Thanks, Holmes
Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtaxed.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

This seems ridiculous
I was in a room in a circle of chairs. I was surrounded by the clean versions of ten dirty, smelly guys I watch play Ultimate. They were basically trying to decide if they wanted the next six months to be about taking themselves and their sport seriously or whether to play the same breed of Ultimate that they've grown accustomed to. It was a heated, but respectful discussion. They spoke eloquently and passionately on both sides. They talked honestly and openly about how the decision affected their lives. Then when everyone present had had a chance to express himself, they voted. I was amazed. It was one of the most beautiful meetings I have ever attended. These guys that yell and scream at each other for the stupidest things were articulate and intelligent and genuinely cared about each other.

And me? I'm struggling to determine how I fit in here. I said almost nothing. I do almost nothing. Except be. (And this time also prepare a calendar for the next two months of training, adding some direction to the otherwise pie-in-the-sky attitude.) Mostly though, I just am. I'm a resource, I guess. I'm told I'm a calming force. I'm trying to accept these roles, because I can't take part in the roles I'm used to. It's a helpless feeling. Sometimes it's a useless feeling. To be a part of something, but not be able to contribute in ways that feel like contributions. How do I translate "calming influence" into defensive plays? How do I translate "cheerleader" into scores? They don't quite translate.

So at the end of the meeting, I'm brimming with pride because I just got to take part in a very special moment with very special intelligent, passionate people. And I'm ready to cry because I don't get to play the part that I'm used to playing. I can work hard. I can calm and cheer, but can I make that enough? Can I make that what I need? Or enough of a part of what I need to make this worthwhile. Or can I find something to offer that is enough? I'm concerned because these guys now know what I know. Is it time to let them go out on their own? Or when this class leaves will they need me more than ever?

See title, but maybe it isn't.

Let it hair
Do you think a man with a beard is more likely to neglect his garden than a man without a beard? Do you think a man with a garden is more likely to neglect his beard? And what of the bearded-woman and her garden?

The difference between the sound of cut hair falling from my head and cut hair falling from my face is like snow and sleet.

For good skiing head to the top, but beware of the thin patches. Obstacles may exist. If my head were a bowl, I think the best run would be off the ridge down the backside and over the sweet bumps. Conditions vary. Ski at your own risk.

I'm thankful for mid-race advice and good competition
Saturday I ran in a 10-mile race called the Turkey Burn-off. I've been running lately with some consistency, but I haven't really been training for a distance like 10 miles. I set my sights on a 7-minute per mile pace, fully aware that such a pace might prove difficult. The morning of the race, I forgot my watch, which meant that tracking my 7-minute pace would also prove difficult. It didn't really matter. It never really matters. Nobody's watching. Nobody that knows me anyway. The only expectations are my own and they aren't very high (at least I claim they aren't.) I didn't want to slack off. I'm in the thick of an age-group Championship Series fight. Finishing, being out in the park, scoring a point or more in the CS, and 70 minutes if I could do it, were the goals.

I lined up in the middle of the starting pack and waited for "Go." Distances, especially the unfamiliar ones are tricky. Get out too fast and feel the pain later. Get out too slow and never catch the competition. There was an added wrinkle in this race. About half of the people would be finishing the race at 5 miles, while the other half turned around and ran the course again. So, I knew I could easily find myself in a battle with someone that was almost done. I had to make sure I wasn't sprinting with 5.5 miles to go. I picked people off easily for a mile or two or three. I felt tired, go-home-and-go-to-bed-tired, but not running-tired as I counted down the miles. Seven to go, I laughed to myself. My last 10 mile run was probably, oh, I don't know- October 31, 2004, in the midst of a marathon.

At about 3.5 miles into the race, I pulled even with a man in a "Hashathon" shirt. I never found out what that meant, but I read it numerous times. I'd pass Hashathon on the flats or the downhills and as soon as the course sloped up (and it did many, many times) Hashathon would come powering right on by me. After about his fifth trip by, I said, "You've got some serious hill legs." He chuckled and said, "Just lean into the hill."

