Laziness pt. 8

I suppose a marathon is anything but laziness, still, them's hows I play it. I'll get around to recapping my marathon weekend tonight or tomorrow, but for now just enjoy a couple of pictures that prove I was there. Or I did it. Or I'm insane. Or far too old to be a non-Furry and still want to take pictures with folks in giant mice costumes. Bonus points: spot the hole in my shirt in the photo above. Minnie had just planted one on me. Sorry, MB, still trying to find that photo. Mickey clearly annoyed at her but nonetheless jazzed to see I'm a proud supporter of WFMU.

Did the marathon in 5:36, which beat last year by about 10 minutes. Was on a 4:30 pace until Mile 19 and was still on a 4:50 pace until mile 23 (this is darn near peak for me in a marathon) and then time became very quick and I became very tired. Didn't do as good as I could have but, who cares, I finished. Those were goals 1-8. Goal 9 being staying out of the medical tent, check. And Goal 10: beating last year's time. Great weekend overall.

But running with scissors would be dangerous

Way back in the dark ages of 2005, on a trip to WDW no less, I turned Bonnie Dearest (her snazzy new name on here) on to the comedic stylings and geniusity of The Best Show on WFMU, a comedy/talk/music show on the best radio station in the world, WFMU. Eager and adventurous listeners should click on the link. More than likely most will immediately begin to question my judgment on such matters but just know that on this issue I am not wrong. Sort of like the adage that gets tossed out in church every so often: The Bible says it, I believe it and that's seals it. Putting aside, of course, that as far as I know there's no mention of any radio station, awesome or otherwise, in that somewhat legendary tome; it's generally concerned with slightly more weighty matters which is just as well. While I would agree that most involved with radio these days should be put on trial for general crimes against humanity, eternal damnation as punishment would probably be a tad much. If only slightly.

Anyway, BD somehow somewhere along the way became quite the fan of TBSOWFMU and began occasionally calling in with reports on life in the northern hinterlands of Georgia. Her standard opening of "Hi Tom, this is Bonnie from Georgia," a reassurance that regardless of what happened before or after her call, that night's show would be a "W". And suddenly she found herself getting Facebook friend invites from unknown folks the world over, fellow FOTs (Friends of Tom), all eager to give some sense of meaning and purpose to their otherwise meaningless and purposeless lives. Kicking her coolness up several notches, BD's familiar refrain is placed front and center at the beginning of every show in the opening montage.

Awesome.

The bottom line in all of this is that, although it was scant, there was the slight chance that one could approach BD's status as hipsteress eminence. As the official bearer of bad news, let me inform the world, that scant hope has now vanished forever.

Out of the blue, BD has received a personal email from the comedy genius, titan and comedian of comedy, Patton Oswalt!!!!! I normally despise exclamation points, but in this case feel they are more than warranted.

Patton is coming to the 40 Watt in February. We all figured we should go because, well, he's, a comedy genius, titan, etc. Short of the birth of a child, there's really nothing better we could be doing that night, and even that would only be for a first born. Subsequent children are really a bit old hat, be honest. Anyway, BD emailed Tom asking about the show and out of the blue, Patton himself emails her back and puts us on the guest list. Therefore, BD, me, Seth (her brother) and Seth's wife will all be living off the fat of the coolness of BD. Marisol doesn't remotely care about such matters and as such will be absent. And thanks to Patton for always bringing it.

That's in February though. More immediately is this weekend. I got my final run of the training out of the way yesterday. 2 miles that hardly even seemed worth it, but nevertheless provided me with a sense of accomplishment for, at least, completing another training cycle. I generally don't pat myself on the back over so matters, feeling if I can do it anybody can, but it's tough not to feel a little pride over starting and 18-week program and seeing it through.

My Dad and I will be heading out for WDW Friday morning and should get there sometime mid-afternoon. Though this will be the first time just the two of us have been and it will be different, I suspect the pull of all things Mouse will be too great and I'll squeeze in the maximum amount of rides time I can.

Regardless, the marathon starts at 5:50 a.m. Sunday and the weather is supposed to be perfect for a change. If the previous years are any indication I should be finishing at some point in the 11 o'clock hour. In other words, when more sensible east coast people are going to church, brunch or just rolling over.

