Friday, December 26, 2008

in other news

I was minding my own business, sitting on my bike at an intersection in Santa Monica waiting for the light to change when I heard a "Hey, brother!" from my left and turned to see a middle-aged black guy approaching. I did one of those raised eyebrows "you talking to me?" looks behind me but, no, he seemed to be talking to me. "Say, say, say..." he was calling as he walked straight up to me. He had long-ish greying hair, and was dressed in a style one might call eclectic - lots of interesting layers with a t-shirt that said something funny on it that I can't remember. He had one of those bluetooth things in his ear - the handy signifier of 'not crazy-on the phone' that you look for when you see someone walking along talking to themselves. But this guy wasn't talking to himself, he appeared to be talking directly to me. "Say!", he said when he got up next to me. "Who was that gal that, uhh, played June Carter, you know, with Joaquin Phoenix in, in that movie, you know?" Reese Witherspoon, I said, happy that I hadn't caved under the pressure. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! That's the one! Thanks, bro'!" And off he went, apparently satisfied.

In other news, I ran the entire length of the 22 mile Marvin Braude Bike Trail last Saturday. I started at the north end, thinking how nice it would be to enjoy a gentle tailwind for 3+ hours. However, Mother Nature, always the sadist, was gently blowing from the south that day, the only time I've ever seen that happen. It wasn't much; just enough to continually remind me how much I loathe the wind. I didn't let it slow me down much, though, and finished in 3:06:13, almost 3 minutes ahead of schedule. 3 minutes sounds like a lot but at that distance it's less than 10 seconds per mile. One thought I'm sure I'll keep in my head on race day will be the old adage: "that shit adds up".
























____

Sunday, December 14, 2008

blown away

"You're so skinny you're gonna blow away."
I've heard this dire warning my entire life. Depending on my age, I've either considered it an insult or a compliment. Yesterday, I considered it prophetic.

I was scheduled to run 19 miles along a newly charted route I developed to avoid the Bataan/Marina del Rey Death March. As I set out I probably should have paid closer attention to the blown-over garbage cans and the palm fronds littering the ground and raining down like mortar shells. "Aw, it's not that bad. Don't be a wuss", I said to myself as I ran the first three miles along the somewhat-wind-protected Palisades Park high above Santa Monica Beach. I turned onto the pier and as I descended I soon realized the hell that awaited. A few weeks ago I wrote a whiny blog about a windy day during which I ran 13 miles. At the time I thought conditions were pretty bad but yesterday made that other day look like a stroll during a pleasant breeze.

The wind was blowing so hard and so constant that the bike path was being swallowed beneath dunes before my very eyes like some isolated road in the Sahara. Not content to simply drown out my iPod, it literally blew the earbuds out of my ears. The windblown sand didn't just sting my legs, it sandblasted all my exposed parts to a dull sheen. I ran with both eyes squeezed shut save for a watery slit through which I tried to monitor the navigable portion of the concrete. My shoes and socks and ears and nose filled with sand and I felt certain I was developing the sand-based equivalent of black lung disease. Sand-colored lung disease? All the while the wind roared. I struggled to maintain a forward motion, leaning impossibly far into the wall of wind like a cartoon character, thinking, "Huh. Maybe I should do this run tomorrow."

I stuck with it. As I reached the northernmost end of the bike path, my theory was that the upcoming seven southbound miles would be so wind-aided that I'd literally sail along and more than make up for my northbound glacial pace. I was wrong. I quickly learned that the evil wind does not giveth, it only taketh away. One can only run so fast, even with a sadistic Mother Nature shoving hard from behind.

The last two southbound miles head down the alley behind the beachfront homes of the marina. Here the air was calmer and just as I started to enjoy the respite I got to the first cross-street which leads directly out to the beach... and was blasted from the side with a Cheney-esque face-full of what felt like buckshot. "Jesus!" I yelled as I fought to stay on my feet. This went on for 20+ blocks and was repeated for the benefit of the other side of my face northbound 10 minutes later, after I had reached my turnaround point and visual bleakness zenith, the tip of the marina breakwater.

I must have set some sort of record for self pity during those last 5 miles. My legs hurt. Bad. I was exhausted to the point that I couldn't even muster up my usual expletive rant. I was dumbfounded by the thought that I would have to run an additional ONE HOUR! to actually complete a marathon. And I was covered head to toe in caked-on sand and debris. More than anything I wanted to stop running. "Just stop, lay down, and sleep forever...", a little voice in my head suggested. "Don't mind if I do!", I responded heartily. "Wait!", another voice pleaded. "If you stop, you're accepting failure! You can't do that, man!" "Good point.", I admitted. Still another voice said calmly, "Just distract yourself with really, really, really pleasant thoughts for the rest of this godforsaken run." And that's exactly what I did.

