As I approached my 30th birthday, I followed through on a decision of how I would celebrate the last year of my twenties.
A lot of people approach their thirties in a mournful state. I should know as, in the last few years, my peers have increasingly become people approaching and then passing thirty. They think of it as the dying of their youth and the end of their best years. I took the opposite tack. I am much happier be 30 than 20. When I was 20 I had no money, had no girlfriend and didn't know who the fonk I was or who I wanted to be. Well, those three things are no longer true. I wouldn't peel back my twenties in any kind of redo because what I did and what happened made me into who I am today.
Thus I celebrated my twenties as this great time I did, went and saw everything I could and enjoyed myself while doing, going and seeing. In much the same way we congregate together on New Years Eve to celebrate the passing of time instead of mourning it, my turning thirty will not be the dying of one era but the commencement of another. They will be the years when I find my way in the world, grow with those people who will be my life companions and enjoy all of the perks of being an adult instead of being an over-inflated kid.
As a part of this year long celebration I have done thirty things which I had never done before and then came back here to write about the experience. My brother originally called it my "busted list" as in I had to do these things before I'm old and busted. Some of the tasks were small and easily completed. Others required planning and assistance. It was not my intent to have a list of thirty items and only accomplish twenty-something. There was a list which was greater than thirty items and your suggestions were appreciated to expand upon it further and into the future. As I said, the intent was to share in this celebration both in the actual commission of the thirty things and also in writing about it in this space.
To that extent I have re-written the Thirty by Thirty mission statement:
Between his 29th and 30th birthdays, Michael Herman celebrated his transition into his third decade by completing thirty tasks he has never previously experienced and embracing the idea you can always find new experiences no matter how old you are thanks to the wonder, beauty and timeliness of Life. He hopes to continue the rest of his life in the same spirit.
MRH 1/31/10
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thirty By Thirty #30 - Read "Macbeth"
It's weird as an English Literature degree-holder to have never read "Macbeth." It's even stranger because the first class I took in college was Dr. Zahorski's EN335 - Shakespeare. There are plenty of classics which I've missed in my years of reading contemporary books for fun and pleasure. "Macbeth" is just the most egregious example. So I sat down, cracked open the play and realized where Kurosawa drew his inspiration for "Throne of Blood".
Thirty By Thirty #29 - ZAIREEKA!!!
In 1997 The Flaming Lips released "Zaireeka", an album meant to be listened to on four separate CD players at once. It's no small feat to get four different CD players and stereo systems together and so I set it as a goal to organize a "Zaireeka" party for 30 by 30. But sometimes your motivation will similarly motivate someone else. As my "Zaireeka" idea did Josh Dibley. He put all the pieces together, invited the people and brought it all together. All credit goes to him for fulfilling number twenty-nine. I just sat in the middle of the room and listened.
Thirty By Thirty #28 - Get Glasses
As you get older, your eyes aren't as sharp as they once were. I can still see fine without glasses. There are just certain low-light situations where I can't see fine details at a distance. For example, I can't read the score on the television across the room in a dark restaurant.
Two years ago when I worked for the insurance agency and had better health coverage, I'd gone to the eye doctor. I got a prescription which I hadn't filled because money got tight as the economy went south. But now that I was on better standing financially, I got a super-duper cheap pair for under $100. Now I'll be able to read subtitles at foreign films more easily.
Two years ago when I worked for the insurance agency and had better health coverage, I'd gone to the eye doctor. I got a prescription which I hadn't filled because money got tight as the economy went south. But now that I was on better standing financially, I got a super-duper cheap pair for under $100. Now I'll be able to read subtitles at foreign films more easily.
Thirty By Thirty #27 - Exercise My 2nd Amendment Rights
Gun culture and its attendant hunting culture is something which is handed down by generation. Since neither of my grandfathers or my own father were really into guns or hunting, I somehow skipped over having ever discharged a firearm in my life. Make sure that, if you haven't yourself, you tell your friends who own guns. You will eventually find yourself standing at a gun range unloading an entire ten round 9mm clip into a target. Yeah, it may not be your comfort zone. But that's the point.
Thirty By Thirty #26 - See Morzart's "Requiem"
Nik called me and asked if I wanted to go see Mozart's "Requiem" performed by a full choir at a church in Wayzata. I had a copy of a performance my cousin had been a part of in my car for years. Yet I'd never seen it live. Since it's my favorite classic piece (or 1a and 1b with The Brandenburg Concertos), I said "Yes," in a heartbeat.
Thirty By Thirty #25 - Visit Paris
If you haven't heard about this one yet I apologize. It was awesome. Everywhere I went it was ridiculously beautiful. The highlights were having the Eiffel Tower out my window as I went to sleep/waking up, visiting The Palace at Versailles, seeing all of the art museums and getting to visit Europe finally.
Thirty By Thirty #24 - Bowling League
Bowling is what my mom's family does together. If we're not sitting at one of my aunts' houses having a meal, we're bowling. This goes back to when we would all go to Arizona for X-mas. We would go bowling each night after dinner. If you doubt our seriousness, know that when we all grouped back up at my grandfather's house after his funeral the thing we all agreed to do was go bowling. So when Eric asked me if I wanted to be in a bowling league, I accepted quickly and without hesitation.
The best part about bowling in a league is you get to bowl after league is over and get a lot of practice. So, if you're like me, you learn how to hook the ball like a pro would. Results may vary but it's a work in progress.
The best part about bowling in a league is you get to bowl after league is over and get a lot of practice. So, if you're like me, you learn how to hook the ball like a pro would. Results may vary but it's a work in progress.
Thirty By Thirty #23 - Eat A Fig
So I was at brunch as hosted by a couple of my dinner party friends. They were serving figs which I'd never had in non-Newton form. As I had with the meat raffle, I thought "30 by 30." Figs are even better as fruit without the cake.
Thirty By Thirty #22 - Get My Passport
So there are two reasons to get your passport. The first is so you can travel internationally and we'll get to that. The other post-9/11 reason is to verify your American citizenship when taking a new job. Since I knew I was going to do the former and in this down economy you never know when you're going to be doing the latter, it seemed like a good time to get my passport.
Thirty By Thirty #21 - Run A 5K
During the summer I bike everywhere. I also used to do cardio five days a week. So taking on a 5k would be no problem, right? I started strong. Then reality set in a bit. To get my entire body mass moving, I can't jog. My stride is too long. I either need to walk or run. I alternated between the two and finished in 33 minutes. That's a pretty good time apparently.
Thirty By Thirty #20 - Win A Meat Raffle
The lady approached the table Katie and I were sitting at and asked us, "Do you want to do the meat raffle?" I thought in my head "30 by 30." I took $5 out of my wallet and had Katie pick the numbers. One of the numbers she picked hit. Participate, yes. But also win.
Thirty By Thirty #19 - Swim Across Cedar Lake
Sometimes you begin something without even knowing it. Then you get close enough to the end, you think "Why not just finish it?" I was reading a book at the library when I got a call from Dr. Thom. It was a nice day out (how appropriate I was inside reading) and he wanted to go enjoy it. So we met up with some friends who were lounging at Hidden Beach.
He and I took to the water. Then we swam out past the nets. Then past the buoys. Then we were halfway across the lake. Then we got to the beach on the far shore. Then it's an even longer walk back around Cedar Lake to where our friends were and where the car was parked. So we just swam back across the lake.
He and I took to the water. Then we swam out past the nets. Then past the buoys. Then we were halfway across the lake. Then we got to the beach on the far shore. Then it's an even longer walk back around Cedar Lake to where our friends were and where the car was parked. So we just swam back across the lake.
Thirty By Thirty #18 - Go To A Drive-In Movie
Drive-in movies are big. Not in the really popular sense though they were once that. I mean big in the sense of physically large. It's appropriate then to see really big movies at a drive-in. So we packed up four cars of friends and drove out to Cottage Grove for the two biggest movies of the summer, "G.I. Joe" and "Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen."
Thirty By Thirty #17 - Try A New Recipe
... tried a new recipe. Audrey and I went to Rainbow at The Quarry and got a huge piece of salmon. Then I went to Epicurious and looked up the easiest and most delicious way to prepare it, broiling. After brushing it with butter and cracking a little salt and pepper over it, the fish was met with rave reviews.
Thirty By Thirty #16 - Host A Dinner Party
I have a group of friends who are very good at hosting dinner parties. Everyone has the rest of the people over and we all enjoy wonderful food. To this point I had not hosted these same people for dinner. So I had Sarah, Don, Patrick, Morgon Mae and Jason over and...
Friday, January 22, 2010
Six things you should know about Happiness No. 1 - A Song Playing Quietly On The Radio
Six things you should know about Happiness
By Mark Anderson
1. They say our “chronic happiness level” is governed by 3 major factors:
genetics, life circumstances outside our control and our own activities and practices.
Up to 40% of our happiness level depends on our own actions, according to the scientists.
My chronic happiness level is governed
by a billion factors, including, but not limited to,
the sound of the grinder,
the earth of the beans
mixed with the soapy steam coming from your shower,
the enlightened kitchen window sill
framing an original masterpiece each morning,
the cracking of two eggs
by my own hand,
and the sizzle and flair
of fry-pan possibility...
A Song Playing Quietly On The Radio
By Michael Herman
“What’s the most alive you’ve ever felt?” she asked me.
This was the way our conversations would start. I couldn’t explain it or her to anyone else. It just was this way. I knew how to respond.
“How do you mean?”
This gave her a fork from which I could read her intent. Either she would start talking about it at great length and with asides and footnotes or she would clarify what she wanted to know from my answer. Basically, I wanted to know if she wanted my attention or my opinion.
“What I mean is this. If you had to think about a moment when you experienced what it means to be alive in your opinion, what would that be?”
It was the latter.
“I’d have to think about that. Does it have to be something which actually happened to me or just what that moment would be like if it happened?”
“Either. I’m not necessarily looking for a peak moment like getting a hit in Little League or the first time we kissed. But you get the idea of a representative moment I’m going for?”
“I do. Let me think about it.”
She was a good sport in these moments. I knew she wanted to have explosive conversations where grand proclamations were made about Love and Beauty and Truth. That’s not the way I’m wired though and she allowed for the differences in our approaches.
“Okay, how about this? Imagine a radio. And on this radio is a song. And the song is a very quiet song. On top of that the radio is turned down very quietly. So it’s coming out of the speaker very quietly.”
She was leaning in as though what I was saying was the song coming out of the radio. It was probably involuntary but it also almost broke my concentration.
“Now the room you’re in isn’t noisy or have a lot of people in it. It’s just a quiet room where you’re sitting alone, let’s say. And there‘s this radio playing quietly in the corner. So to listen to it you focus intently on it. It‘s the only thing which has your attention.”
“Okay.”
“The thing you wouldn’t think is how noisy that room really is until you try to listen to the song playing on the radio. It’s so faint and you have to try so hard to listen for it, everything else you’d been blocking out becomes really loud. You hear your own breathing. You hear the floor squeek as you shift your weight underneath you. You probably hear something happening in the next room or outside which you’d been ignoring before then.”
She was being very patient and listening though I knew she probably already had follow-up questions.
“I think that’s what Life is like. There are obviously situations like when we first kissed where the radio is blaring and you can hear the song loud and clear. Most of the time… Most of the time you’re straining to hear the song. It’s when you’re straining you hear stuff you wouldn’t otherwise and that stuff is what Life really is.”
By Mark Anderson
1. They say our “chronic happiness level” is governed by 3 major factors:
genetics, life circumstances outside our control and our own activities and practices.
Up to 40% of our happiness level depends on our own actions, according to the scientists.
My chronic happiness level is governed
by a billion factors, including, but not limited to,
the sound of the grinder,
the earth of the beans
mixed with the soapy steam coming from your shower,
the enlightened kitchen window sill
framing an original masterpiece each morning,
the cracking of two eggs
by my own hand,
and the sizzle and flair
of fry-pan possibility...
A Song Playing Quietly On The Radio
By Michael Herman
“What’s the most alive you’ve ever felt?” she asked me.
This was the way our conversations would start. I couldn’t explain it or her to anyone else. It just was this way. I knew how to respond.
“How do you mean?”
This gave her a fork from which I could read her intent. Either she would start talking about it at great length and with asides and footnotes or she would clarify what she wanted to know from my answer. Basically, I wanted to know if she wanted my attention or my opinion.
“What I mean is this. If you had to think about a moment when you experienced what it means to be alive in your opinion, what would that be?”
It was the latter.
“I’d have to think about that. Does it have to be something which actually happened to me or just what that moment would be like if it happened?”
“Either. I’m not necessarily looking for a peak moment like getting a hit in Little League or the first time we kissed. But you get the idea of a representative moment I’m going for?”
“I do. Let me think about it.”
She was a good sport in these moments. I knew she wanted to have explosive conversations where grand proclamations were made about Love and Beauty and Truth. That’s not the way I’m wired though and she allowed for the differences in our approaches.
“Okay, how about this? Imagine a radio. And on this radio is a song. And the song is a very quiet song. On top of that the radio is turned down very quietly. So it’s coming out of the speaker very quietly.”
She was leaning in as though what I was saying was the song coming out of the radio. It was probably involuntary but it also almost broke my concentration.
“Now the room you’re in isn’t noisy or have a lot of people in it. It’s just a quiet room where you’re sitting alone, let’s say. And there‘s this radio playing quietly in the corner. So to listen to it you focus intently on it. It‘s the only thing which has your attention.”
