I discovered a half dozen important e-mails from parents and students in my spam e-mail folder tonight. A coworker told me somebody adjusted the spam filter. Now the damn thing hides the most important e-mails we get. Technology is a double-edged sword that I cannot live without and will never forgive. I have problems.
Three of my coworkers and I will play a disc golf scramble tomorrow if the rain stays away. One fellow is my gray bearded, young-at-heart mentor. Another is a relatively new father who, when asked if he would like to play, said yes without hesitation. Two-year-olds will be around no matter the weather, but not all days accomodate golf.
In other news North Korea farted underground and told its neighbors to bugger off. This blog has never been political, but let me say this about the Korea situation. It is bad. Move me to the top of your RSS news folder. I am well informed.
"Now watch me hit this drive."
~George W. Bush
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Ninth Street
I strolled Ninth Street for the first time last weekend. My crew was already in high spirits when it arrived at Charlie's, one of the few bars open on Ninth last Saturday. I didn't see many Duke students. I might not have seen any. Charlie's was full of thirty something Durham residents listening to a loud cover band playing "Redneck Woman." My suburban Los Angeles girlfriend sang along and raised her PBR bottle to the chorus, and I liked it. I was no more in my element as a Carolina guy in a Duke bar. I ain't no high-class broad. Hell yeah.
"Ugh," my Carolina friend said. "Look at that." My gaze settled on the Ultimate Fighting Championship match on the television, but my friend loves mixed martial arts. A quick refocus allowed me to see the offending material: Duke memorabilia everywhere.
Puke blue jerseys on the walls. A picture of a smirking Coach K. And then another. Tens and tens of smirks. Laettner's release. A Rose Bowl banner from 1942. The Devils played in the only Rose Bowl outside of Pasadena because of national security. Their change of venue was to Durham. Ha.
The eyesores were enough to make a couple meek toasts.
"Here's to Marvin's put back." Clink.
"Here's to four in a row." Clink.
"Here's to five is greater than three." Clink.
If I had made better use of the moment, I would have thought of something better to say. Instead we picked up our defiant selves and walked to Cosmic Cantina, the one thing that Ninth has better than Franklin. Cheap margaritas and veggie burritos on a nice outdoor patio framed an awkward Dukie date. I rooted for bottom braces guy. We might bleed different shades, but we certainly have both been on at least one awkward date. Mine was either high heels on ice or the fast food stalker. I can get behind that but only that. We have little else in common.
I might go back when school starts. Any takers? That's not really a question. Boys, it's time we suit up for a road game.
"Ugh," my Carolina friend said. "Look at that." My gaze settled on the Ultimate Fighting Championship match on the television, but my friend loves mixed martial arts. A quick refocus allowed me to see the offending material: Duke memorabilia everywhere.
Puke blue jerseys on the walls. A picture of a smirking Coach K. And then another. Tens and tens of smirks. Laettner's release. A Rose Bowl banner from 1942. The Devils played in the only Rose Bowl outside of Pasadena because of national security. Their change of venue was to Durham. Ha.
The eyesores were enough to make a couple meek toasts.
"Here's to Marvin's put back." Clink.
"Here's to four in a row." Clink.
"Here's to five is greater than three." Clink.
If I had made better use of the moment, I would have thought of something better to say. Instead we picked up our defiant selves and walked to Cosmic Cantina, the one thing that Ninth has better than Franklin. Cheap margaritas and veggie burritos on a nice outdoor patio framed an awkward Dukie date. I rooted for bottom braces guy. We might bleed different shades, but we certainly have both been on at least one awkward date. Mine was either high heels on ice or the fast food stalker. I can get behind that but only that. We have little else in common.
I might go back when school starts. Any takers? That's not really a question. Boys, it's time we suit up for a road game.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Golf, poker and professional wrestling
My carpool buddy Seth and I are back together again after a baseball season hiatus. We played disc golf last Friday to finish off the week, and he mentioned today that he couldn't wait for summer to arrive. I saw it coming from a car seat away.
