Bring It

So I'll be going to be in bed in about 30 minutes and waking up six hours later.

Tomorrow (Sunday) is the Twin Cities Marathon and I'm participating by running the ten mile race and then watching the marathon.

We are exepcted to a LOW of 64 degrees tomorrow. And some thunder storms to go along with that. Ugh.

But that weather won't affect us ten milers as much as the marathoners. I wish those guys the best, of course. That is the beauty of a marathon. You pour your heart and soul for one race that is so dependent on things you can't control. It's a good life lesson: there's no guarantees. Make the best of what you have in front of you that day.

But I'm just a ten miler tomorrow, so there is no need no wax philosophical about such an easy distance.

Here are my goals:
Low Goal: Sub 60
Medium Goal: Sub 59:00
High Goal: 57:20

I'm going out hard both guns blazing after that high goal. I hope to open with a 5:45 mile.

Rant #83482

I can't stand commercials with animals acting like people. I blame CGI and the Super Bowl for the mainsteaming of this style of TV advertising.

This evening during 30 Rock or The Office there was some ad with a bunch of monkies riverdancing. Really? Is that the best our creative talent, earning six figures can do?

I left the room half way through the ad. I did this in part out of protest, but also to get some more food. So I don't know what the ad was about. But it doesn't matter. Cheetas doing the macarena. Horses high fiving. Penguins riding their Harlies to Sturgis. A squirrel farts and points to the squirrel next to him to pass the blame. It took me 30 seconds to come up with those ideas. They all suck, but some hybrid of these ideas will air during our next Super Bowl. When will it stop?!?!?!

Maybe rather than boycotting Caribou, I can boycott all businesses that run these ads.

And I know that if I had Tevo this rant would die a quick death.

As an aside, I give both The Office and 30 Rock three out of five stars.

Bye Bye 'Bou

Over the years I have devoted a few posts to the trivia questions you can answer at Caribou Coffee. For those with poor memory and not from the Twin Cities, here is a review. You go into Caribou, order your drink, and if you answer their trivia question correctly, you get ten whopping cents off your drink.

Only a hyper-competetive freak would worry about these questions, see how many consecutive questions he can answer correctly, and argue with the cashier when he or she tells him his answer is wrong.

Hey, that would describe me. Just click here or here if you need a refresher.

So we'll call President-On-Currency-Gate and CapeHornGate STRIKE ONE against Caribou.

So about six months ago, I went into the Caribou in Highland Park on my way to work. The trivia question was "What basketball legend is used as the model for the NBA logo?" Awesome I think. My streak is up to seven. Here's what went down after that.

Me: I'll get a large light roast, and the answer to the trivia is Jerry West.
Cashier: Ooooooh... sorry (all sympathetic like). It's Pete Maravich.
Me: No it's not. It's Jerry West.
Cashier: I know. Everyone keeps saying that, but it's Pete Maravich.
Me: Everyone keeps saying that because it's the right answer.
Cashier: Sorry.
Me: Pete Maravich played for LSU and the New Orleans Jazz and he died young. His nickname was "Pistol Pete." Jerry West's nickname is "The Logo." There's a reason he has that nickname.
Cashier: Sorry. I can only go by what the card says.
Me: Then you should change the question to "What random basketball star from the 1970s is on this card?"

And, yes I know I should have let this go about two conversational turns ago. I'm holding up the line. I'm arguing over a dime. I really only want to get my consecutive correct answers streak up to double digits again. And well, I'm being an asshole.

So I relent. Pay my extra dime. But I'm keeping score here. That's STRIKE TWO on Caribou. I swore off Caribou trivia after that ugly episode. After that even when I knew the answer, I wouldn't participate. I just don't need the stress in my life.

And then on Monday I went to Caribou with two crumpled dollar bills in my pocket. I ordered my usual large coffee and was charged $2.03. Say what?

Cashier (not my enemy from logogate): We raised our prices over the weekend.

Well, Caribou will haveto reach that coveted price point without me. I had to go out to my car and get a dime from the change holder.

A buck ninety-three for coffee? No problem. But more than two bucks? Not unless I'm going to sit down with friends to enjoy the conversation and atmosphere.

So they upped their price a dime. What is it with me and dimes at this place?

But think about this. The dime discount for trivia has been in effect since I moved here over 11 years ago. A large coffee was around $1.50. It was worth your time. So their trivia discount should be proportional to their price increase. Is fifteen to twenty cents too much to ask?

I guess so. Over $2.00 for black coffee. STRIKE THREE.

I usually buy coffee at the coffee shop once or twice during the weekdays and once on the weekend. Now I am going to make sure I make my coffee at home five to six days a week. And if I do have to buy coffee during the workweek it will be at SuperAmerica. It only costs $1.06 there.

And they don't have trivia.

Zero to Awesome in 60 Seconds

Johan Santana struck out 17 Texas Strangers this afternoon.

Click here to see just how awesome he is. This link leads you to footage of his 17 strikeout pitches, shown in one minute. I would pay $500.00 just to be able to throw Johan's slider. Just for one day. Just to know what it feels like.

Even the non-baseball fans out there should check it out. It's pretty impressive.

By the way, I found this footage courtesy of one of The Deets' latest projects. He started (or helped start?) a website called Walleye. It has Minnesota specific blogs that are shown as they are updated. Or you can view the posts that are "hooked" (recommended) the most.

It's fun and a little addicitive. But the good thing is, since it's Minnesota only, it's not like new blog posts are coming every minute or something. So it's pretty easy to stay on top of.

Cruel Ironies

Over the past week, it has become easier to process and put together what happened on the I-35W bridge. I keep kicking two very cruel ironies around in my head, and I think they are very telling.

1. A road crew was repaving the surface of the bridge when it collapsed. A real-life and tragic example of rearranging the deck furniture of the Titanic.

2. People have flocked to the Stone Arch Bridge to see the devastation of the I-35W bridge collapse. The Stone Arch Bridge was built in 1883, some 84 years before the I-35W bridge was constructed. Sure the Stone Arch Bridge never had steady highway traffic on it, but it did serve as a train bridge for 95 years. I guess we don't build 'em like we used to.

The Kids Are Alright

Thank you to everyone who e-mailed, texted, and called Emily and me last night. We are okay and so far as I know, everyone we know is okay. A professor from Emily's Epidemiology department was on the bridge when it crumbled, but was able to walk away from her car safely.

Any death from this bridge's collapse is one too many. But I am amazed at the number of people who have survived this. That being, like all of us, I am haunted by stories of people plunging into the water. Or by the divers taking down license plates of cars below the river. I lack the emotional intelligence to imagine what it is like to be a family member of one of the missing.

I haven't had a chance get near the scene of the collapse. Emily has had the opportunity but has passed. She started her new job a the University of Minnesota yesterday, and could have walked over. But she told be she didn't want to see it. It all sounded too horrible.

Intellectualizing what has happened has been a very short process for me. I get stuck on one question and can't move on: how the hell did this happen? You know the old bit: we put a man on the moon, but we can't time our traffic lights downtown, or whatever. Well, we put a man on the moon about the same time this bridge was built, but forty years later, we couldn't see the warning signs that this bridge could collapse?

I don't know if anyone is to blame. Maybe it was a fluke occurence that we will learn from, like the wind shears that brought down the Delta jumbo jet in Dallas in 1985.

And at this point I am not interested in assessing blame. But that being said, I am amazed that in the 21st century, with all our technology and oversight, we didn't see this coming.

In the meantime, outside of the bipartisan bickering and passing of the buck that is sure to happen in the coming months, I have no idea what my adopted city will be like, and how we will respond emotionally and logistically. But for now, I have been impressed by the compassion and support we have shown for one another.

