Failure as a Growth Step

 After mewling in my last post, I found this video by Dr. Alan Goldberg. Good advice on how to deal with setbacks. I intend to follow his worthy counsel.

 

Competitive Advantage

Awful Training Run

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A sub-par 18 mile run yesterday. I made rookie mistake in hydrating, energy, pace, you name it. I spent the day depressed. If certain issues with my running shoes aren't resolved, I'll need to push back my marathon. A mess, I tell you.

Surfer's Point Marathon Update

 

Yes, November 7th, a Sunday, will see me once again attempt to master 26.2 miles. For the last 12 years I've been searching for a method of running that didn't cause me knee pain. If you have time, peek at this, or this, or this, or this, or this or this. My orthopedist tried talking me out of ever trying to run again. But I knew better. Such high hopes I had. I assumed I'd be knocking out another marathon sometime in 2010.

Today I'm into my longest runs. This Wednesday, I'll run 16. Then the following weeks will see long runs of 18, 13.1, 20, 10, 8, some speed work, then the marathon. I'll know my goal time more exactly after my half-marathon run. Right now it appears a finishing time of five hours and eleven minutes is doable. It's exciting. I'd forgotten so much. Like nipple guards. 

More soon. 

So Long, Norm Macdonald

 This guy made me laugh. I'm sorry to see him go so soon. Below is a clip from a longer piece on how Norm would approach the job of being a serial killer.

CureofQuarantine

9/11 Recalled 2021

 

K called from Florida, "Planes crashed into the World Trade Center and one of the towers just fell." Unemployed in Los Angeles and half asleep at 7:30 AM, I shuffled downstairs to the TV, past Joy as she prepared for work. At first, all I saw was a dirty cloud obscuring southern Manhattan. Then a stunned announcer said the second tower had just collapsed. Joy joined me, work forgotten as we learned of the attack.

Other friends phoned throughout the day. Paul Rugg speculated about the pilots of the doomed aircraft, certain they weren't Americans forced to crash. TJ, a Vietnam vet, was incensed at the footage of jubilant Palestinians with their candy and AK-47s. He wished he could gift them with a nice buttering of napalm. In a grim mood, I agreed.

Watching TV and power-chewing Nicorette, I mostly felt numb — except when the subject was jumpers. Then I felt horror. Go to work, sip coffee, joke with your pals, then decide whether you'll suffocate, burn alive, or leap a quarter mile to certain death. Questions of etiquette arise: jump solo or hold hands with a co-worker? Perhaps several of you link arms and form a chain, finding courage in numbers. Or do you clutch a table cloth and step into the air, desperately hoping it slows your fall?



The journey takes ten seconds.


Air velocity rips away your shoes.


You explode on impact.


I will always be haunted by the jumpers of 9/11.


Oceans of paper were blasted from the towers, filling the New York sky like the Devil's ticker tape. Invoices and wedding invitations floated down to gray sidewalks.

My friend Cathy, who worked in D.C., reported chaos as the government sent everyone home at once following the Pentagon attack. One jammed intersection turned scary as a man leaped out of an SUV brandishing a pistol and attempting to direct traffic.

Being murdered is not a heroic act, though it can be. Flight 93 passengers fought back and died, saving many more in their sacrifice. North Tower Port Authority employees rescued over 70 people before perishing.


There were many heroes that day.

My sister Mary Pat and I had dinner at a coffee shop. She was passing through town, leaving a job in Mountain View, CA to return to Phoenix. Depressed by the day's events, our meal was not jolly.

Later, Joy tried to give blood, but the hospital was overwhelmed with donations and refused.

Vulnerability, grief, dismay, anger.

Such a beautiful morning with a sky so blue.

(Photos from: Little Green Footballs.)

Repost: Sept. 11, 2008

Update: Strange to reread this. TJ died in 2009 and K passed away just over a year ago. My wife, Joy, and I are doing well, as is Paul Rugg who now rides the train. 

