A few weeks ago I wrote about getting Tasered. Here's a photo, courtesy of the Farmington Police Department.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
A shocking photo
A few weeks ago I wrote about getting Tasered. Here's a photo, courtesy of the Farmington Police Department.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Men in tights, men in caves
I can’t think of any good reason I would ever need a hastily researched, 12-year-old essay on the origins of the Robin Hood legend. And yet, as I discovered over the weekend, I have one.
I found the essay, which I wrote for an English 101 class my freshman year of college, in a box tucked away in one of my closets as I made a half-hearted attempt to get ready for a move next weekend. As a result, I find myself suddenly a little better informed on, among other things, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, gender roles in Alice Munro’s “Boys and Girls,” and the role alcohol played in three novels I have no clear recollection of ever reading. It’s a little bit like I imagine Milli Vanilli or Ashley Simpson must feel every time they hear a song they supposedly recorded.
The essays themselves aren’t particularly informative. Plato might be a little disappointed to learn the best an 18-year-old me could come up with to discuss his allegory about enlightenment is, essentially, “learning is hard,” but I try not to get too worked up about bad reviews from anybody wearing a toga. And it was still at least mildly interesting to see what my writing was like back then. Honestly, it’s not as bad as I might have guessed.
I certainly had a predilection for using song quotes in my younger days. Nearly every essay I found is either titled with a quote from a song I happened to like at the time or uses one between the title and the opening lines. Some of them had both. My essay on “The Legend and History of Robin Hood” begins with a quote from the REM song “Superman.” The essay about the Allegory of the Cave, which is, at least on the surface, about dragging people out of a cave and into the sunlight, is titled with a quote from the Matthew Sweet song “Looking at the Sun.” Although now that I think about it, given the message of the essay, maybe the Pink Floyd line “We don’t need no education” would have been more appropriate.
As you can see, I was really clever back then.
I was also big on superheroes. In one essay I compared Robin Hood to modern comic book heroes like Spider-Man and Batman. And while writing about Bede’s “A History of the English Church and People” made an argument by creating the character of “Super Bishop.” So, clearly I had a pretty broad view of literature.
The writing itself is, aside from a few awkwardly worded passages and some evidence of really halfhearted proofreading, surprisingly not horrible. I’m not sure why I thought it would be — I got good grades on all of the essays — but when I look back at some of the earliest stories I wrote for this paper it’s painful. I just assumed this would be the same.
Take this passage from the Robin Hood essay: In this difficult time, when peasants lack even the most basic of fights, they need a hero to rally behind.” If you can ignore the similarity to a Tina Turner song, that’s not entirely bad.
On the other hand, there’s this description of the Sheriff of Nottingham: “He is the evil man, enemy of all that is good. He is a bad man who must be struck down by the goodness of Robin Hood.” Even the writing in Keanu Reeves movies isn’t that overdone.
The feedback isn’t all positive. On an essay that starts “Isn’t there some old saying, something along the lines of ‘Hell hath no fury like a Greek guy scorned?’” the professor accused me of being too flippant.
It’s good to see I’ve grown out of that.
I found the essay, which I wrote for an English 101 class my freshman year of college, in a box tucked away in one of my closets as I made a half-hearted attempt to get ready for a move next weekend. As a result, I find myself suddenly a little better informed on, among other things, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, gender roles in Alice Munro’s “Boys and Girls,” and the role alcohol played in three novels I have no clear recollection of ever reading. It’s a little bit like I imagine Milli Vanilli or Ashley Simpson must feel every time they hear a song they supposedly recorded.
The essays themselves aren’t particularly informative. Plato might be a little disappointed to learn the best an 18-year-old me could come up with to discuss his allegory about enlightenment is, essentially, “learning is hard,” but I try not to get too worked up about bad reviews from anybody wearing a toga. And it was still at least mildly interesting to see what my writing was like back then. Honestly, it’s not as bad as I might have guessed.
