post the hundred-sixty-second, 2013

my name is ace, and i wore yoga pants to work today.

i didn't mean to. i meant to wear a skirt. but yesterday's soccer game was a bit rough and so there's a bruise on my shin and a scratch on my knee. i don't do pantyhose and whatnot. i'm a bare-legger, you know? so today was not a skirt day.

then i meant to wear pants. but pants are really difficult when you've got a shortie leg. with my right an inch shorter than my left, it's just so hard to get pants to look right and feel right. okay, i know it's whiny. i know it's whiny. i know. but i just didn't feel like being uncomfortable today. i didn't want to mess with it.

so i picked out the tunic, and i was going to wear the leggings, you know? i was. but there weren't any black ones, so i don't know, i just pulled out the yoga pants. i put them on and they felt so good. i know i shouldn't have put them on. i know that i brought it on myself, that way, by putting them on in the first place. it's on me.

yeah, it's on me.

my name is ace, and i wore yoga pants to work today.

post the hundred-sixty-first, 2013

i guess we are going to start watching "homeland". i personally think we have enough shows already, but i'm willing. 

1. first problem - they use that shaky-cam thing. i hate the hell out of that. it's the modern era for godsakes. hold the damn camera still. 

2. i get that clare danes is some kind of higher up in the CIA - like really high. why is she playing it like she's a scared little girl? buck up, for godsakes. 

3. mandy patinkin with a huge beard. how is he believable as CIA director (or whatever he is)?

4. why do people have to be such butts about when their kids attempt suicide? i mean, on tv. is this realistic? haven't we learned anything from, say, watching tv?

5. i'd really like to have some of those orange- and black-wrapped peanut butter candies about now. 

post the hundred-sixtieth, 2013

planes, trains, automobiles. i am in them all day, only to land in a hotel where you can't traverse the bed without hitting the wall and internet access comes at a price. walk the city, have some coffee, ride a subway, have some food, and so on till hours later and jonesing for the internet, i nomad to the starbux across the street. the coffee here - where they stay open till 30 mins shy of midnight - tastes 100% exactly like the coffee in my town where they roll up the sidewalks at 9pm. that is the beauty and the devestation of starbux. the devestating beauty. the beautiful devestation. now, at this moment, in this place, the music is loud and frankly, it sounds like a jackhammer which tells me i won't last till 30 mins shy of midnight. but i just had to touch base, make a connection, ping the outside world. here we are in the year of our lord 5774 and they are selling pings at a premium in a hotel with closet-sized rooms and a lobby full of japanese tourists. it doesn't have to be this way, people. it doesn't, i say! i should foment a rebellion on behalf of travelers whose pings are grasped in the greedy fingers of hoteliers, held hostage for a ransom of 4.99 per hour. i should. i really should. but i think not tonight... no, not tonight. the planes, trains, automobiles - they have worn me down. they have worn me sheer down.

and this is how the ping rebellion is shelved... but not forgotten.

post the hundred-fifty-ninth, 2013

i'm a bed maker. 

i mean, not for a living. c'mon. 

i make my bed every day, just about. it's a rare day that i leave it unmade and even then, i'll come back and make it before i get back in it. 

getting in an unmade bed makes me feel... i don't know if it makes sense but i'm gonna say it makes me feel homesick. yeah, even at home. 

all my life, my bed's been a sort of central to my bedroom. i mean... duh, right? #haha but srsly -- my bed's a chair, a desk, a couch, a... bed. it's got to be made to make it as all those things. 

and i guess it's a bit of a feng shui thing too. the room just looks complete and the completeness brings a peace. 

same reason i do the dishes every day, straighten up the kitchen before i leave to discover what the day brings. 

it's all so when i come back home there'll be that peacefulness about the place. 

i'm not a fanatic or anything. if it doesn't get done, it doesn't get done. i won't stew over it or make myself late. it's not like that. 

it's just about thinking about my end-of-day self at the beginning of the day, and taking a moment to do something for myself that i know i'll appreciate later. 

