Metal Fatigue

Standing on the ice cold sands of King's Beach in a cheap pair of flip-flops, I looked out to the lake where I was about to start my first Ironman and I thought about a conversation 20 years ago in a college rental house. 

"You see, Freud classified the personality into three separate elements: the id, which controls your animal instincts and pleasure center, the ego, which handles your day to day reality interactions and works to supply the id with it's pleasure, and the superego, which is your moral compass and often combats your ego and id and moves you to do things that are better for you in the long run. You have one of the stronger superegos I've seen, and it has managed to keep your ass out of trouble even considering how strong your id's needs are while hanging with us. I think that's why you're going to Germany; it's not the girl, your superego wants you to learn a language and understand other countries, and now I gotta find another guitarist when I move to Dallas." 

"Wasn't Freud a coke addict with an Oedipal complex?" I smirked. 


"That's funny, but you were listening, I saw your eyes flare in understanding. Now shut up and hand me that tap." 


The gunshot went off, the pros were in the water and the age-groupers formed the line. I was standing at the 1:30 marker with my hands drumming in beat with the rhythm of the music. I looked around and wondered if there would be a candidate for the mini-speech I put together just in case someone was about to DNS from fear. 


I know you're scared. So am I. But for reasons of your own, fifteen months ago you decided you needed this, and you made sacrifices to be here on this beach today. For fifteen months you got up early, went to the pool and did lap after lap trying to find a perfect stroke. You got up early to sit on the saddle and ride until your legs stopped burning, and then started burning again. You laced up your shoes to run when everyone else was found reasons not to. You did all that just so by the end of this day, when you're feeling a pain you've never felt before and your body is crying for you to stop, I need to rest, you could think back to every stroke you swam, crank you turned, and step you ran for the last fifteen months and you will say, "No." 


But no, everyone was looking at the water, and the speech remained in my pocket. I began one of the dozens of internal conversations I had that day. 


Id: I can’t wait to get warmer in the water. 
Ego: How many of these people will you be passing at the 1:30 line? 
Superego: Swim slow and smooth and forget the time. We have a long day ahead of us. 


The line moved quickly toward the starting arch and I heard the beep as my chip crossed the pad. Whatever my result would be today, it wasn't going to be DNS; I was an official participant in Ironman Lake Tahoe. 

It was rather odd when my feet felt warmer stepping into the lake after getting out of the sand. I thought about conversations in May of last year. 


"What have you been working on lately, Clint?" 


"I've been trying to keep one of my goggle lenses in the water on my breathing stroke. It keeps my head in the water and my body in line." 


Clint is an older black man in Lane 1 with me in Masters class I started a month before registering. I think he could be in Lane 2, but he likes to swim his clean, smooth strokes at a slower pace, and I think he likes to follow the ladies. It took me about two weeks for me to realize that the things he told me he was working on was his way of telling me what my swim stroke needed. After about one month in Masters, I could swim a 200 without gasping for air, after six months, I finally got to where I could swim a full practice, no small part because of Clint's advice. 


A lot of people were complaining about the cold, and it was, but I was surprised at how many forgot the high winds and rain from yesterday, the DNF rate would have been in the 30% range if the race were a day earlier. 


Instead, the air was calm, and the water was much warmer than the air above it. As someone who studied thermodynamics, I knew that the water would have a higher vapor pressure than the air above it would hold, and this would lead to fog. As a swimmer of modest open water ability, it was a challenge that surprised me because I often veer left when I don't have a clear sight target and the buoys were invisible to my short peeks above the water. 


The water is so crystal clear, you can see the beach and rocks on the floor hundreds of meters away from the shore, and they look so close that you could touch it. I kept my stroke rate slow knowing that the altitude would make the air feel in short supply, but for the first 400 meters, that didn't matter, it still felt like 'breathing through a straw.' I wound up losing the swimmers and after I looked up, I noticed I was 20 meters inside the buoy line and I had to get back on the course to the Turn 1 buoy so I wouldn't get DQ'd. It took some adjusting, but I finally got my stroke in a reasonable form so I was in a mostly straight line. 


