Stretching the point? Or poor choice of words?

This blog entry is going to be interactive (I hope), as I’d appreciate a little feedback on this one. I know I have some strong-minded, opinionated readers out there, and I’m curious to hear what you think.

If you’re not comfortable with leaving your opinion in the comments section, then might I suggest using the “Ton-Fifty-MAIL” link in the sidebar and sending me your thoughts. Thank you.

— • — • —

Last week I wrote the following column for the paper I work for:

Being a non-smoker, and one who spends an occasional evening in a barroom in the pursuit of various bar-related activities...darts, cards, sporting events on oversized high-definition television sets...you’d think that I’d be jumping up and down at the idea of a statewide smoking ban.

Several years ago, I would’ve said it didn’t bother me one way or the other. I was well aware of all the elements that make up a bar’s “atmosphere”...smoky haze included.

And I could sit next to smokers and watch a game and be relatively unaffected, save for the smoky clothes that would need to hit the washing machine as soon as possible after arriving home.

Many eating and drinking establishments do a pretty good job of eliminating as much of the smoke as possible, making the environment tolerable for non-smokers. But there are definite exceptions.

Sunday night, I spent a few hours in one of those exceptions, and the way I felt almost all day Monday made me an instant proponent of the smoking ban.

The smoke in that bar was as heavy and thick as a dense fog, and it seemed as if some of it had been lingering there since before I became the legal drinking age.

Monday I walked around for most of the day in a dense fog of my own, light-headed and generally out of sorts. Can’t blame the beers, because I only had a couple. I point my finger at the cloud of smoke in which I sat and breathed.

I shot a few dart tournaments in that bar years ago, and didn’t come away with the day-after effect like I did this time. So it can probably be attributed to me getting older, and I accept that reasoning.

“Just don’t go in that bar if that’s the effect it has on you for a day or more after,” I can hear you smokers telling me. And that’s as valid an argument as any of those that are made in favor of the smoking ban.

If I want to go and play cards among a group that likes to have a few (dozen) cigarettes while they fondle their poker chips, then I have to accept the consequences that I just may feel like crap for the next 24 or 48 hours.

Or I can wait until a different night during the week when the poker group convenes in a location that is better suited to handling and eliminating the smoke from the air. Because smoking ban or no smoking ban, I bet the air in this particular bar will be able to be sliced with a knife for the next decade.

I use this extreme example because it’s still fresh in my hazy brain, as I’m writing this column after having felt under the weather for the past too many hours.

As much as I applaud the smoking ban from a non-smoker’s point of view, I also understand a smoker’s right to light up a cancer stick in a bar if he or she chooses. Not so much in a restaurant, but...in a bar? That’s a finer point to argue.

Then again...no one’s ever died of second-hand beer or whiskey consumption, have they?

— • — • —

That column was published on Thursday, and Friday morning I found the following comment in my inbox. It’s being copied and pasted as it was sent, so all punctuation and spelling and etc., are the sender’s. (My column is called, “What The Parrot Saw,” which explains the greeting.)

Hey Parrot.....

"no one's ever died of second-hand beer or whiskey consumption"........  REALLY???

Think about that comment for a minute and then answer this question:  Why is that Geske woman in prison ???  Isn't that just one example of "second-hand beer or whiskey consumption" and it's aftermath ?????  I think you owe a HUGE apology to the families of those people who were victims of "second-hand beer or whiskey" consumption !!!

The rest of the column was right on............if I don't want to smell from other people's cigarettes, I'll go elsewhere BUT I should have that choice, not have Big Brother shove it in my face !!  What's next ??????????????????

And here is what I sent to the reader as a reply...

Hi, XXXX...

I appreciate your comments.

While you make a valid point, I think you're assuming an extra step in the process...that being the one where the bar patron is careless enough to get into a 3,000-pound vehicle after his or her beer or whiskey consumption and go hurtling down the highway at 60 mph without all of their faculties about them.

My point in the column was that if someone sits in a bar next to someone who smokes...or a group of people who smoke...over a period of time, it's possible that the non-smoker could develop serious health problems through no fault of his or her own, except for choosing to spend time in that environment.

Whereas if someone sits in a bar and drinks soda next to patrons who are filling themselves full of beer or whiskey...their consumption has no effect on the soda drinker during his or her time in that establishment.

Perhaps I could have worded it a bit differently, but the phrase "second-hand" used in this example has nothing to do with a person's actions or judgment when they leave the establishment.

Thank you for your feedback, and thanks for reading!

Gregg

— • — • —

So tell me...

Did you read the last line in my column and cringe, wondering why I chose to end it with such a bonehead statement? Or did you not immediately make the connection between that statement and drunken driving, as my reader did?

If your first reaction was that I’m an insensitive idiot for ending the column that way, and that I should never again be left alone to play with words and a keyboard, don’t be afraid to tear into me for it. I can take it. And I’d like to know.
 

“It is now proved beyond a doubt
that smoking is one of the leading
causes of statistics.”
—Fletcher Knebel

An Ode To The Close Of Poetry Month

This won’t really be as much of an ode as it will be a list. But tell me, what sounds more poetic? An ode to poetry month, or a list to poetry month. Thank you.

I’ve been rather absent from this space this month (let me guess...you haven’t noticed), but I’ve been busy with National Poetry Month activities. And now that April is coming to a close, I hope to have more time to devote to blogging.

After writing my brilliant “Roses are red” poem to begin the month, and having it favorably critiqued by a real live Ph.D. of English professorology (even if she was just being polite *ahem*), I knew I had to do more. I had to make the month count.

So. Here, in no particular order, are a few of the myriad ways I’ve been celebrating, promoting, and ode-ing National Poetry Month.

• Gently nudged everyone with whom I came in contact to begin pronouncing it “poh-emm” instead of “pome.” (This act cost me serious Guy Points.)

• Attempted to spend the entire month rhyming my activities as I went about the business of my day. Therefore, I haven’t eaten any oranges, or sat on any sofas, or purchased any items that were silver or purple.

• Drew up a set of plans to build a mending wall, being careful to ask what I’d be walling in. Or walling out. And to whom I was like to give offense. The project is still in blueprint stage.

• Met a guy on the street named Sam, and invited him over for some green eggs and ham.

• During my walks around the village, I approached everyone I saw and asked, “How do I love thee?” which got me dozens of confused stares, two threats with garden shovels, and one marriage proposal.

• Began writing my own original poem called, “Jabberwookie,” but decided against finishing it for fear of legal action from George Lucas. And Lewis Carroll.

