The Home Run

The other night I had a dream that I ran a home run in. Not hit a home run, mind you, meaning I did not swing like Hammerin' Hank Aaron and knock it into someone else's parking lot—even my subconscious knows that I'm a long way from doing that. But in the dream, I stood on third, a friend (Anthony, in the dream) came to the plate, he smacked the pitch high into the sky, and I ran like lightning across home plate. SCORE!

---------------

It is Friday night, The Fifteenth of June, 2012. I step up to the plate. My left leg is a knot of searing pain. We won't be able to see blood through the skin until tomorrow. For now, walking is agony, jogging is almost unbearable.

About ten minutes ago I had my first at-bat of the season, and something bad happened to my lower leg. I would have sprinted from third to home, but somehow my muscles had other plans. The rest of the game has been a blur of pain and sweat. We are five runs behind and running out of time.

Fifty feet away from me, a bright-looking young fellow in a red jersey is pitching a softball at me.

The voice in my head tells me: "Stay focused. You can do this." I listen through a haze of soreness and exhaustion.

---------------

I played three years of sports in Junior High School. Three seasons each of basketball and (flag) football, and one season of soccer—a total of seven seasons. But I never made a basket, never ran a touchdown, never kicked a goal. The only scores I made were in pickup games of sandlot baseball where we'd get the neighborhood kids together.

In the last basketball game of my eighth grade year, my coach was telling the other boys "Pass to Kellum, we have to get him to make a basket." I came close one time, I caught one, dribbled in close and shot, but it tipped off the rim and the other team got the ball.

I've never been bitter or sad about the fact that I didn't make any points for my teams. I realize I was sort of an unathletic nerd who was way more interested in reading about astronomy or peering through a microscope than I was in learning how to kick like Pele or run like Dorsett. But I've obviously never forgotten.

--------------

As I get ready to bat, my mind goes back to the batting cages yesterday. Em was showing me how to improve my stance, to shift weight from the back to the front. I shift my weight onto my left leg experimentally and instantly wish I had not.

I think back to what my teammate Sherry once told me: "most of these people can't pitch." Even with the talented team we are up against, I decide I better not swing the bat and I stand my ground as the first pitch soars past me. The second one is coming my way and I start to swing, realizing too late it is a bad pitch. A sloppy strike.

Another pitch is far too distant from me and I let it go. "Full count" the umpire says. I can't let the pressure get me. My leg is beginning to scream. Somewhere my brain wants me to just get out and go back to the dugout.

My team captain, Dennis, calls out, "Good eye, make 'em pitch  to you." It looks like a good one, but I stand back and let it pass, almost disdainfully, as if to say "You expect me to swing at that?"

"Take your base," the ump cries and I am off and jogging, bad leg and all. In slow-pitch coed softball, that means I go to second. A friend takes the bat from me as I trot past, adrenaline coursing through my veins—I head for second base.

-----------------

I guess it was around February of this year when my buddy Dennis asked me what I thought about our workplace starting a softball team. It seemed a bit far-fetched, I never thought we'd get enough interest, but the idea of playing a sport, hanging with my co-workers, and having a good time...I liked it. I told him to count me in.

Soon, I was helping him write up a petition for the bosses. When the owner of our clinic, Brendan, saw our petition he was thrilled. "You can be the Massaginators!" he reportedly said.

We had interest, and a name!

-----------------

I stand on second, rocking, ready to run. I try not to say aloud "Oh man, I am here again, it's that dream all over again." I look around. My friend Julie is stepping up to the plate. I try to control my breathing. Jogging to second base isn't that much exercise, but the bad leg and the excitement are getting to me. I'm trying not to hyperventilate.

I snap my eyes toward Frank, my base coach. I actually have to tell myself to run toward him...I'd die of embarrassment if I ran wide of the base or something. Watch Frank...watch Frank.

TING!

 Julie hits the ball. Time to run...

I can't feel the bad leg...guess it's  the adrenaline. Frank is holding up his hands. "Stop stop stop!" he calls.

I oblige, camping there on third base, pulse hammering in my ears.

-----------------

After we got official sanction to start our team, I went and bought a glove, a bat, some softballs. I bought two books and read them (it's what I do when I take up something new). I watched videos on YouTube of supposedly famous people showing how to bat, slide, throw, and catch. I wasn't very good, really. I went to practice twice a week with Dennis and the gang. My girlfriend, Jen, trained to be our pitcher.

Meanwhile, I helped Dennis sort out the paperwork for the new team. Before long, I was "team administrator." Keeping track of the minutiae is the least an unathletic nerd can do to help.

Dennis, Emily, and my other experienced friends coached me, giving me pointers and tips. I learned about batting stance, how to catch, how to throw. I spent endless hours in the back yard, throwing softballs at the pole that supports our old washing line.

I'm still not very good, but I am getting better. And I'm having a great time doing it.

-----------------

I am on third base. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart. The third baseman tries to make a joke...I can't hear him. Blake is stepping up to the plate. Everything is going so slowly. I control my breathing and try to stretch my bad leg.

Frank is saying "Don't move until I say so."

I try to say something like "I hear you." Not sure if it came out.

The pitch arcs toward home plate. I study the imperfections in the chalk line from third to home. The bat swings through the air. I breathe. The familiar clang of bat on softball.

I turn to Frank. He's watching the ball. Hours seem to pass, then "Go! Go! Go!"

My legs churn, tearing up the space between third and home. I'm limping but I won't stop moving.

Someone in a red jersey moves toward me. I expect to be tagged out. He ducks out of my way. Something in my brain registers that he doesn't have the ball.

Home plate is getting closer. It's just like that dream. I'm really going to do it, I'm really going to cross the plate.

