Meeting Collin and other vacation highlights
Having my vacations overlap was not my original intention. I hated to use up all that vacation goodness at once, but it turned out to be a fantastic plan. I got to have two very different and enjoyable experiences in one long week of near-uninterrupted fun. It almost felt like cheating.
The first portion of my vacation was with family in Colorado. Very little went as planned, but the trip was quite enjoyable. My sister, who has surpassed me in most ways except age, carted us around in her Tahoe. It was half a family reunion every time we went out to eat and we went out to eat a lot. With 8.5 of us piled into the car, we made our way to vacation destinations nearby like Estes Park. Estes Park is the closest thing my family has to a repeat vacation destination. We’ve spent time there during two family reunions there in my lifetime and my mom and aunts have many memories there from childhood. It’s a cute little tourist town with a mountain backdrop and the occasional elk crossing the street. It’s Colorado’s version of “Northern Exposure.” Last summer, my family took up disc golf at the Y camp there. This summer we returned to try again.
Some of us, like my cousin Tedward, have taken their disc golf game to new heights. Others of us, like me, don’t ever throw the discs and expect the game to come easily. The score card would reflect these two approaches to the game accurately. At least the scenery remained pristine.
Tedward was joined on this vacation by his friend Collin and I was reminded of the age of 17, one that at times seemed to be quite a ways in the rearview mirror. There were moments when 17 felt like it was a breath away, like when passing a waxing studio called “The Screamin’ Peach.”
Some things never change.
Home was still home, even when it wasn’t mine. My parents have carved out a nice niche and it was a wonderful place to spend some time. I got to see my niece, who took somewhat of a liking to me and shouted “UncleDave” when I came in the door. Although my beard was considerably shorter this time around, she continued to prefer that I keep my distance. We were able to stomp our feet together and share her playhouse, but reading to her was out of the question and fist bumps required parental prompting. I lost a few foot races to her, but I think with the proper training I can get her next time.
Clare and I scooted to Denver for a day and managed to meet up with people that we don’t get to see nearly often enough. It was a fun and slightly frantic drink and dinner. I would have liked more time, but was thankful for the catch-up time available.
It was wonderful to spend time with my family and a few friends on their turf and it made me want to do it more often, but as always it made me appreciate the life I have where decisions are made less often in committee and chaos is harder to find.
From the Denver airport, I went to be with friends in Texas. I was excited to go to Texas for several reasons. BBQ and tubing were my immediate goals, but I was also looking forward to seeing where Alan grew up. Early on in our friendship, he’d been brave enough to accompany me to Missouri and now I had the chance to reciprocate in some way. Finally, I would see where the fighting unicorns called home. The trip had many facets, as Alan had invited a whole host of his friends. I admire the way Alan manages to be inclusive in his invitations and I’m trying to pick up that skill from him in some small part. Many from DC couldn’t take him up on the offer, so I had the pleasure of meeting a contingent of high school and college friends. I’ve often been thrilled by how awesome my friends’ friends turn out to be. By now, I guess I shouldn’t expect differently.
Enough of the abstract, it’s time for BBQ and tubing. I wouldn’t have to wait long once I reached Texas to get to the two things I wanted most. Alan’s folks lived in a magical place not far from the river we would spend enormous amounts of time in. In the morning, we could walk down the street, dive in the water, swim the stream, walk another mile, and float down the river back to that original spot. The longest shortest river in the world was a dream for a lover of public transportation. No cars were necessary in the completion of this portion of the adventure.
I have never been a fan of tubing. It lacks the control and the speed which I usually prefer. Age, a few well-placed rapids, the community spirit, and other factors have made me into a fan of tubing, at least temporarily. One factor was my introduction of the proper way to enter a tube from the shore. Step one: Toss the tube into the water. Step two: Cock arms back and set feet. Step three: Leap into the air. Step four: Raise legs. Step five: Land rear-end first into tube-sitting position. Landing in the tube ready to go may very well have been the pinnacle of my vacation.
One evening we ate BBQ and headed to San Antonio. Alan, Doc, and I shared the expense of the Tower of Americas elevator and wind tunnel, before settling above the city to share the expense of frozen margaritas. Before and after the high-priced drinks, I found the famous riverwalk was more commercial than I’d expected and we couldn’t forget the Alamo, especially when our walk led us by twice.
Another evening, we went to Austin after a delicious stop in Driftwood for all-we-could eat BBQ. The sauce and the carry-out pie were delicious. I was happy as a bat bolting out from under a bridge. That’s not a saying, but the intensity and continuous nature of the 1.2 to 1.5 million bats that stream out from under the bridge on Congress in Austin was impressive. There was a cluster of them that stretched for miles. I don't know where the bats went, but I know they didn't go into the storm or to the bar. Those bats might have been on to something.
After Austin, the party started to grow. More people from Alan's past began to appear and more trips were taken by tube. Earlier in the week, we'd spent some time at a waterpark and then swam the river home. It was more of an effort than the tubing, but still a great way to travel. My feet weren't growing into flippers yet, but at least one of the tubing trips was spent searching for precious metals. Precious metals in this case being the alumininum of beer cans and searching in this case being the act of diving under water, opening eyes, and almost always finding one or more.
The proximity of waterpark and river meant that the inhabitants of the town, or at least the parts we saw, often shared a uniform. That uniform was topless men with bare feet and swimsuit clad women. The occassional flip-flop or wet shirt was also mixed in, but most people we saw stuck to the dress code.
There's a culture in the rivers I have been to before, and I had expected to see it early in the week, but it took the weekend to really meet my expectations. The culture is defined by aimless floating and beer. Weekday floaters tended to be more professional and less hammered, but the weekend brought out the rowdy crowds. We weren't quite ready to be rowdy and I attribute that in large part to our goals.
Perhaps driven by dreams of commercial success after some of us might possibly maybe appear dancing in a commercial they were shooting at the Tavern in/on/through the Gruene, we became ambitious in our tubing. Originally, we considered tubing as many as six runs in a day. The heat and some sense prevailed and we ended up going twice in the heat and once at night on this particular Saturday. The first trip mid-morning was much like our others earlier in the week, but after lunch the experience changed significantly. We arrived at the put-in to find tube to tube traffic up an down the stream. Giant two-person luxury tubes with built-in cooler space bumped up against traditional black tube after black tube. Some of the tubes carried supplies, a few even met the regulation 16 quarts or under size. Other tubes were built for supplies and carried 60 quarts of liquid ticket-inducing madness. There were tubes and beer everywhere.
We put in and joined the masses. The lack of available river real estate resulted in the somewhat regular experience of bumping awkwardly into a stranger. Sometimes this contact warranted comment, but often it was as if we were all algae floating on at the whim of the current. We linked up as a group and floated slowly down. Sun burns and tube pyramids went into full effect. I let go of my desire to paddle and floated peaceably with my fellow algae, sometimes dipping my head in the water or trying out different ways to roll through the tube. Some attempts were more successful than others. I could never match Megan's grace at slipping through the tube and moving into the full relaxation position. Instead, I ended up floundering in a tube on its side or splashing into the water.
The record-breaking third tube run came on an infamous night-tubing experience. Having enjoyed continued success and enjoyment from jumping from the shore into tube position, I decided to up the ante. Embracing the river culture, I planned to toss my tube into the water, make my leap, and open my Mike's Hard Lemonade in the air, before landing in the ready position. I tossed the tube and leapt. I popped the top and heard the fizzing.
Night-tubing is different from regular tubing in at least three important ways. The first is darkness. I'm not afraid of the dark exactly, but without my glasses, dark shapes easily blended into dark scenery and I found myself unable to find people on the shore or determine who was who. The hot sun is long gone and with it one of the primary tubing attractions. Also gone are the people. We were nearly alone on the river.
I hit the water and grazed my tube. I held my drink high as I plunged into the dark water. With my free hand I paddled frantically as I tried to get my lemonade back into the air and out of the river. Finally, I emerged to laughter, climbed into my tube, wiped the can, and enjoyed what was left, only fearing contamination slightly.
We spent lots of time in the tube chute and here again I missed better vision. I found myself facing fear on several occassions both that night and even sometimes in the day. I had no idea how comforting vision can be, particularly in unfamiliar situations. I see well enough to make out shapes and navigate through the world, but diving on my tube off a small falls or bouncing through the chute made me pause with fear. I don't know that vision made any difference since I survived each, but I was uncomfortable for reasons that I can only link to my vision. I fought my own fears, but I also caused some fear. Once through the chute, I came upon a diver. He had his head down with the light illuminating a small circle of river. The current took me right toward him. I tried to navigate away, but my foot still splashed through his downward searching light. He jumped up with a holler, saw me and said, "You scared the **** out of me!"
"Sorry," I laughed before floating on down the stream.
In the dark, with a drink, setting a record, facing fears, sometimes shivering, lacking good vision, I felt a tickle inside of me. I was either digging my vacation or I really had to pee.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Lessons on the trail
There were a few clouds in the sky and when they were able to muster up the energy they threatened rain, but mostly the threats were those of a weary father with little intent to see them through. We were hiking Old Rag in the Shenandoah Valley. My father was not along, but I’m sure he would have enjoyed it. The previous day’s plans had all gone up in flat tires and rain, but a cool breeze sliced the solstice and made Sunday plans look better than advertised.
Previous experience would serve to remind us of several lessons on the brochure-worthy day hike. Getting started is difficult was the first. For a mile or so our hike was spent in a trudging, heavy-breathing, fitness-questioning state. Then, as if our bodies had recognized the futility of fighting on into the nine o’clock hour, hiking became walking in the woods and the early trudge became nature on an incline with rocky footing.
When bike riding faded from view on Saturday, Alan’s gym served up a cardio substitute that had my calves and hamstrings burning. For much of the uphill walk, this was a minor annoyance, but when the scrambling started, my legs gave a little shout with each push off and landing. Even with the pain, I enjoyed scrambling the most. There is satisfaction in making your own way. Scrambling is exercise with puzzle-solving mixed in. There’s no definite trail. Each person looks at the rocks and the gaps and thinks about his/her physical strengths and limitations and then makes a path. It may be a path that many have traveled before, but the rocks don’t show much wear and it feels like blazing a new trail. There are tenuous grasps on hand and footholds and there are slippery sections. There are gaps that look too large to leap and others that seem to have well-shaped launching and landing pads. I find great pleasure in scrambling.
In the section that had challenged us the most last year, we came upon a father and daughter trying to navigate the tricky rocks. We waited for them to find their hold, but they weren’t keen on having an audience and helped us pass. Experience breeds confidence. The section was unchanged as far as we could tell, but instead of struggling for fifteen minutes as the father and daughter must have, we were up in two. It still took some pulling and struggling, but we’d been there before and we attacked with little doubt that we would succeed.
This section and another gap that I jumped reminded me that hesitancy can’t always be the policy. It was only by swinging my leg through and using my momentum that I was able to find my next handhold. If I’d tried to play it safe or creep up to the spot where I could get a grip, I would have slipped and fallen far short of it. Of all the lessons, this was the one that I sensed could be most relevant right now.
The last lesson was the most delicious and needs no explanation. On the way home, stop and eat ice cream.
There were a few clouds in the sky and when they were able to muster up the energy they threatened rain, but mostly the threats were those of a weary father with little intent to see them through. We were hiking Old Rag in the Shenandoah Valley. My father was not along, but I’m sure he would have enjoyed it. The previous day’s plans had all gone up in flat tires and rain, but a cool breeze sliced the solstice and made Sunday plans look better than advertised.
Previous experience would serve to remind us of several lessons on the brochure-worthy day hike. Getting started is difficult was the first. For a mile or so our hike was spent in a trudging, heavy-breathing, fitness-questioning state. Then, as if our bodies had recognized the futility of fighting on into the nine o’clock hour, hiking became walking in the woods and the early trudge became nature on an incline with rocky footing.
When bike riding faded from view on Saturday, Alan’s gym served up a cardio substitute that had my calves and hamstrings burning. For much of the uphill walk, this was a minor annoyance, but when the scrambling started, my legs gave a little shout with each push off and landing. Even with the pain, I enjoyed scrambling the most. There is satisfaction in making your own way. Scrambling is exercise with puzzle-solving mixed in. There’s no definite trail. Each person looks at the rocks and the gaps and thinks about his/her physical strengths and limitations and then makes a path. It may be a path that many have traveled before, but the rocks don’t show much wear and it feels like blazing a new trail. There are tenuous grasps on hand and footholds and there are slippery sections. There are gaps that look too large to leap and others that seem to have well-shaped launching and landing pads. I find great pleasure in scrambling.
In the section that had challenged us the most last year, we came upon a father and daughter trying to navigate the tricky rocks. We waited for them to find their hold, but they weren’t keen on having an audience and helped us pass. Experience breeds confidence. The section was unchanged as far as we could tell, but instead of struggling for fifteen minutes as the father and daughter must have, we were up in two. It still took some pulling and struggling, but we’d been there before and we attacked with little doubt that we would succeed.
This section and another gap that I jumped reminded me that hesitancy can’t always be the policy. It was only by swinging my leg through and using my momentum that I was able to find my next handhold. If I’d tried to play it safe or creep up to the spot where I could get a grip, I would have slipped and fallen far short of it. Of all the lessons, this was the one that I sensed could be most relevant right now.
The last lesson was the most delicious and needs no explanation. On the way home, stop and eat ice cream.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Who is this guy?
I am unprepared for the grays that have entered my existence. In late late December of ’08, I did something that would be almost inconceivable to the 2004 model of me. I bought a cell phone. It’s a pre-pay phone and those who call me will tell you that I’m harder to reach now than ever before. I do send some text messages and even answer the thing in public sometimes, but I also tend to forget it, let the batteries run low, and check my messages promptly in a matter of days or even a week.
There were many factors that led to my decision, but none so much as cost. The cost of a landline on my own and that of a cell phone were nearly identical. Although I do sometimes stare inquisitively at the house plant that has replaced the home phone waiting for it to give me messages, I knew that if I was going to pay the same price, I might as well give in to the cell phone fad.
I railed in this space against cell phones, but now that I have one I better understand the challenges of those I’ve railed against. I still try to take my calls outside of a store or earshot when I can. I shorten the conversation as much as possible when I’m on the Metro, even trying to use the text message feature more often there. The one thing I do like that I never thought I would is the walking and talking. I’m sure it makes me more susceptible to getting run over by a car or bus, but it makes a lot of sense. Rarely, do I see a person I know on my way home. Rarely, do I speak to a stranger. It feels rather useful to use that walking time to make a needed phone call to my parents or a friend. It seems efficient, effective, and sometimes even rewarding. I guess the walking talkers knew that all along.
The lines of right and wrong, black and white, they start to blur. Now it’s ok to walk and talk, but not ok to walk and talk on the phone in a crowd? Maybe the line needs to blur some in the other direction too. If it’s ok to walk and talk, then it’s ok for someone on the street to interrupt the conversation? My rulebook doesn’t have the answers, but I suspect that I’m looking for some intersection of utility and respect for others. I think I also need to look in my rulebook for some everyday forgiveness knowing that rulebooks may not all be the same.
There’s more gray, but it belongs in a vacation post. I may not be entirely comfortable in the grays, but I was pretty comfortable on vacation.
I am unprepared for the grays that have entered my existence. In late late December of ’08, I did something that would be almost inconceivable to the 2004 model of me. I bought a cell phone. It’s a pre-pay phone and those who call me will tell you that I’m harder to reach now than ever before. I do send some text messages and even answer the thing in public sometimes, but I also tend to forget it, let the batteries run low, and check my messages promptly in a matter of days or even a week.
There were many factors that led to my decision, but none so much as cost. The cost of a landline on my own and that of a cell phone were nearly identical. Although I do sometimes stare inquisitively at the house plant that has replaced the home phone waiting for it to give me messages, I knew that if I was going to pay the same price, I might as well give in to the cell phone fad.
I railed in this space against cell phones, but now that I have one I better understand the challenges of those I’ve railed against. I still try to take my calls outside of a store or earshot when I can. I shorten the conversation as much as possible when I’m on the Metro, even trying to use the text message feature more often there. The one thing I do like that I never thought I would is the walking and talking. I’m sure it makes me more susceptible to getting run over by a car or bus, but it makes a lot of sense. Rarely, do I see a person I know on my way home. Rarely, do I speak to a stranger. It feels rather useful to use that walking time to make a needed phone call to my parents or a friend. It seems efficient, effective, and sometimes even rewarding. I guess the walking talkers knew that all along.
The lines of right and wrong, black and white, they start to blur. Now it’s ok to walk and talk, but not ok to walk and talk on the phone in a crowd? Maybe the line needs to blur some in the other direction too. If it’s ok to walk and talk, then it’s ok for someone on the street to interrupt the conversation? My rulebook doesn’t have the answers, but I suspect that I’m looking for some intersection of utility and respect for others. I think I also need to look in my rulebook for some everyday forgiveness knowing that rulebooks may not all be the same.
There’s more gray, but it belongs in a vacation post. I may not be entirely comfortable in the grays, but I was pretty comfortable on vacation.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
John started it
Inspired by John's recent Blogging is fun? post and the generous comments, I decided to take a moment and reflect on my consumption of the Internet. There are five places I go on a daily basis- my email account, Facebook, John's blog, Alan's, and washingtonpost.com. Why?
I check my email multiple times a day in hopes that someone has written me. My inbox is filled with real new messages at a rate far below my compulsion to check. I've found that the collision of Facebook and my thirties has driven email traffic way down.
I turn to Facebook to make up for the deficit. Here, I find messages that aren't directed to me specifically, but might as well be since they are from my sister's high school friend and relate to her most recent trips across the country. This does not fill me up in the way I hope, but that doesn't stop me from checking back later just to make sure. Sometimes I manage a pithy little status update to entertain my 150 some odd friends. I sense the initial thrill of Facebook wearing off. It's nice to see familiar faces, but I find myself needing more.
I then check Alan's blog. He posts on a regular basis, and although he has taken to making his blog a workout journal, I find this a little inspiring. I usually end up doing some extra push ups on days that Alan works out. He also provides good tidbits on fitness, Ultimate, and music. I can appreciate that.
Alan's blog leads me to John. John posts regularly and with a nice variety. He provides entertainment, sports, and music commentary, insight into the leading edge of journalism, and some nice visuals. I can't go wrong there, although I do sometimes skim the American Idol posts as I don't know the players.
Next, I check the Washington Post. I read the Sports section, the advice columns, and any Opinion section or other item that leaps off the page. I'm very comfortable with my local online paper. I no longer miss the feel of the paper in my hand, although I do sometimes miss the comics section. It's just not the same online.
After the regulars, I trust my RSS feed to direct me to new content. I used to read a variety of friends' blogs, but many are now dead or dying. The Gig is still kicking and I follow my friends entertainment opinions there faithfully. Some side reading occurs at The Art of Manliness, but sometimes it gets too manly or too preachy. I was reading the Happiness Project, but now it's in Slate, so I catch it there when the Post sends me in that direction. For Ultimate related thoughts, nothing beats The Huddle. I mean to keep up with Gwen Bell and Inhabitat, but they post with incredible frequency.
I'm sure I'm missing something, but I don't have time to read it unless I stop checking my email or looking for my fifteen minutes of fame.
