Issues Resolved

Two years ago, when I was publishing drivel at a faster rate, I shared my conflict with the Olympics. For two weeks the summer games test me. I have four years to recover. "Why not two years?" you ask. I'll tell you. Almost all of the athletes look the same. Their snow suits covering their finally tuned bodies, or their bobsled pushing huskiness.

A more evolved observer might not have these dilemmas, but I have apparently not grown up that much in the last two years. We are, however, left with the faces. Lindsey Vonn is kind of pretty, but I'm pretty sure that her face and head is bigger than mine, and that bothers me in admittedly superficial ways. In the women's moguls, I am not ashamed to say that I was fully cheering for Jennifer Heil (silver medalist from Canada) instead of the Americans. Jennifer Heil was the hottest athlete at the games. Yes, I know she looks a little like a rabbit, but it works.

I guess I have been forgetting about figure skating, but I have a few problems that make it hard for me to fully appreciate it. It is primarily a judged sport, which leaves too much to subjectivity. The ladies are too young looking to factor into my neurosis, and they wear those nude colored whatever you call them, and those always kind of creep me out. My career is movement, so I'm not saying I can't appreciate some of it, but I can't really get into it.

I don't have any more commentary on these games, except to say that for all the flack that curling gets, I was really hoping to catch some matches. After all, how much figure skating can a guy take?

Nobody Is From Portland

A week or so ago I arrived in Portland, and am very excited about it. I was warned by all kinds of fellow Californians that the people in Oregon hate Californians, but the truth is, I haven't yet met many people who are from here. The apartment manager was from Northern California. The leasing agent from Southern California. The guy who delivered my bed from California. I think the guy who sold me the bed was from here, but he's the exception. The friend of a friend I met up with is from the Mid-West. Her boyfriend from Australia. The last two were the ones who told me that nobody is really from Portland. I suspect that another acquaintance or two that I have yet to meet up with are actually from Portland, but right now I don't feel like a trespasser.

Another thing, my registration sticker is hopefully in the mail from SoCal from when the housecleaner hid it. My tags are expired, and I was pulled over a couple days ago for having a license plate light out in addition to expired tags. Dude let me go. Combine that with the hot lady cop who pulled over to see if things were alright as I was changing my tire three weeks ago and the fuzz aren't too bad.

I was going to go register my car today, but when looking online there was extra steps to registering if you did not hold title, so I decided to pay off the car instead. If I can slap the sticker on in the next day or so that will buy me another 80 days of driving without having to go to the DMV. But the nice thing is that when I do have to go, at least my car will be paid for.

Oh, one thing could suck. Apparently Multnomah County is the only county in Oregon that does smog checks. I have a feeling that with the modifications done to my little ride that we might not pass. I guess we might be going to PDX Tuning after all... But that can wait until I'm getting paychecks.

Respect Mike Rowe

This video is good. Respect Mike Rowe. And some other people.

Inverse Relationship

As a general acknowledgment of recent inactivity on this blog, I will point out that there is an inverse relationship between the stuff I've got going on and the number of blogs I put up. That's also why my blogs aren't really about anything. Hopefully these things that must be keeping me busy will soon be the subjects of some blogs in the near future. Hopefully I will be putting some pics up on the other blog in the next few days as well.

The Naked Run

I have just returned from my first run in my Vibram Five Fingers, and they were nothing short of spectacular. After wearing them to work for a couple of days, and another day out to eat, I finally took them on their maiden voyage. After researching the consensus on how far to go on the first run, I decided I would run out one mile, and walk the mile back home. Half a mile in I was pretty sure I would run round trip. Two miles is not impressive, but I've been warned about the week long debilitating calf soreness of the first run.

It has been a year this month since I did the Portland Marathon. I'd never really enjoyed running, but found I could enjoy runs up to six miles. More than that and the planning realities of waking up early, going to bed early, planning hydration and the such discouraged me. Furthermore, there was something that never really seemed right about distance running. A year and a half ago I discovered ChiRunning, which made a lot of sense to me, biomechanically, and greatly improved my ability as well as my enjoyment. I went through at least three pair of running shoes, not wearing any of them out, but never feeling comfortable. I felt a sensory disconnect from my feet and the road. I tried buying some Nike Free 3.0's, but was unable to find them in my size. I settled on a close relative, and while an improvement, were still too much shoe.

Somewhere along the way I became interested in the mechanics of barefoot running, but never really considered it as an option, thinking it the domain of hippie running whack-jobs that smelled like B.O. and patchouli oil. I was nonetheless intrigued, and academically curious. Eventually I stumbled across the VFF's, and new I would buy some.

