In the meantime, I've been putting some new songs on my MP3 Player and much to my surprise, I learned a few things:
In "Rocket" by Def Leppard, they are saying "satellite of love" in the chorus. Anyone who knows ANYTHING knows that the satellite of love is the name of the ship in Mystery Science Theater 3000. (I always thought he was saying "stay in the line of love.")As a side note, I wished they hadn't waited until six minutes into the song to start rocking out.
"One Night in Bangkok" was written by the guys from Abba. My dad should love it!
And to keep you entertained until I can post again, I have a quiz. Do you know my favorite video game of all time? I know at least TWO of your know, so for you I challenge you to name my 3 favorites of all time. I doubt anyone will get them because, well, I hardly mention them. I will leave you a few clues:
1-Favorite game is NOT on a Nintendo system.
2-Second favorite game is part of a series.
3-Third favorite game was the last game, chronologically, I wrote an FAQ for.
Good luck! Winner gets a prize from Tahoe!
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
I had the last of my dental work done today. The left side of my mouth is numb up to my ear and I'm a hungry man! I can't eat until my head thaws out. I'm officially putting a copy of my bill on my bathroom mirror with giants letters: BRUSH YOUR TEETH FOR 2 MINTUES OR PAY THE PRICE!!
Also, for the record, when the dentist says "oops" and a torrent of blood cascades over your lips, it's a most disconcerting feeling. On the plus side, the in-dentist movie was "Spaceballs".
Happy first day of spring! May pastel colored ducky chicks and fuzzy bunnies abound!
After my boastful post a few days back, I was sure I would be destroyed by the Djibouti death flu. Lo and behold, in the winter of extreme sickness I escaped with nary a sniffle! Amazing, huh?
I suppose you all want to know my secrets to good health, huh? Well, I'll share my top 5:
1-A healthy and vigorous workout routine.
2-A healthy and balanced diet.
3-Keeping classy and intelligent company.
4-Listen to good music!
5-Never, under any circumstance, try to force unsolicited opinions on others.
Also, for the record, when the dentist says "oops" and a torrent of blood cascades over your lips, it's a most disconcerting feeling. On the plus side, the in-dentist movie was "Spaceballs".
Monday, March 21, 2005
Happy first day of spring! May pastel colored ducky chicks and fuzzy bunnies abound!
After my boastful post a few days back, I was sure I would be destroyed by the Djibouti death flu. Lo and behold, in the winter of extreme sickness I escaped with nary a sniffle! Amazing, huh?
I suppose you all want to know my secrets to good health, huh? Well, I'll share my top 5:
1-A healthy and vigorous workout routine.
2-A healthy and balanced diet.
3-Keeping classy and intelligent company.
4-Listen to good music!
5-Never, under any circumstance, try to force unsolicited opinions on others.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Can't write, working! 4 out of 5 days wasn't bad though, give me credit for that!
And how about them there new flash buttons on my homepage?
Or, if you like to see a photoshop contest in progress, look here! Which one do you think wins? :)
And how about them there new flash buttons on my homepage?
Or, if you like to see a photoshop contest in progress, look here! Which one do you think wins? :)
Thursday, March 17, 2005
When time crawled and the marrow in my bones hurt from impatience, I wasn't trying to expedite my passage into adulthood. I wanted to forgo learning about the Magna Carta and spend more time looking under rocks for salamanders.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
In a small alcove of the playground was a strange source of endless amusement. A thick metal pipe, perhaps a gas or water line, protruded from the bricks and ended in a U-shaped hook of sorts. The "game" was to put the end of the pipe in the back of your shirt and lean forward. Tada, instant Superman! The goal was to swerve around as much as you could before the neck of your shirt began to choke you, you slid off the pipe, or your shirt ripped. Good fun, man, good fun.
One day, a rather shy kid from one of the lower grades was interested is taking a spin on the pipe. Since we weren't pipe snobs, we gave the tyke a shot. He was a dirty little moppet, a white kid with a permanent strawberry Kool-Aid stain around his mouth. He was wearing an obvious hand-me-down shirt that was far too big for him. He hooked himself onto the pipe, leaned forward and began to giggle with glee--until mere seconds later, the bell that ended recess rang.
