May 2007
The 2007 Red Sox
Wed May 30, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
We have the best record
in baseball. The Yankees continue to find new ways to
lose. Why am I paranoid? Why am I still afraid of the
Yankees?
While living in New York City, I endured the garden variety Yankee maltreatments. I went to Yankee stadium proudly in my gray Sox away jersey, where I was heckled, spat with beer, and met with mocking sympathy. Out of the times I went to see the rivals, I never got to see the Sox win in the house that Ruth built. I still cringe at the thought of the 2003 American League championship series when the Sox should have beaten the Yankees and gone on to the World Series. I am disturbed by childhood memories of believing in my team then being heartbroken in the playoffs--every year. Like a neglected child, I still can't fully trust the 2007 Red Sox even though they look so unbeatable.
I lost my voice for two days after screaming when the Sox came back to win the American League championship series in 2004, coming back to beat the Yankees after being three games behind. I relished the irony when one of my coworkers told me, "You just wait until next year." We broke the curse. The Sox won the world series, and at first I thought, we'll never be losers again. But it wasn't enough to slay the paranoid, insecure Sox fan inside me. There is no salvation in baseball.
I want to say things like, "Well, I guess 194 million dollars just doesn't buy what it used to." The mistreated fan inside me wants to lash out in anger and rub the Yankees in the mud. I've lectured children at church about how George Steinbrenner is involved the occult. I taught my friend's five year-old daughter to torment her dad with, "The Yankees are evil. My favorite team is the Red Sox!" I'm so bad I go after kids...but the lack of grace is what makes the game so enjoyable! I love to watch the fighting highlights--Pedro shoving Don ZImmer into the dirt and 'Tek stuffing his glove into A-Rod's nauseating face. I'm still insecure about my team because the fear and hate is what drives the tradition behind my love of the game.
So I embrace it all. I fear the Yankees and will gladly throw them under a bus. I take solace in knowing that what I endured at Yankee Stadium is far worse for Yankee fans visiting Fenway. And what's the Yankees record now? 21 and 29? Well, at least you're not in last place alone...at 25 million, those Devil Rays make stinging company, huh?
While living in New York City, I endured the garden variety Yankee maltreatments. I went to Yankee stadium proudly in my gray Sox away jersey, where I was heckled, spat with beer, and met with mocking sympathy. Out of the times I went to see the rivals, I never got to see the Sox win in the house that Ruth built. I still cringe at the thought of the 2003 American League championship series when the Sox should have beaten the Yankees and gone on to the World Series. I am disturbed by childhood memories of believing in my team then being heartbroken in the playoffs--every year. Like a neglected child, I still can't fully trust the 2007 Red Sox even though they look so unbeatable.
I lost my voice for two days after screaming when the Sox came back to win the American League championship series in 2004, coming back to beat the Yankees after being three games behind. I relished the irony when one of my coworkers told me, "You just wait until next year." We broke the curse. The Sox won the world series, and at first I thought, we'll never be losers again. But it wasn't enough to slay the paranoid, insecure Sox fan inside me. There is no salvation in baseball.
I want to say things like, "Well, I guess 194 million dollars just doesn't buy what it used to." The mistreated fan inside me wants to lash out in anger and rub the Yankees in the mud. I've lectured children at church about how George Steinbrenner is involved the occult. I taught my friend's five year-old daughter to torment her dad with, "The Yankees are evil. My favorite team is the Red Sox!" I'm so bad I go after kids...but the lack of grace is what makes the game so enjoyable! I love to watch the fighting highlights--Pedro shoving Don ZImmer into the dirt and 'Tek stuffing his glove into A-Rod's nauseating face. I'm still insecure about my team because the fear and hate is what drives the tradition behind my love of the game.
So I embrace it all. I fear the Yankees and will gladly throw them under a bus. I take solace in knowing that what I endured at Yankee Stadium is far worse for Yankee fans visiting Fenway. And what's the Yankees record now? 21 and 29? Well, at least you're not in last place alone...at 25 million, those Devil Rays make stinging company, huh?
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Memorial Day Poem for Grandpa
Tue May 29, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
Grandpa, you saved a
million dollars
but still fixed your cheap sneakers with duct tape
then spray-painted them white
you did so many tours of duty,
safely piloting back and forth the paraphernalia of war,
flying our boys home or to...
I imagine them saluting "Captain Bob"
and you minding over them
as a grinning shepherd with
big black muffs over your ears.
you loved your morning Metamucil
and drank the most awful beer.
the coffee you made was like rusty water,
but you were a master of evenly buttered toast.
you married a defiant poet from North Carolina.
I think she is in my blood more than you
because I am not like a long distance runner
or a dusty cottage by the sea.
you shopped often, but only
at the East Hampton town dump.
how many free oars did you really need?
