I have struggled with maintaining an active enough lifestyle to balance out my diet since high school. In high school, we were required to take some sort of exercise-requiring class every semester. I made it onto the cross country skiing team in junior year, by nature of showing up and buying the necessary equipment, but mostly I took classes like Archery, Conditioning, Ultimate Frisbee, and Introduction to the Outdoors. Looking back, it seems like I was training for the Hunger Games.
I like the freedom that biking allows me, I can bike to Mount Vernon from my apartment with only about 100-150 yards of street biking. I can bike up to see my brother and his family in posh Bethesda. DC has a few neighborhoods with decent access to bike paths, and I'm lucky to live in one. I also like the freedom to eat whatever I damn please and douse it in butter that being fit allows me. That may not be completely medically accurate, but it is close enough for horseshoes and heart attacks.
During the winter, biking is horrible so I set up my bike on an old stationary setup my dad gave me. Staring at a wall while biking gets pretty old pretty fast, but with modern technology I can watch just about anything I want with my unlimited data cellular plan. I bent a metal hanger into a cradle for my phone, and I can bike until I can't anymore. I have a few goals for this fitness adventure: I want to watch the X-Files from start to finish because I missed a lot of episodes over the years and this is better than just sitting on my ass watching...hundreds? of hours of phelevision,* I want to be ripped again like I was when I was on the cross country skiing team and like when I had to chop wood for four hours a day to heat my house, I want to fit into the suits my father gave me that he had tailored for himself in Romania when he was in his mid to late forties, and I want to be able to ride RAGBRAI without collapsing at the end of every day's ride.
That's the background on what I'm hoping I'll have the endurance to complete as a series on exercising and science fiction.
After watching season 4 of Continuum, most of The Clone Wars, some of Lost Girl, and a couple movies, I decided that The X-Files would be my next exercise show. While discussing the new X-Files with my ladyfriend, I realized that I couldn't remember much of The Conspiracy, or anything about the seasons involving their kid. Mostly because I kinda stopped watching in the second half of college. I don't think I could be more primed to watch this show with the new series, and the amount of X-Com: Enemy Within (Long War) that I've been playing over the last week or so.
Pilot: On Monday, I watched the Pilot while pedaling away, and I was struck by a couple things: they look so young, and you can do a lot with a dessicated ape corpse. I remember watching this show in high school, and I only remember two impressions: redheads would forever be on my mind, and you can be pretty scary/creepy if you stand around frowning at people without saying anything. Clearly, the plot was not necessarily what kept me watching, but the combination of these two might lead you to think that I was a pretty creepy kid. You might not be wrong, I always a bit of an odd little rock.
Knowing now what I know of Scully and Mulder's characters, it was almost comforting to see that they were pretty exactly that way from the beginning. Some pilots are still working out how things are going to work in the show, but Scully and Mulder, and even the plot, were pretty much exactly the same as they were when they showed up in the first episode of the resurrected series, skeptic and believer with all of their evidence on fire. The Conspiracy gets off to a slow burn of a start, but it is the right kind of start, the Smoking Man is mysterious, and the Pentagon Vault is also mysterious. JJ Abrams could learn a lot about setting up a story from Chris Carter.
Biggest question: Why the hell did they back down when the Sheriff threatened them off the crime scene? As I understood it, the FBI had jurisdiction and he had a gruff voice, they should have forced him off.
Favorite scene: the autopsy of the dessicated ape corpse. Why? Scully gets tired of Mulder's blatant unprofessionalism, she's curious and proceeding scientifically, and he's acting like a sugar-high kid. I suspect this is a recurring dynamic.
How does it fit in with the new series: the pilot does not contradict the new series at all, the identities and motives of the abductors remain unknown. I have developed a convoluted explanation for how the revelations of the new series fits in with the old series, but I will refrain from discussing that until after this season of the new series has finished airing.
Scully's suit: Grey plaid is not a good look for her.
Mulder's hair: Almost sported a pompadour in one scene, skirting the edge of acceptability for a representative of the FBI, agent.
Final thoughts: So when are they restarting Space: Above and Beyond?
* That's mine, I made it up just now and you have to credit me when you use it.
Showing posts with label RAGBRAI. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RAGBRAI. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Tuesday, January 05, 2016
Liquid Diets
For 71% of all days, I'm on a 30% liquid diet. In the morning, I drink an instant breakfast with almond milk, then most of a French press of coffee, and then some water. I don't know if I'm losing weight, but I'm certainly suffering for my goals. Well, not really, I actually enjoy the various fluids I'm ingesting and I get right to going about my day which mostly consists of crawling through the ruins of the imaginary wasteland of Boston.*
My bike is once again set up as a stationary exercise bike in the hopes that I will actually get some exercise this winter. So far, I know I've changed a little since I last tried this because I've been on the bike more than once. I'm going for three days on and one day off, and my duration keeps improving. I'm training to bike across Iowa again with my father this summer. My brothers all suggest that maybe we both go on a slightly less intimidating ride, like the 38 minute round trip circuit my father makes from his front door to his front door with a stop for a bear claw in the middle.
