Dragon’s Log

This is one of the most idiotic metal-related things I have ever read:

Is Udo Dirkschneider the Lemmy Kilmister of German heavy metal? Not quite, as that title would probably go to SODOM’s Tom Angelripper.

What the hell does that even mean?

Admit it. If you commute to work in your car and you drive through suburbs, you’ve been stuck behind a school bus at some point. And like me every once in a while, you may have found yourself cursing out loud at the behemoth in front of you, then feeling guilty for the cursing. Of course you should have to stop for a school bus. On both sides. Of course it’s a good idea. Even people who don’t have children of their own probably agree. I agreed with it before I had a son of my own. He doesn’t ride the bus (yet), but any law that objectively enhances the safety of children is valid in my book.

But that leads me to this: We shouldn’t need this law. Call it idealism, maybe, but if we had decent, well-designed roads with sidewalks and crosswalks, and drivers who were skilled and gave a shit, we wouldn’t. This brings me back to one of my long-standing peeves: sidewalks and bike paths, or the lack of ‘em. (Another reason I have affection for Rachel Maddow – she loves to get geeky about the unsexy subject of infrastructure.)

If we planned our communities instead of leaving them to the whims of developers concerned only about the almighty dollar, we might have schools and shopping centers and gathering places within walking and biking distances of homes, not this moronic and unsustainable sprawl. We’d have sidewalks and bike paths and playgrounds and all of that, and cut down on traffic, danger from traffic, use of fossil fuels, emissions from using those fuels, and use of energy in general. We’d increase fitness levels, and most important of all, provide the means for a sense of COMMUNITY. Oh shit, there’s that word, with the same root as that dreaded Stalin/Marx/Mao thing… what was it called?

I’m guilty of it, too. I live in a house far from any real cultural centers. Sure, there are carbon-copy strip malls everywhere, but how does that help in bringing a sense of community? I’ve noticed this since living here in the US: people can be so isolated from one another. I hardly see my neighbors, barely remember their names. I admittedly am far more interested in international news and issues than what happens locally – local issues hold no interest for me because I’m not involved. Sure, it’s partly my fault. But the way we do things is not conducive to people being involved. It’s not encouraging. When it’s dangerous to walk to a friend’s house a couple of streets away because there are no sidewalks, we drive. And no wonder we don’t have a sense of community, we never talk to each other because we’re always in OUR FUCKING CARS! I ride my bike a lot (for fitness, rarely for transportation), and to see the incoherent rage of the imbeciles whom I dare to slow down because of my meager human-powered perambulation is saddening. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been honked at for no good reason, and even run off the road on occasion because some frazzled mom was late getting her kids to soccer or just wasn’t paying attention (or whatever), wrapped up in her own world. Oops, I just used a woman for my example of bad drivers. Guys can be just as bad, usually in a different, more aggressive way.

Back to community. I have to bring up Germany again. Yes, I know it’s a tiny country compared to ours and the logistics just don’t compare. But there are bike and pedestrian paths everywhere, not to mention a stellar public transportation system. Sense of community? I used to see people sweeping the sidewalk in front of their home. The sidewalk – not part of their property.

Besides there not being any real connectedness between us, I guess my sense of community, or rather the lack of it, stems from no sense of history and culture. Rather than grand stone buildings with admirable design, we have cookie-cutter housing developments, the houses built out of wood and drywall I can put my foot through. Rather than well-respected businesses that have been in the same family for a century or more, we have ugly little pre-fab strip malls, whose tenants seem to change yearly. Rather than locally-owned, dedicated, and homey restaurants of all kinds, we have slick, neon fast-food chains that serve up grease-laden hunks of mush. Am I too critical of my own country? It’s all out of love and a wish to improve it, man. Well, most of it. Believe me, I have plenty of critiques of my other favorite country, Germany, besides the obvious thing that happened a few decades ago (unless you ask diminutive middle-east dictators or addle-brained right-wing chumps). That’s for another rant.

How to resolve this lack of a sense of community I see here? A confluence of many things, and that’s for the many people smarter than I. But for a start, let’s build some damned sidewalks and bike paths and some community places we can be proud of – and I ain’t talkin’ any more churches. That’s also for another rant. Oh, if I had the time, volumes I could fill. Humor me – writing about things I like just ain’t as interesting.

Every once in a while I see something that long ago would have made me angry, but in these jaded days of my slow gain of pseudo-wisdom accompanying ungraceful aging, they just make me shake my head in a sort of sad amusement. This from a factcheck.org e-mail (I subscribe to their list):

Q: Did the government issue new dollar coins without the words “In God We Trust”?
A: Congress ordered the words to be stamped on the edges of the coins, but an unknown number of “Godless dollars” were produced by mistake.

The first thing that popped into my head was: can I get some of them? And then I’d like to drive on over to the Café in this giant church in my neighborhood (yes, a church café, it exists) and proudly pronounce, “I’d like to buy something with my Godless Dollars! Do you have any Pagan Parfait? Or perhaps some Heathen Hushpuppies? No? Blasphemer Barbecue? Heretical Hash browns?” Enough with the agnostic alliteration.

I’ll leave the deeper issues of why we “trust” in a delusional figment of insecure imagination for now and just ask: why do we have to print that shit on our money? And say it in our pledge of allegiance, for Christ’s sake? OK, maybe that’s the wrong swear-phrase to use. (I’d say “for Pete’s sake,” but, to me it sounds noncommittal, and, well, …gay. Who the hell was Pete and why should I care about him?)

These are some of the issues that make me scoff at the “free country” crap. It’s not a free country. Perhaps one of the freest in the history of man’s societal experiments, but fully free? If I can be told what I can or cannot put into my body, that’s not free. If my conversations can be recorded without my knowledge, that’s not free. If I have a terminal disease and am not allowed to die in peace, that’s not only not free, it’s unconscionable. If I can be picked up and held without charge at the whim of the president or whatever asshole thinks he has the right, that’s the opposite of free. But I’m off-track here, which is about as shocking as rain in Seattle or this ungodly humidity in Carolina.

Your deity – I guess here I mean the “Christian” deity – is purported to be the father of Jesus Christ, purveyor of peace, preacher of love, right? And usury was sinful? So, in my simplistic analysis, wouldn’t such a god who is above all of man’s machinations be annoyed at being so prominently placed upon our money? Our dirty little pieces of paper and metal that mean nothing intrinsically, and are really just a symbol for barter (unless you’re talkin’ hedge funds and credit default swaps, in which money is essentially just digits on a screen, representing nothing), should be pretty far beneath the divine.

Yeah, the money thing amuses and annoys me slightly – admittedly it probably wouldn’t if I had more of it – but the pledge thing is more bothersome. Not so much for me, because how often do I actually say the Pledge of Allegiance? But I know my son will be saying it a lot. And being an atheist, and knowing, despite all the blathering of the biblestrokers, that this is NOT a Christian nation and was not founded as such, and that the phrase “under god” was inserted into the pledge in 1954, it bothers me. I have no qualms about pledging my allegiance to my country, or my child doing so despite not understanding what it means. But I serve no god, not yours, not anyone’s, and don’t believe that our nation should, either.

Like any good and sensitive father, I love my son more than my life. But I have come to the heartbreaking conclusion that my dear, smart, cute, strong, funny little five-year-old boy is a conservative. Why? I’ll give you why:

• He refuses to accept the truth, no matter how you may frame it to make it easier for him. He will deny reality itself if it makes him more comfortable. (“No, Dinosaurs are still alive!”)
• If a situation develops that he can’t resolve in a few minutes, usually involving sharing limited resources, he turns to violence.
• He loves his mom and dad, but his world is completely focused on himself. For example, if he doesn’t get a new toy nearly every day to add to his already massive collection, pouting and whining ensues.
• If he has done something I told him not to, or not done something I asked him to, he lies about it. With a smile, too. And when I catch him at it, he continues to deny it.
• No matter how much we discourage it, he loves his guns and swords and instruments of bodily damage. They’re all toys, of course. For now.
• As far as he’s concerned, girls shouldn’t have the right to choose. Anything.
• He thinks he has an endless reserve of funds to use for whatever he wants to do. In fact, finances don’t concern him at all. Incurring debt that someone else has to pay (me) for his own enjoyment is of no object to him. Deficits don’t matter!
• I often have to bribe him to get him to help me.
• He can be very frightened of trying new things.
• It sometimes takes the threat of incarceration to force him to clean up his own mess.
• We have to remind him to say “please” and “thank you” and flush the toilet and put his dishes away, and all the other things people should do as a courtesy to others.
• As sweet as he is, compassion and altruism (and along with those, empathy) are only vaguely understood concepts, to be tried intermittently and usually for a concrete gain.
• (Added later) And in response to criticism of this little piece, like conservatives, he just doesn’t quite get irony, let alone satire.

It’s a good thing that I’m confident that, as his mother and I raise him, he’ll develop judgment and learn how to interact with others pleasantly. And that he’ll become not necessarily a liberal or Democrat, but a sensible and productive member of society who bases his decisions on logic, knowing when to listen to his heart and when to overrule its quick urges. It’s a good thing he still prefers “Noggin” to “Faux News.”

