Writing off into the Sunset

The Night of the Round Tables

2010-12-10T11:05:00.013-06:00

I turned the corner and was greeted by a jovial fellow with a red sweater pulled over his well-fed frame. He looked up from his smart phone and announced his new-found intelligence. "The Cowboys are winning!" He exclaimed. The excitement was quickly overtaken by the football fan's fondness for food. We had come to the right place: the Canyon Creek Presbyterian Church Christmas potluck dinner. A second empty hallway gave way to a grand hall decked with festive Christmas decorations, two glass backboards, and a sturdy tile floor. It looked more like a converted church. A few dozen early arrivals milled about the maze of round tables. Huddled around the water cooler was a middle-aged man discussing the Cowboys game with a few friendly fellows. "The Cowboys are winning" he exclaimed. What he lacked in originality he more than made up for in enthusiasm as he rambled off a string of stats while acting as though he didn't have an internet-capable smartphone in his hand. When the statistician's spiel sputtered, the football fans turned their gaze longingly at the line of homemade food in the center of the room. I followed their line of sight to find a row of tables covered in dishes that held everything needed for a sumptuous Christmas feast. My reverie was interrupted by an approaching woman. She wore a red sweater, white turtleneck, dark blue jeans, black shoes, and a gold necklace. Her hair was graying, her size was diminuitive but not slight. She had a confident demeanor and a cheerful disposition. The lady spoke, "Are you visiting?" Her sentence seemed to end prematurely, so I sought clarification. "Where?" I asked. The lady then said, "Are you visiting here at the church?" The answer seemed obvious as did the question. She had spotted me from across the room and must have seen that I came without kids, without parents, and without a smartphone updating me on the Cowboys game. This might have sparked the lady's curiosity to inquire about my presence at the dinner. She introduced herself as Ann. I introduced myself as Drew. Just then, the hostess of the dinner spoke up, presented a prayer, and instructed staff members to eat first. Ann was a staff member. She insisted that I join her at the front of the line. We filled our plates as the tables emptied out to form long lines of people behind us. When my foam plate was about to snap, I dropped the serving spoon back in the chicken and put both hands under my plate. A few tables away, Ann was now desperately trying to get my attention. "We're sitting over here" she announced. I looked around the room. Nearly every table was empty except hers. The room had been vacated to create the seemingly endless lines behind me. I found Ann's table without any trouble and sat down across from her and her husband. A moment later, a family full of kids with plates full of food swarmed around the table. Through a smattering of remarks and complaints, I learned that the group had somehow reserved the table before getting up to go through the food line. The formerly frustrated family filled the table until only Ann and her husband remained. I didn't protest too much as I stood and gathered my dinner once again. Ann watched as her most courted guest slowly moved to find a new seat. At the adjacent table, there was one open seat. The chair backed into Ann's seat as I sat down to finally start dinner. I looked around to find that no one at the table had any food. They were all waiting for the long lines to run their course so they wouldn't have to stand up for so long. After a moment of introductions, they all left to get dinner while I ate mine. Just as I was finishing my food, everyone returned to their rightful places at the round table. On my right was an elderly gentleman sitting next to his wife. A man and his family sat to my left and filled the rest of the table. The more experienced misses was discussing Christmas traditions with the mother of the kids. "At Christmas, what do we usually put out first?" she wondered aloud. "The cat" said the old man. He laughed heartily at his own quip while the two little girls stared with big, puzzled eyes and slack jaws at the man and his wife. We overcame the generational differences and got along quite nicely through the rest of the dinner. As it came time to finish dinner, a small group of men and women appeared in a hallway overlooking the dinner hall. With only their voices, they slowly began reverent recitals of classic Christmas carols. The conclusion of their repertoire signaled the end of dinner. I remembered the way out and left for home.

What Lies Ahead

2010-12-08T22:52:00.004-06:00

I slowly turned the wheel, not knowing what was around the next dark corner. My headlights pierced the night sky, straining to discover what was ahead. I struggled to keep the car from colliding with unknown peril as my gaze darted about the blackness ahead of me. A light appeared ahead in the night sky. I could see people figures of people slowly crossing the light source, causing it to flash and then reappear. The silhouetted celestial citizens moved slowly in a line toward an unknown fate. Each person appeared to be singing, but I heard no sound. The silence freed my imagination to fill the void with the possibilities. Bewilderment crept in to my consciousness as I tried to find my way. I kept the lighted gathering in sight and circled their location. Without any ideas left, I parked my car in a dark spot with a wall of trees behind me. I kept watch to the front. People started to approach from the direction of the light. There were strange men in uniforms moving directly at me. One man spoke into a cell phone. A moment later a stream of vehicles converged on his location. I shut off my headlights and prepared to leave my car. Just then, a large van emerged from the darkness and came to a screeching halt only inches from my vehicle. People poured out of the vehicle until it was surrounded by its former occupants. I slowly got out of my car and waited as the shadowy squad escorted me to a dimly lit set of double doors. Inside was a long narrow corridor void of people and filled with the unknown.

Posing Questions

2010-09-04T22:26:00.009-05:00

I pulled into a parking lot and left my car in the first available spot. It was Saturday night and the parking lot was crowded. There was a young lady telling her friends about my height. This incited the curiosity of her comrades. The largest of the bunch approached me and asked my height. I didn't break stride so she turned to walk with me. After my rote response, she said that was a mere 5'11". I didn't have any witty remarks or clever comebacks. Despite the lack of levity, the bold bunch of buddies burst into laughter upon the conclusion of our conversation. The lady returned to the easily entertained entourage and I continued walking. Ahead was the Harbor District on Lake Ray Hubbard. The back side of a massive movie theater formed the first part of The Harbor. It was dark all around the theater. The sun had set an hour ago and the shopping center didn't care to see anyone who wasn't inside their stores. I walked around to the front of the theater and followed a walkway. Here, the light from the lakeside restaurants lit up the walkway. Dozens of tables created outside seating areas for each of the restaurants. Nearly all were full, and there were only a few open seats. A 3 foot metal fence lined the lakeside dining area of a Mexican restaurant. Just outside the fence was a brown Labrador Retriever lying quietly. His family was confined to a small fenced in area where they were given food and water. The dog was free of any physical restrictions, but simply waited only an arm's length from his parents inside the fence. I walked around the corner where there were more restaurants that overlooked the lake. A young boy was hammering out classical music on a cheap keyboard setup on the edge of the harbor. The sound was barely loud enough to be heard more than a few dozen yards away. Somehow the area was noisy. There was little wind, so the lake was not crashing its waves upon the shore. The people there all moved at the pace of a Saturday night on the lake. Their footsteps were hushed as a result. Many more simply sat along the pier and watched the lake. Sound carried well across the lake, so I may have heard the noise of a distant party.
As I walked away from the lake back to my car, the air grew slowly quieter and I could hear my name echoing across the empty field. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not that vain, so I turned around. Standing along the empty side wall of the movie theater about 20 yards away was a young man and lady. They were peering into the dark field from a cone of light cast by a security spotlight. I could see the two people standing there without apparent intention. The ticket booth was around the front, but I didn't tell them that. I didn't say anything but again heard a faint "Mr. Lehmann". As I approached the source of the sound, I asked openly if I had heard my name. The young man responded in the affirmative and said, "I thought that was you". Indeed it was me. His statement was correct but his assumptions proved to be less than so. I greeted him casually and he did the same. In the dim night air, he noticed something. "You cut your hair!" he exclaimed, without implication of a compliment. This kid was right on the money. I had cut my hair about two weeks ago. What else did he know? I didn't wait to find out and decided to turn the tables. I began grilling him with questions. "How have you been?" I asked. He said that he was good, and anxiously awaited another question. As he lilted back and forth, he wore a jovial expression. His bold greeting contrasted strangely with his now reserved responses. Who was this guy? I decided to ratchet up the questioning. It was time for a rhetorical question. "Beautiful night to be outside, isn't it?" I knew the answer, but did he? He threw a quizzical glance at his female companion and then responded. "It sure is." This guy was sharp. He never asked his own questions and kept calling me "Mr. Lehmann". I asked if he had been working or possibly studying hard. He said that he did neither and suggested that college was easy. This he said with a dismissive tone and a confident grin. I decided to call his bluff. "Really?" College was not usually easy. Perhaps he really was "good" as he so readily called himself. If not, maybe he had great high school teachers that prepared him well for college. He may not have remembered many of his teachers, but he remembered Mr. Lehmann. That was all I needed to know, and ceased my line of questioning. I bid him good night and headed back to my car.

Shock and Awe

2010-09-03T23:13:00.005-05:00

There I was, pulling into the Wal-Mart parking lot. I found a parking spot and did what any good driver would: I parked. It was a Friday night and the store was crowded with people. Ahead I saw two sets of automatic doors. After careful examination, I finally found the door marked entrance as I walked through the opposite doorway. It was too late, the automatic door had opened and I was in. There was a greeter standing to the side of the next entrance. The greeter didn't say a word, but the entrance alarms started to sing. Men stopped, ladies stared, and the carol continued. A line was starting to form around the exit (the opposite side) but I didn't have time to sign autographs. The greeter shot a look at a shocked young lady as if to say "move along, there's nothing to see here". Clearly, the lady disagreed and refused to move until security had inspected her shopping bag. Just inside there was an assortment of fruits and vegetables all around. After the Mcdonald's was the fresh produce section. Next up was the frozen foods section where you can buy all sorts of food that is supposed to be served hot. I wasn't here for the food so I continued on to the electronics department. Here I found a shelf filled with the latest digital cameras. Just behind the cameras, Wal-Mart cleverly stationed a young lady behind a checkout stand. This appeared only to be a cover for her actual role as security guard for the digital cameras. Her eyes remained transfixed on the target area as a line of customers inquired in vain for an actual cashier. I didn't find a camera to buy, so I headed away. Fortunately, Wal-Mart was generous enough to offer the young lady a break and her gaze wandered off towards a line of flat-screen tvs that were setup right behind my path to the outdoors department. There I resumed my hunt for the elusive Rayovac 9 volt battery. I never come up short, but I didn't find what I needed so I left the land of camouflage and camp stoves. As I rounded the corner of the cosmetics department, I spotted a young boy pushing a grocery cart. I wouldn't say he was ugly but he didn't need any makeup. The middle school kid was following his mom around the store. His pursuit came to a grinding halt as he turned his gaze upward. My face blocked his view of the Wal-Mart ceiling and he let out a gasp of expression. It wasn't a look of disappointment at not being able to see the ventilation pipes overhead. No, this was old-fashioned shock and awe. Just before I finished counting his teeth, he pressed his lips together to say "mom". I didn't fit the title and continued walking. The boy then said excuse me and asked my height. I responded. The boy then called to his mom to "come see this". A while later, a woman waddled up to her son's side. She followed his outstretched arm and finger until her gaze was fixed upon myself. I was waiting a few steps away for the arrival of the boy's parent and promptly said hello. Her reverie remained unbroken as she evaluated her son's remarkable find. The lady finally returned the greeting and returned to her shopping. I did the same. The boy then exclaimed that he needed a picture. I was already several aisles away perusing possible purchases. The boy persisted and found me only a minute later. Without question, he pulled out his camera phone and began to shoot pictures of me from across the main aisle. When the photo shoot ended, he exclaimed about my height and announced that he now had a new wallpaper. I didn't have any decorating advice for the kid so I left the paparazzi prodigy and continued my search for batteries. The ones I needed were at the checkout counter shelf. I forgave the frivolity and purchased the batteries. This time I found the exit and escaped without causing any more commotion.

Fantastic Four

2010-01-03T23:07:00.006-06:00

Here is a video about the four dogs that I took care of over Christmas break. Riley is a miniature poodle and he was just visiting. It took him a while to get the lay of the land. The video just introduces the dogs and explains what I did to earn my keep. Now, without further ado, I will end my cliches and roll the clip.

Christmas 2009

2009-12-24T02:16:00.004-06:00

Here is a video that I made. It is a movie trailer style clip in the tradition of the old movie maker movies that I made before the war. If you can't keep up with the editing, then you probably can't keep up with a real movie trailer either. No animals were harmed in the making of this film. It was shot entirely on location in Rowlett, Texas. The featured dogs are from the Hogan's house. Video was created using Windows movie maker, so don't expect much. Visuals were taken in full not-HD using a Canon PowerShot S1 IS. Music was provided by Elvis and Clarence "Frogman" Henry. The film never got made because there just wasn't enough time to get it done in time for Christmas. If only the director had chosen a later release date, maybe he could have made more than just the trailer.

Murphy = brown ball of hair
Riley = pint-size poodle
Bailey = black ball of hair
Maggie = half the size of Murphy

Merry Christmas!

Supplies!

