Category Archives: commentary

Half-Baked Holiday

No, this is not a post about eating raw cookie dough. Although there’s an idea…

I am enjoying my three day weekend. And before anybody starts grumbling about how THEY don’t have the weekend off, I’M SORRY!!! I worked retail and I was in the army: I worked PLENTY of weekends and holidays (and I know where the caps lock button is on my keyboard).

I guess some people have worked more than me. Others have worked less (worked less in general; I know it is worked fewer holidays). And this is where I stop myself from going into some half-baked philosophy suitable for Lame Post Friday (and maybe some linguistic philosophy about why “more” can work quantitatively as well as qualitatively while when it’s not so much we have to worry about “less” and “fewer”). But I digress.

Digress from what, you may ask. Well you may ask. Keep asking, in fact. Because once again, I got nuthin’. I didn’t have any Mohawk Valley adventures yesterday. I did go to the Ilion Farmer’s Market, but nothing new happened there. I stopped by the liquor store, but if I mention that, you’ll all just think I’m some kind of lush (oops). I don’t even have a sinus headache, so I can’t use the calling in sick excuse.

I have plans to watch a couple of cheesy horror movies later today, so we do have some excellent coming attractions. I cleverly looked ahead to what was showing on TCM and set my DVR accordingly. I started reading the script of Dirty Work at the Crossroads, Ilion Little Theatre’s upcoming production, so I will be able to produce a more detailed write-up, for my theatre-minded readers (without giving away any major plot points or the dramatic conclusion, OF COURSE) (there’s that caps lock button again). I ran again today and plan to tomorrow, so I will try to entertain with running commentary.

Well, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this is what sometimes happens when I insist on writing a post every day. Some of them are not very good. In my defense, it’s my three day weekend and I am enjoying it. I hope you are enjoying yours. Hope to see you Monday (figuratively speaking).

But I Like to Write

I did not write my blog post while at work today. I worked on my novel. There, I’ve said it.

I don’t like to talk about the fact that I’m writing a novel. I’ve started too many novels and not finished them. I used to talk about my novels all the time. It was a mistake. I usually got a disgusted look and “That’s been done.” The worst (although I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way) was a friend who said I needed a Kilgore Trout. Kilgore Trout, if you did not know, was a Kurt Vonnegut character. Trout was a novelist, and Vonnegut would describe the books he wrote. In other words, I am only a fictional novelist.

It’s true, I suppose. I’ve written pages and pages of novels but only ever finished one. And it wasn’t very good. I know a lot of crap gets published. I know because I read some of it. Some of it I start reading and can’t finish because it’s too crappy and, as noted, I’m not hung up on finishing things. However, the crappiest novel published has one advantage over all but one of mine: it is finished.

This is not what I meant to write about. I set out to do a common or garden Friday Lame Post (“common or garden” is one of my favorite descriptive phrases). In the interests of accuracy, I like to say whether I write my post at work or compose it at the keyboard. So I suppose it was in the interests of accuracy that I blurted out the reason why I hadn’t written the post at work.

I don’t know why I should suddenly feel all exposed to my readers, like I’ve let fall some shameful secret. In the first place, many of my readers are my friends and family, who must surely know I have not given up on my dream of writing novels. And I am willing to bet that most bloggers are closet novelists (which is not quite the same thing as a real estate novelist, as sung about by Billy Joel). I like to think most people write a blog because they LIKE TO WRITE.

Ooh, there’s a bit of half-baked philosophy; maybe I can segue back into Lame Post Friday from here. Bloggers like to write. I like to write. However, I have seen quotes from writers (I’m a big one for reading collections of notable quotes) to the effect of: I hate to write but love to have written. I think I may have talked about this before. How lame is that, to repeat myself? I AM segueing back into Lame Post Friday!

Random observation (just to make my Lame Post Friday complete): it is a full moon tonight, the second full moon of August. Some say that makes it a blue moon, but there was some discussion on Facebook that what really makes a blue moon is four in one season. Huh? I’m not about to Google it and join in the fight.

