Sunday Mornings

Sunday Mornings

Not the Last

If Vanessa had ever seen something like that before, she’d never told me, but two days ago, as we were walking down our street, she pointed it out to me for the first time. Not the last. 

Not the last.

Terrifyingly Awesome

BREAKING: I have it on good authority that John Stockton was a member of SEAL Team Six, the elite squad of Navy SEALs that brought down Osama bin Laden.

An intensely private individual, speculation as to the specifics of John Stockton's post-mind-numbingly-brilliant-basketball career lifestyle has run the gamut of time-traveling super-hero (you don't know about it because it didn't happen--anymore), yarn bomber (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/19/fashion/creating-graffiti-with-yarn.html), and purveyor of once-thought-lost vintages of fine wines and liquors (ever hear of the Jefferson Bottles?--http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/09/03/070903fa_fact_keefe--Stockton has the real thing).

Although government officials have been instructed to deny and disavow, President Obama has been sighted wearing a ring that leading specialists agree is a 1998 NBA championship ring bearing the logo of the Utah Jazz from an alternate timeline and given to him as a gift by Stockton himself on May 3, 2011, which many are interpreting as confirmation of Stockton's involvement in the mission.

Stick that one in your pipe and smoke it, terror.

Bear with Me, Please, I'm Working on It

Permit me, if you will, to share one of my favorite parts of The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/148/pg148.html). It's near and dear to me because (believe it or not) I'm working on it, all of the time.

My list of virtues contain'd at first but twelve; but a Quaker friend having kindly informed me that I was generally thought proud; that my pride show'd itself frequently in conversation; that I was not content with being in the right when discussing any point, but was overbearing, and rather insolent, of which he convinc'd me by mentioning several instances; I determined endeavouring to cure myself, if I could, of this vice or folly among the rest, and I added Humility to my list, giving an extensive meaning to the word. I cannot boast of much success in acquiring the reality of this virtue, but I had a good deal with regard to the appearance of it. I made it a rule to forbear all direct contradiction to the sentiments of others, and all positive assertion of my own. I even forbid myself, agreeably to the old laws of our Junto, the use of every word or expression in the language that imported a fix'd opinion, such as certainly, undoubtedly, etc., and I adopted, instead of them, I conceive, I apprehend, or I imagine a thing to be so or so; or it so appears to me at present. When another asserted something that I thought an error, I deny'd myself the pleasure of contradicting him abruptly, and of showing immediately some absurdity in his proposition; and in answering I began by observing that in certain cases or circumstances his opinion would be right, but in the present case there appear'd or seem'd to me some difference, etc. I soon found the advantage of this change in my manner; the conversations I engag'd in went on more pleasantly. The modest way in which I propos'd my opinions procur'd them a readier reception and less contradiction; I had less mortification when I was found to be in the wrong, and I more easily prevail'd with others to give up their mistakes and join with me when I happened to be in the right. And this mode, which I at first put on with some violence to natural inclination, became at length so easy, and so habitual to me, that perhaps for these fifty years past no one has ever heard a dogmatical expression escape me. And to this habit (after my character of integrity) I think it principally owing that I had early so much weight with my fellow-citizens when I proposed new institutions, or alterations in the old, and so much influence in public councils when I became a member; for I was but a bad speaker, never eloquent, subject to much hesitation in my choice of words, hardly correct in language, and yet I generally carried my points.

In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had compleatly overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility.

Bad People Marry Bad People

I love my wife.

This is a picture of her:

Vanessa is basically Darth Vader.

As I've chronicled all along in this blog o' mine, I am not role-model material. Apparently, like does, indeed, attract like: the other day, we saw this:

While a reasonable human being would (most likely) posit that this hieroglyph indicates something along the lines of although I cannot draw, I will purchase your melancholy house, my child bride immediately deduced that this artist buys "Chinamen."

I am so sorry.

Work Email: Service Announcement

Overheard in the break room about two minutes ago, for your information:

“She’s cute. I would definitely take her to the park and strangle her a little bit.”

OMFG.


Best regards,

Yes, Yes, and Yes, Please

The other day, Vanessa noticed a sign on 33^rd South that said something about “recycled” bikes. She’s been in the market for a road bike for a year or so, but due to one thing after another, we’ve put off making a purchase.

