Kissing the Asphalt

All work and no play...

2011-03-05T12:59:00.000-08:00

“The price of anything is the amount of life you give for it.” - Henry David Thoreau (the Alchemist?)

Friday night is when everyone is supposed to unwind from the stresses of their work by drinking like the world is going to end on Saturday and staying out until dawn to find out if it will. At any given bar, you’ll see college students partying in the bubble that protects them from the real world, even though a Friday night isn’t all too different from a Wednesday or Thursday to a college student; thirty-something young professionals at the bar gibing at the college students, trying, and failing, to mask their envy; and the regulars eating peanuts and nursing individual pitchers of beer, although they’re slightly happier than other days because it’s Friday, after all. Even the bartender serving you your drinks is expected to join in the party. This Friday, I went home kind of early – if you consider 11 p.m. early – and fell asleep soon after that. As I was nestling under the throw blanket on my couch, the soft glow of ESPN putting me into a trance – I am a bachelor, you know – a friend who had come home from school for her Spring break sent me a text message urging me to go back out to the bar. I was already wearing sweatpants and still more than a little buzzed, so I ignored it and fell asleep. I apologized for flaking out on her the next day, but she not only rejected that apology, but also called me a ghost. Ouch. It’s not that I don’t like her – she’s an awesome person, someone as charmingly nerdy as I am – but rather, my Saturday morning is so damn busy that I can’t afford to stay out later than 11, and staying at the bar even that late is probably too long.

Every Saturday, I wake up by 7 a.m. to meet up with a group of other (and better) triathletes to run, swim, and bike, not always in that order, but always all three. I usually don’t finish working out until noon and by then I’m exhausted. Training to race triathlons takes hours of practice and unparalleled commitment. It’s something that I’ve decided to jump into with my fullest determination, hazy Friday nights be damned, and because of my bullheadedness, or maybe my incapability to allow myself to half-ass anything, I show up every Saturday, not really bright-eyed or bushy-tailed, but ready to work nonetheless. To say you can’t understand why I’d do this to myself, to limit my “fun” on weekend nights, to exercise until my veins pump battery acid, would be a lie – you understand completely, you just haven’t thought about it deep enough.

We all have goals, reasons for being. We work our jobs so we can start families or earn enough money to fall into the lifestyles we dream about having; study hard to ace tests to be the best in our classes so we can land our dream jobs; or pluck at guitar strings for hours each day until we sound like John Mayer clones. Humans are driven by their obsessions, or to make it sound less like a disease, goals. When we find something we really want, we work tirelessly to get it, and those who reach their goals are successes. Or so I’d like to believe. I’m walking a fine line between abandoning my social life on weekends and exhausting myself, but in doing so I’ve found something worth striving for. My day job isn’t what I want to do for a career and I’m not in school, but I’m working on both of those things and I hope to have something new to drive me in the near future. I’m putting such great effort into my training to reach my goal of being an above average triathlete, an elite amateur if you will, and subsequently to have a purpose for being.

I’m giving up a part of my social life to have a better, happier life. I hope I won’t alienate some of my friends while doing this. And I hope I don’t lose my taste for beer.

Ink

2010-08-22T12:42:00.000-07:00

I have a tattoo on my right thigh, a 6-inch rendition of Atlas, the Greek titan condemned to hold up the Earth on his shoulders. The Avon, Indiana tattoo artist I went to took the basic image I put together and fine-tuned it, defining his style through perfect lines and meticulous shading. My Atlas is a nondescript being, bald, sinewy, and strikingly human. Supported by his hands, the Earth rests on his shoulders in such a way that reveals an inexact picture of North and South America. It looks a lot of the image on the cover of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. So much, in fact, that many people have asked if that book had been my inspiration for the tattoo.

In a word, no. In two, hell no. I loathe Libertarianism. It’s far too selfish of an ideology for me to admire it. My tattoo reminds me that my personal troubles aren’t so bad compared to the greater struggles throughout the world. Although life can be tough for me, someone, somewhere, has it worse. So I look at Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders to find clarity and balance. That said, I’ve always thought my tattoo is defined by you, the viewer. An image of strength? If that’s what you think, sure, although I’d like to think I wouldn’t air my vanity like that. Did I get it because I thought it looked badass? Well, sort of, but not entirely. If you want to think just that, though, I wouldn’t mind. After all, a tattoo is art, a concept that derives meaning through outsider participation.

I do not look like a “tattoo guy.” Most people say this when they see my tattoo. But I am. I loved the entire process of getting tattooed, from the first design of the image to the finalizing sting of the needle. Four years later and after much thought, I’ve decided to get another tattoo. An artist, I am not, but I’ve begun to gather images from different sources that play on a theme, or rather a philosophy, that I believe in and want to express. The next step in the process is to draw the picture I have in my mind. Then I’ll bring that to a tattoo artist and set up a date to have it done. I’m excited, if not anxious. Putting something “permanent” [ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and nothing’s really permanent, but a tattoo’s damn close] on my body exhilarates me. I want that rush.

