No gifts part 2: charlatans unwelcome

Overall I don't have a strong sense of entitlement.  Presenting myself as something more than I am, or asking for something that I don't feel I truly deserve are things that make me feel disgusting, and unsurprisingly I find them difficult to do.  However, I do have a fascination with minimally accomplished, shameless, narcissistic, handout-seeking self promoters.  I admire their innate ability to do the things I find so difficult, and have a grudging respect for the number of people they're able to hoodwink and the places in life they are often able to take themselves.  Nevertheless, I do feel a basic gratification when a charlatan, identified for exactly what they are, gets the door slammed right in their face.  Even if that charlatan is me.  Let's proceed to the anecdote. 

A few weeks ago the great BSK sent out an e-mail to our yogging team with a link to apply for free complimentary elite entry to the Carlsbad HM or Marathon.  I did a quick scan of the elite standards and saw that they demanded a sub 1:12 HM or sub 2:30 Marathon within the last two years at a bonafide organized, timed, competitive yog (OTCY).  I have not yogged these times.  I have not yogged all that closely to those standards that any reasonable person would be tempted to make an exception.  I sent out a flippant reply-all e-mail to the team asking if lying was acceptable on the application and thought no more of it.  Then I saw Mr. BSK at a track workout and he encouraged me to ignore the standards and apply anyway.  Fluff up my accomplishments.  "Tell them who you are!"  Ok.  Sure.  That'll happen. 

A few days later I found myself chatting online with the Suffer Seeker, sarcastically talking about applying as an elite, admitting how disgusting that would make me feel, and bemoaning the fact that an OTCY in my back yard that I'd like to do is now so unappealing because of the near triple digit price tag that I'd have to pay just to compete along one of my regular yogging routes.  I surmised that as a relative front of the packer, I take up a minimal amount of resources, and wisted away for a reduced entry fee, perhaps $40, that would allow me to take part without being gouged.  The Suffer Seeker offered up an idea.  How about he spice up my elite application and submit it on my behalf, and I pay him the $40 when it was accepted.  Interesting.  A loophole around my conscience!  I need more of these.  I accepted the terms of the Suffer Seeker's offer, provided him some personal information and accurate OTCY times across varying distances, and he informed me that the application had been sent, with his overwhelming confidence that I would be granted a free yog.  The next day I received the following e-mail from the OTCY co-ordinator:

Hello Yogger,

Thank you so much for your interest in running at our 2013 Tri-City Medical Center Carlsbad Half Marathon. Unfortunately your PR does not qualify for a complimentary race entry, even though it is a very impressive and respectable time! At this time, our half marathon is sold out but there are still a couple options for obtaining an entry:

· Partner with one of our official charities to obtain a spot- click HERE To learn more
· Obtain a bib transfer from a participant who is unable to run- learn about our transfer policy HERE.
· Our full marathon is still open for registration if you are interested in running a longer race.

Thanks again for your interest, and congrats on the new coaching responsibilities! Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions or concerns.

Take care,

XXX

 

I read the e-mail and was immediately filled with joy and warmth that radiated throughout my body.  Justice served!  Charlatanism defeated!  Sleazeball with loose moral underpinnings denied at the outer gates! I needed to thank this woman and pay my respects.  Not that easy to do without sounding bitter, so I took a moment to think and came up with this reply:

 

Thanks for the quick response XXX! You are absolutely correct in that my times are in no way worthy of a complimentary entry, and I commend your decision to keep a handout seeking charlatan such as myself out of the elite field. I've always enjoyed your race and I'm sure you'll put on another great event this year!

-Yogger

 

And she in response to that:

 

Thank you for one of the best responses I have yet received, and please don’t refer to yourself as a “charlatan”! Your time may not qualify, but your speed and endurance are still extremely admirable. You are surely no fraud.

 

Aww.  What a sweetheart.  But.  Let's call a spade a spade here.  I am the Yogging Charlatan. 

 

Less Yoga, More Yog

So I tell the child, but she defies me.  Here she is practicing her craft with cousin Arianna, who is one month older than her.  Aside from the hair and melanin levels, I'm convinced they actually look quite alike.  I'm also convinced that if we could all find a partner and play in similar fashion to these two for just 10 minutes a day, all of the hostility in the world would cease and we'd all maintain a continous, cheesy, giggling euphoria right to our death beds.    

No gifts

The last few weeks of my life have been a celebration of the idea that getting something, or giving someone else something that they don't deserve, especially when competition is involved, is just an icky, yucky, disrespectful abomination of everything decent people stand for and should be avoided at all costs.  There have been a series of events where I've had the opportunity to observe and celebrate this concept, but we'll start with the big one. 

