Thursday, July 17, 2014

My Mister Magoo Moment

 My wife and I have been playing music trivia with a group of friends once a week for the past eight years.  We’re known as the Fried Mushrooms—‘FM’ for short’—and we’ve gotten to be quite competitive over the years.  For most of the members of our team, ‘competitive’ means we pretty much know our stuff.

But I’m not ‘most members.’ To me ’competitive’ means exactly what it implies: An aversion to losing.  Losing sucks, otherwise it wouldn’t be called losing.  Just win, baby.    

Now hold onto that thought because I’m about to tell you why tonight sucked.  And it wasn’t because we didn’t know our stuff.  Not even close.

Let me first explain the format for the music trivia competition: The official Rules of Engagement:

·      There are four rounds consisting of four songs each. 
·      Each round has a ‘theme.’ 
·      Three points each are awarded for correctly identifying the song title, the artist and the year of release (plus or minus one year) and if all three are correctly answered there is a bonus of one point.
·      There is also a halftime trivia question (worth 10 points and based on ‘Today in Music History’) and a final ‘Jeopardy-style’ question where you can wager at least one and up to all of your points. 
·      Prizes are awarded for first, second (or ‘first loser,’ as I call it) and third (or ‘third’ as the rest of my team calls it). 
Tonight’s competition was a little different: Five bonus points would be awarded if the year was identified exactly.  Do you know what happens when the reward is magnified?  It has the same effect on my competitive nature. 

The first round was my worst nightmare: Classic Country.  If I were to play music trivia by myself, my team name would be ‘No Country for Old Man’ because in all honesty, I hate that sh*t.  Let me rephrase it another way: I hate that sh*t. (Sorry, I tried.)  However, tonight’s country music round was different than normal: I actually knew some of the songs.  A Boy Named Sue (Johnny Cash, 1969), The Most Beautiful Girl in the World (Charlie Rich, 1973) and Mountain Music (Alabama, 1982); yep, nailed them all.  Even the fourth song I was able to correctly name the title (I guess listening to the song paid off): Silver Wings. Here’s the strangest part: If I were playing as ‘No Country for Old Man’ against the country experts on the Fried Mushrooms I would have been ahead of them after the first round.  Yes sir; I was el fuego.

The second round was right up my alley: Obscure Hits of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s.  Season of the Witch (the Donovan version, not the Vanilla Fudge remake), Mississippi Queen, Moondance and Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo.  With the exception of Moondance (The year of release was 1970; I said 1977 because that’s what displays on the ‘70’s channel every time it plays.  Thanks for nothing, XM radio.) we had a perfect round and took a commanding lead into halftime, especially after answering the halftime question correctly (something about a roadie for Def Leppard losing his life prior to a 1988 concert).

Halftime is a 10-minute break in the action after the second round that I normally use to eat my dinner that has been sitting in front of me for anywhere from five minutes to 30 minutes, depending on what I order, how busy the restaurant is and whether or not a country music round was played in the second round because if that’s the case I can spend the second round eating since I never have anything to contribute because I don’t know sh*t about country music.  Except tonight, because I was el fuego.

Speaking of being on fire, tonight was the first time I ordered the hottest chicken wing in the restaurant: Venom.  I asked the waitress if that meant they were ‘flavor hot’ or ‘hot-for-the-sake-of-being-hot hot.’  She said the former; it was the latter.  How did I feel after eating a single chicken wing?  Imagine coating your lips with a layer of lighter fluid—how are you doing so far?—and then pressing your lips against a lit match.  Like I said: El fuego.

The third round was sort of up my alley: One Hit Wonders of VH1.  Tarzan Boy (Baltimora, 1986—I missed this the first two times I ever heard it and I SWORE I would never miss it again.  So far so good.), 99 Luftballoons (Nena, 1984), Funky Town (Lipps Inc., 1980) and Hooked on a Feeling (Blue Swede, 1974—at first I wasn’t sure if I was making up the name of the group or if it was buried in the deep recesses of my mind.  Fortunately it was the latter.).  

With a huge lead going into the fourth round it was virtually impossible for us to reach the final Jeopardy-style question without being in first place.  That was a good thing for us because the fourth round was ‘90’s R & B.’ Remember how bad I said I was at country music?  Our entire team is that bad at ‘90’s R & B.  And boy did it show tonight.  We only named one song correctly (only because the singer said ‘This is how we do it’ over and over and over again) and two years of release correctly (we guessed on both of them). As for the artists, I’m pretty sure we were making some of them up and no--Blue Swede was not one of them.