Hashathon pulled away from me a little as we made the turn at the five-mile mark. I was fully prepared to see 38 minutes or even 40 minutes on the clock at the turn. Instead I saw 33:17. I was running almost 2 minutes below my goal pace. I may have wondered briefly about the coming leg explosion, but mostly I realized that Hashathon could quite possibly drag me into an excellent finish and I'd be foolish to let him get away. It was downhill after the turn and not surprisingly I soon made up the gap. I pulled ahead of Hashathon and leaned into the next hill. He came even with me on the hill, but didn't pass me. The next hill he stayed tucked in behind me. We neared mile 8 and were closing in on a man in front of us. I could feel the gap widening between Hashathon and me. I looked over my shoulder and hollered, "Get up here. I need you." I don't know if he heard. I don't know if he already knew how much of a difference he'd made in my race. I knew I didn't want him around during the last hill, but I didn't want to shake him with miles to go. Shake him, I did. He probably faded a little as I sped up a little closing in on my next victim. I whipped by the blue-shorted gentleman and arrived in no man's land. I couldn't see a soul in front and I was pulling away from the three or so behind me. Then, I spotted a balding shirtless man with a sizeable lead on me. I hungered for one more place. I don't know why, but fortunately I don't think about those things during good races. It doesn't matter, doesn't enter my head. I hope admitting it here won't change that. For at those moments it matters.

Balding, shirtless, and way in front of me, but forward. I wasn't going to look back at those I'd passed. I was looking up and going after those ahead. Forget pace. If there is any indication of the kind of race I'm having, that's the key. With a little over a mile left in the race, my stomach finally realized that I was running 10 miles. Nobody asked my stomach if he wanted to chug through 10 miles. Maybe, somebody should've. Angry stomach, tired legs, and a little over a mile until the bananas table. B-A-N-AWWWW. That side stitch hurts. I shortened my stride. I shortened my breath. And plunged on. I didn't seem to be losing ground to the man in front, but I was running out of real estate. A blessing. A curse. A blessing- just get it over with. Lumbering now, like a man untrained for a 10 mile burn-off. I had fleeting thoughts of being passed from behind. I had fleeting thoughts of punching the guy standing quietly on the sidelines. I had fleeting memories of last year's marathon. About the only thing not fleeting were my feet. Finally, with barely a finishing kick I climbed the last incline and crossed the finish line. 1:06:04*. I'd run the second half faster than the first? I don't know how it happened, but I knew that it would have been a different race without Hashathon. He arrived half a minute later and I thanked him. Happy Burn-off to one and all.

*The time has been corrected. The race organizers decided to take back the free 28 seconds they had given me. I'm still pleased.

Pride and what?
I knew when I said yesterday that Pride and Prejudice was fantastic that I was setting the bar pretty high. I really meant Keira was fantastic and the movie was good. Walk the Line is fantastic. Reese Witherspoon is downright amazing. Joaquin Phoenix is really good. The music and the pace of the film are great. After the movie was over, I kicked the iPod in gear and listened to a couple of hours of the real June Carter Cash. I don't have any Johnny or I would've listened to that too. Wow.

Close up and prejudice
In a 2 hour and 9 minute movie, one could hardly ask for more Keira close-ups. I'm going to estimate her screen time at somewhere around the 1 hour and 53 minute mark. Most of that time spent from the neck up, sometimes even the back of the neck. I think I'm trying to sayPride and Prejudice was fantastic.

Newspapers can't die
Then who would print tiny snippets of blogs that I read? Further legitimizing the rantings of friends and strangers for morning commuters everywhere (in the Metro area. So long as they read Express.)


It's a weird world we live in. People like me continue to spew thoughts and opinions OUT for all to digest if they so desire, then newspapers pick that up and print it and credit a website as if a real person didn't even write it. Odd. Disturbing. Kind of fun.

Motivation
"I heard you used to be faster," he said to me as we were jogging out to the stack in a friendly game of Ultimate.
"Whaaat?" I screeched. "Who said that?"

It didn't matter who said it. I didn't want to hear it and now the messenger was going to pay. I was going to inflict pain the only way I know how- passive-aggressive whining. NO! The other only way I know how, by running and running and running until those around me are reduced to only pants and grunts. This used to be more effective, but I've still got a good bit of endurance left in me. From that moment forward, every one of his cuts was going to be contested and every one of mine would be at full speed. He would strike first, much to my dismay. He's not a slouch. Then I would quiet him. I scored. I attempted a greatest or two. I played mean defense and always, always lined up across from my new nemesis. It didn't take long, before he left the game for a rest. When he returned I went after him again until finally I heard what I wanted to hear, "That's the last time I get him going."