I hit the plate, gasping for breath...My brain registers that it seemed a tiny bit anticlimactic. Some distant thought: "Did I do it? Did we get the point?"

-----------------

I didn't play in the first game of the season. I was in full manager mode, making sure everyone knew the batting order, double checking and making sure the paperwork was right, taking about a hundred pictures. I was okay with that. I didn't feel ready to play.

Tonight, in the early part of the game, Dennis got hurt. When he got to the dugout he was limping badly. "You have to sub for me." He was almost up to bat—now there's a classic scenario. No pressure here!

I informed the umpire I was subbing for Dennis and went out to bat. I remembered not to swing unless I was sure the pitch was perfect. I got walked and wound up on second, my first time there and my first time to fight back the panic.

On third I was ready to sprint for home. I did some sprinting in high school. That was a long time ago, bodies change over the years. Two steps from the bag and my lower left leg exploded in pain. I tried to hobble onwards, but was almost instantly tagged out.

I thought maybe it was just a cramp. My colleague and friend, Rena, helped me by massaging it. I had to limp onto the field several times to take Dennis' spot in the outfield. It was punishing.

Then I was at bat again.

-----------------

The dugout explodes with my friends whooping, yelling, calling out my name and my nickname (they call me "Mad Dog" because of the way I throw caution to the wind, diving after stray hits). People are smiling, slapping my back, high fiving me. I am stunned. The whole thing is very dream-like. I sit down and drink an entire bottle of water.

So THAT'S what it feels like to cross the plate.

In the end, the Massaginators played hard, but we still didn't win. And yet, I still felt as if I won a sort of a personal victory.

I Can't Draw

Here's a cartoon I did years ago, click to get a better view...

I Can't Draw, volume 1

CLICK TO VIEW CARTOON










Sorry this comes in a few days late for Christmas. I have been a bit distracted.

Girlfriend Trouble is Inspiring

Last year, Everything2.com (the site where I publish most of my writing) conducted a poetry contest. Now, in my entire time on this earth, I'd only written about five pieces of poetry that I would dare share with another person, but I thought I'd give it a whirl.

Using my relationships of the last ten years (my so-called 'grown-up relationships') as inspiration, I found I was able to work up four pieces. If I say so myself, I think they were pretty good.

In order to set this one up, I must digress briefly into the bizarre realm of quantum mechanics. There's a famous imaginary model physicists use to explain one of the picky points of quantum physics---it is called Schrödinger's Cat, after physicist Erwin Schrödinger*.

Without delving too deeply into unnecessary esoterica, Schrödinger imagined a strange situation wherein a cat would be in box, hidden from view. There is exactly a 50% chance that the kitty in question has been killed (remember, this is imaginary, no actual felines were harmed in the making of this thought experiment). Now, in the 'real' world, it would either be a living cat or one who was pushing up daisies, but in the twilight realm of the quantum, it's actually 50% alive and 50% dead until someone opens the box and looks at the cat. Then it becomes 100% alive or 100% flown off to join the kitty choir invisible.

Clear enough? Okay, good.

Quantum Physics is full of this sort of wacky uncertainty---which makes sense because it is about tiny particles interacting in bizarre and nebulous ways. One of the most famous axioms is Dr Werner Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. It's a science of grey areas and strangeness.

So, back to poetry: at the time of the noted competition, I was in a situation where I felt approximately 50% as though I was a part of a happy relationship, and 50% like we'd be going our separate ways at any moment, pending her say-so. It was kind of confusing and disquieting. One morning, as I lay in bed pondering my strange and uncertain romance I said "it's like she's Schrödinger's Girlfriend." And, well, how are you gonna resist that?

So that's where the poem came from.

Schrödinger's Girlfriend by me

          Back in the old days
         Folks were so certain
        Predestination
         A path of God's choosing

        Along came the men
         With their proofs
        And their theorems
         All of it got just a bit more confusing.


I really would like to create the equations
   Define our relations
   With one derivation
Here is my question on many occasions,
   "What does she want me to do?"

It would be great if life weren't so complex
   We'd make an index
   Find a value for x
How can I calculate all the effects
   of simply my being with you?


        Newton defined things
         In terms of equations
        Took Aristotle and
         Swept him away,

        Einstein took Newton's work
         Made alterations
        And everything changed
         In a relative way.


Part of me wants you to make up your mind
   To tell me you're mine
   Or leave me behind
Sometimes it feels just a little unkind
   Never to know where I stand.

Sometimes I think that I'm asking too much
   My questions are such:
   Am I just a crutch?
I really can't tell if you're missing my touch
   And nothing quite goes as we'd planned.


        A teacher named Erwin
         A cat in a box
        Alive and yet dead
         Til observing reveals

        A genius named Werner
         Was always uncertain
        And sometimes I think
         That I know how that feels.

The poem got one of the highest reputations in the contest (the highest, not counting the little awards we call "chings"). Hey, quantum mechanics and relationships, these are two things we nerds like to think about.

*To pronounce this surname correctly, one has to do something like a zombie noise there in the middle. I encourage the reader, unless s/he is a fluent speaker of German (meaning, you could order a meal at a fancy Berlin restaurant without getting more that one or two eyerolls from the picky German waiter), to anglicize the pronunciation of this to shro-ding-urr. Otherwise one runs the risk of sounding really ridiculous, not to mention pretentious.

Recite, relearn, record...

Back in High School, I took a poetry appreciation class. About 30 years ago, in case you are keeping track. Anyway, the for the final project in this class, we each had to memorize a piece of poetry. I had a real thing for Edgar Allan Poe, so I set out to memorize the Raven.

