Poor Nate Robinson. Per his blog (which you can read here), the refs are not letting guys get away with anything this year. Here's an quote in which he complains about picking up a few undeserved technical fouls: "I saw that Carmelo Anthony got T'd up twice and kicked out of a game for throwing his headband to his bench...I think (and I hope) that eventually this will quiet down a little bit. I think the refs will eventually ease off a little bit. You have to let guys react with emotion as long as they're not going crazy with it. The players will also adjust and tone down their acts. In the meantime they're making a lot of money off of those technicals! "
Ha-ha! Amen to that my diminutive friend, but fat chance. Sounds like the refs have it in for Nate and Carmelo. The lockdown is still effect and the rich are going to get even richer as the refs blow another situation out of proportion and eject everyone on the floor - including Nate and Carmelo. Coincidence? I doubt it.
First, they act like J.R. Smith got fouled on that play. I didn't see any contact. Did anyone else? Then they acted like Robinson was involved in that civilized discussion about the call. Life just ain't fair to some guys.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Fattyrunner Named Time's Person of the Year!
http://www.cnn.com/2006/US/12/16/time.you.tm/index.html
Also, this evening I came across the funniest sentence ever constructed. It comes from The Onion via The Best Non-required American Writing of 2005. Are you ready?
"Fritolaysia breaks off Chiplomatic relations with Snakistan."
If only I had come up with that I could die happy.
Also, this evening I came across the funniest sentence ever constructed. It comes from The Onion via The Best Non-required American Writing of 2005. Are you ready?
"Fritolaysia breaks off Chiplomatic relations with Snakistan."
If only I had come up with that I could die happy.
Fattyrunner's Lament
One of the unpleasant side-effects of being Fattyrunner is the high rate of chub rub I experience. For those of you who are not familiar with the term, chub rub is what happens when your legs are large enough in circumference that they rub against each other while you run. Run enough and you develop a rather annoying chafing which becomes a stinging nightmare as soon as the water hits the affected area in the shower.
Chub rub, for me, does not just occur on the thighs. Unfortunately, even when I'm thin I have large thighs. When I am a couple stone heavier than I ought to be, as I am now, my upper thighs are, like a pair of childhood friends, inseparable. Unavoidably, other apparatus come into contact with my upper thighs as I run. The result is a chafing of my manly parts which not only makes it feel as if a lighter is being held to my testicles as I shower, but which also becomes a completely distracting condition for the remainder of the day.
Lastly, when your ass cheeks are overinflated, you can also develop this same condition in the area where they meet, making wiping after taking a dump a delicate operation which, as we all know, must be performed blind.
This is the state I am in after six miles last night upon arrival here in Delaware and five miles this morning about twelve hours later. While I'm encouraged by how good I felt on both of these runs, my optimism is tempered by two things: 1) that there are no hills that gain more than a foot of elevation anywhere near here, and 2) that I am going to have to start tomorrow's ten miler with a case of chub rub that is about as bad as that with which I normally finish a long run.
I'm sure that by the last mile I'll be drawing stares and gasps from passing motorists in their shock at seeing a man running down the road with what appears to be unstanched menstrual flow running down his legs. Hopefully the pain I'll endure in the shower tomorrow won't permanently scar me psychologically.
Note to self: inquire about whether there is Vaseline in this house.
Chub rub, for me, does not just occur on the thighs. Unfortunately, even when I'm thin I have large thighs. When I am a couple stone heavier than I ought to be, as I am now, my upper thighs are, like a pair of childhood friends, inseparable. Unavoidably, other apparatus come into contact with my upper thighs as I run. The result is a chafing of my manly parts which not only makes it feel as if a lighter is being held to my testicles as I shower, but which also becomes a completely distracting condition for the remainder of the day.
Lastly, when your ass cheeks are overinflated, you can also develop this same condition in the area where they meet, making wiping after taking a dump a delicate operation which, as we all know, must be performed blind.
This is the state I am in after six miles last night upon arrival here in Delaware and five miles this morning about twelve hours later. While I'm encouraged by how good I felt on both of these runs, my optimism is tempered by two things: 1) that there are no hills that gain more than a foot of elevation anywhere near here, and 2) that I am going to have to start tomorrow's ten miler with a case of chub rub that is about as bad as that with which I normally finish a long run.
I'm sure that by the last mile I'll be drawing stares and gasps from passing motorists in their shock at seeing a man running down the road with what appears to be unstanched menstrual flow running down his legs. Hopefully the pain I'll endure in the shower tomorrow won't permanently scar me psychologically.
Note to self: inquire about whether there is Vaseline in this house.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I'm soooo inclined.
Six miles tonight after two beers at lunch. I wouldn't recommend running after drinking. Of course, I did have lunch with a bunch of people who were drinking after having given blood this morning -- some just a few minutes earlier. So you decide which was a better idea.
Would have done seven, but had to take a dump quite urgently in the last mile and somehow that just ruins a groove.
I've been seeking out instead of avoiding hills lately and I think I'm starting to reap the benefits. I feel much lighter (even though I'm not) and my fitness is improving much more quickly than it normally does. Heed my word, runners: hills are your friends. Be warned: They're not like the friends who have watched all of the same movies as you and who know and love all of the same quotes as you. They're not the kind of friend who will listen to you when you're upset and don't know what to do. A hill is never going to buy you a beer because hills don't fucking drink, be-yotch.
No, hills are more like the friends everyone says they want who who no one actually wants: the ones who don't bullshit you and don't permit you to bullshit yourself.
You approach a hill. You say, "Hello, hill. I'm going to run up you to see how good I am right now." The hill replies, "You are not good at all. In fact, you suck. Further, you will continue to suck for a long time. However, since I am your friend, you may come run up me any time. I will always be here for you, but I will continue to tell you how much you suck until you no longer suck. Then, when you stop sucking, I will tell you that the sucking has ceased and you will know I am telling you the truth. In short, I will not make you feel better. I will just make you better."
Shaved my chest, stomach and back two nights ago. Don't know why.
I didn't realize just how chubby I was getting until I looked down and saw my unflatteringly hairless belly. When you see those "Bod" commercials, the guys are always perfectly shaven and have sharply defined six packs. You never see them showing some guy with a killer six pack covered by a pelt of dark hair. If you had a killer six pack, I guess you'd want to show it off; especially if you were going to be in a commercial.
You do, however, see many examples of very hairy dudes with large guts. In fact, if you watch TV at all, you might think that hairiness is some sort of side-effect of obesity, or perhaps a contributing factor. Conversely, you don't see many smooth, shiny beer guts. Thus, the only examples of what an ideal stomach should look like come in only a couple of versions: hairless or hairless and slightly sweaty. That's why seeing one's own shorn torso is a shocking thing.
I'm going to call the lousy American beer company that has those "Man Law" ads and ask them to add another: Men without six packs may not shave their stomachs and chests. It is, however, always ok -- nay, preferred -- for men to shave their backs.
I will be posting from the first state this weekend. Perhaps I will have Joseph Biden as a guest blogger.
Stay tuned.
Would have done seven, but had to take a dump quite urgently in the last mile and somehow that just ruins a groove.
I've been seeking out instead of avoiding hills lately and I think I'm starting to reap the benefits. I feel much lighter (even though I'm not) and my fitness is improving much more quickly than it normally does. Heed my word, runners: hills are your friends. Be warned: They're not like the friends who have watched all of the same movies as you and who know and love all of the same quotes as you. They're not the kind of friend who will listen to you when you're upset and don't know what to do. A hill is never going to buy you a beer because hills don't fucking drink, be-yotch.
No, hills are more like the friends everyone says they want who who no one actually wants: the ones who don't bullshit you and don't permit you to bullshit yourself.
You approach a hill. You say, "Hello, hill. I'm going to run up you to see how good I am right now." The hill replies, "You are not good at all. In fact, you suck. Further, you will continue to suck for a long time. However, since I am your friend, you may come run up me any time. I will always be here for you, but I will continue to tell you how much you suck until you no longer suck. Then, when you stop sucking, I will tell you that the sucking has ceased and you will know I am telling you the truth. In short, I will not make you feel better. I will just make you better."
Shaved my chest, stomach and back two nights ago. Don't know why.
I didn't realize just how chubby I was getting until I looked down and saw my unflatteringly hairless belly. When you see those "Bod" commercials, the guys are always perfectly shaven and have sharply defined six packs. You never see them showing some guy with a killer six pack covered by a pelt of dark hair. If you had a killer six pack, I guess you'd want to show it off; especially if you were going to be in a commercial.
You do, however, see many examples of very hairy dudes with large guts. In fact, if you watch TV at all, you might think that hairiness is some sort of side-effect of obesity, or perhaps a contributing factor. Conversely, you don't see many smooth, shiny beer guts. Thus, the only examples of what an ideal stomach should look like come in only a couple of versions: hairless or hairless and slightly sweaty. That's why seeing one's own shorn torso is a shocking thing.
I'm going to call the lousy American beer company that has those "Man Law" ads and ask them to add another: Men without six packs may not shave their stomachs and chests. It is, however, always ok -- nay, preferred -- for men to shave their backs.
I will be posting from the first state this weekend. Perhaps I will have Joseph Biden as a guest blogger.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Fattyrunner: A brief retrospective.
There have been periods in the last eight years where I've been something more than a jogger, but still less than the racer I once was, however mediocre. I was at my best in the first half of the summer before my junior year of college. I had lost almost twenty pounds, ran eight to ten miles a day, with a fourteen to sixteen miler on Sunday and after six weeks of that I ran a 15:58 road 5k. That was the only time I ever got under sixteen minutes. Not coincidentally, I didn't have much access to alcohol that summer.
I got back to school where beer was much easier to get my liver on and starting gaining all of the weight I had lost. I had started the cross counry season weighing 145 lbs. By November I was about ten pounds heavier than that and running 30 seconds slower for 8k than I had been when the season started.
Ever since my freshman year of college I have had a problem keeping weight off. In my freshman year my roommate's parents sent care packages on what seemed like a weekly basis. They were primarily full of chips, candy and soda, with some granola bars thrown in probably to ease their consciences about what kind of diet they were promoting for their son.
Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, if you're out there, don't worry. Your son was an absolute angel when it came to nutrition. I was the painting in the closet to his Dorian Gray (I know, the analogy isn't perfect). While your son was busy working out to maintain his six pack, I was back at the room licking the crumbs from the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos you so generously sent. My roommate was trying to be nice by telling his you that he was eating all of the stuff you were sending. In reality, it was just me, but he figured if I was eating it, he may as well tell his parents to keep sending it.
I went from 135 pounds on the day I arrived at school to 145 pounds by the end of the cross country season. Nonetheless, I had a good season. I ran just under 30 minutes for 8k in my first race and ran 27:27 a couple of months later. During that season, a friend and I ran sixteen miles which included a two mile climb to the top of a mountain, averaging 6:45 pace for the run. Last summer I ran 6:45 pace for a relatively flat 15k and that was all out.
