#AA028163 /  gettyimages.com

I wish that for just twenty-four hours, I could look and feel as attractive and confident as I did ten years ago, when I had no reason to feel either of those things.

A lesson in hypocrisy

So, after two weeks of teamwork intensive practices, urging everyone to play as a team instead of individuals, and holding forth on why no one should argue with bad calls, the team was put to the test. They passed. Teamwork was solid, no big egos, not one peep about bad calls.
I, however, failed miserably. I acted as if my screaming about bad calls was the only thing keeping us in the game. In just a few seconds, I lost faith in everything.  Instead of relying on the team's solid performance, I freaked out. Instead of falling back on my years of experience doing this, I became unhinged.  I acted as if the mountains of blood, sweat, time, energy, emotions, and money that I and everyone else have put into the league were not as important as some errant zebra out to make a name. My outbursts cost my team a penalty and nearly got me thrown out of the game. I pouted for several minutes, when I should have been doing my job. Only the stern words of the medic snapped me out of it. Did my behaviour cause the loss? Possibly.
As my coaching career winds down, I am more and more concerned with how I will leave this league. I have never been concerned with my win/loss record (it's dismal), but I now worry that it indicates something really bad: that this league is now worse off  than when I started coaching. Fuck a legacy, I should have focused on "First, do no harm." I am now in the position of apologizing for three years of my life, when I only ever meant to help. I know I'm indulging in self-pity here, but I really don't know what I can do to make some positive changes. I guess I should start by not being such a whiny little bitch.

Snowflake

Me to team: "Everyone needs to stop making exceptions for themselves. Everyone. Even me. And don't come ask me after practice if I meant you, because I do."

Skater to me: (after practice) "You didn't mean me, right coach? I'm still an exception to the rule about exceptions, right?"

Me: "Of course. I meant everyone except you."

Last night, I disappointed about 2000 strangers, and around 50 of the people of I care about most in this world.
The advantage to knowing that you're going to fail is that numbers like that don't upset you as much.

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"Roller Derby Coaching: Rules" or, "Roller Derby Coaching Rules!"

first in a series...

1) Don't do it for the money or fame. Don't do it for adoration. Don't do it for the power. Not because those are bad reasons, but because those things don't exist in this job.
2) If you stick with it long enough, you will develop a love for the game. This will not be enough to sustain you.
3) Learn to love things like: laying the track, cleaning bearings, and sweeping the floor. The best part about these jobs is that there is very little competition for them.
4) It's ok if you don't know the rules very well. Neither do your skaters. The only people who can call bullshit on you are the Refs.
5) Make friends with the Refs. They see a lot of stuff you don't, and they are perhaps the only shoulders you can cry on.
6) Only one thing feels better than winning.
7) Their triumphs belong to them; their failures are yours.
8) The douche move that that bunch of cheaters used on you last bout should be part of your strategy next bout.
9) The only thing that feels better than winning is knowing you helped someone improve. The afterparties are better for victories, though.

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I am saddened by the fact that people from both political parties are now openly blaming the other side for the senseless tragedy in Tucson. I am angered by the fact that they are making an attempt to mask the blame in grief.
Think about that little girl. Just elected to student council, going to visit her congressional representative. Would you want her to know that her death meant so little that it would be used to rail against a political website? Or a talking head on tv?
Do you think that she, with a naive and innocent interest in politics, would want people to work together after such a tragedy? Or perhaps to take stock of ourselves, and find what humanity remained; and, once we had it, to look for it in others? I've answered these questions for myself, I hope that some other people do the same.

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Request rollover information. Rebalance portfolio. Activate card. Check member rewards status. Update beneficiary information. View amortization calendar. Check escrow account.
It dosen't really seem like me doing any of this stuff. I'm the guy that the repo man woke up at 0230 so he could get his Van Halen CDs out of the car. I'm the guy that the girls at the check cashing place and the Indian gentleman at the liquor store knew by name. Bench warrants? Check. Insurance? Never heard of it? Sell weed? Maybe to some friends.
Its not a "How did I get here?" sort of moment. It's more of a "Which one of those guys am I really?" kind of thing. Left to my own devices, would I still be the shady, skinny, charming, broke, unemployed hustler I was those few long years ago? Or was it just a phase, sowing some wild oats before settling into a more predictable, stable, happier and fatter life? Also, who would win in a fight?
I have a sneaking suspicion that I could still go back to being a no-goodnik. Also, that I could have done ok in college if I had really tried. I guess the point of all this is to try and figure out what parts of each I want to take forward with me this year.

