I like television, in general, but I’m not bound to it. Sports, documentaries, Japanese game shows - I love ‘em! I like the fact that I can get a solid 30 minutes of entertainment and not worry about watching the next episode.
Here are some TV shows I’ve never seen and don’t see any reason to ever do so:
1. ER
2. Law & Order
3. Any of the multitude of CSI series
4. The Sopranos
5. The Office
What’s the best TV you’ve never seen?
I was at a local chain store the other day and noticed they had trousers on sale. I’ve needed a decent pair of black trousers for ages, so I sauntered over to the racks. By “saunter” I don’t mean that I strutted with my best tough walk. I did not hold my elbows out wider than necessary to give the illusion of size, although this is what men do. We are alpha-animals constantly asserting our territory, even if the territory is merely a four way stop, in which case the alpha-stare comes into play. The alpha-stare can only be defeated by the indifferent-stare. This is a problem for a large portion of alpha wannabes since they equate aggression with dominance. Alpha-stare versus alpha-stare may produce alpha-insults such as the ever witty “What the hell are you looking at?” This can be countered with a variety of alpha-comebacks such as “I don’t know, I haven’t figured it out yet” or “not much”.
This sort of exchange is sure to be followed by various alpha-glances meant to scare the non-alpha into submission. Very rarely is the matter ever settled physically though, because the alpha-stare is a symptom of a known insecurity and a defeat would only serve to increase said insecurity. In fact, the whole exchange is more likely to finish solely in the mind’s eyes of the alpha-wannabes. Exceptions are at bars whose names contain any of these words: tavern, eye, sling, or men’s names beginning with the letter J.
Fortunately, the men’s department of a chain store is fairly safe, although a strut seems be mandatory. “Shopping” in itself is a fairly anti-alpha activity, so there is a lot of posturing. Well, too bad for them, because I know the secret: I just don’t care! This is the riposte to any alpha-weapon. In some cases it may provoke anger, but that won’t matter when you don’t give a flip. I think this secret is better then the other secret because the other secret costs $25 and is available at retail outlets everywhere. Real secrets cost thousands of dollars and spies kill each other for them. Except the one I just shared, that one’s cool to pass on.
At the sale rack I found a nice variety of slick looking trousers at 50 percent off. “Ah yes, this is a good hunt”, I thought. I picked a row of dapper threads and started scanning for my size. Hmm, right length, wrong waist, too small, too big, way too big… next row then. Nope, no luck. Next?
Now my size isn’t abnormal. I’m a 31 waist. There was the size right below mine, and the next one up, but not mine. There were several sizes larger, but only one less. These were sale pants, but new mind you - not the clearance rack. I checked all the sale racks then I thought “Hmm, I’ll check stuff that’s not on sale”. No 31’s anywhere. “What the hell?!” I said giving the rack an alpha-shake. “I’m a fricking healthy male who wants to spend money in your store, where’s my size??”
Ok, that’s a slight exaggeration considering that I just made the bold statement that I don’t care, but why in the world are there consistently sizes that no one wears on racks? “Based on your store’s sales record of selling out of size 31 within 48 hours upon shipment, this shipment contains one pair of size 31, and six pairs of size 32-35, and ten pairs of 36 and above which will take up a bunch of space and eventually will end up on the floor around clearance racks to be trampled on by children playing tag.”
Since then I’ve been keeping an eye out for my size at other stores. Fortunately they still exist, but like the blue bird of paradise are pretty rare to spot. Still there is an abundance of size 35+ trousers sitting unsold on racks everywhere. Since I do not have the resources for a comprehensive search, I must theorize.
Theory one: I live in a very healthy town, with a university full of young, fit men. I’m simply too late. There must be some sort of telephone tree whereby store managers alert the secret skinny dude society when their size arrives. Early in the morning they gather outside Kohl’s and rush in at opening like crazed Thanksgiving weekend shoppers vying for the $45 portable DVD player. There is much whooping and many are wounded in the fray.
This would be plausible if not for the fact that university students in this town exclusively wear boot cut jeans long enough to get stepped on by their flip flops. Also, this is a pretty casual town, so unless there is an office full of 50 size 31 men who have to wear dress trousers everyday I think theory one is busted.
