RyanHarne.com

Separately, these words don’t induce even a chuckle; understandably, though, because separately they mean nothing in particular. However, when they are combined and used in a phrase I’m always stifling laughter. Ready for them? I will warn you that you might want to sit down, in case your hysteria takes you off your feet. Ok, here we go…

Dial. Up.

You may ask yourself, “That actually still exists?!” Indeed, it does, and I share your surprise. Allison has commented to me that despite only having DSL for a few months, she’s already fully forgotten how dial-up provided her with usable internet. I understand her sentiments; my first experience with T3 at Virginia Tech has left me wanting a substitute during my absence.

Even today, when someone tells me their email address and end with “A-O-L-dot-com” I make note of it to not contact them. Paying $23.90 per month for “unlimited dial-up” is disgusting and attracts people who know no better. DSL in our area is $30 per month, and is 500^10 times faster. I feel shame for the businessman or businesswoman who proudly has “genericbusiness@aol.com” listed on their business card.

In a world where cars don’t come with cassette decks anymore; in a world where bovine are twice the size of their ancestors of the early 20th century; in a world where television series from the 70s are made available on DVD; there is no place for dial-up internet service.

I wish to express my gratitude to everyone who wished me a pleasant birthday yesterday. I also wish to express my apologies for not being able to answer the calls I received. Rest assured, though, that the voicemail messages I received were listened to with smiles and total appreciation.

The one question I’ve had asked of me with the greatest frequency has been, “what did you do?” I did exactly, precisely, and verbatim what I wanted to do, which doesn’t happen often.

Saturday morning began with a run. Twenty minutes, give or take. Delightfully glum weather was just holding back a surprise, only I knew it. Those weathermen calling for thundershowers were the butt of my joke. Soon after the run, I met up with Rianna at Donald’s Bagels & Bites for grub. The term “grub” is so vile of a choice when it comes to describing the level and quality of bagels that Don’s offers; it was my first, majestic experience there and I had a fine partner in bagel crime. She and I began to notice the clouds departing during our outdoor stay with our bagel friends. Our soon-devoured bagel friends.

The afternoon was approaching, the heat of Phoebus’ fury, so we headed indoors. Bookshop on the Avenue was next - used books, and lots of ‘em. I now have enough books to, literally, last me through the year. And the best part - they all smell old. Since my fusion with literature began Winter 2003, I have discovered the wonder that is the used book-selling industry; alongside that discovery has been the satisfaction of knowing that this book once belonged to someone else and that I may unknowingly replicate a reading experience of their’s at any given time. Make sense? No? Ok, used books are cool because they have a history behind them apart from the story and plot. Sound alright now? Gosh, there’s no pleasing you.

Twenty-four dollars worth of used books later, we headed for one of my favorite cove areas of Lynchburg. My work as a groundskeeper at Centra Health in the summer of 2004 gave me a quick glimpse of Hollins Mill Park and I’ve been an adamant regular whenever the occasion presents itself. Rianna’s comment was dead on - the setting of a waterfall and the ambient noise involved truly helps you to think and converse on deep levels. And that is just what she and I did. For hours.

We sat and talked. We walked and talked. We walked quickly and talked, once we realized we were behind for a dinner appointment. But the experience of having a multi-hour philosophical conversation with someone (and someone like Rianna!) was priceless. Should a tree along the trail have fallen down in my path and severed my head from my torso, I would have been decapitated a happy man. Awww.

Dinner grew to a trio at Milan’s. Rianna, Allison, and I had fabulous, fabulous, fabulous Indian cuisine. While my “hot” spice level didn’t compare to my Thai experiences in Blacksburg, the lamb tikka masala was still wonderful and a taste of bliss unlike anything I’ve known around town before. Afterwards was a viewing of The Phantom of the Opera at Allison’s place. I brought along a cake my mother had patiently sculpted earlier that evening - Marble. Chocolate. Good.

So, there you have it. My birthday was what I wanted. New experiences. Don’s Bagels, Bookshop on the Avenue, Milan’s, Phantom. Some of the best times of my life, my feeble life. Thank You All.

On this very day twenty years ago, a beacon, a star was born.

And in a less remote portion of our universe, homo sapiens sapiens began attempts to try and accomodate another savage being among its numbers. They called it: Ryan Harne.