"We should bring our shorts and discs so we can golf tomorrow," he said. "We should do the same thing Wednesday." Smells like teen spirit. I'm in. It is fun to throw a good drive and watch others do the same. I love it when a single asks to drive through my group and buzzes one past my ear for an easy birdie. I do the same sometimes but also have a fondness for ticks, trees and sextuple bogeys.
I might have to take a rain check Wednesday since I am still on the brink of my big poker comeback. Even my girlfriend won't let me gasp for air. I played online yesterday and held a K-10. The flop came as K-K-2. She bet small, so I put her on K-something less than 10. She actually held K-J and built her house on the turn.
I flopped trip aces at Bailey's last week. A Duke fan who previously sucked out four times raised my action bet. I just called and checked the turn. He checked. A seemingly harmless jack fell on the river. I went all in. He called and flipped over jacks full. What the hell? I figured he didn't even look at his cards. Ugh. Writing about this stuff will turn it around.
I finally saw The Wrestler. It's been a long time since I cared about a character this much. I won't spoil the ending but will say it is a fantastic finish to a fantastic film. This should have beat the pants off "Slumdog Millionaire." Mickey Rourke, we love you man.
UNC disc golf course information
"We should bring our shorts and discs so we can golf tomorrow," he said. "We should do the same thing Wednesday." Smells like teen spirit. I'm in. It is fun to throw a good drive and watch others do the same. I love it when a single asks to drive through my group and buzzes one past my ear for an easy birdie. I do the same sometimes but also have a fondness for ticks, trees and sextuple bogeys.
I might have to take a rain check Wednesday since I am still on the brink of my big poker comeback. Even my girlfriend won't let me gasp for air. I played online yesterday and held a K-10. The flop came as K-K-2. She bet small, so I put her on K-something less than 10. She actually held K-J and built her house on the turn.
I flopped trip aces at Bailey's last week. A Duke fan who previously sucked out four times raised my action bet. I just called and checked the turn. He checked. A seemingly harmless jack fell on the river. I went all in. He called and flipped over jacks full. What the hell? I figured he didn't even look at his cards. Ugh. Writing about this stuff will turn it around.
I finally saw The Wrestler. It's been a long time since I cared about a character this much. I won't spoil the ending but will say it is a fantastic finish to a fantastic film. This should have beat the pants off "Slumdog Millionaire." Mickey Rourke, we love you man.
UNC disc golf course information
Friday, May 15, 2009
Character
A student of mine hit a walk-off grand slam with two outs, bases juiced and a one-run deficit in last night's conference championship game. Does it get any better than that? I couldn't wait to see her this morning after I heard the news. I asked her to tell the story to the class.
"No," she said. "I'm too nervous for my math test." This was typical humble behavior for her. She eventually whispered the most watered-down version of the story so that nobody could hear her. "And then I hit it out," she concluded.
"Was it on the first pitch?" I asked.
"I don't remember," she said. She couldn't remember because the adrenaline was still pumping through her veins. This girl will go farther in life than any softball she will ever hit.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Google Reader and a lesser thing
To those who received countless college football e-mails, I am sorry. I discovered Google Reader this week, but the "share" function has yet to win my graces. You know you like fat defensive linemen scoring touchdowns in your inbox. It's American.
Google is amazing. You select your favorite sites that post material, and the Reader puts all the updated stuff in the same place. You get to organize the layout however you want. Surfing the Web is outdated. Workplace distraction is trendier than ever.
Google's innovative ease and speed contrast with an annoying piece of technology I meant to expose long ago. See if you recognize this conversation.
Please enter your password. Then press pound!
OK, fair enough. Everything else requires a password but with less enthusiasm. Bleep blip bleep blip blop.
You have one new voice message.
OK. Play it.
To listen to your messages, press one.
I am calling my voicemail. That means I want to listen to my voicemail. Play me my voicemail. You don't have to tell me to press one every time. Play it for me.
To send a message, press two.
