Super Malignant Cancer of the Leg-Knee

I've been having some chronic pain in my right knee for about 3 months now. When I say "chronic" I don't mean the stickiest of icky that Snoop Dog rolls up gratuitously every time MTV Cribs shows up. What I'm talking about is chronic as in "always present" or "without cessation" or "christ my fuckin' knee will not stop hurting and I may have to start beating bums with a crowbar to take my mind off the constant pain," type chronic.

It all started in September during the Blue Ridge Relay (BRR). The BRR is 208 miles of running awesomeness through the Blue Ridge mountains. When you're healthy it's barrels of fun. When your knee is killing you and you still have a third run of seven miles up the mountain at 3:00 AM it's about as fun as a night in prison during an anal herpes outbreak.

I was in pretty good shape going into the race, I've never really had knee problems before, and I took ample time off after this injury in an attempt to fully recover. Because of all this coupled with the fact that this problem still persisted after time off, I embarked on what I did not realize at the time would be a Lord of the Rings type quest to find a doctor that could fix me up.

This is a summary of my doctor experiences so far:

1. Sports Medicine Doctor
This guy was worthless. I'm 100% sure that all he did was google "runner knee pain" before he saw me and then proceed to give me a laundry list of runners tips on how to avoid overtraining injuries. Maybe it's my fault for not marking down on one of 34 forms that I was not clinically retarded but I really don't remember seeing a box for that. Whatever online degree factory churned out this guy's medical license should be raided, pillaged, and burned to the ground. Yes, I realize that the headquarters for this place is probably some 27 year old's Albuquerque apartment. That's fine; torch it. And while you're at it, torch his '98 Toyota Camery. It wasn't a total loss, however, because evidently his nurse was trained in some sort of exotic muscle therapy called "stretching" and she showed me pretty radical moves like bending over at the waist and trying to touch your toes. All doctors are not created equal.

2. Orthopedic Specialist
This one was a lesson for me that looks can be deceiving. This guy was about 164 years old and at one glance I was convinced he was nothing but an old cumber-crust who was going to waste my time and over-charge me for x-rays. Much to my surprise he had studied this exact problem with Olympic caliber runner back in the day and diagnosed me with a misaligned pelvis. I was encouraged. He gave me an adjustment but said it probably wouldn't hold and referred me to a physical therapist.

3. Physical Therapist
I want to get one thing out of the way here first, and that is that this physical therapist girl was smokin' hot. I'm talking four alarm fire, make you smack your mama hot. This is also a good time to add that when a girl like this is probing your pelvis and nether regions, you had better be able to focus like a mother fucker on some baseball. I give sole credit to old, grainy Babe Ruth clips to helping me avoid what could have been a very uncomfortable situation for everyone involved. Turned out, however, that what this girl had in sexual irresistability, she made up for with a complete lack of medical capability. I paid for 4 useless sessions. She was totally jazzed that another 4 sessions would do the trick. I was less enthusiastic. She took our parting kinda hard but she's a sweet girl, I'm sure she'll find someone else to make really uncomfortable and provide sub-par medical care to.

4. Chiropractor
Yes, I know they're quacks. Yes, I always said there was no way I would ever go to one of these whack-jobs even if it meant an end to world infant-hunger and seal poaching. But, this guy is a triathlete, an ex-pro-cyclist, and a marathoner, and he was highly recommended by another triathlete friend of mine, so I let him go to town. This guy adjusted the bejesus out of me - back, pelvis, neck; you name it, he cracked it. Supposedly he fixed my misalignment. I guess we'll see.

So where do I stand now? Well, I'm still in pain. I've pretty much exhausted all medical avenues, and I've started super-over-analyzing all my own physiology and running history. I've formed some theories, of course, the front-runner being that jesus is punishing me for my unpure thoughts. I've also become somewhat addicted to bio-freeze, which is basically a Ben Gay for people under 90 years old. It rocks.

Leave the jesus. Take the cannoli.

I met up with some friends tonight for dinner and an autograph/Q&A session with Olympic marathoner Brian Sell at one of the local running stores. This was the first of what I hope and can only assume will be many "dinner and an Olympian" events I will be able to attend in my lifetime.

The meeting session with Brian Sell was pretty much awesome. Not only is it cool to get to meet and talk to such a successful runner and national treasure, it's also kind of fun to watch them shuffle around uncomfortably in front of a crowd of admirers who all murmer and whisper to each other every time he scratches his face or takes a drink of water. "See, Brian Sell is so REAL. He's not like all those other pretentious Olympians whose faces don't itch." It also seems like nobody at these things ever really asks questions they want to know the answer to, they only ask questions they think will make them sound cool, like "Have you ever had a problem with being way faster than everyone you know, and if so how did you handle it?" or "Can you give me some advice on what to do with all the finish line tape and first place medals that are starting to pile up around my house?" What a bunch of douche-waters. If you don't have anything legitimate to ask, for chrissakes please just stand there and grin awkwardly like the rest of us.



Anyway, after the Brian Sell thing four of us went down the street to a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant called Campisi's. I had never been there before and it was totally rad. Campisi's is the type of place with great food, low ceilings, about 3,000 square feet of autographed celebrity photos on the walls, and all the mafia-connection rumors you'd care to ignore while nodding politely (I mean really, the Dallas mafia? Come on). If you ask me, it's not a bad place to drink a Peroni and say "That's-a-spicy-meat-a-balla" over and over until people try to choke you with paper napkins.

To make things interesting, there was a documentary film crew and director there who were in the process of filming a "human interest piece" about none other than our waiter, Captain Smooth-Chair (this was not actually his real name, but as we sat down one of the girls that was with us remarked to him that he was hands down the best ever at the little chair pull out/push in just as a girl is sitting down move). Evidently Captain Smooth Chair is training to be a chef of some sort and is sort of a big deal in an Emeril Lagassi meets Dave Coulier kind of way. Anyway, it was really cool to have two cameras swoop in for a close-up right as I was stuffing my face-hole with garlic bread. Needless to say there were plenty of laughs and we had a good time of it.

In a normal cosmopolitan city - maybe a Chicago or a Portland - the story would probably stop here. Good food, good times, and everyone goes home happy with their autographed Brian Sell Olympic photograph, which will of course seem slightly more gay than they had anticpated as soon as they magnet-slap that son of a gun to the fridge. But Dallas is about as normal as Franzia wine at a SoHo gallery crawl, and it doesn't even offer the luxury of a pour spout. In Dallas, religion is the drink of choice. My atheism goes over here about as well as Bill O-Reilly at a No-Assholes convention.

So naturally about an hour into dinner the conversation starts veering dangerously close to the topic of religion. I tried a few times to guide us all back into the clear as to avoid being forced to fashion a make-shift rope out of left-over spaghetti noodles and choking everyone at the table, but John Wayne himself could not have steered this stagecoach back to safety.

It started with some chatter between the two girls about what one girl's father (who is of course a pastor) would think if she dated someone of a different faith. The girls were in a bit of a disagreement with one of them having a bit of an open mind, and the other convinced that anyone who was not a Christian would be unacceptable on the grounds that they would surely be morally barren. At this point my blood was starting to boil, but I had decided not to throw my hat into this ring unless absolutely neccessary. I instead resorted to distracting myself by repeatedly stabbing my right thigh with my fork underneath the table. I was yanked from my sanctuary of self-inflicted pain, however, when one of girls turned to me and aked, "So what do you think?"

