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"This is why we don't visit Starbucks," he grunts to himself as he clings to 2005. Twenty hours to go. Was this the way it was supposed to end? A clack-ball noisemaker sits silent on the desk. There are no champagne flutes, but hopefully someone checked the batteries in the light-up martini glasses. The big finish, the flourish at the end, is at least three grocery stores away. New Year's Eve. This is the speed trap of holidays. Christmas with the family is four lane highways, no traffic. This day is the pounding of pots, pans, and expectations. Don't let that get to you. Fireworks, balls dropping, all the symbols of a fresh start. Perfection, purity, potential, all those p's that never quite come to be. No worries. Smell that, my friend? It's that brand-new-year smell. Nothing like it. My boss won't be thrilled, but you look like an intelligent sort. What's it going to take to get you into a fully-loaded 2006?

2005 Lists

When I wasn't watching TV, or running, or playing Ultimate, I was tracking my life in lists.

States visited in 2005

1. Virginia
2. Maryland
3. Delaware
4. Connecticut
5. New Jersey
6. New York
7. Rhode Island
8. Missouri
9. Iowa
10. Minnesota
11. Michigan
12. Kansas
13. North Carolina
14. Tennessee
15. Colorado
16. Georgia (Provisional- 8 airport visits)
17. Indiana
18. Massachusetts
19. Alabama


Books read in 2005

1. The Effects of Living BAckwards
2. Seat of the Soul
3. Clockwork Orange
4. The Last Juror
5. Cat's Eye
6. The Wedding
7. Angels and Demons
8. Bobos in Paradise
9. Blink: The Power of Thinking without Thinking
10. Fast Food Nation
11. Count of Monte Cristo
12. Blue Shoes
13. Harry Potter
14. The Notebook
15. Bel Canto
16. The Magician's Assistant
17. I am Charlotte Simmons
18. Truth & Beauty
19. The Tipping Point
20. Jitterbug Perfume
21. The Alchemist
22. Kite Runner
23. Pride and Prejudice


New-to-me movies of 2005

1. A Very Long Engagement
2. Coach Carter
3. In Good Company
4. Hero
5. God is great, and I'm not
6. Spanglish
7. Bride and Prejudice
8. Hitch
9. Whale Rider
10. Million Dollar Baby
11. Anastasia
12. Ray
13. Get Shorty
14. Melinda and Melinda
15. Being Julia
16. I, Robot
17. East is east
18. The Games of their lives
19. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
20. A lot like love
21. Bourne Supremacy
22. The Life and Death of Peter Sellers
23. Pink Panther
24. Kinsey
25. Beautiful Girls
26. (Something about time travel?) Primer.
27. Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith
28. The Longest Yard
29. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
30. Crash
31. Ladder 49
32. Wimbeldon
33. Batman Begins
34. Mr. and Mrs. Smith
35. War of the Worlds
36. Fantastic 4
37. Wedding Crashers
38. The Notebook
39. Happy Endings
40. A love song for Bobby Long
41. Broken Flowers
42. The Island
43. The Grizzly Man
44. Kung Fu Hustle
45. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
46. The 40-year-old Virgin
47. Funny Ha Ha
48. Guess Who
49. Serenity
50. Just Like Heaven
51. Elizabethtown
52. Tootsie
53. Stuck on you
54. Matchstick Men
55. Shopgirl
56. 12 Angry Men
57. Pride and Prejudice
58. Walk the Line
59. The Wedding Date
60. Madagascar
61. Good Night and Good Luck
62. Second Best
63. The Family Stone
64. Cinderella Man
65. King Kong
66. Scenes from a mall

Pulled in a sadder direction
I think I pulled a muscle while watching The Gilmore Girls. It'd be fine if it was during the jumping portion of my evening, but it was during the sitting. It's not just any muscle either. It's a back muscle and it's in the worst possible place. I can't reach it. It's in that spot. I reach over the shoulder and nothing. I twist the arm back and under- nothing. There will be no self-massage. I tried to use a letter-opener, but I just bent it. So Johnny Cash strums and I twist in funny ways and feel kind of alone. It's not a bad kind of alone. It's just an I-can't-reach-the-pulled-muscle-in-my-back-so-I-keep-rubbing-up-against-corners alone. The corners aren't working. And Cash, he's kind of down. I think he's upset about that sore throat. Or else prison. As for those Gilmore Girls, while funny, they are not actually roll-around-in-the-cheescake happy. They're closer to reality, but with snappier dialouge. So there's that.