• Met a girl on the street from Nantucket, and invited her over for some green eggs and ham as well.

• Attempted to use the term “iambic pentameter” at least three times a day. This is not an easy task in standard barroom conversation.

• Sounded my barbaric yawp through the village, and was promptly cited for a noise violation. (The price we pay sometimes in the name of art.)

• Stayed up until midnight one dreary night, and as I looked outside I pondered. I hadn’t eaten much that day so I was rather weak...and weary.

• Stumbled upon two roads that diverged in a wood, and took the one more traveled. And you know...it really hasn’t made much of a difference.

So tell me...how did you spend your National Poetry Month?

 

“The greatest poem is not that
which is most skillfully constructed,
but that in which there is
the most poetry.”
— L. Schefer

Random Bits Of Peopleness

“A Lions fan?!”

That was the greeting I received today as I walked into a local restaurant after spending part of the day with my parents, the manager spotting my lined windbreaker as he held the door open for us to get in out of the cold Arctic (April!) wind.

“Yeah,” I chuckled, covering my hands over the white letters stitched with a shiny silver border on the blue background of the jacket. “I guess maybe I advertise it a little too much,” I joked. “Maybe I shouldn’t, huh?”

“I didn’t even know those existed!” he said, as we shuffled through the entry.

As I got up to the host’s station to request a table, my dad leaned back and said to my antagonist, “It was a rough year last year.” (My dad’s not a Lions fan, by the way, so he said it with a grin.)

And before I could hear the reply I was in a conversation with the host. But when we were seated at our table, my dad told me his response was, “It's been a rough decade.”

Ouch.
True, but...
...ouch.

It’s not anything I haven’t heard many times, and I suppose by wearing the clothes or the hats or the hopeless expression of desperation, I invite those comments. And I’m OK with that.

— • — • —

We got to the table and our waiter came to take our drink order, and mentioned something about the specials being Miller Lite and another beer I don’t remember, but I was hoping they’d have a bottle of the New Glarus Crack’d Wheat that I haven’t tried yet, so I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “We have Spotted Cow.”

“I’ll take one of those,” I said.

“How old are you?” he asked, clearly suspicious that a guy of my advanced age who came in to eat with his parents on a Sunday night might possibly be underage.

Certain he was kidding, I answered, “Um...I’m 19.”

“Can I see some I.D.?” was his next question, and while I was enjoying this bit of banter, a slight pause arose in the conversation that made me ask...

“Are you serious?”

He nodded his head and said yes.

“Suuure!” I said, reaching for my wallet, always eager to accommodate anyone looking for proof that I’m really a thousand years older than they think I might be.

He looked at my I.D. and was shocked.

“Nooo!! There’s no way you’re a ’69!”

“Uhhh, yep! I am!” I leaned over and patted my hand on my dad’s shoulder. “I have witnesses!” I laughed.

“Wowww, I would’ve......never would’ve guessed......you look young!! Doesn’t he look young?? I graduated from high school in ’69!” he exclaimed as he walked away to fill our drink order of two alcoholical beers, one of which...yes, was mine. (score!)

After a line like that, my mom couldn’t resist (and I don’t blame her). “He acts young, too!” she giggled before he was out of earshot.

Ouch.
Again.
True, but...oh, never mind.

— • — • —

The topper of my night came when I stopped at the grocery store on my way home, and as I was in line checking out a few items, my brain whirring to gather these conversations so I could spit them back out here, the checkout girl waited for my slip to print.

If you pay with a debit or credit card, your name and information is printed on the receipt, and this store must have a policy of all the checkers calling you by name as you leave. So I’ve heard, “Thanks, Gregg...have a good night,” many times when I’ve shopped there.

But tonight was different. Of course it was, it had to be. She must’ve known I have a blog, and that I was coming home to write about odd bits of conversation. Because tonight I heard...

“Thanks, Mr. Nohhv-chek. Have a good night.”

OK, that last part I’m fine with because I hear it all the time, so I don’t even blink. But...

...

...mister??

Did I hear “mister”?

Ouch.
Just...ouch.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Oh, by the way, did I mention that I’m THIRTY-nine and I got carded tonight?? Whoo hoo!!

That’ll carry me through my Monday.

“It is critical that parents and other trusted adults
initiate conversations with kids about underage drinking
well in advance of the first time they are faced
with a decision regarding alcohol.”
—Xavier Becerra

(whew! I’m so glad I had discussions about underage drinking some TWENTY years ago, so I’d be ready to smoothly and calmly handle the situation I found myself in tonight.)

A Fine Saturday Companion

About a year and a half ago, I wrote on this blog that when Garrison Keillor came back through Wisconsin, I’d be in his audience.

I’d just attended a book tour event down in Milwaukee for his latest Lake Wobegon novel, and had quickly become a fan of his columns that I’d been reading for a few months prior, at the suggestion of a buddy of mine.

Saturday night, he brought his popular public radio show, “A Prairie Home Companion,” to the Fox Cities Performing Arts Center for a live broadcast and an encore performance, and my parents and I had tickets for the encore performance, as the live show must have sold out long before I even knew he was coming for a visit.

“A Prairie Home Companion” is part monologue, part humor skit, part musical act. Keillor and his group of actors, and one very busy sound effects person, moved around on a stage decorated only with mic stands and copy stands, a piano and a drum set, and the facade of an old two-story farmhouse in the background, a dim light shining through its dirty bay windows, and another light on the tiny front porch.

The show has been on the air since 1974, with a two-year hiatus in the late 1980s. It’s heard by more than 4 million people each week on almost 600 radio stations, and abroad on America One and the Armed Forces Networks.

On the show’s Web site, Keillor says, “When the show started, it was something funny to do with my friends, and then it became an achievement I hoped would be successful, and now it’s a good way of life.”

Indeed.

Keillor’s sometimes odd mannerisms are part of his charm, as he’ll often sit with his eyes closed as he tells a story or sings a song, and insert a well-placed smirk when he knows the audience is going to react to a line.

He came out in his trademark red socks and shoes again (not Sauconys this time, but Adidas, so I doubt he has an endorsement deal), and a black suit with a red tie tied a bit too long.

He’s been introduced as a master storyteller, and certainly deserves that designation. His slow, deliberate, baritone voice, his audible breathing into the microphone and the little whistle when he pronounces his esses, and his great attention to detail, all keep you eagerly focused on his voice as he speaks or sings.

