Curse

"Thanks for coming down again, Grace."  Detective Bob Langdon shakes my hand stiffly.  "This one calls himself Curse.  Claims he can help with your case.  Seems a bit off to me."

"Whackjob of the day, huh?" I twirl a long strand of hair I've pulled loose from my ponytail. "Why did you bring him in? He a suspect?"

"I didn't. He arrived this morning. Said he knows something about what happened to you."

It's been three weeks since I was first brought to the station to help ID the men who attacked me. The police haven't tabbed a single one. I smooth one of my eyebrows with my fingers, letting the caress drift down my cheek to trace the rough scabs that still decorate my face.

"And what's that?"

"Said he wanted to wait till you were here."

I take a long look at the man seated in the interrogation room. His face is shrouded beneath a hood of long, brown hair. Unkempt, but not unclean. A day's worth of stubble darkens his cheeks, and his age is hard to place. Maybe a bit younger than thirty, or perhaps just north of forty, but most likely somewhere between.  His white button-down shirt looks crisp and clean, but his black leather jacket stands out. Really it's a worn-out gray, and I notice a few unsightly holes near the shoulders and elbows.  Still, I know my fashion, and the shell is quality leather with a boxy sort of cut that was once high style--decades ago. Suppose that makes sense though, seeing as the jacket looks to have seen more winters than the man himself.

"You seen him before?" Langdon asks.

"Nope. I'm certain."

Langdon starts to say something else, but pauses when the man in interrogation places his wallet on the table.

"Glad you're here, Grace. You'll want to see these."

A chill goes through me at the sound of my name. He goes back into his jacket, and soon, four wallets sit on the table.

Langdon storms out and bursts into the interrogation room.  "The hell are those?"

Curse looks up, and for the first time I notice something strange about his eyes--even where the light hits them, there's no shine, no glimmer.  He smiles, and it's a serpent's smile, the kind where the crow's feet stay hidden no matter how brightly the pearly-whites flash.

"They're wallets, detective. I think Miss Matthews will agree they belong to the men who hurt her." He bows his head slightly while his smile widens. "Belonged, that is."

"What have you done?" Langdon shouts. He touches a hand to his gun.

Curse waves a hand. "Oh nothing like that. Don't be silly, Detective. I would never ordinarily involve myself.  I just happened upon these men. Terrible accident, really.  No hope for saving them, so I came in to report it.  But I saw they had some of the items that got stolen from Miss Matthews, and I put two-and-two together."

"Oh, so you're a math genius now."  

Well, Miss Matthews is one of my favorite writers, and I recently saw her editorial about what happened. Good stuff; you should read it.  She's a gifted journalist.  Perhaps you caught her exposé on CrossTech?  I reckon maybe these guys wanted to shut her up."

"Right."  Langdon scowls. "Well don't get any ideas about skipping town before we check this out.  Curse.  The hell kind of name is that, anyway?"

The man laughs, then turns away from Langdon and stares straight into the two-way mirror. Straight at me.

"The name I want Grace to use when she writes about me."

Down 'Boys!

Oh HAIL yes.

I don't care that we're still 2 games under .500 right now; all that matters is the taste of those sweet, sweet Cowboy tears.  I will say that Romo's injury makes them a bit salty for my liking--never want to see a guy get seriously hurt, no matter how much it might help a team I'm pulling for.  And I do hope Romo is perfectly okay, because I don't want to hear any excuses when Dallas ends up 8-8 and gets trampled by a 'skins team streaking toward the playoffs!

Ahem.  Right.  Let's pump the brakes a little here.  Long, long... long way to go for that.  However, things are definitely looking up, and there's potential for a nice little stretch here with Vikings, Bye, and Tampa Bay on the upcoming slate.

Now, before we get to the bullet-list/rundown (gundown?) below, we have to tackle what is almost certainly foremost in every 'skins-fan's mind (even though we should be thinking about how awesome-tastic Breeland looked, not to mention the beast of a game Meriweather threw together).

That's right.  The QB position.

What to do?  Well, if it's just about the team, it's easy: play Colt until Griffin is ready.  Like I said last week, not a controversy.  But now that McCoy has engineered a win over Dallas (he's undefeated as a 'skin, by the way), it doesn't seem that simple.

What if Colt keeps winning?  What if Griffin isn't 100%?  What if Griffin looks impotent again--do we go back to McCoy?

We're getting ahead of ourselves, but I'll wager the coaches have thought about all this and more.  And they've probably come up with the same solutions I'm about to mention (among others).  The way I see it, the following three options seem "cleanest."

1) Start RG3 right away against the Vikings (so long as he's acceptably healthy).
If the guy is ready to play, I'm on board with this for a number of reasons.  Like it or not, fan/media opinions will have their effects, positive and negative, and right now Colt is riding high.  Before he potentially shoots into the stratosphere by feasting on 2 weak teams, let your franchise guy swoop in and vulture those wins (we can only hope they're wins), re-ingratiating himself with the DC fans (and perhaps the team as well, if locker-room divisions exist).

On the other hand...

2)Ride Colt until the horseshoes come off.
As noted earlier, McCoy is undefeated.  Playing the hot hand here is tricky, even if we're still in nothing-to-lose territory.  It only seems fair to let Colt notch a loss before he gets the hook, but the late-season schedule complicates things.  Also, Gruden has said RG3 is the starter when healthy, and you don't want to go against your word (especially not as a new coach who is just starting to get traction).  If going this route, it will be important to convince Griffin (and Danny Boy Snyder) that the franchise QB's best interests are being served.  A bit more time to heal and strengthen certainly can't hurt Bobby G at this point, whether it's knees, ankles, or some hyper-fragile mutant joint most humans don't even have.

Aside from all this, we have McCoy.  Colt has shown more moxie and composure in 1.5 games than our other QBs combined.  The NoFunLeague is not a the-kid-deserves-a-shot type of enterprise, but still... if he gets 2-8 more starts, he'll have earned them.  Regardless, the happy medium feels more likely.

3) Start Griffin against the Bucs coming off the Bye (again, if acceptably healthy).
Now, I do think Colt will get the nod against the Vikes, and I also think the 'skins get another tough win.  If Colt plays well, that makes the decision a bit harder for Gruden and Co., but the schedule here is critical.  You hate to switch QBs when one is essentially 3-0, but if the 'skins win against TB with McCoy under center, the situation only gets murkier.  Say he's 4-0 going into the 49er game.  Tough time to toss Griffin into the lineup cold.  Better for Colt to start that one (and maybe lose) if he's still doing well.

But say he wins.  Now everyone in DC is pretty happy, right?  And we're over .500.  Are you really going to yank a (currently undefeated) guy named Colt right before you go to Indianapolis?  And do you really want Griffin squaring off against Luck in his first game back?  Maybe you do--that D suddenly looked very suspect against the Steelers--but to me, this game is plastered in bad juju if it's RG3's comeback.

Anyway, you see where I'm going with this.  If McCoy's the starter going to Indy and plays well, I don't see how you pull him after that without making a lot of noise.  The remaining slate is Rams, @NYG, Philly, and Dallas.  Say we're 6-6 with a close loss to Indy.  I think we've waited too long to pull Colt unless he lost the Colts game for us.  And I mean really shit the stable, especially with playoffs on the table (though winning out with Griffin could spin him as the hero of this fable).

Long term, the converse is worse--RG3 takes the 'skins budding playoff chances and stomps them out with his cleats. Sure, it's up to him and the team to produce wins whenever he plays, and if he wins out, he'll be celebrated.  But if Colt's 5-1 or so, and you pull him and thrust Griffin into 4 must-win games... just seems like it's setting Bobby up to fail.  He'd absolutely have to engineer at least a split in those games to avoid alienating the fans in that situation.

The layers of this decision--the fans, RG3's future, temporary team success, locker room solidarity, etc.--make it tougher than it should be.  In short, if Colt keeps playing and keeps winning, things look bad for Griffin.  The bad gets exacerbated if Griffin plays and loses.  But the other side of the coin is that RG3 is golden if he can latch onto McCoy's little winning streak and keep it going.

Obviously this is all moot if Colt falters against the Vikes.  But regardless of his success, I think starting Bobby G sooner rather than later is the way to go if he's still the 'skins future at QB.  If you lose the fanbase (see: Matt Schaub) things can go downhill fast, and RG has some work to do to get DC back in his pocket.  I'd like to see him get the chance to do it.

That said, you won't hear any rational complaints if Colt takes us to 11-5 (or even 9-7).

Woof.  Enough about QBs.  Lets get to the list.

