I feel like I've spent a lot of time since I bought my first house last November about my ineptitude when it comes to doing household projects while simultaneously describing my successful home repair projects. Frankly, it's starting to seem a little disingenuous. I feel like I need to set the record straight.
Yes, I can use a circular saw without bashing my thumbnail, and I can swing a hammer without cutting off any limbs. Given enough instruction and enough help I can build a sofa table that is functional, if not necessarily a work of furniture art. And I was able to figure out why I had water in my basement and fix the problem by caulking a window in my shower.
I'm not exactly Bob Vila — or even Bob the Builder — but I know which way to point the sharp end of a drill.
None of which made me particularly confident when I set out to paint my living room last weekend.
Painting is intimidating. I lived for three years in an apartment with awful floral wallpaper on one of the living room walls because I couldn't bring myself to face the possibility of painting.
It's never been the work itself I've objected to. I actually kind of like that part, at least on a small scale. And while I'd never painted an entire room on my own before I was pretty sure I understood the underlying concepts. Where I really got lost was the color selection. Not the number. The names. I didn't realize until a few weeks ago just how far out of control the paint color namers have gotten.
With my new house I knew early on I wanted to paint my living room a kind of dark yellow. No problem there. But then I had to find a name I could live with. I don't care how much I liked the color, I don't think I could ever tell my friends I'd painted my walls First Light. Or Uplifting. Or Champagne Sparkle. I definitely couldn't go with Newborn. Way too creepy.
What if I'd chosen something browner? Could I live with myself knowing I was surrounded every day by shades of Cotton Field? Or Cozy Melon? I really don't think so.
Ultimately I settled on a dark yellow called Sunflower. If you ask me, though, it's more of a cheddar cheese color than anything flowery. It's definitely cheesier than the sample I've got of Sharp Cheddar. Explain that one.
Some names are definitely better than others. I can live with the Smoldering Red I got for another room in my house, but I'm not going anywhere near Shy Cherry. I grudgingly settled on an orangey brown called Tangerine Dream for my bedroom, although based on name alone I was tempted to go with something called Butterscotch Tempest. I'm still holding out hope I can find some Chocolate Thunderstorm or Tapioca Hurricane for the dining room.
The painting itself was uneventful if not exactly flawless. By the time I was done there was paint on my hands, on my clothes and on the bottoms of my shoes. There was paint on the baseboards and on the ceilings, although I think I've mostly gotten that off. I think the room looks good. But let's just call it yellow.
----------------
Now playing: Jurassic 5 - In The House
via FoxyTunes
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Life story? Say it in six
Rumor has it someone once challenged Ernest Hemingway to write a story using just six words. The result, or so the story goes, was this: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."
I have no idea if this story is true, though I've seen it recounted several times in recent years. For all I know the whole thing started because some guy sitting around in his underwear felt some sudden literary inspiration on the same night he cranked out an e-mail about Nigerian princes who want to give you money and an inspirational story about a kitten rescuing a firefighter.
I'd like the story to be real, but it doesn't really matter. Whether or not it was Hemingway, somebody wrote that tiny little story, and it fascinates me. A big part of my job involves finding ways to squeeze people's stories onto the ever-shrinking pages of this newspaper, and seeing someone — whether it was Papa Hemingway himself or the anonymous underpants guy — pack so much emotional significance into so few words is remarkable. I'm better at that kind of thing now than I was when I started in this job a little over a decade ago, but clearly I've still got a ways to go.
The first time I heard the Hemingway story was in November of 2006, when Wired magazine posed a similar challenge to a collection of professional authors. Science fiction writer Orson Scott Card submitted, "The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly." Foulmouth director Kevin Smith added, "Kirby had never eaten toes before." Some of the entries were good. Some weren't. Some were funny. Some were serious. But none had the same kind of impact as the original.
More recently, an online publication called Smith Magazine made the experiment more personal, asking celebrities and readers alike to submit six-word memoirs. The results were published recently in a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.
That's what got me thinking about all of this. Could I tell one of my subjects' stories in so little space? Could I tell my own? How would I even start?
I could focus on work, I suppose. Keep it simple. "I came. I saw. I reported." Or, "Excuse me, but I have to ask...." But does that capture the fact I'm doing a job for which I never received any formal education? That I never took a journalism class, nor worked on a school paper? How about, "Journalist? Me? I don't think so."?
I could write about the things I do for fun: "Biked far. Rode fast. Butt sore." Or I could try to convey the emotions of owning my first home: "I pay the mortgage monthly? Ugh!"
There are plenty of options, but I'm not sure any of them really captures every aspect of my life. There's just too much there. And my life isn't even that interesting.
In the end, maybe I'll just go with this: "Had fun so far. What's next?"