“Okay.”
“The thing you wouldn’t think is how noisy that room really is until you try to listen to the song playing on the radio. It’s so faint and you have to try so hard to listen for it, everything else you’d been blocking out becomes really loud. You hear your own breathing. You hear the floor squeek as you shift your weight underneath you. You probably hear something happening in the next room or outside which you’d been ignoring before then.”
She was being very patient and listening though I knew she probably already had follow-up questions.
“I think that’s what Life is like. There are obviously situations like when we first kissed where the radio is blaring and you can hear the song loud and clear. Most of the time… Most of the time you’re straining to hear the song. It’s when you’re straining you hear stuff you wouldn’t otherwise and that stuff is what Life really is.”
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Half Birthday Haiku - Becoming A Bore
Half-Birthday Haiku
By Mark Anderson
The sun lost in fog
Icy slush loves all wheel drive
Where is my checkbook?
Hoppity hop hop
When I think of dead bunnies
My heart splits in half
Turn on your sun lamp
Put a kettle on the fire
Nuclear winter
I miss whiskey eyes
Though they may not have been real
Heartbreak in sunlight
Becoming A Bore
By Michael Herman
John was concerned he was becoming a bore. It wasn’t something which occurred to him until recently. But now that he was aware of it, it was apparent to him. He’d begun becoming a bore sometime in the past as his interesting qualities were smoothed away by the passage of time. Now he was full-on into the process and slowly approaching the day he would actually be a bore.
If he had to nail down an exact day his process of becoming a bore began, it would probably be during the summer following the summer he graduated from college. Initially he had remained very vibrant and his social life was fruitful with many friends, parties and sometimes anonymous sexual partners. That part was when he was still interesting and had fun for himself. Then the seasons changed from summer to fall and fall into winter and winter into spring. By the time spring turned into summer again, he was not vibrant. He found his social life no longer bore fruit and his many friends had dwindled, there were fewer parties and his sexual partners were more anonymous. John, upon reflection, realized he had lost something during this timeframe.
With fewer people who knew him intimately and fewer still opportunities to see those people, John began to lose the edge on what made him interesting. Where he previously had been surrounded by people who shared his taste in music, movies and television, he found himself increasingly surrounded by people whose opinions he did not know about music, movies and television. It’s not that these people didn’t have opinions. It’s that the people who filled into the vacuum of the friends he once knew were not his friends. He didn’t feel comfortable talking with them about television the same way he did with his now-former friends.
Increasingly his discussions became about the same topics he dreaded as a younger man. A good conversation in his new life was less likely to be about an interesting book he read than the exploits of a celebrity couple or an Internet video others had seen. He began seeking out information on these topics. If he was going to have an informed opinion, he would need to get informed on the topic. He began scouring news sites, late night talk shows and occasionally the newspaper for information about what other people apparently give a shit about. He avoided topics which were political, religious or otherwise controversial. Polite conversation rarely had room for these topics unless everyone involved was of a similar opinion. And John was unaware of whether the people he knew shared in his opinions. Soon almost all of John’s conversations consisted entirely of small talk.
Even the conversations he had with the people who had been his closest intimates at one point were now small talk. When he would see a friend for the first time in years, the topic was invariably would be something called “catching up.” It consisted of the other person saying “what they’d been up to” which was more or less a laundry list of their life events since the last time they met told in chronological order. Then John would give the same laundry list and at the end they would agree it had been too long and they shouldn’t let so much time pass next time. Completely forgotten and alien to the process were the things which made them friends in the first place.
What John didn’t realize is he had finally become what he always wanted to be. He was now an island unto himself with no one able to know him really. He’d gained the freedom to be whomever he fucking wanted to be since no one was going to be checking in on him anyhow. It was fully within his capacity to make his world as he sees fit and how he wanted it to play out. As his universe had shrunk, the space he occupied in it expanded until he filled it totally. He was everywhere at all times and all at once.
It was in this position he now found himself and it wasn’t what he wanted at all. He didn’t want to make small talk with what used to be his best friends. He didn’t want to be surrounded by people he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know about celebrity culture or the blockbuster which was making millions in cinemas worldwide. He couldn’t buy into it and that would always prevent him from faking enthusiasm for it. Eventually he wouldn’t even be able to pretend to relate to what others thought.
He was going to have to be himself. He was going to have to give a shit about what he gave a shit about and not worry about things he didn’t. It was going to be difficult because it meant he wasn’t always going to be able to please everyone. But he wasn’t worried about pleasing people he couldn’t relate to anymore either. There would be some people who wouldn’t get him or understand where he was coming from. That was now fine in his opinion because he was willing to sacrifice those people in favor of people who did get him and did understand where he was coming from. He didn’t want to be off-putting or closed-minded. Just reasonable in his expectations of others and of himself.
John experienced something on that day which he hadn’t in a long time. It was a sense of longing, loneliness crossed with maudlin sentimentality. He thought back to when he had intimate friends and real conversations. He thought back and wondered how to get them back again.
By Mark Anderson
The sun lost in fog
Icy slush loves all wheel drive
Where is my checkbook?
Hoppity hop hop
When I think of dead bunnies
My heart splits in half
Turn on your sun lamp
Put a kettle on the fire
Nuclear winter
I miss whiskey eyes
Though they may not have been real
Heartbreak in sunlight
Becoming A Bore
By Michael Herman
John was concerned he was becoming a bore. It wasn’t something which occurred to him until recently. But now that he was aware of it, it was apparent to him. He’d begun becoming a bore sometime in the past as his interesting qualities were smoothed away by the passage of time. Now he was full-on into the process and slowly approaching the day he would actually be a bore.
If he had to nail down an exact day his process of becoming a bore began, it would probably be during the summer following the summer he graduated from college. Initially he had remained very vibrant and his social life was fruitful with many friends, parties and sometimes anonymous sexual partners. That part was when he was still interesting and had fun for himself. Then the seasons changed from summer to fall and fall into winter and winter into spring. By the time spring turned into summer again, he was not vibrant. He found his social life no longer bore fruit and his many friends had dwindled, there were fewer parties and his sexual partners were more anonymous. John, upon reflection, realized he had lost something during this timeframe.
With fewer people who knew him intimately and fewer still opportunities to see those people, John began to lose the edge on what made him interesting. Where he previously had been surrounded by people who shared his taste in music, movies and television, he found himself increasingly surrounded by people whose opinions he did not know about music, movies and television. It’s not that these people didn’t have opinions. It’s that the people who filled into the vacuum of the friends he once knew were not his friends. He didn’t feel comfortable talking with them about television the same way he did with his now-former friends.
Increasingly his discussions became about the same topics he dreaded as a younger man. A good conversation in his new life was less likely to be about an interesting book he read than the exploits of a celebrity couple or an Internet video others had seen. He began seeking out information on these topics. If he was going to have an informed opinion, he would need to get informed on the topic. He began scouring news sites, late night talk shows and occasionally the newspaper for information about what other people apparently give a shit about. He avoided topics which were political, religious or otherwise controversial. Polite conversation rarely had room for these topics unless everyone involved was of a similar opinion. And John was unaware of whether the people he knew shared in his opinions. Soon almost all of John’s conversations consisted entirely of small talk.
Even the conversations he had with the people who had been his closest intimates at one point were now small talk. When he would see a friend for the first time in years, the topic was invariably would be something called “catching up.” It consisted of the other person saying “what they’d been up to” which was more or less a laundry list of their life events since the last time they met told in chronological order. Then John would give the same laundry list and at the end they would agree it had been too long and they shouldn’t let so much time pass next time. Completely forgotten and alien to the process were the things which made them friends in the first place.
What John didn’t realize is he had finally become what he always wanted to be. He was now an island unto himself with no one able to know him really. He’d gained the freedom to be whomever he fucking wanted to be since no one was going to be checking in on him anyhow. It was fully within his capacity to make his world as he sees fit and how he wanted it to play out. As his universe had shrunk, the space he occupied in it expanded until he filled it totally. He was everywhere at all times and all at once.
It was in this position he now found himself and it wasn’t what he wanted at all. He didn’t want to make small talk with what used to be his best friends. He didn’t want to be surrounded by people he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know about celebrity culture or the blockbuster which was making millions in cinemas worldwide. He couldn’t buy into it and that would always prevent him from faking enthusiasm for it. Eventually he wouldn’t even be able to pretend to relate to what others thought.
He was going to have to be himself. He was going to have to give a shit about what he gave a shit about and not worry about things he didn’t. It was going to be difficult because it meant he wasn’t always going to be able to please everyone. But he wasn’t worried about pleasing people he couldn’t relate to anymore either. There would be some people who wouldn’t get him or understand where he was coming from. That was now fine in his opinion because he was willing to sacrifice those people in favor of people who did get him and did understand where he was coming from. He didn’t want to be off-putting or closed-minded. Just reasonable in his expectations of others and of himself.
John experienced something on that day which he hadn’t in a long time. It was a sense of longing, loneliness crossed with maudlin sentimentality. He thought back to when he had intimate friends and real conversations. He thought back and wondered how to get them back again.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Anchor - Lice
Anchor
By Mark Anderson
I often wake from naps
with an anchor
tied to my heart
and my bed,
that lonely ship,
keeps me from sinking
Lice
By Michael Herman
The very first thing we did was remove the sheets from the mattresses. We were wearing rubber dishwashing gloves so we were protected from the lice and still I did my best to make sure the fabric didn’t touch me or my clothing. I’d worn a few things which were worn out in the case I needed to throw away or even burn them. It was a pair of pants with a hole in the pocket and a t-shirt I received for working on a spring break mission trip when I was in college. There was no sentimental value to either but still I swung my hips aside like a matador as the sheet followed my guide. These were going to be burned. We couldn’t even risk someone else taking them out of the dumpster and reusing them.
“Did you hear anything about this family?” another member of my church service group asked me.
“No, I didn’t” I said lying.
“Man, these people are lucky to be here. They’re from somewhere in Asia originally and they were just farmers there. One of their uncles lived in the city though and he had gone to college for something like engineering or something like that. Well, one of his friends took him to this party one time and there are a few Communists there. He doesn’t talk to them, say hello to them or anything. They just happened to be in the same room as him. Then when the military overthrew the President last year, someone puts word in the right person’s ear that their uncle had been at this party and that it. They had to move away or die.”
I knew the circumstances of their immigration weren’t ideal. I knew they’d come from a refugee camp in South Vietnam. It was one year ago our church elected to host a refugee family and we’d received bulletin updates about their progress coming here to Arizona to be a part of our community. When they’d finally arrived and were introduced at both the eight o’clock and ten-thirty services, our congregation rose to their feet and applauded for these people. They had persevered where we perhaps could’ve not. We settled them into a basement apartment in a square brick-building and some of the older women in the congregation took up the cause of obtaining them furniture. They looked high and low in the community and it was in a Salvation Army store across town they found a couch which we later found out was infested with lice. The children were the first to complain of itchiness and then the adults did as well.
Now here we were throwing out all of their bed linens and scrubbing what else we could before the exterminators came tomorrow. In another room, two other parishioners on the service committee were putting the secondhand cups and china into plastic yard bags. After we’d folded the sheets and put them in their own bags in the back of Pastor’s truck, my compatriot and unloaded the bureaus and dressers of their contents. The family had four children, all under the age of six, so these were hand-me-downs from the congregation. I recognized some of the clothing from when my friends and I wore them as children twenty five years before. They belonged to this family now.
There was only once I took a break and sat down in the middle of the carpet. The mother was sitting in one of the chairs across the room. She couldn’t see me observing her or perhaps she didn’t care. Her eyes were fixed on a spot just in front of the pile. I could see how they carried the burden and wear of the years, even before they’d been nephews and nieces to trouble and risked their lives to be here. It was formed in her frown the misery and hardship she’d seen in her life and now, in America the land of prosperity, continued to happen.
As we left them with a reminder the exterminator would be by at ten o’clock the next morning and they would have to leave for four hours, I wondered if they knew. All of what was left was still theirs. It was protected in these trash bags and wasn’t being thrown out. When they came back tomorrow, they would be able to put their dishes away and re-hang their clothes. They would be allowed to sleep in their new beds scheduled to arrive the day after and raise their children here without worry of someone knocking on your door in the middle of the night. I was humbled knowing I’d been concerned enough of lice to wear gloves and how foolish I’d been to think things as small as lice were worth being concerned.
By Mark Anderson
I often wake from naps
with an anchor
tied to my heart
and my bed,
that lonely ship,
keeps me from sinking
Lice
By Michael Herman
The very first thing we did was remove the sheets from the mattresses. We were wearing rubber dishwashing gloves so we were protected from the lice and still I did my best to make sure the fabric didn’t touch me or my clothing. I’d worn a few things which were worn out in the case I needed to throw away or even burn them. It was a pair of pants with a hole in the pocket and a t-shirt I received for working on a spring break mission trip when I was in college. There was no sentimental value to either but still I swung my hips aside like a matador as the sheet followed my guide. These were going to be burned. We couldn’t even risk someone else taking them out of the dumpster and reusing them.
“Did you hear anything about this family?” another member of my church service group asked me.
“No, I didn’t” I said lying.