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For me, it hasn't been that bad a year. I got a raise, which is nice. No one broke into our house this year, which is great. My maternal grandmother passed, which is sad; but also kind of bittersweet because she suffered from Alzheimer's disease for the last years of her life. My mother, brother, sister, and I were able to be present when she departed, so that's a small comfort for us. I got a few more formal schools to add to my resume. Job status is stable, which is nice. We got out from under the condo, and Mel got out from her debt.
Actually, it seems like a pretty dope year. Why am I so anxious to put it to bed?
I know that my own good fortune has come during a time when many of my friends are experiencing sadness, loss, heartbreak, bereavement, unemployment, and many other things. This dosen't neccesarily take away from my appreciation of my own good fortune, but it does certainly color the lens that I view my life through. I know that my own tough times will come around again. I hope that I have shared enough with the people that I love that they will help me through those times.
Whatever your circumstances, I hope you know that if 2011 sucks, we'll help each other cry, move, eat, and look for work. If it is awesome, we'll help each other laugh, drink, dance, and party.

Because her birthday is tomorrow, here are...

5 Reasons I Like Maureen
1) Her sense of humor.
2) She can skate like the wind and hit like a freight train.
3) She's got mad skills outside the paint.
4) Her smile. Though it sometimes goes missing, when it comes back, it lights up the room; which is good if it's dark and you need to find stuff.
5) Because she's always been a great friend to me.

Happy birthday, Tsu! Hope you have a good one.

Things I have been doing since quitting roller derby:
1. Playing GTA IV.
2. Reading.
3. Playing Disc Golf.
4. Playing and listening to music.
5. Worrying about roller derby.
6. Working overtime.

A few days ago, I was watching tv and folding laundry, when I saw a trailer for a movie about windshield wipers. A lesser (or more normal) man might ponder the question "How could there be a feature film about windshield wipers?". But not I. I know what fertile creative ground the topic of rain removal is; I was reminded of a conversation I had in high school.
It pouring buckets, naturally. My best friend and I were discussing cars. This was not a new discussion, it had continued uninterrupted since our freshman year. Our english teacher, Ms Strohm, was grading some papers as Tad and I were hashing out the minutiae of various forms of valvetrain engineering. During a lull in the conversation, I looked out the window and lamented the fact that I needed to replace the wipers on my Mustang. Tad inquired whether I would be using blade refills or replacing the actual wiper assembly. I told him that I probably needed to replace the assembly, but would opt for the refills, as they were cheaper. Tad pondered aloud the possibility that there might be a better way to remove rain from the windshield. The problem arises from the shape of the windshield versus the type of motion available to wipe it clean. The glass is more or less rectangular, but the only way to move the wipers themselves is with a motor, which produces only rotary motion, hence the round arcs we are all so familiar with that leave a fairly large portion of the windscreen unwiped. I told him about the system installed on some aircraft, wherein hot, dry, compressed air from the engines is ducted to the front of the windshield, creating a "boundary layer " of air that diverts rain up and over the fuselage. We figured out a way to adapt this to existing automobiles, then dismissed the idea due to exceedingly high cost/benefit ratio. He brought up the exceedingly complicated system then installed on some Mercedes cars, a system that uses a single wiper that extends on the horizontal part of the sweep, then shortens as it nears vertical.Its advantages and drawbacks were discussed at length.
Unbeknownst to us, we had attracted the attention of both our teacher and several classmates. Ms Strohm asked us if we were discussing windshield wipers. I answered in the affirmative, but let her know we were ready to get back to work when she was. Ms Strohm, to her eternal credit, was never one to shy away from some useless knowledge, and asked us to rehash what we had discussed so far, for the class' benefit. She was actually interested, and it wasn't a new thing to be asked to make an impromptu presentation on something in her class if she though the topic was interesting. But never on windshield wipers. We obliged, a bit sheepishly at first, but were surprised to find ourselves deluged (ha!) with questions from the class.
David wanted to know why larger vehicles had their windshield wipers mounted near the roofline, upside down. He pointed to a fire truck idling outside as an example. I had never though about it before, but the answer came smoothly, as though I had rehearsed it for years. "Larger vehicles often have vertical, or nearly vertical windshields. Wipers mounted to the bottom would actually push more water up the glass than wipe it off." Someone else, pointing to the same fire truck, mentioned that the wipers went in opposite directions, rather than the overlapping arcs on most cars. Tad fielded this one, even though I was sure he had as little time to think about it as I had. "The same larger vehicles usually use two separate plates of glass for a windshield, divided by a metal frame. There is no advantage to having the wipers in the same direction, as they cannot overlap each other. Instead, they wipe towards the outside of the vehicle to reduce the amount of rain that runs back on to the glass." I added that this was also seen in pre-1949 automobiles, which were produced before the curved glass we are familiar with was readily available.
I felt like Isaac Newton. Everything about windshield wipers suddenly made sense to me. It was like someone pulled back just a little of the curtain obscuring the engineering that takes place behind everything mankind produces, and the part I peeked at was the chapter on windshield wipers.
Melissa asked about her boyfriend's Mustang, a car I had worked on and raced against. "He took the wipers off to save weight, but when I changed the wipers in my car, they weighed next to nothing." She was right. They weighed nothing. But her boyfriend hadn't just pulled off the wipers. He pulled the wiper motor, which is a hulking, power-hogging heavy beast of a thing. (His Mustang, of course, was faster than mine. But I had windshield wipers, air conditioning, and a back seat.) I told her that removing the big electric wiper motor was common among drag racers, and most of them just made sure to Rain-X their glass every week, and didn't drive in rain very much.
The Q and A lasted a bit longer, and amazingly, stayed on topic. Tad and I covered other points, like vacuum-powered wiper motors, the three-wiper system on some British cars, and intermittent circuitry, with a grace and ease that we couldn't seem to find when discussing Ethan Frome. Afterwards, Ms Strohm thanked us, mentioning that she had never considered the intricacies involved in cleaning rain off a car window before. We nodded as solemnly as two high-school seniors could, hopefully leaving her with the completely bogus impression that we were serious men, who considered serious issues like this on a regular basis, and not just two lucky friends who bullshitted their way out of thirty minutes of class time talking about car parts.

