More politics?!?
I found myself cheering on this Post Op-ed on keeping gas prices high. I don't like getting gouged at the pump any more than the next guy, but I would greatly appreciate if the next guy would park his Hummer, or better yet not buy a disgusting vehicle like that at all. And maybe if the next guy and the next gal started making smart decisions, car companies would make some smart decisions. And then, heaven forbid while cars aren't guzzling so much gas, maybe city planners can start making some sensible decisions too and we'll actually have places to live that don't require so much driving.

I'm tired of wars over oil. I'm tired of the environmental battles with so little progress. It's the 21st century. It's time for some 21st century solutions. We should be arguing about the problems of time travel and flying cars, not about gas mileage rates that look just as bad as they did 30 years ago.

It's fun for everyone
I've been reading a lot about the "blame game" these last couple of weeks. It seems like a really good game. From what I can tell, it takes two people to play. It starts when the blamer makes accusations specifically or generally against the other player. The accusations can be baseless and off-the-wall or they can be backed by facts. It doesn't seem to matter which, so long as they are loud. Volume and quantity of blame is key. Later on in the game the veracity of the blame may come into play, but in the early stages of this game it's important to get off to a fast start so that the opponent doesn't have a chance to recover. By the time the truth comes out, a good blamer will already be cruising to apparent victory.

The best part about the blame game is that there is no limit to the number of players that can join in. This is a game for every race, class, sexual orientation, or government position. The blame game doesn't discriminate. It's fun for everyone. The only down-side to this all inclusive game is that there is not a clear-cut winner. Oh sure, it always looks like someone is winning and generally that someone blusters intensely as he/she looks to bury opponents, but there are no blue-ribbon blames. The flag doesn't fly for a championship blamer. As a matter of fact, as best I can tell the blame game tends to give us a whole lot of losers. Most of the losers didn't even want to play the game in the first place. Just a thought here: maybe we need to find some more constructive ways to play.

The problem

-with slouching and eating Pringles is that you end up with crumbs in your belly button.

-with hanging out at a college that you never attended is that eventually someone is going to call you creepy and you're going to start to wonder if they're right.

-with buying new banjo strings is that then you have to figure out how to attach them to your banjo.

-with not having TV is that you don't get to see The Gilmore Girls unless you're in a hotel.

-with reading all of this garbage is that it doesn't really get you anywhere.

Sleek and black and toaster of bread
My toaster will rock your face off. It's not that it does anything particularly different from any other toaster, but it does it with so much style. It's like the tuxedo of toasters. It is the James Bond of small appliances. Blenders literally (and by literally I, like the majority of English-speakers these days, mean nothing to do with literally at all) swoon when my toaster gets plugged in. I've heard them screaming when that little blue "toast" light comes on. It's a Toaster Invansion. Veg-o-matics look like chopped beets compared to my toaster. If my toaster could procreate and find a suitable toaster mate, it would make the hottest little toaster babies of all time. (Hmm. I wonder if anyone is selling toaster babies. I bet they'd be huge in Canada.)

As hot and sexy and incredible as my sleek, little, black toaster may be, it still gets jealous of the Kitchenaid mixer. Now that's a small appliance that's flippin' sweet.

Did I mention that I had some toast last night that really hit the spot? And also that I have no idea what I'd do with a mixer. I'm in a kitchen comfort zone when it comes to the toast.

I want to ride my bi-cycle

AT $3.31 PER GALLON, YOU GET OFF THE ROAD, JACKA**!

Continued pilfering of other sources
This one from Amber Hollibaugh, my dangerous desires (or so I'm told.)

"The memory of our histories is often constructed to work as our
conscience as well as to configure our secret desires. We wander through
our own minds endlessly, figuring and reconfiguring our stories, our
memories, our realities, so that they will line up with the choices we are
making, the dreams we are desperately fashioning, the stories we hope to
explain us, the lovers we desire, the world as we wish it to be."

Does that explain some of those thoughts that just seem to *pop* out of nowhere? Or the ones I can't escape?

Some things need to be preserved
The wisdom that the Sandwich and I came up with tonight may be one of those things.

"The good thing about simple is... it's not complicated."

Or not so much with the preserving. Or the wisdom. Heck, the Sandwich and I probably had nothing to do with that quote. I don't even know why you keep pestering me with your eyes. It's driving me batty. You. Always with the looking. I'll let you know when I have something important to say, you don't always have to be checking up on me. You're really rather nosey. It's kind of rude. If you were a houseguest and I was having a dinner party I might just ask you to leave. Or I might offer you some Scotch.

Yep. It's a topsy-turvy world.

Late breaking news: I was just informed that the quote was actually, "When things aren't simple, they're complicated. And complicated is bothersome."

Preserve that.

