6.30.2005
Updateyness.
Updateyness.
Yes, I think I figured out who the secret admirer is. It's pretty anticlimactic, though, because the person was just a shy little college student.
In other, more :-| news, I have since unearthed two non secret admirers at work. The hunt brought them out of the closet. I'm flattered and all, but good god, I'm a coworker. And good god even more, I'm a married coworker.
In trying to explain/write-off the recent influx of suitors, John, over a beer, said "you're like the Luxor tower in Vegas." Whatever that means. But I'm pretty sure it was a thinly veiled insult disguised as a thinly veiled compliment, disguised one more time as a thinly veiled insult. Then he and Craig went on to joke about how I must have a giant whitehead on the top of my head, like the top of the Luxor tower. Regardless of what on this good earth he was trying to imply with the metaphor, the discussion effectively brought my ego back down to ground level.
Last thursday night, on a whim, Erik and I decided to go to the Ferry Corsten electronica show downtown. He didn't even go on stage until close to midnight. Good times. I promise, this is the exception rather than the norm, but Scott and Sarah always seem to catch us telling stories about these things and think we have fabulous, spontaneous, rock and roll lifestyles.
To dispell the rock and roll lifestyle theories, Friday night we stayed home and watched documentaries we videotaped. Note that I didn't say DVR'd or TiVO'd. We actually use a VCR still. And we can only videotape documentaries from PBS, because that's the fanciest channel we have.
To counteract the documentaries, I just booked a trip for myself to New York City to meet up with a bunch of swanky and hilarious girls for a bachelorette party. I have never been to New York City. And the trip is next weekend. Good times!
Now I need New York outfits.
Black, I hear, is so New York.
I will be flying Jet Blue and am ridiculously excited about my in-seat television. Maybe I can watch a documentary.
6.23.2005
Do you want to know a secret, ooh ahh ohh.
Do you want to know a secret, ooh ahh ohh.
Yesterday I found a little note on my chair at work. Sealed in an unmarked envelope, a homemade computer-printed card proclaimed the following:
Anyway, basically everyone I'm friends with here is now tasked with getting to the bottom of this. Including my boss, who is hoping it's our fun little admin guy who is leaving in a few weeks. I highly doubt it, because if there's anything I've taught him while he's been working with us, it's to properly use an exacto-knife when scoring our CD sleeve edges to make neat folds. The card was not scored.
This sort of thing is totally my favorite mix of flattering and creepy.
Yesterday I found a little note on my chair at work. Sealed in an unmarked envelope, a homemade computer-printed card proclaimed the following:
Hi Julia, I will miss seeing you in the Eng. Dept.My favorite part is that they went to all the trouble of typing a note, picking pretty graphics, folding it up, and putting it in an appropriately-sized envelope, but they didn't have time to write out the whole words for engineering department.
From: Your secret admirer
Anyway, basically everyone I'm friends with here is now tasked with getting to the bottom of this. Including my boss, who is hoping it's our fun little admin guy who is leaving in a few weeks. I highly doubt it, because if there's anything I've taught him while he's been working with us, it's to properly use an exacto-knife when scoring our CD sleeve edges to make neat folds. The card was not scored.
This sort of thing is totally my favorite mix of flattering and creepy.
6.22.2005
School.
School.
This is a sweet English school sign, situated just outside my old primary school in the village of Thornhill. Look how happy the bald mama is to be gently guiding her mostly-willing son to school! His elbow is bent, which tells me he's not being dragged.
It makes me think of those warning signs at or near the U.S. border, with the family dragging their confused little daughter across traffic. The daughter appears to be not walking at all, just floating and being propelled by her rushing family, fleeing the border patrol or their former lives of poverty.
I'd bet my bottom dollar that if people rushing from the law would just slow down and look like they are happily strolling to an English country school, nobody would stop them. And college road trip boys certainly wouldn't stop their car mere inches from the checkpoint and all the armed agents, to get out pose like the rushing family flinging their children behind them.
This is a sweet English school sign, situated just outside my old primary school in the village of Thornhill. Look how happy the bald mama is to be gently guiding her mostly-willing son to school! His elbow is bent, which tells me he's not being dragged.
