The dawning of the age of the Gurley's store

Somewhat of a news flash but today is Halloween and like most "holidays"--St. Patrick's, New Year's, Earth Day, etc.--I can't really be bothered. I only go for the biggies. Those which have legitimate religious significance, gifts or both. Let's face it. Easter is arguably more important to Christians than even Christmas, unfortunately Peter Cottontail doesn't have the PR machine that Pere Noel has. Therefore, whilst everyone everywhere, (outside of Japan that is) eagerly starts the countdown clock to Christmas sometime around the start of the year, Easter just appears. It's the one major holiday that sort of just jumps, or hops if you will, up on everyone at some point; a schedule no one can really figure out unless you're an Alexandrian. Probably why it's best to set an actual date for the fun rather than some nebulous window when the moon is in the seventh house or some such.

This all has very little to do with the date the world finds itself on currently.

It's not that I have anything against Halloween; it's just never done all that much for me. I don't oppose this most evil of nights on religious grounds nor am I so concerned with the periodontal habits of my fellow travellers that the idea of free candy is tragic. Perhaps I was just terribly blessed to have parents who had no problem keeping the coffers stocked with various sweets from Mars Inc. and taught me not to expect handouts from strangers.

Whatever, growing up we just never really got into Halloween in any real way. Aside from a Buck Rogers(!) costume, I don't remember ever dressing up, but honestly once one has been Gil Gerard there is nowhere to go but down. And being neither much of a social creature or booze hound, as an adult, I generally see little use in such events either. Not disrespect intended to those that are/do. We all have bags, mine is just not that.

However, Halloween is at least partly responsible for one of the first steps on my road to self-discovery: the realization that, while there's much good in the world, there's an awful lot of time wasted on an awful lot of useless stuff.

Sort of like blogs.

As a child, one of the only 'celebrations' of Halloween we did was go to the carnival at our church. Sounds fun. There was the usual assortment of silly games, candy and the same cartoon every year. No one seemed to mind and a grand time was had by most. One year, I recall we even had a haunted house of sorts in the sanctuary. Chilling if for all the wrong reasons.

And apparently too much for some.

Shortly thereafter an effort succeeded to take the evil out of all the fun by renaming our previously rather sensible and succinctly named Halloween Festival. Thus was born The Christian Alternative To Halloween or as it was never referred to. Apparently, the naming committee was paid based on word count and clunkiness. That the attending acronym also happened to be a device used for, erm, disposal was lost on everyone. Not surprisingly, the name never caught on.

Kid A: Hey Joe, what'cha doin for Halloween?
Kid B: Nothing.
Kid A: I'm going to the Christian Alternative to Halloween event at my church. Want to go?
Kid B: Absolutely! Are they gonna serve rice cakes and lukewarm tap water?
Kid A: Possibly.
Kid B: Aw no, I can't. I just remembered I'm supposed to help my Mom shuck peas. Bummer. Sounds awesome. I bet they were going to have a reading room and everything.

Though the name suggests that any/all fun was also removed, I don't remember there being a whole lot of difference at the actual soiree. The usual assortment of silly games, cheap prizes and little kids dressed in ridiculous, but not scary!, outfits were prevalent. A big mess was still made and no one was saved. Parents still called it the Halloween thing and dreaded having to take the kids every year, regardless of what they said.

Again, fun.

Over time the name eventually morphed into Fall Festival. Whether because no one really remembered why the original change or that crowd just got tired of hanging/writing 34 letters when 12 would do quite nicely, I can't say. But in the all-inclusive world of inclusion, Fall Festival sounds a bit more inviting and pleasant. And on such an evil day, that's really all that matters.

Of course I enjoy Mary Hopkin

A very blustery day around here and temps that haven't warmed up a whole lot to boot. Ordinarily, that's fine with me. Unfortunately, it's is a running day today. I suspect I'm not alone in my loathing of running on windy days. While wind may be a great untapped source of energy for our highly mechanized society, it's pretty miserable for one running/riding against it. One need only think back to driving one's automobile at a moderate speed into a particularly heavy wind and the ensuing to-ing and fro-ing of said car due to said wind and its effect on gas mileage. Replace the beloved 2-ton gleaming, dream machine with little old me and the gas mileage with my stamina.

