Category Archives: falling down

On supermarket peaches

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I don’t mean to be snarky about this, but supermarkets are experts at presenting perfect fruit for sale that has neither flavor nor juice, which is essentially inedible. So they have perfected the sale of the perfect peach or pear, but since it was picked green, it has no discernable flavor or character. In other words, the pear, peach, or tomato looks perfectly ripe, has no real flaws or damage, but it also has no flavor, other than a sort of woody fibery sensation you get from chewing this fruit. You should spit it out, but you are torn because you did waste your hard-earned money buying it. I mean, who wouldn’t buy a perfect peach? Thing is, however, that because the modern road from orchard to market is so hazardous, the producers pick the fruit green, let it mature in route, and then sell their perfect creations at a nice high price. The consumer gets the short end of the stick because they don’t sample the pretty fruit before they buy it–I mean, who cuts into a peach in the middle of the produce section? I have bought an entire box of strawberries that not only don’t taste like strawberries, they have no discernable taste at all. The peaches are the worst because they look awesome, but they taste like oak. I just ate a pear that was really only the ghost of a pear. I know as a kid we used to buy entire crates of peaches and pears in the summer, and they were juicy and wonderful. You would think that with modern technology, great refrigeration, and fast trucks that this would be possible. At least, you might think that. Nostalgia is a terrible thing. And so is bad fruit.

On supermarket peaches

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I don’t mean to be snarky about this, but supermarkets are experts at presenting perfect fruit for sale that has neither flavor nor juice, which is essentially inedible. So they have perfected the sale of the perfect peach or pear, but since it was picked green, it has no discernable flavor or character. In other words, the pear, peach, or tomato looks perfectly ripe, has no real flaws or damage, but it also has no flavor, other than a sort of woody fibery sensation you get from chewing this fruit. You should spit it out, but you are torn because you did waste your hard-earned money buying it. I mean, who wouldn’t buy a perfect peach? Thing is, however, that because the modern road from orchard to market is so hazardous, the producers pick the fruit green, let it mature in route, and then sell their perfect creations at a nice high price. The consumer gets the short end of the stick because they don’t sample the pretty fruit before they buy it–I mean, who cuts into a peach in the middle of the produce section? I have bought an entire box of strawberries that not only don’t taste like strawberries, they have no discernable taste at all. The peaches are the worst because they look awesome, but they taste like oak. I just ate a pear that was really only the ghost of a pear. I know as a kid we used to buy entire crates of peaches and pears in the summer, and they were juicy and wonderful. You would think that with modern technology, great refrigeration, and fast trucks that this would be possible. At least, you might think that. Nostalgia is a terrible thing. And so is bad fruit.

On a hot summer night

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Last night I couldn’t get to sleep at all, to coin a phrase. It is summer, course, and this is what summer is about: not sleeping because it’s just too hot–the bed is hot, the room is stifling, and no matter what posture you adopt, it is uncomfortable. Your neck is sweaty and sticky. Your head pounds just enough to keep you awake. You roll onto your side, trying to find that perfect posture that will bring sleep. Nothing. The minutes tick by. Maybe you should get up and read for a bit? Maybe a cold shower? Maybe you should eat something? You ponder all of this and all of a sudden you realize you have been in bed for an hour and you are still awake. The summer insomnia of a hot July night has you in its grasp, and you are helpless to escape. Once you realize what is going on, you not only can’t get to sleep, you now know that you can’t get to sleep. You have become self-aware of the problem, and sleep has sailed away into the night, leaving you on the shore of consciousness with no hope of getting off of that beach anytime soon. You obsess with being awake, which, of course, just aggravates the situation. In the meantime, morning is getting closer and closer, the night is still hot and humid, and now you are the only one still awake except for a few night creatures who wake up after dark. The garbage truck comes by. A few partiers are finally returning home after a long night debauchery and dissidence. You should be asleep. You should be doing your best simulacra of death, but you can’t, and you catch of glimpse of Phoebus nudging up to the horizon.

