I saw internet future, and its name is...

Perhaps you share my notice that blogging has largely been replaced by more convenient methods of communicating brief thoughts. In spite of my past excuse-making and promises to improve, this is why I don't blog as much as I once did. I have had little to say lately that warranted a note here, and in fact I had little to say today that warranted a tweet. But it made a lot of sense for me to send what little thought I had to you that way, since Twitter or Facebook were where you were looking for it. It made no sense for you to click on my bookmark to find out that I am almost out of coffee creamer when one of the other two methods will let you know when anything in my life is normal or abnormal. Even if you're using a reader I'll bet you expect, or at least hope, for something other than minutiae when you check it.

I have given a bit of thought lately to retiring the blog, as it has become obvious that I don't write in it as frequently as I once did. I have in fact decided not to retire it. Rather, I acknowledge the purpose it seems gradually to have adopted after several years of being my primary means of expression on the internet. When I need to tell a long story or pass along something that requires significant explanation, I put it here. When I want to tell you how cute the eighth-note-shaped poop that my new dog just took was, I tell you about it on Twitter and post the picture on Facebook. For many of you, this is nothing new. Facebook is now ubiquitous and/or casual enough that it makes sense to reserve the bigger or more involved ideas for one's blog - where people have to want to read it, rather than having it forced into their attention via News Feed.

I only bring this up, I suppose, in a nod to the fact tthat I think about my blog differently than I once did. I am not going to go all Network on you, but I anticipate that the only things I will continue to post here will be more involved items. This may include a bit of opinion writing, which I have tended not to do in order to avoid the virtual shouting matches I have seen many endure over the last four years. In doing so, I will have to abandon a part of my general strategy for life. That strategy is not expressing opinions that won't change anything. I don't expect to change anyone's mind. In fact, I expect that some people will think I am stupid, ignorant, self-centered, just plain mean, or all four.

I once thought of my blog as my front porch on the internet. It certainly served its purpose well as such. Now it seems that the blog is rather a back porch - a place where ideas are shared slowly and thoughtfully with less concern for their beauty than for their honesty.

If you wish to read, then that's great. Take off your shoes and stay awhile. Don't smoke inside, and don't drive home drunk. If you don't, that's great too. You can keep up with me, my world, and my mucus output for the day on Facebook or Twitter.

(Edit: This was written last night and posted this morning. If you think I am pointing a finger at you for posting minutiae on your blog, I'm not. It's yours. I'm just handling mine differently.)

The Worst Idea of All Time

I really thought I had heard it on at least ten occasions around Dwight and Christine. Turns out I was wrong. Here it is. "Disturbia" and "I'm Yours" are particularly kidtastic.

After your eyes have rolled back into their natural place, I'm sure you will ask yourself how I found that. And you should. When I am looking after Izzie during the day, there are several times when I need to leave Meghan's apartment. At some point I reasoned that she might be best entertained by kid's television shows. So Nickelodeon keeps her entertained while I am away. These young musicians greeted me on my way in this afternoon.

No really.

Seasonal Affective Disordnance

• I returned from Nashville ten days ago following a very good trip. My professional friends there were exactly as I had left them, for better or worse, and welcomed me back. I got good co-writing done with one old and one new co-writer, happened into an impromptu meeting at a place that can help, and heard some very good music. I also had a couple of beers with Amos at a show, which was naturally very nice as well.

• This time of year makes me feel like shit, and pretty much always has. I know a lot of it is the post-holiday, post-football lull. Some of it is certainly the sunlight. And some of it is likely the wait for things to become busy again. The wait won't be long.

• Though I am looking forward to GMEA this weekend, I have to admit that my mind is a week ahead of that. The following Friday, my first original concert band work will receive it's world premiere at the South Car0lina Music Educat0r's Ass0ciation conference. I'm excited and absolutely terrified. I hope this piece doesn't suck.

