Weekly Running Update 4-30-07

Ahh, here we are. Back on schedule. Familiarity truly is the king of comfort is it not? I know you're all excited for the update but please try to control yourself lest I find it impossible to finish this post through the deafening roars and jeers cheers. Ok, my running update is back to its usually scheduled time and place, which is nice. Things have gone completely upside down the past couple of weeks for reasons that are already well documented so we'll leave that alone. Let's just be glad they're starting settling back into a well worn groove. So, without further ado and much pomp and circumstance, I present the week that was in the world of running, Calitri style.

It felt good to get back into the swing of running. I was pretty depressed two week ago when I couldn't running because of the blister incident. Being sidelined for the week, after sticking to the schedule so religiously for a month, annoyed me like fingernails on a chalkboard. It felt like all the hard work I had put in up to that point was all for not. I was a train that had traveled a hundred miles only to be derailed halfway to the next station. My shipment was never going to be delivered. I was afraid, knowing how I work and think, that I wouldn't be able to pick back up after the boil on my foot healed. Luckily, I'm pleased to report that I got back up on that horse, or rail if you prefer, without much of a problem at all. She didn't buck hard enough this time to push me into unrecoverable paralyzing despair and sloth.

Tuesday was a get back in the swing of things four miler that flew by without a hitch. I was pushing myself, trying to run out the frustrations of the previous week and I finished in a fairly respectable time of around 24 minutes. For those of you keeping track at home, that's six minute miles. Pretty fast if I do say so myself. I'm not looking to go much faster than that. Although, if it happens I'm not going to complain. My dad - no he's not a bear despite what you might have heard - was telling me about a guy he ran cross-county with in high school who would finish his distance run each practice with a five minute mile around the track. If you've ever ran a mile on the track, you'd know five minutes is a damn fast time. World record caliber is just under 4 minutes for the mile runners. I ran the mile during indoor track my senior year of high school and my best time was 4:52. I only ran one race and afterwards told my coach I never wanted to run that fucking race again. Sixteen times around a little circle in a big room is damn boring. Plus, I'm not one who's fluent in pace. In fact, I was the oblivious rabbit in that race. I took off, thinking for the first half of the race that everyone else was either really slow or that I was really fast. As you may have guess, they all caught and passed me and I ended up dragging my dead and lifeless body across the finish line in last for that heat.

Wednesday, given my aforementioned suckiness at pacing, I decided to work on form and pace over a six mile run. The shorter runs, 3 to 5 miles, I just flat out run as fast as I can while maintain some semblance of constancy. On the longer runs I want to run in a similar manner as the marathon. So Wednesday was the first trial in this series of experiments and everything worked out even better than I could have imagined. I finished up averaging about 7 minutes a mile and I kept that pace throughout the run. Something I was especially proud of. No breaks on the downhills or easing up on the uphills for this guy. Nope, just a constant beat straight on till Sunday. I also worked on sitting back in my gate to more effectively use the larger muscles groups in my legs, i.e. the quads and glutes, and take some of the strain off my calves. I'm convinced that if anything's going to hold me back on race day, it's going to be my calf straining or cramping up. Therefore, I'm really trying to strengthen up now and get used to running techniques that emphasis other muscles groups. I hoping the old adage, the bigger the muscle the more work it can do, holds up. Maybe that's not really an old adage but I makes sense to me. Prove me wrong if you dare. I have no actually evidence to back up my intuitions.

Thursday was just your normal, everyday four mile run. Nothing too special here to talk about. I did kill a deer with my bare (bear) hands while jogging a path through the woods behind my house. It was self defense, I swear. That damn thing came out of no where.

I took the rest of the week off following that. I didn't want to extend myself too far considering I had missed the previous week. However, I did get a lot of cross-training done in the mean time. Friday was soccer and then all day Saturday was golf. Both activities made me sore as hell but I'm sore all the time anyway. Should I have stretched after golf? Who stretches on there way back to the club house? I'll tell you who, the gays and Ted Kennedy. But seriously, when you wake up and your legs feel like they took the opposite of Advil during the night, why not pile on the neck, back, arms and abs? I couldn't feel any worse could I? Don't answer that. I already know. I finished up the weekend with a little manly yard work. I took the broken lawn mower apart, fixed it and put it back together. It runs now but something's still not right. It sits there and oscillates between very low and very high RPMs. A constant mind-numbing up and down. I'm not going to give up on it, though. I'm a mechanical engineer damn it and I did not go to college for four years learning to design jet engines to not be able to fix a fucking lawn mower. In the unlikely event that I can't fix it, I'm going to set it on fire with the rest of the gas and dance around it like a good little piggy from Lord of the Flies.

I'm back at it tomorrow, so wish me luck. Just when these walking sticks attached to my torso start to feel better it's time to go punish them again. I hope they're up for a beating.

A Tainted Tale

When you move in with a significant other, you know there will be some unavoidable annoyances your going to have to deal with. It's just the facts of life. Different people do things different ways and we have to learn to accept and embrace the differences. Maybe she doesn't do the laundry the way you like. Maybe she's the kind of person who needs everything in its place and you feel like leaving the house in shambles. Maybe it's as small as as how she likes her tuna. Everyone does a hundred different things a hundred different ways.

Up until now, I thought I had handled things pretty well. We've been in the same house for three and a half years and settled into a comfortable grove. Sure, we still do a host of things that piss each other off, but for the most part we're fairly well adjusted. I try to be understanding about most of the things she does. And at least I can recognize the stuff that's going to piss her off as I'm doing them. And yes, since I have knowledge of my transgressions I could just not do things in ways that will get her riled but what fun is that? Messing with each other is one of the best things about a relationship. You always have someone to bug. I can't say that she'd agree with me but everyone's entitled to their own opinion I guess. Though my opinion is, of course, the correct one.

Then, every once in a while, something comes up, out of the blue, that you never expected. An annoyance so out of the realm of possibilities that it would have never crossed your mind. If your significant other had served you up this degradation on purpose, well then bravo to them. But I've found these diabolical irks happen only out of coincidence or purely by accident. These truly brilliant moments could have never been thought of consciously without the help of an evil master. Who has one of those lying about anyway? I'm not talking about her making you brownies with walnuts in them (some of you may like walnuts, I on the other hand loathe them with all of my being), which I must admit is a travesty in its own right. No, I'm talking about pure humiliation. The kind you hope no one ever sees and that makes your soul shiver like a wet dog stuck outside in subzero weather. It make me wonder why I'm writing about it then, but let's press on before I lose my nerve.

