Being Friendly

Years ago I used to go running in the mornings with my buddy Jay. Both Jay and I are from small-ish towns on the east coast; towns big enough that you don't know everybody who passes you by on the street but small enough to feel like you do. So when somebody does pass you by on the street, you tend to say something to them. Like "hello."

Jay and I both live in Los Angeles now and, as I said, we used to go running in the mornings. We live in Santa Monica which is about as small town-ish as you can get in Los Angeles. There are tree-lined residential streets and kids and families and local shops and people who you think would be friendly in that small town type of way. And when we'd run in the morning, Jay and I, we'd often see other people out on the street. Maybe they were running, or walking, or taking their dog out for a stroll. As we passed them by, we'd both tend to say something to them. Something like "hello." Or sometimes even "good morning" (though it usually came out as "mornin'" which is a much more Andy Griffith way of saying things)

The odd thing about the Los Angeles crowd is that, more times than not, we never got a response. Sometimes we'd get a murmured "mornin'" in return (though in less of an Andy Griffith tone and more of a Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino tone). But more often it was either a blank stare or just plain completely ignoring us. It baffled me. It baffled both of us. It baffled us so much that we decided to make a game out of it. We called it "Being Friendly."

I'm sure you can probably guess how the game went, given the name. But just in case, here's what happened... whenever I (or Jay) went out for a morning run and saw somebody else on the street, I'd blurt out a very happy "Hello!" or "How are you!?" or even "Good Morning!!" And then I'd wait for a response. I'd wait to see if there was a smile, a nod... even a chhat-ptewie in my general direction.

But, alas, there was nothing.

Maybe they think I'm crazy for being so nice, I thought. So I tried to tame down my greeting. But still, no response. I tried different words, different tones, different intonations. I tried saying hello far before I approached and tried it just as we were passing. I tried wearing lighter colored clothing, then darker colored clothing. I ran faster, then slower. I shaved, showered and combed my hair. Still, I rarely ever got a response.

After about a year of this, Jay and I had enough data to file our conclusion: people in LA are not friendly. And this "Being Friendly" game was just that... a game.

19 years later, or more specifically, last week, I was forced to question this hypothesis. You see, I was out on my Saturday bike ride and got six waves.

There's this unspoken rule among cyclists - actually, it's not quite a rule, more of a recommendation... There's this unspoken recommendation amongst cyclists that when passing by another cyclist you acknowledge them in some way. Even if you're riding in different directions on the opposite sides of a four lane thoroughfare, you still acknowledge.

Everybody has their own form of cycling acknowledgments but there are three major categories we all fall into: Nodders, Finger Lifters and Wavers

The Nodders
This is arguably the most popular form of cycling acknowledgment, probably because it's so gosh dang easy. It's also, arguably, the safest form of acknowledgment, primarily because you don't have to risk smashing your face into the ground by lifting your hands off the handlebars. Basically, it entails meeting eyes with the approaching cyclist and nodding your head at them, like you're in a James Bond movie and giving some sort of secret code to the card shark before you pull up to the poker table and win all the money from the bad guys.

The Finger Lifters
Finger lifting is not a highly popular form of cycling acknowledgment, primarily because it's tough to notice. Then again, maybe it is popular and I haven't noticed. Either way, it's kind of like a wave but without lifting your hands off the handlebars. The finger lifting only occurs with one hand. If you lift fingers from both hands at the same time, it's less a form of acknowledgment and more like a pathetic version of the Macarena. Proper Finger Lifting is most often accomplished by using the hand closest to the opposing rider (usually the left hand). Finger Lifting can be done in a number of different ways. It may be only one finger that is raised - this is usually the pointer finger, hence the name "Pointers" for those that utilize this method. You can also give the two finger salute ("Peacemakers"), three fingers ("Treys" or "W's"), four fingers ("Thumb Hiders") or all five fingers. Either way you do it is fine. Most likely the other person won't see you acknowledging them anyway, so whatever makes you happy.

The Wavers
The Waving method of cycling acknowledgment is pretty straightforward. Basically, you lift one hand off the handlebar and wave. This is, by far, the least common form of acknowledgment, especially in LA. Getting a Wave is the cycling equivalent of meeting a stranger for coffee and having them hug you when you walk up. It's warm, personal, friendly and oftentimes a bit off-putting.

Like the many forms of hugging, there are different types of Wavers. On the one side are the slightly subtle folks, who lift their hands only a few inches above the handlebars and send over a cold, heartless salute. On the other hand, there are the overly excited folks who throw their arm high up in the air and wave their hand frantically as if they'd been waiting their entire lives just to see you ride by on your bike.

I usually don't pay too much attention to how people acknowledge me when I'm out there on the bike. I tend to mix and match the different forms of intra-cycling communication depending on my mood and don't really give a hoot one way or another what other people do. In fact, it's so varied out there on the road, that I rarely pay attention to how people acknowledge me unless something weird happens.

Last week something weird happened. It started with the first person waving at me. The way they were smiling and throwing their arm about, even though they were four lanes over, well, I figured they must've known me personally. So I started giving that wave and smile that you give to people you're friends with. I started to yell "How are you?!" over the sound of traffic in the way you do when you're happy to see them. And just as I got out the "How ah..." and just as I was mid arm shake, I realized I had no clue who that person was. I mumbled the rest out in a bit of shame. I wanted to wave and acknowledge, but I didn't want to look like a fool in the process.

A few minutes later I got another wave. Then another. Soon enough there was even another.

What the hell is going on?!

I normally don't count the waves of acknowledgment that I receive on a ride, but by the time it got to four I knew something was crazy. Maybe the planets have gone kerflooey. You know, maybe Mars is in Uranus or something like that.

And when I got to the fifth wave of the ride, I figured I was being punk'd. I looked around for Ashton Kutcher but couldn't find him. (actually, I was looking for Demi Moore, specifically, I was looking for Demi Moore in "Striptease", but I didn't find her either.)

When the sixth rider to wave at me went by, I knew it was a special day. I knew that times had changed. Los Angeles had suddenly became nice and pleasant. And after 19 years in this place, I realized I can finally stop playing the game "Being Friendly" and I can just live it.

My Top 10 Favorite Accents

I know you've been wondering about this and it's probably been keeping you up at night. I really don't like you staying up so late, you need your beauty rest. I mean, you're beautiful just like you are, but a little more sleep will do you good. What I'm trying to say is..... oh, fuddy duddy. Never mind. Let's just get on with it.

J's Official Top 10 Favorite Accents of All-Time

10. An Italian person speaking English when they really don't know how to speak English, but they sure try their darndest, don't they

9. A true, hard-core Brooklyn or Bronx accent that can only truly be spoken by somebody who has never left Brooklyn or the Bronx and has no plans to

8. Elmer Fudd

7. A southern drawl on a supermodel. This is a tough one because the same southern drawl can be quite a turn-off when emanating from the wrong person. There's a visual element that is very important in southern drawl appreciation.

6. Tweety Bird

5. Canadian and/or Minnesota accent, but only when they say words like "aboot" and "eh"

4. A British accent on any child, boy or girl, between the ages of 4 and 8. The younger the better.

3. An Australian accent on any super beautiful woman (and sometimes a super-cool man)

2. A true Red Sox loving, Yankee hating, Patriots adoring, Celtics fanatical Boston accent, with a specific appreciation for the Southie. Wicked cool.

and the #1 accent of all time....

1. Two words: The Proclaimers

What's Up Doc

Some bodies are made for endurance athletics, yours isn't.

That's what the doctor told me last week. Thirty years of endurance sports later, and I'm finally informed that my body isn't made for this crap. Thanks for the short notice, Doc. Had I had this information earlier, I probably could've saved myself about $50,000 over the past years in coaching expenses, entry fees, travel and doctor bills. Had I been informed of this tidbit of knowledge, maybe I would've spent the last thirty years of my life sitting on a couch eating pizza and drinking beer rather than chafing my ass on an uncomfortable saddle. Perhaps I could've been sleeping in every morning. Maybe I would even have stopped reading all of these silly magazines.

