As one who shares his life with several animals, not to mention two children, 'no' is one of the most-utilized words in my vocabulary. This, and all its inherent difficulties, was recently illustrated to me in a rather stark and arresting manner.
It was a beautiful Spring afternoon, and I had let the dogs outside. They were wandering aimlessly around the yard, sniffing and squirting urine virtually everywhere, when I noticed Jinks the Cocker Spaniel taking an experimental nibble of one of the leaves of my spearmint plant. I didn't believe ingesting it would result in any long-term ill effects, but I wanted him to stop all the same.
Just as I went to correct him, a nugget of wisdom shared with me years earlier came to mind. When I was in high school, we enrolled our puppy (an alarmingly devious and naughty Brittany named Bix) in obedience school. The instructor, a woman of stern demeanor whose Chows not only came on command and walked at heel, but could also doubtless solve differential equations and perform a passable version of Wozzeck, told us very early on to never use the dog's name when correcting it; otherwise, it would begin to associate its name with negative outcomes and react badly to its use. This seemed reasonable enough. As such, any indiscretion was dealt with with a forceful, if nonspecific, "No!", causing some of the puppies to immediately cease what they were doing while others continued blithely on their way. Bix was almost invariably among the latter; little did he know this would necessitate the advent of the Spray Bottle of Doom. It even got to the point where he would listen to correction. Sometimes.
At any rate, with this in mind I spoke a single, sharp "NO!". Jinks glanced at me briefly and then resumed his taste testing. Now would probably be a good time to mention, for those of you who are unaware, that my other two dogs are Border Collies. Border Collies are a sensitive breed that thrive on praise and activity; conversely, they react with great regret and sorrow to the smallest items of unseemliness. Basically, they are the Canadians of the dog world.
Hence, it should come as no surprise to any of you that they both assumed they had committed some grave transgression. There was much swishing of tails and teeth bared in a submissive and ingratiating manner. The object of my correction, on the other hand, continued apace with his nibbling.
I noted that I would need to be a bit more specific with my correction. I thought to myself, "Perhaps, if I say his name to get his attention, and then allow a brief pause before correcting him, he won't associate the two and everything will be golden."
"Jiiiii-iiinks!" I crooned. He looked up at me balefully. After allowing a few seconds to elapse, I let out a thunderous "NO!!". But it was too late; he had already turned over a new leaf, so to speak, and was busily chewing it.
The effect on the collies, on the other hand, was electric. You would have thought I'd caught them pooping on the floor while simultaneously destroying an heirloom wall hanging and siphoning money out of my checking account; Quandary lowered his head and tail and dove for cover behind one of the lilacs. Abiquiu dashed over to me and positively sniveled. Ears down, she rolled over onto her back and writhed around in a manner that seemed to indicate that, while she wasn't sure exactly what she had done wrong, she was more than willing to do whatever was required to rectify the situation. Had she been a human, I've no doubt she would have given me her watch, her billfold, and her lunch. Having none of those things to offer, however, and after having prostrated herself in front of me for an acceptable amount of time, she ran off and returned with her beloved Frisbee as a peace offering.
At the end of the day, I was faced with two extremely penitent Border Collies and a willfully oblivious Cocker. What could I do, I called the collies over to me and painstakingly explained that they were Good Dogs and hadn't done anything wrong. A soothing voice and a vigorous belly rub seemed to convince them of this.
And as for the guilty party? I went down off the deck, picked up the damn Cocker, and carried him into the house. I've threatened to give him to a nice farm family, but he seems unfazed. Evidently an alternate strategy is required. I'd be open to ideas.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Thursday, August 8, 2013
An Objective Overview of Children's Television, Part I
Okay, so I know this blog is supposed to be about running and fitness, and whatnot. And typically it is. However, today I am going to allow myself a digression; as the father of a 7-year-old and a 3-year-old, television show choices are a common and oftentimes contentious topic. In hopes of helping you, my dear readers, avoid having to navigate these pitfalls, I offer the following assessment of a number of shows. Please note that this list may or may not closely mirror the shows which cause great puling and importuning in your children; it is based upon my daughters' current and past favorites. And, after all, it is my fucking blog...
We will start with that old standby (and current favorite of the youngest), Curious George. This is, as I'm sure you are all aware, a show about a man with a fanatical predilection for all things yellow and his ostensibly endearing monkey sidekick. Between their apartment in the city and their country house, they manage to have all sorts of wacky adventures, including going both into space and to the bottom of the ocean. These episodes typically involve some sort of mishap, of the sort that could easily be avoided with the slightest bit of common sense or foresight. However, as George seems to possess neither, he blunders onward, creating situations from which he, or one of his seemingly endless list of friends (who seem to have limitless patience for his idiotic hijinks) must extricate himself. This is a show for the id. This is a show about poor impulse control. This is a show about what would happen if a two-year-old had the physical wherewithal and manual dexterity of a full-grown monkey. This show is fucking terrifying.
"Little ones can learn a lot from George" begins the program description on Netflix. I should bloody well hope not. I, for one, do not want my little ones to learn that it's okay to steal all the dogs from a dog show, or explore a construction site about which they have already been warned, or release a hutchful of rabbits into the wilderness. Most of all, I definitely do not want them learning that, no matter what you do, no matter how badly you fuck things up, all will end up well if you are cute and engaging and can climb well and use your feet like hands. Got news for ya, kid: you're not a monkey. You try any of this shit, and you will be a ward of the state so fast it'll make your head spin. Really, the down-east accents of some the country bumpkins, and the inexplicably-named rabbit Herbert Nenninger are about the only redeeming characteristics of the show. Even the love story, between Mr Yellow Pants and Dr Wiseman is nerdish and gawky. Just get it on, already. Send George to stay with Hundley the anal-retentive Dachshund and the World's Richest Doorman for the night and have awkward, shameful geek sex. It'll relieve a lot of the tension...
Next up, straight from the Great White North, we have Max & Ruby. The story of two anthropomorphic rabbits without parents. No one knows quite what happened to them; perhaps hasenpfeffer replaced poutine as the dish of choice in Canada, maybe they wandered into Mr McGregor's garden and did not emerge, maybe they just plain got sick of their kids and ran away to run a convenience store in Vancouver, selling President's Choice and ketchup chips to pierced, sweatered hipsters and thanking their lucky stars they got out. Couldn't blame 'em. Whatever the reason, the pair seem to live alone (maybe someone should notify the Department of Health and Rabbit Services). Luckily, they have their giggly, spry grandma to watch over them.
