I must take drawing lessons.

I regret to this day that in high school I took art foundations rather than drawing 1 to fulfill half of my art requirement for the honors diploma(I stand by my photography choice). I've had so many ideas for comic strips, but never the skill to translate what my mind's eye sees to paper.

So, whenever I get a cool comic strip idea I have to convey it in words. And where is the fun in that?


Three people have their back towards a door bracing it with all of their weight. Their faces are long with with exhaustion and anxiety has left their postures rigid except for a high frequency twitching. One is on the verge of tears, still unable to fully comprehend the events that had transpired.

Outside the door their is a scene similar to Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Hundreds of these raptorial assailants are circling the house; each with a glazed over haze of madness in their eyes; each hellbent on eradicating this family from the earth.

Back inside the house their is a fourth person speaking to the three bracing the door. Above him is a single speech bubble, "Now that we are safe. I think it is only appropriate that we sit back and fully appreciate the irony that we were being chased by a murder of crows."

8:50 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Annual Update
Category: MySpace

On October 25, 2005 I entered the blogoshere with a piece I wrote about my concern of how religious views were influencing scientific theory and public policy. An essay where I put a great deal of effort to make sure my opinions were rooted in strong evidence and supported by several expert testimonials. Since then I have written a slew of essays that evolved(or more accurately devolved) to narratives about the expansion of the English alphabet to how to score with sugar packets. It's been an interesting few years and I like to think I have become a more entertaining writer, or at least one who's more considerate of the tastes of his target audience.

So, here I am at the 2 year mile marker sitting back and introspectively taking stock. I've written 53 blogs to date, giving me a 13.78 days per blog ratio. Just shy of twice my one blog per week goal. It's not that I'm lacking topics, or even time. It's more to the fact that I never want writing to feel like chore. I usually write these stories around midnight with my keyboard lying across my stomach, a glass of bourbon by my side and iTunes streaming in the background. I know it's not exactly Shakespeare writing with quill pen by candle light overlooking the streets of London, but it works for me and it is a very enjoyable experience. And hell, he wrote plays that define the abstract emotions of love, betrayal and courage. I write short stories about my adventures riding the 'L'.

Despite my sophomoric themes my cyber presence growing. Beyond being the highest searched Phillip Vargas, my subscribed readers and blog hits have been consistently increasing by word of mouth alone. I've seen my blogs bulletined, reposted, emailed and according to a Colorado professor turned in as their own for a creative writing assignment. I've also seen a Newsweek article that had a suspiciously similar format along with exactly the same statistics. In fact, the popularity of this site along with the conjunction of my U of C homepage has actually caught the attention of bioengineering community which has just recently contacted the University attempting to recruit me. And I also may be getting job writing movie/music/book reviews for a Florida based company. Which would be awesome since I would be able to get premier movie tickets with all of the celebrities and press. So it looks like this hobby may actually be helping my career, which is cool for a few reasons. The biggest being it has given me both the motivation and courage to start my novel. Don't get too excited about it yet. I don't think it will be fully fleshed out, polished and seeking publication until the end of 2010. For no other reason than to be able to put the title Dr. on the inside of the dust jacket.

To wrap things up, I would like to welcome all of my new subscribers. Welcome. Thank all of my old ones for their continued support. Thank you. I know it may not look like it from the lack of comments and kudos but I receive many accolades offline and through email. So I'm glad everyone is enjoying them, I know I love writing them. I also hope that they are not just entertaining, but that maybe every now and then you gleam some knowledge or a tidbit of insight. And if I achieved my main objective; shown you, even for the briefest of moments, a different perspective of our world and ourselves.

Thanks again,
Phil

9:08 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Eccentric contractions
Category: Sports

Blue Monday is the 3rd or 4th Monday in January(depending on calender year) and is infamous for being the most depressing day of the year. Several factors contribute to this, including: time lapsed since Christmas, debt, weather and motivation. It is also the day a discouraged population frustrated that shedding a few pounds is more difficult than shedding those inhibitions a few weeks prior throws in the gym towel on their new year's resolutions.

In a regular gym this is the worse time of the year to work out. However, University gyms have a few other times when the gym becomes just as packed with neophytes. These are the times right before Spring Break and at the beginning of the Fall semester. The gym is usually my sanctuary; a place to escape the arduousness of research and the drudgery of errands by altering my mental state to what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi called "flow" or as it's referred to in sports as "in the zone." The pain caused by the shearing forces on my skeleton and tensile forces on my z-line protein signals my brain to compensate with and exquisite, endorphin cocktail that gives me the clarity of an Arhat Buiddhist. It's an amazing sensation that can range from the spark of Vittoria Arduino poured espresso shot to the shock of a eagerly anticipated kiss.

