Democracy is a big pain in the ass.
I live in San Francisco where we have a mayor and an entire Board of Supervisors, all of whom are tasked with making important decisions about our city. So, what do they do when they stumble across a difficult issue? They send it to the voters.
I also live in California where we have a giant novelty-sized state legislature and an action-hero governor. What do they do when they encounter a controversial issue? They also pile it on the voter's plate.
The end result is that in addition to the usual dizzying array of School Board and State Lackey nominees, we also get to wade through 30 other issues delegated to us by our "leaders". I'm not sure why they thought that John Q. Public was the right person to determine if the firemen's retirement fund needs adjusting, but apparently our expertise in that matter is unquestioned.
This chaps my hide. Why are we being asked to decide issues about which we know nothing?
My group of friends has tackled this dilemma by holding an annual Election Study Night. Every year before one of these elections we gather together to slog through the city and state election booklets. We divvy up the issues, spend time reading and learning, then discuss the relative merits of the propositions and initiatives. It's a long night, but it's the least painful way to get through the process. If you live in a similarly inept regime, I recommend this approach. Alcohol and pizza also help.
I long for a monarchy. Repeal the Declaration of Independence!
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Friday, October 29, 2004
I read today that the Bush campaign is sending Cheney to Hawaii for a campaign event. How does that happen?
Who looked at all the members of Team Bush and determined that the decidedly uneffervescent Cheney most embodied the "aloha" spirit?
If Kerry had gone to Hawaii, they'd have some ridiculous footage of him "hanging 10". What will the photo op be for Cheney? Perhaps a picture of an uncomfortably overdressed Cheney grimacing on the beach? Or maybe a shot of him feasting on the flesh of a small Hawaiian child. I can't wait.
Who looked at all the members of Team Bush and determined that the decidedly uneffervescent Cheney most embodied the "aloha" spirit?
If Kerry had gone to Hawaii, they'd have some ridiculous footage of him "hanging 10". What will the photo op be for Cheney? Perhaps a picture of an uncomfortably overdressed Cheney grimacing on the beach? Or maybe a shot of him feasting on the flesh of a small Hawaiian child. I can't wait.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
I have urinal issues.
Men's bathrooms are unpleasant places. They're austere and the amount of urine on the floor will vary from minimal to overwhelming, but some urine is always present. My understanding is that women's rooms are not like this. I gather that they smell kind of nice, sometimes have couches, and will offer pampering items like lotion.
You will never ever ever see a couch in a men's room. If you start putting couches and lotion in men's rooms, it's pretty much guaranteed that guys are going to jerk off in there. You can't give us nice things. We'll just soil them.
So, men's rooms are the sort of place where you just want to do your dirty business and get out of there. The fastest way out of there is to use the urinal. It doesn't require pressing your ass onto a toilet seat, and often it'll flush itself, minimizing the contact you have to have with the men's room.
Sometimes, in large public venues, there aren't any discrete urinals. Instead, you'll get a communal trough, where men line up next to each other, or across from each other in the circular variety, and do their peeing together. This is the nastiest of the nasty. Even the thought of my pee mixing with some other guy's pee makes me feel uncomfortable. I'm squirming just writing this. Peeing in a trough is one step up from just whipping it out and peeing in the gutter. Barely.
Slightly better than that is the row of urinals with no divider between them. In this situation, I'm still forced to pee alongside John Q. Public, but at least our urine won't mix. It's the little things.
Finally, the finest of men's rooms will have a small, divider between the urinals. It's always very small, maybe two or three feet high, and one foot wide, but it's something. It's a tiny little bit of reassurance, about 2 square feet, that I'm not peeing as a group activity.
The first decision a man has to make in a public bathroom is his choice of urinals. This can be a complex choice, based on a variety of criteria:
1) Proximity to other men - this is to be minimized
2) Height of urinal - some are placed for kids
3) Amount of urine on floor
4) Contents of urinal
There's always piss around the floor of a urinal. I'm not sure if it's from guys who miss (the urinal is RIGHT THERE, dudes!), or it could be from some vigorous post-pee shaking, or maybe some guys just like to mark their turf. I suspect the vigorous-shaking theory, but who knows. Either way, I try to find a urinal that's not next to some guy already peeing, doesn't contain fluids or substances from the previous pee-er, is at a grown-up height, and doesn't have too much urine on the floor. Usually all four criteria can't be met.
After I pick my urinal, I then spend a moment determining which way I should pee, to minimize the splash-back. Usually, I aim for a side wall. I figure, with a semi-sideways stream, most of the splash-back will bounce INTO the urinal instead of onto my pants. Some urinals aren't deep enough to have a good side wall, so then I'm forced to aim onto the back wall. I'll still try to pick an angle that will let the least amount of urine bounce out of the urinal. I have no idea if other men do the same thing.
Finally, there's that urinal cake at the bottom of the urinal. I have no idea what it's for. You could aim at it, but it's a bit splashy. Regardless, it is delicious.
That's pretty much the urinal situation. It's nasty, but it's better than the toilets. I'll hold my bowel movements as long as is physically possible before I'll plop my springtime-fresh ass onto a public toilet seat. Sometimes I'll have to enter the stalls if I need to take my daughter to the bathroom in some public place. I do my best to avoid this. My wife is well aware of the hygiene situation in men's rooms, so she usually takes the kid to the lavender-scented ladies room, but if she's not around, then we're doomed. I'll have to inspect all the stalls, trying to find the one that has the least amount of feces and urine present. It's fun for all.
My final commentary on urinals, and public restrooms in general, is that I love the touchless appliances in there. I rarely have to manually flush a urinal these days. Hazzah! New public restrooms often have the sinks that turn on when you place your hands in them, and, once in a blue moon, you get the paper towel machine that's motion activated too. That's a freakin' godsend. I'm no germ-phobe, but the fewer urine-soaked surfaces I touch, the better.
Finally, as long as we're still on the bathroom topic, I'm going to admit that when I'm at home, I sit. No splash-back, no urine dribbling on the floor. Nada. Just clean pee action. If this makes me less of a man, then so be it.
There you have it, all of my public bathroom neuroses in one place. Who wants cake?
Men's bathrooms are unpleasant places. They're austere and the amount of urine on the floor will vary from minimal to overwhelming, but some urine is always present. My understanding is that women's rooms are not like this. I gather that they smell kind of nice, sometimes have couches, and will offer pampering items like lotion.
You will never ever ever see a couch in a men's room. If you start putting couches and lotion in men's rooms, it's pretty much guaranteed that guys are going to jerk off in there. You can't give us nice things. We'll just soil them.
So, men's rooms are the sort of place where you just want to do your dirty business and get out of there. The fastest way out of there is to use the urinal. It doesn't require pressing your ass onto a toilet seat, and often it'll flush itself, minimizing the contact you have to have with the men's room.
Sometimes, in large public venues, there aren't any discrete urinals. Instead, you'll get a communal trough, where men line up next to each other, or across from each other in the circular variety, and do their peeing together. This is the nastiest of the nasty. Even the thought of my pee mixing with some other guy's pee makes me feel uncomfortable. I'm squirming just writing this. Peeing in a trough is one step up from just whipping it out and peeing in the gutter. Barely.
Slightly better than that is the row of urinals with no divider between them. In this situation, I'm still forced to pee alongside John Q. Public, but at least our urine won't mix. It's the little things.
Finally, the finest of men's rooms will have a small, divider between the urinals. It's always very small, maybe two or three feet high, and one foot wide, but it's something. It's a tiny little bit of reassurance, about 2 square feet, that I'm not peeing as a group activity.
The first decision a man has to make in a public bathroom is his choice of urinals. This can be a complex choice, based on a variety of criteria:
1) Proximity to other men - this is to be minimized
2) Height of urinal - some are placed for kids
3) Amount of urine on floor
4) Contents of urinal
There's always piss around the floor of a urinal. I'm not sure if it's from guys who miss (the urinal is RIGHT THERE, dudes!), or it could be from some vigorous post-pee shaking, or maybe some guys just like to mark their turf. I suspect the vigorous-shaking theory, but who knows. Either way, I try to find a urinal that's not next to some guy already peeing, doesn't contain fluids or substances from the previous pee-er, is at a grown-up height, and doesn't have too much urine on the floor. Usually all four criteria can't be met.
