Even though they still ooze, my toes have healed enough to allow me to run again. On Tuesday, the gym at work sponsored a little 5K race. It was not a giant affair — only a dozen people entered — but I was pleased to managed to win pretty cleanly. I took off right at the beginning and never looked back.

Or did I?

The course followed the loop around the campus. Not being quite 5K, we also had to run down Seaport a ways and turn around. See map.

Cute little four inch pylons with cute little arrows drawn on them like happy faces marked the course. OK, cool. I saw a bunch of them, as they directed me around the loop and down the straightaway towards Redwood City.

I ran down Seaport, and eventually I saw two large orange pylons and a metal bar ahead of me. So I planned how I would jump over the bar and turn around and come back on the other side of the pylons. As I got closer, I realized that the bar was actually a downed light pole. Wow, pretty severe. How about that.

I turned around and finished the course, easily in first place, running in 20:10, almost two minutes ahead of the fellow who came in second. The fellow who arranged it congratulated me, and told me I won the $25 gift card for first place.

As I overheard him talking to someone else about how he set out the course, I started thinking how lucky it was that the downed light pole happened to be right at the turnaround. Then I remembered how those pylons were much bigger than all the others. That’s when it dawned on me: that was not the designated turn-around point.

Sheepishly, I went to him and said, “Um, I think maybe I cheated.” I explained what happened. Another racer chimed in that the actual turnaround point was only maybe 70 feet after where I turned around, so he agreed that my margin was sufficient to make no difference to my first place.

It sure made me feel stupid though. Maybe I do have an athlete in me. I just wish it wasn’t in my brain.

I cut my toenails last week. For normal people, this is an event of utter insignificance. However, I have this problem with ingrown toenails on the big toe, and I guess when you cut your toenails your body says, “Hey, something’s happened here; toenails too short. I’m gonna pick up the pace!” and they start growing faster. For me, that means they grow deeper and deeper into the flesh on the side. Sure enough, a couple of days after I cut them, I could feel pressure on my right big toe that I recognized as the hints of an ingrowth that could possibly blossom into full-fledged toenail irritation.

So Monday morning I called the podiatrist and went in Tuesday. He explained to me my options: remove the edge of the toenail; or remove the edge of toenail AND the corresponding nail matrix so that the toenail is permanently narrower over the toe, which should hopefully ensure that I never get this problem again. I breathed a heavy sigh, and opted for the more extensive surgery.

I had both sides of both toes treated. Each toe was injected with an anesthetic. Then the doc used this tool to pop the edge of the toenail out, and he trimmed it ALL THE WAY DOWN to the nail matrix (where the nail grows from). If I weren’t numb, I would totally be telling him anything he wanted to hear. Instead, I was watching this graphic, bloody surgery with half-interest like it was a television show I’d already seen.

Then he jams these acid-tipped rods to burn away the nail matrix cells, and scrapes it out with a tiny melon baller. And repeats. Three times for each of the four locations.

He told me it could take up to six weeks to heal. And one of my feet did hurt last night enough to wake me up. But tonight — less than 36 hours after surgery — I was wearing my shoes again, walking around pretty much normally. I think I could even run if I needed to.

Wow. Good choice. And I still get the joy of changing the moist bloody dressing once a day, which appeals to some bizarre gross-out animal instinct in me.

Cutting my toenails will no longer induce pangs of dread. A feeling I don’t think I’ll miss.

Two older fellows who were seated at our table were quickly nicknamed “The Vaudeville Brothers” by Sean and me because of their habit of telling non-stop old-timey jokes of increasingly questionable taste. One introduced the two of them as “the thermometer brothers: I’m Oral and he’s Anal!”

On the second or third night, the older fellow was telling a joke whose punch line featured simulated but enthusiastic male masturbation while reciting a poem “Hickory Dickory Dock”. After the long-winded set-up, he got to the unfortunate punch line just as our wonderful waitress Sorvina (from Romania) was trying to place a bowl of soup in front of him.

His first stroke struck the plate beneath the soup with such force that the bowl flew into the air, spilling its contents on his pants, his chair, and somewhat on her. There was a clatter of dishes and the whole table went silent as we realized we were witnessing something most unfortunate.

The resulting mutual apologies and wave of seriousness was palpable, and a senior restaurant manager came by later to add to the stew of sorry.

I must admit to wanting to hear the punch line to the joke even though I knew it would be especially anti-climactic given the circumstance. My wish was granted when after what seemed to be too short a period of mourning, he backed up a couple lines and delivered the finale.

It might have been just my imagination, but it seemed that Sorvina exhibited a little post-tramautic stress disorder when serving our table for the rest of the night. Or perhaps it was just well-placed caution.

The joke is more or less this one.

I posted my photos from my New Year’s Eve cruise, with captions to make them slightly less tedious. Check it out.

http://picasaweb.google.com/richard.kiss/NewYearSMiamiCruise

On the second-last day of my New Year’s Cruise, Sean and I joined our new friend Michelle on the waterslide a few times. At the bottom of the slide is a salt water pool, which naturally attracts one’s attention after leaving the slide. The three of us were in the pool when Sean started doing jackknifes, presumably in an attempt to cause the biggest splash possible (he maintains that a jackknife yields a better splash than a cannonball).

I thought maybe we could make a bigger splash if we did simultaneous cannonballs, so I said “Let’s do a double cannonball!” We got to adjacent corners, I counted down, then we did our cannonballs. Indeed there was a huge splash (I think… I was underwater), and when we surfaced, Michelle and the six or seven kids in the pool were laughing.

That’s when it hit me. “OK, let’s do a group cannonball!” We got back out of the pool and motioned for everyone to follow. Much to my surprise, everyone did so and distributed themselves along the perimeter.

