Well they blew up the Chicken Man in Philly last night

Yesterday was spent coping with the inevitable post-Super Bowl comedown. Well, not really. While I didn't particularly want to get out of bed that's more to do with it being a day that ended in "y" than any guilt/remorse/sadness or the all-around bummer that is the end of professional football season. Nevertheless, I'm sure there was some lard ass struggling with that realization. But I'm sure John Madden will pull through because he has the heart of a champion and is a winner.

I never have understood why/how the Super Bowl became viewed as our civilization's defining cultural moment. Which, of course, it's not, but for some reason the media feels the need to treat it as such. I fully realize, as did P. Diddy all those years ago, that it's all about the Benjamins. Every year news outlets eagerly report how much a 30-second ad goes for during the telecast and how much more Super Bowl tickets are this year than last. Tut-tutting as if this is some sad indication of our gilded age. Admittedly, this has a bit more resonance in today's economy but still rings a bit hollow. Those same organizations always fail to mention how much money their particular outlet is spending for their own version of the hype. Hardly a surprise.

This is not to say that the powers that be don't get a heck of a return on their investment.

When otherwise content folks who don't know the difference between a hand off and a pass are eager to watch the game simply because they think they're supposed to, you know you're in the presence of genius marketing. Oh, the horror of not being able to high-five one's bud when that team does well whatever it is that team does well. Or of catching a washed-up rocker(s) attempt to remain relevant and, more to the point, plug their latest reminder that he/she/they haven't put out anything remotely interesting in 20+ years. Yes, I'm calling The Boss, The Stones, Macca, Tom Petty, et al. washed up. The Super Bowl halftime show has become little more than an acceptable Las Vegas for 'rebellious' rockers. Not that anyone, least of all me, really cares. Actually, Up With People has never fully recovered but other than that, nope, I'm certain no one really cares. I digress.

It's all very big and important simply because it's supposed to be. I'm not entirely sure at what point the mythology of THE SUPER BOWL overtook the actual game, but the game itself is secondary to the concept.

But if those successes weren't impressive enough, there's the genius of convincing viewers that commercials, normally a nuisance to be ignored, are, for this one night, the actual show. Of all the scams pulled by Madison Avenue, this must surely be the greatest. While one's buds may forgive missing that amazing catch/hit/kick/penalty, missing that latest, clever beer commercial in which some hopeless dolt/smoking hot babe/adorable animal does something totally, yet hilariously, out of character is practically a capital offense the following morning. True, by the mid-morning smoke break more important issues--that pesky Pinsky file, an untied shoe or the stupidity of standing outside in 30F to puff on a cancer log--have replaced discussion of whether or not that horse actually did swim/fly/shoot that dude for a ice cold refreshing beverage or, perhaps, a job. But until then, it's all terribly crucial to our very survival as a nation. Really.

I have no real point in all of this; that probably doesn't make this post a whole lot different from previous ones. It's not like I spent Sunday night reading Proust and reflecting on the enigma that is Life. Though I didn't have much of an interest in either team (Tech ties notwithstanding), I did watch most of the 2nd half and have no regrets in so doing. It was quite a good game and since it will probably ultimately become the single most important event in our nation's history, I'm maybe even a little glad to have viewed it. I'm always eager to answer the door when history comes a callin'.

Come to think of it, I can't say that I've ever regretted watching anything. I regretted not watching Cop Rock but that's another story for another time.

Laziness pt. 10

Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball

There's gonna be a chain fight tonight

Here's a fun little 25 item thing that's making the rounds on Facebook. The idea should be fairly easy to figure out but for the slow lane, the idea is give 25 random facts about one's self. I suppose since chain letters, etc. gravitated quickly to the interwebs it's only fitting they're clogging up more specific parts therein now too. This is what passes for interpersonal communication these days. Fortunately, this didn't come with some warning to make this list or we'd shoot this dog or your house would explode. On the contrary there was no sales pitch, hard or otherwise, just the want to expose hitherto hidden facets of one's life to complete strangers. The modern world. It's just more of the unity, happiness and down with our bad selves that is the mankind these days. Those of you fortunate enough to be my 'friend' on Facebook can view it there as well so you're actually getting two for the price of one. Alternately, this could be considered getting shanghaied twice for the negative Nellies out there.