Here is a link by a columnist for the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, Nick Coleman. There are nuances to the article that I disagree with. Like how Coleman spends a few paragraphs hinting that Governor Pawlenty's budget vetoes are somehow responsible for the bridge's collapse, but then saying, "but you know all politicians are too blame." That is cowardly. Either have the cajones to call the governor out or don't.

And in addition, my understanding is, if you look at the budgets he vetoed, none of them had money devoted to reparing this bridge. But I do agree that there is a culture of neglecting infrastructure, as it eats up taxpayer dollars, that we need to overcome.

I think Coleman's column would have been stronger if he left Pawlenty alone for once, and stuck to that bigger point. We have been neglecting and taking for granted our infrastructure for too long. I lost trust in my government from this tragedy. And more importantly we lost lives. And what if it was preventable? What if, as a society, each and everyone of us (not just our politicians) placed an emphasis in investing in our infrastructure. And that is why Coleman's column struck a chord with me.

Democrats: We Suck Slightly Less Than Republicans

My identity as a Democrat really started to weaken when John Kerry was the best the DFL could do to take on George Bush in 2004. And when I read stories like this, I feel sick and a little panicked.

Is this the best we can do? Over 3,000 American soldiers are dead, and almost 27,000 are wounded. And over 67,000 Iraqi civilians are dead. Who knows how many are wounded.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Bush tells us to stay the course. His administration has no other ideas about what to do. That is frightening. But even worse, is that the Democrats have even less ideas. A "cover your ass" censure against Bush? An "all-nighter" policy session? That's it? That's all they can do? People are fucking dying. The region is unstable. And this is the best our two major parties can do.

We need a leader to emerge. Soon. I don't care what party he or she is from, but we need a leader to step up and say...

"Let's quit bashing Bush. Emotionally it is rewarding, but it does NOTHING to help us in Iraq. Forget about feeling good, and let's collectively think about doing the right thing. It's time to make sacrifices to honor the soliders who died and those who are still fighting. Here's what we need to do..."

Now can I finish that speech I just started? Do I have any ideas? Well I have one or two. I'd start with reducing our dependency on foreign oil. Pushing for a Palestinian state. Getting the rest of the world to see that a secure Iraq is in its best interest too, even if we were the dumabasses that broke Iraq in the first place.

These aren't perfect solutions, but at least they will get the dialogue going and as a nation maybe we can collectively come up with a solution. We can find a long-term solution in Iraq, built on sacrifice and diplomacy. And whatever that solution may be, it won't involve calling Bush the worst President ever or censuring him. No matter how good it feels to do that.

We need a leader. Until then, as citizens we need to come together. Get past our partisan tribes and figure out what needs to be done. I think we can do better than "immediate withdrawl" vs. "stay the course." There has to be a nuanced solution out there. And "Bush sucks" ain't one of them.

It's Like This, Cat

We lock our cats in the basement at night. That way Toonces can be as crazy as she wants without driving us crazy. Somehow she escaped this morning and decided at 5:30 am that she really missed us.

I wish cats were more into being pleasers. I swear, if I glare at Pancho for two seconds because of something he did, that dog does whatever it takes to get my affection back. He mows the lawn, takes the trash out, and offers to take the 88 Accord off our hands.

But not so much for the pinche gato. As if her TO DO list for this morning reads like a shampoo instruction bottle, here's how the first 20 minutes of Toonces' morning played out.

1. Jump up on bed.
2. Meow in search of affection.
3. Get knocked off of bed with pillow-to-the-face.
4. Repeat.

It took twenty freaking minutes for that cat to finally give up.

But I'm no better. This became a battle of wills. Mano a paw. I was fully awake and ready to get out of bed. But I refused to get up until the cat gave up and knew it was never going to be in the bed while I was.

It's no small accomplishment for me to win a battle with an animal that has the intellectual capacity of a one-year old. But I can say with confidence that so far, on June 22, 2007, on the scorecard for the daily battle of Mike and Pancho vs. Toonces the score is...

Mike and Pancho:1
Toonces: 0

Here's to an early end to today so our score may be preserved.



One night I came upstairs to find this. For a cat with no balls, Toonces is one ballsy cat. Pancho's body language suggests he is not at all comfortable with the idea of a cat in his bed. Toonces' body language would suggest she doesn't give a damn. I feel your frustration Pancho.

Conversation with Emily #6567

This evening in our den...

Me: What are you watching?

Emily: Oh some reality show about a guy who has to choose between dating some 40 year old girls and some 20 year old girls.

Me: Seems like a no-brainer.

Emily: (ignores me) It might be so bad that it will be good. But you won't like it. You'll just make fun of it.

Me: I don't need to watch it to make fun of it do I?

Emily: {no response--crickets chirp}

Editor's Note: This is not the first time Emily has told me she was watching a reality TV show that I was not welcome to watch. I guess I am too judgmental and take all the fun out of watching the show. But I would like to add that each time this occurs, the show's premise is exponentially more absurd than the one before it.

Don't Call It A Comeback

ABRIDGED VERSION

Highlights from Grandma's Marathon 2007.
1. I ran my fastest marathon ever, 2:57:53.
2. I did not run 4+ miles in the rain at 1 a.m. post-marathon, like I did a year ago.
3. Staying and visiting with Jocelyn and her husband in Duluth, and their kick-ass kids. Do you have friends that, even if you see them as little as once a year, you are so comfortable with them you pick up right where you left off with them a year ago? Jocelyn and Co. are those kinds of friends to Emily and me.

Grandma's weekend is such a great time for me. I love runnig. I love races. I love my friends, both in Duluth and those that I run with. I love my wife. I love my family. I love my dog. And Grandma's brings most of that together (four out six ain't bad).

Here's to Grandma's 2008 and whatever stories they will bring.

Below is a picture me of me running just before the 21 mile marker. Please keep all lame "I'm too sexy for my shirt" jokes to yourself. It was freaking hot out there.


This picture comes courtesy of Jocelyn, who said she expected this photo on my blog within the next 24 hours or she'd tag me with another meme.

Don't Call It A Comeback

THE UNABRIDGED VERSION
WARNING: This is a long, self-absorbed, potentially boring post. Oh wait that is true for 90% of the content of all the posts on this blog. So just add the word "very" to all the adjectives in that first sentence. Read this only if you are VERY VERY interested in how my marathon went.

As I wrote a year ago, my Grandma's 2006 experience was remarkable not so much for the race itself, but for what happended afterwards. I had to run four miles in the rain, less than 18 hours after finishing the marathon.

Well, this year's marathon didn't have any of that zaniness. I did, however, run my fastest marathon ever, which is much more exciting for me than any post-race shenanigans. About two months ago I was training with the intent of running a sub-2:50 at Grandma's.

Well, I ended up running a 2:57:53. So how can I be so content if I missed my original goal time by almost eight minutes? Well read on.

At the end of April I ran in the Drake Relays Half-Marathon in Iowa. At that race, I didn't really push myself until the last three miles, just as my friend Kirk suggested I do. So I was pretty fired up to run a sub 1:21 half-marathon without trying too hard. This race basically suggested I was right at 2:50 marathon shape. Things were looking good. I still had a month to train hard and I hadn't even gone for my first 20+ mile training run.

But there was this minor detail to the half-marathon in Iowa. I got tripped up at the start and fell. I reallly didn't think much of it until a few days later when I went for a long run. Halfway through the run, my right hamstring started spasming like crazy, a real painful kind of crazy. A trip to the doctor confirmed what I already knew: I had pulled my hamstring. But I hadn't put together (which he did) was that I pulled the hamstring by trying to break my fall at the Drake Relays and then getting up and running 13.1 miles at a 6:10 pace.

So the month of May was dedicated to resting and recovering. I lost a lot of confidence and my legs have felt out of sorts ever since. As a result, changed my goals and approach to the race.

