Husbands Take Note

Last night, while walking up to the restaurant, Penny and I spotted lots of parking spaces closer than the one I'd chosen.

"Look at that!" she said, pulling her jacket snug across her chest. "Why did you park way out here?"

I said nothing, kept walking.

"If you'd just driven up another couple aisles, we could have parked closer and we'd be inside by now."

"Yeah, but I didn't see those spots," I replied. "Anyway, we'll be there in a second."

After thinking about it a second longer, I added, looking over into her eyes, "I guess when I see something that suits me, I don't waste any more time looking for something better."

She paused for a moment, and smiled, and we glided in through the doors of the restaurant.

Eat Your Heart Out, Tommy Smothers

I recently got to interview a guy who's really good at yo-yo-ing. It was fascinating, of course, but writing the article afterward was difficult because I kept catching myself defending yo-yo-ing and dorky activities in general instead of writing about Mitch.

There's an essay coming, I'm sure, about the arbitrary nature of "coolness" and the proud, enlightened few who ignore it completely. But for now I tried to stick to the topic, and here's how the article turned out.

(This is actually a little longer than the version they published; I guess they had to edit it for space reasons. You can read that version at http://www.nuvo.net/archive/2005/04/06/takeshi_kamisato_lord_of_the_yoyo.html )

*****

I am watching Mitchell Takeshi Thomas Kamisato (you can call him Mitch), one of the world’s foremost yo-yo players, plying his trade in the gift shop at the Indianapolis Children’s Museum.

Alternately channeling a snake charmer and a gang member, he waves his hands before him in mesmerizing, mystical-looking patterns. Onlookers gape as the spinning orb flits back and forth, looping through the air in graceful arcs, then suddenly changing direction, then seeming to hover in place a few inches from his chest.

Takeshi’s expression is blank, his eyes unfocused, whole body still and calm except for his hands and arms, which move quickly and purposefully, fingertips resembling bees swarming an invisible hive. Independently, their motions look random, until you realize they’re all working together.

He’s a rock star.

Just not literally – despite his amazing dexterity and coordination, Takeshi cannot, for the life of him, play a guitar, despite many attempts by friends to explain how the strumming hand and the chord hand work simultaneously.

Give him a yo-yo, spinning top, gyro ring or just about any other “skill toy,” though, and the man goes off. Soft spoken and self-effacing, he summarizes his abilities the same way a passing dad did for his awestruck son: Lots of practice.

A few years back, the man who would become “Takeshi” was fortunate enough to land a night job at a loading dock. Each night he had a list of duties, and once those tasks were complete he was left with a few hours to kill. Nothing kills time like a yo-yo (in fact, noblemen and common folk alike are said to have played with the devices during the French Revolution to distract them from the looming guillotine), and Mitch applied these hours accordingly.

Today he’s a world-famous yo-yo player, named by Duncan as a member of their USA Crew, in which capacity he travels around the world (recent excursions have included Brazil and Finland) promoting Duncan’s products the old-fashioned way: by using them to make people’s jaws drop.

He’s also judging competitions now, starting with Saturday’s inaugural Yo-Yo Fest, taking place at Glendale Mall (near sponsor Kits & Kaboodle) and featuring demonstrations and free workshops where players of all levels (including “I just started just now”) can get tips and guidance from pros.

Tips and guidance are in ample supply throughout the yo-yo community, known for being unusually welcoming and supportive, where everyone is happy to show you his moves. Takeshi is perhaps the embodiment of this open-door policy – in addition to editing and distributing surprisingly gripping yo-yo videos, he volunteers at shows and events throughout the year and, each Saturday, strolls the carpets of the Children’s Museum teaching kids about skill toys.

Occasionally he gets recognized, but not often. Takeshi occupies a rarefied niche in the crush of humanity – those few individuals tremendously well known to a tiny segment of the population.

Online searching confirms that this slim, unassuming fellow is much revered indeed, and not just for his skills with skill toys. A recent post on a www.yoyoing.com message board, breathlessly titled “Takeshi is the MAN!” went on to gush about the generous response this fan received after requesting a yo-yo modified in his signature style. In addition to her yo-yo, Mitch included a handwritten letter, alongside assorted photos and videos, and even christened her with a nickname. Suffice it to say that “Groovygirl” will not lose interest in yo-yo-ing any time soon.

This, it seems, is Takeshi’s best trick. His rank among the top yo-yo-ers on the planet will one day go to a younger, flashier player – probably from Japan, where this is fast becoming a national sport – but as a goodwill ambassador, he is an All-Time Great. Yo-yo-ing is lucky to have him.

Mitchell Takeshi Kamisato may never be hailed as a bona fide rock star. But that’s okay with him. Besides, did Jimi Hendrix ever personally answer his fan mail? I am inclined to doubt it.