I finished the cross country season better than I had started it, but not as well as I had hoped. That 27:27 came a few weeks before the end of the season. At regionals I didn't run well. I didn't even make it into the top group of freshman from the region. Rather than use this as motivation, I started questioning whether I really wanted to keep running competetively. In high school I had been used to winning nearly every race. Now I was getting my butt kicked on a weekly basis. I wasn't even one of the better freshman in the region. If I had been made of sterner stuff, I would have done some honest self-reflection about whether I was really doing what it took to be as as good as I wanted to be. Instead, I just felt bad for myself and sort of mentally threw in the towel for a while.
I kept running, but I didn't do indoor track. I ran a open 3000m race in 9:42 off of nothing but eight miles a day of comfortable running, but even then I told myself that a truly talented runner would run much faster than that off of much less. In other words, I was letting things that were beyond my control prevent me from making myself better.
Looking back now, it seems so stupid to have let self-pity get in the way of finding out how good I could have been. What was I so disappointed about? That success wasn't coming as easily as it once had? Did I think that I somehow deserved to be winning races? On some level, I think I probably did. Winning, or at least coming close to winning, had become part of my identity. I think I thought that because I loved running so much that my reward should necessarily be success. It was a childish way to think, but that was the way I thought.
Looking back, I think this way of thinking is part of the reason I started drinking. Sure, nearly everyone drinks in college. Some people started in high school, although I never had. In fact, I abstained for the duration of the cross country season, but my whole "who cares" mindset after it ended made it much easier for me to justify finally trying it.
My first beer was Molson Ice. I had three of them at a dorm party. I remember going to the bathroom to piss and looking at myself in the mirror and smiling like, "This shit is great! We're going to have to make sure we get more of this stuff on a regular basis!" This stuff made me feel good and required no work on my part beyond peristalsis. As the Guiness guys would say, "Brilliant!"
I could go on and tell more stories about my love affair with alcohol and how it affected my running, and I probably will later on in this blog, but sufice it to say that after those three beers, I was never the same. I wonder more than I should about what would have happened if I hadn't had them. Would I have worked through all of my lugubrious self-pity without a crutch and figured out that if something isn't handed to you, you have to find a way to go take it? If I had, would I still have become so hooked on alcohol once I inevitably tried it?
Obviously, I don't know, but I suspect I probably would have. Some people can just have a couple drinks to loosen up in social situations or to unwind after a stressful day. I'm not one of those people even though I sometimes try to be. I'm learning that if you have to try as hard as I have to be one of those people, then you're not one.
I guess that maudlin rambling describes the impetus for this blog. I was going to get up and run this morning, but after drinking an entire bottle of wine by myself last night, all I felt like doing this morning was to sit here, drink coffee, think and write.
I got back to school where beer was much easier to get my liver on and starting gaining all of the weight I had lost. I had started the cross counry season weighing 145 lbs. By November I was about ten pounds heavier than that and running 30 seconds slower for 8k than I had been when the season started.
Ever since my freshman year of college I have had a problem keeping weight off. In my freshman year my roommate's parents sent care packages on what seemed like a weekly basis. They were primarily full of chips, candy and soda, with some granola bars thrown in probably to ease their consciences about what kind of diet they were promoting for their son.
Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, if you're out there, don't worry. Your son was an absolute angel when it came to nutrition. I was the painting in the closet to his Dorian Gray (I know, the analogy isn't perfect). While your son was busy working out to maintain his six pack, I was back at the room licking the crumbs from the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos you so generously sent. My roommate was trying to be nice by telling his you that he was eating all of the stuff you were sending. In reality, it was just me, but he figured if I was eating it, he may as well tell his parents to keep sending it.
I went from 135 pounds on the day I arrived at school to 145 pounds by the end of the cross country season. Nonetheless, I had a good season. I ran just under 30 minutes for 8k in my first race and ran 27:27 a couple of months later. During that season, a friend and I ran sixteen miles which included a two mile climb to the top of a mountain, averaging 6:45 pace for the run. Last summer I ran 6:45 pace for a relatively flat 15k and that was all out.
I finished the cross country season better than I had started it, but not as well as I had hoped. That 27:27 came a few weeks before the end of the season. At regionals I didn't run well. I didn't even make it into the top group of freshman from the region. Rather than use this as motivation, I started questioning whether I really wanted to keep running competetively. In high school I had been used to winning nearly every race. Now I was getting my butt kicked on a weekly basis. I wasn't even one of the better freshman in the region. If I had been made of sterner stuff, I would have done some honest self-reflection about whether I was really doing what it took to be as as good as I wanted to be. Instead, I just felt bad for myself and sort of mentally threw in the towel for a while.
I kept running, but I didn't do indoor track. I ran a open 3000m race in 9:42 off of nothing but eight miles a day of comfortable running, but even then I told myself that a truly talented runner would run much faster than that off of much less. In other words, I was letting things that were beyond my control prevent me from making myself better.
Looking back now, it seems so stupid to have let self-pity get in the way of finding out how good I could have been. What was I so disappointed about? That success wasn't coming as easily as it once had? Did I think that I somehow deserved to be winning races? On some level, I think I probably did. Winning, or at least coming close to winning, had become part of my identity. I think I thought that because I loved running so much that my reward should necessarily be success. It was a childish way to think, but that was the way I thought.
Looking back, I think this way of thinking is part of the reason I started drinking. Sure, nearly everyone drinks in college. Some people started in high school, although I never had. In fact, I abstained for the duration of the cross country season, but my whole "who cares" mindset after it ended made it much easier for me to justify finally trying it.
My first beer was Molson Ice. I had three of them at a dorm party. I remember going to the bathroom to piss and looking at myself in the mirror and smiling like, "This shit is great! We're going to have to make sure we get more of this stuff on a regular basis!" This stuff made me feel good and required no work on my part beyond peristalsis. As the Guiness guys would say, "Brilliant!"
I could go on and tell more stories about my love affair with alcohol and how it affected my running, and I probably will later on in this blog, but sufice it to say that after those three beers, I was never the same. I wonder more than I should about what would have happened if I hadn't had them. Would I have worked through all of my lugubrious self-pity without a crutch and figured out that if something isn't handed to you, you have to find a way to go take it? If I had, would I still have become so hooked on alcohol once I inevitably tried it?
Obviously, I don't know, but I suspect I probably would have. Some people can just have a couple drinks to loosen up in social situations or to unwind after a stressful day. I'm not one of those people even though I sometimes try to be. I'm learning that if you have to try as hard as I have to be one of those people, then you're not one.
I guess that maudlin rambling describes the impetus for this blog. I was going to get up and run this morning, but after drinking an entire bottle of wine by myself last night, all I felt like doing this morning was to sit here, drink coffee, think and write.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Hit Me.
If you got to this blog because your search terms matched one of the words or phrases below, I encourage you to continue visiting. I'll probably say something that will offend you.
Global warming
Conservatives
Liberals
Loony left
Neo-cons
Abortion
Iraq
Afghanistan
plastic surgery
Are my boobs too small?
Is my penis too small?
Christmas shopping
Jesus Christ
Islam
Allah
Mohammed
Moses
Xenu
Scientology
Duncan Larkin
Dean Karnazes
Dr. Phil
Reese and Ryan Phillipe
Adopting African babies
Nip/Tuck not as good
Impaled
Happy Juice
Michael C. Hall is awesome
Dexter is a great show
Ann Coulter is the devil
Rush Limbaugh is a giant bloviating fatass
Michael Savage is a Weiner
Glenn Beck is a cock
Sean Hannity is a pussy
Religion
Opiate
Masses
Karl Marx
Joe McCarthy
Pearl Harbor
9/11
Vietnam
The Office
Anti-depressants
Issues
Stem Cell Research
Health Care Industry
Global Community
Immigration
IMs
Text message
Cell phone
ISP
Xbox 360
Nintendo Wii
Playstation 3
Artificial sweeteners
Alcoholism
Global warming
Conservatives
Liberals
Loony left
Neo-cons
Abortion
Iraq
Afghanistan
plastic surgery
Are my boobs too small?
Is my penis too small?
Christmas shopping
Jesus Christ
Islam
Allah
Mohammed
Moses
Xenu
Scientology
Duncan Larkin
Dean Karnazes
Dr. Phil
Reese and Ryan Phillipe
Adopting African babies
Nip/Tuck not as good
Impaled
Happy Juice
Michael C. Hall is awesome
Dexter is a great show
Ann Coulter is the devil
Rush Limbaugh is a giant bloviating fatass
Michael Savage is a Weiner
Glenn Beck is a cock
Sean Hannity is a pussy
Religion
Opiate
Masses
Karl Marx
Joe McCarthy
Pearl Harbor
9/11
Vietnam
The Office
Anti-depressants
Issues
Stem Cell Research
Health Care Industry
Global Community
Immigration
IMs
Text message
Cell phone
ISP
Xbox 360
Nintendo Wii
Playstation 3
Artificial sweeteners
Alcoholism
Friday, December 8, 2006
Man disproves global warming on local sports show.
I like having a used vehicle. I have a 93 Jeep Cherokee that was a gift from my in-laws. There are several things that either don't work at all or don't work unless you know how to make them work. You might find it odd, but I actually enjoy the fact that my Jeep is so mechanically challenged. It gives it character.
Your new Trail Blazer has XM radio? How interesting.
Because the antenna was broken off of the Jeep before I owned it, I can only get AM reception within a narrow corridor that begins about a mile south of my house and extends about two miles south of my office to my daughter's school. How serendipitous! Proof of a supreme being? You decide.
The reception goes in and out depending upon things like atmospheric conditions, whether it's day or night, and how close I am to high-tension power lines, busy intersections, or clusters of businesses. Even better, the display does not work, so there is no way to know what frequency the radio is tuned to until it reaches a station that comes in clearly. When it does, it's often the voice of some conservative bloviator. That's because here in Central PA, we basically have three AM radio stations: conservative talk, conservative talk and sports.
So I'll be scanning for the sports station and instead I'll hear, "Hidden deep within the recesses of the EIB compound, ensconced behind the golden EIB microphone, dispensing the alfalfa tablets of reassurance to the flock of bleating sheep that is my faithful audience, it is I, Tush Bigbottom!" Then some guy starts talking, "Aw gee, Tush, it's great to talk to you. Major, major mega-bleats from us flockers down here in Sodom and Gomorrah. Gee, Tush, if it weren't for you sending out the truth to the masses I think this country would be a lot worse than it already is. Why just the other day, some guy was talking about how screwed up this country has become and I...I...I just couldn't take it any more, so I says to him, 'Hey buddy. If you don't like living in the United States, why don't you move to Iraq with all of the terrorists?' God this country is so screwed up, I'll tell ya. When you can just go out in public and complain about America, well, I think that's a sign that we're off the rails here. When people go around talking about how America is messed up, well, I say, that's proof that it's more messed up than you can believe." It is usually at this point that I drive off the road and wait for the migraine to pass.
