We are about a week away from the start of August. With it brings the county elections and the statewide primaries. I would say that I have voter fatigue, but I have paid so little attention to all of it that I am genuinely still curious about it. Some of the candidates have mostly been sideshow-entertaining (thinking of “End Universal Jihad!” billboards, embarrassing interviews on WSMV and the one with the incredulous fly-in-fly-out Sarah Palin endorsement). Other have been even more ridiculous (“Giving Washington the Boot”, “Meet ‘em at the state line” and “I hope we don’t have to secede”). National pundits are certainly getting a laugh at Tennessee’s expense, but it is a position that we have grown accustomed to — reinforcing every hillbilly, backwoods stereotype known to man. I could tell anyone from the east coast that our Governor must wear a coonskin cap while giving his “State of the State” address, and nobody would bat an eyelid.

August also brings the start of football season and the beginning of training camp for the Nashville Predators — I will let you guess which one I’m a bit happier about. Despite playing an 82-game season between October and early June, even the short months in between seem to drag on. It is too early to get much of a sense of whether the team will be a contender this year, but shoring up the ownership “situation” and making a couple of other strategic moves certainly sounds like a better start than a few years ago when I was contemplating whether the team would even be around at this point.

My wife’s birthday is in three weeks. Suggestions. Go!

So that is it. The Nashville Predators drop the deciding Game 6 to the visiting Chicago Blackhawks, ending their playoff run in an all-to-familiar date on the calendar: late April. The hockey club has proven very reliable at getting to the postseason, but only mildly effective at doing anything when they get there. Their first accomplishment is not being swept by any team that they’ve played (Detroit, San Jose and now Chicago). This year it was finally winning a road game.

Read similar laments from 2007-08 and 2006-07.

Baby steps, true. But for a franchise in its eleventh season, I have to wonder how long “baby steps” can support a fan base that dreams of nothing less than a Stanley Cup in Music City. Considering the off-the-ice saga that seems to dog the Predators every summer (sale of the team, pending move to Ontario, bankrupt billionaires, arena leases), it seems improbable that they will be shaking these “small market” blues anytime soon. Perennial underdogs.

At lunch today, a group of co-workers were discussing the challenges that Nashville has in supporting two professional sporting teams. The Tennessee Titans enjoy an embarrassment of riches in fan-support, player talent, and raw cash to lure in the talent that makes or breaks them. Their fans often forgive-and-forget when it comes to missing the playoffs, or if they too are bounced out of the early rounds. The Predators are perhaps the exact opposite — zero payroll to speak of (the salary cap is a non-factor), few sellouts and even fewer dollars to market the team to new fans. Again, perennial underdogs.

So now what happens in the off season? There will be a handful of unrestricted free agents to either reel in or cut loose. There is the draft, but unlike football the players will either go back to their college or off to an AHL team to prove their worth before making the jump to the NHL roster. There will likely be a few trades, but doubtful it will be for a big name (see: zero payroll). I am even betting on a random Predators investor to be charged with fraud. You know, just to keep it interesting.

The 1-for-30 on the power play through six games tells of one area in blatant need of improvement. Reliable offense is always in short supply in our defensive-minded team, so a playmaker line has to emerge through trades or development. Goaltending is not that much of a question mark any more, with Pekka Rinne keeping his team within reach for most of the games he was in the crease. Not sure if Dan Ellis gets traded to be a starter elsewhere, or if he is content getting 20-30 games a year in the relief role.

Obviously, if you have read this far down, it is apparent that I am disappointed in how the season ended. What I am not disappointed with is the times I got to hang out with friends at the game or at viewing parties in living rooms or bars. It was a great season, and only one team can advance in the playoffs.

The 2010-11 campaign starts in 163 days, and to say what I am hoping in not becoming our team moto: “We’ll get ‘em next year.”

I tried my best to remain calm despite the crowds and the frequent violation of “personal space” by the spectators. It did not help that the rain had started to fall, and my only umbrella was in my car a little more than a mile away from where I was standing. They had come to watch friends and family cross the finish line of the Country Music Marathon here in Nashville. As for me, I was doing the same, but I was fairly sure that everyone had already completed the course by the time I got there. Still, I had never been on hand for the event, and it was all that was on my schedule for the day. I really just wanted to go and snap a few pictures.