After I pick my urinal, I then spend a moment determining which way I should pee, to minimize the splash-back. Usually, I aim for a side wall. I figure, with a semi-sideways stream, most of the splash-back will bounce INTO the urinal instead of onto my pants. Some urinals aren't deep enough to have a good side wall, so then I'm forced to aim onto the back wall. I'll still try to pick an angle that will let the least amount of urine bounce out of the urinal. I have no idea if other men do the same thing.
Finally, there's that urinal cake at the bottom of the urinal. I have no idea what it's for. You could aim at it, but it's a bit splashy. Regardless, it is delicious.
That's pretty much the urinal situation. It's nasty, but it's better than the toilets. I'll hold my bowel movements as long as is physically possible before I'll plop my springtime-fresh ass onto a public toilet seat. Sometimes I'll have to enter the stalls if I need to take my daughter to the bathroom in some public place. I do my best to avoid this. My wife is well aware of the hygiene situation in men's rooms, so she usually takes the kid to the lavender-scented ladies room, but if she's not around, then we're doomed. I'll have to inspect all the stalls, trying to find the one that has the least amount of feces and urine present. It's fun for all.
My final commentary on urinals, and public restrooms in general, is that I love the touchless appliances in there. I rarely have to manually flush a urinal these days. Hazzah! New public restrooms often have the sinks that turn on when you place your hands in them, and, once in a blue moon, you get the paper towel machine that's motion activated too. That's a freakin' godsend. I'm no germ-phobe, but the fewer urine-soaked surfaces I touch, the better.
Finally, as long as we're still on the bathroom topic, I'm going to admit that when I'm at home, I sit. No splash-back, no urine dribbling on the floor. Nada. Just clean pee action. If this makes me less of a man, then so be it.
There you have it, all of my public bathroom neuroses in one place. Who wants cake?
Monday, October 25, 2004
What? You'd like me to document my weekend for future generations to see how I spend my free time? Seems like an odd request, but I'll oblige. Let's enjoy a superficial summary of my weekend. Pithy sentences will end each paragraph.
Saturday was super rainy. If I could come up with a clever way of combining the syllables "Sat-ur" and the word "rain", I'd do it. Rainurday? Maybe Satrainday? Cleverness eludes me.
We started Saturrain with my daughter's soccer game, played in the rain. I am happy to report, however, that this was her finest soccer performance to date. I'd have to change her soccer rating from Abysmal to Merely Horrible. It's nice to see that I've passed my soccer skills down to my daughter.
Afterwards I had to shop for a birthday gift for another five year-old girl. Nothing makes me feel like a manly-man more than standing in line at the fabric store, buying a feather boa. Hear me roar.
I also went for my first rainy run of the season. Running in the rain gets pretty old by around spring-time, but the first rain of the season isn't so bad. Generally, anything that makes a run different is a good thing.
On Saturday night, I traveled down to the South Bay to play poker with some old friends from my Hewlett Packard days. Apparently they've been watching too much World Series of Poker on TV, because they all came wearing their "intimidating" accessories. They either had mirrored sunglasses, or caps, or headphones. I was the lone unadorned player. "I'm wearing my poker cock ring!" I announced intimidatingly. That joke went over like a lead brick.
Everyone loves a good cock ring joke. Right? I mean, in the annals of comedy, at least among those of us who don't actually own cock rings, cock ring jokes are in the upper echelon. Say you're with me here.
Regardless, I got no laughs. I don't know if it was the gravity of the poker game, or the fact that I was in the suburbs, or if cock rings just ain't funny. "That joke KILLS in San Francisco," I whispered to no one in particular.
I did win at poker, however. That'll teach them.
Sunday was less harried. Had lunch with the parental units and then sort of kind of carved a pumpkin. As it turns out, pumpkins are fairly gooey and yucky inside and they smell bad. The wife ended up doing 95% of the work. Hear me roar, indeed.
That night we went out on our Date Night and saw Shaun Of The Dead. I declare it to be the first intentionally funny zombie movie.
It's Monday now.
Saturday was super rainy. If I could come up with a clever way of combining the syllables "Sat-ur" and the word "rain", I'd do it. Rainurday? Maybe Satrainday? Cleverness eludes me.
We started Saturrain with my daughter's soccer game, played in the rain. I am happy to report, however, that this was her finest soccer performance to date. I'd have to change her soccer rating from Abysmal to Merely Horrible. It's nice to see that I've passed my soccer skills down to my daughter.
Afterwards I had to shop for a birthday gift for another five year-old girl. Nothing makes me feel like a manly-man more than standing in line at the fabric store, buying a feather boa. Hear me roar.
I also went for my first rainy run of the season. Running in the rain gets pretty old by around spring-time, but the first rain of the season isn't so bad. Generally, anything that makes a run different is a good thing.
On Saturday night, I traveled down to the South Bay to play poker with some old friends from my Hewlett Packard days. Apparently they've been watching too much World Series of Poker on TV, because they all came wearing their "intimidating" accessories. They either had mirrored sunglasses, or caps, or headphones. I was the lone unadorned player. "I'm wearing my poker cock ring!" I announced intimidatingly. That joke went over like a lead brick.
Everyone loves a good cock ring joke. Right? I mean, in the annals of comedy, at least among those of us who don't actually own cock rings, cock ring jokes are in the upper echelon. Say you're with me here.
Regardless, I got no laughs. I don't know if it was the gravity of the poker game, or the fact that I was in the suburbs, or if cock rings just ain't funny. "That joke KILLS in San Francisco," I whispered to no one in particular.
I did win at poker, however. That'll teach them.
Sunday was less harried. Had lunch with the parental units and then sort of kind of carved a pumpkin. As it turns out, pumpkins are fairly gooey and yucky inside and they smell bad. The wife ended up doing 95% of the work. Hear me roar, indeed.
That night we went out on our Date Night and saw Shaun Of The Dead. I declare it to be the first intentionally funny zombie movie.
It's Monday now.
Friday, October 22, 2004
I sleep in the nude. I'm one of those people who gets hot at night (more in the temperature way than the hubba-hubba way, although, sometimes, you know...), so I don't want many blankets and I certainly don't want to wear pajamas. I'd combust with warm jammies on.
When it's time to start the day, most days I'll just throw on my robe and then go wake up the kid. Today was one of those days. So, I'm sitting on her bed and she's flopping around, trying to be cute and avoid getting dressed, when her foot jams into my crotch. This was awkward for me, not because it hurt, but rather because my five year-old daughter's foot was now touching my penis. This is what we in the parenting business refer to as a Parenting Error. It set off this unfortunate conversation:
Daughter: Daddy! You're not wearing any panties!
Me: No, I'm not. I sleep without them.
Daughter: (incredulous) You sleep without panties? Why?!?!
Me: I just do. It's comfortable for me that way.
Daughter: ... Does your penis touch mommy?
Me: (becoming increasingly uncomfortable) Uh, well, um, I'm very still when I sleep. Jesus! It's time to get dressed now.
And that's why I'll be getting dressed as soon as I wake up from now on. I can't speak for my daughter, but I'm scarred for life.
When it's time to start the day, most days I'll just throw on my robe and then go wake up the kid. Today was one of those days. So, I'm sitting on her bed and she's flopping around, trying to be cute and avoid getting dressed, when her foot jams into my crotch. This was awkward for me, not because it hurt, but rather because my five year-old daughter's foot was now touching my penis. This is what we in the parenting business refer to as a Parenting Error. It set off this unfortunate conversation:
Daughter: Daddy! You're not wearing any panties!
Me: No, I'm not. I sleep without them.
Daughter: (incredulous) You sleep without panties? Why?!?!
Me: I just do. It's comfortable for me that way.
Daughter: ... Does your penis touch mommy?
Me: (becoming increasingly uncomfortable) Uh, well, um, I'm very still when I sleep. Jesus! It's time to get dressed now.
And that's why I'll be getting dressed as soon as I wake up from now on. I can't speak for my daughter, but I'm scarred for life.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
A few unrelated thoughts:
1) I went 2 consecutive days this week without stepping outside the house. This happens fairly often. Working at home does this to me. I hear we had some rain.
2) Work has been sucking the life out of me. If I perish, mid-post, please contact my boss. He can be reached at 408.....
(Oh, I kid. The life-force still bubbles up inside me. It kind of tickles.)
3) This ad for "Banana Republican" amuses me.
4) Fabulous baseball postseason so far. Takes a bit of the sting out of the Giants' absence from it. All my enemies are being vanquished. Playoff-spot-stealing Astros? Gone. Richer-than-thou Yankees? Ask again later.
