Here is the final chapter of my posts about Barrington Hall. I cleverly call it "The End". As pre-study I recommend reading my previous four posts on the topic: the intro, my room, meal time, and parties at Barrington. Or, if you prefer a cut-n-pasted summary, skim this:
I lived in the Barrington Hall Cooperative in Berkeley, California during my sophomore year of college. It was an exaggerated stereotype of life in "hippie" Berkeley, replete with copious drugs, psychedelic murals, and entrenched filth. I was a squeaky clean boy from the suburbs. Fish out of water hilarity ensued. Comedy was primarily supplied by a wacky set of supporting characters and dangerous meals. Today this would be a short-lived series on Fox.
And now, the end.
I think it's safe to say that Barrington wasn't really a "normal" place. Many of the inhabitants were caricatures of actual humans, either by choice or by alternative brain chemistry. There was one character, named Berkeley Bob, who was rumored to live in a secret room in the building. I caught several glimpses of him moving through the house during my year there, but never understood if he was a student, or an ex-student, or a homeless guy, or what. I think he was supposed to be a brilliant burn-out, but I may be confusing him with a character from "Real Genius".
I recall a gal named Ged (whose real name, I believe, was Grendel, like the monster from Beowulf) who chose to sunbathe naked on the roof. I know this sounds like a semi-discrete place to be naked, but the roof was where the laundry room was. And Ged would position herself facing the door, right in front of it. So, you'd go up to do your laundry, open the door, and BAM! VAGINA! Hello, Ged.
So, with the parties, the filth, the odd characters, the drugs, the people streaming in and out at all hours, the noise, and the general sense of anarchy, Barrington Hall was what you'd call a bad neighbor. For many years, perhaps as long as Barrington had been open, nearby Berkeley residents complained. This generally took the form of calls to the police, angry letters to the Cooperative Association, and hearty portions of red-faced fist-waving.
One year, I think it was 1987 or 1988, a group of neighbors decided that they'd had enough, and they filed a lawsuit against the Cooperative Assocation which owned Barrington along with 17 other less controversial houses. The lawsuit was a sprawling document citing sections of the Federal RICO (Racketeering Influenced Corrupt Organizations) Statute and naming a broad swath of individuals including Co-op officials, some students, and various people identified by their nicknames like "Icepick Al" and "Skateboard Kenny".
The lawsuit was both laughable and dangerous. Although it was hard to take a document seriously that named "Icepick Al" as a defendent, they had a lawyer and were threatening to take action which would end up both closing Barrington and affecting the entire Co-op system. The people of Barrington mostly ignored the lawsuit. Backed by decades of counter-culture tradition, the general anarchy continued as did the infamous Wine Dinner parties.
I moved out of Barrington after one year, in the summer of 1988, and I spent the next two years in Davis House, a smaller and calmer Co-op building. During those two years, the lawsuit slowly weaved its way through the legal system. The scope of the lawsuit was large enough that many Co-op members began to fear for their houses too. Soon, spurred on by concern from the administration, a Co-op-wide vote was taken. Although there were questions about the validity and the motivation of the referendum, the decision was to close Barrington Hall.
By this point in time I was sitting on the Board of Directors for the Co-op system. Everyone in the Co-ops did some sort of work shift and I was lucky enough to satisfy the requirement by sitting on the Board instead of cooking or cleaning. This was a pretty cushy workshift, but now we were tasked with the unpleasant chore of actually closing down Barrington, a place for which I still felt much fondness.
The referendum occurred in the Fall of 1989 and the building was officially closed by the end of that semester. Immediately afterwards, squatters took up residence, demanding to continue living in the building. I suppose this was to be expected. Take a building full of hippie anarchists, add eviction and voila, squatters! That's just math.
Soon afterwards, in the Spring of 1990, the squatters held what they called a "poetry reading". The evening ended with police storming the building and there was alleged violence on both sides of the badge. Although the Co-op Board didn't want anyone living in the building, we also felt obliged to protect the squatters (probably as much from a legal perspective as from pure liberal guilt), so we formed a team of people who would carry pagers at all times and would respond to any activity in Barrington. If the police were going to show up, we wanted to be there too, to ensure that there was no violence.
I volunteered for this duty, feeling the need to watch this train wreck to the very end. I was only summoned to Barrington once and it was a fairly calm affair in the middle of the night. Both the squatters and the police were on their best behavior. That was the last time I looked inside Barrington Hall.
I graduated at the end of that semester and the squatters were removed from Barrington shortly thereafter. The Co-op system eventually sold the building and now it's a privately owned boarding house.
To this day it still feels strange to know that Barrington is no more. Sure it was a drug-filled nuisance, but it was partially MY drug-filled nuisance. I can't quite explain why a place where I didn't fit it at all has evoked such nostalgia for me (Amusingly, when I typed the word "nostalgia" just now, it came out as nastalgia. Maybe that's more appropriate. Nasty nostalgia).
I got an email last week from a guy who found my blog by Googling on "Barrington Hall" Berkeley. It turns out that he and I both lived there at the same time and we had a nice email chat about friends in common. It was a nice trip down memory lane.
Anyway, I've blabbered on long enough. That's the end of my time in Barrington Hall. It was a love/hate thing.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
As I've mentioned before, I've turned the grocery shopping chore into a model of efficiency. From the sorted-by-aisle list, to the pre-shopping test-run of a shopping cart, I am the George Foreman Grill of grocery shoppers (except not really very mean).
This weekend, however, we required some gourmet items, so I was forced to visit the fancy-pants market and not my usual efficient, yet soul-sucking, corporate grocery store. I reluctantly pulled on my nicest slacks and drove there.
There are several things wrong with this market. First, the aisles are dangerously narrow. They are almost exactly two shopping carts wide. This means that if you want to pass by someone, both parties must hurl themselves against the shelves to perform the maneuver. Trying to get this level of cooperation with person after person in the market is a tiresome and annoying chore. I do so hate people. Each time I enter an aisle that has another shopper, I pray for a tiny rift in the space-time continuum that will allow me to pass them and their oblivious cart. But, as they say, there's never a wormhole when you need one.
The other thing wrong with this market is that the selection of goods is inadequate for my Madison-Avenue-tuned brain. Do you know how many kinds of roll-on deoderant they had for men? One. One!! And it was some crazy brand I had never heard of. They had like 8 different kinds of organic deoderant though.
Now, I like the environment. It's handy for things like breathing. I get that, but when it comes to reducing my underarm stank, I don't want an organic product. I want the full force of chemical technology and global-warming ingenuity generously slathered onto my armpits. Is that so much to ask? And I want it in a roll-on!
However, I resigned myself to choose from the various "stick" type dispensers (although I've noticed that my armpit pubes tend to accumulate in these). I perused the SpeedStick brand and was totally baffled by what I found. The scents that they came in had completely unidentifiable names. What does an "icy surge" smell like? What about "cool fusion" or "fresh rush"? I have no freakin' clue how these would make my armpits smell. Does fusion smell good? Better than fission I suppose.
I don't even remember which one I chose. It's all a blur. However, when I recounted this story to my wife, she said, "Why do you care what you smell like? You have no sense of smell! You should have ME pick it out. I'm the one who has to smell you."
That's the division of labor in my house. I do the shopping, she does the smelling.
This weekend, however, we required some gourmet items, so I was forced to visit the fancy-pants market and not my usual efficient, yet soul-sucking, corporate grocery store. I reluctantly pulled on my nicest slacks and drove there.
There are several things wrong with this market. First, the aisles are dangerously narrow. They are almost exactly two shopping carts wide. This means that if you want to pass by someone, both parties must hurl themselves against the shelves to perform the maneuver. Trying to get this level of cooperation with person after person in the market is a tiresome and annoying chore. I do so hate people. Each time I enter an aisle that has another shopper, I pray for a tiny rift in the space-time continuum that will allow me to pass them and their oblivious cart. But, as they say, there's never a wormhole when you need one.
The other thing wrong with this market is that the selection of goods is inadequate for my Madison-Avenue-tuned brain. Do you know how many kinds of roll-on deoderant they had for men? One. One!! And it was some crazy brand I had never heard of. They had like 8 different kinds of organic deoderant though.
Now, I like the environment. It's handy for things like breathing. I get that, but when it comes to reducing my underarm stank, I don't want an organic product. I want the full force of chemical technology and global-warming ingenuity generously slathered onto my armpits. Is that so much to ask? And I want it in a roll-on!
However, I resigned myself to choose from the various "stick" type dispensers (although I've noticed that my armpit pubes tend to accumulate in these). I perused the SpeedStick brand and was totally baffled by what I found. The scents that they came in had completely unidentifiable names. What does an "icy surge" smell like? What about "cool fusion" or "fresh rush"? I have no freakin' clue how these would make my armpits smell. Does fusion smell good? Better than fission I suppose.
I don't even remember which one I chose. It's all a blur. However, when I recounted this story to my wife, she said, "Why do you care what you smell like? You have no sense of smell! You should have ME pick it out. I'm the one who has to smell you."
That's the division of labor in my house. I do the shopping, she does the smelling.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
You know those old people who end up filling their houses with towering piles of old magazines, or cats? I think that's my daughter's future.
She's a complete pack rat. We can't throw away a baby rattle, or a ripped and slobbered-upon Teletubbies book, or a toothbrush without invoking her immunity system response. WHOOP WHOOP! PART OF SELF DISAPPEARING!! I SAID WHOOP!!
I'm short on time here, so I can't get into all the gory details, but I can comment on the toothbrush fetish.
TOOTHBRUSHES??
When my daughter first started bursting into tears when we'd try to throw away her old toothbrushes, I put my foot down. This was where I drew the line at hanging onto old nostalgiac items. My wife, however, suggested that my daughter have a box that she'd keep in her room, where she'd keep "special" items such as worn and frayed toothbrushes.
So, that's what we did. Now my daughter has her special box and it's filled with toothbrushes (about 7 so far), random toys, envelopes, and other bits of crap. This is a habit that is totally foreign to me. Although my office is filled with old bits of crap, it's because I'm lazy and not because I actually desire to keep this junk around.
I hope I'm around when my daughter gets temporarily pinned under a giant stack of fallen magazines and toothbrushes, so that I can say, "I TOLD YOU SO!
She's a complete pack rat. We can't throw away a baby rattle, or a ripped and slobbered-upon Teletubbies book, or a toothbrush without invoking her immunity system response. WHOOP WHOOP! PART OF SELF DISAPPEARING!! I SAID WHOOP!!
I'm short on time here, so I can't get into all the gory details, but I can comment on the toothbrush fetish.
TOOTHBRUSHES??
When my daughter first started bursting into tears when we'd try to throw away her old toothbrushes, I put my foot down. This was where I drew the line at hanging onto old nostalgiac items. My wife, however, suggested that my daughter have a box that she'd keep in her room, where she'd keep "special" items such as worn and frayed toothbrushes.
So, that's what we did. Now my daughter has her special box and it's filled with toothbrushes (about 7 so far), random toys, envelopes, and other bits of crap. This is a habit that is totally foreign to me. Although my office is filled with old bits of crap, it's because I'm lazy and not because I actually desire to keep this junk around.
I hope I'm around when my daughter gets temporarily pinned under a giant stack of fallen magazines and toothbrushes, so that I can say, "I TOLD YOU SO!
