The Dewey Dumbcimal System

Have you ever wondered why it’s so difficult to find a book at the public library? Why you must use the card catalog or ask a librarian for assistance? I’ll tell you why: the frickin’ Dewey Decimal System.

I just spent four hours sorting a large portion of my non-fiction library in Dewey Decimal order, lightly printing the call number for every book on its back flyleaf. When a book’s title page did not list the call number, I looked it up in the local library system. I did this for about two hundred books. (I set aside another two hundred as not yet worth the effort, and didn’t even touch another four hundred volumes.)

This took time.

Lots of it.

I had supposed that ultimately all this work would be worthwhile because it would yield better organized books. I was wrong. Tomorrow after work I’m going to go home and undo the entire system and reshelve according to Roth Non-Decimal System.

Here are some examples of the craziness in Dewey:

  • For many books, there is no one set classification. For example, The Gutenberg Elegies may be classified under 028.9 (reading) or under 302.232 (social interaction). I admit that this makes sense in some cases, but under Dewey, the delineations are often bizarre.
  • Barack Obama’s memoir is filed under 973.4 (general history of North America – United States). It’s an autobiography; shouldn’t it be under 921? Elspeth’s Huxley’s semi-fictional account of growing up in Kenya is classed in 921, as one might expect, but Alexandra Fuller’s recent book about growing up in southern Africa is shelved at 968.91 (general history of Africa – southern Africa). These books are nearly identical except for the time periods in which they occur. They’re both autobiographies. Why aren’t all three of these books in 921?
  • Hiking Oregon is 796.51, which makes sense; 796 is “athletic & outdoor sports & games”. However, Into Thin Air is 796.52, which does not make sense. (Into Thin Air is about disaster while climbing Everest.) Oregon’s Best Wildflower Hikes is 582.13 for spermatophyta (seed-bearing plants), which makes a tiny bit of sense (but only a tiny bit). The book is about hiking, not about wildflowers. It ought to be shelved next to Hiking Oregon, and Into Thin Air ought to be shelved someplace near The Worst Journey in the World, another book about a disastrous expedition.
  • John Muir’s Travels in Alaska is filed under 979.8 (general history of North America – Great Basin & Pacific Slope), but Into the Wild and One Man’s Wilderness are filed under 917.48 (North America).
  • The Lifetime Reading Plan, a reading guide to the literary canon, is shelved at 011.7 (bibliographies), but An Invitation to the Classics, a Christian reading guide to the literary canon, is shelved at 809 (literary history and criticism). Other reading guides to the literary canon are shelved elsewhere.
  • Gardening books are strewn about through all sorts of classifications so that I cannot even begin to decipher a rhyme or reason. Some are in applied science, some are in natural science, and some are in social science. Some are in art! If I were organizing them, they’d all be together under — and this might be a shocker — gardening.

Admittedly, what makes sense for a home library might not make for a large institutional library. Still, I get the distinct impression that the Dewey Decimal system has long outlived its usefulness and ought to be quietly put down. (I had four years of exposure to the Library of Congress system during college, but don’t know it well enough to be able to state whether it would be any better than Dewey for my purposes.)

It’s a sad state of affairs when I can walk into Borders and find the book I want — without assistance — in less than a minute, yet if I were to try the same thing at my small local public library, I’d have to walk up and down every aisle and I still might miss my subject. Even at Powell’s, the “city of books”, where there are gigantic rooms filled with thousands of volumes, I can generally find what I want quickly.

This seems like a good place to voice another library complaint. Over the past year, as I’ve begun to use the library more, I’ve noticed that each branch in the Clackamas County Library system has its own method of organizing non-book media. This makes it frustrating to locate things.

For example, several of the libraries stock graphic novels (glorified comic books). At most branches, graphic novels are organized by title, so that all Superman graphic novels are together under S, for example. In Milwaukie, however, they sort the graphic novels by author. This is insanely stupid. It is rare that a comic book carries a single author for more than a couple of years. If I want to borrow a bunch of X-Men comics from Milwaukie, I have to look under each individual writer’s name, if I can even remember them. Note that none of these are filed under X, where one might reasonably expect to find X-Men.