Inspired by John's recent Blogging is fun? post and the generous comments, I decided to take a moment and reflect on my consumption of the Internet. There are five places I go on a daily basis- my email account, Facebook, John's blog, Alan's, and washingtonpost.com. Why?
I check my email multiple times a day in hopes that someone has written me. My inbox is filled with real new messages at a rate far below my compulsion to check. I've found that the collision of Facebook and my thirties has driven email traffic way down.
I turn to Facebook to make up for the deficit. Here, I find messages that aren't directed to me specifically, but might as well be since they are from my sister's high school friend and relate to her most recent trips across the country. This does not fill me up in the way I hope, but that doesn't stop me from checking back later just to make sure. Sometimes I manage a pithy little status update to entertain my 150 some odd friends. I sense the initial thrill of Facebook wearing off. It's nice to see familiar faces, but I find myself needing more.
I then check Alan's blog. He posts on a regular basis, and although he has taken to making his blog a workout journal, I find this a little inspiring. I usually end up doing some extra push ups on days that Alan works out. He also provides good tidbits on fitness, Ultimate, and music. I can appreciate that.
Alan's blog leads me to John. John posts regularly and with a nice variety. He provides entertainment, sports, and music commentary, insight into the leading edge of journalism, and some nice visuals. I can't go wrong there, although I do sometimes skim the American Idol posts as I don't know the players.
Next, I check the Washington Post. I read the Sports section, the advice columns, and any Opinion section or other item that leaps off the page. I'm very comfortable with my local online paper. I no longer miss the feel of the paper in my hand, although I do sometimes miss the comics section. It's just not the same online.
After the regulars, I trust my RSS feed to direct me to new content. I used to read a variety of friends' blogs, but many are now dead or dying. The Gig is still kicking and I follow my friends entertainment opinions there faithfully. Some side reading occurs at The Art of Manliness, but sometimes it gets too manly or too preachy. I was reading the Happiness Project, but now it's in Slate, so I catch it there when the Post sends me in that direction. For Ultimate related thoughts, nothing beats The Huddle. I mean to keep up with Gwen Bell and Inhabitat, but they post with incredible frequency.
I'm sure I'm missing something, but I don't have time to read it unless I stop checking my email or looking for my fifteen minutes of fame.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Melodic acid burn off
It may have looked the part of summer on the lawn of the Wolf Trap amphitheatre, but some things were missing. The bugs hadn't all come out yet. The spring chill in the air wasn't all gone.
I shifted in the lawn trying to get my body comfortable as the moon rose above the easement. Emmy Lou Harris, Patti Griffin, Shawn Colvin, and Buddy Miller were playing up front, but I didn't know the tunes. My aching muscles may have needed further justification, and I couldn't focus on the songs that didn't have a driving beat. Patti Griffin did sing a delightful number that tickled the crowd and included the line "Our love's a dud."
The mic banter was that of artists appreciating a shared experience. It helped me return to my shared experience of the day before. The voices on stage became the voices of songbirds and I found myself lost in thought, often about the games from Saturday. I replayed the way the DT and MB worked together. They were the offense in one stretch. MB seemed to find an extra fast twitch muscle to explode toward another disc that DT had launched in his direction almost without looking. They were playing at a different speed than the rest of us. It was awesome to watch and likely very special for them as their opportunities to take the field together have been limited in recent months. Shawn Colvin sang beautifully and only once did her notes remind me of those that plagued me on the loop of MovieTunes in my first job. Sonny came home a lot that year. The past played a role on Saturday as well as I looked at the top teams. It seems that the quality of play in the league has improved over the last few years. Where once each team had two people that stood above the rest, I think there are now three or four who are complete competitive players. I tried to gauge my own age in this consideration, but I don't think it's a matter of declining ability as a defender as much as it is one of growth for the sport.
Buddy Miller's role as the odd man in this group of women, reminded me again of the reverse we experienced at the end of the day. How could S play all of those points? She credited some zone, and others credited some stubbornness. Regardless, the women's performance was inspirational and it gives me hope that what we can handle might be more than we think.
I did focus some on decline while on the lawn. It may have been the mixture of sad folk songs that drove me to it. I don't think I'm supposed to admit weakness as a competitor, but I'm seeing them. I see them in others too. I don't think the decline is enormous or debilitating. I think there are even parts that can make me better if I allow myself to become a more well-rounded player, but there is a decline occurring. Too many discs flew over my head and too many pictures show my feet barely leaving the ground. This is not cause for alarm or reason to call it quits. It's reason to be like Emmy Lou Harris and bring together people we enjoy and do what we enjoy. I saw no weaknesses in Emmy Lou Harris's singing, but I don't think I would have been there if she'd been the only one playing. There's strength in bringing people together and making beautiful music. Or sport.
It may have looked the part of summer on the lawn of the Wolf Trap amphitheatre, but some things were missing. The bugs hadn't all come out yet. The spring chill in the air wasn't all gone.
I shifted in the lawn trying to get my body comfortable as the moon rose above the easement. Emmy Lou Harris, Patti Griffin, Shawn Colvin, and Buddy Miller were playing up front, but I didn't know the tunes. My aching muscles may have needed further justification, and I couldn't focus on the songs that didn't have a driving beat. Patti Griffin did sing a delightful number that tickled the crowd and included the line "Our love's a dud."
The mic banter was that of artists appreciating a shared experience. It helped me return to my shared experience of the day before. The voices on stage became the voices of songbirds and I found myself lost in thought, often about the games from Saturday. I replayed the way the DT and MB worked together. They were the offense in one stretch. MB seemed to find an extra fast twitch muscle to explode toward another disc that DT had launched in his direction almost without looking. They were playing at a different speed than the rest of us. It was awesome to watch and likely very special for them as their opportunities to take the field together have been limited in recent months. Shawn Colvin sang beautifully and only once did her notes remind me of those that plagued me on the loop of MovieTunes in my first job. Sonny came home a lot that year. The past played a role on Saturday as well as I looked at the top teams. It seems that the quality of play in the league has improved over the last few years. Where once each team had two people that stood above the rest, I think there are now three or four who are complete competitive players. I tried to gauge my own age in this consideration, but I don't think it's a matter of declining ability as a defender as much as it is one of growth for the sport.
Buddy Miller's role as the odd man in this group of women, reminded me again of the reverse we experienced at the end of the day. How could S play all of those points? She credited some zone, and others credited some stubbornness. Regardless, the women's performance was inspirational and it gives me hope that what we can handle might be more than we think.
I did focus some on decline while on the lawn. It may have been the mixture of sad folk songs that drove me to it. I don't think I'm supposed to admit weakness as a competitor, but I'm seeing them. I see them in others too. I don't think the decline is enormous or debilitating. I think there are even parts that can make me better if I allow myself to become a more well-rounded player, but there is a decline occurring. Too many discs flew over my head and too many pictures show my feet barely leaving the ground. This is not cause for alarm or reason to call it quits. It's reason to be like Emmy Lou Harris and bring together people we enjoy and do what we enjoy. I saw no weaknesses in Emmy Lou Harris's singing, but I don't think I would have been there if she'd been the only one playing. There's strength in bringing people together and making beautiful music. Or sport.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
It's not whether you win or lose, but I'm going to describe it anyway
or Personal highlights in a team game
My psoas and related pains have been plaguing me for two weeks. As I headed for a full day of Ultimate, I wondered if this might be a day where the pain became crushing. Somehow, I ended up with the opposite. My psoas hardly bothered me at all. Ultimate seems to be the cause of my greatest pains and of the greatest healing. That sports as life metaphor thing was really kicking into overdrive.
The fields were a little muddy and wet and the grass was high, but it was better than the alternative- sleeping in. We only had two women, so they had a full day ahead of them without anyone to relieve them. My team jumped out early in a shortened game and rolled over the other team. I caught one on a slide and ended up hydro-planing through a puddle to great splash effect. Our second game was much tougher as it was against the perennial champs. We fought well through the first half, but couldn't keep pace in the second half. My highlight there was a strange one. I tapped a disc on D and then hit the body of the offensive player. He missed the disc and called a foul. Usually, I react strongly in those situations, but this time I stayed calm and tried to get him to explain to me if he still thought he could have caught the disc if I hadn't fouled him. I was trying to figure out whether I should contest the foul or not, when he suddenly decided to overturn the foul. I don't think I've ever been on that end of a call/non-call before. There were some lows in that game as well, as discs bounced off my hands and throws went errant.
We had a nice bye after that and I wondered how I could go on for the rest of the afternoon as my body was already aching. We jumped out early again in the third game and rolled to victory. There were some great individual performances throughout the day, especially from the women who were having to grit through. MB was having a usually solid day and Karpo was shining in a way I haven't seen for years. Everybody was contributing, even Young B's layouts were going for D's. I think the third game might have been the game where I threw a hammer for a score. That's got to be my highest percentage throw. Especially after what would come later. I had backhands going high and flicks being handblocked in the fourth game. The game was a good match up. They had some good speed, but we were matching it. We traded points for a while. I got handblocked twice, but evened things a bit with a handblock of my own. I layed out around one player about three times, but never came up with anything. The wind had picked up a bit and misreads became more prevalent. We ended up falling 11-9.
Things really started to get tough in the fifth game. We lost one woman to exhaustion and had to play down a person. I was fighting cramps and the need to vomit. I ended up cramping first as I laid out for a huck, missed, and slammed my head into the ground. Ouch. Down a person, we started trading points, but it wasn't enough. The final team decided to play 6 men and 1 woman against us. More people were cramping. We fought hard early, but exhaustion was catching up with everyone. I managed to get in for a few points and get another handblock. We couldn't find enough to stick with the team and lost. Still, we fought all the way through and had a really good day. S was amazing. She was still running at the same speed and getting open on the last points of the day. I said it earlier and I'll say it again. Everyone contributed. The new faces really shone and helped the cause yesterday. We worked the disc well and worked together well. I'm really proud to have taken part.
Today, I'm scratched, sore, sun-burnt, and it takes me 30 seconds to get out of a chair, but I feel pretty happy about the whole thing.
or Personal highlights in a team game
My psoas and related pains have been plaguing me for two weeks. As I headed for a full day of Ultimate, I wondered if this might be a day where the pain became crushing. Somehow, I ended up with the opposite. My psoas hardly bothered me at all. Ultimate seems to be the cause of my greatest pains and of the greatest healing. That sports as life metaphor thing was really kicking into overdrive.
The fields were a little muddy and wet and the grass was high, but it was better than the alternative- sleeping in. We only had two women, so they had a full day ahead of them without anyone to relieve them. My team jumped out early in a shortened game and rolled over the other team. I caught one on a slide and ended up hydro-planing through a puddle to great splash effect. Our second game was much tougher as it was against the perennial champs. We fought well through the first half, but couldn't keep pace in the second half. My highlight there was a strange one. I tapped a disc on D and then hit the body of the offensive player. He missed the disc and called a foul. Usually, I react strongly in those situations, but this time I stayed calm and tried to get him to explain to me if he still thought he could have caught the disc if I hadn't fouled him. I was trying to figure out whether I should contest the foul or not, when he suddenly decided to overturn the foul. I don't think I've ever been on that end of a call/non-call before. There were some lows in that game as well, as discs bounced off my hands and throws went errant.
We had a nice bye after that and I wondered how I could go on for the rest of the afternoon as my body was already aching. We jumped out early again in the third game and rolled to victory. There were some great individual performances throughout the day, especially from the women who were having to grit through. MB was having a usually solid day and Karpo was shining in a way I haven't seen for years. Everybody was contributing, even Young B's layouts were going for D's. I think the third game might have been the game where I threw a hammer for a score. That's got to be my highest percentage throw. Especially after what would come later. I had backhands going high and flicks being handblocked in the fourth game. The game was a good match up. They had some good speed, but we were matching it. We traded points for a while. I got handblocked twice, but evened things a bit with a handblock of my own. I layed out around one player about three times, but never came up with anything. The wind had picked up a bit and misreads became more prevalent. We ended up falling 11-9.
Things really started to get tough in the fifth game. We lost one woman to exhaustion and had to play down a person. I was fighting cramps and the need to vomit. I ended up cramping first as I laid out for a huck, missed, and slammed my head into the ground. Ouch. Down a person, we started trading points, but it wasn't enough. The final team decided to play 6 men and 1 woman against us. More people were cramping. We fought hard early, but exhaustion was catching up with everyone. I managed to get in for a few points and get another handblock. We couldn't find enough to stick with the team and lost. Still, we fought all the way through and had a really good day. S was amazing. She was still running at the same speed and getting open on the last points of the day. I said it earlier and I'll say it again. Everyone contributed. The new faces really shone and helped the cause yesterday. We worked the disc well and worked together well. I'm really proud to have taken part.
Today, I'm scratched, sore, sun-burnt, and it takes me 30 seconds to get out of a chair, but I feel pretty happy about the whole thing.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Therapy: This time with gnomes
Acupuncture is different every time. It always feels like energy, or tiny particles, or tiny gnomes, or something are seeking out pain and then trying to find a way to get rid of it. Sometimes, it's pulling. Sometimes, it's pushing. This time it was swirling. It took longer than the other times. The energy/particles/gnomes got hung up in my knees. It's not that my knees don't sometimes hurt, but I came for the psoas and it took a long time for the gnomes to get there. They eventually made it, but I think they were tired from their time spent swirling around under/behind/through my knees, so they didn't do as good a job. I'm still left with something. Do I go back? I don't know proper Eastern remedy protocol.
There's a darkness in my psoas. As I sit with my eyes closed and needles poking out of me, I can't help but wonder if every person carries his/her darkness in some body part. I know it sounds a little crazy, but it feels like a reasonable theory even after the needles come out. Maybe all the bad stuff, the negative energy, the meanness, the evil in each of us has to go somewhere. Mine chooses the psoas. Sometimes the gnomes or deep breathing can clear it out for a while, but if I'm not careful the darkness returns. Right now, the darkness is still pissed.
Acupuncture is different every time. It always feels like energy, or tiny particles, or tiny gnomes, or something are seeking out pain and then trying to find a way to get rid of it. Sometimes, it's pulling. Sometimes, it's pushing. This time it was swirling. It took longer than the other times. The energy/particles/gnomes got hung up in my knees. It's not that my knees don't sometimes hurt, but I came for the psoas and it took a long time for the gnomes to get there. They eventually made it, but I think they were tired from their time spent swirling around under/behind/through my knees, so they didn't do as good a job. I'm still left with something. Do I go back? I don't know proper Eastern remedy protocol.
There's a darkness in my psoas. As I sit with my eyes closed and needles poking out of me, I can't help but wonder if every person carries his/her darkness in some body part. I know it sounds a little crazy, but it feels like a reasonable theory even after the needles come out. Maybe all the bad stuff, the negative energy, the meanness, the evil in each of us has to go somewhere. Mine chooses the psoas. Sometimes the gnomes or deep breathing can clear it out for a while, but if I'm not careful the darkness returns. Right now, the darkness is still pissed.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Therapy
Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.
Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.
I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.
Two hard bounces of synthetic cow on concrete. One fluid motion to push the ball into the air before letting gravity take over. The soft pause of scuffed orange sphere falling against sun-worn criss-cross of white netting. Repeat.
Pleasure, purpose, points. There's a deep relaxation technique that I find myself missing on this Sunday afternoon. The driveway basketball hoop. Its virtues have been extolled in this space before. The hoop absorbed unrequited loves and insecurity. The bouncing ball followed no script and was not a metaphor. The neighbors were all inside, but I stood in the driveway lost in shot. My thoughts circled the makeshift court bouncing from the problem of the day to the next reverse lay-in. Nothing can be so bad if the shots are falling. With no defense, the shots had a way of falling, even for a runner.
I could use that today. Something to shake the earth one thud at a time. Something to shoot toward. Something to make. Something to repeat.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
2.65 things
1. Monday night I went to see Leonard Cohen live and in concert. Even though I was only familiar with one of his songs, I found his music to be very accessible. He had some great lyrics, sung in that gravelly 74-year old man voice and the songs seemed to flow together like one long song with changes in pace and instrumentation. My favorite lyric of the night was not "Where is my gypsy wife?" although that one sticks in my head, but instead, "There is a crack in everything/ that's how the light gets in." Lenny came on for encore after encore and eventually outlasted us in the cold and rain.
2. I went to graduation yesterday to support those with Bad Habits on their resume. I managed to spot four and congratulate three. Despite the rain, the optimism and idealism were everywhere, particularly in the address. My own graduations were always rather anti-climatic, but witnessing someone else's seemed somehow more purposeful. Congrats, grads.
.65. Nutella, advanced degrees, psoas
1. Monday night I went to see Leonard Cohen live and in concert. Even though I was only familiar with one of his songs, I found his music to be very accessible. He had some great lyrics, sung in that gravelly 74-year old man voice and the songs seemed to flow together like one long song with changes in pace and instrumentation. My favorite lyric of the night was not "Where is my gypsy wife?" although that one sticks in my head, but instead, "There is a crack in everything/ that's how the light gets in." Lenny came on for encore after encore and eventually outlasted us in the cold and rain.
2. I went to graduation yesterday to support those with Bad Habits on their resume. I managed to spot four and congratulate three. Despite the rain, the optimism and idealism were everywhere, particularly in the address. My own graduations were always rather anti-climatic, but witnessing someone else's seemed somehow more purposeful. Congrats, grads.
.65. Nutella, advanced degrees, psoas
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Fun runs are not high school
High school cross-country practice was five days a week. In the good years, the same seven to ten guys all ran together on most runs. In the lean years, the same three or four were all there day in and day out. There was always an element of competition, even in practice. It took a lot of willpower and the occasional reminder from Coach that every day was not a race. The group of guys were working toward the same races.
There's an element of competition at the fun runs I attend. The difference is there is less familiarity, no coach, and everybody is on his or her own race schedule. Last night, I felt good, so I rejoined the "fast guys" who headed out the door claiming they would run about seven minute per mile pace. It quickly became obvious that false modesty was at play here. I struggled to get my legs moving to keep up with the pair I was now running behind. I suppose I could have slowed and maintained the agreed upon pace, but instead I was caught up in going lickety-split. I suspect we were out in a touch over six minute per mile pace for the first mile or so. I found my stride and soon after, the man I had bounded after announced that he was feeling fatigued. I thought it was more false modesty until he pulled up and slowed way down. Annoyed, with my legs awake, I decided to continue on at a quick pace. I didn't see the point in ripping off a first mile and then slowing way down. The respectful thing to do would have been to communicate that plan from the start. My suspicion is that the real intent had been to run us off the pace, slow down, and then keep us uncomfortable in the event that we had caught back up. That plan failed when I didn't go away. So, the new plan was to pound out the rest of the run as best I could on my own. I slowed a little, but still think I was running about six-fifteen to six-twenty pace. I was alone, just off race pace for the five mile distance and feeling great on a perfect evening.
I really appreciate having people to run with. It makes me miss that high school team experience. As I go to these runs, I need to make sure that I am building toward my goals, because no one else is looking out for them. Fortunately, my goal last night was to have a good crisp run. It got a little crispier than expected, but I'll take it.
High school cross-country practice was five days a week. In the good years, the same seven to ten guys all ran together on most runs. In the lean years, the same three or four were all there day in and day out. There was always an element of competition, even in practice. It took a lot of willpower and the occasional reminder from Coach that every day was not a race. The group of guys were working toward the same races.
