A Note to my Future Self

There is a website, FutureMe, with a simple, very intriguing premise: write an e-mail timed to be sent to yourself in the future. Now, probably the most that can be accomplished with these e-mails to the future is a call to stay true to thine own self, to remember not become jaded or pretentious with age, and to be the kinds of adults our 10 year-old selves would be proud of.

What would be infinitely valuable - but is alas, impossible - would be to send a letter to the past, to our younger selves. Actually, earlier this year CBS's This Morning began a reoccurring segment based on that premise, where celebrities read hypothetical letters to their younger selves. So far, to my knowledge, Maya Angelou, Chuck Close, and Oprah have been featured.

As today marks closing ceremony of the XXX Olympiad, this session of regular posts will come to a close. I'm not sure when I'll return, but following traditional it will be at least again during the 2016 Olympics. I tried to image myself four years from now, what I want that person to be like, and I'm mailing the following letter to myself:

Dear Future T.J.,

In 2016, more than anything, my hope is that you are finding balance. You've just started a new job, a first job after grad school.  Be careful and mindful to keep a healthy perspective. You have a tendency towards workaholism; give your best for 40 hours but not a minute more. Don't let work bleed over into your other time. You're only getting paid for 40 hours and that's already too much time to lose. Although you've gained discretionary income, you've lost discretionary time. Money is one kind of freedon, but free time is another of which you now have less. With your time now more constrained, I hope that you're leaving time for yourself, for your health and your love of knowledge, continuing to learn through books, exploring art and the world.  There is more out there than you'll ever have time to experience, so don't waste a precious moment more than you have to on work. Whatever your career becomes, if any random person on the street doesn't understand an aspect of your job, it's probably not important enough to waste much anxiety on. Remember the past, and everyone who's ever done anything for you.  Pay forward the countless help you've received from your family, friends, mentors, and community. Roberta, especially, who you've been lucky enough to marry, has a good heart and kind soul. She likes you a lot. Remember all the support she's given you and how much color, warmth, and happiness she's added to your life. It's unimaginably better now than before she was a part of it.  Finally, of course, remember not to put too much stock in any advice I offer. You have the experience and developed perspective that only four more years of life could purchase. I only wish it were I that could receive advice from you. So for now, to a happy future: my best wishes, my best hopes, and my best regards, from 2012. - T.J.

In Which I Enter the 2012 Olympic Quad-Off

Since at least high school I've always had big thighs. Strong, but big. Buying pants was difficult. In the 90s you were labled gay if your pants were any less than falling-off-your-waist baggy. Additionally, my big thighs were attached to what the other guys dubbed my "girl's butt". Getting changed for gym or weighing-in for wrestling were always embarrassing. Roberta says that they were all just jealous, that such assets on men are prized in Brazil. I only I had been born there instead, it could have all been so different.

I wondered what sport my legs would be most valuable for. Well, of course they'd be useless in all of them given my complete absence of any athletic ability.

On Sunday, this photo flew around the Internet, showing German Olympic sprint cyclist Robert "Mr. Thigh" Förstemann surpassing teammate Andre "Gorilla" Greipel in the "2012 Olympic Quad-Off":

German Cyclist Robert Förstermann Clearly Wins the 2012 Olympic Quad-Off

Roberta thought the image was photoshopped. I figured the Olympics is full of genetic freaks, anyway, and certainly those cyclists work their thighs. This would be the logical consequence.

Yesterday morning The New York Times published an article featuring Förstermann (inspired by the quad-off photo) entitled "Thigh-Popping Success on a Bike Lies in the Quads". Interestingly, the article linked to a blog post specifying the proper technique for measuring a thigh's circumference, and also listed a few athletes' measurements:

• Förstermann's thighs measure 34 inches (bigger than his waist, incidentally)
• Chris Hoy, a British cycling sprinter who collected his fifth gold medal on Sunday, has 27 inch thighs
• Polled athletes considered the minimal acceptable thigh circumference to be 23.6 inches. 

