Softball Monsters are coming to Town

At this point you must be in a state of shock. You contemplate to yourself, "am I dreaming? Can it really be true? Is this the feeling of euphoria I have missed by not having senseless ramblings to read?" Well, I guarantee nothing of any educational value will follow, but after a much needed hiatus, I have decided to continue my virtual musings.

These past two months have been a blur of music festivals, friends, good times, and work. I have found momentary peace sitting on my couch listening to Jack Johnson and letting the words spew from my mind to this post as a college freshman would empties his stomach from the nights keg party. Caring little for literary eloquence or even a coherent thought, I will write till I fall asleep. So I hope you are in for a good long distraction.

Have you ever realized, after the fact of course, you have gotten yourself into something over your head? My most recent cause for disapproving head nod was agreeing to play softball. A buddy of mine called the other day and asked if I would be interested in playing in a summer softball league. I quickly answer yes as I if I didn't have enough to do with work and all the other extracurriculars I was doing. As he got off the phone with me the only info I new was I had a game on Monday. I also new where it was, but not the field or any other information. At this point I so use to flying by the seat of my pants, I have had to get my mother to sew and patch my britches. But, I stand ready and look forward to the summer sporting.

I show up on Monday night, now knowing that we are suppose wear white t shirts, until we can get jerseys with our names on it (fancy...I know, but hey at some point I have to expect the best). I stumble around the park until I can find the diamond we were on. I frantically look around for a familiar face whilst memories of freshman year enter my head. Fortunately I find a buddy of mine and we start to talk. As we wait for the rest of the crew to show up we causally notice the team we are going to be playing.

Decked out in full baseball apparel, from authentic team named jerseys to those tight baseball pants, the feeling of "Oh Crap" comes over me as I look them over. Everyone matches, all have batting gloves, baseball cleats, and freshly oiled gloves. The rest of our team shoes up and I compare them to us. Half of us are wearing soccer cleats, wearing old fraternity shirts, and trying to decide which side of the one bat we have is the side to hold. At that point I knew we were in for some embarrassment. I wish I could say I was wrong, but that just wouldn't be our style.

With little to no warm up, we amble onto the field, me playing the catcher. As I am the third oldest person on my team, I feel my knees twinge with pain as I assume the crouched position. My fancy new knee brace creaks as my knee bends. The fat man in blue standing behind me, makes judgmental comments about our team...he made almost enough to get a piece of my mind, and not the good piece I reserve for family and friends. However, I manage to stifle my comments and hold my mouth shut. The first pitch is thrown...Illegal pitch, whatever that is. The next 13 pitches all balls. this has pretty much loaded the bases. Then the hitting begins. I managed to some how knock some guy in the face with my elbow. He stares me down...I laugh...he looks harder...I laugh harder...he walks away. That's my kind of confrentation, you know, the one that ends up in me not getting beat up. We struggle through the top of the first inning and get three outs with only a score of 12 to 0. Not our finest moment. However, the two fans there for us decided to make us feel better by pointing out the team next to us was losing 19 to 1...so here is to bright sides and them being our Mississippi (you know the one state/team/person who is always worse than you...thank MS).

We fight through the next few innings trying to get runs in...alas we score a unaffective six to there total 15. Not enough to win, and just short of getting made fun of forever. At the end of the game there was mention of maybe getting together to practice. An idea that was quickly shot down for a better one of just sneaking beer in before the games. Now that's a strategy I can agree with.

Tomorrow night is our second game. I am anticipating better play and more comfortable cohesion. But, I will keep you posted.

I am too tired to finish, in fact I am not even going to check this to see if it makes sense. I am just going to go to bed. But, I will try to keep more stuff on here and Keep you guys entertained...if I can. But, for now, I can hear my bed calling my name. Peace out.

Eat Your Heart Out Superman

Procrastination is a virus. Once it starts, it continues to grow and spread infecting every portion of your daily life. Breaking down your regularly scheduled life and replacing it will a tattered, torn shell of what you once had. No longer are you satisfied by the productivity of the day, but replaced are the sleepless nights, tossing and turning as the turmoil of the next day's impending load.

So far, I have been awake, showered, and ready for the day for going on four hours. My accomplishments to this point are: Two cups of coffee, one bowl of cereal, two DVRed shows watched, one phone call, one fax, and two hours (at least) of mindless surfing the net. Is this because of a lack of items on my To-Do list? Of course not, I have just caught the procrastination bug.