What goes down, must come up

I was all set to compare myself to a loose tooth. The world was going to be this big tongue just pushing and pulling and agitating from every which way. At moments the rocking, pulling, agitating world was going to cause pain and then an odd soothing sensation, and, the important part, as any loose tooth and/or 6 year-old will tell you, the tongue was going to knock that tooth right out of there and there was going to be bleeding. It was the weekend that didn't go as planned and it was the job that has taken a turn from the kooshy and it was hunger all getting to me. Having already exhausted the sarcastic remarks to a coworker and the turning up of the iPod to dangerous decibels to diffuse the situation, I was in the midst of Operation: Walk Home. During the aforementioned operation, the Iron and Wine song "The Sea and The Rhythm" pulsed into my ears and a smile that bordered on a giggle crossed my lips. Maybe it was that Iron and Wine thing working its magic again, or maybe Operation: Walk Home had finally taken effect. Either way, I couldn't help but look up at the big blue sky and think, I just finished a three day weekend. I just worked hard for my money. And now, I've got this whole beautiful evening to myself.


Tonight, we're the sea
and the rhythm there
the waves and the wind and the night is black

Summer is nearly gone. Was it ever here?
I'm still sweating more liquid than some states get rain, but without the big break or the big trip or the glorious return to a new school year, it feels a lot like a hot version of winter.

"How was your summer?" I am asked by my returning Ultimate friends. I look up into the bright blue sky and squint but the answer isn't up there. "I'm not sure it started. Check back later." But they don't. And neither do I.

Without the refreshing return to fall, that rebirth that used to come with the first days of September, the sameness wraps around a little tighter like a very slow moving boa constrictor.

Strongly considering veal
I've been home long enough to pull my calf.

A(nother?) run that could change my life
I went to practice with my brother-in-law's cross-country team on Saturday. They ran up "the chutes". I'm in decent high-school sophomore shape and I knew it, but I couldn't help, but try to run with the "Big boys". I let their #2 drag me up the hill and that worked for a while, but then I faded. Then after they waited for me at the turnaround I ripped most of the way down the hill on the heels of their #1. Until, once again I faded. The altitude had some effect as did the change in running surface, but I think mostly my inability to keep up comes from the lack of training.

So, how did the run change my life? Well, there's the burning in my quads (I love my Quads!), but that will probably wear off in a few days. I suppose it's possible that the renewed love of running and training could wear off in a few days too. What might not wear off is the sense that maybe English teacher and coach might not be a bad combination at all. That little desire keeps getting louder and harder to ignore.

Don't worry, I won't rush into anything.

Cap'n Humility keeps slugging me
It's been a tough year in the sports world. The record fell, PRs don't magically appear whenever I lace up my spikes, my body teeters on the brink of injury and now this. Dusting off my ping-pong prowess, I took on the best that my sister's house had to offer and I have come up short. My little sister. My little sister is consistently better than me. She has taken 5 games to my 3. She seems able to volley most everything I spin at her. I'm a little distraught as she claims that she had never beaten me before. Now she does it with apparent ease. I'm currently considering unloading my bedroom furniture to make room for a ping-pong table. I'm not sure there's adequate space. I may have to move so I can find a suitable practice area. For now, I have to tuck myself into bed and hold back the tears that losers cry.

Fantasy Island without that little guy
Yesterday while on a plane with this group of women, I thought to myself-- it wouldn't be all bad if we crash-landed on a deserted island. Then I realized there aren't a lot of deserted islands between Atlanta and Denver.

Yee haw! That was some kind of Sunday
I practically rolled out of bed and headed to The Dukes of Hazzard. Good stuff. I'll pay matinee prices just for watching the General Lee wiggle around and jump. Same for that Simpson girl in Daisy Dukes. I had some trouble adjusting to the personalities of these characters as compared to the originals. I want to go back and watch some episodes of the show to see how my memories compare with my current feelings. All I know is, I'd pick Hazzard County over The 40-year-old Virgin any day. Don't get me wrong, that flick had its share of laughs, but I don't like to feel sad and alone when I leave my comedies. Maybe that's just me...

From there, it was on to Ultimate. I do believe I've found a step or two in the last few weeks. I was jumping with confidence and running well. That's a good feeling. The only bad part- I found out that a disc doesn't fly in a parabola. That's for balls, not for floaty objects.

After dinner, I went to talk about Ultimate and then play some disc golf. Why, I reckon that's as good of an end to a week as I've had in quite some time.

These boots... walkin'.

It started with jam and ended in toast
My wedding registry is shrinking. This isn't a particularly acute problem since I have neither nuptials nor a registry. Still, it's concerning. How will our friends express their desire for our lifelong happiness if not through small appliances? I'm getting ahead of myself though. Let's go back a few weeks to that fateful trip to Safeway.

