Author: Brian

In reference to my reference to a deli of a certain name, I present Coolio doin’ what he do.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxF-ImXaUdE&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&hd=1]
Now it’ll be stuck in your head, too, probably.

I did not even attempt to eat Taco del Mar’s Five Pound Burrito.

My friends at the store on MLK were disappointed I didn’t even come in to try. It wasn’t that I was scared. I just didn’t know. Yes, that’s it: I just did not know.

They told me that it was huge, the size of a small baby. Which somehow makes it less appealing, don’t you think?

I have never eaten something so big. My friends at the store told me that if someone could have eaten it in 30 minutes or less, it was free. Seems like a dangerous way to save a few bucks, huh?

What’s the largest thing you’ve ever eaten?

She came down from the Upper World, which is what we techs in the basement mockingly called the floors of the building above us. She came with a simple request.

“Can you open my box?”

Just hearing her ask that made me giggle inside like a boy just entering puberty.

No ordinary box, this was made of that special plastic that is pliable, barely, but strong enough to deflect any naked attempts to pierce or separate it. And there was a strange metal rivet through one corner, that looked as though removing it might cause the two halves of the box to fall apart. The strange metal rivet, too, was impervious to anything short of a drill.

Even though she worked in Information Technology, apparently this box had so stumped her that she sought help. And when she needed help, she sought out us: the techs. The support guys. The “help” desk.¹

At first I felt a bit condescending towards her for lacking wit greater than the designer of the box. As my co-workers contemplated strategies for penetrating this precious package, however, I gave a grudging gradual respect to the makers of this product, who had so cleverly prevented four adult, technically-savvy and educated customers from getting at the contents for which substantial money had exchanged bank accounts.

The box was, of course, a Microsoft product.

¹ We were called the “help desk” even though we did not take phone calls, and some of us weren’t even repair technicians, and the actual Helpdesk was a separate box on the org chart, managed by a completely different manager, and located in a building several miles from where we were located.

“C’mon, Max! Whoo!” I yelled as Max stepped into the batter’s box.

My youngest nephew was up for his second at-bat of the game. Normally #6, today he wore #2 because he’d forgotten his shirt.

Bottom of the fifth, only one out so far. The score stood at 6-5; Max’s team was behind by one run.

Max’s mom (my sister) and his dad also cheered him on. The three of us sat behind the plate, protected by a chain-link cage from any stray balls. The afternoon was warm and bright, a perfect spring day.

Max does this slow bat-waving thing as the pitcher winds up. He claims it distracts them. The pitcher released, and Max swung, just a bit low and late, and the ball tipped off and behind into the cage.

“Swing sooner!” dad called out.

“Atta boy,” I yelled.

“You can do it!” my sister, his mom, said.

The runners at second and third stepped back to their bases. The pitcher wound up again. Max did his slow-bat-wave-thing again. The pitcher threw, and Max hauled off at swung…

The bat and ball connected with the thunk of aluminum meeting horsehide, and the ball drove hard and to Max’s (and our) right.

We held our breath.

The first baseman watched the ball and took a few steps back. The pitcher ran over to his left. The right fielder ran in and towards the baseline. The ball curved out and landed clearly out of bounds.

“Foul!” cried the umpire.

Everyone returned to their places: runners, basemen, outfielders, pitcher, umpire, and Max. Me and Max’s parents hadn’t moved so we stayed put.

Max tapped the base with his bat, lifted it up, began his slow-bat-waving-thing. The pitcher took a signal, unseen by me, from the catcher. Everyone tensed.

Pitcher threw. Max swung. Bat and ball thunked.

Ball flew out and to Max’s (and our) left, right in the gap between left and center field. Both outfielders were late getting to it.

Max ran for first. The runner at second sprinted for third. The runner at third sprinted for home, easy and safe.

The score was now tied.

When the other runner reached third, he looked over his shoulder and saw the ball, thrown towards first, and kept going for home. Which he reached.

Max’s team now led.

By the time the ball got to the first baseman, Max was several steps past it and heading towards second, which he reached safely.

Max was the hero of the game. His parents and I cheered and cheered. The other team’s audience was silent, frowning.

A perfect baseball afternoon.

I keep reading on Twitter this morning that today is “Star Wars Day”.

It’s May, and I definitely associate May with “Star Wars” movies, considering that all of them opened Memorial Day weekend. But Memorial Day isn’t for another couple of weeks. What gives?

If puns are the lowest form of humor, if the proper response to a pun is a groan, not a laugh, then you will understand why I groaned when I made the connection between today and “Star Wars” – just as soon as you make the connection, too.

After last week’s server issues, which you may or may not have noticed, as of oh about the next hour or so I will have moved everything back from the mirror server to the primary server, and updated the DNS, and done all that back end magic that needs to happen.

I think I’ve fixed everything but in case you, the reader, sees any weirdness, feel free to let me know.

No comments needed on this post since it’s just a housekeeping one. Thanks for reading.

Saturday morning, pre-run:

Lindsey, knowing I planned a long run today, looked at her calendar. On there (as there was on mine) was an appointment for Sunday 24 May 2009 for “Brian runs the Helvetia Half Marathon”. I had asked her, a couple of weeks ago, if she would be my “support crew” for my first half marathon, said support consisting of getting me to the race, and being there at the finish line to cheer me on. I hadn’t entirely decided I was going to do it, but having someone else involved helped ensure that I would carry out the plan.

“Honey,” she said, “if you run 11 miles next weekend, you could have a two-week taper before the half on the 24th.”

“I can’t run 11 miles next weekend,” I replied, “because I’m running the 12K Lake Run that weekend. That’s 7-point-something miles.”