I could barely wait until I got home to learn how I, a mere-mortal, stacked up to Olympians. So, more or less: 24 and one-quarter inches. At least over the Olympic threshold! As I'm sure my lung capacity is much below the Olympic threshold, I doubt I'll be making any appearances in Rio de Janeiro, four years from now.

Still, I always loved riding a bike. I haven't ridden in a year or so, and then another year before that, so scared was I after a bad poison ivy episode I got on the Blackstone River Bikeway when I first moved to Rhode Island. I already planned to bring my bike to the shop this week for repairs to make the trek up to Lexington and Concord before the summer ends. Perhaps this photo is timely - motivation? I'll tape a photo of Förstemann's legs to my bedroom mirror to stare at before I go to the gym in the morning. Mr. Thigh wins the Quad-Off this year, but maybe we'll see you in Rio!

My Hero of the XXX Olympiad, Oksana Chusovitina

This may be first, a follow-up to a previous posting. Four years ago I wrote about the Soviet-born German gymnast Oksana Chusovitina, who at 33 was still competing in elite-caliber gymnastics, when most of her peers were teenagers. I was awe-struck by her story. I rooted for her, and deeply cheered when she took the silver medal on vault in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Before her set, I vividly remember the announcers commenting that history would be made today. She was an inspiration and left such a mark on me that I was still telling me about her prior to the start of these games. Surely nothing these games, I thought, could top a 33 year-old gymnast.

Except, of course, a 37 year-old gymnast.

Chusovitina is back, at 37, to compete in the 2012 London games - and she's expected to medal. She wants one more, with her son there to watch, before she retires to next coach for Uzbekistan's team. I'll look forward to cheering for her again.

What the Candidates and Athletes Have in Common

Aside from a lot of sport, I've realized during the Olympics coverage that I'm also watching a lot of commercials.  Fortunately (or due to the expected audience), many have an almost Super Bowlesque quality.  However, I've also noticed I'm watching lots of political ads.  What cruel timing that years of the summer games coincide with presidential election years.  And I'm in Massachusetts, not even a swing state.  The one playing most often, supporting Barack Obama, features Mitt Romney singing "America the Beautiful" terribly off-key.  How do they expect us to support Team USA with that in our heads?

Another category of commercials relays how hard the athletes have worked.  Hitting the pool at dawn, alone with the weights, nursing injuries, etc.  Well, duh.  Honestly, I'm not fully sure of such ads' exact message.  The sacrifice the athletes have made?  Hopefully not that with enough hard work "anyone" could become an Olympic athlete (the more common non-athletic version are variations on "you, too, could be rich").  Certainly not true, that hard work, that total dedication every day over years  is necessary, but not sufficient.  How many unknown unnamed countless others have put in the same number of hours of those who will be standing on the podiums?  They are not in London this week.  Their times may be within seconds of the world record for all we know.  But there are just only so many spots on the national team.

I thought of a New York Times Magazine article a few years ago profiling, essentially, the machine that identifies basketball talent.  It starts with preteens.  Across the country, there must be - how many? - untold numbers of kids, spending everyday shooting baskets at a hoop, hoping its the start of a path that will eventually lead to a pro contract.  For most nothing will ever come of it.  Some will effectively win the lottery,  go the NBA, and will then be able for the camera to recall those long hours alone every day in the gym practicing free throws, and testify how worth it it was.  But we'll never see all the others who took the same number of shots and have nothing to show for a wasted youth.

So price of a even the possibility of Olympic success is, probably, the majority of a hopeful's young life in devotion to the perfection of their sport.

The price of a president campaign?  Presidential candidates spend hundreds of millions of dollars.  Millions even to lose the primary.  You'd better be prepared to spend an obscene amount just to run and most likely, statistically, it will all be for nothing.

For both athletes and political candidates, it's an all-pay auction.  Everyone is putting forward, above some threshold, an exorbitant payment.  Yet history won't remember most, only the few winners. 

