Another November gone (almost,) another NaNoWriMo novel…completed!

(Not even close.)

Okay, but I got the furthest I ever have: just shy of 24,000 words. (Out of 50k, of course, so not even halfway, Peter.)

Shut up.

So I entered this month with one simple rule: not to care if my story sucked. This helped, because I didn’t have the winner of a plot that I did last year. Unfortunately, like last year, my “complete” outline for the novel lacked much substance in the middle, and when I arrived to this area I surveyed the massive amounts of suck and said “I’m not wading into that. Not with these shoes.” Aaaaaand…we’re done!

In 2006 the problem was just bad planning. The beginning of the novel was okay, but not really worthy of the cool idea I had. The middle portion, as planned out as it was, looked to just be…boring. So I abandoned it. This year the novel flew by at first, with the opening chapters more impressive than last year - more action, less exposition - even though the core of the novel was weaker. In fact, it flew by so quickly that a couple weeks in I ran into the middle of the book and realized that I’d planned very little for it, meaning I now had to fill for about 20,000 words. Not fun.

Some Wrimo novelists taking filling to heart, transcribing random dreams that book editors would slash completely or even having their characters sing long songs for no reasons (like “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall) and putting every word into print. It’s a damned good way of reaching your goal, and it’s not technically considered cheating. I can just never bring myself to do it. As much as I told myself going in this year that I would write even if my novel sucked - and would worry about quantity over quality (since that’s what post-editing is for) - putting in filler is just too wrong for me.

So even if I could write 8000+ words a day for three straight days - two of which I will spend subbing - I don’t know that I would have the motivation. The story is cute and has its moments, and if I’m randomly inspired maybe I’ll revisit it someday. (You can visit it today after downloading it at the bottom of this post.) But there just isn’t enough there for me to care at the moment.

I’m set for next year though - well, save the existence of a plot, though while typing this the beginnings of one seeped into the corners of my brain. Yay. Anyway, next year I’ll plan like I did in ‘06, only I’ll overplan: I’m going to make sure not only will my beginning rock your socks as well as several of your long-sleeved T’s, but my middle will be substantive and fun instead of a minefield waiting to derail me.

I would say that it would also help if I motivate myself to write more early on, but I’m not sure how true that is. There were two or three days early on that I didn’t write, but if I did I would have just come to the middle sooner, and no matter how much time was allotted me I’m not sure if I would have wanted to tackle it. I’ll say this: I didn’t get bored with my novel like I did several times a few years ago. I was, instead, frustrated with my lack of ability to get it done, and that motivates me for next year. 2008 is when I’ll finally get that 50,000th word, plus a few more. I’ve got a whole year to come up with my plot.

You can email me my plot at pstork@gmail.com.

2007 Novel, Uncompleted (.doc file)

How can I be expected to write a blog post when I’m busy writing a 50,000 word novel by the end of the month? I only have so many words people.

That said, the novel goes well - just over 13,500 words heading into today. More important is that the story A.) is flowing well enough that I should be able to keep writing, and 2.) it doesn’t suck as much as I thought. It’s nothing spectacular, but great writing isn’t what’s expected out of NaNoWriMo. The goal is to get your words on paper (um…hard drive) and go back and edit later. It’s much easier to go back after the fact and nitpick than to do it as you go along and then get frustrated and quit.

In case you care, there might be an excerpt next week. You’ll also eventually get the last of my Traveling Trophy updates for 2007 as the Cardinals’ world title eventually ended up in the hands of the Boston Red Sox. Add that to the fact that I’m in a classroom and it must be 2004 again. Massholes.

• Speaking of, aiding the writing effort this month has been my hit-and-miss subbing. Effingham hasn’t the greatest demand for substitute teachers right now, giving me the opportunity to not only write but hold down the homestead, cooking, cleaning and staying up until 12:30 AM watching the Monday Night Wars on WWE OnDemand. Take my word, Nitro sucked in 1997 just as bad as it did at the end.

But, Peter, you never talk about your work life!

That’s right, and I’m not about to start. Blogging about work, especially when it involves a large number of children, isn’t an avenue I wish to travel down. Besides, there really isn’t that much to talk about - trust me.

I’ll give you one quick, harmless anecdote: today I was at the junior high, where I sub the most, for the first time in two weeks. Shuttling back and forth through 6th, 7th and 8th grade hasn’t given me the best chance to learn students’ names, or for them to know me. Nevertheless, I’m standing down in the cafeteria for breakfast duty at 7:30 this morning and not a minute after kids start streaming in from outside I hear an unrecognizable voice behind me shout

Stork! Who ya subbin’ for today?