I am about 500 words into the post and I have not yet reiterated for anyone unfamiliar with the term that Lame Post Friday is my day for random observations and half-baked philosophy. It is my day to Post Dumb if I feel like it. Guess I felt like it in spades today. Happy Friday, everyone.

Musings on Movies

A day after I had watched the last cheesy movie I wrote about, I wanted to watch another cheesy movie. Before I had a chance to suggest one, Steven had turned on a Lifetime movie starring an actress he likes. Well, what could be cheesier than a Lifetime movie, I asked myself (I didn’t answer, of course. It was a rhetorical question. Don’t you just hate people who answer rhetorical questions?).

Lifetime movies have been around a long time. I remember watching the Lifetime channel back in the ’90s (no, not the 1890s — stop making old age jokes!). The movies quickly got a bad reputation. I remember reading a review of one in Entertainment Weekly that said something to the effect of, “It is clear by now that Lifetime cannot make a convincing suspense movie. The culprit is always a man, any man — men, the beasts!” I daresay I don’t have the exact quote, but I remember Steven and I being highly amused. Lifetime movies got a kind of a plug in a short-lived sitcom in the late ’90s. I don’t remember a single thing about the sitcom except that the main guy’s roommate was addicted to Lifetime movies. Apparently all he did all day was sit on the couch and watch them.

I have not really watched a Lifetime movie recently that I can recall. I didn’t pay too much attention to Sunday’s, either. I was busy reading an Agatha Christie play and doing an anacrostic puzzle (I love anacrostic puzzles). Anyways, I’ve been burned by Lifetime movies in the past, and not just because the culprit was a beastly man. They always kill off the characters I like, and they are not kind to animals.

Oh, I know, no animals were harmed in the making of etc. The actors playing the characters I like aren’t really dead, either. It still upsets me. I just have to share one example.

First scene of the movie: woman hears her dog barking and comes out of her bedroom to see these guys cleaning out her house. Dog stands at the top of the stairs barking and barking. Woman stands mesmerized till the guys turn around and see her. She still just stands there till her daughter comes out of her bedroom. Dog is still barking. Woman grabs daughter and pulls her into her bedroom, leaving the dog to his fate. She drags a dresser in front of the door and calls 911. When the cops get there, of course the poor dog is dead.

What the hell? That dog was barking at the bad guys for like ten minutes before anybody did anything! Wouldn’t they have liked to silence him before he woke anybody up? He’s still barking when the woman is OBVIOUSLY calling the police. WHAT GOOD DOES IT DO TO KILL THE POOR DOG NOW???

Therefore, when I saw a cat in Sunday’s movie, I made up my mind not to pay too much attention. As it happened, kitty-kat lived. Grandma, however, did not. And now I’ve given away a major plot point. True, I have not mentioned the name of the movie. Still, anybody reading this may tune into a Lifetime movie and if there is a grandmother and a cat, sit there wondering if this is the one where granny gets it but the cat does not. Let that be a lesson to me.

I kind of forgot where I was going with this when I started writing it. Unfortunately, it was all I had to write about today. I suppose we could chalk it up to a little pre-Friday lame… no, wait, I have a better idea. I didn’t do Middle-aged Musings Monday or even Mid-Week Musings. I shall scroll back to the top and type in the title you will have read before you read this paragraph. Happy Thursday, everyone.

Star-Studded Something

Last Sunday Steven and I took a break from cheesy horror movies and our usual Sunday crime shows with a star studded Agatha Christie which had not previously come our way: Evil Under the Sun (1982). TCM showed the movie Saturday afternoon. I set the DVR to tape it for our subsequent enjoyment.

I had read Evil Under the Sun and thought I kind of sort of remembered the solution. That hardly mattered. For one thing, if Dame Christie had adapted the story herself she may have changed the ending, as she did in at least two of her stage adaptations. I don’t think she adapted any of the movies, but I believe Hollywood has been known to make changes as well (No! Hollywood make changes? Say it ain’t so!).

I love a star-studded Agatha Christie movie. We have two on DVD: Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978). We also have my personal favorite, Witness for the Prosecution (1957), which, although its cast boasts at least four well-known actors is for some reason not a Star-Studded Agatha Christie.

