Slo motion fo' me

If I were friends or co-workers with the crazy kids who shot this water balloon video I'd suggest they combine their work with this song. It's all about the combinations.

The Ryder Truck Story

Some of you have never heard my Ryder Truck story. Some of you have but it's been awhile. 100% of this is true. Names and identities have NOT been changed or protected. It's kind of long. But with the correct pacing I think you'll enjoy.



In the fall of 2001 my friend Nate left our hometown in Ohio to make a career as a salesman in Boston. It was a Saturday morning, wet and cold, when Nate called me from 30 miles outside the city. He wouldn't accept my offer to call back when he got closer. I stayed on the line and helped guide him to a gas station about four blocks from my apartment where he pleaded, “Come and get me Wise. I don’t want to drive anymore.” The stress of navigating a Ryder Truck for over 12 hours finally broke him.

I complied and ran over to the station. I gave him a calming man-hug and jumped into the driver seat. We drove ten blocks to the realtor to pick up his keys, then back to my apartment to pick up my roommates, Tyler and Elliott. They were the muscle needed to move Nate into his new digs. Please note that I did not say “the brains” needed to move Nate in. This will be important in the paragraphs to come.

The big yellow Ryder truck had enough room for two in the front so the two ogres jumped in the back with Nate’s traveling circus gear. They had a couch to sit on a television they could pretend to watch. We were only going about 20 blocks so at worst a lamp or futon frame could fall on them. Read More...

I threw the sliding door shut and off we went to Nate’s new homestead. Conversation had quickly proved impossible because of the vibrating windows and cars honking at my novice Ryder skills. After a few blocks the two Trojans in the back of our yellow horse started making their presence known. For them, the logical joke was to pretend that they were getting kidnapped. So naturally, they began pounding on the sides of the truck with their. Then, like true actors they improvised a little more by yelling, “Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy! Help help help help! Help us! Daddy help us!” They were loud and they played convincing kidnappees. When we went through the very busy intersection at Coolidge Corner it was like they had x-ray vision or perhaps just actor’s intuition because they increased the volume of their yelling and sped up the pace of their pounding. At one point Nate turned to me and asked if we should tell them to stop. “Everyone is staring at us,” he said.

Fast forward five minutes and ten blocks down the road.

Sirens flashed and screamed their urgency as three police cruisers raced towards my rear views. I pulled over to let them by with the rest of traffic. As my right tire went up and off the curb my jaw fell open when I saw the cruisers stop behind me. I looked over to Nate, his eyes as white and shocked as mine, and we both realized the cops didn’t want to get past us, they wanted us.

I watched through my rear view mirror three cop cars move into a perfect V-formation. Attack mode. One squattish cop got out of his car, hand on his gun, and peered sideways into my side mirror. It was like television. The Blue were patiently, methodically sizing-up the perps. The perps were methodically crapping their pants.

I put up my hands towards the mirror to reflect I was unarmed. He approached the window and through his moustache asked if he could take a look in the back of the truck. I of course obliged.

“What's back there?” he asked.

“Two of my buddies sir.”

"Oh yeah? Well we have reports of a kidnapping with a yellow Ryder Truck. You know anything about that smart guy?"

“No sir, it’s just my friends back there.”

"Your buddies? What kind of dumb ass are you? We have 10 cop cars racing around the city after two kidnappers in a Ryder truck. You must be a (expletive) dumb ass. What are you doing? Where are going?”

“We’re in college sir. We’re moving a friend into an apartment in Brookline.”

“What dumb ass college do you go to, and how the hell did your dumb ass get in?"

“We go to school in Ohio, sir.”

He shouted to the other cop now out of his car, hand on pistol, "They're dumb asses from Ohio. They got their buddies in the back."

I sat frozen with fear in the front seat. "Quick-thinking Nate" jumped out to unlock the back, which threw our two slightly peeved officers for a loop. They grabbed their guns and told Nate to freeze. They thought he was running away. Amid yells and more expletives Nate got the back unlocked and slid the door open.

"What the (explative) are you two doing?" The cops asked our two heroes in the back of the truck.

Rehearsed and synchronized Tyler and Elliott said, “We were just messing around sir.”

"You were (expletive)-ing around? What kind of dumb asses are you? You must be the dumbest bastards I've ever seen. Do you realize how bad you scared a whole block of people? Get out of the (expletive)-ing truck!" That ended Tyler and Elliott’s portion of the berating. Back to me.

They yelled at me because I didn't get out of the truck while they opened the back door. They didn’t care that I was holding the steering wheel trying not to cry. Two cops stood on both sides and yelled through the windows for me to “Get out of the truck! Now!” When I got out they both got inches from my face and told me how much of a dumb ass I was. Luckily the one had a moustache to block my face from his flying spittle. I was scared straight. I thought I was going to jail via the backseat of their squad car. Then they told me to, “Get back in the truck and pull over to that road. You’re blocking traffic you moron.”

“Yes sir.” I pulled over and got back out for more yelling.

“We have 10 squad cars chasing you through Boston. With all the terrorist scares how could you be so dumb?” Silence. He continued. “Tell your friends to walk to the apartment. You drive the truck alone. Get the hell out of here.”

Shocked that I was a free man, I listened and got the hell out. As I pulled back onto the street I saw my fellow “dumb asses” high-fiving each other like they just won the Super Bowl. This was frustrating because even though the whole thing was their fault they received less than half of the verbal pummeling I did. I was their scapegoat, their fall guy and how did the thank me? With sidewalk-dancing and shouts of, “That was awesome!”