post the hundred-fifty-eighth, 2013

from where i sit
you look vulnerable
in a way that'd probably surprise you
if you could see what i see.
i know that it surprised me
to see the things that i see
from where i sit:
a softly sunburnt shoulder,
a down-turned gaze
of eyes that don't quite focus
on the yellowed pages
of that old book lying open
on your knobby teenaged knees.
where ever your liquid mind is -
to whatever far reaches it's seeped -
it's clear you've let your guard down.
at least, it is to me,
from where i sit
where i see
what i see.

post the hundred-fifty-seventh, 2013

put away the attitude.
it really doesn't suit you.

it isn't who you truly are.
you are not a shiny star.

you are just the plain one,
the quiet one,
the lonely one,
the one who reads
and sits on stoops,
the one with salad,
and with soup.

put away the attitude.
it really doesn't suit you.

don't pretend that you don't know
you're only putting on a show.

you are not the sharp one,
the chatty one,
the comely one,
the one who meets
and walks the shops,
the one with bangers
and with tots.

put away the attitude.
it really doesn't suit you.

post the hundred-fifty-sixth, 2013

why i spend money on coffee and why i walk down the block to do it.

1. scott-the-barista knows me. it's like walking into "cheers" every morning only my name isn't norm and i'm not drinking beer. come to think of it, scott-the-barista might not even know my name... i always pay cash and he never asks, and you know what? that's how i like it. he doesn't pry - he just he recognizes me and that's all that matters. an impersonal-personal greeting first thing in the morning goes a long way to starting the day right.

2. scott-the-barista knows my order. this is sort of part of #1, but also separate. he remembered after, like, the second day. i mean, it's not a difficult order -- small americano, add a touch of skim -- but still, he's got it down. this isn't because i am special or my order is easy. it's because he's a good barista. being in the presence of professionalism is simultaneously comforting and inspiring.

3. the coffee is very good. it's not stellar blow-your-mind coffee, but the combination of good product and professional handling results in a cuppa that's quintessentially sessionable. not too bitter, not too sweet, not too toasty-roasty, not too bland. it's just right, goldilocks.

4. it's reasonably priced. yes, this is completely subjective. it's $2.19 and i think that's a reasonable price for a freshly made americano. at this point in my life, i am ready to indulge myself, and i choose morning coffee as my indulgence. yes, there are children starving, but i support efforts to feed them, so don't judge me. compared to maxing out credit on manolo blahniks or refinancing the house to purchase an audi convertable... $2.19 for a cuppa isn't all that bad.

5. scott-the-barista does things the long way but doesn't take a long time. he grinds beans and draws espresso shots through traditional machinery. i don't mean he's got a mortar & pestle and a campfire going back there, but if you know coffee, you know what i am talking about. and he gets it done faster than any barista i've known to use that system. yes, even faster than khalil-the-barista, who is not to be sold short himself.

6. walking down the block to get coffee each morning feels urban and hip in a way this town has never felt to me. having coffee in walking distance is a relatively new phenomenon - maybe a couple years or so - and participating in this morning-city ritual makes me feel connected in a way that firing up the coffee maker perched on my in-cubicle fridger never could.

7. it's easier to purchase a made cup than to make it myself. keeping coffee and filters onhand is a hassle. the tiny 4-cup coffee maker is noisy and messy, and even with this tiny carafe, there's always something left to burn and smell and be a mess to clean up. office coffee pools, the other option, are notoriously not good at spreading the cost and very good at spreading gossip. no thank you, too-personal coworker who hasn't put a dime in the cup since january.

8. i walk past two coffee shops to get scott-the-barista. one of them has a thermos of starbucks, so they really shouldn't be calling themselves a coffee shop at all. the other is actually my former go-to shop, but since khalil-the-barista left, it's become way too painfully pretentious and i can't be party to that.

9. going to the in-building cafeteria for coffee feels like losing. plus, the coffee is atrocious. i mean, like, really bad. it's not possible that the people who make that coffee are coffee drinkers because one taste of that should humiliate the maker into never touching a coffee bag, bean, filter, carafe, or cup ever again.

