"You won't find nightlife in a book, Dave" or Paris Journal Day 2
Today we began to walk Paris. After breakfast at a bakery called Paul, which turned out to be a chain, we bought dix billets pour la Metro and traveled to the Louvre. We invested lots of euros in a 4-day museum pass. Lacking much direction in the Louvre, we opted to follow the "Top 10" from one of our guidebooks. We got 9 out of 10- Venus de Milo, Mona Lisa, the glass pyramid, the horses of Marley, Winged Victory of Samonthrace, Michelangelo's Slaves, the Medieval moats, The Lacemaker, Cupid and Psyche, and added a few along the way including Napoleon's apartments and the Dutch painters including Rembrandt. The cour de Marley was light and we spent quite a bit of time there soaking it in. The Louvre may be huge, but our abbreviated tour powered us through in about 2 hours. We ate lunch at a food court- I opted for jambon et fromage; tomorrow we're going to try to go to the supermarche.

After lunch, we walked through the gardens and strolled the Champs-Elysees. Lauren had us on a scavenger hunt, so we filled a lot of time searching for items- some easy like a beret or bridges and some much more difficult or specific like a well-dressed French child or the cast of the Statue of Liberty. We have all week to complete 75%, but the days will go fast. We climbed the Arc de Triomphe stairs and gawked at the wonderful unending views of Paris. The traffic in the circle was as captivating as the sights. Next we headed to the Eiffel Tower with a few stops along the way, like for our first crepes- delicious. The tower lit up and sparkled as we stood beneath it and snapped picture after picture. We walked more and finally found a place for dinner. It was just ok, we may have received what we paid for... We walked past Les Invalides and then to the Metro home. In bed by 10:30 and off to do it again tomorrow.

Oh yes, today I used more of my French, however little it may be and felt the awkwardness of my attempts. Never much of a speaker, I'm truly out of it now, but picking up a few words here and there.

"Do I have to remind you the meaning of forgot?"
I went to Paris a few weeks ago. I tried to write a little about my day every night. I'm planning to share that here. Before I start I should probably introduce the major players in this drama. We have Alan: his camera was almost always on, his French grew by leaps and bounds and molded nicely with English, Spanish, and gibberish into some sort of Franglaisish, and his eyes were always peeled for scavenger hunt items. He was one half of the super cool couple that helped make this all possible. The other half was Megan: she was our French expert, always ready for a meal or some shuteye, and snapping a high number of photos clandestinely. I was the mild-mannered third wheel, knowing just enough French to be annoying, but pushing the pace just enough to be charming. Or so I like to believe. Jean-Claudius, the Connecticut college camel made many guest appearances, particularly in pictures, while Allen and Lauren proved wonderful when we lacked direction or nutella. Also look for appearances from the French activist in blue and the Franprix.

Paris journal Day one
I should be exhausted right now and I probably am, but I can't quite tell. The day has been eventful. We arrived 5:30 AM Paris time on very little sleep, despite my best hopes or intentions. We found Alan's sister's place with relative ease, the rolling suitcases clacking on cobblestones and threatening to wake up the whole of the Ile St. Louis. In the morning spit of Paris clouds, we then made our way to meet the landlord of the apartment I was renting for the week. By 9:30 AM, we realized he probably wasn't coming, so I called him (who knows how much that cost) and sorted out the difference between 9 AM and 9 PM. Ah, I hate to be a foolish American. We wandered around the area for an hour, finding some interesting sites, but mainly we all craved sleep. Finally, we got into the well-lit home of mine for the week and crashed. We could only sleep until 12:30 because we had plans to run at hash at 2 PM (1400). As we struggled from bed, the wisdom of this decision was called heavily into question, but months of planning would not be undone by our lack of sleep. After some wrestling with Metro farecards, we made our way to the hash meeting place to find no one. Worried and disappointed, we searched for possible hashers. Just as we were about to give up, we found them. They spoke English and were quite friendly.

We hashed with the oddities that come from a hash and the added oddities that come from an unfamiliar hash. Alan pointed out my exhaustion later noting that I took every possible opportunity to walk and rest. I survived the circle, consuming a touch over my usual two drinks, and pouring another drink or so onto my exposed noggin. This was all well and good, but the real story turned out to be the post hash festivities. They were truly grand. We were fed quite well, including warm chicken and rice. We had ample opportunity to mingle, including my chance to converse with a sweet French woman with a disarming smile. I conversed (in English) as long as my tired mind would allow. I was proud of my efforts on that front; after all my dad told me to talk to the French girls. The amazing part of the whole experience was how warm and real it made Paris seem. After the hash, we labored to stay awake for a few more hours to hopefully reduce the effects of jet-lag. It was a great first day of activity.