(OK, it only took me 7 months to post this… so I’m slow, nothing new there)

(1500M/T1/25miles/T2/10k – 31:52/5:29/1:19:59/2:29/1:07:40) Total time – 3:07:26

Drove up to VA Friday afternoon, got there around 1930. Had my wheat pasta & veggies, talked a bit, slept on the couch. Up at 0500 and on the road to Smallwood State Park. Had my tea & PB&Banana Sandwich on the way. It was just getting light slowly when we got there. We were able to casually get our race packets and chat (Dan and Shan knew quite a few people; a lot of Team Z-ers there, I guess). Apparently, they moved the swim just as they had to do the year before, because of seaweed and algae. I had wanted to get the rented wetsuit on and swim a bit in the water before the race began, but trying to time it right was an issue. Thank Crom there was a real bathroom in the building at the park, because my usual pre-race weight loss routine rapidly became a necessity. When I got to where the swim was rumored to be, there was nobody warming up, so, naturally, I didn’t want to get in there first and look the fool. So soon all participants waddled over in their funny rubber suits, and we wished each other good luck. I had forgotten to take off my rings, and so had my friends, so Shan put them all in her bag. Dan was in the first wave, I was 2nd, and Shan was in the 3rd. Missed most of the pre-race talk, so had to ask people what exactly we were doing. Swimming out and around the buoys without coming back in to land after the first lap, apparently.

‘Twas getting mighty hot in that wetsuit – must’ve been over 80 degrees and high humidity (it had rained earlier). We had to jump in; the start was in water about 5 ½-6 feet deep, with horrible, tangly, and slimy stuff underfoot. But, damn, it felt so nice and cool as it slid under the wetsuit. And then it was time to go, not much time to dwell on my nerves and apprehension about a .9-mile swim in a branch of the Potomac. But it wasn’t too bad, except for the carnivorous seaweed, attacking at every turn. It didn’t feel longer than the last sprint tri I did, which was half of the distance. I was able to keep rhythm much better than last time. I guess the wetsuit also helped, and the fact that the water was cooler and cleaner than Lake Crabtree. Not hard to do, I suppose. Suddenly it was time to get out. Guys were helping people out onto a little platform, from which we climbed up the stairs and began the long run to transition. I had felt a cramp threaten in my right calf toward the end of the swim, and it threatened more on the run. I ran gingerly, considering the bare feet on concrete, the burgeoning cramp, and trying to strip off the wetsuit. The worst and most feared part (for me, and for most, I think) was over. Finally got to transition, which must have been at least 300 meters away. Wetsuit came off with little difficulty, but got a little flustered because I kept thinking I was forgetting something. Probably wasted a good minute or even two in T1, with my slow run to get there and my dawdling. But shit, I’m just aiming to finish, I ain’t an elite athlete.

Set out on the bike, immediately consuming a gel, which of course, tasted nauseating. I knew on the way in that nutrition would be my problem, because I’ve yet to work that out. The bike was very pleasant, a nice country route, many trees, little traffic, not difficult at all. I passed quite a few people, but tried not to push it too hard. Finally got to a few going my speed and we swapped off leads. No, we weren’t drafting, I swear. There was a thin girl with long, dark hair who seemed to be laboring profusely, whom I passed, and I said something encouraging to her. Of course, I was embarrassed later when she passed me again and left me in the dust. It was a nice enough ride that I didn’t start wishing it would end until around mile 20 or so, when my lower back started to stiffen, and quads and calves to tighten up. I had been drinking regularly, but still not enough, I suppose. Now I realize that I probably should’ve been taking in a bit of salt here and there, but live and learn. My calf really started to cramp right before transition. Not good, I thought, worried. Haven’t even started the run and my calf’s cramping.

Tried to drink, drink, drink, but after I left an uneventful transition, shirtless because the heat was coming on, I had to pee like a madman. But I couldn’t find a decent place to stop, then somehow I forgot about it as the pain increased. Long hill out of transition, and I couldn’t even get up it without walking. The gels were starting to make me sick again – I think I’ll be staying away from those. Legs cramping. 6.2 miles of this? Crom’s stone balls, I can’t do that, I thought. But I didn’t want a DNF in my first Olympic tri, so I would walk or crawl the damned thing if I had to. When I got off the bike, I had more than an hour to spare before the 3-hour mark, which was my goal, and I thought, ah, excellent. If my fastest 10k is around 48 minutes, no problem. Yeah, right. I watched that goal fade as I jogged-hobbled-jogged-limped. I thought for sure the friends I came with would re-pass me (I saw both of them in the out-and-back parts), but it turned out they were hurting and slowing, too. The last mile was the longest of my life so far, even longer than the last mile of the Shamrock Marathon I ran in 2004… fucker just wouldn’t end!

Walk. Jog. Stumble. Hot. Walk, job, stumble. Finally to the slight incline and I could see the finishing area. And my mom and dad ready with the camera. It just wouldn’t do to have pictures with me walking with my jaw scraping the ground, agonizing and exhausted. So I had to pick it up a bit, no matter how much it hurt. And smile. And so I did. They didn’t come out half bad.

I sat in the grass, conversing with my folks between labored breaths, and waited for my friends to finish. I tried to get up several times and found the world spinning and nausea encroaching. I hadn’t experienced that yet after a race. This went on for 20 or 30 minutes before I finally had it under control, with the help of four or five bottles of Gatorade, pizza, and salt tablets from my friend (thanks Shan). We hung out at the Team Z tent for a while. Nice group of people, if I lived in the area, I’d definitely join.

An adventure? You bet. Masochistic and a bit crazy? Of course. Would I do it again? Absolutely. But not until I figure out my damned nutrition issues! More salt, more salt, no Gu, more liquid, and piss when I have to, no matter what the situation.

The lunch my parents bought me was sorely needed, but the 4-hour drive home was NOT. I was surprised I made it home without passing out, but it was one of those “body tired but zoned-out” drives. Back to home and the routine.

(750M/13.8miles/5k – 17:08/2:17/45:15/1:49/25:42) Total time – 1:32:09

My first true sprint tri. The day had arrived, after weeks of inconsistent training. I was really only worried about the 750-Meter swim. I had never swum that long without a pause, except for the Friday before the race – just to reassure myself that I could. Sure, I’ve swum over a mile in the pool, but that’s with many breaks.

Did my anal checks and re-checks the night before, got up at 5 AM. My wife had the consideration to take my son and stay at her mom’s to allow me to get some rest, but I didn’t get much anyway – nerves, I guess. Scarfed my traditional PB & banana on wheat and drank my Earl Grey. Somewhere along the way, or the day before, I made a digestive mistake. But more on that later.

Arrived without incident, rode the ½ mile there. Walked into transition, thinking I’d set up my stuff and go look for somebody who had handlebar end-caps (which the race instructions demanded), but they were actually checking for it as you enter transition. That’s good, I suppose. Thankfully one of the volunteers walked right up, offering them. So I put ‘em in and taped ‘em with the handy electrical tape that always goes in the T-bag. Helped another guy out with some, too. My good deed for the day.

How do you get used to this with Tris? My stuff was ready after a check and six re-checks, and I had an hour until my wave started. I wanted to do a quick warm-up swim, but I didn’t want to walk around for an hour in just my tri-shorts and bare feet. But what else was there to do, sit there? Of course the urge to – shall we say – unload struck me with half an hour left. Not wanting to use the port-a-potties for my mission (I cringe at having to use even clean public restrooms for this uncomfortable but necessary craptivity), I thought I’d see if the nearest park restroom was open. No dice. Some smart soul had locked it and put a sign on it saying “closed until after the race.” Oh well. It would have to wait.

Waited in line twice to use the port-a-potties for the longer-distance activity of peeing, and, man, the lines were long. Should’ve just used the trees, I guess. Saw Bobby, friend and ex-colleague of mine, which was cool. He was volunteering for the race – I guess a sprint tri is far too short for an Iron Man of his ability. There’s more respect than snark in that comment, really.

Swam out to the first buoy and back as a warm-up. The water was a bit mucky and unnaturally warm, I thought, but it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. Someone had told me that the lake was uniformly shallow and you could touch bottom in most places, so I tried. But they also said that you probably wouldn’t want to stick your feet in the slimy muck down there. So I did. Slimy, indeed.
I downed a Gu gel 15 mins before my swim start, which I think was my first mistake. Don’t do anything new on race day, right? Well, I’d tried Gu before – once or twice – and didn’t feel any ill effects. Didn’t feel any effects at all, really. So it couldn’t hurt, right? Well, it didn’t – for a while.
As I was standing in the water with the other Clydesdales, blabbing nervously, mostly about the condition of the water, whose first tri it was, etc., etc., the standard stuff, just as I was saying that I had done a warm-up swim and the water wasn’t nearly as bad as its reputation, a blackened, half-disintegrated Styrofoam coffee cup floated by us. “Well, maybe not,” I muttered, or something equally as futile and idiotic.

And we were off. As always, my rhythm was the first thing out the window. I’d been training to do the alternate-side breathing, i.e., once every three strokes. I tried, but mostly I fell back on the every-other-stroke-breathe-on-the-left-side sort of thing. I started at the back and avoided most of the others, making it to the turnaround without much trouble. Then it got harder. Swim. Breathe. Sight. Correction. Swim. Breathe. Sight. Correction. I could not keep myself going in a straight line for any reward. It went on this way for what seemed hours, with the shore getting no closer. Other people with different-color caps would pass me or I would pass them, but I didn’t know if they were from the wave in front of me or behind me. More likely behind me, for I could have sworn the swim was taking me half an hour. (Turned out to be a bad but not THAT bad 17 minutes or so.)

