Monday, February 16, 2009

More Free Poop!!!

Amy was driving and sent me this picture she took at the corner 7th Street and Glendale, near Sauce Pizza (yummy). Clearly, the Free Poop grafitti we witnessed in the park rest room was no singular event. There is a "Free Pooper" out there roaming our streets right now. What is his/her motivation? Is this a Free Poop movement? Are they stating that our society is constipated morally, or is intellectually coprolitic, and we must induce a spiritual laxative? Do they know of a robin (Turdus Migratorius)named Poop that is being unfairly caged and must be allowed to roam? I want to know!!!!

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

R.I.P. My Little Pinky

Summer's sparkling leaves were just a memory as the three fingered hand walked alone on a cold January night. Cleveland, at 2:00am, is no place to be in winter. Especially when the wind and snow coming off the lake cuts through you like 277 volts of 3 phase power. The three shots of gin were not enough to lessen the despair the hand felt. In a moment of revolutionary esprit it had given the world the proverbial finger and the world had not given it back. The morning of January 16, 1991 had looked grand to the hand. A day which dawned with the luncheon promise, at the China Palace restaurant, of fresh jumbo prawns flown in from New York. Some call it fate, some call it bad luck, but the hand never made that lunch. And after January 27, 1991 its pinky would never be seen again......

Ode to a Pinky
In pinky heaven do you stand
singing pinky psalms?
Do you gaze upon this mortal hand
with too few fingers and slender palm?

It was 18 years ago today when Dr. Hand (no kidding) filleted my poor little finger. Happy anniversary little finger. I miss you so. I still get questioned about the truth on how I lost my little finger. To tell the truth, it has been such a long time and I have lied about it so much I have forgotten the true story. I can no longer vouch for the veracity of any tale concerning its disappearance. Some say it still haunts the halls of Cleveland Clinic, scratching the ears of unsuspecting researchers. Others claim it wanders the Southwestern desert searching for its lost hand and at night when the wind whistles through the trees you might hear its plaintive cry. I hear that its story is told around campfires to scare the young, "And all there was left was a bloody pinky hanging on the car..."

Ode to a Pinky Two

There is sweet joy in my memory
when my gaze does softly linger
upon the empty space
where dwelt my little finger

Why take such a morbid glee
at what is considered painful?
I would simply say to you
self-pity is not gainful

Yes, yes, I admit it freely
There are things sorely lacking
no more five fingered chords
since the surgeon went a-whacking

But as you can plainly see
its loss I do not rue
because the notoriety I have gained
is owed to a pinky, too.
Requiescat in Pace little buddy
February 1958 - January 1991

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Don't Eat at joe's, Eat At Lupe's!!!

Keir, Lee, Bjorn, and I went down and pre-rode the Old Pueblo 24 Hour course today. I haven't been riding and my expectations were very low. Wow, a great ride in great weather. I think it was the best I've ridden there in a couple of years even with my extra weight. Maybe the curse of Ohio Bob from a couple of years ago is gone.

The best part of the day was eating lunch at Lupe's at Oracle Junction. Huevos Rancheros, with vegetarian beans and a couple of Bohemias. It was as close to heaven as one could be. I know where my pre-race dinner is going to be and the post one as well.

Friday, January 23, 2009

Let the Pre-Race Taunting Begin

I had oral surgery this week. The doctor had a hard time getting the sutures done. He said I had the toughest tongue he had ever seen. My tongue responded with what I can only say was a Tourette's moment. I hate it when I can't control my tongue.

At least my legs quickly recovered from the PF Chang's 1/2 marathon. I've only run once since before Thanksgiving and that was on X-Mas day so I was very slow. But, it turned out to not be hard at all ...much. But do I really want to hear High School cheerleaders encouraging us along the route? I really hate it when I can't control my tongue.

Now on to the 24 Hours of Old Pueblo. Cesar D has thrown down the gauntlet and has initiated a bet with Keir and I that he and Lee are going to do more laps than us. Nothing worse than a divorce between ex-teamates turning ugly. I say bring it on. Some words have been tossed back and forth to heighten the competitive spirit. I am normally above such childish behavior but the race for them will be a marathon of fear...a universe of pain. Nothing can stop Keir and I. We are invincible. We are Doom itself. Of course, we have to actually finish the race this time. Since Cesar stuck some whacko namd Bob the Knob with us in the 2007 24 OTOP we have been cursed in the following few 24 hour races with terrible bad luck. But this is a new year.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

A New Movement?

While on a bike ride with Amy over the weekend the following graffiti was found above the door of a North Phoenix's parks' restroom. It was the only graffiti on any wall and it was about 2 feet above the doorway.

