Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Trying to keep my brain alive

I got a job.

It's good news. Because I didn't have a job. And money not only makes the world go 'round, it keeps me fed and clothed. Some of my favorite things to be are fed and clothed.

On the other hand, it's kind of a soulless job. It's boring, and 30 miles away. It leaves me little time for laundry, cleaning my house, going out with friends, playing with the dog, and above all, writing.

I've still written a couple things for The Cincinnati Man, and I'll be starting an advice column for them after the first of the year. So check that out if you're in total withdrawal. Hopefully at some point I'll get to the point where the job doesn't leave me devoid of creativity at the end of the day. My brain will stop its atrophy and I'll start thinking of things I want to say.

Thanks for reading. It never ceases to amaze me that people besides me like reading this shit. Love ya.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

absence makes the heart...

Hm... grow fonder? Not really so much growing fonder but the absence allows for the burgeoning resentment to recede. I'm talking about the blog, of course.

That 30-day blog-a-thon was rough. I'm not going to lie- at the end, I was really getting to the point where I dreaded having to get on here. I wrote each one live that day- so there was no backlog when I didn't feel like writing. When I couldn't get to my computer and it was more stressful than fun or insightful. It was this total pain in the ass. But in the end, I'm glad I did it. Actually, the day after the last post- I was still staying at my parents' house, the computer was still broken, and I got home from a very long, stressful day, and the idea of trying to figure out a way to get the blog done was more than I could bear. I didn't care one way or another. The next morning, I looked at my calendar and realized that was day 31. Like, I had written on it every day for 30 days (including my lame-ass one from Dave's BlackBerry at the Bengals' game). So, I had made my goal and didn't even realize it. I felt like I was still only 2 weeks in.

A commitment completed, so to speak. I guess I might eventually become a grownup after all.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

i am my beloved's and my beloved is mine

We all know that I fear commitment. Besides my 11-year relationship with Verizon Wireless and the same phone number, I can't stay in the same apartment, job, neighborhood, et cetera for longer than a year or two. Relationships envy the 1-year lease I will sign to an apartment.

I pride myself on my flexibility- not physically (because I'm not), but emotionally, mentally, and socially. I have a wide variety of friends, interests, and I'm pretty comfortable most everywhere. Except funerals. I am the person at funerals making unfunny puns or trying to ease tension with a joke that is neither appropriate or humorous. But people are often surprised to meet my circle of friends. There are tomboys and metrosexuals, good ol' boys and high maintenance ladies, young and old, gay and straight- there is nobody missing from my spectrum of friends.

While I'm generally not the type to feel like I have to have an escape route- I'm not going to leave town tomorrow. I can be spontaneous, but it's usually more of a lackadaisical/ooh, you're right- that would be fun than a case of cabin fever. But I also like to know there isn't too many things or people that I have to have around. I can go with the flow. I can not answer my phone while out with friends. I can eat most anything or anywhere. I can sleep in any position. Besides a strong aversion to porta-potties and a complete revulsion to going to the bathroom outdoors, I can hang with most situations for at least a while.

Ain't nothing gonna hold me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin'...

Sort of.

I came disastrously close to not making my blog post today. I'm at my parents' house, and their computer has apparently been sleeping around, because it's got a nasty virus (I told them to cover it with a rubber sheet at night). I got to the local library 7 minutes after close. Panic was setting in. I realized I had no way to access the Internet. The Internet, where I communicate, where I work (sort of), where I pay bills and make sure they're paid. I need you, Internet. I don't want you, but I need you.

Do you need me? Probably not. But like some kind of evolutionary mutual parasitism, you can't exist without the Dales of the world. Is the Internet my only contact with humans? No. I could get by without it. It would be difficult, but it seems like even America managed to scrimmage around for a couple hundred years without it. I remember looking at Prodigy on my friend Maggie's computer in the late 80s and thinking, "this is the dumbest shit I've ever seen. Why sit in a room by yourself, talking to people you'll never meet?" And tonight, I'm sitting at my parents' little computer desk with a borrowed laptop (thanks Katrina!) in front of their temporarily useless monitor, pecking out a little blog that probably nobody outside of my social circle reads because if I didn't- well, I don't know what would happen, but I prefer not to find out.

It's an unequal relationship I have with the Internet. But it is a commitment, and that's a good first step.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

paper or plastic?

More and more I have been considering my actions and the effect they have on the environment. I was big into environmental issues when it was fashionable in the late 80s- all about saving whales and rain forests and that jazz. Some habits stuck- I still turn off the water while brushing my teeth. Other habits gave way to convenience or finances or just a general lack of awareness.

But over time, I returned to giving notice, in no small part due to the resurgence in popularity of environmentalism. I have reusable grocery bags (and then run out of poo bags for my dog). I recycle everything the city will take away, and bring batteries and other hazardous recyclables to the appropriate drop-off. I try to be fuel-efficient. Even small things, like declining a paper receipt or mailed bank statements have become routine.

I appreciate things of an organic nature. I'm trying more and more to get local and organic food (if and when I can afford it). In an odd way, I feel like everything that is synthetic is just plastic. To me, there is no essential difference between Twinkies and Tupperware- and I figure you could break all of it down to something explosive and flammable at some point. I realize that this is inaccurate, but I'm not a chemist or physicist and I'm not even sure what branch of science this argument falls under. I'm okay with that. The gist is that I try to take care of the planet and show concern for it.

There is, however, an arena where I am unable to go paperless. As environmentally conscious as the Kindle may be (and as far as my chemistry knowledge goes, it could take x-rays for all I know), I can't let go of books. I need them. No matter how long I can be on this computer, I can't read the same thing for longer than 5 or 10 minutes. Oh, this article has a link I need to click to get to the next page? Hope there was nothing important, because I don't have the attention span for that. But a book. Oh, there is something beautiful and romantic and sentimental about a book. And I'm not reading beautiful, romantic, or sentimental books, in general. I read sports books and essayists and a lot of non-fiction. But I can't go anywhere without a book in my bag. I went to the library today with 3 or 4 books in mind that I wanted to check out. The online catalog was down (and of course, no real card catalog... damn technology), so a librarian checked their backup system for my books- none of which were available. So, none of those books were there, and I couldn't really look up anything else. I wandered around for a bit, checking out the new books section and the library's recent "popular items" section. A recap:

1. They did not have any of the 3-4 books I went to get.
2. The card catalog was down, so I couldn't search the locations of any books.
3. I browsed probably a total of 10-12 sets of shelves between the two sections.

I left with 11 books, including Twain, MLK, Tim Gunn, and Perez Hilton.

I'm going to go plant a few trees now.

Monday, September 7, 2009

wheel of fortune

It started innocently enough. Back in 1938, 40 years before I was born, a show came on the television called Spelling Bee. It was the very first television game show. Like the Colorado River making the Grand Canyon, that first game show resulted in an entire cable network devoted to game shows, past and present.

Not only do game shows keep appearing (and reappearing- thanks a lot, Howie Mandel), but at some point, a television producer realized that people loved when the contestants were bat-shit crazy. The more emotional and out-of-control the contestant, the more the viewers watched. It wasn't just being able to guess prices or answer trivia or avoid whammies. It was people acting a fool at the chance to win a freezer and a mid-sized sedan. Reality television was conceived.

Reality television preys on the unstable, who sign up to participate, and the schadenfreudeian nature of humans to take pleasure in the suffering of others to account for viewers. What began with things like American Idol became Survivor and then Rock of Love and so on. There is now a cable channel devoted to reality shows. There is a show where someone is locked in a room by themselves to see how long they can last. That's it. No other premise than trying to drive someone insane.

There is a reason why reality television is so popular, and it's not because viewers like it. They do like it, but they also liked Seinfeld and Cheers and The Simpsons plenty of other scripted shows. The main reason is they are moneymakers. Major moneymakers. It's all economics.

On a scripted show, the producers have to pay writers and actors in addition to the stage crew. Writers and actors who belong to unions and guilds. Writers and actors who, if the show is successful, will be there for years, getting raises and new contracts.

On a reality show, they throw out about a million dollars in prizes (money, goods, contracts, whatever). They spend more than that on lawyers who can make sure every contract is ironclad. The insurance takes up some cash, but it still doesn't compare to the total for a scripted show. And these shows are getting a LOT of advertising money. Some finales are scoring ad revenue that only the Super Bowl can dwarf. People watch, they vote, they go online and discuss. American Idol takes in ad revenue, and then shows those kids around the country while selling tickets and merchandise that would make Miley Cyrus green with envy.

