Since their industry typically falls under discretionary spending, gyms and fitness clubs must be hurting in this economy. This past week we received a notice from some local gym offering us a $0 initiation fee with only an $80 processing fee and a $40 activation fee. Those sort of savings make it an attractive deal, to be sure, but I think I'll hold out for the $0 initiation fee, $0 processing fee, $0 activation fee, with only a $120 we're-hoping-you-can't-do-the-math fee.
mw
Gotta run. I’m closing a deal that will net me 50% of $24.5 million and all I have to do is help a Congolese bank executive get the money out of his country by giving him my bank account number. This should make up for when I gave my credit card information to that guy on the phone. Both times (they always sound so legitimate!).
I LOVE the internet.
mw
Prior to our missions, Simon and I became pool junkies. Most mornings when neither of us had to work we would stop by Paces Dairy Ann on the way home from the university to pick up lunch. We would take it back to our house and shoot pool for a couple of hours on my parents’ table while listening to Deana Carter (we thought she was hot), The Police, and U2 (admittedly not as hot).
Like any artificial stimulant, after a while this wasn’t enough. We took a billiards class and entered nine ball tournaments on campus. It was there we found out we were pretty good, and I even picked up the nickname Cream. If one of us didn’t make it to the tournament finals, or at least the semi-finals, it was typically because we had played each other earlier in the bracket. Against each other, we were pretty even. I was the more consistent player, though with a greater tendency to scratch, but Simon would run the table on you if you didn’t beat him quick enough.
At least, that is how I remember it.
This morning I pulled out my old cue (21 oz.), pulled back the cover on my parents’ table, and shot for about an hour while Neesha was giving Caleb a bath. I haven’t played consistently since before my mission, over ten years, now, and it showed. I spent most of the time trying to relearn angles and ball speeds, and my bridges aren’t as stable as they used to be, making accuracy an issue. Most telling is that, after I was done, my left hand and right shoulder were tired. All the same, it brought back a lot of memories. All morning I could hear Simon’s voice cracking on the high notes in the chorus to “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” as I sang “One” by U2. “Have you come here for forgiveness?/Have you come to raise the dead?/Have you come here to play Jesus /to the lepers in your head?”
Good times.
mw
Every now and then I have occasion to the take the Frontrunner commuter train home. This requires that I catch the 5:10 Trax at the
The ceremony actually begins when leaving
The door opens and the fun begins. The commuters, pecking order established, pour out of the Trax train and onto the plaza, only to sprint full speed across the intervening 40 yards to the Frontrunner. So frantic is their desperate race that they abandon the latest thinking in physics (namely, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line) and run this direction and then that, bouncing off park benches, lamp posts, and concrete planter boxes placed cleverly by UTA personnel to inflict the most damage. Those who stop to catch their breath are mercilessly run down and trodden upon. The casualty count resulting from UTA’s obstacles, bursting cardiovascular systems, and rampaging fat people in tight golf shirts and ill-fitting slacks is horrific each evening.
It is one of the most ridiculous things I see during the work week. I’m thinking about coming early one afternoon and stringing wire among the lamp posts, about one foot off the ground. No reason.
On my last trip, I had occasion to share the moment with one unaccustomed to the ways of the commuters.
Rookie: “Why are they running?”
Me: “To catch the train. It’s leaving presently.”
Rookie: “Don’t they wait for us?”
Me: “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Rookie: “They actually close the doors on people?”
Me: “No. That would make quite a mess down the line. They shove you to the ground first to make sure you’re clear.”
To his credit, he didn’t want to take me seriously, and yet everyone around him was running frantically. Conscious that I was watching him, but not wanting to be left behind, he quickened his pace. Then hesitantly began jogging. With only fifteen yards to go he broke down and started running. I sighed. He had become one of them.
I wound up sitting near him on the Frontrunner and he had trouble looking me in the eye. Too late, he realized that in a moment of excitement and irrationality he had cheapened the experience. I am sure that moment will be with him every time he looks in the mirror, forcing him to question what kind of man he is.
mw
When I am on the road and people learn I am from
Well, I have finally learned how the rest of the country retaliates against
I am told I am sentimental. Judging by the various facial expressions of those who say so, I am guessing they have different ideas about what it means to be sentimental, or at least differing opinions about the virtue of sentimentality. Tonight, I agree with the statement, virtuous or otherwise.
We moved out of our townhome at the beginning of this month. It took just over three hours to load everything we own into vehicles of various shapes and sizes, drive to the storage shed on 200 West, and empty the majority of our earthly possessions into a 10’ * 30’ shed. That afternoon, while Neesha was at her parents putting Caleb down for a nap, I had the chance to go back home to finish cleaning up a few items. I took a moment to walk through the empty rooms, and remember everything that had happened in that place.
Neesha and I painted every wall, some of them more than once, and carpeted and tiled every square foot of the floor. Yes, some of them more than once as well. We replaced every faucet and every light fixture, as well as the water heater, water softener, and dishwasher. We laid a new concrete pad, then tiled over the pad to hide the concrete, and then laid carpet to cover the tile. I learned how to hang doors and how not to hang doors. I learned how to hang crown molding and that I don’t know how to hang drywall. I learned that root beer spilled on two-day old carpet will still be around four years later, but that a half gallon of paint spilled a week after will not be if you use enough water and rags. We removed approximately 300 square feet of an eight-inch pour of concrete and seeded grass in its stead. And seeded it again. And again. Then laid sod. Then seeded again.
It was there I first became a father. It was there I became a father a second time. It was there I learned more of what it means to be a husband and that I still have a lot more to learn. It was there I watched a baby grow into a little boy while giving glimpses of the type of man he can become. It was there I watched a remarkable young wife became an even more amazing woman and mother.
Then I closed the door. What I’ve learned over the past month is that, though I’ve left
mw
I am lazy. It is not an excuse or a complex. It is just a statement of fact. This past weekend I was berated for not having made any updates to the blog since, well, what basically amounts to a previous life. I had no rejoinder. I also had no guilt. I am lazy.
In fairness, there have been a hundred tasks this past month that kept us from making any regular posts, and another hundred tasks that have kept us from accomplishing the first set. The end result is that you have missed out on several worthwhile expositions, including the Great Wasp Hunt, the lethal effectiveness of The Sneetches, and a memoriam to Franz Kafka and his infamous and repeatable Gregor Samsa; worthy members each, but conceived only to live out their existence as half-muttered thoughts, echoing silently in the hollow recesses of my mind.
Alas, poor mind.
mw
The saying is that everyone has fifteen minutes of fame. I’m pretty sure mine will be measured out by coffee spoons.
Watch the tabloids. Pretty soon, I’m certain you will see a cover with Elton John in downtown
