go ahead and destroy this

Maybe I'm getting old. Sure, we are all getting older, but I am getting old. After last week's two consecutive nights of softball, my body staged an indignant protest in the form of balky knees, a noodly shoulder and twingy groin. I consider myself a physically active guy, but my regular workouts simply do not simulate softball's requisite fast-twich muscle responses punctuated by 20 minutes of standing around. So the first week of the season was bound to catch me by surprise.

Compounding my consternation was my intention to play in a Sunday touch football game – which would normally be on hiatus in the spring/summer except for the crew's collective offseason itch. The knee and the shoulder would be fine, but I have always been excessively protective of my groin ever since reading this quote by oft-injured Jacksonville Jaguars running back Fred Taylor, who pulled his groin in 2001:

"The feeling was like taking a sling blade down the middle of your body, almost like you're splitting yourself in half. It felt like that, if you can imagine what whacking yourself with a sling blade would feel like."

Ouch.

So over the next few days, I took care to stretch the muscle whenever possible, to keep it warm and rested. But by Friday night, it was not progressing as quickly as I would have liked. I returned home late that evening, and decided that I would treat the area with Icy Hot, a common analgesic heating rub.

"Apply liberally to affected area and rub in deeply," It said. And at first it felt fine, like applying sunscreen, and I curled comfortably into bed. But gradually, then quickly, I realized that not only had I applied too liberally, I had applied too liberally outside of the affected area, thereby crossing over into an unsuspecting and much more delicate area.

The rest of my evening was like a Tom and Jerry cartoon, with me bouncing around the room in agony, smoke emanating from my pajama bottoms, until I finally submitted to a cold shower and some thorough scrubbing.

The good news is, I was able to suit up on Sunday. The bad news is, I still wasn't 100%, and it showed on the field. The good news is, I felt 100% for yesterday's softball game. The bad news is, I have no excuse for the following stat line:

May 10, 2006
Blue Team
LOSS, 11-19

BATTING: 4 AB, 0 singles, 0 runs scored, 0 RBI
PITCHING: 2 innings, 4 runs
FIELDING (P/LF): 3 chances, no errors

I did get on base in the last inning, but only because it was so dark that the left fielder dropped my fly ball. I hit only one really good ball all day, and the left fielder decided to catch that one.

Season-to-Date
BATTING: 12 AB, 5 hits (.416 AVG) 2 doubles, 1 HR (.833 SLG) 5 runs, 5 RBI
PITCHING: 11 innings, 39 runs (24.82 RA, per 7 innings; 31.91 RA, per 9)
FIELDING: 18 innings, 1.000 FPCT

But there's more good news. Or, at least, fun and interesting news. My blue team has decided to bring some stereo equipment to the next game and has suggested that everyone choose a song (30-to-60 second clip) to play as they come to the plate. This one of those moments of which I have been fantasizing ever since I started playing sports, up there with "making out with a cheerleader" and "pleading no contest in return for community service." Having narrowed it down to five choices, I open the debate for your opinion.

Each of the following songs is linked to an edited mp3 file, cued to the appropriate section. I'm looking for something that will get me and the team pumped up, something high-energy, something that builds, but also with a sense of doom and foreboding for the other team. (Please do not download more than once; these files have a 25-download limit. I will readily e-mail them upon request.)

- The Distance (Cake)
- Superstition (Stevie Wonder)
- You Could Be Mine (Guns N' Roses)
- Adventures in Failure (MC 900 ft. Jesus)
- Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood (Santa Esmerelda)

Tell me what you think.

Which should be Jason's softball at-bat song?
	The Distance (Cake)
	Superstition (Stevie Wonder)
	You Could Be Mine (Guns N' Roses)
	Adventures in Failure (MC 900 ft. Jesus)
	Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood (Santa Esmerelda)
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I wish that more people would ask me what I think of their hair. Then I would be able to tell them how much I dislike it. Obviously I'm not just going to come up and tell them about it. You have to wait until someone asks your opinion before you can give it.

