Spencer Manwalker and the birth of a blog

There are those that talk like a man.
There are those that eat like a man.
But few and far between are those that walk like a man.

I am one of them.

Manwalkers walk with a speed, purpose, and power that none can rival. Manwalkers do not care that their velocity makes hand-holding impossible (my little sister shudders at the thought). Manwalkers do not care that they are mocked by cool people for their brisk gate. Those that walk like a man are born to avoid using cars and are destined to pace the mall til their death.

I cannot take all the credit for my manwalking ability. Bunna Veth -- Cambodian, minister, and engineer extraordinaire -- was instrumental in my leg development (i.e., he didn't have a car in high school either). Together we made the two mile journey from home to school and back again. Rain, snow, hail, a person who had been hit by a car requesting our aid - nothing slowed us. We wore out sneakers like hot girls wear out gays. Our love for walking grew to the point that our own group, Pedest's Army, was formed. As technology improved we spread our beliefs via our beloved website, foot-soldiers.net. The combined writings of Uruguay and Cambodia took the world by storm, winning multiple webbies for creative content, best design, and most irrelevant site. Sadly, we ran out of funds and were forced to abandon the foot-soldiers.net domain name. Someday we will retake it.

Alas, our words of wisdom to the world were halted for a time, until a new website, The Peleton,was born. Combining with fellow Granger alums, we forged our creative forces into a site filled with editorials, predictions, comics, and criticisms. The Peleton was a stomping success. Until we burned out (5 weeks after starting).

The world would not hear from me again until fall 2007, the turning point in my life. As part of my journalism class, the students were required to start a blog. I obeyed. The rest is history.

Now, why would I bore you with tales of walking and the historic recounting of my blog's birth?

1) Because I wanted you to know I walk fast.
2) Because I'm bored.

Four weeks is a long Christmas break.

Athlete of the Year = Ridiculous

Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Bored yet?

Sorry, I decided that since this is going to be a rant about Nascar, I'd set the mood with a little repetition. I figure that repeating the same word over and over is the closest I get can get to matching the excitement of watching cars drive around an oval 350 times in a row.

For those who don't know what Nascar is ... well, you're lucky. It's the worst event that occurs on this entire planet. Nascar involves two parts.

Part 1: A person gets in a car.
Part 2: Said person drives the car in a circle for six hours.

End of story. That's it. Pooping your pants is more exciting.

I've always disliked Nascar, but until today it hadn't bothered me enough to stir my blogging emotions. Then the associated press named Jimmy Johnson, a Nascar driver, as male athlete of the year.

Let me see if I understand this correctly. A person who drives a car has been named athlete of the year?

A. Person. Who. Drives. A. Car.
Huh.

The definition of the word 'athlete' is presented for you convenience:

Athlete: A person possessing the traits such as strength, agility and endurance, that are necessary for physical exercise or sports

What traits does Nascar require? Being able to tune the radio station and steer at the same time? The ability to avoid carsickness? (granted, that would cause me all sorts of trouble, but that's beside the point)

Nascar is not a sport. Never has been. Never will be.

A Nascar driver is not an athlete. Never has been. Never will be.

This is what the athlete of the year should look like. Someone who can launch three feet into the air and dunk a ball over a 7 foot, 300 pound human opposition. Someone who can catch a football in a snowstorm while being cut in half by a pouncing linebacker. Someone who can slam a baseball traveling 96-mph over a fence 375 feet away while disregarding the 65,000 people that are screaming threats and obscenities in his face.

I'm really quite confused by the decision. How does soemone who presses a gas pedal and turns a steering wheel beat out Roger Federer, Kobe Bryant, or the great Albert Pujols for best male athlete?  Does this mean that next year the award could go to an astronaut, or maybe Obama (he has a good history of winning awards he doesn't deserve)? As for me, if I had a vote, I would have to go with Hulk Hogan.

At least he sweats when he plays his pseudo-sport.

The Restoration - Part I

My mantra for the majority of my life has been constant:

Quit.

At age 6 I quit picking my nose.

At age 12 I quit on my dream of playing for the Jazz.

At age 22 I quit believeing I could date Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I'm known for surrendering. Yielding. Raising the white flag. Being pushed over.

That was then. This is now. Today I fight back.

---

My hair is dieing - it has been for some time now. No hair, of course, equals no good. It means no girl. It means no friends. It means no job (Desnews). As my hair falls to the ground, my hopes of all happiness go with it. Until recently, I had accepted this fact. I'd given in to genetics. Why fight it? Without marriage I could still make the terrestrial kingdom, right? Worse things could happen. Plus, I had already based my life actions on the example of George Costanza. Why not adopt his most recognizable feature as well? And yet ...

And yet each time I restocked on toothpaste or deoderant, a rouge hygiene product would grab my eyes:

Rogaine, the magic hair restorer.

Fifty bucks was too pricey an investment for me. After all, I had a girlfriend. If things got worse, I could just get married and deteriorate with exaltation ensured. I chose to leave things in nature's hands.

Bad choice. The girlfriend left. The landscape worsened. The mocking increased. Whisps, alone, remained of a once proud scalp. And then a change happened. Not with my hair, but with my mentality. Something snapped. I became sick of surrendering. It was time to quit quitting. I decided to fight back. Knowing that my hair was my livelihood, I purchased the restorer.

The danger is great. Rogaine claims to regrow hair by killing off the current stragglers to make room for new hairs to take their place. Thus in a worst case scenario, my few remainers are killed off and no regrowth occurs.

Gulp.

Well, here goes nothing.

Er, I mean, here goes everything.