I think maybe I need to take things personally more often. That was fun.

The dandruff of home
There's frost on the ground; it's a little like somebody left the earth in the freezer a little too long. Saturday morning and I want to be home. I don't want to be where I live, I want to be where I was raised. I want pull on my robe, stand inside the front door and steel myself. I want to fling open the door, quietly, because my family is still sleeping. Glancing out the door and down the drive, I want to eye my target- the morning paper. "Are there any evening papers left?" I'd think as I bound down the porch steps. My bare feet would slap cold, very cold concrete as my robe flew open. Bending at the waist while still moving forward I'd reach down and grab The Star as I skidded to a stop. My feet would be uncomfortably cold as I zipped back up the steps and into the house, pulling the door shut behind me. The sigh of re-acclimation, the promise of hot chocolate, and the minutes of solitude before my parents rise would greet me in the kitchen.

"Morning," I'd say, wrapped in familiarity.

Shake. Shake. Shake.
What if we did things right when we thought them? Are the purest desires caught in reactions?

I went for another run. Running is making a big comeback around here. I bought some blue and tangerine shoes. The runs keep me sane, usually. Today I was plodding through the motions. My world took a bit of a shaking this afternoon in one of those unexpected ways. My initial reaction was denial. After that, I was moving to France. Life is really fragile. Stability is an illusion. Barely able to function in my current situation, I plotted out multiple escape routes. France was the clearest, and only because someone told me they could see me in France. So is that escape route any more valid than the usual inertia that keeps me in place? Or does it come down to the post-choice choices? Say I move to France. That affects a few things, my address for one, but how much does it affect life. France is cleary unstable. Life. Unstable. Life in France, not so stable. And when did stable become so valuable anyway?

I need a shower. I need dinner. I need to take a deep breath.

Yes, but I don't care
In the first five seconds, he'd told me his intention to become an intern. Within a minute I knew his college of choice, a brief history of the struggles he'd overcome and his promise to adapt to this and any situation. I had fetched him from the lobby, but my contact with the new temporary employee was supposed to end there. He latched on, seemingly searching for the right phrase that would allow me to rise above my status as a bottle-washer and elevate myself to hiring manager; he, of course, could be my first hire. He was new. He was nervous. He knew what he wanted. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and the benefit of my uncomfortable smile as I pawned him off on someone else. That wouldn't be the last I saw of him. Later in the day, unprompted, he'd tell me how quickly and efficiently he'd dispatched of the menial tasks my colleagues had set before him. I smiled awkwardly and said, "good."

I thought it was just me until he made a phone call. "I have a tendency to exceed expectations," he told the person on the other line.

I have met the proudest temp on the planet.

Not yet a novelist
I fold. I'm not in a noveling mood and I'm not in a mood to suffer attached to my chair, regardless of the triumph at the end. I've decided to suffer physically instead. I'm not going to be a National Novel Writing Month Winner, but I don't think I'm a loser. I wrote 5,000 or so related words and another 2,000 unrelated words. That's not all bad. I've got another 15 days to write some other stuff. at my leisure. No pressure.

Kenny Rogers said, "You've got to know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away."
G. Love and Special Sauce said, "Could I get a cold beverage? I need some leverage."
The Phunk Junkez said, "What the F$%@, Chuck?"
And I say, so there.

Ketchup time. Other condiments not included
Just saw a bumper sticker that read, "Frodo failed. Bush has the Ring." I was around the corner before I laughed.

Fall
I feel a bit like someone has a hold of my trunk and they are shaking the leaves off of me.


College Ultimate
Somewhere between clown, glorified cheerleader, college-age male, and voice of quiet reason is where I stand on the college Ultimate scene these days. The ride south was spent in headbanging, screaming, speeding, obnoxious splendor. Somewhere in that madness a cheer was born,

Have you heard of the Popemobile?
Yes we've heard of the Popemobile.
Big and strong and made of steel.
Big and strong and made of steel.
1-2-3
The Pope says Win!

