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You Gotta Run Slow

Posted this over at Runner’s World, just for the heck of it…

Bit of background: always wanted to run, usually hated it: lungs, blisters, etc. Finally read No Need for Speed, realized slow running was just fine. Finally found out about non-cotton socks. Finally found a way to run and not hate it. Been at it now 4 years, 3600 lifetime miles, one marathon, dozens of halfs, currently 40 years old, 5’8” 185 lbs, etc. I’m so average, I make vanilla look exotic.

Back when I got started running I aimed for 10-minute miles. Longer runs dipped into the 11:30 per mile range at the end, and I could scorch a 5k at 9:45 per if I didn’t mind resting a few days after. I never really tried to “train” for speed—I was just trying to stay on the road longer, if I could. I remember the first time I ran for 75 continuous minutes. Almost  7 miles! It was glorious. Almost as glorious as the beer I had afterwards. Okay, fine, beers.

Books and magazines recommended so-called “Tempo” runs, but frankly, I was baffled. How do people know what pace they’re running at? Is there really that much difference between 10k pace and half-marathon pace? Can a person really know that they’re running at “10 seconds less than 5k pace.” Ah well. I was just in it for sweat and the excuse to listen to loud music in my iPod. On good days I might have been able to say “I finished that guitar solo one telephone pole earlier than usual, hmm…”

I figured I’d just log a few thousand miles and see what happened. And what happened was that I did get faster, of course. I live in Seattle- it’s hard to not run up hills here. And hills just make you faster. And running longer, naturally, makes you faster. And I started running more consistently, too. Instead of a run starting around 9:30 per mile and ending around 11:30, I was better able to stay within 30 seconds or so of per-mile variance. Not an elite achievement, to be sure, but the mark of a little road experience.

Unfortunately, when I say  got faster, I got only faster. It got to the point where a 5k run or a 10 mile run was at about 8:45 per mile, give or take.  No matter what. (I know this isn’t really “fast.” I ain’t qualifying for Boston at that speed.) I still had no idea how people were able to know the difference between their various tempos.

And I was so in love with running. I wanted to do more than 15 miles per week, but I just couldn’t manage more than three days out of seven. Maybe four every once in a while. More than that and I was getting overuse injuries. It was very frustrating. Yes, I was faster, but I felt like I was back at the drawing board.

So one day, I decided, if I’m back at the beginning, I’ll start over. Why not? Why not run slow, like I used to? Yes, when I started, a 5k was a marathon. So I’d try running at my old pace. I went out and did 5 miles at about 9:45 per mile. It was tough, forcing myself to slow down. Had to put slow songs on my iPod, songs I’d never run to before. I am living proof one can run while listening to Adele. Not ashamed to say it.

And I tried running slow again the next day. And then a third day. No soreness, no fatigue. I decided to take another page from the conventional wisdom, and force myself to rest one day. But after that, I did another three-day mini streak—and two of those days where back-to-back eight milers! I had run six days out of seven, and covered three times as many miles.

So here I am, falling in love with running all over again, and logging more miles, more days. I’ve got way more songs that are run-appropriate now to try out. And since more running means I get to drink more beers, I’m thinking this “run slow” thing is actually a gift from the Heavens. Lotterty, schmottery. I got my miles!

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Couldn’t Disagree More, Runner Ted

Over at Runner’s World Ted Spiker’s written a little ditty about being true to himself, and not letting summer indulgences ruin his goals. Getting in his runs and not letting the weather stop him, not eating too much. Good for him. But I couldn’t disagree more.

Let me quote the lad:

Manage Indulgences: Vacations should be fun and relaxing and, at times, rule-breaking. But you’ve got to get out of your mind the fact that a couple of bites of a coconut-covered something-or-other means you automatically go all in. Bite, enjoy, bite again, step away. Eat right 90-some percent of the time; feel no guilt the rest.

Oh god, no. It’s not that you get to automatically go all in, you get to go all in by virtue of having lungs and a heart i.e by virtue of being alive i.e because you #$%^&* want to. Eat till you pop! That’s what vacations are for!

Rock the Mornings: You have to start every day strong: Get your runs and lifts done early and you won’t feel like ruining it with a frozen drink that has the caloric equivalent of an entire grocery-store aisle.