With out fail this tranquility is interrupted by the biannual swarm of impetuous go-getters that descend upon gyms in the Chicagoland area like a biblical plague. However, this pestilence isn't unleashed upon the citizens Egypt for the king's stubborn refusal to abolish slavery, but upon us citizens whom are trying to live a slightly healthier lifestyle. I usually refer to this group as "resolutes." Although their presence is fleeting the pain they inflict is acute. They flounder around the gym with no set routine or objectives. While I try to correct my left arm's tendency to break plane in my front crawl they jab me in the face with their 9th grade side side stroke as they mouth, "I pick the apple and place it in the basket." They leave infectious puddles of sweat on the benches with a higher bacteria count than petri dishes culturing next door. And the absolute worst is the rancid stench from guys who use a single workout shirt and girls who spritz perfume while walking on the treadmill. This acrid bromidrosis or pungent floral bouquet has nearly killed me as I've choked down the stench while hoisting weights over my head or in the middle of a kick.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm 100% in favor of more people working out. If they did my health insurance would decrease, my ride on the 'L' would not involve the occasional fat roll draped across me, and might actually go to more dive bars with the intention of meeting women rather than to just get drunk. It is the fact that their experience is so limited that it negatively impacts everyone. The gym realizes their presence is fleeting and doesn't calculate them in to the capacity. Their lack of knowledge on how the equipment works makes me nervous as I watch them jerk¹ their limbs into hyperextension. I can't help but think that I'll have to watch some safety video or pay a higher membership fee to purchase additional insurances. And probably most importantly they will never learn proper gym etiquette.

As I watched them this year I decided it may be fun to try to generalize and thus stereotype the different types of people in a gym. And then from those stereotypes try to quantify how annoying they are. So here it goes.

Professionals:
This is the group of people whose salary or scholarship is dependent upon them maintaining a high level of physical strength or endurance. People in this group are professional athletes, law enforcement, military personal, etc. These members have a very specific purpose, to improve or maintain their performance in their requisite physical activities. They usually have been in gyms for a good portion of their lives and know what they are doing. They approach working out as a job and they are all business.

• Time spent: Long. Most professionals have a fairly rigorous workout schedule, thus lengthy. However, there is little downtime and they leave socializing out of it.
  
• Risk of injury: Low. Most professional have been instructed by trainers with at least ACSM credentials.
  
• Etiquette: Moderate. Although almost all are familiar with the common courtesies in the gym environment not all follow it. Some feel their occupations or length of membership has awarded them a sense of entitlement in the gym. And there workout always supersedes yours.
  
• Total announce: Low. When confronting their claims they never do more than scowl and huff. Also, we are the products of, as Jillian Straus describes, in the Unhooked Generation. Privilege is inferred as a birthright when you are a zealot of the "Cult of I."

• Time spent: Long. They tend to get lost in their own gaze as they watch their muscles flex and relax in the mirror. Or as they mascaraed a caressing of their body as a therapeutic massage on a bench waiting to recover.
  
• Etiquette: Excellent. These people are gregarious and polite. They love striking up conversations about routines or exercise in general in hopes that it will lead to you complementing one of their muscle groups. Although they often break the no sleeveless shirts rule, they are good about wiping off the equipment after usage.
  
• Risk of Injury: Low. The slow movements they use to seduce themselves lend very well with weight safety.
  
• Total annoyance: Moderate. Although there is no direct impact to me or my workout, the thought of these people getting sexually excited about themselves just creeps me out. Also, when someone this in love with themselves opts for the shower stall, I can't help but think some of that love is spewing out on the floor from behind closed doors.

• Time Spent: Variable. It is dependent upon the level of their pent-up frustration. Although the time spent cursing at the weights, the heavens and their negligent/abusive parents is relatively short, this catharsis may leave them feeling alone and scared once the familiar comfort of their hate has been lifted. This moment can be easily identified by them sobbing in the corner.
  
• Etiquette: Poor. By definition they can not feel either empathy or remorse.
  
• Risk of injury: High. The jerky motions not with standing it's not uncommon for them to begin assaulting themselves to inflict physical pain that will eclipse their emotional distress.
  
• Total Annoyance: High, but relative. God bless these individuals and the people who convinced them to channel their anger in a sublimated way. Remember these were the odd children who smoked in elementary school and tortured the neighborhood cats. Trust me when I say a little annoyance at the gym is better than rubbing lotion² on your body in a well while listening to Q Lazarus. As a tax payer I would support a program to give these people gym memberships for free.

• Time Spent: Low. They usually can rationalize how to leave early if they even show up at all.
  
• Etiquette: Excellent. They barely sweat due to their lack of effort. Also, they are more than willing to give up any machine at any time. And if you are using a machine they need, they will sooner write-off the day as a loss than ask to work in with you.
  
