MeSoFun Blog

Isn't it a little odd for an area with average summer highs of 80 degrees to have a big water park? I have a one-track mind. When I extol the virtues of Portland, I pretty much limit myself to beer and bacon-dusted french fries. Wouldn't you? It has become clear to me today that my vision might be a little too narrow. For the 92 percent of you who would not limit themselves to beer and bacon-dusted fries (and by the way, you're wrong for not limiting yourself), I present independent verification of our status as a cool place to be. JRuss, who is not a tall black man, pointed out to me that GQ magazine – I am, of course, a devoted reader and subscriber of that fine publication – has ranked Portland one of the top eight small-city destinations for a vacation. You bet your sweet Aunt Sally I'll be doing this. It's only $15! With around 60,000 people in the metro area, about the size of Winona, MN, this is not a big place. But, I venture to say, Portland offers signifi

^ -- Thing I will not be purchasing.  Thanks to yesterday's post about my Mustang-fueled trip to Mississippi, I now have a subtle ad across the top of my gmail account for "certified pre-owned Fords." It's happening again . My frustration with being sold things is rising. Today, I had to walk into the Apple Store to get a new computer. The argument started in my head on the way to the mall. "I don't need an iPhone," I imagined myself telling a salesperson. "I sit in front of a computer 95 percent of the time that I'm not exercising or driving my car." Then I get on a roll. "If it's not personal laptop, it's my Mac at work. So, explain to me what I could possibly need a smart phone for? It's harder to text and drive at the same time, not that I do or would do that. They break easier, cost more and emit more radiation (which, let's face it, can NOT be good)." The iPhone. Everybody else seems to have them so they must

My view for 200 miles or so of driving. I'll say this much for visiting Oxford, Mississippi: I had a Ford Mustang for a rental car. That's fairly awesome. Mmmmm. Pecan beer. Sidenote: When did they start removing the awesomeness from cars? Several times I floored the car at a dead stop and it couldn't even squeal the tires. They didn't even momentarily bleep when I hit the gas. Traction control has killed Ford for me. I was visiting my cousin, RyGuy, who is a freshman at Ole Miss. Oxford is a town of about 20,000 people which houses a university of about 20,000 non-resident students. It's like my hometown of Stillwater, Minnesota , but with a major university there. There was an unexpected bonus of visiting the South: Nobody complained about the heat. And I had a Ford Mustang when I rented an economy car, but that's neither here nor there. Southerners expect it to be in the 90s and humid during the day. It didn't disappoint. But it was fine. The trick to sum

This is me doing Warrior II in our living room. Yes, that's Peruvian art on the wall at left. Some light reading for your Friday: You know the feeling. You're trying to get out of town. There's a bunch of stuff to take care of. Meanwhile, the dog is essentially clinging to the ceiling. She jumps on the couch. Off the couch. On the couch. Off the couch. She looks at you: Play With Me. Fine. You're going to Camp Bow Wow , the place with live streaming web video of your dog rolling in other dogs' waste material. 'Cuz that's what she does. It's hot out. Newsflash. Stop the presses. You fumble for a leash, her collar, a wallet, keys, cell phone, some cash for a yoga class and load up the car. You pull into the lot. Front spot, right in front of the door. Perfect. It's 92 degrees and your dog is off leash in the parking lot. You grab her. Leash her up. Grab the wallet so you can pay. Shut the door. And remember your keys are still in the car. Along with yo

Perhaps I should have put on deoderant, after all. The night started innocuously. A couple of beers at home. Then I put on my headphones and walked for half an hour to Hadlock Field , home to our local Class AA baseball team, the Portland Sea Dogs. What is a Sea Dog? I'm really not quite sure. Allegedly, Maine has seals. I have yet to see a seal here, but I'm not exactly looking for them. I was feeling anti-social and sat out in the bleachers, figuring I had a decent shot at snagging a foul ball. Sidenote: In fact, I caught a ball from the left fielder, who threw his first warmup toss over the bullpen catcher and over the fence, into the first row of the stands. Also, I could drink a beer in relative seclusion and listen to "This American Life" on my iPod. I'm not, in fact, 102 years old. A few innings into the game, a couple moved into the stands. My stands. But the guy had a Minnesota Twins hat on, so I was cool with it. In fact, on my way to get a beverage, I s

