Wednesday at noon I ran five miles on the Mall with my work running group. We talked presidents as we trotted past the statues of Grant and Garfield below the Capitol, by the FDR and Jefferson Memorials over on the Tidal Basin, past the Washington Monument and up to the Lincoln Memorial, with the Kennedy Center visible off to our right.
Between the four of us, we all agreed on the Worst President ever. That's spelled with a capital W. Did anyone ever vote for this guy? Twice?
Being federal workers, we all have a personal stake in this administration's performance, in that the centerpiece of our retirement plan is our TSP (Thrift Savings Plan) account, along with social security. I know many federal workers who have lost over $100,000 out of their TSP plans since the end of the summer. Some accounts have diminished by 40% or more in a few short months, after years of assiduous buildup. Hello Social Security!
It is unbelievable to me that the current guy thought he had "political capital" immediately after stealing the 2004 election in Ohio and he was going to spend it by privatizing social security. Events overtook him and he never got this cherished Republican agenda done. Imagine if he had! The financial carnage these looters foisted upon us through their lax enforcement and reckless deregulation could have impoverished all of us for the rest of our lives.
What amazes me is that as we impatiently wait for the Decider and his crowd to leave, mainstream pundits speak blithely about their vast shortfalls as if they are absolute givens. Joe Klein of Time writes of this administration's "stupefying ineptitude." Bob Herbert of the New York Times writes that we "lionized dimwits." I don't know why these columnists thought it was necessary to sugarcoat the situation.
What was interesting to me, being a history major, was how quickly the running group dispensed with their unanimous judgment on the Worst ever and started squabbling about the next Worst. There was no consensus here. One had it for Buchanan, for leading us up to the Civil War through his astonishing inaction. One had it for LBJ for giving us Vietnam in his astonishing arrogance. Another had it for Hoover for giving us the Great Depression. The last one argued for Nixon for leaving us with a legacy of duplicitous crookedness and meanness in modern politics.
It's apparently a toss up between Buchanan, Hoover, Johnson and Nixon for the second-worst president ever. W has clearly separated himself from this pack.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The way it was in 1978
My most memorable Thanksgiving? It was a long time and a lifetime ago.
Back then, Sharon wasn't yet an even "better" version of her Mother. Newly married, we were both working in the Boulder County Jail as Corrections Specialists (not deputies, which is what we were, or jailers or screws, which is what the "residents" called us), shortly after graduating from college. Boulder's jail was the first one certified by the National Institute of Corrections (NIC) and its staff was young, enthusiastic and awash in liberalism.
We didn't want to hurt the feelings of these low-level criminals (we housed a few murderers, child molesters and rapists too). At the time I ran the medium security unit and Sharon was the intake processor. The townsfolk called the jail the Boulder County Hilton. Even the cops would alert their dispatchers that they were enroute with their prisoners to the "Hilton."
It was a high stress job. Some of these people were very dangerous. Most were needy for sure. We got it into our do-gooding heads that we could help out both the skeleton staff that day and the residents by cooking the Thanksgiving mid-day repast. So we signed up for that all-day duty.
What did I know about cooking turkeys? Not much but I called my Mom and mined her wisdom about oven temperatures and cooking times, weighing and rubbing the birds, and what to do with the giblets. (We made the gravy from scratch.) At 4 a.m. Sharon and I stumbled into the jail's kitchen and fired up the ovens. We got all the turkeys situated in their roasting pans amongst yards of aluminium foil and quartered onions, carrots and potatoes, and got the roux going for the gravy mix. We washed cranberries and made stuffing. We basted and basted, and even made breakfast for the residents along the way.
Around one o'clock, I started carving and Sharon and a few trusteys started serving. It was a glorious though riotous hour and a half. Three units (high, medium and minimum security) had to be trooped through the dining hall in waves for their holiday meal. We had to prepare and wrap several meals for the forlorn souls in intake. The trusteys had to eat too, and the diminished staff partook in the food on that day as well, if I remember correctly. The satisfied looks afterwards on the faces of many or most of these angry inmates (holidays in jail are very depressing) said it all to Sharon and I. What a team we were back then!