The difference?  It's the athletes own time, their loss of a "normal" life.  The political candidates funds are usually largely donated - it's instead someone else's loss.  They're not really sacrificing.

An Olympic Opening, 2012

Tonight, despite thick, under-conditioned air, I finished the 60 minutes at 7.8mph on the treadmill goal I set for myself at the gym.  I distinctly remember wanting to quit at 15, 20, 30, 45, and once I got to 50min, I knew I would finish.  Even at 53min, when my stomach was knotting, I pushed through (I wouldn't really vomit, would I?).  I counted down the last 90 seconds.  I thought of an athlete in the final 10 seconds of their gold medal hope.  When I finally finished, I was so happy I did it.  I immediately resolved to write this so I could read this again.  It's always worth it to finish.

The opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics is airing on NBC as I write this.  I've already caught the bug.  I know how I'll be spending the next two weeks.

Tonight on Facebook I posted Jamie McGregor Smith's feature in the New York Times Lens Blog, from her  work "Borrow, Build, Abandon", on the state of the 2004 Athens Olympics stadiums, which only eight years later have fallen into neglected decay.  How quickly splendid becomes forgotten.  I remembered my Latin, sic transit gloria mundi (thus passes the glory of the world).

Also: the opening ceremony featured Caliban's "Be not afeard" speech from The Tempest.  I love the line "...when I waked I cried to dream again".  I remember December dreams of my youth receiving an 8-bit Nintendo for Christmas, what I wished for more than anything, and what my mother would never buy, only to wake up to the creeping horror that I still didn't have a Nintendo.  So, five years ago, today, my youngest brother Scott died.  Regularly since then (and just again the night before last) I dreamt he was able to somehow "come back" and rejoin us the living.  It didn't usually happen, he said, but it did then, and we could hang out again and I'd be able to savor the second chance we were given.  We'd be able to just hang out again, talk, and I'd have my brother again, and I was so relived and thankful.  But soon I woke up.

It was a dream that was sad to wake up from.  I miss you, Scott.

Phaedrus' Pharwell

And on the final day of the Olympics, I leave you with another Greek's farewell blessing...from Plato's Phaedrus...



Socrates: "Dear Pan and all you gods of this place, grant me that I may become beautiful within; and that what is in my possession outside me may be in friendly accord with what is inside. And may I count the wise man as rich; and may my pile of gold be of a size which only a man of moderate desires could bear or carry.



Do we still need anything else, Phaedrus? For me that prayer is enough."



Phaedrus: "Make the prayer for me too; for what friends have they share."



Socrates: "Let's go."

Born on Third, Thinking They Hit a Triple - And Those Born Outside the Ballpark

I’ve realized I’ve been flaunting a lot recently with the theme of unrealized potential. I’d like to do a little more with that today. A couple weeks ago, Matt Bai wrote the article “Is Obama the End of Black Politics?” for The New York Times Magazine, with the section:

Elijah Cummings, the former chairman of the Congressional Black Caucus and an early Obama supporter, told me a story about watching his father, a South Carolina sharecropper with a fourth-grade education, weep uncontrollably when Cummings was sworn in as a representative in 1996. Afterward, Cummings asked his dad if he ad been crying tears of joy. “Oh, you know, I’m happy,” his father replied. “But now I realize, had I been given the opportunity, what I could have been. And I’m about to die.” In any community shadowed by oppression, pride and bitterness can be hard to untangle.

Cummings’ father was referring to a deliberate and intentional oppression. What about circumstances where people are never allowed to develop to their potential simply given the conditions of the environment which they were raised into? Many of the great thinkers were born into wealthy families – the common interpretation was that the capacity for higher through was exclusively hereditary, ignoring the obvious (and in my view probable) alternative that wealth set-up an individual for further greatness in the event a genius emerged.

