Is there anything more beautiful in life than an elderly couple enjoying a cup of coffee and a biscuit every Friday evening at the local coffee shop?
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Clarity vs. Emptiness
Thoughts upstairs are honed with exact clarity
Speech makes the words fatty, jumbled, unnatural, and empty
Others don't think the way I do. Shared experience?
Then their speech pulls the rug out from under me.
They know more and their lives mean more
Speech makes the words fatty, jumbled, unnatural, and empty
Others don't think the way I do. Shared experience?
Then their speech pulls the rug out from under me.
They know more and their lives mean more
Monday, September 23, 2013
Biting Off More than I Can Chew, Better than Starving
I put quite a few things on my plate this year. I'm the President of my Scholarship Hall at the University of Kansas, I am a columnist for the University Daily Kansan, I am an avid blogger, a full-time student enrolled in 17 credit hours, and I am training for my first marathon in October.
But I am also a growing boy, and growing boys need to eat. There is a lot on my plate, but who's saying I won't want seconds?
I'll leave you with two of my favorite Henry-quotes:
"When everything seems to be going against you, remember that an airplane takes off against the wind, not with it." -- Henry Ford
"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms." -- Henry David Thoreau
But I am also a growing boy, and growing boys need to eat. There is a lot on my plate, but who's saying I won't want seconds?
I'll leave you with two of my favorite Henry-quotes:
"When everything seems to be going against you, remember that an airplane takes off against the wind, not with it." -- Henry Ford
"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms." -- Henry David Thoreau
Friday, September 6, 2013
Speechless
I came across this from "The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows." It's truly amazing how much power words can have. This is nothing short of mind-blowing (to me at least).
sonder
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends,routines , worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk .
Thursday, August 1, 2013
The Song of the Cicadas
August is a scene of change. A scene played with the accompaniment of the singing Cicadas.
Cicadas, for those who haven't caught sight, are peanut-sized insects with wings, large, red eyes in the locus where ears might be better served (on the side of the head), and a protective shell with vibrant colors. Reds, greens, yellows, and oranges.
In Jean de la Fontaine's collection of fables "Les fables de la La Fontaine", Fontaine writes "La Cigale et la Fourmi" (The Cicada and the Ant), based on one of Aesop's fables. In the story, the cicada spends the entire summer singing while the ant, in direct contrast, stores away food in preparation for the ensuing winter months. The Cicada finds itself ill-prepared when the cold days arrive, coming to represent insouciance in the animal kingdom.
The Cicada fails to think ahead, essentially singing itself to death.
There are several ways this fable can be interpreted. Should we lead a life like the ant? Resourceful, forward-thinking, and a little fretful? Maybe compulsively fretful? Or should we live life like the Cicada? Carefree and in the moment.
As August hits and winter drops its first hints of rearing its ugly head, the Cicada sees its imminent demise. August is when the Cicada sings loudest. It won't go out with a whimper. It'll meet its end, but not without being heard.
The Cicada molts, and when it does, it leaves behind a brown, hard shell that blends in with the environment.
While the first of January is considered the start of the new year, August 1 is a turn of the calendar in its own right.
August sneaks up on us like that long-lost high school friend you run into at a party. The moment you see him or her, it strikes you how much you've both changed and how much time has passed since you last saw each other.
Summer habits suddenly seem trivial, with the coming of August 1. Life picks up its pace a notch and a half to the metronome of the high school marching band and drum-line thumping along. Anticipation builds. Thump. Thump thump. Thump. Thump Thump. The Cicadas keep singing.
Old, familiar faces look fresh, new, and vigorous. The winding running trails through wooded forests are littered with crunchy, brown leaves. Crunch. Crunch Crunch. Crunch. Crunch Crunch.
It's the beginning of the end around us: plants begin to wilt under the late-summer sun, the foliage begins to redden and brown and fall to the ground, and strong scents of dead grass waft through the warm air, but it's the beginning of the beginning for us: an all but fresh slate at school and work.
As we see life around us begin to fight a losing battle, we humans come closer in self-defense.
After the late and last harvest of the year, we gather in a period of Thanksgiving. In the dead of Winter, we light up our homes and spruces and sing carols and give gifts.
We can often lose touch with those around us during the summer. Everything is easy and comfortable. There is no shortage of sunlight or time spent poolside. The Cicada just sits back and sings.
But Autumn helps put a little fear back into us. Like the ant. Fear motivates.
We come closer, and work harder. All the while, the Cicada knows what's coming. Buzz. Buzz Buzz. Buzz. Buzz Buzz.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Pay it Forward
I’d like to take a little time to share something that
happened to me today—something nothing short of miraculous.
I was on mile 7 of a 12 mile run this morning, coming up the
big hill on Quivira from 119th on my way to 135th . I was
hurting a lot worse than usual today, to the point where I was getting dizzy
and I could feel the chills coming on.
By the time I reached the top of the hill and crossed the
street by the KU Edwards Campus, I felt like I was actually going to pass out.
That’s not good, considering I didn’t have my cell phone or any identification
on me at the time.
I knew if I could just make it to a gas station in the next
mile that I could stop and borrow someone’s phone.
I remember saying to myself as I was crossing the street, ‘Lord,
what I’d give for a drink.’
This is NOT fabricated. This happened just a few hours ago.
Just 2/10 of a mile later, in my weakest moment, I ran into
a cooler in the grass beside the sidewalk in front of Heritage United Methodist
Church, stuffed to the brim with cold water bottles. Taped to the cooler was a
sign reading, “Quivira Runners/Walkers: Please take one! Have fun and be safe!”