Me x Stamina + Wind = SUCKS

Apologies for the math and to any mathletes out there feel free to correct. Just don't expect me to care. Moving on...

In the far too brief rundown of my Saturday, I neglected to mention the slight ordeal it was getting to the Tech game. Runner though you, dear reader, may not be, I trust it's still obvious that one, namely me, might be slightly tired after chugging 14 miles on Saturday morning. So instead of crashing on the sofa post-run as I would preferred, I quickly showered. Post-shower, my Dad and I loaded into the Tahoe to meet Marisol and Buster at a local fall carnival wherein Buster took great joy in the fact that the games were free. So did I, but probably for different reasons.

Luckily, Buster was able to get his fill of free stuff quickly and no tears ensued upon our departure. Smooth enough sailing for the next hour until the oil pressure in my Dad's large American gas-guzzler plummeted. This, as one might presume, was not good. Not being much of a gear head, I didn't really know exactly how bad this was nor did I really care. I just sorta figured that since sitting along with the speedometer, gas and temperature gauges is the oil pressure gauge that it was vaguely important. The Tahoe's constant warning beep having sufficiently removed any remaining doubt. To the nearest mechanic, posthaste.

Slight problem: there ain't a whole lot before Conyers once one gets past Madison. But being as we really had no choice, we stopped in Rutledge. A town which, by my estimation, has a population of more than 20 but less than a 100. But hallelujah they do have a liquor store and, shazaam, the Rutledge Park and Shop next door also sells motor oil and various DIY car repair junk.

It was like a mini Rutledge mall.

Not that we would have really known what to do with any of the DIY junk but maybe the high school kid cashiering on a Saturday afternoon might be able to point us in the right direction. Unfortunately, the mini Rutledge mall decided that early Saturday afternoon would be a good time to take a break from all the hustle and bustle that must surely ensue in a place such as that.

Sign on the liquor store: Closed, try next door.

Sign next door: We'll reopen at 3:00 pm.

It was 1:45 pm. Maybe they went fishing. That's apparently relaxing.

So we waited for a tow truck to appear out of thin air (it finally did), and with nothing better to do I studied the potential clientele for the Rutledge Park and Shop and Liquor Store. Judging from the constant stream of incoming cars, it would appear that none of the locals got the memo about the apparent fishing trip either.

Not sure if Atlanta was out of beer or the Rutledge Park and Shop and Liquor Store has a lax policy on carding the locals, but at no time were we in danger of being alone in the parking lot. Assuming each potential customer only bought a single can of Old Milwaukee, the Rutledge Park and Shop and Liquor Store still lost about $200 during my 20-minute observation.

That all disappointed would-be customers had remarkably similar reactions provided some level of amusement for my wait. To wit:

1. Car/truck drives up.
2. Fella(s) get out, most likely wearing UGA cap or paraphernalia. This is no exaggeration.
3. Walks up to door of Liquor Store. Gives 'er a tug with no success. Surprised as these things usually work.
4. Puts face up to glass with hands shielding the glare. Sees no life. Backs away with perplexed look.
5. Looks around for confirmation that owners are tools who have harshed his mellow.
6. Notices sign on door.
7. Reads. Enjoys sudden ray of hope.
8. Confidently marches next door, throat moistening in anticipation of golden nectar.
9. Gives 'er a tug. Again surprised to have no success. These things usually work.
10. Puts face up to glass with hands shielding the glare. Sees no life. Backs away with perplexed look.
11. Looks around for confirmation that owners are tools who have further harshed his mellow.
12. Considers/possibly utters a rude word.
13. Notices sign on door.
14. Reads. Utters/possibly repeats rude word.
15. Punches the air/his friend for waiting until kickoff to buy the beer.
16. Sulks back to car/truck.
17. Sits/stares into space with disbelief.
18. Contemplates suicide.
19. Remembers "next year" is going to finally be the Dawgs' and reconsiders topping himself.
20. Remembers it's always "next year" for the Dawgs' and reconsiders his reconsideration.
21. Drives off, barking, presumably in search of the nearest, highest cliff.