10. coffee good. tired bad.

post the hundred-fifty-fifth, 2013

i'm sure you heard it before i did. i used to pay more attention to the news, but i inadvertently clicked one too many "two celebrities wear same dress" or "unbelievable high school football play". in my defense, i am an idiot who is enthralled by celebrities and sports, but the upshot here is that my yahoo home page is littered with britney spears, kate middleton, superstar high school athletes, and recipes of the week. the news has sat in judgment on me and found me to be a lightweight. i stand guilty as accused.

so, that's why i am sure you heard before i did that some lunatic (or maybe two) shot up the navy yard in washington DC. thirteen people are dead, including the shooter. a suspect escaped and some other people were injured. i really can't seem to get a handle on the details around brad pitt's new hairstyle and donald trump's new will & testament.

i don't need the details, though, to tell you what i wanted to tell you.

and what i wanted to tell you is this.

when i heard about it, i was struck of course by the tragedy. not the large scale tragedy of horrific death or the even larger scale tragedy of what in society drives people to do horrible things or the even larger still - the problem of evil in the world. all of that, sure, but none of that really.

i was struck by the tragedy of a normal day shot to hell. the heartbreaking sadness of the simple expectation of normality. i'd venture to say that of all the people at the navy yard today, going about their monday workday, a very low percentage were expecting anything special, exciting, out of the ordinary. they're chatting about football, debating whether to have that doughnut, grousing about a boss or a meeting or a report that's due, maybe making plans for lunch or to go shopping after work. they're catching up after the weekend and still recovering from hangovers and opening their email for the first time since friday.

not only are they not asking for anything special, they are not even entertaining the thought. special or exciting or different is less conceptualized in their minds than eating with a fork is in the mind of a tiger.

it's just not there, see?

and then, in less than a moment, normal is over for these people, and they will not know normal again for a long time, some of them ever.

they weren't asking for anything, see? not anything. nothing. just a plain vanilla monday of meetings and gossip and lunch and work and home and football at night.

the tragedy is that they expected so little, and they got even less.

see?

post the hundred-fifty-fourth, 2013

there's this young girl called lydia ko who's a very good amateur golfer. when i say "very good", i mean like, very good. she's currently tied for first in the LPGA evian open, which is considered a major tournament.

(in case you don't know about golf, there are 5 majors in the year for the women and 4 for the men. men have the masters, u.s. open, open championship [a.k.a., british open], and PGA championship. women have kraft nabisco, LPGA championship, u.s. women's open, women's british open, evian championship.)

lydia ko is 16 years old. according to wikipedia, she was born in south korea and started playing golf at age 5 in new zealand. she is currently referred to as 'of new zealand' or 'new zealand native' so i would guess one or both parents are kiwis.

so, she's an amateur and is very good and is ranked internationally. every week during the broadcast of whatever LPGA tournament is scheduled, there is discussion about lydia turning pro. mostly it's puzzlement over why she would not since she could be earning (literally) millions of dollars.

if the earning potential were lower or the occupation were less visible, obviously no one would be talking about the decision. i think it's because so many people play golf as a hobby that they find it easier to decide on lydia's behalf that she should turn pro. seems like a no-brainer, really. all those millions? who would turn that down?

no one is going to perform my occupation as a hobby. it's classified only as a job. this place where hobbies cross occupations is an odd territory. sports, music, art. things that are commonly done by common people. we all know we can't surgerize a brain or build a rocket that'll make it to the moon. we know those aren't hobbies, and we can't really relate to what it takes to accomplish them. but, a hobby that's also a profession - that's something we feel qualified to comment on.

and someone who does a hobby-fession as a hobby when they're good enough to be making a living at it, we can't seem to get our heads around their wanting to remain amateur.

in other news, terry gannon -- golf channel non-hobbyist commentator -- sounds so much like alan alda it's just spooky.

post the hundred-fifty-third, 2013

ironic that when the tools have reached the point that news could be reported with a high level of accuracy, integrity, and on-the-nose timeliness, news outlets have completely gone to hell in and/or out of business. 

