Die! You Gravy Sucking Pig

There you lie, the last of your kind, on the north side of an apartment building in Waterloo, cowering under this pathetic whithered shroud of last year's pine needles. Dusted from the filth of your unending winter bender, you lie there inert and cool to the touch, crusty like an unwashed rummy sleeping off his last mouthful of distilled damnation.* Your reign was the stuff of Shakespearean legend - relentless, aggressive, driven by hubris: Fie on you, foul pile - even as the hounds of spring doth curse your alabaster shores with their yellow nectar. Sure enough, in the end you too will eventually evaporate and wind up as some mere cloud of vapour; with any luck you will drift far from here and condense on the inside of a toilet bowl in a god-forsaken overcrowded frat house some Friday night next autumn.

Melt as slowly as you like in the shadows, you bastard - I, for one, would happily wait around to kick the dust of summer square into your tiny trickle of tears... but I prefer to rush home and put on shorts. Goosebumps be damned.

Wow. That felt good. And to think I even enjoyed cross-country skiing this past December...

*Thanks to Matt Johnson, "Perfect."

One Way to Improve My Running (Snow)Shoes...

... would be to lose the horseshoe-shaped rims at the rear that form indentations in the heels. During warmer snowy weather - when most sane folks are tobogganing instead of racking up mileage - I can't get in more than a few strides without the soles packing full of snow and actually forming incredible lumps under the heels.

Traipsing like a sullen runway model in stilettos, I try telling myself these times are perfect to work on my forefoot strikes. But that's pointless because within a few more strides I am landing on the tips of my toes the way a ballet dancer would if it was Swan Lake danced on top of snowmen.

Dramatization: Not Real Heel Build-Up... It Just Feels Like This

Mizuno: I love you - if you were not a corporation I would kiss you, your shoes are so nice. But really, even if you have to resort to implanting tiny ultrasound transmitters to break up the clumps, or coat the soles in some toxic snow repellent tested on orphaned baby black rhinos' eyes, please just do whatever's necessary for me to run level more than seven months each year!

Okay, so maybe the rhinos were a bit much, but still... you try running with these in the snow and we'll see who's a diva.

Never Trust a Movie Producer...

... especially when they commission movie posters like these.

And this is just taken from a random look at current releases. I'm too pissed to look any further back; I'm fed up from years of this.

You numbskulls somehow survive in a visual line of work with alignment skills that, in First Grade, would earn you a phone call home and a battery of tests. Take a look at how the names don't match the people.
Sure, there must be some arcane system of priorities & pay scales that you think you must cleave to, where reading-left-to-right dictates that text on your promos must be arranged in one manner & visuals in another.

Above: No, it's not some 1960s Disney screwball switcheroo caper, just stupid labeling graphics. Tried twice & failed. 

___________________________

I get that. But you turds don't seem to get that the rest of the world is conditioned by certain communication conventions that don't like to be upset by your petty little $$ games.

Look at other posters around you for more successful arrangements. Don't make me have to come down to LA to set you straight because I won't be happy. So easy to rectify with a little thought, so sad that you don't have it in you.

Above: Will the real Ice Cube please stand up? Or at least wave so we know which one is you?

___________________________

B-List actors, C-List graphics. Couldn't quite pull it off, could ya?

___________________________

They cared about the stars, the costumes, the script.The promo? Pfffttt!

That felt good. I may still head out to watch a movie with a bone-headed poster, but the popcorn had better be good because when the lights go down it's starting off with one strike against it already.

An Open Letter to the Sociopath Tailgating Me

Sure, go ahead and read this while you're driving, it's not like it will make you any more dangerous.

You know who you are: the distant speck in my mirror at 10:39:28 a.m. that transmogrifies by 10:39:51 a.m. into what seems like a spare vehicle strapped to my trunk, your headlights so close they are blocked from view. Judging by your flagrant disregard for not just the law, but basic human welfare, I bet it's safe to assume this situation makes me your worst sort of nightmare; a rolling roadblock who seemingly shares none of your desperate need to attain near-earth-orbit velocity. Since you are close enough to read my speedometer over my shoulder, please have a look to confirm I am already travelling double-digits over the speed limit as I try to complete my own pass on someone more law-abiding than even I am. 

Trying to strike that delicate balance between pleasing unpleasable people like you and pleasing that officer up ahead who's aiming a radar gun at me would probably be easier if I could just make myself invisible. That's it - something James Bond could likely pull off. In fact, at times like this I often wonder, What would James Bond do? Something explosive usually pops to mind, but that's like a cop-out (no matter how gratifying), plus I'd worry about it affecting that innocent 18-wheeler dude sandwiching us along the guardrail lane. Same goes for an oil slick: skewy vehicles and highway speeds often spawn 6 o'clock news highlights. Now, an ejector seat for your sort might be just the ticket. If I could just figure out how to trigger it when you start up your motor in the garage...