I realized, even at the time, that this was gonna be a dreadfully big thing to learn, but it is such a cool piece--plus, there's the whole 'challenge' factor. So I worked...hard. I think my classmates thought me quite eccentric, as I jogged down to the park reciting "...this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore, meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'" Of course, they always knew I was a little different.

Anyway, I managed to do it, and recited it for my final. The notoriously hard-to-impress teacher (Mr. Bickel) gave me an ovation. I felt pretty good about it.

After that, I just felt like learning more poetry. I learned some Robert Frost and some Shakespeare, and some Carroll and a few more by Poe. By the way, did you know that people "with taste" don't admit to liking Poe? He's supposed to be sort of 'pedestrian' or something. I'm often glad I'm not cursed with 'taste' and I can just like whatever I enjoy. But I have digressed.

So anyway, I also learned the song where Tom Lehrer puts the Periodic Table to music and the one where the Animaniacs sing the names of the nations of the world (more or less). I also learned the rather off-colour one by the new wave band the Nails, where the guy sings about the 44 women who have been in his life.

Roughly every other year, I'd go on a frenzy and see if I could remember all the pieces. I'd recite them in my car on the way to work (or doing deliveries for Dining In), and I even studied a few new ones. I learned Ozymandias by Shelley and a few pieces of drama (by Shakespeare...I think people with 'taste' are kind of divided on Billy the Bard too...but I think the old dude put some magic into the English language).

Occasionally, I'd record myself reciting them and challenge myself to see if I could get 90-95% of the poem perfectly...not missing or flubbing more than one or two words in 20. I discovered I remembered most of these pretty well.

In November, I decided I'd take the challenge once again. The idea was to go through each piece six times to my satisfaction, then record myself doing it, to make sure I knew it as well as I thought. It took a couple of months, but I not only did all of the ones I knew, I re-learned the opening soliloquy from Romeo and Juliet and learned more of Hamlet's exchanges with the gravedigger, so I know something like two pages of Hamlet by heart. Not a lot compared to what there is, but it's fun anyway.

So, by way of bragging, I present to you the list of stuff in my head, appropriately titled

LONG, COMPLEX, or just COOL THINGS I KNOW BY HEART
(in approximate order of when I learned them)
Poe -- The Raven
Poe -- El Dorado
Carroll -- Jabberwocky
Shakespeare -- Sonnet 18
Poe -- Annibel Lee
Blake -- The Tyger
Frost -- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Shakespeare -- “If We Shadows Have Offended...” (closing soliloquy from A Midsummer Night's Dream)
Poe -- Lines on Ale
Carroll -- the Walrus and the Carpenter
the Nails -- 88 Lines About 44 Women
Poe -- Conqueror Worm
Frost -- Fire and Ice
Animaniacs-- Nations of the World
Lehrer -- The Elements
Shakespeare -- “Alas, poor Yorick ...” (graveside exchange from Hamlet, between the gravedigger, Hamlet, and Horatio--about 16 pieces of dialogue including the famous whopper that Hamlet says)
Shelley -- Ozymandias
Shakespeare --- Romeo & Juliet (Prologue --- "Two households, both alike in dignity")


That's about it. Next year maybe I'll finally get through The Bells by Poe. Don't tell the people with taste though.

Grammatical Goofiness: Plural Puzzlers!

In High School (quite a few years gone now), I studied Latin, Greek, and Human Anatomy. In the interest of full disclosure, let me say that only one of those courses was actually offered at the tiny, private school I attended. The Latin and Greek were strictly self-study, and I prided myself on knowing the correct Latin plurals for the muscles, bones, and other parts of the body.

It was not too long before I hit a snag in my linguistic snobbery. Some of the names of body parts can not be correctly pluralized in Latin. Well, there’s a work-around, using something called the Terminologia Anatomica, but, if you are a purist for that system, you will refer to the pituitary gland as the glandula pituitaria. And we’re trying not to sound like a doofus here.

Not sounding like a doofus is precisely what it comes down to—accuracy is important, but not sounding ridiculous is also a big priority. By way of example, we often hear very educated people refer to stadia as the plural of stadium, but how far should we take that? These same educated people may sometimes say that the plural of museum is musea (although Answers.com says, succinctly, “No, the plural in English is museums.”) but with that plural, we run merrily up to the bounds of silliness and perhaps beyond.

The danger increases with the less familiar, more bizarre plurals, such as those purists who insist on pluralizing index as indices. The urge to point and laugh becomes almost impossibly high when someone uses irregular plurals like that. As a snarky joke, a friend used to pluralize “Kleenex” (registered trade mark) as “Kleenices” and “Xerox” (also registered trade mark) as “Xeroces.” Of course, if Kleenex were Latin, I think it would pluralize as Kleeneges or something…but it has been almost three decades since I cracked the Latin books.

Some other hilarious plurals exist in the anatomy world: femur becomes femora, sternum becomes sterna, mandible’s plural is sometimes given as mandibula (I’m serious…although even the stodgiest medical dictionaries seem to have mandibles nowadays), larynx becomes larynges, and one of the all-time craziest, the male reproductive organ called the epididymus pluralizes out as epididymides. There are also people who insist on pluralizing the word penis as penes (pronounced PEE-neez), which is also screamingly funny to anyone who was ever a Junior High School student.

One very educated friend suggested that if something is a Latin word, it should get a Latin plural. Here, we can run into trouble too. Camera is in the Latin dictionary. But you will never catch me saying “We have three digital camerae in our house” … again, not to sound like a doofus is a priority here.

