The Best of the Best

In 1st grade, my best friend was a kid named Dave. Halfway through the year, his family moved to another town. I visited once, and never saw him again.

In 3rd grade, my best friend was a kid named Matt. Halfway through the year, his family moved to another town. I visited once, and never saw him again.

After that, I gave up on having a best friend.

Eventually I ventured into adulthood, where best friends weren't as big a deal, probably because of Facebook. I had close friends, good friends, high school & college friends, and volleyball friends, but I stuck to the decision I made when I was 8. No besties.¹

And then I met Denise. I've never called her my best friend. Honestly, I've never really considered her to be my best friend, because my brain had wiped the very concept from my perception decades earlier, but yeah, that's what she is.

There are plenty of people who love to tell the world "I married my best friend," but I've never cared much for that sentiment. It's too sappy for my taste. Maybe I'm still jaded from my youth, or maybe I simply don't like sap.²

Nevertheless, today being what it is, I'm going to go ahead and say it. Six years ago today, I married my—no, no, I can't do it. Too damned sappy. Need to boil it down.

Six years ago today, I married the love of my life.

And they lived happily ever after.

There, much better. Sap free, and with a fairy tale ending.

But wait: There's more! For the low, low price of reading the last two footnotes, you can also learn more about my former best friends Matt³ and Dave.<sup>4


1</sup> Also, no Super Friends. Marketing teams in the 70s sure made some odd name choices.
² Not till it's been boiled down into sweet, sweet syrup. Before that, it's just a bitter, sticky residue I can't wash off easily and makes me feel unclean.
³ I never saw Matt again, but 20 years later my dad saw him semi-regularly. Same Masonic lodge.
⁴ I never saw Dave again, but 20 years later Denise saw him semi-regularly. She dated his older brother.

One Ring to Bind Them

Four years ago today, Denise slipped this ring on my finger, and I haven't taken it off since.

Well, except a few nights early on, when it was irritating my skin. And those occasions when I set it aside in the bathroom and only remembered hours later. And whenever I've done gardening or masonry or some other activity that could sully it. Oh, and of course that time I jammed my finger playing football and couldn't get the ring over my knuckle for twelve months.¹

It's okay, though, because Denise knows that even if I don't wear it all the time, my feelings for her are constant. She is my everything.

Or rather, she was. Until our son was born. Now she's half my everything. Or if you go by weight, 80% of my everything. Though really it's more like 78 or 79%. And that number's dropping.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: Math is hard.

I mean, I even screwed up the title to this post. It didn't take one ring to bind us; it took two. Which proves I'm nothing like Gollum. I'll have to tell this to my preeeecious. She'll be so relieved.

(Happy anniversary, Denise!)


¹ I also may have removed it once to take a photo of it. Maybe.

The Inciting Incident

Three years and seven days ago, I brought forth in this content a new notion, conceived liberally, and dedicated to the proposition that, ah, man! I get a sequel!

For you see, on August 20, 2009, I slipped off a mossy precipice and hurtled nearly 30 ft into a narrow chasm as images of my death flashed before me. And then I wet myself.

Although I had yet to finish my novel (a familiar story),¹ I finally had a tale to tell. And I needed a place to tell it. Thus, one week later (three years ago today) I started this blog.

And the rest, as they say,² is history.³

I know I've been slacking in my bloggerly duties these past couple months, but as summer wanes and cool autumn breezes carry inspiration my way, I can promise you that's not going to change one bit. My son's just too dang cute.⁴ Plus, if I don't finish my novel sometime soon, I suspect Joseph Selby may shift from positive motivation to all-out threats.

Okay, fine, I'll try to slack less. After all, I love to entertain.⁵

But three years. Wow. Time sure flies when you're doing a bunch of stuff.


¹ Not familiar: the novel, with its assassination plot involving invisible monkeys. (Unless that's a thing. If that's a thing, let me know post haste.) Familiar: to this day, the book remains unfinished. I'm nothing if not consistent.
² Who is they and why are they always saying such things? You'd think by now they'd have learned to listen once in a while so they didn't repeat themselves so damn often.
³ Then again, everything that's ever happened in all of creation is history, technically speaking, so that phrase is as worthless as this simile.
⁴ He learned to walk this past Tuesday, and he does this adorable thing where he slips into the other room without the noticeable pit-pat-pit-pat he had when he crawled, and goes straight for the cat food.
⁵ The only chance I've had to entertain over the past few weeks was that time I was up on stage and valiantly saved that poor bat from the malevolent horde of shrieking 6-year-old girls. True story.