1. I began playing the drums at 5; the guitar at 18.
2. I can carry on a conversation in French, provided I am speaking to someone under the age of 5.
3. In 8th grade I made my literature teacher cry (NOT Mrs. Abbott, local folks).
4. I have an odd fascination with early 70s counterculture radicals/revolutionary groups.
5. I've kept a handwritten journal (date,release,store,price) of every music purchase I've made since 2000.
6. I have 4 vinyl copies of Close to the Edge by Yes but only 3 cd copies.
7. I refer to a collection of songs as an "album" regardless of whether it's a cd,lp,tape,mp3.
8. I have a blog because I felt the main area the internet needed improvement was in the "self-centered ramblings about nothing in particular to a disinterested audience" department.
9. My 12th grade Pre-Calculus teacher proclaimed me "cynic of the year". As if.
10. I fell asleep during Close Encounters of the Third Kind when I was 4. I suspect I wasn't the only one.
11. I generally abhor stand-up comedians.
12. I think it should be law that all comedy clubs are named Yuks and funnymen (but not women), yuksters.
13. The first concert I went to was Barry Manilow in 1981 on his "Barry" tour. I still have the shirt and tour book. My parents took me. It was in-the-round and I loved it. My status as a Fanilow ended shortly thereafter thanks to the early days of MTV. We parted on good terms though.
14. To date I've run 3 marathons and 4 half-marathons.
15. I've collected over half of the Nurse With Wound list thus far.
16. I'd like to move to England or possibly France. I know there is no danger of me actually doing this however.
17. I don't eat vegetables.
18. I've never run across any group of 'old' men living it up, being free and having a generally grand time in a convertible whilst simultaneously discussing their, uh, man problems. Admittedly, I don't get out all that much.
19. I am firmly convinced that the first 45 seconds of Abba's "Dancing Queen" make the greatest opening in pop music history. (sub comment: Abba is the greatest pop group of all time. The end.)
20. I honestly had no problem with Ewoks in Return of the Jedi.
21. I crossed the street at Piccadilly Circus in London with George Lucas. He's a small man, btw.
22. I occasionally lament the lost art of letter writing.
23. I saw Jimmy Page at Abbey Road Studios and didn't take the opportunity to meet him because I was too stunned at my own luck.
24. I wear tennis shoes/trainers to work because I'm a rebel.
25. I've been to 6 countries, 45 of the lower 48 states, baseball games at Fenway Park, Camden Yards, Turner Field, a Georgia Tech football game at the Meadowlands in NYC and even Disney World 20 times. But I've never been to me.

Like Dylan at the movies

First things first. Yes, I have seen Legally Blonde. That question was raised anonymously (though I've a sneaking suspicion who was asking) in the comments section of my previous post; the tone of the inquiry implying that I would find Ms. Woods exploits somehow unworthy of my hard-earned dollar and time. Furthermore, most would probably suspect that any admission of viewing said movie would be accompanied with a half-hearted excuse that I really had no choice, i.e. it's on pretty much weekly (which it is) or I was forced to watch it for God and country (which I wasn't).

No, the truth is far more basic: I like Reese Witherspoon. Ever since Election (still the best thing she's done), I've always had a soft spot for her. Not so much that any screen time for her is mandatory viewing for me however dreadful the movie, mind. If nothing much is going on and the movie looks decent enough, then why not?

However, the first Legally Blonde sated my appetite for the Elle Woods saga. It may be surprising but after it was all over I really didn't have any lingering questions regarding Elle, Bruiser or anyone else found therein. It's not that I didn't care, well, actually it is. Obviously I was in the minority. Though the sequel's producers sweetened the pot with the always welcome Bob Newhart, I have thus far stood my ground because we all have to take stands, however unpopular.

Speaking of movies, since it was Saturday night and there was really nothing much else to do, Marisol and I decided the movies was as good a place to be as any. Like going to the vet the other day, this was also a good idea since everyone else decided to take some Hollywood magic. Lucky us. Since there was nothing in particular we wanted to see and time was tight, we were somewhat restricted in our choices. Fearing the 3-hour, Brad Pitt snoozer, Benjamin Button, was our only option, I was relieved when Marisol reminded she had already seen it. Phew. But since we were hell bent and determined to see something,anything that left Paul Blart, Mall Cop to entertain or at least pass the time.