Now, first off, as far as work stuff goes, I am on top of all my responsibilities save one. I will not and do not let my affinity for procrastination affect my work...never. But, when it comes to other portions of my life, I find it better to wait until I have to cram it all together in fail swoop of productivity.

My list includes: washing clothes, cleaning the kitchen, doing house work, packing for the weekend, going to the bank, planning dinners, and other menial tasks.

As I stare a rather empty day in the eyes, I find myself shying away from getting involved in lieu of distractions. The top two, TV and Internet. I even stopped in the middle of this post to watch TV, I procrastinated my rant on procrastination...how bad is that. But, I wonder if I am using the correct terminology.

Take for example what I call the TV spin. This "spin" is why some people watch Fox News and other watch CNN. "Spin" is what keeps MTV competing with VH1 and Google.com competing with Ask.com. All these examples share the same information, daunt on the same topics, but the subtleties are what make them different. They call themselves Partisanly Biased or Freshest in Music, or Best Search Engine. But, the difference is minimal. It is all in the interpretation. This is where my biasness of procrastination comes in.

You must take in consideration this definition does not work for everyone. But, I don't look at my afore-mentioned actions as procrastination as much as view it as efficiency. Instead of a gradual process of doing one of the task and then resting, I choose to exert all energies at once, thus expending the least amount of energy for the day. Besides, I feel I am much better at working when the pressure is on. I thrive on it. I have heard it said, "Don't work harder...work smarter." I believe that by surfing the web, watching the tube, and then efficiently knocking out all of the To-Dos at once, I am the example of working smarter. Harnessing energy so as to expend it all at once...that makes me a super hero. Unleashing my energy ray all at once to conquer the antagonist that is dirt, grime, and chores. I think I will call myself DE (Dave Efficiency). Able to do the meaningless task in a single bound, hands of fury slicing and dicing dinner, mindnumbing powers of control to keep the distractions out. Of course there is also my alter ego...Dave the Distracted. Every day people see merely Dave the Distracted, but if you are lucky, if the moon shines bright enough, if you hide in the closet till the room gets too dirty, you might be able to catch a glimse of DE..possible as it is, but difficult as he moves at the speed of washing machine's spin cycle. Now, I just have to think of a costume design. I am thinking something with yellow rubber gloves, and maybe a cape you wear on the front...one that wraps around your neck and waist and will keep the stuff of your clothes (I forget the exact name of it). And I need a mask.

Wow, you would think after a rant like that I would have motivated myself to get some work done, but unfortunately Dave the Distracted is still about and I have made some more coffee in anticipation of the Cosby Show which comes on in a minute. Now, aren't you glad I have wasted your time as well? You have given way to procrastination, as I am sure you have something else you need to get done. Shame on you...but I guess this is just you own special way of becoming a more efficient human being. Good Luck with that.

Freeze Sucka

Boredom got the best of me this past Friday. I worked for a couple of hours, then switched between reading and the television as the internal struggle of mindless enjoyment fought with imagination like two kids fighting over the swing set on a school playground. I resigned myself to getting out for a while and driving around. This lasted all of about three miles as I pulled in to an empty spot at the local mall. I had no agenda, no plan of action save for the wondering around and killing time. This is where my powers of perception hit.

Have you ever notice the swagger that accompanies all law enforcement personal? You find it in every echelon of power, from the "high and mighty" federal agents, to the lowly mall security guards. It appears to be a combination of a model's booty shaking with an Olympic speed walkers form. Arms swing from side to side, increasing speed as the footsteps build. Hips swishing as they perfect the intimidation stare on passing store front windows. How do you not laugh at this?

I wonder the origins of the candid cop walk, as I have so deemed it. I believe it is a required course in police training. They fit it in somewhere between Miranda and marksmanship. I can imagine two days dedicated to Talking the Talk and Walking the Walk. You learn witty retorts to crack heads' answers and hooker come ones in the off chance you are "lucky" enough to be on an episode of Cops. The next day the captain, his wife, and some detective come in to critic and judge your walking abilities. Six hours, four bottles of water, and two sweat towels later you have your paper certificate stating you have graduated from your day course Walking the Cop Walk 101. Well, all of you except Steve who could never reach his center and would either fall over or slap himself in the face with the confusion of left leg, right arm. Poor Steve. Now that you have the basics you can continue on to the important things, like how to be a dick 24/7.