I certainly had a predilection for using song quotes in my younger days. Nearly every essay I found is either titled with a quote from a song I happened to like at the time or uses one between the title and the opening lines. Some of them had both. My essay on “The Legend and History of Robin Hood” begins with a quote from the REM song “Superman.” The essay about the Allegory of the Cave, which is, at least on the surface, about dragging people out of a cave and into the sunlight, is titled with a quote from the Matthew Sweet song “Looking at the Sun.” Although now that I think about it, given the message of the essay, maybe the Pink Floyd line “We don’t need no education” would have been more appropriate.
As you can see, I was really clever back then.
I was also big on superheroes. In one essay I compared Robin Hood to modern comic book heroes like Spider-Man and Batman. And while writing about Bede’s “A History of the English Church and People” made an argument by creating the character of “Super Bishop.” So, clearly I had a pretty broad view of literature.
The writing itself is, aside from a few awkwardly worded passages and some evidence of really halfhearted proofreading, surprisingly not horrible. I’m not sure why I thought it would be — I got good grades on all of the essays — but when I look back at some of the earliest stories I wrote for this paper it’s painful. I just assumed this would be the same.
Take this passage from the Robin Hood essay: In this difficult time, when peasants lack even the most basic of fights, they need a hero to rally behind.” If you can ignore the similarity to a Tina Turner song, that’s not entirely bad.
On the other hand, there’s this description of the Sheriff of Nottingham: “He is the evil man, enemy of all that is good. He is a bad man who must be struck down by the goodness of Robin Hood.” Even the writing in Keanu Reeves movies isn’t that overdone.
The feedback isn’t all positive. On an essay that starts “Isn’t there some old saying, something along the lines of ‘Hell hath no fury like a Greek guy scorned?’” the professor accused me of being too flippant.
It’s good to see I’ve grown out of that.
Do you have the time?
Apparently, I'm behind the times when it comes to telling time.
I've been looking for a new watch lately. I like the one I have, but it's starting to look a little worse for wear. The crystal is cracked, and the gold plating on the case is starting to look a little rough after something like a decade of use. Like all of us, it's just plain getting older.
I don't need anything flashy. I'm a newspaper editor, not a rapper. I don't need the bling. Just something simple that looks good. I've found a few things that are close to what I want, but nothing that's exactly right. At least not for less than $1,000.
But now I lean the fact I'm looking at all means I'm about as with it as MC Hammer.
According to a Dec. 23 article in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, none of the cool kids wear watches anymore. They all keep time on their cell phones and iPods. Watches, they say, are good when you want to dress up for fancy occasions but not for much else. Like tuxedoes and underarm deodorant.
"I have the cell phone, and it's all I use to look at time," 21-year-old Nathan Hoeppner told the Journal-Sentinel reporter. "It would be a duplication of time devices if I would wear a watch."
Another person quoted in the story referred to a friend who regularly wears a watch as "a dork."
I can think of several good reasons people wouldn't consider me cool. For example, I'm a 31-year-old white guy who just used the word "bling." I just don't think regularly wearing a watch is one of them.
I'm not sure what disturbs me more: that people think watches are obsolete and uncool or that I'm giving any real weight to fashion advice from people who live in Wisconsin.
In any case, I disagree with the idea watches have outlived their usefulness. And it will take a lot more than a bunch of Wisconsinites in their teens and early 20s to convince me watches are uncool.
Except for those digital watches with the calculator built in. Those are pretty dorky.
Other watches, though, have a lot going for them. I've worn a watch nearly every day since probably junior high school. The one I'm wearing now was a gift to replace a watch that fell off my wrist at a concert. I found it after the crowd cleared out — plus one other watch — but both had been trampled beyond repair. Before that, I wore a series of unremarkable watches, most of them probably digital. Now, I don't think I'd feel quite right without one. And while most people already probably think I'm not quite right, I'd at least like to feel normal myself.
I like watches, and I don't care what a bunch of punks hanging out at some Milwaukee mall have to say. Being able to tell time is nice, but it's only part of the appeal. I've gotten used to the feel of one on my wrist, and I like the way they look. I like the idea that mechanical systems invented more than 100 years ago are still useful in at least one small way. And I like the idea of all those little pieces working together to keep something resembling accurate time.
