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.