Author: Bukkhead

I'm the writer here.
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A 3 Mile Run

Yesterday’s run followed (mostly) a 5K route I traced back when we first moved into this house six years or so ago. I say mostly because this time I added a littler spur. Usually I start on 1st and head south; today I trotted down Roosevelt to 3rd, and then 130th back to 1st and then south.

The goal was to run slow, again, and monitor that foot ache. This route has two places to stop and wait for traffic, when I across Aurora, twice. As soon as I started down Roosevelt I realized my error: another convenient stop is after only a quarter mile, crossing 130th itself. A quarter mile and then 30 seconds of standing is not a bad little wake up. Oh well.

On the headphones: The Sound Defects, mellow tunes for a mellow run. I turned left at 1st ave and down towards Corliss. This goes down to 122nd, and past Burke to hit mile 1. My watch said 9:07 at this point, which was too fast. I did have that foot ache, but it wasn’t as bad, maybe since I’d had more movement earlier in the day, maybe because I loosened my shoes a bit.

Continuing on 122nd to Densmore and back up to 125th, which completes the lower half of Haller Lake. And then up to Aurora- up in the sense that it’s a couple blocks of 3% grade and one at 5%. But like I said, there’s the traffic stop at the top. 30 seconds later I was running past Krispy Kreme.

A right turn onto the Interurban trail, another sharp but short uphill section, and then I crossed 130th where the trail is now on Linden Ave. Here’s the end of mile 2, and if we adjust for the Aurora pause, I’m still running below 9:10. So much for my “mellow” music.

Up Linden- climbs to the highest point of the run at about 14st street. I made the right turn onto 143rd, and then another pause at Aurora– but traffic was light, and the pause was all of four seconds.

Across, down, and Roosevelt, a right turn. The three mile mark is just past Ashworth, 9:09 for this mile. But I was feeling perky. El Chupacabra was on my headphones, so I just went with it. Up and down Roosevelt, across 1st, and home.

3.6 miles when all was said and done, which is not a 5k at all, is it. Close enough.

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A 4 Mile Run

Went for a run today, starting off heading north on 1st ave. This is not an uncommon road for me; it starts with the most miniscule rise, then drops a bit to 145th, and then a lot to 155th, where I hit the one mile mark. 145th is a bit of a busy road, and depending on time of day and how long my run is going to be, I’ll either stop and wait for the walk signal, or run up 145th a bit until there’s a gap in traffic. Today I did the latter.

Bluetooth bone-conducting headphones playing Emancipator (moody DJ type music), to encourage a slower run. Phone on my arm, using Runkeeper, so I can get those 5-minute updates. These are useful if I’m trying to run “slow” because if I don’t check in I tend to speed up.

Relatively, of course. I realize running 9 minute miles instead of 9:30s is hardly “speeding” up. But if I run too fast, my feet start to slide around in my shoes, and it takes longer for my legs to recover. I need to log some miles for the next 7 days, since Ragnar is in two weeks.

At 155th I made the left turn, to Meridian, and the up to Ashworth. And I do mean “up.” That’s a 7% grade over almost a quarter mile. On a very good day I can trot up it and lose only about 15 seconds per mile. Today was not a very good day. But it wasn’t terrible– I’ve had worse.

At Ashworth I went right, to 160th. Lots of huffing and puffing. By this point my feet were hurting pretty bad, something that’s been happening more lately. I want to blame my shoes–andI will– but it’s also that I am spending WAY too much time sitting in my office these days. Also, I could stand to lose ten or twenty pounds. I’ll rationalize it like this: fighting through the pain is good training for future runs where said fight will yield a more triumphant finish.

Yeah. Sure. Anyway. To the Interurban trail, and south on that. Feet and legs feeling better as I finished mile two. Over those bridges, and then the one-third uphill part back to 145th. This is one of those uphill stretches that isn’t so bad, if you don’t let it get to you and don’t attack it too hard. Summer is here, and with it, the various homeless people who hang out along the stretch. I think there’s some kind of social service nearby. And a McDonald’s. But they’ve every right to sit outside and enjoy the sun, and I’ve never known them to be anything but regular people.