“Well,” she suggested, “You could run 11 miles today, then run the race next weekend, and still have a good taper before the half.” Runners (which Lindsey was at one time), refer to half marathons as just “halfs”. It’s jargon-y.

“Wow. 11 miles?” I had trouble wrapping my head around the idea that I was anywhere near ready for an 11 mile run.

“But you just ran 9 miles two weeks ago,” she said, encouragingly.

“Well… sure. But…” I didn’t know why it seemed like so much further. It was only 2 miles more than my last long run. Maybe it was the jump to double-digits.

“You could totally do it,” Lindsey said.

I spent the rest of the morning motivating myself, and preparing for, an 11 mile run.

Saturday afternoon, post-run:

My sister, along with her husband and my youngest nephew, were over at my apartment. She was picking up her laptop, which I had spent the previous day cleaning up because I am such an awesome brother.

“I ran 11 miles today!” I announced proudly.

“Wow! I can’t imagine it. What’s it like to run for 2 hours straight?” she said.

“I’m preparing for the Helvetia Half Marathon in three weeks. Would you like to come see your brother run his very first one?”

My brother-in-law said, “Where do you go to watch someone run 13 miles?”

My sister asked me when it was, and I told her the date I had marked on my calendar, 24 May. She looked, and said, sadly, “That’s Memorial Day weekend.” They were going to be at their beach house that weekend.

My brother-in-law said, “I don’t think there’s any way we can make it,” but Lisa wasn’t entirely sure. “What time is it?”

So I double-checked the website.

The date listed was Saturday 13 June 2009. Start time was 8 AM.

“What the…? How did I get the wrong date?” I thought about my run today, and the now 6 weeks until the half.

“Oh, no!” my brother-in-law said, amused. “You peaked too soon!“

Life is still going on and is frequently more interesting than the process of writing about it, so I have gone two days without a blog post here.

I’ve got at least one blog post in the works, and had a couple of ideas, but I may or may not get time today to work on them, seeing that I have shopping to do, and I’m planning an 11 mile run later, which will occupy a couple of hours with pre-running planning, the actual run (11 miles at ~11:30 minutes per mile is a long-ass time) and the post-run recuperation and eating and such.

Then I’m spending time with Lindsey this evening, and, well, you can see that my plate for today is pretty full.

At least one of you asked for ocassional shorter posts. This is that post. Don’t say I never gave you anything!

I’m surprised that my post about going to the doctor’s with Lindsey is now officially my most popular post ever, getting a record six comments from six different people (plus one reply to each of them from myself). Apparently falling in love is a great topic for conversation!

I started this blog at a low point in my personal life. My first two posts were about a woman I had dated for a short but significant time, and re-reading those posts now, I can see that I was trying to capture both the good and the bad, the ups and the downs of our relationship.

One of the many themes here has been, for me, the search for a connection. I’ve looked in some unlikely places… wait, I can’t say that, when I know that the “unlikely place” I’m referring to is strip clubs. Strip clubs may not be mainstream and it’s common knowledge that one should not fall in love with a stripper… but many people (men and women both) have figured that they were special enough to beat those odds.

Little do they realize that the best dancers have become “the best” by learning how to make you fall in love with them, even a little bit. I learned a long time ago what the rules are in the clubs, and I learned it the hard way, long before I started this blog. So hopefully my posts reflect that sense of knowing I need to keep my distance, but enjoying the moment and the fantasy. So while I’ve looked for a connection at the tip rails and during the couch dances… I’ve known enough to keep it all mostly in the club.

But that’s not the only place one can make a connection. I’ve found it on MAX trains and buses, in coffee shops and diners and pizza places and music stores, just out doing the day-to-day chores that make up our lives. I’ve looked and found it online.

But except for brief flashes, usually, the connection is momentary. It doesn’t last.

It rarely lasts. I reach out, I take a chance, I talk to strangers, I put a little piece of myself on the line. I get in return, a conversation, a date, maybe two dates. And a story, which has, always come to an end after all-to-short a time.

…or I should say, it rarely lasts. All but one time. This one time. This one time, now, that I’m going through. Lindsey and I have met, and we feel we share a connection, that we are continuing to explore but which surprises both of us with its depth.

And considering the theme of my blog, and how often I have reached out for that sense of connection, feeling it now, with Lindsey… I have considered that this particular arc of my life may be over. I think: is it time to close this blog and move on? Was my “Needles” post the denouement of the story that opened with a broken connection with my previous girlfriend?

Don’t worry, I haven’t run out of topics to write about. And I’m not ending this. But in a very tangible way, I feel as if I have finished a chapter in my life and am moving into a new one.

The connection has been made, and now I get to find out what comes next.

Last night I spent with my girlfriend, and later this morning, at work, I’ve got an all-day training, and it’s not even a training in something fun, it’s a training called “Getting the work done as individuals and teams” (how fun does that sound? Not very! Am I right?) so I don’t have a new post for y’all this morning.

I’ll try to find something funny from this all-day training to share later. Or, y’know, something. Be patient.

Thanks for reading me. While I’m stuck in this all-day training, why don’t you talk amongst yourselves?

I’ll give you a topic: Obama’s first 100 days. What do you think? Good? Bad? A mix of good and bad? Don’t care?

My take in 50 words or less: I wish he’d move faster on getting us out of Iraq, I like his picks for Secretary of Labor and Health, and the Attorney General and other Justice appointees, he’s giving all our money away to Big Finance and I wish he’d stop, and he’s just as bad as Bush on “national security” (surveillance and torture and executive power) issues but I think we can push him via direct activism and through Congress, particularly the House which is the more progressive body. I’m certainly not going to stop pushing on those issues.

…or pick a topic of your own. Just play nice. I’ll respond when I get back; if for some reason I get a ton of comments here, I’ll probably just have one long reply.