Two Notions, In 100 Words

Firstly...

I've said it before (HERE), and I'll say it again. Super Bowl Monday needs to be a national holiday. Even if you're not a sports fan - if you don't even watch the game - that Monday is always pointless.

See? Pointless.

Secondly...

I count the days until Pitchers And Catchers Report, and I get eye rolls from non-fans. Listen - It's not about baseball! It's an idea. It is the notion that Spring is coming. Sure, there's some winter left, but it will end, and that relief is hard to describe to someone who doesn't loathe it as I do.

 

...hope.

 

Once again into the wilds of the 100 Word Challenge. Try it - it's fun!

Random Act: What Just Happened?

Last Thursday, I witnessed an act. 

I think it was one of those "random acts of kindness" that people try to tell me occasionally happen.  It seemed random, and I'm fairly certain it was kind.  I know it was over before it started, and I'm pretty sure no one else on the train saw it.

What I know:

• The Green Line train was extra-crowded.  There were Nationals fans (and some Phillies fans), in addition to the regular 5:30 crush of weary commuters.  This always makes for a somewhat uncomfortable mix of happy, excited riders and tired, annoyed ones.
• Across from me, there was a young black man, probably in his mid-20s, holding a sleeping 4-to-5-year old girl, presumably his daughter. He was 3/4-asleep, himself. Next to them, another daughter, approximately 7 years old, was also failing to stay awake, her book bag on the floor between her feet.
• At L'Enfant Plaza station, a young white man, probably also under 30, stooped briefly in front of the snoozing family, as if picking something up from the floor, handed it to the groggy dad, and quickly exited the train.
• The young father was reticent. And no, I do not mean "reluctant," because A) I know the difference between reticent and reluctant, and B) There was no time for reluctance. This guy just appeared, put a folded piece of yellow paper into the dad's hand, and was gone.  The young father, his hands literally full, was shy. He had been keeping entirely to himself and his small brood.  When the older girl had asked how many more stops, no one heard his reply but her. When the man handed him the note, which was folded around at least a few dollars in cash, the dad remained silent. He glanced up in surprise, but quickly closed his hand around the note and returned his focus to his sleeping children.
• At the next stop, after giving the older girl a couple of gentle pokes and a quiet "one more stop," he looked around briefly, then snuck a peek at the note and the cash. He smiled. It was an exhausted, but surprised and - I think - touched and grateful little smile. He tucked the gift into the only pocket he could reach - that of his sleeping little girl.

What I do not know:

What had just happened? Technically, I cannot completely rule out the possibility that the dad actually had dropped the item. Nor is it 100% impossible that he and the young white male know each other, and that the item handed off was expected. I do rule these out, though.  I just do.

So... My mind was off and running. How much money? Why? What did the note say? Was it even KIND?

What it probably said was, "God bless you," because that's what it probably said. 

It might have said "Next time you take the train, hand this to the person next to the door as you leave."

Or... "Pay it forward."

Or... "I found this $35 on the platform. I want you to have it."

Or maybe it was a large amount of money, and the note said, "You need a car," or "For college."

But maybe it wasn't at all as it appeared to be.  Perhaps the note said, "Get that kid some shampoo, loser!"

Or... "Don't spend this on booze/drugs/anything that says 'Frozen'/gummy bears."

Or... "I don't like seeing kids on the train - take a cab next time."

Or... "I have made a LOT of assumptions about you and your situation, so please take this and let me go home and feel good about myself."

Or... "Metro's too expensive."

Now, I can't pretend to know what the guy was thinking, when he handed the note and cash to a fellow Metro rider. It's possible that he was utterly misguided. The father and his two girls showed no outward signs of need; they weren't sitting there in rags, and their final stop turned out to be the Navy Yard/Nationals Park station - not exactly the projects. The altruist may have made any number of flawed assumptions, here. For that matter, I may be doing exactly the same thing, now, because really I simply do not know what it was that I witnessed. 

But here's the thing:  IT DOESN'T MATTER. It doesn't matter what the giver's motivation or intention was. It doesn't matter what the receiver's situation or level of need was. A gift was handed from stranger to stranger - a gift that may or may not have even been needed - and neither race, nor income, nor station in life nor anything else mattered in the moment that that gift went from the one hand to the other.

What matters is that someone appeared, did something for someone else, and moved on.  Whether it was a token gesture, or a life-changing event, what matters is the fact that it was done.


Once again, I am here (rather belatedly) prompted by my friends at Studio 30 Plus, who this week gave us "reticent" or "shy." 

Hither, Dither, and Yawn

Can you see where the weekends are?

