Currently Watching Firefly - The Complete Series By Nathan Fillion, Gina Torres, Alan Tudyk, Morena Baccarin, Adam Baldwin see related

The Spirit of '76

In honor of true American patriotism, here is the sign on the door at Aldi that truly captures the spirit of our Independence Day:

"In observation of the 4th of July, we will be closed on July 4th."

It touches the heart to know they will be celebrating our fourthhood.

Currently Listening Shaken by a Low Sound By Crooked Still see related

The Male in the Mail

Since Abby and I moved into our apartment nearly a year ago, it has almost felt like there were three of us. There is always some evidence of the third tenant lying around, normally in the recycling pile. His name is Jay.

Jay does not forward his mail.

Jay also has not changed his address with companies who may be trying to reach him, companies whom he may also have worked for. He doesn't get his magazines. He will miss his next dentist appointment. His investments may be flourishing or floundering, but he doesn't know. He will not be able to transfer his balances at 0% interest. Instead, his mail keeps filling our mail bin. There are some days when we check the mail only for Jay. It's true that Jay has more friends than the Schindlers, and judging by his mail, it's easy to see why.

Jay is what you'd call a man's man (or, in the Christian subculture, "wild at heart"). Or he at least wants to be. Jay, if he exists, is almost a self-parody, exhibiting the qualities of the stereotype to such a degree that you wonder if his life is genuine. He receives muscle magazines and motorcycle magazines. Hunting magazines also started making an appearance, as did water sports magazines. Today he received a cigar magazine, one that arrives with less frequency than his other hobby manifestations. We get a picture of Jay, the Harley handler, the Deerslayer, the jack of all trades who is everything to everyone. It almost makes us look cooler because of our association, albeit in mail only, with Jay.

I wonder what people would say about me if they saw the kind of mail I receive. Then again, I always remember to have it forwarded.

Currently Reading A Canticle for Leibowitz By Walter M. Miller Jr. see related

Next Book Club...

The next book club will be Friday, June 27, at 7:00 p.m. We will discuss Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair. Discussion will begin at 7:30 p.m.

 The book flaps read, “’This is a record of hate far more than love,’ writes Maurice Bendrix in the opening passages of The End of the Affair. And it is a strange hate indeed that compels him to set down the retrospective account of his adulterous affair with Sarah Miles—a hate bred of a passion that ultimately lost out to God. Now, a year after Sarah’s death, Bendrix seeks to exorcise the persistence of that passion by retracing its course from obsessive love to love-hate. At the start he believes he hates Sarah and her husband, Henry. By the end of the book, Bendrix’s hatred has shifted to the God he feels has broken his life but whose existence he has at last come to recognize. Originally published in 1951, The End of the Affair was acclaimed by William Faulkner as ‘for me one of the best, most true and moving novels of my time, in anybody’s language.’”

ISBN 0142437980

Currently Listening Black Holes and Revelations By Muse see related

Shear Misery

It's always an inner struggle to get me to go to the barber. To be sure, I love short hair, and I'm always miserable when it's long. But as miserable as having long hair is, it's even more miserable going to the barber to get it cut. (I should clarify, at this point, that I don't mean long hair like '80s rock bands; I mean long for me, a few inches.) In order to make the trip, a certain threshold has to be reached, a point at which I can no longer concentrate because my hair is too long.

I reached that point yesterday and decided, with great reluctance, that it was time to be shorn.

I suppose I should explain why I hate going to the barber. Most women I know love getting their haircut. To them, it is an opportunity to try something new. A chance to unload the intimate details of their lives to someone who is paid to listen and forget (it's like confession, only you get your haircut, too). It's a chance to feel pretty. (Even some men go for these reasons.) None of these is appealing to me. I'd rather not talk to strangers, no amount of pampering is going to make me feel pretty, and if there's anything I hate it's change (just look at the evolution of my glasses over the years--or did you not notice?). But I always get the same haircut, so it's normally not too much of a change. The main argument in favor of hippie hair, to me, is avoiding the awkward conversation with the barber.

