But some of them had got the luck

Summer scheduling hurrah! Not content with allowing us the freedom of casual togs during the warm months, my office has added swing-time hours, so half a Friday every other week is available for personal skidding doorwards at 12:30 (work permitting). Wine with lunch? Don't mind if we do.

I took my first afternoon for purely selfish purposes: some catching up on BSG 4.5 (mutiny! Felix, you eedjit!) via Hulu and thence to the gym for off-hour treadmilling, since the DC humidity is in force and so are the regular afternoon gullywashers. My gym is almost abandoned during the workday, permitting freedom from the whiteboard reservations system and the opportunity, in my case, to go spectacularly purple about the neck and face without having many witnesses.

I had only begun to warm up, however, when one of the training staff paused in front of my machine and waited for me to pull out my earbuds. "Hey," quoth'a cheerily, "I'll be setting up a chair in a few minutes and offering free ten-minute massages. If you're interested, let me know and I'll put you first on the list." TANSTAAFL: "What, free? Like, not free-if-I-buy-stuff, but free?" "Yep. Wanna?" "Um. Even if I'm kind of sweaty?" "Even then."

Well hell y'all. Come the chance to live off ill-gotten gains, I would definitely add a masseuse to my retinue, and it's not like I couldn't run afterward. Justification in order to my own satisfaction, I moseyed over casual-like. It's so unbecoming to rush for freebies, my deahs. Had I known, I'd have sprinted, because dear God. "You should spend some time on the table," said my new BFF, working at the knots in my erector spinae. "Let me do some myofascial work. It's all tension along here." First of all, who has sales resistance when you're massaging their aching bits; second, this is a predictable but effective way to make your case; third, no kidding: riding and a tweaky hip take a toll. "You're riding? Girl, in a saddle, all that shock goes straight into your back; make sure you get some core work in." Turns out that he rode as a kid, mostly hunters, so we neeped about horses as 10 minutes turned into 20. Bliss. BLISS. I'm sold on the idea that this guy could make a real difference in my back and my worldview, and if I can also get a biweekly freebie, well, so much the better.

The C25K proceedeth apace. Over drinks at the Gibson last night, Mizerock (who knows I'm neurotically self-conscious about my level of running fail, and who himself runs for the sheer joy of it) pointed out that a friend of his just did her first 5k at a 17-minute-mile pace. My challenge is simply sustaining running; I can walk a 15-minute mile easily, but running that distance is another kettle of fish. Ah well, my foot is on the path and all that. Behind our efforts, let there be found our efforts.

Side effects may include Barry Manilow

Back to the barn after a week off, hurrah. I was one of only two students who showed up, so I smothered a flicker of guilt and picked Manny out of the line-up. He's been nasty this week, and probably due to his starveling history is very defensive about his food, so getting him out of his stall took two alfalfa cubes and a gentle poke with a spare longe whip to get his haunches pointing away from my various vital parts. Almost the literal carrot and stick there.

He made such horrible faces and threatening gestures while he was cross-tied that Pat came to help out, using her powerful horse-fu to get him to stand calmly, eyes half-closed, with his forehead firmly buried in her chest as she stroked his ears and told him what a handsome boy he is. That put the kibosh on his fussing; he bloated a bit for the girth, and he still takes a minute to relax about having his hind feet lifted, but he didn't try for mayhem.

And oh do I love riding him. We took advantage of the two-person class to do a lot of cantering, both in circles and around the entire ring, because both El Bandito and I need to get our legs under us better when things speed up. This morning my lower back is all hinked up from working hard at keeping my seat down in the saddle, doing lengths of sitting trot, and coping with Manny's intermittent attempts to yank his rider into the pommel groin-first; time for further abs work y/y? Y.

Manny is starting to figure out that his violent head-ducks are not acceptable, so when we did the stretchy trot, where you try to get the horse to reach down for the bit and stretch out its topline, he would do it for about two strides and then jerk his head up guiltily. Oh Manny. (See? SEE? Manilow everywhere. Ghastly. My boy's full name is Downtown Man, and as long as I can hum "Downtown Train" while thinking of the Tom Waits original, we're borderline okay. Barry M. is beyond the pale and into the infrablack.) You poor confused beautiful little creature. Stop trying to bite everyone and your life can be so much better.