Theory two: Men with larger waists don’t buy dress trousers and retail establishments really strive to keep stock on the shelves as long as possible. Actually, I don’t think that stores have as much control over their own stock as one might think. I used to work in retail, and we just got what corporate sent to us. Their decisions seem to have been based on um… let’s see… well, let me get back to you on that.
I don’t think theory two is very good at all, so let’s throw it out as well.
Theory three: Extraterrestrials live among use disguised as humans using a morphing technology that completely negates the theory of relativity. They have very bony butts and wear out their trousers very quickly. They have infiltrated clothing distributors because the morphing mathematics can only produce a size 31 waist. When shipments of trousers go out to Lawrence, KS and environs, they show up at receiving areas wearing top hats, wielding magic wands and sporting handlebar mustaches. They entice the receiving staff with the classic disappearing ball trick. While the extraterrestrial doing the trick distracts the employees, another one sneaks into the truck and retrieves the size 31 trousers. He can find them instantly because he has x-ray and telescopic vision. I know what you’re thinking, “But if he has x-ray vision wouldn’t he just see all they way through the truck?” NO! They can control it to the centimeter! After ET number two gets the trousers he gives the signal to ET number one who then psychically injects the memory loss thingy into the store employees to create lost time.
Theory three is definitely just as - if not more - plausible than the others, so it is right.
When I was a kid we went to Universal Studios during the actor’s strike of 1980. Picketing the studio were several Hollywood actors who we saw that day, including Tony Danza, Dennis Weaver and Billy Barty. (Alert: Billy Barty was the most famous short person actor of all time!) One time I jammed with Wynton Marsalis. Annabeth Gish once flirted with me when I worked at a trendy import store (I know you still love me baby, why did you leave so soon?) where I also saw William Kennedy Smith, Doogie Howser, and someone from I Dream of Jeannie (so I’m told). I once interviewed Pauline Black over late night post-gig food at a favorite late night diner.
Yes, I’ve been quite the celebrity hob-nobber. Not that I’m remembered by any of them, but that’s a pretty good list. It doesn’t even count athletes from sporting events, politicians I shook hands with, impersonators or the time I barely missed Jack Palance shopping in our local downtown.
These people have led some interesting lives. Interesting in the way celebrities’ lives are: overcoming obstacles, getting gigs, getting famous, all that stuff. Some are more interesting than others. The thing is, you can find out about your favorite celebrities and learn more about their life then they might remember themselves. What would you learn if you met one of these guys though?
Looks like a bunch of trouble makers to me. Still, do you think maybe they overcame some obstacles? You think maybe they lived an interesting life or did something no one else ever did? Why would you be more interested in the life of someone who lives in a glass palace than the storehouse of information that is your grandfather, neighbor or fellow citizen? I dunno, maybe because it is actually more interesting. Or not.
I know one of these fellows, and of all the actors, musicians and pseudo-celebs that I’ve met he is my most interesting friend. He is history. He is a World War II vet who overcame obstacles and lived an interesting life. He knows interesting things because he was right there living them. He’s also just a dude.
This “dude” was born in 1917. He was in love with Jazz and Big Band music and formed a band to make money when he was still in high school. The local gazebo where he first played in 1929 still hosts concerts for the band he helped to create, and he still plays in them. He lived through the Great Depression. He paid his way through college playing in bands.
During World War II he was the tail gunner on a B-29 called Some Punkins. They dropped the very last last bombs on Japan of the war. Ever. He played in more bands after the war.
That’s some impressive stuff there, but it doesn’t stop. He didn’t get his music degree until he retired - then he went on tour with a local jazz band! They played The Tonight Show and festivals across the country. Of course he did harder things during his life, too, like raise kids.
Whenever I play with this cat he always has the best chops of anyone on the bandstand, even if it’s one in the morning. He’s sharper than a tack and is a joy to be around. If you were to see him walking slowly down the street and noticed his age you’d never know any of this. You might think “I bet he’s seen some things” but you’d never know the magnitude of those things.