Repost: Sept. 11, 2013

Update: I had cancer surgery last year, but recovered. My wife is doing well and my sister battles her own health woes. I have not heard from my friend Cathy in a few years.  Paul Rugg continues riding the train in addition to being a voice over machine.

Repost: Sept. 11, 2015

Update: Paul Rugg's daughter was not quite two years old on 9/11/01. Now she is a freshmen in college. I have retired from TV animation writing, though, as stated elsewhere, I find retirement to be indistinguishable from unemployment. (Save for a small annuity.) And very soon, I shall ride the train to see my sister. (Explanatory post t/k.)

Repost: Sept. 11, 2017

Update: Ten years have passed since I composed this post, 17 years since the incident. Alas, the greatest hit to our nation continues to be a colossal security apparatus that can't seem to function without monitoring everyone's communications, then lying about it. I'd rather not comment on airport theater. Still, my wife remains gainfully employed and I'm racing to complete a dystopian thriller by Christmas. Amidst the great events, the little things carry us forward.

Repost: Sept. 11, 2018

Update: About to publish a softcover version of my prostate book. Meanwhile the Afghanistan Forever War continues. I refuse to believe that for almost 20 years, there's been no better way of fighting the Taliban than sending billions to Pakistan to provide hiding places for them while they infiltrate Afghan government forces and assassinate our advisors. The Byzantine Empire lasted over a thousand years battling multiple enemies on different fronts, employing a combination of diplomacy military prowess, and strategic alliances. With the entrenched, consequence-proof dimwits we have infesting Washington D.C., we'll probably end up surrendering to the Taliban.

Repost: Sept. 11, 2019

Update: How odd to stand on the threshold of twenty years. Given the riots and chaos of the pandemic, the blithering repose of local government re. small-business-killing lockdowns, the event is passing with barely a mention. If I hadn't spotted a NatGeo special on the Twin Towers, I might've forgotten myself. Interesting health issue, with cataract surgery, an upcoming new crown—for a tooth—and the results of a biopsy for skin cancer. Paul Rugg works on a Henson TV show, and his daughter nears the end of her undergrad studies. My sister continues on with NPR in the unburned portion of the Pacific Northwest. I will publish a book of my short stories by Christmas. Joy's work will soon restore her full pay, slashed during the lockdowns. Since South Dakota never locked down at all, shouldn't their population be deader than the Sioux at Wounded Knee? Not all experts are experts.  

Repost: Sept. 11, 2020

Update: 

What I wrote sarcastically in 2019 came true. A devastating mortifying defeat. 

Repost: Sept. 11, 2021

Top Ten Raymond Chandler Quotes from The High Window

 Hard-boiled Noir, huh?

librarything

I'd never read this particular Phillip Marlowe tale, but am enjoying it immensely. Absolutely loaded with fun descriptive Chandlerisms:

1. "She had eyes like strange sins."

2. "Below his eyes . . . there was a wide path of freckles, like a mine field on a war map."

3. The blonde sobbed in a rather theatrical manner and showed me an open mouth twisted with misery and ham acting."

4. "We looked at each other with the clear innocent eyes of a couple of used car salesmen."

5. ". . . and a granite coffee pot that smelled like sacks in a hot barn."

6. " He had a sort of dry musty smell, like a fairly clean Chinaman."

7. "From ten feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away."

8. "My face was stiff with thought, or with something that made my face stiff."

9. "[Net curtains] puckered in and out like the lips of a toothless old man sleeping."

10. "Out of the apartment houses come women who should be young but have faces like stale beer; men with pulled-down hats and quick eyes that look the street over behind the cupped hand that shields the match flame; worn intellectuals with cigarette coughs and no money in the bank; fly cops with granite faces and unwavering eyes; cokies and coke peddlers; people who look like nothing in particular and know it, and once in a while even men that actually go to work. But they come out early when the wide cracked sidewalks are empty and still have dew on them."

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