Greenback wave

It's not about the odds; it doesn't matter if it's a billion to one. It's not really about the money, either; What do I do with two billion, five-hundred million pennies? It's about the dream. Being a winner. Telling the boss to shove it. I'm finally the chosen one, annointed by the random gods of chance, surfing the greenback wave. Taxes are paid, money banked, Now it's time to feed the wheel of Karma; I'd like two Powerballs, please, same numbers as last time.

I caught a teeny snippet of NPR this morning when my radio did its level best to wake me up. Some guy (in his very Ivy League voice) was saying, "I asked them if they knew the odds. They said it didn't matter, that it was only a couple dollars a week, and that they liked to play. 'But,' I said, 'Do you know the odds?'" I don't think most humans do odds very well. We know what we have to do in any given day, and we may have a general idea about where we're headed in life. But if we worried too much about the odds, we'd be walking or flying, but would never get in a car. We'd never try anything spectacular and fail abjectly or succeed beyond our wildest dreams. I say to heck with the odds. If you want something, go for it. If you don't get it the first time, go for it again. And again, if necessary. It's only a couple dollars a week. And it's fun.

Snarkless

Tonight, I am anti-snark. Almost, though not quite, completely. I'm sick of snark. Snark's too easy. It takes guts to put your own stuff out there in the world, naked, for everyone to see. Even if you've thought ahead enough to buy nice Eddie Bauer cords for your ideas (and if you have, are they really *your* ideas anymore, or have they been subsumed by the man, the machine, or the man in the machine?), it's still tough to lie down, put your feet in the stirrups and give birth to an idea, feed it mashed gerunds and strained verbs so it grows big and strong, and wipe up it's dangling prepositions (and fend off propositions) until one day it strides off into the world. It doesn't make it any easy when some wingnut driving a blog while yapping on a cell phone comes careening arorund a corner and SPLAT there goes the idea. It's even worse when some intellectual cowboy-cum-sniper gets your poor idea in the sites of his or her keyboard. So what if my ideas suck, if my thoughts aren't fully formed? So what if you don't agree? That's what free and open society is based on. That's what could (if practiced more) could save the nation from John Kerry and George so-help-us-dog W. Bush. That's not what makes the Yankees a winning team. No, to win like that, you have to spend like that. Or be really, really, really good. And that lucky times two. But I digress. For the rest of the night, I'm declaring The Digital Beest an anti-snark zone. All snarkers will be blindfolded and shoved against the wall at dawn. I didn't say anything about being against firing squads.

Old angsty poetry

While cleaning my office, I came across this old poem. Seeing as how I owe B two poems in exchange for her letter, I figure I oughtta get going. So, without further ado, here ya go, B:

Like Peanut Butter and Jelly

Love, jazz, and other dangerous adventures

My momma always said, "Boy, follow your bliss." Well, maybe not always. I played with the frat boys on the corner of Wisconsin and Lake, but all they wanted to do was drink until they puked their eyeballs into their penny loafers. I may wish I was a fish, but they acted it out. I tried to convince the learned ones, the lords of academia, that my best course was chosen from the whole universe. I became as the wind, a seeker, a wanderer, going everywhere, staying nowhere. "Different people's abilities," he said, "come into the spotlight at different times." Is this my time on stage, or am I still in the wings? I could hitch-hike across America, across the ocean. I could eat meat. I could challenge and be challenged. I could, my momma always said.

There you have it; a little trip down memory lane, circa 1994. Aloha.

Say no more! (wink, wink; nudge, nudge)

God, sometimes I just love the New York Times, and this is one of those times. What a great, completely flaming liberal story they have about voter registration. But alas, I'm already registered. At least I could miss a cover charge. I want to know exactly how much fun Joshua Kurlantzick had writing this story. I mean, check out this quote:

"I'd like to say 'We're getting naked because we hate the president,' " said Susan Wayward, an exotic dancer (also known as River City Kitty) who performed at Burlesque the Vote. "But we have to respect everyone."