And like in Middle School gym class they separate the girl cops trainees from the boys. Girls in one room and boys in the other. Boys learn the walk emphasizing there masculinity, while girls learn the walk to fake masculinity. They have to be separated to keep the teasing down to a minimum. Girl cops can be so mean.

This explains why mall security guards are so bad at it. They don't have the luxury of a six weeks of training. No their Walking the Walk get squeezed in between "How to button your buttons" and Lunch. Their one day course doesn't allow them to fine tune their actions or even be judge by a group of their peers. They get no ticker tate parades, certificate, or celebratory ice cream for these guys, they have to get everything in before the sun goes down and Bob the janitor locks the doors. The insecurity and over compensating for lack of proper training has lead them to more of a hindrance to mall rats then help. Also when they are recruiting 17 year olds, it makes it hard not to laugh.

I know what you are thinking..."David it's the belt and all the crap they wear that makes them walk like that." Well, granted they have a regular belt, and a Batman utility belt that clips to the real belt and to the pants, and I know the belt probably weigh about 15 to 20 pounds, but I still think they would walk that way if they were as naked as the day they were born. It's that cocksure attitude that morphes their one time normal walk to a six foot male member walk. You know what I am talking about and you know I am right. Watch and see how the cops walk and then talk to them. See if the extent of the Candid Cop Walk directly correlates with how big of punk they are. And when I am right, you have to pay my bail for when I point this out the next cop who decide to give me the ole stink eye.

A Fool and His Money…

After being here less than 24 hours it is apparent, like my father said, “Vegas’ sole purpose it to separate you from your money.” This philosophy has infected every tier of operation around this desert oasis. Flashy lights, attractive women, and expense booze masterfully play to open you wallet and dance your money away as if it were a Russian ballet. I had heard this was true, but my experience in most of the larger cities, New Orleans, Chicago, and Dallas, had not set me up for this.

It starts with a 30 minute line out of the air port to catch a cab, followed by a 35 minute line to check into your hotel. But the oddity is the amenities you would normally get at any hotel free of charge are anything but here in the Vegas.

Being a product of the 20th century, the first thing I do when I get to the room is open my computer and attempt to log on there. At first glances my wireless picked up what they call a “Hospitality” bandwidth. I silently get excited, for I know the one true link to the outside world is the internet. I open my browser and wait as the page loads. Sure enough, where is every other hotel has free access, the Hard Rock doesn’t. Granted it was a nominal fee, I was taken back to see a fee at all. I mouth a few obscenities, but thought, “No worries, I can live without the internet for a couple of days.” However, I can feel the withdrawal ticks of the addicted.

Drinks are free, while you are playing the games, which essentially means the drinks cost you more than any other bar in town. However, I got the gambling out of my system early…funny how loosing money, hard-earned of course, really gets the taste of speculative risk out of my mouth. But, I was able to have the experience and get a couple of drinks. However, when I woke up at 7 this morning, I wanted a cup of coffee. I went down to the front desk and experienced the perfectedness of Vegas sucking you in. I only wanted a cup of coffee, but was side tracked by a hottie at the tables. I sat down, willingly opened my wallet…First position,…pulled some cash…Second Position…., and laid it on the table…Third Position. The next hour I sat and watched the spins, lifts, and pirouettes of my fleeting money. This young lady was very attractive and spoke with a entrancing accent. But, I can honestly say, as hind sight is 20/20, I don’t like her at all. That was the most expensive cup of coffee I have ever had. Fortunately it was good coffee.

I bid my devil in a fine form good bye and walk to the bar to get more coffee. Now, my experience at the Casinos at home have taught me, you can get free drinks at the casino bar, you guessed it, not here. I wait as they brew the coffee, expecting to get it free, but was less shocked at this point, as my 5 ounce cup of wake up juice cost more than the Starbucks stores you see invading every corner. Not too mad, I walk back towards the room and think to myself of how I would like a morning paper to accompany me to the end result of the coffee, but as I walk to the front desk, I reflect on the past hours in the Sin City and realize paying 3 dollars for a foreign paper is not worth it.

