A red woman in a black shirt was sitting across from me on the train last week. A black man in a red shirt sat behind her.
The three of us spent fifteen minutes together riding across town. I arrived at my stop. They kept on riding to theirs. Elsewhere.
I won't see them again. Or if I do, I won’t remember the first encounter. In cities we grow accustomed to living beyond people. We are passers. We brush shoulders in a busy intersection or waiting in line for a latte. Our lives rarely, if ever, intersect.
Eight days have passed, and I still remember the passengers on the train. I remember their color scheme: black on red, red on black. Improbable and remarkable. They could have been oil on canvas.
There is another reason that day lingers in my mind. The train ride and the passengers are a link to a favorite metaphor.
Sliding doors.
At the last minute you board a train, barely arriving before the door shuts. On that train awaits an old friend, and your life forges a new path due to the reconnection.
Alternatively, the train leaves a half-second before you arrive. You leave the platform, deciding to walk instead. Then a car runs through a red light and changes your life forever. All because you missed a train.
Doors slide in every facet of life: romance, work, health, family, and day-to-day routines.
My train ride for example -- seemingly identical to every other day. Then I was riding alongside a black and red painting, and it made me wonder about the inner-connectedness of six billion unknown faces.
Life boiled down to bridging moments. Near misses and makes.
But you can’t dumb things down without making them large again. Without asking larger than life questions about deities, faith, and determinism.
In that regard, the answers must be your own.
A door opens, a door closes, and life churns on in every direction but the one we expect. We get dealt randomness, and then we run with it. We do our part and influence what we can.
Which brings me back to the train ride of a week ago. A red woman in a black shirt. A black man in a red shirt. And me.
Somehow, we’re all connected.
A minor alteration in the cosmos, and they could be living in my shoes. I could be living in theirs.
It doesn’t seem that far fetched. Almost plausible.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Thou Art a Nimrod (or Laser Brain).....
For the last few months I’ve been scribbling notes in preparation for this entry. The genesis was a conversation in which someone (can’t put my finger on the culprit now) referred to someone else as a nimrod.
Nimrod. What a great word.
The conversational reference to nimrod got me thinking (and with that foray we’re into dangerous territory already) – surely there are other words, like nimrod, which have been unduly lost in the shuffle of time. Words and/or sayings worthy of a second go-round -- if only we could remember their brilliance and restore them to their rightful place in the lexicon.
Well K-mart shoppers, consider this reincarnation day (bottle rockets and cherry bombs suggested, but not required). Below, you’ll find a list of words which I've deemed "endangered." A few will be new to you. Others old. All of them need your attention.
Needless to say, this entry is begging for banter. So please -- or as my Argentine brethren would say “por favor” -- help me unearth other displaced sayings. Only good will come if it.
And with that, we’re off…..
10) Rad
Seriously, how did we let this one slip away? It’s resounding, to-the-point, and entirely indicative of everything 80s. I’m buying Mr. Misty’s for anyone who owns a hypercolor shirt that spells out “Rad” when you touch it.
I’m wholly expecting someone to collect.
Adding to this word’s appeal, the movie of same name offered one of the great tag lines of all-time: “A hometown kid on his BMX against the best in the world. At Helltrack, the heat is on.”
So fantastical, I might implode.
Your mission for the day: call an old friend and work “rad” into the conversation. The over/under for the length of that call is thirty minutes. Forty-five minutes if either Long Duck Dong or Rowdy Roddy Piper makes the discussion.
My money is on the over.
9) Bear Claw
I admit it upfront. I’m cheating. This one isn’t just for vocabulary’s sake. I’m also trying to rally support for the enchanting pastry. And yes, I just used the word “enchanting” in describing the bear claw. I’d do it again.
In case you’ve been MIA for the last decade, moseying up to a White Hen attendant at 4:00 in the morning with a bear claw and a Lemon-Lime Gatorade is one of your inalienable rights. Importantly, you’re obligated to reference your purchase aloud so that nearby customers will recognize the brilliance of this move and follow suit.
Frozen pizzas be damned.
Finally, an important yet little known fact: the bear claw can double as a football, specifically intended to run the option after a drunken night at the bars*. Tradition stipulates that you reference Tommy Frazier somewhere amid a “pitch” to your wingback in memory of days gone by.
*The bear claw football is still edible after touchdown drives assuming the number of fumbles en route to the casa < 2.
8) Art (as a verb)
From the onset I acknowledge that the market value for “art” increases exponentially when preceded by “thou.” But it’s not a show-stopper. Art can swing with other subjects.
Examples:
Thad Matta art a woolly mammal (he shoots, he scores!!!).
Bear claws art the finest pastry in all the land.
I could go on and on.
7) Nerf Herder
Tell me this isn’t one of the great cinematic exchanges of all time:
Han Solo: That's a good story. I think you can't just bear to let a gorgeous guy like me out of your sight.
Princess Leia: I don't know where you get your delusions, laser brain.
[Chewbacca laughs amusingly]
Han Solo: Laugh it up, fuzzball. But you didn't see us alone in the south passage. She expressed her true feelings for me.
Princess Leia: Why, you stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking…nerf-herder!
Han Solo: Who's scruffy looking?
Nerf-herder: indescribably FANtastic. I’m tempted to throw “laser brain” on the list as well -- another endangered classic.
The Star Wars Expanded Universe says that a nerf herder is a lower class outdoorsman best compared to the American cowboy. They generally wear worn out work clothes and carry simple projectile weapons -- used to drive obstinate nerfs out of their hiding places. Due to their significant skills in fieldcraft, as well as not having the resources to bathe often, the rest of the "civilized" universe looks down upon them.
Admit it: you’ve never seen a better definition for an armed, inner-galactic hippie.
Thankfully, a west coast band (Nerf Herder) has taken up our cause: the chances for survival in our vernacular are decidedly increased. Still, we shouldn’t rest easy; use at your leisure. Guaranteed to spark a lively conversation.
6) Nimrod and Laser Brain (Tie)
I couldn’t resist: this is resurrection day! Besides, now we’ve got a 2-for-1 value play. AND....these two are 100% interchangeable. How often do you start your day by resurrecting synonyms?!?!?
I’m going with never.
These are nails in the coffin of any ringside contestant. I dare you: name the last time someone got off the mat after being called a “nimrod.” I didn’t think so.
100 bonus points for anyone who uses nimrod (or laser brain) in a sentence and then makes a hand print on their hyper-colored shirt. Stop and ponder how great thou art.
