Paralysis

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I haven't written in a long time. I just haven't felt like it. I can't remember the last time I've felt like writing anything. Not a good place to be. This must be what Samson felt like when he got that haircut.
Work has been extremely busy. Nothing new there. I feel like I'm reacting, rather than in control. Haven't ridden my bike in two weeks. I can't remember the last time I worked out. I feel like wallpaper at the high school prom. Even I have to admit that for once, I have crossed the line between healthy and unhealthy work/life balance. My e-mail inbox is almost over a thousand, now, and my voicemail box is backed up. It's all just a bit too much.
When I leave for Spain next week, I will be escaping. I don't even know where I'm going yet. Toni and Erin have planned it all out. I'm just going to throw a toothbrush in my bag and leave. Maybe somewhere over there I will figure it all out, hear the sirens calling, something like that. Sometimes you just survive and hang on, and then some epiphany strikes. It's not the most glamorous way to live. I'm quite Clark Kent right now.
But when you don't feel like writing, that's when you should, because it's a job. I should take my own advice.
Let's see...
I think two friends of mine started dating this past month, fell in love, and got engaged. It can happen...happiness can just overtake you like a fever. Wow. Unbelievable. Hope. That's the eighth engagement I've heard of this year, all people I know. Some have taken only a month, and one was 10 years in the making. At some point you have to stop and think, am I missing something here?
I was thinking just now, I always get misty-eyed in that one segment of the Oscars where they show all the folks in showbiz that died that past year.
When I was young, I used to always want to stay up past bedtime to watch movies when they were shown on network TV on weeknights. It could be a movie I'd seen many times before. A movie I had on video that I hadn't cared to watch in ages. But put it on TV and suddenly it became irresistible. It had to do with the sense that all these other people around the world were watching it as well. This desire to be part of the global community of voyeurs. Not very healthy. But I don't have that feeling anymore because there are so many channels you don't really feel that anything is really must-see anymore. The Oscars are an exception. But with cable, satellite, the Internet...it's harder to feel like one is part of a larger community. Maybe it explains some of this isolation I feel.
Rachael took me to see Baraka at the Seattle Int'l Film Festival the other day. It was very very good. One of those times you enter the theater without very high expectations and come out blown away. No narrative either, just an essay of pictures and music in 70mm. Rachael is about the only person other than my office mate and my roommate I've seen on a consistent basis this past month. I'm a wraith.
I watched two Kiyoshi Kurosawa films at the film fest, and both starred Koji Yakusho, who I'd only seen in Shall We Dance before. I guess he's a big star in Japan. He's everywhere.
My dad is thinking of perhaps taking one of the early retirement packages from Lucent. He asked me what I thought, and it was strange. I was somewhat jealous that he even had the option.
Played my first softball game yesterday. I'm on a team that's already played five games, and I may only make one game all year. Sang stuck me at third base, the hot corner. I hate playing third on that crappy infield on Mercer Island. You never get a true hop and huge lunky guys are hitting lasers at you all night. So of course, some hot one-hopper takes a nasty bounce and hits me in the face, on my nose and upper lip. I have a nice red mark on my upper lip and a big cut in my mouth, but mostly I'm sore. There goes my stage face.
Living ugly...

Surprise

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Threw Jason a surprise 30th birthday party tonight at Waterfront. We got him good. He thought he was going to Hawaii yesterday, but instead his whole family showed up at the airport. He thought we were going to do something for him on his actual birthday, which was Thursday, but we didn't do anything. He was bummed. It was pretty funny. He came over to my house with Jamie to borrow some things from me for Hawaii, and he expected a huge surprise party, but instead he found me folding my laundry. Hah! I think he had a pretty good time tonight. Bought him these cool Adidas tearaway pants for basketball. I need to get a pair of those myself. Adidas clothes are sweet.
Rode with Todd and Rachael this morning. Did this ride up to Edmonds and back. It was about 62 miles. Got nailed by a rainstorm that just drenched me. My feet and hands were frozen, and if Rach hadn't let me a rain jacket I'd probably have pneumonia right now. Wind was blowing sideways, and the latter half of the ride home was slow, wet, and extremely painful. My legs were shot and I barely made it home. That weather made things really unpleasant.
I'm pooped.