Maybe in an isolated tribe in the bush, there exists a human with – or at least the potential for – incredible genius, with the ability to make breakthroughs that might ameliorate the conditions of mankind. Yet that genius remains untapped, simply because of the circumstance this person was born into, isolated and never connected to the rest of society. Instead of curing cancer, reforming government justly, or solving the energy crisis, they spend their days flinting tools from stones.

During the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, as the Palestine delegation entered the stadium, the commentators identified one athlete as a swimming and commented that the there isn’t a single Olympic-sized pool in all of the terretories. Imagine a country without swimming pools – maybe there’s a natural-swimmer there greater than Phelps that never had a chance to discover what he might have been.

It's True, It's True!

Henry Cejudo, the 21 year-old U.S. wrestler who grabbed gold in Beijing was the hero of his event, but 12 years ago in Atlanta, Kurt Angle won gold and later made the transition to the WWF, lecturing crowd of the philosophy of his 3 i's: Intensity, Integrity and Intelligence. You could see the technical finesse in the simplest of his moves. But moreover, he was undoubtedly the funniest wrestler. He would make fun of the local sports teams, especially when there was a scandal in the news: "unlike Darryl Strawberry, the only thing I'm addicted to is gold" or telling the Boston crowd if only they followed his three I's, they might actually be able to win a World Series. More broadly he would parade around ridiculing the stereotypes of wherever his visited (such as threatening calling INS to the crowd in San Diego):

• And just like so many other cities in this great nation, Greensboro, North Carolina doesn't' have the most intelligent people in the world and nor will they ever.But, just like the old song goes: two out of three ain't bad, so if you stick with the intensity and the Integrity, you'll do just fine.
• Virginia is for lovers, provided those lovers are not from the same family
• (In D.C.) Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie. The Big Show is a big waste of talent. And Like Abraham Lincoln, I'm honest almost to a fault. If the Big Show had my 3 I's, then maybe he wouldn't be such a big disappointment and like Marion Barry, actually I'm nothing like Marion Barry and shame on you for reelecting that guy.
  I'm the European Champion. But I realize down here in Texas, not a lot of people know where Europe is. But hey, hold on a second, its not your fault. Actually its your educational system here in Austin Texas. It is. But once I win that belt, not only do I promise to entertain, but I promise to educate you as well."
• I used to think the only good things to come out of Canada were maple syrup and Michael J. Fox, but I was wrong.

He often mocked his fellow wrestlers: "Down here, I see a 7 foot tall 340 pound bag of muscle who hides behind a mask and doesn't speak a word and why, because he lacks integrity and he obviously lacks intelligence. Sure he has intensity. There's no doubt about that, but that can only take you so far, Kane."..."Maybe if you spent a little less time crying over spilt milk, and a little more time drinking it like me, you'd finally be a winner"..."I just want to say to everyone that, even though I suplexed an eighty-two-year-old pregnant woman, I am still a role model for children, not to mention elderly people as well." His very best commentary very knowingly poked fun at the ridiculousness of the WWF:

• (On Scotty 2 Hotty's "worm") If your Olympic Hero were to use the Worm in the 1996 Olympic Games, it would be so embarrassing to all the other athletes - and our country, mind you - that the USA would have finished behind Guam.
• ...not to mention our former tag team champions lost their titles after my good friend Christian was hit in the genitals with a hockey stick by a midget! I mean enough is enough."
• (To "Justin Credible") You know... when one speaks your name very fast, it just sounds like just incredible
• (To "The Undertaker") Undertaker, if that is your real name..."

Life needs more Kurt Angles'...

In Scott's bedroom is a Polaroid picture of my brother (he was probably about 11 or 12 at the time), Angel's huge arm is around him. We were both fans and I - a freshman in college at the time - told him about a visit Angle was making to Trumbull mall, so Scott went, excited to meet his hero. Angle came to him when his back was turned, and the picture was taken just after Scott turned around. He looks so happy in the picture. When times were rough for him, and especially the night he died, I always wonder if he looked at the picture. I also think of the picture - the younger, happier version of himself - looking out into the room at him, silent witness to whatever misery might be going on.