Here were the three rules I made for myself going into the marathon:

Step 1. Make it to the half-way point in the marathon somewhere between 1:29 and 1:30.
Step 2. And at that point I would assess how I felt. If I felt okay, the least I could do is push myself to a sub 2:58, which would be my personal record (PR).
Main Goal: Run a negative split (which means running the last 13.1 miles faster than the first 13.1).

Let's see how I did...
Step 1: I reached the half-way point in 1:29:47
Step 2: My final time was, as I mentioned, 2:57:53
Main Goal: I ran the first 13.1 miles in 1:29:47, which means, my Texas math tells me, I ran the second 13.1 miles in 1:28:06.

Good job me!

So I am basically writing this post to brag about myself. I am not here to brag about how fast I went. Cripes. I got 174th freaking place. What I am proud of, however, is how I was able to set and reach realistic goals for myself. This race was a big deal for me.

First, I have always been able to this for any distance from 1500 to 8000 meters. However, this is the first time I nailed my goals for a marathon.

Secondly, my legs never felt right during the weeks leading up to Grandma's. And they didn't really feel loose during the marathon either. So I really had to grind this one out. My confidence and training were both compromised by my injury. So to PR under these circumstances is rewarding.

Lastly, I have a history with marathon training to set lofty goals, which is fine. But this is the first time I adapted and adjusted them to how I was feeling. In the past I would have stubbornly stuck to my original goals. The results when that has happened have not been pretty.

So my present goal is to see if I can do anything to get my legs back to feeling good again. Then I'll see what I can do at this fall's Twin Cities Ten Miler. Seems realistic to me.

The Zoo Crew

As Emily posted earlier, we got cats. She describes "getting cats" the same way one might describe getting the mumps or termites. And in fairness to Emily, she is the one who cleans the litter box, so I can see why she is less than thrilled to have them.

Fortunately for me, I have the cushy, glamorous job regarding los pinche gatos: I feed them. So the cats appreciate me as the food source and I don't have to pick up their poop. This explains why I am more forgiving of these cats' friskiness than Emily is. Actually, Nacho is pretty mellow. Toonces, not so much.

So I have a lot of catching up to do on this blog. I'll begin by posting some pictures of our two cats, Toonces and Nacho (they are sister and brother).


I think Toonces is on the left in this picture, and Nacho is on the right. Toonces is the smaller of the two. I wanted to name her Flaco, but Emily had naming rights on her.




Toonces and Nacho spend a lot of time together, be it playing, eating, sleeping, or just looking out the bedroom window wishing they were outdoor cats.




And it's good that the cats have each other. Because Pancho still commands most of our attention and definitely has the most toys.

Suddenly the San Antonio Dodgers Sounds Pretty Good

The close, very close, reader of this blog will notice the right column of this page lists books I've been reading, movies in my life, and restaurants I dine at. The absurdly close reader will note that these lists have not been updated for some time and are now obsolete.

Well, they have since been updated. One post I have been meaning to write about for some time comes from Baseball In the Lone State by Tom Kayser and David King. The obsessively close reader will remember that I was reading this book when I last blogged like two months ago. And as I said before, this book was edited by my sister. So mad props to her.

This book was a fun, easy read. But you have to be huge baseball fan to like it. Being a Texas fan, or a Texas baseball fan won't cut it. You have to be a huge fan of the sport in general.

That being said, one section of the appendix has something we can all enjoy: a catalog of all the teams have played in the Texas League. Keep in mind, this league dates back to 1888, so the odds are there were a lot of teams with ridiculous names. Even so, I was impressed by the quality and quantity of absurd names.

Here are the highlights.

Ardmore Rosebuds
Cleburne Railroaders
Corsicana Oil Citys (their spelling not mine)
Houston Babies
Houston Magnolias
Longview Cannibals
Paris Parisians
Paris Eisendelfer's Homeseekers
San Antonio Missionairies
San Antonio Gentlemen
Sherman Orphans
Sherman Students
Shreveport Gassers
Temple Boll Weevils
Texarcana Casket Makers
Wichata Falls Spudders

When I was growing up, the San Antonio team was the Dodgers. We are now called the Missions (not the Missionaries, mind you). I always thought it was funny to cram the name Dodgers onto a city like San Antonio (not exactly known for its cable cars). Kind of like the Utah Jazz. But then my friend pointed out San Antonio was no funnier than the Los Angeles Dodgers since there are no cable cars in LA either. I think I told him "two wrongs don't make a right dickweed."

I'm not sure who won that debate, but it may have been me. Afterall we were in like fourth or fifth grade, so closing my arument with the dickweed zinger was prettty powerful stuff.

First Things First

I know it's been a long time since I've blogged, so let start by getting something off my chest...

SPUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURS!!!!

My mom is a native of Akron, OH. But I will freaking disown her if'n she's pulling for the Cleveland Cadavers.

Random List #5

1. Favorite Noble Gas Argon

2. Least Favorite Noble Gas Radon

3. First Team I Ever Played On 1st grade soccer team. We were called The Recyclers.

4. Favorite Ice Cream Flavor Mint Chocolate Chip

5. Strongest Sign That I've Become A Midwesterner (aside from the fact that I have lived in the Midwest for 16 years if you include college and I love the Minnesota Twins) I refer to soft drinks as "pop" and no longer call them all "Coke."

6. Strongest Sign That I Will Never Be A Minnesotan (or "One of us" as they call each other up here) I will never ever refer to mint chocolate chip ice cream as "peppermint bon bon." You will find me using "borrow" and "lend" interchangeably before I ever say "peppermint bon bon." And for the uninitiated, there is a subset of Minnesotans who do use "borrow" to mean "lend" (as in "I'm gonna borrow him the book."). What the hell is wrong with you people?

7. Dumbest Thing I Can Remember Doing As A Kid I grew up in a very hilly neighborhood. At the bottom of one hill, on one side of the road, was a layer of loose gravel that was there for at least three years.

I always rode my bike home from school, rain or shine. As part of my grand finale of my daily sortie home, I would ride my bike to the top of the big hill. Then I would bike as fast I could down the hill, as fast as my toothpicks, I mean legs, could pump the pedals on my SX-2000 dirt bike. I would then bike through the gravel layer making sure to hit the breaks right when back tire hit the gravel. I could easily skid over 20 feet across the gravel patch when I did this.

The dumb part is that this hill I sped down was three blocks long. And the two intersections I sped through had stop signs intended for me. So for three years, rain or shine, on every school day, I took the risk of getting hit in, not one, but two intersections, all for the sake of skidding through gravel on my SX-2000. Granted, this was a sleepy residential neighborhood, but the law of averages state I should have been hit at least once over this three year period.

8. Biggest Piece of Irony In All This If I biked directly home from school, it would have been a two mile ride. But my mom had me double the length of my route. I had to bike an two extra miles out of my way so I could cross Broadway, a busy street, with a police officer crossing guard named Officer Hubbard. The danger of crossing Broadway at a traffic light WITHOUT Officer Hubbard was clearly too dangerous, so I had to bike all the way down Broadway to cross safely with officer. and then ten minutes later, of course, I was speeding through stop signs and skidding through gravel patches.

9. Number of Times I Cried In Front of Officer Hubbard One. In fourth grade someone stole my SX-2000 from in front of my mom's bookstore. Officer Hubbard was the first responding officer at the scene of the crime. When he asked me to explain what happened, in my own words, I started bawling because I could't believe my SX-2000 was gone. I don't know how he transcribed that into his police report, but he probably went something like this, "And then young Mr. Nawrocki said, 'Waaa fucking waa."

10. Biggest Reason Why I Break Into A Cold Sweat When I Think About What It Would Be Like To Have A Child Of My Own See Item #7.