On a hot summer night

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Last night I couldn’t get to sleep at all, to coin a phrase. It is summer, course, and this is what summer is about: not sleeping because it’s just too hot–the bed is hot, the room is stifling, and no matter what posture you adopt, it is uncomfortable. Your neck is sweaty and sticky. Your head pounds just enough to keep you awake. You roll onto your side, trying to find that perfect posture that will bring sleep. Nothing. The minutes tick by. Maybe you should get up and read for a bit? Maybe a cold shower? Maybe you should eat something? You ponder all of this and all of a sudden you realize you have been in bed for an hour and you are still awake. The summer insomnia of a hot July night has you in its grasp, and you are helpless to escape. Once you realize what is going on, you not only can’t get to sleep, you now know that you can’t get to sleep. You have become self-aware of the problem, and sleep has sailed away into the night, leaving you on the shore of consciousness with no hope of getting off of that beach anytime soon. You obsess with being awake, which, of course, just aggravates the situation. In the meantime, morning is getting closer and closer, the night is still hot and humid, and now you are the only one still awake except for a few night creatures who wake up after dark. The garbage truck comes by. A few partiers are finally returning home after a long night debauchery and dissidence. You should be asleep. You should be doing your best simulacra of death, but you can’t, and you catch of glimpse of Phoebus nudging up to the horizon.

On stroller blocking as an Olympic sport

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Call them whatever you want–useful, weird, bulky, broken–but baby strollers are going to be a new Olympic sport at the next games in Brazil in 2016. Just like bobsledding, there are different modalities, but all have to do with how well the driver of the stroller can block a sidewalk, a supermarket aisle, a street, an escalator, there will be different landscapes in which the stroller athlete will have to successfully block anyone from getting past them. The Olympic committee hasn’t finalized the rules yet, but some of the different modalities will be mother, baby, and dog, or mother, baby, and grandmother. They are also planning modalities which include other siblings, multiple family members, and fallen toys. Strollers will be categorized by cost, construction, width, and size of tires. All team members will have to be from the same country. There will be a special modality for colapsable strollers, people who eat ice cream, and mothers who cannot stop talking on their cell phones. Crying babies in the rain will occur on the final day of competition, featuring cross mother-in-laws, lost fathers, a dog pooping, the police, and multiple neighbors of varying sizes. There will be a special modality in which the parents carry the child and push an empty stroller while they both talk on their cell phones, the dog pees on grandma, and the older sibling skins her/his knee while rollerskating. Stroller blocking is not for the weak of heart, and all participants must where helmets (and men must wear hard cups). The sport has been criticized in the past for its overt violence.

On stroller blocking as an Olympic sport

Posted on by

Call them whatever you want–useful, weird, bulky, broken–but baby strollers are going to be a new Olympic sport at the next games in Brazil in 2016. Just like bobsledding, there are different modalities, but all have to do with how well the driver of the stroller can block a sidewalk, a supermarket aisle, a street, an escalator, there will be different landscapes in which the stroller athlete will have to successfully block anyone from getting past them. The Olympic committee hasn’t finalized the rules yet, but some of the different modalities will be mother, baby, and dog, or mother, baby, and grandmother. They are also planning modalities which include other siblings, multiple family members, and fallen toys. Strollers will be categorized by cost, construction, width, and size of tires. All team members will have to be from the same country. There will be a special modality for colapsable strollers, people who eat ice cream, and mothers who cannot stop talking on their cell phones. Crying babies in the rain will occur on the final day of competition, featuring cross mother-in-laws, lost fathers, a dog pooping, the police, and multiple neighbors of varying sizes. There will be a special modality in which the parents carry the child and push an empty stroller while they both talk on their cell phones, the dog pees on grandma, and the older sibling skins her/his knee while rollerskating. Stroller blocking is not for the weak of heart, and all participants must where helmets (and men must wear hard cups). The sport has been criticized in the past for its overt violence.

