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So now, a week and a half later, we come to the Cowboys game, ostensibly the reason I made the trip to Dallas. As I’ve said, I’ve wanted to see the Cowboys play in Texas Stadium for a long time. Really, though, the game served as a backdrop for meeting friends, either again or for the first time.

We’d been told that we should allow three hours before game time to get to the game. We figured that was because of traffic, but we figured wrong. We got to the stadium rather quickly. What took us so long was walking from our parking spot to the stadium itself. In fact, that walk might actually have taken longer than the drive there. On the way we passed many a tailgating party and we realized just how hungry we were. Brian was tempted to wander over to a Redskins tailgating gathering and see if they’d give him some food but ultimately decided against it.

Along the way the various fan groups gave the opposing fan groups a hard time, but none quite so humorously as a group of Cowboys fans that blew whistles and flagged Redskins passersby. I’m not sure what the penalty was, but it was a hoot to see a dozen or more little yellow flags flying through the air.

Here’s a picture of me with the stadium in the background on the way towards it:

You can see how gray it is, but I don’t think you can tell how much it’s raining. It was a steady drizzle pretty much our whole walk there, and it turned into a regular downpour when we got to the gates. My newly-purchased hat kept my glasses fairly clear, so that was good. We got some food before heading to our seats (and judging from the prices, the food was laced with gold – really, really tasty gold, fortunately), which were under the covered part of the dome. It’s sorta hard to tell from this picture, but I think you can see how much it’s raining through the hole in the dome roof:

The game itself was a lot of fun. There’s something kinetic about 65,000 people in one building, let alone 65,000 yelling people. Our ears were ringing most of the time, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we had suffered permanent hearing loss.

This picture gives you the view from our seats:

It was difficult to see things that happened on the other end of the field, but for the most part we could follow.

The thing that saddened me about the game is that it’s not really an environment you’d want to take kids to. The ticket prices are exclusionary enough, but we heard more than a few obscenities yelled. Add to that all the “birds” flipped and the obscenities on shirts and signs held aloft and, well, it’s too bad. Taking a kid to a football game used to be something great to do. It doesn’t look like that’s the case any more.

I’m sure Brian (dirty Washington fan that he is) would disagree, but the game was made even better because the Cowboys won, 27-10. The game still would have been great to see, but I’m glad they won. It’s been suggested to me that I am perhaps the Cowboys’ lucky charm and should therefore attend all their home games so they can win. I am completely up for this idea and am now taking donations to fund this season-long adventure. Who knows, with all that extra time in Dallas, I might even start being able to find my way around.

The trip back to the car after the game was fraught with danger. This is one huge mass of excitable people, all pressed together and fired up from the game. If the Cowboys had lost, I probably would have been worried for our safety – even more so than I already was, that is. But no, we made it back to our car without incident. But that’s as far as we made it incident-free.

See, the traffic to get out of the parking lot was bumper to bumper. We didn’t see much point in trying to get out, so we sat in the car to wait it out. We’re talking to each other and to other people on the phone when the guy in the spot in front of us decided to pull out and around us to get into the line of leavers. He’s apparently new to this truck he’s driving, as he doesn’t turn wide enough behind us and scrapes the rear passenger corner of our shiny purple Chevy HHR. That wasn’t enough for him, apparently, because he kept going. Loud screeching noises mean nothing to this brave adventurer! Finally he realizes what’s happening – maybe because of our wild yells and gesticulations – and he backs up. This, of course, is like pulling a broadhead arrow back out of a person and caused even more damage and screeching.

Brian was immediately on the case, getting all the needed info from the guy, calling the insurance company, calling Alamo, all that stuff. Meanwhile, the guy’s wife is sitting in the truck, rather put out. “Can we get this taken care of as quickly as possible?” Yeah, sorry, lady. Sorry your husband ran us over and put you behind schedule. Oh, and we’re fine, by the way. Thanks for asking!

Here’s what the back of the car looked like:

Somewhere along the line Brian called the police and they suggested he wait there for an officer to come by. We couldn’t really go anywhere anyway because the traffic was still backed up, but just when we had decided not to wait any longer, a policeman showed up. He pretty much said, “There isn’t much I can do here. Here’s a blue form which you could fill out, I suppose, if, you know, you wanted to.” He was nice, though, so that was good. It can’t have been in his plans for a great evening to drive to Texas Stadium on a game night to inspect an accident. Beats getting shot at by hoodlums, I suppose.