I thought you would never ask

Me: Well, are you saying that an individual's morality is totally dependent on their faith?
Religious Girl (RG): I think the Holy Spirit should guide everyone's life and that's what makes them a good person.
Me: What do you mean by the Holy Spirit?
RG: I mean I just know what's right and wrong because Jesus Christ who is born of a virgin and lives in the clouds and simultaneously hears millions of people's murmerings tells me. And the ten commandments too.
Me: (Ignoring the jesus thing) But one could argue that the ten commandments aren't exactly a good moral guide, what with the first 5 or so only pertaining to ways in which one should honor and appease a jealous god (his words, not mine), and the rest containing references to coveting slaves and such. Yes, there are references to not murdering folks and not stealing crap, but it kinda seems that we might have figured that stuff out on our own.
RG: I just know that the lord is my personal savior (this is an exact quote)
Me: How do you know that? (this is also an exact quote)

And so it went for about 15 minutes or so, getting more and more heated, until we were bailed out by a visit by the documentary producer or something. It was probably for the better, as I'm sure I had already offended everyone at the table several times over with my hedonistic audacity and common sense questions about the cornerstones of their faith. These are the ideas that they structure their entire lives around, but never think to question the legitimacy of. They are, in fact, too scared to even consider these questions. In their defense, the sin of doubt is (conveniently) the one and only unforgivible sin that man can commit according to their bible. I guess the first question that they might want to ask themselves is whether the declaration of such reasonable doubt as unforgivible would really be the action of an all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present deity.

In my opinion, the dominos begin to fall from here, each one resonating louder than the last until one finally finds him or herself living free of superstition and truly enjoying life for every fleeting, sun-drenched moment that it offers instead of just biding their time until the "next life". But I guess that's just my demons and lack of values talking.

W.

I saw Oliver Stone's new movie, W., last weekend with a friend of mine. While reactions to this film will obviously be mixed based on your particular political leanings and opinion of our current president (he's still in office, right? It's just that I haven't really seen him lately...), I think that overall it was pretty well done, and I must admit it left me thinking a lot about the man himself, as well as some broader issues.

First let’s cover some points about the movie in general. Because most period pieces are typically done well after the actual time in focus, the director and casting folks usually benefit from the poor historical memory of the masses ("Did JFK really look just like Collin Ferrell? Oh well, close enough.") Because Stone had the stones (sorry, had to do it...) to do this movie while all the integral characters of this administration are still very much alive and kickin', he didn't benefit from this selective American amnesia. The result is that if you're not focused you find yourself terribly preoccupied with judging the characters on how convincing they are with their roles and if their hair is right, as opposed to following the plot and narrative of the movie. Fortunately, this is a luxury you as the viewer can pretty easily afford because the story is a familiar one.

Having said all that, I will say that Josh Brolin gave a spot-on performance as George W. Bush. As far as "impersonations" go, appearance is definitely important, and for that I'm sure most of the credit goes to make-up, costume, lighting people, etc. Most of the time I was reasonably convinced that I was watching W himself in action. I've always thought, though, that when an actor tries to assume the persona of someone else that body language, mannerisms, inflection and tone are what really make or break a performance. On these, Brolin again delivered like an overzealous UPS carrier. Other remarkable performances were Richard Dreyfuss as “Shotgun” Dick Cheney and Elizabeth Banks as Laura Bush. Thandie Newton as Conoleezza Rice was by far the worst, and was literally painful to watch. My friend and I both agreed that she should have been dragged off the set and thrown down the nearest flight of concrete stairs.

So that's pretty much my critique of the movie itself. However, a topic such as this paints with such a broad geo-political brush, that there are sure to be strong reactions of all sorts. Sitting in the theater it was very clear that there was a very strong anti-Bush undercurrent (surprise, surprise). I should probably mention that the film, while done objectively, was not overly gentle with our 43rd president. It was fairly clear where writer/director Oliver Stone stood with regards to his personal opinion on Bush’s intelligence and ability. I will say though that I didn’t feel W was portrayed as the evil, draconian empiricist that so many like to believe he is.

However, surrounded by my fellow movie-goers I couldn't help but notice that the audience seemed to me like a pack of hyenas, poised to strike and tear at the next morsel of raw beef that was thrown to them in the form of a Bush grammatical misstep or his use of a non-word such as "mis-imperception". The laughter I was hearing wasn't the normal, light-hearted cinema laughter that you might expect to hear from contented weekenders with buckets of warm popcorn nestled in their laps. The tone in this theater was one of malice. People are angry with George W. Bush. They want to see him fall and skin his knees. They get the same kind of enjoyment out of it that one might get from seeing a rival coworker get scolded by the boss, or maybe witnessing a rude, ornery cashier get reprimanded by his or her manager. It's the type of satisfaction that comes with vindication.

But is George W. Bush really such a bad guy? Is the man really deserving of such burning hatred? Sure, he’s not going to win any Toastmaster competitions, and I think we all agree that he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. I imagine he’s probably just about exactly as arrogant and pompous as he appears to be when you see him slouched over the presidential podium or landing on an Air Force carrier. As a proud American, I’ll be the first to admit that his presidency has been frustrating to watch.

With all these strikes against him and with the pent-up animosity and resentment that many of us feel towards this man, it’s easy to view George W. as some sort of evil tyrant: One man on a mission from his own personal Almighty to single-handedly submerge this country’s reputation, financial system, and economy to the same depths to which he sank his approval ratings. But what if, as the tone of Stone’s W. suggests, this perception of the man is not quite right?

George W. Bush was born with a silver spoon, there’s no denying that. He was given every opportunity, the majority of which he either squandered or mucked up. The one thing he strived for his entire life was the one thing that always evaded him: the recognition and pride of his father. It’s obvious he felt that following in his father’s footsteps would provide him this acceptance. In a country where we’re all raised to believe that “you can be anything you want to be, as long as you put your mind to it,” one certainly can’t fault the man for applying some good old fashioned ambition towards his goal of becoming President. The fact of the matter is that this is a guy who simply bit off “more‘n he could chew.” And hasn’t each of us found ourselves in situations where we had to admit that we were in way over our heads? What was your reaction, to throw your hands in the air, sling your MacBook across Starbucks and declare that the rough draft of your first Pulitzer Prize-destined novel was nothing but a crap sandwich? No. As Americans, this is not how we have been raised. We have a certain stick-to-it-ness that is a source not only of individual pride, but of envy to all countries around the globe (no matter what they may want you to think). We will finish said novel even if it means churning out some low grade, unimaginative waste of paper and time. I mean it works for Tom Clancy, right?

The point is that if we’re unhappy with the man’s presidency, maybe we should take a look at the system that allows a man like this to rise to these ranks within our government. We live in a world of political sound-bytes and simpleton-speak. The voting public expects to be spoon-fed all the key points which will allow them to vote to their liking. Our election process has morphed into something very passive and repugnant. Gone are the days when people made an effort to understand each candidate’s position with regards to economic issues, foreign policy, voting records, etc. Americans now expect to be able to catch 15 minutes of CNN Headline News election coverage or the highlights of one or two presidential debates and then have all the information they’ll need when they step into that ballot box on Election Day. Any additional time spent researching the issues would cut into our Dancing with the Stars time.

The problem with this is that Presidential elections – especially very monumental ones – are complicated. The candidates are very well aware that the vast majority of voters out there are voting more on gut perception than on actual knowledge. Why do you think they put so much time and energy into stump speeches and debates as opposed to any type of written literature outlining their particular “presidential” goals? Raise your hand if you’ve laid eyes on a written outline of administration plans and policies for either of our current candidates. No? Why? Because these campaigns are not about knowledge and facts. They’re about emotion. I’m not going to drift any further down the tributary of our current election, suffice to say that it’s not all that much different than either of the two elections which George W. Bush won. He was folksy and down-home and people responded to that. It wasn’t until he was truly tested that we all began to question whether or not he possessed the necessary equipment for the job.

