Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

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.

Don't Wanna Be First, I Just Wanna Last

Joe sez:

Here are some fun facts about running a marathon from yesterday's Marine Corps Marathon experience:

1. People wear funny sayings on the back of their T-shirts.  I followed closely behind two young women for most of the day with one wearing a shirt that said "Hurry Up!" and her running partner wearing a shirt that replied, "What's the Rush?"

2. They say you shouldn't try to practice running the entire 26.2 mile distance prior to the race because you might risk injury and burn yourself out. So you might go as far as running 20-22 miles in practice.  (I ran as many as 18 miles at one time.)  They say that the adrenalin and the crowds and the exuberance will carry you through to the finish.  That may be true.  Except for the fact that 26.2 miles is literally a longer distance than 18, 20 or 22 miles.  So the body is a bit unprepared for those extra 4-8 miles...the time at which every single muscle in the lower half of the body goes kerflooey all at once.

3. It was incredibly helpful to have my family there stationed at strategic points on the course throughout the day to give me encouragement, some Take 5 bars, anti-inflammatory drugs, a banana, a change of socks, and a high-five or three. Without them there to provide support I figure I'd succomb early to the voice in my head that kept saying, "I can't remember why I did this.  This is insane.  You're insane.  No, YOU'RE insane.  Shut up. No, YOU shut up. I'm not talking with you anymore. Fine. Fine. (Pause) What were we talking about?"

4. Tunes on the iPod that helped propel me through difficult stretches: George Harrison's Wah-Wah, Chumbawumba's Tubthumper, Squeeze's In Quintessence, Springsteen's Spirits in the Night and Rosalita.

5. Tune on the iPod that was not helpful to hear on a particularly difficult stretch: Neil Young's Helpless. Hit the skip on that one.

6. Favorite food on the course: the Jelly Belly Sports Beans in Crystal City.  I think they provided some necessary sugar at the exact time that my left hamstring went BOING, and my right calf muscle went BA-BOING.

There's more to say, and pictures, descriptions, and accounts to share later this week. But at the moment my lower body is not really functioning properly.  I'll be walking on my hands for the next several days.

But I don't mind.  I'm taken with the joyful feeling that you can set a fairly unreasonable expectation, a seemingly unattainable goal (for me anyway), and you can meet it. I set my sights on climbing that hill to the Iwo Jima Memorial on the run after running 26.2 miles.

And I made it.

Running Tunes

Joe sez:

Just picked up my bib for the marathon this Sunday and should I take some offense at the fact that I may have the very last bib number?  I thought there were only 30,000 entrants?  Why then is my number 31,000 something?  Do they know something I don't?  Like, are they figuring I'm not going to finish, either?  Maybe they don't bank on me getting as far as the starting line?

"Whew...I'm worn out.  That's plenty of running for me today."

"Dude...you're still in the starting corral."

You know you're in trouble when the race starts in Arlington and they've placed you all the way back in Richmond.

I like underdogs.  You gotta like underdogs.

Got my songs picked out for the new long-lasting battery-powered blue Nano.  Just to give you an idea of how long I think it's going to take me to finish, I've stored around 14 hours of music.  And I figure on replaying the bunch after the first run-through.

Tried to steer away from downer music.  Like stuff from Springsteen's Nebraska or The Ghost of Tom Joad.  I've stayed with invigorating, up-tempo ditties.  Like Philip Glass film scores.

Nah, actually I've centered on really cliche tunes that have the word "run" in the lyrics.  For example:  Springsteen's Born to Run; Beatles' Run for Your Life; Velvet Undergrounds' Run, Run, Run; Eagles' The Long Run; and Snoop Dog's You Better Run M****a F***e* Or I'll ***K You With This Baton. And then there are those tunes that really get you motivated, like The Animals' Don't Bring Me Down, Chicago's Feeling Stronger Every Day, or Marianne Faithful's Why D'Ya Do What You Did. Classic songs that provide up-lift.  That make you think while you run.