I only vaguely recognized the kid, but he knew me. Cool.

My five years of NaNoWriMo failure have taught me that the secret to completing a 50,000 word novel in one month’s time is clearly to know enough about what you’re going to write. But not too much.

The first three years I entered the project with no clear idea of a plot, and the result was boredom for the author. Not knowing where I was going, I ran around in circles trying to come up with ideas as I wrote, and the result was a lot of plodding dialogue and exposition that led to a great big nothing. The worst was 2004 when I started what promised to be an interesting murder mystery without having any clearly designed structure or characters, making my task of crafting a complex story quite impossible. Basking in the failure of that season, I didn’t even attempt NaNo the following year.

Last year, for the first time, I was ready. My idea was so good that I was able to plot out the entire novel several weeks in advance of the November 1 starting date, and my characters were real and rich. The starting gun sounded and I exploded into my work, drafting almost 20,000 words in just a week’s time. All I had to do was follow my map.

Or so I thought. As I entered the meat of my work I found that the detailed outline I scripted was less a map than a bossy GPS telling me exactly where to turn, and slowly and surely it directed me closer and closer to driving my car into a f*cking lake. I became convinced that my novel needed a more logical introduction and a far more interesting middle portion, but I didn’t want to deviate from my pre-November planning. So, disappointed, I stopped writing in the second week, allowing an idea that I still believe has promise to fester and rot in its uncompletedness [sic].

This year my idea pales in potential to last year’s, but I think that will help. I don’t have any exaggerated attachment to the story and subsequent desire to make it turn out perfect, meaning if the story goes south I can just improvise and get to my goal. At the same time, my goal is more than just 50,000 words: I have a clear arc and conclusion to the story allowing my motivation to finish, with enough filler space built in to allow my imagination room to roam and not get sagged down under the weight of the story’s (few) pre-planned necessities.

After five years, I think I finally have the right formula for me. I think this is the year I do it.

Hours of brainstorming, browsing the NaNoWriMo forums and watching the Rockies teach Eric Byrnes some manners, coupled with a couple brisk walks, has finally yielded an acceptable idea for me to write about for NaNoWriMo this year:

A mysterious, seemingly self-aware letter sends unemployed writer Evan to a small northern town where a car crash and an omnipresent orange cat lead to his being elected mayor - just days after the town declared its independence, and a convoy of state cops are already on the way to “correct” matters.

You steal it and I kill you.

My story from last year still nags at me, because I think it’s such a great idea with a powerful ending. But it’ll have to wait, even if it keeps forcing every idea I have to involve a small town being saved by an outsider. Hopefully this plot, wacky as it will surely devolve into, will yield a result somewhat varied from that.

I can’t remember where I discovered NaNoWriMo, but I know the idea floored me. Write a 50,000 word novel in one month: November. Quantity over quality: cage the inner editor and just…write, for an entire month. For those who always wanted to sit down and pen the Great American Novel, here’s the deadline for your first draft.

While that wasn’t me, it sure as hell sounded like fun.

2002 found the perfect storm of events for me to get sucked into the WriMo vortex. I was at SIUE having one of my easiest (and most successful) college semesters, and that it was fall did not hurt. Without the changing of the seasons my life would be a drab affair, and my favorite transition has always been the one into colder air, with the vibrant fall colors, the anticipation of the beloved holiday season and the reintroduction of hot chocolate, not to mention my ability to drag out my superior winter wardrobe. (Not gonna lie, I’m kind of a stud.) The combination of university life, sipping Starbucks in the university center, pounding away on a laptop while the temperatures got cooler and cooler was an addicting combination.

I managed to get 10,000 words out before I lost all hope.

2002 Excerpt:
Mortimer the Proud had been missing for a month, but here he was, curled up on Shane’s welcome mat. The jingling of his keys awoke the feline, and upon recognition of his master a rather loud meow resulted. Shane never knew his cat was a hunter; bred from birth entirely in his house, the animal rarely liked venturing outside even for a moment and showed very little ability to capture prey under his roof, either. Shane halfway looked forward to the day his home was invaded by mice, just to see if his pet would run away from the rodents just as he did whenever some strange person dared enter the cat’s domain. Now, lost for a month, here Mortimer was, looking just as plump as the day he disappeared. Maybe some older feline took him under his wing and showed him the ways of the wild. Maybe one of the neighbors took him in and kept him fed, forgetting to call and tell him that they picked up his only housemate. Or maybe his cat had been replaced with a more street-savvy clone, alike in appearance but not in mind. It was probably the last one.

