Rock the vote

I voted this morning, and despite the dire warnings about long lines, I was in and out of there in about 10 minutes.

While I’m pretty informed on the national issues, I had no idea who I was voting for in some of the local races. I had about 5 choices for a seat on the appellate court, and I just eeny-meeny-miny-moe’d it and picked some guy. I hope I didn’t vote for some crazy liberal judge who wants to set all the child molesters free, or some crazy conservative judge who wants to give the death penalty to pot smokers. Hopefully I picked a level-headed, moderate jurist, like Judge Judy.

There was quite a commotion outside my polling place, with several Atlanta TV station trucks parked nearby, and a huge semi-trailer with “Respect My Vote” written on the side of it. The hubbub was being caused by the presence of T.I., who is a rapper/actor from Atlanta. I believe his actual name is Clifford. I don’t blame him for changing it.

“Respect My Vote” is a campaign run by something called the Hip Hop Caucus, which says it is a non-partisan group. That reminds me of an episode of All in the Family, when Archie and Edith were watching the TV news and there was a story about Richard Nixon voting in the 1972 presidential election, and Edith says, “I wonder who he voted for?”

Isn’t this nice, I thought, this young man giving back to the community like this. He’s a big star, and here he is on a cold morning in a sleepy little Georgia town, urging people to vote. Of course, he was doing this in the parking lot of the voting precinct, so it would seem he was preaching to the choir. Everybody was already there specifically to vote.

I was so impressed by this that I went back and did some research on T.I., since my knowledge of rap music doesn’t extend beyond Run DMC, and I discovered that he does a lot of community service. Yes, it is all court-ordered, but that’s just nitpicking.

T.I. apparently originally thought he was not going to be able to vote, because he is a convicted felon, stemming from a conviction in a 1998 drug case. He had some more trouble a year ago when he was arrested for trying to buy illegal guns in a Publix parking lot. In downtown Atlanta. In the middle of the afternoon.

He was buying, according to the police, machine guns. With silencers. Something tells me these weren’t for hunting. But who am I to question?

Anyway, the young man says he’s turned his life around, and he wants to be an inspiration to young people. According to his lawyer, as quoted in an Associated Press story, “Until he is sentenced in the federal case, he doesn’t have a conviction yet. Even though he is a convicted felon, he has a right to vote since he is not serving probation and hasn’t started his prison sentence.”

I wonder who he voted for? I assume whichever candidate favors less gun control.

Some women in the polling office were wondering if they should go out and get his autograph for their kids. Seems like maybe a bad idea, since he doesn’t appear to be a great role model, but hey – we all deserve a second chance, right? He’s done with the bad stuff and now he’s all about a positive, self-affirming message.

He has a new CD out, but I don’t have it, so I went online and randomly picked one of the song’s lyrics, just to check it out. Granted, it doesn’t have the same effect without the monotonous drum pattern and the music stolen from another song in the background, but here’s what I found (I’ve redacted certain parts, since my kids read my blog.):

Hey I'm so raw, and I'm so rich
And you so flawed niggaz ain't 'bout sh*t
I'll take yo' broad, I can f*ck yo' b*itch
Know that I'm gon' ball every chance I get
Every chance I get, real talk, no sh*t
Every chance I get, make money on this
I'll take yo' broad, I can f*ck yo' b*tch
Know that I'm gon' ball every chance I get, every chance I get.

Now, who wouldn’t be inspired by that? Well said, Clifford. Well said.

Veni, vidi, vici

Well, it is done.

I hobbled across the finish line at the Silver Comet Trail half-marathon Saturday in a sizzling 2 hours, 16 minutes and 19 seconds. In fairness, I started near the back of the pack, so it was probably more like 2 hours, 16 minutes, and 9 seconds.

Among men in my age group, I finished 98th out of 120. Out of 696 men overall, I was 548th. I was also beaten by 452 women, which means I finished exactly in 1,000th place. They don’t award prizes when you’re down that far.

However, in the 65-and-older female group, I was the winner! Eat my dust, ladies!

At the end, they gave me a nice long-sleeve T-shirt and a finisher’s medal, sort of like what Special Olympians get. I got a lot of pats on the back and sympathetic looks, sort of like what Special Olympians get. Then I went and stood in line for a school bus to take me back to the starting line. Everybody’s a winner.

The day before the race, I got an e-mail from the race organizers which very adamantly stated that headphones and earphones would NOT BE ALLOWED. There was a very reasoned explanation for the ban, and an admonition that this rule would be strictly enforced.

Well, I thought, this sucks. I have gotten used to running while listening to my iPod. I even put together a nice playlist of songs that would fire me up and keep me motivated, heavy on the AC/DC and ZZ Top, light on The Captain and Tennille. I didn’t like the prospect of having to run with nothing to occupy me but the voices in my head.