Good:
- The run game.  Not a blistering showing, but successful.
- The blocking.  Much improved.  Polumbus was inactive.  Coincidence?
- DJax.  Still doing what he does.  Would call his night great, but (perhaps unfairly) we expect this of him.
- Colt McCoy's rush TD.  Way to sell out!
- 3rd and 4th downs. 7-15 overall with the big 4th down play.  Could have been better, but I'll call it good.
- Kerrigan.  Just a muffed fumble-recovery from greatness.  Awesome sack to end the 1st half.

Great:
- Haslett's game-plan (and sticking to the blitz when it worked).  Looked like an extra man came around 60% of the time.  Loved the extra aggression, and it paid dividends.
- Great job by the D allowing the blitz to keep coming.  You have to make a defense pay for blitzing; Dallas didn't.
- Meriweather: 2 sacks, 2 forced fumbles, 1 fumble recovery.  Again! Again!
- Breeland.
- Breeland.
- Did I mention Breeland?
- That strip of Murray in the red zone.  (Breeland)
- Hot damn, now that's how you seal a game.  (Breeland)

Meh:
- A number of Colt's 1st half throws, including the INT and the end-zone miss to an open Roberts.
- Missed opportunities.  Early in the game, when the 'skins got a few fortuitous possessions in Dallas territory, we only came away with 3 points.  Tough to win that way.
- Missed opportunities (again).  Deserves a second mention.  On 2 drives, one in the 2nd and one in the 4th, the 'skins took penalties and sacks that backed them out of field goal range.  Can't afford those.

All right sports fans, that's enough for this week.  Catch you after the Vikings game.  Lots of work to do, but let's get to 4-5.  Go 'skins.

Not in the Cards for Captain Kirk; Colt crosses off the Ts

Ok, I'll be honest.  I didn't write about the 'skins loss to 'zona because I was fed up.  It was just another loss in a winnable game (everything's been winnable except the Thursday Night Debacle, I don't care what you say), and I felt that "done" portion of the season coming on.  You know it well, 'skins fans--that tipping point where you start thinking about next season because this one is boned.

Well, we still might be there, because we'll probably need to win 8 of the next 9 for a crack at the postseason.  But damn if it doesn't feel good to win.

I'm not going to talk about the Cards game other than to say that continued turnovers will tear through a football team from the inside like a virus.  To the 'skins credit, as a team they weren't quite infected yet, but I believe Cousins himself was.

I said before that Kirk (sorry Kirk) was taking his turnovers too hard.  I'm going to bring up Steph Curry again.  Perhaps the best trait in a bonafide sports star is selective memory.  Curry forgets every shot that doesn't go in.  Yeah, he's not the only athlete who does this, but he is the one I like the most.

Anyway, this is not to say a player should discard all his wisdom and just gun it without giving a single particle of shit about what happens.  Knowing limitations and playing within yourself will still save your ham sandwich 19 times out of 20.  But when the pooch does get screwed, take that mistake, learn from it, internalize it, then let it go.  Sure, easier said than done.  Whatever.  The great ones do it.  You want to be great, you learn to forget.

All that is to say--after watching Kirk hang his head today when he floated that INT across the middle--I'm not sure Cousins ever develops that skill.  And I'm sorry for that, as he continues to show flashes of brilliance with some absurdly difficult throws (e.g. Niles Paul completion near the start of the game).

But that's the NFL.  Cousins out.  Colt McCoy in.  RIP, Captain Kirk era.

Now, here's a quick rundown of the good stuff from today:

- We WON!!!!  Holy SHIT!!!*
     *(No one should be this enthused about a single win.  Or about beating a 2-4 squad starting Clipboard Jesus.  But a W is a W.)
- Looks like Jordan Reed should be healthy enough to make an impact soon.  That helps.
- Colt McCoy took great care of the ball and showed a lot of composure.  Not getting shaken when the big DJax throw got called back showed some steel.
- McCoy should also add a more mobile aspect that the QB position has lacked with Cousins.
- Good stuff happened when they threw at DJax downfield.
- Garcon is fast.
- Yes, really, Michael Griffin.  I promise.
- The offense put together a great drive to go kick the game-winning FG.
- The D played well enough, even if the Titans are terrible, allowing an eminently acceptable 17 points and 236 yards.
- Breeland!  Congrats on your 1st pick!  Now get up and run, it's the NFL!
- Niles Paul has played well since his bad-blocking game against Seattle.

All right, now that we've got the warm-fuzzies out of the way, here's the reality check:

- Need a lot more from the run game.  Alfred Morris' effectiveness has taken a noticeable dip more or less since Bob Griffin got carted off.
- Orakpo might be done with another pec tear.  Could be his last showing as a 'skin.  Hate to see him go out like that if so.
- Had a couple nice sacks called back for secondary penalties.  'Skins won the penalty battle today, but still have to button those up.
- There is no QB controversy.  Step off that wagon.  'Skins are now in the position of needing to see what they have in Bobby G, so he will play as soon as he can.
- Again, no controversy.  And I like McCoy.  He's got one of those classic, "successful QB" names, too.  I wanted him to succeed when he came into the league.  Smart guy, mobile, and plays with moxie.  But unfortunately he's not wielding a cannon on his right shoulder, so you won't see too many field stretching throws.  If you have a great D, then yes, I think he could capably pilot the tank to the playoffs.  But that's not Washington.  And we have too much invested in Griffin to let him sit behind McCoy right now.
- Like I said up there, we probably need to win 8 of 9 to extend the season.

All that said, I remember not so long ago that the 'skins were 3-6, staring a lost season in the face, and rattled off 7 straight.  That 3-6 is still in reach.  Easy reach.

So let's take baby steps.  Evil 6-1 Alternate-Reality Cowboys are up next.  Who wouldn't love the story of cast-off Colt McCoy or embattled RG3 leading Washington's band of misfits to victory?

I know I would.  Let's get to 3-5.  Go 'skins.


And now, I have to tack on a special mention for what I just watched--that is, the Human Touchdown Pass known as Peyton Manning.  He's at 510 and counting, living in that surreal state where every subsequent TD pass breaks his own record.  Congrats to him.  I want to see 600.

Speaking of that, the SciFi nerd in me has to admit to wondering what the hell they put in his cereal while he was over getting that stem cell stuff done in Europe to help with his spinal fusion surgery.  The way he's playing now at 38, it's easy enough to envision him slinging it until he's 45.  A terrifying thought for NFL coaches everywhere (except Denver).

For anyone who believes the goofy Passer Rating statistic is an actual measure of excellence, it bears noting this: of Peyton's 42 games since heading to Denver, he's only rated under 100 in 16 of them (and only under 90 in 6).  That's kind of absurd.

Anyway, hats off to Peyton (and, to a lesser degree, the 'skins).  Until next week, folks.  HTTR.

Russell Will-run

Back with another batch of thoughts about the Washington 'skins.  This week's defeat brought to you by the Seattle Seahawks (generally) and Russell Wilson (specifically).

- First off, Russell Wilson just carved the 'skins to pieces in the first half.  It was as dominant a performance as any I've ever seen from a legitimate combo QB.  But what is less obvious about Wilson's success tonight (and elsewhere) is how unrelentingly cerebral it is.  I'm a longtime rider of the Wilson bandwagon (grew up pulling for N.C. State and have continued to do so unfailingly despite some pretty thin years--sound familiar?), but what's becoming increasingly clear is that his level of preparation should draw comparisons to another QB (the one whose preparation often seems cybernetically enhanced).

That's right, I'm talking about Peyton Manning.  Wilson's game is very, very different, but his painstakingly-earned knowledge has given him an eerily similar comfort level.  Only developing a vast familiarity with the playbook and opposing scouting reports(enough so to make the act of playing football entirely second-nature) can lead to plays like the 3rd-down conversion around the 3-minute mark that ultimately doomed the 'skins.  To sum up, watching Wilson play makes me imagine watching Steph Curry play football.  And yes, I went ahead and bulked up Curry to a sufficiently un-injurable level for that trip through the alterverse.

Anyway, here's to Russell "Oh-look-you-think-you've-got-me-caught-10-yards-behind-the-line-of-scrimmage-haha-that's-funny-here-you-go-Marshawn" Wilson, folks.

-As for the 'skins, a loss is a loss.  No, it wasn't devastating, but now they're 1-4.  They'll need 9-2 to sniff the playoffs.  Sorry to drop the hammer, but I have better odds of waking up tomorrow with a 4-book publishing deal.  And I haven't even sent letters out yet.

-My first inclination was to feel pretty good about the game, because the 'skins were competitive, they had a chance late, and the Seahawks are good.  But then I got pissed, because that just reminded me of how easily I accept moral victories as a 'skins fan.  No more.  It was a home loss, and those are always buckets of shit.  But I'll start with some positives anyway:

The good:
     -Cousins showed pluck, especially with the last TD drive.
     -The DJax throws were superstar-caliber.
     -DJax did what he was brought in to do, and did it against the Seahawks.
     -The D tightened up nicely after the 'hawks went up 17-0.
     -Kerrigan, NFL sack leader. (And generally, there were some nice hits on RW)
     -Saw Bob Griffin walking around pretty smoothly.