we're watching "broadcast news" - a major motion picture released in 1987. in it, holly hunter plays an idealistic young network news producer who's frustrated by and bucking against the lack of seriousness in The System and consistently believes in her self-righteous rightness. william hurt is a pretty-faced, empty-headed young recent promotion from local sports to network reporter who is tortured by his intellectual shortcomings and status as outsider. albert brooks plays a notquiteso recently promoted, notquiteso shallow, notquiteso young network news reporter who hides his insecurities behind a mask of humor. jane cusack is a flighty, spastic, loud, oddly-dressed young production assistant who is stubbornly kind and consistently under-appreciated. 

in other words, they play in '87 precisely the characters they'll repeatedly play throughout their entire careers. 

post the hundred-fifty-second, 2013

forgot my nook today, so i was forced to rely on the television during the aerobic warm-up portion of my workout. for some reason which i cannot fathom, bbc-america has taken to showing "star trek next gen" in the slot formerly filled by gordon ramsay and merlin. these brilliant and expressive men have gone completely missing and to compound this tragedy, the cast of STNG is the cardboardest botoxian population possible. every episode i have seen is peopled with blank faces and empty stares. death, destruction, mechanical failure, attack, reunion, family, love - all are met with utter neutrality of countenance. clearly i am in no position to deduce if it's the actors, the directors, or the bland snacks on the craft services table that are inducing this state of torpor, but i am in a position not to watch it. well, not for long anyway. i was fascinated with the makeup job on the kid playing lieutenant worf's son, but as soon as there was a break, boom. change the channel. as it was apparently "space day" in the fitness centre, the first show i found that wasn't on break was a discovery channel programme about the real possibilities of humankind's colonising mars. it was quite fascinating, really -- all this stuff about how we'd get there and have to small with just a couple pod-style living spaces and how we'd add more bit by bit and finally end up living underground to survive conditions on mars. i was really getting into it until they said the exploration parties would take 2 year trips: six months to get there and eighteen months there and six months back. what? whaaat? it would take six whats to get there. what? six what?? what?? the thought of being six months away from home sucked all the air out of the room and i had to change the channel before i fell right on over. six months away from home?? i don't mean "away from home for six months" which is basically just a semester or two at university. that's not what i am talking about. i mean, being at such a distance away from the very planet earth that six months are required to make the one-way journey. that's what i mean. i mean: SIX MONTHS AWAY. yikes. i would rather kiss a snake. on the mouth. every day.

post the hundred-fifty-first, 2013

you seem
like a very normal sort,
like a normal normal sort,
like a very normal sort
of a person that you'd meet -
just walking down the street -
like a very normal sort,
you seem.

you seem
just to have a normal life,
just a normal normal life,
just to a very normal life
of a person that you'd know -
in your comings to and fro -
just to have a normal life,
you seem.

do you stop -
to wish upon a star?
catch a firefly in a jar?
or ever wonder why you are
like a very normal sort -
with a very normal life -
to wish upon a star,
do you stop?

post the hundred-fiftieth, 2013

the difference between being a "runner" and being "someone who runs" is something of a semantic shell game, but if you are a runner, you know what you are. i mean, i don't want to come off as a prick or anything, but some people who run are just people who run, and some of us are runners.

here. take the quiz.

1. true or false. the best way to get from the kitchen to the bedroom is to sprint. if sprinting is for any reason not possible (injury, extensive laundry-hallway blockage, et cetera), it is acceptable to skip or jeté.

2. amidst a busy work morning at the office, you realise you'd like a coffee shop americano. to get one, you will (a) drive to the coffee shop; (b) take the bus to the coffee shop; (c) call the coffee shop and request a delivery; (d) ped on over there.

3. stairs:elevator::________:useless

4. you run a marathon in 3:24:06. what are your mile splits?

5. on a business trip, you find you've been systematically booked into a faceless block of concrete adjacent to the airport. the surrounding topology includes freeway, freeway exit, freeway entrance, and razor-wire enclosed tarmac. hotel parking is underground and accessible only to the hotel valets. the 10x10 space allocated to fitness equipment contains a set of dusty freeweights (the 8s are missing), a broken elliptical machine, and 15 tiny stiff "white" towels. in violation of international fire codes, the stairwells remain locked at all times. you have not been provided with a rental car. the only timeslot available for personal activity is between 10PM and midnight. how do you accomplish the 12-miler that's on today's docket?

