Post-ceremonial Vacation

Although it's more about fishing for yucks now, I really DID have some difficulty referring to our trip as a "honeymoon." So I think the word sounds a little too sweet - friggin shoot me.

I can say in all earnestness and honesty: The 10 or 12 days which made up our wedding day and the moon of honey were among the best I've ever had. Part of it was simply that we had a cool wedding...no big deal and yet quite special and memorable. A best friend - Doc DoLittle - performed emcee duties. The dog ran around for awhile and made it into some of the photos before settling down about 5 minutes into the 15-minute ceremony. (I forgot to put her outside before we started, but it worked out great and we are glad she is in some of the pics.)

Toward the middle of the ceremony, our cats came part way down the stairs and watched us say our vows.

And the ensuing moon of honey flowed like a Yeti into the woods.

The rugged Pacific coastline, the combination of both rustic and luxurious lodging, the awe-inspiring Redwoods, and one of the best cities in the world - San Francisco - it was truly one of the best weeks of my life.

The fact that I got to enjoy it all with my beautiful, funny, smart, grounded bride (I am still pinching myself over what a lucky man I am!) was nothing short of magnificent...We are off to a wonderful start!

Okay - a little salt to offset all this sugar-coated sweetness: etymology of "honeymoon:" The first month after marriage, when there is nothing but tenderness and pleasure" (Samuel Johnson); originally having no reference to the period of a month, but comparing the mutual affection of newly-married persons to the changing moon which is no sooner full than it begins to wane; now, usually, the holiday spent together by a newly-married couple, before settling down at home.

And: The word honeymoon has its roots in the Norse word "hjunottsmanathr" which was anything but blissful. Northern European history describes the abduction of a bride from a neighboring village. It was imperative that the abductor, the husband to be, take his bride-to-be into hiding for a period of time. His friends assured his and her safe keeping and kept their whereabouts unknown. Once the bride's family gave up their search, the bridegroom returned to his people. This folkloric explanation presumably is the origin of today's honeymoon, for its original meaning meant hiding. The Scandinavian word for honeymoon is derived, in part, from an ancient Northern European custom in which newlyweds, for the first month of their married life, drank a daily cup of honeyed wine called mead. The ancient practices of kidnapping the bride and drinking the honeyed wine date back to the history of Atilla, king of the Asiatic Huns from A.D. 433 to A.D. 453.

The Politics of Marriage

I just like that for a title...I'll spare you a 3-part treatise on the punditry of matrimony.

I AM a little bummed it took me so long to get to another post, but between getting hitched, the post-ceremonial vacation, and the ensuing recovery (I was sick the night we returned and that lasted for a week - plus I was already behind at work from being gone for 11 days).

That's my excuse, anyway. To say nothing about the conventions...which have been eating up my time, too. I just feel that my efforts are better spent writing letters to the paper than the kind of self-serving fluff that usually ends up in most public diaries...er, blogs.

I promise: the next entry will be marriage/honeymoon related, with pics...in the meantime, my letter to the editor:

An Eloquent Deception

Palin gave a fine speech, as was expected. Did anyone think she'd stutter or freeze with stage fright? My critique of her speech is the same critique I have of the Republican Party in general: they have no substantive ideas or positive arguments.

One example of Palin's deception: She was for the "Bridge to Nowhere" before she was against it. And, Palin kept the $400 million that was slated for the bridge and used it for other pork-barrel projects in Alaska - it's not like she returned that money. To make matters worse, she also spent $39 million on the road that led to the defunct bridge - after knowing the bridge would not be built. Talk about wasteful spending!

What caught me off guard were the mean, sarcastic, small-minded barbs of anger delivered with a derisive smile. There is nothing in the Republican playbook about appealing to our higher selves or challenging us to become a more unified nation. I guess I expected something more, something better from a McCain-led campaign. Instead, he has become that which he despised.

McBush, Palin and the Republican leaders want to keep us on our present course: a road to nowhere. Don't be fooled again! America is better than this.

Is Bigfoot a Vegetarian?

I sure as hell hope so!