To learn more about yo-yo-ing, Mitch recommends www.howtoyoyo.com to get you started, and www.theglasslab.com once you’re hooked. You can also visit the Yo-Yo Fest this Saturday at Glendale. Admission is free.

Not Yet

Magnolia Bud
Originally uploaded by This Guy Colin.

The trash is out. The kitchen is clean. The tiny puffs of polyester stuffing that covered the living room floor have all been stuffed back inside Vince's toy as he sat and stared at me, cocking his head uncomprehendingly.

I showered this morning, and shaved, the first time in days, and before I left the house I looked everything over one last time, making sure I hadn't missed anything. Not much had changed, really - I just tried to keep it all the way she left it.

*****

Penelope's flight comes in at 4:06, and I am ready. I pulled out of the driveway early this morning - trying to come into work early so I can leave to pick her up - and suddenly remembered a feeling I'd forgotten, a feeling I never really recognized before.

It was the way I felt a few years ago. ...Trying not to touch anything, hesitating to move in any direction, postponing any decisions. It was just like I felt before I met Penny. Waiting.

Waiting for my life to begin.

Probably The Low Point In My Week Without Penny

The more I think about it, the more I think there's really nothing more pathetic than a grown man standing in his driveway, pleading with a magnolia tree not to bloom until his wife can get home to see it.

Good Boy

It's six o'clock in the morning and I've just said goodbye to my wife, who's leaving on a weeklong road trip with her family. I've waved from the doorstep, watched their car shrink into the distance, lowered my arm and quietly closed the door. It's very empty here.

But Vince ... he's ready to go. It hasn't really sunk in yet for him that Penny will be gone for five days, and he just wants to get on with doing what he does every other morning, (though usually about an hour later), which is run around the back yard like a crazed maniac.

It's raining, though, so he'll probably want to come right back in as soon as a drop hits him on the nose or head. I open the back door for him, and he slowly trundles out into the wet morning. I watch him through the glass, now sitting in the wet grass looking out in the dark, and decide that's enough.

"Come on, Vince" I call, poking my head out the cracked door. "It's raining, buddy. You should come back inside."

At this moment, he sees something. He darts off into the dark, a furry brown blur across the grass, disappearing faster than my eyes can follow.

"Vince! No! Stop!"

My yelling is useless; a year of training locked out by millenia of instinct. Whatever he's chasing is fast, and now I can't see him anymore.

My shoes are in the bedroom, and I'm stomping my feet into them as I'm making my way out into the rain, pulling on a jacket hung next to the door. The rain is cold; it goes right through my pajama pants.

He turned right the last time I saw him, so I head that way, east, toward Highway 135. I'm stumbling through backyard after backyard, peeking around barns and fences, calling Vince's name loudly so he'll hear me, then softly as I remember my sleeping neighbors.

No sign of him.

Eventually, I come to the back of a house that faces the highway. I slow down as I walk around the side. My eyes are searching the floodlit pavement for a crumpled brown body.

Nothing.

Trying to be relieved, I pull my jacket tighter around me and head back home, still staring hard into every dark corner of every yard and listening for the jingle of his tags.

"Vince..." I'm still calling. "Vince..."

When our house finally comes into view, it looks very anonymous, easier to miss at this distance than I realized. All the houses seem to blend together, and there certainly are a lot of them. By the time I turn into the yard, though, I've checked every shadow and woodpile on the block. I still haven't found him.

I'm cursing the wet grass and the blowing rain and the looming highway, but mostly myself. Why didn't I just put up a fence? It wouldn't have been that hard. Why did I let him out without clipping him to his run? Because it was raining. I have a week now; I could put up the fence now, but there's no dog to put inside it. Now I'll have all this time in the house, by myself, to not build the fence I should have built last summer.

"Vince!"

He trots across the yard, coming in from the other direction, the way I didn't go. He must be wet, but he's smiling, and he's heading toward the house.

He runs up beside me and we walk toward the house together. I know he doesn't understand why I'm out in the yard, but he's happy to see me.

"You're not supposed to do that," I tell him softly. "I said no."

As I say no, his ears lower and he slows down. The tail stops wagging, and as we get close to the light I can see that his fur is wet.

I open the back door and he hops up the steps, pausing when I ask him to so I can dry off his paws. Sighing and coughing as I run the towel over his back, I look out into the dark room and say, not really to anyone in particular, "I hope you had fun."

He heads off for the living room, ready to go back to bed, waiting to be forgiven.

I follow him silently and barefoot, leaving my soaked tennis shoes by the door. When I finally reach down to pat his head and welcome him home, I'm still mad. But his damp fur feels good, and he is warm.