"I" (that is, WE) Love to Listen -- Authors and Book Titles Beginning with "I"

I Can’t Keep These Audiobooks to Myself – Authors Whose Last Names Begin With “I”

Author's note: A couple of years ago, my library system added blog posts to our website. Many of the posts were short collections of book reviews, often following a theme. I tried writing a few of these, but never felt like I could keep up with the thought-provoking themes of my librarian colleagues. It was a good challenge, a growth opportunity, and I was honored to have been selected to write for our site. After a few successes, and several wadded-up-and-thrown-in-the-trashcan failures, I realized that what I needed was my old writing partner to get me going again. Enter Polo! 

All of the books reviewed here are available as downloadable audiobooks.

Thanks to our current socially distant and economically uncertain situation, Polo and I have become even more particular about the kinds of audiobooks we choose. Escapism is our current jam. We hope you enjoy these suggestions.

Bus Stop

William Inge

This is an LA Radio Works full-cast recording. These productions are well done, reminiscent of old-time radio drama but without the distraction of scratchy analog technology. (Listen also to Seven Days in May, by Charles W. Bailey II – another LARW production featuring Ed Asner.) Everything about these shows puts you right into their settings. Fun listening!

Polo’s reaction: There’s a snowstorm raging outside. I hurt my paws once by staying in snow too long. I’d be next to these people, stuck in the diner, for sure – especially with food!

 

The Quiet Game

Greg Iles

There’s sex, significant violence, racism, but good suspense. Racism, set in the Deep South (with a visit to Wyoming), story unearths old secrets with ongoing consequences. 

Polo’s thoughts: This was scary and too hot and also too cold. Many people who were not nice. I’m glad I live right here.

 

You Me Everything

Catherine Isaac

Again, there's sex, but real-life feel to the characters’ moral dilemmas. Opening scene is boyfriend not making it to his son’s birth. Grandma has HD, and this develops into bigger story arc. Well done. If you like Jojo Moyes, you’ll relate to this book.

Polo’s response: I would like to take the boy home with me. He could use the love of a good dog, but he does have some great family behind him.

 

I See You

Clare Mackintosh 

(We were running out of author names beginning with “I” so we looked at titles. I considered doing a whole post on books with this specific title, but that would just be overly confusing.)

Gripping psychological thriller read by British-accented narrator. Something we could sink our teeth into! Britain's CCTV is meant to help fight crime, but what happens if someone hacks the system to commit crime? The victims are easy targets if the villain can see them.

Polo’s take: I will not live in a big city, ever. I will not ride in a subway, ever. No wonder these people had fear!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"B" Authors -- Give This Dog a Bone!

My dog, Polo, has been at work picking out audiobooks again. It works best to limit his choices to certain author names so he doesn't chase all over the alphabet. After all, I have a short attention span and might not remember which authors we've already sampled.

The Windfall

Mr. and Mrs. Jha have lived with adequate comfort in their East Delhi home, but everything must change when Mr. Jha sells a website and they come into sudden wealth. Nothing about their current situation is good enough -- so he rushes to buy a big house in the best neighborhood, fill it with amazing new furniture, park a fancy car in the garage, and impress his potential new friends. 

Polo's favorite scene: There is a certain painting activity that is both hilarious and horribly embarrassing. Also, Polo dreams about being the Jha's family dog and living in the (literal) lap of luxury.

Once We Were Brothers

A modern-day court drama requires a detailed exploration of the past in this historical novel with a mystery. Two boys grew up in Poland during World War II; one of them became a Nazi; the other had to hide. In present-day Chicago, one man is an elderly widower. But did that young Polish boy, who was forced to join the German army, become a well-known millionaire? Or is this all just the confused imagining of a lonely old man?

Polo's best feature: The narrator's use of different voices and slight accents makes the story easy to follow as it goes from the 1930s to the present.

The Throwback Special

I remember the play. It was Monday Night Football, 1985, Washington Redskins versus the New York Giants. Joe Theismann suffered an injury seen by millions of fans on live television. If you were a football fan, you remember it, too. That one play changed Joe's life, and the moment lives on in twenty-two men who get together every year to re-enact it (but without the actual injury). No matter how much -- or how little -- changes in their lives, these men have a standing commitment to meet every year. Just them, no girlfriends or wives or children or distractions, going through the motions in exact detail. The real story here isn't the football play, but the men's real lives and inner conversations.  

