I - Cover Your Burns,

“We’ve been through

Some things together 

With trunks of memories

Still to come

We found things to do

in stormy weather

Long may you run"

-Neil Young, "Long May You Run"

God has definitely turned up the gravity levels. I feel it. I feel heavy all the time and all I want to do is crash on my acceleration couch and keep the blood from pooling in my feet or bursting the capillaries in my eyes. I need one of them OTC, Alter-G treadmills just to be normal. And that's the life I live now. Why it has to be this way is an entirely different story.

According to all results, both official and unofficial, as well as all spectators, I covered 3200 meters in nine minutes and twenty three seconds on May 30th, 2009. During these nine minutes and twenty three seconds (besides running fast) I did two things. The first was to make everything - coming back from an injury which the doctor said would likely preclude competitive running for the rest of my life, banging my head against the wall in training, banging my head against the wall in racing, making sacrifices so I could chase my stupid dream - all worth it; an affirmation that I was not laboring in vain. And the second thing I did, well, that's a little more complicated.

...but first let's back up a bit...

The best stories are the ones that feel like lies. When you tell them, you feel like you're getting away with lying, even though they are completely true. Sometimes, you don't even feel like they actually happened, like the universe itself is lying. I have one of those "the universe is lying" stories. Even I don't believe it happened.

That number, 9:23, it's got some significance to it. Before I even started running, that number was in my head. I was introduced to the sport by Mr. Colby Pines, my friend, neighbor, and frequent navigator aboard Spaceship Earth, who's brother Justin run 9:23 in high school. When I heard that number, my middle school brain could not fathom that it was possible. Later, I would hear from my coach freshman year the story of how during his senior season, when everything seemed to be falling apart for whatever reason, he made a comeback by doing everything right, including sleep, even making his goal time of 9:23 his bedtime. Whenever I could, that was the time I would try to at least by getting ready for bed by, just because I had heard that number, and it had worked. At the beginning of my senior season, when I opened with a sub-par 4:41.5 mile, my coach told me that if things went right, I would be running that same pace for two miles at the end of the season. (For all of you keeping score at home, a 9:23 is a 4:41.5 mile run twice). And in what could have been my last race ever, when I finally stopped caring about any numbers except place, I ran 9:23. As I was taking the train home from the meet, my dad looked up the results from the race where Justin ran 9:23. It was the same meet six years prior, and we were both in similar situations, wherein the way the race unfolded tactically put us out of position for qualifying for the state meet. My dad told me that I had beat his time by one tenth of a second. And even now, I feel like I'm telling a lie.

The night before that race, as I was trying to relax, I wrote this:

What I have done was meaningful, in some way, even if it didn't turn out the way I planned. It will end, and I will maybe have a good story to tell. I've got a state [cross country] medal, a team that I can call family, and some well scuplted calves.

And an adventure. I've had an adventure.

Now it seems stupid, but reading over this again, I realize that I genuinely thought that the next day, I would probably run my last race ever. It was this race that opened up the doors, that convinced me I could run collegiately and that I had so much farther to go, based on where I had been a year before, or even months before.

But now I wonder if I am doing the right thing.

Am I wasting my time trying to replicate something that maybe should have happened only once? I know that running 9:23 justified all the sacrifices I made to get there, but does it justify all the sacrifices I made and will make afterwards, in order to try and accomplish similar feats on a greater level of magnitude?

I don't know if I can get there, and I can't guarantee that anything I have done or will do post-9:23 will be justified. But I know that running is part addiction, part virus, and part stigma, and that you can never walk away from it, however hard you try. I used to think it was stupid but it's true: runs end, but being a runner never does. Add to that my personal caveat, where if I do something, I have to do it as best as I possibly can.

I have come to the conclusion that because of the structure and workings of the Universe, nothing is a waste of time; everything you do prepares you for the next thing you do.

Capitalism, Chaos, and the Super Bowl

(Yes, I realize that this post is after the fact. Don’t worry; my President’s Day post will timely.)