Blognation: Will The Madness End?

Another link to add to the blog canon. Are you still out there Rachel? I ask because the last time you blogged there were some people who still thought Pluto was a planet and Mike Hatch would be an awesome choice for governor of Minnesota.

Anyway, Rachel got Emily and then me into blogging many moons ago. I would like to think that Emily and I have since influenced the inception of a few other blogs, including the latest entry to my links section, Life by the Falls.

So is this blog for you? Well, I would say at least one of the following is true for 90% of the people who read this blog (so that would, ummm, 4.5 people):

1. You presently live in Texas or have Texas roots.
2. You presently live in Minnesota.
3. You are a runner.
4. You take pride in your neighborhood.

If any of these are true for you, then Life by the Falls is a blog for you!

It is written by my friend Nathan and, as of press time, every post he has made is about running, Minneapolis neighborhoods, and Texas. So there is something for everyone.

Nathan has made an anonymous cameo on my blog before. Back in November I talked about the tranquility of running with a friend at 5 a.m. It all sounded so ideal at the time. What I left out of the post is that repeated running at 5 a.m. left me with too-tight hamstrings and a strong feeling of sleep deprivation. So we abandoned the 5 a.m. routine.

But the identity anonymous friend from this post can now be revealed as Nathan, since he now has a blog of his own.

Pooh's War On Pride: The Battle Rages On

I hope this post settles this debate about whether or not Pooh Bear is cute or not once and for all.

I was cleaning up the waiting room at work a few days ago. Parents will often "donate" their old books and toys to our waiting room. And by donate I mean bring their old crap that their kids don't use anymore and leave it in our waiting room for others to use. Not exactly philanthropy at its finest, but I will admit, it beats throwing these items away.

So imagine my horror as I came across this book cover.



No pants. A shirt three sizes too small to cover his beer belly. Honey all over his face and belly. A spilled honey pot on the ground. The whole scene reminds me of a few lines from James McMurtry's song, "Peter Pan."

Beer cans to the ceiling
Ashtray on the floor
Laundry on the sofa
Need I say more?

And if you look inside the book it just gets worse.




First we have to watch Pooh raid Rabbit's honey collection like a kid in a candy store. But now we have to witness this?



Three words:

Have

Some

Pride.

Home Improvements

Even the most unobservant will notice that I have changed the look and features of my blog. I have discarded my three year-old template and added some new features.

Backblog, the website I was using for comments has had some issues, as you may have noticed, over the past week. So I am going to use Blogger from now on to host my comments. The advantages are there is no longer a 200 charachter limit, and Backblog would occasionally have its problems (like it is right now). But it was a free site, so I won't complain.

One thing that was nice about Backblog was not once did I get a spam comment. So now you will have to do a word verification to comment, to keep those damn Spam comments from showing up. Also, you can log into Blogger to post, which may discourage those of you who don't have a Blogger account. But if you don't have a Blogger account, you can still comment. However, unless you identify yourself in your comment, you'll be shown as anonymous.

I also added TV Snacks, finally, to my links.

Dissertation Inspiration

One of the things I have learned in the six years that Emily has been studying Epidemilogy is that there are millions of ways to analyze and present data.

As Emily enters the home stretch of her dissertation, I suggest she find a way to present her statistics like this guy did.

It's pretty cool. Click here to see for yourself.

Back in White

Holy crap. That last post I did about the five weirdest things that happened to me was my 400th post. That's a lot of posting. However, the close follower of this blog will note that none of these 400 posts have occured over the past week or so.

Our computer was at the Apple store getting a new disc drive. This was something we planned to do in like November. Anyway, the good news is now I can play this game again. And I can get back to blogging.

The biggest news over the week that I was without computer is it snowed an absurd amount. Yesterday I went for a run with some friends, and one of the guys I was running with mentioned how snow is like cocaine for dogs.

Hmmmm, with insight like that, you figured he'd be blogging more, instead of relying on me to quote him.

Anyway, the picture below is one I snapped today of Pancho. As you can see, snow does indeed seem to make dogs go loco.




And this picture is one of the icicles hanging off our roof. Clearly we have an ice dam. I am so glad we got a new roof last year. Newer roofs have a liner underneath them keep the water from ice dams at bay.



As an aside, is roof the only noun that ends in an "f" that does not assume the "ves" ending (like "hooves" and "lives")? I can't think of any other word like it.

But, as per usual, I digress. Clearly too much heat is escaping from our upstairs. Do you think our dormers, and upstairs in general, could use some more insulation?

Seeing as how it took us over three months to get the disc drive in the computer repaired, I reckon we'll get the ice dam situation under control sometime around when we, as a nation, elect a non-white woman as President.

Back to School

Leave it to someone in the education industry to actually give me a homework assignment for my blog. So Jocelyn has assigned me to write a meme. Like she said, a meme is basically a blog chain letter. I feel like I'm back in college again, trying to get a paper done at the last minute.



But I try to be a good sport, so I will do this meme that she "tagged" me with. The problem I have with this has nothing to do with the concept of a meme. The issue I have is with this particular meme's topic: Six Weird Things That Have Happened To Me. Nothing too weird has really ever happened to me.

I have a very enjoyable but stable life. I haven't hung out with the drummer from Huey Lewis and the News in an elevator. No one has ever come up to me, bleeding from the eyes and asked me if I had a map of Idaho he could borrow. So the six weird things I can think of may seem, shall we say, less than freaky.

So you can read this post standing up. You don't need to worry about having to change your underwear when your done. And there will be no cases of slackjaw at the end of this post.

Jocelyn is a writing teacher, so she should appreciate themes. Since the bulk of my posts as of late have been about Texas and running, I am going to try to confine all the weird shit that has happened to me to these two topics. And to really suck up to the teacher, I will begin with a story that took place in Duluth.

So I hope all this will prevent Jocelyn from docking me ten points for turning my meme in late. Away we go...

1. I ran my first marathon, Grandma's Marathon in Duluth, back in 1999. Until then, I was a former middle to long distance runner. I had never even raced anything longer than an 8k, much less 26.2 miles. Having taken five years off from running, I was unaware that polyester, in the form of CoolMax, had made a comeback. I figured if a cotton t-shirt worked for me back in college, it would certainly work for me now.

It turns out I was wrong. Cotton may work for an eight mile run. It does not work in a marathon.

One of the things that truly disgusts me about marathons is the bloody nipples that so many men get. And it turns out there are products like performance gear and body glide that help prevent nipples from bleeding.

Open letter to Lord: May all future men who run a marathon, including me, be aware of these products. Amen.

So back to 1999. I finished Grandma's in a t-shirt that happened to have the University of Wisconsin logo on it. Rookie error. I did not go to Wisconsin. I can't tell you anything about Wisconsin sports, other than they're pretty good. And I have never been to Madison for more than a few hours, where the university is. But for 26.2 miles, crazed spectators shouted "GO WISCONSIN!" at me. One woman even broke into the Wisconsin fight song as I went by.

So clearly this shirt was a poor choice. After I finished the race, I loitered about the post-race area. I was in a bad mood because, well, running 26.2 miles will do that to you. So I was getting more and more pissed off at all the guys walking around with their shirts still on, stained with nipple blood. I wanted to grab each guy and yell, "HAVE SOME FREAKING PRIDE WILL YOU??? CHANGE YOUR SHIRT!! YOU ARE GROSSING EVERYONE OUT!!!"

About thirty minutes after the race, I was sitting with Emily and some other friends, when I said I was going to get some ice cream. A friend of mine said, "Don't you want to change your shirt first?" And everyone laughed.

I assumed this was because of the damn Wisconsin logo, but you, gentle reader know better. Sure enough, when I looked down, I saw it. Two gushot wounds to the chest.

