This was one of the best races of my life! I smashed my old half-marathon personal record by over 5 minutes and somehow managed a pace of 7:23 per mile. It was a perfect day for running, and I ran as well as I could; now it's time to binge on food and take a long nap. Check the results here.
This was one of the best races of my life! I smashed my old half-marathon personal record by over 5 minutes and somehow managed a pace of 7:23 per mile. It was a perfect day for running, and I ran as well as I could; now it's time to binge on food and take a long nap. Check the results here.
For those of us that have been paying attention--to our teachers and to science; to the global scope of our problems; to eight years of failure and also to the pulse of our very own hopes and our wildest dreams--Tuesday marks an unparalleled victory of reason over ignorance and of freedom over tyranny. Barack Obama will ascend to the American Presidency. It is with mixed emotion that we now put a generation to bed--our time has come at last, and we will change the world forever.
In the wake of the election came a melancholy wave that carried all of Wednesday. Exhaustion pained our faces as we meandered through the day, listless, still cradling some disbelief, still overwhelmed with emotion. We have arrived at the terminus of our disenfranchisement. There will never be another America like that of our parents, and for this we exalt.
Election night, huddled in front of televisions and radios, we cried out in catharsis. For though we have been blessed with understanding we have remained chained to inaction: that pressure, which we bottled up in the face of unending atrocity, finally has occasion for release. At last, we have arrived.
Today it is difficult to discuss what happened, difficult to repeat those first and now eternal words: "If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy: tonight is your answer."
And now we proceed with trepidation. Conversations are short and somber and brimming with tears--instead of speaking we simply embrace: look what we have done; look what we have done! But our triumph is not taken lightly, for it has not come easily. The struggle for today has consumed so many. As Barack Obama said, it is not about him but--indeed--about us. It is for this reason that we cry. We weep for ourselves, and we weep joyfully for the future.
Many will fail to recognize what was won on Tuesday. Their capacity to understand has been diminished through a generation of unmitigated self-interest and unrivaled political polarization. So many Americans who have been bought and sold will now turn away in disgust. We will proceed without them--we must proceed without them.
The immense possibilities that Obama's election unlocks cannot be understated: a black man shall inherit a White House built by slaves; a young man has bent the arc of history; if perception is reality then there is nothing that we, as a planet, cannot accomplish. There is nobody who can tell us we are wrong; there is no one left to silence us. Our voice will be heard, and we will not relent in the fight for justice, peace and equality.
From here we plunge into the global realm with both feet. The lifejacket is off. It is with delight, hope and a burning passion that we will put our ideas into practice and fix the shattered world they left for us. We are now, once more and forever, holding the reins to our destiny; and to that generation who will try and stop us we bid you a fond farewell... Goodnight! Goodnight...! Never again, never again.
See: Obama and the Founding of the Fourth Republic.
In the wake of the election came a melancholy wave that carried all of Wednesday. Exhaustion pained our faces as we meandered through the day, listless, still cradling some disbelief, still overwhelmed with emotion. We have arrived at the terminus of our disenfranchisement. There will never be another America like that of our parents, and for this we exalt.
Election night, huddled in front of televisions and radios, we cried out in catharsis. For though we have been blessed with understanding we have remained chained to inaction: that pressure, which we bottled up in the face of unending atrocity, finally has occasion for release. At last, we have arrived.
Today it is difficult to discuss what happened, difficult to repeat those first and now eternal words: "If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy: tonight is your answer."
And now we proceed with trepidation. Conversations are short and somber and brimming with tears--instead of speaking we simply embrace: look what we have done; look what we have done! But our triumph is not taken lightly, for it has not come easily. The struggle for today has consumed so many. As Barack Obama said, it is not about him but--indeed--about us. It is for this reason that we cry. We weep for ourselves, and we weep joyfully for the future.
Many will fail to recognize what was won on Tuesday. Their capacity to understand has been diminished through a generation of unmitigated self-interest and unrivaled political polarization. So many Americans who have been bought and sold will now turn away in disgust. We will proceed without them--we must proceed without them.
The immense possibilities that Obama's election unlocks cannot be understated: a black man shall inherit a White House built by slaves; a young man has bent the arc of history; if perception is reality then there is nothing that we, as a planet, cannot accomplish. There is nobody who can tell us we are wrong; there is no one left to silence us. Our voice will be heard, and we will not relent in the fight for justice, peace and equality.
From here we plunge into the global realm with both feet. The lifejacket is off. It is with delight, hope and a burning passion that we will put our ideas into practice and fix the shattered world they left for us. We are now, once more and forever, holding the reins to our destiny; and to that generation who will try and stop us we bid you a fond farewell... Goodnight! Goodnight...! Never again, never again.