The last week has been a rather interesting one. On Tuesday, I witnessed a Stanley Cup playoff game that may unseat my favorite hockey game I’ve ever watched — the other being a game in a past series against the Detroit Red Wings. The building was intense, the play was good and the scoreboard showed 4-1 Nashville Predators over the Chicago Blackhawks when the final horn sounded. The following night, I went to a political event with Samantha that involved a lot of music, food, drink and dancing (I took part in everything but the dancing). Thursday was another playoff hockey game, but the result was less than stellar. So watching the end of a marathon seemed like a good way to close out the week.

When I walked up to the marathon finish line, the fifth and sixth place runners had just arrived. The storms were rolling in, so these runners were lucky enough to complete the course before the race organizers abbreviated the race. I did not know anyone running the full marathon, but I did know a number of people completing the half marathon. As I made my way over toward the half marathon finish line, I saw a wide range of emotions: pain, relief, joy, disappointment and enthusiasm. There was surely some reason behind each — perhaps they pushed their body too far or crossed a personal milestone on the road to a better self. I have run a handful of 5Ks now, but those runners never showed this much raw emotion. I guess in those meager 3.1 miles, you treat everything as “business as usual.”

There were dozens of “teams” that were running for various causes. The American Heart Association and the The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society both had a large contingent, as did Tim McGraw’s foundation for brain cancer research in honor of his dad. Some wore shirts for a family member, a workplace or a school. Everywhere you looked, there was some reminder of the symbolism that this race held for each participant. If you get a minute, a friend of mine wrote a piece about her own motivation to run the half marathon.

But of all of them, there was one that really stood out to me. There was not a t-shirt or flag for this cause, or a team or a tent. It was just a middle-aged woman, holding a picture over the railing at the finish line. In the picture, there was an older woman with a bandanna on her head. Nothing else was around it to give it context. The bandanna likely covered the hair loss from chemotherapy treatments — I could not come to any other explanation. I found myself ignoring the runners came in to cross the finish line, and just looked at the picture. Having lost someone who was very important to me to cancer in the last year, I could feel my heart breaking for the woman and whomever she was waiting to cross the finish line.

A few minutes later, the announcer called everyone’s attention to a scene just a few feet from the picture — a young couple stopped suddenly before the finish line, and the man dropped to one knee. My cynical self immediately thought “attention whores,” but then I chuckled a bit to myself. Here they were, a few feet from a powerful scene expressing that life is fragile, beginning theirs anew together. Dozens of other runners swept by, each holding something in their heart that brought them out to run today.

The rain began to come down harder, and the race officials announced that the full marathon runners that had not yet completed the course were being diverted to finish with the half marathon (about six or so miles short). Most of the full marathoners (they wore blue bibs) were obviously disappointed, but still ran hard to the finish. Two guys, however, argued with a race official when they realized they were not getting the full course. “I didn’t come all this way to run 20 miles!” one shouted. By now, lightning had already cracked on the horizon, and the police were urging everyone to make their way to the shuttles or their cars. The men continued to argue as other runners darted around them before abruptly turning around and running backwards on the course. I have no idea where they were going, unless it was find whatever 3.1 miles looked like before coming back. I’m guessing they were just running for themselves.

After realizing that everyone I knew had long since come and gone, I started back toward my car. My phone measured the distance out at a little over a mile, as I had parked on Fatherland Street and walked to LP Field. In spite of the heavy rain and the distance, the stroll went rather quickly. I was too lost in my thoughts on everything I had witnessed to notice.

The alarm had gone off two hours prior, but getting out of bed this morning was a chore and a half. We had watched and celebrated the Nashville Predators nab their first road playoff win over the Chicago Blackhawks late into the night before, and the older we get, the earlier our bedtime is supposed to be. My plan for the day was sparse, but I really wanted to check out the Earth Day Festival at Centennial Park like we did last year. While Samantha was getting ready to head out, I started to straighten up the apartment and took out the trash.