The other thing about the radio is that when I eject the adapter for my CD player from the tape deck, it doesn't fully eject it. Instead, it pops it out about halfway. Then it just keeps trying to pull the adapter back in so it can try to push it out again. It will keep doing this as long as the Jeep is running, so you have to manually remove it completely. The catch is, if you want to listen to the radio, after the tape deck pushes the adapter out most of the way, you have to wait until it starts its next cycle and attempts to pull the adapter back in. At that very moment, if you remove the adapter the radio will come on. If you miss the moment, the tape deck thinks the tape is still in and the radio will not play.
Anyway, I was listening to the local sports show and this guy calls in to talk about something. The host asks the guy how he's doing. He says, "Oh, I just got done chopping some wood and now I'm relaxing in my chair in front of a fire watching it snow outside. Must be global warming. Ha ha!"
It frightens me that people this stupid are allowed to purchase things like axes.
This is like saying that if I see a married couple talking civilly one day, even though generally all I see them do is argue, then it logically follows that there are no problems in their relationship. It's like saying that if the Steelers beat the Colts, then they must be having a good season, even though their record is under .500. It's like saying that if your dying grandma has a good day, that her cancer is a fiction. It's like saying if Ted Bundy helped an old woman across a street, that's proof that he wasn't a serial killer.
You get the point. Or, if you don't, there's a guy in front of a warm fire who'd love to talk to you.
Perhaps he dialed the wrong number. Perhaps his radio display is broken, too, and he thought he was listening to conservative talk. After all, listening to Notre Dame fans complain about how unfair it is that Brady Quinn isn't going to win the Heisman feels similar somehow to the complaints of conservatives blaming the failure in Iraq on liberals who disagreed with the war.
At least when he runs out of wood for his fire, he can burn his straw man.
Your new Trail Blazer has XM radio? How interesting.
Because the antenna was broken off of the Jeep before I owned it, I can only get AM reception within a narrow corridor that begins about a mile south of my house and extends about two miles south of my office to my daughter's school. How serendipitous! Proof of a supreme being? You decide.
The reception goes in and out depending upon things like atmospheric conditions, whether it's day or night, and how close I am to high-tension power lines, busy intersections, or clusters of businesses. Even better, the display does not work, so there is no way to know what frequency the radio is tuned to until it reaches a station that comes in clearly. When it does, it's often the voice of some conservative bloviator. That's because here in Central PA, we basically have three AM radio stations: conservative talk, conservative talk and sports.
So I'll be scanning for the sports station and instead I'll hear, "Hidden deep within the recesses of the EIB compound, ensconced behind the golden EIB microphone, dispensing the alfalfa tablets of reassurance to the flock of bleating sheep that is my faithful audience, it is I, Tush Bigbottom!" Then some guy starts talking, "Aw gee, Tush, it's great to talk to you. Major, major mega-bleats from us flockers down here in Sodom and Gomorrah. Gee, Tush, if it weren't for you sending out the truth to the masses I think this country would be a lot worse than it already is. Why just the other day, some guy was talking about how screwed up this country has become and I...I...I just couldn't take it any more, so I says to him, 'Hey buddy. If you don't like living in the United States, why don't you move to Iraq with all of the terrorists?' God this country is so screwed up, I'll tell ya. When you can just go out in public and complain about America, well, I think that's a sign that we're off the rails here. When people go around talking about how America is messed up, well, I say, that's proof that it's more messed up than you can believe." It is usually at this point that I drive off the road and wait for the migraine to pass.
The other thing about the radio is that when I eject the adapter for my CD player from the tape deck, it doesn't fully eject it. Instead, it pops it out about halfway. Then it just keeps trying to pull the adapter back in so it can try to push it out again. It will keep doing this as long as the Jeep is running, so you have to manually remove it completely. The catch is, if you want to listen to the radio, after the tape deck pushes the adapter out most of the way, you have to wait until it starts its next cycle and attempts to pull the adapter back in. At that very moment, if you remove the adapter the radio will come on. If you miss the moment, the tape deck thinks the tape is still in and the radio will not play.
Anyway, I was listening to the local sports show and this guy calls in to talk about something. The host asks the guy how he's doing. He says, "Oh, I just got done chopping some wood and now I'm relaxing in my chair in front of a fire watching it snow outside. Must be global warming. Ha ha!"
It frightens me that people this stupid are allowed to purchase things like axes.
This is like saying that if I see a married couple talking civilly one day, even though generally all I see them do is argue, then it logically follows that there are no problems in their relationship. It's like saying that if the Steelers beat the Colts, then they must be having a good season, even though their record is under .500. It's like saying that if your dying grandma has a good day, that her cancer is a fiction. It's like saying if Ted Bundy helped an old woman across a street, that's proof that he wasn't a serial killer.
You get the point. Or, if you don't, there's a guy in front of a warm fire who'd love to talk to you.
Perhaps he dialed the wrong number. Perhaps his radio display is broken, too, and he thought he was listening to conservative talk. After all, listening to Notre Dame fans complain about how unfair it is that Brady Quinn isn't going to win the Heisman feels similar somehow to the complaints of conservatives blaming the failure in Iraq on liberals who disagreed with the war.
At least when he runs out of wood for his fire, he can burn his straw man.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Cop Forces Demeaning NFL Prediction out of Litterbugs
I don't know which is worse: that this cop forced these guys to rap in order to avoid a littering fine, or that they felt compelled to agree with him that the Raiders are going to make it to the Super Bowl...this year.
I don't see what the big deal is. I'm sure if a couple of white guys were pulled over for littering by a black cop in the south and forced to do some square dancing while singing a sappy country song about the the importance of not littering and then were asked to agree that the Titans are going to make it to the Super Bowl this year and then had it broadcast on TV the local community would be fine with it.
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Ran four miles yesterday; five the day before that. Hoping to go 8-10 today. If my scale is to be believed, I lost four pounds this week.
I don't see what the big deal is. I'm sure if a couple of white guys were pulled over for littering by a black cop in the south and forced to do some square dancing while singing a sappy country song about the the importance of not littering and then were asked to agree that the Titans are going to make it to the Super Bowl this year and then had it broadcast on TV the local community would be fine with it.
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Ran four miles yesterday; five the day before that. Hoping to go 8-10 today. If my scale is to be believed, I lost four pounds this week.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Bankers not necessarily robots.
There's a local bank that has this commercial that says something like, "We're real people, just like you."
Can you spot the two unsupported implications in that sentence? First of all, they are suggesting that other bankers are not "real people." It is not clear from the ad whether they mean that bankers are not "real people" in the sense that they are somehow people, yet not real ones, or if they mean that bankers are not people at all. I can tell you without fear of contradiction that every banker I have ever encountered is indeed a real person. How do I know this? Ah, this is where I point out the second false implication in the ad: the implication that I am a "real person."
I am a cyborg; a cybernetic organism. Just like in The Terminator.
That is how I know that all of the bankers I have encountered are real people. One of my abilities is to determine whether an individual is a human, or "real person" as this local bank would say, or some sort of synthetic imposter.
Thus, bankers are indeed "real people," but not "just like me."
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Ran 4 miles Sunday and Tuesday. Ran 6 miles tonight. Felt very good tonight. I've been eating a lot of fruits and vegetables and I've had no alcohol since Saturday. Probably just a coincidence.
Can you spot the two unsupported implications in that sentence? First of all, they are suggesting that other bankers are not "real people." It is not clear from the ad whether they mean that bankers are not "real people" in the sense that they are somehow people, yet not real ones, or if they mean that bankers are not people at all. I can tell you without fear of contradiction that every banker I have ever encountered is indeed a real person. How do I know this? Ah, this is where I point out the second false implication in the ad: the implication that I am a "real person."
I am a cyborg; a cybernetic organism. Just like in The Terminator.
That is how I know that all of the bankers I have encountered are real people. One of my abilities is to determine whether an individual is a human, or "real person" as this local bank would say, or some sort of synthetic imposter.
Thus, bankers are indeed "real people," but not "just like me."
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Ran 4 miles Sunday and Tuesday. Ran 6 miles tonight. Felt very good tonight. I've been eating a lot of fruits and vegetables and I've had no alcohol since Saturday. Probably just a coincidence.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thanksgiving Vacation
Pathetically, I haven't run since last Sunday. My brother was in town and I was always finding excuses to drink a lot of beer and skip that day's run. However, it caught up with me. Yesterday, we played basketball with one of our fellow PSU hoops fans and some of his friends. Almost immediately after getting home, I started seeing an aura on the right side of my field of vision, which, for me, is a precursor to a migraine headache. If you've never had a migraine or seen the aura that precedes one, be grateful. As soon as it appears (in my case, on the right side of my field of vision and as a shimmering pattern resembling a crescent moon), you begin to feel nauseous and fearful of what's about to come: a throbbing, debilitating headache that feels like someone is crushing your brain behind your eyeballs. Fortunately, this one never got that bad and I was able to lie down for awhile, take some Excedrin and buy some sunglasses for the trip to State College.
I used to get migraines when I was in grade school and early in high school. Usually, they came about after a prolonged period of sleep deprivation which was the result of staying up way too late reading Stephen King books. Once I started running, though, they started to go away, probably because it seemed like the more exercise I did, the more sleep I needed -- and got. This week though, was one long beer-drinking event followed by five hours of sleep a night, getting up for work the next morning and not doing any exercise at all. No wonder my tired brain said, "Enough!"
I just read that people also get auras before seizures, too. That kind of concerns me. Does that mean my brain is going apeshit? Probably not, but any time you see things that aren't really there, it can't be a good thing. So, I'm going to get more sleep, drink less beer and run more consistently. That's what I've been telling myself for the last ten years, as a matter of fact. Apparently, so has Matt Shirvington, an Australian sprinter, who in this article, says people have been sending him cards that put it succinctly: "You're not far off 30 now so you better get your shit together."
Quite right. Feel free to post a comment expressing a similar sentiment if you wish.
I used to get migraines when I was in grade school and early in high school. Usually, they came about after a prolonged period of sleep deprivation which was the result of staying up way too late reading Stephen King books. Once I started running, though, they started to go away, probably because it seemed like the more exercise I did, the more sleep I needed -- and got. This week though, was one long beer-drinking event followed by five hours of sleep a night, getting up for work the next morning and not doing any exercise at all. No wonder my tired brain said, "Enough!"
I just read that people also get auras before seizures, too. That kind of concerns me. Does that mean my brain is going apeshit? Probably not, but any time you see things that aren't really there, it can't be a good thing. So, I'm going to get more sleep, drink less beer and run more consistently. That's what I've been telling myself for the last ten years, as a matter of fact. Apparently, so has Matt Shirvington, an Australian sprinter, who in this article, says people have been sending him cards that put it succinctly: "You're not far off 30 now so you better get your shit together."
Quite right. Feel free to post a comment expressing a similar sentiment if you wish.