Since I'll be taking an entire day to finish the race I'm planning out my meal schedule.  Here's my plan:

Mile 1-2: Stop in Rosslyn for breakfast burrito at McDonalds

Mile 5-6: Stop in Georgetown for brunch buffet at Four Seasons

Mile 7-8: Stop at home to sleep off the mimosas

Mile 11-12: Stop at National Gallery cafeteria for cherry pie

Mile 15-16: Stop at Hains Point Golf Course for grilled burger and fries (best in the city)

Mile 20-21: Stop at 14th Street Bridge to puke

Mile 21-22: Stop at Crystal City Marriott to check-in for the night

Mile 23-24: Stop at Starbuck's for bagel and caramel latte, read the morning paper, notice the race results, and recall suddenly that I didn't finish yet

Mile 25-26: Stop and ask for directions because the race signs seemed to have been removed overnight

Mile 26.2: Cross the finish line to thunderous ovation from fleeing pigeons

With that said, I think I'm as ready as I'd ever be.  Never felt better, actually. Just hope nothing falls off.  Like a useful limb. Or an internal organ.

Whatever you do don't go to the marathon website to check on my progress.  I'd hate to have you stare at a static blinking dot that stays just shy of the starting line for a whole day.

Better to spend the day at a church novena lighting candles for my safe return.

Le chat est l'ennemi du chien.

Joe sez:

I swear I'll scream.  I'll do it.  I'll scream in public forums.  I'll make a complete fool of myself...

The next time I hear somebody at a meeting say the words:

"Let's not let the perfect be the enemy of the good."

It's centuries old.  It was apparently first written by Voltaire.  In the original French.  But it's an old warhorse, an old sawhorse, an old chestnut, a golden oldie that has been cited to death in recent times.  Try to go to a meeting nowadays when there's debate about how to approach a problem, and there are two or more opposing sides, and you'll hear it uttered by somebody who wants to move quickly to a solution and not get all bogged down in details.

Maybe I've been inside the house for far too long and haven't been out and about in the public realm, but this seems to me to be an overused expression lately.  I hear it a lot, like just the other day, among defenders of the current Administration's approaches to, say, entering into a flawed nuclear deal with India that may admittedly undermine 35 years of nuclear non-proliferation efforts that we had previously led (the so-called perfect) so that we can build a trusting relationship with the largest democracy in the world (the good).  Um, even though the outcome of the deal might result in India building more nuclear weapons stockpiles without any safeguards.  Just a minor problem, when you consider there are COMMERCIAL interests at stake, I guess. (It was said by a Chamber of Commerce guy who didn't really want to get hung up over boring nuclear weapons and fissile material falling into terrorists hands drivel.)

I mentioned to Rebecca that I keep hearing the phrase repeated (I've even heard it expressed over Little League baseball issues, as in "Let's overlook a flawed process and let's go ahead and name that (bullying) dad's kid (though he isn't really very good) to the all-star team so we can quiet him down."  Um, I missed the "good" part of that.)  Rebecca said that she's heard it once in a great while, but not too often in her line.  Then the very next day she's at a conference and she emailed me immediately when it was said.

The phrase is a tactic, Rebecca says and I think I agree with her, used by those who want to push headlong toward some result and they believe that others are just foot-dragging over some legal nonsense.  That might be true, sometimes.  People CAN get all wrapped up in debate over technical issues when what they really want to do is torpedo the whole deal.  They just don't want to come out and admit it.

But is it ever really helpful to use the phrase?  We all recognize that there is no such thing as a "perfect" outcome, at least not in any deal.  There are winners and losers.  There are winners and other winners who didn't get everything they wanted.  There are losers and other losers and then that one guy who swiped all the money. Nobody is really, honestly trying to seek perfection and bliss and transcendence.  Not in politics anyway.  They just want to win to play another day.  Or not lose too badly so that they can never play again.