Polo's highlight: Playing ball on a grassy field with friends. What could be better?

MWF Seeking BFF

A real-life young married white female (MWF) moves to Chicago and misses her old best friends forever (BFFs). Needing someone to be able to call for spur-of-the-moment manicures or movie nights, Rachel Bertsche embarks on a year-long project to find new friends. Her goal is to have one friend-date per week, hoping that at least a few of her new contacts will lead to more friend-dates which will blossom into real friendships. The narrator's energy is contagious, and I felt myself wondering if I should try this experiment!

Polo's take: This is all complicated and ridiculous! If you want to make a friend, all you have to do is watch for friendly body language and ask them to scratch behind your ears. If they also give you a treat, you're true BFFs.

Being Educated by "Educated"

I don't usually read bestsellers. At least, not while they are still on the bestseller list. The main reason is that I don't feel any need to jump on the bandwagon. The other big reason is that I don't think to put myself on the waitlist for soon-to-be-published hot titles, and once I notice the new book, the hold list is way long. So I don't bother.

But I have friends who recommend books. In fact, they're professionals when it comes to suggesting the next great read. How can I help but get excited? So I put myself on the list for Tara Westover's memoir, Educated. Homeschooled girl from strict religious family makes it big in academia, despite not having any formal instruction in history, science, or math. How did she break free to enter university? How did she manage to earn multiple degrees? How did she overcome her extremely isolated childhood?

When I listened, engrossed, I found the audiobook was more of a horror story. Over and over, I perched on the edge of my seat. "Run! Run from the house before the crazed ax murderer catches up with you! Get away from the giant metal-eating behemoth machine before it crushes you! Tell someone about your brother slamming your head into the wall!"

This is a story of abuse. So much abuse, for so many years. The breaking free was not so much about education, although that certainly was her ticket to a completely different world. As is so common for people who experience domestic violence, it seems impossible to sever the ties that bind them to their abusers. That is the horror of this story. And that is the reader's opportunity for education.

To Write, or Let it Rot?

The more I read good stuff, the more I want to write again. I cannot express how much it means to me when someone asks what happened to the novel I was working on several years ago. It touches me that they would remember and ask, and it grieves me deeply that those manuscripts (plural) have become dry and dusty relics. I think I will write again. My characters are still there, alive after all these years, and maybe there are more stories to be written besides those two. Time will tell.

But I will not dwell on failure -- my own failure to launch. Maybe it wasn't the right time, maybe I wasn't adequately seasoned just then. It sure was fun, though. Time to see what comes next.

I have recently discovered that I have "severe" obstructive sleep apnea. So severe that I wonder how I have managed to put one foot in front of the other each day. Now that I have my very own CPAP machine and am already seeing successful treatment, I wonder what superpowers I will unleash with a few good weeks of sleep. Maybe this writing this could come back into being? And maybe, finally, an increase in physical stamina? I could stand to lose a few pounds, too, so maybe that. Focus is always good. We'll see.

One of my favorite features of blogging is being able to add photo illustrations. However, it's easy to work on my photos OR write the text. If I'm going to write tonight, I need to stick to writing. I'll add photos soon, but not tonight. Words will have to be enough. Words can be amazing, too, on a good writing day. Ha -- the best thing about my photos is that I get to crop them to show the very best of the composition! I've heard that writing is like that. Cropping out the extra, distracting, material in order to highlight the heart.

I've let the compost pile rot long enough. I'd like to write. We'll see what happens.

[The Beginning of] the Beginning of the Story

The whole "baby in the manger" thing has me thinking. What in the world are we supposed to do with an infant whose birth was heralded by angels, visited by sheep herders, lauded by wise travelers? It makes for a great story, except there's no closure at the end of our Christmas holiday. That Baby, no matter how special and holy, can't do anything. It's great that He came, but...