To whoever put that cooler out there this morning, THANK
YOU! I know this was just a simple gesture, but for me, it was a miracle in a
moment of need.
In all the years I’ve been running, I have NEVER found water
set out for the taking, and this act of kindness carried me the rest of the way
home.
I’ll let you interpret this story how you’d like, whether it
was a gift from God or just coincidence.
I know it’s easy to lose faith in humanity these days. Just
turn on the local news for fifteen minutes tonight and you’ll see what I mean—so
much pain and suffering.
But today gave me some reassurance that there are good
people in this world. And I am convinced to pay it forward as one of them.
For those whose faith might have been tested recently, my
message it this: there is good in the world. It will find you, and when it
does, be sure to pass it on.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Don't Dump (Coffee) in the Water Fountains, Please
Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in the foyer of Wescoe Hall at the University of Kansas, waiting for a meeting with my academic adviser. I seated myself in one of three chairs across from a water fountain and vending machine, just a few steps to the left of her office.
For those that don't know, Wescoe Hall, for all it's accomplishments in the Liberal Arts and Sciences Department, is kinda KU's biggest eyesore on campus. It's one of those buildings that you might mistake for a parking garage. And if you did, no harm no foul. It was a parking garage converted into a Lecture Hall. Yes, at a Division One, Big 12 University. I repeat: the flagship university of the state of Kansas uses a former parking garage to teach the humanities. I thought, maybe, that sequence of events took place vice versa, but what the hell do I know? I'm no architect.
Being a potential English major and all, you can't but help hearing that "the humanities are down", but a parking garage? Times are tougher than even I could have guessed.
So, there I waited. 5 minutes turned into 10, 10 into 15.
Every now and then, just to kill a little time, I pull out my little notepad out of my drawstring bag and jot down whatever comes to mind. It could be something brilliant or trivial. It's usually the latter.
Anyways, this little activity helps to keep my mind engaged, giving me the illusion that I'm not being stood-up or ignored. It never changes the fact that I'm possibly being stood-up or ignored, but hey, it's all about how the brain perceives it, right?
(This adviser would never do that, though. She just has a million things to do every day, and I'm just one of them. She is amazing, truly.)
On this particular Tuesday, like a lot of days in the day in the life, not much was going on upstairs in the old noggin. I remembered a few classes that I took in that building, but aside from that, my brain was in complete staycation mode (this is often what state my brain goes into before, during, and immediately after meeting with an academic adviser while we attempt to map out my future).
Fine. I'll just sit back and veg and see if anything hits me right upside instead, I thought.
And that's when a neon orange sign with black lettering introduced itself to me: "Don't Dump Coffee in the Water Fountains, Please."
Monday, July 15, 2013
Beautiful Scars
Our bodies are good story-tellers. The lines around our eyes, our lips, and on our foreheads, they tell us and others where we've been and what we've done. The gray hairs tell others we are experienced. The liver spots remind us that we are all mortal.
Old people are beautiful, but it's a different kind of beauty than the one we've grown familiar with.
You won't find our senior citizens waltzing down the red carpet with paparazzi following their every step. It's not that beauty. And that's a good thing. That beauty isn't always beautiful.
Beauty takes on a whole new meaning. Their age is inspiring. Their experience is humbling. Their wisdom, that's what is beautiful.
It's a testament to their endurance. It tells us they have lived and seen death. They have been happy, sad, excited, fearful, strong, and hurt. It tells us they have been human for a long time.
Unfortunately, by and large, wear and tear on the body is considered unattractive in this culture. So much of everything is about looking younger, trimming down, and hiding blemishes.
See, there is a major difference between being healthy and being perfect, and lately, our culture has blurred that line.
Gym memberships and workout plans are good to a certain point, by lowering blood pressure, reducing the risk of heart disease, and making us feel better about ourselves, but when we stumble into vanity and over-indulgence, it can affect our lives and those around us.
From the moment we are conceived, we are trained to be ashamed of our imperfections, rather than to embrace them as something unique to us as individuals.
Creams are used to hide bald spots or give us a fuller hairline, others are used to remove hair in certain places.
Oils and other exotic ointments are sold under the impression that they give us "perfect" skin.
Birthmarks and other discoloring are hidden with gobs of makeup.
The message is the same: you are not quite good enough as you are. Perfection is attainable, though, and if you call right now, you'll get 2 Oils for the price of one. Get that clear, flawless skin you've always dreamed of.
It's a constant battle. Endless visits to the tanning salon, manicures, pedicures.
The way I see it, "inner beauty" is just an overused catch phrase. We'd like to think that inner beauty is what we're all after, but if we could look ourselves honestly in the mirror, most would admit that "outer beauty" is what drives our culture.
This is in the television we watch, the music we listen to, the billboards we read, advertisements, magazines, everywhere. It's ubiquitous.
This isn't necessarily one individual's fault. It spawned from avarice. It is the result of a corrupt system.
How do we throw some sand in the gears? Is that even a possibility? Are we too far submerged in this habit?
I don't think the answer is simple. And it will take a lot of concerned, unified effort. But those in charge of informing and entertaining the public have a huge responsibility.
Instead of beautifying prima-donnas with pretty smiles and wavy hair, let the bulk of our time cover our heroes with crooked teeth, big ears, and undesirable bodies. Give them the lion's share of screen time for their actions and beliefs, not their appearances or unhealthy relationships. Cast the Miley Cyrus' of the world off into the fringes.
It's hard enough as it is for everyday people to face our ideal body images. It's a culture that says that women should have tiny waists, but full chests and backsides. Men should be as brutish and primitive as possible, all the while sporting a perfect smile and full head of hair. It's not realistic, and it's not healthy.