Today was a beautiful day, with the temperature hovering in the low 70s for most of the day with bright sunshine. As I walked back from the trash cans, I noticed that Samantha’s car door was not all the way shut. I opened the door to lock it, and saw the pile of of stuff in the passenger seat. We had a bit of a guest overnight, likely walking through the parking lot and looking for unlocked cars. Whoever he or she was, he opened the door, sat down and emptied the glove box and center console. Not finding anything of value, he moved on. Nothing was stolen, not even chargers for our phones. After reaching that conclusion, I put back where it came from and cleaned out the floorboard of the car from the leftover Diet Coke bottles from her last two weekends on the road.

I went in and told Samantha what had happened, and called the police. While nothing was stolen and the car was not damaged, I wanted to make sure that the incident was at least part of the statistics in case there was another car break-in overnight. The dispatcher took my information, and said an officer would be there soon. I kept cleaning out the car and making sure there was not anything that I remembered leaving in it. The person could not have spent long in the car, as the backseat was left virtually untouched (same beach towel in the seat, paperwork in the back pockets still in place). The officer rolled up about ten minutes later. My opinion of Metro response times has greatly improved.

He was a friendly guy, gesturing me to come to the side of the squad car where he rolled down the window. He asked a few simple questions (“When did you find it like this?,” “Are you certain that nothing of value is missing?,”) as well as the expected reminder about locking your doors in any neighborhood, not just East Nashville. “I’ve worked in this neighborhood for 19 years, and I can tell you it has really changed,” he said. “But you’re still going to have things like this happen in every neighborhood. You just gotta be smart.”

We talked a bit longer while he finished up the paperwork, noticing the UT Alumni Association plate that my wife has on the back of her car. “I went to UT, but it was time to go,” explaining that he, like me, had a bit of an extended stay. He was talking about Knoxville, but I decided not to bring up that I attended UT Martin. I signed the report, and he gave me the slip of paper with my case number on it. As frustrating as it is to have somebody go through your stuff, I am relieved that nothing was in there to steal, and that whoever it was did not damage the car in the process of not finding anything to steal.

We drove to the post office, where I learned that our Earth Day plans were changing — we were finally going to go get bikes. When Samantha and I moved to East Nashville, there were three stereotypical requirements for living here: skinny jeans, station wagon and bicycles. Neither of us can do the skinny jeans part (there’s a joke here about cheap hotels, but I will save that for a later time), and the car situation is fine as it is. The bikes, on the other hand, have just been a question of when and how much we wanted to pay for them. The answer was “soon” and “not much at all.”

We drove to the Academy Sports in Rivergate to grab two $125 bicycles. Many good friends of ours pleaded with us to get “real” bikes, but we went with the economy line of Huffy cruisers. Nothing fancy, nothing to write home about, and probably will have a resale value of about $25 a piece when they inevitably fall apart. I sent a message to a friend of mine with a Honda Fit to help us get them home — as Alison put it, her contribution to Earth Day was transporting two bicycles in a vehicle that gets 38 miles to the gallon. The three of us chilled at Ugly Mugs for a bit before getting on with the rest of the day.

I attached the various accessories that Samantha had picked out, aired up the tires and adjusted the seats before heading out for a test ride. Mine rides fine, Samantha’s still has a few kinks to work out. Not being too terribly mechanically inclined, I am hoping whatever is wrong is a simple fix.

All in all, a productive but strange day.

March was a chaotic month on many fronts. It is the last month that we had to effectively pay for two apartments (the lease was not quite finished on the old one) and it marked the return of cable television to our lives. No, I am not all that happy about that, but the faster Internet speeds ended up being a necessity given our employers’ “remote workplace” needs. It also means I get to watch hockey again, so you will not hear much complaining from me.

Speaking of hockey, the Nashville Predators pulled within a single point of clinching a playoff berth with three games remaining after a 3-2 win over St. Louis. They travel to Detroit this Saturday and to Phoenix next Wednesday to grab an advantageous spot in the standings. Analysts say we would prefer to get Phoenix or Chicago for the first round while avoiding San Jose and Vancouver. I am not nearly as concerned with the first round opponent as I want the outcome to mean advancing to Round 2 — something that has not yet happened in franchise history.

Completely unrelated: Anyone know where I can get a decent haircut on the east side? I do not intend to grow a Playoff Beard Mop.