I don't really watch reality shows (does Iron Chef count? what about House Hunters?). I don't really watch scripted shows either. Some HGTV and Food Network, Daily Show and Colbert, and sports. I'd always prefer to live life than watch it. I have cable, but not DVR, and the idea of having to be home to watch something instead of spending time with friends.

I guess you'd say I prefer reality.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

a rose by any other name...

Could very well smell like shit. Names are important. Not just in how one is perceived by others, but how one perceives oneself.

I have a weird name. It's gender-ambiguous as well as being uncommon. People remember me because my name is Dale. When I entered sorority rush, everyone remembered me or knew me because I was "that girl named Dale."

It's a family name. Not only do my father and late grandfather share the name, I have a female cousin named Dale as well. We are either a sentimental family or an unoriginal one. I suppose there's no reason we can't be both. I was going to be named Dale if I had been a boy, although I would have had a different middle name and been the III. I've never understood why I didn't still receive my dad and grandpa's middle name; it's Avery, which is a gender-neutral name as well. But I have Marie (my grandmother's middle name- our unoriginality knows no ends). My mother tells me the only other female name they considered was her grandmother's name- Greta. If you know me, you know that the idea of me as Greta is as bizarre as if I had a third arm. I am not a Greta, or a Tiffany, or a Rebecca. I'm a Dale. People even say that it seems to fit me perfectly.

As a child, I wasn't that thrilled with my name. I wanted to go by Bebe, which is the nickname my entire family uses for me. At age 30, everyone from my parents to second cousins twice removed call me Bebe. I wouldn't even turn my head if my sister called me Dale. Likewise, if my friends called me Bebe, I would continue to daydream.

It's not just my own experience which reinforces this theory. Studies have been done where teachers are given random essays which are assigned names that are considered "desirable" and "normal," i.e., Michael, Katie, Amy, Joe and some that are less desirable- Bert, Elmer, Agnes, Dorothy (sounds to me like those are just old people names, but I digress). Regardless of the essay, the students with normal names received significantly higher scores. A similar study conducted a faux election where some candidates had standard all-American names and some had names that conferred a more ethnic vibe. Again, respondents voted for the all-Americans... regardless of their own backgrounds, remarkably.

More recent studies have shown that young men who have uncommon names or unpopular names (especially ones with a feminine undertone) were more likely to commit crimes, be violent, or get into trouble in general.

I knew a girl in college named Amber. She said she hated her name- she called it a stripper name. She didn't like her middle name either (I think it was Jean?), which she called an old lady name. I know people who refuse to tell middle names because they find them so repellent. I used to be annoyed with my last name, only because it is consistently misspelled and mispronounced. It also sounds too similar to pants and putz. But now, I'm the last of the line, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

Many American Indian tribes gave temporary names to children until they reached adolescence, when they would choose a name for themselves. Generally part of the naming process was a vision quest- figuring out who they are and what they want to be, and name themselves accordingly. Seems like those tribes didn't even need the research.

Maybe a rose would smell as sweet if it was called a turd. But I don't see people taking their chances on naming their sons Elmer and Herbert.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

the universal language

Music is so freakishly universal that it must be part of our DNA. There is a survival instinct to it. There is no culture that doesn't have it (I majored in communication, not English, and therefore I will use double negatives to my heart's content). It's used to mourn. It's used to celebrate. It's used to communicate in myriad ways. It soothes. It energizes. It is art, but in a league of its own, because it's so accessible and so essential. We have music playing in the car, at parties, even in stores. We can go without reading literature. We can go without sculpture. But music is integral to our being, whether we can create it or not.

I love to dance. Dancing is like my religion. I feel closest to God when I'm dancing my ass off at a club, sweating like crazy, eyes closed, nothing but me and music and movement. I was at a volunteer event where I had shoveled mulch for about 6 hours straight on about 2 hours of sleep. I was exhausted, sore, dehydrated, and more than a little cranky. And then the DJ at the happy hour put on "Groove is in the Heart" by Dee-Lite. And the empty dance floor (which was really just where some tables had been moved away) beckoned me. I told the person to whom I was speaking, "I'll be right back." And I danced. For over 5 minutes (it was a true DJ, spinning vinyl, and he had a dancer, so it was on), I wasn't tired, I wasn't sore, and I wasn't cranky. I danced until the final echoes of the mix were done, and then I came back and resumed my conversation. The guy I'd been talking to said something like, what the heck? Where did that energy come from? How did you even do that, we're all so beat? And I said, "I like to dance."

Blues originated out of slavery. Hymns originated out of persecution. Rap originated out of the ghetto. Art comes from suffering, but only in music does it truly heal. It's an ointment, a salve. It is aloe on the burn.

I got to see a great band last night. It was one of those, "my friend's friend's band is playing- wanna go see them?" kind of things where it might be great or it might be the worst experience of your life. When this guy took out a cigar box banjo and plugged it into the amp, I knew it was going to be great. In the little parlor area of a smoky bar in northern Kentucky, we slid the tables out of the way, put down the whiskey and beers, and danced.

I'll go to church tomorrow, but I'm not going to get any closer to God than I did last night.

Friday, September 4, 2009

i'm just not that into you

I love boys. They are pretty much my favorite thing. If I don't have some crush, I will find one. I need someone to daydream about, because otherwise I might end up thinking about less fun things like my future or my bills. My junior year of college (and maybe my sophomore year too), I had an entire wall of my dorm room papered with pages from the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Come to think of it... I should do something like that again. I liked it.

I am also a major flirt. Flirting, to me, isn't so much a sexual thing as it is a relational thing. Being friendly. Flattery (as long as it's genuine). Making people feel good about themselves. Flirting isn't something I do as a matter of courtship but as a matter of interpersonal communication. Because it's not par for the course, people get confused with me wanton flirting. Men (and women) think I'm flirting in a wooing way instead of a friendly way. They think I'm interested in them beyond being friends. But I'm not.

In college, a (male) friend told me that guys were afraid to ask me out because nobody knew who I was actually interested in because I flirted with everyone. I'm thinking that's not such a bad thing. Even the guys I did like, I never liked them enough to get too broken up over any one of them. I like to refer to them as crudites on my platter. Maybe the celery looks a little brown, so I grab a red pepper. Someone else loves broccoli- they are welcome to it.

The problem comes when the object of my disinterest becomes convinced that I am in love. Trust me, even the most obsessive of crushes fades as easily as it blooms. I lose interest like a kid with ADD in algebra class. But there is no telling the person that they aren't the object of my affection. Hell, I can't even tell them there is NO object of my affection. Ergo, I lose friends that think I'm love when I'm merely a gushy, flirty, boy-crazy silly girl.

When one of these folk do convince themselves that I am the one monitoring their comings and goings via Google Earth, I'm tempted to throw myself at them- ironically, of course. But since I'm not a hipster, I'm afraid it will go over their head. It would be fun though.

I was in love once. It totally sucked in every way, but I'm not opposed to giving it a go at some point. Before the love and after, though... boys were something to keep me amused and still are. So, apologies, but:

I'm just not that into you.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

let's agree to disagree

Ordinarily, I would not discuss politics on the internet (I especially hate getting caught up in a comment war on Facebook). Actually, I don't really like to discuss politics in general. People get fired up, and the chances of us changing each other's minds is slim to none. Especially now that people think that they have to defend their opinion at all costs- regardless of any new information being presented. I would venture to say that this is a result of cable news channels. There are two that are especially polarizing. The other viewpoint is presented so much as ridiculed. The remaining major news network relies on viewer emails and random tweets to fill the supposed 24/7 news cycle. I don't really like to watch either network. I prefer to have my news without such an overt agenda. I watched the presidential debates on C-SPAN. Yes, it's kinda boring to watch the video when people are randomly walking around before the debate, but it's still better than listening to a pundit explain why the candidate they favor is so obviously superior and their opponent is maybe not the evil incarnate, but pretty damn close.

I am fairly certain that part of the journalism ethic is to not have a personal bias. Naturally, that's impossible. But it is possible to avoid blatant endorsement. It's possible to provide experts on both sides of the argument. It's possible to research what the real story is. It's possible to not engage in sensationalism. It's possible to find people who know what they're talking about instead of just what they want to say.