And maybe had I had this knowledge, I wouldn't have spent 18 months straight training for long distance races. Maybe I wouldn't have tweaked my body in unnatural ways. Maybe I would've actually not been an idiot.

The body has a great way of telling you that it's had enough, the good Doctor informed me. When you start hurting, consider it a message from your body.

When I start hurting?! I hate to break the news to you doc, but I started hurting 20 years ago. Just about the time my eyes open in the morning, that's when I start hurting. The hurting begins the moment I step out of bed. It happens when I walk. When I sit. Thanks to me mistakenly shoving my fingers into my spinning gears, it even hurts when I type. Hurting and endurance training are the same thing, Doc. There is no difference. Ironically, the only time the hurting dissipates is when I'm exercising. The only way to stop the hurting is to continue moving. Ah, don't you love Ironman irony!?

Your MRIs show tendinitis in both calves, he says. This is from overuse. You should take a rest from running, he tells me. Cut down at least 50%.

Let's see, 50% of a three block run is 1 1/2 blocks of running. That oughta be fun. Can I just do it in my pajamas and then climb back into bed?

But seriously doc, you don't have to be concerned about my running, because earlier this week I mistakenly walked into my coffee table and broke two toes. There'll be no running, there's barely walking. It hurts to put on shoes. Oh, also, I nearly forgot to tell you. Since my toes were broken I went on the elliptical machine instead of pounding the pavement. Something about the elliptical messed up my right calf. There's a big ole knot right there in the middle of the leg that feels like somebody took a hunting knife, wrapped it in barbed wire, sprinkled it with Tabasco and jammed it into my leg. And every day they sprinkle a little salt into the wound.

I'm limping on both legs. No road running, no elliptical. So I tried to go pool jogging. But, again, no need to worry doc because the pain in my calf and the two broken toes make even pool jogging a torturous activity.

Yes, I could give up running, Doctor. But how would you feel if I suggested you give up medicine? Running keeps me alive. It's my lifeblood. Cycling and swimming? They're just a way for me to try and not get injured while running. Lot of good that did.

How about we compromise. Maybe I'll just go really really slowly and let's see what happens.

Wait a minute... I owe you HOW much?!

The Road To Hell Is Paved With White Bread

There are two things I love: salt and empty carbs.

Actually, there are three things I love: salt, empty carbs and Catherine. The order of which is directly related to my blood sugar level at any given time.

I've been thinking a lot about the Beatles lately and, all these years later, I've finally come to realize that they were wrong: love is not all you need. Sure, love is important, love is good. When you're laying on your death bed, you do realize that the love you take is equal to the love you make (ok, I'll give them that one). But if love were all you needed in this life, there would be no such thing as food. And that is why, on my list of loves, Catherines position fluctuates from time to time, sometimes before salt and empty carbs, sometimes after.

I come from a family that has it's fair share of obsessive qualities. For goodness sakes, of the 16 of us, there are about 12 of us who run, bike and/or race triathlon. We are a whole gaggle of Type A's wrapped in a Type B family photo album. As for the remaining non-running/biking/swimming family members, most of them are under the age of five years old so they probably don't count in this tally anyway.

We're obsessive and I'm no different. I like to think I'm different, but I'm wrong. I'm not. When I find something I'm passionate about, I dive in with all my limbs and learn learn learn until I know as much as I possibly can on that topic. Combine this insatiable appetite with an unhealthy addiction to salt and empty carbs, and what you've got is one freak of nature. Which brings us to pretzels.

Let's face facts, when it comes to salt and empty carbs there is no food that better represents perfection than the pretzel. There is absolutely nothing nutritious about pretzels, hence the "empty carb" moniker. However, those little twisted wonders sure can fill the emptiness inside. I love me the pretzels. And the pizza. And the crackers. And the popcorn. Especially the popcorn. But it's the pretzels that hold the near and dear place in my heart - and in my blood pressure.

If pretzels were a woman, I'd be getting a restraining order. That's the type of love I have for them. I've been studying pretzels for most of my adult life. (And when I say "studying," I mean "eating.") If empty carbs were a university, I'd have a PhD in Pretzel. I am a Master of Pretzel. A Pretzellier, if you will. I can give you detailed analysis of the different products, the different manufacturers, different brands, different consistencies, colors, shapes and tastes. I can tell you a good pretzel from a bad pretzel without even having to put it in my mouth. Hell, I don't even have to pop open the bag. I will tell you the subtle tastes, the weighting of salt, the chewability and the crunch-factor. I will tell you if the pretzel is better with cheese or mustard - dijon or French's. I will recommend to you whether the pretzel will be better complimented with peanut butter or with ice cream. Yes. Ice cream.

Like a true connoisseur, I no longer buy my pretzels from the supermarket where all the common folk shop. I turn my nose on those pretzelite neophytes. P-shaw. No, no, I mail order my pretzels from a small independent factory in Pennsylvania. I imagine it's run by a mother, father and their three children. They're probably Amish. They travel in a horse buggy and don't own a phone. All they do is make pretzels - it's their life calling. They have perfected the pretzel after generations of trial and error. They have studied and refined their art and through pounds of yeast and seas of salt, they have figured out how to make the perfect pretzel.

There is love in those pretzels, you can taset it from the first bite. And that is why I have my pretzels shipped to me from 3,000 miles away.

Of course, sometimes I just can't wait for them to arrive. Like a true addict, I sometimes just need a fix. I need my fill. I rush out of my place in a frenzy. I must get to the store. I need to feed this beast inside of me. I storm into the market, sneak out a box of Hanover's and hide away in a dark corner eating furiously, monstrously. I may even get bags of Nutzels and devour them like a rabid squirrel. More, I'll say as crumbs fall from the corner of my mouth. MORE, I'll demand as I shove handfuls of crunchy-heaven into my face. I WANT MORE! GIVE ME MORE! MORE! MORE! MORE!!

* * *

I'm trying to eat healthy these days. I haven't had a pretzel in 24 days, 8 hours and 3 minutes.

....4 minutes....

I'm trying to take it one day at a time but it's really difficult. It mocks me. It taunts me. I don't want more vegetables. I don't want another goddam salad. I DON'T WANT ANY TOFU FOR GOODNESS SAKES AND GET THOSE GODFORSAKEN SOYBEANS OUT OF MY FACE!!!

Seriously, I think I need some help.

My Crazy Neighbor

There's an old lady that lives in the building behind me. Actually, she's probably not that old, maybe late 60s, but she looks old, and that's kinda all that counts right now.

Regardless of her age, she's what people would commonly call "that old crazy coot." She's one of those people that walks around outside in her nightgown and slippers mumbling silly nothings to herself. She picks through the trash and pulls random stuff out all the while hemming and hawing in her old crazy coot-ness.

I'm not sure what she's pulling out of the trash, I usually don't stick around to find out, but I can only imagine she's one of those people that collects random stuff nobody else wants. Like the guy at the YMCA who drives the battered and beaten Buick. It's packed, seat to ceiling, with newspapers and clothes and knick-knacks up the wahoozit. I've never seen my neighbors car, don't even know if she owns one, but I would reckon it's just like that Buick.

I've seen her garage though, and trust me, you can't even step a foot into it. Her garage is piled high with miscellanea that have probably been sitting there for decades. For all I know, there might be some hidden treasures in the garage. Maybe underneath that wreck she's got a copy of the Dallas Observer issue the day after Kennedy was shot. Or a first edition copy of Moby Dick. But most likely it's all crap. Regardless, it'd be really tough to even get to the garage because you probably don't even want to walk down her driveway. She puts out stale bread for birds every morning. Her driveway is a panoply of pigeon poop.