Invoking religious leaders will only get you to .500. It's a step in the right direction.

The ride north was spent in calm discussion of good things- life, Ultimate, brilliant traffic-dodging schemes.

Somewhere in the middle
I knew as the dare was being issued that I would be unable to resist. A karaoke bar, a bunch of new people, the promise of a Bailey's payoff, and a willing partner named Emily meant that my heart would go on. When they called my name, Emily was missing. I made my way up to the mic and did my best Celine. Emily was pulled from the bathroom by my new best friends and she joined me to sing back up. The reviews came in at "better than expected." Barbara Ann as part of a dashing trio of gents was certainly better than that. I think I understand the draw of this karaoke a little more now that I've done it outside of the American Legion.

The pre-run post
!#!$#@%@$!%$@!$%Kinkos!#$!$#!$!##$!$#@!$#!$#{violently remove tie and hurl it into the corner}!#!$!@#$!#@#$!$#!#$!$!@$meeting!#$!$#!#$#@!${consider gouging eyes out and/or ripping face off}@$%!@#$!$#!@$#@!$@%^$@^^*$.

The post-run post
My life is a postcard. Wish you were here.

I think maybe I need to run more.

I blame television
I realize that blaming television doesn't make me that different from a lot of people, but I'm going to do it anyway. I blame television for all of my recent negativity. Pre-TV, I was a happy-go-lucky young man, but since TV re-entered my home, it's been a long drop down. Television creates a climate of instant gratification and I'm finding more and more that my life doesn't work that way. When life doesn't work that way, I turn back to television.

It's blatantly unfair.

Oh, I've controlled my consumption. I'm well below the national average, but I don't think much of the national average. And my average is growing along with the darkness of winter. I'm finding myself stuck in my home with nothing to do. Nothing other than read the 4 books lined up and ready to go, play the banjo, write a frickin' novel (not going real well for those of you scoring at home), figure out what to do when there is light. Those things can wait, because "That 70's show" is on for the umpteenth time today.

It's not television's fault, I know. It's mine.

That doesn't make me feel any better.

Tears of a funky chicken
Encased in headphones and cut off from the world, music fills my ears but not the air around me. Sometimes, yes, my foot will take to tapping. Or I won't be able to contain a quick little "dancing catfish," but for the most part my dancing like my digital music takes place in the comfort of my own head. Will I still be able to dance without wires? Am I a marionette and the mini my puppeteer? I don't think I've danced, save in my kitchen and right now in my desk chair, since May.

It's time for a party. The running man begs you. The pony cries out. The sprinkler grows rusty with each passing day. And the robot. Oh the robot.

He was never particularly well.

Return of Kill. Kill. Kill.
I'm not a "gamer." I don't "play the video games." I'm not one to "be able to keep up the quote joke."

Might I say that sometimes it's nice to just kill and be killed in that invincible sort of way with your friends and/or their friends from around the country.

Now, it's "time for bed."

Writing a novel
I promise that every post this month will not be about National Novel Writing Month. This post will be. I started today, which puts me a step ahead of where I was this time last year. I had written about 700 words, or 1.4% when I left to go for a run. This month is going to be great. I get so much stuff that isn't writing done when I'm trying to write. I've already gone grocery shopping, cleaned out the dishwasher, and gone for a 5.5 mile run. The run was particularly helpful today. I was trudging along thinking about where to take my next 1.4% when I realized that I was writing the same novel from last year. I had just convinced myself that I was going to write the novel that I was ready to write. Pretty pleased with that low-pressure philosophy, I was a little caught off guard to find out that I was practically plagiarizing myself. Yes, I'd changed the setting slightly, but I couldn't push myself too far out of the middle of the country. I'd changed genders, but none of that had really shown up yet. Basically I was writing the same characters in the same setting using the same style. Last year was a good experience, really good, but I'm not sure that I want to repeat it. I'm sure neither of my readers would want that either.

So at the risk of destroying a franchise, I'm making a change. I'm going to push myself and try to do things differently. Ah November, such an educational month.

I'm still sticking with my philosophy though, "I will write the novel that I'm ready to write."