Author: Dave

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out of the shadows

My sinuses are still punishing me.
Saturday night was outstanding. At last pre-sleep glance, the cellphone said it was nearing 4am, and my swimming head said it was an evening to remember. The plan was to meet up with old friends at a local brewpub, enjoy some beers and company. Turns out the chosen watering hole must be a popular place in town or something, because before the evening was through, a small crowd of old friends had amassed. People I hadn’t seen in years, people I hadn’t dreamed of seeing. It was all so awesome, seeing people, talking to people, hugging people. Everyone’s a long-lost best friend when you’re standing around outside drinking. I couldn’t do it every night, but had time and beer not beat me down ‘round 3am, I’d’ve stayed longer. I really want to write more about it, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to gush on as if it were “magical” or anything, but it sure was nice to see everyone again and catch up.

And even though I don’t smoke, I found myself having a couple “social cigarettes” Saturday night. Beer-induced smoking is a vice of mine, and sometimes I indulge it freely. So happened that this time, as I was sitting, drinking beer and smoking, up walked two girls from the past. They walked up and greeted the older, fatter, balder, me, all as I sat swilling beer and puffing pussyish Marlboro Lites. What a great visual statement I must have made on my current station in life. Not that I expect I was judged, just wish I hadn’t had a cigarette pinched firmly between my fingers as I hugged my hellos. It’s OK though, the morning finds my body punishing me for my lung-blackening moments of weakness – with the stuffy head and caved-in-chest feelings of the infrequent social smoker. Look at me… smoking, drinking, and starting sentences with “and.” I am a soul damned. Here are some ones and zeros from the evening:

Old habits die hard.

Like it was yesterday, 15 years yesterday.

Changing subjects…

Because we’re driving home from Mims, FL, I’m reminded of a good story. So, sit right back and you’ll hear a tale. A tale of a fateful trip. Four passengers set sail that day, aboard a tiny ship. They were: Me, my then-girlfriend, her mother and her step-dad. I had been dating this girl for a couple weeks, or months, or something. It was the first time I really did anything with her family. We hitched up the boat, picked up some sandwiches, and launched at the local public ramp. I think the trip was mostly a pleasure cruise, I don’t really remember the intent – other than my intent, hang out with my hot new girlfriend in her bathing suit. I don’t remember a lot of the trip, but one memory sticks out in my mind.

The boat was anchored in shallows right off some island in the river, and we decided to get out and clam. Clamming involves walking around in the shallows, waist-deep in the river, and burrowing into the riverbed with bare feet, feeling for shells. It was just her and I, her folks stayed on the boat. Which meant, for us, clamming involved making out in the shallows, searching hands obscured from sight by the waist-deep river. It’s such a fun memory for me. Feeling, and being felt, up beneath the water. Adolescence, makes for good memories.

Changing subjects…

Just arrived home on a cool Sunday afternoon. Turns out there was some mix up with the housekey we left so that the cat could be fed and her litter emptied. While not that big of a deal, the combination of fatigue and travel-wear made it a sore point for me. Already pissed, I flipped on the computer only to have it tell me one of the drives in my RAID array had failed. Great. Not in the mood, I give up and emptied the cat’s shit-brimming litter box as Sharaun picked up the nuggets she left in her favorite litterbox-overflow area of the living room carpet. Having not eaten since the pre-flight 5am meal and arriving home to bare cupboards only exacerbated my agitation. As if to seal me to my gloomy mood, the fates made this the day the TV decided that the flaky video-in jack would start acting up again.

Woe is me, what I horrid life I have! Surely I must suffer like no other on Earth, right? I mean, how could anyone, anywhere, possibly have a worse day than me? The toll of flying home from a week’s vacation spent with friends and family, arriving at the house which I own and inhabit with my beautiful wife, and now the picture on the TV is so crappy that I can barely make out the “for the price of one cup of coffee a day” kid with a distended belly and fly-filled eyes… like I said, I have it so bad. Order me a pizza before I take my own life.