Burn victims are some of the most pitiable people. The experience itself is painful beyond description. Their outwardly appearance is disfigured permanently yet they still feel obligated to meet the standards of today's ideal appearance.
The stigmas take a toll on me, your run of the mill average young guy. I can't even imagine what life would be like through their eyes. Seeing that reflection. A reflection that reminds them what they cannot be no matter how hard they try.
But that reflection is beautiful. Not the beauty we've become familiar with, but a different kind of beauty.
Firefighters, war veterans, and just ordinary good Samaritans doing extraordinary things, these are our most beautiful people.
The scars and grotesque burns are just the bubbling over of compassion and bravery. Inner beauty incarnate.
These are beautiful people. These are beautiful scars. Hear them sing. They are worth listening to.
Old people are beautiful, but it's a different kind of beauty than the one we've grown familiar with.
You won't find our senior citizens waltzing down the red carpet with paparazzi following their every step. It's not that beauty. And that's a good thing. That beauty isn't always beautiful.
Beauty takes on a whole new meaning. Their age is inspiring. Their experience is humbling. Their wisdom, that's what is beautiful.
It's a testament to their endurance. It tells us they have lived and seen death. They have been happy, sad, excited, fearful, strong, and hurt. It tells us they have been human for a long time.
Unfortunately, by and large, wear and tear on the body is considered unattractive in this culture. So much of everything is about looking younger, trimming down, and hiding blemishes.
See, there is a major difference between being healthy and being perfect, and lately, our culture has blurred that line.
Gym memberships and workout plans are good to a certain point, by lowering blood pressure, reducing the risk of heart disease, and making us feel better about ourselves, but when we stumble into vanity and over-indulgence, it can affect our lives and those around us.
From the moment we are conceived, we are trained to be ashamed of our imperfections, rather than to embrace them as something unique to us as individuals.
Creams are used to hide bald spots or give us a fuller hairline, others are used to remove hair in certain places.
Oils and other exotic ointments are sold under the impression that they give us "perfect" skin.
Birthmarks and other discoloring are hidden with gobs of makeup.
The message is the same: you are not quite good enough as you are. Perfection is attainable, though, and if you call right now, you'll get 2 Oils for the price of one. Get that clear, flawless skin you've always dreamed of.
It's a constant battle. Endless visits to the tanning salon, manicures, pedicures.
The way I see it, "inner beauty" is just an overused catch phrase. We'd like to think that inner beauty is what we're all after, but if we could look ourselves honestly in the mirror, most would admit that "outer beauty" is what drives our culture.
This is in the television we watch, the music we listen to, the billboards we read, advertisements, magazines, everywhere. It's ubiquitous.
This isn't necessarily one individual's fault. It spawned from avarice. It is the result of a corrupt system.
How do we throw some sand in the gears? Is that even a possibility? Are we too far submerged in this habit?
I don't think the answer is simple. And it will take a lot of concerned, unified effort. But those in charge of informing and entertaining the public have a huge responsibility.
Instead of beautifying prima-donnas with pretty smiles and wavy hair, let the bulk of our time cover our heroes with crooked teeth, big ears, and undesirable bodies. Give them the lion's share of screen time for their actions and beliefs, not their appearances or unhealthy relationships. Cast the Miley Cyrus' of the world off into the fringes.
It's hard enough as it is for everyday people to face our ideal body images. It's a culture that says that women should have tiny waists, but full chests and backsides. Men should be as brutish and primitive as possible, all the while sporting a perfect smile and full head of hair. It's not realistic, and it's not healthy.
Burn victims are some of the most pitiable people. The experience itself is painful beyond description. Their outwardly appearance is disfigured permanently yet they still feel obligated to meet the standards of today's ideal appearance.
The stigmas take a toll on me, your run of the mill average young guy. I can't even imagine what life would be like through their eyes. Seeing that reflection. A reflection that reminds them what they cannot be no matter how hard they try.
But that reflection is beautiful. Not the beauty we've become familiar with, but a different kind of beauty.
Firefighters, war veterans, and just ordinary good Samaritans doing extraordinary things, these are our most beautiful people.
The scars and grotesque burns are just the bubbling over of compassion and bravery. Inner beauty incarnate.
These are beautiful people. These are beautiful scars. Hear them sing. They are worth listening to.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
A Few of My (Many) Qualms with Social Media
This past Friday night I went to a concert geared toward a crowd much younger and more feminine than myself. It was a very emasculating four hours, and by the end of it, I had to do something manly to overcompensate, like eat a Snickers bar or something. But for the most part I enjoyed it and lived to tell about it, so that's good.
My reason/impetus for going in the first place? I couldn't turn down the opportunity to see the young, beautiful, and extremely talented Ariana Grande perform live. Her voice is breathtaking on the radio, and when I learned that she was coming to Kansas City, I knew I couldn't pass up the chance to hear it in person. Even if I had to survive a trio of post-pubescent boys with falsetto voices, shallow, artless lyrics, and biceps the size of a healthy newborn, I'd just bite the bullet, fashion my best fake smile, and countdown to the woman of my dreams.
The moment was fleeting, she sneaked on stage suddenly, and left as quickly as she came. All I know was that goosebumps covered my epidermis for the song's entirety, and I was told by those around me that I lost all control of motor skills and coordination, while drool spilled from the corners of my mouth and onto the pre-teen girl next to me.
As she pranced off stage leaving the crowd in a frenzy, I realized my night had hit its climax.
That is when Emblem3 (heir to the Boy Band throne after One Direction, The Jonas Brothers, and countless others) and 4,256 smart phones made their appearance.