Sunday, April 24, 2005
(Note to self, don't forget to insert pithy introduction to the topic of the Olympics here. Make the segue look effortless)
And that brings us to the Olympics.
If you're anything like me, you don't give a crap about the Olympics. Sure the long and middle distance running events make our hearts race while we forget to breath, but most of the other events are irrelevant. Should I be pole vaulting to work? Will shot-putting make me a better lover? Does including the word "luge" in my blog make it funnier? (Answers: no, probably not, and only if you're stoned.)
I'd like to see Olympic events that focus on the activities of our everyday lives. Imagine athletes competing in events we can all relate to, like ass-wiping. Who among us is the best ass-wiper? The importance and appeal of events like these is undeniable.
It is in this spirit, that I propose The Minutia Olympics, dedicated to inspiring us to excellence in our everyday lives. I'd like to see the following events contested in the first Minutia Olympics and I've listed the criteria by which athletes will be judged. (Obviously I was kidding about the ass-wiping event. Although it would be a great boon to those among us who lack excellence at this skill, the overall crassness of that spectacle eliminates it from this worthy competition.)
PISSING
Description: Each of us pisses away valuable minutes of every day. Athletes in this competition would endeavor to show us how an expert does it. Medals would be awarded in eight separate divisions: Male Seated, Male Standing, Female Seated, and Female Standing. Each competition would include a compulsory set of exercises as well as a freestyle session.
Judging Criteria: Accuracy, splashback, speed, and arc asthetic.
SHOE TYING
Description: Although this is an unnecessary skill in these modern times, many of us spend precious moments of our lives practicing this arcane art. There is only one medal awarded in this competition for the best overall shoe tying. This event is unisex.
Judging Criteria: Speed of tying, strength of knot, ease of untying the knot, and athlete hotness.
SLEEPING
Description: This is no-holds-barred, knock-down, drag-em-out, full-throttle, bring-it-on, sleep warfare. Competitors will stop at nothing to out-sleep their opponents. The event will be a team competition with each team consisting of one male and one female sleepthlete. Medals will be awarded in the flannel and lingerie divisions.
Judging Criteria: Number of hours of consecutive sleep endured, and stillness. Points detracted for any fluid emissions including but not limited to drool, semen, and urine.
This is but a fraction of the sporting entertainment that the Minutia Olympics will have to offer. I, for one, cannot wait to watch this on TV.
It's a glorious new world, my friends.
And that brings us to the Olympics.
If you're anything like me, you don't give a crap about the Olympics. Sure the long and middle distance running events make our hearts race while we forget to breath, but most of the other events are irrelevant. Should I be pole vaulting to work? Will shot-putting make me a better lover? Does including the word "luge" in my blog make it funnier? (Answers: no, probably not, and only if you're stoned.)
I'd like to see Olympic events that focus on the activities of our everyday lives. Imagine athletes competing in events we can all relate to, like ass-wiping. Who among us is the best ass-wiper? The importance and appeal of events like these is undeniable.
It is in this spirit, that I propose The Minutia Olympics, dedicated to inspiring us to excellence in our everyday lives. I'd like to see the following events contested in the first Minutia Olympics and I've listed the criteria by which athletes will be judged. (Obviously I was kidding about the ass-wiping event. Although it would be a great boon to those among us who lack excellence at this skill, the overall crassness of that spectacle eliminates it from this worthy competition.)
PISSING
Description: Each of us pisses away valuable minutes of every day. Athletes in this competition would endeavor to show us how an expert does it. Medals would be awarded in eight separate divisions: Male Seated, Male Standing, Female Seated, and Female Standing. Each competition would include a compulsory set of exercises as well as a freestyle session.
Judging Criteria: Accuracy, splashback, speed, and arc asthetic.
SHOE TYING
Description: Although this is an unnecessary skill in these modern times, many of us spend precious moments of our lives practicing this arcane art. There is only one medal awarded in this competition for the best overall shoe tying. This event is unisex.
Judging Criteria: Speed of tying, strength of knot, ease of untying the knot, and athlete hotness.
SLEEPING
Description: This is no-holds-barred, knock-down, drag-em-out, full-throttle, bring-it-on, sleep warfare. Competitors will stop at nothing to out-sleep their opponents. The event will be a team competition with each team consisting of one male and one female sleepthlete. Medals will be awarded in the flannel and lingerie divisions.
Judging Criteria: Number of hours of consecutive sleep endured, and stillness. Points detracted for any fluid emissions including but not limited to drool, semen, and urine.
This is but a fraction of the sporting entertainment that the Minutia Olympics will have to offer. I, for one, cannot wait to watch this on TV.
It's a glorious new world, my friends.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Just to put a lid on the whole Boston thing, here are a bunch of unrelated thoughts about my trip. It's Swanson's Lazy Man's blogging, not very delicious, but it'll fill the void. Skip the peas and carrots though. Mushy.
1) The city of Boston began a massive project over 20 years ago to improve traffic, partially by digging tunnels under the city and routing traffic through them. This project, called the Big Dig, has cost around 15 billion dollars. Theoretically, it's about done.
$15,000,000,000! Holy crap! And the city still looks like it's in ruins. Construction debris litters large areas, signage for these new roads is abysmal, and several residents I spoke to weren't ever really sure about which roads were open and which weren't. Nice work, Boston!
Given that Boston has less than half a million residents of driving age, perhaps they could have spent this money more wisely. Like maybe divvy up the dough! Every would-be driver could have had $30,000. That would take the sting out of a traffic jam. Or, maybe a more realistic solution would have been to buy everyone jet-packs or invest in pixie-dust technology.
2) In the days before the race I kept encountering other runners, all of them with astonishing running resumes and much faster than me. The woman in front of me on the airplane was about to run her 50th marathon. The drunk guy on the shuttle bus was on his 7th Boston marathon. The guy next to us at the restaurant wasn't feeling healthy, but hoped to eke out a sub 3:00 marathon. Crikey! Somehow, I managed to finish ahead of about 16,000 runners in the actual race. Where were all these people hiding in the days before?
3) We arrived at our hotel on Friday night and made sure to put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, knowing that we'd be sleeping in on Saturday (since we were still on California time). At around 9:50am on Saturday morning (that's 6:50am to me!) the phone rang. It was the maid. We had this conversation:
Maid: Good morning, would you like your room made up this morning?
Me: I...had....the...Do Not Disturb....sign out.
Maid: I know, that's why we called.
Me: But, but, you're disturbing me. This counts as disturbing me. Do NOT disturb.
Maid: I'm sorry about that, but we were on your floor and wanted to know if you needed your room cleaned.
Me: Why would you call me if I have that sign out?
Maid: To find out if you wanted your room cleaned.
Me: Ah, of couse. No thank you.
Oddly enough, this happened to us the last time we went on vacation. And that was that was even at a nice hotel. This one was not so nice. Our view overlooked a bus parking lot, a Hertz heavy equipment rental lot, a funeral home, lots of garbage, and some warehouses that seemed to offer outreach programs. Classy.
4) During the actual marathon, sometimes you'd get a good view of the course ahead, like when we would descend into a valley, or when there was a hill ahead. Each time I could see that the somewhat narrow course was jam packed with runners, even after many miles. The sight impressed me every time.
5) The bathroom door in our hotel room had a full length mirror on the outside of it. My daughter would often stand in front of it when the door was closed, admiring her beauty. Unfortunately, and inexplicably, the door opened OUT. I got to hear this exchange a couple of times during my trip:
Wife: (comes out of bathroom, opening door into daughter) Tra la la
Daughter: (Blam!) Owww! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!
Man, that's good comedy. Thanks, Best Western!
6) On Saturday there was a sign in the lobby of our hotel saying "Welcome Norvell Custom Fit Bras". I kept a hopeful lookout for women whose breasts were so impressive that they required custom bras, but could not identify said breast-owners. If I had seen them, I would have warned them about the bathroom doors which would have been doubly dangerous to them.
7) Although I'm not thrilled with my performance in the race (I think my slowdown in the late miles was more mental than physical, which is depressing), I take some solace in this. I believe all the runners were assigned numbers based on our qualifying times, and we lined up at the starting line according to our numbers. So, theoretically the 5000+ runners ahead of me in Hopkinton should have been faster than me. I ended up in around 3000th place. So, somewhere, there are 2000 runners who probably disappointed themselves more than I did. Their failure brings me joy.
1) The city of Boston began a massive project over 20 years ago to improve traffic, partially by digging tunnels under the city and routing traffic through them. This project, called the Big Dig, has cost around 15 billion dollars. Theoretically, it's about done.
$15,000,000,000! Holy crap! And the city still looks like it's in ruins. Construction debris litters large areas, signage for these new roads is abysmal, and several residents I spoke to weren't ever really sure about which roads were open and which weren't. Nice work, Boston!
Given that Boston has less than half a million residents of driving age, perhaps they could have spent this money more wisely. Like maybe divvy up the dough! Every would-be driver could have had $30,000. That would take the sting out of a traffic jam. Or, maybe a more realistic solution would have been to buy everyone jet-packs or invest in pixie-dust technology.
2) In the days before the race I kept encountering other runners, all of them with astonishing running resumes and much faster than me. The woman in front of me on the airplane was about to run her 50th marathon. The drunk guy on the shuttle bus was on his 7th Boston marathon. The guy next to us at the restaurant wasn't feeling healthy, but hoped to eke out a sub 3:00 marathon. Crikey! Somehow, I managed to finish ahead of about 16,000 runners in the actual race. Where were all these people hiding in the days before?
3) We arrived at our hotel on Friday night and made sure to put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, knowing that we'd be sleeping in on Saturday (since we were still on California time). At around 9:50am on Saturday morning (that's 6:50am to me!) the phone rang. It was the maid. We had this conversation:
Maid: Good morning, would you like your room made up this morning?
Me: I...had....the...Do Not Disturb....sign out.
Maid: I know, that's why we called.
Me: But, but, you're disturbing me. This counts as disturbing me. Do NOT disturb.
Maid: I'm sorry about that, but we were on your floor and wanted to know if you needed your room cleaned.
Me: Why would you call me if I have that sign out?
Maid: To find out if you wanted your room cleaned.
Me: Ah, of couse. No thank you.
Oddly enough, this happened to us the last time we went on vacation. And that was that was even at a nice hotel. This one was not so nice. Our view overlooked a bus parking lot, a Hertz heavy equipment rental lot, a funeral home, lots of garbage, and some warehouses that seemed to offer outreach programs. Classy.
4) During the actual marathon, sometimes you'd get a good view of the course ahead, like when we would descend into a valley, or when there was a hill ahead. Each time I could see that the somewhat narrow course was jam packed with runners, even after many miles. The sight impressed me every time.
5) The bathroom door in our hotel room had a full length mirror on the outside of it. My daughter would often stand in front of it when the door was closed, admiring her beauty. Unfortunately, and inexplicably, the door opened OUT. I got to hear this exchange a couple of times during my trip:
Wife: (comes out of bathroom, opening door into daughter) Tra la la
Daughter: (Blam!) Owww! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!
Man, that's good comedy. Thanks, Best Western!