Samantha called me Friday after we had met up for lunch to let me know a rock had chipped her windshield while driving back to work. No big deal, I thought. We will just get it repaired and move on. So around noon on Saturday, a mobile repairman visited us at the apartment complex to do an on-site repair. He had called to let us know that he was overbooked with stops, so it was going to be a challenge to get us in before noon. No worries, we had all day.

The repairman (we will call him David), took the tools from the back of vehicle and put on the latex to keep the chemicals he was using from coming in contact with his skin. David was fairly methodical about his work, explaining the process at each step as he had likely done dozens of times already that morning. In between steps, he would ask us questions about the apartment complex. “Is it a good place? Do you know what a one bedroom runs?” I did not, but I shared what our rent was and said that we planned to move. I told him about the towing saga of aught nine and how infuriated I still was about it. He then explained why he was asking.

David was involved in a serious car accident earlier this year that had left him bedridden. The glass repair job was a fairly recent development for him now that he was back able to work again. His girlfriend had quit her stable job to take care of him during the day because there was no one else that could look after him, and obviously a paid caretaker was out of the range of affordability. He and his girlfriend were looking to move out of their home and into an apartment, an inevitability now that the hospital bills were coming due. As he scraped off the final piece of sealant film, I could tell that he was embarrassed for having shared that much about himself, but those were just the facts of his situation. Find a smaller place, keep working as much as he could, try to stay above water with the hospital bills. I have a lot of hope and confidence in David, but I also know the harsh realities. He likely was not supposed to be back at work yet, but the bills were not going to pay themselves.

Samantha had some writing to do, so I went down to Centennial Sportsplex for the first Nashville Wave Up, an event organized by Nate Baker. (Edit: Nate points out that Christy, Morgan and Eric all had a hand in it, too.) We were all going ice skating, and our conversations had little to do with the Google service. Really, it was just a reason to hang out with other Nashville-area geeks. Christy and Morgan of Nashvillest fame were there, along with around five others. I was quickly reminded that ice skating is either a) not as easy as rollerblading or b) I was never that good at any kind of skating to begin with. I made three laps around the rink mostly holding on to the wall and returned my skates. I would like to go again, but I want to make sure that my skates are fitted properly and can be spared the embarrassment of falling down in front of people I know — complete strangers can point and laugh all they want.

Speaking of skating and Nashvillest, I grabbed a Nashville Predators ticket to that evening’s game for $10 after a tip from their Twitter feed. It was a great game that ended in a 4-3 shootout victory for the Preds over the division rival Columbus Blue Jackets. I sat in front of two guys that were talking about the events of the day, where a 60-39 vote in the United States Senate had paved the way for what promises to be a contentious debate about the future of the American health care system.

“I don’t want to pay any more in taxes, and I don’t want my taxes going to fund a big government health care plan,” said the first man. “I just don’t understand why we are even talking about raising my taxes.” Neither men went much deeper than that statement, so I could tell that they were versed on the talking points but not on the details. The second man might have a slightly deeper notion, only because he said that his business (oddly enough, in a health-related field) would not be incentivized to innovate if the government were involved. He then said that countries with nationalized health care were proof — he says countries like the United Kingdom and other European locales were behind the curve on medical innovation.

I began to wish that David from that morning was sitting next to me. Talking points aside, the men were more afraid of general uncertainty than they were of any one bill moving through the Senate. So is David. The difference is that David probably has trouble sleeping at night because of the lingering pain from the car accident and from the worry of how he is going to provide for himself and his girlfriend when the medical bills eventually force him from his home. It would seem to me that one of these fears is more justified than the other. The Senate bill is not perfect. Neither is the version that passed the House. Neither are the ideas put forward by the Obama administration or various think tanks across the country. But if we put our current codified system up for a vote, I can promise that not a single elected official would support it or else face an angry constituency that would make a Tea Party protest look like a band booster bake sale.