My dad used to travel for business, and he'd sometimes bring special gifts home. When he went to Alaska, he returned with photos and explanations of a large retaining wall for which his company had supplied the interlocking pieces. Oh, and jade necklaces for my mom and me. One of his early trips to the east side of the state, he witnessed tumbleweeds blowing across the highway. I was thrilled to take a real tumbleweed to school for show-and-tell! (Side note: I had to wrap it in newspaper so my classmates wouldn't guess what it was. Ha!) Looking back, I enjoyed the stories as much as the presents.

my completed moccasins were something like this

And then, on a jaunt to Arizona, he picked up a moccasin kit so I could stitch up my own slippers. No story, but something representative of the place. I loved the idea of having my own moccasins. But the kit, by itself, was only a beginning. It was what came after, the process of putting them together, that would make them useful. Only after that would I be able to wear them.

The baby in the manger is kind of like the moccasin kit. In order to really get something out of it -- Jesus, that is -- you have to involve yourself in a process. There's the first part of His story, understanding that His birth and His very existence is amazing. As an adult, He did things and told stories and taught lessons that should have our attention. But then... then there was the whole "end of story" part when He was killed -- but He could have gotten out of it. What? Yes, Jesus could have opted out, but He let them put Him to death as a religious criminal. And then, after He was proven to be dead, He was resurrected and reunited with His followers before returning to the right hand of God the Father. The point of all of this was to pay the penalties for all of our misdeeds, so that we could also be with Him forever.

So, celebrating the miraculous birth of the Baby is like opening that moccasin kit. It's exciting just to see this beginning, but there's much more to come if you carry it out to the end. Read and follow the instructions, as it were, to receive the real joy and fulfillment.

But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, even to those who believe in His name, who were born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

Does This Derny Make Me Look Dorky?

Maybe it's just that I was tired when I started watching, but the Olympic sport of Women's Keirin was such an amazing spectacle.

It starts on the steeply banked velodrome track, riders' feet buckled onto their pedals, embracing the men who are their handlers. Waiting for the start. Waiting for... the uniformed guy on a motorized bicycle to come around the track behind them, making the turn, riding on the inside lane.

This guy is sitting very upright. None of the hunched-over streamlined posture for him. His helmet is the round, nerdy type. He wears khakis and a polo shirt in the Rio Olympics colors. And he's not pedalling.

So the best funny thing is this dorky guy -- riding a thing called a derny. ("Hello! You're in the Olympics? What's your athletic event?" "I drive the derny." Silence.) He doesn't have to look athletic. He doesn't have to be athletic. He just has to ride around the track, five and a half times (if you don't count the first half lap before the official start), sitting straight up, looking straight ahead, increasing his speed only incrementally through each lap.

Finally, after watching this measured procession around and around and around the track, the derny pulls out and the sprint ensues. This is when the cyclists get down and dirty, jockeying for new positions, sizing up the field, knowing when to push to the head of the pack for the lead. This is when all the strategy they've had in their heads comes to fruition. This is the action. Two and a half laps of all-out, adrenaline-revving sprint riding. "He's gone! Let's go!"

The photo below is not from this year's Olympic event, but I love how this dernyman looks a bit like a traffic patrol officer. All business. Do not exceed the speed limit. Period. This portion of the race is not. a. race.

Are You Ready to RUMMMMBLLLLLLLE?

Welcome to our 20th season with the Chargers! The team I love because they wear my initials... and because the coaching staff is great, and they let me be on the sidelines instead of far away in the stands! My excitement for the first game is like a kid on Christmas Eve. It's here -- let's get started!

Thanks to the wonders of modern computing (I guess), the printed score books I'd used have become obsolete. A few years ago, I designed my own, drawing it on graph paper and getting it printed each season. This year, it seemed like time for a change, so I have been working on an Excel template instead. I still want to fill it out by hand -- if I entered the data directly onto my laptop, I'd be stuck way up in the stands. Where's the fun in that?