Then it was clean, clean and clean. Finally leaving behind fifty or sixty wrapped turkey sandwiches (or p&j sandwiches for the vegetarians) to be served for for dinner, we stumbled out at 5 p.m. exhausted but fulfilled after a thirteen-hour stint, the day dark again just as it had been when we entered the jail early that morning.
(You don't want to hear about my worst Thanksgiving--the first year of my divorce when Sharon Rogers took our kids out of town for almost a week without a word and left me to contemplate their empty house from the curb each day and wonder when, or if, they'd return.)
That's they way it was thirty years ago!
Back then, Sharon wasn't yet an even "better" version of her Mother. Newly married, we were both working in the Boulder County Jail as Corrections Specialists (not deputies, which is what we were, or jailers or screws, which is what the "residents" called us), shortly after graduating from college. Boulder's jail was the first one certified by the National Institute of Corrections (NIC) and its staff was young, enthusiastic and awash in liberalism.
We didn't want to hurt the feelings of these low-level criminals (we housed a few murderers, child molesters and rapists too). At the time I ran the medium security unit and Sharon was the intake processor. The townsfolk called the jail the Boulder County Hilton. Even the cops would alert their dispatchers that they were enroute with their prisoners to the "Hilton."
It was a high stress job. Some of these people were very dangerous. Most were needy for sure. We got it into our do-gooding heads that we could help out both the skeleton staff that day and the residents by cooking the Thanksgiving mid-day repast. So we signed up for that all-day duty.
What did I know about cooking turkeys? Not much but I called my Mom and mined her wisdom about oven temperatures and cooking times, weighing and rubbing the birds, and what to do with the giblets. (We made the gravy from scratch.) At 4 a.m. Sharon and I stumbled into the jail's kitchen and fired up the ovens. We got all the turkeys situated in their roasting pans amongst yards of aluminium foil and quartered onions, carrots and potatoes, and got the roux going for the gravy mix. We washed cranberries and made stuffing. We basted and basted, and even made breakfast for the residents along the way.
Around one o'clock, I started carving and Sharon and a few trusteys started serving. It was a glorious though riotous hour and a half. Three units (high, medium and minimum security) had to be trooped through the dining hall in waves for their holiday meal. We had to prepare and wrap several meals for the forlorn souls in intake. The trusteys had to eat too, and the diminished staff partook in the food on that day as well, if I remember correctly. The satisfied looks afterwards on the faces of many or most of these angry inmates (holidays in jail are very depressing) said it all to Sharon and I. What a team we were back then!
Then it was clean, clean and clean. Finally leaving behind fifty or sixty wrapped turkey sandwiches (or p&j sandwiches for the vegetarians) to be served for for dinner, we stumbled out at 5 p.m. exhausted but fulfilled after a thirteen-hour stint, the day dark again just as it had been when we entered the jail early that morning.
(You don't want to hear about my worst Thanksgiving--the first year of my divorce when Sharon Rogers took our kids out of town for almost a week without a word and left me to contemplate their empty house from the curb each day and wonder when, or if, they'd return.)
That's they way it was thirty years ago!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Bridges, Beer & Burrito Run
Tuesday evening I went for a beautiful run in the dark of 4.5 miles along the Potomac across the Washington waterfront after sundown. Forty-eight minutes of serene running by the ebony waters of the river after a busy day at work.
The run is a recurring weekly event created by Rachel and other coaches of the Reebok SunTrust National Half Marathon Program that I direct. Reebok sponsors the twenty-week Program and my running club powers it, meaning that we supply the coaches and fashion the workouts as we get ready for the late-March race in the District.
We met at the Iwo Jima Statue in Arlington shortly after nightfall. The weather was temperate enough, albeit in the low forties and breezy. Rachel couldn't come so Lauren, Sasha, Ben (a marathon coach) and myself stepped up to escort the incipient runners on the midweek nighttime jaunt. Eleven of us set off at 7:15 pm at about a ten-minute pace.
