29_The April Challenge: Day 33: Small Victories

Tomorrow I run my first half marathon.  To explain how weird of a feeling this is, I have to go way back.  In December, before running my first ever race, I felt like I used to feel when competing.  It was that laying awake at night, trying to calm down feeling, the anxiety bubbling up no matter how much I'd trained or how prepared I felt.  And I used the word anxiety, not panic, because anxiety works both ways.  It can freak you out, and it can make you want something more.  People forget that, this day and age.

Still I have to go back way further than December.  Three years ago, almost to the day, I was graduating from college, the realization that I had nowhere to go in life about twelve hours away from crashing down on me.  Two years ago, I was in South Africa, a four month old puppy in hand and nine months of trying to hold a crumbling relationship together ahead of me.  A year ago, I was back in the States, the idea that I needed to do something to improve myself floating vaguely through my head.

So here I am, trying to calm down, realizing that all of my disappointments with myself this past month - still too much drinking (despite a considerable cut back), not enough running, etc - pale in comparison to the past.  Have I really reached my goal this month?  No.  But what I've come to realize is that I can't call myself any sort of failure.  I plan on keeping this up.  I don't plan on stopping after this one month.  Every pound I've lost, every one I will lose, is another small victory for myself.

And apparently people are noticing too.  Which is cool.

Day 33 Stats:
Weight:  167 lbs
BMI:  27.0
Fat %:  21.0

Not As Embarrassing No-Shirt "After" Photo:


Current Crossfit Rating:


Wish me luck!

- Kid

28_The April Challenge (Day 2)

I was going to post this yesterday, but then you jokers would have assumed that it was an April Fool's prank and I assure you, it is not.

This month (well, a little more than a month actually.  From now until the Frederick Half Marathon on May 5th), I'm embarking on a fitness challenge including daily exercise, lots of running, a lower fat, low dairy, high protein diet and absolutely no booze.  I started back at the gym today and boy was it a doozey.  Thing is though, no matter how hard you push yourself, it's still a lot easier when you're not hungover.

So, some baseline stats:
Weight:  172 lbs.
BMI:  27.7
Fat %:  21.4

Embarrassing No Shirt "Before" Picture:



Current Crossfit rating:


Weekly updates to come.

Wish me luck!  Or, ya know, you could also do this and then we can complain about it together.  Either one.

- Kid

27_An Excerpt

The other week, I read at the Seltzer Zine's monthly reading series, hosted by Midtown Barbecue and Brew.  (Still the Yachtclub in my mind).  The first time I read with them, I forgot that you're only supposed to read for a few minutes and got politely cut off.  So, this time around, I decided to read something much shorter, much more to the point.  The following excerpt is an even longer version of what I read, reflecting on the progress I've made since.  For now, the piece is untitled, but divided into three parts, which explains the ridiculous title you see immediately below:

Part 2 (So Far)

Overcome by the crushing desire to escape the clutter and wreck of another wasted day, Bond asks Pratt to wake her up early on his way to work. He nudges her awake on his way out of the shower, water dripping on to her shoulder from his hair. She rubs the drops in to her skin and pulls the sheets around her as she stands. Pratt leads the way into the kitchen where the smell of breakfast cooking reminds Bond that this is the way that things begin. She falls into a chair at the kitchen table and smiles as she refuses a plate of bacon and eggs. It is enough for her to be awake with the entire day in front of her, marveling at the strange way that morning light is discernible from that of the afternoon. She looks away from the small kitchen window to Pratt. They lock eyes over their coffee mugs. For all the tenderness of Pratt's smile, the messy comfort of his hair and the stubble on his chin, all that Bond can see inside his eyes are closed doors. He finishes his coffee, dumps the breakfast plates in the sink, kisses Bond on the cheek and leaves.

Bond listens for the door to close and then walks into the unused second bedroom. She turns the blinds until the room is filled with the soft mid-March morning light. She drops the sheet to her ankles and crosses her arms in front of her breasts. She walks into the bedroom, removes the full-length mirror from its hook and places it against a wall in the empty room. There, naked in the prospect of another day, she feels like the skin she sees in the mirror is not a reflection of her, but rather a simple portrait of a blank canvass, waiting to be filled in. It is a study of plainness; that smoothness of clear skin she left behind with Eastern.

