That moment when you’re taking the recycling stuff out to the barrels at the curb because they’re going to get picked up at O’Dark Thirty tomorrow morning and it’s dark outside now so you flip on the front porch light before you go out and while it doesn’t give a ton of light it’s better than nothing so with your arms and stuff piled up eye high you step off the porch and peek around the boxes just in time to see a couple of somethings hovering in the air in front of you and it’s too late to stop as you step into what you realize is a FREAKIN’ HUGE spider web and once you’re through it and it’s on your face and arms and in your hair THEN of course you stop in borderline panic but there’s nothing you can do really because you STILL have your arms full of all of this loose junk so while you try to decide if you should drop it and get the icky creepy spiderweb off of you you come to realize two things the first of which is that you’ve stopped right where that wonky sprinkler head hits more of the sidewalk than it does the grass and it’s now soaked your pants leg and is working on filling your shoe and the second of which is that the things you saw hovering in the air by the spiderweb were in fact THE SPIDERS which are now freaked out of their minds on your head and going toward your neck and you know if they go down inside the collar you’re going to fling the recyclables all over the yard out where they’ll get soaked by the sprinklers while you tear off your clothes right there in the front yard and do a crazy dance screaming about spiders and of course the neighbors won’t think that odd at all and all you can think is, “How is it conceivable that this week somehow did NOT suck enough already?”
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I swear, this story started to come out the day AFTER I wrote the first of these posts this week. From the Bangor Daily News:
I love Maine. I’ve been to Maine. I have good friends from high school who live in Maine and good friends from my Pepperdine MBA class who went to college in Maine.
To the best of my knowledge, none of them have ever been attacked by a rabid raccoon.
It’s not lost on me that Bangor is also home of one of my all-time favorite FaceBook accounts, that of the Bangor Maine Police Department. If you don’t know about this account, stop looking like I’m pulling your leg and immediately go start reading. I recommend some “Got Warrants?” columns for starters.
Actually, first let’s start with today’s post from them:
I can’t help but think if we had a little more BMPD and a little less politics, this might be a much better place to live.
At the very least we would have the neighbors laughing more with us and less at us.
I’ve written about it before, but tonight it occurs to me, when I get tired enough and desperate enough to listen, that it’s the road that needs to be taken.
Suffice it to say it’s been a rough week so far as demands on my time and pressure to get things done instantaneously if not sooner. And not just one thing, but at least three, which means the other things I would have been doing, or at least would have liked to have been doing, will go on the back burner, in turn creating pressure to get them done later as this particular little train wreck just keeps piling up and derailing cars behind me as far as the eye can see.
After a bit of panic, anger, bargaining, and denial (I may be doing those in the wrong order) it occurs to me tonight that the way out truly is through, as Robert Frost taught us.
That’s going to be a hard road. I’m already tired, and it’s going to get a lot worse.
But it’s finally clear to me that I’ve done this before, both in terms of running and in terms of the analogy with life. I wasn’t looking forward to doing it again – but I can if I have to, and apparently I have to.
With that, it’s amazing how much better I feel, at least having a plan and a direction. It’s a sucky plan and the direction is way, waaay over the horizon – but I still feel better.
As an intellectual exercise it would be fascinating to stand there and see how it all behaves and holds together (or doesn’t) when the inevitable “Big One” hits.
On a more practical level, it might be much safer to be playing in Cincinnati that day.
It’s hard to be bored when you’re watching two guys sword fighting with real steel.
This is not your fancy pants Olympic fencing or epee – traditional European longswords all the way here.
The blades and points are dulled but there’s some serious aggression when they connect.
Lots of padding & protection, combined with a running commentary about how much damage and how fatal or maiming each individual blow might have been without it.
The five and ten and fifteen minute long epic sword battles of Hollywood? Total fiction. (This is my surprised face!!) At least in these battles, thirty seconds was a long time to spar before a fatal or crippling blow was landed.
Many rounds also ended quickly in stalemates. I suspect in the muddy killing fields of Twelfth Century Europe “break & start again” wasn’t the normal procedure in that situation.
But my thanks to St. Michael’s Salle d’Armes for the demonstration!