Here We Go...

Cue the epic music...

Joe and I will be racing in the same wave at the Rookie Triathlon. The last time we started a short race at the same time was Marble Falls Tri, where Joe was about two or three hundred yards behind me the entire run. I was able to hold him off in the end, but barely. Forty seconds I think. At Ironman Florida [the other race where we've started in the same wave], it wasn't that close. Joe beat me by 19 minutes. But by far, those were the two most fun races of the year [Couples Triathlon a close third].

So, you could say the series is tied at 1-1. And a race that is usually a gentle start to the long triathlon season now has brand new intensity and significance attached to it. The winner gets to boast, the loser gets to simmer in what is sure to be a close loss.

Normally, Joe and I start the race at two different times, since we are in two different age groups. That means that we never really know if we're beating the other person. For example, in the 2007 Longhorn 70.3, I crossed the finish line eight minutes before Joe did. But since I started twenty four minutes ahead of him, he actually won. You can see how anti-climactic that is. It doesn't compare to lining up next to someone and knowing that first one across the line wins.

Damn, I'm excited! Too excited to write.

Time for a windtrainer, then hard run. If Joe's going to beat me, I'm at least going to make him hurt for it.

Goodbyes...and talking donkeys

I have left home and returned to Austin. It feels good to be back in Texas. Wider traffic lanes for pickup trucks. Tex-Mex restaurants. Brisket sold in airports. Burnt orange everywhere. All that's missing is my family, which is not a small thing to be missing, though some of the people I'm missing right now are quite small themselves.

The trip back was filled with its usual close-calls [boarded our first flight with about five minutes to spare] and bizarre occurrences [in the Houston Airport, a stewardess got hit by one of those little buggy-things that transports handicapped and elderly people to their gates -- both the buggy and the stewardess were fine]. There was lots of waiting, sitting, lining up -- as there always is. And now I am back in my apartment, which feels emptier and quieter than normal. No baby to chase after, no conversation going on in the kitchen to try and derail. Why do we miss people more when we've just been around them? I can only guess it is because the memory is fresher, making it easier to remember what you are missing. Like a cut that stings all day but fades over a week. At least that's how it feels right now. I hate goodbyes. It's that simple.

[Quick asterisk: Here is a great piece of writing, that also happens to deal with goodbyes.]

Let us move on from goodbyes. I have encountered them enough today.

....

SCENE: Two Donkeys, CHUCK and DON, graze in a paddock. They are alone, nothing but grass and fences. They look similar, grey fur, pointed ears, as all donkeys do.

CHUCK: No, see that's where you're wrong --

DON: Explain to me how --

CHUCK: I was trying to before you interrupted me.

DON: Alright, go ahead.

CHUCK: You're saying that Warhol's art is trash because --

DON: I never called it trash --

CHUCK (annoyed): Can I finish?

DON: Yeah, but I never called it trash. I just said that --

CHUCK: You said that it wasn't art. Because art shouldn't require an explanation.

DON: It shouldn't.

CHUCK: If that's how you define art.

DON: And how would you define it?

CHUCK: I don't think art can be defined.

DON: Oh, here we go again --

CHUCK: No, I'm just saying, asking someone to define art is like asking for a definition of a number. You can't do it.

DON: That doesn't even make sense.

CHUCK: Define the number one.

DON: What are you even saying?

CHUCK: You can't do it can you?

DON: It's irrelevant.

CHUCK: No, it's not.

DON: How does the definition of the number one apply in any way at all to Warhol's art?

CHUCK: Because, just like you can't define the number one, you can't define art. You just know it when you see it.

DON: I'd say that's a bit of a leap.

CHUCK: Why don't you try reading a book?

DON: Why don't --

A car drives by on the farm road. Don and Chuck stop talking. Graze. Give vacant stares. Wait until the car disappears from sight. They both check the road -- coast is clear.

CHUCK: That was close.

DON: Don't try and change the subject.

