Let them eat cake!

As I was preparing to exfoliate the unnecessary details from my weekend and prepare a tasty little blog casserole for you, it struck me that I attend a high number of toddler birthday parties.  You know, for a man. With no kids.

Anyway, first things first.  Saturday morning, I managed to complete a 10-kilometer run.  Which I now prefer to refer to as ten thousand meters.  It just sounds farther.  (Ooo, one million centimeters!  Even better.)  I've also been singing the "I would walk five hundred miles" song, substituting "have run" for "would walk", "ten thousand" for "five hundred," and "meters" for "miles."  A couple more changes and it'll be completely unrecognizable.

I finished in 51:58, which isn't my best.  But it also isn't my worst, and as is always my #1 goal in these races, I didn't die.  (#2 is getting my name in the local paper.  What?  I need attention.  I come by it honest.)

There was no trophy this year, as I am 39 and at the upper end of my age group.  But next year, when I reach that age-which-shall-not-be-spoken, I'll be the young whippersnapper in my classification.  This year, I was racing against guys with names like Corey, Trey, and Dustin.  But, next year, I'll be going against guys named Dean, Barry, and Stanley -- guys who have lived, guys who have more than likely had at least one prostate exam.  And the way I figure, I'll be like the just-turned-50-year-old who goes out on the Senior PGA Tour for the first time.  I'll be dominating the dojo.  So to speak.

After a nap so short it's an insult to even call it a nap, it was off to Nashville.  Yes, my spring social season is in full swing, and Saturday was my friends' daughter's first birthday party.  As I stated earlier, I've attended quite a few of these, so I know the drill -- cake, presents, seven thousand pictures, and copious amounts of hand sanitizer.

As a matter of fact, I've become such a pro at these things, I could probably hire myself out to attend them.  Actually, now that I think about it -- strange, childless man at a toddler's birthday party -- maybe that's not such a great idea.

Anyway, even a seasoned pro like myself was a bit taken aback by one hiccup that did occur.  This happened when the mom scolded one of the "kids" for trying to eat one of the cupcakes:  "No!  Not yet!  Can't you wait five more minutes?  I have to get a picture of the table first! "

Yes, because that's what the party is all about -- pictures of decorations.  And good heavens, we'd already been there for nearly two hours.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep some of these kids entertained for that long?  I know I wasn't there five minutes before I was playing on my phone.

I think I have to side with the kid on this one.  And did she really have to yell?  That kinda hurt my feelings.  I mean... his feelings.

Thankfully, the rest of the party went fairly smoothly.  Well, except for the grill catching ablaze.  But perhaps that will be another ingredient, in another blog casserole.  You know, if you didn't catch it on the local news.

And in case you're wondering, that poor, downtrodden, reprobate kid did finally get his cupcake, as well as an extra Capri-Sun for his trouble. (Actually, he punched a hole clear through the back of his first one.  I could never do those things right!)

"But I would walk five hundred miles / And I would walk five hundred more / Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door..."

...and holding

The passing of another year in one's life is met with a variety of feelings and reactions, often largely dependent on what particular year it happens to be.  Well, this particular year happened to be the big one for me.

No, not that big one.  That's next year.  But as I can't promise I won't be under 24-hour psychiatric care by then...

Now if you think I'm going to sit here and ramble on about getting old or the blinding speed of the passing of time, and that I'm gonna be all pensive and self-wallowing, well then, I must say, you know me quite well.  Frighteningly well, as a matter of fact.  It's actually making me a bit uncomfortable.  Stop it.

Thirty-nine arrived this past weekend.  And I turned and ran like a little girl. I'm so not ready for this.

When I think of thirty-nine, I think of a guy with a beer belly who's out of shape and helps coach his kid's little league team, but really has no clue what he's doing, and besides, his kid isn't even interested in baseball and would rather be in band but he continues forcing him into sports.  No one in particular, just a general guy.

It just sounds so... grown-up.  So... not me.  And yet, it is me.  There's nothing I can do about it.  I mean, if Ponce de Leon couldn't find the Fountain of Youth, what chance do I have?  Although with GPS technology being what it is these days... Hmm.

Anyway, I celebrated -- or more aptly, commemorated -- the occasion by having dinner in Nashville on Saturday night with friends.  We ate at a Mexican restaurant called Tito's.  Then I closed out the evening by singing their baby girl to sleep.  My friends', not the restaurant owners'.