• I'm under three weeks from having my surgery-related movement restrictions lifted, and it's about time. Since Izzie joined us, it has been very difficult to honor those restrictions and take care of her as needed. Thus, other things have begun to hurt.

• Speaking of Izzie... I don't know if I have mentioned her on the blog before, but our puppy is amazing. We have had her for a month, and I am thrilled that she's with us. Everyone thinks their dog is the best dog ever. Ours is too, even though she just bit me in the mouth when she was kissing me goodnight.

Return to the Music City

It has been some seventeen months since Meghan blasted Dexter Freebish's "Leaving Town" from her car in Brentwood's Players Club parking lot and I closed the lock on the back of the Penske rental truck that would bring me home. And I mean some seventeen months.

A month ago, I mentioned that it was time once again for me to get back on the songwriting horse. Monday afternoon will bring the timid opening galops, as I hit the road for Nashville for my first legitimate business trip back since I left. The run-up to this return has brought about alternating fear and swagger.

I fear the rejection just like I always did, but I have heard so much of it over the years that I'm beginning to feel immune to it. I worry about the stigma that some may assign me for getting to town and then consciously choosing to leave after two years, though I know that those with whom I would would ever care to work would certainly understand my reasoning. I worry that some may be judgmental of my sporadic writing habits, but I know that many of the best binge and quit much as I do. I worry that I'm wasting time or money, but I think being satisfied that I've given it my very best shot is worth both.

The swagger results from writing again and the review of old material that comes with preparing for a trip to town. In looking back at what I have written in the last two to three years, the successful products bring to mind specific points in time in which songs have come together. Those moments are the precious minority - when the right word, note, change, or phrase finds its way into one's consciousness. I don't pretend that these are world-changing nuggets like "The movement you need is on your shoulder." They may never be heard outside my circle of friends and a few publishers with shaking heads. But, like the one good golf drive in a 100-shot day, those moments will keep a writer coming back for more. The more of those a writer can string together, the better his chances of shooting the writing equivalent of a sub-70 score become.

Fortunately for me, those moments are also enough to make me disregard the fear, get in the car, and drive north and west. Details upon my return.

Optimistic

I'm once again writing with a bit of insomnia, but it feels as though it will abate shortly.

The dis-assembly of Meghan's Christmas Tree (which functions, as many things do, as ours) was the big project for the day. I mentioned last year how much I hate the real and metaphorical boxing up of Christmas. That has always been the case, and definitely gets worse with age.

As we boxed the ornaments and removed the fake branches from the fake trunk, I began to say reassuring things in an effort to back Meghan and me off of the emotional cliff to which the re-emergence of the Real World can and does drive both of us at this time every year. The only words that seemed to work for me were old standards. I spun the end of the holidays as a beginning and not an end, as many wise or desperate widows, breakers-up, and newly married grooms do.

After giving the psychobabble some time to wear off, I concluded that I am actually quite optimistic about the year just begun. The most obvious cause for optimism is our June 27 wedding, and I am very excited about this. I am quite sure that subject will take up a good bit of the space on my blog for the next several months. But let me simply leave the subject by saying that I feel more genuine excitement, happiness, and peace over my impending wedding to Meghan that I have felt for anything before.

There are many reasons in addition to the wedding that give me reason to be upbeat. I feel like I am in a good professional spot, with many opportunities approaching. I am mentally as clear-headed as I remember being. I am about twenty-five pounds overweight - only some of which can be rightly blamed on the Great Back Trauma of 2008 - but I should be able to begin correcting that in six weeks. My finances are rapidly improving from the beating they took in college, grad school, five years of very poor pay, and two years in Nashville. Socially, I am within a one-hour drive of eighty-percent of my friends and a half-day drive of all of my family.

At a time when almost all news is wary of the future and Blue Monday is just two weeks away, it seems important to remind myself that the time between Christmases has a pretty good bit of promise as well - regardless of what the paper or that blank spot in the den would have me believe.