The bad:
     -D on the first Seahawks drive.  Positively abominable.
     -Orakpo's contain.
     -Riley's injury. (But at least it's just an MCL sprain)
     -Offensive inconsistency: great big plays, but way too many punts.
     -The Field Goal.  When you're down 10 to last year's champs and you're 1-3, don't kick on 4th and 1 in the red zone, you schmucks.  That being said...
     -The run game.  Sorry Mr. A. Mo. Bentley, because I love you.  But it wasn't a good night.  Which leads to...

The ugly:
     -Niles Paul's run blocking.
     -Niles Paul's blocking.
     -Niles Paul's run blocking.
     -Niles Paul's effort while blocking.

Sorry Niles.  It was what it was.

All right.  Enough wallowing.  Let's go to Arizona and pound a Cardinals team still reeling from the relentless assault of a certain 6'5" 230 lb. quarterback's laser-rocket arm.

Until next week, sports fans.
      

Thursday Night Freefall

A few rambling thoughts about last night's disastrous Giants v. Deadskins tilt:

- That's as sharp as I've seen Eli Manning play in a while, and that 1 INT aberration was about a nanosecond from being a 6th TD (1 rushing). I don't even want to discuss Larry Donnell's coverage-shredding. But if this version of the Giants shows up for the rest of the season (and then in the playoffs), we might be seeing another one of those infuriatingly inexplicable Super Bowl victories.

- Poor Captain Kirk. Somewhere between this and his relative brilliance versus the Jaguars and Eagles is where we'll find the real Kirk Cousins, but now we're left wondering if this last performance will leave scars. I haven't witnessed an erosion of confidence that rapid since my last bumbling attempts to pick up women in a bar more than a decade ago. The first INT was arguably as much the receiver's fault as his. But as the 'skins fell deeper and deeper into point-debt, Cousins' comfort level vanished, and stared-down receivers and long, forced passes became the norm. A rattled QB is easy to spot, and KC8 became one in that debacle of a 3rd quarter. That being said, I thought he'd played a fine game up until that point, more or less comparable with his efforts the past 2 weeks. His response to this game will be telling. Unfortunately it's against the Seahawks.

- Riding shotgun with that last point, the team's response to this game will define their season. Injuries have mounted, and the depth is being sorely tested on both sides of the ball. They need this 10-day break. But make no mistake: just as so many 'skins teams before them, they've now begun that familiar, invidious slide toward a precipitous downward spiral. And it barely took 4 weeks.

-They're lucky to be looking ahead to a Monday Night game, but few (if any) opponents would be worse. The only silver lining is that the game is at FedEx against the East Coast, Away Seahawks--likely their most beatable form. Regardless, the game presents a potential bottoming-out moment, where they'll either let themselves be buried or resolve to crawl out of the darkness. And at this point, even another respectable loss has to be considered a step toward Option B.

- On the brighter side, Kerrigan got another sack and currently leads the NFL with 5. Too bad the other 4 came against J'ville. As much as I hate to say it, the 'skins pass rush just isn't getting home fast enough. The talent between Orakpo, Kerrigan, and Hatcher is undeniable, but you'd be hard-pressed to call any one of them elite. The pass rush is the part of the game I loved most when I played, and it's hardly ever as much about sack numbers as it is about disruption. To the front four: good effort so far. But more chaos, please. And hell, get the ball a time or two while you're at it.

-My good friend and former roommate--we'll call him Mr. 9/23--has spent the last 5 years building a tradition of going to the 'skins home game nearest his birthday. Washington is 1-4 in these. I will do my best to convince him to stop this nonsense immediately.

-I'll be masticating on this game well into next week, but I'm done doing it here.

Until next time, sports fans. If there is a next time.



P.S. - If you like reading fiction that's almost as dark and bloody as that football game, check out lastcausatum.blogspot.com.

The Cabin in the Woods - a Brief Review

Just watched The Cabin in the Woods last night.  I meant to see it when it came out, but circumstances conspired against me, so I'm just now getting around to it.  For better or worse, I had some preconceived notions going in, but I wish I could have had a clean viewing.  I do think my expectations affected the experience somewhat.

That being said, the movie is a lot of fun.  Right from the opener with Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford, we get a slightly different tone than usual.  How many horror movies lead off with amusing banter amid the tedium of a (somewhat scientific-looking) corporate day-job?  And really, for me, this tonal idiosyncrasy is what defined the movie.

Unfortunately, it also limits the film somewhat, but not tremendously so.  Without spoiling anything (because I wouldn't want to pass on those preconceived notions I mentioned) the movie is excellently written, the cast performs gamely, and the dialogue is sharp and enjoyable throughout.  Classic horror tropes are toyed with, turned about, and molded anew.  This is all great fun, but it's also relatively standard for horror satire.

Where the film almost succeeds masterfully is with genuine horror--actually generating scares.  As with Shaun of the Dead, weaving real fear into the absurdity often proves a struggle, though both films give a noble effort.  I'll also point out that this is where that initial tone and my preconceived notions may have colluded with the movie's mounting silliness to hold me back as a viewer (I can't stop thinking of one particularly drawn out scene where a large number of people are enjoying drinks while another person is horribly beaten in the background--it's hilarious, but not remotely frightening).

In any event, it's an entertaining romp with a few smart twists that serves as an incisive commentary on the genre at large, particularly the more recent convention of introducing a cast full of unlikable characters as fodder for the primary antagonist(s).

It also strikes me as the kind of movie that improves under the microscope of repeat viewings, as you catch more jokes and collect additional Easter Eggs.

This one's a solid twelve pack.

Scale:
1 = A shot.  Get it over with quickly and chase it with something more palatable.
2 = A beer. Standard, everyday movie.  Not unenjoyable, but not enough.
3 = A cocktail.  A taste of the good stuff, but watered down and not quite satisfying.
4 = Six pack.  A good time.  Could have been better, but no complaints.
5 = Bottle of Wine.  Slightly more refined fun.
6 = Bottle of Champagne.  To be savored, but leaves you wanting more.
7 = Twelve pack.  Enough to get you excited.
8 = High-Gravity Six Pack.  Like a Twelve Pack, but more tightly edited.
9 = Case.  Amazing, but often taxing.  Pace yourself and try not to break the seal.
10= Bottle of Liquor.  This one will knock you out.

The Coup d'eBron?

Due to a startling lack of substantive sporting news outside of the domestic violence debacle with Ray Rice* (apologies to baseball, golf, tennis, and others, but my ESPN.com pageviews are down about 400,000% since the NBA playoffs ended), I'm paying far more attention to the NBA trade talks, specifically regarding Kevin Love.  This may or may not have something to do with to a certain former Davidson player being somewhat of a focal point on one of the teams involved.  But I digress.

*Two games?  For shame, NFL.

I'll try to keep this fairly brief, but I couldn't help but write it down after a discussion with one of my co-workers inspired the title of this post.  In a nutshell: what if LeBron is gaming the entire NBA on an entirely different level than we even thought possible?

What are the odds that he's pulling all the strings--that he's already convinced Love to stay in Minnesota next year so he can leave as a free agent without the Cavs giving up anything?  It's a little conspiracy-theorist of me, I admit, but it's terribly amusing.  And I can totally see the author of "The Decision" and Miami's erstwhile Big Three coming up with the seeds for this diabolical plan.

But it doesn't stop there.  You remember that letter Gilbert wrote?  Of course you do.  So what makes you think LeBron forgot about it?

Short answer, he didn't, and it's roiling in his guts like a gallon of spoiled milk (not now, I'm rolling).  So, not only is he going to swindle Minnesota by convincing Love to stay a year and walk, he's also going to swindle Gilbert out of a team.

The potential ouster of Donald Sterling (and/or the potential boycott by Clippers players and coaches) sets exactly the precedent LeBron (fictional, devious LeBron in full Che Guevara regalia) was hoping for.  Now all the pieces are in place for him to plant tape recorders and goad Gilbert into mouthing off in just the wrong way at just the wrong time.

The Warriors are now an afterthought in the Love sweepstakes, despite Klay Thompson being the talking-head-consensus-best trade chip, because Love has already been convinced to play in Cleveland.  And LeBron has Cleveland dangling Wiggins (with no intent to actually give him up) to stall the Twolves out whenever they get close to making another move.  What about the Cavs front office, you ask?  Don't be daft.  This is ALL LeBron.  Right?  Right?!

