The wax eater could not hang out for the last couple months because he was studying for a major medical school exam that he took Friday. We celebrated. I celebrated more than anyone else because I really like the guy. I got home around 2 a.m. and found an e-mail from the Tar Heel Tournament director that said "You're in." I drank eight glasses of water.
I made it to the course on time and felt ready to play. When I tried to pay my non-member fee, the director said I was still on the wait list. Shoot. I waited until another wait list guy registered and finally handed over my money. The director gave me a goody bag of discs and disc markers. I sat and waited for about 30 minutes until the players finally picked up their scorecards and trudged to their designated holes in the building heat. The problem was that I did not have a designated hole. The director did not have a spot for me after all. He let me keep a free disc from the goody bag. I could not be upset with what seemed to be an honest mistake. I know I have made similar mistakes with my clients.
I took a nap. Then I went to Lowe's with my girlfriend to buy a piece of plywood that will become a two-sided replica of Carolina's football field and basketball court. The finished product will be a surface on which I will play dominoes and grade papers. Can't wait.
I also constructed a Web site for next school year. Tell me if you have suggestions.
Rabid foxes attacked three different people last week in Chapel Hill. Stay safe out there. Godspeed.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Disc talk and the Tar Heel Tournament
I disc golfed with my girlfriend this morning. One of my tee shots faded farther right than I wanted.
"Make it do the work!" I shouted so half the course could hear. The statement made no sense in any context, and I did not know I said it until I walked to the ladies' tee for my girlfriend's shot. She was doubled over with laughter.
"Do you shout at your discs when you golf by yourself?" she asked between sharp inhales. Throw your disc, my body language said.
She wound up and threw. "Take it to the cleaners!" she shouted. I finally started to chuckle. We then compiled the following list of disc drive demands.
Give me the money!
Pull the string!
Swing away!
Mow the lawn!
Maneja el autobus de la ciudad!
Negotiate with protruding trees.
Kiss the hole!
Eat chain!
Call the doctor!
Make her whinny!
I was so excited about tying my personal course record that I registered for this weekend's Tar Heel Tournament, the only Professional Disc Golf Association tournament in the Chapel Hill-Carrboro area despite the many courses. I called my girlfriend to tell her I felt like Tiger Woods. I sent messages to a couple golf buddies about the opportunity for early registration. My friend Jesse prepared to come back to Chapel Hill from Washington to play the tournament.
Then I got this e-mail from the tournament director.
~
J.,
"Make it do the work!" I shouted so half the course could hear. The statement made no sense in any context, and I did not know I said it until I walked to the ladies' tee for my girlfriend's shot. She was doubled over with laughter.
"Do you shout at your discs when you golf by yourself?" she asked between sharp inhales. Throw your disc, my body language said.
She wound up and threw. "Take it to the cleaners!" she shouted. I finally started to chuckle. We then compiled the following list of disc drive demands.
Give me the money!
Pull the string!
Swing away!
Mow the lawn!
Maneja el autobus de la ciudad!
Negotiate with protruding trees.
Kiss the hole!
Eat chain!
Call the doctor!
Make her whinny!
I was so excited about tying my personal course record that I registered for this weekend's Tar Heel Tournament, the only Professional Disc Golf Association tournament in the Chapel Hill-Carrboro area despite the many courses. I called my girlfriend to tell her I felt like Tiger Woods. I sent messages to a couple golf buddies about the opportunity for early registration. My friend Jesse prepared to come back to Chapel Hill from Washington to play the tournament.
Then I got this e-mail from the tournament director.
~
J.,
Right now you are 10 on the waiting list. The tourney filled last week. I'll keep you updated as others drop out. If you do not get in, you will receive a full refund.
~
I am crushed.
~
I am crushed.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A quiet night
My mom is in town, and tonight I did some work downstairs while she watched television. I faced away from the set so I had no visual distraction. The shows she watched sounded funnier without the visual cues. Take, for example, "The View."
The chatter immediately reminded me of old Saturday Night Live parodies with each of the five women trying to drown out the other four. The effect was that the viewer could not understand anything until Tracy Morgan, one of the men with whom I hope to play poker in heaven, shouted something marginally obscene over the din and qualified the statement with "I am a lawyer." I cannot find this on YouTube anywhere.
