“What is your favorite genre…

“What is your favorite genre of book?” I wasn’t prepared to answer her question, “Um, I don’t know. I read lots of non-fiction.” As a swan it seemed her duckling days prepared her for conversations with awkward folk like myself, “That is unfortunate for you, I think this is the wrong venue,” waving her hand as if she were Vana White on Wheel of Fortune. Detailed costume enthusiasts passed never noticing the odd man in shorts and t-shirt with messenger slung across his shoulder. “It is true,” with nothing left to say we smiled and parted ways.

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We the people. Three words…

We the people. Three words starting the most influential document in history. A document that united a collection of states to fight against tyranny. The first three words to the preamble of the Constitution of the United States is America. We as a nation fought England, we fought against fascists, we fought against communism. We as a nation changed the world. We as a nation we can come together again.

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He looked at her and knows

She walked into the room. He looked at her, she at him and they smiled. He knows she is going home with him tonight. She walked toward him smiling. “Bea, I need a drink,” passing by to embrace her friend chatting with the group he could not see. He looks down at the cocktail napkin matted against the sweaty glass of whiskey on the rocks, watered down from standing too long alone. She will never know the awkward moment averted by his shyness.

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I have not added to…

I have not added to my top 100 photos in a long time. The latest timestamp on the photos are from 2016.

~Note to self, take more photos~

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I was there, they were not-ish

A few months ago I deleted my social media accounts. I do not notice any more. I do notice people around me. Last night at a Utah Jazz and San Antonio Spurs basketball game a couple sat in front of us. They had two boys with them. They appeared to be in their 40s. Both stared down at their phones while the game played below them. We sat in the upper seats so the giant screen magnifying the events below was in front of us.

I peered over their shoulders at their screens. I have written and backspaced a dozen sentences trying to justify or minimize my rudeness. The voice on one shoulder is laughing and the voice on the other is jumping up and down, “No, No No, that is a lie and you know it!” I was rude for doing so but I will continue with my story.

The wife was posting some text over a video clip. She wasn’t fast like I see the kids do whose thumbs are nearly as fast as myself on a keyboard with two hands and ten digits. She held her phone in the palm of her hand and typed with one finger clearly dating herself. He was on some social media feed flipping up mindlessly. A male voice yelled something at the court. I couldn’t understand what was said. I looked up scanning the seats below me. It sounded like it came from somewhere near our seats. I see a guy, a big guy. His head shaved with stubble left. The fuzzy wrinkles on his head looked like Sharpei’s face. He was only a few rows below us and to the left. He held his phone in his hand. He was text messaging someone with long paragraphs. To my immediate left was a youngish guy who had his phone out in his hand. I my rudeness would have been too obvious, so I didn’t look at his screen. I deduced some social media feed. His thumb flipped his screen also. To the right was a college age boy who also stared down at his screen flipping through something.

Six months ago I would not have noticed them. I would have been taking pictures of the game and thinking way to hard about hashtags. My wife would have commented about my lack of attention to the game. I would have commented about how I really don’t like basketball. She would say that it’s not about the game its about spending time with the family. I did not think about that narrative last night. Last night I was rude for five or so minutes. I then averted my attention to the game. “So what are the nuances of the rules?” My wife asks. “What do they call the percentage of shots they make? What is a good percentage?” I didn’t know the answers. I grasped at something’s from the deepest recesses of my memory. I opened my mouth and some, “Wah, wha wah,” came out. I recovered and said, “I really don’t know?”

The game was a summer game series. I do not understand the significance or lack of significance. The seats were really cheap. I do not follow basketball. Coming from the lineage of a Japanese grandfather, none of us played basketball. Coming from the lineage of a poor working class family most of the cousins didn’t play sports. I don’t have photos of the event on my phone. I don’t have a record of the event on social media. I do remember the game, the conversation with my wife. I remember my my daughter watching some halftime guys jumping on trampolines and doing slam dunk tricks. I remember my wife asking my daughter if she thought she could do that. She answered with a confident and absentminded, “yeah.”

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