5) Toenuff
This one is rated M – for men only. Any female readers who later use this numeral against me will be redirected to Dante’s stewardship. You have been warned.
Having gotten that out of the way, this is a doozy. In fraternal days of yore, the Great Book taught us about the steeped tradition of referring to attractive women as “toe.” Not the most subtle word choice in history, but this fraternity also laid claim to live goats and harpoons. Delicacy wasn’t part of the program.
Anyways, one drunken eve a friend molded the noun (toe) into adjective form. When asked if the girl he’d been flirting with was attractive enough for his liking, he replied: “she’s toenuff.”
Instant. Classic.
And with that, every female despises me a little more, and the armory of every single male has been increased ten-fold.
Thank me later.
4) Yo-Yo Ma
Admittedly, he’s not dead or out of favor. On rare occasions a word (or name) will roll off the tongue so scrumptiously, we must create secondary applications to ensure adequate usage by the masses. It’s this secondary application, a strange tic of Kramer’s on Seinfeld, which is in need of our help.
For those not familiar with the Kramerism, “Yo-Yo Ma” is a knee-jerk audible -- only to be used when utterly confused or bewildered (even better if you have to walk out of the room mumbling to yourself).
Examples:
You come home & find your best friend giving your girl a foot massage: “Yo-Yo Ma.”
Your online poker account has dwindled by $300 even though you swore you were ahead for the week: “Yo-Yo Ma.”
I’m expecting additional write-ins for this one.
3) Swashbuckler
Has there ever been a word more musk-scented word? I’m going with nay. So what if jovial swordsmen are a little out of favor in the nuclear age. Wikipedia tells me that a swashbuckler “will display a strong sense of justice, an aptitude for and enjoyment of fighting, and calmness, class, and wit even during combat.”
I say upward and onward.
Having this word in your arsenal is like being an uninvited fourth grader at a second-grader’s birthday party: head straight for the piñata with your cape and sword; exit stage left with all the candy.
You are indestructible.
2) Fortnight
Has to be in the running for the most underutilized word of the last century. The Mohicans were running around in mass during its hay day. Luckily, I’m assigning myself as point-man for a rogue crew of etymologists to rejuvenate this lost urchin (“Who’s with me?!?!?”).
Just think about all the potential usages:
How long was that bender? Solid fortnight.
Will your buddy’s new girl be around long? I’d give her a fortnight.
Been to the pisser lately? I hit it about a fortnight ago.
Work with me here, because the sky is the limit.
1) Tatonka (buffalo)
There’s something about Kevin Costner playing in the dirt in an attempt to imitate a buffalo that’s entirely satisfying. I can’t pinpoint what it is exactly, but it’s tangible. The undisputed winner here is the word itself. Say it aloud: “ta-ton-ka.”
Don’t worry too much about the Sioux translation (buffalo). Most people will know its cinematic origin, and most people will laugh no matter how you tee it up. In other words, use this baby in any conversational context. But keep in mind that it’s got less mileage than some on this list – only use it to bring down the house.
Examples:
A snow plow makes an unexpected turn and kicks up a long stream of dirty slush all over your buddy: “tatonka” (pronounced evenly and with laughter, without an emphasis on any syllable).
You’re out on the town with your boys and Jessica Alba’s long-lost sister walks by: “tatonka” (pronounced vigorously and with a heavy emphasis on the middle syllable).
RCN cable has just screwed you out of viewing the first of many Cubs games due to their shitty contracts with other regional providers: “tatonka” (pronounced slowly from the start and with a discernible pause after the first syllable).
Editor's Note: It gives me great pleasure to post this entry from Bloomington, IN: the second best town in the universe. Notably, "tatonka" and "toenuff" hit their 10-year highs on the NYSE while I was a student here. Hopefully, the next ten years will prove bullish for them as well. Thanks go to Adam Estes for hosting me in Btown, a place where memories (and Pizza Express cheese sauce) flow like wine.
Nimrod. What a great word.
The conversational reference to nimrod got me thinking (and with that foray we’re into dangerous territory already) – surely there are other words, like nimrod, which have been unduly lost in the shuffle of time. Words and/or sayings worthy of a second go-round -- if only we could remember their brilliance and restore them to their rightful place in the lexicon.
Well K-mart shoppers, consider this reincarnation day (bottle rockets and cherry bombs suggested, but not required). Below, you’ll find a list of words which I've deemed "endangered." A few will be new to you. Others old. All of them need your attention.
Needless to say, this entry is begging for banter. So please -- or as my Argentine brethren would say “por favor” -- help me unearth other displaced sayings. Only good will come if it.
And with that, we’re off…..
10) Rad
Seriously, how did we let this one slip away? It’s resounding, to-the-point, and entirely indicative of everything 80s. I’m buying Mr. Misty’s for anyone who owns a hypercolor shirt that spells out “Rad” when you touch it.
I’m wholly expecting someone to collect.
Adding to this word’s appeal, the movie of same name offered one of the great tag lines of all-time: “A hometown kid on his BMX against the best in the world. At Helltrack, the heat is on.”
So fantastical, I might implode.
Your mission for the day: call an old friend and work “rad” into the conversation. The over/under for the length of that call is thirty minutes. Forty-five minutes if either Long Duck Dong or Rowdy Roddy Piper makes the discussion.
My money is on the over.
9) Bear Claw
I admit it upfront. I’m cheating. This one isn’t just for vocabulary’s sake. I’m also trying to rally support for the enchanting pastry. And yes, I just used the word “enchanting” in describing the bear claw. I’d do it again.
In case you’ve been MIA for the last decade, moseying up to a White Hen attendant at 4:00 in the morning with a bear claw and a Lemon-Lime Gatorade is one of your inalienable rights. Importantly, you’re obligated to reference your purchase aloud so that nearby customers will recognize the brilliance of this move and follow suit.
Frozen pizzas be damned.
Finally, an important yet little known fact: the bear claw can double as a football, specifically intended to run the option after a drunken night at the bars*. Tradition stipulates that you reference Tommy Frazier somewhere amid a “pitch” to your wingback in memory of days gone by.
*The bear claw football is still edible after touchdown drives assuming the number of fumbles en route to the casa < 2.
8) Art (as a verb)
From the onset I acknowledge that the market value for “art” increases exponentially when preceded by “thou.” But it’s not a show-stopper. Art can swing with other subjects.
Examples:
Thad Matta art a woolly mammal (he shoots, he scores!!!).
Bear claws art the finest pastry in all the land.
I could go on and on.