Taking a Measure of Society's Maturity - Part Deux: Nearly Edible Crap

You would think that by the time we are old enough to own and operate a dishwasher of our own that we could distinguish between candies and blobs of soap; after all, the functioning of our society's systems - financial, political, transportation - are counting on at least that level of discernment.

Yet one need only look at the current trend in the dishwasher soap tablets field (didn't know that existed? CUT TO: bright room full of lab-coated scientists with glasses pretending to jot down notes on clipboards. Trust me, it exists.) to spot a blatant clue that those affluent enough to own and operate a machine to wash their dishes are also childish and gullible enough to fall under the spell of a shiny morsel of multi-coloured detergent as if it were a bon-bon in a glass jar at a confectioner's shop. Now, I realize that one needs to cut these marketeers a bit of slack. You try selling something that's about as sexy as a compost bag - you'll quickly find yourself lying awake at night, desperately scrolling through a mental Rolodex of dancing dogs, inane jingles, and ivory-toothed supermodels in vain attempts to conjure up an irresistible message. The more mundane, the more the pain - be it soap, toothpaste, toilet paper, it doesn't matter. One thing's for certain, though: the road to becoming a Walmart Greeter is littered with the ground up souls of ad execs looking for The Angle, that one special hook to catch the consumer prey right in their weak spot.

Exhibit A:

Found left on our doorstep - for sure a more socially-acceptable form of anonymous abandonment than, say, a flaming paper bag of dog poo, but still something that I had misgivings about bringing inside. Nevertheless, being that it was a Friday night, and that I was on my second glass of Beaujolais, I brought in these freakish cleanser pouches, holding their gaudily-coloured package out from my body the way one might carry a dead o'possum from one side of a road to another.

Any advantage? You be the judge.

All I know is that the runaway popularity of these convenient, no mess wads of stuff shows us they are popular. Then again, that's as telling as looking at a film's Box Office Totals to judge its quality.

According to news agency Reuters, the manufacturer, Proctor & Gamble, is quoted as boasting that it took "eight years of research, with 75 technical staff working on the project full-time, to come up with [these suckers]." Kinda makes it worth bending over, now doesn't it?

The trouble is, kids have been mistaking them for candy, and "the American Association of Poison Control Centers (AAPCC) issued a warning last week that people should keep highly concentrated, single-dose packs of detergent high up and out of the reach of children... According to the AAPCC, some young children who swallowed the small packets required hospitalization."

This sort of nonsense is pervasive enough in this culture to, I think, qualify it as yet another sign of the impending Apocalypse. Overreaction on my part? Take a glance at your pet's food dish first and then get back to me. Time to take a deep breath and embrace your adulthood before you reach for your wallet, folks.

Aliens Among Us

These are alarming times, and I am getting testy about it. Take microwave ovens, for instance. Some models beep up to five times when the food has finished heating. Is there some societal fear behind this innovation? That I might decide to heat some food and then forget I am hungry? Perhaps there's a greater number of people than I realized who turn around and find themselves in the kitchen for no apparent reason, and it is only thanks to the genius of appliance makers that a string of five annoying, uninterruptible Pavlovian beeps brings them back to their senses. Come to think of it, every time I press a keypad button, I hear a beep, even when it is clear that my entry is changing the display. Could be a concession for the visually impaired, you might say. How could it be, when the panel is an absolutely flat touch screen, with no distinguishing textural features to identify the buttons in the first place?

Then we have automobile makers thinking that electric door locks need to announce they have executed The Lock by honking the friggin' vehicle's horn. Why is that necessary? I push the 'lock' button, I understand the vehicle locks itself. If it's locked, I know the alarm is "armed," for heavens' sake. If it matters to me, I can even do this within earshot of the door lock mechanisms clicking shut as my rolling fortress seals itself off from the nefarious scum wandering the parking lot pushing their grocery carts. I swear I am going to punch the next SUV driver who blithely walks away from their truck and then flicks the key fob over the shoulder to Activate Locking & Alarm Mechanisms Now! just as I am strolling past the grill. You heard it here first.

My washing machine beeps every time I switch a dial to a different setting. Do I not recognize when I am grasping a dial and turning it from Normal to Permanent Press? And don't even get me started on the quasi-alarms that Windows builds into their OS, spewing Musak declarations that, "Yes, I am really shutting down because you told me to shut down and I asked you to confirm that you want to do this and you did agree that, yes, this is what you wanted to do so I am doing it for you like you told me to." It's like a dog, waiting for my praise or a biscuit. Don't take it personally, computer, but, all robot apocalypses aside, the last I looked you were still just a machine and as such, when I tell you to shut down, I want you to just shut down and shut up about it - hold the emotional melodious goodbyes for when you get your hard-drive swapped out or something a bit more serious.