Hither I come, returning to my cyber home, undoubtedly looking as dusty and bedraggled as I feel.  Over 27 July days (nights, mostly), I churned out 50,980 words for National Novel Writing Month - Summer Camp Edition.  I hear you - and the answer is yes.  Something is very much wrong with me.  I enjoy the pressure that these novel writing months put on me.  I'm quite comfortable being wordy.  Obviously.  And wordy I was, including 12,000 words during the final weekend.

So.  Over the past eleven days, I haven't written a word, and I haven't looked at what I wrote in July.  "Undead Drunk" is like a strange dream I had - full of booze and sex and snark - and a few zombies.  I've rested.  I've relaxed.  I've watched a lot of baseball.  I'm watching baseball right now.

But here's the thing:  What I should be doing, as always, is something else.  I now have SEVEN first-draft novels, and a couple of them might actually have potential.  I should be doing rewrites and edits, and reading "Getting Published - For Dummies."  Failing that, I should be writing something else - something new, something that, if not marketable, is at least a worthwhile exercise.  Failing that, I should be reading any of the half-dozen books in my to-read pile.  I should be finding a Jayson Werth garden gnome on eBay for my brother, who got to the Nats game too not-early-enough, on Tuesday, and missed out.  I should be working on my legal defense strategy for any of the myriad of lawsuits pending against me over that TV pilot I supposedly stole from Patton Oswalt and George Barry.  I should be trying on shorts.  I should be having someone take a look at that bullet wound.  It only grazed me, but it's awfully angry-looking - I'm worried that it might be infected.  Of course, I should also be shopping for new carpeting.  It's been over two weeks since the neighbors' washing machine flooded *our* dining room, and we ripped out the carpet in a fit of pique (And because we knew it was the only way to get us to replace the stuff.  We've been talking about it for a couple of years, now.), and there it sits.  Stupid concrete slab ghetto townhouse.  I should be figuring out what I want to do with this blog.  The Hobo Posts probably deserve their own blog, but that just sounds like work.  I suppose I could also be reading all my wonderful bloggy friends' stuff, and leaving them warm, supportive, and constructive feedback.  I should be emailing my handful of wayward friends.  I should be sleeping, perhaps.  [Baseball is over.  Stuff happened - what can I say?]

But I'm not.  Instead, I am dithering.  I think about all of the above and so much more.  And I think and think and think, and I come up with all manner of brilliant solutions to it.  It's like My Lost Revelation - gone before I can act.  It's not simple procrastination, though.  You ditherers know what I mean.  It's all there, but for the actual action.  Thinking about stuff is SO much easier than doing stuff.

Summer will end, and I'll not have even reread last year's novel - the one with potential - let alone edited, punched up, rewritten, fixed, sold, or otherwise pushed it toward publication.

Summer will end, and this wound will still be oozing, the legal team will have fired ME, and the garden gnomes will be gone.

Summer will end, and the house will still be in dire need of paint, carpeting, and if I'm being honest, cleaning.

Summer will end, and I'll not have reestablished connection with my very few friends, nor will I have rejoined the blogosphere - or even my teensy corner thereof.

yawn.

Summer will end, and that thumping in the closet will persist.  The thing that's not a bunny living under the shed will have had babies, and because I work at HSUS, there'll be nothing I can do about them.  So much for cutting the grass, I guess.  The Nats will have found a way to lose the NL East, but the O's will have clinched the AL East, and that will just have to do.  The 'Skins will have won all four of their preseason games, setting us up for the disappointment of another 10+ loss regular season, full of hypocritical bitching about the team's stupid name.  Yes - it's the 1890s N-word for native Americans.  If every non-native person who claims to be offended by it gave a dollar to a native American Nation tomorrow, we'd have the wealthiest indigenous population on the planet - but hypocrisy, as we know, is the greatest luxury.  Just ask the Disposable Heroes of Hip-hoprisy.

((YAWN))

Anyway.  Summer will end, and that's a shame.  But that's the great thing about not doing what you should be doing.  Fall will come, and all those things will be there, patiently waiting for you.  Well, my gunshot wound might not be patient, exactly, but still.  It will be there.  And if we still don't have carpeting, yet, then we can store perishables on the cold concrete floor, and save all kinds of money by unplugging the fridge.

((YAWN))

And there it is.  The second ((YAWN)).  I think it's time to tell you about another outrageously weird hobo, before you become as bored with all of this as I am.  Next time, that is - assuming that I'm not busy pitching "Undead Drunk" or "Falling Off The Universe" or "Buck Mope Catches The Westbound" to a big-time agent, somewhere...

Thanks for bearing with me, whilst I work this out...

Naturally, this post was prompted by my friends at Studio 30 Plus.  This week, our writing prompt, "Summer will end" came from a haiku by Laura at Bird Of The Forest. 

Four Words Of Hope And Renewal

Punxsutawney Phil has spoken, and this year, he declareth unto us that spring will arrive early.  YAY!!