“Man, these people are lucky to be here. They’re from somewhere in Asia originally and they were just farmers there. One of their uncles lived in the city though and he had gone to college for something like engineering or something like that. Well, one of his friends took him to this party one time and there are a few Communists there. He doesn’t talk to them, say hello to them or anything. They just happened to be in the same room as him. Then when the military overthrew the President last year, someone puts word in the right person’s ear that their uncle had been at this party and that it. They had to move away or die.”
I knew the circumstances of their immigration weren’t ideal. I knew they’d come from a refugee camp in South Vietnam. It was one year ago our church elected to host a refugee family and we’d received bulletin updates about their progress coming here to Arizona to be a part of our community. When they’d finally arrived and were introduced at both the eight o’clock and ten-thirty services, our congregation rose to their feet and applauded for these people. They had persevered where we perhaps could’ve not. We settled them into a basement apartment in a square brick-building and some of the older women in the congregation took up the cause of obtaining them furniture. They looked high and low in the community and it was in a Salvation Army store across town they found a couch which we later found out was infested with lice. The children were the first to complain of itchiness and then the adults did as well.
Now here we were throwing out all of their bed linens and scrubbing what else we could before the exterminators came tomorrow. In another room, two other parishioners on the service committee were putting the secondhand cups and china into plastic yard bags. After we’d folded the sheets and put them in their own bags in the back of Pastor’s truck, my compatriot and unloaded the bureaus and dressers of their contents. The family had four children, all under the age of six, so these were hand-me-downs from the congregation. I recognized some of the clothing from when my friends and I wore them as children twenty five years before. They belonged to this family now.
There was only once I took a break and sat down in the middle of the carpet. The mother was sitting in one of the chairs across the room. She couldn’t see me observing her or perhaps she didn’t care. Her eyes were fixed on a spot just in front of the pile. I could see how they carried the burden and wear of the years, even before they’d been nephews and nieces to trouble and risked their lives to be here. It was formed in her frown the misery and hardship she’d seen in her life and now, in America the land of prosperity, continued to happen.
As we left them with a reminder the exterminator would be by at ten o’clock the next morning and they would have to leave for four hours, I wondered if they knew. All of what was left was still theirs. It was protected in these trash bags and wasn’t being thrown out. When they came back tomorrow, they would be able to put their dishes away and re-hang their clothes. They would be allowed to sleep in their new beds scheduled to arrive the day after and raise their children here without worry of someone knocking on your door in the middle of the night. I was humbled knowing I’d been concerned enough of lice to wear gloves and how foolish I’d been to think things as small as lice were worth being concerned.
Audrey Hepburn - Chess
Audrey Hepburn
May 4th, 1929 - January 20th, 1993
By Mark Anderson
I am not a superstitious man. I do not say God Bless You when somebody sneezes. I might say Gesundheit with a thick German accent but that has nothing to do with anything other than I learned German once. I don't cringe when I see peacocks hanging about a theater. The so-called evil eye in their feathers is really quite stunning; I'm quite happy to be seen by them near a theater or wherever. I carried a deuce in my wallet for years until one cashless, drunken night, I spent it on a coat-check. I adore my black cat who crosses my path any time she damn well pleases. Self-fulfilling prophecies. Placebo effects. You get what you wish for. It's all a matter of coincidence, if you ask me.
That isn't to say I have always been so clear minded. On January 19th, 1993, my mother and I decided to rent a movie. Amongst all the titles we came across Breakfast at Tiffany's. "Is Audrey Hepburn still alive?" I asked as Moon River began to echo in my ears. My mother wasn't sure. By the time we got home, we'd forgotten the whole conversation, having rented something else, probably The Hand That Rocks The Cradle.
Chess
By Michael Herman
Chess is an intricate game. Adapted from earlier Indian and Persian games, it uses an eight by eight checkered board to simulate war. Each piece can move in its own unique and individual way. The queen is the master of the board, able to move in any direction as far as she wants unless otherwise stopped. The bishop is limited along the flanks and moving in diagonal while rooks are shaped like castles but move like cannon shot in straight lines by column or file. The knights have the special skill of crossing over pieces in their way simulating the long distance attacks the makers of the game only saw in their infancy but knew what horrible terror they would wreck as warfare evolved. The pawns are limited in their destruction but share that countenance with the king. The mollis rex is too vulnerable to commit his own atrocities and gives his gauisus phasmatis on to his subordinates. Chess drives home its very simple yet important world to beginner and world champion alike: We may all be moved around the board by the hand of an unseen master but it is not without purpose.
I know all of this about the game and still I suck at chess. I can look at the board and look at my pieces and look at my opponent’s pieces and nothing comes out. No strategy, no master plan. I am the chess-master we fear in our own lives. I have no purpose to the game, quickly becoming bored with creating a defense or enamored with a ploy to capture a way-begone piece. The worst is when I lose patience with the game. It is when I lose patience I lose control. I become a rash mess and will make an unnecessary move which gives the entire game away. What makes it terrible is I know it is the wrong move as I make it. I’ve played enough games to know if I, for example, move a bishop to place the king in check but do not have a knight covering or my opponent can move a pawn to block the queen’s angle of retribution I should not move my bishop into check. But I will do it anyway, knowing full well my gambit will fail unless my opponent is either an idiot or being charitable. I do it because I want something to happen, some excitement to take me over. For a moment, my move seems bold like I’ve swung into motion an intricate and established plan which will lead to attrition, yes, but also ultimately victory. Really I am just throwing disruption into an otherwise ordered game, plotting to do something so remarkable it has to be memorable.
This is not the strategy of a winner. A winner knows the most important thing is winning. They will sit back and assassinate your pawns and rooks and queen slowly and methodically by waiting for opportunity to present itself and then capitalize upon it. To a winner there is no greater concession than an obvious mistake made out of impertinence. It’s a weakness for them to twist to their advantage and yet you are lucky if their eyes light up. A winner will not even give you the satisfaction of knowing you’ve affected them. The best you can hope fore is they lean forward and make sure their skills haven’t slipped to the point of missing something. You can imagine their interior dialog in that moment being racked with self-doubt and humbled by your adventurous fallacy. In most cases they will accept your piece without even a smile. They will sweep it from the board and wait for the anger to grow from inside you into another terrible idea. These are the players who can become champions.
I will make my move knowing it is not what a winner does. I will make it because that is what I do. There are many ways to win a chess game which go by vaguely Nietzschean names like zugzwang and zwischenzug or poetic license like The Fool’s Mate or The Sicilian Defense. There is only one way to play chess as I would and it is to sacrifice. Too many pieces clutter the board and I play better when I am in the open, free to move pieces in guided chorus from all points. It is the player who happily accepts my pieces I want to play because they are helping me to clear the board of theirs. Often the endgame doesn’t materialize until we are each down to a few pieces. They will have their king, their queen (which dogmatically is to be protected like a king), a rook and a few pawns. I will have my king, two bishops and a knight. From this point the game is exciting to me. The strategy reveals itself in its chaotic fervor to be one unlike the romanticized notion of war as organized and clean. Its ambiguity and chaos is like what infantry veterans describe as the fog of war. It is in this section of the game I can use to my advantage being foolhardy and free.
There has been only one player who has found a counter to what qualifies as my strategy. He was a classmate of mine and the first game we ever found ourselves in played out in a way I was left with my king, a queen and a pawn etching its way across the board. He had no pawns, only his king, his queen and a knight to his side. It was by luck I found myself in the position and really even it was more to my bravado than benefit. Still he looked at the board the way I normally would, not understanding how the things laid out in front of him all fit together. As I promoted my pawn and put him into check I could see he was already thinking of the next game. He tipped over his king and asked me to play again. I accepted and moved my pawn first. His next move was small and conservative. I moved my knight out from the rear. His follow-up was again small and conservative. I played my other knight into the middle of the board and again he was small and conservative. Then, after I brought my queen and he was yet again small and conservative, I realized what had happened. I had engendered a fear in him. He was fearful of getting beat by me again with my unconventional strategy. For all of its little intricacies and ideas of grandeur, my greatest advantage was the psychological one. I didn’t lose once to him for the next three years until his family moved away.
May 4th, 1929 - January 20th, 1993
By Mark Anderson
I am not a superstitious man. I do not say God Bless You when somebody sneezes. I might say Gesundheit with a thick German accent but that has nothing to do with anything other than I learned German once. I don't cringe when I see peacocks hanging about a theater. The so-called evil eye in their feathers is really quite stunning; I'm quite happy to be seen by them near a theater or wherever. I carried a deuce in my wallet for years until one cashless, drunken night, I spent it on a coat-check. I adore my black cat who crosses my path any time she damn well pleases. Self-fulfilling prophecies. Placebo effects. You get what you wish for. It's all a matter of coincidence, if you ask me.
That isn't to say I have always been so clear minded. On January 19th, 1993, my mother and I decided to rent a movie. Amongst all the titles we came across Breakfast at Tiffany's. "Is Audrey Hepburn still alive?" I asked as Moon River began to echo in my ears. My mother wasn't sure. By the time we got home, we'd forgotten the whole conversation, having rented something else, probably The Hand That Rocks The Cradle.
Chess
By Michael Herman
Chess is an intricate game. Adapted from earlier Indian and Persian games, it uses an eight by eight checkered board to simulate war. Each piece can move in its own unique and individual way. The queen is the master of the board, able to move in any direction as far as she wants unless otherwise stopped. The bishop is limited along the flanks and moving in diagonal while rooks are shaped like castles but move like cannon shot in straight lines by column or file. The knights have the special skill of crossing over pieces in their way simulating the long distance attacks the makers of the game only saw in their infancy but knew what horrible terror they would wreck as warfare evolved. The pawns are limited in their destruction but share that countenance with the king. The mollis rex is too vulnerable to commit his own atrocities and gives his gauisus phasmatis on to his subordinates. Chess drives home its very simple yet important world to beginner and world champion alike: We may all be moved around the board by the hand of an unseen master but it is not without purpose.
I know all of this about the game and still I suck at chess. I can look at the board and look at my pieces and look at my opponent’s pieces and nothing comes out. No strategy, no master plan. I am the chess-master we fear in our own lives. I have no purpose to the game, quickly becoming bored with creating a defense or enamored with a ploy to capture a way-begone piece. The worst is when I lose patience with the game. It is when I lose patience I lose control. I become a rash mess and will make an unnecessary move which gives the entire game away. What makes it terrible is I know it is the wrong move as I make it. I’ve played enough games to know if I, for example, move a bishop to place the king in check but do not have a knight covering or my opponent can move a pawn to block the queen’s angle of retribution I should not move my bishop into check. But I will do it anyway, knowing full well my gambit will fail unless my opponent is either an idiot or being charitable. I do it because I want something to happen, some excitement to take me over. For a moment, my move seems bold like I’ve swung into motion an intricate and established plan which will lead to attrition, yes, but also ultimately victory. Really I am just throwing disruption into an otherwise ordered game, plotting to do something so remarkable it has to be memorable.
This is not the strategy of a winner. A winner knows the most important thing is winning. They will sit back and assassinate your pawns and rooks and queen slowly and methodically by waiting for opportunity to present itself and then capitalize upon it. To a winner there is no greater concession than an obvious mistake made out of impertinence. It’s a weakness for them to twist to their advantage and yet you are lucky if their eyes light up. A winner will not even give you the satisfaction of knowing you’ve affected them. The best you can hope fore is they lean forward and make sure their skills haven’t slipped to the point of missing something. You can imagine their interior dialog in that moment being racked with self-doubt and humbled by your adventurous fallacy. In most cases they will accept your piece without even a smile. They will sweep it from the board and wait for the anger to grow from inside you into another terrible idea. These are the players who can become champions.
I will make my move knowing it is not what a winner does. I will make it because that is what I do. There are many ways to win a chess game which go by vaguely Nietzschean names like zugzwang and zwischenzug or poetic license like The Fool’s Mate or The Sicilian Defense. There is only one way to play chess as I would and it is to sacrifice. Too many pieces clutter the board and I play better when I am in the open, free to move pieces in guided chorus from all points. It is the player who happily accepts my pieces I want to play because they are helping me to clear the board of theirs. Often the endgame doesn’t materialize until we are each down to a few pieces. They will have their king, their queen (which dogmatically is to be protected like a king), a rook and a few pawns. I will have my king, two bishops and a knight. From this point the game is exciting to me. The strategy reveals itself in its chaotic fervor to be one unlike the romanticized notion of war as organized and clean. Its ambiguity and chaos is like what infantry veterans describe as the fog of war. It is in this section of the game I can use to my advantage being foolhardy and free.
There has been only one player who has found a counter to what qualifies as my strategy. He was a classmate of mine and the first game we ever found ourselves in played out in a way I was left with my king, a queen and a pawn etching its way across the board. He had no pawns, only his king, his queen and a knight to his side. It was by luck I found myself in the position and really even it was more to my bravado than benefit. Still he looked at the board the way I normally would, not understanding how the things laid out in front of him all fit together. As I promoted my pawn and put him into check I could see he was already thinking of the next game. He tipped over his king and asked me to play again. I accepted and moved my pawn first. His next move was small and conservative. I moved my knight out from the rear. His follow-up was again small and conservative. I played my other knight into the middle of the board and again he was small and conservative. Then, after I brought my queen and he was yet again small and conservative, I realized what had happened. I had engendered a fear in him. He was fearful of getting beat by me again with my unconventional strategy. For all of its little intricacies and ideas of grandeur, my greatest advantage was the psychological one. I didn’t lose once to him for the next three years until his family moved away.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Grilled Cheese - The Machine
Grilled Cheese
By Mark Anderson
My father was a master
grilled cheese maker.