Squealing in panic, the kid struggled to get off the pipe but he was too small and his shirt was too big. One of the older kids told him he's better be quiet, because there would be trouble if this little runt revealed the pipe to the teachers, who obviously not let us play on an exposed, rusty pipe. This vague threat was an effective ploy to shut the kid up, much to our relief.
Inside we all ran, leaving the airborne runt flailing madly (but silently) from the pipe--Superman stuck in a flight pattern. From the window of my classroom, I could see the kid twisting in the wind. It was the perfect angle; the row of us near the window could watch the trial-of-life in the playground while the teacher was oblivious. It took a great amount of self-control not to burst out laughing, something I've never been good at. The more trouble you'd get in for laughing, the funnier the situation would seem.
For a good ten minutes, the same sequence would repeat: the kid would struggle mightily to no avail, then go limp in defeat, only to be reanimated in a furious effort when his energy returned.
Finally, with one mad convulsive effort, the kid slid out of his shirt and plopped to the ground. Gravity had trumped our restraint and the three or four of us who had been watching the whole episode erupted in laughter. Teacher and students alike ran over to the window to see what was going on, only to see a tearful and shirtless little boy trying to extract his tangled shirt from the pipe.
No one got in trouble and to this day, I swear, the kid got himself firmly into that mess without the aid of bullies or peer pressure. My teacher chastised us half-heartedly for not pointing out the struggle earlier but even she had to laugh. Sadly, from that point on, pipe rides were supervised by vigilant playground ladies and we were forced to amuse ourselves with other forms of grounded entertainment.
One day, a rather shy kid from one of the lower grades was interested is taking a spin on the pipe. Since we weren't pipe snobs, we gave the tyke a shot. He was a dirty little moppet, a white kid with a permanent strawberry Kool-Aid stain around his mouth. He was wearing an obvious hand-me-down shirt that was far too big for him. He hooked himself onto the pipe, leaned forward and began to giggle with glee--until mere seconds later, the bell that ended recess rang.
Squealing in panic, the kid struggled to get off the pipe but he was too small and his shirt was too big. One of the older kids told him he's better be quiet, because there would be trouble if this little runt revealed the pipe to the teachers, who obviously not let us play on an exposed, rusty pipe. This vague threat was an effective ploy to shut the kid up, much to our relief.
Inside we all ran, leaving the airborne runt flailing madly (but silently) from the pipe--Superman stuck in a flight pattern. From the window of my classroom, I could see the kid twisting in the wind. It was the perfect angle; the row of us near the window could watch the trial-of-life in the playground while the teacher was oblivious. It took a great amount of self-control not to burst out laughing, something I've never been good at. The more trouble you'd get in for laughing, the funnier the situation would seem.
For a good ten minutes, the same sequence would repeat: the kid would struggle mightily to no avail, then go limp in defeat, only to be reanimated in a furious effort when his energy returned.
Finally, with one mad convulsive effort, the kid slid out of his shirt and plopped to the ground. Gravity had trumped our restraint and the three or four of us who had been watching the whole episode erupted in laughter. Teacher and students alike ran over to the window to see what was going on, only to see a tearful and shirtless little boy trying to extract his tangled shirt from the pipe.
No one got in trouble and to this day, I swear, the kid got himself firmly into that mess without the aid of bullies or peer pressure. My teacher chastised us half-heartedly for not pointing out the struggle earlier but even she had to laugh. Sadly, from that point on, pipe rides were supervised by vigilant playground ladies and we were forced to amuse ourselves with other forms of grounded entertainment.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
To this day, I don't like violence. I get anxious watching small scale battles, such as cats fighting in the front yard. I am not a violent person and don't recommend it except as a final defensive countermeasure.
I remember the first fight I ever saw. On one side, my friend Zebulon, a young Nubian, his large head sculpted with the contours of an Egyptian pharaoh. On the other, my friend David, a thin, freckled boy with Irish teeth and ragged black hair that resembled a mannequin's unkempt wig. I genuinely liked them both.