I got nothing.
1) I went 2 consecutive days this week without stepping outside the house. This happens fairly often. Working at home does this to me. I hear we had some rain.
2) Work has been sucking the life out of me. If I perish, mid-post, please contact my boss. He can be reached at 408.....
(Oh, I kid. The life-force still bubbles up inside me. It kind of tickles.)
3) This ad for "Banana Republican" amuses me.
4) Fabulous baseball postseason so far. Takes a bit of the sting out of the Giants' absence from it. All my enemies are being vanquished. Playoff-spot-stealing Astros? Gone. Richer-than-thou Yankees? Ask again later.
I got nothing.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
When it comes to corn-based foods, I am vigilant about their names. Don't ask why, that's just how I am.
My parents were immigrants to this fine country and English is not their native tongue. When I was a youngster, I'd often correct my mother's pronounciation or word-choice. Irrationally, I was annoyed when she spoke incorrectly. For a long while, she referred to popcorn as cornpop. This drove me bonkers. I'd correct her every time (which I'm sure was annoying to her as it was to me) and exasperatedly explain that there was no such thing as a cornpop.
I then spent the rest of my childhood trying to hide the existence of the Kellogg's cereal named Corn Pops from her. If a commercial for Corn Pops came on, I'd distract her or change the channel. If we were in the supermarket and needed cereal, I'd offer to run ahead and grab the cereal. I was NOT going to give my mother a foothold in the popcorn vs cornpop battle by admitting the existence of anything cornpopish.
As near as I can tell, Corn Pops are no longer for sale, so I think I won that battle, at least until my mother finds this blog.
These days the wife is my chief opponent in the corn battle. She insists on referring to tortilla chips as corn chips. Our argument usually goes something like this:
Wife: Who wants corn chips? (holding a bag of tortilla chips)
Me: Those are tortilla chips. Corn chips are Fritos.
Wife: They're made out of corn, so they're corn chips.
Me: We don't name things based on what they're made out of. We don't refer to the car as the metal-filled, internal-combustion-engine-powered, people-mover, do we? No, we just use the name that everyone knows. When you call a tortilla chip a corn chip, you're potentially confusing people.
Wife: We don't call the car that because that's too damn long of a name.
We have this conversation about once a week. Today I decided that we needed wisdom from an impartial source. I turned to the five year-old, and asked her, "Sweetpea, are they corn chips or tortilla chips?".
My daughter thought for a moment and said, "I call them the chips that mommy and daddy argue about."
I'm not sure how to score this one.... Oh, yes I am. Victory for Mike. I am the final arbiter of all things corn-based
My parents were immigrants to this fine country and English is not their native tongue. When I was a youngster, I'd often correct my mother's pronounciation or word-choice. Irrationally, I was annoyed when she spoke incorrectly. For a long while, she referred to popcorn as cornpop. This drove me bonkers. I'd correct her every time (which I'm sure was annoying to her as it was to me) and exasperatedly explain that there was no such thing as a cornpop.
I then spent the rest of my childhood trying to hide the existence of the Kellogg's cereal named Corn Pops from her. If a commercial for Corn Pops came on, I'd distract her or change the channel. If we were in the supermarket and needed cereal, I'd offer to run ahead and grab the cereal. I was NOT going to give my mother a foothold in the popcorn vs cornpop battle by admitting the existence of anything cornpopish.
As near as I can tell, Corn Pops are no longer for sale, so I think I won that battle, at least until my mother finds this blog.
These days the wife is my chief opponent in the corn battle. She insists on referring to tortilla chips as corn chips. Our argument usually goes something like this:
Wife: Who wants corn chips? (holding a bag of tortilla chips)
Me: Those are tortilla chips. Corn chips are Fritos.
Wife: They're made out of corn, so they're corn chips.
Me: We don't name things based on what they're made out of. We don't refer to the car as the metal-filled, internal-combustion-engine-powered, people-mover, do we? No, we just use the name that everyone knows. When you call a tortilla chip a corn chip, you're potentially confusing people.
Wife: We don't call the car that because that's too damn long of a name.
We have this conversation about once a week. Today I decided that we needed wisdom from an impartial source. I turned to the five year-old, and asked her, "Sweetpea, are they corn chips or tortilla chips?".
My daughter thought for a moment and said, "I call them the chips that mommy and daddy argue about."
I'm not sure how to score this one.... Oh, yes I am. Victory for Mike. I am the final arbiter of all things corn-based
Monday, October 18, 2004
Note, to those of you who have come here expecting my usual snarky posts, filled with laments about my poor running style, or my uncool child, you've come to the wrong place. Today, there's sunshine streaming out my ass. Zillions of photons, all clumped together like sunshiney turdlets, spilling out from my sphincter to this blog.
At times like this, I think it's obvious to everyone why I became a programmer and not a writer.
Anyways.
Yesterday my daughter's elementary school held their annual student fundraiser. It was a run-a-thon. The kids had one hour to run as many laps around a 1/4 mile track as possible. They had gathered sponsors in the previous weeks, so the the more laps they ran, the more money they raised for the school.
My sweet little five year-old daughter, cranked out 12 laps. That's 3 miles! Three miles in an hour won't break any records, but for my little asthmatic daughter, who tires easily, to run/walk three miles is outstanding. I beamed with pride. Apparently we're runners in our family! Who knew?
Everything just went right. We had been apprehensive about the run in the week before because the event had a mascot, a guy dressed up in a gorilla suit. Apparently this character made an appearance at my daughter's school a few weeks ago and scared the bejesus out of her. She was the lone child that had to be led out of the assembly because she was shrieking in fear.
The gorilla made an appearance at the run-a-thon, but my daughter would not be deterred. I'm so proud of her. She's a great kid.
Next post, back to my usual surly self.
At times like this, I think it's obvious to everyone why I became a programmer and not a writer.
Anyways.
Yesterday my daughter's elementary school held their annual student fundraiser. It was a run-a-thon. The kids had one hour to run as many laps around a 1/4 mile track as possible. They had gathered sponsors in the previous weeks, so the the more laps they ran, the more money they raised for the school.
My sweet little five year-old daughter, cranked out 12 laps. That's 3 miles! Three miles in an hour won't break any records, but for my little asthmatic daughter, who tires easily, to run/walk three miles is outstanding. I beamed with pride. Apparently we're runners in our family! Who knew?
Everything just went right. We had been apprehensive about the run in the week before because the event had a mascot, a guy dressed up in a gorilla suit. Apparently this character made an appearance at my daughter's school a few weeks ago and scared the bejesus out of her. She was the lone child that had to be led out of the assembly because she was shrieking in fear.
The gorilla made an appearance at the run-a-thon, but my daughter would not be deterred. I'm so proud of her. She's a great kid.
Next post, back to my usual surly self.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
I was the Designated Asshole today.
We were our friends' house today, and they were waiting for a delivery, which was hours late. One of our friends turned to me and said, "Someone needs to call the delivery guys and be mean to them. We can't do it. You do it, Mike." So, I did it. I phoned the delivery service, called them liars, demanded compensation and took down a few names.
This is what it has come to. After being a nice guy for most of my life, I've become dependably surly in my recent years. Perhaps if this whole computer-programmer thing falls through, I can craft a career out of my reliable surliness.
Would someone like to hire me? I have references.
We were our friends' house today, and they were waiting for a delivery, which was hours late. One of our friends turned to me and said, "Someone needs to call the delivery guys and be mean to them. We can't do it. You do it, Mike." So, I did it. I phoned the delivery service, called them liars, demanded compensation and took down a few names.
This is what it has come to. After being a nice guy for most of my life, I've become dependably surly in my recent years. Perhaps if this whole computer-programmer thing falls through, I can craft a career out of my reliable surliness.
Would someone like to hire me? I have references.
Friday, October 15, 2004
The kidlet....hmmm, upon typing the word "kidlet", I'm thinking that I don't really care for it. Sounds like a cut of meat, carved from the tenderest part of the child. Let's start over.
My daughter has been in kindergarten for about a month and a half now. There have been a couple of alarming developments.
First, she has become a total teacher's pet. She often comes home, beaming with pride, holding a "Good Note" from her teacher. These notes are given out when a child does something that the teacher deems worthy of reward. Unfortunately, these acts include things like telling other kids not to run in the hallway. It's just a matter of time before my daughter becomes a Hall Monitor, or gets beaten up by the other children. I'm not sure whether to teach her self-defense or start a pool on when the beatings begin. Parenting is hard.