Pie: The great motivator
I race for many reasons, but few are as tangible as pie. Some days ago, near March 14 (3.14) I raced in a Pi race of 3.14 miles and the prize was pie. Engineers are nothing if not dedicated to a concept.

When I first arrived at the race, I found sleepy college students and I figured that the race would be cake. The beast relished the thought. Pie was my destiny and my destiny was pie. As the race got closer, fitter, trimmer, athletic-looking student bodies began to appear and I realized that the pie could not be cake. When the race began, I got off to a traditionally slower start and had to fight my way through some runners to position myself 5 yards back of the leaders. There was a likely pace runner who had every plan to leave us in the dust, but I trusted that as a race official he would give up his pie, so that left me and my two pie-vying rivals. A little over 5 minutes into the race, I picked off one of the runners, and set my sights on the other. We were moving quickly, but I had a pie or bust feeling coursing through me.

The course was two loops and I crossed the first loop in about 8:20. At that time, the pacesetter was not yet out of reach, and my pie-enemy was still nursing a 5 to 10 yard lead. He seemed comfortable, but was he hungry? By the next hill, I had closed the gap and passed him. If I could shake him, the pie was mine. My lead was short-lived and he quickly passed me back. I had some choices to make and most of them revolved around inner fortitude and pie. For some reason, I really wanted pie. I don't even like pie that much. On a list of my favorite desserts, pie is not even in the top 5. Oh, but today, I wanted that pie. I didn't let my competitor slip away. Instead, I again managed to overtake him and with less than half a mile to go, I began to lay claim to my pie. Then came the final hill. I struggled up it. I looked back to see my competition moving more fluidly. As we rounded the curve to the final flat 80 meters, he drew even with me. I wanted that pie, so I reached in and I began to kick. Pie was a medal. Pie was qualifying for the state meet. Pie was not being beat by that high school nemesis Pete Castor. The line couldn't come fast enough for me, but with pie representing so much, I was able to edge out my competitor and take home the pie in a time of 17:23.

The second lap had taken its toll on us both, but we finished with a flourish. I split my pie with my competitor. It was a gesture I never would have or could have made many years ago. The beast is awake- he likes pie, and he likes competition. Sometimes, he also likes sharing.

Hello competition, my old friend.

I joined the running group again this week and for the first time crossed paths with the group's "fast guy". There were three of us planning to run together on this evening. We started out slowly, but it wasn't long before we were moving at a pace that my training runs have not taken very often over the last few years. I struggled to keep up, surprised by the pace and trying not to get lost on the turns of an unfamiliar route. After willing my body through 15 minutes of pretty hard running, the other two started to slow and I was able to settle in more comfortably, at least in pace.

Inside of my head, a battle raged. "Crush them" growled the no-longer-sleeping beast of competitiveness.

"Now, beast, this is a friendly run and there is nothing to prove," explained the calmer voice in my head.

"They pushed the pace this far. Now is your chance to hurt them back," the beast growled. "They deserve crushing."

"Settle down. We're trying to make friends here. We can save the crushing for race day," said the calm voice. "Besides, we don't really know the route."

The beast would not go quietly, but eventually was subdued. I returned to struggling to keep up. I realized that the beast is too well rested and not well enough trained. This marks the beginning of an inclination to let the beast out more often.

A lackluster race is still a good way to start the day
The lost hour, the return of darkness, the cocoon of sheets and blankets are all possible causes for my lack of Sunday morning enthusiasm. It was race day. Race day usually means jittery nerves and a joyous outlook on life, but this Sunday it primarily meant that my clock said 7:00 AM and my body felt 6:00 AM. I stumbled through a pre-sunshine grey, unable to even put in race day contacts, opting instead for the less competitive, less aerodynamic spectacles.

Outside it was cold, freezing even; the 70 degrees of last Tuesday forgotten under a black layer of thermal wear. The borrowed car couldn't heat fast enough and my teeth clacked. Spots of ice dotted the first section of the course, but a short warm up assuaged any fears that ice would be a constant concern. The trails were rolling and clear, gravity had taken water on an alternate route.