The group performed, “The Sounds Of Sickness,” with original lyrics based on Simon and Garfunkel’s classic, “Sound of Silence.” And another hilarious song based solely on the one ingredient that makes a man a father, and its miraculous journey. I think that one might have been the crowd’s favorite.

Add in a few two-song sets by some local musicians who were lucky enough to get exposure on such a broad stage, and a couple great skits including one where Keillor had a phone conversation with his mom about Easter brunch that somehow took a turn to his mother advising him to keep his Facebook profile updated, and the evening turned into nearly three hours of music, humor, and great celebration of the details of storytelling and the English language.

Toward the end of the show, Keillor gave an update on Lake Wobegon, where he spun the tale of him and his sister out walking in the garden, and while she looked for a perfect pumpkin, he found fascination in huge rotten tomato that he scooped up and examined, and then…instinctively flung at his sister.

As she chased him, he raced down the street and snuck into the corner bar to hide, encountering his Uncle Jack. So of course, the tangent turned to Uncle Jack and all his faults.

Twenty solid minutes of Keillor, on a stool, in a lone spotlight. Leg crossed, red shoes and socks on display, eyes closed. Reminiscing about days gone by on Lake Wobegon.

Quite a friendly companion to have on a Saturday night.

“God writes a lot of comedy...the trouble is,
he’s stuck with so many bad actors who
don’t know how to play funny.”
—Garrison Keillor

What Rhymes With Orange?

In honor of April being National Poetry Month, I went to hear a poetry reading tonight at the local community college.

I’d never heard of the featured poet, Chuck Rybak, but...truth be told, I’ve never heard of quite a few poets, local or renowned, living or dead, rhyming or otherwise. I don’t consider myself a poet. (Which...I fear will be evidenced in just a few short paragraphs.)

Rybak’s perspective on a variety of subjects, and his wry wit, made the hour worthwhile. He read a great poem on a “mute” point, and also one in the style of Facebook status updates, which greatly amused those of us in the very small crowd who know what Facebook is.

But...since this is my blog, and not Chuck Rybak’s blog, I better post some original material, yes? I’ve got very limited experience as a poet, and many...if not all...of my past poems have been simple four-line rhyming stanzas. I haven’t strayed too far from the formula. I envision some free verse in my future, but until I actually get something down on paper...what can I say? I’m a Dr. Seuss wanna-be. Which I don’t consider to be a bad thing.

I know most established poets thumb their noses at poems that rhyme. “Feh!” they say, closing their mouths quickly before accidentally spitting out another word that rhymes with “feh.”

Without further ado, in great celebration of National Poetry Month, I give you my hastily thrown together poh-emm...

So It Rhymes...So What?

Roses are red
(who were you expecting...e.e. cummings?)
violets are blue,
I can write poems
and I bet you can, too.

It’s really quite easy,
just find a few words,
and write about snowflakes
or tulips or birds.

Or football or rugby
or manly type things,
or the shake of your head
every time Britney Spears sings.

You can write about heartache
or true love or laughter,
or the wild keg party
and the rough morning after.

Read poems from the masters
like Keats, Frost, and Poe,
they’ll give you direction
and off you will go.

So grab keyboard or
paper and pencil or pen.
Write a line, then another,
and then do it again.

I know you can do it,
you can’t write much worse
than the drivel you’re reading
from first to last verse.

But I’ll keep on trying
and hope to get better,
and be a famous wordsmith,
not a lowly typesetter.

Three cheers to April,
raise your beer or your Snapple.
And if you go to the store
could you bring me an orange?

“The only thing that can save the world is
the reclaiming of the awareness of the world.
That’s what poetry does.”
—Allen Ginsberg

I’ll Take The Fork-Stabbing Kind, Please

I’ve been eating a lot of lettuce salads lately...partly because I’m a big fan of the salad bar, and partly because I’m getting to that age where too many subs and Big Macs and pizzas tend to catch up to you and stick around a while if you don’t do something about it.

(Confession: I really reached that age several years ago, and have seen the noticeable effects, but it sounds better in this story if I tell it as though I’m just discovering it now.)

Even when I visit a top-notch buffet...which, I um, haven’t done in a few months, and don’t intend to do for at least a few more months...no matter what spectacular meat and vegetable entrées await me, I always appreciate a well-stocked salad bar and start my meal with a plate of lettuce and a multitude of fixin’s and dressings.

In the past year or so, I’ve become addicted to the grocery store salad bar, with its containers so big and ingredients so numerous that you can get carried away with three or four different kinds of meats and peppers and mushrooms and tomatoes and baby corns and eggs and bacon bits and olives and cheeses and onions and carrots and top it all off with sunflower seeds and sesame sticks and croutons and...whew! before you know it your “healthful” meal weighs about six pounds and costs as much as your monthly electric bill.

It’s easy to go overboard with all those choices, and lately I’ve been trying to avoid putting three or four or nine scoops of bacon bits and two or three entire eggs on my salads.

Although the salads may be a bit costly per pound, it’s impossible to argue against their convenience, because to buy all of those ingredients separately would involve a bank loan and a co-signer, not to mention hours of cleaning and chopping and slicing and dicing, and an extra shelf in the fridge to store them all, when instead it’s all laid out for you right there in the grocery store.

Most of the salad bars have two or three different kinds of greens to choose from, and here’s where I get picky. I always always always go for the plain-Jane iceberg lettuce as the foundation for my salad creations.

I know the Martha Stewart-esque salads these days are built upon spinach leaves or some other kind of leaf lettuce variety, and have cranberries or almonds or grapes or mandarin oranges, and are spritzed with a flavored vinaigrette.

But those kinds of salads can be annoying, if only because it’s nearly impossible to remember how to spell “vinaigrette” without having to look it up in the dictionary.

My rule is: If you can’t stab it with a fork, then please bring me a different kind of lettuce salad. I don’t want to have to slip under a flimsy leaf with a spatula just to get it off of my plate.

And French. Thousand Island. Zesty Italian. Sometimes a combination of two or all three of these. If you wish to shake a bit of red wine vinegar over your mountainous lettuce salad, go for it. But leave the vinaigrettes for the Scripps National Spelling Bee, thank you very much.

I’m convinced, lettuce salads are more fun to top than pizzas.

And almost as healthful. Almost.

“Lettuce is like conversation; it must be
fresh and crisp, so sparkling that you
scarcely notice the bitter in it.”
—Charles Dudley Warner

Stand By For News!

I first learned of Paul Harvey about 17 years ago when I worked for a carpenter who would always time our lunch breaks around Harvey's radio broadcasts.