Me and Mortgage Partner are gearing up for the Big Day...and hence, the Big Week to follow. Our post-ceremonial vacation (what is commonly referred to as "the honeymoon") should be spectacular.

We head to the great Northwest the day after the Big Gig...to northern California and southern Oregon. For three of our seven days, we will be immersed in the heart of Bigfoot country. Though (like the god-thing) I do not consider myself a believer, neither am I so closed-minded as to be a staunchly rabid sceptic (from the greek: skeptomai, to look about, to consider).

An ancient myth dating back at least 400 years in North America (the term sasquatch is a Native American word for "hairy giant"), no hard evidence (bones, skulls, genetically distinct hair) supporting their existence has ever been discovered. It doesn't help the believer's cause that A) two hoax films have been uncovered, B) a corpse known as "The Minnesota Iceman" raised more questions than it answered (it's a great story, involving J. Edgar Hoover, The Smithsonian Institute, a carnival owner and an eccentric millionaire), C) people have been caught creating false prints with special boots that have large wooden feet on the bottom, or that D) a company even mass-produced strap-on feet so that you could prank friends and family.

I think the best story I've run across yet is that of Albert Ostman, a Canadian lumberjack. It was 1924. Albert was prospecting for gold when he claims to have been captured by a family of Bigfoots. The held him hostage for a week before he finally escaped. He didn't tell anyone about the incident until 1957 because - get this - he didn't want people to think he was crazy! My favorite part of Albert's tale is that the Yetis are apparently a progressive bunch, shunning traditional roles: Father and Daughter guarded him while Son and Mom prepared the meals. (Or maybe the boy was just a good cook and the daughter was a great softball player :).

Okay...maybe that's NOT the best story about Bigfoot...maybe THIS one is: Mortgage Partner agreed to marry me because she found out my college nickname was "Bigfoot" for a reason!

Q: Is Hell Freezing Over?

A: No...I just finally came to my senses.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard that phrase in the past month or so - ever since I went public with the news that Mortgage Partner and I will be pulling the trigger on this relationship thing. (Not to be confused with "pulling the plug..." In my cartoon head, "pulling the trigger" is akin to "finalizing," whereas the former is more like "abandoning." Yeah: I am a cheesy romantic sap - I know.)

Some of the more memorable verbal reactions:

"Get the fuck out of here! Cranial Midget is NOT getting married!!!" I heard this one through the phone line, as a good friend's wife (who probably knows me better through "reputation" than through reality) was told of the news.

"Excuse me?" said a co-worker. He then turned around so his ass was facing me, and said, "Could you tell me if pigs are flying out my butt?"

"Well, I guess we can finally put the door back on its hinges," said an old friend, referring to a semi-public facility where - a long time ago, when I was in my late-teens/early twenties - I would often go to have sex. Seedy stuff: it was the back room of a gathering place and the table, which took up most of the space in the small room, was just the right height. The old crusty bass turds who ran the place (and who weren't getting laid) were jealous and decided to take the door off its hinges.

And, just last weekend, I was given this gem: "Can I tell you something? Something my mom always sat me down and told me whenever I had been dating a boy for more than a few months?" asked a friend. "The fucking stops and the fighting starts when you get married. Don't ever get married, darling. That was about the only advice my mother ever offered me...now I offer it to you."

"Wow. That is so awesome! I never thought I'd live to see the day...she must be pretty special. You two must have a lot of fun together," exclaimed one of my less-jaded friends.

Yeah...yes she is. And yes - yes we do.

Having Mortgage Partner in my life is like getting a whole new box of crayons and a brand new coloring book, adding dimensions to my existence I never knew...opening my eyes to colors I didn't know were there.

And: she doesn't mind the fact that I still can't (won't?) draw inside the lines! (Although she prefers it when I do.)

Keepin' the Streak Alive

Movie Quotes:

"There are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary. And there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I learned that, I gave Jesus a chance."

- - Bull Durham

"A good friend of mine used to say, 'This is a very simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.' Think about that for a while."

- - Bull Durham

"Well I can't rightly say which player hit the ball hardest, but the home runs Babe Ruth hit got smaller quicker." - Walter Johnson in Ken Burns' "Baseball"

Good Ol' Yogi:

"You give 100 percent in the first half of the game, and if that isn't enough in the second half you give what's left."