7) Nerf Herder
Tell me this isn’t one of the great cinematic exchanges of all time:
Han Solo: That's a good story. I think you can't just bear to let a gorgeous guy like me out of your sight.
Princess Leia: I don't know where you get your delusions, laser brain.
[Chewbacca laughs amusingly]
Han Solo: Laugh it up, fuzzball. But you didn't see us alone in the south passage. She expressed her true feelings for me.
Princess Leia: Why, you stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking…nerf-herder!
Han Solo: Who's scruffy looking?
Nerf-herder: indescribably FANtastic. I’m tempted to throw “laser brain” on the list as well -- another endangered classic.
The Star Wars Expanded Universe says that a nerf herder is a lower class outdoorsman best compared to the American cowboy. They generally wear worn out work clothes and carry simple projectile weapons -- used to drive obstinate nerfs out of their hiding places. Due to their significant skills in fieldcraft, as well as not having the resources to bathe often, the rest of the "civilized" universe looks down upon them.
Admit it: you’ve never seen a better definition for an armed, inner-galactic hippie.
Thankfully, a west coast band (Nerf Herder) has taken up our cause: the chances for survival in our vernacular are decidedly increased. Still, we shouldn’t rest easy; use at your leisure. Guaranteed to spark a lively conversation.
6) Nimrod and Laser Brain (Tie)
I couldn’t resist: this is resurrection day! Besides, now we’ve got a 2-for-1 value play. AND....these two are 100% interchangeable. How often do you start your day by resurrecting synonyms?!?!?
I’m going with never.
These are nails in the coffin of any ringside contestant. I dare you: name the last time someone got off the mat after being called a “nimrod.” I didn’t think so.
100 bonus points for anyone who uses nimrod (or laser brain) in a sentence and then makes a hand print on their hyper-colored shirt. Stop and ponder how great thou art.
5) Toenuff
This one is rated M – for men only. Any female readers who later use this numeral against me will be redirected to Dante’s stewardship. You have been warned.
Having gotten that out of the way, this is a doozy. In fraternal days of yore, the Great Book taught us about the steeped tradition of referring to attractive women as “toe.” Not the most subtle word choice in history, but this fraternity also laid claim to live goats and harpoons. Delicacy wasn’t part of the program.
Anyways, one drunken eve a friend molded the noun (toe) into adjective form. When asked if the girl he’d been flirting with was attractive enough for his liking, he replied: “she’s toenuff.”
Instant. Classic.
And with that, every female despises me a little more, and the armory of every single male has been increased ten-fold.
Thank me later.
4) Yo-Yo Ma
Admittedly, he’s not dead or out of favor. On rare occasions a word (or name) will roll off the tongue so scrumptiously, we must create secondary applications to ensure adequate usage by the masses. It’s this secondary application, a strange tic of Kramer’s on Seinfeld, which is in need of our help.
For those not familiar with the Kramerism, “Yo-Yo Ma” is a knee-jerk audible -- only to be used when utterly confused or bewildered (even better if you have to walk out of the room mumbling to yourself).
Examples:
You come home & find your best friend giving your girl a foot massage: “Yo-Yo Ma.”
Your online poker account has dwindled by $300 even though you swore you were ahead for the week: “Yo-Yo Ma.”
I’m expecting additional write-ins for this one.
3) Swashbuckler
Has there ever been a word more musk-scented word? I’m going with nay. So what if jovial swordsmen are a little out of favor in the nuclear age. Wikipedia tells me that a swashbuckler “will display a strong sense of justice, an aptitude for and enjoyment of fighting, and calmness, class, and wit even during combat.”
I say upward and onward.
Having this word in your arsenal is like being an uninvited fourth grader at a second-grader’s birthday party: head straight for the piñata with your cape and sword; exit stage left with all the candy.
You are indestructible.
2) Fortnight
Has to be in the running for the most underutilized word of the last century. The Mohicans were running around in mass during its hay day. Luckily, I’m assigning myself as point-man for a rogue crew of etymologists to rejuvenate this lost urchin (“Who’s with me?!?!?”).
Just think about all the potential usages:
How long was that bender? Solid fortnight.
Will your buddy’s new girl be around long? I’d give her a fortnight.
Been to the pisser lately? I hit it about a fortnight ago.
Work with me here, because the sky is the limit.
1) Tatonka (buffalo)
There’s something about Kevin Costner playing in the dirt in an attempt to imitate a buffalo that’s entirely satisfying. I can’t pinpoint what it is exactly, but it’s tangible. The undisputed winner here is the word itself. Say it aloud: “ta-ton-ka.”
Don’t worry too much about the Sioux translation (buffalo). Most people will know its cinematic origin, and most people will laugh no matter how you tee it up. In other words, use this baby in any conversational context. But keep in mind that it’s got less mileage than some on this list – only use it to bring down the house.
Examples:
A snow plow makes an unexpected turn and kicks up a long stream of dirty slush all over your buddy: “tatonka” (pronounced evenly and with laughter, without an emphasis on any syllable).
You’re out on the town with your boys and Jessica Alba’s long-lost sister walks by: “tatonka” (pronounced vigorously and with a heavy emphasis on the middle syllable).
RCN cable has just screwed you out of viewing the first of many Cubs games due to their shitty contracts with other regional providers: “tatonka” (pronounced slowly from the start and with a discernible pause after the first syllable).
Editor's Note: It gives me great pleasure to post this entry from Bloomington, IN: the second best town in the universe. Notably, "tatonka" and "toenuff" hit their 10-year highs on the NYSE while I was a student here. Hopefully, the next ten years will prove bullish for them as well. Thanks go to Adam Estes for hosting me in Btown, a place where memories (and Pizza Express cheese sauce) flow like wine.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The Monthly Stew....
Last month I wrote an entry entitled “20 Things You Are Not Thinking About Today.” It turned out to be an enjoyable exercise for me because I started writing down sporadic thoughts.
Now, a month later, a serial is in formation.
20) Napkin Dispensers
What’s up with napkin dispensers in fast-food restaurants? They are normally stuffed to the max and when I try to grab one, I get ten. It seems like ingenuity and engineering would have improved this contraption over the years, but alas no. So here’s my entrepreneurial challenge of the day: somebody design a better napkin dispenser.
19) 32 of 33
The Chinese government owns a majority stake in 32 of the 33 largest, publicly-traded companies in China. Mkay.
18) Jalapeno Peppers
For the longest time I went sans jalapenos when purchasing Wrigley Field nachos. Inexcusable behavior on my part; JPs are now an imperative.
