Grantland.com, My New Favorite Website And Their Open Letter to Jim Tressel

A couple of months ago, ESPN/ESPN.com writer extraordinaire, Bill Simmons, launched the website Grantland.com.

I have quickly become a big fan of the site. Great writing, not only on sports but also on pop culture.

This open letter to Coach Jim Tressel was posted yesterday, written by John Brandon. Excellent!

http://www.grantland.com/story/_/id/6891889/dear-coach-tressel

You can follow Grantland.com on twitter, @grantland33.

575...How About Some Haiku's?

Spent a little airplane time writing Haiku's. What do you think?

Ancho Chiles
  I'm thinking about
ancho chiles. What would drive
  this strange obsession?

Anniversary
  Twenty-five years as
one. Passion and desires
  still lively and fresh!

Dogs
 Three dogs, fourteen, two
and one. A dull day is
  never an option.

Work and Life
  The burning question?
Live to work? Or work to live?
  I choose the latter.

Monty
  The meaning of life?
Get back to me when you can.
  Tomorrow will do.

Squeeze
  The execution
of the suicide squeeze play,
  a baseball wonder!

Waiting...

What actually happens in a hospital waiting room?

Old magazines. Really old. I swear they had a Time magazine celebrating the fall of the Berlin Wall.

People seem to be in a better mood than they should be.

As I sit here, I begin to get curious. Are the operations that people's loved ones are having significant? The jovial mood would indicate otherwise. But it's a Monday afternoon and in some cases there looks to be four, five or even six family members waiting for loved ones. If it wasn't serious, would they be here in the middle of a workday?

My next thought is that the perceived jovial mood are peoples way of redirecting the serious of their situations.

While I write, I look around...two middle-aged women just returned from getting lunch at the Wendy's located here in the hospital, talking, but not smiling.

A large family across from me seems to have separated a bit. A half an hour ago there were at least nine people, a mixture of older and younger. Six have left. Bored? Needed a walk? It is a nice day outside.

The three that are left are messing around with their smart phones,  or reading the random pieces of today's Columbus Dispatch and USA Today that were left at their seats. Are these three the one's who are most concerned about their loved one? Are they the one's who are standing vigil? Are the one's who left just feigning that they care?

In the corner are three people in deep conversation, sitting hunched forward.What are they talking about? Maybe they are discussing the worst case scenario for their loved one. Or maybe their backs hurt from sitting for so long.

Waiting room furniture wasn't designed for actual waiting. If I had the job of designing the furniture, I would make sure that the arm rests moved up and down, so if a person wanted to lie down they could.

To my right are two people, feet planted firmly on the floor, heads bobbing as they attempt to sleep. Both have the luxury of having the backs of their chairs against walls. They can lean their heads back. But their chairs are too close to the wall, so even if they try to lean back, their heads soon lurch to forward or to the side...nocturnal whiplash.

There's a video board on the wall. When you check-in at the waiting room desk they give you a six digit code that corresponds to the person whom is in surgery.

Look on the board, match the six digit number to the one you are given:

Patient in Pre-Op
Patient in O/R
In Recovery
Exited Recovery
Transfer to Room

The volunteer also gives you a beeper, similar to the one you would get at your local Cheesecake Factory, buzzing, lights blinking...O/R Nurse on the phone...

"Your Insert Here (mother, father, brother, sister, friend etc.) is still in the operating room. Doing fine. Any questions?"

"I don't think so."

"OK. I will give you another update in two hours."

"OK. Thanks."

Click....

Waiting...

Eating Alone, Written by Brian Sell

Every once in a while I like to drop a sample of my son Brian's writing. He is in New York City right now, so I thought I would post this small piece that he wrote for a New York University writing course he took in the Winter of 2010. What do you think?

Eating Alone

Eating alone is an intimidating idea.
By eating alone, I guess what I really mean is dining out alone. Not just eating alone, everyone does that once in a while in their homes and cars.

Walking into a restaurant alone, sitting down alone, ordering alone, eating alone, paying alone and leaving alone is not an attractive idea.

By restaurant, I guess what I really mean is a real eating establishment. One with menus, servers, a wait time, appetizers, desserts and a check. Not just the local fast food “restaurant.”

It is understandable why most people would not want to do this. Eating brings people together. It is something we do with people we love, people we want to love and people we fake that we love. Having to sit down in a nice restaurant to a meal alone means no conversation, no small talk. The only dialogue is the mind’s silent racing.