Now image upon image floods through her head. She sees dancing skeletons and vibrant flowers. She sees bold oceans and brilliant skies. Tigers bare their teeth at her. She smiles to herself at them. Vivid as they are, none of them seem real.

Finally she remembers the looming darkness of the windows in Eastern's office, looking out on nothing but a tangled wall of vegetation separating them from a darker unknown. She sees herself in the rooms of his house as a bird caged, always looking up and out at a world so much larger than herself, forbidden to enter in to it for fear of being swallowed by it. An image comes to her mind that finally feels solid.

Looking at her figure, its emptiness filled only by the pale freckles beneath her eyes, a mole on her

ribcage and the soft shadows where her limbs curve around themselves, she knows how she will start her day. She wants her body to feel real, without only her shadow to prove to the sun that it is.

She showers and dresses hurriedly and steps out into the warm, damp morning. Her feet, energetic, excited and over-caffeinated, carry her towards the waterfront. Only blocks away from Pratt's apartment, close to the harbor, sits a green-roofed tattoo parlor.

Bond steps inside and breathes deep, taking in for the first time the heady, anti-septic smell of soap and balm hiding raw skin and blood. There is the subtle static of loud music turned down low and the steady chatter of the needles in the background, like the voices of old friends whispering secrets to each other behind drawn curtains.

Behind the counter, a bearded man with his hands held in front of himself watches her.

“I need a tattoo,” she says.

“You're in the right place. I'm Reed. Do you know what you want or have a picture of anything you'd like?”

“I just escaped from something. So I would like something to reflect that.”

“How about a bird in flight?”

“How about an empty cage?”

“Interesting,” Reed says, picking up a pencil and a piece of paper, “You're not focused on the entrapped escaping, but rather the jail that is left behind.” He starts to draw and does not see the blush on Bond's face bring out the green of her eyes. She is silent, unsure of how to voice her approval. He asks her where she wants it and she points to her shoulder blade. He turns her around to measure a piece of paper on her back.

“Sorry,” he tells her, “I like to analyze people's tattoos too much sometimes. Most people ignore me, but it bothers some.”

“I don't mind at all,” Bond says, knowing for certain that she is in the right place.

As Reed draws the transfer sketch, Bond asks her questions, feeling foolish in her excitement, like a schoolgirl again. Reed answers patiently, if a little bored, the way that people get when they have to explain the most basic aspects of a skill they've mastered.

“It's OK if you're nervous,” Reed says, now sitting in his booth, pulling on rubber gloves and removing the needles from their packaging. “You're about to permanently alter your skin. If you weren't nervous about that, I'd say you weren't thinking about it hard enough.”

Bond considers this, takes a deep breath and steels herself, determined not to let herself down. She takes off her shirt, pulls her bra strap down and sits with her back to Reed. As the needle vibrates to life, she looks to her side to the mirror hanging on the wall of Reed's booth, but she cannot see him fully. She only sees his hands and the tattoo gun lowering towards her.

As the tattoo gun chatters into Bond's skin, she tells him the beginnings of her story, her words chopped up into quick phrases, the pressure of the line work acting as punctuation.

“His name is Eastern,” she says, her face twisting into the sneer reserved for parents, teachers or lovers who do not understand. Reed, concentrating, does not ask which he is.

“This is the whole reason I finally left,” Bond says, nodding to where Reed is busy with the bird cage, “and the first one I get is about him. I think that's funny, I guess.”

As Reed finishes and cleans her shoulder blade, Bond comforts herself against the pain. The raw, burning feeling, she tells herself, means that that part of her body, at least, is very real.

26_A Gentleman's Guide to Tattoos

The other day, a friend of mine was telling me about a time a few weeks ago when she was waiting for an elevator with another woman and a man.  When the elevator came, the man held the door for the two of them, pressed the buttons for them once inside and held the door on the way out.  She was impressed by how gentlemanly the man acted.  That lead me to think of matters of etiquette and outdated they are.  A few years back, my dad bought me and my brothers a book called "How to be a Gentleman" for Christmas.  It is a nice book, but it deals mostly with dinner parties and high society.