But thank you for taking the picture with him, Kurt Angle. It meant - it means - a lot to me.

Supermom

The Today Show ran a segment this morning about Olympic moms. I can picture the scene in the stadium. It's before the match; as mom spit-mousses her son's cowlick down, she catches sight of her rival, thinks of their many brutal encounters. Her expression cools and eyes narrow: "Run along and play, Billy....Mommy's gotta go to work..."

Bronze Badge of Courage

Walter Dix won a bronze medal in the 200m track and field; he originally placed fifth but a double disqualification - two runners stepped on the lane lines - moved him up to third place.

When he heard the news, his response was something akin to: "but I still lost..."

It's actually a horrible way to win a medal: someone else's screw-up. Deep down he could believe he only won on a technicality - two other runners were really faster than him, and even if any advantage from stepping on the line was accounted for, they still would have had faster times. I wonder if silver medalists promoted to gold after a doping scandal wonder if, even with the drugs, the disgraced athlete really was better. Even if they cheated, perhaps if they didn't cheat, the outcome would have been the same - to receipt of the gold medal is a lie: the cheat should have it. The holder doesn't deserve it. I wonder if these thoughts stir in the promoted-gold-medalist's mind late at night.

The first wrestling medal I ever won was 3rd place...out of three in the weight class. It was the worst feeling - like getting an award for sucking.

It's a funny story now, but I pretended to be sleeping the whole bus ride home. I hid that medal in my drawer: I always hoped my first medal would be a source of pride. I wonder if medals won by others' disqualifications are displayed or hidden?

Biased Sample

On the MARTA there's a commercial that regularly runs displaying a "typical" time at Harrah's Casino. Wow! I should really go...the gentlemen win every bet they make and moreover find no shortage of beautiful women casting seductive glances their way.

China similarly is casting a polished - and from what I've heard, deceitful - image of the country to coincide with the games. Like the China pavilion at Epcot. Weren't people calling these the genocide Olympics? Did impressive opening ceremony choreography just displace the uncomfortable realities in our minds?

Never Say It's Over: Forever's a Long Time

Here I am, at 27, starting school in the fall. 10 years ago I certainly never thought I'd be here now. How many summers did I say it was my last summer working at Stew Leonard's, only to return the next fall? I was back at cashier after earning my master's degree. How many times did I think I'd never talk to a certain person again, even ten years ago, not predicting Facebook and all the ways to reconnect again. I've learned to never say never, because the rest of my life is a long time, and a lot can chance that I would never imagine.

A shout-out to Oksana Chusovitina, 33, the gymnast I previously mentioned who took home the silver last night on vault in gymnastics. I'm sure there was one day when she thought she'd never do gymnastics again, and here she is, the second-best in the world (and personally I thought she should have gotten gold - the first place winner had bad landings...).

Sunday Secrets

One of my favorite things to do each Sunday is read the secrets at PostSecret. I finally thought of a secret to send in (i.e., I realized something about myself that I want to be a secret)...when I have some time I'll do some arts n' crafts and make a postcard...stay tuned - I won't say which one it is but I'll post if it's accepted...

One week left of the Olympics, and this blog's postings, though it, like the Olympics, will return...

Lightning Bolt

Usain Bolt is fastest man alive, after yesterday running the 100m in 9.69 seconds.

The guy’s name is Bolt – he was always destined to be fast, with a cartoonish inevitability, like Captain Hook ending up with a hook or Remus Lupin becoming a werewolf.

It brings to mind the very self-aware Spiderman II’s great line (via J. Jonah Jameson) which I love: "Guy named Otto Octavius winds up with eight limbs. What are the odds?"

Swimming for a Cause

On the Today Show this morning the conversation was not about Michael Phelps: The Swimmer but Michael Phelps: The Millionaire. The claim is that with the money he is/will make he will never have to work again. Well, MC Hammer and Mike Tyson probably thought at one point the money would last forever – though Phelps isn’t living such extravagant standards. No pet tigers.

