The Miler
Posted by Mark in Entertainment, Running on August 19th, 2009
This past weekend I watched some of the Track and Field World Championships. Because I am a longtime runner, watching a track meet on TV always puts a spring in my step. Sadly, this spring is squeaky and kinked.
(On the plus side, the squeaky sound is muffled by twenty-five pounds of fat that I have strategically added since I last ran track).
Monday I was chugging down the street at lunchtime, imagining that I still had all my cartilage and could run as much slower than a world class athlete as I could twenty years ago, instead of as much slower than a world class athlete as I do today. Naturally, I had a great idea for not simply a television show, but a reality TV franchise.
(Legal notice so that I can more easily sue if this idea is stolen by a network: I conceived of this idea on August 17, 2009).
I don’t watch reality TV unless you count live sporting events or The Weather Channel. I’m not a TV snob; I just don’t find reality shows entertaining. My exposure to real people during an average day is such that I do not need my reality supplemented. Thus it is not without irony that I have conceptualized a reality show that I would definitely watch. The show would capitalize on these facts:
- Shows where people lose weight seem to be popular
- Shows where people live in a house or on an island and fuss with each other about contrived situations seem to be popular
- Sports are popular
- People having mid-life crises and willing to humiliate themselves on television (and, I suppose, in blogs) are a dime a dozen
My show would be called The Miler.
What we’d do is scour old high school or college athletics results and determine a good measuring stick for show participants. For example, maybe we’d decide to invite men aged 40 to 42 who ran their fastest mile in high school or college within a certain narrow performance range. They’d have been serious track athletes but not elite. Participants would all have put on a similar amount of weight since that time, and while still somewhat active, would all be in similar states of general decline.
We’d throw 15 or 20 of these guys into a big house. They get access to running gear, a weight room, nutritionists, chefs, physical trainers, and sports medicine doctors. They interview and then choose a specific coach with whom to work and design a training plan. We contrive some situation where the participants and coaches pick who they want to work with (we’d use one of those rose ceremonies for this episode just to be kitschy). They get to do individual workouts but some group training is compulsory to foster rivalries and competition. Winners of specific workouts may get access to a hot tub or some other desirable bonus, like extra ibuprofen.
After a few weeks of setup and training the group starts racing the mile live on television every week as part of the show. The bottom two finishers each week are sent home. The coach of the winner gets a new pair of tight gray BIKE coaches’ shorts. Maybe somebody gets a free pass to the next round based on certain criteria during the training week. Is the winner each week really the fastest guy, or is the fastest guy loitering in mid-pack, holding his cards for the final and trying not to get injured? Is the guy who has been moving up through the field each week going to ultimately threaten the early favorites? Will two mid-packers form a pact one week and try to control the pace of the race to give them the best chance of staying alive one more week? Whose training regimen will give them the best “bounce” leading up to the final race? And it goes without saying that in the final each competitor would wear replica gear from their glory days (supplied of course by a major sportswear company with which we would have a lucrative promotional agreement).
We would do a tie-in with a major college football conference so that a promotional race could be held during halftime of a college game at a stadium packed with fans at a game shown on the same network (maybe in Oregon where track is big). This would be great halftime entertainment for the fans and give the network more exposure for the reality show franchise because of all the people who would see the race. Heck, we could even have a preliminary race featuring stars of one of their other reality shows. Maybe one race would be a virtual race in which the competitors race alone on their home tracks simultaneously. The mind boggles at the possibilities.
Final winner on The Miler gets bragging rights, a stack of cash, and free running shoes for life.
Oh, and their photo on the Wheaties box. Not a Wheaties box. The Wheaties box.
And how’s this a reality TV franchise? Well, of course there should be a version with women. Then the next year we repeat the whole thing with new competitors. Or you change to Freestyle (swimmers), or Linkster (golfers), or Forehand (tennis), etc. I’m going to go work out the rest of the details so I’ll be ready when one of the networks calls and wants to buy the concept from me. I won’t be unreasonable on the asking price. And it goes without saying that I get the best room in that house.
Sally the Chicken
After my last post telling the story about Shelby and the “pork loin” versus “porcelain” incident, I joked to somebody that I should probably quit my blog and just start one for Shelby to do herself. It would be more entertaining than mine and I could serve as financier, editor, and technical support. But for the time being I’m just going to keep using her material until she’s old enough to want her dad to quit telling stories about her (like I’m going to do again today).