Runners gathered around the indoor registration tables, neither huddling together nor rushing out to the starting line. With the start time approaching, I shed one layer and headed back out into the cold with the masses. It wasn't warmth that greeted me, but I knew that I still had on too many clothes. Turning around, I fought back through the school of fish headed to the line and shed another layer. Down to shorts, a long sleeve shirt, and my Bad Habit jersey, nun poised for a fight, I donned my stocking cap and made my way to the starting line. As soon as I stepped out again a gust of wind called my decision into question, but the wind quieted as quickly as it had threatened my internal organs with the prospect of solidifying into a frozen mass.

After Go, I found myself jostling to position myself comfortably and avoid the ice patches. Within 200 meters, I was in third. At about 400 meters of this 5 km affair, the neck of the second place runner rose up. He glanced around uncomfortably and downshifted. I was in second and chasing a strong-looking leader. His pace was licking the heels of my discomfort, but we were already alone. My only choices seemed to be run alone or fight to stay on him. I chose the latter.

He pressed on through the mile at 5:32. As we climbed the hill, the recreational nature of my training whispered like wind through the leafless trees. I spent the next half mile or so clinging to an expanding gap between us. He never looked back. Alone in the trees, bobbing up and down the hills of a concrete path I ran on, my focus shifting back and forth from the hopes of a second wind to the fear of an epic collapse. My lungs filled with cold air and wouldn't expand the way I'd hoped. My legs chopped along up and down and up and down, but never quite found the smooth stride that can momentarily take the pain away. I crossed the 2-mile in 11:32 and carried on to the finish. It was the sun, the volunteer race officials, and me; even as I looped past runners on an earlier section of the course, I could only grimace and try not to clip them with what had begun to feel like flailing. I crested the final hill still in a competitive no man's land. With my head cocked I summoned a small surge to carry the boxing nun on my hip to a finish in 18:31.

Rellena long day
Six hours and one Quesadilla later, I have returned home. In some circles the quest for decent Mexican food might be warranted. There are likely some secret Tex-Mex hideouts in the Southwest that even the Tex-Mexicans have only heard through rumors carried on salsa-flavored wind. Maybe there are pockets of culinary mastery in small towns just the other side of the Rio Grande. For those hideouts and pockets, a six hour outing might not be unheard of, might even be rewarded, but here in Maryland, a trip to Salisbury for Mexican food might be a tad foolish. The heart of Wicomico county may be many things to many people, but mecca of Mexican is likely not one of them.

It's fair to say that our intent was not to travel long distances only to eat the tortillas of our Mary-Mex brothers and sisters. In fact, I was there, like many places, to be involved with Ultimate. The heavens had other ideas and poured rain down upon us in a way less like sheets and more like down comforters. Heavy stuff. Taking a cue from Happiness gurus, I've decided to focus on the positive.

Let me start with lunch. Without lunch, breakfast and dinner are very far apart. Let me continue with the company that I kept. There's a field trip-esque quality that comes with traveling in packs. It's easy to overlook that joy, especially at a WaWa where it turns out that the pack is also the line for the toilet. We take our lines wherever we go. It's like we leave the fun part of amusement parks and just carry the annoying part around in vans. I'm working on the positive; I'm no guru yet. There was a warmth, in 'Tini's laugh, in the unveiling of the bent digit, in the high-powered and confusing lemon juice, that will get lost between rain drops and ticking clocks. I greatly enjoyed witnessing sugar roulette, which wasn't as deadly as it sounds. The sun breaking through the clouds and poking rich green farmland was something out of a painting and the winds something out of a movie, like maybe Twister. We didn't see flying cows, and sometimes what isn't there can be just as positive.

J-J-Jaded

I'm a little giddy tonight because I finally made it to the local running store's 7 PM Tuesday run. It was free. It was very pleasant. Still, I couldn't help thinking that it was a brilliant marketing ploy. Brilliant may be too strong of a word since only 5 of us who weren't already employees actually went on the run, but certainly a very fine marketing ploy. I now have good will toward the store. I'll probably buy my next shoes from that very spot. I'll be telling the local runners I know, "Hey, this store puts on a weekly run, you should come join it." Then they'll come and they'll shop at this store and it will snowball like DC snow, so only a little, but still very fine, I say. But, but, but...

Maybe it's not a ploy. How can I tell a ploy from just plain good intentions? What happens if a ploy and good intentions overlap almost completely? Is that big, bad, and scary? Or just awesome?

Let's check in with Aerosmith- My, my, baby blue... and I'm the one that jaded you.

Ah, it's Steven Tyler's fault. Or more likely it's at least bordering on awesome. If we're going to live in a consumer-driven society the place where good intentions and ploy overlap is the place I think I want to be.