I’m so fiscally responsible that if I won the lottery I’d never run out of money and so would never need to work again…but I’d want to. It’s the boredom, you see.

They talked of Phelps starting a foundation as those with too much money often do. One person interviewed said he will probably want to spread the gospel of swimming: promote a sport that has done so much for him. “The Michael Phelps Center for Kids Who Can’t Swim Good…Yet”. Poetic irony would be a protégé of Phelps breaking his record one day – Phelps knowing the record would still be standing if he never while the former PhelpsPhan stares him down with a defiant rebelliousness: “now the student has become the teacher… “ What I do agree with is their claim that Phelps is probably inspiring a new generation of swimmers.

At least in the short-term.

I’ve certainly been planning to cross-train in the pool, and watching his races makes me think what good exercise it would be; it’s pushing me to get in there quicker. But I’m easily malleable like that. Watching gymnastics in the 1990s, I would run around my house doing summersaults. Yet, when I feel that cold water my interest in swimming will experience shrinkage – and the youngins’ watching the games now have Wii, so how long will it last? I thought I might want to go into politics after staying home sick one day watching the movie “Dave” on TV. It took a year of Advanced Placement Comparative Politics and half-semester of undergraduate political science to make me realize what a dry boring topic it was, just invented for phonies to fill their egos. But I digress. If Phelps inspires many, and only a few stick with swimming, then at least some will have found a calling, and that’s a beneficial multiplier effect we cannot deny.

The Dream Team

It's August 14th, 6 months since Valentine's Day...and six months 'til Valentine's Day!

For those of you playing the field, I offer 20 Beauties of the 2008 Beijing Olympics. I'd give them all a gold...oh yeah!!!

What's My Age Again?

Sometimes people lie about their age to make themselves older. 16 year-olds lie to get into R-rated movies. 17 year-olds lie about their age to buy cigarettes, 20 year-olds lie about their age to buy liquor, and 13 year-olds say they’re ten years older when they dial phone sex lines. Many of the living world war veterans are only still alive because they lied about their age to go war in the first place. Half of the Chinese women’s gymnastics team is lying about their age to be eligible to compete (I wonder if down the line there will be a Marion Jones-type exposé where the team is stripped of their gold medals when evidence emerges a number of them were too young – youth is the new steroids).

Sometimes people lie about their age to make themselves younger. Usually this is people who don’t want anyone to know how old they are. This doesn’t make much sense to me, because it should all be about appearance – is anyone ever surprised when a morbidly obese person admits they’re 400 lbs? They weren’t hiding any secret by not giving the weight away. You look how you look, and will disclosing one’s age suddenly make others notice wrinkles they wouldn’t have already seen? Perhaps there’s a biasing effect; maybe getting numerical clue does focus one’s observations.

At what age range are you honest? Maybe you’re never always honest, because age is very relative, and you might want to nudge the number as certain way as company changes. Personally, at 27, I feel very old and out-of-touch around teenagers yet young and naïve around middle-aged people.

Brown and Rotten Banana, Watching the Olympics

Suddenly I feel old watching the Olympics, because most of the competitors are younger than I am. In 1996 I was younger than everybody. In 2000 and 2004 everyone was about my age, but now in 2008 mostly all athletes are younger than me. My heart is heavy thinking how that boat has sailed.

But maybe there is hope for me. As I mentioned, Dara Torres is setting world records at 41 and over the weekend I saw Soviet-born German gymnast Oksana Chusovitina at 33 competing in a sport dominated by 16 year-olds (and would be dominated by even younger girls without recent restrictions imposing 16 as the minimum age for competition). There’s an article about older Olympians in today’s New York Times: “Age Is Little Match for Money, Science and Effort”. The article cites scientists who argue there’s no scientific basis for athletic peaks having to be in the early 20’s; that mundane time constraints such as employment preventing training requisite to be an Olympian limited potential much more than age-related physical deterioration.

