My ribs are bruised. When I breath, it’s a bit painful, but not terrible. When I laugh there’s a sharp but not unbearable pain, and when I walk I feel something not quite right in my hip. Last night I stream-rolled over an opponent as four of their players had passed our defense and were on the way to an easy goal.

I didn’t like the way they were sauntering lazily towards me, as if they had all the time in the world. It’s respectful to everyone if these things are done quickly. They put me in a very bad position with few options and plenty of time. If the poor guy was smart, he would have gotten rid of the ball before I reached him. He had plenty of time – didn’t he think about what I could possibly do to prevent them from scoring? Couldn’t he deduce the result of a 210 pound white gorilla lumbering towards him at full speed?

I thoroughly pummeled him into the ground by simply occupying what had previously been his physical space. Two people can’t occupy the same space at the same time, and the laws of momentum make it clear what the rebound of two unequal masses at differing velocities will look like after collision.

The look on his face as he lay on his back wasn’t one of pain, fear, or anger. It was utter confusion. I think he didn’t know where he was or what had happened. I squatted over him, patted his chest and added one more disingenuous swipe at his dignity: “Sorry…. I didn’t mean to do it so hard.”

No response… He lay like a helpless lamb separated from its herd, and you know what happens to stray lambs. His woolly blond hair packed close to his head with a protruding nose and wide nostrils.  What pity can one have for such a creature? Eventually he wobbled back to his feet and walked shakily about for a few minutes as the penalty kick was taken and play continued (and they didn’t score).

We lost anyway.

GPS Statistics courtesy of Chris Hall’s iPod

You may remember Daito Manabe from this video:

Over the years since that began, he has apparently been building a zombie army of body hackers.

It’s good to see the Daito’s body hacking experiments going two ways: from computer to body, and also from body to computer, forming a symmeterical network.

And this is the most interesting direction – copying his face onto his friends’ faces… exactly relevant to a concept I’m beginning to think about over at the Brain Interface Design & Development blog.

Lest we forget the master of all things body hacking, Stelarc:

The results are in!  There were 191 runners who finished the race.  The course was 10 kilometers, or 6.2 miles.  It was raining and a cold 47 degrees Farenheit.

I came in 61st place at 49:45.33.  That’s a bit less than 8 minutes per mile.

Dad came in 106th at 55:51.16.  He won an award for coming in third place in his age group!

Roland Molenka of Kinshasa, Congo via Roosevelt Island came in 151st place at 1:02:23.22

Alex Bovone came in 44th place 47:24.86

The fastest runner, 32 year old Jeffrey Dengate of Brooklyn, came in at 37:32.48, and the slowest, 52 year old Anne Wagenbrenner of Astoria, came in at 1:32:24.89.  There is no official count of the number of people who dropped out along the way.

Harry Chapin Run Against Hunger

Second cousin once removed Marjorie Gruber and companion extraordinaire Manzo overslept and didn’t come to watch us reach the finish line.  Third cousin Jonathan, son of Marjorie, had left the night before.  Pregnant Rinko of Japan (via Roosevelt Island) was there cheering on Roland.  Daniel was injured in Brooklyn.  “Triathlon” Chris had backed out of the race that morning due to the inclement weather.  Mom was in Newark taking a class on new occupational therapy techniques.

Afterwards, the bi-coastal, multinational crew all assembled at the Diner and I ate a big delicious frozen pattied bacon-covered hamburger with pre-cut fries.  Sorry, I did not notice what anyone else ordered.

When you’re young, you wipe jam off your finger and onto your pants.  When you’re old, wasps attack your keychain as soon as you put it down.

When you’re young, you eat with your mouth open to spite your parents.  When you’re old, food falls out of your mouth.

When you’re young, you throw toys as far as you can and then rush to find them.  When you’re old, you wander the house confirming that each of your belongings is where you last remember placing it.

When you’re young, the anticipation of cooked food makes your mouth water. When you’re old, you flatulate uncontrollably.

When you’re young, you’re beautiful.  When you’re old, your loved ones recognize you by your hat.

When you’re young, you hate chores.  When you’re old, a clean kitchen is evidence of a good day.

When you’re young, you gulp milk by the gallon.  When you’re old, you lay in bed belching out the air you swallowed along with the food you couldn’t chew with the teeth you no longer have.

We become caricatures of our former selves.  For some this happens in childhood, others later.

Years ago, on a trip to St. Albans, UK, I remember visiting Hans in the old age home.  The geriatrics seated quietly in a circle.  Each had a few cookies on a plate.  Crumbs accumulated on their lower lips, chins, and the front of their woolen jumpers.  At first, I was surprised the nurses had neglected to tidy the spilled crumbs.

We sat at a table outside with Hans. He had always held his head on his neck stiffly.  He picked up a newspaper, cocking his bespectacled head at an angle, focusing intently, licking his thumb before flipping the pages, and grunting as he always did when stumbling upon a particularly interesting bit of information.  But there was no doubt that he could no longer understand anything written on the page.

Put a dozen well-fed Cubans out to pasture on the grass and you get baseball.  The pitcher spreads his legs like an American matador and stares at the batter.  The batter, the trickster, does a little leg wiggle to show his virility. The catcher squats to support his belly.  The pitcher leans forward and kicks his leg back up over his head, throwing his arm out.  Somehow, despite years of daily practice, the batter misses the ball.  The umpire pumps a fist to the right.  The crowd couldn’t care less.  It’s a subtle sport.

Between batters, the stadium sound system plays bowling alley noises.  A mascot dressed as a big baseball waddles towards the sidelines.  The back of his shirt says, “Mr Met.”  He, assisted by a middle-aged woman, throws baseballs out into the audience.  The crowd goes wild, jumping and waving, hoping to attract his attention.  A young man catches a ball and hands it to the nearest child.

Time for another beer.