There's an element of competition at the fun runs I attend. The difference is there is less familiarity, no coach, and everybody is on his or her own race schedule. Last night, I felt good, so I rejoined the "fast guys" who headed out the door claiming they would run about seven minute per mile pace. It quickly became obvious that false modesty was at play here. I struggled to get my legs moving to keep up with the pair I was now running behind. I suppose I could have slowed and maintained the agreed upon pace, but instead I was caught up in going lickety-split. I suspect we were out in a touch over six minute per mile pace for the first mile or so. I found my stride and soon after, the man I had bounded after announced that he was feeling fatigued. I thought it was more false modesty until he pulled up and slowed way down. Annoyed, with my legs awake, I decided to continue on at a quick pace. I didn't see the point in ripping off a first mile and then slowing way down. The respectful thing to do would have been to communicate that plan from the start. My suspicion is that the real intent had been to run us off the pace, slow down, and then keep us uncomfortable in the event that we had caught back up. That plan failed when I didn't go away. So, the new plan was to pound out the rest of the run as best I could on my own. I slowed a little, but still think I was running about six-fifteen to six-twenty pace. I was alone, just off race pace for the five mile distance and feeling great on a perfect evening.
I really appreciate having people to run with. It makes me miss that high school team experience. As I go to these runs, I need to make sure that I am building toward my goals, because no one else is looking out for them. Fortunately, my goal last night was to have a good crisp run. It got a little crispier than expected, but I'll take it.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
More advertising
I've seen live advertising before, but it usually takes the form of young gentlemen spinning signs or folks dressed up in ridiculous costumes, like hot dogs. I've also seen live advertising at events like conventions or concerts. The last two days, I've seen lunch time live advertising on the streets of DC. Monday it took the form of two guys camping out on the street corner. They had a tent, a pine tree, and were pretending to roast marshmallows over a fire. They were unobtrusive, but eye-catching. It was an ad for Zipcar, a company I'm a fan of that rents cars hourly, and their sign said something like "You'll need us to get here." I dug it. Today, I found five women in fancy clothes carrying large shopping bags from recognizable department stores. They chattered together as they walked down the street. Their chatter was broadcast from their microphones and through speakers on a wagon. Every hundred yards or so, they would stop and stage a fashion intervention among themselves. I admit I didn't pay too much attention, but I and some of my fellow lunchers were annoyed. It felt like an invasion. It was blatantly fake and since it was some kind of performance I had the urge to boo. I didn't, but I returned to my office to complain. When I told my coworkers, they said, "Well, all PR is good PR. They've got you talking." I was talking, but I've got a bad taste in my mouth. I wasn't the target audience, and I certainly wasn't encouraged to go shopping.
I'm curious to know if live advertising is worth it. I suspect these people were paid minimum wage. They probably got several thousand views. I like the effort even if I don't like the execution.
I've seen live advertising before, but it usually takes the form of young gentlemen spinning signs or folks dressed up in ridiculous costumes, like hot dogs. I've also seen live advertising at events like conventions or concerts. The last two days, I've seen lunch time live advertising on the streets of DC. Monday it took the form of two guys camping out on the street corner. They had a tent, a pine tree, and were pretending to roast marshmallows over a fire. They were unobtrusive, but eye-catching. It was an ad for Zipcar, a company I'm a fan of that rents cars hourly, and their sign said something like "You'll need us to get here." I dug it. Today, I found five women in fancy clothes carrying large shopping bags from recognizable department stores. They chattered together as they walked down the street. Their chatter was broadcast from their microphones and through speakers on a wagon. Every hundred yards or so, they would stop and stage a fashion intervention among themselves. I admit I didn't pay too much attention, but I and some of my fellow lunchers were annoyed. It felt like an invasion. It was blatantly fake and since it was some kind of performance I had the urge to boo. I didn't, but I returned to my office to complain. When I told my coworkers, they said, "Well, all PR is good PR. They've got you talking." I was talking, but I've got a bad taste in my mouth. I wasn't the target audience, and I certainly wasn't encouraged to go shopping.
I'm curious to know if live advertising is worth it. I suspect these people were paid minimum wage. They probably got several thousand views. I like the effort even if I don't like the execution.
Tying together Ultimate and New Year's Resolutions. Finally.
About three weeks ago, Ultimate failed me or I took part in its failure. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell which. It was a global-warming is coming hard kind of day, a thermometer-checking sweat-drenched shirt June day in April. We had a double-header scheduled and ample subs. We must have suited up in our lead boots. The other team was wearing their aluminum shoes. Few times in my life have I seen so little enthusiasm for a game of Ultimate. My team played without trust or enthusiasm. The other team played just well enough to beat us. We politely spoke in the huddle of pulling ourselves together, but there was nothing. No one could stir us up and lead us. I made a few feeble attempts, but was squashed for being reluctant. My failures were our failures. We took to ill-advised hucks after our half-hearted in cuts failed us. The other teams were far more talented in the air, but we still clung to a strategy that doomed us. I know that now in hindsight, but I couldn’t see it in the haze of the day.
I left bitter and dejected. I left ready to put my Ultimate playing career mostly in the rearview mirror. That’s a bad day. We improved the next week under more familiar leadership, winning a game against a team that expected to beat us. I miffed a gorgeous hammer that practically landed in my hand as I ran down the field in a full sprint, but otherwise played reasonably well, even breaking the mark with a flick and playing acceptable containment defense. The win felt good, but I still felt a little bruised and beaten. This is where I admit that while I love the team aspect of Ultimate, sometimes my own ego gets in the way. It’s great to be a cog in a machine, but sometimes I want to be a bright shiny cog that gets noticed. I try to control it, but sometimes that need still seeps out.
This past week as I rode my bike down from the suburbs to the site of our previous failure, I mentally prepared myself. It wasn’t as hot and muggy, but I wasn’t going to come out lethargic and I wanted to do a better job at picking the team up as best I could. I gave myself a little pep talk and came ready to play. I took a few hits early when my mark got broken, but I came out with some intensity. I did my best not to let my spirits fall. I stayed engaged on the sidelines. I looked to make the most of my points. After the team’s rough start, we began to battle back. I found myself in a nice battle with a very good player on the other team. We were going back and forth. I couldn’t manufacture any D’s, but I was close enough to cause some errant throws. The team as a whole still had trouble cutting and gelling, but at least we had some fight in us this time around. After one turn, we moved the disc up the field and I found myself marked in a three on two situation. I cocked back and threw up a hammer for a score. It was a nice surprise. The bigger surprise for me was when I turned to the sidelines and gestured for them to get fired up. We closed the gap to 1 point, but then couldn’t find our way. I begged off on one zone point. Then with the game on the line, we played zone again. I was short deep and I really think I blew it. I wasn’t following the poppers all the way into the cup and they were moving the disc. When we switched to man, I bit on a fake and watched my guy throw for a score. I guess I had a rough start and a rough finish, but overall I was pleased with the effort.
I’m not as proud of my post-game reaction. I grabbed my hat and flung it into the air as I announced, “Zone is for old people,” in frustration. The real frustration was with my failure, but instead of accepting that I blamed the scheme. I was able to turn the tide on intensity, now I need to shift my thinking on my reactions. I think that was one of my New Year’s Resolutions. Looks like there is still work to be done. Ultimate and I didn't fail each other at all. We just opened up an area for new lessons.
About three weeks ago, Ultimate failed me or I took part in its failure. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell which. It was a global-warming is coming hard kind of day, a thermometer-checking sweat-drenched shirt June day in April. We had a double-header scheduled and ample subs. We must have suited up in our lead boots. The other team was wearing their aluminum shoes. Few times in my life have I seen so little enthusiasm for a game of Ultimate. My team played without trust or enthusiasm. The other team played just well enough to beat us. We politely spoke in the huddle of pulling ourselves together, but there was nothing. No one could stir us up and lead us. I made a few feeble attempts, but was squashed for being reluctant. My failures were our failures. We took to ill-advised hucks after our half-hearted in cuts failed us. The other teams were far more talented in the air, but we still clung to a strategy that doomed us. I know that now in hindsight, but I couldn’t see it in the haze of the day.
I left bitter and dejected. I left ready to put my Ultimate playing career mostly in the rearview mirror. That’s a bad day. We improved the next week under more familiar leadership, winning a game against a team that expected to beat us. I miffed a gorgeous hammer that practically landed in my hand as I ran down the field in a full sprint, but otherwise played reasonably well, even breaking the mark with a flick and playing acceptable containment defense. The win felt good, but I still felt a little bruised and beaten. This is where I admit that while I love the team aspect of Ultimate, sometimes my own ego gets in the way. It’s great to be a cog in a machine, but sometimes I want to be a bright shiny cog that gets noticed. I try to control it, but sometimes that need still seeps out.
This past week as I rode my bike down from the suburbs to the site of our previous failure, I mentally prepared myself. It wasn’t as hot and muggy, but I wasn’t going to come out lethargic and I wanted to do a better job at picking the team up as best I could. I gave myself a little pep talk and came ready to play. I took a few hits early when my mark got broken, but I came out with some intensity. I did my best not to let my spirits fall. I stayed engaged on the sidelines. I looked to make the most of my points. After the team’s rough start, we began to battle back. I found myself in a nice battle with a very good player on the other team. We were going back and forth. I couldn’t manufacture any D’s, but I was close enough to cause some errant throws. The team as a whole still had trouble cutting and gelling, but at least we had some fight in us this time around. After one turn, we moved the disc up the field and I found myself marked in a three on two situation. I cocked back and threw up a hammer for a score. It was a nice surprise. The bigger surprise for me was when I turned to the sidelines and gestured for them to get fired up. We closed the gap to 1 point, but then couldn’t find our way. I begged off on one zone point. Then with the game on the line, we played zone again. I was short deep and I really think I blew it. I wasn’t following the poppers all the way into the cup and they were moving the disc. When we switched to man, I bit on a fake and watched my guy throw for a score. I guess I had a rough start and a rough finish, but overall I was pleased with the effort.
I’m not as proud of my post-game reaction. I grabbed my hat and flung it into the air as I announced, “Zone is for old people,” in frustration. The real frustration was with my failure, but instead of accepting that I blamed the scheme. I was able to turn the tide on intensity, now I need to shift my thinking on my reactions. I think that was one of my New Year’s Resolutions. Looks like there is still work to be done. Ultimate and I didn't fail each other at all. We just opened up an area for new lessons.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Another 60 seconds, another lollipop
I think I pay more attention to advertising than most people. At one point, I intended to make a career out of it. Now it's more of a hobby. I can't help but think about strategy, or appreciate a good line, or cringe in embarrassment for some client somewhere who thought that was a good idea. Now and again I see an ad or a campaign that makes me want to shake somebody's hand, or at least gets to me. I don't run out and buy things in response, but when it's really good, I can't stop talking about it for a while. It doesn't last, it's pop art, it's as disposable as most of the products, but it's something for a minute or two. As fast as things come these days, that's got to be worth the cable it runs through. Right now, I find two TV commercials worth talking about.
The first may be directed solely at me. This is part of cotton's new campaign. It's got Zooey Deschanel, whose music and look I find charming, singing about cotton while she goes through her day surrounded by music and cotton. She tickles the ivories on a great looking up right, she leafs through some records, she swings her hips while walking a bike, but what really gets me is when she reaches up for a banjo. Look out. I'm changing out of my dri-fit and putting on my cotton. Hi Zooey.
I did a little research and this ad is part of what is now a three-piece series. There's one for a country singer and one for an R&B singer as well. All are shot beautifully, with lots of color, glossy lips, and suggestions of creativity. Each takes the viewer on the journey from "fame" to everyday ordinary life. And look at that, everybody ends up in cotton when they aren't all glammed up. I'll be. Cotton just might be the fabric of our lives.
The second ad worth mentioning reaches me on a different level. Long ago, I'm not sure I understood what about advertising interested me. Now, I know. I wanted to take some words, rearrange them, and when they came out on the other side, they'd have some power, even if they didn't have meaning. Perhaps, I was (I am?) a little lazy, so I figured it would be best if I was limited to 30-second spots, or maybe a billboard. Advertising would have been a great outlet for that, instead I've got a blog. Which leads me to the "most interesting man in the world" campaign for Dos Equis. This campaign packs enough meaningless statements in 30 seconds for six young aspiring copywriters. A couple contenders:
"His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man's entire body."
"His reputation is expanding faster than the universe."
My favorite and the champion meaningless statement, deserving of the highest honor, "He lives vicariously through himself."
That's enough to make me re-think my career path.
Wait, I have a career path?
I think I pay more attention to advertising than most people. At one point, I intended to make a career out of it. Now it's more of a hobby. I can't help but think about strategy, or appreciate a good line, or cringe in embarrassment for some client somewhere who thought that was a good idea. Now and again I see an ad or a campaign that makes me want to shake somebody's hand, or at least gets to me. I don't run out and buy things in response, but when it's really good, I can't stop talking about it for a while. It doesn't last, it's pop art, it's as disposable as most of the products, but it's something for a minute or two. As fast as things come these days, that's got to be worth the cable it runs through. Right now, I find two TV commercials worth talking about.
The first may be directed solely at me. This is part of cotton's new campaign. It's got Zooey Deschanel, whose music and look I find charming, singing about cotton while she goes through her day surrounded by music and cotton. She tickles the ivories on a great looking up right, she leafs through some records, she swings her hips while walking a bike, but what really gets me is when she reaches up for a banjo. Look out. I'm changing out of my dri-fit and putting on my cotton. Hi Zooey.
I did a little research and this ad is part of what is now a three-piece series. There's one for a country singer and one for an R&B singer as well. All are shot beautifully, with lots of color, glossy lips, and suggestions of creativity. Each takes the viewer on the journey from "fame" to everyday ordinary life. And look at that, everybody ends up in cotton when they aren't all glammed up. I'll be. Cotton just might be the fabric of our lives.
The second ad worth mentioning reaches me on a different level. Long ago, I'm not sure I understood what about advertising interested me. Now, I know. I wanted to take some words, rearrange them, and when they came out on the other side, they'd have some power, even if they didn't have meaning. Perhaps, I was (I am?) a little lazy, so I figured it would be best if I was limited to 30-second spots, or maybe a billboard. Advertising would have been a great outlet for that, instead I've got a blog. Which leads me to the "most interesting man in the world" campaign for Dos Equis. This campaign packs enough meaningless statements in 30 seconds for six young aspiring copywriters. A couple contenders:
"His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man's entire body."
"His reputation is expanding faster than the universe."
My favorite and the champion meaningless statement, deserving of the highest honor, "He lives vicariously through himself."
That's enough to make me re-think my career path.
Wait, I have a career path?
Monday, May 04, 2009
The sky is crying
The 2nd Annual Alumni game seemed an apt metaphor for the season. We had grand plans and then as time approached to complete the plans things looked to get a little messy. We had to ignore the mess, make the most of it, and play Ultimate. Mostly, this was weather-related messiness and fortunately, the weather turned to light sprinkles which was no problem for the turf beneath our feet. So, we played.
Alan has recapped the game here, which is fortunate, because I was lost. I played with the alums, but couldn't help but cheer on both sides. I never really found my legs, but wasn't that worried because I'd found my friends. Sometimes, I love CUA Ultimate and yesterday was certainly one of those times. Sure there was some on field goodness that made me proud, stuff like Ranjo bugging the heck out of John, while John earned his most improved player status by keeping that disc moving so well. Or seeing Templon throw to Karpo and flashing back three years. It was a little hard to watch Alan pick us apart knowing he is going to be on the alum side next year, but then it was nice to remember that sheer will coupled with physical ability are what make Arin such a force. It was kind of sweet to see Cat prancing around again out of position on the dump and really sweet to see Classics making things happen on both sides of the disc. Nobody could guard Stills and hopefully that trend will continue for other teams. Maybe CUA Ultimate will bring some defense next year if Templon's brother is really on his way to CUA. (Who would have believed that statement would ever be typed?)
It was the off the field stuff that were the true highlights for me. Even with the alum crowd slightly thin, it was a great way and day to celebrate CUA Ultimate. I wish I hadn't screamed at Jimmy, but some things never change, and I did take charge of the situation which I'm proud of. It's been very hard for me to be a vocal leader and I felt like I did that pretty well yesterday with some of the organizing and awards. It felt really good to pull all the grads up to be cheered and it even better to huddle up with everyone at the end and really celebrate with our Popemobile cheer. Thanks everybody. Hopefully our
crowd will grow even larger next year.
The 2nd Annual Alumni game seemed an apt metaphor for the season. We had grand plans and then as time approached to complete the plans things looked to get a little messy. We had to ignore the mess, make the most of it, and play Ultimate. Mostly, this was weather-related messiness and fortunately, the weather turned to light sprinkles which was no problem for the turf beneath our feet. So, we played.
Alan has recapped the game here, which is fortunate, because I was lost. I played with the alums, but couldn't help but cheer on both sides. I never really found my legs, but wasn't that worried because I'd found my friends. Sometimes, I love CUA Ultimate and yesterday was certainly one of those times. Sure there was some on field goodness that made me proud, stuff like Ranjo bugging the heck out of John, while John earned his most improved player status by keeping that disc moving so well. Or seeing Templon throw to Karpo and flashing back three years. It was a little hard to watch Alan pick us apart knowing he is going to be on the alum side next year, but then it was nice to remember that sheer will coupled with physical ability are what make Arin such a force. It was kind of sweet to see Cat prancing around again out of position on the dump and really sweet to see Classics making things happen on both sides of the disc. Nobody could guard Stills and hopefully that trend will continue for other teams. Maybe CUA Ultimate will bring some defense next year if Templon's brother is really on his way to CUA. (Who would have believed that statement would ever be typed?)
It was the off the field stuff that were the true highlights for me. Even with the alum crowd slightly thin, it was a great way and day to celebrate CUA Ultimate. I wish I hadn't screamed at Jimmy, but some things never change, and I did take charge of the situation which I'm proud of. It's been very hard for me to be a vocal leader and I felt like I did that pretty well yesterday with some of the organizing and awards. It felt really good to pull all the grads up to be cheered and it even better to huddle up with everyone at the end and really celebrate with our Popemobile cheer. Thanks everybody. Hopefully our
crowd will grow even larger next year.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Pirate kisses and Glenrothes
The thing I like about this blog is the commingling of the high and low brow. This blog is medium brow when taken as an average, and furrowed brow when taken in aggregate, but at any point a reader might find the high: Drinking single malt at the Round Robin, I couldn't help but notice the man in the grey suit, a throwback to another era with his matching grey fedora. He was a regular. It was my first time.
Or the low: There in the back alley, a pirate pawed his wench as they traded puffs on a cigarette. Their brand of lust was the empty sort found between shifts at the local pirate-themed tavern. I shouted "Pirate love!" in their direction since "Shiver me timbers" sounded profane. They responded with a smile, though a little parrot mouthing off would have gone a long way.
The thing I like about this blog is the commingling of the high and low brow. This blog is medium brow when taken as an average, and furrowed brow when taken in aggregate, but at any point a reader might find the high: Drinking single malt at the Round Robin, I couldn't help but notice the man in the grey suit, a throwback to another era with his matching grey fedora. He was a regular. It was my first time.