It makes me think of those warning signs at or near the U.S. border, with the family dragging their confused little daughter across traffic. The daughter appears to be not walking at all, just floating and being propelled by her rushing family, fleeing the border patrol or their former lives of poverty.
I'd bet my bottom dollar that if people rushing from the law would just slow down and look like they are happily strolling to an English country school, nobody would stop them. And college road trip boys certainly wouldn't stop their car mere inches from the checkpoint and all the armed agents, to get out pose like the rushing family flinging their children behind them.
6.17.2005
Delusions of craftiness.
Delusions of craftiness.
I'm quickly realizing I have a problem.
I get these impulse ideas. Say, for example, at 5pm on a Wednesday night, that maybe we could paint the guest room by end of day Thursday so it'd be dry and odor-free and ready for guests on Friday. Part of the problem is that I actually follow through on the impulses.
The only paint store in town that sells colored Safecoat paint closed long before I had the idea. We picked up primer from Environgentle, and some extra painting supplies from The Despot, and successfully primed the rooms and our faces and forearms by 11pm. Thursday morning, I was up at the ass crack of dawn, and picked up the degas bleu paint. Last night, we finished painting the room a very pretty, soft pale blue. It looks great!
However, the bigger part of my problem is that, in addition to having impulse ideas and following through on them, at heart, I'm possibly the laziest perfectionist you'll ever meet. A lazy perfectionist with lots of project ideas is a scary prospect. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my husband (who is even more of a perfectionist than I am, but he's far from lazy so he actually does things like line up the fucking blue tape carefully around all edges and trim, not just wish the paintbrush would automatically go in a straight line and, when the painting is finished, be twitchy and upset about the amateur edges for the rest of your time spent in the room). He also does things like clean up the drop cloths, put the ladders away, reattach switch plates, and whatever else needs to be done to hide all evidence of my Rashy Conceived Home Improvement And/Or Craft Project.
I think part of this neurosis spills over into my love-hate relationship with fresh flowers. I will go through phases where I absolutely have to have fresh flowers around the house. I'll spend forever clipping the stems just so and pulling off just the right amount of greenery. Then, the neglected clipped ends and extra leaves will sit near the sink until someone else cleans it up, and the flowers will inevitably die in their vases. A few weeks/months later, I'll finally get around to carefully extracting the slimy, moldy floral carcasses from the permanently marred vases. All the while, lamenting the whole process and plotting my next floral display. At least flowers don't have too many costs associated therein.
And please, please don't bring up the Great Ill-Fated Quilting Project of '01.
I think I need a personal staff. Otherwise Erik will soon see the light and leave me for a normal wife.
I'm quickly realizing I have a problem.
I get these impulse ideas. Say, for example, at 5pm on a Wednesday night, that maybe we could paint the guest room by end of day Thursday so it'd be dry and odor-free and ready for guests on Friday. Part of the problem is that I actually follow through on the impulses.
The only paint store in town that sells colored Safecoat paint closed long before I had the idea. We picked up primer from Environgentle, and some extra painting supplies from The Despot, and successfully primed the rooms and our faces and forearms by 11pm. Thursday morning, I was up at the ass crack of dawn, and picked up the degas bleu paint. Last night, we finished painting the room a very pretty, soft pale blue. It looks great!
However, the bigger part of my problem is that, in addition to having impulse ideas and following through on them, at heart, I'm possibly the laziest perfectionist you'll ever meet. A lazy perfectionist with lots of project ideas is a scary prospect. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my husband (who is even more of a perfectionist than I am, but he's far from lazy so he actually does things like line up the fucking blue tape carefully around all edges and trim, not just wish the paintbrush would automatically go in a straight line and, when the painting is finished, be twitchy and upset about the amateur edges for the rest of your time spent in the room). He also does things like clean up the drop cloths, put the ladders away, reattach switch plates, and whatever else needs to be done to hide all evidence of my Rashy Conceived Home Improvement And/Or Craft Project.