6) On Saturday there was a sign in the lobby of our hotel saying "Welcome Norvell Custom Fit Bras". I kept a hopeful lookout for women whose breasts were so impressive that they required custom bras, but could not identify said breast-owners. If I had seen them, I would have warned them about the bathroom doors which would have been doubly dangerous to them.
7) Although I'm not thrilled with my performance in the race (I think my slowdown in the late miles was more mental than physical, which is depressing), I take some solace in this. I believe all the runners were assigned numbers based on our qualifying times, and we lined up at the starting line according to our numbers. So, theoretically the 5000+ runners ahead of me in Hopkinton should have been faster than me. I ended up in around 3000th place. So, somewhere, there are 2000 runners who probably disappointed themselves more than I did. Their failure brings me joy.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Boston Marathon - Part 2
(Part 1 of my Boston Marathon experience is here)
At noon on April 18th, the 109th running of the Boston Marathon began. The elite women and wheelchair athletes got an early start, but the rest of us started running at 12:00 sharp. Actually, out of the 20,000 people that were lined up on a narrow street, probably only a few dozen actually began running at noon. The rest of us just started shuffling up to the starting line. My race began nearly 3 minutes later. Other runners in the back took over 20 minutes to reach the starting line. Thankfully we were all wearing an electronic chip on our shoes that took these delays into account when computing our race time.
The weather was a bit warm, at around 66 degrees, but not too bad. Mostly it was just a relief to get running after all the hours of standing in line and waiting. My adrenaline was pumping, partially because this was THE BOSTON MARATHON, but it didn't hurt that there were many hundreds of spectators lined up on the sides of road.
The first 4 miles of the race are mostly downhill, which makes them pretty pleasant. You've got nice New England countryside, cheering spectators, and fresh legs. Well, mine were still feeling kind of hurty. I ran through my injury checklist and noticed that my left achilles and my right hip were still hurting but they didn't seem to prevent me from running at a normal pace.
A couple days before the race some drunk guy had given me advice about the marathon. He slurred to me that it was very important to enjoy this race and all the spectators. He mumbled that I should be sure to stick thigh knives into the kids along the sidelines. After I contemplated that for a moment, I decided that he had probably meant to say that I should give high fives to the kids. I hope.
Never one to ignore advice from a drunk guy, I made my way over to the right-hand side of the course and started giving high-fives to kids with their arms outstretched. There aren't a lot of entertaining things you can do during a marathon, so giving high-fives to kids ranks pretty high on the list.
The spectators were the best thing about the race. There wasn't a single point along the 26.2 mile course when you couldn't look to the sidelines and see a bunch of people. They were cheering, and handing out food and water, and letting us know the score in the Red Sox game. They were totally motivating and informational.
At the 10K mark (which is almost 1/4 of the way) I was feeling pretty good. I was on pace to set a personal record, but the famed hills were still ahead and I knew that I'd be slowing down. My injuries had mostly numbed up and I was feeling pretty good. I passed through various small New England towns, every one of them packed with cheering spectators. I had probably high-fived nearly a hundred kids at this point.
At the 12 mile mark, I was starting to feel a little weary, but I could hear extra loud screaming coming from up ahead. This was the part of the course that goes by Wellesley college, often described at the emotional high-point of the race. It rocked. The women of Wellesley had turned out in force and were screaming at the top of their lungs. I put my arm out for high-fives and left it there for nearly a quarter mile. I had a big grin on my face the whole time.
Two of the women were holding up a big sign that said "Stop for a kiss!". Although I do typically run marathons for the random and anonymous kisses, on this day I was feeling not-so-fresh, so I decided to run on. The guy in front of me though made a half-hearted attempt to collect on this offer. Apparently the transaction took a bit longer than he expected, so he dashed off without his kiss. As I ran past the would-be kissing coeds, I heard them call out, "HEY! YOU FORGOT YOUR KISS!".
The women of Wellesley rule. My energy was back up after that section. My right arm, however, is still a bit sore even today from all those high-fives.
The next 3.5 miles were mostly flat. I cruised along here at a reasonable pace, conserving energy for the upcoming hills in the town of Newton. There are 4 (some say 3) hills between miles 16.5 and 20.5, the most famous of which is the last one, known as Heartbreak Hill. These hills aren't particularly steep or astonishingly long, but the fact that they come so late in the race makes them more difficult than they should be. Although I had never seen these hills, I had been hearing about these hills for months, so I approached them with dread and caution. Also, I knew that my wife, daughter, and mother-in-law were going to be somewhere in Newton on the sidelines. I did NOT want them to see me walking up the hills. Vanity is a bitch.
I was almost relieved when I finally got to the first hill. As it turns out, the anticipation was worse than the actual effort required. I slowed down a bit and made it to the top without too much pain.
I kept my eyes peeled for my family, but there were so many people that there was no way to see everyone. It was my wife's birthday, so I wanted to make sure that we didn't miss each other. I planned to run into the crowd, wish her a happy birthday and plant a big sweaty kiss on both her and my daughter. I rehearsed this scene in my mind and I made my way to the 2nd hill.
Using the same conservative pace (about 1 minute per mile slower than I had been running), I made it up the 2nd and 3rd hills of Newton. I still hadn't spotted my family which was a bit concerning. I knew this was a crappy way for my wife to spend her birthday, and it would be a little worse if we didn't actually see each other during the race. I kept looking for them while I made my way towards the infamous Heartbreak Hill.
Finally Heartbreak Hill loomed before me. It looked unpleasant but not the monster it was made out to be. I kept my pace and puttered up the incline. Finally, at the 20.5 mark, I had conquered the hills of the Boston Marathon! The last 6 miles were mostly downhill.
So, this should be it, right? Downhill! How hard can that be? I should be able to cruise on in. Four obstacles stood in my way, however:
1) My legs were spent. I hadn't done very much strength training in the months before the race and my quads were reminding me of that right now. They were extremely tight.
2) There was no chance that I'd see my family at this point. Somehow, I had missed them (turns out they were around the 20 mile mark, at the bottom of Heartbreak Hill). Vanity no longer motivated me.
3) I had no time goal in this race. In my previous few marathons I had been struggling to qualify for Boston. Now that I was actually in Boston, what was I supposed to shoot for? What was going to motivate me? Pride? Hah!
4) 6 miles left. 6 miles left. 6 miles left. The 20 mile mark is often referred to as The Wall. 6 miles, even downhill ones, suddenly seemed very daunting.
So, mentally, I threw in the towel. I knew this blog was called I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time for a reason. Over the next few miles, I did things that I never do in a good marathon. I walked while drinking my water. I stopped to stretch. I took any excuse possible to slow down and stop running if only for a few seconds. My per-mile pace dropped another minute or two.
The miles ticked by more slowly, but my watch was inexorable. This began to get a little depressing. Although I had made no official statement about a time goal, secretly I still had certain expectations of myself and they were slipping by.
At mile 24 I saw someone on the sidelines with a hose. This was a pretty common sight, with it being a warm day. Typically those folks would spray their hose into the air, misting the runners, which was highly appreciated. I raised my arms in a signal to the guy to turn on his hose. Much to my surprise, he turned it on and aimed it at me. He kept the stream of water trained on me for several seconds as I ran by, completely drenching me.
This, as it turns out, was the wakeup call I needed to shake me out of my stupor. I felt a bit refreshed and promised myself that I'd run the last 2 miles of the race strong. I'd eke out a bit of dignity during the final portion of the marathon.
The crowds were huge as the course came into Boston. People were lined up more than 5 deep, screaming and cheering. I increased my pace slightly as I passed a marker indicating that there was 1 mile left. I've always taken pride in finishing my races strong. On most of my training runs I try to end with a good kick and it's extremely rare that I get passed in the last mile of a race.
I turned a final corner onto Boyleston St and saw the finish line about 1/4 mile away. I picked up the pace with all my remaining energy and sprinted (or so it seemed at the time) to the end.
Done.
My personal record for a marathon is about 3 hours and 14 minutes. I was hoping to do something in between that and 3 hours and 30 minutes in Boston. Well, I came out a lot closer to the latter than the former, but it's good enough.
As soon as I stopped running, my muscles immediately clamped down in an effort to keep me from doing stupid things like walking. Going up and down curbs was especially difficult, each one requiring a strategy that minimized the stress on my pathetic legs. The curbs were like a puzzle where if you guessed wrong, you'd be punished by a sharp shooting pain. I approached each one with great caution and thought.
At one point, when I was trying to cross a street to catch a cab back to my hotel, I stood alongside a policeman while I waited for a break in traffic. When traffic thinned, I gingerly stepped down off the curb only to stumble. I quickly climbed back up on the curb, in fear that I wouldn't be able to cross the street in time. The officer watched this and gently said, "You can make it."
He was right.
So, there you have it. That was my Boston Marathon.
And with that effort, I unofficially retire from marathoning. Although I reserve the right to change my mind, I'm not quite sure why I'd run another one. As it turns out, they kind of suck.
Now, I'm a man in search of a new goal. I'll probably keep running because it allows me to eat like crap, which I value highly, but I need some other goal to chase. What's left? I've seen guys juggle in marathons, I've read about folks who run a marathon each week, or in each state, or backwards. Maybe I could run marathons while audblogging or podcasting or while screaming, "THIS IS A STUPID HOBBY!". More likely, I'll find shorter races to run.
I watched the telecast of the Boston Marathon over the last few days with an unpleasant feeling of regret for not doing better, but my heart still raced as it always does when I watch a long distance running event.
(Part 1 of my Boston Marathon experience is here)
At noon on April 18th, the 109th running of the Boston Marathon began. The elite women and wheelchair athletes got an early start, but the rest of us started running at 12:00 sharp. Actually, out of the 20,000 people that were lined up on a narrow street, probably only a few dozen actually began running at noon. The rest of us just started shuffling up to the starting line. My race began nearly 3 minutes later. Other runners in the back took over 20 minutes to reach the starting line. Thankfully we were all wearing an electronic chip on our shoes that took these delays into account when computing our race time.
The weather was a bit warm, at around 66 degrees, but not too bad. Mostly it was just a relief to get running after all the hours of standing in line and waiting. My adrenaline was pumping, partially because this was THE BOSTON MARATHON, but it didn't hurt that there were many hundreds of spectators lined up on the sides of road.
The first 4 miles of the race are mostly downhill, which makes them pretty pleasant. You've got nice New England countryside, cheering spectators, and fresh legs. Well, mine were still feeling kind of hurty. I ran through my injury checklist and noticed that my left achilles and my right hip were still hurting but they didn't seem to prevent me from running at a normal pace.
A couple days before the race some drunk guy had given me advice about the marathon. He slurred to me that it was very important to enjoy this race and all the spectators. He mumbled that I should be sure to stick thigh knives into the kids along the sidelines. After I contemplated that for a moment, I decided that he had probably meant to say that I should give high fives to the kids. I hope.
Never one to ignore advice from a drunk guy, I made my way over to the right-hand side of the course and started giving high-fives to kids with their arms outstretched. There aren't a lot of entertaining things you can do during a marathon, so giving high-fives to kids ranks pretty high on the list.
The spectators were the best thing about the race. There wasn't a single point along the 26.2 mile course when you couldn't look to the sidelines and see a bunch of people. They were cheering, and handing out food and water, and letting us know the score in the Red Sox game. They were totally motivating and informational.
