Fear the Crab

I plan to join a fast-pitch softball league this fall.  I have never played fastpitch softball, only slow pitch where it’s a more leisurely underhand toss.  Oh sure, I played baseball, but I was never really good at that.  Come to think of it, I was never really good at the slow-pitch league, either.  Ah well.

I had always intended to play in a softball league, but the only question was which one.  I asked my dad for references to the leagues he used to play in, which were all of the slow-pitch variety.  The league usually played on weekday evenings, which would be perfect for my schedule.  I already had the equipment and the experience so I would be able to fit right in without requiring any training (except, of course, for bettering my swing).

My co-worker at The Office said his team is continually looking for players, but the league is fast-pitch.  Joining that league would mean that, while I might be familiar with the concepts, I would be starting from scratch and adjust to the different dimensions of the diamond, the speed of the pitch, and the change to the bat swing.

Fast-pitch softball requires a lighter bat, so that you can bring it around quicker.  This means that a batter relies on speed to make contact with the ball, since reaction time is significantly reduced.  The fact that the pitcher stands quite close to home means even less time to register the ball.  Essentially I have to become a slap-hitter, someone who just gets the ball into play and hope my speed and short base paths win me an infield single.

Slow-pitch softball is pretty much the opposite.  A batter relies on power to try and get the ball into the outfield.  With enough time to judge the ball’s trajectory, the only question remaining is how good the hand-eye coordination is and how powerful the bat is brought to contact.  In such games, sometimes a heavier bat can help, because the extra weight can translate into an increase of kinetic energy once contact is made.

The one thing that solidified my decision to join the fast-pitch league was the probability of seeing some playing time.  The slow-pitch team my dad used to play for is pretty much established; the current players have solidified their positions and as a result newcomers have to be really good in order to earn starter status.  My dad told me he got a position as a pitcher, because there weren’t too many at the time.  Even then, he didn’t really play much when he was in the league, usually brought in towards the end with the starter got tired.  Some days, he had a beer in the first inning because he knew he wasn’t going to be playing.

My dad really joined the league for the social gathering, and that’s primarily the reason I am looking for a league to play in as well.  I just would like a bit more activity under my belt than just the rear-end reheating of leveled sitting surfaces.

Anyway, I decided that I needed to get a new bat, so I got a very light Easton-brand fastpitch bat.  I also purchased some all-important protection.

This league begins play in early August, which is only a week away; I hope I am ready by then.

* * *

EDIT:  Major sadness!  Turns out that I am required to be a resident of the area in order to play.  The league does allow exemptions, but to qualify for an exemption I have to be of a certain age, which I am not.  Aw, man.

From the MetaFilter: an old web site regarding Traffic Waves, the seemingly-inevitable occurrence of traffic congestion and possible suggestions for easing it.  I think it is a tremendously interesting read, and I might try to implement its practices in my own commutes.

I don’t know how well this will improve the traffic situation here, much less the attitudes of “everybody else,” but perhaps it will at least make me feel a bit better about being stuck in the daily ritual of bottlenecked bog-nostifications.

People from The Office were preparing to leave for a farewell lunch, to send off a co-worker leaving for another job. We had planned out who will be driving, and who will be riding in whose cars; I was assigned to one vehicle with 4 other people, plus the driver.

The parking lot was a 5 minute walk from the building, cutting across a large grass lawn.  A recent heat wave turned the grass dry and brittle, and each step kicked up enough dust to stick to the skin.  I dreaded what the interior of the car would feel like.

We reached the car, and it was a small jeep or SUV of sorts.  Suddenly I realized that the entire group would not be able to fit inside the car, since at most three could sit in the back whilst one occupied the passenger side.  We stood around in the parking lot searching for a possible solution that still would allow for some level of comfort during the ride, but came up with nothing.

I gallantly offered to stay behind.  It would be all right, since I could just get some lunch elsewhere.  My co-workers would just have to explain the situation to everybody else, and I was sure we would all agree that it was an unfortunate situation that could not be helped.  I left the parking lot and headed back to The Office.

The building I returned to was a restaurant, some place that I apparently have always worked at and could always get a bite to eat.  This wasn’t a bad thing, since I expected I could still get some lunch.  However, before entering I encountered Maile’s dental hygiene classmates, who informed me that the entire restaurant was closed for a convention/party being held for DH credits.

I did not begin to question how I would get back to work if the building was closed off, since I was more concerned with getting some food in my belly.  I was becoming increasingly perturbed by this series of bad luck.  Unfortunately, the situation would never be resolved, nor would my now-irritated state of mind be calmed, thanks to the untimely interruption of alarm clocks.

* * *

From the MetaFilter: Cake Wrecks.  Visit and laugh. And for the love of all things fun and gooey, do not attempt to make/buy these at home.  Certainly do not try these with me; I will not be as amused as I am with that blog.

* * *

EDIT:  This same day, we went to an Italian restaurant for a good-bye dinner for one of my co-workers, precisely for the reasons outlined in the dream.  The car I rode in was, oddly enough, the last to leave The Office and arrive at the restaurant.  What’s more, we forgot one person who was supposed to ride with us; the poor guy had to drive himself over.