This house was built in 1949. During these renovations, I've often wondered about the lives lived under this roof. How many children learned to read here? How many pumpkin pies graced the table over the course of 59 Thanksgivings? What did these people do for a living? And who the fuck put that stupid linoleum in the kitchen? The idea intrigues me.

Last Wednesday was a strange day in that we had scheduled the contractor to come in and finish a few items in the afternoon, but otherwise, we had nothing scheduled save hangovers. I woke early and went to sit on the couch to await a very special package that required a signature. Before it arrived, however, a plumber showed up and informed me that the contractor had hired him to finish the plumbing. I showed him the work, and he began whatever he was doing. Soon, the package arrived. I put it in a safe place and resumed watching "Top Gear". Minutes later, the plumber told me he was leaving, and that another plumber was coming to finish. I was in no position to argue, since recently any talk of the house puts me into a drooling, catatonic state. No sooner had he left than I saw a Crown Vic creeping up the road, stopping in front of the house next door, but no one exiting the vehicle. I pushed thoughts of impending drive-by out of my mind as: a) This car was not actually driving by anything, and b) it appeared to be an old lady car. My theory was soon proved correct, as the car rolled slowly until it was directly in front of my house, and a bluehair got out and started walking up the steps. Melanie asked who it was, and assured her that I didn't know, but would be sure to thwart any attempts at home invasion on her part. Apparently, the woman (we'll call her "Miss Mary", because that is her name, owns the house two doors down, and was evicting the current tennant and apparently installing a new one, whose safety she was so concerned with as to drive menacingly up the street and inform possible rapists where said tennant worked, what she looked like, and when she was moving in. This woman was also racist in the blatant and matter-of-fact way that only old people seem to be able to get away with. I assured her we would be looking forward to seeing her in the future, and bade her goodbye. Not five minutes later, an even older gentleman climbed the steps and knocked on my door, also unexpectedly. He had very few teeth and had been drinking a bit (I'm not judging, I've been drunk at 10:30am as well). His name is Ernie, and he lives across the street a few houses over. He has lived here since 1955. His wife died four months ago, and he now just sits on his porch. His neighbors bring him food and take care of him. In more than 53 years here, he said, he had never had a key to his front door. I was delighted with this visit. He also said to pay Miss Mary no mind (I was way ahead of Ernie on this one.). Here was my chance to learn some of the boring suburban history behind my first house! Unfortunately, our visit was cut short when a duallie pulled a trailer up in front of the house and disgorged five dudes who decided to put a new roof on the carport.
The rest of the day was spent trying to ignore the hellacious noise and smells from the construction going on. In the back of my mind, though, I tempered my anger at having my day of rest disturbed with the thought of myself sitting on the porch in 2068 and telling the new neighbors a few things about the neighborhood.

