Not Without Hope by Nick Schuyler

Don’t know how familiar you are with this story, but this is the first hand account of the personal trainer Nick, who was the sole survivor of the boating accident last March, where three of his friends (two NFL players) drown off the coast of Florida.  I heard the post-interview of Nick on Rome but missed the actual interview.  Based on the five minutes I heard, I figured it was worth the risk to pick up the book.  Hell, the dude fought for his life for a few days and lost his friends at sea.  The least I could do was pick up his book.  Anyways, such a compelling, heroic, and tragic book to read.  These guys were freaking warriors out there and to read about their struggle for life, and the futility, was really, really powerful.  I didn’t really have high expectation for the book, outside of an expected harrowing tale, but it delivered fully.  Actually read the 240 pages in one day.  Says something. 

Bella

Time to balance out the testosterone.  A little Yin to the Yang.  Or Yang to the Yin.  Not sure which one’s the feminine. 

Rented this movie, along with six others.  I’m up in Tahoe yet again for the weekend and the local Blockbuster has this asinine deal where you can rent seven videos for seven dollars.  Which sounds like overkill, which it is, but it turned out to be more of a time waster than anything.  Not in trying to get through all the films, in which I did, but in spending the hour trying to find seven movies worth watching.  The upside to it though, was that I picked out two fistfuls of movies I may have never watched otherwise.  Hell, a quick rundown on the others:

 Pirates of the Caribbean (I don’t watch Disney or Disney-esque films.  Don’t know why, but it is a rare thing.) Verdict: Pretty amusing.  I liked it; The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly.  Verdict: Could have cared less about this movie.  Amazingly I’ve never seen a Clint Eastwood western before, and apparently there was some deep seated reason why I didn’t.  It didn’t appeal.  I found it boring.  Perhaps if I watched it back when they first came out I would have a different reaction.  Like, Easy Rider.  Another classic movie that I found…well I found that one to be total shit.  This one I found ok at best, but was fast forwarding multiple times while the horses ran on and to the music.  Unimpressed;  Junebug.  Alright I may be a flaming homosexual.  Maybe that is the problem.  The Good, The Bad, The Ugly…ridiculous.  Junebug…delightful.   Really enjoyed it.  Not a huge fan of O.C’s “Ryan’s” further attempts at acting, but his character did grow on me.  Good movie; Melena . Phew, I’m not a flaming homosexual.  I rented this one because the hottest woman to ever grace the big screen stars in this Italian film.  Monica fucking Belucci.  Mi Dio.  (Which is my Spanish for Italian).  The movie actually turned out to be a very good movie.  She even had the decency to show me her breasts on far more than one occasion.  I believe the film won an Oscar for best cinematography.  I’m not sure what that exactly is, but I’m pretty sure Monica Belucci had something to do with it.  Good movie, but the slowest ninety minute film I’ve ever seen.  I wasn’t bored, but always in disbelief when looking at the CD counter to see it ticking 40 minutes slower than what I expected; The Great Escape (Steve McQueen).  Classic movie I had never seen.  Turned out to be a good and entertaining movie.  Not incredible to watch, but good.  I liked the Magnificent Seven better which starred half these guys.  I’m still not quite seeing what’s the big deal about Steve McQueen.  Guess you had to be there.  Hell, was Sheryl Crow young enough to be there?  What the fuck’s she singing about?

So…Bella. 

Great, great movie.  This may rekindle the flaming homosexual theory once again, but I found this to be a beautiful movie.  Maybe I was just in the mood for it or what not.  You I know had my chamomile tea with Bootsie, my kitty, at my feet, and…  No, those two don’t exist for me and never will.  Anyways, put simply after watching this movie I changed my relationship to abortion.  I am and always will be *Pro-Choice, however something clicked with me in watching this film play out.  The story isn’t about abortion per se, but it is a subplot that…hell, made me not only think, but change.  How many movies can you say that about?  You may not like the film, but Bootsie sure did.             

By the way…the lead actress, Tammy Blanchard (see photo), is my new love interest.  She looks like she could be the love child of Nora Jones and Michelle Moynihan, and her acting is unreal.   

That’s it on the recs for now.   

*Earclops does not endorse, adhere, or to subscribe to any drivel the authors express in the content of what they call posts.  If you or any other have a concern, please do your best to Google their true identity and throw a burning cross on their lawns** if need be. 