Sunday was spent with family, a blessing I treasure more and more as the years continue to pass.  It nearly freaks me out every time we're out to eat and Mom orders off the senior menu.  My Mom!?  In my mind, she should still be forty.

How did this happen?  Where did my thirties go?  For that matter, where did my twenties go?  And are they now in the same place comparing notes and saying things to each other like, "Really?  He did the exact same thing when he was with me."

I know all the platitudes.  Life begins at, er, after thirty-nine.  Thirty-nine is the new twenty-nine, or whatever.   But I, for one, happened to like the old twenty-nine just fine.  In fact, I've made a unilateral decision:  I will not be having any more birthdays.

Allow me to clarify.  I'll still be accepting presents, I'll just no longer be counting years.

And heaven help the person who dares put an ad in the paper next year with a photo of Baby Bone that says "Lordy Lordy, Bone is..."  Well, you know.

Anyway, I thank you for allowing me to freak out a bit as I prepare to approach that age which shall forever remain unspoken.  Thus begins my attempt to ward off a crisis of the mid-life variety which, by some acounts, may have already begun.  That should make for some fun blog posts in the coming year, wouldn't you say?

I figure at best, I'll continue to age gracefully and achieve my goal of being the youngest 39-year-old you know.  At worst, I'll go kicking and screaming every step of the way, torturing myself daily with the question of what have I done with my life, and maybe wind up with my own Scott-Baio-Is-45-&-Single-esque reality show.  Or at least, some good meds. 

Either way, I realize that someday we'll look back on this -- yes, even this -- with wistful heart and older eyes.

"She said, you're pretty good with words, but words won't save your life.  And they didn't, so he died..."

Decemberists at the Ryman (8/6/11)

I was late to the Decemberists party. Then again, I'm late to a lot of things. Most times I'm just thankful (and slightly amazed) when I manage to arrive at all. When I saw they were playing at the Ryman -- quite possibly my favorite venue -- it seemed I was destined to go.

But then, I realized none of my friends around here like and/nor have even heard of the Decemberists. For crying out loud, a few weeks ago at a minor league baseball game, Wolfgang revealed he'd never heard of the group Chicago. Anyway, weeks turned to months and as the date approached I had resigned myself to skipping the concert. Until...

I was surprised with a pair of tickets!!!

And just like that I was on my way to see the Decemberists. In August. At the Ryman. I was more excited than Rob Schneider when a new Adam Sandler movie is announced. OK, maybe not more, but just as.

Any trip to the Music City for me frequently includes a stop at my absolute favorite barbecue place in the world -- Famous Dave's in Franklin. I know it may not seem very trendy to choose a chain restaurant as one's favorite, but this is different. Trust me. I'm from the South. If there's two things I know, it's barbecue and sweet tea. Also, fried pork skins. OK, three things.

I've made the two hour drive more than once just to eat at Famous Dave's. The food (and sweet tea) and service have been exceptional every single time. (If you're reading, Dave, I'm open to an endorsement deal.) The only -- and I do mean only -- problem I have is that their sweet water catfish may be even better than the barbecue. But then, Dave must have foreseen this would happen. That's why he gave us the combination plate.

They also have some pretty cool t-shirts for sale. I almost bought this one:



But then I tried to imagine wearing that out in a social setting, and, well, I figure I already have enough trouble trying to appear "normal" at kids' birthday parties.

On to the show, there was evidently a Keith Urban concert in town the same night, which made traffic a lovely exercise in hand gestures and honking. And there was no sign of Nicole Kidman.

The opening act was Caitlin Rose, whom I'd heard of but never heard. She was good, enough so that I made it a point to check her out on iTunes later. She played a short set, probably five or six songs. One of the songs she sang entirely with the mic turned off, enhancing the vulnerability in her voice, as it wafted over the pews, up to the ceiling and stained-glass windows of the old place.

The Decemberists came on stage after a quirky recorded introduction befitting them by the mayor of their hometown, Portland, Oregon. They opened the show with "Oceanside" and followed that up with my favorite song of theirs, "Down By The Water." That was extremely cool to hear live, though it did not quite ascend to the level of hearing Counting Crows do a "A Long December" live at the Ryman, which ranked as the #1 highlight of my life for the year 2009.

It's possible music affects me entirely too much.