Interesting Sight o' the Day: absolutely nothing.

Runs for the week:
Tuesday: 5 miles
Thursday: 8 miles
Saturday: 19 miles, 2:54:05

Runs for last week:
Tuesday: 4.25 miles
Wednesday: 7.5 miles
Friday: 5 miles
Sunday: 18 miles, 2:41:03

____

Thursday, December 4, 2008

pedestrian drift

When I was a sophomore in college I began seeing the number 222 with an alarming frequency. A car would cut me off and 222 would be part of the license plate; I'd glance down at the odometer and it would be rolling over to 222; I'd look in the mirror at my clock radio and would see "22:2" when it was really 5:55 in the afternoon; I'd randomly open a book to page 222; I'd buy something and my change would be $2.22, etc. At 2:22pm on February 2, 1983 I was in the first group of people allowed on the observation deck of the University of Texas tower since August 1, 1966. I even made a phone-friend in California by dialing random 1-800 numbers that began with 222 until someone answered and agreed to have a conversation with me (a story worthy of its own blog, by the way). There are many other equally freaky examples. This 222 thing went on and on and I began to obsess about it, wondering what it meant, trying to glean meaning from each occurance, knowing deep down that it meant nothing but wishing that it did.

My friend, Karl, who at that time was an even bigger skeptic than I was, said it was simply a case of specific sensitivity. He concluded that I saw all three-digit numbers with the same randomness but I noticed 222 more because I was tuned in to it and was looking for it because, hey, let's face it, it was a cool story to tell chicks. He was probably right. Just like he was right to poke fun at our other roommate, Al's, dabbling with tarot cards. Al had a voice like Damone in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and was the only Chinese rockabilly devotee I've ever met. He enjoyed giving people tarot 'readings' and would explain each card's significance in his nasally drawling monotone. Karl, not one to sit idly by while someone else had their fate divined based on a few fancy cards, once drew a plan view diagram of a freshly delivered Domino's pizza and labeled the various bits of cheese and slices of pepperoni with their respective social and destiny significances. He claimed it was just as valid a fortune-telling method, although admittedly not quite as well known.

Karl's days of skepticism are over but mine aren't. I prefer to give scientific explanations and good old-fashioned coincidence credit over ghosts, fate, luck, and divine intervention. However, I recognize man's limitations in understanding the inner workings of the universe and I'm truly open to evidence of what one might call The Supernatural (quantum mechanics aside). So far, the closest I've come to seeing something that consistently defies the known laws of nature is Pedestrian Drift.

Pedestrian Drift, simply stated, is:

The tendency of those being overtaken to drift into the path of the overtaker.

This only applies to those unaware of their about-to-be-overtaken status - people who see you coming and get in your way are just assholes. The mode of locomotion of both the overtaker and the overtaken doesn't matter either; Pedestrian Drift will occur if one is walking, jogging, biking, skateboarding, being pushed in a stroller or wheelchair, or zipping along on a Rascal. This mysterious and very real Force of Nature affects all - the quick and the slow, the smart and the stupid, the old, the young, and the restless.

Here's a typical example: Let's say you're walking down the sidewalk. You're in a bit of a hurry because you're heading to lunch and you're friggin' starving, man! Ahead of you is a group of, say, German tourists ambling along in the same direction, marveling at the topiary dinosaurs and the homeless guy that belts out the opening bars of DAY-O constantly. As you approach them from behind you see a bigger gap on the right and make for it, only to find the rightmost German suddenly angling out and cutting you off for no apparent reason. "Goddamn Germans!" you say to yourself. Wrong! Blame the First Law of Pedestrian Drift:

1. The path of the overtaker causes the drift of the overtaken.

Another example: Just the other night I was dropping off some movies at Blockbuster because I'm too stupid to get on the Netflix bandwagon. I parked around back, dropped the movies in the slot, and was walking back to my car, my mind a completely blank and numb void which is typical these days. I neared the corner of the building and got two steps into my turn into the parking lot when I heard, "Excuse me!" from the girl on the bike I had just Pedestrian Drifted into the wall. "Goddamn doddering old people!" she thought as she rode away.