Whatever the conflict was, I'll never know. I remember the bright spring day out on the playground. There were rumors buzzing that Zebulon was going to get David, something I didn't believe because they were both nice--to me. At the time, I couldn't comprehend the conflict or how it would play out.
As it turns out, Zebulon was the aggressor, seeking out David on the far end of the playground. For the first time, I saw Zebulon's eyes possessed by angry demons, I saw fear and hate radiating from his face. David did not want to fight, tried to talk his way out of the battle, kept his eyes to the ground. Egged on by the crowd, Zebulon became more and more belligerent. He pushed David down hard, which forced the timid boy to look up directly into the eyes of his opponent as he got to his feet.
That visual contact was the trigger that gave Zebulon a primal green light; he attacked. David never tried to fight back. I was too shocked to say anything, I just watched as Zebulon's uncoordinated bullying left David with a fat lip and further tussled his wig-like hair.
A teacher broke up the fight, hauled both boys away by their thin biceps, and the rest of us were left to recount highlights. One boy claimed he saw David's bottom lip torn off on the pavement, something I looked for in the playground for weeks afterwards. I had imagined it looking like a pink slug, that it might be squirming around.
I don't remember seeing David after that. I remember losing respect for Zebulon, even though he still acted as buddy-buddy with me as he always had. Because I came from a very loving and kind home, it never occurred to me that violence on that scale was nothing new to some kids. I was upset at myself not only because I hadn't done anything to stop it, but also because I feared I would have acted exactly as David had.
By now, I've seen many battles, been in a few myself, but I still don't like them.
I remember the first fight I ever saw. On one side, my friend Zebulon, a young Nubian, his large head sculpted with the contours of an Egyptian pharaoh. On the other, my friend David, a thin, freckled boy with Irish teeth and ragged black hair that resembled a mannequin's unkempt wig. I genuinely liked them both.
Whatever the conflict was, I'll never know. I remember the bright spring day out on the playground. There were rumors buzzing that Zebulon was going to get David, something I didn't believe because they were both nice--to me. At the time, I couldn't comprehend the conflict or how it would play out.
As it turns out, Zebulon was the aggressor, seeking out David on the far end of the playground. For the first time, I saw Zebulon's eyes possessed by angry demons, I saw fear and hate radiating from his face. David did not want to fight, tried to talk his way out of the battle, kept his eyes to the ground. Egged on by the crowd, Zebulon became more and more belligerent. He pushed David down hard, which forced the timid boy to look up directly into the eyes of his opponent as he got to his feet.
That visual contact was the trigger that gave Zebulon a primal green light; he attacked. David never tried to fight back. I was too shocked to say anything, I just watched as Zebulon's uncoordinated bullying left David with a fat lip and further tussled his wig-like hair.
A teacher broke up the fight, hauled both boys away by their thin biceps, and the rest of us were left to recount highlights. One boy claimed he saw David's bottom lip torn off on the pavement, something I looked for in the playground for weeks afterwards. I had imagined it looking like a pink slug, that it might be squirming around.
I don't remember seeing David after that. I remember losing respect for Zebulon, even though he still acted as buddy-buddy with me as he always had. Because I came from a very loving and kind home, it never occurred to me that violence on that scale was nothing new to some kids. I was upset at myself not only because I hadn't done anything to stop it, but also because I feared I would have acted exactly as David had.
By now, I've seen many battles, been in a few myself, but I still don't like them.
Monday, March 14, 2005
At John’s suggestion, I picked up On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. Given that the book’s cover has a peaceful scene of flowers outlining an old New England house; one would imagine the tale spun within would entail horrible evils invading a pristine setting, most likely with oodles of spooky demons. AU CONTRAIRE, mon frere (ou mon soeur), the book is a non-fiction account of how King writes. The nature of writing lends itself to the question of the formation of the writer. In his hazy childhood memories, King tells tales that yield no deeper twist other than what the reader imparts vis-à-vis his own interpretation.
Inspired by this literary exorcism, I’ve decided to write five memories that have stayed with me, all pre-5th grade, all set in Waterbury, Connecticut; one for each blogging day of the week. All are succinct, unedited, and serve only to warm up the cerebral fluids for my days of writing and work here at the office. I hope you enjoy them.