After Turn 2, I noticed there were more buoys on the return line, which seemed counterintuitive to me because I can sight off a mountain feature or finish line easily, not so on the way out. I was keeping the buoy line, and near the Turn 3 buoy, some fast AG swimmers had lapped me and were certainly not shy about swimming over me; at least the kicks to the face didn't bruise.
 
The second lap was awesome, even with some hiccups. The sun came out and I could use it to monitor my direction; I still sighted but I would know if I needed to sight sooner. At the Turn 1 buoy, the cramps I always get at one hour kicked in and I had to grab a canoe until I stretched it out. Someday I'll figure the right mix of hydration and stretching, but considering I had to take a couple of short breaks for, ahem, wetsuit warming, I don't think hydration was the issue this time. 


My last 800 meters will remain with me always, I'm not a great swimmer but I found the water, executed all of Clint’s tips, and kicked out sub-2:00 minute hundreds for most of the final leg. I kept sighting off the incredible view of the mountains, all the while thinking, This race will always sell out. 

I head out of the water, and look behind me briefly. 


Id: The lake is gorgeous with the fog, sun and mountains. 
Ego: See, you’re not the last person in the water! 
Superego: Well done, you finished your weakest leg, but you’re fifteen minutes past your plan, you need to move. 


The volunteers, I should say, the excellent, super cool, awesome, great volunteers, helped me get out of the wet suit in half the time I normally would, and I found my Bike Gear bag with no problem (the garbage bag wrapping them did it’s job). The nightmare that was the T1 tent has been discussed ad nauseum. If the race directors would like me to put together a spreadsheet to help them size the tent properly, I will offer my skills in numerical analysis pro bono. 


Id: That was worse than Black Thursday during fraternity pledgeship. 
Ego: That asshole stole my seat! 
Superego: We lost another 10 minutes from the plan, keep moving. 


I made smart choices on clothing; full length leg warmers, full gloves with a spare pair of fingerless in the back pocket, arm warmers and a tri-shirt, and a long sleeve cycling jersey my wife bought me three years ago (she noticed). I pop the Garmin on, get on the bike, and take off. 


I was out of the water in 1:43, and transition was 17 minutes, but my bike is generally my strongest leg and I started passing people by the dozen. I pull out of the Carnelian Bay detour and then I felt a shakiness in the rear wheel. 


Id: Not again! 
Ego: You goddamn moron, why didn’t you buy a tire? 
Superego: Berate yourself later. Fix the problem now. 


I’ve had a couple of flats and I thought I solved the problem when I pulled some small debris out of the wheel, it rode for 30 miles and I thought it was taken care of. But it wasn’t. I pulled the wheel off quickly and levered off the tire completely. Before I had checked the wheel meticulously, now I checked the tire in full daylight and saw a microthin wire sticking out. I found you. 


Right then another rider shouted, “SAG wagon right there!” 


We now interrupt this race report for a message from our sponsor. 


Is your race about screwed because you were too damn stupid and lazy to do the right preventative maintenance? Fear not, dumb warrior, SAG Monkey, www.sagmonkey.com, will come to your rescue for all of your needs provided you're lucky enough to be near them. They’ll fix a flat three times faster than you can, and be super cool about it too. Remember, SAG Monkey, they’ll keep you on the road, even if you’re an idiot. 


Boom! I’m on the road again and flying. I must have been passed by 100 people while I fixed the tire, and half of them were behind me before getting to Tahoe City. 


My coach was clear that I needed to ride this course. She had ridden it many times and she believed it would crush people who weren’t familiar with it. I’ve ridden the loop three times already, except for the Martis Camp, so I knew what was coming up. However, the section from Tahoe City to Truckee is such a euphoric joyride I just had to bask in the glow of a cool breeze in my face, the steady cadence and gentle burn of my legs turning the crank, and the sights and sounds of the Truckee River valley. 


Id: I love the cool weather when I’m riding, the sun is nice too. This race will always sell out. 
Ego: I love watching people go by me. See my power! 
Superego: We are way behind schedule, do not get comfortable. 


I’m feeling very strong as I pass through Truckee, seeing the rather funny signs (‘Worst Parade Ever!’) and hearing the crowd cheer. A few more turns and I rode through the walking path No Passing Zone, stand on the pedals to get some speed, three pro riders fly by me as if I’m standing still. 