I'm still not sure if I can believe what I saw as the young men walked out on stage. In one, unitary motion, every girl, woman, and homosexual or questioning male, lifted their smart phone above their head and began recording the performance.
All eyes were fixated on the 2x4 screen in front of them, and not on the stage and the pop stars themselves.
After what felt like an eternity of fist pumps, high squeals, and dry-humping the air in front of them (much to the approval of the pro-female, pro-teen crowd) the dreamboats finally skated off the stage. The cell phones returned to their base, in the pocket of their rightful owner.
All the while I couldn't help but be reminded of Angel Boligan's cartoon, El Universal.
I used to assume art imitated reality, but maybe in these days the roles have reversed: reality imitates art.
Hot Chelle Rea didn't help the matter, egging on the audience when it was their turn in the spotlight. "Who wants to be in my picture?" He asked. The crowd exploded like an unscrewed Dr. Pepper would had it been shaken by Thor in the moments after he had recently been denied a bank loan.
"Check out our twitter page after the show if you want to see yourself, Kansas City!"
Light-bulb goes off in my head: this is all just a big marketing ploy. You're all blind.
They lobbed out some bait, and the fish bit... hard.
One of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, made comment on the recording of our lives in his newest release, "Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls." In his essay "Day in, Day Out" Sedaris wrote "it's not lost on me that I'm so busy recording life, I don't have time to really live it. I've become like one of those people I hate, the sort who go to the museum and, instead of looking at the magnificent Brueghel, take a picture of it, reducing it from art to proof. It's not "Look what Brueghel did, painted this masterpiece" but "Look what I did, went to Rotterdam and stood in front of a Brueghel painting!""
Instead of living the performance, these girls recorded it. I'm not blaming them, that's just where we sit today. That is what they are expected to do.
"Climb the mountain not to plant your flag," says David McCullough, Wellesley High School English teacher, in his commencement speech "You are not Special." "But to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air, and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you."
"Go to Paris to be in Paris," he continues, "not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly."
Go to concerts not to so everybody knows you heard magnificent vocals or squeaky beach boys, but to enjoy them.
Facebook checks us in when we go places. It encourages us to post photos and statuses telling of our adventures. It tricks us into thinking that we are closer to people than we ever were just because they are a few clicks (hyperlinks) away. But the truth is that this false sense of proximity is making our ties weaker and weaker. We know less and less about our "friends" because we all constantly monitor and tweak our profiles to give off the image we want to be seen, not the image that is real.
Instagram is all about proof. Proof that you did something or that you are something.
Twitter, even in the naming, gives you the misconstrued idea that people care enough about you that they will "follow" your every thought. The game is to follow as little people, and to have as many followers as humanely possible.
These networks are false realities. They are gradually becoming the real-world, though.
Personal connection is falling by the wayside.
Maybe art is no longer imitating reality. Maybe reality is chasing after art, and were all here to watch it unravel.
My reason/impetus for going in the first place? I couldn't turn down the opportunity to see the young, beautiful, and extremely talented Ariana Grande perform live. Her voice is breathtaking on the radio, and when I learned that she was coming to Kansas City, I knew I couldn't pass up the chance to hear it in person. Even if I had to survive a trio of post-pubescent boys with falsetto voices, shallow, artless lyrics, and biceps the size of a healthy newborn, I'd just bite the bullet, fashion my best fake smile, and countdown to the woman of my dreams.
The moment was fleeting, she sneaked on stage suddenly, and left as quickly as she came. All I know was that goosebumps covered my epidermis for the song's entirety, and I was told by those around me that I lost all control of motor skills and coordination, while drool spilled from the corners of my mouth and onto the pre-teen girl next to me.
As she pranced off stage leaving the crowd in a frenzy, I realized my night had hit its climax.
That is when Emblem3 (heir to the Boy Band throne after One Direction, The Jonas Brothers, and countless others) and 4,256 smart phones made their appearance.
I'm still not sure if I can believe what I saw as the young men walked out on stage. In one, unitary motion, every girl, woman, and homosexual or questioning male, lifted their smart phone above their head and began recording the performance.
All eyes were fixated on the 2x4 screen in front of them, and not on the stage and the pop stars themselves.
After what felt like an eternity of fist pumps, high squeals, and dry-humping the air in front of them (much to the approval of the pro-female, pro-teen crowd) the dreamboats finally skated off the stage. The cell phones returned to their base, in the pocket of their rightful owner.
All the while I couldn't help but be reminded of Angel Boligan's cartoon, El Universal.
I used to assume art imitated reality, but maybe in these days the roles have reversed: reality imitates art.
Hot Chelle Rea didn't help the matter, egging on the audience when it was their turn in the spotlight. "Who wants to be in my picture?" He asked. The crowd exploded like an unscrewed Dr. Pepper would had it been shaken by Thor in the moments after he had recently been denied a bank loan.
"Check out our twitter page after the show if you want to see yourself, Kansas City!"
Light-bulb goes off in my head: this is all just a big marketing ploy. You're all blind.
They lobbed out some bait, and the fish bit... hard.
One of my favorite writers, David Sedaris, made comment on the recording of our lives in his newest release, "Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls." In his essay "Day in, Day Out" Sedaris wrote "it's not lost on me that I'm so busy recording life, I don't have time to really live it. I've become like one of those people I hate, the sort who go to the museum and, instead of looking at the magnificent Brueghel, take a picture of it, reducing it from art to proof. It's not "Look what Brueghel did, painted this masterpiece" but "Look what I did, went to Rotterdam and stood in front of a Brueghel painting!""
