My windfall
Reflexes and our human physiology are amazing, aren't they? Our peripheral vision notes something out of the ordinary and in less than a split second, it tells our brain to react, our brain sends the message to the proper body parts and we're chasing that odd something down. Or in my case, stomping on it as it tried to blow past in the middle of the shopping center parking lot on Monday.
That's how I ended up with the nearly-new, still crisp dollar bill. I was elated. I'm one of those people who never just finds money.
Later in the evening, I put it into the vending machine at work, which promptly ate it, spitting out "change" of 45 cents and nothing else in return at me. I was thirsty and nothing but milk would do. The sliding door chose not to slide and our cafeteria owes me $1.10. (Since the first buck didn't do the trick, of course I had to try the machine again. Which, of course, didn't work. Again.)
I miss my found dollar. I lost it too soon. In my hands, in that parking lot, just for a moment before I put it into my bag, I did feel a little bit special.
In Memoriam
To the veterans who served and returned. To the veterans who served and made the ultimate sacrifice. To their families, one and all.
To my co-worker Jedwin, a great American Marine, his brother Jim, who did a tour and their brother Jeff, who didn't come home from Vietnam.
To my dad, my uncles and my grandfather, who all served because the Army was what the men in our family did.
To my cousin Dennis and his wife, Laura, who are Over There fighting right now so that I can write this without fear.
Thank you.
For your consideration
If you haven't noticed, there are two new links among my list of fun online places to visit (see: "required reading"). They are:
Off the Rekkid and
adidas.
If you click on
OTR, you'll get my opinion on this most recent Dixie Chicks hullabaloo. Blah, I say, but go check the blog for in-depth commentary. The
adidas thing? The title says it: "all day i design ajc sports." I do. Online. Visit me there and you'll gain insight into the workaday, more serious (slightly more serious, that is) side of me who cares about my job and wants to become a better online sports page designer and editor. There aren't any blogs for online sports page designers that I've come across so mine is, far as I know, the first. Therefore, it's not the best. But it's a start.
Nothing cute or funny about this entry, y'all, but if you're interested in the many facets of my Geminian (is that a word?) personality here are two places to explore. And if you're
Manta, there are now two more blogs for you to kid me about. Heh.
On a school night
I'm going to bed. Now.
The time is 9:40 p.m. Who is this old person I've become?
Putridity
Pulling into the parking spot this afternoon at the Post Office, I just happened to glance into the empty car beside mine.
It was filthy.
What caught my attention - among the literal layer of discarded Coke cans, crumpled snack chip bags, crumpled snack chip crumbs, candy wrappers, scattered papers and other flotsam and jetsam of everyday living - was the single piece of evidence that something decent had once existed in this otherwise grotesque environment: The cleanly-picked spine of a bunch of grapes.
A soiled sheet, once white but now a dingy grey, covered the driver's seat.
Obviously, even the owner had his or her limits.
Sweet somethings
Confession: I never bake.
Correction: I never bake WELL.
But since I've got my tickets to head up to NYC the weekend of July 14, I'm jacked to... bake. Weird, I know. Nobody's more stunned at this development than me.
What happened is, my friend
Mia, who's so kindly hosting me, has to work Saturday so
Manta has graciously offered to squire me around Brooklyn, NYC, wherever that day. I'm actually all about seeing her 'hood, Brooklyn, walking across the Bridge, etc., but my only "We've GOTTA do this!" request was that we hit
Magnolia Bakery so I could sample those killer-looking pink frosted cupcakes made famous to the world outside NYC via Saturday Night Live's hilarious "Lazy Sunday" video. If you haven't seen that, Google it. Your life will be better as a result of all the laughing.
Manta was all about a Magnolia run, so I'm looking forward to that. Next to the White Sox-Yankees game Mia and I are heading to
Friday night, it's going to be one of the trip's highlights. I'm not a big sweets-eater but cupcakes have always been more of an appetite-whetter to me than cake cake. I think it's because they're small, individual treats - something just for you that isn't meant to be shared, necessarily - and made the traditional way, cupcakes are just the right size. A cupcake is a satisfying little joy, all your own. You don't get them as much as big layer cakes so maybe that's why I enjoy them more.
Anyway, back to why I'm inspired to bake: Because I'm thinking about Magnolia and I have to go to the grocery store today AND I have to work tomorrow night (which I hate; working Monday nights is currently the bane of my existence), I've decided to do something nice for my fellow Monday night peons who suffer the indignity of working awful hours on the sports copy desk at the paper.
I'm baking a slew of little pink, blue, green and purple frosted MagnoliATL cupsters for us to enjoy tomorrow night. There's a Braves game they'll have to wait on (it starts at 10:05 EDT because it's played on the West Coast) and they deserve something happy because they'll be there until at least 2 a.m. I'll get to leave early. I'm lucky.