**  Earclops doesn’t necessarily endorse violence against humanity or landscaping.

I was going to keep this thing under wraps (if you will), however, since you guys have been such loyal readers and participants, and since I have taken my innermost stuff out of the equation a long time ago, perhaps nothing’s more correct than to end this son of a bitch by going old school, to candidly tell this final sordid tale.  TW make sure the door’s locked.  GW, do what you need to do.  JP resist taking your wiener out of your pants.  The rest of you who still may be lurking around, bring your jaw up off the table and commence reading if you feel comfortable, or head off to another site if not.

You ready?  You even believe me?

Well believe it suckers.  BN went to a brothel.

Now…of course the details of what actually happened there…well you will have to wait and see…

I have been spending most of my time up at South Lake Tahoe this past month, looking on the internet for jobs down south in Santa Barbara and Santa Monica.  Needless to say, I am alone most of the time, so half of the days are spent in a coffee shop with laptop digitally sending out resumes, while the other half has been spent snowshoeing all over the mountains.  Now a steady woman is not a current part of the equation for BN.  And as we know, a man has urges.  And a man in isolation, well those urges can get a bit askew, or bent if you will, when faced with an echoing cabin and a head full of unchecked thoughts.

So what’s a fellah to do, I ask you?  There’s no internet to divert.  The only salacious material to potentially aid in answering the call of the wild, I discovered, are the adult ads in the back of the local phone book.   Escorts and….well…real live legal ‘working girls’ 20 miles away.

Now, I had no intention of self pleasuring to the phone book since that would just be an embarrassing low for this age.  Age 13-15, it would be more than appropriate.  A current yellow page tug…well it wouldn’t be as much sad as ridiculous.  Hell, it didn’t even cross my mind, to put this thought to an end.

Anyways, I flipped a page, and there it was…  The Moonlight Bunny Ranch. (AKA Red Ryder B.B. Gun -to use a hardly akin visual metaphorical response).  A full page spread trying to coax immoral assholes out of their creepy depths to partake in this hard to conceive of world.

Now my pulse didn’t rise (nor anything else for that matter) however I simply got really curious.

“Eat some lead, Black Bart”.

Curious not in the sense of what it would be like to fuck a prostitute, but more curious what that world is even like.  Like how strange and odd would it be to actually walk into one of those places?  The only time I could ever see myself ‘normally’ doing that is if I were 25, with a bunch of guys and thinking, “What the fuck.  Let’s go!”  All load up into a car hooting and hollering.  Get there pretending to be seriously interested, and fuck with the non-alpha dog of our pack and try to talk him into ruining his life.

“Dude, we’ll pay.  You need to get over Angela”.

When of course he doesn’t, he get’s all flustered, defensive, angry, and quietly upset.  And later only do we tell him that we were fucking with him and go grab some hamburgers.

Well, that situation logically wasn’t going to present itself, so what now?  I had time on my hands, and I was certainly intrigued.

So…I got into my car and headed in the direction of Carson City.  That’s what normal people do, right?

The directions were a bit hard to follow since I didn’t bring any with me.  I hadn’t fully planned on going.  More curious to see if I started driving, would I actually end up there.  An adventure in itself.

And if I did end up there, what then?

It was snowing the whole way as I made my way into Carson.  All I could think of was how funny and appropriate it would be if my car broke down out that way.  Try explaining that one.

Anyways, after a few wrong turns, I finally saw this turn-off garnished with these slew of slutty signs (say that three times fast).

I cranked the wheel to the right.  The brothels lay straight ahead .

Gulp.

Now my heart was fucking pumping at this point.  This felt a little too insane.  What in the hell was I doing?  Gut check and head check time.  Was I actually here to just see, or was something more sinister lurking below, tempting me to do something totally out of character?  I mean hell, my car was revving in front a fucking whorehouse for Christ’s sake.

Was this like a cheating analogy where one puts themselves in such a ludicrous and dangerous position that they inevitably fuck up and go, “what was I thinking???”.  Was I being that guy to a grander scale, deluding myself that I was simply here for a field trip?

Cause if that were the case, and I were to cross that line, the mental stigma of that action wouldn’t be something I could wash off with soap and water…

I can only imagine running into the next/last? love of my life and gazing into one another’s perfectly clear eyes…until…until something catches her eye and she goes, “Hey…hmmm….what’s that little black speck?”  And I would say, “Oh, that.  That’s the time I fucked a hooker.”.  BN and the bathwater would be violently thrown out.  Or at least I hope it would be.

But here I was.  Here’s the check.  Was I in fact curious or was I being self-destructive.

You know, it is possible I could fall in love with a girl who’s farsighted and she may never notice black specks so perhaps the stakes weren’t as high.

I sat in my car for a few minutes and realized I was pretty centered.  I just felt adventurous and thought…rather said aloud, “What the fuck.”