So, I printed a few sheets of the new form and looked for a recorded game to use for a test. The first one I found was an AFC Divisional Playoff between the Bills and the Browns. This was in 1989, recorded from television and posted on YouTube. No computerized markers to show line of scrimmage or first down, fewer replays, sideline camera angles -- a pretty good simulation of real life for tonight's high school game. I had forgotten Bernie Kosar's sideways stance under center. The commentators recounted Ron Middleton's highs and lows as his son was born 12 weeks premature and Ron was released and rehired a couple of times that year. I remembered a few names -- Jim Kelly, Pete Metzelaars, Thurman Thomas, Cornelius Bennett, Ozzie Newsome. In a promo for the next day's game, baby-faced Bob Costas and OJ Simpson were pictured. My, how the times change.

Ahhh... good nostalgia. But now I must make a few last adjustments to the score sheets and get them printed again. Sharpen the pencils, dig out the clipboard, it's time for FOOTBALL!

Oh, and if you'd like to share my little trip down memory lane, here's the link to that video. Enjoy!

Flowers of the Field... er, from my friends' garden

I've got a bad cold that's interfering with word processing, but here are recent photos that make up for several thousand words. Thankful for a camera to capture these beauties while they're here.


As for man, his days are like grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourishes.
When the wind has passed over it, it is no more; and its place acknowledges it no longer.
But the lovingkindness of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who revere Him, and His righteousness to children's children.

A Look Around the Plate from a Non-Baseballer

The Mariners beat the Blue Jays this week. I was there. No one would call me a baseball fan, but the live experience is interesting. Here are some highlights of the game:

Some pitches are a bit too high. (It has to be really obvious for me to see this.)

And some are too low. (I think.)

Batters don't like the pitches to come too close.

When bat connects, the ball doesn't always go the right direction. But sometimes it does.

That pretty much covers all the offensive action. If you're still interested, maybe I'll post pictures of my inattentiveness -- that is, the rest of the stuff that happened. 

Oh -- but one more batting photo. This one illustrates a pitch that was right over the bun. Just right.

Is There Such a Thing as "Codependent Anti-Humility"?

What's the opposite of humility? And by humility, I mean the good, genuine variety.

Humility means not thinking too highly of oneself, or not thinking too much of oneself.

Anti-humility can be typified by super-inflated ego, a person who thinks every good thing is attributable to them. It's easy to think of examples of this person, right?

What about a person who thinks every little bad thing (burnt toast, being late for an appointment, forgetting to buy milk on the way home from work) is his/her fault? In a way, this is also thinking "too much" or -- more precisely -- too often of oneself.

The person who thinks the world owes him continual thanks for his wonderfulness is deceived. But so is the one who lives in a perpetual state of apology. The toast was burnt? Maybe the old toaster is losing its timing. Late for an appointment? Maybe an accident tied up traffic. Forgot the milk? After a long day at work, it's no surprise that the only thing on your mind is getting HOME.

Humility, in light of emotional well-being, is a balance between the extremes of over-inflation and painful deflation. It's being okay with things as they are. Being okay with me, as I am.

Breaking News: Adaptation May Be Key to Survival and Sanity!

I met someone yesterday who had very high, very specific expectations. He wanted personal assistance with details related to an application on the library system's website. NOW. And he was not at all pleased that I could not deliver what he saw as his distinct need, in the manner that perfectly suited his expectation.

We all build ideas of desired outcomes. Sometimes this is completely necessary (isn't this chicken supposed to be fully cooked?) and other times it's best to adapt and adjust based on a new reality (the brownies collapsed, but they taste still taste great!)

What does it take to recognize that a change is required? How much reality must be experienced in order to be willing to shift one's vision? There are many, many stories in the Bible that illustrate this point. Times when things appeared to be headed in one direction, but then God communicated an entirely different plan leading to an unanticipated outcome.

Being a people-pleaser at heart, I am pretty quick to change direction based on what I perceive to be the needs of others. That's nice, except when I really was on the right track and let myself get derailed by popular opinion. Some of the people whom I most admire are strong, firm in their convictions, rarely swayed by mood or whim. That's good, too. There are times to change, and situations in which it's best to stand firm. Reminds me of that text adapted by Pete Seeger...

     There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven -- 
     A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones;
     A time to embrace, and a time to shun embracing.
     A time to search, and a time to give up as lost;
     A time to keep, and a time to throw away.
     A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together; 
     A time to be silent, and a time to speak.