Just you wait.  The pieces are all in place.  When everything goes down, and LeBron somehow rises as the new majority owner of the Cavaliers (and the first in a long line of super-powerful player-owners), don't say I didn't warn you.

The Coup d'eBron is coming.

Taking a Moment to Set the Scene

Sometimes I stumble across something I've written and wonder, just what in the most honored name of Bob Saget made you think that would work, you blithering putz?

Ok, perhaps I'm not quite that harsh, but when a piece or segment seems slapped together, well, I know I was just in too much of a hurry to get from point A to point B.

I couldn't be bothered to set the scene. And perhaps, in a POV piece, the character isn't taking much notice of the scene. Or he's fiddling around in some sort of reverie that we the reader are about to partake of as well. But even so. Even if this character is dismissive of everything around him, disdainful, or outright oblivious... it pays to spend a few words on the scene.

Here's a bit I stumbled across in my revisions, and how I changed it.


-------------------Version The First-------------------

It had been years since he’d set foot in the Capital. And he hadn’t wanted to come back this soon.

Devlan scowled with the visible half of his face. It was true what they said.

All roads did run through Dezaran.

Now, let's be blunt. This is thin. really thin. We learn Devlan's setting foot in Dezaran for the first time in awhile, and he's none too happy about it. Great. The words serve a function. That's about it. But who thinks about what part of their face is visible, even if the purported "invisible" half is a badly scarred ruin?

I won't even touch the dreadful cliche that somehow worked its way in there.

Facing facts, this is a very small part of a very large piece of work that can really do some damage to the whole. If I'm reading this, I totally fall out of the story, and the author (yes, I call myself that when I'm having "me" time) has to do some serious work to make up that ground. Even worse, it's at the start of a chapter, so that makes this flub at least triply inexcusable. But no worries! That's why we do the rewriting, folks. So the fancy hardcover doesn't end up on the bookshelf with poo smeared all through the pages.

-----------Version The First Point Zero Five-----------

People swarmed around Devlan, wayfarers drifting into the gates with packs slung over shoulders, caravaners driving out. All of them jabbering on about mindless things in their mindless tongue.

It had been years since he’d set foot in Dezaran. Just not enough of them.

Devlan scowled with what was left of his face. What was it these Imperials said? Some business about absence, and warming the heart…

It was a load of scat, far as he could tell.

So what did I do? Well, I had to add a few words (37, as it happens), loathe though I am to do it, and I had to change a few others. In those words I needed to establish a specific image and reinforce a few choice traits about our boy Devlan here (because like I said above, it's the beginning of a chapter, and we haven't seen Devlan for a while).

Here you learn Devlan is standing at a rather busy gate into Dezaran city. He doesn't refer to it as the Capital. It's no capital to him. You can see from this that Devlan has a marked distaste for all things Imperial, all the way down to their language, and you get the idea he's something of a cynic. And he is. Without giving anything away, believe me, he has every possible reason to be. Woe to me if he were to come across me in a dark alley after all the things I've put him through.

A different cliche is there, but it's hinted at rather than slammed over the head, and the result is Devlan gets to sound a little more sarcastic, a little more hardened.

Of course the redux is far from perfect as well, anyone can see that, but few would argue that it isn't better. And better is the name of the rewriting game. At least when I play it.

That's why I get to go through it again and again until I finally get it to Version The Second.

Then maybe it will be ready for some editor to stab it to death with his bloody pen.

I can only hope.

Until then, sports fans.

On Editing

Ah, editing. Or perhaps we should call it rewriting. Either way, the process is about shaping. Working a piece, getting in between the lines, smoothing out the wrinkles to make it that much closer to perfect, even if it can never get there.

And, as all of you writers out there surely know, nothing ever can.

But still. We have to try.

See the two versions of the same passage below. Neither are perfect, of course, but one hits a hell of a lot harder. Yet they are practically the same; a written-word version of those goofy find-the-difference-between-these-pictures games you sometimes find on the gambling machines in bars.

Just goes to show you. The changes don't have to be huge to make a huge difference.

--------------------Version A--------------------

Devlan drew his sword with the metal hand and joined the fighting. They weren’t even paying attention to him.

He came down on one with his back turned and ran him through, the blade horizontal, straight through the spine like Claive had taught him.

It got their attention, but only enough so that Claive could take advantage of a few new openings. Devlan pulled his sword from the man he’d just killed, and for just a brief moment, he caught sight of Claive’s eyes.

He froze for a moment, unable to help it. They were bloodshot, almost pulsing with crimson. Claive’s mouth was open, teeth bared. His breaths snarled out through flared nostrils. The expression didn’t look like it should ever belong on a human face. It was the most horrifying thing Devlan had ever seen.


--------------------Version B--------------------

Devlan drew his sword with the metal hand and crashed into the fight. The Keepers hardly seemed to notice.

He came down on one with his back turned and ran him through, the blade horizontal, straight through the spine like Claive had taught.

It got the guards' attention, but only enough that Claive found a few new openings. One turned at Devlan, only to have a blade explode through his head before Devlan could even pull his sword free. Devlan blinked as the blood hit his face. Then he caught a flash of Claive’s eyes.

Devlan froze and stared, trapped. The eyes were wide and bulging, dark as blood around those pale pricks of grey. Claive’s lips stretched back, his teeth bared in a monstrous smile. Hot breath snarled out through flared nostrils, the vapors clouding like smoke around a burning head.

It was the most horrifying thing Devlan had ever seen. A face that didn’t look like it could ever belong to a man.



Excerpts taken from drafts of The Seed of Desolation.

A Little Freewriting

Perhaps this mostly dead blog will see some revival as I delve further into writing and get the gears turning on either a) an exciting adventure for next year or b) an exciting foray into publishing with the 600-page fictional adventure farting around on my hard drive.

Until then... here's a taste of something completely different.

---------------------Looking Back---------------------

When you look back, what’s there to see? Is it a chance lost? An opportunity wasted? A whole mess of them? What is it you feel, when you look in the mirror and see that sagging face with its lightless eyes, that shadow framed in a wreath of steely hair that looks nothing like the person you thought you were? What is there?

Life is not full of time, even though that’s really all it is. Maybe you wanted to do something, or be something. Maybe there was hope in you. But you sat. You didn’t do. You never did.

Or maybe you were something, once. Maybe you found it, but you lost it. Like the athlete who lets go. That warrior. That fighter who wakes up at 3 am sweating liquor and needing a piss, all popping knees and aching back. He leans over the toilet, an arm braced against the wall, and he has to crane his head around his gut to catch a glimpse of his dick. What do you think he’s thinking?

How did I get here? How did this happen? How could it?

But that’s the trick. No one took you to this place, this state. It’s not like you got all dressed up and got into his limo to go to the dance. No one brought you. You brought yourself.

Even if you just sat there and watched life happening around you, even if you decided it felt safest to stay in one place and spin your wheels, you decided. You made a choice. Choices. And every time you look in that mirror, the reflection of those choices will be etched in whatever image stares back through the glass.

I sure wish I’d known that before. When everything was wonderful. When everything was ahead. When I ran my fingers through her hair, and didn’t think I could ever love anyone that much. When my parents called to say they loved me, and I’d say I love you, too, and hang up the phone so I wouldn’t have to talk anymore.

You always seem to realize too late the things that really matter. It’s usually once they’re gone.

The last time I spoke to my parents, I couldn’t wait to get them off the phone. Big date planned, really big. Always thought of that night as a pre-engagement-engagement. Or something. My phone rang during dinner. Once, twice. I turned it off. This girl, nothing was more important than her right then. Still nothing more important than her, if I’m honest.

But after the date I get the messages. All of them. About my parents.

A drunk driver took them from me. I took myself from everyone else.

When I look in the mirror, the face scares me. The eyes mostly. There’s something in the eyes that changes when a man kills.

They died twelve years ago.

I made choices.

Interlude: Short Story -- "Seeing Red"

_______________________________________________


---------------------Seeing Red----------------------


I was eating a deep-fried pineapple pie from McDonald’s when I saw him hit her.

Walking alone, hair blowing in the chill wind. Staring into the dark, thinking of another life.

When I say I saw him, I mean I heard him. The actual blow, no, I can’t say I saw that. I just turned my head after the crack, watched her reel, heard her shriek. The shouted words that spewed from his mouth carried all the venom of a snake’s bite… well, judging from tone, that is.

I had no idea what they meant, of course. Nor did I understand any of the signs around me, nor did I understand a zillion other little nuances of this strange and alien world.

I was an American in China, and though I had been so for several months, I was not, would never feel at home.

So I didn’t know why he had hit her, and I didn’t imagine that I could hope to understand it. But I remembered a girl I dated once, who had told me one night how her father beat her. Then she drank a bottle of vodka and vomited into a trash can while I held her hair.