"If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else."

"I made a wrong mistake."

"I didn't really say everything I said."

American Zen:

"See if you can notice when you're hitting and not paying attention. The way to learn to pay attention is to notice when you're not paying attention."

- - Jeff McKay, founder of Be Your Own Coach Baseball Camp

The Mexicutioner

Classic All-Star Game Tuesday night.

Old Yankee Stadium (built in 1923) grudgingly said goodbye to the national spotlight. (Since the Yankees aren't having a very good year, it's unlikely they will get to the post-season - making this the last time "the nation" will be focused on The House That Ruth Built). Being a true Yankee-hater, I'm not shedding any Royal Blue tears over this...

Nonetheless, it was pretty awesome watching George Brett give the pre-game pep talk to the A.L. players, seeing Yogi Berra throw out the ceremonial first pitch - and, best of all, getting to see our boy, The Mexicutioner, take the mound with the game tied in the 11th.

Did I mention that the 9th inning began at the stroke of midnight - seriously. That's one reason I LOVE baseball - there are just so many odd things that happen - almost enough to turn a hardball atheist into a softball believer (whatever that means).

This is just one of my favorite examples: In 1961, on the last day of the season, Roger Maris broke Mickey Mantle's single-season home run record by hitting his 61st homer in his 161st game of the season.

(As an aside, after the 1998 season, a mathematician recognized a mathematical property BECAUSE OF the home run chase that year:

A mathematical property is named after Maris, along with Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire. Two numbers form a Maris-McGwire-Sosa pair if they are consecutive numbers such that when you add each number's digits to the digits of its prime factorization, they are equal. Engineer Mike Keith named this property after the sluggers because he noticed that the numbers 61 and 62 have this property, and McGwire and Sosa both hit home run number 62 in 1998, both passing the record of Maris, 61.)

Baseball is America in microcosm. Our history of race relations, immigration, labor vs The Man, popular culture and patriotism, wide open spaces...it's all in there.

Americans began playing baseball in the early 1800s, using local rules. But it wasn't until Cartwright formalized the modern rules of the game and formed a "league" (consisting of two teams) in 1846 that it started to become our "national pastime."

Think about it: A ballpark brings together total strangers. Since that first recorded game, baseball has blurred the social barriers of age and race and language and social status. It unites people in highly vocal rivalry (known as "heckling" and also referred to as a 2-party Democracy). It’s an urban game played on a wide open, grassy field. And: it is a game that's as much about the mind as it is the body. Whitman would be proud!

Just look at all the words and phrses we use every day that come from baseball: "In the ballpark" or "a ballpark estimate." "Batting a thousand." "Big league" and "bush league" (the latter has a whole new meaning since the Idiot-in Chief took over, eh?). The term "Charlie horse" was first used in association with baseball - and may have been coined by ballplayers. "Cover all your bases." The media threw him a "curve ball." "Way off base." "Rain check." "Pinch hit."

And then there's sex: "Getting to first base," "Getting to home" or "Striking out." "Switch hitter," "Pitcher" and "Catcher"...the lexicon goes on and on...as can a baseball game (or a blog entry)!

Seriously, though: a baseball game can, in theory, go on forever. There's no time limit and no limit put on the number of extra innings - adding to its "spiritual" or supernatural (outside the limits of time) quality. (A couple of double A teams hold the official record: the game began on Saturday, April 18, 1981 and continued through the night and into Easter morning before the league president was reached by phone and made them suspend the game.)

If you pay attention, watching a ballgame can truly be a zen-like experience. Many Americans have developed ADD and therefore think the game is too boring. But there is always some titillating match-up or strategy or sleight-of-hand going on...you just have to be aware.

Anyway, we're getting into the late innings here. The 15-inning, 5-hour mid-summer classic was a thing of beauty. The House That Ruth Built just wanted to keep that light shining on her as long as she could. Can't say that I blame the old gal.

