Getting My Rink On

This was the week we finally hit the hockey rinks this season. On Wednesday we went to see the Blue Jackets take on the Detroit Red Wings. I've seen my teams play many games live in my life. Wednesday night's game was the worst I had ever seen live. It was horrible, embarrassing to watch and I missed Smokey Oolong show up at Writer's Block to see a putrid spectacle. The Blue Jackets lost 9-1.

Here's part of a poem I wrote after wards.

We're left mopping up mud puddles after heavy loss
 Ones evaporating dreams, ambitions, abilities
-  our projections of what success should be
When we enter a sporting arena
Wondering why we observe well paid young men
To hit each other on a slippery surface,
with sticks
Tomorrow, what happens outside of the two hours spent
forgetting about the troubles of the day is always more important
Maybe it's the Zamboini we desire
With its quiet resurfacing of the ice,
readying it for a fresh start,
for every period, every game.
It's the calm grace of the swirling of the organ music
in the background we're seeking out - and
Waiting for a small version of the Zamboni
to drive around in our heads and lives
as we sleep

Last night we made the first trip to the Schott to see the Ohio State Hockey Team play Western Michigan. That the opposition did not score a minute into the game was an improvement over the game we saw two nights previous. I had known that OSU had problems winning on Friday nights this year and that they were down 1-0 going into the third period was not a good sign.

But our fears were eliminated after the Buckeyes tied it up, then went ahead and added another. They scored three goals in a raucous 49 seconds to put the game away.



We were sitting a couple of rows behind the OSU bench and were tickled to see the players fist bumping the kids who gathered before and after the game. Even the Broncos did something nice. A puck went into their bench during the game and one of the WMU assistants tossed it over the glass to a kid. Classy act Western Michigan!

A Pile of Leaves You Can See From Space

Last Year's


This year's.


The tree most of them came from.

Still writing

If I get one decent poem out of the thirty I'd consider it a successful month. The way I'm going though, I'm not sure if that's going to happen. The group feels like high school with the cliques that already knew each other sticking together. I feel like I'm typing in a vacuum some days, not unlike here.

Seriously though. I'm a bit out of my depth. My critiques are limited to yes I like this, or oohs, and that's not very constructive either. So you get what you give.

My son is currently in a cycle of going to bed around 10, waking up four hours later, staying up for about three hours more and going to sleep again between 4:30-%AM. Today I woke him just after seven, dressed and fed him. Now he's asleep on my left side as I write this. Yeah, I've been really perky the past couple of days.

November 30 in 30, Day 6

Dear Bob

I’ve been listening to your new record.
You know, the one that was inspired by Mitch Miller,
Frankie Yankovic polkas and men dancing in fezzes
Can I ask you a question?
Why do you hate Christmas?
Saying it’s for charity does not diminish the fact
That your voice is completely shot
Not in the Tom Waits tone of polished gravel
But in a Wayne Newton should have given it up years ago way
I’m not suggesting you retire from recording, or give up touring
But to, find your niche
O’ Little Town of Bethle-phelgm is beneath you Bob
Put a bit more thought in the next one
Bag the lily white backup singers
Give the guy from Los Lobos better material to play
Take a few Fisherman’s Friend lozenges before hitting the mic
Because I think you got one more in you
If McCartney can do it, you can too!
But this holiday season, if you’re going to bring that thing you recorded as a gift,
you’re not invited over

Rabbit won!

Some nights at open mic are better than others. Last night topped that. Some guy who calls himself Smokey Oolong showed up, was introduced and knocked everyone to the back wall of Kafe Kerouac.

Simply incredible. Scott Woods was nearly speechless, but managed to compose himself long enough to ask Smokey if he would do another one. And he did, outdoing his first.

The crowd would not let him go, I thought people were going to grab him and force him back behind the mic. Some of the craziest shit I've ever seen anywhere! So he did a third. It's the type of poetry that makes you burn all your stuff and not even think of starting over. Ever.

At the end of the night, a few people followed him out to his car, and he did another one. On the freaking street!

Did anyone get any information out of him? We know he lives in Columbus. Where has he been? What does he do? And what makes him tick?

Mindblowing. I'm such a dork I started a Facebook Group for him in tribute. What he did last night was right up there or better than anything at IWPS, or anywhere else.

The name is Smokey Oolong, and Writers Block had him first.

Passing the Open Windows

Getting my ass kicked in my the 30 in 30 November poetry project. Started out rough as nothing was coming out that was any good. Wrote down a bunch of shapeless nonsense that did not help my confidence. Might have pulled out of it, or not.

Finished the new John Irving book.



Last Night in Twisted River starts out with a bang. A perfectly crafted narrative of a young man drowning in a river. It set the bar high for the reader. Sadly, the next 500 pages does not come close to the power of the first fifty.

It does not mean that it's a bad book, far from it. I think this is a book Irving wrote for the fans. I'm one of them having read everything I could find that he has written. He brings back so many familiar themes from his previous work. The meanness and protection of bears, New England prep schools, fathers telling sons stories disguised as warnings, physically large and powerful women, tragic events centered around a holiday and so much more. It was very hard at me to be mad at him when he used a throwaway line about being bonkers over a dog. If you've read Garp you should get that reference. He even throws Kurt Vonnegut, one of his teachers at the University of Iowa, into the plot!

His prose gets circular and obsessive about details, which has always been a major flaw of Irving's writing. You read a bit more about the logging industry on New England rivers and cooking in North Boston Italian restaurants that you need to. Irving also gets even more autobiographical with one of his main characters, making him an author who writes a political novel about abortion.

The book did not disappoint me. The endings were sad, mostly inevitable. Somehow, and I want to be wrong about this, after twelve novels now, I think Irving is trying to say goodbye. While I understand that there are no happy ending, I'm not sure I'm ready for the ride to end.

On time changes and Hallmark holidays

Glad Halloween is over. Never really enjoyed participating. There was never any trauma surrounding it, just a lack of wanting to take part. Could never wear a mask because of the glasses. Being creative and coming up with a costume was never a good time.

It's done with, for another year.

Got the upstairs clocks changed. Now onto the ones in the kitchen, back room and the car. For some reason the one on the stove befuddles me, so I'll let my wife handle that one. I'll get the microwave.



I'm taking part in a November challenge to write thirty poems in thirty days. First one has been submitted. Might as well be first today. Could help out with the post IWPS writers block I've been having.

Headed up to Dublin later to watch the Bills game. First time I've seen a game with the Bills Backers this season. They're playing Houston at home. I'd like Buffalo to win but if Schaub and Slayton can score big for Houston my fantasy team does well. Oh to be torn!