What I'm talking about is when I was drying off in the shower and I'd just worked the towel south of my ass, heading toward the calf and I felt a tickle in the vicinity of my butt crack. Not the normal itch mind you but more like a feather in your ear. I switched the towel from a two handed grip to a one-hander to free up a hand for exploration. With my free hand I tentatively reached to the top of my ass crack and landed a single hair on my fingertips. It was light and long, straight and conditioned. Certainly not the type of hair I'm comfortable with being back there. Gripping the hair between my thumb and index finger I began to pull. It was then that I felt an unfamiliar sensation as the hair uncoiled its clasp around my balls and slowly began to slide over the taint and through the valley. It left me with a icy kiss as it pulled wistfully out of my ass. I held the hair up to the blinding light of the vanity and gagged.

I'm not weird about hair. In fact, I rather like hair but I prefer when it stays on the girl's head rather than in my ass. There's hair all over our house. On the floor, in our bed, on counters and couches and now apparently on my towel as well. It's not her fault. She doesn't rip out chucks of her locks and leave them on my pillow before she goes to bed to fuck with me. She has long hair and it's going to fall. That's just inescapable curse of gravity. Still, even without malicious intent, I can find no solace in the fact that's it's inevitable. Now, I check and recheck my towel every time I take a shower like a squirrel looking for his last nut in hopes of finding any offending hairs before they make it to my body cavities. It sucks getting out of the shower and feeling dirtier than when you got in.

Please Be a Deer

Oh, hello there. Sorry to scary you there. I didn't want to but I felt I needed to pass the good vibrations on. The surreptitious Kristen sent me a link to the extremely pissed off deer you see above the other day in a vain attempt to scare me. Why is she trying to scare? I don't know. I didn't do anything to her and it's no where near Halloween. We'll just have to assume she's weird and move on. So I followed the link and this hideous creature greeted me on the other side of the web address. Apparently, you can by this thing as a decoration to match your cotton candy gay-ass studio apartment on the upper east side. Without reading the directions, I'm assuming you place your pink deer head on a coffee table or use it as a center piece. It may have also come with a wall mount but I'm not sure because I promised myself I'd never go back to that website. One should really be tactful when placing such a tacky object around the house, don't you think? Hell, with this thing you could probably put it anywhere. There's nothing the monstrosity won't look stupid next to.

Obviously, it's supposed to be something of a conversation piece, which got me thinking about what kind of conversations you could have.

All of the following answer your friend's question, "What the hell is that thing?"
Conversation 1:
Oh, that's a bust of my first girlfriend. They were giving away free busts at the mall so we decided to walk up and get hers done. Isn't the detail amazing. They really captured her image perfectly. Those sculptors are simply fabulous. Her name was Pam and we meet my Sophomore year of High School. I know you've never met her but she was one of the best kissers. I keep her form around to remember the good old days. I should show you a picture so you can better appreciate the high quality of the bust. I know what you're thinking and the answers yes, the pink is a little bit of artistic interpretation but everything else is spot on. You'll see. Just let me find that picture.

Conversation 2:
You know how I'm an avid hunter? Well this is one of my prize kills. I got her on a three continent hunting trip. The trip passed through Gaysilvania and we stopped for a few days to track and kill these majestic and cunning animals. They're very rare indeed and exceptionally hard to find. After hiking over mountains and grass land for more than a week, we finally made it to one of the three alpine stream used by this worthy adversary. We made camp on the first night and everything was relatively quiet beside the insentient chirping of our trusty shurpa, Bob. Really, he lost his tongue in a war of some kind and now communicated solely with chirps. In the morning we rose and I walked to the stream to take a piss. What I didn't know was these little pink bastards are extremely territorial and the reason people have never heard of them is because no one has ever survived an encounter to tell treir tale. Needless to say, they didn't like me pissing in their favorite watering hole. The largest stag of the group distinguished himself, striding towards me and stopping within five yards of where I stood. He pause for a moment and then addressed me.

"Stopping fucking pissing our stream, asshole. We saw you pricks last night and didn't think it was funny then. In fact, I think I'm going to have to kick your ass right now!", He said. I didn't understand what he said at the time because I was still groggy. Now, I can't get those thirty-three words out of my head.

Instinctively, I searched for my gun but it was no were to be found and the beast was close enough I could feel his steamy breath on my neck. With the quickness of a mountain cat, I reached out and grabbed the bastard by his shinning horns. We wrestled for what seemed like days. Rolling and tossing and turning over and over again. We were quite evenly matched but in the end I snapped his neck after fifteen minutes. My hands still bare the glitter encrusted scares of that mighty battle.

Conversation 3:
When a reindeer is born retarded it comes out pink. After a week, Santa cuts off the head and auctions it off to the highest bidder. I won it this week on ebay with a bid of twenty three dollars. Isn't it sweet?


Switching gears back to quasi-reality, the most confusing part of the whole piece is that the deer seems to be anatomically correct and yet it's pink. Maybe my artistic tastes aren't advanced enough to enjoy the irony because the points totally lost on me. Shouldn't this thing look like a fucking cartoon deer? If you wanted a pink deer, wouldn't you design it with rosy bubble cheeks, and oversized mouth and a tuft of hair on top resembling a troll doll? It's already pink, why not go all the way? I'd even be ok with it if it looked like the Bambi cartoon.

Oh Chirst, I didn't even think of this before, but what about the kids? I would have wet myself if I had seen this sitting on someones dining room table. I'm not sure whether it'd be out of fear or joy but it's piss either way. The antlered head protruding from the table with no sign of a body would have sent me into a tail spin. I would have tried to eject but like Goose (Top Gun, not blogger) I'd hit my head on something and die. I swear to God they should have a warning telling anyone with a pulse to keep out of eye shot. One steely glance from it's glass eye will turn your balls to stone. Just two tiny pebbles clinking together in a sack. Even if you escape the initial encounter, the long term psychiatric effects could be devastating. Speaking of psych effects, if I write about this any more I'm going to kick my own ass.