There's a metaphor in there about society and everybody working together, but I'm afraid commenting on it would make people think I'm an even bigger dork.
It's true I can probably keep more accurate time on my cell phone, which sets its clock according to the signal it gets, or on my iPod, which resets itself every time I plug it into my computer. But neither one feels quite as satisfying as using a watch. Besides, I don't take my iPod with me everywhere I go and I think I'd feel too much like a Star Trek character checking his Tricorder if I pulled out my cell phone every time I needed to know whether I was going to be late for an appointment.
The expert consulted for the story, mall watch kiosk manager Chuck Reardon, said business has suffered due to the lack of interest among young people in using watches to tell time. He holds out hope, though, that yet-to-be invented high-tech communicator watches "like (in) Dick Tracy" will renew interest in watches as functioning timepieces. I wish him luck, but I'm not sure a 75-year-old comic strip is really the thing to appeal to the kids.
I don't know what the future holds for watches. And I guess I don't care all that much. As long as I can find something that works for me it doesn't matter if the rest of the world thinks I'm a giant dweeb.
You know, more than they already do.
I've been looking for a new watch lately. I like the one I have, but it's starting to look a little worse for wear. The crystal is cracked, and the gold plating on the case is starting to look a little rough after something like a decade of use. Like all of us, it's just plain getting older.
I don't need anything flashy. I'm a newspaper editor, not a rapper. I don't need the bling. Just something simple that looks good. I've found a few things that are close to what I want, but nothing that's exactly right. At least not for less than $1,000.
But now I lean the fact I'm looking at all means I'm about as with it as MC Hammer.
According to a Dec. 23 article in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, none of the cool kids wear watches anymore. They all keep time on their cell phones and iPods. Watches, they say, are good when you want to dress up for fancy occasions but not for much else. Like tuxedoes and underarm deodorant.
"I have the cell phone, and it's all I use to look at time," 21-year-old Nathan Hoeppner told the Journal-Sentinel reporter. "It would be a duplication of time devices if I would wear a watch."
Another person quoted in the story referred to a friend who regularly wears a watch as "a dork."
I can think of several good reasons people wouldn't consider me cool. For example, I'm a 31-year-old white guy who just used the word "bling." I just don't think regularly wearing a watch is one of them.
I'm not sure what disturbs me more: that people think watches are obsolete and uncool or that I'm giving any real weight to fashion advice from people who live in Wisconsin.
In any case, I disagree with the idea watches have outlived their usefulness. And it will take a lot more than a bunch of Wisconsinites in their teens and early 20s to convince me watches are uncool.
Except for those digital watches with the calculator built in. Those are pretty dorky.
Other watches, though, have a lot going for them. I've worn a watch nearly every day since probably junior high school. The one I'm wearing now was a gift to replace a watch that fell off my wrist at a concert. I found it after the crowd cleared out — plus one other watch — but both had been trampled beyond repair. Before that, I wore a series of unremarkable watches, most of them probably digital. Now, I don't think I'd feel quite right without one. And while most people already probably think I'm not quite right, I'd at least like to feel normal myself.
I like watches, and I don't care what a bunch of punks hanging out at some Milwaukee mall have to say. Being able to tell time is nice, but it's only part of the appeal. I've gotten used to the feel of one on my wrist, and I like the way they look. I like the idea that mechanical systems invented more than 100 years ago are still useful in at least one small way. And I like the idea of all those little pieces working together to keep something resembling accurate time.
There's a metaphor in there about society and everybody working together, but I'm afraid commenting on it would make people think I'm an even bigger dork.
It's true I can probably keep more accurate time on my cell phone, which sets its clock according to the signal it gets, or on my iPod, which resets itself every time I plug it into my computer. But neither one feels quite as satisfying as using a watch. Besides, I don't take my iPod with me everywhere I go and I think I'd feel too much like a Star Trek character checking his Tricorder if I pulled out my cell phone every time I needed to know whether I was going to be late for an appointment.
