iWrite

Time will tell whether this is a good thing or not, but I am now able to blog from my iPhone. No longer will I have to expend the energy required to pick up and turn on my laptop. Now, I need only to use my thumbs and 2 to 3 calories an hour.
The only thing better would be a personal stenographer who could follow me around, or even better, sit at my bedside and transcribe my blog, while also feeding me grapes and pouring wine into my mouth.
But I digress.

Radar Magazine (I’d make a link but that appears to be more than the iPhone can handle) is publishing it’s “Worst Colleges” list in it’s September issue. I got a sneak peak of it today and I recommend it simply because I believe in supporting people, writers and publications with a sense of humor.
The article makes fun of a college in my city, and that institution is outraged. At my workplace we wanted to do a story on the story and the reaction. This was before we read the article.
When we first heard about it, we were suprised. You see, no one told us it was HUMOR.
I contacted the Senior Editor in charge of the piece and explained the situation. He emailed me a copy of the article, but not before giving a statement in response to the college’s outrage.
For silly professional ethics I won’t reprint that statement here, but to paraphrase, it was basically “lighten the hell up and enjoy the joke.” That is not what people usually say when my station confronts them. I was beginning to think the college was worked up over nothing.
That was confirmed once we read the story. We laughed, a little at the absurdity, a little more by the amusing truths.
We got the joke and decided not to even bother with our story.
I do recommend the article though, especially if you have a friend from Cornell… even better if the friend is female. Any college review that includes the line “sweet release of death” is a winner.

What isn’t a winner is typing this much on a mini glass iPhone keyboard.
But I’m just too tired to roll over to the laptop on the far side of my bed.

By the way, thanks to the Radar Magazine people for being helpful, upfront, and not taking themselves too seriously today.

Who’s your daddy?

It’s clear that I’m not going to be a father myself anytime soon.

That’s why I have completely glommed on to my friend C’s pregnancy. She’s due any day now, and I am set bring that baby into this life.

If it happens here at work, I’ll boil the water and sterilize towels, all necessary things that I saw on an episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. Then after I perform the delivery, I’ll hold the newborn over my head and introduce it to the world. (I know the gender but C doesn’t want it known yet).

And if there is time to get her to the hospital, I’m ready for that too. There are several routes from here to there, and I’m listening to the traffic reports. I have a double-secret backup route too. I don’t want to tell her about it because it seems like it might be in the wrong direction, but trust me, it will get us there.

Of course, I am not going into this blindly. She is keeping me up to date on her condition. I know she’s three centimeters dilated. I also know how the doctor measured the dilation. Today she passed her mucus plug. I know that because I asked her.

I figure if I can talk to her about mucus plugs, then I am inner-circle enough to yell “Push! I can see the head! Ok, one more big push! Here it comes”

I also think the baby should be named after me, but she isn’t quite sold on that.

I didn’t even hear it ring!

I live in a big city. Not the biggest in the country, but one of the biggest.

But damn can it be small.

N and I planned dinner tonight. She is having boy problems (too many), I am having girl problems (too few) and as you can imagine we were going to be LOADS of fun.

Because I haven’t had sushi since I got back from Japan, we went to the hot Japanese place in this big city and asked for a table for two.

While we waited – well, you my fine reader, you know what’s coming next – we ran into another coworker who was so excited to see us. She insisted that we sit with her, it would be like a party… because 25 was meeting her there… YAY. (This coworker knows nothing of 25 and me, just that we seem to get along at work.)

Are you kidding me?

This big city has a lot of restaurants. Really, look in any direction and you’ll see lots of them.

And that was where I was reminded once again, that great friendships are so often about what is not said out loud.

N suddenly grabbed her cell phone out of her purse, flipped it open and started talking.

“Yeah, we just got here. Oh you want to go there instead? Are you sure? Ok… we’ll be right there.”

She snapped the phone shut, shook her head and apologized to me and the woman we know.

It turns out the the friends we were meeting decided they really didn’t want sushi, we were off to Italian instead.

