itinerant

recently arriving into san diego's airport, i was met with a series of faces that were as familiar to me as those i had just spent 5 hours looking at in US weekly; minus the boobs, botox and bevy of octo-babies-- speaking of, she must be a little cheesed at the whole advent of swine flu now occupying serious, journalistic breakfast television and hysterical, afternoon couch time.

willie


eddie


dave


neil shigley is a san diego artist responsible for the series "invisible people" http://www.neilshigley.com/ plexiglass prints of the city's homeless population. each print is marked with their personal, transient's co-ordinates; name, age, intersection, and a symbol from the 'hobo alphabet'- google it and improve your trivial pursuit quotient.



and where else, but balboa park, can you take a nap by the rose garden while your unmentionables finish up in the eco-friendly rinse cycle.

going for a run; the developmental cycle

as all good biologists, psychologists and steve prefontaine (sarah jessica is to manolo blahniks as "pre" was to adidas) worth their teaspoon of sodium chloride know, there is a beginning and an end. a single venture into maximum heart rate, lactic threshold, and chafing"bits", can thus be seen as the recapitulation of a double helix of the human sojourn-- or toothless and encopretic, to dentures and encopretic, plus every movement in between.

fresh babies are pretty much incapable of anything beyond wriggling around dressed up in pumpkin/pea pod/gerbera daisy outfits and emptying their bowels. the novice runner is all too familiar with the latter function, when at mile 2, anal dilation is imminent, and the pre-run poo becomes routine ever after. learning to navigate in a forward motion, without tripping or falling on your backside, is the same beginning for toddlers and trainees alike.

the growth spurt to adolescence, at mile two-and-some-change (for the fellow 10-ish minute mile club) is evidenced in a clumpy gait and an all consuming obsession with how your shadow looks "retarded", especially when furtively trying to pull one short leg (it's always just the one side) from a perspiring crotch, or doing a two step roundhouse kick to coax it back down an equally sweaty thigh.

people who complain that they hate running are either my sedentary, fine wine and stinky cheese appreciating younger sibling, or those that give up after 15 minutes. contrary to what teen cosmo journalista's would have us believe, the first is always the worst, most painful, growing pain-y, whitehead pustule mile of any run; it is for your body. the next ones are for your mind, soul, and justifying that large oreo blizzard.

finally a comfortable cruising pace is found, where creeping clothing is ignored, thoughts of richter scale cellulite jiggle are expunged, and breathing no longer sounds like a middle aged asthmatic watching the spice channel from his treadmill. these are your 30's.

and the final stretch to the last lampost is typically completed under the "zimmer frame and orthotics" category.

book club

i am no better than those people who judge the label on your purse, car or boarding pass. however, my area of speciality is serving as the st. peter of the paperback. these days, you can cross almost any domestic threshold to see a flat screen TV the surface area of a ping pong table attached to the wall-- and any visible "book" shelves are used to house dvd collections rivalling blockbuster.

i like to inspect other people's libraries (they are far more revealing than the medicine cabinet) and was recently sent an invitation to: http://www.goodreads.com/ allowing me to take my stalking, opinions, and judgements to a new, self-righteous nadir.

every.single.set.of.shelves.should.house.an.atlas.of.the.world. and the sentimental children's food stained picture atlas from your own formative years (next to an equally dog eared "little engine that could"), does not count. the hardback versus paperback elitism is redundant, as many of the leatherbound-never-been-cracked spines are for the pretentious who also own the complete works of dickens/austen/bronte, but couldn't spot miss havisham at 20 chapters. collections are acceptable only under certain circumstances; harry potter being the obvious exception. however, an entire alphabetized series of chicken soup for the soul, and i will be leaving you and the green bean casserole dinner you made for me. finally, if "someone", or "[your] mother" gave you dr. phil's latest missive, the official margaret thatcher autobiography, or the 'purpose driven anything', then you need to re-house it somewhere else-- like the gag gift white elephant exchange at work.

as with anything in life, balance is always the ideal, and it prevents your shelves from buckling. too many; "manage your stock portfolio for a brighter tomorrow" or "adult child of a parent who beat me/loved too much/was addicted to daytime soap opera" is tedious, and these individuals are to be avoided at the watercooler. additionally, the shelves that could have their own "airport departure lounge" section at borders (the da vinci code and it's ilk) is the only acceptable genre to pass on and never darken your treated ikea "pine", again. the science fiction "luvvies" are a breed unto themselves. i love you guys, but the spines of those robert heinlein books just don't have good "curb appeal".

while shel silverstein appears to be the pottery barn objet d'art for the bookcase, dave sedaris and augusten burroughs represent the standard "U2" for paper and print media. and those of you who own "spice girls; the album" should probably keep it hidden under the bed with "knitting for my cat" and "he's just not that into you".

