Holiday thoughts

Ahh, so once again, here I sit, a few days before Christmas, work finally lightening up just before an extended break, listening to music of the season, as I have done for a few years now. Only, it doesn't feel like Christmas. I feel like Cindy Lou Who in Ron Howard's take on "the Grinch", looking for that spirit to wrap me in its mantle, asking the question, "Where are you, Christmas?"

And I don't have an answer.

I just can't seem to find it, no matter where I look. Now - before any of you go and start thinking there's something wrong, I do NOT feel depressed or lonesome, or like the holidays are a waste of time, or anything like that. Quite the contrary - I WANT to be amazed, dazzled, filled with sugarplum fairy magic that turns things into a festive wonderland - all that good stuff. For some reason, this year, it's difficult to channel that spirit and feel it all around me.

Perhaps it's the cold - err - the warmth. It doesn't feel like Christmas outside to me. There's no snow. Christmas just isn't Christmas without a little snow on the ground, or the scent of pine boughs wafting through a house. It needs some good old fashioned egg nog or mulled wine, a peppermint stick and a roaring fireplace. It needs music. Most of all, if I had to pick my favorite thing about it, it needs darkness.

Maybe that's what it is that I'm missing. The best memory, my most favorite thing of all at Christmastime was to sit in the dark and watch the tree, decorated with bobs and baubles of every shape and size reflect the lights that twinkled on and off between the branches of the tree. I distinctly remember that my father would dress the tree with three strings of colored lights. Those things lasted forever, it seems. They blinked out of sequence, and I remember watching the patterns on the ceiling change until the sequence made its full cycle and began again, watching as the shadow-patterns changed. It was dark, so there was only one thing to do: watch the tree and listen to whatever music was playing on the record player - yeah, I said "record player" - as in old vinyl albums.

That darkness held in it a mystery and a fascination that marked the season for me. What was glitzy and glittering in the world didn't matter - it was too dark to see it anyway. There was plenty of time for everything that was shiny and new, but most importantly, there was the simple quietness of those moments.

I couldn't tell you if my parents planned that specifically or not. I don't know, and I doubt I will ever ask. They probably used it as a way to just quiet the house down, if the truth would ever come out. I can look now and see the symbolism inherent in those moments: the "people in darkness" witnessing a "great light," Christ being the Light or the World, etc - even down to the Grinch realizing that "...maybe Christmas didn't come from a store..." All have their small spot in this rather Rockwellian scene, I suppose.

There was something elsemy parents did that ended up being pretty cool: A day or two prior to Christmas Eve, my mother would bake a cake. This was a special cake - it was a birthday cake. Of course, all kids know and understand the importance of a birthday - Mom was pretty good at taking advantage of these opportunities. This cake was white, with three layers, round, coated with white icing with little red hots all around the outside edge, and one lone candle in the middle. This was the birthday cake for Jesus.

We would go to the evening Mass, and when we came home, excited as only children know how to be, we would gather in the living room, and pass around the nativity set, all wrapped up in newspapers. We would unwrap the characters of the nativity, and smile and hope we wouldn't get stuck with the stupid cow again. Dad would read the Christmas Story from the Gospel of Luke, and as the verses directed, we would each place our character in the little box/manger under the tree. When that was done, we would celebrate the coming of Jesus by singing happy birthday and Mom woudl ask us about all the symbolic things about the cake while we scarfed it down. I'm not so sure giving small children sugar right before bed on Christmas Eve was the smartest thing they ever decided to do, but, well, it was only once a year. But that's how it was - Christmas Eve was for Jesus, Christmas Day was for Santa Claus.
Somehow, through the years, Jesus and Santa never had a fight. It worked for us. And other than a few rare instances, I can barely racall anything Santa gave me.

This year will be the second in a row that I've not put up a Christmas tree, as I won't be home for the holiday. Maybe that's why it doesn't quite feel right. I can't be certain, but I know one thing: sitting here writing this, telling any who might read how I grew up, sharing with my friends and relatives - it feels just like I'm sitting in the dark, watching those colorful blinking lights on the tree, listening to vinyl records spin on the turntable, with all their white noise playing through the hi-fi set. It's December 20th, and maybe I just found Christmas.

A very Merry Christmas to you all. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanza, the Solstice, or any other particular belief - may you be surrounded with family and friends. May you know joy and peace. May you revel in the warm thoughts of the season. May you find rest. Know that I'm thinking of you, and I consider myself blessed to have you in my life. So say it again - despite the political incorrectness of it: MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Application for a name change....

Look out world - in just a few days' time, you're probably not going to see that much of me for a month. Busy, busy, busy. So, in light of some recent events and the fact that you'll be without my rambling sentences for a while (was that a collective sigh of relief I just heard?) I thought I'd give you one more little snippet before I disappear.

I am changing my name to Cyrano de Bergerac. No, my nose is not obnoxious, nor do I plan on rhinoplasty to make it that way. No, I cannot wield a sword to save my life. However, when a young friend of mine comes up to me today and says simply, "So what are the rules for taking someone out on a dinner-date?" Well, I think I've made my mark as the "hidden somewhere in the shadows voice/puppetmaster" So, I gave him the rules. Thankfully, I was not actually asked to feed the correct words to him, and he should have enough wisdom to find them on his own - he's a pretty bright chap, after all. But the essence is the same: I was asked to supply the method and means for this guy to....never mind. I don't wanna know ANY of the details.

But I KNOW you're all dying to hear just what I told this young fella. So here you go - the rules for a first date/dinner!!!!!!!

There are two basic rules, and only two basic goals.

GOAL #1: Make sure the lady in question has an excellent time.
GOAL #2: Make sure the lady in question wants to have a SECOND excellent time.

Anything else that happens - be it from the mundane to the....not so mundane - is extra. Gravy. Not necessary, but welcome. A happy accident. A natural awesome. The goals are simple, and they should never get you into trouble. If things don't work out and become anything, she still had a nice time and will have no reason to say anything bad about you. This protects your reputation. If things do work out for the better, then it achieves the goal of getting the second date. EITHER WAY, SHE WILL TELL HER FRIENDS. If these goals are met, you simply can't lose.

Now, how does one accomplish these goals??? By following the two basic rules, of course! These are fairly broad rules, and you can probably argue that there are quite a number of specific rules buried inside each one, but for the guys...it's easier to just dumb this down to two overarching rules. Gents, we work better with small numbers, face it.

RULE#1)ALWAYS BE A GENTLEMAN.
RULE#2)lET HER SET THE PACE.

See? Simple but broad rules. They are designed only to meet the goals previously stated, but can often achieve much more. Of course, the implications of each are enough to fill volumes, but they still come back to being a gentleman and letting her set the pace. Yes, following these rules and goals can be painstakingly slow, at times, but they offer you the best chance at long-term and short-term success. In these days of instant gratification and electronic media, there's something to be said for a person who knows how to take it slow and invest his time and effort into another person. It's called "Intimacy," and it's not a dirty word. It shows the other person that you value them, that their needs and deisres matter to you, and that it doesn't have to be all about you. It's about respect, after all.

On an aside to the ladies. These rules and goals? You should insist upon them.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

One week to go...

WOOOO!!!!! One week to go until NaNoWriMo, and the Fat Kid is gettin' excited!! Almost all my planning is done for this work - a rare thing, as it's usually not my style to plan ahead. A lot of the thinking is done...and I have been itching to write for about two weeks - but I'm not allowed to start it yet!!!!!

So for the next week, if I become a little more prolific in my writing, then you can assume it's me exercising my fingers just to get them in the mood to write 1700 words a day! I'm hoping that the first couple of days, when I get some of my ideas out of my head, that I will be well ahead of the game, but we'll have to see about that. There's really no telling how that's going to work itself out, other than to just do it and see what happens.

But, much of the scene planning done - I just have a little bit left to work out and then I should be good to go. It's a matter of sitting down and actually doing it, that's all. So here I am, my head full of stuff I can write, stuff I want to write, and.....I'm not allowed to write it yet! I'm not sure there is a worse fate for a writer.

Writings and rambling and rantings, Oh my!!

Good news, kids...With National Novel Writing Month quickly approaching (and seriously, they should really think about finding a month without a huge holiday in it) plans are well underway for the 50,000 word challenge. Yes, for those playing along at home, that's 1,667 words per day - the equivelant of a short essay. And that's not just five days a week, mind you, that EVERY day of November. Never fear, kids - I know how how to ramble on about seemingly unimportant things to be able to fill up a bit of space - or haven't you been reading closely? The key to doing something like this is to take it slowly. No, not the process of writing, but the plot and events of the story itself. If I take the time to let the story develop as it shouold, then I imagine that I'm probably looking at something akin to 100,000 to 130,000 words in order to tell the story I have in mind. No, if I can get THAT done in November, I'll be damned impressed with myself.

But if a story is that easy to tell in words, why can't we use the same thing for film?? Just slow it down and tell the whole story - leave nothing out. How hard is this to do? OK, it's a different medium, and you're going to "lose time" on the fact that things are visual - it's an instant communication, and all the words that take up six paragraphs describing the weather can be told in a split second. OK, that's the medium there, not the writing. It's not like a good story (and good story-telling) won't sell - look at Harry Potter. HUGE successes, and they never really scrimp on the storylines. They might eliminate a couple of things that don't really add to the movie experience, but each one of those films kept in mind the idea that you can never skip steps when telling a story. You have to hit all the plot points! You can't skip them - particularly when it involves falling in love (yeah, I'm looking at you, Kenneth Branagh and Joss Whedon, dirctors of this summer's "Thor").

Thus, there must be some ground rules posted for film.

The Fat Kid's Rules for American Cinema.