Pynchon

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Heard from Ken today. Haven't chatted with that boy in a while. Anyway, I have to reprint this rant from him. It was in response to a short, innocent line in which I suggested I should read something by Pynchon to be hip with modern lit. And off he went:
"DUUUUDEEEE don't get me started...because I can't seem to finish a Pynchon book. First, instead of smoking, I suggest injesting some magic mushrooms, peyote, or other "natural" hallucinagens. You have to be in that state of mind to read Pynchon. The dude is crazy. That's really the only way I can put it. He's like a shizophrenic/depraved/bizarre version of J.D. Salinger. No one knows what he looks like. There has never been a picture of him. Get this...before they found Ted Kaczynski...people thought Pynchon might have been the Unabomber. Now, that's crazy. Okay, ready to read him yet? I started Gravity's Rainbow three years ago, got through half of it, read 25% of it twice...still don't know what the hell is going on. I'm waiting until I finish Ulysses, Remembrance of Things Past, and the Oxford English Dictionary before I tackle Gravity's Rainbow again. His writing is virtuosic but it borders on innane rambling. He can give an introduction to a character...go inside his head...and then trace his backstory from his childhood and then return to the scene at hand. Of course it takes him 150 pages to get you back to the present setting. Another thing about Pynchon is that he's a allusory (is that a word) as Eliot. Unlike Eliot though, Pynchon does not use literary allusions, he has a encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture, not only of America, but of other continents. It's amazing what he comes up with. I bought a companion book just to try to straighten out the references.
Ready to start yet?
I'm such a sucker for self punishment that I bought another book by Pynchon over Winter Break. It's called Vineland. Want a brief synopsis? Written in 1990, takes place during the Reagan years. It's supposed to be a critique of the period. Okay, this dude is an old hippie who has been on the run from the federales all his life. He has a daughter and is estranged from his wife. Wife actually left hippie dude for dude's arch enemy, an FBI agent. Anyways, the FBI agent is on dude's trail again so dude has to send his daughter on the hippie underground to escape FBI agent. Daughter meets an array of characters including a female ninja with special powers who is currently her protector, members of a surf band, FBI agents addicted to watching TV ("Tubies"), among others. Vineland is supposed to be his most accessible book.
Critics say Pynchon is "funny." I say, Pynchon is crazy assed lunatic who has scammed the publishing industry into publishing his ramblings. However, when I finish Vineland, I will staple the book to my forehead and try to pick up chicks. I'll probably be one of five people in St. Louis who have read the book. There was a headline in the Onion a couple months ago..."Man on Subway, Blatantly Displays Copy of Pynchon Book For All To See." I thought it was the funniest thing the Onion has ever done because I'M THAT GUY. Sometimes, I went on the DC Metro reading Gravity's Rainbow, just so other people could see that I was reading Gravity's Rainbow. Finish a Pynchon book and wear it with pride.
So, are you going to read him or not?"
Okay, now I just have to buy a copy of Pynchon and display it on my desk at work.
You can bid on one of Lance Armstrong's Trek bikes. He used this one in 1999 racing and 2000 training seasons. Too bad cycling is not a bigger sport in the U.S. Lance should be a god at this point.
Finally caught up on some old Sunday NYTimes lying around. Had to take a break from work stuff after getting home. Interesting article on intelligent design. Didn't know too much about it, but was curious enough to surf the web a bit to see what Google turned up. Found lots. It's a hot topic which has spawned entire websites and some interesting articles. Whether or not it's a legitimate theory or just creationism dressed up in intelligent discourse, it did prove to me once again how limiting public school education can be. I look back on junior high and high school, and there's so much they never even covered. Never studied any world history, or barely any. Yet some of the things you learn in those days can bias you for life. I can see how some people just decide to teach their kids themselves (though who would want to deprive their children from the cruelty of their peers). You just need to get intelligent people to the point where they're brave enough to think for themselves.
Played volleyball for the first time in years on Tuesday night. Played with Katie, Jordan, Jason....folks from work who are in a league. Boy, I was rusty. Felt like I was in slow motion on the court, and my timing on hits was so off. Depressing. I was much more talented in my youth. I'm regressing.
Saw the play Art last night with Franklin, Bean, Juli, and Macho. It started a bit slow, but I warmed up to it during the night. Not brilliant, but entertaining in parts. About 3 friends whose friendship falls under pressure when one of them buys a completely white painting for an exorbitant amount. One of the characters reads a quote from his psychiatrist (I think) which I found interesting. And I enjoyed the way the play ends, with one of the characters talking about the painting as being about a skier who appears and then fades into the snow.
Went riding early yesterday morning, and got poured on. Miserable, just riding in the rain. But work colors everything. If I were living out in the countryside or something, and all I was doing was training on my bike, I would've been in heaven. My physical health is like my part-time hobby, the novel unwritten, the vacation never taken.
If I had a fortune right now, I'd buy the freedom of myself and a few close friends, build a small little commune where we would all live and attempt to be artists. Writing, painting, directing films, and working out.
Most days, I feel like an idiot.

