I Spoke Your Name for Many Days, Pronouncing It in Several Ways

Big day tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen.

The Houston half-marathon is calling my name. Look for me to be the guy way,way,way behind the Kenyan dudes.

If anything, I'll be better off than the Austin marathon in 2005, when at mile 2, I almost mistook a tongue-presser coated with vaseline for a popsicle. WORST. POPSICLE. FLAVOR.EVER.

Lesson learned.

See you on the other side.

May I Inquire Discreetly

One of my favorite parts about starting work here in Houston has been the fact that I get to walk every day from the parking garage where I leave the Green Machine each morning to the SECOND TALLLEST BUILDING IN TEXAS (I thought that needed to be in all caps, and surely you agree) through the illustrious downtown Houston tunnel system.

It's not that I get that much of a thrill from walking below ground (although that might be some huge perk for people who admire moles or gophers), but it always seems like one of those places where you could see this scene from HEAT breaking out in front of you.

The bank on the tunnel level of the building has this giant vault with one of those huge rotating wheels on it, and both days I have gone up the escalator to the elevators on the ground floor, I kept expecting Val Kilmer, Tom Sizemore, and Robert De Niro to show up and start raising hell.
Who knows, my friends? Maybe that will be the special treat each and every Wednesday at THE SECOND TALLEST BUILDING IN TEXAS.

Sharp as a Knife, Facts Cut a Hole in Us

As I mentioned on Monday, my own personal putdown abilities have never really progressed past the level of competency demonstrated by Rufio and the Lost Boys, but last Saturday, July 4th, I was on the receiving end of one of the more interesting putdowns that I've heard in my time.

The lady friend and I were walking back into the apartment complex from the fireworks display downtown when I heard two male voices coming from a balcony on the second floor of the complex. I looked up, and one of the wise-guys, with adult beverage in hand, noticed the yellow polo shirt that I was wearing and admonished me that "yellow is a SPRING color, dude."

I turned to the lady friend and said,"I had no idea Tim Gunn lived in my apartment complex."

Um, not that I know anything about "Project Runway" or anything like that.

Let's just end this story right now.

Gimme Five, I'm Still Alive, Ain't No Luck, I Learned to Duck

The lady friend and I ventured down to Eleanor Tinsley Park in downtown Houston on Saturday night for some spectacular fireworks at the conclusion of the Freedom over Texas festival.

The fireworks were indeed spectacular, but I may have an actionable claim for intentional infliction of emotional distress against those who organized the soundtrack which accompanied the fireworks.

For the non-lawyer readers of the blog, the tort of intentional infliction of emotional distress has four basic elements in most jurisdictions:

1. Defendant acted intentionally or recklessly;
2. Defendant’s conduct was extreme and outrageous;
   
3. Defendant’s act is the cause of the distress; and
4. Plaintiff suffers severe emotional distress as a result of defendant’s conduct.

Keep those elements in mind as I tell you that at one of the high points of the fireworks display the following song was re-introduced to my consciousness after I thought it had been banished all the way back in 2002.

Anyone know a good lawyer?

I'm Going Down to the Central Part of Town

As part of my ongoing quest to fully elucidate my reasons for continuing to support the Cowboys and Rangers despite the fact that I now live in a city that is home to teams in each of those respective sports, more particularly the Texans and the Astros, I submit the following argument from Mr. Will Leitch.

From pg. 236 of God Save the Fan...

It's a full-time position, rooting for a football team [baseball team, jai-alai team, curling team, nursing home shuffleboard team, etc.]...so how am I just supposed to say, "All right, yesterday I cared about these players, but now I care about these"? If something as silly as geography guides your rooting interests, isn't it wishy-washy to move your loyalty around just because someone realized the franchise could make more money in Boise rather than Topeka? Yes, it's a corporation you're rooting for, but they're your corporation. There's nothing rational about it; being a sports fan never has anything to do with being rational.