She’d told me she wanted to marry me that night, before she passed out. Then she’d woken up, still drunk, and gone off to sleep with somebody else.

What a terrible thing, violence.

Menace in my eye, I shoved the half-eaten pie in the bag, crumpled it, threw it to the street. The man stared back at me, eyes betraying nothing. He puffed his chest a bit, posturing. Tough, I thought, like the men are taught to be here. He was young, younger than I’d imagined at first. Maybe 20. She was crying. Both of them were frail. Tiny. Enough to make me feel a giant.

I liked that.

The space between us closed quickly. Now his eyes flashed fear. I have to wonder how my face looked. I glanced to the girl, cringing, trembling there in the night wind. Blood trickled from a crease in her split lip. She was pretty, I thought. A tiny, pretty, delicate thing, like a butterfly.

A butterfly who had just been swatted mercilessly from the air by an angry child.

Never mind that the "man" in front of me was scarcely bigger than she. Never mind that he was starting to tremble, too, at the sight of my pale, angry, western, alien face. I didn’t see that. Never saw that.

I saw the abusive husband, the abusive father. The coward. The scum of the Earth.

Before I knew what I was doing, it was done. Too well done. A hand that knew how to throw a punch shot out before I could call it back. A heavy hand backed by a strong arm, a strong arm backed by a body so much bigger and thicker than most in this part of the world.

The force surprised me, hurt me. I felt his teeth carve into the flesh of my hand even as they caved from the blow. It was the crack, though, that split the night; the crack that left me stunned, mouth open and empty of words or breath.

I knew he was dead before she started screaming, before he started falling, before I even pulled back my hand. I watched his eyes roll backward as his head lolled on top of his broken neck, angling toward the ground that rushed to meet it.

I looked at my hand, my bloody fist. I looked at the pale skin drenched with red, and I knew.

There would be no escaping this.

The girl was on her knees now, sobbing over him, saying things I couldn't understand, feeling things I hadn't tried to understand. I could only look at her, shame forcing my eyes open, binding them to her in silent penance. And what an easy penance it probably was, I thought, compared to what was surely coming.

My lip trembled as I ground my ragged knuckles against my other palm, hiding from sight the life that bled from me, the hopes and dreams that fled before my very eyes, lost to me forever in that awful, red moment.

I shuddered as I drew my next full gasp of air, like an infant struggling for breath at the first of a new and difficult existence.

What a terrible thing.


_____________________________________________



Author's Note: Now,this is a work of fiction through and through, so don't get any ideas. However, for the record, I did see a guy hit a girl tonight while I was walking home, and when I started going towards him, he moved away very fast. It wasn't until after that I began to imagine the many possible pitfalls of confronting someone so far removed from my element. Good thing I have more sense than that, huh?

One Month Later

So yes, I’m aware that there is a lot I’ve neglected to say in the last little while, and while there is no excuse, my reasons are myriad.

Suffice it to say that things have been busy. Tumultuous. Fun. Difficult. Easy. Arduous. Heartwrenching. Heartwarming.

But enough of that. Essentially, I owe my current episode of writer’s block to five things:

Writer’s Block (hey, it happens).

Almost four uninterrupted weeks of cold, hard rain. No, I am not kidding, or exaggerating. I have not seen the sun in a damned month.

Saying yes when Chinese people ask me to do things with them.

Being absolutely brain-dead whenever I have time to myself.

And, of course, an understandable degree of moping about a certain notable absence.

That being said, tonight, after a reasonably amusing episode of KTV (that’s Karaoke TV, for the three of you reading) at which I got molested by an overzealous Chinese man… yeah, they do that here… no comment… well, I feel like I should write SOMETHING about the events that have transpired since I returned to Anqing (to say nothing of what transpired in Moscow).

Since I returned, I’ve taught four weeks of school. For two weeks, I had to take the classes all to myself, just like before. However, at last, Ray’s replacement joined me, and she’s been helpful relieving some of the workload, to say the least. So here’s the deal—I got paid, a LOT, for the extra work I did, which is excellent; my employers cater to my whimsy because of my willingness to help out in a tight spot; and I don’t have to eat alone now. Plus, the kids are a BREEZE to teach now, and I feel like I can actually make tangible progress with them. I’ve taken hold of the reins pretty hard in the classes so far this year, and they seem to be responding well to my brand of easy discipline. So, reading that, everything sounds great, right?

Well, the long and short of it is, I have very little to complain about, here. It’s an amazing experience that, so far, is getting better. Really, thinking of it now, I only have the one thing. I miss a lot of people, you know, and these days, as you may surmise, one in particular.

It won’t go away, that feeling, and really, why should it? Why would I want it to? It’s a call I should be answering. It’s something I should be beyond happy about.

And, come to think of it, I am.

At the moment, it just has its hurdles.

Good thing I get to jump over one of them next week, for a while. Then I can run free and easy, at least for a few days, till the next one comes along.

All right, now that that’s all out of the way, for the time being… Russia.

Cyrillic is a cool alphabet. It’s like code. I think if it had been Russian I was learning, I’d be damn well fluent by now. I thought it was THAT much easier. The metro was easy enough to navigate, I suppose, after a time, but stressful with luggage. And man, the cold. Everywhere, biting at your face and every other bit of uncovered flesh.

I felt it most keenly in the two or so mile walk we took to the Chinese Embassy to iron out some visa difficulties (and THERE’S a story I’m not willing to tell without a beer). Let’s just say it was a little nerve-wracking, and we almost didn’t make it back to China alive.

Well, we almost didn’t make it back to China, anyway.

After that our days were relaxing enough, taking in the Red Square (but still outside! My nose was half-dead at this point) and some of the other sights within the Kremlin. We went in a mall, ran from the police (lest they accost us and ask for passports that couldn’t be produced), and generally just explored. We even found Irish pubs, and ate at two of them!

(One night involved a pub crawl and a snowball fight. And an advertisement for Miller Midnight. What the hell?)





It was just one more amazing time to add to a growing list of ridiculousness that I am experiencing here. When I think about what I expected, from my life, a year or so ago… let’s just say that I’m now aware, more than ever, that we really don’t know what’s best for us. I’ve had plans before, sure, but the way things have turned out since I’ve been here… I couldn’t have drawn this up.

But I wouldn’t draw it any different.

To Russia With Love (And Not Enough Time!)

There’s no time to waste. All we have IS time, and we don’t have much of it. Sure, we can lose more than time. There are things we like, people we enjoy being around, habits we don’t care to break. And circumstances can force you to live without those things. Painfully, in many cases. But we never really HAVE those things. We just have the time in which we can appreciate them.

Well, such was the moody brew in which I began to stew as the train bounced along its seemingly endless tracks through the snowy desolation of Siberia. I felt that time was short. I felt that soon, the ride would be over. Soon, I’d be teaching again. Soon, I’d be away from people I didn’t want to be away from. Soon enough, I’d be leaving China. Soon after, I’d have to embrace a future, or flee from it. After that, well… nothing is as far away as we’d sometimes like for it to be.

Needless to say, this is not what I should have been thinking. No, what I should have been thinking was how much I had absolutely loved the places I’d been the past few weeks (to say nothing of the company), and that I had several more days to enjoy both of those things. Still, I did succeed in cramming most of my nonsensical worries into a little black box and telling them to stay the hell away from me until February 9th, when I would (and have since) resumed classes in Anqing.

First, I have to tell you about the train, because the train was… well, it was awesome.

Now, there are many things our little Lonely Planet guidebook got wrong about the Trans-Siberian Train, and I won’t really go into them here, but as it only seems to explore things from the Moscow to Beijing side of the trip, I think we got the journey with a decidedly different flavor.

First off, the train is damn near deserted--although this probably had to do with season--and very few of the passengers are Russian. That's not surprising, considering no one really seemed to get on after Mongolia. In our entire carriage (with maybe 15 cabins, give or take a few) I believe we had less than a dozen people for most of the ride. And each of those cabins can hold four, folks. Yeah.

So we could spread ourselves out. Relax. Have some privacy. That was an unexpected perk. I mean, in China, trains are crowded, dirty, sweaty journeys where you’re basically doing your damndest to keep to yourself in the middle of 8 – 10 people.

Well not so for this train, and happily.

Now, there are only so many things you can do in a train cabin. Let’s have a list.

There’s reading.

Writing.

If you just said 'rithmetic, shame on you. No.

If you have a laptop, there are movies and games.

If you have a deck of cards, well, you better have at least one friend and some knowhow. And preferably alcohol.

There’s Uno.

Drinking. (Already alluded to.)

Eating (but only if you brought food).

Sleeping.