The saws would stop and the hammers would go back in the tool belts, and my boss would say, "Paul's on." It was never, "Lunch time," or "Take a break." Always..."Paul's on."

And as soon as his 15-minute broadcast was over, with his trademark, "Pauuul Harvey. Good day!", so was our lunch break, and it was back to pounding nails.

Harvey was unique. From the way in which he'd pronounce syllables in certain words to the product ads he'd read during his broadcast to the eclectic angles he'd find from which to tell a story. He was opinionated, and those opinions rarely coincided with my own. But he was still a fun listen.

I didn't work for that builder for very long, and soon after that job, my lunch breaks had more and more minutes in them and less and less of Paul Harvey. But over the years I still found myself taking my hand off the radio dial if I ever heard his distinct voice as I was buzzing around the stations.

Paul Harvey died on Saturday at the age of 90, news that spread quickly around the interwebs and Twitter. He'd trimmed his broadcast schedule in recent years, but reports say that he was broadcasting a week before he died.

So no more searching around the radio dial for his familiar opening: "Hello Americans! This is Paul Harvey. Stand by for news!!"

Good day, Mr. Harvey.
Good day.

"In times like these, it is helpful
to remember that there have
always been times like these."
—Paul Harvey

Live. Solo. Acoustic. With A Pug.

So the story goes that Rhett Miller was walking down State Street in Madison last Saturday, and he happened to stop in at Ragstock, a sort of retro-wear clothing store. There he saw the clerk wearing horned-rimmed glasses and a T-shirt that said, "Science Nerd," and that served as a reminder for him to play his song, "Four-Eyed Girl," at his show at The Majestic later that night.

Or at least...that's how he told it before he played the song. I have a feeling he'd have played it anyway, but it was a good story. And I do believe that he was wandering on State Street during the day before his show. Because...well, State is a street that lends itself to wandering.

His version that night of "Four-Eyed Girl" was a little messy and out of rhythm, and at times more spoken than sung...and it was fantastic.

After missing a couple of chances to see Rhett Miller in Wisconsin in the past few years, I didn't pass on this one, and I was glad I didn't. He played solo and acoustic, and while I haven't been in attendance at a great many acoustic shows, I've never seen anyone put so much effort and energy into playing an acoustic guitar and standing alone on stage, entertaining a crowd of several hundred people.

The rather eccentric lead singer of the Old 97s did very well for himself, by himself, up on stage. He's got this...presence...I guess, that makes you uncertain whether that's just him, or if he's a bit aided by chemical substances. Either way, he delivered a solid hour and a half of energy, playing a handful of songs from his first solo effort, The Instigator, which is the only album of his I owned prior to the show.

He also played songs from The Believer, which I now own, and need to listen to a few more times before I can say if it measures up to his first disc, and from his upcoming solo release, plus a few songs from The Old 97s as well. I'd tell you more about The Old 97s, but I don't have a clue who they are or what they're about. All I know is Rhett Miller is their frontman, and they're still together and still making music.

Part of the mystery of Rhett Miller and his music is that it's a bit difficult to classify. It's rock 'n' roll, no doubt. But there's something else to it. It's probably no coincidence that he went into Ragstock, because he and his sound have a retro vibe to them. And he can go from a hundred miles a minute to a weepy ballad with equal success.

The Old 97s I think are actually described by some as alt. country. Quite a category.

If you've never heard of Rhett Miller, I would suggest that downloading "Four-Eyed Girl" on iTunes would be 99 cents very well spent. And then go see a show.

— • — • —

I almost wanted to write this as the lead to this blog post, but after waiting for a Rhett Miller show for several years, I knew I had to put the headliner at the top.

But the opening act on Saturday was a welcome surprise...also an acoustic performer, a guy named Joe Pug from Chicago. A decent guitarist and an impressive lyricist, he held my attention during his set and got me to spend a few bucks on his EP, Nation of Heat, before I left the theater.

He's also got a full-length CD coming out in a couple of months, and I'm eager to hear more of his songwriting talents. I see myself actively searching out another of his shows sometime this year, because while much of the crowd at The Majestic was spending its time talking over Joe Pug as they waited for Rhett Miller, I spent that time, um...listening. To the songs. And the lyrics. (novel concept at a concert, I know.)

One reviewer writes a great line when he says, "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you who Joe Pug sounds like..." And if you click over to the link above, you'll get it right away.

But...give him a listen. He's in his early 20s, and he had a modesty and sincerity about him that might indicate that, if he catches a break or two along the way, more people might soon know the name Joe Pug.

And spend their time listening when he's up on stage.

"Two of us in a double feature,
I'm a rock and roller she's a science teacher.
I send her looks, they don't reach her.
She does not know I'm in love with her."
—Rhett Miller

Three Down. How Many More To Go?

I went to another show last weekend at The Rave in Milwaukee, and that place is quickly becoming one of my favorite venues...if not always for the acoustics, then for the mystery of the building and its contents.

I say mystery, because I'm finding out that I don't really know how many separate musical venues are located there. And I'm beginning to think that maybe nobody does!

I've seen a couple shows in the Eagles Ballroom (upper level). Late last year I saw Sister Hazel in the Eagles Hall, or The Rave II (lower level). And on Friday I was in what I believe is called The Rave Hall. There's also The Rave Bar, The Rave Vibe Room, the RockStar Lounge...none of which I've seen. Yet. At least not knowingly.

I'm fully expecting to one day order tickets to a Crows show, and when I get there, be led up several flights of winding, twisting stairs, down a long dark hall and into a small room with a couple tables and a fridge, and Adam Duritz standing by the sink playing a solo acoustic show for eight people in The Rave Kitchen.

Or maybe not.

— • — • —

The concert on Friday night was Big Head Todd & The Monsters, a band about which I know very little. I own Strategem, and can fumble along with the lyrics of a few of their songs, most notably, "In The Morning." Aside from that, I can't say I'm their biggest fan. I went mainly because it was a Friday night, a few good buddies, a few over-priced beers, and live music. Hello?? I can't say no to that! Well...I can. But I rarely do.

And after seeing what I saw on Friday night, I suspect I'll be returning to another Big Head Todd show in the future.

There was very little banter or crowd interaction between songs. All Todd and his three Monsters did was play high-energy, high-quality rock 'n' roll music. For two..and a half...hours. Todd's one hell of a guitarist, and I don't know how to describe the drummer...if he had, like...opposable wrists, or something? (yes, I just made that up. no, it doesn't make any sense. I know this.)