Day One: Fancy
The first girl I ever called (and that ever called me) was named Annabelle. Contrary to the farm girl associations her name conjures, Annabelle was born in Puerto Rico. Annabelle had a twin sister but I never confused the two.
Annabelle came to my school in second grade from New York City. She stood out from other girls, something my young mind felt drawn in the vaguest sense. I liked Annabelle, yet was at an age where I couldn’t know why. In a sense, what could be more pure? I knew she was pretty. She wore headbands that drew the long, black hair away from her face, bringing emphasis to her big, dark, glossy eyes. She smiled and laughed a lot, moved gracefully, wonderfully unaware of herself. I didn’t have any of the notions triggered by adolescence. There wasn’t a desire to touch her or to call her my own, I simply liked being around her. I didn’t need to know why. She made my heart light.
She initiated our first conversation. I was wearing a digital watch and upon seeing it, she felt giddily impelled to show me hers; we the time-keepers. She smelled sweet, like grape candy, and wasn’t afraid to be close to me. Comparing our time pieces, she put her shoulder against mine, quickening my blood, making me blush. Her hair brushed the skin where my shirt sleeves ended. Her watch was purple with a small face, the digital rectangle bordered with sunflowers and daisies. The band was translucent and I marveled at the way her dark skin changed the color of the plastic.
Annabelle and I agreed to call each other on the phone, something that I was glad to have approved by the department of Mom. We never had much to say to one another, but I so liked that she called me. When I called her, a man answered the phone in Spanish, and an impulse of fear made me want to hang up, but I would ask for Annabelle. There were chortles of laughter, indecipherable words in the background, a timeless pause, and then Annabelle would be on the other end of line, her voice smiling in clear English. We’d talk about homework, animals, or sports, then hang up. I would get playfully teased that Annabelle was my girlfriend and it made my face hot and uncomfortable. I’d insist through blushed cheeks that it was a silly idea, and my heart cherished the notion.
After the call, my light heart would quickly be absorbed by the fundamental distractions of childhood. I’d hang up the heavy, beige rotary phone that hung in the kitchen, enveloped in something like afterglow. I didn’t pine or lament for Annabelle, I didn’t anticipate her calls, in fact I didn’t think about her much when she wasn’t around. But I liked the thought of her thinking about me, maybe remembering a joke I had told her or a favorite toy I had shared with her.
Annabelle moved back to New York City at the beginning of fourth grade. Annabelle, who had always stood out in the crowds, was now amongst 7 or 8 million people. That environment contributed to her outgoing nature and I liked that sometimes she would be shy around me. I never saw her again and it’s staggering to think she’s out there as I write this. I feel she would not remember me, I feel she grew up beautifully; I feel she might not have had a chance to leave New York or Waterbury. I don’t feel compelled to follow up or research her whereabouts. Her quiet exit in fourth grade was neither dramatic nor painful. It was perfect closure. I was free to play baseball and ride bikes in the sunny kingdom of childhood, unfettered.
In 1998, the year I graduated college, I worked on a landscaping crew with a guy who was my age and stayed in the area after I moved to the more rural setting of Wolcott. He remembered Annabelle and her twin sister (Amirez her name was, I think) had come back to Waterbury, though he didn’t really know much more than they had dated a few of his friends. He filled me in on another girl I knew in grade school, a Greek girl with giant anime-style blue eyes named Despina Zachary. She sat across from me at our lunch table, always wore her black hair in a pony tail, and would often wear the same pale-blue floral shirt with elastic short sleeves several days in a row. She got good grades and her father was an effusive Greek man who had curls of dark hair exploding from every place his skin bordered his shirts.
Despina grew up to be a clerk at 7-11.
I can’t imagine her as anything other than a little girl eating a sandwich with two hands. I can’t imagine Annabelle as anything other than a smiling voice on the other end of a phone. It’s best that way. I’m hidden safely away in Boulder and they are archived in Waterbury, never to be sought or found again.
Winter will pass in ten days.