The expert consulted for the story, mall watch kiosk manager Chuck Reardon, said business has suffered due to the lack of interest among young people in using watches to tell time. He holds out hope, though, that yet-to-be invented high-tech communicator watches "like (in) Dick Tracy" will renew interest in watches as functioning timepieces. I wish him luck, but I'm not sure a 75-year-old comic strip is really the thing to appeal to the kids.
I don't know what the future holds for watches. And I guess I don't care all that much. As long as I can find something that works for me it doesn't matter if the rest of the world thinks I'm a giant dweeb.
You know, more than they already do.
Eat, drink, be (a little) merry
The other day, as a group of people from our office sat around at the Minnesota Newspaper Association Convention, one of my co-workers announced that one of her goals in life — or at least in her current job — is to see me get really, really drunk.
This concerns me for a number of reasons. First, and probably most important, it makes me worry I’m working with people whose priorities in life are questionable at best. Are people around here really that starved for entertainment?
Second, it puts a lot of pressure on me. The way I see it, at some point I’m going to have to decide between either drinking too much and acting foolishly or disappointing a co-worker. I hate the idea of letting people down, but frankly, with a few notable exceptions, I have never drunk to excess.
At least not since I graduated from college. But that was New Orleans. That doesn’t count. I’m pretty sure drinking is required there.
(Kids, I’d like to take a moment here to point out you really shouldn’t drink alcohol. It’s bad for your liver and it causes you to make questionable decisions — things painting large cartoon cats on your wall, as someone I know once did, leading police on a high-speed chase while pantsless, as a man in Denver did, or, like British man Tony Alleyne, going broke turning your apartment into a replica of Star Trek’s Starship Voyager. Although that last one would probably require more than just a one-night drinking binge.)
I really don’t have many good stories about drinking too much. The first time I had too much I threw up on a friend’s socks in the lounge of our dorm. In my defense, though, there wasn’t much in my stomach at that point and I’m pretty sure I’d loaned him the socks, anyway. The last time I had at least a little too much was a few weeks ago. That night I apparently agreed to bike 500-some miles from Hayward, Wisc., to Mackinack Island, Mich. with my dad and my brother.
Like I said, alcohol can impair your ability to make rational decisions.
There are probably a few other stories in between, but nothing I need to share with the general public. And certainly nothing I need to tell my mom, who I imagine is already preparing the appropriate disapproving look for the next time she sees me.
I don’t mean to suggest I’ve matured beyond the point in my life where getting falling-down drunk is a good time — mostly because I continue to argue I am no more mature now than I was 10 years ago — but maybe that’s not all that far from the truth. Maybe as I get older having one or two drinks too many has more of an effect on me than it used to. Or maybe I’ve just decided that acting foolishly is just as easy sober as it is after a bunch of drinks. Cheaper, too.
Besides, there are too many risks to overindulging.
I don’t want to end up like US Olympic skier Bode Miller, who caused some controversy when he admitted showing up for competitions after tying one on. I’m not sure I see what the problem is. If I were going that fast down a hill I’d want a little bit of buzz, too. Besides, with a name like Miller he’s created a perfect promotional opportunity in the beer industry.
I also have to be careful for the sake of my job. Because our company’s insurance policy requires a clean driving record, getting arrested for a DUI would cost me my job. And anyway, I know enough police officers around here I wouldn’t want to be pulled over for something like that. They’ve already Tasered me once, and they may just be looking for an excuse to do it again.
This concerns me for a number of reasons. First, and probably most important, it makes me worry I’m working with people whose priorities in life are questionable at best. Are people around here really that starved for entertainment?
Second, it puts a lot of pressure on me. The way I see it, at some point I’m going to have to decide between either drinking too much and acting foolishly or disappointing a co-worker. I hate the idea of letting people down, but frankly, with a few notable exceptions, I have never drunk to excess.
At least not since I graduated from college. But that was New Orleans. That doesn’t count. I’m pretty sure drinking is required there.