So… to anyone reading this: Do you have any suggestions for a good tattoo parlor in South Bend or the nearby area? Cost is not a concern of mine. I want this to be good. Also: Can you draw? If yes, do you want to help me draw my next tattoo? *friendly nudging*

Day after day

2010-08-16T18:05:00.001-07:00

Ahh! I want to scream. Not just type-scream. Shyness and insecurity teamed up to hogtie and throw me into a closet with the lights turned off. I wrestled with myself all day, as always in such situations, futilely. [Somehow I worked productively, though!] I felt rusty and nervous, a terrible cocktail of emotions that makes me crumble into pieces, and although I overcame it [sort of], I can’t help but feel ashamed at my hesitance. I have nothing to lose. Jesus! I could write that on my face, see it in the mirror every twenty minutes, and disregard it as quickly.

Over a year has passed since I’ve faced these emotions. In a masochistic way, I’m relieved to still feel them. I’d thought they were more dead than dormant within me. I didn’t care. In hindsight, it’s disconcerting to be so conscious of an inner malaise and shrug it off nonetheless. Recapturing my vigor, yearning so bad for happiness and companionship, and savoring youth are all exciting to me again. So that’s good.

Ahh! I’m 24. I shouldn’t feel boatloads of shame like this. I’ve agonized over little nothings before, and yet I’ve not learned to relax and react.

Or maybe I have. Sometimes all it takes is a walk around the block to clear my mind. [By walk, I mean long ass run.] I’m giving this another go this week. Maybe tomorrow, maybe Wednesday, but this week. And soon. While I ran, I dug around a dusty locked trunk in my mind and found an old credo hiding behind old prom photos and love notes. I think it’s very fitting. I hope to never again forget it:

Don't sweat petty things, and don't pet sweaty things.

Afoot

2010-08-10T17:12:00.000-07:00

My drive to get to France cannot be questioned. I’ve grown more serious about it with each cloistered hour spent parked in my office. How I plan to get there, though, is a question that I admit I cannot directly answer. Out of pocket? Sure, but that wouldn’t be prudent. After all, I once turned down law school to save money, and staring in the eye of a Masters program, I need to put something in the bank in case I don’t receive a stipend. Friendly donations? Let me answer that question with a question: Are you going to give me money to cycle around France? Some people might offer a little assistance, but raising funds for this takes more time than I can give at the moment. In a perfect world, I would rely on my budding skills in writing and research to piece together an unparalleled social critique to pay the bills. [I think I hear a little scoffing among the chirping crickets.] Hey now, I’m getting there, word by strategically typed word. Each of these presents an option worth pursuing, despite the seeming unlikelihood of any of them coming to fruition. In my mind, the gears never stop spinning. In some circles, I could be considered a touch anxious, if not obsessed, while in others, I’d be an outside-of-the-box thinker. I prefer the latter.

I mentioned my promotion. This was a mutually beneficial move by my superiors: I’m a familiar face in a familiar role that didn’t need much training, and I got a raise. I moved up the ladder because my friend and coworker, one step above me in the office, was moving to Jerusalem to study for a year. He earned a Fulbright grant to study political philosophy. One afternoon while ignoring stacks of paperwork, we started to talk about our academic interests. I studied liberal arts, and I’m still a sucker for sociological theory. He studied philosophy [You don’t say!], and still reeks of a thinking man. Eventually, the topic came around to his research grant, how he earned it, and what it meant to be a Fulbright scholar. My gears still grinding, a light bulb popped above my head right as he told him to apply for a Fulbright to study the social, political, and economic effects of the Tour. I could visit each town at which a Tour stage starts and ends before and after the race. At the time, I thought this was a flawless plan, so much that I contacted Fulbright advisors from DePauw, my alma mater. Conveniently, one of these Fulbright advisors had been my first year advisor and she remembered me. She loved my idea and desire to go after it. However, she found one small problem in my proposal: I don’t speak French. None. Nada. Solamente hablo ingles y español. ¡Hijo de puta, mae!

This brings me to today. I’ve been in constant contact with my advisor. She’s not a cycling fan by any definition, but, damn, she’s smart, and thinks outside of the box, too! She suggested something to me this afternoon that, thinking of it now, I’m embarrassed to say never crossed my mind. Logically, it breaks down like this:
I speak Spanish and I like cycling. In Spain, there are cycling tours. Therefore, I should propose a similar project for Spain.

Duh! ¡La Vuelta a España! Held annually in September since 1955, it is one of the Grand Tours of cycling, along with le Tour de France and il Giro d’Italia. I’d study the same effects of the race on Spain [i.e. how the fanaticism and flood of tourism affect the native culture and economy] that I would have studied for France.
I know what you’re thinking.

Flipflopper. It’s not the Tour. You lied, liar!

Oh, did I? Did I mention that Fulbright grants last one academic year? Relying on my savings, I’d be able to study in Spain, and then travel to France to ride the Tour, and perhaps watch it! Ah, sweet proximity! This is coming together quickly, and I do feel rushed. However, I’m energized and hungry. I’m attacking this head on and with my greatest effort.