If anyone is out of their mind and would like to buy the eye sore, you can find it here. Anyone know how much that is in dollars? Because it should work out to negative 3 million to cover pain, suffering and emotional scarring associated with buying this product.

Weekly Running Update 4-24-07

I hit the snag. I knew it was going to happen and now it has. Much like the blister on my left foot made running, let's say, difficult, a new and much more sinister blister on my right foot made things next to impossible. I went out last Tuesday, hobbled for fifty yards, stopped on the middle of a down hill, turned around and hobbled the walk of man with two different length legs back to the house. As you might have guessed, I wasn't happy and neither was the blister. I had to drain it last week twice a day with a razor knife just to be able to walk. I'd cut it open. It'd miraculously seal itself up and fill with fluid. Over and over we went around on that ferris wheel of pain, till finally I said enough and sheared the flap of skin off completely. The blister was less than happy, but without its precious skin flap protection it soon stopped bleeding, calmed its barking and dried up. A few day later I was back to walking without a limp, though it did take some time to get over the feeling of my new callus. It just rubbed weird, you know? Either way, I have a distinct feeling that this was the first of many battles and not the war. Round numero uno if you know what I'm saying.

I finally got back to running today, after a week off, and things weren't that bad. It was warmer than its been lately and I'd like to take this time to remind you all to drink a lot of water before participating in strenuous outdoor activity. Heat stoke is the number one killer of the elderly midgets. Sure, I might have just made that up but I'm serious about the point. In fact, I provided a perfect example of the dangers of heat stroke today. I mean, I'm probably not even writing this post. I bet it's all in head and I'm really lying on the side of the road convulsing uncontrollably. Ok, maybe that's not accurate either but I'd like to think it is. One true thing I can tell you is I definitely experienced some of the warning signs. I suddenly stop perspiring and cold chills like a fever coursed over my body. Not very pleasant but when your out on the path, the only thing you can do is keep going and make it home. So that's just what I did. I'll make it a point to load up on water tomorrow. That should take care of it.

Running Sunday thought will not be seen this week due to the fact that Calitri's a lazy asshole and didn't make the run. I feel terrible, like the guy who was supposed to bring the beer for the party but showed up empty handed. Quite a retch of a man am I. Moving forward, I'll try to do better. The weather's nice and I'm injury free, so things are looking up. Have a nice humpy day tomorrow everybody.

A Response to the Benevolent Goose

As the title may suggest, this entry is a poor written reaction to a beautifully penned rant by one Goose. Head over to Goosetown and spend some time basking in the glorious glow of his angst-laden prose then return here to lower your IQ to it's normal and infinitely more comfortable sub-eighty level.

On the news:
It's amazing how we were just discussing the goddamn attention whore news and then bam! they prove every point I did or should have made (reference the comment section of "Why Don Imus Hates Black People" by Goose for those not in the know). They're such perpetual assholes it's unbelievable. However, we now have a bigger problem - if you can believe that. I graduated from VT in '03 and had a couple friends, who are fellow alums, head down for the weekend in a show of solidarity and support. One friend, upon arriving in Blacksburg, sent me a text message that read as follows:

"The Scientologists are here"

Between the dickhead media and those alien-born assholes, I'm not sure if my little mountain town will survive. Christ, can't they all just leave well enough alone and let people grieve? The last thing everyone need are a bunch of out-of-town idiots walking around reading folk's thetan levels while having a camera shoved in their face. Go push your propaganda somewhere else, asshats.

On Kirk:
Unfortunately, I can't recall ever having the pleasure of enduring a newscast by Kirk Jimenez. I'll make a point to watch ESPNEWS when this douchebag is on as a form of self punishment for some past transgression - possibly a Winnie Copper masturbation session.

There's a commentator for the Oriole's televised games, I can't remember his name - someone help me out here, who pronounces player's south and central American last names in what he assumes to be their native tongue. The problem is, the player's don't say their own last names like that. The best is Ramon ERnandez (really Hernandez). He says it like such a stuck up asshole. Specifically accentuating his blatant fuck up like it's the holy grail. It's not hard to leave the "h" off a fucking word, moron. It doesn't make you special. Your kids won't hate you any less. The hobos outside the stadium won't begin say hi to you now and the players probably all want to kick your ass. I'd be fucking insulted if I were them. You're an old, out of touch white man. Give up.

"I'm proud to have been raised with Irish overtones, but I don't don a green overcoat and suspenders, dye my hair red, and run around Compton handing out Lucky Charms."

I'm thinking maybe you should. Those Compton kids sure do love their Lucky Charms.

On Entourage:
I don't watch Entourage because I've convinced myself it sucks donkey balls (didn't take much convincing). Poor writing, mediocre acting, questionably stupid situations and the complete lack of plot or point. Need I go on? However, if they somehow get Carla or Emmanuelle, especially Emmanuelle, to shed her clothing I'll be there in a heartbeat. I still won't watch the show but I will be hiding in a bush on set just off screen with a point and shot camera in one hand and...let's just call it something else...in the other. That girl is some kind of smoking hot.

And Goose, you're right, nudity can fix any show. I don't know how HBO hasn't hired you as a full time writer simply because of your ingenious ideas. You probably could have saved countless shows, and not just on HBO, that met a premature demise. Arrested Development, Reunion, The Care Bears. It'd give new meaning to the "care bear stare". I honestly thought that they had figured it out already but it seems they are in need of you now more than ever. There's nothing like convincing a young naive starlet to disrobe for the lens. In fact, when they hire you as a writer, put in a good word for me. I'll be the guy that talks them into doing the nude scenes you write. I've already honed my persuasion skills to a fine point from multiple spring break trips and a weekend stop in New Orleans some years ago. Some finely crafted examples so you know I'm legit:

"Of course this orgy scene will be shot tastefully."

"Yes, I know Brian was originally scripted as an attractive young man but the director thought it would appeal to a wider audience if Brain was played by a miniature horse. His name is Bucky, his favorite color is green and he eats grass for a living. "

"The other six girls in this scene said they didn't have a problem doing ass-up apple bobbing in a gigantic pool of jello pudding. You don't want to be left out do you?"

"The budget's a little tight on this one so were only going to have one take. If, by accident?, we get a shot of your hoo-ha or dirtstar, we'll just put a little smiley face over it in post production. It'll look classy and we have to keep the rating under NC-17."