6. true or false. you can have too many pairs of trainers.

7. you're having a good hair day. a really good hair day. a really, really good hair day. no, really - good. your lunchtime run will no doubt result in the ruination of your good hair day and you thusly feel conflicted about going to run at all. demonstrate the implausibility of this scenario using the schwarzschild wormhole theory and the lyrics to supertramp's "long way home". bonus: graph the result.

8. the perfect fuel belt colour is (a) green! everything's better in green! (b) best to get one to match each outfit (3) fuel belt? don't need no stinking fuel belt! (iv) none of the above.

9. pizza:beer::_________:shirley

10. rearrange the letters of your name to spell "boston marathon unicorn". make substitutions as needed.


good luck! (i scored 100%.)


my new trainers glow in the dark. see?

post the hundred-forty-ninth, 2013

get up early, 4:30 or so. still not sure what i'm doing this for. do i want to see how fit i am? force of habit? wishful thinking? i don't know.

still, i get up, start the coffee. my hip hurts. my ankle hurts. my back is sore. that's par for the course these days -- everything hurts. what the hell am i doing running a 5k??

english muffin. peanut butter. coffee. sit down and play some 'words with friends' while i eat this meager breakfast. wait a while but the breakfast doesn't go out as easily as it came in, if you know what i mean.

SIGH.

take a shower and let the hot water try to relax some of the old muscles. go to get dressed and i can't decide but i in the end i pull on the swamp snigglet. i feel like i should apologize for wearing it, in my pitiful condition, but hell - it's a game, right? it's a game and when you are on the team, you wear the team jersey to the game. that's just how it is.

it's 6:06. i wanted to leave at 6:15 but i guess i will go ahead -- no point in hanging around the house.

am i anxious? i don't know. there's not another car on the road, of course, because it's only crazy people that are out this time on a holiday. rod stewart's singing 'young hearts be free tonight' which repeats the line "time is on your side! time is on your side!" over and over. when the song ends i turn off the radio so that i can plant that in my mind. "time is on your side." that can be my mantra today. "time is on your side."

there are a few other folks in the parking garage, but i easily find a good spot right by the stairs. open the trunk to put on my bib and there's the detritus of races past: little clumps of safety pins. and i think to myself again, what the hell am i doing.

jog around 10 minutes or so, use the porty potty (no line! [no luck...]), stretch. overall a good little warm-up. as i take another blast of albuterol, i am starting to feel maybe just a tidge optimistic. more "maybe i won't suck" than "i am gonna rock" but still, it's something.

it's almost 7AM and i am milling around the start. see a couple folks i know. how're you, how're you, blah, blah. i notice there are a lot of blue bibs, so i ask this guy - do the 5k and 10k start at the same time? he goes - the 5k is at 8:45.

awkward.

also, what the hell??

1. i really feel primed Right Now. there is no way i can hold onto this an hour and a half. 2. what am i going to do for an hour and a half?! 3. damnit. 4. okay, i'd rather be early than late. (but... jeez)

the 10k'ers take off and the band starts back. they're playing mumford and sons 'i will wait for you'. oh c'mon. seriously?! i nab a bottle of water and sit on a stoop, drinking water and playing through all my candy crush lives. hope springs eternal... so i jog over to the park to sit on a real toilet and maybe get some action there, but still no luck. i spend a lot of time stretching, join in the cheering at the 10k finish, stretch some more, re-albuterolize.

finally it's 8:30 and they're telling us to get ready. i find a spot in the middle near this lady wearing a peach top and grey skirt. (i wore a skirt, too. if i do well, the swamp shirt says i mean business. if i suck, the skirt says what did you expect.) there are a metric shit-ton of children in the race, so i try to position myself where i won't trip over any of them. i am gazing at all the different shoes, trying to shake out the nerves. i'm getting psyched.