I'll admit that I fall on the more liberal side of the spectrum. Okay, all the way on the left side. But I don't watch MSNBC either. As much as I love Jon Stewart, I sometimes wish that he didn't let his liberal leanings to affect how he "reports." We aren't doing ourselves any favors by doing the same thing as Fox News, just on the other side. You aren't going to inform, you're not going to convince, and you're only going to contribute to the growing divide.

I am in favor of health care reform. Not just because I am a liberal. Not just because I haven't had health insurance in over 2 years. But because I know how messed up health care and insurance is- even without watching Sicko. You can be dropped from your insurance if you get sick and rack up too many bills (actually, most plans can drop you for whatever reason they see fit). If you don't have insurance, you can go to the emergency room- by law, they can't turn you away. But, the hospital still wants to get paid. And if they don't get paid by the government, they are coming after you. They can wait until you get a job and then garnish your wages, just like any other creditor. And remember that whole "ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure?" It's true. It's much cheaper to provide preventive care than to try to cure someone once they are already sick.

But whether you agree with the reform or not, whether you are conservative, liberal, or moderate, try to find a news source that gives all sides. Not just the one you with which you agree.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

a topic assigned to me by my mother

My mom had offered to come up with some topics for me when I started out on this 30 (now 31) day adventure. I'm digging into them for the first time... so today's topic, or assignment, is:

"My Favorite President and Why"

People who know what a freaking crazy liberal I am are going to expect me to say FDR or Clinton, or even Obama, despite the fact he's been president for less time than babies gestate. But, no. My favorite president is likely not a favorite of anyone, because he's just kind of... forgettable.

For one thing, he was early on in the line. After the first 3, everyone kind of forgets until Lincoln, and then again until Kennedy. There are other presidents, but once you pass 8th grade civics, you pretty much forget about them.

Because I am a dork, I read all the time. I read even more when I was a kid. I read cereal boxes. I read my mom's Family Circle magazines. I read under the covers, I read in the shower. I couldn't leave the library without at least a dozen books (I still can't). One of the books I happened upon (a librarian may have recommended it; I don't remember) was a biography of James Madison. Perhaps it was because it was written so vividly, or because Madison had a great story, or maybe some identification, but I loved it. I read it at least 4 or 5 times. But it's not just that biography that makes him my favorite.

James shouldn't have been president. He shouldn't have even survived his childhood. He was a sickly little thing. Even as an adult, he topped out at 5'4". He was quiet. His voice was high, shrill, and whispery. He was painfully shy. But somehow, he ended up being the 4th president, taking the nation through the War of 1812 (also known as the war that officially made England our bitch), getting his White House burnt down, while his wife dragged out the portrait of Washington that still hangs in the House today.

Speaking of Dolley, what an awesome chick she was. Opposite of James in most ways- she was big, boisterous, vivacious, and outgoing. She charmed everyone who met her. As shy and averse to human interaction as James was, Dolley was the party hostess of D.C. The White House became the Delta House- parties and teas and socials and galas. Opposites attracting and a great love story to rival George and Martha or John and Abigail.

Why is Madison my favorite? He defied the odds. He didn't really even think he could. It wasn't necessarily ambition that helped him along. Just a belief that he had to do what he thought was right, to do what would help people and the country, and do what he must. Our system of government, as flawed as it is, is still a testament to the greatness of compromise- between central and state governments and between Madison and his co-writers of the Federalist Papers, and between the federalists and anti-federalists. Madison didn't set out to change history. He didn't try to found a country or government. He had no want for fame or even attention. But he had to do what he thought was right. Which is pretty freaking awesome.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

taking a personal day?

One of the things I'm learning with this writing experiment is kind of what it would be like to be a writer. It's gone much better than I've expected- I've surprised myself with my own tenacity. I've also enjoyed it more than I thought I would. It's great to get people making comments (whether through blogger, email, or facebook) and finding out people enjoy it.

But with every silver lining comes a cloud, and now that I'm close to three weeks in, I'm finding that there are no vacations with writing. I know that I'm writing one blog a day, which the actual writing of takes anywhere from a half-hour to an hour. Ooh, one hour a day. Tough shit.

But it's not just that one hour a day. I am thinking all day about what I'll write about. Even as I write this, I'm not sure what I'm going to say next. I have a headache. I'm tired. I'm stressed out. I'm tired of worrying about money and getting to a doctor and a dentist and getting new glasses. So the idea of trying to be creative when I am really freaking out.

So I am thinking that tomorrow or whenever I can put some thoughts together and churn out the creative juices (or butter, if it's churned), I'm going to rack some up and use them on nights like this. When my brain needs a personal day. Or a sick day. Depending on how you look at it.

Monday, August 31, 2009

weather or not

Remember when I did a blog of just little... jokes? well, things I thought were funny and maybe possibly someone else did too? Three of them in a row? The previous two sentences are a practice in foreshadowing.

What do people talk about in San Diego for small talk? How about this weather, eh? It's always nice. Yeah.

Some people have a sixth sense- an intuition that warns them of danger, or draws them to love. I have that kind of thing, but it's with red lights.

Instead of like a moth to a flame, let's start saying like a rat to something shiny. What, too catchy?

Caller I.D. and cell phones are reducing the number of excuses for irresponsibility. Oh, I didn't see you called. Really? Because I can pick up your phone and see my number in your call log.

Dear chicks: Calling a dude to tell him you aren't going to call him anymore is one of the reasons dudes think chicks are crazy.

Dear dudes: Just say you're sorry. Yes, you don't know what's wrong. Just say you're sorry anyway. Gets you off the phone.

For me, you know how guys say, the hotter a girl is, the crazier she's allowed to be? (PS- if you didn't know guys say that, well... they do). I feel similarly about furniture. The cheaper it is, the uglier it's allowed to be. 80s looking TV stand covered in dust but is on the curb? I love it!

Game shows are probably a bigger contributor to people thinking they don't have to work for money than any government program.

I love some HGTV, but some of the women that are buying houses never shut up.

I was always having great ideas while driving. With no way to write them down, I usually forgot them. So I got a tape recorder. Apparently, it records tapes and kills ideas.

The dude on this HGTV show looks just like Rob Riggle. If you know who Rob Riggle is, and you've seen shows on HGTV, you'll know how disconcerting this is.

2 more weeks before The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and Colbert Report return with new episodes. I think my brain is dying.

I hope this is enough to constitute a blog post. I suppose that is my prerogative. And so it is.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

danke, merci, gracias, thank you

You can never really say it too much. My parents instilled thank you in me early on. I had to write thank you notes to everyone who gave me a gift. Thank you to servers. Thank you if you held the door open for me. Thank you if you blessed me when I sneezed. It's so automatic for me that when I open a door for someone, and they say thank you, I say thank you, have a great day! I'm the store greeter of life.

People love to complain about customer service. Agents are surly. They are bored and annoyed and just generally unhappy people. We all like to blame it on their bad attitudes or poor life choices, or possibly the idiot they just got done with who called to ask why their computer wouldn't play videocassettes. It's always someone else's fault- someone else who has a bad attitude. We react with our own bratty behavior and the cycle doesn't just continue, it grows exponentially.

I'm big on taking responsibility (as an ideal, not something I'm normally capable of in real life). Maybe it's not enough that our technical support question wasn't silly and it's not enough if we were cordial with the representative. Do you say thank you? When the agent goes above and beyond your expectations and/or their job requirements, do you go above and beyond your requirements as a customer and request to endorse their work to their supervisor? As someone who worked an inbound call center, let me tell you that those endorsements (we called them customer compliments at that job) are money. Not just figuratively, but literally. When you accumulated enough, you got prizes- movie tickets, even a day off. If you got really good, that meant raises and promotions. Yes, the calls are all recorded. But the supervisor picks calls at random- so it might the call with you, the perfectly normal and nice customer, or it could Mr. Ignoramus CrankyPants.

It got harder to do those thank you notes the older I got. When I was a teenager, I felt like I had better things to do than churn out thank yous, especially since my birthday is in December and that meant early January was all notes, all the time. But now that I'm a grownup (supposedly) and I'm often on the giving end of a gift, I realize how meaningful those thank you notes are. And how disappointed I am if I don't get a thank you.

