Why I am afraid of the Moon and other ridiculousness that keeps me up at night.

There are some nights when the Moon is so orange and low in the sky I'm determined it's coming toward me. I'm walking down the street, toward the thing at dusk, but suddenly it's getting bigger. It's growing and growing and I'm forced to run away from something that is so big that no matter how far and how long I'll run, it's going to squash me. And that's the thing. I don't imagine it hitting me with a big kaboom! and debris flying everywhere. I imagine a cartoonish squish or maybe a splat and my Nikes sticking out from the crater, an image I've stolen from The Wizard of Oz.

The other day we found a show called "If There Was No Moon" on the Discovery channel. Patrick Stewart narrated. If there was no Moon, he said, the Earth wouldn't have an axis. Then, a cartoon drawing of the Earth, wobbling like a top on its last couple of turns, then computer generated images of snow on the sphinx and Antarctica hot with dry, cracking soil. Then, scientists debating on where the Moon came from. Another planet? A meteor? A piece of the Earth that broke off once, before anything, when the planet was spinning and spinning and spinning?

This picture scares the shit out of me. But I can't stop staring at it:

Then theories about two moons at one time. Two moons. I'm afraid of two moons. I'm afraid of two moons in the sky, one higher than the other, one orange and one gray, both coming at me. What if you were looking into space and you saw one crash into the other? And then everything went dark? The image on TV was of two moons. I gasped and covered my eyes with a blanket. It's so scary.

And how does anyone walk on the Moon. How does anyone just walk around, looking at the Earth, where everything else is hanging out. Astronauts, after a stroll, go to get back into their spaceship and the engine won't turn over. It's time to go, one says, and he puts the key in the ignition, and rer-rer-rer-rer-sput. Rer-rer-rer-rer-sput. And they're stuck in space forever. I'm afraid of space. Ironic, because I'm really claustrophobic.

The Moon used to follow me to work every morning on the bus. I used to watch the Moon follow me to school every morning from Elgin. It's just hiding something. And I don't know what it is.

*

I probably should stop reading so much before I fall asleep, but what keeps me up at night includes the fact that I haven't read enough Shakespeare. That I don't know enough historical information. That I have no fucking clue how the stock market works, that people sort of "invented" how the economy would work, how money would be handled, and I can't even organize these thoughts in my head. How could anyone just figure that out? Or war strategies. How long would I have to study battlefield theory before I really got any of it?

This is like a wikipedia addiction. You look at a page, you learn something new, but it just reminds you of everything that you don't know. I don't know enough about teaching theories. This is why I have teaching nightmares every night. I don't know how much stuff I'll get with my classroom. I'm never sleeping again. How do I know that what I've learned about history is true? I mean, I just watched a show about the Boston Massacre that told me that what I thought I knew was a lie, and I didn't even know that much.

How can anybody study the Moon. How could someone say: hey, I'm pretty sure the Earth is round without having seen the pictures we've seen? Where do all of these people come from, knowing what stars are, and just figuring out how we can launch humans into space and walk in space suits on the lunar surface. How is somebody willing to be the first person to do this? It would take three years to get to Jupiter. Who is going to be the person who spends six years in outer space, and how could they ever do it without ridiculous psychological damage from isolation, and how could you land on Jupiter? It's just gotta be too fucking cold, right? I mean, the Moon gets to -150 Celsius at night.

Fuck you, rocket scientists.

Case of the Runs.

When I was out running on Monday a man with a teardrop-shaped body stood in his driveway and hollered a conversation at me. I pulled out my earbuds and he said have a good run! I said thanks, and he kept talking. I used to do that for 20 years, but I can't do it no more. Too old. I didn't know what to say so out came, well it's a good night for it and kept moving along.

For some reason my running pains are in the heel of my left foot. I've never had heel pain before. I couple of pains shot up my shins today, and my toes blister a bit at the end where they've hit the tips of my shoes, shoes that I've put over 400 miles on but keep because I can't afford new ones. The insides are worn down, some cushioning is missing.

I have no money this summer, no job, little motivation to do as much work as I should be doing. But I've been keeping up the running. I picked up running again in April, slowly, big spaces in between days. In May I went a whole week without a jog, but went out on County Road 25 a most other days; I ran for most of June (except the first week), and I've run my way through July, so far.