As Americans living in one of the wealthiest countries to ever exist on our planet, we simply have no excuse for not being informed enough to make an EDUCATED decision when it comes to casting our vote for the leader of the free world. The internet makes it easier than ever to find out anything you could possibly want to know about anything you can possibly think of. I’m sitting at my computer right now. I guarantee you that within two minutes I could find details of not only both our current candidates health care policies, but also an outline of the Geneva Convention, blueprints to the building I’m sitting in right now, and a top-ten list of German scat porn websites. Information is literally the most valuable resource in the world, and we are literally swimming in it every time we grab a mouse and start clicking.

I truly believe that if every American made an honest effort to educate him or herself, it would elevate the knowledge base of our current voter pool to a level that would have to be addressed by the candidates. No longer would it suffice to spout empty buzz-words like “change” and “hope”, regardless of what sort of elegant speech was wrapped around them. And maybe future candidates would think twice before selecting an absurdly unqualified, unsophisticated running mate on the sole basis that they will appeal to the small-town hockey moms out there in middle-America. If you think for a minute that these actions by both parties are not a blatant insult to the intelligence of Americans en masse, you are wrong.

I guess to summarize, I agree with Oliver Stone’s interpretation of George W. Bush as that of a man who has done the best job he knows how to do. Through it all, his main objective has always been to preserve the well-being and success of this great nation. Although you may disagree with his policies, procedures, and stance on presidential slouching, I think it’s wrong to demonize the man simply for trying to do what he thinks is right. Don’t hate the playa’, hate the game, ya’ll.

Peace Corps

Wow, there's so much going on right now I don't even know where to start. There's the election, the financial crisis, the proposed government bailout of the finanicial crisis, bank mergers, my GMAT studies, Russia going totally cold-war style on us, dogs sleeping with cats, full moons sleeping with half moons (those trampy half moons...), and basically just widespread panic (not the band) and chaos.

So I have to ask: What better time to join the Peace Corps? No seriously, I'm applying to the Peace Corps. Not because of all the turmoil, but because I've always wanted to do something like this and I realized that if I don't do it now, I'll never do it. Yes, I realize that I didn't go to Berkeley. Yes, I'm aware that I don't have 9 bumper stickers on my car consisting of Obama, DMB, some clever left-leaning slogan, and no less than four totally obscure bands that make me totally cooler than all those people that blindly listen to mainstream music. Yes, I work for a very large bank. Yes, I believe in capitalism and free markets (except.. ahem.. in times of financial crisis.. BAIL US OUT, MAN! I'm not even kidding!). No, I don't think civilizations should all revert to times of less innovation when we all ate with sticks, slept on rocks, cured seizures by bleeding people out, and died at age 23 of some very curable illness.

Sticker I will never own:

Unlike most of the left-wing liberals that join Peace Corps for lack of anything better to do, I think the experience I have could actually benefit young, fledgling economies that just need a little direction. And in the process, I get the opportunity to experience a totally different culture and make a difference in the world. It's a pretty good deal, and it sure beats grinding out the next 2 years in a cubicle.

So I'm applying to begin service next summer, which means I have a little less than one year to sell all my furniture, wrap up my position at work (and train someone new, no doubt), and generally just prepare for 2 years in what will probably be a third world country. I can't wait.

It's funny, when I look at my own personal timeline all layed out it all makes sense. I don't believe in fate, mind you, but the circumstances have come together nicely for this adventure. The main piece was my move to Dallas, which I think I have hated so much that it drove me to explore some pretty extreme options; options I probably wouldn't have considered in the comfort of Charlotte, North Carolina.

So preparations, applications, and essays are underway and I will update along the way.

"One ticket out of shit-head town please."

I've decided that not only is Dallas ugly, flat, materialistic, and hotter than satan's asshole, it is also completely overflowing with douche-necks. To make matters worse, many of these may be disguised as normal people who you thought you might be able to talk to without pushing them down and then jumping out of a 42nd story window.

I must confess that I've become mostly immune to the douchebaggery of Dallas folks. It's like anything, I guess, you just get used to it after awhile. Like if you lived in an 8' X 8' cage with chimpanzees, you would soon become accumstomed to having feces flung at your face-holes upwards towards a dozen times a day. I mean, you probably would never grow to actually enjoy it, but most likely after 9 months or so you would just wipe it off with a discarded organic banana peel and go right back to trying to convince that damn monkey cage zoo keeper guy to let you out of the cage. I mean seriously, why are you in a frickin monkey cage in the first place?

I say "mostly immune" because sometimes things happen to mentally bring me back to reality. It could be something simple like spotting yet another group of mid-20s skid marks wearing those trendy, hard-core ultimate fighter/skater/ass-neck t-shirts with the old english lettering on them and "distressed" neck holes. Are these guys serious with their effeminate gucci shades, paint-splashed jeans, and randomly anonomous tatoos? How far will some people go to blindly follow fashion trends? I'm forced to wonder.

I try to stretch my immagination to come up with something that might be even too outlandish for even the most devout Maxim reader to get behind. I picture a group of four of them all gathered around a glass coffee table - all with the same pommade faux-hawk haircut and tribal armband tatoos - staring blankly in GQ at the latest bloody chicken feather shorts trend that is sweeping Hollywood. They will all waffle around spinelessly, not wanting to commit one way or the other until the boldest of the group decides that, yes, this trend is sure to catch on and it's far better to be on board and safe than to be left out in the cold wearing last years cargo shorts.

Anyhow, I digress.

Sometimes it's a much more significant event that makes me want to throw whatever will fit into the trunk of my Jetta and burn $4.00 gas as fast as my accelerator peddle can pump it till I'm clear of this state. I had one of these events last weekend.

I went out last Saturday night to grab a beer with a buddy of mine. It was kinda late and I was a little tired from spending the day with my friend Brianne and her family, in from Charlotte for the weekend (not to mention running 12 miles and swimming 2000 meters). I decided to meet him out because I'm trying to build some friendships here in D and he's always seemed like a pretty stand-up guy. We ran the OKC marathon together, he works long hours at a highly-respeced Dallas hedge fund, etc.

Anyway, somehow the conversation switched from the uber-hottie in yellow that we were both commenting on that was sitting across bar to, of all things, religion. I may have made some sort of less than favorable comment (this is most likely) about christianity like how they would eat their babies if jesus made a holiday for it, to which he half-heartedly agreed, but then followed up with the ubiquitous, "But I mean, you're not an atheist or anything, are you?"

Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.

But not really, because I've gotten used to this. Having lived as an atheist in the south and now in Texas, you get challenged to say the least. Responses range from mild discomfort to out-and-out rage; the latter being my favorite because at least it's real emotion, and by far the more comical.

First of all, I just have to say that's it's always baffled me the way people will flippantly throw this question out there. "You're not an atheist are you!?!?!?!?" It's as if they were saying something like "You don't masterbate to photos of school bus fire victims do you?!" You know, something totally incomprehensible instead of something completely rational like the idea that maybe your life is not controlled by some bearded, mythical figure that lives in the skies and whose presence is only collaborated by a book that was supposedly written over a thousand years ago and which can be completely dissected and disproved any which way you would like. Unbelievable for sure, but I'm not even to the good part yet.

"Yes," I said, "I'm an atheist." This was followed by a few basically ignorant questions from him like, "Well, what do you believe in then?" and something about a "temple" or something that some group of atheists he had supposedly known had supposedly had that they "worshipped" in. I tried to answer his questions with as much patience as I could muster, finally realizing what it's like to be a preschool teacher when your smartest kid says something like, "Why is clay made out of clay?"

He must have been sensing my utter contempt and disdain for his position and his questions, because he decided to bust out what I can only assume that to him were the big guns: "Well, what about all those people you hear about who decided they were going to be atheist and then all this bad stuff happened to them and their families and stuff. Like really bad, horrible things. Doesn't that scare you?"