Jacob and Shelby just returned from a week at my parents’ house. If only I had realized as a kid how much fun my parents must be, considering how thoroughly they entertain our kids. Jacob did a lot of fishing and other summertime activities good for a twelve year-old boy. Shelby did a lot of Shelby things, e.g. writing stories, drawing pictures, making characters out of paper towel tubes, napkins, etc. She also composed a photo essay about the adventures of a chicken named Sally.
Let me explain.
When Jacob was little we got hooked on reading him little board books by Sandra Boynton. If you have toddlers in your household you either know Sandra Boynton already, or you need to. Hers are not your standard blasé board books. I find them hilarious in their offbeat simplicity. (For you aficionados, my favorite is Blue Hat, Green Hat). This is hard to explain, but I find her little animal characters inherently funny, instead of just funny looking.
Shelby also loved the characters and has stuffed animal versions of many of them. My favorite Boynton character is the chicken. Shelby has a stuffed one that she named Sally. Sally went on the recent trip to visit my parents.
What you are about to see are the results of what happens when a creative little girl takes her stuffed chicken to the park with her grandparents, and Grandpa has his camera. The photos were named by Shelby herself.
The Adventures of Sally the Chicken
Sally on the swing:
Sally goes down the slide:
Sally runs on a treadmill:
Sally learns about her own species:
Sally climbs in Egypt:
Sally explores new heights:
Sally claims Mt. Chicken Broth:
Sally behind bars:
Sally gets a driving license:
Sally slips while skydiving:
Sally discovers a new fossil:
Sally goes to roost:
I think poor Sally earned some time to rest. So did my parents.
Pork Loin
I have forever ruined a word for at least one friend. It happened when years ago I pointed out that every time I hear the word “meteorologist” my brain hears it as “meaty urologist” and imagines a stocky physician ominously stretching a latex glove over his hand. Now my friend’s brain does the same thing.
So while a writer shouldn’t be in the business of “ruining” words for people, I can only hope that if I do so the entertainment value is worth it. Today’s example is courtesy of my daughter, Shelby, and involves words looking alike instead of sounding alike.
Shelby was shopping with her grandmother (my mother-in-law), whom my children call “E.” This is not an abbreviation to protect her identity. They really do just call her “E.” I should explain this at some point. Stories about how kids name their grandparents amuse me.
Shelby and E were in a store and Shelby reported that she had just seen a beautiful doll. Here is where I should point out that Shelby taught herself to read when she was three. By the time she was five I noticed that when she read to me she would process whole sentences so fast that sometimes she would read them aloud using different words but maintaining the meaning. For example, she might be reading a sentence that ended with “the kids gave their dog a ball” but by the time her mouth could speak those words her eyes would already be looking at the picture so she’d just say something like “the kids gave their ball to the dog.” She wasn’t just mixing up the word order. She was reading, comprehending, and then paraphrasing so she could look around while her mouth caught up with her eyes. Fascinating to watch.
The point here is that she is long past sounding out many words, but sometimes she will blaze right past a new word because it looks like something else if she’s not giving it full attention.
This is how she reported to E that this beautiful doll she had found was called a “Pork Loin.”
Now E is no stranger to dolls as my wife had more than her share of different kinds growing up. But a Pork Loin doll was a revelation. I guess if we can have Cabbage Patch Kids why not Pork Loin Dolls? They would probably be licensed by whatever trade group makes the “other white meat” commercials.
So E went to investigate the mysterious Pork Loin doll. I guess growing up with me around makes a child is more likely to be familiar with pork products than fine ceramics or artistic pieces of china.
Porcelain. It was a porcelain doll. And now every time I see one I will smile.
Funnel Cake Review 2009
Now that my summer vacation is complete, it’s time to sum up the funnel cake season here at The Ark of Mark. Longtime readers will already know that after a decade-long hiatus from eating funnel cakes (driven more by happenstance than deliberate choice), about five years ago I rediscovered this delicacy and have been going strong ever since.
I even have a home funnel cake kit which, while rarely used, promotes mental health by allowing me to know that theoretically, I am never more than thirty minutes from a funnel cake if so desired. This is probably akin to a person who lives a half mile from the ocean but can’t see it from their house. It’s just nice knowing it’s nearby.