To my brothers, I say: have you ever tried to tell our father to cut it out? I haven't had any success with this, but I'm still alive after arguing with him about Chelsea Manning/Edward Snowden and how they are not at all different from the Pentagon Papers and the various Vietnam War era protests except in one way: I haven't programmed Chelsea Manning's VCR, nor have I programmed Edward Snowden's VCR. Not like either of them would have a VCR anymore, even if they weren't in their respective situations.
The point is that my father is an intimidating man, even when he isn't trying to be, and that is mostly due to his RDVF, Resting Darth Vader Face. As such, he needs an equally intimidating challenge for a bicycle trip, and this is why he trains for RAGBRAI. He has said the same thing each year, "I think this will be my last trip, it's not as much fun" or "this is an actual pain in my ass" or "I haven't trained as much, so I probably won't register for the ride" or "your mother would prefer if I didn't go" or "I'm busy teaching this kid advanced algebra with trigonometry so she can go to college to be a homeschooled kid who is a chemical engineer" or "Call The Midwife is on, call me back tomorrow."
When I spoke to him a couple days ago, Father Genius said that he had been on the bike for the last couple days, and didn't think he would be in shape to register, which is exactly what he said last year, and then he registered and only notified me of this on the last possible day to register.
You can understand my frustrations. These are twofold: one, my father could be better about letting me know in time that he is actually going, and, two, he is not a thirtysomething, mustachioed genius but he can still ride across Iowa every year while I barely survived the same trip, and, three, my brothers leave it to me to try and convince him to bail on the ride, and, four, that they just don't seem to grasp that it is happening no matter what they say.
So...I guess I'm saying happy new year, cobags!
* As opposed to the actual wasteland of Boston, HAYOO.**
** I havent' been to Boston since 2006, I imagine it has gotten a little better.***
*** Double burn, bro.****
**** Wait, why am I congratulating myself on making fun of Boston?*****
***** You've fallen into old, dumb habits, like excessive asterisk use.******
****** Oh, shit. You're right.
My bike is once again set up as a stationary exercise bike in the hopes that I will actually get some exercise this winter. So far, I know I've changed a little since I last tried this because I've been on the bike more than once. I'm going for three days on and one day off, and my duration keeps improving. I'm training to bike across Iowa again with my father this summer. My brothers all suggest that maybe we both go on a slightly less intimidating ride, like the 38 minute round trip circuit my father makes from his front door to his front door with a stop for a bear claw in the middle.
To my brothers, I say: have you ever tried to tell our father to cut it out? I haven't had any success with this, but I'm still alive after arguing with him about Chelsea Manning/Edward Snowden and how they are not at all different from the Pentagon Papers and the various Vietnam War era protests except in one way: I haven't programmed Chelsea Manning's VCR, nor have I programmed Edward Snowden's VCR. Not like either of them would have a VCR anymore, even if they weren't in their respective situations.
The point is that my father is an intimidating man, even when he isn't trying to be, and that is mostly due to his RDVF, Resting Darth Vader Face. As such, he needs an equally intimidating challenge for a bicycle trip, and this is why he trains for RAGBRAI. He has said the same thing each year, "I think this will be my last trip, it's not as much fun" or "this is an actual pain in my ass" or "I haven't trained as much, so I probably won't register for the ride" or "your mother would prefer if I didn't go" or "I'm busy teaching this kid advanced algebra with trigonometry so she can go to college to be a homeschooled kid who is a chemical engineer" or "Call The Midwife is on, call me back tomorrow."
When I spoke to him a couple days ago, Father Genius said that he had been on the bike for the last couple days, and didn't think he would be in shape to register, which is exactly what he said last year, and then he registered and only notified me of this on the last possible day to register.
You can understand my frustrations. These are twofold: one, my father could be better about letting me know in time that he is actually going, and, two, he is not a thirtysomething, mustachioed genius but he can still ride across Iowa every year while I barely survived the same trip, and, three, my brothers leave it to me to try and convince him to bail on the ride, and, four, that they just don't seem to grasp that it is happening no matter what they say.
So...I guess I'm saying happy new year, cobags!
* As opposed to the actual wasteland of Boston, HAYOO.**
** I havent' been to Boston since 2006, I imagine it has gotten a little better.***
*** Double burn, bro.****
**** Wait, why am I congratulating myself on making fun of Boston?*****
***** You've fallen into old, dumb habits, like excessive asterisk use.******
****** Oh, shit. You're right.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
CDC: Harry Morgan and some Nubian Goats
In every relationship, there comes a time when your brain reaches a total saturation point, filled to the core with information that you hopefully use for good. My saturated mind has decided to use the disorganized sea of data to produce some really odd dreams filled with things my girlfriend will hopefully find funny.