His skills with a knife,
having served as a Marine,
enabled him to precisely slice
one slice of bread
into two thinner slices
between which a slice
of American
could easily be toasted.
The Machine
By Michael Herman
The Scientist woke up as he had each time before He was traveling through time and it always knocked him out It was one of the side effects of the travel and he wondered what sort of long term effects it would have on him Each time he waited for this to be the trip he couldn t remember how to build The Machine Or re build it depending how you considered it
He d discovered time travel He didn t know when in relation to where he was now but it was some where in the range of seventeen or eighteen years ago to him when he d made a correct guess and the answer revealed itself quickly Time as well as space was like a deck of index cards Looking at the deck of cards you might see it as one complete and whole block This was the way humans saw time and space normally But he d imagined the cards fanned out They were still a part of the deck but now you could see they were individual cards Once the parameters were in his mind he was able to take existing transportation technology and modify it for his purposes
The first trip had sent him only a short distance back in time He knew enough about causality to not encounter himself so he would wait until he went home each night to enter the lab From there he further refined the process finally working all day and all night when the other him disappeared into The Machine Soon he was ready for another jump which would send him further back The second trip sent him further back and more refinement sent him even further back than that
His progress quickly outstripped itself He was going back in time distances which made returning to his lab first inconvenient and then impossible The jumps were leading him back to when he was in university and then even further back to when he was in grade school He could no longer just drop into his own work and had to start recreating it Each time he made a jump without the benefit of notes schematics or previously collected data with each jump holding the possibility of forgetting something essential
Soon he started encountering time when they lacked some of the finer and then the basic elements of The Machine It became a new challenge for him He had to find make steal forge invent organize shape or eliminate each element entirely from scratch each time he traveled backwards It made him into a puzzle solver who knew what the final picture looked like but had to make the pieces himself
He knew he was likely reaching the end of how far he could go Even the materials which made up The Machine s parts were becoming unknown He was coming to the end of his journey and his thought as he was initiating the rudimentary Machine he d stood in front of half a second ago was What if this is the last time
He sat up and rubbed the back of his head This like the other times he had no idea how long he d been unconscious only that the process had worked and he was now further back in time than any time before He looked around and saw he was near a road cutting through a forest He planned as he had before to follow this road to the nearest town where he would explain away his stark appearance and begin again the process of re building The Machine
By Mark Anderson
My father was a master
grilled cheese maker.
His skills with a knife,
having served as a Marine,
enabled him to precisely slice
one slice of bread
into two thinner slices
between which a slice
of American
could easily be toasted.
The Machine
By Michael Herman
The Scientist woke up as he had each time before He was traveling through time and it always knocked him out It was one of the side effects of the travel and he wondered what sort of long term effects it would have on him Each time he waited for this to be the trip he couldn t remember how to build The Machine Or re build it depending how you considered it
He d discovered time travel He didn t know when in relation to where he was now but it was some where in the range of seventeen or eighteen years ago to him when he d made a correct guess and the answer revealed itself quickly Time as well as space was like a deck of index cards Looking at the deck of cards you might see it as one complete and whole block This was the way humans saw time and space normally But he d imagined the cards fanned out They were still a part of the deck but now you could see they were individual cards Once the parameters were in his mind he was able to take existing transportation technology and modify it for his purposes
The first trip had sent him only a short distance back in time He knew enough about causality to not encounter himself so he would wait until he went home each night to enter the lab From there he further refined the process finally working all day and all night when the other him disappeared into The Machine Soon he was ready for another jump which would send him further back The second trip sent him further back and more refinement sent him even further back than that
His progress quickly outstripped itself He was going back in time distances which made returning to his lab first inconvenient and then impossible The jumps were leading him back to when he was in university and then even further back to when he was in grade school He could no longer just drop into his own work and had to start recreating it Each time he made a jump without the benefit of notes schematics or previously collected data with each jump holding the possibility of forgetting something essential
Soon he started encountering time when they lacked some of the finer and then the basic elements of The Machine It became a new challenge for him He had to find make steal forge invent organize shape or eliminate each element entirely from scratch each time he traveled backwards It made him into a puzzle solver who knew what the final picture looked like but had to make the pieces himself
He knew he was likely reaching the end of how far he could go Even the materials which made up The Machine s parts were becoming unknown He was coming to the end of his journey and his thought as he was initiating the rudimentary Machine he d stood in front of half a second ago was What if this is the last time
He sat up and rubbed the back of his head This like the other times he had no idea how long he d been unconscious only that the process had worked and he was now further back in time than any time before He looked around and saw he was near a road cutting through a forest He planned as he had before to follow this road to the nearest town where he would explain away his stark appearance and begin again the process of re building The Machine
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Remembrance - Placekicker
Remembrance
By Mark Anderson
Every once in awhile,
sometimes once a day,
but rarely more than
once an hour,
I forget to breathe
and when I remember,
a tear of joy
(if that's what we're calling it)
streams down my cheek.
Placekicker
By Michael Herman
When I was a teenager, I was on the football team. My hometown was not very large and all able-bodied boys were expected to play football in the fall and baseball in the spring. Even if you were disinterested in sports and would rather be doing something else like I would’ve, our enrollment was small enough that even two or three boys not participating meant the team was dangerously close to not being able to even play at all. Therefore, no matter how you felt about it, every autumn would find you in shoulder pads and every spring would find you wearing a mitt.
The difficult thing was our school was placed in a conference based on geographical location instead of number of students. We were outmatched in every regard, playing against larger and faster teams who had fresh substitutes ready to come in. There was even one school in our district which went to the state tournament every few years. It was bad enough to be drafted into something you would otherwise want no part in. But to consistently lose to better teams made it nearly impossible to see the positive in.
Which is why I caused a commotion the first time I kicked a field goal in practice. It was one of the first practices of the year, taking place weeks before school started That year’s senior class was smaller than usual and some of the boys were still taking part in the harvest so I was one of the eighth graders who was asked to fill in for those who were missing. I was screwing around with some friends afterwards while waiting for my mom to pick me up. We were punting the ball to each other when I got the idea I wanted to try kicking a field goal.
My friend Johnny took one knee dead on to the uprights about twenty yards downfield, I stood a few steps back like I’d seen on television and he faked receiving the snap. I stepped forward, planted my off foot and swung my kicking leg. My foot made the sound of a baseball slapping your glove and the ball flew through the air straight over the crossbar. Johnny stood up and lifted me into the air as I raised my arms above my head in celebration. A coach had seen what I’d done and asked me to kick another one from the same spot. By the time my mom arrived, I was the team’s placekicker.
And I was the placekicker the next five years. I was a natural at it. Johnny would take the snap from the center, he would set it down and, like that first time, I would send it over the crossbar. At first, I would also mimic my celebration from that very first time but then my field goals became commonplace.
Since we were still the smaller school in all our games we didn’t score many touchdowns and I was called on to score most of our points. Our final scores would range from close 10-6 losses to 44-15 blowouts. Occasionally a team would let us hang around at 6-6 or 12-12 and there would be an audible murmur in the crowd. It didn’t even phase me that they were all thinking if we could just get in range with almost no time left, I could kick the winning field goal. I knew if it came to that I could and would do it. Then the bigger school would wake up and we’d be looking up at another loss on the scoreboard. I finally graduated in the spring of ‘86 and went away to college responsible for the most points in my high school’s entire football history.
Slowly the nearby metropolis crept closer and closer via urban sprawl and finally absorbed it into the megalopolis itself. My hometown went from being a farm town to a suburb and families with children moved into upright developments with cul-de-sacs. Around the time my parents finally sold their house and moved away, one of the children of one of those families broke my record. The influx of kids made our team competitive and we were holding our own against our rivals. He took a handoff from the quarterback, turned right and ran untouched into the endzone.
The game was stopped, the public address announcer asked for a round of applause for me and I walked out onto the field with the head coach and the school principal to congratulate the young man. He took off his helmet, shook my hand and someone took a picture of all four of us. There was more applause as the four of us left the field and the rest of the team went on with the game. He could take the time to hug his mother because we were now a large enough school to have fresh substitutes. Chances are he didn't even play baseball in the spring.
By Mark Anderson
Every once in awhile,
sometimes once a day,
but rarely more than
once an hour,
I forget to breathe
and when I remember,
a tear of joy
(if that's what we're calling it)
streams down my cheek.
Placekicker
By Michael Herman
When I was a teenager, I was on the football team. My hometown was not very large and all able-bodied boys were expected to play football in the fall and baseball in the spring. Even if you were disinterested in sports and would rather be doing something else like I would’ve, our enrollment was small enough that even two or three boys not participating meant the team was dangerously close to not being able to even play at all. Therefore, no matter how you felt about it, every autumn would find you in shoulder pads and every spring would find you wearing a mitt.
The difficult thing was our school was placed in a conference based on geographical location instead of number of students. We were outmatched in every regard, playing against larger and faster teams who had fresh substitutes ready to come in. There was even one school in our district which went to the state tournament every few years. It was bad enough to be drafted into something you would otherwise want no part in. But to consistently lose to better teams made it nearly impossible to see the positive in.
Which is why I caused a commotion the first time I kicked a field goal in practice. It was one of the first practices of the year, taking place weeks before school started That year’s senior class was smaller than usual and some of the boys were still taking part in the harvest so I was one of the eighth graders who was asked to fill in for those who were missing. I was screwing around with some friends afterwards while waiting for my mom to pick me up. We were punting the ball to each other when I got the idea I wanted to try kicking a field goal.
My friend Johnny took one knee dead on to the uprights about twenty yards downfield, I stood a few steps back like I’d seen on television and he faked receiving the snap. I stepped forward, planted my off foot and swung my kicking leg. My foot made the sound of a baseball slapping your glove and the ball flew through the air straight over the crossbar. Johnny stood up and lifted me into the air as I raised my arms above my head in celebration. A coach had seen what I’d done and asked me to kick another one from the same spot. By the time my mom arrived, I was the team’s placekicker.
And I was the placekicker the next five years. I was a natural at it. Johnny would take the snap from the center, he would set it down and, like that first time, I would send it over the crossbar. At first, I would also mimic my celebration from that very first time but then my field goals became commonplace.
Since we were still the smaller school in all our games we didn’t score many touchdowns and I was called on to score most of our points. Our final scores would range from close 10-6 losses to 44-15 blowouts. Occasionally a team would let us hang around at 6-6 or 12-12 and there would be an audible murmur in the crowd. It didn’t even phase me that they were all thinking if we could just get in range with almost no time left, I could kick the winning field goal. I knew if it came to that I could and would do it. Then the bigger school would wake up and we’d be looking up at another loss on the scoreboard. I finally graduated in the spring of ‘86 and went away to college responsible for the most points in my high school’s entire football history.
Slowly the nearby metropolis crept closer and closer via urban sprawl and finally absorbed it into the megalopolis itself. My hometown went from being a farm town to a suburb and families with children moved into upright developments with cul-de-sacs. Around the time my parents finally sold their house and moved away, one of the children of one of those families broke my record. The influx of kids made our team competitive and we were holding our own against our rivals. He took a handoff from the quarterback, turned right and ran untouched into the endzone.
The game was stopped, the public address announcer asked for a round of applause for me and I walked out onto the field with the head coach and the school principal to congratulate the young man. He took off his helmet, shook my hand and someone took a picture of all four of us. There was more applause as the four of us left the field and the rest of the team went on with the game. He could take the time to hug his mother because we were now a large enough school to have fresh substitutes. Chances are he didn't even play baseball in the spring.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Liar - Reverse Mortgage Pt. 1
The Liar
By Mark Anderson
I have never been comfortable
with the phrase "to be honest"
as if by not saying it
before or after
whatever it is I'm saying
is a lie
Then again, what do I know?
I lie all the time
Reverse Mortgage
By Michael Herman
This morning I was sitting in the breakroom doing the crossword. It was the USA Today puzzle, not the New York Times. The clues aren’t as difficult but considering I’m a scavenger I can hardly be choosy. It, at the very least, gives me the sense of accomplishment of being able to finish it. Sometimes I have to quit the Times or take the puzzle back to my desk to look up answers on the Internet. I’d feel worse about it if it weren’t just idle pursuit.
“Excuse me,” the short squat one said. “We need your help.”
I looked up from number 39 down “It may be about a foot”, four letters. There were three of them. The oldest looked to be in her fifties. The next one was in her forties. She’d asked the question. The last one stood there meekly. She looked to be about nineteen years old. Something about the general similarity of their appearance made me think they were related.
“Shoe,” I said out loud. “S-H-O-E, shoe.”
I penciled the letters into the boxes and turned my attention back to the trio.
“Okay,” I said. “What can I help you with?”
“We need to know about mortgages.”
Someone had apparently told these three about my previous job prospecting sub-prime mortgages before the big crash happened. Four years ago I would’ve considered this a hot lead, people who approached me. Now I wondered what use I could be to them.
“Sure, I know a few things about them. What do you need to know?”
“We were just watching the television,” said the fifty-ish one. “We heard about reverse mortgages and they said they were for old people. What are they?”
I’d been someone who had prospected sub-prime mortgages. What that mean was then, just like now, I was really good at getting people to believe in me, even if I was just talking out of my ass. I straightened my posture and leaned forward on the edge of the table.
“I’m not sure. Why would you need one?”