The most awkward I've had was at SportClips. I went because they sent me a coupon in the mail for a free haircut, and I'm a sucker for free stuff. I had heard from a friend that they have TVs around that you can watch while you get your haircut. Granted, I don't like TV all that much, and I definitely don't like sports, but I found this more favorable than talking to the person cutting my hair. I figured I could feign interest in sports television for 15 minutes or however long it took me to get my haircut. But I didn't really get the opportunity to watch the TVs.

I arrive and am immediately struck by what a "masculine paradise" this would be, if I were wild at heart, that is. The barbers working there are all young females, attractive in the traditional sense, and they are all wearing referee uniforms. I sit down for my haircut, and immediately I am being offered a free massage. "Um...no thanks," I say, wanting just the haircut. But the barber keeps offering. I keep refusing, but already, I am on edge. Then she tries to talk to me about sports. "Are you going to watch the game tomorrow?" she says, assuming, of course (and she has good reason to assume, I suppose), that because I am in SportClips, I know what game is going to be on. Why can't I watch the game now on that little TV behind you? I think, panicking. I feel like my cover is about to be blown, like I was trying to infiltrate their haircuttery by posing as a normal customer and they found me out with a little detective work (like the "Shibboleth" test in Judges 12:5-6). But I decide not to give up so easily.

"No...I'm busy."

"Oh. Well, who are you going to cheer for?"

Think, Jon! Think! The Bears? The Bulls? The Cubs? But it is time to lay down arms and fess up. The trumps are clearly in the barber's hand. "I actually don't watch sports." As embarrassing as it is to admit not watching sports, it is even more embarrassing to pretend to cheer for a team that isn't playing.

"Oh..." she says. She has been trained, you see, in the art of sports conversation (I'm assuming to fill in the gap left in sports-crazy men by unsavvy girlfriends and wives who care nothing for sports), but she is unprepared for the likes of me, a cheapskate who is merely using his free haircut coupon. "Well, I'm cheering for the bears. I'm having all my friends over, and we're going to watch it on the big-screen TV..." She rehearses her script for the remainder of the haircut, pretending that I didn't embarrass myself by confessing that I don't watch sports, interspersing her sports monologue with great features of SportClips and renewed offers of a massage.

When it is time to pay, I thank her for the haircut, tip her, and leave quickly and quietly, knowing I will never return, despite the nagging reminder on the bottom of the receipt that a free trim is part of what I paid for.

Currently Listening Kill the Moonlight By Spoon see related

Beware the Power of the Rook!

Mother's Day was this past weekend, and as a gift to my mom, my sisters and I went to Fort Wayne to visit her. Part of the visit was going to see Grandma Eubank. A visit to Grandma Eubank necessitates the playing of Rook.

Rook is one of the card games that my family played growing up. While other families were playing the less-fun, easier, and generally worse Euchre, we were bidding, taking the nest, and sneaking the ill-omened rook card in for the greatest effect (because the rook card is, of course, the highest valued and least powerfuly trump, not the highest trump like those weird people in Ohio say, or the middle trump like Jack says). (When discussing card games, I describe Euchre as wannabe Rook.)

The worst in my grandma comes out when we play Rook. Rook turns my grandma, normally a sweet, harmless woman, into a vengeful, out-for-blood card shark. Once when I trumped her trick, she called me a louse, a remark that still burns to this day. And despite her being older, her mind is still sharp enough to consistently set her brash young grandson even when his bids are modest. <sigh>

Anyway, why talk about Rook? Because it has some of the best marketing copy ever. Seriously. I wish I could write like this (as you read, read with a raspy, dramatic voice):

"A Blaze of Lightning. A wind turned cold. Beware the power of the Rook. The eerie black bird can make all the difference. Four players (options for two, three, five, or six). Partner or not. You bid. You name trump. You take tricks (when you're lucky or smart). But beware the wild ROOK! When he lands, anything can change.

"A classic game. (A favorite since 1906. Oh, my!) Easier than bridge. More challenging than Hearts. Custom-designed cards. Gorgeous. Perfect for a dark, stormy night. Bring home the ROOK card game and find out."

Oh, and on the front cover, for good measure, it says, "It's only a card game, but I'm feeling an odd chill in the air!"

All this to say: If you don't have a set of Rook cards, go get some and learn to play. It's as good as the copy makes it sound. Seriously.