T1, no issues, out to the mounting line, no issues. But here I made a mistake – concentrated too hard on trying to get my feet in the clips and my gloves on my hands. I should have sped up to a decent speed first and done it as opportunities arose. We learn. Several folks passed me here. Then over the little causeway and a slight hill, and all the breath went out of me. Shit! A short ride like this and I’m gonna have trouble with it? I thought. That’s just sad. But I recovered shortly.

I realize I could maybe have kicked it into a faster gear, but I held back a bit, feeling those gut rumblings, overtiredness from only a few hours of sleep, etc. So I rode at maybe 80-85% of effort. I thought a couple of the hills would hurt, but they really weren’t that bad (I spun in a low gear). I passed one guy who had no helmet and earphones, wondering if he had been dq’d and just didn’t care, or what. Every once in a while a hardcore cyclist would whiz by on a whirring tribike, which was disconcerting, but what can you do? I ate a Gu gel about a mile or two before the end, as planned, and that was a mistake. Disgusting. One more note about the bike: I’ve read in many places that it’s not actually 15 miles, and by my computer, they’re right, it was about 13.8. That’s a long way to be off, and apparently it’s been that way for years. Do the organizers even know? I mean, it doesn’t matter, but either correct the course or SAY that it’s 13.8 miles. Hmm.

T2 was no big deal. Since I have clips or cages on my pedals, I use my running shoes to ride in, and don’t have to change them. Maybe the only benefit to not having clipless pedals (yet). Decided to run without a shirt (which I almost never do because of fear of sunburn) because of the oncoming heat. 5 mins or so into the run my stomach started to rebel against the insanely sweet Gu, and I had to slow down and pace myself more evenly. The course was easy, and I saw Bobby 2x more, but I was hurting towards the end and had no gear left to kick it in. Damn, I was happy to see that finish line. My first true sprint tri complete, and really only nutrition mistakes to mention. Could have been much worse! I had wanted a finish in under 1:30, but the official 1:32:09 would have to do.

All in all, the race was well-done, decent course, well-organized. The tons of fruit and bagels and donuts and drinks were great. Complaints? There’ve always gotta be some. Having the pre-race meeting the day before is definitely NOT convenient, but I can understand it with a big race. Not enough port-a-potties, bike course too short, water disgusting. That last one is not the organizer’s fault, of course. Will I do it again next year? Perhaps, but the prospect of swimming in lake Crabtree again is not a nice thought. Next on the agenda: an Olympic or International Tri.

There’s not all that much to report here. My wife volunteered for the race, as she’s started to do every year, and my mother-in-law was a participant as a survivor, so I figured why not try for a PR in the 5k? I ran around trying to get my son Spenser situated; he had to stay with his mother during the run. There were soo many people. But that’s good, right? Got ready at the starting line of the run, and I must have been 200 yards back. Must have been thousands of people in the race, by far the hugest I’ve ever done. And the gun went off. I had set myself farther back than I thought , so I was passing a lot of people. Sure it felt good, but would I pay for it? The summer heat was already starting to crank up. I thought I might try for a PR – even though I hadn’t trained vigorously for a 5k – which meant a goal of 22:54. I was on target and doing OK until the end of the 2nd mile, when the heat really started to get to me. Thankfully, there was a team of kids on the side, ready with a hose to spray those who wanted it. I’ll take some of that, please! Crom bless thee. The long, slow uphill at the end before you turn the corner back into Meredith (if I remember it right) was murderous, but I was able to maintain my pace and sprint it home after the turn, even though I misjudged the distance to the finish line. I was so out of breath I couldn’t even bend down right away to help the volunteer take the damned chip off of my shoe! But I looked at my watch and, holy shitbrick, shmatman! 22:38! Wow. I was impressed with myself, because the end sure felt hard. Now if that run had taken place in my preferred running weather (about 52 degrees, overcast, drizzly, low humidity, naked cheerleaders), I might have toyed with breaking 22:00! Maybe someday, but I’m not getting any younger. That tantalizing 19:59 may be out of reach in this life (especially for a man who usually weighs 208-220 lbs.).

A great race, well-executed despite its size, and fundraising goals were exceeded, I understand. Kudos to all involved, especially to the survivors. And double credit to the survivors who raced, many of whom were much faster than I!

As the bumper stickers on the cars of my wife, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law proclaim proudly, “Save the Ta-Tas!” Maybe I’ll get one for my car that just says, “Hooray for Boobies.”

I’ve been admonished by my anal-retentive German genes that I really should jot down a race report for every race, even though it will never be read, except by me, and maybe not even that.

Finish Strong Challenge/Banks D. Kerr YMCA Triathlon 4-15-07 A first-time tri, the first for its organizers, and my first road tri. How appropriate. They did a good job, despite the threat of large storms. But someone (Tom Robbins?) said it - the weather is to be celebrated or ignored.

This was all new to me, but the nerves weren’t overwhelming because of that debacle of an Xterra I did 10 months ago - after that one, I knew a road tri would be child’s play. But I’m really not a great swimmer, and even the tiny 200-yard swim had me a little worried. Mostly if I would get passed by three people in the staggered pool swim. But as worries usually are, these were unwarranted. I didn’t do great, lost all rhythm after the third length, but I passed one guy instead of getting passed. I could have cut off 10-20 seconds if my damned watch hadn’t kept coming off! Excuses. Can’t do flip-turns, so didn’t even try. Passing under ropes was hard to get used to. The pool was very warm, almost too warm. We were staggered according to projected swim times, so it worked out fine. I suppose that’s how they always organize pool swims. It was a long run to T1, all wet parking lot on bare feet, so slow I went. No big problems, except for everything being wet, even though I had covered stuff with trash bags. Drying feet and lacing up shoes took the longest. Had to be reminded to fasten helmet strap before leaving.

Wasn’t looking forward to being drenched on the bike. Had only had my road bike for a couple of months, so I wasn’t too used to it. But it held off, luckily. The wet roads made me a bit more cautious, but I passed many, many folks. Pretty nice 10.5-mile course, through some posh suburbs (ex-urbs?) of multi-million $ homes. Got passed twice about a mile from T2, although I was going hard. Didn’t have much trouble with the hated pedal clips, which don’t like my running shoes much, but it does allow for a quick T2.

Off on the run. One of the two guys who had passed me on the bike said “You’ll be passing me in about four minutes.” I thought, nah. Couldn’t feel my legs for a few minutes, and for a second, felt like a fist was squeezing my chest, trying to force my heart out through my throat. Thankfully, that went away. I passed the guy, who said, “You’re ahead of schedule.” Tried to respond with encouragement, but no breath. Passed the other guy later, so that felt good. Felt like the course was 75% uphill, but it also felt too short. I bested my stand-alone 5k time by a minute! That makes me think that the course was maybe 2.7-2.8 miles or so, rather than a full 5k. Who knows?

I went to breakfast with my wife and son and didn’t stay for awards, never expected anything. Don’t think there were awards for it, but it turns out I was 2nd in the Clydesdales (only 6 or 7 of us), and if I had gone with age group (35-39), I would’ve been 2nd, too! Argh!

I expected a road tri to be much easier than the Xterra Sport, and it was, by far. But only relatively.

Official results:
Swim 200 Y 4:11/T1 4:11/Bike 10.5 Miles 36:27/T2 0:49/Run 5k 21:56
Overall 38/93, Clydesdale 2/7 (Age group 35-39 2/?)

(This was meant to be more of a eulogy, please excuse the anger…)

I just got the news 10 minutes ago. 10 minutes, and this truth-forsaken war has affected me more than ever before. I was against it since before it began, and now I scream silently at its designers and implementers, STOP! Spare the wives and husbands and children and mothers and fathers those empty gaps in their lives forever! You senseless beasts, you murderers by proxy! Pull our men and women out of harm’s way in that miserable hell of a desert, before more die for nothing! Call it what you will, cut and run, admit defeat, I care not for your lies and pandering, but save lives, you blithering barbarians! I deliver here a sigh of confused sorrow and impotent rage.

My father called me to tell me that David Taylor, Jr., along with two others, had just been killed by an IED while driving in a Humvee somewhere in Iraq. David was a Major in the Army Rangers, a great guy with an irreverently sarcastic sense of humor. We were not best friends, we were not close friends, but I called him a friend, and was honored to do so.

Some of the criticism of this moronic misadventure goes as follows, and it’s justified: This war, unlike most others America has been involved in, affects so little of the American public directly, that most are apathetic to it (less and less so now, thank the fates). I remember hearing that only 1% of Americans knew somebody who had served or was serving in Iraq. No wonder. It was only because I had grown up as an Army brat – many of my high school classmates joined the Armed Forces, following their fathers – that I had the good fortune of knowing two of them. They had both been there before, and were both there again. My father and I had discussed them just the other day. My other friend was a Quartermaster, and thus was as unlikely as any to encounter any trouble, although we all know that no one is truly safe. David told me that, although he was an Army Ranger, he had been assigned to mostly administrative duties (“pushin’ paper”) and understood that that was what he would be doing in Iraq. For all I know, that’s what he was doing, and it was just ugly happenstance that exploded the coward’s device of death under the vehicle that he just happened to be in.

