Marathons and Tarragons

A tarragon is an Old World wormwood whose fragrant leaves are used for seasoning, especially in vinegar. This has nothing to do with my post. It simply rhymes with marathon.

Ahh, the marathon. I’ll be honest. I do not understand these things. Why would any rational human being participate in one? For heaven’s sake, it is 26 freaking miles. That seems a bit excessive. And furthermore, they make you pay money to run them.

Who needs to run that bad? Seriously. Who wakes up and thinks, “Today I’m going to run. Far. Really far. The farthest I’ve ever run. I won’t run around the block or on a trail. I won’t run a mile or two. I won’t even run 10. That certainly won’t suffice my running appetite. No. I will run 26 miles. And I want to run so badly that I will even pay people to let me do it. I can easily run 26 miles on my own throughout my neighborhood or on the track, but that won’t do. I must give up my money to run the path that the Marathon Authorities have designated. I will give up my savings as well as my blood, sweat and tears. I will expend myself monetarily as well as physically. Yes, that is what I am going to do today. I will blow out my budget and my knees.” The sad thing is people not only actually think this, but carry out these thoughts. And when they get to the starting line, they discover that thousands of other people had the same insane idea.

Can you imagine running 26 miles without stopping? I can’t. The thought of running five seems unbearable. But 26?!? That is about four and a half hours of constantly running. Four and a half freaking hours. I can’t even SIT and watch a movie for four and a half hours, much less run. In fact, I can’t fathom doing anything other than sleeping for four and a half hours straight.

I played basketball growing up and so I have no category for running as entertainment. Running has always been a means to me, not an end. You ran to get from point A to point B. Point B was the goal, not the actual steps between the two. In fact, whenever the basketball team was being reprimanded or disciplined, the coach made us run. Running was the punishment. Of all the things that the coach could have chosen for us to do, why would he pick running? It is because he understands that this is a painful and exhausting exercise, one we would never voluntarily do on our own. And this is why marathons make no sense to me. In my mind, it is simply a four and a half hour voluntary punishment for a crime you didn’t commit.

So where are all these marathon runners the day after their triumph? Are they feeling victorious? Are they savoring their accomplishment? Are they feeling on top of the world? Maybe. But most likely they are feeling like complete crap, cursing their stubborn will and soaking in a bath to try and smooth out the unbearable stiffness that has consumed every muscle they possess like some strange premature rigormortis. And they gave up an afternoon of their life. And a pair of shoes. And they paid money to do it. Some marathons reward their runners with a T-shirt. That seems like a fair trade off.

Airports, Airplanes, and Earplugs

Bear with the details here. But they are important. I flew to Atlanta last weekend. My flight was scheduled for 6:00 in the pm on Thursday. I left Baton Rouge at 3:00 and arrived in New Orleans at 4:30 (It is substantially cheaper to fly out of New Orleans). Now this may all seem like trivial information so far, and indeed it might be. But my great adventure begins here, here in the New Orleans airport at 4:30 waiting for my 6:00 flight. And so here I begin.

I took off my shoes, my belt, and emptied my pockets into one of those bins as I passed through the metal detectors and the security gates. I safely walked through without any alarms and I gathered my items on the other side. I put my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, wrapped my belt around my waist, slid my shoes back on and I was interupted - "I'll take that." The security guard quickly snatched my keys that were still in the bin and began removing my tiny, dull Swiss Army knife from my key chain. He handed them back to me, I apologized in embarrassment, and gathered the rest of my stuff. I have forever lost my little knife. I used it for everything. I cut loose thread from shirts, I cleaned out my fingernails, I picked my teeth with it, etc. Perhaps for sanitary reasons it is best that I lost it.

Then the hour and a half wait. Sidenote: I am terrified of flying. Absolutely terrified. Every bump of even the slightest degree of turbulence sends my heart racing. So I decided to have a drink or two at the airport bar to calm my nerves. Jack and Coke = 6 dollars. This shot-sized plastic cup took me about three sips to get through. And of course, there was only about a teaspoon of Jack in it. Frustrated that it would not do the trick without blowing my entire budget, I returned to the little waiting area in terminal C 7, which was slowly being filled up with inconsiderate people who talk very loud on their cell phones.