Any other year and it'd be March
The post was going to write itself. Traveling on the down escalator to baggage claim, I was contemplating cell phones. My anti-cell mojo has taken a series of hits. I don't have the conviction that once splashed across the computer screen. I've grown weak and my reasons for maintaining disconnected start sounding nostalgic before they leave my throat. Recently, I encountered a test to my cell-free existence. I was trying to meet friends- an event in and of itself that has changed in my lifetime. I was to call from a payphone when I arrived at the predetermined Metro station. From there my friends would pick me up and drive me to the show. Payphones are getting scarce, but they can be found in the Metro without difficulty. I packed my 50 cents, the going rate for a local call these days, and grabbed an envelope and scrawled the number that needed to be called across the top. Metro whisked me to my destination and I strode to the phone. Popping my quarters in and dialing the number, I called for a ride. I heard a voice on the other end and said, "Hello." Several "hellos" volleyed back and forth with increasing intensity on my side and increasing question on the other side. My initial reaction was that my leg was being pulled, but I soon realized that like my convictions, the payphone was faltering. Finally, my friend said, "Dave, if that's you, we're on the way to the Metro."

I hung up, walked away and wondered if I should try the other phone. I didn't have 50 more cents. I searched my pockets several times for a stray dime, but came up empty. I stood a little bewildered wondering what I should do when the payphone started ringing. At first I was stunned, but then I jogged over and picked it up. "Hello," I exclaimed.

"It rang four times and stopped," she said.

I wanted to tell her why, but I could only stare at the phone and then hang up as the universe laughed at me. Taking solace in our first exchange I made my way out of the ground and hoped that I'd spot the car that would carry me on. I looked for other payphones, but found none. I considered asking a kind stranger for a phone call, but wasn't feeling too keen about that. How long should I wait on the corner before giving up and heading home? Fortunately, my wait didn't last long and the carriage appeared. My existence was quickly redeemed and I partially blocked out this event.

It must have simmered beneath the surface, because as the escalator descended I was formulating new arguments against a way of life I continue to resist. People don't have quiet moments anymore, I thought to myself. I'm going to be at baggage claim for the next half hour and then have a Metro ride home and not say a word to anyone. I will wait until I'm home to recount the tales from my trip. It sounds a little lonely when written that way, but it builds suspense and excitement. It allows me to collect my thoughts and appreciate the present. These people that would wait for their bags nearby, they'd all be chattering away, never reflecting, I was certain. How sad, I thought. What has the world come to?

The bags began churning out and I looked around and realized that almost no one had a phone jammed in his or her ear. A few flipped one open as they rolled luggage away, but most people were waiting quietly like me.

I don't know if it was the day of the week, or if I'm just too hard on my fellow man. Maybe we're not as bad off as I thought. However, we're still meeting at a predetermined time at a predetermined location because I can't call on the way, unless I have a few quarters and some good luck.

Oh! Take me to the movies

I finally saw Atonement and it was worth the wait. I really liked it. I thought it was shot well, told well, and other than Domino I don't ever mind watching Keira Knightley. I'd heard that the book ends in a very frustrating way; I haven't read it, but I suspect that in this particular case that same ending translates much better on screen. I'm putting my slightly bruised thumb up on this one. The bruise is not movie-related.

I also saw Definitely, Maybe. I avoided the V-day crowd on this one, but was very concerned that this would tread the same territory of the barely satisfying 27 dresses. I was wrong; the man once known as Van Wilder, starred in a well put-together romantic comedy. It's a little telling and a little sad that divorce now plays heavily in this type of movie, but this movie pulls it all off in a pretty charming way. I don't think this is top tier romantic comedy stuff, but it's definitely a few steps up from any that have come out in years. (As an aside, it occurs to me that perhaps the romantic comedy has changed less than I have which could account for my views on them. I'll consider it, maybe hit up netflix for a few test cases and see what I come up with.)

Cleaning my toilet, cleaning my soul

I'm not quite sure what it says about me that I've taken my break-up mix and made it into my bathroom cleaning mix. Only good scrub-free things, I have to believe. With a nod to John's recent movie post, I'd like to write briefly about the mix I called, "Ouch".

1. Hello, Goodbye by Sean Watkins- I love that the entire relationship takes place in a brief conversation; it's a great way to capture that possibility of new beginnings and that reality of missed opportunities.