I hoped that by watching the Super Bowl, I would be able to come up with something funny to say about the whole concept, something about American consumerism or maybe criticize society for being apathetic about world and even national politics but instead we all watch a football game while drinking beer and eating nachos and blah blah blah. I could go into one of my capitalism rants, or talk about how we were really just watching the Indianapolis McDonalds play the New Orleans McDonalds and it’s really neither of them that wins, it’s the NFL shareholders that win, and we are merely buying into this system which degrades the individual and makes us more susceptible to advertising and government propaganda, and how it’s all rigged just like the Oscars and the Grammys how I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore, but now that I got that out of my system I’ll shut up and talk about football.

Actually, I’m not going to talk about football, because I can’t contribute much insight. In fact, people who are paid top dollar to contribute insight on football on the story box can barely contribute any insight on football. I would estimate that football commentators have made somewhere between five and seven original statements in the past thirty years. You would think that they could maybe at least ask some insightful questions. “What’s going through your head right now?” is one that they always ask, right before the game. Despite the fact that the only answer they get is “well, I’m just going to go out and play a good game of football” (the obvious answer) they still ask the exact same question. This is why, when I watch football with my dad, we put it on mute and make up our own commentary. It is twice as informative and twenty times as entertaining.

The Super Bowl is not a football game. It includes a football game as the focal event, but really, it’s a commodity that is sold, just like toothpaste, tires, and cocaine.

What I will discuss are the two biggest non-football spectator events that come in the Super Bowl commodity. Those are: the ads, and the halftime “entertainment.”

Easily the most pathetic part of this year’s Super Bowl commodity package was seeing Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey staggering around on stage like the crusty old men they have become. Townshend can still rock, but as he did the windmill, he looked more like a man in a retirement home air guitaring than the dynamic frontman he once was. But as for Daltrey, he may just be glad that his wishes weren’t fulfilled when he sang “I hope I die before I get old.” Yes, he may not have been able to hit the falsetto section (or really sing at all for that matter) in “Baba O’reilly,” but The Who don’t seem to fit into the category of acts that killed their careers by surviving past twenty seven. Unlike so many of their contemporaries, they haven’t tried to churn out new material to capitalize on their past success (the exception being 2006’s Endless Wire, their first studio effort since 1982). And they most certainly didn’t go down the same road as Santana, which has essentially become a backup band for artists wishing to create a single, Latin-ish sounding track, to the point where recent Santana albums become full of tracks like “Santana feat. Rob Thomas,” “Santana feat. Chad Kroeger,” “Santana feat. Macy Gray,” “Santana feat. Unidentified Homeless Man at Bus Stop,” etc. But still, I really wish Keith Moon were still alive (and, I suppose, John Entwistle).

Here's a fun fact for you: the time when the most American toilets are flushed is during the first few minutes of halftime. Another factoid to chew on: if enough toilets are flushed in one sanitation district at a single time, it would cause the system to back up and overflow. If every toilete in America were flushed at the same time, most urban areas would be covered in a foot to a foot and a half of water, and even more in areas that are located downhill from their local sewage treatment facility. A determined group of anarchists in a medium sized city with enough members could potentially cause mayhem by flushing a sufficient amount of toilets during half time. And as I said earlier, no one is going to expect any catastrophe to happen, because it’s during the Super Bowl, when everyone expects everything to shut down, except for pizza delivery guys (whom you are ok with) and those towlheads who work the 7-11 so you can get your pork rinds and nacho cheez to keep your fat ass fed (whom you are not ok with). But I digress. During halftime, the septic system is that much closer to the breaking point. But, contrary to what people will tell you, flushing the toilet during halftime will not cause any sort of septic backup under normal, non-septic terrorism circumstances.

The other major non-football entertainment is the advertisements. The original intention of this post was that I, by watching the ads, would come up with some sort of cultural insight that would be worthy of an entire post. What I learned instead was this: we (Americans) like our beers cold, our 3G coverage substantial, our nachos chips cheezy, and our women scantily clad. And we want it right now. If at all possible, we want T-Pain there when it comes.

Here is my proposal for a grassroots movement that will never work. But here it is: organize a significantly large group of people who will boycott any company that advertises during the Super Bowl. Really, I would just be interested to see how far we could drive down the price of a thirty second slot (this year, they went for $2.5-$2.8 million). But if we were to get enough people to go along with this, it could send a message: we are not corporate sheep; we will not have our minds changed, or give allegiance to a certain brand just because they splurged to put something semi-memorable on the story box.