Winding our way past the gigantic statue of several Marines straining to plant an American flag on hostile shores, a tribute to The Greatest Generation in one of their Greatest Tests, we ran silently by the rows of headstones at Arlington Cemetery, an attestation of The Price. Soon we attained Memorial Bridge, which we traversed as the dark river waters lapped quietly below us.
Running past the two giant equestrian statues on the eastern end of the bridge, our group wheeled north and ran upriver past the Kennedy Center. It was ablaze in light. Soon we reached Thompson's Boathouse and turned left to gain the Georgetown waterfront along the river's edge. Running through the new park Washington has completed underneath the Whitehurst Expressway, we were treated to a view of the Arlington skyline across the way to our left lit up in a blaze of lights. The Christmas lights in Georgetown off to our right were already up and blazing also. (Above left: Sacrifice.)
Using narrow stone stairs to surmount Key Bridge without having to cross the C&O Canal, we ran across the north side of that high structure to gain Virginia and Arlington once again. It was windy up there.
Another five minutes of running through the sheltered streets of Rosslyn led us back to our starting point, where half of the assembled runners retired to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a beer and a burrito to cap the run. A wonderful ninety minutes well spent with friends.
Happy Thanksgiving to all. (Above right: The desolate area below the elevated Whitehurst Expressway has recently been converted into parkland by the city.)
The run is a recurring weekly event created by Rachel and other coaches of the Reebok SunTrust National Half Marathon Program that I direct. Reebok sponsors the twenty-week Program and my running club powers it, meaning that we supply the coaches and fashion the workouts as we get ready for the late-March race in the District.
We met at the Iwo Jima Statue in Arlington shortly after nightfall. The weather was temperate enough, albeit in the low forties and breezy. Rachel couldn't come so Lauren, Sasha, Ben (a marathon coach) and myself stepped up to escort the incipient runners on the midweek nighttime jaunt. Eleven of us set off at 7:15 pm at about a ten-minute pace.
Winding our way past the gigantic statue of several Marines straining to plant an American flag on hostile shores, a tribute to The Greatest Generation in one of their Greatest Tests, we ran silently by the rows of headstones at Arlington Cemetery, an attestation of The Price. Soon we attained Memorial Bridge, which we traversed as the dark river waters lapped quietly below us.
Running past the two giant equestrian statues on the eastern end of the bridge, our group wheeled north and ran upriver past the Kennedy Center. It was ablaze in light. Soon we reached Thompson's Boathouse and turned left to gain the Georgetown waterfront along the river's edge. Running through the new park Washington has completed underneath the Whitehurst Expressway, we were treated to a view of the Arlington skyline across the way to our left lit up in a blaze of lights. The Christmas lights in Georgetown off to our right were already up and blazing also. (Above left: Sacrifice.)
Using narrow stone stairs to surmount Key Bridge without having to cross the C&O Canal, we ran across the north side of that high structure to gain Virginia and Arlington once again. It was windy up there.
Another five minutes of running through the sheltered streets of Rosslyn led us back to our starting point, where half of the assembled runners retired to a nearby Mexican restaurant for a beer and a burrito to cap the run. A wonderful ninety minutes well spent with friends.
Happy Thanksgiving to all. (Above right: The desolate area below the elevated Whitehurst Expressway has recently been converted into parkland by the city.)
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
This isn't like getting tagged in blogland
I saw it as soon as I started backing into my driveway. It sprang out at me in the rear view mirror. Thirty feet back, on the white cinder block wall of my garage, was an oblong black blob about two feet tall and eight inches wide. What the...?!!
Graffiti spray painted on and running down in messy drips. I couldn't read it but the cop I summoned to take the report (in case there's a pattern of such vandalism in my neighborhood) could. MS13. When he said it, I too could read the hurried, messy lettering.
My house marked by a violent Latino gang. Here in the 'burbs. At the head of my driveway. Some crazy punk stood at the exact spot deep in my yard where I always park my unlocked car for the night, six feet away from the rear door that I always use exclusively and often leave unlocked when I sleep at night or go for a run.
No more.
"It's a lousy job," said the cop. "Maybe it's just a local kid wannabee. Usually it's much more artistic. But I'd get it off right away."