• Risk of Injury. Moderate. Some poor rationalization may force them to speed through a work out or decide to bench 225 once versus the 3 set of 10 at 185.
  
• Total Annoyance: None. There is nothing funnier than seeing a burn-out with a T the reads, "Rehab is for quitters" dandling from the chin-up bar, but then I'm a huge fan of The Dude.

• Time Spent: Long. With no set routines they usually just stand around looking confused and taking up space.
  
• Risk of injury. High. The overweight ones try to exercise with amount of weight their mass would suggest. The underweight ones usually lack the assertion to confront someone using a machine they need and end up being wall flowers. Which eventually obstructs a narcissists view of himself and they are immediately pummeled.
  
• Etiquette: Poor. Their limited time spent in the gym has not given them any sense of the unspoken rules.
  
• Total Annoyance: High. Impact on my work out not withstand the knowledge that they will never get healthy weighs on me.

• Time spent: Moderate. Although my program is somewhat lengthy, like everything in my life streamlined for maximum efficiency.
  
• Etiquette: Good. I think I'm well aware of the unspoken gym rules and am disciplined enough to follow them.
  
• Risk of Injury: Low. I've exhaustively researched strength training over my life and regularly read the Journal of Exercise Physiology and Medicine and Science in Sports and Exercise.
  
• Total Annoyance: Moderate. Although I look good on paper it is fairly obvious that I'm taking mental notes as I people watch for my personal blog.

6:27 AM - 1 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

What I learned over break.

After 6 days and 5 nights cruising the Caribbean with several of my friends I came across several observations. Sure some these may seem obvious now, but hindsight is 20/20. Well, for anyone interested in taking a cruise in the future here are some things you may want to know.


Being late for ones own wedding is not just a saying.

If you are rotating buying buckets of beer someone is going to get screwed. You are buying beer by the bucket!

A seasoned drinker will hit it off marvelously with another seasoned drinker. No matter what!

It takes more than one day to get a base tan.

Expect everything you do to be videotaped and posted on the Internet.

No one seems to care if you swim a quarter mile out into open water.

Azetecian ants are pricks.

"Más cerveza por favor", "Necesito ir a la farmacia", and "Donde está el baño?" is all the Spanish you need to know.

If you get left behind in a 3rd world country. Your friends will be concerned, but that is about it.

Mixing a merlot and a pinot gris does not make a rosé.

You receive equal amounts of criticism for shaving your chest as for not shaving it.

You eat more than you sleep.

Operating a scooter drunk on a unregulated Mexican highway is dangerous.

When slapping a girl's ass on the dance floor it is wise to make sure every now and then that she is not just thin and hot, but also not your best friend's wife.

No one in Belize watches Three Sheets.

There are no reasonable answers to not drink. Just save yourself some annoyance and concede.

Flippy cup is fun.

When smuggling Cuban cigars through customs it is a bad idea to declare them on your itemized customs card.

Similar sentiments for 18 year olds and alcohol.

Nothing is like pigeons; don't try to use it in an analogy.

If your job is text messaging, IMing and MySpacing women you can never truly be on vacation.

Passports are not waterproof.

If you ask a physicist a scientific question you must expect a more detailed answer than you would like.

I am fairly certain cashew wine will not give you a buzz four days later, but because of Johnny Walker I'll never know for sure.

If your karaoke duet partner starts shouting obscenities you can desert him on stage.

The deadbolts on the doors are completely for show since the sea-passes can circumvent them.

Waitresses at Senior Frogs violate more than your personal space.

The brig, like Carlos, are myths. There is no evidence that either exist.

If you tell someone you have a pathological fear of water and drowning, they will still probably dunk you in the most spectacular fashion.

No one drinks water. Don't be fooled, it's a shot.

Everything you were told in high school health class was bullshit.

If you ask a girl to touch your penis and she just laughs and says no. Count your blessing, you got off easy.(Hmm... "Got off easy" may not be the best phrasing.)

Mass texts while at sea are expensive and not worth it. You're drunk and wit is at the same caliber as slogans on novelty shot glasses.

Stand-by is "Risky."

It's possible for a flamboyant M.C. to blush. It just takes the spot-on choreography and flirtatious banter of a more flamboyant person.

It's just as likely for a guy in there late 20s to hit on a rich women in her late 40s as it is for a rich man in his late 40s to hit on a girl in her late 20s.

If you normally sweat one pint per minute in a temperate climate zone you must expect people to continuously ask you if you are okay when trekking through a tropical rain forest.

Any speech that can make you both laugh and cry has to be great. Right?

The voices of reason in your head are never as loud or clear as the shouts of insanity from your friends.