The pep in my step

2010-08-04T08:14:00.000-07:00

Some days, I feel like a balloon on a broken string. Walking through the grocery store, I hear another guy talking and think, “Awww… Dammit. I’d say that. He sounds just like me.” On top of that, while debating the nutritional value of one brand of cottage cheese over another, I look up and see somebody else wearing a t-shirt I own, and may or may not have on right then. “Sonofabitch,” I grumble as I toss the carton of Daisy brand back in its place. [Sure, it’s nutritionally superior, but Martin’s brand costs 2 dollars less. Sorry, belly, but wallet wins this time.] To realize that I am, in so many ways, just one of the masses is depressing and oppressive. I’ve long known that I am an average white male [AWM]: sharp and skilled, but not da Vinci; athletic, but not Olympic; crafty, but not Bob Villa. Although I’ve accepted this brick thrown through my picture window, I won’t let its mess sit around in my mind for long. I pick up the pieces before I step on them and feel worse.

So I’m going to share with you how I inflate my attitude to match my shiny exterior. This is also known as “me at my most uncool.” When I feel empty, I channel my middle-school self and think back to those self-esteem exercises from Health class. I make a list of my quirks; the little things that separate me from Joe in the Dairy Aisle. I think I can hear you snickering… Whatever! Try it! You might discover things about yourself that you’d never before thought were special or attractive, but they define you. As you add them up, you may realize that these nuances draw others close to you.

…

I eat at least one bowl of cereal a day. Mostly Cinnamon Life.

I was born on the Winter solstice, so my parents thought about naming me Saul. I often wish they had.

I worked in a bagel shop after college because I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a living and, well, Bloomington Bagel Company hired me. To my surprise and my family’s chagrin, I loved it. Since then, I’ve taken up bread making as a hobby and I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I try to make a loaf of bread each week. I think my parents now like this because they get an occasional loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.

As a child, I rarely read books. Now, I always have a book that I’m working on, and I usually finish a book every week or two.

On some weekend nights, I’d rather laze in my apartment and watch Japanese animation [*blushing* anime] on my computer than go out to the bars.

I haven’t seriously dated a girl in years. I’ve begun to think this is an effect of what I’ve written above.

I still buy CDs.

Green is by far my favorite color, but I don’t own a lot of green clothing.

The house that I grew up in is near the intersection of Fail Rd. and 800 N. Ironically, I ran the 800m in college, often unsuccessfully. Fate?

I suffered an injury every track season in college and never ran much more than 50 miles in a week, most often running about 30 miles. Since I graduated college and exhausted my collegiate eligibility, I’ve not been injured and haven’t stopped running. Two weeks ago, I ran 92 miles in a week.

I love changing seasons.

I’ve been told that I’m mature for my age. I’m not sure that I agree, but I appreciate the compliment.

I learn languages quickly. I’m beginning to learn French, the language of love. That should get me a date.

For a few weeks last year, I needed to see The Fast and the Furious. Conveniently, the movie was on sale at Best Buy for 5 dollars, so I bought it, watched it once, and never looked back. It was worth every penny.

Art-house movies are my favorite, but I find novelty in shitty ones, too. I can’t stand average movies.

I’m a beer snob, but not pretentious about it.

A day without laughter is a dark day, indeed. With this [incomplete] list, a glimpse of me, I hope I made you laugh.

…

Make your own list. It’s a cathartic exercise worth 15 minutes of your day. Like me, you’ll undoubtedly leave much out of it. But you can do it again, whenever you feel like that empty balloon.

Reinvigorate: the fourth "R"

2010-08-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

Lately, I’ve been an irritable, stony zombie, sleepwalking through each day. My fatigue is explained by a noticeable uptick in the amount of miles I run each week. Two weeks ago, I ran a personal high of ninety-two miles in one week. Yikes! When I get home, I feel so drained that even cooking dinner becomes a struggle. As a result, I haven’t read or written very much, and I feel I’ve begun to neglect posting. This is a pretty normal feeling that accompanies a bump in miles, but fades away as the body acclimates itself to greater exertion. In a week’s time, my body will recover and my energy level will increase.

Why I’ve had an abrasive attitude is harder to understand because I’ve lugged it around for weeks, if not longer. Although I was recently promoted [Boosh!], my mood didn’t improve with the good news. I’m worn out and I need a vacation before I go over the edge and irrevocably damage relationships, persons, or office equipment.

In a shining example of controlled serendipity, I checked my email this morning and found that my friend had linked me to an article in the New York Times that has reinvigorated me, and more importantly, given an idea for a fall vacation with future interests in mind. [Lucky bastard] Christopher Solomon, a freelance journalist, spent 5 days cycling through sprawling Southwestern landscapes too spectacular for even postcards to fairly portray. Riding more than one hundred miles on some days, Solomon climbed auburn mesas and knifed through green-speckled canyons from Colorado through Utah, to Arizona and back to Colorado. The article is as well-written as any in the NYT. Solomon’s lingo is a little too colorful for my tastes [note: this is me projecting my own inadequacies onto another writer], but his task is daunting, and overall he succeeds in describing the grandeur of his journey. He obviously struggles with something that I hope to I would face in France. How can one describe scenery so beautiful and vast that has been so hidden in plain sight?

