240 V tickles

There are few things worse than waking up to jump in the shower before work and finding out the water heater has crapped out. You end up bathing in little hand cups of water that you splash on your shoulders. But, that does little more than take the dirt that you have on you and making streaks of grime down your body. You can't see it, but trust me... it's there. It's microscopic pinstripes. You might as well be playing for the Yankees, which we all know is worse than actually stabbing your eye out. But, something like this is annoying enough that I was willing to skip a day at the gym to get it done. That's a big deal in my world.

So, I spent an hour learning what makes a water heater tick and another hour troubleshooting the three or four things that it could have been. After tracking it down to a heating element, I was able to change it out.

I'm an engineer... I don't know why I should be surprised when I actually fix something. It probably comes from my general life mantra of avoiding anything resembling work. But, as of right now, I have hot water.

Hot water is a lot like an uncut brake line. You don't miss it until it's gone. But, by then, you're careening down the road at 120 mph and naked. The two are are so similar it's scary.

Book reviews… Because you didn’t ask for them…

I read books. A LOT of books. And, I’m often forced to blindly select a book based on its flimsy premise or a stirring blurb by another writer I enjoy (“You’ll love this book… it has illustrations!” – Ghandi). Other times, I can read through some questionable reviews that are so extremely supportive or critical that finding out what’s actually in the book is impossible.

So, I make educated guesses and am often annoyed with the outcome. As such, I have taken this opportunity to review a couple books I recently finished, neither of which I would recommend. So, you can just look at the titles and note them as ‘sucking’ or read the rest of this post for what will surely be hilarious witticism.

Up first is A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Now, let’s start this with the caveat that I actually enjoy classic literature. If you are looking for a good read, grab Watership Down, Ivanhoe, or Animal Farm. All are excellent stories and have numerous educational subtexts. And, they don’t suck. A Tale of Two Cities suffers from Dickens writing salary. He was paid by the word. So, he rambles on for 200 pages before anything interesting happens. By then, you just want to get to the French Revolution so that you can imagine the sweet release of losing your own head in the guillotine to end your suffering.

The characters are uninteresting save Sidney Carton who – though often quoted by millions of literary experts – is so underdeveloped and wasted that you have to wonder if Dickens wrote the entire book and then read it himself and thought…. This is absolute shit! I have to put something in here worth remembering! The plot jumps around sporadically, and you find you’re months later in the chronology than where you were a paragraph earlier. This, coupled with Dickens overly ornate writing style, makes reading it the literary equivalent of being stuck in rush hour traffic.

This halting story is made more painful by the fact that the ending is clear 150 pages before you get there. The main plot theme that wraps it up at the end has been seen dozens of times, but one presumes that this may have been the first time it was used centuries ago. This is further confused by the fact that – when you finish – you feel like you’ve aged 20 years yourself.

Score: 1.5 frogs out of 5

Instead Read: Dr Zhivago by Boris Pasternak. It’s a great book with many similar themes. But, the environment is a character in itself, and it is set in Russia instead of France. Since no one in America likes France, and we at least respect Russia, it works.

Next is A Walk Across America by Peter Jenkins. I enjoy travel narratives since no one can conceivably see everything this world has to offer. But, I can’t recommend this book. The focus wanders from the adage of ‘finding oneself’ to ‘being a whiny bitch.’ It starts well with the author planning a walk across the US starting in New York. Through DC and Virginia, his recollections of his time with his only companion, a malamute named Cooper, are vividly detailed. And, the way he relates his time with an old crazy mountain man in Tennessee and living months with a black family while working a at sawmill are telling.

But, the way he tells Cooper’s story is weak, and somewhere in Alabama he presumably goes absolutely bat-shit insane and veers way off target. With about 15 pages left, he’s only made it to New Orleans, and you quickly come to the conclusion either he doesn’t make it to the Pacific or there is some epic To Be Continued at the end of it all. Well, this book was published in the early 80s, so there is no to be continued. (Note: The most interesting thing about this book is how no one could do this in this day and age. No one would put up a blurry-eyed stranger for the night or give this guy the time of day now.) But, he doesn’t make it to the Pacific either. Instead he spends 10 pages telling how he fell in love. Damn Hippies.

Score: 0.5 bong hits out of 5

Instead read: McCarthy’s Bar by Pete McCarthy. Covering a multiweek wander of Ireland, it’s a great study on the differences between Americans, Brits (the author) and the Irish (the locals). Based on the premise that you should never pass by a bar that has your name on it, the book reads like the diary of a guy that just likes wandering from historic spot to historic spot drinking beer. I can get behind that.