Some final food for thought: in my senior year of college, I had to complete an internship for my major (speech communication). I was intent on doing my internship with a baseball team despite the fact they are extremely competitive. I sent resumes and letters to several local teams (ranging from semi-pro to the Cincinnati Reds). A week later, I received a call from the Reds and got an interview. Unfortunately, they didn't think the schedule would work- they wanted someone who could be there full-time, and I was already going to school and working a full-time job. Despite that, I sent my thank you note afterward- with my name at the top in red ink, just like the resume and cover letter. A couple weeks later, she called and said if I could fit a 20-hour week in, they would love to have me do my internship with the Reds. It wasn't until later that I found out it was the thank you note that got me that internship. This was 10 years ago- before it was standard practice- and she had never received one before. She said, "when I got that thank you note, I knew I had to have you."

And for that, I give thanks.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

and this one belongs to... the other guys?

I love watching sports. Sportscasters, however... eh.

There are a few I enjoy. I loved the George Kell/Al Kaline team of the Detroit Tigers. Always respectful of the opponents, but still Tiger fans to the core. I've become increasing frustrated with the announcers for the Cincinnati Reds. While a couple of them do seem to pull for the Reds (Jeff Brantley and George Grande), the others seem to have nothing but criticism- and not the constructive kind.

Primarily, I get irritated with Thom Brennaman. First of all, the extent of Thom's sports experience is being the son of longtime Reds announcer Marty Brennaman. His degree is in journalism from Ohio University, but the origin of his sports knowledge seems hazy. If you know sports, and listen to him, you will realize he doesn't know much. But it's not just his ignorance. It's his refusal to be a fan. I suppose the journalism curriculum does discourage bias, but when you're in a contract as an announcer for a team, and are expected to take over for your father, who has called games for over 35 years, you'd think he'd show a little appreciation for his money maker.

During today's game against the L.A. Dodgers (a loss for the Reds) by the 8th inning, Thom had stopped discussing the game- no play-by-play whatsoever... while I was looking at my computer screen, the Reds made an out. I don't know how. Thom was discussing the Dodgers' post-season chances. Perhaps Thom should heed the great baseball philosopher, Yogi Beara- it ain't over 'til it's over.

It's hard to watch your team lose (especially 11-4). But it's harder when you're hearing the announcer (who has a contract where your team pays him a salary) talk crap the entire time.

Thom- maybe the Dodgers are hiring?

Friday, August 28, 2009

you don't know what you got 'til it's gone

So as many of my loyal readers know, or anyone who looks at the blog preceding this one, I was at the Bengals football game last night. It was my first NFL game, and it was just as totally awesome as you might expect. Dave bought tickets for me and Sara- 36th row behind the end zone. I sweet-talked us up to the 4th row by the beginning of the 2nd quarter. We lost, but it was close and decent football. What was most memorable of the night, though, was shortly after we got to our seats (the first seats), and I realized that I hadn't done my blog for the day. I was panicked, because I knew I wasn't sure when I'd get home, and had little control over whether it was before midnight.

After unsuccessful attempts to access blogger from my phone (and futile google searches on "texting to blogger"), Dave came to the rescue and helped me access it on his Blackberry (and fortunately for me, Blogger's site is compatible with his Blackberry's internet. I got to write the mini-blog (longer than a tweet, which is supposed to be a micro-blog) above. Thank goodness.

What made this whole event remarkable was how much it bothered me to almost miss the blog. And it still bothered me to not be able to write a real entry. It was like- I've never felt that kind of guilt about missing something. I can miss exercise without caring two shits. And it wasn't even that I put it off, I just forgot to do it. And it's like I forgot to walk the dog. She can't survive without me. I feel that kind of responsibility to this whole experiment. I am not comfortable with responsibility, so we'll see how I manage this.

And if you need someone to bring to a Bengals game, I can move you up 30 rows with $10 and a smile.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

dave rocks

I am using a blackberry for the first time and at my first nfl game. I am grateful to dave for both experiences. I will write a real blog tomorrow and add a day to the 30. Love y'all

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

give it a rest

Senator Ted Kennedy passed away. When a public figure dies, it's a struggle for people- do you ignore their faults, their frailties, their mistakes? Or do you continue to hold them accountable for all actions, positive or negative? It was a major topic of discussion after Michael Jackson passed away as well.

Sometimes people get leeway depending on their cause of death. When someone is murdered, or dies young, or in some kind of awful accident, we are more likely to overlook their problems. That halo effect for a victim is always a touchy subject if a criminal case is involved. You don't want to say anyone deserves to die, but sometimes their actions haven't kept them as safe as they could have been.

John Mayer tweeted something insightful in the wake of Michael Jackson's passing. I can't find the exact wording (maybe he deleted it?), but it said that the memorial gave Michael Jackson the one thing life hadn't been able to- it made him a human being. From the time he was a child, he was a product. In death, he can finally be human.

There is a reason that we say rest in peace. Because it's just that- rest. Whether it's a saint or worst of sinners, once we're gone, it's over. There is no good to be had from discussing the faults. None of us is infallible. Let them rest with only our good thoughts to bid them goodbye.

There was some great artwork at the sandwich place near my apartment, and I've seen it elsewhere, in various wordings. It is:

I'm not sure how it will all turn out.
All I know is that in the end, I'll be dead.
So what can go wrong?

Sure, it's morbid (especially for a deli). But the only difference between comedy and tragedy is your point of view. When you ask yourself, what's the worst that can happen?, it's probably not all that bad. As Lewis Black pointed out, 5 out of 5 people are going to die. So live it up.

And then let it rest.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

you've got me all a-twitter

Twitter... what can be said that hasn't already? I was a late convert, I'll admit. I think people use twitter for different purposes. Some people use it solely to communicate with friends. Some people use it to promote a business or a cause. The spambots try to get you to follow them in order to obtain free iPhones, coupons, or pornography (all very tempting, I know). I use mine primarily as a miniature version of my blog. It doesn't coincide with my Facebook status- it's really just to make funny comments (well, funny to me) and maybe then get them to look at my blog or send me a large sum of money because I'm so damn charming.

There are definitely some success stories. Ashton Kutcher, who had kind of faded away from the celebrity spotlight, became a news clip again when he gained so many followers (even beating CNN in a race to get to 1 million followers). I'm just as confused as you are as to why people follow Ashton (I don't... I do follow CNN), but people find a niche and they work it. Shaquille O'Neal, Stephon Marbury, and Chad Ochocinco use their Twitter account to connect to their fans. Chad, in particular is a favorite of mine. He has fun with it. He is constantly posting pictures- everything from his McDonald's breakfast to his teammates on the plane, or celebrities he has met. He also directs people to his USTREAM, where he broadcasts live, playing music, chatting with fans, and talking smack. He even uses it for technical questions- and his followers deliver. He has basically single-handedly revamped his image and put himself back in the ESPN headlines- and he knows exactly what he's doing. It's not always a good idea: NBA player Nate Robinson later deleted a tweet he sent while being pulled over by the police.

Retail is using Twitter to lure consumers in with promises of coupon codes, insider sales, and first-chance buys. Non-profits are spreading their word-of-mouth faster than even Facebook can deliver. They are used in the case of emergencies- for example, the hotel attacks in Mumbai. The biggest news story involving Twitter was the use of it by Iranian protesters- garnering attention for a revolution-in-progress. Unfortunately, Twitter is by nature a short-attention-span vehicle, and the Iranian protests showed up in the Twitter "Trending Topics" almost as long as Michael Jackson.

What I find so lovely about Twitter is that it essentially is enforcing the rules in Strunk's Elements of Style, which has repeatedly been called the essential guide to writing. Keep it simple. Keep it short. No using dollar words when nickel ones will do. Not only does Twitter force the excision of extra words, but usually letters get deleted as well. It's often easier to go on and on than to keep it concise. Like writing essay answers in school, you write and write, hoping that something sticks. I once had to do a write-up of events for a website where I was given 4-5 words per event. Hardest writing job ever, but once they were done- I loved them. They were brilliant.

Twitter, like all technology, has its pros and cons. But I think it wins its cost-benefit analysis.

Monday, August 24, 2009

money isn't everything, not having it is

That title is a quote from the great poet, Kanye West in his song, "The Good Life." Makes a good amount of sense. Money can't buy happiness, but a lack of money can sure ruin one's day. Or week. Or life.