At the end of the article, Solomon links to a few cycling tours from the American West to Eastern Europe. Oh yes, I now know how I want to spend my vacation time. I’m going to start saving to travel to the West this October to spend 5 days brutalizing my body while soaking up some natural tranquility. And soaking up some local wine.

New! Music Monday

2010-07-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

What's that you say? It's Tuesday? Well, touche, good sir. I wrote most of this last night, and was prepared to post it until sleepiness overcame me. So it goes! Despite all that, enjoy this latest review! Again, it's not new per se, but I've been listening to this album a lot lately and, in many ways, it's new to me.

...

The Rust Belt is reeling. LeBron James, the Chosen One and anointed savior of Cleveland, spurned the city, leaving a behind a trail of ashes from the bridge leading from Ohio to Paradise that he had constructed. The Cleveland-Akron-Elyria region dubiously claims a higher unemployment rate than the national average as the manufacturing industry struggles to rebuild. Foreclosed homes litter the region, a growing trend compounded by a shrinking population. It’s fitting, then, that The Black Keys call this place home. The duo’s sound pulses with raw emotion as if they have taken the task of exorcising Ohio’s demons on their backs: each aching wail, crunching chord, and booming drum beat pushing out further all that haunts the region.

Since 2002, The Black Keys have released 7 albums, two EPs, and one compilation album, a staggering amount of music released over a relatively short period of time, all the while they’ve toured nonstop. With Brothers, the duo’s most recent release, they flash the workaholic badge pinned to their blue collars. Fifteen songs burst with the aching lyrics typical of the Blues that sound like they were recorded in a smoky bar on some weeknight after real work has ended. Most songs lament the loss of something: women, health, or opportunity. On “These Days,” the band’s memento of overwhelming sadness, Dan Auerbach sings, “These blood red eyes/Don't see so good/But what's worse is if they could/Would I change my ways?” Weary and worn down, he sings with little hope for recovery or development. “Next Girl” is cathartic and heavy, more yowled than sung over percussion that is felt rather than heard. “Oh my next girl/She'll be nothing like my ex girl/That was a painful dance/I got a second chance yeah,” the lyrics rumble from Auerbach’s surprisingly smooth voice, carrying with them the weight from heavy hearts carried by fellow Ohioans.

Patrick Carney pounds his drums so ferociously that it feels like he’s trying to drain all his energy, to break down so far that he has to rebuild himself. Likewise, Auerbach sounds like he’s tilting his head back and endlessly howling at some imaginary moon. The constant echo effect on top of the band’s music feels like traditional Blues music. “Howlin’ For You” and “Sinister Kid” each blend the sounds of the Deep South with more modern rock, bringing to mind The White Stripes or Them Crooked Vultures, acts that similarly mash up of classic and contemporary sounds. The end result just feels like music that should come from industrial Ohio.

In many ways, this part of Ohio is the new America. Beaten up and broken down, the city is nonetheless damn resilient. This approach is something that each person, from Alabama to Maine to Washington, can relate to. We’ve all suffered before and surely will again. Thankfully, bands like The Black Keys reconcile our differences and come around to soothe our pains.

Rating: 4.5/5

On etiquette

2010-07-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

I was driving home Monday when my friend send me a text message:

Contador!!! Nooooo!

Since I'd been in my car the whole flippin' day, I didn't exactly pick up what he put down. Not in the least. I assumed that Alberto Contador had finally taken to the attack and dropped Andy Schleck, the young Luxembourger who has quickly become one of my favorite cyclists. I sighed and drove on, accepting the Tour's falling action and imagining the inevitable denouement. Contador was the clear-cut favorite and reigning champion, while Schleck was the up-and-coming talent, perhaps a little out of his league at this age despite his favorable bloodlines. The Dark Side always wins anyway, I thought. Hours later, I turned on my TV, in part to veg out after a long day, but also to catch the replay of the day's action on the Versus channel. I managed to catch the very end of the day's coverage. Contador slipped on the maillot jaune, flashing a smug grin amid a mixture of boos and cheers. He's a divisive figure, so I thought nothing of the crowd's reaction.

At work the following morning, I schlepped to the water cooler to chat for a bit with one of my good friends who immediately went off on Contador. Naturally, I asked what happened.

"You didn't see it?" he asked incredulously.

"Uhh, no," I said. "Contador won the stage, right? Did I miss something?"

Well, yes. Yes, I did miss something. He told me that Schleck had ridden masterfully that day, balancing his pace and saving his energy for the ideal moment to attack. When that moment came, he shot forward, increasing his cadence to the point that he needed to shift gears to produce more power and speed. With a soft and steady grip on the handlebar, he slid his index finger down to the shifter, moving it ever so slightly inward when his machine denied his will. His chain dropped as Contador rode on his wheel. Schleck looked down and stopped pedaling while Contador attacked like a shark in bloody water. This was taboo and classless.