And that’s where we got our table for two and talked about our boy and girl problems.

A love note? A thank you note?

My first long-term relationship was in college. D and I spent almost three years together, three years that included all of the great things that come with college; formals, naked sleepovers and youth bliss, as well as all of the crap; a crazy stalker, teen angst and bad behavior brought on by immaturity.

Then our 20s came along.

And my theme this week in almost everything I do is how we don’t know shit when we’re in our 20s.

I moved east and treated D badly.

She moved west and tells me now that she treated other people badly.

Our 20s passed and then in our 30s we reconnected at an odd time. I was getting divorced, she was getting married.

We saw each other for the first time in almost 10 years in New York, less than two months after 9/11.

Immediately upon seeing her, I was reminded of everything good about our relationship, all of the reasons I wanted to be with her and only her in college.

At a time when my marriage was over and when the world was a new place of terror, I felt that feeling of being safe and loved and comforted, all before she ever opened her mouth.

Since that day I have sought her out time and time again when I need that feeling, and I am a lucky person that she has always been there for me.

This week we have spoken several times as I try to bounce back from the end of the relationship with 25. I get off the phone and feel safe, loved and comforted.

Perhaps it was because we spent emotionally-formative years so intimately, perhaps it’s just that special chemistry that comes along so rarely. Actually I don’t know that I care why it is, I only care that it is.

She told me tonight that she is who she is now because of the way our 20s shook out. My poor behavior led her to the other side of the country, led her to her husband and to her career. It all also led me to where I am, which during any other week I would tell you is a great place.

I still get a tightness in my chest when I think of certain ways I acted 15 years ago. She tells me it had to be that way for things to now be this way.

Her husband is a wonderful man. There are few men out there who would put up with a wife’s college boyfriend, let alone invite him into their home and become his friend. I am proud to say that the husband is my friend. When I see the two of them together and see their happiness now, and know that my behavior sent her to the place where they met, I realize she is right, it had to be that way for it to be this way.

I am so glad it is this way.

Snack Time

I know… I’ve been here for 4 days and I haven’t written a thing. Take that as a good sign.

This first part of the trip is in Okinawa, where my college roommate and his wife live.

So far I’ve eaten a lot of cool food, and only once have I had something gross.

I’m willing to try most things, so last night at the minimart, I grabbed a bag of these things that looked like green stars. They felt like they’d have a bit of crunch to them.

We were pretty sure, although not positive, that we hadn’t grabbed a bag of cat food, so as we walked up the street and opened the bag, we decided we’d just pop a couple in our mouths.

Again, realizing we could have some sort of exotic pet food in our hands, we looked closely at the locals, to see if they were watching us in horror, or laughing their asses off at the stupid Americans who were about to eat Kibbles ‘N’ Bits.

Not seeing that, we each took a bite.

It’s interesting how the brain works when it comes to identifying tastes. When you bite into a piece of fish, even if you don’t know what kind of fish it is, you’re prepared for a fishy flavor. When it’s a fruit, your tongue is prepared for fruit.

We didn’t know what to expect, and it took several seconds to identify the flavor, and to determine that we really didn’t like it.

They sort of tasted like cheese puffs, with a sugary coating. The consistency was of old meringue. There was also a buttery feel. And maybe a hint of mint.

The rest of the bag is in the glove compartment. I figure if my hosts ever get stuck in the wilderness and need some food to survive, they’ll eat the leftovers.

Turns Out My Male Friends Can Read

I got an email from a good college friend today. He’d seen my blog, and said he liked it. And that surprised me.

As I thought about why, I realized that it’s because I never expected any male friends of mine to read it. Especially this guy, who, and I now know he’ll read this, was the man’s man of all of my friends in school. He actually carried the title of “Cool Guy” and it wasn’t a joke.

Anytime I ever felt an overwhelming wave of political correctness in school, I went to see him.

If I was trying to make decisions between whether to do the responsible thing or the thing that would make my college years more memorable, I’d ask myself, what would BF do?