That was me, lying on the yoga mat, not moving this morning. I was fine. Had control of my breath, wasn't injured, everything was tip-top. Except that space between my ears. "This is ridiculous," I thought. "But you're staying right here on this mat and not leaving." That was my punishment, spending 45 minutes on the mat, staring at the ceiling for the last half of a power yoga class. As consolation, the person next to me alternated between lying on her back and curling into the fetal position. And she's an instructor. Seriously. But this isn't about the workout. A 90-plus-degree room and a frenetic pace (by yoga standards) were bad, but it was the space between the ears that was and remains the problem. I don't like exercising, especially not around other people. Also, I don't like not having a career to work for. So, when T-Dubs isn't around, I don't have a career and my exercise routine is suffering, I get a little bit cranky. What

I'm sure this only *looks* painful. But it looks it a lot. I like being sore. It's a reminder that I've actually done something. In that context, the occasional shouts today from my back, arms and legs are a good thing. For two months, I haven't been able to do anything. That changed yesterday. Three weeks ago, my doctor removed a bone growth on my femur. He told me not to run for six weeks and to be careful about my exercise. Yesterday, I left the house and played 9 holes of golf. It was my first golf "action" in two years. I walked nine holes at the local course and had a legitimate birdie. I'm a firm believer that nobody cares about your golf game as much as you do, unless you're Tiger Woods. So I'll end the story there. I came home, walked the dog for half an hour, then went to bikram yoga. If you've never done yoga, the following description is going to sound like hell. The room where you practice yoga is heated to between 105 and 110 degr

A slightly better Downward Dog than I managed. Ow. OK, that's really only a little ow, lower-case letters and all. Yesterday, The Great Yoga Experiment began with a trip to what was billed as restorative yoga, which aims to help people recovering from injuries or surgeries. It was not restorative yoga. That position up there may look kinda easy, but it requires some fairly serious physical effort. That was the surprise at the start of TGYE: Yoga is physically demanding, but not just in a stretchy way. It requires more power, more anerobic energy, than I thought. I have a bad memory. My first yoga experience seven years ago was something of a stunt. As part of a series called Jim & Jim at the Gym, I worked out with a photographer friend to prepare for ski and snowboard season in Utah. We ran hills, we hiked dogs and we did Bikram yoga. Bikram yoga is done in a room heated to between 105 and 110 degrees. The theory is that the warm temperatures help loosen our joints and make us

I was considering leaping the fence to get to the soup. In a word, no, I'm not ready to rock. When did I become unfun? Cue the jackass friends: Awww, you've always been boring. Thanks guys. I came to work 10 minutes early. To reward myself for not eating like a jackass today, I was going to Kamasouptra , the best damn soup restaurant in Portland that I know of. Sounding definitive when you're really not is an art. Ask a politician. Thing was, there was a stage in my way. A couple of bands were playing a free show out on the square in front of my work. The show started at 5 p.m. It was 4:52 as I walked past an empty beer garden (what is WRONG with America?) and weaved around possibly stoned people on my way to the Public Market. The warmup music was Barenaked Ladies playing a free show, which was a little odd, to be at a free show and hear a show from the late '90s (they covered the Spice Girls). That was as good as the music got. Next came pop/country. Then came Generic

This bit of awsomeness is Meadhall, in Cambridge, Mass. My God, people. I'm alive. You can stop your worried emails and posts on Facebook. I'm here. I don't have knee cancer. I'm alive and writing. This is not an incremental blog. You won't often read about the mundane goings on of one's life. But I've been lax about entertaining you lately. So here's what you've been missing out on. CAMBRIDGE I took the bus down to visit TW (also known as T-Dubs. Eight Ball and I think it's an awesome nickname). Of course, I waited until it was in the upper 80s to visit her air conditioning-less apartment. I lost 2 pounds in water weight. That's a good thing, because I've put on seven pounds of non-water weight since the knee flared up in May. We did nothing. Well, next to nothing. Tuesday night, we went to a bar after her shift at work, to a place called The Thirsty Scholar. It's a well-known Ivy League bar. I had a Diet Coke, T-Dubs went for a marg