His hands just seemed to float above his cymbals, and then he'd go into an arm-flailing drum fill a second later, toss one of his sticks up in the air, catch it and switch back to a cymbal float. Hard to describe, except that he was a lot of fun to watch, really into what he was doing, and made so much of it look effortless.

The night included a few cover songs...."Boom Boom" by John Lee Hooker; a good but not spectacular version of "Ring Of Fire," by Johnny Cash; and a blow-me-away-good rendition of Clapton's "Forever Man." Anyone who's geeked out about setlists can go and check out the rest of the night's lineup.

In a crowd of maybe 500 people—most of whom were very close to my age—it was a night of easy, relaxing, kinda bluesy, kinda rockin' live guitar music that did not disappoint, even for someone who was an almost fan going into the night.

One quick mention down here of something that did disappoint...and that was the opening act, Joan Jones. Had a hard time finding something to like during her short set, except for the saxophone player, who was as hot as she was talented.

Other than that, the songs were mostly filler until the crowd gathered for BHTM. One of her lyrics was, "Everybody wants to come to my party...wearing nothing at all." And I think that was supposed to be a ballad. 'Nuff said.

"Whoever fights monsters should
see to it that in the process he
doesn't become a monster."

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The (Not So) Super Bowl

It’s been said that baseball is a game of inches...although I think that cliché has been borrowed for almost every other sport by now as well, from horseshoes to badminton.

But I found out Sunday that sports, and football in this particular example, can be a game of percentages, too.

As in...what are the percentages that the team that wins the coin toss in the Super Bowl defers to the other team, and kicks off instead of taking the ball first?

Or what are the percentages that a rumblin’, bumblin’ linebacker intercepts a pass at one goal line and stumbles through a traffic jam of pads and helmets and grasping hands, dancing along the sideline without stepping out of bounds and falling head first into the other end zone to score a touchdown seconds before the end of the first half?

These two specific plays had my undivided attention on Sunday, especially the latter, because it changed the score from 10-7 to 17-7, which may or may not have rendered a square with my name in it completely worthless.

And this wasn’t a you’ve-just-won-a-free-cheeseburger square, either. More like an all-your-hotels-in-Vegas-in-June-are-paid-for square.

Such is my luck during the Super Bowl. And football season in general, for that matter.

A couple of other musings as we head into the off-season:

• Hines Ward had a 38-yard reception early on that stood for much of the game as the longest pass play between him and Larry Fitzgerald, until Fitzgerald caught one over the middle in the fourth quarter and streaked past Pittsburgh’s defense for a 64-yard touchdown. Ouch.

• Rarely did you hear Troy Polamalu’s name called or see his long hair blowing in the breeze on camera, as he was virtually silent and barely sniffed the ball during the game. I thought he’d find his way into position to get at least one pick.

• Both running games were anemic, with the Steelers hovering around 60 yards, and Edgerrin James gaining all of Arizona’s yards on the ground. Thirty-three.

• Kurt Warner managed to pick apart the league’s best defense for 377 yards to become the all-time greatest passer in Super Bowl history. The former Arena Leaguer has the three best passing performances in Super Bowls...in three attempts. Like him or not, that’s a rather impressive feat.

• There were 23 points scored in the fourth quarter alone, which turned out to be a big boost for those of us who were watching the all-important 46.5 number.

• The Super Bowl was, in fact, so unpredictable that The Boss himself didn’t even play a note of “Born In The U.S.A.” on the grandest stage in all of sports. I would’ve bet against that. I didn’t...but I would have.

• Probably the tastiest tidbit of the day was that I got to devour some of my buddy’s chili. Which has nothing to do with the Super Bowl or football or anything else in this blog entry, but it’s always worth a mention, because it’s the best chili on the planet.

OK, heads I write about something other than football in my next post, and tails I break down the Pro Bowl.

Don’t worry, if I win the toss, I’ll defer to you, anyway.

“We’re at the Super Bowl and the people
are thanking us for coming. Thanking us
for coming to the Super Bowl?
Are you kidding me?”
—Lorrie Fair

The Oil-Free Bowling Alley

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."
Right?

There's also a slightly lesser-known mantra that goes something like:

When a Wisconsin winter gives you temps below zero and enough inches of ice on the lake to drive a semi on...go bowling!

Ice...bowling.

I spend many of my summer holidays with friends up nort (the "h" is optional, but frowned upon. nort!), and we often get together for a Winter Weekend as well. This year someone suggested ice bowling, if we could find some old pins and bowling balls. We did.

While the primary activity on Saturday morning was sitting around a table watching the needle on the thermometer slowly creep toward zero degrees (whether it reached its goal is debatable, depending on your angle to the thermometer), about noon, a couple of people started migrating out-of-doors and down toward the lake. And then a couple more. And a couple more.

I was one of the last ones down to the dock...by choice. But I had to go and see if in the frigid weather the balls and/or pins might shatter upon impact, or if there was maybe one very thin patch of ice on our "lane," and if the ball was unfortunately dropped in that spot, we'd hear a "Puh-lunk!" as the ball disappeared to the bottom of the lake to be fished out in spring.

Nothing shattered.
No puh-lunks.

I was outside for half an hour, to snap a few photos, most of which had a strange blue hue and unfortunate shadows (stupid manual camera settings and users who don't know how to set them!), before I decided that a heated garage would be a much better place to sit and enjoy a cold beverage.

The rest of the crew spent more than an hour outside, setting up various creative pin configurations (see the lonely bonus pin in the photo as an example), and occasionally knocking them down.

And then...ice bowling was over, and other weekend activities ensued, including (but not limited to) drinking beer out of 9-ounce plastic cups, eating Tobascoed chili, singing along to songs by artists as diverse as Kenny Rogers and Guns 'n' Roses, observing (but not participating in) the new exercise craze, called Eight-Minute Stairs, and debating the difference between the terms "sexy" and "attractive" (which can be an entire blog post on its own).

Quite a full day. And night.

"Building a mechanical device
for its appearance is like
putting lace on a bowling ball."
—Andrew Vachss

Blindsided. (but in a good way)

So did you all see what my Guest Blogger did last week?

After I wrote a rambling intro that was about the same length as his entire post, warning my readers to brace themselves for the worst, and how much of a bashing I was about to take, from my sports teams to my music choices to...well, to everything and anything...did you see what he did?

He took the high road!
(never saw it coming.)

That had to be the most painless wager I ever lost, because it got us all several paragraphs of thoughtful, clear, opinionated writing. Looks to me like everybody won. (except for maybe Mr. Guest Blogger, who's now probably kicking himself that he had the stage on which to bash me, but instead passed to focus his entry on current events.)