They probably don't care what I think, and that's fine. What a person does with their hair is their own business. I probably care more about the opinions of others than other people do, especially when it comes to my appearance. I figure, people are looking at me a lot more often than I am looking at me. Shouldn't their opinions be more important?

I hereby authorize you to tell me if I look silly or stupid or ugly. (Except you, Ethan.)

Actually, people love unsolicited comments about how good they look. With some people, it's almost a test, where they're waiting to see how long it takes before you recognize that they've made some aesthetic adjustment, and if you're not quick enough, you're a failure as a friend or co-worker. If by some chance you notice and you say "hey, your hair looks great!" they say "oh, thanks, that's so sweet of you to say." But if you just come out and say it looks like shit, it's like you just kicked their dog or something. People are so sensitive.

I am ashamed to say that there have been times when I thought a person's hair looked absolutely horrible, like something excreted by a zoo animal, but I lied and told them it looked nice anyway. You have to do that sometimes, just to get along.

Man, being in a society is hard work.

But who the hell am I to talk about hair? I shamed all of mine away. I am not a trend-setter. I am barely a trend-follower. If they were passing out cool at the bank, I would be at the very end of the snaking "wait here for service" line, and by the time I get to the front everyone will have switched to the Euro.

But still. I have to look at it. Shouldn't that make my opinion worth something?

Do you care what I think of your hair?
	Yes, your opinion is important to me.
	F&ck you, Jason.
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I went to a free concert last night at the Kennedy Center, where my friend C.C.E. was playing her bassoon with the Friday Morning Music Club Orchestra. (A brief review: the Sibelius was lovely and the Grieg was marvelous, with concerto soloist Chu-Fang Huang acquitting herself to a sustained standing ovation. The Brahms, however, was lousy -- just like all of Brahms, in my uneducated opinion.)

I was surprised to see so many people at the concert on a crappy Monday night, but the Terrace Theater was almost entirely full, bustling with lots of old people, many of them presumably parents and friends of performers. I took a seat far in the back, where it was well-lit enough for me to finish my crossword puzzle before the first downbeat.

In front of me were three gregarious young men, oafishly groomed and attired, clearly local university students. It was unclear to me whether they were student-athletes or merely fat, but they were clearly uncomfortable in their environment. I assumed they were in attendance to witness the performance of one of their more sophisticated colleagues and show support and solidarity, until they each produced a notebook and a pencil. I could then only deduce that these young men were there to fulfill some sort of educational assignment.

At the end of their row, one buffer-seat away, was a sharply-attired middle aged professional woman, the kind who colors her gray hair with jet-black dye and pecks compulsively at her PDA. (She would tap at her PDA through the entire program, bathing her dangerously angular face in a creepy pale-blue glow.)

With five minutes still to go before curtain, the ring leader of our Three Louseketeers dials a number on his cell phone and begins conversing very loudly with a classmate. Something about a worksheet, and how some guy needs to borrow that worksheet, and can that guy stop by and borrow this guy's worksheet because it would really save the caller's ass. The arrangement thus made, he makes another call to tell that guy that he can borrow the worksheet from this guy, and gives rambling directions to that guy's dorm room.

As soon as he claps the phone off, the hair-dyed woman turns down the row and lets out an exaggerated "Shh!", leading to the following exchange.

GUY: What?

LADY: Shh.

GUY: I'm sorry. Was I being loud?

LADY: Yes.

GUY: I'm sorry. The concert hasn't started yet.

LADY: You were disturbing me.

GUY: The concert hasn't started yet, Ma'am. I'm sorry, but the concert hasn't started yet.

LADY: [turns away.]

GUY: Did you know that the concert hadn't started yet? Can you hear the other people talking? Are they bothering you?

LADY: [no response.]

GUY: I'm sorry. The concert hasn't started, though. The concert hasn't started. But I'm sorry. But the concert hasn't started yet.

LADY: [silently folds her hands in her lap]

GUY: I'm sorry. [Then, to his buddies, loud enough so that everyone nearby can hear.] Bitch.