2. Bubbly by Colbie Caillat- I heard this one was tearing a hole in the myspace-time continuum. My favorite part, other than the lolling tune, is the ripple effect that the song's subject has on the singer's body. A good nose crinkle can be a real kick.

3. Five Minutes to Midnight by Boys Like Girls- I just like the fairy tale meets New Year's Eve effect going on here. The music makes me want to grab Cinderella and rush home so we don't turn into gourds. Before the clock strikes twelve, we'll need to share one of those kisses that are more full of potential than anything else.

4. Mad World by Alex Parks- This is a sadder eerier version of Mad World than I've heard. There's an emptiness and a vastness that made it seem appropriate for this mix.

5. I Ain't Been Myself in Years by Yonder Mountain Boys- This to me is really the weak link on the CD. The title seemed right, but the song doesn't ache or bounce or feel the way I thought it did when I first added it.

6. All the Way Down by Glen Hansard- This song is heartbreak, but with the tiniest drop of optimism. The Once album is a better break-up mix than this one can even aspire to be.

7. Everything is All Right by Motion City Soundtrack- This song is just a little bit of a rockin' check-in to...um...make sure that, basically, everything is ok, or, at least all right. It's fun. It's airy. It's helping us all recover from being all the way down a moment ago.

8. Brick by Ben Fold's Five- We didn't last long being all right, so this one is pretty crushing. It's beautiful and it hurts.

9. Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's- This song is so full of optimism. I just don't see how this couple is going to make it. I love that. I'm not sure what kind of cynic that makes me, but there's got to be a place to be overflowing with hope and to be able to keep the mop of cynicism nearby. There's room in one man for both of these feelings and this song brings all of that out in me as I wail, "OOOOOh, it's what you do to me." It's cleansing.

10. Come Around by Rhett Miller- Sadness, nostalgia, begging, and the well-sung question, "Am I gonna be lonely for the rest of my life?" Bathroom cleaners everywhere know what I'm talking about.

11. Why does it always rain on me? by Travis- We've reached the feeling sorry for ourselves portion of the mix. Travis does it wonderfully in this song.

12. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional- Dude, it's emo. Emo belongs on a mix like this. Also, it's pretty awesome the way he uses "making out" in two totally different contexts.

13. Hotel Fire by Hem- This song is beautiful. I think I remember hearing that it was about divorce and even if it isn't, it's just filled with the sort of sad destruction and still-burning flames of a break-up. This is my favorite band for a reason.

14. It Just Is by Rilo Kiley- Even acceptance doesn't feel good. Rilo knows it. She's not afraid to remind anybody.

15. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Wilco- This is a standard for me on this type of mix. It's sort of a childish taking of responsibility put together in a vacant lonely tone. It gets stuck in my head for days.

16. Just Like Heaven by Goldfinger- Nothing says get back on the horse like a punk cover. Also, air guitar has healing powers.

My mom is my Valentine

A large brown-papered box arrived at my house over a week ago. Even without the "Happy Valentine's Day" sticker, I knew what it was for. I don't get large boxes as often as some people might think. It was early because my mom wouldn't be home to send it as today approached. I know folks who would send a gift late or even a few who have stopped giving their twenty-something children Valentines. Please do not doubt their love. My mom just happens to have at least two qualities that make early Valentine's Day presents into reality. She's very organized and she celebrates holidays enthusiastically. I can't be certain, mostly because I've never asked, but I think holidays might be my mom's race day. She has pins, and wreaths, and flags, and outfits for almost every major holiday. She launches all-out holiday attacks on the senses and she gives generously, especially when she finds something special while shopping.

I admit that I considered very little of this while the box gathered dust in my room. I wasn't displeased to receive a large box in the mail, but I'm mostly past the days where a box can ignite the child-like curiosity that I once knew. Years ago, or last week, I might have groaned at the thought of the material goods that my mother had chosen for me, but I think she's recently heeded my groans and began to focus her efforts again on the things that I need, eschewing the singing, dancing heart-shaped doo-hickeys. She's more adaptable than I've probably given her credit for. The skills she's taught me or I've absorbed through genetics probably also deserve more credit. My coworkers think that I'm organized. I've been reluctant to agree because I hold myself to the gold standard of organization- my mom. My calendar is not as complete, my desk not as clean, but I know where things are and I think a lot of that comes from her. The rest comes from Google Desktop search, but it didn't send me a Valentine, so no tributes there.