The dream starts as so many do, suddenly I pop into the action from another dream, which had involved a cab ride and molotov cocktails and street riots, and I find myself looking at a map of Iowa.
"It doesn't appear to be on this atlas, we need a specific map of Iowa, Nick!" I put down the map, and I am in the back of a light blue van filled with camping gear and our bicycles. Nick and Brandon are up front arguing over the route to the starting point of RAGBRAI, and Nick shouts back, "I know it isn't on that map, but see if you can find the larger city that it is a suburb of, it is a northern suburb!"
"I'll just use my phone."
"You'll never get a signal in time!" Nick and Brandon both shout back. I fiddle with my phone, and the thing tells me to take an immediate right turn. "Nick, take the next exit to Booming! That's it!"
"Ok, goddamit! I AM SO ANGRY!" Nick is not an angry person, but apparently Iowa has aggravated him to the point of fury. Brandon gets in on the long wordless scream of rage, and we crest the ridge to see a sprawling city of skyscrapers and the Missouri River. The exit takes us along the ridge, and all we can see in the valley are giant buildings that look like they were made with LEGOs from our vantage point. "I AM GOING TO SMASH ALL OF THAT IF WE CAN'T FIND THE STARTING POINT SOON! RAAAAR!" At this point, my map feature on my phone quits, so I just direct Nick and Brandon to take whichever roads seems right to me. Eventually, we stop at a roadside rest area on the ridge, and I go find a map. When I come out of the rest area, Nick and Brandon have walked down into the valley and are smashing every skyscraper flat like Godzilla and Mecha-Godzilla. The valley which had looked deep and broad was actually a trick of the eye, and the buildings were made of LEGOs. It was all a hoax, or an elaborate movie set. The haze of smog was from a small misting machine, the Missouri river a small creek. I walk the twenty feet to the nearest building, rip it out of its base, and throw it at Nick's head. The building explodes in a shower of sharp plastic, and this shakes Nick out of his rampage. After we both threw some buildings at Brandon, he snapped out of his rage as well.
The two of them got back in the van, and we drove on to the sleepy little suburb where RAGBRAI was allegedly starting. When we get there, the town is a ghost town. No one on the sidewalk, no one driving, no one in the windows of the old farmhouses. We pull over at an intersection, and notice that two of the houses on diagonally opposite corners look suspiciously similar and Nick says, "I am going to smash that house, this is another movie set. You suck at directions, Charles."
"I'll just unload the stuff, this is where it is supposed to be." I walk around the house on the opposite corner from the one Nick wants to smahs, and I see goats in the windows. Nubian goats. "Those are Nubian goats. Hey guys, check out this house! It is full of Nubian goats!" The house is one of those old farmhouses that you see in New England or Iowa or wherever that are about 50 feet wide with a porch and some decorative woodwork, and then they stretch back over the property for about half a mile of addons, additions, extra rooms, and hallways all of different width and building materials. Goats are looking out of every window of this house.
One of the windows opens, and out come the goats. They flood out of the window in a cascade of bleating hoof, fur, and horn. When they stand up, the goats give this little shake and look at us like, "We do this every day." The goats all start wandering off. A last goat gives a warning bleat and we look up to see this large goat on the roof of the porch looking down at us. We have a second to ponder life's many mysteries before this goat leaps off the roof like a gazelle, and lands on Nick's head like a rhinoceros.
Nick and Brandon dust themselves off, and say that they are gonna bike a "quick fifty to get their heads in order." So I pull out my bike to check it over on the lawn of this house. I am checking the tires and gears and whatnot when I hear a throat cleared behind me. I turn around to see Harry Morgan standing there, looking at me strangely.
"Good morning, son. What are you doing on my lawn?"
"Uh, I'm working on my bike. We're here for RAGBRAI, but we seem to be early."
"Oh, right, RAGBRAI. They moved it to the next town up the river."
"Well, I will get our stuff together and we'll get off your lawn, sorry, sir."
"Why do you keep referring to yourself as we?"
"Oh, Nick and Brandon took off on an easy fifty, they'll be back in an hour or so."
"Okay, well, you have a good time on the ride."
"Uh, sir, Mr, Morgan? You probably get this a lot, but do you mind if I?"
"Sure, sure."
At this point, we both stood upright and I saluted him, he returned the salute, and said, "Dismissed!"
We both turned away to our respective duties, but then Harry Morgan asked, "say you haven't seen any goats around here, have you?"
"Yes! A whole mess of Nubian goats fell out of this house just a few minutes ago."