Rinse and repeat.

Skipping through Melonville

For the first time this season, it actually almost felt like autumn around here this weekend. There was little danger of any frost on any pumpkins but it was nice to actually need a jacket when venturing out in the night air. Or sitting in the rapidly dwindling daylight that defines dusk whilst watching Tech lose a game they could have won but probably should not have.

But before all that was a 14-mile run Saturday morning. Overall, the run went pretty well with a decent enough time (for me), 2 hours 3 minutes. Still retaining some strength and energy in the legs at the end was a bonus. Plus, it was either too early or too cool for any mongrel activity so my trusty Halt! remained sheathed. True, clipped is more accurate, but sheathed sounds so much more poetic. And if there's one weapon that oozes culture it's pepper spray. That's probably why, as the label proudly proclaims, Halt! is used by the U.S. Postal Service.

A portion of Friday evening was spent in the company of Christopher and his family. It's quite remarkable, or more to the point frightening, that after some 30+ years of friendship the two of us still share the same brain we did 20 years ago. Par example: allow me to mention Nietzsche and guarantee what Christopher is thinking RIGHT NOW!

"Aw, blow it out your ass, Howard."

Some readers may know of ol' Fred as one of the biggies of 19th century philosophy and the dude whom all educated misanthropes live to quote after they graduate from lyrics by The Cure and The Smiths. To Christopher and I, however, his most famous line is "out of chaos comes order." We know this not because we're terribly learned but rather because we've seen Blazing Saddles approximately 162 times and could perform the entire flick for you right now if necessary. The same crap that made us laugh then still does now. Perhaps some would view this as a sad case of arrested development (as opposed to a funny episode thereof, yuk, yuk) but I prefer to consider it as more a refined and cultured sense of what constitutes funny.

Hence the reason why Christopher and I were reduced to tears watching Megaforce clips on YouTube whilst his family looked on as if we were insane.

Christopher's wife actually asked his Dad if this is the way we used to be.

Used to be!?!?

This may well be our lives' work.

Dearest Chloe (not her real name), be thankful you only had to endure some 10 years of this instead of the 30+ our families have suffered. Be thankful you were not on our journeys through the Monty Python ouevre or as we held deep discussions on why Rick Moranis was the most genius of all the geniuses on SCTV. Rejoice that you know not when we realized that while the first Police Academy and Major League had their moments, no one was really clamoring for more Guttenberg or Sheen. In anything, that is. Let alone sequels.

Teenage hi jinks and socializing?

Screw that. We were too busy documenting Chevy Chase's decline from comedic titan (SNL, Caddyshack, Vacation, Fletch) to pill-popping check-casher (pretty much everything post-Fletch).

True, our comedic paths have forked slightly as the year have progressed. Christopher finds an enjoyment in Larry the Cable Guy and that ilk that I do not. Likewise, I gravitate to the annoyingly elitist, but no less funny, world of indie snarkdom found in the Mr. Show and Chunklet universes that he finds, well, annoying and elitist. Still, we both agree that Patton Oswalt and Jim Gaffigan are two of the best stand-ups currently working. That we would have an opinion on such matters is probably as sad as those two guys are funny. But being a comedy geek requires a devotion and dedication to a cause that most have the good sense to ignore. Much like we ignore anything with Dane Cook or Carrot Top.

This all has little to do with Megaforce proper but does perhaps give some some context why we would find lame dialogue and cheesy special effects in a forgotten early 80s flick to be worthy of viewing in a small window on a laptop on a Friday night.

Apologies to one and all but if the hilarity of Barry Bostwick replete with Barry Gibb hair, John Travolta's headband from Stayin' Alive and a gold spandex unitard that Freddie Mercury would have found a bit gay, all the while "flying" through the air astride a souped-up motorcycle with guns and missiles, is not obvious then I don't really know what to say. Besides, of course, "Congratulations you have a life." You probably also went to parties in high school and are even occasionally invited to them now.

But you probably didn't see Weird Al's masterwork, UHF, at a special sneak preview before it's theatrical release like we did.