I should post something heartfelt about David Foster Wallace's suicide.* So, here it is:
It makes me really, really sad. That's it. Not despair or anything, but definitely the saddest it has felt for any celebrity death. I'll never get to read any more new books by him. And I'll never get to read the old ones without thinking of them differently. Ultimately, as usual, self-pity is my real driving emotion here.






*Blogger wo't let me do footnones, so this is the little in joke for anyone who's read him.

You know who is a good grout layer? Not me! I am incapable of working with goo. Any kind of goo-like substance just mocks my otherwise sterling manual dexterity. Bondo. Sheetrock mud. Peanut butter. Spackle. And now gout. An ugly name for an ugly project.

My father came by to have lunch last week, and to see the new house. He also bought us a lawnmower, which was very sweet, and much needed. He also gave me a box of stuff that was labled "chris' garbage". As I was putting away the lawnmower yesterday, I opened it and inventoried it a bit. Turns out, it was full of my garbage. Contents including:

• A de-milled hand grenade. Useful.
• Random baseball cards from the early '80s. 1982 Topps Robin Yount, anyone?
• Many, many cards from many, many relatives. No money overlooked, though.
• A large collection of notes from my high school girlfriend. Awww.
• A picture of my high school marching band. Taken from my father's airplane. See, not even my own personal aerial photog could make me cool.
• A worn out wrist pin from the first motor I ever rebuilt, on the first car I ever owned.
• A rant, ostensibly authored by me, about how no one would ever understand me. Gosh, 17-year-old Chris, please tell us all about your emotions. Geez, what a prick I was.

It's 0400 EDT, and I can't sleep. Took the redeye out of Vegas, got in to KSAV around 9, went to sleep immediately. Now my sleep schedule is all fucked up. The trip was fun. Saw Batman (in IMAX), Penn & Teller, and a bunch of roller derby freaks. Drank something called "Ass Juice". Won some money at video poker. Lost some money at craps. You know, the usual Vegas experience.
Really, though, I attended a few seminars, and I think I learned some things that will really help the other referees and me to improve the officiating at our bouts. I hope.
I really need to sleep. Tomorrow I have to do something about the lawn here at the rental. Josh took his lawnmower, and the place looks like a jungle already. I guess I will try and find a used mower, since I'll need one for the new house anyway. Speaking of it, maybe I'll head over there tomorrow and bask in its glory. And pull up some carpet. I also need to order some stuff for this damned motorcycle. Simple little things like circlips and fork balance tubes have hung me up longer than they should have. I hope everyone else is getting some rest, because I'm not.

I'm writing this from the fabulous Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. Woo.

Closing went off without a hitch. Easiest thing I've ever done. Thanks to everyone for their support.

The flight here was the one of the most painful experiences of my life. Due continuing sinus problems, my left ear would not equalize pressure properly, reslting in near-paralyzing pain for almost four hours. Yes, I know all the little tricks for getting ears to pop. No, they didn't work. Trust me, I've been flying for thirty years. When we got here, Mel revved up and went gambling, I had a few drinks and collapsed in a coma while the overly loud band at Harrah's outside bar played "Rock You Like A Hurricane" until 0300 or so. This year's Rollercon is shaping up to be less entertaining than last years, or maybe I just need to change my attitude.

In other news, what do you call someone who dosen't write or call his best friend or six months, and misses his birthday? A bad friend. Or Chris. Same thing.
I'm sorry, b. I'll call you when I get home.

Sick again. Motherfucker.

Here's a fun story:
I hate going to the doctor. Really, really, hate it. I don't have a phobia or anything; I just don't like waiting around for a ridiculously long time before a doctor comes in and asks me a few somewhat random questions, nods solemnly, and says "It's a virus. You should feel better in a week. But if you don't, then it's bacterial, and we'll start you on antibiotics."
Well, thanks for that. It's good to know that I'll only be sidelined for two or three weeks, max. For what is essentially a cold. And then I'll get to deal with the insurance company. What a colossal waste of time.

Today at the local sports-themed haircut place (just shut up, they do an acceptable job), I was watching one of the many, many television sets as a bored employee flipped through the channels. She paused for just a second at a bold-looking title screen that read:
"World Cup of Poo"
...or so I thought. As it turns out, the oblique viewing angle I was at cut off the ending "L" from my perspective. How long did I have to think about this before I figured it out? Pretty damned long. No man should have to sit in a barber chair for ten minutes thinking that there is such a sporting event on cable t.v.