At 145th, a left to Aurora, wait for a gap in traffic, then cross. That’s 3 miles done. Drop down to Roosevelt, and the “last hill” of the run. I don’t know where my head was at this time– thinking about my shoes, maybe– but I didn’t even notice it. Down to Meridian, and up again, but this up part really is one of those rises that never feels like one.

And back at 1st ave, 4 miles done. A beer, a shower, some yogurt. Given the aches and pains in my legs and feet, I’ll give this two stars out of five.

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Let’s Blog About Running

I like to write about the video games I play, and very time I finish reading a book I make myself write a review. But Running is a big part of my life, so maybe I should start writing about that. So here goes.

Actually, I used to keep an exercise journal, and that was mostly running. But I’m not the sort of person who keeps up with things. I’m kind of forcing myself here, to be honest. A momentum thing- in as much as gaming, and reading, and running define the bulk of my free time interests, my first out of all them is writing. So, rather than choose one of those over the discipline of putting words on the page, I’m trying to a new paradigm- enjoying things more by writing about them. A win-win, if I can make it work.

So far so good, as they say. I’ve been writing book reviews since at least 2007,, and video-game blogging for almost two years (off and on, but more frequently these last two months). It would be great if writing about running became a habit.

I’ve said it a thousand times, might as well say it again: I’m inspired by materials. I started writing reviews because Goodreads gave me a place to do so, and I started video-game blogging thanks to a new website called Anook. I did try to blog about running, for a bit, at Runner’s World, but that was more about running in general, whereas here I just want to write about the run I just did. That’s a different kind of material to be inspired by- I’ve tried video games just so I have something to write about, and I’ve to try new running routes or races just to keep a blog going.

I use the word “blog,” because I post this stuff online for anyone to read, but really, this is journaling, this is diary-keeping. So be it. And I rarely, if ever, go back and read what I’ve read before. There’s some kind of philosophy there (or psychology), what it means to the reality of an experience to have written about it. I mean, maybe. I’m not sure.

All I know is, I love to run, and I love to write, and I’m going to start making an effort to have those loves augment one another. As experiments go, if it’s successful, I’ll probably get all excited and start blogging about the funny things my nine-month-old son does.

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A Word, and an Opposite Word, Film Title

In [movie title] filmmaker [director] serves up [colloquial adjective phrase] [something good, but in a tone that damns with faint praise] and [another adjective phrase but opposite of the first one] [some vague qualities that movies should have]. That’s certainly [vague or better yet oblique pun on film’s subject] for a [genre] movie set in the world of [film’s subject or setting].

[Director’s last name] ([previous film by director]) is a [remark about visual approach] first and foremost, and s/he never lets the audience forget it. [One word from film’s title] is a monument to h/er/is [phrase about ego], with [some minor non-plot oriented detail from one moment in the movie]. It’s [pithy one-word label]. And the hallmarks of the [label] are [go to visceral description of visuals] that [verb] the eye at first, but then before long [opposite verb] it. It’s a case of [that first adjective you damned with] [adjective suggesting too much or too little].

[Slightly sarcastic compliment for] the work of [cinematographer, photographer, production designer, even second director] [h/er/is or their name(s)] {if said crewperson has wikipedia entry, crib from it}. They’re the true stars of [one word from film’s title], far more than lead actors [catalog of actors].

The stars, playing [some archetype] are there to [box office or public consumption reference] [verb-ing] [something about their faces and/or bodies].

The story: A [stack up adjective] [character identified by trope], [something that either started the film or appears in flashbacks] [something they then do]. Throw in some symbolism [pick something and mansplain it], [some recurring visual] ([pithy one-word reaction], and some [another recurring motiff] ([another pithy one-word reaction]) and you’ve got [this is the only part of the review that will be entirely unique and actually informative].

[David Barry-esque closer. Or just three sardonic words in a row]. Number of stars out of 3.
Italics: Film Title, with list of actors. Directed by director, written by Writer. Xyz minutes. Rated N for things its rated that for. Theater distribution, opening date if still currently limited.

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Do These Pants Make Me Personality Look Fat?

A friend posted some pictures on Facebook and she looked like she had lost some weight.