I've never been inside her home but I always imagine it is a big mess - the kind of mess where, when the owner dies, it takes the EMT's a long time just to find them underneath the garbage. And while they're looking, they discover a few remains that finally solve some long-standing Cold Case files.

I imagine she's got piles of old magazines that stretch from floor to ceiling and back to the floor again. Probably clippings from newspapers and WalMart circulars that mean absolutely nothing to anybody but her.

She's got a husband, but I can't imagine they sleep in the same bed or the same room. I can't imagine he's anything but numb when looking at the old rotten food that must be in their refrigerator. All the peanut butter that can practically run out on it's own. The milk so sour it has actually turned into cream and then into cheese and then back into milk again.

He probably doesn't even mind the thousands of ugly little figurines that are most likely littering the dusty glass shelves of her walls.

A few years ago I was out in back of my place cleaning up my garage. The garage door was open. I was sweeping the floor when she walked in and started looking at all of my stuff that I had neatly piled in the back of the space. She shuffled in the same way old people wearing nightgowns and slippers shuffle. It's like their feet always need to be touching the ground. When she shuffled on in, she kicked around the dirt and dust I'd been sweeping. It was odd. I didn't know her.

She started looking around as if it were a garage sale. I stood there feeling more than a little uncomfortable.

Hello, I said in that way you say things to somebody who is overstepping their bounds.

Hello how are you? she replied in a friendlier and livelier tone than I expected from the old crazy coot.

Fine thanks, I said. I was confused, but I wanted to be nice. I wanted to see where this was headed.

How much are you selling the golf clubs for? she asked me pointing to my new set of clubs.

I stood with my arm on my broom. I'm not selling the golf clubs, I told her.

I'll give you twenty dollars for the clubs, she offered.

I'm not selling the golf clubs, I repeated.

Oh, she paused. Are you selling anything?

I stood there in stunned silence. Then, figuring I should play along, I pointed to an old shelving unit and said, I'll sell this.

Oh, she mumbled as if heartbroken. She walked over and started scanning the dusty wooden shelves. Hmmm... how much? she asked.

Um... ten dollars, I told her.

I'll give you three.

How about five?

She looked at the shelves again. Leaned in closer. She wiped her finger across a shelf and looked at the dirt on her finger. She mumbled something about scratched, about old, about dusty. No, she said. I'll give you three.

Three it is, I said.

She reached into her nightgown and handed me the money. I gave her my old, dusty shelving unit. Not only did I save myself a trip to the Salvation Army, but I just made three bucks off of it.

Are you selling anything else? she asked me.

No, that's it. You just bought everything I'm selling.

OK, she replied. If you decide to sell the golf clubs let me know.

I sure will, I said stuffing the three old bills into the pocket of my jeans.

She took my book shelf and shuffled out of the garage, her slippers again kicking up the dust as she walked like a miserly version of Pig Pen's grandmother. She stopped at the trash can next to the garage, put the shelving unit down and started sifting through the can. Nothing. She picked up the shelves again and shuffled home.

Since that transaction, the old lady is always nice to me when I see her on the street. Hello, how are you? she'll say with a big smile. Are you selling anything? she might even ask.

Just this morning I saw her out with her dogs. She has three dogs. She was walking them. Or as close to "walking" as they all get. In reality, there's very little walking involved. She takes the dogs out to the front yard, about 15 steps from her door, and they just stand there, coughing and wheezing with their legs shaking. All four of them, the three dogs and her, coughing and wheezing together. I feel bad for the dogs - they look like death. The look like her. I almost wish the dogs would die so they don't have to continue living in that mess.

I imagine their lives consist of relieving themselves there on the front lawn, then going back inside and crying themselves to sleep in the misery of their trash-filled prison.

I recently learned that the old crazy lady owns the entire building where she lives. It's about a 10 unit structure. She owns it all. Keep in mind, this is not a cheap part of town. She's been living there for awhile which means she probably bought it for close to nothing. Now, even in this market, it must be worth at least $3 million, if not more.

She's doing alright, the crazy lady with my three dollar shelving unit. I can only hope that when she passes away that maybe she's left her dogs a little bone. Maybe they'll even get a better home. I hope they see that life is more than an army of ugly little porcelain figurines.

The Drug

I love being in shape. As it turns out, I also love getting out of shape. Ah, the pizza. The wine. The turkey reuben sandwiches with extra coleslaw and large dollops of thousand island dressing. Yum-ME.

The problem is that I despise getting back in shape. Big problem. It's kinda like the person who loves climbing up Everest but hates climbing down. Eventually you've gotta do it or you're going to become really unhappy pretty darn quickly.

The flip side of the joy of getting out of shape is the annoyance of having to get back in shape. The process sucks. Mentally and physically, it hurts. It's uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing, squeezing back into a bathing suit and not being able to swim 400 yards without needing oxygen. It's annoying running for only 5 minutes at a 13 minute per mile pace when I was running marathons earlier in the year.

Here's my ideal - I want to be able to sit around all year eating pizza and watching TV, with one six pack on the table and another six pack on my abs, then one day on a whim get up and go run a sub 3 hour marathon like it ain't no thang. I want to be that guy. I want it to be natural. No work. No effort. No pain.

But those aren't the cards life dealt us - we all know the pain-gain life lesson there and we've heard it ad infinitum. So after nearly two decades of this silly sport and another decade of running, I've finally come to realize that there is pain and there always will be. Pain is part of life and it's surely a part of training. Regardless of your fitness level, whether you are a weekend warrior or a professional racer, progress and pain are identical twins.

The past couple of weeks in my "getting back in shape" mode, I've been doing some short rides, shorter swims and even shorter runs. Most of the effort is focused on form, with quick bursts of power sprinkled in every now and then. There's lots of drills and stretching and stuff that has no forward movement. It's monotonous. It's everything I hate about getting back in shape. If my year of training were that picture of the ascent of man, I'm still in the monkey phase. Once again, I am learning to crawl, knowing full well it will lead to a walk, a jog, a run. Problem is, I don't like crawling.

But I push because I know there will be progress. Though I struggle today, it will make me a better tomorrow.

And every once in a random while I get that feeling. You know what I'm talking about, it's the drug. For a brief nano-second in time, as I push through these beginner workouts while wearing far too much Ironman clothing for anybody who has even a modicum of pride, everything just clicks. It's that feeling... when you are pushing yourself to your limit, completely focused on the moment, on every single action of every single muscle in your body; when the carrot is dangling right there, just a millimeter out of reach and you are determined, with every cell in every part of your being, to grab it. To achieve. To progress. You can actually feel the adrenaline seeping into your blood stream, drop by drop by drop. It flows into your system like one of those IV packets. And you thrive on it. If you are Popeye, you've got your spinach.

Even though it's just a nanosecond, your entire life has led to that one feeling. And there comes a point when you're not sure if you're smiling, crying or if your cheek muscles have just started to tighten. Whatever it is you want to hold on. Tighter. You want more. You always want more.

It's the drug.
And suddenly I remember why I love this sport.

The History Of Thinking

The last thing I remember is Ironman Arizona.

April 13th, 2008.
8:41 pm.

It was mile 140. It was my best mile of the day – the most effortless, the most free. By mile 140 I had transcended. I had risen above the day’s mental destruction; I had conquered my defeat. Like a baby chick finally breaking from the confines of its egg to bathe in the glory of life, I was free. Pushed out of the nest, I flew.

It’s like my feet didn’t touch the ground. I kept running faster and faster as if the quicker I went, the easier it got.

The lights of the finishers chute burned a memory in my brain. As if in that instant there was a flash of a camera that forever burned the image into my memory. I see the faces of every single spectator. I feel the sounds of every single cheer. I hear Mike Reilly calling my name. I am screaming. I am on the verge of tears. I am free. I am there.

And then it all stopped.

