A blogger book

A few months ago, I was told about a book being compiled by Peach and four other bloggers. It was to be a book of shared experiences written by bloggers, titled You're Not The Only One. They were accepting submissions of previously unpublished material from anyone with a blog.

At first, I wasn't going to submit. Then later, I still wasn't going to submit. Because as much as I profess to want to be a writer, I had never officially submitted my work anywhere for possible publication, nor possible rejection. But hey, to never fail is to never try, right?

One thing that really pushed me over the edge and made me finally decide to submit this time was that proceeds from the book were going to charity. And not the Human Fund, but a real charity. I've always been impressed by the overall generosity of bloggers and their eagerness to help.

So finally, up against the deadline, and thanks to some gentle encouragement and arm twisting from a few people, I sent in a couple of submissions. I never figured any of mine would be selected, but always hoped.

Well, the book is out now, and I am in it! Checking Peach's blog Monday night--as I have done almost daily for the past three months--I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion when I saw "Bone" on the list of contributors. I didn't realize how big a deal it would be for me--someone who has never been published--to have a piece included in this book.

That being said, this isn't about me at all. As I mentioned earlier, proceeds from this book will go to Warchild, which works around the world to help children affected by war.

Also, thanks to Peach and the others who helped put this book together for giving bloggers like myself a chance to have something published. They are to be commended for the countless hours they undoubtedly spent on this project. What a wonderful and worthwhile thing to do.

You're Not The Only One includes stories from over a hundred bloggers. The cost is around $22. For more details, visit Peach. And again, it's for a good cause.



"Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write it, will you take a look?"

I'm back, baby!

The little publicized Bone blogging hiatus is officially over, at nineteen days. To put that into persepctive historically speaking, it's longer than the Cuban Missile Crisis, but slightly shorter than the marriage of Lisa Marie and Nicolas Cage. Also, it has received slightly less publicity than the Mike Gravel Presidential campaign, but slightly more than the latest Carrot Top DVD.

So why come back now? Why today? Maybe it's because today is Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday. Perhaps I was reminded of my own ill-fated trip to the Mardi Gras in 2001 and that inspired me to write.

Maybe it was the guilt of having received three Excellence In Blogging awards (thanks Sage, Gautami, and Marcia) in the past few days, yet not having blogged in almost three weeks.

Maybe it had something to do with the secretary at work making it a point to tell me the actress who played Amy Vining on General Hospital had passed away. And three other people emailing to tell me the same news. Really people, am I the biggest GH fan any of you know? On second thought, don't answer that.

Or maybe there is no reason. Maybe it's just one of those great mysteries of life. A question that has no answer. Such as, why is there no other word for synonym? Why don't they make mouse-flavored cat food? Why did John Waite only have that one song? And what is the point of that football robot thing Fox shows on the NFL games?

I apologize for the extended hiatus. Honestly, I think my case of the Januarys just lasted a little longer this year than it usually does. For about two weeks, all I wanted to do was come home in the afternoon, climb into bed and watch TV. OK, so that's always what I want to do, but for about two weeks, I actually did it.

I hate being down. I've always felt like I'm the one who is supposed to be up. With friends, I always feel like I'm the one who's supposed to entertain and make people laugh. In school, I was the one who winked at the dark, mysterious Spanish teacher, and later became Spanish Club President.

Thankfully, I do feel like I'm emerging from these winter doldrums. Possibly because it's 10:00 at night, it's February, and it's 70 degrees outside.

So what have I been up to, other than working and lying in bed? Let's see, I caught a nasty stomach bug for a couple of days last week and lost eight pounds with the on-your-knees-clinging-to-the-toilet-seat diet. After that, I walked around all light-headed and dizzy for a day or two. That was pretty cool.

I also watched Stroker Ace one night on CMT. (Wow, I can't believe I just admitted that. I must still be light-headed.) All you need to know is it stars Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson. If that doesn't scream cinematic magic, I don't know what does. Oh, and there's also a rousing performance by the incomparable Jim Nabors in a supporting actor role.

This weekend, I downloaded seventeen songs, as I continue to use up the three iTunes gift cards I received for Christmas. The new downloads include Adam Sandler's Chanukah and Thanksgiving songs, "Puttin' On The Ritz" by Taco, "Tricky Tricky" by Lou Bega, "Who's Johnny" by DeBarge, and "All My Life" by the vastly underrated R&B duo K-Ci & JoJo.

Thanks for the emails and IM's and comments checking on me. One thing I was reminded of during this hiatus is that we do make actual friends doing this blogging thing. I've missed you guys. I'm looking forward to catching up with all of you and returning to writing about all the insignificant things in life.

"I ain't missing you at all, since you've been gone away. I ain't missing you, no matter what my friends say..."

Bone's 3rd Annual Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I've written quite a bit about Festivus on this blog. Well over twenty posts make mention of the F word, with several of those dedicated solely to that greatest of all non-religious, non-commercialized holidays. So when you do a google search for "festivus traditions" guess what comes up #2, right behind Wikipedia?

That's right, friends. Me. Number two! Behind my beloved Wikipedia! Do you realize what this means? Well, neither do I. But rest assured if I figure out what it means that I will take whatever it means very seriously. I can only hope I have made Frank Costanza very proud.

With that being said, the day is fast approaching. I sent out my Evites today. Bone's 3rd Annual Festivus For The Rest Of Us Shindig, Banquet, and General Gathering Of Discomfited Individuals will be held Saturday, December 22nd, at 6 PM. And you're all invited!

Sequels often leave something to be desired. But hopefully, this one will be kinda like Friday the 13th, Part 3, except without all the violence. Or the brief nudity. Or the hockey mask.

Don't worry about bringing anything, either. Though I will need one of you to be in charge of coats. (No "man furs" please.) And I'll need someone else to stand by Gabe Kaplan's tank and make sure no one taps on it.

I might also recommend that you have some sort of signal in case you get into a bad conversation with someone. Head patting is good. Although personally, I prefer the slightly more subtle chicken wing.

So many great memories have already been made during the first two Festivus celebrations, most occurring during the Airing of Grievances. Like last year, when Lil Bootay said she didn't like Three Word Wednesday.

My response? "Oh yeah? Well, the jerkstore called. They're running outta YOU!" OK, so I didn't really say that. I didn't think of it until after everyone had left. But that line would've really smoked her! Don't you think?

Again this year, I'm planning to serve pizza for the Festivus Dinner. We'll watch "The Strike" episode of Seinfeld. And of course, we'll have the Festivus Pole and the Feats of Strength. All the usual Festivus Traditions you've come to know and love.