17) Boris Yeltsin’s Conversion to Capitalism
Yeltsin supposedly converted to capitalism in a Houston supermarket where, according to his biographer, he was “overwhelmed by the kaleidoscopic variety of meats and vegetables available to ordinary Americans.”
Imagine where the Soviet Union might be today if Yeltsin had walked into Walmart.
16) The Lives of Others
The best movie I’ve seen in a long time. Don’t let the subtitles scare you off. Go see it.
15) V-Neck T-Shirts
I buy V-necks so that I can wear an undershirt that doesn’t show when I wear a collared shirt. Yet manufacturers (fill in your favorite) have started making V-necks which barely recede, negating most of the V (and in my opinion, the entire purpose).
14) $109,055
The price for one share of Berkshire Hathaway stock (Common A).
13) Buen Finde
I’ve been working on my Spanish. Julieta taught me that “buen finde” is how the Argentines say, “have a good weekend.” Thought I’d pass along that informational nugget (at no extra charge).
12) Andre Dawson’s Blank Check Salary in 1987
Apparently Dawson was so determined to leave the Expos and artificial turf, which caused his knees to deteriorate, he made the following offer to the Cubs: "I want to play for the Cubs. I'll sign a blank contract. You pay me what you see to be appropriate."
When Dawson did sign with the Cubs, his salary was estimated at $600,000: well under market value.
11) Lester Bangs
I recently watched Almost Famous (again). I’d forgotten how terrific Philip Seymour Hoffman is playing rock n’ roll journalist, Lester Bangs. Hoffman flawlessly showcases Bangs’ giddy brilliance, offering up a barrage of one-liners. My personal favorite: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.”
10) Roman a Clef
I didn’t know this term. Then I encountered it twice in one day. In case anyone else is in the dark, a roman a clef is a novel in which actual persons, places, or events are depicted in fictional guise.
I’m conjuring up secondary, fictional usages for this puppy.
9) Inquisitiveness
My friend Allison reminded me what a great quality this is. Treat yourself to a tootsie roll if you’re the type of person who sets out to exterminate the unknown. You’re my type of cat.
8) Body Wash with Exfoliating Beads
I tried the beads for the first time last week. At first I thought I’d mistakenly grabbed liquid sandpaper. After my second bathing, I was ready for a lifetime supply. Note to male buyers: this product could raise “metrosexual” eyebrows.
7) National League + 2
Why does the National League have two more teams than the American League? Talk about inequity. Ship Arizona to the AL West and move Houston to the NL West. Nobody cares about either one of those teams as division foes. Actually, nobody cares about either one of those teams.
6) Annexing Texas
I tried to make a list of things I like about Texas, and I got stuck after number one (Austin). Texans already talk about their state in separate terms; why not let them go their own way? We (the other 49) will trade them any city in Ohio, for Austin, and call it a day.
5) Connect Four
Video games and technological toys may rule the world, but I still find satisfaction in trying to put four cheap, circular coins in a row (black, not red). Throw in Hungry Hippo and Chutes and Ladders, and I could go to my room for a week.
4) The Warren Zevon Quote of the Month
When told that his presence added cachet to a television show, Zevon mused: “cachet - isn’t that like panache, but sitting down?”
3) The Arrangements & Choreography to Moulin Rouge
You either loved this movie or hated it. I’m firmly in the former camp. The musical arrangements were extraordinary and incredibly intricate - set to all variety of modern fare (Madonna, U2, David Bowie, & Nirvana). The choreography was amazing and must have taken two years to plot out. Might be a film people are talking about in thirty years.
2) Ulceritis
The perpetual state of existence when you’re a Chicago Cubs fan. The 2007 Cubs are 1 – 6 in extra inning games, 5 – 14 in one run games, and recently lost a game in which they scored seven late inning runs and then blew the lead.
I don’t know how many days the Cubs have shaved off the end of my life, but it ain’t a small number.
1) Jessica Alba
I crunched the numbers after seeing Jessica on ESPN’s Hot Seat. The results are in: she is definitely the hottest woman on the planet. I’ll even give her the Oaf guarantee.
Now, a month later, a serial is in formation.
20) Napkin Dispensers
What’s up with napkin dispensers in fast-food restaurants? They are normally stuffed to the max and when I try to grab one, I get ten. It seems like ingenuity and engineering would have improved this contraption over the years, but alas no. So here’s my entrepreneurial challenge of the day: somebody design a better napkin dispenser.
19) 32 of 33
The Chinese government owns a majority stake in 32 of the 33 largest, publicly-traded companies in China. Mkay.
18) Jalapeno Peppers
For the longest time I went sans jalapenos when purchasing Wrigley Field nachos. Inexcusable behavior on my part; JPs are now an imperative.
17) Boris Yeltsin’s Conversion to Capitalism
Yeltsin supposedly converted to capitalism in a Houston supermarket where, according to his biographer, he was “overwhelmed by the kaleidoscopic variety of meats and vegetables available to ordinary Americans.”
Imagine where the Soviet Union might be today if Yeltsin had walked into Walmart.
16) The Lives of Others
The best movie I’ve seen in a long time. Don’t let the subtitles scare you off. Go see it.
15) V-Neck T-Shirts
I buy V-necks so that I can wear an undershirt that doesn’t show when I wear a collared shirt. Yet manufacturers (fill in your favorite) have started making V-necks which barely recede, negating most of the V (and in my opinion, the entire purpose).
14) $109,055
The price for one share of Berkshire Hathaway stock (Common A).
13) Buen Finde
I’ve been working on my Spanish. Julieta taught me that “buen finde” is how the Argentines say, “have a good weekend.” Thought I’d pass along that informational nugget (at no extra charge).
12) Andre Dawson’s Blank Check Salary in 1987
Apparently Dawson was so determined to leave the Expos and artificial turf, which caused his knees to deteriorate, he made the following offer to the Cubs: "I want to play for the Cubs. I'll sign a blank contract. You pay me what you see to be appropriate."
When Dawson did sign with the Cubs, his salary was estimated at $600,000: well under market value.
11) Lester Bangs
I recently watched Almost Famous (again). I’d forgotten how terrific Philip Seymour Hoffman is playing rock n’ roll journalist, Lester Bangs. Hoffman flawlessly showcases Bangs’ giddy brilliance, offering up a barrage of one-liners. My personal favorite: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.”
10) Roman a Clef
I didn’t know this term. Then I encountered it twice in one day. In case anyone else is in the dark, a roman a clef is a novel in which actual persons, places, or events are depicted in fictional guise.
I’m conjuring up secondary, fictional usages for this puppy.