Orage Big Air

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At the last minute, Bill talked me into going to Whistler this past weekend. It was the last hurrah for skihaus 2001, as our lease ended this weekend. I really didn't think I'd go, because Mark and Marie were in town, and I had a ton of work to do. But at work, I just reached the end of my tether, and I just needed to escape. I rushed home, packed, Bill pulled up, and we were off.
It's a misnomer to say I ski with Bill. He's way too good. It would be much more accurate to say, Bill proposes we take a route which scares me to death, I concur and put on a brave face, he proceeds to ski to the bottom and wait for me to roll and tumble down the hill, then he skis off to the lift and sits there and waits for me. He was pretty damn patient. As usual, my legs felt like jelly after chasing him around all day, and my left big toe, sans toenail, was throbbing. It's still bugging me today.
The weather was beautiful. Sunny, unlimited visibility. So strange, to have snowy alpine conditions up top (at one point 3 degrees celsius at the top of Blackcomb), and balmy sunny weather down low (63 degrees in the village). Spring skiing is sweet. Dress lightly, no need to wear a hat or goggles, just shredding through snow the consistency of chunky mashed potatoes.
This happened to be the weekend Whistler was hosting the World Ski and Snowboarding festival. We caught the Orage Big Air competiton and the Alpine Slopestyle competition. Those skiers are absolutely insane. I watch them and immediately am resigned to the fact that I will never have the guts to do anything like that. Going in backwards, launching yourself 20 feet in the air, and doing a 1080 and landing backwards...and most of the contestants were in their teens. One entrant was thirteen years old! It's something I may have lost growing up, or it might just be something I never had.
Driving back from Canada, Bill and I reminisced about all those crude video games we used to play in the old days. TRS-80, Intellivision, Atari 2600. We cranked his stereo up and sang loudly and badly the whole trip back. The Clash, Bob Dylan, David Gray, U2...now that Bill's heading up music merchandising, he gets all sorts of free music. He even cranked up some Bedrock. Pretty hip for an old guy.
By the way, Bill is also the junk food king. He loves the stuff, he knows it better than anyone. He took me to A&W just before the border and introduced me to the Mama Burger. Everyone restaurant we passed, he could cite the gems of the menu by heart. Dairy Queen--hot fudge sundae. Arby's--they butter their buns. And so on.
Getting away was a good call. Up there in Canada, I don't really think of work. Bill brought up a screener of Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? and we laughed our asses off. Just sleep, eat, ski and board, listen to some tunes, roast by the fire, and read. I've been way too wrapped in work recently, and it was bringing me down. I've got to remember, no matter how tired I am, how busy my schedule, I have to set aside time to work out, read a little, listen to some music. I went for a quick ride at around 6 tonight. Zipped around Mercer. Then I went back to work. It felt great.
Have problems removing those damn seals on the top of new CD cases? Here's a little secret: just pry the front door off the CD case from the side opposite the sticker and pry the sticker off by flipping the front door over the top of the case.
I've noticed lots of people use the following phrase recently:
"Are you wanting to..." I wonder why? What effete sentence structure.
Don Baylor is just a bad manager. He publicly criticizes his players, he's not a great tactical manager...it's despite him, not because of him, that the Cubs are winning right now.
Little sis Karen got a job offer from a company in Boston. Her first year salary is insane! Makes the salary I made coming out of college look like minimum wage. Congrats to her. Both Joannie and Karen are pretty set for next year. Maybe they'll be ready to support the old man soon (that would be me).
Little babies all growed up.

Tilt

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Just returned from a business trip to L.A. I feel obliterated.
Lots happened in the world today. Borders turned over its web business to Amazon. Yahoo acknowledged that it has a pornographic DVD store on its site (a sign of desperation, or a smart business move, or both?). Kozmo closed shop. Lots happened at work.
But some days, you just want to turn your back on the world, crawl into bed, pull the sheets over your head, and RESET. Today is one of those days.

So goes my car, there goes I

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Mark and his girlfriend Marie arrived last night at around 2AM. Picked them up from the train station, and stayed up until the wee hours of the morning chatting. Got up reasonably early today and explored Seattle. A full day. Dropping them off very early tomorrow to catch the Victoria Clipper. It was fun to reminisce, and I was glad to take my mind off work, if ever briefly. Now however, I'm back at it.
The most efficient way to drive a car, if you want to maximize gas mileage, is to accelerate briefly, then put your car in neutral and coast to a stop. Then you accelerate again, shift into neutral, and coast to a stop. Driving that way, you can get amazing gas mileage, like 80 mpg. However, it would take you hours to travel even short distances. A reasonable compromise is traveling at a good clip, say 55 mph, and just holding it steady there.
Right now I'm turning myself on and off, flooring it, accelerating off of stoplights, braking hard...I can only imagine the kind of gas mileage I'm getting out of myself. I'm ready for an extended vacation far from the maddening world.
I take care of my car about as well as I take care of myself. Right now my car is filthy, covered in dirt. That's about how well I'm treating myself as well. I just realized that today.