In cycling, man depends on machine. A cyclist does not succeed [does not do anything, really] if his bike does not function properly. In races and tours, cyclists ride with support teams that, at the drop of a chain, rescue their athletes and get them rolling again. Expecting the pack to stop and wait is absurd. But it is a long standing and unwritten rule not to attack in these instances. Contador brazenly rode past Schleck while sat helplessly for over two minutes, racing to fix his bike before his dream to win the Tour escaped his grasp.

This really digs at me. Unfortunately, Contador's unscrupulous attack leaves a small, but noticeable pockmark on an otherwise beautiful Tour. Contador and Schleck are by far the two strongest riders in this race. They'd ridden neck and neck for two weeks. Those following the race had anxiously waited a showdown, maybe in the Pyrenees on the Col du Tourmalet, or perhaps later on at the final time trial entering Pauillac. Contador stomped on that desire when he usurped the lead. I think that he would have won the Tour regardless of this faux pas. He's a fantastic cyclist in great form. However, grace and class is shockingly absent from him, a champion, in what is, in some ways, a gentleman's sport. [Cycling has its fair share of skeletons, mind you, as post-race fist fights, thrown elbows, etc. are common. However, as the field spreads out and the leaders take control, tact and skill matter most, and boorishness is generally thrown out of the window.] I'm bothered that he sat in Schleck's slipstream and later disingenuously claimed he didn't see Schleck's technical troubles. This makes Contador look like a weasel and compounds his already negative public image after last year's interteam turmoil. I want the champion to act like a champion.

For the second time this July, a sport's best competitor has proven to be insecure and incapable of carrying the weight of the sport as a champion. I've never believed athletes to be heroes. They are flesh, blood, and nerves, like you or me. Yet I hold out hope that they can prove me wrong. To have my most cynical beliefs reinforced is a little gutwrenching.

New! Music Monday

2010-07-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

Ahh, alliteration. The perfect excuse to start something new. Each Monday, I'm going to post an album review. Sometimes it will be new [as in, released the prior Tuesday], and other times it will be an album that I've been listening to lately. So, without further ado, my installment of New Music Monday [the exclamation point is included in the title because this album is not new, per se]. Enjoy!

...

I’ve heard this before. I don’t just mean that I’ve listened to Surfer Blood’s debut album Astro Coast many, many times [I have], but, more to the point, the band’s sound brings to mind recent indie pop powers as well as beach rock from the 1950’s. Each time I listen to Astro Coast, I find something new and simultaneously old in Surfer Blood’s sound: Weezer’s power pop chords and quirky lyrics; Girls’ simple West Coast surf jams; Brian Wilson’s iconic harmonies. Yet Surfer Blood’s sound cannot be solely defined by these bands or their peers. Rather, Surfer Blood’s sound is something fresh, cobbled together from the tones and chords of earlier acts.

Astro Coast hides a handful of dualities under its surface: aggressive yet tranquil, buoyant yet melancholy, faded yet fresh. Guitar riffs wax and wane melodically on “Anchorage.” The melody repeatedly rolls to a crest, pressure growing with each push, until it bursts into a clear and crunching crescendo. Black’s lyrics seem to ride this wave throughout the song. Matching the early drone, Black sings of vast emptiness in his frigid Alaskan wilderness. At the same time that the guitars explode from this overarching dreariness, his mood warms and becomes almost hopeful. “I just want volcanoes to erupt/and thaw me out,” he lets out. Throughout Astro Coast, Black longs for some sort of enlightenment, or simply to erupt from his depths. The mood is kept afloat by the band’s driving beach pop, played tight and fast over guitars soaked in reverb and echo. “Fast Jabroni” and “Slow Jabroni” share a hopeless cry for compassion and contact, but do so in two different tempos [hint: “Fast Jabroni” is, um, faster]. On “Swim,” the band’s reverb-soaked breakout single, and arguably its strongest offering, Black bitterly asks, “On whom can you depend?” over four staccato-stroked power chords. “Swim” is the band at its most fun as well as aggressive, its energy inviting anyone listening to yowl along with Black. The end result of these dualities is an album of intense longing and sadness that plays bright and sunny, ideal for a beach blanket with a beer as well as dark winter night at home alone.

Astro Coast sounds like your High School friends’ garage band, only nuanced and refined. It is the music I wish Weezer would make today. It is catchy and comfortable, something altogether familiar. It is that familiarity that makes the album so fun [and played so often on my iPod, in my car, and so on].

Chuggin' along

2010-07-15T17:12:00.000-07:00

What's that you say? Three days without a post? Hmm, I can fix this.

I'm writing this blog intending it to be my outlet to the masses to share my dream and the progress I've made to attain it. However, I'd like to think that this blog, like any blog, can be a mean to many ends. You see, I've recently made some discoveries about my passions and professional life. I love to read and write, and I have an insatiable appetite for knowledge. What does this mean? First of all, it means I'm going to go to grad school, though not this fall [my soul awakened a tad too late to meet application deadlines]. Second, while I apply to schools and anxiously await decisions, I hope to hone my writing skills.