Even now I have to wonder what he thought as I stared at him, completely slack-jawed and in total disbelief of what I had just heard, eyes glossed over as my mind ran rampant with 3 hours worth of responses I could lay out at the feet of this simpleton like so many gift-wrapped mice brought home by the family cat.

In the end, my response was a very simple, "No, I've never heard of that." At this point we changed the subject and went back to being two agreeable chaps in a Dallas sports bar, drinking a couple cold beers and enjoying the scenery. One more building block of a new friendship had been added, and we have yet to see if all the blocks will stack up or not. Some of the good blocks may be our mutual love of running or maybe a few really good jokes that totally land with both of us - you know, the kind that envoke that deep down laughter that you get maybe a few times a year - and those blocks are solid. Other blocks, like religion, can be wild cards. Sometimes the thrill of the debate can bring you closer together, at least for awhile. Sometimes though, it can be an insurmountable barrier, never to be overcome.

Basically, no matter how hard you try, though, you cannot use rationality to debate irrationality. It just doesn't work.

I have seen the promised land, and it is good.

Where to begin? I guess I should start by informing you that this promises to be a very, very long post. But there's really nothing I can do about that. I was in New Zealand for two unbelievable weeks filled with skydiving, glacier climbing, cave river-rafting, hiking, trail running, exploring, bungee jumping, and driving on the wrong side of the road (by our standards anyway). So step off, because I've got stories to tell.

I guess I'll start with my flight across the pond from San Fran to Sydney. I overnighted in my ol' stompin' ground of Charlotte before setting out on my journey so let it be known that I had quite a famous time boozing and catching up with some of my old QC amigos the night before I flew out. This worked out in my favor though, as I was so dehydrated from the night of cold beers and merriment that I think I only had to pee about 2 times in the next 30 flight hours. Seriously, comments were made upon landing by the people sitting next to me. "Did you even get up once during the flight?" the fat-neck, red-nosed, boring guy sitting next to me asked. "We were beginning to think that you don't have any normal bodily fuctions." (this is a direct quote). I had actually gotten up once, when they were both out of their seats no doubt rifling through the other passengers' carry ons or feeling up flight attendants in the lavatory. I didn't feel they needed to know this, so I told them that I actually hadn't peed since I was 4 years old and I was flying to Sydney to see a world-renowned pee specialist and thank you very much for brining it up and making me all self-conscious and stuff about it. As I had hoped, that was the last time I had to talk to them.

I had a 12 hour layover in Sydney so I decided that, instead of getting hammered in the airport bar and spending 8 hours naming the ceiling tiles, I would catch the train into the Circular Quey and see some sights. I bought a day pass for the train from a very attractive but quite smug Aussie girl who may or may not have ripped me off as A.) She thought I was a really stupid American, and B.) Being, in fact, a stupid American, I hadn't really had time to cement the whole exchange rate thing thing yet. Is 13,000 Australian dollars about right for a train ticket? Oh well, it doesn't matter now.

This part of the journey worked out quite well, as the Circular Quey (pronounced "key") has pretty much all the marquee Sydney sights like the Sydney Opera House, Royal Botanical Gardens, and Sydney Harbor Bridge. As luck would have it, they were actually hosting an open water swim competition on the day I was touring, so I of course watched a bit of that. An open water swim in the Sydney Harbor? Are you kidding - is there a better place anywhere?? Anyway, pictures:

So anyway, out of Sydney and on to Wellington, New Zealand where my good buddy Scott lives - working in a blood bank, playing in a band, and basically just loving the shit out of life since he moved there about 2 years ago.

Wellington is a pretty cool city. It's nestled in the hills of the lower north island and it's the cultural center of the country. It somehow manages to be very modern and hip and totally laid back at the same time. Let me explain a little bit about the culture and lifestyle in New Zealand. First of all, houses and cars are not all brand new and shiny. People live in nice places and they take care of their shit, but nobody is trying to have a super fancy 3,000 square foot house and two lexus SUVs. The cars on the road are, for the most part, a little bit older and fairly small. Almost as if - gasp! - they're used for transportation instead of status symbols. People have jobs and careers, but there is really no judgement placed on what a person does or how much scratch they bring home. You could talk to a Wellington native for hours on end, and they might not once even ask you "what kind of work" you're in. All in all, it's probably not a bad place to call home.

This is the city, along with the view of the bay from Scott's patio:

Not bad.

We went on a hike through the hills and mountains one day and got some pretty spectacular views.

After a couple fun-filled days in Wellington it was off to Queenstown, a city in the South Island that is billed as the adventure capital of the world. More on that later, but I must also say that Queenstown has some of the most breathtaking scenery and views I have ever seen in my life. It's sort of hard to explain, but everything is so stunningly beautiful that's it's almost frustrating. You look out at the picturesque mountains and bluer-than-blue lakes and I think a part of you knows that there's no way to convey this sight to others, and that even your own memory will probably not do it justice over time. Anyway, for what it's worth, here's some of the better shots:

Now as I mentioned, if it's adventure you crave, Queenstown has everything you could want just short of live human hunting expeditions. My first foree into this smorgasborg of excitement and sensory overwhelment was the Nevis Highwire bungee jump ( http://www.bungy.co.nz/index.php/pi_pageid/29 ). This is the 3rd highest bungee jump in the world. At 134 meters (439 feet for the lay-person), you get an 8.5 second freefall before the cord even begins to break your fall and you can stop crying like a 7-year old girl.


The routine goes like this: They put you on a bus and take you up a very narrow, winding mountain road on the edge of a cliff that the bus may or may not topple off of, depending on the driving skill and current level of sobriety of Nash, your long-haired, hippie burn-out bus driver. When/if you make it to the top, you're shipped via cable car to a steel room haning over the middle of a gorge above the Nevis River. It looks a little something like this:

Once you're "safely" in the hanging room platform thingy, they begin tossing people into the canyon. There are glass sections of the floor so you can spend most of your waiting time looking down at the bottom of this canyon, just in case you hadn't already shat your pants in fear. When it's your turn to be hurled off the edge, they strap your feet to the cord, walk you to the edge of a 2 foot square platform and tell that they are going to count down from 4. At 1, you are to dive into the canyon, headfirst, completely defying every self-preservation instinct you have ever had.

******************************************************************************

Okay, this post has been sitting unfinished in my "draft" section for just a shade over four score. I'm not going to finish it. The trip was unbelievable from beginning to end, and this was about the middle of it. I decided I would either delete it or post it, so here it is.

New Zealand, Bitches.

I'm preparing for the biggest trip of my life. Well, thusfar anyway.

I'm leaving for New Zealand in just over a month, and while I'm fairly resolute that it's only the first of many adventur-tastic journies, it's certainly the longest and largest and most badassedest trip I've been on to date, and there is a certain amount of planning involved in a trip of this magnatude. In fact, I've done some rough, back of the envelope calcuations, and the amount of planning falls somewhere between the amount of time Britney Spears spends thinking of ways to not totally embarrass herself (zero minutes) and the amount of time that Fox news spends presenting fair and balanced views of how John McCain is more qualified, less black, and less womanly than all of the democratic primary candidates combined (23,569 minutes to date).

To be perfectly honest, the trip is a little intimidating. There is so much unbelievable scenery in New Zealand, and so many thrilling activities that I'm concerned I won't plan right and will end up blowing the whole thing by doing something like spending 2 weeks getting boozed up at a pub in Auckland with a group of Irish tourists. Well... maybe this wouldn't be that bad. Are they mostly chicks? Hot chicks? Like maybe an Irish cheerleading squad who are all mad at their boyfrieds, vulnerable, and bi-curious? I'm just sayin', there are worse ways to spend a vacation..

Whatever, I digress. Whenever I start to get these worries, I pull up a picture like the one below, and I know that if I spend just one hour of the entire trip gazing blank-eyed like special-ed kid in AP Calculus at this type of scenery, that it will be worth all the scratch I spend to get over there.