This has been a satisfying funnel cake summer, meaning I got to eat more than one. The first was a solid effort put forth by the fine folks operating concessions at the Lexington Legends’ minor league baseball stadium. (Longtime readers may recall that this establishment won the first and thus far only funnel cake review competition from The Ark of Mark). Their effort this year was once again a good one, but this year I want to review a new location I found.
“The Funnel Cake” is a small establishment tucked back into an inlet on the main strip in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It’s about midway down the strip on the north side of the street. It’s right next to a “Jerky Outlet” if that helps orient those of you familiar with Gatlinburg.
(And God help the circulatory system of any reader who can rely on an extensive knowledge of Jerky Outlets to find a funnel cake restaurant).
I patronized The Funnel Cake last week with my son, Jacob. Let’s break this one down by categories.
Environment
While not necessarily great for visibility, the somewhat hidden location of The Funnel Cake was a plus for me, as we were the only customers on this mid-week afternoon. The high countertops with old school stools and air conditioning were all a plus. The inviting feel offered by an open front door was entirely offset by the flies it also welcomed.
Jacob and I decided not to try the machine that would answer any yes/no question for a quarter when we realized that the quarter could be flipped to answer such a question without forfeiting our possession of said quarter.
Presentation
The funnel cake was made quickly and efficiently by the pleasant, bustling lady behind the counter. And when I say “bustling” I do not use the term flippantly. This lady walked a quarter mile in the short time it took to prepare our cake and drinks. She never stopped the whole time we were eating, either. I’m not sure what all she had to do to the various cooking equipment back there, but she was fully engaged.
The paper plate on which the cake was served was adequate.
Menu
I am a funnel cake purist. All I really need on the menu for a good funnel cake experience is the one line item. Powdered sugar is the only topping that need apply. However, The Ark of Mark strives to paint its funnel cake reviews with a vivid palette for your palate, so I should point out that The Funnel Cake boasts the most dizzying array of options I have ever seen. You want a fruit topping? How about strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, or peach? You want something to sweeten things up besides powdered sugar? How about sugar glaze (think glazed donut), caramel glaze, cinnamon, or peanut butter glaze? Whipped cream? Sure.
If so inclined, one could also order a deep-fried Twinkie, deep-fried Oreos, deep-fried Snickers, or a deep-fried wedding cake. (I only made up that last one).
I stuck with the pure goodness of the plain cake with powdered sugar, but confess that if I had been in the area the next day, I might have had to try a sugar glazed cake with blackberries and whipped cream. (Insert Homer Simpson gurgling sound).
Quality
Not much to say here. It was perfectly cooked. Bravo.
Cost
I don’t remember. Four or five bucks. I was days into a family vacation and had long sense stopped paying attention to the money flying out of my wallet.
Intangibles
Now this is where we run into an unexpected complication. In the past I have lauded such intangibles as eating a funnel cake next to a decorative water fountain at an amusement park while thrilled patrons scream on distant roller coasters.
The Funnel Cake had one of those delightfully old school menu boards with the little black or red letters that have to be inserted by hand. The kind where all the items are listed in black, and all the prices in red, except where maybe they ran out of a specific black letter and had to scatter in a few random red ones or use an upside-down E for a 3. I was admiring the classic look and feel of the menu and then saw a random sentence down below all the food offerings:
Bow down to Cristinas boss toes
Now what in the world are we to make of this statement? If I were a competent writer I would’ve simply asked the bustling lady if she were in fact Cristina, and regardless of the reply, could she explain this? If I had legions of devoted readers I’d just dispatch one in the Gatlinburg area to follow-up for some answers. Instead, because I simply wandered off in confusion, we are left to speculate.
- Is this a good-natured ribbing of an employee named Cristina because she has weird toes?
- Is this an inside joke among employees about some exhibit down the street at the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Musem?
- Are employees being implored to genuflect to the toes of Cristina’s boss but they did not have any little menu board apostrophes to indicate the possessive tense?
I think the most likely explanation is that the employees are a friendly bunch and are having some good-natured fun at Cristina’s expense. While I am all in favor of camaraderie-building ribbing amongst co-workers, in this reviewer’s humble opinion, no part of a good funnel cake experience should invoke feet, no matter how boss they may be.
Conlcusion
First and foremost, this post would have been much improved if I had taken pictures to go with the review. Sorry. When considering the overall experience, I confidently give The Ark of Mark’s seal of approval to The Funnel Cake in Gatlinburg, TN.
Fear This
Hey there.