By most people, I guess what I really mean is me.

Alone in New York, so much to do, so much to see and so many restaurants that must be visited before I leave.

Yet, I am alone in New York.

That means, if I want to visit the foodie places I have to go to every time I’m in New York, I have to do it alone.

Scary proposition.

For more, check out Brian's blog: Sell Your Soul

The Royal Wedding-A Poem

The Kate and Wills Were Cute,

The Aston Martin Was Great!

God Bless the Queen,

The Beckham's Were Seen!

Pippa Was Hot!

Beatrice and Eugenie Were Not.

The Prince's Looked Regal,
Most of England Had the Hunch...

But the Shame of the Day Was,
No Invite for Cap'n Crunch?

The Hill, Written by Brian Sell

The subject of this short piece might be familiar to the 40-50 somethings who grew up in Cincinnati, or went to University of Cincinnati. Written by my son Brian.

The Hill

The hill across the street was most likely manmade. Stone walls cut into the facing side at different levels and depths, their own faces now covered with amateur graffiti. Shaved flat at the top, it now was a mess of stones and dirt. Weeds and a few small tufts of grass battled for their lives in a pointless fight. Three impressively tall piles of bricks were gathered in one corner. The bricks flowed off their piles across most of the area, spilling down the side of the hill.

A few small walls did still stand, doing their best “roman ruin.” One corner of the previous structure looked fairly sturdy. The bricks standing strong and proud for their fallen brothers, sticking together as long as possible. It was a picture into the past. A past that stretched out from the hill, claimed great by stories told through the generations who’ve stayed. “A different place,” they’d say. The one’s who kept with the times used semi-current slang to support their fight. “It was off-the-chain, man. No joke, dude. The place was killer. Every night was raging.”

The picture blurred. The ruins, now an eyesore. The slightly-off slang convinced none of the young. Every year fewer believed the stories they barely bared to listen to. It was wasted space. Former members jumped ship.

“Who needs ‘em!”

A time forgotten by the majority, overrun by years. “Wipe it,” they say, stripping everything for nothing, no trade-backs. Memories sold into a parking lot.

The nest of a past culture, left to waste in a drawn-out death. Obsolete times drawing painful final breaths, waiting to be suffocated under a layer of tar.

For some more of Brian's writing: Sell Your Soul

                                        

Black Text, a Short Story by Brian Sell

I'd like to see my son Brian write more stuff! This is quality!

Black Text

I picked my head up and opened my eyes at that too familiar sound. The reaction to a text tone is sort of Pavlovian, an immediate learned reaction to that certain personal sound of a personal message received. The anticipation of another’s immediate thought, response or proposition, sent in the moment, rarely left to simmer. The specific reaction may change but there is always the quick jerk and thought, the shift of focus, an excitement or dread, sadness or salivation. Even wasted.

I looked around whatever room I was in, my head and eyes weighed down by too much to remember. Everything was slow and heavy, the night had taken its toll.

I didn’t see my phone anywhere in my blacked-out vicinity. Three bodies I couldn’t identify were on the floor to the left of the too-uncomfortable chair I guessed I had passed out in. Two of the bodies embraced.

A few sudden vibrations shook my leg and another tone rang out, much more clearly from around my groin this time. A closely following second tone is usually attached to much stronger feelings, good or bad, but I couldn’t remember which way I was supposed to feel. What was I talking about?

I felt around on my thighs where the pockets of my jeans would be. I bumped into the candybar bulge of my phone on my left leg. It took every ounce of concentration and strength, plus an audible groan, to shift my weight and reach into my pocket. As I grabbed my phone, I could feel the quick succession of short vibrations leading up to a third tone.

“Fuck,” I mumbled to myself, fighting the urge to vomit from just speaking. As my phone emitted another of its twinkling tones, I wriggled it from my jeans, pockets tight. I was either in some deep shit or doing something cute, or funny, or just right in some way. And all on auto-pilot. I hoped for anything close to the latter but expected the former as I tapped the power button on the top edge of the phone to turn on the screen. Who was I even talking to?

My mind knew it should’ve felt more nervous, or anticipated at least, but it didn’t care, staying tucked in its warm blanket of intoxicants. The screen flicked on and my finger automatically glided in the pattern to get past the lock screen.

I opened up the string of messages and attempted to read but could barely understand anything I was seeing. The first sentence was only half a sentence. I could read words separately but couldn’t comprehend full sentences. I skipped over words entirely and forgot others as soon as I read them. Feeling frustrated and illiterate, my attempt at reading turned into a skimming, catching words sporadically. There were numerous words in all-caps, a few “love”s, more “hate”s, every explicative I could think of and a disconcerting lack of emoticons.