The Airing of Grievances

I actually have few grievances, and virtually none which originate outside of my own shortcomings and failures to focus. I do think, however, that the holiday season would be more complete and much more interesting if the "Airing of Grievances" were an actual part of the celebration.

I have been thinking lately about my career (the part of it that I choose to pursue rather than need to continue). It occurs to me over (and over and over and over) that, for a writer, I don't write very much. That doesn't tend to bode well for one's future, so I have tried to figure out why that is. As I analyzed my use of time, I realized that I get bogged down too easily. I take my proverbial eye off the proverbial ball, become frustrated with the often meaningless periphery, and stop writing.

In my particular case, the stingy details are demo recordings. I have been warned about this a dozen times - that it is easy to become enamored by the process of creating music at the expense of creating songs - and now find myself far less productive now than I should be. This is made worse by the fact that I haven't learned the science and art of music engineering. I can kill a day trying to get the right sound on a guitar track. A good engineer can get it right in five minutes. Stephen Sondheim wrote "Send In the Clowns" in two days. Time is money, and I have spent mine whittling the firewood.

As you may have noticed on your right (my left), I made a New Year's resolution for the first time in many years. There are two parts to the resolution:

1. Read everyday. This doesn't mean the internet or the newspaper. It means something worthy of being published in permanent form in a book.

2. Write everyday. Blogging doesn't count. It has to be a song.

In order to do both, I will have to stop worrying about the things that don't matter and fixing the things that do. I really feel like this has to be successful. It feels like fulfilling my professional potential requires that I do both of these things, without the semi-comedic failure of many resolutions.

One of my biggest fears is looking back on my life and feeling as though I wasted something valuable.

Remember when I used to write songs?

As our wedding is now 199 days away, Meghan and I have been having a lot of discussion about where our future will be. There are a lot of factors that will drive the decision, many of which I won't be writing here. But among them is the reason I left Georgia in the first place in the mid-summer of 2005.

As we were talking about this yesterday, I was remembering my time in Nashville. As usual, I remember the good and forget most of the bad. The thing I miss the most is the feeling that I was making progress toward my goal of getting a cut.

When I really sit and look at how I was spending my time, however, I know that I wasn't always making progress. There were some lazy days, some brutal hangovers, some wasted days spent in the fetal position on the couch watching "West Wing" and trying to feel comfortable enough to go outside the apartment, and some wasted nights spent as a spectator at a club rather than as a participant. I am rather convinced that I gave myself so much credit for moving to Nashville that I really didn't take advantage of the time I had there.

As my back continues to recover, I am getting the itch once again to get back into whatever is left of the songwriting community. I would think that the possibility of our moving to Nashville is probably pretty slim at this point, and I'm not sure that there isn't something positive in that. It's quite possible that I can get more done in three to five urgent days per month than what I could do in thirty complacent ones.

It is one thing to write about this, and another to do something about it. So, for the eighty-something-th time, I jumped back on the horse again today and did. Here's to sappy love songs, bitching about bridges and lifts, lost capos, and dusty guitars.

On Wrapping Gifts

When I was a child, wrapping Christmas gifts was a joy that was easily lost on me. My mother was an exceptional craftswoman, and took great pride in the presentation of every gift she gave. While she tried to pass her care and technique along, my brother and I were typical boys. We wanted to do right by the recipient of every gift we wrapped, but our products were most often notable for the faithfulness of our attempts rather than for the beauty of our results.

As I aged and life became busier, I had no one to watch over my gift-giving habits. The way I presented a Christmas present said much about me and about the recipient, though perhaps not in the way you might think.

After returning from the bowl trip to Hawaii in 2000, I returned to Athens on Christmas Day to a pile of unwrapped goods. I called my mom and told her that my return home would be delayed by my last-minute preparations. She told me not to worry about wrapping everything and to come on home. Giving naked presents was an apt metaphor for that time. I was consumed with my job. My relationships were secondary. I was busier than I had been at any point in my life.

By the way, once arriving at home and exchanging presents, I fell asleep and stayed that way all afternoon.

