As we jogged down to M street on Sunday morning to cheer on a friend of Ms. Abstract Citizen’s in the Marine Corps Marathon, we pretty much decided that we would attempt a marathon before the end of 2009. I think it is a decision we will regret.
However, there’s another, bigger decision to be made: being there to cheer on a racer in particular isn’t an exact science. You’ll probably be standing out there for at least 30 minutes, maybe over an hour, waiting for your person to run by. The best way to make use of this time, if you don’t want to be a total prick, is to cheer on other runners.
You start out a little stiffly…sort of like the first song or two on the dance floor: it feels wrong, mechanical. Then things start to click. Your meek “Go runners!” becomes, “Alright people, you’re all looking fabulous out there. Team Asha, keep it up! Big Daddy, you got this! Shirley and Kate, keep it coming!” Of course, this is only made possible when people wear names or team info on their shirts – something I never do. It had never occurred to me that a runner might do this as a courtesy to the spectators – to give them something to do – rather than out of a desire to hear your name screamed out by strangers.
It is funny, though – especially when you can tell people have forgotten that their names are on their shirts, and they are startled to hear their own names being called out by strangers.
So, name on the shirt? Or go anonymous? I feel like this is crossing some sort of line – not as grave as, say, starting a facebook page, but perhaps more akin to using odious abbreviations when sending text messages. Is wearing my name on my shirt in conflict with my insistence on using proper punctuation and spelling out whole words when sending a text? Curse your upwardly contagious narcissism and love of convenience, Gen Y!
27 October 2008
22 October 2008
ready for the men chasing the bouncing orange ball around the hardwood...
Indeed, just one week away from the Wizards' season opener.
There's a pretty insightful take on their prospects this season here, and I certainly don't think the outlook is rosy.
At best, the Wiz can hope to stay slightly below .500 till December, and hopefully finish the season strong and surprise a few people. Many if's - Andray Blatche will need to step up, JaVale McGee will have to have a huge rookie year, Nick Young will need to mature right quick and the big three will need to stay healthy once Gilbert comes back.
But I already look forward to being there and to relishing the occasional improbable win. I still don't believe all the doomsday scenarios for this team - I think they'll be able to compete in the improving East - but I am not without concerns.
One of my favorite moments as a Wizards fan was tivo'ing this game and watching it by myself the next morning, which was December 24th.
And for those who prefer their Washington hoops old-school:
There's a pretty insightful take on their prospects this season here, and I certainly don't think the outlook is rosy.
At best, the Wiz can hope to stay slightly below .500 till December, and hopefully finish the season strong and surprise a few people. Many if's - Andray Blatche will need to step up, JaVale McGee will have to have a huge rookie year, Nick Young will need to mature right quick and the big three will need to stay healthy once Gilbert comes back.
But I already look forward to being there and to relishing the occasional improbable win. I still don't believe all the doomsday scenarios for this team - I think they'll be able to compete in the improving East - but I am not without concerns.
One of my favorite moments as a Wizards fan was tivo'ing this game and watching it by myself the next morning, which was December 24th.
And for those who prefer their Washington hoops old-school:
20 October 2008
the male emotional cycle
I’m coming out of a two-week period where I feel like most of my worst traits – well, not my worst, necessarily, but certainly those traits that I dislike the most in myself – have been on clear display. These include minor, forgivable flaws (displaying an unnecessarily surly disposition toward friends and co-workers, or being too quick to impose my opinion on a given exchange or social situation) as well as cardinal sins (seething with rage, bitterness, inexplicable contempt for people who probably don’t deserve it, being unable to communicate in an adult manner, etc.) I’ve also been unfocused, erratic, and just not particularly mature the past several days.
