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.

Day 7 -- Bed, take us to the Isle of Naboombu

I suppose at this point the trip is winding down. Actually, at this point, there's really nothing left to do but go to sleep, get up, go to the airport, sit on a plane for 8 hours, go home. Sounds easy enough, maybe it will be. We've already got everything packed and really didn't have any trouble fitting the junk we bought--which wasn't that much--in our bags. But enough of tomorrow.

Since we had already done all the tourist stuff and more or less anything else we wanted, today was a totally free day. So that meant a trip to the British Museum this morning to see all manner of really old items. I suppose the most relevant aspect of the trip to this blog was that I saw the actual Rosetta Stone. Yes, long before it was a somewhat expensive way to learn a foreign language it was a big old rock with a whole bunch of hieroglyphics. And not surprisingly, the key to understand the entire ancient Egyptian culture.

As for the rest of the museum, I didn't make it all the way through. It is huge. In fact, I didn't get past the first floor which was primarily Greek/Roman/Egyptian artifacts. I think Andy did make it to the Middle Ages at least, which was what he wanted to see anyway. And the best part of all? The museum is totally free; a pretty good bang for the buck I'd say. Of course, they did have donation buckets to help keep it free. We ain't suckers though; we rode free and let some other poor sap pull our weight. Being an American is great.

We did split up for lunch with Andy going to some restaurant that he claims last year served him the best meal he has ever had. Natch, they'd changed the menu so he couldn't get what he was served previously but he didn't seem to mind a whole lot. I think it was dog or ambrosia or something icky. He dug it; I guess that's what's important.

Believe it or not, at this point in my nearly 35 years of life, I've spent almost a month in the UK and have never been in a real, actual British pub. Not being much of a drinker or a dart player, which is to say none at all, I've never really felt the need. But today, faced with the prospect of another McD's lunch or the Pizza Hut--both of which I can have as early as tomorrow--I thought we'd go for the real deal and have the pub experience. Can't say that I regretted it. I had a burger that was most tasty whilst my Dad had the customary fish and chips. The service was a bit slowish but again with nothing much going on, it didn't really matter. It just gave us more time to sit and stare at each other in silence. On the whole, we're not what one would call "talkers".

The big news on the lunch hour telly was that the London police chief had resigned as one does after being so asked by the mayor. Not being privy to the in/out of London police work or politics I really can't say who is in the right. Nevertheless, I paused for a moment mid-burger and offered a silent prayer that London would come together. I think they were holding a candle light vigil tonight. I keed.

What ended up being the last stop for me for this trip was finally seeing Portobello Road. Ever since I saw Bedknobs and Broomsticks as a wee lad, I've had the urge to go there. Not so great that I made it a destination in 1997 or that had assumed a place greater than on the if all else fails list this time, mind. But an urge nonetheless. Unlike the movie, which is generally regarded as a weaker retelling of Mary Poppins though I actually prefer B & B, there wasn't a big production number nor were there all cultures represented.

Apparently, the weekend is when the place really gets jumping.

Perhaps the best way to describe Portobello Road is as a giant flea market consisting of an awful lot of antiques and all manner of out and out junk. On a Thursday afternoon, it's pretty empty which was fine by us. We walked from one end to the other and didn't find anything really worth our hard earned money, but the junkiest, most cramped bookstore I've ever been in saved the day. (Bonnie, you could have spent all day in there) Resisting the urge to buy used issues of various, ahem, gentlemen's magazines, I ended up getting a couple of books about music for a whopping total of 5 pounds. They were most certainly worth that.

Unfortunately, due to an unfortunate "person under the train car" incident our tube route back was altered and we ended up walking about 2 miles. Not our train, mind, but that is in fact how the delay was officially explained throughout the station. It's yet another cultural cliche that the British can still be so prim and proper. Like most cliche's it's also true. The announcements were most apologetic, if somewhat more explicit than one would expect on Marta, for example.

A side note and further example of the extremes of British order/etiquette, from our Normandy trip. Most Americans probably know the U.S. landed on Omaha/Utah beaches on Dday. Some may even know that the British/Candians landed on Juno, Sword and Gold beaches. What I didn't know and had wondered was how the British/Americans came up with their beach names. Still unsure about the U.S. names, but leaving nothing to chance, the British had theirs all figured out: they had a book of code names.

Sword and Gold were the next two in the book with Juno originally being called Jelly (hint: they're all fish) until the Canandian commander announced he simply was not going to be known for leading the charge on Jelly Beach. Juno being his wife's name.

I love this country and hate to leave but I guess we do. Besides, I miss Merisol and Buster, Poppie and the other MB, Patty Hearst and (Just) Missy, Maureen and Madeline, maybe even the Esteemed Probate Judge a little as well. Plus, it's time to get serious about marathon training.

Anyway, assuming this is most widely read tomorrow, we'll probably already be in the air. We leave at 11 am (London) and get to Atlanta at 3:30 pm (Atlanta). I probably won't get around to it for a couple of days but I'll have a post mortem on the trip up eventually. As mentioned previously, I this blog will remain active with the focus shifting to my training and whatever else tickles my fancy. The world waits in anticipation, no doubt. Cheers.

Day 6 -- It's far hotter at the Equator

Thus far aside from updating things around here, I'm not sure who has been more glad I brought my laptop on the trip, me or Andy. Not that it really matters but I generally haven't been able to get on MY computer until he finishes his daily/nightly internetting. That's all well and good except for the fact that it means when he goes to bed I have to start mine. Oh, the problems of being so connected and too nice to push him out of the way...