A few years later, I found myself with friends whose gifts received different treatments based on what I knew about them. My oldest and dearest friends likely received something that wasn't wrapped. They knew my life was out of control, and that simply buying something was more difficult than I would let on. My newest friends (some of whom may or may not have been women I was trying to woo) received gifts that got the royal treatment. I was trying to prove something - trying to win an affection that I would learn years later couldn't be bought.

Since I went to work for myself and life has calmed a bit, I notice that the care I lend to a gift is much more like that which my mother tried to pass along. Some of this is simple maturity and respect. Some of this is the product of a much simpler life.

More importantly, my new caution comes from learning that the presentation says as much about a giver's sentiment as does the item itself. The symmetrical placement of the box, the deliberate measurements needed for the ends of the item, the steady cutting, the wise and efficient use of tape, and the pressing of the corners into a Marine-like crispness have become less inconvenient chores of adulthood and more valuable opportunities to send a message.

I could try to speak or write my thoughts for you, but no overt expression will ever be enough to let you know how I feel. All I can do is carefully consider and slowly execute each cut, each measurement, and each fold... and hope you realize that I am trying to give you something perfect.

Rut

I was just reminiscing last night about the times surrounding the beginning of my blog. They are far more complicated than I wish to rehash. But it was a particularly fun time since everyone seemed to have something to say much of the time. In fact, I recall a bit of shame in not writing something on a given day.

Naturally, things change. Today there are far more internet outlets available to all of us, and our blogs certainly seem to be an afterthought compared to what they once were. Though I'm not particularly proud of my two-plus-week hiatus, it does not in fact make me much less prolific than most of my blogging friends. Perhaps that will change, or perhaps blogging will gradually fade more fully from our collective consciousness.

Remembering the earlier days of my blog reminds me of when I wrote in an overtly emotional fashion. So, for old times sake...

I am nearly three weeks removed from my surgery and things are basically fine. I have a limited amount of pain on occasion, but it is expected and pretty rare. I still won't be allowed to bend or twist or to lift anything heavier than about eight pounds for several months. Otherwise, I feel as physically well as I have since the early spring.

However, physical aspects of my injury, treatment, and rehabilitation have affected other elements of my life in negative ways. It has been necessary to be waited on for much of the last half-year, as I have been unable to retrieve many things near the floor, sit or stand for long periods of time, or move quickly enough to justify someone else's watching my labored attempts to fend for myself. Because I have been unable to drive, someone (usually Meghan) has had to alter their schedule to fit mine and cart me from one place to the next.

Perhaps most unfortunate, though, is the emotional state in which I have found myself from time to time. I'm not sure if it is the constant yo-yo of chemicals in my body from changing medications, the changes in metabolism that result from my body's stillness followed by its self-healing, the bursts of attention contrasted with lengths of isolation, or just the now-fading helplessness. But it has been - and at times, it continues to be - a little rougher on my psyche that I would readily admit.

Fortunately the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel is in view, and things should begin to return to normalcy in the near future. It will be nice to worry about the normal uncontrollable things - the getting older, the drinking too much, the dearth of money, the balding, and the Dawgs - rather than this.

Brett's Back

You can take that however you want...

This is just a note to let anyone who wouldn't otherwise know that the surgery went exceptionally well. I was walking (sllllooooooowwwwwwwllllllyyyy) within six hours of the completion of the procedure. I left the hospital Friday morning for my parents' house. I left my parents' house this morning for Marietta, a day of football (ahem, viewing.... not playing) with my friends, and time with Meghan. And after being a bit ambitious today with my activity, I anticipate quite a bit of rest over the next couple of days.

I find myself being particularly grateful for my health in general, having people around me who help me deal with my temporary difficulties, and having access to medical care that would not have been possible a mere generation ago. More soon from the recovery area.