A first

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For the first time in my life, I've lost a toenail. It's been hanging on for dear life ever since a rough day of snowboarding early in the season, when I didn't have my boot on tight enough. Now a long afternoon of basketball on blacktop in new shoes has done that toenail in. Left foot, big toe. The entire base cracked, and I'm holding it on with a bandage. Playing hoops on playground blacktop is brutal on the body. I left about a pound of skin on the base of my shoes, my shins are all scarred from several falls, and my calves and knees are aching. I'm not doing that again.
Had an engagement brunch for Jenny and Adam this morning at Todd's place. Todd is like Artie Busco from The Sopranos. Always cooking, able to whip together random dishes for every occasion. His former days as a restaranteur show through. That's a tough business, as he says. Retail where you own all your production costs.
Whenever waiters push the special on me at restaurants, I'm always curious what they're getting in incentives for each one they sell. But I never thought about the economic incentives. It allows you to buy ahead in bulk, or take ingredients you bought at bulk discount and generate higher profits off dishes made from those ingredients by calling them specials. Good business, but undermines the trust between a waiter and the diner.
Trying to stay awake to pick up Mark and Marie from the train station, but he just called and the train is running even later than anticipated. He was supposed to get in at 8:45, and now it looks like 2:30 to 3:00 a.m. I was going to go to the Tractor to see Todd Gehman's band with a big crew, but I've got too much work to get through before tomorrow. Need to show Mark and Marie a good time. Haven't had too many of the old Stanford crew visit me here in Seattle. Need to make a good impression. I hope the weather's nice.
It's strange, how you can think you have forgotten about certain things, or that you're over some event in the past, but then you fall asleep and you dream about it, as if it's the only thing in the world you care about. I had one of those dreams last night. I woke up in the morning and it was so vivid. Our bodies are like giant hard drives. Who knows what you'll uncover cached away in some random directory out there when you travel that terrain in your sleep. If an event causes enough emotional amplitude, it just sears itself on the walls of your mind. Sleepwalking through your subconscious, suddenly you glance up and it's burned in the ceiling there.

Sleepy

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Work is kicking my butt. I haven't had a chance to get out and ride or work out all this week. I'm just logged into work all day, trying to keep momentum on a project launch. It's fun, but I'm also just drained. I feel a long vacation in my near future.
Karen got two job offers today. Congrats! I remember coming out of undergrad, thinking grad school, and then having to scramble to look for a job when I decided I needed a break from school. Nailing that first job offer is a huge relief. I look forward to the day when I can retire and Joannie and Karen can support me in my career as a starving, alcoholic artist.