Exercise. Yep, it’s true; with careful examination of your various available grips and points of leverage, it’s quite possible to manipulate your own body weight in at least a hundred different ways. Nice. But no cardio (unless you’re a spy/adventurer on a high-speed inter-carriage foot chase, like myself).

Waiting.

Getting off.

Feeling nervous about getting off because none of the stops last long enough and you're worried the train will run away with all your things and leave you stranded in a frozen wasteland where you last approximately 7 hours before dying a horrible, frost-bitten death... ok, so that's probably just me.

Watching the windows.

And of course—did I say it already?—drinking. Yes, well, our few carriage-mates
were all Mongolian, and turns out they had a little something about drinking they wanted to show us.

It all began after two toilsome nights waiting to go through customs. Luckily we didn’t piss anyone off enough to get shaken down (I heard about this happening to several others). Anyway, after these two joyous evenings of nail biting while waiting for several unknown uniformed individuals to return our sacred, life-giving passports (both of which dragged out to about 4 or 5 am), the Mongolians came a-knocking the third night. I’ll admit, I was a little uneasy at first, but after a few beers it seemed as if we would become fast friends. Still, the night had already grown old, and none of us could last for long.

The next day was different. After lunch, in the midst of the movie Australia (don’t ask how I got it, it is China after all), there is a quiet knock at the door. Lo and behold, a Mongolian bearing gifts! No, wait, that’s not a gift. That’s bad.

That’s vodka.

As we settled into their car, they began pouring huge shots of straight liquor, which, you know, it seemed impolite to refuse. After the liquor came strange meats, strange vegetables, bread… more meat. More meat. More bread. Much more vodka. A veritable cocktail of strange was brewing inside me. Anyway. The remainder of THAT story need not leave the train. The end.

Soon enough the train ride ended, as I knew it must, and we stepped off into a frozen world with yet another alphabet that my idiot brain finds unintelligible. Well, it did at first, anyway. Turns out, Cyrillic, as you might imagine, is a LOT more intuitive than Chinese. Anyway, a brief and somewhat confusing subway ride later, we were lugging luggage up the street toward a quaint hostel, which was all too welcome because of the cold outside and the hot shower within.

Yeah, you know, showers seem a lot more valuable once you’ve been on a five-and-a-half day train where they don’t exist.

The hostel was extremely comfortable, but deserted. Guess tourist season for Russia is probably during a month when the ol’ air outside isn’t hanging out somewhere well below 0. Our host Alex was extremely generous, AND helpful--he directed us very ably on our journey to Moscow's Chinese Embassy and into the hair-raising adventure that followed there during the next couple of days. But that, as they say, is a story that will have to wait.

More later, I swear. Or I’m Genghis Khan.

...To be concluded.

A Break in the Back-blog

Howdy folks.

You know, I'm sitting here, almost twelve hours on the nose from settling in on a five-day Trans-Siberian train trip, and I'm still struggling with a way to express to anyone just how much I have loved the last four weeks of my petty little existence. And it's only getting more exciting.

Now, I realize the tone of the last couple little notes I jotted down (yeah, they're there, so don't forget to read 'em, if you care to) was a bit mopey, and the one I'll eventually put up after this might have a little of that flavor too, but I just want all of you folks out there to know that I am indeed having the time of my life.

And I want you know that I'm going to hold off throwing anything else up on here until this great trip is good and done, bahahahaa! Sorry!

More to come after I jump over to Moscow and back!

And Now... Intermission. Please Enjoy the Catharsis and an Ice-Cold (Adult) Beverage

Ah, the holidays have come and gone once again—the holiday season in America, that is. For the Chinese, the holidays are just beginning, meaning that the semester break is upon us, and it is time to escape into the vast, waiting world.

In my head, all the pieces seem in place. It has all the look of a fantasy ready to be realized. So this should be a time of great excitement, yes? This time that I’ve been most looking toward since the moment I touched down in Beijing?

Of course, all is not always as it should be.

Despite all the best efforts of my friends in Anqing, western and Chinese alike, Christmas just never felt… like Christmas. Not this year. Like I’ve said, I just could not help but be reminded of all those who were so far away and so dearly missed, at that time of year above all others. The gloom that settled over me this Christmas was unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It wasn’t debilitating, it didn’t even dull my mood that much. But it hung a little heavier each day, with the tenacious fingers of a climber scrabbling for a hold when his life depends on finding it. Really, now, truly--unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Not loneliness. Not homesickness. And until these last days, I still didn’t have it shaken.

I do think some of it had to do with the commercial mockery of Christmas that I saw here. Not that it was in any way intentional on the part of the Chinese—in fact I found their efforts to understand the holiday quite charming. I just realized that the Christmas I saw them trying to celebrate was a reflection of the image we must be exporting from America and other parts of the world where Christians observe the holiday, and it saddens me. But there was certainly more to it than that.

Now, New Year’s day has passed, and my malaise manifested itself physically as a nasty malady for a few days. Since that’s been behind me, my mood has moved into slightly more thoughtful territory. With school done for a bit, and China and more at my beck and call (Yes, just so you know, I have now hiked the Great Wall; there will be pictures soon enough. Rest assured it was everything I hoped it could be and more, like much of the past three weeks has been, but I can’t talk about all that yet because it’s too damn cheerful for the tone of this filler essay on my bout with the moody blues.), I just can’t get my head right to have as good a time as I want to. It’s as if a switch has been thrown in my head, and where 2008 was mostly carefree, 2009 is careworn.

I just can’t stop thinking of what’s coming. Now that what I was so looking forward to has arrived, I can’t stop looking too far ahead. And I hate it.

With half the year done, I can see the end of my stay in China clear as daylight, and I wonder—have I done what I set out to do? Have I done enough?

Certainly, I have done much since I came here of which I can be proud, but am I pleased with it? With my effort? Am I pleased with myself, the challenges I’ve met and overcome, the things I’ve learned and done?

I think the answer to that is no. Not a resounding one, mind you. But still no.
Or perhaps, more appropriately, not yet.

Half over is only one way of looking at things. Yeah, I remember now.

I still have time.

(Just so you know, the day I jotted this down in my notebook I was in a foul mood, and once I finished, it seemed almost instantaneously erased. Writing is a funny thing. And—heaven help us—more is on the way, so sit tight, sports fans!)

It’s Thursday Night, And You Know What That Means… It’s Christmas Time

Wow. Christmas is (was, I know, I know—this is rather late, but please, bear with me) here. I mean that just the way it sounds, Christmas is HERE, in China, in Anqing, and boy is it strange, for so many reasons. The first and foremost of said reasons being that none of those folks with whom I would so dearly love to be at Christmas time seem to be HERE.

Now, that is not to say that I did not delight in Christmas dinner with my fast friends, the fellow foreign teachers from the other campus (bonus points for alliteration?) and the subsequent, radically awkward church service we attended (more on these later). But it does mean that the people I usually feel the need to be near at Christmas were all notably absent.

My first Christmas experience actually came several days before, when I agreed to be present at a private school’s Christmas function. It was not the school at which I teach, but seeing how they behaved, how they enthusiastically performed the few Christmas carols they knew, how they donned Santa caps (EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE, had a Santa hat)… all of it made me think about how much they recognized the commercial side of Christmas, and how little they knew of the real story behind it. But from the questions they asked, I also got the impression that they wanted to know more, from a purely informational standpoint.

I didn’t have the opportunity to do so at the time, but it set in my head what I would do for the coming week with my students. Yeah, you guessed it. Time to talk about Christmas. Real Christmas.

It made for a strange lesson, to be sure, drawing pictures of Santa’s face and Christmas trees on the board, then putting a cross next to them, and asking if any of them knew what it was. A few said “Jesu,” of course… but a precious few at that. It seemed to me that all most of them knew of Christmas had to do with trees and presents and the enigmatic “Christmas Father.” Needless to say, I did my best to supply them with a little… additional info… all the while bearing in mind I probably needed to keep it really impersonal to avoid getting chunked in the clink. Of course, as I fumbled about with a way to explain words like “commercial” (at one point resorting to running around the room and striking a pose with my water bottle whilst—yeah, I said it, whilst—yelling, “SO GOOD!”), I realized that I also had to explain concepts much more basic, like the idea of something being sacred, and the idea of celebrating peace.

Truth be told, I have no idea how much of it any of them were able to grasp. I’d like to believe a little, but in the end I think it mostly just made me feel better.
It was later that week, when the day finally came, that I and three other members of Anqing’s meager contingent of foreigners sought out Christmas dinner together (well, it was Chinese food, but like we always say, it’s the thought that counts). Addendum: I have since learned that Anqing’s food leaves much, much, MUCH to be desired. It was good to be with each other, though; very. And afterward came the reaaaally exciting part—when the married couple and I took a risk and found a Chinese church!

