Let's Get Physical

This week at work I've been listening to Bach's Cello Suites. It sent me right back to my years as a trombone player, because I would often play the Suites as part of my practice. They're not written for brass instruments, so there were a lot of things I couldn't do, but it was a good workout. It's the kind of thing I'd save for a couple hours in, when I was super-warmed up. You know when you're in shape and you run, and you get to that point when you can go and go and go? That's how I felt when I got to the Cello Suites.

Sometimes I miss the physicality of the trombone. I'm not really the kind of person who works with her hands or plays a lot of sports. But one of the interesting things about playing an instrument is that it's 50% mental and 50% physical. That's a big part of what made practicing hard -- if either your mind or your body is tired, it doesn't get a break. I'm rather spotty with my exercise, so there were long stretches where playing the trombone (and carrying it around) was the most active thing I did.

I actually felt a bit athletic when I played. Brass instruments are all about the air, and that kind of breathing affects the whole body. Even my walk was looser and more relaxed after I'd been practicing. Try it: For a full two minutes, take the deepest breaths you possibly can, one right after the other (without hyperventilating). Feel any warmer? Yeah.

I read in book of trumpet exercises that "you are the instrument." At first I dismissed that as a weak "Be the ball!" kind of concept, but now I see there's a very real way in which it's true. Sound is vibration, and a brass player produces that themselves. It starts with the air, and you buzz your lips (a.k.a. "chops"). The horn just focuses, amplifies and projects the sound. Nearly every note I can play on the trombone, I can buzz without it. The trombone can't make noise. Unless you drop it. Then it's percussion. Or sporting equipment.

Hey, speaking of, here's a joke: What's the range of a trombone? Answer: 20 yards if you've got a good arm. Yuk yuk.

Anyway, it's funny what you miss.

Beansprouts Ruin Everything!

Does anybody really like these things, or are we just supposed to eat them because they're healthful? I mean, how desperate for sustenance do you have to be to start eating beans before they're fully grown?

And they look like sperm. Appetizing.

Who thought to put scoop-fulls of this stuff in a plastic container next to the croutons at the salad bar?

Blech blech blech.

Blech, I say.

Maybe if You Put Me in Some Glasses and a Button-Down T-Shirt, I'd Look Like a Computer Programmer

My brother's wife is reading a book about a particular religion. It includes the story of two brothers who killed their sister-in-law "because God told them to." She told us about it and I said, "I've been thinking that for a while now."
"Thinking what?" she asked.
I grinned at her.
"Oh, thinking that God has told you to kill your sister-in-law?"
I grinned some more. I find that smiling and not speaking after declaring that you've heard the voice of God is the best way to assure people that you're completely sane.

I do hear the voice of God, but I gotta say a good two-thirds of the messages I get don't involve commands to kill.

When I do kill, it's mostly spiders and ants. Not aunts.

I'm thinking of writing a manifesto, though. What do you think of this for a title: "The World's Best-o Manifesto." Pretty catchy, huh? In your face, Ted Kaczynski!

Easy Peasy, Lemon Squeezy

My brother had his first official flight as a commercial airline pilot today. He's had 8 years of training and professional experience as a military pilot, including 3 years as an instructor, so he knew what he was doing. But it was still a milestone, and a test. I asked him a couple days ago whether he was nervous about it, and he said that there are always some nerves when you're dealing with an unknown, but it should be easy.

"Can I quote you on that?" I asked. "Next time I'm flying and there are nervous people on either side of me, can I tell them, 'Hey, no worries! My brother is a pilot and he says it's easy. The only thing easier than flying it is letting it fall out of the sky.' "

I hear he did quite well, which is not a surprise. He was the co-pilot, but the pilot let him do everything, and prove himself. He took off and landed. (For those nervous fliers out there: Please don't worry. These men are capable, and I've placed my life in their hands with confidence. Now back to the exaggeration and humor. Roll with it.) Which brings us to more Undesirable Intercom Announcements:

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. I'll pretty much be doing squat for this flight. My co-pilot, a rookie, wants to have a go. Let's give him a big hand! I'll be turning off the intercom so you can't hear me scream. As far as you know, everything is fine. And if you feel a big thud, that would be the plane hitting the ground, and we're pretty much home-free at that point anyway. We're all about building a young pilot's self-esteem here, so please think of something positive to say upon exiting the aircraft. Even if you have to lie. He might be big, but he's sensitive, and kind of a crier. It's not pretty. Enjoy your flight. I'll be popping my Valium now. Nighty-night!