So, some planned outcomes must be pursued to full completion, and some must be altered. My job is to listen to the One who advises, encourages, directs, and occasionally gives me a shove in the right direction.

Oh, and about that person with whom I had the unfortunate interaction... Well, I'm sorry I couldn't meet his perceived need in the manner to which he'd like to become accustomed. Maybe another time?

Graduation and Photos and Pride!

My son earned his high school diploma last night. It's been quite a process for him, and we are all very proud of him for putting in the time and effort to see this through. Although he earned his GED some time ago, he wanted to prove that he could do more than pass a test. It was fun to celebrate his accomplishment, and heartening to hear stories of other grads who have persevered to pursue their goals. I was inspired by the diversity of ages and life situations of these community college students. Here are a few highlights of the evening:

You can't go wrong, being led by a pipe band!

outstanding in his, er, crowd of grads

the 2013 graduates

my son is the handsome one in center of photo   :-]

a moment of action in a long night of sitting

didn't I tell you he's handsome?

on the big screen!

the moving of the tassels -- we're done!

Code Talker -- Book Review or Vicarious Experience?

My father volunteered in the Army during World War II, serving in the South Pacific. My mother was an Aerographer's Mate in the Navy and helped crack an enemy weather code. Those two sentences sum up almost everything I know about their experiences. I'm very grateful for their service, but wish I had a better understanding of what they did and what it was like.

Chester Nez grew up in the Checkerboard area of New Mexico, herding sheep and goats, living a pretty traditional Navajo life in the 1920's and 1930's. No electricity, no running water, sleeping under the stars while roaming with the grazing animals, he appreciated life and honored his elders. Then came boarding school.

Because it was deemed necessary for Navajo kids to learn English, Chester and his siblings ended up having to leave the sheep and goats and the secure familiarity of the hogan for the alien discomforts of live-in elementary and secondary schools. Nothing in his life seemed easy, but Chester held firmly to the values and beliefs taught by his father and grandmother. He learned to remember the small joys and look for beauty wherever it might be found.

During the beginning stages of WWII, it was realized that a super-sophisticated code might be created using the unwritten and little-known language of the Navajo nation. Chester and many other young men volunteered for a "special project" in the Marine Corps, and the Code Talkers were born.

Chester was involved in the battles of Guadalcanal, Guam, Peleiu, Bougainville, and Angaur. The conditions were awful and even horrific. The odds were often significantly against the US troops. Although most (if not all) of the other Marines got occasional R&R away from the front lines, the Code Talkers were an absolutely vital piece of our strategic success and could not be spared for even a few days' respite. Those hard times back on the Checkerboard, sleeping on the ground and going for days without fresh food or any comforts of home, made the Navajos able to be survivors.

I listened to this book as an audio, and the reader (David Colacci) became Chester Nez for me. His pronunciations of Navajo names and words, as well as his careful use of emotional voice, brought the story to life. Although it was difficult to hear accounts of the treatment of Native Americans of that time, I appreciated their resiliency of spirit and commitment to their family values. Survivors.

Code Talker -- the First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Code Talkers of WWII (link to library catalog)

Unfinished Story

My long-term Bible reading has brought me to the story of Jonah, the guy who ran from God's assignment and was swallowed by a big fish. You've heard this -- Jonah is trapped in the belly of the fish and realizes there is no running from God, so he apologizes and gets spit out to go and complete his mission. But then we get to chapter four, where Jonah sees the people of Ninevah repent and turn to God, and the city is saved.

          "Therefore now, O Lord, please take my life from me, for death is better to me than life." And          the Lord said, "Do you have good reason to be angry?" 


          Then God said to Jonah, "Do you have good reason to be angry about the plant?" And [Jonah] said, "I have good reason to be angry, even to death."          (Jonah 4:3-4, 9)


Okay, so how is it that God didn't send lightning bolts to zap Jonah dead on the spot? Jonah is totally impudent, whiny, selfish, and snit-faced. The notes in my study Bible title this chapter, "Jonah Learns". All I see is Jonah having a temper tantrum. And this is the end of the story -- we don't get to see what he did next. Did he relent and have a complete change of heart? Even if he did, was he ashamed about this for the rest of his life? Or did God fully restore and heal him? Was it a long process over many years, or did God take him to heaven quickly?