2009-10-05T23:01:00.011-05:00

I went to Home Depot to get a few things. Just inside the store, I turned right to head to the gardening section. At once I found myself surrounded by a veritable forest of artificial pine trees, pine wreaths, and colored lights. The Christmas decorations were out, quite out of season. Just when I was thinking about getting some Autumn themed decor to adorn my balcony, Home Depot brought out singing Santas. The decorations may have been everywhere I looked, but I didn't have to worry about the employees. They were as absent as the Cubs around this time of year. The employees left me to ponder the practicality of putting up pine wreaths in the first week of October. Just like the Depot's marketing team, I didn't give it much thought and walked through to the gardening section. Here, there were aisles of real plants in real dirt with real lights. The sign said that the plants were annuals. I didn't see any Christmas trees around, but figured I could plant these plants anytime. From behind some tall, Texas grasses, I peered across the area and spotted a woman clad in an orange apron. I was hungry, but that was no cooking attire. This was the signature uniform of a rare breed known to some as a Home Depot employee. I kept my distance, but she could see me as I stood 3 feet higher than the grassland grasses that I gazed from behind. The lady ignored me still and followed protocol. She walked aimlessly in small figure eight patterns. I did my best to look confused about the flowers through which I was browsing, but failed miserably. My knowledge of these plants is as extensive as one of those little plastic labels that falls out on the ground when you're about to plant your Mums in full shade. After a thorough study, and even a quick glance at some of the plants, I went back inside. I was well past the Christmas decorations and nearly convinced that it was still October when a middle-aged woman greeted me. She was standing beside a large grey box that was nearly her size. The box was a brand new TRANE air conditioner. She was an air conditioner sales lady. The month was October. I just about had the confused look down when a Home Depot employee (Homer) asked me how I was doing. My response was that I was fine. He seemed satisfied so I pressed him with a question. I told him that I was looking for the curtains section. Homer relayed directions complete with a detailed "over there" gesture by way of an outstretched arm and finger. I spotted what he so aptly described. Then he realized that I saw the back corner of the store, from our location in the center of the store, while he was left with his meandering monologue. Noting my ability to look and see something, he asked how tall I was. This left him bewildered and rhetorically asking for confirmation. Homer continued talking to himself; insisting that a "John" character had to see "this". As the diminutive dimwitted do-it-yourselfer dilly-dallied, I strode on to the curtain section. The hobbit sized Homer scrambled to keep up. As we passed an intersection of aisles, Homer called to his co-workers. He announced that he was 5'6" and also heralded my height. The employee did his best to show me off like any number of things that you might show off. As our little parade rounded the corner, another orange-clad comrade dropped what he was doing. From his new position down on the floor, this guy advised Homer to watch out and make sure that I didn't step on him. I did not step on either of them. A moment later, I found what I needed and thanked the man. Back up front, the only option was an automated checkout machine. After paying, I passed by the TRANE lady on my way out. She pitched her pitch again, asking if I had any air problems at my house with which she could help. I neglected obvious puns and told her that I didn't have a house. At this she abruptly ceased fire and changed her expression. I avoided the impending sales speech and left the store.

Standard Singularity

2009-10-04T15:28:00.020-05:00

This morning I set out to visit a nearby church. It was a cool morning and the roads were slick from recent rains. The skies suggested more of the same, so I packed an umbrella, just in case. I also brought along a Bible, just in case. The roads were quiet, except when cars drove on them. After a few wrong turns, I made it to the church. Some might consider going to church anywhere a right turn, but I was supposed to go left. Anyway, I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes before the start of the service. The parking lot was nearly full. Two full rows of guest parking were entirely occupied. I parked some distance from the church and walked to the nearest door. A man held the door for his family and then held the door for me. I thanked him and followed him down the hallway. My unwitting tour guide only led me as far as the children's building. I found myself in an expansive corridor lined with doors. Adorning each door frame was a bright yellow sign that displayed the name of a well known hymn. Inside the rooms, kids scampered about waiting for class to start. I watched my step and managed to make it to the end of the hall without trampling anyone. At the end of the hall, the area was empty. An open staircase led up to an empty atrium. Using my keen sense of direction and having no other option but to help teach kids' Sunday school, I climbed the staircase. A second staircase made up for that second serving of steak at the dinner. Before I could argue the legitimacy of the caloric balance, a man in his 50s appeared and offered me a pamphlet detailing the order of service. I peered into the sanctuary and saw only a few people seated. No one was standing. Despite a full parking lot, the pews were mostly empty. Wood pews were lined up down the middle of the sanctuary. Perpendicular to the two center aisles were a few rows of similar seating. People trickled in and found their favorite seats. A middle aged couple slipped into the pew in front of me. Then a much older duo opted for the middle of the pew on which I sat. With folks guarding each side of the bench, they pried their way past myself, sat down and began chatting with the man and woman on the other end of the pew. As the service was about to start, an even older couple came to rest just behind me. We stood, sang, sat and listened. A talented organist accompanied a harmonious choir through a few hymns. As the offering was taken, the music of J.S. Bach filled the sanctuary. The organist played the hymn "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring". This is a classic hymn written by Bach that was first performed in 1723. As the tune was recognized, a flurry of snickering erupted between the aforementioned pairings of people. After that, we took part in World Communion Sunday, where churches around the world all take Communion on the same day. At the end of the service, the music minister explained that the offertory song was selected to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the pastor. The congregation responded with a decrescendo chorus of "ahhh" followed by a smattering of applause. That was the end of the service so I made my way to the main exit (called an entrance only an hour earlier) and shook the pastor's hand. He must have noticed me sitting in the traditional service and asked if it was my first time here. A contemporary service was conducted simultaneously; which I learned later. The excited pastor clinched my arm and lurched me around so that I was nearly at eye level with an elderly woman. She was to show me to the information table per the pastor's commands. I said hello and exchanged a greeting with her husband before resuming my former proper posture. This didn't last long as I lost the ability to hear much of what the old lady said. A distant whisper amidst the din of donut dipping disciples. I stooped to field questions about my origins and field of work. After telling of my studies at an online university, the couple looked stumped and ceased fire with their questioning. They quickly turned me over to the information man and headed for the door. Info guy wore a white dress shirt with a fire engine red vest emblazoned with the title "Greeter". He did just that and more. A moment later, I held a bag full of literature regarding their church. With my free hand, he had me fill out a visitor card. I left the opposite side blank as it pertained to children's details. Info guy learned that I had no kids and said "Not yet, huh?". I told him that I didn't even have a wife. Following in the traditions of the elderly couple, the info guy was stumped. A bewildered expression came upon his face as he searched in vain for something to say. I interrupted his silent musings with a gesture of appreciation. (Also adhering to the custom of the elderly couple, Info guy interjected anecdotes about the array of available Sunday school classes. Among the three folks and my bag of brochures, I learned of classes for little kids, high school kids, and new parents.) He must have known that none of the literature in all of my bag pertained to someone such as myself. Still, he smiled and bid me farewell. I declined dining on donuts and deftly dashed to the door.

Just Cause

2009-10-03T21:19:00.009-05:00

They say that history often repeats itself, like John Madden or a Lifetime movie. Unfortunately, history does not teach itself. I don't suppose it has much to learn, but that job is given to teachers. Some people learn something new every day, while others learn things that are very old. A few days ago, I stopped by the grocery store to get a snack. Some say I have a big appetite, a hollow leg or a hollow skull. Still others say that I eat like a horse. If that were true I would have gone to Roach Feed store. As much as I enjoy the smell of corn gluten in the morning, I opted for Kroger. There is an unprecedented selection of snacks, drinks, and chickens that aren't alive anymore . After I made a quick selection, I headed up to the checkout stand where a familiar young man waited to help me. I avoided the self checkout because I enjoy having somebody help me. If I wanted to self checkout, I would buy a mirror. The young man seemed anxious to help and I was anxious to leave. This was a perfect match so I gave him my few snacks and paid in cash. The total was less than $4, so I pulled out four one dollar bills and handed them over. "4 George Bushes, all right" was his acceptance speech. It was brief, but still could have used some editing. I stopped, the lady in line behind me stopped, the little grocery conveyor belt stopped. It gave me a start. I quietly suggested "Washington". The grocery guy gave a gratuitous correction to his gaffe. Suddenly, he made an uncanny increase in the validity of his misguided monologue. He said that I was likely to tell everyone about him upon my departure from the store. A simple incident indeed, but I hate to disappoint, so I retold his story.

More of the Same - or Indifference

2009-09-25T22:15:00.007-05:00

It was late one evening as I pulled into the local Wal-mart. I approached one of the main entrances. There was a young African-American woman acting as the greeter. A steady stream of customers flowed in and around me. Just as I stepped through the door, I think the greeter lady's break time started. She must love her job, because she just stayed right where she was. However, she readily ignored the customers as they walked past her podium. If she was on break, then it was only fitting that she not speak to anyone. Certainly a full time greeter would need a rest for the old vocal chords. However, she kept her eyes open as I walked into the store. There may have been a fly that flew in just ahead of me. I didn't see the bug, but the greeter lady must have seen it for she followed its every move. The inconspicuous and possibly imaginary insect flew very close to my face and headed in the same direction as myself. Now, break time often equals snack time. The greeter lady must have known this and dropped her jaw in anticipation of the fly's approach. As I strolled by, I disregarded the lady and focused on my shopping. A moment later, I was walking down a wide main aisle. On my right were two ladies, one of which regarded me at length. She also stared at me for awhile. Finally she spoke up. She turned to her friend and suggested that if I were to give her some of my height then things would be fair. I chuckled, but she remained strangely serious. Without any solution to her proposition, I turned away down the next aisle. When I was finished shopping, I headed for the exit. It was in the same place as the entrance but looked strangely different. I noticed that there was a new greeter lady.

Home Away From Home

2009-09-23T23:19:00.002-05:00

There is a place where people can go without a reason. It is there that the reason can be found. The thrill of the hunt drives some to drive to their destination. Others simply stop by for a chance to stroll aimlessly. Those folks aren't getting paid much to don orange aprons and get asked why exactly CFL bulbs are so great. The home depot has drawn many people from all walks of life to its vast warehouse of power tools, wood, and scary forklift drivers. It isn't just the forklift drivers who slept through diversity training. A middle aged man, we'll call him Homer, must have been counting sheep as they leapt over a 4x10 inverted arc double post solid oak gate that he built himself. I had the chance to meet him when I stopped by Home Depot myself. As I entered the store, a lady at the checkout counter was doing just that. I turned to look for someone who wasn't busy and she finally spoke. A quick greeting later I was on my way. Around the corner was Homer. He asked if I need help finding anything. I told him that I was looking for the gardening section. We started in the appropriate direction as he began asking questions. I said that I would like to plant a few flowers on my balcony. He began to drone on about all of the products they sold. A moment later, he caught himself in mid-sales pitch and said, "Flowers?". He stopped and asked if I wanted plants or flowers. I assured him that it was definitely flowers. Plants are for making things like food, shelter, and high definition flat screen TVs. After he was convinced that it was flowers and not plants that I wanted, we resumed walking - in the same direction. We walked and talked and I said that I would like something that I can get to grow on my small balcony. He responded dismissively by saying that I meant to get something that is already growing. This certainly wasn't the case, but he had no other option in mind. We walked right past the seed section and up to a long aisle of plants. "Any of these will do fine in partial sun" he boasted. It is written that pride comes before the Fall. Well this guy was a day late and a few cents short. Summer ended two days ago. He showed me several stacks of pots and said they also had planters. Now I love peanuts, but I was looking for something in which to plant flowers. At the end of another aisle we found long wood planting boxes. This was what I was looking for so I thanked him for his help. I might suppose that the thanks helped Homer feel appreciated for it was at that time that he offered more help. He then described where I could find the potting soil. (Homer was a dead ringer for Brett Favre. He was over the hill, had grey hair, and just didn't know when to quit.) The unsolicited advice continued as the overly helpful Homer proceeded to let me know how to plant my plants. It was the same process I had used for flowers. Anyway, he acted as though I had never done such a thing. I was to get some of this potting soil, place it in the planter box, then take the plant (or flower) out of its pot, place it in the dirt, put some dirt around the plant (take your pick), and then water it. Again I thanked him. This time it worked. Homer disappeared down the aisle, but not before suggesting that I find him if I had any more questions. I browsed through the vast selection of plants and flowers. The aisle that he suggested was almost exclusively populated with plants that needed full sun. I kept looking for something that might work in the shade. Once I was sure Homer was out of sight, I walked over to the seed section. Ignoring Homer's orderly instructions, I dropped the seeds into my new planter box. After that, I picked out a bag of dirt. I put the box with the seeds on top of the dirt bag (no, I didn't make Homer carry the box) and hoisted it all myself. Once back inside, the nice greeter lady was earning every dime by wandering aimlessly. She spotted me and offered to check me out. It was nice of her to ask this time. Like Homer, she went the extra mile, and totaled up my purchases. I paid for everything and left for home.

To be continued...

