I've the monkey on my foot

So this was Christmas and what have I done? The usual stuff, I suppose. At some point, I may post a litany of the numerous offerings intended to buy off my support/friendship for another year. This is not that time nor can I imagine why anyone would care if I'm the proud owner of a Stylophone (Chris is awesome) or some new trousers. So really nothing good can come from any of that at all. I apologize for ever mentioning such things.

I'm into the home stretch of marathon training with an 8-miler the only run of any consequence left. Last week's 12 miles was uneventful and went quite well, 1:45. Somewhat of a relief after the disaster that was my 20 miles the previous Saturday. Let's not mention it again, shall we?

The past two marathons have been hot and humid. This is rather uncharacteristic of Florida, so I'm hoping that the four winds will shine on me a bit more this year. Or more accurately, Mr. Cold Mizer. Regardless, after two years and over 2000 miles run in total training I know what's in store physically. Which is precisely what I'll tell myself when I'm gassed at mile 21 and getting passed by a dude on crutches.**

Though I guess it's ultimately hard to top the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ in last week's event department, a relatively close second would have been the wedding of the EPJ's second or third son (I don't remember who's actually older since she got them at a 2-for-1 discount) on Saturday. Since they know how much I love social gatherings and am particularly partial to any that require formal attire, I was among the chosen few invited.

I felt quite the member of some exclusive club until I got to the church and saw enough people to overthrow a small island nation off the coast of Mexico. Apparently, the last couple of Sunday papers included a invitation for you and a guest along with the requisite coupons.

Regardless Marisol, Madeline, Maureen allowed me to drive them to the shindig because big city traffic is scary and whatnot. My luck runneth over. So we headed out into the Saturday afternoon fog towards Atlanta.

Maureen: It sure has been foggy this week. How long has it been foggy?

Me: Since we left home. (rim shot)

Though I was pretty confident in my ability to find the church (I'm pretty familiar with Atlanta at this point), they insisted on plugging up the Garmin. Ostensibly to help me navigate, but in reality just to complain that it wasn't correcting itself fast enough.

Marisol (annoyed): It's telling us to turn after we get past the turn.

Me: Oh, gosh. Hopefully I'll be able to find an alternate route before we hit Mississippi.

Since there was a wedding going on down the street from ours, I started to pull into the wrong church and see how long it would take anyone to notice after we sat down. Plus, I've always wanted to be one of the "speak now or forever hold your peace" crowd. What could be more fun than popping in unknown and annoucing to the assembled that you were friends with the bride in high school. When she was a boy.

I resisted the temptation, however. My being shot by a stranger will have to wait till another day.

As luck would have it, we arrived at the right church in plenty of time to get prime seats right down front. This would have been great for most but since we were hoping to sneak out if things got bogged down, not exactly the best for us. Nevertheless, we sat down and spent the rest of the time before the ceremony looking backwards trying to see who was coming in.

As one does.

Eventually things got under way with the arrival of the 17(!) brides attendants/maids/golfing buds/street urchins. Can't help but wonder how unloved that unlucky 18th gal must feel--I really appreciate you naming your first born after me and all, but I'm sorry I simply cannot have more than 17 people clogging my scene. Cheers.

Then there was the paltry by comparison groomsmen. Only 4? Really, gents you must try harder.

As for the ceremony, I suppose my companions would say it was lovely or beautiful or romantic or something equally mushy. With no disrespect intended to the lovely bride and groom, I sort of zoned out once the minister got going with his message. The title of which was "Lovingly loving the lovely word 'love'". Not sure how much he got for the gig, but since he was paid per usage of the word "love", I think he did pretty good for a otherwise unemployed Saturday evening.

Anyway, next thing I new we were being presented with the bride and groom and the prospect of free booze. Not being a drinker this held little excitement for me but Madeline and Maureen could hardly contain themselves. Or so Andy thought.

No doubt a relief to the bride's family, I believe everyone who was at the wedding took in the reception. There was enough food to feed, uh, a small island nation off the coast of Mexico and a bar in every corner. Hallelujah. When we got there the band was already kicking out the jams to an indifferent bit of older folks only wishing to critique the proceedings. Our arrival lowered the median age of attendants somewhat but did little to enliven the dance floor. Youth and alcohol would take effect soon enough.

Actually, much quicker than I expected.

The bride and groom had scarcely arrived before I heard the announcement of the "first dance". Much to the relief of the groom and probably everyone else, I let him have his moment since Marisol wasn't much up on dancing. Next thing I know the EPJ was cutting her own rug with anyone she could find.

I hid in the corner. For my own sake.

Once the EPJ decided to take a breather, my crew figured we better seek her out so she would know we were there. Kind of like how celebrities make it a point of telling how they give to some charity. What's the point of attending anything if you're not going to the payoff of being thanked for coming? Actually, the honor for me was in being invited but my companions insisted she know we were there. Fortunately, I don't need such constant reinforcement.

I keed.

We all wanted to make sure she knew we there.

Again, I keed.

Actually, it was a rather nice evening out. And nice to be in the audience instead of up on the stand as I've been for the two previous weddings this year. Nevertheless, I'm in no hurry to attend any more any time soon. On the way home, Madeline asked Marisol with a wink and a nudge if she was bummed that we didn't stay for the bouquet toss and subsequent scrum. "No" was her immediately reply. Amen, my dear. Amen.

I keed.

**My first marathon was an exercise in extreme highs and lows. Jazzed and feeling stupidly confident that I was in no danger at all of not completing 26.2, I noted with some condescending sadness the fellow on crutches ahead. I quickly got passed him. "Man," I thought, "He's got a long day ahead of him. What a trooper though."

Flash forward 4 hours and it's taking everything I've got to make it to the medical tent at mile 22. Hoping to stave off the impending vomit, I noticed a familiar chap on my right: my becrutched friend. While there's undeniably an encouraging thought in there, namely, "What a trooper! If he can make it, I know I can," when one is finding it hard to literally make another step, it's closer to "Bloody hell, I'm getting outwalked by a guy on crutches. That I passed four hours ago! Better get to the side before some Rascal-riding, oxygen-masked septuagenarian plows me down."

But through sheer determination, I eventually finished and got my medal.

And that becrutched man went on to become the next President of the United States, Barack Obama.

So I guess we both won.

Laziness pt. 7

Suck it, MTM!!!

Addendum: Yes, all original music. God bless the black market.

Listen, the snow is falling

I suppose most of the world attention is focused on various holidays this week. If one is not then one has no one to blame but one's self. Glancing at the calendar last night, I noticed that today is the only day this week that has no significance. Outside of whatever significance one's ascribes to the 23rd of December, of course. (Personally, I don't have one, but maybe you do.) Since I'll presume that most have better ways to spend the time besides gazing wistfully at the calendar herewith a rundown of this week's dates.