For the most part, I've been rather unaffected by the recent economic downturn, because I never had any money to start with. In mid-2007, I became unemployed and stayed that way for about 4 months. I cashed out my 401(k) (when it was still worth something), my teacher's retirement plan and pension, and still racked up a bunch of credit card debt trying to make ends meet until I could find work. I was never flush before that either, nor since. I'm not sure I'd know what to do if I did have extra money, but my guess is that I would spend it just as foolishly as I spend the money that isn't extra. I have never seen an inherent value in money- no point in saving it. Live for today, carpe diem, and all that jazz. Even when I worked at Fidelity Investments, the only complaint was that I didn't seem to value money. My boss went so far as to buy me a book about the history of money. I still didn't get it.

Somehow, over the course of 30 years, it has begun to sink in that spending more than I make or have is not a good idea. The idea of a budget has started to make sense, or at least seem possible. I am still pretty certain that I will never be rich (unless one of the annual lottery tickets I purchase turns out to be a winner). But I do look forward to the day when I don't have to stress about it. When I don't have to end up projecting that stress onto my loved ones. When I can afford the organic meat and dairy. When I can go to a store and NOT only look at the clearance racks.

Money isn't everything- obviously, or I'd be a very unhappy person. But I can see where it's nice to have around- like a spare roll of toilet paper. Just in case.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

love the one you're with

People love to move. I am not an exception to this rule. I have moved, on average, every 1.5 years since graduating high school. Obviously, some dorm living is in there. But even since leaving the dorm life, I've still lived in Covington, Newport, Walnut Hills, Avondale, Clifton Heights, Over-the-Rhine, and now Northside- that's 7 apartments in about 10 years. I don't like packing, or moving, or unpacking. But I love change.

Changing your scenery is pretty common when you're feeling restless. Women dye their hair after a breakup. When you can't find a date, you want to move to another city. When you can't find a job, it's time to move abroad. Somehow, we think that changing the outside will change the inside.

I moved to the Cincinnati area at age 13- where change is less welcome, and the idea of changing schools was devastating enough, much less moving to another state. Believe it or not, Detroit really was a comfort zone for me. It still is. I still miss it (even with its continued struggles, and I'm not talking about the Lions). But there comes a point where you realize that the cliche of life is what you make it refers to your location too. I am pretty partial to big cities as opposed to small towns (mostly because I need- and I do mean need- professional sports teams). But as for what city that is- it's about the people. People complain that Cincinnati is clique-y. It is. That doesn't mean you can't make friends and meet new people and break through the cliques. It's a small-town feel to a big city. People know your business even if they don't know you, therefore self-discretion is advised.

At the same time, I sat in the biergarten of the oldest farmer's market in Ohio today, listening to an authentic German band, prosting to a local beer, and listening to candidates for city council speak, answer questions, and take questions from the audience. I met a friend for dinner at the other side of town and ran into a former student and a friend from college. When pictures were being taken for web sites, I duck out- I do like a bit of anonymity- but it's nice to feel at home.

I love you, Cincinnati

Saturday, August 22, 2009

yeah, you gotta have faith

Today's topic is faith. Not religion, but faith. Faith isn't so much what you believe, but how you believe. That faith could be in yourself, the basic goodness of human nature, or that your sports team is somehow superior to another sports team. People often confuse faith with religion, but atheists have faith; they have faith that there is no god. No faith would be closer to agnosticism.

Faith of some support is essential. It's a form of trust. It is a release of control that is inherently uncomfortable. When you marry someone, you are having faith in them. I have faith in my family and friends, who never let me far further than I should.

Faith in yourself is equally tricky business. I have often said that I am insecure, but confident in my insecurities. It's not as paradoxical as it appears. Confronting weaknesses is the only way to ever defeat them, so anything I find weak in myself, I will acknowledge and try to get better. It's that faith that I am capable of change and progress. It's faith that things will work out. And they do.

You can live without a lot, but I can't imagine surviving without faith. Whether you believe in a god, or an afterlife, or whatever- there has still got to be a purpose. If there was no purpose to life, we wouldn't try to improve. We wouldn't strive to be better- at anything, be it comparative analysis or playing backgammon. It's that hope, that faith, that possibility of change that keeps us hungry (literally and/or figuratively) and keeps us growing. Curiosity is faith that there is something to be learned. Exercise is faith that your body can change and develop. Love is faith itself- by loving, you show your faith in its existence.

So, faith. Have it.

And honestly, my internal organs are going to be mushy enough to suck through a straw if I keep this shit up, so tomorrow, I am discussing whatever I can find to be most sarcastic.

Friday, August 21, 2009

i've got friends in all places

I can't say I necessarily recommend it, but having a point in your life where you don't have any friends can be beneficial. I don't think you should delete your facebook and become a hermit. But there is something to be said for realizing how important friends are, and how integral a part they play in your life.

I joined a sorority when I started college. I joined to meet boys- much to my disappointment, there aren't boys in the sorority. There were, however, a lot of women. Women who are thrown together and expected to be friends, whether they would or want to anyway. Think of reality shows. There is a reason people go insane and fight over nonsense. There's no escape. They didn't gravitate towards these people and develop friendships and relationships over time and shared interests and a genuine meshing of personality. Some people can thrive in that environment. I am not one of those people.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm getting thrown out of my sorority (there's no real scandal behind it, but a lot of straws on a camel's back). I moved out of the house I was renting with a sorority sister and her boyfriend. The moving truck came, and I called my only friend at the time- Kelli. We had met at our work- a bar/restaurant/bowling alley/games/nightclub kind of place. She is gorgeous- model beautiful. She is also the nicest human being on the planet, smart, and hilarious. She was my grasp at survival of what was a pretty dark time in my life. Kelli, who was hungover, god bless her, came to my house at 9am. She and I moved all of my furniture out (I did get one of those lovely boys I had met to help us with my bed) of my house and into my new apartment. I stayed at her house that night because I didn't have electricity yet. And thus, Kelli became my first grown-up friend.

Shortly thereafter, I reconnected with a few high school friends. I went to graduate school and met more people. I had a variety of jobs where I made more friends. I did volunteer work, went out to bars and clubs, parties, and slowly built up an arsenal of friends that is probably double the number of "friends" I had in my sorority. I have male friends and female friends, from 18 to 50, different colors, backgrounds, and interests. A lot of my friends don't know each other, and I love to introduce them. My birthday party was about 50 people where the average person knew 3 other people. I love it. They are an important part of my life- a true extension of my family. My best friend lives in Japan now, and we still talk on the regular- we know what's going on in each other's lives- everything. Facebook, with all its faults, has been wonderful for reconnecting with people, including my childhood best friend, Maggie. The only problem is that I wish I had been in touch with Maggie all this time, because she is as completely awesome now as she was when we were kids.

I am not opposed to sorority life. For some people, it's a great way to make friends. I did get a lot of life experience out of it. I met a lot of boys (many of whom I am still friends with). Those boys helped my self-esteem more than the struggles with the sorority damaged it. And now, I truly appreciate how important my friends are. I try to be the best friend I can be. I'm eternally grateful to have found so many people who love me the way I am, and have stuck around for the other side of the bell curve.

To my friends, I love you. I love you for your encouragement, your support, the laughter, the tears, helping me move, helping me celebrate, helping me mourn, and helping me love myself the way you love me.

Sorry for the mushy- I promise to get back to being a smart-ass tomorrow.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

fashion a la mode

Not as in fashion with ice cream. Literally a la mode (if you think I know how to create accents in this little blog box, you are overestimating me, and I am flattered) translates to "of the style" or "in the fashion of" - so fashionable fashion, so to speak. Let's talk clothes.

I've always been a pretty fashion-forward person. My favorite outfit as a 10-year-old was a bright pink sweatshirt with purple and gold hieroglyphics, a purple sweatshirt material skirt, pink leggings, turquoise socks and black flats. Stylin', profilin' and straight up pimpin' - 4th grade style. Soon, I was leading the way in the layered socks with different colored Keds trend. You know those harem pants that have suddenly become popular (with models and celebrities at least- it's kind of a more subtle Hammer-pants)? That's what I wore to my very first dance, age 12. That shit was so hot, U Can't Touch This.