This begs the question: why should it only apply to Latin? I know there are some very smart folks who use chateaux as the plural of chateau, so should all words of French origin be pluralized exactly as they would be in the native language? Of course, most French words use –s or –es to make their plurals, but it’s a highly irregular language. By some accounts English derives as much as 30% of our vocabulary from French, we would have to use a few zany plurals.

If we are going to use Latin and French plurals, we really should probably show some love to Greek as well. Then you would have to say “The centauroi were the half-man, half-horse creatures of legend.” This also implies that the plural of hippopotamus would not be “hippopatomi” as many wags suggest, but “hippopotomia” (or something very like that) … try THAT one at your next gathering of Very Smart People and see who takes you seriously after that. (“Dinosaurs” comes from Greek too, so I guess you could say “the Natural History Museum has many dinosaures (said ‘dino-SAU-reez’)”…you know, if you are feeling like doing so.)*

German is practically one of our parent tongues, so we certainly need to be accurate there as well. So next time you are gonna get some sausages at the deli, make sure to order a few bratwürster for dinner.

Many Italian food names are plural. But please, in your quest for accuracy, we implore you not to say “We left no spaghetto uneaten.” Seriously…

Hebrew often takes the –im form when pluralizing. That said, I suspect that any non-Hebrew speaker who says something like “there were two Rabbanim at that synagogue today” is likely to be sound like aforementioned silly person

Speaking of derivations from that language, while researching this article, I came across a wonderful piece about the plural of the word bagel. Two people were arguing over whether the plural should be “bagels” or “bagel” (as it would be in Yiddish) … the authority responds:

“I might say, as the rest of us who say “bagels” when speaking English — is right. Simply stated, the rule is this: When a word borrowed from a foreign language has become domesticated in the borrowing language…it obeys all the borrowing language’s grammatical rules, including those governing the formation of plurals.”

English is a language of exceptions, and of course there are some words that will always take irregular, foreign-y plurals. I’m not going to start saying “criterions” or “crisises,” for example. I’m just saying that it’s good to think before you pluralize. We must be careful not to sound like doofuses. Erm…doofi? No, doofuses…definitely doofuses.

*The delightful Miss Annie tells me that the Danish word for dinosaur is “dinosaurus” which pluralizes in Danish to “dinosaurusser.” Rather than spitting out that mess of a word, most Danes elect to say “dinosaurs.”

Ferret Jacket Moments

I was reading some of my old Everything 2 work before bed and encountered this essay. It seemed apt as our little friend Nick passed away barely a month ago. It can still bring tears. Loving can hurt so much sometimes.


Ferret Jacket Moment

An incidence of strong sadness or tearfulness inspired by a silly or seemingly humorous artifact. A ferret jacket moment is brought about by the context or juxtaposition of the funny item in question with respect to other circumstances.

Davey was our first pet ferret. We had wanted to get one for a long time, but we had to do the research, ferret-proof the house and otherwise get everything in order, like good, pet-loving nerds will do.

September 1996—our local Petco store got a big shipment of silvery-white ferret kits. They danced and squirmed as we played with them at the store, and they made that hilarious little chuckle that ferret lovers call "dooking." One little guy in particular, the friendliest and most gregarious of the whole bunch, caught our attention. He wrestled with our hands and chewed on Suzi's rings. He shoved his brothers and sisters aside as if to say, "Me! Me! You know you want me!"

That was our boy.

Susan, who has a very mild form of slight autism, can sometimes pull really perfect names out of thin air (we suspect that these two things are related). She looked at the little rascal for a very long time ... "Davidson. Davidson Fitzweasel," she said. The name was perfect for some strange reason.

Everything that we had heard from people, books and web pages came true: Davey escaped from everything, he got into seemingly impossible places. Anything and everything was a potential plaything. He stole stuff—he stole a lot of stuff. Wee Davey stole lighters, snacks, socks, just about anything he could carry. The funniest were the bagel thefts, when Suzi's brother, Carl, would bring us fresh bagels from his job. It is one of the great sights of the animal kingdom to see a tiny animal dragging a bagel that appears to be as big as he is, hoping to hide it for later. We always caught him, or so we thought.

Davidson charmed most everyone he met. Whether he was trying to steal Carl's Twizzler candy (we have a great picture of the ferret, determinedly hanging from a Twizzler), biting feet, playing with our cats (we had four felines at the time, two of which seemed to like the little guy, two of which tolerated him), or resolutely chasing ping-pong balls around our hardwood floor like a turbo-charged soccer player, he was a charismatic little mustalid.

His mischievous nature earned him the reputation of being a loveable troublemaker. We even bought him a tiny black leather jacket–obviously, he could not wear it, but it looked cute hanging next to his mirror in the two-story cage. We thought of him as a tiny, silvery-furred juvenile delinquent with eyes the colour of sapphires.

Davidson died at the age of four years, fairly young for a pet ferret. A combination punch of cardiomyopathy and kidney tumour came on fast, hitting the little guy as if some cruel, antique god had blasted our little pet with a lightning bolt. The surgery was a success, but his little system could not handle the stresses and he never recovered consciousness.

The loss of a beloved pet is an incredibly hard thing. This one hit us especially hard. Largely, it was the speed—there was scarcely a month between our first inkling that Davey was sick and the time when he was gone. There was no time to steel ourselves, no time to plan for potential outcomes, just hang on and watch the ship sink. Suzi doesn't cry much—the child of unemotional, German Lutherans and the product of the Lutheran school system, she can be eerily stoic.

She cried this time. In our near quarter-century together I've never seen her heart so thoroughly broken. I suppose I must have cried some too, it is hard for me to remember.