Now I do not know a lot about proper etiquette, but there is one area that I do know about:  tattoos.  And so, I offer to you:

The Gentleman's Guide to Tattoos

For Those Who Do Not Have Tattoos:

- A gentleman never asks to see someone else's tattoos unless he is genuinely interested in viewing the artwork.

- A gentleman never asks to read the writing on a woman's tattoos.

- A gentleman never asks to see a tattoo simply as a pickup line, and he certainly does not ask to see a tattoo as a means of making a woman expose herself.

- If a gentleman is interested in the meaning behind a tattoo or the reason for getting the tattoo, the gentleman first asks if there is a reason.  If the answer is no, the gentleman drops the subject.  If the answer is yes, the gentleman waits for the tattooed party to offer their story.  If the story is not offered, the gentleman does not pry.

- A gentleman does his best not to ask questions that he probably already knows the answer to.  For example, he does not ask someone "Don't tattoos hurt?", knowing full well that anything that involves needles probably hurts.

- A gentleman never judges another by the quantity or quality of another's tattoos.  Although, if someone is prominently displaying tattoos that contain racist, homophobic or profane images, the gentleman would probably do best to avoid their company.

- A gentleman does not rant on over the reasons that he does not have a tattoo.

When Getting a Tattoo:

- A gentleman is discerning about where he goes for his tattoos and makes sure that the shop is well-organized and follows the appropriate steps to ensure the safety of its clients.

- No matter how many tattoos the gentleman plans on getting, he starts small to ensure that he can actually stand the tattooing process.

- A gentleman understands that the more reference materials he brings, the more say he has in the artwork.  If he does not have any reference materials, but just a vague idea of what he wants, he understands that it is in the hands of the artist.
- A gentleman understands that the artist knows better than he does in terms of placement, size and content.  If the artist suggests something different than what the gentleman had in mind, he does not argue, but rather works on a fair compromise.

- A gentleman does not get tattoos that have racist or homophobic meanings and he only gets tattoos with profanity or nudity when there is clear artistic merit, such as a faithful reproduction of a famous piece of art.

- A gentleman is extremely reluctant to get someone else's name tattooed on his body, unless he is related to that person by blood, married to them or is memorializing that person.
- A gentleman does not jeopardize his job prospects or his career with the placement of a tattoo and, should his job require it, he is happy to cover them at all times.  If the gentleman is not happy with those restrictions, he does not complain or try and force the issue.  Instead he looks for a different job.

- A gentleman always tips his tattoo artist, the standard rate being about 20%, especially if the gentleman wishes to maintain a relationship with that artist.

- A gentleman may give a personal gift to his artist as a tip (such as a bottle of wine instead of cash), but only with the following conditions:  the artist owns their own shop or works out of a private studio; and never before the second session, or without a prior agreement having been made.

For Those With Tattoos:

- A gentleman never exposes himself in public to show off a tattoo.

- A gentleman never shows his tattoos to someone who has not expressed interest in them.

- A gentleman never brags about how long he sat for his tattoos or how well he handled the pain.

- If a gentleman is asked about the reasons for his tattoos and he does not wish to tell the interested party, he is polite in his dismissal:  "There is a reason, but I don't want to talk about it right now."

- A gentleman never criticizes the quality of another's tattoos.  If the tattooed party admits that it was a mistake ("I shouldn't have gotten this tramp stamp, but I was young and stupid.") then the gentleman may offer his own artist or shop to fix or cover up the offending tattoo, but he does not bring the subject up again.

- If someone expresses interest in the gentleman's tattoos, he may give out the name of his shop and artist, but only if that artist is currently taking on new work.

- Kid

25_A Bit of Humor: The Politics of Cats and Dogs

I'm surprised something like this hasn't already popped up on my Facebook newsfeed.  It's possible that it did, but I simply ignored it or overlooked it because there wasn't a cute picture accompanying it.