Lost in a Daydream

The gentleman walked onto the bus. It took him till the next stop to sort through his small change and put it, coin by coin, in the slot. All the while he said to himself, "A daydream, a daydream." He then slowly made his way down the aisle, stopping to look directly at people and say to them, "A daydream, a daydream."

One man got onto the bus, and as he passed the gentleman he was told, "A daydream, a daydream."
"It's all a daydream," he agreed.
The gentleman liked this, laughed, and began saying, "It's all a daydream. Ha ha! It's all a daydream."
This was interspersed with directions that I hoped he'd be able to follow: "She said 'Elm Street.' "

I smiled when it was my turn to be looked at and told it was all a daydream.

As we passed stop after stop, he continued to make his way toward the rear of the bus. Before I got off, I could hear him behind me, adding one last bit of wisdom:

"I'm free, free as a bird. She said I was..."

Granna Gets a Onesie

I have this great zip-up blankety thing, with sleeves and holes in the bottom for my feet. I think the official name for it is "slumber sack," but it's pretty much a grown-up onesie. My dislike for the word onesie aside (it seems lazy to me to call a one-piece item of clothing a onesie, and it doesn't lend itself to phonetic pronunciation; it looks like oh-NEE-see), it's a great item to possess if you're cold all the time, like I am. It's like a blanket that comes with you wherever you go.

Mine is red, and my brother says it makes me look like a deflated Teletubby. I'm not allowed to wear it outside.

But I did wear it to my grandmother's house for Christmas! It don't get much snuggier than curling up in my onesie when the North Dakota temperature is in the single digits outside. Granna thought it was so comfy-looking that she decided to get one for herself. She liked my color, too, so Mom ordered her one just like mine. Now we match. You won't be able to tell us apart.

Unless we start talking. I'm more sarcastic, but she's the one less likely to take crap. And she can tell stories that begin with the words, "Back in the bootlegging days..."

18 Wheels a-Rollin'

Last night I saw Smoky and the Bandit for the first time. That is one classic piece of American cinema! I knew it existed but it hadn't solidly registered in my consciousness until the My Name is Earl episode where Randy wants to go to the Camden County fair and see the Trans Am Bandit drove in the movie. Then the Jerry Reed song, East Bound and Down, played while Earl and Randy messed with some poor guy's golf game (you kind of have to see it). Now that I understand what it's about, I can't get that song out of my head. Which is fine. I like it.

East bound and down
Loaded up and truckin'
We're gonna do what they say can't be done...

I've long thought I had a redneck in me trying to get out, and this movie is bringing it that much closer. Now I want a cool "handle." I want a basset hound named Fred. I want to get messed up in a bar brawl and somehow enjoy it. I want to race some Coors across state lines with Sheriff Buford T. Justice on my tail.

But mostly I want to have witty CB chatter.

After that movie, my life seems so... below the speed limit.

Rowr

You know what I like better than dinosaurs? Mammals. I like the fur. The feathers thing was a nice middle ground, but fur wins out. I don't know much about the movie 10,000 BC, but it has lots of big furry animals running around, which appeals to me. And saber teeth. Those are cool.

A long time ago I wrote about wanting a woolly mammoth as a pet. Still do. Now I'd like to add a saber-toothed something to the list. Weren't there animals besides tigers that had them? A tiger would be OK, though. I could have a kitty door for him, like the Flintstones. Anybody remember that cat's name?

