Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Wish I Lived In a Shopping Mall

Bob says:

Still swamped with work here in the sprawling Hynes Convention Center/Copley Place complex in Boston.  I'll try and post something of substance later. 

But in the meantime, I leave you with a little contest:

Suppose your organization is hosting a convention, and you've brought over 6,000 people into a convention center on the week after Thanksgiving -- traditionally a "tough sell" for those in the travel industry.

Now suppose further that during the meeting, you have a lunchtime session that will be attended by around 500 people, and that you want to serve pizza during said session.  The convention center insists that you use their pizza, and not order from Domino's.  They provide a 24-cut Sicilian-style pie.

Here's the quiz.  How much do you suppose the convention center charges for one 24-cut pizza?  Winner receives a prize to be determined at a later date.

Oh no...say it ain't so

Bob is swamped at a conference in Boston so he is probably not going to be able to make the 11/27 posting he promised.  Men breaking promises...this is the second one in as many weeks.  Yeah Tunesmith, I am looking in your general direction.

But fear not valued readers, here is some shocking news that I am sure you are dying to know.  Pam Anderson has filed for divorce from Kid Rock.   Yes that's right, she is taking her cold and impersonal boobs and moving on to bigger and better things.  Oh wait a minute, she already had the BIGGER so it must just be the better she is moving on to.  I am not sure how she will be able to find better than Tommy Lee, Kid Rock, Scott Baio, Bret Michaels and Dean Cain (just to name a few) but I wish her (and the girls) the best of luck. 

And sorry Pam, Mr. Subdivided is taken.  He prefers "they're real and they're spectacular" anyway.

Gone Fission

Marathon Man Meets Subdivided We Stand will return on Monday, November 27 -- and with any luck, we'll have decided on our new nom-de-blog by then.  Suggestions are still welcomed. 

In the meantime -- Happy Thanksgiving!

Earworm Wars, Continued

Oh, sure, I spent the rest of the day yesterday singing "o-whem-oh-wheh, oh-when-oh-wheh," but my friends, I will NEVER surrender.  Try to get THIS out of your head.

I'm sorry to drop the Leo Sayer bomb, but this thing needed to be ended, and ended now -- especially now that we've drawn others into the battle. 

Which reminds me of something that's been on my mind -- if Leo Sayer and Richard Simmons had a fight, who would win?

The answer is "everybody," I think.

Blogfest the Eighth

I'm headed to blogfest the eighth, I am.
Blogfest number eight, I am I am.
I'm meeting up with the bloggers next door.
I've blogfested seven six times before.

And every one was debauchery.
Meeting up with Cindy, Christina, Vanessa, Mike and Anne (go Anne!)
It's the eighth blogfest at Finnegans.
It's blogfest number eight it...uh...am.

WHAT: Pittsburgh Blogfest 8
WHEN: Thursday, November 9th, 2006, 5:30 PM to 9:30 PM and beyond!
WHERE: Finnegan's Wake (near PNC Park, 20 General Robinson St., North Shore, 412-325-2601), in the Pub Room
WHO: All of you bloggers
AND: Creating Text(iles), Inner Bitch, My Brilliant Mistakes, and Grabass.

As always, if you plan on attending please send an e-mail RSVPing to blogfest AT closkey.com

Hey You! Mr. Rock and Roll!

I didn't want to do it.  After having subjected you to Starship, I was quite content to leave the subject of wretched rock videos alone.

But my friends, the gauntlet has been thrown down.  Rest assured that I will meet force with force, and this very night we shall feast on the blood of our enemies.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Mother Of All Video Bombs....

Maybe it's not as much of an earworm as, say, Abba's "Waterloo" -- but I think you'll agree that it's right up there as one of the worst videos ever.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find it on YouTube.  Sorry 'bout the advertisement.

Knee Deep in the Poopla

Bob says;

But enough of this election crap.  I heard this song on my way into work this morning (thank you, BobFM, for playing anything, even if it does blow goats), and felt that it's not fair for me to suffer alone.  So now you can suffer too...

In particular, I call your attention to one minute and 29 seconds into the above -- which is, by my estimation, the exact moment that rock and roll expired.

Elections

Bob says:

Another election day is upon us, it seems.  Every time I vote, I'm reminded of the old Bloom County cartoon, where Opus is seen in a voting booth, trying to decide between the candidates.  (For the record, I think it was Bush the First vs. Dukakis, or as Opus called them, "wimp" vs. "shrimp.")

Eventually, Opus chooses -- and the voting machine opens up and smacks him in the face with a pie. 

That's certainly how I feel about this particular election.  We may, in fact, finally be ridding ourselves of the pestilence that is Rick Santorum -- but does anybody truly feel better about Bob Casey?  We're about to throw a blank slate into the Senate.  My guess is that in six years we'll be trying to pull a Lieberman on him.