I don’t know how to feel about this. I don’t know if I even have the right to feel sad, hurt, diminished, and betrayed by our inept and uncaring government yet again. I say this because I know his parents well, incredible people if there ever were any, and then there’s his wife of but a few years, and his infant son who will never know him. My fleeting sorrow pales into the infinitesimally subatomic next to their life-numbing sadness and the black hole of despair out of which they must now climb. They are the ones I mourn for, more than for David himself, because he was a Ranger. He knew the risks, and I’m sure he didn’t flinch from them. He loved Army and country, and was loyal and dedicated. He never confided in me his true feelings about this whole fiasco (we weren’t close enough for that), and it really doesn’t matter. Even if he had hated the whole idea, he wouldn’t have complained, because his life was his duty to his nation and its people, the ideals it represents, and to the soldiers under his command. That is more than I can say about any of the miscreants in power.

I remember him sending a photo around to friends, proud and smiling, wife by his side and new child in his hand. “Michelle recovered, I just hung around and tried to look useful,” he wrote. And he’s gone, just like that. And for what? But I don’t want this to be about the issues. It’s about a good man who was taken away from those who love him.

I can’t really say, “We grew up together,” but we did spend our elementary school years in close proximity, in the Mark Twain Village (MTV) American Military housing area in Heidelberg, Germany. From around 1979 to 1982 or so, we played and fought with and alongside each other between Kirschgartenstrasse and Römerstrasse. David was older than I, so often he and a friend picked on me. I often brought out a matzo to the playground to snack on, a favorite in those days, with butter and cream cheese and American cheese. They thought it remarkable, the bullies, and once or twice took it from me, to the point where my dad had to intervene. Joking about this later, he gave me the immortal description of the matzos as “those big motherfuckin’ crackers you used to eat and we would take from you.” I didn’t hold it against him for long. He and his friend gained respect for me as I grew in stature and musculature through wrestling, weights, and football. I think at some point he actually apologized for it! After my dad retired from active duty and we moved to Reilingen, our families stayed fairly close through Boy Scouts; his father was the Scoutmaster of our dear old Troop 29 for a few adventurous years, and a great one, I believe.

I didn’t associate with him much through high school; we were in different classes and with different crowds. But he was smart, well-liked, and well-known enough to be elected president of his Senior class. I continued to see him through scouts; unfortunately, those memories have yet to resurface in any detail, but I remember having an easy kind of respect for him. That was only to increase when I learned that he had joined the Army Rangers.

Much later came his other immortal – to me – statement. We were talking about the ancient bullying and how I eventually got to be much larger. I said, “You’re a Ranger now, you could probably kick my ass.” To which he replied with a smirk, “Nah, I couldn’t kick your ass. I could probably kill you, but I couldn’t kick your ass.” He told his wife, “Yeah, I used to bully him, then he got huge and started to wrestle, and that’s when I started calling him ‘Sir.’”

Well, David, Sir, I salute you and your life. You will help me - and all who knew you, I think - in fighting the more mundane but constant battle to never take love and life for granted.

And when I think of you, I will smile, I will raise a glass in Prost, and I will fight my tiny wars with strength renewed.

May you find your heaven,

Mark Goldman
October 23-25, 2006

Ah yes, happy independence day. Much as I complain about my nation, I would not be a citizen of any other, not even Tchermany (unless I could have dual). Here’s to all those who helped the USA become the relatively great nation that it is. Let us celebrate the ideals of the founding fathers and hold ourselves strong against those who would destroy those ideals (including those currently in power.)

A good friend of mine and I (mutual best men at each other’s weddings) ran a marathon in 2004, our first and so far only. We loved the paralyzing cramps at the end of long runs so much that we decided even then that our next big goal would be to participate in a triathlon… someday. Since he lived in Northern Virginia and I near Raleigh, training together was out of the question. So again, it would be parallel training. As most of us do with goals we set, we let it go for a while.

In February ’06, he told me he had signed up for the Nissan XTerra “Sport” Race in Richmond on June 18. The little that I knew about triathlons was from casual curiosity and discussions with a colleague who regularly did marathons and Iron Distance triathlons. There was a lot to think about. This wasn’t your regular triathlon, it was off-road. That was good, in a way, because I only had a mountain bike and rode it a couple of times a week – but usually on the road. I hadn’t swum a stroke in more than five years. I ran 15-20 miles a week, so that part was no problem. I had a 2 ½-year old boy, and my wife worked evenings and weekends, so time to train was extremely limited. I had ridden a mountain bike intermittently for 18 years, but I wasn’t really a “mountain biker.”

So I had barely any time to train, no swim skills, few bike skills, and really couldn’t afford the trip, the hotel, and the $80+ for registration. Of course I was going to do it! I told my friend and then tried to figure out a training schedule. The race was listed as a 500-meter swim, a 16-km bike ride, and a 5-km trail run. I was worried about everything but the run: I had run several 5ks, a 10k, a half-marathon, and a marathon. Endurance shouldn’t be a problem. I was, however, nervous about the swim and the transitions.

I have to interrupt this tale of crazy cardio-vascular training here by saying that, at heart, I have always been a weightlifter and am generally built as such; 6 foot, 1 inch, and 220 lbs. Well, 208 lbs now. My thighs are really too big for running, so I have to wear pants that prevent painful chafing in the nether regions. I’m not really designed for distances; but all part of the challenge, right?

It wasn’t until I did some actual mountain biking that I started to get apprehensive about that part. I rode a local trail and found that parts of it were hard. I was 35, not 25, and not brave or dumb enough to be a daredevil. I couldn’t do jumps, rabbit-hops, log-piles, fancy tricks, etc.; hell, I could barely do a one-second wheelie. On downhills I tended to brake too much because I was afraid of crashing and breaking a leg.

So now the only thing I wasn’t worried about was the run.

Well, time to train.

I bought a 15-visit pass to the Pullen Aquatic Center in Raleigh, thinking that I would only need to swim a few times - just enough to know that I could complete 500m without a problem. On my first swim, I went 75M before I had to rest, lungs exploding and chest heaving like overtaxed flesh bellows. I eventually managed 550m, but man, ‘twasn’t easy. In the course of my mere 8 visits to the pool – I could only get up at 5 AM once a week – I worked up to 1 mile. I was able to do more than 500m without resting, but my stroke was all over the place and my technique was that of a pregnant walrus with a damaged flipper. But it would have to do. My run, after all, was the strongest part.

I read up on mountain biking techniques and rode the trails at Legend park in Clayton and Hog Run at Harris Lake park near Holly Springs a few times. I got a little better, but was still afraid of jumps and downhills. I was fast on straight-aways, but slow on everything else. But my run was the strongest part.

I bought tri-shorts, a bike rack, new tires, a cycling computer, a pump, and kept training. I swam once a week, ran three times (5 miles), biked 2-3 times (10 miles), and tried to get in one trail ride per week. I read and researched. I’m generally level-headed, but began to get a little anxious after reading many accounts of first triathlon mishaps, transition misadventures, and mountain bike injuries.

I couldn’t find much on the course for the Xterra Sport on the web, just reports on how difficult it was. Of course, reports from the pros barely mentioned it, as I’m sure they found it easy, compared to the hardest courses in the world, which they rode frequently. The course was listed as a different distance everywhere I looked, but it ranged from 14KM – 16 KM, so I figured on 10 miles.

I read a lot of good stuff on transitions, and learned a lot from my colleague about it (in addition to various swim, bike, and run techniques – I must say many praises and thank yous to Bobby). I got nervous. But my run, after all, was the strongest part. Having run a marathon, even though it took me nearly 5 hours, 5km was less than nothing.

The day of doom approached. My friend almost left me hanging when an unexpected business trip loomed, but thankfully it was postponed (it wouldn’t have been his fault, but I have to dig a bit, because the whole thing was his idea!). Almost all was set. I brought my now ancient ‘91 or ‘92 (I’m not even sure) Specialized Rockhopper in for a tune-up, and picked it up the Tuesday before the race. I didn’t ride it until Thursday, and found it to be the worst it had ever been! They had replaced the chain and cassette, but none of the rings. All my years of owning that bike, and I never knew about the “chain, cassette, and rings wearing together” factor, though I had done my own maintenance occasionally. Even with all my planning, there had to be a crisis. I brought the bike back at lunch on Friday, and a nice guy tired to fix it to no avail. He recommended replacing the middle ring, but didn’t have the right one on hand. He said he’d replace it for free if I could find one elsewhere. Of course, I had to go back to work! We were leaving early in the morning! I didn’t have time to scour local bike shops for a middle ring, let alone, bring it back! So, I thought I’d tough it out on the course. My run, after all, was the strongest part.

Then, I got more nervous after trying it again. The chain popped all over the place. My colleague “Double-Marathon-Iron-Man” Bobby frightened me more by saying, “You can’t ride it like that! Go buy a middle ring and put it on yourself!” So I went to a local bike shop and, thanks to all the gods of ridiculous fitness adventures, they had one.

With the many-times-read advice of “Don’t ever do anything new or use new equipment in a race that you haven’t done or used during training” reverberating in my head, I replaced the middle ring myself on Friday night, two nights before the race. It went surprisingly well, and Aaaah, it rode like a dream compared to before.

Both my friend, Dan, and I, would have loved to have scouted the mountain bike course but never had the chance. I had only visited Brown’s Island in Richmond (the site of the start, end, and transition area) once to check it out, but had no idea about the courses. So we went to the swim clinic, hung out a bit, and checked out what we thought would be the swim. It didn’t look too difficult, but the James River was notorious for rocks, shallows, and the current. We were both more worried about the bike course. The run would be the easiest part.