JH and I are honorary Scientologists.

So I head up to this gate where they buzz you in.  I walk up the steps and amazingly I don’t feel like a creep.  I feel ok.  A woman greets me and asks if I’ve been here before.  I can honestly say no.  Then all these girls rotate out and circle me as if they were skating on ice.  I was expecting a slower introduction and acclimation to the place, but this is how it goes.  They all were standing there like shiny fem-bots and each said there name and smiled waiting to be chosen…or waiting to be rejected.

Now, straight out I knew that my member was going to be staying trouser bound, so it was nice to know that my demons aren’t all that subversive.  So for me, it was going to be an interesting experience.

I chose this black girl who was the definition of sex.  Or at least a definition of sex.  5’4”, fake orbs, long silky black “hair”, you name it.  She was also wearing this lattice-esque yellow dress that barely covered anything.  She took me to this rather elegant back room and sat on my lap.

By this point I just felt undercover and it became fun.  She told me that for $200 we could have a quicky right then and there, and if I wanted things to get…well…more “interesting” then the prices and time escalated upward.  She the proceeded to take off her top and asked me to get naked.  A smile radiated from ear to ear, and it was my own.  It was just too entertaining.  I denied her the BN show and said sorry that $200 was a bit too steep and thanked her for her time.

Now, $200 is a lot of money for any type of purchase.  No matter how much you may have stuffed in your pocket, that amount or more spent is always followed with a twinge of buyer’s remorse regardless of the necessity of the purchase.

So what if she had said something lower?  Cheaper?  Would I have been tempted to cross such a forbidden line?  Does a demon still lurk?

It didn’t matter because it wasn’t an option.  I was told $200 was the house minimum.

I left actually feeling kind of energized.  I found it kind of fun and entertaining because how many people really see this side.  Scratch that.  How many relatively normal people ever really see this side?  Not too many I would imagine.

Oh, and the few guys that would be walking out…  Wedding ring still on the finger.  Ring hopefully excretion free.  I had no problem with eye contact that not surprisingly, never came.  I had nothing to hide.

Anyways, there were two other brothels right there and I was just getting warmed up.  For whatever reason, I felt like doing the rounds.  An Earclops undercover exclusive.  However I feared that the last brothel I would visit, I would enter and find Chris Matthews:

“Take a seat”.

“No, it’s cool.  I’m on your side.”

“Well, we’ve found the ads in the back of your phone book”.

“Can I leave now?”

“You’re free to leave”.

“Ooh.  Lemonade”.

Nah, fuck that guy.  I was on a mission.  I walked into the next one like an old pro.  There were only three girls here.  Oh, and by the way, the previous one, the women were pretty damn attractive.  That was observation number one.  Resembling more Vivians (Pretty Woman) than street walkers.  Some certainly had the stripper slutty vibe, but others seemed more apple pie.

Anyways, these three girls lined up instead of ten.  They didn’t glide out so I figured this must be a lower end house.  I chose the blond one and we quickly embarked on the tour.  She showed me a dance floor (was dancing an option?) and the sauna (ugggh).  All in all, it wasn’t too impressive.  I now had a comparison group.

She then took me into her room labeled ‘Coco’ ( though this one was white), sat me down on her bed, and told me that for $100 we could go at it like monkeys.

Monkeys.

$100

Now that is a number that would do away with buyer’s remorse.  It’s a figure that can be rationalized away.  “Ahh, I’ll drive a little less over the next month and it will be like I never spent it”, type purchases.

So there I was.  It was so amazing to me.  For $100 this moderately attractive girl and I would be having sex on this bed.  Here and now.

And this is the beginning to what I found so interesting.  For one, it felt so normal and unseedy even though it was the definition of the opposite.  The concept though just baffled my mind.  She seemed so normal.  Could have gone to high school with us, and didn’t overtly radiate depravity, though she was a bit of a dead fish personality wise.

So I responded honestly,

“Wow.  For one hundred dollars we can have sex.”  She smiled and said yes.  I said, “Unbelievable…  But, sorry.  I was just curious how this all worked”.  She nicely got up and led me out.

So that was that.  I got in my car and began to leave this bizarre little world that had just adequately satisfied my curiosity.  However 100 yards down the highway on the right I saw the sign for the Moonlight Bunny Ranch.  The one from HBO.  The one that was featured prominently in the back of the South Lake Tahoe Yellow Pages.

What the fuck?  May as well round out the experience.

I pulled in and quickly realized that this was the crème-de-la-crème (spared the obvious crude renaming) of the brothels.  Helicopter landing areas, lavish gates, what have you.

