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LOOKIE:, — 2005-02-16 — 20040526q — 20040525111823L — 20040519n — 20040512v  <= |
20040519n …Book of the Long Sun… …and an essay example for MS …& where the f—k did my email go? I've just now finished reading Gene Wolfe's Nightside the Long Sun; Monday night, I think it was, I reserved Lake of the Long Sun […collectively known as: Litany of the Long Sun: Nightside the Long Sun and Lake of the Long Sun (Book of the Long Sun, Books 1 and 2)
… from the LAPL … Anyway, next week is finals for my girlfriend and so she isn't coming up to L.A. this weekend. We scheduled me to come visit her on Sunday (I'll have to bus it down and bus it back up, $11 total. About the same as the price of gas, if the driver's lucky…)… Anyway, I have to go to the … something. TTYL. really. ml… I was eight years old. At that moment in my life, nothing was more important to me than baseball. My team was the New York Giants, and I followed the doings of those men in the black–and–orange caps with all the devotion of a true believer. Even now, remembering that team which no longer exists, that played in a ballpark which no longer exists, I can reel off the names of nearly every player on the roster. Alvin Dark, Whitey Lockman, Don Mueller, Johnny Antonelli, Monte Irvin, Hoyt Wilhelm. But none was greater, none more perfect nor more deserving of worship than Willie Mays, the incandescent Say-Hey Kid. That spring, I was taken to my first big-league game. Friends of my parents had box seats at the Polo Grounds, and one April night a group of us went to watch the Giants play the Milwaukee Braves. I don't know who won, I can't recall a single detail of the game, but I do remember that after the game was over my parents and their friends sat talking in their seats until all the other spectators had left. It got so late that we had to walk across the diamond to leave by the center-field exit, which was the only one still open. As it happened, that exit was right below the players' locker rooms. Just as we approached the wall, I caught sight of Willie Mays. There was no question about who it was. It was Willie Mays, already out of uniform and standing there in his street clothes not ten feet away from me. I managed to keep my legs moving in his direction and then, mustering every ounce of my courage, I forced some words out of my mouth. “Mr. Mays,” I said, “could I please have your autograph?” He had to have been all of twenty-four years old, but I couldn't bring myself to pronounce his first name. His response to my question was brusque but amiable. “Sure, kid, sure,” he said. “You got a pencil?” He was so full of life, I remember, so full of youthful energy, that he kept bouncing up and down as he spoke. I didn't have a pencil, so I asked my father if I could borrow his. He didn't have one either. Nor did my mother. Nor, as it turned out, did any of the other grown-ups. The great Willie Mays stood there watching in silence. When it became clear that no one in the group had anything to write with, he turned to me and shrugged. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “Ain't got no pencil, can't give no autograph.” And then he walked out of the ballpark into the night. I didn't want to cry, but tears started falling down my cheeks, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Even worse, I cried all the way home in the car. Yes, I was crushed with disappointment, but I was also revolted at myself for not being able to control those tears. I wasn't a baby. I was eight years old, and big kids weren't supposed to cry over things like that. Not only did I not have Willie Mays's autograph, I didn't have anything else either. Life had put me to the test, and in all respects I had found myself wanting. After that night, I started carrying a pencil with me wherever I went. It became a habit of mine never to leave the house without making sure I had a pencil in my pocket. It's not that I had any particular plans for that pencil, but I didn't want to be unprepared. I had been caught empty-handed once, and I wasn't about to let it happen again. If nothing else, the years have taught me this: if there's a pencil in your pocket, there's a good chance that one day you'll feel tempted to start using it. As I like to tell my children, that's how I became a writer. 1995 This is an example of a really good essay. I wonder how her (idiot) "English" teacher would treat it. What follows is the body of an email I sent my friends
My email was deleted. it was strange. I either did something UNQUESTIONABLY stupid, or my email was 'accidentally' deleted by some 'malfunction' of one or another of yahoo's servers. Very strange. I already told Robbie, because if it was some kind of malfunction, maybe it had happened to him, too. If I did something stupid… …well, nothing can be done. If I deleted my own email, I also had the presence of mind to click 'empty' next to the trash folder. However it is, the 'newest' email I could find was from FEBUARY 2003. Over a year ago. Not very enlightening. I quickly realized that if these emails were valuable, I would have put them into useful folders. I deleted the rest and I guess my email box (at least the one that contained email to r.wesley@edwards.net ) is now 'clean' (or, as yahoo calls it, 'empty') … Very frustrating. :( -r PS: Just because I didn't organize them, doesn't mean I wanted them vamoosed. I was definately keeping these emails for a reason. (One possible reason, of course, is that I wanted the email addresses of the senders…) GRRRR! But the real mystery is, did I delete my fucking email myself. What a horrible and stupid thing to do. GRRR! also, almost done with this …Red Notebook, Paul Auster book… so, back to Jane Healey (Ph.D) or the Toxic Shock Syndrome (…primer -- it was written for 'young adults') much to my annoyance. I need a more technical book. It's like kindergarten to me. Maybe I'll go cull a better book from the 'catalog' at the lapl website. blah. -=- | |
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 savage1267 |  exe7933 |  savage1267@email.com |
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