Won’t feel like ruining it? Ruin a run with a frozen drink, Ted, seriously? Sometimes the only reason I run is for the beer afterwards. Which is why I try to drink them on my non-running days, too, for the sake of consistency. And yes, that means I drink them in the morning. But it’s summertime, which mean the sun is out early, so it’s not like I’m drinking vodka shots in the gloom of a winter morning. Not in the summer, anyway.

Step Back: We know, we know. You stopped weighing yourself this spring when you grew frustrated with a plateau. But you know what? You’re going to step your cheese-loving arse back up on the scale to keep yourself accountable and gauge your progress. Because you have made some, and you’ll tell these good folks about it soon. You are—are!—going to come out of this tempting (yet glorious) seasonal stretch with a smaller number than where you started.

What’s this accountable nonsense? Are you running to lose weight, Ted? You little cheater! Running’s not for losing weight! I’m not saying you gotta gain when you run, I’m just saying: the run should be enough. You know those commercials: What’s your Anti-Drug? For me it’s “What’s your Anti-Diet?” Running! I run so I don’t have to weigh myself.

In Ted’s defense, he does title the blog entry “Letter to My Summer Self.” And I’ll never begrudge a man his inner dialogue to get himself going. Probably, Ted’s better looking than me, faster than me, thinner-even-when-he’s-fat than me. (He’s certainly a better writer than me and more famouser).

But he’s delusional. Eat the coconut thing, Ted. Drink the frozen drink. Smile while you do it, love the calories, and go bust out a fartlek. Not because you have to, but because you can. Attaboy.

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Good to Be God– review on Goodreads

Good To Be GodGood To Be God by Tibor Fischer

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If you’ve seen the movie Slacker then you know it’s not about a bunch of lazy people sitting around in puddles of their own apathy; everyone in the film is more or less actively engaged in some pursuit or interest. Maybe none of them are trying to cure cancer, but the film’s title forces you to reconsider the context of your assumptions. I only mention this after meditating on the title of Tibor Fischer’s Good to be God for a week after reading it.

Tyndale Corbett decides, after giving up on hope, to become God. Fair enough; it’s as good a scam as any, and not unprecedented: Buddha didn’t just wake up one day to enlightenment, but had to suffer from some extremes before he deduced that extremisms just wasn’t where it was at. But what kind of God will Tyndale become? What is his understanding of God?

That’s what this book is about: taking a fish out of water (dirty polluted water) and seeing how it flops. Tyndale flops just fine, and finally discovers his true God-given gift: the gift of failure. It’s mediocrity, that curse of the middle class, taken to the extreme. Tyndale is no Job, suffering, nor is he a Christ figure, self-sacrificing. He’s almost, but not quite, a cooler, a guy who’s very good at making sure nothing very good ever happens.

And that’s Godlike, if your God is a God of mediocrity, middle-class hopelessness. What would the God of faithlessness be like? Tyndale is surrounded by slackers (in the sense of the film I mentioned above), apostles and witnesses to his ascension through inertia.

And (here’s the review part, finally) it’s all told via Fischer’s wit, his flowing style, his playfulness with the written word that at times keeps you guessing (was that really a monkey spinning discs) and other times punches you right in your soul. He gives you enough stuff that you can read into the story if you want and hang symbols all over the place; or if you just want to read a mildly amusing tale about a fat Britisher living in Miami, there’s that too.

Too often rich people say money isn’t everything, or beautiful people say beauty is only skin deep. A middle-class guy telling us that struggling for happiness is depressing can come across as “don’t know how good you got it.” But feeling sorry for oneself, here, is balanced by just the right amount of thankfulness. Angels can have tattoos too, you see.

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Potrzebie (Without Apologies)

Con call in half an hour and I just can’t be bothered. Book to read, less than 50 pages to go, and I just can’t be. Bothered. Just watched Weird Al’s “Fat” video, followed up with Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Laughed the whole time I was watching the MJ. Not that it’s a horrible video. Actually it’s pretty darn good. Actually, and this might be the old man in me talking, it hearkens back to a day when music videos where a thing. I don’t know if they’re a thing anymore. Have not watched Mtv in years. I guess I do see things on Youtube, so maybe they’re still a thing.

Naw, I laughed the whole time because I had just watched the Weird Al version, and during the MJ I was only able to think of the WA lyrics. That happened the other day too: we were in the car, some new remix of Bad came on, and I was singing the Fat version throughout. Al Yankovis is a genius. It’s been said before, it will be said again.