Although due to an obscure city ordinance, there'll be no cockfighting this year. So we'll have to think of something else for the Feats Of Strength.

And now I leave you with one of the memories burned into our brains from last Festivus. And don't worry, the party wasn't this wild the whole night. People were just hopped up on Twix and black and white cookies at the time.



The lyrics for "Silver Pole" written by Bone. Music by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. Proceeds from Festivus will benefit Kramerica Industries: A solitary man with a messy apartment which may or may not contain a live chicken. And the Human Fund: Money for people.

"All these worksheets, grievance worksheets, lined with blanks yet to fill. In the air there's a feeling of terseness..."

Grillmaster B

"And so, in honor of the laborer, we do hereby create Labor Day. It shall be a day of rest, upon which the laborer may eat, watch TV, and nap liberally and unashamedly." ~ An unknown 21st Century blogger

I hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day. My day began at the crack of 11:45 AM, with the first order of business being grill assembly. Well, actually the first order of the day was eating a toaster strudel, followed by the second order of the day, showering. But you get the idea.

Once I unpacked the grill and unfolded the instructions, I saw that there were no words, just pictures. Tiny diagrams filled with numbers, dotted lines, and arrows. It looked like a cross between a blueprint and a rebus.

Assaying the situation, I knew that what I had hoped to be a late lunch was most likely going to turn into supper. Or at the very least, lupper. It was an accurate assumption on my part.

The grill was completed around 2:00. It felt good to have assembled something and for once in my life not have any parts or pieces left over. I feel things like this prepare me for when I begin to replenish the Earth with my seed and have to assemble things like cribs, swingsets, and diapers.

Now that the grill was standing on four legs and did not appear as if it was going to fall, it was time to put on my proverbial chef's hat and begin my transformation to Grillmaster B (not to be confused with Grandmaster B, Thighmaster B, or Bed Wetter B).

Every man believes he has an innate and extraordinary talent for grilling, that within each of us lies an ability to achieve pyro-culinary greatness. And I am no different.

There seem to be fewer opportunities in this day and age for a man to find his inner caveman, but grilling is one of those. There is something inherently manly about cooking over an open fire. Something very primitive about providing food for the entire cave.

Standing there yesterday donning my khaki Gilligan hat, wielding a set of tongs in one hand and wearing a decorative pot holder on the other, I can honestly say that I've rarely felt more like a man.

For yesterday, I grilled.

Then I napped.

I am man. Hear me snore.

"And as I think back, makes me wonder how the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia..."

September Saturdays

Football season starts today! In celebration--and also thanks to Labor Day--I'm in the midst of a four-day weekend. By the way, how long does a weekend have to be before it stops becoming a weekend? I mean, if I took Tuesday off as well, would that be a five-day weekend? At some point, don't you just have to say you took a week off?

Football doesn't signal the beginning of Fall, but serves more as a harbinger of it. Summer is slowly tiring. The weather is still hot, but the days are growing shorter. Today, we'll be in shorts and short sleeves. But soon, we'll be in jeans and long sleeves, the familiar autumn chill evoking thoughts and memories and feelings as only it can.

Today the population of Tuscaloosa will swell from 80,000 to 180,000 or more. People will arrive hours before kickoff. Some arrived days in advance. The streets will be buzzing with activity, the campus redolent with the smell of barbecue and burgers.

The stadium will be packed in anticipation not just of a new season, but of a new coach and a new era, hopefully one that awakens feelings and memories of an earlier time.

They'll strike up the band and the players will run onto the field, a sea of crimson spreading across the lush green. Both occurrences will elicit cheers from the crowd while at the same time bringing chill bumps to many in attendance.

There will be sons and daughters attending their very first game, and others who haven't missed a game in years. They'll sit next to each other, young and young at heart, decked out in their crimson, gray, and white, donning their houndstooth caps.

But all will share the same burning hope and desire. To watch the Tide roll on a Saturday evening in Tuscaloosa.

"Well, there's a football in the air, across a leaf blown field. Yeah, and there's your first car on the road, and the girl you'd steal..."

Bachelor on Aisle Seven

If by some rare cosmic occurrence the stars do indeed align at some point in the future and I get married, I have a feeling I will not be allowed to do the grocery shopping for the family.

I really should live blog a trip to the grocery store one day. Despite what you might think, it's not all reaching items on the top shelf for attractive female shoppers. Rather, I think a typical shopping trip for me would best be described as laid back chaos.

For starters, I don't make a list. Ever. I mean, that'd be like Hendrix playing with a capo, or Van Gogh painting by numbers. The art and freedom of expression would be lost.

I did employ a no buggy rule for a long while, only purchasing those items I could carry in my arms, hands, and balanced on my head. But lately, I've been fudging on that rule and going with the cursed shopping cart, and it's been costing me.

Saturday, I came home with a jar of bacon bits. Nevermind that I had no lettuce, nothing with which to make a salad, nor anything else on which bacon bits could be used. They just looked good. This is a perfect microcosm of my grocery issues. By the way, I got Hormel real bacon bits, not imitation bits. That's important, somehow, for when I'm eating them out of my hand.

I failed to purchase milk because I thought I had some at home. Well, I did have some at home, only it had expired one day earlier. I'll drink it up to two days past expiration. After that, it's a crap shoot. No pun intended.

I also purchased a half loaf of bread. I always purchase a half loaf of bread. When I came home, I threw away my previous half loaf of bread which had expired about a week earlier, and of which I had only used five slices.

Five slices is probably the most I've used out of a loaf of bread in five years, and one of those I tore up and fed to a cat who has taken up residence beneath cars in the parking lot.

And don't even get me started on produce. It's good for two days, max. And when you're only going to the grocery store once every ten to fourteen days, that doesn't work so well. I've thrown away enough bananas over the years to feed every monkey in Malaysia.

Even when there is a product I'm absolutely sure I need, there are usually several options to choose from. There's skim milk, 1%, 2%, whole, and even something called half and half, which personally I find a bit offensive, but whatever.

With many items, there are name brands and store brands and generic brands. Depending on the item, the difference in quality may be great or it may be negligible. How's a bachelor to know?

And then there is tissue. To me, the issue of tissue comes down to one basic choice, comfort versus quantity. For a similar price, one may procure a 4-pack of durable 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott tissue, or a 4-pack of soft, velvety 300-sheets-per-roll Charmin Ultra.