The Expo was well-done, and well-organized. We got our packets and attended the swim clinic, given by two pros. We would have liked to have attended the bike clinic, but that was long over. Our wives were nice enough to take the kids to the Richmond Children’s Museum and let us do our thing, which included meeting some members of the “TriCats” of the DC area at an Irish pub to watch the USA-Italy game.

The night was miserable. My son tossed and turned, I had stomach problems, and my friend’s baby girl was sick with fever and vomiting. So we were terribly well-rested and ready when we rode down to the island at 6:30 AM. We stood in line and got our swim caps, our numbers painted on, and set up our transition areas without any problem. We then headed over to warm up for the looming swim. One of our dilemmas had been what to do about the run between the swim and the transition area, but we finally agreed to leave our socks and shoes by the water and put them on right after the swim (we both used the same shoes for the bike and run). No one was entirely sure about the course, but the water was fine, and it didn’t look like it was going to be too hard. A quick port-a-potty trip and we were as ready as we could be.

We were going to try to stick together, but abandoned that plan when we found out the swim was going to start in three waves. He was in the first and I, being a Clydesdale (200+ lbs), was in the last. We were finally told the exact course by the father and founder of Xterra, and the cannon went off. My stomach finally stopped turning over when I started the swim. We were underway at last! I zigzagged way too much, but passed many more people than passed me. Perhaps that’s because I started at the back of the pack and to the right (was that ever the right move!). The current added some work, but there were so many rocks that rest was plentiful, if undesired and unanticipated. Several scrapes ensued. The spirit of friendly competition showed its face when I found myself echoing others in warning people behind me: “Rocks ahead!” The swim was an adventure; one moment I was trying to get into a rhythmic stroke, then standing on a rock in half-a-foot of water, walking, and then plunging into water over my head when the ledge abruptly ended. When I reached the shore and hurried to put my shoes on, I realized I wasn’t really that tired. My time sucked, but I had conquered the swim, and it wasn’t too bad! I jogged to T1 and had no problems donning my shirt, helmet, and shades, and off I went.

That was where it got tough. For a perpetual amateur such as myself, the course was hard. It kicked my ass. I passed tons of people on the straight-aways (the weightlifting legacy of large quads and glutes helped the speed), but many overtook me through the winding singletrack switchbacks, ‘cause that’s where I got slow. Roots, rocks, streams, and several near-falls followed. I was off my bike more times than I could count. But so were many people, even ones who said that they knew the course. I was grateful for the ancient pocket/shoulder pad I had on my frame when it came time to carry the bike up many flights of stairs. Simple strength was one of my assets, so my bike felt pretty light. I felt bad for the women and smaller guys who were really struggling to get their bikes up the stairs, but admired their spirit. I figured they would soon pass me anyway.

People at checkpoints shouted their encouragement. I remember one in particular: “You’re doing great, guys, go for it! The guy with one pedal is still ahead of you, but you’re doing great!”

You hear a lot about the camaraderie, and it was fantastic. If anyone got into trouble, everyone was concerned. Cries of “You OK?” echoed constantly. Unfortunately, soon the question would be directed at me all too frequently. I made the mistake of passing a woman who knew the course; I should have stayed behind her. About ½ mile before the end of the trails proper, and maybe ¾ mile from the end of the bike leg, I braked too hard, skidded, and went off the path into a tree sideways. My chain ring, or something, bit into my calf. My first thought was, “Oh, another one, no problem.” Then “Oh, shit, ow, wow, that really hurts!” Then the stream of curses began in earnest as I watched the blood flow through the grit and grease on my ankle into my sock. It bled a lot, and hurt magnificently. I could barely walk. I kept expecting a bone to stick out of my calf, or my gastrocnemious to flop out of the skin. People began to pass me in numbers as I limped, moving over every minute to let someone pass. At least four people said they’d get someone to send somebody. Number 649 is down! Maybe ten minutes of agonized limping followed, and a volunteer came to see who was hurt and how bad. By this time, I realized that nothing was broken, and the punctures themselves didn’t hurt. But knew that I had done something else to my calf, because it felt like a steak knife was stuck in there. Maybe it was just a deep bruise. But maybe not. She called the EMTs and I sat down and waited. She gave me a bottle of water, which I poured over the wound. I couldn’t tell anything about it, and neither could she. I owe many thanks to that woman, whoever and wherever she may be. Finally, after 15 minutes of waiting, and a big, fat DNF looming, I said, “Look, tell them to hang back if you can, I’m gonna try it. Maybe they can look at it in transition. I ain’t letting six months of training (actually four and a half) go to waste!” So off I went, cursing in agony, with every bad sports movie and cliché playing in my head.

“And look at him go – his leg’s broken in three places, but he’s determined, folks! Look at the spirit. We should all be proud of his perseverance, for he represents the survival instinct of mankind!” And Chariots of Fire, and Rudy, and Rocky, and every other one I’ve seen all merged into one self-mocking and self-critical film. Thankfully, I was still able to laugh at myself. Idiot. Just finish the damned race. Your leg ain’t broken. You want your son to see you quit? To walk out of the race, defeated. OK, he won’t remember it, but you will never forgive yourself if you don’t finish. Walk the run if you have to, but keep going. And I did. I rode my bike on the downhills and flats, slowly, and walked the uphills, and suddenly I was coming back to transition. I heard my wife and my friend’s wife calling, but the iron knives in my leg held my concentration. I limped into T2, and immediately a woman asked me if I needed help. Grateful, I said, yeah, if someone could look at it and send me on my way if it didn’t look too bad. A guy came up and washed and bandaged it fairly quickly, telling me it wasn’t life- or leg-threatening. And I was off, settling into a kind of pathetic, Quasimodo limp-run. This was supposed to be my strongest part.

Strangely, it didn’t take that long. I thought it would be an eternity of agony, but the run course was relatively easy (except for a ridiculous set of massive, broken wooden railroad-tie stairs that I had to scale on hands and knees). I did not see a soul on my run. Every time I came to a checkpoint, I was grateful that I hadn’t gotten lost. I had to be the last one. But at least it wasn’t cut-off time yet; I thought I still had at least 30 minutes, even though I had forgotten to press the lap button on my watch the last few times. So even if the run took me 45 minutes, I’d still finish. It didn’t take me quite that long, but a run that I should have done in 25-27 minutes took me 39, and it was pretty painful. But I finished. I was done. I was a mess, but I was done.

Two days, a tetanus shot, antibiotics, crutches, and many icepacks later, with an upcoming ultrasound, I looked at the results, already posted online. I was #235 out of 239 finishers. What an accomplishment! I had almost achieved my lifelong goal of coming in last! I tried to calculate where I might’ve come in if I hadn’t been assaulted by my trusty steed, and figured I would’ve been #155 or so. Everything and everyone told me to be happy that I finished, and I was. Sure, 62 people didn’t finish or finished after the cutoff. But there will always be that nagging What if I had not gotten injured? And the whole thing meant I might have to try again next year, to see how well I really could have done!

By the way, Dan did really well. We are triathletes, now matter how fat we get or how much beer we drink!

So many people claim that once they’d tried one, they’d been “bitten by that triathlon bug,” and I wondered if I had. I guess the injury took a lot of the enjoyment out of it, but my friend and I immediately discussed what we would do next. Maybe the bug did bite, because we decided on a sprint triathlon in which we would actually race our bikes ON THE ROAD.

After the Xterra, I figure it’ll be child’s play.

I was thinking today that we often say, this administration is so horrible, hypocritical, incompetent etc. that we wish for the days of Nixon. I asked my father about the days of Nixon and Reagan and got the answers you would expect (both had their good and bad points, Nixon a bit ahead on the bad, but all presidents do bad things - Nixon just got caught). So I wondered if my son will ever ask me about the regime of George W. Bush. That, in turn, made me wonder if I would be able to say it was by far the worst presidency EVER. Could it get any worse between now and when my son is old enough (or foolish enough) to ask that question? How bad would it have to be to be WORSE? What could make someone in, say, 2045, wish for the simpler days of the Bush II Administration? The only thing I could think of was, well, yes, Hitler. If we were being led and bled by a leader who was similar to the loud, ugly, demented little maggot who held his jackboot on the neck of my beloved Germany in the worst years of the 20th century, then, and only then, could I see somebody saying something like that. For example:

“President-for-life Snerd is so evil and demented that it makes me wish for the days of George W. Bush, back at the turn of the century. Back then, when the government lied, it was obvious. When they stole from the poor to give to the rich, not only did they do it out in the open, they did it repeatedly, and ran on it. They were so incompetent, they made us laugh. They had this dolt, McLennan, or McClellan, for their press secretary one time, man, that guy was soooo bad. And there was the Vice President Cheney who liked to curse reporters and shoot people. And the Secretary of Defense, who caused thousands of soldiers to die needlessly. And that mess with that hurricane…and how we’re still trying to recover from the environmental damage. And…OK, it sucked then too. But at least we didn’t have public beheadings and frontal lobe privacy-eradicator implants like we have today. Oh, shit son, now I’ve done it. Here come people from the Office of Suppressing Opprobrium of our Exalted Officials to take me away.”

