Odd Infinitum

Been a long time, been a long time...

Geez.  I couldn't even remember where we'd moved all of our doggerel, cleverness, and ranting when VOX tipped over.  Good thing that I remembered to search Nancy Mitchell blog on Google.  I could have gone the narcissistic route and searched for my own name I guess.  Typepad!  Thank you!

 

Scroll back to "Continental Divide."  I just did.  And it made me sad.  More on that later, he said, to nobody listening...

The First Step

Well, I finally did it.  Took a step toward what I've promised Nancy would be a focus on doing things.  Getting things done.  Not obliviously walking past the recycling on the way out the door.  Being proactive on household and self maintenance.  Doing the things that will make us more comfortable - and making myself less messy.

I tend to 'not get around to things.'  Well, that's changing.  As of now. 

On the way to work this morning, I stayed on the bus two blocks past my stop.  Walked another block over and stopped at Target. 

I bought new shoelaces.

A two dollar and nine cent purchase that I'd been needing for at least six months.  The right black lace had a knot in it.  The left had the outer layer balling up and making a mess of trying to tighten the lace. 

So.  As to getting things done, I'm off to the races.

 

Testing. Check, check. Is this thing on? I hope it still works. I need to stop in here more often...

No, No, I'll Do It.

What is it about a work coffee machine that you don't get?  

Is it the hard-to-find, already-started rip-top bag just above the coffe maker? 

Is it the hard-to-find coffee filters next to the already-started rip-top bag of coffee just above the coffee maker? 

Is it the slide-out filter holder on the coffee maker?

Is it the BREW button on the face of the coffee maker?  I know it doesn't say PUSH THIS on it, but really.

Or, is it just that your time is so much more important than mine?  The 30 seconds of your day that just can't be made-up if you took the time to make a pot.   

I really don't get it.

Really?

"They're for here."

It took me a moment to realize the guy was talking to me.  I'd just pulled in to the grocery store parking lot with a coupon for half-off deli meat. 

Shopping too late the other night, the deli had closed, so I figured I'd stop some other time.  Taking the bus every day hampers my abilities somewhat.  And a busy weekend, plans on Monday night, the bus again yesterday, and plans tonight meant this was my shot.  The coupon expires today. 

I got up early, figuring I can drive to a park-n-ride.  The grocery store is a just down the street from the parking lot.  I have a refrigerator at work.  I’ll get the goods and grab the train into downtown from there.  

Things seem to happen to me on a regular basis.  Remind me to tell you about the “What’s with the shoes?” story.  A resident black-cloud to go with the resident fog that Nancy likes to say that already envelopes me.  Hence the hastily scribbled apology for the setting, and re-setting, of the alarm this morning.  Bringing an end to Dan’s Two Sets of Keys Experiment. 

Once in the car – with the two soon-to-be-one sets of keys, I’m off the store, the train, and work.  It was a rainy yet uneventful ride.  I arrive at the train station intersection, and see a train pulling in.  Perfect!  I have ten minutes to zoom over to the store, grab a loaf of bread and the deli meat, and get back to the station. 

It's raining as I pull in to the parking lot at the grocery store.  I’m opening my door, reaching for the umbrella.

“They’re for here.”  And, as I mentioned, it took me a moment to see that it was a guy climbing into the car next to mine.  And he was talking to me.  As I realize that, I also begin to hear sirens in the distance.

“The store is on fire.  They’re not letting anyone in.”

Working Naked

After washing some dishes this morning, I forgot to put my rings back on my fingers.  It's amazing how disoriented I feel not have my wedding ring on my finger.  The ring on my right hand is a silver interlocking triple band bought on our first trip together in Mexico.   I feel like people are looking at me funny.  It also feels odd to type this without the reassuring weight of my wedding ring on my left hand.   

I find that I apparently 'fiddle' with my rings quite often.  This is going to be a long day.  The most important object I possess is not with me at work to day.    I left a note for Nancy this morning, telling her I love her, with the hope her day goes well.  Yet I feel ashamed that I'm letting her down today.

Lost at C

Nancy and I recently watched a great 2009 documentary about Hugh Hefner.   I learned a lot about the man that I didn't know.   Hugh Hefner: Playboy, Activist, Rebel.  I hope you’ve seen it.   

If you know only one dimension of the man, spend a couple of hours with this film.  He makes me realize I've wasted a lot of my life not doing Bigger Things.  Not standing up for what I believe in, not speaking up, and not being as brave as I should be.  If you think him sexist, advantageous, or just a smiling playboy fool, you couldn't be more wrong.  Sure, there are Naked Ladies in the pages of Playboy; but you’ll also find stellar writing from House Un-American Committee blacklisted authors and others, music, and plenty of social commentary.    