My fashion continues to be... shall we say... eclectic? I kind of think of myself as a fashion pioneer, but I think pioneer implies that I have followers. I often get, "only you could pull that off." I'm not certain it's a compliment, but I take it as such. I don't like my clothes to match. I like to wear too much jewelry. Coco Chanel may have advised to take off one item before walking out the door, but one item doesn't make a dent in my outfits. Taking off one of the 12 bangle bracelets isn't going to make me look any more refined or sophisticated. It has taken a while to get to know my style (I do think I kind of have one). I like a little sporty, a little flashy, a little classy, a little sexy- kind of like all the Spice Girls wrapped up in one outfit. I like messing with makeup and my hair. I suppose at age 30, I should give up bright blue sparkly eyeliner. But I won't.

Fashion is something to enjoy. I love reading Lucky magazine. I love checking out thrift stores and outlets. I love putting stuff together in a new and different way. But the great majority of the time- whether I'm at home, or running errands, or somewhere more low-key, it's yoga pants and a t-shirt (AKA jammies). In college, my friends dragged me out to a bar/club one night- I wasn't in the mood. I was wearing jeans, an oversized t-shirt (of a high school football team), and sneakers. Three guys asked for my number, and the DJs pulled me on stage saying I was the coolest girl ever. Moral of the story? Not what you wear, but how you wear it. Pile up the bangles and sport stilettos, or wear a baseball hat and Converse- it's the confidence that's sexy.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

some rules are meant to be followed

When the book The Rules came out, my mother bought it for me (despite that, she is generally an excellent mother). In fact, it was one of my Christmas gifts. Not as awesome as when my father bought me a travel iron (I was 14 at the time), but still, I was a bit crestfallen. Wasn't there a less embarrassing gift available? Like a nose-hair trimmer? But curiosity got the best of me (in spite of what happens to the cat), and I read it.

I've always been an open book. I am pretty much incapable of being enigmatic. Whatever pops up in my brain comes directly out of my mouth without any consideration of how to word it, or whether it should be worded in the first place. There just doesn't seem to be enough time to think before I speak. I tend to write the same way. Proofreading and doing drafts doesn't even occur to me. Sometimes I'm reading a blog I wrote a year ago and find typos, even though I've likely read it multiple times since then. Life in general is a first-draft proposition for me. But that doesn't mean it's a good idea.

In the name of empowerment and feminism and all that jazz, women have decided to tell men what they want. Being demure and coy seems archaic and oppressive. We are women, hear us roar. We want a relationship! We want conversation! We want to cuddle! We want a career and a family and a group of girlfriends with whom we can discuss sex, Oprah, and shoes! Then women got the idea that they could be men. They could have sex and not care. They could love and leave. They could date multiple men, sometimes in the same night. They could have their Sex and the City lifestyle and be in control of their emotions instead of their emotions controlling them.

In my humble and likely flawed opinion, it seems like this all points to there being something wrong with the way women work. There's something wrong with being an occasional slave to our emotions, to wanting to cuddle, to owning 4 pairs of high-heeled black shoes (all of which are totally different, by the way). There's nothing wrong with being demure. There's nothing wrong with being coy. There's nothing wrong with being a woman. Letting a man open your door doesn't oppress you. Carrying a heavy box and refusing his assistance doesn't make you more of a woman. Makeup and perfume don't make you a submissive partner. The poem that opines "the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world" shouldn't be taken as a degradation of a woman's role- in the case of "anything you can do, I can do better," men and women can both run a company or a country, both perform surgery and save lives, and both can cook and clean with the best. But only women can bear humans. We will always have the upper hand. Men and women need each other- not just biologically, but emotionally and mentally. But it's the balance that makes it work. Women don't need to be men. We have plenty of men (despite what Cosmopolitan and the rest of the women's mags would have you believe).

While I don't necessarily agree with the seeming strategic nature of The Rules- I think it should be a bit more genuine- I think there is something to be said for following a few of them. Not to the point of putting out an egg timer for phone calls, or only accepting dates by Tuesdays, but keeping a little mystery is never a bad thing.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

i hate to see you leave, but i love to watch you walk away

I'm watching the Favre press conference right now- I had actually started a different blog and I'm too wrapped up in this to not be inspired by it. There's a lot of lessons to be learned from this scenario. Know when to walk away. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. But more than anything, I think it's a case of knowing when to shut the hell up.

The other night, I had a visitor. As often goes when two or more women are gathered together, talk turned to the subject of gentlemen. As the lady fretted, I considered what is still a struggle for me, but may be able to assist her in her situation. Less is more is not just a suitable argument for fashion and design, but also for communication. Sure, open lines of communication can be an integral part of a successful relationship. But communicative discretion is just as essential. Believe it or not, people don't want or need to hear everything you think about them (for those of you who know me- you know this is something I am certainly still struggling with). I think Brett would have had less backlash if he had kept his mouth shut. The hemming and hawing is easier to endure when it's behind closed doors. If you loved someone, and they said "I want to be with you." "No, I don't." "Yes, I do." "Well, I also want to see other people." "No, I can't do it." And then that person married someone else 2 weeks later? It leaves you pretty exhausted. I don't doubt that Brett is genuinely struggling with the decisions he has had to make. But pulling off the bandage slowly just extends the pain.

I'm generally opposed to sports press conferences anyway. Usually, the only lasting impression is when someone goes off the deep end and it becomes a YouTube sensation. Now that I think of it, press conferences in general are a waste of time. The people asking the questions and the people answering them all know what will be asked and what the answers will be. It's as spontaneous, entertaining, and informative as the 24-hour paint-drying channel.

24-hour news channels, 24-hour sports channels, reality show channels, soap opera channels. There's too many channels, just like there are too many baseball teams. People are living life less than they are watching it. A little bit of mystery isn't a bad thing- whether it's to your fans, your viewers, or your lover.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, then to speak out and remove all doubt- you've got Lincoln to thank for that gem.

Monday, August 17, 2009

survival of the fittest

Day 4 of my series on sports. I would say it's the last day, but I haven't decided what to write about tomorrow, so I'll hedge my bets by saying day 4. And to my absolute favorite sport- baseball.

The major (and sometimes only) issue in baseball right now is the use of performance-enhancing drugs (PEDs). These used to be called steroids before some of them were human growth hormone and apparently, Manny Ramirez uses birth control (maybe that one where you only have 4 periods a year?). I've thought about it a lot (remember that I like thinking because it doesn't usually involve sweating), and it's honestly been a struggle for me to decide one way or another. Let's take a look-see...

I've always been inclined to allow people to engage in self-destruction if that is their desire. Prostitution, drug use, and other generally victimless crimes seem like a waste of resources for the police and government to chase after. So if you want to get backne and breasts and completely eliminate your ability to procreate, so be it. I couldn't care less. There are mitigating circumstances- for example, some consider that "roid rage" may lead to violent acts (like, say, murdering your ex-wife and a waiter). The severe mood effects of using PEDs and then again when you quit them- it's a factor to consider. But this post isn't about crime or violence; it's about sports.

Does it send a bad message to children? Sure does. So does getting caught cheating on your wife, or betting on games, or drunk driving, or beating people up, or using recreational drugs. The mindset that athletes should serve as role models to children is letting parents off too easily. Athletes can be someone to look to. So can parents. But also teachers. Pastors. Comedians. Small-business owners. Actors. Janitors. Gardeners. People who make an example out of their life by how they do things and not just what they do. Therefore, I'm not really buying that argument either.

I suppose the argument that PEDs are just a natural progression of what sports will become is valid enough. Technology changes everything- business, relationships, arts- sports is no exception. When they developed the first-down magic TV line, nobody complained that it was disturbing the integrity of the sport. People have clamored for instant-replay in baseball. Picking and choosing doesn't usually work, especially when it comes to something with such a democratic nature as technology- one of the goals of technology is to widen its accessibility. For every internet security screen, the hackers are already poking holes. As soon as a drug is pulled from the shelf, the labs are ready with another to replace it. Once they find a way to test for steroids, HGH shows up. Technology can't even keep up with itself. Since these drugs are available, use them. Run faster, throw harder, hit further. Everyone is doing it, so why don't you? While my tendency is toward Luddism, I can't argue with the fact that the world is changing, and it's not always for the worse. Maybe we'll see a time when Tom Brady would have been carted off the field, shot up with some horse testosterone, undergo a quick surgery with some lasers, and he's back out at the top of the second half.

