Steven Wolfram, TED

My neighbor, the funeral home.

Living across the street from a funeral home has its benefits. Neighbors tend to stay quiet in reverence, stray cats steer clear of our block. Maybe cats lose one of their lives if they come too close. But the best is definitely the parking lot. I love the parking lot.

The property adjacent to the funeral home and back a few dozen meters from the street holds the grocery store where I shop. I walk there regularly and the path thereto leads right across the funeral home parking lot. Many times it's barren. But sometimes there's a service inside and the small lot's full of cars. Occasionally I cross the lot when the service inside is finished and there are people outside in the parking lot.

I've seen gatherings for dozens of services. There doesn't seem to be a specific socioeconomic category to which this funeral home caters. All types of people, all types of cars. Some services with Cadillacs, BMWs, etc. Others with rust-buckets littering the parking lot. But all groups share some things. The front doors have a two-fold bottleneck effect- After a service, once people hit the open air, they 1)reform into groups from their single file configuration, and 2)breathe again, like they've been bottled up a long time and now they can move.

In addition to the way in which people exit the building, there's another thing most groups have in common. It's the way they converse in the parking lot. Now obviously I don't walk directly through conversations, but as I traverse the perimeter of the parking lot on my way to the grocery store following a service, I pick up general bits. This is why I like the parking lot. People circle up around car hoods and truck beds. Cigarettes are lit. Laughter, stories, hugs, etc. It doesn't seem to matter what types of cars are in the parking lot. After a service, there's always stories and laughter.

This afternoon my grocery walk coincided with the end of a service. Two mid-20s looking, cigarette-bearing guys stood with an old man. From a distance, they had the look of two estranged brothers standing uncomfortably with their grandfather. Anxious little movements from all of them. The two stood a slight distance from the old man, like they knew he disapproved of their smokes, but they were going to smoke anyway. The old man buried his hands deep in his suit coat pockets.

I walked in to the grocery store and reemerged a few minutes later. The three were still talking. The two still smoking. Hands still buried in coat pockets. As I crossed the street back toward my house, I stole a glance in their direction. They were mid-embrace. All three in one big tangle. I got to the sidewalk on the other side of the street and turned away from them toward my house. From behind me, I wasn't surprised to hear their laughter.

Warrior Dash

Check out Crystal's blog for pics of what I did last weekend. And add her to your Google Reader. Cheers.

http://thesweetlifeofshaneandcrystal.blogspot.com/2010/05/warrior-dash_05.html

Miss Moneypenny and predictably Bond

The only places I go are the gym and to bed. I'm more habitual than a nun dress. (eh, pretty weak) I'm also cheap-o. Like a nun dress. (stronger) So when I learned there was another gym in town whose monthly costs were 1/3 of my current one's, it was aloha Just Fitness 24, and aloha Gym X.

Of course there's a blonde hot desk worker.

When I walk in for the first time to scope the place, she greets me.

Blonde Hot Desk Worker: "Hi can I give you a tour?"

Me: [witty response]

BHDW: [sheepish grin]

I couldn't have scripted it any better.

But obviously there will be no more chapters in this tale. Examine the evidence: she works at a gym; she works at a gym called "Gym X". To state the stereotype, both thermospherically high indicators of centuries-old craziness. But I'd be lying if I said I hated walking past her desk every trip to the gym. There exists, then, a constant tension. A perpetually fulcruming teeter-totter.

So she's Miss Moneypenny. And in this analogy I'm predictably Bond.

By the way I'd recommend all you Blahglievers get a real life Moneypenny. A little flavor for your vanilla days. Unless you like vanilla, which I do. Then she's vanilla on your chocolate days. Wait, this is turning racial. Flavor on your flavorless days.

Reeves out.

Please join the conversation with Justin.

http://justinscott.blogspot.com/

justin scott dot blogspot dot com

My friend Justin had a good idea. Check it often.

All Cougars Were Once Cubs

You know what a Cougar is. Demi/Ashton, not Bagheera/Mowgli. I think my hangout (the gym) is the Central Texas Cougar breeding ground.