2009-09-22T22:47:00.000-05:00

It was a cool, dark evening; the kind you can only experience after the sun has set. I watched the steady stream of cars and trucks driving down the highway. After some time, I was able to turn onto the highway. At any rate (about 45 mph), I was on my way to the store. It was Friday night and I was out to get some shopping done. The lights of a nearby stadium lit up much more than just the field. A play-by-play man could be heard describing the triumphs and failures of a nearby football game. The distance to the stadium and other noise made it difficult to understand but I figured it out. It wasn't a lacrosse game. I left that sport in Maryland, where lacrosse is very popular. When I made it to the mall, there was plenty of parking. I parked some distance from the storefronts so I could get some exercise. Across the street was a man walking his dog. The dog became distracted by my presence and his owner followed suit. He did his best to keep his pet from jumping out into traffic. I did my best to walk to the mall inconspicuously. Success came hard as I passed the only other car in the remote parking lot. A young couple disrupted their focus on each other to focus on me. I focused on the path ahead and pressed on. Around the next corner was the old corner bakery. Outside was an outdoor seating area. While we're dealing with obvious details, some high school students noticed me passing the bakery. That's right, I didn't get anything to eat there. I also wasn't nearly as hefty as my new cookie-munching audience. Hopefully that connection wasn't lost on the youngsters, but I didn't stick around for any street preaching. At the next corner was an intersection; the kind you get when multiple roads come together. Using my keen sense of direction, I continued straight until I ran into a dead end. In my defense, I was being heralded by a few passersby as I crossed the street. While I did my best impression of a chicken, a car full of younger such birds rolled past. Their windows were down; perhaps for some fresh air. It must have been hot in the car, as several young ladies stuck their heads (one per person) out of the windows (not so plentiful) and enjoyed the scenery. Their sightseeing tour was guided by one young lady who noted a man crossing the adjacent street. She described his stature with undue enthusiasm. One of the tourists, not knowing the man's name, addressed the pedestrian in terms of his size. The shouting continued for a while as the car was stuck in traffic. After listening for almost 2 seconds, I thought that their descriptions began to fit me. Unfortunately, their creativity didn't rate nearly as high as their vocal volume. As much as I wanted to go give them some more adjectives to use, the Eddie Bauer store closed at 9 and I hadn't a moment to lose. Come to think of it, I didn't have much dignity to lose either. It was a toss up, but I opted for the venerable outdoor outfitters. Once inside, I found a few shirts on the clearance rack. The short-sleeved golf shirts were on sale because it was the end of Summer. After I picked out two shirts, the lady behind the counter checked me out. Then she called over a middle-aged man to ring up my shirts and take my money. Noting my selection and the weather, the nice man offered to sell me a blanket, too. I briefly studied the primitive version of a snuggie and declined. As I was waiting for the man to finish adding up two numbers, I told him that I had an Eddie Bauer "friends" card. He asked for my name. The lady asked for my phone number. I gave it to her. She quickly said that the number was no good. It works fine for me, but I offered an alternate. Her eyes lit up and she rattled off my home address. (She keeps all of this info in some sort of computer at her shop.) Eventually, the man gave me some of the evanescent Eddie Bauer points. As I turned to leave, the lady had a final request. In a sudden turn of disposition she asked me to ensure that the door was locked on my way out. I did so and waved good night. There was no reciprocal farewell. This is the part where I say things like: I got the cold shoulder or I felt a chill run up my spine, or they must have ice water in their veins, or I played it cool and went home, or I should chill out. I'll skip that part. You should, too. Side effects include blurred vision, uncontrollable groaning, speed reading, sibling disowning and browser exiting.

South for the Winter

2009-01-27T23:39:00.000-06:00

To whom it may concern:
I made it to Texas. After two days in the car with Jeff, I found myself in the land of Dairy Queen and Sonic. That's right, despite Maryland weather, I haven't had a blizzard or a proper slushy in years. During the trip, we found friendship, fate, and several other small towns. Quick thinking by the navigator (that's me) and even quicker driving by the driver (that's Jeff) led us to over shoot our reservation by a few hundred miles. We were planning to lodge in the mecca of music: Nashville, Tennesee. A different hotel was available a few hours closer to home so we went out on the road again.

Winter is the perfect time to go South. That's what I did. G 'Dub and I packed up and made our way back to our homes. For security reasons, we travelled separately. I arrived home just before Christmas but after Thanksgiving. That's right, I missed the big turkey day in Texas. Don't worry, though, I managed to catch up on my turkey sandwich quota. I have been eating well, cooking, and exploring the area restaurants. Occasionally, I even have a meal at one. I've seen numerous new restaurants and also have spotted many of their frequent customers. Not all food around here is unhealthy, but I try to avoid those restaurants. Once a week, I fire up some homemade meal for the family. It is good that someone likes my cooking because I'm not a big fan.

Looking Up

2008-12-14T18:25:00.000-06:00

It was dark and cold that night when I stopped by my neighbor's house. He suggested a warmer venue for discussion and we slipped inside to the kitchen table of his home. A Christmas tree was lit in the corner and a couple of couches filled the second half of the living room. The table was covered with a family made crocheted table cloth of white; set out for the Christmas season. I pulled out a chair and sat sideways, preventing myself from inadvertently kicking my neighbors. His wife sat across from me while he filled the only remaining seat. We talked about soccer and similarities among us. Before long, talk of the inevitable set in, and I was listening to stories of a long lost friend of a friend who was about my size. Certainly, I hadn't occasion to know this fellow, but became well acquainted with his exploits upon the night's end. That line of speech was not surprising, but I was taken aback by what eventually followed. Shortly after, his wife spoke up and fired a rhetorical question my way. This she did by asking if she could ask a question. I provided the unnecesary answer of yes, and she continued. She asked if I wore contacts or if those were real. The genuine nature of my eye color was being called in to question. It seemed that she was skeptical that I could have such a shade of blue in my eyes without the aid of optical lenses. I assured her that my eyes were real.

I recently spent the evening with a host of folks who came from generations past and a few from The Greatest Generation. In times past, the average height of a man was somewhat lower than it is now. While I admired highly decorated uniforms, they admired my height. In a formal receiving line, I was put through the monotony of questions about basketball and reminders of the fact that I was tall. The youngest person in a formal party of over 70 people, I was quite incidentally the focus of attention for many in attendance. Fortunately, I remained seated most of the evening. Even then, interrupting his own speech with the realization of my presence, a friend from church introduced me as he mentioned airmen in his talk. My blue uniform indicated as much, and I remained in my seat throughout the random round of applause. Later, a high school choir group relieved me of the the status as youngest in the room. They entered, sang a few songs, and left. What songs they sang I think I know, and some were related to Christmas. A string quartet played an arrangement of Bach's Air on the G String from his Concerto No. 3 while the choir sang Come Thou Long Expected Jesus. As the choir director began waving her hands about like an Italian speaking in slow motion, the man next to me turned and said, "She is a retired Sergeant Major." I noted the fact, and listened to the music. When the first song ended, the gentleman to my left turned around and said that the choir director was a retired Sergeant Major. I was almost certain of her rank when the director of the party stood up after the final number and announced that the choir director was indeed a retired Sergeant Major.

Through the evening, the conversation went to the dogs. Quite literally, the gentlemen at the table spoke of the animals with such obvious statements that only seem warranted in such a formal setting. One lady there took a more sympathetic approach to the topic, and spoke about rescue dogs. She meant dogs that had been rescued, not Lassie impostors. The sad reality of euthanization crept into the previously pleasant conversation from the emotional lady. A retired officer took command of the situation and said, "What's youth got to do with it anyway?" I laughed respectfully amidst a flurry of groans and confused looks.

Before long, a gift exchange ensued. They say that it is better to give than to receive. I opted against testing the theory, and didn't bring a gift. Accordingly, I watched as the ladies and gentlemen struggled with exquisite wrapping paper. The crowd was largely above thievery, and few gifts were stolen. Still, there are always a few who end up with unwanted gifts at the end of it all. An Army colonel ended up with a package of scented lotions that was the envy of a lady across the room. It was never stolen, though, and he took it home. A retired general walked the room with a box, innocently asking if anyone wanted to exchange their gift. The exchange was over, but he continued to hawk a large box stuffed only with wrapping paper.

I stood when it was time to go, and was mobbed by a group of ladies marveling at my height. Accustomed to such happenings, I fielded questions, dividing my attention among them. The youngest of the bunch, in her early 40s, said that my height was awesome. Then she repeatedly said that I wasn't old enough. The lady continued, saying that there were not many people who she looked up to. Certainly a fitting time for a pun and a prayer for humility, I resisted and listened to her talk.

Vacancy

2008-12-01T22:12:00.000-06:00

It was a clear, cold night in December. The moon was just over the horizon and revealed only a sliver of its full glory. Still, the white crescent was beautiful to see. Tonight it was escorted across the sea of darkness by Jupiter and Venus. They were especially close tonight, with no other heavenly bodies between them. It seemed as though they were aware that they would later depart and not enjoy such close company for another 40 years. Flights of men crossed their path at times, but quickly cleared away. Their lights flickered while flying, noticed by those upon the earth, but certainly invisible from the planets. As the sky darkened, the stars came out in full attendance for the big night and surrounded the trio. The moon and its nearby planets greatly outshone the stars, and a certain path of space was created for the moon. Photographers captured the moment from a respectable 384,000 km away. The common motorist might have reason for being distracted from an earthly focus on this night. It seems as though their cell phones would be more closely focused on the heavens while they drove the earth. I made my way cautiously through a web of holiday shoppers driving towards Columbia Mall. On the right, a street was decorated in Christmas lights. It was designated only for light viewing, so as to avoid traffic problems. The winding path was quite visible from the main road, though, and offered a great view of festive light displays. It appeared to be a free tour of lights set up in a large open park area. A few cars, visible only by the light of the decorations, meandered through what was, at times, a tunnel of Christmas lights. The passing people kept their headlights off so they could better see their surroundings. If the entire park turned off their lights, they could better see their surroundings. That is, they could see the moon, Jupiter, and Venus. This also would be free. JCPenney is not free, but offered shirts at 50% off a price that I would never pay. Outside the store, a few dozen cars huddled around the entrance. A lonely man rang a bell beside the Salvation Army donation bucket. He wore dark pants, a warm cap, and an old US Army field jacket. I have the same type of jacket at home, but with different labels. Once inside the store, I was lost in a maze of clothes racks. After learning the layout of both levels of the entire store firsthand, I found the big and tall section. The only other folks shopping there were big. Accordingly, the store offered only a few shirts in my size. Not every part of the US is in a recession. A short white man paced the aisle next to the big and tall section. He was neither big or tall, but repeated his route beside the department many times. Moving alone, he eventually started talking into a black phone. This matched his shoes. Resting on the laces were the hems of a pair of black pants. A black belt divided his trousers from his black golf shirt. Over this, he wore a black trench coat. He may have been getting directions to a Blues Brothers concert. I guessed at the color of two shirts, picked them up and headed across the store. The shoe department was filled with shoes of many shapes and sizes. I waited for an available employee. A young man covered in tattoos was shopping with two young ladies for a pair of women's shoes. Frustrated with the wrong size, he turned to the front desk. He bellowed a long hello at the sight of an empty employee desk. Moments later, an even younger man emerged and offered assistance. The darkly decorated customer began to explain his predicament with severely slurred speech. Eventually, the clerk gave up on the task of translation and delegated to a nearby co-worker. Presently he stood unoccupied behind the front desk. He spotted me, as most do, and started in my direction. Two steps later, he paused. From his right jeans pocket, which was quite below his waist, he produced a luminescent rectangular box which was nearly flat. For a moment, he gazed intently at it and tapped it with his thumb. Then he turned around, and, pressing the device to the side of his head, he disappeared into the back. I waited for the cell phone aficionado to return. A few minutes later, he asked if he could help. I very much doubted it, but stated my question instead. Giving him my shoe size, I asked if they had any shoes like that. The employee repeated the disappearing act and brought back the bad news. According to his research, JCPenney offered no shoes in my size of any variety. I thanked him for his efforts and left the store after paying for my selections. The bell ringer was missing from his post. (I had spotted him moving through the store 15 minutes prior, removing his extraneous clothing so as to better enjoy the warmth of the store.) My efficient Scion xB alerted me to the impending empty gas tank, so I punched it to the nearest refilling station. After filling my car with groceries, I drove over to the gas station. There was no one at any of the 12 pumps, and I wondered if the pirates had made another sequel. Monday Night Football was my second guess and I swung into the first available spot. As I worked my way through the automated interrogation process of the pay at the pump computer, a shiny black car pulled up behind me. I looked down the row of empty gas pumps. A young lady stuck her head out of the window and yelled in a sheepish tone. Trying to retain a sense of assertiveness but clearly unnerved at her apparently irrational request, she said loudly, "Could you possibly move to another pump?" Certainly it was possible, and I was prepared to tell her such an obvious fact when she blurted her explanation. It seemed she felt it necessary to quell any anticipated antipathy to the anachronistic arrangement of her arrival, my position, and her request. She had parked in the nearby parking lot and gone inside the gas station. There she paid for a tank of gas in advance at pump 1. Then I pulled into pump 1. She returned to her vehicle and quickly drove up behind me. I acquiesced to her ardent argument and circled around to the next available pump. Then I paid for a tank of gas.