Yes, I know, it's pretty unbelievable.

So anyhow, planning is in full swing. I've bought an 80 liter backpack to allow me to carry all my junkage around on my back, of all places(!!) and to "tramp" at will. (that's New Zealish for "hike" - those crazy kiwis sure do have some silly words!) I've bought a 2 gig memory card for my trusty camera, which if I understand correctly should allow me to take approximately 3,000,000 high-resolution pictures before I even need to worry about memory space. This is good because I've been known to be quite the shutter-bug at Irish cheerleader orgies. I bought a Lonely Planet guide to NZ that will tell me the best spots to rest my frame and get my grubbage on. I have not found the red lights district chapter yet, but I'm guessing it's just indexed weird so I'm not really worried yet.

There are still things left that I need to pin down in detail like my skydiving, bungi jumping, glacier climbing, spelunking, and hiking tour up the west coast of the south island, but it's all underway. I've also got to get some sort of rough game plan for my smash-and-grab tour of Sidney, Australia on my 12-hour layover there. I'll be good-goddammed if I'm going to spend that in an airport bar drinking stale Rolling Rock and listening to some Finnish douche-bags discuss the rise and fall of Portugese soccer.

In case it's not obvious, I can't wait!

The Big D(eeeeez Nuts)

Well I guess I'm firmly planted in the Big D, although I'm still trying to gain traction in this 32,314,778 horse town. I've officially consolidated into one living space, taking early leave of my ultra-swank temporary corporate housing in favor of having at least one pair of matching socks in just one central location. It was hard to give up the car-wash showers and living room-to-kitchen monorail, but I'm a one-residence kinda guy, even if that residence is filled mostly with self-assembly Target furniture.



I think I'll like it here. And I'm not just saying that because I watched that "Optimism in the Face of Unbelievably Bad Situations" documentary 10 minutes ago and I'm all jazzed up on coffee and Adderall. There are things I've found that I'm definitely impressed with (the amount of plastic surgery per square mile is not one of them, but I'll get to that).



Here is one:



This is White Rock Lake, and while it's true that it doesn't always look quite this "nut in your running shorts" spectacular, it's actually a pretty good place to run. This is a good thing because I've got to have decent running circumstances or I go crazier than a taunted San Francisco Zoo tiger.

There are a few things, however, about the Big that I find a little unsettling, if not downright abrasive. They are as follows in no particular order:


Concrete/Roads/Interstates/Shopping Centers/Toll-Ways as far as the eye can see


Seriously, it's friggin' concrete jungle. Anyone who tells you differently is either lying to you or crazy. Either way you should push their face into the ground and run away. I've never seen so many Bed Bath & Beyonds in a 2 mile radius. I guess if I have some sort of bath-mat emergency I'll be all set as long as I can figure out which 3 toll roads connect to the highway that leads to US 35E-W-NS-Business-E. But if I miss it I can always make a left and catch Mockingbird S and loop around on the Dallas North Tollway and HOLY F I'M LOSING MY MIND!!!!


What could be worse? How about:


Blind, All-Encompassing Materialism


It's been said that there's more plastic surgery per square mile in Dallas than in L.A. I don't know if that's true or not, but I have noticed that the douche-bag factor here is extremely high for a state that is technically below the Mason-Dixon line. This city is all about what you're driving, what you're wearing, where you live, who you're banging, what the person you're banging is wearing and driving, and so forth. Personality is an afterthought and the concept of intellect seems to be avoided like the plague. Unless you don't drive a Mercedes E-Class that is, then it's obvious that you're just stupid.


Anyway, with all this obsession with appearances and what-not at least the people must be pretty fit and active, right?


Wrong:


Texas is One of the Fattest States in the Union


Tenth fattest in 2007 to be exact.

Nobody here really seems to care about fitness. Maybe it's because you can get 8 lbs of beef brisket for $0.35. Or maybe it's because there's plenty of room in everyone's Ford F-750 dually trucks to comfortably hold all the love handles and double chins you can squeeze in there and still fit comfortably into those over sized Texas parking spaces (this is true - these parking spaces are GIGANTIC!). And even if it doesn't fit, well hells-bells, just drive 3 blocks down the street to the next Target. I hear they have oatmeal cream pies on special and all the cashiers are Texas natives.


But at least everyone is friendly, right?:


Hi! Okay, never mind I guess..


So far I've waved and/or smiled at every runner I've passed (which, granted, is not that many). I've yet to even get an acknowledgment. I mean, I'm getting totally ghosted here. Maybe I've been spoiled with all that southern hospitality into thinking that people shouldn't give you the stink-eye just because you said hi to them out there on the street. Call me ol' fashioned I guess.

So, in summary, there are a few things in the Big that I've got to get used to and/or change. But, I like to consider myself somewhat of an adaptive and resilient creature and I'm sure I'll make Texas home. It's always tough when you're in a situation where everything around you is new and different. All your familiarity and comfort zones are stripped from you and you're forced to build new friendships, find new places, and just generally situate yourself again in a place that is much bigger and flatter than those quaint Dilworth streets that are quickly seeming like such a distant memory..

QC-ya!

Well my time in Charlotte has officially wound down to the last few Sweet Carolina moments. If my time in the QC was a roll of toilet paper I would officially be well into the frustrating little gluey pieces that stick to the roll to tell you that, A.) It's time to change the roll, B. )There's got to be a better place for the spare shit-tickets than all the way down the hall, and C.) You thought you were a gambling man but three shreds of Charmin to cover 4 fingers going into the black lagoon is a little too much risk. Think about it. Or don't, I really don't care either way.

It's funny when you reach a point in your life that is undeniably a turning point. I mean, there are always those times in your life that you can look back upon and say, "Hmm, that was a real turning point." But usually you didn't know at the time or you were too stupid or too busy watching Behind the Music to realize that you were undergoing a metamorphosis or a life changing experience. But sometimes there are those hard breaks that you know without a doubt will lead to major change, whether good or bad. These changes could be any one of number of things including but not limited too} (sorry, I lost use of my colon key for some reason) Losing all your physical belongings in one very stupid but totally ballsy spin of the roulette wheel; Being unwittingly swept into a world of snuff porn with a ring leader named PitSmack; Winning the lottery.

While my turning point did not find it's roots in anything this exciting, it is without a doubt staring me right in the face like an Ultimate Fighting champ, and I've either gotta start swinging or catch a flying knee to the chin followed by a merciless onslaught of taped knuckles to the face-hole region.

I'm moving to Dallas in exactly 2 days and it promises to be quite a shock to the system. I'm officially in the "What the fuck am I doing?" stage. Hopefully not to be followed by the "What the fuck have I done and what was I thinking?" stage. And I really, really hope not to be followed by the "How the shit did I get to be a lonely, middle aged, friendless gas station attendant" stage.

I guess maybe it's normal when you're moving on to take a look at everything that you have that maybe you've taken for granted, and that no doubt you will miss. I've made lot of friends here in Charlotte in the 3 and 1/2 years I've called this city my home. I've changed a lot as a person. I've grown and matured. I've become a runner, and that is a big part of who I am now and something that I'll always be.