I thought darker thoughts about the Section-Eight house next door, between me and the strip mall bordering my neighborhood. The house at which there was a shooting a couple of years ago. The house at which there is a constantly shifting influx of people.
There had been a large gathering with many cars there on Saturday morning when I drove away to join my running group, perhaps evidencing a large Friday night party. No cars were left by the time I got back after noon to find the monstrosity spray-painted on my garage.
"I haven't seen this on a neighborhood house in the city before," continued the cop. "Usually this is confined to Fairfax [further to the west]. Over there on the brick wall of that strip mall across the way is painted 'SSL,' which just showed up. That stands for 'South Side Locos.' If there were a war, they'd be allies."
"Little bastards," I kept muttering the next day as I scrubbed the offending mark off my cinder block wall, having coated it first with graffiti removal [sold at Home Depot for about seven dollars].
Graffiti spray painted on and running down in messy drips. I couldn't read it but the cop I summoned to take the report (in case there's a pattern of such vandalism in my neighborhood) could. MS13. When he said it, I too could read the hurried, messy lettering.
My house marked by a violent Latino gang. Here in the 'burbs. At the head of my driveway. Some crazy punk stood at the exact spot deep in my yard where I always park my unlocked car for the night, six feet away from the rear door that I always use exclusively and often leave unlocked when I sleep at night or go for a run.
No more.
"It's a lousy job," said the cop. "Maybe it's just a local kid wannabee. Usually it's much more artistic. But I'd get it off right away."
I thought darker thoughts about the Section-Eight house next door, between me and the strip mall bordering my neighborhood. The house at which there was a shooting a couple of years ago. The house at which there is a constantly shifting influx of people.
There had been a large gathering with many cars there on Saturday morning when I drove away to join my running group, perhaps evidencing a large Friday night party. No cars were left by the time I got back after noon to find the monstrosity spray-painted on my garage.
"I haven't seen this on a neighborhood house in the city before," continued the cop. "Usually this is confined to Fairfax [further to the west]. Over there on the brick wall of that strip mall across the way is painted 'SSL,' which just showed up. That stands for 'South Side Locos.' If there were a war, they'd be allies."
"Little bastards," I kept muttering the next day as I scrubbed the offending mark off my cinder block wall, having coated it first with graffiti removal [sold at Home Depot for about seven dollars].
Monday, November 24, 2008
Last Wednesday was a big day
Last Wednesday sat on my monthly calendar like an albatross. It was the November noontime Tidal Basin 3K Race. I hadn’t run this furious little race since September. I’ve been busy at work so I haven’t been running. I didn’t race at all in October. My base, and speed, are shot.
It is a 2.6 mile run from my place of work to the race. I was late and showed up just as the other runners set off. No rest for the weary I thought as I launched right into the race. The race itself was nondescript, just a fast 1.86 mile run around the Tidal Basin, much like the almost 100 other ones I have done. I was almost a minute slower than in September, finishing in 13:52 (7:26). I couldn’t catch my alter-ego Peter in this race. The only good thing was that I hit the milepost at 7:27, and maintained that pace to the end without falling off.
My agency’s rock star, G, was also late to the race, doing 6:15s to get there just as the runners set off, he said. Since he didn’t arrive in time to get a blow himself before the race, he did an 11:27 (6:09) instead of his typical 11:17 or so. Too bad. We were both counting on the race starting five minutes late per usual, but since it was cold out, they set off right at noon.
But what was worse, I had to run the 2.6 miles back with G. He mercifully slowed down for me and we did mere sub-eights going back. I was dying. So by 1 pm I had seven miles in, with most of them fast.
But my day wasn’t through. Oh no. Wednesday evening was week two of track workouts for the half-marathon training group I direct. I’m pretty much expected to show up since my training group is sponsored by Reebok. A light workout of 5X800 at 10K race pace was scheduled. That would be 1:55 laps for me. Me and two other runners huffed and puffed our way around the track for five double laps, burning 1:50s or 1:52s. There were two other coaches there, conducting the slower runners in 2:20s or 2:30s. I eyed them covetously every time we passed by them. I was glad when the day was finally over.