[Leitch is from central Illinois and grew up as a fan of the St. Louis football Cardinals who now play in Arizona] But what about the St. Louis Rams, you ask? Yeah, what about them? The Rams came to St. Louis in 1995. I simply did not understand why St. Louis fans transferred their loyalty. Sure, owner Bill Bidwill had left St. Louis for what was presumed to be the greener pastures of Tempe. But how does that change my life? Sure, a sports team can offer civic value to a city, but not just out of nowhere. The reason the St. Louis Cardinals are a fixture in the city is because families like mine have patterned their entire [this seems a BIT strong] social structures around them for decades. How can a team just show up and suddenly have devoted fans?

And as for "abandoning" a city...please. On the whole, NFL teams and their fans live in the same city about, oh, twenty-seven days a year. A team and its fans have as much in common as your hand and that vending machine. It's all sentiment. And I don't get to be angry about Bidwill and company leave St. Louis; hell, I don't live there anymore either.

So the only way to be honest with oneself is to pick a team and stick with them. Sure, I wish I had picked a better team, but true fans stay around, no matter what; people from Houston should root for the Titans, people from Charlotte should root for the Hornets, and people from Minnesota should root for the Dallas Stars. Otherwise, you're the one who's disloyal. You're just following whomever it is convenient to follow.

I know that I still fully support the Tyler Wildcatters (yes, Dorothy, they have a Wikipedia page), wherever they might be in the vast universe that is minor league baseball.

[The words in the brackets above are solely those of yours truly]

Down Comes the Reign of the Telephone Czar

Since I found out I would be moving to Houston, my single greatest fear centered on being swept out to sea at the mercy of some record-breaking hurricane.

I was wrong, my friends. Dead wrong.

When I go to meet my maker it will not be at the hands of some namby-pamby "tropical storm". No, I will be assisted off of this mortal coil by a giant, plastic, backwards-hat wearing bear named "Clutch".

I Looked Like Someone I Used to Know

Since I lived less than a mile away from the Veterans Affairs hospital named in his honor for six weeks this summer, I would be doing myself, and the rest of this blog, a disservice if I did not pass along the NY Times story on the amazing life of Dr. Michael E. DeBakey.

"Michael DeBakey, Rebuilder of Hearts, Dies at 99" in yesterday's NY Times.

Without a doubt, my favorite portion of Dr. DeBakey's obituary was this paragraph:

Even in his 90s, Dr. DeBakey arose at 5 a.m. every day, wrote in his study for two hours and then drove, often in a sports car, to the hospital, where he stayed until 6 p.m. After dinner, he usually returned to his library for more reading or writing before retiring after midnight.

I'm not sure if that is exactly what Mr. Keating was attempting to convey in Dead Poets Society when he exhorted his students to "suck the marrow" out of life, but I think it's pretty darn close.

Current Reading

Ted Williams: The Biography of an American Hero by Leigh Montville

I Will No Other to Follow Me Where I Am Going

Congratulations to Mr. Dan Carlson for correctly naming "Into the Mystic" by Van Morrison as the Thursday and Friday Song of the Day.

In t-minus 4 hours, I, along with the genius behind The Jig and Twig and Garrett T. Oakley, will make my first journey to what the Houston locals like to call "The Juice Box" a.k.a. Enron Field, ahem, Minute Maid Park.

I'm not sure if 41 and Barbara will be in their usual seats behind home-plate, but George, just in case the Rocket's back in town, you might want to keep a close eye on your better half.

Heaven Waits for Those Who Run

Some of the most contentious debates in the history of Running Down a Dream have concerned the merits of various Tex-Mex establishments in the state of Texas.

In that vein, I'm adding another restaurant to that immortal list. I had the distinct privilege of dining at Laurenzo's El Tiempo Cantina on Washington Avenue today for lunch, and let me tell you, the brisket burrito rivalled anything that I have had at Chuy's, Uncle Julio's, and various other Tex-Mex havens.

So, I'm calling on Running Down a Dream readers who have an extensive knowledge of H-town's culinary treasures.

Where else should I go during my stay in this fair city?

For what it's worth, I've already been told that I must, repeat must, make a stop at Lupe Tortilla before I leave near the end of June.

Suggest away, my friends.