Plus, no effing hippies.

Patron Saints

Patron Saints. A rather unique and intriguing take on religion that – as a Man of History – I can really get behind.

The concept is an interesting in that it offers Catholics the opportunity to be polytheistic without going to Hell. This concept likely appealed to the Romans and Greeks of the day when they were upset that Poseidon drowned their favorite sheep but weren’t ready to give up control of their lives to a single deity.

It’s also attractive in that, though many apply to professions, you can choose which Patron Saint to whom you can devout your life and drachma. Also worth noting, the majority of the Patrons serve the downtrodden, unlucky, and unfortunate. It’s likely the followers of the Patron Saint of I’m-Better-Than-You would not be thought highly of by The Big Man.

I actually have a Patron, but I decided to do some research for purely historical purposes. The results were surprising, hilarious, and disturbing… Feel free to support one of these saintly beings…

St. Joseph

This guy (like most) covers a multitude of areas, most notably carpenters and engineers. My engineering background and middle-name connection would lead one to think that St Joseph was my patron, but he’s not. His specialty tends toward carpentry and (in the modern era) home sales. Nope… not kidding. Supposedly, burying a statue of this guy in your back yard is good for business. Unfortunately, St. Joseph is also the Patron Saint of Happy Death. So…. good luck with that.

St. Expedite

This is a favorite of mine. His name alone is enough to illicit images of a superhero flying in on a giant cross. He is the Patron of both procrastinators and speedy results, presumably because the procrastinators held off selecting a Patron of their own and just copied off the other guy’s paper. This guy was likely a early frontrunner for “Most Revered Patron” due to his similarities to Mercury/Hermes/The Flash. He’s also associated with African messenger-trickster spirits, which makes him the Loki of the Huxtable family.

St. Cyprian

I find this fascinating. This guy is the Patron of witches, occultists, sorcerers, magicians, and pretty much anything non-Catholic. The only thing I can think is that this was the early Catholic Church’s analogy to the modern method used by police to trap felons by notifying them that they won something and to come pick it up in a dusty warehouse. A decree would be posted around the city. “Cyprian followers - A meeting will be held at the city center at around noon. Near the scaffolding. Hangings are planned there fifteen minutes later. Events are unrelated.”

St. Christopher

And, finally, we get to my Patron Saint. St. Chris is the Patron Saint of travelers and transportation, and I usually wear a St. Christopher necklace when I travel. Ironically, St. Chris is also the Patron Saint of Bachelors (bonus!), so I feel this guy’s pain. He is often depicted as a ferryman carrying the Christ child across a river on his shoulders, which I see as somewhat disrespectful given that the little punk could have just walked across the water himself. St. Christopher is also ideal for me to honor as the guy didn’t actually exist… much like Jesus himself (Bazinga!).

After further inspection, I came to the conclusion that many of these Patron Saints have their roots in Spanish and Mexican religious ceremonies. This offered up a different perspective, and I decided to come up with modern equivalents. And, since Hispanics are light-weight drunkards, I give you the Patrón Saints! …Ya see what I did there?


St. Jose – St Jose is the Patrón Saint of worms, blackouts and misplaced clothing. He is honored during siesta time between 1-4 PM every day. Often, he is depicted identically as St. Christopher, except carrying a TV instead of baby Jesus.


St. Jack – The Patrón Saint of huntin’ and cousin-kissin’, reverence of St. Jack has ebbed considerably in the face of rising NASCAR ratings. In his place, notable upswings have been apparent in offerings to St. Natty Light. Still, St. Jack has loyal followers in remote areas where churches devoted to him share a Walmart aisle with shotguns and various tobacco products.


St. Morgan – St. Morgan is the Patrón Saint of pirates and uncomfortable body poses that make you look like a douche. He has numerous followers in the Caribbean and South America, and the numbers continue to grow as his devotees channel efforts into Super Bowl commercials. Critics point out that he hasn’t been promoted past Captain for 66 years.

And, there you have it, a subset of Patron Saints along with better-known and (most-likely) more closely-followed Patrón Saints. All will humble you and expose your weakness. Yet, all will help you rise up and overcome. Be it to the Gods of Heaven or the Gods of Porcelain, keep those prayers coming folks.

... and then I see the bowling pin.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The Marathoner’s Mantra. Rumor has it, everyone mutters it around mile 20. I said it 3 weeks before. But, it was a lie. This never seemed like a good idea.

Then, the bad omens start. The 2 hr round trip walk to the expo on Saturday for the bib was rough. At 7am on race morning, the mile walk uphill to Dodger Stadium after abandoning our stranded bus on the LA Freeway was worse.