Id: Damn! 
Ego: Damn! 
Superego: Damn! 


I keep my eyes on the road and make my way to Schaffer Mill Road. I never had the chance to preview this part of the course, but I did ride to the Ritz from Highland two times and the elevation map didn’t show any surprises, I figured it would be tough but within my limits. 
I passed the Martis Camp sign, and stopped for a quick refuel at the aid station. One lady volunteer was cheering us on, then said, “I’ll not mention what’s up ahead.” with a chuckle. How bad could it be? 


SOAPBOX MOMENT

What wasn't shown in the overdamped elevation map were the staircase rollers that add about 500-700 feet of elevation that you weren’t expecting, and the twists and curves of the road make four or five false summits that are demoralizing the first time you ride it. Look Race Directors, I get it, I’m doing an Ironman in the mountains, this stuff is hard, but don’t sugar coat the elevation profile on the section of the course that can’t be previewed. 

END SOAPBOX MOMENT 


It was this time when I had my first encounter with Public Servant (I know his name, but I don’t have permission to use it). He and I played the most enduring game of tag I’ve ever participated in. I would pass him, and then I’d refuel or go to the bathroom, then I would pass him again. And again. And again. It was reminding me of the Tortoise and the Hare, except I’m not fast enough to be a hare. 


The first time up Brockway was fun. I was spinning strong, I found it easier than Martis, and I had to stay to the left because there was a line of people I was passing. The party at the top was cool, the lady wearing the shirt that said, ‘I don’t do Iron Man, I do Ironmen!’ was chatting me up telling me I looked great and keep it up (I haven’t told The Wife that part yet). I was beginning to think, based on numbers, that I was well within cutoff and I had made the time back up. 


If there is one thing I do well on the bike, it’s descending. I used to ride dirt bikes so I’m fairly comfortable at high speeds, and after the bike gets to escape velocity I can hold a tuck, manage my braking and safely navigate slower descenders. The smooth, resurfaced roads allowed me to make it to 48 mph in a few spots; the yelling from the yahoos in the cars let me know how it looked from the outside. 


The second lap was much like the first, except the climbs began to take their toll. I had reached an equilibrium with the riders, we’d pass each other from time to time, and the second time up Brockway had me going at a snails pace with cramped adductor muscles listening to every fourth car playing “Eye of the Tiger.” Public Servant and I changed places about five times, and we rolled into Squaw Valley at about the same time. 


The Wife, The Girls, and The Grandma were waiting at the Squaw Creek entrance, and it was nice to sneak in a kiss before that ‘tiny little marathon’ the spectator reminded me about.
 
T2 was in much better condition than T1, and I followed a Slowtwitcher's advice to have a long sleeved jacket tied around my hips during the run. This was the first time I had seen such energy from the spectators, they knew my name from my bib and it freaked me out when perfect strangers were cheering. But that lasts until you leave the Village, then I was alone with my thoughts, which were primarily those of cramped legs and sore backs. 


Two weeks before the race I had done the bike course at full distance, swam three miles in open water, and did long runs. The total time was going to be longer than I had hoped, and I knew it. I stared in the mirror at a body that was 40 pounds lighter than when it started, and I looked at my wife and said, 


“Besides finishing, I had time goals for this race, and I’m not going to meet them. My one goal now is to finish the marathon running.” 


“That sounds good.” she said. 


My coach told me two things about the marathon: 1) the first three to four miles are terribly painful, and 2) plan to walk through the aid stations and run between them. The moment you start walking between aid stations is the moment you walk the race. 


The adductor muscles in both of my legs were cramping, especially when I had to run around tri-club members that were walking three and four abreast on a six-foot jogging path. I remembered the running drills in Don Fink’s ‘Be Iron Fit’ I’ve been working on for the last six months; the Two Strings and Steady Focal Point drills. In spite of the pain, I was able to have an imaginary string pull my head up and straighten my back, and have another string pull my chest forward. Then I would focus on a target and adjust my run gait such that it didn’t move. When I do it right, I can feel the efficiency in my run. I run 8:30 minute miles on flats when fresh, I felt lucky to get 11:00 minute miles now. And the course is gradually uphill for the first 10 miles. 