In case I manage not to post again before Thursday, I figured I should go ahead and throw something up here. My preparations for surgery are slowly ramping up. I now have a grabber, since I won't able to bend at the waist for quite some time. I have an appointment with my neurosurgeon Tuesday morning for the blood work and other pre-operative exams. Meghan and I took two trips on Sunday to buy sleep pants and other items that might come in handy as I convalesce. I believe I have all of my second-guessing and sudden unexplainable moments of total recovery out of the way. I'm ready to go.

During many of the recent sleepless nights I have had, I have silently debated whether or not to share my politics in more detail than I have lately. I am generally hesitant to do so for several reasons:

1) Many people take their politics personally, and understandably so. Statements of political opinion often include the implication that the beliefs of one who thinks differently are rooted in selfishness, naivete, ignorance, or downright stupidity. I'm not interested in calling anyone stupid, and I don't really want friends who didn't know they disagreed with me to suddenly think any of those things about me. This is why I'm not in politics.

2) I don't know that my expression will be productive. In fact, I'm not so sure why I feel like writing more about my politics. Perhaps it is that I think I have my opinions for different reasons than others who share my political point of view. At any rate, I don't know that it will do anyone any good for me to share mine.

3) An ensuing argument won't be productive either. There are "facts" to support nearly any position one chooses to take. Plus, many of my opinions are based on personal experience. My anecdotal evidence won't mean anything to you or anyone else. Worse, anecdotal evidence has long been the beginning of many shallow, dangerous lines of thought. All I can do is tell you what I think and why I think it.

So, I don't know. My poor blog has been so neglected (and chances are, so has yours!). I will probably be doing my fair share of sitting and lying over the next few weeks. So maybe I will do it. If I don't, you'll certainly know why.

If you want to listen to me babble on the internet about the need for a Redcoat Band Practice Facility, you can click this.

My First Attempt At Mobile Blogging

With all of the travel I will supposedly be doing in the next year or so, one of the seemingly appealing things about the iPhone is the ability to blog from virtually anywhere regardless of the availability of WiFi. This is my first attempt at blogging on the move, using an application called LifeCast. And truth be told, calling tonight's offering "mobile blogging" is a little like referring to reading in the john at work as a "sabbatical."

On this particular ocassion, I am blogging from my bed with the lights off and an electric heater on the floor. I have found myself awake many nights recently, sometimes because of particularly troublesome pain in my leg, sometimes because of difficulty in muting the pessimistic voices in my head shouting about the impending surgery, and sometimes because I have recently begun to fail in my efforts not to drink caffeine after 5pm.

At any rate, I will use the ocassion of my first mobile blogging test to share the outstanding news that my surgery has been scheduled and the less outstanding news that it has been scheduled for November 13. I had certainly hoped to have this done sooner, as had the nerve roots in my back. They have taken the opportunity to let me know of their displeasure since receiving the news by sending some of the most interesting signals to date. Nevertheless, I am on the books and looking forward to moving on in relatively short order. And I am quite okay with that.

If you see this on the internet, perhaps you will see fit to congratulate me on being a mobile blogger with what I am sure will be witty commentary. If not, I will hope this isn't an incidental email to a random person in my eclectic address book.

Posted with LifeCast

• Lunch with Gina is forever, but Lunch with Russell on his comp days is almost as good.

• We seem to have successfully survived our first family wedding meltdown so far. I am sure that it will come back to bite us in the butt a bit, but Meghan handled a difficult and potentially painful situation very well.

"We will plan this wedding, and we will have a good time doing it, damnit! You will enjoy yourself or I will make you enjoy yourself, so help me."

• Meghan now refers to my iPhone without using an article as though it is a family member, which it kinda is. Example: "Well, if you're not sure were you are, you could ask iPhone."

• While Meghan was in rehearsal in Athens yesterday for this piece, I went and hung out on North Campus. I took the following photo on iPhone and now use it as my wallpaper. I am no Ansel Adams. Hell, I'm no Anson Williams. But for me, it's pretty good.