What is missing from the debate are the stories of men and women who live in fear of real dangers and threats, not whether their taxes will increase. I have never met anyone who was taxed into starvation, but I have met people who lost their homes because of medical bills. I have met people who did not receive the quality of care that we would want for any of our loved ones because they were unable to afford it. They lived with the pain because there was no other alternative for them. So while 100 people in Washington threaten filibusters and attach amendments aimed at gutting the bill or scoring political points, I hope they at least give a moment’s thought to David and the millions more like him. I hope they give even a passing glance at those who know the word “taxes” mean little when they are spending more than their annual household income in order to pay their medical bills, and diving deeper into debt to make sure the prescriptions can be filled.

At least the hockey team won, and my work performance is not based on my skating abilities.

I parked the car around 3 p.m. to start my afternoon excursion. I knew a bit about what I wanted to do: catch the pre-game festivities in front of the Sommet Center, possibly catch a bit of the UT/Florida game, pick up my hockey tickets and watch the Nashville Predators take on the Columbus Blue Jackets later that evening. I knew there would be some down time in between all of that, but I decided to just play it by ear.

I walked up the street to Broadway and mingled in with the tourists. Nashville has a rather humorous group of visitors who stick out like a sore thumb, mostly because they are wide-eyed and often in cowboy boots and hats. Few obey basic traffic conventions like crosswalks and sidewalks, but the Metropolitan Davidson County government is more than happy to take their tax dollars and send them along their merry little way. I made my way over to Bailey’s Irish Pub to catch the UT game. Samantha was supposed to have spent her afternoon there with the Davidson County UT Alumni Association (she’s on the board), but other projects had come up. The bar being full, I made my way up to the patio.

I claimed a table in the far right corner and sent out a Twitter and Facebook status looking for company. One of my co-workers showed up a few minutes later as my drink was arriving, so I hung out with him for a little bit. He was in search of zombies; more specifically, the kind that walk around Nashville every so often creeping out that batch of aforementioned tourists. I had missed the memo, so I was not of much help on his endeavor. As 4 p.m. neared, he finished off his drink and continued on his quest. I watched the football game from the relative safety of the patio.

Curiosity got the better of me (and the football game was taking an inevitable turn for the worst), so I paid my tab and headed down to Riverfront Park to join in on the search. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of someone who either was a very messy eater, extremely pale, or walked around with a bit of lurch. These things alone did not necessarily throw them in the category of “zombie,” but combined the resemblance was unmistakable. It began to rain, and I walked under a tree to dry off my phone’s screen. A group of teenagers (not nearly as pale as those other few had been) walked up to me and very politely asked if I would take a picture of them. I obliged, and the leader of the group handed over a camera. She then instructed the group to gather in front of the river, and everyone was to make a face like a fish. I snapped the photo, let her review it, and they were on their way. I have no idea what had just happened, but it was not the strangest thing I had seen on that Saturday afternoon.

I walked back towards my tree, stopping briefly to check to see if I had any messages about zombies. An elderly black gentleman walked up next to me and lifted his umbrella over my head. I appreciated the gesture, but immediately took a rather defensive stance. Riverfront Park is where you will find a good portion of Nashville’s homeless population, and I could tell by his friendliness that I was about to hear a story in exchange for some financial help. I thought to myself, “It’s Saturday and I’m hunting zombies; at the very least this guy could have the leftover $7 in my wallet.” I easily had a full foot in height over him, could move a lot faster, and the most dangerous thing he had in his possession was an umbrella. I cannot remember his name, so for this story I will refer to him as Ben.

Ben asked me if I was from Nashville, and I said no. That’s not typically the answer I give, but I wanted to see what he would say about the city to a non-resident if I told him that I was from West Tennessee. He told me that he was originally from Union City in northwest Tennessee, a place where he and his wife had lived in the nineties. He was wearing a sweatshirt, but I could see the top of an untied apron around his waste. He told me about being a cook over there until he and his wife had moved to Nashville in early 2000. “I’m 60 years old, don’t drink and don’t smoke.” He had worked a few odd jobs at Belmont in their kitchen and a few hotels over the years. His speech was clear, and he generally used correct grammar. He was putting off the part where he described his current predicament.