1. Sunday December 21/first day of winter--a.k.a winter solstice, a.k.a. modern-day pagans shut out by all the warm fuzziness of the other, more popular, December days, gather to run naked and chant or some such. Best I can tell, serves no purpose for non-pagans other than being an all-too easy joke/comment on our godless society and how no one says "Merry Christmas" anymore. Except to me and everyone I know and come in contact with. An aside, is there a more manufactured modern outrage? Apologies, Mr. O'Reilly.
2. Monday December 22/first night of (C)Hanukkah--thanks to that formerly ubiquitous Adam Sandler song, Christians and their other non-Jewish friends, i.e. everyone outside of New York, Hollywood and Israel, know that this Jewish soiree is the Festival of Lights and that instead of one day of presents, they get eight crazy nights. Beyond that, one seeking further information should probably consult the Torah. Or at least Wikipedia. Be sure to ask any Jewish friends if the "ch" in Chanukah is hard or soft. The tribe loves to be asked that.
3. Tuesday December 23/day of nothing much--The Federal Reserve was created on this date in 1913. The first human kidney transplant occurred today in 1954. Both events worth celebrating in any way of one's choosing. Personally, I'm getting my hair cut. Thankfully unless you're kin to Adrian Belew (King Crimson), Dave Murray (Iron Maiden), Jorma Kaukonen (Jefferson Airplane) or Anthony Phillips (Genesis) you needn't worry with a guitarists' birthday getting in the way. Andy will find that as oddly weird as I did. I suspect no one else will.
4. Wednesday December 24/Christmas Eve--Not really an official holiday but one that's a source of controversy for some. Gather together tonight or tomorrow? Open presents now or later? Split the boozing over two days or just drink straight through to numb the pain? A day/night unique in being the longest for children and the shortest for parents. My personal record from childhood: making my mother get up at 4-ish to play Mr. Mouth before going back to bed. To get up at 5:30. That is in the a.m., folks.
5. Thursday December 25/Christmas Day--Before I was cynical, i.e. 4, I used to think that this was the one day of the year nothing bad would happen. There would be no crimes committed and terrorists wouldn't blow anything up. That a child would be concerned with such things probably says a lot about the early onset of my neurosis, but hey. And then the tsunami hit in 2005. And the Godfather of Soul shuffled his last in 2006. Of course, balancing that out was the birth of Ruth Young, the most amazing person ever, in 1993. Or so says Wikipedia.
6. Friday December 26/Boxing Day--Unknown to most Americans and incorrectly presumed to have something to do with pugilism by most of the few who have, this is primarily for our Anglican friends and the remains of their empire. As best I can tell, it's another excuse to take off, give presents and get drunk. In other words, a typical Friday for the Brits. Hey-O! I'm sure it's all very important to some, but to me it's little more than one of the few days of Christmas Bob & Doug McKenzie come up with whilst hunting for 12. Worthless music historical fact: The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour movie was first transmitted on this date in 1967 by the BBC. Folks snoozed through it then, too.
7. Saturday December 27/first day of Kwanzaa--Unknown to most Americans until about 15 years ago and then promptly forgotten. Except by those wishing to complain that it's celebrated at all and news outlets wishing to score cheap PC points in between fear mongering stories of black crime, this celebration of all things black and beautiful was actually created in 1966. I believe the original intent was to give the black nation a celebration of, by and for themselves. Presumably because all that familial fighting, depression and alcohol with which white folks celebrate Christmas and Jews, Hanukkah was just too good to pass up. One can hardly blame them.

And a ho, ho, ho to all.

With new supplies, you ought to be all right

One of the many (well, not too many) hats the EPJ wears is Justice of the Peace, i.e. issuer of wedded bliss. Given the environs/speed, most who come through here for such silliness want to keep things on the DL or at least as little fanfare as possible. Sometimes it's a pregnancy, sometimes a couple together for decades(!). Still others just don't want the small town hassle of everyone knowing one's bidness.

Natch, we put a picture/announcement of the newlyweds we marry in the local organ. Oops.

Through the years we've had tears of joy shed at the prospect of a life of wedding bliss, and we've had tears of sadness over a couple of months of married hell. Before leveling charges of cynicism (moi?), please know that I actually am asked at least once a week variations on "How I get out of this mess?" Thankfully, we have nothing to do with that. The EPJ's standard response, "I may have got you in this mess, but somebody else will have to get you out."

Figures, the EPJ's been married for 74 years. My figures may be off. Slightly.

So after so many years of fulfilling these duties, the happiest day for some has become pretty routine for us. (EPJ: Do you? Him: Yep. EPJ: You? Her: Yes. EPJ: So be it. Cheers.) Surprising then just now we have a groom showing up with his uninformed bride for the wedding. He thought it'd be fun just to spring it on her once they got here. Whee. Glad she was keen. Obviously, this occurred after much thought, prayer, discussion, animal sacrifice or some such. Or so I'd like to think.

Moving on...

Readers who go back to the old Mailbox days may remember Andy's rather extraordinary Christmas list of a few years ago. It was about 6 things including a Star Trek DVD, some egghead book and the highlight: more RAM for his computer. That year, thankfully, St. Nicholas did not disappoint. An enraged geek not being one of the more desirous sights on a Christmas morn. I hasten to point out that while he's no Frank Stallone, Andy is far from the Egbert that list would make him out to be. Well, he's married anyway.

He may have outdone himself this year: 3 cds and, wait for it, floor mats for his ride. Proper! Unfortunately, I'd already purchased him some weather stripping for the house. It is non-returnable.
-------------------------
So Bonnie wishes to summer in my fair town? This she is most welcome to do as there is much housework/cleaning that needs to be done. Cleaning supplies, ladder and any materials necessary for repair work will be provided. I require one full meal daily, preferably in the evening, with light but filling morning and noon meals. Lunch may be substituted for the biggie occasionally but never breakfast; my schedule does not permit such. Rising at 7:40 to be at work by 8 does not give me the time needed to enjoy a full breakfast, English or otherwise. I do not care to waste food because there are apparently starving children somewhere and my not eating food on this side of the world would somehow cause them to go hungry. The chaos theory, true, but nor do I enjoy having guilt harsh my otherwise unharshed mellow.

But all work and no play would be a bit too Cinderella-ish, therefore, a weekly allowance of one movie along with a 15-minute discussion on any topic, but preferably one of tremendous interest to me will be offered. Understand, this will be as my schedule permits. Furthermore, I will only require being addressed as "Mr. Jeremy, sir" when company is present. Otherwise, Mr. Jeremy is sufficient. A sitting/sleeping room for those activities will be provided though furniture, including bed, and linens will not. Proper attire will be required, also not provided. While French maid outfits make a great Halloween cliche, this would be wholly inappropriate for my dearest Bonnie. I simply cannot have any guest leering. The likes of which would require me to defend Bonnie's honor, and I generally wish to avoid jail. Hands, deadly weapons, etc. But for attire, something less industrial than a hotel cleaning outfit is suggested.

If these terms are suitable then this post can be considered a binding contract. There will be no negotiations as I have neither the time nor the inclination.