Memorial Day weekend is upon us [in the United States and its affiliated territories]. In honor of such a momentous occasion, I was given full and total reign at work today, boss’s chair and all. Well, perhaps not full and total reign, but with almost every single salaried individual on vacation today, I was left with quite the vacant office. And I did see the boss’s chair; although, since sitting in the chair is a sacrilege punishable by sitting in another chair, I avoided the rumpus.

However, there were some honors bestowed upon the lonely ones who chose to be employed today. Donuts. Or Doughnuts. Whatever it is that Homer Simpson gets buzzed over. Those things. It’s not often that bakery goods are showered on le office but someone up above was thinking of us. As I approached the coffee maker, I got the vision of a pink box that was exposing signs of a sugary goo making its way through the cardboard. This is going to be a good Friday, I thought.

I opened up the box lid and inside, arrayed in no particular order or progression, was the most amazing amalgamation of donuts I had ever seen. Round donuts. Large donuts. Long donuts. Donuts with holes. Donuts with fruit filling. Donuts with laced tops. Donuts lacking the lustruous laces. And some donuts as large as personal. pan. pizzas. I am not joking about that, not exaggerating - there were several donuts, among the bunch, that could easily have felt at home in a small pizza box.

These were no Krispy Kremes either, they were the local bakery shoppe kind - hand-crafted and tenderly cared for from their conception. Donuts that receive the pier one of attention are the donuts that turn out all right. They are the magna cum lauda of their donut kind and one day serve on the Board of Directors for Donut Enterprise Global Corporation Inc. What I saw before me was this year’s graduating class from Donut Harvard, crooked politicians and corrupt businessmen not included.

I found out later that these were donuts straight from California. “Oh, they were Fedex-ed?” I asked. “No, my husband was on a business trip and I told him to pick up something for dinner by the time he got home,” was the answer. Fair enough. Kudos to that man with wit, consideration, and a taste for donuts like a god. One maple-bar-something-or-other and a cup of coffee later, and I find my state of exultation

This will be the Best. Friday. Ever. Plus, tomorrow’s the birthday.

I know milk goes bad. I know fruit goes bad. I even know that unpreserved preservatives will, eventually, go bad. But I did not know that coffee beans go bad. I took it for granted that all dry foods tend to have a longer shelf life than their moist counterparts.

When I purchased my beloved espresso maker, I bought some of the ground Espresso Roast from Starbucks. That was… about two months ago. For the past week or so, every attempt at making a latte at home has resulted in me having a horrible stomach ache. Imagine a professional contortionist turning her/himself into a human box; then imagine that kind of compression and distortion to be the state of my stomach. Those lattes would make me fall to the floor and just writhe in an agony that words couldn’t express. However, it seems that I can express it now since I’m at least taking a shot at putting feeling to post. Whatever.

Of course, there was a cautious note on the side of the Starbucks bag that I observed when I first purchased it. “Once this bag is opened, we suggest using it within seven days.” Hmm. Well, let’s see… two months turns into about… 60 days. Perhaps, I may have let the little bugger catch up with me. But those are just supposed to be suggestions. The whole idea of them is to urge you back through their corporate doors eager to hand over more dollars and cents. There was no possible way for me to go through almost a pound of ground espresso beans in one week. No. Possible. Way. At. All. I’m already an espresso junkie; that dosage would turn me into a werewolf.

So, I stopped by Joe Bean’s to pick up some new stuff. I’m not sure what I got, but Rianna was the one handing me the bag, so I yielded to her counsel without question. It could be cocaine for all I know, I still haven’t opened it up; however, if Rianna would recommend me cocaine to make espresso with, I know I’m in for a real treat. Somehow, though, I doubt Joe Bean’s takes part in under-the-counter drug trafficking. But I have no proof of that, only hopeful speculation

I just spent the last twenty minutes talking to a very kind East Asian-area individual who helped me go from NO DSL to LOTS O’ DSL. A thunderstorm rumbled through our area on Tuesday and I’ve been without email, website correspondence, and general sanity since.

But I will never forget my Asian-area friend who congenially asked, “How old you are?” and was patient with me and always “Thank[ed] you[me] for that” after nearly everything task I complied to.

I, along with the 5,006 other households who lost DSL service, are grateful to the help of Verizon in repairing a “severed fiber channel distribution point” caused by lightning and water and wind. Despite the past protests of Jeremiah, Verizon has served us well.