Instead of living the performance, these girls recorded it. I'm not blaming them, that's just where we sit today. That is what they are expected to do.
"Climb the mountain not to plant your flag," says David McCullough, Wellesley High School English teacher, in his commencement speech "You are not Special." "But to embrace the challenge, enjoy the air, and behold the view. Climb it so you can see the world, not so the world can see you."
"Go to Paris to be in Paris," he continues, "not to cross it off your list and congratulate yourself for being worldly."
Go to concerts not to so everybody knows you heard magnificent vocals or squeaky beach boys, but to enjoy them.
Facebook checks us in when we go places. It encourages us to post photos and statuses telling of our adventures. It tricks us into thinking that we are closer to people than we ever were just because they are a few clicks (hyperlinks) away. But the truth is that this false sense of proximity is making our ties weaker and weaker. We know less and less about our "friends" because we all constantly monitor and tweak our profiles to give off the image we want to be seen, not the image that is real.
Instagram is all about proof. Proof that you did something or that you are something.
Twitter, even in the naming, gives you the misconstrued idea that people care enough about you that they will "follow" your every thought. The game is to follow as little people, and to have as many followers as humanely possible.
These networks are false realities. They are gradually becoming the real-world, though.
Personal connection is falling by the wayside.
Maybe art is no longer imitating reality. Maybe reality is chasing after art, and were all here to watch it unravel.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
An Informal Decree/Plea to Depraved Suburbia
Dearest Friends of Johnson County, USA:
Let me start with this: I dig you. I realize our beloved adolescents need to experiment a little with their new-found freedom. Like a caged animal, the first steps of liberty are always the most aggressive and never the most rational.
I've been there and done that myself. Be it with road trips, the opposite sex, or with that shirtless idiot running on the sidewalk nearby at 11 o'clock at night. Things I'll regret, but things that helped purge the wild out of me. This was good for me and those around in the long run.
So I get it. I understand the whole driving by and calling me names thing while I'm mounting a long hill, short on coordination, but not on effort, with sweat pouring down forehead and onto my wheezing, disfigured face. I would have probably done the same thing to myself a few years back to be quite honest.
It wouldn't be fair for me to put you under a different microscope than the one I had honed in on me back in my heyday.
And to be quite frank about the matter, I actually enjoy the banter and teasing on occasion, so long as the name calling is creative and not too terribly offensive. I'll admit, the very best JOCO hoodlums have made me laugh mid-run a time or two, while screaming profanities and flashing genitalia out what I presume is daddy's SUV. I could be wrong, though. You could have very well footed the bill. Jobless, responsibility free and all.
Even still, your indecent exposure is illegal in this country and most others, and at least frowned upon in a good deal of the rest. I'd suggest saving the "mooning" for special occasions, holidays, etc., if you could.
But I'll also admit: "Run, Faggot" is starting to get just a little old.
Granted, it sure was funny the first fifty times I heard it; I'll give you that. But how about something new for a change? There are plenty of other mindless insults you could blast out your window.
I'm long-winded as usual, but long story short: if all you little privileged, white-collared miscreants want to get together and have a pow wow to come up with a few fresh, new things to call me and my fellow runners, that'd be awful sweet. I know you can do it. And I think we'd all benefit from that gesture.
Please and thanks. On behalf of all JOCO runners young and old, yours truly,
Dan
Let me start with this: I dig you. I realize our beloved adolescents need to experiment a little with their new-found freedom. Like a caged animal, the first steps of liberty are always the most aggressive and never the most rational.
I've been there and done that myself. Be it with road trips, the opposite sex, or with that shirtless idiot running on the sidewalk nearby at 11 o'clock at night. Things I'll regret, but things that helped purge the wild out of me. This was good for me and those around in the long run.
So I get it. I understand the whole driving by and calling me names thing while I'm mounting a long hill, short on coordination, but not on effort, with sweat pouring down forehead and onto my wheezing, disfigured face. I would have probably done the same thing to myself a few years back to be quite honest.
It wouldn't be fair for me to put you under a different microscope than the one I had honed in on me back in my heyday.
And to be quite frank about the matter, I actually enjoy the banter and teasing on occasion, so long as the name calling is creative and not too terribly offensive. I'll admit, the very best JOCO hoodlums have made me laugh mid-run a time or two, while screaming profanities and flashing genitalia out what I presume is daddy's SUV. I could be wrong, though. You could have very well footed the bill. Jobless, responsibility free and all.
Even still, your indecent exposure is illegal in this country and most others, and at least frowned upon in a good deal of the rest. I'd suggest saving the "mooning" for special occasions, holidays, etc., if you could.
But I'll also admit: "Run, Faggot" is starting to get just a little old.
Granted, it sure was funny the first fifty times I heard it; I'll give you that. But how about something new for a change? There are plenty of other mindless insults you could blast out your window.
I'm long-winded as usual, but long story short: if all you little privileged, white-collared miscreants want to get together and have a pow wow to come up with a few fresh, new things to call me and my fellow runners, that'd be awful sweet. I know you can do it. And I think we'd all benefit from that gesture.
Please and thanks. On behalf of all JOCO runners young and old, yours truly,
Dan
Thursday, June 20, 2013
What Gets YOU Up in the Morning?
The other day, my dad asked me a pretty simple question: what gets you up in the morning?
It was kind of one of those odd, silence-breaking, thought provoking questions that come around about once a month.
So I sat there and ruminated.
My first thought was: not a whole lot. On days that I don't work or have school, I usually sleep into and often through the noon hours, on into 2, maybe three o'clock. The world keeps humming along at a blistering pace, and there I sit (lay, rather), inanimate and completely tranquil.