I stopped and took a breath, slowing down and reminding myself that this was serious and no time for skimming. Triple-tone. I started to reread the first sentence which was still unusually cut-off at the beginning. I realized I had been attempting to read the thread in reverse order, the truncated first sentence being the continuation of the message before. I flicked up to the top and gathered myself to start reading once again, this time in the right position. But before I could get past the first “I”, my phone vibrated again, letting out another tone that lost impact every time I heard it. A notification popped down from the top of the screen and quickly disappeared.

The sound, vibration and what I thought was a quick glance in attempt to catch the dropping notification threw me off balance again. I looked back at the messages and noticed I had been bumped down to that most recent text in the thread. I hadn’t even thought to check who I was talking to. I was quickly snapped out of all intoxication when I saw who it was.

The newest message was much shorter than the others, and much easier to comprehend.

“We’re over. Goodbye.”

FEB
201125

For more from Brian: 

Sell Your Soul: http://www.briansell.com/

Moleskine Infatuation!

Brand New!

Is there anything better than a Moleskine notebook! I have some kind of weird inanimate object love for these things.

I have been using these for over 5 years, first for keeping a journal as I was trying to lose weight (What I ate on any given day, exercise etc.) and later just to track random stuff. I write down things like Columbus Crew soccer matches and Cincinnati Reds baseball games I attend, my son's high school soccer matches and results, and random stuff that seems worth documenting.

 There is something cathartic about writing and journaling. Maybe it is the sense of accomplishment I get on any given day writing things down. Maybe it's the thought that someone a long time from now someone will discover these notebooks in a random drawer when they find my desk at a garage sale. There really isn't anything provocative in my journals, unless you find the 2010 Columbus Crew home match results and attendance of real interest.

Moleskines in Use

I have started moving beyond just journaling (I use the 3 1/2"x 5 1/2" hardbound version for that purpose) and now keep the hardbound 5" x 8 1/4" version to write down ideas for my blogs and short stories. The small one is always with me, I keep it in my work backpack. The larger one stays at home, or in my bag if I'm traveling. (If you want to see one of my short stories, click on the "writing" label in the cloud on the right side of this blog. I am also writing a story using a blog as it's "medium" called the Johnny Dog Journal.)

The highlight of my relationship with all things Moleskine had to be the day I received my Amazon Kindle. I love my Kindle (maybe a subject for a future blog), but it is my Moleskine Kindle cover with the slot to hold the Moleskine reporter notebook that really makes it the most useful electronic device I own.

Kindle with the Moleskine Cover!

When you open a new Moleskine, the first thing you do is fill in the "In case of loss, please return to:" section. But then, just below, you get to put a value on the notebook. Your Moleskine has a section that reads, "As a reward: $__________". What is this jewel of a notebook worth to you? I wrote $10.00 in my current Moleskines. If I actually lost one, and got an email or a phone call from a good Samaritan who found it, I would ask, "Did you read it?" They probably would say no. But if they said yes, then I'd want to buy that person a cup of coffee and ask, "Did you find it interesting?"

In the back pocket of every Moleskine is a printed history of the Moleskine notebook (in 8 different languages). The claim is that Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway used these notebooks. It also documents that the British author Bruce Chatwin was the person who coined the name "Moleskine". It follows by saying Chatwin's book "The Songlines tells the story of these little notebooks. It is this history that, for me, gives Moleskine's a unique quality that can't be duplicated.

The One in a Million Bird

Late night in New York City. Had taken the New Jersey Path train in earlier in the evening to get a bite to eat at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park and get couple of table tennis matches in at SPIN, a local table tennis club.

My roommate (Jerold) and I didn't anticipate that SPIN would be closed to the public that night due to a private party. After stopping at a local bar for a couple of beers we decided to call it a night and head back to our apartment in Harrison, New Jersey.

After taking the NYC Subway to the New Jersey PATH station, we boarded a train heading to Harrison. As it was late at night, we would be waiting for about 15 minutes in the station before the train would leave for New Jersey stops.

Jerold and I were the first who boarded the car, but as we waited, the late-night crowd heading back to New Jersey started filing in. Best part of public transportation is the people, usually an eclectic crowd consisting of people going home from late shift jobs at hotels and restaurants in the city and the full-on drunk social crowd looking to let loose on a Saturday.

