People Who Have Influenced Me Who Will Probably Never Know

First, a "Feel bad for me/proud of me!" note: I determined after last weekend that it's time for a change, both dietarily (which I've just decided is a word) and exercise-wise. So as of Sunday, I'm cutting back majorly on soda and making a point of exercising at least 25 minutes a day. The first two soda-less days were alright, but it turns out day three is a doozy, with a perpetual headache. But if that's what it takes, then, well, I'll take it.

Lately, and by that I mean the last two days, I've been thinking about what circumstances have shaped me into who I am now, and who helped along the way. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I may never actually interact with some of the people who have helped me the most, and I thought I'd make a list here. My internet presence is so minor that it's highly likely they'll never see this. But I'm OK with that; it's for my sake and yours.

Here goes it.

1. Chalene Johnson. This one may come as something of a surprise, unless you've been in our apartment and seen what's scrambled among the DVDs and Blu-Ray discs directly in front of our television. One of the DVDs that most frequently takes a spin is a collection of five workout sessions titled Turbo Jam. Turbo Jam is the invention of Chalene Johnson, a fitness professional who put together a program combining cardio, weight training, and ridiculous dance mixes (that she mixed herself!) in order to inspire people to exercise while having fun. If ever you see me and I'm in a decent shape, it means I'm on a Turbo Jam kick. I'm hoping this current one will be semi-permanent. Without these routines, I'd be much less motivated to exercise, and that's why I'm glad Chalene is around.

2. Chuck Klosterman. As is obvious by now, I'm an amateur pop culture writer, and my writing style wouldn't be nearly as developed without Chuck Klosterman and the books he wrote, particularly Killing Yourself to Live. He seamlessly blends personal narrative with critique and commentary on the quirkier aspects of our current pop culture climate, and in my mind, he does it better than anyone else out there. He makes me want to write beautifully, although he isn't the only one.

3. Noel Murray and, to a certain extent, the rest of the A.V. Club. Outside of iGoogle, I don't think there's a site I frequent more than the A.V. Club, the Onion's sister pop culture publication. There's no satire here. Instead, AVC is a compendium of reviews and perspectives on pop culture new and old. Here I've learned that it's possible to write beautifully about all mediums, television in particular. Noel Murray writes about both Lost and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and his Lost summaries are nothing short of fantastic, inspiring amateur analysis and sparkling discussion on a weekly basis. It's another key reason, beyond the obvious "Bye bye, second best show ever" reason, that I'll miss Lost when it's gone.

4. Jerry Spinelli. I could wax philosophical all day on why Stargirl is one of my favorite books, why it made me think about conformity in a radically different way, and how I don't think anyone could capture and analyze high school life so brilliantly ever again. But that's all I really have to say. This is a beautiful book, and it's not just a great read--it has a lasting impact I'm not sure you'll find anywhere else. I'd love to shake this man's hand.

Honorable mentions: Fiona Apple makes me want to express my emotions loudly and proudly, Nick Hornby taught me how to read ... again, and Rob Sheffield helped me to recognize that beauty can come from personal disaster.

That's all. I hope you feel the same about some others and give them some accolades for what they've done for you.

Also, this:


Love her.

Sunburn & Ass

I did a Panera run today, meaning I sat outside Panera and read Nick Hornby's Shakespeare Wrote for Money while eating lunch and sipping lemonade for about 30 minutes, maybe more, maybe less. I'm fairly certain my right arm got sunburned, but I'm not disappointed about this. It's my own fault, I accept the consequences, and honestly, my body seems to deserve a bit of sun after all this pesky winter.

I'm going to see Kick-Ass tomorrow with a couple friends of mine. I've been looking forward to it all week. The film looks to live up to its title and then some. It will feel about as strange asking for a ticket to Kick-Ass as it did The 40-Year-Old Virgin about four years ago. But I don't think it should.