Wouldn't that look good on a stained-oak sign?

Home is where your underwear drawer is.

Two things I learned from Kong

1. If you're scared enough, you can out-run and/or dodge a brachiosaurus.

2. The best a writer can hope for is sloppy seconds from a giant gorilla.

They took the Holiday out of my ham
Same-It's an excellent ham*- for Thanksgiving. This is Christmas and at Christmas we eat Holiday Ham. It's got that sweet outline of crumbly goodness. It's got that hint of reindeer. The pigs that have the honor(misfortune?) of becoming Holiday Hams are obviously raised to the sounds of Bing Crosby while suckling on egg nog.

This year, my family has chosen another pig. It's a fine ham, excellent even, but it lacks the taste of Christmas. Therefore, I will have to rely more heavily on my other 5 senses, 4 considering that my ESP is in the shop. So fellow celebrators, expect a lot of sniffing. Expect a lot of "Whaaat?" Expect some extra looking. If you're under the mistletoe, expect a lot of touching.

I'm sorry. They took my Holiday Ham and I can't be responsible for the other senses in their attempts to make up the difference.


*I didn't know I was so partial to Holiday Ham until they took it away. "They" need to accept full responsibility and stop blaming my mom.

WIS-consin
KC, the good side-I was in the MKE airport reading MKE weekly when I realized that of course everyone's favorite MKE blogger would also be writing half the stories. I looked around to see if I could enjoy a Sprecher Root Beer with tales of a nursing home artist and Adventure-bound Milwaukee-ites, but it was not to MKE...er be.

I've got the Syndication Blues
My TV-watching is creeping up. That 70s Show, Everybody Loves Raymond, Friends, and Seinfeld are on like 40 times a day. It's nearly irresistible. Sometimes I switch between them, 'cause they are all on at once. So it's like That 70s Loves Seinfeld Friends. It's this Voltron of Television. And in this case, the sum is totally not greater than the parts. I end up missing all the jokes. I have to resort to laughing with the laugh track and that makes me sad. Three kinds of sad. There's the "Why can't I just control myself?" sad. And the "You've already seen this episode twice" sad, and then the "And I'm just talking about twice this week" sad. Then I get the sniffles. It's nothing. There's something in my eye.

Chandler, hold me!

A brief history of cake and the call for a breakfast burrito
Birthday cake has had its day. Hundreds of days, really. Thousands even. Sometime in the late 1830s, when egg sales were sagging, the esteemed John Crooker decided he could inject life back into the egg market, though not the egg itself, if he could find a tasty use for the egg. The combination of egg and some other stuff lead to the invention, or discovery depending on your take on cake and its pre-ordainedness, of cake. To make a long story shorter, but not nearly short enough, Cooker unveiled his cake at the anniversary of the birth of his niece Alice and the birthday cake was born. As you know, Alice Cooker went on to marry Ralph Crocker and they birthed Betty who would change the way cooking was done all over the world. And while Betty gets a lot of credit, it was really Alice that was able to spread the cake because she brought the icing. Oh. My. Alice brought the icing like Einstein brought the gravity.

Alice was a natural cheerleader and heavily involved in the church. Using the skills her uncle had taught her, Alice first cranked out cakes for every member's birthday. Later, Alice would put her cake skills into care packages. That church just happened to be the largest church of gold seekers in all of the East coast. When the rush hit, Alice packed up the church care packages and sent the gold seekers on their way with a slice of cake and godspeed. The icing didn't travel well, but the sustenance provided was so delicious and the milk-straight-from-the-cow moustaches so hilarious, that nobody seemed to mind. Since so few from congregation were finding gold, they started a series of bakeries out West called the California Golden Cakes and Icing shoppes. Later the name was shortened to Goldies Cakes.