Oh, I don't know... It's spring - almost summer - and the newsroom is so grey. Touching it up with a little pink, blue, green and purple? Can't hurt.
ETA: OK, the cupcakes themselves turned out great. The homemade frosting? Not so much. Too thin. These suckers are sooooo not making an appearance at my work. I guess they'll sit in my fridge, mocking me.
Swing away
Something upset her and like anyone usually would when asked "Hey, what's wrong?," she tried to act like everything was fine. But it wasn't. And when she sat down, alone at the end of the splintery dugout bench, she took off her catcher's gear slowly and deliberately, saying nothing. She looked tired of the game, tired of this night, tired of chasing balls to the backstop. I thought she was going to cry. I know that look. I've had that look - and not just as an 11-year-old.
And so I told her that I seriously don't know how she does it, banging around in the dirt with all that hot, uncomfortable gear on, softballs coming right at her, hardly able to see out of that clunky catcher's mask and she seemed to cotton to that. I wasn't being disingenuous; I don't know how the kid hung in there from April to the end of May, trying to grab errant pitches from girls who themselves were trying to master, at a tender age, the art of fast-pitch. It wasn't easy. I was whipped from just catching a few practice pitches with no gear whatsoever. Her softball career, she told me, is over as of today. In junior high (or middle school, as they call it these days) she wants to play volleyball.
"MORGAN! You're up to bat next!" She sighed, adjusted her glasses (she looks just like the "before" Anne Hathaway in "The Princess Diaries," which I think is pretty cool) and went to put on those ill-fitting batting helmets all the girls share. As she silently chose a bat, I looked her square in the eye and said, "You know what, Morgan? Just go swing the bat. Seriously. I mean, it's the next-to-last game and your only at-bat and even if you don't hit it - just... just SWING that bat, girl! I just wanna see you give it a go!" And really - I did. She'd missed her first chance at bat earlier because they'd had to switch sides under scrimmage rules. These girls are used to standing there, not swinging, taking the walks. Morgan, tall and lanky, is the kind who just stands there. She wasn't having any fun at all, she hadn't had much fun the past two months and swinging away is... well, it's fun.
She walked to the plate in the gangly way some tall kids do and stood on the right, bat poised above her shoulder. We cheered her on. "JUST SWING, MORGAN!" I heard myself yelling, even though I don't really know her.
1-2-3. Down on strikes.
All swinging. Big, swooping swings like we hadn't seen all night from any of the other girls. Like we hadn't seen all season from Morgan.
Walking back to the dugout, I high-fived her and she smiled, shyly.
"Isn't it fun to just swing away?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said, finally getting it. Or at least I think she finally got it.
This game is fun.
Cruel fate
This huge bird literally fell out of the sky Wednesday evening, just before the sun set, and for a split second I fretted as I drove past, thinking that I'd happened to catch the exact moment when the poor creature must have dropped dead while soaring through the air.
It was a hawk, as it turned out, and it disappeared behind a roadside culvert for one millisecond before suddenly reappearing, wings grandly outstretched as it propelled skyward, clutching a fat black rat in its yellow talons. Driving by, I heard the rat quite clearly as it squealed. The sound was that of untold eons worth of this natural cycle of things.
Only the strong survive. Timing is everything. Might makes right.
Halcyon days, begone
There was a time when the only things I shopped for were records, books, clothes, records, sneakers, records, records and more records - pretty much in that order.
But Saturday, I went to Target and actually gave a damn about coordinating bath towels and bath mats so they'd look right in my bathroom at home. Time spent in Home Furnishings and Bedding departments far exceeded that spent in Big Red's admittedly lame Music section.
Nesting. I'm nesting. And it's... oddly OK.
Dirty little secret
Glancing to my right, I felt a surge of shock when I realized what I'd just seen. Why my eyes opened just that much wider and I swallowed so hard, I can't say. Truth be told, I've seen more of them. Plenty more. But never so close to my own neighborhood. Oh, I know they're there; they just usually aren't so prominent, so bold, so sickeningly out of the shadows.
Ambling nonchalantly into the scrubby bush bordering the shopping center parking lot, the rat went its way and I drove on, headed downtown right into the thick of them, far from the horror of this cruel suburban reality check.
Machiavellian Me
Yesterday at work, I sat in on the most basic "How To Blog" course that's ever likely been taught to humans. Well, I say they were humans but many of the people there were newspaper reporters or columnists so others might quibble with my terminology. Look, here's the point: There are some seriously unschooled folks walking around the streets who literally don't have an inkling of a clue about what the Internet is or why blogs exist or what THEY are or why they're going to continue changing the way the public reads newspapers.