All of this has just been a drawn-out way to give a shout-out to our boy, Joakim Soria, aka, "The Mexicutioner." He is the Royals closer and, just 24-years-old, is arguably the best at his position in baseball.

Me and Mortgage Partner thought we were in a tiny fan club of Soria-obsessed geeks. Then we saw the above illustration - which a company recently printed onto T-shirts. After pitching a flawless 11th inning in the All-Star game, it seems everyone knows him now...

...well, everyone except my friend, LT - self-proclaimed Royals fan who didn't even recognize Soria's name when I mentioned him earlier today! Oh well, let that be a lesson to each of us: we ALL need to pay a lot more attention than we do. Heck, MP had to tell me I was rooting for the wrong team one time!

Survival of the Santas

What do a bunch of grown men who spend their lives perpetuating a fairy tale do when they gather and have too much free time?

They form an organized religion, of course!

I jest.

In this case, they formed the group, Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas. I shit you not.

And, they happen to be in town this weekend - or, what's left of them is in town.

The group started back in the 90s when 100 of them were hired to do a commercial for a German mail-order company. The filming lasted from 3:00 in the afternoon until 5:00 the next morning. Red-suit delirious and sleep-deprived, they decided to form a fraternal order and get together once a year.

Back-stabbing, infighting and just general "unsanta-like behavior" ensued...leading to a major schism in the fraternity and reducing their numbers from the hundreds to several dozen. Splinter groups have formed, lawsuits have been filed, and there are even threats of sabotage as the original group gathers this weekend for their annual convention.

Ahh...brotherhood...peace on earth and good will toward all.

I say we settle the matter by getting them all together in the Octogan of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, include their elves, put it on pay-per view, and let them decide the matter like real Saints - may the biggest-bellied, strongest son-of-a-bitch in red tights win!

(Kinda like the Inquisition.)

DOE! DOH! DOUGH! DODO!

DOE! As in...earlier this week, I had an experience that seemed to transmigrate my being straight into a French Surrealist movie from the 1920s (or maybe a David Lynch or Paul Thomas Anderson sequence). In a pre-caffeinated stupor, I went outside to retrieve the morning paper, like I do every day of the week. Only this time, an odd sound struck my ear just as I was taking the first of 13 steps off the front porch, beginning my descent to the sidewalk. It sounded a bit like horse's hooves hitting asphalt. A brown blur caught my eye. A flash of white. Understand this: I live in the 'hood - I mean, really: the 'hood. We are two miles from the heart of downtown KCMO. Eight minutes by car to the west and you are in the new Power & Light District. So I literally didn't believe my senses when I finally focused on a deer ("a female deer") running up the sidwalk across the street. I looked away, shook my head and looked again. It had stopped at the intersection of a (not busy) street three houses up. It then turned around, crossed the street and ran past me, into a neighbor's backyard. I went to look...but it was gone-daddy-gone. The apocalypse is nigh.

DOH! As in...wow. My dear (get it?) friend Elizabeth shook me out of my blogstupor. Will it last? I doh!no - but I applaud and appreciate that someone even noticed my absence from the blogworld.

Dough! As in...mmm...someone brought in Lamar's Donuts to work today...and shared!

DODO! As in...I have allowed the Hopeful Curmudgeon to go the way of the friggin dodo bird... it's become extinct or obsolete, it's fallen out of common usage or practice, it's become a thing of the past.

Will the resurrection sustain itself?

HA! I guess (if anyone is still checking) you will have to check back in (again) to learn the answer!

The "W" is for "Whack"

Seize the Day

Poem of the day:

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed -

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

For all the dreams we've dreamed

And all the songs we've sung

And all the hopes we've held

And all the flags we've hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay -

Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again -

The land that never has been yet -

And yet must be -

the land where every man is free.

(Excerpted from "Let America Be America Again," by Langston Hughes)

Headline of the Day:

Ex-Homecoming Queen Beats Sister With Fake Leg In Trailer

or

How NOT To Do an Intervention

(from Pittsburgh)

Article of the Day:

Poverty is Poison

“Poverty in early childhood poisons the brain.” That was the opening of an article in Saturday’s Financial Times, summarizing research presented last week at the American Association for the Advancement of Science.

