Pre-pare-the-cold (not the sick kind)

Read backwards: squirrel squirrel puppy

Why does Penn State always get shafted?

Ok, so I'm a college football fan. Not die-hard, entirely, but on any given saturday a portion of my attention will be devoted to watching whatever my rabbit ears (and in the future, my little black contraption, or yikes! cable) will draw down from the sky into the talking box in the living room. Shannon says she's going to be a football widow. I don't know what this means (I do actually, but I'm dumb about a lot of things--lots of knocks on the head). And I'm preparing myself for the possibility that Penn State could get snubbed for the fifth time with an undefeated season under their belt. I get it, the Big 12 is the superior conference this year and the SEC is a very good conference as well. But there are people out there saying that if Penn State is in the championship game they'll play like Ohio State has in the past few years. Joe Paterno isn't Jim Tressel. Seriously, the man has the most bowl wins ever and in the past twenty years, when given the opportunity to play in a bowl (14 out of those 20 years) Penn State has a 10-4 record--the biggest loss coming in 92 in the Blockbuster Bowl adn that team was in rough shape to begin with.

Let one of the top two teams lose and let's see what's what. Maybe I'll have to swallow some of these words again on January 8, but from where I'm sitting the blue and white seem like they can keep up with anyone.

The first time

The first time I fell in love was a smash of patches. The leaks in my pantlegs were atrocious. Something needed to be done, so it was. I was in love.

The second time I fell in love the door came back at me, like its hinge was a weapon. It hung there afterwards. It was not an easy thing to fix.

The third time I fell in love I forgot about my wings. All that flapping. That's made all the difference.

I'm tired of grading already. And tired of people making promises. And the train that toots its horn at intersections heeds very little. Lights flash and things fall down to block the road. And from this phone you can call the whole sky \part.

Archbald circa 1892

This is the town. And what wonderful things wikipedia can provide. Olyphant, another town just "down the line" from Archbald has a legend attached to it, according to wikipedia and other sources.

A number of years ago a man came into Borders books and music in Dickson City (another town a hair further down this undrawn line) when I worked there and told me all about this legend. He wore a puffy vest and had a bit of a crazed look about him. I'd see him walking along the train tracks from time to time. Even in the worst weather.

Coincidentally, Shannon and I knocked on people's doors throughout Olyphant two weekends ago, talking about politics. We were relatively well received. Only two doors were slammed on us in this small center of the universe.

But this is Archbald, so why am I mentioning any of this? Maybe that's where the secrets reside...

In a box of paper in a garage in Archbald there is a manuscript handwritten by the man mentioned above. It details the mysteries Olyphant may or may not possess: the sphinx like shape of the Lackawanna river as it rounds the edge of town, the positioning of seven churches --Orion in miniature, the pyramid of culm on the border of Throop and lastly eyewitness accounts of UFO activity. All of this somehow tied to the wife of Harry Houdini, who supposedly was raised in the Queen City.

Two wards (thing get better, we hopes withal)

The death of Paul Newman makes me feel unwell. He seemed a good human. He cared for and against things. This sounds empty, but it's not. The man was charitable and disinterested in what traps fame could set for him. He stood for something and lived his life according to that stance. A lot of the spectacles out there now could stand to at least carry themselves more sturdily. I am not a spectacle, but I could stand to do the same.

This weekend was rainy. Shannon and I indoors for the most part. The assassination of Jesse James and football and caffeine. The high grass swaying and motes of dust. I'm trying to get things polished. Trying to make for a glisten.

Sarah Palin is a nightmare. Both sides are smeary, but I believe in Obama. I've said it on peoples' doorsteps. I say it here.

The next number of years aren't going to be like what we've known, but it's going to take someone who can see around a number of subjects. Not someone who only knows how to attack and attack and attack. Recklessness and aggression doesn't make a good leader, our current situation proves this.

I wish Paul Newman could have at least pretended to be our president.

I've hit a round number

And so my expansion comes in circles. The rings around this township. The county that calls my waistband. You can't fathom some speedos. You and I are like in this matter. No cosmic dispersal. A door to the fight in all of us. There is no need to bear the bells, our country hears what song. Oh, how. Our country taps it out. Fits the valves. Fills the tape and spit. I've hit upon a kind of happiness. I've hit a round edged number and it rings. The register keys are springy. The register itself holds names. None for us it says in numbers. None for this here gathering. None in drawings or in drawers. None with luck or full of champagne.

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Here's what you win: a trophy car to run into the sky!

Here's what happens with the president: da daunh da duhn da deedle!

Here's a courier and his little bag full of important papers: ride the elevator, right. Now the bike!

Here's an x through a number of instructions on a piece of white paper marked to do: X!

Here we are on the labor day. Here we are sitting with our p-word, listening to horns. Here we are making decisions in the water. Here we are and here and here some more.

Here is what you win:

(and beneath it is an american

eagle, gold and bald.)