If I wanted to send a message, I would use this telephone as a calling device. People have been doing it since 1870 without your help.
To change your personal options, press four.
Is one of my personal options to not hear you again?
To disconnect, press star.
Now now. No need to be sassy. I am offering constructive criticism. Sigh. I'll press one. Again. Bleep.
First new voice message.
Yup. Got it.
"Hey. The house isn't on fire. See you soon."
End of message.
Really? Wait. Can I cheer for an encore? Encore! Encore! Encore!
To return a call, press 88.
Did I fall asleep for the positive integers between one and 87?
To erase this message, press seven. To save it, press nine.
Yeah right. You'll just throw it away in 21 days like you throw away my time every time I check my voicemail.
To hear more options, press zero.
I'm probably the moron for not pressing zero.
Good bye moron!
Google is amazing. You select your favorite sites that post material, and the Reader puts all the updated stuff in the same place. You get to organize the layout however you want. Surfing the Web is outdated. Workplace distraction is trendier than ever.
Google's innovative ease and speed contrast with an annoying piece of technology I meant to expose long ago. See if you recognize this conversation.
Please enter your password. Then press pound!
OK, fair enough. Everything else requires a password but with less enthusiasm. Bleep blip bleep blip blop.
You have one new voice message.
OK. Play it.
To listen to your messages, press one.
I am calling my voicemail. That means I want to listen to my voicemail. Play me my voicemail. You don't have to tell me to press one every time. Play it for me.
To send a message, press two.
If I wanted to send a message, I would use this telephone as a calling device. People have been doing it since 1870 without your help.
To change your personal options, press four.
Is one of my personal options to not hear you again?
To disconnect, press star.
Now now. No need to be sassy. I am offering constructive criticism. Sigh. I'll press one. Again. Bleep.
First new voice message.
Yup. Got it.
"Hey. The house isn't on fire. See you soon."
End of message.
Really? Wait. Can I cheer for an encore? Encore! Encore! Encore!
To return a call, press 88.
Did I fall asleep for the positive integers between one and 87?
To erase this message, press seven. To save it, press nine.
Yeah right. You'll just throw it away in 21 days like you throw away my time every time I check my voicemail.
To hear more options, press zero.
I'm probably the moron for not pressing zero.
Good bye moron!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Small miracle
I decided to golf a solo round with my new discs. I was on pace to settle for my 12 handicap when something horrible happened on the 15th hole. I hooked a forehand over a hill into dense woods. I suck at finding things because when I look for something I think 'I suck at finding things.' Maybe this is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe not.
'This is why I'm in a poker slump,' I thought. 'I don't have the patience to see this through.' I decided then to find my disc no matter how long it took and go home to cut my losses. Thirty minutes passed. Finally a through golfer found my disc next to the hole. I gushed at him until he ran away. The disc must have caught an edge and rolled on the other side of the hill. I birdied for maybe the sixth time in my career.
I had no idea how to find my car, so I teed off on 16 and left myself with another easy birdie.
'This is just like 'Caddyshack' when the guy hits everything in the pouring rain,' I thought.
I threw a manly tee shot on the 17th, but a tree knocked it down. My lay was the kind that forces a golfer to throw away from the hole onto the fairway. But my luck was running as never before, so I lunged my groin out of its natural position and saw a narrow passage. It was a suicide shot, the kind that might hit any of the five trees three feet in front of me and land in my mouth.
I made it. It knew it was in when it was halfway there. I stood still to replay what happened in my mind. I stepped it off as 33 stumbling, uphill paces away. The view from the hole seemed as impossible as it had from my lay.
I parred the 18th to finish 6-up. Things like that have happened before, but this was the first time the universe bent for only me to see.
I returned home to the hole in the ceiling, the water-sucking thing and my mother saying that the house should have burned down days ago. I also found two ticks in my leg from the half-hour search.
'I experienced a miracle,' I thought in lieu of the domestic chaos. 'I'd better write this down.'