The American dollar is loved as much as VISA is hated.

If you have a comb forward, remember a cruise ship sailing through a tropical depression is windy. Try to position yourself so that you are facing the leeward side.

If you are playing a ping-pong match where the stakes are drinking two glasses of hot sauce you may want to show up sober.

You can break you finger without any recollection of how.

Scuba diving certifications should be more intensive than a 5 minute talk in someone's kitchen.

If someone is bold enough to call security on someone in the craziest party on the boat, although paradoxical, the only logical explanation is that they are from the same party.

Although 18 year olds can wipe the floor with you in drinking games. Their drinking stamina pales in comparison to the 28 year olds.

People take doing something crazy as a personal challenge and are always willing to one up you. Well, that is until you are snorting salt and squeezing limes in your eyes.

Finally, if you have to take a shit in a downtown Mexican alley you better bring more money than to just wipe with.

6:39 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

If at first you don’t succeed, try tri again.
Category: Sports

After months of training, the Chicago Triathlon finally arrived last Sunday. The 50,000 dollar purse and 25th anniversary made this officially the largest Triathlon in world history with over 8500 people competing. This blog is about being a novice triathlete and all of the mishaps that I fell into because of it. However, before I kickoff that rant I want to make a quick digression about Chicago.

As I'm sure most of you know I never really held Indiana in high regard. We butted heads from an early age on several issues. I dislike exurban sprawl, loathe the rural lifestyle, think Blue Laws are in blatant violation of the constitution and was offended by the fact that I was the only one offended that my hometown had 15+ pizza parlors and 0 bookstores. While at Purdue I was often referred to as the anti-Indiana by my California and Colorado roommates because my ideology differed from almost all of the other Hoosiers they had met. This is why I would make claims that "the region" was separate from the rest of the state. Sure I may have been married to Indiana, I was betrothed at birth, my true affection was always directed toward my mistress Illinois.

After finally divorcing that conservative prude I moved to Illinois and started dating Chicago. It is still too early to get an accurate read on our relationship, and I have yet to pour my entire heart and soul into it. However, she has made some grand gestures. This Summer alone there have been two instances where I've felt a camaraderie with her I have never experienced with Indiana. The first time was when the final Harry Potter book was released and there was not a single public area where someone wasn't reading it. Granted I flew through the book the weekend it was released, but I still felt as if it was a shared experience. Then after I went to the Hilton last Saturday to get marked with my bib number random people would applaud me on the streets and other marked racers would strike up conversations with me. While Indiana was annoyed by my many quarks, Illinois seems to find them endearing. Granted we are still in that courting phase where we are sharing jokes and stories over nice glasses of champaign[sic], but things seem to be moving well. She's socially liberal, likes to Cook, and from what I hear she's into guys with big shoulders. I'll keep you posted on any development in this front in later blogs.

Anyway, back to the race. When reading through the procedures I learned that I would have to have all of my gear checked into the transition area at Randolph by 5:45 in the morning. This meant I had to wake up and 4:30 to assure I was not late. Now I've been out and about in Chicago during the early Sunday AM. I don't think, however, I've ever witnessed it with a completely clear head. It is interesting mixture of the inebriated, deviant and law enforcers. It's an entirely different city that reminds me of Mad Max meets Sling Blade(Another great Chicago asset, I dig girls whom can pull off smokey cat eyes and still look classy). It boggles my mind how a gadabout like myself doesn't get to into more trouble out here.

So I arrive at transition. This is where I find out that once I leave transition, I'm not allowed back. This was news to me. Bad news. This is because I was dressed in my bike gear. Being my first triathlon I was hesitant on spending 100's to 1000's of dollars on the recommended equipment. So, I had different outfits rather than the all-purpose suit. This also proved a problem because the only thing I had to wear that wasn't needed in the biking or running event was my spandex swimsuit. Well, my only option was to change there into my spandex suit. This carried with it an array of problems. First, I had to strip naked in the middle of a coed transition area. Second, since I was in the 49th wave it wouldn't start until 9:33 and would have to stand around for four hours in said suit. Third, none of my friends that were going to do this with me showed. So, I would have to do this all alone. Well, I sucked it up and did just that. I tried my best to conceal myself with my towel, but a few seniors may have witnessed more than a glimpse of Phil. Fortunately, they were triathletes and had cardiovascular systems that could handle shocks like that.

I'm now leaving the transition area half naked with just my book bag stocked with Gatorade, a twenty dollar bill and, thankfully, sunblock. I decided against buying a t-shirt to look less foolish and instead to buy some bagels and fruit. I was still 90 carbs shy of my sister's dietary regiment she planned for me. I then tried to start up a few conversations with other participants, but found it exceptionally difficult to approach and strike up conversations with other people dressed this way. After a few awkward talks I deduced further encounters to be just as uncomfortable and decided to head off solo. I then sat around for the next few hours alone in the mud.