Gone in 60 Seconds; or, A Thanksgving Miracle
Penn State rallied to overcome an eight point deficit in just over a minute to beat St. Joe's, but that's not the miracle. The miracle is that a resurrection has occurred: Morton Downey, Jr. has been raised from the dead and is now a St. Joseph's basketball fan. He sat just four rows in front of us at the game in what I think should be called "The F*cker Level." It seems that when opposing fans call their ticket office to get Bryce Jordan Center tickets they must be asked, "Are you a whining asshole? Will you deliberately antagonize the Penn State fans near you when your team is winning? Will you begin to offer lame excuses immediately after the game ends?" If you answer yes to all of these questions, you will end up about eight feet from us.
Now, I know that as a Catholic, I am supposed to believe everything that appears in the Nicene Creed, but I have to admit, before yesterday I wasn't actively looking for the resurrection of the dead. Actually, I'm not looking now either, because I've already seen it. Morton Downey, Jr. is alive and well and still has a big mouth.
Early in the game, when St. Joe's had a small lead, he was holding forth on how we'd be playing the Hawks next year, the following year, and the year after, and that next year we'd be playing in their house.
Ooooh.
Penn State ended Illinois' 33-game home court win streak last year. I don't think they're going to be that wowed playing in Alumni Memorial Fieldhouse. However, the good thing about Penn State playing at someone else's house is that we don't have to put up with their annoying fans. After the game ended, Mort, sans cigarette, turned around to explain to Penn State's fans that the refs had stolen the game from them. Now, I can accept the possibility that there was a missed call on Claxton's block, although when my brother and I watched the highlights on the local news it didn't look like anyone but Claxton was near the guy and he pretty clearly blocked the ball cleanly. But even if there was a blown call that affected the outcome of the game, St. Joe's should have never been in a position where that could happen. Penn State went on a 14-1 run to finish the game. That cannot be blamed solely or even partially on the officiating. St. Joe's fell apart in the stretch, missing free throws (which they hadn't done all game to that point) and failing to hit some open jumpers while allowing Danny Morissey to nail a couple of huge threes and putting Penn State on the free throw line where they finally started making them after an otherwise pathetic performance at the line.
As Peter Collada pointed out to me, if St. Joseph's wants to complain about blown calls, there were probably two that could have gone worse for them: the play where Penn State was given the ball after Morissey tried to save the ball under his own basket might have been last touched by Penn State, but possibly because Morissey was being held by a St. Joe's player; the other was the jump ball where Cornely fell down while being mobbed by red jerseys after Claxton's block. St. Joe's wanted a travel, but a foul could also have been called against St. Joe's. Both of those calls would have put Penn State on the free throw line instead of just giving them possession. But, as we all know, the only blown calls are the ones the don't go your team's way. As a rabid PSU hoops fan, I know that feeling.
Anyway, I called Mr. Downey, Jr. a freaking crybaby, which is really not an intelligent thing to call someone who God saw fit to raise from the dead, but don't worry, I'm going to confession today.
In the interest of fairness, I should mention that St. Joe's fans, on the whole, seemed like an okay bunch of people, save two or three. I'll take them over the Bucknell fans any day.
On a positive note, Claxton's back, even if he's not 100%. Brandon Hassell continues to improve, Cornely continues to put up big numbers which would be even bigger if he could hit his free throws, Morrissey has been on fire from 3-point range, Luber has been taking smart shots and making them, and Milos hasn't been on the court long enough to screw things up too badly.
PSU's next game is against legitimate powerhouse GA Tech at GA Tech who just made it to the championship game of the Maui Invitational only to fall to 5th ranked UCLA. Tech looks like it's got a whole lineup full of guys who can put up double-figures on any given night, especially a pair of good guards. Penn State's already overcome a couple of challenges, but the Yellow Jackets are going to be something entirely different.
Now, I know that as a Catholic, I am supposed to believe everything that appears in the Nicene Creed, but I have to admit, before yesterday I wasn't actively looking for the resurrection of the dead. Actually, I'm not looking now either, because I've already seen it. Morton Downey, Jr. is alive and well and still has a big mouth.
Early in the game, when St. Joe's had a small lead, he was holding forth on how we'd be playing the Hawks next year, the following year, and the year after, and that next year we'd be playing in their house.
Ooooh.
Penn State ended Illinois' 33-game home court win streak last year. I don't think they're going to be that wowed playing in Alumni Memorial Fieldhouse. However, the good thing about Penn State playing at someone else's house is that we don't have to put up with their annoying fans. After the game ended, Mort, sans cigarette, turned around to explain to Penn State's fans that the refs had stolen the game from them. Now, I can accept the possibility that there was a missed call on Claxton's block, although when my brother and I watched the highlights on the local news it didn't look like anyone but Claxton was near the guy and he pretty clearly blocked the ball cleanly. But even if there was a blown call that affected the outcome of the game, St. Joe's should have never been in a position where that could happen. Penn State went on a 14-1 run to finish the game. That cannot be blamed solely or even partially on the officiating. St. Joe's fell apart in the stretch, missing free throws (which they hadn't done all game to that point) and failing to hit some open jumpers while allowing Danny Morissey to nail a couple of huge threes and putting Penn State on the free throw line where they finally started making them after an otherwise pathetic performance at the line.
As Peter Collada pointed out to me, if St. Joseph's wants to complain about blown calls, there were probably two that could have gone worse for them: the play where Penn State was given the ball after Morissey tried to save the ball under his own basket might have been last touched by Penn State, but possibly because Morissey was being held by a St. Joe's player; the other was the jump ball where Cornely fell down while being mobbed by red jerseys after Claxton's block. St. Joe's wanted a travel, but a foul could also have been called against St. Joe's. Both of those calls would have put Penn State on the free throw line instead of just giving them possession. But, as we all know, the only blown calls are the ones the don't go your team's way. As a rabid PSU hoops fan, I know that feeling.
Anyway, I called Mr. Downey, Jr. a freaking crybaby, which is really not an intelligent thing to call someone who God saw fit to raise from the dead, but don't worry, I'm going to confession today.
In the interest of fairness, I should mention that St. Joe's fans, on the whole, seemed like an okay bunch of people, save two or three. I'll take them over the Bucknell fans any day.
On a positive note, Claxton's back, even if he's not 100%. Brandon Hassell continues to improve, Cornely continues to put up big numbers which would be even bigger if he could hit his free throws, Morrissey has been on fire from 3-point range, Luber has been taking smart shots and making them, and Milos hasn't been on the court long enough to screw things up too badly.
PSU's next game is against legitimate powerhouse GA Tech at GA Tech who just made it to the championship game of the Maui Invitational only to fall to 5th ranked UCLA. Tech looks like it's got a whole lineup full of guys who can put up double-figures on any given night, especially a pair of good guards. Penn State's already overcome a couple of challenges, but the Yellow Jackets are going to be something entirely different.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Are you part of the herd?
Apparently, there is a dress code for Bucknell fans who attend their basketball games. There are a variety of different ways one can dress, from the classic t-shirt and jeans look, or an orange vest over a blue long sleeve t-shirt (or, preferably, an oxford) and blue dockers, to a Bucknell basketball jersey. As you can see, as a Bucknell fan looking through your closet before the game, you have a lot of options, but there is one strict and inflexible rule you must obey, at least if you want to be one of the herd: you must look like a turd.
Let me elaborate, because the code isn't quite as simple as I just made it sound.
If you wear a t-shirt and jeans, the t-shirt must be tucked in as far as possible. Your jeans must also be pulled up as far as possible, ideally covering at least two ribs. If you opt for the dressier look, the bright orange vest is essential. I haven't seen so many vests since my senior prom. If you are a senior citizen who chooses not to go with the vest look, a button down shirt and khakis are acceptable. However, unless you want to wear a bright orange dress shirt and look even more absurd than your fellow Bison fans, you may wear something more reasonable in color, but it is absolutely required then that you wear a Bucknell baseball cap.
Why am I being so hard on Bucknell's fans? Well, actually, I'm not. I believe I'm giving you an accurate description of how many of them were dressed. But, you might be asking your computer screen, what does that matter? Why should you ridicule a bunch of strangers who dressed little nicer than you did? I suppose you have a point. I would be the first to agree with you that we should not judge simply by appearances. For instance, when I see a guy lying up against the side of a building in tattered clothing, I don't think, "That guy's probably homeless." I think, "He must find that to be a comfortable place to lie down."
No, I am not judging the Bucknell fans on how they dressed. I am making fun of how they dressed because how many of them acted. Our seats at the Penn State game were as close to the heart of the orange vest-laden blob as one could have been and I observed much more closely than I would have cared to that many of them are just obnoxious individuals.
Set aside that many come to a basketball game dressed as if they were anticipating a polo match. I wouldn't go to a basketball game dressed as if I were going to a wedding, but hey, that's merely my prerogative, just as it is their prerogative to go everywhere as if it were a frat reunion. Ignore their cloying affection for each other and the country club atmosphere; the self-satisfaction at their own moderate financial success and social standing among fellow yuppies. All of that is annoying to a middle-class schlub like myself, but I can take it. The world is full of people who believe they belong to a special group of individuals of select quality, intellect and breeding. Most of them are dead wrong, of course -- how many people of particular quality can there be after all? And what are the chances that the select few attended the same university? But who am I to disabuse them of this notion? Perhaps they're right. After all, many of them have probably contributed far more to this world than someone like me. Some of them are probably doctors, lawyers, business owners, elected officials and so on. Yes, by all measures, they are probably 'better' than someone like me.
The problem I have occurs when one of their ilk has the arrogance to assert all of these assumptions out loud.
About four rows ahead of us, where the Bison herd got real thick, there was this guy wearing the requisite orange vest, blue long sleeve t-shirt and blue dockers. Nothing unusual about that that night, believe me. However, this particular overachiever had a big mouth and a chip on his shoulder. You know the type: every call by the ref is an obvious attempt to screw his team out of a win. In fact, he reminded me of a lot of Notre Dame fans.
At one point, with Bucknell losing by eight or nine points, he yelled out, "Come on, this team lost to Stonybrook!" This is an interesting comment to make for a guy cheering for a team who was 0-3 going into the Penn State game. My brother, ever the quick wit responded, "Come on, this team lost to Albany!" It was clear that Mr. Vest was shocked that someone would have the temerity to respond to something he had said. In order to shift the scales of justice back to level he turned around, looked at my brother and smugly said, "Get educated."
My brother, thinking perhaps that they hadn't lost to Albany said, "They did lose to Albany didn't they?" I confirmed this.
But just what did he mean by, "Get educated?" Did he mean that we should observe that Albany was a sixteen seed in the NCAA tournament last year whereas Stony Brook was 4-24 in the American East Conference, a huge difference in caliber? Fair enough, but if so, why didn't he say, "Albany is a hell of a lot better than Stony Brook," or something to that effect? Or, assuming that he knew (and considering that he came to Penn State to watch a Bucknell basketball game, I'll bet my entire middle-class salary that he was aware) that Bucknell lost to Albany, why would he imply that my brother had responded with information that was incorrect? This guy knew my brother was right, so why that phrase? Why the choice of the word "educated" when my brother had said something that was factually inconrtovertible?