9) Inquisitiveness
My friend Allison reminded me what a great quality this is. Treat yourself to a tootsie roll if you’re the type of person who sets out to exterminate the unknown. You’re my type of cat.
8) Body Wash with Exfoliating Beads
I tried the beads for the first time last week. At first I thought I’d mistakenly grabbed liquid sandpaper. After my second bathing, I was ready for a lifetime supply. Note to male buyers: this product could raise “metrosexual” eyebrows.
7) National League + 2
Why does the National League have two more teams than the American League? Talk about inequity. Ship Arizona to the AL West and move Houston to the NL West. Nobody cares about either one of those teams as division foes. Actually, nobody cares about either one of those teams.
6) Annexing Texas
I tried to make a list of things I like about Texas, and I got stuck after number one (Austin). Texans already talk about their state in separate terms; why not let them go their own way? We (the other 49) will trade them any city in Ohio, for Austin, and call it a day.
5) Connect Four
Video games and technological toys may rule the world, but I still find satisfaction in trying to put four cheap, circular coins in a row (black, not red). Throw in Hungry Hippo and Chutes and Ladders, and I could go to my room for a week.
4) The Warren Zevon Quote of the Month
When told that his presence added cachet to a television show, Zevon mused: “cachet - isn’t that like panache, but sitting down?”
3) The Arrangements & Choreography to Moulin Rouge
You either loved this movie or hated it. I’m firmly in the former camp. The musical arrangements were extraordinary and incredibly intricate - set to all variety of modern fare (Madonna, U2, David Bowie, & Nirvana). The choreography was amazing and must have taken two years to plot out. Might be a film people are talking about in thirty years.
2) Ulceritis
The perpetual state of existence when you’re a Chicago Cubs fan. The 2007 Cubs are 1 – 6 in extra inning games, 5 – 14 in one run games, and recently lost a game in which they scored seven late inning runs and then blew the lead.
I don’t know how many days the Cubs have shaved off the end of my life, but it ain’t a small number.
1) Jessica Alba
I crunched the numbers after seeing Jessica on ESPN’s Hot Seat. The results are in: she is definitely the hottest woman on the planet. I’ll even give her the Oaf guarantee.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Two Queens....
The Sports of Kings is having a golden season, and the newest crown is fit for a queen.
On a Hollywood scripted Saturday, Rags to Riches became the first filly in over 100 years to win the Belmont Stakes. She’s the first filly ever to win at the modern distance of 1 1/2 miles.
Rags to Riches’ victory was also the first Triple Crown win for the nation’s leading trainer, Todd Pletcher. Pletcher was 0-for-28 in Triple Crown races before Saturday’s Belmont. His post-race euphoria made it ever-so-clear how much this race meant.
But it wasn’t an easy trip to the winner’s circle. The race started in horrific fashion for Pletcher’s star filly.
Rags to Riches stumbled badly as the horses left the starting gate. You could sense the crowd gasp as if to say, “not again.” Beloved champions like Ruffian, Pine Island, and Barbaro all came up fatally lame during illustrious, televised races. Their mortality is permanently etched in horse racing’s rear view mirror.
Thankfully, Rags to Riches bounced up on all fours after her lock-kneed start and quickly found her stride. The early fractions were slow, and the filly had plenty of time to regroup and nestle in behind the leaders.
The crowd shared a seismic sigh of relief.
After an uneventful run along the backstretch, jockey John Velasquez angled Rags to Riches to the outside for a clear running lane as the field turned for home. The filly pulled even with the leaders at the top of the stretch: history had a chance.
But the Preakness winner and betting favorite, Curlin, wasn’t about to let the filly steal the show. Curlin’s jockey, Robby Albarado, had yet to ask his colt for top speed. When a small hole opened up in between pace setter C.P. West and Hard Spun, Albarado down-shifted and Curlin grabbed the lead.
Curlin’s time on the front would be short lived.
Rags to Riches accelerated with an incredible turn of foot, quickly overtaking Curlin. Then, with 1/8 of-a-mile to run, she found another gear as Curlin tried to come back. Rags to Riches ran the final two furlongs in a blazing 23 ¾ seconds, a colossal display of speed and fortitude, to hold off the Preakness champ by an outstretched head at the wire.
Some horses start to lose focus once they get the lead in a race. The Derby winner, Street Sense, was noticably distracted during the final furlong of the Preakness. Observers won’t use that term (distracted) when describing Rags to Riches. She was singularly minded once on the lead, refusing to be denied.
The Belmont is horse racing's throw-back day: a twelve furlong test of endurance which feels somewhat out of place. The richest races on every other day are ten furlongs or less. Accordingly, most owners and trainers gladly sidestep the Belmont, preferring to allow their young thoroughbreds more time to mature.
Starting a filly in the Belmont is even more atypical. Colts can earn exponentially more at stud with a Triple Crown victory, but a filly’s upside is nominal. A would-be dam (mother) can only give birth to so many foals, but a sire can be paired with countless fillies and mares.
Luckily, Rags to Riches’ connections weren’t thinking about breeding rights or a century of failure when they entered their filly in the Belmont. Owner Michael Tabor and trainer Todd Pletcher merely wanted to prove their filly’s worth. Their unabashed willingness to try also hinted at a genuine love for racing.
And for that, I am immensely grateful.
Horse racing has produced its share of legends over the past two decades, but their stardom has mainly been on display when most viewers are elsewhere. Busted Triple Crown bids, critical injuries, and eight-digit breeding sales have worn out racing’s headlines. The sport needed a new storyline, if only for a day.
On Saturday she arrived.
A diva took the stage and delivered an aria that will be remembered long after racing’s final song. Even Todd Pletcher, the stoic trainer, was overcome by the moment: offering fist-pumps in every direction. It was as if Pletcher was saying, “we finally did it...the drought is over...and we did it with a FILLY!”
Not just any filly: one for the ages.
How appropriate that Belmont race track is the final resting place for another legendary filly, Ruffian. ABC gets the “timing of the century” award for airing a TV movie about Ruffian merely hours after Rags to Riches’ historic win. I haven’t seen it yet (Tivo here we come), so I can’t offer a review.
This is how the story goes.
On July 6, 1975 the undefeated, unchallenged Ruffian sauntered onto the Belmont track for a match race with that year’s Kentucky Derby champion, Foolish Pleasure. The match race offered $400,000 to the winner, the largest purse ever at the time, and was aired live on CBS. 18 million viewers tuned in to see the “equine battle of the sexes.”
It would be for not.