I rang the bell and headed up.  A woman answered.

“Hello I’m BN a reporter for the exploding yet ending site called Earclops.”

“Come on in handsome”.

No footsteps.  No sounds.  Out of nowhere twelve beauties are stretched out in a beautiful sweeping arch.  It was amazing really.  Perhaps they floated down from the ceiling or arose out of the floor.

Maybe they were actual fem-bots.

“Which one would you like?”

“Groovy baby, yeah!”

I did a near 360 to take in all the women and locked eyes on this young girl who looked like the late Brittney Murphy to an alarming rate.  Now if I saw a man resembling Elvis sweeping the floors then perhaps this expose would have become much larger than originally intended in finding that this may be the place where celebrities go after faking their deaths.

But no Elvis in work gear.  No Tupac watering the plants.

She took me by the hand and didn’t bother showing me much of anything.  Just took me back to her bedroom.

And her bedroom was a typical looking girl’s room.  It was warm and comfortable and the only thing giving away its other function, was that there were sex toys displayed ON the dresser.  As we all know, “normal” women keep them IN the dresser.

And on her queen size bed was a Playboy bed cover.

So there you go.

And this would actually turn out to be the highlight of my experience.  With this gal, there was no act like one might encounter in a strip club.  It was hardly flirtatious and was more of a natural encounter of chit-chat.  For some reason, we just clicked as I have done with many girls in my life.  Not in the girlfriend/boyfriend sense per se, but in that weird nearly audible click where we are both totally relaxed, are tuned into one another way too quickly, and they in turn begin to reveal too much-too soon in that comfort.  With girlfriends I get to their secrets and what they think they hide, in an evening.  With said hooker, I get to her real dreams and desires in which she confesses with real vulnerability saying, “God, I’ve only told my best friend this”.  I am even more taken aback by her resemblance to the late actress as she answers.  Her mannerisms and energy is eerily similar.

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass.  We are probably only five minutes away from building a fort we’re so at ease and playful at this point.  I swear I could have grown up with this girl.  How she ended up here though….doing this….a question certainly not asked.

Anyways it was time to go and she well knew I wasn’t there for sex.  I did ask though what she charges and she said the minimum was $400.  That sounded far more correct than $100.

We said our goodbyes and I made my way out to the front door.  From behind a call girl beckons, “Where you going red?”  (I was wearing a red North Face parka).

“Church”, I replied.

A chorus of fem-bot laughter sounds behind me.

The door closing marks my exit.   I pass through the iron gate and fire up Pathy.  A few turns down dusty roads and I’m headed back towards the state line.

So here’s my debriefing:

I got to say that I truly enjoyed that whole experience.  And this is what I’m taking from it:

First my eyes are speck free, so let’s celebrate that predictable fact.

Second, I feel like I de-mystified (for myself) that whole other world.  When put in that foreign element, it basically all melted into a sense of what it truly was.  A big old glittery show to pay for the very normal and natural act of sex.  I wouldn’t cross that line in paying for it, but it wouldn’t be hard to imagine what it would be like.  You would do it, be done, and be like “that was it?”  Then obviously suffer endless waves of pain, guilt, and humiliation.  But it really isn’t anything so crazy.  The taboo of it all is.  But I’d imagine if it was socially acceptable it would be more seen as a waste of money more than anything.  And that’s of course suspending the obvious moral implications of exploitation of these women.  Cause I’m sure all of them were molested or whatnot as young girls, or suffered some other heinous, or multiple heinous acts which enables them now to do such work.  (What’s your story “Brittney?”)  But judgments and reasons aside, it is just sex.  It’s just encased in a hard to conceive package.  But when stripped away…it is what is.

A day in the life.

So there you go.  A good, filthy post to end on (so to speak).  Sure, at some point there could be future posts but saving you the time of checking this site like a Blackberry because nothing will be written for a long, long, time if ever.  So in essence it is over, but you’re right GW, one never knows.

BN

-BTW, I am reading Anthony Kiedes’ biography Scar Tissue for the third time.  I am hooked once again.  I believe it is my favorite book of all time, believe it or not.  Who would of guessed?  My final recommendation here…

Yep.  I believe the second coming of Earclops is officially over folks.  I am left uninspired and uninterested in doing the same old thing here.  GW I’m glad you popped in and entertained while we did one more lap.

Maybe JH and I will use this site again in the future, but for now there will be no more posts.  Thanks for playing along.

Later alligators.