Teaching Barbara Harris to waterski

A weekend filled with all sorts of big news. Well, maybe not big news. Actually, I don't really know how much is news, more like stuff that happened and since I feel the need to let the world into my own little enclave I'll relate. To wit:

1. Got my 12 miles out of the way Saturday morning. Decent enough time for me though no PR (1:50), particularly considering I had a cold most of last week. Oddly, I felt better after 19 (3:16)the previous week than I did the 12 this week. That leaves the big 20 miles for Saturday and then things drop off precipitously before the marathon. Urgh...I mean, bring it on.
2. Christmas tree is up and decorated as of last night. Definitely the latest that task has been accomplished, but it's done with now so I scoff at all the slackers who've yet to get theirs up. Unfortunately for those expecting gifts from me, I've been equally tardy on said purchases so it looks increasingly likely that bars of soap, q-tips and whatever else I can find cheap and easy will rule the day. If there's a particular brand of sundry one so desires please notify me posthaste. Of course, if one doesn't assume one is getting a gift, one will not be disappointed. That choice is ultimately yours, dear reader.
3. Most of yesterday was spent listening to records and ripping music to my ipod. This was as relaxing as it was pathetic. However, I'd suggest it was less of a wasted day than watching various No Fun League games on the telly whilst slovenly reclined on the sofa. First day I've had in a long time just to sit and listen. Plus, I've now got 49 days worth of music on the ipod which is as exciting as it is pathetic.
4. Attended Marisol's Christmas cantata on Friday night. It was all very lovely and spirited and v.v. mobile. Difficult to describe, but they were constantly moving around the sanctuary. On second thought, I suppose that description wasn't all that difficult. Anyway, there were songs, shepherds, angels, a nativity and pretty much what one would expect in such a production. This is not to imply it was so predictable as to be less than enjoyable; churches generally follow the gospel account of the whole shebang and there ain't a whole lotta room for surprises, besides that whole virgin birth thing, of course. Therefore the sudden appearance of, say, Aquaman while cool and totally unexpected wouldn't really be all that appropriate.
5. Patty Hearst has finally grown enough to make the giant leap from the floor to the kitchen counter. Consider her world dutifully rocked with new possibilities and views. Her BFF, Missy, having been doing this sort of thing for a couple of years was unimpressed. In addition to the ever popular toilet (yes, it's regularly flushed. Not by those two, mind, that would just be amazing) as her water source of choice, Patty Hearst can now lap up any puddling on plates, cups or general sink moisture. I suppose when one's tongue also doubles as toilet paper any concerns over water potability are forgotten. Please realize that there are not one, but two, bowls of fresh water that are refilled daily for Patty Heart and Missy. Virtually ignored, the bowls secondary purpose has become acting as water-filled paperweights. This they do surprisingly well.
6. Thanks to Turner Classic Movies, I reacquainted myself with a couple of old Disney faves last night, The Apple Dumpling Gang and The Apple Dumpling Gang Rides Again. Yes, they're stupid with plots that are mere hangers for the zany hi jinks of Don Knotts and Tim Conway and most of the jokes are more telegraphed than Macon. So what? They're fun and I loved them as a kid. Still do. I fully admit to being a film snob, cinephile or whatever pretentious term we're calling ourselves this days. However, it is with no embarrassment or irony that I admit I lurv all those '60s/70s' Disney flicks just as much as I do the 'films' of Buñuel, Godard or Roeg. Dare I say it, the existential crisis played out in Freaky Friday (either version) is far more entertaining and human than in some ponderous snooze fest like Bergman's The Seventh Seal, regardless of what any best-of list says.

With all the excitement the weekend held, it's a wonder I managed to make it to work this morning. Thankfully, I have steered clear of the ditches for now.

A moment in which to refill pens

P.S. I don't know why there are no paragraph breaks after the pix.

I, like most sensible modern peeps, lurv the internet. A little over a decade into its dominance, I already can't imagine a world without it. Yet I made it through the first couple of decades of my life not even wanting. Giving you, dear reader, some credit I will presume you are aware of just how vast, deep and wide the nebula of worthless/not-so-worthless information is within our beloved interwebs.

Therein, I can find more information than anyone in his/her right mind would ever want/need on what the members of Faust were up to in between 1975 and 1990. I can find legitimate discussions on the oeuvre of Jerry Lewis. Hell, I can even find stills from his abandoned, king of what-were-they-thinking movies, The Day the Clown Cried* with little trouble.

Alas, I cannot find what I really want at this precise moment: a certain picture of Scott Christian. Or at least I think that's his name, the microphone-haired reporter from The Simpsons early seasons. Perhaps it says too much about me that yesterday when I kept seeing the bozo soon to be ex-governor of Illinois all over, the Simpsons character was all I could think of. So apologies, this is not the picture I'm looking for and I realize the hair color is different, but you get the drift. Perhaps it's just me.

Forget all that hand wringing jibber-jabber about morals, ethics, politics. This scandal is about one thing: hair. Clearly, a man who's got the courage to walk into the barber, (or more accurately, out of) and order the Sam Malone is a man devoid of fear. See also, Hal Mumme. Yes, I know Tim Matheson will probably play him in the probably no-doubt-already-in-the- works-made-for-tv flick. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the former Eric 'Otter' Stratton isn't somehow related to all this hullabaloo becoming public. Fletch was a long time ago you know.

Apologies for making this entry one endless pop culture reference. Turn it into a game and see if you can figure them all out.

But first...

*The Day the Clown Cried is the holy grail of bad moviedom. Few, if any, outside of Jerry Lewis' inner circle have ever seen any of it and the man himself has all but disavowed any knowledge of it. Ask any obscuro, trash, exploito movie fan what movie they want to see more than any other and I guarantee you, this flick will be their immediate answer.

In it, our favorite Dean Martin sidekick, plays a Jewish clown in a concentration camp (you may already see where this one is going and why it shouldn't). Apparently, although that whole Final Solution plan was seemingly airtight, those absent-minded Nazis forgot about the bitch that is self-preservation, i.e. folks might not be too keen to just march into those waiting gas chambers on their own.

And you try shooting 6,000,000 people. One would presume any such attempt to be quite tedious. What's the point of world domination if you're too busy killing everybody one by one to enjoy it?

Enter the former Julius Kelp, Jerry Lewis. Self-preservation being no less important to him, the Nazis convince ol' Jer to befriend the kids of the camp and gain their trust or face his own extermination. Once the kids trust him, so goes the logic of the SS, they'll follow him anywhere. Even into those zany gas chambers, like some Auschwitz pied piper.

Presumably, there's some hi jinks mixed in with the inevitable soul searching. Perhaps Jerry does a cracking Hitler impression to the delight of camp kids and stormtroopers alike. Regardless, the movie ends with this new found pied piper burying what's left of his humanity and leading the kids into the gas chamber. Wah, wah, waaaaaaaaaa.

Somehow in the early '70s, (and I don't mean this as flip/sarcastic/anti-Semitic as it sounds) in a industry largely run by Jews, some having direct connections to the holocaust(!), this movie was proposed, scripted, green-lit, budgeted, cast and filmed. Apparently, Lewis thought this to be his meisterwerk, the film that would catapult him into the auteur stratosphere with the European greats like Truffaut, Fellini, Bergman, etc.

Honest.

Only after it was completed did he decide that this was, perhaps, THE WORST IDEA FOR A MOVIE EVER MADE. And yes, Chris, I'm including Robot Jox.

Various rumors have persisted since then regarding the film's survival, ranging from all prints being destroyed to a sole print being locked away in a vault in Jerry Lewis house, the combination to which he vows will die with him.

One more worthless pop culture factoid re: the above, Harry Shearer (genius humorist/satirist)is one of the few who has seen the finished movie. His comment: the movie was even worse than you would think it could possibly be.

He knew better

Though it was a day that will live in infamy, I heard nary a word about Pearl Harbor yesterday; I guess like most of our history, Pearl Harbor is far enough removed from the present that only every 5th anniversary is considered noteworthy. This is understandable. There is little need to remember, say, the 78th anniversary of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. Watch out for that 80th, though; bathtub gin for everyone. With any luck will be in a depression by then as well. Whee.