*For those still awake, please pardon the nature of the preceding post. It is meant merely as a description of my day and not as a treatise on astronomy, economics, or anatomy. Though the lack of significance in the writing may not be noticed by some readers, it is still there. For that, I apologize, and included a picture that sums up the rest of my day.

Better Late than Never

2008-11-23T22:31:00.000-06:00

I stopped by one of the only places still open at 10:30 pm. It was the local convenience store. The setting was nicer than most such shops. Shelves were well stocked, the floors were clean, and the area was well lit. Filling almost half of the store were shelves of alcoholic beverages of all kinds. It was a Sunday night, though, and there were no other customers in the store. All I picked up were a few snacks, and headed for the checkout. I said hi to the lonely cashier lady. She thought it necessary to clarify her presence and location by firmly declaring, "I'm here!". Two steps later, I found the checkout counter and deposited my selections for her. A moment later, she had launched into a monologue on the dichotomy of the upcoming holidays and her work schedule. She included anecdotes of customers purchasing drinks for Thanksgiving. One such customer, she said, bought a massive bottle of Grey Goose. The cashier could hardly believe the buy and relayed her astonishment to me. I suggested that the drink must go well with the turkey. After nodding and mumbling in agreement, she was quiet. I turned to go outside when she remarked, "Oh, I see, it goes well with the turkey. I get it." An apology seemed warranted and we both agreed that it was getting late.

Illinois

2008-11-22T22:05:00.000-06:00

The above picture is from Tower Lakes, Illinois. I took it in the Fall of 2008 during a trip to visit my relatives. It was an unprecedented trip because I had never been there without my immediately family. The weather was cold and it rained the last day that I was there. My uncle and I went out on the lake several times to do some fishing. We each landed a few largemouth bass, but had plentiful action from small panfish. The water was very cold and didn't yield the lunkers which make up my Uncle's amazing stories. We were out on the canoe when a very large rain cloud parked over Tower Lakes. It did what only rain clouds can do, and let loose a constant rain. As the canoe started to sink, we started for the shore. Before the wet weather, I managed to visit many relatives. Some of them even live near downtown Chicago now. Also, we stopped by Union station late Friday night to pick up my cousin. Surprisingly, there were scarier characters on the streets than him around that time. Anyway, we criss-crossed the river as we followed the maze of one-way streets. Just outside the downtown streets, the approaching highway afforded an amazing view of the Chicago skyline. I went to a cousin's youth football game where extra points that are kicked are worth two points while "going for two" is worth only one point. There, I met a young guy in the midst of his elementary school years. After hearing about the Air Force, he told me that his dad sells guns to the Army. I didn't get his name and he ran quickly away. He didn't say which army, and I didn't interrogate him. In true Chicago Bears fashion, my cousin lost his football game. We went to their home and watched my pictures. The boys were quickly bored and suggested a Nerf war. I told them that I had an expert marksmanship medal. They backed off and let us watch pictures.

Heightened Senses

2008-11-22T21:06:00.000-06:00

The intellectual merit or worthwhile nature of questions has been itself questioned by sayings of old. As the verdict is debated, endless examples of impertinent inquiries occur. These are usually not worth hearing, and rarely worth answering. Some would suggest that the questions should be answered out of respect. Some might say that an answer is not fitting. When such inexplicable instances are instigated, I am often taken aback. Due to the nature of the statement, I am unable to formulate a response in a timely manner. Sometimes, all you can do is step back, smile, and pun.

It was a dark night, the kind we have in Maryland after the sun sets. The trees weren't blowing so the wind was calm. Spots of light on a shore front restaurant seemed to reflect the surface of the lake. I walked along a concrete path that surrounded the small lake. A young lady was following the same trail that I was on. I regarded her, and she looked at me. She was smoking. After she finished her cigarette, she began to speak. I began to miss the quiet lake. She caught me by surprise when she jumped on my back and wanted a piggy back ride. Not interested in carrying someone else, I set her down as quickly as I could. She was disappointed and asked if she was heavy. I told her that was a loaded question and she dropped the subject faster than a weight that is heavy.

There I was at the local restaurant and bar. I sat with some people and enjoyed dinner and drinks. My beverage of choice was water. Next to me was a lady who sipped something stronger. Yes, it could be anything when compared to water. Being one of the few with an excuse for her uninspired inquiry, she asked how tall I was. I replied in the present tense. She explained that she was a nurse. I thought I was going to be sick. Another drink of water helped ease the surface tension. Her monologue led her to mention teaching science in high school. Then, she dismissed the notion of trying that. Not knowing or hearing the reason, I suggested that she doesn't have enough patience.

In what could have yielded many puns or jokes of a lower form, there was the incident of the disrupted meeting. That said, there was no speech involved on the part of myself, and none heard by me either. Though, I could safely assume the nature of the comments which followed this occasion. During a routine day, I walked in between dozens of tables toward the exit of a cafeteria. Business was slow, and the only tables occupied were a series of arranged tables for a meeting. A couple dozen high ranking Navy officers were gathered around for a meeting over lunch. Even in writing, I will attempt to refrain from implying jokes on behalf of those seated. My route to the exit took me by the meeting. The officers began to stare, and soon the entire meeting was focused on me. Without a PowerPoint presentation ready, I continued on to the door. The group emitted a flurry of unintelligible comments. These were likely regarding my height and were likely unintelligible even from near the table.

Whose woods are these?

2008-11-20T22:00:00.000-06:00

A famous poet once said that he had a theory as to the answer, but yet had much unfinished work. This is where you guess that I might initiate an in-depth soliloquy on the allegorical aspects of such a picture, its history, and its relation to the aforementioned poetry. Well, deep subjects are to be avoided much the same as doctors avoid wells. In case you are wondering, I haven't got a bad joke buzzer; it seems the batteries must have died long ago. The picture above is the Worthington Farm area of the Monocacy Battlefield in Maryland. A couple weeks ago, I arose early and set course for the western area of Maryland. This is similar to driving to Fort Worth from home. The lack of reference points will confuse some, and amuse others. Still others may have fallen asleep after looking at the picture. (That is how I read books) With the moon shining through a clear night sky, I packed up my box and left my house. Also, I packed a backpack with lunch and a bit of breakfast. My Scion xB (the box which was now packed) hummed loudly as the engine warmed up on this frigid Fall morning. (The engine maintains high RPMs until the car is completely warm). I rode West for some time, then turned South towards Monocacy battlefield. This I did just before the sun began to lighten the way. With my headlights still a necessity, I drove into the parking lot of the National Monocacy Battlefield park. I pulled out a flashlight to read the map at the trail head. As the sun lit up the battlefield, I realized that the entire trail could be seen from the parking lot. (Any chance to whip out my trusty flashlight I seize with the undue enthusiasm of a person who was exclusively privileged to some knowledge). I bundled up for the hike as only a Texan might do. With a mere 0.5 miles of flat terrain to tread (the sun wasn't entirely up yet), I donned my fleece, my gore-tex, my ski gloves, and my stocking cap. That said, I was already wearing pants. As I waddled out of my car, the park attendant pulled up to start her day of work. She got out of her car wearing a t-shirt and jeans. No one else was on the trail that morning. The path ended at a scenic river which they named the Scenic River. I agreed with the title and took a few pictures. Photography skills are not genetic and the river pictures appear watered down in the dim morning light. Finished taking pictures, and yearning for the warmth of my car, I retraced my steps to the parking lot. In the woods, I spotted a family of deer about to emerge into a large open field. There were no hunters around, but deer don't forget a monumental film like Bambi, and they darted across the opening to the forest on the other side. I drove to another historical site that was under construction. It seems that they were making history. Anyway, the next area of the battlefield was the Worthington Farm Area(the pictured house). There I hiked about 3 miles around a trail that led through the battlefield. The first half of the trail led along the river again (pictured). "Witness Trees" were marked with silver discs imprinted with numbers. These trees were alive during the battle. I continued on through a densely wooded hillside (pictured). The only person I encountered on the hike was a lonely man with a leaf blower. He signaled his presence with his gas-powered engine and a cloud of fiery leaves that preceded his proceedings. As he walked, he revealed the path that was hidden under a bed of leaves several inches thick. Having started on the opposite end of the trail, I hadn't enjoyed the benefit of his trailblazing efforts. Accordingly, I was forced to navigate by blue paint markings on trees. After we crossed paths, though, I followed a swath of dirt so distinctly cut as to look unnatural*. The trail ended at the Worthington Farm House and my car was parked nearby. I climbed into my box and went down the hill towards the road. Not to imply some feeble impersonation of the fabled comic strip character Calvin (and the inseparable Hobbes), I must say I was driving my car to accomplish this venture. The Battlefield covered much land, but that was my last stop at Monocacy Battlefield. As I drove on, though, the battlefield surrounded the main road for another 10 minutes. With no deep metaphorical musings mustered, I headed on to Gettysburg Battlefield in Pennsylvania.

*Certainly it was, and so my observation was justified. However, lacking a bad joke buzzer, this line, and many like it, may not make sense to many readers. (It would be something if there were many readers)

**Lacking the technological tenacity (or fitting foresight) to place the pictures where they ought to be, the photos are actually stacked in reverse order of their references in the writing.

The Weight of Words

2008-10-03T21:47:00.000-05:00

Given the title, a perceptive reader might expect a treatise on the value of skilled writing. Perhaps a thesis on proper English grammar would be fitting. Another viewer might suppose that I were preparing to give a sermon on the perils of frivolous speech. Unable to deliver on at least two of those topics, I will write of something entirely different, altogether. That is, a trip to the cleaners, among other things, will be described in this post. This is your cue to grab a pillow, dim the lights, and catch up on your sleep. Now that the mood is set, and the expectations appropriately low, I can write freely without worry of disappointing. That assumes, of course, that there is anyone reading this.

Just a couple of days ago I stopped by the cleaners. Here, I dropped off a shirt to be pressed and talked briefly with the cashier. Apparently her car had been in the repair shop for some time. She couldn't get around and the repairs were very expensive. I was about to grab a violin and sit by the river she had just cried when I noticed something. She said that after work, she needed to "go pick up my car". This most mundane of lines prompted the most base desire in myself to react instinctively. I couldn't fight the temptation to behave in a manner most would consider inappropriate. Many times before, I have had the same problem, so it was almost second nature. I audibly responded with a pun. "That must be heavy" I said lightly. This I did in the most cavalier of fashion, being something so normal for me. The casual delivery helps to avert the impression of a pompous disposition or a geeky excitement. Despite this, the same reaction surfaced after a slow processing of the pun: a reluctant puff of air from tight lips and eyes rolling. She looked downward to avoid further eye contact with such a witless fellow. Eventually, she smiled briefly but then continued her sob story.

On the way home from work, a young lady approached me from an intersecting sidewalk. Like most young ladies who have been staring at me for more than a socially acceptable length of time, she felt prompted to say something. Naturally, she said, "How tall are you?" I told her that I was 6'8". She responded to this in a manner most unusual. Earning points for originality, she said, "Congratulations!" Not having won any awards lately, I assumed she was regarding my height. Unfit for a natural feature, her exclamation seemed out of place. An accomplishment of great magnitude may befit such a remark, but I have not exerted any effort towards my height in recent years. It seems also (although I did not tell her) that she did not exert any effort into thinking before she spoke. Still, I thanked her for the gratuitous gilding of my God-given greatness*. She smiled and was excited to hear of my height. I smiled and was excited to go home from work.