Interest was never my issue with NaNoWriMo, nor time. Both of my fall semesters in ‘02 and ‘03 were not incredibly busy, and the last three falls were spent working at Circuit City. Plenty of time to slip in those 1,677 words each day, with catchup time on days off. Still, ‘03 brought the world no more than 2500 of my words, with ‘04 a paltry 2800. ‘05 was a non-starter, with your author caught in Denver on a business trip for the first four days of November. NaNo had slowly evolved into a huge NoNo.

2004 Excerpt:
Rick Setser wasn’t the most popular kid at Carlisle High as he began his junior year, but his 1997 red Mustang started to change that. Acquired by his uncle from a lot in Indiana, they spent the summer of 2003 fixing it up, and when Rick pulled into the parking lot behind the high school on the first day of school he erased any chances of being asked how he had wasted his summer vacation. Seniors who had made fun of him in years past gawked over the condition of the vehicle, its loud motor filling the parking lot with enough sound to completely drown out the first bell notifying students to get their tardy asses into the building. His girlfriend, abandoned during the summer months he spent in Indianapolis, could only watch as she became his ex-girlfriend; the more popular girls of the class of ‘05 swarmed around him in admiration of his vehicle, one-by-one demanding that he take them for a ride after the abbreviated first day of school.

Then came 2006.

I came up with an idea. Inspired by a Bruce Hornsby song (even if the novel had nothing to do with the song - seriously,) and given time to brainstorm while visiting Emily in Carbondale on my days off, I hatched an interesting plot about a small family in Southern Illinois dealing with the effects the changing economy were having on their small business, and how the return of the protagonist’s long lost wild baby sister promised to help. The idea was unique, the characters had promise, and most importantly, for the first time ever, I had an ending. And a great one to boot.

I prepped and prepared. A notebook was filled with character details, plot outlines and other random ideas that could be worked in. I purchased Chris Baty’s No Plot, No Problems, an excellent guide to NaNoWriMo that got me further pumped for the affair. November came and I my story laid out such that I could dive in and flesh out the details, and suddenly Microsoft Word was alive with the sound of awesome.

Then my inner editor escaped and said “ROWWWWRRRRRR!!!!! YOUR WRITING SUCKS!”

2006 Excerpt:
Not much had changed, she thought, as she moved throughout the center aisle in an almost dancelike fashion, twirling around as if to consume the sights from every possible angle, her purse flailing about and barely avoiding a dangerous collision with an oven. The merchandise had been updated in her absence; certainly the televisions were a far different picture from when she last laid her eyes upon them. Still, the row of glistening washers and dryers were a more than familiar sight, as were the mammoth refrigerators opposite them, still obviously polished everyday by the proprietor. The white and black square tiles sparkled from a recent scrubbing, though the beige walls, once white as one-half of the floor, had seen better days. This had all been beaten into her memory just as much as the comfort of her mother’s smiling face, and she smiled as the small gaps in her recollections were quickly filled in.
No computers, though. She smirked at his obstinacy.

The characters weren’t clicking, especially the lead, who came off too stoic and boring. Too much dialogue, not enough action. Blah blah blah. What was supposed to be a mere first draft was being picked apart like I was suddenly a literary agent, or even someone who reads fiction at all that doesn’t have to do with murders along Route 66.

21,612 words into November my characters fell silent.

I don’t know if I’m in love with NaNoWriMo or the idea of NaNoWriMo. People getting together in coffee shops typing away at their personal masterpiece, having word wars and dares as their work slips further and further into a state of absolute ridiculousness…and closer and closer to 50,000 words. Even if my writing is done in solitary, the feeling of pounding out those early words in the dawn of the eleventh month are a rush, but perhaps moreso is the anticipation that’s felt in October. Brainstorming, checking other people’s NaNo blogs and constantly checking the WriMo forums for what other daring “novelists” are thinking and fretting about - such fun. The community aspect is endearing, connecting you with thousands of other wannabe scribes worldwide, some more successful than you, and many even less so. Maybe that’s the most fun, combined with the fantasy of the coffeehouse novelist and the upper crust attitude it subscribes you to. I don’t know.

What I do know is November is 21 days away, and plot or no plot I’m going again.

