The Aerie
As of this writing, I still have no idea who won the Superbowl.
Yes, I know, that's both sad and annoying. Not the fact that I don't
know this information alone, but the fact that I'd bring it up like
that. It's like pointing out that you have a disease and being
strangely proud of it. "Look! I have a cyst!"
Actually, part of it is surprise. I haven't made any deliberate
attempt to avoid the Superbowl. Since it was aired I have watched a
portion of the news, and even listened to a portion of the radio
sports -- but they were talking about Venus and Serena Williams. And
I'd think that some component of the Superbowl would by now have
simply shoved itself in my face, like some person with a disease
saying "Look! I have a cyst!"
Instead, nothing. No idea. I'm sure that in a little while when my eye
chances across a web page or some radio commentator brings it up I'll
learn the Great News about the Superbowl. Either that or Fan of
Victorious A on a mailing list will taunt Fan of Loser B.
I spent the Superbowl finishing the boxing of my father's effects on
the one- month-anniversary of his death (that should actually be some
Latinized "monthliversary", except I don't know what Latin for "month"
is...). (Okay I looked it up, and I should have guessed: "mensis" is
"month," and "monthly" is of course "menstruus." Duh.) That would be
the menstruversary of his death then.
Okay, maybe we'll stick to monthly anniversary.
Anyway, got a lot of stuff boxed up, and his former office mostly
cleaned up. Categories of boxes included Stamps, Coins, Collectors
Guides, Brass, Spoons, Silver, China, Franklin Mint (a mercifully tiny
box), Computers, Office Supply, Books, Magazines, Magazine Flats,
Toys, and Garage Sale. All of this was packed into the 12X12 office
where he also worked as a medical transcriptionist, and used the
Internet for online sales and games.
No one can accuse the man of having been a profligate waster of space.
My wife and kids kept my mother company, and I could tell she
appreciated the chance to talk. My brother has been a real brick about
this whole thing, he's been with her during a very difficult pair of
months, but he's only one person and his topic range is limited. So my
mother talked my wife's ear off. Then we had lasagna and salad and
some of the really bad non-carbonated wine cooler that my mother
likes.
Now I've got Yet Another Box of my dad's computer stuff to deal with
at home here. The last one took me a month to process and I'm not even
done yet.
Other than that, I stayed up too late on Saturday night reading
"Cryptonomicon." Actually I stayed up too late on both Saturday and
Sunday. As a result of staying up way too late reading into the small
hours of the morning, I've just about almost managed to reach the
halfway point in this book. Say what you want about the man's quality,
he certainly provides QUANTITY. And by God, ain't that the American
Way?
Saturday night we went to the U of M Rarig Theater to see a very, very
nice performance of "Much Ado About Nothing." It was quasi-modernized
(contemporary if somewhat antiquated modern dress, some odd emphasis
on fashion and fashion magazines). The makeup needed a lot of work,
but the actors were fine and exhibited a lot of energy.
Of course, in one of those "this freakin' town is too small"
incidents, I ended up sitting in front of an annoying local author and
some immense friend of his. Only the immense friend was there when we
took our seats, guarding some coats tossed over chairs. Later the
author arrived with two of his daughters, and he and the friend began
talking guns in loud voices. While I realize that this author is
physically unable to go more than ten minutes without talking about
guns, nonetheless I found myself feeling less than understanding about
this disability.
The author of course has no idea who I am. He and I had our little
spat over the Internet -- correction, on the BBSes -- about fifteen
years ago. And no, it's not like I walk around gnawing over ancient
tiffs and injuries suffered years ago. Still, everytime I see him I
want to say "You talk big about guns and weapons and preparedness.
Then you insult anonymous persons on the Internet and make them mad at
you. Then you go about your life apparently not understanding that
they know who you are, but you don't know who they are!"
Does this mean I'll ever do the fellow any harm? No. But does this
mean that if I passed him on a dark frigid evening trying to flag down
my car because his was stalled on the roadside that I would continue
without stopping? Yes.
Well, okay, I talk big: I'd probably stop, give him a lift, be
perfectly sociable, and drop him off, thinking the entire time "You
were so rude to my wife online that you made her weep, you bastard,
and you don't even know it!" That's me, Mr. Minnesota Nice. Good thing
for him and his hypothetical car that I didn't spend more time growing
up in New York City than I did.
Anyway, that was the weekend. This week, in an ongoing effort to
achieve more balance in my life, I'm going to try to be much more
deliberate about each day and its activities. Hopefully that will put
the brakes on this rocket-car- into-the-future phenomenon. So, Day
One, Monday, I've made my journal entry, and now I'll head off to the
gym...
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Posted by Albatross at January 27, 2003 12:00 AM