Early on in my bachelorhood, I opted for the latter. They lure you in with commericials filled with clouds and feathers and teddy bears. But those tiny rolls run out fast! Pretty soon, you've got a two-pack-a-week habit. I felt like a chain smoker.

There are few things a bachelor hates more than leaving the house, er, going grocery shopping. So I changed philosophies to the more economical solution of quantity over comfort.

Let me tell you something, they shouldn't even be allowed to call that Scott stuff "tissue." It should be called construction paper on a roll, because that's what it is. It's a tad abrasive. I think it may be the same stuff they use to dry off elephants in the circus after they wash them.

Now I'm as rugged as the next guy, but we all have our limits. Needless to say, I'm back on the feather and cloud wagon, and my happy tail is back to buying a four-roll-pack a week.

Some might ask, "Bone, why not buy in bulk?" And to those I give a squinty-eyed look of confusion and say, "...Huh?"

I am Bone, the disorganized, disoriented shopper. Look for me in the frozen foods section of your favorite grocery store or supermarket. I'll most likely be wearing that same squinty-eyed look of confusion.

"I got rice cooking in the microwave. Got a three day beard I don't plan to shave..."

A man's couch is his castle

The first year and a half I lived away from home I had a roommate. It was the first time for both of us to be on our own. Each of us had a bed, a small TV, a chest of drawers, and that was pretty much it. We basically had nothing.

People don't really throw formal housewarmings where they shower you with gifts from the Martha Stewart home collection for single heterosexual guys. At least no one did for us. Then again, we didn't register anywhere, so maybe it was our fault.

My parents gave me their kitchen table and bought me a small microwave. I also received a plaque from my girlfriend's sister which read: "If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie." I proudly hung it over the toilet, though I still sprinkled occasionally. I think it was the only thing hanging on the walls in the apartment for, um, a lengthy and indefinite period of time.

Since we now had at least one piece of furniture in the kitchen and both bedrooms, that left only the living room remaining to be furnished. I put my 13-inch-TV and small TV stand in there. But still, the room seemed empty somehow, like something was missing.

Ah, yes. A place to sit. A couch, love seat, lawn chair, milk crate, something in that vein.

My favorite aunt happened to have an old couch in her basement which she gave to us. The edges of the cushions had begun to tear, but we didn't really care. Oh, and did I mention it was not exactly the manliest of colors?

The fabric consisted of a floral pattern largely made up of pastel pinks and greens. So there we were, two young, strapping, virile, well-dressed bachelors, welcoming guests into our home to sit on our pink and green couch. Look out, ladies.

Still, we were in no position to be picky. It was something to sit on, and we were thankful to have it. Thrilled, actually. At that time in my life, free used furniture seemed like about the best thing in the world.

I happened to have an old red bean bag which had seen it's better days that I placed in the living room as well. Now you might think that a bright red bean bag would clash with the soft pastels of the couch. And you would not be incorrect. But when you're first moving out, things like that really do not matter so much.

That feeling of being on your own, learning to make ends meet, discovering the culinary and financial advantages of Chef Boyardee and Ramen, running out of clean underwear for the first time in your life, those are priceless life lessons.

Priceless, not unlike a free pink and green couch.

"I hate coming home to this old broken down apartment. I wish I had a dime for every hole that's in the carpet..."

...But somebody's gotta do it

From Seinfeld episode #70, The Lip Reader:
Kramer: "Hey Jerry, do me a favor. The next time you see that lineswoman ask her how those ball boys get those jobs. I would love to be able to do that."
Jerry: "Kramer, I think perhaps you've overlooked one of the key aspects of this activity. It's ball boys, not ball men. There are no ball men."
Kramer: "Well, there ought to be ball men."

Lately, I've been considering looking for a new career. Or, as some might say, looking for a career. Obviously, my first choice would be to go from being the unpaid-disseminator-of-three-words to a well-paid-comfortably-living-writer. But what if that doesn't happen? I don't want to be sitting around in my mid-30's playing Nintendo and not knowing what I want to do with my life.

So I've been keeping my eyes open, and I've discovered there are a ton of fascinating career opportunities out there. And though I'm not quite sure how one would go about obtaining any of these jobs, let's look at a few now:

Career Option #1: Lindsay Lohan's driver

I was watching a VH-1 special this morning on the troubles of the voluptuous one. Now as I see it, the majority of Miss Lohan's legal troubles stem from driving under the influence.

Solution? Stop her from driving. And who better to drive around one of the great, misunderstood thespians of our time than yours truly?

The advantages would be tremendous. I'd live in California, could serve as both her father figure and trusted confidant, and in all likelihood I would be credited with helping to save her career and she would owe me big time.

Career Option #2: Commercial Lobster Fisherman

Last night, I was watching Lobster Wars on Discovery. Now I've heard people say this is a dangerous job requiring you to risk your life every single day. Friends, I risk my life everytime I sprint up and down the stairs in my apartment, running from whatever might be chasing me. Believe me, I've had a number of close calls!

Besides, not everyone on these boats are leaning over the railing risking their lives, right? I'm sure they have people who remain solidly in the center of the boat. Maybe I could work down in the hull, in the boiler room or something.

Wonder if I could get a note from my Mom. "Bone has a bit of an equilibrium problem. Please excuse him from hanging over the side of the boat and any other activities in which he might possibly die. Also, he dislikes loud noises and sometimes gets a tummy ache after he eats Mexican food." Wonder if that would work.

Career Option #3: Women's Pro Beach Volleyball Linesman

I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh on TV last weekend when the camera panned to this guy just standing at the corner of the court, signaling whether balls were in or out.

Where do I sign up! I could do that. I'm already sitting here in my underwear eating Doritos watching them. Why not put on my board shorts and watch them in person while getting some sun. Heck I could even apply sunscreen to the girls and get water for them during breaks in the action. I'm nothing if not a multi-tasker.

Don't discount this idea. Someone is doing this job right now. Why shouldn't it be me? They wouldn't even have to pay me.

Career Option #4: Sideline Cord & Wire Untangler

I go to a good number of college football games. Anytime the games are televised, there are several people who follow the camera operators and reporters around on the sidelines, holding their cords and keeping them straight.

I'm not sure what the prerequisites for this job would be, but I've always been good at getting shoe laces unknotted. I keep my garden hose coiled nicely when not in use, and I have braided a girl's hair before, in a standard, three-strand braid.

The benefits to this job would be tremendous. I'd get to travel around the country, take in a little football, and might even bump into Erin Andrews. Again, salary optional.