Changing subjects…

Wow, wow, wow. Got home from Florida and checked my e-mail. There was one e-mail that I got while on vacation, but couldn’t open the attachments. Turns out it was from my oldest friend – Shaine. After meeting in the 5th grade, he became what I consider to be my first “best” friend. We kept in touch after my family moved to Florida, but eventually lost track of each other somewhere after high school. Later on, Shaine somehow found my e-mail address, and we got back in touch. We had a few years of sporadic communication, and then I got married and moved back to California. Somehow, we managed to get in touch again – and now we talk pretty regularly. This year I saw him for the fist time in 15 years, and even attended his wedding. Anyway, the e-mail that this paragraph started out talking about came from Shaine. I guess his mom found some old letters that I sent him, dating from sometime after I’d moved to Florida. If I were to guess, these came from mid to late 6th grade for me. How rare is it to have something like this?

As, I suppose, is to be expected of a letter to an old friend – I stretched the truth a bit to make my goings-on seem a bit more exciting, but to be honest I was surprised to see how close I stuck to the facts. The part about the fire pit and gas and singed leg-hair is 100% true, as is the part about sneaking over to “Mary Jo’s” place and playing spin-the-bottle. We were what, 12, 13? Walking the streets at 3am, 4am… insane. Anyway, the only part that’s fabricated is the part about the kissing. Looking back, I exposed my own ruse. The part where I say it was “great” because there were two guys and one girl… not exactly what I call a “great” spin-the-bottle scenario. No one kissed me, I just hung out. In fact, my first kiss wouldn’t come for another year and a half. I don’t know if anyone kissed anyone, really, for the most part I remember being bored, but excited about being somewhere I shouldn’t at a time I shouldn’t.

I wish I’d saved the letters I got from Shaine. The one I remember most came in an ordinary envelope, but had a strange bulge at the bottom corner. Upon opening it, I found a small rectangular “packet” of paper, tightly wrapped and taped for transit. Inside that packet was a solitary seed. “Mexican Redhair,” promised Shaine. Although I was still a year or so away from my first experiments with marijuana, I’ll never for get that letter. If Shaine can dig up more, I’ll put ’em here… I eat this stuff up.

One good thing about getting home, I found the new dual Bright Eyes releases leaked online. Haven’t had the chance to listen to them yet, but am excited about both.

Look at all that media!! Blog-media, may I be excused from writing? Yes, yes you may. Dave out.

Posted on

thanks

Image search, I dunno.
Noon. A garlic-flavored mouth from the leftovers I just ate. I’m in one of those perfectly comfortable moods, where all the environmental factors are just right. Full belly, rested mind, nice temperature, clean skin, all things combined to make me feel just right… porridge ain’t too hot, bed’s just the right size.

Tomorrow (today, in blog-land) is Thanksgiving, and, much to my chagrin, we will not be spending the day in the way I’d ideally spend it. I love Thanksgiving because it’s unabashedly lazy, it revels in laziness. You wake up early, eat early, take a nap, eat dessert… and later on hit the leftovers for second round. Most of the day is spent with family, either around the table, watching football, or nodding off wherever is comfortable. But no, not us, not this Thanksgiving. We’re leaving almost right after the meal to drive two hours north to visit friends. As much as I want to see these friends, I really wish we could’ve found a better time/day to do it. I’m not at all looking forward to the drive or the unaccustomed “rush” of what is normally one of the more decadently loafish holidays. Whatever, at least we’re on vacation.

Fast-forward – Thanksgiving. What a unique holiday. I mean, in gradeschool you learn about the feast shared by the pilgrims and indians, the crop’s bounty and God’s grace and whatnot. So as you get older I guess it turns more into something about “what you’re thankful for.” I still like to think about the pilgrims and crap, mostly because I just like that old-timey stuff. But, I guess it is worth something to sit and reflect on the things you have and should be thankful for. Take for instance our drive to Jacksonville right now, we just passed an huge billboard on the road that said “Thank Jesus for Governor Jeb Bush and President George Bush.” Honest. A whole billboard. So in the spirit of advertising what we’re thankful for, I’ll give it a go.