The final question calls for a wager with only one stipulation: You have to bet at least one point.  In spite of our horrendous fourth round we were still in first place.  Comfortably.  The category—released on Facebook earlier in the day--for the final question was ‘Current Weird Al.’  An internet search revealed Weird Al Yankovic had just released a new album and a new song was being released on video for eight consecutive days.  Today happened to be the third day.

I meticulously looked over the point totals for each team.  As we often do when we have the lead at the end of the fourth round, we wagered just enough points to beat the second-place team by one point should we both answer the question correctly and the second-place team bet all of its points.  I double- and triple-checked my math and when I was comfortable with my calculation I turned in our wager. 

The final question asked for the names of the first three songs Weird Al had released.  We answered correctly, as did the second-place team.  As the host of the event always does, he read off the name of the third-place team first.  Next he read the name of the second-place (first loser) team: Fried Mushrooms.  Finally, in first place was the team I wagered enough points to beat by one point should we both answer the question correctly, which we did. 

Second place?  Not according to my math.  On two occasions over the years I’ve challenged our announced point totals when I thought the DJ made a mistake.  I was right on both occasions and I was all about to go el fuego on his a** when I realized the mistake was not his, but mine. 

You see, our total points after four rounds was 142.  Without my reading glasses on my ‘2’ looked an awful lot like an ‘8’ and I had based our final wager on our team having 148 points; not 142. 

Hey everybody, look!   Mister Magoo is playing music trivia tonight!

Tonight it would have helped if I had applied the ‘four eyes’ principle to my wager and had someone else on the team double check my math.

Next week I assure you I won’t make the same mistake, because next week the ‘four eyes’ will be all mine: I’ll be wearing my reading glasses. 


That way I’ll know the score… as well as be able to read the menu so I’m not at the mercy of the waitress to offer culinary suggestions that make my mouth el fuego. 

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Outfox a Fox


Running early in the morning has its advantages.  It offers solitude, peace of mind and the opportunity to engage in nature that otherwise would be difficult once the sun comes up and the world springs to life.  But early in the morning—roughly a couple of hours before the roosters crow in a brand new day—there isn’t much of a chance to run into any other human beings.  However, having lived in the same house for the past two dozen years and running the same three or four routes every morning during that time, I’ve gotten to know some of the local denizens on a first name basis.  Granted they don’t know my name—mainly because they’re either deer, possums, raccoons, rabbits, squirrels or armadillos—but I certainly know theirs.  I also know where they live, when there are new additions to their families (or sadly, on occasion, losses) and how adept they are at crossing the road when the occasional vehicle poses a threat.  

Another advantage for me personally is that I have little traffic to contend with at that time of day (night?).  Sure there have been exceptions over the years such as:

·      An afternoon run in the early 1980’s in Rex, Georgia when a country boy drove past me in one of those trucks with tires that belong on a tractor decided my head was the perfect target for his beer bottle throwing practice (he missed, thankfully).

·      The occasional joker who drives towards me at 55 miles an hour and considers ‘let’s see how fast the runner jumps up on the curb when I veer towards him’ a great way to start the day.

·      On the mornings—always Saturdays or Sundays—I run at 2 a.m. because the rest of my day will be spent volunteering at a race and encounter the occasional ‘drive by’ who is actually at the tail end of their Friday or Saturday night and gets a lot of joy out of harassing someone out for some exercise before their alcohol-induced buzz wears off. 
But these are truly the exceptions; for the most part I feel very safe during my morning runs.  I always take a flashlight with me, wear reflective shoes and clothing and steer clear of headphones.  Finally, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years it’s how to steer clear of oncoming vehicles.  I doubt I’d be writing this if I weren’t.

But this morning was different.  I didn’t feel safe.  Not by a long shot. 

Before I get to the details, a little background is in order.

I came face-to-face with a crazed squirrel almost half a century ago in Davisville, Rhode Island.  The squirrel and I were walking towards one another on a dirt trail through the woods behind our house.  Our eyes met.  We both froze.  Suddenly the squirrel ran towards me.  I remained frozen.  The squirrel clawed his way up my leg, my torso and ultimately my face.  I ran home in horror.  My mom took me to the emergency room within a couple of seconds where my one thousand tiny lacerations were tended to (I admit I may have exaggerated slightly; it may have been a couple of minutes—not seconds--before I got to the emergency room.  What do I know; I was in shock.)

So ever since that day I have a distrust of squirrels.  Not necessarily a fear of squirrels, mind you; I just don’t trust the little bastards.