Monday will bring renewed zest of working hard and resolutions to break. But for now, I am having a great time, and I have learned a lot about the commerce of LV. As my buddy with me says… ”When it comes to money, you never have enough and you can always make more.” But, foolishly parting with you money for things you can and do live with out, well that is only know as one thing…Vacation, and I love the vacation, and I love The Vegas…

For Bored People and Company Executives

I just saw a commercial for the new Gatorade flavor. It started with a basketball in the middle of an open concrete basketball court. Rain was coming down. Suddenly birthed from the basketball was a very large black man. He stretched and guzzled down the new Gatorade flavor. Granted the new birth symbolism equating to the new flavor was overtly obvious, the name of the flavor was what caught me by surprise. The new flavor was "Rain." What the hell it that.

Rain is not a flavor. Rain is something you hide from, something that prevents yard work. Rain is children playing, sleeping late, and renewed cleanliness. It's not something that invokes feelings of thirst quenching joy. I don't look forward to tall glass of rain water after I work out. It provoked a feeling, as I am sure the commercial wanted, but I don't know if they hit the mark with that one.

More and more you are starting to see what I call hippie names for products. Old Spice has body wash and deodorant entitled Pacific Surge, Mountain Rain, Cool Blast. You get candles in the scent of fresh linen, cotton, clean air. Laundry detergent boasting fresh spring, late fall, cold of winter. I just don't understand what's going on. Isn't enough we have to have everything smell like we rolled around in Mother Earth, but now we have to drink her to?

What happened to the favorites? Orange, Grape, or the ever special Lemonlime, now that's a flavor for sports drinks.You know exactly what you are getting when you twist the top and pound down half the bottle as the sweat drains from you face. It replenishes you like the morning shower after a night of drinking. What about kool aid. When the answer to the question of "what flavor do you want," was easily answered and understood when you replied "Red." Now red can mean...Fruit Punch, Passion Fruit, Strawberry, raspberry, Strawberry-Banana, Sun, Fire, Hell's Broth, and whatever the ivy league marketing intern can think of to equate the "newness" of what you drink. I miss the simplicity.

I was in Walmart the other day getting some shampoo. Standing in the middle of the isle overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of choices, I start to get frustrated. Damaged Hair, Curly hair, No Hair, Fragile Hair, Damaged and Fragile Hair, Curly but yet damaged and fragile hair...there were just too many choices. I lash out at the inanimate object by saying through gritted teeth, "What happened to just focusing on cleaning hair, where is the Clean hair Shampoo." About to give up and just pick the most manly looking bottle, the lady next to me hands me a bottle. I glance at the description and smile as it states...For Clean Hair." I knew that was the stuff for me. Now I just have to find the For Non Sweaty/Stinking underarms, and the For Clean Teeth and No Cavities, and For Clean Skin soap. These containers are not usually decorated with bright colors leading to a colorfully stocked medicine cabinets. But, the drabness of the bottles saves money and keeps the Metrosexual accusations at a minimum.

I don't need advertisements to allure me with catchy names and flashing wrappings. I need honesty, directness, and truth. This will lead to product loyalty, and once your hooked, like crack, there's now turning back. So Johnson and Johnson and Proctor and Gamble, when your executives have nothing better to do than reading the nobody public's blogs, take this to your next power meeting.

Here you go Uncle Mike

My mind is my enemy. Fighting like junkyard dogs over a scrap of day old meat, my mind keeps me from a restful night sleep. There are no sugar plumb fairies dancing in my mind when I rest. The people, places, and events change, but still I wake up going "what the hell was that about?" I read somewhere a good night sleep was God's reward for a guiltless conscience." Now I must search the harddrive of my mind and emotions to find the source of worry and guilt.

I don't necessarily buy into that whole guilt crap. I think I just watch weird Sci Fi movies, read part of a strange book, and then try to sleep. Sounds like I need to change my interest for sleep. That ain't happening.


...This was a draft from a couple of days ago, it's not really complete, but it won't have anything else added to it. Check back soon I'll have the interesting events of my past week.

Reverse Nap

It's 3am. The entire house is dark, both rooms opposite of my hold in it's bowls sleeping men, re-energizing for the new week. One spot in the house glows light, casting a reflection of a tired, aged man in the window. My computer connecting me to the outside world with silent judgment for being up this late. I've stopped sleeping through Thunderstorms.

