caleb walker

"doctor's advice"

My favorite website is Old Jews Telling Jokes. 

What great timing. Set your drink down before watching.

200 bad comics

200 Bad Comics are actually quite good.

My favorites: "Too much tacos" (25), "I hope my junk's okay" (68), "Just scoot over" (116), giant marshmallow (144), and dinosaur people (168).

And, surprisingly, "I slept with your wife" gets funnier every time.

seventeen

I usually try not to make big changes to posts, but when I wrote this the first time I was tired and it was late, so I'm revising this whole thing from beginning to end, hopefully improving it.

Today is our 17th anniversary. In the early years we bought each other gifts according to the traditional gifts lists. We bought each other paper and wood and cotton and such. But in recent years we've decided to buy joint gifts. A couple recent ones have been paintings by artist friends. Unfortunately those tend to take a long time to create and we're not good at following up on their progress. So this year KR and I agreed to not even talk about gifts. We did 17 things together instead.

(1) I brought KR coffee in bed and we (2) reminisced over our wedding album. We had such big hair (both of us)! KR has been making fun of her wedding dress for some time now, and all I remembered was how beautiful she looked. But this time through the photos I could see what she was talking about, what with the puffy sleeves and high neckline. But it was 1990, still the '80s here in Pittsburgh. She was a great-lookin' late-80's bride, and made my knees weak when she walked down the aisle to me. We set the album aside and (3) xxxxxx xxxxx xxxxx and (4) xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx, then we (5) walked the dogs.

(6) We had breakfast at Drew's (omelettes and orange juice) and made some plans for the rest of the day. On the way to our next stop we (7) stopped in Bloomfield at Paul's CDs, where KR asked them to order a CD for her. (Apparently some people have not yet learned about the Internet and still have stores order stuff for them.) We browsed around a bit, then continued to our next stop, (8) Perk Me Up, for tea (for me) and a double-shot of espresso (for KR), and a little friendly abuse from the nice ladies behind the counter. (A few days ago while I was bed-ridden with a life-threatening head cold KR told them what a big baby I was being.) While there we bought a few of their world-famous macaroons and (9) took them to KR's store for her assistant, who was holding down the fort so KR could have the day off.

After only a few minutes we left and (10) went to The Mattress Factory, a favorite art gallery of ours. We hadn't been there for years, so it was good to see it again. It is home to one of KR's favorite works of art, by Jene Highstein. It is a huge, round concrete mass taking up most of a room's space. KR can't keep her hands off of it. She walks around it, trailing just her fingertips or her palms or the side of her whole body on its rough surface. It is beautiful in its plainness—it is concrete-colored and -textured—and in its mass. The room is small, so you can't back up far enough to get a look at the whole thing. It demands to be closely scrutinized and handled. Check out The Mattress Factory if you're in the 'Burgh.

KR had a surprise for our next stop. She directed me to a parking spot near (11) Kaya in the Strip District, where we had sipping tequila and tapas. This was the highlight of the day, in my book. Great booze, great food. We discussed where we wanted to have our big fancy anniversary dinner, but came up empty. Cafe Breugge was likely to be a zoo on Saturday night, and we didn't feel like driving far for the River Moon Cafe or anything else. While in the Strip District we (12) walked over to the Society for Contemporary Crafts, where KR once worked, more than 17 years ago. As we walked in she said, "It smells the same."

We went home in time for (13) our 5:00 tequila shot. Netflix had delivered the final disc of Firefly, so we (14) watched an episode. We (15) toasted each other with the champagne my brother gave to KR at Christmas, while watching another Firefly episode. We didn't feel like leaving the house again, so instead of a fancy-schmancy dinner we (16) ate Trader Joe's pita chips and hummus (why is it tahini-free?) while watching the last episode of Firefly.

Finally we (17) exchanged cards. KR shrieked when we opened them. We had both bought them at Divertido, just a block down from KR's shop. KR asked the store owner, one of our new Lawrenceville buddies, to tell her if she was buying the same card I had bought. "Am I hot or cold?" she said. The owner said, "You're so cold." It was the same card. She's funny, our friend.

Seventeen was a good year (I'm very aware how lucky I've been), and one of our best anniversary days.

on the 67J

The bus I got on after work today was a big deluxe one. It was long enough that it hinged in the middle, and its seats were cushy like a tour bus. Inside, in the hinge section, was a large round plate in the floor that rotated with the bus' turns. Two pairs of seats were arranged facing each other on that plate. I sat in the first row in the second half of the bus and opened my book.

Soon a woman got on with a small boy (maybe five or six) and an old man. The boy and the old man took opposing seats on the hinge. The woman sat across the aisle from me. The boy was chatty, talking to his grandfather (I assume they were grandfather, mother, and boy) as his mother shushed him.