Perhaps I'm wrong, faithful surfer, but considering the smug Ivy League wannabe vibe being given off by this man and his cohorts, the more likely explanation is that the guy thought that me and my brother had graduated from Penn State (which neither of us did, as a matter of fact), and that such an education was a fact to be ashamed of in the presence of a -- prepare to be awed, drop to your knees in reverence, drumroll please -- a Bucknell Grad. How dare this lower form of life articulate a response to a Bison's heckling and then verbalize it so fearlessly?
Well, fuck that, I say. I say if you go to a basketball game and heckle the home team, don't be shocked when the home team's fans heckle you back. I don't care if your name is Stephen Hawking and you do your heckling through an artificial voice on a Mac; if you open your big mouth, expect someone else to open theirs without regard for your supposed superiority.
So, when this guy said, "Get educated," and after my brother asked if Bucknell had indeed lost to Albany, which they had, and which meant that my brother was absolutely justified in responding as he had, I couldn't help but offer a retort. So after he had turned around, confident that he had ended the insurrection of the inferior minds, and fortuitously, in front of his fellow herd members, I called out: "Does that mean I have to wear a vest?"
He didn't turn around once after that, although his son did give me some dirty looks when Bucknell took the lead in the second half. Sorry, kid, you may as well learn now that your dad is a pompous suckass and that you can't base your self-worth on the fact that you dress just like a bunch of people who happened to go to the same school as you.
Unfortunately, we were in a hurry to leave the game and went to top of our section when a Bucknell player was shooting his free throws with 15 seconds left and didn't get to see all of the herd's reactions to Mike Walker's game-winning three-pointer. I did get a sense of what it would have been like, though, by listening to the archived internet broadcast of the game, brought to you by announcers who are as shitty losers as Bucknell's fans that night. They were making fun of Penn State for "acting like they just won the National Championship" after Mike Walker's stunning three-pointer for the win. I guess it's just tough to get all riled up in a vest and dockers.
Lest you think I'm judging all of Bucknell's fans on the actions of one giant turd, let me assure you that there were others. There was the guy who yelled, "Mooch, you suck!" at David Jackson while he was shooting his free throws. And the countless fans who whined about every call as if the officials had agreed to work this game solely for the opportunity to screw Bucknell that it presented.
I should mention that there was a Bucknell fan sitting next to me who was a very nice guy and with whom we talked and joked throughout the game.
I should also mention that he wasn't a Bucknell grad.
Further, I should also mention that Bucknell's next game is against Yale. Now, do you think that guy will be turning around and saying to Yale fans, "Get educated?" I doubt it. He'll probably be too busy telling stories about how his acceptance letters from Harvard and Yale got lost in the mail and that Bucknell was his next choice.
I'm sure there are many fine Bucknell grads out there, and, in fact, I know two who are un-smug, un-pretentious, intelligent, thoughtful people. Unfortunately, they don't follow the basketball team around.
Let me elaborate, because the code isn't quite as simple as I just made it sound.
If you wear a t-shirt and jeans, the t-shirt must be tucked in as far as possible. Your jeans must also be pulled up as far as possible, ideally covering at least two ribs. If you opt for the dressier look, the bright orange vest is essential. I haven't seen so many vests since my senior prom. If you are a senior citizen who chooses not to go with the vest look, a button down shirt and khakis are acceptable. However, unless you want to wear a bright orange dress shirt and look even more absurd than your fellow Bison fans, you may wear something more reasonable in color, but it is absolutely required then that you wear a Bucknell baseball cap.
Why am I being so hard on Bucknell's fans? Well, actually, I'm not. I believe I'm giving you an accurate description of how many of them were dressed. But, you might be asking your computer screen, what does that matter? Why should you ridicule a bunch of strangers who dressed little nicer than you did? I suppose you have a point. I would be the first to agree with you that we should not judge simply by appearances. For instance, when I see a guy lying up against the side of a building in tattered clothing, I don't think, "That guy's probably homeless." I think, "He must find that to be a comfortable place to lie down."
No, I am not judging the Bucknell fans on how they dressed. I am making fun of how they dressed because how many of them acted. Our seats at the Penn State game were as close to the heart of the orange vest-laden blob as one could have been and I observed much more closely than I would have cared to that many of them are just obnoxious individuals.
Set aside that many come to a basketball game dressed as if they were anticipating a polo match. I wouldn't go to a basketball game dressed as if I were going to a wedding, but hey, that's merely my prerogative, just as it is their prerogative to go everywhere as if it were a frat reunion. Ignore their cloying affection for each other and the country club atmosphere; the self-satisfaction at their own moderate financial success and social standing among fellow yuppies. All of that is annoying to a middle-class schlub like myself, but I can take it. The world is full of people who believe they belong to a special group of individuals of select quality, intellect and breeding. Most of them are dead wrong, of course -- how many people of particular quality can there be after all? And what are the chances that the select few attended the same university? But who am I to disabuse them of this notion? Perhaps they're right. After all, many of them have probably contributed far more to this world than someone like me. Some of them are probably doctors, lawyers, business owners, elected officials and so on. Yes, by all measures, they are probably 'better' than someone like me.
The problem I have occurs when one of their ilk has the arrogance to assert all of these assumptions out loud.
About four rows ahead of us, where the Bison herd got real thick, there was this guy wearing the requisite orange vest, blue long sleeve t-shirt and blue dockers. Nothing unusual about that that night, believe me. However, this particular overachiever had a big mouth and a chip on his shoulder. You know the type: every call by the ref is an obvious attempt to screw his team out of a win. In fact, he reminded me of a lot of Notre Dame fans.
At one point, with Bucknell losing by eight or nine points, he yelled out, "Come on, this team lost to Stonybrook!" This is an interesting comment to make for a guy cheering for a team who was 0-3 going into the Penn State game. My brother, ever the quick wit responded, "Come on, this team lost to Albany!" It was clear that Mr. Vest was shocked that someone would have the temerity to respond to something he had said. In order to shift the scales of justice back to level he turned around, looked at my brother and smugly said, "Get educated."
My brother, thinking perhaps that they hadn't lost to Albany said, "They did lose to Albany didn't they?" I confirmed this.
But just what did he mean by, "Get educated?" Did he mean that we should observe that Albany was a sixteen seed in the NCAA tournament last year whereas Stony Brook was 4-24 in the American East Conference, a huge difference in caliber? Fair enough, but if so, why didn't he say, "Albany is a hell of a lot better than Stony Brook," or something to that effect? Or, assuming that he knew (and considering that he came to Penn State to watch a Bucknell basketball game, I'll bet my entire middle-class salary that he was aware) that Bucknell lost to Albany, why would he imply that my brother had responded with information that was incorrect? This guy knew my brother was right, so why that phrase? Why the choice of the word "educated" when my brother had said something that was factually inconrtovertible?
Perhaps I'm wrong, faithful surfer, but considering the smug Ivy League wannabe vibe being given off by this man and his cohorts, the more likely explanation is that the guy thought that me and my brother had graduated from Penn State (which neither of us did, as a matter of fact), and that such an education was a fact to be ashamed of in the presence of a -- prepare to be awed, drop to your knees in reverence, drumroll please -- a Bucknell Grad. How dare this lower form of life articulate a response to a Bison's heckling and then verbalize it so fearlessly?
Well, fuck that, I say. I say if you go to a basketball game and heckle the home team, don't be shocked when the home team's fans heckle you back. I don't care if your name is Stephen Hawking and you do your heckling through an artificial voice on a Mac; if you open your big mouth, expect someone else to open theirs without regard for your supposed superiority.
So, when this guy said, "Get educated," and after my brother asked if Bucknell had indeed lost to Albany, which they had, and which meant that my brother was absolutely justified in responding as he had, I couldn't help but offer a retort. So after he had turned around, confident that he had ended the insurrection of the inferior minds, and fortuitously, in front of his fellow herd members, I called out: "Does that mean I have to wear a vest?"
He didn't turn around once after that, although his son did give me some dirty looks when Bucknell took the lead in the second half. Sorry, kid, you may as well learn now that your dad is a pompous suckass and that you can't base your self-worth on the fact that you dress just like a bunch of people who happened to go to the same school as you.
Unfortunately, we were in a hurry to leave the game and went to top of our section when a Bucknell player was shooting his free throws with 15 seconds left and didn't get to see all of the herd's reactions to Mike Walker's game-winning three-pointer. I did get a sense of what it would have been like, though, by listening to the archived internet broadcast of the game, brought to you by announcers who are as shitty losers as Bucknell's fans that night. They were making fun of Penn State for "acting like they just won the National Championship" after Mike Walker's stunning three-pointer for the win. I guess it's just tough to get all riled up in a vest and dockers.
Lest you think I'm judging all of Bucknell's fans on the actions of one giant turd, let me assure you that there were others. There was the guy who yelled, "Mooch, you suck!" at David Jackson while he was shooting his free throws. And the countless fans who whined about every call as if the officials had agreed to work this game solely for the opportunity to screw Bucknell that it presented.
I should mention that there was a Bucknell fan sitting next to me who was a very nice guy and with whom we talked and joked throughout the game.
I should also mention that he wasn't a Bucknell grad.
Further, I should also mention that Bucknell's next game is against Yale. Now, do you think that guy will be turning around and saying to Yale fans, "Get educated?" I doubt it. He'll probably be too busy telling stories about how his acceptance letters from Harvard and Yale got lost in the mail and that Bucknell was his next choice.
I'm sure there are many fine Bucknell grads out there, and, in fact, I know two who are un-smug, un-pretentious, intelligent, thoughtful people. Unfortunately, they don't follow the basketball team around.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
A few of my favorite things.
I feel I've been too negative in what I've written on this blog. Granted, I'm a cynical, sarcastic person, but, as they say, inside every cynic resides a disappointed optimist. That's me.
The truth is, I'm a very sentimental person in a lot of ways. It just seems like it's easier to express hatred than joy. Joy sounds silly; sentimental. But I walk around treasuring small moments of contentment and happiness I have no way of sharing with anyone else in a way they'd understand. Or maybe I just don't try.
Here are some of the things that have recently made me happy:
Tonight my daughter played a pinball game and asked me how you get your "in titles" in the high scores list. She meant "initials" but "in titles" was what she said. Recently, she used to say "original" as if it rhymed with "diagonal." She says words that end with "ng" as if the 'g' isnt' there. "Sawn" for "song." "Lawn" for "long." "Rawn" for "wrong." Last night she said she was trying not to think about the cat we used to have because it makes her sad and she didn't want to be sad while her cousin was visiting.