Eat it, indeed.

Laziness pt. 4

The Esteemed Probate Judge and one of her favorite constituents, the one and only Suge. Bonus points for guessing who's who.

Beware of imitators

A throwback of sorts to my high school weekends this weekend. I sat at home. Alone. Listening to music that pretty much guarantees solitude. It's not my fault that the unwashed masses amongst can't appreciate the subtle differences in Thurston Moore beating his guitar against his amp and merely beating his guitar on the floor. Cretins.

I digress. Already.

This time, however, my solitude was self imposed. Thanks to a cyst, bump, boil or something equally grotesque and yuckily named that picked last week to form and Saturday night to burst.

That night of nights when I would normally be out with the beautiful people doing beautiful people things like scoffing at those not in the know and, um, going to Target, was spent on the sofa with a hot rag on my ever expanding forehead. Marisol, trooper that she is, did an admirable job of making me feel like she actually did want to be stuck at home cleaning house on a Saturday night rather than doing something slightly more fun if less productive.

Like go to Target. Ah, the joys of early middle age.

Anyway, leaving out the gory details (you're welcome) things are getting better now and hopefully I'm on the mend. Special thanks to Cybil and her awesome nursing skills. Weep not for Marisol, she did get some flowers out of the deal.

Herewith a brief comment on words and context.

"Look out, that pot is about to boil. Better pour some down the drain. Please hand me my lance."

Three perfectly innocent sentences that describe rather mundane activities. Assuming, of course, there be dragons or whales about and one uses one's lance in one's everyday comings and goings. Nevertheless, dear reader, allow me to presume there was no cringing involved reading the previous example.

So why then does "I need to lance that boil so it can drain" cause even the steeliest of resolves to shudder? I have no point nor anything remotely clever (what's new) to add. It's like an Arsenio Hall "Things That Make You Go Hmm."* Which I suppose never had points or were remotely clever either, so...

The major drawback of all this unpleasantness was that my training was interrupted. No long run Saturday and no running at all since last Wednesday. I did get some great glute work in on the sofa and got pretty swift at going to and fro without my spectacles. Unfortunately, I suspect these skills will be of little use to when it all goes down.

Things should get back to normal tomorrow.

*Arsenio Hall was a syndicated late night chat show in the early 90's. A crony of the equally outdated Eddie Murphy, for a brief moment he made flat tops and moustaches da bomb and being a black chat show host the dream of hundreds of white youth. Mr. Hall was also skilled at making white people feel black and proud by using such urban slang as "posse" (group) "fly" (cool) "homey" (acquaintance) and encouraging us to bark like dogs whilst pumping our fist. It was all very "hood" and made us feel progressive, hip even, while still being something we could enjoy with a cold Snapple and some Ben & Jerry's, lounging in our PJs.

In addition to the above, his "Things That Make You Go Hmm" segment was always a crowd pleaser. Wherein Mr. Hall would do what George Costanza would a few years later call "observational humor", i.e. Why is Greenland called this when it's really all ice and Iceland called that when it has green? Ho, ho. The shelf life of such humor is about what one would figure. This is probably why by the time Monica Lewinsky blew up, so to speak, Arsenio was as dated as that Lewinsky joke.

P.S. My close personal friend Bonnie has got herself a blog tackling AFI's 100 Best Movies. It would go a long way towards helping receive a Christmas gift from me if you, dear reader, would make it a regular stop. Which is not to say a gift shall be forthcoming of course.

P.P.S. The irony of referencing Seinfeld in a snarky post about Arsenio/white people was not lost on me.

To someone, wherever you are

Many times I've told to those listening and those who weren't that for such a boring life, I sure do have an interesting life. That's not to say I possess the ability to fly or stop ne'er do wells from their daring do. Nope. My excitements are somewhat more mundane than those of various pajama clad superheroes. Like their escapades, stuff just seems to find me through no fault of my own.

In the past few years at my job alone, I've taken a 4-figure check from an internationally known, if not personally loved, movie star as a traffic fine. His love for our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ matched only by his need to drive 130+mph in his $100K+ Bentley on our roads. A copy of his check hangs in our office along with a signed photo of said star thanking us and asking God to bless us, presumably for not sending him to jail.