Sorry for the long time between posts. We were on a family vacation last week and I didn’t want to mention it ahead of time in case one of you unscrupulous readers would abuse that information and ransack our house. I’ve heard that has happened to people who use Facebook to tell the world that they are leaving town. So that’s why I’m not on Facebook.
Well, that and my antisocial tendencies. Or maybe it’s just arrogance, considering that I have a blog to tell you what I think but don’t want to do Facebook and see what everybody else is up to.
Because I could not get online at our vacation spot, I have some pent up things I need to share over the course of the next week or so. We’ll start today with a contemplative time I had during a long drive. At one point during the drive a somewhat clunky car passed us. (Please note that when I use the term “clunky” for a car I am speaking as a connoisseur and not in derisive terms. I am the person who once wrote about fixing my drooping SUV door with a chunk of wood and proposed creating a TV show called Scrimp My Ride). Anyway, in the rear window of the car was a bumper sticker that said simply:
FEAR THIS
Now I know the “Fear This” bumper sticker has been around for years. It’s just that last week was my first opportunity to think about it for the amount of quality time afforded by driving mindlessly down an interstate for hours while the rest of the family reads, naps, or watches a portable DVD player. Not that I am bitter.
FEAR THIS
Is that a command, sir? Am I to understand that you are not simply suggesting that I fear this, but intend this as a mandate?
FEAR THIS
And if you are indeed the sort of “take charge” individual who flippantly makes demands from your rear view window, don’t you think the sparkly lettering on the bumper sticker somewhat diminishes the menacing tone you are laboring to establish?
FEAR THIS
And just what specifically am I to fear? The sticker itself? You? The car? Or am I supposed to fear a fate in which I become the sort of person who issues mildly threatening, nebulous warnings using a bumper sticker with a jaunty font?
FEAR THIS
I am a generally accommodating person, and I certainly had the time, so I gave it a shot. I really tried to fear this (any or all of it). I’m sorry to report that strongest emotion I could muster was a mild loathing.
Dough!
Today I would like to thank God for coming up with the idea of the cocoa bean and sugar cane. I am also thankful to the folks who figured out how to combine these basic natural phenomena with other elements to create chocolate.
I want to thank the person with the foresight to not simply use chocolate as an ingredient in a cookie, but to maintain the integrity of the chocolate within the cookie by including it as individual autonomous chips.
I especially want to thank the person who first eschewed the baking of chocolate chip cookie dough into a conventional cookie, and instead added the dough to ice cream, which is an otherwise competent stand-alone dessert. This brilliant advancement not only resulted in a dessert greater than the sum of its parts, but I believe also greatly reduced any unfortunate enduring social stigma associated with eating cookie dough.
I had assumed that with advent of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, mankind had reached the point of diminishing returns on dessert. We created chocolate, added chips of the chocolate to cookies, and then added blobs of the cookie dough to ice cream. To that staggering achievement could there possibly be added yet another layer of goodness, and if theoretically possible, would we even have the wherewithal to try? I was skeptical.
And then I saw footage of the first moon landing. If we could put a man on the moon…
Wienermobile Revisited
Having written about my love of the Wienermobile here, I should not be surprised that some of you have made sure that I heard the news about a Wienermobile crashing into a house.
My first thought (after learning that nobody was injured) was whether the following appeared on the official police incident report:
Vehicle Type: Wiener
Model: Oscar Mayer
If I were the officer writing up such a report, I’m thinking a copy would be going in a frame.
Memoirs
Some of you reading this blog may be unaware that I used to do some similarly amateur writing that was not in a blog format. There should be a link to the old website somewhere on the side of this page or somebody on my staff is going to be fired. There are links to old entries dating way back to 2003.
When I started this blog earlier this year I intended to eventually migrate some of my favorite things from the old site over to here. So today I would like to present something I wrote in 2005 that generated lots of feedback. And when I say “lots” I mean by my standards and not, say, J.K. Rowling’s.
I’m of course pleased that some of you remember this fondly, but do wish the subject matter had been more profound. Then again, the fact that this is a “fan favorite” implicates you every bit as much as me. I edited this just a little from the original, which probably matters to nobody, but I feel compelled to mention it because other bloggers make a big deal out of noting specific changes to previous posts. I have yet to understand why. Maybe it’s just part of blog protocol, or some remnant of actual journalistic practices to which I don’t even pretend to adhere.