I walked through almost every aid station and then started running again immediately. The volunteers never cease to impress me; so kind, so friendly, and they have to be cold after the sunset, yet they don’t bitch. At mile 7 I hear, “I remember you from the bike.” It was another one of my tag partners, an Asian lady that had good speed on the flats but would slow a little on climbs and descents. We chatted a while about the bike course and the upcoming cutoffs at Mile 9.2. Then abruptly she said, “Good luck, my stomach is cramping.” and I left her behind. It almost felt like combat, and I was tempted to stop and help her, but I kept going. I was glad to see later she made it. 


Right around Mile 14, I left an aid station and every muscle in my body felt like a brick. I saw people walking, and I wanted nothing more than to just keep walking and share the misery with company. 


Id: This hurts, I want to eat and go to bed. 
Ego: It’s about 8:30, you have over three hours to go 12 miles, you only need about 15:00 minute miles, it would be easy. 
Superego: (pauses) For reasons of your own, fifteen months ago you decided you needed this, and you made sacrifices to be here today. What are those reasons? Your first reply would be things you couldn’t control, the crimes and neglect that others have done to you and your family. But really the reasons are what you could control and didn’t; your weight, alcohol and an unending travel schedule. You changed all of that so you could be here right now and you’re asking yourself to play games with the cutoff time, knowing your knees may not let you try again. You may be right, you could finish, but do you really want to look back on this day five years from now and remember doing anything less than your absolute best? 


No. 


I knew I wrote that speech for someone. I pulled the strings, focused on a target, and turned over my legs. 


For 12 miles I ignored everything except the sound of my shoes and kept my legs churning. Other runners and volunteers were asking how I could still be running. I didn’t know where it came from, but I was driven. As I completed the first loop I saw my wife and she could see I had it and she shouted her encouragement. That energy from her, and the rest of the Village drove me harder. 

With four miles left, I passed Public Servant for the last time. I told him my name and congratulated him because I knew his metronome would carry him across; he did the same for me. 


At a near sprint I ran through the Village, smiling, giving high fives, and hooting for the crowd. As I crossed the finish line, the final time was 15:46, and I finished the last four miles at a pace equal to what I started. While I know it means a lot to everyone who does it, something inside me became whole when Mike Reilly called me an Ironman. 

Advice to Expecting Parents

To random strangers surfing the net learning about the upcoming challenges of parenthood instead of working...congratulations on your upcoming baby!  I imagine that you are receiving an unending stream of unsolicited advice, so I thought I would help with just a few tips about things that really matter, and then maybe add a couple of musings.

ADVICE

Assuming you do not start the day with a hypodermic needle and a cooking spoon, you have what it takes to be a good parent.  You'll figure it out more quickly than you would imagine.  That being said, every parent believes themselves an expert and they'll tell you everything they think you are doing wrong without remembering every baby is different.  Nod your head and say 'Thanks for the tip.' while thinking about what Brooklyn Tony's grandfather did to live to 107 years of age (he minded his own fucking business).

MUST HAVE PRODUCTS

Everyone is going to say you have to buy this, you must buy this, if you don't buy this, your baby will DIE!...thanks for the tip.  So recognize that I suffered that social trauma and still thought the following were extremely useful for The Wife and me.

Baby411

http://amzn.to/lUiYSc

The signal to noise ratio on this book is very high, and it has answers to almost all questions that you may have about the new baby. 

Happiest Baby on the Block DVD (not the book)

http://amzn.to/mJuQLk

As soon as our lovely Daughter was pulled from the womb, the delivery nurses said, 'Man, that is a loud baby.'  Delivery nurses said this, we had the outlier when it came to crying babies.  If you think sleep is an annoying waste of time, then don't buy this DVD.  It shows you how to take a screaming baby and turn it off like a light by using swaddling, swings, and ssshhhh.  