Maybe it was the stress of an uncertain national agenda, maybe it was the proliferation of certain viral strains, but whatever the case, a LOT of people were sick this year. I've seen several people who are very healthy and rarely succumb to anything more severe than the sniffles absolutely floored by flu-like illnesses. Whatever the source of these machinations, winter has infected the skies with more than just fluffy snowflakes. All the Echinacea and orange juice in the world hasn't helped.
Apparently, the best preventative is a balanced diet of flavor blasted goldfish, Gatorade, and jolly ranchers. To paraphrase the recently departed Hunter S. Thompson, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but it worked for me. My main winter staple seems to have done the trick because
(puts on anti-instant karma shield)
I haven't been sick this winter.
I've had my fair share of stress, lot of travel, not a whole lot of money, and spent a generous amount of time around the afflicted. I work in an office frequented by l'il children, dogs, and hippies. I have exercised a lot but haven't slept well overall and I own a small cat (who also got sick this winter.) There's only three conclusions I've reached:
1-I'm extremely lucky. My "golden immune system" has stayed fully charged and my blood cells put in overtime to keep the ol' 1976 model James Dziezynski running in good form.
2-The plot of "The Stand" is actually happening and I'm one of the chosen few made to thwart the evil plans of devil. While my Grandma Moses dreams have been sparse, I HAVE been to Nebraska and Ogunquit, Maine. I assume I'm on the side of good, which is awesome because I don't even have to leave Boulder. Since I've had no inclinations to visit Las Vegas, I can say I'm likely one of the good guys. As soon as the plague wipes the unchosen from the face of the earth, I know the exact house on Mapleton Avenue I'll be moving to!
3-I'm going to get so incredibly sick in the next few weeks, I'll look like the unfortunate space traveler featured in the stunning Fox documentary "Alien Autopsy".
What do you guys think?
Inspired by this literary exorcism, I’ve decided to write five memories that have stayed with me, all pre-5th grade, all set in Waterbury, Connecticut; one for each blogging day of the week. All are succinct, unedited, and serve only to warm up the cerebral fluids for my days of writing and work here at the office. I hope you enjoy them.
Day One: Fancy
The first girl I ever called (and that ever called me) was named Annabelle. Contrary to the farm girl associations her name conjures, Annabelle was born in Puerto Rico. Annabelle had a twin sister but I never confused the two.
Annabelle came to my school in second grade from New York City. She stood out from other girls, something my young mind felt drawn in the vaguest sense. I liked Annabelle, yet was at an age where I couldn’t know why. In a sense, what could be more pure? I knew she was pretty. She wore headbands that drew the long, black hair away from her face, bringing emphasis to her big, dark, glossy eyes. She smiled and laughed a lot, moved gracefully, wonderfully unaware of herself. I didn’t have any of the notions triggered by adolescence. There wasn’t a desire to touch her or to call her my own, I simply liked being around her. I didn’t need to know why. She made my heart light.
She initiated our first conversation. I was wearing a digital watch and upon seeing it, she felt giddily impelled to show me hers; we the time-keepers. She smelled sweet, like grape candy, and wasn’t afraid to be close to me. Comparing our time pieces, she put her shoulder against mine, quickening my blood, making me blush. Her hair brushed the skin where my shirt sleeves ended. Her watch was purple with a small face, the digital rectangle bordered with sunflowers and daisies. The band was translucent and I marveled at the way her dark skin changed the color of the plastic.
Annabelle and I agreed to call each other on the phone, something that I was glad to have approved by the department of Mom. We never had much to say to one another, but I so liked that she called me. When I called her, a man answered the phone in Spanish, and an impulse of fear made me want to hang up, but I would ask for Annabelle. There were chortles of laughter, indecipherable words in the background, a timeless pause, and then Annabelle would be on the other end of line, her voice smiling in clear English. We’d talk about homework, animals, or sports, then hang up. I would get playfully teased that Annabelle was my girlfriend and it made my face hot and uncomfortable. I’d insist through blushed cheeks that it was a silly idea, and my heart cherished the notion.