That raises the interesting (to me) question of just what makes a Star-Studded Agatha Christie Extravaganza? Hmm. I guess “extravaganza” is too big a word, but just plain “movie” is too small, and “star-studded Agatha Christie” seems lacking. Leave that for now. Let’s look at “Star Studded.” That implies that there must be something to stud. Something already showy or exotic or glamorous. Evil Under the Sun is set on a tropical island. Death on the Nile takes place in the mysterious Middle East. Murder on the Orient Express happens on a famous luxury train. All three have costumes to die for. My favorite is Angela Lansbury in Nile, but Jacqueline Bisset on Orient is noteworthy, and Maggie Smith in Evil can give them both a run for their money.

So I think that’s a major component of a Star Studded Movie Event (better than extravaganza?). It’s fun just to look at. I think another important component is that most of the stars must at some point be suspects. Witness for the Prosecution is a suspense play as much as a murder mystery. The question isn’t so much whodunnit as how is Charles Laughton going to prove that Tyrone Powers didn’t do it? In my star studded vehicles, almost everybody has a motive and in some cases means and opportunity as well. It is the task of Hercule Poirot to prove that the one who couldn’t possibly have done it in fact did (oh dear, did I give too much away? Well, these movies are enjoyable even when you know whodunnit).

There’s another element many star studded attractions have: Hercule Poirot, Dame Christie’s famous detective. I believe there are a couple of star studders I’m not familiar with featuring her other sleuth, Miss Marple (I’ve read that Christie preferred Miss Marple to M. Poirot, but I love them both). Audiences and readers tend to like a series detective, and producers and publishers really, really like them. But that’s a whole other blog post.

So now I have digressed almost completely away from the movie I started to write about to the tune of about 500 words. And now Steven tells me I left And Then There Were None (1945) off my list of Agatha Christie movies we own. How remiss of me! Now I’ll have to watch that one again, to see if it meets my criteria for a Star Studded Romp (oh, that’s even worse than “extravaganza”! I’ll work on it).

DARE to be Different

I always compare the Herkimer, NY DARE 5K favorably to the Utica Boilermaker. It is, perhaps, an unfair comparison. Herkimer is a village, Utica is a city. The Boilermaker is an international event, the DARE 5K is a local fundraiser. Of course I love the Boilermaker. Just look at how many posts I’ve written about it — even last year when I didn’t run it.

But there is no denying the Boilermaker puts on the pressure, and not only because it is three times as long. To pick up my packet I had to drive to Utica two days before the event, threading my way through an intense amount of traffic on my way to a HUGE running expo. At least by driving I would be sure to have my driver’s license with me, because you must show ID and ONLY pick up your own packet (actually, I think this year there was some provision to have somebody else pick up your packet for you, but that didn’t concern me).

Showing up for race day itself is something of an ordeal. I was dropped off, so I had no parking worries. Others were not so fortunate (neither was I, two years ago). 14,000 runners is certainly a lot. We were herded through a field around to the end of the starting line (instead of easily walking there by the most direct route), where the enormous number of porta-potties was yet not enough. And the crowd at the end of the race. Yikes! I just managed to find my way to where I was meeting my ride.

Of course the Utica Boilermaker is a wonderful thing in which to participate. There is even a kind of a fascination in being part of a crowd that large. But crowds are not and will never be one of my favorite things.

Compare all this to the Herkimer DARE 5K, whose starting line is conveniently located about three blocks from my house. I realize they did not do this as a personal favor to me, but I certainly enjoy it.

My schnoodle, Tabby, and I walked down to pick up my number and goody bag the morning of the race, leaving early enough to be one of the lucky first 200 who received a t-shirt. I knew it would be all right for Tabby to walk into the social hall of Christ Episcopal Church, because she has been there before. Last year I picked up my nephew’s stuff, too. It was most convenient.

I brought Tabby back home, because this year I did not have a cheering section to take charge of her while I ran. I walked back down shortly before 8:30, when the Junior Fun Run began. I wandered around, taking in the scene.