I started to think about the two most popular things that do happen to pop up on my Facebook newsfeed:  political rants and funny/cute pictures involving cats and dogs.  That got me thinking:  "if cats and dogs had politics, which would be the democrat and which would be the republican?"  After about ten seconds of thought, it was clear that the cat would be on the side of the GOP and the dog would be barking "Yes we can" over and over again.

I share with you my findings below to illustrate how that would be:

Appearance:
Dogs:  Come in all shapes and sizes from a multiplicity of different breeds and different socio-economic backgrounds.
Cats:  Much more uniform, except for color and length of hair.  Black ones are the subject of much superstition.

Work Ethic:
Dogs:  Eager to get things done, but usually end up chasing their own tails.
Cats:  Once in the house, they're really not big fans of accomplishing much of anything.

The War on Drugs:
Dogs:  Love the grass, man.
Cats:  Don't even care for catnip.

Immigration:
Dogs:  Welcome everyone in, including criminals, sometimes.
Cats:  Extremely wary of any visitor from the outside.

Entitlements:
Dogs:  Try to give you gifts, even when that just creates more of a mess.
Cats:  Have their place on the down comforter and don't care where or how well you sleep.

The Economy:
Dogs:  BIG fans of the auto industry.  (Especially the people who make the windows go down.)
Cats:  Tend to exploit people for their personal comfort.

Gay Rights:
Dogs:  Believe all should be able to hump all.
Cats:  Not even comfortable with petting, sometimes.

The War on Terror/Foreign Policy:
Dogs:  Can bark the bark, but rarely bite the bite.
Cats:  BIG fans of going out into the world and acting aggressive towards the locals.

Gun Control:
Dogs:  Always willing to bring gun victims to the attention of gun owners.
Cats:  LOVE hunting.

Compromise:
Dogs:  Willing to eat whatever the cat spits out.
Cat:  Don't understand why we need the dog in the first place.

Working With Each Other:
Dogs:  "Maybe that cat will be my friend!"
Cat:  *Hits dog on the nose*
- 5 minutes later -
Dogs:  "Maybe that cat will be my friend!"
Cat:  *Hits dog on the nose*
(ad infinitum)

So there you have it.  I'm sorry to my staunchly Democratic parents, but it looks like you've been shacked up with two hardcore right wingers all this time.  Next time maybe get a poodle.

Join me next time on A Bit of Humore, where we discuss the extreme Libertarian leanings of the honey badger.

- Kid

24_Beneath The Fire: An Original Story

After a very fruitful discussion about writing with a good friend of mine tonight, I decided it was time to post a story.  This one in particular I feel is timely as some of my favorite bands are either in the middle of their farewell tours, or on indefinite hiatus, most likely never to return.  Please enjoy:

Beneath The Fire

I remember telling Allan: “This isn't a band, it's merchandise with a soundtrack.” He laughed and agreed and ordered us another round. We were standing at the back of the Ottobar, waiting for the opening sets to finish. The first band, a local act that was filling in for the last two shows of our tour, was good, but unrefined. They were all fire and passion and loud noise with no structure beneath it. They relied too much on gimmicks, but then again, we did too, when we were younger.

Even as I say this, I feel like my voice is cracking, but I need to say it. Even if it sounds hollow, I need to say it.

It was still early, but the crowd was beginning to fill out. It was a mix of everyone who had ever heard our music, from young and excited to old and jaded. I recognized a couple that I'd met on one of our very first East Coast tours. They had a child with them. I pointed this out to Allan.

“If we keep going, we'll have an entirely new fan base in ten years,” he said. We laughed, but it wasn't funny.

“Let's get backstage,” I said. We moved slowly through the crowd, taking our time, pausing to listen to a few more songs. The band on stage played their last song and for that song at least, they sounded truly together. If they'd played like that all night, they would have impressed me.

As the band left the stage, the crowd began to shift around and I felt their attention turn to us. A teenage girl who couldn't have been older than fifteen, bopped over to meet us. She stood in front of us for a second, silent and smiling.

“I'm Jack,” I said when it was clear hat she was too shell-shocked to speak, “and this is Allan.”

“I know! My name's Kelly and I've been looking forward to meeting you for so long,” she blurted out.