Good thing, too...these kids (kits?) are utterly hopeless. Ruby, the older of the two, is overbearing, schoolmarmish, insufferable, and smug. Imagine a completely uninteresting, dull, non-brilliant Sheldon Cooper. As a female rabbit. Okay, that's a bit of a stretch... She always wants to get her way and has seemingly little patience for her little brother's antics. Which is a shame because, to put it bluntly, Max is a shit. He is a monosyllabic, cunning little terror who serves as foil to Ruby's attempts at order, crafts, and tea parties. The show's writers have decided that he will be given only one word or phrase to speak each episode; this could be a pathetic cry for help regarding their own obsessions. Sad.
Each episode follows the same formula: Ruby plans something, Max's escapades make things go horribly (and, presumably, hilariously) awry. Ruby fusses about it. Max pulls something out of his ass and saves the day. This show is so predictable, it makes The Lone Ranger look like an episode of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. The only mystery is with which of Max's strangely-incorrectly-named toys he will play. For example, his SkyMaster Stealth Jet very clearly has two propeller engines. Then again, what else would you expect from two prepubescent rabbits living alone in a house that has sombrero wallpaper in the kitchen?
The final entry in this chapter is fucking Caillou. The show whose name I cannot say (or, apparently, type) without using profanity. This is a show about the fucking titular character, a whiny, bald, grabby little 4-year-old fussbudget who lives in the Land of Primary Colors (a badly-disguised Canada) (Surprise!) with his mommy Doris, daddy Boris, grandma and grandpa and little sister Rosie. I'm not sure exactly what it is about fucking Caillou that makes me despise it with the intensity of a thousand supernovae, but I do. Maybe it's because he is just so incredibly fussy, so pettish, so self-absorbed that you just want to strangle the little bastard. It could be because of the twee, cutesy theme song. And yes, I am proud to say that I have made up objectionable lyrics for it. Not tonight; maybe some other time. Perhaps it's because of the annoying way the narrator (fucking Caillou's paternal grandmother) expresses his thoughts and emotions, which would be obvious to even the dullest of viewers. "(Fucking) Caillou felt sad." Well, no shit. He's a puling, milquetoast-y, over-sensitive little wretch. "(Fucking..okay, I think you get the idea) Caillou didn't want Rosie to come along." Duh. He's a self-entitled little prick.
But no, the real reason for my loathing is that the show is so correct, so painstakingly sensitive, so terrifyingly fair. There are days when mommy takes the car and days when daddy takes the car. There is very little mention of anything differentiating; indeed. mommy and daddy possess the same fashion sense, hairstyle, body type. No one is left out, at least not for long. Leo, the little ginger in the stupid green overalls, goes from bully to best friend in one freaking episode, for fuck's sake. There is dissent, but it's in the style of Rosie-wants-ice-cream-and-(fucking)-Caillou-wants-cake. Pretty vanilla stuff. He possesses a veritable United Nations of friends: Clementine is black (and not orange as I had so desperately hoped); Sarah is of Chinese ancestry; Leo is the aforementioned lost Weasley child; Emma is diabetic; Andre' has the distinct handicap of being French. The even-handedness is enough to cause Dear Abby to loose a string of invectives that would blast the paint off a submarine. Assuming submarines are, indeed, painted.
In the end, though (which is exactly where the little jackass can cram it. I'll leave it to you to decide which end), it is all about the children. To teach them, at their impressionable ages, about fairness and wonder and discovery and wearing the same damned outfit every day and being a whiny little snip and...
Sorry. That was piling on.
I will conclude by mentioning a study done at the University of Virginia and published in Pediatrics: three groups of preschoolers were engaged in, respectively, watching Spongebob Squarepants, watching Caillou, and drawing pictures. After nine minutes, each group was tested on their cognitive and attentive function. The picture-drawers and little-grousing-puke-watchers both scored significantly higher than the SBSP-watchers. There is a lesson to be drawn from this. Please, parents. For the love of all this is good and decent in this world, please make your children draw lots of pictures.
We will start with that old standby (and current favorite of the youngest), Curious George. This is, as I'm sure you are all aware, a show about a man with a fanatical predilection for all things yellow and his ostensibly endearing monkey sidekick. Between their apartment in the city and their country house, they manage to have all sorts of wacky adventures, including going both into space and to the bottom of the ocean. These episodes typically involve some sort of mishap, of the sort that could easily be avoided with the slightest bit of common sense or foresight. However, as George seems to possess neither, he blunders onward, creating situations from which he, or one of his seemingly endless list of friends (who seem to have limitless patience for his idiotic hijinks) must extricate himself. This is a show for the id. This is a show about poor impulse control. This is a show about what would happen if a two-year-old had the physical wherewithal and manual dexterity of a full-grown monkey. This show is fucking terrifying.
"Little ones can learn a lot from George" begins the program description on Netflix. I should bloody well hope not. I, for one, do not want my little ones to learn that it's okay to steal all the dogs from a dog show, or explore a construction site about which they have already been warned, or release a hutchful of rabbits into the wilderness. Most of all, I definitely do not want them learning that, no matter what you do, no matter how badly you fuck things up, all will end up well if you are cute and engaging and can climb well and use your feet like hands. Got news for ya, kid: you're not a monkey. You try any of this shit, and you will be a ward of the state so fast it'll make your head spin. Really, the down-east accents of some the country bumpkins, and the inexplicably-named rabbit Herbert Nenninger are about the only redeeming characteristics of the show. Even the love story, between Mr Yellow Pants and Dr Wiseman is nerdish and gawky. Just get it on, already. Send George to stay with Hundley the anal-retentive Dachshund and the World's Richest Doorman for the night and have awkward, shameful geek sex. It'll relieve a lot of the tension...