Some events however should transcend these unwritten observance rules. Like, say, Pearl Harbor. Perhaps that's just me. Certainly, it's worth more than a mention every five years and some Michael Bay explod-o-rama craptacular with Ben Affleck. Affleck?!?! It's pretty bad when a flick with a sci-fi-ish bend (The Final Countdown) is a better history lesson about the event than the titular movie. Hollywood can't even make quality jingoistic flicks anymore.

Speaking of movies, that's exactly where my grandfather was on December 7, 1941. He was already in the army at that time and his company had taken in the matinee in Columbus, Georgia (I forget the movie) when the military police rushed in, announced what had happened, that all R & R had been cancelled and that all were to report by to base immediately. Buses were parked outside ready to take them back to Ft. Benning. No refunds or rain checks were offered.

I can't be sure, but I suspect the Germans and certainly not the Japanese were much on my grandfather's mind that Sunday when the lights in the theater dimmed. By the time he left his seat, though, he was an active-duty soldier during wartime, unsure if he would ever see his home again.

Life can change quite drastically rather quickly.

Usually when one least expects it.

About this burning of our yearning

Being as the town had its big Christmas deal last night, I suppose it is officially the Christmas season in my little corner of the world. Although if one had asked about Christmas' official status last night about 6:30, townsfolk would have suggested that everyone's favorite holiday (except the Jews, I suppose) was cancelled. At that precise moment, statewide, perhaps even countrywide, there was one blob of green on the entire radar. Guess where it was? Fortunately, it didn't dampen things too much nor was it the biggest hurdle of the night to leap.

That honor went to Father Christmas himself, whose sleigh was slightly tardy in its arrival from the North Pole. By sleigh, I mean truck. And by North Pole, I mean the other side of town. Not exactly sure what part of "Santa will arrive at 6 p.m. by carriage" our particular Claus misunderstood. That a gaggle of excited kiddies with a median age of 6 had no trouble understanding said message is somewhat unfortunate on a couple of different levels. Nevertheless, after a brief tale to the kids that Santa's reindeer had run afoul of some poachers and a non-committal on Santa's eventual arrival, all was all right. Since all that Christmas-myth destroying had made me slightly hungry, Marisol and I headed for dinner.

As one does.

Upon our return to the festivities we found a queue heading out the door of Santa's crib. The furnishings of which, I regret to add, were a bit paltry this year with only a chair in front of a non-working fireplace upon which was placed a tattered copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and some other holiday-themed volume. The bright side being there was little point for impatient, disgruntled kids and their enraged parents to trash the joint; the decorators had beat them to it.

Somewhere in the midst of all the commotion, Mr. Claus apparently arrived. The cries of disappointed kids were replaced by the tears of Marisol. Tears of rage, that is; she takes her reporterette duties very seriously. Again, with no real property to damage, her rage was largely impotent. So much for documenting the grand arrival, but she did manage to snap a few photos for the local paper of kids begging at the St. Nicholas teat.

So to speak.

Bored with all the hoopla, I assumed my position behind the counter at the bake shop for the rest of the evening. My main duty therein being sure no one absconded with any rice krispies or brownies without doling out the cash. I thought of myself as a glorified bouncer, or cooler as we Roadhouse fans call them. In reality, I was just an assistant cashier who's primary duty was to 'reassure' the good folks that everything was indeed homemade. Clearly, all those years of schooling have paid off.

Aside from Santa and the rain, the big event of the night was the cash giveaway. Our original plan was to give away $1000, but when ticket sales didn't turn out quite as good as we'd hope (I sold two, thank you very much), the grand prize was reduced to $330 for some unknown reason. I considered adding $7.43 just so we'd have an even odder amount to give away, but decided against it.

Never did exactly understand all the rules of this particular game; apparently, they involved drawing numbers and removing them from a board. The difficulty of which I can only presume is immense. Sort of like a lottery for people who never play the lottery, I suppose. A v. big event, basically, with the lucky few getting more and more excited as fewer and fewer number remained. Unfortunately, since the 40 or tickets were scattered amongst 10 or so people there was little drama. In fact, I didn't even realize it all took place until, uh, it all took place. Oops.

Luckily the ensuing riot tipped me off to everything. If it's one thing we townsfolk hate more than Christmas giveaways, it's rigged Christmas giveaways. Out of all those tickets and all those people, the lucky winner was none other than the EPJ herself.* She purchased 4 tickets, 3 of which were winners.

Chairs were thrown. Molotov cocktails were mixed. Chaos ruled. Santa wondered why couldn't we all just get along and was promptly decked by the head of the Masonic Lodge. Blood mixed in with the rain flowing down the street, decorating the streets with a different, yet still festive, shade of red. It was utterly macabre.

Oh yeah, the other 'winner' got $20 which, considering the other results, probably seemed like awfully cheap hush money. But you know, $20 is $20.

In short, it was the best Christmas festival, pageant, celebration, bazaar, hootenanny, what have you ever. We're thinking of doing it again.

*We really did give away $330 and 3 of the EPJ's 4 tickets were winners. The EPJ took this to mean she's now got luck on her side and began planning a trip to Vegas. Downer that I am, I suggested that rather than having good fortune on her side, her luck, to put it bluntly, sucks. 3 out of 4 winning tickets? $330? Pencils out, matheletes; what are the odds? Though it indeed may have come in, her ship resembles the QEII not so much as a trash barge off the coast of Long Island drifting aimlessly. Selah.

Nary a word about Burl Ives

With election day and Thanksgiving finally behind me, hopefully things will slow down a bit. Thankfully, there's only the minor events of Christmas, the marathon and all the attendant build up to both left. I can feel the boredom already. The main thing, however, is that elections are over and done with for at least a year. This should give just enough time for everyone to forget how much they actually hate an election year. If not, just ask me and I'll gladly remind. And I'm on the election payroll.

Whether because of the above or other factors, I've yet to start anything resembling Christmas shopping. This fact is probably not as big a deal to me as it is to any potential receivers. I did manage to get Christmas decorations up this weekend because otherwise the Grinch would win. Plus, as grand poobah of the local organization putting on the town Christmas hootenanny tomorrow night, I guess I need to show some solidarity with the season. Here goes: Yay, Christmas.

There.

In Baby Hansel news, I attempted to get a feel for potential names with Millicent at Thanksgiving dinner. She made it clear there would be no discussion with me on said matters. Being as I only want to help, I can't imagine what she's afraid of or why. The world has enough Bob and John, right? Apparently, she feels I'm inclined to names which would single out said child as different. Perhaps, but if only more people knew of Zeigler or Renaldo or Absalom then they would not be quite as rare. Who could possibly resist the joys of parenting such a name? "Unhand that toy, Absalom. Insolence will not be tolerated."

I'm looking forward to Hansel's college graduation since that will probably be the first time I'm allowed to see him. Oh, Millicent. How I love to keed thee.

What's the good word?

To Hell With Georgia!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

45-42!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The randomness of the maze

It's always a bright moment when someone offers the never particularly requested comment of "We've all got to die someday." Not sure why when people don't know what to say in response to illness or sadness or general unhappiness this is their go to cliche. Somehow the misfortune of a terminal illness or the embarrassment of a water closet death is lessened. Or so the one offering the comment apparently believes. This is all apropos of nothing. Nor is it related to what today may or may not be.