Lots of runners were stretching, chatting, drinking water. They all looked more athletic than me. Well, now how could that be, I reasoned with myself. I ran the Boilermaker, for heavens’ sake! Of course, I have slacked off on my training since then. And, let’s be honest, I did not exactly run the Boilermaker. It was more of a middle-aged shuffle.

I don’t know why I have to freak myself out this way before these runs. I know perfectly well that I am going to run slower than most yet faster than a few, and that I will handily run the distance without walking yet give myself a VCD attack by sprinting it out at the end. These things are not unpredictable. Just run your run, I tell myself.

That is also what other runners tell me. I got into a nice conversation with two young ladies before the race. I told them I was going to mention them in my blog, but I don’t imagine they will actively seek it out, which is just as well, because I’m not being nearly as descriptive as I had imagined I would be.

A lady from the Herkimer Telegram was looking for somebody to say something she could use in the paper. I told her we were there because it was fun.

It was fun. And, dare I say, relaxing. The run was on familiar streets, and afterwards I walked myself home with a minimum of fuss. What’s not to like?

Musings Muddled by Mugginess

We’re back to Middle-aged Musings Monday with a contemplation of heat lightning.

I never knew exactly what heat lightning was. I just knew that sometimes I would see lightning and some grown-up would say, “Oh, that’s just heat lightning.” I thought the heat caused the lightning, and that always seemed odd to me. Lightning is, of course, hot, but to me it always seemed fast and clean, an exciting spark. I could not see what it had to do with the soggy, onerous baking nights that usually brought heat lightning.

I recently learned (via the Weather Channel, I believe) that heat lightning is the same thing as regular lightning, only it is too far away for us to hear the thunder. I was pleased to know the definition, only now I’m a little worried that some pedantic types will take it too far and start saying, “There is no such thing as heat lightning!” Some people love to tell other people that there is no such thing. It starts out with Santa Claus and goes downhill from there. Come to think of it, that could be a whole other blog post.

This morning I thought at first we had regular lightning, because I heard a faint rumble of thunder. As I drove to work the light show continued with no sound, so I thought, “Heat lightning!” Then I wondered if somebody at work would annoy me by telling me there was no such thing. Instead, no less than three people remarked on the heat lightning. I felt vindicated.

I don’t know if this is really much of a point to ponder: Does a given thing not exist just because it’s the same thing as another thing? Was that a convoluted enough way to ask that? Have I ever mentioned that I hate philosophical questions?

As I read over what I wrote, all I can think is that the heat has surely muddled my brain. Maybe a zap of heat lightning would bring me back to normal. Or turn me into Frankenstein, I suppose. The lightning stopped when I got to work. But the soggy heat lingers on. Happy Monday, everybody.

Cheesy Fun

It seems odd to do three posts about movies in a row, but it’s really been too hot to do much else.

So I watched a movie that I thought wouldn’t be cheesy and I was right. Then I watched another movie that I thought wouldn’t be cheesy and I was wrong. Then I watched a movie that I thought would be cheesy and I was half right.

One Body Too Many (1944) starring Jack Haley was in Steven’s collection of 50 Horror Classics, but like The Fatal Hour (previously reviewed in this blog), it is more of a murder mystery. According to the DVD box, Bela Lugosi stars, which probably explains the horror designation. Haley gets billed over Lugosi in the credits, and he is the hero of the picture. Lugosi is window dressing as the creepy butler. He adds more to the atmosphere than the plot, but that’s a mere quibble. Lugosi is always a welcome addition to the cast.

I loved the title of the movie, and the plot description sounded promising: an insurance salesman arrives to sell insurance to an rich eccentric but finds the guy already dead and the greedy relatives gathered per instructions in the very eccentric will. The salesman stays to guard the body and protect the beautiful niece.

That’s not a quote; it’s just what I remember from the collection insert. Plus a few descriptive terms of my own. I’m sure you get the idea.

Jack Haley, in case you didn’t know (I had forgotten), played the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. I couldn’t quite picture him with the silver face, but once I realized who he was, I remembered the farm hand who looked like that. In this movie he’s my kind of leading man: not arrogant, treats his love interest with respect, makes with the wise cracks, and get comically funny at appropriate moments. I know, a lot of women love the strong, handsome, fearless sort — like Sir Walter Raleigh in The Virgin Queen. I think they are at best a little dull and at worst, big fat jerks (again, like Sir Walter). Give me the funny one every time.

