Pet Cobra

Distance For Time

Einstein tells us that the faster you go, the slower time goes for everyone else; if, say, you got on the Millenium Falcon and did the Kessel Run in less than, say, 12 parsecs, you'd age nary a moment, while those poor young schmucks that you left back on Tattooine would be collecting their Imperial Social Security checks and bitching about those damn Jawas on their lawns when you returned.

I was thinking about Einstein yesterday as I was running down the Pacific Beach boardwalk. This was a somewhat auspicious occasion; the first real run (i.e., one that involved actual forward momentum and not a treadmill) I'd taken in months, the time I'd run on the Pacific Beach boardwalk in...wow. Years. Although I wasn't moving at my old Barry Allen-esque clip, it was still respectable, all things considered: two miles in 20 minutes. And I actually enjoyed myself; got a taste of that Runner's High, and wasn't in agony upon finishing. (No pain today, either.)

Along the way, I felt time slow around me. The boardwalk was as it was those years ago. There were the frentic skateboarders, and the guys on their laconic fat-tired Beach Cruisers. Surfers with boards tucked under their arms squinted at the horizon. The deck at Lahaina's was packed with late afternoon drinkers, waiting to toast the sunset. It even smelled the same; the scent of the ocean mixed with stale beer, cigarette smoke, and suntan oil. Same as it ever was, a moveable feast that never really moved.

It was a good start; I've a ways to go before I'm back at the level that I was five years ago. If I get back to that level at all. It occured to me, on the drive home, that back then I was more of a running obsessive than an enthusiast; five to seven miles a day, sometimes more, five days a week, sometimes more.  Of course I know why - back then I had a lot to burn, a whole bunch of angst, anger, and regret. That's pretty much gone; yesterday felt like I wasn't running from anything.

Rainout

Listen, I enjoy a Freak Storm as much as the next guy, but yesterday's was ridiculous. The clouds rolled in, and suddenly we're back in February. Thus the kabosh was put on a few things: my planned post-work run down the Pacific Beach boardwalk (disappointment - my work colleagues and I had eaten lunch at World Famous the day before, and I was suddenly seized by Inspiration; I would, as soon as possible, resume one of my all-time favorite pastimes, running down and alongside said boardwalk), any thoughts of surfing this weekend, and most likely the kid's basketball game this morning (this obviously held true, as here I am, kvetching about the rain).

So Winter makes a last ditch effort to stave off Spring. Try as it might, though, warm air and warm water are winning the day. The skies are clearing, and the weather reports indicate sunny stuff for the foreseeable future. We're thinking that this summer here, at our wonderful house on the beach, may be our last; it's time to suck it up and buy something, and "something" in our price range is certainly not within walking distance of the ocean, likely not east of the 5. So it's with mixed feelings that I say goodbye to Old Man Winter; I've lived within sight of the sea for 15 years now. Winter may be ending, but I fear that my personal Endless Summer may also be drawing to a close as well.

The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Said While Under The Influence Of (Insert Substance Here)

"Dude. You know what would taste awesome right now? Chocolate covered....chocolate. "

                                                                                                                                 - some random evening, at our Solana Beach pad, winter, 2001

(ETA, 4/19/07 7:35 PST: Not that I'll ever feel the need to explain anything I put up here, but in the interest of being fair to my thoughtful side, which does occasionally emerge, I wanted to point out a post I did on DadCentric earlier today, yin to chocolate-covered chocolate's yang. A little inanity, especially during a week like this, is sometimes needed.)

Perhaps He Was A Chaplin Fan

When I was a kid, I saw a UFO. No shit. This was during one of our many road trips; we were going from somewhere to San Diego, my parents, sister and I, loaded up in the green and faux-woodie Oldsmobile station wagon, tent trailer in tow, on a lonesome highway stretching through the Arizona desert, under a twilight sky. There, in the distance, we saw them: two impossibly bright balls of blue light, hovering several hundred feet above the sage. Just sitting there. I know what you're thinking: helicopters. Listen, I was an Air Force brat, and I know from helicopters. These were not helicopters. To my eight year eyes, anyway.

Ok, they were probably helicopters. (Probably. Not certainly.) Nevertheless, I maintain a deep-seeded belief in The Inexplicable. (Except for Bigfoot.) There are things in this world that cannot easily be explained. More than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio. Some mysteries run counter to everything that we hold to be true; they cannot be, and yet they are.

Example: yesterday, still numb from my fateful encounter with the folks at H & R Block, I was sitting in traffic with several hundred thousand other people, sharing in the groove of the bitchin' new stereo I'd obtained for the Xterra (an incredibly loud Alpine with an iPod jack - oddly enough, I was rocking out to some Blue Oyster Cult). As I often do, I was singing loudly and looking around at my fellow passengers. There was a blond girl reading a book. There was a landscaper picking his nose. There was a man with a Hitler moustache. There was a woman with a...

Wait.

What?

Did I just say "a man with a Hitler moustache"?