Swaddles
One thing that they don't mention in HBOTB is that most swaddles are too small.  Aden+Anais swaddles are expensive, but worth every penny.

http://amzn.to/mSjzEE

Here's a youtube video I made to show a friend, she agreed that it works better than the video method as long as you pull tighter than you think you should.

http://www.youtube.com/wat ch?v=vcJzRs2uHf0

It lasts for about 4 months, then you need to go to the Ferber Method

Solve Your Childs Sleep Problems

http://amzn.to/lpnOM0

which basically tells you how to let your child cry itself to sleep without feeling guilty.

Also, Amazon and Diapers.com make life a lot easier than trying to drive to BabiesRUs, and they are a lot cheaper.

If you want to skip the Lamaze/birthing classes, this video, while not as funny as the title implies, is very informative and easier to watch with a glass of wine that The Wife will ask for a sip from occasionally.

Laugh and Learn about Childbirth

http://amzn.to/lJKawU

THINGS THAT START WITH A 'B' THAT YOU CANNOT BUY TOO MANY OF

Batteries, burp cloths, baby wash cloths, bibs

RANDOM MUSINGS AND OBSERVATIONS

Grandmothers--Grandmothers are a God-send until they try to kill your baby.  There is nothing better than Grandma saying that she'll take the baby for the night, and then she puts the baby on its belly with a blanket (SIDS), 'flavors' the pacifier with honey (botulism), feeds the baby peanut butter (peanut allergies), uses baby powder (lung problems, use Boudreaux's Butt Paste, yellow version), adds rice to the bottle (no impact, except it clogs the bottle)...it's amazing we lived past two years of age.  In short, we know now (because of Baby411) what they didn't know then, and you have to train them.

Breastfeeding vs. Formula--The Wife and I could never believe the audacity of people with their opinions on this...thanks for the tip.  Whatever you do, your baby will be fine.  If the mother wants to breastfeed, then go for broke with the Medela electric pump, but in the end, it's up to her.

Milestones (walking, talking, etc.)--Our girls have been early so far (because they are superior, as your child will be), but we've seen parents with kids that are late on some milestones, and they also grow up to be annoying toddlers that pull everything off of every shelf saying NO NO NO NO...very rarely are there problems.

Hospitals, Doctors and Nurses--One thing that will amaze you is that there is no agreement among anyone in the medical profession, they don't call it a medical 'practice' for nothing.  Expect a lot of conflicting information, general disdain for doctors among the nurses, general disdain for nurses among the doctors, and assume the labor nurses will be more competent than the post-delivery nurses. 

Rashes--All babies get them.  So will yours.

Hopefully there's something useful here for the both of you, if I can leave with one more piece of very useful advice (that I may have said already).

Go out and do everything you can while you can, do not spend a single weekend night at home.  When the baby arrives, your life will be completely different.

Good Luck!

Once More into the Breach

Oh crap, sitting in front of a computer on a Friday, and still reeling from the news two hours ago.

The biopsy results came back, he has moderately aggressive prostate cancer, and they need to start treatment immediately.


Project proposals, conference calls, budgets, it all seems a bit meaningless when that news hits.  Just at 1:30, I was thinking, "Man, the keys on this keyboard are getting sticky.  Maybe I need to order another one, that'll help me keep working."  A first-world problem if there ever was one.

Then you get The Phone Call.  It's someone you love, someone you grew up with.  The brief, selfish part of you says, "Glad it's not me." then you feel horribly guilty for thinking that, and then you feel even more stupid when you realize that it could be you any day.

Gleason Score.  What the hell is a Gleason Score?  Is a 7 good or bad?  Why are there two numbers, 3 and 4?

Pop up Wikipedia, look up 'Gleason' and then you see Gleason Grading System.  Surely that's the same thing, right?  A quick scan, I see the word 'prostate' and start to read.  Pictures, 3+4 is better than 4+3, anytime there is a 5 the prognosis isn't good.  Well, less aggressive and not a bad prognosis is a small favor I guess, but the word aggressive is there all right.  Probable treatments include radioactive beads and targeted radiation. My mind pictures gamma radiation blasting electrons away from complex protein molecules...

Radiation is an excellent cell killer, but not a very good carcinogen.


Memories of health physics talks in conferences that seem rather unimportant at the moment.  I hope those gamma rays take the right ones out.