We could not immediately deal with the depressing chore of cleaning out Davey's home, so we let it sit for over a week. We just emptied his litter trays and food bowls and left it. The rays of perhaps a dozen sunrises slid through the windows in Susan's room and lit up the tiny hammock where our little scamp had slept while the hearts of his adoptive human "parents" mended.

One evening we finally set to the task. We opened his cage and found his toys, shredded cloth and paper and countless petrified bagels (how did he do that??)—all his humble treasures ... and there was his little leather jacket, on the tiny coat hanger that Susan made for it. Then came the tears.

After our shared catharsis, Susan smelled like grief. I don't know that I've ever encountered that before. Grief is an odd fragrance, sort of like sweat and tears and a dash of some strange musty musk.

Suzi made a little crypt for the ashes of our first ferret. A clear acrylic box holds his miniscule urn, a thoroughly fossilized bagel, a couple of toys and that little biker jacket. Carl added a Twizzler to the box later.

...and that, my friends, is a ferret jacket moment.

Home Again

Well, here I be. I made it home in one piece, and my wonderful adventure comes to a close. My two weeks in Copenhagen were just as close to perfect as any trip could be.

In two weeks I saw a castle built in the 11^th Century or earlier and touched 1000 year old masonry, I went to Tivoli Gardens, saw the Copenhagen City Museum (Danish: Bymuseum), ate a lot of good food, met many of Annie’s family (and they were all wonderful), walked a lot, ate a danish pastry or two (Danish: wienerbrød), and even spoke a little bit of Danish. Exhausting but fun.

It was so wonderful to see Annie, and to meet Jens, Maria, Tony, Louise, and little Sofia (one of the cutest babies I’ve ever seen). They were all so good to me, and every one of them was interesting, fun, and wonderful.

I flew back on Scandinavian Airlines. I sat next to a statistician from Stockholm. He bought me beers and we had the nicest chat for hours. I slept a little bit too. Flying back from O’Hare to Dallas, I sat next to a lovely older lady who, for various reasons, reminded me so much of my beloved and delightful friend Mia…Who is very much on my mind right now.

You know what that means? I had TWO good seat mates in one day. I think that’s a world record, actually.

I was welcomed by my wonderful friends, the best co-workers a guy could ask for, and some of my favourite clients in the world…including one I had not seen in a long time.

Travelling is amazing. I want to see more of the world. But there’s no place like home.

Saturday, 16th October, 2009: Anni and Jens' Apartment

Well, I'm sorry I have not been chronicling my adventures more thoroughly. Mostly I've been having them, photographing them (hey kids! Check out my Flickr site at http://www.flickr.com/photos/11701835@N02/sets/72157622561738496/), and hanging around with my hosts.

It's been amazing. The city is gorgeous and old, with historical sites and sights on just about every corner (Danish: hver hjorne). Annie and Jens have been great hosts, taking excellent care of me and adjusting their lives to allow me into their home. I've been doing my very best to be a good houseguest.

Let me talk to you for a second about the food here. Holy cow. First off, Jens is a phenomenal cook. I mean, probably better than you are thinking. That good. He's been making some some delicious dinners, I'm not gonna be losing any weight on this trip.

Danish food is not that foreign to American sensibilities. These folks eat a lot of sandwiches, pasta, and other familiar fare.

A big exception is smørrebrød, a Danish favourite. Jens and Annie took me to a very fancy smørrebrød place Wednesday (Danish: onsdag). Smørrebrød is delicate gourmet ingredients laid out on a piece of bread. The chef's English was good, but her voice was soft, and my hearing is not so good...so Annie had to order for me. My favourite was roast beef with egg and bacon. I tried bites from Annie and Jens' lunches as well and it was all delicious.

I also had a French hotdog. A big long bun with a long hole in it. Squirt in some mayonnaise, slip a long hot weiner in there and you have a delicious treat. Why is everyone snickering?

The weather has been almost perfect every day. Bright shiny blue skies, cool to cold breezes. The sun goes down a bit early (it's 6.45 here and the sun is nearly gone) and it's pretty durn cold at night, but not unbelievably so.

We have seen some amazing stuff. I love those old historical things, and well, they got em here. As Eddie Izzard once said "I'm from Europe, where the history comes from." We have seen some castles and palaces, churches, and places of historical significance. It's a real playground for one who loves old stuff like this.

We also saw Tivoli Gardens, one of the biggest and most famous amusement parks in Europe. It was wonderful, but I didn't get to ride any rides, owing to long lines (plus, I didn't want Annie to get bored, she doesn't do the fast rides). We did buy some souvenirs and walk a lot. Maybe I'll get to sneak back out there before I fly back to Dallas, and ride some thrill rides.

Oh hey, I've managed to communicate in Danish (Danish: dansk...argh...that was a weird one) a bit. Seriously. A week in this country, and I'm actually to where I can read about 80% of what I see. Which is to say I can read 80% of 100% of the writing. Or 100% of 80%...no, not that latter. Not really. But I've actually gotten to where I can understand a bit of spoken Danish too. It's a very hard language, but I'm getting there. Annie and Jens had a few exchanges where I've understood almost the entire conversation. No, I'm not evesdropping, these were the ones in front of me!

I've also managed to communicate with some shopkeepers and the like. Today, Annie and I went for icecream (Danish: is), and I managed to tell the lady "I would like two flavours, caramel and chocolate turtle...which contains no shelled reptiles, it's a rich candy that is popular here). Annie complimented me, and she doesn't give out praise cheaply.

More from Copenhagen

Friday (October 9th), Afternoon, 2pm

Copenhagen is a glorious city! I went for a very long walk today.

I slept well, as you might imagine...some slight allergies, but nothing more that you might expect.

Annie woke me up and she and I got some 'alone time' to hang out while she got ready for work. It was really great to reconnect with her.