As for what we encountered there… well…

You know, rather than explain in words, I believe I’ll elect to have these pictures, and possibly this video, if it chooses to work, do all the talking.


Oh tannenbaum...


The Christmas Feast!


Not what we expected...


Quite a congregation... now if they would tithe...


Standing room only!


I leave you this time with an aside, as I’m sure you’re well aware that Christmas day has long since passed. Having been without either regular internet or adequate time (or focus, or discipline, or whatever you want to call it… it’s no secret that I’ve been rather happily distracted of late) since those days shortly following Christmas, I hope you will forgive me a brief backlog of entries (backblog?) that I must now dump on you post-haste, forthwith, heretofore, what have you. That is to say, sorry. But you’ll just have to deal with the last month in one big fat lump. And that should get us back up to speed.
But for now—zaijian! (Chinese for “toodles!”)

Author's Note: Title shamelessly (and probably sacrilegiously, sorry folks) lifted from http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGOohBytKTU.

Yeah. It's Christmas time.

[The video was supposed to be here, but it's being finicky, so it might make it up later, or it might not. Bleh.]

Thanksgiving Made Chineasy

Author’s Note: The following has been delayed due to a lack of processing power. Not in the computer. In me. My erstwhile roommate has set off for greener pastures without a word, leaving me saddled with his workload (which I took of my own volition in the interest of making more money). However, it has been somewhat taxing, to put it lightly. I will do an amusing, obituary-esque capsule for him at the end of the show, because I will likely never see or hear from him again. But without further ado…

At last, after a sleepless night spent in the seedy recesses of downtown Hefei, I came to my destination none the worse for wear.


There it was, at last. Shanghai. As if it had been waiting for me all along.

Surely here, in one of the largest cities of the world, I would be able to find turkey for my belated Thanksgiving feast. Right? Right?! Well, at first glance, Shanghai was much more confusing than Beijing, my last interaction with huge-city China. The current city is much older, having not seen the extensive renovations that Beijing received prior to the Olympics (point, Shanghai, in my opinion). Still, despite streets wound tighter than most people’s familial tensions come holiday season, I resolved that I would NOT be denied.

The train station was much more difficult to navigate than the Beijing version, but it was still fairly simple. I did, however, have some trouble finding the legal taxi line (and folks, you want to take the legal taxis. You might have to wait a little longer, sure, but wow, the taxis on the street will try and swindle you out of your pants. Foreigners = $$, and that’s it. Might as well be wearing a green T-shirt covered with dollar signs. That said, the legal taxis are completely and utterly fair. Ahem. Digression complete.).

I arrived at the hostel around noon, fully expecting to find the one person in China willing to celebrate Thanksgiving with me waiting patiently (since she has already put up with me on numerous occasions, I have come to abuse her tolerance). However, she is nowhere to be found. Of course, the logical conclusion would be that she came to her senses prior to departure and decided to stay in her city, that she might actually have some FUN on her weekend, but I learned that this was not quite the case. As I was checking in, the people at the desk realized they had a message for me. Turned out there was just a delay with the trains. She would be there around 2.

With some time on my hands, I decided to do what I do best: relax. I left my gear (not the valuable stuff, of course) on my bunk and proceeded to the hostel bar, where I sat and watched a bunch of other foreigners from various reaches of the world as I drank my beer. The crowd was just what you might expect to see at a hostel… long, unkempt hair; unshaven faces; ratty clothes…

And you should see the guys!

I joke, I joke. Well, I would like to say I fit right in, but the fact of the matter is I stuck out like, you know, a good old boy in China. Emphasis on old. These kids with their Australian accents, and others with their British, and a few more speaking German (I think)… they made me feel the years creeping up, they did. But not too bad. I nursed my beer and watched on, enjoying my first protracted viewing of white people at play in over a month. It seemed like no time at all had passed when I felt the tapping on my shoulder…

A hug and a story later we were on our way to lunch. I was starving, but I hadn’t even considered what I wanted to eat prior to the heralded Chinese Thanksgiving. Some friends in Anqing had told me about this place they called “Coco Cabana” (it was in fact called Coco Ichibanya), and I thought, you know, Coco Cabana sounds fun. Let’s go there.

It wasn’t quite what I expected, to say the least. It was a quaint, reserved little place, and it served curry. Now, as most of you know, I love Curry, but not that kind. But that kind is all right too. So I sat down, and as the menu popped open my eyes magically gravitated to “Cheeseburger Curry.” Well, I mean, come on. On paper it was like two of my three favorite things put together. I had to try it.

It wasn’t as good at the fantasy. But it was good. And hot enough to make my brain melt, just like the Curry from last year’s NCAA’s. Good thing is, I don’t have enough brain cells left for it to matter much when the old flesh cpu melts down.

So. Yeah. What was I talking about?

…

Hey, what are all these words doing here?

…OK, OK.

After that we experienced the madness of Nanjing Lu, which I can fittingly describe with only three words:


Watch! Bag! DVD!

But I’ll use more anyway, because it’s what I do.

At least every third person in this crowd would charge up to us and spout those very sentiments. Of course, I am likely the worst person this side of planet Earth with whom to play such a game. My neural-net processor isolated the correct response almost instantly. By the third or fourth guy, I simply put on a freakish, “you don’t want to know what I’d do to you” stare, and growled “Watch! Bag! DVD!” before he could say anything. I’m sure it’s been done before, as I’m just an obsolete model after all, but the look on his face was enough to tell me that it was a reaction with which he wasn’t altogether familiar.

Also, see it in the 1930s! A bit different now, huh?


Before long it was time for the oft-discussed Thanksgiving dinner. I had come to the decision several days prior that we would dine at Malone’s, or the “most American place in Shanghai” as it was dubbed by one reviewer named Steve who has requested that he remain anonymous.

It took us a bit to find, because I can be stubborn with directions at times… oh, who am I kidding? I’m stubborn with everything, all the time. But we did find it. And we got the menus…

…to find no turkey dinner. But that was OK. Because they had a bacon bar-be-que cheeseburger with an onion ring on it, and it was almost good enough to make my year (if other things hadn’t done that already). And you know, my Thanksgiving table-mate (Megan’s name has been omitted to protect the innocent) kept the feeling alive by ordering a turkey BLT lathered liberally with guacamole—complete with real leftover Thanksgiving turkey, of course! She insists that it was heaven, and I'm sure it WAS almost that good. But I'm also certain my burger was better. Ha HA!

So we ate hearty, and drank beer, and drank Jack Daniel’s, and gave thanks, and listened as the cover band regaled us with a number of hits from the darker nooks and crannies of musical history (Yes, I’m talking about YOU, 80’s. What?! No, no, I’m just kidding. The 80’s were awesome, man. Hey. Hey! I DO like your Africa song, Toto! I swear! No! Don’t!!!!).

AAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

…


…


…


This is HP Pavilion dv2700 Notebook PC Ser. No. 373-0112b. We’re sorry. John can no longer be with us for this entry. We will do our best to explain the remainder of his Shanghai experience, complete with however many relevant pictures we can find stored on our hard disk.

We are certain he gave thanks on Saturday for a lazy afternoon of walking around and seeing the river (and the gigantic television boats that he believed should have been broadcasting NFL football games).


He also gave thanks Saturday evening for the Shanghai Science and Technology Museum. This was my favorite, but he neglected to take many pictures, as he was preoccupied with other attractions.


He gave thanks for Shanghai at night, and for the fact that he was not as obese as the Mao statue.




He gave a little thanks for no longer feeling at all like a tourist.

He gave thanks for Irish Pubs around the world!


Sunday he gave thanks for boats, and for cruising the river, although it was all too short.


That afternoon he gave thanks for coffee shops.

Later he gave thanks for hot pot dining with lots of crazy meats.

He did NOT give thanks for train stations or departure times.

He did, however, give thanks for chance encounters, airport difficulties, welcome distractions, and the strange forks life continually throws into your path.

And he gave thanks for Who is responsible for all that, and responsible for the incredible friends and family that are supporting him while he's here.

Now, before we go, we will deliver on John’s promise and include a small bit about the roommate, Ray. Also, John is in every way responsible for what we say. That'll teach him to open up so many programs at once.


An older French-Canadian fellow with a thick accent (we often wondered how well the students understood him), Ray was always quick with a joke and quicker with a lewd word about the ladies. And he did like the ladies. Still, despite his idiosyncrasies, he and John seemed to get along fine to our dimly-lit, electronic web-eye, but we were often concerned; Ray always found reasons to complain about his situation in Anqing, and he seemed to find no enjoyment in what he was doing. We often found ourselves wondering, “Why is he here?”

Now he is not. We hope he finds what he is looking for, whatever that may be. Take good care.