Career Option #5: Reality TV Show Star

This is probably the most obvious and natural career move for me to make. Here's the premise of the show. I would play the protege of a big-name celebrity, say for example, Scott Baio. The show could be called something catchy like, oh I don't know, Scott Baio Is 46 & A Mentor.

Scott would serve as my relationship mentor, with Nicole Eggert starring as my love interest. Since Scott is already unknowingly my relationship mentor, the transition would be seamless. Season one guest stars would include Henry Winkler and Willie Aames. Who wouldn't watch that!

There you have it, just a few of the career options stretched out before me on that vast horizon known as tomorrow. As you can see, the future looks bright for Bone.

"I study nuclear science. I love my classes. I got a crazy teacher. He wears dark glasses..."

Joe Namath, Mom, & Existential Questions

28 days until the first Alabama football game!

I suppose I have reached the point in my life where I have begun to ask myself certain questions. What is life? What is real? Who am I? How in the world is Jimmy Kimmel's talk show still on the air?

While we may never know the answer to that last one, today I want to focus on the Who Am I question. Or more precisely, why am I the way I am?

I have written before about my love for Crimson Tide football. And while I know this trait largely comes directly from my mother, I've never known where she got it. So this week I decided to ask her. Why does she love Alabama football, and who did she get it from?

Here, to the best of my recollection, is her answer in her words:

"I don't know. The earliest memory I have is watching them when Joe Namath was quarterback. I remember one year we lost to Tennessee and it tore me up. I was down in the floor crying and I remember Momma saying, 'Child, you don't need to let a football game affect you like that. Win or lose, the sun's gonna come up tomorrow.'

Sunday morning when I woke up, it was pouring down rain. And I knew then the sun doesn't come up when Alabama loses."

Indeed.

Oh, I would have asked her the Jimmy Kimmel question as well, but I'm pretty sure her answer would have been, "Jimmy who?" Mom flips back and forth between Letterman and Leno, and only knows Craig Ferguson as that "crazy man who looks like a gorilla."

Don't ask me. I don't analyze it, I just report it.

"From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll, Tide, Roll..."

Nine iron over the starboard side

I consider myself to be somewhat athletic. I try and go running at least two or three times a week, I've played on several slow-pitch softball teams over the years, I've bowled my share of 200+ games, etc. I enjoy sports, whether watching or participating. And I feel that with time and practice I've been able to become at least decent at every sport I've tried.

Every sport that is, except one.

An old joke says, "Golf is a four-letter word." Another says, "Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle."

Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I've ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.

When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone's front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.

I haven't been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.

Also, for some odd reason, I've had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?

I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.

I have a feeling the golf thing wasn't even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:

Buzz: "Dude, you're bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?"
Neil: "Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It's so barren and gray. Don't mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame."

And that US flag they brought? That wasn't some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.

(Yes, I'm aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)

So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.

But also, I've got the fever again. I'm back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.

Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.

One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.

"Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?"

The voice of a not-so-new generation

According to Wikipedia, my personal source for all things relevant and otherwise, Generation X refers to persons born between the years 1961 and 1981.

I've never cared for the term myself. For years, I didn't even know what it was supposed to mean. When I finally looked it up, I did not feel it described me well at all. Much like my high school code of conduct, I do not think it applies to me. So I set out to redefine, and rename, my generation.

It is a generation who purchased cassette singles and understood the emotional value of a mix tape; who generally have a great appreciation and longing for 80's music, television, and movies; who went to arcades to play video games; who know that Alf is from Melmac and Mork is from Ork; and who can scarcely remember a time when Vanna White was not on TV.

It saddens me to think the next generation will never know the utter joy of purchasing a cassette single. They'll never know the experience of listening to the B-side and hearing either a totally crap song, or a song you wind up liking better than the A-side. Heck, they may not even know what an A-side is.

Sure, spending $3.49 for one or two songs rather than $8.99 for the entire album might seem impractical. But with artists like Deon Estus, Sheriff, and Right Said Fred, you typically didn't want the whole album.

Also, when you were only making $3.85 an hour stocking shelves and collecting buggies at the grocery store, you knew that extra five bucks meant a meal at Taco Bell and two dollars gas to get you home.

It saddens me that the next generation may never know the thrill of having a numeric-only pager. There were no ringtones. Your only two options were tone or vibrate. And unlimited paging was $9.95 per month, also known as, the price of cool.

How will they survive never knowing what 143 means? Not to mention the life skills learned when you got a page followed by "911" and had to drive around and find a payphone to call the person back. I would venture a guess that a significant percentage of the population today have never even used a payphone. What a frightening thought.

It saddens me to think the next generation never got to enjoy Must See TV, the pinnacle of prime time television. To them, Cliff Huxtable, Alex P. Keaton, and Sam Malone are just characters dressed in out-of-style clothes that they might occasionally flip past on TVLand or Nick At Nite. They probably think Reality TV is good TV. Danny Tanner getting caught kissing DJ's teacher at school. That's good TV.

The Cosby Show, Newhart, Cheers, Growing Pains, Family Ties, The Hogan Family, Silver Spoons, Perfect Strangers, Who's The Boss, Head Of The Class, Charles In Charge, Night Court, and on and on--the 80's was the sitcom decade.

Wait a second... I think that's it!

Yes. That's it.

I, Bone, in front of God, bloggers everywhere, and bitter ex-girlfriends who lurk on my blog, do hereby coin the phrase, The Sitcom Generation.

We may be forced to watch reality TV, but that doesn't mean we have to like it. You can kill the sitcom, but you cannot kill us. Why? Because we learned how to obtain infinite lives on Super Mario Brothers.

Now if you'll excuse me, I believe VH-1 is about to replay the most recent episode of Scott Baio Is 45 & Single.

143 all.

"When did reality become TV? Whatever happened to sitcoms, game shows? And on the radio Springsteen, Madonna. Way before Nirvana, there was U2, and Blondie,
and music still on MTV..."

The next "first thing to go"

I am 34 years old. I wear glasses or contacts. My vision started going when I was in high school. My first pair of glasses were bright yellow gold and ugly, so I only wore them for a few months, then they broke. Accidentally, of course.

In college, my vision problems resurfaced. Anytime we had to copy notes off the board, I'd be forced to move from my typical seat near the back of the classroom to a chair near the front where I could see. In one class, there was a girl who always had to do the same thing, which made me feel better. I almost asked her out because I figured we shared some kind of warped cornea bond.

The thing about worsening vision is that it's typically so gradual, you don't realize it's happening. For the longest time, I just thought the blackboard looked blurry to everyone.

Zoom forward to 2007.