Most libraries display their compact discs end-on, so that it is easy to view a large number of them quickly during a search. Not the Oak Grove branch. The Oak Grove branch forces you to flip through drawers full of CDs. Worse, instead of filing them alphabetically by artist name in broad genre classifications, they sort the CDs by Dewey Decimal order! Does a Maria Callas opera compilation come before or after Beethoven’s complete symphonies? And why is Dawn Upshaw’s “Because I Wish It So” collection of popular songs filed nearby? Who knows? You have to flip through a drawer full of CDs (or maybe two drawers full) in order to find out. It’s maddening.

In Praise of Autumn

We have passed some critical stage of fall-ness. When I look out my office window to the maple in the front yard, I can see it shed great clumps of leaves with every gust of wind. As I watch the leaves and listen to Pachelbel’s Canon, I am reminded of those first few heady weeks of college. Autumn always reminds of college and of freedom.

(Because I have a need to have a favorite everything, I’ve recently decided that autumn is my favorite season. Spring and autumn are the only choices, really, because summer and winter are too extreme. I like autumn best because it is warm-going-on-cool, rather than the reverse. I also like that everything is already green, but fading. Early autumn features produce from the garden, mid-autumn dazzles with its riotous colors, and late autumn is all about family and friends. Autumn is wonderful.)

When I walked into the kitchen this morning, I was overwhelmed by memories of school cafeterias: the smells of mass-produced corn and mashed potatoes and spinach, the sounds of dishware clattering at the dishwasher, the sights of people eating and laughing.

This reminds me of all my little friends, of Harrison and Antonio and Ian and Kaden, and of the discoveries they’re making every day at school. I think of first grade and of the novelty of so many kids in one place. I think of the school library, of the classroom, of the gym.

I think of the playground, and of the games we used to play there. I think of tetherball and four square and wallball and kickball and “hot lava” and of simply running from one end of the grass field to the other.

It’s a good day for reminiscing. It is a narrow distraction.

Distracted

Paul Ford has written an interesting piece about distractions and how they influence his life. Ford differentiates between wide distractions and narrow distractions. Wide distractions are tangential and shallow. They lead you away from your course, drawing you a short way down many different sidepaths. Narrow distractions are more focused, not so much straying from your original course as delving more deeply into it; perhaps this can be best explained as stopping to examine a bird or a tree or a flower along the trail. Ford writes:

The Internet is the widest possible distraction because it lets you wander so far afield that getting work done if you are, like me, the distractable sort of person—getting work done is almost impossible. I’m not the sort of person who can read a book with footnotes and ignore the footnotes. I have to read every footnote. I often prefer the footnotes because they point in so many directions. But when wide distractions are available I avoid the narrow distractions, and those are the useful distractions. Let’s say you’re thinking hard about a concept—say, kittens. Kittens are young cats. They have paws and they are sometimes friendly. Your stepmother, you remember, didn’t let you have a kitten. Why was that? Was she allergic, or did she really just hate you? Now, that’s something worth thinking about. A concept worth exploring. That’s a narrow distraction, a good distraction.

Ford has articulated a concept of which I’ve had a vague notion, but no words to describe it. I, too, am easily distracted. Especially by the internet. The internet is so distracting that I find it impossible to be productive with an active connection nearby. I tend to do the minimum necessary instead of devoting time and effort to produce quality work, not out of malice or negligence, but because as I’m working, some thought will occur to me — “I should look up the history of the ten-key” — and I’ll slide over to spend an hour in increasingly tangential web searches. My work suffers, whether it’s home or on the job or for fun.

Without wide distractions, however, I’m more focused. I am diverted by narrow distractions, too, but find that these are generally more rewarding. Narrow distractions are short, introspective, and often enlightening. More importantly, they are not time sinks.

One reason I’m opposed to television is the ease with which a person can be sucked into regular viewing, consuming gross numbers of hours every day. I’m no different, except my vice is the internet. If I were not connected, I might succumb to some other wide distraction — my encyclopedia, perhaps — but no other wide distraction can possibly approach the infinite as closely as the world wide web.

Lately, I’ve been more conscious of how much time I spend browsing and exchanging e-mail. What if I were to use this time for something remotely productive? What if I were using it to write short stories, or even a novel? What if?