But this is a rambling blog post about how I can’t be bothered. Normally, in this mood, I’d go to Reddit, or Pinterest, or Tumblr. Woe is you, I’m writing instead. Already wrote two lengthy emails to friends this morning.

I’m STILL clicking on Facebook every ten seconds, but that’s mostly megalomaniacal, since I like it when people respond to any content I generate. That’s why I have everything linked to Facebook. I had a dream about Mark Z last night—I was at some friend’s wedding, in the hotel in the hours before it all got started. Mark Z was there, played by Justin Timberlake when he was still in N’Synch, with that bleached hair with the tight curls. Except it was orange, and he had a black goatee.

Meaningless, all dreams are meaningless, so I only mention it to entertain. Are you not entertained? Gladiator quote.

Cause that’s what most writers are, you know. Bloggers, self-incarcerated gladiators pitted against the soft-copper armor of their own ennui, their self-perceived inaquecies, and all of us desperate for that ironical insight that makes what we spew funny if not interesting.

Me for example: I sure do spend a lot of time by myself. I’ve taken to talking to myself, or, if not to myself, to imaginary interlocutors, out loud. I even had a conversation with myself out loud about it today while making a sliced-turkey-and-lefotver-satay wrap:

-Do you think I’m stupid?
-Yes.
-What?
-Yes, I think you’re stupid.
-Oh, you think you’re smart, eh?
-Yes, I do. And I think you’re stupid. Can we talk about something else, please?
-You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
-Hence my requesting it.
-What?
-And we’re back to how stupid you are again. Brilliant.
-Yeah, you’re the brilliant one.
-Your sarcasm is ill conceived I’m afraid.
-What?
-Oh god I could use some illegal pharmaceuticals.

Not that I’d know what to do with them. Lately running a little too much and writing things no one reads has been my pharmaceutical, but for what, I don’t know. I mean besides boredom. Lately, and I don’t know why, I’ve been in a really bad mood. I drive places, the radio is on, the Mariners are losing, some asshole in a Lexus is driving ten miles under the speed limit and so some other asshole in an Acura cuts in front of me to take an exit; meanwhile, I’m thinking I need to change lanes but there’s another asshole in a Prius sitting on my left rear bumper, talking on his cell phone, and then I notice the handicap sticker and I get even angrier because, handicap parking, grrr, don’t get me started.

What’s the point of all this? I don’t know. I don’t have a thesis statement. Con call in 15 minutes, Pandora keeps playing ads at me whenever I skip songs that DO NOT FIT THE STATION I AM LISTENING TO and I don’t feel like rereading this and editing it into making sense. Nothing makes sense. Nor does it have to. There, there’s your furshlugginer thesis statement.

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The Little Things are Big Things

Call me silly, but I just noticed that the time and date on the Mickey Mouse watch on the Ipod Nano page is current and correct. The second-hand moves and everything. This is 100% unnecessary and 100% awesome.

I only noticed this because I was at the website to have a gander at the font they used, to sketch an image in my paper journal. My own Nano started acting up a few days ago, so I had to schedule an appointment with the nearest Genius Bar. I was chronicling the experience.

Which was this: I made an appointment, went over there—a fella poked at my Nano for a few seconds, took into the back, then returned and said “Yep, it’s busted. Yep, it’s under warranty. Here’s a new one. Have a nice day.” I’m streamlining for the sake of brevity, of course, but my point is: wow. If only all customer service experiences could be so smooth.

I think for the most part, the vast majority of the time, customer service experiences are just fine. It’s only the one terrible one in a hundred that gives customer service, in general, a bad rap. This is why we somehow feel like excellent customer service is a gift.

As for me, I’m not such a power-user that any one device is going to suit my needs better than another. Price is going to be the main deciding factor, but I’ll tell you this: with customer service like that, Apple can continue to count on my custom, even at higher prices.

Same’s true for restaurants with a friendly waitstaff. There’s no food so delicious that it makes up for indifferent hosts and rude waiters. And personally, a PBnJ-fan like myself can eat just about anything, if it’s served with a smile.

I’m just assuming that whatever ethic at Apple established that kind of customer service is also behind the watch face on the website showing the correct time. Attention to detail, considering the experience from the customer’s point of view, balancing respect for the bottom line with a long term vision of brand loyalty.

Yeah, I’m coming across as a total fanboi right now. What can I say. That watch thing totally charmed me.

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What It’s Like, Looking Like George Clooney

fiction by Jason Edwards

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking: this guy right here, he looks just like George Clooney.