I've also learned a lot of lessons. I've felt a lot of pain, and a lot of happiness, too. I've spent countless hours trying to know who and what I want to become, and I like to think I've gotten closer to some of these answers, although I also think I've learned that part of life is the constant reinvention of these questions based on who you actually have become, and what you have accomplished. I've learned that you can live like a king in a old dilapidated townhouse, and you can feel like a hopeless prisoner in a plush gated community. I've learned that there will always be people that want you to do or be one thing or another, and as long as you try to appease everyone you will always be in constant struggle between two forces. The only way around this friction is to do what YOU want to do, and not what anyone else wants you to do. I've also learned that this is much easier said than done. I've learned that it's best not to judge others, although it is always one's instinct to do so. I've leaned that good music is sometimes hard to find, but worth the digging. I've learned that one can survive the absence of TV, but you will be forced to be alone with your thoughts and this can be a scary thing. I've learned that good beer is worth the money, but cheap beer by the bucket with a group of close friends is really hard to beat. I've learned to stay close to your family and to remember where you come from. Trying to be someone you're not is like trying to keep Dick Cheney away from a "Shoot Your Friends in the Face" convention. Impossible.

I guess in summary I've made a pretty good run of Charlotte. She's been good to me, and I've been good to her (although sometimes she complained about the "love taps"). But I'm the type of guy that likes to move on before the rigamortis sets in. So, good or bad, I'm off to the Big D. I like to think it will be an exiting new chapter of my life, but who knows, it could really suck...

Airplanes Are Cooler Than Pedandtic Ramblings

I was originally going to write this post about the difference between living one's life based on the practicallity and reason of a classical mindset versus letting the free-wheeling fancy of romanticsm guide your rosy and hemp-laced life. Then I almost vomited all over my keyboard at the thought of how wrist-slittingly boring that post would be. I for one would rather punch myself in the nuts repeatedly than listen to some ass-bag blogger prattle on about how hard it is to decide between art and function. But the segway to aeroplanes? "Are you drunk, stoned and collaborating with one of your illiterate retarded Malaysian hookers again?" you might ask. No (and she's Tai godammit - that's the last time I'm going to correct you. Next time it will be a knee to the kidney, no questions asked).

Actually, airplanes are one of the few things in this world that transcend the boundaries between classical and romantic ideals. In a classical sense, the principles of flight have been designed on very brilliant yet surprisingly simple concepts of physics. In addition, a functioning airplane makes such efficient use of resources and mechanical and electrical systems as to be able to cross continents and oceans, carry hundreds of people or thousands of pounds of cargo, and break sound barriers (not all at once of course).

But airplanes and flight are also very romantic by nature. After all, what better instrument of ultimate freedom and individualism? Flying thousands of feet above the earth's surface with total control of your craft and the direction you will take is not only totally empowering, but quite liberating as well. As a pilot, you cut your own path, and the world is but a canvass beneath you, changing at your whimsey and providing scenery and perception impossible to an earthbound man.

So that's the segway, dammit, but it's not really what I want to write about.

This past week I was able to spend about 5 days in Tennessee with my father, whom I respect, admire, and strive to be similar to in many aspects of my life. My dad is a retired airline pilot who now works for the FAA. His career has literally spanned all facets of aviation, including single engine flight instruction, carrying the mail (one of the most dangerous flying gigs around, for those of you that don't know), corporate flying, airline executive, airline flying, airline training, and now working for the watchdog - the FAA.

My father has been able to acheive great things in his life because he had three things: Dreams, goals, and the ambition and will-power to make things happen for himself. Growing up I know we weren't wealthy, but my family was always well provided for. I don't recall my father ever bitching about how he had ever been slighted, wronged, or short-changed for any reason. I remember him working very hard, flying long trips, fixing things, building things, loving my mother, and somehow still spending ample time with me and my sister. All this, and I can barely find time to take my dog for a walk. Unbelievable. My father never drank, never smoked, dipped, chewed, swore, hit, yelled, or threatened. He was never shady and he never disappeared for days at a time.

What were his vices? What were his releases? To be honest, I don't know. One might be tempted to classify my dad as a puritan or straight-laced. But this is not the case either, as he has always had a great sense of humor and the quickest of witts. One of the most light-hearted and jovial men I've ever known, my images of him mostly consist of him laughing at some random joke or something he did that was goofy as all hell.

I realize that I'm probably biased, but the fact of the matter is that my dad is one of the best men I've ever known. I look at his life and his experiences (aviation was only one of many careers my father held) and can't help but feel... small. Or maybe one-dimensional is a better description. I guess I just feel like my father knows so much about so many things, and I (along with my generation of young men) am on track to a lot about a little, at best. Cultural changes, or a tragic change in the composition of today's men? I don't know..

So I had set out to write about airplanes, and the fact of the matter is that I had the time of my life in Tennessee flying with my father. My pilot's certifications as well as my love for of aviation were reborn and I can't wait to get back into the skies and behind the throttle. But as I write this I realize that although I have developed a love for airplanes and aviation, perhaps it is my admiration for my father which has been the catalyst for my love of flying, and the reason I can't wait to get back in the air to see if maybe, somehow, I can compare to him and the things that he's done both in the skies, and with his life.

Seriously, Someone Else Can Get Your Boss His Coffee This Morning

In addition to being great exercise for the body as well as the mind, running offers many unsung benefits. One of these (if you do any amount of road running) is the excitement of knowing that you could become nothing more than a clumpy, hot asphalt grease spot at virtually any given moment during your run. I guess this knowledge is always in the back of your head somewhere, but it's typically manhandled and bitch-slapped around by that part of your consciousness that thinks you're basically invincible.

I don't mean to imply that I'm not extremely careful when I'm out there, because I am. Any runner worth his salt knows to treat every car as the instrument of death that it can easily be and to never, EVER assume that a driver sees you. We know all these things, and we're very careful, but just being out there is a risk in itself so you have to silence some of these cautious voices, if just a little. It has to be this way, or we road-runners would never really get any quality miles in because we would piss our already sweat-soaked shorts at every busy intersection.

Every so often, however, I experience one of those "Holy shit, I seriously almost died just then" situations that rock me harder than a Poison coverband. You know, the kind of thing you would never tell your mother because you're glad she doesn't have insomnia and two stomach ulcers from worrying about you. Today I had one of those experiences.

I have a half marathon tomorrow (which I'm not racing, but I'll be running fairly hard) so today was a very light easy day - about 4.5 m at a 7:40 pace. Really just to stay loose. Lately I've been doing my runs in the mornings because it's been hot enough to melt sky-scrapers in the afternoons. Seriously, if you wanted to replicate running in our current weather conditions on a treadmill you would need two assistants: one to continuously pour hot soup over your entire body and one to hold a soggy pillow over your face holes so all you are able to breath is recycled steam and sweat. Really, it's pretty bad.

The problem is that in a city like Charlotte, which has such a healthy population of bankers and other less important professionals, you've got some pretty gnarly morning traffic. Even at 6:00 AM, when most respectable analysts, fund managers, and what-have-you are either just starting to shake off that early morning wood or maybe letting Mulligan out to shit in the neighbors yard, you will indeed encounter several piss ant, bitter-because-I'll-never-make-it-to-the-top, no talent ass hats out on the road driving like there's a race to get their boss' coffee and they're in last place.

In addition to this, if you know anything about Charlotte you know we've got some pretty F'd up roadways and intersections. The best way to describe it is this: Picture taking a very complex system of trolley railways built around 1670 or so and placing another equally complex, yet totally different system of "modern" roads on top of it. Now convert the railways into roads too, intersecting and criss-crossing the existing roadways in all different ways and places. It looks this way because this is exactly what happened. It's about as tangled and unsightly as a Ukrainian orgy.

It was on my way through one of these hermaphroditic intersections (Kings and Morehead, for the natives) that my life was nearly ended this morning by this bluetooth cock-neck, wielding a semi-late model BMW 325i as his only weapon and source of self pride. His entry-level, helmet licker blue imitation luxury sport sedan screamed past me at about 1000 mph, missing me by literally inches as he body-rolled through his right hand turn (I had the crosswalk by the way).

