Running . . . really?

I've found myself running lately. Involving myself in an activity I swore I would never take on. Running around in circles. Running for the sake of running. Running so I might be able to run just a little bit further the next time I run in that same circle. Running in the hopes that someone I know will see me running and tell me later on how much he wishes he was able to get out and run like that.

I think one of my favorite parts of running occurs prior to the actual run. I have to be in a place where I am so utterly dissatisfied with myself that I feel the need to abuse my body in an effort to strengthen it. The first thing I typically have to do is put the bottle of whiskey down. Granted, the process of repeatedly lifting it to my lips from the table may seem like a form of exercise but I need more than one pumped arm. So, I put it down and stretch my fingers out of what I have affectionately termed "bottle claw." Then, I have to find some suitable workout clothes. This is a subtle yet utterly intentional decision. I want to wear something that says, "I'm working out for me and I don't care about anyone else." So, I carefully pick out shorts and a shirt and socks that communicate how little I care about what I'm wearing. It takes a lot of time to put together an outfit that shows how little time you put into it.

My next move is into my car. Now, you may ask why I drive anywhere when I could just run around my neighborhood. That question forgets, however, my utter need to be recognized for what I am doing. If I run around my neighborhood, I may not encounter a single person. There will be no chance of seeing someone and asserting my moral and physical superiority over them. If I go down to the lake, however, I am virtually guaranteed that chance encounter. Call it planned serendipity. So, I get in my car, drive down to the lake and light up a smoke along the way. While many people think that smoking is bad for you, I'm still waiting for the day when I get to storm into a burning building filled with smoke to save a dying baby. The firefighters will all be fumbling with their respirators while I walk in and breathe deep the sweet smoke of liberation. Then I walk out, baby in arms with a cigarette in my mouth lit from the baby's burning clothes. Who's dumb for smoking now? I call them hero sticks. It'll catch on, you wait and see.

So, I park next to the lake and get out of my car. I stretch my atrophied muscles (I can almost touch my toes) and stomp out my finished smoke. I take a deep breath of the fresh air typically followed by a coughing fit. You know, from the hero sticks (I'm telling you, it'll catch on). I jump up and down a few times in an effort to get my body used to movement after a prolonged period of lethargic sloth. Plus, the jumping looks like something a workout person is supposed to do.

Then I actually start running. And it feels good. For a while. I get that superior feeling that accompanies physical fitness. Focusing on breathing and my running form like I have some idea of what I'm doing. The good part lasts a solid 15 minutes. Then the hyperventilation and leg cramping starts. I've found that I can't stop running at this point, though, because the minute I stop, my legs seize up. Instead, I push through the pain, invoking the spirit of some masochistic personal trainer. I can virtually hear him spouting phrases like "push through the pain," and "max out your muscles."

This is about the point where I start having significant problems. Breathing usually tops the list. I find that after about 25 minutes of running, every breath is so precious that I become unwilling to swallow or cough or spit. These actions consume valuable breathing time so I start foregoing them. This results in a rather attractive line of spittle running down my cheek. Finally, I reach my limit and slow down only to have the aforementioned muscle seizure overcome my legs. So, there I am, hyperventilating and drooling on myself as my body shakes uncontrollably from the leg cramps. But, at least I'm exercising.

A Cliche Within A Platitude Within A Bromide

Is it cliched to discuss just how cliched dating is? Ever since I became single, my life has turned into an everlasting episode of Seinfeld. I go out on dates, put on a show and reiterate every detail to my friends. We dissect each person relentlessly, pointing out subtle flaws and insignificant foibles. There's the flip flopper who can't decide what she wants. How does one go from "we can't kiss" to "hop in the shower with me" in a matter of seconds? There's the girl who tells me she can't stand sarcasm. Has she paid attention to a single ironic quip I've made or does she just not understand what sarcasm is? There's the girl who insists on analyzing how serious we are after a week. Let me take a stab at it and suggest that we're dating casually. There's the crazy older woman who, as it turns out, spent her adolescence in a psychiatric institute. And she tells me this while we're lying there in bed like the revelation is going to bring us closer together rather than scare the crap out of me. Amazingly enough, a history of psychosis doesn't constitute sexy in the way she thought it might.

But the cliche goes beyond the unseemly characteristics of my dating partners. On every first date, I feel like an actor playing a role. Reciting my life like the dating handbook proscribes. I have my spiel edited and scripted so well that I can virtually do it unconsciously. As I tell the Nth person about how I'm an attorney but not particularly satisfied with my work I feel my mind drifting away, looking down at myself from above. It's become a veritable form of meditation, the description of my goals and desires my spiritual mantra. My heart rate slows, my breathing steadies, the desire to stretch into "downward dog" is inescapable. Heh heh, downward dog. The only problem here is that I'm still theoretically interacting with another person. A person I supposedly want to get to know. Honestly, if I've gotten to this stage of enlightenment, any desire to get to know them has significantly waned already. Apparently nirvana = no next date.

If only this revelation was actually sufficient incentive for me to end the pseudo-relationship at its inception. But, no, I insist on going out on subsequent dates which involve more talking and more rote descriptions of "who I am" and "what I want" not to mention the monotony of having to hear the same from the person across the table from me. All that for the possibility of some physical contact and a potential realization that my initial evaluation of our chemistry was misguided. I've calculated the pot odds for this scenario again and again and I'm pretty sure folding is the best approach every time. My only consolation is the knowledge that my date is probably experiencing the same thing and suffering in a similar way. Except for the part where I'm awesome and a total catch.

Now that we've been on several dates and had some intimate contact things get dicey. If I'd ended it after the first date when I was virtually certain that things weren't going to work out I'd be free and clear and have a guilt free conscience. But, no, the prospect of ass and my apparent inability to act reasonably and rationally results in the inescapable need to have a "talk". Well, not so much a talk as an awkward, rambling attempt to never see the person again without saying anything offensive or insinuating that there's anything wrong with them. Sounds simple, I know, but I'm pretty sure it was one of the methods used to torture inmates in Abu Ghraib. No wonder there was a congressional investigation. Talk about human rights abuses.

You'd think this would deter me from future dates or at least inspire me to end the futureless relationships I'm currently involved in. Who wants to suffer this abuse on a regular basis? Apparently I'm a bit of a masochist.

How God Convinced Me It's OK To Steal

God. Omnipotent, omniscient, benevolent God. Well, maybe not that last part always. But all powerful and all knowing? Probably true for most Gods. It is that concept of an infinite power that makes God God. Honestly, if God did not have that supernatural omnipotence and omniscience, would he/she/it/they be anything more than essentially a powerful alien being? Consider that an alien civilization a thousand years more advanced than us could wow us with their technology. An advanced enough alien civilization could create wonders we couldn't fathom using nothing more than science which has had those thousands, if not millions, more years to develop. What would appear as miracles to us would be little more than the alien equivalent of turning on an electric light. A sophisticated alien could turn water into wine, part the Red Sea or make it rain toads.

But to know everything that is happening, has happened, and ever will happen? That seems to be more than any civilization could ever accomplish. Control and knowledge of everything is the essence of a God. The infinite capacity of God is more than any mortal being could ever hope to acquire. Finite beings cannot, by definition, acquire infinite knowledge. Conversely, all knowledge that is finite can be acquired by finite beings. Anything short of omniscience could, arguably, be merely an advanced, but mortal, intelligence. This infinite knowledge, this omniscience, is therefore the point at which mere intelligence becomes divine. To be a God and not merely a super advanced mortal, you must be omniscient.

But this has all been explained before by much smarter people than I. What I want to talk about is the implication of this omniscience on me and my morality. Or, more specifically, my utter indifference as to morality where an omniscient God exists. Now, I like to think of myself as a good person. I went to law school with intentions of practicing public interest. I love my family and friends. Hey, I'll even help them move if it comes to that. Maybe even offer to be a designated driver and actually stay sober one night. Maybe. All I'm saying is that I feel a need to do well by the people I love. But, I also have a tendency towards apathy. Oftentimes I would rather sit on my ass doing nothing than go into work and help those silly fools who put their trust in me. I would rather come by money easily than honestly if I knew there would be no repercussions. And, realistically, the help I provide to my friends and family is based in self interest. I do things because I want that friendship, I want support, I want reciprocation. I want I want I want.

The point I'm trying to make is not original, of course. I, and most people, are not altruistic. We all act for our own best interests. We are all self centered. We all want to win the lottery so we can stop contributing to society in any productive manner. We all want something for nothing. We all want to hit that asshole we know in the face real hard. Many of us, however, are prevented from acting out these egocentric fantasies by an appeal to something bigger than us. We say that our conscience gets in the way, that it isn't right to steal or assault. We appeal to morality as a guide for how to limit our own self interest. Morality. Pesky, pesky morality. If only there were some way around morality . . .

Now, I was never a religious person. I grew up in a secular household. My father was raised Catholic and rejected it so completely that he adopted a reactionary form of atheism. I guess he figured that, if Nietzsche is right and God is dead, my dad wanted an opportunity to pound a nail in that coffin. My mom had some form of "spirituality" but never identified it or pushed it on us kids. If anything, I'd say I developed into a staunch agnostic. But, lately, Ive been a bit strapped for cash and a bit pissed at several people. Unfortunately, my conscience (or morality or ethics) has prevented me from resorting to assault of thievery to solve these problems. That's where God comes in. After much thought, Ive decided to believe in God so that I can be free from any guilt over what I do. By believing in God, I expect to lose any need for morality and any hesitation over questionable actions.

You see, I've decided that, if there is an omniscient God, He (I know some of you might have a problem with me using the misogynist pronoun "He", but I'm not about to write "He/She/It/They over and over) has no place in His world for morality. God can't care how we act or what we choose to do and here's why: There is no place for free will in a universe where there is an Omniscient God. Yup, thats it. Above, I defined omniscience as knowing everything that was, is, and will be. It is knowledge of everything independent of the dimension of time. Although it is difficult to conceive of, God observes everything that was, is, and will be in one instant. He lives outside of time. Obviously, this knowledge has many implications. But, there is only one that I am concerned with. If God knows everything that is going to happen in the future, that means everything is predetermined. How could god have knowledge of the future otherwise? If He knows what is going to happen, this can only be because it is an unchangeable, knowable future. And, that means no free will. Every move I make, every step I take is written out and predetermined. Every smile I fake, every claim I stake has nothing to do with choice and everything to do with predestination. The universe is a book that has already been written.

This revelation really made me think about my life with God. If I have no free will, if my life is predetermined, I also have no responsibility for my actions and no incentive to produce anything positive. God cannot punish me for stealing that plasma TV that looks so good on my wall because I had no choice in stealing it. Although you might think its wrong for me to steal childrens clothes from the orphanage, God already made that choice for me when he wrote the book of the universe and are you really ready to say that God made a bad decision? Not only does my belief in God preclude any need for moral responsibility, it also allows me to sit on my ass all day. After all, if we have no responsibility for our negative actions, we also cannot take pride in our positive accomplishments. Sure, the Beatles may think that they changed the face of music by writing hits like Come Together and Strawberry Fields but, c'mon. Those songs were written by God at the inception of the universe. He had knowledge of everything that would be at that point and that included Hey Jude. The Beatles are nothing but plagiarizing hacks just like Picasso and Einstein. They deserve no more praise for their accomplishments than I deserve damnation for throwing rocks through windows for the sheer joy of hearing the shattering sound. So thanks, God, youve really simplified everything for me. Smashy smashy.

The Big Cheese

I was at the natural grocery store down the street from my house the other day when I noticed something that piqued my interest. While perusing the cheese and bread aisles, I noticed an unnatural phenomenon. In front of me, on a shelf all its own, sat a block of cheese. It was not the fact that a single piece of cheese occupied an entire shelf that intrigued me. It was not that it was some extraordinary brand of cheese aged in the isolated mountains of Switzerland by ancient natives. No, the characteristic of this cheese which caught my attention related to its physical dimensions. It was not so much a block, as it was a three foot by three foot cube of cheese. An immense consolidation of dairy in solid form occupying its own shelf . . . with a bow tied around it. A bow, as if the shear size of the culinary mammoth was not sufficient to catch your attention. As I passed the cube I actually found myself stopping and retracing my steps to examine exactly what was in front of me.

Nine cubic feet of cheese. Picture it. Let the full impact settle. What does it mean to our existence that such an item is available for the public to purchase. Who, exactly, goes to the local grocery store in search of nine cubic feet of cheese. 1,552 cubic inches of processed milk, available to the first person lucky enough to fork over the money. And, by the way, this was no cheap behemoth. In order to go home with your five year supply of cheese, a patron would have to tender $1,200.00. Now, try to imagine the type of person who would make this purchase. Not only would they need $1,200, but they would also need to devise a method for consuming such a quantity of dairy before mold set in. I suppose a person could leave the cheese out on the coffee table with a few spoons for casual events. "Hey, Mike, nice cheese cube," friends would say every time they came over, "can I get a spoon?" It would become a virtual barometer for your social success, every missing spoonful representing a newfound friend. Or, maybe it would be useful as an artistic medium. Imagine cheese busts of famous icons: a munster Marilyn Monroe, a cheddar Charlie Chaplin, a parmesan Pablo Picasso.

My interest went beyond the mere existence of the cheese cube and I began focusing on deeper meaning in the miracle of dairy achievement that sat in front of me. Of course, most smaller blocks of cheese originate from larger ones. Entire processing plants are dedicated to cutting large blocks of cheese into smaller ones, into slices, into shreds. I like to imagine the life of cheese as an analogy for our social structure. Think of the larger blocks as an unindividuated community of cheese. This larger block represents a Marxist utopia where all cheeses are equal and get to share in the glory of the whole. When they are sliced and divided, however, caste systems develop. Bricks still exist, occupying the top echalon while shredded cheese is relegated to the status of proletariat, forced to adorn nothing better than pizza and enchiladas. Without access to the means of production, these lesser cheeses have no opportunity for advancement aside from outright Marxist revolution.

This cube of cheese in front of me represented nothing less than the ideal of socialism, a united community dedicated to one goal, to be the best cube of cheese possible. A realization of the philosophy of Marx and Engels found in my local grocery store. I can imagine that such cubes of cheese do not exist outside of liberal enclaves like Berkeley. In middle America, the socialist ideals engendered in this cube would be seen as anti-American. Right wing talk show hosts would spread rumors about the cube being allied with Al Queda. "We have verified reports of Bin Laden eating cheese on a regular basis." "Insurgents seen trading cheese for guns." "Stockpiles of cheese found in Saddam's secret hideout verify claims of WMD's . . ." Special commissions would be set up to investigate the cheese ties to international terrorism. People would start distancing themselves from associations with known cheeses as a new era of McCarthyism arose. PETA, sensing an opportunity, would distribute black uniforms to all members and encourage marches down the street, chanting epithets while detaining suspicious persons . . . but, I digress. Cheese is cheese is cheese is cheese is cheese.