I get that a lot.

My dad looks like George Clooney. My mom looks like George Clooney.

Which makes me wonder about my dad.

My sister looks like George Clooney, which is weird, because I don’t even have a sister.

I called him up. I called George Clooney, and all was like, hey man, how many of my grandparents did you sleep with?

And he’s all: at the tone, the time will be one, thirty five.

Asshole.

I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid, which was cool, but last week he tried to friend me on Facebook.

Awkward.

He’s always imaginary poking me.

But what really sucks is his Farmville score is higher than mine.

Asshole.

George Clooney called me a few months ago. I figured he was pissed because I used his picture on my Facebook account. But I answered the phone anyway, and he’s all like, have you considered switching your cell phone service to AT&T?

Which was weird because I don’t even have a phone.

My sister calls me all the time.

She called me once and said, George, just remember, cell phones cause brain cancer.

And I’m going to call you once an hour to remind you of that.

But the jokes on her because I don’t even have a cell phone.

Or a sister.

It’s not easy looking George Clooney.

This is going to shock the ever-lovin’ heck out of you, but I don’t get out much.

Women come up to me, and I’m thinking, here we go with the George Clooney nonsense again.

And they’re all like, can you please leave the women’s locker room, immediately?

What the what? I was just looking for my sister.

I go to restaurants. You ever been to those? Nice.

I go up to the hostess and I’m wearing a hat, hoping she won’t recognize me.

She says, how many in your party?

And I say, It’s not my birthday.

No, she says, how many will be dining with you this evening?

I just shrug. I don’t care, as many as you want.

So she takes me to a table and I sit down and I say don’t worry. Just because I look like George Clooney, I’m not going to skip out on the bill.

Can’t promise the same for my imaginary friend.

Oh, did I mention? He looks like George Clooney too.

I mean, that’s what he tells me. I’ve never actually seen him.

I think he has the hots for my sister.

I can’t rob banks.

They’ll think George Clooney did it an innocent man would go to jail.

Not cool.

Can you imagine how awful it would be? For George Clooney? In jail?

All those anal rapists, saying, George, George, do some of that Oceans 11 shit and get us outta here.

Cause they’re in jail, they don’t know about the sequels.

And you know what sucks most about rape?

All of it.

I learned that on an afterschool special.

And don’t worry, I’m not going to make a joke about my imaginary friend raping my sister.

Not cause it’s not funny.

I just can’t think of any.

I’m dating this girl, and thank god, she doesn’t look anything like George Clooney.

Because that would be like having sex with a mirror, which I’ve done, and let me tell you, it’s not as fun as you would think.

The pillow talk afterwards was really awkward.

And when I didn’t get a call the next day, it was a real bummer.

But my girlfriend, now, she’s great. She looks like Jennifer Aniston.

Which was an easy switch for me because I actually used to date the real Jennifer Aniston.

It was pretty good for a few months, but when she found out we were dating, she dumped me.

But she stills sends me a birthday card/restraining order every few weeks, so we’re cool.

She’s very cute about it. She disguises it as a flyer for lawn services.

I’m guessing she does that so the postman won’t know who we are.

Although when he catches on that I don’t have a lawn, the jig is up.

Or a mailbox. Being homeless and everything.

But back to my girlfriend. She’s great. Except when she flirts with my imaginary friend.

You know what I mean. She laughs at his jokes. Asks him where he buys his imaginary clothes.

Pokes him on Facebook.

But other than that, and the fact that she doesn’t exist, she’s wonderful.

She’s an amazing cook. She makes this vegan steak tartar. It is out of sight.

I’ve lost ten pounds just thinking about it.

She gave the recipe to my sister, which was awkward, since my sister is a vegetarian, not a vegan.

When I was dating the real Jennifer Aniston, we used to get into fights about what to have for dinner.

I’d say Jen, Honey?

And she’d walk off the screen and I’d have to talk to Joey.

Who never talked back.

Asshole.

So it’s a good thing we broke up. I mean can you imagine. What if we’d gotten married?

And the real George Clooney’s girlfriend reads about it, standing in line at the supermarket?

She’d think her boyfriend got married without telling her.

And marrying someone without telling them is not a good idea.

Been there, done that.

Just ask my imaginary friend.

He got married to Stacy Kiebler. I have no idea who that is.

But she and I are friends on Facebook, so there’s that.

Anyway. I should probably let you go.

Just wanted to let you know what it’s like, looking like George Clooney.