So in the end I think the phrase is used by people who sit on one particular side of a debate and they don't want to take the time required to iron out the problem or develop consensus or give in a little bit to arrive at an accord, but rather want to just stick to their own position.  "Try to see it my way.  Only time will tell if I am right or I am wrong."  (Said the singer to the one-legged model/activist.  Here's your quarter billion dollars thank you very much.) 

Therefore, I simply request that the phrase users refrain from using the overused phrase.  Or you'll hear a grown man scream.

We've taken to substitute phrases in our house:

"Let's not let the bland be the enemy of the spicy."

"Let's not let the tabby be the enemy of the poodle."

"Let's not let the irrelevant be the enemy of the gist."

Update:

Just a week away from the big marathon and I'm going to still try to give it a go.  My philosophy is to make certain that I arrive on that day without injury.  So I've been focused on stretching exercises and avoiding situations. That's a plan that was a bit confounded last night when my fastball pitching son threw a ball into the dirt and I blocked the ball with my kneecap. Swollen up this morning and bruised.  But hey...

Let's not let the knee be the enemy of the exhaustion.

Naked (Yuck) Lunch

Joe sez:

It was twenty years ago today that Rebecca and I had our first date.  We were underpaid and under-appreciated post-graduates at a Washington area insulting firm marking time in our search for something else more professionally satisfying to come along, but we fortunately found each other instead. 

When she started at the place I moved in on her fast, marked my territory so nobody else, namely my best pal Mahone and the nascent IT guy McKay and that accounting guy named Stu didn't move in on her first, and asked her out to lunch.  Of course there was that entire gang of others that tagged along on our lunches, but I made certain to sit next to Rebecca and guide her through the wonders of Silver Spring's ethnic cuisine and cooking.  Every day we toured a different place that served food from Countries Previously or Recently Engaged in Wars/Proxy Wars with the United States.  Korean, Vietnamese, Japanese, Salvadoran, Italian and the occasional Maryland crab cake place.

On at least three different occasions in the first month that I knew her I made abortive attempts to ask her out on a date. One time, like a junior policy wonk that I was/still am, I made a photocopy of a picture of an infant LBJ in a fancy dress to give to her, knowing her interest in domestic politics and small children.  I hovered over her like a boob for the longest time trying to work up the courage to ask her out, but in failing to do so, I browbeat her into tacking the photo up on her cork board.

Figuring I blew my chances with such bizarre behavior, I let a few days go by before making a second attempt.  I engaged her in a long discussion about whether she had ever been to Jersey Shore, PA, one of the funniest place names I ever saw on a map, apparently.  Yes, she had been there, and no, that fact doesn't make for a very stimulating conversation piece from anybody's point of view, especially the person who has actually been there.

On still another blown chance I bought a giant crab cake sandwich from the Korean place next door and plopped it down on her officemate's desk.  Rebecca had already eaten.  But she endured my bumbling nervousness for a good hour while I: a) prevented her from doing her work; b) didn't eat a bit of my large and smelly crab cake sandwich because I was trying to ask her out but feared rejection; c) inquired why she took down the LBJ baby picture from her cork board; and d) asked her to tell me all there was to know about Jersey Shore, PA again while I choked down my fear in asking her out and couldn't eat that sandwich as a result.

Did I know it was going to be a momentous, life-changing event?  Is that why I strung it out for so god-damned long?  I wanted it to be just right, I guess, what with the giant crab cakes, the Presidential baby pictures, the exhumation of Central PA tourism details. 

At last, after that one momentous elevator ride when I caught her staring at me, and I asked "What?" and she said, "I'm just trying to picture what you look like under that beard," and I raced home and immediately hacked that ugly multi-hued beard off my face, and returned to her office, slightly bloody and fair-skinned, I sat right down beside her and asked the great unfinished question, the best most important inarticulate question I ever asked:

"Do you want to maybe, I don't know, go out sometime..."