*Greatness
Part of Speech: Noun
Definition: The quality or state of being large in amount or extent.
American Heritage Dictionary

Obviously Ignorant

2008-09-29T22:19:00.000-05:00

Just last week I listened intently (though I was actually in a restaurant) as a friend explained a serious story about a car accident. A few nights ago, she said, she was driving home from work and had just taken the exit for the route home. It was cold and dark; after all it was night time; and all at once the road dropped off into a downhill slope coupled with a sharp left-hand turn. The two-lane road merged suddenly into a narrow country road. Now, I will interject the rest of the story, which actually comes before that part of the story. This is worse than some series of fantasy movies which are entirely too long. Anyway, only a few nights ago, I went to Wendy's for some dinner. Since I was giving my friend a ride home, and it was cold and raining outside, she came in with me. Thinking out loud, I said that I would order a chicken sandwich. She was surprised at this. No, it wasn't because I was thinking. Also, it wasn't because I was talking. No, it was because she thought that a triple stacked bacon cheeseburger would be a better option for someone of my weight. Anyway, we both got chicken sandwiches. Although Wendy's was completely empty, we both sat at the same table. This, I soon realized, was because she had much to say. I devoured my meal of lean grilled white meat and lettuce and listened. The restaurant was very quiet except for the sound of rain falling heavily outside. After a few minutes, a couple in their 50s sat down beside us. My friend continued relating the details of this story about her drive home. Interspersed with the story were little comments which she felt unfit for others to hear. The only other folks in the place were sitting at the table right beside us. Accordingly, she lowered her voice, switched languages, and delved into the less tactful portions of her monologue. Noticing the confused look on my face, she threw a sidelong glance to the nearby patrons. I did the same. They were very quiet, but the couple were not focusing on our conversation, so we continued as before. Maintaining my quiet disposition, I didn't say much to interrupt her story. I didn't even mention that the kindly couple next door were both deaf and had been signing to each other since they came in. Still, I picked up on the rest of the story: She had been writing a text message to a new friend that night while leaving work. Just after sending the message, her vehicle careened off the road and ran into a small barricade separating the road. This left her vehicle in the shop, and a message on my phone. She needed a ride home from work tonight. That is the rest of the story.

Centennial Park 2

2008-09-28T19:26:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, after the rain had passed, I went to Lake Centennial at Centennial Park. Heavy rain had fallen for the last three days, but the storms gave way to partly cloudy weather near 70 degrees. A number of people were taking advantage of the last hours of their weekend by coming out to the park. The lake trail was filled with folks getting some exercise. I spotted two people out for a run around the lake. Except for their running shoes, they were dressed in bicycling gear. From logo-laden, back-pocketed shirts to tight, padded cycling shorts, they had it all. The only thing they were missing were bicycles. The two people ran back and forth along the trail while I fished. A concrete path circumnavigates the lake and is open to runners, walkers, and cyclists. With dense vegetation, there are only a few spots on the west end of the lake accessible for shoreline fishermen. A few flowers still bloomed by the water, but shades of yellow in the trees signaled the start of Fall. Abundant mature evergreen trees keep the park from losing too much color throughout the year. A small cove by the picnic area had a few lily pads. However, a nature reserve blocks about 3 acres of the lake that is covered with lily pads. This area is closed to fishing, swimming, and boating. The rest of the lake allows only electric motors at slow speeds. A couple of bass fishing boats drifted around the lake with trolling motors at the helm. There were about 12 other people that I saw fishing along the shore. Some mentioned good luck, but I never saw anyone catch a fish. That included me. I took pictures and watched people go by, as there were many pedestrians. Many of them were alone, talking on their cell phones. Still others were with a companion, talking on their cell phones. I didn't have a cell phone with me or I could have called someone to make sure I wasn't left out. Speaking English, though, would have been different. Over the short time I was there, I heard a number of languages which I could not understand. It was great to see everyone out there despite the bad weather. Even better, it was great knowing that I have Monday off work.

Tradition

2008-09-27T22:04:00.000-05:00

Last Wednesday we won our soccer game 7-0. From here on, you will be getting superfluous information that might possibly prompt interest or concern with the simple news of the first sentence. That's why I put the picture up there to look at. Supposedly it is worth a thousand words, so I thought I could sum up the game in a short sentence. The following is merely some description regarding the team and league where I play. If you aren't already asleep, then the rest of this will help you doze off.

I play for the Air Force Ironbirds. It is a team not entirely composed of air force members and has no actual mascot. A massive stern-looking fellow brings a black Labrador to most of the games, but he is not our mascot. The coach brings a stuffed snoopy doll dressed in a soccer jersey to each game, but coach claims that it is for good luck; not a mascot. We hadn't lost a game since he started bringing it, he said. Then he lost it last season, and we kept winning. Anyway, some of the players come from a military background, and so our uniforms bear a likeness of the F-22 above the word "Ironbirds". I have been with the team for three seasons; playing in the soccer league on base. The league is comprised of three divisions, but no set skill level difference. Our team takes the game very lightly, and doesn't hold practices. Once a week, we get out to the fields to play a game. Players trickle in just before game time. The only strategy is usually a quick, "Take lots of shots" from one of the forwards. We are too busy chatting among ourselves about anything and not discussing strategy. Sometimes one of the new guys will bring up a serious thought on offensive tactics. No one argues, but we quickly return to more light-hearted topics. A common source of whimsical talk is our weekly motivational pictures. One of our forwards has a bad habit of sending out a picture each week to get us "motivated for the game". The goofy pictures are not good for anything but a laugh, and so we are left to drum up our own motivation. Keeping the winning streak alive is a recurring theme for motivation. We have not lost a game in three seasons. The first games of the first two seasons were each ties. Aside from these anti-climactic warm-up games, we have won every competition up until now. This season we began with a 4-1 win and have not let up. I have played in the center as a midfielder. Also, I have had the chance to move to forward on occasion. During this last game, as our lead swelled to 5-0, I was put in at defense for the first time. From here, I scored the last goal of the game after dribbling down most of the field. Goals were shared by a few other players, two of whom scored a pair each. The usual defensive players were pushed to the front for the last quarter of the game and three of our top scorers shored up the defense. Actually, we had little idea what to do back there and were fortunate to only have a few minutes left in the game. We dribbled around and performed no-look passes and overlapping runs that would have been a great fit for a trio of forwards. Unfortunately, we were supposed to be playing defense. Fortunately, the opposition was unable to create any scoring opportunities from this. After a little while of defense, one of our usual defensive players told me to go back up to midfield and switch with him. I'd like to think that this was because he was uncomfortable in the front (the reason he gave me). However, he was an eyewitness to my attempt at defense, and most certainly felt responsible for fixing the situation. By this time, the sun was nearly gone, and we didn't have lights on the field. With a row of cars lined up along one side of the field, we could have had some help in the lighting department, but we didn't use that option. Instead, we had good excuses for fanning on kicks and passing to the wrong team. Also, the goalkeeper had a reason to miss the shot that I put past him with little time left in the game. It may have been a good shot, or it may have been a nearly invisible shot. Either way, it went in, and I tried to refrain from gratuitous celebration since we were already in winning form. This has been a tradition that we've kept up for some time. Now, we only have two games remaining. These games are against old adversaries which we have beat throughout the season. Accordingly, they will be out to topple those at the top, and we will fight to stay there.

Healthy Curiosity

2008-09-24T22:51:00.000-05:00

Last week, in an effort to get help for some back pain, I went to the hospital on base. It may be nothing serious, but I had to let somebody know. I figured I could tell a doctor, I just couldn't tell him much. Still, the clinic was nice enough to give me an extra hour in the waiting room to consider what I might say to the doctor. During the wait, I reviewed two complete copies of Newsweek and was starting in on an issue of the Army Times when two soldiers sat down across from me. I tossed the magazine to the couple deciding that it was them who needed to read it.

There wasn't much to say. I thought I would just describe my symptoms and ask for help.
Like any good doctor, or nearly anyone I meet, he began the visit by asking my height. Though he presented some questions, he typically provided a much longer response than I did.
He managed to tell me most of his life story during the appointment.
I realized quickly why the clinic was running very late with their appointments. The overly friendly medicine man described his upbringing beginning at age 7. A historical account was given dotted with anecdotes from high school, college, and his current job. I got the inside story on his ambitions and dreams. After about 40 minutes, I was given a prescription and allowed to leave. His dramatic re-telling of his life was interspersed with actual medical advice. I was to go to the X-ray office in order to schedule an MRI. This, he said, was merely to make sure nothing was very wrong. He told me to make later appointments with a chiropractor and an orthopedic doctor. Unable to pronounce most of what he said, I was glad that he wrote it down. Unfortunately, he wrote it down...in the handwriting style of doctors everywhere. The note was barely legible, so I attempted to remember the audible cues I had picked up during the Lifetime movie narration that I had just received.

I walked down to the x-ray office. Along the way, a middle-aged white woman was nearly in a run trying to keep up with me. I figured out why when she said in between tired huffs, "How tall are you?" Though she wasn't a doctor, I told her, "6' 8"". Still keeping pace with me, she continued, "Are you finished?" 6-8 was all I had to say, but this didn't seem to warrant that question, being such a short statement itself. She asked, so I told her, "No, I still have to go to X-Ray." I turned to walk into the office as she kept on down the hall, explaining that she meant, "Are you finished growing yet?"

Inside the x-ray office there was another waiting room. I already knew what to do here, so I sat down. There were only two other patient patients in the aptly named waiting room. One was a young army lady who seemed to be intently looking at something very close to my head. The other was an elderly African American man who was engaged in the same activity. Before long, the retired special ops man spoke. This he was doing on behalf of those present and so inquired, "How tall are you?" This was followed with a very common question, "Do you play ball?" I like to play many sports, so I replied yes. Then I explained that I had a soccer game coming up. This was the wrong answer, apparently, as he quickly clarified his question. He began talking and asking about basketball as the young lady listened with rapt attention. Finally, the waiting was over and it was time for the X-ray lady to ask how tall I was. She knew her lines and delivered them right on cue. In a few weeks, I will have an MRI. The other appointments could be made over the phone, so I left the hospital.

Sale

2008-09-16T00:37:00.000-05:00

Today I stopped by the only soccer store in the state (15 minutes away) to look at some shoes. While waiting for a befuddled sales clerk to find some size 13 soccer shoes, I perused their selection of soccer balls. I'm not in the market for one, having just purchased a nice ball. However, I got to see the store's selection and learn about the range of quality they had to offer. On the top shelf (literally and figuratively) at $120, the official MLS Match ball looked like a round sphere with which you could play soccer. The same description fit a stash of $17 orbs in a bin beside me. Anyway, last year's official match ball was on sale for $30 less, but was still circular-shaped. After closer observation, I only noticed one difference between the two. The pricier ball had a dimpled surface. That's right, a cover with bumps all over it set the ball apart. Now, apparently, I can tee up my soccer ball and send it sailing down the fairway with my Big Bertha driver. That may be tough, but I could palm this new ball like a basketball.
An article on a scientific innovations website claims that the ball provides better "swerve". Just last Wednesday, I curved an old ball into the top corner of a goal to put our team ahead 2-0. It maybe a great idea, but it is the first that I have seen of it.
Finally, the sales clerk returned with a pair of size 13 Adidas Copa Mundial outdoor soccer shoes. Retailing at $100, they were 1/2 the price of the only other pair that he brought out; and yet still came with two shoes. The world-famous, old classic, kangaroo leather 1/2 price Copa's fit perfectly. I asked the salesman if they had a military discount. His promising response: "Not an official one." Surprised at the original answer, I didn't ask him if they had an unofficial discount.

North Point State Park

2008-09-09T21:28:00.001-05:00

Pictured above is North Point State Park near Baltimore, Maryland. I stopped by there over the weekend to do some fishing. A friend led the trip and we both caught one fish each. The fish were about 4 inches long. Soon after they were measured, they were chopped, and sent back out to lure in a bigger fish. This never happened and we resigned ourselves to watching the waves roll across the bay. The weather was perfect, though, and many other anglers joined us on the pier to try their luck. A group of excitable men sat on the other side of the pier, out of sight, and watched their lines while listening to a Sunday football game. On occasion, the men would begin to holler and yell to let us know that some big waves were crashing on the rocks at their position. Additionally, they provided a manner of keeping score based on their sporadic outbursts. The Baltimore Ravens won on Sunday. We didn't see our fellow fishermen pull in many fish. Down the pier, a young man caught two bass that were around 12 inches. They left before long, and we remained to try to catch some fish. We did catch some sun, and we caught up on old times, but we never caught any more fish.

Hired Gun

2008-09-06T21:21:00.000-05:00

Just yesterday, with very little warning, I was told to go on a trip to play paintball. With conditions warranting a much more serious excursion, I was made to be ready and carry out a day trip to play paintball with the men and women of my unit. Late Thursday afternoon I returned home from the store to find a message on my phone from an unknown number. Upon calling my voice-mailbox, I heard a voice explain to me that I was to switch from a night shift that night to a day shift the next morning. Having prepared for the night shift by purchasing Dr. Pepper and staying awake all night the previous night, I was taken aback by the news. Instructions for proper clothing to pack for the next day's trip were included along with a request to call back as soon as I could. When the message finished, I quickly tried to reach the person who had left the message. They called from an unknown number. Unable to contact him, I did the next best thing and fell asleep. Trying to rest up for the next day wasn't easy, and I was awake before long. After a few more hours of determined relaxing and struggling not to go run a few miles, I was out cold. Then, I stepped back inside to my warm house and went to sleep. About two hours later, I awoke with a start (though I have never woken with a stop). I had to pack all my things and go to Fort Dietrich. There, I was scheduled to play paintball with the troops. Before leaving, we were made to do PT early in the morning. Before the run I was half asleep, and afterwards I was half awake. Still early in the morning, we were herded on to a bus wearing civilian clothes. Actually, the bus was painted white, but we were wearing civilian clothes. A couple of airmen came on the bus 15 minutes late and were promptly declared priority targets during paintball. I slept on the hour-long bus ride until there was some scenery to enjoy. The usual concrete jungles eventually gave way to rolling green hills and farms nearing harvest. My window seat yielded a great view of the more rural areas of Maryland that we were passing through. Actually, my seat had a foam cushion with a vinyl cover, but there was a window just beside it. When I wasn't cutting z's, I was admiring the big country homes with even bigger backyards. The sunny warm weather was the calm before the storm, as Hurricane Hannah descended upon us the very next day. However, temperatures hovered around 90 that day without much hint of the impending strong winds. Fully clothed for protection during a game of paintball, it was quite warm while playing. The paintball games were great fun, though. We played four games on two fields. The second two games were played in the forest. I managed to hit a few targets, and avoided being shot by anyone except a confused team member. He is no longer confused, just sorry. Anyway, our team won three out of four games, led by a former marine who served as our strategist. With good tactics and better aim, we dominated the other team most of the day. After the games, we returned to the bus and settled in for the long trip home.