The grandfather sat silently. At one point the boy started saying something that had the grandfather making funny faces. Just slight changes to his face, eyes widening a little, lips poking out a little. Each face made the boy laugh uncontrollably. He had a nice rapid, percussive laugh. It made me smile.

Then the boy did something that melted me. He slid down in his seat and put his feet on top of his grandfather's shoes. The two of them stayed there for quite a while as the boy kept chatting away and the grandfather listened, making me wish I'd had kids.

some photos i couldn't take

I arrived late to a meeting this morning. Above the room's whiteboard, along the ceiling, was a row of long short windows. The room on the other side of the windows was dark. Through the furthest window a skeleton hovered, head high, arms stretched in front, spine arched back, feet behind, as if he were flying through the air, Superman-style. A paper airplane was lodged in his ribcage.

About half of the people at this meeting typed away madly at their laptops as the discussion progressed. One of the participants was there via the conference phone, which looked like a UFO or a plastic crop circle. Some of the people had cell phones sitting on the table in front of them. But I was fascinated by the guy sitting across from me who had a beige wall-mount phone on the table in front of him. It sat on its back with the receiver sitting loosely in its cradle and the cord lying in a loop on the tabletop.

some moore

One of my classmates from the Iowa Summer Writers Festival just wrote that she is in Portland Oregon for another writers conference where the short story writer Lorrie Moore recently read.

I think it was about a year ago that I first read something by Lorrie Moore. It was a class reading assignment, "You're Ugly, Too" and "How to Be An Other Woman," but I kept reading her stuff after that. I bought Self-Help, her first book. When I was in Iowa a month ago I picked up her second book of stories, Like Life. Over the weekend I ordered a first edition hardback copy of her latest, Birds of America. I just started rereading Self-Help as inspiration as I hammer away at my own work.

I want to write like Lorrie Moore—funny and tragic, witty and sad, even (ugh) "humorous and poignant," as one critic said. I've always liked that combination, I think. Even in music. Then my classmate sent me that email and it pushed me over the edge.

All morning I imagined myself asking well-crafted questions of her at that Portland reading, speaking into the microphone with a strong, clear voice that would make her remember me. I imagined handing her my first-edition hardback and asking her to sign it for me. I imagined her giving me her email address and asking to read something of mine, then her replying a day later that she loved it. But anyway.

Here are some interviews with Lorrie Moore: Salon, The Believer, New York Metro. And here are reviews of her work in the NYT Book Review. And here's a quote from one of her stories:

"That is what's wrong with cold people. Not that they have ice in their souls—we all have a bit of that—but that they insist their every word and deed mirror that ice. They never learn the beauty or value of gesture. The emotional necessity. For them it is all honesty before kindness, truth before art. Love is art, not truth. It's like painting scenery."

rudeness on flight 532

I was rude to a woman on the flight from Cedar Rapids to Cincinatti. She had the window seat. I sat next to her on the aisle. When she started talking to me I answered politely but curtly since I really wanted to put my head in my hands and focus on keeping all the cells in my body from dissipating into the airplane's recycled ventilation system. It takes great concentration for me to keep everything together. But I told her I was from Pittsburgh and she asked if I was a Steeler fan. I told her that when the local news reported a few weeks before the Super Bowl that they had found a family who were not Steeler fans, my wife and I peered out the windows and wondered how they had found us.

But she kept talking to me about her son and son-in-law and nephew, all of whom played for the Oilers and the Cardinals and some European Football team. And her leg surgery. And some other stuff. I couldn't keep track of much that she said, and I could barely keep my head cells together. But still I nodded occasionally and said "uh huh."

Once we were on the ground in Cincinatti she told me she should have me send her a giant Steelers cup from a Kwiky-Mart for her son or grandson, who was a huge fan. (Apparently Steeler tchotchkes are hard to find in the Heartland.) I chuckled and said, "yeah," but didn't offer any additional support. Then she asked what I had been in Iowa for. I told her about the writer's workshop and she asked for my name so she could look for my book when it's published. If I still had all of my head cells I might have come up with an alias. Caleb Walker, maybe. Or Don Keys. We said goodbye. She said, "Good luck with your writing," and I should have said good luck to her with her football-playing family or her leg, but none of my thoughts made sense to me and I said nothing.

Someday she will find my book on the Barnes and Noble remainders table and recognize my name. She will recognize my photo in the back of the book and say to her friend, "I met this guy on a flight from Cedar Rapids to Cincinatti and he was rude to me." I'm sorry, Ma'am. My brain cells had dissipated from each other.

passing

"I love it when you pass," KR said to me tonight. We were sitting in a pew in Temple Sinai. I was clutching the bulletin as if I were in a Presbyterian service. The bulletin said, "[Our neighbor's daughter] WILL BECOME BAT MITZVAH." I thought this was a Bat Mitzvah service. I had no idea that she was "becoming" Bat Mitzvah. I guess if I knew what those words meant in English it might make sense to me.