Beyond organization, there are other pieces of me that I can fairly easily attribute to my mother- a desire to please, an inner drive, an appreciation of family, and a fondness for holidays like today. Last night, as midnight approached, I decided I could no longer wait to find out the contents of the large box. The kid in me still exerts some pull. I peeled back the brown paper to find a bright shiny red box with a red and gold heart on top. It was so bright and surprising that I had to set it aside and smile. I readied myself to bed and waited for Valentine's Day to arrive. The Valentines used to arrive at breakfast, but while respect for tradition comes partly from Mom, sometimes patience runs out. At 12:08, I tore off the shiny red wrapping paper, ripped through the packing tape to find the closest thing I can think of to a hug. They were warm, in a room-temperature sort of way, fuzzy new bath towels. I don't think I've had new bath towels since college. I'd say I don't even want to talk about how excited they made me, but I think I just did.

Happy Valentine's Day. Here's to hugs, real or packaged.

It's Valentine's Day right now somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

If I had a club and/or a matchmaking organization, I think I'd call it "The International Date Line." Sounds exotic, doesn't it?

Happy Valentine's Day.

2008 pieces of mail

It seems like just this time last year we started hearing from various candidates about their intentions to run for president. There was a barrage of media, and commercials, and phone calls, and now 360 some-odd days later, we finally get to vote... in the primaries. Aren't these people governors and senators? Don't they have actual jobs to do? How do they have so much time to run for office?

With those questions in mind, I turn to my mailbox, the most overstuffed political consultant I know. Almost every day, I get something new touting the incredible nature/policy/lack-of-other-candidateness of yet another candidate. I've reached a breaking point. I don't want any more junk mail. I'm thinking of becoming a one-issue voter. My issue? Junk mail. I'm going to start voting for the candidates that don't fill my mailbox, don't call me at dinner, and don't fill in "Tivo" time. It's time for the quiet ones to rise to prominence. I fear that this will help the incumbents, but it will also help the write-ins. That's good news for Donald Duck.

Just another love note to running; not epic poetry
There was a light frost on the ground that gave the brown grass a grayer tint and confused the boundary between sod and sky. The air was crisp and held breath up for closer examination. The sun lurked beneath a thin layer of clouds, but even in the ticks before the 8 o'clock hour, evidence of February warmth began to peek through.

My friend and I were about to embark on a 5-mile race on a country road in Maryland. I don't have a lot of friends who would wake up on any day looking for a race. I consider this another reason to be thankful for this one. I knew from our run on Thursday that he has a spring in his step that doesn't seem to match his age. My stride feels weary, but he bounds. Just before we made our way to the starting line of the race, I assured him that if he felt up to it he should run on ahead of me. I don't often make such assurances, but I consider it a mark of maturity that I made this one. He knew my goal was once again to break 30 minutes and improve on the performance of 2 weeks ago. We ran together slightly off the lead pack for a little over three quarters of a mile. Then my friend bounded. I watched him pull away almost instantly. He crossed the mile around 5:43. I crossed 10 seconds later in 5:53. Sighing to myself, I considered how this race was beginning just like the last one.

Singing John Denver's song "Country Road", or at least two lines of it, country road, take me home, I made my way up the hills of mile 2, as my friend pulled further away. I could see him cross the second mile right on pace at about 12 minutes. I, on the other hand, had slowed to something around 12:22. I briefly thought of my 4 and a half hours of sleep the night before, the fruity but stout Belgian beer I had enjoyed and hopefully flushed from my system, and the insane barking of the otherwise charming lead singer of Sunny Day in Glasgow. I am not the runner I once was. He would have gone to bed early. With the turn on the out and back course looming, I banished the thoughts, waved to my friend and crossed the halfway point at 15:30.

Downhill started then. It was pleasant in a pounding sort of way. The country road now was taking me home, or at least in the right direction. I don't really recall what my time was at mile 3, though speculation and extrapolation leads me think that it was right about 18:30. I'd sort of lost contact with my friend and thoughts of him were momentarily shelved. I had more immediate goals, like overtaking the man in front of me and moving this race along. Gaining on a man in black, I was startled when out of the corner of my eye I saw a large black and brown dog headed in the direction of the course. With a burst of speed from sheer terror, I sped past my aim exclaiming, "That's motivation!" as the dog turned to parallel our route along what I can only assume was an electric fence. That burst of energy and the downhill nature of the course allowed the gap between my friend, his current running group, and me to shrink noticeably. As I ripped through a 5:25ish mile, cruising now at 23:52 with just a mile left, I began to have visions of meeting my goal and overtaking my friend.