I was watching TV with a friend recently. The volume was so low that I could only understand like every sixth or seventh word. And only then if I strained. I kept waiting for my friend to turn up the volume, but it never happened. After a couple of minutes of unintelligible TV viewing, it hit me.

"Can you hear that?" I asked.

"Yeah. It's a little low, but I can hear it. Can you not?"

"Nope!"

And there it was, in black and white. Or more accurately, in mumbling and white noise. I guess this is what comes from wearing earphones for much of the past seventeen years. I'm losing my hearing.

Well that's just great!

First my vision. Then my memory. Then my knees started aching occasionally when I went running. And now this. I'm only 34 years old, for crying out loud. Kenny Rogers has wives older than me.

What's next? Crow's feet? My butt disappears? Enlarged prostate? I tell you one thing, if I start experiencing weak stream or incomplete emptying, I may be googling Kevorkian. Or at the very least, Wilfred Brimley.

In the meantime, maybe I should stop so thoughtlessly discarding those mail-outs I keep getting from the Scooter Store.

"What's the matter girl, well don't you think I'm bright enough? This old man had a hard time getting here. You can leave your number at the door..."

Banned in the USA?

I hope you all had a wonderful 4th of July. As I'm sure many of you surmised, I took the holiday off from 3WW. It will return next week.

These are the dog days of summer. No, they really are, literally. At least for those of us in the northern hemisphere, here on planet Earth.

I did enjoy the day off of work on Wednesday. Three day weekends are nice, but I think I could really get used to a four-day work week with every Wednesday off. Think about it. You'd work two days, be off one, work two days, be off two. It breaks up the monotony quite nicely. Monday would feel like Thursday. It's almost like not working at all. Let's see about getting that instituted.

This morning, I took my car to a trusted mechanic just to have it checked out. I have a few road trips upcoming, including the beach in eight days and Bama football games this fall. He said everything looked fine. So it wound up being $40. Forty dollars for peace of mind. If only I could bottle that up.

I spent much of Tuesday night and Wednesday at my sister's. She had two cookouts. The festivities included seeing my Dad get into a swimming pool for the first time in probably twenty years or more. That was both kinda cool and a bit odd.

Meanwhile, with no regard for my virgin skin, the summer sun turned my milky white back to bright shades of pinkish red. This happened after I decided to experiment with some SPF 4 sunscreen, as opposed to my usual SPF 15. I guess those numbers really do mean something after all.

As we were eating Wednesday, a phone started ringing. It sounded like a landline rather than a cell ringtone to me. It rang about five times, yet no one moved. Finally I looked around the table and asked suspiciously, "Am I the only one who hears that?"

Turns out it was my sister's husband's cell phone. He was outside at the time. It just had a bit of a deceptive ring, and apparently everyone knew it but me.

I didn't go to any fireworks shows this year, nor did I shoot any. There was a ban on certain fireworks around here due to the lack of rain. Not wanting to risk committing another felony, I decided to spend my money on Sun Drops and barbecue fried pork skins.

But really, a ban on fireworks? Isn't this America, land of the free, home of the M-80's? Next thing you know, they'll be trying to stop high-ranking government officials from doling out pardons left and right to friends who have been convicted of committing high crimes.

Please. Not in my country.

Ever since the very first Fourth of July celebration in 1777, Americans have been shooting fireworks. Although I'm not sure exactly what fireworks they had back then. Probably just some snap and pops. Oh, and I'm sure they had Ben Franklin come and do his little kite trick. But that probably got old after thirty or forty times.

Fireworks should never be banned in America. Every child should get to experience the thrill of holding a bottle rocket as it launches, or having a firecracker go off in their hand. The burning. The pain. The numbness. The ringing in your ear. The temporary uncertainty of what just happened.

I'm sorry, but you just can't simulate those feelings with some Tony Danza-hosted fireworks spectacular on television. Well, except for maybe the numbness. But I think that had more to do with Tony Danza than anything else.

"Oh let's go, let's strike a light. We're gonna blow like dynamite. I don't care if it takes all night, gonna set this town alight..."

What's my age again?

Happy birthday, LiLo!

Recently, a blogger friend of mine inherited something worth far more than rubies or pearls. She received an Xbox. So as she relayed to me the joys of playing Tiger Woods Golf and beating the likes of Stuart Appleby and Stewart Cink, I began to get the fever.

I considered renting Tiger Woods Golf, but then the thought of a 34-year-old man renting a video game crossed my mind, and I decided that's just not the public image I want to present.

So instead, I hooked up my old Nintendo. That's the original NES, with the familiar, classic two-button pad controller. And I began playing Tecmo Super Bowl.

So far I'm 13-0 in the 1991 NFL Season playing with the Dallas Cowboys. Emmitt Smith was kicking tail, leading the league in rushing until he got injured two weeks ago. Hopefully, he'll make it back soon. If not, that could really put a damper on our run to Super Bowl XXVI. Alonzo Highsmith is just not getting it done as his backup.

Anyway, these past couple of days (yes, you can play 13 games in two days, relatively easily) has brought back some great memories. Sore thumbs, 8-bit graphics, and having to blow on the game cartridge repeatedly when it blue screens. I never really understood how that worked, but it always does.

I feel like I'm 13 again. And in a sense, I probably am.

"No one should take themselves so seriously. With many years ahead to fall in love, why would you wish that on me? I never want to act my age. Whats my age again..."

The gravitational pull of H2O

Blogging away while wondering if the Runner's World magazine I bought at Wal-Mart Sunday night somehow cancels out the Soap Opera Weekly I also purchased...

I am convinced that in the summertime, heat mixes with water causing a chemical reaction which actually gives the water a stronger gravitational pull than that of the land it divides.

Now you won't find this in any standard textbook and there's no Pythagorean Theorem or anything like that for it, but I am persuaded that it is true. (I hope to get my theory added to the Wikipedia entry for "water" soon.) Evidence can be seen in the hordes of people found at lakes, rivers, pools, beaches, water parks, swimming holes, and the like.

And so, I am drawn to the water. Saturday, I went over to my sister's to swim in her above ground pool. And by swim, I mean, lie on a float and allow the sun to deflower my tender, milky white skin.

The deck they are building alongside the pool is about half finished. And that's a good thing, because at first my sister's husband would back his truck up to the edge of the pool so that they could get in and out. I don't want to jinx anything, but we're hoping they'll make the 2008 You Might Be A Redneck If... calendar.

Little Joe, Wolfgang, and I made another trip to Kinlock on Sunday. I don't really understand the appeal of Kinlock to Wolfgang. He can't swim and he won't jump off the rocks. The odd thing is, more times than not, it's his idea to go to Kinlock.