BN

One question… Is the New York Times trying to squelch the student uprising by putting these two intimidating wolverines on the front page?  Look at these savages.  5’4” 135 a piece (or collectivelly), Zapitistan/terrorist bandannas and headwear, and a confusing Blank Panther fist raise.

So what is this?  Black Pride?  La Raza?  Kill Americans?  I’m confused by all these messages.  One thing’s for sure, is that these smurf-esque radicals have balls the size of cannon balls.  According to the article, these brazen individuals were each risking a count of misdemeanor trespassing for being in this stairway along with the sign.  Amazing.  I mean sure we all have faced the same counts for countless sneaking onto-s of country clubs, but we sure never ended up on the front page of any newspaper.

Impressive.

BN

-At least put down your fists.  Please.

Apparently this TV ad has been pulled because rape groups (or more likely anti-rape groups) were not fond of the underlying message.  It’s not hilarious, but it’s pretty funny.

BN

Vertical Frontier: A History of the Art, Sport, and Philosophy of Rock Climbing in Yosemite.

All right…here is a must see for you guys that you will probably not get the chance to see.  However, store this in one in your memory banks in case you happen to come across it.  It is such a moving and incredible thing to watch for so many different reasons.

In a nutshell, it is a documentary on the evolution of rock climbing in the Yosemite Valley.  The characters involved in this are amazing and the footage is incredible.  As expected TW, there is a good chunk on Yvon Chouinard, and I know that you mentioned that he may have had a reputation of being a dick or something, but what was obvious from the movie was how revered, loved, and respected he was and is.

And what actually was even more enjoyable that the movie itself, was the special features which included a 45 minute gathering of all generations of these climbers in attendance to celebrate the established protection of the, as I’ve learned, historic Campsite 4 (where all these climbers have resided and still reside before making their climbs).  Watching that segment was truly a treat, because their collective humor, passion, love (for one another, their sport, and Yosemite), was unmatched.  Well, not unmatched of course, but not to be surpassed.

And that was what was so emotional and powerful about watching this.  These generations of men and women are a perfect example of what life, good living rather, is all about.  Or can all be about:  The wild pursuit of the ‘undoable’.  The sense of family, camaraderie, and competition.  Living life to its fullest.  Loving and supporting one another and their efforts.  And a thing that tends to fall by the wayside these days in most aspects of modern American living, is the respect for not only the elements (nature, etc), but the reverence of our elders.  I don’t intend to sound cheesy about that point, but having the old guys and women being the absolute badasses at this event is exactly how it should be.  In no way were these old timers the ‘insignificant’ population.  They were the backbone and were treated as such.

Anyways it’s a real treat to watch.  I’d loan it to you, but it’s not mine to loan.   So mentally store it, just in case.

BN

http://blogs.surfermag.com/office-blog/i-got-cocky/

BN

Just got back from watching a late viewing of Avatar.  Excellent movie.  The 3-D graphics were freakin’ killer.  The last time I saw a 3-D movie must have been Jaws 3 or 4.  The one with Dennis Quaid and a nasty looking syringe squirting at the screen.  I’m sure most of you have already seen Avatar, but if not, head out there.  It’s totally worth it.  I had no intention of seeing it since I don’t watch animated movies, however with all the positive feedback, I finally relented and I’m glad I did.  It was awesome.

A few things to comment on though.  First, the 3-D made everything so real seeming (even though largely animated which fucks with your head even further…or should fuck with your head).  One problem I had, was that I became an Avatar pervert straight out of the gates.  I couldn’t stop looking at breasts.  Somehow the 3-D made me feel like I was actually there, yet I knew I couldn’t be seen so I was instinctively fixated.  And what’s kind of messed up about it all is that they weren’t even human breasts that I was dialed in on, but Avatar breasts.  As I said, the 3-D fucks with your head.  Or at least my head.  It’s pretty ridiculous really.  Just waiting for the logically, impossible nipple slip. Man, how badly do I need a girlfriend (or hot Avatar)?  But to be fair to myself, those Avatar females were smokin’ hot.  You got to love the ladies with a lean, long, and athletic torso.  Even if they do have blue skin.

So sweet dreams for me tonight.

The other, and final issue that I had, had nothing to do with what was on the big screen.  It was the audience participation, and this is where I will now get a bit racist this evening.  It’s alright though, because it just an honest assessment and reaction as opposed to small minded bigotry.  But what was tough to take in while watching this film, was this black couple (and son apparently…didn’t see the offspring til after the movie let out).  In typical (stereotype) fashion (stereotype for a reason), they talked, laughed, and whatevered throughout the entire film.