In the blink of an eye, life passes you by. You grow so accustomed to the monotony of minutiae that defines Ironman training. The thousands of endless pedal strokes on yet another five hour training ride. The lap upon lap in the pool. The step after step after step on another run on another day on the same roads as before and before and before that. Every movement different but excruciatingly the same.

And when all of that suddenly disappears, when there is no more “next race” to prepare for, you are left with a gaping hole in your life. It is a hole of both freedom and emptiness.

I, like most triathletes, am used to filling holes. That emptiness from lack of training, quickly got filled with the freedom of all those things I’d missed. The little things. Books and movies and work and eating. And one day bled into another until here I am, nine months later severely out of shape.

In my mind, being in Ironman shape seems like just yesterday. Over nine months my body has transformed. My endurance and strength are nine months weaker. I can barely run for 15 minutes. A 1000 yard swim is overwhelming.

My body can barely even stretch but in my mind I am still in Ironman shape. The clock of mind is still stuck on April 13th.

This is the problem with thinking. Our ability to think let’s us ponder a past and a future at the expense of the present. It let’s us obsess over the “what was” and the “what might be” and makes it too easy to forget the “what is”.

I watch the runners on Sunday mornings as they float down the street with such ease. I look at them and can’t wait to go out and feel that myself. But its not the same. My run lasts 5 minutes. Maybe 10. I do not float, I lumber. It is not effortless but laborious.

I just started training again. New coach, new season, new goals. I have only one race on the books for this year: SOS (Survival of the Shawangunks). 30 miles of biking, 19 miles of running, 2 miles of swimming.

In my mind I am swimming like Phelps, biking like Armstrong and running like… me. Like the person in my mind in the history of my thinking.

Time to get back in shape and make history a reality.
Here we go again.

I had a good run today...

I went running today.
It was a good run.

I didn't run too fast and tire myself out quickly. I didn't run too slowly and get bored and frustrated.

It was a little brisk out so I had a few layers on. But I love running in cold weather.
There was a slight breeze out that was blowing through my hair and it made me feel as if I were running quicker.

I didn't wear a heart rate monitor. I didn't wear my watch. I didn't care how long I was gone, how hard, how far or how much.

I sang songs in my head. I smiled and laughed and loved my life.

I had a good run today.
For the first three blocks.

Then my calf cramped up again.
And I limped back home.
Fuck.

The Top 7 Reasons Why This Is My Favorite Photo Of Catherine

1. The very serious, concentrated look on their faces that says "I'm wearing my cowboy get-up and if y'all have a problem with it we can walk outside and settle this like thirteen year old girls dressed up as cowboys"

2. The bandannas tied around both their necks, with the knots perfectly placed just off-center, to the left. No way they didn't plan that one together.

3. Nobody else in the auditorium is dressed up, which makes me think that two people thought the costume party was on the wrong day.

4. The fact that the hat is too big for one of them and too small for the other. Couldn't they just switch hats?

5. The sheriff's badge on the vest. Ya gotta love the attention to detail.

6. The crazy guy mugging for the camera in the back left of the photo who, no doubt, grew up to be a serial killer.

7. Three words: Blazing Saddles extras

MFC

My friend Chris is an extremely good swimmer. Which is why everything seemed a little bit surreal last April.

My friend Chris and I did Ironman Arizona in April. It was his first. I'm a decent swimmer, I finish my Ironman swims in a bit over an hour but Chris, he's nearly 10 minutes faster than me. Definitely a sub-one hour guy. Which made it all the more interesting that I came out of the water before he did in April.

Then we realized he may never come out of the water at all. That's when "interesting" turned to frightening.

My friend Chris used to be a water polo player. He doesn't get phased when there's a lot of kicking and hitting and jostling for position. That's pretty much just another day in the water for him. Chris is also an avid scuba diver. He feels comfortable moving around in the open water and seems to have a deep appreciation for the immensity and power of the ocean. Chris also swims with a masters program every week. He swims in the fast lane - he's one of those guys.

Nobody expected Chris to get vertigo on the Ironman swim. Nobody expected him to lose the ability to tell which way was up and which way down. Nobody expected that he would push himself deeper into the water as he struggled to get a breath of air. Nobody expected him to get scared - to think he was going to die.

Nobody expected it. Fortunately, the life guards were prepared for it.

They pulled him out of the water. Literally, grabbed the back of his wetsuit and pulled him out. He couldn't lift his own face out of the water, fortunately they did it for him. He threw up. They told him his day was over, but they were empty words. He already knew it was done. Your first Ironman is done before it begins. It could bring a grown man to tears.

Ironman is a 140.6 mile journey. In April, my friend Chris barely made it 1 mile. He was brought to the medical tent and threw up. He was sent back to his hotel and threw up. He lay in his hotel bed all day, sick, dizzy, nauseous, vomitting. Racing your first Ironman is a celebration of all the months of hard training. My friend Chris wasn't celebrating. He was hanging his head in a plastic garbage can as he lay in a dark, dreary hotel room in utter misery. It was his first Ironman and he wasn't even there to experience it.

He was embarrassed. I can understand that. He felt like he let everybody down. I can understand that too. The next morning he got out of bed and signed up for Ironman Arizona again.

That's the type of guy my friend Chris is.

He left Arizona with no medals, with no finishers t-shirt, with no feeling of pride. He went through weeks of medical testing. X-Rays, MRIs, CAT scans. They found nothing. His dizzyness subsided. He was still weary in the water, but that didn't stop Chris. He kept swimming and the confidence came back. He biked harder, ran more. He bounced back. He amazed me. Cat said it best. Chris is the courageous one who taught me a couple of things about picking up the pieces and not letting circumstances rob you of the journey.

My friend Chris' journey began again this past week at Ironman Arizona. Same place, same course, new day. He didn't want us to come and watch him. He didn't want to let us down. But it would take a village to stop us. That's what inspiration does, it drives you forward, it doesn't leave you sitting at home wondering if you should get up and go.

People knew about his abbreviated journey in April. They knew his trepidation with the water. So when he emerged from the swim in 59 minutes, an entire triathlon community breathed a mutual sigh of relief and shed a communal tear of joy. The smile on my friend Chris' face as he ran to the change tent was all we needed. I did it! he screamed as he ran by.

He powered through the bike course with awe-inspiring grace and he conquered the run with seeming ease. Everytime he passed us he was smiling. Even when he was hurting, he was smiling. And when he came down the finish chute, when he was screaming and laughing, when he heard his name booming from the loudspeakers, when the crowd was hollering in joy, the frightening hearbreak of April faded away.

And as he stood there on the finishers side of a long Ironman day, he looked at his wife with the wide eyes of happiness and the glow of a million candles. I did it, he said with an ear-reaching smile. I did it.

My friend Chris is an Ironman.

The Smell of Cats

Here's what I learned today. You know how humans have five different types of taste? Wait a minute, you didn't know that? Oh, good Lord. Now we've got to go even further back. Ok, let's do this one quickly. Human taste occurs on the tongue. There are five - and only five - basic types of human taste: Sweet, Salty, Sour, Bitter and Umami (which is basically savory, or meaty).

Everything you eat is simply a combination of those five tastes. Get it? Good. Now let's move on to smell, because this is the part that I learned today.

In the same way that humans have different types of tastes, we also have different receptors for smell. But whereas there are five types of tastes, there are 1000 genes for smell. Yes, one thousand. And it's not like there is any crossover; every single one of those 1,000 olfactory receptors are triggered by a separate and unique odor. That means we can sense, literally, millions upon millions of different smells. It's almost baffling, ain't it.

Keep in mind, we're just talking about humans. Apparently cats have a sense of smell that is fourteen times better than us mere homonids. Which may explain my girlfriend.

As many of you know, my girlfriends name is Cat. As you may also remember, Cat has a cat. His name is Fraidy. He's a fraidy cat. He's also a cute little pistol, but maybe not the brightest crayon on the porch. I'm not sure if he's hard of hearing or just did too much blow as a kitty, but when you call his name he lifts up his head and looks the other way. Fortunately, his intelligence has nothing to do with my girlfriend.