Next up, straight from the Great White North, we have Max & Ruby. The story of two anthropomorphic rabbits without parents. No one knows quite what happened to them; perhaps hasenpfeffer replaced poutine as the dish of choice in Canada, maybe they wandered into Mr McGregor's garden and did not emerge, maybe they just plain got sick of their kids and ran away to run a convenience store in Vancouver, selling President's Choice and ketchup chips to pierced, sweatered hipsters and thanking their lucky stars they got out. Couldn't blame 'em. Whatever the reason, the pair seem to live alone (maybe someone should notify the Department of Health and Rabbit Services). Luckily, they have their giggly, spry grandma to watch over them.
Good thing, too...these kids (kits?) are utterly hopeless. Ruby, the older of the two, is overbearing, schoolmarmish, insufferable, and smug. Imagine a completely uninteresting, dull, non-brilliant Sheldon Cooper. As a female rabbit. Okay, that's a bit of a stretch... She always wants to get her way and has seemingly little patience for her little brother's antics. Which is a shame because, to put it bluntly, Max is a shit. He is a monosyllabic, cunning little terror who serves as foil to Ruby's attempts at order, crafts, and tea parties. The show's writers have decided that he will be given only one word or phrase to speak each episode; this could be a pathetic cry for help regarding their own obsessions. Sad.
Each episode follows the same formula: Ruby plans something, Max's escapades make things go horribly (and, presumably, hilariously) awry. Ruby fusses about it. Max pulls something out of his ass and saves the day. This show is so predictable, it makes The Lone Ranger look like an episode of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. The only mystery is with which of Max's strangely-incorrectly-named toys he will play. For example, his SkyMaster Stealth Jet very clearly has two propeller engines. Then again, what else would you expect from two prepubescent rabbits living alone in a house that has sombrero wallpaper in the kitchen?
The final entry in this chapter is fucking Caillou. The show whose name I cannot say (or, apparently, type) without using profanity. This is a show about the fucking titular character, a whiny, bald, grabby little 4-year-old fussbudget who lives in the Land of Primary Colors (a badly-disguised Canada) (Surprise!) with his mommy Doris, daddy Boris, grandma and grandpa and little sister Rosie. I'm not sure exactly what it is about fucking Caillou that makes me despise it with the intensity of a thousand supernovae, but I do. Maybe it's because he is just so incredibly fussy, so pettish, so self-absorbed that you just want to strangle the little bastard. It could be because of the twee, cutesy theme song. And yes, I am proud to say that I have made up objectionable lyrics for it. Not tonight; maybe some other time. Perhaps it's because of the annoying way the narrator (fucking Caillou's paternal grandmother) expresses his thoughts and emotions, which would be obvious to even the dullest of viewers. "(Fucking) Caillou felt sad." Well, no shit. He's a puling, milquetoast-y, over-sensitive little wretch. "(Fucking..okay, I think you get the idea) Caillou didn't want Rosie to come along." Duh. He's a self-entitled little prick.
But no, the real reason for my loathing is that the show is so correct, so painstakingly sensitive, so terrifyingly fair. There are days when mommy takes the car and days when daddy takes the car. There is very little mention of anything differentiating; indeed. mommy and daddy possess the same fashion sense, hairstyle, body type. No one is left out, at least not for long. Leo, the little ginger in the stupid green overalls, goes from bully to best friend in one freaking episode, for fuck's sake. There is dissent, but it's in the style of Rosie-wants-ice-cream-and-(fucking)-Caillou-wants-cake. Pretty vanilla stuff. He possesses a veritable United Nations of friends: Clementine is black (and not orange as I had so desperately hoped); Sarah is of Chinese ancestry; Leo is the aforementioned lost Weasley child; Emma is diabetic; Andre' has the distinct handicap of being French. The even-handedness is enough to cause Dear Abby to loose a string of invectives that would blast the paint off a submarine. Assuming submarines are, indeed, painted.
In the end, though (which is exactly where the little jackass can cram it. I'll leave it to you to decide which end), it is all about the children. To teach them, at their impressionable ages, about fairness and wonder and discovery and wearing the same damned outfit every day and being a whiny little snip and...
Sorry. That was piling on.
I will conclude by mentioning a study done at the University of Virginia and published in Pediatrics: three groups of preschoolers were engaged in, respectively, watching Spongebob Squarepants, watching Caillou, and drawing pictures. After nine minutes, each group was tested on their cognitive and attentive function. The picture-drawers and little-grousing-puke-watchers both scored significantly higher than the SBSP-watchers. There is a lesson to be drawn from this. Please, parents. For the love of all this is good and decent in this world, please make your children draw lots of pictures.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Fitness Foods
Let's face it, most of us who are at all active sooner or later encounter some type of performance food. Whether it be a protein bar grabbed on the way to a mountain summit, a packet of gunk slugged down to get you through the last 4 of a 20-miler, or a 'recovery drink' consumed immediately after a race, we've all experienced part of what has become a multi-million dollar industry. Regardless of whether it was a bar, a shake, a drink, or what, I think we can all agree:
They just aren't very good.
It's not that they taste bad, per se; they're just...lacking. Take, for instance, this Clif Builder's Bar chocolate flavor protein bar I'm currently eyeing. I've been using these occasionally as a meal replacement; there's tons of protein, vitamins, minerals, etc. It looks fine...thick and sort of fudgy, not terrible. Let's try a bite. Initially, yum...the consistency is fine, it tastes sort of chocolatey at first blush. Then, the facial and glossopharyngeal nervous impulses reach the brain. This is when the yelling begins...
"STEVE!!! Hey, Steve! What the fuck?? The mouth specifically indicated chocolate! It told me fudge; thick, delicious, luscious fudge was coming. What is this shit? Soy protein isolate? Beet juice concentrate? Fucking organic brown rice syrup??" Needless to say, I have let down my brain. It started off with great expectations, and these were quickly and utterly quashed.
And, in a sense, it is right. I understand that the manufacturers of these things make them resemble foods we love for a reason. We are much more likely to consume something that we believe may taste good. Problem is, we nearly always end up with a big mouthful of disappointment. The aforementioned protein bar, while it superficially brings to mind a glorious chocolate, ends up being something more like compressed sawdust coated in vaguely chocolate-ish breading.
They are by no means the worst. Far from it. Remember graham cracker sandwiches? When your mom would make icing with powdered sugar and put it between two graham crackers? And if she used enough powdered sugar it would take on kind of an off-white color? Have you ever tried Vanilla Bean Gu? The consistency is a bit thicker, but I was still optimistic. What I got instead was off-brand runny vanilla pudding made by a spinster aunt who never had kids. I understand that it is supposed to give you a boost of energy and protein and so forth, but if I ate one of those during a workout, I truly believe I would be too dejected to go on.
