Worktime

Going to work.

In the church of Al

Last night, a Swiss jazz trio followed by Dirty Bourbon River Show (the musical bastard child of Gogol Bordello, Man-Man, Tom Waits and a brass band) playing Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club. Not just the song. The whole damn album. Tonight, after warming up with the Hot Club of New Orleans, I felt the need.

Stretch

Freakishly tall people at the supercomputing conference, which just ended, which means the drinking lamp is lit for this dude in Nola!

Good old Flamehead

Oh the humanity, somebody get me a fire extinguisher, or a bucket of water, or a beer. Because I like a to drink a beer or two with my entertainment.

Dreamy

The stuff dreams are made of. Really disturbing dreams.

New Orleans snow flurries

Note to self, when eating beignets, the player's move is to wear the white shirt not the black. (Damn old gold and black color scheme.)

Pass the Louisiana hot sauce, please

Zydeco, followed by red beans and rice and a cold Abita Amber.

Lookin' good E-money

Brushing Ely's tux. I want him to look coiffed when I go to New Orleans in the morning. He doesn't get to go. But every burglar's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

Mr. G went up the hill, and down, and up, and down, and...

-30-

Strange brew

On the road jamming to Lady Gaga's Artpop, followed by Beverly Sills singing Cleopatra in Handel's Julius Caesar, as I drive south to the Kentucky border, intent on running 30 hilly miles in the morning, and suddenly it hits me: I am one strange dude.

Old school, like me

The Marques Carroll Quintet is like straight out of late '50s early '60s hard bop, which is actually when I was meant to be haunting jazz clubs anyway. Then again, I was age 0-6 in the late '50s and early '60s so they probably wouldn't have let me in jazz clubs...even with the beard.

It's the journey, not the destination

I passed the guy at the top of the hill, not working at it mind you, just moving along in rhythm, and I think he really really wanted to pass me back. I didn't have the heart to tell him I ran 8 before I even lined up at the start. End of the Boilermaker Half Saturday. (I ran 1 after, too. 22.1 mile day. And taper.)

The tribe

When I cross paths with some other wayward soul, light strapped on, running against the dark and the rain, I feel all tribal.

Way down hill

Coming down that damn near vertical hill looming over my shoulders at France Park Saturday.

Relentless forward progress

Looking at the daunting week ahead I am keeping in mind the sage words of the great Shalane Flanagan: Let's fuck shit up!

Trail eyes

Lesson learned on the hilly (we even had a couple kind of mountain goaty paths to traverse under cliff faces) rocky and rooty (and sneakily covered by leaves) trails at France Park: racing this stuff is like whitewater canoeing. You've got to keep your eyes aimed downstream to see the obstacles in time to react. Learn something everyday. And I didn't hit the dirt once today.

Nice work if I could get it

If somebody said to me, "Hey, we want to hire you to sit under a clear blue sky, with a nice breeze blowing over you, drink beer and listen to live music" I might have to take a femtosecond to think it over, but I probably would decide to do it. I'm adaptable that way.

I could have danced all night

I could have sat there drinking to that pulse St. Vincent was laying down all afternoon. But one of us would have passed out. I like to think it was her.

ACL me

It's on!

Tasty payoff

Lemon Custard Cup after the Wild Wild Wilderness trail race today (on top of the Knobstone Trail Mini yesterday). I think I can say I earned it.