Sunday, he slid down the falls one time, climbed out and sat on a rock for the rest of the time we were there. He seems to enjoy it though. I think the transition to senility will be a smooth one for him.

The two of them are going to New York later this year. Wolfgang was telling me about the place they'll be staying. Apparently, they have to share a bathroom with other guests. Sounds like maybe a hostel to me, but they never called it that. LJ overheard us.

LJ: "I told you Bone wouldn't like that idea at all."
WG: "What do you mean? He didn't say he didn't like it."
LJ: "Did you not see that fear of death look on his face when you told him we'd be sharing a shower with other people?"

True, that situation doesn't really mesh well with my Lysol-spraying, Vitamin C-taking, germophobic lifestyle. I just found it amusing that LJ knew that and wondered how and when picked up on that part of my personality.

I also discovered that LJ has an even worse agedar than I do. While Wolfgang and I were surmising the age of one of the girls there Sunday, LJ overheard us and stated disgustedly, "She's twelve!"

The girl had a tattoo on her lower back and later we saw her smoking a cigarette. So that would have to make her at least, what, fourteen? Pfft. Shows what you know, LJ. Still, I'm unsure if the tramp stamp cigarette defense would hold up in court.

In other Bachelors Gone Wild news, Sunday night at Wal-Mart I came across something in frozen foods that made me wonder if I hadn't slipped on the newly waxed floor, cracked my head open, and ascended to the heavens above: Patio burritos... 33 cents each! Oh my heavens! I got three! I like to melt a slice of American cheese on top of mine in the microwave.

Meanwhile, the water continues to beckon. Jamie called last night to see if I wanted to go to the city pool with her tonight. And Wolfgang, Little Joe, and I are planning a trip to the beach next month.

Ah yes, the ocean. The strongest gravitational pull of all.

"It's two bare feet on the dashboard, young love in an old Ford. Cheap Shades and a tattoo and a Yoo-Hoo bottle on the floorboard..."

Ten years ago Tuesday...

Ten years ago this past Tuesday, I got down on my knees and asked someone I loved if she would share her life with me.

She was sitting in the floor of my bedroom, working on a jigsaw puzzle. And had been mostly oblivious when I pushed play on a cassette I had cued up to the beginning of "our" song.

When I knelt down, she looked up from what she was doing. Before I could utter words, she saw the tiny red box in my trembling hand. Her tears preceded her answer.

I wrote this a couple of years after we broke up, long before I even knew what a blog was. It's raw and unedited and just as I wrote it then.

Oh, and we never finished the puzzle.

-----------------------

Even though people may think about dying, they always think they have more days left to live. And even though in the back of their minds, people know life has to end somewhere, they act and live as if it just goes on and on. That's how it was for me with Lily. I never thought for one moment that we would ever not be together.

It was just like life. I would wake up and Lily would be in my life. I would go to sleep and Lily would be in my life. In the back of your mind, you know that either you will marry this person or you will have to say good-bye, but I never thought which of those two ends we would come to.

Even when I decided to propose to Lily, I cannot explain it, but I never thought a whole lot about being married. That is not the best way to word it, for I did want to marry her someday, but I do not know how else to say it.

After we were allowed to see each other freely, our relationship quickly began having its ups and downs. There were still plenty of fun times, but I do not think many of them were ever as wonderful as the days when we could not see each other.

More than anything, there are moments in time, places and things that I remember about Lily. One strange thing that I discovered is that when you use a payphone somewhere, then whenever you pass that phone again, you always remember the time when you used it, what you used it for, and even a bit of how you felt when you used it. I suppose that is an observation that seems to come from nowhere. But I think that it is true.

It is like a song. There are certain songs that when you hear them, you remember a particular time you heard them, what you were doing, who you were with, and how you felt. And for a brief moment, a song or a payphone can bring back a past feeling. They can make you happy when you are feeling sad. Or they can bring back a melancholy feeling and make you lonely.

Sometimes I think we live our lives either yearning for the past and something that we can never recreate, or longing for the future and something that we never quite attain. And some people will say that we should only live today.

But I think that today is only yesterday's future and tomorrow's past. And life is only made up of all the days of our past and our future. And we mainly yearn for the bigger part of it. The young long for the future, and the old for the past. And I do not think that remembering, or thinking about, or longing for anything or anytime that made you happy could ever be wrong.

If I was the horrible one in the last months of our relationship, it was Lily that was more difficult in the early days. I remember she would be very moody and sometimes jealous and sometimes just hard to get along with. But unlike my actions, most of this probably could be blamed on immaturity, since she was only seventeen or eighteen during these times.

I would have given anything for her just to be happy, and for us not to ever have any problems or difficult times. It was my reasoning at that time that she was somewhat insecure and that the way to solve all our problems would be to buy her a diamond ring and ask her to marry me.

Another reason I proposed is because of something one of my aunt's had said one evening when we were all at my parents' house. She probably said it in passing, but she had always been my favorite aunt. The subject of Lily came up, and my aunt said, "You know, she'd make you a good wife." Or something to that effect. It was something that always stuck with me.

Sometimes people say things in passing, but the affect they have on the listener is great. Another time I remember talking with someone I greatly respected. I was talking about being unhappy with my job. And he said something to the effect of "well there are always people who will hire you" or "you can always find work." And soon afterward, I quit my job. And it was not easy to find work.

Lily and I had been together for two years now, and although my rational side told me to wait a little longer till she got along in college, my emotional side decided to propose.

I remember I was supposed to see Lily the day that I purchased her ring. I had my heart set on a heart-shaped diamond solitaire. The size really did not matter too much, except for the fact that she had a small, petite hand, and I had been told once by a jeweler that a very large ring would not look right on her hand.

I had to call at least three or four places before I found a jewelry store that had a heart-shaped solitaire, and the store that did only had one. So I decided to take what they had. It was my only choice, other than to wait.

I went to look at the ring and it was really beautiful, and I was sure Lily would think so too. I just remember thinking how happy this would make her and that all our problems would be solved and that we would be in love forever. I was so happy.

After purchasing the ring, I had to decide how I was going to propose. I remember once when I was at her house, I showed her mother the ring. She liked it and said she was sure Lily would like it as well.

Even though her parents had not agreed with our relationship at first, they had accepted it by now and I always thought well of her mother, and I think she thought well of me. Although we never really talked about it that much. I do not think I showed anyone else the ring ever, even my parents did not see it I do not think, before I gave it to Lily.