The other upstairs poker buddies will be Kevin James, Ray Romano, Roy Williams, John Bunting, Dr. Horne, Chuck Beach, Barack Obama and Dad. That's just off the top of my head. KJ will eat all the food. Roy will call me youngster. John Bunting will tell me he loves me after losing a pot. Dr. Horne will laugh hard and sweat. Dad will take forever to act. Beach will leave early. Obama will win. Did you know he occasionally smokes? I guess we'll have to take a break when we color up.
The chatter immediately reminded me of old Saturday Night Live parodies with each of the five women trying to drown out the other four. The effect was that the viewer could not understand anything until Tracy Morgan, one of the men with whom I hope to play poker in heaven, shouted something marginally obscene over the din and qualified the statement with "I am a lawyer." I cannot find this on YouTube anywhere.
The other upstairs poker buddies will be Kevin James, Ray Romano, Roy Williams, John Bunting, Dr. Horne, Chuck Beach, Barack Obama and Dad. That's just off the top of my head. KJ will eat all the food. Roy will call me youngster. John Bunting will tell me he loves me after losing a pot. Dr. Horne will laugh hard and sweat. Dad will take forever to act. Beach will leave early. Obama will win. Did you know he occasionally smokes? I guess we'll have to take a break when we color up.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Books, blog titles and WWII
I wish I knew my friends' favorite books. Facebook helps since some friends list their favorites in their profiles, but the lists do not say why a book made someone's list or which of the books on a list is a friend's absolute favorite. I think these things are important. So does Google. The link to the left will take you to some of my own book reviews. I reviewed all of them in the last couple weeks despite having read some many years ago. The star counts are probably spot on while the text reviews are not. For example, I wrote that "1984" was just "fascinating" and gave it five stars. Don't worry. You'll figure it out.
The current title for this blog was only my third choice back in 2007. I remember trying "Interstate 40/85" as a metaphorical pathway between two wildly different worlds: Chapel Hill's collegiate fantasy land and Charlotte's unequal educational system of poop. Blogger told me I could not use the name since it was already in use. So was "poop system." My friend Dani told me she couldn't start a blog because she would never spin a good title. I realize in hindsight that she was from the poop system and I did not tell her this story. Odd.
I drove on 40/85 last week but didn't get the same nostalgic feel as before. The three-hour drive has no significance now that I live on the better end of it. I'm glad the title was already taken. I guess timelessly relevant titles come from our ideals instead of our realities. Of course poop is as timeless as it gets. Everybody consistently does it. If somebody does not adhere to the system, we have a pill for it just like anything else.
I saw "Valkyrie" this weekend. As a German-American youngster, I did not have much to be proud of in middle school when we learned about Hitler's atrocities. Our teachers seemed to tell us he hypnotized a weak-willed nation. Nazis and Germans were synonymous in those growing years. This assumption was, of course, wrong. The film is about the last failed German assassination attempt on Hitler's life. I watched a YouTube video that mentioned the soldiers depicted in "Valkyrie" are the only commemorated soldiers in Berlin today. Their mission was to "save Germany" and "show the world who [they] really [were]." That's pretty touching stuff for this Caucasian, upper-middle German American who was a little embarrassed in Mrs. Katz's classroom in 1998. Maybe now I will wear the "I'M A HERMANN GERMAN" button that lives among home office supplies in Libertyville.
"I can't believe the Civil War happened," my mom said today. The Civil War does seem extreme, but World War II was just 64 years ago and held the fate of humanity in the balance. It seems impossible. Obama commemorated D-Day veterans and the fallen this year, and I listened as never before. One generation of Americans and allies saved the world for us.
The current title for this blog was only my third choice back in 2007. I remember trying "Interstate 40/85" as a metaphorical pathway between two wildly different worlds: Chapel Hill's collegiate fantasy land and Charlotte's unequal educational system of poop. Blogger told me I could not use the name since it was already in use. So was "poop system." My friend Dani told me she couldn't start a blog because she would never spin a good title. I realize in hindsight that she was from the poop system and I did not tell her this story. Odd.
I drove on 40/85 last week but didn't get the same nostalgic feel as before. The three-hour drive has no significance now that I live on the better end of it. I'm glad the title was already taken. I guess timelessly relevant titles come from our ideals instead of our realities. Of course poop is as timeless as it gets. Everybody consistently does it. If somebody does not adhere to the system, we have a pill for it just like anything else.