Ruffian’s right foreleg snapped approximately two furlongs into the race. By the time jockey Jacinto Vasquez could pull her up, she’d done irreparable damage to the leg. Ruffian was put to sleep the following day.
They buried Ruffian beneath the Belmont track with her nose pointed towards the finish line. Ruffian’s tomb is the lone burial at Belmont; her spirit looms over the gigantic oval and every entrant that takes to the track.
Ruffian’s brilliance on the track earned her the nickname, “the queen of the fillies.” It would be hard to argue with the coronation: she was a perfect 10-for-10 in her career. If you picked up a racing form with Ruffian’s past performances, you would see a “1” in every row and every column. She never trailed in any race.
No other race horse in history can say the same.
Hopefully Ruffian will rest easier knowing that another queen has captured our hearts. How fitting that Rags to Riches' epic victory took place yards from Ruffian’s resting place.
The heiress laying claim to the throne.
Michael Tabor and Todd Pletcher deserve all the credit. They defied the odds and a century-long list of colts. In truth, I gained a new respect for Tabor and Pletcher well before Rags to Riches came home first.
They won me over when they entered her in the race.
On a Hollywood scripted Saturday, Rags to Riches became the first filly in over 100 years to win the Belmont Stakes. She’s the first filly ever to win at the modern distance of 1 1/2 miles.
Rags to Riches’ victory was also the first Triple Crown win for the nation’s leading trainer, Todd Pletcher. Pletcher was 0-for-28 in Triple Crown races before Saturday’s Belmont. His post-race euphoria made it ever-so-clear how much this race meant.
But it wasn’t an easy trip to the winner’s circle. The race started in horrific fashion for Pletcher’s star filly.
Rags to Riches stumbled badly as the horses left the starting gate. You could sense the crowd gasp as if to say, “not again.” Beloved champions like Ruffian, Pine Island, and Barbaro all came up fatally lame during illustrious, televised races. Their mortality is permanently etched in horse racing’s rear view mirror.
Thankfully, Rags to Riches bounced up on all fours after her lock-kneed start and quickly found her stride. The early fractions were slow, and the filly had plenty of time to regroup and nestle in behind the leaders.
The crowd shared a seismic sigh of relief.
After an uneventful run along the backstretch, jockey John Velasquez angled Rags to Riches to the outside for a clear running lane as the field turned for home. The filly pulled even with the leaders at the top of the stretch: history had a chance.
But the Preakness winner and betting favorite, Curlin, wasn’t about to let the filly steal the show. Curlin’s jockey, Robby Albarado, had yet to ask his colt for top speed. When a small hole opened up in between pace setter C.P. West and Hard Spun, Albarado down-shifted and Curlin grabbed the lead.
Curlin’s time on the front would be short lived.
Rags to Riches accelerated with an incredible turn of foot, quickly overtaking Curlin. Then, with 1/8 of-a-mile to run, she found another gear as Curlin tried to come back. Rags to Riches ran the final two furlongs in a blazing 23 ¾ seconds, a colossal display of speed and fortitude, to hold off the Preakness champ by an outstretched head at the wire.
Some horses start to lose focus once they get the lead in a race. The Derby winner, Street Sense, was noticably distracted during the final furlong of the Preakness. Observers won’t use that term (distracted) when describing Rags to Riches. She was singularly minded once on the lead, refusing to be denied.
The Belmont is horse racing's throw-back day: a twelve furlong test of endurance which feels somewhat out of place. The richest races on every other day are ten furlongs or less. Accordingly, most owners and trainers gladly sidestep the Belmont, preferring to allow their young thoroughbreds more time to mature.
Starting a filly in the Belmont is even more atypical. Colts can earn exponentially more at stud with a Triple Crown victory, but a filly’s upside is nominal. A would-be dam (mother) can only give birth to so many foals, but a sire can be paired with countless fillies and mares.
Luckily, Rags to Riches’ connections weren’t thinking about breeding rights or a century of failure when they entered their filly in the Belmont. Owner Michael Tabor and trainer Todd Pletcher merely wanted to prove their filly’s worth. Their unabashed willingness to try also hinted at a genuine love for racing.
And for that, I am immensely grateful.
Horse racing has produced its share of legends over the past two decades, but their stardom has mainly been on display when most viewers are elsewhere. Busted Triple Crown bids, critical injuries, and eight-digit breeding sales have worn out racing’s headlines. The sport needed a new storyline, if only for a day.
On Saturday she arrived.
A diva took the stage and delivered an aria that will be remembered long after racing’s final song. Even Todd Pletcher, the stoic trainer, was overcome by the moment: offering fist-pumps in every direction. It was as if Pletcher was saying, “we finally did it...the drought is over...and we did it with a FILLY!”
Not just any filly: one for the ages.
How appropriate that Belmont race track is the final resting place for another legendary filly, Ruffian. ABC gets the “timing of the century” award for airing a TV movie about Ruffian merely hours after Rags to Riches’ historic win. I haven’t seen it yet (Tivo here we come), so I can’t offer a review.
This is how the story goes.
On July 6, 1975 the undefeated, unchallenged Ruffian sauntered onto the Belmont track for a match race with that year’s Kentucky Derby champion, Foolish Pleasure. The match race offered $400,000 to the winner, the largest purse ever at the time, and was aired live on CBS. 18 million viewers tuned in to see the “equine battle of the sexes.”
It would be for not.
Ruffian’s right foreleg snapped approximately two furlongs into the race. By the time jockey Jacinto Vasquez could pull her up, she’d done irreparable damage to the leg. Ruffian was put to sleep the following day.
They buried Ruffian beneath the Belmont track with her nose pointed towards the finish line. Ruffian’s tomb is the lone burial at Belmont; her spirit looms over the gigantic oval and every entrant that takes to the track.
Ruffian’s brilliance on the track earned her the nickname, “the queen of the fillies.” It would be hard to argue with the coronation: she was a perfect 10-for-10 in her career. If you picked up a racing form with Ruffian’s past performances, you would see a “1” in every row and every column. She never trailed in any race.
No other race horse in history can say the same.
Hopefully Ruffian will rest easier knowing that another queen has captured our hearts. How fitting that Rags to Riches' epic victory took place yards from Ruffian’s resting place.
The heiress laying claim to the throne.
Michael Tabor and Todd Pletcher deserve all the credit. They defied the odds and a century-long list of colts. In truth, I gained a new respect for Tabor and Pletcher well before Rags to Riches came home first.
They won me over when they entered her in the race.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Soy de Floyds Knobs......