W.H. Auden’s In Praise of Limestone has long been one of my favorites – a poem that I inadvertently echo all the time, it seems. Setting the human landscape as rocky and immutable - god, I hope it's not - it casts the spiritual or sublime as fluid, watery, soluble. In the process, it hits the core of a particular kind of narcissism, and it may even forgive itself for that narcissism at its close:
When I get in these funks – a version of the male hormonal/emotional cycle? – I also often think back to a New Yorker Talk of the Town piece from a few years back that I found totally arresting. In careful prose, Roger Angell absolves Sosa for his corked bat sin thusly:
I am still reaching for the best way to move on after these stretches, to tell myself, “That’s ok, you’ll do better the next time you come up to bat,” despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Of course, it only takes a couple of nice hits to erase the funk, or to switch sports analogies for a minute, if you don’t like winning an ugly soccer match, imagine how much worse it is to be the team that loses an ugly match. I’m not winning pretty, but at least it’s not clear that I’m losing either. Not necessarily a good tagline, but one that I’m happy to live with for now.
W.H. Auden’s In Praise of Limestone has long been one of my favorites – a poem that I inadvertently echo all the time, it seems. Setting the human landscape as rocky and immutable - god, I hope it's not - it casts the spiritual or sublime as fluid, watery, soluble. In the process, it hits the core of a particular kind of narcissism, and it may even forgive itself for that narcissism at its close:
I, too, am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And does not smell. Insofar as we have to look forward
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.
When I get in these funks – a version of the male hormonal/emotional cycle? – I also often think back to a New Yorker Talk of the Town piece from a few years back that I found totally arresting. In careful prose, Roger Angell absolves Sosa for his corked bat sin thusly:
Baseball is so implacably difficult to play well, day after day, that it almost requires a little cheating now and then to make it bearable, and it is in this regard—and this one only—that it may be said to imitate life itself...The only sadness here is the taint, the little doubt, that will always be attached to Sosa’s name now, despite his sunniness and those career five hundred and six home runs. We can forgive him, even if we question his tale of a batting-practice bat going unrecognized in the heat of the season (and an extended power outage at the plate), and late tonight perhaps forgive ourselves today’s not-so-white lie, last week’s unpardonable impatience with a boring old friend, and all the pot we used to smoke after the kids had gone to bed.
I am still reaching for the best way to move on after these stretches, to tell myself, “That’s ok, you’ll do better the next time you come up to bat,” despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Of course, it only takes a couple of nice hits to erase the funk, or to switch sports analogies for a minute, if you don’t like winning an ugly soccer match, imagine how much worse it is to be the team that loses an ugly match. I’m not winning pretty, but at least it’s not clear that I’m losing either. Not necessarily a good tagline, but one that I’m happy to live with for now.
Plants can blog?
via Andrew Sullivan's Atlantic blog.
This is just bizarre.
Imagine what a farmer's market would sound like if you could hear what plants are thinking.
This is just bizarre.
Imagine what a farmer's market would sound like if you could hear what plants are thinking.
17 October 2008
Another half-
Ms. Citizen, no doubt encouraged by her strong solo performance at the Army Ten Miler while I was in Montreal, believes we can have another go at a half-marathon. I didn’t want to comment on our previous performance here until I knew whether we would have a chance to redeem it, but the truth is that very few things are as oppressive and disappointing as a bad long run.
We were spoiled, though. We had come out of a 5k looking forward to an 8k. Then a 10k, then a ten-miler. Then, finally, a half-marathon. Up to the half-, we had gotten better and better with every race. Our pace was improving, and we can honestly look back at a few those – like the Cherry Blossom – and feel the exhilaration of wildly outperforming our expectations. Especially because we started out poorly – unfocused, cold, shivering as a result of the awful weather. And at about an 11-minute clip. Around mile 3, we both realized that we desperately needed to pee – which cost us another 2-3 minutes (I timed it – it was a long one.)
We shot out of that restroom along the tidal basin as if out of a cannon, though, and proceeded to knock the crap out of the pavement – probably pacing around 8:30 or so – to finish the race at a 9:50 overall. Almost as thrilling: having a large Irish breakfast and three Guinness after the race. Also almost as thrilling: sleeping for three hours after the breakfast.