Maybe the best answer we get comes from Jonah's statement here --

          And he prayed to the Lord and said, "Please Lord, was this not what I said while I was still in my own country? Therefore, in order to forestall this I fled to Tarshish, for I knew that Thou art a gracious and compassionate God, slow to anger and abundant in lovingkindness, and one who relents concerning calamity."          (Jonah 4:2)

Jonah knew God. He was really mixed up, but he knew God.

Someone dear to me is pretty mixed up, but I trust that he knows God, too. He recently set foot in a church for the first time in years, and told me his heart was pounding and his hands sweating.

"What, did you think God would strike you down for being there?"

He nodded.

My next response might not be theologically sound, but it was from the heart. "If I thought God was going to hit you with a lightning bolt for the stuff you've done, I would have disowned one of you by now."

Two Weddings and... uh...

Presto change-o! Within a couple of months, two of my sons became engaged. As in, they're planning to be married! Woo hoo! Do you know what this means? All those stories I've heard about kids growing up -- those were definitely true. But all those stories I've heard about kids leaving the nest to build their own lives? It appears that those stories may be true, also! Amazing! This may be proof -- one of the boys acquired an apartment last week, and he has been living there for three days! It's empty, he's alone, but he's got a bed and utilities and maybe some food in the cupboards, and he's loving it.

Economic circumstances being what they are, this has been a difficult time for my guys to strike out in independence. The desire has been there for a long time, but the boys just couldn't afford to get their own places. A few years ago, I had an interesting conversation with a hairdresser about this. We were making small talk -- do you have kids? how many? how old? When I admitted that all my sons still lived at home, she was totally supportive. In her cultural mindset, it's expected that the kids should stay home until they are really ready to be on their own. A solid career is a must, and a solid relationship is preferred, before there's any talk of leaving the parental home. On top of that, she saw it as a positive thing that my sons were willing to stay at home after high school. That's a marker of a decent family life, she said.

I was kind of taken aback. Not that I didn't agree, but I'd never heard these things spoken with such directness. She made me ponder my own expectations. In my family of origin, finances dictated that my brothers had to live at home through all four years of college. One moved across the country to attend graduate school, but the other stuck around a couple more years while he searched for a decent career. When I came of age, I took my cousin's advice and went away to college. After a year, I got married and never looked back. For me (and perhaps my brothers), it was most comfortable to move away to learn independence; distance gave me strength.

Anyway, back to the present. I'm thrilled, ecstatic, joyful, grateful, and happy that these two wonderful gals will be entering our family! I'm beginning to see myself in a new role, a new season of life. I'm not sure, but I think that becoming a mother-in-law means I'm grown up... as much as I'll ever be.

Oh, and the son who's not preparing to tie the knot? He says he's too smart to leave home for a while. He'll have three bedrooms to himself, and his mother in the basement.



P.S. The flower pictured above is from one of my future daughters-in-law. So nice!

What's Back There?

I'm always curious about how things work behind the scenes. The first few years doing football stats for a 4A varsity team, I spent every pregame time agog at the field-level view of preparations. The few stage productions I've been involved in were fascinating literal behind-the-scenes experiences. I love singing in the church choir and looking out at the congregation, watching their responses to the service. And, like everyone, I sometimes wonder what "they" think of me or "us". Don't you?

This morning, I picked up The Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner's Semester at America's Holiest University, by Kevin Roose. This young journalism student from a famed secular university wonders what like is like at, of all places, Jerry Falwell's Liberty University. What better way to learn about it than to go under cover and enroll as a student? I'm only a few chapters in, but it's a compelling read and I have to find out what happens. For once, I'm not going to skim and skip ahead in the story.

Because Kevin is not an evangelical Christian, will he be able to pull of an imitation of one? Can he keep his language acceptably clean, and will he be able to adopt the right amount of Christian-sounding jargon to fit in with the other students? Do I listen to what other people say, or am I too wrapped up in judging how they say it?

Are the "real" Christian students really, uh, real? Are they genuine folks, or are they cardboard cut-out facades with no depth of character? How long will it take Kevin to spot a fake? How do people view me -- shallow and conniving, or solid to the core?

