Emo Alpaca
Just 'cause you got it from the internet...
The good folks of Kazakhstan are in a serious twit. Their shooting team won a gold medal at the Arab games in Kuwait. Instead of playing the real Kazakh national anthem at the award ceremony the loud speakers blasted the spoof anthem from the movie "Borat," a piece with lyrics not particularly complimentary to Kazakhs or their culture. The Kuwaiti sheikh in charge has apologized profusely and explained that they contracted that part of the games out, and the firm apparently went online to get each country's anthem.
(How many times to you get the opportunity to write a paragraph about two countries from very different parts of the world, each of which puts a silent h after a k?)
"Should'a brought the breadcrumbs, ma."
The major intersection just north of us is closed for the weekend while they complete the next step of a major redesign. The turn into our section of Sun City is the last option before the street is blocked off. Old people driving Buicks apparently have trouble with "Street Closed - local traffic only." All day long they've been driving up and down our street, back and forth. The streets in this section of Sun city are a series of concentric circles with intersections (escape routes) every 90 degrees. Our street, Welk Dr., is the outer ring in this particular set, and so it's over a mile to the next intersection (except for short dead end streets leading to a few houses). These poor seniors get a half mile down the street, realize that because of the arc they're headed in the wrong direction, and turn around to get out of this rat's maze. But by then they're so disoriented they can't tell where they are, and where they came in.
If they're still out there tomorrow I'll take them some water and a banana.
We are very, very different.
This morning I cleaned out the garage and put away everything associated with the trailer build. The tools, hardware, and supplies I used often during that project stayed handy on the workbench. But those things are now all put away, and the space clean and ready for the next project - working on the VW.
A place for everything, everything in its place.
My family gave me grief because I'd outline the location for all of the tools that hang on the wall to insure they get back where they belong.
I was putting a blanket throw away this morning - no longer needed with 80-degree temps now here - and opened the hall closet door where it will be stored until next winter. I didn't realize that's the closet where we keep anything medicinal - bandaids, extra bottles of Asprin, gauze, elastic wraps, Kleenex, and anything else you'd ever need this side of neurosurgery.
In that closet. On any one of five shelves in that closet. Between towels, next to the waffle maker, or on top of the gift wrap.
Heavy sigh.
Now will you go home?
Today's Spring Training game between the Rangers and the Royals at the Surprise stadium just down the road was a sell-out, with over 10,000 tickets sold. They went to SRO sales - and warned locals that traffic was going to be a major problem. Crowds are up 26% over figures from ten years ago.
Houston, we have a problem
I got out the instructions for installing the new wiring harness in the VW body, the first thing to be done once I get it back tomorrow. (note the optimism) The first page says that before you pull the old harness out you should be sure to attach a strong cord to the end that will then be used to pull the new one in. Except I ripped the old one out (actually, I cut most of it) so the body would be clean of everything when it went to paint.
I'm hoping I can feed my electrician's snake back up through the channel and then attach the new harness to it. If not you'll hear a loud scream.
Do we stop ____ because we get old, or do we get old because we stop _____?
I've long since given up trying to understand my brain, but coming awake this morning I was remembering running. The kind of running I did 35 years ago in Prunedale. Bob, and Don and I would go out on our daily runs together and fly through the day's route. No matter how far we'd gone, the last mile was always a sprint to the finish to see who would win. Our average pace was somewhere around 7:30; there was no jogging. One summer we determined we would each run a sub-40 10k and a sub-6 minute mile. We did.
We ran with the energy and pace and abandon of our relative youth. We flew down hills as fast as we could go. Bob always won, but one day we measured, and that rascal had a 6' stride. Disgusting.
Now, when I run it's a jog. I'm thrilled if I do a mile at an 8:30 pace and exhausted if I do.
I could run at something at least near an 8:00 pace, or maybe even a 7:45, just only from here to the corner.
But in that just-barely-awake fog I realized I miss the feeling of legs-driving, arms-pumping and lungs-burning kind of running. There's a child-like joy in it.
So I'm thinking maybe I should sprint from here to the corner, just as fast as my legs will carry me. So what if I'm wasted by then? And maybe if I did that for several days I could extend the distance across the street to the other side. And then two houses beyond that.
Yeah, I may have to try it. But I should do it real early, 'cause the neighbors will think I've gone even further off my rocker.
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