So of course there's the blonde hot desk worker lady. Probably 25 years old. She greets members as they enter the facility and changes the trash bags. And she's hot. And until recently I thought that was the extent of her job description. Silly me. How foolish I was to think that this flaxen vixen wasn't up to something much more sinister. You see, where a Cougar preys on the younger man, this specimen (speciwoman?) seeks out the older, decrepit male population. She's a Cougar Cub. I noticed it for the first time last week. Then again twice this week. And finally again today. Four times is no coincidence. She's systematic. (I know this isn't the first ever case of young-lady/old-man, but this is so close to home. It's home-grown Cougarism) There's even a specific spot in the gym (the recumbent bikes) that she stakes out. She's like an actual cougar laying in the tall grass, waiting for some dopey dear at a watering hole. She waits for the old chap to settle in, break a light sweat, then she pounces. Sure, to the untrained eye it looks like they're having a pleasant conversation, but I'm not convinced. I refuse to believe that she's concerned about the patrons of her employer and that it is in her best interest to make sure they're comfortable. Bull.

While I can't technically substantiate any of these allegations (I always have headphones on. Angry gangster rap blaring. It scares me, and fear is a natural muscle builder. Read a book.), I'm working on my lip-reading skills. I'm still a novice but I think today Cougar Cub asked the unsuspecting fella (anything I write here will be misconstrued as inappropriate sexual innuendo so I'll take the high road and end the sentence now. Sicko.).

The only remaining chapter to be written in this story includes the tale where I, in a slip of the tongue, accidentally call her "Cougar Cub" to her face. Stay tuned.

NASCAR doesn't need you.

As I lie in bed sick listening to the Tony Kornheiser Radio Show on podcast while slamming O-Juice and wheat crackers with natural peanut butter (my usual routine, sans the natural peanut butter), I'm reaching my limit of "NASCAR has ruined itself with the Daytona 500 debacle last weekend" drivel. If you didn't see what happened, here's a quick recap. On lap... whatever, a pothole formed on the track like a melanoma on a nudist skier. And like a melanoma on a nudist skier, you can't be surprised that a pothole appeared. Apparently the track hadn't had a complete resurfacing since the 1970s. The race had to be stopped a couple times for a combined total of roughly 2.5 hours, while allegedly incompetent road crews patched the pothole with a mixture of sand and toothpaste. The whole thing was televised. Nationally. The race finished in the dark. The sports-voices have been crucifying NASCAR for mishandling the situation, embarrassing themselves on national TV during what was their Super Bowl event. "It was NASCAR's chance to connect with the general viewer and they ruined it."

Was it inexcusable that a pothole formed during the Daytona freaking 500? Yes. Once the hole formed, was the situation embarrassingly mishandled? Probably. But I have one message for the NASCAR-haters, those who think NASCAR's image is irreparably marred: NASCAR doesn't need you. Keep berating NASCAR. Keep criticizing. See if they care. I'll quote myself from earlier in this article (this needs to be done more often- quoting oneself from the very article in which one is still writing): "the track hadn't had a complete resurfacing since the 1970s." That means they've been racing since the 1970s. At this point, that's like 40 years. That's the better part of 51 years, which is the better part of 100 years! 100 years!!!!

Look, NASCAR has been kicking for a long time and has a deep (and more importantly, loyal) fan base who aren't going to be ultimately put off by a few extra hours of maintenance during a race. So to sports-voices having a hate-field-day over NASCAR and its forever-damaged image, you need to be cut off like a melanoma on a... you know.

P.S. No hair cuts 'till Warrior Dash

I'm not going to mention anything about being absent for a number of months and how I'm so sorry that to make it up to every one of you Blahglievers, I'll give each of you a signed copy of the gold metal I may win in the future.

A wrap-up in list form:

LSAT

Motorcycle

Car

Work

Exercise

LSAT

Bagel Sandwich

and that's about it.

The waning sixth of my 2009 was dominated by LSAT reading and studying and I re-learned something that 18 years of school had tried to teach me: the idea that studying makes a difference is a myth. Like a Native American rapper.