One of the first things you notice about the Decemberists is that this is most definitely a live band. The show is high energy, the musicianship flawless, and the sound far exceeds what you hear on the CD.

I'm not sure what genre the Decemberists are considered. According to Wikipedia, they are "indie folk rock." There's definitely some folk there -- Colin Meloy's lyrics are almost more poet than songwriter. Whatever you label it, Meloy's voice sounds as if it were created for the sole purpose of singing it.

I don't remember the entire set list, but I know they did "We Both Go Down Together," "Rox In The Box," "Calamity Song," "This Is Why We Fight" and the most surprising song of the night, a cover of "Folsom Prison Blues."

They came out for two encores. The first of which included the crowd-participatory "Mariner's Revenge." They closed the evening with "June Hymn."

My only minor disappointment in the show is that they performed neither "January Hymn" nor "O Valencia," even though some guy kept yelling for the latter at every opportunity. And no, it was not me. Although if I'd thought of it...

Did I mention I love going to concerts at the Ryman? The acoustics are outstanding. Plus, it is the quintessential not-a-bad-seat-in-the-house venue.

Though you should know before you go that the Ryman was originally a church -- the Union Gospel Tabernacle. I thought this was common knowledge, but apparently it is not. Therefore, the seats are literal church pews, unpadded. I'll admit, it has a way of inspiring you to stand up and get into the show a bit more.

Ah, but there's something sacrosanct about the old lady. Rising above Lower Broadway. Unchanging for all those years. Maybe that's one reason I like the Ryman so much. I hate change. I hate when old stores or buildings shut down or are torn down, and all that's left are reminders of what was, and worse, what isn't anymore.

Then again, there's probably an old codger somewhere, around 103-years-old, lamenting the days when the Ryman was still a church.

"But oh, if I could only get you oceanside, to lay your muscles wide, it'd be heavenly..."

"The summer swells anon..."

Summer swelters on, but I can already feel it leaving. It's nothing in the air, just the having been here before and knowing the shorter days always seem to be hurrying August away almost before it arrives.

I kept thinking it was October yesterday. I even typed "October 5th" on something. Not sure why I was confused. Perhaps it was the nasty freak (not to be confused with Freak Nasty) storm that passed through early Thursday morning, knocked out power, and kept temperatures at an almost-autumn-like lower 80's. Or it could be I was getting Blogust and Blogtober confused. Any explanation is better than admitting my mind isn't as sharp as it once was.

It's twenty-eight days until the first Saturday of college football. I've been counting down since about day one hundred.

I was on the phone with my sister yesterday. She's been looking online for season tickets for us. Before long, she drifted to other topics, such as how she's taken up buying and repainting old furniture, and how much she loves her new iPad. Then I hear Nephew Bone start to cry in the background. As she says, "Let me go," there's the slightest hint of exasperation in her voice. But I'm smiling as I hang up the phone, thinking that's the good stuff in life.

For now, I'm off. In the midst of a three-concerts-in-eight-days span, which is just blowing the mind of my inner hermit. Tonight, it's the Decemberists in Nashville. And just a reminder: Next week is the 4th annual NaBloSoFroDraWe.

In the meantime, the summer swelters on. But that's OK. I could always stand the heat more than the cold.



"You're gonna miss this. You're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast..."

Snow, patrol

I'm not sure wherefore to beginneth today. Dost I tellest thou about my latest run-in with the law (yes, I'm serious), or my real-life Christmas movie moment?

I'm guessing you want the deets on my most recent legal troubles first. So here goes. It was Friday night and we were putting up my Christmas tree. Or as they say on the streets, laying down evergreen on a vertical tip. I had TSO blasting at a moderate level of 7 on my Phillips 10-inch SFS's (street slang for Standard Factory Speakers).

Next thing I know, fuzz be ringin' my doorbell again. And by "again," I mean, "for the first time in ages". Apparently, the neighbors complained that the music was too loud and they were trying to sleep. On Friday night. At 10 PM. "I'll take care of this," I said to the popo. Then I promptly went straight over to the stereo and cut the volume down to an only-dogs-can-hear-it volume of 3.

If you're keeping score, or just entering data into my personal criminal record, that's two confrontations with police in the last three weeks -- one "following too closely" and one "disturbing the peace."

Basically, I'm the bad boy of the blogosphere. I just hope they have Wi-Fi in the hoosegow, because that's obviously where I'm headed.

