They're forming in a straight line

The World Series of Poker? The World Series of Darts? What? Huh? These are just two of the offerings coming to us on one of the ESPN channels. Now don't get me wrong. I like sports as much as the next person. OK. OK. I love sports, probably more than the aforementioned next person. But poker? Darts? What next? Pool? Fishing? Oh yeah... Sorry. Maybe, just maybe there are too many sports channels. I can't believe I just wrote that! But when bar games are packaged for the consuming couch potato as "sports" there is something wrong. Something very, very wrong. It's one thing to enjoy watching baseball or football, even soccer on TV and appreciating the athletic skills of people who are good enough to get paid for doing something I simply can't do. It's quite another to watch someone throwing a dart. What ESPN, or some other sports channel needs to do is air more real sports, hurling for example. Sticks and a ball called a sliotar (pronounced "slither," I think). No pads. Hockey, rugby, soccer, all rolled up in one bloody gladiatorial mess. Now that would be must-see TV. From the announcements about darts and poker, I was taken to one of the too-numerous-to-count cell phone commercials. The music was "Blitzkrieg Bop" by the Ramones. My head began to hurt. "If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you, if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you -- I mean I'm no, I can't -- I'm a little man, I'm a little man, he's, he's a great man. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across floors of silent seas -- I mean --" Was it really 30 years ago? Hey ho, let's go--

Again with the math?

I don't drive, never have. Mass transit, my bicycle, and my feet have always got me just about everywhere I've needed to be, and most places I've wanted to be. There have been times I've found myself at places I have neither needed to be nor wanted to be. But that is neither here nor there. Since I am a non-driver, I have never known road-rage. I've seen it. I've heard it. At times I've been able to smell it. Anyway, minus this significant source of stress that looms in many people's lives, I like to think I am able to stay in an accepting and tolerant spiritual place. Happy even. If I need bread or milk I just walk the two blocks to the supermarket and get it. I enter the queue at the express checkout, smug about my efficiency. And then battle is joined. I'm next! But what's this? The guy in front of me clearly has more than ten items. Can't he read? The sign is unambiguous: "10 items or less." (I'm not going to discuss here whether it should read "fewer.") At a glance I can count, 11, 12, 13, more. OK, the guy has exceeded the limit, and the cashier says nothing. Obviously some form of cronyism. They probably live across the street from one another. I can get through this though. I can, with effort, not let it bother me. I'm smug again. Oh no! Now you have got to be kidding me! He is paying with a check, fumbling with his wallet to produce two forms of identification. Hasn't he heard of a debit card? This really is too much! Again, the cashier is mum. I must not let it bother me. I see an opportunity for growth here. Or at least something to share with you dear reader. I have made progress by not getting too worked up by the flagrant disregard for societal norms. Real growth for me though, lies in not counting the items in someone's basket in the first place.

PG3476.B78

My love of 053 fields in name authority records is admittedly excessive, possibly irrational, even unnatural, perhaps. For those of you who suffer not from this particular mania, the 053 field contains one or more Library of Congress class numbers, or a range of numbers, associated with the heading, plus any explanatory terms. For individual authors, simply put, it is their number. Of course there are exceptions. Tolstoy and Pushkin have lots of numbers. Nabokov and Brodsky wrote in two different languages, requiring PG (Slavic literature) numbers for their works in Russian, and PS (American literature) numbers for their works in English. But I digress. On a paraprofessional level, when I catalog a work of fiction needing a call number, the presence of the 053 means everything to me. A shining beacon upon which to hang a title cutter. And th-th-th-that's all folks. On a personal level, the number is a jumping off point from which I can browse the stacks of books for just the right title to read. Often found by accident. I wonder how much of my life has been spent loitering around PG3476.A-Z. (Russian literature, individual works, 1917-1960, authors born after 1885.) The correct form of the name is "Bulgakov, Mikhail Afanas'evich, 1891-1940."