Until now.

The Recycled Bike (facebook.com/recycledbike) is a place that recycles bikes. Everything about the place is dubious and suspect, but we were happy to write them a check, anyway.

I’ll keep you posted on a) whether or not we actually get the bike we paid for, b) whether or not the bike we get is “hot,” and c) whether or not they do good work.

I have high hopes that the update for all three of those points will basically be, yes.

In Embrio

I am sure that this comes as no surprise to anyone, but not only do I enjoy the occasional comic book, I make good use of Dr. Volt’s (http://www.drvolts.com/) free hold service and follow a number of different ongoing monthly series—mostly Batman titles, but I’m a bit of a Green Lantern junky, too.

Perhaps weirdly, Green Lantern has always been one of my favorite super heroes. There are not a lot of casual comics fans—and I wasn’t more than a casual comics fan until recently—that can say that.

Most people, in my experience, tend to gravitate toward the icons (Batman or Superman) or the not-quite-iconic-but-almost-there-(maybe) (Spiderman or the X-Men (which almost always is code for Wolverine)). These preferences stem mostly from their experiences with the movies and cartoon series from the ‘80s and ‘90s. I know this because I lived this—I loved Batman because of Tim Burton’s first Batman film and the animated series that followed.

But I was introduced to the Green Lantern via an action figure that my cousins had that no one else would play with because their dog had chewed off both feet and one hand. The head was scarred, but still, for all intents and purposes, a head. It was nice to have an action figure that looked like he’d actually been through some of the epic battles that we orchestrated in my cousins’ basement.

So, when I became serious about reading superhero comics, after Batman, Green Lantern was a foregone conclusion for me.

The upcoming Green Lantern movie, then, has become something that I am interested in much more so than anyone else I know. I followed cast developments early on (Nathan Fillion would have been way better as Hal, sorry Ryan Reynolds) and have been relieved as subsequent trailers and footage have looked better and better (the first one had me worried).

A few weeks ago, to feed into the media storm that the studio is trying to build around the film, the DC Comics blog, The Source (http://dcu.blog.dccomics.com/), started a strange-ish series of posts in which, "every Monday-Thursday, as we count down the days until the movie arrives in theaters June 17th, The Source will be revealing images, bios and fun facts from the comic books that every Green Lantern fan is gonna want to know" (http://dcu.blog.dccomics.com/2011/05/07/free-comic-book-day-special-edition-green-lantern-the-essentials/).

Now, other than the fact that these posts clearly reveal DC’s concern that nobody—even superhero comics fans, who have to be the only people actually reading a comics publisher’s blog—knows enough about these characters to care about them enough to see a movie about them, today’s post is pretty funny:

Today’s spotlight is a biographical sketch of the villain Hector Hammond. We read that "Growing up, Hector Hammond was always an outcast. Only interested in science, he never competed in sports or played with his peers. Hector preferred the company of a book to that of his friends" (http://dcu.blog.dccomics.com/2011/05/17/senator%E2%80%99s-son-becomes-scientist/).

Do you think that superhero comics fans—who on some level, at least, think it would be cool if this stuff was real—are ever concerned that almost every one of them (minus the science part—maybe) fits the description of a burgeoning, hydrocephalic super villain?

Work Email: Mystery Solved

Everyone can relax. I have discovered the identity of Mr. K.

As you’ve navigated the parking lot at WGU, no doubt you have, at one time or another, encountered the insanely slow-moving (I’m talking, like, 2-4mph, here), brownish, ‘80s-ish, boat-ish, Cadillac-ish vehicle with the astonishingly artless vanity plate that reads, simply, “MR K.”

No?

Well I have. I’ve been behind it on several occasions. And on Wednesday, as I was walking into the building on the Parking level, a small man with horrible posture and a perfect molestachio shuffled through the door with me. It was so obvious that no other human being could pilot the road in such a machine that I immediately asked, “Are you Mr. K?”

Mystery solved: he was not Mr. K, but “[his] dead brother was,” and my new friend inherited the car with the title “since [they] had the same last name.”

In related news, I’m a horrible person. And a little bored.