Note the broad and confident strokes that form the letters. Also, the addition of the exclamation point. The fact that these words are the last thing the reader sees as he leaves the peace of the Sancto Sanctorum that is the restroom and re-enters the world is very meaningful. This is no simple, childish comment, my friends, but a powerful philosophical statement of man's relationship, and level of self identity, to the universe. Keirkegaard stated, "Poop is subjectivity." He felt the human condition is influenced most by the questions pertaining to an individual's spiritual relationship to poop and its existence.

Amy noted the existential tenor of the phrase. She felt the author was using the concept of poop to bring some sort of meaning to an absurd world. Sartre tackled this question in 1943 when he wrote L'Être et le Néant du Caca (Being and the Nothingness of Poop). Although it might be argued that he was influenced by the Phenomenological viewpoint of poop as proposed by Edmund Husserl in his 1901 treatise, Logische Untersuchungen der Scheißhaufen (Logical Investigations of Poop). Huserrl wished to free poop from conventional psychological structure and studied the effects of one's thoughts upon real poop or even the ideal poop as imagined in the subconscious. He attempted to objectively study poop through the subjective lens of our experiences. This led to the philosophical study of Phenemonopoopology.

Ludwig Wittgenstein, in the preface to Tractactus Logico-Faeces, say, "The whole sense of the poop might be summed up in the following words: what can be said about poop at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence." He formulated his thoughts in a series of propositions, or poopositions as they were colloquially referred to. I am also told what was passed in silence was not easily forgotten.

I believe the writer is commenting on the question of determinism versus free-will in the nature of poop. One could argue that poop comes and goes as it wishes and it controls its own destiny. It has free-will, so to speak. But the very act of our knowing (if you consider our body as an outside observer in the body/poop relationship) then us having that knowledge actually determines the actions of the poop. It will go as determined by our knowledge and therefore, it is predestined to follow its path, though unconscious of any outside influence.

It might be Marxist in nature. Poop is the opiate of the masses.

It is meaningful that this cry of humanity is written above the door to be seen as we exit to the world. Are we, the viewer, the symbolic poop? Must we free our inner poopiness from the norm, from the conventions of an absurd and often meaningless world? To be poop in a world of roses. Would poop by any other name smell the same? Is it a sign of a new poop movement bringing Hope and Change?

I am going to continue to ponder the statement. I believe there are some interesting ideas that might be found from looking at this from a quantum mechanics viewpoint. But, I promise to keep all this to myself.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

The Torch of Superiority Meets Its Match

I hate confrontation, arguments, and the like with the moronic. My latest occurrence with this unpleasantness took place tonight as I tried to enjoy some cheese pizza from a "national chain". I like to put crushed red pepper on these slices because the added zip covers the blandness of the cut-rate ingredients. My taste buds and stomach usually thank me for this action. Last night, however, the pizza, being from a cheap delivery chain as I said earlier, felt I was disparaging its quality by the liberal addition of spiciness. It felt I showed no respect for it (it was New York style. It would have grabbed its "pepperoni" while talking but it had none to grab). My food therapist tells me that cheap pizzas, and food in general, from humble environs are usually a bit sensitive to commentary made regarding their taste worthiness. It has something to do with their self actualization. (I do agree with this assessment. Proof being in that the last time I lowered myself to drink a mainstream American "quality" lager from St Louis, I made disparaging remarks in comparison of its quality versus that of my normal libation from Belgium. It responded, as those from the lower classes often do when faced with superior verbal skills, by attacking me physically. In this case by spraying me with the contents of its container.)

Last night the first pizza slice engaged in a verbal battle with my stomach about class distinction and the intolerance of plebeian food products by hoity-toity organs. My stomach would have turned up its nose, if it had one, at the pathetic attempts of this cheesy product to justify its lack of taste, but a second slice soon joined the fray. At first my stomach, and myself, laughed at the obviousness of the tactics shown by the slices. When faced by an opponent of greater intellect, the masses usually resort to higher volume and more noise in an attempt to shout down the voices of reason. In order to, as my friend Chuck Dryden, would say, "To extinguish the Torch of Superiority."

I have to admit, though, the battle was lost when the third slice jumped in and pointed out that the very crushed red pepper seeds I was applying to it were of the lowest quality possible. At that point, my body's gag reflex kicked in and my stomach, in an extreme moment of panic, responded to the pizza with what I can only describe as a very low-brow riposte. Thankfully the Torch of Superiority had already been extinguished so damage was easily contained.

After a bit of reflection I can only conclude that I really hate it when my food disagrees with my stomach.