"Don't you want to be famous? This is your big break. Everyone will know your name after we hang you, stark naked, upside down from your toes and have four dwarves nibble at your fingers. It's a very artistic scene and I think it really captures the essence of Barbra Bush."

And I've turned into Joe Francis. Nasty.

On Bjork:
I can't comment on Bjork as I don't know what it is. Sounds scary though.

On The Wonder Years:
First, I have to point out that you wrote the words "Scott Baio" no less than five times. I'm not going to ask the obvious questions or offer any sagely advice. Instead, I just want you to think about what you've done for a second. In the immortal words of Lon Solomon: "Not a sermon, just a thought."

Conversely, I'm extremely jealous that you have a channel reruning the king of all adolescent life dramas, The Wonder Years. You're so lucky to have ION and I'm happy to see that you recognize what a blessing you've been given. I would kill for the privilege of gracing my eyes and ears with Wonder Years reruns. Literally, I'd kill a man. Maybe if I had The Wonder Years I wouldn't cry myself to sleep every night. But alas, we'll never know. As far as Winnie goes, I haven't thought about Ms. Copper in many years but I've got a strange feeling she might pay a visit tonight after I fall asleep. I'm going to pop a half bottle of Ambien chased with a liter of Nightquil now just to make sure. Our moments together are so fleeting. She like Halley's comet, coming only once every 75 years. Me on the other hand...that's another story. If only I could stop time and spend a never ending night with her short skirted, knee-highed self. I would sing her sweet love songs and whisper furtive nothings in her ear. We would be as one as any 26 years old man and 13 year old girl have ever been. Yup, the sirens are getting closer now. But it's ok, I'm 26. Take Goose, he's 27 and that's just plain wrong.

The Grips

It's all just too much. I'm not going to say I can't take it because I can and I will. But it's becoming a weight around my neck, pulling me down little by little. I don't know what to do about it. The more I try not to think about it the more I can't help it. It's always there, sitting and waiting in the back of my mind for an idle moment. I find myself wishing I constantly had something to do. Something to keep me occupied twenty four seven. I haven't found anything like that yet. There's nothing out there to guard me against the solemn drive to and from work. Nothing to distract me as I lie awake in bed waiting for sleep to come. Nothing to keep me from dreaming.

I don't understand why I feel this moved. I wasn't there. Should it really be affecting me as much as it is? The selfish part of me wants to pretend like it never happened. Maybe most of me wants to do that. I want to feel like I did last Friday. I don't remember what I felt like that day, I just know it wasn't like this. I know it was better, easier, painless. I think I was stronger then. A little more naive but out of that ignorance came courage. The world didn't seem so dark then. It's mystery weren't so numerous, it's evils not as prevalent. There weren't pitfalls around every turn then. It's amazing that something 300 miles away could change my life in an instant. I whole heartedly wish it never happened. I wish I could forget the whole thing but I know I'd never convince myself of it. It's a reality that we all face but that none of us should have to.

It's not like ignoring it will make it go away. It's impossible to ignore anyway. It's everywhere I turn. From the lips of a coworker to the front page of foxnews.com, there's always a gun, resting in the hands of a madman, pointed squarely at my head. Always stories and information and details and more stories. All of which are about something I'm trying desperately not to think of. I've been limiting my exposure to a couple times a day. I can't help but stay up to date. If I left myself to my own devices I know I'd be pulled into reading the same quotes over and over again. Watching the same videos on repeat (I'm not going to watch the videos by the way. There's nothing I need to hear from that fucking asshole. To me, he doesn't exist and I won't waste my time it). I'd be sucked into the spinning of a never ending toilet flush and it'd take forever to claw my way out. I can't let that happen but it's so hard not to when the water screams of answers to questions I never wanted to ask but subconsciously did. The quest for knowledge can lead to some pretty dark places.

I dreamed about it last night. I day dream about it all the time. I put myself in the scene and think about what I would have done. I can't stop myself from running scenarios over and over, each time with a different outcome. I want to think I would have stood up and fought back. That I would have done something to try to stop it. That I would have gone down fighting. I just wish I could have done something. But I know I probably would have curled into a tight ball on the floor and prayed for deliverance. It's disappointing, knowing that I wouldn't fight off my natural instincts and try to be a hero. It's just one more log to throw on the fire that's burning me up from the inside out. I don't want to but I imagine the fear, the pain, the confusion and panic. My mind falls short of what must have been reality. I don't know how the people who were there can handle it. I hope they stay strong. And the parent must be crushed. It's every parents worst nightmare to get a call like the one they received.

I need to stop thinking, dwelling, obsessing about it. I need to stop writing about it. So this will be the last time that I do. I need to get it out of my head. I need to start feeling like me again. I don't know when that's going to be. There's no precedent for things like this. Like a brightly colored fabric bleaching in the sunlight, I'll have to wait till the feelings fade. The impatient part of me doesn't want to wait. It wants me to be normal now. Unfortunately, as much as I might agree with it, neither of us has the ability to mold time to our wills. We can't even find or press the fast forward button. I know I should, but I can't stay here. I have to move on. I have to find a way. I can't stay here. I not scared to go to sleep tonight but I don't want to have another dream like last night, especially now that my mind has actual images to use.

Aftermath

First and most importantly, let me send out my condolences to everyone involved in the VT shooting. I think I speak for the entire VT alumni community when I say that our thoughts and prayers are with the families, friends and current student body affected by this random act of senseless violence. It felt like 9/11 to me. The same sickening sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The same confusion and disbelief, mixed with rage, and rimmed with sorrow. The same questions. Why these people? Why my school? Why my city? Why my country? Why now? Why?

I never in my wildest dreams imagined something like this ever happening. Not at VT. Walking across the drill field four years ago in April, my personal safety was the last thing on my mind. I was doing calculations in my head, figuring out what kind of grades I needed on my finals to pass my classes. I wanted take my place on the big stage and graduate a mechanical engineer. That was my one pressing need, my only worry, and my chief concern. Nestled in the mountains of Southwest Virginia, surrounded by a small close-knit town, it seemed like the most unlikely setting. It's not that kind of place. I felt safer at VT than anywhere else I've lived in my life. My opinion hasn't changed.