Screw this, I'm getting some coffee.  I realize my eyes are watering only when someone else comes into the coffee room. I bypass the small talk and leave quickly even though she's senior because this isn't her problem, and I don't feel like sharing right now.

This isn't his first time, colon cancer in 2002-2003, he made it fine although the chemo was a bitch.  Then the aortic stint, now this. The Evil Me thinks 'I am Iron Man', and the guilt comes back.  We've always dealt with things this way though, Dark funny thought, Dark sad thought. Repeat.

Haven't made it to Alaska yet, and our vacation is already planned.  Enter more guilt, probably have to go in the winter.  That'll be fun, and dark.

Dark funny, dark sad.  Probably a bit of both coming soon to a warped mind near you.

From Father to Daughter

Obviously based on the content below, I would never give this speech.  But I thought it would be fun to write.

I have recently scheduled my vasectomy.  My wife and I made this decision, with me taking the lead, after the birth of our second daughter.  I have made the decision that I will remove myself from the gene pool after procreating two wonderful, beautiful daughters. The coin was flipped twice, and it was tails both times.  I'm happy with this.

I scheduled the surgery consciously and gladly, but I would be lying if I said that I didn't have fantasies of the Father-Son talks that I won't give.  The one talk that I will miss is the 'Father to Son Talk About Girls'.  In my head, I had given the talk a hundred times, simply because in reality I had given it four times before.  Results were positive.

I had 'The Talk' through a different source than most.  My biological father has not been a part of my life, and while I acknowledge the role my stepfather played, he was not exactly a role model.  I was too intimidated by my uncle for the chance to have that experience with him. 

No, 'The Talk' waited until I was in the Army National Guard with a man who later became my college roommate.  He and I aren't very close now because I was pretty much a jerk, but at least my memories are fond of him.  While he was only a couple of years older than me,  he was told he looked like Russel Crowe, except that he was better looking, and for reasons that other men always wondered, including me, the women always fawned over him.

I'm not talking about your average ladies man here, I'm talking elite.  We would come back from the bars, me alone, him with four women following him, all of them wanting him, and sometimes he would be bored and send them all home.  All of them were 9+ on hotornot.  You would think this would be great, but when you're in your room alone after seeing all these girls, you think differently.

So we were driving back from drill one Sunday afternoon, I think this was before we were roommates, and we talked about how I can't get girls.  Growing up I was always a bit of a dork, but nature was kind and gave me a decent body (before I quit smoking), a relatively handsome face, and a good sense of humor.  However, I was still a pariah to the opposite sex.  Or so I thought until I had 'the Talk.'  Allow me to quote.

"Dennis, I have to admit it puzzles me a bit too because you are one of my better wingmen.  Not the best, that's Joel, but you're pretty good.  You're good looking, really smart, and one of the funniest guys I know.  Even if you can't dance for shit, you should be pulling girls home at least half the time that I do.  I think we need to have a talk about How to Pick Up Women and Get Laid."

The God just told me I had The Stuff, I just needed to refine it.  Believe me, I was listening.

"Okay, first off, you need to understand that they want the same thing that you do.  They want to be liked, they want to be liked more than their girlfriends, and they want to feel special.  They also don't want a guy that's not a challenge.  That's easy to say, but hard to do.  Here's the Formula."

"You're at the bar, you and I start talking to girls.  Remember when that one cute blonde was leaning in towards you and touched your arm?  That's when you know She Likes You.  She didn't touch you by accident.  You didn't know it, but you were in already.  If you had done what I'm telling you next, you might have had a good night."

"When you see she likes you, leave.  Go somewhere without telling her where you are going, just go.  Walk around, talk with friends, hang out, whatever, but don't be where she is until you run into her again because she was looking for you.  When that happens, they always say angrily, 'You ditched me!' and act like they hate you.  Then you reply calmly with a smile, 'No I didn't, I had to go to the bathroom and ran into a friend.  I've been looking for you ever since.'  At that point, she should be on your arm at the bar the whole night, just be nice and say 'Really?' to everything she says.  Well, a little more than that, but I've seen you talk, you're alright when they like you.  Keep talking, say her name a lot, and if you're holding hands or kissing, all the better."