Einstein's Memento

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For the first time in my life, I joined a Rotisserie baseball league with a few friends. Noam Chomsky talks about how we are conditioned from youth to talk seriously about sports, while completely ignoring fields like politics. Maybe he's right. I'll have to find that essay of his. For me, I think it's the math. The chance to use an understanding of statistics and the laws of math to fathom truths to which the overly enthusiastic fan (read: the other members in the Rotisserie league) is blind. It's the same appeal of gambling, the belief that a mathematically literate person can face the reality of the odds before him and act accordingly, regardless of the money involved.
Why, then, are so many gamblers superstitious? Either they are unable to face the odds, and cling to superstition in their insecurity, to convince themselves that their success or failure relies upon some arbitrary yet just process (Lady Luck, usually a cold mistress but sometimes receptive to bribes)...or they treat their superstitious habits as an example of the methodical routine to which they must assess each hand, each card they're dealt, each spin of the wheel.
Because I don't really gamble anymore, perhaps Roto is filling some gap in the role I've written for myself, the emotionally detached statistician, never acting on emotion or faith.
Interesting, isn't it, to watch Phil Jackson trying to work his magic out there in L.A. with the Lakers. Divorced his wife, started dating the owner's daughter (who once posed for Playboy), and now accusing Kobe of all sorts of selfishness in the press. He's coaching a pair of kids out there, and he's acting like one himself. Sad, because he gave off this aura of mystic knowledge when he was coaching the Bulls, and now he seems quite mortal. I have no idea whether or not that's true, it's just an observation from afar.
Duke won the Final Four. Lots of rumors going around that Duke gets all the calls. I've seen them play lots this year. Believe it. Intentional or not, they do. A good team. But they don't deserve those breaks. Dick Vitale is a buffoon.
I saw Memento last weekend. An entertaining film. I recommend watching it in the company of observant friends, so you can stand outside the theater and conjure explanations and theories as a group. I won't ruin the film for anyone, but I do want to reveal the basic premise of the film, so don't read the next paragraph if you want to go in fresh.
The film's scenes are shown in reverse chronological sequence. So the last scene of the film is showed first. Then the scene that occurs right before the last scene is shown, and it ends when it hits the beginning of the last scene. And then the next to next to last scene is shown...
It got me to thinking of perhaps another of Einstein's Dreams (if you don't know what I mean, then pick up and read the short but interesting Einstein's Dreams by physicist/writer Alan Lightman):
A man forced to live his life in reverse, while all other humans live life forward. His memory also works in reverse, so he can only recall the events from the future, and nothing of the past he travels into. Cause and effect also are reversed.
He begins alone, detached, and perhaps somewhat bitter. Follow him into his past, and he learns why he feels this way. The woman he loves (loved? he has yet to find out) is living with some other man. Perhaps she sends him a letter, a postcard. He doesn't know this other man yet, and is uncertain whether he has reason to dislike him, but he does. He recognizes her handwriting, even though he has never seen it before, and its familiarity evokes a sad, distant longing. He waits for more time to pass.
A period of time passes in which he doesn't think of her at all. And then, suddenly, one morning, he wakes up and senses the sorrow, the loss, faint, but unshakable. And it grows over the coming days, stronger. Each day details start to come to him, nagging questions to which he has no answer: why? why not? At first he does not care what the answers are, but soon he finds himself pondering them all the time, until he finds himself unable to sleep, or eat. He begins losing weight, hiding from the world. He is a wreck.
She shows up suddenly one day, trying to explain herself. He throws her out, angry over how she has left him (though he has no idea what she's done, exactly). She shows up again and again, calls and writes, and he finds himself softening for a while. Still, though, it is unclear to him why she's explaining herself to him.
Finally one day she tells him it's over between them, that she is leaving him for this other man, whom he's already met. He is heartbroken and yet he hasn't even spent much time with her. Beyond a few brief conversations, he barely knows her. She moves out.
But in the days to come, they do begin spending time together. He awakens one day and her things are all about the house. At first, she is aloof, somewhat quite, seeming pre-occupied. She stops in occasionally. Over time she becomes more and more cheerful, intimate, and communicative. He starts to learn more about her. One day he awakens and she is lying next to him, and in the days to come she becomes a permanent addition to his house, cooking, reading, working on her laptop, renting movies for them to watch. He falls in love with her, with the open and candid way she treats him.
And then, many days later, he realizes that she is withdrawing, becoming more and more cautious. Her things start disappearing from the house. He notes the strange excitement with which she regards events to which he has become accustomed. The preciousness with which she treats the occasional home-cooked meal, the night on the town. The new found pride in her voice as she introduces him to friends they've spent plenty of time with. Then the embarrassed blush the first time she spends the night, and the way his heart races as he lies in bed and remembers what it is like to hear the footsteps of a stranger in one's own home.
And then one day he wakes up alone.
In the coming days, he slowly realizes with some dread that she knows him a little less well each day, and he is becoming a stranger to her. And he realizes that he is losing her, that the day he has dreaded for so long is approaching. One day, as he cooks himself breakfast, he sees her phone number on a scrap of paper, affixed to the refrigerator with a magnet, no name, just a number. It is not a scrap of paper, it is the business card of local art store.
Two days later, he is out at a dinner party with friends, some of whom he knows, some whom he will meet once and forget forever. And then a friend introduces him to her, and he realizes that she has never met him before. And he realizes that this night will be the last time he ever spends any time with her. This is the night they meet. The next day, she will not even know him anymore.
Knowing this, he ponders for a moment saying hello and walking away, letting it all go. But he can't. He knows what she will become, what she will do to him, and yet he holds no grudges, just a sense of awe at the shy, cautious way she describes herself and the wonder with which she regards the things he reveals about himself, even though she has known all these things for years. He knows it, and so he speaks openly and without the usual embellishment to which men resort when first meeting women, or in the company of men.
They sit outside on the balcony all night, while the rest of the party carries on inside, and they joke and laugh, and it is the most memorable conversation of his life, because it is the last one they will ever have together, and for all the unhappiness behind him, they will end their time together on this moment, on the cusp of romance, drunk with an irrational sense of promise and possibility.
The party is over, and the host, wearing a silver pointed hat, covered in streamers and confetti, drunk with wine and giddy over the triumph of a successful party, comes outside to the balcony to shoo the two of them away. They walk out, and as they stand outside the front door, he shakes her hand and they part ways, headed in opposite directions. But halfway down the block, he turns and runs back towards her and flags her down. He would like her phone number, perhaps she'd like to go see this art exhibit that will be in town on Saturday. And she laughs and says of course, and pulls out her wallet, and oh she doesn't have any paper but ah! this business card will do. It is for the art store she buys her supplies from. She writes the number on the back and hands it to him.
As she walks away, he looks down at the card. He ponders for a moment the idea of spending time at the art store, waiting for her to come by so that he can meet her again, for the very first time, but realizes that he will not. Tomorrow the card will be gone, and he will not bother remembering the store name or address. Perhaps in time, he will even forget her phone number.
But still, he keeps the card, because for the few remaining hours until the sun rises, it will give him something to remember her by.