What time will it be at the tone, did you say?

Thanks.

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Barney’s Version– Review on Goodreads

Barney's VersionBarney’s Version by Mordecai Richler

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Came to this book as penitence for shame: was talking to a friend who’d either seen the movie or listened to the book on tape, and I made some dismissive, derisive comment about it, to the tune of “Oh, I don’t much care for characters like that.” I had based that summation entirely on a clip of the movie I’d seen, I think on The Daily Show. My fellow interlocutor pointed out that I was being hasty in my judgment, so I agreed I’d get over myself and read it.

And so I read it. It took a long time. I was coming back from a not-reading-anything-jag and while at first Barney’s Version was compelling and fun, It seemed to drag a bit. But that might just have been me. I did very much like the character, after all—-not that I respect him, or feel that initial judgment of him (from the film clip) was off-base. I’m saying I enjoyed his confessions.

For that is what Barney’s Version amounts to: an aging man gives you his side to the various stories that make up the biography of his life: as an expatriate, as a repatriated TV producer, as a Canadian, as a Jew, as a husband, widower, husband, two-timer, husband, divorcee, accused murderer, smoker of montecristos and drinker of congnacs. Barney’s Version is a modern picaresque, a rich Canadian Jewish Confederacy of Dunces.

Mordecai Richler’s story-telling style is subtle without being obscure, entertaining without being (too) silly. Barney manages to tell not only his own version but his enemies’ version as well, and couches it all in the poor old man’s encroaching dementia and his son’s compilation footnotes. The reader is left to wonder what’s fact and what’s fiction, what’s real and what’s fantasy. Barney doesn’t just make things up to cover his guilt, he gets things confused because that’s how memory works.

And in the end, the life you led is not what you did or even what you remember of it but how you remember it all. A terrible life can be lensed by a happy regard, and those torturous years on earth where maybe not so bad. Barney seems keen to find the right balance between “I got better than I deserved” and “but I made the most of it.”

Your interpretation may vary: sign of a deep, complex, good read. For myself, I’m looking forward to trying out some other Richler novels.

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John Dies at the End, review on Goodreads

John Dies at the EndJohn Dies at the End by David Wong

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The (somewhat obtuse) review will begin by talking about Britney Spears, who has nothing whatsoever to do with this book. I only mention it in case it chases some people away. Bye!

I realized one day that when people buy a BS album, they’re not just getting a collection of songs, they’re also purchasing permission to participate in the whole BS zeitgeist. They get to talk BS and read BS online and at the grocery store checkstand. They get to enjoy BS movies on a whole different level, get to watch BS videos and think about not just the BS song they heard but also the BS life they’ve been watching and talking about.

Sure, there’s a real Britney Spears who sings songs. But BS is more than that. BS is all of the everything, the stuff that a person could make into a hobby or even a career. Britney Spears makes money, but BS makes money for other people too.

Same’s true for some book experiences. I was a little more than halfway through John Dies at the End, and I knew nothing except that it was a book. I took a friend to the airport, and was telling her about it. But all I could manage to do was say it reminded me of Danielewski’s House of Leaves. Nothing about the two books are the same: different writing style, different story-telling method, different mood, different everything. But both books are very weird. And House of Leaves has all of that BS-esqueness going for it. It’s not just a book, but a manuscript that was online for a while, cobbled together, shared via word-of-mouth. There’s music about it and discussion boards and this whole cult-like following.

Just finished JDitE, and it turns out my comparison was spot-on. David Wong’s “novel” was cobbled together, shared via the internet, and now there’s a film version, and a sequal. Turn’s our David Wong’s a pseudonym. Turns out there’s an ARG associated with the next book. You see what I’m saying? You read this book, and you get to participate in a whole big thing.

Not interested? Just want to know if it’s a good read or not? It’s not bad. Competent writer, interesting characters, funny in places, clever in places. Mostly it’s just very very weird. Remarkably creative, imagery that will make you real, deus ex machina abused to the point of being respectable, but in the end, mostly just very very weird.

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Open Letter to a Dear Friend

Note: I am going to post this email to you on my blog.

Hey G. Been meaning to send you an email for a Loooong time now. My excuse was “but it’s HIS turn!” How lame. How very very lame of me to use THAT as an excuse. I mean, when has waiting my turn ever kept me from just blabbering on. Never.