Wandering the aisles with list in hand, I noticed that Safeway jam was "Buy one Get one FREE." My jelly and jam choices have never really wavered. I'm a Welch's grape guy. Jam, jelly, it's Welch's grape. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my life have been grape 590 times out of 600. This is law. This is set in stone. There is not room for variety. There is not need for variety, but "Buy one Get one FREE?" How tempting. Not in the peanut butter and jelly sense, more in the toast sense. Wouldn't it be nice to have a little variety on my toast? It would. Nicer still if I had a toaster. Which at that time I did not. And yet, that didn't stop me from snatching up a couple of jam jars. Raspberry, peach, welcome to the fridge.

Sans toaster, I realized that I now had two jars of jam that would likely go to waste. I decided to try them with peanut butter on a sandwich. Now this would go on to open up a whole new world for me, but that's for another day. Right now, I want to focus on the fact that sandwich variety really did nothing for my toast craving.

I borrowed a toaster for my breakfast-as-dinner on Thursday and my new jams were jam-tastic. Mouthwatering, savory. If I was a testimonial on a jam commercial I couldn't say nicer things.

This only served to further illuminate my need for a toaster.

Taking control of the situation I purchased a sleek black small appliance of my very own.

Jam. It changes everything.

Details. Details. Unfinished thoughts on old friends and details
Ten years ago it would take a week of long slow distance to disect a few moments. The unfolding drama with some young lady, the reliving and retelling of that small sports moment, the theater of the classroom. Now it takes an hour to gloss over a year, pregnancy and all (not mine thankyouverymuch.) It's not the mastery of language that lets us achieve this efficiency. It's routine and distance. Yesterday was today is tomorrow. The minutiae doesn't travel well. For years it was carried in letters, and letters gave way to electronic mail and then to the online journal, but despite all the space on the Internets and all the trees that became paper the minutiae is still overwhelming. And so we turn to drink, or card game, to movie, to book, to an escape where all the minutiae belongs to them. And we discuss that minutiae, a common minutiae, connected general details that don't reveal too much. But in those minutes, of that hour, that glosses over a year, the tiny details that make a friend still slip out. New details emerge alongside familiar ones. None of it can be examined too closely, but all of it carries pieces of more. The minutiae marches on, it multiplies, and we try to ignore it, to condense it- "So when she touched her pinky finger on your knuckle, did your heart race?" now becomes "But you love her?" "My favorite movie is Lost in Translation" now replaces "Sometimes I feel so alone and then I meet a stranger and I see a look in their eyes or the way they walk and for a split second I feel intertwined in the universe."

We make our comparisons to a time and a place we both remember. Those lives are there. These lives are here. As hair disappears and sprouts in new places while experience and pain add depth to familiar eyes, we come to accept that there is a new minutiae and even if we still shared the time and the inclination to hash it out over a week of long slow runs, we'd never quite catch up. And as another meeting comes to a close we accept that we're ok with that.

Of force fields and the search for the perfect movie
Lately, I seem to be on a quest to find the perfect movie. There's nothing else to explain the volume of films I've been digesting. I don't know what I'll do if I find that perfect movie. Maybe I'll throw my popcorn up into the air, squeal, and run screaming from the theater. Perhaps, I'll pause the DVD and dry-hump the TV. Maybe, we're all better off just not knowing. I was told that The Island might be the "perfect movie." I went. And it was kind of close. I've decided that it's the best thing I've seen all summer. Action, mild insight into the human condition, stars of the hotter variety, basic story elements. Yet, almost no one is talking about it. It's made more money than I do, but I don't think it's doing that well. It's eery. The name is boring. The trailers were uneventful and even this post is a week late. I think there is something fishy going on. I'd try to figure it out, but I've still got The Dukes of Hazzard to see.

The Dukes may not be part of the quest, but I've got to check. It's my duty as a self-proclaimed honory citizen of Hazzard County. Now go on, GIT.

The age old question
If I want to race on a fateful day in September, the local running community is asking me to choose between preventing prostate cancer or preventing childhood cancer. I realize a swift 5k doesn't mean the end of either, but if it comes to it should I choose the cute and cuddly children or the cute and cuddly prostate?

Trying to make light of the fact that I've learned nothing in the last 17 years

Dear ~Insert Object of Affection here~,

I wanted you to know that I find your A. eyes B. smile C. feet D. antennae (circle one or more) almost irresistible. I say almost because if it were just (same as circled above) and a pile of dung, I would be able to walk away. Fortunately, it is not. In fact, it appears that you are completely intact and that is working out quite beautifully. I would prefer a closer look, with your permission, of course.