I’m aware that I’m evaluating my Olympic potential based on my age rather than my lack of athletic ability. I think the reason for this is that deep down I don’t really care about being in the Olympics; instead, I’m haunted by the feeling that I missed out on many simple aspects of childhood, adolescence, and teenage years. I’m unable to let go of that loss and seeing 19 year-old gold medalists reminds me of my own unhappiness at 19. Sometimes I worry I will sabotage my own children’s emotions, because else the happier they are the more miserable I will be.

I never really cared about sports, but it’s the social connections I felt I never had that naturally seem to accompany athletic aptitude that I think is at the heart of the matter. Because of risks I never took, all I see are the opportunities I missed and I wonder about what might have been if things were different. Although most of the time I’m cripplingly under-confident, there are other times I think could have had, or might have had, much more to ever offer than I got the chance.

I found my muse yesterday, and if I were to write a poem, the metaphor I would use for myself is fruit that went bad on the grocery stand; something ruined and wasted that never had a chance to be tested (or tasted). A banana or mango that was never picked up or overlooked which would have been fresh produce but instead turned to brown rot and was thrown out by grocery clerks, or what would have been mouth-watering baked bread that ran its expiration date out sitting on the shelf.

National Heros

I think the there's disease of irrational nationalism; countries designate granfalloons only...

- But - I have to admit, I felt the pride swell last night when our boys in Beijing laid the smackdown on a trash-talking Frenchman

Jason Lezak took Alain Bernard to school...

USA!!! USA!!!

An update (in case you missed me)

I’m back, by the way. Let me update you on the priorities (God, country, family, school, and wrestling):

I found a church close enough to me to attend on Sundays: Our Lady of Lourdes. I had known about it but didn’t think I was welcome (I’m sorta shy and create nonexistent obstacles for myself) because it is an African-American Catholic church – whatever that means – which precludes me. It turns out that I certainly am welcome (it’s the most welcoming parish I’ve ever been to) and if it’s African-American that’s in name only; the priest and probably over 50% of the congregation are white.

Barack Obama is the presumptive democratic candidate for president. Whoever was nominated was probably always going to win, solely by virtue of being a democrat. I like him better than John McCain – so I’ll vote for him – but I like him less than I did in November. I got really jaded and disillusioned during his campaign against Hillary Clinton and continue to become even more apathetic during his adjustments to intended policy in the campaign against McCain. Unfortunately, I am voting for him now more as an alternative than as an ideal. I think he’ll be good for the country, but I’m a little cautious and wary. As I should be – he’s a politician.

My grandmother and (mom’s brother) Uncle Jim have died. My grandmother died just at the end of December, fittingly ending the crappiest year ever. Uncle Jim died unexpectedly of a stroke in April. When my mother was in Maryland for the funeral, my brother stole thousands and thousands from her, then tried to take out a car – a Lexus(!) – in my name. Police were called and he’s fighting a felony, and I still don’t know where that money was used for. Mom is being a mom and wavering on her anger towards her, and he’s mooching off her concern. I won’t trust him again until I learn exactly what was going on; he says it won’t happen again and that I should believe him – that request insults my intelligence.

I found a dissertation topic. It involves health economics, which I randomly fell into and now must learn; but it does also involve urban. If the poor are spatially mismatched from jobs, are they similarly mismatched from consumption opportunities? And what’s the most common consumption trip?...probably grocery shopping. Access to healthy foods as a problem is understood in the public health literature but not examined in economics. I’m also examining broader sprawl-obesity links: my hypothesis is that sprawl increases requisite travel time, reducing leisure time available for exercising or eating healthily.

My one disappointment (and only failed New Year’s Resolution) is that I didn’t sign up for the July 4th 10K. But…it’s never too late. Dara Torres is setting world records when she’s 41, and I won’t be too old at 28 to run for under an hour…

The plan is to keep the posting up for the duration of the Olympics. First post was opening ceremonies, last will be – yes – closing ceremonies.

Enjoy me until the 24th…