Annie left me a key. After a shower (Danish: brusebad), I decided I'd try my hand at grocery shopping. I wanted a toothbrush and some sodas, nothing too complex. Armed with a 200 kroner (around $40) note, I went into the grocery store.

I don't know how illiterates survive. I had a big challenge identifying some of the products as I browsed, and I can read some Danish! I bought some mixed fruit juice, some Cokes Zero (they have em! SCORE!), and the all-important toothbrush. I felt pretty good about myself until I went to pay.

My tab was 65 DKr--I gave the lady my banknote (Danish: pengeseddel), the coin thing tossed out some coins, then things got...different. She looked at me and asked a question. I panicked. 'Ummmm..Sorry? I don't understand...' She asked me how much money I'd gotten (in English)...then I didn't know! Help!! I don't know these crazy moon-man coins. She handed me a 100 DKr note (maybe with slight exasperation, or perhaps amusement, I couldn't tell which) and I was on my way. Okay, well, whatever the case, I got my damned toothbrush (Danish: tandbørste).

After a rest, I went for a long walk in the park (Danish: park). Annie and Jens live just across the street from one of Copenhagen's biggest parks--Fælled Park. I walked its entire perimeter, snapping pictures, wandering, people watching, and window shopping. I never had to answer any questions, so I did fine, despite sore legs.

I thought I'd go back to the store and get some beer, but first, back to the apartment for a rest. And I konked. Hard. I didn't wake up when Annie (who had loaned me her key) rang the doorbell. I figured it out in a moment, but not before she'd gone away. She went down the street to see if that's where I was. Oh well, we laughed about it afterward.

That evening, Annie and I hit the town while Jens went to his gf's place (did the word complicated (Danish: compliceret) occur recently? Okay, just making sure...). It was Culture Night, a night where everything stays open late and people hit the street to see shows, have fun, and hang out. Copenhagen was crowded, but it was worth it...

I told her that I should write the Dallas City Council and sugges this. But then I said "the postscript would be 'hahaha, just kidding'" Coz seriously, Dallas isn't too interested in things like culture. Seriously! Fort Worth maybe...strangely.

After seeing some amazing sights and eating an absolutely fantastic dinner (Danish: en lækker aftensmad), we wandered to a trendy little place for a couple of $15 cocktails. Yeah, seriously. But here's the thing...across the square was a 2-person band. Just wait...you can't even imagine.

Okay, there was a man playing an electric guitar...well, playing may not quite be accurate...commanding feedback from it at a volume guaranteed to make your molars fall out. Like kind of mediocre Hendrix....but wait...there's more. Okay, on stage with him was a woman playing something in the trumpet family. I am informed it is called a lur, and it's a bit of a national musical instrument around here, but to me it looked like something from Dr. Seuss. So skin-ripping feedback combines with deeeep moaning trumpet sounds. Is there a word like 'surreal' only more extreme?

Anyway, so far everything is cool over here on this side of the Atlantic!

About 6:45 local (DFW) time--1:45 in Copenhagen

The Canadair Regional Jet which is designated United Airlines filght 6087 charges like an angry bull and leaps into the clouds. Dallas, my home since birth, dissolves into pearly grey and is gone.

In a few hours, I will be in Chicago, where a larger airplane will carry me on to my ultimate goal.

Copenhagen, a gorgeous old jewel set high in Europe's crown--founded by hearty Nordics in the days of castles and longboats. The glorious European capitol promises to be a delight for a lover of history and folklore. The Northern Europeans have a certain rarified reputation for their exquisite taste in all things culinary--my guidebook, spare and economical with words, waxes almost obscene with descriptions of restaurants, cafés, and taverns--I don´t expect I will be losing any weight on this adventure, abundant exercise notwithstanding.

Suzi and I have several long-standing traditions. Among them is that before any long trip, we go to The Original Pancake House. This old Dallas original fills the belly with good, solid food, removing the need for snacks and allowing the sort of mental clarity that a filling meal can provide.

Thus sated, my best friend and sister figure went with me to the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. She offered me wisdom borne of multiple international jaunts and she encouraged me with happy words. Finally, she hugged me with her strong arms, and gave me a beautiful smile as I headed into the labyrinthine depths of the airport.

With an hour to burn, I read some news from a recentg issue of the week and also polished off the first sixth of a novel Leah leant me.

Novelist Laurell K. Hamilton is a favourite of my Chamorro paramour, and I was well aware that I might eventually get involved in this woman's writing. So, after Leah, her mom, and her best friend Jeff had copies of Encyclopedia of Beings, we started to talk about faeries.

It seems like almost every culture has myths and folklore about supernatural folk living in wild places. From tiny pixies like the abatwa of abatwa of the Zulu people to breathtaking giants like the Greek cyclopes, some were friendly, some evil, many tricky. Some, like the Japanese kitsune and the Scottish selkies, wore the forms of animals. Some like the redcaps of England were quite malicious, while others, like the Irish clurichauns, were pretty nice to have around. Fascinating stuff.

Wouldn't you just know it? The illustrious ms Hamilton has a serious of books about them. And so did the pretty girl from Guam descend upon me with a sack of seven books, and so did the mythology nerd take the bait. What can I say, I just can't refuse much to a pretty pair of deep brown eyes. Plus...fairies, ogers, sidhe, in the modern world. So cool. Of course, with the speed at which I read these should be a snap. I'll be through them no later than 2012!


ABOUT 11:50 pm (23.50) local time--5:50 Copenhagen time, somewhere near Flint, Michigan

The flight to Chicago went withough a hitch. I can seldom remember a more trouble-free trip. It took a bit of doing to get to the international terminal at O'hare, but I confess to having a secret weapon: the ancient mystical power of 'asking for directions'. I'm told that many men do not possess this magick.