People always want someone or something to blame. But in a case like this, it seems all the blame is placed on the administration or the people in charge for not being able to predict and/or prevent the inevitable. Frankly, it's total bullshit. There's only one place to put the blame and that's on the dead asshole who took two handguns into a dorm and an academic building and let 'em fly. I'm sorry this cowardly bitch took his own life. I would have loved to get some jabs in on him, make the rest of his meaningless life a living hell until he died and the real hell started. Unfortunately, now the devil gets to have all the fun. He's better at it then I'd ever be anyway. Am I saying this guy's in hell.? Yup, that's exactly what I'm saying and I'm pretty happy about it.

To criticize the university administration and local police department in this situation is ridiculous. Unless they have a clairvoyant on the payroll, there's no way they could have foreseen what transpired. Yes, two people were shot in a dorm, but by the time the police gathered all the information and came to a conclusion, students were in or on their way to classes. Not to mention, you then have meetings and briefings to disseminate the information to everyone who needs it and, finally, use that information to decide on a course of action. All that takes time. Despite living in the internet generation, I'm not so naive as to think that everything happens in the nanoseconds it takes for a electron to pass though a semiconductor. These are people, with opinions, different knowledge bases and thought processes. Could it have taken two hours for all the information and discussions to end in a consensus? Sure. It could have taken longer and probably would have. In a court of law, it can take two days or more to come to a decision and in the government in takes months if not years. This wasn't a military state trained to make snap decisions on the field of combat. In fact, most people involved didn't even recognize they were in the middle of a war zone. How could they? If someone gets murdered in a row home on the north side of Baltimore, the local police don't lock down all the 7-11's in the surrounding area just in case the killer the decides to come back and go on a killing spree. If they did, people would complain about misuse of tax dollars and police personnel. The point is, you can't plan for things that are inconceivable and, for the most part, unstoppable. The leaders made the only logical decision from the information they had at hand. Unfortunately, logic and sense played no part in what happened.

So, after taking time to reflect and mourn, what steps do we take to make sure this type of thing never happens again? Nothing. I say we do nothing because the alternative is unacceptable. Reverting to a military campus with gates, checkpoints, armed security, bomb sniffing dogs and metal detectors isn't a road I want to go down. Restricting people's civil liberties is worst thing we could possibly do here. I don't want this one psycho to have any effect on the way I live. Why should I give him that kind of vindication or validation. He shouldn't be able to change anything. Why give this fuckbag that kind of power? He doesn't deserve it. I'm not saying we should live our lives like nothing happened. I think the first thing we should do is honor the people that lost there lives and make sure their memory never fades. The most important thing's to remember the people affect by this tragedy. Maybe tweak a policy or two but don't impinge on people's rights. If someone gets it in their head that they're going to do something like this and they have the resources and plan to act it out, there's nothing you can do at the point of attack. You take a chance every day when you step out your door that it might be the last time you do so. Hell, you still take that chance even if you don't walk out the door. No where is safe and life can be as fleeting as smoke in a stiff breeze. The reality of our own mortality is something we deal with every day. Sometimes it just takes an extraordinarily bad event to fish the issue from the depths of the subconscious. We'll never be safe no matter how many policies or laws or police or power we have. The sooner we learn to deal with that, the sooner we'll be able to live without fear, no matter what the world throws at us.

No one does this shit all alone. There are always warning signs. Someone always knows. Columbine had a two man team. They were confidants. Every killer has someone they confide in. People can't help but brag, whether it's about a good or a bad thing. We have to talk. It's in our nature. And it's the responsibility of the person listening to do something about it if what they hear is fucked up. From racism to homicide, people have to start standing up to their friends and family when those people do or say something that just isn't right. Unfortunately, half the time the person listening is just as psycho as the asshat running his mouth. They might even be in on it. The other half of time, the listener says that he or she thought the person was just kidding and never would have acted on what they said. There are things you joke about and things you don't. Even if you're joking about things maybe you shouldn't, it doesn't take a genius to figure out whether someone is kidding around or not. And if you're not sure because the person is an Oscar winning actor or extremely ambiguous, you hound them until you are sure of their intentions. That's everyone's responsibility.


(Update: The guy bought the guns legally, so the following no longer applies. I do think the sentiment still rings true.)
Speaking of responsibility, or the lack there of, they should track down the douche that sold this guy the guns and string him up from the empty sack where his ball used to be. I'm not going to take guns out of responsible people's hands with extensive and repressive laws and legislature. The reason for the constitutional right to bear arm is no longer valid but that doesn't mean that people shouldn't have the right. We should, however, go after the people that are selling guns illegally. They directly contribute to murders, robberies and various other crimes on a daily basis. And as contributors, I think they should be charged with the crimes their guns committed. Maybe that'll make a few people think twice before handing that 9mm to an overeager sixteen year old kid for two hundred bucks.

Lastly, fuck you 24 hour news. It's funny because I was just talking about how you will be the downfall of modern society and there you go, providing a perfect argument to back my claim. I guess in some sick way I should be thanking you. I never will. You all are the most moronic, unethical, word-twisting assholes this side of the sun. You purposely try to lead people into saying things that they don't mean or that aren't true just so you can turn on them to fill fifteen more minutes of air time. Integrity is a word you've never heard or at least don't know the meaning of. You want everyone else to be perfect, accurate, all-seeing sources of information when you yourself are the greatest source of misinformation in the world. You hypocritical jackasses jump all over anyone that makes a wrong conclusion even though you jump to incorrect conclusions all the time, all the while spouting them as fact. You misreport facts, don't check sources and probably can't believe half the shit that comes out of your own mouths. You'd put a homeless guy from Siberia on if you thought he would back your story about teen drug use. You have the credibility of someone who rapes donkeys for a living. You worthless scumbags will say anything to garner attention and do anything to keep it. So go fuck yourself 24 hour news. I've got the internet and don't need you. You're worthless and you know it. By the way Katie, it's Steger. S-T-E-G-E-R and you have to pronounce all the letters including the "T". Bob Seger is not the president of Virginia Tech you stupid bitch.

I wish I could do everyone involved better justice but this is all I have. Please know that my thoughts are with you.

Reflections Off a Computer Screen

When I started this blog, I had no idea what I was doing. No idea why I did it. No idea what to write about. I think I just wanted to belong. I wanted to contribute to something that I had gleaned hours upon hours of joy and entertainment from. I wanted to give back for the greater good. To put myself out there and see what kind of responses I got to my constant bitching and shouting.