Krispy Kreme Challenge West 2012
I won KKCW 2011 in dominant fashion.  It was an exciting victory for me.  The yog was respectable and the donuts just slid right down.  The future seemed so bright! I figured with some eating technique work I could shave another 1+ minute off the eating split, and if I was in peaking OTCY shape, probably yog 30+ seconds faster too.  I basically decided that this event would be my legacy in life.  I thought of all the small competitions that a single person simply dominates.  The club tennis championship from my youth that some guy won 14 times, Bill McDermott owning the Catalina Marathon for decades, Matt Carpenter unbeatable at the Pikes Peak Marathon for the last 20 years, etc...  Well, the Krispy Kreme Challenge West would be MINE.  Notice to all challengers; To be the man, you've gotta beat the man.  Woo!  So on to the race.

Last year's tutu was left at home in favor of a traditional Indian Diwali outfit, but I did break out the Prince style mullet wig again.  We showed up bright and early and I surveyed the small group of competitors warming up.  There were a few fit looking characters, but the main competition was Patrick Sweeney, the famed barefoot, vegan, aspiring alcoholic and owner of several oddball yogging titles and records.  Conspicuously missing from his trophy collection however is a KKCW championship plaque, having been denied last year by yours truly.  He had returned this year looking fit, focused, and ready for redemption.  We lined up and off we went.  I felt like shit.  A small group surged out and quickly gapped me, but they quickly came back and before the 1 mile turn around I had taken the lead.  After the turnaround, we got hit with a vicious headwind that just about stopped me in my tracks.  Ugh.  The very baggy Diwali outfit didn't help me much, but overall my lack of fitness and power just got exposed by the conditions.  Sweeney overtook me and I had no ability to respond.  I got into the eating area about 10-15 seconds behind. 

Last year's magic eating performance was not to be repeated.  The donuts got into my mouth and had no intention of sliding down my throat.  I had visions of repeating my long forgotten shameful performance of 2 years ago when I took 19 minutes to eat all of the donuts.  Trying to win this event, an event which is so blatantly obviously retarded in concept, seemed even more stupid while I was in the middle of it.  But two things allowed me to push away the negative thoughts.  First, I was secure in the knowledge that at some point I would hate myself for not forcing through the discomfort.  Yeah this was dumb, but I had known this for a while and still decided it was important to try to win, so no matter what I'm thinking and feeling now, I needed to trust my former idiot thoughts.  Secondly, the competition.  Mr Sweeney had made the trip from Manhattan Beach and taken a one day reprieve from vegan living to claim this title, and claim it from me.  Not providing legitimate competition in the face of such sacrifice would be terribly disrespectful and basically unconscionable.  So I forced them down.  Stuff stuff stuff more donuts.  Force swallow.  Gag.  Cover my mouth with my hands to prevent any regurgitation, and repeat the process again.  I got out of the eating tent first.

My legs were still dead for the second part of the run, but it was a little better being mentally prepared for the headwind on the 2nd mile.  After the turnaround, I kept track of the competition and was a little relieved when I saw Sweeney running by that I figured the gap was large enough that even if he ran a sub 4 minute mile on the way back he couldn't catch me.  I tried to keep a decent turnover into the headwind to still put in a respectable finishing time, waved to the throngs of adoring fans, crossed the finish line and puked.  A lot.  I knew at that point that I was done with this competition forever.  So fucking stupid.  I have since reconsidered.  To be the man, you've gotta beat the man.  Woo! 

Walking Dead

I watch Walking Dead.  I know it's based on a comic but I haven't read it at all and have no idea how closely the show follows the plot line of the comic.  Anyway, the first season started off well enough.  I mean really, how can you go wrong with a zombie show?  Lots of thrilling violent confrontations and escapes and more gore than ever seen before on network television.  Sweet.  Then came the second season.  What a downer.  The plot slows to a halt, never getting anywhere because of an endless series of mini side crises and internal group conflicts, the longterm end goal/ survival plan is still completely up in the air, and there's not a single truly interesting or likeable character on the show.  Nevertheless, I was in too deep, so I've been tuning in to season 3, and I've really enjoyed it!  Where they've gone with it really justifies the tedious nature of season 2.  Frustrated as all hell in getting through the last season, I now find the show to be an excellent exploration of the fundamental nature of humanity, how we relate to eachother and choose to organize ourselves to maximize our chances of survival, and the struggle to find meaning in it all.  The longterm battle for existence in the face of the zombie apocalypse actually makes a great backdrop for this study.  Sure there are a lot of Lord of the Flies parallels, but the ubiquitous zombie threat really does add another dimension.   I can't remember ever watching a show or movie where I've had such disregard for the individual characters but been so fascinated by the evolution of the group as a whole. 