G.I.

2008-09-02T19:57:00.000-05:00

The following is not too be taken too seriously. However, there is little of a humorous nature contained therein. Please note that this is an unusual post written based on a suggestion of which I was not the source. Also, the above picture has no deep meaning in connection with the post. In the article, I mention visiting the West coast. Above is a prime example of what that coast looks like (in some very exclusive parts).

As a member of the United States Air Force, I have experienced a very diverse workplace and living environment. It is vital for those coming in to a situation like this to respect those around them and have a healthy level of self-respect. When people are able to understand and cooperate with one another, the level of drama in the office goes down and the level of morale can go up.
I have served the United States Air Force for four years in a variety of locations. Included among the places was South Korea, as well as the West and East coasts of the United States. Hailing from the great state of Texas, I found these remote locations to be much different than my hometown. However, it was critical to the completion of my training that I quickly become comfortable not only with the different language, but also the culture. Seoul, South Korea provided me with the opportunity to see how the Korean people have a different view on group-oriented activities and the importance of going along with other people. The East and West coasts introduced me to thoroughly blue states where freedom of speech was taken to new levels. This reminded me of how great a country this is that would allow people such freedom.
In a military unit, men and women from across the country come together for the cause of freedom. We are assigned to units, and often have no choice as to our workplace. Here, we meet many new people that have very different ideas about life. I have learned to accept certain differences in style from co-workers, and look for common ground. Then, I can attempt to better keep peace among the office, or even create friendships. While doing so, it is important to maintain a decent level of self-respect regarding your own beliefs. This helps the individual to more readily ease into a new environment where there is a goal greater than themselves.
When fellow Airmen are able to respect other people and look past superficial problems, the work environment can become a better place. In a military setting, many issues arise that demand a great deal of flexibility and require a readiness to adapt. A group of people can learn about adaptation through cooperation with their co-workers. Also, a unit that has become a solid team will be more ready to adapt to changing situations. Therefore, people must remember to respect the differences of those around them.

The State Capital

2008-09-01T22:45:00.000-05:00

Well, deep subjects I try to avoid, even though I'm not a doctor. Either way, I stopped by the old Naval Academy today. It is old. I saw a rock that was planted 68 years ago. A sign on the boulder said that there was a memory capsule buried underneath by the class of 1940. They said that the class of 2040 should open it. Maybe there is a picture of the rock in 1940. I don't know if they thought how hard it would be to move the rock in 100 years because it is very big right now. Speaking of big, I saw several boats idling around the harbor. No, I wasn't checking out the Navy girls. There were several people in uniform, but there are usually lots of police on holiday weekends. I even saw a parking attendant for the boaters. He waddled, er walked, up and down the docks taking money from people who wanted to park their boats at the docks. The ducks he didn't make pay, possibly due to a family discount. I saw a family feeding bread to the ducks. They were crowded around the dock where the kids were throwing bread into the water. Before long, the dad suggested that kids try to throw the bread farther away from the dock, effectively putting the ducks into the very busy lane of boat traffic. I didn't wait around to evaluate the kids' throwing arms. However, I didn't see any ducks on the way back to my car. The streets were crowded, but I left my car in a 2 hour parking spot and returned to it after about an hour. Then, I spent almost an hour getting back home. Upon arrival at home, I promptly uploaded all of the pictures that I had shot on my camera. Some of them, like me, came out good. You can see them on my Picasa Web Album; they are on public display. Don't worry, none of the pictures are of me.

Getting the band back together

2008-08-30T10:00:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back, at the end of class, I went to a US Army Field Band Concert. This band is like other bands because they've got brass instruments and wind instruments. Unlike other bands though, they are all wearing Army uniforms. Before that impresses you too much, or you ask for a picture, Army band members are not regular soldiers. That's not to say they are superior, or to imply undue praise. No, the musicians have master's degrees in music before they even have a chance at playing in this group. Also unlike other bands, this band had an artillery unit come play some duets. That's right, a half dozen, or 6, cannons lined up and waited for their turn to get in on the action. Usually instruments of destruction, tonight they played a role in the percussion section. Aimed over a barren field, the artillery accompaniment warmed up just like the rest of the band. Arriving early, though, I heard the cannons testing out their tubes long before the trumpets. Still a 1/4 mile away, and stopped at an intersection, I spotted a formidable force guarding what was supposed to be a free concert. While I was sizing up the situation, I was shocked to hear and see the firing of one of the cannons. The gun was aimed almost directly at my car, so I promptly punched the gas and peeled out into the parking lot. It seems they were still working on their aim, for I never saw a crater by the stop sign. The parking was crowded, and I pulled into the last spot in the nearest lot. This lot was as close as you could get to the concert. I grabbed a lawn chair and found some shade near the band. The weather was still warm, but the sun was on its way down. A lonely tree in the field band's field cast a long shadow that accommodated about a dozen concert-goers. Ahead of the loosely spaced spectators was a section of arranged chairs for about 200 people. People came and went as they pleased, but the seating area remained mostly full. The draw of the night was the 1812 Overture with cannons. This came after about a 1/2 dozen, or 6, other songs were played and sang. Before the song even started, the soldiers found their places around the guns. Two men stood centered along the line; a safe 20 yds back from the cannons. Here, one man wore headphones and nice clothes, and watched the music on his podium in front of him. When the ending of the overture neared, he tapped the soldier in ABUs beside him. A hand signal from this person prompted each group to fire. The music was overpowered by the thundering of the cannons, which was closely tied to the beat of the music. The first wave of shots, though expected, surprised some, and frightened some of the youngest viewers. Several rounds were fired as the 1812 overture came to an end. Though there was much applause, many people left as soon as the headline event was over. I remained and was treated to about a 1/2 dozen (6) more songs, two of which enjoyed the company of the artillery. Throughout the night, various guest conductors led the band as part of the band's alumni night. This, I suppose, was vastly enjoyable for those who actually knew people in the band. I was surprised to see a golfing buddy from church step up to conduct one number. Still, the music was very good and the singing also sounded great. The selections were generally of a patriotic theme, mixed in with a few show tunes and old American songs. For the price of a concert ticket to see a great band, this was well worth it; and it was free.

Variations on a Theme

2008-07-27T21:51:00.000-05:00

This morning, as is routine, I followed the same route across base to the chapel. The weather was warm, and a few people were out for a jog around the parade field. Regular rain kept the grass green and the trees healthy and full of leaves. At church, I spotted the same gentleman in the same corner in the same pew next to the same wife. None of these things were a surprise, and I expected the same comments about my height. As I greeted him, I braced for the worse, but found that he had avoided the question about the weather. Instead, he merely droned on about everything height related that he could think of. This was also fairly normal, but better than the usual strategy of fire and forget. That is, folks would fire a question, often rhetorical in nature and inevitably regarding my height. Then, without any concern for the answer, would promptly forget about me and continue on their way. No, I actually chatted a moment with this knowledgeable basketball fan. Before long, one of the ushers came by. Never stepping out of character, he interrupted us both to shake our hands and say hello. He started to walk past, but turned around as though he had forgotten something. Stealing the thunder from my familiar friend, he popped the question that had been overlooked. Here, he utilized the popular fire-and-forget strategy as he launched into the line "How's the weather up there?". Without waiting for a response, or lingering for some laughter, he was gone. It was though he somehow knew that my friend had forgotten to drub me with the same sentence. Though an ill-conceived method, it nevertheless creates the effect of church as a familiar place.

Without Instigation

2008-07-24T20:17:00.000-05:00

It has been some time since the last post. Already, the over-exposure of the obvious is apparent. That is, the style and format with which the following is penned is somewhat different than any of the previous posts.

As I looked for a pew to sit in, I spotted a familiar face and went to greet him. An elderly man sat with his wife on one side and a walker on the other. I said hello and asked how his Summer was going. This pleasantry he quickly cut off and told me that the real question was, "How is the thin air up there?" Responding honestly, he was disappointed at the lack of poignancy in the oft-repeated and little varied joke. He laughed in spite of himself and I walked to an open seat.

Walking down a hallway last week, a plump young man bellowed from about 10 meters behind me, "It sure is funny to see you two walking together!" Indeed, a young lady, quite ignoring me, for I did the same, was walking at the same pace as I, though using about twice as many steps. Accurately supposing the reason for the rash ranting, I didn't break stride in ignoring him. The cause of the statement certainly had nothing to do with anything such as relationships. No, the outspoken ogre had merely noticed a difference in height between the two of us. Apparently, rather surprised at his unremarkable discovery, he found no other outlet for his excitement.

Working at a grocery store involves helping people get the food that they need. While this may seem obvious, extraneous duties are often adopted by some people. Certainly, at times the employees do things they need not do, while customers also assist in the role of an employee. Yesterday, I went to the commissary with the same intentions as most of the men and women there. However, I arrived a couple hours before closing with a decent crowd still shopping. Just inside the store, on the left, there is a deli. Here, a middle-aged Hispanic lady works to provide fresh-sliced meat to the customers that are so often lined up in front of her counter. Without anyone in line, I walked by the counter to the produce area. Spotting me, the deli lady pointed a gloved hand and beckoned her fellow employees. She exclaimed about my height and then asked the usual questions. She could not well comprehend that I play soccer and kept suggesting any sport but soccer. After I tried saying soccer in more than one language, I gave up and headed for the carrots. A few aisles down, an Asian woman was climbing upon the shelves in the personal hygiene aisle. This lady was significantly older than myself, however, lacking the stature to see the goods being sold on the top, she sought to overcome this by mounting the shelves and craning her neck. Fortunately, she was looking at the myriad band-aids spread out among six levels of shelving. Impressed at her foresight and display of agility in such a serene setting, I watched for a moment. After she returned to terra firma, I asked if she needed help finding anything. She smiled shyly and said no with an obvious lack of sincerity. I quickly discovered her "tell"(that is, a person's behavior when delivering a statement of questionable integrity). This faint-hearted fabrication I accepted, and continued my shopping.

Observing the Sabbath

2008-07-13T19:47:00.000-05:00

This Sunday morning, though not a Texas Sunday morning, I left my home for the post chapel. For the last three months I've attended the church. My reasons for attending this church would require another post entirely. However, I have continued to drive 5 minutes to get to the small, very-old building. Only five minutes early to the service, I opened the door. Inside the air-conditioned building stood two elderly men, one of whom handed me a bulletin for the service. A traditional protestant service, this guide is followed to the letter throughout the service. Despite the nearing start time for the service, only a few dozen people were seated. Soon, the church would be more full with old people. Right now, though, ample seating was available and I sat in a pew by myself. Later on, two old women with awful voices sat on either end of the pew. These folks took the usual position and sat up against the armrest on the end of the pew. Some untold innate fear resides in the hearts of most churchgoers that prohibits them from moving towards the center of a pew. This is largely solved when joining the military, as your superiors will quickly and loudly let you know if you are ever seated in the wrong place. Without any drill sergeant at church, I naturally drifted to the center of the pew. This gave enough space for anyone to sit on either side. That was good, as the two ladies who came in very late needed much space in order to sit. They also filled much space with their voices, which they might have considered to be wonderful. A small summer vacation season crowd allowed them to project themselves with singular clarity. After a few songs, the chaplain got up to preach. He spoke a rare sermon on Hell. Before long, he was done and the very old people evacuated the pews with startling efficiency. I tried to get in line to shake the chaplain's hand on the way to the fellowship hall. However, I was stopped by some of my adoring fans. An unknown woman walked down in front of her pew and proceeded to park her person in front of me blocking the entire aisle (easy for her). Although I didn't know her, she spoke of previous encounters and eventually made the inevitable inquiry as to my height. This she did with trademark improvisational curiosity. Her son, possibly transitioning to high school this fall, remarked that I must be close to the tallest person in the world. I then deduced that he mustn't be well-travelled. His mom began thinking (should have done before she spoke) out loud, debating her perceptions of her spouse and his relative height. Never mind the specifics, but he was not present at church. When I finally made it to the chaplain, the talkative lady shook his hand first and proudly praised the chaplain's sermon. Basking in the compliments, the chaplain managed to shake my hand without giving a second (or first) glance at myself. Not one to beg for attention, I walked down the hall without ever looking at him. Only a few steps later, a woman in a wardrobe room made a gesture and proclaimed, "Have you stopped growing?" I wasn't expecting to be fitted for any clothes, but said yes anyway. Mrs. Talkative continued her monologue of rhetorical questions regarding my height as we followed the line of overweight elderly folks down to a room full of donuts, coffee, and chairs. Here, a familiar face mentioned that she saw me this morning. Shaking her hand and marvelling at her powers of observation, I greeted her politely. A few moments later, the chaplain shook my hand again. Also he again promised that sometime after their vacation, which is sometime in the future, he would invite me to dinner sometime. As the proverbial beggar, I certainly was not choosing, and thanked him profusely.