At first I wanted to make a comment. “Have you lost weight? You look great!”

Then it occurred to me that this friend looked pretty great before, too. Most of my friends look pretty great. Most people look pretty great. Sometimes people get sick, or are going through something, and don’t look so great, but at those times, looks don’t matter.

Then I realized, for the most part, looks never matter. This friend, in a particular, has a heart of gold and is one of my favorite people.

But then I thought, well, all you’re trying to do is make her feel good. You just want to compliment her so she knows you noticed the hard work she (maybe) put into staying healthy.

nice-personality-weight-scaleBecause physical appearance is a socially acceptable topic for comment. Sending someone a comment that says “Hey, just wanted to mention that I saw your swimming-suit pictures and was reminded what a truly wonderful personality you have,” is not only borderline creepy, it has connotations of saying a person is unattractive, ironically!

Then, of course, I decided to say nothing, because who cares if a 44-year-old man thinks someone lost a few pounds?

And after that I got sort of mad that we live in a world where this much thought and anxiety goes into a stupid picture on some stupid social media site.

Then I had a beer and watched you-tube videos of babies playing with puppies, and felt lots better.

What I learned from all of this is that while may I have been socialized to evaluate people by their looks, I still have the choice to articulate that evaluation or not. And that’s where my power lies, that choice. Next time I see that friend, instead of mentioning her weight, I’ll ask her what she’s been up to. I’ll lead the conversation towards exercise or food choices or whatever. I’ll let her say as much or as little as she wants. I’ll tell her I am inspired by her dedication and hard work.

Then we’ll have some beers and I’ll show her those you-tube videos.

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The Gun Industry Rubs Another One Out

A long time ago I read a book about a guy who could stop time (The Fermata by Nicholson Baker). Everyone and everything would freeze, including clocks, and he could walk around and do whatever he wanted. Mostly what he did was grope women and masturbate.

I think the book was supposed to be an extended metaphor about fantasizing. Basically, if someone fantasizes about you, sexually, do you have a problem with that? If a man stops time, grabs your boob, then starts time and never says a thing to you, did he do anything wrong?

Of course he did, some of you say. It depends on if I find out, others say. And the idea is, telling people they’ve been violated is a kind of violation, isn’t it. In the real world, someone could send you a text message, explaining all of the things they think about doing to you. That could be a terrible message to receive.

And while you can make an attempt to block such messages, you can’t block a person from having thoughts. Your only defense against that is to not think about it yourself.

gunder2Here’s my point: I think the vast majority of gun-loving Americans don’t want to think about all of the very rich people getting very much richer from gun sales. They’d rather think about patriotism and rights and freedom instead of imagining a man in a lounge chair in Acapulco masturbating with a fist full of hundred dollar bills.

The trillion-dollar arms business doesn’t care even a little bit if Joe Smalldick in Buttcrack, Idaho is able to exercise his rights, defend his family, or get drunk and kill a couple of brown people.
All it cares about it how profitable mass-shootings are.

And it’s using these gun-lovers to make that money. Money that gun-nuts might otherwise spend on improving their communities, getting educations, paying for healthcare. Can you imagine what life would be like in Buttcrack if, instead of spending millions of dollars on guns, they instead spent millions of dollars on their grade schools?

My point is: if I found out an industry was metaphorically rubbing up against me on a subway and getting off, I’d be mad. Someone needs to tell this people they’re being used.

Then again, the only people they listen to, at Fox, are sporting some turgid members themselves.

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Father’s Day—Ok

me-n-the-kid,-footI’ve never been one much for holidays. It’s not like I hate them, as such, I’m just usually not all that enthused about whatever is being celebrated. I know other people get excited, though, and I’ll join in; I’m a cynic, not a curmudgeon. But for me, by myself, holidays are usually a take-em-or-leave-em kinda thing

This is my first Father’s day as a father. It kind of snuck on me, and true to form, all things considered, it’s really no big deal. I mean, I love my son to pieces. He’s almost nine months old, and he’s wonderful. He’s hilarious and demanding and beautiful and exhausting. All those cliché’s about having kids that make you roll your eyes? Yes, apply them to me. I like being a dad. My boy pushes me to my limits, and those limits have even been exceeded at times, but I’m a dad and that’s a permanent part of my identity now, a title I wear with pride.