I knew he had it in him, and I know he has more. Much...more.

Should he ever decide to start his own blog and post such opinions on a regular basis, I will be certain to include the link here. I know I want to keep reading.

Don't you?

"To be an ideal guest, stay at home."
—Edgar Watson Howe

Settling My Debt

Today at Ton-Fifty-ONE, there will be a bit of a change of pace, as I'm bringing in a Guest Blogger. You see...I lost a bet. When the Chargers upset the Colts during Wild Card Weekend, I was out drinking with some buddies...one of whom is a Chargers fan. So we made a little wager, and as we were thinking of what to bet, this blog came up, and my buddy said, "Oooh! I can write a guest post on your blog!"

Sounds painless enough, but you have to understand that we have a hate/hate relationship. He hates me...and I hate the fact that I have to give him free reign of my blog for a day.

Well, maybe it's not quite as bad as that, but suffice it to say that sarcasm and insults flow freely between us...in e-mail, txt msgs, and of course...in person. We have to clarify statements of sincerity by prefacing them with, "But seriously...no, seriously......" because those instances are so rare.

Being a believer in freedom of expression, and honoring my bets, I assured Matthew that I would not alter his post in any way. So all opinions, typos, lame jokes, and misused punctuation are his and his alone.

Truth be told (ouch, here it comes), he's a pretty good guy, and knows at least a little something about almost everything. And about some things, he knows a lot. We bounce questions and ideas off of each other. "What's the plural of 'analysis'?" he'll ask me. And, "Teach me all about computer geekery," I'll beg of him.

He's a constructive critic when I ask him to be. And he's funnier than you. (I'm not sure if I'm saying that because it's true, or because I want to put added pressure on him to write a good entry...because he saw this intro before sending me his post. Probably a little of both.)

In case you were curious...if I would've won the bet, he would have had to wear my Lions jersey during our draft party, and pay for all of my beer. Oh, all the microbrews I'm missing out on!

So for today, Ton-Fifty-ONE belongs to Matthew.
Please come back tomorrow. I beg of you.

— • — • —

During the past week a cold snap has overtaken Wisconsin, and from what they tell me, pretty much the eastern half of the nation as well. Maybe cold is too kind of a word. It's not the kind of cold that just makes you button your coat all the way to the top and shiver just a bit before continuing on your way. No, it's the kind of cold that makes you question Darwin and his theory of evolution. Surely there has to be a greater power at hand making decisions for the human race, because there's no way that we would evolve to live in the type of climate where taking one step outside results in a headache. If you're unlucky enough to stand outside for longer than 5 minutes, you run the chance of frostbite... over 200,000 years of evolution — and still people can literally freeze in a matter of minutes. Nature, on its own, could never be so cruel to let an animal live in a region they are so obviously unsuited for.

The deep freeze though, does have its benefits. It has a way of clearing the mind and prioritizing the important things. When you venture outside and the air temperature is minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit, you do not have the time for anything but the task at hand. You help the person who's car won't start or you donate those unused coats to a charity. The task at hand is to stay warm and help others stay warm. Your mind doesn't cloud with frivolous thoughts that seem important in warmer climes. In a teaser for Simon Schama's new documentary, "The American Future: A History", a woman from Texas rails against immigrants from Mexico, stating they were sneaking into the United States just to commit crimes and spread disease. Commit crimes and spread disease. To me, it sounds like that woman could use some frigid weather to clear her mind. When the temperature is so cold that taking a deep breath is impossible, fantasizing about the perceived evils of a people is not a priority.

The bitter cold is also contradictory. As uncomfortable as it can be to stand outside, the sheer beauty of the uniformly colored, barren landscape and the deep stillness and quiet that encompasses it can be strangely enticing. Maybe it's the sense of a new beginning. When it's so quiet that you actually believe you hear your breath crystalizing mere seconds after you exhale, and the land is as blank as a new sheet of paper, its hard not to believe that this is just nature's way of starting over. Anything seems possible when the mercury has nowhere to go but up and the terrain is so completely devoid of life that any sign of another living thing hints of all that is possible when spring finally emerges.

Maybe then this latest deep freeze is just nature's way of ushering out the national nightmare that has engulfed us all these last eight years and providing a clean slate for Tuesday. All of the atrocities committed in the name of the people of the United States... an unnecessary war, a climate on the verge of a tipping point, the human rights violations, an economy in ruins.... Is there anything we need more than a complete break from the past and a chance to start over? As the cold weather rolls east towards our nation's capitol, nature is giving us her answer. Wipe the slate clean... a new beginning is here. Welcome back America, I missed you.

Fresh Copy.

I found a site a few months back that grabbed me from the first word and never let go.

The site is called Copyblogger, and provides writing tips for anyone who needs to generate..um..copy.

Their ideas seem new and fresh, or maybe it's just a different-angled approach to the same tried-and-true ideas. But it's a great blog...and ever since I found it I thought that if I could take away even 20 percent of the lessons and ideas and tips offered there, I might be writing for a living instead of, you know...not writing for a living.

Some of the titles of their entries draw you in enough that you can't help but click over and see what they have to say. Titles like, "Are You A Fancy Nancy Writer?" (my answer: not as often as some other people) or "The Art of One Butt Cheek Blogging" and "The Winnie The Pooh Guide To Blogging." (Pooh and his friends teach us more than we know.)

I'd lie and say that after reading a new Copyblogger post, I immediately incorporate on this blog what I've learned in that day's entry. But most of you have visited here often enough, and would know that that's simply not the case. Yet.

I try to take away at least a little nugget of wisdom every time I click over to the site. For the most part, though, it serves as a fantastic read, and an example of what good copy can be, should be, and with any luck...someday, will be.

"Copy from one, it's plagiarism;
copy from two, it's research."
—Wilson Mizner

Blog Update

Somebody at Adobe must've known that yesterday was Monday and that I was in need of a good chuckle. This is what popped up on my computer screen at work about mid-morning:

Gotta be the best dialog box I've ever seen.

"The only thing God didn't do to Job
was give him a computer."
—I.F. Stone

Shoot The Moon

On Saturday night, I was jarred from my cozy apartment by a text message shortly after midnight that sent me scrambling for my jacket and camera bag.

Flipping open my phone, I found the following:

"Dude, you better be outside taking pictures of
this moon and the blue landscape!"

I went to my front window and peered up into the sky, and then to my back window. Nothing.

I sent back a quick text:

"I have no idea what you're talking about...
but I'm running out the door to look."