What does have to do with my girlfriend is their amazing sense of smell. And I really think it's all because her name is Cat.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that just because you have an animal name all of the sudden you resemble the animal. If you suddenly started calling me Fido, I don't think I'd begin to take a crap on the neighbors lawn. But you know how pets sometimes start to resemble their owners? Well, I think things are going all Freaky Friday on us here at the home front.

Fraidy and Catherine have become surprisingly similar in so many ways. First of all, they both lick their lips the same way after they finish eating and I'm still not sure who started it and who's just copying. They both also show those big, round innocent looking eyes after secretly snacking on something yummy (and not sharing it with me). They both jump in fear at any randomly loud sound and they both sit and look blankly into space in the same exact manner. As if none of that is enough, they both have also developed a bafflingly intense sense of smell.

Both of these Cats can smell a microscopic piece of anchovy fillet from five miles away, with a blindfold on and one nostril tied behind their backs.

Its uncanny.

Were you with somebody who was smoking today? Cat (the human one) might ask me randomly one day.

No, I'd probably reply. But yesterday I was in a building where somebody had once smoked a cigarette and now my shirt is in a gym bag in the trunk of my car five blocks away.

I knew I smelled something, she'd say and turn back to whatever she was typing on Facebook.

Because of this smelling trait, I am somewhat convinced that Catherine has, in fact, become a cat. And this is starting to make my life a little bit difficult. Or, at the very least, a little paranoid. Take today for instance.

We just finished dinner and I was in the final touches of cleaning up. Catherine was in the other room on the couch when she yelled over, "do you smell something funky?"

Let's keep in mind that my sense of smell is practically non-existent. If there were a giggling gaggle of funky having a party on my upper lip, I probably wouldn't even smell it. Naturally, my answer was "No, honey, I don't smell anything funky."

At least that was the answer I said out loud. What happened in my brain is something entirely different. As soon as she said "Do you smell something funky?" I started thinking about how my car went into the shop today for some annoyingly ridiculous reason, forcing me to work from home. And when I work from home I put my computer on the dining room table and set myself down, just a few short steps from the refrigerator. Lord knows, I don't want to have to walk too far when the dreadful desires of emotional eating begin to rear their ugly head.

So I remembered how at some point this afternoon I became hungry (again) and decided to eat some food which got me pretty thirsty so I decided to open a can of root beer, which tasted so good that I didn't even have time to walk out of the kitchen before I was chugging it straight from the can. All the while I wasn't really paying attention to where I was going because I was enjoying that can of root beer so much, but had I actually paid attention I would've noticed a certain Fraidy cat sitting in front of me wondering if my trip to the kitchen meant he would get some kibbles, and had I actually paid attention I would've been able to avoid walking into said cat and maybe, just maybe, I would've been able to stop myself from jerking forward and sending the remaining root beer in the can sailing through the air and splattering all over the carpet.

The new carpet. The one that Catherine just got installed 2 months ago.

I'm not sure if the words "oh shit" that came out of my mouth actually preceeded or followed the thought in my brain that said "you're in deep deep trouble, bucko." But I suppose it really didn't matter.

I grabbed a paper towel and tried to clean the root beer off the carpet but that didn't seem to do anything more than leave a bunch of shredded paper towel on the carpet. So I looked under the sink because that's where people keep cleaning products, right? Lysol, dishwashing soap, tile cleaner... a-HA! Simple Green! Isn't that the stuff that cleans everything?

I looked at the label, "Simple Green cleans everything" it said. Perfecto! I figured root beer on a carpet can be included under the "everything" label. So I read the instructions some more and saw that I had to put some Simple Green in a basin and dilute it with water. A basin? Where the fuck am I supposed to find a basin? So I did what any normal American male would do, I grabbed a cereal bowl, put some water in it, sprayed a little Simple Green and cleaned up the carpet. Voila, it was done.

Thats about the time that I looked at the bowl - the cereal bowl - and suddenly could smell the amonia. Amonia. In a cereal bowl. I'm no scientist, but I'm guessing that you don't really want amonia in your cereal. Remember that voice in my head that said "you're in deep trouble, bucko"? Well it suddenly got a lot louder.

I emptied the bowl into the sink and started scrubbing with all my might, hoping to dear jesus and all his cousins that I could clean the amonia from the bowl and get rid of the smell before my Cat sends me to the doghouse. You see, we saw this show on the Biography channel last night about how this woman killed her two husbands and claimed it was a mistake. I surely don't want Catherine to be thinking I'm doing her in by trying to poison her Post Toasties with Simple Green.

I must keep scrubbing, I told myself. Finally, after five minutes, my fingers were wrinkly and I figured we were all safe. I put the bowl in the drying rack and proceeded on with my day.

And all was going nice and fine until that point after dinner when I heard her say "Do you smell something funky?"

The car, the root beer, the Simple Green - it all went through my head. I'm not trying to kill you!, I wanted to scream. I wanted to confess - to tell all. I didn't mean to do it! I didn't mean to spill root beer on the carpet! I used Simple Green! I was only trying to help. It was just Simple Green!

...and these are the thoughts that run through your brain when you live with the smell of cats.

Our Liberal Left Wing Date

I haven't been exercising much lately. Let's not kid ourselves, I haven't been exercising at all. Though you think that doesn't affect you, you're wrong. Because now that I don't have any enthralling sports related anecdotes, I'm going to talk about other things. Like the politics of humanity. In fact, let's talk about some of the items on the agenda in the most recent election out here in California. There are three things in particular I want to discuss.

First, the national vote: there was a black man that was running for President of the United States. Lots of Californians voted for him. He won. You probably heard about that one already.

Secondly, Proposition 2: There was a vote to require that chickens, veal and other assorted "dinner animals" live in cage free environments, at least part of the time. I suppose the thought here is that they should get some good healthy exercise before we chop off their heads and vacuum seal them in styrofoam. California residents, ever the animal loving tree huggers, voted that one in too.

Thirdly, Proposition 8: Gays were allowed to get married in California. Proposition 8 was presented to repeal that. That one went through as well - no marrying for the Gays.

So here's what it all comes down to... Californians appreciation level, broken down by type, goes something like this:

1. Blacks
2. Chickens
3. Gays

Needless to say, if you look at the residents of California, it's pretty safe to say that the blacks and the chickens are pretty ecstatic, but the gays, not so much. There have been a lot of rallies and protests and the sort out here, hoping that with enough noise maybe the state government will figure out a way to get their homophobic heads out of their heterosexual asses.

Last week Catherine and I decided to go to one of these rallies. Mostly because we think it's absurd that, in todays day and age, people who love each other aren't allowed to be married.

We met up with three friends (two of whom are homosexual and had adopted a child a few years back and seem to have a better relationship than most heterosexuals I know), and went over to where the protest was starting.

Word of warning: parking is very difficult at protests. If you're thinking of going to one, get there early.

I'm not going to bore you with the details of this particular protest. Suffice to say, if you've ever been to a protest before, you know how boring they already are. Basically what you do is stand around and wonder what you should do. Periodically this will get broken up with such group chants as:

Bullhorn carrier: What do we want?

Crowd: Freedom!

Bullhorn: When do we want it?

Crowd: Now!

And that repeats about a hundred times before everybody has had enough and goes back to their previous conversation about where they should go for dinner or how much of a douchebag Eddie is on Top Design. After awhile, you just start people watching and hoping something catches your fancy. One thing I've learned, the protesting gays sure are witty. These are the top 3 signs I saw at the rally:

Chickens - 1
Gays - 0

- - - -

We need you now, Oprah!

- - - -

Cage-free gays.

- - - -

So after standing around for about an hour, feeling like we really wanted to do more but not really knowing what that should be, the crowd started marching west. That seemed to be our cue, so we started marching east. Enough rallying for us. All that passive protesting made us hungry.