“It's nice to meet you too, Kelly,” Allan said. She turned to him and started to give the normal excited fan speech; how she has all our albums, how she waited outside all day to get in first, how she wants our autographs. I felt the energy in her voice, but that didn't have an affect on me any more.

As Allan and Kelly talked small, I looked up at the couple with the kid. The man nodded to me and I waved back. He said something to his wife and she waved too. He had a look on his face and I knew they wouldn't come over and say hello. In their smiles I saw a tiredness that was verging on bitterness. They weren't here just to listen to our show or see us perform, they were here to act as witnesses to our final moments as a band. They wanted finality. They would only be convinced that we were done once we played our hearts out and left them dying on the stage to be swept up with the rest of the dusty, cluttered remains of a dead show. I'd seen that look before, a hundred times on your face as you looked at me and your eyes begged me to convince you that what we had was finally real and would continue after we went our separate ways.

In Kelly I saw nothing but dumb, wasted sincerity. She suddenly seemed repulsive.

I waved back to the couple and grabbed Allan by the arm.

“Kelly, it was lovely meeting you, but we have to go backstage. Enjoy the show,” I said, pulling Allan with me.

“Are you OK?” Allan asked.

“I'm fine. Just got reminded of something I didn't want to think about.”

Allan nodded and kept quiet. These days, there's so much that him and I don't want to be reminded of. We headed back stage to get our shit together.

* * * * *

23_I Met The Internet

This past Brunchday (Sunday for the rest of you, but once you start working the 10 - 6 brunch shift, brunch just takes over), I had dinner with Kristen.  Visiting the vibrant locales south of Baltimore for work, she found a day off and made the trip up from Jessup, where the government contracting sprawl begins it's long, business park stretch down to the capital, to Baltimore proper, where we have mimosas.

It was a nice visit.  We went to one of my favorite local spots and shared a delightful bottle of California zin.  We caught up and talked about the fascinating way that virtual reality commerce has monetized itself in to an actual industry - so much so that Blizzard Entertainment built a marketplace feature in to their latest release, Diablo 3.  We had some amazing mac n cheese.  The Ravens won a very, very sloppy win.  (I'm not a football fan but FOURTH AND 29?)

All in all, it was a wonderful way to unwind from the torture of a long, drawn-out and relatively slow brunch shift.  It was remarkable only for the fact  that even though Kristen and I have known each other for well over five years, this was the first time we'd ever met.

Kristen is the first of my internet friends that I've ever actually met in real life.  I'm not bothered by the fact that I have internet-exclusive friends who I've never met. In fact, quite the opposite is true.  What if I meet one of them and they turn out to be complete bores, or insufferably annoying?  What if they get drunk off of expensive wine, are rude to the waiter and leave me with the bill?  What if the internet is the only place they have any personality?

Of course, seeing Kristen was nothing but pleasant, to the point where I would have been happy to order another bottle of wine and continue discussing the blurred lines between virtual reality and actually reality.  After all, that is what we were doing; a fact not so much hanging over our heads, but sitting in the back of my mind as an interesting point, a breaking of some sort of virtual fourth wall.  Amidst discussing our friends by their internet handles and not by their real names, were we to bring it up, we probably would have just laughed.

Upon recounting the story to a friend of mine, she looked, if not aghast, at least shocked that Kristen and I had never met before.  I shrugged it off and carried on, not wanting to interrupt the flow of my current train of thought to explain the length of time I've known Kristen and recite the standard criteria for considering yourself truly friends with someone; discussing exes, having deep conversations, having silly conversations, and all the other things that friends do when they begin to see themselves as such.

Perhaps I am a product of my generation, but it has never really occurred to me that having internet-exclusive friends is a strange thing.  Now that Facebook and social media has stripped away much of the danger, allowing us to double-check how "real" our friends are depending on how many pictures they have, the quality of their status updates, etc, I certainly advocate it.  After all, we spend an exorbitant amount of time contacting each other electronically anyway.

But I have always been one to blur the lines when it comes to traditional views on relationships.  Rigidity never interested me and why it would interest others is beyond me.

And that California zin really was great.

- Kid