She was wrong to blame my doddering oldness; I had a perfectly legitimate reason for altering my path. She was simply a victim of the Second Law of Pedestrian Drift:

2. The path of the overtaken causes the path of the overtaker.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "Holy crap! I'm doomed to a lifetime of running into the slow-ass people ahead of me!" Not true! There is something you can do about it. It's a technique called "slinging" but it takes some practice. It's a bit like a head fake in basketball but involves much more mental control. Here's how it works: initiate your path around the person you're overtaking truly believing that's the direction you'll go, then suddenly change your mind and go the other way around. Their drift will be inexorably started in the first direction and voila! you're on your merry way. The key is committing to that first path choice - Pedestrian Drift can tell when you're faking it.

Some of you may say, "Eureka! Finally a cogent and concise explanation of a phenomena I've been subconsciously aware of my entire life!" Others may say, "Pure and utter horseshit!" Regardless, Pedestrian Drift is, no doubt, something you'll probably start to notice a lot more now - now that you're tuned in to it and are looking for it.

____

Sunday, November 30, 2008

that's more like it

Today I ran 17 miles in 2:30:22. That's an 8:51 pace. This has renewed my confidence and enthusiasm and it's about damn time.

I was sick for two weeks and unable to do anything but gripe which I did very well, by the way. No running, biking, rock climbing, or hockey. Let me warn you now, if I'm ever laid up for an extended period of time due to, say, denge fever or an intestinal parasite or some of that necrotizing fasciitis or the flu, steer clear! I'm the biggest, whiniest baby when I'm sick. I'm telling you, the complaining and moaning goes on nonstop, especially when I'm running a fever. I was convinced I was feverish at one point and grabbed the thermometer, eager to find out just how much I could ramp up the bitching, each tenth of a degree validating that much more self pity. 98.6 was its mocking reply. I eventually went to the doctor because it felt like I had a nail lodged sideways in my throat. He marveled at how red it was, suspected strep throat, prescribed some antibiotics, took a throat culture, and that was that. Two days later I got a phone message that said only, "Culture was negative. Stop the antibiotics. [long pause] Oh yeah, this is your doctor."

It's just as well I was sick when I was as it coincided with the massive fires we had out here. They made for a few freaky days of very unpleasant respiration. The air was brown with smoke and my car was covered with ash. You could see the white flecks of it in the air and it made me wonder if I was breathing in the combusted remains of someone's Nintendo or carport or hedge. Or pet. The sunlight had that strange cast it gets during a partial eclipse. It was all very weird and depressing.

Meanwhile, I figured out why my last run was such a shitty experience. Turns out those gel packs I was quaffing along the way need to be followed up with WATER. Lots of water. They're hypertonic and need to be diluted in order to be absorbed by your body. Otherwise, they'll suck the water they need out of your stomach and intestines and any other cells they can get their hands on and leave you feeling the way I did: like a dried out, pain-wracked husk. Anyway, that was my theory; that it wasn't that I couldn't hack it and had pussed out but rather that I had unwittingly poisoned myself. I was determined not to duplicate that experience so yesterday I went and got myself a "hydration belt" (sorry, Amy, couldn't wait for Christmas!) It has bottles that clip to it and a pouch for the gels and such. Worked like a charm! No more stopping to drink from the water fountains I see people lifting their dogs up to lap from. Huzzah!

It was a perfect day for a run - overcast, no wind, 58 degrees. I got to my turnaround point in the middle of Dockweiler Beach - a vast, featureless expanse of sand, the low grey clouds obscuring both the horizon and the jets roaring and groaning aloft a couple of hundred feet above me - happy that I felt pretty good, and happy I'm not agoraphobic. I was slightly ahead of my 9 minute pace, then lost some time at a couple of red lights on Washington Boulevard. I managed to run the last two miles in about 16 minutes thus finishing 2 1/2 minutes ahead of schedule. The pain was at a tolerable level and I actually felt half decent at the end. I'm not going to get cocky, though. Next week's run will be 18 miles. We'll see how that goes.

Interesting Sound o' the Day: a couple of mystery explosions somewhere near Washington Boulevard. I could feel them.
12/1/08 UPDATE: Mystery solved! It was the sonic booms from the space shuttle landing at Edwards Air Force Base. So cool!