Down

After waiting to see the results of the injections I have been receiving over the last month, I finally decided to call my neurosurgeon and make an appointment. As I expected, I learned when calling that this appointment will basically be a consultation before surgery.

If you know me well at all, you know that I have a pretty great knack for focusing on the negative in a situation under certain circumstances. That seems to have taken hold lately as it has become clear that surgery is going to be necessary to fix my little back issue. Because I haven't really been able to move physically in the last several months, my body is not really aiding in my attempts to stay positive. Thus, rather than being excited about the wedding, the Dawgs, and the holidays, my mind wanders to darker places: to the risk of infection or nerve damage, to the concern that this won't work, or to the tired discussion of the brevity of life.

I know my melancholy can't have been easy on Meghan at all, but she has handled it very well. My friends aren't as exposed to it, but I think they caught a glimpse of it today. While watching the game I realized that I was alone in yelling angrily at the TV after a celebration when I probably should have been slapping hands and enjoying the long reception that immediately preceded it. I'm not "myself" and I know it.

It is now silly to say that I'm ready for this to be over. Besides its having been said dozens of times, the dominance of my temporary disability in my life is so overwhelming that anyone who knows me knows I'm ready for this to be over. I know Meghan is too, as she has suffered just as much as I have in innumerable ways. And my friends who have given up the front seat, or loaded a wheelchair for gameday, or walked very slowly anywhere we went, or made a bed on the floor when I was headed their way - they have been remarkably generous, but they're surely ready to get this over with as well.

Now it looks like I'm near the point where that is going to be the case. I am trying very hard to realize that and be positive about the future. But my body isn't necessarily helping me do that. So thanks for being patient with me.

And don't get me too drunk when we celebrate this little chapter's end.

Last February, I wrote and many of you contributed to an entry about "Improved Covers," which was a list of songs whose cover versions were more famous or beloved (not necessarily "better," whatever that is) than their original version. I am adding to this list yet another tune that I didn't realize, until this morning, was a cover:

"Every Time You Go Away" originally recorded by Daryl Hall and John Oates, covered by Paul Young.

The damage

The longer the issues with my back persist, the more it becomes evident that the real damage that this injury is inflicting is in two areas, neither of which is physical.

Because we have to wait and give conservative treatments an opportunity to take effect, I have no idea what my physical limitations are going to be on any given day in the next four months. I am currently scheduled to work for the travel company in mid-December. But I can't yet purchase my airline ticket, because I don't know if I'll be cleared to fly by that point, or even if it will be necessary for someone to clear me to fly. I want to plan a get-together for our wedding party, but I don't know what weekend might accommodate us because I don't know if or when I'll be going under the knife.

Secondly, my symptoms change frequently. Within a given day, I may have spasms so severe that I can't walk, tingling all the way down the leg, minor pain or numbness, or no pain at all. While I certainly would prefer for this entire problem to go away permanently with a simple injection, I have learned from repetition that a moment or half-day of painlessness is probably a bluff. Though it may sound sick, I'm getting to the point where I would prefer consistent pain so I won't be fooled into thinking that this problem is being solved. Throughout the last two days I have been relatively pain-free, but I also occasionally feel the old pain creeping back in exactly as it did two weeks ago. It is getting old.

I'm ready to get this over with. I don't want a temporary solution. I don't want any more drugs. I want to fix this permanently so I can get on with my life, have a drink my fiancee and friends again, make plans for the future, and lose a few pounds before I get married. It doesn't seem like it should be too much to ask.

What'd you expect... a formal outline?

Bullets yet again.

• I had injection number two today. This time they did both shots on the right, above and below the spot where the did the right one last time. The doctor wasn't terribly optimistic, and pretty much said that if it didn't work then I needed to go back to the surgeon.

Up to this point, I have been hoping against hope that I wouldn't have to have surgery. And now, quite frankly, I want it. We've been fooling around for too long, and the stuff that does work quits working after two or three days. I ain't skeered.

