Edited, PG'd, removed myself as some stupid messianic figure, after the birthday toxins have left... When Captain Morgan's ship appears, flying the skull and crossbones of blogging idiocy, I'm usually sent down to Davy Jones' Locker. ----------------------------- B is for B-team, B is for Battlestar Galactica....B is for Being Lapped in Front of Your Parents and Daughter. I am now aware that not only do I sit on the B-team for my company's corporate relay team at the Penn Relays next week, but I also have the anchor leg of the 1600m on this disparate group of bingo-bongo haphazard runners going up against my fellow 'corporate' teams that comprise the following studious, supply-side, Keynesian-quoting business folk: 1. Steve Holman -- "Consistently America's fastest 1500m runner." in the 1990s. 2. Some Vilanova guy with a sub 4 mile PR. 3. Justin Lutz. Reebok Boston. Marine Corps Iraqi War veteran. Not-so--shabby low 4 type miler and a damn good Boston runner in other, XC-type races. 4. Ryan Carrera. Reebok Boston 3:5X? type 1500m runner. This is so laughable. This is the Pinto or the Yugo against the Porsche. I'm last on the Bad News Bears relay so I'll just try to act like Bill Cosby in that one episode and wave and smile in my marble bag leotard while my marathoning ass gets lapped. I haven't hopped up on a track in competion since my Slavically-stubborn, mathmatically-challenged Geometry teacher, Mr. Jacobs--anti-Communist immigrant from Czechoslovakia-- counted 9 laps instead of 8 in the Boys Varsity 2 Mile Race in that sweltering dual-meet against the rich, primadonnas, Acalanes, in April of 1990. ----------------------- There's something about track meets that knots my nerves into little balls of nausea. I still hear the "First call..." of my races; my palms would then sweat. Even at 15 or 16 years of age, I knew that I was going to submit to 10 or 11 minutes of death. "Second call, Boys Varsity 2 mile..." Shit, I feel like I'm going to puke. Dude, give me my wrench back so I can tighten my 1/8 inch spikes. Dude? Dude! Yeah, I'm talking to YOU! Take your Walkman headphones out of your ears...turn your NWA "fuck tha police" this and your '2 Live Crew that' tapes off...and give me my spike wrench back. "Third and final call, Boys Varsity 2 mile." Hail Mary....Amen. "Set!!!!!?".........some bird chirps momentarily, some kid cries and sticks its hand out while its mother tries to hold it back from reaching out towards us...now, quick silence-.....CRACK! The black smoke pauses momentarily and then picks up its pace in step with us, lifting into the air over the plastic, orange cover of the starter's arm and above all of us. It reluctantly dissipates and spreads away from the uncharacteristc toil below. Sweaty palms, leads to oxygen debt leads to smelling that toxic underarm smell of a pathetic few teenagers throwing it all on the line for so damn long....HOLD ON...HOLD ON!!!!! 1990. Sunshine and the crunch of loosening 1/8 inch spikes on gravel. They loosen as we round turns; they loosen because I don't know how to tighten. I know so little in 1990. Never again, 1990. 1990. Crack! Last lap! More smoke appears. It's dark incense drifting first across my Benicia High School chasuble that grates against my nipples and draws blood--sacrifical blood, blood of those that don't fit in, blood of us, the courageous distance runners--the gangly few. Looking up, looking at the infield....black kids for sprinters wantonly throwing water balloons. Black kids and white kids for black kids ignorant of me, their moments are only 11 seconds--mine 11 minutes...happiness....220 to go....the bear, an anchor placing itself upon my arms. The last turns. The arms, that smell, that iron taste contrasted against those brown, Californian hills. Flickering light and pieces of broken, crumbled curb skirting that final turn--respresenting the continued misappropriaton of school funds; only these pieces are crystal clear and in complete focus, but everything else, from the sky, to the crowd, down to the flashing of tired feet missing a few 1/8 inch spikes, are nothing but blurred, opalescent apparitions. The end comes. First place! Points for the team and a token backslap from your ambivalent coach in the Bike shorts who smiles behind large, Blueblocker shades thinking of other things, thinking of others and other fantasies for other days...your coach, that hulking sprinter-loving guy who has that discrete affair with that 60's burnout, flower child for an AP Econ. teacher; yeah, her, that one Berkeley communist holdout teaching you about free markets and John Maynard Keyes--behind a flowered dress--uttering one to many "ummms." Possible blurb in the school newspaper for you Duncan, slight potential for hubris and half a cog's ratchet of popularity amongst the football and cheerleading gentry that never seem get it. Even today. Look up..look left, kids still throwing water balloons. No one cares, dude. Wait....Dad's up in the parking lot in his truck clapping. Dad! Dad took off from work; he left the water cooler and the 1990 desk with its ancient, tabulated TPS reports to see me. It was all worth it; I died for a reason; I toast the paschal lamb. Amen. ------------------------- Other random stuff: 1. I'm not a big "form" guy. I probably should pay more attention to it. One runner who's form that I admire is Stefano Baldini's. Baldini is a graceful runner and each stride is pure power. He looks so relaxed and bounces high with his arms forming a wide arc, not tight into his chest like so many African runners. Yes, none of that description was technical. Oh well. 2. Birthday Bonanza. Some of my favorite gifts received today: my own copy of Zulu Dawn and my own copy with immaculate jacket of Laurens Van der Post's* The Prisoner and the Bomb. The latter was given to me by my mother who caught me leaving her house with her only copy of it smuggled in my backpack last summer. Can you tell that it's out of print and rare? 3. Anagram time. Don't you dare post the answer here to the object of my recent rant (hint: it's a blog name with 3 words). I will delete it; figure it out your damn selves. Lynn, it's a sin to quit with your 'fanny pack' gear underneath the hot sun. 4. Actual conversation today while driving past a music store in a strip mall. Josie: DD, there was a poster for Pink. She's so cool...she sings that song, "Stupid Girl." Me: Lovely. You mean you actually listen to a song called stupid girl? Josie: Dad, hold on...it's about how girls should not buy fancy clothes and think only about themselves and their looks and instead should study and become smart. Me, skeptically: Hmm...ok. Whatever. Now one day you'll learn to love decent music like what's playing now. This guy's named Morrissey. He's my hero. He's from England and writes very intellectual, thought-provoking music. Josie, listening for a minute or two: Dad, is he saying "life is a pigsty" over and over again? Me, embarrassingly changing the song not thinking she knew what a pigsty was: Well, that was a bad song. This one's better! (song switches to 'Bigmouth Strikes Again') ------------------------------------- * You gotta take a second to follow this link and read about this guy. If I could live 1/25,000 of his life, I'd have led a complete life. Dwell on him the next time you're at the water cooler and you're asked to comment about what an ass Simon was last night on American Idol. Ya know what I'm sayin'?