I think part of this neurosis spills over into my love-hate relationship with fresh flowers. I will go through phases where I absolutely have to have fresh flowers around the house. I'll spend forever clipping the stems just so and pulling off just the right amount of greenery. Then, the neglected clipped ends and extra leaves will sit near the sink until someone else cleans it up, and the flowers will inevitably die in their vases. A few weeks/months later, I'll finally get around to carefully extracting the slimy, moldy floral carcasses from the permanently marred vases. All the while, lamenting the whole process and plotting my next floral display. At least flowers don't have too many costs associated therein.
And please, please don't bring up the Great Ill-Fated Quilting Project of '01.
I think I need a personal staff. Otherwise Erik will soon see the light and leave me for a normal wife.
6.15.2005
Lofty goals.
Lofty goals.
Four days after my husband and I decided to sell our spacious suburban condo and move into a loft in downtown, right-on-the-water San Diego, we get a freaking tsunami warning for the entire west coast.
In other news, my husband and I have decided to sell our spacious suburban condo and move into a loft downtown! I'm really excited. Preferably, we'll find a place cheaper than the selling price on our current place so it's not just a totally senseless move. Also preferably, it would have some exposed brick or duct work on the inside, but that's definitely an unrational and mostly unachievable desire. Mostly because most recent-ish buildings aren't brick in this neck of the woods. See also: plate tectonics. We'll settle for wood floors and whispy white curtains, both of which we can add ourselves.
We'd love to live in a top floor condo/loft with sparkly city and ocean views, and, the best part, be able to walk places. I can imagine us using our car once per weekend. It's the perfect lifestyle for us in this pre-children state. Even with a baby or two, it'd be perfect. Once they start walking, however, we might need to keep them away from any rooftop terraces.
Of course, don't get your hopes up. There's a chance this totally won't happen, what with diastrophism and all.
Yeah, that's a synonym for tectonics. I'm cheap like that.
Four days after my husband and I decided to sell our spacious suburban condo and move into a loft in downtown, right-on-the-water San Diego, we get a freaking tsunami warning for the entire west coast.
In other news, my husband and I have decided to sell our spacious suburban condo and move into a loft downtown! I'm really excited. Preferably, we'll find a place cheaper than the selling price on our current place so it's not just a totally senseless move. Also preferably, it would have some exposed brick or duct work on the inside, but that's definitely an unrational and mostly unachievable desire. Mostly because most recent-ish buildings aren't brick in this neck of the woods. See also: plate tectonics. We'll settle for wood floors and whispy white curtains, both of which we can add ourselves.
We'd love to live in a top floor condo/loft with sparkly city and ocean views, and, the best part, be able to walk places. I can imagine us using our car once per weekend. It's the perfect lifestyle for us in this pre-children state. Even with a baby or two, it'd be perfect. Once they start walking, however, we might need to keep them away from any rooftop terraces.
Of course, don't get your hopes up. There's a chance this totally won't happen, what with diastrophism and all.
Yeah, that's a synonym for tectonics. I'm cheap like that.
6.12.2005
New (old) toy.
New (old) toy.
A few weeks ago, I was helping John hinge and hang a new door. Which meant I was propping up the door so he could do all the work, twirling my hair, humming, looking around the room for shiny objects or equally shiny secrets, and asking pointless, useless, and/or nosy questions. On his fabulously old I-want-that-too blue dresser, a frayed brown leather case caught my eye. I opened the case to reveal a Minolta Autocord camera, looking excessively and deliciously old and dusty. Also, the strap disolved on me, for added antique effect. I asked John if I could be a steward of the camera for a while and figure out how to use it. He easily agreed, so I tried my chances at the old blue dresser, too, to far less success.
Without further ado, my new object of stewardship:
This weekend, I took it into George's camera in North Park, held it at arms length like a kid and asked, "what's this and how do i use it and what film does it take and does it even work?" Actually, I just suavely brought the camera up to the counter and just asked what film it used and if they sell it, and I got answers to the above questions. It was cute, though; the nice man gave it a full check-up and heartily encouraged me to be excited to be experimenting with it.