Then I thought about the question from an even more literal perspective. Well, often times it is a beeping alarm clock that first molests me in my groggy funk. It starts off slow and monotonous, but then gradually crescendos into rapid fire like an AK-47 assault rifle. Or a machine gun.
By that point, I usually decide that I can't take it anymore (my family/roommates are long passed that by then and are ready to rip my alarm from the socket in the wall, and me from my bed), so I decide to hit the sleep button and see if I can last 10 rounds of "snoozing" the thing. I usually can't. I turn the alarm off by round seven, knocked out, and sleep away another two hours.
I started thinking about a few days back when I was perusing through a list of majors that are offered by the University of Kansas. It's the summer before my junior year of college, so I figured it might be about time to figure out what I want to do with my life.
So I was checking off majors that I knew I wasn't too terribly interested in or qualified for: Oboe? No. Slavic Languages? Nie. Tribal Law? I beg your pardon?
That's when I stumbled upon one degree in particular that caught my interest. Undecided (undergrad, PREP) College of Liberal Arts and Sciences. I guess with a major like that, the only way to respond to someone who asked you that infamous, glib of a question: "well, what are you going to do with THAT?" would be to say, unabashed: "well, I don't know, really. I haven't decided."
Am I interested in being undecided? Well, I wouldn't say I'm morally opposed. Am I qualified to be undecided? Most definitely.
So I highlighted Undecided as a possible candidate and made a small note to self: "this one has potential."
Another major that really snatched my attention: Colon & Rectal Surgery.
How, exactly, does a prospective freshman in college tease through all 299 degrees that KU has to offer, and narrow down the field to that? You have majors ranging from Interpretive Dance to the French Horn. And everything in between. Didn't you enjoy playing the French Horn in elementary school? Bobby, you played a mean French Horn! Why don't you give it a try, I'm not so sold on this Colon stuff.
I mean, I guess SOMEBODY has got to do it? Maybe the allure of fingering around someone's duodenum was just too tough to pass up?
In twenty years, when asked this same question, I'd like to be able to answer it with a variety of two word combinations: my job, my family, my Royals, etc. I'm too optimistic to count out my job or potential family as possibilities, but right now, the Royals might be wishful thinking.
I haven't answered the question yet, and I'm sure many of you haven't either. But maybe you haven't even asked yourself the question yet?
Try it.
You might eventually answer it with: my children, my nagging wife, long walks on the beach, or conducting a nice colonoscopy at the crack of dawn. Keyword: crack.
So have at it: what gets you up in the morning?
It was kind of one of those odd, silence-breaking, thought provoking questions that come around about once a month.
So I sat there and ruminated.
My first thought was: not a whole lot. On days that I don't work or have school, I usually sleep into and often through the noon hours, on into 2, maybe three o'clock. The world keeps humming along at a blistering pace, and there I sit (lay, rather), inanimate and completely tranquil.
Then I thought about the question from an even more literal perspective. Well, often times it is a beeping alarm clock that first molests me in my groggy funk. It starts off slow and monotonous, but then gradually crescendos into rapid fire like an AK-47 assault rifle. Or a machine gun.
By that point, I usually decide that I can't take it anymore (my family/roommates are long passed that by then and are ready to rip my alarm from the socket in the wall, and me from my bed), so I decide to hit the sleep button and see if I can last 10 rounds of "snoozing" the thing. I usually can't. I turn the alarm off by round seven, knocked out, and sleep away another two hours.
I started thinking about a few days back when I was perusing through a list of majors that are offered by the University of Kansas. It's the summer before my junior year of college, so I figured it might be about time to figure out what I want to do with my life.
So I was checking off majors that I knew I wasn't too terribly interested in or qualified for: Oboe? No. Slavic Languages? Nie. Tribal Law? I beg your pardon?
That's when I stumbled upon one degree in particular that caught my interest. Undecided (undergrad, PREP) College of Liberal Arts and Sciences. I guess with a major like that, the only way to respond to someone who asked you that infamous, glib of a question: "well, what are you going to do with THAT?" would be to say, unabashed: "well, I don't know, really. I haven't decided."
Am I interested in being undecided? Well, I wouldn't say I'm morally opposed. Am I qualified to be undecided? Most definitely.
So I highlighted Undecided as a possible candidate and made a small note to self: "this one has potential."
Another major that really snatched my attention: Colon & Rectal Surgery.
How, exactly, does a prospective freshman in college tease through all 299 degrees that KU has to offer, and narrow down the field to that? You have majors ranging from Interpretive Dance to the French Horn. And everything in between. Didn't you enjoy playing the French Horn in elementary school? Bobby, you played a mean French Horn! Why don't you give it a try, I'm not so sold on this Colon stuff.
I mean, I guess SOMEBODY has got to do it? Maybe the allure of fingering around someone's duodenum was just too tough to pass up?
In twenty years, when asked this same question, I'd like to be able to answer it with a variety of two word combinations: my job, my family, my Royals, etc. I'm too optimistic to count out my job or potential family as possibilities, but right now, the Royals might be wishful thinking.
I haven't answered the question yet, and I'm sure many of you haven't either. But maybe you haven't even asked yourself the question yet?
Try it.
You might eventually answer it with: my children, my nagging wife, long walks on the beach, or conducting a nice colonoscopy at the crack of dawn. Keyword: crack.
So have at it: what gets you up in the morning?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
1985 (Kansas City Royals ed.) by Bowling For Soup
Frenchy just hit the wall
He never saw the ball
0 for 4 today
Tomorrow he'll still play
His dreams went out the door
When he turned twenty four
Only been a "clubhouse man"
What happened to the plan?