Tracks of my Tears

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I remember these conversations I used to have with my manager Jason. We'd talk about those glory days in the future when we'd both work sane hours, get off work early, go work out, watch a movie, live normally, leave our weekends open. But I've come to realize that will never happen. Working at Amazon.com will always be an all or nothing thing for both of us.
You find yourself working at midnight on a weekday, squinting with eyes dried out from staring at a computer screen all day, typing and spinning over a million things in your head. At times like this, you just have to take a break from your computer, scoop yourself a small bowl of ice cream (preferably if it contains caffeine of some variety), put on Smokey's "The Tracks of my Tears," and dance around your room in your boxers singing.
I'm not saying I'm doing that right now...but I'm not denying it either.

Oscars continued

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More thoughts on the Oscars:

  • The white tie look seemed to be in. Benjamin Bratt and Ben Affleck both sported white shirt/white tie combos. That's a tough one to pull off...unless you're Benjamin Bratt or Ben Affleck.

  • Russell Crowe was a grump the whole time. What's up with that? Maybe Meg won't return his phone calls. You're invited to the Oscars. Smile a bit, huh?

  • Julia Roberts referred to Jack Conti, the conductor, as "stick man." I thought that was, inadvertent as it might be, a snobbish way to address him. Conti is introduced every year, Julia should know his name.

  • That long closeup of Bob Dylan's head spooked me. He's a great singer, but he's not that photogenic. I didn't need to see his pores.

  • Ashley Judd thanked the Academy for inviting a "simple country girl" to the proceedings. This while dressed in tens of thousands of dollars of fabric and jewelry, and engaged to an Italian race car driver. Hmmm.

  • What happened to Winona Ryder? Everytime she presents she seems so awkward. I feel uncomfortable just watching her. I used to be such a big fan. Now she does stuff like Autumn in New York.


Pro cyclists are so fit that their resting heart rates are in the 30's!! Tyler Hamilton's resting heart rate is 35, and Lance's is 32-34. That's sick. I can't even imagine getting mine under 60. Something to shoot for.
I'm too heavy to ride right now. So I went out for a five mile run tonight. I'm going to ride tomorrow morning. It's time to shed some serious weight and get myself in cycling shape.
Pitcher Randy Johnson hit a dove with a 95 mph fastball in training camp yesterday and killed it. I watched the replay. He threw the pitch, and before it reached the plate a dove flew across the baseball's path and there was an explosion of white feathers. The bird's corpse landed 10 feet behind the catcher, off to the side. Johnson can't like that omen, killing a dove.
The Cubs optioned Corey Patterson to Triple A. Good move.
Joannie's fiance Mike's birthday today. Happy birthday Mike!

Wallflower

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Just finished hosting a small Oscar party. Every year I watch the Oscars, and I always feel intensely jealous of everyone there. It's completely ludicrous, but I guess that's the magic of Hollywood and star power. I'd rather be like my roommate Rich, who could care less. He was more excited to have caught the Nascar race today.
It's that feeling of being an outsider to this party hosted by and for beautiful, glamorous people. Peeking in. The outsider. Being unpopular in high school. Watching all the pretty girls date dim-witted football players. Parking attendant at a black-tie ball.
Steve Martin was quite funny. He was a very solid choice as host. Though I'd still like to see Jim Carrey get a shot at it, but I don't think the Academy will every hand over their prized day to such a loose cannon.
I had a dream Friday night, more like a nightmare, that I was hosting a show, I think it was the Oscars, and I wasn't prepared at all. I had no idea who I was introducing, and I was on stage in front of thousands of spectators at this arena. I hate those dreams, those in which we are totally unprepared for the problem we are faced with. Workplace stresses and challenges are invading my life.
What does it mean when you have more conversations with someone in your dreams than you do in real life (excluding those people who have passed away)? No, no, not sexual fantasies you crass people...just normal conversations. Quite odd.
The human body is really sensitive. I find it amazing that a CD is so light, but yet I can always tell if a CD case is empty without opening it.