So why now, then, maybe you are asking. Well I had a dream about you last night. I don’t recall exactly what it was. Something about a swimming pool, and your hair was jet black. Doesn’t really matter. Personally, I don’ think dreams have meaning. Now, I don’t begrudge people who DO think dreams have meaning. I just go with the theory that dreams are merely the reflection of short term memories moving into long term memories. And that’s memories on, for want of a better phrase, a microscopic scale. You see a bug, and your brain registers that it was shiny. And then decides that the shininess of bugs would be good to keep around. So it moves that into long term memory while you sleep, and you have a dream where “shiny” and “bug” cascade around other associative memories, and there’s headlights on a Volkswagen beetle sending Morse code to a guy you knew in Junior High.

And if that inspires you to look up the guy on Facebook, so be it. I mean maybe it IS Jungian. Fine. And here’s me writing to you. Saw some picture someone posted on Facebook recently, you in front of a cake covered in candles, guys in the background playing ping pong. Was it your birthday? I am ashamed to admit I don’t know when your birthday is. This is especially bad, since last time I saw you was on/around MY birthday, and you gave me those excellent cookies.

But let’s not wax maudlin about how bad I am as a friend. This email is meant to entertain and inspire you to, if you feel like it, write back. That would be lovely. We miss you like the dickens, and when I say we, it’s not the royal we, it’s the me and the wife and a few others friends who are going to go nameless since I am making this an open letter (and never fear. Unless you explicitly request it, I won’t put any reply you give me on my blog).

Questions: whatcha reading these days? How’s the velocipede? How’s your chosen city of dwelling treating you? Going to any of the music festivals on the horizon, the ones I know you’ve been to and enjoyed in the past? Any chance you’ll be up in our neck of the woods soon and we can have you over for adult beverages?

As for me, just so you know, I’m not reading as much as I should, I’ve been hit or miss with my own chosen form of exercise, this city’s rounding the corner on Spring and turning lovely, and the arts will be seeing us seeing King Tut’s exhibit, the Lewis Black play, and The Cabin in the Woods. No plans to hop down to your side of the state line, but I think we should make some, and soon.

At any rate, I hope this finds you well. In all of the those Facebook pictures, you are smiling. This makes us (royal us) extremely pleased, just so you know.

Shall pursue a fine bourbon this weekend and raise it to your health. Hope to hear from you soon!

Jason

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What Would Andy Rooney Write? (Or: My Transistor Radio is a Cat)

Remember Andy Rooney? I think he died. Not sure. After I write this I’ll go to Wikipiedia and link his name. But by then I’ll have written this, and I don’t feel much like editing. Which might be more introspection than is readable, but then that’s the point of this post.

I saw Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes a few times, and my point of view on him is the one of the popular and uninformed, the PoV fit for creating parody: that he was a rambling bafoon. Part of that is a reactionary disposition, one that rebels against good old fashioned Americana. You know, the same PoV that makes fun of Norman Rockwell and members of the VFW who wear suspenders. We’re such (young) curmudgeons (we’ll be fun to make fun of when we’re old (if we don’t all die of heroin overdoses first (or limp bizkit overdoses (because it is now ironic to listen to limp bizkit (good god time is getting compressed, innit))))).

My transistor radio, which I bought just to listen to AM stations, doesn’t get the best reception all of the time. Or any of the time, now that I think about it. Sometimes, the only place where it doesn’t whine and click is sitting right in front of me, between me and the keyboard. Which is fine if I’m just surfing. But if I want to type (crap) like right now.

“So turn it off!” I can hear you say (and here “you” is a fake person, since no one reads this blog, and if someone does, that person is a crazy person, who understands a little well why the radio can’t be turned off). Well, that’s not going to happen. I abhor silences. One of the (many) reasons I talk all the time.

The point of all of this of course is that I need to write more, a common lament that comes from me, a chronic dirge that comes after a derth of blogging. Blogging… that’s just extemporaneous writing that I’m not ashamed enough to not share in a publically accessible way. And yes, whining that I whine too much has become de rigueur of late as well. So what. Would that have stopped Andy Rooney? A veteran of opinion writing, a professional, a man with a storied career and thousands of fans possessed of and respectful of his intelligence?

I have no idea; I have not read that Wikipedia article yet (and this one-line Dave Barry wannabe end of article zinger is hereby ruined by my pointing out that it’s a failed Dave Barry-esque zinger, if only to say next time: instead of not writing anything like Andy Rooney I’ll try and I’ll fail at emulating Dave Barry).