CHUCK: I wasn't.

DON: You called me ignorant.

CHUCK: I did not.

DON: You told me to go read a book.

CHUCK: Maybe you should.

DON: And what's that supposed to mean?

CHUCK: That you have this narrow view of art and what it's supposed to be, maybe a book would broaden your horizons.

DON: What if I don't want to broaden my horizons?

CHUCK: Then I'd call you ignorant.

DON: Look at you, all high and mighty on your throne of knowledge.

CHUCK: Don't be petulant --

DON: Oooh, look at Mister Chuck, using big words like petulant.

CHUCK: It means childish --

DON: I know what it means Chuck. I'm not an ass.

CHUCK: Well then maybe you should stop acting like one.

DON: I don't know what's gotten in to you today.

CHUCK: Gotten into me? You're the one who kicked me yesterday because I ate some feed.

DON: It was my feed Chuck. You knew that.

CHUCK (sarcastic): Oh, I'm sorry. Next time the farmer leaves some food in the trough, I'll give you a sharpie so you can label all the food that's "yours".

DON: All I ask is that you don't reach your head over and eat grain that is clearly on my side of the trough.

CHUCK: And what exactly is your side of the trough?

DON: The same side I've been eating from the last three years.

CHUCK: I didn't realize you owned it.

DON: I've got a word for you to define: prick.

Chuck walks away. Contemplates. Turns. Gets ready to bury the dagger.

CHUCK: Hey Don?

DON: What?

CHUCK: You remember that time the farmer gave you a collar?

DON: Yeah...

CHUCK: And you woke up one morning and it was all chewed up?

DON (breathing faster): Yeah...

CHUCK: And I told you Angela, the cow, did it? Well guess what, it was me. I did it. I chewed your collar, and it tasted like crap, maybe because the guy who wore it was a piece of --

Chuck stops. Another car drives by. Don and Chuck stare at each other. This time no vacant looks. Murderous ones. The car passes by. The people inside suspecting nothing...

DON (eyes narrowing): You son of a...

CHUCK: Define that, asshole.

Chuck walks away, leaving Don, simmering with rage.

New House, Old Home

I suspect I am not the first person to point out that a 'house' and a 'home' are not one and the same. In fact, I know I am not. A song by Three Days Grace makes the very same point. [The chorus goes something like..."THIS HOUSE IS NOT A HOME...THIS HOUSE IS NOT A...HOME!...I type it in capitals because he screams those words, leading one to believe that this topic is one that arouses anger in the lead singer -- assuming he wrote the song, of course]. Regardless, I am here, unafraid of walking down a well-worn path. Frost might call it the road oft-taken. But I choose it anyway, because I know this to be true: houses change but homes don't....

A house is square footage and washing machines and balconies and marble and sinks and showers. A house is an address and can be bought and sold and leased and renovated and furnished.

Do I even need to say that a home is much more than all that? We know it is. It is the indescribable and describable alike. It is about the people, the pictures, the moments, the discussions. Since I've moved away from home, returning has taken me to three different houses and one high-rise apartment. And with each flight back, as I walk up a different driveway than when I last left, I have come to know that home, in the most zen of ways, moves but never goes anywhere.

As the title would give away, what I am trying to say is that in my life, the houses have changed, gotten smaller and bigger, been older and newer, but the home has always been constant. The family dinners, the outings, the exercise, the random board games and movies we watch. That hasn't changed even though all of us have. Home doesn't feel any different now than it did five years ago, even though a little person is now part of it. There is still love. Unquestioned, no-need-to-be-spoken love. There is freedom and laughter and joy -- a lot of it courtesy of the little person. There is no yelling or screaming [although Lilly has been known to raise her voice if she's hungry/tired/happy/upset]. It is home as I've always known it. Where Dad loves Mom and Mom loves Dad and we sit around and talk and have long dinners full of jokes and wine and cold beer. Where dreams are encouraged instead of mocked.