So it sounds cliché, but you should really respect and cherish your elders. Yeah, they can be kind of eccentric sometimes, with their oversized suspenders and Velcro shoes and all, but what do they have to prove to you? Seriously, they’ve probably saved the world, survived five life-threatening diseases and served two terms as the Rotary Club secretary and what have you done? If you’re lucky you’ll be able to waddle around as well them when you’re 80.
Time to go live history now…
We took a mini-vacation to Omaha recently. We visited the outstanding zoo, and the much lauded art museum, where you can make great art as well as see it:
It’s mandatory to pick up souvenirs when a trip like this is made. So before heading home we stopped downtown to have some good eats and search for treasures. A little alt-boutique provided all we needed: sketch books, buttons with clever sayings, computer keys with profanities — you know the kind of place. Naturally it had kid appeal with pirate band-aids, office action figures, etc. I always thought my daughter would turn out like Danae from Non Sequitur, but I was still a bit unprepared when she picked out these:
“These pastel colored girlie ones glow in the dark” I said. Nope. We already had the “mommie” at home and needed the six kids. It took me a moment to remember that I’m the one who always wants to buy her shirts with skulls or sayings like “Evil Genius in Training”. How is it that when she exhibits the very independence I encourage that I automatically try to fit her into a little-girl-box?
Strange.
It will be a long road, not because I’m concerned about raising a growing child with punk sensibilities, but because my own independence seems to have been somewhat homogenized along the way. Oh well, I like road trips.
June 6, 2006 (6-6-06) came and went with only minor attention paid to the vaguely nefarious implication of Doomsday. History has bequeathed many important events to this date - none more outstanding than D-Day - but still the restlessness of curious spirits stirred the flesh to action. Action that deposited itself like Easter-egg dye into the vinegar of memories, forever tainting the shells of existence.
Somewhere in the center of Kansas City a special breed of inhabitant gathered for a special kind of event. Riding from their homes, or hauling their steeds mounted on their guzzlers they crept into a parking lot in trendy Westport and made it into their own subversive cycling utopia. There were road bikes and mountain bikes, but most of all there were single speeds and fixies, for this was the beginning of nothing more than a legendary, dangerous and fabled Alley Cat.
Getting There
I had been anxious all day. I’m old, I have a family, I don’t know Kansas City - so many excuses trying to contort themselves into fear. But I know something fear does not know: I can control it! And why in the world would I want to wake up the next day without having experienced the elixir of existence for a cyclist? I would go despite my nerves. Luckily these goons from a local bike shop let me tag along behind them:
Being the first time for my new bike on the car rack, I was slightly concerned when it swayed and looked as if it would fly away, so I pulled over at the Lawrence Service Area, lowered the seat, and threw it the hatchback. I naturally fell out of the caravan and was left to find my own way. I decided to take a short cut. That was a bad idea.
I almost lost my nerve at that point, but being thoroughly stubborn found my way to the start point with about 15 minutes to spare. I retrieved my bike, slapped down my ten bucks and hung with the rest of the red pills as we waited to affirm our freedom.
Checkpoint One
Upon registering each racer was given a manifest. This is residual roots of the Alley Cat races, created by messengers as an event for bonding, competition and fun. Today the checkpoints were all listed, but they had to be completed in order. Someone at each checkpoint - except the first - would verify you’d been to the previous checkpoint by your manifest. The manifest was gold.
The first task was to be drawing the symbol on a lamppost at Linwood and Woodland. Writing utensils weren’t provided. We set our bikes down for the Le Mans start
and listened to the instructions: checkpoints in order, if anyone asks we’re not racing, be careful, and finally, GO!
70 riders ran to their bikes and sped through the parking lot onto Westport Ave. Jumping curbs, stop lights were meaningless, packs of 10-15 finding their own routes, it was like a Lucas Brunelle video. The route I had pre-mapped was promptly trashed as I opted to follow riders who actually knew where they were going: checkpoint one route. *
I met up with Steve, a KC native and we chatted a bit about gears and streets. When we came to Linwood I spotted some more riders and caught up with them. Ahead a group of about ten pulled into the street ahead of us. On the other side of the street someone was already heading toward checkpoint two, so we increased our cadence. There was a group gathered around the pole using their knees, the ground, walls - whatever they could to draw the mystic symbol. I asked someone if I could borrow his pen and he said “You can have it, I stole it anyway.”