I saw "Valkyrie" this weekend. As a German-American youngster, I did not have much to be proud of in middle school when we learned about Hitler's atrocities. Our teachers seemed to tell us he hypnotized a weak-willed nation. Nazis and Germans were synonymous in those growing years. This assumption was, of course, wrong. The film is about the last failed German assassination attempt on Hitler's life. I watched a YouTube video that mentioned the soldiers depicted in "Valkyrie" are the only commemorated soldiers in Berlin today. Their mission was to "save Germany" and "show the world who [they] really [were]." That's pretty touching stuff for this Caucasian, upper-middle German American who was a little embarrassed in Mrs. Katz's classroom in 1998. Maybe now I will wear the "I'M A HERMANN GERMAN" button that lives among home office supplies in Libertyville.
"I can't believe the Civil War happened," my mom said today. The Civil War does seem extreme, but World War II was just 64 years ago and held the fate of humanity in the balance. It seems impossible. Obama commemorated D-Day veterans and the fallen this year, and I listened as never before. One generation of Americans and allies saved the world for us.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
One time
My colleague friend Seth and I had another man date today for disc golf. We both are limping to the finish of the school year and need weekday diversions to make it to June 16. Golf is helpful, but thinking about golf all day is like a super sonic time machine.
Today’s venue was Carrboro’s Anderson Park, the home of a brand new course. My Google calendar warned me for days about certain Thursday thunderstorms, but the forecast had not been accurate for weeks. The clouds crept in during the half-hour drive to the park, and the floodgates opened as soon as we stepped to the first tee.
“We’re going to do this,” I said as I pulled on our high school’s baseball uniform and cap for extra insulation. “We’ll be fine once we get into the woods.”
“I’m fine with whatever,” Seth said. Seth is usually fine with whatever. I am never on time for our carpool. Whatever.
We needed to wait for two other possibles. One of them sensibly called to say he would not brave the elements. The other guy once ate a half-eaten pizza off the Franklin Street pavement and brownies mixed with candle wax. I decided he was on his way.
To pass the time, Seth and I played the first hole a couple times. I bogeyed twice while experimenting with my new backhand. When the wax eater finally arrived, water ran off Seth’s nose and the brim of my cap in streams. The rain saturated my clothes, so I struggled mightily to pull off the layers and go shirtless. I grunted a shirtless skinny grunt and frowned at my friend’s poncho, and we were off.
Disc golfing in the rain is like running for exercise; you have to try it once but will probably decide to never do it again. It’s hard to focus on your shots. The releases are hard to finesse. Impromptu raging rivers carry away your errant discs – unless you golf with a wax eater who will jump in to find it for you. I scored a soggy plus-23, my worst performance ever. We said quick goodbyes and planned another round for tomorrow.
I eased into my car worrying about the effect of my soggy buns on the driver’s seat. I almost forgot to notice that I did not need the windshield wipers the whole way home.
“Ya know I’d like to keep my cheeks dry today.
So stay with me and I’ll have it made.”
~Blind Melon
Today’s venue was Carrboro’s Anderson Park, the home of a brand new course. My Google calendar warned me for days about certain Thursday thunderstorms, but the forecast had not been accurate for weeks. The clouds crept in during the half-hour drive to the park, and the floodgates opened as soon as we stepped to the first tee.
“We’re going to do this,” I said as I pulled on our high school’s baseball uniform and cap for extra insulation. “We’ll be fine once we get into the woods.”
“I’m fine with whatever,” Seth said. Seth is usually fine with whatever. I am never on time for our carpool. Whatever.
We needed to wait for two other possibles. One of them sensibly called to say he would not brave the elements. The other guy once ate a half-eaten pizza off the Franklin Street pavement and brownies mixed with candle wax. I decided he was on his way.
To pass the time, Seth and I played the first hole a couple times. I bogeyed twice while experimenting with my new backhand. When the wax eater finally arrived, water ran off Seth’s nose and the brim of my cap in streams. The rain saturated my clothes, so I struggled mightily to pull off the layers and go shirtless. I grunted a shirtless skinny grunt and frowned at my friend’s poncho, and we were off.
Disc golfing in the rain is like running for exercise; you have to try it once but will probably decide to never do it again. It’s hard to focus on your shots. The releases are hard to finesse. Impromptu raging rivers carry away your errant discs – unless you golf with a wax eater who will jump in to find it for you. I scored a soggy plus-23, my worst performance ever. We said quick goodbyes and planned another round for tomorrow.
I eased into my car worrying about the effect of my soggy buns on the driver’s seat. I almost forgot to notice that I did not need the windshield wipers the whole way home.
“Ya know I’d like to keep my cheeks dry today.
So stay with me and I’ll have it made.”
~Blind Melon
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