There I was, one of those disgisting male marathoners with a white shirt and bloody nipples. Have some pride.

It is a very weird feeling to look at your own shirt and realize you have become what you despise.

2. When I was in high school, my sister went to college in Rhode Island. I visited a few times, which was fun. One of the highlights was going to Boston and Fenway Park to watch a Boston Red Sox game. During one of our sorties to Fenway, a girl started shouting my name. "Damn yall," I thought, "I even got it on the East Coast. I'm such a lady's man the lasses even know me in Boston." But I turned around and it was some girl from my high school. "Not so cool," I thought, "That girl is kind of annoying."

About six years later, when I was in college, my friend and I went on a road trip during the summer. We went to a lot of baseball games on this trip. One of them was to Fenway Park. We drank a lot of beer before we got there. We sat in the bleachers and drank more beer. I tried to teach a kid how to keep score. He ended up correcting everything I was telling him. I drank more beer and decided it was time to go to the bathroom.

As I was washing my hands, I looked over to the guy washing his hands next to me, and it was a guy I went to high school with.

Fenway Park in Boston is clearly is the place for me to see how my high school classmates from San Antonio are doing. Maybe we should have our 20 year reunion in the men's restroom of the Fenway bleachers.

3. Speaking of San Antonio back when I was in college, I was running on a stretch of road on Vandiver. You know where I'm talking about. By the old Kroger that had the Ms. PacMan, the Little Ceasar's, and the check cashing place, just past the Austin Highway.

This was the summer of 1991. It was 5 p.m. in August. with triple digit heat and humidity. So all I had on was my running short, socks, and shoes.

A guy sitting on his bike on the shoulder of the road stopped me, addressed me as sir, and asked me if I had any cigarrettes.

Uh yeah, Lance Armstrong, I take a smoke break every mile. I stash my Marlboros in my underwear and I pull them out all sexy-like. You know like a sultry woman who keeps her driver's licence in her cleavage (I'm thinking of a movie like Cannonball Run). Only my cigarettes are drenched in ass sweat, but help yourself, Lance.

Fast forward to a week later: same time, same place, same attire, same run, same weather. As I was crossing the Vandiver/Austin Highway intersection, a guy in a Suburban honked his horn and waved to me. I thought it must have been one my friend's dad, so I waved back. Eventually he got through the light, and caught up to me, at the same spot where the guy asked me for cigarettes.

But this guy asked me if I had something else I wanted to give him. Actually, he wanted to give me something, and, um, well, it involved, well, what he offered carried the assumption that I was a) gay and b) into hooking up with random strangers I see at the fabled Austin Highway/Vandiver intersection.

Gross. Not for the "gay" part, so much as for the "asking random strangers who run across Austin Highway part for sex" part.

I declined, and realized this guy was not my friend's dad, afterall.

What the hell was up with the Austin Highway/Vandiver intersection back in the summer of 1991?

4. Speaking of running in San Antonio, we'll call this The Ballad of Israel Flores, as it takes up items 4 and 5.

Israel was a rival of mine back in high school cross country. His school, Edgewood, was in my district (Minnesotans call them conferences) and was part of The Lamest Race Ever Won In A Cross Country Meet In the History of Time. This historic event occured in I think 1987 and was won by yours truly.

I was a sophomore and had a pretty good chance to win the race. But only because the best runner in the district, my teammate Cuatro, was in the state tennis tournament. Even without Cuatro we had a good enough team to advance to the Regional Meet, so this was an ideal, no-pressure situation for a second-fiddle guy like me to actually win.

The first two miles of the course were very hilly, and on a narrow path that ran through the woods. The last mile was flat and fast and finished on the 50 yard-line of Edgewood High School football field.

My coach figured most of the other good runners would take off too fast, as they would be preoccupied about getting packed in, away from the lead. Our plan was for me to sit in the weeds, and really run aggressively for the second half. And I did just that. At about 1.5 miles, I started passing all the usual suspects.

Johnnie Black, look at the back of my shoes. Ortho Mendez, you are now in my rearview mirror. And then I surged past Luis Ruiz right as we got out of the foilage of the first two miles. With Cuatro gone making like Bjorn Borg, that was everone left in the race I had to worry about.

But as I came past my coach in the open field he started yelling, "You're in second place! Keep surging!"

Sure thing Coach, easy for you to say. Apparently you can yell without that nagging feeling of oxygen debt. Wait! Huh? Second place?

"WHAT? WHO?!?!?" I shouted back.

"I don't know. Some guy from Edgewood. Just go get him!"

Again, easy for you to say. Sure enough, now that we were out in the open, rather than the One Acre Woods, I could see a guy in a red unifrom running all by himself. Oops.

And that was my introduction to Israel Flores.

So with less than a mile to go, and a 200 yard lead, this race is Israel's to lose. And lose it he did, no thanks to me.

I chased after him, just enough to find that balance between running hard enough to keep my coach off my back, and not so hard that my heart would explode in the name of a race that was already decided.

So I made an ostensible attempt to catch Isreal as we entered the stadium and did our half lap around the track before running through the field goal posts en route to the 50 yard line. I was maybe 100 yards back as he made it to the goal posts, and he had 70 yards to go.

"Well played, Israel," I thought, "This was your home course, and you knew how to run it."

Or did he? Either Israel decided to run his victory lap before actually finishing, or he didn't know his home course afterall. He made like Charlie Brown and kept running around the track, after the goal posts. Edgewood coaches and fans were screaming at him to turn around and go through the goal posts.

I saw this and found my fifth gear. Like a cat, I cheaply pounced on that dying bird. I sprinted through the goal posts ten yards ahead of Isreal, who had finally doubled back, and I sprinted to the glory that was the district title for whatever district we belonged to.

So there you have it. The Lamest Victory Ever. In fact, it's a Trinity of Lameness. I beat a guy who ran 5200 meters to my 5000. I didn't even know he existed until my coach told me with less than a mile to go. And the best runner by far wasn't even there that day.

And here is the weird part. After the awards ceremony, I walked past some guy from another school. "Man! Awesome job!" Evidently he was running the race too, and had no idea just how cheap that victory was.

5. That was my sophomore year. By the time I was a senior, Israel many opportunities to avenge his loss. With the playing field level (i.e. he doesn't spot me 200 meters), we had some pretty good races and I'd guess we were pretty even. But then I was hit with shock and devastation when I read in the paper one night that Israel Flores was shot and killed in gang related violence near Edgewood High School. This completely conflicted with the Israel I had known for over three years.

This was awful. I talked with my friend Cuatro and my coach about it. I talked to my mom about it. We decided the best thing to do was just to send flowers to the family and not do anything more grandiose. The pain was palpable.

But then my coach called me 48 hours later and told me my rival, Israel Flores the runner is alive and well. Sadly, another Israel Flores, a football player was the one who was shot and killed. It turns out Edgewood had not just these two, but three Israel Floreses. So it was with a lot of guilt that I felt relieved that one Israel Flores was okay, even if that another one's life had to end so tragically and unnecesarrily short.

And it was strange all year to race Israel, and try to beat him every time I faced him, after mourning his death, Tom Sawyer style, for 48 hours.

6. In college cross country on the Fridays before a big race, we'd go for a casual three to five mile jaunt around campus for practice. We called these Campus Loops. Sometimes we'd run through the library. Or the dining hall. Or the dorms.

One time Soul Asylum was on campus to do a Friday night show. So as part of our Campus Loop we ran through the buidling that housed the hall/lounge where they'd be playing that night. Soul Asylum happened to being doing their sound check as we ran by.

The lead singer, I want to say his name is Dave Pirner, saw us and said into his microphone, "Hey look. It's the jogging team."