And as for Rendell vs. Swann -- well, the less said the better.  I think the pie-in-the-face we're getting there may well be made of something less pleasant than banana cream.

But go vote anyway. 

Somebody forwarded Kevin Tillman's letter to me, and while it's been widely distributed, I felt it was worthy of being reproduced here.  Here's some background on Pat Tillman, for those who are unfamiliar with his story. 

----

It is Pat’s birthday on November 6, and elections are the day after. It gets me thinking about a conversation I had with Pat before we joined the military. He spoke about the risks with signing the papers. How once we committed, we were at the mercy of the American leadership and the American people. How we could be thrown in a direction not of our volition. How fighting as a soldier would leave us without a voice… until we got out.

Much has happened since we handed over our voice:

Somehow we were sent to invade a nation because it was a direct threat to the American people, or to the world, or harbored terrorists, or was involved in the September 11 attacks, or received weapons-grade uranium from Niger, or had mobile weapons labs, or WMD, or had a need to be liberated, or we needed to establish a democracy, or stop an insurgency, or stop a civil war we created that can’t be called a civil war even though it is. Something like that.

Somehow our elected leaders were subverting international law and humanity by setting up secret prisons around the world, secretly kidnapping people, secretly holding them indefinitely, secretly not charging them with anything, secretly torturing them. Somehow that overt policy of torture became the fault of a few “bad apples” in the military.

Somehow back at home, support for the soldiers meant having a five-year-old kindergartener scribble a picture with crayons and send it overseas, or slapping stickers on cars, or lobbying Congress for an extra pad in a helmet. It’s interesting that a soldier on his third or fourth tour should care about a drawing from a five-year-old; or a faded sticker on a car as his friends die around him; or an extra pad in a helmet, as if it will protect him when an IED throws his vehicle 50 feet into the air as his body comes apart and his skin melts to the seat.

Somehow the more soldiers that die, the more legitimate the illegal invasion becomes.

Somehow American leadership, whose only credit is lying to its people and illegally invading a nation, has been allowed to steal the courage, virtue and honor of its soldiers on the ground.

Somehow those afraid to fight an illegal invasion decades ago are allowed to send soldiers to die for an illegal invasion they started.

Somehow faking character, virtue and strength is tolerated.

Somehow profiting from tragedy and horror is tolerated.

Somehow the death of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people is tolerated.

Somehow subversion of the Bill of Rights and The Constitution is tolerated.

Somehow suspension of Habeas Corpus is supposed to keep this country safe.

Somehow torture is tolerated.

Somehow lying is tolerated.

Somehow reason is being discarded for faith, dogma, and nonsense.

Somehow American leadership managed to create a more dangerous world.

Somehow a narrative is more important than reality.

Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.

Somehow the most reasonable, trusted and respected country in the world has become one of the most irrational, belligerent, feared, and distrusted countries in the world.

Somehow being politically informed, diligent, and skeptical has been replaced by apathy through active ignorance.

Somehow the same incompetent, narcissistic, virtueless, vacuous, malicious criminals are still in charge of this country.

Somehow this is tolerated.

Somehow nobody is accountable for this.

In a democracy, the policy of the leaders is the policy of the people. So don’t be shocked when our grandkids bury much of this generation as traitors to the nation, to the world and to humanity. Most likely, they will come to know that “somehow” was nurtured by fear, insecurity and indifference, leaving the country vulnerable to unchecked, unchallenged parasites.

Luckily this country is still a democracy. People still have a voice. People still can take action. It can start after Pat’s birthday.

Brother and Friend of Pat Tillman, Kevin Tillman

Beating the Bridge

   

I set myself up for big-time failure and I'm not sure exactly why I did that.  I put it all out there around a year ago that I was going to do it. Extended family members would watch me drink a glass of Oktoberfest beer in a stein that was wider and longer than my big head and ask with incredulity, "How's the marathon training going?"

Aside from the carbo-loading part of the training regime, I had my doubts.

I was rather muted about my chances of finishing when I talked about marathoning on this page, trying to discourage people from getting their expectations up too high, despite the fact that I had the foolish audacity to refer to my 2006 web brand as Marathon Man.  Granted...the emblem was a candy bar.  As a result, I don't think most people would've figured when they saw me that I was seriously going to make it.

To my kids the odds shot up from 50-50 a year ago to around 60-40 a few days before the race that I would make it.

The problem, as I saw it, was not whether I would TRY to run it. I had my outfit ready.  I was well-fed.  I had my tunes picked out.  My batteries were charged.  I made it to race day well-rested and energetic and injury-free.  I would definitely make it to the starting line if I woke up in time and didn't have any issues with the AM-PM, the snooze, or the separate knob. ("Why separate knob?  Why separate knob?!")