The nice thing was that by the time we were done talking to the policeman, traffic had cleared up and we had pretty much clear sailing back to the hotel, getting there a little before 1 a.m. A quick nap later and we were back on the road by 4 a.m. Brian and Lisa’s flight left at 6:something and it was easiest for me to just go with them and wait for my flight at 11:30.

All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. Coupled with my great trip to Canada earlier this summer, I might just have to rethink my anti-traveling stance. The secret, I think, is meeting great people. In fact, you should come on the next game trip. We’ve got one planned for when the new Cowboys stadium is built – so, somewhere around 2009. Are you free?

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The first two places I ate at in Dallas are places that I frequent here in Lafayette: Buffalo Wild Wings and Chick-Fil-A. I’m not complaining, mind you. Regular readers will know of my penchant for familiarity. I am not one for branching out. A very few of you will even know that new restaurants are a source of anxiety for me. For the rest of you I will just give this brief explanation: I don’t know how they work, so they confuse and terrify me.

I met Brian and Lisa at the rental car desk in the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport. I’d met Brian earlier this summer, of course, but this was my first time meeting Lisa outside of Azeroth. She was very smiley and nice and very quiet. Part of that was the tiredness from the trip and I suspect part of it was out of shyness from meeting Internetians.

DFW is a huge place. I suspect, actually, that Lafayette could fit within its boundaries with room to spare. It took a lengthy shuttle ride to get to the rental car desk, and once we got the car, it took 10+ minutes to get out of the airport. Brian was driving, so I was only sort of aware of my environment and where we were going, a fact that would come back to haunt me when I set out to meet Teri for lunch the next day.

We met Mike at the hotel and headed up to our room. (It should be noted that the desk clerk gave me an in-the-air celebratory fist pump when I used my Dallas Cowboys credit card to pay for the room.) There was a funny moment in the elevator when Lisa asked Brian to introduce her and Mike and we all sorta realized that Brian and Mike had never officially met before, either.

After getting our stuff settled we headed to lunch at the Buffalo Wild Wings right across the street. It’s one of Brian and Lisa’s favorite places, but they don’t have one in Albuquerque. After the uncertainty of driving in unfamiliar territory and meeting new-ish people, the known settings of the restaurant were comforting.

After lunch we headed to The Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza, a museum about President Kennedy’s fateful trip to Dallas on November 22, 1963. The exhibits did a good job of not sugar-coating his short-lived Presidency – it seems that so often when people talk about JFK it has this “he was the best President ever!” vibe to it, a vibe I’ve often felt was because he was assassinated. His term wasn’t without its troubles, though, and he wasn’t as roundly liked as I’ve always been led to believe he was. I really have no opinion on the matter, I was just impressed that the museum laid it out like that, more of a “complete story” thing.

The other thing that struck me while at the museum was because of a video that we stumbled across mid-way through its playing. It was about the impact of television on the events surrounding that time. For some reason, I knew that Jack Ruby’s shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald was televised, but I had forgotten or didn’t really know it was actually televised. There it was, though, right on screen – Oswald’s being escorted out, there’s a big group of people, and then Ruby steps forward and shoots. I’d seen the famous photograph, of course, but hadn’t thought about it being actually televised when it happened. Even with all the faked violence of televised movies and the normal nightly news there was something disturbing about seeing Oswald getting shot, even 43 years later. It was the first ever killing on live TV, and I don’t think there’ve been too many since.

The museum is actually on the sixth floor of the Book Depository where Oswald shot Kennedy from, and the actual window and surrounding area is plexiglassed off and set up exactly how it was that day, boxes of books set up all around. Conspiracy theories are addressed in the museum, but the overall feeling you get from the exhibits is that they support the findings of the Warren Report, that Oswald alone killed Kennedy.