But so the Virginia Beach half-marathon was the opposite. We just never clicked into the race. By mile 6, we were already way off our ten-miler time, and it was obvious we wouldn’t be able to make it back. Months of preparation, and there you are, an hour into the race, an hour to go, and you basically know that finishing is not going to be a relief, it’s not going to be invigorating – it’s just going to be a huge disappointment. The panic is a further distraction, a nagging reminder that you are about to underperform, and motivating yourself in the face of that is hard.
We had good excuses - oppressive humidity and heat, for example. People often die at this race, and we saw dozens of runners being helped with oxygen masks, or being carried off to the shoulder. But that wasn't it. I think we just got beaten, psychologically, before the race ever started.
I was a little down on running for a few weeks afterwards, and we basically haven’t gone on a run longer than 6 miles or so since then. But the promise of another half- in the spring is good enough for me. It’ll, weirdly, help get me through the winter – it’ll keep me honest in terms of going to the gym (especially after long nights at Wizards games drinking two-for-one Sierras courtesy of my man Ron) and it’ll offer us a chance to finish the damn thing in just a shade over two hours. I hope.
And if that doesn’t happen, I’m going to be a sorely frustrated runner. Again.
We were spoiled, though. We had come out of a 5k looking forward to an 8k. Then a 10k, then a ten-miler. Then, finally, a half-marathon. Up to the half-, we had gotten better and better with every race. Our pace was improving, and we can honestly look back at a few those – like the Cherry Blossom – and feel the exhilaration of wildly outperforming our expectations. Especially because we started out poorly – unfocused, cold, shivering as a result of the awful weather. And at about an 11-minute clip. Around mile 3, we both realized that we desperately needed to pee – which cost us another 2-3 minutes (I timed it – it was a long one.)
We shot out of that restroom along the tidal basin as if out of a cannon, though, and proceeded to knock the crap out of the pavement – probably pacing around 8:30 or so – to finish the race at a 9:50 overall. Almost as thrilling: having a large Irish breakfast and three Guinness after the race. Also almost as thrilling: sleeping for three hours after the breakfast.
But so the Virginia Beach half-marathon was the opposite. We just never clicked into the race. By mile 6, we were already way off our ten-miler time, and it was obvious we wouldn’t be able to make it back. Months of preparation, and there you are, an hour into the race, an hour to go, and you basically know that finishing is not going to be a relief, it’s not going to be invigorating – it’s just going to be a huge disappointment. The panic is a further distraction, a nagging reminder that you are about to underperform, and motivating yourself in the face of that is hard.
We had good excuses - oppressive humidity and heat, for example. People often die at this race, and we saw dozens of runners being helped with oxygen masks, or being carried off to the shoulder. But that wasn't it. I think we just got beaten, psychologically, before the race ever started.
I was a little down on running for a few weeks afterwards, and we basically haven’t gone on a run longer than 6 miles or so since then. But the promise of another half- in the spring is good enough for me. It’ll, weirdly, help get me through the winter – it’ll keep me honest in terms of going to the gym (especially after long nights at Wizards games drinking two-for-one Sierras courtesy of my man Ron) and it’ll offer us a chance to finish the damn thing in just a shade over two hours. I hope.
And if that doesn’t happen, I’m going to be a sorely frustrated runner. Again.
16 October 2008
Karen, I’m not taking sides…
I think the song “Karen” by the National is unimpeachable. And it opens with this great line:
Karen, I’m not taking sides
I don’t think I’ll ever do that again
I’ll end up winning and I won’t know why…
And it wasn’t until I was in an argument with Ms. AC a few months after I first heard the song that I realized what those lines mean. I’ve always had this great facility for arguing and debating – one of the things I’ve inherited from Papa Citizen, I guess. I didn’t realize until recently that this is one of the things I don’t trust in myself, because I can never really tell whether I’m making an argument that I really believe in, or if I’m just stretching a bad idea to its logical conclusion because I think the process of doing so – the argument’s unspooling – is elegant enough for me to disregard the outcome.