It occurs to me that although our paths have crossed, you may not be fully cognizant of who I am. Gosh, I hope you're fully cognizant in general, though I think you'll find me rather flexible if that is not the case. Flexible or not, I guarantee you'll find me winsome. That's not a money back guarantee, but you'll find that I am good for it. You'll also find that I'm athletic, educated, and can cook with the help of a microwave. My mother and numerous other women uninterested in me have hailed me as "quite the catch." I can give you their phone numbers as references if that would help. I've always considered myself to be a bit of an acquired taste, but I like to think that I'm pretty easy on the other five senses (I include ESP, though I'm not a psychic myself, just open to the possibility.)

In conclusion, we have never officially met, but I'm sure you've seen me prowling around and if you're up for it I had hoped that we might go out for some ice cream and a back rub tonight because I think you're beautiful and that makes us compatible.

Would you be up for it?

Yes. yes. sure. ok. Please circle one and return.

Sincerely,
Your Secret Admirer


P.S. I hope you are not married or a lesbian because if that's the case, this might not work. That well.

The key to being a champion is rearranging your expectations and delayed tales from a 3000m run
I've stumbled into a running club. I'm pretty sure I've paid my dues for another year and a half. This club has what they call a "Championship Series" (CS). In the CS, there are twelve events during the course of a calendar year. To win, place, or show (like the horses) a person has to run five of those twelve events. If a person runs more, the club credits the runner with his/her best five finishes. Kind of exciting. Then, to make sure that lots of runners have a chance to win, place, or show, they break everyone up into age categories. Points are awarded in each race depending on the age-group finish. Win the age group, snag ten points. Get second, take home nine, etc. It probably goes all the way to zero, but usually there are less than seven runners in my age group. I ran the record setting 5k a few months ago. Turns out that was a win, ten points, in the CS. Then that mile came along and it went just about as expected. Turns out that was a show in my age division, second place, nine points. A glance at the CS standings showed that I'd move into 4th place in the CS series with five races remaining. I skipped the half marathon for *personal* (read even my craziness only stretches to a certain point) reasons. That cost me a place in the CS series. I decided I would take on the 3000 meters in last Friday's track meet.

I spent the day at an amusement park in the heat. Nothing like getting dehydrated before a track meet. Rushing to the track, I pulled into the parking lot at 7:15 for what could've been a 7:30 start time. I wasn't sure. It turned out to be a 7:45 start, allowing me to relax a wee bit. I still couldn't work the pain out of my shoulder and I began to wonder if I'd finish the race at all, let alone belong in the "fast" heat. It had worked for the mile, so I thought it was best to try. Pit stop, shot of water, some nervous striders and I was ready to go. A crowd of 15 or so gentlemen embarked on our seven and a half lap journey. Taking pages from my last two races, I again calmly let the leaders leave me. It's sad to see them go, but mid-race explosion is far sadder. There were a few moments where I guiltily hogged the inside lane, but it's not like I was going so slowly that I didn't deserve to be there at all. I just wasn't ripping along. Things settled down and the crowd thinned. I was running calmly, shoulder-pain-free in about seventh place. Somewhere around the third lap I picked off a guy in front of me. Soon after, I felt Marty tuck in behind me. I didn't know it was Marty at the time, but as we rounded every turn, a chorus of "go Marty" seemed to be chasing me. Very quickly I realized that I did not want to lose to Marty. Marty, possibly another body unpopular like me, and I picked off another struggling soul.

I didn't know Marty from Steve Prefontaine. Marty could've been 23, Kenyan and biding his time. I wasn't going to look. I just knew that Marty was smart enough to settle in behind me and that I was stuck dragging him around the track. He had the advantage tucked in behind me, but I wasn't that interested in his advantage. I've won races from the front before and the more "go Martys" I heard, the more invested I became in keeping Marty tucked BEHIND me. We came through the mile in 5:32. It was reasonable and ahead of the worst-case scenario I had plotted pre-race. I like the underdog role, confidence is often a secret I keep even from myself. The leaders were long gone by now, but we started to creep up on a young man. He looked like he could be in my age division. I suddenly had new motivation. His lead was pretty sizable at that point. I'd say 25 meters, which in track is an enormous lead, but he seemed to be fading. There's a little part of me that feeds off others' pain, especially when I'm feeling good. Sadistic? Yes. Pleasing? Uh. huh. I set my sights on overtaking this young man. He turned out to be fairly easy prey. As I passed him, I seemed to gain a step or two on Marty. At that point we had about seven hundred meters to go. With six hundred left, I bumped up my pace just slightly. Marty lost his enviable position as I gained a few more steps. With four hundred meters to go, I began what used to be called a "kick." I say "used to" because the difference between race pace and kick has grown rather subtle. It was something though because I pulled even farther away from Marty and guy that later turned out to be two age divisions younger. I finished in 10:14. One of one and fourth overall.
Pleased, but more pleased to return to fourth in the CS and a mere two points out of third.

Marty. He turned out to be a former club VP and two or three age divisions on the other side.