I got my 18 miles done on Saturday with no too much strife. I was very glad to be finished, mind, but didn't really feel at any point that I was past going. This is good since I've still got 19 and 20 miles to go in training. There's also the matter of the marathon itself. No biggie. Because of Thanksgiving I've moved my running schedule up a day this week. I trust all will make the necessary calendar changes.

The big event of the weekend was the promised screening of Madagascar 2 for Buster. While he enjoyed it quite a bit , he said that he thought Bolt was slightly better. I'm not sure what the basis for his criticisms were as I didn't delve too deeply. Perhaps the existential crisis of a dog is more relevant to a 7-year old than those of various truant zoo animals misplaced in Africa. That, or John Travolta makes a better talking animal than Ben Stiller. Ooh, look bright colors, etc.

Before the cinema, the annual meeting with Santa Claus took place. Actually, this was Buster's second of this still-young Christmas season; I suspect a good two or three more opportunities at various places will arise in the next few weeks. Santa gets around for someone who's supposed to be so busy this time of year. I suppose the internet has helped his Christmas rush as well.

Buster's request for this particular Father Christmas? 1) a shotgun and 2) a baby chicken. While his outside-the-box thinking is encouraging on one level, I'm predicting a disappointing Christmas for the little dude. Saturday's Santa found his requests "interesting."

Indeed.

Andy confirmed that the upcoming Baby X will in fact be a Hansel and not a Gretel. This wasn't much of a surprise since we had been told there was a 75% chance of a Hansel. Not being a med school grad, I was unaware there were percentages on such things. I mistakenly thought the telltale sign either was or wasn't there. Silly me. Though I've not been privy to any discussions of possible names, my suggestion of Zeigler Franklin is probably not under consideration. Which is a shame.

Indeed.

Laziness pt. 6

Holy smokes. A random photo from the recent trip. Taken in the courtyard/sandbox area in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. That is in Paris. Which is in France. Smoke 'em if you got 'em.

We can all celebrate together

Today, aside from being the penultimate Thursday in November, is also The Great American Smokeout. A day in which the American Cancer Society urged smokers to go cold turkey for a day not unlike that Dick Van Dyke flick, Cold Turkey. Anyway, it's sort of lost its luster of late (read: anytime after GAS spokesman Larry "J.R. Ewing" Hagman quit playing J.R.) as more and more people never start smoking and those that do have fewer and fewer places to puff a cancer log. Still, it's one of those unofficial holidays that lazy journos and writers (ahem!) trump out when there nothing much else to say. Ergo, here's five more days that just never get the press anymore to ponder whilst I attend the Tech-Miami game this evening.

5. Groundhog Day (February 2) Six more weeks or winter based on shadow recognition. I realize every year our nation still endures the breathless reporting of myriad blow-hards and blow-drys faking enthusiasm over the weather prognosticating skills of any otherwise forgotten rodent. Bill Murray even set a movie around it that's a lot better than it probably should be. As a result, most under the age of 50 use it as shorthand for endlessly repeating tasks. Oh, and matters aren't helped when the South, figuring those damn yankees are telling us what to do again, decide to get us our very own groundhog, General Beauregard Lee, cause the weather is different up north. Confusion set in. Nation loses interest.

4. Grandparents Day (First Sunday after Labor Day) It's not that we as a nation don't love our grandparents. We do since if it wasn't for them most of the big Christmas/birthday gifts would never come our way. Plus unconditional love is sorta nice too. And adding a specific day a la Mother's/Father's is probably not all that bad of idea. It's just never really been able to get off the ground due to bad PR. Honestly, unless one frequents Hallmark stores or similar places that have cards for more holidays than customers, one probably doesn't even know the day exists. If it weren't for the hostage crisis in Iran, malaise or brother Billy, perhaps Jimmy Carter's presidency would be best known for his involvement herein. That's just as well.

3. Arbor Day (Final Friday in April) I'm not sure when this hug-a-tree day was forgotten. Nor am I sure it was ever remembered. Nor am I sure just how one would properly celebrate. Exchange acorns? Commune with nature? Apparently, it was popular enough in the mid-70s for Charles M. Schulz to create a Charlie Brown special, It's Arbor Day, Charlie Brown. That, or the special was a last ditch effort to save the day. I've never see it so apparently not even that lovable blockhead, Charlie Brown, could get kids jazzed about planting a tree. Where's the equally forgotten Johnny Appleseed when you need him? Furthermore, coming so close to #2, I'll blame eco-fatigue.

2. Earth Day (April 22) One of my more favorite Pete Townshend quotes is the one about the only thing rock and roll/hippies ever doing was changing the length of boys hair. I love Townshend but I would offer this homage to Mother Earth, along with its attendant hypocrisy, as being the love generation's greatest gift to the unwashed. Like Grandparents Day, it's not that the concept is flawed. Who can honestly say they are for pollution, carcinogens and general filth? Incredulity does not equal advocacy. It could only come from a group of stoned hippies figuring out a way to justify polluting that very same air/water, driving an oil-burning, gas-guzzling, smoke-belching VW van from Dead show to Dead show, tie-dyeing all the way. True, as cocaine replaced pot and disco, psychedelia there was scant time for such matters and Earth Day was kind of forgotten until a brief resurgence in the late '80s before being forgotten again. Al Gore notwithstanding.

1. Sadie Hawkins Day (November 9) A testament to the erstwhile power of the funny pages, Sadie Hawkins originated on the pages of the Li'l Abner comic strip post-depression, pre-WWII. If the origins didn't insure failure then the concept most certainly did: For one day, girls take the initiative in various courtship rituals. Splendid. In the '30s, it possibly was a revolutionary concept that a girl could ask a guy out. The same can't be said today. Furthermore, while the idea of the gal paying for the date has some merit to most guys, it wasn't particularly popular with the ladies. Quel surprise. Maybe it was an early dose of modern feminism or just a goof because Al Capp couldn't really think of much else to write that day. Whatever, it's all but forgotten today. The last known reference coming on July 21, 1954 by Jill Anderson of Cape Girardeau, Missouri lamenting her unrequited love from one Harold Stephens. Until today.

Some housecleaning matters

Still no phone. Retitled, retooled some bits to the right. Now each movie will come with a pithy review that will likely benefit no one but still promote world peace as much as such things can, which is to say none at all. Since I mentioned in my About Me that I like books, I figured it was time to offer proof so please welcome a reading addition. I suspect of my three categories (music, movies, books) books will be the least frequently updated so there will be ample time for any to read along at home and offer discussion. Just think of me as your Oprah. Except I'm not a fat, black, female, billionaire, media mogul who is as annoying as she is excruciating.

It may be hard to believe but even I have a difficult time keeping up with who's who in my little world. Hopefully at some point in the near future, I'll have a cast of characters to make life a little easier for us all. How awful if Millicent was confused with Marisol was confused with Madeline, etc. But then Millicent stays confused.

I think I shall also add a new set of posts titled Not That Anyone Cares. Like the photos of the ongoing Laziness series, these will be on occasions when I'm otherwise engaged or have nothing much to say but am determined to say it. I suspect they primarily will be short list of various bits of whatever minutia is currently in mind. Likely music or something equally insignificant, possibly serious but probably not.