Second, she's now becoming sassy. Some kid, or maybe all the kids, are teaching my baby girl to have a smart mouth. Of course, now that I'm writing about it, I can't for the life of me remember one of these precocious witticisms that she spews. Blogging is hard.
Third, one of my coworkers tells me that all good lists have three items. Lists are hard.
I phoned this one in. Sorry.
My daughter has been in kindergarten for about a month and a half now. There have been a couple of alarming developments.
First, she has become a total teacher's pet. She often comes home, beaming with pride, holding a "Good Note" from her teacher. These notes are given out when a child does something that the teacher deems worthy of reward. Unfortunately, these acts include things like telling other kids not to run in the hallway. It's just a matter of time before my daughter becomes a Hall Monitor, or gets beaten up by the other children. I'm not sure whether to teach her self-defense or start a pool on when the beatings begin. Parenting is hard.
Second, she's now becoming sassy. Some kid, or maybe all the kids, are teaching my baby girl to have a smart mouth. Of course, now that I'm writing about it, I can't for the life of me remember one of these precocious witticisms that she spews. Blogging is hard.
Third, one of my coworkers tells me that all good lists have three items. Lists are hard.
I phoned this one in. Sorry.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
It has been said that I'm done blogging about the Chicago Marathon. Some folks have claimed that I vowed to never blog about it again. Lies, all of them, lies.
It occurs to me that since I accomplished my goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, I should give some sort of acceptance speech. Frankly, I've been jonesing to give a speech ever since I thought I'd win my runner's club award for Worst Form. I was all set to trip on my way to the podium. You can't go wrong with slapstick, my friends. That didn't work out as I anticipated though, so my speech-giving desires are still unrequited. That's just not healthy. It's like holding in farts. It can cause cancer. No lie.
So, please, allow me to give my Boston Marathon Qualification Acceptance Speech.
(throat clearing noises)
(paper rustling)
....
(awkward nervous pause)
(more throat clearing noises)
When I was a little boy, I had a dream of being a taxi cab driver. That didn't really pan out. Later, in my 20s, I dreamed of being a dot com millionaire. That didn't really work out either. Stupid bubble. Then, one year ago, I had a dream of qualifying for the Boston Marathon. You'd think that with a history of stupid dreams, I'd discard this one pretty quickly, but I'm not really a quick learner.
On October 10th, 2004, at 11:16am (Central Standard Time), my idiotic dream became a reality. Years of running and thousands of dollars spent on shoes, gear, clubs, and travel, culminated in a Boston-worthy run in Chicago, Illinois.
Although some people describe running as a solitary endeavor, I must admit that many people contributed to my dubious achievement.
I'd like to thank my family, especially my wife and daughter for putting up with my absences from the household. They also deserve special recognition for persevering through endless discussions of my running pace and, frankly, my sweaty stench.
I'd like to thank my friends for being supportive of my goal. I recall how humiliating it was to notify them of my first failed attempt at qualifying. Conceit and desire to look good in their eyes were quite motivational this time around.
I'd like to thank my running club, PacWest Athletics. If you had told me, years ago, that one day I'd pay money to go running, and be thankful for it, I would have laughed in your face. Then I would have meekly apologized. Anyways, I learned a lot from these guys.
I'd also like to thank the good people of Chicago for living in the flattest city in the whole damn world. You also put on a heck of a marathon and seemed pretty friendly to boot. Even your famed wind seemed to take the day off.
Finally, I'd like to thank the Academy. Note that if you could do something about getting me a job driving a taxi, I'd be eternally grateful.
(blowing kisses)
It occurs to me that since I accomplished my goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon, I should give some sort of acceptance speech. Frankly, I've been jonesing to give a speech ever since I thought I'd win my runner's club award for Worst Form. I was all set to trip on my way to the podium. You can't go wrong with slapstick, my friends. That didn't work out as I anticipated though, so my speech-giving desires are still unrequited. That's just not healthy. It's like holding in farts. It can cause cancer. No lie.
So, please, allow me to give my Boston Marathon Qualification Acceptance Speech.
(throat clearing noises)
(paper rustling)
....
(awkward nervous pause)
(more throat clearing noises)
When I was a little boy, I had a dream of being a taxi cab driver. That didn't really pan out. Later, in my 20s, I dreamed of being a dot com millionaire. That didn't really work out either. Stupid bubble. Then, one year ago, I had a dream of qualifying for the Boston Marathon. You'd think that with a history of stupid dreams, I'd discard this one pretty quickly, but I'm not really a quick learner.
On October 10th, 2004, at 11:16am (Central Standard Time), my idiotic dream became a reality. Years of running and thousands of dollars spent on shoes, gear, clubs, and travel, culminated in a Boston-worthy run in Chicago, Illinois.
Although some people describe running as a solitary endeavor, I must admit that many people contributed to my dubious achievement.
I'd like to thank my family, especially my wife and daughter for putting up with my absences from the household. They also deserve special recognition for persevering through endless discussions of my running pace and, frankly, my sweaty stench.
I'd like to thank my friends for being supportive of my goal. I recall how humiliating it was to notify them of my first failed attempt at qualifying. Conceit and desire to look good in their eyes were quite motivational this time around.
I'd like to thank my running club, PacWest Athletics. If you had told me, years ago, that one day I'd pay money to go running, and be thankful for it, I would have laughed in your face. Then I would have meekly apologized. Anyways, I learned a lot from these guys.
I'd also like to thank the good people of Chicago for living in the flattest city in the whole damn world. You also put on a heck of a marathon and seemed pretty friendly to boot. Even your famed wind seemed to take the day off.
Finally, I'd like to thank the Academy. Note that if you could do something about getting me a job driving a taxi, I'd be eternally grateful.
(blowing kisses)
Monday, October 11, 2004
For the last few days I've blogged incessantly about the Chicago Marathon. This post shall be the end-all post on the topic. With the Internet as my witness, I shall blog about that damn race no more (after today).
That being said, let's review.
Last October, nearly one year ago, I decided to try and qualify for the Boston Marathon. For a man of my advanced years, that required running a marathon in 3 hours, 15 minutes and 59 seconds. Or under. This seemed like the next logical goal in my running "career". I had four marathons under my belt and had achieved my previous goal of running one in 3 hours and 30 minutes, on my third try.
I added a bit of strength training to my regimen as well as weekly rides on the exercise bike. Doing all this was like pulling teeth, but I knew it was the only way I'd get faster. So, I went from running 2 or 3 times a week, to exercising 5, and sometimes 6, times a week. It was horrible. No sane human being should spend that much time exercising. Especially if they have a wife and child. Shameful, really. Anyways.
So, last June, I flew down to San Diego for their annual Rock 'n' Roll marathon, and rather than qualifying for Boston, I chose to demonstrate why this blog is called "I Am Prepared To Give Up At Any Time". I gave up at around mile 23, when I really really really had to go potty. I probably wouldn't have made it anyway, but still. Essentially I threw 8 months of training down the port-a-potty, missing my qualifying time by 5 minutes.
Like any half-assed athlete, I figured that the only way to succeed would be to lower the bar. Thus, rather than training harder, I set my sights on Chicago, famed for its flat course and cool weather. Runners often set personal records in this marathon.
So, at 8am, on October 10th, 2004, I started running the Chicago Marathon.
Despite my mantra of the previous week, "Nothing new, Mike. Nothing new.", I tried something slightly new in this marathon. I ran the first few miles slower than my target pace of 7 minutes and 28 seconds per mile. Wiser men than I have told me that this is the path to enlightenment, or at least to a good solid run. I've read that it's good to run slowly for 13 miles, others have said 5, and somebody somewhere mentioned 3. Personally, I find it to be disheartening to be off pace from the first step, so I abandoned the plan at the first opportunity, at mile 3. Good enough. I was back on pace by mile 10, which made my ever-calculating brain much happier.
Some folks write down all their mile split times on an armband to use as a guide during their run. Personally, when I run, I'm looking for any distraction I can get, including math. So, I look forward to doing my how-fast-am-I-going calculation and my how-fast-do-I-need-to-run-for-the-remainder-of-the-race calculation every mile. I'll admit that this sounds like a boring mental exercise, but more boring than running 26.2 miles? I think not.