• It's homecoming week. That didn't excite much when I worked there full-time, but since then I have loved it. Seeing all those old faces that can push time aside and hang like it was still nineteen-ninety-whatever has become one of my favorite events of the year. This year will be particularly cool because I get to rehearse the alumni band. I am really looking forward to the whole thing.

• Someone recently suggested naming recessions, just as we name hurricanes. I'm all for it.

• Speaking of the band: If you have a couple of hundred bucks and want to help out with the practice field, here's your chance. They're selling bricks for the complex, and they're pretty reasonable. The band only gets one full rehearsal each week, and that's on Friday - assuming of course there isn't a Homecoming Parade, a volleyball game, or a Derbies trip that interrupts it.

I know some folks have some hard feelings about components of the organization. I can understand how that would be justified, so I won't try to sway you. But if any of the others of you still remember fondly your days in the band and feel good about the band's direction, please consider this. And if you don't mind, please share this with someone you think could and would help.

• Very bad news from Meghan's parents house: Her dog Tibby died last night. She was fifteen-and-a-half, and brought Meghan and her family a great deal of happiness. Meghan was handling it very well, but in that context is devastated. I will probably write a few more thoughts about this later. But in brief, I have two feelings. On one hand I am hurting for her and her loss because she is hurting. On the other, I am jealous that she had the joy that a pet can bring a child, and later an adult. Tibby was a great, great dog whom I only knew for about a year. Her passing brought me to tears more than once yesterday. More about that later.

The Richt non-critique, my back, and marriage

I have tried so many times to write the explanation of what I thought was Coach Richt's greatest weakness and strength. Each attempt has reminded me of how completely unqualified I am to speak openly about football. Fortunately, I have a fiancee who answers my misguided football musings with a reassuring "That's right, baby," enabling me to maintain my illusion of myself as Hunter-Gatherer/Auto Mechanic.

My point was going to be that our Coach is consistent if he is alive. Sometimes that consistency causes him to rave about the fur coat on a naked emperor (ie, directional kickoffs, defensive philosophy at times, the occasional assistant coach or tight end). But more frequently, it causes him to be the last man standing. I wouldn't trade him for anyone.

On the "back" front, Tuesday morning marks one week since my first nerve block injection. To see me on Sunday evening would have convinced you that nothing was ever wrong. Unfortunately, it has been downhill since then, and tonight I looked as though I hadn't been treated at all.

On the wedding front, we have a date and a venue. The date is June 27, 2009 at First Pres. in Athens. We are working somewhat feverishly to complete the basic arrangements and get our guest list finalized. The latter of these two has been a very, very difficult process because of the hundreds of people with whom I became close all those years in Athens. I hope not to offend anyone by not inviting them, but I know that is not going to be possible.

I am already very excited about getting married. Shortly after our engagement, an old acquaintance whom I see in Athens every now and then said, "You're going to love being married. It is so much fun." I am pretty sure that, when I was younger, I thought of getting married as some type of certification... maybe kinda like getting your PGA Tour Card or having a world record officially recognized by Guinness. I guess that I realized at some point, and maybe continue to recognize more strongly, is that it really isn't about that.

While I am sure it means something special to each person who is or isn't married, it seems to me that it's about loving someone very much and in a very specific way, so that some combination of the following is true:

- You want being alone with that person to be your default condition.
- You want to mix up all of your stuff (some gender-specific items of clothing excepted, in most cases) so that you forget what belongs to whom, because you no longer care.
- You frequently get more joy by sacrificing for that person's happiness or well-being than you do by strictly serving yourself.
- You know that the "us" created by the new combination makes you individually and collectively better than any other combination of which you could be part.
- The thought of not being with that person forever feels completely wrong, and perhaps makes you nauseated.

There are many more, but that is my tired 12:08AM first list. I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject... preferably real ones, and maybe not parodies of the institution.

The injection happened. It hurt, and the back stuff has actually been quite a bit worse than it had been. This is apparently to be expected. I should know how it's working by the weekend.