When the economy tanked, I had just graduated from college. As a liberal arts major, I'd no idea what I wanted to do with my life nor did I have any "marketable" skills. So I volunteered for a few organizations and dabbled in different jobs, from coaching high school cross country to making bagels. I enjoyed each of these jobs for their quirky benefits, like taking home free bagels, veggies, and coffee, or getting paid to run a few miles each afternoon, something I was going to do regardless of pay. Unfortunately these jobs did not require much brain power, nor did they offer much, if any, upward mobility. Had DePauw advertised that its graduates hit their professional peaks at age of 22, I might have reconsidered my college choice. Eventually, I moved back home, found another internship, and parlayed it into a regularly paying job. I'm grateful to have a job at a time when so many people cannot sniff one. I've learned, though, that it's not for me. No, I want to read and write... right now.

Beggars can't be choosers, or so I'm told. If I can't make a living off my nascent writing abilities just yet, I'll keep typing and scribbling away until I can make a living off them. I want to get better at writing. Like any other skill, writing can only improve through practice. Taking three days off is kind of detrimental to that end. I'll try not to slip up again, but I make no guarantees.

If I I get nothing else out of writing this blog and shooting for this goal, I'll have given writing a fair shake to be my career, like a suitor in The Bachelor, if you will, only with fewer hot tubs.

A cannoli without cream and other trite analogies

2010-07-12T16:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my grandmother turned 84. That's old. To celebrate her, ahem, longevity, my mother and I took her out to eat last week at a quiet Italian restaurant not far from where I work. I love my grandmother because, well, I'm human. She spoiled me when I was young and was a big part of making me into the man I am today. But I can't spend time with her without somehow feeling 15 years older and 10 pounds heavier. On the outside, she doesn't look or act much older than she did a few years ago, but inside her body surely aches. She still dyes her hair and can walk without assistance, but she's on had three knee operations and her rotator cuff is so worn that she can't lift her right arm without wincing. [I'd wager she can still throw a better heater than this guy.] Trying to cut into her eggplant parmesan, she says,

"I don't know if I can live with this pain. It's a good thing I don't have much longer to go."

*Womp Womp!*

I hear this each Thanksgiving, Easter, Christmas, graduation party, occasional lunch date, phone call I make to say hi, and so on and so forth. While her awareness of human mortality is admirable, it's also a major drag. I don't want to think about life without my grandmother. Losing my grandfather when I was in middle school was one of the saddest moments of my life. I can bear the weight of losing my grandmother, but I'd rather not worry about that right now. Worst of all, the inevitably of her death brings me to think about the inevitably of all death, which in turn [inevitably] makes me brood about all sorts of fundamental philosophical questions and paradigms. It's not that I don't enjoy chafing over Dualism in some dark corner of my room, but I'd rather not feel depressed for days at a time.

Belief in a traditional religious afterlife eludes me. I believe that's normal. Raised Catholic, I lost faith in its customs and traditions somewhere around along the line. In my teens, I read the Baghavad Gita, Tao Te Ching, and grew enamored of Eastern works and philosophies. In college, I lost my grip on spirituality of all kinds for a while, only to revert to a healthier doubt of it in place of total denial. I'm still don't know what I really believe in, but I'm happiest feeling in balance with nature. Until I understand my faith, I'll continue to live with morals that a god would not frown upon, if one existed. I'll miss my grandmother when she passes, but for now she's alive, and I'll focus on that instead the profound emptiness I'll be left with much too soon. Can't we all be Shinto?

Calling and not calling the delivery man

2010-07-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I'm tired and decidedly not motivated to cook for myself. For a single twenty-something, I take damn good care of myself. I go out to eat/order take-out maybe two or three times a week, including lunches. I go out to eat for lunch once a week, and order a pizza, Thai, etc. or go out to eat with friends for dinner on a Friday or Saturday. Tonight, I have no such plans. I'm pretty bushed. I ran a 5k this morning [16:29! PR!] a few hours away from home. When I got back, I whipped up some much needed pancakes, watched the Tour, and took a nap. Now I'm watching the Cubs... win! However, I really don't want to cook for myself. I know that I should, though. My wallet can't take the hit of ordering take-out so often, and I went out to eat last night. Plus, I'm going out later and plan on purchasing a well of libations, so I shouldn't break the bank for food. Err...

And thus, I scan the interwebs for ideas/motivation. I'm in a recipe dry spell. At times like this, I turn to:

www.tastespotting.com
www.allrecipes.com
www.anyfoodblogthatihavesavedonmycomputer... .com

If I don't find anything that looks overwhelmingly delicious, I turn to my old faithful recipes, like Pasta alla Amatriciana/Carbonara/Gricia. Maybe I make a quick sauce out of spinach or peas or whatever green I have on hand and pair it with fish, pasta, or rice. A black bean and sweet potato burrito is always filling and delicious.

Where do you look for cooking inspiration? Do you have your own go-to, easy recipes for times like these?

For now, I'm going back to my search, the phone book well within my reach.

Tonight, tonight

2010-07-08T17:18:00.001-07:00

Somewhere deep in the heart of Mississippi, Brett Favre kicks himself tonight. If only he or his agents thought of "The Decision" before LeBron James. Favre could do this thing every year for his retirement decision! "The Decision: Year 8! This time, it's final... er, maybe" Really now, a one hour special with an hour SportsCenter special leading up to The Decision and another hour afterward devoted to his 15 second decision! And damn me, I'm watching it!

