Won't Somebody Think of the Children!?

Was singing a little “Wonder Woman” theme song today (In your satin tights, fighting for your rights, and the old Red, White and BLUE!!) . . . it’s best not to ask how these things get in my head. Anyhow, my co-worker suggested that I sing the She-Ra theme song instead. Apparently, she had a She-Ra lunch box and was feeling nostalgic.

Of course, the theme song has no words, just She-Ra giving away all her various secrets to the audience in a voice over . . . which, if you think about it, is pretty lame. I mean, even as a 17 year-old I could pretty much grasp the basic premise of She-Ra: Princess of Power. It's not like that tricky A-Team. Every time they'd get captured, I just had no idea how they were going to get away. It's a good thing they had Hannibal as their leader, and a familiarity with power tools. Total nail-biter.

And then it occurred to me: I MUST POSSESS THE DANCE RE-MIX OF SHE-RA'S OPENING MONOLOGUE.

Unfortunately, I can’t find one, which I find a sad commentary on today’s youth. Usually, if I can think of it, someone else has already thought of it, created it, marketed it, gone IPO and is now smoking a fat Cuban cigar while lounging on large piles of cash surrounded by naked women.

The fact that this re-mix doesn't exist filled me with all kinds of dread and apprehension. Has today's youth, who have corrupted everything from the once sane Transformers to the mighty Speed Racer never seen She-Ra? What about her cousin, He-Man, or their close associates G.I. Joe?

How do they get their moral compasses aligned without She-Ra admonishing them against the sins of racism? Where do they find their ethical path without He-Man, waving his cautionary finger, carrying on about sexual harassment while wearing nothing but his briefs, a foppish bob haircut, and S&M bondage straps? What do they do when confronted with the evils of fallen power-lines and there is no imperialistic, dogma-defending Duke from G.I. Joe to give them half the batter?

I think we all see where the nation has taken a wrong turn.

2008 Cesar E. Chavez 5k - Killing Me Loudly

Initially, up until the end of the race, the 2008 Cesar E. Chavez 5k, I thought this was a pretty fun time. Granted, my left knee has been troubling me. Nothing major, but it has been sending sternly worded letters to my brain about potential strikes or even rebellion. Still, the race felt fast (even though I was slower) and I didn't feel like I overly exerted.

There's a but in here, as you're well aware, and it started with Mr. Rey Navarro, who came in right behind me, and then I projected back and in truth the whole race was a wash.

Before I build up to Mr. Navarro, we'll start at the beginning, go through the middle and when I get to the end, we'll stop.

I thought this might prove an interesting race, since it was sponsored by the Hispanic club, or some such, at UCR. My first clue that all was not as it should be was that this race didn't even have an electronic form until a few days before the race, at which point you had to pay the larger fee. I like living in the Internet Age where I can pay my entrance fee, receive an email confirming it, and file it all away safely in mere moments.

Mailing things is so 20th century.

Still, the race is ten minutes from my house, so that appealed, and mail I did. What they failed to mention, and what almost every other race either advertises or waives, is that there would be a parking fee. As I explained to the student-attendant, I came for the race, I didn't bring any money or credit cards. Why would I? Now, granted, I usually prepare for this contingency, but this fine Saturday, I just hadn't thought $5 ahead, and didn't want to stop at the ATM. The attendant told me I could "park at your own risk", which I did, and nothing bad happened, so there we go.

Now, the race. It was schedule to start at 8:30 at the Bell Tower. This seemed to suggest that the race would start on time, since the Bell Tower is a reasonably accurate time piece in the center of the university's campus, and tolls loudly, with bells as it happens, on the hour and half hour. About fifteen minutes after the half hour had tolled, there was a sudden horn, and we were off. Yeah, no, "Runners to your marks", no guy with a bullhorn, no instructions, just a late air horn that no one was really prepared for except the eight people at the front of the start.

Water stations. The bane of any amateur runner, since there is no real training for how to properly run a water station, hand the water, or really drink it while running. Most runners end up choking on the quarter-cup they managed to not spill as they grabbed it from a station volunteer who was holding it too tightly while looking for his/her boy/girlfriend somewhere in the pack. At the one-mile water station, our dutiful attendants were so prepared they were pouring cups of water as we approached and had managed to stock up exactly two extra cups. Most of the people with me passed without even approaching the station.

None of this really phased me too greatly. I mostly race to keep my training on pace, to incent me to keep going, keep in shape, eat a little better, and be a decent competitor. At my "level" usually everyone around is in the same position. We're runners who have been to a few races, perhaps competed in high school or college, and are now here for the exercise portion of our lives.

Not so Mr. Rey Navarro.

Dressed in sweats, high-tops with tube socks, a sweatshirt tied precariously around his waist and some kind of funny t-shirt, I passed Mr. Navarro just before the last quarter mile. I rounded out the last turn to a straight-away of maybe 200 yards and was settling in to battle it out with a fire fighter Paul Young, when Mr. Navarro decided he actually had a kick, threw himself forward and careened past me. Normally, a non-issue. I've run my race, there's no money on the line here, I'm tired and don't care if someone wants to sprint it in past me. But here's the kicker, or rather, the bumper. Mr. Navarro wasn't exactly in control as he passed me and bumped me. Not severely, but that's hardly the point. At the end of a race, when everyone is tired, and folk are going the distance, they're going for speed, a bump can end in tragedy. Even then, this wouldn't have been a big issue, but Mr. Navarro couldn't even be bothered to call out an "ooops" or a "sorry" in his goal of taking 40th place.

Fueled by anger over the incident, I pressed myself into a full out sprint, caught him right before the finish, then turned around, and pointing an admonishing finger told him, "You need to watch where you're running."

I suppose I should be lucky that Mr. Navarro didn't pull a blackjack, tap my favorite head and reply, "That's the Chicago Way, boy-o!" I'm often reminded that my anger could quickly incite a full-on confrontation that I'm not really looking for or prepared to handle.

And all this wouldn't matter too greatly, except the race results are wrong. I was concerned this would happen since the finish-line chute was being very poorly handled with the runners being held up while one race attendant tried to instruct two others on how to handle the bib tags which tell who came in where and at what time. I know this because I was, at best one-second ahead of Mr. Navarro, not one second behind, and Fireman Paul Young came in behind us, not ahead.

Which leaves me with an "official" set of results of:

Overall - 42nd
Time - 24:31
Division - 11th