"Nubians, you say? Those are not the goats I'm looking for."
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Morgan."
"I suppose I'll find them someday. Have a fun ride!"
The dream starts as so many do, suddenly I pop into the action from another dream, which had involved a cab ride and molotov cocktails and street riots, and I find myself looking at a map of Iowa.
"It doesn't appear to be on this atlas, we need a specific map of Iowa, Nick!" I put down the map, and I am in the back of a light blue van filled with camping gear and our bicycles. Nick and Brandon are up front arguing over the route to the starting point of RAGBRAI, and Nick shouts back, "I know it isn't on that map, but see if you can find the larger city that it is a suburb of, it is a northern suburb!"
"I'll just use my phone."
"You'll never get a signal in time!" Nick and Brandon both shout back. I fiddle with my phone, and the thing tells me to take an immediate right turn. "Nick, take the next exit to Booming! That's it!"
"Ok, goddamit! I AM SO ANGRY!" Nick is not an angry person, but apparently Iowa has aggravated him to the point of fury. Brandon gets in on the long wordless scream of rage, and we crest the ridge to see a sprawling city of skyscrapers and the Missouri River. The exit takes us along the ridge, and all we can see in the valley are giant buildings that look like they were made with LEGOs from our vantage point. "I AM GOING TO SMASH ALL OF THAT IF WE CAN'T FIND THE STARTING POINT SOON! RAAAAR!" At this point, my map feature on my phone quits, so I just direct Nick and Brandon to take whichever roads seems right to me. Eventually, we stop at a roadside rest area on the ridge, and I go find a map. When I come out of the rest area, Nick and Brandon have walked down into the valley and are smashing every skyscraper flat like Godzilla and Mecha-Godzilla. The valley which had looked deep and broad was actually a trick of the eye, and the buildings were made of LEGOs. It was all a hoax, or an elaborate movie set. The haze of smog was from a small misting machine, the Missouri river a small creek. I walk the twenty feet to the nearest building, rip it out of its base, and throw it at Nick's head. The building explodes in a shower of sharp plastic, and this shakes Nick out of his rampage. After we both threw some buildings at Brandon, he snapped out of his rage as well.
The two of them got back in the van, and we drove on to the sleepy little suburb where RAGBRAI was allegedly starting. When we get there, the town is a ghost town. No one on the sidewalk, no one driving, no one in the windows of the old farmhouses. We pull over at an intersection, and notice that two of the houses on diagonally opposite corners look suspiciously similar and Nick says, "I am going to smash that house, this is another movie set. You suck at directions, Charles."
"I'll just unload the stuff, this is where it is supposed to be." I walk around the house on the opposite corner from the one Nick wants to smahs, and I see goats in the windows. Nubian goats. "Those are Nubian goats. Hey guys, check out this house! It is full of Nubian goats!" The house is one of those old farmhouses that you see in New England or Iowa or wherever that are about 50 feet wide with a porch and some decorative woodwork, and then they stretch back over the property for about half a mile of addons, additions, extra rooms, and hallways all of different width and building materials. Goats are looking out of every window of this house.
One of the windows opens, and out come the goats. They flood out of the window in a cascade of bleating hoof, fur, and horn. When they stand up, the goats give this little shake and look at us like, "We do this every day." The goats all start wandering off. A last goat gives a warning bleat and we look up to see this large goat on the roof of the porch looking down at us. We have a second to ponder life's many mysteries before this goat leaps off the roof like a gazelle, and lands on Nick's head like a rhinoceros.
Nick and Brandon dust themselves off, and say that they are gonna bike a "quick fifty to get their heads in order." So I pull out my bike to check it over on the lawn of this house. I am checking the tires and gears and whatnot when I hear a throat cleared behind me. I turn around to see Harry Morgan standing there, looking at me strangely.
"Good morning, son. What are you doing on my lawn?"
"Uh, I'm working on my bike. We're here for RAGBRAI, but we seem to be early."
"Oh, right, RAGBRAI. They moved it to the next town up the river."
"Well, I will get our stuff together and we'll get off your lawn, sorry, sir."
"Why do you keep referring to yourself as we?"
"Oh, Nick and Brandon took off on an easy fifty, they'll be back in an hour or so."
"Okay, well, you have a good time on the ride."
"Uh, sir, Mr, Morgan? You probably get this a lot, but do you mind if I?"
"Sure, sure."
At this point, we both stood upright and I saluted him, he returned the salute, and said, "Dismissed!"
We both turned away to our respective duties, but then Harry Morgan asked, "say you haven't seen any goats around here, have you?"
"Yes! A whole mess of Nubian goats fell out of this house just a few minutes ago."
"Nubians, you say? Those are not the goats I'm looking for."
"Oh, sorry, Mr. Morgan."
"I suppose I'll find them someday. Have a fun ride!"
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