Oh no! I made a Hitler reference! In the same paragraph in which I mentioned the president! I will surely get some flak for that. I would, that is, if anybody read this…

And yes, my America is beloved too. She’s just having adolescent identity crises right now and I’m trying to control my temper with her.

Considering I’ve really had over a month to listen to this (don’t ask how), you’d think I would have written something about it by now. After all, Operation:Mindcrime, part the first (henceforth OM1), may be my favorite album of all time. So you would think I’d be quick to jump on the sequel for good or bad. Perhaps I wanted to wait until I bought the official release to see if they redid or added anything (they didn’t, as far as I can tell). Maybe I was reluctant to put down my thoughts on this – to me – momentous event, to figure out what I really think about it. But in the end, it’s a good thing. Although I often read online reviews of albums, I decry the instant review process. I think that it is nearly impossible to get a good opinion of a new release after just a couple of listens, especially after just one. Often, the closer you are to the music or the artist, the more this is true. If you put Eminem’s new CD on for me, I would howl insults at you after the first faux-macho sneer. But I’ve been a Queensryche fan for more than twenty years, and more loyal than most. I’ve given them breaks left and right through the beginning of their decline with Promised Land, their reviled step into softer, melodic art-rock in Hear in the Now Frontier, the slightly heavier but even less-inspired Q2K, the better-but-not-quite-there Tribe, and the numerous in-between live and greatest hits offerings. As a matter of fact, I love all of their studio albums. Some are better than others, but they are all different.

Queensryche’s debut EP was fairly straight-forward 80’s metal with hints of their progressive potential. Their debut LP The Warning was an explosive, intelligent work, heavy and thoughtful in places, with cheesy sci-fi and glorious fantasy themes fitting perfectly (note “NM 156″ and “Take Hold of the Flame”). Rage for Order showed them succumbing to the image-whores, painted and big-haired up to look like some gothic, new-wave-prog-metal hybrid horrors, and fans like me didn’t know what to think. But after a few listens, the album showed its true glory, image be damned to the hells of Motley Crue. “Neue Regel” and “Screaming in Digital” were and are mind-blowing works which make me sing (or howl, some would say) in enjoyment and wonder to this day.

And then came OM1. I remember discussing it with my friend at the time. A concept album? Oh, gods, no! This spelled the ruin of the band’s career for sure! I don’t remember how long it took me to realize how unbelievable the album was, but damned if it wasn’t brutal, honest, skilled, nuanced, atmospheric, raging, experimental, and introspective all at the same time. I fell in love with it, as did maybe millions of other teenage boys across the nation and world, all somehow identifying with Nikki, the tormented and self-tormenting protagonist. Beneath all of the drug addiction, revolution, mind control, yearning, and angst, after all, he was a rebel, and we were feeling rebellious. It was an outlet, a hip, fun, and rocking catharsis. Every once in a while I sit down to revisit it and am amazed once again. How many works of art can do that - amaze you through the years? Isn’t that the definition of a masterpiece?

Then, capitalizing on the critical laudation and a successful tour, Queensryche did exactly the right thing – commercially, at least – and released Empire. How I would have loved to hate that album, with its commercial appeal, spotless production, melodic hooks, and neo-prog-rock-balladry. But, Goddamnit, it was GOOD! The musicianship was not quite as experimental and aggressive as OM1, but it was still first-class, and Tate’s singing was even better and full of range and emotion, if that was possible. The album sold so much that to this day, even I am still sick of “Empire” and “Silent Lucidity”, but the rest of it I still enjoy shamelessly.

Then followed the wane in their careers, popularity, and possibly talent, with the decline of metal, rise and fall of grunge, the rise and persistence of “Alternative Rock” (I’m still not sure what that means), and the eventual departure of DeGarmo, the band’s main and best songwriter. But I stuck with them, loved their works, saw them play three more times, and they did not disappoint.

When I first heard early in 2005 that Tate was planning a sequel to OM1, I probably reacted like many long-time fans. Oh no! Oh Crom, leave it alone! And then: Holy shit, a sequel, wonder what that will be like! I can’t wait! So I expected the worst. And I have been disappointed. That is to say, my expectations were not met. OM2 is a good, maybe a great album. The burning question, is it as good as the first one? Well, of course not. But times are different, we are older, and it is not the same theme or subject. Same characters, yes, but it is less urgent, more crafted. Geoff Tate, now in his mid-to-late forties, has not lost much as a singer. Maybe nothing at all, because he does a phenomenal job, and still ranks with my other favorites, Dickinson, Alder, Arch, Dio, and Eric Adams. The guitar work is inspired and skillful, but I’m not sure I would say “effortless.” I wasn’t that sure about Mike Stone in concert, although he performed decently, but he seems to have found a rapport with Wilton. Jackson and Rockenfield do their job well, especially Rockenfield, whom I’ve always thought of as a first class rock/metal drummer. Not quite in the caliber of Portnoy and Zonder, but nearly there. OM2 is heavier than anything since Promised Land, maybe since Empire, but there are definitely songs that hearken back to Hear and Q2k.

I’ll try to give a brief impression of the songs, because I could probably go on forever about this band. “Freiheit Ouverture”, the intro, is not the metal attack of “Anarchy-X”, but it builds up nicely. “I’m American” is a good start, with a nice, chugging riff and Geoff’s lyrics celebrating and mocking our nation and mindsets. He tries to insert commentary on the current political situation while leaving it open to be as timeless as OM1, like “You want what they’re selling – another television war?” And although it might be a bit transparent, I was singing along in no time. “One Foot In Hell” has a nice low groove, and “Hostage”, maybe the best of the album, has hooks worthy of Empire. “The Hands” starts with a tasteful, minimalist tribute to an OM1 riff (was it “The Mission”?), although I can’t understand why they chose this as a single over “Hostage”. “Speed of Light” sounds like it was ripped right from the Hear in the Now Frontier sessions, but it has an interesting end with a gritty, devolving guitar and what sounds like cowbells! Pamela Moore, the woman who sung the part of Mary in OM1, shows up here for the first time. “Signs Say Go” is a frenzied rocker that fits well, and “Re-Arrange You” has a nice, mysterious keyboard line, chugging riffs in the right places, and great drumming from Rockenfield. “The Chase” is the long-awaited duet with Ronnie James Dio – and it’s good, but not mind-blowing, and too short. The vocal arrangement gets a little muddled and overcomplicated, but it’s a joy to hear these two in the same song. “Murderer?” is presumably where the long-suffering Nikki takes out Dr. X, but Tate leaves the ending purposefully ambiguous. “Circles”, a Mars Volta-ish interlude, along the lines of “Waiting for 22″, I found annoying. “If I Could Change It All” and “An Intentional Confrontation” feature Pamela Moore, in all her glory, far more than OM1 did. She has a great voice, no doubt, but she doesn’t fit as seamlessly here as in OM1, where you hardly noticed she was there – she sounded like an extension of Tate. “A Junkie’s Blues” has a nice, dirty, grooving intro, which then morphs into Empire-like cleanliness. I really dig “Fear City Slide”, with emoting from Tate, a catchy chorus and guitar lines. The closer “”All the Promises”, unfortunately, is an anti-climax that drips cheese in its “oh we were so in love” themes. “When you said you loved me it made me feel like I could fly.” Aaargh, that’s painful. Not only is there no resolution, there is no indication of what really is happening with Nikki, besides having a discussion with Mary’s ghost. Is he dead? Insane? Married with three kids in a house with a two-car garage and bonus room? I tend to like narratives that are not resolved and wrapped up cleanly and handed to the unquestioning, unthinking consumer, like a McDonald’s Heart Attack Special, but this end was just a disappointing ending to a good album. But OM2 has grown on me so much since I first listened to it, who knows?

Most artists will never again make an opus as masterful and inspired as they did when they were young, drunk, and hungry. Look at Metallica’s Master of Puppets, Maiden’s The Number of the Beast, Rush’s 2112, Megadeth’s Rust in Peace, Pink Floyd’s The Wall, Dream Theater’s Images and Words, Ozzy’s Diary of a Madman, Accept’s Balls to the Wall, and Madonna’s Like a Virgin, to name a few. Just kidding on that last one. That applies to me, too - I don’t think even I will equal the dark and brooding poetry of despair I wrote in the early 90s (not that anyone will ever read it, which is probably to their benefit). But you have to give them some kind of kudos for trying. This was a big gamble on the part of the Ryche. Not that they had a lot of fame or momentum to lose, but to set out to add to the legacy of an icon such as OM1 with the possibility of tarnishing it forever, is quite an undertaking. Have they marred the epic immmortality of OM1? If Metallica has not hurt the legacy of Master of Puppets and …And Justice for All with garbage like, well, everything since the second half of the Black Album, I think it would take something much worse than this very-satisfying, if not quite masterful, album to do that to the legacy of Operation:Mindcrime. Here’s to Nikki and to hoping he’s found some kind of peace at last. Just, please, guys, you have other things to offer, don’t let there be a III. I’d rather have a Warning or Rage For Order II than that!