We looked around for places to eat and decided to choose the Vegetarian Vegan Restaurant, which is an odd choice for us since we really like to eat things that had parents. Then again, we're already having a liberal left wing evening, we might as well go full turkey. Or, rather, full tofu.

The meal, as it turned out, was amazing. More importantly, Catherine and I had fun and felt like we were actually standing up for something right. Yes, we weren't the ones behind the bullhorn, we weren't leading the crowd in the march, we weren't running around with witty signs, but we showed up - and that's half the battle.

The Four Pillars of Hatred

If there’s one thing we learned from the most recent election, it’s that black people are more highly regarded than gays. This is somewhat of a relief, because as I toil through the night trying to prioritize the amount of racism, sexism, homophobia and religious persecution I disgorge onto the world, I want to make sure my disparaging remarks remain in line with the “industry norm.”

After all, what would humanity be without these four pillars of hatred. Ever since man learned to speak, we’ve learned to hate. Since we invented fire, we’ve been able to burn people at the stake. And we’ve managed to nurture and grow our hatred since then.

Some might think that, what with terrorism and infidels and guns and bullets and the Internet, we’ve streamlined the whole hatred industry. But you’re wrong. You see, back in the old days, hatred was simple. It was easy. Now it’s just completely fragmented and it is practically impossible for any given person to figure out if they should hate the Jews more than the blacks, or the gays more than the Christians, or women more than the Mexicans. It’s just too damn confusing. We need a hate cheat sheet or something.

Before things like the Internet, it took a village to create a good solid hating presence. You all had to make plans and agree on strategy. Everybody knew the goals, everybody knew who was supposed to be stoned. These days, people just start a blog and all of the sudden they think they’ve built a community of hate. You’ve got a racist here, a sexist there. There’s no continuity. It seems people have been lulled into a sense of persecution complacency and it’s killing the hatred industry.

It’s a huge misconception of all the people out there building websites or posting blogs that they’re the kings of hatred just because they’re talking about Jew this or gay that or blacks and bitches and ho’s and blah blah blah. They think that people will follow them just because they know how to type and all of the sudden everybody will adhere to their beliefs, as if they even knew which form of hatred is supposed to be the most important in today’s society. It’s all horse-pocky. To make a real hateful presence, you to have the power of the masses. And, trust me, getting the power of the masses these days ain’t as easy as it used to be.

Press isn’t enough. The last really good publicity campaign for hatred was with Jesus Christ. I mean, seriously, who the heck was that PR person? I want to hire them. All it took was one crucifixion of one guy and suddenly religious persecution evolved into the most important pillar of hatred for a good couple of centuries. Now THAT’S a good PR campaign.

Then again, Jesus has nothing on the Aztecs. When talking about persecution, we can’t forget about the Aztecs. They were like the Bill Gates of hatred. They were killing women, gays and members of other races long before persecution was even en vogue. They defined what hatred really is. They set the bar of hate so high, that in the 600 years following them not a single entity has even come close.

Today’s haters should revere the Aztecs. I mean, come on folks, they went on a spree where they killed over 84,000 people in 4 days! FOUR DAYS! I know what you’re thinking, “84,000 people, that’s it?”

Well pay attention, would you. They didn’t do their killing last week. It was all done 600 years ago. That means it was old skool. No gas chambers, no electric shock, no kool aid, guns or cyanide, no biological or chemical weaponry - just good ole fashioned sticks and stones. You try killing 84,000 people in four days with a bunch of stones and let’s see how long it takes for your arms to get tired. For goodness sakes, the Aztecs are the veritable poster children for discrimination. You think Hitler made a mark on this world? P-tewie.. Hitler only wishes he could’ve been a better hater.

Don’t get me wrong here, Hitler is definitely in the top 10 of the Who’s Who of Hatred. He did quite a number on the religious persecution front, but one can’t help but question whether it was more influential than what the early Americans did to promote racism. That whole slavery trade thing really made a mark. If you’re really going to make a point about hatred, what better way than to import goods from another country just so you can hate them. That’s a real commitment to hate. Hitler was just cleaning house, Americans on the other hand, were cleaning somebody else’s house.

There’s been a lot of fallout from that whole slavery shtick. Racism has flourished in the United States. And though we’ve seemed to make steps to batter down that single pillar of hatred, all you’ve got to do is look at our prison population, median incomes, and white collar employee profiles to figure out that racism ain’t going nowhere. It’s one thing that America can be proud of, we sure know how to build and perpetuate a racist society.

As far as religious persecution, other countries do a much better job than the US. And sexism? When it comes to degrading women, the US has a lot to learn before we can be considered the top of the hatred heap. But with racism, we definitely excel.

I never really knew where we stood with gays in terms of the global hatred spectrum, though I had a pretty good idea that we didn’t have nearly as much hate for the gays as some other countries. You know, like the countries that kill gays right there on the spot. I haven’t read the bill of rights lately, but I’m pretty sure that killing gays right on the spot is still somewhat frowned upon here in the US.

So, anyway, as I tried to figure out what the order of preference for hatred was in today’s US society, here’s what I came up with:

1. Racism
2. Homophobia
3a. Sexism (tie)
3b. Religious persecution (tie)

That was on November 4th.

Then I woke up on November 5th and realized I got it all wrong. First of all, I’m not sure if you heard the news yet, but a black man has been voted in as the President of the United States. A black man!!

That means racism isn’t the number one pillar of hatred in the US anymore. It might even be number four. I was shocked. I thought I’d never see the day. I had chills of excitement. I couldn’t drag myself away from the TV or the Internet. I wanted more information. I realized that we are in the midst of history. History is happening right this very second. Dramatic, life-altering, enthralling history that can only be defined with the two words that drove Obama’s campaign: Hope and Change.

We hope that racism will disappear, and this may help with that change.

I was in awe, cycling through hope and swimming through a sea of change, when all of the sudden I came across some other news. The residents of Arizona, Florida and California all decisively agreed to ban the rights for gays to get married.

HUH!?!?

OK, Arizona I can understand. That’s John McCain country and I wouldn’t exactly call him a gay-lover. Though he was supported by Dick Cheney who has a gay daughter. Then again, good ole Dick probably doesn’t love his daughter anyway. I’ll give you Arizona.

Florida I can almost understand, but not really. Few things say “gay” more than Miami Beach and possibly Palm Beach. But Florida has already stood out in elections as the dysfunctional child – so they probably had no clue what they were talking about when they voted to limit gays rights to marriage.

But California?! If there’s a gay state in the entire US of A, it’s California. San Francisco is like the gay capital of the world. Palm Springs is the gay Florida. Los Angeles? There would be no entertainment business without the gays. There are few states as liberal as California. It’s amazing the state color isn’t a rainbow. Tell me, how in God’s name could California vote AGAINST giving gays the right to get married?!

Would somebody tell me what we’re scared of?

In fact, how could any person in their right mind vote against allowing two people who love each other to confirm that love for the rest of their lives in the most treasured and timely tradition of marriage. There are so many heterosexuals out there beating their wives, abusing their children and giving humanity a bad name – but we can’t let two people who love each other get married?

We shouldn’t stop gays from getting married, we should stop heterosexual assholes from getting married! Somebody show me where to vote for THAT bill!

I’m flabbergasted. I just don’t get it. On the same day we have elevated one people to levels many thought we would never see in our lifetime, we have used our heels to ground another people into the gutter.

But I guess the American people have spoken. And, according to the most recent election, blacks are now allowed to be part of society but as for gays, well, maybe next year.

Hope: A Letter

Dear senator President Obama,

I’m scared.

I grew up during the Cold War and was in fear during those times as well. But that was different. Back then, I was scared our leaders would be so stupid as to bite off their nose to spite their face or, rather, that they would annihilate the world to spite a different economic ideology. I breathed a sigh of relief when the Cold War ended, knowing that there may very well be a tomorrow when, for so many years, our tomorrows were being held hostage.