He was gonna be an All-Star
He was gonna be a stud
He was gonna rob home runs
On the hood of Dayton Moore's car
His long horrendous swing is now the enemy
Looks at his OPS
And nothing, has been, alright since
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Ken Harvey
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
His teammates, in the minors
They tell him that he's dog $%#*
Cause we're still preocccupied
With 19, 19, 1985
(1985)
Woohoohoo
We've seen all the strikeouts
Ned Yost says were fine
Escobar, Lorenzo Cain
Even Billy Butler
He popped out again
To first base he barely ran
Thought we won a trade
When we picked up Jeff Suppan
Our best reliever's name is Bruce Chen
And who's that tiny guy that we bring in from the pen
When did reality hurt so much
Whatever happened to base hits, home runs
(on the radio was)
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Mike Jacobs
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
Our veterans in the dugout
They tell 'em that we won't win
Cause we're still preocccupied
With 1985
Woohoohoo
12 game losing streaks, make it stop
When did we start letting fly balls drop?
And when did futility become tradition?
Please make this stop
Stop!
And bring back
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Berroa
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
Our veterans in the dugout
They tell 'em that we won't win
Cause we're still preocccupied
With 1985
Wohoohoo
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Jon Sanchez
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
(woohoohoo)
Our fanbase is dying
They're all now into soccer
Cause we haven't made the playoffs
Since 19, 19, 1985
He never saw the ball
0 for 4 today
Tomorrow he'll still play
His dreams went out the door
When he turned twenty four
Only been a "clubhouse man"
What happened to the plan?
He was gonna be an All-Star
He was gonna be a stud
He was gonna rob home runs
On the hood of Dayton Moore's car
His long horrendous swing is now the enemy
Looks at his OPS
And nothing, has been, alright since
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Ken Harvey
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
His teammates, in the minors
They tell him that he's dog $%#*
Cause we're still preocccupied
With 19, 19, 1985
(1985)
Woohoohoo
We've seen all the strikeouts
Ned Yost says were fine
Escobar, Lorenzo Cain
Even Billy Butler
He popped out again
To first base he barely ran
Thought we won a trade
When we picked up Jeff Suppan
Our best reliever's name is Bruce Chen
And who's that tiny guy that we bring in from the pen
When did reality hurt so much
Whatever happened to base hits, home runs
(on the radio was)
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Mike Jacobs
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
Our veterans in the dugout
They tell 'em that we won't win
Cause we're still preocccupied
With 1985
Woohoohoo
12 game losing streaks, make it stop
When did we start letting fly balls drop?
And when did futility become tradition?
Please make this stop
Stop!
And bring back
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Berroa
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
Our veterans in the dugout
They tell 'em that we won't win
Cause we're still preocccupied
With 1985
Wohoohoo
Dick Howser, George Brett
Way before Jon Sanchez
There was Frank White and Wilson
And players that I'd pay to see
(woohoohoo)
Our fanbase is dying
They're all now into soccer
Cause we haven't made the playoffs
Since 19, 19, 1985
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
The "Me Generation"
There are those times when I lose a sliver of faith in humanity. The culprits? Celebrity scandals, senseless acts of violence, or any time Nicole Polizzi opens her mouth.
And then there are those moments when I'm on a lonely Kansas highway after a long day's work, and I look to my left, expecting to find more miles of barren wasteland, a windmill (rather, an army of windmills), or a nuclear power-plant spewing bile into a pond brimming with floating, lifeless fantails, but instead see a brown haired human being in the lane beside me, wearing white-rimmed sunglasses at night, holding and possibly operating an iPad, feeding, petting, and ostensibly bathing two fully-grown poodles, blaring music loud enough to be confused with a rock concert, all the while this piece of tender meat just happens to have the responsibility of the driver of a two ton, four cylinder vehicle that's barreling 85 miles per hour toward the endless horizon and on me and my hybrid.
Wind in his hair and a conscience clear as fresh, spring water.
The road ahead, lucky enough to even garner his peripherals.
Me generation? No. We're just multi-tasking savants.
In no way do I condone drinking and driving, but I'd rather you do that.
Put the phone down, put your life on hold. Buckle up and respect yourself and those around you.
Thanks for stopping by.
And then there are those moments when I'm on a lonely Kansas highway after a long day's work, and I look to my left, expecting to find more miles of barren wasteland, a windmill (rather, an army of windmills), or a nuclear power-plant spewing bile into a pond brimming with floating, lifeless fantails, but instead see a brown haired human being in the lane beside me, wearing white-rimmed sunglasses at night, holding and possibly operating an iPad, feeding, petting, and ostensibly bathing two fully-grown poodles, blaring music loud enough to be confused with a rock concert, all the while this piece of tender meat just happens to have the responsibility of the driver of a two ton, four cylinder vehicle that's barreling 85 miles per hour toward the endless horizon and on me and my hybrid.
Wind in his hair and a conscience clear as fresh, spring water.
The road ahead, lucky enough to even garner his peripherals.
Me generation? No. We're just multi-tasking savants.
In no way do I condone drinking and driving, but I'd rather you do that.
Put the phone down, put your life on hold. Buckle up and respect yourself and those around you.
Thanks for stopping by.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
A Poem For Dad
Never expects less
Than anything but my best
Always the hardest to please
Always my toughest critic
Maybe you saw more in me
Than I could ever see in myself
Everything I have
Is credited to you
When I am down the in doldrums
I know you'll pick me up
Never a friend
Always a father
Thank You.