He wasn’t that mad, though, since we all laughed at the driver, who through some Wonderland math skills thought that he only had to transport 3 people instead of the 4 that were on his list.  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of the riders called in sick and didn’t attend, and somehow that knowledge caused the driver to perform a mental miscalculation and ignore the rest of the names.

Similar things have happened to me.

I helped my dad figure out some of the light switches in his new house.  Apparently between the design documentation and actual implementation, some of the wiring got switched around.  The documentation itself isn’t very thorough, either; some switches simply have “N/A” when they obviously do something.

One of the strange things about the light switches is that, while all are of the “rocker” variety, some act as toggles and others act as dimmers.  Again, without the documentation, it is not very intuitive to determine which switch is which.

Some rocker switches were split into two or four pieces, with each piece controlling a certain aspect of the lighting.  For example, one would turn on all lights in the area, whilst others would only turn on a specific section.  However, some of these “keypad” types only had one switch active, while the rest apparently did nothing.

We even tried holding down these inactive switches, thinking they might be dimmers, but we were still left in the dark.

The benefit of documenting the light switches properly is that we were able to identify possible alternatives for light configurations.  For example, there was one switch by the back door that turned on all the lights in the house; all of them!  Why it’s by the back door and not the front is a mystery, but after finding a seemingly unused switch by the front, we can ask the electricians to reroute functionality there, where it makes more sense.  I’m not an electrician, though, so I don’t know how difficult something like that would be.

* * *

There are plans in the works for my mom to have a voice-activated phone system.  This will give her the ability to make calls by saying something like, “Phone on!” as if she is a Wonder Twin.  She should also be able to answer the phone from her bed, so she doesn’t have to struggle to get the phone receiver or struggle to push buttons, nor do we have to construct some Frankenstein’s monster of a set-up around her bed.  The plans even call for a similar device to be hooked up to my mom’s wheelchair, giving her added mobility in her vocalizations.

Anyway, all this means is that I don’t have to worry so much that she’ll be left in peril should my dad suffer an accident.  Of course, until such plans are actually put into place, there’s a significant risk.  I know I’ll feel better when this system is up and running.

I think my dad starts his radiation therapy sometime in mid-August.  As far as I’m concerned, that’s the best time to begin.  I should be done with my high-priority project at The Office at the end of August, when the Fall semester starts; actually, I’m supposed to be done, no ifs ands or buts.  Or else it’s my butt.  There’s not a lot of room for delays when the Chancellor wants this thing up and running.

Anyway.  The reason I figure it’s a good time is because conceivably, the first couple of weeks of therapy are the easiest for my dad, and he won’t need much help.  After that he might start seeing the side-effects, notably the exhaustion.  If I’m done with my project by then, I should have enough free time to run whatever errands he needs, or take him to the hospital.

I’ve been accumulating some extra hours, too, so I will see if I can turn those in for leaving early on other days.  I’d rather have the ability to take off from work than earn a bit more money from overtime.

Hopefully I will not be put on any further time-sensitive projects so soon after this recent one.  I’m sure if I mention the situation to my boss and boss-boss, they can allocate “resources” to accomodate (read, us workers).

* * *

I’ve been having a hard time sleeping, lately.  Can’t seem to relax in bed, can’t seem to get comfortable.  Sometimes if I focus on them, I discover that parts of my body, particularly my neck and jaw, are very tense and it takes some effort to try and release that tension.  It seems oxymoronic, in a way, that I have to physically and mentally force my body to relax.

Typically I’ll retire at 2100 hours, but I won’t actually fall asleep until 2200.  Then I’ll wake up around 0100 or 0200, shift a bit, wake up at 0300/0400, and fall back asleep until my alarm hits.  At 0500.

Last night I didn’t sleep until 2300, because some fool up the street had their outside-dryer running.  Nothing ruins rest like the sound of metal buttons clack-clacking away in the inner drum of a humming machine.

I think it’s high time I got a Nintendo DS of my very own.  I’ve been borrowing Maile’s for the past month or two.  At first it was to share the same game, but eventually I began to branch out and acquire media on my own.  Now we end up fighting for stylus-time during our respective down-times.

Not to mention, there’s always the old “porno in the VCR” risk whenever there are disparate interests in game genres.  What possible excuse can I have when she discovers the sordid tales of my amusements, all because I forgot to return the game to my secret stash?

I suppose the use of VCR dates me to a bygone era.  Obviously I am not all up-ons with the times.

* * *

Watched a spot of videos about a guy who dances all over the world, in particular the most recent of his accomplishments prominently aired in high-def (as high-def as a web video can get, anyway).

I don’t know why, but when I first saw the video for 2008, it made me tear up.  Like, literally, enough salty droppings to blur the lines between “Aw, that’s sweet” and uncontrollable “Blooob blooob blooob.”  I do know why and how this guy did it, but what I took from these videos was something different.