Of course, I’m sure the main income for the museum is provided by conspiracy theorists coming to see where they’ve gotten it all wrong. In fact, there was a guy holding court in the museum telling a small gathering in that smarmy tone that all conspiracy theorists have about what really happened. I couldn’t listen to him for long before I got really irritated – that tone grates on me! - so I moved on in a hurry.

I love being in places where famous history happened. I try to imagine what it must have been like to be there that day, to see all of that as it happened. When we left the museum we drove down the street the parade drove down, right over the white X marks on the street showing the bullet trajectories. So surreal and strange to see oneself up against this event in history, so small in comparison.

That evening we met Kris, an old member of the THorum, for dinner. We couldn’t really decide where to go to eat, so we ended up at Chick-Fil-A. From there we went to a Fry’s Electronics, a kind of Best Buy on steroids, more Sam’s Club or Costco than anything. Apparently some of them are “themed,” and have spaceships crashed into them or somesuch, but this one was just normal: huge and full of stuff. I’d heard about them before, so I was glad to have the chance to go to one.

There’s something about history that changes how I think, at least for a while. Going from the museum to having dinner with friends seems now a harsh switching of gears. The last part of Proverbs 27:1 says “thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.” You might meet friends for dinner, you might go to a store, or you might be taking your last drive down Elm Street. You just never know. 6 comments

The bravest thing I did this past weekend was meet an Internetian.

“But,” you say, “you’re always meeting Internetians!”

True enough, but this was different. Most of the Internetians (and, yes, I’m going to keep using that word until it passes into the vernacular!) I’ve met are people I’ve had extended Internet contact with for long periods of time and most of the time I’m meeting them in groups of two or more. The group dynamic makes it less likely that I’ll be required to say something and can stick to my tried-and-true method of wisecracking on what the other people say.

I’ve been reading the Cynical Tyrant’s blog for a few years now. You can find a link to her blog over there on the right-hand side of mine, and I’ve quoted her and linked to her on a few occasions. It’s rare that you’ll read a blog written by someone you don’t know, but a friend introduced me to her site and I enjoyed her writing right off the bat and have been a faithful reader ever since.

We’ve had occasion to converse via email and as my trip to Dallas got solidified and drew closer, she gave advice on neat things to see while in the area. It struck me that another neat thing to do would be to meet her for lunch. I worked up the nerve to ask her if she’d be willing to meet, figuring for sure she would naturally be frightened off by the random Internetian invite. I figure I’ve gone 34 years without ever going to Dallas, it might be another 34 years before I do so again, so I carped the heck out of the diem.

Surprisingly (to both of us, I think), she agreed. Perhaps she wondered what sort of person reads another person’s blog for so long, or perhaps she wondered why someone from another state might be a Cowboys fan. Maybe she’d never seen a real live Hoosier outside of captivity. The world may never know.

We met for lunch at Cafe Brazil, a coffeehouse-sorta place that serves breakfast all the time – perfect for a breakfast lover such as myself. It’s one of her favorite places to eat. She had an omelet, I had French toast with walnuts and a really great time.

Nervousness is a funny thing. We’re never sure when it’s going to show up or what form it’s going to take. Me, I babble on incessantly. I overtalk and overshare. Other people get hiccups or shake or rip apart straw wrappers or tap their foot. And everybody gets nervous about something: tests, meeting new people, singing in front of others, being subjected to questioning by lawyers – no one’s completely immune. Getting nervous about meeting another person is one of those things we should be able to conquer, though, I think. After all, the other person is just like us, what with the being human and all.

But there’s that fear: What if I make a faux pas? What if I embarrass myself? I mean, I could

• show up late because I got confused getting around Dallas, even if the map she gave me was straightforward and simple (Yep. Did that.)
• have a wrinkled shirt as a result of the combination of the seatbelt and humid weather (Check.)
• ramble on incessantly (What do you think?)
• talk with food in my mouth on more than one occasion (Oh, help me, did I ever.)

I’ve pretty much gotten to the point where I know I’m going to make mistakes in social settings, I’m going to embarrass myself. It’s best to just be aware it’ll happen and hope the other person(s) doesn’t run off screaming or write letters to the editor of the local newspaper about how awful I was. To her credit, she did neither of these things. (Actually, I can’t be positive about the letters to the editor, as I did not read the Dallas newspaper the following day.)