Even though the flick had started five minutes previously, I had a hunch that we could still pick up on any plot intricacies. Yes, I have great expectations. Plus, I figured since the theater would most likely be totally empty we could yell at each other from opposite sides of the room about how comfy our seats were. That's always great fun. To my surprise the theater was packed but we did manage to find two seats together smack dab in the middle and only had to step over 6 people to get there.

As with Legally Blonde, I'm guessing this is about the point where most readers hereof will settle in expecting a far too lengthy, snide discourse on all thing wrong with the movie. Prepare to be disappointed: it was decent enough.

That's not to say that it's headed for my all-time top 10; heck, it's not even the best movie I saw last week. For what it was and what it set out to do, however, it was fine. That is to say it was admittedly silly and for the most part a curse-free, family film. Cinephile that I am, I'm not of the opinion that every movie has to make some grand statement on the human condition or stretch the possibilities of cinema. Sometimes explosions and a running man on fire is just cool. Not to me, mind, but the point remains the same. So to speak. Frankly, most people just want to go to the movies to forget their problems for a bit and be entertained. A valid sentiment to which, I hasten to add, I completely agree.

My problem with most of the movies Hollywood produces is that they are less than honest about what they are. A movie like Paul Blart, knows it's a lightweight family film and tries to be nothing else, firmly adhering to the John Belushi/Chris Farley mantra of, "Fat man fall down make funny." No annoying irony or winking nods. Go in, hopefully laugh, go home. Yes, some of the jokes could have been stronger and the idea of gymnastic mall-robbers, even for a movie of this type, is pushing it, but the audience seemed to enjoy it and even this comedy snob chuckled occasionally.

Unlike all those gawful flicks that seem to showcase the current disposable stud (usually a Wilson brother) and the current disposable heroine (usually Kate Hudson or yes, even dear Reese) and that seem to serve no purpose other than to reflect how stupid Hollywood actually thinks we are. You know, the mismatched pair who can't stand each other but over the course of several unrealistic 'realistic' circumstances decide they can't live without the other. There's much hilarity and some life lessons ensue, and it's all executed with a knowing, condescending tone: this is dreck, we know it's dreck but you'll go see it because we're making it. You love us. Admit it. Essentially, the movies as a study in the cult of personality.

Of course, I'm probably just partial to Mall Cop because Paul Blart was an ugly dude who ultimately gets the cute girl. Sorry for ruining the ending.

It's hot so you can tell it's working

One of the many great aspects of having a couple of cats is the occasional trip to the vet. Though they're somewhat infrequent now (annual shots, weigh-in) I suspect as the felines creep up the age-o-meter, those visits will be a little more often. For now, however, I'll enjoy breaking out the pet jet only when shot time rolls around. Considering the mere sight of me walking in with said pet jet immediately sends Missy into the latter stages of total frenzy, this is probably just as well.

While I'm not the busiest of bees, I do have more preferable ways to spend an afternoon besides struggling to get a frightened cat, claws out, into a carrier. I suppose some would call this pet stress and probably suggest taking the animal in for therapy. These same probably also dress said beloved animal up in seasonable attire--how cute, Santa Claws or, if you prefer, Santa Paws--and can't figure out why everyone avoids them in the supermarket.

But since Monday was a holiday and I do my best to make the most of everyday, I figured I'd take Patty Hearst in for her shots. This was a good idea. Of this I am sure since every dog owner within a 100-mile radius had the very same idea. In a moment that would make Carl Jung proud, amazingly, they all woke up Monday morning and said that indeed I should carry Patty in for shots. Obama had already united us even before taking office. And since they didn't want us to feel alone, they'd come along with their mongrels in tow as soon as said mongrels got finished mangling shoes, digging up flowers or being the general nuisance that mongrels are. Yippee. So there Patty and I sat with each arriving dog larger than the last. Perhaps they ate all the little ones on the way. It goes without saying I was the only one representin' with a cat.

I understand folks love his/her dog(s) and are eager to show everyone how well Rover can bark on command or lick his own package. But sort of like screaming children in public, no one really thinks it's as cute as the owner/parent does. I'm not being mean that's actually a scientific fact. That polite smile, chuckle or even small talk is masking annoyance on the level of a paper cut: it doesn't really hurt; it's going to go away pretty quickly, but for that brief moment one might as well have a stake sticking through one's heart. Perhaps that's just me.