First of all, if I go out road kill style, it better not be on the grill of some pussy ass wannabe-mobile. If I'm goin' down it better be the biggest, loudest, dirtiest, tires so big they're not even legal, banged-your-girlfriend-last-night Ford Mega-ExpeHummerExcursion out there. That way in my last breath I can at least say, "I lost the battle today, but at least I was laced up against the baddest mother fucker out there."

The thing is, these things happen when you least expect them. I know two runners who have been hit by cars (one by a bus, actually), and obviously neither of them saw it coming. We all have close calls - I once had to jump up on the hood of a Mustang that almost crushed me turning right into a MEDICAL center, of all places. When these things happen, it makes you realize just how much more defensive you need to be, and how much more of your focus needs to be on the traffic around you. I like to think that every close call makes me that much more aware of the cars around me, and in turn that much safer.

I guess in a weird way it just gives me a little comfort to think that maybe if I hadn't ALMOST gotten hit today, I might have GOTTEN killed tomorrow.

Progress is generally forward moving

I'm currently training for an ultramarathon. A forty-miler, to be exact. My first endeavor over the standard 26.2 mile marathon that once separated the men from the boys, but in recent years has become, well.... commonplace. I feel the need to go longer. To accomplish something that makes people say: "......What? You mean 40 miles over like a few days or something? I mean you don't run that all at once, right? I mean, come on, that's impossible.." To which you respond with a smirk and the fewest words possible, adding to the mystique and athleticism that is you.

For all the runners, as well as non-runners, out there, I want to sum up the progression of this sport as I have experienced it, and you may or may not agree.

Beginning: You're running 2 - 5 miles at a time, four or five days a week. You are awesome and in so much better shape than all those other NON-runners out there. You look good, you feel good, and so-help-me-god if someone steps to this while you're walking down the street you will race the be-jesus out of that bastard, beat him like a rented mule, and stand over his sweaty, losery body just long enough to say, "You should've known better than to think you could compare to this. You're lucky I even took pause in my awesomeness long enough to acknowledge and embarrass you." And then be on your fine-tuned way.

Intermediate: You're running 6 - 8 miles at a time and you might even have a couple 10Ks and a 1/2 marathon or two under your belt. You're pretty much a machine, and you make this known with the condescending looks you toss to all the "joggers" out there which you so kindly share the sidewalk with. You're doing speedwork. You're doing long runs. You know your VO2 max, and you make every run count. If anyone F's with your run, they will be lucky to merely get a tongue lashing, because you take this shit SERIOUSLY.

Advanced: You're starting to adjust your life around your running. Up at 4:30 AM? It's necessary to beat the heat and be able to hit your normal tempo run speed. 70 miles a week? How else are you going to build your endurance for the Stump Jump 50K? Pretty much all your regular friends are runners, and you talk about PRs incessantly. You are always training for one race or another. You plan vacations around races. If you're single, you probably won't date anyone who doesn't run because they just "don't get it." You are becoming more boring and annoying by the day, but you don't care. You just want to run. This is a warning sign, but you do not take heed..

Obsessed: You've done a marathon or maybe a few, but you're not really satisfied with your accomplishments. You either want to run a faster marathon, or you want to run longer (ultramarathon), or both. You spend a lot of time studying and analyzing race results, ranking yourself and your closest competitors. You probably have an arch nemesis or two. You have a race or a time goal on your calendar that you may or may not be able to complete without dying. Oddly enough, you've stopped talking about running as much, because you actually wish to hide the obsession that has taken over your life. "What did you do this weekend?" "Oh, I saw Rush Hour 3." Forgetting to mention that you spent 3 hours on the trails Saturday in the 90 degree heat, and another 30 minutes picking gravel out of the open wound that your shoe had created in your heel, and another 10 minutes "talking" your legs into controling the pedals of your Ford Ranger, at least enough to get you home. And then got up the next day and did it all over again.

This sport takes all kinds of people. There are those that do it for the excercise, those that do it for the glory, and those that do it because they have reached the point where they know nothing else. The beautiful thing is that they are all right.

One Love

The other day I became involved in one of those conversations that starts out very small and casual and progresses through a series of seemingly innocent tributaries until eventually what you've got is a roaring class 5 rapids of big ideas and very opinionated positions, all tearing and lashing out in an attempt to solve the world's problems. It was late at night and my sister and I had somehow found our way onto the topic of "humanity", or more specifically, "human value." We were in disagreement.

Before I continue I feel I must clarify exactly how we are defining the concept of humanity here. We are not arguing the concept of mankind or the human race in terms of it's existence or lack there-of. Neither my sister nor myself is irrational enough to argue against something as concrete as human existence. What we were tangled up about was the concept of humanity as it applies to man's unquestioned and unconditional deserving of sympathy, love, and resources regardless of effort, morals, or contribution to society. In tandem with this, the discussion included the debate of whether or not these qualities can be used to determine an individual's worth, or value, or if value is inherent simply because one exists.

My sister's stance on this is that all individuals - from the lowest crack-head infant killer to the most brilliant medical scientist months away from developing a cure for cancer - all have the same value, and in turn have equal claims on love, accolades, and the comforts that are available in today's world. In short, these things need not be earned but rewarded based solely on the achievement of being alive. We should love and reward everyone unconditionally. Put yet another way, we reap what we do not sow.

And my sister is certainly not alone in this view. Our current Robin Hood system is designed to take from those who have produced and give to those who have not; to penalize those with skill and drive and reward those who have neither, nor the desire to attain these qualities. The problem is that resources, like energy, cannot simply be created. If one consumes more than he has produced, this difference must be found somewhere.

I believe that man is the summation of his actions, morals, and contributions, and should be valued on the merit of these things. Love is not a flippant commodity to be doled out to anyone who may happen to pass by. It must be earned. And this is, in actuality, how we live our day to day lives. People typically do not walk the streets hugging and loving up on every stranger along the way. This would not only be very time consuming, but highly irrational. As a people, we have a natural air of indifference toward strangers until we have cause to feel otherwise. This is normal and rational. It is not until we are confronted with the ideological aggregate of "one love" that we switch gears to comply with social and religious statutes which hold us responsible for "loving our fellow man."

The issue has of course been debated extensively on both sides of the aisle. In fact, one can take it a step further, as Robert Pirsig did in Lila, and separate value into social value and biological value. Taken this way, our crack-head infant killer certainly has biological value as he is a living, breathing being. But it proves difficult to argue that he provides value to society in any way, and in fact could be said to have negative value in terms of contribution to the world around him. But in my opinion this is too easy as it gives us a means of breaking the issue down into unrelated segments, when what we're really after is a solution in it's entirety, which can only be achieved through examination of the person as a whole.

So does a crack-head infant killer have less value than our medical scientist with the ability to improve the quality of life for millions of people now and in the future? I do not hesitate to say that Yes, he does. As a people we have countless systems in place, both qualitative and quantitative, for measuring the value or "quality" of everything from fruit to financial systems. We do not hesitate to value dog breeds based on coloring or gait. Human athletes are measured by speed, accuracy, endurance, etc., and ranked accordingly. Students are rated by test scores and rewarded for superior performance. Yet when it comes to determining the overall value of an individual - something that should fall into place fairly naturally given the multitude of factors that can called into consideration - we stop short. That voice of reason that we use for virtually every other activity in our lives tries to pipe up - "Of course there's a difference! Isn't it obvious!!", but it is quickly and efficiently stifled by socially and religiously imposed thought structures which prohibit the use of reason for answers to all but the most insignificant questions.

NewAge is for Butt Plugs

So a couple of days ago I decided it might be a good idea to waste about 2 and 1/2 hours of Company time taking a "Real Age" test. In case you can't guess this test is designed to take your past life, your predicted future life, and the regression line of the lies/answers you've given regarding both and meld them together to give you some sort of crude estimate of what your "real" age is, or more accurately, what you've done right and what you've done wrong if your goal is to live well past that pleasant geriatric state and into the can't-do-anything-for-myself-and-everyone-wishes-I-would-die-even-the-people-that-love-me-most stage.