This is a recurring theme in my life, a sort of monkey on my back that I cannot lose. I’ve written about it here in the past. I probably sound like the Boy Who Cried Wolf. I’d love to learn some techniques for avoiding wide distractions. Maybe I could google for some.

Autumn Weekend

We’ve had odd weather around Portland this year, so it’s something of a relief to be experiencing a typical autumn. In the spring, we had a bizarre warm spell from February 15th to March 15th, followed by miserable damp weather for months. Our summer was unusually placid and a little cool. (Did we have a single 100-degree day?) Our autumn has been typical, though, with an plenty of light rain.

Kris and I are pleased to be on a piece of property with an abundance of trees. It’s a pleasure to watch the leaves change color day-by-day. Every morning, Kris looks out the window at the top of the stairs, reveling in the bright orange and red of the maples. She also likes our oak. She called me at work yesterday to tell me how beautiful it was, framed against the blue sky.

We spent all of Friday afternoon outside, working in the yard. With a lawn this large, it is of utmost importance that I snag any available mowing days in the fall. At the Canby house, I could do a rush job on moderately wet grass. That’s not an option here.

As we worked, we chatted with the neighbors. Curt and I held a conference over the fence, discussing yard work, remodeling, and dogs. While I was cleaning out my car, Tom wandered over from next door to talk about grapes, rototillers, and old photography magazines. (Tom has some 1940s photography magazines that he’s going to give me. Also, we recently purchased Mike and Rhonda’s 8-hp rototiller; I can’t wait to put its counterrotating tines to work!)

I spent this morning and afternoon with my friend Mitch, and his children, Brandon and Zoe (aged 13 and 10, respectively). It was interesting to see a pair of kids who are about five years older than any of the children with whom I have regular contact. “When do kids get self-sufficient?” I often ask my friends. “When do they demand less of your time, become able to do things on their own without your constant attention?” The answer seems to be: someplace between ten and thirteen (though I’m sure it depends on the kid).

In the morning, I took Mitch and his kids to the annual Multnomah County Library book sale. They seemed genuinely shocked at the sheer number of books. I’ve had three years to grow accustomed to the shock, and, in fact, have developed something of a routine.

I rifled through the “pamphlets” first (only twenty-five cents each!). There were some real gems to be had here:

  • Amish Portrait and Pictorial Oaxaca, both of which are photo-essays on their topics
  • Strawberries: King of the Fruits, a detailed guide to raising strawberries (best advice: to control weeds, keep a flock of geese)
  • The Cub Scout Songbook
  • Tales of French Love and Passion
  • The Step-By-Step Guide Book to Home Wiring, which may be out of date but how can you refuse at twenty-five cents?
  • The Lesbian Relationship Handbook
  • Livin’ in Doom Town: A History of Albina Gentrification, a bitter polemic regarding recent Portland history
  • The Copyright Primer for Librarians and Educators
  • Cliff’s Notes for Paradise Lost, Beowulf, and The Odyssey, all of which are works that could use a little explanation…
  • The real find were a collection of a couple dozen opera-related items, most of which were the large booklets from old vinyl record sets.

The pamphlet section is always crowded, and people jostle for position without regard to traditional etiquette. Last year and this, I’ve had the misfortune to stand next to pungent men while sorting through the pamphlets. I probably missed some good ones in my hurry to get to fresh air.

This year, I didn’t buy as many books as in the past. I’m trying to exercise fiscal responsibility. I did come home with four lovely large hard-bound volumes on various topics: Stephen Foster (who wrote “O Susanna!” and “Camptown Races”, among other songs), the American Revolution, and the great operas.

After the book sale, we returned to Mitch’s apartment, where I played Magic: The Gathering with Brandon. All four of us then played The Game of Life, which Zoe gleefully won by a large margin.

In the evening, we drove to McMinnville for a nice dinner with the Hamptons and the Bacon-Flicks. We get together with these old college friends about twice a year now. (At one time, Chris and Cari were our best couple friend: we did a lot with them in the years after we graduated from Willamette.) Michael and Laura live in a beautiful old house. They talked about how much they love McMinnville, how much it feels like prototypical small-town America. Cari and Chris talked about how much they love their jobs. Again, it was fun to see children beyond those we normally encounter. Kaden and Ethan are polite, intelligent little boys. Their earnest natures amused me.