I remember the catacomb of old lamps.
you told me the same jokes
every time I visited you.
they were all so, so bad.
like the one about an Indian and a V8,
which I can only tell to people
who will truly appreciate it...
they were the kind of jokes
a captain makes to humble himself.
Grandpa, the medals are so trivial
compared to your
duct taped spray-painted sneakers.
we need to learn how to wear
shoes like yours.
but still fixed your cheap sneakers with duct tape
then spray-painted them white
you did so many tours of duty,
safely piloting back and forth the paraphernalia of war,
flying our boys home or to...
I imagine them saluting "Captain Bob"
and you minding over them
as a grinning shepherd with
big black muffs over your ears.
you loved your morning Metamucil
and drank the most awful beer.
the coffee you made was like rusty water,
but you were a master of evenly buttered toast.
you married a defiant poet from North Carolina.
I think she is in my blood more than you
because I am not like a long distance runner
or a dusty cottage by the sea.
you shopped often, but only
at the East Hampton town dump.
how many free oars did you really need?
I remember the catacomb of old lamps.
you told me the same jokes
every time I visited you.
they were all so, so bad.
like the one about an Indian and a V8,
which I can only tell to people
who will truly appreciate it...
they were the kind of jokes
a captain makes to humble himself.
Grandpa, the medals are so trivial
compared to your
duct taped spray-painted sneakers.
we need to learn how to wear
shoes like yours.
thoughts, not mine
Sat May 26, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
"Real grace is simply
inexplicable, inappropriate, out of the box, out of
bounds, offensive, excessive, too much, given to the
wrong people..." --Michael Spencer
"The danger we have is that we want to water down what Jesus said to make it mean something that aligns with our common sense. But if it were only common sense, what He said would not even be worthwhile." --Oswald Chambers
"There is, in the end, only two ways to read the Bible: is it basically about me or basically about Jesus? In other words, is it basically about what I must do, or basically about what He has done?" --Tim Keller
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
--C. S. Lewis
"The danger we have is that we want to water down what Jesus said to make it mean something that aligns with our common sense. But if it were only common sense, what He said would not even be worthwhile." --Oswald Chambers
"There is, in the end, only two ways to read the Bible: is it basically about me or basically about Jesus? In other words, is it basically about what I must do, or basically about what He has done?" --Tim Keller
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
--C. S. Lewis
what language cannot give me now
Tue May 22, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
what language cannot
give me now
I let go
into the vast blue.
the fizzing swarm,
the endlessly shifting green blades, and
the impatiently courting sparrows
decorate the howl of technology
in the garden
like missing children
wandering a lightless sinking cloud
of corpulent, hopeless god.
and the Blood runs
over every star
to puddles at our feet,
its awkward warmness
we kneel to lap as dogs.
my pride, the curtain
of gravity and tar,
torn.
please, please
torn.
I let go
into the vast blue.
the fizzing swarm,
the endlessly shifting green blades, and
the impatiently courting sparrows
decorate the howl of technology
in the garden
like missing children
wandering a lightless sinking cloud
of corpulent, hopeless god.
and the Blood runs
over every star
to puddles at our feet,
its awkward warmness
we kneel to lap as dogs.
my pride, the curtain
of gravity and tar,
torn.
please, please
torn.
home is the place
Thu May 17, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
home is the place
where the Atlantic is bitter cold
(I wade in wincing)
in spring and the wind sends
sidearmed oyster shells planing like gulls.
home is the place
where Mom hoots for our Red Sox,
provoking her favorite players by nickname,
and Dad doesn't know the difference
between shortstop and second base.
(he graciously
buys the beer anyway.)
home is the place
where my little brothers and I
still bicker over wiffle ball
and family history;
we try to impress each other
with second-hand understandings.
home is the place
where Dad walks around out of the bathroom naked
and no one says anything, because
what is there to say?
home is the place
where nobody compliments Andy
on his ability to roll cigarettes
even though he's gotten quite good at it.
(he needs to
brush his teeth more.)
home is the place
where gifts are clever
and Mom cries to family sweetness.
home is the place
where the New England swamp grows
bold, bloodsucking bugs
and proud, far-seeing trees
home is the place
where the crisp scent of sheets
and familiar cross-stitch on the walls
speak to my olding heart
where the Atlantic is bitter cold
(I wade in wincing)
in spring and the wind sends
sidearmed oyster shells planing like gulls.
home is the place
where Mom hoots for our Red Sox,
provoking her favorite players by nickname,
and Dad doesn't know the difference
between shortstop and second base.
(he graciously
buys the beer anyway.)
home is the place
where my little brothers and I
still bicker over wiffle ball
and family history;
we try to impress each other
with second-hand understandings.
home is the place
where Dad walks around out of the bathroom naked
and no one says anything, because
what is there to say?
home is the place
where nobody compliments Andy
on his ability to roll cigarettes
even though he's gotten quite good at it.