At the 10K mark (which is almost 1/4 of the way) I was feeling pretty good. I was on pace to set a personal record, but the famed hills were still ahead and I knew that I'd be slowing down. My injuries had mostly numbed up and I was feeling pretty good. I passed through various small New England towns, every one of them packed with cheering spectators. I had probably high-fived nearly a hundred kids at this point.
At the 12 mile mark, I was starting to feel a little weary, but I could hear extra loud screaming coming from up ahead. This was the part of the course that goes by Wellesley college, often described at the emotional high-point of the race. It rocked. The women of Wellesley had turned out in force and were screaming at the top of their lungs. I put my arm out for high-fives and left it there for nearly a quarter mile. I had a big grin on my face the whole time.
Two of the women were holding up a big sign that said "Stop for a kiss!". Although I do typically run marathons for the random and anonymous kisses, on this day I was feeling not-so-fresh, so I decided to run on. The guy in front of me though made a half-hearted attempt to collect on this offer. Apparently the transaction took a bit longer than he expected, so he dashed off without his kiss. As I ran past the would-be kissing coeds, I heard them call out, "HEY! YOU FORGOT YOUR KISS!".
The women of Wellesley rule. My energy was back up after that section. My right arm, however, is still a bit sore even today from all those high-fives.
The next 3.5 miles were mostly flat. I cruised along here at a reasonable pace, conserving energy for the upcoming hills in the town of Newton. There are 4 (some say 3) hills between miles 16.5 and 20.5, the most famous of which is the last one, known as Heartbreak Hill. These hills aren't particularly steep or astonishingly long, but the fact that they come so late in the race makes them more difficult than they should be. Although I had never seen these hills, I had been hearing about these hills for months, so I approached them with dread and caution. Also, I knew that my wife, daughter, and mother-in-law were going to be somewhere in Newton on the sidelines. I did NOT want them to see me walking up the hills. Vanity is a bitch.
I was almost relieved when I finally got to the first hill. As it turns out, the anticipation was worse than the actual effort required. I slowed down a bit and made it to the top without too much pain.
I kept my eyes peeled for my family, but there were so many people that there was no way to see everyone. It was my wife's birthday, so I wanted to make sure that we didn't miss each other. I planned to run into the crowd, wish her a happy birthday and plant a big sweaty kiss on both her and my daughter. I rehearsed this scene in my mind and I made my way to the 2nd hill.
Using the same conservative pace (about 1 minute per mile slower than I had been running), I made it up the 2nd and 3rd hills of Newton. I still hadn't spotted my family which was a bit concerning. I knew this was a crappy way for my wife to spend her birthday, and it would be a little worse if we didn't actually see each other during the race. I kept looking for them while I made my way towards the infamous Heartbreak Hill.
Finally Heartbreak Hill loomed before me. It looked unpleasant but not the monster it was made out to be. I kept my pace and puttered up the incline. Finally, at the 20.5 mark, I had conquered the hills of the Boston Marathon! The last 6 miles were mostly downhill.
So, this should be it, right? Downhill! How hard can that be? I should be able to cruise on in. Four obstacles stood in my way, however:
1) My legs were spent. I hadn't done very much strength training in the months before the race and my quads were reminding me of that right now. They were extremely tight.
2) There was no chance that I'd see my family at this point. Somehow, I had missed them (turns out they were around the 20 mile mark, at the bottom of Heartbreak Hill). Vanity no longer motivated me.
3) I had no time goal in this race. In my previous few marathons I had been struggling to qualify for Boston. Now that I was actually in Boston, what was I supposed to shoot for? What was going to motivate me? Pride? Hah!
4) 6 miles left. 6 miles left. 6 miles left. The 20 mile mark is often referred to as The Wall. 6 miles, even downhill ones, suddenly seemed very daunting.
So, mentally, I threw in the towel. I knew this blog was called I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time for a reason. Over the next few miles, I did things that I never do in a good marathon. I walked while drinking my water. I stopped to stretch. I took any excuse possible to slow down and stop running if only for a few seconds. My per-mile pace dropped another minute or two.
The miles ticked by more slowly, but my watch was inexorable. This began to get a little depressing. Although I had made no official statement about a time goal, secretly I still had certain expectations of myself and they were slipping by.
At mile 24 I saw someone on the sidelines with a hose. This was a pretty common sight, with it being a warm day. Typically those folks would spray their hose into the air, misting the runners, which was highly appreciated. I raised my arms in a signal to the guy to turn on his hose. Much to my surprise, he turned it on and aimed it at me. He kept the stream of water trained on me for several seconds as I ran by, completely drenching me.
This, as it turns out, was the wakeup call I needed to shake me out of my stupor. I felt a bit refreshed and promised myself that I'd run the last 2 miles of the race strong. I'd eke out a bit of dignity during the final portion of the marathon.
The crowds were huge as the course came into Boston. People were lined up more than 5 deep, screaming and cheering. I increased my pace slightly as I passed a marker indicating that there was 1 mile left. I've always taken pride in finishing my races strong. On most of my training runs I try to end with a good kick and it's extremely rare that I get passed in the last mile of a race.
I turned a final corner onto Boyleston St and saw the finish line about 1/4 mile away. I picked up the pace with all my remaining energy and sprinted (or so it seemed at the time) to the end.
Done.
My personal record for a marathon is about 3 hours and 14 minutes. I was hoping to do something in between that and 3 hours and 30 minutes in Boston. Well, I came out a lot closer to the latter than the former, but it's good enough.
As soon as I stopped running, my muscles immediately clamped down in an effort to keep me from doing stupid things like walking. Going up and down curbs was especially difficult, each one requiring a strategy that minimized the stress on my pathetic legs. The curbs were like a puzzle where if you guessed wrong, you'd be punished by a sharp shooting pain. I approached each one with great caution and thought.
At one point, when I was trying to cross a street to catch a cab back to my hotel, I stood alongside a policeman while I waited for a break in traffic. When traffic thinned, I gingerly stepped down off the curb only to stumble. I quickly climbed back up on the curb, in fear that I wouldn't be able to cross the street in time. The officer watched this and gently said, "You can make it."
He was right.
So, there you have it. That was my Boston Marathon.
And with that effort, I unofficially retire from marathoning. Although I reserve the right to change my mind, I'm not quite sure why I'd run another one. As it turns out, they kind of suck.
Now, I'm a man in search of a new goal. I'll probably keep running because it allows me to eat like crap, which I value highly, but I need some other goal to chase. What's left? I've seen guys juggle in marathons, I've read about folks who run a marathon each week, or in each state, or backwards. Maybe I could run marathons while audblogging or podcasting or while screaming, "THIS IS A STUPID HOBBY!". More likely, I'll find shorter races to run.
I watched the telecast of the Boston Marathon over the last few days with an unpleasant feeling of regret for not doing better, but my heart still raced as it always does when I watch a long distance running event.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
And so, with a gimpy awkward shuffle, I gingerly exit the sport of marathoning.
But first, obsessive self-reflection. There's lots to say about my trip, but let's cut to the chase and talk about the Boston Marathon itself.
I had nearly convinced myself that I didn't really have a time goal for this race. My training had been sub-par so I was just going to try and enjoy the experience, as much as one can enjoy 3.5 hours of running. I had read articles about the marathon and spoken to several people who had run it before and they all said the same thing: there's nothing else like the Boston Marathon, so savor the experience.
"I will!", I told myself, "I will savor this race! I'll swish it around in my mouth and suck the marrow right out of it. Delicious, it will be!"
The night before the marathon I did my final preparations. I decided to leave many of my electronic crutches behind. I put away my MP3 player and my heart monitor. I wasn't going to run this race as a slave to my heart rate or the beats-per-minute of my running music. I was going to immerse myself in the environment, and be in the moment, and all of that other zen crap. I refrained from saying "Ommmm", but I was going to be one with the Boston Marathon.
Logistically, there's a lot that's awkward about the race:
1) It takes place at noon. Most runners are used to doing their long runs in the morning, because every other big marathon in the world takes place around 8:00am. Not Boston. Last year this resulted in 85 degree temperatures during the race.
2) The starting line is in a small suburb outside of Boston with few hotels. Runners are warned over and over that the only guaranteed way to get to the starting line on time is to take the official buses from Boston. Runners are assigned to a bus, which start leaving Boston at 6:00am, 6 hours before race time.
3) The course very vaguely follows the route that Paul Revere rode in 1775 to kick off our war of independence. Paul had a horse when he covered the route.
My bus was scheduled to leave at 7:45 am, so I had to get up at 6:30 that morning, which still felt like 3:30 to my California-tuned brain. After packing up all the food and liquids that I'd need to consume before and during the race, I made it to the bus loading area to find the longest line I've ever seen in my life. This line was HUGE and there wasn't a roller coaster or Super Bowl tickets at the end of it. The line slowly fed runners into a neverending stream of school buses. It looked like a soylent green sausage packing factory.
The line took an hour, but eventually we were on. Conversation was excited and people all around me were discussing their race strategies. Soon folks settled down and as the drive dragged on, my fellow bus riders seemed unusually focused. Many had their heads pressed against the seat in front of them, or were staring into space with a pained expression. I quickly realized that everyone was suffering from the same ailment I was. I had last pissed at 7:00am and had been sucking down Gatorade ever since. This was not pleasant.
After a full hour on the bus, we eventually arrived at our destination in Hopkinton. I emerged from the bus, hunched over in an effort to keep the urine from squirting out of me. The lines at the port-a-potties were already long, so I lurched over to the nearest tree and let out the longest stream of piss I've had in nearly 20 years. In a word, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh".
It was now 10:00am, and I spent most of the next two hours doing food/fluid input/output. I'd eat while I was standing in line for the port-a-potties, then kill 10 minutes by aimlessly walking around, and then do it again.
Eventually it was time to line up. My starting position (assigned based on your qualifying time) was nearly half a mile away. I made my way through the crowd, mentally reviewing how I felt. In the days before the marathon I had noticed some nagging injuries and I considered how they felt that afternoon. My left achilles heel was hurting. It had bothered me a fair bit during my last short training run. Also, my right hip had been suffering some weird ailment for a few weeks. I was actually limping as I entered my starting area. This boded poorly, but there was a good chance these injuries would numb up after a few miles.
I stretched for the last few minutes and waited for the starting gun to go off...
(more tomorrow, but the management summary is that I didn't win)
But first, obsessive self-reflection. There's lots to say about my trip, but let's cut to the chase and talk about the Boston Marathon itself.
I had nearly convinced myself that I didn't really have a time goal for this race. My training had been sub-par so I was just going to try and enjoy the experience, as much as one can enjoy 3.5 hours of running. I had read articles about the marathon and spoken to several people who had run it before and they all said the same thing: there's nothing else like the Boston Marathon, so savor the experience.
"I will!", I told myself, "I will savor this race! I'll swish it around in my mouth and suck the marrow right out of it. Delicious, it will be!"
The night before the marathon I did my final preparations. I decided to leave many of my electronic crutches behind. I put away my MP3 player and my heart monitor. I wasn't going to run this race as a slave to my heart rate or the beats-per-minute of my running music. I was going to immerse myself in the environment, and be in the moment, and all of that other zen crap. I refrained from saying "Ommmm", but I was going to be one with the Boston Marathon.