Tomorrow we’ll drive down to see Jeremy and Jennifer. Rumor has it we’re heading to a pumpkin patch. I’ll be sure to take my camera.

Memories Are Like This

Sometimes my childhood memories aren’t really memories at all — they’re moods, or impressions. I don’t remember a specific time or place or event, but remember a feeling. I remember how it felt to go to Grandma’s house. I remember how it felt to visit the train station. I remember the glow from endless days of summer.

Mostly I do remember details, though these often form a confusing jumble of time, place, event, and emotion. I can’t be sure that the individual memories I have are correct: maybe I’ve recombined several memories, drawing on the location of one memory, combining it with the events of a second, adding the emotions of a third.

Memories are like this.

For example, when I was a boy, my family lived in a trailer house in the Oregon coutnryside. We were poor. We did not have a television (though I believe this was more of a philosophical choice than a financial one on the part of my parents). In the evening, my family read and listened to music.

My father was a big Neil Diamond fan. He loved ABBA. He often listened to Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits. (Thus it is no surprise that these are all favorites of mine now.) Mostly, he listened to classical music.

Though we didn’t have much, we did have a nice component stereo, including a silver receiver with big knobs, and a top-of-the-line turntable. I can remember the night Dad bought the stereo equipment from a small store in Beaverton. I can remember the record shop’s dimly lit rooms were filled with record bins. I can remember the Bee Gees strutting over the store’s speakers. I can remember heading home with the Star Wars soundtrack, a couple of Mannheim Steamroller albums, and a small collection of classical music.

I had no formal musical education (aside from two years of violin in fifth and sixth grade), but I learned a lot from listening to Dad’s classical records. He was passionate about them. I learned to love Beethoven’s sixth symphony (the Pastorale). I learned to love Bizet’s Carmen Suite and Grieg’s Peer Gynt. I learned to love Also Sprach Zarathustra. I learned to love Mozart and Liszt and Rimsky-Korsakov.

When I think of my childhood, my first thought is not of a particular time or place or event; it is a feeling, an emotion, a sense of peace. A vague, non-specific scene. I remember a cool autumn night — the early darkness — sitting in the trailer’s living room on a baroque floral couch (a couch that went with me to college). The wall-mounted kerosene sconces are lit. The dishwasher is humming. There is a fire in the wood stove. The birds are squawking in their cages, or perhaps sitting on the curtain rods. A small and stinky dog is curled next to Jeff on one end of the couch. I am on the other end, reading a book. We are listening to the Cosmos soundtrack: soaring strings, pulsing electronic beats, the haunting Bulgarian Shepherdess Song.

A vasty darkness surrounds the trailer, yet inside is a womb of warmth and light and music.

This is what I remember.

A previous entry, Twenty-Two Year Reflection, is related to this entry.

Rosemary Verde

The gin fizz may have been my drink for the summer, but my drink for the autumn is rosemary verde, a delicious martini-like cocktail. Kris ordered this drink on our last trip to Ciao Vito. It is unusual in that it’s savory rather than sweet. We both thought the drink was a wonderful change of pace; we’d love to be able to serve it to guests at dinner parties.

Using some of my newfound confidence, I just phoned Ciao Vito and spoke with the bartender, who gave me the recipe.

Rosemary Verde (from Ciao Vito)

Combine one shot (1-1/2 to 2 ounces) rosemary-infused vodka, one-half ounce triple sec (or other orange liqueur), a splash of fresh-squeezed lime juice, and a dash of simple syrup (aka sugar water) in a cocktail shaker with two cubes of ice. Shake and strain. Pour into a martini glass, then finish with a splash of soda water.

To make the rosemary-infused vodka: place two sprigs of fresh rosemary into a bottle of vodka. Allow the vodka to sit for two or three days. Strain the vodka through a cheesecloth.

Simple, yet delicious. Give it a shot. Or, the next time you’re at Rosings Park, ask me to make one for you.