See: Obama and the Founding of the Fourth Republic.
The Prelude died in Carmel-by-the-Sea. At the time I felt irritated, but hardly distressed. Only after pouring water into the radiator and driving that last drive home on Highway 68 did it sink in: I must write a eulogy for my broken vehicle. Megan and I reminisced on our balcony over cheap wine. Between the two of us we had stories to fill more than a few hours; indeed, for my friends and I the Prelude was a central part of growing up, a piece of mental capital to which so many of our memories are anchored.
When I was 16 I treated the car like a 16-year-old is apt to do: I ran it fast and hard and spent more time at the carwash than I'm proud to admit. Even then--with a theft title and an engine nearing 100k--the Prelude was dependable. I never managed to wreck it and after a new paint job (thanks to a hailstorm and AllState) the 'Lude sparkled. Even now, parked plateless in our carport and with rust creeping up the fender, it still has a lot of luster.
It's much to my chagrin that I'm writing this post. I am an advocate for bikes and have pracitcally abandoned automotive transport in favor of my Bianchi. In Los Angeles I rode the bus and in Monterey my rear rarely touched a drivers seat. I have not been a car commuter for at least four years. Car culture sickens me and I long for escape.
But the Prelude was dependable. The Prelude was fun. The Prelude was my first real car. The Prelude brought me to California through horrible weather. The Prelude survived Los Angeles--even after the muffler fell off on Pico. The Prelude did everything I asked of it and only after Megan and I had finally settled back into Monterey did it die.
Whether I like it or not, the Prelude will always make a bit of nostalgia rise inside of me. That's probably why it's still in the carport and not at the scrap yard. RIP.
When I was 16 I treated the car like a 16-year-old is apt to do: I ran it fast and hard and spent more time at the carwash than I'm proud to admit. Even then--with a theft title and an engine nearing 100k--the Prelude was dependable. I never managed to wreck it and after a new paint job (thanks to a hailstorm and AllState) the 'Lude sparkled. Even now, parked plateless in our carport and with rust creeping up the fender, it still has a lot of luster.
It's much to my chagrin that I'm writing this post. I am an advocate for bikes and have pracitcally abandoned automotive transport in favor of my Bianchi. In Los Angeles I rode the bus and in Monterey my rear rarely touched a drivers seat. I have not been a car commuter for at least four years. Car culture sickens me and I long for escape.
But the Prelude was dependable. The Prelude was fun. The Prelude was my first real car. The Prelude brought me to California through horrible weather. The Prelude survived Los Angeles--even after the muffler fell off on Pico. The Prelude did everything I asked of it and only after Megan and I had finally settled back into Monterey did it die.
Whether I like it or not, the Prelude will always make a bit of nostalgia rise inside of me. That's probably why it's still in the carport and not at the scrap yard. RIP.
So it didn't take long for that overpowering memory of Los Angeles to dim into faint nostalgia; after two weeks back the peninsula feels more like home than ever. The beautiful weather in Monterey--it's been something like paradise here for a good week--looks to continue through October. Our apartment is gorgeous, clean and furnished at an elegant minimum. My classes are exceptional and I'm once again commuting on two wheels (though today riding back from the beach I nearly flattened a small girl who ran unexpectedly onto the recreation trail and into the path of my Bianchi). This is all to say that life could scarcely be better.
Every morning I wake up early and run 6 miles before class. It's refreshing. The trail practically begs for joggers, and after taking Megan to the airport Friday I hit Ocean View Boulevard for a pre-dawn run. This was the first time I had ever watched the sun rise through a thick soup of ocean fog. Most mornings go something like this: calm waves, sweat, and quiet concentration combine with the day's unique beauty for an intensely personal--and unforgettable--experience. The only sounds are my feet on the pavement and the incorrigible bark of the sea lions.
Typically the a.m. haze burns off before I'm out the door and the sun climbs in the sky without a shroud of fog. The Santa Cruz mountains tower across the bay and the seabirds cruise serenely above. It is glorious in every sense of the word. With the Pacific mere meters away it's not hard to run 30 miles a week; you quickly forget pain and discomfort in the face of such blinding pulchritude. This certainly is the best training ground for a road racer, and the huge hill I climb up at the end of my route is just the kind of brutal elevation training I need in preparation for the Big Sur International Half Marathon.
Yesterday marked the first Happy Hour of the semester and I'm happy to say all of my friends have returned in good health and with a tremendous assortment of stories: Taiwan, Mongolia, Laos, Cambodia, Angola, France, Vietnam, Korea and Costa Rica--I've heard tales from those places of dreams and more. The wealth of international knowledge here at MIIS is unreal--just incidental contact with someone here will probably leave you feeling a bit more worldly.