the whole crowd counts down 10... 9... 8... then the electronically-manufactured-gun-type-sound goes, and we're off! except we're still standing. the crowd is crushing through the bottleneck start line, so it's slow going. we're finally through, i start my watch, and here we go.

right away, there's trouble. these people are super slow, some jogging with kids, some walking with the race swag string bag swinging on their backs! i shuck and jive my way to some clear space and about a half mile in i take stock. breathing, okay. feet, not killing me. hip... painless. nice! i know i am not blazing saddles here, but with a crowd like this, i settle on a strategy: just pass people. that's it. just pass people. i don't care who - kids, adults, young, old, boy, girl, androgyn. doesn't matter. just pass people.

so i do. i start passing people. sure, there are people passing me. the start was completely wack so there are fast people wanting to get through. i am all - good on ya! because i don't care if they pass me. that's not what this is about. all this is about is me passing people.

so i do. i pass people and more people, and just like that we're at 1 mile. they're calling out times -- "9:19!" -- but i know i am faster. there's a water stop at about 1.25 and i get through that unscathed.

we loop the baseball fields, and i am near a girl, maybe 9 years old, who doesn't want to let me go, and some old man who sounds like a lamaze instructor. we make this hairpin turnaround - one of those great "around the orange cone" setups - and i leave them both. so long, suckas!

i am getting really hot, reallllly hot, and i remember (duh) that i am wearing a hat, so i take it off and that's better. but, i am hot and dizzyish and i am like, hey maybe i will just quit here, who will know, but then i realize i am gaining on the woman in front of me, so i buck up and pass her. all of a sudden, we are at 2. sweet!

the course is altered from years past, but coming in the final mile is the same and it's a lot of down hill followed by a quick up at the end then one block to the finish. everyone sort of speeds up on the downhills, but i stay smooth and just keep passing people.

then i am beside a teenage bladerunner in a day-glo orange shirt. there's a team of bladerunners here, all in the day-glo. he's a husky kid, maybe 15, 16, and he's struggling. i go by him and i'm like, good job. he's all, thanks. i grin and say, i just said that to distract you so i could beat you. he speeds up. we're together maybe a quarter mile then he drops back and this other guy who is with the bladerunners sort of encourages him a little, but then the coach-guy takes off and i know bladerunner is still back there.

almost at the last turn, he catches me again, but he has clearly had it now, really beat, and i am like - around this turn, left then right, then a block to the finish. i tell him he's doing great. he slows. i am like - no way, man, don't stop now! and i nearly have an asthma attack yelling this kid across the finish line, and we cross 1-2, him in front. i am all woo-hoo, but he is making a beeline for the curb. uh-oh... i follow him and presto, all his breakfast comes up in the midnight mulch. yikes. i am patting him on the back, telling him to let it all out, just let it out. he looks pretty shaken but his mom shows up with some water and gets him into the shade. i tell her he did a great job, really great.

my watch says 26:46. not my best by any means, but not my worst. it's something to work with at least. i check the fancy electronic readouts and can't find me. what the hell? i march on over to the scoring tent and the patient, helpful scoring guy looks up my bib number and says that my start didn't register. they have my finish, but they used gun time for the start. i am like - oh, no-no-no. that will never do. he says - if you can find someone you started near, then we can change your start time. i am like - there was this lady in a peach top and grey skirt... he's like - you have to actually find her and bring her here, not just describe her wardrobe.

oh. right.

so i am going from clump of people to clump of people. "did you start in the middle, there? remember me? i moved the sign out of the way?" and, it's no after no. but then i spot her! peach-top-grey-skirt! after a really awkward conversation (do i HAVE any other kind??) she agrees to accompany me back to the scoring tent, where she vouches for my having started near her. the patient, helpful scoring guy laughs and says he didn't think i could do it. hey, buddy, my middle name is determination.

he gets her bib and finds her start and changes my start to match hers and wah-lah -- turns out i am 1AG.

i am walking on clouds...

we get some breakfast, and then return to the trophy presentation. i get a hideous lucite trophy and a $50 fleet feet gift card. the other winners are all ga-ga over the gift cards, but i only have eyes for the trophy.

you were right, rod. time WAS on my side today.