After the call, my light heart would quickly be absorbed by the fundamental distractions of childhood. I’d hang up the heavy, beige rotary phone that hung in the kitchen, enveloped in something like afterglow. I didn’t pine or lament for Annabelle, I didn’t anticipate her calls, in fact I didn’t think about her much when she wasn’t around. But I liked the thought of her thinking about me, maybe remembering a joke I had told her or a favorite toy I had shared with her.
Annabelle moved back to New York City at the beginning of fourth grade. Annabelle, who had always stood out in the crowds, was now amongst 7 or 8 million people. That environment contributed to her outgoing nature and I liked that sometimes she would be shy around me. I never saw her again and it’s staggering to think she’s out there as I write this. I feel she would not remember me, I feel she grew up beautifully; I feel she might not have had a chance to leave New York or Waterbury. I don’t feel compelled to follow up or research her whereabouts. Her quiet exit in fourth grade was neither dramatic nor painful. It was perfect closure. I was free to play baseball and ride bikes in the sunny kingdom of childhood, unfettered.
In 1998, the year I graduated college, I worked on a landscaping crew with a guy who was my age and stayed in the area after I moved to the more rural setting of Wolcott. He remembered Annabelle and her twin sister (Amirez her name was, I think) had come back to Waterbury, though he didn’t really know much more than they had dated a few of his friends. He filled me in on another girl I knew in grade school, a Greek girl with giant anime-style blue eyes named Despina Zachary. She sat across from me at our lunch table, always wore her black hair in a pony tail, and would often wear the same pale-blue floral shirt with elastic short sleeves several days in a row. She got good grades and her father was an effusive Greek man who had curls of dark hair exploding from every place his skin bordered his shirts.
Despina grew up to be a clerk at 7-11.
I can’t imagine her as anything other than a little girl eating a sandwich with two hands. I can’t imagine Annabelle as anything other than a smiling voice on the other end of a phone. It’s best that way. I’m hidden safely away in Boulder and they are archived in Waterbury, never to be sought or found again.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Winter will pass in ten days.
Maybe it was the stress of an uncertain national agenda, maybe it was the proliferation of certain viral strains, but whatever the case, a LOT of people were sick this year. I've seen several people who are very healthy and rarely succumb to anything more severe than the sniffles absolutely floored by flu-like illnesses. Whatever the source of these machinations, winter has infected the skies with more than just fluffy snowflakes. All the Echinacea and orange juice in the world hasn't helped.
Apparently, the best preventative is a balanced diet of flavor blasted goldfish, Gatorade, and jolly ranchers. To paraphrase the recently departed Hunter S. Thompson, I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but it worked for me. My main winter staple seems to have done the trick because
(puts on anti-instant karma shield)
I haven't been sick this winter.
I've had my fair share of stress, lot of travel, not a whole lot of money, and spent a generous amount of time around the afflicted. I work in an office frequented by l'il children, dogs, and hippies. I have exercised a lot but haven't slept well overall and I own a small cat (who also got sick this winter.) There's only three conclusions I've reached:
1-I'm extremely lucky. My "golden immune system" has stayed fully charged and my blood cells put in overtime to keep the ol' 1976 model James Dziezynski running in good form.
2-The plot of "The Stand" is actually happening and I'm one of the chosen few made to thwart the evil plans of devil. While my Grandma Moses dreams have been sparse, I HAVE been to Nebraska and Ogunquit, Maine. I assume I'm on the side of good, which is awesome because I don't even have to leave Boulder. Since I've had no inclinations to visit Las Vegas, I can say I'm likely one of the good guys. As soon as the plague wipes the unchosen from the face of the earth, I know the exact house on Mapleton Avenue I'll be moving to!
3-I'm going to get so incredibly sick in the next few weeks, I'll look like the unfortunate space traveler featured in the stunning Fox documentary "Alien Autopsy".
What do you guys think?
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Well, it's a mere 6 days until my room mate moves out. I'm looking forward to the temporary space, though there's no guarantee I'll be staying in the same hovel much longer after April. For now though, it'll be nice to have a place to unwind, relax, and call home.
