Fish Are Strange

We have fish and a frog and snails. Enough snails to start a revolution. They just keep coming. I've learned more about snails in the last year than I ever cared to. I don't like them.

We've had fish for years, with luck that borders on being absurd. They don't seem to stick around long, and I wonder why. They must be bored silly. There's only so many to swim in a square box. They only live for food, and then they go beserk. What a life. 

Getting Out Of Line

Some days you have to take a step to the left or right to get a different view. If you don't, all you'll ever see if the back of the head of the dude in front of you. Boring. His head isn't all that interesting, and there's more to look at in life than what the people around you look like. Much more. I have no idea why it takes so long to realize that sometimes. Why it takes so long to take a baby step to the left to see what's ahead. To take one to the right and feel the wind on my face from a different direction. You have to move away from the line, and if possible, stay away for as long as possible. 

Summer Where I Live

Brutal. 107 or some insane temp like that yesterday. Crazy heat. Mad heat. The kind of heat where it's OK to say, "Not fit for man or beast." (Only if there's a blizzard is it OK to say that otherwise.)

My eight-year-old girls' softball team rocked last night despite the heat. They spat in heat's eye. They turned a doubleplay in the bottom of the third (flyball to pitcher, force out at first) and then picked up the last out on a force to third. It was a great moment, as I and the guy helping coach the girls have stressed all season getting outsAnd they've really improved. They're about to turn the corner. If they played one more game a week . . . they' d probably be bored ugly.

I could give a flip who wins these games, but sometimes I find myself having to throttle down feelings of wanting to thump somebody. -- It's the way we played games when I was a kid. All or nothing. You didn't whine or cry. That just wasn't OK. I didn't take that stuff too seriously, though. I just wanted to play. -- Last night we thumped someone, and while the girls on the other team certainly didn't deserve the thumping we gave them (ha, we won by a run), the other team's very loud coach and very obnoxious did deserve it. Actually, I don't think he was even the coach. More like the lacky assistant who doesn't want to commit to handling the whole enchilada, but he'll offer up his head coach-quality advice every game and every practice he can make it to until you eventually learn to block him out and he gets the point. If you want to help, cool. Ask me what you can do. Don't tell me what to do. Hell, he was yelling at what I hope was his own kid (although I feel for her) because she was late to the game. She was every-so-slowly trotting along in the 107-degree heat because she was 1) hot, 2) hot, and 3) about to get hotter. "Hustle!! I don't care! Hustle. Come on. You're up next!!!!" Ugh. So then the HEAD coach says (although too softly to my liking), "It's alright," trying to let this guy know in a polite manner that he looks like a fool and everyone knows it. But the ASSISTANT coach doesn't listen. He just bellows on to let everyone know how integral he is to the whole machine.

So anyway, the Royals rocked the field last night. My own child, hovering second base diligently like a hawk out for blood, got whacked in the back of the head on a perfect relay throw from the left fielder. Evidently, there was a better game going on the field over. My pride and joy barely blinked, though, which makes me wonder if she's just tough or has a screw loose and doesn't feel pain. I'm leaning to the latter for now. (By the way, only those who have done it know how difficult it is to explain to an eight-year-old the importance of keeping the force on at second by making the correct throw from the outfield? My girl strung that baby on a rope. Thing of beauty.)

On Writing

So, I'm moving away from the editing job I've had for almost five years and going back to writing full time. I'm a bit nervous about it, as I think it's going to be a real challenge, at least initially. My job is entirely focused on technology, and writing about it is not the easiest thing to do. Writing about technology so that others can understand it is even more difficult. But I'm looking forward to the challenge. Seems like I haven't had enough of them lately, and I can tell. Rut, rut, rut. Once you're in one, it's difficult to get out, so I'm thankful I'm at least getting the chance to. I'm going to miss working on CPU, though. I've been working on the mag since it's first issue more than three years ago, and it's been a joy watching it grow and prosper. But it's time to move on. All the originals I started with on that mag are one, and it's been different without them. When things come together and everyone is on the same page and you're working to a like-minded goal, even if just briefly, it's wonderful. When pieces of that machine begin falling off one by one, the reward aren't as collective, and they don't feel the same. I love writing. I've loved doing it professionally, and it's been long enough since I've done it full time that I'm going to have to work my arse off just to keep up. I'm hoping I'm up to it.