Instead of the paragraph that used to be right here, which was full of weird, probably uninterpretable jokes, I'll simply say I'm retesting in February and I'm willing to cheat if you have cunning methods.

Current Reading

Princeton Readings in Political Thought

Mitchell Cohen and Nicole Fermon, Editors

Taking a hint from my friend Kasey, one goal I have this year is to increase correspondence. Let's talk Blahglievers. If you're in or near central TX, on belay.

Sorry for the double post. Perhaps it won't happen again.

Masseur? I say Saboteur!

If you've ever swallowed a razor-edged bowl of swine flu, you know what kind of pain I'm in. And all in the name of Christ.

Last night I went to a new Bible study group for the first time. Young sort of people from the local community church. Perhaps I was wrong to assume that they wouldn't try to kill me.

"Oh, come in!! It's so nice to meet you!! Let me get you a cinnamon roll!! Oh, put your name on this list, we've got a masseuse upstairs and you can get a turn!!"

Wow. This is my kind of Bible study. Or this is how cults start. Either way, I'm in.

Rookie mistake, Reeves.

I should have picked up their meta-meaning, "Hi, how about an extra large torture?"

So I sign up. And have a cinnamon roll. It's breakfast for dinner night. I chat with med school Waldo (tall, skinny schmo in red/white horizontally striped shirt. That's Waldo, right?!) about the virtues and vices of artificial sugar, and chat with Affliction t-shirt guy about his level of twiddledicketry. All is normal at the Bible study.

"Hey Luke, your turn for the massage!"

On belay.

I fritz you not, the rub down lasted less than 10 minutes. Just a quick teaser because everyone in the whole group was going to take a turn. Surprisingly though, there was plenty of time for me to hear "Michelle's" entire life story; the challenges and rewards of being a single mother massage therapist in small-town Texas.

The rest of the evening sort of runs together... like two people who run together. There was talk of Sabbath, I was the butt of some reading jokes. The evening ended without incident. I even had a pleasant feeling as I left. Another rookie mistake.

This morning I wake up.

+Side note: I just moved. I live in a place called Riddle Manor. I have a chandelier. Deal with it. And deal with the plus signs.+

I look at the chandelier. All is well. I inhale.

One thousand miniature scorpions synchronously shift position within the muscles of my neck and back and head. Then they all fire their plasma rifles at each other. Objectively, this made passing a grapefruit-sized kidney stone seem like eating cotton candy. The ER doctor would later say that not since the 50th anniversary performance of the original Radio City Rockettes, has anyone been in that much pain. I would rather wear earrings made from my eyes than get another massage.

I don't know what Michelle's political opinions are, but she's dangerous. Sure she would be slower than a Crock Pot, but she is a weapon capable of mass destruction.

I've unceremoniously graduated from rookie status. Let me warn you, Blahglievers- never get a massage. And if you're a massage therapist- I'm telling the FBI.

The Reeves Theory of Automotive Twiddledicketry

Working on Saturday is like a used Snickers bar at customer service- No redeeming value.

Working on Saturday when it's absolutely beautiful outside is like grounding yourself for getting grounded- nonsensical voluntary punishment.

So after working all day inside Saturday, I couldn't wait to get out and take a bike ride. I saddled up, donning the requisite black spandex shorts, and, on this occasion, a black shirt. I know you're supposed to wear synthetic, flamboyantly hued biking jerseys, but I prefer the touch, the feel of cotton.

At about 5:30 pm I set out on a new route, west into the small country that is Ft. Hood. The road was smooth and the traffic was sparse. The 80 beautiful degrees in the air made the first 15 miles zoom by.

Rounding a gentle right hander, I received some handlebar feedback like I was riding through tapioca. Then noises like I was filleting a guinea pig.

*If you're my mom, or another potential employer, please skip ahead for the G rated version.

Now we rejoin the action where our hero has bravely endeavored on a multi-mile bike ride without a phone, or a bike maintenance kit, or a pump, or a water bottle, or a brain.

I stopped and quickly saw that my front tire was flatter than last semester's soda. The desolate road loomed behind me. I turned and began the walk. An objective observer would put the turn-around time at 6:15 pm. Plenty of time before sunset, right?