(Kids, I’d like to take a moment here to point out you really shouldn’t drink alcohol. It’s bad for your liver and it causes you to make questionable decisions — things painting large cartoon cats on your wall, as someone I know once did, leading police on a high-speed chase while pantsless, as a man in Denver did, or, like British man Tony Alleyne, going broke turning your apartment into a replica of Star Trek’s Starship Voyager. Although that last one would probably require more than just a one-night drinking binge.)
I really don’t have many good stories about drinking too much. The first time I had too much I threw up on a friend’s socks in the lounge of our dorm. In my defense, though, there wasn’t much in my stomach at that point and I’m pretty sure I’d loaned him the socks, anyway. The last time I had at least a little too much was a few weeks ago. That night I apparently agreed to bike 500-some miles from Hayward, Wisc., to Mackinack Island, Mich. with my dad and my brother.
Like I said, alcohol can impair your ability to make rational decisions.
There are probably a few other stories in between, but nothing I need to share with the general public. And certainly nothing I need to tell my mom, who I imagine is already preparing the appropriate disapproving look for the next time she sees me.
I don’t mean to suggest I’ve matured beyond the point in my life where getting falling-down drunk is a good time — mostly because I continue to argue I am no more mature now than I was 10 years ago — but maybe that’s not all that far from the truth. Maybe as I get older having one or two drinks too many has more of an effect on me than it used to. Or maybe I’ve just decided that acting foolishly is just as easy sober as it is after a bunch of drinks. Cheaper, too.
Besides, there are too many risks to overindulging.
I don’t want to end up like US Olympic skier Bode Miller, who caused some controversy when he admitted showing up for competitions after tying one on. I’m not sure I see what the problem is. If I were going that fast down a hill I’d want a little bit of buzz, too. Besides, with a name like Miller he’s created a perfect promotional opportunity in the beer industry.
I also have to be careful for the sake of my job. Because our company’s insurance policy requires a clean driving record, getting arrested for a DUI would cost me my job. And anyway, I know enough police officers around here I wouldn’t want to be pulled over for something like that. They’ve already Tasered me once, and they may just be looking for an excuse to do it again.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Truth, trust and flaming mice
As a reporter, I like to believe everything printed in the pages of a newspaper is true. It is part of the trust between a newspaper and its readers, that we will do our best to report a story fully and accurately and that you, after reading that story, will use the pages on which it appeared to line the bottoms of your bird cages.
Still, sometimes it's hard to know what to believe. There has been a disturbing number of stories in recent years about reporters who fudged facts and in some cases simply made up stories. New York Times reporter Jayson Blair is the best-known example, but I have my doubts about Dear Abbey, too.
Then there are the stories that are so fantastic you want to believe them no matter how hard it might be.
Take my favorite story of recent weeks. It is perhaps the best tale of revenge since the nerds taught the Adams College jocks a thing or two with an improbably well-produced talent show number. It comes from New Mexico, and it involves a flaming mouse setting fire to the home of the man who first trapped him, then threw him in a pile of burning leaves. Really, how can you go wrong?
As reported on CNN.com, the story began with an 81-year-old man named Luciano Mares. Mares, it seems, had a mouse problem. And he did what just about anybody with a rodent infestation would do. He set traps.
Mares told reporters he caught this particular spiteful mouse in a glue trap Jan. 7. When he couldn't get it unstuck, he threw the mouse, trap and all, into a pile of burning leaves in his yard. The fire melted the glue. The flaming mouse scampered back into the house - possibly screaming, "vengeance" in a high-pitched mouse language as it ran - and set the house on fire. The house was destroyed.
"That dang mouse crawled in there," Mares reportedly told the media from the hotel where he was staying with his nephew. "I have an awful hate for those critters."
Frankly, who can blame him? If a flaming puppy had burned down my house, I'd think twice before my next trip to the pound. Even if the puppy was really cute.
If the story had stopped there, it might have been the best news story of the year. But then, a few days later, Mares changed his mind. The fire, he said, was the result of high winds, not revenge-minded vermin. I'm not sure I've ever been more disappointed.