Finally, the 49th wave approached and I start making my way to the swim start. There were 200 people in my wave and was 1 of 2 that didn't have a wetsuit. I jumped into the water to take my place in the starting block. I will spare you the details of exactly how cold 69 degrees feels on the uninsulated male body, but suffice to say you feel very uncomfortable changes happen to you. Desperately needing some movement I'm now waiting center/mid in the wave in heavy anticipation for the horn to blow. With the clarion call I was released from my wait and exploded out of the gates. As I turned for my first breath I was hit in the back of my head and sucked down a mouthful of gasoline/bacteria tainted water. No problem, I thought, I've missed breaths before and will make up for it on the next stroke. Then on my second breath, BAM! Hit again. Well, it was then about 30 seconds since I had breathed and decided to fall back to my failsafe breaststroke to reorient. My breaststroke is not nearly as quick as my front crawl, or evidently the competitor's behind me; since before I knew what was happening he was swimming on top of me. This was about the time I realized I was in trouble.

Wetsuits not only help insulate the body, reduce your drag coefficient, but they also add buoyancy. This helps novice swimmers stay afloat, but does very little to nothing for intermediate and advanced swimmers. This is why I thought I wouldn't need one. Now that sentiment may be true in a swim meet, but in a melee with 800 flailing arms and thrashing legs any pound of buoyancy is a godsend. With my current body composition I barely stay afloat and with several people pushing down on my back I sink like a rock. So there I am; in the middle of a fight and as I look back I see a rabble of reinforcements coming right at me. Now I'm very comfortable in the water, even in open water. I don't recall ever panicking in a lake since I was five. However, I think that was about as close as I can get. The bizarre thing was I wasn't so much afraid of drowning as failing on a colossal scale. If after several months of training I threw in the towel less than minute into the race I don't think I could have lived with myself. I needed a plan.

I dove below the crowd and laterally swam underwater to the outside of the wave near the break wall. With a visibility of about 2 feet I managed to slice my foot on the rocks below and my hand as I hit the breakwall. As I surfaced, safe to get a few breaths I saw a line of people hanging from the ropes desperately trying to survive. I refused to become one of these wall flowers and immediately pushed forward along the outside of the course. Even on the far end of the course I was still taking a beating and decided that my front crawl was hindering me more than helping. While training in the Ratner Athletic Center I managed to perfect my technique down to the rotation of fingers for that extra push on rotation. However, none of this was helpful in open water when I had to switch to breast stroke every 30 seconds to breath. I flipped over to do the backstroke. I was chary about this stroke because I only worked on it during my medleys and was quite a bit slower and more energy intensive, but I figured it would give me more opportunities for breaths. I then zigzaged the rest of the way to the finish.

I would have loved to see a picture of myself as I exited from the water. There were several volunteers who help you up the first few steps. Well, as I took my first step I'm not sure if my eyes rolled back or went cross-eyed, but the shock of gravity caused my legs to buckle and I feel backwards into the lake. The jarring of frigid water snapped me back into realty and when I attempted the second exit I was successful. My jog from to the transition was surreal. I had no idea where I was going, but just kept following the hand gestures of the volunteers. After I found my spot I actually became cognizant enough to make some assessments. Seeing that my foot was still gushing blood I tried to clean the wound as best I could with some Riptide Rush and then sealed the lacerations with some super glue. As I began to get in my bike gear I saw another first timer coming toward me. There was immediately a sense of solidarity as I saw his expression. He looked as if he belonged alongside a twenty car pile-up on the highway. To let him know he wasn't alone I yelled out, "That was intense." His eyes began to focus as he looked directly at me. He then abandoned all levity and began to speak with a candor reserved only for your last few minutes on your deathbed. He said, "That was suppose to be my best event. I didn't train for that. How could your train for that. You can't fucking train for that. I swam over some girl that couldn't have been over twenty years old. I didn't want to, but I was afraid I would be killed if I stopped. That was...that was like... WAR!"

After listening to his synopsis, it became clear that I was falling behind my wave. This was not the time nor place to share battle stories, I needed to haul ass if I was going to make up my lost time. I jumped on my bike and started to ride. A few minutes into the ride all of the anxiety of the swim was starting to melt away, and it felt like just another day of riding to the university. I was in the highest gear and peddling with a purpose. I was now passing people and making up time with my grueling 25+ mile per hour pace. I saw more and more 49s on peoples calves and each one made me push it even harder. I was settling into a grove and things were looking promising. Then POP!