This is all open to change. Much like a piggy bank.

If you go down to Willow Farm

Another brief bout of housecleaning to start. For reasons known only to the phone gods, there has been no land line service to my current place of residence since Friday. Though said gods were notified Friday, they've not found it within their means to correct said disruption. Due to the overwhelming popularity of me and my family, I was unaware there was a problem until Andy called on Friday and told me. Therefore, a long-winded way of saying if you need to actually speak to me, try my cell until further notice. If one doesn't have that number or easy access towards getting it, a safe bet that there is no need for that one to be in contact with me. Never fear, we'll always have the internet.

And Paris.

Saturday morning found me out and about doing my best to cover 17 miles on foot. As expected, the first 13 were actually relatively easy. The last 4 were...how you say...a bitch. I altered my route a bit this time and in so doing added a few longer, steeper hills for later in my run that I'd never covered. I knew this would make some difference but I really felt like things hit somewhere between mile 14 and 15. I was able to finish the whole 17; alas, my time wasn't quite what I'd hoped, 2:51. The main thought and motivation getting me through the final couple of miles being the sooner I get home, the sooner I can throw up and feel better. Motivation comes in all shapes, sizes and colors and I never want to deprive myself of a well-earned reward, however unpleasant. This particular bit of motivation turned out to be exclusively clear water and red Powerade. Fortunately, my pre-run bagel didn't get it on the disgorging fun.

Eww, yuk, gross, etc. Moving on...

It was a relatively uneventful, typical weekend for the most part. I spent the bulk of the post-run Saturday afternoon lying on the couch, attempting to fall asleep. Most attempts failing due to Mses. Missy and Patty Hearst deciding then was the appropriate time to pounce on one another or me or both. Saturday night was mine and Marisol's usual thing with added bonus trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond.

I'm probably not the first to notice, but the look on every male face therein was amusingly similar: pretend to be enjoying the BB & B experience, coupled with the fierce determination not to leave the side of the accompanying wife,lady friend,sister,daughter. Fear of appearing one of "those" people, trumping the rather obvious reality that other people, "those" or not, couldn't care less when surrounded by all the plush, frilly and stainless steel joy that is BB & B.

Not being all that into the decorating/home scene nor being on the receiving end of too many shower invites, BB & B is not a place I frequent a whole heck of a lot. Were I ever in the market for an easy omelet maker, various items of cutlery, sheets or all manner of fluffy things, I would, however, reconsider my self-imposed ban. Or at least I would suggest someone possibly think about picking up those items for me at just such a place. I suspect that will be a part of their new marketing campaign. Bed, Bath & Beyond: the store that one dare not speak its name.

Weep not for me. I picked up the new Genesis box set. It was my duty and privilege because I am an unabashed prog rock geek and Genesis, before they became the somewhat icky hit-making machine were one of the lord, god, kings of the genre. Everything I know about giant hogweeds, moonlit knights, T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland and the end of the world I learned from those records. It's not a stretch to say that I've learned more about art and literature from my record collection than I ever did from any formal schooling. Again, it's easy to see why I was so popular during my teenage years. Even though I know these albums better than almost any in my collection, and have multiple copies of each to boot, I spent the rest of Saturday night and all day Sunday excitedly digging into the box as if I'd never heard a mellotron before. An experience, I'll wager, most readers hereof have never had and wonder what I'm on about. Oh well.

Needless to say, it was a good weekend.

Give me your hand and let's jump out the window

I intended to post yesterday but one thing after another led to that not being the case. One of the perils of working for a living. One would figure I would be given a designated time at work to tend to such matters. After all, smokers get their smoke breaks. Perhaps bloggers (I hate that word, btw) should unionize and demand something from someone, somewhere. Or just quit their jobs. It's nice to get the occasional paycheck though. This is all neither here nor there.

Work, however, did not preclude me from my running schedule. Yesterday was the long middle of the week run, 8 miles. That one went quite well and I set another PR (my third in a row) at 1:06. I really can't complain at my progress at the halfway point in my schedule. The marathon is 2 months away and looking back over my journal from last year, I'm about 3 minutes ahead of my times at this point last year and can tell a tremendous difference in my overall stamina. I've no idea if this is good or bad for 'serious' runners, but I'm v. happy with how it's all going. I hope to continue to improve but if I stay at this level I'll be quite satisfied; I just don't want this to be the peak followed by a decline. That hasn't been the case previously and I don't expect it now. Starting with this weekend I've got 17,18,19 and 20 mile runs left. Oh, and the actual 26.2 marathon. No biggie.

My dearest pal, MB, and her husband (whom I'll call Gordon for no good reason) graced my fair burg with their presence the other day. They're still adjusting to life in the pastel paradise of Florida after spending the past several years on Lex Luthor's favorite continent, Australia. Slightly confused by the culture shock of everything (check her blog), they needed a respite from all the hubbub. We are proudly hubbub-free. Hopefully that will be our new town slogan.

Anyway, MB and Gordon are somewhat connoisseurs of haute cuisine and are always eager to try out all manner of places whose fare is somewhat above McDonald's. I can't imagine why. I'm pretty indifferent on such matters as one would figure. Nevertheless, since their arrival was around lunch, it only made sense we patronize one of the local restaurants for an equally hubbub-free meal.

MB loves couscous. She's willingly eaten things for breakfast most wouldn't ever consume, even if it meant starvation. She has very specific opinions on coffee and what constitutes a worthwhile brew. I'm pretty sure she evens knows which is the salad fork and which is the dinner one. It's all very impressive. Surprisingly, in all her travels she had yet to eat what the locals consider 'real food', i.e. vegetables and various other things fried, sugared or both.

While it is true my palette is equally refined to the point of avoidance of such items as well, with me that's more to do with the fact that I do not, have not, will not nor ever shall eat anything grown in the ground save for potatoes of the french fried kind. This is to say my avoidance has not been for lack of opportunity or prodding by various well-meaning folk through the years. I've simply no desire or interest in such items.

Apparently, MB is the lone person born, raised and, for the better part of her life, a denizen of the American South who never once had the opportunity for down home cooking. She seems to be none the worse off, admittedly, but it does provide me some amusement to watch her navigate the complex system that is the standard buffet line. I excuse Gordon in all this being as he is not of this country. I'll presume I would be as unsure in one of them swank joints they've been known to dine. Alas, this is my blog and I suffer no fools. I keed.

MB: "What do I do?"

Me: "Pick up a tray, go down the line, tell them what you want. Afterwards, I would suggest running head first into a wall. That usually helps settle the stomach."

So after a brief tutorial in queue theory, we proceeded to our table to enjoy the breaking of bread. Her bread of choice being a hush puppie which she promptly prepared with a knife and fork. Erm...okay. My meal of shrimp/french fries was quite delectable but being as it's a typical Friday lunch for me, I can't say it was particularly noteworthy. MB, however, was stunned at her enjoyment of everything. Generally the folks around here know how to cook or so the townsfolk say (again I generally avoid most of the these things), particularly since most are using recipes and skills that have been passed down for generations.

Dessert, however, was not on the menu though MB did note the presence of red velvet cake. I mistakenly thought this was a suggestion to grab a piece. She declined figuring she'd done enough experimenting for one meal.

