April is not the Cruelest month

I don't often have the guts to get up and hit out at Eliot from the shoulder, but I have to disagree. April is not the Cruelest Month. July is, due to the total dearth of any acceptable spectator sports. April is a wonderful month for all NBA fans of teams with any credibility at all. I rejoice in April, for I am a San Antonio Spurs fan.

I have never even been to Texas, but I long have held the position (as a person who gets terribly sunburnt in the slightest solar radiation) that I would never live in Texas, except for in San Antonio because of the Spurs. And the river. I am fond of rivers.

The Spurs have no shortage of credibility. Three Championships in the last ten years. Their success, their hardworking gritty defense, their collective being makes my heart sparkle. And they have the amazing Trifecta of Foreign Perfection with Tim Duncan, Tony Parker, and Manu Ginobli. One day they will probably each have their own posts here, and one entirely dedicated to Tony's eyebrows. Polite Incredulity, anyone?

Can anything really compare to the second championship, clinched on Father's Day, and the last game of David Robinson's career? True, it took place in June, but it started in April, with the start of the playoffs.

Perhaps Eliot was referring to the fact that MLB starts in April. Now that is too cruel. It's nothing but a distraction. In fact, the juxtaposing of baseball and Playoff Basketball is similar to
playing the Spice Girls on a crappy boom box on stage while a full orchestra is playing Debussy in the pit. Truly, it is a fiendish punishment. The world deserves better.

But I will being enjoying the waning moments of April tomorrow as I watch the Spurs beat the Nuggets (who I actually like, and would want to win, except when playing a team I like more. I think AI and 'Melo is an intriguing combination especially if the rest of the team can transform from their injury-prone, made from balsa wood current form).

Let us close with a psalm of praise for Don Nelson and his ability to really screw with Dallas. Amen!

My mind is a file cabinet

I was on my way home from work today listening to my ipod. The ipod is perhaps right behind the internet in the ranks of antisocial inventions. My ipod has successfully prevented me from making any friends on my commute for nearly a year. And it provides my with a conveniently sized soundtrack to my life to drown out the people I half-loathe, half-fear.

So, as I was saying, on my way home, listening to Arcade Fires Neon Bible, specifically at the point "My body is a cage." I disagree. Granted, my body isn't something to shout about compared to some bodies. And the nature of a physical body is to have as many drawbacks as advantages. But that is not a description to which I would subscribe. Here's what I would say:

My mind is a filing cabinet. Example - I have a coworker I will call Sue. In my head, I mentally have a file folder labelled Sue and it is stuffed full of all the information I have ever connected with her. In it I find the note that she likes almonds, and will only eat dark chocolate. For her birthday she saw Massive Attack at the Greek Theater. Objective, discreet facts. Also in there is my analysis of her, that she is a dreamer and an optimist, and will probably be consistently disappointed with people and life for not fulfilling it's potential. And when I interact with Sue, I mentally pick out her folder and scan.

And the crazy thing is (a line I'm sure will be in every post) in my head, when I go to get the file, I have to go to the correct file cabinet in this mental room construct, open the appropriate drawer, and pull the file. If, for example, the file refers to another file, I have to find that one, which may be across the room. To continue the example, the connecting Massive Attack folder is in my music cabinet, not my coworkers one, and to retrieve it, I have to cross the room. This is often accompanied by my eyes moving in a correlative manner.

The eye movement is troubling due to the theory of eye movement in interrogation. Many people say if a person looks one way they are remembering, and another way is fabricating. But for me, it's purely locating the correct file. Not that I don't lie. Oh, I lie, but not about the file cabinet.

I don't know if this is something that is the cause of a good memory, or a result, but I have a lamentably accurate recall capability. Many a boy has thought I was stalker-level obsessed due to the fact I could remember the conversation we had months ago. And I have a killer knack for remembering the embarrassing. My brother always has referred to my memory as my arsenal, because any fights we got into were fuelled by my ability to find the right button based on a whole store of facts about him.

I worry that someday, my file cabinet mind will go down in a conflagration. Aging has the ability to nullify my entire way of thinking. There are times when I would be happy to be twenty-something forever. Barring that, I will go on as I am, pulling files and sounding crazy.

By the way, "My Body is a Cage" is one of my least favorite tracks on the album. Come back to what you know, Win.

The start of something

So it starts, what should be, for someone who once fancied herself a writer, an easy venture, but trepidation fills me as I am about to embark. My worry? That work will not be happy with this (for actual probably legitimate reasons). My answer? No one will read this anyway. My life barely holds my interest. I mean, I even tend to drop off in the slow moments.

So, what do you want to know? What don't you want to know? I find that the latter question is a far more relevant one, since I am well known as more than slightly crazy. The inner workings of my mind remain fairly shrouded in mystery, despite years of therapy and introspection.