Last week's runs:
Wednesday - 3 miles
Thursday - 6.1 miles, approx. 57:00
Saturday - 9 miles, approx. 1:25:00

This week's runs:
Tuesday - 5 miles
Wednesday - 8 miles, approx. 1:05:00
Friday - 5 miles, approx. 40:00
Sunday - 17 miles, 2:30:22

____

Sunday, November 2, 2008

beset

There's a scene in Jaws where Roy Scheider is sitting on the beach watching the kids play in the water when one of these young-uns meets an untimely demise. Roy's holy shit! response is captured by what is known in the industry as a dolly zoom. Roy's head stays the same size in the frame but the background seems to rapidly recede from the camera in a weirdly disorienting way. It's an effective technique to convey an unsettling moment of realization.

And so it went yesterday as my foreground crept almost imperceptibly by while things in the distance seemed to get much, much farther away. This "moment" lasted 2 hours and 44 minutes - a 16.75 mile run during which, when I wasn't muttering or thinking an unbroken stream of obscenities, I was gasping and wincing in pain as I staggered along at a not-so-blistering 9:49 pace.

Usually when I start my long runs I'm pretty chipper for the first 6, 7, or 8 - maybe 10 miles. Yesterday for some reason I felt like I had already run 10 when I got to mile 1. It didn't help that I took a wrong turn at mile 4 and ended up 3/4 of a mile off route before I was able to yank my head out of my already pain-stricken ass and get back on track. By the time I got to my turnaround point, which was in the middle of Dockweiler Beach with the jumbo jets taking off immediately overhead, I was seriously thinking about stopping. I turned north and could see the Santa Monica pier - my destination - teenytiny and shimmering in the great distance. I just hadn't felt this kind of torture before and it was very discouraging. For those of you who want to experience the thrills of marathon training in the comfort of your living room here's an exercise you can try: take a step, then drop a brick on your foot. Now take another step and drop a brick on that foot, too. In between steps stick a fork into the back of your neck and into both hips. Repeat for 2 hours and 44 minutes.

It was unsettling just how much agony I was inflicting on myself. But despite the negative things I was saying along the way e.g. (expletives deleted), why am I doing this?, there's no possible way I'll be able to finish, I absolutely hate this, etc., I guess my moment of realization came when, despite the incessant cussing and limping and whining, I finally did indeed make it to the finish line.

Interesting Sight o' the Day: This guy.

Runs for the week:
Tuesday: 4.5 miles (with stairs)
Wednesday: 4.5 miles (with stairs)
Friday: 7.5 miles (with stairs), 1:05:43
Sunday: 16.75 miles, 2:44:22

____

Saturday, November 1, 2008

the regulars



Whenever I set out on my long weekend runs one of my first thoughts is "will anything be blog-worthy today?" Last Sunday was no exception but as I got to mile 3 of my 15 mile run, I recognized someone definitely blogworthy about two hundred yards ahead of me. The Jogging Gnome.

Venice and Santa Monica and their respective boardwalks and beach bike paths are home to many longtime regular characters that I've been seeing for years. I have nicknames for most of them: CPG (Creepy Bike Guy), Whitetop, Basketball Jones, The Worst Skateboarder in the World, Stagger Lee, Lon Chainy, Ezekiel, Rascal Master, The Fisherman, The Creeper, Stan the Can Man, Mandingo, Sarge, FiveSecondsofYourTime, Clem, and The One Who Shall Remain Nameless (nickname: Shamess) to name a few. The Jogging Gnome is so-called because whenever I see him, he's jogging. And he has an, um, unusual body type. I tried to illustrate this for Scott one day but I don't really think I captured his true gnome-like essence.

So there he was, loping along ahead of me. The impossibly long legs under an abbreviated torso, the flowing hair, the dangerously tan skin, the ever-present smile. I realized I was going to eventually pass him and began rehearsing possible greetings. "Howdy", "Howzitgoing?", "Hey", or the chatty "Nice day for a run!" Suddenly, he did something I've never seen him do before: He stopped jogging and started walking. I was dumbfounded and silently ran by, feeling like I was witnessing something extremely rare, like catching an endangered hummingbird taking a breather on the end of a twig. I couldn't believe it - The Jogging Gnome... walking!

I got to thinking; I've spent a good deal of time on the bike path over the last twenty years. Do any of these beach regulars recognize me as a fellow beach regular? Do they see me and say "Hey, there goes Blue Bike Old Guy!"? Maybe.

Interesting Sight o' the Day: An unusually large number of hot chicks playing beach volleyball. Ah, California - gotta love it!