I was using a trick I’d used in those heady days. It was less important for me to answer a question than to find out what the person I was talking to wanted in the end. Back in the day, of course, I would subtly steer them towards wanting a three-year ARM. Now I was just genuinely interested.
The three of them looked at each other. They all knew why they would be asking me this question. In their mind, they would come to me to get the information, take that information and then make their decision. What they were asking each other now was how much they should let on, how much I should be allowed to know about their decision. The fifty-ish one was the first to speak.
“It’s our mother…” she said.
“Shhhh,” said the young one.
The fifty-ish one held her hand up to nullify her objection.
“It is our mother. She is very sick and she cannot pay her medical bills. The man in the commercial said a reverse mortgage was a good way to pay for outstanding medical bills.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Well, I don’t know that much about them. Is it okay if I talk to someone who might and then get back to you?”
Again, I was using a technique from my earlier career. I knew exactly what I was going to do was go look up “reverse mortgages” on the Internet and read all about them until I felt I had a handle on what they are and what their pitfalls were. In a real pinch, I might even actually call someone who knew about them like my dad or one of his banker friends. The point was when I came back, my opinion would carry much more authority because I’d “talked to someone who knows about this sort of thing” and they’d “told” me what I was going to say anyway. This established trust which I would then use to guide people on to the next level.
They all looked inward at each other. Again they were deciding how much I, a complete stranger, would be allowed to help them make their decision. I could tell this was something which had caused their family a great deal of stress for a long time coming and they were running out of options and feeling desperate. Nothing was off the table for them and yet they were probably wary from seeing other better options turn bad. I’m sure it even occurred to them to just go look it up on the Internet themselves.
“Okay,” the squat, forty-ish one said finally. “We want to know what you can find out.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll let you know what I find. What are your names?”
They told me their names and I stood up to leave. Ten minutes and a stop at the bathroom later, I was back at my desk and logged into the worldwide Internet. I called up a browser window and typed in the words “reverse mortgage.”
to be continued
By Mark Anderson
I have never been comfortable
with the phrase "to be honest"
as if by not saying it
before or after
whatever it is I'm saying
is a lie
Then again, what do I know?
I lie all the time
Reverse Mortgage
By Michael Herman
This morning I was sitting in the breakroom doing the crossword. It was the USA Today puzzle, not the New York Times. The clues aren’t as difficult but considering I’m a scavenger I can hardly be choosy. It, at the very least, gives me the sense of accomplishment of being able to finish it. Sometimes I have to quit the Times or take the puzzle back to my desk to look up answers on the Internet. I’d feel worse about it if it weren’t just idle pursuit.
“Excuse me,” the short squat one said. “We need your help.”
I looked up from number 39 down “It may be about a foot”, four letters. There were three of them. The oldest looked to be in her fifties. The next one was in her forties. She’d asked the question. The last one stood there meekly. She looked to be about nineteen years old. Something about the general similarity of their appearance made me think they were related.
“Shoe,” I said out loud. “S-H-O-E, shoe.”
I penciled the letters into the boxes and turned my attention back to the trio.
“Okay,” I said. “What can I help you with?”
“We need to know about mortgages.”
Someone had apparently told these three about my previous job prospecting sub-prime mortgages before the big crash happened. Four years ago I would’ve considered this a hot lead, people who approached me. Now I wondered what use I could be to them.
“Sure, I know a few things about them. What do you need to know?”
“We were just watching the television,” said the fifty-ish one. “We heard about reverse mortgages and they said they were for old people. What are they?”
I’d been someone who had prospected sub-prime mortgages. What that mean was then, just like now, I was really good at getting people to believe in me, even if I was just talking out of my ass. I straightened my posture and leaned forward on the edge of the table.
“I’m not sure. Why would you need one?”
I was using a trick I’d used in those heady days. It was less important for me to answer a question than to find out what the person I was talking to wanted in the end. Back in the day, of course, I would subtly steer them towards wanting a three-year ARM. Now I was just genuinely interested.
The three of them looked at each other. They all knew why they would be asking me this question. In their mind, they would come to me to get the information, take that information and then make their decision. What they were asking each other now was how much they should let on, how much I should be allowed to know about their decision. The fifty-ish one was the first to speak.
“It’s our mother…” she said.
“Shhhh,” said the young one.
The fifty-ish one held her hand up to nullify her objection.
“It is our mother. She is very sick and she cannot pay her medical bills. The man in the commercial said a reverse mortgage was a good way to pay for outstanding medical bills.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Well, I don’t know that much about them. Is it okay if I talk to someone who might and then get back to you?”
Again, I was using a technique from my earlier career. I knew exactly what I was going to do was go look up “reverse mortgages” on the Internet and read all about them until I felt I had a handle on what they are and what their pitfalls were. In a real pinch, I might even actually call someone who knew about them like my dad or one of his banker friends. The point was when I came back, my opinion would carry much more authority because I’d “talked to someone who knows about this sort of thing” and they’d “told” me what I was going to say anyway. This established trust which I would then use to guide people on to the next level.
They all looked inward at each other. Again they were deciding how much I, a complete stranger, would be allowed to help them make their decision. I could tell this was something which had caused their family a great deal of stress for a long time coming and they were running out of options and feeling desperate. Nothing was off the table for them and yet they were probably wary from seeing other better options turn bad. I’m sure it even occurred to them to just go look it up on the Internet themselves.
“Okay,” the squat, forty-ish one said finally. “We want to know what you can find out.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll let you know what I find. What are your names?”
They told me their names and I stood up to leave. Ten minutes and a stop at the bathroom later, I was back at my desk and logged into the worldwide Internet. I called up a browser window and typed in the words “reverse mortgage.”
to be continued
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Katzenjammer - I Am The Electron Pt. 1
(Let's just pretend this went up last night after work. Didn't have time to type it up then.)
Katzenjammer
By Mark Anderson
Heaven only knows
why one loves it so.
I would stand up
but my right foot is asleep.
Sometimes
insurance commercials
break my heart.
I Am The Electron
By Michael Herman
The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle is one of the most misunderstood scientific theories of our time, on par with evolution or global warming. Don't know it by name? That's okay and kind of proves my point in a way.
The Uncertainty Principle states on a sub-atomic level we can know either a particle's location or its velocity but not both. Most who misuse it utilize it as a way to explain away indefinite situations. It's a lot easier to think a confusing situation is simply unknowable than to dig deeper. This is not what Uncertainty is about at all. There's actually a mechanical reason we can know one or the other but not both.
Let me back up just a bit. We see things because it either emits light or reflects it. In most cases, it is the latter. We see the red of the rose because light hits the petals and all of the different wavelengths are absorbed except the ones out eyes see as red. The red wavelengths are reflected into our eye, our ocular nerve converts it into electrical code and our brain decodes it as "RED." The way we see subatomic particles is the same. A scientist fires a little bit of light at the particle, the light reflects or absorbs on to a piece of film and the scientist decodes what is on the film as "ELECTRON."
The problem is the invisible wavelengths used to see subatomic particles get really powerful quickly. To see exactly where an electron is, the wave has to be focused in such a high frequency it will knock the electron off its course. You know its exact location but instantly lose it in the process. Alternately we can use a lower power, lower frequency wavelength which tells us the general area the particle falls in without disturbing it. By comparing two of these snapshots, we can follow its general movement and therefore determine its general velocity in a "It was kind of over here and now it's kind of over here," way.
to be continued
Katzenjammer
By Mark Anderson
Heaven only knows
why one loves it so.
I would stand up
but my right foot is asleep.
Sometimes
insurance commercials
break my heart.
I Am The Electron
By Michael Herman
The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle is one of the most misunderstood scientific theories of our time, on par with evolution or global warming. Don't know it by name? That's okay and kind of proves my point in a way.
The Uncertainty Principle states on a sub-atomic level we can know either a particle's location or its velocity but not both. Most who misuse it utilize it as a way to explain away indefinite situations. It's a lot easier to think a confusing situation is simply unknowable than to dig deeper. This is not what Uncertainty is about at all. There's actually a mechanical reason we can know one or the other but not both.
Let me back up just a bit. We see things because it either emits light or reflects it. In most cases, it is the latter. We see the red of the rose because light hits the petals and all of the different wavelengths are absorbed except the ones out eyes see as red. The red wavelengths are reflected into our eye, our ocular nerve converts it into electrical code and our brain decodes it as "RED." The way we see subatomic particles is the same. A scientist fires a little bit of light at the particle, the light reflects or absorbs on to a piece of film and the scientist decodes what is on the film as "ELECTRON."
The problem is the invisible wavelengths used to see subatomic particles get really powerful quickly. To see exactly where an electron is, the wave has to be focused in such a high frequency it will knock the electron off its course. You know its exact location but instantly lose it in the process. Alternately we can use a lower power, lower frequency wavelength which tells us the general area the particle falls in without disturbing it. By comparing two of these snapshots, we can follow its general movement and therefore determine its general velocity in a "It was kind of over here and now it's kind of over here," way.
to be continued
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Five Greeting Card Messages I Never See in Stores - Exchange
Five Greeting Card Messages I Never See in Stores
By Mark Anderson
Happy Birthday
I'm only giving you this card so you won't complain
about not getting anything from me.
Anniversary
Wow. That felt a lot longer than a year, didn't it?
Going Away
I'd say I'll miss you but we'll probably talk more
now that you're leaving.
Graduation
I gave the cash to your parents for safe keeping.
Sympathy
While I'm sorry to hear about your husband's death,
I think we all know he had it coming.
Exchange
By Michael Herman
I'm twenty-three years old and I'm sitting in front of the television. The program I'm watching is the popular sports highlight program and they're showing players just a little younger than me playing basketball. A nineteen year old is dunking the ball over a twenty-one year old when I get a very common feeling. I realize I've never dunked a basketball in my life and now that I'm past my physical peak I probably never will.
I'm twenty-five years old and I'm talking on the phone with my mother. She's telling me about my father like she normally does and I start to listen not to what she's saying but how she sounds as she says it. Her stern, ringing voive which would scold me as a child has disappeared and been replaced by a much quieter and frail voice. As I wonder if she's always used that voice with other people, she stops to take a long breath. I interrupt her story.
"I love you, Mom."
I'm twenty years old and I've snuck into a campus bar with my friends. Now it seems less impressive and I should've recognized a number of kids from my class who were also there. At the time though I'm very nervous and expecting to be caught any minute. My friend who is twenty-one years old puts his hand on my shoulder. I jump slightly.
"Hey, man. Loosen up. Enjoy yourself. No one cares."
I'm twenty-eight years old and I'm at work in my cubicle. My boos has me re-typing a report I wrote six months ago. She's given me plenty of time to basically take out the stats from then and replace them with the stats from now. I may change the way some of it fits together. Changes I would've made if I hadn't rushed it the first time. Otherwise I'm bored and wonder if anyone who will read this report cares.
I'm twenty-seven years old and I'm at the gym. I've been running on the treadmill and I can feel my cotton t-shirt sticking to the small of my back. On my way to the lockerroom I pass the basketball courts. The men, many ten years younger than me, move in quick spasms and one gets past his defender with the ball. He takes two steps to get into the air and puts the ball lightly off the glass and it falls into the hoop.
"Next time, dunk that!" one of his teammates screams.
He smiles and runs back on defense. I wonder if he can or ever could.
I'm twenty-five years old and I tell my mom I love her. She stops what she's talking about and takes a deep breath.
"I love you too."
By Mark Anderson
Happy Birthday
I'm only giving you this card so you won't complain
about not getting anything from me.
Anniversary
Wow. That felt a lot longer than a year, didn't it?
Going Away
I'd say I'll miss you but we'll probably talk more
now that you're leaving.
Graduation
I gave the cash to your parents for safe keeping.
Sympathy
While I'm sorry to hear about your husband's death,
I think we all know he had it coming.
Exchange
By Michael Herman
I'm twenty-three years old and I'm sitting in front of the television. The program I'm watching is the popular sports highlight program and they're showing players just a little younger than me playing basketball. A nineteen year old is dunking the ball over a twenty-one year old when I get a very common feeling. I realize I've never dunked a basketball in my life and now that I'm past my physical peak I probably never will.
I'm twenty-five years old and I'm talking on the phone with my mother. She's telling me about my father like she normally does and I start to listen not to what she's saying but how she sounds as she says it. Her stern, ringing voive which would scold me as a child has disappeared and been replaced by a much quieter and frail voice. As I wonder if she's always used that voice with other people, she stops to take a long breath. I interrupt her story.
"I love you, Mom."
I'm twenty years old and I've snuck into a campus bar with my friends. Now it seems less impressive and I should've recognized a number of kids from my class who were also there. At the time though I'm very nervous and expecting to be caught any minute. My friend who is twenty-one years old puts his hand on my shoulder. I jump slightly.
"Hey, man. Loosen up. Enjoy yourself. No one cares."
I'm twenty-eight years old and I'm at work in my cubicle. My boos has me re-typing a report I wrote six months ago. She's given me plenty of time to basically take out the stats from then and replace them with the stats from now. I may change the way some of it fits together. Changes I would've made if I hadn't rushed it the first time. Otherwise I'm bored and wonder if anyone who will read this report cares.
I'm twenty-seven years old and I'm at the gym. I've been running on the treadmill and I can feel my cotton t-shirt sticking to the small of my back. On my way to the lockerroom I pass the basketball courts. The men, many ten years younger than me, move in quick spasms and one gets past his defender with the ball. He takes two steps to get into the air and puts the ball lightly off the glass and it falls into the hoop.