Petey Boy Wonder

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Have to give a shout out to Pete, whose birthday was yesterday. Pete is some combination of what Malcolm Gladwell in The Tipping Point would call Salesmen, Mavens, and Connectors. At any rate, he defines what is cool, and I find myself saying things he says, listening to music he listens to, etc. He's a virus.
Oh yeah, and to Margaret, who baked an insanely good chocolate cake. I think there were five pounds of sugar in the slice I had. Mmmmmm.

Karmic Surplus, or Debt?

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One of those days that starts badly and keeps getting worse.
I woke up early for a 6:00am spin around Mercer with Tim. Felt like crap to start with, and then halfway around the island, Tim leaves me behind. I'm wondering why I'm so slow. Can't get the cranks around at all. Then I realize my rear tire is totally flat. Of course, flash back to the morning, when I can't find my pump. "Ah, I won't need it today anyway. Haven't had a flat in months." Murphy.
So I'm 7 miles from home, without a pump, in my bike shoes. Walking in bike shoes, with their bulky cleats, is like walking in heels. Tim was late for a court date so I knew I wouldn't see him again. I figure some biker will come by and loan me a pump.
Nada.
Finally, after walking for about an hour, a guy in a Land Rover pulled over and gave me a lift. He happened to be a fellow cyclist. You can always count on your fellow cyclists for sympathy. Thanks Scott, wherever you are.
Then I arrive at work to a website crisis. I've spent all morning chasing it.
I must have done something badly recently. I apologize for it now. I'm hitting the RESET button. I'm going to go help a lady across the street and rescue a cat from a tree. Please stop.

Rings and Babies

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Jenny and Adam got engaged. Whoa! Two friends of mine. Jenny works in the same group as I do. Happened this weekend in the San Juan Islands.
A member of my team, Rob, just returned to work after taking a short paternity leave as his wife gave birth to a baby boy two weeks ago. Another Amazonian, a guy I play basketball with, Owen, just welcomed a new kid to the family two days ago.
I've got to book my flight for John's wedding. Old college roommate Rob's getting married in the fall. The human race is in no danger of extinction.
I'm not fazed, though. It's only when one of the true bachelors falls that I'll be shaken up.

Unwelcome memories

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Chatted by phone with Bill tonight. He was doing the legendary drive from Amazon's Fernley DC back to the Golden Nugget. Poor Bill. We were roommates there two Xmas ago. I was a zombie half the time while Bill was unconscious when he wasn't standing.
I got home tonight, and ESPN Classics happened to be showing Game 4 of the NLCS, Cubs vs. Padres, when Garvey hit the homer off Lee Smith to win it. Ugh. I couldn't even watch the ending.
The soundtrack to Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? is great. Rich lent me his copy tonight. Good music to work by.
Anton Chekhov was such an amazing writer. I just thought of that tonight.
Sometimes, I get stuck on the same problem, the same challenges, and just refuse to cut my losses and let go. Is it stubborness or idiocy? Or both?
I remember one time in little league, I was maybe 12 or 13, playing center field on a baseball field in Palatine, a field set up high on a plateau, surrounded by corn fields. The sun was close to setting, at my back, and my shadow stretched out before me for what seemed like a mile. I was bent over, my hands on my knees, watching the pitcher deliver. The batter crushed it to right center, and at times your adrenaline and instincts take over, and I turned and immediately sprinted out towards my left, and back. I didn't even stop to think if I was heading towards the right spot, and I couldn't feel myself running, I just had my eye on the ball and knew I was meant to meet up with it out there, somewhere.
Some things I can't control, but sometimes my opportunities seem to be shot out at random. I need to stop, crouch, look in, put my hands on my knees, and wait for my chance to run.
I'm not even sure what I'm talking about. It's just a mood. As Thom Jones referred to it, the pugilist at rest.