***From August, 2005***
WELCOME to The Ark of Mark, which takes pride that it rarely descends to “bathroom humor.” This month we are making an exception. As part of an extensive bathroom renovation, we are getting a new toilet. Did you know that, like automobile and running shoe companies, toilet manufacturers give names to different models? For example, you can buy a Kohler “Cimarron” or American Standard “Champion” toilet. I don’t have a problem with this in principle. However, I do strongly object to a particular model name in the Kohler line. With all due respect to Dave Barry, I am not making this up.
They have a toilet called “Memoirs.”
I realize that somebody in Marketing may have chosen the name “Memoirs” just because it is a nice sounding word without even considering it sounds like a euphemism in this context, but don’t you agree they should have given this more thought? They have ruined the word “Memoirs” for me forever. I just went to Google and searched on “memoirs.” Below is a brief sampling of phrases using the word. Try to read them yourself with a straight face in light of what Kohler has done:
“Memoirs of a Geisha: A Novel”
“The Darth Side: Memoirs of a Monster”
“Turning Memories into Memoirs”
“Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant” (now that’s a museum exhibit I never want to see)
For the skeptical, the link to the “Memoirs” toilet is here. As a responsible amateur Christian humor columnist, I did e-mail Kohler and ask if there was some nuance I was missing about this name. As of this writing they have not responded. For the curious, we went with a Toto “Drake” toilet. (I mention this in case I ever want to brag that I’m the only amateur Christian humor columnist to make toilet recommendations).
***From September, 2005***
WELCOME to the Ark of Mark. In our last visit we discussed the troubling decision by the Kohler Company to choose the curious and potentially disgusting name “Memoirs” for one of its toilets. In a sincere spirit of understanding, I emailed Kohler to ask if maybe I was just missing something. I have reproduced our actual exchange below. This really happened:
Mark’s email to Kohler:
I’m sorry to take up your time with a question like this, but maybe you can email me the answer. I hate to even bring this up, but do you really think Memoirs is an appropriate name for a toilet? Was this chosen just because it sounds nice without really considering what sorts of memoirs are actually associated with toilets? Or is there some other connotation I’m missing? Again, sorry to take up your time, but I’m sincerely curious. Thanks.
Here is Kohler’s actual reply:
Thank you for contacting Kohler. I do understand that Memoirs is an “odd” name for a toilet, however the name was chosen for the entire suite of products, including faucets, baths, whirlpools, sinks and accessories. I am not sure how the designer came up with the name, however we describe the suite as follows; “The sophistication of traditional design serves as the inspiration for the Memoirs Suite. With its rich detailing, this suite of products echo the stylized lines of historically renowned furniture and architectural design. Two styles offer different dignified interpretations – the clean, crisp lines of the Stately design, and the added rounded detail of the Classic style, which resembles crown molding. With fixtures and faucets available, the extensive Memoirs Suite can accommodate both large and small bath and powder rooms.” I am unsure if this response has fully answered your question, and if it has not, feel free to contact me again. Thank you for your interest in Kohler products. Lisa W
Frankly, I was impressed by Lisa’s earnest reply. It makes more sense that this name was given to a suite of products (although I still think they should give special consideration to the harsh reality of including toilets when naming a product suite). It almost makes me regret having chosen another brand of toilet. I will just have to come to terms with missing out on the dignified interpretations of historically renowned furniture and architectural design that served as the inspiration for the sophisticated traditional design of the Memoirs suite. Alas.
The Good, the Bad, and the Squeaky
Posted by Mark in Entertainment, Random on July 9th, 2009
I have never been much of a fan of Western movies. I know enough about them to know that I can capitalize “Western” in this context because it is used as a genre and not a geographic adjective. I just never wanted to watch Westerns. They just looked depressing and dirty (in the literal sense) to me.
All that changed when my beloved DVR came into my life. I started to get a little greedy when perusing the TV schedule for movies. If it was rated three or four stars and I’d heard of it, I’d record it even if it was a Western.
At first I had to make myself watch. I felt obligated to at least sample this piece of American culture. Turns out that the Western grew on me.
My disdain for Westerns probably began when I was a teenager, when I ironically considered most grown-ups to be closed-minded sticks in the mud. So now I’m approaching forty and I can do many things I would never have even considered as a teenager, such as drink coffee, eat sushi, play golf, watch NASCAR and Westerns, and care deeply about not just about Dow Jones but also his Industrial Average. (Note to teenage self: You are a buffoon).
