A page for the ideas that don't quite fall into place as a blog entry.
Saturday, March 12, 2011:
I was watching a show the other day, and this exchange of dialogue really stood out to me:
HAWK: You did your job.
ELLIOTT: Well, that's not good enough anymore.
HAWK: Well, it has to be, because that's all there is.... All that's required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Here's to a few good men.
Makes me think about lots of things going on these days. The first part really does pertain to my practical everyday job and the events of the past year. The last part just sounded cool and romanticized. As much as I'd like for it to be pertinent, I have no clue as to whether or not it really has to do with me.
Just trying to come to grip with the fact that my "best" isn't as good as I might think it is. The frustration I feel, the blow to my ego, the wounded pride... the feeling of anger that I'm doing my best and I'm under a microscope and there are so many others that aren't.
Thursday, November 11, 2010:
To all of our nation's veterans, thank you.
The veterans who've been killed in action, and those who've been injured in the line of duty. The veterans who've placed their loyalty to our great country above their own safety. The veterans who've sacrificed everything to protect our freedom, even if it meant coming home to face an ungrateful, highly vocal minority.
The veterans who were my fellow students in school, who once sat next to me in class, who competed on the same gym floors or performed on the same stages. The veterans who were once my students, taking notes, writing essays, and striving to pass my classes. The veterans who were my fraternity brothers, living down the hall from me, hanging out, and studying together, whom I never thanked personally.
The veterans who live next door or sit in the pew a few rows up, who do their best to return to normal life after doing what few people could do. The veterans who stepped up and volunteered to stand in line to guard our nation when people like me fell short of mustering the courage to do the same.
Thank you to all the veterans who have served or are still serving in the United States armed forces.
Thursday, November 04, 2010:
Brody sure is as tough as nails.
Tonight, he is sitting on the bench of a playground car, trying to reach the steering wheel so he can "drive" the car. His arms and legs are definitely too short for him to sit upright with his back up against the seat and still be able to grasp the wheel or brace himself on the floor.
Determined, he scoots forward, his hands grab the wheel, and his rump slides off the bench. It looks nasty how his chin hits the wheel, but he just scrunches up his face in a manner suggesting that he's just highly annoyed. I can't tell if he's going to start crying, so I try to pick him up. He wants none of that; he'd rather climb back on and figure out how to drive that thing.
He squirms out of my arms and gives it a second shot. He gets situated all right, prepared in case he slides off again. This time, he's done it.
Looking down, I see little drops of red on the floor of the car, and I then look at Brody's face. Trails of drool and blood are running down his chin. He must have bit his tongue a little bit. Didn't even whimper, didn't even slow down.
The kid's nickname should be "Nails," he's so tough.
Sunday, October 10, 2010:
Earlier this evening, I was walking my dog Billy to the mailbox and back when I stopped in my tracks. Billy, a little white west highland terrier, had also frozen in his steps. He was in a kind of pointer position; one paw off the ground, his tail straight back, and his eyes focused on something in the distance. This was funny to me because he's a big coward, he's never before been hunting, and he's usually so oblivious to what's going on around him.
I had stopped walking because I felt him stop at the end of the leash. I looked in the same direction in which he'd been looking. My heart started beating rapidly; standing nearly ten feet away is a large black dog. It was dark out already and the October evening air was chilly and marked with a slight breeze. It was as if the street lights dimmed. I could make out the shape of the dog well enough, but it just stood there in an eerily creepy way. My mind flashed to the big black dog in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban -- this beast was the Grim itself, an omen of evil or misfortune that was about to befall me.
Billy usually growled any time he saw another dog on our walks. If he didn't growl, he'd be wanting to run up and play with the other dog. This time, however, he did neither. He simply stood frozen in his tracks, staring at the Grim. The air grew colder, the wind blew harder, and the lights burned dimmer as I stared at the beast. I wondered if Billy would defend me against its possible attack, and then I wondered what misfortune it was foretelling. Would my wife or son be all right? Were my other family members in danger? Would I be in mortal peril as I drove to school the next day? These thoughts cycled through my brain and compounded and fractured off into all kinds of smaller, more detailed, and less likely futures that could have been the outcome of the Grim's appearance.
These possibilities swelled and grew until they burst and I fell back to reality to hear the sound of Billy growling. The Grim was no beast at all; just a big black standard poodle, our new neighbor's dog. The same dog I always fear would jump in front of my car in an attempt to commit suicide because it's so ugly. The same goofball dog who's so friendly, he'd lick you to death before he'd ever hurt you. The same dog who never stepped off his owner's property because of the invisible fence device hooked up to his collar.
Billy, although growling, now stood behind me. He always was a weenie of a dog. Feeling stupid for being spooked and glad to be safe, I continued on my way to the mailbox. This must be what happens when you've got too much Harry Potter on the brain, too little sleep from the previous night, and an imagination that's a little too active for an October night.
Saturday, October 9, 2010:
We're sitting down to dinner at Mel's Hard Luck Diner, which is a famous Branson hot spot because the waiters and waitresses sing to its patrons as they eat. These singers are pretty talented, too! They take turns in strolling about the diner with cordless microphones and sing their little ditties, and periodically, someone makes an announcement about how each performer's CD is available in the gift shop for purchase.
Our waitress came by singing "You'll Always Be My Baby," and she was doing well, too! She was the third singer who'd come by our table. Brody had been ignoring them each time, too. This time, the waitress stood at the opposite end of the table and serenaded him directly from her spot. He stared back at her with a cute smile on his face. Eventually, she got to the last line of the chorus: "Remember, you'll always be my baby!" to which Brody responded by shaking his head enthusiastically and making his equivalent of a protesting "uh-uh!"
Hilarious! That kid sure was a lot of entertainment this weekend!