So, that's mine. Now it's your turn. Starting this week there will be an opportunity on our web page, www.farmingtonindependent.com (or www.rosemounttownpages.com), to post your own six-word memoir. Make it funny if you want, or keep it serious. Write one or write a dozen. Do it online or mail them to me at PO Box 192 in Farmington. Heck, you can even call and ask us to transcribe them if you want. We're going to post a few of our own, too, but we really want to know how you define yourself.
----------------
Now playing: BT - The Antikythera Mechanism
via FoxyTunes
Just keep it short.
I have no idea if this story is true, though I've seen it recounted several times in recent years. For all I know the whole thing started because some guy sitting around in his underwear felt some sudden literary inspiration on the same night he cranked out an e-mail about Nigerian princes who want to give you money and an inspirational story about a kitten rescuing a firefighter.
I'd like the story to be real, but it doesn't really matter. Whether or not it was Hemingway, somebody wrote that tiny little story, and it fascinates me. A big part of my job involves finding ways to squeeze people's stories onto the ever-shrinking pages of this newspaper, and seeing someone — whether it was Papa Hemingway himself or the anonymous underpants guy — pack so much emotional significance into so few words is remarkable. I'm better at that kind of thing now than I was when I started in this job a little over a decade ago, but clearly I've still got a ways to go.
The first time I heard the Hemingway story was in November of 2006, when Wired magazine posed a similar challenge to a collection of professional authors. Science fiction writer Orson Scott Card submitted, "The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly." Foulmouth director Kevin Smith added, "Kirby had never eaten toes before." Some of the entries were good. Some weren't. Some were funny. Some were serious. But none had the same kind of impact as the original.
More recently, an online publication called Smith Magazine made the experiment more personal, asking celebrities and readers alike to submit six-word memoirs. The results were published recently in a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.
That's what got me thinking about all of this. Could I tell one of my subjects' stories in so little space? Could I tell my own? How would I even start?
I could focus on work, I suppose. Keep it simple. "I came. I saw. I reported." Or, "Excuse me, but I have to ask...." But does that capture the fact I'm doing a job for which I never received any formal education? That I never took a journalism class, nor worked on a school paper? How about, "Journalist? Me? I don't think so."?
I could write about the things I do for fun: "Biked far. Rode fast. Butt sore." Or I could try to convey the emotions of owning my first home: "I pay the mortgage monthly? Ugh!"
There are plenty of options, but I'm not sure any of them really captures every aspect of my life. There's just too much there. And my life isn't even that interesting.
In the end, maybe I'll just go with this: "Had fun so far. What's next?"
So, that's mine. Now it's your turn. Starting this week there will be an opportunity on our web page, www.farmingtonindependent.com (or www.rosemounttownpages.com), to post your own six-word memoir. Make it funny if you want, or keep it serious. Write one or write a dozen. Do it online or mail them to me at PO Box 192 in Farmington. Heck, you can even call and ask us to transcribe them if you want. We're going to post a few of our own, too, but we really want to know how you define yourself.
----------------
Now playing: BT - The Antikythera Mechanism
via FoxyTunes
Just keep it short.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
It's all a lie
Daylight Savings Time started Sunday morning, which means roughly one-third of Americans showed up for their first activity Sunday morning and wondered where the heck everyone else was.
Most of us have adjusted by now, but highly scientific data I just made up suggest that at least 12 percent of people still have at least one clock they have not changed. Another .3 percent simply never bothered to set their clocks back last fall will now finally be on time again.
Daylight Savings Time disrupts our lives every year around this time. It robs us of an hour of sleep and forces us to dig out long-buried instruction manuals so we can change clocks on microwave ovens and car dashboards. Yet for all that it remains one of our most beloved examples of mass self-deception, right up there with the beliefs baseball is exciting and American Idol contestants are talented artists.
Let's face it: at its core Daylight Savings Time is really nothing more a near-worldwide agreement to spend several months each year pretending it's an hour later than it actually is. The flow of time doesn't actually change. Days didn't magically become longer Sunday morning. We're all lying to ourselves so we can play in the sun a little longer while it's warm outside.
According to the California Department of Energy's website, the idea for Daylight Savings Time began with Benjamin Franklin, who while a minister to France proposed it in an essay titled "An Economic Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light." Less well known is that Franklin published a similar essay around the same time suggesting a worldwide agreement that overweight, bespectacled, balding men were super sexy.
Frankly, this only confirms my belief that Franklin was the lyingest of our Founding Fathers. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced all of the Founders were just out to mess with people. Free press? People took that seriously? Those kidders.