Runs for the week:
Tuesday - 3 miles, 21:13
Wednesday - 4.5 miles
Friday - 3 miles
Sunday - 15 miles, 2:15:00


The Profeta Royalty sketchbook page containing The Jogging Gnome doodle, ca. June, 2006. Other drawings include my ode to a NASCAR Fan and my idea for a Fish Head Stroller.
____

Sunday, October 19, 2008

ow.

When I started running back in January it was purely a metaphorical exercise. Now, however, there is a purpose to it other than self-flagellation for self-flagellation's sake. I am running to prove something or some things to myself and to those who know me. But although I'm not really sure what all these things are, one thing was proven today: running hurts.

I know I said I was going to just wing it and not pay any attention to any formal advice and all but I've since determined that this line of thinking was just plain idiotic. I've become a devotee of MarathonRookie.com and I'm trying to follow their training schedule, more or less. The Houston Marathon organization sends out an email update periodically and this last one had a link to a bunch of great information on training regimens, injury avoidance, hydration, nutrition, even advice on one's mental state during the race. It is becoming abundantly clear to me that, unless I want to be a crippled, bitter, failure come race day, I need to start listening to those in the know.

Speaking of crippled, today's run was 14 miles, which is a really, really long distance, by the way. The pain started about mile 8, first in my thighs, then settling into the center of my butt muscles which really don't have a lot of extra room for things like great, jagged blocks of pain. It was relentless and disheartening and as I winced across my imaginary finish line, I thought, "gee, only 12.2 more miles to go". Continuing on for that distance was a laughable notion. Luckily, I have 13 more weeks to whip myself into shape. Self-flagellation, indeed.

Interesting Smell o' the Day: the jetties out at Marina del Rey are a dead ringer for a men's room that hasn't been cleaned in a few months.



Runs for the week:
Tuesday - 4.5 miles, 35:48 (including the 4th st. steps)
Wednesday - 6.2 miles, 51:42
Friday - 4.5 miles, 35:59 (including the 4th st. steps)
Sunday - 14 miles, 2:04:08

____

Saturday, October 11, 2008

headwinds blow!

And suck! Seriously! Today was Half Marathon day - 13.1 miles of nonstop jogging. My plan was to do just under three laps of my 4.5 mile loop, half of which heads northwest on the bike path across Santa Monica beach. It was a beautiful day, with clear views from Point Dume to Catalina Island to Palos Verdes. This extreme clarity was due, unfortunately, to the Santa Ana winds blowing at a steady 15-20mph clip directly into my face. I felt like I was pulling a fully-loaded dogsled but without the benefit of a whip cracking to keep me motivated. The wind was relentless; drowning out my iPod with its roar, whipping the stinging sand into my legs, and quickly filling me with loathing for all the smiling people jogging and biking in the other direction. "Sure", I thought. "Laugh it up. Life's great when the wind's at your back, isn't it you assholes." Perhaps I was a bit harsh, but that's what this demon wind will do to you.

My route choice meant that not only did I have to endure the wind three times, but I also had to climb the 4th street stairs twice. The first climb was pretty easy. The second, after running for 9 miles, not so much. I got to the top sounding like I was doing a caricature of someone out of breath.

At about 11 miles my legs really started to hurt and later, as my desired completion time of 1:58:00 came and went, I threw yet another obscenity-laden curse out at the wind. I staggered over the finish line at 2:05:26 which wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I think that without the stairs and the wind I would have easily kept to a 9 minute pace. But that wasn't the real revelation today. What this run made me realize is just how incredibly hard a marathon is. There's a reason the first definition of the word marathon is "any long and arduous undertaking". I only did half of one. I now have a new respect for the race and for everyone who's run one.

Interesting Sight o' the Day: Sand being blown over the beach like so much snow across the tundra.

Runs for the week:
Thursday - 5.34 miles, 47:38 (including the 4th st. steps)
Saturday - 13.1 miles, 2:05:26

____

Friday, October 10, 2008

because it's there

Mt. Baldy, crown jewel of the San Gabriels! How long it has eluded my attempts to reach its naked and alluring pate!

Well, not that I've ever tried; I was just going for a catchy opening. In lieu of a long run last Saturday I joined my client, John, and three of his friends, Edmund, Billy, and Susan, on a hike from a parking lot at about +6,000' to the top of Baldy at +10,064'. Edmund, or 'Sir Edmund' as I preferred to think of him there on the mountain, is 60 and a seasoned outdoorsman. He led the way and didn't dawdle, setting a pace that impressed and exhausted. He and John, who is 58, have shared many an adventure, most involving skiing and narrowly escaping with their lives, apparently. I quickly came to realize that these two guys are perfect examples of what I want to be like in 15 years. Not so much with the near-death skiing, but more to the whole 'live life to the fullest and mostly outside' aspect.