Now this always sets off racial tension in a theater, if of course the offending party is black.  If they’re not, then it’s a different type of tension.  A tension that is less tricky to resolve.

And shit man, I feel the tension right away because I get pissed.  Not because I am inherently racist or anything, but because I can’t fucking stand it when people make any kind of noise in a theater, or hell even when I’m at home watching a film.  This is one of my struggles, or even shortcomings if you want to view it that way.  I can’t fucking take it.  The crinkling of candy wrappers.  The slurping of drinks.  The crunching of ice.  It all sets my burner on high.  Honestly, the blood boils to the point that I want to sock someone.  I don’t know if its part of the byproduct of having only one functioning ear (Earclops); theory being that maybe with two, our brains have the option to filter and ‘choose’ what sounds we want to hear.  With one, perhaps I have little choice but to take it all in without discretion.  I don’t know.  Far more likely though is that I don’t know how to to chill the fuck out while watching a movie thus I radiate hostility when distracted.

I actually really suck pretty badly in this department.  I remember watching a movie with a girlfriend once and almost ended up sleeping on the couch (by her choice) because…well, here’s the story.   She was eating a bag of pretzels while we watched….what was it?….ahh, Dead Poet’s Society.

Now, when I am watching a film, I am totally absorbed, thus when Dr. Keating said, “Neal, you have a gift.  You have a true gift.  I saw you tonight and (CRRRUUUUNCH…..CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH…..CRINKLE CRINKLE…..)”, well I increduously turned to my right, stared bewildered, stopped the movie and in my most restrained manner said,

“Seriously?”

And then was met with,

“What?  Are you kidding?”.

And I wasn’t kidding.  I’m never kidding in those situations.  I can’t stand to be distracted by sounds during a good movie.  Sure, chill the fuck out.  I get it.  I probably should.  But I can’t.  I don’t think its a choice.

But Avatar and this couple…or family I guess.  I could tell pretty quickly that they were good people.  It’s not like they were obnoxious teenagers creating a cacophony of crap with flimsy bravado.  No, they were just obnoxious black people.  And if that feels too racist for you, then obnoxious African Americans.  Better?

And I know it is just a cultural thing.  There was no hint of, “I’m going to be loud because fuck you whitey…what the fuck are you going to do about it?”.  As if they know that people are too afraid to pipe up and create a confrontation.  So they can laugh at their empowerment to counteract the disempowerment in almost every other aspects of the social contract that they didn’t sign up for.  I could tell, or at least assume that they would be just as noisy in an all black theater as well, so that was that.  And to be fair, they weren’t even all that loud.  Again, I am hyper sensitive to sounds.  But other people were in fact turning around with that exaggerated, bullshit acting job of what-and-where’s-that-sound coming from.  Thinking erroneously that the disturbers would be shamed to silence from this display.  But no chance with the non-white people.  I’m sure they look back with a no bullshit look of, ‘What?’

So what was I to do in this situation?  What can any of us do in that situation?  Do the fruitless head turn?  Or take it from passive, to passive aggressive, and give the anonymous ’shhhhhhhhh’?  Or how about the more assertive, “Do you mind keeping it down?  We’re trying to watch here”.  Which is fucking tempting.  Believe me.  But where would the latter get me?  It wouldn’t resolve it.  You know that, and I know that.  It would in essence create a cultural clash, which would naturally compound the problem.

Now, if they were white, I would probably take this latter route, or even be a bit rude about it, depending on my affection for the movie.  Why?  Because it wouldn’t be a cultural difference.  It’s would just be plain fucking rude.  And hell, I expect (fairly or not) more conflict from black people based again on culture.  If I say something then I basically expect the incredulous look followed by something equally or more confrontational.  And again, where does that lead?

So you have to pick your battles, right?

So…here is my brilliant idea to this stalemate of a situation.  It’s slightly impractical financially speaking, but I believe it has real promise.

What movie theaters need to start doing to reduce any chance at creating racial tension, is to install headphones like the one’s on airplanes.  That way when Heathcliff and Claire bring Theo (I’m going to burn…) to the movies then the white folk in the crowd can pop in their earphones into the arm rest and drown out the added commentary.  It really would be a great option.  And we could bring our own headphones as well.  We’d only need the jack to plug into.  Now, how does that sound?

Anyways, as I said, I saw this family as they were leaving and could see that they were a great family, which reaffirmed my choice in picking the right non-battle by keeping my frustrations to myself.  I guess I will just save those tension creating actions for the one’s I love most.

Why can’t we all get along?  We can man.  We truly can.  Headphones.  Fucking headphones.  It’s that easy.