But after all of this pontification, I'm still nagged by the fact that there are just too many players. Too many teams. The lure of money and fame make the decision to shoot up very easy, so that average players can become great players and great players can become phenomenal. The leagues accommodate- there are now 30 Major League Baseball teams- each with at least 3 farm teams apiece. There are semi-pro teams, and alternative pro leagues. There's enough baseball to fill up 6 or 8 channels of MLB Ticket. You used to have to be really good to get in the bigs. You had to be really good to get into the Hall of Fame. Now it's like the Walk of Fame in Hollywood- stick around for more than 4 years, and get your ticket punched. The fact that one played for x number of years does not qualify them for the Hall of Fame. It does seem like kissing baseball writer ass would help though. When the players are buying their talent at the doctor's office, it's hard to give them credit for their plays. The bad message they are sending to kids isn't so much, "hey, it's okay to take drugs." It's "hey, anyone can play pro sports." Ergo, anyone can make a lot of money running a hedge fund. Anyone can have sex with whomever they want, regardless of whether that person consents. You can eat your cake and have it too. Working hard is for losers. Even when you get caught, you can just make puppy dog eyes, apologize a dozen times, and do an interview with Barbara Walters or Matt Lauer or anyone on 60 Minutes. Then you promise to do better while you collect your paycheck and research a more discreet drug.

In the end, I'm anti-PED. Because I'm anti-bullshit.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

for love or money

What factors as success is different for different people. Some people see being successful as having a healthy and happy family. Some people see it as financial security and luxury. Some people see it as kicking ass at co-ed softball. I am not one to decide which of these is more valid and therefore more successful. But it does provide some illumination for the case of the Cincinnati Bengals.

In one of George Carlin's prolific rants about sports, he discussed the fact that the players were the only ones essential to the game. He said if the fans went home, the tickets weren't sold, the guys would go play ball in an empty lot, just as it all started. George's problem was with the owners- whom he hated even more than fans and media. And when you take a closer look at Mike Brown, you're going to see his point.

Mike Brown has made his decision on success, and it has more to do with the cash than rings. Most NFL teams have 4-6 scouts who go to colleges, other teams, semi-pro leagues and the like to recruit new talent. The Bengals have one- the rest of the recruitment is done by coaches, who really have better things to do. Like figure out how to win games.

Mr. Brown is also a major proponent of revenue sharing- generally a popular opinion among small-market team owners. However, other small-market owners aren't as thrilled with Mike, because he declined the $100+ million the team could have garnered for naming rights to the stadium and was happy to let the residents of Hamilton County pay for the stadium (without so much as a 25% off coupon so any of them could actually attend a game).

Is success putting butts in the seats and selling jerseys? Because if that is the case, Mike Brown is all sorts of successful. But if it is winning and pride and Super Bowl rings (and the resulting increase in revenue across the city when there's a team to cheer), well... Mighty Mike has struck out (or thrown an interception- there's just not an appropriate football analogy... at least I kept it in sports).

It's disheartening to the Bengals fan (as indicated by sites like this) to see this sort of behavior by someone who is really the descendant of football royalty as far as Ohio is concerned. But the amazing thing about fandom is that there is always hope. Once you become a true fan of a team, it tugs at your heartstrings for life. You try to turn away. You vow to never watch another game. You seek out a different team to love. But you always come back. As much as you try, you can't quit them. They complete you.

I'll still watch the games. I'll still be a Bengal fan, because I'm not a fan of Mike Brown. I'm a fan of dorky little Shayne Graham, and stereotypical handsome quarterback Carson Palmer, reformed prodigal son Chris Henry, and my personal favorite, Mr. Personality- so full of himself but still in on the joke, Chad "Johnson" Ochocinco.

I am not a fan of Mike Brown. I'm not a fan of the HamCo Commissioners who kowtow to his every wish. And honestly, I'm not a fan of the fans- who want everything for nothing, and complain bitterly when it's their own heart they are choosing to putting on the line.

That being said- WHO DEY!

Saturday, August 15, 2009

once upon a time

I'm not sure there is anything equivalent for people who don't follow sports. There is no other interest that arouses such passion. You can be really into music- but it's different to be putting your hopes and dreams, heart and soul, and personal joy or sorrow on the line for an athlete. Someone you will likely never meet. Someone who doesn't give 2 shits about you. Like that dreamy quarterback in high school, they don't know you exist- but literally.

Sportsophilia is a disease that usually only afflicts men. However, every so often, a female can fall victim to the as yet incurable and untreatable condition. I am one of those women. I love sports. I have favorites, and I am most capable of watching channels other than ESPN or CBS. But last night, when I was flipping back and forth between the Reds game and the Bengals preseason game, while following the Tigers/Royals game online, my friend can attest to the fact that while she was telling me... um... something, that even the most minute error in officiating by an NFL referee will take all of my attention. (But seriously- no flag?!). That is probably what makes it difficult for people to understand that while I feel the joy of victory and agony of defeat, I still can be a girly girl wearing makeup and stocking up on vintage jewelry. I'm a contradiction in action, so whether you first learn of my sports fascination or my obsession with makeup and accessories, the other is going to come as a surprise.

Therefore, when I visited Columbus in June and had an opportunity to attend a PGA golf tournament Sunday afternoon, my friends were confused by my hyperventilation. I never dreamed I would get to go to a PGA event, much less enjoy these particular circumstances.

As a matter of the world, where you have to know someone to get just about anything, a friend of a friend had a friend who lived on the golf course where the tournament was taking place. They offered us a place to park, and their passes to get on the course. They lived on the 15th fairway. As we parked and walked around to the backyard, near the edge where it kissed the fairway, Tiger Woods was striding down the fairway. From that point, the only thing I could say was, "holy shit holy shit holy shit."

We walked to a break in the plastic temporary fence and had the ushers check our passes, and my giant purse. Told I couldn't bring my cell phone, I dropped it on the ground and promised to be back for it. They put a tag on my purse to show it had been searched; the tag is still on my bag. I followed Tim to the 15th green, where I watched Tiger Woods sink a putt, and then walk by me- nothing between us but 3 feet of air. I followed Tiger to the 16th tee, and stood at the front of the crowd to watch him tee off. Then I made my move.

I was headed to the 18th green. I wanted to watch Tiger finish this thing. He was still a shot or two back. I figured I'd get a better spot if I went then instead of moving with Tiger. My friends were staying at the 16th tee to see other players play through- I couldn't fathom why. Tara went with me, but I lost her after about 10 minutes. All I could see was the green and wait for Tiger's ball with its Nike swoosh.

We waited. Another coupling played through. 20 minutes or so later, a small white sphere dropped in front of us onto the green. It rolled to a stop about 2 feet from the hole. Everyone was buzzing- was it Tiger's? It had to be Tiger's. How will we know if it's Tiger's? Someone with a contraband cell phone made a call. It was Tiger's.

Tiger's short birdie putt on 18 was what won him the tournament. It wasn't just amazing because he's my favorite golfer. It's pretty much understood that he is the greatest to ever play the game. I love watching golf. My heart stops and starts with the rough, the hazards, and the greens. I love other sports too- baseball, football, and hockey in particular. But I got to watch one of the greatest athletes of all time do what he does best- win. And there's just no concert or movie that can compete with the vicarious emotion of an athlete's true passion for the game.

But in any case- the serendipitous unfurling of events that led me to land at the 18th green was what was the most memorable. Up until the last moment, I didn't think it was possible. But it was- and that's the thrill of victory.

_______________________
Postscript: The kind lady and gentleman working the break in the fence delivered my phone to the friend's house, worried that I would forget it or it would be lost or stolen. Those people rock.

Friday, August 14, 2009

soccer it to me

The people have spoken. Today's blog will be about soccer. I don't really know anything about soccer (except they seem to have the best looking athletes- David Beckham, Cristian Ronaldo- I mean, seriously). But I don't have to know anything to talk/write about something (there are a great number of radio and tv hosts who prove that point every day).

The big question about soccer has always been whether Americans will ever support soccer- not just as football/futbol, but as a valid sport. There is the big 3- baseball, football, and basketball- and really, everything else is going to be shoved into the last 12 minutes of SportsCenter. Hockey is momentarily interesting (when there is a fight), golf can get some viewers (as long as Tiger is playing), and many people consider driving a sport when it's done in an oval at 200+ miles per hour. But really, they are just events- instead of actual sports.