I toyed with the idea of being a rebel and sneaking my iPod up to the start line, then slipping it on once the run started and daring them to come pull out my ear buds. I was discussing this plan over dinner Friday night and my son says, “How can I get in trouble for misbehaving in school when I have a role model like this?” Very cute. Now I know why people keep dropping their teenagers off in Nebraska.

But in the end, that stayed with me, and I decided not to take the iPod. Johnny law-abider. Of course, I got up to the start line, and approximately 80 percent of the runners had headphones and ear buds in their ears. This is how anarchy begins, friends.

The run itself was fine. I had the normal excruciating pain, but you can get used to anything and I didn’t let it bother me, though I did almost pop a hamstring jumping over a tree limb when I had to duck off the course to answer the call of nature. I reached the halfway point and thought, yeah, I’m halfway through! Then I took about 10 more steps and I realized, holy crap, I’m only halfway through!

With about three miles to go, I was beginning to struggle, so I tried to keep my spirits up by telling myself over and over, “only three more miles, only three more miles.” After a while I realized that I wasn’t just thinking this, I was saying it out loud, which probably made me seem like a mental patient, only nobody around me heard me, because they were all listening to their freaking iPods.

So now, what? There’s a full marathon in Atlanta in March. Perhaps I’ll train for that. I’m more motivated when I have a goal. I also want to run my age (in terms of minutes) in a 10-K race, which means I either need to get a lot faster or a lot older.

Either way, look out, all you 60-year-old women. I’m gunning for you.

No pain, no gain

Sunday was my last training run before the half-marathon, which is coming up Saturday. I went out to the running trail and did 12 miles, 6 miles out and 6 miles back, with only a couple of quick breaks to use the bathroom, stretch, and ask Jesus to please take me now.

I can sum up the experience with, as Joe Biden would say, one little three-letter word: H-e-l-l. For about the last half-mile I was fighting a leg cramp in my right calf, so I had to do that sort of shuffle run that you see old men do (don’t say it.).

I’m having the ongoing problem with chafing, which has not abated. Somebody told me to try putting baby powder on my legs, and I did. It didn’t help, and when I finished the run I smelled like a sweaty infant. For about the last 20 minutes of the run I experienced an excruciating pain and burning sensation in my thighs, not unlike what Pamela Anderson probably felt on the boat with Tommy Lee.

You may be asking yourself why I am doing this. I ask myself the same question every time I run. Before I began my run Sunday, I told myself that this was going to be unpleasant, and very likely quite painful, but it would all be over in a couple of hours. I gave myself the same pep talk recently just before I took my wife to see the movie “Nights in Rodanthe.” Let me tell you, I’ll take cramps in both legs and burning thighs any day over watching another Richard Gere movie.

Pain is something we cannot avoid in life. I have suffered from migraines for years, which is a pain that can’t be described. I have had innumerable tooth problems, including three root canals. A couple of years ago I pulled a groin muscle while I was playing softball. I watched the whole first half of the Alabama-Georgia game. I sat through the entire presidential debate the other night without changing the channel.

I know pain, my friends.

Women say the pain of childbirth is something that men could never tolerate, and I don’t know if that’s true, but I’ll have to take their word for it. The only pain I experienced related to the birth of my children was seeing the hospital bill afterward. $50 for a warmed blanket? $12 for two Tylenol?

Anyway, I’m prepared to be in a world of hurt for the last few miles Saturday, but if you know that going in, it doesn’t seem to be quite as bad. And as I old-man-shuffle my cramping, burning self across the finish line, I’ll have a look of satisfaction on my face.

That, or I’ll be having a heart attack. Either way, I’ll let you know.

97 and counting

I went to see my grandmother in a nursing home the other day. It is almost painful to write that, because I didn’t think she’d ever end up there.

She is 97 years old and still very sharp, but physically she can’t take care of herself any longer. Her eyesight is failing, her legs are unsteady. She didn’t want to move in with one of her daughters, because, she said, “They’ve already raised their kids. They don’t need to be going through it again with me.”

I never knew my grandfather, since he died when I was a baby, so I don’t know if I’m much like he was. But I’m a lot like my grandmother. I got my sense of humor from her, for better or worse. Almost every time I talk to her, she has a new joke for me, and I try to have one for her.

We used to always have a family Christmas gathering at her house, and we would all gather around to watch her open her presents. If she ever got anything in a big box, she would say, “Oh, I hope somebody got me a man this year.”

