Or how about this...

Un"dooced"
















And "dooced".

I gotta say...I like the dooced much better here.

This is the picture I took.















This is the picture "dooced".

Both have their merits. I'm not sure which I prefer. What do you think?

Do you say "pop" or "soda"?

I am totally stealing this from another blog I just visited, but you have to see it. It's fascinating.
http://www.popvssoda.com/countystats/total-county.html

Florence gave us one good day

I'm looking through old pictures trying to decide which ones to print for a project I intend to start working on someday soon. I ran across a couple of good ones from Florence. Florence is a beautiful, whacky city...and I wouldn't be concerned if I never visited it again.

This one doesn't end with tofu but maybe it should

I wasn't fired today.

Not that I actually expected to be fired necessarily, but I was absolutely anxiety-ridden that I had done something exceedingly wrong without any knowledge of having done it. I won't bother to explain my irrational thought process, but let me tell you that all I could think was what if I have to quit to save face? What would I do? Sell the house? Move in with my parents? Join the army? Go back to college? Go back to college for what? With what money???

But, I wasn't fired today. And they didn't ask me to quit. They actually claimed that I'm doing a pretty darn good job.

Huh.

So tomorrow...well, tomorrow I get a brand new computer and I move to a brand new cube and I get to start over. I'm starting everything over these days. Let me break it down: it feels good and it sucks. Equally.

From the immortal words of Spoon - "Everything hits at once."

True dat.

There's nothing angry about tofu

I rode in an enormous tow-truck today. I rode in it for a few yards - the distance to my car. The keys were on the driver's seat in plain view. The stoic AAA man laid the tools of his trade on top of my car as he worked. I watched, wondering if I had to acquire a special license to purchase similar tools of my own. Who knows, they might come in handy.

Today was one of those days that made my search for a therapist feel not only like a good idea, but an essential one. An emergency. An imperative mission. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to find a good psychologist in this town. Insurance gets in the way. Distance gets in the way. My fluctuating mind gets in the way. Today was one of those days when I allowed my mind to escape me and I found it nearly too late, plotting my demise.

This afternoon I stood in the cold pounded by gusts of wind. My hands, forced well beyond their limitations, weeped for heat while I waited for my meeting to end. I can't help but ask myself if this is it. Is this it? And if so, what the hell is the point? Why am I standing in the cold, suffering in silence, listening and fretting? Why do I have to fret at all?

After the meeting I drove with the heels of my hands directing the steering wheel to Nothin' But Noodles. My craving for pad thai and tofu was undeniable. As I ate, my fingers returned to life first with a whimper and then with a whoosh. Years ago, I read a book on anger. The book is called Anger (ha!) and it's written by Thich Nhat Hanh. The very first chapter of the book talks about avoiding "angry food" - mistreated chickens and bloated cows will certainly make you ill on the inside. I can tell you that after my meal of pad thai and tofu tonight, I could live the rest of my life without eating another angry chicken. It's all too clear that there's nothing angry about tofu.

Dear Parents of Adolescent Children, Please do not bring them to Rated R movies.

I've been itching to see A History of Violence since I've seen the previews for it. From the previews and reviews, I knew that it would contain a certain amount of, well, violence, in addition to some graphic sex scenes. Acquiring this information did not require a stressful level of research, mind you. As I'm sitting in my seat waiting for the movie to begin, I was horrified to witness a couple and their three young children enter the theater and find seats behind us.

Although the movie in general SUCKED (minus a few redeeming qualities that I won't even bother discussing), it did deliver on the promised sex and violence. At times, shocking sex and violence. Leaving the theater, my thoughts wandered to those poor children. How could their parents possibly explain this movie to them? I can only imagine that the family's drive home from the theater went something like this:

What didn't you understand, honey?
Oh, that? Well, that's what adults call 69ing. I know, sweetheart, it looks kind of strange, but really it can be a lot of fun. Unfortunately, your father and I gave up on that years ago. Our heights just aren't matched quite right to make it worthwhile.
Why was the mommy wearing a cheerleaders outfit? Well, I don't know, I guess some daddy's like to imagine that they are sleeping with women much younger than themselves.
I know you're sister is a cheerleader - it's not the same, though.