Granted, there are some good reasons for this kind of self-deception. Pretending its suddenly staying light longer gives us more time after work to do things like mow the lawn or go out for ice cream. And various studies have suggested that Daylight Savings Time leads to everything from a reduction in violent crime to safer roads. According to the website webexhibits.com, several studies in Great Britain have found that safer roads during the now-illuminated evening hours more than offset an increase in accidents among people forced to drive to work in the dark. In other words, if you have any driving to do this summer try to do it after noon. Otherwise, you're taking your life into your own hands.
Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't without its controversies. Hawaii still doesn't recognize Daylight Savings Time. Nor does Arizona, although the Navajo Nation within the state does. Which really messes you up when you visit the casinos.
In 1965, not even Minneapolis and St. Paul could come to an agreement on Daylight Savings Time. That year, St. Paul set its clocks ahead on the same day as the rest of the country, while its neighbor to the west conformed to state law and waited a few weeks. So, depending on which way you were going, crossing the Mississippi River that summer could have taken either an hour or sent you back in time. Although, that’s kind of what it’s like driving from Minneapolis to St. Paul anyway.
Even the Amish have trouble agreeing on Daylight Savings Time. According to webexhibits.org there is no consensus among the Amish communities about whether to observe Daylight Savings Time. In one Ohio county, the site claims, 10 of 90 Amish church districts opt out of Daylight Savings Time. Which inevitably raises questions about how exactly a person goes about setting a sun dial an hour ahead.
I, for one, am all in favor of Daylight Savings Time. It's been nice this week driving home in the daylight. And considering I'm already hard at work convincing myself I'm talented and handsome (at least as good-looking as Ben Franklin) I don't see how a little more self-deception could hurt.
----------------
Now playing: Atmosphere - Liquor Lyles Cool July
via FoxyTunes
Most of us have adjusted by now, but highly scientific data I just made up suggest that at least 12 percent of people still have at least one clock they have not changed. Another .3 percent simply never bothered to set their clocks back last fall will now finally be on time again.
Daylight Savings Time disrupts our lives every year around this time. It robs us of an hour of sleep and forces us to dig out long-buried instruction manuals so we can change clocks on microwave ovens and car dashboards. Yet for all that it remains one of our most beloved examples of mass self-deception, right up there with the beliefs baseball is exciting and American Idol contestants are talented artists.
Let's face it: at its core Daylight Savings Time is really nothing more a near-worldwide agreement to spend several months each year pretending it's an hour later than it actually is. The flow of time doesn't actually change. Days didn't magically become longer Sunday morning. We're all lying to ourselves so we can play in the sun a little longer while it's warm outside.
According to the California Department of Energy's website, the idea for Daylight Savings Time began with Benjamin Franklin, who while a minister to France proposed it in an essay titled "An Economic Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light." Less well known is that Franklin published a similar essay around the same time suggesting a worldwide agreement that overweight, bespectacled, balding men were super sexy.
Frankly, this only confirms my belief that Franklin was the lyingest of our Founding Fathers. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced all of the Founders were just out to mess with people. Free press? People took that seriously? Those kidders.
Granted, there are some good reasons for this kind of self-deception. Pretending its suddenly staying light longer gives us more time after work to do things like mow the lawn or go out for ice cream. And various studies have suggested that Daylight Savings Time leads to everything from a reduction in violent crime to safer roads. According to the website webexhibits.com, several studies in Great Britain have found that safer roads during the now-illuminated evening hours more than offset an increase in accidents among people forced to drive to work in the dark. In other words, if you have any driving to do this summer try to do it after noon. Otherwise, you're taking your life into your own hands.
Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't without its controversies. Hawaii still doesn't recognize Daylight Savings Time. Nor does Arizona, although the Navajo Nation within the state does. Which really messes you up when you visit the casinos.
In 1965, not even Minneapolis and St. Paul could come to an agreement on Daylight Savings Time. That year, St. Paul set its clocks ahead on the same day as the rest of the country, while its neighbor to the west conformed to state law and waited a few weeks. So, depending on which way you were going, crossing the Mississippi River that summer could have taken either an hour or sent you back in time. Although, that’s kind of what it’s like driving from Minneapolis to St. Paul anyway.
Even the Amish have trouble agreeing on Daylight Savings Time. According to webexhibits.org there is no consensus among the Amish communities about whether to observe Daylight Savings Time. In one Ohio county, the site claims, 10 of 90 Amish church districts opt out of Daylight Savings Time. Which inevitably raises questions about how exactly a person goes about setting a sun dial an hour ahead.
I, for one, am all in favor of Daylight Savings Time. It's been nice this week driving home in the daylight. And considering I'm already hard at work convincing myself I'm talented and handsome (at least as good-looking as Ben Franklin) I don't see how a little more self-deception could hurt.