Though the cars (actually trucks, because I'm in Texas and it's illegal to not drive a truck) were few and far between, none of those that did pass stopped to offer help. However, some offered other things. Like honks and yelps and empty water bottles. It was then I developed, then witnessed in action, the Reeves Theory of Automotive Twiddledicketry. First a definition: 'twiddledick' is simply a funnier word for 'tool,' comparable in crudeness to 'butthead.'

As all unified theories, its beauty is in its simplicity. Goes like this:

Your level of twiddledicketry is directly proportional to the number of bolt-on bits your car has.

Take for example the following 3 actual cases.

Case 1: 1987 Chevrolet pickup. Bolt-on Flowmaster catback exhaust system. Relatively simple, minor upgrade. I received a honk. Just barely a twiddledick.

Case 2: 2005 Cadillac Escalade. 24 inch rims. Window tinting. Toupee-ruining stereo. Middle of the road amount of upgrades. I received a window roll down and a yelp. Certified twiddledick.

Case 3: 2002 Dodge Neon. Spray paint black. Bondo-colored full body kit. Uber-vulgar spoiler. Maxwell House-can exhaust pipe. Slammed suspension, riding deep dish Enkeis. He approached from head-on. After burbling past innocently, he could be heard slowing down, turning around then re-approaching. Now advancing from behind me, he floored it, leaving in his wake what can only be called the sound of sin. He disappeared around a corner only to reappear seconds later, now driving toward me again. I knew this nincompoop had a plan, so I held my helmet as a Spartan his shield. Car approaching, window descending, empty plastic water bottle catapulting toward me, shouts of laughter. Twiddledick.

The sun set just after 7 so I enjoyed a starlit walk which totaled 2.5ish hours (about 1.75 in the dark). In my ridiculous black outfit. Even my helmet is black. Luckily I didn't die.

Moral of the story- don't be an unprepared biking idiot, but even more, don't be a twiddledick.

*So I soldiered on and the story ended without incident.

The gym buddy, Czar Peter.

Confession: I'm a card-carrying member of a gym. I pay someone for the privilege of picking up their weighty objects. I realize any argument offered after that sentence can't be based on logic. But whatever, dude.

Two days ago, I was on the last rep of a superset of pushups when I was most surprisingly interrupted by a newcomer. A newbie to this gym.

"Three, four, five," I counted mentally, then stood up to find the love-child of John Madden and Wilford Brimley standing and staring about 8 inches away.

"I'll tell you what you need to do!" he trumpeted, as if training a schnauzer to sit. "Follow me!" He led me across the gym to a machine intended to make guys with no neck have even less of a neck. "You'll want to lean this way and push that way..."

He continued with the instructional monologue, but I was busy picturing a guy with a neck so small that his skull sat right atop his spleen...

Anyway.

"Thanks for the advice, Sir. I may try that next time. Sounds good."

And he walked away. Weird. But whatever. Gym guys are sort of like that.

Chapter 2. Yesterday evening I walk into the gym and I see Mr. Madden-Brimley. And this time he's full-on training a guy I know to be a lone wolf; a guy who talks to and knows nobody here. So I KNOW he doesn't know this new man. And Madden-Brimley is coarsely, I mean coarsely, coaching this dude. "Let's go Michael! Come on Michael! One more!! Two more Michael!! Squeeze it Michael!!"

Whoa.

'Michael' is standing in front of the mirror wall curling a bar on which Madden-Brimley is basically hanging. He's coaching the crap out of this guy he doesn't know.

But that's not even the best part. After 12,000 reps and some CPR, Michael was allowed a break. M-B goes into the diet advice.

"Looks like you might like to have a beer every now and then. That's OK, but if you can cut down on that, that's good. And the carbs. Cut down on the carbs, too. Breads, pastas, grains." I'm quoting as accurately as this keyboard will allow. Promise. There was a gym full of witnesses.