With my head down I ran right into a pothole that blew out my back tire. Again, thoughts of quitting entered my mind. At least now I had a plausible reason, equipment failure. This wasn't due to ignorance or poor preparation. It was the fickle hand of fate slapping me across the face. That's when I started to remember why I was competing. I knew I wasn't going to win, nor was I trying to prove anything to anyone. I was doing it to learn something about myself. Life has always thrown obstacles in my way and if there is one thing I'm sure of, it will not stop. There have been times in my life where I've been nebbish and have given up, but I have convinced myself that I have grown since then. I knew this wouldn't be a facile endeavor and to surrender under any adversity while I still had life left would make me a hypocrite.

In Lieutenant Dan style, I stared up at the heavens and yelled, "You'll never sink this boat", dropped to a low gear and doubled my efforts. With twice the amount of effort I was now moving at a quarter of the speed and being passed every few seconds. Everyone that I had past earlier were now zipping by me. There was going to be little hope of salvaging a good time at this point, but I was no longer in a fight with the clock, but with fate itself. I was taking on the fight of every traffic jam, canceled flight and train crossing. I dug up every memory I could recall of other worn areas in Moirae thread of my life that have hampered other achievements and used it as fuel for the fire that grew in my thighs. My legs began to burn with an intensity that could only spawn in the hellfires of Gothic fantasy. My eyes reddened as the sweat burnt through them and could smell the malodorous ammonia as my quadriceps entered anaerobic catabolism. I toiled and moiled through this for three of the last six miles of the course when something in my mind triggered.

It could have been a second wind, an irenic endorphin rush or possibly my brain suffering glucose deprivation, but I no longer felt any anger or pain. A calm rushed over me and I knew I was going to finish. In the spirit of the American beau ideal Rocky Balboa I was going to go the distance even with foresight of failure. The tide of the battle had turned in my favor and a devilish smile began to emerge across my face. At transition I stowed my broken bike on the rack and switched into my running gear. From the flat my legs were practically shot and my throat parched. As I quaffed Gatorade it felt as if it was evaporating before it hit my mouth, but I didn't care. When I started jogging it was clear that my heart rate was still smooth and I had a good amount of cardiovascular endurance to spare. I picked my pace up to 6.5 miles per hour, the most my legs would allow, and pushed forth with brio. The path was lined with thousands of people, each cheering on the runners every step of the way. An encouragement that further numbed the pain and allowed me to finish my last leg in a time I had predicted.

I have had some great feelings of accomplishment in my life, and this is one that will sit firmly with the rest. Even though I finished 44 mins longer than my goal I succeeded at an endurance sport's true test, the trials. Whether they were inflicted by fate, nescience, fear or lack of preparation I bested each and came out the end victorious(You may notice in the picture on the right that I'm doing my leviating victory stride).

Armed with experience I know what I have to do for next year. First and foremost, upgrade my equipment. I need to buy a racing bike rather than vivify a circa 1970 loaner and purchase a wetsuit. After that I need to incorporate swimming in Lake Michigan as part of my training. The ideal conditions of the pool are just too different than the Lake. I need to bring along a tire repair kit and do some dry run repairs. Also, I will be competing in some tris that are smaller in scale. I think Bend, OR and Laporate, IN will do nicely. This way I can get a better idea of how much effort to exert at different legs. The fact that only my neck was sore the following day made me realize I did not effectively distribute my energy. This will also allow my to practice this rhythm without fighting such a large crowd.

I've learned from my mistakes, appraised my strengths and weaknesses and endured every circumstance possible. I will take all of this with me to 2008. Will I be ready? I'll just say this, I've already started my training.

Leg	Mean of Top 10	Expected Time	Achieved Time
Swim	0:23.54	0:35:00	0:47:20, Poorly trained :(
Transition 1	0:02.00	0:05:00	0:09:50, Mending Injuries :(
Bike	1:00:27	1:15:00	1:39:18, Flat tire :(
Transition 2	0:01:48	0:05:00	0:04:51, Rock on :)
Run	0:38.55	1:00:00	1:02:54, I'll give it to me :)
Total	2:07:10	3:00:00	3:44:15, Slow, but successful :)

2:06 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Caught in a Confundus Charm
Category: Life

After going into deep seclusion to read the final Harry Potter book, spending the last few days analyzing wizard lore with my colleagues and going to see The Order of the Phoenix I have officially lost my grip on reality. Magic, or the thought of, is always racing through my mind. I think I need to snap back to reality by conjuring¹ some firewhiskey and snogging a veela. I mean... I need to... screw it, you know what I mean.


1)By conjure I mean to summon using an Accio spell. You don't exactly need an O on your transfiguration N.E.W.T. to know you can't magically create food and drink.