I want to breathe that sigh of relief now, but when I try to exhale it seems that every today brings more devastating news than yesterday. With the economy collapsing, a senseless war continuing, unprecedented deficits and financial fears, a lack of intelligent leadership and a foreign policy that resembles the kindergarten bully who simply doesn’t realize that nobody likes him anymore, we are in a state of panic and turmoil. I have no reaction but to gasp in fear.

And then along comes you.

In the past year you have brought hope to a nation that has been desperate to grasp on to a new reality. You have inspired those whose will has lain dormant. You have motivated millions to listen, to care, to act. In a time that breeds isolation you have united. In an era of darkness, you have shed a glimmer of light. You are hope.

And that is why I am scared.

For hope is a fleeting feeling. Like the cool, comfort of sand in your cradling hands, it soon sifts away if not given substance and form. I fear that our hope, that hope which is built on the infrastructure of our dreams and the framework of your promises, will collapse in a shambles if not supported quickly and effectively.

To prolong hope, one requires change and progress. For decades, we have been made promises by Washington. Great promises, inspiring promises – but promises that have, nonetheless, fallen flat and unfulfilled. We have become numb to the political rhetoric that defines a presidential campaign, knowing full well that the words are empty, that no change will come. We are angered by the bipartisan game of chess, where winning has become more important than improvement and advancement. We are disillusioned with Washington.

I am investing my future in you. In hope. In hope that my life will continue to get better. In hope that you will continue to inspire. In hope that you will create change. In hope that you will be the President that will not let us down; that you will not have us sitting around our dinner tables years hence reminiscing about the time when we once had hope.

I believe, Senator Obama. I believe in the power of the American people and I believe in you. I believe we can change. I believe we are headed down a new road where prosperity, stability, sincerity and worldliness once again define our being. I believe that hope can transform to progress. But I’m scared it won’t.

Getting elected is not the finish line, it is the starting gun.

Please, don’t let us down.


Your hope-filled supporter,

J.
athlete, entrepreneur, human

Our Little Friend

I remember the moment he came inside our place. It was about two weeks ago, I was out on the patio grilling dinner and left the screen door open for just a few seconds while I flipped the burgers.

I distinctively remember seeing him go through the door. I didn't think much about it at the time. After finishing my burger flipping, I closed the cover of the grill, turned around and walked inside.

Then I shut the screen door.

You know when you watch those shows about prison, or even some movie like Dead Man Walking or Shawshank Redemption, inevitably, somewhere in the beginning there is a big metal gate that slams shut. As you hear the slam and the locks jam into place you realize that there is no turning back; we're all stuck in here together. That was kind of what it was like when I shut the screen door. I didn't hear the big rolling sound of a metal gate and there were no locks jamming into place, just the sizzling of a couple burgers and the zipping of an old screen door on it's frame, but still, by closing that door I created our own little prison.

Me, Catherine and the fly.

Had I just kept the screen door open for a few more seconds, one of two things would've happened. Either the fly would've flown inside, looked around, realized there was nothing around that struck his fancy, then promptly flown back outside and went home to spend a nice Sunday evening with his wife and larvae. OR, the fly would've gone inside, tired from a tough day of buzzing, and gone to sleep on the couch. All his little insectial friends, feeling a bit jealous of their buddy's new habitat, would've all flown in and joined him and had themselves a fly mitzvah right here in our home.

On the one hand you could say I did the right thing closing the door. But I don't think so. When it comes right down to it, I don't think he would've stayed. Unfortunately, even testing the theory is not a possibility here at Cat's place. You see, we're not allowed to keep the doors open for more than 10 seconds for fear that the cat (the four-legged pet, not the two-legged girlfriend) would get out and run away and never come back to the safety and sanctity of being able to get a free plate of milk whenever he rubs against my leg and looks up at me with those big green cute eyes and utters a small little "meeeoow."

But back to the fly...

At first the fly didn't bother me. I barely noticed him. Sure every once in awhile I'd be sitting and reading on the couch when a sudden "zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" would zip by my right ear as if I were suddenly transported to some jungle environment. And maybe when I'm brushing my teeth at night I'd see a little black dot zigging and zagging in the bathroom light. But it's not like the little feller was stalking me. Dare I say, but it was almost comforting having somebody else around.

After a couple of days, though, it seemed he got a little lonely and started trying to hang out with me and Catherine a bit more. I'd be laying in bed late at night, the bedside light shining upon the book I was reading, when all of the sudden I'd see the fly buzzing around my bedside. As if he wanted to just climb in and cuddle up to us. Suddenly a family of three had turned into a family of four. Unfortunately, we didn't want to adopt.

I did some research to see if the Safe Haven Law also applied to insects. No such luck.

A few days later, sensing that the fly wasn't going anywhere, that he had indeed become part of the family, I decided to give him a name. I dubbed him Hector. More precisely: Hect-orr. He's latino, you have to roll the R's at the end.

We soon realized that Hect-orr was what you would call "a problem child." Every once in a while I'd be in another room minding my own beeswax when I'd suddenly hear Catherine scream in frustration "HECT-ORR!!! GO AWAY!!"

I'd shake my head in frustration as father's do when their sons are going through puberty and have gotten to be a royal pain in the ass.

Sometimes we'd be sitting on the couch watching TV, me and Catherine, when Hect-orr would just constantly fly in front of our faces, demanding attention. HECT-ORR!!! I'd scream while trying to swat a spanking at him. WE'RE TRYING TO WATCH TV!

But Hect-orr didn't seem to listen. I think he has childhood ADD, or whatever you call it.

After much debate, Catherine and I decided we needed to get rid of him. Adoption was one scenario, but we thought it better if we just let him go off into the wild and fend for himself. We opened doors and tried to encourage him to leave (while simultaneously keeping the cat inside, which is another story in itself). But apparently Hect-orr didn't want to go. We tried catching him in our hands or with a pair of chopsticks like they did in Karate Kid, but the little bugger was too fast - or we were too slow, I'm not sure.

Then one evening, as I was cleaning up from dinner, I opened the trash can and threw away some food remains. As I closed the lid of the trash can again, I distinctively heard some buzzing getting muffled inside. Is that Hect-orr? I thought to myself. Is he hiding in the trash can? I knew right then that I could simply take the trash bag outside and he'd be gone and this phase in our lives would be all done with. It was so simple. But, alas, I am not a simple man. What if that wasn't Hect-orr? I wondered. What if it was someone else? Maybe I'll just give it a little peak.

So I raised the roof of the trash bin ever so slightly, at which point Hect-orr yelled out a big SURPRISE! and flew away. Of course.

I told Catherine. Of course, she said.

Two days later, I got home from work and could see it in Catherine's eyes, Hect-orr was in one of his moods. I can't stand him anymore, she said to me in frustration. You need to do something. You need to get rid of him.

Then she proceeded to tell me a story of how she was cleaning up and noticed him stuck between the glass door and the screen door.

Really? I brightened up realizing this could solve everything. Then did you open the screen door and close the glass door so he would have no choice but to go outside?!

No, I got all flustered, Catherine said. I didn't know what to do, I couldn't think straight. So I didn't do anything.

And just as she said that, Hect-orr buzzed through the room. I wanted to smack him.

* * * *

I'm laying here on Tuesday morning suddenly realizing that I haven't seen Hect-orr in a few days. Maybe he sensed our dissatisfaction with his attitude. Maybe he realized that we were going to get rid of him. Maybe he ran away from home. I'm wondering if I should call the police, put out an APB or something. Missing child, looks like fly.

But no. There's a point in every child's life when he needs to fly out on his own and live his own life.

Adieu, Hect-orr. Vaya con Dios.