Basically, being able to debate well, or to score rhetorical points off of an opponent, is ultimately just an unbearable display of sophistry. It shows nothing, ultimately, and in the context or an argument with a loved one, it doesn’t put any admirable traits on display. It suggests that you have been secretly keeping score, and – most damning of all – that you are more invested in winning an argument than in finding a solution. And often times, you just come across as a bully – like this guy, apparently.
This is not a particularly artful statement of what happens in political debates, but it’s the prism through which I’ve always seen them, especially in light of the 2000 and 2004 debates and elections: smartypants win debates at the cost of losing the election.
I had high hopes for this year’s debates, because both candidates were, if nothing else, quick on their feet. And yet the clearest thought I could articulate after that first debate was that Obama, disappointingly, lacked a killer instinct, because he seemed never to want to land punches. I thought it made him seem unready or unwilling to fight – never a trait Americans want out of a president, I’m told - but the metanarrative has congealed around the notion that Obama is “unflappable,” “cool,” etc. Whether by design or not, this is one hell of a lucky break for the man.
Obama’s debate-mode also surprised me because someone who was clearly so comfortable with nuance and non-binary thinking should, I thought, be able to deliver some beautiful rhetorical jiu-jitsu, and would have to do so in order to prove himself ready for the proverbial “highest office in the land.” Either I was dead wrong and Obama doesn’t know how to do this, or he doesn’t think he has to in order to win the election. But what impresses me, I guess, is that he doesn’t feel the need to prove, to those of us who want to see him do it, that he can do it. He seems to lack the insecurity that typically lurks behind the brainy façade of so many bookish types: the fear of being mistaken for mediocre, routine, and the need to deliver an occasional flash of brilliance.
Even more confusingly, Obama seems happy to be a mediocre debater. I’m not sure if this is how he’s chosen to manage his brand (more on that in a later post, I think) or if he is just that calm and collected. And I’m not sure whether this was his plan all along, or whether it was just a perfect combination of circumstance – certainly much can be made of the fact that voters seem to want something stable and flat during times of uncertainty. Though it still doesn’t explain why I walk away from every debate feeling as though I’m about to see a bump for McCain and find instead that the populace at large feels overwhelmingly that Obama carried the day.
Karen, I’m not taking sides
I don’t think I’ll ever do that again
I’ll end up winning and I won’t know why…
And it wasn’t until I was in an argument with Ms. AC a few months after I first heard the song that I realized what those lines mean. I’ve always had this great facility for arguing and debating – one of the things I’ve inherited from Papa Citizen, I guess. I didn’t realize until recently that this is one of the things I don’t trust in myself, because I can never really tell whether I’m making an argument that I really believe in, or if I’m just stretching a bad idea to its logical conclusion because I think the process of doing so – the argument’s unspooling – is elegant enough for me to disregard the outcome.
Basically, being able to debate well, or to score rhetorical points off of an opponent, is ultimately just an unbearable display of sophistry. It shows nothing, ultimately, and in the context or an argument with a loved one, it doesn’t put any admirable traits on display. It suggests that you have been secretly keeping score, and – most damning of all – that you are more invested in winning an argument than in finding a solution. And often times, you just come across as a bully – like this guy, apparently.
This is not a particularly artful statement of what happens in political debates, but it’s the prism through which I’ve always seen them, especially in light of the 2000 and 2004 debates and elections: smartypants win debates at the cost of losing the election.
I had high hopes for this year’s debates, because both candidates were, if nothing else, quick on their feet. And yet the clearest thought I could articulate after that first debate was that Obama, disappointingly, lacked a killer instinct, because he seemed never to want to land punches. I thought it made him seem unready or unwilling to fight – never a trait Americans want out of a president, I’m told - but the metanarrative has congealed around the notion that Obama is “unflappable,” “cool,” etc. Whether by design or not, this is one hell of a lucky break for the man.