Driving away I tried to ignore my moronic friends and the stares of what felt like a thousand strangers gathered for the show. The cop's words kept ringing in my ears, “How did a dumb ass like you get into college?” I realized I had no idea, but knew that “kidnapping brainless ogres” wasn’t going on any future resumés or job applications.

Accordion to our records...

Many of you will not watch this video in its entirety. That's ok. But here's an accordion solo that you should take less than two minutes to behold. Accordions fascinate me. They're like a medieval torture machine/fire maker that makes beautiful noises. A good name for a band would The Rusty SqueezeBox. I think this video shows that you shouldn't pigeonhole accordions. They can do more than play the lead to the chicken dance. They inspire oompappa in all of us-that's a given. But tell the accordion that's all they got and they will stand up and smack your mouth. So if not for me, please partake of this sizzlin' squeezin' for our veterans. You owe them at least that much...

Graduation Day

My sister-in-law (I call her Jessica) graduated with a cool acronym this weekend. DPM. She's 24 and a doctor. Doogie 2.0. The ceremony was in the Allen Theater in downtown Cleveland. It was a classy, fancy joint. I love the beginning of graduations. All the faculty and smarty joneses march in with their extra hoods and stripes and cooler hats. Pomp and circumstance bouncing off the walls making everyone think of arithmetic and libraries. Followed by the proud lot we all came to see. Smiles and flashes popping everywhere. The commencement speaker was atrocious. He spent 20 minutes (felt like 200) telling us how fat and old America is and how important podiatrists are. It was a sermon given to choir members about how crucial hymns are. We were helpless. Held hostage by the man with the mic and a point to make. But then he finished and things got good. Jessica was hooded by her father (also a DPM) and alumni. That gave me a lil' tear. The valedictorian (top left of photo) gave a fantastic speech. My favorite line was something like, "over the past four years we developed life long friendships and happened to become doctors along the way." Well said, Dr. 4.0. I met the guy to the right of the valedictorian. His name is Michelangelo. He's going to be the kind of foot doctor who wears colorful Kangaroos while prescribing orthopedic clodhoppers. When called out on his hypocrisy he'll wink and pull a peppermint out of his shoe's zippered pocket. We finished the day with a dinner at a hotel hosting a Polka Festival. Proud Polish People were everywhere learning new dance steps and sharing their talents with the world (southeast Cleveland). Although not Polish, we were proud as well. Our little Jessica is a doctor now. Nice work, Jess.

The Superest

This is a lil' treat of a site. Two illustrators battle back and forth drawing superheroes that defeat each other. Start here with The Ring Leader and then click the DEFEATED BY button above him. Keep clicking till you have to get back to work. These guys are clever with their brains and pencils. I remembered this site this morning but for the life of me could not remember its name. After 27 different google searches the digital Columbo found it. Thank you, google machine.

Belieeeeeeeeeeve Dat

The Combinations Rule

Ran across this today and initially it felt like good advice/affirmation for my profession. It simplified what I do really. It made me realize how much I love unique combinations. I like combining things via graphic design to communicate an idea. I like videos/writing/singing/art that pairs a message with a metaphor and makes me cock my head differently. I like trying to create that stuff.

The more I started thinking about this Combinations Rule the broader its appeal got. Made me think of people I know who have vast knowledge and interests. People who go by Doctor but also read poetry, take photos, watch birds and don't suck at crosswords. I find those people more interesting than people I know who have excessive focus (someone who knows more about the Bengals than Marvin Lewis and is unable to talk about anything else).

I think that maybe we had our chance in post secondary school to major in one topic and streamline our attention to one thing. Maybe we should spend our adult years dabbling and learning. I'm not saying you shouldn't study nasal passages and be the world's expert on them if that's your dream. I'm just saying read magazines about oak trees as well. Experiment with juggling. Watch romantic comedies. Take a dance class. Maybe people focus in excess because at a certain point they enter a safe zone. If you know everything about nasals then you can run in those circles and never say the wrong thing or get rejected. I'm sure to some extent we all do it. I get plain coffee at Starbucks whenever I go there. I'd like to think it's because I'm bucking the system somehow. But really it's because I'm scared of their lingo. I'm scared of asking for the wrong thing/size and looking stupid. And because of that I'm missing out on delicious (albeit stupidly named) combinations. When I got to Thai restaurants I only get the Pad Thai because I know I like it. It's safe. I haven't learned how to play the guitar yet because failing at it doesn't feel good. This fear of failure, looking stupid, tasting something weird keeps us from learning and experiencing stuff. Which keeps us from reaching our potential of being relevant and distinctive people shaped by combinations of skills, desires, tastes, theologies, etc. Let's all dabble a little this week. I'll pick up my guitar and try a mochalingo if you try something.

Inventionary

I need a venture capitalist to read this idea and give me money. What if there was a poster with paper thin speakers that allowed you to experience groups like this in all their glory. They could be scratch and sniff too. I'm thinking these dudes would smell like root beer floats and Stetson. Send me cash. We'll change the landscape of college dorm room decorating.

In The Wee Small Hours

So last night as Leah and I laid in bed we talked about things that lovers talk about. Our hopes/dreams. Our frustrations/anticipations. NKOTB. Just before I dozed off Leah said to our ceiling fan, "I wonder if they're nervous." You see, today is the New Kids big come back performance. In fact, as I type Leah is downstairs, magically transformed into a 13 year old, watching the Boys on one of the good morning shows. She's probably twittering her friends in phys. ed. telling them what they missed.

NKOTB. OMG. ITIMDISIL. (I think i might die i'm so in love)

They twitter back, TMBTBDOMEL (today might be the best day of my entire life) NJK (no joking)

Daydreamin'

This song will be in your head for the day and you will be blessed.