So there you have it. Six weird things that have happened to me in Texas and/or while running. I hope I get a better grade on this than I did on most of my college essays. And I hope it was a little more interesting.

Conversation With A Kid With Asperger Syndrome #1

At work I see a lot of kids with Asperger Syndrome and some high functioning autistic kids. The bulk of what I work on with these kids is social skills. If you want to know more about Asperger Syndrome, wikipedia has a pretty good entry about it.

Or you can just go to Silicon Valley and meet the locals. Then you see the syndrome up close and personal with every person you meet. Even cheaper, rent Napoloean Dynamite. That movie is an outright celebration of Asperger Syndrome.

Anyway, here is a conversation I had with a high school senior today who has Apserger Syndrome.

Kid: "What did you do this weekend?" We have worked long and hard on how to start a conversation using an appropriate question.

Me: "Well let's see. It was pretty cold, so I stayed indoors a lot. I watched some movies and the Super Bowl of course."

It is now the kid's job to ask a follow-up question based on what I said. As you will see, he jumped the gun and transitioned to what he was dying to talk about. But at least he used a transition. It was a clumsy transition, however. We are still working on how to smoothly transition from one topic to another.

Kid: "Hmmm. Hey speaking of TV, do you watch Family Matters?"

Me: "Wait. I thought we were talking about my weekend. You need to find a smoother way to get to your topic of choice. and be patient." All the while, I'm thinking, "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!? Family Matters? Was that the show from like 15 years ago with Urkel? Well my question was about to be answered.

Kid: "I know. I know. Sorry, but I couldn't help myself. It's just there is this show Family Matters, and it has this guy Urkel and he is HILARIOUS!! He's SO FUNNY!!! He's a genius."

Me: "Excuse me. Did you just say Urkel is a genius?"

Kid: "Well a comic genius. Can I show you my impersentation of him?" This is progress. Last month he would have broken into his Urkel routine without asking first. Now he knows better.

Me: "No."

Masters of the Obvious... UNITE!!

I am about to leave for work. How many times do you think I will have to talk to someone about how cold it is today? I'll keep track, but I'm guessing it will be 21 before it's all said and done.

Because, in case you hadn't figured it out yet, it's kind of cold today.

Random List #4

Favorite Cereal Cinnamon Life

First Job I Ever Had Bagging groceries at the HEB on Broadway (now a Central Market HEB) in San Antonio for $3.35/hour. I had to wear a bow-tie and a red and white pin striped short-sleeved shirt.

Pets I Had As A Kid
Six different dogs of varying lifespans: Tigger, Puppy, Lobo, some black dog who died young, Max, and Shakie.

Five cats all with long lifespans: Mama Kitty, Don Gato, Gatsby, Hairy, and Mr. Kitty Man.

Five ducks who ate all of our grass in the backyard: Two white ducks whose names I forgot, a nasty South American duck named Koa, and two ducks that were the spawn of Koa and the white ducks. As a result, they had black and white spots.
They were named Stealer and Moo. Skunky and Spot were two other ducks but they died young at the mercy lf Lobo's teeth.

One lab rat: Squeaky.

First Concert I Ever Went To Flock of Seagulls--several years AFTER they were relevant for their song I Ran.

The One Thing I Went To As A Kid That Is More Ridiculous Than A Flock of Seagulls Concert Pro wrestling, repeatedly.

Favorite Board Game I Never Get To Play Balderdash.

Least Favorite Game I Always Seem to End Up Playing Boggle.

Animal That Freaks Me Out the Most Octopus

Most Pointless Food Corn-Nuts

Fact About Me that Surprises People the Most As youngster, probably right around when I was three, my family lived in Manhattan for a year or so. I don't remember much about it, but I'm pretty sure it was the Manhattan that is in New York City.

A Banana On The House

Someone very very closely associated with this site has a new website. He puts the name of your website on a banana, if self-promotion is your thing.

Luckily, I must have friends in high places. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled across my very on blog being being publicized on a banana. Click here to see for yourself. It's more fun than a barrel of monkeys. You don't know how many times I have typed and deleted that lame joke, before deciding to include it.

Now before the good people at banananame.com come knocking on my door to collect some money, let me just say I have a plan to repay Mr. Deets for the free publicity. I have a specific idea in mind. But I need to be in the right place to do it. So I will find a way to return the free publicity. It's just a question of when, not if.

Did I Leave the Iron On?

One last post of Lake Nokomis, and then I'll be done until July with mentioning that lake on this blog. Why July, you ask? Because that's when the lake gets so hot, all the fish die and wash up on shore. Hard to imagine that scene, since right now the lake looks like this...



Mister Wizard, I ain't. So exactly how the water froze as a shelf of ice, hanging over the land is beyond me. But this is how the north shore of Lake Nokomis looks right now, and will until spring. So you have plenty of time to check it out for yourself.

But back to my reason for even talking about Lake Nokomis. I spend many Sundays going for an easy run around this lake. Since Labor Day, I have probably run past the northeast beach 15 times.



However, it wasn't until last month that I ever actually read the sign. And since then, it's always made me laugh. And if you read the sign for yourself, you will just how easily I'm amused.

I took these pictures yesterday, when it was somewhere between zero and two degrees with the wind chill. Tonight we have a windchill of -7.

I like to think that on a night like tonight, somewhere in south Minneapolis there is a teenager who had a summer job as a lifeguard on Lake Nokomis. As he watches American Idol, or updates his myspace page, he thinks to back to the glory of summer, when the lake was warm and he had an easy job.

As he sips on his hot chocolate, spiked with Bailey's he swiped from his dad's liquor cabinet, he thinks of his last day on the job, Labor Day.



Let's see, I took the buoys and rope out of the water. I cleared off all the benches. I cleared the beach of debris. I wiped down the lifeguard chair. My cushiony seat, sunscreen, and whistle are in storage. The rowboat is out of the water and I turned it upside down, with the oars INSIDE the boat this time. I don't want to make that mistake twice. Yikes was Peterson mad at me. But why do I still have this nagging feeling that's been with me for the last four and a half months?



OH CRAP!! I don't remember changing the sign on the beach to say BEACH CLOSED! Shithouse mouse! Or whatever it is kids say these day when pissed off. Old Man Peterson is never gonna hire me again!

EXTRA EXTRA! Read All About It!

"Country Mike" Runs a Race and Lines Up Next to Two Women Who Are More Interesting than He Is

It is usually not good to have your picture on the front page of the Local News section of a major city's newspaper. Your picture is usually run next to a story about how you just got caught for a string of bank robberies, were murdered by a roving gang of juvenile transvestites on crystal meth, are a sleezy politician who tried to make-out with George Bush, or are at the center of some scandal.

So it was a bit unsettling to be all cozy in our bed this morning, reading the Sunday paper, open up the Local News section and BOOM! see my picture. Allow me to explain.

Yesterday I ran the Frozen Half Marathon in St. Paul, and the Minneapolis Star-Tribune ran a nice story about it.

The story is on the front page of today's Local News section, below the fold. The bulk of the story is about two women who are going to be running in a marathon in Antarctica next month. Pretty cool.

One of the women has lost 150 pounds over the years, thanks to running, and is now a Boston marathon qualifier. She was also featured in the Star-Tribune during the week leading up to last October's Twin Cities marathon.

And if you do get the paper, you will also see there is a picture of the two ladies lined up next to me. Minutes before the race they kind of budged their way to the front, which people often do. Usually this is kind of annoying, but when I saw they were having their picture taken, I realized they were somehow part of a story. The picture is not on the web version of the story.

But click here to read it. You'll be glad you did.

As an aside, I did set a PR the at half-marathon yesterday. Seeing as I've only run three, this is not that big of a deal. Click here for the results.