"Next time, dunk that!" one of his teammates screams.
He smiles and runs back on defense. I wonder if he can or ever could.
I'm twenty-five years old and I tell my mom I love her. She stops what she's talking about and takes a deep breath.
"I love you too."
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Imaginary Boyfriend - Chin Up
Imaginary Boyfriend
by Mark Anderson
You know who I'm talking about.
That man you met ten years ago on the train
whose deep brown eyes asked you to dinner,
whose soft-yet-strong hands tracked your every move,
touching your back as he took off your coat,
grazing your cheek as he wiped away a crumb of cake,
whose lips later unfolded you
like an origami box.
Before he asked you to stay,
you had already left the building,
skidding across the ice to your train,
a nonstop, one-way trip
homebound,
safebound,
where the love you claimed you needed,
golden and engraved,
framed easily on the mantel.
Now, as the embers cool each night,
everyone tucked their beds,
you close your eyes and decide
next time you'll stay.
Chin Up
by Michael Herman
He was just hanging there when I first came upon him. I noticed how thin he looked. His shoulders were no wider than his hips and his coal black hair gave him the appearance of a burnt match. If he had been pushed around by larger men for his entire life it wouldn’t surprise me.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
He responded with silence. His focus seemed transfixed on holding his grip and his thin arms held his slight weight completely motionless. His eyes weren’t closed though and I’d seen them turn slightly in my direction when I spoke. I knew he’d heard me so I tried to speak to him again.
“Excuse me,” I said louder. “What are you doing?
“I’m doing pull-ups,” he said quietly.
It was at this point I realized his feet were crossed. I don’t know what additional benefit it offered him except he didn’t need to think what to do with his feet. He could just pull himself up and not worry about touching the ground.
“I’m doing pull ups in sets of 20 and I’m resting between sets.”
“You do them in sets of 20?”
“Yup. I do them in sets of 20.”
“How many sets have you done?”
“So far I’ve done 3 sets. Now excuse me for just a minute.”
His arms began to move and through his shirt I could see his shoulders tense. My initial impression of him as a slight and wiry man was unfounded. He was thin, that was undeniable. Close to his frame his muscles hid as though each had a secret compartment for it to be stored until its utility was needed. I stood admiring him while he lifted his chin to his hands twenty times in rapid succession. Slowly he lowered himself into the hanging position I’d found him in.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Please.”
“Why are you doing pull-ups here?
“I suppose you think it’s odd because this is not a place where you would usually find someone doing them. I do them here at the bus stop because I have a long wait and I want to be efficient with my time.”
I didn’t know which impressed me more: that he had given me such a well-thought and lucid answer or that had not broken the concentration he used to hold his grip.
“Why?”
He set his feet on the ground and lowered his arms from their locked positions. I briefly pondered how I was talking to a stranger and, though I had the best of intentions, my questions may be an annoyance to him. He squared his shoulders with mine and his gaze fixed quickly upon my feet.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’ve learned the hard way to be prepared for whatever comes your way. And on top of that, I don’t want to believe I am prepared for something only to find years of misuse had left me not able to meet my opponent.”
He looked up briefly and caught his eye in mine. Then he turned back to his work and reached his hands up.
“It most frustrates me I must think of the world as my opponent and that I must be prepared to defeat it.”
With that he stepped off his feet and his knuckles flushed to pale white. He hung briefly as he regained his composure and again I watched as he lifted his chin to his hands twenty times in rapid succession.
by Mark Anderson
You know who I'm talking about.
That man you met ten years ago on the train
whose deep brown eyes asked you to dinner,
whose soft-yet-strong hands tracked your every move,
touching your back as he took off your coat,
grazing your cheek as he wiped away a crumb of cake,
whose lips later unfolded you
like an origami box.
Before he asked you to stay,
you had already left the building,
skidding across the ice to your train,
a nonstop, one-way trip
homebound,
safebound,
where the love you claimed you needed,
golden and engraved,
framed easily on the mantel.
Now, as the embers cool each night,
everyone tucked their beds,
you close your eyes and decide
next time you'll stay.
Chin Up
by Michael Herman
He was just hanging there when I first came upon him. I noticed how thin he looked. His shoulders were no wider than his hips and his coal black hair gave him the appearance of a burnt match. If he had been pushed around by larger men for his entire life it wouldn’t surprise me.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
He responded with silence. His focus seemed transfixed on holding his grip and his thin arms held his slight weight completely motionless. His eyes weren’t closed though and I’d seen them turn slightly in my direction when I spoke. I knew he’d heard me so I tried to speak to him again.
“Excuse me,” I said louder. “What are you doing?
“I’m doing pull-ups,” he said quietly.
It was at this point I realized his feet were crossed. I don’t know what additional benefit it offered him except he didn’t need to think what to do with his feet. He could just pull himself up and not worry about touching the ground.
“I’m doing pull ups in sets of 20 and I’m resting between sets.”
“You do them in sets of 20?”
“Yup. I do them in sets of 20.”
“How many sets have you done?”
“So far I’ve done 3 sets. Now excuse me for just a minute.”
His arms began to move and through his shirt I could see his shoulders tense. My initial impression of him as a slight and wiry man was unfounded. He was thin, that was undeniable. Close to his frame his muscles hid as though each had a secret compartment for it to be stored until its utility was needed. I stood admiring him while he lifted his chin to his hands twenty times in rapid succession. Slowly he lowered himself into the hanging position I’d found him in.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Please.”
“Why are you doing pull-ups here?
“I suppose you think it’s odd because this is not a place where you would usually find someone doing them. I do them here at the bus stop because I have a long wait and I want to be efficient with my time.”
I didn’t know which impressed me more: that he had given me such a well-thought and lucid answer or that had not broken the concentration he used to hold his grip.
“Why?”
He set his feet on the ground and lowered his arms from their locked positions. I briefly pondered how I was talking to a stranger and, though I had the best of intentions, my questions may be an annoyance to him. He squared his shoulders with mine and his gaze fixed quickly upon my feet.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’ve learned the hard way to be prepared for whatever comes your way. And on top of that, I don’t want to believe I am prepared for something only to find years of misuse had left me not able to meet my opponent.”
He looked up briefly and caught his eye in mine. Then he turned back to his work and reached his hands up.
“It most frustrates me I must think of the world as my opponent and that I must be prepared to defeat it.”
With that he stepped off his feet and his knuckles flushed to pale white. He hung briefly as he regained his composure and again I watched as he lifted his chin to his hands twenty times in rapid succession.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Otherwise - 54682
Otherwise
after Jane Kenyon
By Mark Anderson
I woke up this morning
feeling refreshed and clear.
It has lately been otherwise.
I guzzled a liter of water
while brewing the coffee.
It has lately been otherwise.
I drove you to work and missed you
the moment you left the car.
It has lately been otherwise.
54682
By Michael Herman
Harry Phillips sat down for a game of dice. It was a game of his own invention and the rules were simple. There were two die and Harry would start the game by setting a goal number. Sometimes it was a high number and sometimes it was a low number. He would then continue to roll the dice for multiple turns. If their total was more than the goal number, he won. If their total was less than the goal number, he lost. In the case of equaling the goal, he simply rolled again. Since he was playing alone, it was what he did anyway. Harry was simple like the rules of the game so he thought it would amuse him.
However he had not won the game in nearly thirty years. Every night since May 5th, 1967, when he was both younger and more inclined to believe in chance, Harry sat down at his kitchen table after his wife went to bed and began rolling the die. He would roll them repeatedly onto one of his wife’s woven placemats to dampen the sound. Over and over and over until he reached the point of exhaustion. Without fail, he would lose the game of his own construction.
At first he thought it had something to do with the dice. The dice he used were worn from years of playing the game. All of the edges were rounded off and they would often take many more additional tumbles than a new pair. You could even tell the faces of the die were wearing away because of how shallow the dots were becoming.
His suspicion was unfounded. The condition of the dice was the same when he rolled the initial goal number as when he was rolling each successive time. For all intents and purposes, they were the exact same conditions except with a consistently different result. The same went for the placemat, the table, the chair he sat in, how he sat, how he rolled the dice, etc. In each case, the conditions were the same and even the introduction of new variables like sitting more upright after setting the goal had no effect.
The next thing he investigated was if it was something not obvious which was affecting the game. Harry was never superstitious and in fact had faithfully attended church every Sunday with his wife since they were first married. In his mind, if there was anyone who deserved the Good Lord’s favor, it was him. Still it nagged at him and he tried different things which may or may not have an unknown influence on the dice. He tried thinking of the result he wanted as he rolled. He didn’t look at the dice as they tumbled. He tried holding his breath as he rolled. Each technique was tested hundreds of times and each time the result was a loss.
Finally he gave up trying to figure out the cause and believed he could figure it out by just observing. There was something there which he simply hadn’t noticed yet. Only by the close and considered playing of the game could he figure out the root of the anomalous results. So he continued to play well after like-minded people would’ve given up and taken on new amusement.
Earlier tonight he had again waited until his wife grew tired and retired to their bedroom. She had a routine of her own and he knew to wait until she washed her face, brushed her teeth and came to give him a good-night kiss. Like every night since October 23rd, 1971 he pretended to read the newspaper in his favorite easy chair while she rattled around in the bathroom. Originally he had actually read the paper and it had occurred to him at some point in 1969 to check if there was something special about the last date he’d won the game as if he were a part of a larger phenomenon. When he found nothing of note and no pattern emerged from the news stories he read, the paper became a prop to his ruse.
“Good night, Harry,” his wife said as she crossed the living room. “Come to bed soon.”
She kissed him and Harry smiled a compact smile at her. He made no noise and she returned across the same path which carried her into the room. Once he heard her weight press down into their queen-sized bed, he folded his paper nicely and carried it to the mudroom to be stacked atop the other newspapers for recycling. After rescuing the dice from the family Monopoly game, Harry sat in his usual chair at the kitchen table where he could see the door to the bedroom. He placed the woven placemat in its usual configuration wider than it was tall and shook the dice to set the goal number.
Nine.
Harry knew there were five combinations which could win against a nine. He could get two fives, two sixes, and either a four or five and a six. At first he was reassured by getting a higher number as the goal. The lower numbers were more frustrating. At least with a higher number, there were fewer opportunities to win so it simply followed the cause was just that there were fewer chances to win and that’s why he wasn’t winning. That theory went out the window when his losing streak extended well beyond when the law of averages should’ve entered in and given him a win. Now he abhorred the higher numbers. He wanted the best chance to win and rolling a nine gave him a lessened chance of winning.
He took the dice into his hand again and rolled them onto the mat.
Five.
He rolled again.
Four
He rolled.
Six.
Again.
Eight.
Again.
Two.
after Jane Kenyon
By Mark Anderson
I woke up this morning
feeling refreshed and clear.
It has lately been otherwise.
I guzzled a liter of water
while brewing the coffee.
It has lately been otherwise.
I drove you to work and missed you
the moment you left the car.
It has lately been otherwise.
54682
By Michael Herman
Harry Phillips sat down for a game of dice. It was a game of his own invention and the rules were simple. There were two die and Harry would start the game by setting a goal number. Sometimes it was a high number and sometimes it was a low number. He would then continue to roll the dice for multiple turns. If their total was more than the goal number, he won. If their total was less than the goal number, he lost. In the case of equaling the goal, he simply rolled again. Since he was playing alone, it was what he did anyway. Harry was simple like the rules of the game so he thought it would amuse him.
However he had not won the game in nearly thirty years. Every night since May 5th, 1967, when he was both younger and more inclined to believe in chance, Harry sat down at his kitchen table after his wife went to bed and began rolling the die. He would roll them repeatedly onto one of his wife’s woven placemats to dampen the sound. Over and over and over until he reached the point of exhaustion. Without fail, he would lose the game of his own construction.
At first he thought it had something to do with the dice. The dice he used were worn from years of playing the game. All of the edges were rounded off and they would often take many more additional tumbles than a new pair. You could even tell the faces of the die were wearing away because of how shallow the dots were becoming.
His suspicion was unfounded. The condition of the dice was the same when he rolled the initial goal number as when he was rolling each successive time. For all intents and purposes, they were the exact same conditions except with a consistently different result. The same went for the placemat, the table, the chair he sat in, how he sat, how he rolled the dice, etc. In each case, the conditions were the same and even the introduction of new variables like sitting more upright after setting the goal had no effect.
The next thing he investigated was if it was something not obvious which was affecting the game. Harry was never superstitious and in fact had faithfully attended church every Sunday with his wife since they were first married. In his mind, if there was anyone who deserved the Good Lord’s favor, it was him. Still it nagged at him and he tried different things which may or may not have an unknown influence on the dice. He tried thinking of the result he wanted as he rolled. He didn’t look at the dice as they tumbled. He tried holding his breath as he rolled. Each technique was tested hundreds of times and each time the result was a loss.
Finally he gave up trying to figure out the cause and believed he could figure it out by just observing. There was something there which he simply hadn’t noticed yet. Only by the close and considered playing of the game could he figure out the root of the anomalous results. So he continued to play well after like-minded people would’ve given up and taken on new amusement.