Checkpoint Two
Like the messengers who approximate this routine daily, I folded my manifest and sped off to the next checkpoint: checkpoint two route.
The path was simple, nearly a straight line to Southwest Blvd. We were cheered on by black-dressed martini drinkers as we passed The Velvet Dog and the Empire Room. We came to a long fast descent down 31st. Those of us on fixies spun frantically and applied pressure to our pedals to keep from bobbing out of control. The guys with freewheels stopped pedaling and leaned over their handlebars. Someone shouted “f***ing coasties!” as they drifted ahead - all in good fun of course. Well, except that they were wussies for not going fixed…
The second checkpoint was at a Mexican restaurant featuring the classic knife between the fingers trick, three times, using your non-dominant hand. Once completed the manifest was stamped, and it was off to checkpoint three.
Checkpoint Three
The riders had stretched out into very small groups or individuals, so by the time I was leaving there were five or six riders in sight with no unified strategy or route. I immediately tried to take a dead-end short cut, turned around, and got back onto the main street. My delay was enough time for the other Lawrence-folk to catch up, so I rode in their pack to Roanoke (checkpoint three route). It looked ideal on the map: diagonal in the desired direction. But if you zoom in at about the one mile mark, you see the road is red. That’s because it’s brick. And uphill.
Norteño music emanated from the park as the locals shot hoops. My aluminum frame bounced uncomfortably over the uneven bricks and the evening heat began to taunt me. I left the pack behind, not because I was strong, but I had to keep a good cadence in order to avoid stalling and walking. I stood up and mashed, the first really hard breathing of the race. At the top of the hill I was joined by a strong-legged rider who was sitting the hill, his thick calves propelling him upward. At 39th Street we leveled off and took the flat portion of Roanoke back to 43rd, calling to each other when the roads were clear. I lost him at some point and headed on my own to the part of KC I was least familiar with. As the streets grew quieter I found myself in a green, residential area.
Gillham park separated me from my destination, and although I thought I had spotted a path on Google Maps, I opted to follow a rider with a spoke card. Across the park into the neighborhood, I knew the street I needed, but had no idea whether I was north or south of the checkpoint. I vaguely remembered it was between 41st and 43rd, so I asked a kindly couple with a stroller where the hell I was and headed south. I spotted a few riders. One of them properly perceived my 5 mph meandering as disorientation and shouted out the address. Down a quick hill I found my way to a classic bungalow covered by the shade of trees that were already mature during KC’s jazz age. To the back yard, I saw the racer in front of me lift his shirt and POP!
The last thing the victim saw.
I stepped forward and heard “lift your shirt and take it like a man!” as a small spring-loaded pistol was pointed toward my flank. The absurdity made me laugh and the riding had already pumped enough endorphins into my system that I wasn’t worried. He pointed and CLICK! Out of ammo! I told him it was a sign but he didn’t buy it. POP! The sting didn’t come until I had my manifest stamped, but I was having too much fun to care.
Checkpoint Four
Checkpoint four route (with elevation chart).
I knew the fourth leg would test my stamina. Some folks on a porch looked on with bewildered interest, but before they could ask me what the hell we were doing, I asked them how the hell to get to Broadway (nicely). The one with the chef’s jacket directed me that way with a cautionary “Broadway has some big hills.” I knew it would be tough, still I headed north on the sidewalk of southbound Gillham.
Finding my way to Broadway wasn’t too bad, but since I hadn’t looked at my manifest or map, I began to wonder whether I was going the right direction. Without stopping I carefully dug the map out of my pack and realized I had pedaled an extra block and needed to get back on Main. The steady incline wasn’t as bad as I feared, and soon I caught up with a local whose knee-high socks and cruiser bike belied the fact that he was ahead of me.
We passed Crown Center under the walkway then over the railroad tracks, sharp left onto a short block where a small table was set out with one item on it: Dave’s Insanity Sauce.