While watching, I was reminded of Junior High School.  Not the titillating peeks at my dad's copy of the magazine; but of the writer Jean Shephard.  And my favorite teacher, Connie Dahlman. 

In 1965, Playboy published a story by Jean Shepherd. "Red Ryder Nails the Hammond Kid." In 1983 it and a few of Jean’s other “memories” became part of a holiday movie that you may have seen a few times.  It’s just one of 25 stories from Shephard that first appeared in Playboy.  He bundled many of them into "Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories," and other great books of my youth.  

Back to Mrs Dahlman.  She directed the plays, had us read and write poetry, and made us think about what the lyrics of our favorite songs actually meant.  She chaperoned field trips to places like the Guthrie Theater – and a side trip to see the Betty Crocker Kitchens at General Mills.  Which brings to mind another childhood memory, the Red Plastic Souvenir Betty Crocker Spoon that was the threatened implement of torture – to my knowledge never used by my mother, merely threatened, when one of the six of us misbehaved.  Actually, just the squeaky spoon drawer sliding open usually brought an end to that day’s transgression.  But I digress.   

Mrs Dahlman also, one day, brought in a few pages of the May 1973 issue of Playboy that contained Jean Shephard's short story "Lost at C," concerning the agonizing incomprehension of algebra.  She read us the story.  And I soon looked for more Jean Shephard.  Which led me to Shel Silverstein, Lawrence Block, and others. 

Picture those pages, electricians tape covering the girly parts on the back of several of them; being pulled out of a teacher's book bag in a junior high today.  To paraphrase Shepherd,”the mind boggles!”

Mrs. Dahlman was also a part-time voice-over talent.  A cool thing to do that was never far from my mind through junior high, and into high school when Doug Samuelson and I decided during our senior year to go to the University of Wisconsin- Superior, just so we could do a comedy show on the college radio station.  Doug changed his mind, left town and became a lawyer.  I stayed (and enrolled at UWS) and became a disc jockey and voice-over guy with a degree in business. 

This is an awful long way to go to get to the point.  I’ve thought of Connie Dahlman a thousand times since 1973.  And a thousand times thought of thanking her.  And I never did. 

Thank you, Mrs. Dahlman, wherever you are.  For allowing and teaching creativity.  For teaching the meaning of words.  And for knowing a good story when you read one.  She bought the magazine for the stories.  At least I like to think so.  And I’m a better man for it.  Not of Hef’s caliber – but better, none the less.

I still want to find her.  She really couldn’t have been much older than us – maybe a few years into her teaching career.  I hope she’s still impressing young minds.  I hope she still has the passion she showed us. And I hope to run into her some day.  To hug her, tell her how much and how often I’ve thought of her, and to tell her how much she still means to me.   

Days Are Like Diamonds

Why that title popped into my mind, I'll never know.   I was looking at it as a 'cherish every moment' kind of title - having heard the phrase somewhere before.  

Then I googled it.  John Denver "Some Days Are Like Diamonds."    

I guess I was right.  Sort of.  

I've been trying to look at this week as a New Chapter.  It's a new job.  Daily schedule changes, daily changes environmentally, and changing finances.  It seems like a good time to re-evaluate life.  And treat every day like a diamond.  Rare, unique, and priceless.  

And towards that end, treat Nancy, Ziggy, and family better.  Listen better, care better, and give as good as I get.   I have a nice life.  If I choose to treat it that way. 

I don't come here very often - not in weeks, actually; and was lamenting the passing of VOX  today with Nancy.  

So.  Not only do I hope to have used the semicolon in the previous sentence correctly, I hope to communicate with you more often as well.  Tell you about my new job.  About riding the bus everyday.  About this next chapter.  And the Diamond Day I'll be having tomorrow.

 

I'll take Music for 100 Alex.

I've always been a fan of theme songs.  We now watch a lot of DVR shows, so most of the time we skip right past them.  But I've always been a fan - right back to The Rockford Files and (embarrassingly enough) The Beverly Hillbillies and My Mother The Car. 

 

 

I don't know if it's my pop sensibilities.  I've always liked a good 'hook.'  

 

Or just the fact that less is more.  That may be why I've been on a Radiohead kick for the last several years.  Minimalistic, yet a depth that amazes me after many, many listenings.  Check out "The National Anthem" from Kid A.  Lights out, headphones on; if you want to hear an aural nightmare.  But I digress.

 

Even though it's nice to blow through an hour long episode of something cool in 44 minutes, the them song is always important.  I can't think of a show that I'm fond of that has a less-than-satisfactory theme song.   Roseanne, Frasier, 30 Rock.   Thumbs Up.  2 1/2 Men.  Enough said.

  

This is your Post by Email address

Testing. Check check. Sibilance. Sibilance. Is this thing on?

Just testing my 'post by email' function...

Have a nice day.