So it is a small wonder that when we unwrapped and fired up our new waffle iron, I nearly dropped my bottle of maple syrup on the floor when five strident beeps rang out shortly after I'd poured the batter in. It's not some male point of pride that made me skip the owner's manual on this - I just assumed I plug the stinking thing in and it heats up and then I cook my waffles and then I unplug it when I am done. Delving into the manual showed me how dangerously ignorant I was; there was a small chorus of beeps that, if listened to keenly like a bird watcher waiting for calls in the forest, would navigate me through the stages of warm-up, readiness, mid-way testing, and must-surely-be-cooked-to-perfection-by-now. Once my nerves calmed down and I ate my carillon-cooked waffles, I pulled out my trusty side-cutters and like a vet with a Cocker Spaniel pup I flipped that iron over and snipped away the troublesome bits. That last process wasn't in the owner's manual, but for those of you wanting a bit more control - and silence - your life, here is how it can look:

so satisfying...

Swim Training Rant

To All the Fish Out There,

Let me start by saying I honestly have all the respect in the world for the fishes of the world, those who seem to happily swim endless lengths in pools the world over. I'd even say I am envious of your swim speed, your training work ethic, not to mention your ability to endure the mind-numbing routine of it all.

I need help figuring out how to like swim training more. At its best, swimming is as cool as it comes. On a longer swim - typically, for me, this just applies to OWS - there are those zen-like moments where I can really feel like I am in the groove & soaring through the water (even if it's just barely under 2:00/100m) and it is a great feeling. I like that, except it happens pretty rarely, and just about never when training. This is frustrating, because I am almost always happy when I anticipate, execute, and recall just about every run and ride that I have.

The facts the way I experience them:

If I want to run, I put on my shoes and head out the door & go & go until I can't go any more. I breath in the fresh air and see the sun, while doing intervals, taking it easy... whatever I want/need to do. When finished, I am revitalized; it's usually one of the best parts of my day.

If I want to ride, I put on my shoes, head out the door, throw my leg over the seat & go & go until I can't go any more. I breath in the fresh air and see the sun, while doing intervals, taking it easy... whatever I want/need to do. When finished, I am revitalized; it's usually one of the best parts of my day.

my old swimming hole:
the Point Richmond Natatorium, Point Richmond, CA
(I swam there when it was in colour)





If I want to swim, I get in the car (which, to operate, costs money and pollutes), drive to the pool (if it is open when I am free), strip naked in front of others (I mean once in the change room, not the parking lot), lock most of my crap in a pay locker to keep others from stealing it, furtively wet myself for health regulation purposes under a scalding hot non-adjustable shower that I have to keep switching on because the timer button lasts for 4 seconds, gather up my other, non-locked-up crap together and march out onto the deck past air exchangers that blow my skin cold enough for goose bumps, wander about the one end checking out lanes trying to get a sense of where some others of similar pace/effort are swimming so that I can intercept them to discuss my needs and reach a truce for lane sharing, go & go until I run into the feet of one of them and have to stop or one of them runs into my feet and I have to stop, continually evade the tools who swam a fast set but now do slow-mo breaststrokes for cool down without switching lanes, stare at a line on the floor of the pool the entire time, try to get my intervals in without compromising my pace/timing or that of others, climb out and reverse the whole cold/hot/nude-fest/locker/drive-in-traffic process. I've been in Zone 2 or above for, at best, one third of my time invested. Almost every "fish" I have ever come upon maintains that I need to do this at least five or more days/week if I am going to acquire that mystical "feel" for the water and see real improvement. Huh. Sorry, but I've "felt" enough water to know that - unless I am missing something here - I will content myself with coming into T1 and having an easy time finding my bike, if you know what I mean. I haven't even addressed the post-swim itchy skin and congested sinuses, not to mention swimming through others' pee.

So what am I missing? Just the fact I wasn't doing this as a kid? Bad genes? Not wanting to offend, but, for me, it is just too sad a way to spend solid chunks of five or more days per week trying to get a better "feel" when it will only yield me a handful of minutes of improvement per tri. The compromise to make it otherwise would cost too much in my quality of life. This sounds like the sour grapes of a pool newdle; it's not that serious - like I said I really do think the act of swimming itself is very cool - it is just that the training sucks!

Gawd that felt good.

signed,

The Water Foul [sic]