Well, I'm happy to say that after a year at it, I still have no idea what I'm doing, no idea why I'm doing it and no clue what to write about. For the most part, the responses I got were my own echoes, pinging off the walls of cyberspace and flying back in my face. It's really not that bad if you pretend the echoes are the voices of other people who sound exactly like you. They don't bring up many new topics or spawn much original conversation but it's better than being alone.

The blog is one year old. It's origin, an outdated computer in a small home office somewhere outside of Baltimore. A gray motionless man sat bleary-eyed, a hollow gazed fixed to the glow of a computer screen. The sanguine moon perched itself high in the clear night sky. Reaching for the keyboard, he typed one letter, then paused. He paused then typed another. Another minute and another keystroke. The letters slowly became a word. Soon there were many words. The words of man with the mental capacity of a turkey vulture. Words began to gel into incomplete sentences and fractured thoughts. A manic post conceived in no less than two days. That was how it all began.

Despite what you might think, there were no fireworks that day, nor are there any today for that matter other than the frantic clack of that same keyboard and my flowery prose. And I know it doesn't seem like it from the quality, but every post takes me the better part of two days to brainstorm, rough draft, edit, revise, re-edit, revise, edit my first edits, revise the revisions, spoof, proof, cut, rearrange, re-revise the arrangement and then finally publish. I'm trying to put out a good finished product. It's just not working.

As far as the fruits of my labor reaped in the form of success, I'd say I've done just splendidly. The estimated net worth of the blog is set at the mind bogglingly sum of $1.50. That's the amount of money I would have made last year if I had embedded advertisements. I'm glad I choose not to sell out to the man. He can keep his buck and half. Not that I don't need it but I would never encourage the proliferation of ads across our great internet. We have to try to keep this place clean, my friends. How else will the endangered internet worm survive?

If you'll now direct your gaze to the stat counter, you'll see that it's hovering around 1,344 or so. Meaning, in seven and a half year I'll hit the 10k mark. So mark your calenders for early fall 2014, cause baby we're going to party like we'll never hit 100k. Because we won't. To truly drive home the depression, if you subtract all the hits incurred by me coming here to check on the site or write new posts, you would cut my total in half. Then we'd have to wait till 2022 to party. I'm assuming we'll just do both since everyone likes a reason to party.

So happy birthday blog! We haven't come along way yet, baby. But maybe someday we will.

Put That One in the Win Column

Let me go on record as saying this year's Opening day festivities were off the proverbial hook. Despite the slightly frigid, mostly sunless weather, the crowd was large and ruckus. Thousands of people milling, swaying and drinking to music blasting over the loudspeakers. Hundreds of meaningless drunken conversations simultaneously chattering away the day. Strippers hanging out of second story windows, showing off their ample racks and throwing t-shirts to the jeering masses below. Beer flowed from four dollar cans like the gold it was priced as. And that was just pregaming.

Once inside the stadium, two things kept the good times going in a big way. First and most importantly, the Orioles, being the gracious crowd-pleasers that they weren't last year, decided to win a game. And win convincingly, I might add. A quality pitching performance is a thing of beauty to watch and a rarity inside the gated confines of Camden Yards. Gates, speaking of, that we only paid $12.50 a piece to enter. Because of my unyielding wisdom when it comes to these things, I wisely purchased standing room only tickets online the second I heard the game was sold out. They don't sell STO tickets before game day otherwise. Mr. J took over from there, instantly transforming our cheap seats into lower box seats in left field before the third inning. He's just so damn crafty. If he were a girl, that Beastie Boys song would have been written about him.

Even the post game activities pulled together to form. I didn't have to drive home, meaning I was sufficiently drunk by the time we went to Thirsty Dog for beer and pizza. I'm sure I ingested enough alcohol over the course of the day to kill at least three small dogs. Unfortunately, there weren't any small dogs present in the bar at the time to test my theory. Either way, a few more beers and a belly full of pizza later, I was fit to be put to bed. The day was complete and I could sleep the heavy sleep of a drunkard without worry.

Have no fears my friends. I didn't forgo my responsibilities and skip a running session. Opening day was on Monday, an off day, and I was back to hitting the pavement yesterday. I actually have off today too so I was thinking I might go buy a yak and have Mr. Hands sodomize it. Wait...wait? Where did that come from? Anyway, I hope everyone is enjoying a good hump day. But not like that. Animal sex just ain't right boss.

Weekly Running Update 4-9-07

Rejoice, kids! The running update is back for week two! Didn't think I could stick with something for more than one week did you? Well don't you feel foolish now? As an overview, things are going well. Heading into week three I'm happy, healthy and feeling good about my progress so far. The strange things is that I'm actually getting urges to run. On days off, I feel like something is missing. On days that I am scheduled to run, I get the itch right after I wake up and it stays with me all day. I've never had that feeling about running before. I'd liken it to first becoming aware of your own sex drive. I'm starting to understand how people become gym rats and health nuts. But don't worry, my over-soul of laziness still dominates both my sex drive and my need to run, so it'll keep things in check.


I experienced my first injures of this long journey last week, and I have to say that I handled them with the wisdom of a lion and the courage of a owl.

Injury #1:
While beginning mile 5 of my 6 mile Sunday run, I had to step off the road and onto the shoulder to avoid being flattened by a car. It wasn't that big of a deal and is something I've done many a times in the interest of self preservation. However, there was no sidewalk and my left foot happened to land on a small mound of dirt topped with a tuft of grass. My ankle rolled off the hump without much of a thought (You were thinking I twisted my ankle weren't you?). However, as my foot sloughed off, it slide inside my shoe and an instant blister developed on the arch. Getting rid of a blister in the one day I have off a week is a difficult task and one that I didn't accomplish. I just popped it yesterday running and, though I thought it might be the solution at the time, it has only made things more painful. My fucking foot feels like a red hot coal is resting up against it at all times. I have to walk on the outside of my left foot avoid shooting pains. With the day off today, I'm praying that it heals up a bit or else tomorrow's run is going to be not so pleasant.