The close reader of the results will note that I missed winning the 35-39 age group by only one place! And the closer reader will also note that even though I was only one place behind my age-group winner, he did happen to be 62 seconds ahead of me.



Emily snapped this picture of me with about a quarter of a mile to go. If it looks cold out there, that's because it was.

Next up: Training for Grandma's Marathon. Unfortunately, this morning I woke up with a slightly numb right butt cheek. Not good. It can be a hallmark sign of piriformis syndrome. Either way, I can still train through it, if I'm smart.

I sure hope I can keep training. I need all the training I can get. My goal is to break 2:50 at Grandma's, and then I can say I'm almost as fast as this guy.

Winter Magic

Minnesotans, I have found, believe the ways to stay warm in the winter are more fun than the ways to stay cool in the summer. Of course, I have a clan of Texas relatives who will tell you otherwise. Floating down the river, cold beer, swimming at the lake... Sure all of these things are fun. But I am learning to enjoy the winters here in Minnesota (ten years later) and have found that there are a lot of fun ways to stay warm. Best of all, most require you to be physically active. Consider...


Squirrel hunting.




Running.




Hiking.




Bird watching.




Biking.




Hockey/Skating/Broomball/Boot Hockey/Any Other Ice Sport That Requires Balance Skills That My Cerebellum Is Obviously Incapable of Providing




Ice Fishing On A Frozen Lake (notice, I said most, not ALL activities to stay warm require physical activity). I blew this photo up, hence the poor focus. For those of you not from Minnesota, that big blue auger is how you punch a hole in the ice so you can fish. Seems like heavy machinery to operate, considering how much beer drinking you do while ice fishing.




Snowmobiles. Okay, I know these are cars on a bridge, but it's the closest picture I had of snowmobiles. And really, aren't cars and snowmobiles really one and the same? They are to me.




Cross Country Skiing and Snowshoeing




Playing with Your Toys. Be it a football, snow softball (those crazy kids and their false sense of invinvibility), snowballs, or in Pancho's case, a shitload of stuffed animals. He has this habit of taking one toy outside each time I let him out to chase squirrels (real or imagined). Then he dumps the toy on the deck, and leaves it there. As a result, by the end of the week, all of his toys have piled up in the same spot outside. He then wanders around inside all week, wondering where the heck all his favorite toys went. Dogs are kind of stupid.





And last but not least, staying at home...




...and drinking beer. Did I mention that not ALL warm activities require PHYSICAL activity. One man's winter den is an ice fishing shanty, while another man's is a room with a TV, a wife, and a DVD player.

So, what is your favorite way to stay warm in the cold?

Question for the Masses

And by masses I mean the three of you who read this blog.

The question is, do I revive this blog? Or do I put it out to pasture?

Does this Dog Make My Neck Look Fat?

Last Sunday Pancho and I went for a light jog around Lake Nokomis. I took my camera along because it was snowing and wanted to get some pictures of my favorite part of the Twin Cities running trails. And for you locals, that would be the stretch of Minnehaha Parkway between Minnehaha Falls and Lake Nokomis.

In addition, Lake Nokomis was hosting the national pond hockey championships and I was hoping to get some good pictures. But I have learned I don't do to well taking pictures of things that move. Especially when they're on skates and zipping around like ten Tasmanian Devils.

So at the end of the run, I decided to take a picture of Pancho and me. With all respects to Charles Schultz, happiness can also be a cold puppy.

Novel Sentence?

A fun game I used to play, before I married someone who found my fun games to be very annoying was, "Is This A Novel Sentence, Or Not?" I have a friend, we'll call him The Doctor, who insists that it is irresponsible to claim a sentence you say or wrote is novel, and has never before been produced in the history of time. He is, literally, a math genius, and believes that statistically speaking, the probabilty is always present that any sentence you create has been created before. If you try to make up a sentence, he will provide you with a context for that sentence.

Now, anyone who took Linguistics 101 will know that one of the defining features of language as opposed to any other form of communication is that a single language utterance/gesture/production (i.e. a sentence) can be infinite in length. Also, the possible language utterances/gestures/productions (i.e. sentences) one do are also infinte. Therefore, there are infinity sentences that have never been said.

Even so, The Doctor says we have no way of knowing which oddball sentences have been said/written before, and which ones have not.

I offer the follwoing sentence: "The only difference between a lampshade and the space shuttle is Max Headroom." This is a properly construced English sentence (though quite awkward) and therefore, according to The Doctor, I cannot claim it is novel. He believes the probability that someone else has produced it is just too high.

And on to my main point: I just got off the phone with a friend of mine. We'll call him Zandypants. During the course of our conversation, Zandypants said, "Yeah, fuck my art shanty." The context of this sentence is not relevant. Trust me, it made sense in context.

But this was a historic statement in that I am pretty sure it is a novel sentence. How can anyone have possibly said this before?

I could argue that Zandypants' desire to have his art shanty, er, fucked, is novel and therefore backs up my claim that because there are infinity unsaid sentences, and we can say with confidence that no one else has uttered such a request. I mean seriously, an "art shanty?" Wanting one's own art shanty to have sexual relations? Give me a break; that is a novel sentence. How about a little dose of common sense, The Doctor?

But this claim alone could support The Doctor's argument that there is a context for every single possible sentence, given that this one occured. So it is therefore impossible to claim that any sentence is novel. I don't agree, but I do appreciate the logic.

Who is right?

Snake Farm--It Just Sounds Nasty

Snake Farm--Well it pretty much is.

If you grew up in San Antonio, you spent a lot of your childhood going north on I-35 out of town. This is because this is how you get to New Braunfels, the Guadalupe River, and Austin. And this means you spent a lot of time driving past the Snake Farm outside of New Braunfels.

I went the Snake Farm once, in high school with some friends, and we all agreed that was one time too many.



And this summer Texas singer/songwriter Ray Wylie Hubbard put out an album called Snake Farm. And the lead track shares the album's name. So I asked to get this album for Christmas, and my brother-in-law Jake came through.

The first thing that popped into my mind was, "The Snake Farm has been an institution since 1967 and it took almost 40 years for someone to write a song about it? That's surprising."

Many of Ray Wylie Hubbard's song have a blues quality to them, which means these songs often get stuck in your head. The song Snake Farm is one of these songs. But the beauty is, in this case, I am not annoyed by having his songs in my head. Rather, I just want to listen to his songs more and more.

Click here for the lyrics.

So I played this song this morning at 7 a.m. as I was eating my breakfast and have been hearing the song in my head ever since.

I also like the end of the song ("And we... you know...it's a snake farm"). Ray Wylie Hubbard is very funny.

The final thing about this song is it is a pretty accurate description of the vibe and mood of the Snake Farm. I just wish Ray Wylie Hubbard had written that song back in 1989. Then I could have just listened to his song to know what the Snake Farm was like. Instead I went and checked it out for myself and just felt kind of dirty and very depressed for about three days afterwards.

L-I-V-I-N

Is there home comfort that beats this on a cold winter night?

Jammie pants. A long sleeve shirt. A warm bed.

That's how I roll.

Random List #3

Favorite Bean Black refried.

Favorite Track and Field Event to Watch 800 m run.

Least Favorite Track Race to Run 800 m run.

Favorite Drink I Never Drink Hot chocolate.

Favorite Pencil to Paper Game Sudoku. I wish I could make like Rush and deviate from the norm here, but sudoku is too much fun.

Least Favorite Pencil to Paper Games Mazes. Sure I appreciate that some mazes are works of art, but I can think of nothing more boring or frustrating than the maze as an activity. Maybe that's because my visual-spatial skills are pathologically bad. I mean, I could probably qualify for some Occupational Therapy services. That being said...