Take the normal everyday fears and mix in the fact that everyone knows every Internetian ever is a serial killer out for your kidneys and it could be a recipe for a nerve-wracking lunch.

Somehow, we got past all that and had a nice lunch together. I suspect it was the presence of Bob Vila that got us through. Well, that, and the fact that she’s pleasant, smart, witty, and (apparently) longsuffering.

Here’s me with my new friend Teri:

The look on my face is because I couldn’t tell when the camera was going off, and it bothered me when I first saw the picture. I’ve since come to realize that, well, I look that way 90% of the time, so at least it’s an accurate representation.

And in case you’re wondering: she left lunch with the exact same number of kidneys she arrived with, no more, no less.

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I’m having difficulties figuring out how to blog my most recent Texas Trip. I don’t really want to do one big all-in-one post because it seems like too much happened to relegate it to some sort of list and I don’t want anything to get lost in the deluge of events. I hope to have a series of smaller posts over the next few days. Let’s start, shall we?

All this talk of “no liquids on flights!” had me wondering how I was going to make this trip. Years ago I made the switch to gel deodorants because I got tired of the white “regular” stuff – it’s way too messy and gunky. Spray deodorants are no good, either: too cold and don’t seem to do the trick. Gels are just about right for me. Sadly, I’ve recently had to find a new one, as the one I’d been using stopped being effective. It was a rather involved process that I thought about blogging, but ultimately decided it was too unsavory a topic. Frankly, even this amount of discussion is too much, in my opinion! For a more detailed (and gross) explanation of why people need to occasionally change deodorant, go here.

I also use hair gel. How else to achieve this hair-combed-forward-but-bangs-upturned look? Mousse? Hairspray? No thanks. Gel is it for me. I used cheap “L.A. Looks” type stuff for the longest time but made the switch to a more-expensive salon brand (that I can’t remember the name of right now) when I got mocked for having a big bottle of bright yellow hair gel in my bathroom. I chose this particular brand because it’s what the girl (Kelsey) at my haircutting place (seems unmanly to call it a “salon”) used after cutting my hair and I liked the smell of it. I guess it holds fine, so that’s just a bonus. And now that I’ve mentioned it, talking about liking the smell of my hair gel also sounds unmanly. Hmm.

I use regular toothpaste, though it has gel parts to it. It’s some sort of fancy Aquafresh that has an orange look and taste to it. All I know is that it makes my teeth feel awesome when I use it. It’s good stuff.

I decided to use my standard “Well, let’s just see” approach and packed it all up in my shaving kit bag inside my carry-on bag. I have one bag that’s for clothes and toiletries (a word I dislike!) and a backpack that’s for all my electronical diversions and for books. I figured if they didn’t want me to have the stuff, they’d take it.

I flew out at 7:something on Saturday morning with no problems at all. Bags went through the x-ray, I went through the metal detector and had to go back through sans belt. That, by the way, is my least favorite part of the process. I don’t mind taking off my shoes, but taking off my belt and putting it back on there in the airport seems more… personal. It’s like I’m undressing and dressing in front of everyone. I don’t like it, not one bit. But they didn’t take my gels!

I changed flights and continued on to Dallas – all while having gels and pastes in my carry-on bag! I felt a little guilty, but I was glad I wouldn’t have to try to find a store and re-buy all my stuff when I got to my destination.

I utilized the various gels while I was in Dallas, a bit more thankful for them than normal.

On my return trip yesterday I didn’t do anything different except to remove my belt and pack it away so I wouldn’t have to take it off in the airport. This time, though, my carry-on bag was pulled to the side. “We need to look inside this, sir.”

Uh oh. Busted by The Man.

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

Out comes all my stuff: belt, dirty clothes, clean clothes… and shaving kit.

Deodorant: “Can’t have this.”
Hair gel: “Nope.”
Toothpaste: “This either.”

Me: “Really? Huh.” This, folks, is a master actor at work.

Him: “Nope. No liquids, gels, or pastes, except prescriptions and yadda yadda yadda other stuff.”

Me: “Wow. Huh. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pull anything!” I totally was, but I don’t think that would’ve been wise to say. “Yeah, I was trying to sneak gels onto the plane” doesn’t get as many laughs as you might think it should.

