Intersection of sickness and speed
In a strange twist of fate, today I found 4 willing partners for a track workout and then I had to bail out when I couldn't overcome the sickness swirling inside of me. Despite wheezing, vomiting, and a lot of complaining, they claim there'll be an encore next week. I plan to be ready for it.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Winter league isn't cold. That's the weather.
Moments before the celebration had been more individualized; like passengers mulling around baggage claim in the pre-bag wait. Rarely do we document those moments that are neither journey nor destination, but this one sticks out in my memory.
The bundled-up young woman who usually arrived at winter league games with only the space between her upper lip and her eyebrows exposed was looking up at me warmly. Her smile was big and bright like the snowflakes that would fall on the following day. "I'm so happy," she told me in words that matched her expression. "I was starting to wonder if I'd ever win the close ones." My smile and my thoughts echoed hers. If facial expressions could hug, I think ours did.
Then answering some unspoken call the team came together to form a circle as we tried to hold onto what we'd just nabbed. Arms draped over shoulders in an unbroken chain. These were the same faces that had endured mini strategy sessions and soothing pep talks. Faces splattered with mud and freeze-dried perspiration looked on in appreciation. Now was the moment to take it in and enjoy the company of teammates. Now was the time to take stock in what it meant to be a team.
Moments before the celebration had been more individualized; like passengers mulling around baggage claim in the pre-bag wait. Rarely do we document those moments that are neither journey nor destination, but this one sticks out in my memory.
The bundled-up young woman who usually arrived at winter league games with only the space between her upper lip and her eyebrows exposed was looking up at me warmly. Her smile was big and bright like the snowflakes that would fall on the following day. "I'm so happy," she told me in words that matched her expression. "I was starting to wonder if I'd ever win the close ones." My smile and my thoughts echoed hers. If facial expressions could hug, I think ours did.
Then answering some unspoken call the team came together to form a circle as we tried to hold onto what we'd just nabbed. Arms draped over shoulders in an unbroken chain. These were the same faces that had endured mini strategy sessions and soothing pep talks. Faces splattered with mud and freeze-dried perspiration looked on in appreciation. Now was the moment to take it in and enjoy the company of teammates. Now was the time to take stock in what it meant to be a team.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Blurring the lines between truth, TV, and the Internets
I have a new favorite reality Internet show mockumentary thingy. It's called Intramural Glory. It's a show about an average basketball team trying to defend their championship title. It has a tendency to go over the top at times, but for anybody competing in sports at less than the highest level it has some truly geniune moments. The constant struggle for "glory" balanced by the struggle to keep things in perspective is a relevant theme for me. Even in some of the silly moments it captures a very real sense of motivation. One man keeps playing because he wants to prove to his professional-athlete sister that he too can have success in sports. Another is just trying to impress his wife.
It's The Office on a basketball court, without the budget or the talent.
I have a new favorite reality Internet show mockumentary thingy. It's called Intramural Glory. It's a show about an average basketball team trying to defend their championship title. It has a tendency to go over the top at times, but for anybody competing in sports at less than the highest level it has some truly geniune moments. The constant struggle for "glory" balanced by the struggle to keep things in perspective is a relevant theme for me. Even in some of the silly moments it captures a very real sense of motivation. One man keeps playing because he wants to prove to his professional-athlete sister that he too can have success in sports. Another is just trying to impress his wife.
It's The Office on a basketball court, without the budget or the talent.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The people that change things
I've run into some very interesting people lately. I met a red-headed bundle of energy. I met a couple planning to live off-the-grid. I met a house full of people that truly lived together- sharing food, a car, and ideals. I met a woman that works three jobs while applying to college. Many of these people flit in and out of my thoughts, but it's the person I didn't meet that I can't get out of my head. According to the neighborly scouting reports, this person I didn't meet wakes up early every morning and runs 8 miles. She's not training for anything in particular, she just wakes up and runs. They tell me this with a mixture of awe and confusion.
Every morning, when I don't get up, I think about this woman. I think about the dedication that it takes to get up and do something like this. She gets up everyday and faces the world. She doesn't stumble into it. She takes off, catapults; she puts the best part of her day first. I have to take the first two hours of my day to convince myself that living is still a worthwhile pursuit.
I have to imagine she goes to bed early enough to run the next morning. I spend my evenings desperately searching for one last thing that will give my day some meaning which often results in bed times that stretch ever closer to her runs. I wonder how she manages. I wonder about the recent darkness and the snow. Surely she wakes up some days with dread, but by now this must be routine. I don't know if I can copy her or even tear a little scrap of paper out of her notebook, but I get the feeling that I should.