Half-day of subbing
What subject to teach today?
Oh, we get to read

First, the advanced group
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
This class runs itself

Forty-five minutes
First hour becomes second
Uh-oh, the young ‘ens

Great Expectations
The girl in the front snores loud
Dickens: the Sandman

Third class reads silent
Finishing Lord of the Flies
I will write haikus

Twenty-four students
Two of them absent, faceless
God bless seating charts

A girl approaches
Can I go to my locker
A hall pass is signed

A half hour to go
Hall pass girl remains a ghost
Perhaps she dropped out

Girl returns, angry
Sometimes you just let it go
Then, silence returns

What words do students
Say the most to their teachers?
Hello? Please? Thank you?

The answer would be
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
An eternal fight

Boy stares into space
Book sits unopened, lonely
“Perhaps you should read”

Heads down on the desk
Do they sleep like this at home?
Pillows are for chumps

Eleven-thirty
Half-day is over; lunch time!
The end of haikus

So every year I attempt NaNoWriMo. That’s the National Novel Writing Month, held every November as amateur scribes the world over attempt to write a 50,000 word epic in just 30 days, midnight November 1st to midnight November 30th. Quality doesn’t matter; quantity does. The purpose: get people writing that never would, and give them a deadline to motivate them. They can always edit it later.

My first year of trying was 2002, when I was impressed with my ability to fire off 10,000 words before I gave up about nine days in. The next three years…we don’t discuss.

Last year, though, I had a good idea coming in and planned ahead, leading to a word count of 21,467 before I gave up.

This begs the question: should I continue? I’ve been looking over it and editing a bit, and I know where the story’s going and how it ends (I even have some of the end written, though it’s rough.) My problem is the quantity over quality part; it has to be good for me to want to continue. And being my worst critic and not an avid reader, I haven’t a clue how good it is.

So I’m posting the first thousand words here. If time permits, please read, and comment.

**********

Just a year prior, Tony had first stopped to read the sign along new Highway 51. Passing it a million times heading to and from Carbondale, he never thought much about stopping to partake. After all, he knew the history of that place better than those who erected the marker to honor it. The Winchester Farm predated the town itself and watched for decades from atop its towering hill to the east as the trees surrounding it fell and the village crept towards it, slowly encroaching on the property’s borders. Finally, about a decade back, the highway was realigned and businesses started to migrate east, and what were once open fields and the sparse remnants of forests made way for pavement and bustling subdivisions, a stark contrast to the lush green orchards passed down through the Winchester family tree.

Tony realized that it was almost a year to the day since he’d finally taken the time to gaze at the Centennial Farm sign posted by the state to honor the years of history that had unfolded on the land. Countless generations farmed the earth, driving the economy of the fertile soil known as Little Egypt and fueling the rapid growth of the land trapped between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. Transportation and industry built up around this and the myriad other farms, and migrant workers moved in and out of the county, some eventually becoming full-fledged locals. In an area of the country that devoted a majority of its acreage to producing corn and soybeans, this land’s little niche of fruits and vegetables set it apart and gave the locals pride. The Winchester farm stood for decades as the holotype.

Now it was Wal-Mart’s to play with.

Makeshift dirt lanes were once all that led traffic from the new highway into the peach fields that lined central Union County, but the construction companies had already started to lay down far sturdier piles of rock for the machinery. Not three months before the ancient farmhouse had stood tall, rotting away but still noble in its role as a landmark guarding the east entrance to Shawneetown. Rumors circulated throughout the village for months: the Winchesters are selling their land to out-of-towners; their kids don’t care about their community or its history. Wal-Mart’s coming to put downtown out of business. We might as well all move to Carbondale.

Now rumors were truth.

Not three months ago the backhoes came like a thief in the middle of the night, crushing the sixty-year-old residence into rubble in a matter of hours. Residents awoke in the morning to find a pile of rubble, idling machinery, and an Illinois Centennial Farm sign that had been accidentally knocked on its side, an appropriate symbol of the sudden event. The Winchester kids had been too ashamed to destroy their family’s home in the daylight, choosing instead the coward’s way as they counted their money in Chicago.

By noon, someone had taken the Centennial Farm sign, spray painted a red “X” on it, and sat it by the door of City Hall. A pointless protest, Tony thought. What’s done is done.

This was the day the community had been approaching with both dread and anticipation - the day that the Mayor and the Chamber of Commerce would finally stop the secrets and backroom dealings and pass the expected death sentence onto the core of Shawneetown’s business district. Tony figured this might be the day that future generations could say the already crumbling town ceased to exist.