The first time I ever drank coffee I was at her house. My mother had told me I couldn’t, but you know how grandmammas are. I was about 12, and she fixed me some, and put some sugar and evaporated milk in it, and I loved it. It was our little secret. It’s still the way I like to drink it to this day.

She was born in 1911. It seems almost impossible that I know and talk to somebody who was alive that long ago. And even though she can’t see me clearly, it is always enjoyable talking to her. We talked about the upcoming election a little bit, and she told me that she believed that Hillary Clinton is not going to run for president again, because her real ambition is to be on the Supreme Court. She might have a point. But she hopes not, because she doesn’t really care for Hillary.

When her daughter – and my mother – died a couple of years ago, we did not think that grandmamma would make it to the graveside service. But we got word just before it started that she was on the way, and when the car pulled up and she got out and began walking slowly to her seat - well, anybody who wasn’t already crying started at that moment.

I suppose she seems happy enough in the nursing home, though I don’t know if anybody would ever really enjoy being there. Every time I go in a nursing home, I tell myself that I will never let anyone put me in one. But I know that’s just big talk. When and if that day comes, I doubt I’ll have a choice.

I just hope somebody comes by every now and then to talk to me about the election.

Oh deer

I just completed my corporate new employee training, and I spent the last week of it in the company of men who wear hard hats and work outside and spit on the ground a lot. That last thing is discouraged in the office building where I normally work.

After a week of this, I will never complain about my job again. When I got back to the office, I felt like George Bailey when he realizes he has his life back. Hello, you wonderful old coffee machine!

I respect the work these guys do and I did my best to fit in, but I was sorely out of place with most of them. Part of the problem is I didn’t get to do any actual work, I just stood there and watched, and asked an occasional question so I would appear interested. It’s not that different from some days in the office, except I didn’t get to sit down as much.

I would have fit in more and been more accepted had I been a hunter. Pretty much every non-work-related conversation revolved around hunting. Apparently, it’s currently hunting season, so they had a lot to talk about.

I don’t have anything against hunting, and I don’t oppose it on moral grounds. I oppose it on comfort grounds. I went once and I had to get up very early, it was freezing cold, and I sat on a piece of wood in a tree for about three hours, waiting for some unlucky deer to walk by so I could shoot him, or her. This was no way to spend a Saturday.

I’m not even sure why they call it “hunting.” The deer hunters aren’t really hunting, they’re just lurking. They’re hiding up in a tree, planning their sneak attack on Bambi. It doesn’t seem sporting. Maybe if they had to chase the deer down and kill them with a hammer, or if the deer were given guns to shoot back, it would be more interesting.

And I have to tell you, deer aren’t that hard to find. I see them all the time. And they’re not hard to kill. My mother once killed two in the same week using nothing more than a Plymouth Valiant. I think hunters should instead hunt something that’s really rare, like an honest politician, or a reasonable woman.

One of the guys on the crew I was hanging around with last week said that he liked killing young deer, because they have the best meat. I gathered this was illegal, but the old boy didn’t care. He said “I’ll shoot one while it’s still suckling on its mama.” Well, ok, I guess that’s one way to get some tasty meat. I’d prefer to just go to Wendy’s. It’s easier on my conscience.

The problem with shooting an animal is, then what? I guess you have to take a knife and skin it and pull its guts out and cut it up. How is this fun? I didn’t even like dissecting frogs in biology class in high school.

When I was living in Milledgeville, Ga., I was in a convenience store one day, and there was a redneck girl and her redneck mama working behind the counter. This young couple came in, dressed in camouflage, and they were very excited. She had gone hunting with him, and he had killed a deer, and she was so proud. She even took the knife and helped him dress the carcass, which made him proud of her.

They were grinning from ear to ear, covered in deer blood, and buying some beer to go home and celebrate. When they left, redneck girl turned to redneck mama, heaved a deep sigh and said, “That was so sweet. I wish I could find me a man like that, mama.” Mama assured her that, someday, she will.

I don’t know if she ever found true love, but if not, I know some guys I can introduce her to. They might even let her cut out the deer’s liver, if they’re the romantic types.

Dressed to thrill

I am getting older, which I guess beats the alternative, but I can’t say I’m enjoying it all that much.

I guess with age comes wisdom, but then your memory gets so bad that you forget all this great stuff that you’re supposed to know. So what good does it do you? I’m only 44, but many days I feel like I’m only one step away from buying a metal detector, wearing black socks with Bermuda shorts and yelling at neighborhood kids to stay out of my yard.

There is one thing I admire about old guys, though, and that’s their “I don’t give a crap” attitude when it comes to what they wear. So what if it looks stupid? At some point, it appears their wives just give up trying to tell them what to wear. It’s not worth the fight anymore.