my goal when people come and pry at the goodreads i harbour, is to induce bibliophilic lust. or at least be able to identify which continent tanzania is part of.

desperately seeking...

it is a well recognized fact that certain professions attract specific personality clusters. the controlling type A's seeking endless gratitude and accolades- also the same individuals who are complete failures in the (lower levels) of the military because they can't stand being told 'what to do'- are usually found sitting at the helm of a 747, or wielding a bloodied laparscope. meanwhile, the field of engineering is replete with childhood victims of playground wedgies, whose only goal as an adult, is to be entirely self-sufficient-- and left alone. or the bleeding heart/co-dependent/self-sacrificing/self-deprecating doormats, eagerly providing the thermal baselayer to the entire social services/mental health profession (with the exception of psychiatrists- refer to previously cited cluster on "pilots" and "surgeons"), and can't stand to be left alone.

sports and athletics are not exempt. the man you see driving a noisy car around (and around) a race track in florida, has something altogether different to prove, than the one wearing a mouthguard, or even a codpiece. on the opposite side of the testosterone coin are the abundance of women who ride (or race) mountain bikes, each exemplifying oodles of unresolved daddy issues. typically, the attention never bestowed from an absent papa, or the recapitulation of an intoxicating, undivided, 'daddy's little princess' relationship, as an adult. it is a no-brainer that the single ladies get into the sport for the male/female ratio (note: this does not work for men and professional cheerleading). less competition and an easy (stand) out, is naturally manifested, whether adopting the 'helpless female waving her bike glove in the air', or the 'i am woman, watch me use this tool, and hear me grunt/fart/belch'. these ladies appear to view anyone else with an x chromosome sharing their trail, as the enemy. and much like any other setting with two or more women, there is an ever present, but unspoken pecking order (usually related to whether it's a S, M, L, or god forbid, XL in your spandex). however, team affiliation appears to be the primary demilitarized zone, as my person, my bike, and my greetings ("hello"), have been routinely ignored by multiple "bella's" wearing full kit. apparently, with the pink jersey's come the prehistoric social skills of neanderthal man. however, while this fair and gentle minority is adamant about keeping up with the guys, they also want you to know that they "ride like a girl", as evidenced by their enthusiasm for t-shirts/coffee mugs/nalgene botttles/bumper stickers emblazoned with this catchy little dictum.

i was 18 years old when i used to tag along with my dad and his friends if they went out riding in the desert. everyone is looking for something, whether it is mr. wonderful, the top of a trail head, or the rear brake cable.

changing labels, mrs

depending on if you are the person wearing 'mosquito net over the face' on that special and magical day of a lifetime, will probably mean some (strong) feelings about how you will sign your cheques "from this day forward"- and they will more than likely differ from your new mr wonderful's.

"hairy feminist with a sterling silver axe to grind over anyone who dares hold the door open for her" issues aside, the name changing (at least from my sample of double degreed 30 year olds with their own mortgages) is more closely linked to issues of identity- or loss, thereof. granted we are not 17, living in tiny villages in the 1800's (or parts of pennsylvania and utah in 2007) where the entire life goal is to get married, bake cakes, darn a few dozen children, make jam, and quilt a seasonal vegetable patch for canning during the hard winter freeze. instead we get an education, join the workforce, wear heels (ok, not me), wax (yeah, still not me), and practice yoga (over my dead and limp supine body), while balancing a non fat venti-o-latta in one hand and a hot pink razor phone in the other french manicured mitt. although that sounds more like an identity nightmare.

and get married. yes, there is just something about that darn "happily ever after" amphetamine of a mosquito net that draws our tremoring hands to the martha stewart wedding magazine racks at kroger.

"mrs" now has the dual role of separating and joining. a name is a statement about who you are (were) and where you are (were) from. "q" names with a lot of apostrophes connotate a different demographic to being named after a piece of fruit, or a saint. but these are chosen. the last name is given; it provides a 'once upon a time'.

so the adolescent cry of losing identity is a legitimate one. my last name denotes my heritage; where i'm from--which is particularly relevant because i'm still not really sure how to answer that question (except: "not australia"). it's a great conversation starter for the socially nascent. finally, several helpings of humiliation have been dished out to me over the years because of both my surname (thanks dad) and my first name (thanks mum) in case i married someone with a "boring" (one syllable and no w/x/y/z's) last name. i had to learn to spell it. i have endured it. now it is MY war wound. like the faded scar on my left knee, it has become part of me; who i am. or was at that time. no longer is there the same concrete identification with the family of origin (short genes, flat feet, myopia); my parent's daughter.

it is hard to get used to change; to try on a new way of being. of course i am undoubtedly practiced in the fine art of "adjusting to".