So in the last few months I have watched Shane, Unforgiven, The Outlaw Josie Wales, The Searchers, and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I finally understand the fuss over Clint Eastwood and John Wayne. I still wouldn’t say I’m a huge fan of Westerns, but I’ve definitely crossed some kind of divide (or prairie, canyon, riverbed, impasse, Rubicon, holler, etc).
And I finally learned the origin of that iconic Western musical score I’ve been hearing for years. It came from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly. The movie merits watching for the music alone. You know the music I mean. It goes like this:
Ooh-eee-ooh-eee-ooh
wah-WAH- wah
Ooh-eee-ooh-eee-ooh
wah-wah-WAH
If you can’t tell what I’m talking about and are really curious, you can follow this link and press the “play” button near the top of the page.
All of these movies of course have some version of the same character. He is basically a loner type with a quiet but confident demeanor, who exudes some sort of vibe that makes you suspect you probably shouldn’t mess with him, which is confirmed as soon as anybody tries to mess with him. I’ve grown to like that guy.
But now I need to tell you about this bathroom door at my office building. It had a truly horrifying squeak. Drove me crazy every day, and did so for months. It was so squeaky that over time it actually heightened my squeak sensitivity. I started noticing squeaky doors everywhere, to the point that I often found myself wishing I had a can of WD-40 with me. Last weekend I was at Lowe’s and saw a display of cute little cans of WD-40, much smaller than the standard size.
Inspiration struck.
I bought a little can of WD-40. Monday I resolved to carry the can with me ALL day. I figured if I hosed down every offending hinge during the normal course of a workday, my life could be largely squeak-free for months. I loved this idea. Monday morning I got out of my car (with doors that no longer squeak) armed and ready. I was a little self-conscious as I strode across the hot, dusty parking lot. Then it happened.
Ooh-eee-ooh-eee-ooh
wah-WAH- wah
Suddenly I was not some meek, middle-aged guy in a golf shirt carrying a fun-size can of WD-40. I was Clint Eastwood sauntering into town brandishing a long rifle and a (computer) chip on my shoulder. Did I care who took notice or what they thought?
I reckon not.
I sprayed both the outer and inner entrance vestibule doors. I got the stairwell door. Next came the (horrifyingly loud) bathroom door and the inner door that led to the locker room. Soon I got the two doors leading to the stairway to the mail room. Then the two doors leading to the cafeteria. I got another bathroom door. I proceeded to a laboratory door. Finally I hit an emergency backup bathroom door that I only use when the bathroom nearby is being cleaned.
I was a squeak-eliminating fool. And now my life is a much quieter, serene place. I just need to perfect me a twirl before I put this thing back in its holster.
Go, Granny, Go
I had a birthday over the weekend. It was a low-key affair devoid of pomp and circumstance. I’m not big on circumstance and rarely countenance pomp. For my gift I picked out a fire pit at Lowe’s that should let me light things on fire in my backyard without my neighbor calling the fire department on me. I just re-read the previous sentence and am compelled to clarify that I am not thirteen.
During this birthday weekend I was putting gas in my car and noticed a neat motor scooter up by the entrance to the gas station. I have always loved motor scooters. I think they intrigue me more than actual motorcycles because I know I’ll never be bold enough to buy a true road motorcycle for fear of an inattentive driver hitting me in the ribcage with a Lincoln Navigator. But a scooter could be used to putter safely around my neighborhood.
I could see myself on a motor scooter. I even priced one once while on a business trip to China. (They have a few scooters over there in China. Maybe you’ve heard). I found one that was very reasonable but figured shipping would be an issue, especially the part where I’d have to inquire about the shipping in Chinese. I also figured it would be difficult to find replacement parts back home.
Mark: Hi. I need an oil filter and a spark plug for this scooter.
Scooter repair guy: What brand is it?
Mark: Um. China brand.
So I was eyeballing the scooter at the gas station and thinking about my birthday. Then a cute teenage girl came out of the store and walked toward the scooter. She was wearing extremely pink, extremely tight pants and carrying a Coke. Suddenly I felt very old to be riding a scooter. My window of opportunity had closed for any kind of dignified scooting. Alas.
I finished filling my gas tank and started to climb back into my car. Much to my surprise, the teenage girl had continued past the scooter and was now walking down the street. Perched atop the scooter instead was a gray-haired lady who had to be approaching sixty.
I should have thanked her for the spring she put back in my step.