A highlight of slightly less luminescence came from a gal who could best be described as always in search of the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet. Unable to come up with the needed funds to pay for her citations she managed to find the lone naked plus size gal with money in our area and sold her clothes to her. Still somewhat short of the necessary bread, Ms. Chocolate Thunder offered to sell me the one thing she had remaining.

Ahem.

I declined.

That was three years ago. I'm just now getting my sight back.

The drollness of The Lockhorns

Camille is as good as her word. In the comments section of my "dogs suck" post she promised to bring me some form of repellent. By gum, she did. So now in addition to the Halt pictured previously, I've now got a bitchin canister of Sabre self-defense spray. I certainly hope I don't have to use either of them, but mongrels of the world please realize I have these at my disposal and I'm not afraid to use them. Bravado comes all too easy from the comfort of my padded chair in my air-conditioned office, natch.

Speaking of whom, Camille and Cybil both are pleased with their noms du blog. Cybil did think, mistakenly and worryingly, she was so named as a reference to our favorite Sally Field character not named Gidget or The Flying Nun. I assured her Ms. Field's Sybil was with an 'S' and that I was unaware of any similarities our Cybil may/may not have with any form of personality disorder, multiple or otherwise. Toilet talk to the contrary, of course.

Onward...

I got my first long run (read: double digits) out of the way on Saturday, a 12-miler. Thankfully, no mongrels made themselves known and the pending rain held off long enough for me to finish. Sometimes God smiles. The actual run went a little smoother than I had been expecting. A satisfactory, if not great, time (1:55). I felt the energy rapidly leaving my body somewhere during the last mile and was spent for the rest of the day. I suspect that the further along I get in my training the less these long runs will zap me. Which is not to say they get easier, it's just that one gets more conditioned to it. And this was the longest run I've done by about 4 miles since the marathon last January.

I get asked pretty frequently how I can go so far when he/she can barely go __ mile(s). Two quick answers: dedication and enjoyment. Yes, I actually enjoy running. This is a statement that even 5 years ago I would never have made. I am most definitely a super person (ahem), but a super athlete, not so much. A cursory glance at my times, and even personal best, will prove me correct.

Furthermore, while I'm in excellent physical shape, my physique is more akin to the average schmo than the average Olympian. One would be hard-pressed to confuse me with Usain "Lightning" Bolt and not just because I'm not Jamaican or black. In fact, aside from our love of nicknames and all around awesomeness, I suppose we have very little in common.

I digress.

But back to the enjoyment. It's an aspect I fully admit that non-runners likely find dubious at best and I've never been able to fully comprehend myself. I do know, however, that when running I generally don't think about distance. I'll set out with a specific mileage in mind and be aware where I am, but it's never an attitude of "Wow, only 13 more miles to go. This is positively stupid." At some point, I just get in the mindset of running and know that I'll be going until I finish, whether it's 1 mile more or 24. It's not really the so called "zone" people refer to when the difficult becomes simple--if only for a brief moment. Make no mistake, even as much as I run, it's never easy and the temptation is always there to convince myself to put it off until tomorrow, which is where dedication comes in.

It's just that at some point on these runs, I sort of zone out and lose track of everything. In a good way, that is. I don't really notice the scenery or that I've been in motion for longer than most humans would want to be. After a while, I don't even pay much attention to the music from the mp3 player; it just becomes an ambient soundtrack, i.e. Opeth might as well be Abba might as well be Sabbath might as well be The Shins. Not sure if that's just me or how other long distance runners cope as well, but when I'm able to almost remove myself from everything then I know I'm doing OK.

I would like to point out that though training will be part of the blog through the marathon, that's not all I'll write about. Who knows what other fun stuff/people will appear? Believe me, I've no interest in reading daily recaps of my runs so I can't imagine why anyone else would. If this is by chance the case for some, however, then allow me to suggest deconstructing Joyce instead. His references are far more erudite, convoluted and cryptic than mine. Or better yet, like me, just pretend to understand.

That is, after all, the American way.