Injury #2:
Over the past five or six years I've dislocated my left kneecap three separate times. The first time, it got knocked off playing soccer the summer after my freshman year of college. I didn't seek any medical treatment for it at the time, which now I know to be a grave mistake. A couple years later, assuming that everything was working properly again, I decided to do a 360 off a jump in one of the many snowboard parks at Killington. My body did the 360. My knee did not. This time my kneecap slide off in midair making the landing a difficult stick. By the time I got back to school, I fluid on my knee and could barely walk - I don't think snowboarding again the day after the injury was such a good idea, but it was our last day. I wanted to get my money's worth. I went and saw the gracious and talented physicians at the student medical center who gave me an exercise to do and told me to take some Advil. I didn't follow up with the exercise but I did take the Advil. Finally, last two winters ago, while playing indoor soccer, I planted my left foot and collapsed to a heap on the astroturf. That was the final straw. I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgery and, after meeting with him, opted to go through three months of physical therapy in hopes of avoiding surgery. The physical therapy worked and I have postponed going under the knife at least a few years. Hopefully I'll never need surgery, as least on that knee.

Either way, I think I worked my way into some underlying scar tissue on the inside of my kneecap last week because that area was killing me through the midweek. For a couple days I couldn't straighten my leg while sitting, making driving and number of other common activities mildly annoying. It never hurt when running though. And actually it would feel better, like normal, after about a mile. I guess thinks loosened up. I pushed though and am happy to report the pain has vanished like a fart in the wind. Now if I could just get rid of that goddamn blister.


Despite all the injury talk, there were a few notable accomplishments from last week. As you know, I survived the six mile run. I'm still most proud of that, though I'll have to break that record two Sundays from now. Smaller accomplishments would include running three miles in eighteen minutes (six minute miles) yesterday and finishing a 4.2 mile loop in under 28 minutes (a little under 7 minutes a mile, not that you couldn't figure that out). In case you're wondering, my goal pace for the marathon is eight minute miles. I'm not working on pacing right now, as I'm just trying to get into the swing of things. I'm just trying to go as fast as I can without collapsing a lung. I'll worry about pacing closer to the race date. Also, though this isn't an accomplishment, if everything goes really well with the training, I might try to step up the pace and put up a time to qualify for the Boston. Assuming, God willing, I did qualify, I would definitely head up. How cool would it be to run in the Boston marathon? I could never pass up an opportunity like that.

I'll update my miles run for last week and total later. I don't have the spreedsheat with me right now. Not to mention, I have to go get drunk at opening day! Go O's!


Sunday's Running Thought:
Unfortunately, an easy weeks Sunday run didn't produce the kind of delirium conducive to truly strange thoughts. However, I did run passed a guy in short and a jacket with a gym bag thrown casually over his shoulder. He looked like he was coming back from a hard workout on a cold easter morning. The only problem was, I had just passed the gym myself, and it was closed for easter. I couldn't figure out where the hell this guy had come from. Did he walk to gym, only to find out it was closed, turn around and walk back? Did he just prefer to carry around a gym bag during his morning walk in thirty degree weather? Where there seven heads in that duffel bag? Who knows.

One more oddity with this guy. After leaving the guy in my dust at an intersection, I heard the loud bang of a man's hand striking a stop sign. Who randomly hits a stop sign? I mean, aren't we all civilized people here that don't need to make loud street noises in the morning? I have to admit, it got me to jump a little. It was something I certainly wasn't expecting. I like to think the guy was 'roid raging because the gym was closed. I'll probably never know.

Quote This!

It's always fun to take a quote out of context or, as is the case this time, without context at all. So, without further ado, this quote was taken from an article in the Baltimore Sun:

"They were both soaking wet, and the man's pants came off in the water," Warren said.

I'll let you draw your own conclusions because that's the fun part isn't it? It would be cool to write a short story using this quote as the first line and inspiration. If I find myself with some extra time this weekend, maybe I'll give it a shot.

If you want to know what the quote is in reference to, you can find the article here. I can't say that the events leading to the quote make any more sense than what you may have thought. My only response was, Thank God I live in Baltimore.

If I had a Dollar for Ever Time...

My free time has been hi-jacked. An all American terrorist has take it for ransom and won't give it back. That terrorist, baseball. Every night I come home, run, make dinner and then sit in front of the TV and waste the rest of my night watching the orioles lose. And now, thanks to fantasy baseball, I'm watching whatever other games are on too, because I probably have a player on my team playing in the game - unless it's a Yankees or Red Sox game as I made a pack not to draft anyone from either team. It's absolutely ridiculous. Up until a few years ago, I didn't even like baseball that much. In college I'd turn Sportscenter off when they started talking about America's pastime. I considered the summer months to be the worst for sports because nothing but baseball was in season. And sure, I've always followed my loathsome Orioles as they led me on a journey of defeat, depression and shame - a journey which I happen to still be on - but I could have cared less about any other teams. For the most part, I had no idea who was even good in the league. All I could remember were the older guys, who in my memory were young. They're all in their late forties now.

As a kid, I knew every player in the league. That was the magic of baseball cards. They were like the flash cards you'd use to memorize words in Spanish or write facts on to help prepare for the big test. I'd go to the ballpark and be able to rattle off every player on the field. Orioles and visitors. And, for the guys who were either good or popular, I could have probably told you their stats for the previous three years. My dad would buy me a program on the way in and I would have the starting lineups filled in almost before they put it up on the board.

After graduating college, I slowly began to renew my interest in baseball. I think being isolated in Southwest Virginia, miles from any semblance of a professional sports team, much less a baseball program, made me apathetic. Once I was back in Baltimore, with easy access to the team, the atmosphere - of which there generally is little but it's better than nothing - and most importantly the stadium, I was drawn back in. A random Friday night game, a Sunday game that someone gave me tickets to, a middle of the week late game on a cool summer night. How could I resist that kind of wooing. That's how it all began, again. And now it's taking over.

I haven't been productive all week at home. I haven't practiced guitar or written songs. I haven't posted to the blog except when at work. I still haven't touched my novel from last November I'm supposed to be editing. By the time I get around to that one it's going to seem like someone else wrote it because I won't remember a thing. So many worthwhile undertakings I should be working on. Things that expand the mind, open doors and make me a more well rounded person. Things I could finish and and, for once, experience a sense of accomplishment because of. Thank God I haven't started slacking on my running. That would be really sad.