This was something he had to see in person.

The stones of the newly laid - no, make that lazily thrown down - rock lanes leading onto the Winchester property flew out from under his truck tires as Tony pulled off of Highway 51. The turnout was stark; the local radio station sent a reporter, as did the town’s newspaper and the regional broadsheet from Carbondale. Other than that, it was just the usual morally corrupt suspects straining to pat themselves on their backs: Mayor Alexander, his friends on the city council, a couple brave souls from the Chamber of Commerce, and of course several representatives from Wal-Mart here to revel in the conquer and begin the war for the hearts and minds of the community, as if the residents really had a choice in the matter.

Tony heard it referred to as a “rally” and a “celebration” on the radio the day before, but it looked to be nothing more than a well-staged press conference, if not a full-fledged brainwashing session. A crudely printed banner stretched behind the podium confirming the poorly kept secret: “Shawneetown Welcomes Wal-Mart to Union County.” As if this was something to celebrate, he muttered silently to himself, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the front of the truck.

“I’d like to welcome all of you who came out on this wonderful day, as we begin the renaissance of our great community! As you all probably know by now, we are very happy to welcome the newest members of our happy village, our friends at Wal-Mart!” The mayor’s grin slipped upon hearing the muted, scattered applause, as if he expected the ten or fifteen people to somehow erupt magically into an uproarious explosion of joy. “Everyone…” he searched for the right word, desperate to impress the Wal-Mart big wigs. “Everyone here is delighted to expand our city, adding not only this great shopping destination but a number of other great, new stores, making Shawneetown the jewel of Southern Illinois and shopping destination for miles around!” Perhaps three people clapped on that one.

Tony tossed his keys in the air momentarily as he slid back towards the truck’s door; his several minutes there had been enough to let the reality sink in. This misguided tool, elected four years prior on his daddy’s legacy and the success of his inherited tractor dealership, was taking the town in the direction he thought was best: outside commercial expansion, industry, modernization, or whatever corporate buzzword could best describe a sterile cesspool indistinguishable from the next town over. Something utterly unoriginal and uninspiring. Enough to drive apathy into the hearts of its children.

It was just something Tony figured he would have to learn to live with.

So NaNoWriMo. Yeah. I didn’t come close - or even halfway - to my 50,000 word count, but I did much better than the last several attempts. In fact, add my three previous tries together and you’ll get my 2006 word count of just over 20,000, so that’s not quite as poor as it could have been, especially since that was my total just short of halfway through the month before busy schedules, Thanksgiving and a small dose of apathy placed several quarters on the train track carrying the Insipiration Express.

I still plan to continue the novel, though, here and there, especially since I read what I had done so far to Emily and she begs me to write more; I guess it can’t be half bad. Perhaps I’ll link to the prologue and first chapter and see if it perks anyone else’s curiousity as well.

• St. Louis is covered in snow and ice today, but I’m in Carbondale. :p Didn’t even have to scrape frost off of my car when I got lunch at 11:00 today.

• Drive long enough and you run into every conceivable problem. My car started losing milage the last few fill-ups (~340 miles for 12 gallons rather than ~390) and I got a check engine light, so I took it to the old Sparta Ford. They figured I had a bad tank of gas and changed the fuel filter ($100; probably needed it no matter what) but upon leaving I noticed that A.) the car couldn’t shift from first to second gear, and 2.) I was going zero MPH. No. Two days and a changed speed sensor later, I can drive again. Huzzah!

Speed sensor. Who’d a thunk.

• I’ve seen Casino Royale four times now, and Emily’s seen it five times. Yes, it is that good.

I have not been writing.

Because I have been writing.

The last you heard from me I was showing you my palms and pimping baseball spreadsheets, bragging about the World Champs. Tony’s got the title belt now, the club’s tenth, and I will never stop talking about this. Ever.

Except for now so that you won’t run away annoyed. Look at me, concerned with your viewership.

ANYWAY, I have once again set sail on the Good Ship NaNoWriMo, and for once there is some success. The program, which dares you to write a 50,000 word novel in just one month (November, to be precise,) has been attempted by yours truly thrice before. In 2002 I had the easiest semester of college ever and only knocked out a little more than 10,000 words. The next two years my word count dwindled down to about 4000, and last year having no plot reduced my productivity to zilch - literally.

2006 so far: 19,822 words. Just off the pace for 50,000.