Logistically, there's a lot that's awkward about the race:
1) It takes place at noon. Most runners are used to doing their long runs in the morning, because every other big marathon in the world takes place around 8:00am. Not Boston. Last year this resulted in 85 degree temperatures during the race.
2) The starting line is in a small suburb outside of Boston with few hotels. Runners are warned over and over that the only guaranteed way to get to the starting line on time is to take the official buses from Boston. Runners are assigned to a bus, which start leaving Boston at 6:00am, 6 hours before race time.
3) The course very vaguely follows the route that Paul Revere rode in 1775 to kick off our war of independence. Paul had a horse when he covered the route.
My bus was scheduled to leave at 7:45 am, so I had to get up at 6:30 that morning, which still felt like 3:30 to my California-tuned brain. After packing up all the food and liquids that I'd need to consume before and during the race, I made it to the bus loading area to find the longest line I've ever seen in my life. This line was HUGE and there wasn't a roller coaster or Super Bowl tickets at the end of it. The line slowly fed runners into a neverending stream of school buses. It looked like a soylent green sausage packing factory.
The line took an hour, but eventually we were on. Conversation was excited and people all around me were discussing their race strategies. Soon folks settled down and as the drive dragged on, my fellow bus riders seemed unusually focused. Many had their heads pressed against the seat in front of them, or were staring into space with a pained expression. I quickly realized that everyone was suffering from the same ailment I was. I had last pissed at 7:00am and had been sucking down Gatorade ever since. This was not pleasant.
After a full hour on the bus, we eventually arrived at our destination in Hopkinton. I emerged from the bus, hunched over in an effort to keep the urine from squirting out of me. The lines at the port-a-potties were already long, so I lurched over to the nearest tree and let out the longest stream of piss I've had in nearly 20 years. In a word, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh".
It was now 10:00am, and I spent most of the next two hours doing food/fluid input/output. I'd eat while I was standing in line for the port-a-potties, then kill 10 minutes by aimlessly walking around, and then do it again.
Eventually it was time to line up. My starting position (assigned based on your qualifying time) was nearly half a mile away. I made my way through the crowd, mentally reviewing how I felt. In the days before the marathon I had noticed some nagging injuries and I considered how they felt that afternoon. My left achilles heel was hurting. It had bothered me a fair bit during my last short training run. Also, my right hip had been suffering some weird ailment for a few weeks. I was actually limping as I entered my starting area. This boded poorly, but there was a good chance these injuries would numb up after a few miles.
I stretched for the last few minutes and waited for the starting gun to go off...
(more tomorrow, but the management summary is that I didn't win)
Friday, April 15, 2005
Thanks for all the support, kind wishes, and sarcasm!
We leave for Boston this morning. Consequently the part of my brain that does the funny stuff is too busy panicking (Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!). This makes me not so hilarious, but is a somewhat manaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagable state.
During my brief weekend absence, I encourage you aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall to read Izzle Pfaff, or maybe just sit quietly. I'll return with tales of woe, exhaustion, ice baths, and in-laws next week.
We leave for Boston this morning. Consequently the part of my brain that does the funny stuff is too busy panicking (Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!). This makes me not so hilarious, but is a somewhat manaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagable state.
During my brief weekend absence, I encourage you aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall to read Izzle Pfaff, or maybe just sit quietly. I'll return with tales of woe, exhaustion, ice baths, and in-laws next week.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
On Monday, April 18th, I will be running the 109th occurrence of the Boston Marathon. Between now and then, I have much fretting to do, so I don't know if I'll be doing much blogging for the next few days. Tomorrow, I have to work, pack, and fret. On Friday I fly to Boston. Then the weekend is filled with fretting. Before you know it, I'm standing in Hopkinton, 26.2 miles away from the finish line in Boston, fretting for a final few moments.
Also on Monday April 18th is my wife's birthday. So, for those few moments that I'm not fretting, I'll be thinking about what a dick I am for not getting her presents organized before this trip. There is much precedent in this household for celebrating holidays after the fact, so this is not a divorceable offense (yet). Plus, my wife owes me one or two holidays worth of gifts, so I can coast for a week or two.
Anyway, the point here is WISH ME LUCK.
Also on Monday April 18th is my wife's birthday. So, for those few moments that I'm not fretting, I'll be thinking about what a dick I am for not getting her presents organized before this trip. There is much precedent in this household for celebrating holidays after the fact, so this is not a divorceable offense (yet). Plus, my wife owes me one or two holidays worth of gifts, so I can coast for a week or two.
Anyway, the point here is WISH ME LUCK.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Had this Instant Messenger conversation with a coworker yesterday afternoon:
Me: My wife just reminded me that she bought us tickets for the SFGMC tonight. Any guesses?
Coworker: San Francisco Gay Men's Club?
Me: Sooooo close
Coworker: Gay Mensa Club?
Me: Less close
Coworker: Gay?
Me: The San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus!
Yes, last night the wifedragged me to and I went to see the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus perform. Normally I shun cultural events such as this, but I do value my marriage, and so off we went.
I learned a lot about a SF Gay Men's Chorus performance:
1) Ladies, if you're looking for a place to piss, make a beeline for a SFGMC performance. My wife was delighted to find that lines at the ladies room were nonexistent. She reported that the women were abuzz with excitement over the availability of toilet stalls, many women chiming into the group conversation with confirmations of line-free bathrooms throughout the venue. The dream is alive, ladies. Just find a place where men outnumber women 10:1, and pee to your heart's content.
The vibe in the men's room was less celebratory. I pissed with a grim determination, straining to exude heterosexuality. I am by no means a homophobe, but we've all heard rumors of there being various subtle signals that one gay man can give to another. Maybe it's something like an earring being in the right ear vs left or perhaps a hankerchief in a back pocket, I don't recall exactly. So, I was unsure whether I should piss with one hand, two hands, or go for the "Look, ma, no hands!" stunt. I cautiously went with the one-handed technique, not knowing if I was telling my co-pissers that I was a bottom, or perhaps that I desired a swarthy and hirsute lover.
Despite the fact that the usual unwritten rules about not choosing a urinal right next to another man were ignored, I managed to finish peeing without making a date. I was somewhat disappointed.
2) Prior to, during, and after the performance, there was a crapload of clapping. I had forgotten how much you have to clap during a live performance. There were times when I honestly thought to my self, "Man, I should work out my arms more." It was exhausting. This is why computer programmers don't go to more concerts.
Then, the whole do-I-stand-up-during-this-half-hearted-standing-ovation dilemma. I'm out for an evening of leisure. Why should I have to stand up? This is why computer programmers don't go to more concerts.
I propose that we give feedback to performers via a browser somehow. Instead of clapping, audience members could select their level of appreciation from a pull-down menu. Hit the "Submit" button and voila, the request would get processed by the application server, which would store it in a database, which would make it available for a monthly batch "Audience Response" report which could get emailed to the conductor. Presto, no need for clapping! Someone, build this.
3) The show was half opera, half show tunes. I'm not a big fan of opera, and I don't know many show tunes, but they done good. The show was light-hearted and professionally performed. If you like choral music, and you live near San Francisco, and you dig looking at 150 nattily attired gay men, then I can heartily recommend the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus.
Me: My wife just reminded me that she bought us tickets for the SFGMC tonight. Any guesses?
Coworker: San Francisco Gay Men's Club?
Me: Sooooo close
Coworker: Gay Mensa Club?
Me: Less close
Coworker: Gay?
Me: The San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus!
Yes, last night the wife
I learned a lot about a SF Gay Men's Chorus performance:
1) Ladies, if you're looking for a place to piss, make a beeline for a SFGMC performance. My wife was delighted to find that lines at the ladies room were nonexistent. She reported that the women were abuzz with excitement over the availability of toilet stalls, many women chiming into the group conversation with confirmations of line-free bathrooms throughout the venue. The dream is alive, ladies. Just find a place where men outnumber women 10:1, and pee to your heart's content.
The vibe in the men's room was less celebratory. I pissed with a grim determination, straining to exude heterosexuality. I am by no means a homophobe, but we've all heard rumors of there being various subtle signals that one gay man can give to another. Maybe it's something like an earring being in the right ear vs left or perhaps a hankerchief in a back pocket, I don't recall exactly. So, I was unsure whether I should piss with one hand, two hands, or go for the "Look, ma, no hands!" stunt. I cautiously went with the one-handed technique, not knowing if I was telling my co-pissers that I was a bottom, or perhaps that I desired a swarthy and hirsute lover.
Despite the fact that the usual unwritten rules about not choosing a urinal right next to another man were ignored, I managed to finish peeing without making a date. I was somewhat disappointed.
2) Prior to, during, and after the performance, there was a crapload of clapping. I had forgotten how much you have to clap during a live performance. There were times when I honestly thought to my self, "Man, I should work out my arms more." It was exhausting. This is why computer programmers don't go to more concerts.
Then, the whole do-I-stand-up-during-this-half-hearted-standing-ovation dilemma. I'm out for an evening of leisure. Why should I have to stand up? This is why computer programmers don't go to more concerts.
I propose that we give feedback to performers via a browser somehow. Instead of clapping, audience members could select their level of appreciation from a pull-down menu. Hit the "Submit" button and voila, the request would get processed by the application server, which would store it in a database, which would make it available for a monthly batch "Audience Response" report which could get emailed to the conductor. Presto, no need for clapping! Someone, build this.
3) The show was half opera, half show tunes. I'm not a big fan of opera, and I don't know many show tunes, but they done good. The show was light-hearted and professionally performed. If you like choral music, and you live near San Francisco, and you dig looking at 150 nattily attired gay men, then I can heartily recommend the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
There we are in Lake Tahoe, staying in a lovely rented condo with some friends. Being a stupid male of the species, I had packed adequate clothes, but assumed that there would be soap and shampoo and whatnot at the condo. So, I climb into the shower, after a hard day of skiing, and lather up with the provided bar of soap.
But where's the shampoo? There's no little complementary bottle of shampoo! I debate whether I can construct my own shampoo out of the chemicals that are readily present. I have soap, water, and can produce a variety of bodily fluids on demand, some of which are high in protein. I decide this is a bad plan. I then notice that there are several unlabeled containers in the back of the shower. There's a squarish glass jar containing a bright green liquid that may be shower cleaner, and then there are two unlabeled bottles that look like my wife packed them. They each contain a viscous off-white liquid.
My wife's hygiene regimen has always baffled me. She has many tiny jars with various mysterious chemicals and vegetable extracts in them. Do you have any idea what carrot oil is used for? Me either, but my wife does something with it. Grape Seed Hydrating Serum? Organic Rose Geranium Water? These are all bottles in our medicine cabinet. I know not to ask.
So, god knows what's in these unlabeled bottles of hers. One of them is probably shampoo, while the other could be some special vagina detergent made of jicama and tulip stamens. Realistically, I've got a 50% chance of getting this right. I randomly pick one of the bottles, pour out a dollop into my palm, and give it a whiff. I have no idea what odor it is, but it seems like it would make me cleaner rather than dirtier, so I lather up. Immediately, I feel relief when my head does not begin to menstruate.
As it turns out, I picked the right bottle. Later, when I chided my wife for always packing the mystery toiletries, she urged me to pick up the bottles and look at the writing on the bottom (on the bottom? Who the hell labels bottles on the bottom???). The one I had used was labeled "Sh" and the other one was "Co". Seemingly, this is her secret code for Shampoo and Conditioner.