There was one bit of Lear news that gave me an illicit frisson of glee. The newest student in our class, a German girl who puts me eeeever so slightly on edge with her attitude about the standard of riding in our class and in America overall, tried out the big galoot while I was off tucking into crab salad and caramel/chocolate decadence last week. Oh sweet angel of revenge: Although she's a strong rider, she found him difficult to handle. Ahem. Excuse me. Hee. Not to gank the quote from Elizabeth Bear or anything, but Philo of Alexandria put it well: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is engaged in a great struggle." And that goes double for anyone on Lear.

TALert! TALert!

Be sure to check out this week's "This American Life." It's the episode that was recorded on stage and broadcast live to movie theaters all over the country last week (and you can see it again on May 7, if watching a radio show tickles your fancy...and it should, because there's visual stuff too, and Ira Glass put in a joke for you, just for you!).

IE and I caught the show at Mazza and adored it: funny, sad, strange, funny again. I was glad that the theater was dark, because Dan Savage, of all people, had me in tears. It's easy to lose track of what a good writer he is, what with the deliciously scandalsome topics he usually covers; his essay in "Return to the Scene of the Crime" is an excellent reminder. Sniff. Stupid allergies. Anyway, Mike Brubiglia's great, and Joss Whedon did a song from the "Dr. Horrible" companion show, "Commentary: The Musical!" and while he's no Denyce Graves, he's singing about zombies and meta and the nature of fame, so much is forgiven.

Oh, and it's the First of May, so if your local meteorological conditions and legislation permit, you know what to do.

Letting our breath out and our hair down

I had planned to spend part of the evening in Virginia, where BK was hosting a watch party, and then to cruise up to 5*j's for a Silver Spring bash. But the best-laid plans went gang awry when Virginia's numbers were tighter than expected; the idea of getting on the train or into a cab (driving was, hic, not an option) and being cut off from a constant feed of TV and interweb news was terrifying. So I ended up sitting with BK and friends, flipping between MSNBC, CNN, and the Daily Show, while BK himself loaded and reloaded FiveThirtyEight and the CNN.com state and county pages as we asked demanded ("Give us the Prince William returns!" "No, but Arlington first!" "Wait wait wait, is Indiana really turning blue? The home of the Klan, THAT Indiana?"). We got more and more hopped up on drinks, sugar, and numbers, and then Jon Stewart, a fellow W&M graduate, announced that Virginia was being called for Obama. And then he said, "We would like to announce that now, as of 11 PM, Barack Obama is America's next president."

A pause that seemed long, and then there was a clamor for CNN and MSNBC, BK flipping on the Ode to Joy at volume 11, and from there on all I really remember is a welter of shouting and crying and an incoherent burst of toasts that wiped out a bottle of excellent German mead in the name of "the 21st century!" "the America we dreamed of!" "everything we worked for!" and hugs and yet more tears. Oh, and Obama-logo cupcakes.

But eventually you've got to get home, and Metro was closed, and come to find out, free cabs were in very short supply. I ended up shepherding a trio of German schoolteachers onto a downtown-bound bus, assuring them that it would take them to within walking distance of their hotel. They had come for a week to see the election, and they seemed a little disappointed at the lack of celebration in the streets of Arlington. I figured DC doesn't really party and that the earlier televised festivities had already broken up.

Hah. We heard the first screaming whoops as we rolled through Georgetown, and Dupont from K Street north was the best party I've ever seen in this self-conscious city. People high-fived and cheered anyone who smiled; cars honked incessantly in a triple beat as their passengers screamed and waved flags out windows or sunroofs or off the backs of pick-ups; chants broke out as people passed one another on the sidewalks; fireworks exploded over Adams Morgan and U Street. The teachers hugged me warmly when they found their hotel; "Congratulations," said one. "We feel it is a privilege to be here tonight." The driver of the bus I eventually caught heading home wouldn't take fares; his passengers, packed together hip to hip, laughed and cheered, hugging one another over jolts in the road or chattering as the last of the buzz gave way to incoherent fatigue. I staggered through my door around 3 AM, happy and exhausted.