I've run into some very interesting people lately. I met a red-headed bundle of energy. I met a couple planning to live off-the-grid. I met a house full of people that truly lived together- sharing food, a car, and ideals. I met a woman that works three jobs while applying to college. Many of these people flit in and out of my thoughts, but it's the person I didn't meet that I can't get out of my head. According to the neighborly scouting reports, this person I didn't meet wakes up early every morning and runs 8 miles. She's not training for anything in particular, she just wakes up and runs. They tell me this with a mixture of awe and confusion.
Every morning, when I don't get up, I think about this woman. I think about the dedication that it takes to get up and do something like this. She gets up everyday and faces the world. She doesn't stumble into it. She takes off, catapults; she puts the best part of her day first. I have to take the first two hours of my day to convince myself that living is still a worthwhile pursuit.
I have to imagine she goes to bed early enough to run the next morning. I spend my evenings desperately searching for one last thing that will give my day some meaning which often results in bed times that stretch ever closer to her runs. I wonder how she manages. I wonder about the recent darkness and the snow. Surely she wakes up some days with dread, but by now this must be routine. I don't know if I can copy her or even tear a little scrap of paper out of her notebook, but I get the feeling that I should.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Phew. I'm not completely dead inside
It snowed. It wasn't New York snow where they have 12 feet; it was more like this sleet that stuck and covered the ground in two inches of grainy icy whiteness. There was a time when any amount of snow or snow-like substance was enough to send me bounding off of chairs and dancing with licorice whips. That time has apparently passed. I could not even muster the energy to go sledding yesterday. I was concerned that this indicated that the darkness inside of me had fully consumed my soul, but today I found out it had not. Then you knew that because I kind of killed the suspense in bold up above, didn't I?
The snow has been covered in a layer of ice. It's preserved snow. It's slippery. Tonight, I found myself skating around on a preserved section. I didn't fall through. I smiled. Maybe even let out a small "woo-hoo." I believe this indicates that the darkness inside of me has not fully consumed my soul.
It snowed. It wasn't New York snow where they have 12 feet; it was more like this sleet that stuck and covered the ground in two inches of grainy icy whiteness. There was a time when any amount of snow or snow-like substance was enough to send me bounding off of chairs and dancing with licorice whips. That time has apparently passed. I could not even muster the energy to go sledding yesterday. I was concerned that this indicated that the darkness inside of me had fully consumed my soul, but today I found out it had not. Then you knew that because I kind of killed the suspense in bold up above, didn't I?
The snow has been covered in a layer of ice. It's preserved snow. It's slippery. Tonight, I found myself skating around on a preserved section. I didn't fall through. I smiled. Maybe even let out a small "woo-hoo." I believe this indicates that the darkness inside of me has not fully consumed my soul.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
This is not the polar plunge
or I AM ALIVE
I took the less-famous cousin of the polar plunge a moment ago. It was the "Frickin' Freezin' run to the video store." I made the run in shorts and a t-shirt. My hands and legs are pink. There are sleeting/snow particles clinging to my beard.
I've got to think it had a similar effect. Less fanfare. No pictures. Same joie-de-vivre without the aqua.
I'm cold. I'm allowed to mix languages.
or I AM ALIVE
I took the less-famous cousin of the polar plunge a moment ago. It was the "Frickin' Freezin' run to the video store." I made the run in shorts and a t-shirt. My hands and legs are pink. There are sleeting/snow particles clinging to my beard.
I've got to think it had a similar effect. Less fanfare. No pictures. Same joie-de-vivre without the aqua.
I'm cold. I'm allowed to mix languages.
An excuse to recall high school dancing
JA, or Junior Assembly was one of those experiences that sort of happened to me and I continue to thank the graphic designer in charge of my layout. It was a dinner-dance club of some sort. I've never been sure how I got in. I just know that I didn't get in until some else dropped out. I was second tier when it came to whatever criteria was used for judging. I don't remember if I was fazed by this or not. I just remember that during my senior year of high school I was in. So I dressed up and went. At every event, boys and girls had to circle the room like sharks and find a dance partner to write in a slot on a dance card. The proverbial dance card was a reality at JA. Ten horrifying slots and two breaks loomed before us each and every event. Dance cards. They were tiny tests of confidence and fate. They were terrifying and life-altering. Sure they had to be filled and yes this did involve talking or at least gesturing to ten members of the opposite sex, no small feat for most high school boys, but they would then later lead to touching ten members of the opposite sex. This was all the terrifying part.