While I don't necessarily agree with the show's assessment of humanity, here's what we've learned so far:
-In the early days of post-apocalyptic living, many will attempt to cling to the higher ideals of civilized living.  They'll go out of their way to help strangers, and put themselves and the larger group at risk to protect individual lives under the principle that you do not leave people behind.  Some level of acknowledgment and respect will remain for individual property rights, and groups will experiment with democratic decision making. 
-As time passes and lives are lost, the higher ideals are shed.  People become more calculating and economical about the sacrifices that can be made for individuals.  Democratic decision making leads to gridlock and endangers everyone.  The alpha males battle for control.
-The groups that emerge as long term survivors are characterized by a single, dominant, authoritarian leader.  A new fierce tribalism emerges, characterized by tremendous distrust for any survivors outside of the group and a severely diminished respect for the lives and property of outsiders.  Rather than leveraging the talents of others to build a stronger, more sustainable group, the tendency is towards violence and scavenging of precious remaining supplies. 
-While most survivors come to accept the absolutely authority of the group leader as essential to their survival, there is the very rare outsider who seeks to neither rule nor be ruled and is content to rely fully on their own competence and abilities to continue to hack out an existence.  Go Michonne!  Libertarian to the end!  The groups have difficulty understanding how to deal with such a person, and they're definitely seen as threats. 

So there you have it.  As the season 3 episodes have gone along, I've greatly enjoyed noting the parallels between Rick's group at the prison and the Governor's at Woodbury.  I continue to wonder, are these common characteristics of the surviving groups really the foundation of any organized society?  Are the rest of our modern civilized principles just a facade, just lipstick on a pig?  Furthermore, as the characters struggle with their own desires to continue on, maintain relationships or bring children into the world, by not addressing any real longterm goal, the show instead asks us, hey, what really is the point of all of this?  It's just a question of severity of the situation, but really not so different for any of us when it really comes down to it. 

Anyway, it appears the show may be taking a turn, ramping up the plot developments with some exciting confrontations straight ahead, but I really hope they continue to explore some of these prominent themes.  It's been fun. 

Weekend Shit Shows

Shit show.  What a wonderful phrase. Undoubtedly one of my favorite in the English language.  The most popular definition in the urban dictionary is:

A description of an event or situation which is characterized by an ridiculously inordinate amount of frenetic activity. Disorganization and chaos to an absurd degree. Often associated with extreme ineptitude/incompetence and or sudden and unexpected failure.

Several other definitions seem to demand drunken debauchery and related behavior in order to render a series of activites a shit show.  Hm.  I guess.  I suppose everyone is entitled to their own definition, but that is never the way I thought of it and certainly not why I fell in love with the phrase.  The image that has always popped into my mind is of a late 19th century type traveling circus, where you could pay a penny to access a tent where some freak of nature would drop a horse sized dump right in front of you.  To me, anything in modern day life that elicits a similar reaction to what you would have felt sitting in that tent is a bonafide shit show. 

According to the urban dictionary, my behavior two weekends prior would probably more aptly fit the traditional definition of a shit show.  Making the trip up to Sonoma wine country to attend an old Taipei friend's wedding, I arrived on Friday to the rehearsal dinner relieved to be done with the 500something mile drive, giddy to be free of parenting responsibilities for a long weekend, and just generally cheerful to see an assortment of old friends, most of whom I had seen extremely sparingly or not at all for the last 17 years.  Accordingly, I drank like an overeager 14 year old whose parents are out of town, fearlessly mixing wine, tequila, whiskey and 9% beer.  Becky had similar inclinations but smartly destroyed herself within the first two hours and made it back to the hotel while I lingered.  I got a ride to an after party at some palatial estate my friends were renting that was tucked back somewhere amongst the winding roads and endless vineyards outside of Healdsburg.  When I inevitably found myself violently ill but sufficiently refreshed by an undetermined amount of time spent face down in the front yard, I decided that the optimal play was to wander off into the darkness, using the GPS on my smart phone to guide me what I estimated to be 6-10 miles back to the hotel.  After making it barely beyond the front gate, I looked at my phone to see the battery at 2% for just a moment before the screen went dark.  Fuck it.  I took my best directional guess and began running, dress shirt, jeans and dress shoes.  I'll never know for sure, but I believe I held a damned respectable pace for those miles.  Nevertheless, after a while I decided to explore the hitchhiking option, so every few minutes when a vehicle would pass I'd do my best to indicate my need for help.  Wouldn't you know, after only 20 or so passing vehicles and a few more miles, a nice guy decided to stop for me.  Turns out I was in fact going the right direction and was less than 2 miles from the hotel!  Becky was apparently worried about me.  Why, I don't know.  I'm a big boy.  Things are under control.  And in case anyone ever stumbles upon this blog, you're obviously wondering, so yes, I had to blow the guy.  But I was getting tired, and the terrain was getting hilly.  Those last 2 miles would have been tough. 