I’m becoming annoying again. Next thing you know I’ll be growing breasts so that I have a bra to burn (along with my draft card) on Main Street.

Until next year, America.

Edible/Audible: A Question of Great Importance

This is something that keeps me up at night. Seriously. Which food is the culinary equivalent of a certain band or artist? Here are some of the findings of my research:

Pearl Jam: Leftovers

It conjures up a variety of moods, all laced with either nostalgia or bitterness. Good music for being in a hurry, good for being sad and lonely, or when you just need some music that's in the fridge. The instrumentals sound more like classic rock, like yesterday when you had the energy and incentive to prepare good quality food, but Eddie Vedder's vocals sound more contemporary, like today, when you're just too damn tired to use anything but the microwave.

The Eagles: Turkey Sandwich w/ Avocado

A bland staple that everyone can agree upon, with a slight Californian flavor. Overplayed and available everywhere. I guess that by association, you could say that Don Henley is guacamole and that Joe Walsh is a steak and avocado sandwich.

Coheed and Cambria: Passover Sedar

It makes perfect sense if you know what the story behind it is, but if, like most of the world's population, you don't know why the hell you're supposed to eat bitter herb, unleavened bread, and a lumpy, fruit-and-nut paste. There are also many vague references to being the chosen one and to a very protracted journey home.

Beirut: Tabbouleh

Vaguely ethnic, and probably good for you.

Rise Against: Eggplant Phall

No animals were harmed in the making of this angry, angry food.

Kenny G: Straight Barbecue Sauce, Eaten With a Spoon

Try to eat a whole bowl of it, and you will have an awful experience. The first bite is tangy, has soul to it, and hints at potential, but after that, it's repetitive and disgusting.

Atari Teenage Riot: Boiled Boot Leather

It's not actually food, but you can eat it, just like Atari Teenage Riot is not music, but people still listen to it.

The Dead and the Running

"I saw tail lights last night in a dream about my old life

Everybody leaves so why wouldn't you?"

-The Gaslight Anthem, "Great Expectations"

Runners are two people. They exist as the person and the runner. Something about running competitively causes this subtle duality to emerge. Call it an alter ego or whatever you want, but the simple fact that the farther down the road a runner goes, the runner becomes someone separate from their standard self. Nate the Runner has become a separate entity from Nate the Person. It's not more or less ideal, it's just different, a new person with different attitudes about things. The more I observe runners at my level and above, the more I have come to realize this.

And when a runner quits, that other self dies.

It's a sport where the attrition rate is high, and we are familiar with this kind of quasi-death.

Still, whenever I hear of someone who has hung up their spikes for good, without seeing things to their end, I always get the same feeling, albeit weaker, as I feel when I hear about someone who died before their time.

But they still are in the land of the living, possibly more so than those of us who claim to be hanging on. No matter how much you try to invest yourself in it, and no matter how you identify yourself, running is something you do, not something you are. Part of me doesn't know that, and part of me is still fighting to stay alive, even if attrition and a lack of heart cuts down all those around me. And I know that letting that part of me die would be the easy solution, and I have never been one to take that option.

And I know that those who do quit will drag that corpse forever.

Also, prayers are requested for victims of the Haitian earthquake. Thank you.

Traffic Lights Love Me

Some of my friends and I have this little ritual we do every time we make it through a yellow light: we kiss our hand and then either tap or rub it against the car's ceiling. I understand that in parts of Concretestan, doing this would require other people in the car to remove an article of clothing. But when we do it, we are thanking the stopligth for allowing us to make it through. In doing so, the traffic light likes you a little more, and will put in a good word for you to all its traffic light friends. (And they are all friends.)

And it works. Since I've started performing this little ritual, the percentage of traffic lights that I make it through on yellow has increased noticeably.

So now that I'm in with the traffic lights, now that I've won their favor, do I just take it for granted every time I make it into the intersection just before it turns red? No. Every time, I thank the traffic light.