The Chicago Marathon is a HUGE marathon. About a bazillion runners and about two bazillion spectators. Although none of them were there specifically to see me, many of them had signs, and many of those signs said something like "Go, Mike, go!" I decided early on (Mile 1), that I'd assume those signs were for me. Mostly having a name like Mike is a pain in the ass. Stand in any crowded room for a few minutes and you'll hear someone say, "blah blah Mike blah blah.". It gets to be annoying, so I took this rare opportunity to enjoy the spoils of having America's most common name. These signs were mine.
"Yay Mike!" - Thanks! Yes, yay for me!
"Mike's our Idol" - Wow, that's a little much, but what the hell.
"Mike, You Stud!" - You know it, baby
."We Love Mike!" - Whoa! Get a room. With the other Mike.
Some signs referenced other people. Apparently someone named Steve also ran this race, and some woman named Deidre. There may have been others.
By the halfway mark, at mile 13.1, I was about 30 seconds ahead of pace. That felt pretty good. I had been sucking down my Goo, and gulping the Gatorade at every water stop. For the first time, I was drinking the fluid while running. Usually I walk at the water stops, but not this time. Boston or bust, baby!
Soon, slightly ahead of me, I saw a large fit African American man wearing a Tibco shirt. This stuck out in my mind because I remembered that Roger Craig, ex 49er and All-Star running back, had run the San Diego Marathon this year, and had been sponsored by Tibco (which is a competitor to the company I work for. Boo Tibco!). So, I caught up to him, looked over at him, and it WAS Roger Craig. There aren't many football players I'd recognize, but Roger Craig is one of them. I'm not a gay man (despite what you may have heard), but Roger Craig is a fine looking man.
So, while running alongside him, I said, "Nice going. I've always enjoyed watching you." Perhaps in some other venue, that would have come across as idiotic, or perhaps even stalkerish, but it was the best I could do after around 14 miles, and Roger responded nicely. He said, "Thanks" and grasped my hand in a sweaty, running, pseudo-handshake. I briefly contemplated never washing that hand again. It was pretty nasty though. Anyway, I then slowly ran ahead of him.
Roger Craig!
Things went pretty smoothly until around mile 20. That's when runners are supposed to hit the proverbial "Wall". I slowed down a bit at this point, but it probably was mental as much as as physical. At this point I was over a minute ahead of schedule, so I still felt as though things were in hand. Soon, I would be using my secret weapon.
At mile 22, I popped open the caffeinated goo pack. I never drink coffee before a long run, so a caffeinated goo pack is a noticeable little kick to the system. By mile 23, I was running ahead of pace again. I knew it was in the bag at this point.
Mile 24, 25, and even 26 went smoothly. Just before the Mile 26 marker, there was the only real hill of the marathon (and it wasn't a large hill). I saw some other runners throw their hands up in disgust at the placement of this obstacle, but I was undeterred. We had just run nearly 26 miles, a hill was NOT going to stop me. They could have put in a moat filled with man-eating crocodiles, trained to devour lactic acid, and I would not have been deterred. I powered up the hill and soon across the finish line at 26.2 miles, clocking in at just over 3 hours and 14 minutes after I started.
So, I made it. I qualified for the Boston Marathon by less than 2 minutes, but I made it. I picked this stupid goal a year ago, struggled through an absurd number of workouts, and then sought out the flattest city in America, so that I could run as hard as I could for over 3 hours. I'm pretty sure that it really wasn't worth all the effort, but crap, I'll take it.
Next up. Boston. April 18th, 2005.
That being said, let's review.
Last October, nearly one year ago, I decided to try and qualify for the Boston Marathon. For a man of my advanced years, that required running a marathon in 3 hours, 15 minutes and 59 seconds. Or under. This seemed like the next logical goal in my running "career". I had four marathons under my belt and had achieved my previous goal of running one in 3 hours and 30 minutes, on my third try.
I added a bit of strength training to my regimen as well as weekly rides on the exercise bike. Doing all this was like pulling teeth, but I knew it was the only way I'd get faster. So, I went from running 2 or 3 times a week, to exercising 5, and sometimes 6, times a week. It was horrible. No sane human being should spend that much time exercising. Especially if they have a wife and child. Shameful, really. Anyways.
So, last June, I flew down to San Diego for their annual Rock 'n' Roll marathon, and rather than qualifying for Boston, I chose to demonstrate why this blog is called "I Am Prepared To Give Up At Any Time". I gave up at around mile 23, when I really really really had to go potty. I probably wouldn't have made it anyway, but still. Essentially I threw 8 months of training down the port-a-potty, missing my qualifying time by 5 minutes.
Like any half-assed athlete, I figured that the only way to succeed would be to lower the bar. Thus, rather than training harder, I set my sights on Chicago, famed for its flat course and cool weather. Runners often set personal records in this marathon.
So, at 8am, on October 10th, 2004, I started running the Chicago Marathon.
Despite my mantra of the previous week, "Nothing new, Mike. Nothing new.", I tried something slightly new in this marathon. I ran the first few miles slower than my target pace of 7 minutes and 28 seconds per mile. Wiser men than I have told me that this is the path to enlightenment, or at least to a good solid run. I've read that it's good to run slowly for 13 miles, others have said 5, and somebody somewhere mentioned 3. Personally, I find it to be disheartening to be off pace from the first step, so I abandoned the plan at the first opportunity, at mile 3. Good enough. I was back on pace by mile 10, which made my ever-calculating brain much happier.
Some folks write down all their mile split times on an armband to use as a guide during their run. Personally, when I run, I'm looking for any distraction I can get, including math. So, I look forward to doing my how-fast-am-I-going calculation and my how-fast-do-I-need-to-run-for-the-remainder-of-the-race calculation every mile. I'll admit that this sounds like a boring mental exercise, but more boring than running 26.2 miles? I think not.
The Chicago Marathon is a HUGE marathon. About a bazillion runners and about two bazillion spectators. Although none of them were there specifically to see me, many of them had signs, and many of those signs said something like "Go, Mike, go!" I decided early on (Mile 1), that I'd assume those signs were for me. Mostly having a name like Mike is a pain in the ass. Stand in any crowded room for a few minutes and you'll hear someone say, "blah blah Mike blah blah.". It gets to be annoying, so I took this rare opportunity to enjoy the spoils of having America's most common name. These signs were mine.
"Yay Mike!" - Thanks! Yes, yay for me!
"Mike's our Idol" - Wow, that's a little much, but what the hell.
"Mike, You Stud!" - You know it, baby
."We Love Mike!" - Whoa! Get a room. With the other Mike.
Some signs referenced other people. Apparently someone named Steve also ran this race, and some woman named Deidre. There may have been others.
By the halfway mark, at mile 13.1, I was about 30 seconds ahead of pace. That felt pretty good. I had been sucking down my Goo, and gulping the Gatorade at every water stop. For the first time, I was drinking the fluid while running. Usually I walk at the water stops, but not this time. Boston or bust, baby!
Soon, slightly ahead of me, I saw a large fit African American man wearing a Tibco shirt. This stuck out in my mind because I remembered that Roger Craig, ex 49er and All-Star running back, had run the San Diego Marathon this year, and had been sponsored by Tibco (which is a competitor to the company I work for. Boo Tibco!). So, I caught up to him, looked over at him, and it WAS Roger Craig. There aren't many football players I'd recognize, but Roger Craig is one of them. I'm not a gay man (despite what you may have heard), but Roger Craig is a fine looking man.
So, while running alongside him, I said, "Nice going. I've always enjoyed watching you." Perhaps in some other venue, that would have come across as idiotic, or perhaps even stalkerish, but it was the best I could do after around 14 miles, and Roger responded nicely. He said, "Thanks" and grasped my hand in a sweaty, running, pseudo-handshake. I briefly contemplated never washing that hand again. It was pretty nasty though. Anyway, I then slowly ran ahead of him.
Roger Craig!
Things went pretty smoothly until around mile 20. That's when runners are supposed to hit the proverbial "Wall". I slowed down a bit at this point, but it probably was mental as much as as physical. At this point I was over a minute ahead of schedule, so I still felt as though things were in hand. Soon, I would be using my secret weapon.
At mile 22, I popped open the caffeinated goo pack. I never drink coffee before a long run, so a caffeinated goo pack is a noticeable little kick to the system. By mile 23, I was running ahead of pace again. I knew it was in the bag at this point.