And buy some I did. They do not blend in. Most will stare or ask questions. Opinions are divided. Some say that feet need the support and cushion of running shoes, yet there is no evidence that this is true. In fact their is more evidence to the contrary, if people examine their unfounded truisms. The more cushioned the shoe, the harder the foot hits the ground. When I would run with my roommate, he would hit the ground harder than me, although I outweighed him by fifty pounds.

What happened next was just like I expected. I ran, and did not fight my shoes. I did not find my shoes fighting me. I have not run more than two miles since last year's marathon, and have not enjoyed any of those infrequent runs. But today, in the first day of my experiment on myself, I enjoyed running. I have been having the armchair runner debate about form and technique for some time, and am now turning myself into my own guinea pig.

Right now barefoot running is getting considerably more press. I have Born to Run by Christopher McDougall right in front of me. The websites below offer more information on barefoot running and Vibram Five Fingers.

birthdayshoes.com

livingbarefoot.info

Hazard of deceptive advertising of athletic footwear.

The Return

Well, after being plagued by writer's block for over a month, finally something amazing happened. Before I get your expectations all in a tizzy, let me just say that it was amazing like my fingernails. After having nothing extraordinary happen for some time, there was a chain of events worth sharing.

First, on Monday, I finally called the Northwest in my first proactive move to leaving this smog-infested cluster-f*%& that is the Inland Empire. It felt good to finally do more than daydream about it.

Secondly, tonight on the way home from work I stopped by Albertsons, which has been hanging on by a thread. In an unexpected surprise, I was greeted right inside the doors by a single four-pack of Ciabatta sandwich bread. I almost avoided a Rachel Ray experience, but was ambushed at the olive oil section by her f'ing Rachel Ray EVOO. I didn't have to hear her say it or anything, so everything worked out okay.

Third, and this was a near miss, I was finishing my day at work I was kind of noticing that my shoelaces were loosening. I didn't really want to do anything about it, so let it go. I noticed again in the grocery store, but pressed on in spite of it. I thought the knot might make it until I got home. About 60 feet from the front door the right gave way. The left held on, loosened, but intact. Upon entrance into our ghetto castle a quick shake of my foot freed my foot. The left required a slight bump on the back of the heel.

It was instantly apparent to me what I must do. In spite of the variables involved, I must try to tie my shoes every morning with the intent that they loosen right at the moment I intend to remove them. If I pull it off for real, it will be legendary. I wear slip-on shoes about half the time, and often go days without a proper shoe or laces to tie, so my chances are likely reduced against a more frequently shod competitor (should someone want to try to accomplish this feat before me).

This brings me to another exciting event. After much internet research on Vibram FiveFingers, I tried some on. Their unique fit necessitated trying them on for size, but as recent demand has exceeded supply, they did not have a desired size/style/color combination in stock. They were ordered that night from the website, and I expect them this Friday, which will surely inspire another post.

Jerseys

Football season is pretty much here, and I am excited. In a couple of weeks I will probably come to the realization that my team, the Raiders, will suck hard yet again, but for now the chance at a fresh start brings hope.

I wish that with this fresh start I could also have hope for people. I wish I could trust that people would have better taste than to wear jerseys all throughout the season. Sadly, I doubt much will change. To be fair, there are appropriate times and places for fan jerseys.

You get a pass on Sunday, but only if you're watching a game. If you're making a trip to the store to buy some nacho cheese before the game, that's okay, but only if it's Sunday morning. The Saturday afternoon jersied grocery run is in poor taste.

If you are a child, you get a pass throughout the week. We live vicariously through you. If you are in your 30's wearing a Terrell Owens jersey on a Tuesday, there are few forgivenesses. Come to think of it, if you're anybody wearing a Terrell Owens jersey, even on Sunday, you've probably got a screw loose.

If you're at the game, I strongly support you wear a team jersey, and at the very least, the colors. But listen, if you're going to wear a Broncos jersey to the Black Hole in Oakland you probably deserve what's coming to you. You might end up with an infamous Darwin Award.

This transgression is not limited to football. A worse offender is probably basketball. I can't really think of a time when wearing a team basketball jersey is appropriate. Not even one. Now, I can't explain what I'm doing with a retro Kings Mike Bibby jersey, but I can tell you that I have never once worn it. I like that it is in my closet. I have no intention of getting rid of it, just as I have no intention of wearing it.

Look, I wouldn't say I know all about social identity theory as it pertains to team sports, but I get what's going on there. I, too, am a part of it. I might even buy a jersey someday, to be worn only at the appropriate times. And as I wrap up, consider those with their favorite team's emblem tattooed on themselves. Wild stuff. Fortunately, the ones I have seen the most have been Raiders tattoos. And that's good, because the Raiders have the most bad-ass uniforms in pro-sports. That's pretty much irrefutable. The end.