In 2003, his wife died of breast cancer, an event that he says traumatized him. While skeptical of such a story at first until he he went into some of the finer points of how much he missed her. His breakdown precipitated into shutting off friends, and anger kept him from keeping steady work. “I am going to be completely honest with you, it messed me up. I wasn’t ready to lose her.” In January, he lost his housing allowance from the Metro Development and Housing Agency. He rented a room from some people affiliated with a local church, but said that he quickly wore out his welcome with them when he was unable to find work. “I wasn’t born yesterday, and anybody can tell when you’re no longer welcome somewhere by they way they talk to you.”

So for the last four months, he had been living on the streets. The Metro Police Department had cited him for trespassing when he napped on the nearby pedestrian bridge, but waived the fine. “That’s the good thing, because there was no way I could have paid it anyway.” He said that the only time he got to clean up was when he walked over to the Farmer’s Market bathrooms (private rooms with locking doors) with a bag he kept hidden in the bushes.

He claims to have had a recent moment of clarity, when he realized that that the only one he had to blame for his rough luck was himself — “Sure, I lost the love of my life, but that’s no reason to be angry at everybody.” He said that things were already changing for him. He had just finished his first day of work in more than year, and he had found a place for him to stay for $12 a night. “Now, it’s a small place. My feet almost have to hang out the window to be comfortable, but it’s my place.”

The total duration of his story as the rain beat down on the umbrella was about eight minutes. I reached into pocket and handed him the $7, saying that it was all I could give him. At the very least, I had paid him a reasonable rate to listen to his story and have him stand there and hold an umbrella over my head. He offered to walk with me to wherever I was going, but I declined, saying that I had a group to catch up with. I shook his hand, and walked on down the street. I looked back a few minutes later to see Ben walking with a guy across the street, holding an umbrella over the gentleman’s head. I wish him the best of luck.

Oh, and I did find the zombies. They were surprisingly friendly, and even let me take a few pictures as a few hundred of the undead walked around downtown. The hockey game went well too, with Nashville winning 3-2 when Shea Webber slapped in a shot from the left face off dot. It was a fairly productive Saturday.

Saturday morning I got up and went to the Nashville Predators prospects camp at the Centennial Sportsplex. There was a fairly sizable crowd that had shown up to see therecent draft picks, junior and college hockey players. While few of the guys are well-known around Nashville, all are expected to have a very bright future within the organization at either the AHL or NHL level. I took a few pictures of the players and coaches going through their drills.

For those interested, there are 66 days between now and the first preseason game against Atlanta.

The Western Conference, and in particular the Central Division, is by far the toughest to compete in. At one point it was within the realm of possibility that all five division rivals could make the playoffs. It looks like it will be just Nashville sitting it out this year.

I am not going to mourn the passing of this season as I usually would. Instead, I am just that much more excited for October to roll around and for the guys to get back on the ice. I hope the front office can made the rights moves in the off season to put us right back in the mix in 2009-2010. It should only require a few tweaks, not a major overhaul. The now-ended season will likely be decided by a margin of only one or two games. Flip those losses to the win column and the Predators would not only be in the playoffs, but likely sitting as high as fifth or sixth place in the conference. A natural goal-scorer, a defensive specialist and an electrifying rookie would be all it takes to return the team back to the elite rungs of the standings.

They will be back.

Empty net goal. Chicago wins. The Predators are on the outside looking in with only two games remaining.

Is that not how life is at times? We get ahead, get knocked down by the unexpected, fight back, only to still end up behind at very critical moments. The economy certainly has left a number of people feeling that way, with hardworking people finding themselves suddenly out of a job after putting in years and years with their employer; they are let go with a phone call or company-wide memo. Those out of work cannot seem to catch a break either. It has not been much of a year for the underdog, with no Cinderella stories being told. Those that are down-and-out often stay that way these days.

This introspective is not spurred on by anything in particular, just a realization that the limits of our desire to hope for a better tomorrow continue to be tested time and again. We are not living in a time when you can just pick yourself up, dust yourself off and expect to have any better of a chance to succeed. There are people around us who, under normal circumstances, would fight through a tough economy by making those sacrifices and giving it the extra effort. But nothing is harder to take than to be told that your best is just good enough.