I've currently loaded it with color film and taken about 5 pictures. God knows how many are on a roll. Also, god knows if I'm actually taking pictures. My friend David's dad explained every knob and feature while we were over at his house the other day, but most of it is a blur. I'm following the sunny-16 rule, even if I'm not entirely sure what that means or if I even have the rule right. Good times.
I feel completely legit taking pictures with this, moreso than even my Eighties Nikon. Sweet Grace saw me unpeeling the camera from it's disolve-y leather case, and, having presumably never before seen a twin-lens reflex camera before, quickly identified it as a camera because she's a GENIUS, pointed right at (on) the lens where she's always told not to touch, proclaimed "camera!" and smiled - ready for her close-up. However, she moves too quickly and the whole backwards mirror reflection thing wasn't quite working out for the sports/toddler photography.
I mean, I can't wait to show you my artistic blur shots when they're developed. Most of all, I hope John doesn't read this and want the camera back.
A few weeks ago, I was helping John hinge and hang a new door. Which meant I was propping up the door so he could do all the work, twirling my hair, humming, looking around the room for shiny objects or equally shiny secrets, and asking pointless, useless, and/or nosy questions. On his fabulously old I-want-that-too blue dresser, a frayed brown leather case caught my eye. I opened the case to reveal a Minolta Autocord camera, looking excessively and deliciously old and dusty. Also, the strap disolved on me, for added antique effect. I asked John if I could be a steward of the camera for a while and figure out how to use it. He easily agreed, so I tried my chances at the old blue dresser, too, to far less success.
Without further ado, my new object of stewardship:
This weekend, I took it into George's camera in North Park, held it at arms length like a kid and asked, "what's this and how do i use it and what film does it take and does it even work?" Actually, I just suavely brought the camera up to the counter and just asked what film it used and if they sell it, and I got answers to the above questions. It was cute, though; the nice man gave it a full check-up and heartily encouraged me to be excited to be experimenting with it.
I've currently loaded it with color film and taken about 5 pictures. God knows how many are on a roll. Also, god knows if I'm actually taking pictures. My friend David's dad explained every knob and feature while we were over at his house the other day, but most of it is a blur. I'm following the sunny-16 rule, even if I'm not entirely sure what that means or if I even have the rule right. Good times.
I feel completely legit taking pictures with this, moreso than even my Eighties Nikon. Sweet Grace saw me unpeeling the camera from it's disolve-y leather case, and, having presumably never before seen a twin-lens reflex camera before, quickly identified it as a camera because she's a GENIUS, pointed right at (on) the lens where she's always told not to touch, proclaimed "camera!" and smiled - ready for her close-up. However, she moves too quickly and the whole backwards mirror reflection thing wasn't quite working out for the sports/toddler photography.
I mean, I can't wait to show you my artistic blur shots when they're developed. Most of all, I hope John doesn't read this and want the camera back.
6.09.2005
Extra Ordinary.
Extra Ordinary.
Last night, we met some lovely friends at Extraordinary Desserts where I had my not-frequent-enough rendezvous with my lovergirl and swallowed down a giant dish of berries. It was great to see Sasha and David again and sit at "our" table, but it was also some much needed pampering and tastiness.
I feel like I'm amidst a giant crash down from a giant high. It's exacerbated by the fact that I literally can't run right now. My brain no longer has Sunday's endorphins, and my legs are itching to run. My left foot, however, begs to differ and might even have a stress fracture. Great. I spent the last six months of my life preparing mind, body, and soul for this event, and now it's finished. All of a sudden, I crossed the finish line and that's that. While I had an amazing finish experience, what with the sprinting and the sobbing and all, but I did manage to notice the spectator's silence and bored looks as I ran down the final stretch. I wanted to yell to them! "CHEER, BITCHES!" I didn't, of course, but it was eerie how quiet it was. I'd say it was the beginning of the Post Marathon Anticlimax.
My running buddy sent me a really touching email today, and not just because of his last line, "Thanks for being my running buddy. I'm really gonna miss us." (Swoon). I digress. He talked about how he knows and he feels like he's done something remarkable and extraordinary, so why does he feel so disappointed and let down? Why is it so anticlimactic?