And, while Sport Beans may be made by the manufacturers of Jelly Bellies, I am here to tell you that they are not made anywhere near where the jelly beans are, nor with any apparent attempt at making them similar in taste. Evaporated cane juice and tapioca syrup have no place in something masquerading as a sweet treat. Don't get me wrong, Sport Beans have their place. And that place is being used to prank someone you do not particularly like.
I understand that, from a fitness standpoint, these items are much better for you. Just keep your expectations low. And encourage your taste receptors to do the same.
They just aren't very good.
It's not that they taste bad, per se; they're just...lacking. Take, for instance, this Clif Builder's Bar chocolate flavor protein bar I'm currently eyeing. I've been using these occasionally as a meal replacement; there's tons of protein, vitamins, minerals, etc. It looks fine...thick and sort of fudgy, not terrible. Let's try a bite. Initially, yum...the consistency is fine, it tastes sort of chocolatey at first blush. Then, the facial and glossopharyngeal nervous impulses reach the brain. This is when the yelling begins...
"STEVE!!! Hey, Steve! What the fuck?? The mouth specifically indicated chocolate! It told me fudge; thick, delicious, luscious fudge was coming. What is this shit? Soy protein isolate? Beet juice concentrate? Fucking organic brown rice syrup??" Needless to say, I have let down my brain. It started off with great expectations, and these were quickly and utterly quashed.
And, in a sense, it is right. I understand that the manufacturers of these things make them resemble foods we love for a reason. We are much more likely to consume something that we believe may taste good. Problem is, we nearly always end up with a big mouthful of disappointment. The aforementioned protein bar, while it superficially brings to mind a glorious chocolate, ends up being something more like compressed sawdust coated in vaguely chocolate-ish breading.
They are by no means the worst. Far from it. Remember graham cracker sandwiches? When your mom would make icing with powdered sugar and put it between two graham crackers? And if she used enough powdered sugar it would take on kind of an off-white color? Have you ever tried Vanilla Bean Gu? The consistency is a bit thicker, but I was still optimistic. What I got instead was off-brand runny vanilla pudding made by a spinster aunt who never had kids. I understand that it is supposed to give you a boost of energy and protein and so forth, but if I ate one of those during a workout, I truly believe I would be too dejected to go on.
And, while Sport Beans may be made by the manufacturers of Jelly Bellies, I am here to tell you that they are not made anywhere near where the jelly beans are, nor with any apparent attempt at making them similar in taste. Evaporated cane juice and tapioca syrup have no place in something masquerading as a sweet treat. Don't get me wrong, Sport Beans have their place. And that place is being used to prank someone you do not particularly like.
I understand that, from a fitness standpoint, these items are much better for you. Just keep your expectations low. And encourage your taste receptors to do the same.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
XC, Part III - Acceptance of My Limitations, and I Push A Kid Off-camera
After the ignominy of my last race, I decided it was time to give up any aspirations of mediocrity. It was time to accept and deal with the fact that, while I was an entertaining and engaging teammate, I was not going to be the scoring backbone of the team. While I was improving my times, the improvements were incremental, not exponential. And it seemed as though everyone else was improving their times rather more rapidly than myself. I was not going to letter in cross-country. I was not going to have a top-10 finish. I was, however, going to exploit the fact that I was shorter, stronger, well...squatter than the typical runner.
We had a couple more meets, including one at our home course, considered to be one of the toughest in the state. At that meet, I set a new PR, breaking 20 minutes for the first time, by quite a lot. I did not let this go to my head, however. I was firmly entrenched as the guy everyone wanted along when we walked the course, due to my unique ability to mock members of the other teams and their obvious physical flaws, but maybe not the one you wanted on the course when the meet was on the line. I was okay with this. Acceptance often leads to enhanced clarity, and my role was crystal clear. I was a cross-country screw-up. And I was having the most fun I'd ever had in a team sport.
One of our final meets of the year was at Cedar Falls. We took the bus up there, which took about an hour. Plenty of time for Carbo Coolers and jocularity. We arrived, disembarked from the bus, and went to walk the course. From what I can recall, it was a fairly wide-open course. There were many other teams there; Estherville was not one of them, unfortunately. (Their nickname was the Midgets, and any time we were at a meet with them, when our race was over we would go out onto the course, take off our shoes, kneel on them, and cheer wildly for any Estherville runner going by. We actually elicited a "Fuck off!" from one of them once.).
With the course walk complete, it was time to meander back to the starting line and prepare for the race. By 'prepare', I mean tell jokes, make fun of each other, and stretch out in a very desultory fashion. Soon, it came time to approach the starting line. The starter's pistol sounded and we were off.
I settled into the slow-yet-not-at-all-taxing pace which was the centerpiece of my race strategy, such as it was. I chugged stolidly along for the next three miles, enjoying the view and the cheers of the spectators. Ever since I had accepted that I was in no way, shape, or form competitive as a runner, I allowed myself to relax and enjoy the meets much more.
In a nonce, the finish chute hove into view. The chute, for those of you unfamiliar, is a space about five feet wide, delineated by ropes festooned with festive, multi-colored flags. It exists to maintain the finishing order of the runners so our information can be collected in an efficient manner. If we were cattle, it would be the pathway to our abbatoir. As was my wont, the sight of the finish line instilled in me additional vigor and speed. To this day, I remain convinced that, had there but been a way to keep the finish line some 15 or so meters ahead of me throughout the whole course, I could have been a world-class XC runner. Alas...
Thus rejuvenated, I commenced my mad dash for the chute. Another competitor seemed to have had the same idea, and we were approaching the finish line (which was, inexplicably, on the side of a hill) on a collision course. I continued barreling on, head down, the picture of athletic prowess. We were approaching the line from slightly different directions; our paths were slowly but inexorably converging. About 10 meters from the line, the kid seemed to come to the realization that I was in finishing mode and not to be denied. He reached back for one final burst of speed and sought to overtake me. He came abreast of me about two meters from the line. I looked up at him, realizing this situation could have only one possible outcome. His eyes widened as he apprehended what I intended to do. Which I promptly did; extending my right forearm, I sent him sprawling down the hill. I have no idea how many places I cost him, but I do know one thing.
