Ol’ Stompin’ Grounds
Commute
rattle rumble piercing horn.
scenery scrolls serenely. towns
then fields then trees then brick and busy inside: iPods and pads, laptops, cellphones. distraction.
devotion, dedication, dereliction,
some to bleachers and beer, some
to watercooler blasphemy. some to psychic
advice under pseudonyms. some to their last
day, unknowingly; the psychic might have helped. shared minutes in collective solitude, we have
nothing in common but destination and mode. We are all the same.
Topic-free, or Why James Bond is Great. Or, Whatever.
Faced with a blank screen, I'm finding it excruciating to choose a topic. I can't ask the internet for topics, because then I'm admitting to the world that my topic-bin is not full, overflowing, ever-rejuvenated. I think there might be some sort of topic shortage in my neighborhood.
Except that other people have topics. So it must be something with me. Or maybe my brain is on vacation. When your brain is as overactive as mine is (you do NOT want to hear my inner monologue), you find that sometimes you just can't get it to come back from whatever adventure it's on.
When I was a kid, the adventures were mostly about being James Bond or a ninja. As a kid, I had all kinds of freedom to let my body act out whatever it was that I was imagining -- the halls of my house would become the warehouse where the evil Dr. No had stashed his doomsday device and I was sneaking through the halls dispatching bad guys with perfectly-timed kicks and punches. My cat, Smokey, was my 'Q', giving me the ultimate spy gear: and not just the stingy two or three toys from a Bond movie, either.
I had laser watches and shuriken business cards and an Aston Martin ( which I had to use my feet to move since it was really my orange-and-yellow fisher-price clown car, but that was part of the gadgetry since it was wayyyy more precise than just a gas-and-brake pedal ) and a taser pen and a jet pack. Because sneaking through the halls of the house wasn't nearly as fun as running full-bore.
I had dialogue, too. Showdown talk, like "nice shark tank."
As an adult, I just don't say "nice shark tank" enough.
But now, I find myself mentally acting out conversations I expect to have. I take both sides, imagining what my boss or coworker or someone would say to me and brilliantly defending my points. And then I go in and the conversations never actually happen and I fumble over my, "uh, okay." Because I am slick like that.
So if you see me walking, distracted by an internal dialogue, you know that either I'm having an intense debate where I say all the right things, or I'm sneaking through SPECTRE's latest doomsday device with my shuriken business cards.
It's okay. It's my imagination, so I almost always win.
Whirlwind
What bittersweetness.
I had no idea what to expect, y'know, since I'm just to the side of the whole blogging universe. I don't consider myself a blogger; I'm just a guy who writes code for a living and has kids and happens to be married to someone who discovered that her blog was a gateway to discovering what she wanted to do with her life. But I do have a blog, and I do write in it, from time to time. So maybe that was enough to find friends or at least people to hang with while my wife did her thing. And if nothing else, I was in NYC, where the challenge is picking which thing to do. Right? So I could go to this blogging conference and have a good time, right?
Little did I know that among the thousands of attendees were real people whom I would be honored to call my friends. I should rephrase -- I knew they were real, I just didn't know they would be so warm and kind to me, inviting and joking and laughing with me, sharing some moments of their whirlwind tour of the blogosphere with me. To all of you, and you know who you are, thank you, because you remind me that I'm not just a nerd. I had a Theatre minor, for God's sake, I love connecting with people and I love stories.
The last five years have been a tornado of their own, getting married, moving, more kids, working, trying to get some sleep. I feel like I've been cocooned, transforming my family from a concept to a reality, watching as they all sprout wings and fly; all attention inward, nourishing them. Now, as their colors flourish and the shell gets brittle, I find myself rediscovering the world around me, dusting off old interests and welcoming new friends.
I'm back now. Full circle. Swept up into the atmosphere, deposited home. Thrilled to know all of you, missing you all being a txt away.
What bittersweetness.
Go To The Best Game In The History Of The Chicago Fire, And Maybe The MLS
From Chicagoist...
Go To The Best Game In The History Of The Chicago Fire, And Maybe The MLS
Toyota Park
Say what you want, but this Sunday’s game between our Chicago Fire and the New York Red Bulls at Toyota Park (8 PM) is the most important game in Chicago Fire history. Yeah yeah, we’ve been in bigger games. The 1998 MLS Championship and runner-up showings in 2000 and 2003 come to mind, as do the 1998, 2000, 2003, and 2006 U.S. Open triumphs; then there are some of the more memorable friendlies (A.C. Milan visiting Soldier Field in 2005 especially). But Sunday night tops it all.
Why? Start with the talent on the field. Of course the Fire have had talented players in the past. Piotr Nowak, Hristo Stoichkov, Cuauhtémoc Blanco, the list goes on. But, for the most part, those guys were far and away the best players on the field. This game will have more than just one guy to watch. This might be the most talented game in MLS history. Seriously. Of the twelve designated players ever to play since the 2007 Beckham Rule went into effect to entice international stars stateside, five will be at Toyota Park Sunday. You got NYRB regular Juan Pablo Angel and their two new DP signings Thierry Henry (aka G-o-d, sorry all you Irish readers) and Mexico captain Rafael Marquez, plus new Fire additions Nery Castillo and Freddie Ljungberg. They should all make at least substitute appearances, and that’s ...
Art
I have been looking forward to seeing the Museum of Modern Art for the last 3 months or so. I’m no art expert, but I know a few names and styles, and when I wander through a museum I almost always find something I like.
Art is for the eye. Words are too linear, too cumbersome to capture the essence, so I won’t attempt to. But the pleasure of seeing these canvases, alive with color and pattern, shape and form, endowed with the passions of their creators, and placed on display posthumously…
It is as if the artists themselves live on in those pigments, reaching out to gently shake your hand and thank you for looking.
For sharing a moment with them.
For giving them immortality.