A train ride and a long walk later and I was in line/queue for my flight. I had no time to eat, but they will be serving some food before I sleep.

So far my mood has been amazingly calm all day. I must now confess to a tiny panicky feeling as I was bording the plane.

I have a big confession: I put on a good, educated face, but I am far from cosmopolitan.

PAUSE HERE FOR A DELIGHTFUL DINNER
These Scandinavians feed you pretty well: roast pork, broccoli, bread, even a little piece of brie, 'wee Brie' brand. Why oh why have I never tought to call my 'fake wife' Wee Bree? Probably has something to do with my strong instinct for self-preservation, come to think of it.

So where was I? Oh yes. As Buddy, the hilariously flamboyant gay character on Kids in the Hall once said 'I may talk champagne, but I am strictly beer!' Honestly, if not for National Geographic magazine, the Discovery Channel, and thousands of hours spent studying a half dozen languages I'd never have the guts to try to converse in, I'd be as clueless as everyone who thinks I's so worldly-wise.

So I get on this big plane (an Airbus A340, in case you are keeping score) and everything is instantly different. People are dressed differently from what I am used to, they look different, and everyone is reading tabloids and magazines in Danish.

I got a little panicky at that point. I may not know much, but I definitely know when I'm out of my element.

The inflight announcements were in Danish (helpfully repeated in English afterwards). I've been studying Danish quite a bit for a year and a half. I could make out words. Just a few words.

As the dinner people came around, I warmed up a bit. Whenever I was served, I said mange tak, a fairly common Danish thank you--many thanks, pronounced, roughly, 'man-guh tack.' While my pronunciation is surely laughable, I guess it was charming enough, they didn't laugh anyway.

So, as the airbus sails over the cold, dark waters of the north Atlantic, I think I'll try to catch a nap.


TIME UNKNOWN--maybe 9 in the morning in Denmark, somewhere between Labrador and Greenland

Not resting well, its hot and not comfortable, I've dozed a bit.

I just keep on focusing on Annie, with laughing eyes like liquid sapphire and somehow the trip is all worth it.


About 10.30 Denmark time, somewhere between the British Isles and Iceland

Success! I managed to score some sleep---uncomfortable and sweaty but sleep is sleep. I dreamt I'd bought a necklace for Annie, that's all I remember (no, not pearls, why do you ask). A bit of coffee and I should be good. I think bringing sleepy-time medicine was the right thing to do.


BEDTIME--about 11pm (23.00) Thursday Evening

Arrived safe and sound. I've now met Jens, a delightful guy who reminds me just a bit of our friend Doug Zook. I've also met Asha, a good natured and silly little whippet. It's been a lovely evening with G & Ts, delicious pasta, and conversation.

Heading out to Denmark soon

I sometimes wonder if English has too many words…but some of the kind of obscure ones are fun. Take penultimate for example. Did we REALLY need a word for “next-to-last?” seriously, I love the word, coz it sounds so dang high falutin’, but I don’t think many people would notice it if that word disappeared.

So, I just slept in my bed for the penultimate time before I leave for Europe.

I’m excited about going to Denmark, but I’m also a bundle of nerves. It’s my second time out of the United States, my first time to continental Europe, and the first time I’ve ever gone to a country where English wasn’t the main language. Okay, I know that virtually everyone I meet there will speak English, but still…it’s not what they speak at home.

I had an idea to learn enough Danish to get by, and have studied, on and off, for over a year. While my vocabulary has built up a bit, as the Danes would say “Mit danske er ikke så godt.” (my Danish ain’t so hot). So I won’t be holding any conversations. I might, possibly, perhaps get up enough confidence to order a beer (risking sounding utterly ridiculous), but I think my amateur linguistics will largely stay “on the shelf” so to speak.

Being five thousand miles from home, and not knowing anyone, is a bit strange. I’ll be staying with my sweet friend Annie and her boyfriend Jens (very complicated..it does however offer the possibility of awkwardness of nearly sitcom-esque scale). Also her delightful daughter has agreed to show me around a bit, which will be neat. I know a few E2 people over there too, although not very well.

There is a lot to do there—it’s gonna be a lot of fun. I am looking forward to meeting Annie’s family, and seeing her adorable grandbaby, Sofia.

Digression: when you get to my age, it’s not “do you want kids?” it’s “do you have grandkids?” Seriously, my at-home girlfriend (told ya it was complicated) has eight…and she’s younger than me!

But where were we? Oh yes…things to do in Copenhagen! So, there’s all that historical stuff I seem to love so much. They have castles and stuff…and the coolest amusement park…the one that inspired a young Walt Disney to make Disneyland. Seriously. We’ll have lots to do.

And Carlsberg Brewery offers a tour. With samples. You know I’ll be there…So yeah, sounds like heaven to me.

So I’m getting everything packed up. I need to send my amazing older sister an email and thank her for the plane tickets (yes, I already did one time! But come on…how cool of a gift is that??? It deserves two emails…and a couple shouts-out on the blog…and like, all kinds of thanks…THANKS NINA!).

I picked up my passport from the safe deposit box a couple weeks ago, and I’m taking my green scarf my client Averiel knitted for me (if you ever need knitted/crocheted goods, I’ll hook you up with her), and all my wonderful sweatshirts which I seldom get to wear here in the land of the warm winters. I’ll be breaking out my Beloved Black Leather Jacket and brand-new walking shooz too.

As it comes closer and becomes less abstract, I’m getting pretty thrilled about getting to go to Denmark.