A swim would be nice

I awoke this morning, early by most standards, to find I had become Gregor Samsa, but unrecognizable to all those who know him. In either form. I don't recall any unusual dreams in the night. There were no sudden wakings in cold sweats, pillow cases unfomfortably clammy and damp. It had been a decent night's sleep, so what had happened? What indeed? Why? I just assumed (always a risky, yet daring endeavor for me) that there was an inherent no-trade clause in the contract. At least an implied one. It could have been something I ate. What did I have for dinner? Peanuts at the baseball game. Only peanuts. Not just any peanuts though, but outside peanuts, smuggled through the entry gate to avoid paying ballpark prices. Forbidden peanuts just taste a little better for the risk. And water, also from without. Water is water and tastes the same, forbidden or not, like water. I even skipped my usual snow cone, more often than not, cherry. Now, cherry snow cones at baseball games on hot summer evenings are to die for! Who would have thought that would lead to this? Who could have? Obviously, not me. Still, I was a bit satisfied. Afterall, if I was going to find myself in one of Kafka's works, better a short story than The Trial. It all has the same absurd intensity, or rather, intense absurdity, it's just more concise. Nevertheless, I'm staying clear of that oversized roach motel in the back room. It doesn't have a pool.

Conspiracy theory

I try to eat healthier than I used to. Not necessarily healthy, but healthier. I'll take several pieces of fruit to work to eat over the course of the day. Today I also brought in a package of vegan brown rice cakes and some whipped cream cheese. Velvety smooth with crunch. Mmmm. Nutritious and yet spiritually fulfilling. When I tried to spread the cream cheese on the first rice cake, it shattered. Remember dear reader, the cream cheese had already been whipped, and in no need whatsoever of softening. With all the technological advances our species has made, why can't we rely on the structural integrity of rice cakes? As is my habit, I whined about this to a co-worker. She told me she never has problems applying spreads to rice cakes. Then it hit me. If I and other males are faced with the certain fragmentation of our snacks, we will be less likely to eat them. Undoubtably, we will turn to more convenient, less healthy, even unhealthy alternatives for our noshing pleasures. This would in turn, shorten our life spans. Natural selection at work? Or a misandro-vegan conspiracy? Both perhaps. I'll just use extra cream cheese as spackle to repair the damaged cake, maybe bring in some ham for reinforcement. I hear an urgent refrain from Valhalla: "Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam."

No free refills

The Doubleday Anchor Book edition of The Birth of Tragedy and the Genealogy of Morals by Friedrich Nietzsche sits on one of the bookshelves that line the walls of my apartment. I ask myself "Why?" Retrieving the paperback in order to satisfy some superfluous curiosity, I notice a bookmark still in the place where I had left it on page 57. It must have been 20-plus years ago. Did I really try to read this stuff? Apparently. Paragraphs that extend beyond a full page! The ponderousness of it all. I never took a philosophy class in school so how did I come to own this thing? Could I have thought it would look cool to own some works (yes, there are others here) by Nietzsche? Why had I begun reading it? Why did I stop? Why would anybody read Nietzsche, except to satisfy the requirements of some sadistic philosophy professor? Will you ever find yourself at a party, attacking Socrates for his role in the marginalization of classical Greek tragedy? At a job interview, will you gain the edge over other applicants, all other things being equal, due to your keen insights regarding the dichotomy between the Apollonian and the Dionysian and their struggle over man's existence? Just reading Nietzsche is pretentious, in my opinion. Even reading the first 57 pages (and retaining absolutely nothing) smacks of unchecked egotistical aspirations. Unrealized metapretentiousness. There is, however, hope for me now. My outlook has become more worldly and more accepting of conventions. Acceptance of something does not mean liking it. The anarchist within cannot be rendered completely irrelevant. The instructions on the package tell me to heat for 60 seconds on high, but I know the burrito will still be cold in the middle. An additional 10 seconds and it might explode. Experience tells me to cover the burrito with a paper towel. Or to just go to Burrito Amigos and order the carne asada platter. A large Mountain Dew as well. There are no free refills. And then, I might think about dusting the shelves. Maybe.

What have I done?

At the end of The Bridge on the River Kwai, Col. Nicholson, played brilliantly by Sir Alec Guiness, upon realizing he may have thwarted the British Special Operations efforts to blow up the bridge, says simply and profoundly, "What have I done?" These words are never, to my knowlege, uttered in a positive sense. It seems (only seems) that a couple of days ago someone posted a comment on this blog. Not one of the half-handful of people with whom I have shared the URL. Not my mother either. This was someone, "R," from the other side of the continent. R commiserated with me about the heat wave still bearing down on the upper left coast. I was both excited that someone had actually read what I've written, and horrified that someone had actually read what I've written. I assumed the cloak of victim-martyr, suffering perceived violations of, well, I'm not sure of what exactly. Maybe even a stalker! Oooh! What have I done? I decided to get on with more important things, like deciding what kind of cheesecake to make for this month's payday party. Today's threat level: an imaginary shade of blue. Possibly.