No slouch was he, as he was able to find his way out of the group he had been with, and let them crumble behind him. I passed them as well, gaining slightly, but realizing that there was still a large challenge left before me. As the gap closed a little more, I began to feel the distance I'd made up so quickly down the hill after mile 3. Then I began to feel the upward slope toward the finish that seem to be the sadistic trademark of the race planners of this particular club. It was nothing like two weeks ago, though my mind did pause to remind me of that. Still, I asked my legs for more, but they were not particularly interested. I'd closed to within 10 yards or so when I spied the finish. With 200 meters to go, my kick was almost non-existent and it was matched (easily? He politely won't say.) by my friend. He finished in 29:28 and I in 29:36. We ran together for something like 6 minutes, but in the true spirit of competition, I believe we pushed each other the whole way. I look forward to another opportunity for personal records, for friendship, for competition.

Go to the fridge during the game
There are 4 Super Bowl ads that I feel the need to mention and react to in some way, mostly negatively, which may say something about me. They are also all liquids which may say even more; like I was thirsty.

1. SoBe LifeWater- these ads were kind of dumb. I don't really know what to make of LifeWater (if that's what it was even called.) I guess I'll drink it if I want to dance with lizards. Isn't that why I have Geico insurance or is that just for the talking?

2. Gatorade- This ad broke my heart and not in a "aw, we were so close to making things work" sort of way, but in a "Gatorade, WTF?" I get that they were falling in the babies, animals, sex syllabus of selling, but Gatorade is one of those products that has the potential to make me want to get up off the couch and be somebody. Maybe they are searching for a new market that includes dogs? I'm uninspired, disappointed, and reconsidering LifeWater and the lizards.

3. Coke- This ad containing parade floats chasing Coke was intriguing and kind of fun to watch, but I'm at a loss as to what to do with the end. Charlie Brown ends up with the highly sought after bottle of cola. Doesn't this go against the very thing we love about Charlie Brown? Is this a slap in the face to the memory of Schulz? Charlie Brown is the lovable everyman who doesn't kick the field goal, doesn't win the game, doesn't get the red-headed girl, so how does he end up with the Coke? I need more back-story or I need someone else to end up with the Coke. Good Grief.

4. Amp- I guess this is my winner. When the winner involves a large man attaching jumper cables to his nipples, this was a year when the game outplayed the ads. I don't want to downplay this one completely. It was horrifyingly appealing to watch and about an energy drink, so right on target in my mind.

Go back in time and get the Lemonade!

I stopped my feet from bouncing so I could reach up into the sky and wave my fingers around vigorously, a bit like I was conducting an orchestra of hummingbirds. This and the seizure-like bobs of a 1:15 AM madman are the apparent results of an iced coffee some hours ago. It started innocently enough with an order of lemonade. Feet pound on a non-existent bass drum. Hand seizures now violently direct traffic to the right The waitress, a sensible looking woman of low to mid twenty decried her establishment's lemonade with some remark about its unappealing fountain nature.

"Too sweet?" I asked. As my arms and my brain spin in opposite directions I am unable to recall her answer. Her look spoke volumes. She I point angrily channeling Lewis Black had a disdain for the lemonade which I took seriously. Not wanting the carbonated beverages of the Coca-Cola empire, I instead decided that an iced coffee with my 9 PM dinner would be wise. AN ICED COFFEE. I get some caffeine, but in no way have a tolerance wrists like pinwheels; bouncing has made its way up my spine.

Now I pay the price. I could've had gesticulating wildlya piss-poor glass of lemonade and been out by 11:30, instead masticating the air and punctuating my point with a powerful jab downward I chose poorly. Very poorly. Sleep does not just elude my grasp. I can barely recall the nature of sleep. Instead I want to grab my banjo, which hasn't been played in some months, and pick a tune. Wait. Wait. I've got one. How about "Lemon, Lemon, pick the Lemonade, you ridiculous little man from 5 hours ago."

It's not that well known.

Like the substitute mailman,
I kind of deliver. The gym was quite a challenge today. The gym is down in the basement of my building, but I managed to make three trips before successfully entering. I don't even remember what I forgot on my first trip; I then proceeded to forget my shoes, which required a hike back up the stairs and then my ID. After that, it was smooth sailing through 30 minutes of stationary bike and two sets of something or other before the fire alarm went off. My self-preservation instinct kicks in when the fire alarm starts going. There are some that will dilly and others that will dally, but among my coworkers I tend to be one of the first people out the door. Today, I took a calculated risk, considered my future as a charcoal briquette and gathered my stuff from the locker room before darting outside. I did encounter a naked man who asked, "Should I go out like this?" I said, "yes", but didn't stick around to see whether he followed my advice. Unlike my workout, I survived intact. Like my workout, I made my way home half-dressed and sweaty.