When I got outside, I realized I would've needed a hole in my ceiling, and the roof above, to see the moon from the comfort of my couch, as it was directly overhead.

It was full, and bright, and formed an eerie glowing ring around it. I tried to snap a few photos, but thought a big glowing ball in the center of the frame might make for a rather boring shot, so I almost leaned against my building, and shot straight up into the air.

If I tried to get the moon in sharp focus, the ring around it...and most of the building, for that matter...disappeared from the frame. So I settled for this shot, which makes the moon look almost like a headlight. It wasn't...but it was close. And I kind of like the weird angle of this shot.

And the ring. Had to get the ring. That's not a camera trick...that was actually visible in the sky.

Then I got in my car and drove a couple of miles out of town and parked on a dark, lonely road where I spent a little time several years ago, lying on the hood of my car at about 3:30am trying unsuccessfully to see some of the Leonids meteor shower.

Here's where I first understood what my buddy meant when he said "the blue landscape." The moon was glowing so brightly that it illuminated the earth pretty well, and as I stood outside of my car and looked around, there was a faint blue tint to everything.

As I stared at the moon straight above me, I knew there was no chance to get a shot that would include both the moon and any part of the landscape for reference, so I took out my zoom lens and fooled around with a few settings that I'm sure a professional would tell me weren't the "correct" ones...but as I brought the moon into focus in the middle of the frame, it showed a little detail and some of its features, and that was good enough for me.

I clicked around with my camera until my fingertips were nearly frozen, and hoped that I had something on my card that would look good on the screen.

It's not an artsy moon shot, and it's cropped so it looks more like a photo that you'd see in a textbook to define parts of the moon's surface.

But I took it. And I think it rocks.

I don't think I've ever been as grateful for
txt msging (and txt msgrs!) as I was on Saturday night.

"Yeah we all shine on,
like the moon,
and the stars,
and the sun."
—John Lennon

Baby Steps

Baby steps, they say.

We’ve all heard the phrase. When embarking on a giant new venture, or taking on something unknown...baby steps. Makes the task or the journey a little easier to tackle, one small step at a time.

You know when else you should use baby steps? When Mother Nature sprinkles down a nice freezing drizzle and coats...oh, just about everything...in a shiny, thin layer of ice.

I was out in Madison with some buddies last weekend, watching the football games, and while we’d heard the forecast and knew what was probably coming our way, it was still a sight to see when we came out of the popular chicken wing establishment (not the one with the orange shorts, the one with all the W's) after the games were over.

Rather than head for home, somebody in our group decided we should go downtown to a piano bar that was supposed to be popular. I left my finely iced car in the parking lot, and off we went in a car less affected by the elements, to listen to tunes from Billy Joel and Cat Stevens and Elton John.

Then someone else got the bright idea to head to another bar that was “just a block away.” This is where the baby steps came in handy on Saturday.

When we got outside, it was slow going, and balance was key. Any attempt at a regular walking stride would have been met with certain horizontality along the sidewalk, so there was much shuffling and reaching for stationary items to help us on our journey.

The one-block estimate was actually off by about three, so we stepped gingerly over ice and through snow that had better footing, turning to see the Capitol building lit up and glowing quite nicely in the night. (no photos to accompany this statement, however. because if I would have had my camera, I would certainly have wiped out, and been minus one camera.)

I found myself overwhelmed by a fit of laughter at the sight of the four of us as we slithered and slid up the sidewalk. Remember that Tim Conway character from the old Carol Burnett shows? The world’s oldest man? That’s how we were walking.

We got to the hipster bar and listened to a little jazz funk from a five-piece band crammed onto a corner stage that could really only comfortably hold about three people. And when the lights came on after last call, it was time to slide our way back.

This time, as we walked past the Capitol, there were about a half dozen people using the long, slanted approach to the building as a slide, not caring much about their clothes as they lay on their backs and came down the angle to the sidewalk below.

It looked like fun, but I didn’t want to shuffle all the way to the top just for a 15-second joy ride to the bottom.

The laughing fit that struck me on the way up came back and hit me again on the walk back to the car. Apparently ice plus late nights in Madison plus trying to stay upright (plus more than a few beers) equal one funny scene.

There were three wipeouts among our group during our round trip (I was not one of them), and after taking inventory that no wrists or hips or elbows...or skulls...had any new cracks in them that weren’t there before the spill...well, that just added to the hilarity, of course.

I don’t have much use for winter, but I guarantee the sight would have been much less entertaining if it was just a walk in a cold spring rain.

“When I see a slippery slope,
my instinct is to build a terrace.”
—John McCarthy

The Slows.

Boy, when things get slow after the holidays...they really...get slow...after the holidays.

And I'm not talking only about my eight-day hiatus from this little space I called home throughout December.

There's very little hustle and no bustle to speak of in the stores. The Christmas decorations that lined several intersections in my village have been taken down. And work? Let's just say it's gone from missing a few lunch breaks and working extra hours here and there, to the quote I heard today: "The workload is a little lean today, so you can probably knock off at four."

Whew! We've definitely hit the January Slows.
(yes, I thought about that phrase for a couple of hours both yesterday and today, and that's the best I could come up with. apparently, work isn't the only thing that's not moving at full speed these days.)

During my calendar year at work, there are a couple of very noticeable lulls, and the first few weeks in January definitely qualify. (part of July does a pretty good January imitation, too.) After running ourselves ragged writing stories and laying out and pasting up bigger issues, and special sections, January comes and the page total takes a hit. A few 16-page papers signify the dawn of a new year.

(I know what you're saying. "Did he just say sixteen?? What's he complaining about?" Yes, I know we're not the New York Times or the Detroit Free Press, but they've got more than four and a half people on their staff, now don't they? And they don't split time between newspaper pages and newsletters, raffle tickets, business forms, yaddayaddayadda.)

What I was trying to say...before I so rudely interrupted myself with what I thought you might be whining about as you read this entry...is that there's a big difference between a 16-page paper and a 20- or 24-page paper.

Pasteup on Wednesday mornings is done at an almost...dare I say...leisurely...pace. I get 30 entire minutes to eat lunch and check my mail, instead of wolfing something down during the drive to the printer.

I have time at the end of the week to work on tasks that were overlooked during the holidays, like...oh, I dunno...file backup. Machine maintenance. Breathing. Focusing.

Kinda feels like one big, "Ahhhhhhh."

Things will pick up again soon, and while they won't be Christmas season crazy, they'll be...active. But pretty soon, football season will be over, and we'll have a couple tough, slow months to continue slogging through.