Continuing with more background:

At the beginning of three of the last four spring seasons a family of foxes has taken residence under the utility shed in our back yard.  The first year we noticed them I called animal control to ask for guidance.  I was told there was nothing they could do in the way of capturing them and releasing them into the wild, but they did tell me I could hire someone to remove them from my property (in other words, I could call ‘The Terminator’).  I wasn’t about to cause any harm to the little guys because, quite frankly it was one of the highlights of our evenings when the cubs (baby foxes) came out from under the shed around dusk and frolicked in the back yard like a bunch of newborn puppies.  Many a night Cindy and I would sit on the back porch sipping wine, watching the cubs chase one another from one end of the stacked stone wall in the back yard to the other.  This year we counted a record-highnumber of cubs:  seven. 

They’re gone from the back yard now (they usually only stick around for a couple of weeks), but there are other foxes along my regular running routes that I know on the aforementioned first name basis.  One of them (Oscar, named after the character on Sesame Street who lives in a trashcan because this particular fox always runs behind a trashcan when he sees me.  Yes, it’s a male fox; don’t ask me how I know—I just do) crosses my path about once every 10 days about a mile from my house in the vicinity of a streetlight.  This morning I saw Oscar, who in turn saw me and headed towards his trash can…only to turn around and start walking towards me as I got within 50 yards of him.  I stopped, he continued. 

Time out: There have been reports of rabid foxes in the area lately.  I thought you should know; that way you won’t think of me as a chicken sh*t as you read on.

I thought to myself that no one deserves to be bit by a rabid fox at 5 a.m. on a Thursday morning so I started running as fast as my legs would take me.  Oscar fell in behind, matching me stride-for-stride.

Time out: Peachtree City is notorious for its lack of artificial lighting.  Sure, there are streetlights—one of them happens to be Oscar’s favorite hangout—but they’re spread pretty far apart along the roads.

I turned back and shined my flashlight in the middle of the street to see how close Oscar was.  I saw two specks of light very close to one another: They could be Oscar’s eyes and then again they could be the reflectors in the center of the street illuminated by my flashlight.  Not having the time to determine exactly what they were, I had to assume the two lights were indeed Oscar and ran as fast as I possibly could to the next streetlight, where I would once again have the opportunity to gauge how close Oscar was and whether or not I might be spending the morning in the emergency room. 

Time out: A fartlek is a workout comprised of running at various speeds for varying distances.  For example a workout might consist of a slow, easy jog with the occasional all-out sprint thrown in from, say ‘the fire hydrant on the right to three mailboxes down on the left.’

I stopped beneath the safe zone of the light beneath the streetlight and looked back in horror to see Oscar emerging from the pitch black of the shaded road into the illuminated clearing where I had stopped to assess the situation.  I did just that (assessed the situation) and I can tell you one thing: It wasn’t pretty: There simply wasn’t any ‘quit’ in Oscar. 

The fartleks continued for two more streetlights—Oscar still in what I would call ‘casual pursuit’—until a car sped towards me, providing me the opportunity to escape whatever horror Oscar hoped to reign down on me.  Immediately after the car passed me and was positioned between Oscar and I, I ducked into the woods and ran a circuitous route back to my house with the hope that Oscar would continue down the road.  I won’t say that the plan worked exactly as planned, but I will say that when I got to my front porch and surveyed the front yard and the street running in front of my house there wasn’t a trace of Oscar.

Final time out: Escaping the jaws of Oscar the Fox was quite a relief.  I felt like the Roadrunner in the cartoons who always managed to elude the evil clutches of Wile E. Coyote. 

Final time out (this time I mean it): A roadrunner’s top speed is about 20 miles per hour, while coyotes can reach speeds up to 43 miles per hour.  My bowling team in college (The Acme Bowling Team, named after the company from which Wile E. Coyote always ordered the contraptions he used to try and catch the roadrunner) sported a patch on our shirtsleeves with Wile E. Coyote grabbing the Roadrunner by the throat.  

So to you, Oscar the Fox I leave you with the embroidered caption on that patch:


Beep Beep My A**!

Friday, July 4, 2014

My Mean Joe Greene Moment


I moved to the Atlanta area in 1979.  In all of those years the latest I ever slept in on the 4th of July was that very first year: I slept until 5:00 a.m. so I could make it to the north side of Atlanta from my home in Rex for the start of the Peachtree Road Race, a 10-kilometer run through the heart of Atlanta.  Back then the race had a field of less than 10,000 runners and it wasn’t hard to find a parking place in Lenox Square, a mere 60-second walk to the starting line on Peachtree Street. 