MB: "Oh, no. I've never actually seen it. But I have heard of it."

Oh.

Me: "It's your lucky day since they only have it on days that end in Y."

One needn't always travel to the far reaches of the world for culture.

It usually helps though.

Touch me, I'm sick

Being born in 1973 meant that my childhood stretched across two decades; neither particularly noted for its fashion unless one is having a goof (Disco night) or is some hipster being oh so ironic (mullets, etc.). Ooh look, he's wearing a headband with a day-glo t-shirt that says "Mondale/Ferraro". Tee-hee. Gag me with a spoon.

And when we got sick, we called the doctor. If we got sick at night, we waited until morning. If we got sick over the weekend, hopefully the cure-all, Tylenol, would hold until Monday morning when the doctor reopened. Just as well since in our household if Tylenol didn't do the trick then no amount of penicillin or its variants would have helped. Forget aspirin, for us, Tylenol was the real wonder drug that worked wonders. Emergency rooms were for broken bones, car crashes and old people.

Somewhere twixt now and then, however, doctors started operating after-hours clinics. Maybe they always did and we just had the misfortune of having the best pediatrician (Dr. Harper) who still subscribed to the antiquated notion that kids should only get sick during business hours. Life was so inconvenient back then.

All of this is an extremely long-winded way of saying I spent a decent chunk of Saturday afternoon with Marisol and Buster in the after-hours clinic. He had what turned out to be a sinus infection. A pain, yes, but nothing serious.

Conformation of a revelation nevertheless: I'm not sure there's much sadder than a sick child. All the moaning, coughing and irritability can't help but melt even the hardest of hearts and one will do anything to make the child feel better. Miss school? Eat ice cream for breakfast? Great. Common sense be damned. Hence our post-doctor trip to the cinema to view Madagascar 2.

Buster had been jazzed about seeing the flick since we first saw the previews sometime in February. Or so it seemed. In preparation he had forced Marisol to endure the original some 50 times and the big production number (I like to move it, move it) had replaced the soundtrack to Mamma Mia as his song of choice to sing at any moment of silence. Needless to say, he was as excited about this weekend as any kid could possibly be and the possibility of disappointing was a burden we'd prefer not to bear if at all possible.

His three big questions on Saturday:

1. Where's Mama?
2. What's taking so long?
3. Are we still going to the movie?

It's just a guesstimate but those three were asked in that order about 1400 times Saturday afternoon. So post-doctor and after a brief stopover at McDonald's we headed to the aforementioned cinema. Luck smiled us as the feature was just about to start. So rather than the attending the subsequent showing as I'd feared, we timed it perfectly.

As we eased into our seats I was hoping that once things got underway, Buster would hone in on the flick and forget his illness. The power of brightly colored, talking animals trumping everything else. Peace and prosperity would return to all nations, etc. I can't speak for Marisol, but I was awfully proud of our ability to save the day. We promise him something and by gum, we come through.

He was asleep within 15 minutes.

Which is not to say that Saturday was without its frivolity. I set a PR for 11 miles on Saturday morning, 1:37. It was the type of run that keeps me doing this whereas anyone with a brain would have ceased long ago.

The town also had its annual We Hate Bambi Too So Fire Away Festival for hunters on Saturday. To get in the spirit, most townsfolk dress in camouflage or something equally woodsy.

I wore my day-glo (ahem) blue Deerhoof shirt which must count for something. Right?

In addition to the usual assortment of hawkers offering all manner of stuff, bric-a-brac and outright junk there was a car show as well as some hot, rocking live entertainment. It's all very family-oriented and probably fun if you like that sort of thing. Alas, there were no cloggers. Therefore I was ultimately bummed.

I didn't stick around for the whole shindig but if history is any indication, most performers were of the gimme-that-ol'-time-relijun variety with a sprinkling of country and a dash of western thrown in. We may not know much, but we know our target audience.

Except for the one band I did see.

Not sure of the name, but I can only guess it was Sexual Chocolate. If it wasn't then a name change is in order. With three dynamite chick singers out front and a coupla dudes holding down the low end, they most definitely got their 'Quiet Storm' swerve on with tunes that were slightly...erotic. Basically, the perfect soundtrack for an early afternoon hunting fest in early November in rural Georgia with a largely white, elderly audience.

Anyway, the toe-tapper I heard seemed to consist of little more than the promise of some "good, good lovin" over a slow jam from an increasingly excited Miss Thang. No one got up to groove. Whether her amore was directed towards the numerous blue-hairs in the audience or the handful of camo'd families is unclear. Since that's all that was watching, it must have been one or the other because she clearly meant it, man. Sadly, no one took her invitation. Undeterred, she was left to suggest if you couldn't find someone to love you then just love yourself. They (Sexual Chocolate) do it all the time.

EMTs rushed from coronary to coronary. Parents put ear muffs on kids. I laughed and laughed.

Clearly, Obama has already united us in ways he couldn't have imagined.

I know that the hypnotized never lie, do ya?

I'd like to forget about politics, elections and anything remotely resembling the two for a bit. Nothing to do with sour grapes nor orgasmic elation. While I have views, strong/staunch at that, I'm of the general mind set of "Meet the new boss/Same as the old boss" and don't let successes/failures in elections geek me up/bum me out too much. Serenity now, etc.

Instead, my wishful, selective would-be amnesia is what pointy-heads like to call election fatigue. They're usually referring to the general populace tiring of campaign ads, debates, etc. and not the tedium and sausage-making that goes with actually holding an election, big or small.

It's with the latter my fatigue lies and like said sausage-making, the public at large would just as soon not be privy to it all. Suffice to say, it's a lot of work that goes unnoticed unless things run afoul. Luckily, this was not the case yesterday as nothing much really went wrong. Phew.

Still, my duties require me to start preparations for an election long before most even realize it's an election year and by the end of election day and especially an election cycle, any excitement I may have/have not had over thinking this one was the one or that one sucks have vanished. Any exuberance over my commitment to civics and my community is long gone. Both replaced by a desire to do nothing so much as go home.

The votes say people want more funding to build a bridge to Pluto? Go for it just keep the construction noise to a minimum whilst I rest. Think that all shoes should be made of ham? Fantastic, I generally don't wear shoes (ham or otherwise) in bed.

Alas, my beloved state is headed towards a runoff.

Huzzah.

So...I'll get to cram the last couple of months of election fun into the next 3 weeks. Awesome. The marquee match-up for this round will be the U.S. Senate seat--there's also an appeals court judge spot and a Public Service Commissioner on the ballot to which no one, including the candidates families, will pay any attention. Sorry, guys and gals; at least the winner gets a cushy state job.

Because of the national implications of the big race, however, the media will descend here and posit this a further referendum on how dumb, awful, stupid, evil and otherwise bad our current president is, was and forever will be. And how this runoff can be the final step on the road to our country's permanent, total and forever goodness and all around badass-ness in the eyes of our international friends.

Likewise, the other side will suppose this a final stand for the side of all that is right with the world and must be defended to the end. Or we'll all die or something.

Or maybe it will just mean the same/different white dude with an R or D besides his name in Washington.

In other words it will all be great fun.

With any luck a few well-chosen celebs may deign to weigh in on things. Insight I'm always eager to hear. Really, who doesn't wonder what America's favorite yuckster thinks about fiscal responsibility and how it relates to the military industrial complex? We'll probably even get a visit or two from some A-list politicos, maybe America's favorite hockey mom or the man of the hour himself. Again, fun. Yay.