I get it. LBJ is the biggest celebrity in basketball. He's a phenomenal player. He hasn't won anything other than individual accolades yet, but he's been the face of the league for 5 years and has been basketball royalty since he was 14. Really, this sort of self-aggrandization is inherent in him. But it's not all his fault. Writers, fans, and players alike have seen this moment coming for over 3 years. We drooled over it, dreamed about our team being The Chosen One, and built this ugliness from the ground up. Sure, many people will say they're disgusted with this product, but they did little to change the inevitability of its creation. Watching "The Decision" is like rubbernecking a car crash, a nasty fisfight, or shock video. This is sports porn, and few people can turn their heads away from it. Worst of all, LBJ and his camp are giving much [all?] of the profits from his press conference to the Boys and Girls Club of America. Now I'm really conflicted! I know his intentions aren't so pure, but he's using his celebrity for actual good. This makes it feel like A-Rod promising a dying kid a home run at Yankee Stadium and delivering. It's 99% ego and 1% altruism. But that charity carries a lot of weight, and LBJ certainly hasn't advertised that little nugget of generosity.

In 15 minutes, LeBron will make his choice. If he chooses anywhere but Cleveland, a city will be utterly decimated. Cleveland has very little going for it economically, athletically, and, unfortunately, socially. Miami, New York, Chicago, and New Jersey all seemingly mortgaged their futures for the thread of a possibility that they might land his Highness, but they can recover. In Cleveland, I foresee flipped cars, burning couches, and crying children. Maybe LeBron thought that the profits he'll get from this and hand over to the BGA is worth the spectacle, yet his ego must be so inflated that it blinds his vision. This circus could rip the collective heart out of Cleveland. He won't be able to see it happen.

"The cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems."

2010-07-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

Today was a drag. And for no particular reason. The only affronts to my mood were (1) being "asked" to skip lunch with my friends to help out at the office and (2) staying late to work at the most disorganized event I've ever been a part of. Those types of things usually won't harsh my mellow, brah. Today was not my day.

When I came home, later than planned, I ran 6 miles in the sweltering heat, warmed up some leftover Chinese food, and cracked open a little bottle of happiness, a Bell's Two Hearted Ale. I am not a heavy drinker. Never really was. But there's something refreshing and relaxing in kicking back with a perfectly chilled brew after a long, hot day. Last summer, with a work schedule that was a little more forgiving and a lot less fruitful, I'd ride my bike for hours before I'd come home to watch TiVoed coveraged of the Tour in the evening, in my hand a fresh, mouth-punching bottle of Short's Huma-Lupa-Licious, one of my favorite IPAs from one of my favorite breweries. There's nothing better than that.

After reflecting for a bit, I realized that I was quite productive today, despite my state of mind. I ran twice after having slept through Tuesday's morning run, finished a lot of work that needed to be done, and lent a hand to my coworkers. I needed to wind down to notice this. Too often, I get worked up but don't cool down, which affects my behavior and performance for days. Looking forward, whatever the method may be, I'm going to make a concerted effort to destress after tough days, painful workouts, et al., not only for myself, but for those who have to be around me.

How do you unwind?

A title was born...

2010-07-06T13:36:00.000-07:00

Sixteen years ago on some lazy summer Sunday, my father took my brother, sister, and I out to a vaguely familiar country road to ride our bikes together. My brother had gotten a new Huffy earlier that summer. Its glossy black paint was still free of dust and dirt, the chain in perfect condition. Naturally, my sister complained... and complained... and complained... until she became the proud owner of her very own purple Huffy, the type specifically designed for middle-child syndromed 10 year old American girls, nevermind the fact she stuck her tongue out to all sweat-inducing activity, especially the type that required her going outdoors. Of course this meant that I would have to get a new bike, as well.

My mother dragged all three of us to the Maple City on her Saturday off, deflecting like a goalie, left and right, the inevitable backseat whines from my siblings. I was smiling wide as we drove into the, ahem, city, and even wider as I stepped into the store. Maybe thirty minutes later, I was on my way home with a forest green big-boy bike. I think it was a Monster, but I'm not sure anymore. Its letters have faded and worn with age and abuse.

I can still taste the rust in my mouth if I focus hard enough. Never an avid cyclist, to say the least, my mother waited for us at home while the rest of the family whirred past cornfields, grazing pastures, and stables. I felt so far from home at the time. Looking back, we had probably ridden only one mile North from our home. The distance didn't really matter, though. This was freedom, pure and whole. I knew how to ride a bike pretty well, a LeMond in the making, and I was holding my own until my skill flew from me for but a moment. My hands failed me, let the bike slip onto a gravel patch, the handlebars tipping to the right, the frame sliding from under me. I kissed the asphalt.