Obama’s debate-mode also surprised me because someone who was clearly so comfortable with nuance and non-binary thinking should, I thought, be able to deliver some beautiful rhetorical jiu-jitsu, and would have to do so in order to prove himself ready for the proverbial “highest office in the land.” Either I was dead wrong and Obama doesn’t know how to do this, or he doesn’t think he has to in order to win the election. But what impresses me, I guess, is that he doesn’t feel the need to prove, to those of us who want to see him do it, that he can do it. He seems to lack the insecurity that typically lurks behind the brainy façade of so many bookish types: the fear of being mistaken for mediocre, routine, and the need to deliver an occasional flash of brilliance.
Even more confusingly, Obama seems happy to be a mediocre debater. I’m not sure if this is how he’s chosen to manage his brand (more on that in a later post, I think) or if he is just that calm and collected. And I’m not sure whether this was his plan all along, or whether it was just a perfect combination of circumstance – certainly much can be made of the fact that voters seem to want something stable and flat during times of uncertainty. Though it still doesn’t explain why I walk away from every debate feeling as though I’m about to see a bump for McCain and find instead that the populace at large feels overwhelmingly that Obama carried the day.
To the good people at Dreyer's/Edy's:
You are doing the lord's work out there. I agree with this review - that the actual ice cream isn't exactly life-altering. But that won't stop me from consuming as much of this "limited time" ice cream as I can...
15 October 2008
Now that Hitchens has endorsed Obama...
...is it safe to say that Barry has locked up the single malt vote?
13 October 2008
Further Evidence of My Lack of Bad-Assness
Returning to the States from Canada this past Wednesday with Sprucey, a co-worker. This is my first time traveling using my "parole" documents, and just a note to clarify: for some reason, flying back from Montreal to DCA, you go through customs and immigration on the Canadian side. I have no idea why, or if this is true for all flights going back to the U.S., but without that bit of knowledge, this story won’t make too much sense.
As you may recall from a previous post, according to the forms, the agent at the border is making a decision as to whether I should be "paroled" into the States or not. Accordingly, I hand over all my paperwork and wait nervously for questions at the passport control booth. The agent flips through my passport, stops to look at my visa. I mention that it's expired, and he nods. "I saw your advanced parole," he says. Then he snaps my passport shut, gets up, and says, "Ok, follow me." And he leaves his little booth and starts leading me somewhere. I hesitate, and he says, "We need to get this stamped now."
So, I'm still not sure if I'm in the clear, and as I'm being led into this glass-encased room, my colleague Sprucey has a somewhat confused look on her face. She gives me a half-wave and a half-quizzical smile, maybe thinking, "Just in case this is the last time I see you..." I don't want to shout out, "Hey, don't worry, I'll catch up in a second," so I half-wave back because I'm still not sure what's going to happen. But then the agent asks her if she'd like to join me in there, which she very kindly does. So there we sit, waiting for me to be called in for a mini-interview.
When I do get called in, here's how I remember the exchange:
Him: So, sir, where you are going today?
Me: To DCA.
[silence]
Me: Uh, National Airport.
[silence]
Me: Home to my wife...?
[he perks up]
Him: Oh, home to your wife? So who's that out there waiting for you?
Me: Oh, no no no...she's a co-worker. We were here for a convention and wanted to sight-see, so we -
Him: What's your social?
Me: xxx-xx-xxxx.
Him: And what's your occupation?
Me: Well, I work for a health care organization that is primarily a standards-setting and accreditation body for blood banks, cellular therapy, and other parts of the lab. My primary job function is -....
[he gets up, leaves without saying a word. Returns two minutes later.]
Him: Well, Mr. Noonyez, have a nice trip.
So now, we’re positive that we are in the clear. My parole is good, and Sprucey – well, she’s like a human version of mom-and-apple-pie. I can’t imagine anyone taking any kind of issue with her. She is sweet, kind, warm, genuine – a shining example of the best that the American South has to offer. We make our way to the secured area for our security check, and suddenly agents are converging on Sprucey. The minute she approaches the conveyor belt and puts her stuff down, a female security guard approaches her, asks for her boarding pass, and basically pulls her aside. Meanwhile, no one even looks at my boarding pass! I am chopped liver. I go through security without a problem, while Sprucey is being given the treatment – so much so that I'm surprised there was even anyone left to look at my bags when they were being scanned!
