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...