Enjoy your Friday.

Best regards,

Writing About Love

Last year I entered a writing contest associated with the release of Belle and Sebastian's album, Write About Love. The directions were to write about love (surprise!) in 300 words or less. I decided to re-purpose a post that has appeared on this blog (http://toocoolbyhalf.blogspot.com/2007/12/england-and-italy.html).

I was forced to cut and cut and cut away almost everything, but it was interesting to me to see what I was willing to cut and what I refused to let go. The cheesy last line was just an effort to tie it into the love theme. I don't think I was in love with this person, but maybe that's the point? Anyway...

I won this LP for being one of the "honorable mentions" (http://www.matadorrecords.com/matablog/2011/01/11/write-about-love-contest-winners-part-one-honorable-mentions/):

It's signed by the band and was mailed from the UK. Kind of fun.

This is the piece:

On a Friday I took the train to school. My first class started at 9:40, but I got on the 8:03 train so I could get some reading in. There was a pretty girl near the door, but I was too shy to sit next to her. 

After a few stops, the conductor announced over the intercom that the police wouldn't let us go any further north. There had been a bomb threat. 

We stopped at the next stop, 33^rd South, and we all had to get out. The conductor told us that a bus would take us to another stop where we could take another train. 

I noticed the pretty girl again. Second chance! I convinced myself to sit next to her and asked her where she was going. And then we talked—about everything, somehow, in fifteen minutes.When the bus dropped us off at the “safe” stop, we got on the train together and kept talking.It was perfect. Finally, I asked her for her name and she said it was Venice. 

Like the city? 

Like the city. And then I had to transfer to another line. I stepped off the train and turned around as the doors slid shut. I stood there, on the crowded stop, looking at her looking at me, thinking to myself (suddenly alarmed!), Why didn't I get her number? The look on her face said, Why didn't you get my number? 

I followed her car with my eyes until the train was gone. 

Monday I took the train to work. I got on at 8:03 and at every stop changed to a different car. Then I stopped and waited for the next train, just in case. But she wasn't on that one either. 

Love is an act of faith.

Editing

Does adding a picture that approximates Elder Holland's jacket ruin the post? Maybe.

By the way, I think we can all agree that 2010 was a wash, so no apologies.

"Lost in the Supermarket"

Costco is the undiscovered country. Of possibility. Maybe. OK, probably not. But think about this, anyway:

On Monday, January 17, 2011, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I found myself at Costco with my parents, mostly because I had nothing better to do, but also because Vanessa was at work and I was bored. And we needed butter. Yup, Costco-sized butter. That’s how we roll.

Shortly after our arrival, my father and I were walking by the electronics section, when an older gentleman passed briskly and purposefully in front of us. It was Elder Jeffery R. Holland. He was wearing conservative pants and a white shirt, but, weirdly, with a snazzy leather jacket.

Now, perhaps I am crazy, but I always expect older folks who rock leather to rock leather bomber-style jackets. Maybe it’s because I labor under the (willfull?) delusion that anyone over the age of sixty was in World War II (my psyche is stuck in the early ‘90s), but that just seems right, to me.

But no, Elder Holland was in something Paul Newman would have worn in the ‘70s—and I don’t mean that it was retro: It was snazzy. Cool. Hip. It seemed to say to the world, The man wearing this jacket is in touch.

Elder Holland walked right over to a Costco dude and led off with “Hey! My man!” and then my father and I were out of earshot and I pointed out to my father that Elder Holland is a snazzy dresser for an old guy and we went about our business.

About twenty minutes later, we’d found my mother and we were walking out of an aisle that was capped with a display booth and an anxious gentleman with a microphone selling blenders or something. As we were behind the booth, I commanded an excellent view of the half-dozen or so Costco patrons who were listening to the anxious gentleman’s pitch, and I was delighted to see Elder Holland, again, with his wife, in the front row. And Elder Holland was listening with rapt attention—as, I imagine, Mormons (who are awake) listen to his talks every six months during General Conference.

This, evidently, is what modern-day apostles (as in the Big 12) of Jesus Christ, prophets, seers, and revelators, do on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: they wear generation-defying jackets and think about purchasing blenders.