"Step 2:  The bar is closing.  She says she's got to go, and asks what you're doing.  Find a nice way of saying you don't know, but it would be more fun if she were there.  Usually you can say it exactly like that.  Then she'll talk about how we could go to a friend's house or whatever, and she'll ask how you're getting home.  Obviously you gotta play it by ear, you either go to their friends, you ride with her, or take your car, but whatever you do, you can't say straight to the bedroom.  The trick is to let her know what you want most is to be with her."

"So you go to the after party, or not, and she'll give hints about being tired.  If she touches you again throughout the night, she's not quite as tired as you fear.  Especially if she's ready for the first kiss (assuming you are still talking and holding hands).  Some way or another, you'll have the chance to be alone in one of your places."

"Now, you are on the bed with her, and this is where most guys blow it long before clothes are off.  Two things are important.  The first is that she needs to feel comfortable and in control.  The second is that you have a knee."

"What the hell am I talking about?  Okay, you're kissing like crazy, kissing her neck, by the way, don't slobber, feeling over the shirt, under the shirt, over the bra, and all that is nice, but remember, when she puts her hand on yours and gently pulls away, you respect that.  You stop.  She'll mention she wants to take it slow and you say only one thing.  'That's okay.'  No speeches, just 'That's okay.'  Then you hold her and let her start kissing you again and you'll put your knee and thigh between her legs and move it gently up and down against her crotch as you kiss and fondle.  This is important, it stimulates her without crossing any boundaries and she'll get excited, kiss you stronger and shirts will come off and while you are kissing her breasts while gyrating your knee she'll stop you.  You respect her wishes, say 'That's okay' and hold her.  More kissing, more knee, and before you know it you are both in your underpants and she'll stop you one more time.  She'll say that she doesn't normally do this, and she probably doesn't by the way, not every guy knows this, and all you need to say is that we're here together and I want to be happy with you."

"No speeches, no drama, then she'll kiss you and you'll need to take off her panties and your underwear and you use the condom that you should have hidden under the mattress already.  It's easy.  Except when they do put on the brakes, and it happens.  Although sometimes it winds up being a good night in some way or another, if you know what I mean.  Then you kiss some more, wake up together, and wait until the next date.  Any time they say stop, you stop.  No complaints.  If you complain, you'll be like you are now, alone."

Without going into the details of a much improved college life, my college life was much improved.  I still had my flubs, but while I was in shape, good looking, and armed with the knowledge of The Elite, I learned how to not seduce women, but make them like being with me.

And that is The Talk that I won't have with my son.  I'm fine with that.  But at some point in my life, I know that my daughters will want to know something about the opposite sex, and at some point I will have to have the Father-Daughter Talk.  I have thought long and hard about what I should say to them when that time comes.  And in a moment of inspiration, I had the idea of what I should tell them.

I will tell my daughters exactly the same thing I would have told my son.

There's a New Kid in Town

Well now, the sands through the hourglass have moved a bit since the last time I stroked the keys in this little corner of the web.

Quite a bit has happened since the last post...I think the last time I wrote I had a girlfriend. Now she has become The Wife, and now we have The Baby to contend with.

I almost get sick of all the TV shows and movies that talk about 'the miracle of childbirth'. I was always thinking "Jesus, it happens 40,000 times a day, and almost 6 billion times within the last hundred years. What could possibly be new about this?" Even my brother has done it, twice.

It's easy to be dismissive from the Armchair, but when you're in the game yourself, it's a whole different matter.

First off, there's the realization that it's not a car or a DVD. If you lose the baby, break the baby, or hurt the baby, you don't file an insurance claim and get a new one. You go to jail.

Second, in order to keep from losing the baby, breaking the baby, or hurting the baby, you gotta do a lot of things according to it's schedule, which appears to be about a 2 or 3 hour repeating cycle. And man, does she remind you of her schedule with all four lungs a blazin.

Third, and truth be told, most important, you really love the baby. From the first second it starts screaming, you are hooked. Maybe because you realize that you had a hand in her creation, and that for the next twenty or thirty years (or as long as she listens to you), there is one person in the world that will always want to know what you think, always think about you first when a problem comes up, and hopefully always have a smile for you when she sees you. And you feel the same way about her.