At one time the melodic symphony of pidder padder outside danced with the drumming thunder and awesomeness of a light show, was what I loved. Nature's own audio/visual show inspires, scares, and brings to tears the heart of dime store novel lovers. But, now, I am set apart by worry. I wake up in the middle of the night listening to thunder in turn with the lightning. I hear every creek of my almost 70 year old home. The rattling windows, the deflection of rain from window to window sill and I worry about how the house will hold up. Will I wake tomorrow to find more areas in need of fixing? I silently think to myself "girl, I know you can do, stand strong." I have missed my last night of worriless sleep. It was in July of 04, a month before I decided to buy a house. No worries, few responsibilities, and deep rain filled sleep.

Also, is the nature of my job. Big storms, mean big work. Long days, filled with unhappy people whose homes are broken. The thought of waking up tomorrow and having more work than I can handle, but having nothing to do to stop it, also keeps the eyelids open at night. I don't know why I am worried about it. I am good when it comes to busy situations, I thrive well. I know what needs to be done and I do it. But, that doesn't mean I enjoy the bountiful times more than the lean. I like the small work load. The time to do things right as opposed to fast. I don't want to kiss my social life goodbye for the next few weeks. So I sit up and I think about it.

My bed is so comfortable, and my mind is not comfortable. Sleep is one of my favorite things, I guess this is like a reverse nap. You take a nap during the day, but when you wake up from sleep during the night, briefly, and then you return to sleep, I guess can only be a reverse nap. My mind is hazy with sleep and my words tend to make less sense at this point. With a quick prayer I will give my problems to God and try to salvage the rest of my night, maybe a extra pillow over my head will do the trick.

Irish eyes are Smiling

Yesterday was not what you would consider a typical day. Even for those of us who seem to never have an "ordinary" day, yesterday was out of sorts. Allow me to illustrate:
My morning commute to my claims found me stopped at a red light staring at the ass end of this yahoo. With a half hearted "ugh" I felt it necessary to document the insanity of some people. As I have learned over the past couple of weeks, there seems to be lots of contradiction and conspiracy theories around the events of 9/11. I find it odd as to see this as in just earlier this week I read an article in a Maxim about a plethora of other theories. These usually start with digital nerds searching video archives for any excuse to abuse their first amendment rights, or those eccentric, old-money millionaires blowing daddy's start from nothing fortune on back door methods of being famous. Apparently having gobs of money is nothing unless it comes with obscure fame in seedy magazines. But, who am I to know...millions I don't have, but eccentricities I have a few. This kind of mania justifies the need for psychologist...so I say "Go Dad, heal the world of it's mental cases and save those millions because I want to prove how aliens actually landed in New York, not Roswell, to populate the earth." Whatever to those cats.

Anyway...It's too bad how unfortunate events over shadow the pleasant ones. You find yourself dwelling on the funny, yet disgusting occurrences and leaving the heart warming ones at the whey side.

Yesterday, my fist claim was for wind damage to a lady's roof. I knocked on the door, she greeted me with a smile, as did her daughter. I looked over her damages. Half of it was not covered and the other half didn't amount to more than her deductible. As I sat and explained this to her...words most would scoff and yell about...she patiently listened, asked valid questions and understood. Afterwards, she and her daughter, proceeded to invite me to their church for Easter and then extended an verbal invitation to a crawfish boil they were having in the near future. I was taken aback. Normally after telling them the company they have been giving money to for years and years is going to leave you high, and not so dry, they give the obligatory "screw off" nod and I leave. I don't know if the daughter thought I was cute, or what...maybe good people are good no matter what happens, but I left there feeling pretty good. Little did I know that would change.

I arrived at my next claim. I really old trailer in the middle of a really old trailer park. Not exactly an uncommon sight for me. I park my new car beside a truck older than I am, and proceed to maneuver car parts, beer cans, and mangy animals in my trek to the front door. Up one, two, three, cracked and broken steps, I stand firm on the temporary porch, that looks as if it has been there since the truck was new. I knock on the door and wait for someone to answer. I am greeted by a muffled "Come On" from inside. I peel back the screen door, thankful I had a tetanus shout a couple of months ago, and step through the threshold into the home. There, not three feet away from me was the man I was there to met. He was a large, old, black man...and he was completely NAKED! As he was toweling himself off, while sitting in a ratty arm chair with the stuffy hanging out in more than a few places, I didn't quite grasp what was going on. My eyes flashed from the top of him to the bottom and I quickly averted my eyes to watch a fly which had landed on the opposite wall. I ask "Did you say I could come in?" To which he responded "Yeah." I informed him I think it was going to be best if I just wait out side till he gets dressed. And without waiting for a response, I turned go the hell outta Dodge. I have been greeted with many different and unique things, from Great Danes, to scantily clad women, and I can definitely say large naked black men are my least favorite, hands down. Now if that was all to the story that would be good enough, but alas, it there's more.