Tonight, after I put her to bed she called me upstairs several times: for a drink; because she thought she saw a spider on her wall; because when she swallowed her throat felt like her neck was bent. Not hurt, just bent. So, after the last trip I said, "Good night... again." So she said, "Again." And then we said "again" back and forth about ten times, somehow making the joke without planning it; something we both just understood was our job to make funny together. I love being a dad. I love the fact that I am able to positively shape some of the most important years of another person's life. I love the idea of my daughter deriving some sense of happiness as an adult from the love she felt surrounded by as a child.
Elbow's, "Forget Myself." Especially the lines:
"The man on the door has a head like Mars/Like a baby born to the doors of the bars/And surrounded by steam with his folded arms/He's got that urban genie thing going on/He's so mercifully free of the pressures of grace/Saint Peter in satin, he's like Buddha with mace." This song is just pure, distilled joy. Put it on your iPod when you're home alone and doing the dishes and I dare you to try not to dance.
The Killer's "Read My Mind." Especially the part where he sings, "I want to open the door and not let it sting/I want to breathe that fire again." I get goosebumps. I feel like this song sums up the vague, hopeful feeling I've had inside for years.
Dexter. What a great f*cking show. Sure, you wonder, "How does Dexter get all of his equipment to the murder scene without anyone seeing him?" But I'm willing to suspend my disbelief. Who would have thought you could like a murderer so much? Michael C. Hall is an amazing actor. Tonight, when he confessed to his therapist that he was a serial killer and then his physical reaction to having said it out loud was priceless.
The smell of raked leaves or burning leaves in the fall when I'm out for a run always does something to me. Proust was so right.
Driving in a car on a sunny afternoon, listening to music. Sometimes I wish I never had to stop driving. Since I'm an American, I'm both genetically predisposed and environmentally conditioned to have a recurring image of myself driving across the great plains, somehow leaving everything unpleasant back east.
That my brother will be home in a couple of days and that he and my dad and I will drive to State College in the dark, solving the problems of the world and Penn State's offense. That we'll play video games and drink beer and laugh and talk.
That my wife will be home a few minutes from now. No matter what she and I have been through, I feel fortunate that I've found someone I'm so close to that I can't imagine that there was ever a time that I didn't know her. I could tell you some other things I love about my wife, but I'm keeping those to myself.
The truth is, I'm a very sentimental person in a lot of ways. It just seems like it's easier to express hatred than joy. Joy sounds silly; sentimental. But I walk around treasuring small moments of contentment and happiness I have no way of sharing with anyone else in a way they'd understand. Or maybe I just don't try.
Here are some of the things that have recently made me happy:
Tonight my daughter played a pinball game and asked me how you get your "in titles" in the high scores list. She meant "initials" but "in titles" was what she said. Recently, she used to say "original" as if it rhymed with "diagonal." She says words that end with "ng" as if the 'g' isnt' there. "Sawn" for "song." "Lawn" for "long." "Rawn" for "wrong." Last night she said she was trying not to think about the cat we used to have because it makes her sad and she didn't want to be sad while her cousin was visiting.
Tonight, after I put her to bed she called me upstairs several times: for a drink; because she thought she saw a spider on her wall; because when she swallowed her throat felt like her neck was bent. Not hurt, just bent. So, after the last trip I said, "Good night... again." So she said, "Again." And then we said "again" back and forth about ten times, somehow making the joke without planning it; something we both just understood was our job to make funny together. I love being a dad. I love the fact that I am able to positively shape some of the most important years of another person's life. I love the idea of my daughter deriving some sense of happiness as an adult from the love she felt surrounded by as a child.
Elbow's, "Forget Myself." Especially the lines:
"The man on the door has a head like Mars/Like a baby born to the doors of the bars/And surrounded by steam with his folded arms/He's got that urban genie thing going on/He's so mercifully free of the pressures of grace/Saint Peter in satin, he's like Buddha with mace." This song is just pure, distilled joy. Put it on your iPod when you're home alone and doing the dishes and I dare you to try not to dance.
The Killer's "Read My Mind." Especially the part where he sings, "I want to open the door and not let it sting/I want to breathe that fire again." I get goosebumps. I feel like this song sums up the vague, hopeful feeling I've had inside for years.
Dexter. What a great f*cking show. Sure, you wonder, "How does Dexter get all of his equipment to the murder scene without anyone seeing him?" But I'm willing to suspend my disbelief. Who would have thought you could like a murderer so much? Michael C. Hall is an amazing actor. Tonight, when he confessed to his therapist that he was a serial killer and then his physical reaction to having said it out loud was priceless.
The smell of raked leaves or burning leaves in the fall when I'm out for a run always does something to me. Proust was so right.
Driving in a car on a sunny afternoon, listening to music. Sometimes I wish I never had to stop driving. Since I'm an American, I'm both genetically predisposed and environmentally conditioned to have a recurring image of myself driving across the great plains, somehow leaving everything unpleasant back east.
That my brother will be home in a couple of days and that he and my dad and I will drive to State College in the dark, solving the problems of the world and Penn State's offense. That we'll play video games and drink beer and laugh and talk.
That my wife will be home a few minutes from now. No matter what she and I have been through, I feel fortunate that I've found someone I'm so close to that I can't imagine that there was ever a time that I didn't know her. I could tell you some other things I love about my wife, but I'm keeping those to myself.
Post-run post.
The title of this post can be viewed as a prosaic and uncreative one or as a description of my activities today in the order in which they occurred. I guess it's prosaic and uncreative either way you look at it, but whatever. Start your own blog if you're so freaking clever.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
When I came back from my run my daughter was lying on the floor reading e.e. cummings. Not my favorite poet, but she's only five. How cool is that?
The run itself was one of those runs where you just keep putting one foot in front of the other waiting for it to be over. I ran seven miles in 68 minutes. On my run I saw: a broken, rusty drill bit on the shoulder of the road; an empty bag of tuna lying in the road (presumably discarded by a nervous driver due to PA's new open tuna container law. Yes, someone was driving down the road eating tuna from a bag, finished it and tossed it out the window.); half a dozen empty Bud Light bottles (by the way, it appears that only people with bad taste in beer drink and drive, or maybe they are the only ones who get rid of the bottles while driving;) two empty packs of Marlboro Lights 100's about twenty feet apart half a block from my driveway, which makes me think that they may be my wife's attempt to keep her smoking from me; a half-full bottle of Mt. Dew; several rubber gloves (miles apart, too -- weird); two leathery, beef jerky-like dead squirrels; too many plastic bags to count. Is it really that hard to wait until you get home? Are these people really so meticulous about the interior of their cars? Are squirrels smart enough to plan for their future, something most people are too short-sighted and materialistic to do, yet too stupid to see a giant machine of death approaching?
And what is with the people who insist on driving right on the white line despite the presence of a pedestrian? Do they just not see me or are there latter-day Raskolnikovs driving around who have replaced the hammer with the gas pedal? Do they just want to see what a vehicular homicide trial is like from the inside?
Do you ever have those moments where you look ahead to tomorrow and realize that you just want to lay down and cry? Is your job so mundane and pointless that it makes you wish you were a soulless virus on the rim of a glass of stale water? Are you so bereft of any kind of hope that while driving you occasionally believe the headlights of an oncoming car are in your lane... and you are relieved? Does just living until bedtime seem like an incomprehensibly difficult task you believe you aren't equal to?
You do?
Dude, you need help. This man can give it to you. His moustache has tiny little magical dust motes which go in to your lungs, get into your bloodstream and then go to your brain, where they proceed to kick the living sh*t out of the chemicals that bring you down.
Yeah, that's what I thought.
When I came back from my run my daughter was lying on the floor reading e.e. cummings. Not my favorite poet, but she's only five. How cool is that?
The run itself was one of those runs where you just keep putting one foot in front of the other waiting for it to be over. I ran seven miles in 68 minutes. On my run I saw: a broken, rusty drill bit on the shoulder of the road; an empty bag of tuna lying in the road (presumably discarded by a nervous driver due to PA's new open tuna container law. Yes, someone was driving down the road eating tuna from a bag, finished it and tossed it out the window.); half a dozen empty Bud Light bottles (by the way, it appears that only people with bad taste in beer drink and drive, or maybe they are the only ones who get rid of the bottles while driving;) two empty packs of Marlboro Lights 100's about twenty feet apart half a block from my driveway, which makes me think that they may be my wife's attempt to keep her smoking from me; a half-full bottle of Mt. Dew; several rubber gloves (miles apart, too -- weird); two leathery, beef jerky-like dead squirrels; too many plastic bags to count. Is it really that hard to wait until you get home? Are these people really so meticulous about the interior of their cars? Are squirrels smart enough to plan for their future, something most people are too short-sighted and materialistic to do, yet too stupid to see a giant machine of death approaching?
And what is with the people who insist on driving right on the white line despite the presence of a pedestrian? Do they just not see me or are there latter-day Raskolnikovs driving around who have replaced the hammer with the gas pedal? Do they just want to see what a vehicular homicide trial is like from the inside?
Do you ever have those moments where you look ahead to tomorrow and realize that you just want to lay down and cry? Is your job so mundane and pointless that it makes you wish you were a soulless virus on the rim of a glass of stale water? Are you so bereft of any kind of hope that while driving you occasionally believe the headlights of an oncoming car are in your lane... and you are relieved? Does just living until bedtime seem like an incomprehensibly difficult task you believe you aren't equal to?
You do?
Dude, you need help. This man can give it to you. His moustache has tiny little magical dust motes which go in to your lungs, get into your bloodstream and then go to your brain, where they proceed to kick the living sh*t out of the chemicals that bring you down.
Putting off a run...and my readers.
I've been at the Knickerbocker way too much lately. I've been there three times in the last eight days. This, in and of itself, is not a problem. However, the fact that I love trying all of their tasty beers which tend to be high in alcohol and calories is. I didn't get up today until 10AM which, for some of you, might seem early or, at the very least, a reasonable time to rise on a Sunday but for me it is the squandering of several hours of guilt-free internet surfing, coffee drinking, and running; not to mention regaling you, brother and you, Stony Brook PR department and you, person who is reading because you inexplicably Googled (I want my name to be a verb someday, too) the terms 'Jerry Springer seawolves appendicitis OJ' and ended up here, with fascinating sentences with an absurd number of dependent clauses which exhibit my ability to write endlessly about almost nothing at all.
In other words, I had fun, but you are the ones that suffered the price of my hedonism and for that I apologize.
It is, not surprisingly, overcast here in Central PA. If it wasn't, I'd probably be reading Revelations and saying the Rosary in antipation of the fire and brimstone which would be sure to follow momentarily. I've heard that in Portland, OR, they have what are called "sun breaks" which is where everyone gets up from their desks and goes outside for those few moments where the sun breaks through the clouds. I think this is a good idea. It's healthier than smoke breaks for sure because skin cancer is much more curable than lung cancer. I think so, anyway. There'll probably be some guy from the Skin Cancer Association posting a comment to the effect that I'm totally wrong about this, but oh, well. I've learned that being wrong is a great way to meet people on the internet, or at least to get their attention.