This past weekend however better fit my personal definition of a shit show.  That was what I was originally going to write about, but now I'm over it.  So I'll save that for tomorrow or whenever I get around to it. 

I am in terrible shape

It's amazing how being in horrible shape can just kind of creep up on you.  I yog without a watch or GPS, so every now and then when doing a workout, after a repeat I ask someone, "hey, what was our time on that one?"  Invariably, I hear the answer and think, hmm, really?  It sure felt a lot faster than that!  Oh well.  GPSes aren't that accurate anyway. That mile repeat was probably 30 meters long.  And I shouldn't be killing myself in these workouts anyway.  I'm saving it for race day (even though I have no plans to race)!  Then, when I randomly find myself toeing the line at some OTCY and stink it up, I convince myself that I was holding back, sore, untapered and not ready to race there was no way I was going to put it all out there.  Then finally, there's an OTCY where I show up, put in a real effort, dig in mentally and work hard through the pain, push myself to the point of near blackout over the last 1/2 mile, then look up at the finish clock and see that my yogging has regressed about 3 years.  That's truly an awesome experience.  The satisfaction of knowing that I put in a real effort and didn't puss out coupled with the cold, hard reality that I'm terrible (even more than I thought I was) and that my best stinks.  The basic satisfaction of the good effort usually dominates for about 20 minutes before the stench of my horribleness starts taking over and overwhelms my senses over the next few days.  But, if I can resist the urge to make some obvious changes to the lifestyle habits that have brought me to this point, and instead decide to make the transition from regular drinker to borderline alcoholic and glutton, then the horribleness stops being a temporary situation and takes on a firm, permanent presence.  That's what I did and this is where I am. 

I look forward to defending my Krispy Kreme West title this Saturday.  Then look out Turkey Trot and Honolulu!  Racing season bitches! 

Savor the victories

People often ask if my daughter is doing anything new.  Well, a few days shy of 18 months, I can't think of any more major "firsts" she needs to accomplish.  First roll over, first crawl, first steps, first major face plant and bloody nose, first teeth, first words, first dance moves, first poopy on the potty, all firmly in the rear view mirror.  Yet, despite the absence of any major firsts, her capabilities are growing faster than ever, to the extent that I'm beginning to treat her like a toddler much more than a baby.  Indeed, along those lines, I've decided that it is the time for the child to RESPECT MY AUTHORITUH!  Battle lines are drawn daily, and the combat is often ferocious.  Let's revisit a scene from the bathroom last night. 

Daddy and Maya are hanging out at home by ourselves, and Maya excitedly announces the need for a visit to the potty.  We hurriedly rush to the bathroom, get her up on her seat and await the fireworks.  She then requests to be read a book out of her ample pile of bathroom literature.  I begin picking up books, opening and beginning to read them to her, but she has her heart set on one particular book, and she denotes her displeasure with my choices by grabbing the books out of my hands and throwing them to the ground.  Battle line, drawn.  This aggression will not stand man.  The expression on my face and the tone of my voice go dark.  Deep intimidation mode baby.  I seriously explain to her that this is no longer acceptable, and that "no thank you" is the only acceptable response if she wants a different book read.  She averts her eyes to my ominous stare, and I move my face so close that she can't turn away.  She responds by raising her right hand and bopping me on my nose.  Extremely pleased with herself, she explodes into a giggling fit.  I double down on the anger.  I raise the volume of my voice and pelt her with a vigorous series of "NOs!!" and finger shakes.  I win a brief moment of silence from her, after which she continues insisting on a book, obviously after her current favorite, a large picture book full of Mickey Mouse and friends doing various stuff.  I grab hold of the book, begin to raise it, but instruct her that it's appropriate to say "please", and that I need to hear that word if she wants to be read the book.  She stares at me, and for a moment she presses her lips smack together as if she's preparing to make the P sound, but then she backs off.  "Out!!" she says, and slides herself off the potty, opting instead to grab the book by herself and plopping down on the bathroom floor to peruse it on her own. 

I sat there in silence, thinking over the severity of my defeat, pondering future strategies, and reminding myself that it's but a minor battle in a multi-decade war to come.  Then Maya looks at me from the floor, and with a hint of hostility and defiance still in her tiny voice, hands the book in my direction and exclaims "Peese!!". 

You're god damned right, Peese. 

Daddy 1, Maya 0.