PART DEUX

Sunday afternoon, I attended the TSO concert in Nashville. It was another phenomenal show. TSO is one of those groups that, when you see them live, makes you want to become a musician. And they must have brought the weather with them from Siberia because Nashville wound up getting two to three inches of snow.

Two to three inches of snow in the South is like a foot or more anywhere else. Restaurants close early. Schools close at even the possibility of snow. And if it's snowing, then the stores have already long since run out of milk and bread. Not to mention the traffic. Cars are sliding everywhere. People are out pushing. We must have passed ten cars that had run off the road.

And all I can say is it was, in a word, gorgeous.

It's not often, if ever, that I've gotten to enjoy a white Christmas. But walking down the streets of Nashville -- with the snow-covered roof of the old Ryman towering over the bars of Lower Broadway, the stores all in their holiday trim and with Christmas music playing, and the snow falling fast and almost sideways -- for a moment it was like a scene out of virtually every Christmas movie I've ever seen. An image from any of a thousand Christmas cards.

No, it wasn't quite yet Christmas Day. But it was most definitely Christmas.

"And maybe down in Memphis, Graceland's all in lights. And in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight. Christmas in Dixie. It's snowin' in the pines..."

Blog Reality Tour: Nashville

Last Friday evening presented me with the most interesting of decisions. I could either drive to Nashville to hang out with three girls, or I could sit home, watch basketball in my underwear, and slink further away from human interaction. After careful contemplation, I decided to ward off dementia at least for a few more years and go to Nashville.

Through the medium known as electronic mail, I had received word several weeks ago that avid IYROOBTY reader OK Chick, Oklahoma City's foremost blogging runner, was going to be in town for a wedding. And so, after five-plus years of reading each other's blogs, we finally met!

It will go down as one of the great meetings of all-time. Right up there with When Harry met Sally, when Charlie finally met the Angels, and of course the most famous of them all, Act 1: They Meet after the second board of Ms. Pac-Man.

The four of us -- OK Chick, her sister, friend and I -- had dinner downtown at Jack's BBQ and listened to some live music at Tootsie's and Legends. In between dinner and music, we also took in a little taste of Old Nashville with a carriage ride.

The first time our driver (Is that what they're called? Driver?) quipped, "I'm Bill. This is Pete. He's the brains of the operation," it was folksy. When he said it the second time, two minutes later and with no apparent recollection of having already told us, I began to seriously wonder just where this guy was going to take us. (I was also thinking that if I had the Darryls with me, I could have responded with "I'm Larry. This is Darryl...")

But it went off without a hitch -- well, other than the horse being hitched to the carriage. Actually, there was a point near the end of the ride when a foul odor began wafting through the evening air. Apparently, Bill feeds Pete Beefareeno.

It was a fun night. (What a well-crafted line! Never say you don't get exceptional writing here, ladies and gentlemen.) I discovered that I kinda like being called "Bone" in social situations. Not to mention I scored two more Facebook friends from the outing. And really, isn't that what life has come to be all about?

This has also rekindled my interest in an idea I had several years ago, when I wore a younger blogger's clothes. You remember my Blog Reality Tour?

No?

Well, it was an idea conceived by me, circa 2006. The gist of it is that I would tour the country visiting the people on my blogroll. Of course, I had quite a few more readers back then. And I posted much more frequently... (It strikes me here that if one is reminiscing about blogging days of yore, it is entirely possible one may have been blogging far too long.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh right, resurrecting the Blog Reality Tour. While thinking about this the other night, I realized that in all the times I've pondered this idea in my mind I've always just assumed that all bloggers would be perfectly fine with me staying with them overnight. Overjoyed, even. When in reality, that probably would not be the case at all. It's funny though, the little things we assume and how we see ourselves.

Sometimes I think the difference between how I view myself and how others view me is a deep, yawning chasm.

Nah! Surely not.

Until next time, this is your ruggedly athletic but sensitive, capable-of-grand-things-yet-accomplishing-very-little blogger, Bone.

"He says, Bill I believe this is killing me, as a smile ran away from his face. I'm sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place..."

Pride goeth before (and after) a fall

The improbable sequence of events that led to me googling "how to get blood out of clothes" is unimportant and rather unremarkable. Nevertheless, before the blog paparazzi buries me beneath a mountain of rumor and innuendo, allow me to elucidate.