Than anything but my best
Always the hardest to please
Always my toughest critic
Maybe you saw more in me
Than I could ever see in myself
Everything I have
Is credited to you
When I am down the in doldrums
I know you'll pick me up
Never a friend
Always a father
Thank You.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
3 (of the many) Bare Necessities to a Healthy Body and a Healthy Mind
1. A good sweat- No matter how you do it or when you do it, a nice, vigorous sweat will help rejuvenate you, make you feel light on your feet, and clear some unneeded clutter out of your mind. I notice I do my best thinking when I'm out on the trails and my body is in motion. Unlike any other time of the day, I can prioritize the significant from the petty, and gain an appreciation for the things I have in my life. Running trails, basketball courts, treadmills, what have you, go to your little get-away to sweat out some toxins and stress.
2. A cold shower- I realize this sounds a little crazy, but if done right, it will feel heavenly. Complete Necessity Number 1, and then sometime in the next hour, get in a lukewarm shower, and gradually work the temperature down. When you get out, you will feel refreshed and energized.
3. A plate full of color- Live by this: the more colorful and vibrant your plate looks, the better. Now, I was born, but I wasn't born yesterday. I realize that you can finagle your way around this rule of thumb with artificial snacks and desserts filled with fructose corn syrup and trans fats. Let me clarify, the more colorful, vibrant, and NATURAL your plate looks, the better. Greens are as good as gold: broccoli, spinach, peas, cucumbers, the list goes on. Reds and blues: strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, tomatoes, fresh peppers. If 70% of your plate or more looks and tastes natural, you're going to reap the benefits in the short and long term.
I try my best to incorporate these three habits in my life, and when I do, I love the way I feel.
If you give it a shot, I bet you will love it as well.
Thanks for stopping by.
2. A cold shower- I realize this sounds a little crazy, but if done right, it will feel heavenly. Complete Necessity Number 1, and then sometime in the next hour, get in a lukewarm shower, and gradually work the temperature down. When you get out, you will feel refreshed and energized.
3. A plate full of color- Live by this: the more colorful and vibrant your plate looks, the better. Now, I was born, but I wasn't born yesterday. I realize that you can finagle your way around this rule of thumb with artificial snacks and desserts filled with fructose corn syrup and trans fats. Let me clarify, the more colorful, vibrant, and NATURAL your plate looks, the better. Greens are as good as gold: broccoli, spinach, peas, cucumbers, the list goes on. Reds and blues: strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, tomatoes, fresh peppers. If 70% of your plate or more looks and tastes natural, you're going to reap the benefits in the short and long term.
I try my best to incorporate these three habits in my life, and when I do, I love the way I feel.
If you give it a shot, I bet you will love it as well.
Thanks for stopping by.
Welcome
Welcome, friends.
My name is Dan. Well, my given name is Daniel, but Dan is just fine. Either is fine, really, as long as we abstain from Daniel Joseph. Daniel Joseph makes my skin crawl.
Daniel Joseph. Yeesh. Those four seemingly innocent syllables remind me of my fire-breathing dragon mother. Well, most of the time she is a wonderful lady, but in those recurring moments when I fail to make my bed, miss curfew, or sleep in late, she manages to tower over me, which is quite a feat, figuring I'm almost a foot taller than her.
In those unfortunate moments, she grows into a much more formidable figure, like when Mario finds a mushroom, and shrinking, I become "DANNYUUUUULLLL JOSSSSSEFFFFFF!" So you can call me Daniel, or Dan for short. Hold the Joseph. I'd be just fine with that.
In my quest to become a better writer and (more importantly) a better person, I've created this blog as a therapeutic diary of sorts. I plan to share my limited insight on life, a few of my opinions, and all things hysterically absurd that happen to me.
Like a lot of things in life, with writing, the more you do it, the better you become at it, or the easier it becomes for you to do it. That also includes, but is not limited to, distance running, playing a musical instrument, embarrassing yourself in front of large crowds of people, and eating copious amounts of food. All of which I do on a regular basis, and all of which you will surely be learning about in the coming posts.
Once again: welcome. I hope this blog will give you something. A truth, a laugh, a smile. Only time will tell.
Thanks for stopping by.
My name is Dan. Well, my given name is Daniel, but Dan is just fine. Either is fine, really, as long as we abstain from Daniel Joseph. Daniel Joseph makes my skin crawl.
Daniel Joseph. Yeesh. Those four seemingly innocent syllables remind me of my fire-breathing dragon mother. Well, most of the time she is a wonderful lady, but in those recurring moments when I fail to make my bed, miss curfew, or sleep in late, she manages to tower over me, which is quite a feat, figuring I'm almost a foot taller than her.
In those unfortunate moments, she grows into a much more formidable figure, like when Mario finds a mushroom, and shrinking, I become "DANNYUUUUULLLL JOSSSSSEFFFFFF!" So you can call me Daniel, or Dan for short. Hold the Joseph. I'd be just fine with that.
In my quest to become a better writer and (more importantly) a better person, I've created this blog as a therapeutic diary of sorts. I plan to share my limited insight on life, a few of my opinions, and all things hysterically absurd that happen to me.
Like a lot of things in life, with writing, the more you do it, the better you become at it, or the easier it becomes for you to do it. That also includes, but is not limited to, distance running, playing a musical instrument, embarrassing yourself in front of large crowds of people, and eating copious amounts of food. All of which I do on a regular basis, and all of which you will surely be learning about in the coming posts.
Once again: welcome. I hope this blog will give you something. A truth, a laugh, a smile. Only time will tell.
Thanks for stopping by.
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