Beer > Wine > Liquor has happened.  Additionally, hangover considerations continue to hold more sway in my beer preferences. Together with general aging, I am attempting to reconcile these developments while still retaining an acceptable sense of self.

For those bored/interested/read everything I write, an exercise in futility - a more advanced ranking:

bock lagers > dry red wines > whiskeys > brown ales > non-bock lagers > tequilas > vodkas > non-dry red wines > non-brown, non-pale ales > pale ales > gins > rums > Welch's grape juice (some call this white wine, in fact, I prefer non-alcoholic Welch's grape juice to any white wine I've ever had)

Subject to change.   A future brands ranking?

Note - an endorsement of a general category presumes select representatives.  Thus when I imply that whiskeys are better than tequilas, I'm talking about Jack, Jameson, Maker's, etc....and similarly the best tequila has to offer.  Comparisons including all representatives quickly lose meaning, as anyone who has tasted McCormick's knows.  This rule of thumb is widely applicable.  For example, when people say "Kenyans are fast long-distance runners," they are talking about select representatives.  The common Kenyan spends nearly all of his or her energy procuring nourishment and staving off starvation, not running several miles at a time, let alone fast.

Feb. 15, 4:45 a.m:  Wake up.

5:00 a.m:  Banana, cake, powder gatorade.

5:15 a.m:  Spandex, bandanna, bib.

5:30 a.m:  Prelude, open 183, downtown Austin.

6:00 a.m:  Meander through city streets towards Congress Ave.  After waiting in bathroom queue, and then doing my best, I liberally apply Vaseline to my legs.

6:50 a.m:  Dispense with clothes, jog to start line.

7:10 a.m:  I'm a few meters from the start line, dawn is rising, and the same Santa Clausian guy who's called all the local races since I can remember (the Salamandar mile, age 15) is blaring himself through the megaphone.

7:15 a.m:  Gun, I'm running, slowly.

7:36 a.m:  I'm through the 5k below 7s.  Good, easy, especially with hills.  I fall into stride with a guy my height and age.  "Hey."  "What are you aiming for?" he queries.  "Two fifty something."  "Same," he responds, "I'm John."  "John, I'm John."  "Did you run for the Naval Academy?" I ask in reference to his jersey.  "Yea."  "I ran for Davidson."  "Ah, yes, I've been there." 

Good - game time, fuck face.

7:56 a.m:  10k, easy.  We're doin 6:30s.  My people (Cass, James, Mom) are there; I flex.  An erratically paced half-marathon racer comments on how good our pacing is.

8:11 a.m:  I press the pedal down slightly as I slip away from Navy guy and some others.

8:34 a.m:  I've been increasing pressure as the course has begun to turn.  I'm steadily pulling in rolling hills and scattered runners. Through 12 miles.

8:40 a.m:  I hit the half and pass the eventual women's champion.  Her form is good.  I'm starting to put the hammer down.

8:52 a.m:  A couple race coordinators on bicycles fall in with me, tell me I'm running strong, as I continue to pick people off.

9:04 a.m:  I'm somewhere around 17.  I'm moving fast but the going is tough.  A multi-mile straightaway into the wind.  Strong desire to turn.

9:15 a.m:  Cutting through suburbia at well below 6.  Nobody in sight.  I am divine.

9:18 a.m:  I am most unequivocally mortal.  Nature is rearing its ugly head.  Despair.

9:19 a.m:  Between those plants? No.

9:20 a.m:  Fuck!

9:21 a.m:  How about just right here in the open?  I have little shame, but more than that.

9:22 a.m:  Providence shines its face on me in the form of a Port-a-Jon at the 20th mile stand. No, not water, the bathroom, I indicate as I half stop half slam into the thing.  Wrong side, over, open.

9:22:45 a.m:  The door flies open; I lurch out.  Laughter, applause.  I search the course.  No racers in sight.  Nobody has caught me.  Elation.  I'm flying again.

9:35 a.m:  There are 4 miles left.  I'm slowing down.  Despair.  If there is anyone my age or younger ahead, I won't catch them (there wasn't).  But nobody is going to catch me either, resolved as I look back.

9:48 a.m:  Somebody mismeasured the distances between these last couple miles.

9:52 a.m:  Somebody mistakenly put a monstrosity of incline on a marathon course.

9:58 a.m:  Capitol!

10:01 a.m:  I'm finishing.  I'm divine again.  Cheers.  I hear my name shouted.