A concert here and there, and maybe a baseball game in spring. A big Vegas trip to look forward to in June, and then a beer or two on the Fourth of July. Wind down the summer over Labor Day and put on a scary mask for Halloween. Cry in my wine over another crappy Lions season while stuffing myself with Thanksgiving turkey, and then wait until four days before Christmas to finish my shopping.

Whoa.

What was that I said about...slow?
Because that sure feels like how last year went.

Enjoy the down time when you get it, friends.

"I value the friend who for me
finds time on his calendar,
but I cherish the friend who for me
does not consult his calendar."
—Robert Brault

Pop The Cork on 2009

"It's just another New Year's Eve,
Another night like all the rest.
It's just another New Year's Eve,
Let's make it the best.
It's just another New Year's Eve,
It's just another Auld Lang Syne
But when we're through this New Year
You'll see, will be
Just fine."

Didn't really expect to be quoting a Barry Manilow song, but it seems fitting for this particular New Year's Eve.

My view of New Year's Eve has changed over the past 20 years or so. When I was younger, I had to be at the right party, with the right people, and the right amount of beer and champagne. If the party or the plan on New Year's Eve was a bust, it brought with it much disappointment because of the days or weeks of anticipation of ringing in the new year in style.

I've spent time at friends' houses before I could get into bars, and then at crowded bars where the New Year's Eve scene quickly became stale. In past years I've reverted back to hanging with a group of friends at someone's house, or spending time with family.

This year, I can either go to a friend's house and enjoy some beer/wine/champagne, talk a little foolish, laugh a lot, and play some Wii, or I can get together with family and enjoy some beer/wine/champagne, talk a little foolish, laugh a lot, and play some board games or cards.

I'm seriously considering option No. 3: renting a movie or two, wrapping up in a blanket and trying to kick my cold.

Hey, don't ever say that I'm not the life of the party on New Year's Eve, OK?

I guess New Year's Eve hasn't provided me with too many front-page, big-headline memories, so I don't get all bent out of shape about it anymore trying to figure out what. to. doooo. for the (quote)big night(unquote).

I should probably retract that statement from above. New Year's Eve has provided at least one unforgettable memory, and taught me a great lesson...and that lesson is: Beer and champagne, both in large quantities, do not mix.

I was at a friend's for New Year's Eve many many years ago...I can't remember if it was before I was 21 or not. And maybe a dozen of us were celebrating the last night of the year. The beer was flowing (cheap beer, if I remember that crowd correctly), and at midnight, the champagne started flowing as well. And then, more beer, and more with the champagne, and then...oh, more beer.

I walked the six blocks home during the wee hours of the morning on January 1, and fell into my bed and "went to sleep." The next thing I remember I was waking myself up by puking the contents of my stomach into my bed, and against the wall where my bed was pushed. Not a pretty sight.

An even un-prettier sight? I rolled over in my drunken grogginess and saw my parents standing a couple feet away from my bed, watching the unfortunate...incident. From what I can recollect, they didn't say a word, just...watched...for a bit, and then left a pail on the floor alongside my bed. (which, I really didn't need anymore, because I'd so conveniently used the wall instead. but it was a kind and loving gesture on their part.)

I spent almost all of the next day on a couch in the basement, flipping through the channels and generally ignoring the TV, suffering through what remains to this day one of my worst hangovers ever.

And that's the night I learned that champagne consumption should be measured in glasses, not in bottles.

Thanks for reading. I'll understand if you never want to come back and visit again.

— • — • —

And with a click of the mouse on the "Publish Post" button of this thirty-first entry of the month of December, having thirty-one days, I can tell November to kiss...my...ass. I may have stumbled during the "official" month of NaBlahBlah, but I finished the year strong.

Expect my next entry sometime in mid-March.

Happy New Year, everyone! May you keep all the resolutions you make...and may you not make any, because then I won't feel guilty for not making any, either.

"An optimist stays up until midnight
to see the new year in.
A pessimist stays up to make sure
the old year leaves."
—Bill Vaughan

What Do You See? Hear? Feel?

"Get up and walk around. Fix yourself a beverage — tea, water, a soft drink, something caffeinated, something not, whatever you like. Find something to write with. Then settle somewhere comfortable. Write a sentence about your surroundings. Then describe at least one object in great detail. Move on to your clothing. What are you wearing? Write it down. Is anything uncomfortable, particularly colorful or dark, too big or too small? Write it down. Continue writing about everything you see, smell, taste, or hear until you have written two pages. Cross out and erase nothing. Turn the page when you are done and turn to your own writing project."

[Writing exercise from The I Ching For Writers, Chapter 43: Kuai, Writer's Block Overcome]


I don't know that I was exactly blocked tonight, but I was paging through this book, and this particular exercise stood out for me. I've seen it before, in a number of other incarnations.

Goldberg uses it often in her books. She'll begin a chapter describing the café she's writing in, or the salt and pepper shakers on the table, and eventually it will lead to why her heart is breaking that day.

And my Muse has taken to visiting me in this way a couple times a week, with prompts like, "What sounds do you hear right now?" or "What do you see in front of you?" or "What do you feel in your fingers?"

No matter what I'm doing, or how busy work might be, it makes me stop. And notice. And pay attention. And isn't that what life boils down to...paying attention? (geez, did I just sound like Ferris Bueller there? sorry.)

I like to think that I'm pretty good at paying attention, whether it's to myself, or to a group of friends around a table, or in a concert crowd of a few hundred or a few thousand.

Sometimes I soak it all in...everything. And other times I realize that I can miss something that's right in front of my nose. Which tells me I've still got a long way to go.

And in the exercise above, the "cross out and erase nothing" directive is key. Goldberg's stressed it many times, and I did timed writing exercises with that guideline in the workshop I took last winter.

It's hard! Try keeping your hand moving and your pen moving across the page for five or ten minutes without stopping, and wondering what the point is to writing such total garbage as you find yourself scrawling, "I don't know what the point is to writing such total garbage," across the page just to keep your hand and pen in motion while your mind is...blank.

But it must be useful, because it's preached over and over in many chapters of many books and by writing teachers and coaches everywhere.

It's like stretching. It loosens you up, makes you more receptive to thoughts and ideas, and it makes you look around...

...and pay attention.

(Speaking of paying attention...did you click over to Goldberg's website and pay attention to the announcement at the top of the page, that said her book tour is coming to the Midwest in March? I...live...in the Midwest. Oh. my!)

"To pay attention,
this is our endless
and proper work."
—Mary Oliver