The set up for the movie is utterly ridiculous. I like an eccentric will as well as the next movie goer. But even I can only suspend my disbelief so far. The dead guy wants to be buried in a clear mausoleum so he can view the stars. OK. His heirs must stay in the house till said mausoleum is completed. OK. Then the rest of the will can be read, delineating who gets what. O…K. If in the meantime he gets buried in the ground, everything is reversed and the people who were supposed to get a lot will get a buck and a half and vice versa. Excuse me, what? Is he just trying to cause trouble from beyond the grave? Who thinks of these things, anyways?

The only will I’ve ever actually read was my own, which was drawn up for me in the army. It didn’t say much. Then again, I don’t have eight million dollars. I don’t even have any fancy stuff my relatives might fight over other than, perhaps, my grandmother’s skeleton (not as creepy as it sounds). I suppose the crazy will is just another time honored fictional technique (I wonder if I could do a whole blog post on time honored fictional techniques). Just the same, perhaps I ought to add a codicil or so to my own last testament…

So we’re off on a very silly ride, some of which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense even while you’re watching it (as opposed to the movies that you watch, mesmerized, and only later say, “Waaait a minute!”). For example, at one point Jack Haley is hiding in the coffin and the bad relatives steal it and dump it in the fish pond. Haley can see perfectly well what is going on and, although he cannot get out of the coffin, fish can get in. Steven said there was a window in the coffin. I guess that makes sense, given the clear mausoleum thing. Only, why didn’t the bad relatives notice it wasn’t the old man in the coffin? Perhaps it was explained and I was not paying enough attention. The scene manages to be both funny and scary, so that was good, and the beautiful niece saves him, so that was even better. I do love a movie female who is not useless.

I’m not sure which body is the one too many, because there are a couple of murders as we go on. Haley gets to wander half naked through some secret passages, with which the house seems to be liberally provided, and he gets to save the day in the end.

The movie was cheesy, without a doubt, but I think it was meant to be. It was definitely meant to be funny, and it was. I enjoyed it and may even watch it again. Maybe I can figure out that window in the coffin thing.

Cheesy History

I attempted to continue my non-cheesy movie viewing with a Bette Davis movie on TCM Sunday. I love Bette Davis. I just finished reading another biography of her: More than a Woman: An Intimate Biography of Bette Davis by James Spada (Bantam Books, 1993).

The Virgin Queen (1955) also starring Joan Collins was Davis’ second portrayal of Queen Elizabeth I. Davis was reportedly delighted at the chance, especially since she was closer in age to what Elizabeth was at the time the movie takes place. She is wonderful, of course.

Joan Collins at this point had not reached her glory as a glamorous, conniving bitch (I use the word with respect, admiration and descriptive intent). She is a pretty girl. In a couple of early scenes, where she is flirtatious and comfortable maneuvering in the shifting sands of sixteenth century court, she shows a little of the vixen she would later portray so well. Later on, when she is merely in love with Sir Walter Raleigh, she’s a typical dull movie female. Give me a little vinegar every time!

Sir Walter Raleigh was originally the main character in the movie, before Davis got involved. I learned this in the pre-movie commentary from Ben Mankiewicz (grandson, I believe, of Joseph L. Mankiewicz who directed Davis in the divine All About Eve). The movie was originally called Sir Walter Raleigh, then Sir Walter Raleigh and the Virgin Queen, then finally The Virgin Queen.

Sir Walter Raleigh, in case you didn’t know, is the guy who spread his cloak over a puddle so Queen Elizabeth wouldn’t get her feet wet. I must remember to find out sometime if the story is true. According to this movie, Raleigh is lying, manipulative and self-serving. I don’t know what Elizabeth or Mistress Throckmorton (Collins) see in him. He schemes his way to court, sleazes a beautiful cloak (for the mud puddle trick) from an unsuspecting tailor, and loses no time in ingratiating himself with the Queen. He wants three ships, which he apparently knows how to design so that they will be more awesome than any ship hitherto known. Instead Elizabeth makes him Captain of the Guard.