I figure I'll do my part for regime change here at home by getting a copy of Porn for Kerry. Heck, maybe I'll feel extra generous and get some copies for my friends, too. And then, since I have to do 38 things, according to Mom's e-mail about how to take back the nation, I'm gonna take the American Hero pledge at votergasm.org. As Vin Diesel once said, "Oh, the things I'm gonna do for my country." As Wistucky's most feared and least seen sawdust maker says: As you were.

Googlicious

There are 145 results from a Google search for "A.J. Van Beest". There are 1,640 results for "Willy Wanker" (for that one, the button on the right of Google's home page ought to say "I'm Feeling Afraid"). There's only one result, though, for "portugeese xylophone". Now only a truly talented word butcher could find that.

Rumble in the parking lot

I was in the parking lot of a local park this evening, minding my own business, when some jerk dressed in black walked up and popped my in the nose. So I drilled him a couple times in the ribs. ...or... I was in the parking lot of a local park this evening, not paying close enough attention to my budo taijutsu training partner as we moved through the light and shadows cast by the streetlights, and I neglected to move my nose from the space his fist was about to occupy. Thud! Pete (my friend) grabbed my arm and held me up, though I don't think I was in iminnent danger of collapsing. So then, after a few more rounds of Ka no Kata, we started practicing Fu no Kata, and I got some payback with a few well-placed thumb strikes. But then I was a good uke and let Pete really work over both of my arms to practice his strikes from ichimonji. We actually had a pretty good session tonight, nose bop included. We played in the parking lot because the grass was too wet for a couple of warrior-wannabe's feet. I did one roll on the asphalt, and though I wasn't thrown into it, it felt good. I need to practice a little more, then have Pete throw me on the tarmac a few times. Then maybe we'll move to concrete. I suppose at some point, we oughtta get rolling on some uneven surfaces, too. And in snow, this winter. That ought to be pretty interesting. I'm sure for outsiders (that'd be dang near everyone reading this, unless your name is Pete, I imagine), it must sound really wierd to hear me wanting to be smacked around and tossed on my can on progressively harder surfaces, but I just love it. I love coming home sore and bruised, feeling like I've really been using my body for something more than holding down an office chair. I love the idea of continuing a 900 year-old warrior tradition from Japan and putting my own mark on it in little ways. I can't wait until Pete and I get some pads (helmets, gloves, shoes, cup) and can spar at maybe 75 percent speed (I still really don't want my knee crushed or my elbow snapped, thank you very much!). And before you go hunting this Pete fellow to give him a little what-for to remind him not to break your favorite northern Wisconsin blogger, remember, not only did I ask him to beat on me, and not only is he becoming a better warrior for it, but he's my friend, so I'll have his back. And I'm bigger than you.

Money talks

George Soros comes out firmly against Bush with his blog. Wow. Good stuff, both in terms of what he's writing, and in terms of someone with enough money to be taken seriously at the higher levels of government saying what needs to be said.

Not dead yet

Yeah, I survived Friday. Even felt good about a couple of the conversations I had with people. This weekend, I focused on flying kites at the farm with friends and their adult kids, who are also friends, and their not-adult kid, who is becoming a friend. Oh yeah, and the original friends' mom, who is also a friend. Man, four generations of friends just down the road. That's cool. Anyway, then I spent hours — lots of them &mdash cleaning my office so it can turn into a part-time guest room. KB came over and helped a bunch, then left after my blood sugar crashed (no lunch) and I pitched a fit about my desk. Thanks for the help, KB, and sorry for the drama. But after my wife talked me off the ledge, we figured out how to make the room defintely work for guests, and mostly work for me. The biggest bonus I get from this shift in my personal universe is a golden opportunity to weed out all the crap I've been holding on to "just in case" for the last ten years or so. I've got four garbage bags ready to go already, and I'm less than half-way done. Goodbye crap. I can just hear my Dad cheering... I also have before-and-after pictures to post (in a couple days, after I finish) so ya'll can marvel at the photographic evidence of occasional cleaning happening even in the furtherst reaches of the Van Beest Kingdom.