My path to overcoming depression is giving me all sorts of heretofore untapped confidence. My innate curiosity is boiling at record levels. I’m happy. I find it easier to deal with people than it has been in years. I’m not afraid to assert my need for personal space.

Two small but significant examples of the change in me:

  1. Remember my new old office? Remember it was a hellhole, a pit? A couple weeks ago, I spruced up the place a bit by cleaning it and by rearranging the furniture. This week, I spent $250 to add some finishing touches: four potted plants, a bunch of candles, a floor rug, and a new portable stereo. Now I don’t resent having to work in an oppressive environment; it’s no longer oppressive. Now I don’t mind sitting in my office for eight hours a day.
  2. At one of our larger customers, I deal with many different reps. One of these reps is a brusque man who never knows what he wants and always makes me wait. A few weeks ago, he made me wait in the lobby for half an hour. This man is a little like Jeremy but without Jeremy’s vast charisma. Even his co-workers don’t like him. Recently, it dawned on me that perhaps I resented this guy simply because I let him walk all over me. In fact, he had told me many times, “Don’t let me do this to you. Call me on it.” You know what? I’ve started to call him on it, and suddenly our relationship isn’t adversarial, it’s kind of fun. While his co-workers are rolling their eyes, I joke around him. When he pushes, I push back. Suddenly it’s a relationship of equals, and it makes all the difference.

There are still aspects of my life that are not in control (my weight, my cleanliness), but for once I’m happy with who I am. I refuse to think bad thoughts about myself. So what if I’m fat? So what if I have a score of e-mails to answer? So what if my desk is a mess? I’ll fix these things soon, and I’ll do so by approaching these issues in a positive way rather than a negative one.

Anger Management

Based on Courtney‘s recommendation (and the recommendations of a bunch of AskMetafilter folks), I’ve begun to read Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy by David. M. Burns. The book attempts to empower a person to defeat depression without drugs, and is reportedly very effective for those, like me, with mild depression.

I’ve only read bits and pieces so far, but what I’ve read has been eye-opening. Yesterday, I browsed the chapter about anger. I suspect my co-workers (and perhaps my friends) think I’m a little irritable. I often think of myself as easily upset.

Feeling Good features the following survey, which is based on the Novaco Anger Scale. I’ve reproduced it here without permission. For each situation below, estimate the degree of anger it would provoke in you using this simple scale:

0 – You would feel little or no annoyance.
1 – You would feel a little irritated.
2 – You would feel moderately upset.
3 – You would feel quite angry.
4 – You would feel very irate.

As you describe how you would ordinarily react to each situation, make your best general estimate even though important details may be missing.