At church this past Sunday, a man stood up and asked us all to pray for those who had recently lost jobs and homes. It was a very simple request, but one that many too often forget or choose to ignore. There is awful lot of hurt in our communities, and it would do us all a bit of good to become more aware of and compassionate about it whenever we can. Perhaps a kind word or an uplifting prayer is all it takes to help someone make it through to the next day.

Today’s excitement kicked off this morning with our second 5K in as many months, this one “Runnin’ to Beat the Blues” at Centennial Park here in Nashville. The rain made it a very soggy trek around the Parthenon, but we still managed to turn in personal-best times. We are far from avid runners (although we are starting down that path), so my finish at 45:37 and hers a minute later gives us at least a bit of satisfaction. My time was from the official clock because my iPhone’s stopwatch reset at around mile two. I really need to find out if the time chips the Nashville Striders use cost any extra.

There was a rather touching moment during the race as the course ran parallel to itself coming back around the road beside Centennial Sportsplex. An older gentleman, at least in his upper sixties, was jogging along in front of us at a fairly good pace. He looked across the way to another man he knew and and yelled “I guess you got this one. Next time!” The other man just smiled as he continued ahead on the loop. I hope I have that kind of long friendship (and friendly rivalry) when I get to be their age.

Our next stop was over in East Nashville to the Walden Artisan Market, a small gathering set up in a vacant (and remarkably unfinished) storefront off Eastland Avenue. We walked around to the nine or ten booths, finally settling on a jewelry maker. My wife picked up a silver necklace with a cross on it, something she says that she had been looking for for quite some time. Its always a good idea to support the locals whenever we can.

She and I both napped after the race, giving up a good chunk of our Saturday for some much-needed sleep. Twitter, the television and finally the weather radio alerted us to the strong line of storms moving through the area. It is not one of my favorite rituals, but my wife has us go down to the fitness center in the event of tornado warnings to get us on the ground floor and out of our apartment. This is the first time I have had my phone, so it was not nearly as boring. That, and the hockey game going on downtown had a thrilling OT finish shortly after the the storms passed.

We are now settling in for Earth Hour, although I understand that many Nashville residents are having an involuntary blackout as NES works to restore power.

I pondered a bit about the nature of luxury. Does the upper middle class suburbanite really forgo the expensive haircut and settle for a trip to the local strip mall? No time to wonder about such things, the haircut was done almost as quickly as it started. We continued on our evening errands before heading home.

We tuned in to the Predators game as they continued their march toward the playoffs. I took notes in order to write a story for a start-up site called FanBase. Keep in mind that I have never written a story about hockey, and the last time I wrote a sports piece at all was when I interned for the American Junior Golf Association. Hockey and golf have few similarities (other than the stick mildly resembles a golf club, and the nomenclature is equally complex).

My story is written with several revisions to correct glaring misspellings of eastern European names. I have since decided to abandon my ambitions of being a hockey writer; not because it is particularly difficult but because I spent entirely too much time writing and not enough actually watching the game. Perhaps I can try my hand at other hobbies.

On Saturday, Samantha and I participated in the Nashville Predators 5K, a road-race that took us around a good chunk of the downtown cityscape. It was our first 5K to run in, second for which to register. Illness kept us away from the event last year even though we both have t-shirts and ticket stubs from the hockey game later that evening.

Our planning for this event always begins with good intentions. We planned out a number of conditioning runs, regular visits to the workout facilities here on property and a healthier diet after the holidays. It never goes according to plan. In spite of being a bit less-than-prepared for it, we lined up at the start, near the back to keep out of the more competitive participants.

As we made our way around the first turn, I took a moment to take stock of our fellow runners and walkers. You can spot the competitive types, with their skin-tight wind jackets, headbands and sunglasses. They were also the same ones that were running before the race even started to stay loose. Some stood off by themselves to collect their thoughts, faces bunched in a serious scowl towards nothing in particular. I envy their dedication, but I cannot help but think that it is rather comical to be that “in the zone” for a race launched by a costumed saber-toothed tiger.

Other participants included moms with those jogging strollers, a guy juggling as he ran, young children (8-10 year-olds), teenagers, middle-aged guys and an amusing group of women twirling hula hoops. As for my wife and I, we were just the couple in our mid-twenties who walked most of it and jogged a few blocks if the spirit so moved us. There were three little girls in blue hockey jerseys running with their parents. I had no idea that there was even a youth hockey league for young girls, but I guess I know now.