I know, everyone thinks his/her particular dog/child is different and folks really do enjoy seeing such displays. Why else, so goes the logic, would anyone ever leave home? Beats me.
But after an hour of such fun, Patty had retreated as far into the back of her carrier as she could go. The waiting room was so full that even our remote corner had begun to fill.

And then the one small dog that had yet to be eaten arrived.

To make matters worse, he was 'dressed' in winter attire that oh so cutely matched his owner's outfit. Like, OMG! It's Elle Woods and Bruiser from Legally Blonde 1 and it's not entirely necessary sequel Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde. Apparently, Ms. Woods pooch had gotten out and roamed an unknown neighborhood as dogs do; Ms. Woods thought this an accident and not the escape attempt it most certainly was. Nevertheless, we all were relieved after the separation of undetermined length ended. Me especially. But since this was an unknown (read: icky) place with, you know, like, germs and stuff, Ms. Woods figured she'd better bring her Bruiser in for a checkup.

While not altogether an unreasonable idea, I'm confident that Bruiser came in contact with no other animal during its excursion; had he met even another flyweight, Bruiser would have almost certainly requested his opponent end his meaningless existence. Even dogs in sweaters have pride. But that was the past and now could Ms. Woods skip ahead since she's not from here and you know, gosh, there's all these big dogs here. Gosh, indeed.

I understand the laws of nature, food chain, etc. but I generally have no need to see proof firsthand. This time, however, I must admit there was a little part of me that was anxiously awaiting a demonstration on the circle of life. After all the waiting and the barking and licking, I was pretty much determined that the only way Elle and Bruiser were going ahead of everyone else was on a stretcher. But I would have felt bad and Patty would have seen me cry. Plus it would have been messy. On the upside, we were already at the vet so there wouldn't have been that whole waiting-on-the-ambulance awkwardness.

Then the vet gods smiled and I wasn't forced to make some sort of Sophie's choice between Elle or Bruiser. Patty was called next and by the time we got out they were gone. I didn't hear any real commotion coming from the waiting room so I'll presume that whatever went down did so in a quiet fashion. And that's really the best anyone could ever hope for.

Laziness pt. 9

Andy's currently in Japan and has been there for nigh on a week. Actually, it's a little over a week and there's still more to go. What this says about the extreme lengths he will go to avoid a pregnant Millicent is another issue for another time. I don't really know when that time would be, mind, because I can't imagine one suddenly deciding to discuss our present in one's future. But then, I'm sure those oft-mentioned pioneers couldn't imagine those magnificent men in their flying machines. And we all know how that turned out.

Because he's a reasonably plugged-in dude, Andy took a camera. Because we're Americans, Japanese culture is funny to us. Probably funny to them as well. If not, I would suggest the land of the rising sun just wait a few more years. They've misappropriated every other annoying part of our culture, I can't imagine irony is too far behind. And now all one needs to know about Japan in three pictures.

Japanese law requires all subjects to flash the peace sign in all recreational photos. Perhaps guilt over that whole WWII bidness, I don't know. Coincidentally, this particular monument commemorates the spot where the last two Japanese tourists to not flash peace signs were crushed by a falling boulder. Needless to say, Andy doesn't know these people.

If the writing wasn't so tiny it might would be possible to read the sign. As best I can tell is says "Home of the Sushi Earthquake". I've no idea what that is, but given that the mascot appears to be a stingray with a catfish head, I can only presume it's something to do with genetic engineering or mutation. Or a pachinko parlor. And no, I didn't realize Japan drove on the wrong side of the road either. (Dedicated to MB)

All lot of big name actors head over to Japan to shill for products. Something about wanting that extra scratch but being too 'idealistic' to lower themselves to be mere pitch men in the good ol' U.S. of A. That why I respect Tom Bosley more than Brad Pitt. Actually, there are several reasons but they have nothing to do with this picture.

That Georgia pitchman? None other than heavily made-up, former Friend, Matt LeBlanc. And Georgia? The world's first soft drink made from squid and bull testicles. Now in Diet and Caffeine Free varieties. Note Andy's correct use of the peace sign.

All in a Mouse's Night pt. 3

A brief word about my mindset on these long runs. Maybe I'm different but when I running, particularly the actual marathon, I don't think in terms of x miles is the distant between this place and that place or only 7 more miles to go; I just think in terms of mile to mile and stop when I get back to the finish.