I won.
I attended Homecoming a few weeks later with a group of cross-country runners. After the dance, we retired to someone's house to watch videos. Someone broke out the video of the Cedar Falls meet. Whoever recorded it was standing just off to the side of the finish line and had a stellar view of the incident. The kid went flying by, arms flailing. All the way off camera. Apparently, what I lacked in speed, stamina, and pace I more than made up for in forearm shivers. If they ever combine roller derby and cross-country running, I will have found my niche.
We had a couple more meets, including one at our home course, considered to be one of the toughest in the state. At that meet, I set a new PR, breaking 20 minutes for the first time, by quite a lot. I did not let this go to my head, however. I was firmly entrenched as the guy everyone wanted along when we walked the course, due to my unique ability to mock members of the other teams and their obvious physical flaws, but maybe not the one you wanted on the course when the meet was on the line. I was okay with this. Acceptance often leads to enhanced clarity, and my role was crystal clear. I was a cross-country screw-up. And I was having the most fun I'd ever had in a team sport.
One of our final meets of the year was at Cedar Falls. We took the bus up there, which took about an hour. Plenty of time for Carbo Coolers and jocularity. We arrived, disembarked from the bus, and went to walk the course. From what I can recall, it was a fairly wide-open course. There were many other teams there; Estherville was not one of them, unfortunately. (Their nickname was the Midgets, and any time we were at a meet with them, when our race was over we would go out onto the course, take off our shoes, kneel on them, and cheer wildly for any Estherville runner going by. We actually elicited a "Fuck off!" from one of them once.).
With the course walk complete, it was time to meander back to the starting line and prepare for the race. By 'prepare', I mean tell jokes, make fun of each other, and stretch out in a very desultory fashion. Soon, it came time to approach the starting line. The starter's pistol sounded and we were off.
I settled into the slow-yet-not-at-all-taxing pace which was the centerpiece of my race strategy, such as it was. I chugged stolidly along for the next three miles, enjoying the view and the cheers of the spectators. Ever since I had accepted that I was in no way, shape, or form competitive as a runner, I allowed myself to relax and enjoy the meets much more.
In a nonce, the finish chute hove into view. The chute, for those of you unfamiliar, is a space about five feet wide, delineated by ropes festooned with festive, multi-colored flags. It exists to maintain the finishing order of the runners so our information can be collected in an efficient manner. If we were cattle, it would be the pathway to our abbatoir. As was my wont, the sight of the finish line instilled in me additional vigor and speed. To this day, I remain convinced that, had there but been a way to keep the finish line some 15 or so meters ahead of me throughout the whole course, I could have been a world-class XC runner. Alas...
Thus rejuvenated, I commenced my mad dash for the chute. Another competitor seemed to have had the same idea, and we were approaching the finish line (which was, inexplicably, on the side of a hill) on a collision course. I continued barreling on, head down, the picture of athletic prowess. We were approaching the line from slightly different directions; our paths were slowly but inexorably converging. About 10 meters from the line, the kid seemed to come to the realization that I was in finishing mode and not to be denied. He reached back for one final burst of speed and sought to overtake me. He came abreast of me about two meters from the line. I looked up at him, realizing this situation could have only one possible outcome. His eyes widened as he apprehended what I intended to do. Which I promptly did; extending my right forearm, I sent him sprawling down the hill. I have no idea how many places I cost him, but I do know one thing.
I won.
I attended Homecoming a few weeks later with a group of cross-country runners. After the dance, we retired to someone's house to watch videos. Someone broke out the video of the Cedar Falls meet. Whoever recorded it was standing just off to the side of the finish line and had a stellar view of the incident. The kid went flying by, arms flailing. All the way off camera. Apparently, what I lacked in speed, stamina, and pace I more than made up for in forearm shivers. If they ever combine roller derby and cross-country running, I will have found my niche.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Mea Culpa
It was recently pointed out to me that, in my last entry, I used profanity when I was neither 1) speaking as someone else, nor 2) speaking as myself when I was a child (because I was a profane motherfucker right up until about age 10). For this, please accept my profuse and abject apologies. I will not allow it to happen again. Sure, I could use the excuse that I was upset due to my candidate polling only slightly better than Herman Cain (or, for that matter, Harold Stassen), but I will not. Likewise, I could couch it as paying homage to Michele Bachmann, who swears like a longshoreman if the stories are to be believed. But I will not. I will take the high road. Henceforth, all of my writings will be so incredibly wholesome as to make "The Family Circus" look like Reservoir Dogs.
However, if you'll allow me to indulge myself for just a moment longer, here's something that probably only I think is interesting. Not to make light of the disorder, but do you suppose that if a very foulmouthed person had Tourette Syndrome, their coprolalia would be paradoxical? I'm envisioning something like this:
"Look at that motherfucking piece of shit cocksucking(GRACE! JOY! WwwwONDERMENT!)bastard!"
Just a thought I had.
Also, Paradoxical Tourette Syndrome would be a fantastic name for an album. So all of you struggling band members out there,,,,you're welcome.
However, if you'll allow me to indulge myself for just a moment longer, here's something that probably only I think is interesting. Not to make light of the disorder, but do you suppose that if a very foulmouthed person had Tourette Syndrome, their coprolalia would be paradoxical? I'm envisioning something like this:
"Look at that motherfucking piece of shit cocksucking(GRACE! JOY! WwwwONDERMENT!)bastard!"
Just a thought I had.
Also, Paradoxical Tourette Syndrome would be a fantastic name for an album. So all of you struggling band members out there,,,,you're welcome.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
A-Caucusing We Will Go (Or, How in the Fuck Did We Get to be So Damned Small-Minded As a Society?)
As an American, I consider it my duty to take part in the electoral process as much as I can. Thus, with thoughts of political bliss and civil discourse running through my head, I went off to my precinct caucus.
In retrospect, I suppose I should have seen the Perry and Santorum campaign signs littering the sidewalks leading up to the elementary school where I caucus as a harbinger of things to come. I was greeted at the door by supporters of those two persons, as well as by a stout young man who had pledged allegiance to Newt, and several college-age hangers-on to the Ron Paul caboose. I discovered that three precincts were in the cafeteria, while four others, including mine, were meeting in the gym. Thither I went.