  1. You unpack an appliance you have just purchased, plug it in, and discover that it doesn’t work. 3 – I would be quite angry. If it were a computer-related product, I would be irate.
  2. You are overcharged by a repairman who has you over a barrel. 2 – I would be upset.
  3. You are singled out for correction when the actions of others go unnoticed. 4 – I would be irate. I hate this.
  4. You get your car stuck in mud or snow. 0 – This would not bother me. It’s an act of nature. What can you do?
  5. You are talking to someone and they don’t answer you. 1 – This would annoy me.
  6. Someone pretends to be something they are not. 2 – I would be angry. I don’t like this.
  7. While you are struggling to carry four cups of coffee to your table at a cafeteria, someone bumps into you, spilling the coffee. 1 – I would be irritated, but not much.
  8. You have hung up your clothes, but someone knocks them to the floor and fails to pick them up. 1 – I would be irritated, though this is unlikely to happen in real life. I don’t hang up my clothes!
  9. You are hounded by a salesperson from the moment you walk into a store. 2 – I would be upset.
  10. You have made arrangements to go somewhere with a person who backs out at the last minute and leaves you hanging. 1 – This is irritating, but there are worse things that can happen.
  11. Being joked about or teased. 1 – This goes more to self-image than to anger. I’d feel all sorts of self-doubt.
  12. Your car is stalled at a traffic light and the guy behind you keeps blowing his horn. 2 – I would be upset.
  13. You accidentally make the wrong kind of turn in a parking lot. As you get out of your car someone yells at you, “Where did you learn to drive?” 0 – As Kris can attest, when I make a driving error and am honked at or yelled at, I get sheepish and apologetic, not angry.
  14. Someone makes a mistake and blames it on you. 2 – I would be upset.
  15. You are trying to concentrate, but a person near you is tapping their foot. 4 – This pisses me off.
  16. You lend someone an important book or tool, and they fail to return it. 1 – I loan out a lot of stuff. I wouldn’t loan it if I didn’t think it might not come back.
  17. You have had a busy day, and the person you live with starts to complain that you forgot to do something that you agreed to do. 3 – This makes me very cranky.
  18. You are trying to discuss something important with your mate or partner who isn’t giving you a chance to express your feelings. 2 – I would be upset.
  19. You are in a discussion with someone who persists in arguing about a topic they know very little about. 3 – This makes me cranky.
  20. Someone sticks his or her nose into an argument between you and somebody else. 1 – Not a big deal.
  21. You need to get somewhere quickly, but the car in front of you is going 25mph in a 40mph zone, and you cannot pass. 2 – I would be upset, especially if the driver would not pull over.
  22. Stepping on a glob of chewing gum. 0 – Again, this is environmental. What can you do?
  23. Being mocked by a small group of people as you pass them. 1 – As above, this would turn more into self-loathing than into anger.
  24. In a hurry to get somewhere, you tear a good pair of slacks on a sharp object. 1 – I’m clumsy, so I’ve become used to this.
  25. You use your last quarter to make a phone call, but you are disconnected and the quarter is lost. (Or, in modern terms: you are stranded, so you use your cell phone to call for help. The battery dies.) 1 – Another case in which there’s nothing to be angry at.

Here is how Burns interprets the results of the anger survey.

0 – 45: The amount of anger and annoyance you generally experience is remarkably low.
46 – 55: You are substantially more peaceful than the average person.
56 – 75: You respond to life’s annoyances with an average amount of anger.
76 – 85: You frequently react in an angry way.
86 – 100: You are plagued by intense fury. You probably harbor negative feelings and grudges.

My total score is 41. I am not very irritable. This is surprising in some ways, but makes sense when I think about it. I may bitch and moan often, but I’m rarely truly upset. I say what I think and move on. I do not dwell on anger.

Kris and I talked about this survey after I took it. We decided that we both have similar approaches to anger. Neither of us gets angry very often, but what we do that may be unusual is that we openly express how we feel. If something irritates us, we express our displeasure instead of holding it in. We suspect that most other people hold it in. (Note that we do, of course, hold in our frustrations in certain circumstances.)

I believe that most people are taught to keep their feelings — good and bad — under wraps. If they’re excited about something, they remain restrained. If something makes them angry, they do not let it show. Many people dislike confrontation, especially if the confrontation is somehow negative. I’m not like that. I usually wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t know what good it does to keep irritation inside.

How did you score on the anger assessment survey?

Forty-Four Ounces

“[I doubt my senses] because,” said Scrooge, “a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

After a wonderful meal at Paul and Amy Jo’s last night — beer-cheese soup, salmon cakes, garlic aoli, mashed potatoes, a corn dish that wasn’t grits — Kris and I slept in this morning. When at last we rose, I made hot cocoa for breakfast. I started to prepare a single cup, but that left only enough cocoa powder for one more serving. “Why not just have it all now?” I thought, and so I did. I sat at the table, reading the paper, dunking honey toast into my cocoa. Delicious.

In the afternoon, we saw The 40-Year-Old Virgin. “My gut hurts,” I told Kris as we drove to the theater. “My gut always hurts after I drink cocoa, especially if I drink too much.”

Kris shook her head. “Maybe you should stop buying chantico,” she said.

“I’ll just get some pop at the movie to help soothe my gut,” I said. I’m not sure why I thought this would work.

Kris paid $12 to get us into the matinee. ($12!!!) I bought refreshments. “What can I get you today?” asked the bright young Regal employee.

“Uh, well. I see you have combos available,” I said, pointing at a sign, “but you don’t list the prices for them.”

“I can tell you the prices. Which one would you like?”

“Well, what’s the difference between the nachos and the super nachos?”