At this point Mistress Throckmorton stops coquetting and begins to scorn Raleigh for being one of the Queen’s lap dogs. Now I would think that Captain of the Guard charged with guarding Her Royal Highness, who had a lot of enemies as rulers tend to do, would be considered a pretty manly job. Elizabeth I, remember, was no ordinary queen. She had inherited a nearly bankrupt kingdom that got no respect from the rest of Europe and, without the help of a king, pretty much turned things around. At this point in her reign, most of her kingdom and much of Europe agreed she was tops in sovereign rulers. And it was no shame to try to ingratiate yourself with a sovereign ruler in those days. That was a respected way to earn a living.

So the movie tacks twentieth century American sensibilities onto sixteenth century British history. I suppose this is a time-honored fictional technique. And perhaps we must be patient with 1950s Hollywood.

Still, it bothered me that Mistress Throckmorton kept trying to goad Sir Walter into asserting his manhood or something. To me, that’s not love. You love a person the way they are, not the way you would have them be. Of course, we always hope our loved ones improve themselves, say by turning from a life of crime or getting off drugs. But you can’t hold out your love as the prize if they behave a certain way. I don’t see any touching romance in that. Nor in belittling your supposed love, whatever your motivation is.

I know, I know, another time-honored fictional technique. All I can say is, time honors some messed up things.

Mistress Throckmorton finally decides or admits she’s in love with Sir Walter the first time the queen is about to banish or behead him (I was making all kinds of notes in the TV Journal abut the stuff in the movie that pissed me off, so I missed a few plot points). They get married without the benefit of clergy, probably to satisfy the Hayes Office.

Elizabeth does not behead him at this time but instead knights him and gives him one ship. She intends to send Mistress Throckmorton to the French court, which if you ask me would have been a good place for her. She might have gotten her coquettish ways back. Soon, however, she is fainting in the chapel, which, of course, is movie shorthand for being pregnant (now we know why they had to get married).

At one point, Sir Walter and the new Lady Raleigh attempt to flee to freedom in the New World, which, I hope you all remember from elementary school history, it is way to early to do. They are not going to meet Thomas Jefferson and say, “Ooh, loved your Declaration.” They’re not even going to meet the Pilgrims (which is just as well, because Collins’ wardrobe would not have been a hit). But it’s a movie and I suppose it does add to the entertainment value to be able to say, “Hah! Things are MUCH better here in America!”

I will admit that the entertainment value of the movie was not bad. My main entertainment was my criticisms, but I’m sure other viewers are less nit-picky. I’m used to movies playing fast and loose with history, and this one does it in spades. I’m also used to movies portraying the biggest stinkers as desirable love interests.

In summary, I did not get the non-cheesy experience I sought. Bette Davis, I repeat, was wonderful. She far outclassed her material. My lesson is sad but true: you can have great production values, beautiful costumes and sets, and my favorite actress, and still wind up with a big old piece of cheese.

Lame Before the Boilermaker

I’ve been off all week, so you wouldn’t think I would feel the need for a lame post Friday. I don’t know why you wouldn’t think that. How long have you known me? Then again, why do I flatter myself that anybody thinks about me at all?

Be that as it may, I’m sitting at my keyboard typing whatever comes to mind for today’s post. Later today I must head to Utica, NY, to Mohawk Valley Community College (MVCC) for the fabulous Boilermaker Expo, to pick up my runner’s packet for the Boilermaker 15K road race, which I am to run the day after tomorrow. Yikes! (That “Yikes” was for the Boilermaker, not the preceding potential run-on sentence, although I don’t think it is. If you do, diagram it and get back to me.)

I ran thirty minutes this morning and intend to run twenty minutes tomorrow. I took a short walk with my schnoodle, Tabby, and plan to take another this evening. I shall also take some walks tomorrow. And hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. I don’t know if my preparations and training have been sufficient, but we shall find out.