1) Thou shalt never sumbit American audiences to a film that runs under two hours, except in cases of childrens' movies or documentaries.
2) A character needs at least 4 "movie days" to fall completely in love with another character, otherwise, they just wanna get in the sack. Exceptions for productions of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde, where it's understood they all just wanna get in the sack anyway.
3) I don't care how many explosions you use, Michael Bay, if the lines are bad, the movie is bad. Period.
4) THOU SHALT NOT REMAKE FILMS THAT WERE PERFECT THE FIRST TIME THROUGH. (AHEM: Producers of the latest "Footloose" film, are you paying attention?) If you want to remake something, remake a movie that bombed and rescue it from being the next "Ishtar" or "Gigli".
5) Thou shalt NEVER scrimp on the minutest of details when making a superhero movie. Please - the damned stories are already weak enough, and you have to get the two hours of run-time in anyway...just put the scenes in!
6) Thou shalt not remove scenes from the film that were put in the trailor. We'd rather see what we're getting than feel you've lied to us.
7) Thou shalt resist the temptation to animate/cgi everything and likewise shall resist the dreaded 3-D concept. It's on a FLAT screen. It's only two dimensional. Sorry, but it's the truth.
8) Thou shalt refrain from putting every female starlet in revealing outfits unless it is dictated by the role (example: Megan Fox in "Transformers" - shorts were completely unnecessary, we already understand that she's pretty). There are simply NOT that many stories about "working girls" out there. Stop it. It's called "style" and "class" and you need to get some.
9) There shalt be no more than a trilogy for all films. I'm sorry, but the same plot device being told 10-12 times is lame.
10) IF YOU CANNOT MAKE A GOOD FILM OUT OF SOMETHING WITHOUT ALTERING OR ELIMINATING CRUCIAL STORY THREADS, SELL THE SCRIPT TO A TV STUDIO THAT CAN. Case in Point: HBO's "Game of Thrones" was an excellent method of telling an epic story, and they did it well.
11) When adapting from a work of literature (fiction or non-fiction matters not) the Author of the book has final script approval. It's their story, not yours. Shut up and tell their story.
12) Writers write, actors act, directors direct....Producers just throw money around. I don't care if you're Spielberg or Lucas. Know your roles, do not cross them.

If you continue to demand simply crazy prices to watch your films, then I believe we're entitled to look at something worth watching. Thank you, that is all.


Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Hope Springs Eternal

Recently, the Fat Kid has been criticised (shock, gasp!) for being - if you can believe it - too positive. Now, to those of you who have known me for years, including my wild and checkered past of negativity and Eeyore-induced melancholy, you're either about be completely blown away by this, or you will suddenly have a conversion of faith - perhaps even both. Yes, I have been accused of being too positive, of possessing too much hope, faith in humanity, good-naturedness, happiness, and even joy. Specifically, I have been told that it is a waste of my time, and I am deluded. I have been told that love, happiness, contentedness, and good things do not exist, and that my outlook on life should be pitied.

I am fortunate enough to have friends and loved ones who - even through the years of "ho-hum, thanks for noticing" claptrap I would utter - found ways to show they cared...often amidst my strong objections. They celebrated my birthday when I told them not to. They said "good morning" even when they knew my standard response was, "What's good about it?" They stuck with me through thick and thin, no matter how many times I tried to stand alone, aloof, and apart from the rest of the crowd. They didn't give up on me, even when I'd given up on myself, and I am a better man because of it.

At no time has this been made more clear to me than in the last few weeks. I was lucky enough to meet someone who was the very reflection of what I used to be: afraid to share, to give of myself, to let people touch my life and affect me, to be open and honest with who I am, and show off my best qualities. I was also lucky enough to see a friend make a decision to change her very life, and dare to dream again, to take a risk and say "Damn the risk! This thing is good, I deserve it, I want it, and even if it means I get hurt, I'll do it anyway!" And then, that same person said to me, "You never gave up on me, when I was giving up on myself."

It was, in a word, humbling. And then I was accused of wasting my life and time and energy on being poisitve when there was no point. To that, I say simply (and I think appropriately, too) Bullshit. To hope, to dream, to evision something that doesn't yet exist is to bring out the best elements in yourself, and maybe, if you're lucky, you'll help someone else out along the way. You might not even know you're doing it, but a kind word or smile, a simple cheery hello, anything at all can brighten someone's day. It makes a difference. That is never a waste.

There is nothing else like Man on this planet. Sure, we have our faults. We pollute, we waste resources, we kill, we steal, we're selfish, we're bigoted, we're rude, we're dishonest - heck, there's a lot of bad things about us. But we also have the ability to dream, to hope, to nurture, to give, to grow, to help, to inspire, to create, and to be kind. These things are not instinctual. They have nothing to do with basic living needs. They are choices we make, and whatever we choose to focus on is what we will receive in kind. We simply have to make the choice.

To those who have been bright spots in my life when I was in despair, you have my humble thanks. To those who were annoyingly positive during that time, you'll be happy to know your smiley-ness has infected me and it's spreading. To those to whom I'm now annoyingly positive, resistance is futile.

Hope springs eternal. It cannot be crushed unless we allow it - unless we choose to crush it within ourselves. I choose to nourish hope, I dare to dream. Why? Because I believe we're worth it. And I may be a fool for it, and I may get burned a time or two because of it, and I may get my hopes dashed to pieces on occasion. That's reality - it can happen. But so what? Like my friend says, "Damn the risk!"

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid

Why Men In Black needs to be a real entity...

Aside from the fact that it would be awesome to have Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith running around covered in interstellar bug guts, wielding obnoxiously chromed weapons that couldn't possibly exist and blowing up half of Manhatten, I'm really more excited about the possibility of everyone being put in a 36-hour day.

See, the Fat Kid needs a 36 hour day, just to be able to get to do all the things he wants to do. There's biking, of course, and writing, and woodcarving, and cooking, and playing chess, plus the occasional hour or two of sleep and one HAS to work (unfortunately, no one has volunteered to make me independently wealthy as of yet) and if there's any way I'm going to be able to get all this stuff in, 36 hours in the day ought to cover it. Heck, I'll even move to Jupiter, where the days are longer and there are MORE OF THEM! Huzzah!

But in this overindulgent age of movie series that go on for far too long (I'm looking at you, Michael Bay and Optimus Prime) I vote for MIIIB: Interstellar Black. I can see the tagline for the movie poster now: "The neighborhood just got a lot bigger." We can even scrimp on the actors and just hire nobodys and say that Agents J and K had to go through the 7-yr-identity-concealer in order to keep functioning. Hey, it worked in the last "Matrix" film. BRILLIANT. Now, step three: profit. Just wait for the mega bucks to come a-rolling in. After 70 minutes of special effects and 20 minutes of actual script, it'll be perfect for what Hollywood likes to package and sell for $10 a ticket. We might even be able to use stock footage for it!!!!! THere's got to be some cutting-room floor stuff left over from the first two films we can use! After all, why care about making good movies, since The Academy and Hollywood haven't cared about that in so long?

Cut. Print. Perfect. New plan: Use the extra hours in the day to spend all the moolah that rolls in from this new venture. Muahahahahahahaha...world domination is in my future!!! Unfortunately, I'll probably have to start in that big red storm thing on Jupiter, where nothing can survive...*sigh* Baby steps.

Thanks for Reading,

The Fat Kid

Na-No-Wri-Mo Here I Come....

OK, so, having failed so FABULOUSLY at my last daily writing attempt, I think I need to redeem myself. Hey lookey there - National Novel Writing Month is coming up in November! AND - I remembered it before October!!!!! I figure that if I can do National Poetry Month in April, NaNoWriMo ought to be a cinch! What's that, writing a novel in a month can't be done? Poppycock! Of course it can! Especially when the "contest" is really only 50,000 words. Yep, that's all I have to do - 50,000 words in thirty days. That's 1666.67 words per day, or roughly 70 words per hour.

Of course, the story can be as long as one likes, it doesn't have to END at 50k words. This is wonderful news for the Fat Kid, because his other novel...yep, THAT one...is roughly 170,000 words long. Clearly, complex plots that involve a lot of explanation are nothing I fear. But here's the shocker for ya. This one...this one isn't fantasy literature.

SHOCK!!! GASP!!! WTH??????

Yes, kiddos, you heard me correctly - the Fat Kid is exposing himself to new and varied genres, and you know what happens when the Fat Kid exposes himself!! (A humble thank-you to Bill Murray and Harold Ramis for that little gem.) But seriously, I think in more terms than just fictional worlds full of dragons and orbs and outlaws and psionic half-men, and since I have this idea in my head, I thought I should try and get it down on digital paper - and at least get it out of my head.

But wait - did you say that this is happening in November? Why, yes I did, dear reader - how astute an observer you are!! Yes, the tules state that I cannot begin the creating of text until November the 1st, but I can create outlines, graphs, charts, storyboards, plot diagrams, and have copious amounts of notes at my disposal beforehand. So, not only will I be exploring a new kind of genre, but I am also going to approach it a different way: prepare everything first, THEN jump in!!!! For those just sent into diabetic shock/collapse at this notion (yeah, you know who I'm talking about, you Elf) stuff it. It's only because of the truncated time schedule that I'm doing it this way. We'll talk.

So...FEEL FREE TO PESTER ME. Yep, ask questions, get me talking. Seriously, it helps in the writing process. 90% of writing is thinking, and the more I'm forced to talk about this, the more I'll think about it and the various problems that will come up with my plot. The more I think about it, the more I'll solve.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Older...not so much wiser...

In what now seems like a lifetime ago, the Fat Kid used to play hihg school sports. Well, ok, for two years, I played one high school sport - Men's Volleyball. Yeah, in Central New York, Volleyball is a mne's sport AND a women's sport...only the men's season runs from the end of January through most of March. It's a winter sport, which means it's played indoors. For those who consider volleyball to only consist of beaches and Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh in sport bikinis - the indoor game is quite a lot different.

1) speed - it's a lot faster.
2) ceilings - they suck, but it's a heck of a limiter
3) the sand is forgiving when you land on it (we'll come back to this point)
4) 6 people per side, not 2
5) no sport bikinis (for men's volleyball, this is an excellent idea)

Now, the problem with playing any sport on an organized team is that, innevitably, the coach of said sport drills certain ideas into your head that you cannot shake, no matter what. This is where the Fat Kid gets into trouble. Oh, there's nothing wrong with those principles, mind you - it's just that those principles are not conducive to the pain-free lifestyle that I would prefer living.

Principle 1: the ball better not hit the floor unless three bodies hit first. Remember that bit about how sand is forgiving when you crash into it? Yeah, gymnasium floors...not so much. In fact, a gymnasium floor tends to be quite a bit harder than flesh. One might even say that the floor hits back.