This morning the routine was a little different.  I woke up to a 3:45 alarm so I could drink a couple cups of coffee to get the cobwebs out and loosen up (both inside and out) before getting in the car at 5:00 and heading north on I-85.  As has been my custom for the past several years, I took the exit that would take me to Piedmont Park—the coveted finish line where I would park the car and run to the starting line (to loosen up even more, both inside and out).  This year the congestion—even at 5:45 in the morning--was a little too much for my liking.  There were a lot more detours than normal on the way to the parking lot, compounded by a policeman at every intersection to complicate matters even more.  On one side-street there was a policeman in a bright yellow vest spinning out of control, gesticulating wildly with his arms and shining his flashlight every which way that distracted me so much I drove straight through a stop sign.  It was darn nice of him to point out my little indiscretion:

Officer Cuisinart: ‘Did you see that stop sign you just went through?’

Me (out loud): ‘I was so focused on watching you giving me hand signals that I totally missed it.  I’m sorry.’  (My thought balloon AKA the unfiltered version: ‘Apparently not, Einstein.’)

Officer Cuisinart: ‘Get out of my sight.’           

By 6 a.m. I have the car safely parked about a half-mile from the finish line and begin my five-mile warm up run to the start.   As I run I think about the days of Peachtree’s past:

·      The first one 35 years ago (only my 4th 10K ever and my first one in the state of Georgia) that I ran in 42:03 (OK, I didn’t really remember the time; I had to look it up.  As I said, it was 35 years ago.).  Back then the finish was in the heart of Piedmont Park, and the common misperception for runners back then was that once they were inside the park it was time to sprint to the finish—even though there was still more than a mile remaining (a bit too long for a sprint and yes, I made that mistake more than once.)

·      Consistent 37- and 38-minute finishes when I was in my 30’s, and holding steady in the 38-minute window into my 40’s and earning a spot on the Atlanta Track Club Men’s Masters (for runners 40 years and older) Competitive Team for a decade.  I’ll never forget the days of being in the seeded corral at the start and rubbing elbows with the human rockets from Kenya and all of the other countries where the children wear T-shirts with ‘Oh, so you run a mile in under five minutes: How cute!’ printed on them.  While I had no legitimate business being in the seeded corral (it was easier for a masters runner to qualify for the seeded corral than it was for runners 39 and younger; after all age has some privileges) I really enjoyed having volunteers bringing me water and wet towels as I stood on Peachtree Street waiting for the race to start.

·      1996, that magical year when it was 63 degrees at the start of the race (it’s not unusual for it to be in the mid-70’s with 105%--no, not a misprint—humidity for the 7:30 a.m. start) and I ran my Peachtree best: 36:56.

·      2004, the year the wheels fell off.  I ran Peachtree a mere seven days after putting my legs through 18 hours of severe torture, punishment and anguish running, walking and crawling the first 62 miles of the Western States Endurance Run and convincing the medical staff it wasn’t a good idea to amputate my legs like they wanted to do.  I ran Peachtree in a (then) personal worst 45:44 and realized on that day my wheels were indeed starting to fall off.  Hmmm…maybe that medical staff had the right idea after all.  

·      2005, the year Peachtree turned into a ‘beer run.’  My goal was to drink as many free beers as I could beg, borrow and/or steal along Peachtree Street.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, I would consume a ‘personal best’ of five beers before I reached the finish line.  (In the 1990’s I rode a bus to Peachtree with the local running club and after the race everyone hung out in Piedmont Park until all of the members had finished.  Back then I was drinking five beers just to rehydrate.)

·      2007, the year Susan Lance and I started at the very back of the race just to see what it was like.  How was it?  Let’s just say it won’t happen again.  However, I will tell you we didn’t cross the starting line until 9 a.m. (the official race begins at 7:30) and that our official (run) time was just a couple of seconds more than an hour… and that with all the darting and weaving Susan and I had to do to maneuver around slower runners we probably ran a little over eight miles.

Back to today’s race:

Whatever changes for the worse there were at the finish area (surely you haven’t forgotten Officer Cuisinart), there were noticeable changes for the better at the starting area.  There were no lines at the porta-johns (unheard of, even back in the days when Peachtree featured ‘the world’s longest urinal’—a metal contraption about 50 yards long that allowed 100 or more runners the option of ‘no waiting’ if all they needed to do was #1).  The walk to the starting corral was a breeze (compared to the past couple of years when that same walk was akin to being in the crowd outside of Wal-Mart when its doors open on Black Friday).   Even the volunteers seemed more pleasant and accommodating than usual, although its entirely possible the volunteers have always been that way but I noticed it this year because on the way to the start I saw a lot of runners I’ve known for a very long time and for the most part they looked a lot older than they used to; gee, I wonder what happened to them?!