In the gym, surrounded by posters of stick people illustrating various gymnastic poses for the benefit of second graders, we got our instructions from Ralph, our precinct leader. We swiftly and unanimously voted to allow him to retain his position. As secretary, he proposed the pert young Floridian from the Paul campaign who was checking IDs; we had no issue with this. We then arose and spoke the Pledge of Allegiance in unison. This was the last thing upon which we agreed all night.
It was then time for the Parade of Flakes, AKA allowing someone to speak for each candidate. First off, Ralph asked if anyone was there to speak on behalf of Michele Bachmann. No one volunteered immediately; finally an older lady in heavy makeup stood and announced that she was going to support the Waterloo native and certified batshit insane harridan because "it was time for a woman in the White House and she couldn't do a worse job than the men". While I have no effective rejoinder to that argument, it isn't exactly one that inspires undying loyalty and fervent admiration. It was sort of the "Well, Glee is in reruns, so I guess I'll watch C-Span for a couple minutes" argument. It is the boiled peas of political rhetoric. Bland and insipid, but it'll do in a pinch.
Next up was Greg (I think; he mumbled his name as though it caused he and his family a great deal of shame). He was from New York and was unemployed (technically, whatever that means), and he thought Newt Gingrich was just swell. He couldn't tell us why, exactly. But he knew that Newt is a leader. And he has experience. Again, detail as to the exact nature of his experience was lacking. He would help the economy. Apparently by leading it through his experience. "Greg" then looked befuddled and sat down.
Then we had our good buddy Ralph. He talked about meeting Ron Paul back in the 80s when he was an actual Libertarian (okay, he didn't say 'actual'. He said that he met Ron Paul back when he ran as a Libertarian. In other words, when he had actual ideas and said something new and different). Ralph thought that Ron Paul (he kept referring to him as Dr. Paul instead of Congressman Paul or Rep Paul, as though that would more inspire us to support him. I thought this akin to referring to your proctologist as "Reverend" just because he also happens to have a D.Div...)
Anyhow, Ralph thought it was neat that Dr Paul voted against the wars in which we're currently embroiled. He also made the point that he was the only candidate who voted against the war. Also, he's a Libertarian and thinks freedom is super-duper. Unless, of course, you want to have certain civil freedoms. Then...well, Dr Paul just doesn't quite see eye-to-eye with you. But, in his defense, he is kinda short...
Batting cleanup was Glen (maybe...what is it with these people and glossing over their names?) from Dripping Springs, Texas. He was a very nice man who also happens to be a combat medic and veteran of two tours in Iraq. He has known Governor Perry for quite a number of years, and drove up to Iowa on his vacation (my condolences, Glen) to talk to us all about what a great guy he is. He missed his wife's birthday to be here with us, because his wife told him to go. Seems that his daughter was born nine days before he was deployed, and his wife reported to him that, of all the people who said they'd call or check in on her while Glen was deployed, only two did. One was Rick Perry. Glen then went on to say that what mattered to him was not what you said you could do, but what you had done. For instance, Governor Perry created over half of all jobs created in the US jobs in Texas while he was governor. All by himself! A bit of research shows that this number is somewhat misleading, but I was willing to give Glen the benefit of the doubt. But then he went on to talk about how they defunded Planned Parenthood. So all the abortions dried up. Not really... And how we, as Conservatives (not Republicans, in whose caucus I had thought I was participating) really should vote for someone with morals, with principles. I liked Glen, and could have almost gone along with him if I didn't think Rick Perry was kind of a weasel. A principled weasel, but a weasel nonetheless.
That would be a tough act to follow. However, Ponytail Guy for Santorum blew him out of the water. First, Ponytail Guy for Santorum (hereinafter abbreviated PGFS) addressed us as Conservatives (again with a capital 'C'). And told us that we should stop worrying about who's 'electable', and instead focus on who likes God the most. Now, I like God. He's a pretty awesome Supreme Being. But I don't really think that someone's relationship with Him is what most makes him (or her...sorry, heavily made-up lady for Bachmann!) presidential timber. PGFS then shared with us the story about Benjamin Franklin at the Constitutional Convention and how he finally decided that the sun carved on the President's chair was rising and not setting, and how this somehow indicated that God was on our side. I so wanted to share with him a quote from Franklin; apparently, he espoused rather a convenient view of organized religion: "I have ever let others enjoy their religious sentiments, without reflecting on them for those that appeared to me unsupportable and even absurd. All sects here, and we have a great variety, have experienced my good will in assisting them with subscriptions for building their new places of worship; and, as I never opposed any of their doctrines, I hope to go out of the world in peace with them all." While I am all for anyone and everyone having their own relationship with God, in no way does their espousal of one faith over another make them a better person or a better leader. In my book, anyway. PGFS said a bunch of other stuff, but I was busy talking with the earnest young Paul supporter next to me about the Deism of the Founding Fathers and tuned him out.
Next, a tattooed gentleman in a bivy sweater and holding a ridiculous Australian bush hat, stood up and took exception with PGFS's idea that electability should be a non-starter. Then some dolt in a thermal henley took exception with Bush Hat's exception. Then some bearded dude reminded us that, despite all our differences, we were all there because we didn't want Obama to be president anymore ("Unless we nominate Perry. Or Bachmann. Or Santorum, " I silently added). He was simultaneously applauded and shouted down. This struck me as odd. Then a gentleman in a Yankees cap stood up and announced that he was a trucker and that his colleagues were getting stopped in Minnesota and getting tickets because their loads weren't hitched right. I was at a loss as to how this related to anything we had discussed up to this point. Someone else pointed out that, even though Ron Paul was the only candidate to vote against the war, he was one of only three who would have had an opportunity to do so. Incidentally, this person did not refer to him as Dr. Paul. "Greg" and Glen came out and stood with PGFS in a rare show of solidarity. There they stood, the three (relatively clueless) amigos, watching as Ralph announced it was time to vote. No one spoke for Romney. No one was given an opportunity to speak for Huntsman, Roemer, Cain, or Karger. Being a perverse sort, I pointed this out to him, and told him that I had been willing to speak on behalf of Huntsman. He was abashed, but the ballots had already been collected. They asked for someone representing each campaign to certify the ballot count. What the hell? I told 'em I was there to represent Huntsman, Karger, Cain, et al. The disenfranchised. Ron Paul won with over half the votes (he got 25). Perry had 9, Santorum 6. Huntsman got 1 (mine). I was appalled at the number of misspellings; two of the three voters for Bachmann spelled her first name with two 'l's. The remaining one cast their vote for "Michele Bachman". That's right...of the three who voted for her, not one spelled her entire name right. I saw at least three spellings of "Santorum" (although I assume that PGFS spelled it right, at least). Someone voted for "Rick Parry"...