Holy F where do I begin?

Just to shake things up (and to totally piss off the gods of consecutivism) I think I'll start at the end and take a look at the age that this all-knowing test gave me: 22

Well, first of all, I must have accidentally checked the box for "Use a beer bong to ingest all fluids that I choose to consume," and I guess I picked Nickelback as my favorite band. I guess I also listed "Casual sex with multiple partners without protection or remorse" as a favorite pasttime, and "Never asked questions before snorting foreign substances up my nose" as one of the things I feel guilty about. I don't remember answering any questions about my career goals or life ambitions, but I must have answered something along the lines of "Change the frickin' world Man, and tell the F'n machine to ride my knob!"

If you know me you know that I'm actually 27 years old, and that my life doesn't much resemle that of a 22 year old . I drink a little bit, and I have fun, but I can't even remember the last time I contracted an STD, and my only vices now are gummy bears and staying up late to watch the 9:30 episode of Frasier.

I know what you're thinking. "That test was based on physical factors, not social abnormalties, you bastard!" First of all, calm down, you nutcase. Second, my point is not that this test cannot be accurate because it's entire system is currupt (not to mention designed by some greedy internet marketing dick-licker hell bent on finding something that I was interested in receiving email about). My point is "Who Gives a Good God Damn?!"

If anything, this "test" just goes to reinforce the fact that age is just a number. The laundry list of factors involved in factoring the difference between your nominal age and your "true" age is long indeed.

I've got a better idea. How about the True Happiness Test. Please list the last 5 times you laughed uncontrollably at something a good friend said. Name the last time you did something crazy with someone you've known since you were 7 years old. When was the last time you did something just for yourself, even though everyone else thought you were out of your mind? The last time you blew off work. The last time you swam naked in the moonlight. The last time you kissed someone who was not your girl/boyfriend, and who your parents would definitley NOT approve of.

Haven't done some of these things? There's still time, and you don't have to be 22 to get started. These things have more to do with life than all of the social standards and normalities that say "Graduate from a good school," and "Get married by 30."
"Have two or three kids, and send them to the best schools"
"Drive a Lexus LS or a Mercedes E Class; nothing else will really do."
"Join a country club, for that's where you'll find quality people to befriend."

And so on. You can live your whole life by the numbers and the standards, or you can spend some time examining what it is you really want out of life, devising a plan to acheive it, and then enacting that plan until you've either acheived your goal or until you're dead.

The point is that life, much like most of the things in it, cannot be quantified in terms of numbers. The amount of years you've lived and the amount of years you have left to live mean nothing without a little spritz of that thing we call "quality of life".

Fearlessly into the blogosphere I tiptoe

Before I get started I must make a small confession. Until very recently I regarded "blogging" as, well, retarded for lack of a better word. I wanted nothing to do with it or anyone who practiced it. As far as I was concerned, all bloggers could just go ahead and keep typing away in the spare room of their mother's house where they've been living since they got laid off from Best Buy. I went to lengths to avoid exposure to the presumptuous opining and unsolicited pontification of this inexplicably pompous group of folks.

It's nothing personal, I just don't make a habit of hanging on every word prattled out by lonely, socially inept middle-aged men with Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs crusted to their Star Wars t-shirts. I don't care to know their religious beliefs or their political views. I don't really give a holy dingle-berry about the hidden tracks on the new Dirt Ticklers album, and I can certainly live my whole life and never need to know the hilarious details about the time they stayed up for 72 hours straight playing Everquest because they lost a bet to their best friend Stinky.

I guess my point is that if you have something worthwhile to say, maybe you should try saying it out loud to actual people. Like so people can hear it with their ears. Remember talking? Remember listening? Remember conversations that were real and couldn't be backspaced and revised into comfortable perfection before hitting "Send"? Real-time talking?! Wtf?!

In addition, I could never quite convince myself that anyone really needed to concern themselves with whatever dribble I might decide to slap up on my "blogspot". I mean seriously, it's my life and it's barely interesting to me. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a fairly opinionated cat. I've just never been able to get past that log in the road that might mistakenly be classified as humbleness if I weren't such an arrogant prick. I'm just not convinced that anyone out there would need to pencil out a portion of their busy day that’s no doubt filled with neopolitan ice cream, Mad About You reruns, and ignoring their children to read my post describing the extra thick coating of peanut butter that I put on my toast this morning. Don't get me wrong, it was super tasty and all and I could probably weave one helluva good yarn around all the nutty, delicious details of this part of my morning routine, but seriously.

But then something weird happened (sweet zombie jesus in a hand basket, this entry is getting really long. I guess this is how it starts..). I got an email from my sister asking me to "check out my blog!!"
_____ I'm sorry?
Please hold while I re-read that 8 times to make sure I haven't gone totally Charter Lakeside. Is my sister really joining a realm that has been reserved exclusively for deuchebags? My sister? The one who would probably think Tivo was a teletubbie if she didn't know the names and extended biographies of every children's character created in the last 9 years? (Give her a break, she has 4 kids) My own flesh and blood? I fight through the cold sweats and remain lucid enough to focus on coming up with excuses for not joining her at the next annual Star Trek convention and think of the most tactful way to say that "No sis, I have the utmost respect for Dungeons & Dragons competitions, it's just that I have this pale-weak-person phobia thing that I'm trying to work through. Otherwise I'd be all over that shit."

I mean really, where did I go wrong? If the G man really felt the need to smite me because I like to step on puppies couldn't he have just sent locusts or some flesh eating bacteria or something like any decent god-fearing deity? I mean whatever happened to taking your first-born or making you sacrifice a few virgins or something? Anyway, this all just reinforces my belief that a benevolent God is about as likely as beer-rain or an M.C. Hammer comeback. In other words, pretty F'n slim. (You hear me god!? Yeah, and if you’re listening, tell your buddy Claus that a plastic pistol is NOT the same as a Red Ryder BB gun – GOSH, that Christmas Sucked!)

Anyway, after spending the next three days in a haze of whiskey, unprescribed painkillers, and loose women, I decided to shake off my self pity and really analyze this situation. I weighed the pros and I weighed the cons. I pondered and I explored. And finally I realized.

People don't really blog for others, they blog for themselves. The act of taking your thoughts, sorting them, structuring them, and putting them down on paper (sort of, just go with it…) is not only very therapeutic, it's a way for people to document themselves. Not for the benefit of others, but for themselves. Writing is the best medium for one's thoughts to be extracted from that abstract, byzantine mess of neurons and channels that is our minds and put into something that can be looked at and focused on. Thoughts are fleeting and very easy to manipulate, but written words, while they can be erased, must be consciously reckoned with. Put more simply, changing my thoughts to chocolate chip cookies or Jennifer Love Hewitt's unbelievably perky little sweater bunnies will not change written words.

Another funny thing about writing is that it's nearly impossible to physically write down something you don't truly believe. For instance, I just tried to type out the sentence, “My luscious lever leaves lively ladies longing left and right long after I’ve left.” While this may be one mad-man of a tongue twister, it’s not remotely true. That’s why I could not type it myself and had to get Peter North in here to help me out (with the writing you sickos, geez…) But you guys get my point. Pick something dark out of your life and try to explain it away on paper and you will find that it’s nearly impossible.

For this reason, I believe documenting oneself, or “blogging,” may be one of the most honest things one can do. And I believe that it's for this reason that people share their blogs with each other, and why people actually take interest in reading the blogs of others. It's an intimate, almost voyeuristic look into someone's life. Not to mention your own.

Having said that, I think we all can agree that there are still a lot of ass-clown bloggers out there. But, it sure as hell beats watching television.