10:02 a.m:  I feel great.  That wasn't so hard.  I ran fast (2:46:25, 6:20/mile).  Elation. Somebody hangs a medal around my neck.  A woman hands me a card for free Strands technical training shirt on far table, for "top finishers to sport our brand."  Ego reeling.

10:05 a.m:  I feel terrible.  Oh Fuck my body hurts!  I walk around in a daze.

Eventually I met up with my people.  Tony ran the half and Johnce also ran the marathon.  We all went to Doc's and indulged on greasy burgers and cheap pitchers of beer.  I felt good.  6:09 avg. for the last half marathon.

Today is the bicentennial birthdate of those two colossals, as they were born on the same day, Feb. 12, 1809. The author of that article above, which I read last summer, argues that Lincoln matters more essentially because evolution by natural selection would have been discovered sooner or later; Lincoln was needed precisely when Lincoln executed. Indeed Alfred Russel Wallace proposed an independent theory of NS before Origin was even published.

Today, 200 years later, it is no controversy that Lincoln was a great leader and president. But evolution by natural selection has to prove itself seemingly every single day, an affront to its explanatory genius and an embarrassment to human beings everywhere. Charles Darwin distilled twenty years of observation and brilliant insight into a single, powerful book. Who's to say another conquistador wouldn't have prematurely botched the final product, as history reveals conquistadors are apt to do, leaving even more ignorance in the world than we find today? Lincoln held a country together; Darwin elevated the consciousness of a species and elucidated the very essence of change itself.

I've been seeing some good live music lately. Turnstyle (awesome, Dustin's lyrics are ridic.) Danny Schmidt, and Matt the Electrician at the Cactus Cafe on the UT campus. Really good lyricists. Music has always been about the audio for me - much less the lyrics. But lately lyricism has begun to weigh a little more, though lyrics can't make a song. The lyrics can be great but if there is no catch or melody or rhythm then the song will not get my attention and will inexorably land in the suck category.

The best concerts I've ever been to: Incubus at the Frank Irwin Center, high school. Blink 182/Green Day/Jimmy Eat World, also high school. Arrived just as Jimmy was exiting stage because an unnamed person fucking HAD to stop at McDonalds even though we were pressed for time. Hootie and the Blowfish/Gin Blossoms, Charleston, SC. Sundresses, flower hats, and general overall Southerness required for entry. Pat Green, Chapel Hill, NC. Small venue, 200 people. Shiner sold out before he took the stage. The Juliana Theory/Something Corporate at Emo's. Don't remember when that was. Scott Miller, Charlotte, NC. Post power hour.

Over break Tony and Dar-Dar pitched Tim and I an idea...an idea man's idea.  They wanted to sell cigarettes on a bike that would patrol the bar stretch on 6th St.  Cigarettes cannot be sold legally in the bars, Austin statute.  But 6th St. goers do smoke, and will; it seemed like a no-brainer, needing only initiative.  The bike pilot would dress as the grim reaper, and the cooler containing the cigarettes would be labelled "Merchant of Death."  An idea man's idea.  The reaper could infuse all sorts of character personality during sale; the idea and product would sell themselves.  The initial pecuniary investment would be minimal, consisting mainly of a bike purchase.  

Like many golden things, too good to be true.  ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, a federal agency) prohibits the sale of tobacco within 100 feet of any storefront selling alcohol, tobacco, or firearms, unless is itself another storefront.  Death knell! pun intended.  Oh well, an idea man can appreciate a good idea.

A common theme I have come across in novels that I have been reading lately is a protagonist's, and hence author's, identification of and struggle with personal vanity.  I too struggle with personal vanity (Is it vain to group myself with successful authors?...yes), although most of the time it does not strike me as struggle, for I largely keep it to myself....at least I think (vain).  I speculate that the more one thinks and ponders (I think and ponder often) the more one is prey to vanity attacks. I say this because the more a person meditates within himself the more secluded he becomes in his own consciousness, thus the more pervasive the "I" factor in his sensory apparatus. Dissociation from the "I" factor is supposedly possible, with concentrated meditative effort, and with benefit. Perhaps the I factor simply warms to me, however, and I would do wise to it retain (vain).

John's personal deadly sin - Vanity.

There are seven:  Sloth, Lust, Gluttony, Vanity, Avarice, Wrath, and Envy.  What's yours?