Or the low: There in the back alley, a pirate pawed his wench as they traded puffs on a cigarette. Their brand of lust was the empty sort found between shifts at the local pirate-themed tavern. I shouted "Pirate love!" in their direction since "Shiver me timbers" sounded profane. They responded with a smile, though a little parrot mouthing off would have gone a long way.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Meat. It's for eatin'
I went pescetarian for two months. This was not a decision that I made lightly, although it seemed like it. My pescetarian ways started on a bet at a vegetarian joint in Canada. Nope. Not lightly. I know some vegetarians and what they lack in meat-based protein they generally make up in overall coolness. Still, I'm a KC meat guy. They moved cows in my town. I bleed bar-b-que sauce.
Yet, as I ate meat-lover's poutine (it's a Montreal hangover cure that doesn't inherently require meat only fries, gravy, and cheese curds), I found my heart racing and rather than blame the curds I chose to pick on poor defenseless piles of meat. So after some discussion and a delicious meal of non-meat items my pescetarian path unfolded before me. No meat, except the fishes and I don't like fishes.
What had I signed on for? I blamed meat for my poor eating habits and figured if I removed the mammal, I could force myself into a food pyramid. There were some faulty assumptions in there, but I dove into couscous and tofu hard. I finally got around to slicing and cooking up sweet potatoes and kale. I ate fruit- pears, peaches, apples. For two weeks, it was veg-tastic. I shifted my paradigm. I didn't need to have a slab of protein as the centerpiece. I could instead have a series of sides. It was not as unsatisfying as I imagined.
The first real challenge came at a meal with my coworkers. I had steered them away from the seafood joints prior to signing up for this new lifestyle, so they could have registered surprise when I ordered tilapia, but I learned a non-vegetarian lesson that day- even people up in your business aren't always paying attention. Tilapia was the only option I could find that wouldn't make me a bet loser. It was crusted and the fish taste was minor. I survived. Maybe even thrived.
The next big challenge either came at an Ultimate tournament or a rehearsal dinner. Either way, the story was the same- BBQ. I ate cole slaw, beans, and buns and hoped to find an egg salad sandwich later in the evening. This stung a little, but I had a bet and was highly motivated. The Ultimate tournament was manageable, but the rehearsal dinner was pescetarianism under a magnifying glass. It's hard to hide meat-shirking from a family. There was not much hiding here. My cover was blown, but I wasn't backing down.
More weeks went by and I battled on with pasta and some tuna salad sandwiches. I wasn't about to lose. I was cruising along thinking maybe I could make a permanent change when two events struck back to back. First came the steak house. When someone ordered ribs after I'd ordered a sweet potato and a salad, my tear ducts quivered. I held back the waterworks, but just barely. Next came the portobello cheeseburger. It was an ok sandwich on its own, but as a faux-cheeseburger it burned my insides with its inferiority. I longed for beef. Each bite was mushroom covered defeat. It was almost sickening.
I'd learned some things during the challenge. Maybe I could survive without making meat the sun of my dinner solar system. Maybe to eat healthy I needed to focus more on portion size and the particular components of a meal, rather than on trying to assign blame to some poor animal flesh. These were the lessons, but my challenge lacked completion. The bet had gone a bit off the tracks, so I set my sights on the two-month mark. I was going to make it to that point without meat. I dug in, chugged couscous and made it.
To celebrate I ate a pepperoni pizza, a small cheeseburger, and a tofu explosion. I'm kidding about the tofu explosion. There are some things that require bacon. Maybe I'll cling to what I've learned and let someone else eat those things.
I went pescetarian for two months. This was not a decision that I made lightly, although it seemed like it. My pescetarian ways started on a bet at a vegetarian joint in Canada. Nope. Not lightly. I know some vegetarians and what they lack in meat-based protein they generally make up in overall coolness. Still, I'm a KC meat guy. They moved cows in my town. I bleed bar-b-que sauce.
Yet, as I ate meat-lover's poutine (it's a Montreal hangover cure that doesn't inherently require meat only fries, gravy, and cheese curds), I found my heart racing and rather than blame the curds I chose to pick on poor defenseless piles of meat. So after some discussion and a delicious meal of non-meat items my pescetarian path unfolded before me. No meat, except the fishes and I don't like fishes.
What had I signed on for? I blamed meat for my poor eating habits and figured if I removed the mammal, I could force myself into a food pyramid. There were some faulty assumptions in there, but I dove into couscous and tofu hard. I finally got around to slicing and cooking up sweet potatoes and kale. I ate fruit- pears, peaches, apples. For two weeks, it was veg-tastic. I shifted my paradigm. I didn't need to have a slab of protein as the centerpiece. I could instead have a series of sides. It was not as unsatisfying as I imagined.
The first real challenge came at a meal with my coworkers. I had steered them away from the seafood joints prior to signing up for this new lifestyle, so they could have registered surprise when I ordered tilapia, but I learned a non-vegetarian lesson that day- even people up in your business aren't always paying attention. Tilapia was the only option I could find that wouldn't make me a bet loser. It was crusted and the fish taste was minor. I survived. Maybe even thrived.
The next big challenge either came at an Ultimate tournament or a rehearsal dinner. Either way, the story was the same- BBQ. I ate cole slaw, beans, and buns and hoped to find an egg salad sandwich later in the evening. This stung a little, but I had a bet and was highly motivated. The Ultimate tournament was manageable, but the rehearsal dinner was pescetarianism under a magnifying glass. It's hard to hide meat-shirking from a family. There was not much hiding here. My cover was blown, but I wasn't backing down.
More weeks went by and I battled on with pasta and some tuna salad sandwiches. I wasn't about to lose. I was cruising along thinking maybe I could make a permanent change when two events struck back to back. First came the steak house. When someone ordered ribs after I'd ordered a sweet potato and a salad, my tear ducts quivered. I held back the waterworks, but just barely. Next came the portobello cheeseburger. It was an ok sandwich on its own, but as a faux-cheeseburger it burned my insides with its inferiority. I longed for beef. Each bite was mushroom covered defeat. It was almost sickening.
I'd learned some things during the challenge. Maybe I could survive without making meat the sun of my dinner solar system. Maybe to eat healthy I needed to focus more on portion size and the particular components of a meal, rather than on trying to assign blame to some poor animal flesh. These were the lessons, but my challenge lacked completion. The bet had gone a bit off the tracks, so I set my sights on the two-month mark. I was going to make it to that point without meat. I dug in, chugged couscous and made it.
To celebrate I ate a pepperoni pizza, a small cheeseburger, and a tofu explosion. I'm kidding about the tofu explosion. There are some things that require bacon. Maybe I'll cling to what I've learned and let someone else eat those things.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Dear legs, please don't quit on me
Since Tuesday's squeaker second-place finish, I have run a track workout- 2 times 4 by 400m at 69 second pace with 90 seconds rest and 3:30 between sets, run a 4.5 miler, played shoddy laid-back Ultimate, biked 23 miles, run a 5k race, and hiked 4 or so miles.
When I woke up this morning for the local Earth Day 5k, I thought my legs might go on strike. If I hadn't already paid an entry fee, I likely would have bailed. The event was so close to my house that after I picked up my packet, I jogged a warm up home to drop off my new t-shirt and socks. I knew several of the participants from the local running store runs. The atmosphere was relaxed. One of the runners suggested that victory could well be mine, but like most runners I supplied appropriate doubts. It wasn't modesty talking, it was soreness.
The race was an out and back course, with most of the first mile on a long sloping downhill and everyone fully aware that going down meant coming up. I toed the starting line because not many others seemed to want to. Once GO was uttered and the chips were activated, my mind went a little blank. We soared down the hill. I was running in fourth or fifth for a while as we ripped through a mile in 5:21. The leader soon established his dominance and I found myself trailing an older man in a jersey with the words "third place" on the back. After looking at those words for a while and thinking about the potential prize money, I decided that it was my duty to help this gentlemen attain his jersey-given name, so soon after crossing the 2 mile at 11:10, I moved into second place. When we turned back up the long hill, I had the good fortune of being so far out of first that a second pacer on a bike appeared to lead us on the course. This gave me someone to chase up the hill. I chased well for a while and then the pain began to set in. I slowed, kept the visions of cash close at hand, and fought on. I'd opened up a sizable gap on third, but could feel the gap shrinking.
There was a pretty good internal battle going at this point, but I just wanted it to be over. With several glances behind me, I finally made it across the line at 17:55. The little pay day was mine. I was more than a minute out of first and had taken second by just a few seconds. My legs did not fall off. Hopefully, the earth appreciated it.
Tomorrow, I rest.
Since Tuesday's squeaker second-place finish, I have run a track workout- 2 times 4 by 400m at 69 second pace with 90 seconds rest and 3:30 between sets, run a 4.5 miler, played shoddy laid-back Ultimate, biked 23 miles, run a 5k race, and hiked 4 or so miles.
When I woke up this morning for the local Earth Day 5k, I thought my legs might go on strike. If I hadn't already paid an entry fee, I likely would have bailed. The event was so close to my house that after I picked up my packet, I jogged a warm up home to drop off my new t-shirt and socks. I knew several of the participants from the local running store runs. The atmosphere was relaxed. One of the runners suggested that victory could well be mine, but like most runners I supplied appropriate doubts. It wasn't modesty talking, it was soreness.
The race was an out and back course, with most of the first mile on a long sloping downhill and everyone fully aware that going down meant coming up. I toed the starting line because not many others seemed to want to. Once GO was uttered and the chips were activated, my mind went a little blank. We soared down the hill. I was running in fourth or fifth for a while as we ripped through a mile in 5:21. The leader soon established his dominance and I found myself trailing an older man in a jersey with the words "third place" on the back. After looking at those words for a while and thinking about the potential prize money, I decided that it was my duty to help this gentlemen attain his jersey-given name, so soon after crossing the 2 mile at 11:10, I moved into second place. When we turned back up the long hill, I had the good fortune of being so far out of first that a second pacer on a bike appeared to lead us on the course. This gave me someone to chase up the hill. I chased well for a while and then the pain began to set in. I slowed, kept the visions of cash close at hand, and fought on. I'd opened up a sizable gap on third, but could feel the gap shrinking.
There was a pretty good internal battle going at this point, but I just wanted it to be over. With several glances behind me, I finally made it across the line at 17:55. The little pay day was mine. I was more than a minute out of first and had taken second by just a few seconds. My legs did not fall off. Hopefully, the earth appreciated it.
Tomorrow, I rest.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
An April mile
Two nights ago, ignoring the triple threat of rain, traffic, and straying so far outside the DC city lines, my friend M and I journeyed to the untamed suburb of Gaithersburg, Maryland to test our mettle on the Quince Orchard High School track in the mile.
We spent quite a while cruising up and down an avenue, desperately missing those who had organized and directed us in the past or at least a map. With minutes to spare we arrived at the track in time to register and then wait.
The evening was divided into heats with the milers predicting times over 10 minutes going first, 9 to 10 minutes second, 8 to 9 next, and on down. Almost every heat seemed to share several characteristics.
1. Someone (or several people) would start out faster than they intended to and fade painfully.
2. Someone would run 30 seconds or more below the low end of their predicted time.
3. Much to the crowd's delight there would be a furious agonizingly close finish for at least one pair of people.
M and I studied and applauded these heats and planned our strategy. M ran first and with a little coaxing agreed that if she could hold 7:30 pace for a half-marathon; she could run in the 6 to 7 minute mile heat. This was her first timed mile and so she plotted a conservative approach. She started off well at the back of the pack as planned. Her heat was HUGE and she shared the track with about 30 people. Entering the second lap, I thought she made a big move, but was told later that 10 high school kids were regretting their fast start allowing her to smartly move up to around the middle of the heat. She crossed the half mile in 3:21 and continued to look comfortable and on pace. The crowd was forcing her to lane 2 on the turns, but she cruised on. M stayed steady throughout, passing a few more people on lap 3 and keeping pace on lap 4. She picked off one more entering the final turn and headed home with a 6:38 mile. She had a new personal record! She looked strong and I suspect there may be some untapped speed in there, but we'll wait to find that out next time.
The evening wore on, the crowd thinned, and 7 runners toed the line as a light rain began to fall on what had become the under 5:30 mile heat. My goal was to run under 5 minutes. When the gun went off, 4 runners jumped out front and I tucked in a few yards behind. The man in front was soon out of reach, second place had 15 yards and the runner in third, fourth, and
and I all crossed the first lap in 75 seconds, right about on pace. I thought I was pouring it on in laps 2 and 3, especially since I passed and put some distance between the now fourth and fifth place runners, but instead I clocked times of about 77 and 75, just off the desired pace. With the final lap, I set my sights on second place. I'd shed my glasses since it was raining, but I could still see that I was gaining on the runner in white. He was a blur, but I didn't need to see his features to know that he was a ways in front. I thought his lead was too great, but I went after him anyway. I gained a few yards on the backstretch and gained a few more on the homestretch, but the distance wasn't closing fast enough. As we made our way over the last 80 yards, I kept staring at his back waiting for him to pour it on as I gave chase. I believe that if he'd had just a hard step or two, I would have been broken and stuck in third. Instead, somehow with 10 yards left, I pulled even with him and then slid past. The runner reacted with a late kick, but the finish line arrived just in time. Second place and a 4:57 mile were mine.
Two nights ago, ignoring the triple threat of rain, traffic, and straying so far outside the DC city lines, my friend M and I journeyed to the untamed suburb of Gaithersburg, Maryland to test our mettle on the Quince Orchard High School track in the mile.
We spent quite a while cruising up and down an avenue, desperately missing those who had organized and directed us in the past or at least a map. With minutes to spare we arrived at the track in time to register and then wait.
The evening was divided into heats with the milers predicting times over 10 minutes going first, 9 to 10 minutes second, 8 to 9 next, and on down. Almost every heat seemed to share several characteristics.
1. Someone (or several people) would start out faster than they intended to and fade painfully.
2. Someone would run 30 seconds or more below the low end of their predicted time.
3. Much to the crowd's delight there would be a furious agonizingly close finish for at least one pair of people.
M and I studied and applauded these heats and planned our strategy. M ran first and with a little coaxing agreed that if she could hold 7:30 pace for a half-marathon; she could run in the 6 to 7 minute mile heat. This was her first timed mile and so she plotted a conservative approach. She started off well at the back of the pack as planned. Her heat was HUGE and she shared the track with about 30 people. Entering the second lap, I thought she made a big move, but was told later that 10 high school kids were regretting their fast start allowing her to smartly move up to around the middle of the heat. She crossed the half mile in 3:21 and continued to look comfortable and on pace. The crowd was forcing her to lane 2 on the turns, but she cruised on. M stayed steady throughout, passing a few more people on lap 3 and keeping pace on lap 4. She picked off one more entering the final turn and headed home with a 6:38 mile. She had a new personal record! She looked strong and I suspect there may be some untapped speed in there, but we'll wait to find that out next time.
The evening wore on, the crowd thinned, and 7 runners toed the line as a light rain began to fall on what had become the under 5:30 mile heat. My goal was to run under 5 minutes. When the gun went off, 4 runners jumped out front and I tucked in a few yards behind. The man in front was soon out of reach, second place had 15 yards and the runner in third, fourth, and
and I all crossed the first lap in 75 seconds, right about on pace. I thought I was pouring it on in laps 2 and 3, especially since I passed and put some distance between the now fourth and fifth place runners, but instead I clocked times of about 77 and 75, just off the desired pace. With the final lap, I set my sights on second place. I'd shed my glasses since it was raining, but I could still see that I was gaining on the runner in white. He was a blur, but I didn't need to see his features to know that he was a ways in front. I thought his lead was too great, but I went after him anyway. I gained a few yards on the backstretch and gained a few more on the homestretch, but the distance wasn't closing fast enough. As we made our way over the last 80 yards, I kept staring at his back waiting for him to pour it on as I gave chase. I believe that if he'd had just a hard step or two, I would have been broken and stuck in third. Instead, somehow with 10 yards left, I pulled even with him and then slid past. The runner reacted with a late kick, but the finish line arrived just in time. Second place and a 4:57 mile were mine.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
I've got a theory
Groups with enthusiasm are an awesome force. Saturday night I was part of a sing-a-long birthday party. We had parts and dressed up and we performed. Some more than others. The stage was set on a cardboard and construction paper Sunnydale, California. If we'd ripped up the carpet we probably would have found a cardboard Hellmouth, but we were contented with magic shop contents and eating at The Bronze between the store fronts of main street. The Buffy The Vampire Slayer TV show episode "Once More with Feeling" was our assignment and celebrating Kim was our motivation.
I practiced many hours to learn the part of Xander as best I could. I still clung to the security of my script during my songs. Others either practiced more or have more natural talents. It was an impressive display of modest singing ability. The most impressive part was the enthusiasm everyone shared. We were into it and thrilled by each performance. People knew or made up choreography. Everyone smiled and laughed and sang like he or she was in the episode. We could have been the understudies. I'm a little biased, but it was that good. And if it wasn't, at least it was that much fun.
Somehow, it felt like more than fun . It was more like teamwork. It felt like it meant more than just a sing-a-long. I've heard most of my friends sing karaoke in that same basement, but this was bigger. I saw the talents of my friends in a renewed light. It felt important that we had trusted each other enough to show that we cared about something, even a basement performance. The event didn't transform my view of my friends, but it reminded me a little of what it was like to first meet them and be amazed. That's a special gift and quite a party.
Groups with enthusiasm are an awesome force. Saturday night I was part of a sing-a-long birthday party. We had parts and dressed up and we performed. Some more than others. The stage was set on a cardboard and construction paper Sunnydale, California. If we'd ripped up the carpet we probably would have found a cardboard Hellmouth, but we were contented with magic shop contents and eating at The Bronze between the store fronts of main street. The Buffy The Vampire Slayer TV show episode "Once More with Feeling" was our assignment and celebrating Kim was our motivation.
I practiced many hours to learn the part of Xander as best I could. I still clung to the security of my script during my songs. Others either practiced more or have more natural talents. It was an impressive display of modest singing ability. The most impressive part was the enthusiasm everyone shared. We were into it and thrilled by each performance. People knew or made up choreography. Everyone smiled and laughed and sang like he or she was in the episode. We could have been the understudies. I'm a little biased, but it was that good. And if it wasn't, at least it was that much fun.
Somehow, it felt like more than fun . It was more like teamwork. It felt like it meant more than just a sing-a-long. I've heard most of my friends sing karaoke in that same basement, but this was bigger. I saw the talents of my friends in a renewed light. It felt important that we had trusted each other enough to show that we cared about something, even a basement performance. The event didn't transform my view of my friends, but it reminded me a little of what it was like to first meet them and be amazed. That's a special gift and quite a party.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Making up for lost time
March Madness
The Missouri Tigers run to the elite 8 did wonders for my bracket, for a moment making me a believer as I captured all 8 of the elite correctly. Then UConn and Michigan State destroyed my hopes and sent me to 14th place. I watched too much basketball and enjoyed some nice mad moments. I rushed out of work and headed to a sports bar to watch Maryland win their first round game. It was a bit like being in church. I felt fellowship with the Terps fans as the emotions rose and fell while I took sips of my beer. Maybe not exactly like church. Those two little guards from American giving a scare to Villanova was a treat. My favorite game was a women's game.