The life-altering part was dancing to consecutive songs. There was no leaving the dance floor. No "sitting this one out." There was just dancing and partner swapping. It didn't matter if I couldn't find the beat. It didn't matter if I was starting to sweat. A few of my friends were near, happy to laugh, and my partner for the song was not going to suddenly up and leave, because she was in the same boat. The non-stop dancing boat. So we danced. We tried out new moves. And old moves. And strange combinations of the two. We danced slow and fast. But we danced. And danced. We smiled. We laughed.
Somewhere down the dance card, it occurred to me that dancing was fun, even in groups. Perhaps especially in groups. I realized self-conciousness could be washed away in a sea of bouncing bodies. Enthusiasm could replace dancing skill. And so life altered. Dancing was no longer something to tolerate. It was fun. In my kitchen all by myself and in ballrooms, I could dance if I wanted to. If needed, I could leave my friends behind. I knew though, that if I didn't dance, well, I don't think I would have gone to seven weddings last year.
JA, or Junior Assembly was one of those experiences that sort of happened to me and I continue to thank the graphic designer in charge of my layout. It was a dinner-dance club of some sort. I've never been sure how I got in. I just know that I didn't get in until some else dropped out. I was second tier when it came to whatever criteria was used for judging. I don't remember if I was fazed by this or not. I just remember that during my senior year of high school I was in. So I dressed up and went. At every event, boys and girls had to circle the room like sharks and find a dance partner to write in a slot on a dance card. The proverbial dance card was a reality at JA. Ten horrifying slots and two breaks loomed before us each and every event. Dance cards. They were tiny tests of confidence and fate. They were terrifying and life-altering. Sure they had to be filled and yes this did involve talking or at least gesturing to ten members of the opposite sex, no small feat for most high school boys, but they would then later lead to touching ten members of the opposite sex. This was all the terrifying part.
The life-altering part was dancing to consecutive songs. There was no leaving the dance floor. No "sitting this one out." There was just dancing and partner swapping. It didn't matter if I couldn't find the beat. It didn't matter if I was starting to sweat. A few of my friends were near, happy to laugh, and my partner for the song was not going to suddenly up and leave, because she was in the same boat. The non-stop dancing boat. So we danced. We tried out new moves. And old moves. And strange combinations of the two. We danced slow and fast. But we danced. And danced. We smiled. We laughed.
Somewhere down the dance card, it occurred to me that dancing was fun, even in groups. Perhaps especially in groups. I realized self-conciousness could be washed away in a sea of bouncing bodies. Enthusiasm could replace dancing skill. And so life altered. Dancing was no longer something to tolerate. It was fun. In my kitchen all by myself and in ballrooms, I could dance if I wanted to. If needed, I could leave my friends behind. I knew though, that if I didn't dance, well, I don't think I would have gone to seven weddings last year.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
My favorite Super Bowl ad succumbed to mental health problems
The GM robot so concerned about quality that he committed suicide in a dream was poignant, funny, well-done, and apparently offensive.
Boo.
If this commercial trivialized suicide, didn't the Doritos commercial trivialize car crashes, the Emerald Nuts commercial trivialize Robert Goulet, and the Bud ads trivialize everything?
Yes. Commercials are 30-seconds long and have one basic goal- YOU, BUY STUFF. That's TRIVIAL! Get over it.
The GM robot so concerned about quality that he committed suicide in a dream was poignant, funny, well-done, and apparently offensive.
Boo.
If this commercial trivialized suicide, didn't the Doritos commercial trivialize car crashes, the Emerald Nuts commercial trivialize Robert Goulet, and the Bud ads trivialize everything?
Yes. Commercials are 30-seconds long and have one basic goal- YOU, BUY STUFF. That's TRIVIAL! Get over it.
Save us. Get rich.
It's time to save the world, take home the $25 million dollar booty, and make Gore pleased as punch.
http://www.virginearth.com/
It's time to save the world, take home the $25 million dollar booty, and make Gore pleased as punch.
http://www.virginearth.com/
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Soap in bars and other items bordering on extinction
I think it's time for me to retire. I've done the whole work force thing pretty much to its logical conclusion. I mean I still have a job which pretty much makes me a success in the eyes of...well...everyone. I know I could go on and get a corner office or an office with a window or a corner office with a window on a much higher floor, but basically I don't see the point. I have reached the pinnacle, the upper eschelon, the climax of my career and I did it in just under four years (if you don't count those first two). Now it's time to graduate to bigger and better things- like whittling.