Part of me wanted to intercede at this point, even though the discussion was over, to censure the young man for his profane language and his generally disrespectful attitude. The lady's "shh" had spoken for all of us; he was being obnoxious, and sort of a bully about it, and I thought that a calm, reasoned reprimand might reinforce his knowledge that he was not in a frat house at the moment.

Another part of me, though, thought: He has a point. Not that she was a bitch -- she might have been, but it was still inappropriate to say -- but the concert hadn't started yet and plenty of other people were blathering to their neighbors. She probably just wanted the Louseketeers to shut up and couldn't wait for the concert to begin. No need to get involved.

What would you have done?

What would you have done?
	I would have reprimanded the young man. These punks need to be taught some manners.
	I would have briefly, subtly indicated my support for the woman, perhaps with a 'here, here' or 'thank you' or 'you go, girl!'
	I would have said nothing and continued with my crossword puzzle.
	I would have grudgingly defended the young man and his right to be a dick.
	I would have interrupted and changed the subject entirely, with 'what's a four-letter word for 'fancy jug'?"
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The Webster High School Class of 1995 has scheduled its Ten-Year Reunion Extravaganza for Friday, November 25, 2005. A cursory glance at your calendar will tell you that this is the Friday immediately after Thanksgiving -- America's officially designated "Family Time" -- allowing participants to wrap all their bitter recriminations and feelings of unfulfilled personal potential into one fun-filled weekend.

There were some who objected to this timing, most vociferously arealariel, who carried her complaint just short of suggesting that reunion organizer Meghan had the intelligence quotient of quiche^[1]. The other non-Thanksgiving option was a random summer weekend, which might not garner the same attendance level but would be at least slightly less snowy.

Initially, it was my plan to recuse myself from this delusionally sentimental, blatantly voyeuristic cluster-fuck. I still keep in pretty good contact with those friends who were truly meaningful to me anyway, I rationalized, and I had seen Grosse Pointe Blank too many times to imagine the event as any sort of idyllic homecoming.

And I admit, I am somewhat wary of any situation in which I am asked to compare the size of my resume with anyone else's. Call it envy, pride, insecurity, whatever. There is a weird, counter-intuitive process that my ego entertains, in which the opinions of strangers and shirttail acquaintances speak louder than the opinions of close friends and confidants. Perhaps I will explore this phenomenon more fully on this blog at some later time; all you need to know is that I care more about the opinion of Meghan than I probably should. And anyway, I am not a particularly savvy self-promoter. If I have to spend thirty seconds hearing about Matt Chatfield's BMW without taking a sledgehammer to his groin, I might just explode.

That said, high school was not an entirely unenjoyable era for me, and the thought that some of my friends might be there to view the wreckage of the Amtrak Nostalgia Express makes it sound like a reasonably entertaining evening. Besides, I'm going to be in Rochester for Thanksgiving anyway, right? To snub the reunion when I'm right there would seem egregiously spiteful, even for me.

Except I talked to my parents this past weekend. See, they were supposed to go to the Dominican Republic^[2] for vacation in April of this year, but they had to cancel their trip because the cat needed emergency surgery or therapy or grooming or something. Long story, apparently. So they rescheduled their Caribbean vacation ... for Thanksgiving.

Let's put aside the fact that this leaves me without a home for Thanksgiving dinner, or an observed family birthday celebration, for that matter. These facts are not insignificant, except insofar as this question goes: Should I make the trip back home to spend Thanksgiving by myself in an empty house and go to my high school reunion, or should I just scrap the whole reunion idea altogether and find someplace I really want to be for the holiday?

Should Jason go to his high school reunion?
	Yes. Enjoying the company of old friends, and mocking the lives of old enemies, is worth an otherwise boring trip to Webster.
	No. Reunions are dorky, artificial reminders of the glory days that have passed you by. Go to Hawaii instead.
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And remember, this is for posterity, so please, be honest.

Which me do you prefer?

And remember, this is for posterity, so please, be honest.