Apparently there was no jicama vagina detergent, at all. Seems like an oversight to me.
But where's the shampoo? There's no little complementary bottle of shampoo! I debate whether I can construct my own shampoo out of the chemicals that are readily present. I have soap, water, and can produce a variety of bodily fluids on demand, some of which are high in protein. I decide this is a bad plan. I then notice that there are several unlabeled containers in the back of the shower. There's a squarish glass jar containing a bright green liquid that may be shower cleaner, and then there are two unlabeled bottles that look like my wife packed them. They each contain a viscous off-white liquid.
My wife's hygiene regimen has always baffled me. She has many tiny jars with various mysterious chemicals and vegetable extracts in them. Do you have any idea what carrot oil is used for? Me either, but my wife does something with it. Grape Seed Hydrating Serum? Organic Rose Geranium Water? These are all bottles in our medicine cabinet. I know not to ask.
So, god knows what's in these unlabeled bottles of hers. One of them is probably shampoo, while the other could be some special vagina detergent made of jicama and tulip stamens. Realistically, I've got a 50% chance of getting this right. I randomly pick one of the bottles, pour out a dollop into my palm, and give it a whiff. I have no idea what odor it is, but it seems like it would make me cleaner rather than dirtier, so I lather up. Immediately, I feel relief when my head does not begin to menstruate.
As it turns out, I picked the right bottle. Later, when I chided my wife for always packing the mystery toiletries, she urged me to pick up the bottles and look at the writing on the bottom (on the bottom? Who the hell labels bottles on the bottom???). The one I had used was labeled "Sh" and the other one was "Co". Seemingly, this is her secret code for Shampoo and Conditioner.
Apparently there was no jicama vagina detergent, at all. Seems like an oversight to me.
We went to Lake Tahoe again this weekend. Somehow I keep getting suckered into going, and the trips keep not being horrible. I'm not yet convinced though. I've gotten this far in my life using my carefully-honed strategy of pessimism and I see no reason to turn back now.
Tahoe is about 200 miles from San Francisco and should take less than 4 hours to drive in decent traffic. However, traffic sucked the big wazoo and the journey took nearly 7 hours of driving. The worst part was when it took nearly 2 hours to travel about 4 miles. The roads were snowy and a bunch of morons assumed that they could safely traverse the roads in their two-wheel-drive vehicles with no chains. Cars were sliding around in a carefully choreographed idiocy ballet, a vehicular dance whose sole purpose seemed to be to keep us from our destination. Had there been any way to turn our car around, I would have gone home right then and there. Although I am prepared to give up at any time, large snowy banks on either side of the road prevented me from executing that plan.
No one in our family planned on skiing. I knew my daughter would be too scared. My wife fears hurting her back, and there was no way I was going to get on the slopes one week before the Boston Marathon (have I mentioned that I'm running the Boston Marathon in a week??). This was all the more reason why the trip to Tahoe was a lame lame lame idea.
Saturday morning the weather was perfect, a beautiful Spring day in Lake Tahoe. The sun was out and fresh powder covered every surface. We brought our daughter to the ski resort to see if she had any interest in skiing, and much to my surprise she wanted to give it a try. Not to be outdone, I decided to risk it myself. I decided that if I was very careful, I should be able to avoid injury. We signed the kid up for lessons and I strapped on skis for the first time in nearly a decade. I mostly stuck to the beginning slopes and took it easy. The conditions were glorious.
After my daughter got out of her lesson, I got to ski with her. I was truly and honestly surprised and amazed at this development in our day.
I never skied as a child. My family wasn't really the outdoorsy types, so I learned these skills as an awkward adult instead of as an adaptable child. So, doing these types of activities, especially with a small child, is somewhat foreign to me.
Three images will stay in my mind:
1) Skiing down the hill, with my daughter a few yards ahead, watching her cut some turns and handle some simple slopes. It just seemed surreal to me.
2) My wife stood at the bottom of the hill and took a short video, capturing our daughter skiing down the hill towards her. In the background you can hear me yelling "Pizza wedge! Pizza wedge!" (which was what the instructors called the "snow plow" maneuver that you do to slow down). My daughter fails to slow down quickly enough and the video very nearly captures the collision between my daughter and my wife. Just before my daughter gets there, the camera angle jerkily swings all around and you can hear my wife busting up with laughter.
3) At one point I tried to lead my daughter down a short sleep slope. I told her to cut across the hill and follow my lead. I started down the slope and she came after me a little too soon. Before I knew what was happening, she had caught up to me and clamped on, wrapping her arms around my right leg and holding on for dear life. I tried to safely ski us down to the bottom while simultaneously laughing myself out of breath (high altitude and all). Somehow we made it. I suggested that she refrain from grabbing onto me while skiing, but I applauded her physical comedy talents.
So, despite all the hassle of getting to Tahoe, I had a lovely time. I was very glad that I decided to ski and that I didn't get hurt (although I did stress some leg muscles that I really needed to rest (something called the IT Band, I think)).
Also, I realize that every parent in the world gets the joy of watching their child develop some new skill, but the pleasure of the experience surprises me every time. I'm not sure I understand the mechanism that drives being proud of your child, but it seems to work rather effectively.
Tahoe is about 200 miles from San Francisco and should take less than 4 hours to drive in decent traffic. However, traffic sucked the big wazoo and the journey took nearly 7 hours of driving. The worst part was when it took nearly 2 hours to travel about 4 miles. The roads were snowy and a bunch of morons assumed that they could safely traverse the roads in their two-wheel-drive vehicles with no chains. Cars were sliding around in a carefully choreographed idiocy ballet, a vehicular dance whose sole purpose seemed to be to keep us from our destination. Had there been any way to turn our car around, I would have gone home right then and there. Although I am prepared to give up at any time, large snowy banks on either side of the road prevented me from executing that plan.
No one in our family planned on skiing. I knew my daughter would be too scared. My wife fears hurting her back, and there was no way I was going to get on the slopes one week before the Boston Marathon (have I mentioned that I'm running the Boston Marathon in a week??). This was all the more reason why the trip to Tahoe was a lame lame lame idea.
Saturday morning the weather was perfect, a beautiful Spring day in Lake Tahoe. The sun was out and fresh powder covered every surface. We brought our daughter to the ski resort to see if she had any interest in skiing, and much to my surprise she wanted to give it a try. Not to be outdone, I decided to risk it myself. I decided that if I was very careful, I should be able to avoid injury. We signed the kid up for lessons and I strapped on skis for the first time in nearly a decade. I mostly stuck to the beginning slopes and took it easy. The conditions were glorious.
After my daughter got out of her lesson, I got to ski with her. I was truly and honestly surprised and amazed at this development in our day.
I never skied as a child. My family wasn't really the outdoorsy types, so I learned these skills as an awkward adult instead of as an adaptable child. So, doing these types of activities, especially with a small child, is somewhat foreign to me.
Three images will stay in my mind:
1) Skiing down the hill, with my daughter a few yards ahead, watching her cut some turns and handle some simple slopes. It just seemed surreal to me.
2) My wife stood at the bottom of the hill and took a short video, capturing our daughter skiing down the hill towards her. In the background you can hear me yelling "Pizza wedge! Pizza wedge!" (which was what the instructors called the "snow plow" maneuver that you do to slow down). My daughter fails to slow down quickly enough and the video very nearly captures the collision between my daughter and my wife. Just before my daughter gets there, the camera angle jerkily swings all around and you can hear my wife busting up with laughter.
3) At one point I tried to lead my daughter down a short sleep slope. I told her to cut across the hill and follow my lead. I started down the slope and she came after me a little too soon. Before I knew what was happening, she had caught up to me and clamped on, wrapping her arms around my right leg and holding on for dear life. I tried to safely ski us down to the bottom while simultaneously laughing myself out of breath (high altitude and all). Somehow we made it. I suggested that she refrain from grabbing onto me while skiing, but I applauded her physical comedy talents.
So, despite all the hassle of getting to Tahoe, I had a lovely time. I was very glad that I decided to ski and that I didn't get hurt (although I did stress some leg muscles that I really needed to rest (something called the IT Band, I think)).
Also, I realize that every parent in the world gets the joy of watching their child develop some new skill, but the pleasure of the experience surprises me every time. I'm not sure I understand the mechanism that drives being proud of your child, but it seems to work rather effectively.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
I don't get out much.
In the 5+ years that I've been working for my current company, they've never once sent me to visit a customer. I think they realize that it's not wise to send work-at-home programmers out to the people who actually pay money for software. I mean you wouldn't ask the troll who lives under the bridge to start taking tolls, would you? Of course not. Firstly, trolls smell. Secondly, trolls don't know squat about customer satisfaction, and thirdly, I should avoid metaphors.
Caution was thrown to the wind today and I was asked to visit a customer here in downtown San Francisco. Apparently their technical people wanted to talk to our technical people. That and the fact that I actually live in San Francisco meant that I had to shower, shave, and put on nice clothes this morning.
I picked out my newest slacks (wrinkle-free! Bless you, Nordstrom!) and a newish button-down shirt. I ignored the fact that the shirt and pants were slightly mismatching shades of blue. If a computer programmer shows up wearing elegantly matched clothing, no one will respect their technical abilities.
The presentation went pretty smoothly. I adeptly tailored my schtick for this technically savvy audience. Here's a snippet:
Me: 100101110100011011111000100010111011.
Them: 0?
Me: 1!
All: Hahahahahaha
I was a hit!
Ok, I exaggerate a bit. No one can come up with schtick like that on their feet. But it did go pretty well. I think everyone's expectations are pretty low when they bring a programmer in to do a presentation. Other more polished employees from my company were on hand to step in, in case I just lost it and started spewing Java code in a Tourette's fit.
Giving a technical presentation is akin to walking a fine line. You want to tell them as much as possible, yet you don't want them to actually go comatose. That's career-limiting. So, I made sure to look around fairly often, and to ask if things were making sense. Often I'd get no response from the audience.
This didn't phase me though. I'm used to asking my wife or daughter a question and being completely ignored. Generally my response to this situation is to respond on behalf of my rude family member, in a shrill falsetto, amicably agreeing with whatever plan I had just suggested. I refrained from using this tactic during today's presentation though, instead choosing to cluck nervously. I also discharged small amounts of sweat from my armpits. It's a coping mechanism.
I think the audience was satisfied overall. And I think my coworkers were relieved. When a computer programmer makes his way through a presentation without crapping his pants, it's cause for celebration. I suspect they all expected me to show up, smeared with feces, one hand clutching my laptop, and the other hand loosely holding together my bathrobe. With expectations that low, it's hard to disappoint.
Being feces-free, I came through, big time.
In the 5+ years that I've been working for my current company, they've never once sent me to visit a customer. I think they realize that it's not wise to send work-at-home programmers out to the people who actually pay money for software. I mean you wouldn't ask the troll who lives under the bridge to start taking tolls, would you? Of course not. Firstly, trolls smell. Secondly, trolls don't know squat about customer satisfaction, and thirdly, I should avoid metaphors.
Caution was thrown to the wind today and I was asked to visit a customer here in downtown San Francisco. Apparently their technical people wanted to talk to our technical people. That and the fact that I actually live in San Francisco meant that I had to shower, shave, and put on nice clothes this morning.