Mr. Speaker, Vice President Cheney, Members of Congress, Members of the Supreme Court and diplomatic corps, distinguished guests, my dear, dear lobbyists, bumbling cronies, shameless sycophants, soulless corporate sponsors, and… uh… Oh, yeah, and fellow citizens:

Today our Nation lost a beloved, graceful, courageous woman who called America to its founding ideals and carried on a noble dream, which we continue to do our best to delay and destroy at every turn. We are nothing if not diligent. I shall now shamelessly exploit her memory. Tonight we are comforted by the hope of a glad reunion with the husband who was taken from her so long ago, and we are grateful for the good life of Coretta Scott King, even though she made the continued abuse and neglect of minorities more difficult for us rich white guys. Now that I have the obligatory homage that shows me as a “compassionate conquistador”, I mean, “conservative,” over with, let’s get down to business.

Each time I am invited to this rostrum, I am humbled by the privilege, and mindful of the history we have seen together, although I have no idea what a rostrum is – ain’t that what they call that pimple on my ass?. We have gathered under this Capitol dome in moments of national mourning and national achievement, and of course, these monumental national bullshit sessions. We have served America through one of the most consequential periods of our history - and it has been my honor to serve with you. And it will be my continuing honor to rape the once-glorious environment of America, steal from the poor to give to the rich, disrespect our allies, murder the English language, pummel the rules of courtesy, mangle the tenets of tact, create awkward moments out of thin air, make an art of miscommunication, destroy thousands of lives by proxy for no good reason, and fall off my bike and choke on a pretzel every once in a while for good measure.

In a system of two parties, two chambers, and two elected branches, there will always be differences and debate, but we are always right and the other side is always wrong. But even tough debates can be conducted in a civil tone, and our differences cannot be allowed to harden into anger, so when I say your mother is a filthy whore who blows bums for kicks, I mean it in the best possible way. To confront the great issues before us, we must act in a spirit of good will and respect for one another - and I will do my part, especially to make underhanded and snide comments in an arrogant tone, accompanied by an infuriating smirk. Tonight the state of our Union is strong - and together we will make it stronger. And if you buy this bullshit, you’re stupider than I thought, and stupider than me, even though you did elect me, which makes you not too smart in the first place.

In this decisive year (unlike every other year, which are all indecisive, waffling flip-floppers), you and I will make choices that determine both the future and the character of our country. Well, I will make the choices and you will have no choice but to do what I say. After all, I am God-general of the Universe. I’m not? Well, Emperor of the Solar System. No? OK, King of North America, then. We will choose to act confidently in pursuing the enemies of freedom - or retreat from our duties in the hope of an easier life, letting Cheney and Rove run things while we take 5-week vacations at a fake ranch. We will choose to build our prosperity by leading the world economy - or shut ourselves off from trade and opportunity, which we are doing handily, I might say, by alienating everyone with our glib remarks and staccato jibes in an exaggerated Southern accent. In a complex and challenging time, the road of isolationism and protectionism may seem broad and inviting - yet it ends in danger and decline. But not for us, ‘cuz we don’t need no one. You wanna fight? Bring ‘em on! The only way to protect our people (at least those in gated communities) … the only way to secure the peace (when it suits us)… the only way to control our destiny is by our leadership and an occasional pre-emptive war - so the United States of America will continue to lead. Lead to where, I have no idea, Dick and Karl haven’t told me yet.

Abroad, our Nation is committed to an historic, long-term goal – we seek dominion over all lands that happen to contain the oil that is rightfully ours. Oh, that’s not a legitimate reason? Then we seek the end of tyranny in our world, or at least in places in which it’s advantageous to us. Some want to begin right here. Some dismiss that goal as misguided idealism. In reality, the future security of America depends on it. Now, on to the fear factor. On September 11th, 2001, we found that problems originating in a failed and oppressive state seven thousand miles away could bring murder and destruction to our country (we found no need to analyze the numerous failings of our own systems, that’s for those liberal wussies). Dictatorships shelter terrorists, feed resentment and radicalism, and seek weapons of mass destruction. Democracies replace resentment with hope, respect the rights of their citizens and their neighbors, and join the fight against terror. Every step toward freedom in the world makes our country safer, and so we will act boldly in freedom’s cause. Without a trace of irony, for we are incapable of it, we believe that a “Peace or I’ll Kill You” policy will foster utopian governments across the globe. As long as we’re in charge and Halliburton gets the revenue that is its due.

Far from being a hopeless dream, the advance of freedom is the great story of our time (pay no attention to the way my government attacks the freedom of our own citizens; blatant hypocrisy is the luxury of power). In 1945, there were about two dozen lonely democracies on Earth. Today, there are 122. And we are writing a new chapter in the story of self-government - with women lining up to vote in Afghanistan after a long, hard day harvesting poppy to be made into heroin for export… and millions of Iraqis marking their liberty with purple ink before going out to be blown up by their fellow citizens or being captured and tortured by ours… and men and women from Lebanon to Egypt debating the rights of individuals and the necessity of freedom before dismissing them and the Great Satan of America in a frothing Allah frenzy. At the start of 2006, more than half the people of our world live in democratic nations. And we do not forget the other half - in places like Syria, Burma, Zimbabwe, North Korea, and Iran - because the demands of justice, and the peace of this world, require their freedom as well. Well, OK, we don’t forget them only when it suits our purpose. By the way, where the hell is Zimbabwe? Do we need to add them to the Axis of evil, or just the List of the Slightly Disagreeable?

No one can deny the success of freedom, but some men rage and fight against it (some that do are foolish puppets, like myself, or evil manipulators, like my dear friends Dick and Karl). And one of the main sources of reaction and opposition is Christian Fundamentalism – uh – I meant to say, radical Islam - the perversion by a few of a noble faith into an ideology of terror and death. Terrorists like bin Laden are serious about mass murder - and all of us must take their declared intentions seriously while also using their deeds shamelessly for political gain, over and over and over again. They seek to impose a heartless system of totalitarian control throughout the Middle East, and arm themselves with weapons of mass murder, just as we seek to do here in the United States. But don’t tell anybody, hush hush. Their aim is to seize power in Iraq, and use it as a safe haven to launch attacks against America and the world. The fact that they wouldn’t be there in the first place, if not for us, does not compute in the Orwellian maelstrom of greed, fear, and lies we have created and nurture with obstinate gracelessness. Lacking the military strength to challenge us directly, the terrorists have chosen the weapon of fear. Just in case you forgot. Fear, fear, FEAR! When they murder children at a school in Beslan (support us or children will die) … or blow up commuters in London (no one is safe)… or behead a bound captive (YOU could be next) … the terrorists hope these horrors will break our will, allowing the violent to inherit the Earth from us, those without scruples. But they have miscalculated: We love our freedom, and we will fight to keep it, at least for those who make a minimum of $200k a year.

And it goes on and on and on…

Is it too late to slap a “F the president” bumper sticker on? Now I feel like if I did, I would be one of those who waited “until it was safe” to declare the truth of my convictions on a bumper byte. Besides having hated opinions declared on fenders from the beginning, I’ve had another good reason not to put dissenting labels on my car. See, my wife and I trade cars because she works at night, and I am too afraid of some drooling redneck doing something asinine when she’s driving alone, late. We do live in North Carolina, after all. So I probably won’t, because it may never be safe with the ubiquitous idiocy, even with Prez Mush at an approval rating of what? 35%? But sometimes I wish I could have that customizable one I mentioned previously. And if not, something too long like “Think Liberals are wussies? Driving this car is a marathon-running, 350-lb bench-pressing triathlete metalhead LIBERAL who knows how to use a broadsword. So step out from behind your guns, you chickenhawk, and see who’s the wuss.”

Well, it’s mostly true, if not the triathlete part. Yet. And I’ve only run one marathon. So what? Maybe a slight exaggeration. The point is, I’m only human. Pacifist that I am, I get annoyed at the “liberals as wimps” label, and I don’t think I’ve personally known a conservative who could best me physically.

Mentally, either. But that almost goes without saying.

There are black and white, and there are shades of gray. There is knee-jerk, and there is nuance. There is the visceral, and there is the intellectual. There is frightened and righteous conformity, and there is studied and measured dissent. I submit an imaginary episode of the fictional talk show Mindless Discourse:

