I’m listening to Saint Low right now. Johnson City. Somehow in that narrative there is something important, something more complicated than love, and it will be lost. They are going to Johnson City, but it feels like the last time. Something’s changed; it’s heavier now. The trip is destroyed by its own significance.
The singer would probably laugh at my interpretation.
I watched hockey tonight, the electric hypnosis coming at times from different hemispheres. During the first intermission of the Sparta/Slavia (rhymes with Yankees/Mets) game, the owner of the Budvar Bar Near Home switched to Rugby. Amazingly (at least to me), one of the teams playing was one that I had seen during the calm part of new year’s eve in Ireland. The game was in its final moments, but is was close and hard-fought. I’m not sure how the players differentiated each other — they were all the color of mud.
Sport, mate. Sport.
There were times when the team with the ball was stalled, and there was a pile. Who gets the ball in such a pile is carefully regulated, but when you can’t move the ball from under the pile, you have to move the pile off the ball. It has been argued that the pads in the NFL actually increase the injury rate, and watching these guys, that’s easy to believe. When the progress of the ball is stalled and the pile is forming people will fly in, head first, smashing into the pile without regard for personal safety. We’re talking about big people, and big hits.
As far as I can tell, there are three reasons a man might fling himself at a pile like that. First, he could hope to move the pile. Second, he might take one of the other team off the pile, someone who had good leverage. Third, he might just like to crash into people, without regard for personal safety. I think to play that game there must always be a bit of reason three.
The whistle blew, the game was over, and they unpiled themselves and began shaking each other’s hands. It was an easygoing, natural sportsmanship that limits the cheap shot because you’re going to be looking those guys in the eye when the game is done, and ideally you’ll be buying each other beers down the street. That is sport.
Saint Low is now telling me that I can just walk on by, like she’s no one. I just wish I could tell her how wrong she is.
Soup Boy sent me an invitation tonight, chocolate night at some club or another. I do like chocolate, but the launch time for the festivities is about now, and I am well and truly done for the day. In fact, today is about done for the day.
Hockey. I was pulling for Slavia, the other Prague team, mainly because they weren’t Sparta, easily the Yankees (ca-ching!) of Czech hockey. It was a good game, back and forth, with both sides pulling off some of those passes that have you saying “Wha — wow!” The game went to a shootout. While I will always rail against the shootout in any team sport (reducing a contest that is supposed to be about how a group of people work together to a series of one-on-one events is a disservice to the entire sport, whether hockey, soccer, or whatever), this was an interesting one to watch. It went long, and I noticed a pattern that held. If the shooter glanced down, even for the tiniest of moments, at the puck, he missed. The shooters who never, ever took their eyes off the goalie scored and made it look easy. Nothing fancy, just smack it by the guy.
I’m pretty sure there’s not a useful life lesson there.
After that game we switched to NHL. They play on a smaller surface and at first the skaters seemed unnaturally large. In the past I’ve preferred the North American version of Hockey, but with the recent rules changes they’re caught in middle ground, no longer the hard-nosed pounding game I like, but without the room to be a game of finesse.
Johnny Cash is telling me that it’s the time of the preacher, in the year of ’01; when you think it’s all over, it’s only begun. I’m pretty sure he’s right about that.
My team, the Flames, they still play old-school hockey. (Incidentally, this means they’re doomed.) That is only secondary to why I am a Flames fan; it would be more accurate to say that I am a Flames-fan fan. I’ve already documented it in these pages, no sense in digging up old laundry and all that, but never before and never since have I seen a row of pretty girls neglecting their jobs because they simply could not tear their eyes away from the hockey game.
I wonder what apartments go for in Canmore.
I only had the one Johnny Cash song handy, now Nick Cave is singing about a woman with a dead man in her bed. I’m pretty sure she’s not referring to me. She’s never met me.
There are times, looking out at the city at night, at all the lights, the sound and the motion; it seems busy but for all that there are no people. My window is just another sparkle.
This blog community is a good one for sports and writing and reading. I kept hearing about what a great movie Friday Night Lights was. Since I’m not a huge sports fan I normally would’ve passed it by. But I went to school in West Texas, and there is simply no way to live in WT for awhile and not hear about the book. (it must be talked about in hushed tones, because to west Texans, it is the lousiest, most back-stabbin, most unfair, rotten excuse for varminty book writin thar evar wuzz.)
Somehow I never got around to readin the book while there, and then recently they came out with the movie.
I rented it, it was excellent. So then I had to go to the library and get the book. It was even better. And despite being about sports, and written by a sports nut, it is nearly literature it is so well written. So there’s another one to stack on the nightstand for ya Keith.
I would be delighted to read that you are moving to western Canada. Not only would it be much easier to buy a beer for you, but the odds of my seeing a Pirates DVD would go way up.
MOH 61K1 is from San Diego. Is Keith posing as a Health Care Company?
Nope. Despite the target number being right there in the side bar, I was aiming for 61,005. And I hit it, too. I wonder what prime numbers end in 5?
My nightstand is on another Los Alamos kick. I just finished Los Alamos, a so-so historical fiction. (I haven’t decided yet if my objects to the book are based on the narrative or the nature of historical fiction.) I’m currently reading The Brother, the biography of David Greenglass, Ethel Rosenberg’s brother and a second Soviet spy (along with Klaus Fuchs) at WWII Los Alamos. If I can stand a third in the same vein, I’ve got two copies of 109 East Palace. (Interestingly enough, when I visited the Palace of the Governors last summer, the historical marker was on 107 East Palace.)
Go Colts.
Brief thought experiment here in the secret labs comes up with exactly one prime that ends in 5.
Jerry is kind.
Carol Anne’s been cheering for da Bears.
There’s a Pirates DVD out?
There is a Pirates DVD with much-improved sound, but right now you can only hear it on the 5.1 dolby surround track. I’m not sure what the delay is getting that mixed down to the stereo track, but when that happens I’ll be saying “ship it!” (I have not heard the 5.1 surround version, but word on the street is that it’s a real improvement.)
Meanwhile, pL is considering recutting the whole damn thing to make it a more appropriate length for short film festivals, and to minimize a couple of weak performances. More power to him; I think the film could end up being better for it (and certainly better for promoting a feature), but I’ll do my best to pry a version out of his fingers before he tears it apart again. His first step is to pry a version out of his editor’s fingers. At this point, I think the editor has probably sunk several times more effort into the film than I ever did. I want the film to go somewhere to reward his efforts if for no other reason.
However, there’s a saying in software: “At some point you have to shoot the engineer and ship the product.” I think the same saying might apply in the movie biz, but replacing engineer with editor.
[A brief Web search did not yield an attribution for the above saying, although it seems to predate the software industry.]