A lot of things going on here at Hooked. Nancy had her baby, a boy they named Kai William. He was born on March 3rd, which gives him the awesome 3/4/5 birthdate. I returned from Jasper and Moab, Doug came back from Jackson, and Gina from New Zealand. It's nice being in this dynamic environment, though it'll be great to sit down and start writing some of the stories I've experienced.
I was rereading some of my past Hooked articles and I feel like they are just garbage. Some of them really seem poorly written, hard to read, and not terribly interesting. I'm going to really try to polish my articles in the next few weeks until I'm sick of looking at them, hopefully they'll come out a little better. As it is, I've been an editing Nazi with my Connecticut highpoints article and my Ghosts N' Goblins reworked FAQ. That's why I tend not care about being lingually sound in my journal.
What's that you say? No fun links? How about this? (Amy, the last picture looks suspiciously familiar!)
A lot of things going on here at Hooked. Nancy had her baby, a boy they named Kai William. He was born on March 3rd, which gives him the awesome 3/4/5 birthdate. I returned from Jasper and Moab, Doug came back from Jackson, and Gina from New Zealand. It's nice being in this dynamic environment, though it'll be great to sit down and start writing some of the stories I've experienced.
I was rereading some of my past Hooked articles and I feel like they are just garbage. Some of them really seem poorly written, hard to read, and not terribly interesting. I'm going to really try to polish my articles in the next few weeks until I'm sick of looking at them, hopefully they'll come out a little better. As it is, I've been an editing Nazi with my Connecticut highpoints article and my Ghosts N' Goblins reworked FAQ. That's why I tend not care about being lingually sound in my journal.
What's that you say? No fun links? How about this? (Amy, the last picture looks suspiciously familiar!)
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
My life, day 10555.
A week ago, I was on the train from Vancouver to Jasper, Alberta watching the lights of the city merge into the darkened fields of the Canadian prairie. The vast and mysterious openness made our train feel like a coil of light and life, threading its way through the cold frontier. I made it safely into Jasper National Park the next morning and enjoyed three solid days in the Canadian Rockies.
On Friday, a four hour shuttle ride brought me to Edmonton International where I flew back to Denver, geared up in Boulder, and drove down to Moab, Utah. Arriving at 3 AM after being up 22 hours, I had a few hours of restless sleep. The weekend of biking was fun, tiring, but it had a bittersweet feeling. My last night in Jasper, I had a delicious praline-creme tee-pee coated in chocolate dust, just an incredible desert. As I ate it I was a little sad, because I knew I would not pass this way again--that's somewhat how the weekend felt.
Yesterday was a bit of a recovery day, didn't get much done at work. Got some bad news from home, which sadly isn't all that unexpected these days.
I'm going tonight to negotiate to see if I can stay in my apartment in Boulder. There's a very strong sense of heaviness in my life these days, but I'm trying to keep a positive outlook and dare I say, a bit of humor?
Still, "it's always darkest before dawn." I'll have some photo galleries up later this week if I can access my webby site.
A week ago, I was on the train from Vancouver to Jasper, Alberta watching the lights of the city merge into the darkened fields of the Canadian prairie. The vast and mysterious openness made our train feel like a coil of light and life, threading its way through the cold frontier. I made it safely into Jasper National Park the next morning and enjoyed three solid days in the Canadian Rockies.
On Friday, a four hour shuttle ride brought me to Edmonton International where I flew back to Denver, geared up in Boulder, and drove down to Moab, Utah. Arriving at 3 AM after being up 22 hours, I had a few hours of restless sleep. The weekend of biking was fun, tiring, but it had a bittersweet feeling. My last night in Jasper, I had a delicious praline-creme tee-pee coated in chocolate dust, just an incredible desert. As I ate it I was a little sad, because I knew I would not pass this way again--that's somewhat how the weekend felt.
Yesterday was a bit of a recovery day, didn't get much done at work. Got some bad news from home, which sadly isn't all that unexpected these days.
I'm going tonight to negotiate to see if I can stay in my apartment in Boulder. There's a very strong sense of heaviness in my life these days, but I'm trying to keep a positive outlook and dare I say, a bit of humor?
Still, "it's always darkest before dawn." I'll have some photo galleries up later this week if I can access my webby site.