Mile 24, 25, and even 26 went smoothly. Just before the Mile 26 marker, there was the only real hill of the marathon (and it wasn't a large hill). I saw some other runners throw their hands up in disgust at the placement of this obstacle, but I was undeterred. We had just run nearly 26 miles, a hill was NOT going to stop me. They could have put in a moat filled with man-eating crocodiles, trained to devour lactic acid, and I would not have been deterred. I powered up the hill and soon across the finish line at 26.2 miles, clocking in at just over 3 hours and 14 minutes after I started.
So, I made it. I qualified for the Boston Marathon by less than 2 minutes, but I made it. I picked this stupid goal a year ago, struggled through an absurd number of workouts, and then sought out the flattest city in America, so that I could run as hard as I could for over 3 hours. I'm pretty sure that it really wasn't worth all the effort, but crap, I'll take it.
Next up. Boston. April 18th, 2005.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Although several other members of my running club are here in Chicago, I'm making virtually no effort to hook up with them, not because I don't like them (I do! Hello!), but rather because there's something appealing about being by myself in the days before the marathon. Running a marathon is a lonely experience. I'll be surrounded by literally thousands of people, but whether or not I do well ultimately comes down to what's in my head.
So, here I am in Chicago, essentially alone. Ironically, I find myself looking at everyone else in the airport, in the hotel, and on the streets, wondering if they'd like to talk about the marathon with me. That slim guy in the running shoes, that woman wearing the Nike shirt, I find myself wanting to chat them all up. Hello, fellow marathoner!
As it turns out, one or two of these conversations is really all you need to disabuse yourself of the desire to do it again, at least temporarily. Running a marathon is difficult, but not interesting.
Yet, I've dedicated a whole slew of posts to it. Ah, the joy of conceit.
22.5 hours to go.
So, here I am in Chicago, essentially alone. Ironically, I find myself looking at everyone else in the airport, in the hotel, and on the streets, wondering if they'd like to talk about the marathon with me. That slim guy in the running shoes, that woman wearing the Nike shirt, I find myself wanting to chat them all up. Hello, fellow marathoner!
As it turns out, one or two of these conversations is really all you need to disabuse yourself of the desire to do it again, at least temporarily. Running a marathon is difficult, but not interesting.
Yet, I've dedicated a whole slew of posts to it. Ah, the joy of conceit.
22.5 hours to go.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Finally all cozy in my Chicago hotel room. As it turns out, when you pick your hotel randomly, sometimes you end up in a crappy neighborhood. I'm in something called "Printer's Row". This neighborhood is not the fun-filled hootenanny you might expect from the name.
The trip here went relatively smoothly, given that I flew on United. Let the record show that I hate them, but when you're flying to Chicago, they're the cheapest game in town. You get what you pay for. Mostly what I learned is that when you walk up to your gate and ask the white dreadlocked guy which rows are being boarded, you're not going to get good information. I'm going to out on a limb and say that white guys with dreadlocks don't specialize in information comprehension and communication.
I spent a fair amount of time today in the airport, just looking around while grooving to some MP3 tunes. I don't usually listen to music on headphones in public, but I did today. It gave today's travels a nice soundtrack. Boring packs of suited men striding through the airport suddenly are imbued with Agent Smith-like motivation when viewed with the right background music. They seemed so important. Go! Catch that Neo!
33.5 hours until marathon time, but who's counting?
The trip here went relatively smoothly, given that I flew on United. Let the record show that I hate them, but when you're flying to Chicago, they're the cheapest game in town. You get what you pay for. Mostly what I learned is that when you walk up to your gate and ask the white dreadlocked guy which rows are being boarded, you're not going to get good information. I'm going to out on a limb and say that white guys with dreadlocks don't specialize in information comprehension and communication.
I spent a fair amount of time today in the airport, just looking around while grooving to some MP3 tunes. I don't usually listen to music on headphones in public, but I did today. It gave today's travels a nice soundtrack. Boring packs of suited men striding through the airport suddenly are imbued with Agent Smith-like motivation when viewed with the right background music. They seemed so important. Go! Catch that Neo!
33.5 hours until marathon time, but who's counting?
And, here I am at the airport at some Intel booth. For some reason they have laptops here for people to use for free. I guess I'm supposed to be dazzled by their ability to connect to the Internet. Oddly, I don't feel the dazzlement welling up inside me.
Mostly I'm just blogging here because I can.
My shirt has a small stain on it. This is practically a brand new shirt. I found it deep in the bowels of the closet last week (okokok, my wife found it). It was a gift to me sometime in the semi-distant past. It had somehow got lost in the shuffle that is our closet. I tend to have piles of crap in a couple spots in the house. Things sort of disappear into them and reappear randomly in the future, rarely when I need them.
Anyway, I wore this shirt for the first time last week. Washed it, put it on today, and somehow there's a stain on it. I feel unkempt. How hard is it to keep a new shirt unstained the first time you wear it? How hard is it to look at your clothing before putting it on? Answer? Too hard, apparently.
I guess I'm one of those people who walk around with stains on their shirt. Wave if you see me.
Marathon starts in 41 hours and 44 minutes.
Mostly I'm just blogging here because I can.
My shirt has a small stain on it. This is practically a brand new shirt. I found it deep in the bowels of the closet last week (okokok, my wife found it). It was a gift to me sometime in the semi-distant past. It had somehow got lost in the shuffle that is our closet. I tend to have piles of crap in a couple spots in the house. Things sort of disappear into them and reappear randomly in the future, rarely when I need them.
Anyway, I wore this shirt for the first time last week. Washed it, put it on today, and somehow there's a stain on it. I feel unkempt. How hard is it to keep a new shirt unstained the first time you wear it? How hard is it to look at your clothing before putting it on? Answer? Too hard, apparently.
I guess I'm one of those people who walk around with stains on their shirt. Wave if you see me.
Marathon starts in 41 hours and 44 minutes.
Two days 'til Chicago (said in a Rainman-like voice). Two days 'til Chicago.
Yes, 48 hours from now, I should be stumbling towards the finish line. If all goes well, I'll be crossing it at 11:15am (CST). In order to qualify for Boston, I need to finish it in 3 hours, 15 minutes, and 59 seconds. I intend to use every bit of that. Let's run the numbers so that you can see how obsessed I am.
That's three hours, fifteen minutes, and fifty-nine seconds. That's just a scooch under 196 minutes. That's 11,759 seconds. When I put it that way, it doesn't seem as bad. Maybe when I run, I'll just count to 11,759. One Mississippi...
I take about 172 steps per minute, so I'll be covering just under 4.1 feet per step. That'll be hard to measure, so I'll just have to trust.
I need to run at a pace of just under 7 minutes and 29 seconds per mile. That's easier to measure. I'll run the first 10, maybe 15 miles, at an easy pace, perhaps a hair slower than my target pace of 7:29. Then, with all the energy that I'll obviously have during the second half of the marathon, I'll pick it up and cruise across the finish line just under the wire. That's the idea anyways. I read it in a magazine.
This is why I got very little sleep last night. Wish me luck, cold and anonymous Internet. May the speed of your TCP/IP packets inspire me.
Yes, 48 hours from now, I should be stumbling towards the finish line. If all goes well, I'll be crossing it at 11:15am (CST). In order to qualify for Boston, I need to finish it in 3 hours, 15 minutes, and 59 seconds. I intend to use every bit of that. Let's run the numbers so that you can see how obsessed I am.
That's three hours, fifteen minutes, and fifty-nine seconds. That's just a scooch under 196 minutes. That's 11,759 seconds. When I put it that way, it doesn't seem as bad. Maybe when I run, I'll just count to 11,759. One Mississippi...
I take about 172 steps per minute, so I'll be covering just under 4.1 feet per step. That'll be hard to measure, so I'll just have to trust.
I need to run at a pace of just under 7 minutes and 29 seconds per mile. That's easier to measure. I'll run the first 10, maybe 15 miles, at an easy pace, perhaps a hair slower than my target pace of 7:29. Then, with all the energy that I'll obviously have during the second half of the marathon, I'll pick it up and cruise across the finish line just under the wire. That's the idea anyways. I read it in a magazine.
This is why I got very little sleep last night. Wish me luck, cold and anonymous Internet. May the speed of your TCP/IP packets inspire me.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
I go to sleep at night and I think of the Chicago Marathon. I wake up in the morning and I think about the Chicago Marathon. I am consumed with this.