Goldies Cakes were so delicious that some people forgot about the gold rush all together. Birthdays in the California Territory soon served cake as the primary dish. Meanwhile in the East, Alice and her cakes had become so popular that some people stopped eating vegetables. Increased cake popularity soon spread from the coasts to Middle America. No one really knows how, since people on the coasts at the time considered Middle America nothing more than a big horse trail. Despite that mystery, once a trend like cake takes hold of Middle America and both coasts, there is really no stopping it. Americans everywhere were eating cake on birthdays and often on other holidays. Cake was a rite of passage. Cake was the answer and Where is the fountain of youth? was the question. Cake was the hottest thing since tobacco. There were cake sales and cake parties. There were cake dances and cake town meetings. Abraham Lincoln said, "let them eat cake" when asked about the growing rivalry in the North and South. Little did he know...

It's fairly obvious where I'm going. Cake is wonderful, but wouldn't you rather have a Birthday Breakfast Burrito? Cake had the gold rush and the civil war. Cake had Daniel Boone and Perry Como.

I see an opportunity here. It's time to replace cake. It's time to unveil the Birthday Breakfast Burrito. It's different. It's spicy. It reflects the current values of America. Cake is passe. Cake was great for what it was, but the Breakfast Burrito has so much potential. It's about melding cultures. It's about getting a complete meal in the morning. Fight obesity. Be patriotic. Enjoy the salsa. Celebrate your special day with a Birthday Breakfast Burrito. Carpe Diem means just a little more when it starts with egg, sausage and a hint of oregano wrapped in a fresh hot tortilla.

The Breakfast Burrito is the new cake. Blow that out.

Live. Nude*. Customer. Service.
I gotta tell you- I've been pleased as punch with speaking to actual human beings when I'm cashing in gift certificates for purchases lately. They're friendly. They're helpful. One of them even gave me a dollar!

I love the Internets, don't get me wrong. It's a wondrous convenient place to siphon my money, but every so often, it sure is swell to talk to somebody to place an order for llama**.

Operators are standing by. Call now!

*The nudity of said service is unverifiable.
**No animals were harmed in my purchase. Uh. Er. Unless you count the cows that will be made into steaks. They're a little bit harmed.

Back and buckin'
Lick the salt.
Shoot Jose.
Suck the lime.
Ride the bull.
It seemed straight-forward enough. Yet, I was nervous. I didn't know what I was doing, and not just with the tequila.

Mechanical bulls are bucking saw horses covered in faux-cow skin. Immobile, they look harmless. Headless, buttless, completely still animals often do. To notice the mechanical bull's natural habitat is to question how harmless such a contraption really is. Anything surrounded on all sides by three-foot thick brown cushioning is either dangerous or fun. I was about to find out that this particular breed was a little bit of both.

The riding advice I had received earlier in the evening was of little to no help, but the bull operator must have taken pity on me when I foolishly reached for a second riding glove.

"You only need one," he said beneath his brown cowboy hat. Sheepishly I put the left glove back as he pantomimed the bull-riding posture I should take. "You grab hold and throw the other hand back like so."

I half-heartedly mimicked his gesture.

With a little hop off the cushioning, I climbed up on the bull. The cowboy told me to scoot up. "Git that hand in real close, almost in your crotch."

I did as I was told.

The sign for buck is to throw that ungloved hand up. It wasn't long before the bucking began. At first it was a little like riding a drug-store horse that takes quarters. I may have been a little dramatic in the early part of that ride. When the "head" went down, I leaned back and when it came up, I leaned forward, all the while gripping tightly with my knees and my hand close to my crotch. It wasn't complicated, or even particularly fun. Just really funny and a little awkward. As the bull got more comfortable, or as the operator saw that I did, there was more bucking and even a little twisting. I got caught in a funny position and realizing I had two rides left decided not to fight it and tumbled to the cushions.

I popped right up and rode again. This time the bucking and twisting came faster, but I had the rhythm and the giggles. I found it hard not to laugh as I was spun and rocked all over that bull's home. I rode a good long while, perhaps as much as 30 seconds before I grew tired of having my knuckles slammed into my privates. Again rather than hold on with too much pride, I tumbled off.

I stood up again, a little less ready for my final ride.

"You can take a break," said the cowboy. Sweeter words have not often been spoken.

So I took a break. During my break I considered the chafing on my thighs. I considered the awkward way that my back had been turned. Most of all I considered the giggles. Mechanical bulls make me smile.

I readied for my final ride. When I motioned to the operator that I was going in, he smirked at me. I had a hunch I knew what that meant, but I was ready. Probably four whole seconds of ready before the bull bucked me right off laughing most of the way to the ground.