The problem was whether or not I could beat the bridge.

The Marine Corps Marathon is billed as the People's Marathon.  It's around the 4th largest in terms of entrants and it doesn't have any specific entry requirements.  Except one: If you want to finish the race you have to cross the 14th Street Bridge before they open it back up for traffic.  The bridge is between Miles 20 and 21.  Race organizers say that they are required to open the bridge to cars at 1:45 pm.  Runners therefore need to maintain a pace of around 14 minutes (perhaps slightly more) per mile in order to make it across the bridge in time.

That's about the time that I figured I'd be able to make it with walking breaks.  At least that's what my average training time on my longer runs suggested I'd be able to maintain. That was why I predicted back in May when I signed up for the marathon that I would complete the race in 5 hours and 50 minutes, and consequently started the race in the back of the pack with a pretty high bib number.

I didn't know what would actually happen if I showed up at the bridge at closing time. After running 20 miles and nearly making it to the end, I figured I didn't want to find out.

So I decided to push it a little faster for the first 15 miles, running around a 12 minute per mile pace. It was an absolutely perfect day for me in terms of weather.  It was cool and breezy so that I didn't sweat at all.  The sky was brilliantly blue and sunny to keep the spirits high. There were Marines and volunteers stationed at precisely the right points for my normal 2 minute walk breaks to joyfully hand out cups of water and Powerade.

And at the moments that I needed them most, when my spirits were flagging, when my joints were distracting, when my memories were fading, I would spot Rebecca and the boys.  At Mile 7.5, Mile 11, and Mile 13.

That's my youngest boy's outstretched blue arm reaching out to grab my head.  If I was ever in doubt that were moments in my life when I knew for sure that I was happy and experienced love and joy...I could look at these pictures and put those silly doubts away forever.

But...as an aside...the pictures also suggest that I seemed to be running alongside the geriatric man-boob squad, wasn't I?  If that wasn't reason enough to keep running fast!

Um.  Yeah.  Man-boobs. I should talk.

Here I am near half-way point holding packets of Cliff Mocha shots that I could not for the life of me rip open!  Very frustrating.  But much to my surprise I wasn't really hungry during the race.  I figured hunger and light-headedness would be my most significant problems. Nope.  I was well hydrated and well-fed. So no hunger.  No sweat.  No significant knee problems.  Some numbness in the feet that was alleviated when Rebecca gave me a change of socks at the half-way mark.  So I was looking good for making it to the bridge, despite starting out at the back of the pack.

The only thing troubling me?  Finding a bush to pee in before the desolation of Hains Point.  Lines were too long outside the Puerto-Potties.  And too revolting on the inside.  (Thank you, Metamucil for what thou hast given me. You are my Muce.) Alack, I found a spot nearby the FDR Memorial, but had to shift around a bit to shield my Netherlands from the marathoners behind me and the tourists with strollers along the Tidal Basin.  "Mommy that lady is peeing!"

Hains Point.  Between Miles 16 and 20.  Most difficult part of the course?  It's flat, yes.  But it's long and there are fewer bystanders to keep spirits up.  It's like circling the dark side of the moon, out of radio contact at a particularly nervous part of the journey. This is the part at which many of my compatriots started to break down and walk like zombies.  The George Romero-era zombies.  Me included.  That's the point at which I had to skip Neil Young's pertinently-timed and weighty Helpless and instead found that Rosalita helped me jump a little lighter.

Clock was ticking past 1 pm.  I knew my pace had gotten much slower.  But I knew the bridge was in sight.

And there they were.  Among the boisterous, cheering crowds at the entrance to the bridge on-ramp. They met me again just at the weakest moment to push me on longer.  I first spotted my oldest boy with the camera. "Hey, Nic.  I think I'm going to beat the bridge," I said with a certain loopiness that suggested my brain wasn't clicking right. Then I saw Rebecca and the younger guy.  A big kiss.  A handful of Advil.  A swig of water. "I'll see you at the finish line," I said with sincere confidence and I must've said it loud enough because it was instantly met with what sounded like a roar of approval from the nearby crowd.  And Rebecca, who is usually more reserved, couldn't help it either when she'd shouted back "Yeay!"

Now that I beat the bridge closing and was on the way back to Virginia it was time to start thinking about my goal.  I hadn't really given it much thought along the way that day.  I had reflected on it before, back when I first signed up for the run.

