And that's why you always stretch before IM softball games....

IM softball tonight: single, homerun, triple...pulled hamstring while tagging from third. I scored, but it also felt like someone punched the back of my leg. Hard. Pain. Probably not going to run in the half marathon on Halloween. Ice and Advil are in my future. Awesome!

Seriously?!

Basic rule of life #234: It is all but impossible for an adult, especially a male, to look anything but ridiculous when wearing face paint outside of proper context like a sporting event, a costume party, or a carnival where the individual is playing a clown or other jester-like character.

Corollary to #234: in said situation, trying to play it casual, contrary to normal human experience, just makes things worse.

Example:
Driving around downtown Minneapolis today in the drizzle at around 3:30 pm (or, 4.5 hours before game time) I saw a young man crossing the street with facepaint on that ostensibly was meant to make him look ghoulish in character but really made him look quite sad. It was apparent in his body language (slouched shoulders and shifty, downcast eyes, etc.) that the face paint was not his idea. Probably the result of an overbearing mother who, in return for signing the permission slip to get out of 10th grade biology early game day, insisted that he wear the skeleton-Adrian Peterson getup. "If you're planning on going to this Vikings game with this family, young man, you will dress up for it! And don't think you're not going to be a skeleton, even if Halloween is still three weeks away, because I didn't spend $15 at Party City to look at the black and white face paint as it sits on the shelf untouched by a bratty teenage boy who is suddenly "too cool" to apply random face paint as he is paraded around downtown Minneapolis by this mother. Don't think I forgot about your "call me Barbie and I'll call you Ken" phase." [A seething, "you wouldn't dare," face ensues, followed by a slow, reluctant unscrewing of the black paint and a defiantly harsh flip of the vanity mirror switch.] But nonetheless, this example proves that face paint outside of the proper context (and you could really put down a good argument that there is really no "proper" context for face paint on adults) looks simply ridiculous. A related example of this phenomenon of out-of-context absurdity occurs whenever a cyclist abandons his/her bike while still wearing spandex bike gear. Bike + biker = clothes ok (again, the argument could be made that under no circumstances should some people be in form fitting clothes). Biker - bike = clothes NOT ok.

Enough sitting around. I need to get up and run.

The biggest problem with law school is that it's needy. Every spare moment, you can feel its pull, beckoning you, making you feel guilty about not reading that next case or doing another brief. You can either succumb to this and feel pressured to go the extra mile -- the mantra "reach for the moon, because even if you fall short, you'll be among the stars" running through your head. [NOTE: I have such a major problem with this mantra. The premise is so fundamentally flawed. It's as if we're telling kids or corporate luncheon attendees -- whomever the typical audience for this saying is -- hey, underachiever, here's a cute little jingle, don't mind that it ignores the basic layout of the physical world; if you try hard enough you can be both burned out and ignorant of science! "Reach for the stars, because even if you fall short, you'll still be somewhere around the moon, or perhaps that middle distance between our star, the Sun, and the star you're trying to reach, some few million light years away, but either way, hey -- you gave it your best shot!" doesn't have that same pithiness but at least it gets the science right. See, America, this is why our children are failing out of math and science. This is why a mind-boggling, jaw-dropping number of Americans think humans walked with the dinosaurs (the History Channel series "Walking with the Dinosaurs" doesn't do a whole lot to clear this up, but at least there aren't little computer generated people walking with the Triceratops and early mammals). It's hard to do well in life if you're being encouraged by faulty science. Ok, enough rant.]

Or, you can consciously make an effort to take a break from the stress of school and go for a run. It's fall and my favorite time of year to get outside and jog by the river. The leaves are turning and sometimes when you are rushing through a tunnel of trees, bent forward with golden limbs and showering you with soon to be detritus, it feels like flight. This adjustment period to school has made my running so south. But that is soon to change.

The Twin Cities Marathon is tomorrow and, while I am not obviously running, I am declaring right now my intention to run it next year. I am also going to run Grandma's Half in June. There, I said it. Hold me to it.

I used to be a decent runner. Never fast, but not slow -- pretty good for a reformed baseball player/husky child. In 2006, I ran Grandma's Half in 1 hour 43 minutes. Now, I doubt I could make it in under two. I used to run all the time and eat Chipotle with careless abandon while weighing somewhere in the low-160's. Now, I don't run too often but still eat Chipotle like it's going out of style and I'm in the 180 range. Now, if that was LSAT score, thanks, I'll take it. Harvard, here I come! But it's not, and for that reason I must run.