Back to the point, though: don't underestimate the power of a beautiful day to miraculously pull you out of your doldrums -- unless of course, someone just told you you have a illness which has the horrifying effect of creating a birthmark on across your forehead which forms the words "I have a little pee-pee that won't stand up," and for which there is no effective treatment, in which case no amount of sunlight will help much. What does help is a well-fitted knit cap and some story about how you can't take it off because women are undone with pleasure when you do, but only when facing away from you.
This blog is beginning to reveal to me that I am not funny, but have a talent for creating inappropriate throw-away ideas and that I should never run for public office. Unbidden are these thoughts, I tell you, they come to me unbidden! UNBIDDEN, I SAY!!! I try to have bidden thoughts by saying, "Brain, give me brilliant thoughts like that kid Will Hunting that Matt Damon played in that movie whose name I can't remember right now as this appears to be my best chance to make love to Minnie Driver." Or, "Brain, I bid thee, produce a best-selling, yet critically acclaimed novel or series of poems whose fame will outlive me but also make me so rich that when I take a crap money comes out." What do I get, though? Thoughts about a disease which gives you an embarrassing birthmark about a small pee-pee. You should read the things I don't write. It's awful. Which is why I am trying to kill all of those worthless brain cells with alcohol. I swill the beer while singing, "What Have You Done for Me Lately" angrily and with great volume. Take that, worthless neurons!
Anyway, I've got to go for a run now.
In other words, I had fun, but you are the ones that suffered the price of my hedonism and for that I apologize.
It is, not surprisingly, overcast here in Central PA. If it wasn't, I'd probably be reading Revelations and saying the Rosary in antipation of the fire and brimstone which would be sure to follow momentarily. I've heard that in Portland, OR, they have what are called "sun breaks" which is where everyone gets up from their desks and goes outside for those few moments where the sun breaks through the clouds. I think this is a good idea. It's healthier than smoke breaks for sure because skin cancer is much more curable than lung cancer. I think so, anyway. There'll probably be some guy from the Skin Cancer Association posting a comment to the effect that I'm totally wrong about this, but oh, well. I've learned that being wrong is a great way to meet people on the internet, or at least to get their attention.
Back to the point, though: don't underestimate the power of a beautiful day to miraculously pull you out of your doldrums -- unless of course, someone just told you you have a illness which has the horrifying effect of creating a birthmark on across your forehead which forms the words "I have a little pee-pee that won't stand up," and for which there is no effective treatment, in which case no amount of sunlight will help much. What does help is a well-fitted knit cap and some story about how you can't take it off because women are undone with pleasure when you do, but only when facing away from you.
This blog is beginning to reveal to me that I am not funny, but have a talent for creating inappropriate throw-away ideas and that I should never run for public office. Unbidden are these thoughts, I tell you, they come to me unbidden! UNBIDDEN, I SAY!!! I try to have bidden thoughts by saying, "Brain, give me brilliant thoughts like that kid Will Hunting that Matt Damon played in that movie whose name I can't remember right now as this appears to be my best chance to make love to Minnie Driver." Or, "Brain, I bid thee, produce a best-selling, yet critically acclaimed novel or series of poems whose fame will outlive me but also make me so rich that when I take a crap money comes out." What do I get, though? Thoughts about a disease which gives you an embarrassing birthmark about a small pee-pee. You should read the things I don't write. It's awful. Which is why I am trying to kill all of those worthless brain cells with alcohol. I swill the beer while singing, "What Have You Done for Me Lately" angrily and with great volume. Take that, worthless neurons!
Anyway, I've got to go for a run now.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Fact check... fact check... one... two.
So, someone other than my brother is visiting the site. Too bad it had to be someone who knew something about Stony Brook and who was able to pick apart my previous post in all of its erroneous glory.
Nonetheless, I stand by my premise. Penn State shouldn't have lost that game. But why didn't we recruit their guards?
Four miles today, "long" run tomorrow. I'm going to do six or seven miles. The getting back in shape process is so tedious and demoralizing because the runs are so short and there are no workouts other than striders and no races; just wondering how I'm going to ever manage six minute pace for 15k next July when I probably couldn't run a half-mile at that pace now.
Time to go watch another PSU team disappoint me.
Nonetheless, I stand by my premise. Penn State shouldn't have lost that game. But why didn't we recruit their guards?
Four miles today, "long" run tomorrow. I'm going to do six or seven miles. The getting back in shape process is so tedious and demoralizing because the runs are so short and there are no workouts other than striders and no races; just wondering how I'm going to ever manage six minute pace for 15k next July when I probably couldn't run a half-mile at that pace now.
Time to go watch another PSU team disappoint me.
Seawolves devour Lions
The Stony Brook Seawolves were 4-24 last year and 2-14 in the NEC which is not exactly a national powerhouse conference. In fact, it's sort of like a barely D1 conference. As a further in fact item, I just learned after browsing Stony Brook's maddening athletics website and the NEC's website that Stony Brook are associate members of the conference. What does this mean? I'm not sure and I'm not sure the NEC or Stony Brook is sure either, because Stony Brook lists their conference record on their website which seems to indicate they think they are part of the conference in basketball and somehow convinced the other school's athletic directors to schedule a total of sixteen games against Stony Brook whereas the NEC web page does not list them in their standings (they would have been last, behind St. Francis) and only mentions them as associate members of the conference in football. I'm not sure about all of the implications, but one thing I think it means for sure is that BIG TEN TEAMS SHOULD NOT LOSE TO THEM!!!
Alas, that is what my beloved Nittany Lions did last night. An entire school of seawolves surrounded Jamelle Cornley as if he were a tasty crustacean every time he touched the ball and none of the other Lions seemed willing to wade into the murky waters inside the perimeter to save him. Seriously, Cornley was being triple- and sometimes quadruple-teamed and no one could get open.
Meanwhile, Stony Brook's two athletic guards, Mitchell Beauford and Ricky Lucas were eating our zone defense alive like a bunch of succulent molluscs.
Penn State has no dribble-penetrators beyond Claxton and Stony Brook's coach was smart enough to exploit that by not allowing Cornley to do to them what he did to Morehead State and UNC-Greensboro. Their press gave Penn State some problems and Luber got caught a few times trying to do too much. Stony Brook managed to get twelve steals.
Penn State also had a terrible night shooting from beyond the perimeter. In fact, it seems like that's all they did was shoot threes and miss. Thirteen of Morrissey's fourteen shots were three pointers and he only made four of them.
They need Claxton back badly. I think Dechellis also needs to reconsider what he's doing on offense and what he's been doing for the last several years. Like my friend, who was a manager for the Penn State team a few years ago, said that he once asked Joe Crispin what they did when a play broke down, to which Crispin replied, "Then you just hoop." Perhaps they coul find out what he's up to these days and have him come talk to the team before the Bucknell game.
Alas, that is what my beloved Nittany Lions did last night. An entire school of seawolves surrounded Jamelle Cornley as if he were a tasty crustacean every time he touched the ball and none of the other Lions seemed willing to wade into the murky waters inside the perimeter to save him. Seriously, Cornley was being triple- and sometimes quadruple-teamed and no one could get open.
Meanwhile, Stony Brook's two athletic guards, Mitchell Beauford and Ricky Lucas were eating our zone defense alive like a bunch of succulent molluscs.
Penn State has no dribble-penetrators beyond Claxton and Stony Brook's coach was smart enough to exploit that by not allowing Cornley to do to them what he did to Morehead State and UNC-Greensboro. Their press gave Penn State some problems and Luber got caught a few times trying to do too much. Stony Brook managed to get twelve steals.
Penn State also had a terrible night shooting from beyond the perimeter. In fact, it seems like that's all they did was shoot threes and miss. Thirteen of Morrissey's fourteen shots were three pointers and he only made four of them.
They need Claxton back badly. I think Dechellis also needs to reconsider what he's doing on offense and what he's been doing for the last several years. Like my friend, who was a manager for the Penn State team a few years ago, said that he once asked Joe Crispin what they did when a play broke down, to which Crispin replied, "Then you just hoop." Perhaps they coul find out what he's up to these days and have him come talk to the team before the Bucknell game.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
World, I want a divorce.
Yes. I've tried for twenty-nine years, but I've finally realized that we just don't get along and you're not going to change and neither am I. When I want to listen to music at Barnes and Noble, you are there asking me, "Can I help you?" Yes, you can. Dis-a-fucking-pear. I mean it. Unless you make music I like or write books I want to read or play sports for a team I cheer for or for a team that plays against a team I cheer for (and I tolerate your existence in particular out of mere necessity with a giant fucking asterisk next to it which signifies that your existence is acceptale insofar as it provides my team with a foil for competition), please, just fucking vanish. Clench your anus, close your eyes, make your hands into tight fists and PUSHPUSHPUSH yourself into a dimension which does not intersect in any way with the one I inhabit.
Let me be more specific: if I am listening to a CD in the music section of the new Barnes & Noble and appear to be enjoying what I am hearing, don't ask me whether you can help me. You can't. By even approaching me you have already reached the point of diminishing returns. When you talk to me you are decreasing the chances that I will buy anything at your employer's store and, further, I will likely hold you in eternal contempt personally.
If you are a famous rapper and you decide to do an ad with a NASCAR driver I implore you, just beg for money, it's much more honorable than trying to get people who would never acknowledge you in real life to buy some product that some company which does nothing more than contribute more disposable shit which the rest of us lemmings can purchase with the wasted hours of our lives and discard in order to make room for the next load of crap we're willing to purchase at the price of debt, stress and insecurity thinking that somehow we're going to be like the inner-city hardened gangsta rapper or the distantly cool rich redneck who hides his superficiality behind dark sunglasses in 30 second commercials.
I'm begging you: don't tell me about the new car you just bought, one of several hundred thousand but which you describe as if it were custom-made for you so that you can sit at your desk and reflect on how far you've come from your modest, lower-middle-class upbringing to your middle-middle-class wealth. Now you can afford a new car payment and designer clothes for your fat little kids. Now you can give them that perfectly coordinated living room suit that you never had as a kid which, even though you somehow did without it, you imagine that your child will appreciate years later.
Or maybe you just can't bear the sight of some rude evidence that you really haven't made it at all; that you're just spending more than your own mom and dad felt comfortable with and that you're no better off than they ever were; that in the end, you're no different than they were except for this: you care more about things -- stuff -- than they ever did; only so upwardly mobile, dissatisfied with the place your choices have landed you. Did you have some intangible notion that you abandoned in exchange for something transitory and which had a price tag?
I heard on the radio today that some local guy tasered his 7 month-old child, smashed her head off of a sink and bent her leg until he could hear it break. Why isn't there some group that is prepared to react to such things and render swift, severe justice?
Democrats are already jockeying for the opportunity to be the next Tom DeLay.
Jesus, I should stop drinking.