Principle 2: the height of the ball (in feet off the ground) is exactly the same as the number of feet you can travel to get to it before it hits the ground. Of course, this does not take the speed at which the ball may be traveling - sometimes a crucial element - or the angle at which it is moving.

Principle 3: The ball is more important than the well-being of the physical self. And THAT's the one that's hardest to shake, probably because it is the most warped of them all. Bruises heal. Pain is momentary, fleeting. Victory....victory is forever.

Of course, these priciples, when you are 15-18 yrs old, are sound theory. Practice follows theory to produce victory, and through victories, the team achieves glory. It is awesome. When you are a teenager. When you are a thirty-something guy nursing a bum calf muscle...these principles are still cool, but the ability to practice them and produce victory and attain glory...well, that is another matter entirely.

So last night, I went to what I am calling the League of Somewhat Ordinary Gentlemen - 30-40-somethings intent on recapturing former glories. There, I promptly tried to play the way I used to, utilizing all the principles I'd been taught so many years ago. Theory into practice, producing victories (although not many) and achieving glory...SCREW THAT. What did I get for my efforts? The heel of my left hand is tender, right thumb is bruised, left calf muscle is tighter than blazes and screaming at me any time I move my leg, right shoulder is painful to move, upper back is sore, and lower left side of my back is stiff and sore, too.

Why did I do this? Because - it's the only way I know how to play. Thanks, Coach. You forgot to mention Principle 4: Tylenol, Advil, drug stores, ace bandages, wrist and ankle braces, and ice packs are my friends.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning?

Today - right now, actually - is the tenth anniversary of the attacks of 9/11/2001. I was at work on a bright Tuesday morning when the first plane hit, and a coworker rushed over with the news, wondering if we could get reception on the TV we kept for students' use. You could still get analog signals then, and we were able to pull in one local news channel, even if it was a bit fuzzy. I saw the second plane hit the towers.

The city began to evacuate. Then, the reports came in about the plane that went down in Shanksville, about 90 minutes from Pittsburgh. Did it miss us? Was it aimed for the USX Tower? Mass confusion and gridlock on the streets reigned. I went to the Student Union - there was no point in trying to get out onto the streets. We waited inside, all of us wondering what would happen next. Some were scared, and others panicky, and some just went about their day, almost oblivious. I stayed on the bottom floor, underground. For the only time in my life, I felt a little like a refugee, trying to make sense of the world and what was happening, but knowing I was powerless to do anything about it right now.

It's ten years later, now. We gather together in NYC, Washington, D.C. and Shanksville, PA today to remember those we lost. And it hurts. An old wound that might not ever heal re-opened. I wonder what our future holds. Will we, as we did back on December 7th, 1941, become a nation that puts aside our differences, and finally unites? It's been ten years. Those in 1941 didn't need even five years to join a war effort, and finish that war as the victors. I can see how, with our advances in medical science, in social thought, and in civil behavior, we see ourselves as having progressed. And then I see how we remain divided, and I think that perhaps for all our advancements, we've lost sight of what is important. Yes, our fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers smoked, drank too much, worked too hard, punished severely, had strong gender-specific roles that we find abhorrant now. But, they were able to do what was necessary when they were pushed too far. I wonder how far we will have to be pushed to do what is necessary, and if we are lesser sons and daughters of better generations.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Welcome to the New America, Check Your Baggage at the Door.

"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all."

Recently, I was embroiled in a lively - and civil - discussion on having the words under God" appear in the Pledge, and whether or not they should be there, as they have been since 1954. I want to thank all those involved in said discussion, because it was kept civil, with no name-calling, etc. In this day and age, that's a pretty amazing feat.

Among the opinions expressed were several individuals claiming that it's not right to say "under God" since a lot of people do not believe in a deity. They were offended that they should have to express belief in such a concept, and that it was included in something pertaining to the State, since it had to do with religion. Now, I'm going to say this here: I personally do not care whether you believe in God, Allah, Yaweh, Jehovah, Buddha, Shiva, Ra, Zeus, Jupiter, Gaia, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Cthulhu, or the Almighty Dollar. You believe as you do for your reasons. I don't have to understand your reasons - I just have to understand that you have them. I don't care whether you share my belief or not. Would I like it if you did? Well, it would give us one more thing in common to talk about, but I'm sure the same can be said from all perspectives.

But I was saddened, none the less - not at the opinions and points argued, but at what I've come to notice as a trend in this country. It is now a social "crime" to offend anyone - and what we are labeling as "offensive" is way, way, WAY out of control. When and how did we become such pansies that when someone says something we don't agree with, we become instantly offended and are owed an apology? Furthermore, we MUST argue and prove ourselves "right" to anyone and everyone! Why? What is the point of all this nonsense?

We have become a nation not of free thinkers, but a nation free from thought. I know my "liberal" friends will now be mortally offended at this statement, but it's true from the perspective that we don't "think" anymore - we simply react on how we feel and then argue the hell out of it. We are so desperately clinging to the idea of being able to think and have our own opinions that anyone or anything that expresses an idea opposite to our own draws our ire.

And all I have to ask is: THIS is a nation that's supposed to be a superpower in the world? We can't even agree on a uniform way to pledge our allegiance to our country!! Unified? We are only unified when it suits us, and really only on the basest of levels. We were all unified and pretty much universally agree that the attacks of 9/11/2001 were attrocious - but that's as far as that unity spreads, because we can't even agree on how - or IF - we should seek out and catch those responsible for it! Then, when someone makes a decision one way or another, we criticize the only people willing to make a decision on the topic because we don't like the method of action the individual(s) chose! It seems we're offended at having to make the choice, offended by the choice someone else has made for us after we abdicated making the choice, and then we're offended because that choice that we didn't make didn't turn out the way we wanted it to!

This is the New America. This is our legacy. You can blame liberal thinking, you can blame Conservative politics and structure, but the truth is that somewhere along the line, we stopped thinking about what was best for this country a long time ago, and we started only looking out for ourselves. There is nothing "United" about the U.S.A. Check your baggage and personal opinions at the door, and welcome to the Automoton Nation. That's the only way we can be assured to not offend anyone, ever.

We live in a culture of fear. Half the advertisements we read/see are based on a fear of something: fear of dirt, fear of an accident, fear of growing older, fear of getting fatter, fear of looking worse than anyone else, fear of being laughed at, fear of being alone...the list goes on and on and on. WHY DO WE FEAR BEING RESPONSIBLE FOR OURSELVES AND DOING THE BEST WE CAN???????? Why do we fear getting older, going bald, having less things than the nest person, etc? WHY DO WE LET FEAR WIN?

I don't know if you care to hear or not, but here's what I believe:

I believe in God. I believe that in the terms of The Pledge of Allegience the words "under God" mean that the USA will tolerate being second to no other power other than The Almighty on this earth, whatever the cost. I believe that men and woman are not equal, but that each should be given proper respect for their individual abilites, talents and gifts - in accordance with how they choose to use them. I believe that chivalry and graciousness have been out of common practice for far too long. I believe that nothing is free. I believe that sometimes, there is a proper order in which to do things, and sometimes it doesn't matter. I believe in telling those dear to you that you love them. I believe that children are watching us to learn how to be adults, so we better do a damned good job of modeling and teaching. I believe that we need each other in this life. I believe I am here for a purpose, and that I might never know what that purpose might be - and I'm OK with that. I believe that life is worth living, if we make it so. I believe in the power of a healing smile, a kind word, or a hug. I believe we all have to deal with disappointment - the point is to deal with it. I believe it's time we all started growing up a bit, stopped thinking like children, grew a spine and some thicker skin, and stop living in fear of everything, expecially each other.

Oh and I believe that if you were offended by any of my ramblings, I really don't care. Get over it. I have.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

It's been a while...

So, it's been a while since I've written on here, and well, quite frankly, I haven't really had that much to write about. The last experiment was a bust, it seems. I found that I wasn't finding much to be able to write about - with the people I was observing. More importantly, there was nothing that was going to sound much different that what I'd already come up with - and nobody wants to read the same thing, same thing, same thing, same thing, same thing....it's BORING. I do not like to be boring, as anyone who actually reads my drivel ought to have figured out by now.

So, what's new? Well, it's going to be an active fall line-up, I can tell you. THe workshop is starting to get into full swing, what with the holidays approaching. What?? Already? Look, if I don;t start thinking and doing stuff now, I will completely miss November and december, and I wish to not miss them every again. So I start early. There are a few leaves that still need to be made, and a couple other projects as well.if it all works out ok, I'll have everything done in good time, and I won't ever be harried and hassled. Also, yesterday began the kick-start training for a triathlon. I celebrated it by drinking beer and eating frid onion rings and a burger (with bacon). WHEW! The bacon saved it! If not for that, I would have considered it a waste. I would have done something, but I walked off without my gym bag. The mistake was not repeated today. Go me.

What is this about triathlon training, you say? Well, since I don't remember if I've put it in writing on here or not, I've been inspired by a certain someone to take biking one step further (see what I did there?) and give triathlons a try. Now, I'm not going for an ironman or anything like that. That would be silly. However, a "sprint triathlon" (600 meter swim, 12 mile bike ride, 5k run) isn't that far out of the realm of possibility. 12 miles on a bike ought to be about 35 minutes @ 20 mph. A 10-minute mile (5k is like 3.1 miles) should be 30 minutes. and a 600 meter swim...well, ok, so I gotta do a bunch of work in that department. But still - assuming an even 30 minutes for that, allow for transition times, there's no reason not to shoot for a 2-hr -or-under timeframe. That....that I could be proud of. So that's the plan, at least, to shoot for. To do this, the gym at work is offering an incentive program (if I finish, I get a free t-shirt) to do a run/bike/row triathlon, over the course of 7 weeks. I signed up at the ironman level: 26.2 miles of running, 110 miles of biking, and 9 miles of rowing. Free t-shirts, it seems, are very powerful motivators!

So that's what I'm up to. A good friend of mine was on a kick earlier this year about being amazing and searching out experiences that made her and her life amazing. I think it's a good thing to explore. So I'm going to try and find some amazing. Today's amazing - snagging a victory on the chess board from a game I probably should have lost. Opponant made a few mistakes that I was able to use to my advantage in position, and all was good.