I lie on this air mattress in this new address, full from filet and a beer. Tired from chasing Lilly and watching bike races. Listening to Tess snore, and Amelia and Ellie toss and turn a few feet away from me. It is a new house, yet again. One which I don't know well enough to walk around in the darkness, and one where I don't know where the light switches are in the dark. So I just lie on this air mattress, knowing I'm home again.

A 10k...

I ran the Capital 10,000 today in a speedo and a bright yellow wig. That's essentially all you really need to know. I'm not writing because I ran a personal best [43:00 -- slower than my 10k in the Austin Tri], or because it was a great race itself. I'm writing because I ran in a speedo and bright yellow wig. As you might guess, that changes things.

The wig itself is thick cotton, not breathable or aerodynamic. Think of wearing a wool sweater on your head. That's what it felt like. Occasionally, some hair would blow into my eye or mouth. But I still kept it on for the entire 10k. That counts for something, I hope.

But the actual race experience itself changes when you wear something like that. People cheer louder for you. In fact, everybody cheers for you, because everybody sees you, can't help but laugh at you. One guy asked me if I was drunk. I said "I probably should be." Another told me I had a great ass. What do you say to that other than "thanks"?

The toughest part of the day, no exaggeration, was twenty minutes before the start of the race. I stood there, no different than anyone else, sweat pants, long-sleeve t-shirt, and running shoes. One of twenty thousand. Just another runner. And then I took off my sweatpants and put on my wig and all that changed. Everyone looks, stares, smirks, even laughs outright. A lot of "oh my God's" as you walk by. Lots of people nudging their buddies to point you out. Lots of people trying to be discreet and take photos. It's difficult before the race, when all you can do is be still and stand there and have people stare. But what else did I really expect?

As I was making my way to the starting line, a woman with a microphone came up and informed me she was live on KLBJ radio, and said she was interviewing people and would I be interested in answering a few questions. I said I would. Here's how it went [as honestly as I can remember]:

Her: I'm here with, (then to me), what's your name?

Me: Ed.

Her: I'm here with Ed, minutes before the 10k is about to get underway. He's wearing a yellow wig and a speedo and that's about all. I've gotta ask, what made you want to race in something like that?

Me: Well, because you and I both know I look good in it.

We both laughed.

Her: You from Austin?

Me: No, but I live here.

Her: Do you train in this?

Me: No, I wish. This was just a game-day decision.

Her: So it doesn't make you any faster?

Me: Probably slower. I'm just wearing it because I'm not here to win this race. I'm here to have a good time, enjoy myself, that's kind of what a race like this is about for me.

The interview ended rather soon after that. I later passed by a woman who said "I heard you on the radio!" I guess she hadn't seen anybody else in a yellow wig/speedo.

It's an interesting thing to look back on. To think about how many people you made laugh or smile. About all the times you laughed yourself. To think about why the hell you did it in the first place. To think about all the photos you're in, for no other reason than what you're wearing [and what you're not wearing].

I woke up today at 7:30, and at 8:30 I was wearing nothing but a bright yellow wig and a speedo so I could run 6.2 miles. If that doesn't make me part of the 'Lunatic Fringe', I don't know what does.

The Traveler Strikes Back

SCENE: An airport terminal. JOHN, tie loose, top button undone, picks up his bags and walks toward TRISH, an airline ticketing employee, standing behind a counter.

JOHN: Hi.

He slides his driver's license across the table with a weary smile.

TRISH: Good morning sir.

She picks up the i.d. Types furiously. For the remainder of the conversation, her assault on a keypad will provide the background noise. She only stops typing to talk.

TRISH: And, let's see here, we have your reservation here, for the 7:05 to Boston...

TRISH: Will you be checking any bags today?

JOHN: Yeah. Just one.

TRISH: Alright...would you mind putting it on the scale there for me?

John puts it on the scale. It weighs thirty pounds.