And it hit me- Take away the penchant for hard drinking and the pituitary giantism and Madden-Brimley is Czar Peter. This must be what it's like to just get taken over. A guy arrives on the scene and just runs things. There was a strange power in it all.

Needless to say, I've got to go; I have another training session in 15 minutes with Madden-Brimley.

Racism in the AM

"They're always tryin' to Jew me out of money and you may be too!" croaked the old bat with whom I had been speaking on the phone for about 10 minutes. I opted not to ask her to repeat herself.

Rosemary was her name, and verbal hospitality wasn't her game. I had to talk to her for work. The weird part is, we were trying to give her money. Exactly.

I should explain for those Blahglievers who don't know, I work for an oil and natural gas company. Rosemary owns interest under a piece of land with which we're dealing, so she's got money coming her way. I guess I too would be skeptical if some adorable sounding guy called me up and said he had money for me, but I don't think anti-Semitism would be my go-to move. I might just hang up and leave the country.

"I ain't signin' nothin'"

"Ma'am, you do realize we're not requesting, but offering money, right?"

"I don't want that dirty money, you can keep it! And you can stop all this callin' here too!"

I was as puzzled by her backhanded embezzlement accusation as by her presumption that this one phone call had multiplied into many. But this was a piece of business that needed to get solved for our company, so bravely, I hung up. And ate a donut. Because it was just after 8 in the morning. At least I only had 7.5 remaining hours at work to dwell on my professional failure and personal insecurity.

Have a wonderful, insult-free day Blahglievers.

And That's Why Constantine Was The First Yankees Fan

I’d be more surprised than LeBron getting dunked on by Gary Coleman if anyone seriously argued with the idea that the New York Yankees are the biggest bandwagon-fan-magnet-franchise on planet earth. A hat-surveying alien would find Yankee fans across the globe, and certainly across the U.S.

In 313 A.D. Emperor Constantine issued the Edict of Milan, which legalized Christianity throughout the Roman Empire. Prior to that, Christians had been ruthlessly persecuted by the Roman Emperors, beginning in 64 A.D. with Nero; the wacknut who makes Hitler look like a Jonas brother. How nice of Constantine, right? Except that Christianity had become accepted, indeed practiced publicly by the time Constantine made the Edict. The persecutions, intense and grizzly at first, had hugely cooled off. The Emperor noticed the rise in popularity of Christianity and however conveniently “saw a vision and converted to Christianity.” He jumped headfirst on the Christian bandwagon.

The Constantine apologist says, “Hey, he’s a Christian, his conversion was real, give him a break. He was made a Saint!”

I say, “Really? His conversion didn’t stop him from executing many of his political opponents, and members of his own family including his brother-in-law, his second wife, and his first-born son. HIS FIRST-BORN SON!!! Saint my foot.”

If the Yankees were around in 313 A.D., Emperor Constantine would have jumped on that bandwagon too.

Signs of the Impending Adult Apocalypse?

Receiving a "Preferred Customer" notice from Brooks Brothers.  I'm either grown up or white.

Orangutans have feelings too: a phone transctipt

Tux Rental Lady: "Oh you know your tux sizes already?"

Me: "Yeah, I got measured recently for another wedding, can I read them to you over the phone?  The nearest [name removed by censors] store is like 45 minutes away."

TRL: "Oh sure, that'd be great.  Go ahead."

Me: [reads measurements]

TRL: [pauses] "Are you sure about those measurements?"

Me: "Pretty sure, how come?"

TRL: "Well if those are your arm and torso measurements and such... are you sure about those numbers?"

Me: "What's the problem?"

TRL: "Well those measurements are for the body type of like an orangutan.  Maybe you should go into one of our stores to get remeasured."

Admittedly, I had been pretty colloquial with her all conversation, somehow trying to get this tux for free, so I guess she felt comfortable throwing primate insults.  And I didn't get the tux for free.

Bull Session

"The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes."

Frank Lloyd Wright

Have you ever accidentally attended a Bull Session?  As it turns out, my local coffee spot is owned and operated by none other than Jerry Grote, former catcher for the world champion'69  New York Mets.  What the heck?  This kind old dude that gives me coffee once caught fast balls from Nolan Ryan?