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid

Lunchtime ramblings # 6 or something...

Dr. Neil Savage looked out of his office window to the parking lot below. It wasn't hard to find his car - it was the bright red Corvette parked all alone in the far corner of the lot. He almost wished it was right outside his window.

She'd accused him of loving that car more than he loved her, and that was why she was leaving him. He just stared, shocked to his core. Because of a car. No, that couldn't be it. There had to be something more, something she didn't tell him. The bank accounts. Neil ran to his office and logged onto his computer, and then the bank accounts. There they were, no balance left. She'd cleaned him out. This wasn't going to be pretty. He picked up the phone.

"Tracie, can you cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day? I've had an emergency come up and I need to take care of it."

"Yes, Dr. Savage," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm not sure. Unfortunately, I have to run a few important errands all of a sudden."

He hung up the phone without waiting for a response. Grabbing his phone and coat, he ran out of the office. Once in his car, he dialed the phone.

"Hello?"
"Hi Jack, it's Neil."
"Neil, what's going on? You never call me in the middle of the day!"
"You were right, Jack. SHe's leaving me."
"Oh Shit." There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. "Are you ok, buddy?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine. Listen, I have to run some errands and tie up some loose ends pretty quickly here. Do me a favor and have something to drink on hand tonight, huh? I'm gonna need to get a bit drunk, I think."
"Yeah, anything man. Hey, you know me - whatever you need."
"Thanks. I'll call you back later, ok?"
"Sure, no problem."

He arrived at the bank. He just had to make sure she didn't know about the deposit box. If she knew about that, he would be completely lost. He walked in and waited in the receptionist area. After the longest ten minutes he'd ever spent waiting, the receptionist called his name.

"What can I do for you today, Sir?"
"I need to whomever is in charge of the safety deposit boxes. I have a box here, and I need to get into it."

"No problem Sir," said the teller. "I'll get Mr. Gerard out here right away, Sir."

More waiting. Neil hated waiting.

A tall man came out to greet him. "I understand you have a box you;d like to look at, Sir?"

"Yes," said Neil. "Box 342, if you could. I'd like to see its contents."
"You have the proper documentation, Sir?"

Neil reached into his wallet and pulled out his ID card.
"Very good, Sir. If you step right into the next room here, I'll get your case right away."
"Thank you."
The short wait took forever, and Neil practically jumped out of his skin when Mr. Gerard came back into the room, carrying the safety deposit box. 'Will there be anything else, Sir?"
"No, thank you," said Neil as he fumbled with the key for a moment. The box opened. It was empty except for a piece of paper. He took it out and unfolded it.

It was a perfect imprint of her lips in lipstick.


Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Lunchtime Ramblings....# whatever...

Jerry looked out of the doorway into the street, stretching. It wasn't the most comfortable doorway he'd ever spent the night in, but was welcome after the last few days of sweltering heat. Sometime in the last day, the weather finally broke and became cooler again. At least, he thought it was in the last day. Sometimes, the days ran together anymore. It didn't happen often, but when it did, he often lost one or two days at a time. He always woke up feeling refreshed, somehow. He was certain, though, that it couldn't be a good thing to lose track of days.

His bony fingers lifted the half-burned cigarette to his lips and he lit it, inhaling the smoke. He closed his eyes as he exhaled, the now all-too-familiar burn as it seared his lungs only hurting a moment. He hated the taste, the smell, even the feel of the damned thing. It would probably give him cancer, if it hadn't already. But smoking was what you did when you lived out here. It suppressed the appetite. It was how you coped when you couldn't get anything to eat. He laughed, and immediately began a coughing fit that lasted almost a minute. The irony - the cigarettes were killing him, but it was the only way to stay alive and not go crazy from the hunger.

He stretched out his legs. They cramped up every night, now, and he couldn't walk without first stretching them out and trying to get the blood pumping again. It didn't help when he was sleeping in cramped doorways of abandoned restaurants. But the night was nice enough that he could get away from the shelter, at least for a night. He might see if he could go back there today for some soup, but there were no guarantees.

That part, at least, he liked. Every day could be something new. Enough spare change to buy a lottery ticket and a hamburger was a good day. A pack of cigarettes was even better. He could make that last days. Sometimes, he was forced to choose between the meal and the lottery ticket. Mostly, he chose to eat. Mostly. When the cigarettes were plentiful, he could do that. There was always the hope tha maybe this time it would be different, and his numbers would work.

His numbers. He laughed again and went into another coughing fit. That was happening more and more frequently, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. His numbers. He always played the same ones: 06-17-19-98. They weren't really his - they were hers. He smiled. His ritual every morning was to spend a few minutes thinking of her, hoping that maybe today would be the day that life changed and he could see her once again. It was foolish to hope that she would ever really know him or accept him, he knew, but he just wanted to know if she was alright. It was all he lived for, now.

The cigarette burned down to the filter and went out, still in his dirty hand. He threw away the butt into the street and watched the commuters go by. He remembered what it was like, trying to eke out a living like the rest of them. He considered himself free, to a point, these days. No schedule, no time clock, no errands to run - free from all of those silly things. Yet, he was restaine, too. No resources, no food, no comfort - forced to smoke so he wouldn't feel the pain in his stomach.

He sighed as he got up out of the shelter of the doorway. Last night was a boon for him. Five dollars in change. And he had more cigarettes. Maybe he would forego eating and buy a second ticket. He shuffled down the sidewalk. Maybe he'd be able to find her today. If the nightly Cash Four worked in his favor. Just once.



Today, I saw a man sitting in a doorway on my way in to work. I don't know if he was homeless or not, but it made me think of this.

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid

Lunchtime Ramblings #4

Jim Robbins walked across the brick-paved courtyard towards the fountain, his pinstriped suitcoat flapping in the breeze, his best smile on his face. There she was, sitting calmly on the bench, waiting for him. He told her to dress nicely, that he was taking her out tonight, but the sight that greeted him made his smile even more grand. Here was the beautiful woman whom, if he did it just right tonight, would soon be his fiancee. He strode over to her, confident in his step. "Hi there, stranger," said Jim.

Stephanie Hudson looked up as Jim greeted her, smiling brightly in the afternoon sunshine. God, he looks great in that suit she thought. She noticed the pink tie she had bought him for Christmas around his neck. She smiled wider. "Hi there, handsome man." She stood and modeled her outfit. She planned it just for him - a silver shimmering short pencil skirt and black top - classy yet flirty, just the way he liked. The tall black espadrills completed her ensemble. "Did I do ok?"

"You did more than OK!" said Jim. "You look amazing."
"Well, you said to look my best."
"I never imagined you'd look prettier than ever! I feel underdressed."
"Well, if you'd tell me what's going on, I would have known exactly how you wanted me to dress," she joked.
"Oh no - I told you it was a surprise, and a surprise it shall remain."
"Ok, Mr. Mysterious - lead on."
"Only if I get a kiss."
"Jim," she said, "There are a lot of people around here."
"I know, I know. BUt a guy can try, right?"
"Get us alone and I'll give you a kiss you'll never forget," she winked.
"Well then, right this way," said Jim as he pointed back into the building.

The two walked away, back across the bricks and into the air-conditioned skyscraper. One, happy to be surprised, the other, sweaty palms and a ring in the pocket of his pinstriped suitcoat.


This was a short one, but it was inspired by a pair I saw outside the USX Tower this afternoon, and my hour's up.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

lunchtime ramblings #3

Hi - ummm...yeah...been bad about these things, I guess, and it looks like I'll have to do some double duty to get back on track, and it will likely take some weekend work. But let's not waste time with idle prattle, yes?


Janet sat by herself amidst the random assortment of people. She hated being here. Every week, all summer long, this was where she was expected to be. Sitting among a bunch of lunatics cheering for others just as messed up as they are. She sighed as she opened her novel and tried to sink herself in another world. Any world would do, really, as long as she could escape even in part from this hell. She sighed and put down her book, unable to get the conversation from earlier out of her mind.
"You're coming down to the track tonight?"
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Why not? You know I like it when you're there to see me race."
She sighed. Here it was. Years of putting up with this were finally about to come to a head. "I really don;t like going down there. I don;t know anyone, and I don't like any of them."
"You don't really know any of them."
"And I like it that way! Just go. Have fun, race well, and I'll be here when you get back."
"You hate it, don't you?"
"Hate what?"
"You hate that I race and I'm actually successful at it, don't you?"
"I hate the fact that it takes so much time and that it's the only thing you seem to think about."
"You know that's not true," he said. "I spend a lot of time with you! What about last weekend? We had a great time!"
"Oh great! We go and have a great weekend, only to come home and have the same problems waiting here for us!"
"Like what? What problems are you talking about??"
"Oh, never mind! You wouldn't understand."
"You're right, I don't understand. I don't understand why it is that you can't be supportive of something that's good for me."
"I sit there every week, being ignored by everyone, and you say I don;t support you?"
"You sit there with your nose in a book every chance you get. You don't try to meet people, you don't try to have fun. How is it supportive when you don't even talk to anyone?"
"I'm there for you, not them."
He had let the conversation go there, but she knew it wasn't over. Not by a long shot. Looking around her, the small crowd was broken up into several groups of threes and fours, all talking away about something or other. She didn't know any of these people, and she felt like an outsider. She WAS an outsider. She knew nothing about this sport, and didn't understand it. The last time she was even on a bike was so long ago she could barely remember.
She looked back down at the book, and thought about escaping back into it again, but knew it was hopeless. She would never be able to concentrate, not with what she was feeling now. She still didn't know why she was here.
"Please?"
That was it. He asked her to come with just that word. And she found herself here, wishing she was somewhere else. This mattered to him. That was enough for today.
She got up from her seat on the bleachers and went to the car, where he was putting his bike away. The race was over, and as always, he did nothing special in it. He won no money or honors of any sort. She went to walk past him and get in the car.
"Thank you," he said, "for being here tonight."
Janet sighed. "You're welcome," she said, "and I'm sorry about earlier."
"Me too. Want to hit a bar for a drink or two? Just us?"
"No," she said. "You're all stinky and disgusting."
He laughed. "I'll shower up as soon as we get home." Then he smiled at her.
She loved that smile. It melted her, most days, and he knew it. "Well, if you don't, you're sleeping in the car."