Go see Avatar while it’s in the theaters.  Make sure it’s in 3-D cause they’re showing both.

BN

-Oh, and if possible, don’t sit next to a black family

I just got back a few hours ago from the Briones Run.  A yearly tradition that my dad and his running friends started around 30 years ago.  Sadly the past three years have been run solo, only by me, since dad and the others developed a case of old age. There is one guy left, however injured shin splints last year, and the scent of a woman this year has had me keeping the streak alive in solitude.  It’s fine, but feels like I am keeping their streak alive even though I am very much a part of this club.  This would be my 22nd of 23rd year of doing it which is pretty surprising given that I haven’t lived too many years up here outside of childhood.

The 7.5 mile run takes place in the Briones Hills on New Year’s Eve, come rain or shine.  Due to the timing of the run, it is usually a slop fest with mud caked over the shoes, up the legs, and splatters up the back.  Following the run, we all get drunk on champange and do our best to drive the winding roads home in the dark without accruing a vehicular manslaughter tick on our records.

This year’s course was muddy, but not too bad.  Legs certainly resembled shotty brown leg warmers when finished.  The back….eh…a wee bit.  As for my shoes…well, they didn’t get a speck of mud on them.  How you ask?  Yeah dude, one of you asked….well it’s because I didn’t wear any shoes.  And why do such an idiotic sounding thing?  Because I read this book.

Or should I say, I’ve almost finished reading this book.  I was going to wait to close the book on the final page before writing about it, but the timing feels right.  So here we go…

First off, this is just an awesome book to read.  I first heard about it through Runner’s World several issues back, and happened to stumble upon it a few days ago in Barnes & Nobles.  Me equipped with a handful of B & N gift certificates from the holidays.  I actually thought I had already read the bestseller when a few weeks earlier I found this one.

I mean how many bestseller running books can their be?

As it turned out, this book was an average one for my tastes.  Being a book about running AND a bestseller seemed like an easy score, however, I wasn’t too impressed or motivated by it.  It was kind of interesting, and I kind of liked the style of the author, however no part of me felt like lacing up and hitting the road.  And that says a lot, doesn’t it?  I have to say though that the book is actually a translated work from this Japanese writer, so perhaps the Japanese version is unbelievable.  I don’t know.  Surprising though that not only was it a bestseller, but also that Runner’s World would list it as the all time best running book to read.

But as I said, I had the wrong bestseller.  Runner’s World wasn’t referring to Murakari’s book, but to McDougall’s Born to Run.  And man, it not only didn’t disappoint, it knocked my socks (and shoes) off.  (Ha ha…ha….ho…ok).

Anyways, let’s get to it…

Born to Run, not a biopic on The Boss, is a true story of the author’s journey into the depths of these Canyons in Mexico to find this mythical tribe of ‘Indian’ runners called the Tarahumara.  As legend goes, these ghosts of a people have these amazing abilities to not only run quickly, but to basically run forever. Two to three hundred miles in a seemingly effortless shot.  And not only that, they did so without the aid of high tech footwear.  Instead they wear these simple flat sandals that provide next to no support other than protecting against thorns and jagged rocks.  And what’s even more amazing about these people, is that they don’t get injured.

Naturally it sounds a bit bullshit, and naturally this goes against nearly everything we know here back in the States.  Us with our $100 -$250 dollar shoes.  Set up with arch supports, gels, shock absorbers, what have you.

And with these rocket ships for shoes, what do our runners have to show for it?  Yearly run ins with such issues as planter fascititis, fucked up knees, achilles problems, you name it.  Basically we’ve come to accept three things: one that we need a running shoe over the $100 dollar mark; two that nagging and more serious injuries are part of the game; and three that we have only so many miles we can put on our knees before we are fucked.  The price to pay for being a runner.

And yes, I can’t even claim to be a runner yet since I am 2x/week-er, but something appears to be going on with me.  I now find myself reading running magazines, running books, and now I’m posting shit like this, for Christ’s sake.  I guess it was inevitable at some point to follow in the old man’s footsteps, but we will see.  It’s not official yet.  At the very least, the enthusiasm for it has seemingly come out of nowhere.

Anyways, the Tarahumara sounds more like a story than reality.  However, to shorten this up a bit, the author, a 6′4″ 230 strapper who was a casual runner with aches and pains, headed down into these canyons in Mexico where he was exposed to these runners and witnessed their abilities.  Men not only in their prime, but men in their 80’s running 80 mile runs.  Just crazy shit.   And not only did he witness their unbelievable abilities, he also transformed his own running style and became an ultramarathoner  himself.