I’m thankful for a sense of humor. I’m thankful for friends. I’m thankful for family. For money. For my wife. For fresh air and warm sun and blue sky. For good music played loud. For naps. For the ability to rewind and pause live TV. For my job, which is pretty much the same thing as money… it’s a means to an end. For free time. For cholesterol medicine. For baby powder. For flip-flops. For free MP3s. For time alone. For time alone with my wife. For wordy fantasy novels and my pipe. For Halloween and Christmas, you can have Flag Day. For soldiers and sailors and pilots and a superior military. For close mountains. For simple things. For sarcasm. For dandruff shampoo and contact lenses. For cold weather and clouds and rain and days inside. For ten fingers and ten toes and all five senses.

Oh, and if you think I made up that “thank Jesus for Bush” billboard as a nice segue into the meat-paragraph… you’re wrong, it was real. In fact, a few miles before that we pass one that read “Evolution: A fairy tale… for adults,” and pointed curious passers-by to www.godisthecreator.com, or something like that. Religion in the south is an awesome thing, a powerful thing, a completely ingrained thing. It’s fascinating, and somehow welcoming or comforting. Errybody here got the Spirit y’all, errybody got the Lord in they heart – and it’s kinda nice.

Happy Thanksgiving all. Dave out.

Posted on

pickin’ and grinnin’

Arms on fire, firearms, get it?
Not a particularly exciting day in Florida, but a good evening spent with friends. Used this day to play “catch up” on all the lost sleep. Rolled out of bed around 10:30am and got ready for the day by having a healthy slice of angel food cake and a diet coke. Dang, no wonder I’m fat.

The main order of the day involved heading over to the local mall to pick up some stuff to wear at this week’s wedding. I needed a white shirt, Sharaun needed some thing she kept calling a “top,” which I think means “shirt” in dude-speak. I was kind of excited about going to the mall (probably for the first time since 7th grade), because for me it’s like going back to my old place of employment. Two years service as a retail salesman at the local mom ‘n’ pop music store in the mall, the last year or so spent with the pretty meaningless title of “assistant manager.” I gotta admit though, I loved that job. Loved helping people find good music, loved getting to show off my knowledge of music, and loved selling music. Unfortunately, that mom ‘n’ pop store was forced out when the mall went “big,” letting it’s space to only the largest chain stores in efforts to homogenize the retail landscape and increase business. Now it’s a “Scrapbook City” or some such nonsense, with reams of colored paper and rolls of cute stickers. The carpet and walls are still the same though, so it’s fun to go in and walk around and remember.

I remember I used to collect music on a “family tree” kind of plan. I’d hunt down albums because I liked a track, then find out who played on those albums. Then I’d hunt down albums those players made, and so on down the line. The method worked pretty well, but also could get a little obsessive. I’d get to where I wanted to get every piece of recorded tape that an artist or group ever made. Problem is, just because most or some of someone’s work is good, doesn’t mean it all is; in fact, there’s very few acts/people who’s entire canon is good – so that method of obsessive collecting produced its fair share of stinkers. Anyway, I don’t know why I wanted to write about that – or, I guess I kinda do. We were sitting over at Bob’s place tonight, and he was plucking some great tunes on the guitar while we sat and talked. It got me thinking, it’s not so much about the “album” or “bloodline” or whatever, it’s about the song and if it’s good. Screw collecting an artist’s catalog, I just want to hear the good stuff. Man, I’m sorry, I know this relates to nothing and is not interesting.

Been listening to the new M83 each night in the earbuds when I go to bed, excellent album. Moody and at times “lost” or “homesick” sounding. Now, I guess that could be due to the fact that I’m listening to it away from home, so some of that is my own ideas and not something the music is telling me. This and the Earlimart album are great picks for the week, and I’m glad I was able to steal them both and burn them to CD before the trip. Nice and slow and quiet and hushed and feely. Go get both, as both will surely soon turn up as theme music to some Fox or WB teen drama in the near future.