Two Strikes for Albertsons

Albertsons is really living on the edge with me. For the last fifteen months it has been my go-to grocery store, mostly for it's proximity. At only 1.5 miles from the house it is pretty much too close to avoid.

To be clear, Albertsons is no Whole Foods. It is nothing to get excited about. But, fickle as I am, it has been disappointing me. First strike against, is that they never have Ciabatta bread. They've got some impostor, which calls itself Ciabatta, but is like a loaf. There's a sandwich that I like to make and it really requires a sandwich sized square. If they came through and got me some good bread I would gladly remove the first strike.

The second strike, and one which I will not be so quick to forgive, is what they've got playing on their televisions throughout the store. I am often tortured from above by none other than the one-and-only Rachel Ray (see how I really feel about her here). Kind of makes me want to put the earphones in, preferably with some Rage Against the Machine. Loud.

To be fair, I don't see a third strike on the horizon. As it is, I will probably keep doing the majority of my grocery shopping there. One positive, is that it forced me to learn my roommate Luke's phone number, so I can reap the club savings. But that's about the only plus.

Nordstrom Part 2

A couple of days ago, Sunday to be exact, I went out to grab some lunch with the roommate (the one with a girlfriend) and his girlfriend. This turned into a lunch/shopping/movie day, which turned out pretty well. We ate at Carino's, which was alright, but had the worst Caprese salad ever. The tomatoes were cut too thick, and were pretty much like apples, so that was a bust.

After lunch we headed to Nordstrom Rack, which was really my first time. While there I realized a new level of the trickery of Nordstrom. I have grown somewhat fond of Faconnable shirts, although they are on the upper end of my price range. Well, here at the Nordstrom Rack is a whole display (I don't know what they're really called) of Faconnable shirts, some marked down over $100. This can still leave a $70 shirt, but questionable logic says that this is a remarkable deal that you cannot pass up.

This is when it occurs to me how brilliant the arrangement is. You keep your A-team (the hot girls) at the full-price store with the B-deals, and put the B-team (less-hot girls. Okay, plain...) at the store with the A-deals. Either way, as the male consumer, you are nearly defenseless. You will buy. I'm really at a (hopefully temporary) loss at how to combat this, short of avoiding the store completely.

Please share some wisdom with me if you have any suggestions.

The Birthday Girl Eats Her Wings

This was amazing.  A month or so ago, while out to eat at a usual pizza joint, I laid down a challenge for our friend Daisy.  If she could eat her buffalo wings with her hands behind her back she stood to make $150.  She declined.  Then she regretted it.  A date was set.  She was to make her attempt on 6/28.  Her birthday.  And while we tried to get the pot up to $200, she had to settle for $183.  

The restaurant staff had been expecting this, and actually made it a little easier by serving the wings on a plate instead of the usual bowl.  They also rolled the wings in dressing.  Earlier, various dudes had offered to do it, but since we are generally foul, dirty bastards this could not stand.

Sunday comes, and Daisy arrives with her hair pulled back, obviously not wanting to get wings in her hair.  What I thought was funny was that she was wearing a nice white shirt!  Mario bailed her out with an over-sized polo shirt, so don't knock her for her style.

The following video has slightly edited/shortened for the purposes of fitting on Youtube, so the nervous anticipation is lost, but their are almost ten minutes of highlights.  Pretty much everyone had left the restaurant at this point, so it wasn't too publicly embarrassing.  We started off with my camera on a tripod, and things were going well for the first eight minutes or so, then the media card was full.  Fortunately, the new iPhone came to the rescue and finished the documentation of this momentous occasion.  That, in turn, forced me to play with iMovie, which was new, so don't expect a polished job...

In the end, Daisy was a champion, finishing her wings.  A feat made more impressive in that she never finishes them.  I am not making anymore birthday food challenges for awhile, but now that it is documented on this blog (and here at Youtube for a larger viewing experience), it was money well spent.  

During the meal, somebody asks what made me think of this.  It got me thinking about the weekend I graduated from PT school.  We were down in Pasadena walking around Old Town, and a pan handler asks my dad for some change.  Before I know it, my dad is making up some B.S. story about how another guy down the street was doing tricks for money, and was demanding that this guy sings or dances or something.  The next thing I know, the guy is putting on a little show, and earns himself ten bucks.  Brilliant.  I couldn't have pulled that off, but I guess it stuck in the noggin somewhere.

So, happy birthday to Daisy, you're a champion, and you totally earned it.