So he took it all away to some undisclosed location. I’m guessing to some sort of holding area for the employee auction later on. I continued on my way, eventually getting back home – but not before stopping at Wal-Mart to buy replacement gels. They had my toothpaste and my newly-found deodorant, but not my fancy hair gel. I had to buy some cheap stuff, but at least this time I got the bright blue rather than the bright yellow. I’ll get the good stuff when next I get my hair cut.

Stupid terrorists. The way I figure it, they owe me $12 so far. And for what? To make me afraid to fly? Sorry, but that ship has sailed. Enclosed spaces, sudden movements, and loud noises took care of that long ago. If it ever happens that I come across a terrorist on a flight, I’m going to glue him to his seat, hands permanently stuck in a Macauley Culkin-like fashion to his face. All with the gel-based superglue I’ll have sneaked aboard. 4 comments

Well, it isn't yet, but it's about to be.

I've been to Texas before, but that was mostly business. This trip is all about the fun!

We had an improv show last night, and I didn't get home until after 11. I saw the clock tick over midnight, which made the 3:50 alarm a hard thing to hear. Luckily I had the backup 4:00 alarm set in the other room: Windows Media Player blasting "Godzilla" by Blue Öyster Cult.

So now I'm sitting in the Indianapolis airport, waiting for the boarding call for the flight to Minneapolis. Why I'm going from Indy to Minneapolis to Dallas, I don't know, but I guess I'm supposed to believe the airlines know better than I do on how best to get to places. That whole "shortest distance between two points is a straight line" business doesn't apply to flights, I guess. Kids! Stop studying math! It'll help you not a whit in real life!

I'm off to meet new people, re-meet old people, and watch a football game. Not a bad way to spend a weekend, even if I didn't get much sleep to start it off. The Orange Ka-BAM I had from the Smoothie King in the airport here should make up for the lack of sleep, and the rest of it will take care of itself.

Look at me being all adventurous!

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Talking is just IM without the keyboard.

- My friend Carolyn

Labels: it's been said

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I learned an important lesson today. But first, some background:

I am currently reading a book entitled “Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers.” The author, Mary Roach, takes a funny but respectful and informative look at what happens to the human body after the person using it has died. I’m not too far along in the book but it’s already been fascinating. So far she’s talked about how bodies are used for medical research and surgery practice and delved into a history of the earliest scientists who would pay people to steal the bodies of the recently dead so they could… well, let’s say “study” them.

The author strikes the right tone, making the book readable – a difficult task for so difficult a subject – and even enjoyable. In an age where three different versions of CSI are on the air, a book like this gives someone a resource for learning more about the processes discussed (and sometimes shown).

For the most part, I’ve been able to detach myself from the details which could be considered horrific. Death ain’t pretty, after all. Today, though, the book took a turn and taught me a valuable lesson in the process. That lesson is this:

No matter how important the work and how interesting the discussion about cadaver research farms (where they study the process of decay), it is not a good substitution for doing the crossword puzzle at lunch.

Take it from me. 3 comments

I have no unique perspective on this day in history. Like most of you, I watched the tragedy unfold on TV and computer screens. When the first tower was struck, I remember all of us at work thinking the same thing: "I can't believe a plane hit that building." It wasn't until more reports came in that we started to realize just what had happened and we were hit with the same emotion:

Disbelief.

Who would do this? What possible reason could a human being have to commit such a horrible act? I've heard the reasons, but I still haven't heard one that makes sense. What happened five years ago today was awful not just because of the lives lost that day, but because of the fear and uncertainty it planted. We have a hard enough time trusting our fellow man without having to worry about whether he's planning to kill us.

Right around the time of the attacks, I heard this song by Amy Grant and it will always be tied in with September 11, 2001 in my mind.