I know this because the Nike mile sensor on my ipod tells me so. Yesterday when I got in from a 3.9 mile run Lance Armstrong's voice came on my ipod (I almost wrote Lance Armstrong came on my ipod but that's pretty gross) and said congratulations! You've reached 250 miles! That's since Christmas when I got the new sensor. Not that great, really. But enough to keep me motivated. In those now 261.67 miles I've had 82 running workouts (only about 11 a month--that sucks, but let's face it, January through March can eat a dick) and burned 40,298 calories.

Here's why I'm feeling good about myself today, looking through the history since June:

7 June 3.2 miles
8 June 2.5 miles
11 June 2.5 miles
12 June 4.1 miles
13 June 3.2 miles
14 June 3.1 miles
17 June 3.9 miles
18 June 3.9 miles
19 June 2.4 miles
20 June 3.9 miles
21 June 2.5 miles
22 June 3.8 miles
23 June 2.1 miles
25 June 2.9 miles
26 June 3.0 miles
28 June 3.0 miles
30 June 2.9 miles
2 July 2.9 miles
[big break here for cabin time, calories consumed: 80,000]
6 July 2.9 miles
7 July 2.9 miles
8 July 2.8 miles (twice this day) and 4.3 miles
9 July 2.9 miles
11 July 2.9 miles
12 July 2.9 miles
13 July 2.9 miles
14 July 2.9 miles
15 July 2.9 miles
16 July 3.8 miles
17 July 5.6 miles

I really hope I can stick this out. I just want to wear my favorite pants again. I just want to enjoy playing dress up again. I just want to stop counting the chins in all the pictures I take. I just want to. I feel so much better that way. I am such a better person that way.

Lawn Day all Up in Dat Shit.

I suppose I should explain myself.

We had a lawn party this weekend. I offered to fill the water balloons. The best way to do it was with the hose held between my legs. Mark tied the balloons. He tied two pink balloons together and put them over the hose.

Then we all were disturbed. And what followed was about 20 pictures of me with junk. This one, where I'm a hunchback, is one of the least disgusting.


Sexy badminton team. I bet you didn't notice my racket-hand. Racket-hand!


Marylovesmeat.com.

The chips are camera hungry.

I filled this gun with beer. And it was so fucking cool and then it leaked all over me.

Look at Chad's shadow. Gross.

Splashction shot.
Water balloon toss. In an earlier game, Mark and Chad lost and then had to make Jenny and me drinks. Mark made a drink that was popular from the cabin last week: called Jeano's vag. Delicious.This is a total balls shot.Running through the sprinkler. High-fivin'.

Butt implants.

Should I also mention that we invented the word "blart" this weekend? It means bloody fart. So disgusting.

But a good weekend. Love the lawn games. I rocked a cornhole game with four ringers.

4thn'.

Not pictured includes beers in a hot tub like a beer commercial, a trampoline on the lake, a jet boat ride that left the "fatties in the front" soaked. Not audible includes the song-a-thons of Friday night, when the drunken stars aligned and we danced around the fire chanting "Lord-of-the-Flies! Lord-of-the-Flies! Pig-gy Pig-gy! Dead pilot! Dead pilot!" And later "vag-vag-vag-vag-vag" while the women drank, and even later, all of us, singing Lisa Loeb and "Life is a Highway" at the top of our lungs, and even later the speculations of MJ's COD, which include him drowning in a swimming pool full of peeps.

Friday night, when the stars aligned and Jenny, Mary, and I created the story of Meatloaf's son, named Sean Loaf. Sean Michael Loaf, to be specific. He's a loaf of bread who solves crime, but he's the private agent type of crime-solver. He's Bond-like, but more undercover. For example, you could imagine an enemy throwing a mod party and Sean Loaf hiding at a table without his bow tie. But then, when it is suddenly time to get serious, Sean Loaf puts the bow tie on, and it's the equivalent of Clark Kent taking his glasses off and going Superman on your ass.

His arch nemesis is a toaster with a bad guy mustache.

Sean Loaf. Meatloaf's his dad. Danger's his game.