It helps to have a plot - a really neat idea - and to take the time to plan ahead. Most all my writing has been non-fiction, and I’ve always despised the idea of outlining, so the thought of planning out fiction writing did not appeal to me in years past. I’ve learned my lesson, though, and the result is quite good. I’ll most likely post the finished product once there’s been editing and such (you have to finish by December 1, but editing is allowed - and advised.

• The Simpsons’ Movie trailer sucked. So did the episode, which bored me so much that I not only changed the channel to the Bears game, but did so on about forty televisions.

Literally. I was at work. Football in HD is your daddy.

Not that I was really anticipating it…okay, so I was, but in the same way that I looked forward to the third Matrix movie. “Well, it’s going to be horrid, but maybe it’ll be halfway decent.” I’ll defend Revolutions (that was the third one, right? Screw fact checking - you do it for me) to an extent, but it was a shocking disappointment (though not as much as its predecessor) and I fear The Simpsons will follow suit.

Going by the old rule that the show has been downhill since after season eight, and keeping in mind that the first season-and-a-half was nothing stellar, we’re actually looking at more crappy Simpsons than good Simpsons, which is a scary thought when you consider how future generations will judge the show. Of course when it was good, it was the best. show. ever. No contest. Even now it’s not the worst thing produced; I know you’ve heard that one before. It’s just painful to watch Homer’s latest forced adventure and think that this is the show that once rocked the Monorail with Spock. But you’ve heard all that before, and over and over again for the last seven or eight years.

The rock and a hard place gag in the trailer - definitely crappy Simpsons. If the rest of the movie follows suit… eewwwww.

• Three months ago I thought Weird Al Yankovic’s career was over. And now he has his biggest hit ever. Congrats. He rocks in concert, by the way - trust me on this one.

• Next time: the ultimate Scrabble scoresheet!

I’ve been a bad wittle boy. Where have all the posts been? Did they all just fade away?

• Yeah, my NFL Picks never seem to get very far. I did, what, two out of the first three weeks this year? The problem is less me being wrong, or the mere picking of the games. It’s the comedy. I try to be funny, but my lack of knowledge of all things Roger Goodellish hamstring me. Whatever. Besides, while you were watching the media crown the Bears (Denny knew who they were,) I was watching Lauren Graham on Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. So how again am I qualify to handicap the gridiron?

• NANOWRIMO! Oh, it is so close, and this year I actually have a plot! Admittedly, most NaNoers have plots revolving around mythical kingdoms and people saving the world (like Luke’s nephew Jess on Heroes apparently. Wouldn’t know; I don’t watch it) while my plot revolves around tax increment financing. Sort of. It’s just a little boring. It’s still good! It’s still good!

Admittedly part two, that’s not really what it’s about. I’ll post excepts, if not the whole thing, so you’ll see. I’ll show ALL of you.

(For the uninitiated, NaNoWriMo, or the National Novel Writing Month, is a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel between November 1 and 30. Quantity over quality; you can always edit later. More details at the website.)

• I am Emily’s dealer. I get her addicted to things, like 24 and King of the Hill. My newest drugs of choice: baseball and The Office.

The Cards are, once again, ho hum, in the NLCS, although a loss tonight will change that - your ass is on the line, Suppan. Emily has been rivited by the playoffs, becoming a Cardinals fan and even watching games without my presence. She also helps me see the team in a new light: David Eckstein, thanks to his diminutive stature, is the “little boy,” and thanks to his constantly wagging tounge, Ronnie Belliard is the team’s “puppy.” Given Pujols’ recent surly attitude and slow devolution into a certain assholish Giants outfielder, we have one hell of a double play combination:

These are the saddest of possible words:
“Toddler to Puppy to Bonds.”
Trio of cardinals, and fleeter than birds,
Toddler to Puppy to Bonds.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Carlos hit into a double-
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
“Toddler to Puppy to Bonds.”

Emily loves the “So” face, too. That’s the youthful distraught face that So Taguchi wears when he misses a fly ball or strikesout or homers or singles or gets up in the morning or breathes oxygen.

He and Eckstein could probably pass for little leaguers.

But back to the other addiction: The Office. I started showing the third season episodes to Emily as they were E*DVRed, and when I got the seconds season DVD free from work we busted it out in a week. Then we watched the third season opener again. Emily’s still debating a costume for a Halloween party she’s flocking to this Saturday, and I suggested she attend as Pam (I would surely go as Michael Scott if I were attending.) She’s most likely passing on the costume, all for the want of curlier hair.