I might whittle somethin' out of soap, 'cept I'm starting to suspect that bars of soap are nearing extinction. Now, I don't have access to all the showers in the world, or even all the showers on my block, but all the showers I do have access to have nearly phased out the bar of soap in favor of what I suspect is really just repackaged shampoo. This is great news if you hold shampoo stock, but kind of a bummer if you had high hopes for feeling Ivory fresh. I know a guy who knows a guy who sells black market soap, but it's not cheap. And it doesn't come with instructions. This is where I admit the alarming and deeply personal fact that I could really use instructions with my soap. However, I'm not in the mood to alarm anyone, except for the soap people. Other than Dove, I don't even see any soap ads these days. When was the last time I was glad that I used Dial? And when was the last time that my soap sprung leaks and sprayed the Irish countryside with clean? Why, I'm not sure Dove makes bars of soap anymore, their product looks more like milk, a slightly thin vanilla milkshake. Those models aren't real! They bathe in milkshakes! Who does that? Real women don't bathe in milkshakes. I met a real woman once and at best she bathed in water discolored by rusted pipes. Milkshakes. Preposterous!
In conclusion, bars of soap and I are both losing steam. If only one of us will survive, my money is on me, but then my money isn't clean.
I think it's time for me to retire. I've done the whole work force thing pretty much to its logical conclusion. I mean I still have a job which pretty much makes me a success in the eyes of...well...everyone. I know I could go on and get a corner office or an office with a window or a corner office with a window on a much higher floor, but basically I don't see the point. I have reached the pinnacle, the upper eschelon, the climax of my career and I did it in just under four years (if you don't count those first two). Now it's time to graduate to bigger and better things- like whittling.
I might whittle somethin' out of soap, 'cept I'm starting to suspect that bars of soap are nearing extinction. Now, I don't have access to all the showers in the world, or even all the showers on my block, but all the showers I do have access to have nearly phased out the bar of soap in favor of what I suspect is really just repackaged shampoo. This is great news if you hold shampoo stock, but kind of a bummer if you had high hopes for feeling Ivory fresh. I know a guy who knows a guy who sells black market soap, but it's not cheap. And it doesn't come with instructions. This is where I admit the alarming and deeply personal fact that I could really use instructions with my soap. However, I'm not in the mood to alarm anyone, except for the soap people. Other than Dove, I don't even see any soap ads these days. When was the last time I was glad that I used Dial? And when was the last time that my soap sprung leaks and sprayed the Irish countryside with clean? Why, I'm not sure Dove makes bars of soap anymore, their product looks more like milk, a slightly thin vanilla milkshake. Those models aren't real! They bathe in milkshakes! Who does that? Real women don't bathe in milkshakes. I met a real woman once and at best she bathed in water discolored by rusted pipes. Milkshakes. Preposterous!
In conclusion, bars of soap and I are both losing steam. If only one of us will survive, my money is on me, but then my money isn't clean.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Alvin, Sufjan, and Theodore
Monday was the night my morning-wait paid off. Dressed to the seven-point-threes, we joined other freebie-seeking Kennedy Center goers for a little Alvin Ailey dance action.
I don't really understand dance. I have this problem with many of the visual arts. With music, if it gets my toe tapping- it's art. With food, if it sets my tongue wagging- it's art (or probably salty licorice fish). With prose, if it stirs an emotion or captures a moment- it's art. But with the visual stuff, I am often unsure of what exactly I am supposed to see. I mean I get paintings, at least I get the ones that resemble what they portend. Dance though...I had a whole theory going for this evening's dance numbers having to do with nature. There was a sunrise and some growing crops, a jellyfish, and some sunflowers. Then there were men in tuxedos (not the cookies) and my nature theory kind of lost steam.
From there, Sufjan rejects made their way to one of the halls to watch Sufjan live in the next room on TV. This experience threw me for a loop. I've never been a great concert-goer anyway. I find a lot of music seems to lose something when I can't sing along in my own piercing falsetto and/or flail my arms about wildly in what monkeys and I call "dancing." Now multiply that by sitting in front of a big TV and it equals something else. Somehow Sufjan made the experience powerful. I enjoyed watching people react to his music even as it was piped in to us. I searched throughout the show for some sort of comparable experience. The closest I came up with was the event of buying a new record, before downloads and the full musical immersion that life has become; I mean actual records where people got together with their friends and sat down and really listened. It required a certain level of respect and resolve to sit quietly and focus mainly on the music. It ocurred to me that there are so few times I take the time to do that. It was kind of moving. So maybe it was more like being in a giant mini-van rockin' out to Sufjan. A giant mini-van with 60 foot curtains, 5 people I knew and about one hundred I didn't all staring straight ahead at the road as played by Sufjan and members of the National Symphony Orchestra. Or maybe it was most like a movie without a plot and the lights turned up, a theater of reaction, where the visual is secondary, and everybody already has a favorite piece of the story.