And then our 6:00 flight was delayed to 7:00. And then our 7:00 flight was delayed to 8:00. And then our 8:00 flight was delayed to 8:45. And all I brought to read was the Letters of John Newton and The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. Two and a half hours in an airport terminal with 17th century literature is a long and hard eternity of torture. Don't get me wrong, I love older literature. But these two pieces aren't exactly "page turners."

So we finally board and I begin to realize that by the time I arrive in Atlanta, I could have just as easily driven the distance in about the same amount of time. From when I left Baton Rouge to when I arrived at my final destination was about 7 hours. It takes 8 to drive. So we board and of course I'm on a window seat next to a large man who has already claimed the armrest. The fight for the armrest was already lost. This means I am forced to read for the duration of the flight with my arms pressed up against my body like I am wrapped up in mummy linens. And I hate the window seat. But I also hate the middle and aisle seats. I simply hate flying.

And then we take off. And as I survey my fellow passengers, I realize how automatically suspicious I am of Middle Eastern men on board. Is this wrong? Probably.

The flight is only an hour. And by this point, I am well sick of reading 17th century-paragraph-length runon sentences. I decide to flip through the ever avaiable SkyMall Catelog in the little pocket in front of me. This is a great time to shop, in my opinion. It is great to know that at 20,000 feet in the air I can purchase a metal trashcan that opens at the sound of your voice for $300. It is a great feeling to know that if I feel like purchasing a lawnchair with a built in DVD player for $899, I can do so.

But what do other passengers read on planes? They read the crappy, thick, paper back NY Times best sellers. Or the crappy, thick, paper back suspense/thriller/Tom Clancy/Steven King/CSI: Miami novels. Next time you are on an airplane just look around. I promise you that you will see them. They are everywhere. Everyone reads these things.

So then the plane begins descending. And the ears begin popping. For over 20 minutes the pressure in my ears had built up so bad that I could do nothing about it. I'm swallowing. I'm yawning. I'm tilting my head and opening my jaw. Nothing. Nothing works anymore. Is it possible that one can develop a tolerance with ear popping? That is certainly worth exploring later in life.

And finally the plane lands, a solid three hours later than when it was supposed to. And here is something I have failed to understand. The plane lands, gently meanders over to the terminal, parks, and then the seatbelt light flashes off. And what does everyone on board do? They leap out of their seats, collect all their belongings, and....stand there. They join the rest of the rushed idiots in the aisle to stand there, up against one another for another 10 minutes. Do people honestly think that when the sign goes off, they are going to be the only one to jump up, grab their stuff, and run down the empty aisle out of the plane? The foolishness of people baffles me. I always just sit there. I enjoy looking up at all the fools from my comfortable seat. Sometimes I will make eye contact with one of the "standing ones" and there is that faint flicker of humiliation in their eyes. The best is when they sit back down. They admit defeat. They join me and the other smart passengers who are still sitting. We are the ones who should be sitting up in the front, on those large, blue, padded seats with the extra leg room. We should be the ones that get to sit next to people who read good and interesting literature. We should be the ones that get the free drinks. But no, we are stuck in the back on the uncomfortable, cramped seats next to the large, stupid, loud people who hog the armrests and jump up out of their seats the moment the seatbelt sign flashes off.

Muse (a poem)

Muse, if you choose to turn to me
My soul would be in debt to thee
I ask to lift your stubborn head
Truly in need of being led
My prostrate posture proves this to be

Muse, here I use the gifts supplied
I wrote your words like I'm a scribe
Now here they are for all to see
To be assessed and be critiqued
From me the messenger and you the guide

My heart set out to sole compose
Creative words nobody knows
So thus I turned my ear to thee
In hopes you would enlighten me
And so you did, at least I suppose

I gladly took my pen in hand
Though lacked the will to understand
The poem nearly penned itself
Left I to thank nobody else
But solely Muse, who granted my demand