It was Maryland vs. Vanderbilt. I was flipping channels and I caught the start and couldn't stop watching. Maryland was heavily favored, but Vanderbilt came out scrapping from the jump. They were led by a senior and she was having a day. She was 5 to 7 inches shorter than the women she was guarding, but she was swatting balls away, making steals, getting rebounds, and finding ways to score. Her scrappy attitude put Vandy out in front of Maryland, way in front. With her on the court, Vanderbilt was unstoppable, but she got some fouls and needed some rest and Maryland managed to stay within striking distance. Vandy kept fighting all game long, but one Maryland player, Marissa Coleman (who recently became a Washington Mystic in the WNBA) refused to lose. She put Maryland on her back and scored 42 points. It was a great battle. I didn't need a bracket to enjoy fiery competition.
Sectionals Madness as told with help of a halfbeard
"I'm dressed for you today. I'm wearing these cargo pants, so you can put all of your baggage in my pockets. I'm wearing this tie-dye shirt so you can play with calm and chill. I'm wearing this hat so you remember that divided we fail, but united we stand. Teamwork. And I have this ridiculous beard because I Want You TO PLAY RIDICULOUS!"
After seven months of growing an increasingly charming(?) beard, I finally shaved half of it in part as an effort to inspire my team to overcome the odds and go on to Sectional glory. I agreed that I'd go to work looking ridiculous if we met our early season goals. The plan had been laid out, though not followed, and the section was ripe for a shake up.
I was doing my coaching best, which leaves something to be desired, but has progressed since September. The team was seeded seventh overall and second in our pool. It was going to take an incredible amount of gelling and a bit of good luck to get where we wanted to be, but I've taken to searching for wells of optimism. The sun was shining, but the wind was blowing. Discs and wind are a bit like coffee and Irish creme. The right amount can be wonderful, but mess up the ratio and trouble awaits. The first game was against Johns Hopkins. The game was like the halfbeard, sometimes hairy, sometimes nearly smooth, never exactly pretty. At universe point, we blew it and our lofty goals took their first hit. My well of optimism sank, but JA said it well as we would time and again over the weekend, "We didn't come here to go undefeated. We came to go to Regionals."
So the team rallied a bit and polished off the 4 seed Maryland B in marginally convincing fashion. The biggest problem in that game other than the spate of dropped passes was our ailing star Lemon who took another hit trying to help the team and his limited playing time was reduced further. After a bye, Bad Habit took on Delaware B and with a little help from their disinterest steamrolled to a 13-1 victory, narrowly missing a shutout. Life was further improved when Maryland B upset Johns Hopkins at universe point, making way for Habit to at least make it into the 3rd place bracket comfortably. Still, the 1 seed, GW awaited. For the first few points, Habit held serve and looked strong doing it. Stills was playing his heart out, but slowly the facade began to show cracks. GW put on a zone and then reeled off 4 in a row and never looked back. Stills came up with one of the individual highlights for the team with a huge layout D on a swing pass, but Habit couldn't find a groove and GW ran away. With a 2-2 record, Habit would have to come out strong on Sunday and reel off 4 wins. It was a tall order, made taller by a lack of depth. The team was carrying more members than usual, but practice together had been limited and it was difficult for me to tell who could be counted on in the clutch. This was made even more difficult by my general fondness for the group I was with. I had to balance optimism and realism as we entered the game on Sunday against Salisbury.
We came out with very little punch on Sunday and things did not go our way. Salisbury dispatched of us and our poor throws rather quickly and our Regional aspirations were gone before I knew what hit us. A series of mistakes and missed opportunities along with an inability to capitalize continued to haunt us. We went on to play in the seventh place bracket.
I set a poor tone for the game against GMU. My line calling was as lax as my attitude and I was far from alone. Down way too many, the team finally dug in and pulled out a miracle by coming back from down 12-7 or 8 and winning at universe point 14-13. It wasn't pretty, but they did the job. That victory meant a match-up with the host St. Mary's and a chance to prove that we had deserved to be seeded 7th to their 8th. Feeding off the GMU game, Habit sliced up everything St. Mary's put out. SM scored 4 or 5 and showed that her recent dominance is only in its beginning stages. For subs, I was rotating the top 7 to 9 through about 5 or 6 spots and trying to get the other players in as much as possible in the other 2 spots. It seemed to be working all right. The top group was playing well, and KG and Classics made a push to really fill out some of the gaps, while SM, Tini, and Frodo all had solid performances in their limited points. The team was starting to be a team.
Bye-bye St. Mary's, hello rematch with Salisbury. The Salisbury Buzz weren't really interested in playing for seventh, but after a weekend of hemming and hawing, we had finally found some kind of groove. I kept with the same substitution game plan for the next game, and got huge points from KG and Classics again. The starters were playing great and this became a battle of attrition. KG wasn't interested in much attrition and came up with about a zillion D's using his little spring-loaded legs, and then grabbed several scores to boot. JA found a way to get deep and AJ started finding a way to get his big throws to him. Salisbury found themselves in a mighty battle. JG continued his solid play finding big gaps for cross-field throws and just making the offense run through him. The score went back and forth. We'd go on a run and then the Buzz would answer. At Lemon's urging I used our timeouts to stop runs and it seemed to work pretty well. JM hit on a backhand for a score and the tide seemed to be turning, but the Buzz kept finding answers. The battle was reaching epic status when Banjo made a huge grab for a score on an out cut, took the body blow and held on to the disc. Frodo tried to fight his way to victory. At 13-13, we were receiving for universe point. We had at least 2 chances, one 5 yards from the goal line and one on a deep cut with two receivers, but couldn't finish it off. We ended up 8th.
It was nowhere near where we wanted to be, but there were many things to be proud of and as a team we got what we worked for. Hopefully, we'll learn from it. At the end of the last game, an effusive fellow stopped by and in an apparent sober but heartfelt moment detailed his personal history and love for the game. It was awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but the message that I heard was spot on. That message: "Whatever you're playing for, there is a honor in competing and giving it your all. Be proud that you took part and enjoy the moments."
Right on, guy. Don't cry.
March Madness
The Missouri Tigers run to the elite 8 did wonders for my bracket, for a moment making me a believer as I captured all 8 of the elite correctly. Then UConn and Michigan State destroyed my hopes and sent me to 14th place. I watched too much basketball and enjoyed some nice mad moments. I rushed out of work and headed to a sports bar to watch Maryland win their first round game. It was a bit like being in church. I felt fellowship with the Terps fans as the emotions rose and fell while I took sips of my beer. Maybe not exactly like church. Those two little guards from American giving a scare to Villanova was a treat. My favorite game was a women's game.
It was Maryland vs. Vanderbilt. I was flipping channels and I caught the start and couldn't stop watching. Maryland was heavily favored, but Vanderbilt came out scrapping from the jump. They were led by a senior and she was having a day. She was 5 to 7 inches shorter than the women she was guarding, but she was swatting balls away, making steals, getting rebounds, and finding ways to score. Her scrappy attitude put Vandy out in front of Maryland, way in front. With her on the court, Vanderbilt was unstoppable, but she got some fouls and needed some rest and Maryland managed to stay within striking distance. Vandy kept fighting all game long, but one Maryland player, Marissa Coleman (who recently became a Washington Mystic in the WNBA) refused to lose. She put Maryland on her back and scored 42 points. It was a great battle. I didn't need a bracket to enjoy fiery competition.
Sectionals Madness as told with help of a halfbeard
"I'm dressed for you today. I'm wearing these cargo pants, so you can put all of your baggage in my pockets. I'm wearing this tie-dye shirt so you can play with calm and chill. I'm wearing this hat so you remember that divided we fail, but united we stand. Teamwork. And I have this ridiculous beard because I Want You TO PLAY RIDICULOUS!"
After seven months of growing an increasingly charming(?) beard, I finally shaved half of it in part as an effort to inspire my team to overcome the odds and go on to Sectional glory. I agreed that I'd go to work looking ridiculous if we met our early season goals. The plan had been laid out, though not followed, and the section was ripe for a shake up.
I was doing my coaching best, which leaves something to be desired, but has progressed since September. The team was seeded seventh overall and second in our pool. It was going to take an incredible amount of gelling and a bit of good luck to get where we wanted to be, but I've taken to searching for wells of optimism. The sun was shining, but the wind was blowing. Discs and wind are a bit like coffee and Irish creme. The right amount can be wonderful, but mess up the ratio and trouble awaits. The first game was against Johns Hopkins. The game was like the halfbeard, sometimes hairy, sometimes nearly smooth, never exactly pretty. At universe point, we blew it and our lofty goals took their first hit. My well of optimism sank, but JA said it well as we would time and again over the weekend, "We didn't come here to go undefeated. We came to go to Regionals."
So the team rallied a bit and polished off the 4 seed Maryland B in marginally convincing fashion. The biggest problem in that game other than the spate of dropped passes was our ailing star Lemon who took another hit trying to help the team and his limited playing time was reduced further. After a bye, Bad Habit took on Delaware B and with a little help from their disinterest steamrolled to a 13-1 victory, narrowly missing a shutout. Life was further improved when Maryland B upset Johns Hopkins at universe point, making way for Habit to at least make it into the 3rd place bracket comfortably. Still, the 1 seed, GW awaited. For the first few points, Habit held serve and looked strong doing it. Stills was playing his heart out, but slowly the facade began to show cracks. GW put on a zone and then reeled off 4 in a row and never looked back. Stills came up with one of the individual highlights for the team with a huge layout D on a swing pass, but Habit couldn't find a groove and GW ran away. With a 2-2 record, Habit would have to come out strong on Sunday and reel off 4 wins. It was a tall order, made taller by a lack of depth. The team was carrying more members than usual, but practice together had been limited and it was difficult for me to tell who could be counted on in the clutch. This was made even more difficult by my general fondness for the group I was with. I had to balance optimism and realism as we entered the game on Sunday against Salisbury.
We came out with very little punch on Sunday and things did not go our way. Salisbury dispatched of us and our poor throws rather quickly and our Regional aspirations were gone before I knew what hit us. A series of mistakes and missed opportunities along with an inability to capitalize continued to haunt us. We went on to play in the seventh place bracket.
I set a poor tone for the game against GMU. My line calling was as lax as my attitude and I was far from alone. Down way too many, the team finally dug in and pulled out a miracle by coming back from down 12-7 or 8 and winning at universe point 14-13. It wasn't pretty, but they did the job. That victory meant a match-up with the host St. Mary's and a chance to prove that we had deserved to be seeded 7th to their 8th. Feeding off the GMU game, Habit sliced up everything St. Mary's put out. SM scored 4 or 5 and showed that her recent dominance is only in its beginning stages. For subs, I was rotating the top 7 to 9 through about 5 or 6 spots and trying to get the other players in as much as possible in the other 2 spots. It seemed to be working all right. The top group was playing well, and KG and Classics made a push to really fill out some of the gaps, while SM, Tini, and Frodo all had solid performances in their limited points. The team was starting to be a team.
Bye-bye St. Mary's, hello rematch with Salisbury. The Salisbury Buzz weren't really interested in playing for seventh, but after a weekend of hemming and hawing, we had finally found some kind of groove. I kept with the same substitution game plan for the next game, and got huge points from KG and Classics again. The starters were playing great and this became a battle of attrition. KG wasn't interested in much attrition and came up with about a zillion D's using his little spring-loaded legs, and then grabbed several scores to boot. JA found a way to get deep and AJ started finding a way to get his big throws to him. Salisbury found themselves in a mighty battle. JG continued his solid play finding big gaps for cross-field throws and just making the offense run through him. The score went back and forth. We'd go on a run and then the Buzz would answer. At Lemon's urging I used our timeouts to stop runs and it seemed to work pretty well. JM hit on a backhand for a score and the tide seemed to be turning, but the Buzz kept finding answers. The battle was reaching epic status when Banjo made a huge grab for a score on an out cut, took the body blow and held on to the disc. Frodo tried to fight his way to victory. At 13-13, we were receiving for universe point. We had at least 2 chances, one 5 yards from the goal line and one on a deep cut with two receivers, but couldn't finish it off. We ended up 8th.
It was nowhere near where we wanted to be, but there were many things to be proud of and as a team we got what we worked for. Hopefully, we'll learn from it. At the end of the last game, an effusive fellow stopped by and in an apparent sober but heartfelt moment detailed his personal history and love for the game. It was awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but the message that I heard was spot on. That message: "Whatever you're playing for, there is a honor in competing and giving it your all. Be proud that you took part and enjoy the moments."
Right on, guy. Don't cry.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
East Capitol and the Washington Monument
I spent my day wandering DC like a lost tourist. It was a good way to spend an unpaid Friday. For years, I have meant to make a return to the monument with the multi-colored bricks. My intentions were waylaid, not by lack of funds or civil war like the builders, but by the desire to avoid a line and the proximity factor. I'm developing a theory that the closer one lives to a popular destination the harder it is to attend. "There's always tomorrow," becomes a mantra as strong as any voodoo curse or force field.
In Isaiah's Feather style, I finally made tomorrow today. I joined the ticket line later than I would have liked and was rewarded with a ticket three hours from that moment. I went on a long walk in search of an eyebrow window, the future, and some digital pictures. I found two of the three, snapping shots of row houses and Volkswagens along East Capitol street as the minutes ticked by. I discovered a musty book store, a diner with an American name run by Vietnamese women, but not an eyebrow window.
With the future just 30 minutes away, I dodged school groups and eager teens snapping photos to take a quick look at the Lincoln exhibit at the Smithsonian. The top hat was in disrepair, the replica bed clothes were not picture-worthy, sorry teen girls, and I was rushing, but I still had time to stop and take in a series of Lincoln portraits. The first thing I noticed was Lincoln's strong jaw line. He was better looking than legend tells. His beard wasn't as ubiquitous either. The series conveyed the toll that presidency and a civil war had taken on the man. I considered it for a moment with a stroke of my own beard before heading off to the Washington Monument stairs.
The stairs of the monument closed years ago, now the only way up is by park service escorted elevator. The elevator is the size of my bedroom and metallic. It seems completely out of place as does most of the interior of this 555-foot structure. Masons on the outside, St. Louis Arch-builders on the inside. The incongruity is off-putting, but the real disappointment was in he realization that 555 feet isn't that high up. Sure this was the tallest structure going in the mid to late 1800s, but an airplane flying in to Reagan provides a better view and it includes the Washington Monument. Fly in to town and get the same view with less security. Check it off the list.
I spent my day wandering DC like a lost tourist. It was a good way to spend an unpaid Friday. For years, I have meant to make a return to the monument with the multi-colored bricks. My intentions were waylaid, not by lack of funds or civil war like the builders, but by the desire to avoid a line and the proximity factor. I'm developing a theory that the closer one lives to a popular destination the harder it is to attend. "There's always tomorrow," becomes a mantra as strong as any voodoo curse or force field.
In Isaiah's Feather style, I finally made tomorrow today. I joined the ticket line later than I would have liked and was rewarded with a ticket three hours from that moment. I went on a long walk in search of an eyebrow window, the future, and some digital pictures. I found two of the three, snapping shots of row houses and Volkswagens along East Capitol street as the minutes ticked by. I discovered a musty book store, a diner with an American name run by Vietnamese women, but not an eyebrow window.
With the future just 30 minutes away, I dodged school groups and eager teens snapping photos to take a quick look at the Lincoln exhibit at the Smithsonian. The top hat was in disrepair, the replica bed clothes were not picture-worthy, sorry teen girls, and I was rushing, but I still had time to stop and take in a series of Lincoln portraits. The first thing I noticed was Lincoln's strong jaw line. He was better looking than legend tells. His beard wasn't as ubiquitous either. The series conveyed the toll that presidency and a civil war had taken on the man. I considered it for a moment with a stroke of my own beard before heading off to the Washington Monument stairs.
The stairs of the monument closed years ago, now the only way up is by park service escorted elevator. The elevator is the size of my bedroom and metallic. It seems completely out of place as does most of the interior of this 555-foot structure. Masons on the outside, St. Louis Arch-builders on the inside. The incongruity is off-putting, but the real disappointment was in he realization that 555 feet isn't that high up. Sure this was the tallest structure going in the mid to late 1800s, but an airplane flying in to Reagan provides a better view and it includes the Washington Monument. Fly in to town and get the same view with less security. Check it off the list.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Beard News
The pros:
I’m now finding beard hairs up to 3.5 inches long. I measured. I can fold
my beard up into my face and touch my nose. I adore my shadow; my head
looks so elongated, like there’s a little Lincoln hidden in there. I
haven’t noticed anyone staring at me on the street, but I do get
noticed. Ultimate players really dig the beard. This is just another
reason that I like Ultimate players.
The cons:
I can’t eat anything without getting it in my beard. Couscous is my
favorite food to pick out because it is very satisfying to pull little
food pellets out. Syrup, ice cream, and anything similar are not so fun.
I can’t fight the syrup at all. It’s an instant mess. It makes me feel
three years old. People are constantly telling me that I have food in
my beard at mealtime. I always have a napkin ready to go, but sometimes
even a quick draw with the quicker-picker-upper isn’t quick enough.
The jokes:
I went to a meeting the other day with a coworker that I haven’t seen in
months. After she realized who I was, she said, “Has it been that long?”
Another coworker answered for me, “He’s been stranded on a deserted
island- Castaway style.”
The spreading world-wide acceptance of facial hair:
This clip from the Buenos Aires Film Festival is awesome. Thanks, Alan.
The pros:
I’m now finding beard hairs up to 3.5 inches long. I measured. I can fold
my beard up into my face and touch my nose. I adore my shadow; my head
looks so elongated, like there’s a little Lincoln hidden in there. I
haven’t noticed anyone staring at me on the street, but I do get
noticed. Ultimate players really dig the beard. This is just another
reason that I like Ultimate players.
The cons:
I can’t eat anything without getting it in my beard. Couscous is my
favorite food to pick out because it is very satisfying to pull little
food pellets out. Syrup, ice cream, and anything similar are not so fun.
I can’t fight the syrup at all. It’s an instant mess. It makes me feel
three years old. People are constantly telling me that I have food in
my beard at mealtime. I always have a napkin ready to go, but sometimes
even a quick draw with the quicker-picker-upper isn’t quick enough.
The jokes:
I went to a meeting the other day with a coworker that I haven’t seen in
months. After she realized who I was, she said, “Has it been that long?”
Another coworker answered for me, “He’s been stranded on a deserted
island- Castaway style.”
The spreading world-wide acceptance of facial hair:
This clip from the Buenos Aires Film Festival is awesome. Thanks, Alan.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Wedding receptions are fun
I thought it was just the dancing that made me enjoy wedding receptions so much, but after this weekend I'd like to revise my theory. I like wedding dancing because it takes place in this bubble of love, conversation, and reminiscing. English teachers and grandmothers and nieces, nephews, and best friends all get together and celebrate with some food or drink. This combination of people with past seems to put the crowd in a pretty good mood. I want to figure out how to throw dance parties with that same vibe. Inviting English teachers and digging out some old photo albums might be good first steps.