The other sex scene? You don't understand why the mommy and daddy were hitting each other before they violently fucked on the stairs? Oh, honey, that's completely normal and nothing to be afraid of. Your father and I sometimes get a little crazy like that too. But only after you kids are in bed, of course.

You liked the part where the man got his face blown off? Yeah, it was pretty neat when they showed the massive hole in his head. I laughed too when what was left of his lower jaw kind of quivered! Pretty good special effects... Did you spot the teeth?

I guess the lessons to be learned here, kids, are to stay away from bad men and to keep an open mind in the bedroom. Maybe tomorrow night we can rent Seven and learn about the seven deadly sins. It'll be good research for your religion test on Monday.

Escaping the Cincinnati Weather

I just returned from a whirlwind trip to St. Louis. I say whirlwind because we were actually in the city less than 24 hours. Despite the brevity of the trip, we managed to pack in a lot of action. First stop was Pere Marquette Park in Illinois. St. Louis, unlike Cincinnati, was experiencing some gorgeous weather, so we had no option but to get outside and enjoy it. Pere Marquette fronts on a lake and then the Illinois River which are apparently the winter habitat for bald eagles. In the winter people come from far and wide to photograph the bald eagles hanging out on the frozen water. (Will, I think you need to get us some pictures of some eagles this year!)
After our "hiking" we caught a movie I've been dying to see - A History of Violence. Warning: do not go see A History of Violence. It's not worth $9. It's just not. After the movie, we cleaned up and hit Blueberry Hill for dinner. It's a cool club/restaurant in the Loop near WashU in St. Louis. They serve great beer and apparently attract some decent acts, though we didn't catch the music while we were there. The owner of Blueberry Hill must have an "in" on the music scene - the walls of the hall leading the the bathrooms are lined with pictures of him with pretty much any act you can name. Steven Tyler, Bob Dylan, Cher, the White Stripes, Jakob Dylan, Sarah McLachlan ...hell, I even found a picture of him with Jeff Tweedy tucked way back in a corner. I pointed out this picture to my cousin and gushed that Tweedy is the hottest "celebrity" I could think of (Why did I say this? A. Because I had consumed 2 Schlaflys and 1 Fat Tire and B. Because we had been discussing our personal picks on the "hot" list earlier at dinner.) Maggie's response was quick and decisive - "I don't understand you. You're weird. He's no Tom Cruise."
There's no accounting for taste, people. No accounting.
Anyway, the trip was great. Even the drive was great. I drove each way in a trance, listening to good music and watching the golden and crimson trees fly by. Does tomorrow have to be Monday?

Yesterday, as I was running Lunken, I felt like the sun was shining to spite me. The changing leaves twinkled and winked, mocking my melancholy. "A fresh wind and bright sky to enjoy my suffering." I was angry with myself for not enjoying the fall in its precious fleeting beauty. I had plans - drive to Spring Grove Cemetery for a stroll, read one of my books out on my back deck until the late afternoon chill would drive me inside, clean out my car, cut the grass, sweep the fallen leaves and water my mom's newly planted hostas.

Instead, after my shower, my only desire was to climb into bed, pull the covers over my face to block the sunlight and Sleep. If only it would rain.

Thankfully, today was a new day, a gorgeous day and one I could embrace without a wincing pain. Donna and Will allowed me the honor of accompanying them on their yearly pumpkin patch visit, preceded by a mini-hiking trip to Caesar's Creek. It couldn't have been a happier time - meandering through the woods, goofing off with our cameras, finding a box turtle (i love turtles), eating KFC (my stomach may never forgive me), petting a pair of sweet little burros ( not to forget the llamas and sheep and that one insistent goat working the crowd for feed), taking a hayride to a field (I mean, "patch") of pumpkins as far as the eye can see, and picking the perfect pumpkin...

It's a relief to find that cloudy days have nothing to do with the weather and that good friends carry in the sunshine with them.