The walk up the 110 Freeway and Chavez Ravine. We are not amused.

But, then the race started. That was worse-erer. I give you: The unedited LA Marathon blog.

Mile 0: It’s 7am, and I’m at Dodger Stadium. Starting outside the centerfield fence at Chavez Ravine is one of the highlights of all my races. I would tear up from the beauty if I wasn’t already crying from hiking up 1000 feet. I breathe in the smell of all the runners going to the bathroom in the bushes. Hmmm… smells like Yankee Stadium.

Heaven

Mile 0.5: A hill? Already? It took me 7 minutes just to get to the starting line after the gun. Fortunately, I’m crowd surfing on 24,999 other poor decision-makers, and I don’t notice the uphill run.

Mile 1: Dodger Stadium. What the hell?! Did we just do a loop around Dodger Stadium? Or, am I already hallucinating? I decide it may very well be the latter and don’t care.

Mile 1.5: This hill looks familiar.

Mile 3: I’ve found my rabbit for the race. She’s moving at the same pace as me, so perhaps I will survive. I do my best to not look creepy. I am not successful.

Mile 5: Um…

Mile 7: …Yeah…

Mile 9: … we were told there would be landmarks….? More people would run if there were landmarks, punch, and pie.

Mile 12: I finally see something I recognize. Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I am dutifully impressed. My back burns like someone has poured liquid fire on it. I ask a passing rabbit if she can put it out. She runs faster.

Mile 14: My back has stopped hurting, but I pour some cold water down it to be sure. I feel nothing. It appears that the reason it feels better is because I’ve lost feeling completely. I’m not sure if this is good or bad.

Mile 15: House of Blues. I now can no longer feel my left arm either. In an attempt to ease the growing concern over both it and my back, I run with it down against my side. I look like a geriatric stroke victim… minus the drool. I think.

Mile 20: I’m now doing what I call the Soccer Shuffle. My feet barely leave the pavement. I’m running like David Beckham slide-kicking the ball down the field… minus the drool.

Mile 21: Dmn. [At this point, I seem to have lost the ability to think with all vowels but ‘e.’]

Mile 22: As I slow to a fast walk through the water stop, I glance at my watch. The fast walk pace is the same as my soccer shuffle. This depresses me.

Mile 23: The Veteran’s Administration. Apparently, these buildings are LA “landmarks.” With my soccer shuffle, the VA speed bumps (really, LA marathon planners?) I’m forced to navigate are more likened to LA “dogs on the top step of a stairway at 2am.” I've started hallucinating to the point I think I'm on a Japanese game show. I stumble over them and hurry on in case giant wrecking balls are being swung at me.

Mile 25: I’m content at this point to maintain this less-than-sterling pace for the next mile and go home…. And then I see the bowling pin. A quarter mile in front of me, there is a giant bowling pin running toward the finish line. I assume it’s a person in a costume, but at this point, I may still be seeing things, and the bowling pin is fleeing those Japanese wrecking balls. I see human legs. Touché, sports equipment. He’s hurting. Partly because it’s mile 26 and hot. Mostly because he’s dressed like a bowling pin. The back has some ad for Lucky Strikes bowling alley, but for some reason I see “You’re getting beat by an effing bowling pin” written on it. Well, that’s unacceptable. I speed up… to some minimal extent.

Mile 25.5: I’m actually not tired. My body is done with this maniacal experiment, but I have tons of energy. I decide to hit my second wind and give it a kick. The hurt can survive for a few minutes. I’m going to go out strong.

Mile 25.51: I experience simultaneously charley horses in my left calf and hamstring. For the next 10 feet, I prance like a hotfooted, rookie shortstop. [Ugh… just google it.] The feeling passes, and I speed up… slower.

Mile 26: I pass the bowling pin. Screw you, sports equipment.

Mile 26.2: My second, controlled kick is more successful, and I shoot through the final chute and onto Santa Monica Pier.

I stand on the pier and looked down at my bib. It's hard to believe I've made it 26.2 miles in less than 5 hours. It's equally hard to believe that I've been able to keep putting one foot in front of the other for almost 5 hours. I never assumed it was a certainty that I'd make it the whole way. I don't 'do' much with my days that one would consider life-affirming... but now I can say I have. I look at the back of the bib where I wrote ramblings from the night before...

If I die, tell my friends and family I lived free and happy. John can have my Xbox games. And, tell any children I may have sprinkled throughout the country that Daddy loves them. [Note: Check Florida and Texas. And Hawaii. And, maybe Northern Illinois.] Peace. Love. Baseball.