We stand on guard for thee

Overcast skies. Perfect! If only they linger long enough so the sun will have passed over my humble abode. There is nothing that we humans can influence less than the weather (global warming aside) on any given day. Still, whining about it can be fun, if completely unproductive. A friend is getting married today and I have dutifully ironed a clean shirt, contributing in some not necessarily small way to the temperature in my apartment. Short-sleeved of course. A speedy ceremony, followed by an appropriately-paced reception is highly desirable. The Emeralds open a six-game home stand tonight, the first three games of which are against the Vancouver Canadians. Thoughts drift to hockey, and cooler temperatures. Besides, I learned the worlds to "O Canada."

Time constructively spent

On May 24, Marlins shortstop Hanley Ramirez hustled down the first baseline, beating the one-hop throw of his counterpart for the Cubs. The scorer, whose anonymity I shall here protect, awarded Ramirez an infield hit. The Cubs' starter, Greg Maddux proceeded to give up five runs before recording the third out. Eight weeks later, after an appeal by the Cubs, and one would assume, Maddux, that scoring decision was reversed. Ramirez had, it now would read, reached on an error. History had been rewritten and those five ensuing runs were now unearned. Maddux was at that time on my fantasy baseball team roster. I did some math, which I am not wont to do. Taking away those 5 earned runs from my cumulative statistics would lower my team ERA by .0421, which in turn would move me ahead of one of the other fantasy teams in that scoring category, earning me an additional point. Oh the excruciating minutiae confronting the obsessed (I would say "attentive") fantasy baseball owner! I appealed to the league commissioner, who forwarded my appeal to the 5 X 5 rotisserie league powers-that-be. To my disappointment, our league's scoring is "updated to reflect official scoring corrections that occur up to seven days after the game has been completed." I found myself stuck with five earned runs that had never scored. Of course, I could get a life.

Thanks for the commentaries Vin!

When the temperature surpasses the century mark in the shade, and there is a slight breeze, where the hell is the wind chill factor? We could really use it! Sure, there are weather web sites that tell us what it "feels like," but that simply won't do. At least for me. The mere presence of the word "chill" offers solace for the heat-weary. I'd like to know that even though it's 100-whatever degrees outside, the wind chill makes it 97. A red herring for sure, but in this heat, who really cares? The inertia brought on by oppressive temperatures cannot be overcome unaided. At least I have Vin Scully calling tonight's Dodgers' game. And iced coffee. To sleep? Perchance to sweat.

Dance, Varmint!

I don't know how many Loony Toons featured Bugs Bunny drawing lines in the sand, and Yosemite Sam stepping over them in succession, until finally going off a cliff. Three people now know the URL to this Blog: two co-workers and my mom. By sharing the address, I have stepped willingly, without really knowing why, across a line from simple self-indulgence (if that can ever be simple) to crying for attention, maybe even help. Wild oscillation. I see a dusty battered Yosemite Sam, six-shooters trained on Bugs: "Dance, Varmint!"

At least try

As a person suffering with a toothache complains, knowing the moans will not alleviate the pain, so I write. Dangling between the infinity of aspirations and the finitude of possibility, today I am oppressed by inexplicable worldly ennui. Acutely. The early games ran right into the afternoon games, which will run without interruption, into the evening games. Why be blue? Take the bat off your shoulder, even if only to bunt. Just make contact and put the ball into play. And if you don't make contact, maybe the catcher will drop strike three. Then you can run, at least.

OK. Here goes...something

I live in an apartment and work in a cubicle. Cable television and internet access make my isolation splendid when so desired. And when not. Especially during baseball season. Sometimes I wish I were a Cossack. The wide-open steppe spreading in all directions for as as far as can be seen from my mount. But then again, I've never seen the steppe, and imagine it might be similar to the prairie. Lonely, boring, monotonous. And I've been on a horse but once. Though neither of us were hurt, it was not a pleasant experience. For either of us. That leaves just the Cossack sabre. Swords just won't do in this time and place. Arrest would be certain and swift merely for carrying the thing. Still, sometimes I wish I were a Cossack.