The Onion Strikes Again

If I knew anything at String Theory, I would probably find this even more amusing than I do. And certainly, if the Reamer had known anything about String Theory, I would have gotten this explanation personally. Regardless, it's pretty damn funny:

Philandering String Theorist Can Explain Everything

BATAVIA, IL—Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory physicist Laird Karmann, a noted string theorist and accused philanderer, said Monday that he can "explain everything" if his wife Elizabeth will just give him a chance. "Surely, anyone can see that, mathematically, the universe is composed of Riemann surfaces, having positive-definite metrics, across which the attached 'loops' or free 'strings' have a (1+1) dynamic topology," Karmann said. "But string behaviors are Lorentzian, meaning that they—like me—need an intense dual-phase Wick rotation now and then just to stay in rational space. I mean, it was just a blowjob." Elizabeth refused to accept her husband's theory, suggesting that he study the transformational loop dynamics implicit in her hurled wedding ring.

Happy Birthday, Cass!

I was lucky enough to be available to run up to Dayton today and spend a little bit of time with Cass on her birthday. We ate at Abuelo's and then did some serious shopping at the mall. As always, I feel very blessed to have such a beautiful friend. I love ya, Cass! Have a happy birthday...

Maybe All I Need Is a Shot in the Arm

Thursday concert was the fifth installment in my Wilco concert series and in a lot of ways it was my finest experience. Emily had acquired 5th row tickets. 5th row. I've never sat that close for anything, much less for the band that soundtracks my life these days. Wilco was at the top of their game and did not disappoint. They began the show with one of my favorites "Sunken Treasure" and from there bull-dozed through several songs..."Passenger Side" was a pleasant surprise, "Via Chicago" was as powerful as ever, "Kingpin" required a little bit of explanation for the crowd of non-fan med students. At one point Tweedy donned an enormous guitar and introduced a new song...he told us that if we didn't like the song, at least we got to look at his spectacular guitar. Tweedy seemed a little shy leading with that guitar, but the song itself was a crowd pleaser. It (not sure but I think it's called "Waitin'") seemed a little countrier than A Ghost is Born and maybe that's where they'll be moving to next. Who knows. Regardless, the concert was nothing short of a religious experience and a shot in the arm that I needed pretty badly.

(So, anyway, thanks, Dan)

Shawn Blankenship, Here I Come.

That's right. I'm getting ready for the Turkey Trot, and Shawn, I've got your number. Okay, well, it may be a little early to start trash-talking, but, hey, I'm finally working myself back into some semblance of acceptable shape. I've gotta take advantage of it. My last several runs have been easy and productive. After all the abuse I have dealt my body lately, I'm surprised of its willingness to lift off the ground and move in a forward direction. But, forward it goes. Tonight, I clipped on my little flashing light, plugged my iPod into my ears, and set out into the waning light to jog for a bit. Clear my mind. Release some tension from spending the day spring-loaded in an uphill battle to extinguish each arising fire. Nights like these are perfect for this kind of freedom. Cool air and quiet streets. Only the thump of my heavy footfalls and the comfort of familiar songs. Headlights arriving with a rush then easing into the distance. Tonight I felt a fine piece of solitude.

...and now I'm one step closer to leaving Shawn in my dust come Thanksgiving. Ha! (I'm just messing with you, Shawn. :) )

If you are the praying kind...

save a prayer for my Aunt Patti. She undergoes surgery tomorrow on her spine. She really is doing well, all things considered. She can move her arms like crazy. She can move her legs pretty well. She can even walk a tiny bit. But her fingers, well, she has no significant movement there. No real motor skills. Visiting her today, I continue to be impressed by her spirit and her resiliency. She knows that she is lucky - most of the people with her injury are quadrapalegics or dead. Still, I don't know that I would have her bright attitude and strong face. So, if you have a prayer to spare, please say one for my aunt. I don't pray much anymore, but tonight I'll make an exception.

Memories...

I just saw Liz this weekend. I haven't seen her since I hazily said goodbye to her after a long night of traveling and immediately crawled into bed. Liz was kind enough to remember to give me a disk of her pictures from the trip (I, of course, was unable to remember to do the same). Here are a few of her pictures. I miss Seattle. I miss the mountains. I miss Portland. I miss vacation. But, I have to say, I'm happy to be home in my warm little house with my little Ada laying on my hands as I'm trying to type this now. Life is good.