A funny thing about travel is that one tends to lose one's grasp on which day it actually is. Not so much thinking Wednesday is Tuesday or Tuesday is Monday as is it realizing it's a different day but it might as well be Saturday as easy as Monday. I suppose this is one of the more positive aspects of vacation and probably why people look forward to them: aside from coming/going, it really doesn't matter which day it is. Since this trip in general has been somewhat laid back and since we got to London totally so, I've not felt a constant rush to get to the next place. Not to say we haven't hit the ground running each day and are exhausted by the end, but aside from a couple of trains, mostly in France, there's been nowhere we've HAD to get to. I think the trip's been the better for it.

Case in point, walking through St. Pancreas (probably not the Saint of internal organs but I'll go with it anyway) train station this afternoon, I spotted a driver/greeter as one sees in these type places. The type who hold up a sign--Mr. Manson, Donner Party, etc.--because they've no idea who they are looking for nor does the lookee know who their attendant is. I think I've over explained so if there's any still unsure of who I'm talking about, just drive to the nearest airport or train station and wait. Anyway, this particular fellow happened to have the name Juliette Binoche on his placard. Or so I thought so much so that I actually did a double take. Yes, an honest to God "huh, what. Does that say Juliette Binoche?" turning of the head twice.

Well, it did even though Andy's convinced I misread it.

What does he know? He has no idea who Juliette Binoche is. Some of the fine folks who read this may not either so I suggest you google her. What one won't find is that she is one of my two favorite French actresses. The other being Audrey Tautou, who most Americans unfortunately know from The Da Vinci Code and not the brilliant Amelie or several other fine flicks in which she don't speak anglais.

So I ask you, dear reader, what would you do if you were wandering through a train station in London and saw the name of one of your favorite actresses suggesting that she would be by momentarily. For a brief moment, I sort of shrugged and kept walking but then I thought, "We've got nowhere to be. This is the exit for the Eurostar from Paris and by gum, why not just wait around for a minute." So for once, I took matters into my own hands and told my companions to hang on and let me see if it really was her.

I guess it turned out not to be. I certainly never saw her and believe me, there's no way she could have walked out of the gate without me seeing her. So after being pretty certain that the train was empty and 'her' host had split, we carried on. I wept silently and chalked up yet another disappointment in my cruel life.

As an aside, that's my second near brush with greatness on this trip. I thought I saw Tony Levin (member of King Crimson who I'm sure no one reading this knows) in a cafe in Paris. Turned out to just be a tall, balding French dude reading Le Monde. Bummer. Back in 1997, I had a couple of celebrity sightings: 1) seeing Jimmy Page (Led Zeppelin) get out of a car at Abbey Road Studios and 2)crossing the street at Piccadilly Circus with George Lucas. He's really short, btw.

It appears that I've gotten ahead of myself and ended the day before it began. Therefore, up next, the beginning.

Whatever problem the had with the Tube line to Greenwich on Monday had apparently been fixed for it was working today. I can't say for sure but I'd like to think that Andy's kicking/screaming fit as to how he was an American and it was his right to go to Greenwich and stand (again) on the prime meridian had something to do with the London powers that be getting on their collective stick and making it so.

Greenwich, though still part of London, really has the feel of it's own separate little college town. Which, in fact, I guess it really is though I unfortunately can't remember the name of the college. That is, in addition to the Royal Naval College which houses all manner of synchronistic devices and plotting gear and the P.M. itself. Not really ever giving it all that much thought to these matters, but appreciative of previous deep-thinkers efforts in the field, I wasn't aware that the science of time/direction was such a science. While I wasn't weeping when it was time for us to leave the P.M., I admit to finding the whole scene quite a bit more enjoyable and interesting than I was expecting. Though not as enjoyable as the group of tourists from a certain Asian country who appeared to be in such awe to be at the prime meridian that they just didn't want to move so we could get our own little picture and move on. By the way, the hill going to the P.M. is one of, if not the, steepest I have ever walked. Honest.The afternoon was spent in Leicester, a city that by all accounts is just another city in England. Fairly big but nothing of any interest to really anyone. Which, of course, is why we had to go. Actually, there was a record store that I really wanted to go to there. So yes, Andy came to England to stand at the prime meridian and I came to go to a record store. Since I spent my entire time in Leicester either in the store, Ultima Thule, or on a train, I can't really say for sure that there's nothing much there. Andy and Daddy, however, wandered around instead of digging the through racks with me and much to concurred with the conventional wisdom: it is a city in England and that's really about it.


But about the Ultima Thule. It's run by two brothers who specialize in the obscure and arcane music that I love so much. They started a fanzine, opened a record store and started a record label developed to all manner of musical weirdness in a locale so remote that only the truly devoted (sad) would seek them out. Needless to say, they do not stock Lil' Wayne. I could run on about how cool it was and the ridiculous amount of records I bought but will simply say it was worth the trip. And kudos to Andy and my Dad for being patient with me and letting me spend some time there.

After we got back, Andy had dinner at the Indian restaurant here in the hotel. He said it was quite good. It was KFC for dear ol' Dad whilst I figured I take the opportunity to wander around Kensington a bit and see if there was anything I should see. Or at least on the other end of the street. I'd already been to one end of the block the other night but decided to keep going tonight. And it was a lovely evening for a stroll with temps in the mid 50's and winds around 20 mph. After discovering that there was a plenty of life, some of it interesting in our immediate area, I ultimately decided to go with what I had planned to eat all along, some local chicken place that serves Portuguese chicken, whatever that may be. I presume it's to do with the preparation and not the location said chickens were born,bred and processed though I didn't ask. I'm pretty sure the workers wouldn't know anyway and they were probably already scared since this was my second trip this week.

Maybe I'll take a picture next time and tell them you said hi.