As I was waiting for him to get dressed his cohort came outside to start showing me the damaged areas. I was looking, nodding, and flipping through the archives of my mind to find anything to push the vision of a few minutes ago out. Zeroed in on my happy place, I professionally proceed. At this point I am under this 28 year old mobile home, where I know there are large rats (I know, because the man told me they were there). Freaking out and crawling commando style on my elbows and knees I take a couple of misaimed pictures and bugger out. Standing up in the sunshine with mud, muck, and a something I didn't want to recognize on my rain suit, I stretch and whisper a word of victory for surviving with out being eaten by a Bossier rat. My noise burns and my eyes twitch. I started smelling something I haven't smelled in a while...I look around and see the other man standing there with both hands behind his back and then I know. This man has just lit a joint and was smoking it as if I was an old football buddy coming by for beer and dominoes. Agian, I am momentarily speechless, but resecure my happily place in my mind and push onward. I wrapped that claim up quicker than most, gravel shooting from my back tires as I peel away from scaryville, I utter a sigh of relief and cover my body with antibacterial lotion.

That was not what I would consider a normal adjustment or insurance exchange. I treated that more along the lines of I will do whatever it takes to get me out of here as quickly as possible. Unfortunately I will be haunted by this, but I do know, when all the adjusters come around, my water cooler story will be the blue medal champion.

The rest of the day was pretty standard. Finish work and go. I had an engagement part to go to. Not my first choice, but I had fun. Despite having to dress up, I suffered through it and my eyes lit up at the prospect of going to the Noble Savage, the only almost Irish pub in town, and enjoying a cold pint of Guinness. MMmmm, Irish beer on Saint Patty's Day. My very own Glenn here in town. I drank Guinness until they ran out and listened to Irish drinking songs, sung by old Irish immigrants. Not a bad end to an unusual day.

Today finds me staring out the window at the rain coming down and feeling relieved at any excuse to be lazy. I think today will be a day nerdom. Piddling on the computer, reading the paper, and maybe an afternoon matinee, solo. After a really crappy week of work, todays prospects look almost perfect. Now if I can just get those Irish songs out of my head I will be fine..."Oh, Danny boy..."

Say What?

I find it discouraging that merely a day after I spent four hours filling 13 bags of leaves from my front yard, it looks as if nothing has been done. More leaves have returned to take the place of their falled brethren. Hiding in nooks and crannies like an insect afraid of the daylight. It took me a long time to work up the energy and motivation to rake. And when I say a long time I mean somewhere in the area of 4 months.

My diligent neighbor can be found on most Fridays, and even some Mondays, meticulously combing his yard with his rake, sweeping each particle of dust from the sidewalk, and occasionally spray painting his ornamental lions that greet his guest...gold spray paint, of course. I stare out the window and watch him, in the zone, taking pride in his manual labor. I am guessing he is wired differently than I am. My thought process during my experience of yard maintenance was "why don't I just pay one of my youth to do this?" Granted the end result and appreciation period of sitting on the porch sipping a cold beer was almost worth the blisters and sweat...almost. However, the looming dread of, at some point, tackling the backyard protruded through my euphoric bliss.

Does this make me lazy or just a stereotypical example of the "next" generation. One of quick, easy solutions, willing to throw money at the problems in exchange for ease and comfort. Is it sad that sometimes I would rather buy a new stove, than put forth the effort to make it spotless? Not what one would consider a fiscally responsible choice.