Looking back, I think that it felt like we were engaged from the first time we were together. We would always talk about forever, and I never thought about dating another girl and I am sure she never thought of being with someone else either. For although there are many things I do not know or understand about Lily, even to this day, I do know that she loves with all that she has, and that I could trust her always. That is something that is hard to find.

She loved the way that one should love, with all her heart, and all her being. And even though she has faults like everyone does, her love is true and strong and precious and should be treasured more than all the money and gold and diamonds in the universe. I know this now, sadly, looking back.

I knew that she would be surprised that I had decided to propose to her, for we never really went shopping for a ring. And although we would write in cards and letters about how we would love each other forever, there was nothing to indicate that I was about to propose. The proposal was original I guess, if quite simple.

I knew that it would not matter. For even though every girl says that she wants a boy to surprise her like no one has ever been surprised before, most of the good ones are completely happy no matter how they receive it.

Lily was no different. She was as happy I guess as I ever saw her that night. We called friends, went to see friends, called our families, and celebrated our love.

From that high, I guess we had no where to go but down.

Will Neuter For Plinko Chips

When I was but a boy of eight or nine, probably up until the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was not overly fond of school. There may have been a few times when I even feigned sickness in an attempt to get Mom to let me stay home.

Home meant bed and snacks and television. The Bozo Show. The Price is Right at 10. Family Feud with Richard Dawson at 11. And then Ryan's Hope kicking off the ABC soap block at 11:30.

Bozo died. (I'm sorry kids, but it's true.) Richard Dawson left Family Feud. And Ryan's Hope went off the air in 1989. Only one has endured: Bob Barker and The Price Is Right.

The man and the show are as inseparable as a maestro and his baton. Bob Barker is an American icon. Long before there was Vanna White, there were Barker's beauties. He single-handedly introduced "plinko" into the American vernacular for crying out loud. And who among us hasn't wished to hear our name uttered before that most famous of phrases, "Come on down, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right!"

Barker was the first popular game show host to let his hair go gray. Leading by example, he taught us to pick and choose our battles and causes close to our heart. He didn't try to solve all the world's problems, instead choosing to focus on controlling the pet population.

Around our house, if you were home at 10 in the morning, you watched The Price Is Right. That's just what you did. It seems like there would always be some college student on there from San Diego or USC. And the cars they'd give away would have California tags. And I'd think about California and what a sunny, exciting, exotic place it must be.

Even though I haven't had the chance to watch the show much in recent years, there was always something very comforting knowing that it was still on every Monday thru Friday. Knowing that people were still playing Hole-In-One, The Range Game, Three Strikes, and Cliff Hangers, and spinning the big wheel.

Barker began hosting The Price Is Right September 4, 1972, five months and eight days before a certain blogger you know made his grand entrance into the world kicking and screaming.

For my entire life, Bob Barker and The Price Is Right have been on TV. But now, like everything else, that too is coming to an end. Barker has announced his retirement and his last episode is scheduled to air June 15. So pardon me if I wax nostalgic. It feels like part of my childhood is being lost.

The show will go on, but don't think for a second that it will ever be the same. Barker effortlessly commanded the audience and controlled the show skillfully and smoothly. He became as important to the show as the big wheel, yet never in a way that was over-bearing or took away from the game itself.

I predict that after awhile, ratings will inevitably drop. They'll probably change hosts again. At some point, they'll try to boost interest by altering the rules of the game, or maybe giving the set a snazzier look.

That's one of the things I found so endearing about The Price Is Right, though. The set and colors have changed so little over the years. Sure, it may look a little dated, but again it's sort of comforting.

I hate change, but everything changes. And after June 15, something that has existed as long as I've been alive will be gone. There'll be a new host and the show will go on, but to me, the price will never be exactly right again.

And for Bob's sake, people, have your pets spayed or neutered.

"And in the streets the children screamed, the lovers cried, and the poets dreamed. But not a word was spoken. The church bells all were broken..."

Winds of the past

Sunday was Decoration Day at the cemetery where most of my mother's family are buried. It is located two dirt roads off the nearest paved road, set on the tiniest of hills amongst a grove of trees and encompassed entirely by a chain link fence. It is surrounded on all sides by open fields, with no houses or other structures within at least a quarter-mile.

When the birds are singing and the wind rustles thru the trees, it is one of the most peaceful places I know. It's a haunting, chilling, yet calming wind, as if the past is speaking.

Three of my uncles, one aunt, two grandparents, and two great-grandparents lie there. Along with distant cousins, great aunts and uncles, and other relatives, many I don't remember or never met.

Decoration is a day set aside each year for families and loved ones to come and place flowers and other memorials on the gravesites of the departed. It is most often held on a Saturday or Sunday in May or early June. The specifics vary from cemetery to cemetery.

Some cemeteries have a memorial service and a speaker on Decoration Day. Some even serve dinner afterward. Others have a more informal gathering of family and friends. Some churches also hold special Decoration services.

Many cemeteries hold a cleanup day a week or so before Decoration. Volunteers come to mow, rake, landscape, and clean the grounds, and often remove old flowers from the graves.

I remember one of my uncles going every year to mow the grass, weed the graves, and put mulch or rocks around them. Now, he lies there, too. And younger uncles have taken over that responsibility.

Everytime I vist, I can't believe how long it has been since my grandmother passed. A little over fifteen years now. In my mind, I'm reaching out to grab it, but it just keeps getting further and further away.

There are graves that seem to have been untouched, and I imagine unvisited, for many years. That always pulls at my heart. And I wonder about them. Did they not live just the same, were they not just as valuable as all these others?

I wonder if my loved ones will ever wind up like that. As generations pass on and on and on, are we all eventually forgotten?

Thousands of dollars are spent each year on Decoration Day, as many of the gravesites are renewed with beautiful flowers and colorful arrangements. But Decoration is not just about flowers to me. It's about family. It's about remembering those who have passed, and reminding myself where I came from.

I see people at Decoration I don't see any other time of the year. Sunday, I saw my 82-year-old great uncle who I haven't seen in probably three or four years. He was standing next to my mother. She's about 5 feet tall, and he looked to be three or four inches shorter than her.

He was hobbling around with a walking stick. He has a bad hip and a bad this and a bad that. He's very hard of hearing, and doesn't recognize as many faces as he used to. But every year, he buys flowers and decorates the graves of his mother, his brother, and his sister's three infant children.

That's Decoration Day.