So I won’t be around for massaging (or messaging) or anything til the end of October. I’ll not have time to check my Vampire Wars (so look after Escobar de la Cabeza de Pollo for me, my fellow children of the night) or my Sudoku games either, but I’ll get back to all that when I get home. I’ll be around on Facebook a little bit, at least to post pics (I hope) and status updates. I’ll update my blog as often as I can (I was kind of proud of how I did it while I was in England…so that’s what I’ll be shooting for.

I’ll keep you updated!

Now I lay me down to...no wait...

Grammar is neat! I love to know the rules and minutiae of grammar, but I don’t necessarily agree with all the strange, obscure bits that one finds. And a few of them are just silly! Consider, if you will, the strange case of lie versus lay. As far as I can imagine, the only reason for this distinction is to give fifth grade English teachers something to be pedantic about after the charm of may versus can wears off.

Okay, I’ll spare you the fifth grade pedantry, but in case you don’t remember (or care), lie is used when you are talking about yourself (“I think I shall go lie upon yonder bed.”) and lay is used in the case of placing an object down (“Please lay your lorgnette upon the divan.”).

Seriously, though, as if the distinction between these two words weren’t arbitrary enough, let’s make the past tense of lie…oh, let’s see…let’s make it lay! Oh! Good one English! Thanks so much for that! Not that anyone uses that past tense, beause, really, “He lay down an hour ago.” is only appropriate if you happen to be an English teacher or if you want to sound like an 18^th century poet. And wouldn’t that be Byronic? Don’t you think?

This all reminds me of an exchange from that amazing television show, The Venture Bros.:

First Henchman: Gentlemen, choose your weapons.

Second Henchman: Is this them?

First Henchman: 'Are these they.'

Second Henchman: Who talks like that?

Who indeed? This makes me need to go lay down. To go lie down. To go lie…upon…my counterpane..ummm and dream of correct grammar. A lot.

(if you note grammatical mess-ups in this post, they are likely intentional. Or, rather, I’ll say they were intentional. You know, coz I’m a rebel who likes breakin the rules. Yeah, that’s me! Take that Strunk! Also, take that, White!)

About 22 years ago, I took a college course which dealt with a lot of old myths. I started keeping a list of mythological characters at that point, and the list kept growing.

Eventually, I put it on my computer. And it kept on growing. About 13 years later, I decided to bind up my notes as a holiday gift for my friends (coz I couldn’t afford a real gift), and, to my delight (and surprise) it was well-enjoyed. In fact, I did a second edition a couple of years later. People seem to enjoy my off-beat, sometimes snarky approach to the classics, so I decided to add folklore and living religions as well.

Now, I’ve finished a third edition, especially for my friends. It costs $18 (plus shipping), and it’s available from Lulu Press (link below) or directly from me. Ordering from me will be a week or so slower than Lulu, but you save a couple of dollars on shipping and I’ll sign the inside of the book. Unfortunately, I can only affordably ship to the United States, so my friends in other lands will have to get their copy from Lulu (it's really expensive to send overseas. Lulu charges about 20 dollars, I'd have to charge 24 or so.)

ABOUT THE BOOK
The book is entitled Encyclopedia of Beings from Faith and Fable, it’s about 530 pages. Here is the copy from the publisher’s site (helpfully written by a friend who is a big fan of mine):

This enjoyable and exhaustive book takes the reader on a world tour through religions, myths, and folklore. Drawing over 6,000 entries from over 450 cultures, Encyclopedia of Beings is a sweeping reference work and an enjoyable and sometimes irreverent book for casual reading.

Beautifully illustrated by Suzi Eberhard, Encyclopedia of Beings is a joy to behold and a delight to read. Students of world religions, lovers of mythology, and casual readers alike will enjoy this book.

HOW TO ORDER
To order from Lulu.com Go to this link:
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/encyclopedia-of-beings/7485530

The price is about 27 dollars, counting shipping To order from me: Send me $18 (plus 4 dollars for shipping, unless you live in the area and I can hand deliver it), Paypal, cheque, money order, cash, whatever. Make sure to include your address.

Email me: mythicalmystical@gmail.com and I’ll give you paypal or mailing details I’ll get your copy in the mail as quickly as possible. If it is for a gift, let me know and I’ll be happy to sign the inside page to whoever you specify!

Thanks everyone!
Kellum

What I am up to

Literally thousands of my screaming fans have been begging to know about what I have been doing. Well, no…Literally dozens of my closest friends have been clamoring…no, not really accurate, either…Okay, my friend Jen suggested I link to my latest E2 articles and so forth and issue a little update so’s you can read some of my latest work, if you are of a mind.

http://www.everything2.com/node/1971803

A daylog (think: blog) post for E2. It’s an interesting historical parallel.

http://www.everything2.com/node/1973784

http://www.everything2.com/node/1973993

http://www.everything2.com/node/1976179

Three short articles I did for E2 based on the game Portal. These will make LESS sense if you aren’t familiar with the game.

http://www.everything2.com/node/1975801

A funny one from E2 about the word Gnarly. Like, totally!

http://www.everything2.com/node/1984333

A little article about a scary ghost from Guam. This is the kind of thing you learn about when you hang out with someone of Guamanian heritage. And did you know that the demonym of Guam is guamanian? Isnt that interesting?

Oh, and I have written a few in my blog:

http://junkill.blogspot.com/

but you know that, since you are here. Read! Enjoy!

And also I’ve been hard at work on my book…Encyclopedia of Beings, to be illustrated by my dear Suzi E. If the winds are blowing the right direction, and I can get it to output in the right format, I should be sending it to the printer by early next month!

and now, an utterly gratuitous picture of a slinky blonde!