And if the story had ended there, well, it might have gone down as one of the biggest disappointments of the year, somewhere close behind the Super Bowl that will be played a couple of weeks from now.
But then, the very next day, Mares changed his story again, this time back to his original story. Yes, he said, it really was the mouse.
And apparently this time he really, really meant it.
For the record, Fort Sumner fire chief Juan Chavez, whose department responded to the fire, believes Mares' original story. According to CNN.com, the department's record of the fire will include the mouse-related incident as the cause.
I don't know what to believe. If the mouse really did cause the fire, it would be great. If it didn't it would be a big letdown. For now, it's mostly just confusing.
Still, sometimes it's hard to know what to believe. There has been a disturbing number of stories in recent years about reporters who fudged facts and in some cases simply made up stories. New York Times reporter Jayson Blair is the best-known example, but I have my doubts about Dear Abbey, too.
Then there are the stories that are so fantastic you want to believe them no matter how hard it might be.
Take my favorite story of recent weeks. It is perhaps the best tale of revenge since the nerds taught the Adams College jocks a thing or two with an improbably well-produced talent show number. It comes from New Mexico, and it involves a flaming mouse setting fire to the home of the man who first trapped him, then threw him in a pile of burning leaves. Really, how can you go wrong?
As reported on CNN.com, the story began with an 81-year-old man named Luciano Mares. Mares, it seems, had a mouse problem. And he did what just about anybody with a rodent infestation would do. He set traps.
Mares told reporters he caught this particular spiteful mouse in a glue trap Jan. 7. When he couldn't get it unstuck, he threw the mouse, trap and all, into a pile of burning leaves in his yard. The fire melted the glue. The flaming mouse scampered back into the house - possibly screaming, "vengeance" in a high-pitched mouse language as it ran - and set the house on fire. The house was destroyed.
"That dang mouse crawled in there," Mares reportedly told the media from the hotel where he was staying with his nephew. "I have an awful hate for those critters."
Frankly, who can blame him? If a flaming puppy had burned down my house, I'd think twice before my next trip to the pound. Even if the puppy was really cute.
If the story had stopped there, it might have been the best news story of the year. But then, a few days later, Mares changed his mind. The fire, he said, was the result of high winds, not revenge-minded vermin. I'm not sure I've ever been more disappointed.
And if the story had ended there, well, it might have gone down as one of the biggest disappointments of the year, somewhere close behind the Super Bowl that will be played a couple of weeks from now.
But then, the very next day, Mares changed his story again, this time back to his original story. Yes, he said, it really was the mouse.
And apparently this time he really, really meant it.
For the record, Fort Sumner fire chief Juan Chavez, whose department responded to the fire, believes Mares' original story. According to CNN.com, the department's record of the fire will include the mouse-related incident as the cause.
I don't know what to believe. If the mouse really did cause the fire, it would be great. If it didn't it would be a big letdown. For now, it's mostly just confusing.
Legend of the fall
It doesn't usually show itself in polite company, but I have a competitive side.
I lost more than 30 pounds two summers ago, and I did it mostly because I got tired of being the last one up hills on bike rides with my dad and my brother. It worked, too. Now I'm almost always second.
So, maybe it's not the most competitive side in the world, but it's there.
I'm tell you this now as a way of explaining why I spent most of the weekend nursing a headache and sore ribs. It is, I have to believe, the result of my unwillingness in any way to be outdone by the people around me.
Maybe this doesn't make sense right now, but bear with me for a minute.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my co-workers, Michelle Leonard, wrote in this space about a fall she took on New Year's Eve. She was putting a crock pot full of mini hot dogs out onto the deck when she slipped on some ice and fell. The crock pot broke and Michelle ended up with 66 stitches.
It was a good fall, I'll admit, but I was pretty sure I could do better. I've certainly seen more impressive falls. Once, on a family vacation, a step-cousin fell off of a cliff in Spain. He broke both of his arms in several places, then had to climb back up the cliff to find help. He spent the rest of the vacation with his arms propped out to the side in heavy plaster casts. So, the bar for spectacular falls has been set pretty high in my mind.