Perhaps it was my perception that despite the global conflicts, despite the wars and poverty and famine and fundamentalist propaganda that is prevalent in the news today, despite all the negativity and distrust and cynicism and ignorance and corruption and despair, despite all of that…

…there are regular schmoes around the world, the everyday people that walk the land and toil hard to eke out their small portion of existence, that can gather together as strangers and dance like complete morons.  They can dance a goofiness that is without language, without contempt, without judgment, without any of the psychological barriers that can make a person mean and nasty, and they can do it collectively and have actual fun.

Perhaps it is a reflection of what humanity could be, if we didn’t let all this stuff about status and power and fear get in the way.  Perhaps it is a hopeful dream.

That’s what I got out of the videos.  Your mileage may vary.

Fuck off, you’re making me tear up again.

* * *

ADDENDUM:  I miss Mr. Rogers.

I attended my high school’s alumni dinner.  It’s not quite a class reunion per se, but rather an aggregation of former students from the school’s storied past.  It is, from what I understand, an annual affair, drawing people from outside the state and from generations far removed from my realm of understanding.  I think this type of gathering is one of the few where a 1953 graduate can chat with a 2005 over drinks and food.

This was my first time attending such a function.  I had known of its existence from years past, but it was always the excuse of a prior commitment, or a lack of time, that publicly shielded my serious lack of desire in attending.  I don’t know why I felt that way, and I doubt I could put it properly into words.

Perhaps it was just a hesitation of “reliving” the moments of long ago.  I was not the most social of butterflies, nor was I the most gifted.  And high school generally was an awkward time of discovery, trying to learn what it took to be a person in this world, whilst living in relative shelter away from the stark realities of truth.  I think there isn’t a month or a year during my tenure at the high school where I was not a grade-A jerk, and those days still overwhelm me in a wash of embarrassment.

One of my coworkers at The Office convinced me to go.  He is also an alum from the same high school, though a bit older than me.  He made it sound fun, and perhaps this time I was more inclined to give it serious consideration. Perhaps, too, I was more mature in having accepted the actions of my past.  Plus I doubted that anyone in attendance would remember if I did anything bad to them.

The day came and Maile and I attended the alumni dinner.  It was terrific fun, and I met some former classmates who gave me the up-to-dates on other people.  I met some older and younger alumni, met some of the former teachers, and walked away with a bonus CD of music (coincidentally, my classmate’s).  There was a lot of food and drink, and despite the lack of air-conditioning or anything resembling a stiff breeze, the atmosphere was very comfortable.

What I found intriguing was that I could not remember anybody, except for a select few.  My classmates, I could definitely remember, and the former professors, but some of the other people were not anywhere near my radar.  Yet the intrigue was that they all remembered me.  Whether it was because of a past misdeed, they would not say.

Perhaps, it was because of a good deed.  Maybe my actions during the Time of Troubles weren’t so dishonorable.  Maybe I wasn’t that much of a jerk, maybe a grace-C jerk who had enough redemption that people could see the good inherent within.

Or maybe it was my name and year on that darn Hello sticker on my chest.

I’ll have to attend next year.  Maybe this time I’ll bring something.

Could barely get up this morning. Managed to eke out some semblance of appearance so as not to scare little children with my visage, and clambered about the kitchen.

Had to put the shoyu chicken in the refrigerator. Maile was cooking it last night and it had to simmer down, so it was my task to finish the process. After I popped the pot into the box, I grabbed my lunch.

I also grabbed a new Klean Kanteen water bottle I got as a gift. I filled it with regular tap water, because here it’s reasonably safe to drink straight from the pipes. Capped the bottle, grabbed my backpack and iPod, and headed out the door.

I got halfway to my truck when I realized I didn’t bring my lunch with me. Unlock the door, grabbed the lunch box, re-lock the door, and gas-guzzle on down the road.

At some point in my commute, I suddenly suspected that I didn’t turn off my alarm clock. Oh, Maile will be pissed to hear the oldies blaring throughout the morning. Pray that it is not true. Pray for me.

I got to the university parking garage, slipped on my backpack, and my new stainless steel water bottle slipped out of said backpack. I guess the mesh pockets on the sides of my bag are only meant to hold tiny water bottles. Now my Klean Kanteen has a “klean” dent along the bottom edge, but thankfully the damage is not enough to severely impair its stand-up-bility.

Recently arrived at my office, I came to the conclusion that the proper way to complete this mockery of a morning was to experience the dawning realization that I had forgotten my breakfast of toaster pastries. And today I have no money with which to purchase foodstuffs from the cafeteria.

Bitchin’.

EDIT:

Scrounged up some loose change behind the cubicle walls, and bought a $2.00 orange from the cafeteria.  I cut open the peel as I am wont to do, but instead of a nice peeled globe of succulent pulp, the insides decided to stick to the peel instead of each other.  When I tried to cut the pulp from the inside of the peel, I’d get orange juice squirted in my eyes.  Thus, I had to resort to the orange peel smile as I used my teeth to scrape away anything resembling my breakfast from the tangy textured rind.