The Pink Shade Of Conspiracy

First things first, let's lay down the facts:

Number 1: I trust Catherine with my life as well as everything else of similar importance
Number 2: Though she has her own brand of crazy, it's no worse than yours
Number 3: I have no real reason to believe she's consciously part of a conspiracy


Understanding all that, there's something funny going on and I haven't quite been able to put my finger on it. It appears to be some sort of hidden secret society. And, as we all have seen in Ocean's 11, 12 and 13, hidden secret societies quickly lead to conspiracies.

I'm not sure if this is a conspiracy yet, but it sure is starting to smell like one. The only information I've really been able to gather is that it involves blogging and triathlon. I know, it's a funny premise for a conspiracy, but trust me, those communists back there in the Cold War did many things much more peculiar than that, and we know how conspiratorial they were.

This secret triathlon/blogging society, which appears to meet constantly, all day every day, also appears to be discussing many things of grave import. I know this, because Catherine has changed. Here's what I've managed to observe...

Catherine used to be a rather normal person. Meaning, she'd come home and check her personal email once, then yet again right before bed. Maybe she'd even slip in a quick blog read or two somewhere in there. She'd talk to me about being on my blackberry all the time (I'm in a bberry recovery group) or being on my computer way too much (I'm in a laptop recovery group too. It's a disease. I was born this way.)

Then, just recently, I began to notice that Catherine was spending more and more time on her computer. It happened slowly, but it grew. Most of the time she'd be sitting there in silence, no sound coming from her but the occasional pitter-patter of her fingers typing on a keyboard. Perhaps it was an attempt to keep the happenings a secret from me - the modern version of leaving nuclear codes in a paper bag in the forest.

Then one night, not too long ago, it began to change.

Catherine was sitting there silently watching her computer screen, as had become de rigueur (which is not the proper usage of that term, but it sounds good), when, all of the sudden, she burst out laughing. I don't mean a chuckle, I mean a crazy loud hearty laugh where dribble starts coming out of the corner of your mouth. She fluttered about on the keyboard for another 15 seconds...waited.... and then burst into even more laughter. Tear-inducing gut-hurting laughter.

This went on for many minutes, the typing followed by the laughing. I like hearing Catherine laugh, it makes me happy inside. And this was the type of voluminous laughing that at first is infectious. Naturally, I smiled and chuckled too, though I had no clue what I was laughing about.

But you know that point when somebody is so immersed in their own personal laugh attack that it turns from infectious to just plain creepy? You know when all of the sudden the people that were laughing with you are suddenly looking at you like, for instance, you're part of some conspiracy? That's what happened here.

The more she laughed, the more uncomfortable I became.

It was when she almost fell off her swiss ball (which she uses as a chair instead of a chair) that I knew things were getting out of hand.

What's so funny? I asked.

BA-HA-HA-HA, she replied.

I smiled, uncomfortably.

She tried to speak. BA-HA-HA-HA... I.... BA-HA-HA... Ivan.....BA-HA-HA... BJ.... BA-HA-HA-HA. Clearly the talking wasn't really working for her. She just laughed and pointed to her computer screen as if that were supposed to mean something to me. Which, by the way, it didn't.

It soon came to my attention that Catherine had joined this group that is apparently known as the "Tri Blogger Women" or "Tri Chick Bloggers" or "Girl Bloggers Tri" or "Women Who Tri Blogging" or something that has to do with females, triathlon and blogging.

Interesting, I thought. Particularly because, 1. Catherine doesn't have a blog and 2. What do a bunch of bloggers need a group for? I mean, doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of blogging?

But I didn't say anything. I just listened. With a bunch of female bloggers all yammering back and forth, I'm smart enough to realize that the best thing I can do is shut my yapper before I get into a big ditch of trouble with no shovel big enough to dig myself out. (Of course, you can't really dig yourself OUT of a hole, but that's kind of my point.)

The group, as I came to learn, is a closed group, only available by invitation. Which made me even more suspicious. Apparently it was "opened up" to everybody for a few days, though I suspect it was about as "opened up" as those certain Bible Belt country clubs are "opened up" to blacks, gays, Jews and people who wear brown dress socks with topsiders. Either way, it didn't stay "opened up" for long, because apparently it got closed up again before I could figure out what the heck was going on.

A couple of days later I was sitting on the couch calmly reading my book. Catherine sat silently in front of her computer checking her email. Or at least that's what I thought she was doing. Suddenly, out of nowhere, she started laughing again. I looked over at her, she looked back at me, turned away and typed furiously into the computer again. No doubt she was typing something like "I think he might be on to us." Regardless, in the next few minutes she burst out laughing again, said something about peeing in the pool, waited, then laughed hysterically some more. I tried not to look concerned.

As I said, I'm happy to see Catherine smiling and laughing so much, it warms my heart. But, honestly, there's a wee piece inside of me that is a little concerned. Maybe concerned isn't the right word. Scared. That's better. I'm scared because I don't know what's being talked about. I'm scared because I don't WANT to know what's being talked about. I'm scared because I got a message today that her "group of people" decided that it's my job, as boyfriend, to massage her back and cook her dinner and I'm not sure what the consequences are if I don't. I'm scared because there's nothing more threatening to a guy than a bunch of women talking freely all day without proper male supervision. How did this group get approved by the male population anyway?

In the meantime, beware. I don't know about you, but I'll be sleeping with one eye open.

I'll let you know if I find out more information. Now I've gotta go, my girlfriend is hungry and needs a massage.

Don't Mess With Me

Editor's Note: I did not stumble upon this myself, I saw the poster on Catherine's desk at work. Catherine was my inspiration for this post. Then again, Catherine is always my inspiration.

Hypothetical Question

How come cash registers in 99 cent stores don't just have a big 9 on them?

Interesting Fact To Note

The men's restroom in the Denver airport is a certified tornado shelter.

I call dibs on the third urinal.

How To Improve Your Swimming And Look Like A Moron In The Process

So you want to be a triathlete, huh? What's that? You say you want to improve your swimming?

Well, let me tell you...you've come to the right place. Yessirree Bobble-dee-boo, this right here is the epicenter of How To Improve Your Swimming-iness.

Be forewarned, though, becoming an accomplished swimmer is not an easy task. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication. It takes early mornings and cold pools. And, all too often, it takes a fair heaping of public humiliation.

Are you ready to be humiliated for the better good of your triathlon performance? Yes, you say? Well that's the answer we're looking for, soldier. So step right up and let me give you a couple of workout tips. Or, rather, a couple of activities you can start looking forward to.

In fact, let me share with you a few of the things that Catherine and I have done in a pool over the years to improve our swimming.... Don't laugh too hard - it might happen to you.

+ Swim a normal workout, then halfway through, get out of the pool, put on a t-shirt, get back in the pool and finish your workout fully clothed. It's kind of like a Saturday Night Live skit, but instead it's your life.

+ Swim 500 yards easy. Oh wait, after every 25 yards, stop and do a push-up on the pool gutter before continuing. Don't hit your head on the diving board, it hurts.

+ Swim 50 repeats with your legs crossed (trust me on this one, it's the closest you'll feel to being a sea monkey)

+ Do your swim workout with a wetsuit on (remember, we're talking about the pool here)

+ Swim with your running shoes on (again... pool. As if swimming with your running shoes on in the ocean is any better.)

+ 50 meter sprints. But after every 50, instead of resting, pull yourself out of the pool, do ten push-ups on the deck, get back in the pool, sprint another 50 and keep repeating until your arms give out or you throw-up and they have to close the pool. Whichever comes first.

+ Vertical kicking. Don't drown, it defeats the purpose. Though I'm not quite sure I know what the purpose is.

+ Attach a parachute to your waist, swim. Again, don't drown. Just in case, though, you might want to notice the next of kin before your workout.

Alright, now go get 'em. Good luck.

By the way, we are not held liable for any injuries, death or dismemberment received as a result of our training techniques.