I picked out my newest slacks (wrinkle-free! Bless you, Nordstrom!) and a newish button-down shirt. I ignored the fact that the shirt and pants were slightly mismatching shades of blue. If a computer programmer shows up wearing elegantly matched clothing, no one will respect their technical abilities.
The presentation went pretty smoothly. I adeptly tailored my schtick for this technically savvy audience. Here's a snippet:
Me: 100101110100011011111000100010111011.
Them: 0?
Me: 1!
All: Hahahahahaha
I was a hit!
Ok, I exaggerate a bit. No one can come up with schtick like that on their feet. But it did go pretty well. I think everyone's expectations are pretty low when they bring a programmer in to do a presentation. Other more polished employees from my company were on hand to step in, in case I just lost it and started spewing Java code in a Tourette's fit.
Giving a technical presentation is akin to walking a fine line. You want to tell them as much as possible, yet you don't want them to actually go comatose. That's career-limiting. So, I made sure to look around fairly often, and to ask if things were making sense. Often I'd get no response from the audience.
This didn't phase me though. I'm used to asking my wife or daughter a question and being completely ignored. Generally my response to this situation is to respond on behalf of my rude family member, in a shrill falsetto, amicably agreeing with whatever plan I had just suggested. I refrained from using this tactic during today's presentation though, instead choosing to cluck nervously. I also discharged small amounts of sweat from my armpits. It's a coping mechanism.
I think the audience was satisfied overall. And I think my coworkers were relieved. When a computer programmer makes his way through a presentation without crapping his pants, it's cause for celebration. I suspect they all expected me to show up, smeared with feces, one hand clutching my laptop, and the other hand loosely holding together my bathrobe. With expectations that low, it's hard to disappoint.
Being feces-free, I came through, big time.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
People often ask me, "Mike, how are you so efficient, and handsome?"
Good questions. The handsome part is a trade secret, but I can assure you that it requires meticulous effort and constant maintenance. Pubic hairs don't groom themselves, boys and girls.
Now, the efficiency aspect I can elaborate on. In fact, I'd be honored to share my tips with the blogosphere at large. Note taking is encouraged. These are 100% genuine tips. Fresh, even!
1) Shoe Tying
Don't do this. Shoe tying is a huge waste of time, and may actually be a plot perpetrated by communist forces. If you must wear shoes with laces, I strongly encourage you to find a tightness that allows you to slip them off and on. If, however, you're going to engage in some activity that requires snug shoes (sports, sneaker sex, etc), then use some sort of intelligent knot. I recommend a modification on the standard knot so that you wrap one bunny ear loop around the other loop TWICE. This is different from a regular double-knot in that you can untie it the usual way (thus is more efficient). This site has other fine knots.
Time saved: ~ 20 seconds per day
2) Grocery Shopping
It's all in the list. I have crafted a generic shopping list on my computer that contains all of my commonly-purchased items. Here's the clever/geeky part. The items are sorted by by how they appear in my local supermarket aisles. That way, when I'm in the supermarket, I don't constantly have to keep rescanning the list everytime I walk down an aisle. I just march down the list. Genius! I keep one of these lists affixed to the refrigerator so that I can checkmark items on it, as I think of them.
Time saved: 2 minutes per shopping trip
3) Dishwasher Loading
This one only pertains to those folks with dishwashing machines. I recommend sorting the silverware as you put it into the special little silverware container thingee. That way, when you unload, you can just pick up a big chunk of them, and drop them into the proper spot. So easy!
Time saved: 15 seconds per dishwasher run
4) Making Beds
Don't. This is the stupidest of chores. The bed just gets all messed up again and nothing bad happens if you don't make it. You comment-happy neat freaks should prepare yourself to be mocked. I have my mocking shoes (tye-less) on.
Time saved: ~90 seconds per day
5) Driving in Traffic
You know how you'll be stuck in traffic, and the other lane will be going faster. You sit there and watch that lane go by and then, finally, you make your move into that lane, only to have it come to a complete stop as you watch your original lane speed up? This happens all the time. It's mostly caused by the fact that lots of other people are doing what you're doing when you're doing it. The secret is to realize that this back-and-forth slow-fast pattern is cyclical. You need to change lanes BEFORE everyone else. You've got to stay ahead of the pattern. Keep an eye out for this traffic pattern and change lanes before yours comes to a grinding halt.
Time saved: ~45 seconds per traffic jam
Frustration saved: Priceless
Congratulations, you have now found time for a new hobby, like scrabble or smoking or something. Enjoy!
Good questions. The handsome part is a trade secret, but I can assure you that it requires meticulous effort and constant maintenance. Pubic hairs don't groom themselves, boys and girls.
Now, the efficiency aspect I can elaborate on. In fact, I'd be honored to share my tips with the blogosphere at large. Note taking is encouraged. These are 100% genuine tips. Fresh, even!
1) Shoe Tying
Don't do this. Shoe tying is a huge waste of time, and may actually be a plot perpetrated by communist forces. If you must wear shoes with laces, I strongly encourage you to find a tightness that allows you to slip them off and on. If, however, you're going to engage in some activity that requires snug shoes (sports, sneaker sex, etc), then use some sort of intelligent knot. I recommend a modification on the standard knot so that you wrap one bunny ear loop around the other loop TWICE. This is different from a regular double-knot in that you can untie it the usual way (thus is more efficient). This site has other fine knots.
Time saved: ~ 20 seconds per day
2) Grocery Shopping
It's all in the list. I have crafted a generic shopping list on my computer that contains all of my commonly-purchased items. Here's the clever/geeky part. The items are sorted by by how they appear in my local supermarket aisles. That way, when I'm in the supermarket, I don't constantly have to keep rescanning the list everytime I walk down an aisle. I just march down the list. Genius! I keep one of these lists affixed to the refrigerator so that I can checkmark items on it, as I think of them.
Time saved: 2 minutes per shopping trip
3) Dishwasher Loading
This one only pertains to those folks with dishwashing machines. I recommend sorting the silverware as you put it into the special little silverware container thingee. That way, when you unload, you can just pick up a big chunk of them, and drop them into the proper spot. So easy!
Time saved: 15 seconds per dishwasher run
4) Making Beds
Don't. This is the stupidest of chores. The bed just gets all messed up again and nothing bad happens if you don't make it. You comment-happy neat freaks should prepare yourself to be mocked. I have my mocking shoes (tye-less) on.
Time saved: ~90 seconds per day
5) Driving in Traffic
You know how you'll be stuck in traffic, and the other lane will be going faster. You sit there and watch that lane go by and then, finally, you make your move into that lane, only to have it come to a complete stop as you watch your original lane speed up? This happens all the time. It's mostly caused by the fact that lots of other people are doing what you're doing when you're doing it. The secret is to realize that this back-and-forth slow-fast pattern is cyclical. You need to change lanes BEFORE everyone else. You've got to stay ahead of the pattern. Keep an eye out for this traffic pattern and change lanes before yours comes to a grinding halt.
Time saved: ~45 seconds per traffic jam
Frustration saved: Priceless
Congratulations, you have now found time for a new hobby, like scrabble or smoking or something. Enjoy!
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
By utilizing my expert skills in lying and self-control, I have managed to convince my daughter that I am not ticklish (of course her inept tickling technique helps too). This gives me the upper hand in many arguments/tickle-fights, although now I have to dread the day that she starts reading this blog.
Anyway, the other day, frustrated by her inability to successfully tickle me, my daughter made an announcement. "I know a place where EVERYONE is ticklish!" she said gleefully.
"Where's that?" I asked, tensing my armpits.
My daughter pointed at her crotch and waggled her fingers mischieviously.
AAAAAAAAAAH!!!
Thankfully, my wife took it upon herself, heroically, to have a little chat with our daughter about how it wouldn't really be polite to tickle people in the crotch (at least not children). If she hadn't done that, I think I would have just thrown in th e towel on this whole parenting thing. "Kid, you're on your own, now!" I would have declared. My family is spared this announcement for at least another day.
I don't, however, think that anyone ever had that discussion with Michael Jackson. And that's what's wrong with the world today.
Anyway, the other day, frustrated by her inability to successfully tickle me, my daughter made an announcement. "I know a place where EVERYONE is ticklish!" she said gleefully.
"Where's that?" I asked, tensing my armpits.
My daughter pointed at her crotch and waggled her fingers mischieviously.
AAAAAAAAAAH!!!
Thankfully, my wife took it upon herself, heroically, to have a little chat with our daughter about how it wouldn't really be polite to tickle people in the crotch (at least not children). If she hadn't done that, I think I would have just thrown in th e towel on this whole parenting thing. "Kid, you're on your own, now!" I would have declared. My family is spared this announcement for at least another day.
I don't, however, think that anyone ever had that discussion with Michael Jackson. And that's what's wrong with the world today.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Who kicked ass this weekend? You? No. You over there with one hand on the keyboard? No, not you either.
Me! That's who!
We have a friend who is the president of a local charity. The charity was hosting a poker tournament to raise money and our friend bought a $500 seat in the tournament but she doesn't know how to play poker, so she asked me to be her designated player.
And so, at 7:45pm on Friday night, I sat down with 30 people more charitable than I to play a Texas Hold 'Em No Limit tournament.
My strategy can be summed up as this:
1) Play conservatively.
2) Don't be drunk.
3) Profit.
It worked surprisingly well for a while. I managed to merely sip at my beer although people kept bringing me new ones. Other players, the charity president, her husband, they all seemed overly interested in keeping me drunk. Although one might assume that these people wanted me to play poorly and contribute more money to the charity, I think a better theory is that they all wanted to sleep with me. For those of you who aren't computer programmers, it's hard to describe the sexy vibe we put off.
Our table of 7 players managed to have 3 Mikes at it. Briefly deviating from my strategy of being innocuous and wall-flower-like, I graciously offered to go by an alternate name of "Sally". The dealer, unfortunately, found this moniker to be tremendously humorous and referred to me as Sally for the next several hours. I mostly kept my mouth shut after that. So much so that some other players began referring to me as "Silent Mike". I can assure you that this is not a normal state for me.
Players started to drop and soon the 4 tables of players were whittled down to 2. Eventually I found myself at the final table with 6 other players. I eyed their chip stacks and was delighted to find that I was the chip leader. Me! At the final table! All chip leadery and crap!
I had a few good hands where I pushed other players around with my big manly stacks, which I wielded like an erect and dangerous penis. Sadly, and oh too familiarly, I shot my wad too soon. I ended up coming (you won't believe me, but no pun intended) in 4th place.
Still, I was quite proud to place 4th out of 30. I won a prize of 2 VIP tickets to the upcoming Cirque Du Soleil show, but I promptly handed them over to my poker patron, the charity president. It didn't seem right to accept a prize when I hadn't even paid for my seat at the table.
My good will was repaid the following evening when the wife and I hosted our monthly poker tournament. Out of 7 people, I came in 1st.
Ta dah!
Me! That's who!
We have a friend who is the president of a local charity. The charity was hosting a poker tournament to raise money and our friend bought a $500 seat in the tournament but she doesn't know how to play poker, so she asked me to be her designated player.
And so, at 7:45pm on Friday night, I sat down with 30 people more charitable than I to play a Texas Hold 'Em No Limit tournament.