This couldn't be true. I adjusted course and speed to get a better look, to confirm that someone actually had facial hair cut to der Fuhrer's exacting standards. Perhaps I'd made a mistake. Maybe the poor slob had a piece of Pemmican stuck to his his upper lip. It could happen. More believable than someone actually choosing to sport a Hitler moustache.

Nope. It was a Hitler moustache. The guy had a Hitler moustache.

Instantly, my mind went into overdrive. I became dizzy thinking about it. How could it be? He didn't have the haircut. Perhaps he'd managed to live his entire life without ever seeing a picture of Hitler - I've read a shitload of books on WWII, and I don't recall any of them describing his 'stache; it seems that it's generally assumed that people know what Hitler looks like, so maybe this guy had managed to avoid all Hitler imagery. Perhaps he had fallen asleep at his desk during the day, and his buddies had played a cruel prank on him. How does he get dates? (Or maybe he's a Wingman For Life - but that doesn't add up, because you don't want your Wingman to be utterly repellant. Having Hitler Guy in your entourage would definitely not reflect well on you.) Really, wouldn't someone at some point have asked him, "Dude, what gives?"

I watched as Hitler Guy exited the freeway, speeding east toward Rancho Santa Fe. Beyond that lay the hills of Cuyamaca, and if one were to keep going, across the great Atlantic, the green hills of Das Vaterland. I'm haunted by him. Because what a lonely life he must lead, but goddamn, a Hitler moustache?

Top Ten Reasons Why Yesterday Sucked

10. Eight hours spent sitting in an ADP software training class.

9. During the 15 minute break, I set out to buy a grande non-fat no-foam sugar free vanilla soy latte at one of two Starbucks located within walking distance. One was located in the strip mall across the street from the office building where the training was taking place. The other was located in the other strip mall across the street from the training was taking place. I chose poorly. The Starbucks I picked was farther than I remembered, and by the time I realized this 5 minutes had elapsed; it would have taken me 5 to make up that distance, 5 to get to the other Starbucks, 5 to order and receive my beverage, and 5 to get back. Too much time. There was an Einstein's about 2 minutes from the building, but their coffee tastes like someone tossed a urinal cake in the filter basket.

8. During lunch, walked across the street to the Barnes and Noble. Plucked a copy of Cormac McCarthy's (he's a favorite of mine) The Road, which I have not yet read (book snobs, take note: the paperback edition does sport an Oprah's Book Club logo, but it peels off, thus saving you the embarassment of having to explain to people that no, you didn't buy 'cause Oprah told you to, and no, you have no idea where that copy of Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe sitting next to it on your bookshelf came from). Having time to spare, I started reading it in the store. Ten or so pages into it, I stopped. Couldn't do it. Kept seeing the face of my son as I read it. Maybe some day I'll pick it up again.

7. Lunch also sucked. I think the chicken was undercooked.

6. Upon resuming my software training, my left eye began itching. It kept itching for the remainder of the class.

(At this point, you're probably thinking, yeah, not a great day, but dude, others are suffering far more than you. To that I say, wait for it.)

5. That evening, we had an appointment with H & R Block - time to do our taxes.

4. H & R Block charged us $400.

3. We didn't get any money back from the government. As a matter of fact, we owed. A lot. An awful lot. An I'm-pleased-and-proud-I-didn't-throw-up-all-over-the-nice-tax-man-and-fall-to-the-ground-sobbing-like-John-Turturro-in-Miller's-Crossing-when-Gabriel-Byrne-takes-him-out-to-the-woods-to-pop-a-cap-in-his-ass lot.

2. Kurt Vonnegut died.

1. I forget what #1 was. Something about discovering that a giant meteor is heading for earth.

Get Back To Where You Once Belonged

On the surface, it didn't seem like the best day for it - I could feel the breeze from my house, a cold wind that was coming straight off the ocean, a sure sign that conditions were going to be mixed up, blown out, inconsistant, what have you.

Screw it. I went anyway.

One of the things about growing older is that you file away certain truths, and dwell on others. Yes, there's truth to my constantly blaming other things - work, age, lack of daylight, whatever - for my descent from Decent Surfer to Piss-Poor One. One truth that got filed away, though, was this: I used to, as I do now, live within walking distance of the beach, and as such I surfed constantly (and consistantly). Shit, people. Walking distance. When I go to sleep at night I can hear the waves break on the shore. That makes me an extremely lucky guy. Ultimately, that trumps any excuse I might have. Because back when I lived in PB, I'd walk down to beach and surf regardless of how shitty or crowded it was - simply because I could, and because I loved it so. Like the sticker says, back then there were No Bad Days.

So with Lucas down for a nap and Beth chilling on the couch, I suited up, grabbed the Hogfish, and strolled down to Home Break. It was breezy, sunny (but cold), and a bit mixed up, but the occasional ridable wave rolled through; can't say that I caught any (the effects of...well, many weeks out of the water), but I didn't much care. It felt right.

Oddly, the same feeling went through my head as I sent my resignation email to the folks at Strollerderby. Today I submitted my last post to the site; writing for the site was fun, but it wasn't me. I'll have more time and energy to devote to other things, like this site, DadCentric, and another writing project that I've put off for far too long. This also feels right.