So, what's on my pet list now? A big dog named Snort, a woolly mammoth, a saber-tooth of some kind. I saw a giant sloth once at a museum. That might be cool. But kind of close to a bear. I could just get a bear. I saw a car commercial several years ago that showed a big bear making himself comfortable on a red couch, and I thought the bear looked even more comfy than the couch -- like a big bean bag. And I wanted one.

Mom, if one follows me home, can I keep him?

Like Big Bird!

I caught a bit of a PBS show about whether birds evolved from dinosaurs. They say a whole mess of dinosaurs, including T-Rex, could have had feathers. I like that. Makes them friendlier somehow. Any chance they could have been yellow and sung songs with grouches?

I like eating dinosaurs
That's what I like to do
And when I'm done I brush my teeth
Like mommy told me to

Meat is what I like to chew
I tear into the flesh
And then I use a toothpaste
To keep me minty fresh

My days are full of hunting
Some roaring and some stomps
And nightly oral hygiene
To give me healthy chomps

I might be big, I might be strong
Everybody's scared of me
But at night I still come home
To my T-Rex mommy

Killing Cereal

We had snacks at work again today.

Snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks .

Which brings me to a little promise I made last week and quickly forgot about: To tell you how my coworkers and I decided Ben could be serial killer. I'd sent around this link:
http://www.malevole.com/mv/misc/killerquiz

Feel free to take the quiz. I got 7 out of 10 (not bad!). It shows pictures of serial killers and computer programming language inventors, and you have to guess who's who. We were talking about the pictures, and Chris says Ben fits the profile -- smart, white, polite.

Ben, concerned and wondering whether he should be offended, says, "You think I look like a computer programmer?"

Because I Don't Have Much Else to Say...

I'll just clarify that I may have the heart and mind of a poet, but I haven't done the work of one. So, to be fair to my friends who are true poets, perhaps I shouldn't declare myself one yet. Perhaps I'm more of a coccooned poet. My fear of cliche has kept me from seriously trying my hand at it. My experience last week made me think it could be worth getting over the fear, though.

I also learned that poetry can be much easier to appreciate when it's read aloud. I'd heard that poetry is meant to be read aloud, which always struck me as odd. Now I see how much a live performance can bring to it! It was quite fun. I'd recommend it, even to those who don't think they'd like it. You might be pleasantly surprised. Maybe not. But maybe yes :-).

Slammin' Poetry

I went to an open mic poetry night last week. Isn't that one of the most Cambridgy things you can possibly do? Anyway, in the hours I was there, my thoughts followed a progression something like this:

I'm not a poet.

I don't want to be a poet.

Damn it, I'm a poet!

Maybe I'm Janice

Have I done a Muppet post yet?

A girl I used to work with sent me photocopied pages from a book she owns called Sesame Street: Unpaved. She did it because of the recent presidential primaries; there's a particular Muppet she thinks looks like Mitt Romney. Can you guess who it is? I'll tell you at the end of the post.

Anyway, I had this Muppet's picture up in my cube, and Ben (the serial killer) comes over and we talk for a bit. Then he says, "I'm looking at this picture, and I'm looking at you..."
"Do you think I look like him?"
"Not completely. Your eyes aren't flat. And your face isn't fuzzy"

Don't let that throw you off in your guessing, folks. Ben also thought I resembled the computer wallpaper I had a couple months ago. It was a picture of a polar bear.

I do bear a few resemblances to a Muppet, though they're not necessarily physical. I like to sing and dance, and I've always wanted to be on a variety show. I'd like to take Manhattan someday. If I'm ever in a rock band, I'd want it to be the Electric Mayhem.

I think if I were to have a crush on a Muppet, I might pick Rolf. Although Animal could be a very fun date.

OK, ready to find out who's on my cube wall? It's Guy Smiley. Raise your hand if you called it!

Snack Time

I wake up every morning in a bed that's too small, drive my daughter to a school that's too expensive, and then I go to work to a job for which I get paid too little, but on pretzel day? Well, I like pretzel day. --Stanley Hudson, The Office

Today it's snowing in New England. It's a gentle snow, but long and steady enough for long-distance public transportation to be disrupted, and for my office to close early. Woo! Slightly less woo: I was so hungry that I went and bought a panini. By the time I got back, we'd all received notice that the office was closing immediately. I could have saved five bucks! Then my coworker, Ben, comes over and says, "Not to make you feel like your purchase was even less necessary, but snacks are here."