Don't take this as anything but my personal desire to get back into shape and have fun running again. I'm not going on the Atkins diet nor do I plan on running 20 miles a day in this quest. I just don't want to be the guy who elicits surprise when he tells people he's a runner. "Oh, really? You run? Huh. [uncomfortable silence/stifled laugh]" Yeah, not going to be me...And please do hold me to it -- when you see me eyeing that third piece of pizza, poke my belly and give me a disapproving shake of the head or finger or both. I'll get the point. I'll try to update semi-regularly throughout the year.

Here's my first update: I'm planning on running a Halloween Half. I am picturing this as a horrible re-introduction to running races, but it will be good to look back and say, wow, I've come a long way since October 2009 in October 2010.

Stay tuned...

Proof.

Well, September has come and gone and I'm still alive and in law school. And I love it.

[Preface (although this really isn't a preface, is it? I've already begun the post. It's not pre-anything. Well, except for that weird middle part and, yeah, the end. But maybe "editior's note" would be a more appropriate title to this section? I don't care and I'm sure you don't either.): so I'm back posting tonight since I missed my bus that would have taken me to the bar to drink with my law school friends. So, instead of doing something social, I decided to do the most anti-social thing possible: blog alone in my room at midnight. The middle and majority of this post is really just rambling, so if you are pressed for time but still want to hear how my life at law school is going, just disregard the parts of this post enclosed in carrots, "<[blah, blah]>." I won't be offended if you skip to the bottom. But this is just proof that I'm alive and well. And still a little weird.]

<>

So in light of all this, yeah, law school still manages to be the most difficult thing I've ever done. But unlike eating a shitty burrito, it's also the most rewarding.

Ed. So this is a little hint for all you bloggers out there: if you put a portion of text in these things
"<>" whatever gets put in between is erased when you publish the post. A blogger black hole. Take, for instance, the last little comment about eating a bad burrito. You might have gotten this allusion if the point it was alluding to wasn't deleted when I pressed "publish post". You might have chuckled or even chortled when you read it, shaking your head as you remembered the funny, fantastical story I had just spun for your enjoyment. Well, maybe my rambling about wearing black jeans and a "Save the Tigers" long sleeved shirt and having a hissy fit in Chipotle wasn't fit for this blog that like 3 people read anyway. But I thought it was funny. Waay funnier than <>.

Ed. (2) Ok, this post just sucks. I'll try to redeem myself soon.

Shit is about to get REAL

Preface: I'm currently in the midst of discovering Hüsker Dü (10 minutes of "umlaut shortcut for mac" searching well worth it; heavy metal umlauts should be more prevalent in day to day life) so apologies if this post is tinged by that frenetic and groundbreaking Minneapolis punk sound that so well compliments my current disposition and this post. Or not.

Yes, the shit is about to get real. This is a true statement with law school now only hours away and my life as I know it destined to become only a distant, rapidly fading memory, tinged with nostalgia for the days of endless hours of mouth breathing and blank staring that may or may not have become a significant part of my life in this limbo between school and work and more school. It can't help that I'm reading the book One L right now that goes into graphic detail about one law student's perilous journey through Harvard Law School in the 1970's. I was told to read it with the overlying assumption that everything this guy went through I will not, at least to the extremes he did. This is comforting, but also rather frightening.

So I won't face the same pressures the author did, but I'll still face similar, if diluted pressures to perform under rigorous intellectual conditions. I certainly worked hard in undergrad, but the pressure to excel was not as pronounced as I expect it to be in law school. Or, to put it better, the competition amongst those seeking to excel will be more apparent compared to the laid back undergrad study culture (with the exception of that certain someone in the labs who was always too busy to even talk. Or think (but not to complain about being busy) even while the rest of us, with identical and similar if not more demanding extra curricular obligations were looking up cats that look like Hitler). It'll be interesting, to use my best Minnesotanease.

Speaking of Minnesota and being back home, I arrived just in time for my 5 year high school reunion. Despite some of my classmates' ambivalence or even hostility towards its arrival, for a myriad of reasons, I was genuinely mildly excited for it. Mild excitement being my version of turning up the amp to 11. Spinal Tap anyone?

As it approached, however, the vain insecurities of high school started to creep and I felt a little disappointed in myself that they had started to get a foothold once again. Looking back on it, high school kinda sucked at times, even most times, as I think it did for anyone who has moved on and realized that the most important things in life are not what the most important things in high school were. Walking under the marquee in Downtown Minneapolis (a trivial aside: I really love to see the word Minneapolis spelled out. For some reason it reminds me of a smile. I think it's that 'e' perfectly nestled in between the Minn- and the -apolis.) that announced our reunion to the world, I was met by an odd smattering of high school mates that now looked wildly out of context in a clubby bar. Cue the sheepish grin and the sustained glances towards the ESPN ticker on the flat screen that will probably forever be my anti-social cop out.