TRISH: And how would you like to pay for the bag sir?

JOHN: With my ex-wife's credit card.

TRISH (not catching): Your total is fifty dollars.

JOHN: Fifty?

TRISH: Yes sir.

JOHN: That's half the price of my ticket.

TRISH: I guess it is, sir.

JOHN: Doesn't that seem a little ridiculous to you?

TRISH: It's our standard pricing, sir.

JOHN: Well then it's a ridiculous standard pricing. Does it cost money to use the seatbelt as well?

TRISH (ignoring): Would you like to pay with cash or card?

JOHN: Both.

TRISH: Both?

JOHN: Both. I want $49.99 on the card, and then I'll pay $0.01 in cash.

TRISH: Sir, if it's all the same to you, I think it would be easier to put the whole fifty dollar payment just on the card itself.

JOHN: It's not all the same to me. Because I want you, even for this brief moment, to understand the agony you miserable people put travelers like me through every fucking day. Just look at our situation. I have to pay the same amount for my bag as that 400 pound guy standing behind me will! Where's the justice in that? I could have seven of these bags strapped to my back and still not weigh the airplane down as much as King Kong over there! So why, by any application of logic, should I be charged the same amount as Godzilla over there, if I cost the airline less than he does? Even you, and our dense reasoning must be able to see that...

Luckily King Kong, who is actually named George, has his iPod headphones in. He doesn't hear this.

TRISH: Sir --

JOHN (won't be denied): Even worse, the only way I'm allowed to travel with wine or any liquid for that matter is to check it in, where it gets tossed around by your baggage handlers who feel the need to treat all luggage as if it were a goddamn bouncy ball. You know how many times I've opened a suitcase and all my clothes smelled like a fucking pinot noir? And once I finally manage to get on the goddamn plane, after all the mindless standing and waiting and being searched by those dense security experts who couldn't spot a terrorist unless they're wearing a sign and a turban, and I'm told all my "electronic devices" must be turned off for takeoff and landing. How does my operating an "electronic device" affect anyone else's safety? Or even my own? It doesn't! It's just another way you like to fuck with us, by making up these dumb, arbitrary rules that we have no choice but to follow. Fine. No electronic devices? Well what if I have a gas-powered chainsaw? Can I have that on during takeoff and landing? Or what about a solar-powered flame-thrower?

TRISH: Excuse me!--

JOHN: You see, thousands of people like you wake up every day, squeeze into their uniform, and work at a job that is appealing only because it gives you some semblance of authority. You like that feeling, you relish it, because in every other aspect of your life you get walked over by people like me. People who don't need a uniform and a badge to be respected and listened to. Just know this: if you were to quit, retire or by the grace of god get hit by a bus, NO ONE WOULD CARE. Because you are just a replaceable part in the machine of tedious inefficiency. To be blunt madam, you remind me of a mosquito, only slightly more annoying. And the longer I'm around you, the more I hope I can open up a window and you'll fly out of it and disappear and go pester someone else.

Trish is stunned.

JOHN: Here's my card.

Takes the card. Runs it. Hands it back to him.

John puts it back in his wallet. Turns to walk away.

TRISH (smirking): Sir?

John stops. Turns around.

TRISH: You still owe one cent.

John smiles. Reaches for his wallet.

JOHN: Of course...

He pulls out a $100 bill. Sets it on the table.

JOHN: I'm going to need some change.

....

Written With Anger In The Heart

A few quick notes:

-- If you don't have it, get "So Alive" by Ryan Adams. Good listening. Amelia, if you can't buy it because you find your iTunes password changed, try smacking the keyboard at random and see if that works. Lilly likes to focus on punctuation and numbers.

-- Just finished The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler. Parts of it are outdated, but it is still a great read. It's thrilling, but good, simple writing. This will not be the last Chandler novel of the year. I wish more modern thriller writers read him.