I don’t think the title is worthy of a whole heck of a lot of celebration, is all. I mean, every day is a celebration, right? Something like that. As I write this, I’m watching the kid, via baby monitor, roll around in his crib as he decides to wake up. When he does we’ll have some breakfast, play for a bit, take a nap. Then we’ll eat again, maybe run to the store for a few errands, sleep one more time. Another feeding, make dinner, give mommy a hug when she comes home from work. Take another nap, etc.

It’s the etc, you see. Being a father, to me, is the etc. I don’t see the point of celebrating et ceteras. I breathe, and when I go for a run a breathe harder, and when I go to sleep I breathe deeper, but do I celebrate the wonder and joy and pleasure of all that breathing? Nah.

For what it’s worth, along with this being my first father’s day as a father, it’s also my 45th father’s day as a son. I love my dad to pieces, too. He’s my best friend, and like my kid, he’s hilarious. More cliché’s: if my son is going to turn out like anyone, and he turns out to be like his grandad—intelligent, thoughtful, creative, hard-working—well then, I’d say I was an exceptionally successful father.

I totally respect everyone else who wants to celebrate fatherhood today. Whether it’s a companion holiday to mother’s day, or because, let’s face it, not all dads are awesome and the ones who are deserve recognition. I get it and I will click like on all of the Facebook posts. But for me, it’s just another holiday. Just another day. I guess I’m saying I’d rather be happy every day, and when I look at ym son, and think about my own dad, I realize that I am.

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Tales from Halcyon Detectives: Old Masters

fiction by Jason Edwards

The sun rose like it does which makes for a nice start to things, day time and such. But nothing gets started on its own, does it. Sunlight chases away the cockroaches that collect around old ladies and ATMs, but then there’s the heat, and the humidity, and if your my partner, bright ideas about fixing up the place.

I walked into our office, and stumbled over the sheet he’d laid down to protect the floors from paint. “There’s no tarp so deadly as the tarp you set for yourself,”, he said. Suave little schmuck in his pink linen suit.

“You’re hilarious, Hill. What’s with the decor change? One of your divorcees get weepy over the mint green?” I managed to find my desk, my chair, a glass that wasn’t too dirty, a bottle that wasn’t too empty. For now.

He looked at the bottle, the glass, my desk. He avoided my face, which meant he was in a good mood, more or less. He sighed and went back to the roller brush. It’s one thing to throw down a sheet and make with the refurbish. But this guy, in his suit, whistling. And not a drop on him anywhere.

I was in a bad mood myself, however. The little lady back home, getting less little by the day, and with it the hormones and the fun that brings. Fecundity, it turns out, ain’t a dirty word, except it is, if you know what I mean. “You got a problem with my morning ablations, say it.”

He just smiled, tossed a cigarette into his mouth, lit up. Took a big drag, blew it out casually. Shrugged. “There’s no bad ablation. There are only some ablations that aren’t as good as others.” He walked to his own desk, pulled a bottle out of a drawer, walked it over to me.

The good stuff. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, went back to his painting. We worked in silence for a while, me putting receipts against a telefax for a case we had, him with the roller brush and the occasional hummed phrase from an 80s era hip-hop song.

After a bit I put the bottle away, sat up straight, gave my neck a twist and crack. “Well, that’s that then. No matches, not that I can find. If Fenway’s wife is stepping out on him, we’re going to need some other kind of proof. Nothing’s happening with this paper trail.”

“In working a case, when things stall out, just wait for two guys to come through the door with guns,” he said. Which sent a chill down my spine. All the time with the Chandler quotes. Like he was writing this thing, not living it.

“Now you listen to me Hill. I got a kid on the way, I don’t need-” but it was too late. The door burst open, and sure enough, two nasty looking toughs came spilling in, both of ’em armed to cause trouble.

My partner lost no time, dropping into a crouch and ripping up the tarp. The dumb lugs hit the floor, and were wrapped up and tied in a wriggling roll faster than you could say monkey business.  I got up and walked over,  nudged ’em with my toe. We just stood there, hands on our hips, looking at ’em.