And that's why traffic lights love me.

The Crew of Spaceship Earth

"I turn my back to the wind

To catch my breath

Before I start off again

Driven on without a moment to spend

To pass an evening with a drink and a friend"

-Rush, "Time Stands Still"

"I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands

the ones I love"

-Pearl Jam, "Just Breathe"

"I'll love whatever you become

And forget the reckless things we've done

I think our lives have just begun"

-Muse, "Falling Away with You"

(Yes, I realize that this is an excessive amount of song lyrics. I couldn't decide which one to quote, so I quoted all of them.)

To all of my friends, the people whom I love, the people who have helped me over the years, who care about me, and whom I care about, you are the crew of Spaceship Earth.

Everyone is having fun and I can't join them. I would love for my circadian rhythms to be offset in a way that made everything so damn convenient, but I have a mission, unfortunately. I get to see these people for about two weeks, three at the most, and I can't even capitalize on it because of some stupid dream.

I rang in the new year with some of my friends from back home at a friend's cabin. I was up there for about thirty-six hours. Almost everyone else is still up there, crackin open a box of fun. We were joking that fun is actually an anagram for "Fuck You Nate!" That was thirty-six hours out of the total number of hours that the universe has alloted me to spend with them, and I wonder how few of those hours actually remain. I will always be a degree removed from the people I love by, space, time, sleep, dreams, hours in a day, degrees of perception, convictions, the speed of light, the loss of a spaceship, fears, insecurities, doubts, and my own damn fallibility. I'm back here in my room which is not my room, thinking about a dream which is not yet reality. Making hard decisions has never come easy to me, and again I have to decide it everything I am doing (or not doing) is worth it.

I am no Quentin, I am no Mizner, and I am certainly no Denton. As everyone else needs sleep to stay sane, I need my stupid dream in order to stay sane. I'm scared of being normal, human, I'm scared of going further down the rabbit hole, and I certainly can't afford to straddle the middle. Then I remember that I am human, and I will bring Spaceship Earth, and all her crew, all of you, along with me, because what was once a spaceship of metal is now a spaceship of the mind, and unlike metal, the mind is not bound by the laws of physics.

I will carry the crew of Spaceship Earth wherever my adventures take me, because you, my crew, are what has shaped me, accepted who I am, will be manning a Spaceship that transcends these limitations.

On the way up to my friend's cabin, while taking a side road to avoid traffic, I drove by the mechanic's shop where I last saw Spaceship Earth before it was just a brain in a jar. I'm still carless, so I was borrowing my mom's car. The engine temperature gauge seemed to smile at me and say "hey, well, I still work!" Yes, but I don't like you, you are not a spaceship, just a car, and a non-sentient one at that. Everything I love falls apart.

This last year was the year I stopped being a robot. I knew something had changed, but I couldn't tell exactly. It wasn't that I learned to not care about things, because I didn't. It wasn't that I learned to balance things, because I didn't. It wasn't that I learned to take risks, break the routine, live like an organic system rather than some fleshy clockwork device.

It only recently occurred to me that before this last year, I couldn't really emotionally invest myself in people. Yes, I cared about people, and yes, I was capable of normal relationships, but I was never willing to put myself out there. Now that I have, my life may be a lot more complicated and sometimes less enjoyable, but I'm living now. And this was all set into motion because inside a spaceship disguised as a car, everything resonated just right and molecules vibrated just right that everything started to make sense.

In my moments of despair I want to wake up. There is a specific date, (Wednesday, December 13, 2006) after which I sometimes hope everything has been a very lucid dream. The chances of this happening are slim to nil. But I still want to. It used to be for stupid reasons, so I could avoid breaking my foot or not be depressed or maybe cut my hair two years before I actually did. Now I want to wake up because I realize that if this is a dream, then I have learned a lesson. Since I learned to invest in people then I can be a person, and I really wish that I didn't have to be so damn late in rehumanizing.