I'm hoping this is all just the hype of opening week and I'll get over it soon. Maybe an O's win will help to ease my addiction. If that's the cause, I might be in trouble considering how they looked in their first three games. I know I'm going to watch till they get that first win. I want to see it. Like the birth of newborn baby, the first win of the season always brings hope, no matter when it comes. I watched almost ever Orioles game from the beginning of the season through the all-star break last year. It better not take us that long to get a win, I've got too much to do.

A Letter to Tito

Dear Tito,

First, let me express my condolences. Sometimes the label doesn't accurately describe the product. Sometimes the nicely wrapped box with a pretty bow doesn't contain what you were hoping it did. We all make poor decision out of ignorance. You couldn't have seen the future. You didn't know this would happen. Take courage in the fact that you have the power to end it. You're not trapped in the corner of the octagon, a muscle-bound madman bearing down on you, fists and legs and blood flailing. You're in the center of the ring and all you have to do it grab the microphone, call the fight and declare yourself the winner.

I, for one, would have never guessed that the women responsible for so many masturbatory emissions over the years would do something so heinous to herself. I loved her, just like the rest, back in the day. But it's inconceivable, regardless of the fact that she took dick for a living, that she'd want to transform herself into a tranny. I've seen skeletons at the Smithsonian I've been more attracted to. At least with them I got enough to crown. She, on the other hand, makes everything want to curl up into a little ball and retract inside my body cavity. You thought you were getting one of the highest profile, most sexually attractive women on the planet and instead they sent you a half-human, stick-like, rebuilt and modified cyborg hell bent on the destruction of all humanity. Right after she destroys your manhood, dignity, self confidence and self worth. I'm sure sticking your piece in that thing is a rush akin to skydiving, cliff diving or spelunking. It's life or death, baby. But really, all I can think of is that sequence from Seven depicting lust, where the guy has the contraption strapped to his area. Except the reverse of that and it's been permanently integrated. How the hell do you screw up a vagplasty anyway? I don't want to know.

Look buddy, you've had a great career and accomplished a lot. A lot more than I'm sure you ever dreamed. So, for your sake, don't screw things up now. There are plenty of hot, feminine looking, semi-innocent, naive women out there who would be more than happy to let you plow into them. If I were you, I go bark up as many of those trees as possible. When I finally tired of that, I'd find a nice sophisticated lady with low self esteem and take her to the county were we'd live on a farm for chickens and ducks. We'd laugh, frolic through the meadows on sunny afternoons and have anal when it rained. You're a great fighter, Tito, but picking a fight with that six million dollar vag just might end up being your last.

Your friend,
Calitri

Weekly Running Update 4-2-07

Clever title, huh? Yeah, I thought so too. It's amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it.

I've decided that I'll do weekly marathon training updates every Monday. Monday is good because I'm usually in the office and not in field which means: a) I may actually have time to write, b) I won't be so tired by the time I get home that writing seems one step below death on the preferability scale, c) typically Monday and Friday are my days off from running so it seemed a good day to reflect on accomplishments and setbacks and finally d) it's the day after my big Sunday run each week, which may provide some added inspiration. So here we go.

One week down, the rest of my life to go. This first week wasn't wholly unbearable. In fact, I think I survived quite well. I will say that my legs were in a perpetual state of ache for most of the time. I would wake up, feeling refreshed and ready to face the day, only to crumple into a heap on the bedroom floor as my legs gave out under me. That's a little too dramatic, but it's what I felt like.

The scale sent me a box of roses and a love letter. The gist of the letter was that it had been waiting for this day for a long time and it was glad that we were finally seeing eye to eye. It expressed a desire to continue lightening the relationship and I have to whole heartedly agree. Though I'm sure it was only water weight, it's a start. I don't feel the need to loss a ton of weight, I just really want to tone up. And to do that, I figure I'll have to break myself down to nothing and build everything back up from scratch. Ten years of fast food takes a long time demolish. Thus begins the transformation of Calitri.

I continued messing around with that website, walkjogrun.net, to map all my different routes and have subsequently accomplished the task to a point I'm comfortable with. My legs preferred the flawed estimation techniques, imagine that, but I think the new system will pay dividends in the end. It's not good to knowingly lie to yourself.

With the day off today, I've decided to play indoor soccer in our last game of the year. Sounds like an amazing break don't you think? Looks like another week of six out of seven days running. I'm looking forward to it, especially once I can concentrate on enjoying the run instead of surviving it. I hope I catch a glimpse of that this week.

Last weeks total distance: 11.64 miles
Total distance: 18.55 miles

Sunday's Running Thought

Distance: 5.76 miles
As a weekly feature in the update, I thought I'd give you some insight into the mind of the insane by writing about what I was thinking about during my long run each Sunday. Long runs are some of the best times to think about the most random shit and I always gravitate towards that kind of thing.

This week I didn't have any deep profound thoughts, didn't see anything that got my funny bone swinging and honestly nothing of any consequence popped into my head. Great way to start things off, I know. I believe the explanation for this phenomenon lies in the fact that by mile four I was ready to lie down and die as the rain fell gentle on my lifeless body. My only concern was making sure that I positioned myself close enough to the road so someone would see me and return my body to my family for cremation but not so close as to get hit by oncoming traffic. As it says in the bible, not a bone shall be broken. Actually, I've broken 13 bones so I guess I don't qualify to be Christ. Damn. Anyway, enough stalling, I'll get to the point.

Thought 1:
I couldn't help but think that when running, I resemble Forrest Gump. And not the clean cut, I just started running, Jenny just left me high and dry Forrest, but the been running for two years, my only shower is the rain Forrest. You know, when he's got the big following and the strange semi-limp. Now, I'm not saying I looked like him physically. I just felt like I was running with his strange style. Duplicating his gimpy gate. Matching his posture with arms motionless in front of him like an old time downhill skier. I couldn't shake it and if nothing else, it kept me laughing.

Thought 2:
I like running over bridges. Don't know why. I just find it fun. If I could find a running route that involved nothing but bridges, I'm sure I'd be the happiest run of my life. If I did a race on a bridge I bet I'd beat life to the finish line I'd be going so fast. I may do the bay bridge run for this one simple reason. I like bridges.

I'll talk more about Sunday's run in next weeks post. I promise to think of something cooler on my next Sunday run too. I'm first thought is something having to do with midgets and saving the world from a nuclear bomb. It should be good.