At 80,000 scoville units this stuff will burn a hole in your tongue. For some reason though, the drop on a toothpick didn’t seem so bad. One racer asked what place we were in and the volunteer said he had stamped about ten manifests. He told us a fancy way to get Broadway, and even though my original plan was to go back on Main, I headed over the bridge to begin the final stretch.
Last Leg
Broadway south from 20th sucks. It’s hilly and is one of tributaries into midtown KC from I-35, as you can see from my final leg. Pay special attention to the elevation chart in the first two miles. I should have stuck to my plan and taken Main. By the time I reached 31st street - and faily level ground - I was too tired to unclip my feet from my pedals. I slowly rolled to the lights, looked, and went.
Around Armour I saw another rider on the other side of the street. He was on the sidewalk and I soon lost sight of him. After the race he outlined his twisty route noting every intersection with the knowledge of a car-free local. I cruised down Broadway without much ado, finally feeling comfortable that I knew where I was going. Once I passed 39th Street the grade shifted to a descent and I hastily cut through a parking lot to get to Westport Ave. and head toward to the finish, passing a group of cycle punx who apparently missed the memo about the race.
The traffic on Westport had already begun to pick up, and the going was slow. I actually had to wait an entire cycle of a light because I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to gun it quickly enough. I sped the rest of the way until Southwest Trafficway when the light turned red about 100 yards from my destination. I deftly went right, popped my bike over the grassy median, crossed into the parking lot and reached into my bag to find - WHERE IS MY MANIFEST?!
I thew my bag down and rode back through the parking lot to where I had tried to unzip it on the go. No luck. I was shocked, bereaved, shattered. I went back and grabbed my bag and in a moment of genius decided to check the other pocket. I threw my manifest down and the tally-man wrote down my result: one hour and eight minutes, 12th back out of 70.
The Band Played On
I had heard that the son of my wife’s colleague might be there, and so he was. I think I completely confused him and his friends with my explanation of how I knew who he was, so we just decided we were all distant relatives of some sort.
The oldest one was the only one who got carded.
Tuesdays at the Record Bar is Rex Hobart night. In addition, racers got free PBR! How more perfect could it be?
New friends were made and stories were shared. After I left there was supposedly a trackstand contest and more bands. The race was in my top three list of cool lifetime achievements, but I knew I needed to go home. As cool Kansas City jazz played on my radio, I tasted the sights of the city feeling twice as alive as I did when woke up that morning.
The colors seemed brighter and the air was electric. I had a stupid grin on my face and a welt on my rib cage and was ecstatic about it all. I imagined showing up at work the next morning, normal to the world, but thinking “What did you do yesterday?”
My camera broke after the race, but as I was driving past downtown I could see lightning in the distance. Serendipitously, I found this image on wunderground.com the next day.
* I’ve tried to recreate the routes to the best of my memory. The starts and finishes are accurate to the side of the street I was on, but some of the middle sections are now nebulous. Google maps offers excellent detail of Kansas City so feel free to zoom in close and take in the sights.
I ran in another charity event! The hay!? Let me put it this way: I don’t even enjoy running that much. I enjoy the benefit. That is, I feel good about my runs after them, and enjoy being fit enough to run up the stairs at work, but I can’t say I relish them.
But this was a special run, one that I’ve been a part of in some way for the past three years. It’s the main fundraiser for my daughter’s school. I was doing my obligatory setup work the day before (I rode my bike there, of course) and thought “What the hay?” (thus answering the question in the first paragraph). As it turns out, I did pretty well. I’ll be honest, I was ready to push my limits a bit, due in part to the fact that when I ran this race in 2000 I had my fastest mile and actually won my age division (couch potato division). I had no idea, however, and left before the awards and without my award: a smashing coffee mug. Oh unrequited tchochke!
No such luck this time, though. I’ve gotten older and the men in my age group are better organized and probably have noticed that they won’t become a fit middle-aged man merely by thinking about it. No matter, it’s always a privilege to be able to channel something I have — good health in this case — to benefit others. And it’s fun.
Because I had done this before, I resolved to better pace myself this time and save a good kick for the final 800 meters, which is mostly up hill. Two things foiled my plot: 1) pain, and; 2) the course was mis-marked and ended up being 250 yards longer than a 5k. Still, I managed to pass a couple of people on the final incline and, more remarkably, not get re-passed.