As a Christian who has a fairly thorough understanding of profanity, I would like to express the opinion that I, in no way, find the word "ass" offensive. I think it should drop off the swear list immediately. Let's think about this: it's commonly used as a synonym for "butt." It's not crude like "f**k" or insulting like "b***h." It's simply a different noun, completely innocuous. Even when added to a word like "big," "bad," or in this case, "kick" it's no more offensive. I won't be embarrassed to announce that I'd like my over-priced ticket to Kick-Ass tomorrow evening, and you shouldn't be, either.

That said, Midna sat, transfixed, in front of the TV this past Tuesday during Lost. She didn't stick around for long, but you could tell she was totally into the Hurley subplot.

Spring & Things

Now, yesterday, Scott and I were at the park, where we saw some extremely active ducks. Some sort of brawl was happening among two males and a female; it seemed that one or both of the males wanted to mate with the female, but she was having none of it. It was a bit car crash-like, in that it was at least a little painful to watch (I mean, she was getting brutalized!), but we couldn't look away. We also saw a muskrat and a nesting duck, and I renewed my title as Pooh sticks champion. Pooh sticks is a game in which you stand on a bridge over flowing water, drop a stick, and look to the other side of the bridge to see whose floats to the other side first. And I know how to pick 'em, stick wise.

The last couple weeks have been good, sometimes quite, even. I saw a good friend of mien for the first time since I don't know when, last summer, probably. Emily and I were on the same interim trip to the United Kingdom, and before that, we'd had a class together. Naturally, we only got to know each other on the trip. She, another traveler named Michelle, and I spent a great deal of time there together, but life has largely prevented us from seeing each other again. Today, Emily and I walked about her side of campus in the gorgeous beyond gorgeous March weather, talking about futures and childhood and quirks among the Calvin staff. The visit made my good mood better. I can't think of a time visiting an old friend didn't do that.

I've almost earned all the money I wanted to set aside for DragonCon, and even without full time work. I'm quite pleased about it, especially since it was just announced that one of my favorite Battlestar Galactica cast members (Aaron "Chief Tyrol" Douglas, for those keeping score at home) will be there. Oh, to be an unapologetic geek.

Ending blog entries is always perplexing for me. From now on, I'm going to end with a mini-anecote about Midna.

There's a certain kind of cat toy, a plastic ring with a ball inside it and slats in the ring so the cat can bat it around. Mid has one, and if we hide it for a couple weeks, then give it back, she goes crazy. One day, though, she had a different plan. The ring was in the middle of the room, on the floor. With purpose, Midna strutted over to the ring, struck the ball as hard as possible, and walked away.

All in a day's work, really.

Dead Duck Day

During today's bike ride, I saw the following:

A dead duck

And I decided he deserved an entry of his own.

The duck was on the edge of a parking lot next to my building. I figured at first that he'd been hit by a car. But then, given his position, that didn't seem so logical. His body was free of any contortion, his bill pointed slightly downward. His purely green head still shone in the sun, his wings were held tightly to his sides, and his feet were turned out the way only a duck's can be.

If he weren't quite so still, you might think he was only sleeping.

My guess is he choked on something, maybe a bit of a bagel that someone tossed out of the parking lot after finishing their meal, or maybe one of those apple cores I saw in the middle of the street, where someone didn't bother to leave it in their cupholder or somewhere else till they reached their destination. It doesn't really matter. The duck isn't alive anymore. Somewhere, some little guys may be missing him, or a female is wondering when he'll come home from work for the day.

I realize this is probably all too sentimental for something that simple. I'm no birder or anything like that, but the thing is, I really do like birds. Obviously, the most remarkable birds I've ever seen were in Hawaii. But just as likable for me are the ducks around the suburban area where I live. They seem content with racing across ponds both man-made and natural and eating the bread we're not supposed to give them.

In short, be kind to your fine feathered friends. You never know when someone will write a maudlin blog entry about the small tragedy of one mallard's demise.