Years later, when I went running into a bomb shelter in Kuwait because of an incoming missile in the first weeks of the war, I actually thought, BF would think this was cool.

So, now I think I need to throw in some more macho stuff in here for a few days.

Instead of talking about the day I spent in the park with the woman, talk about how hot she is, and what we did when we weren’t at the park.

Less about the little boys I supervised at day camp, more about the romping in the pool with the girls counselors during the overnights.

Not so much about how I think I’m fat, more about playing hardball in a men’s baseball league, on a team where my nickname is “The White Guy,” because I’m the only one, or how the picture in my profile is me serving time in the penalty box after some sort of heinous attack on an opponent in high school hockey.

Ok boys, I’m ready to be a man.

112 Across

A couple of times over the past two weeks I’ve mentioned the woman with whom I’m smitten. Henceforth, I shall refer to her as WWWIS.

I have hesitated to say much about her, because I really seem to like her but I’m afraid that if I put it out there I’ll jinx it. Also because I haven’t really gotten to the point of putting everything “out there.”

But for the love of all things good, I have to write about what could be the perfect dating day.

We slept in a bit (yes, we’re to the point of sleeping in together). Once we got vertical, we went out to brunch and along the way grabbed the Times. WWWIS has never done the Sunday puzzle, so we started it together, while eating at a neighborhood joint.

After filling ourselves with great Sunday brunch food, we went to the park, where we worked on the puzzle a little more.

Then we walked and walked around town before grabbing a movie. We watched Borat together and laughed our asses off. We were hungry, and went to another neighborhood eatery, had pizza and filled in a few more squares.

Finally, we had to go our separate ways for the day.

Look, I know this may seem a little dull on paper. It wasn’t dull to live through. It was just delightful.

And what am I supposed to think when one of the puzzle clues called for a 4-letter word for “Totally Nuts”

Gaga!

Yes, I think I am.

Fun With Scanners

When I was forced to replace my recently deceased iBook last week, I figured, what the hell. I was already dropping a little more money than I had budgeted for the first quarter of the year; why not spend a little more.

So I bought a scanner.

I’ve been thinking about a scanner for a long time. Photography has always been the closest thing to art that I have been interested in. As a result, I have boxes and boxes of photos, going back to the mid 70s, when I was just a little boy with a Polaroid One-Step.

The pictures are slowly fading, so to save the literal snapshots of my life, I want to digitize them. Then, instead of boxes and boxes of fading pictures, I’ll have disks and disks of data that will sit on a shelf. I guess that’s better.

Anyway, won’t it be fun to make this a community project!

So we begin with this photo that I found in the 1986 box. 1986 as in 21 years ago.

I was about to go into my junior year in high school, and I worked as a camp counselor for the group of 4-year-old boys.

As I look at this picture, several significant things pop out.

First, I am having trouble realizing that these 4-year-olds are now in their mid-20s. I work with people in their mid-20s. The woman with whom I am smitten is mid-20s. These guys cannot be mid-20s. It hurts to think that way.

Also, there’s me in the picture. I’m the tall guy in the back. In addition to 21 years ago, this is 35 pounds ago. How did skinny teenage John turn into middle aged John?

Finally, there’s the hot pink shirt I’m wearing. Please remember, the mid 80s were when Miami Vice was popular. If Don Johnson could wear hot pink, I could too. That’s all we’ll say about that.

I remember a few of the names. In the front row on the left was Timmy Woehr. A couple over from him was Zach Carson. In the middle is a kid named Sam something, a down the row a bit is Steven D’Amico and I think the kid at the end was named Andrew. In front of me are Ted Bullock and Eyal Ebel.

I have no idea what happened to any of these kids. I’m pretty sure they’re really still in middle school somewhere. There’s no way they can be any older than that.

I’ll have more trips down memory lane soon… if my ego can take it.

A Substitute Entry

I sort of want to write about this woman with whom I’m completely smitten, but I’m not quite there yet… there being that place where I can write everything about myself here where everyone can read it.