My mom and dad would've had their 60th wedding anniversary this month.  Married November 9, 1946.  They married soon after he returned home from the war.  And you think, wait a minute.  The war was over in 1945.  Not for my dad, though.  After Iwo Jima and the bombs, he stayed on with the 5th Marine Division for the occupation of Japan.  Missed the coming home celebrations.  The kiss in Times Square.  The hero's welcome.  Knowing him, he wouldn't have cared much for that stuff anyway.  He only wanted to be back with his girlfriend Ruth. 

Last year was the 60th anniversary of the horrible battle of Iwo Jima that altered my dad's life and the lives of so many others.  This year is the 60th anniversary of when my mom and dad tied the knot and they starting working out the plan for making my sisters and me. Making a family and a future.

This was for them.  All of them. 

I ran the last couple of miles. Past the Pentagon. Past the young Marines lining the roadway. I was thinking about them, too, and their futures. Men and women in uniforms giving their days up for us.  Giving more than that.  I was thinking about their families.

And I was thinking about my family waiting, waiting to see me at the top of the hill.  They had been waiting most of the day.  I shouldn't keep them waiting any longer.  So I gave my version of a sprint to the finish.

It's not a remarkable thing, I know.  I know that.  Lots of people do it.  Lots of people run.  Lots of people walk. Lots of people finish.

I just didn't think I was one of those people.

Maybe now I won't be so pessimistic about these kinds of things.  Maybe my kids won't be so pessimistic either as they mature and experience life.  My pessimism has rubbed off on them already. I think they needed to see a new way of thinking from their old dad.  To see that a change of direction doesn't hurt. 

Especially when you've got great love and support along the way.

Thanks to everybody who cheered, handed out a cup of water, snapped a picture, clapped high-fived, picked up the trash, draped a medal around a neck, and everybody who marked time. It was an experience of a lifetime.

See you again next year.

The (not so) Cold Kuwaiti Rain

Bob says:

Got another letter from my friend Joe Matis, currently stationed in Kuwait.  I've also finally gotten around to creating a typepad "category" to house all of Joe's letters -- so if you want to view them all, scroll down to the end of this post.  See where it says "posted by Bob Braughler on November 2 in 'Greetings From Kuwait'"?  Simply click "Greetings From Kuwait" to see all of Joe's letters.

29 October 2006

Welcome again to an update on what’s going on in my little world. I’ll be somewhat short, as I’m attaching a newsletter that the folks in my Det (detachment) put together for publication to family and friends. (Note from Bob -- there's a lovely shot of CDR Matis on page 4 of the newsletter.  And again on page 6.  And page 9.) They did an incredible job on it (they’ve already received kudos all the way up the chain of command) and have provided a great description of our shared journey, including lots of information and photos of what we’ve been through to this point. Hopefully you’ll take some time to check it out. (I’ve actually got mixed feelings on sending it as it saves me having to write much this time, but in the end it will make my paltry updates look like sheer amateur work, which no doubt they are!) So, just a couple of things…

Yesterday, another first for us in Kuwait…it rained. Complete with thunder and lightning. For a whole 5 minutes! I was sitting in my office and heard a noise that sounded like thunder (of course I was very relieved to look out my window and see rain, thereby confirming that the noise was thunder, and not incoming rounds!) Apparently, rain in Kuwait prompts the same reaction as the first snowfall of the season back home…everyone quickly runs to the nearest window or door and stares at it like they’ve never seen it before (you can include me.) And then it provides a good topic of conversation for the next 24 hours…”Did you see the rain?” “Yes, I saw it too.” “We got wet.” “So did we.”…and other stimulating nuggets such as that. Just another example of how being out in the middle of the desert gives you a whole new perspective on the little things.

After the rain, we had a decent sandstorm blow through and I had the personal luck to experience it first hand while being out and about. The upside of walking through natures version of a sandblaster is that after the involuntary dermabrasion treatment, my skin now has a healthy pink glow (if you could see it under all the dust!) While I’m mentioning dust, it is ever present here. Everything gets coated with it; it’s the real fine talc-like stuff that gets everywhere. My first sensory perception (upon arriving and stepping off the plane) here was the taste of it in my mouth.

One last thing. I usually don’t talk about these things, but with what I feel are critical general elections in the US coming up quickly, I want to point out a website I saw recently called IAVA (Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America) at www.iava.org. On this site they have report cards for how every member in Congress has voted on Veterans-related issues. Something that really bothers me is that, when it comes to elected officials, many times the public develops opinions solely based on politicians’ words without bothering to learn and understand the actual facts. This site is a place to see who merely talks the talk and who really walks the walk regarding “supporting the troops.”   (Another note from Bob -- the link Joe provides takes you to the main page of the IAVA Web site.  Here's a link directly to their congressional scorecard.)

Take care. Thanks for all your support.

Love, Joe