This long-awaited snippet was thought of while watching a woman at the track last night at the "Tuesday Night World Championships." What are those?? Local bike races - cool stuff.

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid

Lunchtime Ramblings #2

Karinaya Doon looked out the window of her chambers and over the city that stretched out below. The sun had set only a hort time ago, and the reddened skies tinted the whole city with color. The copper roofs on many opf the houses that gleamed on the daytime now reflected the last lights of the day and looked as though the city was engulfed in flame. Travelers called it the Burning City for that purpose. It was her favorite time of day.
A knock came on the thick chamber door, a low rumbling that echoed through the chamber with its high ceilings and thick stone walls. "Come," she said.
The door swung open only a bit, and a thin pagebopy walked in and bowed. "If it pleases Your Highness, I was asked to come and fetch you to dinner," said the lad.
"Thank you, Gaarnin," she said. "Please tell my mother and father that I will be there shortly.
The boy bowed quickly and sped off, without the customary goodbye all the servants usually gave.
Karinaya just smiled after him. She liked Gaarnin. The youth had been living here in the castle for a good many years now, and was one of the most trusted servants she knew. If she needed something done discreetly, Gaarnin was sent for. Not that she had much of a call for those kinds of things, but she knew that if she ever needed them, Gaarnin was available. If she could ever find him not in the employ of someone else, that is. She often wondered just how much the boy knew about the comings and goings of all the people in the palace. She shuddered at the concept and grabbed her dining cloak.
Fastening it as she made her way through the dreary damp of the castle walkways, she eventually found herself at the entrance to the grand hallway. The room was the main audience chamber for her father, the King of Darhunlund, and as such, was decorated ornately. Suits of armor stood alpong the ouside edges on small pedestals, large tapestries covered the yellow stone walls, and large timbers overhead supported the massive chandeliers that hung idle. The room was not used very often, but her father, King Alaeon, made sure that the room was used at least during the harvest season for the Festival of the Three Moons. Karinaya remembered always being fearful of the room, as though the suits of armor would come alive and track her down. She knew better, of course, but could not shake the feeling that there was something in that room that should not be there.
She made it to the other side of the grand hall and went quickly through the small wooden door and into the kitchens behind it. She knew she wasn;t supposed to use this path to get to the normal dining, but she was already late. She made her way quickly, past cooks who were surprised to see her and serving women who were not. She relieved an apple on her way, and was happily munching it by the time she reached the far end of the kitchen. Karinaya sighed. She hated this next part most of all.
First, her mother would be very pleased to see her, but would tell her that she didn;t look enough like a lady for the royalty that she was. He father would be disappointed that she was late. Her older brother, Cryill, would nag at her about how if she would just do as they all asked of her, life would be that much better. It was the same every week when they all actually gathered for supper. Most of the times, Karinaya was able to master her own schedule, but never on the Ludisday. There was always a big family feast that more often than not had nothing to do with family than it did fighting and bickering. Her parents and brother were one thing, and she didn;t really mind them that much at all, but it was the extended family that she really couldn't stand.
Her uncles, all three of them, Borjin, Greyon, and Rahmain, were the worst. All three seemed to think that it was all right to treat her and her mother as though they were nothing more than common lodge wenches! The last time, Borjin went too far, and she made him pay by knocking a full tankard of the hot mulled wine onto his lap.
She sighed as she pushed open the door. If she was lucky, they would be too engrossed in their endless conversations about politics to notice where she came from. She closed the door quietly and turned, finding herself face-to face with Cryill.
"Father's in a particularly foul mood today, Sister," he said. "I shouldn;t wonder but if he saw you come in here through that door he would threaten to have it walled up."
"Then he'll have to wait longer for his food," she retorted. "Will everyone be here?"
"I'm not sure," he said. "But, for the good of the country, do try and be civil to everyone for once?"
"You know the rules as well as I do, Cryill. Never make a scene that could result in someone being embarrassed."
"THen we're agreed," he said. "You'll behave like a proper princess should?"
"Just as long as those three uncles of ours stay away from me, I should be just fine."
"Well, then, you''re in luck. They've been drinking their way across the city this morning to get here. None of them can stand anymore."
"Come on," she said taking his arm, "let's get this over with."



Today's seen was inspired by the many yellow brick buildings that I see along my various travels. While it doesn;t take center-stage, that's where it started.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Lunchtime Ramblings, #1

Sarah Murrell looked at the clock on the dashboard of her Honda. Late again. It never failed, but every Monday morning, she was always late getting out of the garage and on her way to work. It was always the same time, too - 6:20 AM. Twenty minutes. She'd tried everything she could think of: going to bed earlier, setting the alarm earlier, making her lunch the night before, even showering the night before, and nothing seemed to work. Every other day of the week, she was early. Never on Monday.

As she backed the car out of the driveway, she cursed under her breath. Mondays were the worst, too. Inventories were due. After a long weekend of part-time shift-workers, the factory stores had to all be accounted for, and it fell to her to make sure the numbers all worked out. Not a bad job if you were counting boxes of paperclips, but counting rods of steel, brass, and other metals left a lot to be desired. It would be worse iff the part-timers didn't put everything back where it belonged.

The honda lurched to a stop at the intersection, and Sarah felt her thoughts straying back to last night night, her comfy bed, and the weekend. For a second, she searched the center console, finding the napkin with a hastily scrawled phone number on it. She debated about calling all weekend, but chickened out. "It was just a guy at the bar," she said aloud. "Probably looking to get lucky." She tossed the napkin absent-mindedly onto the passanger seat. "He probably wouldn't answer if I called."

She flicked the radio on, and her favorite station began pumping music through the speakers. It wasn't long before the DJ came on the air with a caller.

"Yeah, this WXFM, whatcha got for me, Caller?"
"Hi, How are you this morning?"
"Not too bad for a Monday, what can I play for you?"
"Well, I was out at the bar Friday night, and I met someone..."
"Good for you - did you take her home?"

Sarah laughed. Another jerk trying to brag about the weekend conquests.

"No man, it wasn't like that - this girl was really cool, and while I would have liked to, that's just not safe these days!"
"I hear you! So you met this girl - what happened?"
"Well, we talked a little, and shared a few drinks, danced a couple times - it was just a nice night, you know?"
"So you were a gentleman? I mean, that kinda sounds like how I would treat my sister-in-law when she comes into town!"
The caller laughed. "Yeah, I've made my mistakes and had some fun in the past, but I'm not trying to do that stuff anymore."
"Well, good for you, man. So you were a nice guy. Nobody came and stole her away?"
"No way - she was out with some friends, and they tried to get her to follow them out to another bar, but she stayed there with me and we just talked and had a nice time."
"I don't know man," said the DJ, "Sunds like it might have been kinda lame for a Friday night!"
"Somehow, I didn't care!"
"Well, I'm glad for you - so, did you get her phone number?"
"Nope - I didn't even ask for it, but I gave her mine."
THe DJ snickered. "I have to tell you, that's never really worked out well for anyone I've ever known!)
"Well, I figured that I'd give her the option. Anyway, I know she listens to this station, and I know her favorite song, so I was hoping that you could play it for me, and if she's listening maybe she'll call that number?"
"I'll certainly the song for you, but I can't make any promises about her - what's the song?"
"Can you play "Remind Me?""
"The new one from Brad Paisley?"
"That's the one - she said it was her favorite song."
"Can I have a name for this request?"
"Yeah, can you send it out to Sarah?"
"I can do that - what's your name?"
"I'm Paul."
"OK I'll get on that, you have a good day, and what's your favorite radio station?"
"WXFM Country!"

Sarah sat there, stunned for a moment as she heard the caller hang up.

"That's right folks, we love to do this stuff, and Sarah, if you're listening out there, this guy seems like he might be the genuine article. You have his number - the next move is up to you!"

The song came on the radio and Sarah sighed. She'd told him that this was her favorite song. She glanced at the number again on the seat next to her. It was crazy, she knew, but she really wanted to call. This couldn't be real, could it? This kind of thing never happened to her! She picked up her phone anyway and blocked the number. Well, she should at least be safe about this. She dialed quickly.

"Hello?"
"Hi Paul?"
"Yes?"
"This is Sarah. I...I just wanted to say thanks for playing that song on the radio."




Today's fiction came from watching a girl in her car on her way to work this morning. It's a bit sappy, and maybe a bit unrealistic, but hey, it's fiction!!!

Thanks for reading.

THe Fat Kid.

New experiment...

Hello, all you readers of the blogosphere!!

I've been thinking lately about the next great writing endeavor that I shall challenge myself to complete, and I was having a tough time of it until a good friend unknowingly supplied the answer. I call it the Lunchtime Ramble, and here's the challenge: fiction writing on a time-budget. 60 minutes a day, 5 days a week, for the next 4 weeks, I write a short-short fiction tale. It can be about anything, taking inspiration from anywhere. These may develop into longer stories and tales, they may not, but once again, the idea here is an exercise in writing on a limited time-budget. It's a skill, and I kinda need to practice it. So that's the challenge.

Now for the audience participation part!! What? - you knew this would be coming along! I need topics. Now, I can supply my own, from things I see and hear to things I might experience first-hand, but why stop there? What if YOU were to supply me with a place to start? Yeah...a writing prompt is what I'm looking for!! So here we go - this is going to kick off on Monday, July 11th, so you have the weekend - if you have a writing prompt, send it to me, post it on here - whatever. If you have an image you want me to use, send it along and I'll see if I can come up with something. No guarantees on that one - and assuming I'll get more than one photo, I GET FINAL SAY ON WHAT PHOTO I USE. So while you're out and about and see anything that makes you wonder how it happened, or what's going to happen next, snap a photo, send it to me, and we'll see what happens!!!

By the way, this will be a LOT more entertaining if you all actually participate (I'm looking at you, biking friends)!!! So send me your photos of beat up cars, of dogs tied to fire hydrants, messy children, and riders with busted knees!! Let's do this thing!!!

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away.....

Kid Wars: Episode 7: The Birthday Cake.

I think it was my seventh birthday, but I cannot be sure. All I remember was that it was the year in which two very important lessons were learned. These lessons were taught by the same thing (card-carrying member of the overachievers club), but learned by two people: my mother and me.