Thankfully, I depart for Chicago tomorrow morning and the marathon is on Sunday. I feel like I've been training for this for about a year now. Last October I made the decision to try and qualify for the Boston Marathon and Chicago is a great place to do it. The weather is supposed to be cool and the course is flat, flat as a.... pancake? Crap, similes are not my forte. Anyway, it's really flat.
I'll be bringing my laptop with me, so expect nervous and adrenaline-fueled entries on Saturday. I'm thinking they'll be something like this:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAH! Crap! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! Must rest. Must eat pasta. Gah! Marathon tomorrow. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!"
It should be a hoot.
Thankfully, I depart for Chicago tomorrow morning and the marathon is on Sunday. I feel like I've been training for this for about a year now. Last October I made the decision to try and qualify for the Boston Marathon and Chicago is a great place to do it. The weather is supposed to be cool and the course is flat, flat as a.... pancake? Crap, similes are not my forte. Anyway, it's really flat.
I'll be bringing my laptop with me, so expect nervous and adrenaline-fueled entries on Saturday. I'm thinking they'll be something like this:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAH! Crap! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! Must rest. Must eat pasta. Gah! Marathon tomorrow. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!"
It should be a hoot.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
One of the problems with children is that they have selective hearing. The cutesy-wutesy little bones in their ears seem to be tuned to some sounds like "Who wants cotton candy?", but not to others like "Time to get ready for bed." Sometimes though, you can get them to listen. Last night I had one of those moments with my daughter.
Often getting her ready for bed is a chore. I'll have to ask her to brush her teeth multiple times. For some reason, last night, she announced, "Daddy, tonight I'm going to do whatever you say." I promptly tested the situation by asking her to jump up and down. She obediently complied.
I took it one step further and instructed her to ask me, "How high?" whenever I tell her to jump. We tried that a few times to my tremendous amusement.
I'm sure it won't last, but ohhhhhhhh, the power of being a parent. Mwah hah hah! I'll try to mostly use it for good.
Often getting her ready for bed is a chore. I'll have to ask her to brush her teeth multiple times. For some reason, last night, she announced, "Daddy, tonight I'm going to do whatever you say." I promptly tested the situation by asking her to jump up and down. She obediently complied.
I took it one step further and instructed her to ask me, "How high?" whenever I tell her to jump. We tried that a few times to my tremendous amusement.
I'm sure it won't last, but ohhhhhhhh, the power of being a parent. Mwah hah hah! I'll try to mostly use it for good.
Monday, October 04, 2004
GAH!
The last time that Tony Pierce linked to me, I had just completed a post on my itchy crotch. It was, some would say, not my finest blogging hour. Others, specifically those who love stories about itchy crotches, disagreed. However, I vowed to myself that I'd have better material if he linked to me again.
That being said, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Must....be....entertaining......
So, without further ado, I present a story that doesn't embarrass me, but rather one that my wife truly abhors. Sorry, wifey, but I must sacrifice someone on the blogging altar. It's your turn.
About 13 years ago, Back when I was working for Hewlett Packard in Mountain View, California, I took a work-related class in something called "Inspections". This was a god-awful course that essentially taught us programmers how to review each other's code. I can assure you all, one of the most boring things you can do with a computer is read someone else's code. Significantly more boring than that, however, is sitting through a class learning how to read someone else's code.
I sat in the back of the classroom with my other "cool" programmer friends, rebelling against this imposition on our work day. We quietly made snide comments about the boorish instructor.
There was this one woman though. Let's call her Kiss-Ass. She waltzed into class the first day and plopped down in the front row. She asked questions all the freakin' time and seemed geniunely interested in what was obviously a topic made to be ridiculed. During breaks, she draped herself across her desk and chit-chatted with the holier-than-thou instructor.
I HATED Kiss-Ass. My friends and I mocked her. We couldn't quite tell what her angle was, but her geniune appreciation for the topic was a source of constant irritation to me. I never spoke to her (I mean, I was a programmer and she was a female. Obviously the forces of physics denied such events), but I spent a fair amount of time that week talking about her behind her back.
Class ended and life went on.
At that time I was living with my girlfriend. One day my girlfriend suggested that we spend an evening with a coworker of hers and his girlfriend. She assured me that these were fun folk. So, when we met this couple, I was surprised to discover that the girlfriend in question was Kiss-Ass. I was now forced to socialize with the object of my mockery.
As it turns out, she was edgy and fun, and we had a lovely evening. That didn't stop me from reporting back to my coworkers who had been in class with me, but I didn't mock Kiss-Ass with the same ferocity. My heart wasn't in it any more.
Then, as fate would have it, it eventually came out that my girlfriend was fooling around with her coworker. This left Kiss-Ass and I as the jilted lovers. We commiserated together and soon became fast friends. We spent a lot of time together and found much in common.
One day, when discussing word games, we each expressed that we were excellent at Boggle. The gauntlet had been thrown down. We played for about an hour, counted up all the points, and discovered that it was a dead-heat. We tied. Well, if that's not some sort of omen, then I don't know what is.
We were friends for a long time, then lovers, then roommates, and now Kiss-Ass is my sweet little wife and mother to my darling daughter. She taught me how to bingo in Scrabble (making a play using all 7 tiles), she's in charge of all the power tools in the house, and she makes a mean seafood quiche. Now, I kiss Kiss-Ass's ass.
So, I don't quite know whether to thank the horrible Inspections instructor, or my girlfriend who dumped me. Either way, things turned out well for me.
On a final note, I did get rid of that itchy crotch. Everything is ship-shape down there now.
The last time that Tony Pierce linked to me, I had just completed a post on my itchy crotch. It was, some would say, not my finest blogging hour. Others, specifically those who love stories about itchy crotches, disagreed. However, I vowed to myself that I'd have better material if he linked to me again.
That being said, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Must....be....entertaining......
So, without further ado, I present a story that doesn't embarrass me, but rather one that my wife truly abhors. Sorry, wifey, but I must sacrifice someone on the blogging altar. It's your turn.
About 13 years ago, Back when I was working for Hewlett Packard in Mountain View, California, I took a work-related class in something called "Inspections". This was a god-awful course that essentially taught us programmers how to review each other's code. I can assure you all, one of the most boring things you can do with a computer is read someone else's code. Significantly more boring than that, however, is sitting through a class learning how to read someone else's code.
I sat in the back of the classroom with my other "cool" programmer friends, rebelling against this imposition on our work day. We quietly made snide comments about the boorish instructor.
There was this one woman though. Let's call her Kiss-Ass. She waltzed into class the first day and plopped down in the front row. She asked questions all the freakin' time and seemed geniunely interested in what was obviously a topic made to be ridiculed. During breaks, she draped herself across her desk and chit-chatted with the holier-than-thou instructor.
I HATED Kiss-Ass. My friends and I mocked her. We couldn't quite tell what her angle was, but her geniune appreciation for the topic was a source of constant irritation to me. I never spoke to her (I mean, I was a programmer and she was a female. Obviously the forces of physics denied such events), but I spent a fair amount of time that week talking about her behind her back.
Class ended and life went on.
At that time I was living with my girlfriend. One day my girlfriend suggested that we spend an evening with a coworker of hers and his girlfriend. She assured me that these were fun folk. So, when we met this couple, I was surprised to discover that the girlfriend in question was Kiss-Ass. I was now forced to socialize with the object of my mockery.
As it turns out, she was edgy and fun, and we had a lovely evening. That didn't stop me from reporting back to my coworkers who had been in class with me, but I didn't mock Kiss-Ass with the same ferocity. My heart wasn't in it any more.
Then, as fate would have it, it eventually came out that my girlfriend was fooling around with her coworker. This left Kiss-Ass and I as the jilted lovers. We commiserated together and soon became fast friends. We spent a lot of time together and found much in common.
One day, when discussing word games, we each expressed that we were excellent at Boggle. The gauntlet had been thrown down. We played for about an hour, counted up all the points, and discovered that it was a dead-heat. We tied. Well, if that's not some sort of omen, then I don't know what is.
We were friends for a long time, then lovers, then roommates, and now Kiss-Ass is my sweet little wife and mother to my darling daughter. She taught me how to bingo in Scrabble (making a play using all 7 tiles), she's in charge of all the power tools in the house, and she makes a mean seafood quiche. Now, I kiss Kiss-Ass's ass.