I did see something very unusual while I was cleaning my yard. A older Black man was walking down the street (not unusual, but his attire was). He was wearing camouflaged pants and a white t-shirt. The strange bit of it all was the emblem on the reverse of his shirt. It was the rebel flag, the stars and bars. Traditionally this was the battle flag for the confederacy. Something, to current society, represents slavery, oppresion, and more ignorant times. Usually the stars and bars are displayed by red necks, racists, and true Civil War buffs. It was, to say the least, comical to see this man wearing this shirt. To be more specific, the center of the flag had a soccer ball on it and a mention to dixie written above the flag in big letters. My reaction was the classic movie double take. The causal glance followed by the second more surprised stare of bewilderment. I chuckled to myself as I watched him walk away. I wanted to ask him of his intentions behind the shirt, but felt it better to just speculate as my current task came back to the fore front of my mind. I don't think I have ever seen a black man react positively to the confederate flag, better yet, I have never seen one wear anything that could be considered embracing the evolved stigma of the stars and bars. It was all very odd.

Now I must prepare the lesson for youth tonight. When I am in charge, weird things happen. Good, but weird.

Did you just call me sir?

This past week or so has been pretty good for me. I was lucky enough to pass my Texas P and C adjuster exam, which has currently landed me in San Antonio for this week. Now I am brewing a cup of coffee and staring out of my 7th floor balcony to look over the city. Not a bad set up.

Work was slow this week leading the way to a restful Wed thru Fri. Working a combined 2 hrs for those three days. I went shopping earlier this week and bought a bunch of new cloths with the company bonuses. I have figured the trick to a pleasant shopping experience. Let me first start off by stating...I am a male. This means, I don't like to shop, I feel uncomfortable foraging for sales and competing with the latest trends for my age. When I must go shopping, I look for ten minutes max, try on the one thing I need, and then leave the store. I don't linger, I don't converse with the staff, I get in, get out, and get back to the sanctity of my home. Pretty typical for me, and I like it that way. But, this week was different. In fact, I think I have found the only way to shop. Find a girl to go with you. She picks out the clothes, tells you what looks good, and steers you away from the wardrobe regrets. It's a big step to put your money and your style into her hands, but if you trust her, then you come out looking great. Which I think I did. So, next time I have to go shopping I am bringing reinforcements.

But, the real downer of the week was coming to terms with the fact I am getting old. I always thought the process of getting old was going to be gross, but easy. You know, the longer recovery periods from nights out, being excited when you buy new appliances, or those newly discovered patches of back hair. But, I was not expecting aches and pains.

Through my life I have played 9 years of soccer, 4 and a half years of inter colligent sports, and many a night of stupidity at a Fraternity house. All of these with no major injuries and only a couple of scars. But, now, in only three weeks of church volleyball, I have injured myself twice, both pretty badly. The first was to my big toe. I jumped up and landed, with all my weight, on my left big toe. It hurt for almost two weeks. Then just last week, I made a beautiful point saving dive on the court to keep the play going. Unfortunate I landed on my right knee. That took me out of the games for the rest of the night. The next morning I couldn't bend my knee. It hurt to walk and it took me four or five attempts to get up from a sitted position. I started popping advil and called the doctor. By the time appointment arrived, I could walk and bend it some, but it still hurt like hell. The doctor took the x-rays and with a pensive "hmm" started to poke and prod my knee. The questions you dislike the most from the doctor is "Does this hurt?" Because you know, even if that spot doesn't' hurt, you will eventually get to the area that does, and when the doctor doesn't have to ask you, but can see from the grimace on your face...he knows he has hit medical gold.

The doctor told me I have a possible tear in my medial meniscus. He then explained to me what that was...which I have forgotten by now, but I think it is the area where the rounded portions of the leg bones meet and for a cup. He said, it didn't look severe enough to send me to another doctor, but told me it would hurt for 7 to 10 days, and if it didn't feel better then to call him back. I was told to not run, jump, play racketball, or basically do anything athleticlly fun. Which stinks, but I guess it is best to follow his orders and avoid surgery. So I guess this gives me a doctor's note to be lazy. I can dig that. He then gave me a bunch of free meds and sent me on my way. Four days later and I am not having any more trouble sleeping from the pain, but I tackled a mountain of stair yesterday and I can feel the effects.

Getting old I can handle. The added responsibility, the waning metabolism, the shifting of goals, all of that is fine and and acceptable to me. But, the deterioration of the body is not something I want to deal with. A buddy of mine told me that he wakes up every day with something new hurting. Not something I am looking forward to. But, I guess it is better than the alternative.