Where did we go wrong? When did we, as an electorate, become so mean and stupid and easily-led? I don't know quite what this means, but I know I don't like it...
As post script...
I wandered around to the other precincts after we were done. Turns out that I was the only person in the entire building who voted for Huntsman. Herman fucking Cain got two votes.
Update...as of now, Rick Santorum has a slight lead over Mitt Romney. Rick Santorum? Fuck this...I'm going to bed.
In retrospect, I suppose I should have seen the Perry and Santorum campaign signs littering the sidewalks leading up to the elementary school where I caucus as a harbinger of things to come. I was greeted at the door by supporters of those two persons, as well as by a stout young man who had pledged allegiance to Newt, and several college-age hangers-on to the Ron Paul caboose. I discovered that three precincts were in the cafeteria, while four others, including mine, were meeting in the gym. Thither I went.
In the gym, surrounded by posters of stick people illustrating various gymnastic poses for the benefit of second graders, we got our instructions from Ralph, our precinct leader. We swiftly and unanimously voted to allow him to retain his position. As secretary, he proposed the pert young Floridian from the Paul campaign who was checking IDs; we had no issue with this. We then arose and spoke the Pledge of Allegiance in unison. This was the last thing upon which we agreed all night.
It was then time for the Parade of Flakes, AKA allowing someone to speak for each candidate. First off, Ralph asked if anyone was there to speak on behalf of Michele Bachmann. No one volunteered immediately; finally an older lady in heavy makeup stood and announced that she was going to support the Waterloo native and certified batshit insane harridan because "it was time for a woman in the White House and she couldn't do a worse job than the men". While I have no effective rejoinder to that argument, it isn't exactly one that inspires undying loyalty and fervent admiration. It was sort of the "Well, Glee is in reruns, so I guess I'll watch C-Span for a couple minutes" argument. It is the boiled peas of political rhetoric. Bland and insipid, but it'll do in a pinch.
Next up was Greg (I think; he mumbled his name as though it caused he and his family a great deal of shame). He was from New York and was unemployed (technically, whatever that means), and he thought Newt Gingrich was just swell. He couldn't tell us why, exactly. But he knew that Newt is a leader. And he has experience. Again, detail as to the exact nature of his experience was lacking. He would help the economy. Apparently by leading it through his experience. "Greg" then looked befuddled and sat down.
Then we had our good buddy Ralph. He talked about meeting Ron Paul back in the 80s when he was an actual Libertarian (okay, he didn't say 'actual'. He said that he met Ron Paul back when he ran as a Libertarian. In other words, when he had actual ideas and said something new and different). Ralph thought that Ron Paul (he kept referring to him as Dr. Paul instead of Congressman Paul or Rep Paul, as though that would more inspire us to support him. I thought this akin to referring to your proctologist as "Reverend" just because he also happens to have a D.Div...)
Anyhow, Ralph thought it was neat that Dr Paul voted against the wars in which we're currently embroiled. He also made the point that he was the only candidate who voted against the war. Also, he's a Libertarian and thinks freedom is super-duper. Unless, of course, you want to have certain civil freedoms. Then...well, Dr Paul just doesn't quite see eye-to-eye with you. But, in his defense, he is kinda short...
Batting cleanup was Glen (maybe...what is it with these people and glossing over their names?) from Dripping Springs, Texas. He was a very nice man who also happens to be a combat medic and veteran of two tours in Iraq. He has known Governor Perry for quite a number of years, and drove up to Iowa on his vacation (my condolences, Glen) to talk to us all about what a great guy he is. He missed his wife's birthday to be here with us, because his wife told him to go. Seems that his daughter was born nine days before he was deployed, and his wife reported to him that, of all the people who said they'd call or check in on her while Glen was deployed, only two did. One was Rick Perry. Glen then went on to say that what mattered to him was not what you said you could do, but what you had done. For instance, Governor Perry created over half of all jobs created in the US jobs in Texas while he was governor. All by himself! A bit of research shows that this number is somewhat misleading, but I was willing to give Glen the benefit of the doubt. But then he went on to talk about how they defunded Planned Parenthood. So all the abortions dried up. Not really... And how we, as Conservatives (not Republicans, in whose caucus I had thought I was participating) really should vote for someone with morals, with principles. I liked Glen, and could have almost gone along with him if I didn't think Rick Perry was kind of a weasel. A principled weasel, but a weasel nonetheless.
That would be a tough act to follow. However, Ponytail Guy for Santorum blew him out of the water. First, Ponytail Guy for Santorum (hereinafter abbreviated PGFS) addressed us as Conservatives (again with a capital 'C'). And told us that we should stop worrying about who's 'electable', and instead focus on who likes God the most. Now, I like God. He's a pretty awesome Supreme Being. But I don't really think that someone's relationship with Him is what most makes him (or her...sorry, heavily made-up lady for Bachmann!) presidential timber. PGFS then shared with us the story about Benjamin Franklin at the Constitutional Convention and how he finally decided that the sun carved on the President's chair was rising and not setting, and how this somehow indicated that God was on our side. I so wanted to share with him a quote from Franklin; apparently, he espoused rather a convenient view of organized religion: "I have ever let others enjoy their religious sentiments, without reflecting on them for those that appeared to me unsupportable and even absurd. All sects here, and we have a great variety, have experienced my good will in assisting them with subscriptions for building their new places of worship; and, as I never opposed any of their doctrines, I hope to go out of the world in peace with them all." While I am all for anyone and everyone having their own relationship with God, in no way does their espousal of one faith over another make them a better person or a better leader. In my book, anyway. PGFS said a bunch of other stuff, but I was busy talking with the earnest young Paul supporter next to me about the Deism of the Founding Fathers and tuned him out.