'This is why I'm in a poker slump,' I thought. 'I don't have the patience to see this through.' I decided then to find my disc no matter how long it took and go home to cut my losses. Thirty minutes passed. Finally a through golfer found my disc next to the hole. I gushed at him until he ran away. The disc must have caught an edge and rolled on the other side of the hill. I birdied for maybe the sixth time in my career.
I had no idea how to find my car, so I teed off on 16 and left myself with another easy birdie.
'This is just like 'Caddyshack' when the guy hits everything in the pouring rain,' I thought.
I threw a manly tee shot on the 17th, but a tree knocked it down. My lay was the kind that forces a golfer to throw away from the hole onto the fairway. But my luck was running as never before, so I lunged my groin out of its natural position and saw a narrow passage. It was a suicide shot, the kind that might hit any of the five trees three feet in front of me and land in my mouth.
I made it. It knew it was in when it was halfway there. I stood still to replay what happened in my mind. I stepped it off as 33 stumbling, uphill paces away. The view from the hole seemed as impossible as it had from my lay.
I parred the 18th to finish 6-up. Things like that have happened before, but this was the first time the universe bent for only me to see.
I returned home to the hole in the ceiling, the water-sucking thing and my mother saying that the house should have burned down days ago. I also found two ticks in my leg from the half-hour search.
'I experienced a miracle,' I thought in lieu of the domestic chaos. 'I'd better write this down.'
Friday, May 8, 2009
Rue the late afternoon nap
My (parents') kitchen flooded this week from rainfall. We had a hole in the siding. The fix-it guys set up an engine that must run for 144 consecutive hours. I live in my bedroom now. This whole situation sounds like a good Johnny Cash song. You water-suckin', noise-makin' thang.
I came home from a strangely satisfying work week to the noise, so I retired to my room to read "To Kill a Mockingbird" 12 years after I should have. That I can tell you this is a direct result of four things: a high school diploma from Libertyville Tech, a couple Alabama friends and two of my favorite blogs to the left. Figure it out. I passed out when Jem apologized to Mrs. Dubose for cutting her flowers.
I woke up moments ago in a time-distorted haze. I am working now to pull myself out of it. I can't find any of my friends to hang, and thunder is rolling. My stomach just growled. I need a shower. My hair is too long. I guess I have things to do.
Baseball ended this week. I enjoyed coaching, but the season's end came at the right time. In hindsight I might need a men's league to reunite with my lost passion instead of 15 temporarily insane adolescents. The view from here is still so different from memory lane. As always.
My girlfriend and friend both encountered Sir Butch Davis this week. She saw him field football questions at a restaurant. He saw him pump iron at the UNC Wellness Center.
"Speak tongues to him when he's on the bench," I said. I don't know what that means exactly. I would at least find an appropriate moment for a chest bump or make him say "Worcestershire sauce" to ponder the Donald Trump resemblance.
I came home from a strangely satisfying work week to the noise, so I retired to my room to read "To Kill a Mockingbird" 12 years after I should have. That I can tell you this is a direct result of four things: a high school diploma from Libertyville Tech, a couple Alabama friends and two of my favorite blogs to the left. Figure it out. I passed out when Jem apologized to Mrs. Dubose for cutting her flowers.
I woke up moments ago in a time-distorted haze. I am working now to pull myself out of it. I can't find any of my friends to hang, and thunder is rolling. My stomach just growled. I need a shower. My hair is too long. I guess I have things to do.
Baseball ended this week. I enjoyed coaching, but the season's end came at the right time. In hindsight I might need a men's league to reunite with my lost passion instead of 15 temporarily insane adolescents. The view from here is still so different from memory lane. As always.
My girlfriend and friend both encountered Sir Butch Davis this week. She saw him field football questions at a restaurant. He saw him pump iron at the UNC Wellness Center.
"Speak tongues to him when he's on the bench," I said. I don't know what that means exactly. I would at least find an appropriate moment for a chest bump or make him say "Worcestershire sauce" to ponder the Donald Trump resemblance.
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