It's part of my heritage and it's part of me. A part I don't want to let go of. Sometimes it feels like my generation--my sister and I, my first cousins, and their children--is letting go. Like we're losing something valuable. Something that cannot be reclaimed.

As I was leaving Sunday, creeping down the dry, dusty road, I took one last look at the little cemetery on the hill. So colorful. So quiet and peaceful. The little grove of trees providing shade. The winds of the past continuing to blow, beckoning...

"Some days the sky's so blue, I feel like I can talk to you. And I know it might sound crazy..."

How I Roll: All that's gold doesn't glitter

(This is part three in a series.)

After driving a 1984 Ford Escort with louvers, one might think that, vehicle-wise, there was nowhere to go but up.

One would be wrong.

Enter the gold 1985 Chevy Cavalier. Yes, I said gold.

To this day, why anyone would purchase a gold vehicle eludes me. The only possible reason I've ever been given is that gold cars don't show dirt as much.

I've seen a lot of car commercials in my time. They talk about horsepower and miles per gallon, and safety ratings, and towing capacity. I don't ever recall a single commercial including the line "it also comes in gold, which doesn't show dirt."

I mean, do we really want to start basing our buying decisions in this country on this principle? If that's the case, why not have women wear rust-colored wedding dresses? But I digress.

So there I am, age seventeen, cruising around in a gold, four-door 1985 Cavalier. Oh yes, it was a four-door. Convenient when you're starting a family. Not so much when you're a senior in high school and trying to get girls to date you.

There are places in this world--Luxembourg, the highlands of Iceland, and some tribes in Malaysia, to name a few--where if you send your child to school driving a four-door gold-colored car, they will arrest you and take your children away. And that's how it should be everywhere. No amount of therapy can ever erase those scars.

The Cavalier was my second and final hand-me-down. As a general rule, if anyone gives you a car, it's probably not going to be a top of the line high-performance vehicle. That's why in the classifieds, you'll see ads for things like a 1976 Vega that doesn't run for $200. People are still trying to get something for it.

Still, I had high hopes at first. The Cavalier had been my Mom's car, so I figured it had to be better than what I'd been driving.

It was not loaded. As a matter of fact, I would say it was the opposite of loaded, whatever that would be called. Manual locks, manual windows, no cruise control, no cassette player, etc.

It was also a four-cylinder, or at least at some point during its existence had been. By the time I finished driving it, I think it was closer to two-and-a-half or three cylinders.

I got my first taste of the Cavalier's power, or lack thereof, just a couple of weeks after I began driving it. After a party one night, two girls who had left about the same time as me, pulled up beside me as if they wanted to race. So I floored it.

We were even for a few seconds. Then the Cavalier topped out... at 78 miles per hour. There I was, pedal to the metal, watching two girls in my senior class leaving me behind. They slowed down and when we got to the next red light, they were laughing. I was not.

I continued to drive the Cavalier--but did not race it anymore--most of my freshman year in college, where I commuted about 50 minutes one way. One spring day on my way home from school, the car started smoking, and sputtering worse than normal. I stopped and called Dad from a payphone. He came and followed me home, slowly. And I did not drive the Cavalier much longer after that.

"I parked my car beside the highway and I didn't lock the doors. Left a note there with the keys. If it cranks, well friend, she's yours..."

52:45

I survived my second-ever 10K race Saturday. The weather was perfect. Cool temperatures, a little inspiration, and a high-carb pasta dinner the night before all added up to a perfect storm, if you will, allowing me to shave more than seven minutes off my time from last year.

I've spent the past two days ingesting Tylenol and apologizing to my quads. My new low-impact, low-to-the-ground running style is tough on the thighs. Still, I was nowhere near as sore as I was after last year's race. It's amazing what a little training will do.

Now for you numerologists out there. (You know who you are.) My time of 52:45 was 7 minutes and 14 seconds faster than last year's. What time did I post my blog entry Friday in which I mentioned the race? 7:14. Coincidence? There are no coincidences. Only a carefully planned string of days and events leading to our eventual demise.

Anyway, back to the less important stuff. I finished 104th out of 192 participants this year. And much like last year when I came in 152nd, there are no awards for 104th place, either. No "Most Improved From Last Year" trophy. No "34-Year-Old With The Best Taut Pre-Teen Swedish Boy Body" statuette. No "Top Finishing Bloggers" category. (Although I really think there should be one for that. Maybe I'll mention it.)

As I mentioned Friday, I had loosely set a goal of running a 9 minute mile pace. When I reached the one mile mark Saturday, the timecheck guy called out 9:05. I thought to myself, I've got to pick it up a bit. I also thought, people actually run that in four minutes?!?! Geesh!

Almost to the two-mile mark, I came up on a fellow bandana-wearing runner. I surpassed him while thinking, So long Navy Bandana Guy. White Bandana rules! I reached the two-mile timecheck in 17:53. I had picked up the pace! (And by pace, I don't mean salsa.)

As a race goes on, I begin to look for other runners who seem to be close to my pace. It's sort of like if you're on a long trip, you find a car that seems to be traveling at a good speed to follow on the interstate. Or maybe it's not like that at all.

Nevertheless, between miles two and three, I spotted Green Shirt Hottie. Her ponytail swished back and forth with each stride she took. It was a bit hypnotic. She was probably thirty yards ahead of me, which meant she was running under a 9 minute pace. And she seemed to be passing several people, so I decided to speed up a bit and keep up with her.

I reached the three-mile mark in 26-something and the four-mile mark in 35-something. Still on a sub-nine minute pace. My side started acting like it wanted to cramp, but I pressed on, and it went away.

Shortly after the four-mile mark, I blew by some man who looked to be at least seventy-five. You've had your day, old timer. Harry Truman can't save you now. White Bandana rules! Let's not even get into the fact that he was ahead of me up until this point.

With about half a mile to go, I felt good, all things considered. So I began to pick up my pace and passed several people, including Green Shirt Hottie. Farewell, fair maiden. And shall our paths never cross again, vaya con dios.

The race finishes on an oval track. When I got my first glimpse of the clock, it was at 51-something. I was pleasantly surprised. My time averaged out to an 8:30 pace.

I ran into a friend after the race. This conversation ensued:
"I didn't get here in time to see you finish, but my Dad said he saw you."
"Oh really."
"Yeah, he said Bone's got a handkerchief on his head."

See? I told ya. White Bandana rules!

The two-hour 24 season finale is tonight, which I know makes many of you happy, albeit perhaps for different reasons.

"Oh how I hope that you're happy. I hear you're somewhere in the sand. And how I wish I was an ocean. Maybe then, I'd get to see you again..."