I went to a basketball game. Walking up the bleachers, I banged my head on an unfortunately placed electrical box which was mounted to the underside of one of the support beams that runs across the coliseum. Not wanting to cause a scene (read: suffer any further embarrassment), I shook it off and sat down.

Well, I evidently misunderestimated the severity of the blow. An hour later, noticing it was still hurting, I rubbed my head and felt something wet. I'd run into a friend at the game, so as we were leaving I took off my cap and got her to assess the damage. At the time, I wasn't quite able to place the look on her face. But in hindsight, I now know it as the I'm-really-trying-not-to-alarm-you-but-how-are-you-still-standing-because-there-is-blood-spurting-out-of-your-head look.

Oh, I exaggerate. A little. It was just a tiny lava-like trail of blood streaming down my head. I felt like Rocky. The worst part was that I had quite a bit of blood on my cap, which was white. If it had been a shirt, I wouldn't have cared, I would have just thrown it away. But this was my favorite Bama cap. This was serious.

By the way, you come across some odd and interesting things googling "how to get blood out of clothes." Things you would rather not have known. Things like, "Karen and I opted to have our children born at home, so naturally we have had to deal with a lot of blood." Ugh.

The next day, as fate devilishly licked her lips, I was scheduled to run a 5K in Nashville. Not knowing much about head trauma, but seeing that the bleeding had mostly stopped and there was only a little seepage now, I just assumed I'd be OK. And I figured if I did pass out, I'd at least have my weekly blog entry whenever I did finally regain my facilities.

And so, I ran. With a bandage on my head, I ran. I felt like Rocky, again. Not for any particular reason, mind you, I just always kinda feel like Rocky.

In other running news, I think I've just about talked myself into doing a half marathon at some point this year. And I figure if I put it on my blog, it will be more likely to happen, because everything I put on my blog happens. Well, except for that year-end post that I never quite got around to. And the decade retrospective...

I know some of you are probably saying, Bone are you crazy? Whatever would possess someone to run 13.1 miles voluntarily? Is it some deep-down, burning desire to push myself to the very limits of what I am physically and mentally capable of, and beyond? Child, please!

I'll tell you what it is.

When I got home from my 5K, I was feeling pretty good about myself and my time of 23:03. Then, the next day arrived... as days are wont to do. And one of my Facebook friends posted that she had run a half marathon.

A girl!!!

And so, I am going to do the half marathon for the same reason that many men have done things that didn't always make good sense down through the ages: pure, old-fashioned stubborn male pride.

And please pray for my sake that she never decides to run a full marathon.

For now, I'm off to find some baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, and meat tenderizer. Hopefully, one of these tips works. I guess if nothing else, I'll be all stocked up for the next science fair. Or home childbirth.

"I just need some time, some time to get away, from all these rumors. I can't take it no more. My best friend said there's one out now about me and the girl next door..."

Seven degrees... of something

It is 19 degrees here at the moment. That's one of two reasons I'd rather be in Pasadena. The low Friday night is supposed to be seven.

Seven.

Seven is a lot of things -- how old you are when you're in the second grade, the number of abominable sins, what George Costanza wanted to name his firstborn. It should never be a temperature.

I have the intention to do some sort of year-end post, eventually. Of course, the road to sparse blogging is paved with good intentions. I'll be the only person to do a decade retrospective in March. Apparently, I've resolved to procrastinate even more in 2010. And be even less productive. Sort of anti-resolutions, I guess you could say.

In the meantime, the new decade got off to a rousing start with the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert in Birmingham Saturday night. Great balls of fire! No, I mean there literally were balls of fire shooting up from the stage, along with smoke, lasers, fireworks -- it was like a rock concert.

The best part of all? There was no opening act. TSO played the whole time! Two-and-a-half hours of auditory and visual delight. I wish more artists would take a cue from them. The ticket prices were reasonable. Granted, we had to duck to avoid hitting our heads on the ceiling of the arena, but still.

The only minor disappointment of the evening was that there was no "guest maestro" segment where they let a member of the audience come on stage and conduct a song. Is there any doubt I would have turned that mutha out on Mad Russian's Christmas?