Earlier tonight he had again waited until his wife grew tired and retired to their bedroom. She had a routine of her own and he knew to wait until she washed her face, brushed her teeth and came to give him a good-night kiss. Like every night since October 23rd, 1971 he pretended to read the newspaper in his favorite easy chair while she rattled around in the bathroom. Originally he had actually read the paper and it had occurred to him at some point in 1969 to check if there was something special about the last date he’d won the game as if he were a part of a larger phenomenon. When he found nothing of note and no pattern emerged from the news stories he read, the paper became a prop to his ruse.
“Good night, Harry,” his wife said as she crossed the living room. “Come to bed soon.”
She kissed him and Harry smiled a compact smile at her. He made no noise and she returned across the same path which carried her into the room. Once he heard her weight press down into their queen-sized bed, he folded his paper nicely and carried it to the mudroom to be stacked atop the other newspapers for recycling. After rescuing the dice from the family Monopoly game, Harry sat in his usual chair at the kitchen table where he could see the door to the bedroom. He placed the woven placemat in its usual configuration wider than it was tall and shook the dice to set the goal number.
Nine.
Harry knew there were five combinations which could win against a nine. He could get two fives, two sixes, and either a four or five and a six. At first he was reassured by getting a higher number as the goal. The lower numbers were more frustrating. At least with a higher number, there were fewer opportunities to win so it simply followed the cause was just that there were fewer chances to win and that’s why he wasn’t winning. That theory went out the window when his losing streak extended well beyond when the law of averages should’ve entered in and given him a win. Now he abhorred the higher numbers. He wanted the best chance to win and rolling a nine gave him a lessened chance of winning.
He took the dice into his hand again and rolled them onto the mat.
Five.
He rolled again.
Four
He rolled.
Six.
Again.
Eight.
Again.
Two.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Ice - Pierre
Ice
by Mark Anderson
I once fell through the ice
in the marshy pond behind the house.
We - Mike and I - both fell in and I
remember scrambling myself out and looking
back to see Mike scrambling, too.
I didn't go back to help him. I ran home.
My mom - who was on the phone -
told me to undress and take a shower.
Mike called me later, so I went over to his house
to watch Clash of the Titans.
Pierre
by Michael Herman
He looked up from his notes.
“Is there a more French name than Pierre?”
“Marianne.”
“No, a French male name.”
“Napoleon.”
“No, that was one specific guy who was French. If anything it sounds like that one Italian ice cream.”
“Neapolitan.”
“Yes.”
“I guess I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean a name which could only be a French guy’s name like Pierre or Jacque or something like that.”
“Well, there are guys who aren’t French named Pierre and Jacque.”
“Fuck off. Like who?”
“There’s a guy named Pierre Garcon who plays wide receiver for the Colts. And Jacque Vaughn played point guard at Kansas and in the NBA.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “Are they from Louisiana or something?”
“I don’t know really. I guess I don’t know that much about either of them.”
We went silent for a while. He went back to prepping his notes and I went back to looking out the window instead of prepping mine.
“I thought about your question,” I said thus breaking the silence.
“The one about the French name?”
“Yes, that one. I thought of the most French name I could think of.
“Okay, what is it?”
“Guy.”
“Gi?”
“Yeah, Guy. Like Guy de Maupassant.”
“Gie Day Maw-Paw-Saw?”
“Yeah, he was a French writer at the turn of the Twentieth Century. He used to eat in the restaurant at the base of the Eiffel Tower because he hated looking at it.”
I knew this is where I started sounding pedantic and condescending. Being a know-it-all is a trait which earns you praise as a child and scorn as an adult.
“It’s spelled G-U-Y but pronounced G-ee. Guy.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“I think since it looks like a word in English but is a name pronounced a different way in French that makes it distinctly a French name. There‘s no English equivalent either.”
“Hmm.”
It was his stupid question and he wasn’t even paying attention.
“Do you not agree with me?”
“Nope,” he said returning to his notes. “I still think it’s Pierre.”
“You still think it’s Pierre?”
“Yup, I still think it’s Pierre.”
We resumed our silence.
by Mark Anderson
I once fell through the ice
in the marshy pond behind the house.
We - Mike and I - both fell in and I
remember scrambling myself out and looking
back to see Mike scrambling, too.
I didn't go back to help him. I ran home.
My mom - who was on the phone -
told me to undress and take a shower.
Mike called me later, so I went over to his house
to watch Clash of the Titans.
Pierre
by Michael Herman
He looked up from his notes.
“Is there a more French name than Pierre?”
“Marianne.”
“No, a French male name.”
“Napoleon.”
“No, that was one specific guy who was French. If anything it sounds like that one Italian ice cream.”
“Neapolitan.”
“Yes.”
“I guess I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean a name which could only be a French guy’s name like Pierre or Jacque or something like that.”
“Well, there are guys who aren’t French named Pierre and Jacque.”
“Fuck off. Like who?”
“There’s a guy named Pierre Garcon who plays wide receiver for the Colts. And Jacque Vaughn played point guard at Kansas and in the NBA.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “Are they from Louisiana or something?”
“I don’t know really. I guess I don’t know that much about either of them.”
We went silent for a while. He went back to prepping his notes and I went back to looking out the window instead of prepping mine.
“I thought about your question,” I said thus breaking the silence.
“The one about the French name?”
“Yes, that one. I thought of the most French name I could think of.
“Okay, what is it?”
“Guy.”
“Gi?”
“Yeah, Guy. Like Guy de Maupassant.”
“Gie Day Maw-Paw-Saw?”
“Yeah, he was a French writer at the turn of the Twentieth Century. He used to eat in the restaurant at the base of the Eiffel Tower because he hated looking at it.”
I knew this is where I started sounding pedantic and condescending. Being a know-it-all is a trait which earns you praise as a child and scorn as an adult.
“It’s spelled G-U-Y but pronounced G-ee. Guy.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“I think since it looks like a word in English but is a name pronounced a different way in French that makes it distinctly a French name. There‘s no English equivalent either.”
“Hmm.”
It was his stupid question and he wasn’t even paying attention.
“Do you not agree with me?”
“Nope,” he said returning to his notes. “I still think it’s Pierre.”
“You still think it’s Pierre?”
“Yup, I still think it’s Pierre.”
We resumed our silence.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
London - Boston Marathon
London
by Mark Anderson
In London, I lived with an Indian,
an Australian, a Spaniard and two brothers -
Irishmen, one of which,
a lanky ginger whose accent brought tears to my eyes,
taught me to ride
the fine line between lust and love.
I showed up late to class each morning
wearing the same clothes I'd worn the night before
at the pubs and clubs,
unwavering and undisturbed,
as if the whole world were mine
because it was.
Boston Marathon
by Michael Herman
In 1978, a little known runner from Charlotte named John Rettle ran The Boston Marathon for the first time. He had been a long-distance runner in high school and, following one uneventful semester at college, he returned to his parents home in Charlotte with his suitcase in hand. Some things were whispered at first about his prompt return amongst the people who knew his parents and knew his family.
The Rettles were held in high esteem amongst the neighborhood going back to his great-grandfather’s arrival previous to the McKinley Administration. They were a well-read family of altruists initially and then also philanthropists once they had established themselves in the community. There was even talk of one of John’s grandfather’s brothers running for statewide office before everyone realize the world of politics is no place to waste a man of such high moral fiber. That one of their kind failed to live up to the over large expectations of the family, both internally and without, was grounds for much consternation.
The women of the community asked each other what could have gone wrong with that boy. Was it a girl who broke his heart? Could he have gotten mixed into the wrong group of people so far away from his home and his family? Perhaps this was a wider-spread problem. It was entirely possible this new generation of Rettles were not made of the same stuff as their predecessors. The modest wealth the family had acquired was making this newest batch of world-beaters into the intellectual equivalent of wet mush. John was the eldest of his generation and, though no one was willing to out-and-out speculate, those who followed him in age didn’t seem to have the same streak which had carried their family to the top.
That talk faded as soon as there were new topics to discuss such as racial integration of the schools and such. John had taken common jobs in the community and the other members of his generation went on to do things worthy of their family heritage. His brother became a prominent doctor with a procedure named after him while his second cousin went into science and worked for the government as a part of The Rand Corporation. By the time three different families lost sons in Vietnam during the same week, John was a mere afterthought. The cashier at the grocery store still smiled at him but that was because she was still young and he was still handsome.
Now, as he stood at the starting line in Hopkinton, Mass at thirty-two years of age, John could feel the weight of expectation hanging on him still. He looked to his left and right seeing other runners had prepared for the brisk New England April by wearing sweatshirts and he wondered if he made the right decision to run in just shorts and a tank top. This was the first time he’d run long distance since high school and it seemed both regular and foreign to him. There was no way of knowing how his body would react now that he was much older and since he had not trained. Slowly the other runners shed their extra gear, handed them to loved ones and took final calls of encouragement. Noone had traveled to Boston with John simply because he hadn’t told anyone. He wanted to come to them at the end and after it was all over with news of what he’d accomplished.
With a ready-set-gunshot, the race began and muscle memory took over. The regular switch and gate of his earlier years returned to him and he glided through the crowd of runners in front of him. By the end of the first mile the elite men runners had left him behind and most of the elite women runners had by the end of the fourth mile. But John remained ahead of the majority of the pack and he could feel the air around him heat as he passed through it. It was the greatest moment of his life.
Slowly the younger runners who had paced themselves gained on and then passed him. It was around mile ten the first one zipped by him like a lithe gazelle streaking across the veldt. John watched as he went past with a pace twice his and each step carrying him further ahead. The younger man’s calf muscles twitched in rapid succession like trees bending in a stiff wind, all power and no resistance. At mile twelve more than a handful had gone past and by mile fourteen John had receded back into the pack amongst his peers. His side ached, his feet hurt and each step boomed through his entire body.
It was around the nineteen mile mark he felt the blood accumulating in his shoe. He was wearing a new pair of shoes he’d purchased the week before in Charlotte and something about them didn’t fit right. On another man they might’ve been a perfect fit. But as his heel struck pavement and his toes slapped directly to the ground the shoe shifted slightly along the outside edge. These were the same shoes he’d worn during high school when he ran the mile, the 5k and the 10k. He was now three times further than he’d ever ran competitively and the additional wear had cracked the skin causing his foot to become irritated and then bleed.
John sat down at the bottom of the hill between the twentieth and twenty-first mile. He took off his shoe to assess the damage. The bloody mess had soaked through his shoe and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get his sock back on if he removed it. He slipped the shoe back onto his foot and tied it tighter than it had been. Two steps down the course he had to sit down again. Someone from the BAA came over to him and offered him help. A nice young woman, she smiled at John as she removed his shoes and socks to apply pressure, stop the bleeding and begin bandaging his feet. It was a small detail he didn’t notice as he sat spectator to those still on the course going past him.
by Mark Anderson
In London, I lived with an Indian,
an Australian, a Spaniard and two brothers -
Irishmen, one of which,
a lanky ginger whose accent brought tears to my eyes,
taught me to ride
the fine line between lust and love.
I showed up late to class each morning
wearing the same clothes I'd worn the night before
at the pubs and clubs,
unwavering and undisturbed,
as if the whole world were mine
because it was.
Boston Marathon
by Michael Herman
In 1978, a little known runner from Charlotte named John Rettle ran The Boston Marathon for the first time. He had been a long-distance runner in high school and, following one uneventful semester at college, he returned to his parents home in Charlotte with his suitcase in hand. Some things were whispered at first about his prompt return amongst the people who knew his parents and knew his family.
The Rettles were held in high esteem amongst the neighborhood going back to his great-grandfather’s arrival previous to the McKinley Administration. They were a well-read family of altruists initially and then also philanthropists once they had established themselves in the community. There was even talk of one of John’s grandfather’s brothers running for statewide office before everyone realize the world of politics is no place to waste a man of such high moral fiber. That one of their kind failed to live up to the over large expectations of the family, both internally and without, was grounds for much consternation.
The women of the community asked each other what could have gone wrong with that boy. Was it a girl who broke his heart? Could he have gotten mixed into the wrong group of people so far away from his home and his family? Perhaps this was a wider-spread problem. It was entirely possible this new generation of Rettles were not made of the same stuff as their predecessors. The modest wealth the family had acquired was making this newest batch of world-beaters into the intellectual equivalent of wet mush. John was the eldest of his generation and, though no one was willing to out-and-out speculate, those who followed him in age didn’t seem to have the same streak which had carried their family to the top.
That talk faded as soon as there were new topics to discuss such as racial integration of the schools and such. John had taken common jobs in the community and the other members of his generation went on to do things worthy of their family heritage. His brother became a prominent doctor with a procedure named after him while his second cousin went into science and worked for the government as a part of The Rand Corporation. By the time three different families lost sons in Vietnam during the same week, John was a mere afterthought. The cashier at the grocery store still smiled at him but that was because she was still young and he was still handsome.
Now, as he stood at the starting line in Hopkinton, Mass at thirty-two years of age, John could feel the weight of expectation hanging on him still. He looked to his left and right seeing other runners had prepared for the brisk New England April by wearing sweatshirts and he wondered if he made the right decision to run in just shorts and a tank top. This was the first time he’d run long distance since high school and it seemed both regular and foreign to him. There was no way of knowing how his body would react now that he was much older and since he had not trained. Slowly the other runners shed their extra gear, handed them to loved ones and took final calls of encouragement. Noone had traveled to Boston with John simply because he hadn’t told anyone. He wanted to come to them at the end and after it was all over with news of what he’d accomplished.