I mean, I dunno about you guys, but I had a hell of a night.

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang

We're not quite there yet; we're just beginning the glorious last hurrah, but it's in the wind. The days get short, the urge to hibernate under a pile of feather duvets gets large, and we find out what kind of year it's been for apples. Damn good, fortunately, so now my fridge is full of Jonagolds and Honeycrisps and some Asian apple-pears, as well as carrots and sorrel. Next week I'll get a double batch of sorrel and take it down to Il Padre, Soup Wizard sans peur et sans reproche, so that he can turn it into schavelni' sup, a soup that looks like pond weed and so good that you just don't care. Fall time is food time.

I took advantage of the glorious weather to get outside a lot, at least once the effects of a late Friday night drinking demon rum with the visiting Expat and her husband KD had worn off. Apparently they don't have pirate-themed bars in Deutschland, which I think we can agree is a terrible loss, and while KD was kind enough to serve as designated, the Expat and I went through the menu of silly cocktails with a vengeance. 13 Feet Under? Of course! A 666? Mais non! A Davy Jones Locker? What could possibly go wrong?

All of that being drunk said, I did get up in time to join Gee-Clef for a day at the Fest. He loaned me his enormous black Jedi cloak, because circulatory system have I none and it was chilly, and we strolled about to see shows by the slinky Mediaeval Baebes, Shakespeare's Skum, and the Rogues, a roughly Scottish group who still featured "the best bellydancer in Dundalk." Who was frankly wonderful: not only was she a lovely dancer, she skipped the sultry vamp look in favor of the smile of someone who is actually enjoying herself. The fact that small girl-moppets belonging to the band were engaged in pitched nerf-sword battles in front of the stage did not detract in the slightest. Between and sometimes during the shows, we played Treasure Hunt, spotting examples of the various Fest genuses and arguing about whether strictly Linnaean-style rules could possibly be applied in such a sartorial free-for-all, because we are tremendous geeks in our own right. Mostly it was an excuse to murmur, "Oh, hey," at the more astonishing costumes.

Lacking a horse of my own, I can't post photos of a perfect autumn ride, but perfect fall weather is good even when you're on your own feets.


You don't even need to Photoshop any pixels to improve on it.

The warm fuzzies, the big explosions

Give whoever made this ad for Discovery a simply enormous pile of dollars, because hot damn is it well done. The guy singing at the 39-second mark was originally my favorite, for the little grin he gets, but then there's the Mythbusters and THEN there's Stephen Hawking. So kudos on building up the level of star power and being an excellent example of how to do a commercial for a big sprawling pile of products under a single brand name.

As part of my zenly austerity campaign and attempt not to spend excess of time sitting couchbound, I don't have cable, so this ad had flown beneath my personal radar until this morning. To paraphrase Tim Cahill, it's not a problem when you miss a joke, but you feel a little left out when it shoots past without even waving, and at the risk of sounding a skosh one-note, that's what this morning's xkcd felt like. Once you've seen the video, though, further fangirlish swoonin' must ensue, as must frantic back-clicking through the strip's archives to solve some mysteries: (a) Who is that masked man? (b) What's in that wriggling package? (c) What's he doing on that roller coaster? and (d) What the hell is up with the hamster-ball fixation?

The world is making an unpromising few days up to me in compensatory weird lately, a trend of which I whole-heartedly approve. In getting contact info for someone I met at last night's F&F entertainment (an hour of assembling meal bags, then an hour of ladling cold bean soup into individual tupperwares, all while fetchingly clad in hairnet, plastic apron, and latex gloves and watched over by eagle-eyed, short-tempered chefs only slightly less cute than Gordon Ramsay), I encountered the term "laminar flames," which led to a web search on Navier-Stokes equations. Fire engineering: yet another kick-ass field of which I am 100% as-the-driven-snow-pure ignorant. I love the whole world, and all its craziness.