Cool.  Sweet.  An interesting enough story, but that is just a part of the story here.  Basically what the author became involved in was a race of all races between our best ultramarathoners heading down into these treacherous unpopulated canyons (except for the Tarahumara) to take on these guys in a friendly 60 mile foot race.  I have yet to read the outcome there, but that is not why I took my own shoes off to do my race today.  And why I’m writing now as opposed to waiting for that ending.

What is really interesting to me, is that the author (any many top notch professionals for decades have argued) is that modern running shoes are actually the problem.  I will wait and let you read the details of all of this in the book if you are interested, but basically the idea behind it is that all the cushioning and arch support in our shoes, has actually done our feet and bodies a huge disservice.  Our feet are incredibly sensitive body parts that give the brain the feedback regarding the terrain.  When we slip on our Nikes, we are basically disconnecting the flow of information between our feet and our brain.  And how that affects our running is that we endure more pounding on our bodies, since we don’t register pain, AND our feet do not function as they are designed.  The arches in our feet are designed to bear weight, however when they are supported this way and the other, and aren’t allowed to supinate and pronate properly, they weaken over time.

I’d like to think that I am not a sucker, so let me say for me to find the ‘logic’ to be compelling enough to take off my own shoes, well let me say that it is pretty convincing to me to at least attempt my own experiment with it.  Again this isn’t one guys half brained theory.  This is one guys reporting on many.  Not to mention I adhere to the principle of simplifying and trusting our own inherent design.

So, the result of my one day experiment..

It was a lot of fun.  I didn’t know what to expect, other than me limping back to the car at some point.  If I was smart I would have carried a pack with shoes, just in case, however, I said fuck it and went for the adventure.

Long story short is that I have never run the course faster, had more fun, and breathed easier throughout.  It may have just been the novelty of it all that garnered more enthusiasm, but my pacing was effortless, and felt like I wasn’t even breathing.  My form definitely was different due to working with the terrain.  Certainly lighter.  Normally I am thinking about form, how I should pump my arms, and how fast I can go without fucking up my breathing.  However, by having to focus on the terrain, I found it to be much more like rock climbing where you are totally dialed in with the elements out of necessity.  And I strangely found that I didn’t have to think about keeping my posture, or how to move my arms, or how fast I should run to breathe correctly.  It all just fit together.

I have to say that even though I was going purist, I was glad to have the iPod accompanying me.  If only for the fact that I didn’t have to chit chat with the walkers who looked at me with an open mouth waiting for the eye contact to speak, while certainly thinking I was a fucking lunatic, idiot, or combination thereof.  One guy did give me the marine “ooh  rah”, which I replied with a no eye contact wave.

Really interesting run though.  My running hasn’t felt as natural since being a little kid scurrying down the street.  Not to mention I felt not only faster but fatigue was far less of an issue.  Usually I am a bit fucked after this run due to the elements, but upon completion I wasn’t even breathing and wanted to keep going.  Maybe a fluke, maybe not.

Anyways, read the book.  There are so many eccentric characters in this book that it is entertaining for that by itself.

Oh, and the results on the body?  Those will have to wait until tomorrow.  During the run, I noticed that muscles in my upper leg were working where they normally didn’t come into play.  (If you were wearing tightey-whiteys, they would be where the tightey meets the thigh).  Also, I have one blood blister on my pinkie toe, but that’s about it.  Which is quite remarkable since I was running through sticker bushes and whatnot.   I do suspect that my lower calves and arches are going to be a problem tomorrow.  You’re supposed to ease into this thing, but hell as long as I didn’t injure myself it will be worth it.

Final note, I was going to run the race in these creepy looking things called Five Fingers…

…that allow the barefoot experience on paved roads and whatnot to protect against glass and thorns.  REI was the only store reportedly that had them, however I found out Boston was the only store that carried them.  Thus the unplanned barefoot attempt, and I have to say the barefoot success.

I do think there is a good chance I may be a barefoot runner for a while to see how it goes.  The Five Fingers are in the mail, so we shall see.

Again Happy New Years boys and girls.

And to all a good night.

BN

*UPDATE*  Finished the book.  Awesome from start to finish.  There was a fascinating chapter on the evolution of man and a theory of how long distance running was used as our most efficient ‘weapon’ to hunt.  I will leave the sentence as cryptic and unfinished as that so as not to spoil.  Highly recommend if you are one prone to heading out for runs.  If not, then I recommend anyways.

TW and GW.  You guys definitely have to rent this movie if you haven’t seen it already.  It is Skylake to a ‘T’.  Trust me on this one.

BN