With a ready-set-gunshot, the race began and muscle memory took over. The regular switch and gate of his earlier years returned to him and he glided through the crowd of runners in front of him. By the end of the first mile the elite men runners had left him behind and most of the elite women runners had by the end of the fourth mile. But John remained ahead of the majority of the pack and he could feel the air around him heat as he passed through it. It was the greatest moment of his life.
Slowly the younger runners who had paced themselves gained on and then passed him. It was around mile ten the first one zipped by him like a lithe gazelle streaking across the veldt. John watched as he went past with a pace twice his and each step carrying him further ahead. The younger man’s calf muscles twitched in rapid succession like trees bending in a stiff wind, all power and no resistance. At mile twelve more than a handful had gone past and by mile fourteen John had receded back into the pack amongst his peers. His side ached, his feet hurt and each step boomed through his entire body.
It was around the nineteen mile mark he felt the blood accumulating in his shoe. He was wearing a new pair of shoes he’d purchased the week before in Charlotte and something about them didn’t fit right. On another man they might’ve been a perfect fit. But as his heel struck pavement and his toes slapped directly to the ground the shoe shifted slightly along the outside edge. These were the same shoes he’d worn during high school when he ran the mile, the 5k and the 10k. He was now three times further than he’d ever ran competitively and the additional wear had cracked the skin causing his foot to become irritated and then bleed.
John sat down at the bottom of the hill between the twentieth and twenty-first mile. He took off his shoe to assess the damage. The bloody mess had soaked through his shoe and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get his sock back on if he removed it. He slipped the shoe back onto his foot and tied it tighter than it had been. Two steps down the course he had to sit down again. Someone from the BAA came over to him and offered him help. A nice young woman, she smiled at John as she removed his shoes and socks to apply pressure, stop the bleeding and begin bandaging his feet. It was a small detail he didn’t notice as he sat spectator to those still on the course going past him.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Dear Future - Lynx
Dear Future
by Mark Anderson
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I lied
and I'm sorry I yelled.
I won't say
you know I love you
because you already know
that when we meet again
I'll have no choice
but to loosen my tie.
Lynx
by Michael Herman
The cover of the brochure in my hand had a lynx on it. The lynx was made more ridiculous by wearing sunglasses. "A Better Life Awaits” read the text along the bottom. And the only thing I could think was I wished it were true. I opened the brochure and flipped to the first panel.
“Welcome,” it read. “We’re pleased to have you as our guest.”
I rolled my eyes and moved on. I remain skeptical to this day of someone who refers to you as a “guest” after charging twenty-two hundred dollars to your credit card. It’s on par, in my book, with restaurants which advertise down-home cookin’. It’s an obvious marker something is bound to not add up.
“Here at the Foggy Meadows,” it continued. “We value you as a customer and are grateful you chose to stay with us. We know you have options on where to seek treatment and strive to meet your highest level of satisfaction on this and every return visit.”
I’d read these platitudes often and in other waiting rooms. Not these exact lines but some variation of which said essentially the same thing. After the usual assurance that if I needed anything during my stay I could phone up the CEO and he’d get right on it, I flipped to the back of the brochure and looked to the very bottom.
“Printed 9/2001. Re-order #4861-2”
That line itself was more telling than anything contained in the rest of the brochure. I knew this type of place having patronized a few in the intervening years. They’d all seen a surge around the time irony died and a new seriousness was born with business booming right up until the moment the people got tired of being serious and went back to wanting others to do it for them. This place had, sure as I can be, been just like the others and printed too many brochures assuming incorrectly things really had changed.
It was at this moment a woman emerged from the back and showed me through the door and into another room where I could wait in privacy. I’d been through the procedure before and this was just one of its many now-familiar steps. I could forsee how things would go from this point forward.
As I set the brochure in the trash can, I looked again at the majestic and powerful beast on its cover. I knew from a report I’d done in fifth grade it was a lynx, not a bobcat. I studied it and thought about what the designer had thought about bringing the big cat together with cool shades.
See, the lynx represented the world as we find it. Using something like a bear or a lion would’ve had too much attachment to previous uses and, perhaps being an animal connoisseur themselves, the designer wanted something which created a new association much akin to the one you the consumer were seeking.
The glasses were there because the designer sought out the familiar. Sunglasses have been shorthand for cool going back almost seventy years now. Its placement on the nose of thed lynx represents desire by mankind to see ourselves in the world as we find it. Animals do not actually wear sunglasses in the wild and yet they might if they had the chance.
Bringing the two together is what places like Foggy Meadows wanted to do. Big promises are made by people who don’t know the names of all the people who work for them and then you are left to fend for yourself. The industry wanted to bring you into the world so you could find yourself in it. And they felt they succeeded because there you were, in it.
I turned my mind away from the trash can, leaving the thought of the brochure with the physical reminder and onto anticipating what came next. I thought about when I would leave the facility how I would go from there to the bus, to a train and to a short walk to my home. I would have something to eat, watch a little television and get into bed. The next morning I would awake, shower and go to work. Then three or four months later, whenever I had again collected the necessary fund, I would be back in another waiting room and holding another similar brochure to the one with the lynx.
Because though I knew I would be disappointed by my stay, I believed this time I actually might not.
by Mark Anderson
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I lied
and I'm sorry I yelled.
I won't say
you know I love you
because you already know
that when we meet again
I'll have no choice
but to loosen my tie.
Lynx
by Michael Herman
The cover of the brochure in my hand had a lynx on it. The lynx was made more ridiculous by wearing sunglasses. "A Better Life Awaits” read the text along the bottom. And the only thing I could think was I wished it were true. I opened the brochure and flipped to the first panel.
“Welcome,” it read. “We’re pleased to have you as our guest.”
I rolled my eyes and moved on. I remain skeptical to this day of someone who refers to you as a “guest” after charging twenty-two hundred dollars to your credit card. It’s on par, in my book, with restaurants which advertise down-home cookin’. It’s an obvious marker something is bound to not add up.
“Here at the Foggy Meadows,” it continued. “We value you as a customer and are grateful you chose to stay with us. We know you have options on where to seek treatment and strive to meet your highest level of satisfaction on this and every return visit.”
I’d read these platitudes often and in other waiting rooms. Not these exact lines but some variation of which said essentially the same thing. After the usual assurance that if I needed anything during my stay I could phone up the CEO and he’d get right on it, I flipped to the back of the brochure and looked to the very bottom.
“Printed 9/2001. Re-order #4861-2”
That line itself was more telling than anything contained in the rest of the brochure. I knew this type of place having patronized a few in the intervening years. They’d all seen a surge around the time irony died and a new seriousness was born with business booming right up until the moment the people got tired of being serious and went back to wanting others to do it for them. This place had, sure as I can be, been just like the others and printed too many brochures assuming incorrectly things really had changed.
It was at this moment a woman emerged from the back and showed me through the door and into another room where I could wait in privacy. I’d been through the procedure before and this was just one of its many now-familiar steps. I could forsee how things would go from this point forward.
As I set the brochure in the trash can, I looked again at the majestic and powerful beast on its cover. I knew from a report I’d done in fifth grade it was a lynx, not a bobcat. I studied it and thought about what the designer had thought about bringing the big cat together with cool shades.
See, the lynx represented the world as we find it. Using something like a bear or a lion would’ve had too much attachment to previous uses and, perhaps being an animal connoisseur themselves, the designer wanted something which created a new association much akin to the one you the consumer were seeking.
The glasses were there because the designer sought out the familiar. Sunglasses have been shorthand for cool going back almost seventy years now. Its placement on the nose of thed lynx represents desire by mankind to see ourselves in the world as we find it. Animals do not actually wear sunglasses in the wild and yet they might if they had the chance.
Bringing the two together is what places like Foggy Meadows wanted to do. Big promises are made by people who don’t know the names of all the people who work for them and then you are left to fend for yourself. The industry wanted to bring you into the world so you could find yourself in it. And they felt they succeeded because there you were, in it.
I turned my mind away from the trash can, leaving the thought of the brochure with the physical reminder and onto anticipating what came next. I thought about when I would leave the facility how I would go from there to the bus, to a train and to a short walk to my home. I would have something to eat, watch a little television and get into bed. The next morning I would awake, shower and go to work. Then three or four months later, whenever I had again collected the necessary fund, I would be back in another waiting room and holding another similar brochure to the one with the lynx.
Because though I knew I would be disappointed by my stay, I believed this time I actually might not.
Thirty By Thirty #15 - Kayaking
A kayak is a different boat than a canoe. You sit much closer to the water and you feel closer to it too. My friend Katie let me borrow her kayak and take it out on Lake Nokomis while she went for a jog around the lake. I wish it had been a better lake. I need to try it again on a different lake.
Thirty By Thirty #14 - Go Skinny Dipping
I'd been swimming. I'd been naked. But I'd never been swimming naked. So one night over the summer, a friend and I went behind Coffman Union at the University of Minnesota and went down to the Mississippi River. We shook off all of our clothes and ran into the river. Then we turned right back around before either mosquitoes or campus security knew we were there.
Thirty By Thirty #13 - Discharge A Fire Extinguisher
Part of recharging a fire extinguisher is taking all of the old stuff out. So you should ask if they give training on how to fire one when they need to be recharged. My work offered it and I jumped at the chance.
There are three things you need to know:
1.) Know where the fire extinguishers are kept beforehand.
2.) Use a sweeping motion to distribute the retardant.
3.) Send someone to grab the next extinguisher immediately. Your extinguisher will have about 15-30 seconds of juice before it runs out.
There are three things you need to know:
1.) Know where the fire extinguishers are kept beforehand.
2.) Use a sweeping motion to distribute the retardant.
3.) Send someone to grab the next extinguisher immediately. Your extinguisher will have about 15-30 seconds of juice before it runs out.
Thirty By Thirty #12 - Listen To A Frank Zappa Album
I wanted to listen to a Frank Zappa album because he was a monolithic rockstar whose work I was completely unfamiliar with and that seemed odd. So I bought a greatest hits and a live album. I wasn't very impressed with most of the stuff. It probably sounded really weird when it came out. But now it just sounded worn. I realize this may be like calling Star Wars "a cliche action movie where the special effects are the most important part." Still, his music wasn't for me.
Thirty By Thirty #11 - Participate In An Effigy-Burning
My friends organized an effigy-burning where we torched paper-mache puppets of various public figures who we felt needed karmic comeuppance. It was mostly people we dislike but we also tried to be fair and torched people we agree with but who are annoying. This was not the first time I've used my First Amendment rights. It was just the toastiest.
Thirty By Thirty #10 - Fire A Blowgun
My friend Jake needed help making paper-mache puppets. I went over to his house to help him. Instead of making the puppets we screwed around shooting a blowgun in his backyard. You hold the tip of your tongue in the hole, you fill the nozzle with breath and then take your tongue away. It's a lot like playing a brass instrument but more deadly.
Thirty By Thirty #9 - See A Minor League Baseball Game
When I was 13, my dad and I planned to go on a tour of minor league baseball stadiums in Iowa and Wisconsin. That summer the Mississippi River flooded and we had to cancel the trip. The same summer the St. Paul Saints began playing in the independent Northern League. 16 years later, Audrey and I biked over to Midway Stadium to see the Saints play. They got beat badly but I did meet her friends and family.
Thirty By Thirty #8 - See A Player Hit For The Cycle
I've seen and played a lot of baseball in my life. But there were still somethings I'd not yet seen. Though a no hitter and a triple play are still on my list of things to see, I have now seen a player (Michael Cuddyer) hit for the cycle. Even things we think we know can still surprise us by showing us something new.
BOX SCORE
BOX SCORE
Thirty By Thirty #7 - Learn About Game Theory
Carissa's b-day pub crawl was supposed to end up at the Triple Rock. Since I work near the West Bank, I killed time with Dr. Thom at the downtown Grumpy's waiting for the party to progress in our direction. I saw the Big Bang Book Club I'd heard about was wrapping up their meeting. So I went over to the meeting space, introduced myself to the moderator David and asked what the next month's book would be.
"Rock, Paper, Scissors: Game Theory In Everyday Life by Len Fisher," he said.
SOLD!
"Rock, Paper, Scissors: Game Theory In Everyday Life by Len Fisher," he said.
SOLD!
Thirty By Thirty #6 - Eat At White Castle
Alex MacGillis and Keith Koska were nice enough to take me to White Castle for my birthday, even though it was two months later. I'd avoided White Castle for my entire life because my dad told me he'd gotten sick after eating there. I haven't eaten red meat since I was 19 and I didn't get sick. In fact, I actually thought their hamburgers were kinda good. Maybe White Castle just suffers from a bad reputation and people should give it a chance. Afterwards we went to the bar across the street and drank High Life.
P.S. I'm glad Alex and Keith took me because my other friends were planning on taking me to White Castle by kidnapping me in the middle of the night and driving me there.
P.S. I'm glad Alex and Keith took me because my other friends were planning on taking me to White Castle by kidnapping me in the middle of the night and driving me there.
Thirty By Thirty #5 - Begin Biking To Work
This summer I started biking to work. It was great because I was out getting exercise while saving money on my commute to work. Other people at work were impressed and would ask me about it. I told them what I'll tell you. You should do it too and make sure you wear your helmet.
Thirty By Thirty #4 - Barn Razing
My friends Patrick and Morgon Mae had a shed in their backyard they wanted to take down. I helped them because I'm tall, strong and have hands. It was a lot like putting up a shed but in reverse. Credit goes to Morgon Mae for calling it a barn razing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)