I started to write this entry in Buenos Aires but ran out of time. New friends and day-long nights distracted me from the keyboard. Since returning from Argentina I’ve had time to finish my thoughts. It’s now go time.
Man your battle stations.
My first week in Buenos Aires, I told everyone that I was from Chicago. Reasons for doing so included: it’s where I live; it’s a large metropolis and likely to be known in a foreign country; and I quietly harbored hope that an Argentine would greet me in broken English with: “A team that is known as: Da Bears!”
As tempting as it might have been to hold out for an Argentine Super Fan, around the tenth day I realized that “Chicago” was a mistake of galactic proportions. From that moment on my unconditional response was: “Soy de Floyds Knobs.”
I don’t know how I could have been so careless. The year is 2007. The world is flat. And every shack-of-a-town in the world is accessible with a click of the mouse. Not referencing the Knobs was a serious, two-fold oversight on my part.
First, I belatedly realized that I should have been acting as a parishioner: building grass-roots international support for Floyds Knobs as a candidate to host the 2040 Summer Olympics. My mouth waters as I contemplate the International Olympic Committee (IOC) arriving in the Knobs to meet with local representatives (Hairmaster Ron, Letty Walter, Port, Sammy O, Bob Singleton, and Donna from Tumbleweed).
Secondly, I came to understand that by negating mention of my humble roots, I was unintentionally negating a differentiating characteristic. Anyone can be from Chicago.
You have to be somebody to be from Floyds Knobs.
Floyds Knobs will always mean home to me. Everything about the Knobs, especially the name, brings a smile to my face. I love knowing there was a Floyd (Colonel Davis Floyd); I love driving around his (our) knobs; and I love being from a town that is possessive -- even if the apostrophe is optional and I normally do without.
Come to think of it, that’s another reason to love my bite-size hometown just north of the Mason-Dixon Line. How many towns have two acceptable spellings (Floyd’s Knobs and Floyds Knobs)? There’s even a bumper sticker which encourages the rivalry: “I live in Floyds Knobs, not Floyd’s Knobs.” Also offered vice versa.
You can’t tell me this town isn’t syntax utopia.
I think it’s safe to say my fondness for the Knobs is now approaching a fanatical state. In actuality, I wasn’t always this zealous in my fanfare. My appreciation took awhile to groom.
When my family first moved from Louisville to Floyds Knobs (IN), a cross-river trek of 16 miles, I wasn't a happy camper. I was ten: Katie Reese was my lone priority (and yes, I still remember her name). I also hated the prospect of moving out of the big city (now, now) and into Podunk, Indiana. At the time, Louisville felt like Narnia and Floyds Knobs felt like, well, Floyds Knobs.
In the early days I lied. When my family ventured out of town, I told people that I lived in a suburb of Louisville (partially true). I neglected to mention Floyd or his knobs. Then, as the years went by, I came to grips with reality: my family wasn’t moving back across the muddy Ohio. Floyds Knobs was for good.
Home is a funny thing. It doesn't come with a recipe. I’ve lived in Chicago for six years, and it still doesn’t feel like home. In all likelihood, it never will.
Small towns, in particular, take awhile. You have to become part of the smallness. In my case, I had to leave the Knobs to realize what it meant to me -- to equate it with home. Sometimes distance is the missing variable in the equation. You realize this when you’re elsewhere and can compare.
Now, I’m infatuated with everything related to Floyds Knobs. A few weeks ago I even falsified documents for the Knobs’ greater glory. When I sent in my registration form for the Chicago Marathon, I wrote in my address as “Floyds Knobs” (not Chicago), wanting the Knobs to show up in the official results.
Hopefully, readers of the Chicago Tribune will scan the results of the marathon and head for the computer to see what “Floyds Knobs” unearths in the search engine. Perhaps someone will even click on Google Maps and ask for an aerial view of 47119.
As much as I like that prospect, I wish inquiring minds could go further: beyond the static information on the computer screen. In small towns you need to meet the kinfolk (literal reference) walking around town to get a sense of the place. You can’t vouch for the grandeur of the Knobs by looking up a url.
You need to meet some Knobbers.
Knobbers include Kathy of Kathy’s Silk-Screen & Embroidery, operated out of Kathy’s home around mile six of my eight-mile running loop. Kathy's marketing slogan: “No job too big or too small.”
Kathy: God bless you.
About five miles from Kathy’s house, a dozen elders meet for coffee every morning at the local Dairy Queen. The DQ congregation has been a cornerstone of Knobs’ living for the last twenty years (going back to when it was operated as Druther’s). Each regular has their own bodily imprint on a certain booth (some indents are more noticeable than others). If someone in the group dies (unlikely), a succession plan will dictate the rotation of seating, ensuring the booths are appropriately manned.
Life in its proper state.
The Knobs also boasts one celebrity resident in the form of Fuzzy Zoeller. His errant comments regarding the Champions Dinner at The Masters notwithstanding, Fuzzy is one of the friendliest and most community-oriented people you could ever hope to meet. I can make that statement in certain terms. I worked for him.
In the Knobs you’re likely to see Fuzzy driving his golf cart around town. You’ll also see shuffle board courts painted on driveways, and above ground pools sitting atop downhill backyards. Strawberry orchards are sprinkled in between subdivisions, and grassy parks named after local teachers pop up every fourth mile. Last but not least, a drive-in movie theatre serves up double features all summer long.
A slice of Americana awaits on the other side of every knob.
For most residents life starts and end with the Knobs. They come from the Jonathan Franzen school of thought believing “better not to leave than to have to come back.” However, some ignore Franzen and simultaneously disprove the physics of small towns – escaping beyond the county line and landing in distant, less knobby, grounds.
There are still others, like me, who may end up on the short end of Franzen’s equation: appreciating our lives away but sensing that a return to the known world might be in order. Sensing that we might have to go back.
If I return it will be for the pepperoni pizza at Arni’s, monthly visits to see Hairmaster Ron, a standing Saturday tee time at Valley View, and spontaneous trips to DQ to ensure the booths are worn in all the right places. And more than anything, it will be for the Knobbers. Without friends and loved ones to share in a localized life, the aforementioned pleasures would be lessened, and the years muted and slow.
Then again, time has always struggled in towns like Floyds Knobs. Time marches on, but the town remains the same. Yesterday equals tomorrow, and tomorrow will equal today (the good lord willin’ and the creeks don’t rise).
My day-to-day life is made easier knowing that such a place exists. Its presence, and the certainty that comes with it, are warmth incarnate. It's a feeling of satisfaction trumped only by a final consideration:
I know that if I return, I will already be a part of the smallness.
