Pace Yourself Chippy

I hurried along the footpath from Putney Bridge station towards home, eager to flip between the stream of a Dodgers day game against the Cubs and Manchester United's walk-a-bout over an inferior German side in UEFA action.  I neared the halfway point on the path and a gaggle of runners rushed past me.

New York City?  What's your Pace?

Let me point out, that these runners were quite proper runners and they carried a pretty good clip.  Two men in very short shorts (I am hesitant to comment on how cold it was outside) approached and I was fortunate to overhear their conversation.

"This is a tad bit quicker than my natural pace," said the tall British man.

"You reckon," asked the short British man.

"I reckon it is, yes."

"Oh."

That was all I heard, because they ate up path like chips on Cinco de Mayo.  But it got me thinking - what is one's natural pace?

Mingle in a Cloud Nimbus

The other night I waited in a pub for my wife to finish up work.  The rain was steady, and so was the grey that covered London.  She was trapped on a call, and I was well into my third pint before she finally made it down.  

Mingle in a Cloud Nimbus
(photo by Nestor M)

My Kindle was already packed away when she arrived.  With Dorian Gray out of the picture, she was curious as to how I passed the time while I waited.  Surely I didn't stare at myself in the mirror behind the bar…for that long.

Can You Picture Dorian Gray?

Reading a book that you do not know anything about is like watching a movie you have never heard of: either a pleasant surprise or a mere disappointment.  You avoid the “let-down” since you have no real expectations, perhaps other than the notion that if a publisher or producer bought the damn story it should at least be more than amateurish.

Think Leo.

Of course I have heard of Oscar Wilde, in fact I have heard of “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”  But truth be told, I never read the novel or thought much about it (how uncivilized!).  Until now, that is, since the novel is free on my Kindle.  

Here is Your Happy Birthday Ken Doll

When I was a kid, I used to tell my friend Kendall that I longed to read books with my Ken Doll, who can dole out kind ‘ole stories that are really ama-zon!”  He joked and called Hawaiian pineapples’ siblings “Kin Doles.” 

Wait a minute, Ken Doll
said I was living in the closet?

Subliminal messages are generally quite difficult to craft, and even more troublesome to effectively deliver through a blog.  If you don’t mind me saying, I hit a home run with my latest campaign.  No, she didn’t have to read my blog backwards, re-read the paragraph above (and forgive me for it), or focus on a certain post for five seconds and then try to look past the tip of her nose for a three-dimensional image to appear on her screen.  Rather, she had to pick up on the incredibly delicate and subtle hints that I speckled throughout Eternal domnation over the last thirty or so posts.

Victory is mine!  My wife, clearly without any idea of my active role in her subconscious decision process, bought me the most fabulous gift I could ever ask for: an Amazon Kindle 3G.  How did she know?  That was rhetoric, by the way, it was my subliminal messages of course!  Isn't clandestine propaganda fun?

‘Tis.

A True Story and Sporks are Rad

“Look, mummy, no roof!”  The no-more than five-year old kid could barely contain his excitement as he clutched at his mom’s purse.  I looked to where he pointed and smiled when I realized what he was talking about.  She was distracted by the voice in her mobile phone.  He yanked the purse down hard towards the ground, the strap almost snapped on her shoulder. “Look muuuuuuummmmy, la-look,” he said.

Titanium Spork

“Hmmm, ah yes, sorry one second right” she said into the receiver.  “What is it Nigel?”  She waited a half-second for his response, which she did not receive.  “Hmmm, okay then Nigel.”  She returned to the phone, “Right then…” 

His excitement waned, for just a second, and it cost him dearly.  He had her attention, but did not capitalize.  I watched as he realized that his communications skills were not sophisticated enough to tell the Real Housewife of London that whilst she burned the afternoon telling his Auntie about her lovely new purchases, he had just witnessed - no scratch that - he had just discovered, the most incredible thing in his life: A bus without a roof.

Where Did I Put Angela's Ashes?

I know I put Angela's
Ashes somewhere.

Come again?  What was that?

I am always, I think, amazed by the inconsistencies in my ability to remember.  This comes to mind because for the first time since, well I’m not sure, I am rereading a book: Angela’s Ashes. 

I am astonished when I flag a page in a novel and flip back to it weeks later and know exactly where to begin on that page.  This sentence is intended to elicit such a sensation.  I scan the page and tell myself, “I have already read those bits, ah there I am.”  Isn’t that cool?  Actually I feel like a dork for even thinking about it (hey, this is my stream of conscious – welcome).  But for someone who doesn’t even know his own phone number (yes, I have one now but it is such an odd combination of digits), it is a good feeling to know exactly where my reading begins on page 323. I will spare you an analysis of how this phenomenon plays out on a Kindle.

Fulham Myself

By George, it's George.

Yes. This is me walking.  Walking with my headphones on.  The streets of Fulham resemble the scene in front of me.  The resemblance is strong, because it is the streets I speak of that disappear behind the crunch of my new boots.  Yet, the traffic circle does not seem real; even though my conscious is stronger than my imagination, my mind doubts what I see. 

The Black Keys are the voice in my head, my voice as it may be between anchored steps. Not but an inch of my white headphones show, the stage draped in my cumbersome scarf and hat.  My phone is tucked deep inside my breast pocket; I fear I overdressed for the occasion.  I’m not that cool, I think, I’m walking like an old man and my new phone isn’t even activated yet.

Happy Christmas

Heathrow was kind to us, and we arrived safely in sunny Los Angeles (seriously, we sat outside for a bit and caught some rays).  I'm getting ready to head over and watch the nieces and nephews rip through Santa's pile of goodies.

I can't help but notice that the pendulam has swung, maybe not clearly to the other side, but certainly past the middle line.  It used to be all about me, and my brothers and sisters.  After the carnage beneath the tree, we would size up the individual piles of gifts, as if to say "what did you get for Christmas?"  Well I got a new pair of hockey skates, a New Jersey Devils hat, and Dad's secret present was a ping pong table (my brother got a train set) and I am SO EXCITED!

Ever Dream About Eating an E-book and Wake Up with a Laptop on Your Face?

Be sure to read your e-book.
A crummy commercial?  S.O.B!

I’m serious: Amazon Kindle ads appeared in my dreams.  Don’t ask me what else I dreamt about, but I shot out of bed and asked myself, “really dude, a Kindle?”  It isn’t a surprise though, you can see the ads all along the inside of the train, at the tube stops, and along the outside walls to each and every station.  You can’t avoid the Kindle, and I am ashamed to say I want it.  I want it bad.  I want it the way Ralphie wanted an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.  Love the opportunity to quote Ralphie, but I am dead serious here.  Give it to me. 

What gives?  Is the Kindle really that great?  The Kindle cameo in my dreams gives me some concern: either I have a strange e-reader fetish, an impressionable proclivity towards mass advertisements, or just happened to have a random dream about a Kindle.  I’m praying for the random dream.  Either way, the topic warrants a little consideration while I am awake.