“I dunno, Hill. This ain’t got to do with Fenway. I mean, unless his old lady’s stepping with a made guy, but why would a made guy bother?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” One of the toughs said. “We ain’t got anything to do with them guys. Which is why, you let us go now, we don’t have to tell ’em what happened here.”

I knelt down. “And what are you going to not tell ’em, paisan? That you didn’t come in here with your roscoe erect, didn’t get tripped up by a guy painting the walls, didn’t get your asses handed to you out back a few minutes later by a fat old bastard in a Hawaiian shirt?”

“You don’t know who you’re messin’ with,” one of ’em said. “Don Marconi don’t-”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” the other one said.

I stood up. Oh goody. A Don Marconi thing. I went back to my desk, grabbed the phone, and dialed. My partner rolled the two over towards the wall, went back to painting, over a symphony of curses.

“This is Kendrick,” a voice finally said.

“Alfonse. It’s Edwards.”

“I know. Caller ID. Whattayaneed. Someone to drag a coupla scumbags outta your office?”

“You got ESP Kendrick? How the hell-”

“You’re working that Fenway thing, right? His old lady’s putting the horns on him, and Don Marconi’s the hunter. Or something. I’m not the writer– you can’t probably come up with something better.”

“Well how come you never told me?”

“Ask your partner. He said you needed something to write about. Something about old man’s ennui, I dunno. Kid’s got a ten dollar vocabulary, and me with my nickel ears.”

“Tell me about it. Yeah, okay, can you send over a cruiser, coupla boys?”

“Already on their way,” he said, and hang up.

I put the phone down. “Hill. You asshole.” But I had to grin.

My partner just smiled, one foot resting on the jerks in the tarp, cigarette in his mouth, one eye closed against the smoke. Painting. “I can kill time, or kill myself. Time dies better,” he said.

I shook my head. Some guys read too much Raymond Chandler for their own good. Or mine.

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The Odd Spy

writing exercise, 750words.com

fiction by Jason Edwards

A man dressed in khaki chinos and white cotton chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms sits in front of a rickety desk, in a tiny room in a tall building in old San Juan, Puerto Rico. On the desk, a typewriter hulks and a half-drunk Cuba Libra sweats. The air is still. Cigarette smoke hangs. The man gazes out at the Bajo Tablazo, one elbow on the desk, hand up, two fingers up, cigarette contributing to the entropy of the universe in orange embers and a subtle hint of vanilla off the filter. He slides the cigarette into his mouth, closes one eye against the smoke, turns to the typewriter, and fills the room with clacking and clicking.

The page fills with words. It’s the sentence “Look at the frog,” over and over again. Look at the frog. Look at the frog. Look at the frog. His typing pace is a mother and son running in broken gaits across a desert trying to avoid monstrous sand worms. He stops. Typo. Look at the fog. There’s sweat on his forehead, sweat in his armpits, a drop rolls down his back slow enough to give him a chill. A hot, smothering chill. He looks guiltily out the window, then back inside, at the wall opposite.

He picks up the Cuba Libre, brings it to his lips, sets it back down in precisely the same position. There’s no perceptible loss of liquid. The man unrolls the page in the typewrite a bit, glares at that word. Fog. God damn it. God damn it all to hell. In a fit he rips out the page, crumples it, cocks his hand back to throw the wad at the wall opposite the window. Considers the implications. Sighs, and drops the wad at his side.

A fresh piece of paper. He rolls it into the typewriter, twisting it up and down in a complicated rhythm, getting it just right. Gazes out the window again. Ashes his cigarette. He’s avoiding that wall now. He waits.

The view from the window is not exclusively the Bajo. There’s another building, an older one, the top three floors missing. Graffiti, water damage, exposed rebar, grit and dust. Two men in trench coats. Honest to god trench coats. How often does it rain in Old San Juan? How often is it dark? Is it ever cold?

They’re trying to stick to shadows. The man in the room can’t see them, wouldn’t look at them if he could. An old legend that when clipper ships came to the New World, they were so alien the natives literally could not seem them. The man has been in Puerto Rico for about a year, and wouldn’t know a trenchcoat from a suit of armor.