It was cool to listen to his stories of the bigs, recalling details with near-savant accuracy.  While he claimed he didn't miss playing the game, the gusto with which he narrated his memories betrayed him.  It was special to sit and listen to the wisdom of an elder who had experience from which to speak, because he didn't just talk baseball.  He has raised prize-winning cattle, opened a small coffee shop, and endeavored through 40+ years of marriage.  I was glad to soak up some old-man wisdom.

But I'm hopeful for the summer

Spent the weekend in Abilene.  Talking and laughing with my brothers carried into Sunday evening and night so rather than do a late pm drive back to Belton, I went early Monday morning.  Beautiful, calm drive.  Fog and mist in the dark of morning.

Explosions In The Sky, my traveling companion.

I couldn't shake a phrase uttered in a prayer at church, "God, it's winter in so many ways..."

It wasn't the phrase that got me; it was the fact that it resonated with me.   

There wasn't another soul on the road, I could drive as fast as I wanted.  But I slowed down, set the cruise under the speed limit because I didn't want the trip to end.  The stars vanished and the sky began to lighten, and I wished I was driving west.  I knew the sun would bring day, which would bring people out on to what had become my road.  

The phrase still on repeat, God, it's the winter in so many ways.  You feel it too?  

Yes, I did it too.

Following Sarah's lead, I did the 25 list thing.  It's a facebook trend.  Write 25 random things, facts, habits, idiosyncrasies about yourself in an effort to connect with people.  Whatever, here's mine.

1. I’m wearing a long-sleeved polo-type shirt over a regular polo shirt. Yes, that’s two collars and yes it looks absurd.
2. Pretty sure I just ate a moldy raspberry.
3. I’m the second born of five boys, ranging in age from 26 to 9. I can’t imagine a better childhood.
4. Holy crap, I’m only on 4? This is taking forever.
5. Warehouse, by Dave Matthews Band just came on. If deserted on an island or iceberg and I could only listen to one band for the rest of my roasting or freezing life, it would be Dave Matthews Band. Easily. Or Acappella.
6. I love cars. Lets talk cars.
7. I did gymnastics for ¾ of a semester in high school. They gave me the most improved gymnast award. It’s still embarrassing.
8. People problems are nearly always solved by clear, frequent, and effective communication.
9. I don’t like video games.
10. One of my good friends asked me if I was mildly autistic. He was serious.
11. In college I didn’t sleep in my own bed for a semester on a bet with a guy who cheated after 2 weeks and never told me.
12. I was in marching band. I played the trombone. No, you can’t have my autograph.
13. I grew up in Boulder, Colorado. I moved to Abilene, Texas my senior year in high school and 2 weeks later by house burned down. I might have been a hero, I don’t remember.
14. One of my current thought topics is ‘categories of reality.’ I can’t decide where or how to categorize God.
15. I’m pretty athletic, but I’m a horrible athlete, you know? I can do a push-up but I can’t catch a ball.
16. I need about 2 minutes alone for every minute I spend with people.
17. Today I toured a historical home that was built in the 1800s. It had slave quarters. It now belongs to one of my co-workers. Slave quarters were empty.
18. If I had to pick a best person in the world, it would probably be my mom.
19. If number 21 doesn’t move you, you have no soul.
20. When I was 16 years old I was 4’11’’ and 85 pounds. I have the driver’s license to prove it.
21. Mac not PC, car not truck, salty not sweet, mountains not beach.
22. Christianity in one word- grace.
23. I hate talking on the phone. If you call, I probably won’t answer.
24. Probably my favorite book is Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand. Read it and you will know a whole lot about me.
25. My name is Christopher Luke Reeves. At the beginning of one semester, I told the class “I go by Christ.” It was a Bible class. I got a C.

Gross Grammar

"MySpace Turns Over 90,000 Names of Registered Sex Offenders"

MySpace provided two state attorneys general the names of 90,000 registered sex offenders it had banned from its site in response to a subpoena.

Yeah, I was just as shocked as you.  I didn't know the plural was said, "attorneys general."  Crazy.