We get snacks every Friday at 2pm. My coworkers and I like snacks very much. Our jobs involve very little live interaction with others of the human kind, so when snack time rolls around, we'll often spend a whole hour, talking and laughing and distracting other people from their work. Snacks are very important to us. We like snacks.

Today, it became apparent to all of us just where snacks stood on our priority list. We'd just been released early from work on a Friday, and with the rest of the office deserted, we go have snacks. They'd been set out at the time of the announcement -- too late to take them back, but not important enough for anyone to stay for -- except us. We had them almost entirely to ourselves! Glorious abundance! I even brought some home.

Snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks.

Perhaps I'll tell you all later about how our conversation revolved around Ben fitting the profile of a serial killer. But more the basement kind, not the snapping-at-the-office kind, so we think we're OK.

Mono: Molto Bene?

Has anybody out there ever had Mononucleosis, a.k.a. mono? I've often thought that would be a great illness for me. I'm very good at sitting around. And do you know if you can get disability pay while you have it? Wow, that could be a real kick-start to the writing career. I'm going to give this some serious consideration.

I've never had it, though, so I don't know what it's like. Do you just get weak, or do you actually suffer? I only want to be sick if it's fun.

Incontinental

Another installment of Things You Don't Want to Hear Over an Airplane Intercom:

"I can't believe you said that, Kevin! You're the most inconsiderate co-pilot ever. I'm so distraught I don't know if I can land this thing... No, I'm not speaking to you anymore... Hello, control tower? Would you tell my co-pilot to prepare for our descent? And would you tell him to make the announcement to the passengers and crew, if he's not too self-absorbed to do so?... What, the speaker has been on the whole time? Why didn't you tell me? I hate you! I hate you all!"

And in other news, I read that scientists have discovered a fossil that indicates bats developed flight before they developed sonar (I assume this is from an evolutionary perspective, not a life-cycle-of-every-bat perspective). I'm picturing a bunch of bats smacking into cave walls, getting really ticked off. Surely there's a metaphor in here somewhere, no? I'll let you decide how it would apply to you, but here's what I think of myself: My sonar is better than I (and even other people) have given it credit for, and I'm learning to trust it more. A few cave-smacks and some loud interference shook my confidence, but I'm coming back, baby!

Brotherly Love

The family was together at my parents' home this weekend. My brother and his wife are in the process of closing on their first home and all sorts of impressive grown-up activities. She's coordinating the bulk of it while he's in various other parts of the country, finishing up his training. Don't let all her brains and ability fool you, though. Sure, my brother was attracted to her strong character and intelligence, but I once heard him claim that he knew she was The One when they went to see Jackass, The Movie, and instead of squirming or being offended, she laughed her jackass off.

L is sometimes fascinated/appalled at our brother-sister dynamic. (She's an only child. She says her parents felt no need to mess with perfection.) Yesterday morning, J had made some hot cereal and couldn't finish it all, so he pushed it in my direction because I was hungry, saying, "I guess you'll want your own spoon."
"Oh, I'm not picky..." and I looked up to see him, eyes wide with sadistic glee (his usual expression), licking his spoon exaggeratedly. Liiiiiick. "You still want it?" Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. "You still want it?" If even I wasn't grossed out at this point, it was a matter of honor to get up and get my own clean spoon.
"Just trying to help you make a decision," he said. "You seemed to be having some trouble there." L shook her head.
I explained, "You learn to receive affection differently when you have a brother. There was one Thanksgiving when he threw a roll at me across the table."
"I remember that," J chimed in helpfully.
I went on, "People think it's bad that he threw something at me. But he did it because he knew I liked rolls." Some see a projectile. I saw a young man giving up food from his own plate. Brings a tear to the eye, does it not?