Whatever, Phil.  Look - you're fuzzy and cute, and I'm sure your hometown is adorable.  I also have no doubt that February 2nd is blast for those who come to eat, drink, dance and freeze in the predawn Pennsylvania frost, awaiting your man-made "prognostication."  

We all know you're a fraud.  I've watched on TV as you allegedly saw your shadow in the pouring rain - twice.  Come to think of it, shouldn't you see your shadow every single year, what with all those bright lights on you?  Still, you're cute and the whole thing is fun and harmless.  Plus, most of us will take whatever hope we can from your prediction of a quick end to winter.

I have to admit, I have my own traditional harbinger of spring.  I share it with millions.  It's coming next week, starting on February 12th, and while it doesn't have anything to say about when or how spring will arrive (early vs. late, wild vs. mild etc.), it does declare that the wheels are in motion and the change of seasons will happen.  It comes in the form of four simple, magical words.

PITCHERS  AND  CATCHERS  REPORT

As in, pitchers and catchers report for spring training.  One does not have to give a tenth of a hoot about baseball in order to appreciate this late-winter milestone for its implications beyond "dur, sports."  Having lived my whole four (ahem - and a half) decades in the DC suburbs, with three years in Baltimore thrown in for good measure, I have LOTS of practice in appreciating these words for their non-baseball message.  For much of my life the baseball implication was simply, "Here comes another miserable season for the Orioles [and more recently, the Nationals]."  So it was natural for me to focus on the underlying "Here comes SPRING!" message and nothing more.

Until now.

This year, for the first time in many, many years, I can look forward not just to spring and its blessed warmth - and energy and salt-free roads and flowers and green stuff and the shortening of the skirts and sleeves and the lengthening of the days and the outdoor cooking etc. - but also to the baseball season.  

My Nationals are considered a top contender for the first time in franchise history, and my over-performing secondary team, the O's, should at least be competitive again, this season.  I'm not accustomed to this feeling.  I don't dread an interminable season of losing.  I'm excited for these guys, and looking forward to getting to the ballpark. 

So this year, I can add "Pitchers and catchers report" to what that furry little rodent said, and it's like the perfect storm of HOPE.

        

Dear Prednisone - Don't Let's Start. Again.

Dear Prednisone,

Well, here we are again.  I was doing fine without you.  I had heard you were over me and moving on in a healthy way.  Things were good.  Or so I thought.  I don't know how it happened, but I'm not blaming you.  Let's not do that again.   

It is what it is.  Granulomas showed up, I returned to my previous state of medical interestingness and the good doctor, fully-aware of our history, hooked us up again.  

That was six months ago.  I knew - I KNEW - that you would not uphold your end of our agreement.  I told you this was going to be a short-term deal.  You were all, "Oh, of course. Absolutely.  I understand.  I'll just help you for a little while and be on my way."  Blah-blah-blah.

I am not going through another ridiculous breakup with you.  I am not going to play along with your desperate games.  It's obvious that this time around, your strategy is to simply take everything I value away from me.  How is that supposed to make me want to keep you in my life, anyway?

My "Ross Perot '92" yard sign is a collector's item, and I was displaying it ironically.  Please return it.  Don't deny it was you, either.  Replacing it with a "Cadista Pharmaceuticals - Makers of Prednisone" sign was a dead giveaway.

My foo dog has sentimental value, and his absence renders his partner powerless to protect my home.  You probably know that.  Just give him back, please.

The lint that collects on the azalea beneath my dryer vent - well, feel free to keep that.  Freak.

The Redskins flag from the front of my house, I suppose I can live without. But I want the Nationals car flag back before spring training.

Speaking of cars - I need my car to get to work.  Seriously, where is it?

Now, while I have to admit that stealing my patio without getting caught is rather an impressive feat, I paid good money for that thing, and can't afford to just replace it.  So bring it back.  Same goes for the duck pond.  Those aren't even my ducks.  They're wild animals.  Not cool.

The worst of your thefts, however, is disturbing not for what you took, but rather for how you took it.  My collection of S.J. Perelman books and essays is obviously one of my most prized possessions, and you knew that taking it would hurt me.  You were right, of course, but what's worse is the fact that you got it out of my house, past an armed infrared alarm system and a padlocked aquarium full of (illegal) deadly and ill-tempered Gabon vipers, in a safe locked within a larger safe, locked in our panic room which was guarded by ill-tempered Rottweilers - and without any sign of forced entry or so much as a fiber or a skin cell left behind.  So, 10-out-of-10 for meanness and execution, but now I have to move.

And move, I will.  Away from you, and on.  I will remove you from my life and live happily ever after.  It might take a while longer, but happen it will.  I will see to it.  Just watch.

You think I'm fooling around with you, dear Prednisone?  Try me.

Sincerely,
Joe  

PS - Our New Song.