I thought that I would get past the emotionally rocky last week of preparation and race day, and be a normal person again on Monday. Tuesday at the latest. But here it is, Thursday, and I just feel like I'm sinking further and further into a post-marathon funk. People are still asking me about the race and telling me they're proud of me, so it's not like I'm disappointed in the support or being all "CHEER BITCHES"-y. It's just a "so, now it's over" moment.
As I limped towards Extraordinary Desserts last night, leaving my doctor-issued crutches at home out of pure shame, I realized that I need to hurry up and recover and get out on the trails again, so I can clear my head and just run again. (And burn off the pot of crystallized sugar I was about to eat).
That last paragraph clearly means it's an addiction, counting the days until I can shoot up again. Actually, I think we can pretty much agree this whole post signals addiction. Awesome.
Last night, we met some lovely friends at Extraordinary Desserts where I had my not-frequent-enough rendezvous with my lovergirl and swallowed down a giant dish of berries. It was great to see Sasha and David again and sit at "our" table, but it was also some much needed pampering and tastiness.
I feel like I'm amidst a giant crash down from a giant high. It's exacerbated by the fact that I literally can't run right now. My brain no longer has Sunday's endorphins, and my legs are itching to run. My left foot, however, begs to differ and might even have a stress fracture. Great. I spent the last six months of my life preparing mind, body, and soul for this event, and now it's finished. All of a sudden, I crossed the finish line and that's that. While I had an amazing finish experience, what with the sprinting and the sobbing and all, but I did manage to notice the spectator's silence and bored looks as I ran down the final stretch. I wanted to yell to them! "CHEER, BITCHES!" I didn't, of course, but it was eerie how quiet it was. I'd say it was the beginning of the Post Marathon Anticlimax.
My running buddy sent me a really touching email today, and not just because of his last line, "Thanks for being my running buddy. I'm really gonna miss us." (Swoon). I digress. He talked about how he knows and he feels like he's done something remarkable and extraordinary, so why does he feel so disappointed and let down? Why is it so anticlimactic?
I thought that I would get past the emotionally rocky last week of preparation and race day, and be a normal person again on Monday. Tuesday at the latest. But here it is, Thursday, and I just feel like I'm sinking further and further into a post-marathon funk. People are still asking me about the race and telling me they're proud of me, so it's not like I'm disappointed in the support or being all "CHEER BITCHES"-y. It's just a "so, now it's over" moment.
As I limped towards Extraordinary Desserts last night, leaving my doctor-issued crutches at home out of pure shame, I realized that I need to hurry up and recover and get out on the trails again, so I can clear my head and just run again. (And burn off the pot of crystallized sugar I was about to eat).
That last paragraph clearly means it's an addiction, counting the days until I can shoot up again. Actually, I think we can pretty much agree this whole post signals addiction. Awesome.
6.06.2005
Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile
Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile.
I finished.
Four hours and forty-four minutes later, I officially became a marathon runner.
It was a great day, one of the best ever. I was happy and emotional the whole time, and I kept choking up throughout the run. I'm such a sap. I honestly loved every minute of the race. Yes, all of the minutes. My darling husband and his cousins, my parents, and my sweet friend John were out there at various points cheering me on, as were thousands of other people because I wrote my name on the front of my shirt. Genius, I tell you.
The weather was perfect. Ugly and cloudy. I kept wishing that the weather would hold, and then I got that Indigo Girls song in my head, The Wood Song, with the line "we’ll make it fine if the weather holds but if the weather holds then we’ll have missed the point." As we came around Mission Bay, I tried to relay this to the girls running with me, but couldn't remember the song title or any of the other words in the song. So, naturally, I tried to sing the line. And naturally, it didn't work. I suppose true "conversational pace" is being able to talk but not sing. But trust me to try to sing 17 miles into a marathon.
At mile 20, our coach ran with us for a few yards, warning us that this is the tough part, blah blah blah. I interrupted. "Are you kidding? This is totally the best part. I know I'm going to finish now. This rocks." Or something a little less articulate.
There totally is no wall.