However, it’s all good.
It is a 2.6 mile run from my place of work to the race. I was late and showed up just as the other runners set off. No rest for the weary I thought as I launched right into the race. The race itself was nondescript, just a fast 1.86 mile run around the Tidal Basin, much like the almost 100 other ones I have done. I was almost a minute slower than in September, finishing in 13:52 (7:26). I couldn’t catch my alter-ego Peter in this race. The only good thing was that I hit the milepost at 7:27, and maintained that pace to the end without falling off.
My agency’s rock star, G, was also late to the race, doing 6:15s to get there just as the runners set off, he said. Since he didn’t arrive in time to get a blow himself before the race, he did an 11:27 (6:09) instead of his typical 11:17 or so. Too bad. We were both counting on the race starting five minutes late per usual, but since it was cold out, they set off right at noon.
But what was worse, I had to run the 2.6 miles back with G. He mercifully slowed down for me and we did mere sub-eights going back. I was dying. So by 1 pm I had seven miles in, with most of them fast.
But my day wasn’t through. Oh no. Wednesday evening was week two of track workouts for the half-marathon training group I direct. I’m pretty much expected to show up since my training group is sponsored by Reebok. A light workout of 5X800 at 10K race pace was scheduled. That would be 1:55 laps for me. Me and two other runners huffed and puffed our way around the track for five double laps, burning 1:50s or 1:52s. There were two other coaches there, conducting the slower runners in 2:20s or 2:30s. I eyed them covetously every time we passed by them. I was glad when the day was finally over.
However, it’s all good.
Friday, November 21, 2008
The One or That One
I could tell it was gone as I drove up in the dark tonight, shivering in the thirty-degree weather. My headlights shone across the large pile of leaves at his curbside.
I have been hoping that the cutting-knife icy wind that has been blowing all day today dies down before my eight-mile run with my training group tomorrow morning. But it hadn't disturbed the roundness of the leaf pile at his curb.
Leaf collection must be this week, I thought when I saw it. I was glad my headlights hadn't swept over my disordered leaf-littered yard to remind me of my slackard ways. Actually, I think fallen leaves are a good nutrient for the soil, which gives me an excuse not to rake.
I'm a terrible suburbanite. Not being a slave to my yard nor my kids and adhering to no woman's directives, I only still live here in the 'burbs because my back yard lot line abuts the 40-mile W&OD running trail at MP 7. The W&OD Trail is the premiere blacktop running path in the country. Let's see you top that!
Earlier this month, my neighbor raked his leaves into five large ordered piles in his back yard, spelling O B A M A. He restored the piles' integrity every morning. He was showboating for the W&OD Trail runners behind our houses. Runners are all democrats and believe in diversity, right?
He's from South America and is a fabulous guy. Previously I thought he spoke better English than he did, and he thought I spoke better Spanish then I did, and now we pantomime a lot. So much for worldwide high school language classes. But he was pleased to confirm for me that his piles said, "Obama."
I hate change. I liked his piles. When I drove into my driveway tonight , I could see that his orderly piles had been dragged to his curb and lumped into a single large refuse mound. Did The One become "that one?"
I should rake my lawn before all my leaves blow over to his place. Or maybe I won't.
I have been hoping that the cutting-knife icy wind that has been blowing all day today dies down before my eight-mile run with my training group tomorrow morning. But it hadn't disturbed the roundness of the leaf pile at his curb.
Leaf collection must be this week, I thought when I saw it. I was glad my headlights hadn't swept over my disordered leaf-littered yard to remind me of my slackard ways. Actually, I think fallen leaves are a good nutrient for the soil, which gives me an excuse not to rake.
I'm a terrible suburbanite. Not being a slave to my yard nor my kids and adhering to no woman's directives, I only still live here in the 'burbs because my back yard lot line abuts the 40-mile W&OD running trail at MP 7. The W&OD Trail is the premiere blacktop running path in the country. Let's see you top that!