If someone discovers Kevin's identity as an impostor, what will their reaction be? Will they ostracize him, out him, or will they pity him? How do I judge people, and how does that change how I act toward them?

One of my strengths as a codependent is a drive to be likable. I shrink away from anything that someone could find distasteful in me. Ugh. Let me rephrase that. My greatest weakness is that drive to be likable! It's tricky to balance those things that should be staunch convictions while also needing to be accepting and understanding. Most people do what they do, not to be bad but because they feel a good reason to do it. Some of those actions are bad, a few horrific, but many just happen without a lot of rationalization. I'm out of my depth in theological terms here, but I hold that mankind is predisposed to be selfish, and therefore makes selfish (and sinful) choices. It should go without saying that I'm in that boat with everyone else. It would be silly for me to deny this.

Am I real? I hope so. At least, I'm trying to be.

Thanks for listening.

A Brush With Fame

Today I shook the hand of a rock star. Good, strong grip. Great eye contact. Friendly confidence as he said, "Hi, I'm --" Wait! I'll get to that in a minute.

Folks are sometimes surprised that we have musical groups booked in the library. Yes, a real concert, right there next to the magazine racks! The building wasn't designed for this kind of acoustic assault (and I mean that in the nicest way) but the performers make it work. The audiences are always appreciative of both the music and the up-close experience. That is, the audience who intended to be in the audience. (grins)

We have quite a range of musical styles represented in these performances, from bluegrass to classical to jazz to world music. Many of the concerts are aimed toward adults or families, but some are especially for young children.

The musician I met today has a background in commercial songwriting and performance. He's probably best known for his role as lead singer/songwriter for a quirky rock band that I had actually heard of before this event. (My lack of knowledge of all things pop culture is legendary.) It turns out that he also, uh, moonlights as a children's entertainer, and he has several CDs to his credit under this umbrella. His real fans know him as Chris Ballew, but he walked up to me this morning, stuck out his hand and said confidently,

"Hi, I'm Caspar Babypants."

And suddenly I have a craving for fresh peaches. Lots of them.

No More Fudging

Alternate title for this post:
Even Dumbed-Down Smart Phones Know Some Tricks

I got a Nokia E73 for Christmas, thanks to my son's bonus points. I wanted a smart phone because of the calendar and camera, but I refuse to buy a data plan. Hence, a dumbed-down smart phone. The camera is great, I love the qwerty keyboard, and the other features are mostly good. I'm still exploring and tinkering.

Today, I realized that there are GPS capabilities on the phone, even in its limited no-data state. Hmmm... And there's a trip odometer that shows distance, average speed, maximum speed, and elapsed time. Hey -- I could use this for walking!

The good news, after one trip, is that it works. The bad news? I can't record my mileage based on how tired I feel! If I use the GPS feature, I've got to believe the data it gives me. Today, I went a little farther than what I thought was the halfway point for a three mile walk. When I took out the phone, though, it said I wasn't there yet. I kept going until I hit 1.5 miles, then turned around. But when I got back to the car, the odometer was stuck on 2.9 miles rather than the full three miles (or more!) that I know I walked. Oh, well. My average speed was 2.8 miles per hour -- no surprise there. I've had a rotten cold with associated impediments for a month now, so anything is better than being home on the couch coughing. Although we made a couple of stops along the way, Polo and I were on the trail for 53 minutes. Not bad.

The real benefit of this GPS thing is that it feeds my competitive spirit. Now I'll have something to pit myself against! Even though I can't fudge my stats anymore, I'll be able to know for sure when I improve or surpass my last record. Yes, strive I will, because it's fun to compete with myself, and because I'm really tired of being totally out of shape.


**MONDAY UPDATE**

We were able to go out again today, on a different route and with no stopping to chat. Total 3.1 miles, average speed 3.7 mph, 50 minutes. Yay! And again I say, YAY!