That is all we have for you at this time. Please be assured that John will return to form soon, after he recovers from garish wounds sustained while caught between the razor-sharp teeth of Toto’s gnashing maw.



HP Pavilion dv2700's Note: We have since neutralized the problem by deconstructing the little beast particle by particle and emailing it to a secure account in Kansas with no known password.

We’ll also include an obligatory “Go Cats!” for Saturday's victorious effort. John would have wanted it that way.

Thanks to Give, but No One to Give It To (Yet)

As Written November 27, 2008:

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. If you love your family, I can’t imagine how it could not be. It’s one of those sacred times in my memory, a time to see those for whom you care most, and, all too often, those you see least.

This… is a different Thanksgiving for me. I’m in Hefei tonight, waiting for a morning train. In looking for a hotel, I decided to live dangerously. When I got turned away from the Railway Hotel, an older Chinese woman rushed to my side, yammering furiously (albeit unintelligibly, to me) and pointing.

Of course I followed her.

I ended up in an honest-to-goodness Chinese Hotel. Not the kind where a foreigner would stay. There are people living here. The bathrooms, for the most part, seem communal. However—

They provided me with the best room in the house. The best, and they gave it to me for half the listed price (though they do that a lot here, so I don’t feel too special. Well, maybe. No, check that… ah, screw it. All depends on your definition of special).

Apparently, they weren’t really set up for foreigners, so the guy wanted to take my passport to the police station while I waited. That’s a big no-no in my book, even if the guy did seem harmless… but I didn’t just want to be a typical paranoid traveler and run away… RUN AWAYYY!... ahem. Sorry.

I walked to the police station with him. As soon as I entered, a mildly funny scene ensued, featuring an overweight officer trying to hum the Star Spangled Banner. Well, it wasn’t quite humming. More like, dum dah dum dum DAAH DUMMM!, but with a slightly mocking lilt to it, at least to my ear. Not to be outdone (or mocked) I decided to belt the whole thing out, pregame style. I think that confused the hell out of them.

Hey, what? They like singing here, damn it. And they did laugh. With a slightly mocking lilt.

After that I walked back, took these amusing pictures of this room, and here I sit, waiting to go to Shanghai for my belated Chinese Thanksgiving.


Note the stain.


Cozy.

As I reflect, I realize I haven’t posted an entry in a bit, so rather than go into what I’m looking forward to in Shanghai, I’ll look back. To last weekend.

The events of last Saturday were the result of me doing a favor.

I know! I know. What a fool I am. But I helped a High School senior edit his admissions essay, which he is submitting to Purdue and UMN. Ill advised as that might have been, it earned me the thanks of his father, and a pretty crazy day got laid out all over my plate.

First (well, second. I had already watched the Wildcats mercilessly dismember the Winthrop Eagles. Have to love the powers of the internet. Go Cats!). First? Hmm, yes. Wildcat basketball. What? Where was I? Oh, yes.

Around 9:30 I met the student and a couple of his other friends outside my apartment. We rode down to the river (less than a mile away) and booked passage on the ferry. Within about 15 minutes we were on the south bank of the river. And folks…

…welcome to China. No, not the China to which I am growing accustomed, with crazy drivers and bad McDonald's and noodles and strangely dressed pedestrians. No. This was real China. Farmland, stretching as far as the eye can see (Ok, it was a little foggy). A quaint Buddhist temple. Cows. Rangy dogs. Dirt roads. People harvesting, hashing out a hard, honest day of physical labor in their fields, the kind of work we can easily forget about once we’ve spent so long in our cities. And keep these people in mind. Because if something crazy happens to the world, something wild that robs us of our fuels and our electronics and even (gasp!--DARE I say it?)our internets… watch. These will be the people we turn to because we’ve forgotten how to stay alive without everything at our beck and call.




Undoubtedly the dirtiest dog I have ever seen. Well, that's not necessarily true... I've met a lot of bad guys.

Ahem. Yes, well, we spent several hours wandering around and watching these quiet folk, and finally we even bought some vegetables from them. Had to pick them ourselves. All right. I know what you’re thinking. Me, pick vegetables? Me, eat vegetables?

Don’t worry. It was the young Chinese woman with us who wanted them. But I did get roped into carrying them. Bah.

Again, too nice.

Some miles later, around two o’clock, we finally made our way back to the ferry. The plan now? An all vegetarian lunch at the large Buddhist temple (Zhen Fen Temple) in Anqing proper. Now, at first thought this wasn’t my favorite idea I’ve ever heard. But fine, I think, I’ll roll with it.

It was strange. Most of the dishes were made of tofu, and they were seasoned (and shaped) like dead animals. They kind of paled in comparison to the real deal, but you know, they tried. The strangest, by far, was a crazy looking dish that tasted like shrimp but looked like Bill Cosby should have done the ad campaign. I dubbed them Gummy Shrimp. No one understood.

There was one delicious dish—these jiaozi, or dumplings. Those are the stuff. I could eat them until my system experienced overexposure to the vinegar with which I so liberally showered them.

With a belly full of stuff I never would have eaten of my own accord, it was off to KTV. Not a bar, like I’ve been to a few times, but a straight KTV club, with a private room and endless popcorn and tea.

We were there for four hours. I don’t want to talk about it…



Sweet, sweet serenade...

…but I will. It was just ridiculous. All the songs they have in English are these great sappy ballads. Well, not all of them. But most. I’d like to think I gave them their money’s worth, here, as I was rather uninhibited. I thing I sang about 2 dozen songs, among them Brown-Eyed Girl, Hotel California, Hey Jude, Desperado, Hard to Say I’m Sorry (Don’t Ask), Mack the Knife (A damn good rendition if I do say so my damn self), Carry on my Wayward Son, Wild Thing, Don’t go Breakin’ My Heart, Lyin’ Eyes (I think they like the Eagles over here), Toto’s Africa, and… Paradise City.

Yes, THAT Paradise City. And instead of going conventional, I said what the hell and tried to screech it like Axl. That’ll teach ‘em to keep me in that little room for four hours again. But I think I popped the ribbon off my voice box.

Before I could treat them to my emotionally stirring version of Scarborough Fair, our time was up. At this point we had grown into a party of six. The student’s father had arrived at lunch, and another very amusing man named Mr. Xiao had joined us at the KTV. He brought the wine that brings me to the next amusing story…

Dinner. Now, I didn’t gripe about the vegetables or anything, but I think I made an offhand comment about being, essentially, a carnivore. Consequently, the dinner was meat. All meat. ALL. And, consequently, I stuffed myself.

As I have seen several times already from my Chinese hosts, the father (hereafter called Mr. Ye) seemed intent on encouraging me to drink. And he seemed intent on matching me. Out came the wine.

I think we were about 3 glasses deep when he realized he was in over his head. By the end of the fifth glass, we moved to beer. By the middle of the second beer (22 oz.) he was pretty well drunk. I must say, I admire his self-control (or perhaps it was simply his desire not to get sick), because he stopped then and there, and did not drink again until much later. But, as I was in a good mood, and we were having such an enjoyable time poking fun at Mr. Xiao for not finishing his glass of wine (and no, I wasn’t being mean, and no, I wasn’t the one who started calling him Mrs. Xiao—that distinction belongs to one of the women at the table), I couldn’t resist having a few more.

Three beers later, dinner is done, and I’m feeling pretty happy. I ask if they know of a place that is not KTV, a place that is quiet, where you can just sit and talk and have a beer. Mr. Xiao and the student leave, but the others come along and we find a strange place called a “Blues Café” that is, well… no such thing. But it is quiet, and they do have beer.

It’s nearing midnight now, and time to go home. Two more 22 ouncers down, just enough to get a good feeling. As we’re leaving, I have a detour to the restroom, and start cackling hysterically because there is a bouquet of flowers in the urinal to freshen the scent. No, no cake. Honestly. A bouquet of flowers. Even on a day full of them, the best “shake my head” moment is the last.

And yes, before you ask, I do have a picture, and no, you can't see it. For various reasons.

Thus, we leave “Blues Café.” Mr. Ye rides with me in a taxi, even though I could easily have walked. He gives me a solid pat on the shoulder as I get out at my apartment and thanks me for helping his son. I smile and shake his hand. “Thanks for a hell of a day.” He laughs. I don’t think he’s familiar with the expression, but he gets the idea.

I remember thinking it then, and I’m thinking it now, sitting on this rather spartan bed after following a strange woman I couldn’t understand.

That paranoid fear of “getting taken” is gone. Not the healthy caution, understand… but the fear.

I’ve finally begun to trust myself here.

I’m finally getting comfortable. And what can I say? I’m thankful for that. And other things, too. But I’ll save those for another time.

Like when I write about Thanksgiving in Shanghai.