession were brought against him.

While I’m a pretty big fan of BNL, this was the first I’d heard of this change in the band’s lineup.

This news brought me even more concern than learning years before that I’d have to hear Sister Hazel without its frontman, because BNL was already well established, and had a dozen or so very big hits that depended heavily on Page’s unique lead voice.

But I had faith in the other members of the band, and we were all ready to give them a chance to keep us secured among their fandom.

The threat of rain kept us from getting to the stage at an early enough hour, and by the time we showed up, about 45 minutes early, the bleachers and tables and aisles and rows were all filled.

So we hung out in back, and then moved way off to the left side to get barely a glimpse of the stage, and when Barenaked Ladies finally came out, it was easy to tell very early on that they weren’t the same Barenaked Ladies.

They stuck to much of their newer music, which only the most dedicated fans could sing along to. Among the first five songs they played, we knew one, and even that one was a bit...flat...without Page belting out the vocals.

A buddy of mine who had no interest that night in seeing the BoDeans, tapped me on the shoulder during the fifth song and asked, “Wanna go over and check out the BoDeans?”

And that was the end of our BNL concert experience. I doubt we missed much during the next hour of their show. And until they fill the gaping void that is Steven Page’s absence, I may spend my time enjoying their music through my headphones rather than through giant loudspeakers next to a stage.

The BoDeans put on an impressive musical performance for those in the group who hadn’t seen them before, and they played two of my favorite songs as encores, so it made for a good move.

And coincidentally, a few of us hung around into Sunday and went back to the grounds later in the day to see (dramatic come-full-circle pause) Sister Hazel. With lead singer planted firmly in front of a microphone, and not on a late flight in.

Because of course, the lead singer really does make or break the musical experience.

Usually.

“When we started I wasn’t the singer.
I was the drunk rhythm guitarist
who wrote all these weird songs.”
—Robert Smith

Keeping My Fingers Crossed

I don’t fly much. It’s rare if I get up in the air once every year or two.

So when I do hop a flight, I pay attention. To people, things, conversations, etc. Here are a few observations from a plane to Las Vegas last weekend.

• I was seated in an exit row on both flights, which got me approximately two miles of leg room. At no extra charge!

When the flight attendant came and asked if I accepted the responsibilities of sitting in an exit row, I wanted to reply, “You mean the “responsibility” of stretching my legs all the way out every five minutes so I don’t cramp up on the four-hour flight? Yes! Absolutely!”

One lady on the trip home apparently didn’t want exit row responsibilities, because as she switched places with another passenger, she said, “That just creeps me out!”

• Perhaps it’s a sign of my simple mind, but it’s still almost magical to me that when a behemoth of a vehicle like that gets up to a certain speed, the ground slowly drops away and off we soar into the clouds. All by adjusting a couple little flappy things on the wings. (Probably has something to do with those big engines, too, right?)

• Before we left the runway, one of the passengers closed her window shade and leaned against the inside wall of the airplane, and a flight attendant said, “Ma’am, we ask that you keep your window shade up during takeoff.”

Which made me immediately wonder to myself, “If that’s so the pilot can turn around and check his blind spot for runway traffic, I think maybe I’ll drive.”

• On a related note, after we were up in the air, the pilot announced over the speaker that there were some signs of turbulence ahead, “...but we’re just going to keep our fingers crossed and hope that it isn’t too severe.”

Wait, what? First we have blind spots, now we have our “fingers crossed”? Where did I put my car keys??

• As we flew, I determined that the term “turbulence” as it relates to ground travel is akin to driving an Amish buggy down an old cobblestone street. You might get jostled and bumped around a bit, but for the most part it’s no big deal.

Of course, in an Amish buggy, you don’t get that occasional dip that makes you wonder if the pilot is in the cockpit using the joystick that controls the plane to play a video game.

• It seems as though many passengers use a flight as an opportunity to start a new book, as all readers in my vicinity, without exception, were no further than page 20 as we began our flight.

• When it comes to seatmates, it helps if you feel at least somewhat comfortable being near them. Because while I’m of a certain size in which I fill my seat rather completely, and the lady next to me was of generally the same size, when we both leaned back to catch some high-altitude Z’s, it almost felt as if we were, um...cuddling.

We’ve since become a couple that argues about who gets to use the arm rest.

• The girl in front of me didn’t need to request a pillow to be comfortable. She just used her boyfriend/husband’s shoulder. The whole...way...out. (Hope he wasn’t pitching in a big game last weekend.)