Next up, we have the national championship game on Thursday night--the "other" reason I wish I was in Pasadena. I don't want to say anything else about that for fear of jinxing something. But combine those two events with the fact that I have signed up to run a 5K at the Nashville Zoo later this month, and I'm hopeful I may have finally found the formula to ward off the Januarys this year.

If that doesn't work, I'll just revert to my usual hibernatory self.

Also, I should probably take down my Christmas tree at some point. Ah, but those pesky anti-resolutions doth preclude me.

"I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A. California dreamin' on such a winter's day..."

Escape

Blogtober may have gone, but the posts live on. This is from a writing exercise I did last month out of a book that I have. You were supposed to start the story with the opening line they gave, which I think is horrible, but nevertheless...

Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel!

I go faster, it goes faster. I slow down, it slows down. I hop off for a nap, but then I wake up and get right back on. The world doesn't stop spinning just because I'm having a bad day or I don't want to go to work tomorrow.

Vacations and holidays help to ease the monotony of it all, providing a brief respite from the shampoo bottle regiment of sleep, work, eat, rinse, repeat. But when they end--and they always end--it's right back on the wheel.

I've thought a lot about New Orleans since our weekend there back in January. We had an absolute blast. The food, the night life, the culture, the architecture--it's a wonderful and unique city. But trips like that end up feeding my wanderlust and leave me jonesing to move some place like that permanently.

As long as I can remember, part of me has wondered what it would be like to just up and move somewhere far away. Quit my job and leave Alabama behind for the beach, or California. Or move to Nashville and live in my car until I find a job.

I suppose it's mostly nonsense, especially in this economy. And honestly, it feels a little embarrassing to even admit such a thing. But I know it can be done. I mean, people have done it, I've heard and read about them. Stories like that always make me smile. They provide a glimmer of hope, and also leave me more than a little bit envious. After all, isn't that really living life? Well, isn't it?

It's hard to know which dreams to chase and which are nothing more than nonsensical fantasies. Or perhaps it's just easier to toss them all into the latter category and be done with it.

Sometimes it's not enough simply to be alive. Sometimes you need to feel alive.

Maybe everybody has these thoughts. That deep-down yearning for something more. Maybe it's not unique to humans, either. Maybe that's why sometimes the gerbil hops off his wheel, chews his way out of the cage, and escapes.

"I'm always on the move but never gainin' ground. And the brightly painted ponies, they have feelings inside. Like me, do they ever want to get off of this ride?"

The day the blog stood still

We were at a double-A baseball game. It was around the second or third inning. Day had all but surrendered to night's gradual but certain takeover. Wolfgang, Little Joe, and Little Joe's girlfriend were talking amongst themselves. Meanwhile, I was halfway through an order of nachos, and had been amusing myself by listening to the girl behind us asking her poor husband/boyfriend/brother things like "What quarter is it?" and "How come they got two?"

If I recall correctly, I had just finished barking along to the last few bars of "Who Let The Dogs Out" when Wolfgang turned to me and said, "Why didn't you tell me my name was Wolfgang?"

And there it was, that always unexpected and often awkward clashing of the blogosphere and the real world.

As you might imagine, I have been questioning everything the past few days, including my very existence (in the blogosphere). Is this the end of the Darryls as you know them? What a blow that would be not only to my blog but to Newhart references in general.

Speaking of concerts in the greater-Nashville area, I am supposed to go see Counting Crows tonight. I say "supposed to" because there has been one issue after another regarding the tickets. First, they were going to be mailed, then they were going to be emailed, and now they are supposed to be at will call.

I figure best-case, I get to see Adam Duritz belting out "A Long December." Worst-case, they don't let me in to the Ryman and I have something in common with Hank Williams. Then we go on a self-guided tour of the former Opryland location--which just happens to be my favorite tourist destination in all of Nashville--and I get to see a few Perseids while driving home. So, win-win.

While I am or am not at the Counting Crows concert tonight pondering the future of my very blog, which has become as much a part of me as any of my bodily appendages, I offer a repost. Originally posted in 2005, it goes along quite well with the subject du jour.

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

OPRYLAND HISTORICAL TOURS

Announcing the all-new Opryland Historical Tours, by Bone. Come and relive the magic of Opryland USA. Tours are held Monday-Saturday, beginning at 9:00 AM, at the original location of the Grizzly River Rampage at the Opry Mills complex.