We got to the cloud-encased summit after about 3 1/2 hours, took a few pictures of ourselves in the light rain blowing by horizontally in the 30mph, 40 degree wind, and got the hell out of there. Lunch was had on the side of the mountain. The sun had come out and we had an amazing view out over what looked like a cloud ocean. It was a very fine day.

Interesting Sight o' the Day: the wreckage of two WWII-era jets not far from our lunch site. Just sitting there like they'd crashed a month ago instead of 61 years ago.

Runs for the week:
Monday - 3 miles
Tuesday - 1 mile
Saturday - 10.2 miles round-trip with a vertical gain of over 4,000'
Sunday - 4.5 miles (including the 4th street steps)



____

Thursday, October 9, 2008

double digits

On Sunday, September 28, 2008 I ran 10 miles in 1:28:29. I didn't stop to rest and I didn't drop dead. This was a milestone that said to me, with a cockney accent, "You stand a chance of actually completing a marathon, m'boy!" My goal was to finish in an hour and a half and as I hit the 8 mile mark at 1:12:30 I felt the fear of failing become the wind beneath my wings and thus began the ass-hauling. The last chunk of this particular route is on the Venice Boardwalk from Washington Boulevard to Rose Avenue. I could've stayed on the bike path for clear sailing (like a pussy!) but I chose the more visually interesting and obstacle-strewn boardwalk, weaving around the corpulent tourists and local junkies, anticipating the pedestrian drift when necessary, and making good time: an 8 minute pace for the last two miles. I was happy, satisfied, and in a minimal amount of pain when I got home. As an added bonus, I got to play hockey that night.

The Interesting Sight 'o the Day was the small pool of blood on the sidewalk along Washington followed a few dozen yards later by what looked like a canvas Whole Foods bag used to staunch the bleeding. An eco-bleeder! This and the copious alcohol-themed trash in the vicinity made for interesting scenarios to ponder.

My runs for the week for those who want to keep score:
Tuesday - 3 miles
Thursday - 6.73 miles in 58:30
Sunday - 10 miles in 1:28:29

____

running





As part of my ongoing budget-conscious mid-life crisis, I've decided to run a marathon. Like millions of guys my age before me, I can see the beckoning silhouette of the Grim Reaper standing at the horizon, waving a hearty 'hello!'. I find this motivating.


I just spent two weeks with my parents in Colorado celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. Any time two people are able to do anything together for 50 years straight it gives me pause. How do they do it without murder/suicide coming into play? I do not know. My folks have managed pretty well having settled on a pleasant 'two wheels at each end of an axel rolling amicably along' relationship model. Each year they flee the Texas heat, humidity, mosquitoes, and hurricanes and head to Colorado for a few months. This knocks a few years off and really amps up the happiness for them. They stay in shape mentally, working all the crossword puzzles, sudokus, jumbles, and any other brain challenges they can get their hands on with alarming ease. The Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle is done in ink, no questions asked, no problem. Physically, they're in amazing shape. They hike their asses off for hours, venturing above 10 or 11,000 feet on a regular basis. They eat right and are total closet hippies, what with the homemade bread, yogurt, and beer making. My dad is 73, mom is 71 and they impress the hell out of me.

I don't know if it was the fact that I was there for two whole weeks, half of it by myself, or if it was the 50 year anniversary thing but I found myself submerged in melancholia a good part of my trip. Being around my dad was like being transported via time machine 28 years into the future to hang out with myself as an old man (although dad hardly cusses at all and I think I'll probably have a more "the older I get, the more vulgar I get" attitude). Don't get me wrong, it's not like my dad is faltering. On the contrary, the guy gets up and runs 4 miles a day, 6 days a week at a mile and a half above sea level and at temperatures in the 20s. It's just that he's, you know, old-ish, and I can easily see myself in him. I went on his runs with him, having previously announced my marathon intentions and seeing this as a good time to start "training". I tried my best to keep up but with my heart threatening to explode out of my chest like the beast in Alien, it wasn't so easy.