The first half hour was awkward. Like high school. But the drinking soon helped. That and a pep talk I gave myself about enjoying the party. I give myself too many of those. But aside from avoiding/ignoring the people I have no desire to ever see outside of the yearbook and the occasional facebook post, there were a lot of people I enjoyed reconnecting with. Despite my initial reversion to high school tendencies, the reunion served to chip away some of the social barriers that existed in high school. And, in between the pole dancing-bachelorettes, it was fun to hear about what my classmates had been up to. Even though I could just look it up on facebook.

Finally, in this scatterbrained rambler, is bike news. I finished it over the weekend and have already gone on a relaxed ride through Minneapolis (there it is again!) that served to remind me that bike rides can be fun and not just an excuse to burn calories. Thanks to Jeff for the front wheel, I love it. Thanks to Home Depot for the paint. Thanks to online merchandisers for the seat (Selle San Marco), seat post, lights, etc. Thanks to my local bike shops (Re-Cycle and Penn Cycle) for the rest. Thanks to my neighbor for giving me the original bike a few years ago. Thanks to my shed for keeping it safe through those tough Minnesota winters. Finally, thanks to my idle hands and mind for concocting a project to top off this month of waiting.

The morning paper

Preface: Lazy fiction. Because I can't sleep.

The old man awakes at his usual time. Though he sets an alarm every night before lights off -- better safe than sorry, he tells himself -- routine proves to be a better morning rooster, his hand hovering above the snooze button almost involuntarily at the waking time. Sometimes his aging mind plays tricks and he awakes in a panic during the dull gray dawn, certain a thunderstorm, or perhaps a freak solar event came ripping through the night, cutting power to his alarm clock, betraying that bond that exists between man and machine. He thinks to himself, I should really get a battery powered alarm clock. But he'll forget this when he runs errands that afternoon, as he always does. He will then silently chastise himself and miss his wife, who had a better memory but worse luck.

Sleepily and out of habit, he reaches a speckled, wrinkled hand to the other side of the bed but is met only by a remorselessly empty flower-patterned comforter, still precisely made from the night before. Still now years later, he feels a sharp urgent flutter in his stomach when this happens. A feeling deeper than disappointment or sadness. The old man gets out of bed and shuffles down the hallway to the bathroom. Finshed, he shuffles to the front door.

The old oak door creaks as he opens it, lifting up and outward to balance the shaky hinges. On the outside of the door, the red paint is cracking and peeling. Red flakes fall more regularly now as if the old tree, though mutilated, still remembers nature. As he opens the screen door, he makes a mental note to fix the empty holes with mesh from the garage. He will forget to do this too in the afternoon. He looks down. The paper is curled inside a green plastic bag. A curious object is nestled at the bottom. Like a giraffe to water, he splays his legs to reach down without so much pain. There is still some.

The sequence of the door is reversed and the old man retreats into the home he built decades ago. The plastic bag is emptied and the paper and the paper and the object fall to the cluttered WWII-era kitchen table. After donning a pair of drug store reading glasses -- he stashes them all over the house for times like these -- he picks up the small rectangular brownie-sized package and reads the label.

Luna Bar: The Whole Nutrition Bar for Women.

The name makes him sad and miss his wife. She would have clucked her tongue and said something about eggs, toast, and bacon being all the nutrition she needed. She also would have eaten the Luna bar later, after reconsidering, and would have gone out and bought cartons of them that same day. This is why he loved her. The bar rolls off his curled fingertips and into the endless clutter of bills, clippings, and abandoned foodstuffs.

He then scans the front page of the newspaper. This too makes him sad. He remembers John Lennon singing about reading the news. Oh boy. This morning he can't read the rest of the paper because everything is making him sad. He will make a cup -- only one cup -- of strong black coffee and one slice of rye toast with butter and cinnamon sugar. The rest of the morning, he will sit in the kitchen and look out the window at the birds feeding at the wooden feeder. The seeds are running low and he needs to remember to fill it but he will forget. The birds make him happy.

Oh how the migthy have fallen.