I hit the 20 mile mark at 3:38 which, for me, meant I'd been running as close to a perfect race as possible. Felt great, no trouble and thought I've got this thing licked. Breezed by mile 21 and mile 22 wasn't too bad either. Then somewhere between miles 22 and 23 I hit it: the wall.

Runners, particularly marathoners, dread it. Most know it's coming and hope just to survive it somehow. It's the point at which one feels as though another step is impossible; the notion of finishing wholly stupid. The only option is to quit, then and there. Needless to say, it's the part of any marathon that requires the most mental stamina and unfortunately, usually happens when one is at one's weakest. In past marathons, I'd gone at a slow enough pace that I never really hit the wall per se. Which is to say, I was tired the whole time.

This year, I hit it big time and staggered through MGM, seriously contemplating calling it a day. I got slower and slower and the doubt began to creep in. I kept thinking that if I could only take a break I'd be OK. That turned to wanting to lie down for just a bit. That turned into wondering if I could make it to the exit at MGM.

I did.

Barely.

I guess the race official there must have sensed the fix I was in and asked if I needed help. I mustered up the energy to say I just needed to rest a minute. He suggested the nearby bench and before I had the time to care had called the EMTs for assistance. I did feel a little nausea but nothing major and really just wanted to sit down and do nothing for a while. A fellow sitting on the bench saw my GT shirt and gave me a "Go Jackets" thinking it would spur me on. I muttered "Whatever" and started telling myself that I really wouldn't be bummed if I didn't finish.

Shortly thereafter Randolph Mantooth arrived telling me I was whiter than my cap. A cap, I hasten to add, that is sufficiently white. He took my pulse and BP and asked if I needed "real" assistance, i.e. should we get the stretcher or perhaps the meat wagon. I told him no that I just wanted to rest a little more. He then asked if he could go and like some lovesick 16 year old girl, I asked him to please stay. I'm surprised I didn't ask him to hold me. Heck, I may have considering my state. The whole while the race continued on and people cheered the runners on. Some even cheered me on sitting on the bench. Even in my disillusionment, I appreciated the sentiment but thought it was a bit pointless.

"Hey, you're doing awesome, white as a sheet, just sitting down, The race is passing you by but you awesome. Way to go kiddo!"

I honestly don't know how long I was stopped but it probably was in the 40-minute range given my final time. But I did finally get to feeling better, probably the best I'd felt since about the halfway point. I asked the Randolph, who was probably thinking of all that lives he could be saving instead of chilling with me, if he thought I should finish or just quit. He told me to walk the rest of the way and I started back out slowly, figuring that even if I walked I'd still do better than the first year, and I would have.

Strangely, as soon as I started back, I really started feeling good and thought I might could run a little more so that's what I did. Hey, I'm going to make it and getting back in my groove when my cell rang. My Dad using his college degree and advanced life skills had calculated that on my pace, I should have crossed the finish line, oh about 45 minutes ago. Hesitant to stop, I quickly told him I'd stopped but was going good now and almost to mile 24.

I realize I'd had a bit of a break but the last 2.5 miles were as effortless as the first 2.5. Perhaps due to said break, but in my two previous marathons I found miles 23-26 to be among the easiest. Beats me.

Regardless, it was still a glorious site to come back into Epcot in mile 25 and around World Showcase. The park was open at this point and it's surprising how little interest was paid from passers-by. Sort of like, "Oh there's a bunch of idiots running. Ooh, honey, there Italy." Things picked up as we got back to Spaceship Earth and mile 26. In a nice touch, they had a gospel choir singing. I'm not sure what they were singing and really didn't care enough to stop. They could have been singing Genesis "Supper's Ready" with Mr. Steve Hackett sitting in on guitar and I wouldn't have stopped; I was just glad to see them because it meant I was almost done. I rounded the corner and there it was: the finish line. That moment I'd been dreaming about since September, high-fiving Chip and Dale and crossing that line. As an added bonus, they had Pinnochio and Lilo & Stitch this year too.

My time wasn't as good as I'm capable, but who cares? I finished. It also happened to be about 10 minutes faster than last year which was a nice bonus.

Final time 5:36.

I did it!

Patty Hearst tries my medal on for size.