Moving Pictures

2008-07-12T21:12:00.000-05:00

The following are some videos that I have found to be interesting:

I made this movie several years ago. It is still available on the internet and has garnered over 5,000 views. The film is just a simple lego animation short version of the 2001 popcorn action movie Behind Enemy Lines.

Here is a fine technological achievement. Although the actual technology is not recent, this application and dissemination of the audio is relatively new. The video, which is really just audio, features a binaural recording of a man giving you a haircut. Silly as it may sound, it sounds great with a pair of headphones (the only way for the audio clip to sound right). The audio actually simulates real sound in that you can determine distance and direction of the source of the voices. You may be able to deduce even more than that if you listen carefully.

The band Flight of the Conchords has a few music videos which aren't PG-13 or worse:

Pencils in the wind
I'm Not Crying
Foux de fa fa

These are excerpts from a comedy show which features their songs in the midst of a story about the band. The two men are trying to make it big in the big city, but find it a hard thing to do. Pencils in the wind is about a girl who comes between them and their commitment to the band. This is all part of the story and they just break into song to express their struggles. I'm Not Crying is a manly response to another failed attempt at a relationship. Foux de fa fa, though also part of the story, is a great representation of people trying to speak a language about which they know very little. This I can relate to quite well having limited fluency in a foreign language. That is, this video may not be all that funny, but it is in my perspective. The two guys break out into French, but end up merely listing off all of the (very common) French words that they know. These are not related to the situation, but makes it sound like they know some French. Their presentation is great, with confidence being a key in feigning foreign language fluency.

Weathering Heights

2008-07-12T12:16:00.000-05:00

Friday, around lunch time, I walked down to the cafeteria to get some lunch. I went down the crowded corridor just as everyone else that was ready for lunch also did. With no other route, I begged a pardon of two gentlemen who were having a conversation across the hallway. Amidst the flurry of chatter and growling of stomachs I heard someone say, "Is the weather any different up there?". One of the gentlemen who I recently crossed paths with had broken his conversation to throw out the question. (I would say that he ought to actually have thrown it away) The question came out in heavily accented English from a man who likely had learned English after his native tongue. Already about 10 meters past the two men, I still turned to face them. Having heard a question in similar form countless times before, I thought that my feint of ignorance may not have been believable. Without anyone of similar size around, I guessed properly that the question was directed at myself. Retaining a measure of disbelief at the long range query, I simply said, "Sir?" to the man who had asked. This identified him as the culprit as he repeated the question in slightly better English. This, I would consider to be a situation where a slip of the tongue might be reconciled with a regular greeting. Failing to play along with my false first impression of not having heard his first question, he awaited an answer to his now twice stated question about the weather. Now, it is well known that chatting about the weather is a common way for strangers to converse. Usually this is done through the form of rhetorical questions about the weather outside or the chance of impending rainstorms. This man opted for a third option, narrowing his focus to the weather "up there". Also a rhetorical style joke (if one could call it that), I honestly answered that it was "quite alright". Although overly familiar with the question, I again pretended that his was an honest question. Unhappy with my acting job, and probably with his attempt at English slang, he finally (and quite unneccessarily) explained himself. He told me that he noticed how tall I was and would like to have some more height. I assured him then that I understood and left for lunch.

Reflections

2008-07-10T16:20:00.000-05:00

Herein follows a critique of the very art in which I am presently engaged. However, as I am not the only one to practice writing, it is a perspective of many people. Writing, when done well, can be described as a dialogue. That is, if it truly intrigues the reader, a person may feel as though he is conversing with the author. If this doesn't make any sense, it is because I am not a writer of such level as to be able to convey the aforementioned abstract analogy. That said, the quality of writing is an oft overlooked aspect of the written word. Quantity is important in academia, while flair is important in the NY Times top 10. Many people say that they like to write. This statement can imply two very different things. One, most commonly attributed to people who have a blog, is that people who like to write merely like to write down things that they might have said had they had a near ear to listen. Secondly, there are those who like to write as Tiger Woods likes to play golf. That is, he likes to do it and he is very good at it. This other way of writing involves writing out thoughts in an orderly fashion composed of good English. It often involves a style and format which would be almost necessarily excluded from common conversation. Still, it is a vital art that must be preserved in its own way. Here is where blogs fail. Overly emotional outgoing folks, who feel enough pride to consider their own opinions worth listening to, come home and let loose on their computers. What ensues is a senseless torrent of incoherent gibberish littered with slang, tired cliches, and simple spelling errors. Additionally, with the dominance of emotion at the outset of the writing, there is a lack of any real mental stimulation for the reader. People begin typing as an extension to their conversations. Certainly some people's conversations are somewhat one-sided, but rarely so much as the written word. The author must exercise control of vernacular and draw the reader in with adequate description. A sense of familiarity in rashly written writings reveals rare responsibility for such things. The reader is left feeling like a guest at a family reunion.
Respect for online writing and the extent of freedom of speech ought to be considered, but that is another post entirely.

Stating the Obvious

2008-07-09T19:46:00.000-05:00

Or why most people write blogs

Today, a lady whom I met last week, and have since talked with at length, greeted me in a manner befitting a first time viewer. That is, walking down a hallway next to her, she turned and remarked about my height. If ever there was one person quite unable to move past formalities in conversation, it might be someone no greater than myself. However, very often I unwittingly inspire such social incompetence in others by my mere presence. That said, I think there is much more that could be learned. Here is where I have the option of delving into a deep debate on the merits of mingling and the import of interaction. This I might seek to avoid in order to abstain from betraying my lack of wisdom on the subject. Another lady whom I have known for some time and is well aware of my name referred to me as "tall guy" after saying hello. This might be appropriate if it weren't completely stupid. I refrain from such greetings as hello stupid woman, or good morning socially incompetent shallow-minded vain lady. One might assume that such folks are overly obsessed with physical characteristics. This notion is commonly dismissed by normal people who say that people I meet are merely taken aback at my height and are caught off guard rather than shallow and superficial. Refuting this by my experience is about as difficult as lifting a feather. Another such implication from these ridiculous reactions is that those dumbfounded people have lived in isolation. That is, they have grown up in a sheltered environment, prohibiting them from witnessing the broad spectrum of this world. Isolation for affluent Americans has been greatly eradicated since Al Gore invented the internet. Another lady (whose age is far greater than my own and whose culture is not near to mine by about 8 time zones) has a tendency to repeat the exact same idea to me upon each of our now frequent meetings. She proposes (with equal enthusiasm each time) that I ought to give her just a few inches of my height. This I can not do, and I smile as though this were an original idea that hadn't been tried yet. Disappointed as she is, my light-hearted expression may be read as smug superiority. Nevertheless, a persistent woman, she tries again with the same suggestion the next time we meet. Though I try to be an amiable fellow, I can not acquiesce to her incessant demands.

Surprise

2008-07-05T20:12:00.000-05:00

Today, as I did yesterday, I drove from home to Bethesda, Maryland. This was in order to attend the AT&T National golf tournament. A new stop on the PGA tour, it lacks the history of such grand venues as the majors. What it lacks in history, it makes up for in many other ways. Having attended the tournament for two days out of the traditional four-round style tournament, I got a good chance to watch the tournament from many angles. The Congressional Country Club is well-maintained and looked great before and after the rain showers. On Saturday, players were allowed to "lift, clean, and place" due to the weather, but the fairways were still in great condition. The rain may have kept a few folks at home in the morning, but men and women alike were coming out in full force for the warm afternoon. Just after arrival, the rain showers ceased, but the clouds remained. Rivers of fog floated down the fairways as reminders of the changing weather. It wasn't comparable to Monterey, California, but visibility was less than perfect. Though quite unable to control the weather, the tournament was bestowed with great weather the first two days. Due to the "heat", as the Maryland locals call 80 degrees, the volunteer on the bus encouraged us to drink lots of beer (which she quickly corrected to water). A 10 minute bus ride(see previous post) took us from ample free parking to the golf course. After stopping by to get a free umbrella from Buick, I went to the second security checkpoint. A sense of deja vu might have come to one more quick-witted than myself, for I am only now realizing the similarities. Never mind the mental delay, there was no line at security. However, there was a young black man waving a wand about my body while asking my height. Now, given my size, I would imagine that this question is reserved for certain entrants and am quite sure it is not a comprehensive mandatory query for security purposes. Either way, the exact same thing happened before stepping on the bus: a young black man waved about a wand while quizzing me on my height. The strangest thing about it: I didn't get asked a single time while on the course. After getting my ticket scanned for entry, a voice quietly said that Lockheed Martin had my passes over there. I didn't know I needed a pass, have no affiliation to Lockheed Martin, and not seeing who spoke, had no idea where over there was. This didn't stop me from engaging my keen powers of deduction and spotting a massive Lockheed Martin banner hanging over a large table (of which there were only three to choose from) not 10 meters to the right. Still clueless as to the nature of these "passes", I slyly approached the table and quietly inquired, "What do you have for me?". Surely detecting my hesitance, but certainly not belaying the fact, a lady kindly handed me a small red ticket. This, she explained, would allow me entrance into Lockheed Martin's Hogan Chalet overlooking the 18th green. Satisfied with the response, I thanked her and headed away. Military members who arrived early enough and presented a military ticket were then given a ticket for the Chalet that said to come between 1100 and 1200. Just inside the course, volunteers were ready to answer any questions as well as pass out pairings guides. An elderly male volunteer asked if I needed an orientation of the course. Responding politely in the negative, I smugly said that I had been here yesterday. Content to answer a more honest man, he turned to someone else. I listened as a gentleman from Seattle sipped on his Starbucks and exclaimed how nice the rainy overcast weather was.

Routine?

2008-07-04T21:06:00.000-05:00

I just got an e-mail (a happy 4th of July message) that seems as though it was a mass e-mail as it had "you all" in the first line. Living alone, as I still do, and not sharing an e-mail address with anyone, I guessed that it was sent out to many people. Also tipping me off to the multiple recipients was the part where the sender described myself to me. Still, I gave myself a pat on the back and thanked myself for serving. Then, I went outside so that there would be enough room for my head. Sorry, I also went to a Military memorial golf tournament today. The bus ride over saw a tournament volunteer announce that 5,000 tickets had been given to military members for free. Among the beneficiaries was yours truly. He went on to pass out postcards for people to write during the short shuttle ride. These were blank cards that would be sent to military members. Not wanting to get a card written by me, I passed on the opportunity to write to the guy I sit next to at work. (Let me take a minute and finish, er, start on my humble pie) Finally, he suggested that if folks spotted someone wearing a ticket emblazoned with "military" on it (such as the one I had, that I wore around my neck on a lanyard), that they shake their hand and express their appreciation for their service. It was a balanced speech, but was well done and great to hear (it might have been enough to make a grown man cry - that said, I wasn't crying). Either way, my ticket was turned downward so as to not attract extra attention (from anyone) as I watched the man next to me on the bus write a postcard. I will try to act surprised if I get it next week. Sorry again, I am merely kidding, for I am quite certain that the plan is to send the cards to military members who are deployed in the middle east.