It is liberating to stop caring about what you wear, and what people think about you. I haven’t quite abandoned all of my fashion sensibilities just yet, but I have once again embraced pajamas.

You know, you wear pajamas when you’re a kid, then at some point you figure you’re too old to wear them anymore, so you stop. And then one day, you’re old enough to wear them again. In between, we sleep in boxers and T-shirts and occasionally, in our younger, wilder days, our clothes. You never feel good when you wake up still wearing your shoes. Nothing good has happened that night.

My dad is a big pajama-wearer. This is probably because I gave him pajamas for Christmas for about 25 straight years. I’d ask my mom what they wanted, and she’d tell me to get him some pajamas, and just get her some bedroom shoes. And don’t pay too much for them. K-mart has some nice ones for $10.

I only wear the pajama pants. Usually for Christmas, or maybe Father’s Day, the kids get me some nice new ones. I have quite the variety – I have Atlanta Braves pajama pants, Georgia Bulldog pajama pants, “Caddyshack” pajama pants, and even a special Valentine’s pair with hearts on them. I am one suave dude.

Dads often get unusual boxer shorts as a present, too. I have a pair with SpongeBob SquarePants on them. I have some fancy green ones covered with shamrocks, and a pair with zebras on them. But you have to be careful when you wear such, um, unusual underwear.

I found this out one day when I went to the gym where I work and was getting ready to work out. I was standing in front of the locker, about to change into my running shorts, and then I remembered that there had only been one clean pair of boxers in the underwear drawer that morning – a pair that featured Scooby Doo in a Santa’s hat. There was a picture of his tail in the back, and the words “Berry Brismas.”

Rut-roh.

Well, I couldn’t be seen in the locker room wearing such a thing. Sure, the droopy old men love to walk around in there butt-nekkid with stuff flapping all over the place, but I haven’t quite reached that level of “to hell with everybody else” yet. So I just kind of milled around the locker room for a while, got a drink of water, used the bathroom, and when the coast was finally clear, I changed clothes faster than Clark Kent in a phone booth.

I wonder if they make Scooby-Doo pajama pants? If so, I have something to look forward to this Christmas!

Guilty pleasures

I went for one of my long training runs yesterday, and it was pretty ugly (two words: chafed thighs).

I ran the whole way listening to my iPod, and I realized that I need to arrange my playlists so I can only listen to music that’s suitable for running. As it is, I put it on shuffle, which means it picks songs at random.

That’s fine as long as the song is something upbeat, like “Cadillac Ranch” or “Walk of Life” or “Rip This Joint,” something that gets your blood pumping and your heart racing. But then it will select something along the lines of “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” or “Sing Me Back Home,” and it doesn’t fit the mood. It’s hard to run when you just want to sit down somewhere and cry.

I don’t think I could even run now without my iPod, because I’ve gotten so used to it. And I have to admit, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the iPod generation. Hell, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the compact disc generation, many years ago. I still have about 500 albums in my bonus room, collecting dust. I’m not a guy who likes change.

But I finally got an iPod, and after my teenagers showed me how to use it, then made faces at the songs I put on there (I’m not ashamed to like Simon and Garfunkel), I was ready to go.

I have some guilty pleasure songs on there that I should probably be more embarrassed about than Simon and Garfunkel. I was cutting the grass with the iPod on the other day when one such song came on, “Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes.”

I can’t describe or explain how much I like this song, or why, but I just do. It’s one of those things you can’t put into words, like how much Coldplay sucks. Every time I hear that song, my spirits lift and I wish I was somewhere doing a karaoke version.

“Rosemary” was recorded by Edison Lighthouse, which wasn’t even a band, just a studio session singer and some backing musicians. It was written by the same guy who wrote “Up, Up and Away In My Beautiful Balloon,” which is hard to believe, because that song really sucks.

But that happens a lot in music. The person who wrote “Take Me Home, Country Roads” also wrote “Afternoon Delight.” The guy who wrote “Wichita Lineman” also wrote “MacArthur Park.” The brothers Gibb wrote “To Love Somebody,” which is great, and “How Deep is Your Love,” which is not.

Back to the iPod. It has other uses, as well. The other day, I drove the kids and one of their friends to school, and all three teenagers had their iPods in their ears and were silent as mimes the whole way. It was quite nice.

And it can be a useful noise-blocker. You can come in the house with it on and if it looks like your wife is complaining about something or giving you something to do, just point to the earphones and shrug your shoulders. I tried this the other day and it almost worked, but I had my back to her, and as I was pretending not to hear her she said something about supper, and I turned around, and I was busted. She knew I’d heard the magic word.

But I played it cool. I just kept on going, and let Edison Lighthouse take me away. I’m a lucky fella, and I just gotta tell her…..