On this night, we were treated to some new characters on the New Jersey PATH. First to join us was a well-dressed young man with a Tumi backpack. My guess is that he had worked on this Saturday, but as he reached into his backpack, pulled out a 40 ounce bottle of Colt-45 Malt Liquor wrapped in a paper bag and started drinking, I wondered how he had actually spent his day.

Second to join us was a middle-aged man with a scraggly beard, wearing a raggedy grey Columbia University sweatshirt and bike shorts, carrying his 1970's vintage bicycle. He had saddle bags attached to his bike, so I assumed he was a bicycle messenger who worked weekends in the city.

Finally, the most unique of the characters joined us. Another middle-aged man, wearing high-top converse shoes, khaki pants that were cut at the calf, "gaucho" style and a rugby shirt. What set this guy apart from the others was an aquamarine colored parakeet sitting on his shoulder.

He sat next to "Colt-45". Colt-45 barely looked up, but the bike dude definitely noticed the bird. Interestingly, the parakeet would walk along his owner's shoulders, curious about his surroundings, but perfectly content to hang out there.

Bike dude was the first to speak. "That's quite a bird you have there..."

"Oh yeah. Had him for 3 years. Goes everywhere I go. Stays on my shoulder. He's a one-in-a-million bird."

Colt-45 perked up. He sat up quickly, startling the bird. At this point we had not left the station, so the train car doors were still open. The bird took flight, but stopped short of the open door and landed on the handlebars of the bicycle.

"Shit, that was close."Said the bike dude.

"Ahh, nothing to worry about. As I said, he's a one-in-a million bird. He's ridden the subway hundreds of times. Never had a problem."

The bird flew back and landed on it's owners shoulders.

"This bird props me up when I'm feeling down, sings when he senses I feel sad and even whistles when pretty girls walk by." said the bird's owner.

Suddenly, a ferret jumped out of Colt-45's Tumi backpack. It grabbed the parakeet and skittered under my seat. Just as suddenly, the parakeet burst into flames startling the ferret. Scared, it scampered back into the Tumi bag. Colt-45, acting quickly, doused the flames with his malt liquor.

The train had still not left the station. Bike dude, Jerold and I sat stunned. Colt-45 was beside himself. "I'm sorry! Oh, I'm so sorry!" he lamented.

Interestingly, the bird's owner remained calm. "Watch."

The wet pile of ashes began to spark. Yellow, green, blue and turquoise! Within seconds, a parakeet rose from the ashes, identical to the one that had burst into flames moments before. It stretched it's tiny wings, and took flight. After doing a circle around the train car, it landed on it's owner's shoulder.

Colt-45 sobbed quietly. Bike dude, taking a deep breath, exclaimed, "It's a Phoenix! It rose from it's ashes!"

The owner of the bird stood-up and quietly walked off the train, with the Phoenix still on it's shoulder, chirping happily. Within moments, the train doors closed and the train left the station.

The Harrison, New Jersey station was only 10 minutes away. Jerold and I got off the train and walked home silently. I was trying to figure out the meaning of what I had just witnessed...

I couldn't sleep that night. A Phoenix! Symbol of renewal! Of life! OF IMMORTALITY!

The next morning I wandered into the kitchen. Grabbing a Red Bull out of the refrigerator, I noticed Jerold sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands. He obviously had not slept either. I think he had been at the table all night.

"Jerold,"I said, "are you ok?"

"I couldn't sleep." he replied. "I just can't stop thinking about last night, what we saw on the train..."

"I know." I sighed. "I can't believe it!"

Jerold looked up. Eyes bloodshot, his face becoming red with emotion..."I can't believe that guy with the bike didn't have a helmut!"

Opening Day Haiku's!

Cincinnati Reds
Opening Day. Father and
Son, Living a Dream!

A Parade With Grand
Marshall, Johnny Bench. Driving
In Style Down Race Street!

Pete Rose, Where Are You?
Cincinnati Has Left Seats
at Will Call For You!

The Harangotang
Striking Out Pujols, For An
Opening Day Win!

And This One Belongs
To The Reds! Another Win
Broadcast by Marty!

Pete, Ken, Joe, Johnny,
Tony, George, Davy, Cesar.
Best Line-Up Ever!

My Favorite Fable

I haven't blogged in several months, but thought I would start again, but lead off with my favorite fable.

http://www.briansell.com/post/331337506/boy-owl

What do you think?