"Yes."

"...for a dinner maybe..."

"Yes."

"...and a movie..."

"Yes."

"...like maybe this Saturday?  (Pause)  Did you just say Yes?"

"Yes."

I was so surprised, and so dumb, and so uncertain about what to do next, I stupidly gave her my phone number.  I don't know why.  I guess I was being polite in case she wanted to back out?  It could've come across as a really egotistical thing to do, and in fact, Rebecca admitted later that because there was such a large gang of young people working at the place she had a pang of worry that I wasn't asking her out on a date but was asking her to go out with the gang.  She presumed, incorrectly, that I was somehow the leader of said gang.  I wasn't.  It was just me.

Then it became me and her.

We left that place and within a couple of years we were meeting each other for lunch downtown at the new places we worked...right up through the time we were newlyweds.

Flash forward to now, and we are back at it again, working and going to school in downtown DC and meeting each other for lunches.  Nowadays getting take-outs from places serving food from Countries That May Be Engaged in Future Land Wars with the United States.  Our favorite place these days is an Iranian sandwich and grilled meat shop.

She approaches smiling, with her dangling ID badge clipped to her sweater, and she crosses at the light.  We'll converge at the edge of Rock Creek Park, near some woods that are best known for after dark cruising and for muggings and for T'ai-Chi.  We park our backsides on a large tree stump and devour our meats and salads, talking about plans for the evening, for the weekend, how we'll be able to fit in work assignments, meetings, presentations to give, papers to write, and a work trip to Chicago with multiple baseball games, soccer games and a cross-country meet.  We admit that we really can't eat so much at lunch time anymore, not like the old days.  Can't drop so much money, and might have to make lunch.  I could prepare a nice bento box for her and meet her at the park again.  And she could prepare one for me.  Then she says:

"There's a naked guy."

I shift around on the stump and look out on the open field and kindly disagree.

"No.  That's incorrect.  There are two naked guys."

Sure enough, out in the middle of the open park, in the sun, like a beach in the South of France, there are two men on a small blanket.  A small Asian man and a larger sized middle aged pale white man, glistening with oil, completely, utterly, totally TOTALLY naked in the grass.

Okay.  Maybe not totally naked, on closer inspection.  Well...not CLOSER inspection.  More focused inspection. 

The guys are wearing some kind of G-string sack coverage.  But it's clearly NOT ENOUGH.

Plenty 'o skin.  Not meant for sharing.

"I thought Mark Foley was back in Florida."

"He sure seems relaxed."

"Taking it all in stride."

A signal perhaps that our lunch is over. Whistle blows. Lost appetites, too.  Times have changed.  Fashions come and go.

We're still here. We've got each other. And we added a couple more friends.

But maybe a different park next time?

Hey Mr. Taliban, Tally Me Banana

"When the president looks me in the eye and says the tribal deal is intended to reject the Talibanization of the people, and that there won't be a Taliban and won't be al-Qaeda, I believe him."  President Bush at joint press conference with Pakistan's President Musharraf.

Joe sez:

In my new role as a student of international relations I get to meet and interact with people in key positions within the U.S. government. For example, I've recently made contact with an individual in the State department who is working on Central and South Asian affairs and that individual has shared with me some of the behind the scenes prep work that goes into briefing the White House on upcoming state visits.

Here are some snippets of Actual Audio recorded from one very recent White House briefing on issues related to the Pakistan and Afghanistan border region.  Note the level of detail that goes into making certain that our President has a thorough grasp of the situation on the ground in that important part of the world and can effectively translate difficult policy considerations in ways that the American people can clearly understand.

First, a brief introduction by a staff member:  Download are_you_ready_sir.wav

Then a take that burrows deep into the heart of the problem with the President: Download give_it_a_try_sir.wav

Followed by a series of takes from the President that depict how tirelessly he works to effectively convey meaning: Download bush_take_1.wav; Download bush_take_2.wav; Download bush_take_3.wav; Download bush_take_4.wav; Download bush_take_5.wav; Download bush_take_6.wav.