And because I’m not there, I know I have at times been a little boring.

Just wait until you read this one. It’s about parking cars!

_____________________________________

There was a scene in the opening montage of a 70s cop drama that showed a dozen or so cruisers pulling out of the police station lot, in perfect unison.

Here at my workplace the parking lot here is divided into two levels. The bottom is covered, and those 12 spots go to the highest level bosses here. The rest of us park up top, in the open. Normally, that’s fine, maybe even better, because our spots are actually closer to the door.

But, on a night like this, being outside sucks.

Our city is being pelted by little ice balls. So far there are several inches on the ground, and on our cars. It’s just crappy.

At 6:30, when the daysiders left, they all had a good 15 minutes of scraping before they could actually pull out of the lot. From the windows, it sort of looked like the string section of a symphony, as they all moved their scrapers back and forth, back and forth.

We weren’t just watching for fun, though. We were waiting for the all clear, and shortly after 7pm, we got it.

There are about 15 of us who work here in the evening. And while there are fewer than 15 official spots under the cover in our lot, we are a resourceful bunch. We also look out for each other.

One by one, like the open of that TV show, we pulled out of the upper lot and filled into the lower area. The lines dividing the spaces are unimportant. What matters is that we make room for as many cars as possible. Since we had only been at work for a few hours so far, we didn’t have as much scraping to do, so we spent a few minutes clearing the icy crap, and then our cars got to spend the rest of the evening in executive luxury.

It’s a bonding experience.

Autumn

Out in the countryside of New Hampshire, on a cool fall Friday night many years ago, a group of early 20-somethings met for the first time as adults. They were all starting their lives as grown-ups, but they weren’t quite ready, not just yet.

It was the eve of a huge Halloween party on a family farm. Hundreds of people were expected to roll in on Saturday for a bonfire costume bash.

But this was the night before. The people who were there that night were the core friends. And at the core of the core were young women who had known each other since their lower school days. They all brought the men in their lives, men they deemed worthy of a weekend trip in the wilderness.

On that night before the party, there would be perhaps 20 people, the girls who had known each other forever, and the boys who might be in their lives forever.

Two by two, the couples arrived, threw on their fleece jackets and grabbed spots around the fire.

The women picked up where they’d left off years before.

The men cautiously made friends with the other men. They drank beer, talked about their jobs, how they met their girlfriends, how they were selected to make the journey.

When the breeze would pick up, the women would snuggle up next to the men, together they would get warm in the glow of the fire, under their blankets.

The hostess gathered up the crowd after a bit and took everyone on a tour of the farm and into the newly built barn.

Someone found a soccer ball and then the children came out to play.

Teams were formed, positions taken, and a newly invented game of barn-broomball began. Some people used brooms like hockey sticks, some people actually found hockey sticks, one person used an old gardening tool, and some just used their feet.

It seemed like the game lasted forever. The music of the Samples played in the background, barely audible over the sounds of grown-ups yelling like kids on the playground.

No one hit their heads on the low hanging beams, no one was hurt when they ran into each other, or barn equipment.

They kind of kept score, but didn’t really.

And then, after a while, in the wee hours of that perfect fall night, the final buzzer rang. It may have been when the CD player stopped playing, it may have been that the players just knew it was time to call it a night.

The game was not one that could ever be replayed, its joy came from its sudden creation and its sudden end. For the core group, as much fun as the costume party would be the next night, Friday night would be the part of the weekend they would remember forever.

In the years since, time and distance have taken their tolls on the friendships, but those friendships remained. There were other great gatherings, although the same men weren’t always there. Still, on that night the men who met for the first time knew they would always remember each other, call each other friends.

That game, the cool New England breeze, the sounds of the Samples echoing through a big wooden barn left them all with a special bond, one of childlike fun, deep love and affection and the memory of the party before the party, the gathering of the core.

One last night when the kids could leave their newly found adulthood behind and play in the barn.