Now I'm standing off to the side, putting my belt back on, tying my shoelaces, while Sprucey is being scrutinized. They're emptying one bag, and then they're emptying the other. They've got their hands all over her. They're speaking to her in hushed tones, she is nodding or shaking her head, and I'm standing there with this dumbfounded look on my face because Sprucey is LAUGHING THE WHOLE TIME. She's got her back to me, so I can't see everything that's going on, but if you were there, listening to her laugh, it would have you believing that this is about the most enjoyable thing that could happen to a person.
Afterwards, she mentioned that it was a little ticklish, all the reaching and groping, and that the woman's running commentary on her carry-ons was worth the price of admission. As in:
Security: Oh my, you certainly have a lot of things in here.
Sprucey: It's ok, you can take it out.
Security: But then I have to put back in!!
Sprucey: Oh, that...yeah, I like jewelry.
Security: Yes, this I can see!
[Security takes out her make-up bag]
Security: Why, you have every color here!!
And so forth. In any case, the woman also warns Sprucey that she will be subjected to this a second time because we are flying to National. We are confused and unsure as to how this will take place, considering that we are now on our way to the gate, but alas. Meanwhile, I'm feeling totally invisible - remember that no one even checked my boarding pass to make sure I was in the right terminal. Clearly, this is a little emasculating for me, since I'd like to believe that, between the two of us, I am the one more likely to be perceived as a threat. But no, it turns out that a blonde Southerner with a kind disposition has been keeping these security folks up at night, while I'm barely an afterthought.
Onward to the terminal bar to blow the last of our Canadian dollars on family-sized gin and tonics. When we finally make it to the gate, we find that it is encased in glass with - you guessed it - a second security set up. I am instantly and uncomplicatedly waved off to the side, while Sprucey is again subjected to the vagaries of airport security for a second time. At this point, I’d just about had enough. Why aren't they worried about ME??? I’m the FOREIGNER! And I’ve been working out! I'm STRONG! Well, almost strong…but I am taken with radical notions about how health care ought to be a right, and how diplomacy is not such a bad thing! Except no, I'm not. I'm puny, and Sprucey is the threat. Outgunned by kindness, once again…
As you may recall from a previous post, according to the forms, the agent at the border is making a decision as to whether I should be "paroled" into the States or not. Accordingly, I hand over all my paperwork and wait nervously for questions at the passport control booth. The agent flips through my passport, stops to look at my visa. I mention that it's expired, and he nods. "I saw your advanced parole," he says. Then he snaps my passport shut, gets up, and says, "Ok, follow me." And he leaves his little booth and starts leading me somewhere. I hesitate, and he says, "We need to get this stamped now."
So, I'm still not sure if I'm in the clear, and as I'm being led into this glass-encased room, my colleague Sprucey has a somewhat confused look on her face. She gives me a half-wave and a half-quizzical smile, maybe thinking, "Just in case this is the last time I see you..." I don't want to shout out, "Hey, don't worry, I'll catch up in a second," so I half-wave back because I'm still not sure what's going to happen. But then the agent asks her if she'd like to join me in there, which she very kindly does. So there we sit, waiting for me to be called in for a mini-interview.
When I do get called in, here's how I remember the exchange:
Him: So, sir, where you are going today?
Me: To DCA.
[silence]
Me: Uh, National Airport.
[silence]
Me: Home to my wife...?
[he perks up]
Him: Oh, home to your wife? So who's that out there waiting for you?
Me: Oh, no no no...she's a co-worker. We were here for a convention and wanted to sight-see, so we -
Him: What's your social?
Me: xxx-xx-xxxx.
Him: And what's your occupation?