“The super nachos come with more chips and two dipping sauces,” she explained, as if the super nachos were the best movie concession in all the world. “Would you like the super nachos?”

How could I refuse? “Uh, sure. How much does that cost?” I asked.

“Ten dollars,” she said, “and it comes with a medium drink. Also, if you buy a combo you can have any candy for two-fifty.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have a diet. And some M&Ms.”

“Is Diet Coke okay?” she said, and I sighed inwardly. Of course Diet Coke is okay — that’s why I say ‘diet’ instead of ‘Diet Pepsi’, yet whenever I ask for a diet soda, the server always asks “Is Diet Coke okay?” or “Is Diet Pepsi okay?” Maybe I should ask for ‘diet cola’ instead.

The girl scooped up our chips and M&Ms and then handed over a tub of diet cola. “That’s a medium?” I asked, awed. She smiled and nodded. The forty-four ounce “medium” drink contained the equivalent of four cans of soda. Thank god I ordered diet.

“I can’t believe we’re paying $24.50 to see a movie,” Kris said as we waited through the barrage of music videos and advertisements that Regal Cinemas inflicts on its customers. I hate Regal.

“At least I got a forty-four ounce diet,” I said.

“The thing of it is,” said my wife, the trained observer, “we didn’t save any money by getting all this food. They didn’t list the prices of the combos because there’s no discount for buying them. They cost the same as if you’d purchased the items seperately. I added it up while you were ordering.”

“At least I got a forty-four ounce diet,” I said.

As the movie began, I realized I was in trouble. I’d been sipping on the soda for only fifteen minutes, and already I needed to urinate. I held out a while longer, but was soon forced to make a dash for the restroom. I hate to miss any part of a film for a bathroom break, but ultimately I had to miss three chunks of The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Forty-four ounces of diet cola are too much for my bladder to handle.

Perhaps those three missed chunks were crucial to one’s enjoyment of the film. Despite my appreciation of Judd Apatow‘s televison work (Freaks and Geeks, Undeclared), I found The 40-Year-Old Virgin mediocre. Parts were funny, but invariably the audience laughed where I didn’t, and I laughed where they didn’t. (The biggest laugh for me came from a music cue, for goodness sake.) This isn’t a movie one needs to see in a theater, if ever.

We did chores in the late afternoon. I tried not to get distracted by side projects. (I have a bad habit that goes something like this: Perhaps I am sweeping the library floor. As I sweep, perhaps I gaze absently at a bookshelf filled with Latin books, and perhaps it occurs to me that I ought to put the Latin books into alphabetical order. Rather than finish sweeping, I pause — because it will only take a minute — and sort the books. Then I pull one of them down to thumb through it. Pehaps I think to myself, “I should begin studying Latin again.” Perhaps I then decide to go upstairs to google a Latin word. Or two. Or three. Perhaps I then decide to check the football scores. And then I might as well try to catch up on my e-mail. Before I know it, Kris is scolding me because once again I’ve forgotten what it is I’m supposed to be doing, which is sweeping the library. Without Kris to guide me, my rooms would be perpetually half-swept, though at least all of my books would be in alphabetical order.)

After chores, I was hungry. The super nacho and the forty-four ounce diet soda hadn’t been filling. “Can I have your leftover Chinese food?” I asked Kris, because I knew she’d say yes. I piled her Mandarin Chicken into a bowl with my General Tso Chicken and stuck it in the microwave. The resulting mass was terrible (deep-fried Chinese food just does not reheat well.) “This sucks,” I said.

“Then don’t eat it,” Kris said, but I did anyhow. I didn’t enjoy it.

Later in the evening, my gut began to hurt again. I ignored it and climbed into bed, but I could not fall asleep. I took a sleep quiz in a magazine: “Are you an owl or a lark?” I was a lark: best in the morning, not performing well late at night. I turned out the light and lay there in my C-PAP mask, breathing deep Darth Vader breaths (breaths that scare the cats), unable to sleep for the gross Chinese food causing a pain in my gut and for the fourty-four ounces of diet cola I’d consumed earlier in the day.

Soccer for Six-Year-Olds

We were up late last night, watching the second season of Arrested Development with Tiffany, Marla, Celeste, and Nicki. I was beat when we crawled into bed after midnight. I’m too old for such wild and crazy nights.