L. B. J. declared his “War on Poverty” 44 years ago. Contrary to cynical legend, there actually was a large reduction in poverty over the next few years, especially among children, who saw their poverty rate fall from 23 percent in 1963 to 14 percent in 1969.

But progress stalled thereafter: American politics shifted to the right, attention shifted from the suffering of the poor to the alleged abuses of welfare queens driving Cadillacs, and the fight against poverty was largely abandoned.

In 2006, 17.4 percent of children in America lived below the poverty line, substantially more than in 1969. And even this measure probably understates the true depth of many children’s misery.

America’s failure to make progress in reducing poverty, especially among children, should provoke a lot of soul-searching. Unfortunately, what it often seems to provoke instead is great creativity in making excuses.

(excerpted from Feb 18, NYT article)

Thought of the Day:

Each time someone stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against an injustice, they send forth a ripple of hope. --- Robert F. Kennedy

Do Until You Die

I don't want to give the impression that I am playing off a movie that looks as cheesy as a Wisconsin kurd bucket. But I think February is a great time to be thinking about what place(s) we want to see or thing(s) we want to do before another year passes.

Also, I don't really need help with my "Things To Do Before I Die" list. Nonetheless, I think it'd be cool to hear what some of you have on your lists - and what others might be planning on marking off this year.

I have never been to the great Northwest, but have always imagined I'd love it there...which sets me up for a two-fer this autumn: seeing southern Oregon/northern California AND climbing a titan Redwood. (Okay: so I'll be climbing an old growth Douglas fir tree - not a Redwood - get over it. It's still a 300-footer!)

There's something about these majestic millenia-old beauties that has grabbed me by the 'nads and won't let go. Not sure about the firs, but the titan Redwoods don't even have any branches until you get about 200 feet off the ground. They actually have to shoot fishing line over them with a high-powered bow, tie a climbing rope to the fishing line and then pull it back over.

The scientists who study them aren't sure just how old they become - their best guess is between 2,500 and 3,000 years old. The massive trunks of the fallen are often hollowed out - it's a survival mechanism that let's them live through forest fires. The botanists remain a little baffled about how they manage to stay alive...though they've learned a lot, there is still much they don't know about them. It's only been in the past 25-30 years that botanists have even gone exploring forest canopies.

One woman got lost in a "trunk cave" while climbing a live, still-standing tree. She went in to explore and was lost for about 20 minutes, unable to find her way out: that's how enormous these suckers are.

In the eco-adventure trip linked above, they spend a few hours teaching you (on the ground, thank Dog) how to use the ropes. Then one of them goes up with you (climbing at your side). They feed you when you get near the top, then strap you into a treeboat (hammock) and spend the night up there. (The hammocks are called "treeboats" because the whole tree sways around in the wind and people often have "sea legs" when they get back on terra firma.) The guides feed you breakfast and coffee, then you come back down.

Like I said (if you couldn't tell), I am juked-up about this.

Also, thanks to a friggin' awesome job (no gloat - just grateful), I'll be knocking off Africa this year, too. More about that later...

What has you enthused? What are you hoping to be able to scratch off your list this year - and come back (hopefully) enriched in some way?

enthusiasm = en theos = with god. Not that you need a trip or something out of the ordinary to get enthused - daily life offers plenty of opportunity for that, I hope.

I just believe you gotta be enthused about something or you're not really living.

Let's talk!

Faux News - Insanely Imbalanced

No one reading this is gonna be shocked or surprised by this headline.

"Faux News really isn't fair and balanced? Oh my!"

Nonetheless, the Dupert Mularchy Machine marches on...finding new ways to propogandize even as their dogmatic faithful remain tuned-in and deluded.

The screenshot captured here has not been doctored in any way...they really did run this clip of McCain speaking in front of the Conservative Political Action Conference yesterday, identifying him as a Democrat. No shit. No tongue-in-cheek...no commentary about the "mis-labeling." Nothing. Well, nothing except pure ideological hate-mongering lies.

The only reason I care is because more people watch Faux News than any other cable news channel. WTF is wrong with these Americans?

Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised (even though it seems to always amaze me).