On endings

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Unlike beginnings, which are plenty scary by themselves, endings are often poignant and solitary. You drive off, you walk away from an airport, you get on a train or bus, you stroll down a street never to come back. A car door slams, you lock the door and turn away. It’s over. We have all been through our share of endings–a job, a school, a friendship, a life–so we all have our anecdotes about moving on, saying goodbye, and picking up the broken pieces so that we can start again. Endings make us wistful and nostalgic because we are not always sure that the new thing ahead of us is better than what is being left behind. We are plagued by our memories which torture us into remembering all of those great moments in the past when we were, at least for a moment, happy. The constant truth is that all things end, no matter how we feel about them. Change is, perhaps, the only constant in most of our lives. As a teacher, students come and students go, and that’s the way it’s always been. As an ex-pat in another country, my friends have come and gone many times, and now are scattered to the four corners of the world. It is hard to stay in touch, and even with different digital media sites, it is still difficult to maintain a real friendship from seven thousand miles away. And when old friends finally make their last trip, it is equally difficult to say goodbye, especially when you have known them for more than fifty years. Yet those fifty years are also a monument to that friendship which has had to endure a lot of stuff, not all good, much of it very good. Mortality is, in the end, about endings, and that is the way it must be–one of those rules nobody breaks.

On endings

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Unlike beginnings, which are plenty scary by themselves, endings are often poignant and solitary. You drive off, you walk away from an airport, you get on a train or bus, you stroll down a street never to come back. A car door slams, you lock the door and turn away. It’s over. We have all been through our share of endings–a job, a school, a friendship, a life–so we all have our anecdotes about moving on, saying goodbye, and picking up the broken pieces so that we can start again. Endings make us wistful and nostalgic because we are not always sure that the new thing ahead of us is better than what is being left behind. We are plagued by our memories which torture us into remembering all of those great moments in the past when we were, at least for a moment, happy. The constant truth is that all things end, no matter how we feel about them. Change is, perhaps, the only constant in most of our lives. As a teacher, students come and students go, and that’s the way it’s always been. As an ex-pat in another country, my friends have come and gone many times, and now are scattered to the four corners of the world. It is hard to stay in touch, and even with different digital media sites, it is still difficult to maintain a real friendship from seven thousand miles away. And when old friends finally make their last trip, it is equally difficult to say goodbye, especially when you have known them for more than fifty years. Yet those fifty years are also a monument to that friendship which has had to endure a lot of stuff, not all good, much of it very good. Mortality is, in the end, about endings, and that is the way it must be–one of those rules nobody breaks.

On getting another cup of coffee

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I sure wish I had another cup of coffee this morning. My head hurts, I’m sleepy, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my stomach is making noises. I’d like to be drinking another cup of coffee, but I don’t have one, so I can only imagine drinking that other cup of coffee. I’m in the middle of a conference session with thirty other people, and if I get up and walk out, everyone will notice. Sometimes you just get into a situation where you can’t change the parameters, so you just suck it up and wait. The difference between what you have and what you want is often huge, but unless you set the world on its head, you can’t really change anything. The balance between happiness and having that other cup of coffee and making people happy by not doing anything, is too often an imbalance that you cannot rectify without upsetting the apple cart and upsetting others. So you don’t to anything, let you stomach rumble a bit, and you get along without that other coffee. You see, that other cup of coffee is not necessary at all. It is pure caprice. Another cup of coffee would be a huge solace, especially either very early in the morning or very late at night, but life goes on just the same, with or without the coffee. You have to balance your desires against the realities of the possible. Sometimes getting up and walking out of the room for another cup of coffee is just rude, and people might not understand the thirst driving your desire. You can tolerate thirst. It need not be slaked always or immediately.

On getting another cup of coffee

Posted on by

I sure wish I had another cup of coffee this morning. My head hurts, I’m sleepy, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my stomach is making noises. I’d like to be drinking another cup of coffee, but I don’t have one, so I can only imagine drinking that other cup of coffee. I’m in the middle of a conference session with thirty other people, and if I get up and walk out, everyone will notice. Sometimes you just get into a situation where you can’t change the parameters, so you just suck it up and wait. The difference between what you have and what you want is often huge, but unless you set the world on its head, you can’t really change anything. The balance between happiness and having that other cup of coffee and making people happy by not doing anything, is too often an imbalance that you cannot rectify without upsetting the apple cart and upsetting others. So you don’t to anything, let you stomach rumble a bit, and you get along without that other coffee. You see, that other cup of coffee is not necessary at all. It is pure caprice. Another cup of coffee would be a huge solace, especially either very early in the morning or very late at night, but life goes on just the same, with or without the coffee. You have to balance your desires against the realities of the possible. Sometimes getting up and walking out of the room for another cup of coffee is just rude, and people might not understand the thirst driving your desire. You can tolerate thirst. It need not be slaked always or immediately.