Me: Well, I work for a health care organization that is primarily a standards-setting and accreditation body for blood banks, cellular therapy, and other parts of the lab. My primary job function is -....
[he gets up, leaves without saying a word. Returns two minutes later.]
Him: Well, Mr. Noonyez, have a nice trip.
So now, we’re positive that we are in the clear. My parole is good, and Sprucey – well, she’s like a human version of mom-and-apple-pie. I can’t imagine anyone taking any kind of issue with her. She is sweet, kind, warm, genuine – a shining example of the best that the American South has to offer. We make our way to the secured area for our security check, and suddenly agents are converging on Sprucey. The minute she approaches the conveyor belt and puts her stuff down, a female security guard approaches her, asks for her boarding pass, and basically pulls her aside. Meanwhile, no one even looks at my boarding pass! I am chopped liver. I go through security without a problem, while Sprucey is being given the treatment – so much so that I'm surprised there was even anyone left to look at my bags when they were being scanned!
Now I'm standing off to the side, putting my belt back on, tying my shoelaces, while Sprucey is being scrutinized. They're emptying one bag, and then they're emptying the other. They've got their hands all over her. They're speaking to her in hushed tones, she is nodding or shaking her head, and I'm standing there with this dumbfounded look on my face because Sprucey is LAUGHING THE WHOLE TIME. She's got her back to me, so I can't see everything that's going on, but if you were there, listening to her laugh, it would have you believing that this is about the most enjoyable thing that could happen to a person.
Afterwards, she mentioned that it was a little ticklish, all the reaching and groping, and that the woman's running commentary on her carry-ons was worth the price of admission. As in:
Security: Oh my, you certainly have a lot of things in here.
Sprucey: It's ok, you can take it out.
Security: But then I have to put back in!!
Sprucey: Oh, that...yeah, I like jewelry.
Security: Yes, this I can see!
[Security takes out her make-up bag]
Security: Why, you have every color here!!
And so forth. In any case, the woman also warns Sprucey that she will be subjected to this a second time because we are flying to National. We are confused and unsure as to how this will take place, considering that we are now on our way to the gate, but alas. Meanwhile, I'm feeling totally invisible - remember that no one even checked my boarding pass to make sure I was in the right terminal. Clearly, this is a little emasculating for me, since I'd like to believe that, between the two of us, I am the one more likely to be perceived as a threat. But no, it turns out that a blonde Southerner with a kind disposition has been keeping these security folks up at night, while I'm barely an afterthought.
Onward to the terminal bar to blow the last of our Canadian dollars on family-sized gin and tonics. When we finally make it to the gate, we find that it is encased in glass with - you guessed it - a second security set up. I am instantly and uncomplicatedly waved off to the side, while Sprucey is again subjected to the vagaries of airport security for a second time. At this point, I’d just about had enough. Why aren't they worried about ME??? I’m the FOREIGNER! And I’ve been working out! I'm STRONG! Well, almost strong…but I am taken with radical notions about how health care ought to be a right, and how diplomacy is not such a bad thing! Except no, I'm not. I'm puny, and Sprucey is the threat. Outgunned by kindness, once again…
10 October 2008
A partial list of the animals whose products I consumed while in Montreal
Forgive me.
Salmon
Cod fish
Venison
Pig and piglet
Beef and veal
Duck
Wild boar (first time!)
Goose
Chicken
Said "no thanks" to pigeon, and I've excluded sushi. Also, I only tried the sauce on some escargot dishes because I'm partial to Al Caparra's escargots across the street from my dad's apartment in Rio. All in all, though, not bad for a 6-day trip. Had me looking and feeling like this.
Salmon
Cod fish
Venison
Pig and piglet
Beef and veal
Duck
Wild boar (first time!)
Goose
Chicken
Said "no thanks" to pigeon, and I've excluded sushi. Also, I only tried the sauce on some escargot dishes because I'm partial to Al Caparra's escargots across the street from my dad's apartment in Rio. All in all, though, not bad for a 6-day trip. Had me looking and feeling like this.
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