Monday was the night my morning-wait paid off. Dressed to the seven-point-threes, we joined other freebie-seeking Kennedy Center goers for a little Alvin Ailey dance action.
I don't really understand dance. I have this problem with many of the visual arts. With music, if it gets my toe tapping- it's art. With food, if it sets my tongue wagging- it's art (or probably salty licorice fish). With prose, if it stirs an emotion or captures a moment- it's art. But with the visual stuff, I am often unsure of what exactly I am supposed to see. I mean I get paintings, at least I get the ones that resemble what they portend. Dance though...I had a whole theory going for this evening's dance numbers having to do with nature. There was a sunrise and some growing crops, a jellyfish, and some sunflowers. Then there were men in tuxedos (not the cookies) and my nature theory kind of lost steam.
From there, Sufjan rejects made their way to one of the halls to watch Sufjan live in the next room on TV. This experience threw me for a loop. I've never been a great concert-goer anyway. I find a lot of music seems to lose something when I can't sing along in my own piercing falsetto and/or flail my arms about wildly in what monkeys and I call "dancing." Now multiply that by sitting in front of a big TV and it equals something else. Somehow Sufjan made the experience powerful. I enjoyed watching people react to his music even as it was piped in to us. I searched throughout the show for some sort of comparable experience. The closest I came up with was the event of buying a new record, before downloads and the full musical immersion that life has become; I mean actual records where people got together with their friends and sat down and really listened. It required a certain level of respect and resolve to sit quietly and focus mainly on the music. It ocurred to me that there are so few times I take the time to do that. It was kind of moving. So maybe it was more like being in a giant mini-van rockin' out to Sufjan. A giant mini-van with 60 foot curtains, 5 people I knew and about one hundred I didn't all staring straight ahead at the road as played by Sufjan and members of the National Symphony Orchestra. Or maybe it was most like a movie without a plot and the lights turned up, a theater of reaction, where the visual is secondary, and everybody already has a favorite piece of the story.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Sunday, February 04, 2007
The problem with choices
There are times when it's easy. Like crunchy vs. creamy. One tastes like peanut butter should and one sticks to the roof of your mouth and causes serious mastication issues.
Then there are times when it's much more difficult. Now that I have two fully functional bikes, I'm not sure what to do. Do I ride the road bike, the sleek narrow-tired wonder that's zipped through roads for me for the last 12 years? Or do I choose the month-new shiny white mountain bike with it's thick tires and bouncy front suspension?
It doesn't matter to anyone else. There are some routes where this choice would be easy, a long flat road surrounded by wheat fields- road bike; a rocky trail with a creek to cross and some mud puddles- mountain bike. I'm neither in the woods nor the wheat fields. I'm looking at a mostly road route with some non-paved trail for two large (3 mile) stretches. I know the road bike can hack it, because my dark blue birthday present from long ago has done it before.
The debate in my head is mostly one of comfort. Since I'll be carrying a backpack on my ride the big gears of my road bike might let me power through the road sections and get me to my destination quicker. Yet, the two non-paved trail sections were a major contributing factor in my desire to have a mountain bike at all. How nice it will feel to bounce through them without feeling as if my bike and my back might simultaneously break.
I'm really just delaying my ride because I'm afraid that I'll freeze.
Update: Choosy moms (and me) choose mountain.
There are times when it's easy. Like crunchy vs. creamy. One tastes like peanut butter should and one sticks to the roof of your mouth and causes serious mastication issues.
Then there are times when it's much more difficult. Now that I have two fully functional bikes, I'm not sure what to do. Do I ride the road bike, the sleek narrow-tired wonder that's zipped through roads for me for the last 12 years? Or do I choose the month-new shiny white mountain bike with it's thick tires and bouncy front suspension?
It doesn't matter to anyone else. There are some routes where this choice would be easy, a long flat road surrounded by wheat fields- road bike; a rocky trail with a creek to cross and some mud puddles- mountain bike. I'm neither in the woods nor the wheat fields. I'm looking at a mostly road route with some non-paved trail for two large (3 mile) stretches. I know the road bike can hack it, because my dark blue birthday present from long ago has done it before.
The debate in my head is mostly one of comfort. Since I'll be carrying a backpack on my ride the big gears of my road bike might let me power through the road sections and get me to my destination quicker. Yet, the two non-paved trail sections were a major contributing factor in my desire to have a mountain bike at all. How nice it will feel to bounce through them without feeling as if my bike and my back might simultaneously break.
I'm really just delaying my ride because I'm afraid that I'll freeze.
Update: Choosy moms (and me) choose mountain.
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