So why all this talk about running? As I mentioned, I enjoy what I get out of it, but I don’t especially enjoy doing it. I much prefer cycling, the speed, the efficiency, the practicality. I can’t realistically run to work and get much benefit, but I can ride my bike and save money on gas, have fun, stay in shape and look uber-cool. I mean, honestly, how cool can a runner look? I’m not saying that Maurice Green doesn’t look cool, but how practical is that for the everyday runner? Freds aside, riding not only scratches the gear-lust itch, you can look cool while doing it:
(Not the author.)
There are broadly two theories on pumping iron: 1. Wait at least two minutes between sets; 2. Don’t wait any longer than a minute between sets. (Some people will find it plausible to have some sort of in-between rest time, but that’s because they are undecided and afraid of commitment.) Personally, I prefer the latter. I rest in bed, on the sofa, in the green grass of summer, in a hot tub, etc. I don’t go to the gym to rest.
I cannot, however, discount those who wait around for their muscles to regroup, for they generally have more muscles than me. Perhaps that’s why they wait so long. I prefer the speedy machine-to-machine-no-delay workout. I’m fidgety in the first place, possibly ADD, so it makes sense.
Speaking of ADD, Google Talk has added pictures to the standalone application! Cool.
St. Patrick’s day marked the beginning of a rather full weekend. It was a bit cold for this time in March, but we got a lot of candy and enjoyed the sights, including my co-worker driving his big red truck:
(I love this camera phone shot; a nice slice of Americana in our hip little town.)
Taking an afternoon off work to get the kid and see a parade was easy, though. My concern was with the upcoming Saturday night/Sunday events. I knew sleep would be a pipe dream as I would be playing my last gig with The Majestics on Saturday night, followed by the Brew to Brew run early Sunday morning.
Saturday was spent in preparation: haircuts, laundry, then a trip to KC to pick up our race packet. Of course, where’s there’s KC, there’s shopping, and a nearby sports fan shop was going out of business. Cheap KU shirts for all! Oh yeah, the dollar store was also going out of business, so they were the 50 cent store. Giftwrap, headphones, and children’s Spanish books galore. We headed back home driving the race route and got back into town around 7:30. I had until about 9 to prepare for the gig while the better half went out and got the edible goods. Finally adorned as the rock star I wish I was, I headed to The Jazzhaus and the rockin’ began.
The Gig
Exhibit 1: The bar, the band, friends and regulars
Exhibit 2: The final band bomb (which always makes a band play better)
Exhibit 3: Rockin’ in the free world
A fine gig all in all, with an appreciative audience — although they left their boogie outside — and flattering commentary of yours truly. Around 1:30AM I headed home with the hope of falling asleep quickly.
The Run
The Brew to Brew run is a 43 mile, 10 stage benefit race/fun run starting at the Boulevard Brewing Company in Kansas City, and finishing at the Free State Brewery in Lawrence. There are team and solo categories and the funds go to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. (Yup, some people ran the whole 43 miles by themselves.) Silly team names and outfits are just as important as running in this event, and we — The Pale Ails — were up to the challenge.
Up around 5:30AM to meet our team and shuttle them to the start; I wasn’t as exhausted as one might think. We head to the rendezvous not actually knowing how many team members are going to make it. One had already canceled and we weren’t sure if another had gotten any messages. That meant some of us would have to double up on stages, but what the hey, with beer anything is possible. After picking up one late sleeper, we were off.
It was gray and windy, and there was a winter storm warning. Luckily, it was only cold when we were standing still and the wind was always at the runner’s backs. It never rained or snowed to speak of. The first two runners each ran two legs at an impressive rate. That’s about 20 miles combined (wow!). Then came the sleep deprived runners group. Between the three of us, we had a total of eight hours of sleep.