The Biggest Carrot in the Kitchen

One year ago today, I married this woman:

It was pretty much like any other wedding. During the ceremony, for instance, I showed what sort of husband I'd be by crushing something fragile with my foot.

The wedding song mentioned 36 different varieties of cheese, and was accompanied by a puppet show and French horn kazoo solo.

Our closest friends and relatives pelted us with bird seed before we kissed on a covered bridge and looked longingly into each other's eyes in front of a giant rocket and an obviously fake backdrop.

After we entered to The Muppet's "Mahna Mahna," Table 5 won the sugar packet tower competition and we were given the largest carrot in the kitchen.

And then, we danced.

Best. Day. Ever.

* All photos courtesy of Kaz Photography of Buffalo, NY.

Two Turns of The Wheel

Today, this blog enters its terrible twos. Thus, not only should you expect a bit more yelling in the coming months — and perhaps an infatuation with dinosaurs or trains — but I’ll also have to be careful what I say around the blog, since it’ll be sure to repeat it in public at the most inappropriate times. (Not that it matters, since my blog’s readers are so stupid they won’t even realize they’ve been insulted.)¹

Last year I celebrated The Wheel’s one-year anniversary with a contest, but sadly, I won’t be doing the same this year, because funds are scarce. Half my money has gone toward our new windows, half is set aside for our new kitchen, and I blew the other half on diapers. (What? You can too have three halves. You can’t? Are you sure? Well, in my defense, I was never good at math.)³

Here’s a snapshot of my past year:

Lost: 1 cat (aged 9), 1 great aunt (aged 102)
Gained: 1 wife, 1 son, 1 cat, 1 monster, 143 followers
Wrote: 94 blog posts, 2 chapters, 1 award-winning speech
Took: 1500+ photos, 1 chump for all he was worth⁴

Thus concludes year two in the life of the (sometimes) fiery wheel. As great as it was, I can’t wait to find out what wonders year number three will bring.


¹ Goddamnit! That’s entirely out of context. When I said that to the blog, I was joking.^2
2 Shit. I shouldn’t have said ‘goddamnit,’ either. Now the blog’s gonna fucking say it all the time.
³ That’s a goddamn lie. (Shit, I did it again.) Math used to be my best subject. In fact, I was even in our high school’s Math League, which was kind of like the Justice League (i.e. both groups solved problems), except in our league only one person wore brightly colored tights.
⁴ Bazinga.

And That's When I Wet Myself

Two years ago yesterday, I survived The Great Plummet.

Which is to say, on August 20, 2009, I fell 30 ft to my death but didn't die.

Which is to say, I was hiking with my ex-fiancée Denise¹ when I plunged 26 ft 8 in into a narrow chasm, but came out nearly unscathed.

Which is to say, I slipped off a mossy precipice about 100 ft upstream from Bingham Falls (pictured above) and into a gorge barely 5 ft wide, yet only suffered two minor scrapes and bruises. Nevertheless, my death (rather than my life) flashed before my eyes during my precipitous drop.

Which is to say, amidst my one and a half seconds of freefall I pictured myself dying in two and a half ways — cracking my head against the cavern wall opposite, breaking my neck as I landed, and shattering my legs and back to end up paralyzed.²

And that's when I wet myself.

Which is to say, I splashed down (much unlike a space shuttle) into water far deeper than I'd expected. I returned to the surface, but my poor, poor D took in too much water, and she drowned.

Which is to say, my Nikon D60 succumbed to the elements.³ I then swam 60 ft one-handed (my other hand heroically — and fruitlessly — trying to prolong the life of my camera) and climbed out of the gorge the only way possible: by hauling myself out, hand over hand, along the husk of a dead tree.

Which is to say, I climbed out of the gorge the only way possible: by hauling myself out, hand over hand, along the husk of a dead tree. After we celebrated my continued living at the nearby Ben & Jerry's factory, I knew I had to share the story of my amazing survival with the world.

Which is to say, one week later I started this blog.

And the rest is history.


¹ She prefers I call her "my wife," but where's the fun in that?
² No, I'm not trying to imply that losing the use of my legs is akin to dying. Yet, I would die a little inside, knowing I'd never again have the chance to run a marathon (never mind that I've never run more than 8 miles in one clip) or reign over the volleyball court as the "Lord O' Leaping" (never mind that I haven't played in over a year) or accidentally slip off a mossy precipice to my almost certain doom (never mind).
³ Or rather, it succumbed to one element. Then again, that one element is made up of two elements, so perhaps I was right right from the start.