One part of the experience that I will leave out of my dance party is the garter toss. When it came time at this wedding, I must have been the last single guy still around. The groom held the garter up in the air and looked around. Reluctantly, I raised my hand and he tossed it in my general direction. There wasn't much I could do. This couple had eschewed many of the traditional reception festivities and yet the bouquet and garter still came out. And so, I snagged another this weekend. I think that puts me up to three. I apologize to anyone whom I'm holding back. I can toss the garter in your direction if you are worried about the order of these things. I don't want to slow anyone down, especially not if I get invited to the reception for dancing.
I thought it was just the dancing that made me enjoy wedding receptions so much, but after this weekend I'd like to revise my theory. I like wedding dancing because it takes place in this bubble of love, conversation, and reminiscing. English teachers and grandmothers and nieces, nephews, and best friends all get together and celebrate with some food or drink. This combination of people with past seems to put the crowd in a pretty good mood. I want to figure out how to throw dance parties with that same vibe. Inviting English teachers and digging out some old photo albums might be good first steps.
One part of the experience that I will leave out of my dance party is the garter toss. When it came time at this wedding, I must have been the last single guy still around. The groom held the garter up in the air and looked around. Reluctantly, I raised my hand and he tossed it in my general direction. There wasn't much I could do. This couple had eschewed many of the traditional reception festivities and yet the bouquet and garter still came out. And so, I snagged another this weekend. I think that puts me up to three. I apologize to anyone whom I'm holding back. I can toss the garter in your direction if you are worried about the order of these things. I don't want to slow anyone down, especially not if I get invited to the reception for dancing.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Stop thinking
I miss my hour. I have a headache. My ankle hurts so much that it's overshadowing the rest of my pains. Today was a good day. I didn't mean to play Ultimate. I wore the going-out-spectacles. I didn't pack my cleats or my ankle brace or a red jersey. Yes, I wore shorts and a white jersey, but those other items are pretty essential, I thought.
P had some extra cleats. B taped my ankle. I raided my running shoes and made some in-soles. We went white. I tried to keep my glasses on my face. Somewhere deep inside I wanted to play, of course. I wouldn't have done it if today had been a strictly college tournament, but the snow melt had turned Huck into Muck and so 8 teams met to play and one of those 8 was a local club team. All bets were off and CUA only had 7 active players. I made 8. That's kind of how this whole thing began 6 years ago.
First, we faced SUNY-Buffalo. We were playing well out of the HO stack, the hucks were working thanks to some pretty big throws from AJ and we found a groove. J was scoring all over the place. Turnovers were fairly scarce and despite our lack of subs, we started to pull away and we never looked back taking the game 13-5. Personally, I was struggling on my ankle, feeling slow, and feeling the lack of subs, but I did get one big guy to bite on a couple of fakes so that I could pull in a deep one. My mind is pretty fuzzy on a lot of other details, but everybody was working well together and having a good time. We won 13-5.
Next, we faced the local club team WireTap. Even with numbers, we would have been overmatched. JA gave a great speech about getting points and we set a goal to get 5-10 on this team. Talk about a blur, the details really get fuzzy for me in this game. I think they scored first and then we scored. Everybody continued to work well together. AJ kept hucking. JA was working well in the middle. B and P were doing good handler work, J was slicing through the zone and everybody was running as much as they could. K got a cleat stepping on his hand which put us down to no subs, but we kept fighting. Turnovers for our team were few and far between. I seemed to be about the biggest mess on the field. AJ threw a huge hammer/blade that just missed the outstretched fingers of my defender and then came screaming down into my chest. I couldn't hold on. JA kept throwing one more fake than I thought he was going to and I ended up throwing it away. Then in a series that baffles me almost as much as my sticky fingers, I couldn't get P to make a move on the dump, so I turned to B. He got open and I lofted the disc away from him and into his defender. To top that off, I laid out into the feet of the guy who scored on the next throw. Not sweet. Still, despite some miscues on my part, we had the early lead. We were up about 6-3 before squeaking to half at 7-6. We kept fighting, a few points seemed to last forever. WireTap did a poor job of running us to death (age no doubt played a factor) and instead decided to play into our hands for the most part. Unfortunately, our hands couldn't quite grasp victory and we lost 10-11. I know that this was the beginning of their season and that they took us lightly, but this mattered to us.
We were supposed to play 3 more games, but cramps, hands, ankles, and more left us too spent to continue. The lessons to learn: we can get in there and battle with good teams. We can do the little things right, stay close on D, turn it over less, and we can mix it up with some good teams. That's a good lesson if we can cling to it.
What a pleasure to take the field with those guys, several who I've been around for 4 years now. Yeah, Habit, yeah.
I miss my hour. I have a headache. My ankle hurts so much that it's overshadowing the rest of my pains. Today was a good day. I didn't mean to play Ultimate. I wore the going-out-spectacles. I didn't pack my cleats or my ankle brace or a red jersey. Yes, I wore shorts and a white jersey, but those other items are pretty essential, I thought.
P had some extra cleats. B taped my ankle. I raided my running shoes and made some in-soles. We went white. I tried to keep my glasses on my face. Somewhere deep inside I wanted to play, of course. I wouldn't have done it if today had been a strictly college tournament, but the snow melt had turned Huck into Muck and so 8 teams met to play and one of those 8 was a local club team. All bets were off and CUA only had 7 active players. I made 8. That's kind of how this whole thing began 6 years ago.
First, we faced SUNY-Buffalo. We were playing well out of the HO stack, the hucks were working thanks to some pretty big throws from AJ and we found a groove. J was scoring all over the place. Turnovers were fairly scarce and despite our lack of subs, we started to pull away and we never looked back taking the game 13-5. Personally, I was struggling on my ankle, feeling slow, and feeling the lack of subs, but I did get one big guy to bite on a couple of fakes so that I could pull in a deep one. My mind is pretty fuzzy on a lot of other details, but everybody was working well together and having a good time. We won 13-5.
Next, we faced the local club team WireTap. Even with numbers, we would have been overmatched. JA gave a great speech about getting points and we set a goal to get 5-10 on this team. Talk about a blur, the details really get fuzzy for me in this game. I think they scored first and then we scored. Everybody continued to work well together. AJ kept hucking. JA was working well in the middle. B and P were doing good handler work, J was slicing through the zone and everybody was running as much as they could. K got a cleat stepping on his hand which put us down to no subs, but we kept fighting. Turnovers for our team were few and far between. I seemed to be about the biggest mess on the field. AJ threw a huge hammer/blade that just missed the outstretched fingers of my defender and then came screaming down into my chest. I couldn't hold on. JA kept throwing one more fake than I thought he was going to and I ended up throwing it away. Then in a series that baffles me almost as much as my sticky fingers, I couldn't get P to make a move on the dump, so I turned to B. He got open and I lofted the disc away from him and into his defender. To top that off, I laid out into the feet of the guy who scored on the next throw. Not sweet. Still, despite some miscues on my part, we had the early lead. We were up about 6-3 before squeaking to half at 7-6. We kept fighting, a few points seemed to last forever. WireTap did a poor job of running us to death (age no doubt played a factor) and instead decided to play into our hands for the most part. Unfortunately, our hands couldn't quite grasp victory and we lost 10-11. I know that this was the beginning of their season and that they took us lightly, but this mattered to us.
We were supposed to play 3 more games, but cramps, hands, ankles, and more left us too spent to continue. The lessons to learn: we can get in there and battle with good teams. We can do the little things right, stay close on D, turn it over less, and we can mix it up with some good teams. That's a good lesson if we can cling to it.
What a pleasure to take the field with those guys, several who I've been around for 4 years now. Yeah, Habit, yeah.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Thinking about Ultimate
I'm having a quiet day full of thoughts and many are swirling about the game of Ultimate and my involvement in it. Some of that is brought on by a sore ankle and some of that is ripped right from the start of the day. As my alarm was beeping at me, I was screaming at my team to go for the disc. My dream screams were pleas to have the urgency and aggression to fight for a floating disc. If the disc hasn't hit the ground yet, there's still a chance. It's not a ball, it's hanging in the air, ripe for the taking. There are many things I don't know how to teach, today it's felt like most things, but one I've struggled with on both a small scale and on a large scale is that sense of urgency.
The goal, the test, Sectionals is less than a month away for the team. Our practice attendance has remained low and now we're having trouble drawing adequate numbers for tournaments. These are obviously big problems that need to be addressed, but I'm realizing that they are next year's problems. This is the hand we've got, regardless of the hand we wanted. There aren't enough weeks left to implement big changes or find other players, we have to work within this framework. We'll hope that our injured come back quickly, but we need to face the facts.
I've spent my day trying to figure out what the facts are. I think they are first that we need to admit that we could have been better and then put that behind us. Not enough people on the team did the work to really raise the level of play and we've had some bad luck, but what can we do now? I believe we can still do plenty. I believe this team is better than last year's team. There are more people I trust to have the discs in their hands. There are more players when they show up. Attendance is not a new problem. The only thing this team lacks compared to last year is that monstrous defensive closer; a painful thing to miss for sure, but if we'd play to our strengths it wouldn't be so detrimental. Again, I'm asking what can we do? We have to come together as a team and support one another instead of tearing people down. We've got to be engaged in the game- knowing the force, being ready to catch discs, being aware. Maybe I should be able to teach these things, but I don't know how so I just have to ask everyone to wake up and be ready, even when they are tired. Maybe morning practices taught some of that.
I also have some question of what to do during the next three weeks. On that front, I think I'd like to focus on one skill per practice, drill on it and then play. Ultimate should still be about play. It's fun and it's important to remember that. It's also fun to be better and improve. During some unscientific thought, I figured that if every person had one less turnover that could potentially result in three more scores. Three more scores could very well be the difference between losing 10-13 and winning 13-10. Nobody needs to win the game on the next throw, they just need to complete the next throw. They need to be there on defense to cause problems. Big things can still get done in the next three weeks, but the urgency has to be there and heads have to be in it. And I have to do more than write about it.
I'm having a quiet day full of thoughts and many are swirling about the game of Ultimate and my involvement in it. Some of that is brought on by a sore ankle and some of that is ripped right from the start of the day. As my alarm was beeping at me, I was screaming at my team to go for the disc. My dream screams were pleas to have the urgency and aggression to fight for a floating disc. If the disc hasn't hit the ground yet, there's still a chance. It's not a ball, it's hanging in the air, ripe for the taking. There are many things I don't know how to teach, today it's felt like most things, but one I've struggled with on both a small scale and on a large scale is that sense of urgency.
The goal, the test, Sectionals is less than a month away for the team. Our practice attendance has remained low and now we're having trouble drawing adequate numbers for tournaments. These are obviously big problems that need to be addressed, but I'm realizing that they are next year's problems. This is the hand we've got, regardless of the hand we wanted. There aren't enough weeks left to implement big changes or find other players, we have to work within this framework. We'll hope that our injured come back quickly, but we need to face the facts.
I've spent my day trying to figure out what the facts are. I think they are first that we need to admit that we could have been better and then put that behind us. Not enough people on the team did the work to really raise the level of play and we've had some bad luck, but what can we do now? I believe we can still do plenty. I believe this team is better than last year's team. There are more people I trust to have the discs in their hands. There are more players when they show up. Attendance is not a new problem. The only thing this team lacks compared to last year is that monstrous defensive closer; a painful thing to miss for sure, but if we'd play to our strengths it wouldn't be so detrimental. Again, I'm asking what can we do? We have to come together as a team and support one another instead of tearing people down. We've got to be engaged in the game- knowing the force, being ready to catch discs, being aware. Maybe I should be able to teach these things, but I don't know how so I just have to ask everyone to wake up and be ready, even when they are tired. Maybe morning practices taught some of that.
I also have some question of what to do during the next three weeks. On that front, I think I'd like to focus on one skill per practice, drill on it and then play. Ultimate should still be about play. It's fun and it's important to remember that. It's also fun to be better and improve. During some unscientific thought, I figured that if every person had one less turnover that could potentially result in three more scores. Three more scores could very well be the difference between losing 10-13 and winning 13-10. Nobody needs to win the game on the next throw, they just need to complete the next throw. They need to be there on defense to cause problems. Big things can still get done in the next three weeks, but the urgency has to be there and heads have to be in it. And I have to do more than write about it.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Snow day
I stood at the end of the driveway in three inches of snow. The government didn't close, so neither did my workplace. Large flakes floated down from the sky. I stood and watched them fall. The earth had that silent bright white magic of a snowstorm. I pulled out my phone, I can do that now, as I stood in the glistening silence. I dialed work and declared my own snow day. I've debated the merits of my decision between shoveling the driveway, sledding, and making snow ice cream. My grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup lunch go in the plus column. The people without jobs, my responsibility to my employer weigh on the con side. It's almost over now, this snow day. I need to be over it too. I made my decision. I enjoyed the snow. I need be fine with the rest of it. Maybe another bowl of snow ice cream would help.
I stood at the end of the driveway in three inches of snow. The government didn't close, so neither did my workplace. Large flakes floated down from the sky. I stood and watched them fall. The earth had that silent bright white magic of a snowstorm. I pulled out my phone, I can do that now, as I stood in the glistening silence. I dialed work and declared my own snow day. I've debated the merits of my decision between shoveling the driveway, sledding, and making snow ice cream. My grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup lunch go in the plus column. The people without jobs, my responsibility to my employer weigh on the con side. It's almost over now, this snow day. I need to be over it too. I made my decision. I enjoyed the snow. I need be fine with the rest of it. Maybe another bowl of snow ice cream would help.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Such an imperfect weekend. So lovely
My body hasn't really felt the same since that doubleheader in January. I've worked hard to try to get myself back in place, but I'm not there and Winter League Tournament time had rolled around to meet me. Our first game was cancelled. Our numbers were high and we managed to roll through the new first game. I played a few points and felt ok. I felt like a contributor and that was the best I could be. Fortunately, we had lots of male subs and we went on to victory. The second game was against that team that took us down by universe point the last time I was feeling good. That defeat still hurt and I made that clear to my teammates. We got off to a quick start and were up by a few points, before the game became 6-5. I was contributing where I could and then took a step in the wrong direction and went down with a twisted ankle. The team marched on and took the game with a commanding finish. It was a good feeling everywhere except in my ankle. There were a number of shining moments, but none more than the dominance of SM. She was a game changer. She's always been fast and relentless, but yesterday I think Team Schaefer finally saw her for the Ultimate player that we all knew she could be. No one could cover her deep. I think she scored a dozen if she scored one. She made great grabs stretched out up in the air and great grabs reaching out. The other team starting giving her a 10-yard cushion, so the offense ran through her in cut almost every time. After that, she probably still went on to score a few. It was awesome.
My day wasn't done as I went from Burrito Brothers to the local tavern after icing my ankle. I heard a Monkees cover band which is as fun as it sounds and then saw a Rock-a-billy show. At the urging of one member of our group, I did get up and dance which did nothing for my ankle. It didn't take but a few steps for me to realize that the group member urging us to dance wasn't just a dance enthusiast, she was one heckuva dancer. Her Keds were flying all over the place to the Rock-a-billy beat. She brought guys to their feet so they could dance with her. It was splendid. I could only last two songs before my ankle cried out, but I think she could have danced the floor off.
Today should have been semi-finals and finals, but thanks to weather it has turned into brunch and a movie. My ankle thanks Mother Nature.
My body hasn't really felt the same since that doubleheader in January. I've worked hard to try to get myself back in place, but I'm not there and Winter League Tournament time had rolled around to meet me. Our first game was cancelled. Our numbers were high and we managed to roll through the new first game. I played a few points and felt ok. I felt like a contributor and that was the best I could be. Fortunately, we had lots of male subs and we went on to victory. The second game was against that team that took us down by universe point the last time I was feeling good. That defeat still hurt and I made that clear to my teammates. We got off to a quick start and were up by a few points, before the game became 6-5. I was contributing where I could and then took a step in the wrong direction and went down with a twisted ankle. The team marched on and took the game with a commanding finish. It was a good feeling everywhere except in my ankle. There were a number of shining moments, but none more than the dominance of SM. She was a game changer. She's always been fast and relentless, but yesterday I think Team Schaefer finally saw her for the Ultimate player that we all knew she could be. No one could cover her deep. I think she scored a dozen if she scored one. She made great grabs stretched out up in the air and great grabs reaching out. The other team starting giving her a 10-yard cushion, so the offense ran through her in cut almost every time. After that, she probably still went on to score a few. It was awesome.
My day wasn't done as I went from Burrito Brothers to the local tavern after icing my ankle. I heard a Monkees cover band which is as fun as it sounds and then saw a Rock-a-billy show. At the urging of one member of our group, I did get up and dance which did nothing for my ankle. It didn't take but a few steps for me to realize that the group member urging us to dance wasn't just a dance enthusiast, she was one heckuva dancer. Her Keds were flying all over the place to the Rock-a-billy beat. She brought guys to their feet so they could dance with her. It was splendid. I could only last two songs before my ankle cried out, but I think she could have danced the floor off.
Today should have been semi-finals and finals, but thanks to weather it has turned into brunch and a movie. My ankle thanks Mother Nature.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I can't believe it's not France: The written account
Bonjour. I need to get this down on the Internet before I forget that vacation ever happened.
First stop: Stowe, Vermont. I've been threatening to do some East Coast skiing since I moved to the East Coast. After a few trips to Pennsylvania and a few trips back out West, I finally hit the slopes of Stowe. One day at a resort is hardly enough to make a good judgment, but I will admit to being pleased with the vertical drop and the variety of terrain Stowe offered. There were a few spots where that variety extended to grass and tree roots, but mostly the runs did the trick. I was fortunate and unfortunate that my snowboarding took place on a Thursday in the rain. Those two factors meant that the mountain was mostly empty. I've never skied in the rain before- once-in-a-lifetime experience, I hope. The rain was annoying, but I suspect that the accompanying warm temperatures kept the mountain from becoming the towering icicle that I anticipated. The snow conditions weren't the powder of the West, but they were a wet and mostly un-sticky sort that allowed for both speed and traction. I enjoyed myself. After a few runs I realized that something was missing. That something turned out to be altitude. Neither my heart nor my lungs ever reached that pounding, pulsing stage of a good run in Colorado. My legs would tire, but the rest of me felt just fine. That's skiing at 4000 feet above the sea and 4000 feet below the base of Winter Park.
By later afternoon, the temperature dropped and the rain turned to snow. I was unprepared for such a drastic shift in weather and could only stare in frustration at my wet gloves and clothes as the chill became too much. I was off the slopes a bit too early, but still had time to eat free ice cream at Ben & Jerry's plant, so that was a wash.
Next stop: Montreal, Canada. Montreal in February is cold as advertised. I wandered from our old old hotel down along the water where I saw the Habitat 67 (now apparently a chi-chi residence if wikipedia is to be believed), ships docked in ice, Montreal's answer to Big Ben, and I think the Biosphere or the Biodome, or some kind of Bio-enclosure. I learned an important lesson as I wandered by the water. That lesson: Never go out without my long underwear again. My legs were freezing! During this meander, I was able to summon my otherwise halting French to announce, "Je ne parle pas Francais." I don't speak French. Like most of the locals we ran into the woman I was speaking to immediately switched to perfect English. Some, particularly those in service, tended to say sentences in French and without missing a beat follow it up with the English translation. It was quite remarkable, really. Which is why I remarked on it, in case you were wondering.
I think Montreal would be a great place to practice French. I found that even a few past tense rules snuck back into my consciousness during the visit. Still, other than the language and some common names, I think we found that Montreal was less European than we'd expected. There were European influences, but the cars, the vibe, the je ne sais quois was still pretty Western.
