Sunday, March 3, 2013

White Picket Prisons, Another Bout of Stupidity and Schizophrenia

This part of the post is long overdue.  Shocker, I know.  About 17 years ago, Phil Taylor of The Phil Factor blog, contacted me requesting that I read and review his book he self-published, White Picket Prisons.

I agreed and he most likely immediately regretted it.  He wanted to send it to my ipad.  I don't have an ipad.
 
He wanted to send it to my kindle.  I don't have a kindle or anything remotely similar.

He send it to my e-mail in a PDF.  I know.  So pedestrian.

Oddly enough, it had exactly the same words as it would have if it had been read via ipad or kindle.  *gasp*  I KNOW!



And it was an easy, fun read.  I read it over a weekend and while there were parts that had me scratching my head in disbelief, I enjoyed it.  While the plot continuously encouraged me to enter into a willful suspension of reality, it was enjoyable.  The characters almost made me want to look up some of the guys they reminded me of from back in the old school days.

Almost.

You can check it out for yourself here or here or check out Phil's own blog here.  I know he would love some more reviews of his work. 

Speaking of work, (I know, totally smooth segue) Kianwi and Ken decided to host K&K's couch to 5K and encouraged everyone, wherever you were, to join in. 

Like an effing idiot, I signed up.  Enthusiastically, even!  Awhile ago.  And then did virtually nothing to prepare for it.  OH!  Except I did hang out with a friend before-hand where I enjoyed a vodka cocktail...or two. 

No big deal.  I could still do it.

My trepidatious self-portrait on the way to the gym.  What?  I was driving.  And feeling more than a little apprehensive.  
 How difficult could this possibly be?  I was going to a gym.  Inside.  On a treadmill.  I was practically cheating!

And yet, it didn't feel like cheating.  It felt like a monumental effort just to keep myself from pitching off the back of the stupid treadmill.

I was sweating.  And glaring.  And daring anyone to make eye contact with me.  And mentally cursing Kianwi and Ken.  Not really.

Yes.  Really.

Eventually, that stupid little digital number got to 3.1 and I hit that giant red STOP button.  I wasn't going one step further than was required. 

I gasped my way to the locker room, collected my belongings, and stomped my way to my Jeep that transported me home where I immediately collapsed and didn't care how this proved how pathetically, deplorably out of shape I am. 

But dammit.  I did it!

One last thing for anyone still with me.  A good friend of mine, who happens to be plagued with schizophrenia, has agreed to let me interview him on Thursday.  He's always been very open and candid about his disease and if anyone has any questions they'd like me to include, let me know, either in the comments or by e-mail.

Okay.  Stick a fork in me.  I'm done.