“OK, point to where you’re jumping!” Everyone pointed. No collisions were evident. “On three… one… two… THREE!” SPLASH!

Upon surfacing I noticed two things: the water was white with post-splash foam, and everyone was laughing. Even the grown-ups.

We hung around and splashed around for a while, and did several more group cannonballs with the folks that drifted in and out of the pool. Everyone seemed to love it, and one girl who just watched the first time enthusiastically joined in when we immediately did it again.

It was so fun. Much more fun than it had any right to be. As Sean said, “I like how it takes two thirty something year-old guys to show the kids how to have fun.”

OK, I know what you’re thinking — “What’re you, twelve years old?” Yes. Yes, I am.

Got back from our Carnival Victory cruise early Monday morning. It was a fantastic week, best described as a New Year’s Eve party that never ended. So much happened, we were busy pretty much every minute of every day. It was the longest period of time in years that I did not go on the internet.

What could have happened, you ask? We met a ton of people, some of whom were very interesting and a few people that I think will be friends for a long time. Sean’s luggage did not make it on the boat (it went onto the Carnival Valor, only to be seen again when we arrived back home), so that presented some special challenges and adventures. It’s a good thing we’re the same size.

So many memories… flight delayed to 2 AM and rerouted to Miami; tall Giedra; lost luggage; the Vaudeville act brothers (“We’re the thermometer brothers: I’m Oral, he’s Anal”); New Year’s Eve party; a smiling fellow who “won $1000” in the casino; Karaoke Rob every night; adorably cute Camilla from Finland; rented tuxes; our lovely Romanian waitress Sorvina; eye movement therapy demonstration from BodyTalk professional Janet; wandering on foot in Grand Cayman; a bike and kayak trip in Costa Maya; happy Michelle using way too many internet minutes; suave Brad from Air Force One; river tubing trip in Jamaica with Lauren and Ali; lame comedy; winning a $50 jackpot by drawing four deuces in Deuces Wild Poker; swimming; the water slide; group cannonball (my favourite!!); hot tubbing; sunning and sudoko; jokes jokes jokes jokes jokes, including the oft repeated lines “That’s what I’m talking about”, “That’s what she said” and “Too soon”; Micky’s balcony room; oh-so-sweet Liz; my FBI shirt; people that would only talk to us once; the beach in Miami; the slippery Australians; running into Ed at the Miami diner; the constant stream of food, especially the lobster and Warm Chocolate Melty Cake WOW; the “Jerked Pork Loin”; the Hickory Dickory Dock soup incident; the chocolate cake room service; laryngitis epidemic; Michelle’s birthday; baked Alaska; Kelly from Austin who loved to touch stomachs (shudder!); the disco with the TVs; the arguing family across the hall; sleeping late; staying up later; Christina’s saga that took her to Washington, DC; buffet open for photos only; cruise directors Tracy and Shelbyville; the Hungarians; the Legends show finale; the crazy old woman in the Newlywed Game; Dr. Kel and Tracy; the dog who would fetch money; phallic pylons; cute gamblin’ FAA rep Kris; Eric’s obsession with the cruise ship staff; the musical interludes during dinner which made a heck of a lot more sense if you participated; “Hips Don’t Lie”; VP Karen; party favours; evil Bruce; hammocks and lost sunglasses; the scuffle featuring super-intensive truck driver Frank; notorious Jeff from Boston and his karaoke intrusions; waiting forever for a cab at the port…

Next cruise, everyone is invited. Seriously.

Happy New Year everyone. Tonight I am flying out to Florida for a New Year’s Cruise aboard the Carnival Victory with my friend Sean. I don’t know what the ship is “victorious” over, but hopefully the illustrious bounty will be shared among the passengers.

Wish me a week of sun, fun and voluminous levels of gluttonous overeating to the extent that it dwarfs the other six deadly sins.

Viva consumption!

As I often do on Sunday night, I went to the Sonoma Chicken Coop in Campbell (which is many miles from actual Sonoma) and did a quick set before heading over to Katie Bloom’s down the street for some Sunday night karaoke with my friend Sean.

The stench of garlic fries hit me hard as soon as we went through the doors. There was a huge crowd at the table in the middle, and Sean immediately recognized them as the cast of the play “The King and I”; the same gang that was there a few weeks back.

Cast members did a lot of songs, and they did them with a confidence and professionalism that was almost unfair to us amateurs. One song they did was “You Light Up My Life”, where the entire cast sang to an older blonde woman who sat on a chair nearby, directing them.

Afterwards, I asked a guy, “Is she the musical director?” He explained to me that she was Debby Boone, who originally recorded the song they sung to her. It suddenly made a lot more sense.

I lived in Los Angeles for three years and never once saw a famous person outside of places you might expect them (like at venues that they were scheduled to appear at). Yet here I was, in downtown Campbell on a Sunday night, singing karaoke in a bar with a real live honest-to-goodness recording artist. Pretty neat.

There were a bunch of other folks around, including some regulars that I recognized. Sean had left at this point, so I was by myself. There was one other dude by himself, and Kathy (who cleverly calls herself “Kathy-oke”) called his name and, reading from the karaoke slip, said “Pete will be singing with Debby Boone.” Debby looked up, alternating between confused and scared, but made her way up. And they sang! I forget what the song was, but it was a pretty classic duet.

At this point, I realized the guy was a genius, and marveled at his chuztpah (which I think is Yiddish for “balls”). I had my camera, so I took a bunch of photos, and afterward, got his email address because I figured he would want a copy.

I know it was genius because I was jealous: I wish I had thought of it!

By the way, I talked to Debby for a few minutes and found her to be very pleasant. I don’t know why I feel the need to point this out, but there it is. See the Flickr Photos