My own fall last weekend wasn't nearly that dramatic, but it was still pretty good. I was on the way to meet a former co-worker at a Minneapolis bar at the time. I jogged across a street and jumped - gracefully, in my mind - over a small pile of snow in the boulevard.
I came down with my right foot on a patch of ice and before I knew what was happening I was on the ground. My head hit the sidewalk hard enough that I saw stars. Fortunately, I don't think anyone saw me.
At the bar, I cleaned blood off of my face, although I like to think
I looked pretty tough with the scrapes on my right temple. I had a couple of drinks with my friend before my headache got too bad. I'm pretty sure alcohol is one of the recommended treatments for potential head injuries.
I was sore the next day, and had a headache almost constantly until
Monday night. My teeth still hurt when I chew on the right side and my ribs still hurt when I move to vigorously. Sneezing is especially bad.
Worst of all, though, even after all of that I'm pretty sure I can't legitimately make a claim of best fall in the office. For one thing,
"I fell on the ice," doesn't get nearly the reaction that, "I fell on a crock pot of mini weenies," does. And I'm clearly far behind when it comes to lasting evidence of the fall, too. I was hoping I'd at least get a big bruise on the side of my face to help me impress people, but when I sat down next to my brother at a basketball game
Sunday he asked me why I had a rash on my face. Rashes don't say "tough" as much as they say "possibly contagious," so that was hardly impressive.
Clearly, the fall story is a loser. So, if anyone asks, I got into a bar fight.
I lost more than 30 pounds two summers ago, and I did it mostly because I got tired of being the last one up hills on bike rides with my dad and my brother. It worked, too. Now I'm almost always second.
So, maybe it's not the most competitive side in the world, but it's there.
I'm tell you this now as a way of explaining why I spent most of the weekend nursing a headache and sore ribs. It is, I have to believe, the result of my unwillingness in any way to be outdone by the people around me.
Maybe this doesn't make sense right now, but bear with me for a minute.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my co-workers, Michelle Leonard, wrote in this space about a fall she took on New Year's Eve. She was putting a crock pot full of mini hot dogs out onto the deck when she slipped on some ice and fell. The crock pot broke and Michelle ended up with 66 stitches.
It was a good fall, I'll admit, but I was pretty sure I could do better. I've certainly seen more impressive falls. Once, on a family vacation, a step-cousin fell off of a cliff in Spain. He broke both of his arms in several places, then had to climb back up the cliff to find help. He spent the rest of the vacation with his arms propped out to the side in heavy plaster casts. So, the bar for spectacular falls has been set pretty high in my mind.
My own fall last weekend wasn't nearly that dramatic, but it was still pretty good. I was on the way to meet a former co-worker at a Minneapolis bar at the time. I jogged across a street and jumped - gracefully, in my mind - over a small pile of snow in the boulevard.
I came down with my right foot on a patch of ice and before I knew what was happening I was on the ground. My head hit the sidewalk hard enough that I saw stars. Fortunately, I don't think anyone saw me.
At the bar, I cleaned blood off of my face, although I like to think
I looked pretty tough with the scrapes on my right temple. I had a couple of drinks with my friend before my headache got too bad. I'm pretty sure alcohol is one of the recommended treatments for potential head injuries.
I was sore the next day, and had a headache almost constantly until
Monday night. My teeth still hurt when I chew on the right side and my ribs still hurt when I move to vigorously. Sneezing is especially bad.
Worst of all, though, even after all of that I'm pretty sure I can't legitimately make a claim of best fall in the office. For one thing,
"I fell on the ice," doesn't get nearly the reaction that, "I fell on a crock pot of mini weenies," does. And I'm clearly far behind when it comes to lasting evidence of the fall, too. I was hoping I'd at least get a big bruise on the side of my face to help me impress people, but when I sat down next to my brother at a basketball game
Sunday he asked me why I had a rash on my face. Rashes don't say "tough" as much as they say "possibly contagious," so that was hardly impressive.
Clearly, the fall story is a loser. So, if anyone asks, I got into a bar fight.
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