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.

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.

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.

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.

A 3 Fingered Christmas

It was a great Christmas except for a sore elbow received while "bowling" on my grandson's Wii. I cannot be the only person who sees the irony in this. I long for the days of real bowling. The smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and ugly shoes. The thrill of trying to find a bowling ball that actually fit my hand and didn't weigh, seemingly, 200 lbs. *sigh* But now real activites are replaced by video game replicas. We're doomed. (I shouldn't complain, I can't hold a regular bowling ball now, anyway. I just wanted to whine.)

I did a quick Desert Classic, at South Mountain, ride on the Specialized after work on Christmas Eve. I guess I should have cleaned and lubed the bike after the 24 hour race in early November. It made a lot of noise. Or, maybe those were just squeals of protest caused my the weight of my massive mid-section. Small planets have been known to be drawn into it by its strong gravitational pull. I have, also, finally killed my rear Crossmax wheel. It is worn out after 5 hard years of use. Now I get to build those Chris King's I have been dreaming of. I have the hubs. Just need the rims.

My X-Mas present to myself was a nice 5k run in the cold rain Christmas morning. Fun, fun, fun!!! I at least "earned" the right to drink all the Hoegarden I wanted that afternoon. Well, three at least. I also needed the alcohol to dull the pain in my upper lip. While putting on my arm warmers my hand slipped and I smacked myself in the mouth. Not hard enough to see stars but enough to make my eyes water.

A buddy from Flag, Marc, came down to see his girls for Christmas and we ended up doing Desert Classic Sunday afternoon. For someone who doesn't ride as much as he wishes he could, he is super strong. I dreaded the ride a bit since I was forced to ride the single speed due to the other bike's wheel issues. I held my own, though, and actually put a bit of hurt to him. What a change. Last time I rode with him I coughed up a kidney. Oh, my lip was sore again. My hand slipped while I was putting on my arm warmers and...well you know the rest. Santayana said that those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. Who am I to argue? I'm doomed and I didn't even forget.

Well, on to 2009.....Will there be more 3 Fingered Moments? I'm doomed.

Another 3 Finger Moment and Other Stuff

I went to the post office to mail a couple of letters and somehow found myself at the drive through book return at the library read to dump the letters. Fortunately I caught myself in time. I wish I could say that weighty matters caused me to make this mistake, but no, just a Three Fingered Moment.

I've heard some grief from male co-workers and friends about my last post that refers to a study showing French men require the largest condoms in Europe. These people say that the French lied, or exaggerated, the size of their, um, assets. I disagree. When I mentioned that the average size was claimed to be only six inches, almost invariably everyone replied with, "Well, that's a size Small here in the U.S. of A." Who's exaggerating now I ask?

The Colon and Rectal Center of Arizona has either the best or worst name ever for their website. Kolonokopelli.com. The logo is Kokopelli's cousin blowing into....well you just need to see it yourself. Kudos for their imagination. I am tempted to run away with this, but I am sure I would be told to just blow it out my @$$.

Here is a picture of the newest addition to the household, Stella Fitzgerald. She is an adoption and has quickly made herself the queen of the house, if not the globe.

I finally took my first run since being sick at Thanksgiving. The first 100 meters were smashing. The rest of the run was a complete suffer-fest. I am turning into a complete weenie. I better get cracking with the training. Keir signed us up for a Duo in February's 24 Hour of Old Pueblo. I stunk up both 24 hours I did this year and don't want that trend to continue.

It's Twue, It's Twue!!!

Thanksgiving Day has come and passed and I have finally recovered from the past week's intestinal adventures. One news item which helped my recovery was a report from Reuters that stated The Institute for Condom Consultancy has found French men require the biggest condoms in Europe. This statement raises (no pun intended) no questions or surprise from me. My friends have always told me us French are the biggest pricks in the western world. I think they are just jealous.