Arrested Development

Serendipity had it's way with me tonight and I happened upon a brand new Arrested Development. You know, that edgey show on Fox with Opie as the narrator. All this time I thought that the name of the show was pretty clever, seeing as how the family business of the main characters is development and the father of the family was in prison. Get it? Arrested Development. As it turns out, the writers of the show are even more clever and insidious than I ever dreamt possible! Tonight, Michael Bluth (the main main character) was explaining to his date that men often get stuck in their adolescent mindsets...he called it "arrested development". It's Arrested Development! What a great way to phrase that notion! It's a perfect double meaning for the show, as all of the characters are hopelessly selfish and immature.

Of course, you know me - I can't just stop there. Don't we all have weeks ormonths or years when we are experiencing the arrested development syndrome? We get stuck in our habits and our patterns of thought and our comfort zones. We get stuck. But eventually...eventually, something happens to free us or push us out from under our rocks to enter another stage of growth. I believe there's a tv show for that too...it's called Growing Pains.

This Strange Plan is Random at Best

Built to Spill played Thursday night at Bogarts. As fortune would have it, I was able to make it down for the show.

I hadn't stepped inside the doors of Bogart's probably since the Afghan Whigs were the Afghan Whigs and Shag was Shag. In other words, it's been years. In my younger days, a trip to Bogarts carried with it anticipation and intimidation. As youthful and innocent music lovers, we were in our element there and we were sorely out of it at the same time.

Making an appearance at Bogarts Thursday night, I immediately felt the clarity that my chubby cheeks of childhood had melted away. I was surrounded by kids. But, hell, once Built to Spill began to play, I felt like a kid too.

Dan introduced me to Built to Spill probably a year ago. We were running around Winton Woods and he was describing to me a song he'd heard where the lyrics refer to lyrics of famous songs. "you were wrong when you said everything's going to be all right...You were right when you said all that glitters isn't gold...you were right when you said all we are is dust in the wind...you were right when you said that you can't always get what you want..." You get the point. I still can't run around Winton Woods without thinking of that song. Some things stick with you. So, he gave me this cd of his then favorite Built to Spill songs and I carried that cd with me to Colorado. Over the hills and through the valleys of Rocky Mountain National Park, I absorbed those songs. When listening to the recorded Built to Spill, it's the lyrics more than anything that grab me:

"if it isn't clear than clear the way for something dear"; "open up your window to the world if you want the world to bring you happiness"; "this strange war of promises...lets call it a truce, let's call it the truth"; "happiness will only happen when it can"; "I wanna see movies of my dreams"

In concert, however, the lyrics took a backseat. I couldn't hear them anyway. The guitars owned the show. Melodic, operatic, they consumed the stage, the air above us, the air between us. They spewed fire at us and twisted our vision. It was awesome.

It was awesome when they were playing. Built to Spill's stage presence did not impress me in the least. They allowed strange, dead air between every song while tuning their instruments. It felt almost as if we were watching a rehearsal rather than a professional performance.
I'll forgive them, though, because, damn, they can play.

On a Lighter Note

I stumbled across this website yesterday and, although I'm not big on potty humor, I found this to be undeniably hilarious. Calculate how much your employer pays you each year for relieving yourself at work. You'll be impressed....http://www.workpoop.com/

The Relativity of Grief

I'm grieving for a friendship lost. That grief is valid and palpable and, at times, raw. But my grief pales and cowers in comparison to the grief my Aunt Patti is experiencing with the loss of her independance. She can't feed herself. She can't use the bathroom. She can't sit herself up. She can't dial a phone. She can't turn the pages of a book. She can't type or write. She can't give her daughter a hug. The return of these functions is an unknown quantity. Her grief is the kind of grief that can't be named. So, hey, when I'm feeling red-eyed and blue, at least I have the consolation of wiping away my own tears.

Kitty Sign Language

You know you've waited too long to change your kitten's litter box when she starts peeing in the box before you can even finish pouring the new litter in.

I need to work on that.