Lesson #1: Having an affinity for my mother's rhubarb pie - and if you've ever had Mom's rhubarb pie, you know how good it is - my father posed to me a question concerning my birthday cake. "Would you rather have cake, or rhubarb pie?" he asked. This is NEVER a good situation to put a child in, much less a child whose obvious love of sweets showed as much as mine did. The answer was clear, and so my mother learned an important lesson: Never let my father ask me a tough question. My simple answer was "Rhubarb cake!!!!" Well, hey, if one thing is good, then putting that thing together with another good thing can't possibly be bad, can it???? I was young, and did not realize what I was asking.

As the story goes, my mother, now in a frenzy because my father just HAD to go and ask a seven-year-old Fat Kid THIS question, had to search through every recipe book she had in order to find anything remotely resembling the hopes of her youngest son. This was in the days before Al Gore invented the internet, so it wasn't like she could pop the suggestion into her favorite search engine and it would all be well. Her search was tireless, and her efforts finally yielded a recipe she could serve. She was very proud of herself - as well she should have been. I had asked the impossible, and she found a way to make it happen.

Lesson #2: When you get what you ask for, don't ever, EVER complain. Especially if the superhero of the moment is your mother and you're a seven-year old boy. The day came, and I was excited as ever. It was MY day. It was awesome. And every birthday culminated in the best part: the cake! I was going to have a special cake this year: my rhubarb cake. The lights were dimmed, and Mom came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with seven gleaming candles lighting up her proud face and the rest of the room. I could not see it that well....until it was laid down in front of me, and there, on the table was rhubarb upside-down cake. WITH NO FROSTING! (Lesson #2 is also called, "do not deprive a Fat Kid of his frosting")

I do not remember whether I blew out the candles first or not, but I do remember throwing the temper tantrum because there was no frosting on the cake, and all cakes are supposed to have frosting. I refused to eat the cake my mother had worked so hard to make. The cake I asked for. I believe I then remember my father sitting my butt in the chair (never forcefully, but firmly enough that I knew I was not to move my posterior until he said it was ok)and telling me how hard my mother worked to find that cake recipe and that I had to eat it....and THEN, I had to go to my mother (because her preciosu little snowflake of a seven-year old just completely crushed her) and apologize. It was a rather - non-climactic - ending to my birthday.

This story has become one of those "family legends" that have been told a thousand times over the years. Each telling seems to make my mother work harder, and seven-yr-old me that much more obnoxious, somehow, but it's still one of those family favorites that rears its head every once in a while.

But all those out there in Blogland might be wondering: why is the Fat Kid telling us this story?? Because, dear readers: after an absolutely lovely steak dinner (with baked potatoes, zucchini, fresh-picked beats, and mushroom sauce) my mother comes out onto the back deck where we were eating, carrying a tray. On it, as she sings happy birthday, a rhubarb upside-down cake. She learned the lesson well - for frosting she produced a can of Reddi-Whip. It was wonderful, delicious, and more than I could have ever hoped for. I thought I would be ready for just about anything she might try and pull. I was not ready for this. Thanks, Mom. You pulled one over on me.

If I could go back and tell seven-year-old me how to answer that question posed by my father....I don't think I would tell him anything, and I hope he would answer the same way: "Rhubarb cake!!!!"

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

USCG #2 Approved Wearable Flotation Device....

The tale you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty and make fun of the imbecilic.

SO, this past weekend, my roommate and I "kidnapped" a buddy and took him on an excursion that he would never have planned himself. This excursion involved whisking this buddy, herein referred to as "Boo-Boo," off to parts unknown for a "guys' weekend" of camping, fishing, telling stories and other such things. Understand that if we tell Boo-Boo what we're doing, he will say "no," and our plans will all be for naught. This is based out of a desire to help Boo-Boo, who has expressed a strong desire to hang out and do "guy things." So camping it is!

Thursday:
Captain Caveman (me) and Colonel Carnivore (roomie) go and pick up a canoe from Col. Carnivore's friend Merlin. No problems. We go to borrow a vehicle that can fit The Colonel, The Caveman and the Short Bear...it doesn't have the right sized ball hitch to carry the trailer with the canoe. A minor setback. While out, we take care of the fishin license issue (almost forgot that) and we are good to go. We load everything into the vehicle and the three of us are off to a PA State Park in the middle of nowhere, canoe in tow. Mind you, this canoe is lecensed and has been used under the supervision of a current PA DCNR (Dept. of Conservation and Natural Resources) boating and angling official, as currently as two weeks ago. Keep this in mind, it will come in handy later.

We get to the camp, set up Col. Carnivore's giant portable Hilton, and I stay and finish setting up the camp while the other two go out for groceries and necessities. We've scrounged for some firewood and things are going rather smoothly thus far. Boo-Boo, being a novice camper, purchases a little too much food, but not to worry. These kinds of mistakes happen when you're new to camping, besides, he DID do well in purchasing the libations. Kudos, Boo-Boo.

Thursday passes into Friday, and all is good. The first day.

Friday:
The Caveman, the Carnivore and Boo-Boo wake up, and Boo-Boo is instructed as to how to make breakfast over a campfire. Pretty neat stuff. The day is looking nice, and we're now ready to set about the events for the day. We decide a conoe trip is in order. Now, this state park has a good-sized lake (300 acres) so we start paddling around. Col. Carnivore is steering in the back, Capt. Caveman is supplying power up front, and Boo-Boo is in the middle, surveying the scenery and, from what he reports, having a nice time of it. All is right in the world. A three-hour tour (not the same as the S.S. Minnow) finds us hankering for some lunch, so we disembark. Successful trip!

Now, however, we realize that we have to take care of getting Boo-Boo a fishing license, so we all go into town, procure this and a couple small things, and we're good to go. Still, the trip takes a little while, and when we come back, it's relaxing, cook some dinner, and get ready to do a little evening fishing. If you have ever taught a small child to fish, you know how difficult it CAN be. This, while considerably less difficult, was not without a few snags (oh yes, pun intended.) Still, I believe we all caught a little something that night, although small sunfish and bluegill are hardly worth reporting as a "catch." But they're fun to toy with on the end of a fly line. No, I was the only one with the fly rod, we did not tempt fate with this one.

It gets dark, we light a fire. Many props to Col. Carnivore, who did most of the firetending for the weekend. Who says pyromania is a bad thing? Friday passes into Saturday and all is good. The second day.

Saturday:
Slow to wake, even though we really didn't consume too many of our ENTIRELY LEGAL libations the previous evening. Breakfast, morning chores at a campsite, that kind of thing. We decide to hit the water for some fishing in the spots we found the previous day. No problem. The Carnivore and the Caveman hoist the trailer about, hook it all up, etc, and we're off. OK, now it should be said here that while boating, we've not been entirely as safe as we could be. We had three people, and only two flotation devices. In our defense, though, the Carnivore used to be a lifeguard, and the Caveman can swim pretty well in his own right. Boo-Boo can swim, and we know we'd give him the two flotation devices (USCG #4 non-wearable flotation device.) So, while it's not perfect, we know we're covered. So, we're fishing in a boat (Boo-Boo DOES learn pretty fast) two of us with spin cast reels, and I with my fly rod (yep, flyfishing from a canoe, I am the master of the silly....again). After not too long of this, Boo-Boo has had enough, and would like to be put to shore. The Carnivore and the Caveman, however want to catch some dinner. "Give it to us r-r-r-r-raw, and wr-r-r-r-igling!" is our motto.
This could be the error. Minus the weight of a third person, the canoe moves pretty fast, now, and we wisk our way across the lake.

And we are suddenly in Mayberry. That's right, Barney Fife, member of the DCNR Seasonal Lifeguard, Angling and Boating Brigade, is there with his high-tech bi-noc-YOO-lars and spots us. Our speedy canoing must be causing too much of a wake. He sends his assistant, Gomer Pyle, DCNR, SLABB, after us in the ONLY GAS-POWERED BOAT ALLOWED ON THE LAKE. Also important to know, because it is the only boat that CAN create a wake in which canoers might have difficulty. Gomer comes over and asks to see our fishing licenses, which we gladly produce. He then says, "Where are your life vests" and we say "We're sitting on them." and point to the USCG #4 Non-Wearable Flotation Devices currently keeping our posteriors from aching on the aluminum seats of the canoe. "You have to have a USCG #2 Wearable Floatation Device for all watercraft." Uh-oh. "I'm going to have to escort you back." Oh, crap.

Now, I am all for the DCNR doing their duty, and I appreciate that it is their job to keep everyone safe. And yes, I get the fact that most boating accidents happen to small watercraft operators. So, ok, we have to go back to port. We offer no resistance to the officer, and do as he requests. After all, we don't want to cause trouble. We're not those guys, ninety percent of the time. So we get back to port. At this point, we overhear the greatest thing ever out of the mouth of Gomer Pyle: "Yeah, I'm going to need backup, these guys are pretty hardcore."

This is when we get to meet Barney Fife for the first time. Barney shows up, and it's suddenly the DCNR Gestapo, because, you know, we're "hardcore." Gomer has decided to put the operator of the vehicle as the Carnivore, and so I am getting all of the stuff out of the boat to bring it ashore. Part of our tackle is a hatchet - in case we catch a snapping turtle - because none of us were going top put our hands anywhere NEAR a beastie like that. Gomer tells the Carnivore that he can go about cleaning up the gear with me while he (Gomer) fills out paperwork. The Carnivore picks up the hatchet and Barney now feels it necessary to assert his aw-thor-i-TIE by lifting up the leg the has the .357 holstered to it, and show off the "piece." It should be stated, too, that Barney's holster was being worn - get this - BACKWARDS!!! Yep, he's a "real" cop (more on this later).

At this point, Gomer insists on seeing a second form of ID, insisting it's required (not true, it was not a motorized vehicle). The Carnivore complies, though - like I said, we don't like to cause trouble most of the time. Gomer is at least nice enough to inform us that we've been civil, and if it stays that way, this whole ordeal will be a lot less painful and he'll be happy. I actually think that Gomer was just ticked at having to take the boat out and be forced from the comfy air-conditioned office. Barney, after all, is all about the business end of things. Him and his backwards .357. Wehn all is done, we're about to pull the canoe out of the way, when Gomer goes and moves it aside so he can back down and Barney (they've switched places now) pulls the boat onto the trailer. I apologize for having been in their way and he says, "It's no big deal, he just has to get to work," indicating Barney. WHAT???? No kidding that he wasn't a real cop before, now he's not even a full-time fake cop????????