My dad ran his first marathon when he was 44. It was the Houston marathon, the same one I'll be doing at 45. He ran it in just under 4 hours which is what I'm going to try to do, too. That's a 9 minute/mile pace. Five years later, when he was 50 years old, he qualified for the Boston Marathon by running one in 3 hours and 19 minutes. That's just over 7 1/2 minutes per mile! At 50! A 50 year old running badass! That's what I want to be! I ran 4 miles at that pace a few nights ago and practically needed an ambulance at the end. I have a long, long way to go, man.

So here I am, 5 weeks into it and let me tell you, it's hard. So far, my "training program" has consisted of running three times a week with a long run on the weekend. Sure, there are tons of resources out there; finely honed regimens full of exact distances and times and nutrition advice geared to help you achieve your marathon goal. There are running clubs and training dvds and wristwatch sized gps devices, etc., etc. But I've decided I'm going to Lone Wolf it. I'll take whatever advice Pop wants to give me, strap on my iPod and Ironman watch, and hit the road. I'm doing this for him, for me, and for myself 28 years down the road.

And I'm going to try and write about it. Whatever musings pop into my head during my hours slogging around town will get recorded, for what it's worth. So, the two or three of you who give a shit, stay tuned!

____

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

behold: the Comics Curmudgeon

I have an addiction to Great Grains - Raisins, Dates, and Pecans Cereal, the most appropriately named cereal in the history of cereals. In addition to enjoying a bowl of this delicious, hearty goodness daily for the last 14 years my morning routine also includes reading the Los Angeles Times cover to cover. When I say reading I mean opening each page, hunting for the meager articles among all the ads, and skimming the headlines to see if anything is worth a glance. A while back, some businessman with the last name of Scrushy was on trial for something or another. Those headlines always made me snicker because it sounded like a baby's favorite toy was being brought to justice. Occasionally, some real thought-provoking articles practically leap off the page at me. Once, two articles on the same day demanded a full read-through; rare indeed.

The first, located on the Very Front Page was about some girl that had become a major celebrity in the edgy world of alternative scrapbooking but had inadvertently broken a minor rule when entering a scrapbooking competition and had been subsequently ostracized by her scrappy fans, apparently not a tolerant lot. Fascinating! The second article was on the front page of the Business section and was a lengthy, in-depth piece on some old fart who rents a bike every year at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas. Yep. He rents a bike because traffic is bad and venues are far apart and this saves him a lot of time and money plus he gets some darn good exercise to boot. That's what it was about. The whole article. There was a picture of him on his bike. It was written in a gee-whiz! style as if he had invented a teleportation device to beam him around town in flashes of shimmery light. The article explained that "over the years" this guy has learned all the good bike parking spots. They didn't question the fact that this simple knowlege acquisition TOOK HIM YEARS! It's articles like these that keep me turning the pages of that once-proud rag to see just how often it can suck.

However, I love the comics. The good, the badly drawn, the couple that are actually funny, the ones that have been around since Hitler invaded Poland, the idiotic ones, even the ones I can't even glance at because they're so damn annoying (Cathy). Every morning I read the comics and have my own running dialog going in my head, laughing internally at Get Fuzzy, Lio, and Bizarro, marveling at the fact that Marmaduke is still published, wincing at the crushing stupidity of Family Circus, wondering how much money the no-talent hack that draws Sally Forth makes, getting misty-eyed as my heartstrings are pulled by For Better or For Worse, etc. I even cut out and saved the one and only Peanuts strip that has ever made me laugh out loud in the 112 years that strip has been around.

I thought I was alone with my comics appreciation, but then I stumbled across a blog that confirmed the fact that If You Can Imagine It, It Already Exists on the Internet. I don't know how I found the Comics Curmudgeon
but I did and even though I was a little late to the party I'm still glad I got there. This guy is hilarious with a smart wit that is dry and sharp. I read him every day and laugh my ass off as he skewers the easy targets like Dennis the Menace, Family Circus and Marmaduke as well as crappy veteran strips like Beetle Bailey, BC, and Snuffy Smith. He's particularly fond of the soap opera strips that I never used to even notice. Apartment 3-G, Judge Parker, Mark Trail, Mary Worth - these all get lots of well-deserved attention and man, is it funny. Thank you, Comics Curmudgeon! I couldn't have said it better myself.



Dolly, ever the kiss-up, has apparently decided that the ants will inevitably emerge victorious in their long war against the human race. She imagines that when she's prodded by the warriors' mandibles into the vast breeding chamber, she'll be able to say to the queen, "Your majesty! I have always been a friend to the ants! I made sure that the choicest morsels that fell to the ground remained there! I favored the ants over my own brood-mates!" But the sinister colony insects don't understand human qualities like "loyalty" or "forgiveness," Dolly. You'll be sucked dry of your nutritive value and used to feed the larvae, just like everyone else.