That's the update, for now at least. Come visit if you're interested in slow-moving resort towns and unassuming people with extraordinary personalities. Megan and I just bought a nice fold-down futon. We've got blankets, too.
My friend and former office-mate at Environment Now, Jewel Palovak, has just finished producing a new eight part series for Animal Planet called The Grizzly Man Diaries. The first episode will air tonight at 9 p.m. EST. For those unfamiliar with the "Grizzly Man," here's a blurb from Animal Planet:
The Grizzly Man Diaries documents the life of Timothy Treadwell in the decade before his death. This eight-part mini-series draws upon hundreds of hours of archived footage, private pages from his diaries and more than 10,000 still photographs, ultimately telling the story Timothy Treadwell truly wanted to before his untimely death from the very creatures he loved so deeply.
For 13 years, Treadwell spent summers photographing and filming a highly social community of coastal, wild grizzly bears in Alaska's Katmai National Park. The acclaimed feature documentary Grizzly Man was a fantastic retrospective on his life, and now Animal Planet follows on the heels of that critically acclaimed documentary by using never-before-seen footage to tell a marvelous story of a man in love with beast.
Jewel has spent a tremendous amount of time working on this series and I expect it to be fascinating. If you've got time, check it out. I know there's like a Democratic National Convention going on, or some such nonsense, but presidential politics are generally a waste of time. As for me, well, without a TV I'm stuck relying on a friend to TiVo the thing.
Perhaps the most persistent trait of the human animal is adaptability. Upon first arrival in Los Angeles I found an anathema, a place that offended each of my senses one in quick succession. Fetid, loud and unabashedly gaudy, Plastic La La Land presented itself as the apotheosis of everything I hate about America. Culturally bankrupt and ideologically backwards, it's a wonder I survived three months at all. I have said many times that life would improve by an order of magnitude as soon as LA disappeared in my rear view mirror; now that I'm gone, however, my feelings aren't so clear cut.
Writing from the balcony of an ocean view apartment in quiet Monterey, I find myself missing the ostentatious crowds, luxury automobiles and yes, even the gridlock. That I'm sentimental about a city that frankly should not even exist is a testament to adaptability. One can come to love just about anything.
Here in Monterey the streets feel empty. The climate is cold. People are timid and almost exclusively white. Here, there is neither danger nor unpredictability. It's as if I've arrived in some country town divorced from all relevance. I imagine that moving from Los Angeles to Monterey feels about the same as moving from Lincoln to Seward.
Of course, I don't hate Monterey, and I certainly don't love LA--but I'm going to miss some things about Sunny Southern California. I'll miss HK Grocery Store, my office in Santa Monica, and all of the LA area dogs in my life (Motzie, Rooney, Nelson and Cloe). I'll miss 300-plus days of sunshine and Spanish-speakers and swimming pools. I'll miss out-of-office, downtown days working with the Lands Commission, the Coastal Commission and other intractable state governing bodies. I'll miss the mess of it all.
After living in LA, a city with such a highly developed street-art subculture, the buildings in Monterey stand like neglected canvases, blank for lack of life and livelihood.
LA is a vegan paradise while Monterey remains much like Nebraska: most people are still unfamiliar with the word. "You mean vegans don't eat eggs?" Indeed, we don't eat eggs.
Despite living in penury, being a bystander to luxury was always fascinating. Every day brought something to look at or talk about. Even the worst of days were stimulating in a masochistic way.
On the bus in LA I people-watched and read books; my Monterey commute is nothing but fresh air and ocean vistas. There's a qualitative difference, certainly, and yet riding the 720 is as unforgettable an experience as taking in the raw Pacific at sunup. Sometimes the mere existence of a memory trumps its content--the important piece is that the memory be unique to you, regardless of its substance. Hence my fond ruminations on America's "Clean Air Fleet."
I should note that though the bus has a place in my mind, I'm not pining for that 45-minute, sardine-packed ride down Wilshire, nor am I nostalgic about all those embarrassing cups of coffee purchased at Starbucks. I don't look back fondly on the tremendous queues at the Hollywood Whole Foods. There are many other uncomfortable moments I'd rather not relive, but that is the life that was lived, and now that its gone, I have a nuanced appreciation for what I went through.
Though Los Angeles took a lot out of me--and a lot from me--it wasn't for naught. I've grown in an unexpected way, almost as if the sprawling metro gave me some kind of new strength, or hardened my own attitudes. True, living there can be soul crushing, but it is simultaneously life-affirming. It reinforces one's purpose and adds a few layers of skin. If Los Angeles whispers anything to its denizens before bed, the message must be of independence; LA is a city that says fuck everyone and everything and preaches victory or death. It's a message I won't soon forget.