Earlier this month, my neighbor raked his leaves into five large ordered piles in his back yard, spelling O B A M A. He restored the piles' integrity every morning. He was showboating for the W&OD Trail runners behind our houses. Runners are all democrats and believe in diversity, right?
He's from South America and is a fabulous guy. Previously I thought he spoke better English than he did, and he thought I spoke better Spanish then I did, and now we pantomime a lot. So much for worldwide high school language classes. But he was pleased to confirm for me that his piles said, "Obama."
I hate change. I liked his piles. When I drove into my driveway tonight , I could see that his orderly piles had been dragged to his curb and lumped into a single large refuse mound. Did The One become "that one?"
I should rake my lawn before all my leaves blow over to his place. Or maybe I won't.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The next Program
Week 2 of the twenty-week 2009 Reebok SunTrust National Marathon and Half Marathon Training Program, powered by volunteer coaches from my running club, is done. Or at least the long Saturday run is over. I have to run the track workout Wednesday evening.
Last week we all met at the Georgetown Running Company, normally the hook-up point for the marathon runners. After we listened to elite athlete Samia Akbar speak about running, we went out for a 6 mile run on the C&O Canal Towpath. It took an hour and the run was along the Potomac on nice soft dirt. I created the route. Yes, it was nice.
I direct the HM Program. Today we met at Gotta Run, our normal starting point. The fast coach wasn't there so I took out the rabbits. We went 7.45 miles running up to Ridge Road, down to Four-Mile Run Creek, over to the Potomac and on to National Airport, back up to Ridge Road and home. Do you get the idea that we ran up a ridge twice? I created the route. No, it was not nice.
We did it in 1:05:02. The four runners I was running with politely let me lead and set the pace. They didn't know where to go anyway. During the sixth mile, going up 23rd Street, which I call Restaurant Row, to get onto S. Arlington Ridge Road the second time, D, who ran a 1:32 Half in Baltimore last month, pulled even. He looked at me and smiled. "Go on, go on," I gasped as I feebly waved him on. His face brightened and he lit out up the hill, surmounted it, trotted back down and came up it a second time with me. Evidently the other three didn't feel like showing off because they stayed put behind me.
Last Wednesday was the Program's first track workout night. All these fasties showed up then too. The routine was 6X400 at tempo pace. I was the fastest of the three coaches there so I dutifully fell in with the fast group. Three guys rocketed off to a series of splits in the mid-80s, and I hung with the rest of the faster group many meters back. I did 90-92-96-98-92-93. I didn't lay a glove on those three students way up in front.
Man is this stuff great or what?
Last week we all met at the Georgetown Running Company, normally the hook-up point for the marathon runners. After we listened to elite athlete Samia Akbar speak about running, we went out for a 6 mile run on the C&O Canal Towpath. It took an hour and the run was along the Potomac on nice soft dirt. I created the route. Yes, it was nice.
I direct the HM Program. Today we met at Gotta Run, our normal starting point. The fast coach wasn't there so I took out the rabbits. We went 7.45 miles running up to Ridge Road, down to Four-Mile Run Creek, over to the Potomac and on to National Airport, back up to Ridge Road and home. Do you get the idea that we ran up a ridge twice? I created the route. No, it was not nice.
We did it in 1:05:02. The four runners I was running with politely let me lead and set the pace. They didn't know where to go anyway. During the sixth mile, going up 23rd Street, which I call Restaurant Row, to get onto S. Arlington Ridge Road the second time, D, who ran a 1:32 Half in Baltimore last month, pulled even. He looked at me and smiled. "Go on, go on," I gasped as I feebly waved him on. His face brightened and he lit out up the hill, surmounted it, trotted back down and came up it a second time with me. Evidently the other three didn't feel like showing off because they stayed put behind me.
Last Wednesday was the Program's first track workout night. All these fasties showed up then too. The routine was 6X400 at tempo pace. I was the fastest of the three coaches there so I dutifully fell in with the fast group. Three guys rocketed off to a series of splits in the mid-80s, and I hung with the rest of the faster group many meters back. I did 90-92-96-98-92-93. I didn't lay a glove on those three students way up in front.
Man is this stuff great or what?
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