P.S. Not sure whether I'll take my laptop so there may not be any updates until I return of Tuesday but by all means continue to check back and read the same hilarity over and over.

Several odd moments prior to going to the post office

Suddenly it's very windy. Like Chicago windy. Real nail-down-the-small-animals-on-the-porch kind of wind. So I would presume that a front is moving through. Perhaps I should be flying a kite though as child I was never really into such matters. Even back then, the idea of standing in some wide open space watching some oddly shaped object dangle in the wind seemed rather tedious. Unless it was an effigy of some sort, of course. That was always good fun.

Or would have been had I ever had the privilege of witnessing any fervent political/social displays. Not surprisingly my fair burg doesn't have too much drama of that nature. I think former Georgia governor Lester Maddox came through here at some point on his way to somewhere, but that was simply a matter of routing. It had nothing to do with the need for him to throw his ax handle around though I'm sure he would have been up for it as well. Lester did love to whop things back then. It was a different time, I suppose. When "problems" could be "solved" with whopping sticks, fire hoses and attack dogs, giving the rural south an even worse name than its supposed more refined capitals.

My Dad saw Maddox years later in a McDonald's. No words were exchanged or any knowing nods given. Nor was there any incident. Like the air, Maddox simply was there and then he wasn't. Nevertheless, I occasionally amuse myself with the idea of him pitching a fit to the cashier because his Big Mac was not up to par, jumping up and down, getting more red-faced by the second. "Don't you know who I am? I used to beat you people back in my day. Now give my grands some gift certificates 'fore I goes and gets my ax handle upside you head and whatnot."

Because I tend to sweat the small details, I suppose it's only fitting that I would find such minutiae equally interesting. An interest, I suspect, that will reach no farther than from my head to my toes. Still, it must warm that old racist's skeletal remains to know that one day he would be the subject of, possibly, the most obtuse, arcane and all around random post in the history of the world and universe. Let it not be said that even in death Lester Maddox is not useful for something.

The necessity of teaching seals basketball

Thus begins marathon week. In the hubbub that was the past few weeks with its myriad wedding, parties and anything, the current supposed stated purpose for this blog kind of got pushed to the side. Which is not to say I didn't keep up my end of the bargain on the running side, I just neglected to inform any interested of how things were progressing. If one feels one was shortchanged in my lack of useful information in this particular field, apologies. I would quickly add, one probably should lower their expectations and consider getting out more.

An abbreviated version of those times, fill in as appropriate.

Today I ran (x) miles.

It was (good/bad/neither).

Boy, I am an amazingly (good/bad/stupid) runner.

The weather was rather (hot/cold); I wished I had (burned/not burned) those tires to (combat/accelerate) global warming.

Golly, I hate aggressive dogs and believe they should all be (shot/run over).

The chafing on my nipples, inner thighs and buttocks is (excruciating/bearable/a silent shame that thankfully no one will ever know about).

I (can't wait to get out there again/am contemplating feet amputation to ensure I never do it again).

Etc.

The long and the short of it: it's all over but the real deal itself. I finished up my Saturday runs with 8 miles on Saturday, coming in at 1:10. Not my fastest but according to my running journal, about 90 seconds faster than the same one last year. Some would call that progress and I suppose I might as well too.

The big Disney vacation that this was sort of the centerpiece for has fallen through somewhat. Instead of Marisol, Buster, Bonnie, Anna and anybody else that wanted to cheer me on, it's down to just me and my Dad. A week of (some would say) overpriced joy and fun has been reduced to a weekend surgical strike, much of which will be spent in the cozy confines of my posh room at the Grand Floridian. Whee. Andy would say that as much as I'm paying for the room, I'd better damn well stay in it and enjoy it as much as I can, maybe even flush the toilet a few extra times just to stick to the mouse. But then, he's allergic to fun.

All this is not to denigrate the old man. I've yet to run a race, big or small, that he hasn't been with me all the way from the start of training until the finish line. Since the finish line tape has long since been broken by the time I get there, he's pretty much my reward. Again, whee. Plus, he's a decent enough travel companion and, aside from the snoring, all right to be around. Nevertheless, I don't care how banging my pompadour, shiny my leather jacket or how many packs of smokes I have rolled up my sleeves, it's pretty damn impossible to look cool riding "It's a Small World" at 35 with just my Dad.