One Turn of The Wheel (plus a CONTEST!)

** This contest has ended.** (view the winners)

Today, The Wheel turns one. To put this in perspective, I present to you a short list of just some of the activities I've given up on before a year had passed. (All lengths are approximate.)

What	For How Long
Do photography with a basement darkroom	(equipment never used)
Be an airbrush artist	4 days
Attend weekly pick-up games of ultimate frisbee	2 weeks
Take karate	4 months
Plan to transfer to Dartmouth	5 months
Play bass guitar & violin in a band	6 months
Search for a job as a computer animator	7 months
Be a fetus	8 months
Go to Sunday School	9 months
Plan to use the temporary timeshare I purchased, rather than let the money go to waste	11 months

As you can see, that I've kept The Wheel going for a year is quite the accomplishment. To mark the occasion, I'm giving away two $25 Amazon gift cards! (And perhaps, the prizes might get claimed this time around, unlike with my ninja haiku contest.)

In honor of my win on her blog last month, we'll be doing it Janet Reid style. To enter, write a story (or poem, or whatever) in 100 words or less using each of the following words at least once, and post it in the comments:

Sometimes
Wheel
Fire
Turns
One

The deadline for entries is next Friday, September 3, at 11:42pm (Eastern Time), a time I have chosen at random and for no discernible reason.

Be creative. Be funny. Be eloquent. Be witty. Be insane. I'll pick my two favorites and bestow upon them the honor that is the Amazon gift card.

I'd also appreciate it if you'd spread the word about this contest. Blog about it. Tweet about it. Tell your friends on Facebook. Send out flyers in the mail. Put on a chicken suit and hold up a placard at your local mall. None of this will help you win, since I pick winners based on merit (or, at least, my skewed perception of "merit"), but I'd be ever so grateful. And if you do wear the chicken suit, take pictures. That alone might be worth a prize.

Alright, enough of my babbling. Let's see what you've got. Wow me.

Contest Rules:

1. Rules will be written in small type and numbered, so they look more official.
2. To enter, use the five words listed above in a story (or poem, or whatever) of no more than 100 words, and post it in the comments section of this blog. If you go over 100 words, I will randomly remove words until you are down to the maximum. If you don't use the five allocated words, I will randomly insert them in place of other words. In either case, your entry will be disqualified, and as a result you will not win.
3. You may submit a maximum of two entries. If you submit more than two, I will deem all subsequent entries as inadmissible, and you will be found not guilty due to lack of evidence.
4. You must provide a name. Anonymous entries will be stricken from the record. I won't actually delete them, but they won't win, either.
5. Pandering is completely acceptable. Bribery is not only acceptable, but encouraged.
6. The contest is open until September 3, 2010 at 11:42pm, Eastern Time. If you post an entry after the deadline, it will instead be entered in my next contest. It won't win that one, either.
7. I will act as sole judge, and select the winning entries based on criteria I make up as I go along.
8. Two (2) winners will receive an Amazon gift card in the value of $25. Huzzah!

Fallin' 2: Electric Boogaloo

One year ago today, I fell 30 feet to my death but didn't die. If you're unfamiliar with the details of The Great Plummet, go back and read about it in my inaugural blog post. It's okay, I'll wait.

All caught up now? Wonderful.

Earlier this week, I returned to the scene of the climb, and against Denise's wishes I went alone.¹ I planned to take photographs and more precise measurements of the spot. Yet, as I peered down into the gorge from the once-mossy precipice, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of vertigo. No, wait—not vertigo. What's the word... joy. I was overcome with an immense feeling of joy. As I pictured my rapid descent and miraculous survival in my mind's eye,² I openly wept.

Then, I began the document process. As I've already hinted, the mossy precipice was no longer mossy. It was, however, even more precipitous than I remembered it being. Honestly, what was I thinking getting so close to the edge?³ Likewise, my escape route was much, much steeper than I recalled, and I have no idea how I made it out of the gorge without slipping back in once or twice.

I pulled out a ball of twine, and lowered a small weight into the gorge until it hit water. By measuring the string, I learned that I'd only plummeted 26 ft 8 in (not 30 ft, as previously estimated). Thus, I had only been in freefall for 1.3 seconds (not 1.4 s), and hit the water going 28 mph (not 30 mph). I also noticed that the gap I fell through is about 5 ft wide (not 3 ft). Clearly, these findings knock my survival down a notch in terms of miraculousness. But I'm not complaining.