I've had a hard time with soccer myself. I went to an indoor soccer game when Cincinnati had its own pro team (the Silverbacks). I didn't really understand why they fell down so often. Nobody really seemed to be watching the game either. I surely didn't understand why people in South America were killing each other over soccer games- I mean, it's not even a sport, right?

More recently, I've started watching a game here and there. And like most things, the more I've learned about the game, the more fun it is to watch. But more than that- the intrigue stems from the passion of the fans. The first time I was watching a game, I was wondering if there was a giant swarm of bees somewhere near the microphones. Someone filled me in about the kazoo things. I was amazed. That is 90-minutes-plus of humming. That is dedication.

It's more than that- people live and die (often literally) by these teams. Just watching them makes it more exciting. And it's a soap opera- fans have thrown vomit at players. Vomited into a cup, and then threw it at a player. That's beyond dedication and bordering on psychosis. I've realized that soccer is more of a holistic spectator sport. I have to watch the players. But I also have to watch the fans. I have to watch the sweat that glistens not only the players' faces, but the fans as well. The beauty of being a sports fan is the vicarious fulfillment of glory through the players. The glory is exponentially heightened when there are thousands of people humming in kazoos, screaming, sweating, possibly vomiting, and feeling every emotion that we normally reserve for our most prurient relationships.

I'm not sure Americans are ready for that kind of passion though.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

getting it out of the way

It's only 9:30, so I cannot promise I will be at my most brilliant. I am not a morning person. But we'll give it a go.

So I've been considering why women have such issues with self-esteem. And not just the body image bullshit, but genuinely thinking they aren't cool enough or funny enough or smart enough or generally awesome enough to deserve being treated really well. I don't mean just by men, either. Women treat other women like crap, and feel like they deserve to be treated crappy as well. I can't tell you how many of my female friends are surprised when I make every effort to be a good friend to them (I try to be a good friend to my male friends as well). Why would you be surprised that I will help you move, or drive you to pick up your car after it gets towed, or give you a pep talk after a bad day? That's what friends are supposed to do. Women have such low self-esteem that they don't even truly believe they deserve love from their friends, much less potential suitors.

I'm not sure where my high self-esteem came from (and that's not saying I don't have my faults and insecurities- I'm just confident in them). I have a couple guesses- I could just be totally narcissistic. My other option is that while my parents didn't necessarily tell me I was God's gift to the planet, they did always support my decisions. whether it be getting a tattoo or going to grad school. Having someone tell you that your ideas are great all the time (even the ones which turn out to be epic failures) does bolster the self-confidence. These guesses are not mutually exclusive, by the way. I could very well be a narcissist with emboldening parents (the two together makes a lot of sense, actually).

I realize I'm not the cutest girl or the skinniest girl (although I do have a body dysmorphic disorder I call anti-rexia: I think I'm skinnier than I am). I'm not the smartest or the funniest (although I would wager to guess I am in the top 5). But when it comes down to how you treat people and how you let them treat you, it is in the confidence and the self-esteem. I behave as though I am totally awesome, and it becomes reality. I try to improve myself (with varying results), and I'm happy about the progress I have made. I try to be a good friend, and I definitely have more work to do, but I do my best. I deserve it. And so do you.

__

Postscript:

I am reminded of an excerpt from a commencement speech given by- I think Bill Cosby, but maybe Oprah (Oprah says all wise things). Paraphrased, it said: someday, you will have an idea. You will go to someone and say I have a great idea. They will say, no it's not. Go back to your cube. And the question becomes: who do you believe?

Peace out, kids

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

day 2

This thing is already a drag. In retrospect, the nap might have been a bad idea- or at least not the most productive use of my time. Plus, it was one of those naps where you wake up feeling like you've been dead for six or eight days. I can't move my arms or legs. I can't open my eyes. And my brain has no intention of working for at least a couple hours.

This will be short- I am preparing to celebrate a friend's birthday, and she deserves more attention than this blog does. However, I feel like I'm making progress by not blowing it off. Give me a couple more weeks and I might be used to this. Or not.

A final thought- why are men's restrooms always the first down the hall at public places. And are pregnant women particularly agitated? (Please note that I refrained from the obvious pun).

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

a practice in futility

In an attempt to determine whether it is possible for me to motivate and discipline myself, I am trying to write on my blog every day for the next 30 days.

It's not just me who is unable to motivate me. It's rare that someone or something can spur me to any sort of ambitious action. I'm a lifelong slacker- a "just enough" kind of person. Further effort just seems unnecessary and possibly wasteful.

Plus, I like writing and the whole Twitter thing is fun, but it's kind of like- you don't stop eating real macaroni and cheese just because you can get a single serve made in the microwave. I think it's a valid mode of communication, but is certainly not sufficient.

So, we'll see how hard I have to work to find something to say every day. I'm not really sure how this whole motivation thing works- or self-discipline. Part of the reason I'm not the best teacher is because discipline is just a sort of foreign concept for me. Like money having intrinsic value. Like eating mashed potatoes. I just don't get it.

I guess I wonder when it might be that I'll be a grownup. I feel like I haven't started really living my life yet- like I'm still a kid. I suppose the first step is admitting you have a problem. Hi, my name is Dale, and I'm addicted to being in a state of arrested development where I want none of the responsibilities of being an adult and none of the limitations of being a child. Apparently, I don't get to do this forever. What a freaking bummer.

I suppose that I could do a reward system for meeting my goals. Or maybe learn to be ambitious. Is it learned? Are people inherently ambitious? Is there a career where my removed nature would be encouraged or at least tolerated? Can my inability to take most things seriously ever be an asset?

I'm pretty sure that I could write a book that would have the opposite effect of the Who Moved My Cheese? and the 7 Habits of Highly Effective People kinds of books. Like it would make everyone just want to sit around and chat and possibly take a nap or play some board games. Businesses would go bankrupt within days. But there would probably be fewer arguments.

Well, Day 1 is successful. I actually had thought about wanting to do this earlier this morning. While I was taking my evening shower, I found myself considering putting off starting it until tomorrow. The first day of this experiment and I was already procrastinating.

This is not going to be easy.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

take a number

I have 373 contacts in my cell phone. Out of those 373 people, I probably actually call maybe 30 of them, and probably only about 10 on a regular basis. I'm certain that a lot of the numbers are no longer even accurate. Why keep them all? There is actually a couple of reasons.

The first reason is at least somewhat practical. I've had the same cell phone number for about 12 years now (an eternity in these technologically advanced times). I get random phone calls from people (I'm not going to lie, it's usually the dudes) I haven't spoken to in years. I like to know who is calling. I don't like surprises in general. I love caller ID- I even have audible caller ID. I don't have to touch my phone to know that "Call From... Daddy... Mom... Home."

The other reason is a bit more sentimental. Amongst my parents, family, friends old and new, there are random numbers. A girl I hit it off with when we were both solo at a bar one night. Dudes upon dudes who I met that once and never heard from again, or we hung out a few times, or we dated on and off forever. It's a bit of a flashback every time I scroll through the numbers, checking on who I want to invite to the next party. I might not invite John Doe, but it's nice to remember the night we danced until 4am and then had breakfast at Anchor Grill.

I don't do scrapbooks. I don't really keep a journal anymore. Although digital cameras make it all the easier to TAKE pictures, they hardly ever get actually printed and perused. But all I need for a stroll down memory lane is my little LG enV2 and I can tell you stories about 373 different people.

Friday, January 23, 2009

a short post of things that came to me last night while trying to fall asleep

  • Whenever I'm hungry at home, I put off making something to eat as long as possible. Apparently, this is under the assumption that a) I will just stop being hungry or b) someone will just show up and cook me some food. Neither happens.
  • When considering a return to school in this economic downturn, I remember the worst part of class- falling asleep. Not because I would be admonished, but because those notes were useless. "The Monroe Doctrine wgh ddhg... wha?"
  • The reason that free market capitalism won't work without regulation is because there will always be people who are motivated by money- say, Donald Trump, and there will always be people who are not- say, me. Without regulation, the Donald Trumps of the world will bleed the mes of the world dry and then sell my organs.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

just a quick thought

This month's Cosmopolitan has a feature on how to make your bedroom inviting to a man (no knickknacks, feminine but not girly, clean lines, etc).

I consider myself lucky if the guy has toilet paper.

And they say there's no double standard for the sexes.