The Sleep Deprived Runners Group:
Kim had two hours of sleep and ran five miles very quickly:
Señor Brendando had 3 hours of sleep for his hilly three mile stage and then accompanied me on my second four mile leg. His pajamas fit the bill perfectly:
I had three hours of sleep, but despite my zombie eyes ran eight miles over two stages on a beautiful slightly hilly dirt road. (I had to cover a stage for one of the no-shows.) Although it was only my second time running that distance, something about the comraderie, weather and beer made it not so difficult:
Notice I’m holding a shirt in my hand. I threw it to my team as I passed the mile nine station, but Brendando was kind enough to catch up to me and return it. His presence made the next stage easier, although it may have been quite the slog for him (thanks Brendando!). I had trained moderately over the past few weeks, and between that and cycling to work everyday, I guess I did a little better than I thought I would.
The other two hotties in our group ran very well; my wife did the infamous boat stage while nursing an injury. In that stage the runners have to pull themselves across a small moat in a little boat using a rope, then climb up an embankment on a rope ladder. She ran admirably especially considering she had had to cut way back on her training due to her knee. Her running partner finished up the race speeding across the levy in a blur of speed.
With the race finished, we headed to the banquet and beer. It took a lot of work and organizing by our captain (that would once again be the lovely wife), and was slightly physically demanding, but also very satisfying. What a privilege we have to be able to dedicate our resources and health to a good cause. Without going all Kahlil Gibran, there is something exhilarating about stretching our limits. Escaping the comfort zone doesn’t just make me grateful for what I have, but seems to make living in general that much more vibrant. I often read about a cancer or accident survivor who says “from that day forward, I [insert life affirmation here]”. Why wait?
That’s why I promise to keep up with mine now. Promise. Since I’m back at work full time, what else am I going to do anyway?
The other day, whilst joking about drugs at the water cooler (don’t we all?), a co-worker said something along the lines of “I don’t won’t to be undepressed, I want to solve the problem first”. “Ah yes, the circular reasoning of depression”, I remembered. I know it to be true because a real therapist with a real PhD told me so. One of the symptoms of depression is obsessing over a problem to the point that is all encompassing. In essence, one is unable to find any perspective. I mentioned this, and how many people actually found SSRI’s helpful for certain types of depression. She said I should write about in my blog. Little did she know I actually have a blog and took that as a dare.
SSRI is the abbreviation for Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor. Here’s the super short description: if you’re in a funk, you may have less serotonin (the “happy” chemical) than normal, and your nerves in your brain keep re-sucking it up (actually the neurotransmitters that carry it) instead of distributing it to the areas that need it. Selfish nerves! SSRI’s add a +4 to your “get serotonin from neurotransmitters” spell. In practical terms, users report not experiencing the profound lows and helplessness of depression. They may be able to gain a larger perspective, do other other things, and if not solve their problem, at least cope with it.
Some people seem to be more receptive to SSRI’s than others. In addition, the specific type of SSRI and maximum daily dosage will be determined by your symptoms. If you’re not sure whether you have low-grade or a more serious variety, answer this question: Would you rather be dead than alive 99% of your waking time consistently for two weeks or longer? If you answered no, chances are good that your depression is low-grade. Yes, I too was shocked to learn this. “But I’m so down, I’ve never felt like this before.” True, it sucks, but the good news is you’re not the first one to experience it, and most people can overcome it. Either way, if you are feeling down enough that you are considering taking prescription drugs, or are already self-medicating with alcohol and non-prescription drugs, you should see a doctor (MD) and a therapist. Studies show, that a combination of a medication and therapy work faster than either by itself. In fact, you probably do not want to take an SSRI for very long, because many people report addictive like symptoms when discontinuing use, although they are technically not addictive (refer to the Wiki article in the first link).
In the end, the whole gist of depression treatment is to get the patient to think about other stuff, and do other stuff. So, if you find a passion for alley cat racing, knitting, geocaching, etc., then you’re already well on your way. Bring on bingo night!
Disclaimer: Many, many, many people know more about this topic than me. Feel free to add, correct, clarify etc. in the comments.
At a recent Monday night jam, the bass player for Phish showed up. I’d mention his name, but I don’t know it, and I couldn’t find a basic “bio” section on the official site, and I’m not willing to spend any more time searching the net for it. People either know or don’t know. It can neither be learned nor taught, as the following conversation from another jam session proves:
Half-hippie: “Do you like Claude [unknown name of Phish keyboard player].”