My hopes for a late morning were dashed when Kris woke me before dawn. “Let’s go see Harrison’s soccer game,” she said.

I wanted to sleep. “I want to sleep,” I said, gasping through my C-PAP mask.

She resorted to bribery. “I’ll buy you a chantico,” she said. I went downstairs to take a bath.

As Jenn explained in a recent entry, soccer for first-graders is somewhat chaotic. The rules are essentially what you’d expect except:

  • there are only five players per team;
  • there are no goalkeepers;
  • there are essentially no fouls;
  • halves are only twenty minutes long;
  • no official score is kept;
  • any out-of-bounds yields a throw-in;
  • and, most radically, there is no off-sides.

Without this last concession, the game would be unplayable. Kids this young have no concept of position. The dominating factor regarding soccer for first-graders is that the kids cluster around the ball, all trying to kick it at once.

Sometimes a kid will come up with the ball and break from the crowd, sprinting for the goal. They rarely make it.

The coaches try to instill some sense of order:

And sometimes the kids can be convinced to stay on the defensive half of the field:

And sometimes something resembling normal soccer takes place, as here when Tyler crosses the ball to Harrison (who would be off-sides in a real game):

It’s great fun to watch the kids play, though, and they all seem to love it.

  

  

When it was all said and done, kids from opposing teams joined together for crackers and juice.

I was happy to have spent the morning among old friends: Rich, Karen, Kim, Sabino, and Katrina; John, Louise, and Jenn; Ken, Roger, and Kristin; and all of their children and grandchildren.

“That’s what I miss about living in Canby,” I told Kris on the drive home. “Those are my people. Whiskey Hill — Nintey-One — is my homeland.”

“You don’t have to miss it,” she said. “Didn’t we just visit?”

Burger Therapy

It has been a strange week.

We’ve been unusually busy here at work, which is good. As you might expect, the incredible self-destructing weblog has sucked up all my spare time. Between the two, I feel drained. Meanwhile, there’s a mountain of e-mail accumulating on my computer, e-mail that needs replies. Jason wants to go for a walk? Too bad I didn’t even read the e-mail until after the suggested walking time. Somebody wants to host a wine-tasting event? I know there’s a message somewhere about it somewhere, but I can’t find it.

At night, I’m exhausted. Kris, too, has been coming home tired. Last night — our third night of this — we knew we had to take drastic action. We drove to Mike’s for burgers.

Mike’s Drive In is a sort of local Dairy Queen-type semi-fast food joint. They have good burgers and great shakes at reasonable prices. There’s no mistaking it for gourmet faire, but there are times when all you want is a good burger. (Lew’s Dairy Freeze is actually much closer to us, but we ate there the first day we were in the new house and have never gone back. We weren’t impressed.)

You know what? After a chili burger, an oreo shake, and a basket of onion rings, I felt refreshed. And fat. Very fat. (I’ve gained back all the weight I had lost this summer. Can you believe it? Of course you can.)

Back home we watched the third of four DVDs that make up Undeclared: The Complete Series. Undeclared was a short-lived sitcom from the same minds that created the brilliant Freaks and Geeks. (And, more recently, filmed The 40-Year Old Virgin, which I’ve yet to see.) Whereas Freaks and Geeks, a one-hour drama, followed the travails of a group of high school kids during the early eighties, Undeclared follows a similar group of kids as they enter college in the early aughts. (By “similar” kids, I mean that some of the same actors have prominent roles in both series, and that certain characters seem to have been deliberately plucked from Freaks and Geeks and transplanted into Undeclared.)

Undeclared struggled to find its footing during the first few episodes, so much so that we almost removed the series from our Netflix queue. I’m glad we hung in; our perseverance has been rewarded. By the end of the series, the actors and writers had become more confident, endowing each character and each story with a sort of enthusiasm that is contagious. The show busted me up several times last night: I was in stitches. My favorite character is Lizzy’s stalker ex-boyfriend, Eric. He runs a copy shop, and with his posse of co-workers, he bumbles through his possessive, obsessive life — shouting, stomping, storming, swallowing tongue studs.