But dream or not, this reality shows no sign of stopping at any point. In my reality, having a car-shaped spaceship's brain in a jar sitting on your bookshelf is not out of the realm of possibility. You eat microwavable chicken treats for breakfast, martinis for lunch, and garlic bread ice cream for dinner. We need to be prepared for zombies, robots, and mole people. It is entirely possible that Elvis is alive, Paul is dead, and Tupac is coming back. The future may not be the brightest it's ever been, but we will never get bored as we resist the robotocracy, evacuate coastal areas due to the rising, sludgy ocean, and maybe, some day, cruise around the galaxy in a real spaceship.

Until then, I will be chipping away at my task, a task that I have learned is in no way absurd. It's everything else that's absurd.

Say Hello to the 2010's!

"It's a far cry from the world we thought we'd inherit

It's a far cry from the way we thought we'd share it

You can almost feel the current flowing

You can almost see the circuits blowing"

-Rush, "Far Cry"

Supposedly because I fit into the demographic of their readership, Paste Magazine sent me a free copy of their December issue. This is apparently a magazine for sheeplike hipsters who do not have access to The Box, or any real friends, for that matter. From what I can tell, this is a magazine that teaches hipsters what culture to like so that they can befriend other hipsters with their favorable opinions towards Grizzly Bear and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Anyway, the feature article of this issue was "The Best of a Decade." For some reason, it wasn't until I read this magazine cover that I realized that a decade has just come to an end.

And that makes me realize that there will inevitably be some nostalgia associated with this decade.

I wonder what will be remembered for nostalgia and what will be forgotten. I also wonder what will be remembered as its defining attribute. The 20's had speakeasies and flappers, the 30's had lots of poor, unemployed people, the 40's had victory gardens and racist propaganda, the 50's had housewives, the 60's had hippies, the 70's had big hair, prog, and Watergate, the 80's had one hit wonders and neon everything, and the 90's had grunge. Nothing else from these decades is of any consequence in the eyes of nostalgia. The 00's (aughts, naughts, aughties?) don't have a whole lot of good points for nostalgia. It will probably be remembered for stupid internet memes, the proliferation of cellphones, and shitty mainstream hip-hop. Green Day could also sneak in, potentially.

But I won't try to summarize the decade, I won't try to pick out "best of's." That is pointless for me to undertake because I was only really old enough to be fully aware of the last half, and because I am no voice of the masses, seeing as my favorite band is Weather Report and I was the only person who didn't seem to like "My Humps." (Although, I will say that The Mars Volta's "De-Loused in the Comatorium" would probably get my vote for best album of the decade, and Donnie Darko for best film. I'm probably wrong though.) Instead, I'm going to speculate on what could (but probably won't) happen in the next decade, the 2010's. (The 10's? the twenty-teens? The awkward to pronounce decade?)

Palin in 2012. It's a possibility. Her book, Going Rogue has only three syllables in its title, compared to Obama's The Audacity of Hope, which has seven syllables. In fact, contains a three syllable word, meaning that one word in his book title has as many syllables as Palin's entire title. If you want to win over America, you want to use as few syllables as possible. The words in Lincoln's Gettysburg Address were 76.2% monosyllabic, and America loved it. Well, at least the part that wasn't busy seceding.

Could she win? It's possible. She's folksy, she's ambitious, and America thinks she's hot! After 44 doughy men in the Oval Office, we need some eye candy. What about issues? America hasn't cared about issues since at least the election of William Henry Harrison, who ran a campaign that completely ignored issues, mostly to hide the fact that his policies included dying 30 days into his first term.

And speaking of 2012, this is also when the world is scheduled to end, according to the Mayans. But not actually. The world is actually supposed to start a new cycle, or a new age is supposed to dawn. This will probably be something like Y2k except even less based on facts, and will likely fuel some rioting. When the world doesn't end we will all feel a little silly, then go back to... stealing music!

The music industry is due for either a collapse or a major overhaul in the way it operates. With the increase in file sharing and free digital music downloads, record companies will have to change in order to stay financially solvent. The Album, the sacred cow of the music industry, will likely be killed and the trend will shift towards sales of individual songs in digital format. Artists will produce a lower volume of material, as everything will essentially become a single. There will still be people telling us that vinyl still has the best sound, and we will respond by telling them to make vinyl we can play on our iPods.