Sen. Sexton Zebediah Creech (R-JC): So how can you liberals say that you don’t support the war, but you support the troops?
Any Given Liberal: They’re totally separate issues. The troops are doing their duty, what they signed up for – they’d invade Antarctica if they were told.
SSC: That might not be a bad idea, I hear there’s oil down there. Anyway, how can they be separate issues? If you’re against the war, you’re against the troops.
AGL: That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, and given everything I’ve heard since 2000, that’s saying a lot. Why do conservatives insist on equating the two?
SSC: Do you support the troops?
AGL: That’s a false issue, a non-question. I read this somewhere: it’s like you sending a group of second-graders into a burning building, and when I demand that they be gotten out, accusing me of not supporting our second-graders.
SSC: Yeah, well if they had vouchers, they would’ve gotten a better education anyway, and might not have gone into the burning building. But all that aside, you claim you’re against the war, but supportive of our military. How can you justify that?
AGL: How do I justify what? I think the fact that I would rather have them home than fighting a useless and probably unwinnable war for a lie IS, as you say, supporting the troops.
SSC: What about their morale? It hurts their morale when they find out that some folks back home don’t support them.
AGL: That’s also ridiculous. First of all, you don’t give our folks in uniform much credit. I think that they can differentiate between the two. In fact, I’ve talked to some of them. Believe it or not, some of our Armed Forces don’t agree with what we’re doing, either, but they’re hardly going to announce it. No, what hurts-
SSC: But the troops are out there fighting for democracy and freedom! They’re spreading liberty! Making the world safe from terror! How do you think it makes them feel, operating in dangerous conditions like they do, when they see that some folks here who just can’t listen to reason are marching to stop them from doing their job?
AGL: What actually hurts morale for them is, hmm, let’s see… being sent into combat without proper body armor and with unarmored vehicles, having their combat and hazard pay cut, having their injured buddies’ vet benefits cut when they get home, having their tours extended indefinitely, um…what else hurts morale, Senator? How about the President and Secretary of Defense not listening to their commanders by not providing the number of troops they recommended? How about them being trained for war, not for peace-keeping and nation-building? How about having to sleep on sand and asphalt and operate in 120-degree weather with the threat of being killed or injured constant, not knowing who is a friend and who a foe?
SSC: Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. You liberals are chickenshit hippies! After 9/11, you didn’t want to do anything! You just wanted to “empathize,” and “find the cause,” while we conservatives took action! That’s what we do! Now the world is rid of a tyrant and freedom’s on the march in the region!
AGL: Nice change of subject, Senator. You guys are good at that. And, also, good at lying, which is what everything you just said is…. a lie. And as to chickenshit, that’s funny, coming from you. Didn’t you get three exemptions from serving in Vietnam? Hm?
SSC: Uh.. I … I was serving my country in other capacities. Are you questioning my patriotism?
AGL: I’m questioning your sincerity. Believe it or not, they’re separate issues. You’re a chickenhawk, like most of the neocons and Christo-wackos and radical right nutballs. You won’t hesitate to send young men and women into war for lies and distortions, just to keep yourselves in power. You’re gutless, greedy, amoral, cynical, mendacious monsters with no regard for human life…
SSC: Insults! All you can do is insult us! We’re in the majority! We support family values, we’re god-fearing people, raising our children properly, making sure we have a virtuous society…
AGL: By legislating morality?
SSC: Whatever it takes.
AGL: Whose morality? Yours? I hate to say it, but you brought up the morality factor. I wouldn’t be talking about moral superiority if I were you, Senator.
SSC: Wh-what are you talking about? Those allegations are unfounded! Lies! Distortions! The liberal media trying to make me out to be a criminal!
AGL: What about the photographs? Doctored, I suppose?
SSC: How the hell should I know? Look at what you can do with computers these days! Let’s get back to the issues-
AGL: Yes, let’s change the subject again..
SSC: That’s all you liberals do, personal attacks, is that- is that all – never mind! I support the troops! I’m a patriot! I love my country! You’re hurting our democracy with your little accusations and protests.
AGL: What about the bribes you take from special interest groups, the golf outings with donors, the mounds of pork you try to put in bills for unnecessary bridges and that road to your property, for…
SSC: Lies! I support the troops!
AGL: You distorted intelligence to fit your policy, lied to the people, played on their fears of attacks to get elected and reelected, used non-issues and twisted them into moral battles at the expense of the little guy, getting him to vote against his economic interest, caused thousands, maybe tens or hundreds of thousands of deaths with your ignorance, blindness, and self-centered greed..
SSC: I support the troops!
AGL: You mortgage the future with unnecessary tax cuts in a time of war, insult and dismiss our allies, allow nuclear proliferation because of haughtily abandoned diplomacy, let people die unnecessarily because of your unwillingness to improve health care, not to mention the hundreds –soon to be thousands – of American Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, and Airmen you’ve sent to their needless deaths to further your greed and power…
SSC: But…I…support…the…troops….

“Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” – Samuel Johnson

Johnson is said to have made this remark in regards not to general patriotism, which he did not deem negative, but false patriotism, which I believe is by far the majority in these times. I have questioned myself over the last few years especially since 9/11/01; am I a patriot? I have come to the conclusion that, by many standards, I am not. This is sure to make any reactionary yodel “A-ha! I told you so! Liberal terrorist scum! Ungrateful pinko commie welfare-state supporting baby-killer! Bet you’re also a gay atheist!” (For purposes of disclosure, I am an atheist, but hold no fondness for pink, as it pertains to communism or gayness. Even if I did, so what?)

Patriotism is defined, generally, as “Love of and devotion to one’s country.“ That, to me, is a black-and-white definition. Do I love my country? That depends. I love the wide-open spaces, which are dwindling rapidly, and which I cannot afford to visit. I love the ideals of American Democracy. I admire and respect the foresight of our founding fathers. I love the adventurous and entrepreneurial spirit of Americans, how we’ve evolved from backwards colonies to the most dominant nation in history. I love the bravery and sacrifice of generations of men and women who died and were maimed in the act of fighting for our country and its allies. I love our innovation and our optimism.

I would rather be a U.S. Citizen than anything else.

But I am not blinded by these positive qualities merely because I’m lucky enough to have been born an American, and to grow up as an American in a foreign country (Germany), thereby having access to the best of both worlds. No, having been raised on foreign soil only makes me more cognizant of the failings of our nation and people. I listed what I love about my country above; it would take too much space to list what I don’t love here, and there’s no point – that’s for a different rant and place. Suffice it to say that, due to the actions of our greedy, plodding, petulant, stupid, bellicose, and conscienceless government, I am embarrassed to be an American. Not because of our armed forces, our history, our principles, etc.

To the hate-spitting Neanderthals that would froth at me: “If you don’t love it, leave it,” or some such nanocephalic admonishment, I say: You call yourself a patriot. Do you do anything for your country besides plastering simple-minded blurbs, magnets, and flags on your fuel-thirsty truck or SUV? I pay my taxes, contribute what little I can afford to charity (including care packages for those troops you claim to support), treat others with courtesy, provide for my family, and raise my son to be a gentleman and to respect the sacrifice of others, as I do. The major difference between us is that I can think for myself and I will express those opinions whether you like it or not. Is that not, after all, one of the pillars of our democracy? I contribute more to this nation than many of you do - among us average citizens who have not served - because I put forth ideas; I add to the discourse. So, to those so quick to vilify, I say that if anyone should leave, it is you, for you would stifle dissent, deliberation, and compassion, and that, my friend, that is what is un-American.

Perhaps I am a patriot after all. But I love my country as an adult loves another adult, through accepting the flaws, demons, and ugliness that come with the beauty and the hope. Not as a small child loves his or her mother, without conditions, incognizant of imperfection. It is a grown-up relationship, and that means discussion, tolerance, criticism, and compromise.

If I were the Grand and Exalted High Spiritual Pooh-bah of the Galaxy, I would abolish organized religion. Yes, you heard me correctly, all you abbots, ayatollahs, bishops, priests, popes, prelates, primates, monks, mullahs, monsignors, rabbis, and fakirs, you’d be standing in the line for the unemployed, preparing to peddle your fictions elsewhere. I have no problem with people practicing religion. I think it’s an unconstructive and moronic waste of the limited time you’re allotted in this life, but if you want to worship a ghost, a dog, a guy that’s been dead for more than two millennia, or dried donkey scrotum in the privacy of your own home, knock yourself out. Get together with your friends of the same bent, and practice the rituals you’ve devised, pretend they’re handed down from the Lord your God. Do it in one of your homes, or even in a place you’ve rented or bought for the purpose. But don’t have the hubris to believe that this bizarre conglomeration of invented notions and updated pagan rituals is the one and only way to the rewards of a blissful afterlife. Don’t have the chutzpah to leave your chapels and churches, synagogues and mosques, your temples and pagodas and cathedrals and basilicas, and tell other people who are minding their own business that their way is WRONG and they must believe what you believe or they will be condemned to an eternity – give or take a few epochs – of torment.

When I say I’d abolish “organized religion,” I mean the official status of sects, wherein they have financial structures like actual companies, including payrolls, private jets, tax exemptions, and even public relations departments. I see nothing wrong with having a few people, even a thousand or million, belonging to the same “club.” Believe what nonsense you want to believe, that the afterlife is an endless prancing upon a serene meadow with winged angels strumming their gilded harps in soothing etudes, or a place in which you are whipped by leather-clad prancing demons with S&M obsessions and writhe in fiery agony forever, I just don’t think you deserve official sanction for it. I will fight with all that I am for you and I and us to keep our right to believe what we want, but I will also fight with all that I am for you to keep it to yourself.

Do I respect the religious beliefs of others? Honestly, as an atheist with a smug sense of superiority (in this matter), no, I do not. I highly respect the right of others to hold those beliefs. But respect the beliefs themselves, I humbly apologize, I just cannot.

Call me crazy, or just call me heretic, but to me even the milder religious notions, such as prayer, salvation, and divine provenance, are still a bit whacked out. And then there are the fun ones, the drunken-shotgun-happy-mountain-dwelling-uncle crazy ones like Original sin. Judgment day. Chosen people. Rising from the dead. Flooding the world. Intercourse is only for procreation. The world was created in seven days just 6,000 years ago. This book of cute little tales is your guide to live your life properly. And on, and on, and on, ad divinium.

Of course I realize that history has been affected and diverted and often driven by religion over the centuries. It has its place. In history. But it’s the 21st century, fellow sentient entities. Isn’t it far past time that events be driven by science and compassion, not superstition and prejudice? By the search for knowledge and the drive to better our lot and the lot of our fellows, not making sure that we use this life to prepare for the “next” one?

If I were Grand and Exalted High Spiritual Pooh-bah, that’s what I’d do. But I’m not, and it’s probably better that way, but hey, it’s just a point of view.