So, I don't quite know whether to thank the horrible Inspections instructor, or my girlfriend who dumped me. Either way, things turned out well for me.
On a final note, I did get rid of that itchy crotch. Everything is ship-shape down there now.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Last post I was theorizing that I would win some sort of award at my running club's anniversary party. Well, I was right about that, although wrong about the award being for Worst Form. That would have only occurred in a rational universe. Absurdly, I won the award for the running group's "Best Male Athlete".
Let me state here and now, for all the Internet to see, that I am a horrible athlete. I run awkwardly. I lack motivation and mental strength and thus must rely on a group to keep me in line. Furthermore, I'm the only member of the running club that has dedicated himself to qualifying for the Boston Marathon and has failed at that effort.
So how do I qualify as Best Male Athlete? Attendance. I show up at these workouts more often than any other male in the club who gives a damn. Best Male Attendant with Crappy Form, that's what I should have won.
In other news, the Giants have broken my heart again. Somehow, at the end of a 162 game season, I'm left saying, "That's it?". Yesterday I watched the end of the game at my parents' house. The Giants went into the bottom of the 9th inning with a 3 run lead and promptly started putting men on base. My parents are unfamiliar with the concept of rooting for a sports team so they observed my worsening mood with some concern and alarm. My mother kept saying, "You're so nervous! Do you want some wine?!?!" I've never had my mother be quite so urgent about me consuming alcohol. I preferred to watch the atrocity sober though.
Today, the final nail went into the coffin. The Giants will not be going to the playoffs. Why do I care? I don't know, but I do. Tom Tolbert, a local sports broadcaster, equates rooting for a sports team with rooting for laundry. Since the players switch teams, if you keep rooting for the same team, you're essentially just rooting for the uniforms.
May the Dodgers' laundry be washed in too hot water and shrink.
On one final note, someone got to my blog by searching on MSN for busty + squirting + chicks. I suspect they were disappointed.
Let me state here and now, for all the Internet to see, that I am a horrible athlete. I run awkwardly. I lack motivation and mental strength and thus must rely on a group to keep me in line. Furthermore, I'm the only member of the running club that has dedicated himself to qualifying for the Boston Marathon and has failed at that effort.
So how do I qualify as Best Male Athlete? Attendance. I show up at these workouts more often than any other male in the club who gives a damn. Best Male Attendant with Crappy Form, that's what I should have won.
In other news, the Giants have broken my heart again. Somehow, at the end of a 162 game season, I'm left saying, "That's it?". Yesterday I watched the end of the game at my parents' house. The Giants went into the bottom of the 9th inning with a 3 run lead and promptly started putting men on base. My parents are unfamiliar with the concept of rooting for a sports team so they observed my worsening mood with some concern and alarm. My mother kept saying, "You're so nervous! Do you want some wine?!?!" I've never had my mother be quite so urgent about me consuming alcohol. I preferred to watch the atrocity sober though.
Today, the final nail went into the coffin. The Giants will not be going to the playoffs. Why do I care? I don't know, but I do. Tom Tolbert, a local sports broadcaster, equates rooting for a sports team with rooting for laundry. Since the players switch teams, if you keep rooting for the same team, you're essentially just rooting for the uniforms.
May the Dodgers' laundry be washed in too hot water and shrink.
On one final note, someone got to my blog by searching on MSN for busty + squirting + chicks. I suspect they were disappointed.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
I think I'm going to win an award tonight.
No, not a Bloggy, despite my impressive body of work.
My running club is holding their second annual anniversary party and the festivities will include an award ceremony. My coaches went out of their way to ensure that I would be present at the ceremony. So, either they're just really nice guys or they have something in mind for me.
I've racked my brain to think about in which way I've distinguished myself as a runner this year. I'm not the fastest runner or the most improved. I'm not the nicest or the meanest.... Crap. I may actually be the meanest runner. Well, hopefully I've hidden that aspect of my personality well enough for them not to know about it.
I'm not the biggest smartass (maybe 2nd biggest) nor do I have the biggest ass. I'm neither most supportive nor best dressed. As near as I can tell, my distinguishing characteristic as a runner is my form.
I predict, and you heard it here first, that tonight I will win an award for Worst Form. I have carefully considered all the alternatives and I have concluded that such an award will be constructed for me. This will recognize my pigeon-toed, arms-a-flailing, head-bobbing running style for what it is, a dazzling example of inefficiency in motion.
I'm so proud.
No, not a Bloggy, despite my impressive body of work.
My running club is holding their second annual anniversary party and the festivities will include an award ceremony. My coaches went out of their way to ensure that I would be present at the ceremony. So, either they're just really nice guys or they have something in mind for me.
I've racked my brain to think about in which way I've distinguished myself as a runner this year. I'm not the fastest runner or the most improved. I'm not the nicest or the meanest.... Crap. I may actually be the meanest runner. Well, hopefully I've hidden that aspect of my personality well enough for them not to know about it.
I'm not the biggest smartass (maybe 2nd biggest) nor do I have the biggest ass. I'm neither most supportive nor best dressed. As near as I can tell, my distinguishing characteristic as a runner is my form.
I predict, and you heard it here first, that tonight I will win an award for Worst Form. I have carefully considered all the alternatives and I have concluded that such an award will be constructed for me. This will recognize my pigeon-toed, arms-a-flailing, head-bobbing running style for what it is, a dazzling example of inefficiency in motion.
I'm so proud.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Today, as I walked up the San Francisco hill to my house, holding a latte in one hand, and Jon Stewarts, "America (The Book)" book in the other hand, I wondered if I had become too much of a stereotype' It would appear that I have become the Latte Liberal. I was also wearing flannel. A fashion faux pas for sure, but surely someone wants me for a focus group, no?
Speaking (writing?) of politics, I skipped the Presidential debate last night. Although I'm all for political discourse, I wonder if this tradition has outlived its usefulness. The way I see it, the debate will only matter to those folks who meet ALL these criteria:
1) Registered voters
2) People who somehow haven't made up their mind about the candidates. (this has got to be a pretty small percentage)
3) People who are interested in politics enough to watch two unwatchable people debate for 90 minutes.
4) People who actually get swayed by the snipping they hear in the debate
So, how many registered voters haven't made up their mind despite the onslaught of political messages in this nation, but still desire to watch a debate between these men, and then finally hear what they need to hear, enough to choose a candidate? I tell you how many. 8. 8 damn voters. Maybe 9. All that fuss for 9 voters. I think that money could have been spent on something more useful. Like candy. Jujubes for all, my friends.
On a final note, this last week of the baseball season is killing me. I find myself turning off Giants games around the 6th inning because I just can't bear to watch any more. I'm too nervous! Win or lose or something already! Three days to go, and there are three teams all within one game of each other for the wild card spot. God, I'm getting queasy just thinking about it. This season has been a rollercoaster. Any other time this year, the Giants fate has been obvious. Either they were obviously postseason-bound, or obviously going to be on vacation in October. Now, in this final week, it's all down to Schroedinger's cat.
Please, let the cat live, and let the Giants go to the postseason.
Speaking (writing?) of politics, I skipped the Presidential debate last night. Although I'm all for political discourse, I wonder if this tradition has outlived its usefulness. The way I see it, the debate will only matter to those folks who meet ALL these criteria:
1) Registered voters
2) People who somehow haven't made up their mind about the candidates. (this has got to be a pretty small percentage)
3) People who are interested in politics enough to watch two unwatchable people debate for 90 minutes.
4) People who actually get swayed by the snipping they hear in the debate
So, how many registered voters haven't made up their mind despite the onslaught of political messages in this nation, but still desire to watch a debate between these men, and then finally hear what they need to hear, enough to choose a candidate? I tell you how many. 8. 8 damn voters. Maybe 9. All that fuss for 9 voters. I think that money could have been spent on something more useful. Like candy. Jujubes for all, my friends.
On a final note, this last week of the baseball season is killing me. I find myself turning off Giants games around the 6th inning because I just can't bear to watch any more. I'm too nervous! Win or lose or something already! Three days to go, and there are three teams all within one game of each other for the wild card spot. God, I'm getting queasy just thinking about it. This season has been a rollercoaster. Any other time this year, the Giants fate has been obvious. Either they were obviously postseason-bound, or obviously going to be on vacation in October. Now, in this final week, it's all down to Schroedinger's cat.
Please, let the cat live, and let the Giants go to the postseason.
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