Hung out tonight, as I mentioned, with Bob and his wife. Went out for a nice Italian dinner, eating shrimp and drinking red wine all refined-adult-like. Then retired back to their place for some general chit-chat and the usual stuff. Looked at some beautiful vintage firearms, busted out the guitar, etc.. I know, I’m supposed to be a “liberal,” and thereby be sworn against the evil thundersticks and the death and crime they enable… but I have an inborn attraction to guns – I think it has something to do with the engineering or design… or the fact that they can shoot bullets at things and rip shit up, not sure which. I think it actually has to do with the fact that my grandfather was a great admirer of firearms, and bought my brother and I each .22 rifles at the youngest age our parents would consent to it: 10. I still have that rifle, you think they’ll revoke my Democratic party affiliation? Anyway, the guns came out, the swords came out, and the guitar came out. A’fore too long, I found myself singing along to the chorus of meticulously-played versions of “Ripple,” “Illegal Smile,” “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die-Rag,” and others. Good time, free meal, good company.

I guess that’s all I have to write. I really like the way the pictures from today’s (yesterday’s, when you’re reading this) turned out – I think they convey “vacation” really well. I’m gonna try and post some more pictures this week, after I manage to get some snapshots of a few more interesting things. Look for it.

Dave out.

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the deep south

As the Lord sayeth, so shall my moms doeth. Hopefully...
On the road to Orlando, spent the entire hour-plus drive doing that nasty bit of outstanding work I mentioned yesterday. That’s fine really, made me feel all Jetsons, driving down the highway on a laptop; got several perplexed stares from bearded rednecks in old trucks spraypainted camo for hunting. Not really, but they probably really do think I’m from the future… or “fancy” or something. Working at Sharaun’s folks’ place was a nightmare, dialup isn’t even internet, as far as I’m concerned. I managed to check some e-mail, and decided I’d had enough. I surfed the web to look for a wireless hotspot, free or not – just needed something close. Turns out I was out of luck though, as the wireless internet apparently hasn’t come to my old home town yet. Not a hotspot for 20mi. If they passed a law to affix transmit antennas to all rebel flag back-window decals, trailer homes, and shotgun racks- they’d have the best coverage in the US. And again, I kid y’allz… Florida is rad.

Now it’s midnight and we’re driving back from Orlando, all the stoplights are late-night blinky. I’m even more dead tired than I was earlier, and just want to crawl into bed. Got my work-work done on the drive over here before dinner, and now I figured I’d get the blog done on the way back. I’ve got this tiny headache in the front of my head, I’ve had it ever since the flight out – and I’m pretty sure it’s just my brain telling me I need some sleep. 57% battery on the laptop, so this isn’t going to be a particularly long one. I will, however, spice it up with some photos to pad it out. Speaking of, here they are:




Florida beach through scrub.


Tyler commanding the expidition.



Launching before the sun.


How much better than an alarm clock?



Not a computer to be found.


The morning’s only catch.

I’m thinking tomorrow I may try and head down to snap some pictures of old haunts, which is something I really wanna do while I’m here. I also want to cruise by the old house and check it out.

My dad called me early this morning, California time, while I was trying to take a post-fishing nap on the couch. He started out with the same chat, then all of the sudden asked me if I remembered when my mom’s birthday was. “I know it’s in November,” I said. I’m bad with remembering things, dates especially. For some reason, my folks’ birthdays are something I never managed to store in non-volatile memory. Knowing that, I have “reminders” set on all my computers, and my cell phone. The reminders pop up and tell me who’s birthday it is, and that I should send them a card (they give me about a week’s lead time). The cell phone reminder goes off on the day-of, as a “last chance” reminder so I can call if I somehow missed the two computer reminders.

Well, this year, I switched e-mail clients, and the portion of Outlook that used give the reminders has been eclipsed by Thunderbird, which I hadn’t setup reminders on yet. So, I missed the computer reminders. Then, Sharaun accidentally took my cellphone instead of hers one day, and it happened to be my mom’s birthday. The reminder popped up, but she forgot to tell me about it. And, that brings me to today… where my dad tells me that both my brother and I forgot to send my mom a card for her birthday. Ugh. How crappy must that be? A card from everyone but your two sons. I even called her a few days afterward, and talked to her like any other day… making it painfully obvious I had completely forgotten.

Well mom, I’m sorry. Sorry that I have to set reminders instead of knowing, sorry that I missed the reminders, and sorry that I forgot. I love you though, even if I am bad at dates. Forgive me this once, and I promise I’ll do better next time, OK?

Dave out.