John was strategically placed around mile 23 or 24. I cannot describe how happy I was to see him at that exact point in the race. I might have tripped a few people running behind me to get across to him to give him a big passing hug. I had his dad's name scrawled in permanent black ink on the back of my shirt, and seeing John just reminded me that I was doing the right thing for the right reasons. I just wish I wasn't too late.
I was getting pretty hungry towards the end, and even sort of weak and shaky, but I just kept speeding up towards the finish line. Coming up towards the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, home of THE FINISH LINE, I passed a woman with "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" on the back of her shirt. I can't remember if there were tears or just sweat dripping everywhere, but I choked up after seeing that. And ran faster. I found strength, and it didn't come from thin air or even goo/energy gel. I actually forgot to take my last goo packet, scheduled for 4:30, because I was too busy trying to, you know, finish. So there's no doubt that it was God goo that carried me towards the finish.
This is something I have long considered a "life goal." However, I never really bought into it. I never thought I'd go through with it. I got home from the race and saw that I'd collected an additional $1,050 for leukemia and lymphoma research, and, of course, choked up again. I am just awestruck.
This is me at mile 13. I'm the dork with my hands in the air:
And today? I'm proud and happy but everything hurts. A lot.
I finished.
Four hours and forty-four minutes later, I officially became a marathon runner.
It was a great day, one of the best ever. I was happy and emotional the whole time, and I kept choking up throughout the run. I'm such a sap. I honestly loved every minute of the race. Yes, all of the minutes. My darling husband and his cousins, my parents, and my sweet friend John were out there at various points cheering me on, as were thousands of other people because I wrote my name on the front of my shirt. Genius, I tell you.
The weather was perfect. Ugly and cloudy. I kept wishing that the weather would hold, and then I got that Indigo Girls song in my head, The Wood Song, with the line "we’ll make it fine if the weather holds but if the weather holds then we’ll have missed the point." As we came around Mission Bay, I tried to relay this to the girls running with me, but couldn't remember the song title or any of the other words in the song. So, naturally, I tried to sing the line. And naturally, it didn't work. I suppose true "conversational pace" is being able to talk but not sing. But trust me to try to sing 17 miles into a marathon.
At mile 20, our coach ran with us for a few yards, warning us that this is the tough part, blah blah blah. I interrupted. "Are you kidding? This is totally the best part. I know I'm going to finish now. This rocks." Or something a little less articulate.
There totally is no wall.
John was strategically placed around mile 23 or 24. I cannot describe how happy I was to see him at that exact point in the race. I might have tripped a few people running behind me to get across to him to give him a big passing hug. I had his dad's name scrawled in permanent black ink on the back of my shirt, and seeing John just reminded me that I was doing the right thing for the right reasons. I just wish I wasn't too late.
I was getting pretty hungry towards the end, and even sort of weak and shaky, but I just kept speeding up towards the finish line. Coming up towards the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, home of THE FINISH LINE, I passed a woman with "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" on the back of her shirt. I can't remember if there were tears or just sweat dripping everywhere, but I choked up after seeing that. And ran faster. I found strength, and it didn't come from thin air or even goo/energy gel. I actually forgot to take my last goo packet, scheduled for 4:30, because I was too busy trying to, you know, finish. So there's no doubt that it was God goo that carried me towards the finish.
This is something I have long considered a "life goal." However, I never really bought into it. I never thought I'd go through with it. I got home from the race and saw that I'd collected an additional $1,050 for leukemia and lymphoma research, and, of course, choked up again. I am just awestruck.
This is me at mile 13. I'm the dork with my hands in the air:
And today? I'm proud and happy but everything hurts. A lot.
6.04.2005
Marathon Eve.
Marathon Eve.
Tomorrow is the marathon. HOLY CRAP.
Anyway, for all the stalkers out there, my bib# is 7497. I think you can even track me online, via the marathon homepage or something. Good times! Also, note that in mixed company I shall be rounding down my finishing time.
I'm pretty much as ready as I'll ever be. I mean, seriously, how can I fail? Even if I choke (THERE IS NO WALL) or get the poops, I'm still going to finish running a marathon and I've still raised almost $3,000 for leukemia and lymphoma research.