-- I sold over $500 worth of food this morning. If you figure 20% tips, I should have made $100. I walked out with $35. Average of 7% tip per table. Pretty unbelievable. It's no coincidence that this coincided with Texas Relays weekend [also called the "Black Mardi Gras"], where over 40,000 people come to Austin. Some come to run in a weekend-long track event [hence the Texas Relays name], but many more come to drink and party. And almost all who come are black [hence the Black Mardis Gras part]. It is our [the Chili's I work for] busiest weekend of the year. We prepare for it by keeping a 5 gallon jug of strawberry lemonade in the back. It's not racist. We open at 11 and had to refill it before I left at 4. More on this later.

-- I am meeting with two English professors this week - one on Tuesday, one on Thursday - to seek counsel from them. Hopefully get a contact or two. At the very least, I get to be in a restaurant with someone who doesn't have a full set of gold teeth.

Now, allow me a rant. No dialogue this time. Too much anger.

....

Dear Customer Who Didn't Tip,

First off, go fuck yourself. There, I said it. Do you not realize that I just SERVED you the entire time you enjoyed your food and drink? Hence, my job title: server. I brought you food, drinks, refilled the drinks, brought out extra ranch or honey mustard if you needed it, brought desert, cleared your table, even pretended I cared about your happiness, and you don't think that deserves something? I make $2.13 an hour. Do you know why that is? Because my income is dependent off of gratuities [that's a big word for tips] from people like you, therefore making it legal for me to be paid far less than minimum wage.

A few more questions for you. Are you really ordering an $9 margarita, but when it comes time to tip, you don't have money for it? And are you telling me how great of a waiter I am, but leaving me a $2 tip on a $40 check? Really? Try paying your rent by telling your landlord how nice they are, or how nice the apartment is. See how that goes over. And are you really driving up to the restaurant in a cadillac with rims and a chain the size of your face, then bickering with me because I charged you for a salad? Really? Don't tell me that you are old enough to drive a car and vote, but simply don't know that you are supposed to tip in a restaurant. It is common knowledge. I don't buy that for a second. Don't feed me that excuse. Just look me in the eye and tell me you are too cheap to do it. Too cheap to cough up a few extra dollars because I waited on you hand and foot. At least give me that satisfaction.

You know what, you don't want to tip me? Fine. At least have a reason. Food too cold? Took to long? Cooked too much/too little? Didn't like how it tasted? NOT MY FAULT. I DON'T COOK. I'll need something better.

And don't be a lying coward either. Don't order something you can't pay for, then try and complain once you see the bill. Or even worse, order something nice, eat or drink half of it, then say something was wrong and ask to speak to a manager and whine until you get something taken off your ticket. Don't order things you can't afford. Don't eat at restaurants if $20 is an expense you can't handle. Don't buy rims if you're too broke to tip waiters. Bottom line, don't be a selfish asshole, because that's what you are when you don't tip. Because part of the cost of eating out at a restaurant [whether you like it or not] is the service that comes along with the food. What you are saying when you don't tip is that you have enough money to feed yourself, but not 18% more for the person who just took care of you for the last hour.

My advice to you, O Selfish One Who Doesn't Tip: wait tables. See how much work it can be, see how unpleasant and stingy people can be. See how it feels to have someone tell you "get me some ranch" instead of "could I have some ranch?" See how much fun you can have when someone shakes their cup at you as you walk by because they want a refill. See how much fun it is when someone walks out of the restaurant without paying. And then also see how refreshing it is when people are polite, patient, and generous. How easy it is to wait on people who understand you're trying, and understand that you have other tables, and may get busy.

And I would try to 'walk a mile in your shoes', but I don't own a $300 pair of Jordans, and I can't un-learn how to read, and I will never spend thousands on rims or chains or gold/silver teeth. But you know what? You can get a job. You can toss on a pair of slip-resistant footwear and work in a restaurant. Let me know when you do. I'd love to sit in your section.