There was a nice winter stroll through a park, and some interesting time spent underground where city art abounded. The Olympic Stadium complex wasn't all I had hoped it would be, but then the Olympics happened there before I landed on this planet. There was a five-course meal that tasted pretty, well, tasty. There was some poutine, a local delicacy of fries, gravy, and cheese curds that I spiced up with three kinds of meat. That actually turned me into a pescetarian for the time being. All of this was enjoyable and very vacation-worthy, but my favorite event didn't take place in Montreal. It was a dinner in the middle of nowhere. It was a singing, dancing, spoon-playing, delicious-eating extravaganza. The carafe of maple syrup on our table was amazing, and so were the pickled beets. The maple something-or-other pie for dessert was only outdone by the sugar on snow that capped off the evening. Even if the place hadn't been owned by a man with a big white beard, I think I would've been thrilled. I'm glad the NY Times wrote it up.
After a full weekend which must have involved some 795 hat/glove to pocket transfers, I almost made it home with my hat and gloves, but didn't. At the gas station, not a mile from the Manchester, NH airport my hat must have fallen out of the car. I realized it before I checked my bag, but there was nothing I could do by then. It wasn't the perfect end, but it was the best time to lose the hat. I only had to wear my helmet on the walk home.
Bonjour. I need to get this down on the Internet before I forget that vacation ever happened.
First stop: Stowe, Vermont. I've been threatening to do some East Coast skiing since I moved to the East Coast. After a few trips to Pennsylvania and a few trips back out West, I finally hit the slopes of Stowe. One day at a resort is hardly enough to make a good judgment, but I will admit to being pleased with the vertical drop and the variety of terrain Stowe offered. There were a few spots where that variety extended to grass and tree roots, but mostly the runs did the trick. I was fortunate and unfortunate that my snowboarding took place on a Thursday in the rain. Those two factors meant that the mountain was mostly empty. I've never skied in the rain before- once-in-a-lifetime experience, I hope. The rain was annoying, but I suspect that the accompanying warm temperatures kept the mountain from becoming the towering icicle that I anticipated. The snow conditions weren't the powder of the West, but they were a wet and mostly un-sticky sort that allowed for both speed and traction. I enjoyed myself. After a few runs I realized that something was missing. That something turned out to be altitude. Neither my heart nor my lungs ever reached that pounding, pulsing stage of a good run in Colorado. My legs would tire, but the rest of me felt just fine. That's skiing at 4000 feet above the sea and 4000 feet below the base of Winter Park.
By later afternoon, the temperature dropped and the rain turned to snow. I was unprepared for such a drastic shift in weather and could only stare in frustration at my wet gloves and clothes as the chill became too much. I was off the slopes a bit too early, but still had time to eat free ice cream at Ben & Jerry's plant, so that was a wash.
Next stop: Montreal, Canada. Montreal in February is cold as advertised. I wandered from our old old hotel down along the water where I saw the Habitat 67 (now apparently a chi-chi residence if wikipedia is to be believed), ships docked in ice, Montreal's answer to Big Ben, and I think the Biosphere or the Biodome, or some kind of Bio-enclosure. I learned an important lesson as I wandered by the water. That lesson: Never go out without my long underwear again. My legs were freezing! During this meander, I was able to summon my otherwise halting French to announce, "Je ne parle pas Francais." I don't speak French. Like most of the locals we ran into the woman I was speaking to immediately switched to perfect English. Some, particularly those in service, tended to say sentences in French and without missing a beat follow it up with the English translation. It was quite remarkable, really. Which is why I remarked on it, in case you were wondering.
I think Montreal would be a great place to practice French. I found that even a few past tense rules snuck back into my consciousness during the visit. Still, other than the language and some common names, I think we found that Montreal was less European than we'd expected. There were European influences, but the cars, the vibe, the je ne sais quois was still pretty Western.
There was a nice winter stroll through a park, and some interesting time spent underground where city art abounded. The Olympic Stadium complex wasn't all I had hoped it would be, but then the Olympics happened there before I landed on this planet. There was a five-course meal that tasted pretty, well, tasty. There was some poutine, a local delicacy of fries, gravy, and cheese curds that I spiced up with three kinds of meat. That actually turned me into a pescetarian for the time being. All of this was enjoyable and very vacation-worthy, but my favorite event didn't take place in Montreal. It was a dinner in the middle of nowhere. It was a singing, dancing, spoon-playing, delicious-eating extravaganza. The carafe of maple syrup on our table was amazing, and so were the pickled beets. The maple something-or-other pie for dessert was only outdone by the sugar on snow that capped off the evening. Even if the place hadn't been owned by a man with a big white beard, I think I would've been thrilled. I'm glad the NY Times wrote it up.
After a full weekend which must have involved some 795 hat/glove to pocket transfers, I almost made it home with my hat and gloves, but didn't. At the gas station, not a mile from the Manchester, NH airport my hat must have fallen out of the car. I realized it before I checked my bag, but there was nothing I could do by then. It wasn't the perfect end, but it was the best time to lose the hat. I only had to wear my helmet on the walk home.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Fight beard-ism!
I was involved in a very ugly incident today. If I hadn't gone down the path of sharing my every waking thought with as little editing as possible so many years ago, I might just tuck this one away. Instead, I'll trot out my anecdote, not to teach a valuable lesson, though if I'm fortunate someone will learn one, and not to sell some product, though the young hooligans might prefer that course.
Riding my bike, minding my own business, wind blowing through my beard on this gorgeous day, an SUV passed me. From this SUV of lacrosse players, came an angry shout. It welled up from inside the passengers as they overtook the magnificent beard. Perhaps it was jealousy, or personal weakness. Perhaps they doubted my virility or failed to recognize my beauty. Whatever the case, the poor angry lacrosse players shouted one word and one word only: "SHAVE!"
For a moment I considered chasing the SUV to explain my pain, but that seemed to be an ineffective course of action. I dreamed that my beard would grow even longer and more fierce until it had tentacles that could reach out and pluck lacrosse players from their vehicles and smother them in the Head and Shoulders-scented glory of facial hair. That seemed unlikely.
I don't understand. This shout hurt me. Beards have rights too.
I was involved in a very ugly incident today. If I hadn't gone down the path of sharing my every waking thought with as little editing as possible so many years ago, I might just tuck this one away. Instead, I'll trot out my anecdote, not to teach a valuable lesson, though if I'm fortunate someone will learn one, and not to sell some product, though the young hooligans might prefer that course.
Riding my bike, minding my own business, wind blowing through my beard on this gorgeous day, an SUV passed me. From this SUV of lacrosse players, came an angry shout. It welled up from inside the passengers as they overtook the magnificent beard. Perhaps it was jealousy, or personal weakness. Perhaps they doubted my virility or failed to recognize my beauty. Whatever the case, the poor angry lacrosse players shouted one word and one word only: "SHAVE!"
For a moment I considered chasing the SUV to explain my pain, but that seemed to be an ineffective course of action. I dreamed that my beard would grow even longer and more fierce until it had tentacles that could reach out and pluck lacrosse players from their vehicles and smother them in the Head and Shoulders-scented glory of facial hair. That seemed unlikely.
I don't understand. This shout hurt me. Beards have rights too.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Somewhat of a tradition
I don't think last night's commercials gave me a lot to work with, but there's something to be said for sticking to a tradition. I wrote down some notes before I went to bed, but I spent the day reading reviews, so my biases may have shifted. Oh, it's easy to be a critic...
*Since there was a ton of animation, I feel like I need to make a special category for that. My award for coolest CGI goes to the Coca-Cola picnic. I especially liked the butterflies as coke bottle effect. (Disclaimer: One of my favorite childhood stories was about a can of root beer in a park.)
*The commercial that made me stop and watch was the Hyundai commercial with the various languages. I don't know that it had a lot of sticking power, but it caught my attention initially.
*The updated mean Joe Green commercial with Troy Palamalu hurt me. I couldn't tell how many from my party even caught the reference.
*The Godaddy ads were painful to watch on tv. I broke down and went to see the "Too hot for TV" versions. As far as I know, they weren't too hot for tv, but at least they made sense online. Godaddy needs to get a real strategy. This one trick pony should be put out to pasture.
*I thought the cars.com commercial with the guy who had it all going his way showed a lot of promise, but the payoff was cars.com and that seemed like squat. Nothing like having your product come off as a disappointment to drive people to your site.
*I liked the John Elway twist at the end of the Heroes promo ad.
*The women at my party didn't seemed pleased with the talking flowers ad, but for my money it was right on. How can I buy boxed flowers now?
I don't really have a favorite ad this year, but the one that was just one stray alien tentacle away was the Alec Baldwin hulu.com ad. He had me until he became an alien. I was perfectly happy with a Baldwin sucking my media-addled brain, but as soon as he became otherworldly it had all gone too far.
It's a fine line. Or at least that's what I think.
What a game.
I don't think last night's commercials gave me a lot to work with, but there's something to be said for sticking to a tradition. I wrote down some notes before I went to bed, but I spent the day reading reviews, so my biases may have shifted. Oh, it's easy to be a critic...
*Since there was a ton of animation, I feel like I need to make a special category for that. My award for coolest CGI goes to the Coca-Cola picnic. I especially liked the butterflies as coke bottle effect. (Disclaimer: One of my favorite childhood stories was about a can of root beer in a park.)
*The commercial that made me stop and watch was the Hyundai commercial with the various languages. I don't know that it had a lot of sticking power, but it caught my attention initially.
*The updated mean Joe Green commercial with Troy Palamalu hurt me. I couldn't tell how many from my party even caught the reference.
*The Godaddy ads were painful to watch on tv. I broke down and went to see the "Too hot for TV" versions. As far as I know, they weren't too hot for tv, but at least they made sense online. Godaddy needs to get a real strategy. This one trick pony should be put out to pasture.
*I thought the cars.com commercial with the guy who had it all going his way showed a lot of promise, but the payoff was cars.com and that seemed like squat. Nothing like having your product come off as a disappointment to drive people to your site.
*I liked the John Elway twist at the end of the Heroes promo ad.
*The women at my party didn't seemed pleased with the talking flowers ad, but for my money it was right on. How can I buy boxed flowers now?
I don't really have a favorite ad this year, but the one that was just one stray alien tentacle away was the Alec Baldwin hulu.com ad. He had me until he became an alien. I was perfectly happy with a Baldwin sucking my media-addled brain, but as soon as he became otherworldly it had all gone too far.
It's a fine line. Or at least that's what I think.
What a game.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Brr- oh my gosh I need to stay inside for a little while
I don't see how I'm going to avoid getting a cold, I've been outside and usually sweating seven out of the last nine days. I don't have enough warm clothes to keep up this pace. I'm not sure I have enough muscle and joint power either. My skin feels a bit like it just wants to come off my bones. At least it does in the places where I'm not so tight that I feel like I need a jackhammer massage.
Yesterday and today were Ultimate and as much as it hurts, I do like Ultimate. I was playing in a double-header and except for the fatigue I feel like I found the groove I'd asked for.
My team got off to a slow start and we found ourselves down 5-0 very quickly. It was a little disappointing and I feel like I contributed to an early game flatness. We finally started to shake it off after that. One early moment stands out for me as I was cutting to the back corner with my defender on me. My teammate RB ripped off one of his wicked backhands down the line. The disc just seemed to hang in the air in front of us. The defender, who has also been a teammate in past seasons, and I gave chase. It seemed that we were stride for stride for several steps and the disc kept hanging. Finally, I found one more notch and managed to get to the disc before he did for a score. We battled back and forth and ended the half down 3-8. The second half saw SM come out strong with some good defense and some scoring punch. Then we became a different team. Much of the second half is a blur. I remember multiple battles with my former teammate including a layout D (I'm told), a layout bid on a disc that he D'd, a box out on a disc to him, and continuous battling on almost every cut we matched up. I had my own battles going on as the team slowly clawed back in. Our defense got a little better. Tipped discs started to go our way, including a wicked second-effort layout score by SM. As we were coming back, I do recall one moment that I'm particularly proud of in my second half. We'd been beat on a number of hammers across the field in the first half. The man I was guarding planted and cut for a hammer and I sensed it. He had a few steps on me to the break side, but I left my feet and knocked the disc away. I was starting to believe.
At 14-14 with universe point, I can't really remember what happened, but I know both teams had chances. Somehow our miraculous comeback ended in defeat. That's not the way the story is supposed to go and I'm not pleased with the ending.
We had a second game and although I think we let them hang around far too long, we were finally able to dispatch them 15-9. My favorite contribution in that game was a rare hammer. I saw RB with space in front of him, but I wasn't sure he saw it, so I faked the hammer. He headed for the space, so I let it go. I think the wind pushed it further than I would have liked, but fortunately he tracked it down for a score. Yee-haw. I also had at least two throws that were tapped by the defender land in my teammates' hands. Sometimes wrong things go right. I can't really figure out why or how that goes.
Today was practice. We had enough to play 7 versus 7. It sure would be nice if we could snag just a few more folks. The team had some good moments, but we just can't seem to get our vertical stack going. More practice, but for now, I'm spent.
I don't see how I'm going to avoid getting a cold, I've been outside and usually sweating seven out of the last nine days. I don't have enough warm clothes to keep up this pace. I'm not sure I have enough muscle and joint power either. My skin feels a bit like it just wants to come off my bones. At least it does in the places where I'm not so tight that I feel like I need a jackhammer massage.
Yesterday and today were Ultimate and as much as it hurts, I do like Ultimate. I was playing in a double-header and except for the fatigue I feel like I found the groove I'd asked for.
My team got off to a slow start and we found ourselves down 5-0 very quickly. It was a little disappointing and I feel like I contributed to an early game flatness. We finally started to shake it off after that. One early moment stands out for me as I was cutting to the back corner with my defender on me. My teammate RB ripped off one of his wicked backhands down the line. The disc just seemed to hang in the air in front of us. The defender, who has also been a teammate in past seasons, and I gave chase. It seemed that we were stride for stride for several steps and the disc kept hanging. Finally, I found one more notch and managed to get to the disc before he did for a score. We battled back and forth and ended the half down 3-8. The second half saw SM come out strong with some good defense and some scoring punch. Then we became a different team. Much of the second half is a blur. I remember multiple battles with my former teammate including a layout D (I'm told), a layout bid on a disc that he D'd, a box out on a disc to him, and continuous battling on almost every cut we matched up. I had my own battles going on as the team slowly clawed back in. Our defense got a little better. Tipped discs started to go our way, including a wicked second-effort layout score by SM. As we were coming back, I do recall one moment that I'm particularly proud of in my second half. We'd been beat on a number of hammers across the field in the first half. The man I was guarding planted and cut for a hammer and I sensed it. He had a few steps on me to the break side, but I left my feet and knocked the disc away. I was starting to believe.
At 14-14 with universe point, I can't really remember what happened, but I know both teams had chances. Somehow our miraculous comeback ended in defeat. That's not the way the story is supposed to go and I'm not pleased with the ending.
We had a second game and although I think we let them hang around far too long, we were finally able to dispatch them 15-9. My favorite contribution in that game was a rare hammer. I saw RB with space in front of him, but I wasn't sure he saw it, so I faked the hammer. He headed for the space, so I let it go. I think the wind pushed it further than I would have liked, but fortunately he tracked it down for a score. Yee-haw. I also had at least two throws that were tapped by the defender land in my teammates' hands. Sometimes wrong things go right. I can't really figure out why or how that goes.
Today was practice. We had enough to play 7 versus 7. It sure would be nice if we could snag just a few more folks. The team had some good moments, but we just can't seem to get our vertical stack going. More practice, but for now, I'm spent.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Brr- take 1.8 million
Used up packets of warmth littered the ground where people had stood and cheered. People had cheered everywhere. As far as I could see and two monuments beyond that, they had waved their flags and hooted at the swearing in of President 44. I was there. I was one of an estimated 1.8 million people witnessing history in the flesh. Although the flesh was mostly covered and the witnessing was mostly done on the fourth giant TV from the capitol. I estimate I was about 600,000 people away from the new President and 599,995 away from the last one. On the National Mall at 8 AM to grab such a coveted spot, I spent most of the morning waiting and watching giant TV. My favorite rerun moment was Garth Brooks asking me and all my patient flag-wavin', Obama-lovin', cold-catchin' pals to "Shout." Oh, we did. We shouted. We shouted like Garth could hear us. We shouted like we'd been standing all morning and we had nothing better to do. It was a revival atmosphere and Brooks was reviving.
My crowd, which was really only a small portion of the crowd, settled after that. Maybe the shouting took a little something out of us. Maybe we realized we better save our screaming lungs for 44. He was coming. I could tell because when my giant TV switched to live coverage they kept showing lines of black SUVs. Nothing says peaceful transition of power like a long line of armored SUVs escorted by motorcycle cops. The crowd would grow a little quieter. Breath would be inhaled a little bit slower. I thought Julie Andrews got out of one of the SUVs, but mostly I knew that 44 didn't get out and the crowd and I would return intently to our standing in place.
Finally, W and his brood showed up. I (and wikipedia tells me many others) had the idea that singing goodbye to Bush might feel good. Instead, when the boos and the shoes around me came out, I felt bad for the guy. After all, some of this was our fault. As one guy near me said, "He did make all of this possible."
What all of this is remains to be seen. The moment though was pretty amazing. I wanted to be able to hear all 1.8 million cheers, but I'll settle for the frantic flag waving. I'll settle for the powerful speech. I'll settle for the kindest crowd I've ever seen. There was a scary moment or two when everyone was trying to exit and no one seemed to agree on which way to go.
I went. I survived. It was another once in a lifetime experience. Just like the last one. Except different.
Used up packets of warmth littered the ground where people had stood and cheered. People had cheered everywhere. As far as I could see and two monuments beyond that, they had waved their flags and hooted at the swearing in of President 44. I was there. I was one of an estimated 1.8 million people witnessing history in the flesh. Although the flesh was mostly covered and the witnessing was mostly done on the fourth giant TV from the capitol. I estimate I was about 600,000 people away from the new President and 599,995 away from the last one. On the National Mall at 8 AM to grab such a coveted spot, I spent most of the morning waiting and watching giant TV. My favorite rerun moment was Garth Brooks asking me and all my patient flag-wavin', Obama-lovin', cold-catchin' pals to "Shout." Oh, we did. We shouted. We shouted like Garth could hear us. We shouted like we'd been standing all morning and we had nothing better to do. It was a revival atmosphere and Brooks was reviving.
My crowd, which was really only a small portion of the crowd, settled after that. Maybe the shouting took a little something out of us. Maybe we realized we better save our screaming lungs for 44. He was coming. I could tell because when my giant TV switched to live coverage they kept showing lines of black SUVs. Nothing says peaceful transition of power like a long line of armored SUVs escorted by motorcycle cops. The crowd would grow a little quieter. Breath would be inhaled a little bit slower. I thought Julie Andrews got out of one of the SUVs, but mostly I knew that 44 didn't get out and the crowd and I would return intently to our standing in place.
Finally, W and his brood showed up. I (and wikipedia tells me many others) had the idea that singing goodbye to Bush might feel good. Instead, when the boos and the shoes around me came out, I felt bad for the guy. After all, some of this was our fault. As one guy near me said, "He did make all of this possible."