Maybe I distilled it into fewer words than some third rate sitcom, but I'm guessing that this fatherhood thing is going to be a pretty cool ride.

Back in the (Writing) Saddle, again?

My god, has it been a long time since I've done this.

Every year I say to myself that I will start to keep a continuous journal of my life, and every year, I make a few posts and drop it.

I can think of a few reasons that I don't do it more regularly:
1. Work is ever time consuming
2. So is Mary, my girlfriend.
3. Even if there wasn't work or Mary, there would be something that kept me from doing it.

I think if I apply real introspection, then the truth is that if I record it, it may someday be used against me in the court of law.

I've always had this difficulty, I don't like to be recorded. I don't like pictures (unless they are good ones), and I don't like knowing that my thoughts are available for someone else's perusal.

But then there is the performer side of me that wants it badly, that wants to be famous and recognized and liked and doted upon.

It's a tough personal conflict.

Here's how I think I'll do it. I'll keep posting this as a Saved Draft, and then someday, someday when I'm happy with the writing, I will post it publically.

But not today. Or maybe I will, you never know.

I'm sitting in the Red Carpet Club at Washington Dulles Airport. As I've discussed with other travelers, when you travel for work, the first six months are okay, you get to see sights, learn the craft of navigating through the airports and rental car agencies, and eventually you feel comfortable anywhere in the world because are certain that your five words in their language and your patience in English will get you to the hotel.

But then, at some point, it stops being fun.

You get tired of the airline delays, you get even more tired of the people who seem to think that the person behind the desk can do anything about it by screaming at them.

You get tired of hotel soap, hotel shampoo, hotel exercise facilities, hotel towels, and hotel beds (which are never the same, anywhere).

You get tired of stopping what you are doing right then because you must realized you need to get to your next flight.

Like now.

Farewell reader, have a good day,

God I hate laundromats

Daily Rant

Son of a bitch, it happened again.

Here I am in Paris, City of Lights. Not far away from the Gare de Lyon train station. My hotel is the Hotel Lyon Bastille, which is one of the nicer places you can get in Paris for around 100 euros a night (technically, it's still a dump, but a well run dump with nice staff and free wireless internet).

I ask the attendant (her name is Sophie) if they have a laundry service. She says no, but there is a laundromat around the corner. I said thanks, and the next day (this morning), I went with my clothes to get it done and over with (I hate laundry).

The machine is a bit different, they have a central system where you pick your machine, you pay, and it starts automatically. The machines are front loaders, and you can't open them until it's done. I check the chart, the two loads of wash, washers 10 and 9, will be done in forty minutes. Great, I'll come back in thirty-five minutes and I'll watch them in the dryer.

I get in after thirty-five minutes, and there is a guy that asks me in French if washer number 9 is my washer. I say yes, and he tells me that he accidentally hit 9 instead of 7 and my clothes are being washed and he wants his money back. I tell him that's his problem, but I was more concerned about washer number 10.

It was empty.

Dammit! How could this have happened? I'm five minutes early (apparently their clocks use the same scale as a fisherman's ruler). The only saving grace is that they got a short load of t-shirts, socks, and one pair of Ralph Lauren boxer briefs. That I have no more t-shirts is a pain in the butt, but if the guy didn't accidentally put more money in my machine, I would be out about $500 worth of shirts and slacks.

The guy was nice enough, and I gave him half his money back. We talked a bit more, and I'm not sure where he was from, but it was a good chance to speak some French. I told him I lived in California, and that I am here on business. He asked me if California has a lot of police. Then he talked more about police. He really liked talking about the police, like he looks out for them all the time. Frankly, I suspect that if I arrived about five minutes earlier, he would have been talking to them again, because I would have been calling for them.

But, I started this post complaining about it happening again. This is not a phenomenon local to Paris, it happened to me once in San Diego in a hotel laundry, somebody took my Red Sands beach shorts out of the dryer. My first thought then, as it was today, was if they try them on before they took them. After all, you don't want to look foolish in stolen clothes that are too short.

Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman