I'm just moving over to tomkeller.tumblr.com to try some new things.
Here are some of my favorite memories from the last three years here.
Beginning
Elie
Escape
Fishing
I<3ny
Mozart
NASCAR
100
Pizza
Putt-Putt
Service
Tolls
Tournament
Wilbon
Women
Love
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Spoken like a politician
Rajon Rondo, the Boston Celtics' point guard, is listed as questionable for the next NBA Finals game because of an injury to his ankle. But today, Rondo removed any doubt about his status...kind of.
“There’s no way I’m going to miss the game, probably," Rondo said. "I don’t want to hurt the team and go out there and not give it my all, but I think I’m sure I’ll be playing tomorrow night.”
“There’s no way I’m going to miss the game, probably," Rondo said. "I don’t want to hurt the team and go out there and not give it my all, but I think I’m sure I’ll be playing tomorrow night.”
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Sugar on the hardwood
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sweat beads navigate down your face like it's a wall with too much wet paint.
It is a Tuesday night at Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church, your weekly basketball game, and summer has kicked in the door and demanded it be the first player chosen to play. Outside, it is 98 degrees, full humidity, the kind of heat that grabs at you as you walk and laughs at you as you run.
But inside this old, dark gym, this gym with its faded hardwood floors and its white cinder block walls with "HOME OF THE OLG PANTHERS" painted in blue, no weatherman can be sure what the temperature is in here. Air conditioning? Come on now.
You start sweating as soon as you walk in. The other players here are already glistening, and that's just from reaching down to touch their toes a few times. You swear you see perspiration creep down the walls.
The game starts and you are sweating harder now, your breaths heavy as if your lungs are filled with water. Within minutes, the shirt you're wearing feels like it missed its turn in the dryer. You run up the court and beads drip off you as if you're in a rotisserie oven.
The score is 6-6 now, game point each way, and the sweat is collecting on your palms and every muscle in your body is groaning when you ask it to move and your brain is yelling at you because WHY ARE YOU SUBJECTING ME TO THIS YOU IDIOT.
Finally, the two hours are over and your body sighs, too tired to celebrate or perhaps just silently protesting its abuse. You creep the two blocks home and turn the shower on cold. The water hits you and every pore in your body jolts awake. You arch your head back and the stream pulls every ounce of pain out of you. You towel off and your muscles pat each other on the back, exhausted but proud of each other for an honest day's work.
You slide into bed and flick off the lamp. You can't imagine feeling any better.
Drip.
Drip.
The sweat beads navigate down your face like it's a wall with too much wet paint.
It is a Tuesday night at Our Lady of Grace Catholic Church, your weekly basketball game, and summer has kicked in the door and demanded it be the first player chosen to play. Outside, it is 98 degrees, full humidity, the kind of heat that grabs at you as you walk and laughs at you as you run.
But inside this old, dark gym, this gym with its faded hardwood floors and its white cinder block walls with "HOME OF THE OLG PANTHERS" painted in blue, no weatherman can be sure what the temperature is in here. Air conditioning? Come on now.
You start sweating as soon as you walk in. The other players here are already glistening, and that's just from reaching down to touch their toes a few times. You swear you see perspiration creep down the walls.
The game starts and you are sweating harder now, your breaths heavy as if your lungs are filled with water. Within minutes, the shirt you're wearing feels like it missed its turn in the dryer. You run up the court and beads drip off you as if you're in a rotisserie oven.
The score is 6-6 now, game point each way, and the sweat is collecting on your palms and every muscle in your body is groaning when you ask it to move and your brain is yelling at you because WHY ARE YOU SUBJECTING ME TO THIS YOU IDIOT.
Finally, the two hours are over and your body sighs, too tired to celebrate or perhaps just silently protesting its abuse. You creep the two blocks home and turn the shower on cold. The water hits you and every pore in your body jolts awake. You arch your head back and the stream pulls every ounce of pain out of you. You towel off and your muscles pat each other on the back, exhausted but proud of each other for an honest day's work.
You slide into bed and flick off the lamp. You can't imagine feeling any better.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Let me have a Pikachu
7:36.
Thank you, Alarm Clock. You have awoken me right when I asked you to, allowing plenty of time for me to shower, eat and make it to the 9:00 class on Flash computer animation I am signed up for today. I'm not sure what has compelled me to take this course, but my employer is paying for it and I expect it will prove useful in ways I can't anticipate. Now, what for breakfast? I could have cereal, mix up a smoothie, make some pancakes...pancakes...soft pancakes...soft pillows...I'll just rest my eyes and think about it for a second...
9:15.
Damn it, Alarm Clock! You let me walk all over you like that? Grow some!
I walk into the community college classroom at a few minutes past 10. The instructor, a 30-ish guy, notes my presence, bypasses words and instead lets out an annoyed grunt. I apologize and slip into the back row. The first thing I notice is my instructor's apparel - he has opted for dress slacks and a sportcoat to complement a T-shirt bursting with anime characters. Curious, I Google the guy's name on my computer. Sure enough, a page of his anime artwork comes up, including a message board with lots of people using the symbol ^.^
So what happens later in the class confuses me thoroughly. We are to put together an animation of Mount Fuji, with the name of the mountain flying in from one side while a picture of it fades in from the back. He demonstrates what we are to do on his computer, which is projected onto a big screen up front. But when he types in the name of the mountain for the animation, he puts "Mount Fudji," which sounds like a delicious vacation spot for the Keebler Elves.
No one corrected him. I wonder if next week we'll do something on the Taj Maple Syrup.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Tongue, meet cheek
On my iGoogle homepage, there's a widget from a site called HowStuffWorks.com. Some interesting things turn up there, like "Will humans be living in space in 50 years?" or "Are meerkats immune to poison?"
Today's made me laugh. It's "How Sarcasm Works."
When you click on the link, it should say, "It doesn't."
Today's made me laugh. It's "How Sarcasm Works."
When you click on the link, it should say, "It doesn't."
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
I have made many friends in my life in many different places. But I never knew that I could have made it so much easier on myself by spending all my time at Target. I've been to the one on Lawndale Avenue twice, and somehow, I've made a friend there both times.
One was a guy named Miguel, a sports nutritionist and former organic food salesperson who, like me, was in pursuit of a planner. I can't even tell you how the conversation evolved, but we ended up talking for almost an hour about cool things like all the soccer injuries he's sustained.
The other was David, who I met just after I moved here. My cart was overflowing that day with cleaning supplies and candles and other things that suggested I was new in town. David asked me where I was from and we ended up chatting for almost an hour, too. He's a former professional golfer who now works as a consultant to entrepreneurs.
David and I have had lunch together a few times since our initial meeting. Tonight, I met him and his wife for dinner at Taqueria El Azteca, a cool little Mexican place co-founded by a friend of theirs named Greg. Double bonus: the place has $1 tacos on Tuesdays.
Greg, a native Mexican, told a great story when we complimented him on the food. In Mexico, he said, tacos like these are sold by street vendors, men who spend all day in carts no bigger than phone booths, hunched over a hot stove, chopping away at cuts of meat. As you can imagine, it gets a little steamy in there.
That's what gives the cuisine its flavor, Greg joked. He remembered once as a kid asking his mom if they could get tacos from a particular stand.
"No," she said, pointing to a different cart. "I like the taste of that guy's sweat better."
One was a guy named Miguel, a sports nutritionist and former organic food salesperson who, like me, was in pursuit of a planner. I can't even tell you how the conversation evolved, but we ended up talking for almost an hour about cool things like all the soccer injuries he's sustained.
The other was David, who I met just after I moved here. My cart was overflowing that day with cleaning supplies and candles and other things that suggested I was new in town. David asked me where I was from and we ended up chatting for almost an hour, too. He's a former professional golfer who now works as a consultant to entrepreneurs.
David and I have had lunch together a few times since our initial meeting. Tonight, I met him and his wife for dinner at Taqueria El Azteca, a cool little Mexican place co-founded by a friend of theirs named Greg. Double bonus: the place has $1 tacos on Tuesdays.
Greg, a native Mexican, told a great story when we complimented him on the food. In Mexico, he said, tacos like these are sold by street vendors, men who spend all day in carts no bigger than phone booths, hunched over a hot stove, chopping away at cuts of meat. As you can imagine, it gets a little steamy in there.
That's what gives the cuisine its flavor, Greg joked. He remembered once as a kid asking his mom if they could get tacos from a particular stand.
"No," she said, pointing to a different cart. "I like the taste of that guy's sweat better."
Saturday, May 31, 2008
This guy had some good ideas
"To me, true happiness is acceptance of yourself for who you are. If something causes you unhappiness, you can avoid it and resume being happy. But, if you cause yourself unhappiness, there is no way to avoid yourself and you will always be unhappy. Therefore, materials and other people can provide you happiness, but not true happiness."
-Tommy Keller, 9th grade English paper
-Tommy Keller, 9th grade English paper
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