Whew

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Stanford barely won yesterday over St. Joe's. If they'd gone out in the second round for a third year in a row, I'd still be crying in some Irish bar right now.
I think it takes physical strength to suppress our true feelings. Whenever I exhaust myself, my dreams reveal all. Yet another reason to work out hard, regularly. So we don't deceive ourselves.
Watched a few good films recently. Wong Kar Wai's In The Mood For Love, which is the best film I've seen in 2001. Christopher Doyle's cinematography is LUSH. Great stuff. And Shane, the old western. Turned out to be a lot more than I expected. Enemy at the Gates was a bust. Great premise, lousy execution. A few good scenes, but otherwise loose and sloppy. Sad, how most films achieve their greatest glory as a two minute trailer.
Finally bought myself a decent pair of basketball shoes. Some type of Reeboks, I can't remember the brand. I've been wearing these old Nikes that don't fit me very well. Nikes never fit my feet. They're so narrow. Basketball shoes these days are strange looking. Maybe fashion has passed me by, but some of those designs are just wack. Tear away pants are smooth, though. I need to get me some of those.
Took Dan out to look for a home theater. He's working on furnishing his new house. I can but bask in the reflected glory of his material wealth. He's picked up furniture, a house, a new sailboat, and soon a new home theater, all in the span of like a month. Singlehandedly, he is holding the local economy afloat. Can't wait to get out sailing on his boat again, just like those glory days in 98.
Dropped my bike off to get a longer stem put on it. Time to get serious about going fast on that thing. The longer stem should help. Metal bike parts are so beautiful.
Whipped out a short short story yesterday night. Finally read it again just now, and it needs some work. Still, it captures the cynical disappointment I was feeling at the time, and it's got a snappy title. Maybe I'll post it here after it's brushed up.

Hush

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All that biking over the weekend tired me out. I don't think I slept last night; I think I was in hibernation. I dreamed about work all night, about this presentation I'm working on for Thursday.
Rob called tonight--howdy Rob! Hadn't chatted with that boy in a long time. We reminisced about the good ole days, when the NASDAQ was at 5000. Oh wait, no, it was the good old days when we were naive, clueless, occasionally intoxicated freshmen. We didn't know what the NASDAQ was back then.
It's doubtful encrypted e-mail will ever take off as long as people feel secure sending their mail the way they do and as long as PGP is such a pain in the butt to install and use. But you can sign up for a free Hushmail account and use their web interface to send encrypted e-mails to other folks who have Hushmail accounts. Not practical, but something about encryption has always appealed to me. So if you sign up for one and want to send me some private correspondence, I'm at eugenewei@hushmail.com. Or if you have PGP, let me know and we'll swap keys.
I mean really, if you want to know my darkest thoughts and opinions, you can't expect me to publish those unencrypted. Hell, the CIA could actually care what I think. They might be bugging my home right now, like they did to Tony Soprano.
Supposedly, Lance Armstrong and Marco Pantani have buried the hatchet. I think the world's more fun with bitter rivals.
If you're into investing and finance, and even if you're taking a hiatus from it in this challenging environment, you should read Warren Buffet's annual letter to shareholders. Among the great lines from this year's letter, which comes after a much improved performance versus the previous year:
"The line separating investment and speculation, which is never bright and clear, becomes blurred still further when most market participants have recently enjoyed triumphs. Nothing sedates rationality like large doses of effortless money."
"After a heady experience of that kind, normally sensible people drift into behavior akin to that of Cinderella at the ball," he wrote. "They know that overstaying the festivities -- that is, continuing to speculate in companies that have gigantic valuations relative to the cash they are likely to generate in the future -- will eventually bring on pumpkins and mice."
"But they nevertheless hate to miss a single minute of what is one helluva party," he added. "Therefore, the giddy participants all plan to leave just seconds before midnight. There's a problem, though: They are dancing in a room in which the clocks have no hands."
True. True.

Made

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The Sopranos is showing in widescreen on HBO this year. Hallelujah! Your next TV should be widescreen, trust me on this.
In today's episode of The Sopranos, Christopher becomes a made man. During the ceremony, he spots a crow on the basement window ledge. Soon thereafter, he realizes the responsibilities of being a made man can be heavy. I've been spotting crows everywhere recently. Watching the show, I felt strangely sympathetic to Christopher. Like my life is about to become a whole lot more complicated. Tony reads an oath to Christopher, telling him that the family of the mob takes precedence over his own family, his wife, kids, mother, father...it's like working for a startup!
The mob may be entertainment's most flexible metaphor for organizations.
I realized that my life is devoid of any meaningful rituals. Some families sit down for dinner. Some people go to church. I think I need to return to morning writing, or something.
In the Company of Men is on. Aaron Eckhart's character in that film is so evil...what a great film. I'm surprised at how many people dismiss that film and Seven, because of their storylines. I'm far more offended by bad films which rob me of $7.50 and two hours of my free time.
Stanford got a 1 seed in the West. You know, we still can't get any respect. I've read a few predictions already, and everyone's picking Maryland to come out of the West. They'll just have to out and prove themselves.
In the NYT magazine today, The Ethicist Randy Cohen revised a past reply of his and said it was okay to take your own food into movie theaters. I'm not vindicated for all those years of smuggling candy in sandwich bags into movie theaters! Mom, you were right--it's okay!
About a month ago, I had no idea what Cubism was, and now I'm running into it everywhere. If you're curious, ask me, and I'll share in my newfound knowledge. I don't think they taught that in my college art history class.