The best are the guys in the boat/ USCG #2 Approved Wearable Flotation Device rental station. I go to check on the prices of these things, and Tweedle Dee says "What's going on?" I explain and he says, "I'd have told him to 'bite me.'" I explain that it's probably not worth however much cash, and his partner, Tweedle Dum, says "Yeah, if you wanna go out or anything later, just come see us - we'll hook you up, don't worry about it." He then proceeds to hand me one, saying, "This one got left here a few weeks ago, you can just have it." It has the name "Seth" on the back of it. Nice guys, those boat jockeys. We never went back to see the Tweedles.

Long story short (too late) the Carnivore gets slapped with an $85.00 fine for not having a USCG #2 Approved Wearable Flotation Device...in the same boat the two weeks earlier, marshalled by the same department, passed on a RIVER with the USCG#4 Approved Non-Wearable Flotation Devices. According the Gomer and Barney - who first told us they knew all the officers in the state, and then said they didn't know all the officers in the state - swore no one in the DCNR would do such a thing.

So we went back and consumed the rest of our ENTIRELY LEGAL beverages.

Saturday passed into Sunday, and it was good. The third day.

Sunday, we packed up and took off for home. No incidents worth mentioning.

All in all, a great trip. Much fun had. Good stories to tell. This might become a yearly thing.....and then again, it might not. Not sure on that yet.

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid.

Ride report: MS 150 Escape to the Lake (Erie)

Now that the big event you've been reading about has passed, it's time to look back and recap the weekend, put some perspective on it, and to show my gratitude for all of you who have believed in me.

First, to my family, who graciously posted the couple of updates on my facebook page to let everyone know how I was doing, a huge thank you. You may not have believed it to be very much, but it meant a lot to me. Secondly (in alphabetical order), to Mr. Ahlers, Mr. Creasy, Mr. Walther, and Mr. Wehler - thanks guys. You made the weekend worthwhile in so many ways. Particular thanks for the aid with my mishap (more later on this). Thirdly, to all those who supported my fundraising monetarily, no matter what the amount, you have my very humble thanks. Your generosity is amazing, your hearts huge. I am in awe of you. Lastly, to all my friends and family who have been supporting me throughout this process - I am grateful to you all. Your kind words and gestures have served to give me the strength and stamina needed to accomplish this task. I don't know if I could have done it on my own. Out there on the road, I knew I was NOT alone, all because of you.

But enough of the sappy stuff - you all want to know what happened, right? I thought so!

Saturday morning, I arrived at the starting gate at about 5:30 AM. The campground was quiet, and a heavy fog was settled over the field where I parked. Generators were running several stands of lights around the area, the registration tent was up and filled with volunteers helping riders get settled in. I quickly found my team leader and got things situated. I handed in my envelope of checks, cash, etc, received my packet o' materials, and all I had to do was get my luggage on the truck and get ready to ride. I had breakfasted, hydrated, had my food ready to go...so I had plenty of time to relax and go about the business of the morning.

As other riders began to arrive (yeah, I was one of the first there, so the parking spot was truly choice) a spirit began to infect the grounds. Laughter rang out clearly at every moment. This was going to be more than a ride...it was going to be a two-day party!! Teams showed up in their jerseys, Xfinity, Roadkill Warriors, Thick Bikes, Champions for MS (my team), Fort Couch Potatoes, and a myriad of other teams, all sporting company logos or special team names - and the miscellaneous masses who just showed up to ride one at a time, or in small groups of friends. I estimate there were about 700 riders in all - from every walk of life, from every fitness level. The DJ started cranking music as teams got together for photos, and the lines for the port-a-potties grew long (as happens with EVERY bike event, I think).

Finally, the sun came up and began to burn off the fog, and we lined up at the starting gate. At 7:30, we were off - a half hour late due to too much fog! The mass of riders went out, each of us trying to make sure we didn't crash and look really foolish right off! Seriously, you'd be surprised how fast one small crash/stoppage can back up when you're just starting out on the ride. I found out fairly quickly, as we approached the first rise of the day about 1.5 miles into the ride. Two riders in front of me, a girl misjudged the hill, and stopped dead in her tracks, forcing those of us immediately surrounding her to stop, too. No momentum left, and the hill being fairly steep (but very short) I was forced to walk the 25 feet up the little rise! At this point, I knew I was in for a world of pain, if I had to walk this early in the day!!!

My friends were ahead of me, and I had to catch up! So at the top of the hill, I managed to shift into top gear and started again, and by the time 5 miles were done, I'd caught my friends again, after a couple of easy descents on back roads at almost 30 mph. We settled into a pace and began to ride. We met up with a couple of ladies from the Xfinity team, and chit-chatted our way through the winding roads. Up and over small hills we went, and I was surprised at something: I was strong. After the first 30 miles, I found myself feeling great, not in the least bit hungry at the second pit stop of the day, having not even had anything to drink. That was at 9:09 AM. Alarms sounded in my head, but my body was telling me I was fine. I sipped some water and gatorade anyway, and ate some. There was more than plenty of food. Fruits, pb&j sandwiches, drinks, protein bars, granola bars, fruit chews - tons of food was there at the support stations. One rider lost a spoke on his wheel and had to get a ride from the "Sag Wagon" to this rest stop, where a bike mechanic was quickly repairing the problem. My friends and I were still doing well, and I felt as fresh as a spring daisy. And I can't believe I just used that term. But, I digress.

The next stop was lunch at 44.5 miles in, and if I thought they had plenty of food before - well THIS blew me away. I rarely get too hungry while I ride anyway, but this was almost too much! I forced myself to eat a banana, drink some lemonade and some water, chow on a protein bar and half a chicken sandwich before I just couldn't do any more...and I took way less than what was offered! It was back on the road shortly thereafter. I was ahead of my two friends I'd been riding with, and the ladies had gone on ahead of me when I rounded the corner thanking the marshalls for their traffic duties and saw a very intimidating hill. You all know how I feel about hills by now, but just in case you missed it, I will borrow a line from Mr. Weird Al Yankovic: "I'd rather dive into a swimming pool filled with double-edged razor blades than" climb hills! Seriously. I got not quite halfway up it and had to pull off to the side to allow my legs to recouperate. It's a bit humiliating....especially when there are other people scampering up at an unbelievable rate. One of my friends passed me.

From somewhere - and I couldn't tell you where it is - my legs pull some very strange strength, and after a brief rest in the middle (2, maybe 3 minutes) I was able to make it up the hill. It was slow, painful, and agonizing, but I was not going to let the hill beat me, nor was I going to take a ride in the sag wagon. I eventually gained the top, and found something amazing: my legs recovered their strength ON THE RIDE UP. WHAT? Yep, you heard me. It's about something called "cadence"and it's one of the hardest things to force your muscles to do, in my humble opinion. A friend told me not too long ago, "if you can keep it at about 85 rpms, there's nothing you can't ride." Well, guess what? I found that zone between 75-90 rpms and was able to keep that going up the rest of that climb, and then at the top, too. Sometimes, it means dropping the gears down and going slower, but if you can keep it there, well, maybe even I can ride anything.

The rest of the way was mostly easy going for a while. I caught up to the ladies, and I knew my friend who passed me went on to the century option that was offered (later found out it was a very hilly course, so I'm glad I didn't do it). Afew hills later (we're now into the 60-ish mile range, by the way - the longest distance I had ever done in a day) and one of my other friends caught up to me on a hill. We kept going, and rode most of the rest of the trip together. At the end, the long descent into Edinboro, PA, saw us crossing the day's finish line together. 79.3+ miles done.

THe party continued. Each team had pavilions erected, and we all sat around, meeting one another, congratulating one another, sharing the joys of fellowship, our cause, and of course, a few well-earned treats like beer, snacks, and more beer...unless you were sipping scotch, like me (special thanks to Mr. Irving for that flask!) I set up the tent, grabbed a shower, put my bike away in the gymnasium, and set about relaxing for the evening. I had been through the tough part, now it was time to recouperate for the next day. Dinner, a beer garden, general hooliganism and hanging out with my buddies for a while, and eventually, back to the tenting area for some fun and much-needed sleep.

Innevitably, it rained all night. I snored, driving one friend into the student union, and the tent leaked a little - nothing too serious, but a pain, none the less (guess it's time for more protective coating, huh?) After a semi-restless evening, it was time to get up and do it all again. Breakfast began at 5. I was out of bed by 4:50. All three of us barely made it to the starting line by 7:30, and thus began day two.

Sunday was supposed to be easier than Saturday. The distance was shorter, and supposedly the hills were simpler. But heading into a strong wind is never easy. I managed to find the "sweet spot" in a couple of trains of people, thus avoiding some of the wind for a while as I attempted to catch up with my friends who were ahead of me in the first group of riders. I barely had caught onto this group in the beginning of the day. I eventually did catch them, and we bagan riding together, when it happened. Road construction. Well, a small drainage issue, really. We saw it coming, we were warned about it by the course marshals, and when it came and we slowed down for it, I was a little too close to my friend's back tire, and when he braked a little more than I thought he was going to, a slammed on the brakes and flipped over my handlebars. The most common injuries to cyclists are broken wrists (from trying to catch yourself on the ground) and broken collarbones (from equally messing up your shoudlers as you fall). Somehow, I had a deathgrip on the bike, and it flipped with me (YAY! saved the bike!) My helmet hit thr gound, along with a little bit of my forehead, and the backside of my shoulder as I flipped end-over-end. I finished in a sitting position, somehow, not too much the worse for wear. A contact lens popped out, and was caught in my sunglasses, so I put that back in. My waterbottle was screwed up and worthless. I don't know how or why it happened, but I somehow managed to dodge anything more serious that a bruised ego and some "road rash."