11:54 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

No Subject
Category: Web, HTML, Tech

I have been bombarded the last few days with spam from the mail sender admin@viagra.com. How bad does Hotmail's spam filter have to suck to not recognize fifteen duplicate copies of this as junk mail? I will rue the day when I actually need this product. I guarantee all of the emails from Pfizer will then be flagged. I guess this is the service I should expect from registering my email address with a company whose domain name may as well be a gay porn site.

1:08 PM - 7 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The Fat Lady Has Sung (Sopranos Spoiler)
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

A soprano is a singer with a voice that ranges from approximately middle C (C4) to high A (A5). The Sopranos the television series is an HBO drama series whose series started with a high A and ended with a middle C.

The tight writing, complex characters and blurring of moral lines made this one of my favorite series. I paid homage to this by hanging a poster of The Simpsons emulating The Sopranos in their satirical fashion¹. However, after the third season I enjoyed the series less and less, but I continued to be faithful. Even as contract negotiations stalled production for years I made excuses for them. I even begrudging watched the final seasons when they drew out the story with irrelevant dream sequences and forced symbolism, but made absolutely no attempt to develop the key new characters. Then, as I watched the finale last night and the few episodes prior I actually became excited when I finally noticed a shift back to some plot movement. Sure the tension was more manipulated by music scores and fast clip cinematography rather than plot twists, but at least the story was moving again. At least I was finally going to get some resolution after waiting 7 years. I was wrong.

I use to describe HBO as fantastic. I would say this because it would convey the opinion most people are familiar with; the informal meaning "extraordinarily good." But I always meant the true meaning of the word "conceived or appearing as if conceived by an unrestrained imagination." The fact that few people understood this made the station as special to me as the word I used to describe it. I couldn't think of any other word that would so aptly describe a television station that evokes so many fond memories and forged bonds between friends and family.

This is why I hate to say this, but HBO I'm going to tell you the same thing I told my College Bound Comp teacher after she made me read Frank R. Stockton's short story The Lady or the Tiger?; you are officially on notice². For those of you who never had the displeasure of reading that novelette is it is the literary equivalent of blue balls. The story moves through Feytag's definement of dramatic structure, but ends abruptly right before climax. The point of this is to provoke a lively discussion for the audience to predict what will happen. I thought it was a cop-out. Rather than putting the thought into how to tie up hundreds of loose ends and fill discontinuity issues The Sopranos pulled this same bullshit trick and threw that burden on the viewers. To further aggravate the situation they had the screen go pitch black. An anomaly that made me scramble for the remote to correct some DVR problem, and then left me wondering if I was the victim of an April Fools joke.

This is not how you end a series! HBO, I'll tell you the same thing I told my teacher when I was asked to explain my dissatisfaction. If I wanted to create my own ending I would write my own damn story. Don't expect me to pick up the slack for your writer's infecundity. Then, if that wasn't enough, I had to endure incoherent collection of crappy clips that is Jim from Cincinnati. I've heard better story telling from a toddler with a 104 degree fever and speech impediment. Quit trying to write like David Lynch; he's insane. Non-linear, multipath story telling is not brilliant ipso facto. Putting obstackles like this isn't diffcult, putting these obstacles in your writing and then finding ingenious ways to overcome them is. Err... Alright, this blog is starting to become a rant, and as I am fervidly typing this I'm actually becoming more annoyed. So, I'll leave with this final thought. HBO, A Song of Ice and Fire is your last chance. If you can not make it work I will terminate our relationship in spectacular coup de grâce and stop by Showtime's door with a bottle of wine. The ball is in your court.


1. I still have this poster hanging in my living room. I've discovered a loophole that allows me to continue hang posters into my late 20s. I use to say it was an eclectic design, but now cite that in environmental psychology having a whimsical pieces placed within a highly artistic formal setting makes people feel more comfortable. However, this leaves me with the more difficult task of persuading someone my futon is both highly artistic and formal.
2. Timothy Noah from Slate has made this same comparison. It's always bittersweet when read articles from accomplished writers that have the same ideas as I do. I like the fact that my writing may sometimes rise to editorial par, but I'm quite certain many people think I'm plagiarizing.

12:00 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

FnV
Category: Writing and Poetry

I've had a few people ask me what I said for my sister's speech. Rather than answer each inquiry individually I am going to go ahead and post it here. I also need to put it print since my sister wants a copy for her wedding scrapbook and I gave it impromptu.

To clear up some confusion, I didn't give a speech. My father decided he was going to give one, and I wanted to ensure he was given adequate time in the spotlight. I therefore scrapped all of my speech ideas. However, shortly after I was asked to give a toast. In my opinion toasts should be less formal than speeches and more personal. This was the reason I decided on the extemporaneous delivery.