Let me be more specific: if I am listening to a CD in the music section of the new Barnes & Noble and appear to be enjoying what I am hearing, don't ask me whether you can help me. You can't. By even approaching me you have already reached the point of diminishing returns. When you talk to me you are decreasing the chances that I will buy anything at your employer's store and, further, I will likely hold you in eternal contempt personally.
If you are a famous rapper and you decide to do an ad with a NASCAR driver I implore you, just beg for money, it's much more honorable than trying to get people who would never acknowledge you in real life to buy some product that some company which does nothing more than contribute more disposable shit which the rest of us lemmings can purchase with the wasted hours of our lives and discard in order to make room for the next load of crap we're willing to purchase at the price of debt, stress and insecurity thinking that somehow we're going to be like the inner-city hardened gangsta rapper or the distantly cool rich redneck who hides his superficiality behind dark sunglasses in 30 second commercials.
I'm begging you: don't tell me about the new car you just bought, one of several hundred thousand but which you describe as if it were custom-made for you so that you can sit at your desk and reflect on how far you've come from your modest, lower-middle-class upbringing to your middle-middle-class wealth. Now you can afford a new car payment and designer clothes for your fat little kids. Now you can give them that perfectly coordinated living room suit that you never had as a kid which, even though you somehow did without it, you imagine that your child will appreciate years later.
Or maybe you just can't bear the sight of some rude evidence that you really haven't made it at all; that you're just spending more than your own mom and dad felt comfortable with and that you're no better off than they ever were; that in the end, you're no different than they were except for this: you care more about things -- stuff -- than they ever did; only so upwardly mobile, dissatisfied with the place your choices have landed you. Did you have some intangible notion that you abandoned in exchange for something transitory and which had a price tag?
I heard on the radio today that some local guy tasered his 7 month-old child, smashed her head off of a sink and bent her leg until he could hear it break. Why isn't there some group that is prepared to react to such things and render swift, severe justice?
Democrats are already jockeying for the opportunity to be the next Tom DeLay.
Jesus, I should stop drinking.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
If He Didn't Do It...
...then what the heck is this about?
I was wondering, since he's already been tried for Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman's murders, whether he could end up in trouble if he just came out and admitted that he did it. Lo and behold, Slate's got an explainer on it here.
I wouldn't know, but judging by OJ's actions, it is apparently very annoying to not be held responsible for a murder you've allegedly committed.
It also must be annoying to be named after a juice.
I was wondering, since he's already been tried for Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman's murders, whether he could end up in trouble if he just came out and admitted that he did it. Lo and behold, Slate's got an explainer on it here.
I wouldn't know, but judging by OJ's actions, it is apparently very annoying to not be held responsible for a murder you've allegedly committed.
It also must be annoying to be named after a juice.
Thank God it's raining.
Right now my wife is in the shower draining the local reservoir, so I figured I'd take this time and chat with you, my loyal follower(s?).
Last night I ran four miles around my neighborhood including 8x~100m with 100m recovery jog. Last week when I did this workout one of my neighbors had their dog out and since I generally run the my striders on the same block because of it's relatively level grade, I kept passing the dog's yard while it yapped hysterically. I kind of felt bad for it even though it was causing some serious mojo problems for me.
I mean, imagine you're a dog, and a small insecure one to boot, charged with protecting your home against intruders, a job you probably don't relish and which, in fact, probably makes you want to pee on the kitchen floor just thinking about it. Now, your owner lets you out so that you don't do that very thing and here is this guy with a light atop his head who keeps running quickly up the street coming right for you. You're a small dog, which means you've got this code written into your head which goes like this:
10 - If you see or hear or smell or sense a person or, for that matter, anything that moves on its own or which is moved by some outside force such as wind, a gasoline powered motor, or the rotation of the earth goto 20.
20 - Yap hysterically then goto 30.
30 - Stop for 3 seconds then goto 20.
You may have noticed that this simple program is what is called an infinite loop, or, as I like to call it, "What it feels like to work in an office for years." You, as this dog, are stuck in this never ending loop which can only be broken by your owner coming out and yelling at you and then taking you in the house. This is the equivalent of shutting down and restarting when Windows freezes, except that, unfortunately, yapping dogs keep doing one thing whereas Windows won't even do one thing.
Anyway, I was getting annoyed at the dog and I felt bad for the neighbors (although in retrospect I realized that they must hear this dog all of the time and if they haven't already fed the dog some poison-laced meat, they must have shut it out by now) so I started doing every other strider away from the dog house. However, what this dog lacks in size and physical strength, it apparently compensates for with its keen hearing and piercing bark. Trust me, there's a lighthouse somewhere that could use this dog when it's beacon is out.
As I said, I did feel bad for the dog because this must be incredibly stressful. This must be the canine equivalent of what happens on Jerry Springer when some guy strains to break free of the security guards to get at that dude that just told him that he's been sleeping with his girlfriend who he also just learned is his aunt. By the way, if I was as bad at anticipating crises as those guys are, I'd be fired.
Tonight, I just did a four mile run in the cold November rain. I just need some time, on my own. I felt surprisingly good.
Tomorrow will be a day off since this is the first time I've run two days in a row since the appendectomy. Tomorrow is also the our boss takes us out here, which is my favorite place to go out in this otherwise lame crapopolis. The owner's son selects the beers, many of which you can't get anywhere else in this town, and he's got excellent taste. The food is good, too. Did I mention someone else is paying? Normally, I view Thursday as a hurdle. Tomorrow, it is the finish line.
Last night I ran four miles around my neighborhood including 8x~100m with 100m recovery jog. Last week when I did this workout one of my neighbors had their dog out and since I generally run the my striders on the same block because of it's relatively level grade, I kept passing the dog's yard while it yapped hysterically. I kind of felt bad for it even though it was causing some serious mojo problems for me.
I mean, imagine you're a dog, and a small insecure one to boot, charged with protecting your home against intruders, a job you probably don't relish and which, in fact, probably makes you want to pee on the kitchen floor just thinking about it. Now, your owner lets you out so that you don't do that very thing and here is this guy with a light atop his head who keeps running quickly up the street coming right for you. You're a small dog, which means you've got this code written into your head which goes like this:
10 - If you see or hear or smell or sense a person or, for that matter, anything that moves on its own or which is moved by some outside force such as wind, a gasoline powered motor, or the rotation of the earth goto 20.
20 - Yap hysterically then goto 30.
30 - Stop for 3 seconds then goto 20.
You may have noticed that this simple program is what is called an infinite loop, or, as I like to call it, "What it feels like to work in an office for years." You, as this dog, are stuck in this never ending loop which can only be broken by your owner coming out and yelling at you and then taking you in the house. This is the equivalent of shutting down and restarting when Windows freezes, except that, unfortunately, yapping dogs keep doing one thing whereas Windows won't even do one thing.
Anyway, I was getting annoyed at the dog and I felt bad for the neighbors (although in retrospect I realized that they must hear this dog all of the time and if they haven't already fed the dog some poison-laced meat, they must have shut it out by now) so I started doing every other strider away from the dog house. However, what this dog lacks in size and physical strength, it apparently compensates for with its keen hearing and piercing bark. Trust me, there's a lighthouse somewhere that could use this dog when it's beacon is out.
As I said, I did feel bad for the dog because this must be incredibly stressful. This must be the canine equivalent of what happens on Jerry Springer when some guy strains to break free of the security guards to get at that dude that just told him that he's been sleeping with his girlfriend who he also just learned is his aunt. By the way, if I was as bad at anticipating crises as those guys are, I'd be fired.
Tonight, I just did a four mile run in the cold November rain. I just need some time, on my own. I felt surprisingly good.
Tomorrow will be a day off since this is the first time I've run two days in a row since the appendectomy. Tomorrow is also the our boss takes us out here, which is my favorite place to go out in this otherwise lame crapopolis. The owner's son selects the beers, many of which you can't get anywhere else in this town, and he's got excellent taste. The food is good, too. Did I mention someone else is paying? Normally, I view Thursday as a hurdle. Tomorrow, it is the finish line.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Brief, boring recent history and my blog at the center of controversy.
I ran five miles in about 50 minutes on Sunday, which was my longest run since I had my appendix taken out at the end of September. Prior to that I was -- as I seem to perpetually be since graduating from college -- just starting to get back into shape after a lapse in discipline.
I would have been back to running much more quickly. However, I had internal bleeding after the surgery which the surgeon somehow didn't notice. I was discharged from the hospital only to be re-admitted two days later. My abdominal wall had filled with blood and my hematocrit and RBC had dropped to 26% and 9.1 respectively. As I write this, there is still some blood in my side that hasn't been reabsorbed. And I still have some tightness in my muscles that is only gradually going away.
Anyway, I'm slowly building up my mileage, so this page is going to be tales of a slow, overweight runner (5'7", 175) for quite a while.
In the meantime, I'll respond to the comment which followed my first post. As you can see, I am a highly controversial figure, already becoming a lightning rod for homophobic sports fanatics. All I can say to you is this: you must have thought I was talking about PSU women's basketball.
I would have been back to running much more quickly. However, I had internal bleeding after the surgery which the surgeon somehow didn't notice. I was discharged from the hospital only to be re-admitted two days later. My abdominal wall had filled with blood and my hematocrit and RBC had dropped to 26% and 9.1 respectively. As I write this, there is still some blood in my side that hasn't been reabsorbed. And I still have some tightness in my muscles that is only gradually going away.
Anyway, I'm slowly building up my mileage, so this page is going to be tales of a slow, overweight runner (5'7", 175) for quite a while.
In the meantime, I'll respond to the comment which followed my first post. As you can see, I am a highly controversial figure, already becoming a lightning rod for homophobic sports fanatics. All I can say to you is this: you must have thought I was talking about PSU women's basketball.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I'll get to the Pumpkin Spice inspired brawl after this intro.
This blog will be about my own running as well as a chance for me to write completely made up stories about things like fistfights with soccer moms at the grocery store over the last container of Nestle Pumpkin Spice non-dairy creamer. If you can't tell the difference between the real and the fabricated as you read this blog, I encourage you to visit the Onion's website for all of your news.
I realize that blogs, like relationships, or perhaps more accurately, marriages, often start with good intentions and committment that gradually degenerate into mutual loathing, boredom and a desire to terminate the other person, er, I mean, relationship altogether. This blog seems like fun now, but if I begin to bore myself or simply lose interest, well, that'll be the end of it.
I admit that while I don't need to publish myself on the internet for validation, I enjoy keeping a journal of some kind; and I'd be lying if I said that the idea of having a small audience for my writing doesn't interest me.
I realize that blogs, like relationships, or perhaps more accurately, marriages, often start with good intentions and committment that gradually degenerate into mutual loathing, boredom and a desire to terminate the other person, er, I mean, relationship altogether. This blog seems like fun now, but if I begin to bore myself or simply lose interest, well, that'll be the end of it.
I admit that while I don't need to publish myself on the internet for validation, I enjoy keeping a journal of some kind; and I'd be lying if I said that the idea of having a small audience for my writing doesn't interest me.
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