Each tour guide is arrayed in an original Opryland park employee outfit, and will share with you interesting stories, personal memories, and historical facts about the theme park. Each tour includes a a thirty minute video about Opryland USA, including footage shot by visitors to the park during its twenty-six years in operation.

After the video, you'll be able to walk thru the river bed of what once was the Grizzly River Rampage, where you will have plenty of photo opportunities. You can also take pictures next to the "Opry Mills Sucks" and "Gaylord Stole My Childhood" signs.

And browse thru tons several items of Opryland memorabilia, including an original Tin Lizzie, a log from the Flume Zoom, a skee ball, a half-eaten slice of pizza from Julio's, and some chicken wire from the park's famous petting zoo.

Refreshments are available, including fruit-shaped fruit drinks, just like those sold at the original Opryland USA. So if you have fond memories of Opryland, or even if you never got to go to Opryland because your baby sister always got to go where she wanted on vacation, you will not want to miss the Opryland Historical Tour.

Legal disclaimer: Opryland Historical Tours is not liable for the actions of any guests. We will not be held responsible for any legal action that may be taken against you or any member of your party by Gaylord Entertainment or any of its subsidaries, nor any physical harm or trauma that may be caused by the Opry Mills security. By taking part in this tour, you may or may not be trespassing, but most likely are.

Well, that's my dream. My entrepreneurial thought for the week. Or for the year. Whichever.

"They paved paradise and put up a parking lot, with a pink hotel, a boutique and a swingin' hot spot. Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone..."

Nashville now and then

My mom, my sister, and I journeyed up to Nashville last weekend for Mother's Day. It was my idea to take Mom to Centennial Park and ride these little paddle boats around the lake there. We did that one time when I was probably eleven or twelve, and I thought it would make for a nice surprise.

There was but one small problem. They don't have the paddle boats anymore. So instead we walked around the trail, which was peppered with duck droppings. Apparently, the ducks often make it a special point to get out of the water to defecate. Although now that I think about it, I guess it could have been from the pigeons. I'm not really qualified to differentiate between the two.

Mom and I did get a sno-cone. I got blue raspberry, mainly because I knew it would turn my teeth, lips, and tongue blue, which would slightly annoy my sister. Yes, I'm thirty-four. Mom got cherry (and you wonder where I get it from). She seemed to genuinely enjoy herself and be pleasantly surprised by the trip to the park, even though they didn't have the boats.

As we sat by the lake for a bit, I was hit with some sort of time-warpish realization, thinking how twenty years or so of my life had disappeared since the last time I was at this very place. Those are always fun moments. If I were on prescription medication, I would have popped a couple of pills right about then.

When we were driving around earlier looking for the park, I received a text message, from my sister in the backseat. It read, "Mom cannot drive." Mom used to drive dangerously fast. But not so much anymore. So when we left the park, I volunteered to drive the rest of the way.

We had dinner at Cock of the Walk, where we ate our fill of delicious fried catfish fillets and chicken tenders, hush puppies, cornbread, river fries, turnip greens, white beans, cole slaw, and onions. Washed down with some of the best sweet tea I've ever tasted. And I've sampled my fair share of sweet tea.

Nashville truly is one of my favorite cities. So many of the streets are familiar--Broadway, West End Avenue, Demonbreun, Thompson Lane. And of course, I always become nostalgiac thinking about or driving past the former location of Opryland. I've often thought of moving there. To Nashville, not Opryland. Although if that were possible...

It was a good day. My sister texting and calling me from the backseat. Mom freaking out each time I deftly and quickly maneuvered across four lanes of traffic. The times when just the three of us get to take a trip like that are rare anymore. I try and cherish them. It's always good to visit Nashville every now and then.

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Tomorrow, I'm running a 10K. I ran six miles Monday sort of as a simulation for the race. At least, according to the website, it's six miles. But I did it in about 48 minutes, which makes me think it's not quite that far.

I ran eight laps. The website says the track is three-quarters of a mile. But, I think it might actually be closer to two-thirds, because one time I took my pedo out there and that's what it registered. If that's the case, I still ran 5 1/3 miles.

I feel much more prepared than I did last year, when I had barely trained at all. I'm not sure where to set my goal for this year's race. I'd like to run a 55:00, which would be around a nine-minute mile and about five minutes faster than last year. Mainly I just want to finish without tearing, pulling, spraining, or breaking anything.

"They paved paradise and put up a parking lot, with a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swinging hot spot..."