Fictitious Person I Imagine Probably Exists That I Most Want to Meet Someone who is really into mazes. Is there someone out there who, as an adult is mad crazy about mazes? I'm talking about the sort of fella who would call himself a "maziac" and has a maize colored t-shirt that says "That's A-MAZE-ing!" Surely there is a group of people passionate about mazes in a Wordplay sort of way and constitute a maze fanatic subculture. I want to meet one of those people.

And by the way, Emily can verify, one of my most annoying (to her) habits is to think of fictitious people and ask her if they exist. Like, "Do you think there is someone out there who is really good at clapping? Like so good at it that he can pick up girls at concerts just by clapping between songs?" I think these questions warrant discussion. Emily does not. But the point is, out of all the people I have thought up, I really want to meet this maze guy more than any of the other fictitious people.

Biggest Determinant In Choosing a Fruit to Eat Ease of eating. I like the taste of pineapples and oranges a lot more than bananas and apples. But I eat twenty bananas and apples for every orange or apple I eat. This is why clementines rock!

Most Beautiful Animal Tigers.

Strunk and White Manual of Style Rule I Break Consciously the Most Frequently for My Own Selfish Stylistic Purposes Capiltalizing and putting periods at the end of a fragment.

Partying Like It's 1999

Back in the 20th century, I did a lot of cooking. A lot of it was because it was my job, but I also spent a lot of time cooking for myself. However, since then, I met and married Emily, and we have developed a routine that smacks of a traditional marriage. And by that I mean she cooks every night. But I am still a 21st century, sensitive new-age guy. So part of our arrangement is I always do the dishes.

This works out really well because Emily and I both agree she is a great cook, I tend to cook only things with meat, Emily hates doing the dishes and somehow is very bad cleaning them, and when I cook we sometimes end up eating at 9 p.m. But with Emily cooking our meals are more punctual, healthier, more varied, and lighter than if I was cooking.

But, I was inspired by Thirty Day Challenges taking place at The Deets' household in the Lake-8 Neighborhood of Minneapolis. So I am trying it out myself. I have challenges for January through April figured out, and will post them along with May and June, a la Deets, once I get May and June figured out.

But January's challenge has been to cook a Sunday meal, a huge dish that will have tons of leftovers. I failed to do this last Sunday, but did it today.

So today I made this pork chile verde recipe. I doubled the recipe.



I was skeptical of how it would turn out while the witch's brew simmered. But I remembered to give the food our usual blessing ("Hope it doesn't suck."). And the dish ended up being exactly as I hoped. The meat was tender, the sauce spicy, but not so spicy it drowned out the tangy goodness of the tomatillos. As an aside, only once have I neglected to bless a dish I have made with "Hope it doesn't suck." And, Emily will back me up here, this was the one time something I made really sucked.

But I digress. I think Emily liked the chile I made Sunday, just not as much as I did. But as you may predict, she found it a bit too meaty and greasy. What a pansy-ass Minnesotan she is. I'm joking of course.

And the best part for me is, tonight Emily has to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes.

Putting the Balls Back In Football

Each sport has its image problem. Most are plagued by some combination of steroids, recreational drugs, prima donnas, spoiled gigillionaires, corrupt judges, and criminal behavior. But soccer not only has all that to contend with. It also has the issue of its players acting the biggest damn sissies this side of men's synchronized swimming. It looks like FIFA is finally admitting this is a problem.

Click here for the whole story.

Here is some of the text.

At this World Cup, the deplorable habit that involves players staying down for no apparent reason after minor collisions, thus causing frequent breaks in play, was increasingly in evidence," said the report of the FIFA Technical Committee.

Hasn't this been going for, I don't know, decades? But I guess I shouldn't complain. At least now maybe they'll find a way to put a stop to the drama queen behavior.

Life Is Beautiful

Last night Emily came home from our neighborhood wine bar with a friend of ours, DC. I had opted to be anti-social for the night and watch the Dallas Cowboys playoff game at home and by myself. For those of you who are not one of my parents or sisters, you may not appreciate the degree to which I used to live and die by the Dallas Cowboys as a youngster. Imagine my crazed love for the Spurs and multiply that by ten, and that is how much of a Cowboys fan I was.

But last night, Emily and DC came in and watched the last three minutes of the game with me. And if you don't know what happened, I'll just summarize by saying it was a wacky game and a wacky ending. The Cowboys quarterback completely choked and fumbled the ball at the end and lost the game for the team.

Anyway, my point to all this is how little I cared. DC, who is a big Colts fan and knows way more about sports than I would have imagined kept saying she felt bad for me and Tony Romo (the guy on the Cowboys who choked at the end--not the guy who owns a chain of barbecued ribs restaurants).

I mean I was disappointed and I'm sure I said, "Oh crap" or something. But that was it. Apathy and perspective sunk in immediately. I mean I didn't even feel bad for Tony Romo. Hero or goat, he is still being paid obscene amounts of money to play a game.

The bottom line though is last night's game did not affect my emotional well-being at all. I still have a great house, have the best wife ever, a good job, live in an awesome neighborhood, have a quality family, family-in-law, a good group of friends, and I am healthy. If Tony Romo bobbles a snap on field goal attempt, that doesn't change any of that.

Of course the real test of this newfound, healthy perspective will happen in May. That's when the Spurs begin their playoff march.

The Visual Elite Need Not Reply

This question is for all you contact lens wearers who use the microwave frequently. Which would be easier for you to give up for life? Your microwave or your contact lenses? Or how about your cell phone vs. your contact lenses?

For me, in either case, it's definitely contact lenses. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that contact lenses are among my top ten valued inventions of the 20th century. I also need the car, the airplane, the internets, the furnace, the air conditioner, the gas stove, the CD, the running shoe, and the computer. You give me those things and my contact lenses, and I could do without the tv and all them moving pictures.

Random Thought #6701

Who exactly is it that buys nudie magazines from the airport newsstands?

I have a routine when I fly that began when I regularly flew between Des Moines and San Antonio in college. To this day, I always go to the ATM, take out my requisite cash for the trip and then go buy a Sports Illustrated. Reading this magazine is pure indulgence so I save and savor it for when I have to fly.

Not surprisingly, Sports Illustrated is with all the other "men's" magazines, like Car and Driver, Muscle and Fitness, a lot of sports magazines, and, on the top row, a collection of nudie magazines that would make the Encyclopedia Britannica proud, in terms of comprehensiveness and organization.

And part of my routine is to marvel over all the selections and how one goes about choosing one magazine over another. Are the differences between Playboy and Penthouse as subtle and nuanced as the differences between Running Times and Runner's World (or Newsweek vs. Time)? Or are the stakes higher and more polar? Is it like choosing between FOX news and, well, anything else besides FOX news?

And this seems like a strange place to contemplate this because I'm in an airport, not Sex World or SuperAmerica.

And this brings me back to my original point. Who on God's green earth is buying these magazines in the airport? And why? They have been there for as long I have been regularly flying, so clearly there is a market for Playboy in the airport, otherwise they would have been pulled from the shelves a long time ago.

Is there a whole sub-type in the Annoying Traveler category that I've been missing here? I mean we've all had to sit by any of the following: screaming baby, smelly man, obese person, grunter/snorer, the conversationalist, Mr. Cell Phone, and (this one was new for me on the last trip) a girl with a small dog/rat in her purse.

But has anyone had to sit by "the crazed porn addict who can't go two hours without seeing a naked lady so he had to buy a Penthouse from the Lake Woebegone Newsstand in Terminal C of the MSP Airport"? Because I haven't. Have you ever sat next to someone who spent the whole flight from Chicago to Denver studying the dimensions of Miss February's centerfold? Again, I haven't. So if Porn Addict is indeed a new kind of Annoying Traveler, I have yet to meet him.

So I ask again, who in the hell is buying all these magazines? And why?