They whisper at each other. Code words and secret phrases. Each has been sent under the impression that the other is a fake spy and will surely know all of the secret words and code phrases. Proof, like a witch who doesn’t drown, of guilt. And then there will be an inspired chase scene. But who is chasing whom.

The man finds a pack of cigarettes in his pants pocket, a lighter worn smooth from a practiced thumb. Lights up. Inhales deeply. Exhales and fills the room with blue. Ashes, puts the cigarette in his mouth, squints, starts typing. Look at the frog, look at the frog. His rhythm is a drunk kung-fu master defeating ruffians.

Guns are drawn. A Mexican stand-off. A common misunderstanding. Puerto Rico is Spanish, not Mexican. The difference is the difference when asking a napkin in America and asking for one in Great Britain. A cruise ship blows her mighty horn, telling her passengers to come back and bring along their touristy knick-knacks and doo-dads. One of the spies is distracted by the sound, enough for the other spy to try and make a break for it. And shoot the other spy too. Neither plan works. And like a thousand music stands ,dropped off a tall building in a performance by a Julliard music student for his senior thesis, will, by mistake in the random cacophony include a spate that sounds too much like a snippet from Beethoven’s Fifth, earning the senor a D-, the spies manage to start an erstwhile and earnest chase through the now rapidly darkening streets of Old San Juan. Why keep the lights on when the tourists are gone.

The man finishes a page of Look at the frogs and starts another one with a practiced and repetitive rhythm of inserting a new blank page. Behind that wall opposite the window, a parabolic mike linked to a sophisticated tape recorder and computer interpret the rhythms of his typing. Ostensibly, they were recording the two spies on the broken rooftop.

The man knows better. Look at the fog almost started World War III.

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A Trip To San Francisco

Discovered in 1776, founded in 1860, and rebuilt from the ashes up in 1906, San Francisco is a city that boasts 50 hills, 6 islands, 2 earthquake faults, and well over a million people in the greater metropolitan area. And even though it’s the second most densely populated city in America, there’s plenty of room for visitors. Thinking about a trip to “The Paris of the West,” the city where Al Capone died, where The Gap (inc) keeps its home office, where the Giants baseball team are ritualistically handed the World Series every year? If so, here are a few tips to help you get the most out of “The City That Knows How.”

  • Be careful you don’t confuse Fisherman’s Wharf, with “Flasherman Warf”, a dude in the Tenderloin dressed like a half naked Klingon from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
  • If you’re going to Alcatraz, get your tickets early. If you’re not going, it doesn’t matter when you get your tickets.
  • The San Francisco National Cemetery is very popular—people are dying to get in there. (Get it?)
  • There’s a zoo in San Francisco. If you’ve never been to a zoo before, than you haven’t been to this one either.
  • Don’t bother bringing an issue of TV Guide on the Cable Cars ‘cause they’re not that kind of cable.
  • Lombard street. Crooked. Lumbar support, so your back doesn’t get crooked. This joke still under construction.
  • The Mission district has good burritos. They’re called “Missionary Style” burritos because even though they’re not exciting, they get the job done. Heyo!
  • Facts: Golden Gate Park is neither golden, has gates, or any good places to put your car.
  • “The Painted Ladies” is NOT a transvestite review, but an area with bunch of houses painted with more than two colors. I know, massively disappointing, right?
  • Transamerica Pyramid, Coit Tower, Grace Cathedral, Palace of Fine Arts Theatre, SF Ferry Building, Golden Gate Bridge: you can buy postcards for these EVERYWHERE.
  • Chinatown allegedly has some very nice restaurants, but none of them are Panda Express, so I don’t know.
  • Haight-Ashbury is where LSD was invented, but I don’t know if it’s worth the “trip.” (Mwaah-mwaaa…)

Yes, a visit to “Frisco” should be on everyone’s bucket list. And when you’re here, be sure to call it “Frisco.” The locals love it when visitors say that. And when they ask for Rice-A-Roni. And when they complain about the cold and the fog and the traffic and your sore aching feet.