Preface: This post mentions the fact that I was one of the captains for the varsity baseball team at the Academy of Holy Angels in 2004. It does not go into detail regarding why I was used most often as a pinch runner during my stint under the [insert "glowing" adjective here] Coach Page. But after reading this, you may understand a bit better. Also, I kind of dig county fairs, and not in a wholly ironic way, either. It's a great expression of what it means to be an American. Both good and bad.

I had the opportunity to stay at my high school friend's cabin in Wisconsin this weekend. I had a lot of fun tubing, wakeboarding (actually being dragged through the water in a fruitless attempt to wakeboard -- more on that later), drinking, grilling, and Sing Starring. But the most enlightening experience was the Sawyer County Fair.

Watching the demolition derby, avoiding lewd carnies, and riding the Ferris Wheel are all pretty typical Wisconsin county fair things to do in my book. We did them Saturday. Some of my friends did spinny rides. I did not. I did, however, pay $2 to make an ass out of myself. Was it worth it? Probably not.

Since I didn't partake in any of the vomit-inducing rides, such as the multitude of centrifuge-inspired monstrosities that must make your internal organs mushy or smushed to the side of your body cavity, I spent some time engrossed in another wonder of the county fair - the games. Now why anyone would want a stuffed animal large enough to qualify for the HOV lane or a goldfish certain to be forgotten (while walking that thin line between floating upright and upside down) the instant it leaves the child's hands is beyond me, but hey, some of the games are fun.

I stood in front of the guess-your-speed baseball game and thought to myself, hey, I could do that! After all, I played baseball my entire life, how hard could it be? The country boys with their wide-eyed girlfriends were taking turns making elaborate, herky-jerky throws to the red painted box 15 feet away while a morbidly obese carny smoking a skinny cigarette and holding a radar gun in one hand and a 64 oz Big Gulp (for when you absolutely, positively have to consume four pounds of pop) in the other took their money and looked otherwise wall-eyed at the target. Two dollars for three throws; two warmup throws and a third that you had to guess the speed. Time and again, it went 54 mph, 54 mph, 55 mph -- fail. Ha, I thought, I can do better than these high schoolers - after all, I was captain of the famed Academy of Holy Angels varsity boys baseball team of 2004 (see preface).

So when I came back to the game with my group of friends, the gaggle of teens had moved on to greener pastures (probably the goldfish toss) and the fat carny and his carny friends were standing in a circle smoking and chatting. Slow night, apparently. I gave him my $2 and loosened up my arm to hurl a smoking fastball probably straight through the plastic banner but 15 feet away. The game was set up like a 3-walled cage, with stuffed animal prizes hanging from the ceiling about 10 feet above the ground. In my head I was already picking out my prize. Surely I would not fail. I couldn't.

I did. Epically.

My day thus far had, as I mentioned, consisted of attempting to wakeboard. My drag-friendly body couldn't get out of the water and for twenty minutes, the effort of strained lurching through the water, the wake frothy yellow, my face grotesquely expressed and red, meant my forearms were shot. I could hardly open a can (a situation upgraded to crisis level for the weekend's necessary activities). A moment of temporary forgetfulness or rather twentysomething invincibility/masculinity overtook me as I gripped the worn baseball in that familiar way, ready to fire.

A friend's flash lit up the scene -- me in a modified full-windup, my law school sweatshirt casually (of course) rolled up to my elbows, the carny smoking a cig/drinking Mountain Dew/holding the radar gun/staring off into space, my friends watching off to the side, the high schoolers suddenly all around me. It was all going so well until I felt nothing when I should've felt the ball being released from my fingers. I realized, to my utter mortification, that my hand had involuntarily released the ball when it was still by my ear, thanks to my useless forearms. The ball thankfully stayed in the game pen, but just barely. It hit a stuffed monkey. That got the carny's attention.

"You killed the monkeeee!!! Hehehe" [said through pursed, sugary, tobacco-y lips]

I looked at my hand, the traitor, like golfers look at their malfunctioning putter after missing a tap-in. I couldn't believe it. One sheepish grin and a shrug later and it was time to throw another ball -- technically still my first since my errant toss was apparently out of the radar's range. Suddenly mindful of my physical inadequacies, I took it more slowly this time and managed to hit the very top of the banner, still out of range for the radar. The carny was still loving it and his friends had joined in.

I thankfully got the last three throws within radar range and, needless to say, did not win a stuffed animal. I did, however, win the prize of having the carny take down the stuffed monkey I hit and proceed to heckle me as I walked away casually still (of course), but with some urgency into the cacophony of sounds, gaudy lighting, and questionable smells that is the Sawyer, Wisconsin County Fair.

Sometimes it takes a carny to put you back properly in your place.