I'm good, man; I work for my paper's online group. We're the future and these pompous relics of print days past are the dinosaurs who don't want to adapt. Every word out of their mouths, every question posed to our instructor reeked with spite and negativity. "Why CAN'T I just delete my blogs when I want to?" "Well, if people don't stay on topic, why CAN'T I just delete their comments?" "What if I DON'T LIKE what people write back in the comments? Why CAN'T I choose what is posted?"
This is journalism's dirty little secret. It's fine and dandy to criticize the powers that be for their opinions or actions but don't you DARE venture to tell a writer or columnist that maybe, just maybe, you don't view them as The Light and The Way. Online newspaper blogs force those folks to the harsh realization that we, as readers, don't always worship at the vaunted pillar that the Fourth Estate blindly believes it's so worthy of and we're plenty capable of finding our news from a nearly endless stream of other sources - and all at the click of a mouse, the touch of fingers to a keypad.
As the harrumphing from 50-something opinion bleaters used to seeing only a few select - and edited - Letters To The Editor make the Op/Ed page became more and more prounounced, I couldn't help smiling as their egos took a well-deserved shot to the jugular. I own those fools online daily and it's a fabulous feeling, wielding so much power.
More in less
In the newspaper game, white space is the enemy. Generally speaking, anyway. It's a waste of space that could otherwise be used for words, an ad, a photo, a graphic. Online, in my realm, white space signifies a lack of balance. It begs to be filled.
Apparently, I'm not alone in noticing that my favorite supermarket chain, Publix, has taken the concept of white space to a new level. They've mastered its emptiness and used that generic feel to their advantage. Several creative design websites monitoring corporate advertising and packaging art have lauded Publix for their private brand packaging, which doesn't seek to emulate noted national brands. Nothing that's in a Publix brand box looks like something Kraft or Campbell's put out. Publix's creative design department thinks differently: They *want* their store brands to stand out from the higher-priced stuff and the simplicity of their packaging, its clean look and catchy "chatter" on the labels works precisely because of the old graphic designer's mantra, which so many package designers have forgotten: Less is more. None of this pretty, simple, classy packaging means diddly-squat if the Publix brands are terrible and they most certainly aren't. In fact, I prefer them over most high-cost brands; they're usually much tastier.
"Chatter" is a newspapering term for the conversational, off-the-cuff copy that's used to tease a story (and again, often to fill space). Publix designers use chatter well on labels. The chatter offers you a short history of tea:
"Tea originated in ancient China more than 5,000 years ago, and ever since has provided the world with a relaxing pause of refreshment." It educates you on how the thiamin in Publix brand "almonds & oats" cereal aids in your workout:
"During intense exercise, thiamin helps control lactic acid your muscles produce and convert it to glucose, which is then used for energy." And in perhaps the most ingenious and certainly the most hilarious chatter I've ever read on any product, someone at Publix even gets right to the point about toilet tissue etiquette on the back of the Super Soft 12-pack:
"Let's end the debate about the correct way to place bathroom tissue on the roll: Offer the user a tissue by placing the free end away from the wall. It's easier to grab and makes a much nicer presentation." Now *that's* a supermarket chain with moxie, y'all.
Sharing, caring, etc.
This is me. This is me ripping off Manta's killer "Free Music Fridays" idea.
Our Theme: Really Sappy "Cute Guy With Guitar" Songs That Make Me Squishy Inside1. John Mayer -
In Your Atmosphere (live)2. Duncan Sheik -
On Her Mind3. Elliott Smith -
Thirteen (Big Star cover)4. Evan & Jaron -
Crazy For This Girl5. Fountains Of Wayne -
Valley Winter SongBonus points if you can guess which of the five is my favorite.
Where Shopping Is A Pleasure: If you live in Atlanta or in an area where Publix is running those cute Mother's Day TV spots where the dads and kids are making breakfast for the moms, the song in the spot is Paul Brill's "Start It Again" and I found it on iTunes (and bought it there, which is rare). You just hear a snippet of it in the Publix ad but it's a really cool tune. If it doesn't turn up on "Grey's Anatomy" someday, I'll be stunned.
If you have iTunes on your computer, here's the song. I hope it works.
Paul Brill -
Start It Again
Goin' yard
Tonight I'm working - at Turner Field, covering the Rockies-Braves game from the press box. Broadcasting legend Skip Caray just ambled in, barked something to his son, Chip, who's also a member of the Braves on-air team (and as handsome in person as he is on TV, ladies), then ambled off again.
I'm just happy to have this opportunity. To be up here. Doing something most people never get to do: watching a game from THE best seats in the park among sportswriters and famous broadcasters. Starstruck, I'm not. They're just people like me. But yes - it has occurred to me tonight that this is indeed special and I am lucky.