What all of this is remains to be seen. The moment though was pretty amazing. I wanted to be able to hear all 1.8 million cheers, but I'll settle for the frantic flag waving. I'll settle for the powerful speech. I'll settle for the kindest crowd I've ever seen. There was a scary moment or two when everyone was trying to exit and no one seemed to agree on which way to go.
I went. I survived. It was another once in a lifetime experience. Just like the last one. Except different.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Brr... take 1
It's so cold this morning that while reading a book, I couldn't fathom how people could be outside hanging around. It seemed impossible until I realized the story was set in June in Illinois. What a day for an Ultimate game. With four solid layers, ski goggles, gloves, and a condensation-catching beard in full effect, I took the field with my winter league team. We started slowly, chilled to the bone, but then seemed to warm up. There were a few nice moments, some big grabs, but mostly we seemed to be doing the little things right, or at least righter. I continue to throw away discs that I want back, even with the gloves on. The one that slammed right into that guy's hand for instance, or the inside out flick that just kept drifting. I handled some, which never feels quite right, and quietly worked against my opponents on defense. The huck and then play defense strategy seemed to work well for us. I never really found my rhythm, but one good thing about being on a team is that some days that doesn't matter. Even without the beat, we managed to take more than we gave away and others managed to finish the business as it needed finishing. I think I caught one score, but even that one felt like I was running on ice and over-thinking.
Last weekend, I felt like I was three weeks into a season that had just begun. This week, I felt behind the curve. Maybe next week it will all gel together. Twice in a doubleheader. I'm asking a lot, but it seems worth asking.
It's so cold this morning that while reading a book, I couldn't fathom how people could be outside hanging around. It seemed impossible until I realized the story was set in June in Illinois. What a day for an Ultimate game. With four solid layers, ski goggles, gloves, and a condensation-catching beard in full effect, I took the field with my winter league team. We started slowly, chilled to the bone, but then seemed to warm up. There were a few nice moments, some big grabs, but mostly we seemed to be doing the little things right, or at least righter. I continue to throw away discs that I want back, even with the gloves on. The one that slammed right into that guy's hand for instance, or the inside out flick that just kept drifting. I handled some, which never feels quite right, and quietly worked against my opponents on defense. The huck and then play defense strategy seemed to work well for us. I never really found my rhythm, but one good thing about being on a team is that some days that doesn't matter. Even without the beat, we managed to take more than we gave away and others managed to finish the business as it needed finishing. I think I caught one score, but even that one felt like I was running on ice and over-thinking.
Last weekend, I felt like I was three weeks into a season that had just begun. This week, I felt behind the curve. Maybe next week it will all gel together. Twice in a doubleheader. I'm asking a lot, but it seems worth asking.
Friday, January 16, 2009
The price of stupidity is high
The easy "rental" of a Zipcar has been my pal on numerous occasions over the last two years. Cars have always been stocked and ready to go at most any time I had a need. Today was no different. Just ten minutes before I was to head out the door, I reached for my wallet and found that the all important key to my Zipcar success was missing. I searched through my wallet and my pockets but never found the card that opens the doors and lets me go about my merry car-free existence. Flummoxed and approaching the point of no return, I searched to see if a bus would get me to my off-site work destination. No dice. At best, I would be 20 minutes late. I darted out the door and headed for the taxi stand. There was no frantic arm waving, just heavy breath hanging in the air.
The taxi got me to my destination for less than I had expected to pay, but factor in the already-reserved zipcar and my trip was a hefty 8 dollars a mile. Ouch.
I found my card in a pocket of another jacket when I got home. The card was jammed back into my wallet for another ride some other day.
The easy "rental" of a Zipcar has been my pal on numerous occasions over the last two years. Cars have always been stocked and ready to go at most any time I had a need. Today was no different. Just ten minutes before I was to head out the door, I reached for my wallet and found that the all important key to my Zipcar success was missing. I searched through my wallet and my pockets but never found the card that opens the doors and lets me go about my merry car-free existence. Flummoxed and approaching the point of no return, I searched to see if a bus would get me to my off-site work destination. No dice. At best, I would be 20 minutes late. I darted out the door and headed for the taxi stand. There was no frantic arm waving, just heavy breath hanging in the air.
The taxi got me to my destination for less than I had expected to pay, but factor in the already-reserved zipcar and my trip was a hefty 8 dollars a mile. Ouch.
I found my card in a pocket of another jacket when I got home. The card was jammed back into my wallet for another ride some other day.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Aw, that felt good
Winter league started yesterday. We somehow managed to skirt the "winter" weather. In a field with holes, sprinkler heads, and some gravel, I should probably feel lucky I didn't hurt myself. I feel luckier than that.
I arrived at the fields almost 45 minutes before game time with a foolish belief that our game might start on time. I warmed up with the dynamic stretching that we've been doing at Catholic. I wanted to practice what I preached. It felt good and I felt warm. I was ready to play when game time finally rolled around. In the first two points, I'd layed out for two D's and snagged a score. Some have argued that the second layout may have been showy, but I swear their speed demon of a woman had a shot at it. Our team jumped out to an early lead, but the momentum shifted back the other way. We battled back and forth until half, before finally taking control, at least mostly. We let the other team creep back in to within 2 after being up 11-7, but we managed to put them away. I had one more grab that I'm pretty proud of. I stumbled into a hole and I watched as the disc floated above me. Thinking that I would tumble to the ground, I was surprised when I found a bit of footing. The disc was still hanging, so I lunged with my left hand and made the grab for a score. I also had one throw that I think I'm proud of. I was on the sideline, the dump cut went to the line, but wasn't open. I wanted the score (I did have trouble holstering my throws all day), and as the dump continued along the line, I stepped out, then was forced further out by my mark. I managed to put up a loopy outside in flick that came right down in the receiver's path. Yeah.
The coolest part of the day, other than just being out there playing and having some success was to be able to feel some upper body strength. I've been working out for the last four weeks or so, and I really felt stronger. Too bad, I felt like I'd lost a bit of endurance. Soon, I hope to be firing on all cylinders.
Winter league started yesterday. We somehow managed to skirt the "winter" weather. In a field with holes, sprinkler heads, and some gravel, I should probably feel lucky I didn't hurt myself. I feel luckier than that.
I arrived at the fields almost 45 minutes before game time with a foolish belief that our game might start on time. I warmed up with the dynamic stretching that we've been doing at Catholic. I wanted to practice what I preached. It felt good and I felt warm. I was ready to play when game time finally rolled around. In the first two points, I'd layed out for two D's and snagged a score. Some have argued that the second layout may have been showy, but I swear their speed demon of a woman had a shot at it. Our team jumped out to an early lead, but the momentum shifted back the other way. We battled back and forth until half, before finally taking control, at least mostly. We let the other team creep back in to within 2 after being up 11-7, but we managed to put them away. I had one more grab that I'm pretty proud of. I stumbled into a hole and I watched as the disc floated above me. Thinking that I would tumble to the ground, I was surprised when I found a bit of footing. The disc was still hanging, so I lunged with my left hand and made the grab for a score. I also had one throw that I think I'm proud of. I was on the sideline, the dump cut went to the line, but wasn't open. I wanted the score (I did have trouble holstering my throws all day), and as the dump continued along the line, I stepped out, then was forced further out by my mark. I managed to put up a loopy outside in flick that came right down in the receiver's path. Yeah.
The coolest part of the day, other than just being out there playing and having some success was to be able to feel some upper body strength. I've been working out for the last four weeks or so, and I really felt stronger. Too bad, I felt like I'd lost a bit of endurance. Soon, I hope to be firing on all cylinders.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Raindrops on whiskers and warm woolen kittens
Hovering a few degrees above freezing, it rains. I do not like this weather. It's too cold to wear my raincoat and it's not cold enough to turn to fluffy white goodness. The umbrella, my umbrella, unfolds with such enthusiasm like it misses me and needs a hug, but I can't. Umbrellas are space invaders and not the arcade kind. Sidewalks, escalators, personal bubbles do not take into account two umbrellas passing in the dreary night. One must bend. "Good evening, kind sir," it bows failing at its one job for a moment to pay respect to the higher class. The bulbs pass and return to attention, an umbrella in service. All fine and good, except that I'm wet.
Fortuitously, or with great inner fortitude, I don't feel the raindrops that collect in the mass of hair on my chin. I'll have to dry them later, but for now I'll celebrate my natural balaclava. It has more powers than water resistance it seems. In a weaving, billowing sort of way, it also has the power to bring out true feeling. I know this because today a coworker dropped in and as we were discussing our holidays happened to mention that she didn't like my beard. The subtlety of her comment could have been missed by some, but "I don't like it," hit a chord with me. "It makes you look older," she continued. There may have been some light backtracking after that, but I missed most of it. As I reflect on this statement and sometimes stare at my own reflection, I have to wonder a few things. First of all, why isn't facial hair afforded the same consideration as weight, fashion or hair style? I don't know of very many coworkers who would just come out and say such a thing about a new haircut. I've always thought that I admired the blunt reaction, but I've come to realize that some things can probably go unsaid. "That shirt makes you look like a killer whale," might be one of them. I'll keep thinking on it to be sure. And also listen to The Beards. They like it.
Hovering a few degrees above freezing, it rains. I do not like this weather. It's too cold to wear my raincoat and it's not cold enough to turn to fluffy white goodness. The umbrella, my umbrella, unfolds with such enthusiasm like it misses me and needs a hug, but I can't. Umbrellas are space invaders and not the arcade kind. Sidewalks, escalators, personal bubbles do not take into account two umbrellas passing in the dreary night. One must bend. "Good evening, kind sir," it bows failing at its one job for a moment to pay respect to the higher class. The bulbs pass and return to attention, an umbrella in service. All fine and good, except that I'm wet.
Fortuitously, or with great inner fortitude, I don't feel the raindrops that collect in the mass of hair on my chin. I'll have to dry them later, but for now I'll celebrate my natural balaclava. It has more powers than water resistance it seems. In a weaving, billowing sort of way, it also has the power to bring out true feeling. I know this because today a coworker dropped in and as we were discussing our holidays happened to mention that she didn't like my beard. The subtlety of her comment could have been missed by some, but "I don't like it," hit a chord with me. "It makes you look older," she continued. There may have been some light backtracking after that, but I missed most of it. As I reflect on this statement and sometimes stare at my own reflection, I have to wonder a few things. First of all, why isn't facial hair afforded the same consideration as weight, fashion or hair style? I don't know of very many coworkers who would just come out and say such a thing about a new haircut. I've always thought that I admired the blunt reaction, but I've come to realize that some things can probably go unsaid. "That shirt makes you look like a killer whale," might be one of them. I'll keep thinking on it to be sure. And also listen to The Beards. They like it.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
On we run
I had tasted victory and I liked it. As detailed in this space, I won a 6k about a month ago. Victory was nice, but the races I tend to enter have little fanfare- no prizes, hundreds of people, no spectators, and so I try to keep the glory and the not-so-glory in perspective. I suppose any contest belongs in some context and comes down in one way or another to who shows up that day. In that sense, I shouldn't belittle the accomplishment and I don't mean to. I guess in some way I'm trying to explain that internally I've found my need, that pure burning desire to win, has waned some. Today though, as I begin a new year, I have to wonder if it's just become a competing priority as I toed the starting line of my 2nd annual New Year's Day 5k.
With a little prodding from my past self, I toed the starting line and prepared a return to the victor's proverbial stand. From go, I was fighting to be one of the leaders. My fight was short-lived as two gentlemen left me in the dust. I fought on in third, crossing the mile in a time like the day 5:28 and brisk. As we climbed a slight hill, my focus remained on second place. The chill wind was freezing my hand and I soon found myself alone on the course. The same lessons repeat themselves in race after race, a fast start is a dangerous gamble. I had two things going for me. First, this was my distance, the 5k, so I knew what I was into. Second, I've been working on my upper body more lately and that has given me some kick in the past. I think I also carried a confidence that may have been a liability.
As I fell further out of touch with second place, I began to look over my shoulder. That's never a good sign. My friend and another seemed to be gaining on me. I tried to hold them off, but with about half-mile to go they passed me. I fought on and tucked in with them for a moment as the finish line approached. I had visions of a daring finish. I kicked hard and caught one competitor as my friend pulled slightly away. After only a few steps the effort proved to be too much for me this morning. The speed may be there from the strength training, but it didn't last. Something was missing. I have some theories, one being "some days are like that." I finished in fifth at 17:40. That's 15 seconds slower than last year. Maybe 2009 can be a year with room for improvement.
Some interesting (to me) post-race notes- I think that being able to discuss races with my friend afterwards shift the dynamic of my racing. It means that I think more in terms of what I need to improve and it also allows me to recall some very fond high school memories. It's a really special thing and if I can nurture it, I think it could very well lead to improvement this year. GO '09.
I had tasted victory and I liked it. As detailed in this space, I won a 6k about a month ago. Victory was nice, but the races I tend to enter have little fanfare- no prizes, hundreds of people, no spectators, and so I try to keep the glory and the not-so-glory in perspective. I suppose any contest belongs in some context and comes down in one way or another to who shows up that day. In that sense, I shouldn't belittle the accomplishment and I don't mean to. I guess in some way I'm trying to explain that internally I've found my need, that pure burning desire to win, has waned some. Today though, as I begin a new year, I have to wonder if it's just become a competing priority as I toed the starting line of my 2nd annual New Year's Day 5k.
With a little prodding from my past self, I toed the starting line and prepared a return to the victor's proverbial stand. From go, I was fighting to be one of the leaders. My fight was short-lived as two gentlemen left me in the dust. I fought on in third, crossing the mile in a time like the day 5:28 and brisk. As we climbed a slight hill, my focus remained on second place. The chill wind was freezing my hand and I soon found myself alone on the course. The same lessons repeat themselves in race after race, a fast start is a dangerous gamble. I had two things going for me. First, this was my distance, the 5k, so I knew what I was into. Second, I've been working on my upper body more lately and that has given me some kick in the past. I think I also carried a confidence that may have been a liability.
As I fell further out of touch with second place, I began to look over my shoulder. That's never a good sign. My friend and another seemed to be gaining on me. I tried to hold them off, but with about half-mile to go they passed me. I fought on and tucked in with them for a moment as the finish line approached. I had visions of a daring finish. I kicked hard and caught one competitor as my friend pulled slightly away. After only a few steps the effort proved to be too much for me this morning. The speed may be there from the strength training, but it didn't last. Something was missing. I have some theories, one being "some days are like that." I finished in fifth at 17:40. That's 15 seconds slower than last year. Maybe 2009 can be a year with room for improvement.
Some interesting (to me) post-race notes- I think that being able to discuss races with my friend afterwards shift the dynamic of my racing. It means that I think more in terms of what I need to improve and it also allows me to recall some very fond high school memories. It's a really special thing and if I can nurture it, I think it could very well lead to improvement this year. GO '09.
Books of 2008
I set a lofty goal for myself for reading in 2008. I wanted to read 5 books a month, 60 for the year. I pushed and I struggled and I read a few short ones and was on pace through August. It was challenging for me because it required me to plan ahead. I had to know what I was going to read next before I was through with the book in my lap. I was a regular visitor to the library and bookstores. I misfired at least twice and had to give up well before I could finish. My priorities shifted in September and the months got away from me. I was back on pace for December, but finished at 49 books completed. I'm three-fourths of the way through a book of F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories that would have put me at 50, but I just couldn't do it. Something about shooting for the moon and landing among George W. goes here. Here are the books I read in 2008:
1. The Happiness Myth: Why What we think is Right is Wrong
2. He's just not that into you
3. Early Bird: a memoir of premature retirement
4. Something Wicked this way comes
5. Freakonomics
6. Friendship: An Expose
7. I Am America (And so can you!)
8. Animal Dreams
9. Taft
10. Born Standing Up: A comic's life
11. Slam
12. Love is a mix tape
13. Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of An Unlikely Stripper
14. Last Night at the Lobster
15. Everything is Illuminated
16. 1984 (reread)
17. The Little Prince
18. The Group
19. Unaccustomed Earth
20. Kiss & Tell
21. The Relationship Cure
22. Prodigal Summer
23. Who Moved My Cheese?
24. Raising the Bar: Integrity and Passion in Life and Business: The Story of Clif Bar & Co.
25. Snuff
26. The Quiet Girl
27. Then We Came to the End
28. No one belongs here more than you
29. The Golden Compass
30. The Subtle Knife
31. The Amber Spyglass
32. If you could see me now
33. The Five People you Meet in Heaven
34. Playing for Pizza
35. The Poisonwood Bible
36. I was told there'd be cake
37. The Feast of Love
38. Dave Barry's History of the Millennium (so far)
39. What I talk about when I talk about running
40. The Natural
41. Life After Man
42. Pigs in Heaven
43. Buying In
44. Paris to the Moon
45. Hooking Up
46. Outliers
47. Unbreakable You
48. Me of Little Faith
49. Leadership 101
My favorites were Unaccustomed Earth and Prodigal Summer. In negative news, I think I'm going to stop reading comedy books by comedians.
I set a lofty goal for myself for reading in 2008. I wanted to read 5 books a month, 60 for the year. I pushed and I struggled and I read a few short ones and was on pace through August. It was challenging for me because it required me to plan ahead. I had to know what I was going to read next before I was through with the book in my lap. I was a regular visitor to the library and bookstores. I misfired at least twice and had to give up well before I could finish. My priorities shifted in September and the months got away from me. I was back on pace for December, but finished at 49 books completed. I'm three-fourths of the way through a book of F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories that would have put me at 50, but I just couldn't do it. Something about shooting for the moon and landing among George W. goes here. Here are the books I read in 2008:
1. The Happiness Myth: Why What we think is Right is Wrong
2. He's just not that into you
3. Early Bird: a memoir of premature retirement
4. Something Wicked this way comes
5. Freakonomics
6. Friendship: An Expose
7. I Am America (And so can you!)
8. Animal Dreams
9. Taft
10. Born Standing Up: A comic's life
11. Slam
12. Love is a mix tape
13. Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of An Unlikely Stripper
14. Last Night at the Lobster
15. Everything is Illuminated
16. 1984 (reread)
17. The Little Prince
18. The Group
19. Unaccustomed Earth
20. Kiss & Tell
21. The Relationship Cure
22. Prodigal Summer
23. Who Moved My Cheese?
24. Raising the Bar: Integrity and Passion in Life and Business: The Story of Clif Bar & Co.
25. Snuff
26. The Quiet Girl
27. Then We Came to the End
28. No one belongs here more than you
29. The Golden Compass
30. The Subtle Knife
31. The Amber Spyglass
32. If you could see me now
33. The Five People you Meet in Heaven
34. Playing for Pizza
35. The Poisonwood Bible
36. I was told there'd be cake
37. The Feast of Love
38. Dave Barry's History of the Millennium (so far)
39. What I talk about when I talk about running
40. The Natural
41. Life After Man
42. Pigs in Heaven
43. Buying In
44. Paris to the Moon
45. Hooking Up
46. Outliers
47. Unbreakable You
48. Me of Little Faith
49. Leadership 101
My favorites were Unaccustomed Earth and Prodigal Summer. In negative news, I think I'm going to stop reading comedy books by comedians.
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