"That's when I have my fun," the cowboy smiled. "The third ride is for me."

"I figured," I smiled back.

After that I watched the bull toss the likes of frat boys, cowboys, and 45-year-old birthday girls having a whole lot of fun. I watched the bull get seduced, ridden backwards, and treated like a diving board. A debate roared inside of me. Chafe some more and ride the bull or wait for another day.

My legs won out, but I will ride again.

Time out
Sometimes it feels like everyone is watching and listening and I can't hide. On those days, I erase blog posts and feel very paranoid. Today is one of those days. It snowed last night. But then you knew that. Because you're watching. In the old days it was enough to gossip among the people I knew. Now I end up gossiping to the general Internets. Gossip to the general Internets doesn't feel right. I'm going to take a few days to think about what I've done. It's very age 10. You should try it.

Mmmm.
I like that the Godiva Hot Chocolate packet says please.
Please prepare Godiva Hot Cocoa with milk only.

I think I like my generic Marshmallow Avalanche Hot Chocolate better though.

Remember this kids: Manners and a fancy box will only get you so far.

The post went sour
This was going to be a self-deprecating post. It might have been clever, but not entirely on purpose. It was going to be a post about a boy, who by most definitions was now a man, had overcome some obstacles, though not the obstacles to very likely become a winner. The boy was proud, but rather than admit it, he'd announce that he was a winner with a smirk on his face.
"I'm a winner, but..." he'd say. The list of buts wouldn't be long, because the boy's ability to mock himself was limited by his pride. Age-old struggle. Modern-day twist. "I'm a winner, but only in my age group of paying members of my running club. It's probably 10 or 15 people."

The smirk would say "It doesn't matter."

The eyes would tell a different story.

In the seeds of the thought that was going to lead to the self-deprecating post, the boy realized something. He was a winner. He is a winner. Somewhere he thought he heard Dr. Seuss giggling, but he pressed forward with the idea that had been in the seed. Every event, every competition, everything he'd ever been in was about a niche. He was proud when he was the best runner in high school. Heck, he was proud when he was the best runner in his class. Whittle it away and that wasn't 10 to 15 people. Sure, there were 400 people in the class, but he only had 5 teammates his age. If it was ok to be thrilled by being 1 out of 5, then it's ok to be thrilled to be 1 out of 10. Why not relish the victories of a niche? Because before any of us can be best in the world, we have to be best in the room. And then best in the building. Best in the city. The county. The state. The country. The hemisphere. And there's no reason not to relish every step of the way. There's no reason not to take pride in besting those 10 to 15 people. And better yet, though the boy hasn't mastered that lesson nearly as well, there's no reason not to take pride in trying to best those 10 to 15 people. More than winning, it means something to attempt to win. Or even to attempt to best, or just test one self. To be proud to get out and run a 5k in 19:31, a mile in 4:52, 3000 meters in 10:14, another 5k in 17:56, and then 10 miles in 66:04.

Whether those were age-group victories or not, doesn't the attempt and the gratification that came with each race make the boy a winner?

And isn't self-deprecation so much easier to read?

Winter has its moments
Coffee-flavored gelato (Gelato! as the sign says) at the cafe that I pass by twice everyday. The hot chocolate and letters written to the sounds of Dawn Landes, Hem, and Autumn Defense. The laundry was done until I went and perspired again. I sat, quietly on a bench, and tried so hard not to wait. It always feels like I'm waiting, but I don't want to always be waiting, sometimes I want bench-riding to be, to be, the activity. I got a real letter today. I think my friends are trying to make sure the post office doesn't die. I finally made it to the post office, myself. I'm trying to do my part too. I helped a lady pick up what she'd dropped, which inspired me to try to help a man save a button. He was too quick. I am not a button-saver. When I said "thank you," I meant it. I think the clerk knew, because she smiled. It looked like a real smile. I think I still know the difference. I'm not sick. The words are coming out and I like the way some of them sound. It feels like I'm pushing at the door that opens up to the hallway that leads to a good place. But then the darkness comes so fast. The good things that happened in the light, fall into the shadows. The trees get naked, but they don't seem to enjoy it. It doesn't smell like snow yet, but the sky remembers. Then the stars remember. Then I remember- this used to be my favorite season.

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

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

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

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

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

See title, but maybe it isn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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