On Purpose

2008-06-29T23:06:00.000-05:00

It is the nature of folks that may have too much time on their hands to ponder such lofty questions pertaining to the purposes of such mundane activities as the attendance of church. What others may consider as routine as overeating or buying a latte at Starbucks, I have had cause to question as of late. Not one prone towards, or possibly not capable of, deep thought, the factors I thought of about church are maybe shallow. Shallow things, when articulated properly, can be very important. I am not gifted at speaking in public, private, and especially not at church. When approached with a group of people, I lock up, my mouth runs dry, my throat quivers, and my knees go weak. That is, the air conditioning was out this morning and the temperature at church was about 90 degrees. I have been reminded countless times of the dangers of falling from my height. Accordingly, I have done my best to avoid such a mishap. This morning, I only stood when instructed to do so during the service. In order to effect an escape, er, go to the fellowship hall, I also opted to stand after the service. With much more haste, the rest of the congregation left the chapel. I can only assume their intentions were nobler than my own. Only a few people remained in the pews as I gathered my things. An elderly black woman loudly said, "I missed you at church last week". With no one else in the area, or requiring such an angling of her neck, I presumed she had missed me. Though I would have appreciated a friendship, had any existed, she had no reason to miss me, for I was in attendance last week. As I debated bluntly rebuking her ignorance, she spotted my hesitance and continued her case. "See! See! You weren't there," she insisted. I merely suggested with a smile that I ought to sit closer to the front of the chapel. Then, as a test, she asked if I remembered her singing a solo last week. After I replied in the positive, she remarked that she had failed to see me. Here, her husband, beaming with the expression of a man who has come up with an original and witty remark in the presence of a woman said, "And he's hard to miss". Lacking any amount of actual originality or wit, I thought little of it. Laughing at that comment is second nature now, as I remembered the sermon on forgiveness that had ended only minutes ago.

-I went towards the fellowship hall, shaking hands first with the chaplain who had just finished the sermon. Then, I shook hands with our usual chaplain, with whom I have spoken a few times. With a small line of folks lined up behind myself, he grasped my hand for a long time. He then turned his gaze skyward. I asked him if he noticed my haircut. He ignored the question and turned to the next person in line. An elderly black woman stood behind me and informed the chaplain in the form of a rhetorical question that I was a tall drink of water. At last, my hand was released and I headed downstairs. A table of donuts and coffee stood on each side of the small room, with two dozen chairs lining each wall. White panelling created a grid just about a foot over my head, with a leak that drips on one of the tables when it rains. The building was built long ago and is very small on the vertical plane everywhere except the main sanctuary. After the requisite announcements of birthdays, anniversaries, and new visitors, I found myself alone with a group of people. A young boy tugged at my pants around my knee; about as high as he could reach. I said hello, but I wasn't the father figure he was hoping for so he turned and searched the room. After chatting for a bit, I bid farewell to my friends: the chaplain and his wife with whom I practiced my Korean on several occasions. They were leaving to move across the country to a new home. Another chaplain later insisted that in a few weeks, he would have me for dinner. Knowing what he meant, and knowing how skinny I am, I said that I would love to and thanked him for the generous offer.

Failing to summarize the topic which I introduced so many run-on sentences ago, I shall attempt to continue in the same line of thought on a later date; perhaps when I am not so sleepy.

The Congregation

2008-06-29T20:23:00.000-05:00

Today, as with any other Sunday, I headed to church. Here, despite an open welcome to anyone with access to the church, is a rather limited group. Unlike back home, however, racial diversity is present. Some may say that this is inherently meritorious, but that is another posting entirely. Still, the church is quite uniform. Uniform, being a different word from unity, does not describe the dress code. Instead, it refers to the demographics of those in attendance at the church. Being in the company of heroes is lofty language for describing a trip to church. That is, the majority of the folks at the service have retired from military service. Many have fought in wars that were ended long before I learned how to read about them in history books. Such a description came upon me with some surprise. People who have such pasts, with the character to behave quite so humbly in the present, is something else.

Lemonade from Lemons?

2008-06-29T15:48:00.000-05:00

After Church, as usual, a woman significantly older than myself held her gaze upon my now erect frame for longer than is typically considered polite. Finally, as is necessary to make the "m" sound, she picked up her lower jaw and spoke. As with many of the nice folks at church, apparently I reminded her of her son. However, unlike most folks, she was capable of conversation on topics other than my height, my parents' height, or my ability to play basketball. Reveling in this newly discovered phenomenon, I listened with rapt attention as she spoke of jobs in a distant land that I still call home. That is, she is responsible for getting people good government jobs; some of which are in Texas. I have since sent her an e-mail, as she said that she would like a copy of my resume. However, I didn't tell her that I had no degree, no experience, and no resume. That didn't stop me from smiling and nodding until she absconded into the crowd of donut-devouring protestants.

Remembering what little I understood from the English sermon, I attempted to practice what was preached. The new chaplain told us of the importance of kindness. Especially, he made note of refraining from words that might ignite a volatile situation. Here, it was useful, as I managed to not entirely ignore her. However, as is nearly second nature to me now, after hearing the line about my height, I paused a second and looked away. Without any clever comeback, it gives me a break from the monotonous initial incantations. Also, with some luck, I would hope that leads the unknown talker to a conversational dead end. Here, one might realize that this is a topic about as original as Cheerios for breakfast. Conjuring all my aforementioned mental hopes and mustering up courage to converse, I respond at length.

Listening is great sport, one which requires exercise for which to be aptly prepared. Additionally, it is customary for me to bend over so that I am nearer to the source of sound. Typically, this happens after I fail to hear them the first time they say something. At this point our problem-solving skills synchronize and I get a much louder version of the statement in my now very near ear.

Rhetorical Writing

2008-06-29T15:46:00.000-05:00

A nice elderly Korean woman (who is married to an American military man) advised me Sunday not to marry a Korean. She didn't have to tell me twice; although she felt obliged to do so. Reinstated in multiple languages, I retained the advice quite readily. Then her friend sat down beside her, and, although I was seated, stared intently at me. Quite unable to meet her gaze, I noticed her line of sight directed closer to my hands; which were, at the time, occupied with a pair of chopsticks and a pile of rice. She exclaimed in a serious tone a seemingly rhetorical question: "Why are you using your left hand?" Unsure as to the rhetorical nature of the inquisition, I gave the obvious answer: "Because I am left-handed." I am not sure if that was more impolite than not answering the question, but I decided that she must know the truth. This may have been due to my clumsy use of chopsticks. However, I credit this faux pas to the fried chicken which I ate with my hands. Then, I tried holding metal chopsticks with greasy hands.

Portrait of a Landscape

2008-06-25T22:16:00.001-05:00

I love this picture. A rather needless statement, one might claim in rebuttal, seeing as I posted it on my blog. Another viewer, perhaps more adept at the art of photography than myself may pose artistic inquisitions as to the merits of this shot's worthiness for publication. Alas, I am quite unable to refute either of these claims, but persist in providing my own perspective. That is, I love the way the morning sunlight gleams off of the dew on the freshly cut tee boxes. I took this picture one Saturday morning while I was living in California. Without a car for transportation or friends for a ride, I mounted my bicycle and rolled down the hill to the Monterey Peninsula Country Club. A gem in a gold mine, the private country club carries a confident display of coastal scenery without the fame of the nearby courses. That said, I was intending to view Pebble Beach during my ride, but this view, and my lack of fitness, necessitated a break from riding. Having left early in the morning, and enjoying a steep downhill ride all the way to this course, I arrived while the sun was still low in the sky. The lines in the dew betray the wanderings of an early rising country club patron. That is, he ought to have considered his path before pulling his pull cart in the manner evidently chosen. Although not bearing the same effect as a golf cart, this undue stress on the tee box could have been easily avoided. Yes, it did make for a nice looking detail in the picture, of which I have already mentioned my affinity. Without using excessive verbiage in the style of myself, one could aptly write a lengthy description of merely the scenery in the picture while still a more presumptuous essay could cover the people that play on the course. With the reader in mind, and my pillow beckoning, I have decided to forgo either of the aforementioned options presently.

Have a great day and enjoy the picture.

Lake Elkhorn

2008-05-10T19:09:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, after staying inside for much too long, I left my house for a trip to the park. The weather was very different from last week. From the time I woke up, the sun had been shining, and didn't cease doing so until nearly 8:30 pm. Still, it was nearly three in the afternoon before I departed for Lake Elkhorn. Lake Elkhorn is a small lake surrounded by apartments on the west and east sides. After passing by one full parking lot, I found a few spaces available at the recreation area on the west side. Here, there were also crowds of people. However, on the other side of the lake, a group function brought dozens of young families to the lake for some sort of picnic. This I avoided by parking on the opposite side of the lake, though still encountering several young families near the playground which is adjacent to the parking lot. I took a moment on the long boardwalk to decide which direction around the lake I should take my run. Without much thought to the trivial question of direction, I peered into the moss-filled water and watched a young bass float to the surface. No, he wasn't dead, he floated to the surface on purpose. The fish gave me a side-long glance (the only kind they can) and darted into the shadows. I listened for a moment as a nearby group of primary school students chatted in colloquial Korean. That was it, I started off to the south for the beginning of my run. Without anything to add to their conversation, I trotted past the kids and took to the asphalt path the surrounded the lake. 3 laps later, I returned to my car, grabbed my fishing pole and camera, and walked back to the shoreline. A few casts and a few pictures were all I could manage after the long workout and quickly resigned myself back to my car. Also, only a few words and a few bad sentences were all I could manage after a lonely day at the lake. Despite going by myself, I met a short Hispanic man who greeted me cordially. I responded likewise, but was in the middle of a full-speed run. After taking an obligatory water break following 2 miles of full speed running, the same man approached me. A similarly friendly greeting came out and questioned my memory of our acquaintance. Failing the pop quiz, he said that we had played soccer together a few weeks back. We chatted for a bit, and I took off for another mile. During the last lap, I spotted a high ranking man from work. Dressed in a tye-dye shirt, wearing a fishing cap, and toting a camera with a huge lens, I nearly didn't recognize him. He did little more than that, but said hello as I ran past. Only a couple people asked me how tall I was. Many more stared as I sped past them. Running with so many people on the trail was fun, though at times I found myself dodging slow-moving foot traffic that took up the entire width of the path. Perhaps if I exercised my body less, and my writing skills more, I would be able to pen a more poetic piece of prose for your reading enjoyment. That is, I am quite tired, and feel that a picture would much better describe the scene that I so thoroughly enjoyed this afternoon.

Centennial Park

2008-05-10T15:57:00.000-05:00

10 May 2008, Saturday; Centennial Park, Howard County, Columbia, Maryland - I took leave of the post and traversed 10 miles to the site of our class picnic last Wednesday. Here, I found the lake just as I had left it last week. Actually, it wasn't exactly the same. Three constant days of rain had allowed the lake to grow a bit. The occasional steep shorelines and dense lakeside foliage kept the lake looking much the same, though. The route to Centennial Park is one of typical Maryland travel, bringing an outdoorsman-to-be through a maze in a concrete jungle. Not downtown, of course, but the travel consists of more than 10 miles of massive roads, crowded intersections, and plenty of concrete. During the journey, I watched the rain bead up on my windshield and stay there. That is, on a Scion xB windshield, it doesn't matter how much rain-ex you use, the water just beads up. As I impatiently waited for the wipers to knock the array of transparent marbles out of my line of sight, I hoped that Centennial Park would hold better weather than this. Despite a forecast of clear weather, northwesterly winds, and a route that took me in a northwest direction, it was still raining at the park. The rain subsided after an hour of fishing, not to be confused with catching. At 0900 I wished I could have taken some shots in the rain, as the fog was still drifting across the lake. Except for the light rain drops, no wind broke the surface of the water. After donning a waterproof coat, waterproof boots, and a waterproof hood, I headed down to the water. A similarly dressed man came treading out of the forest, which I assumed had a lake on the other side of it, for he was carrying two fishing poles and had a tackle box slung over his shoulder. He promptly asked me if I had caught anything. A negative reply followed with the valid excuse (he could only assume) that, I hadn't tried yet. I didn't bother telling him that I was there to do some fishing. Presumptuous as I could be, I asked him if he had caught anything yet (assuming of course that he was catching and not merely fishing). This he understood and did not seem to differentiate between the two, for he told me a tale of two bass which he had lured onto his line not far from here. He pointed and spoke of a special spot that must have been somewhere down the path. Assuming again of its extraordinary nature, I listened intently (not because of advice, but because it was early, and I had not had any coffee), as he attempted a description of this fishing hole. However, he was unable to piece it together very well. This, I presumed once again, was due to the nearly sacred respect he had for the place(that is, to speak of it would be a grave sin), or his somewhat broken, heavily accented English. I thanked him for his advice, noted the bait that was still tied to the end of his line (it was a long artificial worm), and started for the shore. The steady rain continued as I fished from the shore. There were only a few spots that were cleared enough to get down to the edge of the water. Taking advantage of each opening, I made careful, calculated casts so as not to snag one of my lures in the nearby trees. Before long, I came to a line of buoys that stretched along the entire width of the lake (which was no more than 100 yds at that point). Beyond this line was a wildlife preserve; said a large sign posted on the shore. The waters may have been teeming with fish, but I suppose that is their (whom, I don't really know) intention. Nevertheless, I pitched in to the preservation effort by not hooking any fish all morning. After the rain stopped, I was able to take pictures of some of the places that certainly looked like good places to fish. I even took some pictures of people fishing out on the lake. Below is just one of those pictures. It was worth the wait through the rain to get it, even though it probably wasn't worth wading through all these words.