I must ask (stay tuned for some half-baked philosophy): sufficient for what? To improve my time from two years ago? But I have said many times, running the Boilermaker is not about the time but about the experience. To enjoy it more at the time? Perhaps, but I really do expect to enjoy it considerably at the time no matter what. Even if I feel completely ate up (as we used to say in the army), I shall be upheld by my determination to finish. And encouraged by the spectators and other runners, no doubt. To not feel completely awful afterwards? That is a worthy goal. Then again, there’s rest and Gator Ade. And my sister’s pool. I should be OK.

This morning’s OD (a publication which is also doing a version of All Boilermaker All The Time) had an article about how the middle of the pack is the place to be. I thought, “Great, that’s me.” As I read, however, I had to admit, that is not me. The middle of the pack clocked in at one hour, twenty-eight minutes (and some seconds). My last time was one hour, forty-six minutes (and some seconds). That’s a double digit difference (some of you are now saying, “I can do the math, Cindy). I am clearly in the latter half of the pack. Well, for an out of shape, middle aged woman such as myself, I don’t think that is a bad place to be (I guess that’s more half-baked philosophy).

To round out my Friday Lame Post, I will include a couple of random observations I made during this week’s runs.

On the sidewalk ahead of me I saw what looked like a red and white striped stick. Or was it red and white spray painted on the sidewalk? As I got closer, the stripes widened and resolved themselves into a chalk drawing of an American flag. I just love all the sidewalk chalk I see when I’m walking and running. For one thing, I love color. And it’s something different to look at if I’m running the same sidewalks over and over.

I saw a bay window with some insulation scrunchily piled on the sill. What was that all about? Aren’t you supposed to put decorative things in a bay window? That’s as bad as the porches (screened-in and regular) I see with all kinds of junk piled on them. I understand catch-alls as well as the next pack rat, but I believe in enjoying one’s porch.

I see I am up to 600 words, which is a respectable post for me. Tomorrow I will probably talk about the Expo and after that, more things Boilermaker. I believe the Boilermaker counts as a major Mohawk Valley adventure.

Getting Personal About Running

I HATE the expression “TMI.” I think it is rude and in general is applied indiscriminately. If something truly is not an appropriate topic for the company, a tactful change of subject is in order. To yell, “TMI! TMI!” is just a mean joke and it hurts my feelings. All that by way of saying, I am going to talk about my sports bras today. If you don’t like it STOP READING NOW!!!

I think that was fair. Kind of like a Spoiler Alert at the beginning of an Entertainment Weekly article. Or, better yet, one of those warnings at the beginning of a show on Investigation Discovery that it may contain material disturbing to some viewers.

To get on with my post: I wear two sports bras at a time. It’s the only thing I’ve found that works for me. I used to wear two of the cheap ones and was fine with it. Now I find that at least one has to be of a certain quality or I just don’t get the control.

A guy at the Sneaker Store told me that a sales rep told him that runners should replace their sports bras as often as they replace their running shoes. Probably sound advice. So I knew I was overdue, but, oh, I hate bra shopping. I’m sure I hate it even more than the people who have stopped reading this post hate it when I give what they call Too Much Information.

Is anybody still reading?

When I went for my run this morning, I could feel one bra was chafing. Oh dear! Well, we must persevere through these minor discomforts. By the end of the run, I was tucking some of my t-shirt in between my body and bra. That helped.

Then I stepped into the shower and the water hit where the skin had been rubbed raw by the offending undergarment. OOOWWWW! Seriously, I stood there in the shower saying, “Ow! Ow! Ow!” which made Steven a little worried.

I went to K-Mart with a shopping list that included two things: sports bras and Neo-sporin. I got the generic version of Neo-sporin, but it had the same active ingredients. I found several sports bras which I think will work in varying combinations. Some are in pretty colors. I see no reason why a useful object should not also be decorative.

Before I wrote this, I was reading some of my older posts. I’ve been reading through them from the beginning and making notes, thinking I might learn something. Mostly what I’ve learned is that I have had some pretty silly posts. I guess this is one of them. We’ll see what I can come up with for tomorrow. As always, thank you for playing.