Posted on

sleepless

Run down, up, and around the block.
Sunday night, dead tired. Tired from a mere two hours of sleep the past 48 hours, tired from a full day of wedding rehearsal attendance and backyard cookout. Tired from jetlag. Good to be in Florida though, the weather is awesome, a balmy 80ish degrees and sunny. Already been to the beach, already driven the old roads and seen the family. Now I strike a familiar Sunday-night pose: laptop cradled in legs bent at the knee, earbuds in ears, fingers on the keyboard pumping out words about mostly nothing. The newly leaked Earlimart album provides a so far excellent soundtrack for wordsmithing. The connection is 33Kbps dialup, painful-slow and reminding me how nice it is to have broadband.

As much as I’m looking forward to this week off, that is, once I’ve used tonight to get properly caught up on sleep – I’m dreading the fact that I have some work-work to do tomorrow. See, there were some loose ends at work before leaving on Friday, and I just didn’t get all the things I expected. Without those things, I couldn’t make commitments I’d made, and was stuck having to phone-it-in on vacation in order to meet the deadline. It’s not much work, but any work on during vacation is blasphemy. Still, no worries. I think we’re waking up ridicu-early tomorrow morning (a’fore the sun here, which is something like 2am to my west-coast brain) to go fishing with my brother-in-law. Should be fun, I haven’t been fishing in forever, and I’m excited to head out on the river with the sun. Even if we stay out through mid-morning here, I’ll be way ahead of my unlucky 3-hours-behind coworkers just coming in. Should give me plenty of time to find a Starbucks or wardrive until I can get a suitable high-speed wireless link where I can do some real work. Work sucks.

You know, I was thinking on the un-sleepable plane flight out here, thinking about one of the stranger things that I enjoy so much about vacation and travel. It may sound funny, but I really enjoy not having to carry keys around with me. For some reason, hate carrying things in my pockets… call it some weird psychological thing or whatever – I just prefer empty pockets. And on vacation or business travel, I have no car to drive, no house to lock, no nothing. So I lose the keys and gain an empty pocket. It just struck me as funny, because it really is one of those things I actually look forward to about vacation. Easily pleased I guess you could say.

Only a few hours driving up and down the Space Coast today, and already I’m struck by a lot of the same thoughts I had last time I was here. Only now, things are compounded by the fact that this place is still pretty beat-down from the multi-hurricane hurt this storm season put on ’em. Boarded up windows, leaning stop signs, twisted metal and piles of debris. I can’t quite figure out it out – but it’s all somehow attractive. So different than shiny-new master-planned northern California. Maybe it’s a welcome change from all that or something. I think stuff just happens slower here. People don’t mind buying a new car from a dealership where the Ford sign is missing the ‘F’ and ‘R,’ don’t mind that the supermarket is all chipped paint and flickering neon. It’s a different mentality or something. And, to graciously exit this thought without plagiarizing my own previous entry, it still all very charming and somehow welcoming.

The rest of the week is roughly planned out: visits with old friends, family, holiday meals, weddings, dinners, naps and relaxation. And, despite my fatigue – I think this entry came together OK. Chalk at least one day up for vacation writing, let’s see if I can stick to it.

Dave out.

Posted on

on second thought

Self-explanatory.
Thursday night, put-the-trash-out night. Sharaun met up with a gaggle of females for drinks, dinner, and some movie. Thus the dudes associated with the aforementioned gaggle decided to get together and do stuff. The general idea was pizza, beer, and video games at Anthony’s. Being that there were no women around, we were free to order two vegetable-free triple-meat pies with meat-stuffed crusts. Then we swaggered about the house, swilling beer, scratching ourselves and swearing at each other. As part of the week-in-… ahh, whatever, you know the rest:


When I read an article on BoingBoing the other which called DJ Danger Mouse’s Beatles/Jay Z mashup, the Grey Album, “… the most important album of the 21st century (to date)…,” I decided I better break it out and give it a second chance. I mean, why not? My favorite album of all time, ever, is the Beatles’ White Album. I don’t care what you say about it being the least cohesive, or just a collection of solo material, the band already eroding – it’s not only my favorite Fabs effort, I consider it the best album ever made. Then, there’s Jay Z’s Black Album.