Back in Monterey the sea lions bark at me just before bed. I hear waves hitting the rocks and watch the fog blow over evergreen tree tips extending across the hilltops. Here, there is no ghetto bird, and the police actually have enough time to pull over ordinary citizens for routine harassment. The amenities are scarce and people talk with short voices in public places. Stores close while the sun is up. There's plenty to be treasured here, but half of Monterey's charm lies in maudlin exaggeration. Los Angeles presses you and forces growth at the expense of comfort. Monterey let's you relax but leaves you feeling a bit lifeless.
Luckily, humans are adaptable. It's in our DNA. After a few more weeks, Los Angeles and all of its trappings will be nothing but sweet memories, the bad moments discarded like chaff from wheat. Everything, even the most unpleasant of moments, will take on a new luster when examined in hindsight. The immediate future holds transition, and when that's finished, Monterey will be the here and now once more.
Writing from the balcony of an ocean view apartment in quiet Monterey, I find myself missing the ostentatious crowds, luxury automobiles and yes, even the gridlock. That I'm sentimental about a city that frankly should not even exist is a testament to adaptability. One can come to love just about anything.
Here in Monterey the streets feel empty. The climate is cold. People are timid and almost exclusively white. Here, there is neither danger nor unpredictability. It's as if I've arrived in some country town divorced from all relevance. I imagine that moving from Los Angeles to Monterey feels about the same as moving from Lincoln to Seward.
Of course, I don't hate Monterey, and I certainly don't love LA--but I'm going to miss some things about Sunny Southern California. I'll miss HK Grocery Store, my office in Santa Monica, and all of the LA area dogs in my life (Motzie, Rooney, Nelson and Cloe). I'll miss 300-plus days of sunshine and Spanish-speakers and swimming pools. I'll miss out-of-office, downtown days working with the Lands Commission, the Coastal Commission and other intractable state governing bodies. I'll miss the mess of it all.
After living in LA, a city with such a highly developed street-art subculture, the buildings in Monterey stand like neglected canvases, blank for lack of life and livelihood.
LA is a vegan paradise while Monterey remains much like Nebraska: most people are still unfamiliar with the word. "You mean vegans don't eat eggs?" Indeed, we don't eat eggs.
Despite living in penury, being a bystander to luxury was always fascinating. Every day brought something to look at or talk about. Even the worst of days were stimulating in a masochistic way.
On the bus in LA I people-watched and read books; my Monterey commute is nothing but fresh air and ocean vistas. There's a qualitative difference, certainly, and yet riding the 720 is as unforgettable an experience as taking in the raw Pacific at sunup. Sometimes the mere existence of a memory trumps its content--the important piece is that the memory be unique to you, regardless of its substance. Hence my fond ruminations on America's "Clean Air Fleet."
I should note that though the bus has a place in my mind, I'm not pining for that 45-minute, sardine-packed ride down Wilshire, nor am I nostalgic about all those embarrassing cups of coffee purchased at Starbucks. I don't look back fondly on the tremendous queues at the Hollywood Whole Foods. There are many other uncomfortable moments I'd rather not relive, but that is the life that was lived, and now that its gone, I have a nuanced appreciation for what I went through.
Though Los Angeles took a lot out of me--and a lot from me--it wasn't for naught. I've grown in an unexpected way, almost as if the sprawling metro gave me some kind of new strength, or hardened my own attitudes. True, living there can be soul crushing, but it is simultaneously life-affirming. It reinforces one's purpose and adds a few layers of skin. If Los Angeles whispers anything to its denizens before bed, the message must be of independence; LA is a city that says fuck everyone and everything and preaches victory or death. It's a message I won't soon forget.
Back in Monterey the sea lions bark at me just before bed. I hear waves hitting the rocks and watch the fog blow over evergreen tree tips extending across the hilltops. Here, there is no ghetto bird, and the police actually have enough time to pull over ordinary citizens for routine harassment. The amenities are scarce and people talk with short voices in public places. Stores close while the sun is up. There's plenty to be treasured here, but half of Monterey's charm lies in maudlin exaggeration. Los Angeles presses you and forces growth at the expense of comfort. Monterey let's you relax but leaves you feeling a bit lifeless.
Luckily, humans are adaptable. It's in our DNA. After a few more weeks, Los Angeles and all of its trappings will be nothing but sweet memories, the bad moments discarded like chaff from wheat. Everything, even the most unpleasant of moments, will take on a new luster when examined in hindsight. The immediate future holds transition, and when that's finished, Monterey will be the here and now once more.
Megan and I spent most of Sunday at Huntington Botanical Gardens, one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Their cacti and succulent garden was an awesome sight. Taken together, the variegated Huntington Gardens are the greatest collection of beauty I have yet seen in the greater Los Angeles area. Plenty more pictures on my Flickr page.
Friends