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false memory

My days as a massive slob are long gone. Now, my desire for order outweighs my natural, lazy, procrasturbatory tendencies and I wage war against that never-tiring foe, Entropy, on a regular basis. Although with my trusty sidekick Nubia coming to work her ass off every two weeks, it's really not much of a fight. She does all the heavy lifting and I write a check. It wasn't always this way and I was reminded of this by a story Scott told me at the office a few days ago.
Audrey had woken him up with a request for a glass of water, something I thought only happened in sitcoms and movies from the '40s. As they flicked on the light in the kitchen they were surprised by a roach on the floor. Surprised as in they had never seen a roach in their house before. Ever. If this had been my house when I was growing up the sight of a roach would have startled me – ok, terrified me to the brink of loss of bladder control – but I certainly wouldn't have been surprised. The Texas Gulf Coast is home to some giant-ass roaches, two to three inches long and fast as lightning. They normally live in the oak trees but appeared to be equally comfortable living inside our house. One of my earliest memories is of my mother screaming, "BIG ROACH!!" and bolting through whatever room I was in, not bothering to scoop up her infant son to protect him from the lumbering brown beast that was hot on her tail. Thus the fear was transferred from mother to child and I, too, years hence, could be heard screaming BIG ROACH!! from time to time as one of these monsters would pop out when I least expected it, or, worst of all and probably because they could smell the abject fear in me, fly straight at my face from some high perch. Anyway, Scott steps on the roach and Audrey says, "that's gross!" and Scott says, "You think that's gross? Let me tell you a story…"

"I had gone over to Stu's house [this was probably around 1989. –ed.] and was in his kitchen. He lived in an old house with an unusually large, white enamel sink which, at this time, was chock full of dirty dishes piled high. For whatever reason I turned on the water in the kitchen faucet and when I did I heard a tiny stampede of clicking feet and saw hundreds of roaches appear, running up the sides of the sink in a big brown wave."

Audrey's reply to this was, "I could have lived my entire life without hearing that story." which wasn't bad for a 10 year old.

My response was a furrowed brow and some head scratching. I just didn't remember that happening. This normally wouldn't mean anything since my memory is like a tattered spider web with a few old desiccated bits sticking in it, but since this involved roaches I was absolutely sure it hadn't happened. That's the kind of event that carves out its own special roach-filled cavity in your brain. We soon figured out that Scott had melded two of my stories from long ago into this one entertaining but false memory.
Story One
The details of his description were accurate: old house, big white sink, huge pile of disgusting dishes dating back who knows how long. Except he wasn't there – I was there alone preparing to move out. The entire house was empty and the very last thing I had to do was wash all those goddamn dishes. Man, I hated washing dishes. I approached the sink and turned on the water. I stared out the window for a minute, waiting for the water to get hot. When I looked back down I was confused and sort of disoriented – the sides of the sink appeared to be throbbing and slowly moving upward. I think my brainstem was recoiling in horror and trying to keep my higher cognitive functions from realizing what I was seeing. Maggots. Hundreds of them. Seeking refuge from the hot water, pulsing and undulating their way up the sides of the sink…

Story Two
I was in college and had gone home for the weekend. For whatever reason I was struck with a bout of nostalgia regarding an old barbecue pit that my dad used to make his award-winning brisket in. He hadn't used it in years and my idea was to clean it up and relive the brisket glory days. The barbecue pit was way over in a corner of the yard that had become overgrown with vines and was stuck, the vines having had years to establish a stronghold around the base and wheels. I tried pulling vines away for a while, then got frustrated, deciding on brute strength to rip the pit free. I grabbed it by the handle and yanked hard and of course the wheels didn't move but the whole thing started tipping over toward me. I stood in front of it, watching it fall, watching it hit the ground, watching the lid pop open… And then watching as hundreds, thousands, millions of these huge roaches spilled toward me, covering the ground in their clicking shiny browness, looking all the world like a big bag of spilled enormous coffee beans. I screamed like a 4 year old girl and didn't stop running until I was across the street a good 200 feet away.


Scott has promised to set the record straight with Audrey. "It was hundreds of maggots in the sink, not roaches, honey. The roaches were hiding in the barbecue pit." I'm sure she'll appreciate the clarity and a second story that she could have lived her entire life without hearing.




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