Church

I love my church. I love just about everything about it. The people are entirely good. Entirely giving and entirely humble. There's really not much to not like. Acceptance is about the greatest gift someone can give you in life, and every time I go to my church, that's what I receive.

I presided over communion and the scripture reading today for the second time, and again it was a great experience. It's enlightening to bare you soul to like-minded people and have them confirm what you feel yourself. And it's an honor to lead them in something sacred and important, as well.

I came to church and faith and belief and God in an unconventional way, and I wouldn't change a thing about that.

Can fireworks bring world peace?

Ha. Probably not. But they do have a pacifying effect you can't deny--if you really, really pay attention.

Ever notice on the Fourth that no matter where people have gathered in an attempt to blow things apart (my mailbox) or have gathered to observe fireworks (every damn driveway in every damn Midwestern town) or congregate to purchase fireworks (every damn grocery store parking lot in my fair city), it's a united crowd? A crowd with a single purpose. A slack-jawed crowd with flashes of exploding lights twinkling in their eyes. These people have no outwardly noticeable conflicts. Why? Beer, of course. Well, that and because they love explosions. They live for destruction. It's in their blood. It fuels them. Beer and demolition. The Fourth is the one day of the year your crazy uncle or nitwit third cousin twice removed or your neice's chain-smoking, peach-fuzzed boyfriend are the most popular people in the family because they've blown half of their (or their parents') income for the year on gun powder. Beautiful.

Least you think I'm above explosion-loving, I'll come clean by admitting to willingly and willfully attending our city's annual fireworks display last night with my family at a city lake. Ever seen fireworks reflecting off water? Nothing like it. And as we sat in lawn chairs and on blankets along with thousands of others watching the great Lincoln Symphony Orchestra perform both before and while the sky was being lit up, I couldn't help but notice the true disparity of people gathered. Whites, blacks, native Americans, Asians, Hispanics, etc. Old. Young. Handicapped. Wealthy. Poor. English-speaking and not. The music and fireworks were equally fantastic, but seeing the diversity of people in one place outside under the stars without malice or aggitation or paranoia or distrust was by far the best part of the night, and really the whole point of the Fourth in the first place, right?

Later, we did our part for the explosion effort by blowing stuff up in our own driveway, while the drunken neighbors and friends did more than their part--and, in fact, got an early start on next year by exploding stuff well into July 5.

But it always seems like a few idiots have to go and spoil things involving fire and explosions and destruction for the rest of us. This morning I read that a few over-eager pyros in one of my old neighborhoods went above and beyond the call of duty by burning a house to the ground. Nice. I love this quote from the local newspaper from a guy living in the area: "It was incredible to see people from all over our neighborhood come and watch this as it happened. They treated it like a concert.....it was a very festive atmosphere. Somone's life was taking a tragic turn, and just about every single person on the block came out to watch the 'spectacle.' It was really sickening. People continued to shoot off fireworks 50 feet from the burning home. It was another disturbing remind of just how pathetic this neighborhood is."

Thanks for bumming out my fireworks trip.

These Days

Ever hear the song Greg Allman sings that Jackson Brown wrote called "These Days"? That song was written for GA, and he nails it. The song details how life has just become about sitting back, reflect on what you've done in the days prior, and how you're going to move forward into the days of the future. No hurry. No worries. Just accepting time as it comes. I like those two words together: these and days. It's the perfect invitation for conversation. "What've been up to these days." "These days I just try to keep my head above water." On and on. These days are hot. These days are filled with family. These days are bright. Slow. These days are filled and exciting and constant and flowing. These days are playing. These days are sun. These days are water. Hoops. Music. These days are gardens, weeds, and dying grass.