Somewhere Down The Road

So much pain and no good reason why
You’ve cried until the tears run dry
And nothing else can make you understand
The one thing that you held so dear
Is slipping from your hand
And you say

Why, why, why
Does it go this way
Why, why, why
And all I can say

Somewhere down the road
There’ll be answers to the questions
Somewhere down the road
Tho’ we cannot see it now
And somewhere down the road
You will find mighty arms reaching for you
And they will hold the answers at the end of the road

Yesterday I thought I’d seen it all
I thought I’d climbed the highest wall
Now I see the learning never ends
And all I know to do is keep on walking
Walking ’round the bend singing

Why, why, why
Does it go this way
Why, why, why
And all I can say
Somewhere down the road
There’ll be answers to the questions
Somewhere down the road
Tho’ we cannot see it now
And somewhere down the road
You will find mighty arms reaching for you
And they will hold the answers at the end of the road

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I realized I was awake in much the same way you realize you’ve already started your car after turning the key again. Though it’s only a minute or two, the sound of the engine running has already become a part of the background, so much so that it’s indistinguishable enough to not make you realize the car’s already running.

I blinked myself a little more awake, certain I’d been asleep for a few hours. I pulled the watch close to my face and pushed the button for the light. The blue glow doubly illuminated me, showing the tossed-back covers and also showing me my guess was wrong. Dead wrong.

A little over an hour was all. The rest of the night stretched out before me like a line of ants after some spilled jam. I felt strangely rested, like I could get up and start my day, but I knew if I tried it, I’d be down for the count long before I’d be able to throw in the towel. I knew I needed to go back to sleep.

But first there was some business I needed to attend to. I touched the lamp beside my bed to turn it on its lowest setting. The dim light was a perfect mix of lighting my way and not overdoing it, and I got up.

The bathroom light was harsh, like a first-grade teacher correcting her student’s ill-conceived attempts at making the other kids laugh. Harsher still, though, was the shirtless image of me grimacing back at myself from the mirror, a reminder that I wasn’t as young as I used to be, and an even grimmer reminder that we tend to be the sum of choices we make. I was a poster boy for what cake and ice cream can do to a man.

The sound of running water in the sink broke a silence that seemed have a melody to it, and once the tune was broken, the rhythm section of the neighbors who talk loudly outside their door became evident, as did the bass line of some faraway motorcycle. It was a tune I’d heard too many times before and I wanted to change the station.

I was in my office checking for messages when She came in the room, all legs and eyes. She wanted to know why I was awake. Dames. No explanation’s ever a good enough one for them. I picked her up but she protested and pushed me away. I let her go and she landed on all fours, like I knew she always would. She ran a quick tongue over her hair, the orange parts a perfect match for her fiery temper, and left the room.

Alone again, I considered my options. It didn’t take me long because I didn’t have that many. I knew sleep was all I had. This time, though, I’d try to get it right.

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It seems lately I've been getting more calls from numbers I don't recognize. I usually don't answer them, but I'm dying to know who is calling. The Reverse Phone Directory doesn't help when the calls are from cell phones and I'm much too nervous to call them back and ask who they are.

Really, I'm left with just the one solution: have a friend in Ohio call the number to find out who it is.

He's surprisingly willing to do this and is surprisingly good at it. So far none of the numbers have been anything but misdials, but I keep hoping that one day he'll call a number back to find I've been awarded millions of dollars.

He'll get a slight cut, of course. 5 comments

Though I hate hate HATE call waiting I still have it activated on my cell phone as a favor to others who do like it. I hate it because I feel pressured to answer another call while I'm already on a call and I feel an equal and opposite pressure to not answer another call while I'm on a call already. I feel voicemail was created for this exact reason. Leave me a message, I'll call you back.

I also do not answer cals from numbers I don't recognize, for the most part. If it's a local number, I'm a bit more inclined to do so, but there's no guarantees. My cell phone's caller ID will show the number but will only show a name if it's one that's in my address book. If there's no name, I'm guessing I don't know you and, again, this is why voicemail was created.

Yesterday I was on the phone with Josh when I heard the call waiting beep. I looked at the number (another thing I hate doing since I have to pull the phone away from my ear to do it) and didn't recognize it, so I didn't answer it. A minute later, the beep again: same number. Then again. On the fourth call, I was pretty sure who it was and told Josh, "Hey, I guess I need to answer this."

I answered it and it was Kat, as I suspected. She knew why I hadn't answered, as she's aware of my behavior in both the unknown number and the call waiting situation.

Her pronouncement when I finally answered?

"You have too many quirks." 11 comments