Tomorrow I'll be running in memory of Neil, my dear friend's father, and Carl, a friend's former student, as well as the countless others who are struggling or lost their fight with blood cancers.
Tomorrow I'll join 1% of 1% of the worlds population (that would be 0.001%? I don't know) by running a marathon. Let's hope I finish in under 5 hours, because let's face it, 5 hours is a long time to be running. Wouldn't I have to worry about ergonomic disasters such as Repetitive Motion Injuries (RMIs)?
Cheer me on tomorrow morning. I can't wait to tell you all about it on Monday. After I sleep in a bit and get a massage, of course.
Tomorrow is the marathon. HOLY CRAP.
Anyway, for all the stalkers out there, my bib# is 7497. I think you can even track me online, via the marathon homepage or something. Good times! Also, note that in mixed company I shall be rounding down my finishing time.
I'm pretty much as ready as I'll ever be. I mean, seriously, how can I fail? Even if I choke (THERE IS NO WALL) or get the poops, I'm still going to finish running a marathon and I've still raised almost $3,000 for leukemia and lymphoma research.
Tomorrow I'll be running in memory of Neil, my dear friend's father, and Carl, a friend's former student, as well as the countless others who are struggling or lost their fight with blood cancers.
Tomorrow I'll join 1% of 1% of the worlds population (that would be 0.001%? I don't know) by running a marathon. Let's hope I finish in under 5 hours, because let's face it, 5 hours is a long time to be running. Wouldn't I have to worry about ergonomic disasters such as Repetitive Motion Injuries (RMIs)?
Cheer me on tomorrow morning. I can't wait to tell you all about it on Monday. After I sleep in a bit and get a massage, of course.
6.02.2005
M83
M83.
M83, Before The Dawn Heals Us.
.
This album is kind of epic, in that it all sort of flows together beautifully and there are many songs with long instrumental periods. That's epic to me. Sometimes, an entire song is just a voice narration. I've been listening to it for a while now, and it just keeps getting better.
The sound is kind of remarkable. I described it to a friend as if Pink Floyd, The Polyphonic Spree, and Doves all got together to do a Sofia Copolla film soundtrack. In fact, it would be so perfect for a Sofia Copolla soundtrack that she needs to get out there and write a film to match it. Are you reading this, Sofia?
You can listen to snippets on that link (click the picture). My favorites are "Don't Save Us From The Flames" and "Teen Angst." Also, "Car Chase Terror" is totally intense and makes me really sad. It's one of those narration ones. You were warned. But after that song, the rest of the album sort of cradles you in it's wake. You have a whole song, #13, of reflection and winding down, using the same musical patterns and chords as Car Chase Terror, just to give you time to mourn that song. The album then gradually and slowly finishes off, shuts down. It's magical.
Please note and be proud that this post had no (prior) mention of the Frou Frou CD I haven't stopped listening to in three months.
M83, Before The Dawn Heals Us.
.This album is kind of epic, in that it all sort of flows together beautifully and there are many songs with long instrumental periods. That's epic to me. Sometimes, an entire song is just a voice narration. I've been listening to it for a while now, and it just keeps getting better.
The sound is kind of remarkable. I described it to a friend as if Pink Floyd, The Polyphonic Spree, and Doves all got together to do a Sofia Copolla film soundtrack. In fact, it would be so perfect for a Sofia Copolla soundtrack that she needs to get out there and write a film to match it. Are you reading this, Sofia?
You can listen to snippets on that link (click the picture). My favorites are "Don't Save Us From The Flames" and "Teen Angst." Also, "Car Chase Terror" is totally intense and makes me really sad. It's one of those narration ones. You were warned. But after that song, the rest of the album sort of cradles you in it's wake. You have a whole song, #13, of reflection and winding down, using the same musical patterns and chords as Car Chase Terror, just to give you time to mourn that song. The album then gradually and slowly finishes off, shuts down. It's magical.
Please note and be proud that this post had no (prior) mention of the Frou Frou CD I haven't stopped listening to in three months.
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