Almanac: Thursday, September 29, 2005

Today met us with fair conditions. We have spent the entire month without rain. The wind-speed varied between 0 and 2 knots in a predominantly southerly heading. The high today was 75 degrees at 11:37 AM when my coworker Nancy turned up the thermostat, as she claimed it was getting chilly. A low of 71 degrees was reached this afternoon at 3:52 following a similar thermostatic adjustment per Nancy's sense that it was getting stuffy. The humidity is very low, as usual. Fear abounds among the crew regarding papercuts. There was no sun.

There was a brief period around 5:00 PM in which the lobby smelled strongly of ladies perfume. Reports from Nancy confirm suspicion that this odor migrated to her office around 5:10 and remained until she briefly opened a window around 6:00. I don't think I like ladies perfume especially. This scent smelled something like sugar-water, rose-water, olive oil, and scratch-n-sniffs.

A long weekend awaits, and with it, planning for next week's weather. Today's button-up shirt and twill cotton pants certainly sufficed, but the week ahead could bring on the monsoon season. And the days are only getting shorter this time of year. I intend to conduct a short study of my sweaters before nightfall.

The Catcher

At a concert this weekend I realized Holden Caulfield was born at the wrong time. System of a Down was playing; it was a totally kick-ass show, very loud, very liberal and rough. The smells of beer, pot, B.O., and disenchantment commingled over the floor of moshing youth. There were crowd-surfers. There were articles of clothing flung at the band.

Watching the action on the floor, I found myself amused by the concert security who lined the front of the stage and rushed to receive anyone at the end of their crowd-surfing run. Sometimes two or even three people would crest the wave at the barricade 10 feet from the stage, snagged and set gently down by these lumbering security guys. And then it occured to me: each of these men is the catcher in the rye. When the playing children run off the edge of that vast field of swaying rye, these men are there to catch them and set them on their way.

Holden, if only you had been born a few decades later. Maybe I would have seen you there. Maybe you would have saved a spot for me.

Supplemental Information

You remember those sci-fi black and white films, or Tomorrowland, all that? One of their dire predictions about the 21st century was that we wouldn't eat food, but just take little pills. Well, I say bring 'em on.

Food is cool, if you're into all that. I like the nutrients and sometimes the taste is all right. But really, I'm just in it for the fuel. Just gas me up and send me on my way, that's what I'm about. I like restaurants, so long as the atmosphere is stimulating. But they could serve me a big protein shake there for all I care. Just so long as they don't bring me peas. Peas are sick. There is no need in the world for peas.

I work in a place that's on pretty friendly terms with New Age Nutrition. I'd like to think that I'm not too mystical or anything, but I have taken protein shakes and seen benefits both in my fitness and health (didn't get sick once while taking them). I think maybe that's the way to go. Supplements. We need some "real" food for roughage and fiber and to scrape all the crap out of our colons. Literally. But do we really need food and food preparation 3 times a day? Not in tomorrowland, baby.

Two Moments from the Iron Age

Some readers might know that I have been working out for the last six months or so, and took a break when I moved. But Friday was my first day back on the plan, and this morning was a leg/ab day. Boring, I know. But it gets better. The facility at my new apartment has an incline sit-up bench, something I was eager to work in to the routine. As it turns out, it appears that I have never worked my lower abs before in my lifetime. I got through the sit-ups all right, but by the last set, my belly seemed full of pickle brine. Afterwards, I was sure I had been poisoned. Even breakfast could not cure the vitriolic misery that was my entire midsection this morning. Time's healing power cured me by noon. But what a start. On the bright side, if it sucks that bad, it has to help, right? Right? IN OTHER NEWS, THE IRON AGE SPANNED AN ENTIRE DECADE AS A YOUNG MAN ESTABLISHED HIS INDEPENDENCE AND MASCULINE IDENTITY. DETAILS AT ELEVEN.

The other moment of Iron: the workout was suggested by a great friend and it was definitely a good thing to do. We began together in his home gym and both acheived success and great satisfaction doing so. I try not to be too superficial, so I view the benefits as additional energy, added strength, instillment of order in my life, and so on. But there was one moment of blissful superficial delight this summer. I went ballroom dancing with a lady friend, a really beautiful smart young woman. I had a thing for her once, and she put a stop to that. But we went dancing as friends, and my moment was this: when she was first told to put her left hand between my right bicep and shoulder, she placed her hand there lightly, hesitated, made eye contact, and then her hand relaxed. That moment of surprise to feel my muscle (not that it's anything incredible) was a truly great one. Certainly worth a morning of pickle brine.

Life Inside the Parentheses

You know when a character is surprised by something that's been said in the funny pages, there appears a bubble over their head containing the surprise? For instance, Jimbo says "Martin was selected over numerous qualified candidates for the opening in monkey refuse collection." Then, in the next panel, Ralphie might have a bubble over his head containing the phrase: Numerous candidates? This is not spoken life. This is not quotable life. It's life inside parentheses.

As children grow up, they learn to communicate their needs and ideas. Then, discretion kicks in and they learn not to. But before all of that, and long after, we all live secret lives. Lives in parentheses. Think of it as a stand-up act with yourself as the audience. Or as the director's cut of your own daily experience. But think is the operative word.

A friend said this weekend that he wishes he could think less, since thoughts can be so self-destructive. He imagines life without thought as carefree and easy. And life on the outside is like that ... sometimes. But when it's not, cling to the world of your own making! Cling to imagination! Life the life inside parentheses! (Life?)