And by "we" I mean the state. I highly doubt our new president or any of his minions will head to my particular corner of the world unless he gets lost. Probably the best our community could hope for is the sister of the dude who sat next to the big cheese one night in Burger King.

P.S. For our family and friends scattered throughout the world who use this blog to keep up with us, herewith some news: Andy will become a Daddy, my Dad will become a Grandfather and I will become the hippest, coolest uncle evah sometime in April!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That excitement enough for you Millicent?

Laziness pt. 5

Never fear, world. Whatever tomorrow brings, me and Sarkozy have got yr back.

V. busy with election duties; normal posting to resume shortly.

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.

Laziness pt. 3

Attention mongrels! Consider yourself warned.

P.S. No, I didn't test it out on Patty Hearst.

P.P.S. Read the previous post if this one makes no sense.

When 2 + 2 = 5

Life continues to settle back to something approaching normal. As I had presumed, the return jet lag was hardly existent so aside from the general fatigue associated with long trips, my biorhythms remained on their regular schedule. I'm sure someone somewhere could explain and if I were really motivated I'd look it up myself (I'm not), but in terms of time zones I would figure adding hours is less taxing than subtracting hours. Fascinating though this opening paragraph is, I believe it is best to move on...

I've had several comments from various friends/relatives saying they enjoyed my daily roundups on all things trip related. It just seems that if one's got the technology available one might as well use it. Plus, it was great fun to haul the heaviest laptop ever created across the ocean and two countries just so people known/unknown could live vicariously through my bemused world view. A few have indicated that they were disappointed to not receive an alias. It's nothing personal, it's just that they're not that important to me.

I keed.

Actually, Cybil (the potty-mouthed, hip hop loving mother of 4) and Camille (Disney mom of 2, Tech graduate/fan and all around swell gal) are two of my closest, dearest friends. I probably should write down who's who to keep it straight. And so should you. Right now.

Anyway, in the run-up to everything for the trip, I sort of let my time slip up on me and kinda, sorta forgot to really start the real training for the marathon. I'd been thinking the week we were gone would be the 2nd of the 18-week schedule.

It was actually the 4th.

Instead of thinking, I probably should have actually counted. So in place of doing the massive 6 miler I was expected tomorrow, I will jump all the way to 12. Huzzah. Since the 8 miles I did on Wednesday didn't cause any trouble, I figure I should be able to stumble through this first really long run.

That is as long as I don't get attacked by dogs.

Running out in the country as I do is generally the way to go. Far less traffic and it's much easier for me to get into a running mindset. The only drawback being that any car I do meet tends to be "openin' her up" since the likelihood of any local constable is somewhat less than doubtful.

And then there's when the dogs come out.

On my route, there's only one area dogs are known to roam. I'm not sure if they're overprotective pets or strays agitated at the fact that in some parts of the world their kin are considered a delicacy, but every now and then I can hear them bark off in the distance as I wheeze by. Yesterday, they decided it was time for action. Action, I hasten to add, that I was not consulted on nor found particularly necessary.

Just settling in to my run (3 miles) with the mighty King Crimson on the mp3, I got to the danger zone and heard the barking. This time I thought I saw some movement.

Uh oh.

Sure enough out come two mongrels of multiple breeds snarling, growling and open for bidness. Being a reasonably bright fellow, I did what most would do: made for the other side of the road with some haste. About halfway across the yellow line, it occurred to me that I had failed to make sure there wasn't some someone attempting to set a land speed record in my path. Thankfully, there wasn't. To me, it's somewhat of a tossup on being ripped to shreds by mongrels of indeterminate breed or being the latest snazzy accessory now that spinners are a bit played out, even in the middle of nowhere. I can just hear some dude on MTV Cribs bragging about how he got the most tricked out ride of all with a dead honky hood ornament.

Some great reward.

Nevertheless, fate was with me in that regard though it did little to stop the progress of my new friends.

Herewith evasive action phase 2: run faster.

Unfortunately, I had little time to be amazed at my heretofore unknown speed since dogs have this uncanny ability to mirror their prey's action. Gulp.

Herewith evasive action phase 3: run onto porch of nearby house.

I'm not entirely sure what I expected this to accomplish since no one was home. I guess I thought it would be better to have my bloody carcass safely out of the road and easier for cleanup. There were some plastic chairs that would have made a decent enough barrier in a lion tamer sort of way but thankfully I didn't have to find out. As soon as I entered the yard, the dogs backed off and calmed down. Phew.

Aside from using up most of my remaining energy in the dead sprint to get away from the mongrels and the general not-too-good feeling of staring snarling death in the face, there were no repercussions. Actually, it merely has expedited my purchase/carrying of pepper spray on these runs. Something, I fully admit, I should have long ago done.

That, and confirming my belief that all dogs should be chained up in a windowless, dark basement. Or shot.

Cats are where its at.

Epilogue -- We come France

It seems that the much promised post mortem has arrived slightly later than expected. Of course, since there was a day by day report, I'm not really sure what there is left to say. Besides the three of us all made it home safe and sound. We got back to Atlanta about 3:30 Friday afternoon. However, thanks to Meena's volleyball game on Saturday morning and the mandatory attendance of the Tech game Saturday afternoon, I didn't actually make it back to my corner of the world until late Saturday evening. Once there I paused long enough to throw my bags in the house and take a quick shower before heading out to pick up Marisol for our usual Saturday night thing. And then Sunday was church, unpacking and washing clothes since unlike Andy I chose not to do my laundry in the hotel sink. Basically, I came back to work on Monday for no other reason than to get a bit of rest. And to resume driving the EPJ insane. A short drive I hasten to add.

Things around the office stayed more or less the same and nothing major happened which was nice. I left the EPJ our phone number in case she had a problem that needed a bit of that Jeremy magic. A good thing she didn't call however, as I purposefully left her the wrong number.

I keed.

As probably was obvious last week, the trip was a great time from start to finish. The overall highlight was definitely our day in Normandy, but I can honestly say there wasn't anything that I didn't enjoy. Even sitting in a gift shop in Battle had it's moments since sometimes, probably more often than I should be, I'm perfectly content to listen to music and read.

I was talking to MB last night about how everything went and told her that I could imagine living in England. I did not get this feeling the last time we went, in fact, I had the total opposite reaction. I fully realize that it's never going to happen, particularly at this point in my life, but like Boston a few weeks ago, I really felt comfortable there.

As for France, I know it has a bad reputation, especially among Americans. Nevertheless, I found the peoples to be perfectly friendly and normal folk almost to a person. It's nice to experience another culture rather than merely read/see someone else's observations on it. Ahem. I'm sure there's plenty of A-holes there, but that's true anywhere I suppose. If my only knowledge of the U.S. came from the media and the pop culture we export, I probably wouldn't have that high of an opinion of the average American. Present company excluded, of course.

But this trip was special and not just because we all had such a great time. It was nice to be able to go off with my Dad and Andy and enjoy being together. Something that, for various reasons, we haven't been able to do a lot of the past few years. There's so much going on in our lives these days, good and bad, that having all the various schedules, plans and intangibles work out was no small feat and something I do not take for granted. Perhaps they will again in the near future.