Man your battle stations.
My first week in Buenos Aires, I told everyone that I was from Chicago. Reasons for doing so included: it’s where I live; it’s a large metropolis and likely to be known in a foreign country; and I quietly harbored hope that an Argentine would greet me in broken English with: “A team that is known as: Da Bears!”
As tempting as it might have been to hold out for an Argentine Super Fan, around the tenth day I realized that “Chicago” was a mistake of galactic proportions. From that moment on my unconditional response was: “Soy de Floyds Knobs.”
I don’t know how I could have been so careless. The year is 2007. The world is flat. And every shack-of-a-town in the world is accessible with a click of the mouse. Not referencing the Knobs was a serious, two-fold oversight on my part.
First, I belatedly realized that I should have been acting as a parishioner: building grass-roots international support for Floyds Knobs as a candidate to host the 2040 Summer Olympics. My mouth waters as I contemplate the International Olympic Committee (IOC) arriving in the Knobs to meet with local representatives (Hairmaster Ron, Letty Walter, Port, Sammy O, Bob Singleton, and Donna from Tumbleweed).
Secondly, I came to understand that by negating mention of my humble roots, I was unintentionally negating a differentiating characteristic. Anyone can be from Chicago.
You have to be somebody to be from Floyds Knobs.
Floyds Knobs will always mean home to me. Everything about the Knobs, especially the name, brings a smile to my face. I love knowing there was a Floyd (Colonel Davis Floyd); I love driving around his (our) knobs; and I love being from a town that is possessive -- even if the apostrophe is optional and I normally do without.
Come to think of it, that’s another reason to love my bite-size hometown just north of the Mason-Dixon Line. How many towns have two acceptable spellings (Floyd’s Knobs and Floyds Knobs)? There’s even a bumper sticker which encourages the rivalry: “I live in Floyds Knobs, not Floyd’s Knobs.” Also offered vice versa.
You can’t tell me this town isn’t syntax utopia.
I think it’s safe to say my fondness for the Knobs is now approaching a fanatical state. In actuality, I wasn’t always this zealous in my fanfare. My appreciation took awhile to groom.
When my family first moved from Louisville to Floyds Knobs (IN), a cross-river trek of 16 miles, I wasn't a happy camper. I was ten: Katie Reese was my lone priority (and yes, I still remember her name). I also hated the prospect of moving out of the big city (now, now) and into Podunk, Indiana. At the time, Louisville felt like Narnia and Floyds Knobs felt like, well, Floyds Knobs.
In the early days I lied. When my family ventured out of town, I told people that I lived in a suburb of Louisville (partially true). I neglected to mention Floyd or his knobs. Then, as the years went by, I came to grips with reality: my family wasn’t moving back across the muddy Ohio. Floyds Knobs was for good.
Home is a funny thing. It doesn't come with a recipe. I’ve lived in Chicago for six years, and it still doesn’t feel like home. In all likelihood, it never will.
Small towns, in particular, take awhile. You have to become part of the smallness. In my case, I had to leave the Knobs to realize what it meant to me -- to equate it with home. Sometimes distance is the missing variable in the equation. You realize this when you’re elsewhere and can compare.
Now, I’m infatuated with everything related to Floyds Knobs. A few weeks ago I even falsified documents for the Knobs’ greater glory. When I sent in my registration form for the Chicago Marathon, I wrote in my address as “Floyds Knobs” (not Chicago), wanting the Knobs to show up in the official results.
Hopefully, readers of the Chicago Tribune will scan the results of the marathon and head for the computer to see what “Floyds Knobs” unearths in the search engine. Perhaps someone will even click on Google Maps and ask for an aerial view of 47119.
As much as I like that prospect, I wish inquiring minds could go further: beyond the static information on the computer screen. In small towns you need to meet the kinfolk (literal reference) walking around town to get a sense of the place. You can’t vouch for the grandeur of the Knobs by looking up a url.
You need to meet some Knobbers.
Knobbers include Kathy of Kathy’s Silk-Screen & Embroidery, operated out of Kathy’s home around mile six of my eight-mile running loop. Kathy's marketing slogan: “No job too big or too small.”
Kathy: God bless you.
About five miles from Kathy’s house, a dozen elders meet for coffee every morning at the local Dairy Queen. The DQ congregation has been a cornerstone of Knobs’ living for the last twenty years (going back to when it was operated as Druther’s). Each regular has their own bodily imprint on a certain booth (some indents are more noticeable than others). If someone in the group dies (unlikely), a succession plan will dictate the rotation of seating, ensuring the booths are appropriately manned.
Life in its proper state.
The Knobs also boasts one celebrity resident in the form of Fuzzy Zoeller. His errant comments regarding the Champions Dinner at The Masters notwithstanding, Fuzzy is one of the friendliest and most community-oriented people you could ever hope to meet. I can make that statement in certain terms. I worked for him.
In the Knobs you’re likely to see Fuzzy driving his golf cart around town. You’ll also see shuffle board courts painted on driveways, and above ground pools sitting atop downhill backyards. Strawberry orchards are sprinkled in between subdivisions, and grassy parks named after local teachers pop up every fourth mile. Last but not least, a drive-in movie theatre serves up double features all summer long.
A slice of Americana awaits on the other side of every knob.
For most residents life starts and end with the Knobs. They come from the Jonathan Franzen school of thought believing “better not to leave than to have to come back.” However, some ignore Franzen and simultaneously disprove the physics of small towns – escaping beyond the county line and landing in distant, less knobby, grounds.
There are still others, like me, who may end up on the short end of Franzen’s equation: appreciating our lives away but sensing that a return to the known world might be in order. Sensing that we might have to go back.
If I return it will be for the pepperoni pizza at Arni’s, monthly visits to see Hairmaster Ron, a standing Saturday tee time at Valley View, and spontaneous trips to DQ to ensure the booths are worn in all the right places. And more than anything, it will be for the Knobbers. Without friends and loved ones to share in a localized life, the aforementioned pleasures would be lessened, and the years muted and slow.
Then again, time has always struggled in towns like Floyds Knobs. Time marches on, but the town remains the same. Yesterday equals tomorrow, and tomorrow will equal today (the good lord willin’ and the creeks don’t rise).
My day-to-day life is made easier knowing that such a place exists. Its presence, and the certainty that comes with it, are warmth incarnate. It's a feeling of satisfaction trumped only by a final consideration:
I know that if I return, I will already be a part of the smallness.
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