We didn't elect Bush once. No...he was elected twice.

At least we have a chance to break out of this divisiveness. A chance to redeem ourselves.

We have a lot more in common as Americans than these idealogues (particularly on the right - but both sides are guilty) want us to see or admit to.

Mamas for Obama: Unite!

:~)

Old Man Racing (part 2 of 3)

From your car, you see the back of the old man's head through his rear window. Closing in, you see the white hair. Assume a receding hairline. Next to him now, at the red light, you see a full mane. This pisses you off. No, you are glad for him. As you're trying to decide, the light turns green. His tires don't exactly screech but there is a prolonged, high-pitched YAWP! You should be able to catch him, because you have a stick and his acceleration is so smooth that it must be an automatic. It's one of those boxy Chryslers. Late 80's model. Advantage: you. But you don't reach him until you hit the speed limit. Through some kind of testosteronic telepathy, you both know not so much that he has won as that you have lost.

At the next light, engines idling, you feel a spike in the testes. Surging. You're ready this time. Ready to run the tachometer into the red if you have to. Maybe you laugh internally at the absurdity of male machismo and the infantile way it sometimes plays out. Still, you understand and respect the gravity of the situation. The old man lights a smoke. Funny. He doesn't look like a smoker. Watch the light controlling the cross traffic and the moment it turns yellow, you release the clutch. A good jump. He puts up a decent fight but you watch him in your side-view mirror. You win this one.

There is much you don't know about this racing old man whose sun is setting. Perhaps he served a tour in W.W.II. He may have fought his way out of poverty to buy a house and make a home, provided for his wife and saw to it their 2.8 children had all they needed. He paid for their college instead of fulfilling his dream of seeing the rest of the world. The old man might be on his way home from hospital, having spent the past eight hours at the bedside of his dying wife. The way he sees it, he spent more time than that working every day of his life while she was well and he took it all for granted. So maybe he feels this is the least he can do, keeping vigil. Or he is racing against time. Raging against the Reaper - the way we all should. Or the old man is sad to the point of madness. Never again will he feel a firm breast in his worn hands unless he pays cold cash for it.

He is racing toward oblivion and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. That's why he's racing you on this hot summer eve. Even better, this is why you are racing him: He is you in some cycle of moons from now.

Time for the sugar game. You look at him. His eyes never waver from the road. Maybe he hasn't been racing you after all. He's blind to your existence. It's a weak bladder and he's just rushing home to piss. You think about this and the light turns green and he takes off in a haze of burning oil and rubber. He is two car-lengths ahead of you and you are redlining it, shifting to third at forty...closing the gap. The old man's brake lights blink on and you catch a final glimpse of his silhouette as he turns off without a look. Your momentum carries you right on by. Perhaps the old man is forgotten by the time you get home. Maybe you realize you're not that far behind him and decide to keep on racing.

"Yes We Can"

Refraining from editorializing (yes: my tongue is swollen and bleeding from gnawing on it!), I will just allow these two incidents to speak for themselves. The incidents perfectly encapsulate, I believe, a big chunk of who the two candidates are - and what their respective campaigns are all about:

On the night before the New Hampshire primary, Hillary and Obama were both heckled during their evening rallies.

Clinton was interrupted by Fat, Sloppy Bass Turd, shouting, "Iron my shirt!" and holding a big sign with the same words on it.

"Oh the remnants of sexism, alive and well tonight," Clinton said as Fat, Sloppy Bass Turd was dragged out. "As I think has been abundantly demonstrated," Hillary continued, "I am also running to break through the highest and hardest glass ceiling."

Obama had about 10 hecklers, who began shouting from a balcony, "Abortion is an abomination!" (Okay - a brief editorial here :) Had they been a little brighter, perhaps they'd have created signs playing off the candidate's name and the word "abomination."But they weren't.) Obama's vocal supporters began chanting back "Obama! Obama!" and drowning out the protesters' voices.

Obama quieted the crowd. Then he said, "Let me just say this though. Some people got organized to do that. That's part of the American tradition we are proud of. And that's hard too, standing in the midst of people who disagree with you and letting your voice be heard."