Then, by George, he thinks he's got it: Download got_it_now.wav.

(My apologies and thanks to Mr. Bob Newhart.)

Aldo Cella Confessions

Joe sez:

Aldo's cliff dive with the bottle of Johnny is a stark warning to us all...especially me.  I was starting to believe that maybe I was the one in need of an intervention.

Rebecca and I have kinda made a pact, it's a secret pact because we haven't really talked about it, to hold off on mid-week wine consumption during the work/school nights. 

Then we load up on the Wines of the World all weekend long.  Woo-hoo!

But I have to admit that as the sun sets and we are preparing dinner during the weeknights, or in real terms as I observe Rebecca as she prepares dinner, and we debrief about our adventures that day, I start to get a craving for a nice glass of something, just a little something, to ease my way into the evening and let the work of the day recede.

But sadly, we have polished off the bottles of wine, every last drop, from the weekend.  We also don't keep wines stored, under the theory that "If it's in the house, it's in the stomach." And we don't retain much of a stocked liquor cabinet.  Except...

Except for the "I'll only drink this when I'm desperate" bottle of..." take your pick.  Here are a couple of recent desperation drinks that I'm not proud to say I opted for when there was nothing else in the place. 

1.  That bottle of Campari I bought because of the Campari umbrella shades at some outdoor cafe made me think, "Hey, I wonder what that Campari tastes like?  Man that's a deep, bright red color.  Reminds me of Slushie syrup!  Let's try it!"  Then you try it.  And...ugggggh.  It doesn't taste anything like the color.  Eventually, after a year or two, even the Campari gets emptied into something.  Orange juice, club soda, Sprite.  Anything to try to mask the bitter Campari flavor.  Nothing works...but it's gone now.

2.  Sour Apple syrup.  Seemed like a swell idea at the time after I tried and enjoyed a Sour Apple Martini at a bar one time.  "Hey, I can make that at home."  But it's too cloyingly sweet.  So the Pucker bottle sticks around in the cabinet for years...only to be mixed into a club soda.  Come to think of it...I don't think there's actually any alcohol in the Sour Apple syrup.  Then why the hell was I trying to make a cocktail out of it?  Now THAT's desperate.  Almost as desperate as exploring whether the Marsala cooking wine would be drinkable. 

Um...it's not.

3.  Perhaps the most desperate object of the liquor cabinet scavenger hunt...the bottle of Dry Sherry.  I've been known to enjoy a nice small glass of sherry with dessert at our favorite Spanish place.  That's ONE glass.  With a sweet cake.  It's warming and delicious.  So I thought..."If I like it so much, why don't I get an entire bottle of the stuff?"  Still working on that bottle.  The other night before dinner I poured a small glass of the stuff to the brim and Rebecca just couldn't take it anymore.  "I can't fathom why you are drinking that horrible sherry."  I took a sip...and I realized that she was right.  It IS horrible.  It has no business serving as an aperitif.  It's like raisin flavored cough syrup.  No it isn't.  It reminded me of something else. Something from my past.  Then I remembered...

Coke syrup.  When I was a kid the prevailing medical opinion embraced by my mother was that you give spoonfuls of Coke syrup to pukey kids to settle their stomachs.  (Did anyone else endure this remedy?  And do they still do it anywhere?)  You could actually obtain the Coke syrup in a small bottle at the drug store.  And anytime you'd throw up, mom would crack open the sugar encrusted bottle and spoon out a dash of sweet, dark Coke syrup...without the fizz.  The bottle would remain in the fridge for years awaiting future pukes.

Quite unlike that desperation bottle of Dry Sherry, with a few pours remaining.  Now residing at the the bottom of the trash chute.

Don't need Mary Worth or Toby or comb-over guy or Dr. Grizzly Adams to tell me anything I don't already know!