Next, a tattooed gentleman in a bivy sweater and holding a ridiculous Australian bush hat, stood up and took exception with PGFS's idea that electability should be a non-starter. Then some dolt in a thermal henley took exception with Bush Hat's exception. Then some bearded dude reminded us that, despite all our differences, we were all there because we didn't want Obama to be president anymore ("Unless we nominate Perry. Or Bachmann. Or Santorum, " I silently added). He was simultaneously applauded and shouted down. This struck me as odd. Then a gentleman in a Yankees cap stood up and announced that he was a trucker and that his colleagues were getting stopped in Minnesota and getting tickets because their loads weren't hitched right. I was at a loss as to how this related to anything we had discussed up to this point. Someone else pointed out that, even though Ron Paul was the only candidate to vote against the war, he was one of only three who would have had an opportunity to do so. Incidentally, this person did not refer to him as Dr. Paul. "Greg" and Glen came out and stood with PGFS in a rare show of solidarity. There they stood, the three (relatively clueless) amigos, watching as Ralph announced it was time to vote. No one spoke for Romney. No one was given an opportunity to speak for Huntsman, Roemer, Cain, or Karger. Being a perverse sort, I pointed this out to him, and told him that I had been willing to speak on behalf of Huntsman. He was abashed, but the ballots had already been collected. They asked for someone representing each campaign to certify the ballot count. What the hell? I told 'em I was there to represent Huntsman, Karger, Cain, et al. The disenfranchised. Ron Paul won with over half the votes (he got 25). Perry had 9, Santorum 6. Huntsman got 1 (mine). I was appalled at the number of misspellings; two of the three voters for Bachmann spelled her first name with two 'l's. The remaining one cast their vote for "Michele Bachman". That's right...of the three who voted for her, not one spelled her entire name right. I saw at least three spellings of "Santorum" (although I assume that PGFS spelled it right, at least). Someone voted for "Rick Parry"...
Where did we go wrong? When did we, as an electorate, become so mean and stupid and easily-led? I don't know quite what this means, but I know I don't like it...
As post script...
I wandered around to the other precincts after we were done. Turns out that I was the only person in the entire building who voted for Huntsman. Herman fucking Cain got two votes.
Update...as of now, Rick Santorum has a slight lead over Mitt Romney. Rick Santorum? Fuck this...I'm going to bed.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Am I One of the 99%? Are you?
As Mike Doughty so eloquently sprechgesanged, we are all in some way or another going to Reseda, whether to die or make love to a model from Ohio whose real name we do not know, or some other reason altogether, I do not know.
Likewise, in some ways, we are all one of the 99%. For example, I do not have type AB- blood. Thus, I am like 99.4% of the US population. I have no evidence that I am a descendant of Genghis Khan; this puts me in the august company of 99.5% of the world's population.
The 99% moniker has lately been co-opted by the Occupy Wall Street/America/Iowa/Des Moines/That Tree Over There movement. And more power to 'em, I say. As a duly-designated representative of the 99%, let me say that catchy yet vague slogans, spontaneous, poorly-thought-out civil disobedience, and lack of a unifying message appeal to me on a very fundamental level. Hell, I've been a registered Republican for longer than I can remember...
And yet, part of me bridles at being identified with these angry-yet-befuddled folks. I do not want to be one of the 99%. Not because I want to be one of the few who control almost half the wealth in our country. Although, between you and me, that would not suck. Nor is it because I am put off by their collectivist, we-know-what's-best-and-we'll-tell-you, querulous attitude. Well, maybe a little...
But more so, it's because I don't want to be like 99% of the people out there. It isn't because the 99% aren't fine, salt-of-the-earth people; it's because I want to be me.
I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage you all to do the same. Be yourself. Do something to set you apart from the pack. Go back to school, run a marathon, look up an old friend you haven't talked with in a while. Take up mountain biking. Or dwarf tossing. Seek serenity inwardly, or imagine what you'd like to do differently; then make it happen. Pray fervently. Hope ardently. Love completely. Take a chance. Throw caution to the wind. Live. And know that you will make me exceedingly proud of you when you do.
Because life is short. And the mere fact that you're reading this blog pretty much labels you as atypical. So don't be one of the 99%. Be the 1%. Be you. You can be whatever you want to be. Your path is not set, not completely. Figure out what it is you want, you need, what makes you happy, what makes you feel alive. Then get it.
Likewise, in some ways, we are all one of the 99%. For example, I do not have type AB- blood. Thus, I am like 99.4% of the US population. I have no evidence that I am a descendant of Genghis Khan; this puts me in the august company of 99.5% of the world's population.
The 99% moniker has lately been co-opted by the Occupy Wall Street/America/Iowa/Des Moines/That Tree Over There movement. And more power to 'em, I say. As a duly-designated representative of the 99%, let me say that catchy yet vague slogans, spontaneous, poorly-thought-out civil disobedience, and lack of a unifying message appeal to me on a very fundamental level. Hell, I've been a registered Republican for longer than I can remember...
And yet, part of me bridles at being identified with these angry-yet-befuddled folks. I do not want to be one of the 99%. Not because I want to be one of the few who control almost half the wealth in our country. Although, between you and me, that would not suck. Nor is it because I am put off by their collectivist, we-know-what's-best-and-we'll-tell-you, querulous attitude. Well, maybe a little...
But more so, it's because I don't want to be like 99% of the people out there. It isn't because the 99% aren't fine, salt-of-the-earth people; it's because I want to be me.
I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage you all to do the same. Be yourself. Do something to set you apart from the pack. Go back to school, run a marathon, look up an old friend you haven't talked with in a while. Take up mountain biking. Or dwarf tossing. Seek serenity inwardly, or imagine what you'd like to do differently; then make it happen. Pray fervently. Hope ardently. Love completely. Take a chance. Throw caution to the wind. Live. And know that you will make me exceedingly proud of you when you do.
Because life is short. And the mere fact that you're reading this blog pretty much labels you as atypical. So don't be one of the 99%. Be the 1%. Be you. You can be whatever you want to be. Your path is not set, not completely. Figure out what it is you want, you need, what makes you happy, what makes you feel alive. Then get it.
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