Let me say first that despite my snobbish attitude towards music, I am open to styles beyond my indie-rock stable. It just happens that I discount most of the “rap” and “hip hop” on the Top 40 radio today is pure and utter fluff. Superstar producers who zero in on a market-targeted sound that can’t lose, no matter what puppet you put on the mic. You get a huge collection of songs that make you move your feet, and cover the topics that the shopping mall focus groups said they’re most interested in: sex, thugs, money, cars, etc. It sells, and there’s a whole other argument there about whether or not it serves some non-artistic purpose (it does, IMO, but that’s an entirely different discussion).

Picking up as if that last paragraph were non-existent, we’re back to Jay Z’s Black Album. Because I have a slightly down-the-nose attitude towards rap, I probably don’t get exposed to near enough of it to make a real judgment. But if you were to take me task and ask me, out of all the rap albums I have heard, which I considered the best – it would be the Black Album. Don’t get me wrong, the Chronic and Doggystyle will always remind me of hotboxing the Nissan Sentra in 10th grade… but that’s a different kind of “good.” The Black Album is, to me, one of the only rap albums I occasionally listen to out of my own volition. Not because I’m in my wife’s car, or compromising and giving her a break from my falsett0-drenched indie mainstays, but because I actually enjoy it. It’s a good album, and considering I’m not rap’s #1 fan, it’s a great album. Apparently, I’m not the only shoegazer to think so, either.

When I first heard about Danger Mouse’s mashup, I was interested. I downloaded it, and gave it a spin. Despite being impressed with the technical proficiency evident in the resulting mixes, I wasn’t particularly tickled. That was a long time ago, and I had since deleted the album from my “media” folder. Recently though, my interest got stirred up again with the release of the absolutely brilliant video mashup version of DM’s mashup, “Encore.” So, I decided, since these two albums are are actually both albums I respect and enjoy – I should give DM’s work another chance. I once again downloaded the tracks, and once again cued them up for a critical listen.

So, yeah, I probably was a little too critical the first time around. It’s a solid effort. I still respect it more for its engineering than for its musical content – which is basically made up of two things I already know I like. But it’s a really, really good album. The fact that every little hi-hat, hand clap, bass pluck, and guitar riff, every sound at all in fact, was painstakingly extracted from the White Album and reassembled into completely new tunes makes this thing worth a listen. The most important album of the 21st century thus far, that I’m not so sure about. But it is worth a listen. So go check it out, it’s free, so there are no excuses.

Jeez, I wanted to write one paragraph… one single paragraph, about the Grey Album. Look what it turned into, sometimes I guess I get carried away or something. I didn’t want to do a whole entry the subject, but I did and now I don’t want to write anymore. So I’m out for the week. Flying to Florida on Saturday… will try my best to keep up with this thing while I’m there, I usually do pretty well.

Dave. Is. Out.

Posted on

fun run

It goes with the running theme... you'll see.
Wednesday goes by without fanfare, and finds me again on the couch… typing. It’s a seemingly extra chilly night, so we flipped the switch on our state–mandated environmentally-friendly gas fireplace. It sucks. I mean, it puts out a lot of heat, but it’s so fake. Fake logs, fake ash, fake fake fake. Really… isn’t there something going on tonight? Am I really still sitting here at 9pm? Crap.

Guys, no… for real guys… check this out… Here are some of what I consider to be the best “search engine referrals” to my blog. I track this kinda crap, these are actual search terms/phrases people have typed into Google or Yahoo or MSN that have somehow led them to my page. They are a comedy goldmine:

removal of caked deodorant
bedroom making love sounds mp3s
Home remedies for treating bumpy toenails
Cold-induced urticaria
pictures of black hairy clits of women
pictures of Jennifer anniston’s hair
candy washing machine faults
new bright eyes leaked
data structures stacks rearranging railroad cars
poop sounds
Gaming Referendums
bananadine
Alchemic Transmutations using cheap materials
The sounds I should make when masturbating
hairy ladies clits
sounds that a giraffe makes
nude native american
free dirty lesbo stories

What’s with the guy obsessed with hairy clits? And worse, how the hell is he getting to my site by searching for them? It’s not an all-inclusive list, but I liked the spread of topics. Nice to know that people may be led to my writing by searches on alchemy, music, rare diseases, and porn. And the number one search string that led users to my site? That honor goes to “poop sounds,” a phrase which has somehow referred searchers to my pages over ten times in the last couple months. I don’t remember talking about poop sounds. Let’s change subjects, shall we?