So, here is my toast:

Earlier this week I was talking with a few friends about coming out here for my sister's wedding. As the brother, I was of course asked the question, "What do you think of Frank?" At the time the only answer I could honestly give was, "I have yet to meet him." However, I was able to add, "but my sister accepted his proposal." This is all I had to say to them. This is because my friends also know my sister, and they know that she would only choose to spend the rest of her life with someone who exemplifies all of the qualities and characteristics that she so effortlessly epitomizes. Her intelligence. Her drive. Her beauty. Her good heart. Her whimsical sense of humor. And most importantly her positive, healthy and dietetically sound outlook on physical fitness and eating.

As I'm sure all of you would have already assumed; my initial assessment of Frank was confirmed many times over. And I am thrilled with the way the events transpired. Because now I get the chance to get to know Frank and all of the Cobarrubia not only better, but as family.

--Phillip Vargas, Cobarrubia & Vargas Wedding Toast
May 19, 2007

9:55 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Piece of my heart
Category: Romance and Relationships

Next week my sister is getting married out in Oregon. I'm very excited for her and Frank; from the details I have been privy to it sounds like it will be a capital¹ ceremony. Also, the non-traditionality has allowed me to write up a speech for the event. As you may have ascertained I enjoy writing, and rarely refuse the opportunity to publicly recite my thoughts. My goal for the speech is to capture the romantic themes present in Ovid's elegiac couplet Amores, but ascribe a mood attune to Beck's quirky white-boy funk-rock ballad I think I'm in Love. We'll see if I can pull that off.

Aside for the partaking in the celebration of love and commitment I have an ulterior motive for the visit, and that is the microbreweries. The northwest, in my opinion, has some of the greatest microbrews and the Deshutes Brewery can stand tall among all of them. There is something about drinking an indigenous beer or eating an authentic cuisine that validates vacationing. Perhaps it has something to do with how odor and memory are intimately linked², but the first sip of Bachelor ESB reminds me of snowboarding on Mt. Hood. I think that is why I was so exited when Fat Tire came to Chicago. Drinking it reminds me of my Steamboat ski trip, probably the best ski trip I've been on to date. People say music is the soundtrack to your life, but I'm convinced your passport is stamped by the ATF.

Chicago is not without is own microbreweries. Even though Goose Island Brewery is too young to consume its own product its cultural roots burrow as deep as Wrigley Field. I have yet to run into a beer drinker that doesn't enjoy drinking a Honkers Ale on the balcony while a crisp lake breeze takes the sting out of a sultry summer night. Not one to remain content with the status quo for any great length of time I started trying a few other Chicago microbrews. I was pleasantly surprised when I came across Piece.

Piece is not only a solid beer³, but it offers a viable alternative to Goose Island. What is really great about this beer, however, is its name. When I had two different social groups meet at my house last Saturday there was no better ice breaker than to go in front of everyone and offer each of them a piece. That is what is so great about piece. It can mean a firearm, dwelling, sexual partner and now a beer. This doesn't even taking into account the homonymic definitions such as a cessation of violence or a parting farewell. Everyone was given a piece of the spotlight to demonstrate their wit while they requested another drink. It is also great for the self-esteem to have several attractive women constantly ask you for not just a piece, but additional pieces through the course of the night. How could I deny them? I think I'm going to keep a stocked refrigerator. This way anytime I want I can get a piece. How many is that, nine? Alright, peace!


I think some of my digressions that I usually encapsulated in parentheses may reducing the readability of these blogs. I don't want to remove them completely because they are a great place for my to inject quick doses of insight/humor. However, since some of my blogs can be somewhat recondite I think flow should be my highest priority. Therefore, I will try using endnotes for some of the longer digressions.

1. I confess to wanting to use this adjective more in everyday conversation, but I only feel comfortable saying it while wearing a suit and referring to a formal event. However, to mix things up, the next time someone come backs to the table with a round of shots or I loving embrace the next minx I'm going to shout out, "Capital!" I think it will have the desired effect.
2. Nice science side note. Memory is more correlated with smell than any of the other senses.
3. Their American IPA has a deep bronze color with a head that spans the gradient from medium to bright white. The smell is nutty, but with citrus overtones. It has a touch of earthy hop flavor that gives it an organic presence. I found the taste balanced with mild caramel flavor and a malt backbone that one would expect from an American IPA. The heightened acidity from the hops is immediately relieved by the caramel, and the aftertaste is a refreshing splash of grapefruit blends. A smidgen of yeast in the back that breathes into a pine nut coaxes the palette for another sip. I give this beer 4.5 Vs. The only reason I'm not giving it a perfect score is to leave room for improvement.

2:24 PM - 3 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment