Six of one, half dozen of the other

Earlier this week, I was listening to a country music morning show during my morning run. (At this point in my telling of this story, Peggy said, "Why were you doing that?" She has a point, because morning shows are bad, and country dj's are the worst. But I got caught between songs, and I do love some country songs.) Like 97.9, there were two male and one female djs. The topic was how women's magazines depict men. DJ no. 1 claimed that by interviewing emotional, loving, caring men, the magazines were doing a disservice to women: men don't act like that. Dj no. 2 then joked that he was "half a man" because he was in touch with his feelings. The female dj announced she preferred men of the Kevin Kline mold. Then dj no. 1 posed the scenario: if your house is being invaded, which would you rather have, a touching feeling man or a man who would empty a clip.

First of all, if you marry someone based upon what he will do in the most unlikely of events, you are a fool. This path of logic detracts from the conversation, and we can just file that into the thick folder of what annoys me about morning djs.

I am unlike most Texans in that I don't want a gun in my house and I don't think that it will protect me. (While writing this, I can hear the voices of fellow Texans telling me that announcing I don't have a gun makes me vulnerable to attackers who prey on the undefended.) Statistically, gun owners are more likely to shoot a member of their family than anyone else, and their guns can be used against them in an attack. This is more common for women who are untrained to use said gun. Texans who keep guns aren't really swayed by logical arguments like this. If attacked, they want to be able to protect their families, an understandable impulse. Where we disagree is on the ability of gun ownership to accomplish this.

This year, my parents house was broken into while we were home and asleep. It was scary as hell. Someone picked off the molding on a window and took the window off the track. This caused the security system to beep, waking up my dad and Luigi. Luigi charged down the stairs, barking, and the burglar was gone by the time my dad turned on a light. This cemented my belief that having a good dog is way better than a handgun.

In the following weeks we learned that everyone has a burglary story. One friend of a friend was tied up in her home while it was burglarized, and spent the time chatting with her captor. He told her that if she really wanted to prevent this from happening in the future, a dog was her best bet. She now has three large dogs. Other friends had a burglar jump out of their plate glass window to escape and he bled on all of their things. So even though he didn't steal that much, they had to replace the carpet, the window, and several pieces of furniture.

The best story, however, is that one of my friends had his house invaded when he was a child. His dad did empty a clip. There were no direct hits, so really he emptied a clip into his wall, not the intruder. The burglar fired back and then ran away. The part of the story my friend loves is that his dad ran upstairs and into the bedroom, threw the gun at his wife, and yelled, "Reload!" To this my mom said, "And you wonder why they aren't married anymore."

My friend loves this story about his parents, and he thinks that it is an argument for gun ownership. Now, I am impressed that his dad had a loaded gun that he got to in time to use during an attack. I would think that, like a nail clippers, a gun would never be handy when you really need it. But it makes me wonder how well protected my friend was from finding the gun himself when he was a small child. But this is the Texan argument that everyone is armed, so you'd better be armed, too. This story makes me very uncomfortable because it could have so easily ended differently.

There are few things I can imagine that would be as terrible as watching someone empty a clip into a burglar and then having that burglar bleed to death in my home. Having to replace all my furniture and carpets because they were blood stained would probably (I can't say for certain) be more traumatic than having them stolen. The question that Peggy and I can't agree upon is which would be worse, if that shooter was your dad or your husband. In one case, you're a little kid seeing a dead body, and in the other, you are actually married to, you chose to live with, this guy who just murdered someone.

Overheard at the Dogpark

This is what I heard some lady, who was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and running shoes, tell some guy at the dogpark this week.

"So this guy only wore two t-shirts. Whenever I saw him, he was either wearing one or the other. [I thought she was talking about someone at the dogpark, and having a few dogpark shirts seemed like a good idea, because you get all muddy at the park. But I was wrong.] And when he asked me out, all I could think about was his two t-shirts. I couldn't get past it. So then he went out with my friend Brenda.

So, you know, all I ever wanted to do was marry my highschool sweetheart, have four children, and be a stay at home mom. Well, Brenda married him after high school. He went to the Airforce Academy where he coached football. I love football. And now they have four children. And she doesn't work. I just keep thinking, maybe if they didn't have any kids. Or maybe if she had to work as a secretary. But no. If I had just not focused on those two t-shirts.

That's what I tell my kids. I tell that that if I hadn't been so shallow I would have my dreamlife."

At this point the guy she was talking to asked her, incredulously, if she really told her children that. She said that she told the children she taught at school.

"You know, I love Paul [I assume this is her husband]. I am happy with Paul. Oh, no, I would never tell him this"

So, that's the lesson folks. Get over how shallow you are now, so that you won't have to spend the rest of your life coveting your ex-best friend's life.

B O to the X

There are many things to love about Houston; there are also many things that I miss about Houston when I am gone. These lists include several good and some mediocre restaurants, good friends and humid nights driving around with the windows down and the music up top both lists. I love me some poppy hip hop late at night. When my life takes me far away and I feel wistful for Houston, I seek out internet radio of Houston stations and queso.

But there are things about a summer in Houston that just can't be faked or replicated: my great tan with freckles that the boys seem to like to much (call me pretty and I'll melt like lemon sherbet), achieved from a summer in the pool with the kiddies, the self discipline to leave some enchilada on the plate, attained by an unshakable faith that there absolutely will be more tomorrow, and the deep and varied cultural knowledge that comes with listening to a summer's worth of 97.9 morning shows. The topics range from the mundane to the profane, and some conversations have left me speechless.

The show topped my must-listen list when they preached the gospel of "no one wants to see a bunch of men get together on the dance floor and booty dance." Now, this is something I have never seen, but I don't get out that much. The best part of that show was when one of the dj's went through, by age group, how unacceptable this behavior is. The word seems to have gotten to the 23-35 age group of men, and they don't get up on each other at the club. The morning show was trying to get the message to the kids age 15-23 that men did not need to be booty dancing with other men. I guess if you under age 16, like nine years old, then it is youthful and fun to dance with anyone. But with a driver's license comes other adult responsibilities, one being only dance with girls, or, just let the girls dance with each other. I guess people like to watch women dance together. What a double standard!

Some days the topics are more serious. Last week they played a parody of the background noise when John McCain spoke at the NAACP. Black people really don't give a crap for John McCain, so you can imagine what farce. Later, they brought up the notorious "Blackman," the stereotype about black men and child rearing. The phone lines lit up for that one.

But today's show really took the cake. Men who sag their pants are at risk to being sodomized.
Yeah, that's what the drive time morning show was about. Seriously. I tuned in just in time to hear a County jail employee describe a foul game played in prison. Nine men get naked in a circle and wrestle and whoever penetrates first is the winner. What! What! It takes a lot to render a dj speechless, but this scenario did it. They tried to move on to morning prayers. But then they came back. Why would anyone play this game? The conclusion was that there are no winners.

Keepin' it weird, luau style

I love the sound of a steel drum: it takes me right into any movie set in Hawaii. As it turns out, this is completely due to Hollywood (or to my imagination) because the steel drum is an instrument of African decent. Perhaps movie makers superimposed the music of their Caribbean vacations onto their Hawaiian vacation movies? Or, maybe I just can't keep my mood music straight.

This weekend I was lucky enough to find myself at Barton Springs where I momentarily found myself feeling a little Aloha. My first guess was that all the bikinis were to credit for this mini mind vacation. However, it was discovered that there was a man playing a propane tank that had been turned into a steeldrum. Whoa! It is called a Hank Drum and you can make one, too! Here's a video of a Hank Drum being played. Despite all those new condos, Austin still knows how to keep it weird.

A shoutout to the babies at Memorial Park

In general, babies should be grateful that they are so cute, 'cause they score really low on personality. If I just stared off into space and drooled would you be friends with me? Nope, don't think so. I'm not cute like a baby.

When parents strap their twins together in a double stroller and go running, its double bla. One baby in a stroller usually just stares out into space, inviting inquires to how a human can stand to be that bored. And with two its like they are watching two movies screened simultaneously at two different points in the distance. Given facial expressions, the movies aren't edge-of-your-seat action, definitly not a Borne movie: Remains of the Day, perhaps. I just want to yell, "What are you looking at, babies!"

Today I saw a twin stroller with a set of twins in it. I could tell that one was a girl and one was a boy because they were wearing red and blue baseball caps. Wardrobe like this can't help when trying to make friends. However, these babies were cool. Way cool. The little boy (blue cap) was hitting and tickling his sister (red hat). But she was holding her own, poking him back and squealing. Their actions screamed, "You can buckle us in together and dress us like dorks, but you can't make us behave like lobotomy victims, or like we like each other."

It was nice to see rebellion against a world of matching clothes and family togetherness (mom and dad were both running together with the babies at 8am, way to late in the day for people planning on going to work). So, for today at least, let's score one for babies, proving that you can be cool regardless of your stature in life.

Make Love not Law Review

Peggy has some important job with the Texas Law Fellowship, an organization which somehow helps out law students who go into the public interest sector; because my understanding of the specifics are hazy, I will remain vague. But whatever her role, it left her with many t-shirts, mugs, and other swag branded "Make Love not Law Review." My understanding of how this relates to public interest law is hazy, but its a great slogan and I am considered adopting it as my personal motto.

I love running in the T-shirt Peggy gave me. I also like to run in my Pope tshirt, and "makelovenotlawreiew" just kicks the pope's booty in terms of attractive gym wear. Unlike the pope shirt, which flares out around my hips, giving me lovely accentuated saddle bags, "law review" fits just well enough to be flattering without being too tight to comfortably sweat in. Also, wearing a shirt that says something cloy about law school makes me look both smart enough to get into law school and irreverent in a fun way, which is sort of the opposite of the connotation of a pope shirt, which says "I don't believe in premarital sex so don't even ask."

Anyway, today I ran three miles on the Memorial trail (go me! woo woo!) and that was awesome, and it left me awesomely drenched. The obvious thing to do when you get so sweaty that dumping a glass of water on your head doesn't leave a wet spot on your shirt because the whole shirt is that wet is to change clothes. However, it is Houston in the summer and I've been showering and changing clothes three times a day and I'm so over it. So I just went ahead and wore that wet shirt to Sbucks and the dog park.

Apparently, all the middle aged lawyers in the neighborhood start their mornings at Sbucks around 8:30. I just tried to get out with my free iced coffee (it looks good, doesn't it?) in time for Luigi not to overheat in the car, a challenge because my shirt was such a hit. Its definitely funny, but those lawyers were so excited that I can tell the bar is set pretty low for law comedy. (I guess there are only so many jokes that involve the word "bar.") One guy laughed really hard and just kept saying, "that brings back memories." He looked old enough to have actually protested Vietnam, but then he asked me if I was a third year or if I had finished, and it became obvious that he was so impressed because he thought of law school as a war. All I have to say about that is good luck to Peggy, being a young attractive lawyer in this town full of old, unattractive men who think that having law school in common is enough to warrant a conversation. (Yeah, the law puns just keep coming.)

So, armed with my icy beverage, I drove on, SuperLuigi perched on the sunroof opening, tongue flying. And who arrived at the park the same time we did but some dude I went to high school with and haven't seen since. Now I know how my mother used to feel when she would run into acquaintances at the coffee shop after her runs. I was totally distracted by the fact that I probably smelled like severe BO. Also, I have no idea what dog park etiquette is. You can't really just say hi and then go on your way like the mall or a restaurant. Are you supposed to talk the whole time you're there? When you run out of pleasantries, is it rude to walk your dog away down the trail? Do you wait when the other person has to go and pick up poop? "Excuse me, my dog is taking a crap over there and your dog seems really excited about smelling and eating it." How do you politely say that? I feel all this rendered me only half the conversationalist.

But by far the highlight of the dog park was the new toy Aunt Trish gave me for Luigi, the chuckit. Practicing at home last night I repeatedly had problems with the release and sent the ball into the swimming pool. Justifiably, I was a bit worried about appearing completely uncoordinated as the park, full of people who are adept with their dog toys. After a prelude explaining that it was a new toy and hopefully absolving me of any misfires, I picked up a tennis ball and launched it into an open area by the dog pond. It was a release I felt proud of with a good amount of power behind it, and I looked up to see the ball fly fast and high off the ground, right into some guy's leg.

It was really funny, and I was really embarrassed. If the dude had even flinched I would have yelled an apology, but since he didn't look around I didn't. I just laughed so hard I had to take a conversation break. William noted, there was nothing to feel bad about because that guy had clipped his Doberman's ears. He totally deserved getting zinged in the ankle.

So, I will leave you with a few words of advise. No.1: if you want to wear sweaty clothes anywhere but the trail or the gym, be ready to have long conversations in them. No.2: if you perform elective surgery on your pets, beware. I'll be watching, ready to chuck a tennis ball at you. My speed and aim are improving exponentially, so that is no empty threat.

ahh summer

Today I ran three miles at Memorial Park, a quite, natury dirt trail just off 610 then drove around green, green Houston with the sunroof open and the windows down listening to the new Maroon 5 cd. I'm may not be able to communicate how great it was.