I had just about given up all hope for an overdose of fun and excitement this go round. Then, there comes late word that the one and only Poppie (88 and still going strong, thank you) is toying with the idea of going because "a change of scenery would be nice." His logic (not mine) is that he can sit in a room at WDW just as easy as he can here. So fingers are crossed that we'll be able to get an audience with the Mouse. That picture would no doubt be a keeper. Poppie perched on his Rascal and my Dad looking on indifferent/bored. And then me. Weeping.

Huzzah for the happiest place on Earth.

You had me at Caress of Steel, The Necromancer pt. 3 Return of the Prince

Some leftovers from the holidays that were.

1. Andy didn't get his floor mats because Santa hates him. That, and AutoZone didn't have any with the Tasmanian Devil on them. He almost got some mud flaps with Yosemite Sam telling all comers to "Back Off". But those would have just looked stupid.
2. I gave two copies of Mamma Mia! (the exclamation point is a registered trademark, btw) as gifts. To two males. Neither of which is gay. Weird, eh? My Dad loved it so much he went and bought him a 5.1 setup just so he could sing along in, uh, 5.1. Buster has made Marisol watch it pretty much every night since he got it. I generally avoid Marisol's house of late so as not to infringe on all that mother/son bonding.
3. Santa's reindeer summer in Greenland as does the right jolly ole elf. And the Mrs. So says a letter left by the man himself for Camille's offspring. Also, the reindeer do not like to have their picture taken, making it quite fortunate that there happens to be a random photo of 9 reindeer somewhere up on Flickr that was found relatively easily by a certain someone on a certain eve a week or so ago. My resume continues to grow. In addition to being general courthouse flunky, I'm now go-to-guy in times of moderate parent/childhood crisis.
4. I managed to avoid all televised Christmas programming for the first time in 35 years. This was not really a goal as such, but just the way things worked out. Of course, if I really need to view Rudolph or remember A Year Without Santa Claus, I can just buy the DVD for $10 at Target and watch them on May 16 if I so chose. Contrast that with years ago, when I frantically searched the TV guide for any/every Rankin-Bass,Peanuts,Disney and whatever else production, scared that if I missed a one of them Christmas would be ruined since I'd have to wait another bloody year to see them.

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New Year's was spent with 60,000 possibly drunk yahoos awaiting Tech to show up for their football game. They never did and promptly got their collective asses handed to them by LSU. Being as our seats were in the corner that just happened to see positively no action, I spent most of the first half staring at the back of the two douches (douche'?) who felt they could better complain about things standing up. Die-hards that they were, they left at halftime. I spent most of the second half staring into space and wondering what song was going to come up next on my ipod. A fun activity, yes, but not really one I care to spend $75, drive two hours and be around said drunk yahoos whilst doing.

Once things got out of hand at the game, i.e. with about 10 minutes left in the 2nd quarter, there was the temptation to catch the remaining 5 acts on the giant Lil' Wayne bill over at Phillips Arena. I may not have known any of the performers or any of their undoubtedly fine contributions to culture, but figured they were probably having more fun than I was. And I can follow the inevitable instructions to "wave my hands in the air like I just don't care" and then "scream" just as easily as some white teenager from the suburbs. Thanks to Yo!MTV Raps, I have years of practice at that sort of thing. Of course, I wasn't worried about being shot whilst at the football game. Yin/yang, etc.

So for the first time in ever or at least since I've kept up with such things, I didn't see the ball drop in NYC. So I can't relay how lame Secrest was or how edgy Kathy Griffin was or answer how Dick Clark still does it after all these years. I can guess though. Respectively: Quite, not really and salt water taffy. Nope, at precisely 12 am I was almost to Conyers on I-20 with Black Oak Arkansas playing on the ipod. Surely, I must win some sort of pathetic New Year's prize for that. Like a life, or good taste or something.

Interesting note about travelling on New Year's Eve, not a whole lot of traffic from 11:30-12:30 so it seemed as good a time as any to open the Jetta up. I think I made it to 85 mph before the excitement became overbearing. Speed + rockin' '70s boogie = too much for your beloved correspondent. Thankfully, some calming Belle & Sebastian came on next. Otherwise, my heart would have exploded. It's tough living life on the edge.

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.