My strategy can be summed up as this:
1) Play conservatively.
2) Don't be drunk.
3) Profit.
It worked surprisingly well for a while. I managed to merely sip at my beer although people kept bringing me new ones. Other players, the charity president, her husband, they all seemed overly interested in keeping me drunk. Although one might assume that these people wanted me to play poorly and contribute more money to the charity, I think a better theory is that they all wanted to sleep with me. For those of you who aren't computer programmers, it's hard to describe the sexy vibe we put off.
Our table of 7 players managed to have 3 Mikes at it. Briefly deviating from my strategy of being innocuous and wall-flower-like, I graciously offered to go by an alternate name of "Sally". The dealer, unfortunately, found this moniker to be tremendously humorous and referred to me as Sally for the next several hours. I mostly kept my mouth shut after that. So much so that some other players began referring to me as "Silent Mike". I can assure you that this is not a normal state for me.
Players started to drop and soon the 4 tables of players were whittled down to 2. Eventually I found myself at the final table with 6 other players. I eyed their chip stacks and was delighted to find that I was the chip leader. Me! At the final table! All chip leadery and crap!
I had a few good hands where I pushed other players around with my big manly stacks, which I wielded like an erect and dangerous penis. Sadly, and oh too familiarly, I shot my wad too soon. I ended up coming (you won't believe me, but no pun intended) in 4th place.
Still, I was quite proud to place 4th out of 30. I won a prize of 2 VIP tickets to the upcoming Cirque Du Soleil show, but I promptly handed them over to my poker patron, the charity president. It didn't seem right to accept a prize when I hadn't even paid for my seat at the table.
My good will was repaid the following evening when the wife and I hosted our monthly poker tournament. Out of 7 people, I came in 1st.
Ta dah!
Sunday, April 03, 2005
For the most part, I'm a pretty average father. Some days I'm all kisses and comedy, and other days I'm crankiness incarnate. Friday, our last day of Spring Break, was a good day. Somebody, put a second tally mark on the Daddy Belt.
I kicked off our final day of "vacation" by flipping up a batch of pancakes. I've written about my expertise in the kitchen arena once or twice, so let it suffice to say that I engage in cooking with great reluctance. I was committed to making this a good day though, and I had refused my daughter on the pancake request earlier in the week. So, not only did I make some positively undisgusting pancakes, but I even made a few in the shape of Mickey Mouse. Me! Artistic! Cooking! Quick, check on the other horsemen.
It's remarkable to see my daughter's reaction to something as dopey as a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake. Sincere surprised delight. I have no idea what I'd have do to my wife to achieve the same level of joy in her. Maybe one of those orgasm things that seem to be all the rage in feminist circles. Dunno.
Afterwards we watched Survivor together (which is a treat for my daughter, and only makes me feel a little guilty, so overall the karmic change is positive) and then ran a couple errands. Nothing thrilling there, but it was all leading up to one of the classic moments of parenting....
That afternoon, I whipped out my trusty wrench, swore a few times, considered calling my wife for help, struggled a bit, and then successfully removed the training wheels from my daughter's bicycle! I strutted around, flexed my tiny pecs for the neighbors, and then brought my daughter out to see.
A few minutes later we were down in the parking lot of the nearby private Catholic school, breaking into their parking lot. I live in a hilly neighborhood, so this lot was one of the few wide-open flat spaces near us. I assured my daughter that this would be ok. The gate really wasn't secured very well at all. I guess at this point, I'm just gambling that in the religious roulette wheel of life, Catholicism won't be the winner.
Let's! Go! Kabba-lah!
Anyway, I spent an exhausting 30 minutes, hunched over, while running, and holding onto the seat of my daughter's bike. I promised her that I wouldn't let her fall on this first outing, so I made sure to keep her upright. She really did pretty well. I taught her to put her feet down when the bike comes to a stop, and how to lean into a turn, and I think she started to get the feel for keeping her balance on the bike. I realized afterwards that it would have been smart to read up a bit on how to teach someone how to ride a bike, but it seemed straightforward when we left the house. Sort of like the proverbial riding of the bike. Now that I think of it though, I guess that expression refers to remembering how to ride, not learning how to ride. Regardless, there's a proverb in there somewhere, and that's good to have in the parking lot of a Catholic school.
The whole effort smacked of the sort of parenting that you see in movies. It hardly seemed real. We didn't quite get to the poignant moment, where I let go one final time and she rides off, unassisted, cementing the metaphor of a daughter on her own. We'll leave that Hallmark moment for another day.
I kicked off our final day of "vacation" by flipping up a batch of pancakes. I've written about my expertise in the kitchen arena once or twice, so let it suffice to say that I engage in cooking with great reluctance. I was committed to making this a good day though, and I had refused my daughter on the pancake request earlier in the week. So, not only did I make some positively undisgusting pancakes, but I even made a few in the shape of Mickey Mouse. Me! Artistic! Cooking! Quick, check on the other horsemen.
It's remarkable to see my daughter's reaction to something as dopey as a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake. Sincere surprised delight. I have no idea what I'd have do to my wife to achieve the same level of joy in her. Maybe one of those orgasm things that seem to be all the rage in feminist circles. Dunno.
Afterwards we watched Survivor together (which is a treat for my daughter, and only makes me feel a little guilty, so overall the karmic change is positive) and then ran a couple errands. Nothing thrilling there, but it was all leading up to one of the classic moments of parenting....
That afternoon, I whipped out my trusty wrench, swore a few times, considered calling my wife for help, struggled a bit, and then successfully removed the training wheels from my daughter's bicycle! I strutted around, flexed my tiny pecs for the neighbors, and then brought my daughter out to see.
A few minutes later we were down in the parking lot of the nearby private Catholic school, breaking into their parking lot. I live in a hilly neighborhood, so this lot was one of the few wide-open flat spaces near us. I assured my daughter that this would be ok. The gate really wasn't secured very well at all. I guess at this point, I'm just gambling that in the religious roulette wheel of life, Catholicism won't be the winner.
Let's! Go! Kabba-lah!
Anyway, I spent an exhausting 30 minutes, hunched over, while running, and holding onto the seat of my daughter's bike. I promised her that I wouldn't let her fall on this first outing, so I made sure to keep her upright. She really did pretty well. I taught her to put her feet down when the bike comes to a stop, and how to lean into a turn, and I think she started to get the feel for keeping her balance on the bike. I realized afterwards that it would have been smart to read up a bit on how to teach someone how to ride a bike, but it seemed straightforward when we left the house. Sort of like the proverbial riding of the bike. Now that I think of it though, I guess that expression refers to remembering how to ride, not learning how to ride. Regardless, there's a proverb in there somewhere, and that's good to have in the parking lot of a Catholic school.
The whole effort smacked of the sort of parenting that you see in movies. It hardly seemed real. We didn't quite get to the poignant moment, where I let go one final time and she rides off, unassisted, cementing the metaphor of a daughter on her own. We'll leave that Hallmark moment for another day.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Day Four of Spring Break and debauchery is nowhere to be found. No bikini-wearing sorority girls, or beer chugging contents, or overrated hip-hop artists at the MTV Beach House. Sadly, this Spring Break will go down in history just like all my other Spring Breaks (actually, I did go to Ft. Lauderdale one year, but that's a story for another day).
Then, it happened.
At lunchtime, as the daughter and I were walking to the Metreon, a local entertainment/food complex in downtown San Francisco, I saw a huge number of hot, young, absurdly skinny, skankily-clad women. They were lining up outside the Metreon, fanning themselves in the midday sun. It was some sort of hot chick convention.
I heard the angels singing. It was as through the Spring Break Fairy had finally taken pity on me
"For me?" I asked quietly, but the Fairy did not answer, which is a rare occurrence in this town.
As we entered the Metreon, where even more babes were milling about, I saw a sign which explained this seemingly supernatural confluence of hot chicks.
"Audition for America's Next Top Model! Today from 10:00am to 6:00pm"
For those of you who live in a cultural vacuum, "America's Next Top Model" is a reality show which attempts to find the rarest kind of superhero: the supermodel. The competition is rigorous, mostly consisting of putting on clothes, with each outfit containing fewer threads and fastening devices than the last. Only the hot survive.
The show is hosted by Tyra Banks whose superpowers appear to be her breasts and her unnaturally huge and alien-like forehead. She must have a gigantic brain in there. Either way, these are formidable powers.
Actually, I have never seen the show, but after strolling amidst these would-be contestants, I learned quite a few things about the woman who will be America's Next Top Model:
1) She does not eat lunch. I saw hundreds of these women today, at lunchtime, amidst a plethora of adequate and moderately-priced food, and not a single one stopped for lunch.
2) Her Super Vision can tunnel right through computer programmers. I swear not a single one of these women so much as saw me. Often, when I'm walking alongside my skipping daughter, women will give me a "Awww, how sweet" smile. Not today.
3) She goes to the bathroom relentlessly. The flow of women in and out of that bathroom was tremendous. I don't know if they were going in there to apply more rouge (is that a kind of make-up?) or to puke up the packet of Equal (tm) that they ate for breakfast.
Compelling insights indeed.
And there's your Spring Break Moment of Zen. Four days down.
(Note: This post is not an April Fool's Day joke. I really did see a virtual army of models)
Then, it happened.
At lunchtime, as the daughter and I were walking to the Metreon, a local entertainment/food complex in downtown San Francisco, I saw a huge number of hot, young, absurdly skinny, skankily-clad women. They were lining up outside the Metreon, fanning themselves in the midday sun. It was some sort of hot chick convention.
I heard the angels singing. It was as through the Spring Break Fairy had finally taken pity on me
"For me?" I asked quietly, but the Fairy did not answer, which is a rare occurrence in this town.
As we entered the Metreon, where even more babes were milling about, I saw a sign which explained this seemingly supernatural confluence of hot chicks.
"Audition for America's Next Top Model! Today from 10:00am to 6:00pm"
For those of you who live in a cultural vacuum, "America's Next Top Model" is a reality show which attempts to find the rarest kind of superhero: the supermodel. The competition is rigorous, mostly consisting of putting on clothes, with each outfit containing fewer threads and fastening devices than the last. Only the hot survive.
The show is hosted by Tyra Banks whose superpowers appear to be her breasts and her unnaturally huge and alien-like forehead. She must have a gigantic brain in there. Either way, these are formidable powers.
Actually, I have never seen the show, but after strolling amidst these would-be contestants, I learned quite a few things about the woman who will be America's Next Top Model:
1) She does not eat lunch. I saw hundreds of these women today, at lunchtime, amidst a plethora of adequate and moderately-priced food, and not a single one stopped for lunch.
2) Her Super Vision can tunnel right through computer programmers. I swear not a single one of these women so much as saw me. Often, when I'm walking alongside my skipping daughter, women will give me a "Awww, how sweet" smile. Not today.
3) She goes to the bathroom relentlessly. The flow of women in and out of that bathroom was tremendous. I don't know if they were going in there to apply more rouge (is that a kind of make-up?) or to puke up the packet of Equal (tm) that they ate for breakfast.
Compelling insights indeed.
And there's your Spring Break Moment of Zen. Four days down.
(Note: This post is not an April Fool's Day joke. I really did see a virtual army of models)
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