Ups and Downs, Ins and Outs

The Pup is named Polo (because he looks like a cuddly little polar bear) but is also known as Apollo and Spud. He kind of told his side of the story already, so here's mine. We were dogless for about a week, and that was as much as I could stand. I had said that the timing of getting another dog would be a family decision, but I couldn't wait. I let my husband talk me into "just looking" at the local animal shelter. (He didn't have to twist my arm at all. Seven days of not being gleefully greeted at the door is a long, long time.) We went home with a sweet six-month-old golden Lab mix. The naming rights were supposed to be a matter of family vote, too, but I stole the ballot box.

Polo loves to go on walks, although he still hates meeting oncoming traffic. If puppies are "chick magnets", Polo is a general "people magnet". Since we end up doing a stop/sit for many encounters, strangers praise us for great obedience. I can't take a compliment that we don't deserve, so I inform them that he's actually scared stiff and refuses to move. This is usually followed by, "Oh, I see, he's just a pup. Inn't he just the sweetest lil thang?" Yep. So much for aerobic walking. Here we are on the trail together:


There is one nightmare that keeps coming true for the Polo pup. At odd times of the day, tall bearded men suddenly appear in our upstairs hallway. Sometimes, they poke their heads into the master bedroom when they come into the house in the wee hours. They're big, they have man-voices, and they come from out of nowhere. Of course the pup has to bark at them -- they're scary! Unfortunately, this doesn't endear him to them, and not even the Mom and Dad show appreciation for this loud announcement of Polo's surprise. Nightmares, indeed.

So far, Polo has endured two shower-baths. He takes them sitting down, but doesn't particularly enjoy them. Although most dogs don't "mess their nest", dogs who have spent time in kennels don't know better than to potty in their crates. Ick. But with all his beautiful fur, Polo needs regular baths anyway. Here's hoping he'll learn to like them.

We're enrolled in an obedience class that starts later this month. At least, I am, and I think Polo is supposed to come with me. It's good to have a walking partner again. He's still learning the greet-Mom-at-the-door thing, but he'll figure it out.

Homecoming Gowns, Nail-Biter Football, and Pink

Last night's homecoming game didn't exactly meet my expectations. Don't get me wrong -- the game itself was spectacular. The scoring went back and forth with long touchdown runs, time-eating drives, and a couple of surprises in the kicking game. It would have been so much nicer if we could've won, but it was fun.

In the fifteen years I've kept the scorebook for this school, homecoming has followed strict traditions. Lots of alumni and family show up, a few past members of the dance team participate in the original 1970's routine, and spiffy convertibles drive the homecoming court to the 50-yardline. They used to have fireworks at halftime, until one errant rocket almost toasted the crowd. Unfortunately, I had an extreme front row seat for that event. Sometimes there are streakers (or pseudo-streakers, wearing flesh-toned Spandex.) Homecoming is nice, if not always exciting.

When we got to the field last night, there was a bubbling geyser at the 20 yard line on the home side. Water was erupting from -- an irrigation pipe? There's no real grass within 100 feet of this field! Aha! Suddenly I realized that halftime was going to be something exciting! Maybe the homecoming court would perform a synchronized swimming routine, and the queen would be the one who was propelled out of the water in an aerial spectacular!

No. The grounds crew finally managed to stop the fountain before halftime. Darn. Good thing it wasn't cold enough to freeze.

There were more security officers at this football game than... lemme think... well, there were so many of them that they scared the streakers away. Darn.

On the other hand, the weather was good enough that the girls kept their gowns on through the whole second half. After the game, a few of them came down onto the track to console their boyfriends. Helmets and tulle. What a sight.

But the pink? The pink was very interesting. For the past few years, the football referees use a blue penalty flag for the first game in October. The blue symbolizes Prostate Cancer Awareness. Somehow, some way, it was decided to draw attention this week to breast cancer. The officials at our game were sporting spiffy pink whistles, and had pledged to donate their paychecks to breast cancer research. The only problem was, they hadn't exactly jumped through all the hoops to get this approved. As a result of this act of civil disobedience, they may be required to forfeit not only this paycheck but also could be banned from officiating a couple of playoff games. (You can read about it here.)

In support of Breast Cancer Awareness, and/or in support of the referees, our team was decked out in pink duct tape highlights. There's the pink.

Boy, I sure wish our team could've blocked that last-second field goal and won the game. It was a lot of fun, but it's more fun to win. Oh, well. It was, indeed, a lot of fun.