----------------
Now playing: Atmosphere - Liquor Lyles Cool July
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Check out the spokes on that one!
Plenty of guys get excited this time of year for the arrival of Sports Illustrated's annual swimsuit issue. I can appreciate that. When I was younger I spent plenty of time paging through the annual collection of superfit models in superskimpy outfits, just knowing somewhere in there a well-placed splash would have turned some woman's bikini top just translucent enough to reveal ... well, you know. Naughty stuff.
These days, though? I get my late-winter thrills from a different and not necessarily healthier source: bike magazine buyer's guides.
Oh, sure, there's still something to be said for an entire magazine full of mono-named models lounging seductively in what appears to be highly impractical beachwear. But these days there are so many more options for seeing attractive women in their almost-altogether. Magazines like Maxim and Stuff and, I think, Popular Science, bring that kind of thing to readers every single month. Scantily clad women are practically required viewing on the Internet.
Pictures of supermodels in mesh tankinis are great, but how about the carbon-fiber weave on a new Trek? And what's the finish on that new titanium model? Is it ... nude? Good golly!
Let's face it, a well-made bike frame is about the sexiest a couple of triangles are ever going to look.
For the last week or so I've been pouring over Bicycling magazine's annual buyer's guide the same way I used to flip through pictures of Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson. Is it entirely healthy to linger over photo after photo of lovingly crafted bikes when I'm already riding something that costs several times more than a lot of people's first cars? Maybe not. Five-figure price tags aside, a lot of these bikes just weren't made for someone like me. I'm 6-6, and this is a sport where someone who stands six feet tall and weighs 180 pounds is practically a giant. High-level bike racers are like slightly taller jockeys with bigger thighs. There's a legitimate risk some of the really featherweight bikes would just plain fall to pieces under someone my size.
Why do it, then? For the same reason -- well, sort of -- I used to get excited about that swimsuit issue. It's an aspirational thing. As much as I'd like to have enough in the bank to drop the price of a Toyota Yaris on a custom-made Italian dream machine that will do everything but pedal me up hills on its own, that's not going to happen anytime soon. But I'm never going to date a swimsuit model, either.
At least, that's what the restraining orders say.
It's still nice to look at the pictures, though. It's just, instead of looking at pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations and wondering where the tide might have washed that poor model's bikini top I'm reading about exotic frame materials and beautiful frame geometries and wondering just how much faster I could ride right now if I'd spent the extra grand or two to knock an extra few grams off my bike's weight.
Now that's sexy.
----------------
Now playing: Air - New Star In The Sky
via FoxyTunes
These days, though? I get my late-winter thrills from a different and not necessarily healthier source: bike magazine buyer's guides.
Oh, sure, there's still something to be said for an entire magazine full of mono-named models lounging seductively in what appears to be highly impractical beachwear. But these days there are so many more options for seeing attractive women in their almost-altogether. Magazines like Maxim and Stuff and, I think, Popular Science, bring that kind of thing to readers every single month. Scantily clad women are practically required viewing on the Internet.
Pictures of supermodels in mesh tankinis are great, but how about the carbon-fiber weave on a new Trek? And what's the finish on that new titanium model? Is it ... nude? Good golly!
Let's face it, a well-made bike frame is about the sexiest a couple of triangles are ever going to look.
For the last week or so I've been pouring over Bicycling magazine's annual buyer's guide the same way I used to flip through pictures of Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson. Is it entirely healthy to linger over photo after photo of lovingly crafted bikes when I'm already riding something that costs several times more than a lot of people's first cars? Maybe not. Five-figure price tags aside, a lot of these bikes just weren't made for someone like me. I'm 6-6, and this is a sport where someone who stands six feet tall and weighs 180 pounds is practically a giant. High-level bike racers are like slightly taller jockeys with bigger thighs. There's a legitimate risk some of the really featherweight bikes would just plain fall to pieces under someone my size.
Why do it, then? For the same reason -- well, sort of -- I used to get excited about that swimsuit issue. It's an aspirational thing. As much as I'd like to have enough in the bank to drop the price of a Toyota Yaris on a custom-made Italian dream machine that will do everything but pedal me up hills on its own, that's not going to happen anytime soon. But I'm never going to date a swimsuit model, either.
At least, that's what the restraining orders say.
It's still nice to look at the pictures, though. It's just, instead of looking at pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations and wondering where the tide might have washed that poor model's bikini top I'm reading about exotic frame materials and beautiful frame geometries and wondering just how much faster I could ride right now if I'd spent the extra grand or two to knock an extra few grams off my bike's weight.
Now that's sexy.
----------------
Now playing: Air - New Star In The Sky
via FoxyTunes
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