My words were trite and void of meter
I penned about some desperate author
Who out of desperation chose
To use a Muse to aid his prose
Whose help enabled him to write further

But O! Mine hopes were torn and dashed
Mine friends and family simply laughed
"The thoughts are dull, the words are lead,
The meter's off," They scoffed and said
And thus my weary soul and heart were halfed

O Muse! I used your inspiration
Only to be humiliation
Great Betrayer! Line of Judas!
Caesar'd dare to call you Brutus!
Muse, I pray for your destruction

You scamper free from mock and shame
When you were truly thee to blame
In mine spine I feel the sores
I do believe this knife is yours
Now "criticized" becomes my awful name

Ant Hills and other thoughts

So I find myself at someone else's lakehouse this weekend with a group of people (none of whom I had met before) and down by the dock was a large, red ant hill. This thing was the World Trader Center of ant hills. It probably came up to my knee. Now of course my first instinct was to smash it and stand back and watch the frenzy, but because I was with people I didn't know, I was a bit insecure with what they would think of this childish behavior. (People who own lake houses probably frown on immaturity, I'm guessing.) So I refrained from my impulse.

The few moments I stood over the hill going back and forth whether or not I should demolish the ant fortress gave me time to reflect on the larger subject, that is, what is it about people, or at least me, that wants to destroy things when I can and when there is no significant consequences? Why was destruction my first impulse? Without arriving at any conclusions then and there, I pondered what other things I want to destroy when I get a hold of them.

Empty glass bottles. My first impulse is to throw them onto concrete and watch them shatter into pieces.

Broken appliances. Old microwaves and stereos that are of no use to me should be demolished and gutted rather than tossed in a trashcan or placed on the side of the road in my opinion.

CDs that malfunctioned on me halfway through being burned. I bend them and try to snap them. Or I toss them like frisbees. I never gently place them in the trashcan.

Pieces of paper. We don't gently place them in the trash, no, we crinkle and crunch them into a ball and then throw them into the trash.

Bubble wrap. I must pop every bubble. I must make the already worthless thing useless. I never think to reuse it.

Leaves and blades of grass. Whenever I am sitting Indian style on a lawn or in a park you will find me meticulously ripping leaves and blades of grass to shreds. Why I do this, I don't know.

The list could go on. And more could be added about fire and my impulse to burn things around me whenever the opportunity presents itself to hand me a lighter.

I never did arrive at any sort of conclusion as to why I'm/we're driven by destruction. And I never did smash that ant hill but I regret it now. The sight of seeing those thousands of ants panic in pissed off hysteria and try and make sense of why their high rise apartment complex was destroyed would have been incredible. I probably would have done it with a stick. And as I walked away, I most likely would have split the stick in half over my knee.

Forwards and Christianity

Many a blog should be written over the ridiculousness and irrelevancy of email forwards. Email Forwards (or just 'forwords' for short) are utterly pointless and they actually cause me grief and much anxiety. I check my email. Ohhh! 14 unread in my inbox! (This makes me feel good about myself.) And then the bulk of the list begins with FW:. I go through them and erase them all immediately. Who honestly writes these things? Why do we feel compelled to forward them on?

The worst forwards are those that pertain to Christianity or some sort of spiritual optimism. I take that back. I have never really read a "Christian" forward. Most of these forwards are Deistic or Gnostic or Eastern in content and cloaked with Christian language.

For example, I recently read one of the forwards I was sent titled "A Blessed Prayer." It basically went like this: I asked God to change me, He said, "No, that is for you to do." I asked God for spiritual growth, He said, "No, you must grow yourself, but I will do some pruning along the way." I asked God for healing, He said, "No, the body is temporary."

How is this a blessed prayer? The one praying is basically told by God, change yourself, heal yourself, fix yourself, grow yourself, make yourself alive, etc. Forwards such as these do violence to Biblical Christianity and to the God that is. God NEVER sits around idle and disconnected from people and demands them to save themselves. If this were the case, we would all be screwed.

All Forwards should be banned. But especially Christian ones. (Forward this to 15 people if you love Jesus. If you don't, you might be responsible for someone going to hell.)