Thinking about this does bring up a question for me. J, if you're reading this, do you remember: Did I catch the roll? My ego wants to know.

Here are some of the other services my brother provides:

- He points out when I'm doing or saying something stupid.
- He tells me when I look bad before I take myself in public (L is also happy to help in this regard)
- He offers to "talk to" people who insult me (though he may feel as territorial as protective -- dissing me is, after all, his job).
- He teaches me to cheat at party games -- with flair! (He taught me so well, in fact, that during a game of Scattergories, when we had to come up with a President whose name started with the letter I, he and I both came up with "I-senhower.")
- He keeps an eye on me when I go drinking. Though this may be largely for his own amusement. And he's as likely as not to say, "Do you think he's cute? Then finish your drink and go talk to him," and push me toward the bar.

All in all, a pretty useful guy to have around.

Mobile Isolation

Today I'm washing my winter coat. It's a great coat. Not great-looking, necessarily. It's this long, massive down number, the warmest L.L.Bean had in its arsenal. I tend to be cold anyway, so I sacrificed fashion for utility. Not that I noticed the sacrifice right away. At first, I told myself that the look was still beautiful, in an unconventional way. I called it Sexy Eskimo, and I imgined myself strutting down the street accompanied by wah-wah trumpest, a la Bugs Bunny when he put on lipstick. Or like those stunning Russian women in the fur hats.

Then I saw myself.

I caught a glimpse of my own image as I passed by a mirrored building on my way to the subway after work. There was something familiar about it, and I realized: I'm the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come! A frumpy conical monolith, shrouded in mystery and periwinkle, impervious to the scrutiny of stylish but freezing Bostonians around me. In this glorious garment, I'm aware of the cold only on a detached, intellectual level. I'm oblivious to snow, rain, wind, and oncoming traffic.

Mom's not happy about that last bit. The hood comes well in front of my face, cutting off all peripheral vision and a fair bit of sound. I have to turn the upper half of my body a full forty-five degrees to see if cars are coming or to make sure I haven't lost my walking companions. It's my own cozy little world.

I'm way too comfortable to care that I look somewhat less than fabulous. I'll be fabulous in the Spring. Then the danger won't be my walking in front of cars. It will be all the men walking in front of cars because they're staring at me.

Humor me on that.

I'd Like to Bring My Bankie to Meetings

We do boxing at my gym twice a week. A few sessions ago, I was paired with a girl who works with children, and is getting her Master's degree in business management. I wonder if one is good preparation for the other. Are we really all that different from kids, after all? We're cranky when we're tired, impatient when we're hungry, and we get all happy when others give us hugs, praise, or cookies. The biggest change for me is that these days I'd love to be told to take an afternoon nap. I like the idea of our childishness being overt:

"If we transmit the files on 4/15, we should be in good shape to... Johnson, Smith! What's going on back there?"

"Nothing."

"Am I going to have to separate you two?"

"No."

"OK... So, we should be in good shape..."

"Ow!"

"That's it! What's going on?"

"He bit me."

"Johnson, what did I say before?"

"No biting."

"And what did I say would happen if you did it again?"

"I wouldn't get to go to the sales conference in Florida."

"So what's going to happen now?"

"But it's not fair! He started it!"

"I don't care what he did. We don't bite in the office, do we?"

"No."

"No sales conference for you."

"This is so unfair."

"Life isn't fair. And don't give me that face."

"Ha!"

"Smith, this isn't funny. You'll stay late for the rest of the week."

"Aw, man!"

"I'm pinning this note to your lapel. Have your wife sign it. Or do I have to call her?"

"No."

"Good. I know neither of you likes this now, but you'll thank me when you're middle management."

Ancient Wisdom

I was introduced to "Ask a Ninja" last week. How long has that been around, and why did it take this long for someone to open my eyes to its brilliance? If you haven't seen these YouTube masterpieces, allow me to whet your appetite with this useful gem, a Ninja Pickup Line:

From across the room, I thought your body was punching. But now, up close, I can see that it's kickin'.