Obviously this was our first Bat Mitzvah. And our first time in a Jewish service. As we walked to the temple from the car KR said, "You'll have to wear a yarmulke." (My gentile readers might need to be told that that is how you spell "yomm-uh-ka," the little skullcaps that Jewish men wear. I first saw that word in print only recently.) So I'd have to wear a yarmulke. Great, I thought. I'm sweating in my too-tight suit and having something slipping off my head will only add to my self-consciousness. Since KR just gave me one of her prison haircuts last night (I love my haircut, babe), I couldn't imagine how I'd get a yarmulke to stick to my head. (In response, she said, "If Dooce's daughter can get hairclips to stick on the dog, then I can make them stick to your head.")

We went inside and in the foyer there was a basket of yarmulkes. The man ahead of us took one and plastered it to his head using both hands. While I paid close attention to his technique KR asked one of the ushers if I had to wear one. She told us that, no, I didn't have to wear one. "We're a Reform congregation," she told me, "You can do whatever you're comfortable doing. Whatever you usually do." She thought I was Jewish. She assumed I was, anyway. In the pew, just before the service, KR told me, "I love it when you pass."

She does enjoy my passing. She likes when I pass for Turkish when we're in Turkey. She likes when I pass for a rug dealer so I draw merchants' attention away from her and she can do her thing without interruption. She liked it when we used to walk to work together and an old Orthodox Jewish man would clutch his Torah and stare at me every morning as we passed. "He's praying for you," she would say. She was convinced that he thought I was a lapsed Jew, married to a redheaded goy-girl. She got an unimaginable amount of pleasure from that.

Thank God for wikipedia: Bat Mitzvah means "daughter of the commandment."

two weddings

Two people I know got married this weekend.

Until six months ago I worked with Megan at a tech writing firm. We were cubicle neighbors, so I became fairly familiar with her wedding plans, which included most of the traditional stuff: a fluffy white dress, tuxes, church reservations, a reception hall at a local resort, seating plans, and so on.

I attended my cousin's wedding. Her plans involved finding black and white Hawaiian shirts for the groomsmen, building a wooden shelter in the yard to act as altar during the ceremony and bar during the reception, having a load of sand delivered for the floor of the shelter, and renting Slushy machines.

Since my cousin’s wedding was one of three being held in a small town, there were no hotel rooms available. So my brother reserved us a campsite at a nearby state park.

I learned a few travel lessons this weekend:

1. Always double-check Mapquest directions. It directed me to drive the northern route - past Buffalo, almost to Rochester – before taking me 60 miles due south. My family now thinks I'm an idiot.
2. Always pack a flask of booze. When I arrived at the campsite at 10:30, after 6.5 hours in the car, my brother offered me beer, but I needed bourbon.
3. * Always check your popup camper before the trip to make sure it pops up. Once you get to the campsite and you discover it's broken, you'll have to drive around looking for tools and parts.
4. * Sometimes luck happens. If all else fails, somebody might still cancel their reservation at the hotel, leaving you with the last available room in town - a suite.
5. Sleeping in the same bed with your brother isn't so bad.

*Numbers 3 and 4 happened to my brother while he was waiting for me to arrive.

On Sunday morning my brother and I went geocaching. It's like a treasure hunt. We had GPS coordinates for two caches in the park, found one of them, and had a good walk along the stream. I'm now shopping for a cheap (second-hand?) GPS unit for my own use.

hip christian teens

This post at Meta Filter sparked a memory.

I grew up in a Christian home, and once I left home for college, I got involved in the college fellowship group at a nearby (very wealthy) Presbyterian church. The group was called Time Out, and was more to my liking than the more conservative InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. Time Out sponsored working trips to local soup kitchens and men's and women's shelters. The overall message from the staff members was that we could live a balanced life - that we could be successful professionals and still be good Christian folk. (This was the appropriate message for a group made up primarily of Carnegie Mellon University students, we bunch of uptight wannabe professionals.)

Every winter Time Out held a retreat where we learned and sang and cried and played snow football. One of the most vivid of my retreat memories is getting a massage (fully clothed, of course) on the floor of the assembly hall from two women at once. I was quite a wild man in those days, I tell ya.

The retreat was an event to which we were encouraged to invite outsiders, both Christian and non. During one retreat I was watching a game of pool when one of these visitors approached me. He had punked-up hair, wore a black U2 t-shirt (this was probably in 1982), and was drinking a can of Coke. He walked right up to me and said, as if he had been preparing and rehearsing all morning, as if he had been watching me from the doorway working up his courage, he came right up to me, looked me in the eye, and this young guy said to me, "So, what do you think about God?"

I usually think of my 1982-self as a miserable dork, with barely enough social skill to talk to the people I knew, let alone strangers. But I have to give my 1982-self credit for this: I laughed. Yes, I laughed before saying, "God's okay." I was still smiling as the kid turned and left the room.