The next 20 or so miles was painful. my back was hurting, my shoulder was hurting. My head started off throbbing, but that quickly went away. The next rest stop (mile 122) was out of biofreeze for my back. Luckily, the lady in charge of the med kit had some other oitnment that I rubbed into my back, and it was all good. I was furnished with a new waterbottle by Chaz of Pittsburgh Pro Bikes (visit their site, please http://www.probikesllc.com/) and I was on my way again. 10 miles left to go, we were told.

The day got colder, the closer we got to the lake, and the winds picked up. But there I was, feeling barely able to hold on, and when the roads eased out. We had been rolling through eastern OH, along freshly chipped and tarred roads, which were taking their toll on me. The roads smoothed out to better surfaces, and I was able to find my cadence again. Shoulder sore, my legs started working as I came into the village of Caunneaut, OH. Policemen, firemen, volunteers, and people sitting on their front porches waved us on, cheered us all, congratulated us, and thanked us as we rode past them. I was smiling. I was happy. I know now how it must feel for the pro racers to come into the finish line, crowds of people yelling and screaming for them. There were a bunch of us stretched out along the route. It would have been just fine to all roll in together. But I had been on the road by myself for most of two days, catching small groups, watching a few others roll by me on hills. Largely, I spent my time just the way I trained: just me and the road. I wanted to finish it that way. I was strong. I still had legs left for this. As I passed one of the last guys in front of me, I told him to "finish like a pro" and invited him to grab onto my wheel (lingo for falling into line and drafting, for the non-cyclists) if he could. My hands on the drops, back bent over, riding in high gear, I pedaled through the last turn and onto a straightaway.

We had joked about finishing with a pose like the pros do: Fleccha with his archery, Cavendish with his cell phone, Contador with his pistol. We joked about posing like these guys as we crossed the finish line. I couldn't take my hands off the bars - Fleccha was out. Cavendish's phone - I never really liked that one. I hate Contador, and besides, it was a cop directing me into the park. I couldn't shoot the cop! That would be bad form! And then I saw him: the photographer. I was alone on the road, the way I wanted. Solo finish. People on both sides of the road...my chance to get a taste of what it might feel like to win a race. I raised my finger, "shot the cop" as the camera started clicking away, the crowd laughing, me smiling wide. Somewhere out there, there's a photo of it.

Thanks once again for coming on this ride with me, everyone. It has been worth it in so many different ways for me, and I hope you've gotten some enjoyment out of it, too. I'm looking forward to doing this again next year. Who knows?? I might do the century option next year...I may even try and do one of these in another city as well!! the National MS Society hosts a lot of these events all over the country - if there's one near you, I ask you to consider riding it. If riding isn't your thing, that's cool. Please consider volunteering for it. But maybe there's not one near you. In that case, find a charity ride, walk, run - whatever...and get involved. Take part. You'll be glad you did. And maybe next time, we'll take turns pulling through a headwind.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

T - 84 hours....

Yep, about 84 hours from now, my alarms (I need more than one) will start going off to get my lazy backside out of bed for the hardest two days I will have ever spent on a bike. Oh, some of the hills will be simple, I'm sure, and some will offer me a lot of difficulty. But the overall distance will be the toughest couple of days I've ever spent in the saddle. And it's almost here.

With that in mind, I'd like to share something with you about the team I'm riding on: It's called "Champions for MS" and the idea is that they pair each rider up with one individual who happens to be afflicted with the disease. THe rider rides for that person. My person is Maureen. We've been in some contact, and I realized just how much my battling with hills is like her battling this disease. You can either give up and take the easy path, or you can fight, keep going, do that hard thing, and accept that you may go slow and you may even lose some days, but you keep getting back up and trying again.

Maureen has been diagnosed now for about 9 years. She walks with a cane, and sometimes needs a scooter. She works as much s she can as a nurse, but even that is pretty light duty, and not a lot of hours - a couple days a week for a private practice that gives her only a few hours each day. Two yorkshire terriers keep her busy, too. She does as much as she can for as long as she can. Every day is an uphill battle for her.

And I complain because I get to choose whether or not I attempt a hill. Maureen doesn't get to choose her hills.

I also wanted to take a moment and say a very public thanks to all those who have been so gracious as to donate to this worthy cause. Thank you for believing in me and supporting me. I know that some of you really don't understand this obsession I have with riding, and to many of you I'm "that crazy guy I know who's really into biking for some odd reason," but your support means the world to me, as it has throughout this 3-year long adventure I've been on.

Speaking of adventures - I've now been informed by a lot of people that I should probably change the title of this blog. They tell me I'm no longer fat. Well, I simply couldn't change it now - but just so you all know the tradition of the Fat Kid:

It started with my college theatre troupe. We have chairpersons in charge of certain elements of the production: lighting, sound, costumes, props, and most of all, the set. Two set chairs before me, there was a guy in charge of the sets whose name was affectionately given as, "The Fat Kid." I think at the time, he may have been...gravitationally gifted. The title was bequethed to a slightly less chubby kid, when he took the position, and again when I held the position. Thus, I am Fat Kid the Third...it's really kind of a mental state of being rahter than a physical description, although I earned some of that, too.

So no - I'm not changing the title. Once a Fat Kid, always a Fat Kid. But don't you worry....I don't take myself too seriously (you know - in case you had a hard time keeping up with that fact)

I will try and work out some way to keep you all posted during the ride this weekend, and maybe even *gasp* post some pictures. There will be status updates available...

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

Riding, riding, riding, riding, riding......

OK,

The last week or two have been a madhouse in the life of the Fat Kid. With this ride coming up in a week (The MS 150, for those who want to maybe - I dunno - donate for a good cause or some craziness like that), I have been riding a whole ton. What does "a whole ton" mean? Last weekend, the Fat Kid put in 150 miles on the bike. 50 miles a day for three days. It was intense, because, as I'm aure some are aware, I have never done any kind of effort like that. It was pretty cool - even if I do say so myself.

So this weekend, more concentrated effort to get ready for next week. Two days, minimum 60 miles a day. Yep - trying to get up to 120 miles over two days, hopefully a little more! So today's ride was great - took a swing through the north hills, courtesy of a rider I met while out on the road. Got in my 60, though, so tomorrow should be good. We'll see if I'll be cooked by the time 60 roles around or if I could go for more. Hopefully, I'll be still able to push the pedals around... That would be, in a word, HOT.

And speaking of hot, The Fat Kid went and did something awesome: I bought a new "girlfriend." Now, for those who are not cyclists, "boyfriend/girlfriend" usually refers to your bike...because we spend more time with the bike than we do actual people - hence, the relationship with the bike. So, the new girlfriend is lighter, faster, and incredibly hotter. No, I still climb hills very slowly, and sometimes I have to stop halfway up. It kinda sucks. No, scratch that, it sucks a lot that I just can't get it right for climbing hills. But I keep trying, and will likely try again on the hills tomorrow. But on the downhills, on the flats, and on pretty much everything but the climbs, guess who just got a bit faster?? THIS GUY! Seriously, the difference in the old and new bikes comes out to a lot less weight to push arouns, thus about 2-3 mph.

Don't look now, but with a little time, the Fat Kid? You might see him in a race sometime.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid

A Word or Two about Fear

The last year has been something of a roller-coaster for the Fat Kid. About a year ago, my life was pretty bad. It was about as low as you can get, actually. While I will not belabor the point (those who know me can e-mail me privately, and ask anything) I will simply say that I was being ruled by something paralyzing, something horrible, and something altogether unreasonable: Fear.

Fear is a strange thing. It's based upon our perceptions, our prior knowledge (automatically biased) and our desire to always know "what's going to happen next?" No one really understands it. Social scientists have been trying to figure it out for years, as have many others. So far, all we pretty much know about it is how to scare ourselves silly. Just as Wes Craven. Of course, it would help if we all had the same fears, but we don't.

This past year has been a lot of me facing my fears, and a lot of searching inside to find the guts, the chutzpa, the cajones, the stones, or the wherewithall to look at Fear straight in the eyes and let it know, in no uncertain terms, that I am not Fear's bitch.

I find that there are fears in just about every facet of my life, to some degree. Afraid of the winter weather, afraid of going grey, afraid of this, and of that...and particularly for me, afraid of riding up the steep hills of southwestern Pennsylvania. When the Fat Kid first fell in love with riding his bike, it was on the flatlands of Central New York. There were only a few hills in the region, and only a few of those were really very steep. So I never learned to ride them effectively, or efficiently. I still have doubts as to my efficiency, but the effectiveness...well...I made it over them, so I guess that counts.

In conquering these hills this weekend, I realized something: I looked at them, and I wasn't afraid. From the base of each hill, I stopped, looked up it, assessed it, and knew that I was going to torture myself incredibly. But for the first time ever, I was not afraid of them. I was slow, I had to stop halfway up some of them...and sometimes, stop again...and each time that my legs screamed out at me for putting through this torture, I was still not afraid. Four months ago, I would not have attempted such things. Four months ago, I lived in fear of those hills...of ANY hill.

I don't know what it was that changed. Is it because I know I will have to face these hills on an upcoming Charity Ride (The local MS 150, for those who want to know)?? Is it because I've been trying to work on hills, and finally have some confidence? Is it something larger? It got me thinking - let's face it, when you're out riding alone, you have lots of time to think - about the fears in my life, and why they do or do not make sense. For example, WHY was I afraid of those hills? It makes no sense. It's a hill. It doesn't care about me, it doesn't even know if I'm climbing it or not. It's not out to get me. It's just a hill, and the road I'm on goes over it. So must I.

The only thing to be afraid of is...what someone else might think??? Really? Is that what I've been afraid of all this time? That someone I don't know might see me on the side of the road, and say "Poor guy couldn't make it up the hill." Or worse, that someone I might know might realize just how bad a climber I am? WHO THE HELL CARES? I'm out there on a bike, dressed in spandex! Seriously, a fat kid in spandex!!! And NOW, when I'm climbing I'm concerned about DIGNITY???? As if I have any left? You know who cares?? I care. I care about looking up at that hill, and saying "This is gonna hurt, and it may take me forever, and I'm gonna look bad doing it, and I may even have to stop a time or two, but I'm going to climb up it, come what may, because I'm not going to let fear rule me any longer!"

You know what, Fear? You're my bitch, now.

Thanks for reading,

The Fat Kid