Computer issues prevent me from sharing most of my photos until I return home from my vacation, but I'll leave you with one. Unlike last year, when my camera and lenses succumbed to a watery death before I reached the base of Bingham Falls, this year I was able to take some shots of the main attraction. I managed a few pics at varying shutter speeds before dozens of high schoolers in bathing suits descended upon the falls. This was only the first wave (click to embiggen):

A far, far better place to plummet than where I did.

Perched on a rocky ledge by the falls, I put my camera back in its bag and then, within seconds, I no longer had solid ground beneath my feet.

The water was cold, crisp, and invigorating. Submerged in that cold mountain stream, I felt an exhilaration I'd only experienced once before. This time, however, my camera was safely tucked away back on the ledge, and I had jumped, not fallen.

I was exactly where I wanted to be.


¹ After all, she's not the boss of me. Not for another couple weeks.
² My mind doesn't actually have an eye. It's an expression, people.
³ For the record, I believe it was: "Ooooh, waterfall. Preeeetty."

German for No

On this date nine long years ago, I began working at a little insurance company known as The Hartford. After a five-minute interview, I was hired as a web design consultant, and at the time, since I was planning on a career in computer animation, I expected that within six months I’d leave both the company and the state in my wake.

Obviously, that didn’t happen. Instead, I settled into the job, and although I still wonder how far I would have gotten with computer animation, I’m happy I stuck with web design. Now, in commemoration of my anniversary, I thought I’d share 9 of the more interesting bits of trivia from my tenure:

• I have worked in 3 different departments under 4 different managers across 5 different buildings, while getting shifted around between 15 different cubicles.
  
  
• In 2005, one of my co-workers vanished. As in, off the face of the earth. For three whole months. His boss had no idea where he was, nor did his ex-wife, his daughters, his bartender… we felt like background characters in an episode of CSI or Without a Trace. And then he suddenly reappeared. In a hospital. In Miami. This is a guy who I had worked with for about 4 years, without incident. He sent an email saying we’d all have to get together for drinks at some point and he’d tell us the whole story. Then, I think he may have disappeared again.
  
  
• Somehow, my name ended up on a patent application.
  
  
• At lunchtime one fateful day, I was eating from an open styrofoam container of chili that sat upon my desk. I don’t recall how it happened, but the container started to tip toward me. I tried to stop it, to catch it, but failing to do so, I quickly stood up so it wouldn’t spill on me. When it hit the ground, it didn’t land on its edge and tip over. The bottom of the container landed flat, causing the chili to explode upwards. It spattered into my face, and onto my shirt and pants. Little specks of chili somehow found their way to the furthest reaches of the desk, and onto the back of the computer monitor. To this day, although all the stains have been removed, one of co-workers can always spot when I’m wearing “the chili pants.”
  
  
• Shortly before I shifted out of one department, its name was changed to GSD, which stood for, I kid you not: GBD Solution Design. That’s right, the name was an acronym (technically, an initialism) within another acronym (again, technically an initialism). And they didn’t see anything wrong with that.
  
  
• For a month and a half, I did my job completely left-handed. No, not on a bet; I’d merely broken my right hand in a simple disagreement.¹
  
  
• For a while, my commute was a simple 3-mile journey down a single 2-lane road. One morning, two separate school buses tried to run me off that road. The first ran a red light in order to pull out in front of me from a side street, and less than a mile later, the second kid-filled yellow behemoth switched into my lane without warning, forcing me to swerve and slam on my brakes. Yay, flat tire.
  
  
• I once worked 26 hours in a 30-hour period. I do not recommend this. Not only will all your work go for nought when everyone cancels out of the meeting you scheduled, neglects to read the document you compiled until four months later, and then opts to undertake absolutely none of the recommendations. But you’ll also get, as more than one doctor told me, “the worst case of mono [they’d] ever seen.”
  
  
• A few times a year, we’re required to take online certification courses on topics like ethics and information protection. (One of the latter had a hokey pirate theme, complete with an animated squawking parrot, and locations like Internet Island and Compliance Cove.) It was in one of these highly professional courses that I came across this bit of sage advice: “Handle e-mail as if you are sharing your fork.” Truer words have never been spoken.

¹ The wall started it.