I interface with people much easier in writing than I do in person. Not to say I’m not personable, as in a social setting – but within the confines of a business environment I feel I can communicate much better in writing than in person. I don’t clam up, or stammer or stutter when I have to talk to someone, I just feel so much more comfortable handling things over e-mail or IM. I think it’s the physical detachment factor, and the underlying escape clause it provides. If I don’t want to deal with something, I can write on it later. Reply later, think about it later. Luxuries you’re not afforded in real-time face-to-face communication. I’m a big proponent of informed communication. I don’t like to go into a business conversation without a decent amount of knowledge on possible subjects.

I think it comes down to a basic confidence issue. In writing, I have the entire world as my backup knowledge. Between two sentences in an e-mail, I could’ve done three hours of research. Like I said, I like the optional “safety net” that written communication provides. The chance to resituate my testes while considering an answer, should I so desire. The wall of distance separating myself and the party whom I’m “conversing” with. Taking the idea one step further, I could generalize like this: to me, written communication offers one particularly attractive option over in-person communication – the option to run. Something I’ve known for a long time: in the right situations, I’m a runner. Now, I don’t really like the term “runner,” but I think that’s the term most would relate to. I like to think of it as more of a “pragmatic” approach to things.

Whatever you call it, the symptoms are the same: Occasionally, when things get to a certain point – I cash in and take off. Simply put, it’s giving up; quitting. When things get too uncomfortable, too un-fun, too hard – simply do an about-face and leave the whole mess in your wake. Sounds terrible right? In some ways, it is. You can equate it to being a chicken, soft, milquetoast, a pushover, whatever. On The Rifleman, they’d call it “yeller,” and any cowboy worth his whiskey knows it’s better to be dead than be yeller. That’s the level of shame we’re talking about here.

Surprisingly though, when these rarish situations come about, I manage to feel minimal shame. Probably from years of honing the skill of folding. It’s an interesting two-sided coin though. In some ways, I consider “running” to be both one of my most shameful traits, but also one I’m kinda proud of. On one hand, there’s that aspect of self-preservation, looking out for #1. The great selfishness that most of us possess, but usually try not to acknowledge. In some cases, the shame associated with taking an easy out may be bearable when compared to the pain of the easily-outed activity. Sometimes, I can live with that balance. On the other hand, there’s this whole you-joined-the-little-league-team-and-you’d-be-letting-them-all-down sense of honor that we’re instilled with from a young age. Bailing out, taking the “cowards road,” flies in the face of that notion. That concept of honor is so well ingrained in people, that often it’s the thought of other peoples’ projected shame that can be enough to make me stick to something.

I’ve run away from jobs, from people, from social engagements, from obligations, from responsibilities, from just about everything at some point. Looking back, I am indeed ashamed of the more rash of these choices… but I also look back on them with with something not unlike a sly sense of pride. I did it, and it made it easier, and it’s done, and I don’t have to deal with it, think about it, talk to it, go with it, etc. I escaped. I overcame the shame and did something that made me happier in the long run.

I know, from the outside, where we’re all great human beings – that those paragraphs may lay me bare as a self-centered asshole. I don’t mind. I’m actually done with this topic, but, as often happens with introspective topics, I feel I didn’t do it justice. Whatever. I don’t even care.

Well what do you know. Tonight didn’t remain on the couch, despite starting and ending there. Here are the images from this evening, as part of the “week in pictures” project. Check out the fun, courtesy of “pint night” at the local brewpub. Highlights include: Ben through a pint glass, me finishing off one of the same, Erik in situ, and some artsy attempts at capturing the group, as well as the ride home. Enjoy.




And we’re done. Sharaun’s asleep on the couch, I’m writing with the laptop on one knee, and all is right with the world. Goodnight all, Dave out.