Me: “Who?”
Half-hippie: “Claude [?].”
Me: “Who?”
Other half-hippie: “He doesn’t know.”
Half-hippie: “Yeah, oh well.”
[Un-named Phish bass player] didn’t play. He did, however, attract a sizeable cabal of half-hippies and local bass players. What is a half-hippie, you ask? These are the Phish fans who may have shaggy hair and hemp necklaces, but still wear Abercrombie & Fitch clothes (how many things that I hate can I possibly mention in this blog before it implodes??). They were ecstatic. When he left for another bar, they all followed. A small mob of ganja-scented-shaggy-baggy-boys so individually indistinguishable that they all melted into a Phish stew. I don’t even know which one of the half-hippies was the actual dude. That’s probably good.
When I went to Chad’s house the other day to pick up a bike rack he was giving us (thanks, Chad!), our wives noted that most our conversation sounded like “bike, bike, bike”. They’re absolutely right. Its a great topic, and about time I wrote a post devoted to it.
First, the rugged rider for the craziest family member:
This is a 2004 Trek Mystic fixed speed with white tires, basket and horn. Hub brakes. Only for hardcore riders — too hardcore for me, in fact.
Next, the wife’s Specialized Hardrock:
We’ve pimped this baby out with a 400mm black seat post. It won’t be long until you’re seeing tracks from this beast on your trail.
Been commuting lately thanks to a good deal from the aforementioned Chad, on this baby:
This is a Schwinn Criss Cross. Recently had to get a new rear wheel, upgraded the tires to slicks, and outfitted with commuting lights (not shown). Both my bikes need nicknames. For some reason “Betsy” is the running here. Curb jumping, scitching, and all around urban assault vehicle in the making.
Finally, the newest addition:
It’s a North Face Yavapai, which is another name for an Iron Horse Warrior. Manitou shocks, Hayes disc brakes, yada yada… Barely trail tested as of yet, but did a fair amount of bunny hopping last night on the way back from the park. (Which put me inches behind the speed demon on the Trek single speed! I tell you, that kid can fly!)
Possible names:
Or…???
Musicians love taking band photos. We thoroughly enjoy doing things that don’t really involve playing an instrument but are deemed necessary by “the man”. You don’t believe me? Good, you’re a smart one.
One of my bands undertook the aforementioned task recently, and it turned out ok. If you’re wondering what true beauty looks like, look elsewhere. If, on the other hand, you’d like to see a bunch of scraggly podunks, here you go.
Ok, so its a shameless self promotion post. I got nuthin’ else, what can I say?
Every Monday is an open jam at a local bar. I’m in the house band, so I’m always there. The nice thing about it is you never know who will show up. Last night someone from a local paper was there to do an article on open mic nights. There were some touring musicians sitting in (as often happens) as well. Many of the locals are extremely talented and spend, or have spent, considrable time playing gigs locally, nationally and even internationally.
The bad thing about it is you never know who will show up. Although it is open, and you want to encourage people to give it a try, there are just sometimes that one person can wreck an entire song. It rarely happens, but it sometimes it does. A word to aspiring musicians: listen. Its all about the song, not the player.
Anyway, the late Mondays make for tired Tuesdays. Add to that a double-whammy Tuesday rehearsal (finally finishing around midnight), and its easy to see why music quickly becomes just a hobby to many talented cats. All this, and I’m just hoping to pay bills! I’d rather compose at home. Yikes.
A test post and introduction all rolled up into one!
Robert here, the poster with the moster. 30-some-married-dad-of-one, I spend half of my work day as a SQL Server DBA, and the other half trying to round up clients for my business. Evenings are filled with dad-hood, band rehearsals, gigs and video games (aka, “research and development”).
Thanks to a friend, I’ve also rekindled my love for cycling. (Originally nurtured and fed on this trail.)
During this excursion, we will examine the Lawrence, KS and environs music scenes, the trials of chasing a dream when most family guys are trying to be more stable, and whatever else happens to prove blog-worthy to my geeky perspective. There will be no exams, only light reading.