As I waited for the race to start the announcer mentioned that Meb Keflezighi, this year’s Boston Marathon winner was at ‘the back of the pack’ with the intention of passing something like half of the runners in the field for a fundraiser.  I couldn’t help but think Susan Lance and I did the exact same thing seven years ago, except that no one donated any money to charity for us to do it.  We just did it because. 

Once the starter said ‘go’ almost two minutes passed before I actually crossed the starting line.  I started out at a conservative pace, a pace that allowed me to notice free beer on my left from a Mexican restaurant about one mile into the race and two miles later free beer from a local tavern on my right.  As I wanted to get a ‘Time Group A’ seeding next year (requiring a finish of less than 48 minutes) I couldn’t afford the time to belly up to the bar as I had done during my ‘beer run’ days. 

As I made my way up Heartbreak Hill (about three miles into the run) I noticed the medical offices of the neurosurgeon who recommended I take up yoga as a way of ‘curing the ills of Western States’ in my right leg.  When I saw him 10 months ago he asked me to touch my toes.  Laughing, I barely touched the middle of my shins.  Today I can touch the back of my middle knuckle to the floor.  In about three more miles I’ll have a gauge to see if the yoga is helping my running.  (Last year’s Peachtree time?  50:24.)

Heading up the second hill—and in my opinion the more difficult of the two, this one leading up to Colony Square I noticed two healthy looking men in their 20’s stopping to walk and catch their breath.  I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself for keeping the same pace I had been running for four-and-a-half miles…when a young boy who couldn’t have been more than 12 years old pulled up alongside me and asked me how far we still had to run.  ‘About a mile-and-a-half,’ I told him.  Well, actually all he heard was ‘about-a-mile’ because he never hear the ‘and-a-half’ part because he was 50 yards in front of me before I could get the words out of my mouth.

As I made the final left hand turn to the final downhill leading to the finish line I felt good about my chances of finishing in less than 48 minutes.  If I don’t trip over any speed bumps, street reflectors or discarded beer cans I should make it with a few seconds to spare. 

Thirty-eight.  That’s the number of seconds I had to spare.  I crossed the finish line with 47:22 (actually 47:21:89) showing on my chronograph.  It’s official: I’ll be in Time Group ‘A’ when I line up for my 37th Peachtree Road Race, my first at the age of 60.  (Note: The standards for sub-seeded times haven’t changed.  In other words, for me to rub elbows with the Kenyans ever again I have to meet the same standards set forth for a 40-year old.  Age has lost some of its privilege at Peachtree, but then again I do get a 5% discount on my groceries on Wednesdays.  Also, the yoga appears to be working.)

Now for the moment I’ve been waiting for: My ‘Mean Joe Greene’ moment.  For those of you who don’t remember (or never knew to begin with) there was a famous commercial for a certain carbonated beverage (that happens to be made in Atlanta) starring Mean Joe Greene, a player on the talented Pittsburgh Steeler teams of the 1970’s.  After a game a young boy—about the same age as the boy who dusted me on the Colony Square hill—handed an obviously exhausted Greene his bottle of soda on his way to the locker room.  Greene gulped it down and started to walk away, only to turn around and say ‘hey, kid; catch’ while tossing the young boy his jersey.  The young boy—obviously—is overjoyed (‘Hey, thanks Mean Joe!’).

So after the race I picked up my Peachtree T-shirt (coveted in certain circles) and scoured the crowd lining the wire fence around Piedmont Park for just the right boy for my Mean Joe Greene scenario to play out.  I walked a couple hundred yards and found my intended target: A boy of about 10 or 11 standing between his mom and dad with his eyes as wide as the coaster my beer is resting on at the moment.  Perfect: His mom and dad aren’t running so he won’t be getting a Peachtree T-Shirt from them, he appeared to be excited about seeing all the runners who have just run in the Peachtree Road Race and in all honesty looked a lot like what I imagine my grandson will look like in another five or six years.  I smiled at the boy, tossed him my shirt and said ‘hey, kid; catch’ albeit not in the same deep, raspy voice of Mean Joe Greene.  I walked a few steps, smiling at myself at the possibility of making someone’s day when I heard someone running up behind me and grabbing my left arm.


‘Hey mister, this isn’t my size.  Have you got one in a small?’