If you are a true journalist, the world is going to kick your ass. If you are a true journalist, you are supposed to be having a hard time. This is how the world makes writers. It kicks their ass long enough that they start finally telling the truth. They just finally give up and start bleating out little truthlets...That we stand on the nodal point of a great, creaking, crunching change in historical direction, at the beginning of cataclysmic planetary collapse, at the dying of civilization, at the rising of new empires, at our own meltdown, as a million stories bloom out of the earth like wildflowers in the spring and we think, gee, uh, if only there were some good stories to tell. The stock market just collapsed, the seas are rising, polar bears are dying, a whole generation is transcending its corporeal limitations and creating essentially a new civilization outside the body, a chimerical wonderland of holographic and spiritual representation permanently liberated from face, hands, feet ... and rather than celebrating the destruction of the old paper-bound media and assuming with a shrug that no way in hell could it be any other way, instead we cling to our occupations like ox-cart drivers who do not want to climb down from the ox cart. Miracles and tragedies are bursting all around us but we plod through the village in our ox cart, selling vegetables one at a time.
What's the equivalent of the internet slow clap? Because I want to give one, right now.
I literally just spent the last half hour laughing at this video. You have to be a certain kind of refined to appreciate the line "Staring at the swim team gets you killed by a gang of dancing ninjas who know how to twirl." Thanks, Matthew Turner!
A year ago today I was working with my friends, bosses and co-workers piling sandbags two and three feet high around the place where I used to work. When we were done, we drank beer, sat on the sandbags and said, "it'll never come this high." The next day, we were out there again, this time, wading through water up to our hips, in order to crawl through the roof and save the art work in the building.
Last year, a flood wiped out my town. You can see my pictures that I took here. A lot of them include before and afters.
I wish I could tell you that now, during the AFTER, after, its so much better. But it's not. But we're getting there and yesterday, as I jogged around town and I smelled honeysuckle instead of the usual smell of water-logged turds and mold, I was so proud to call myself a resident of Cedar Crapids. I wrote a story for YourTango on the flood and relationships. You can read it here.
Here is an excerpt:
Both Max and Linda agree that the process of rebuilding after the flood was the most difficult challenge their marriage has ever faced. They didn't fight more, simply because they were too tired to fight. But Linda does recall some big arguments that arose, one involving where to put their new shower. Another when Max wanted to tear out her water-logged lilacs.
"I still do," he says pressing his hands together in mock prayer. "I pray to God every night, please take those lilacs." Linda reaches over and smacks his arm.
On Saturday, I am running a seven-mile run around the flooded areas. Considering that the mold from the flood caused me to vomit up mucus, and most of that mold is still there. I think Saturday will be a raucous success. If you don't hear from me. I'll be fighting my violently reacting allergies with Zyrtec and a puke bucket.
A few weeks ago, a friend from college wrote on my Facebook wall that the Lyz of college would be disappointed in how active the Lyz of today is. Nothing like getting the HOW DARE YOU ACHIEVE THE GOALS WHICH YOU'VE SET OUT TO CONQUER messages. I don't know if the Lyz of yesteryear would really be mad that the Lyz of today wakes up for a run, works two jobs and goes to grad school. I mean, it's not like I have to put on pants to do 2/3 of those items. Plus, the running just means more chicken nuggets, so really it evens out. But she might have a point. The Lyz who walked around in jeans covered in Marxist slogans, carrying a duct-taped backpack and stealing plants from various campus buildings might be peeved that at this moment I am thinking about how much Chris Cuomo annoys me and has anyone seen my Metamucil? Seriously folks. At this moment in my life I have a pedicure and an Avon lady (Word up, Loftus!) What's wrong with me?
I can hear my mom shouting from Kansas, "We all grow up...and then have babies LOTS AND LOTS OF BABIES! GIVE ME GRANDBABIES!" But really, I've just traded one set of petulance for another. Instead of taking on the establishment, I'm passive-aggressively glaring at my neighbor as she trims her hedges STANDING IN MY YARD. Then, at night, I sneak out and pour wiper fluid on her ugly bush that is planted on OUR SIDE.
Because that's how we grown-ups do.
Which reminds me of a story a girl told me about staying at her boyfriend's parent's house and seeing her boyfriends mother run buck naked to answer the phone (apparently it was her boyfriend's baby mamma calling). In the process of running she slipped on the linoleum and old lady bits were quivering and wobbling everywhere. "Tell your momma to put on some clothes," my friend shouted at her boyfriend. He came over to her and gently put his arm around her. "Aww, baby," he said, "that's just how we do."
There is a moral there. A pantsless old lady moral. But if you'll excuse me, I'm out of wiper fluid.
Usually when the song introduces the choir it triggers my gag reflex. Other gag triggers include the words "world" "peace." But I heard about this project on NPR this morning and it is just beautiful. Isn't that the difference between saccharine sentimentality and something that is moving? Soul. Or maybe it's just running on a lack of sleep and three cokes. Time for a nap.
This is my youngest brother keeping it real while cheering on his friends at the Special Olympics. I am in Kansas this weekend visiting my family for my sister's graduation and my little brother's first Special Olympics.
My youngest brother is both Down's and autistic. The autism was only discovered later. Although, sometimes it's a wonder we ever missed it. For example, this weekend, I watched him rewind and watch the same five seconds of the movie "Toy Story" (for those of you in the know, it's in the beginning when the dinosaur runs into the metal trashcan) over and over until my mom reached over and shut it off and loud cheers and rejoicing were heard in the street. During the Special Olympics he and I exchanged 534,115,156,894,468,992 high fives, with a margin of error of 1,000, or two. Give or take.
It was fun seeing him compete in the 25m run and walk and the tennis ball throw, where he signed my dad's name before chucking his crappiest shot. As if to say, "This one's for you old man!" Although, by noon I was high fived out.
The highlight, for me was watching him get up on the podium. Obviously, because it was a great moment to see my brother so proud of himself, but also, because he's afraid of heights. He literally demanded that two policemen hold his hands. Seriously, one policeman was holding his hand and my brother looked around for the other cop. Motioned for him to come over and held out his hand. As if to say, "Remember that serve and protect thing? Well, save me from this thing called gravity, fools."
Of course they did it. I can barely talk my way out of a speeding ticket. This kid has skillz. Mad skillz. And he looks better in my shades than I do.
Tomorrow is the day I killed a dog. A cute fluffy one. I blogged about it. Obviously. But I want you to know that the post is very dramatic and it was a really hard day for me. I still run by that spot and see a white flash of fluff in a wheel well and hear the deadening thump. But you should also know I called my brother right after that incident and here is how the conversation went.
"I killed a dog." "Yep..." "No REALLY I KILLED IT! It ran after me while I was jogging and got hit by a car! It was awful." "YOU'RE AN AWFUL PERSON AND A MURDERER!!" "You think so?" At which point he started laughing so hard he choked, which I interpret as God's judgment.
In hindsight, I have let go a lot of guilt about this, because, well it's not like I had bacon strapped to my running shorts or anything.