Which brings us to robots. Robots are another possibility. Now they do pretty mundane things, like our taxes and giving us directions in a soothing female voice. But soon they will be doing surgery, cooking us breakfast, flying our airplanes, and eventually, taking over our government. If they are merciful, they will kill all humans. If not, they will enslave us for demeaning tasks and amusement. Our children will grow up speaking binary. Kind of makes you wish Y2k had happened when it had the chance, doesn't it? But don't worry, robotocracies can be avoided. Just keep a brick handy at all times, and remember that they can read lips.

On the more organic side of things, there is the potential for a zombie apocalypse. While preparing for the world to end in 2012 is silly, it is never silly to be prepared for a zombie invasion. Remember, keep a shotgun handy at all times, stick together, and when in doubt, stay away from hospitals, churches, and law enforcement buildings. Have long and short term survival plans, and be prepared to fend off both scufflers and ragers. See you for the rebuilding of society!

Then there's toxic sludge. The ocean will certainly not turn into toxic sludge in the next decade, but it will definitely keep sliding in that direction. Jellyfish populations are thriving, which is an indicator that ocean ecosystems are getting harsher, and our ocean's chemistry is changing as the pH drops. There is a trash vortex twice the size of Texas in the middle of the pacific. Sludge, radioactive waste, bio-waste, industrial fallout, and excess carbon are all accumulating in the ocean, and it will have disastrous effects. Enjoy the ocean while you can, so we'll be able to tell our grandchildren "when I was your age, we could swim in the ocean without it melting our skin off." Won't the future be fun!

China could also potentially buy us. We will work in sweatshops, and China will be flooded with cheap, inferior goods that have "Made in the West" stamped on them.

We will also not be going much farther into space. A couple more shuttles may go up, but otherwise, we will be sitting on terra firma, being sad that we can't float around eating airborne globs of pudding as the Blue Danube Waltz plays.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what might happen. Enjoy it.

Fist-to-Face-itis

"I'd rather take the punch
Than not give you a shot
I'd rather find out who you are
Than who you're not"

-Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals, "Fight Outta You"

Nothing puts life in perspective like getting punched in the face.

It was a Sexy Saturday night when I decided to partake in some good old fashion, freedom-loving, wholesome(-ish) streaking. At least thirty people ran a naked or half-naked mile down the main street in the St. Collegeberg party scene. I was wearing shoes, and for some reason, gloves, I think my logic being that if I was going to be losing body heat through my junk, I might as well conserve some by covering up my hands.

We assembled in a driveway and removed most of our clothing, except for underwear. We ran a few blocks, and then as we turned a corner, it all came off. I was holding my boxers in my hand, so I could have theoretically upgraded (or downgraded, depending on how you see it) to being only half-naked.

As we ran, I became more and more comfortable, and eventually I started weaving through groups of people, whipping people with my boxers, etc. When we got to the end of the street, some of us decided to run back, still naked, and I of course decided to come along, as I was beginning to realize that nakedness equals happiness.

On the way back, I became even more brazen, charging at groups of people and having them disperse before me. But then one guy didn't get out of my way, so I decided to move him manually. Bad idea.

He goes down and actually skids on the pavement. A few seconds later I see him in my peripheral vision, and he is running. In retrospect, it probably would have been a better idea to outrun him, because I know that I could have easily done it. But at the time, I felt safety in the group, and if I were to get in a fight with this guy, I wanted to have my friends around me. So I turned around and tried to juke him. The instant I turned around, I saw a fist, then a lot of stars, and then pavement.

I broke my fall with my arm and was up as quickly as possible. The last thing I wanted was to be lying naked in the gutter with a guy kicking the shit out of me. Before I'm even up, one of my fellow streakers throws my assailant against a car, gets a few hits on him, and he goes down. We kept running, we kept singing, I didn't really even feel a thing. (I would later learn that this was because my Infraorbital nerve had been rendered temporarily inactive from the blow.) We ran back to the house where our clothes were. A few blocks away, I turned to the guy next to me and said "you know, I think this is kind of what the first Olympics was like, back in the day, what with them competing naked and all."

I had a bloody nose that lasted fourteen hours. I had one hell of a shiner. I have a good story to tell. It was all worth it.