My dentist and my mom think my smile is great
I picked my dentist for two reasons- he's close and he's open after traditional business hours. I did not pick him because of his day job- prison dentist. I am not kidding. He's a little rough, but claims to be gentle on the paying customers like me. He thinks my teeth are amazing, but I always try to remember his baseline. If that's not enough to create the curious dental experience, his receptionist seems greatly disappointed when my cleaning does not result in money-making procedures like root canals and fillings. I don't know what to say except that as odd and off-putting as this experience continues to be, it's still better than my doctor's visits where I feel like the doc just doesn't care. Go Health Care! Go US of A!

The Great Debate
I took the easy road yesterday. I turned to movie reviews and imdb. The post I really wanted to write, the post that I'm still not sure I can get out was about the debate that raged inside of me.

What could cause my insides to roil on a Sunday afternoon? I had a movie to choose. Should I see 27 dresses or Atonement? It seems that a person like me could distill such a decision down to its most attractive...er...simplest parts and make this merely a question of Heigl vs. Knightley. Alas, a decision such as this turned out to be far more complicated.

I didn't know much about either movie, but by the few things I did know it appeared that 27 dresses was the cotton candy and Atonement was the apple, likely sans caramel coating. I sensed that even though Keira would be up there in big screen glory, I might have to work at it. I might have to be sad or upset or actually care. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that all I really wanted was to be entertained with little to no effort. I sensed that Katherine could deliver. Still, I struggled with my decision. I was about to spend $10.25 on a movie that I didn't really want to care much about. What was I saying with my dollars and cents? Please, Hollywood, make cotton candy because I don't want to be bothered. I want cheap thrills and easy laughs. I don't really want to think or feel, I just want you to kill a couple of hours and tie it up with a nice lavender bow for me. If I make this decision, how many heterosexual males just like me will make the same decision? Ok, wrong question, but how many times do we choose easy over more challenging? How many times is that right? And if we keep doing it will the more challenging options disappear? Will we lose the ones that force us to examine ourselves or the world in a different way? I don't even know if Atonement manages that or if that's what it means to be art.

Sheesh. No wonder I went to see 27 dresses. By the time I was done pontificating about which movie to go to, I was too tired to think any more. Or more likely, my primary solace in my decision is that I figure eventually Keira will woo me to the theater. I'm probably going to work, just not on Sunday.

27 dresses meets or exceeds low expectations
There is something about the romantic comedy that keeps me coming back for more. I don't think I've been particularly pleased with one since Notting Hill. What was that, 1995? Imdb.com says 1999 actually, so the drought is not as long as I suspected.

There have been a few during that time that I had high hopes for- Serendipity, Music and Lyrics to name two and at least one, Once that doesn't really fall in the same genre, but was pretty special. For the most part, this genre is a parade of cliches. 27 dresses marches on to the beat of the same drummer, but Katherine Heigl is just lovely enough to make things ok.

I think the something that keeps me coming back is the happy ending. When the happy ending doesn't do it for me anymore, I think that's when it's time to start worrying.

Additionally, further research indicates that in June, The Time Traveler's Wife starring Rachel McAdams (!) will hit theaters. There will be high expectations when one of my favorite books turns into a movie starring one of my favorite actresses, but it's about time for this drought to end.

Ah! The cinema!
Every so often a movie comes along that makes me want to grab someone's hand and go running through the streets.
Spirit of the Marathon is that movie. I could sense a closeness in the crowd immediately; it was the kind of vibe that usually surfaces at highly anticipated comic book movies, the difference here was that these were my people. The crowd was full of runners. Most of them may not have had the joys of a pre-movie run like my fine friends and me, but I could sense that most had been bitten by the running bug now and again.

I don't know what this movie would be like for the non-runner, but it gave me chills. It's put together so well and it helped me recall almost all of the trials and the triumphs of my marathon experience in 2004. On top of that pleasure, it manages to illuminate some other amazing stories including the elite marathoners. It's well shot providing both footage that gives some perspective to the vastness of the experience of tens of thousands of crazy people all pushing toward a goal as well as that individualized in the training and in the race perspective of the singular struggle.

It's awesome. I'm not sure I could get much more excited about a documentary unless it was about me. Maybe not even then because that might be both awkward and egomaniacal.