I'm not afraid of physical pain, not then, not now. You fall, cry about it, clean up the mess, and move on. Yet to this day, I find it difficult to let my bike really soar on big downhills, gingerly tapping the brakes as I coast. I avoid potentially damaging physical contact that, in general. But not because I'm afraid of the pain: I'm afraid of the consequences surrounding the pain. I'm afraid of spending time in a hospital, or having to fix or pay for new equipment. But this mindset extends far beyond physical activity. I think what I'm really I'm afraid of is uncertainty, of not knowing what is going to happen. So I fret, waver, and tap my toes in the water before I even think about diving in. Whether I'm brooding over a career change, asking a girl out on a date, or planning some life-changing trip, I tap the brakes. I need to kiss the asphalt again, if for no other reason than to know how it tastes.

Slipping out of the gyroscope

2010-07-05T07:53:00.000-07:00

For years, I lived in a state of incredible darkness. While the world spun madly on, I sat idly in my place. In truth, I think that, subconsciously, I wanted to leap into the same currents that pulled everyone around me forward. Yet outwardly, I remained bullheaded, denied the changes around me, and secured my place in the world. I was falling behind, and it seemed unlikely that I would ever catch up.

Years passed, and that current sped up while the distance between it and me grew. My friends were already long gone by the time I lost my father in the shuffle. Suddenly, I was entirely alone. The time came to step into the light. I didn't need an intervention, I wasn't addicted to anything really nefarious. Yet reminders of my emptiness were everywhere, from the people I would pass on the streets to television and even to my work. Recovery took all the willpower and grit I could muster. The Earth moves in circles, but somehow always progresses. I had spun on an axis, foolishly hoping that someone, anyone would come to pull me out. On Friday, this all came to an end.

Striding boldly through Eddy St. Commons, head held high, I took one large step forward and into modernity: I purchased the brand-spankin'-new iPhone 4g. In 8-10 business days, I will finally enter the real world and leave the Dark Ages. My Motorola Razr, at one time the paragon of cellular technology, is outdated and, somehow, an embarrassment to all. Ironically, when I first got my Razr during my first year of college, I was already about 2 years behind the times. Oh yeah? Well not this time! This beauty is the Mt. Everest of cell phones [until a newer version comes out in, oh I don't know, 3 months probably]: we all want to say we own it, but few really do. No longer will I embarrass my friends! No longer will my 56 year old father know more about as well as possess far superior technology than I do! No longer will I stumble through text messages on a small, yet somehow clunky keypad! Huzzah!

So goes the story of how I crawled out of my cavern and assumed my place amongst the masses. I have a feeling that a good chunk of time will pass before I figure out the ins and outs of my new little status symbol, but I'll get there soon enough. In the meantime, I will continue to put up posts without the support of personal imagery. Yes, I do own a camera. However, it's a real piece of work, and it's not worth the hassle to burn through batteries to take a few quality pictures and slo-o-o-wly upload them onto my computer.

I'll meet you all on the other side, laughing all the way to the 21st century.

My Rotterdam

2010-07-03T12:20:00.000-07:00

This is premeditated. Please don't get the wrong impression of me.

This all started as a half-joke.

"What's on your Bucket List?" I asked. Someone had brought up that Jack Nicholson movie. You know, the one he made with his career at the very bottom of its arc. It's novelty, in a way, and my sense of humor is largely based on novelties. I find stupid shit amusing, but others often do not, and my wit can be lost on them.

Get married, have kids, blah blah blah. Sure, I want to do those things, too, preferably in that order. But what do you really want to do in your life? I've brooded about this plenty of times, but I finally let it out: one summer, I want to ride the same route that the professional cyclists ride during Le Tour de France. The course changes each year, so whatever route they would ride in a given year, I'd ride the same. Not at the same time, of course. I'm a pretty fit guy, but I know full well my physical limitations. I want to enjoy myself. I want to ride it after they do, and give myself more time than they have; say, a full month or more.

This got laughs. Hell, I even laughed myself. I meant it, though. This is the only damned thing I want to do before I die. There will be other things that pop up, most likely, but right now, at this point in my life, this is it.

Thus, a blog. The same topic came up again over dinner and drinks with some friends. Plenty of drinks, I might add. "Start a blog!" Aww jeez. I was hooked. By writing about my dream, I was told and I agreed, I'd turn it into a goal. As the calendar turns and each day passes, I'll mark my progress and [hopefully] gain some support.

Already, I've added more to the plan. By riding Le Tour (!) after the pros, the real riders, handle the course, I'll get a feel for what life is really like in the towns they go through. If I try this before Le Tour, the people will be gearing up for the race and it will be Tour Madness. During the race would be overload. Plus, I wouldn't be alone. Tour enthusiasts ride along with the pros each year, though far more casually. In essence, France is a giant tourist trap. Have you ever been to Washington, D.C., well, ever? I picture it like that. Kitschy [cheap] tour gear everywhere, packed hostels and inns, a traveling party. I don't want that. I want the everyday France. I'm sure that I'm dreaming [again]. Whatever! I won't ever know if I don't experience it for myself.

So follow along with me. I'll try to post as often as possible. I like to write , so that should help matters. I also have a wandering mind. I won't write solely about my dream [goal?] for a year. I love to run, cook, read, rock out, and do other very common things. Clearly in my own awesome way, though, you know?