• As the beverage cart passes up and down the aisle, it inadvertently bumps shoulders, elbows, etc., and during one pass, the flight attendant said, “Sorry. Sorry! Wide load!” (insert dramatic pause here) “The cart! I mean the cart!” she said, providing a free chuckle.

• Safety note: When using the airplane bathroom, please be sure that all ties, necklaces, shoestrings and hanging appendages are firmly secured before flushing the toilet. Or you might just get sucked right out of the plane!

As we descended upon Las Vegas, looking out the window at Lake Mead and the natural landscape below us, seeing the city in the distance becoming more defined, I wondered how much richer I would be on the return flight five days later.

Answer? Much. So much richer. For the experience.

The wallet...that’s another story.

“The airplane stays up because
it doesn’t have the time to fall.”
—Orville Wright

Three Words.

While my brain is working itself back into Reality Mode, I wanted to post at least a thought or two about my trip to Las Vegas last weekend.

“Hmm,” I said to myself, “what are three words that best describe my time there?” I kicked around a few ideas:

Can’t. Stop. Gambling.

Cirque. Shows. Rock.

Beers. Pools. Beers.

Social. House. Delicious!

(the above coupled with my newest discovery: I. Hate. Sake.)

Then it hit me, and I knew I had my three words. And believe me, I’m the furthest thing from a fashionisto you’ll ever meet. But they were everywhere. And impossible to miss.

Little.
Black.
Dress.

“If people turn to look at you on the street,
you are not well dressed.”
—Beau Brummel

How Many “Middles” In Middle-Aged?

I’ve been thinking lately about age, and the simple idea of growing older.

And a recent trip to the grocery store...where you can learn so much if you just listen, right?...put a bit of a new twist on things for me.

I snuck into the checkout line with a dozen or so items after a day of activities and the goal of getting home and crossing a few things off of my To-Do list, and walked into the middle of a conversation between the checkout girl and a couple in front of me.

“…oh, I know, I just don’t like getting old,” was the first thing I heard the checkout girl say as I started to unload my items onto the conveyor belt.

“You’re not old,” said the lady in front of me.

“Hmm, but I feeeel old,” the girl emphasized.

“You can’t be that old.”

“I’m older than I look.”

Here’s where I decided to quietly join the game, and looked up and gave the checkout girl a quick glance. Twenty-four, maybe 25, I thought to myself, giving it my best guess.

“How old are you?” asked the customer.

“I’m 20,” said the girl.

Whoops. I guess I was off by a year or two or five.

If she’s older than she looks, as she said, I wondered if she thought she looked 17? Eighteen?

“Ack!” scoffed the lady. “You’re not even old enough to go to a bar.”

“I still do!” the girl boasted, a lilt of pride almost visible in her voice.

So at first, she was trying to convince the lady how old she felt, and in the next breath she was almost bragging that she was able to sneak into bars under age.

“You’re not old,” the lady returned to her original argument.

“I’m middle-middle-aged!” retorted the girl.

I had no plans to enter this conversation, realizing the futility of arguing with a girl who claims she’s “old” at 20. But I made a quick mental note of that new phrase, and wondered if I could even punctuate it correctly when I wrote about her on my blog. Because she was most. definitely. blog material.

The lady insisted once again that the girl was far from old, and the girl proudly repeated her rank on the aging scale.

“I’m middle-middle-aged!”

Ah, yes. I remember when I was middle-middle-aged. Back in the day when I had to...find someone old enough to buy me beer.

The age question is one I’ve been pondering off and on lately. Not obsessing over, mind you, but...recognizing.

According to the checkout girl’s timeline, I officially become “middle-aged” in about a week and a half.

The number isn’t really bothering me as much as I’m saying it is, because age is just a number, right? And a small-talk conversation in a checkout line.

I’ll be turning that number in Las Vegas, where I think there’s an unwritten rule that on your birthday you don’t turn a year older, but instead turn two or three years younger.

I just made that up. But I plan to stay there until it comes true, and I rewind back to about my mid-20s.

So fine. I’m soon going to be middle-aged. (that one I at least know how to punctuate.)

But aside from a few (hundred) gray hairs, I look...and act...younger than I am.

Does that counter-logic work as well for bloggers as it does for checkout girls? Yeah. Didn’t think so.

“Ah, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.”
—Bob Dylan