(he needs to
brush his teeth more.)
home is the place
where gifts are clever
and Mom cries to family sweetness.
home is the place
where the New England swamp grows
bold, bloodsucking bugs
and proud, far-seeing trees
home is the place
where the crisp scent of sheets
and familiar cross-stitch on the walls
speak to my olding heart
to think or not to think
Mon May 14, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
"If you make people
think they're thinking, they'll love you; But if you
really make them think, they'll hate you." --Don
Marquis
"Information must be moved and consumed continuously. That is the price to be paid for speed-of-light transmission. What the information may be is of no consequence, as long as it is attention-getting, and does not inhibit the flow of new information coming fast behind it." --Neil Postman
Information is becoming less and less meaningful. In the information age, people don't want information, they want to feel informed. We consume information rather than internalize it and allow it to affect how we live our lives. That is why popular poetry and song lyrics crumble into paranoid and graceless sloganeering.
(While I'm writing...anyone see the Sox come back with six runs in the bottom of the ninth to win the game yesturday? That was off the hook...I think the O's need to spend some time practicing...how to catch a baseball.)
"Information must be moved and consumed continuously. That is the price to be paid for speed-of-light transmission. What the information may be is of no consequence, as long as it is attention-getting, and does not inhibit the flow of new information coming fast behind it." --Neil Postman
Information is becoming less and less meaningful. In the information age, people don't want information, they want to feel informed. We consume information rather than internalize it and allow it to affect how we live our lives. That is why popular poetry and song lyrics crumble into paranoid and graceless sloganeering.
(While I'm writing...anyone see the Sox come back with six runs in the bottom of the ninth to win the game yesturday? That was off the hook...I think the O's need to spend some time practicing...how to catch a baseball.)
First year of grad school is over!
Sun May 13, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
...and I survived. I am
alive to tell tales of conquering a five-legged bear
with a small white stick (Holst's Mars), hacking through dense
jungle undergrowth (incorrectly documented degree
requirements), and hypnotizing swarms of wide-eyed,
mischievous forest creatures (kindergarten). Eastman
is not a grave for the banjo-playing avant-garde jazz
pundit...
I learned this semester that to live on the edge of failure is a blessing. God does not want me to look back on a master's degree from the Eastman School of Music as my accomplishment. I am in school by grace, I'll make it out by grace, and I can say, look how great my God is.
I learned this semester that to live on the edge of failure is a blessing. God does not want me to look back on a master's degree from the Eastman School of Music as my accomplishment. I am in school by grace, I'll make it out by grace, and I can say, look how great my God is.
Eastman concert-music snotheads
Wed May 09, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
This is what I want to
do to every Eastman concert-music snothead:
"Reginald, this is Skip. He only knows how to play
three Lynard Skynard songs on the guitar. Now go make
music with him. The concert will be tomorrow,
attended by every important person you know." It
would be so good for them.
"Uh, Skip, so...can you read music?"
"Uh, Skip, so...can you read music?"
I should be studying for finals
Mon May 07, 2007 Filed in: Recycled
thoughts
with sunburnt smile say
Sun May 06, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
singing the blues,
I want to be found
a rusty scrap
that speaks in unison heart
so she will place me in her voice,
and with sunburnt smile say,
you make a charming sound
when children knock you.
I conceal war with sympathy.
I do not want to gallop across
the muddy November field
to a trembling Guinevere.
I would soothe her
with unheeded melody--
(ambition is song
to fool the mockingbird.)
the fog, solitude
prods look! where! ...but
I am not alone when I wake--
the pigeons living in my chimney
warble to me of God.
it first annoys me,
then I remember the old women across the street
who hobble out of the subsidized tower
to mother us with stale bread.
I want to be found
a rusty scrap
that speaks in unison heart
so she will place me in her voice,
and with sunburnt smile say,
you make a charming sound
when children knock you.
I conceal war with sympathy.
I do not want to gallop across
the muddy November field
to a trembling Guinevere.
I would soothe her
with unheeded melody--
(ambition is song
to fool the mockingbird.)
the fog, solitude
prods look! where! ...but
I am not alone when I wake--
the pigeons living in my chimney
warble to me of God.
it first annoys me,
then I remember the old women across the street
who hobble out of the subsidized tower
to mother us with stale bread.
dogwood
Thu May 03, 2007 Filed in: Poetry
dogwood!
scatter your white petals
and will I bush up against your branches
with explicit carelessness
(like I brush up against
a woman
whose skin I desire.
I love nature
as I love woman,
so full of rain
and vast, yearning beauty...
I fear nature
as I fear woman,
that a snapping twig
invokes claws.)
the dafodils are now!
scatter your white petals
and will I bush up against your branches
with explicit carelessness
(like I brush up against
a woman
whose skin I desire.
I love nature
as I love woman,
so full of rain
and vast, yearning beauty...
I fear nature
as I fear woman,
that a snapping twig
invokes claws.)
the dafodils are now!