We hit the first mile (a little under a third of the total distance) around the 19 minute mark. Obviously, we had no hope of setting records with this one. Our final time came in at a few seconds over 51 minutes. (Note: Whoever accidentally turned in their time under my name on the Nashville Striders Web site ran a much better race than I did. I have e-mailed them to fix it.) One of the elders from church is a high school cross-country coach. We were supposed to have been helping him mulch that morning until we realized the race started at 10 a.m. instead of 8 a.m. I sheepishly told him this morning before service of our time, to which he just laughed and said, “well, you got it in under an hour, so that’s good.”

So that is my final verdict on the race. We will shoot for a better time next year.

Thanks to ticket deals, a 5K race and an inordinate number of games at home in February, we will be attending three of the ten Nashville Predators games this month. We went to our first of the set tonight, with the good guys knocking off the Anaheim Ducks 4-2. The win breathes new life into what had been a fairly dim chance of getting back into playoff contention. We will be on hand for the Bruins game Feb. 14 (my wife is awesome and/or a saint) and the Coyotes game on Feb. 26.

That would appear to be the overarching theme for 2009: slow but steady progress. A recent survey at work indicates that most in our industry do not see this year as having much of a chance at being better than the last for the overall economy, but are staying upbeat about their own businesses’ prospects. My wife has requested an embargo on talking about the state of the economy while at home unless it relates directly to us. I can certainly empathize with her sentiment there.

On two separate occasions, someone has told me how they wish we could catch a break in the nightly news docket of economic doom and gloom. If someone would go into the mainstream media and just tell us things are getting better quickly (read: tell an outright lie), the psychological boost to our nation would be enough to get the economy’s gears moving again. I am not sure I believe that it would happen, but I suppose it is good to have that as an option if we run out of all others.

One of the things I am doing to strike a more positive note for 2009 is to set a few goals. We are already a week into the new year, so to call them “resolutions” is likely impermissible. I hope to get to more networking events in Nashville this year to stay current on what all is happening in the Music City technology crowd. Like many Americans, I want to concentrate a bit more on physical fitness this year. Signing up for the Nashville Predators Fangtastic 5K in February is a positive step in that direction. Other goals include reading more and a slightly wider variety of books as well as eating out less and contributing to our savings account more often.

Unlike the talking head due on television any day now, I hope that I am telling the truth when I commit to those goals.

• Wrote one letter to the editor
• Joined my employer’s 401(k) plan
• Bludgeoned with primary election season coverage
• Enjoyed a nice, long period of quarterlife angst
• Endorsed a candidate for president
• Saw Ani DiFranco and Over the Rhine at the Ryman
• Received a tax refund and stimulus check
• Signed another a lease for another year at our apartment
• Attended my first Stanley Cup Playoff game (Predators 3, Red Wings 2)
• Re-activated my Twitter account
• Designed the "Go Green" theme for my Web site
• Attended the East Nashville Hot Chicken Festival and the downtown fireworks
• Endured a long summer of staff transitions at work
• Received first post-college promotion
• Attended the Tomato Arts Festival in East Nashville
• Turned 25 in August; received a bit of a discount on car insurance as a result
• Marked my second year with my employer in September
• Finally purchased an NHL game for the Wii, much to wife’s chagrin
• Posted (almost) every day for the month of September
• Attended the second annual BarCamp Nashville event at the Sommet Center
• Became the proud owner of an iPhone 3G
• Celebrated two years of marriage and five years of being with my wife in October
• Early-voted in my second presidential election and third for a U.S. Senate
• Launched a site for NCAA All American candidate Lester Hudson
• Attended my first wedding for a college friend
• The wedding was the only time I left Tennessee in 2008 (5 miles over state border in Kentucky)
• Joined a Disciples of Christ congregation
• Accompanied my wife as we purchased a new car for her
• Donated our minivan to the National Kidney Foundation

There is also that retrospective component of the new year that guides us to reflection. I believe 2008 was, on the balance, a very good year. The two of us remain in good health and gainfully employed in stable jobs in spite of the economic outlook. A testament to that can be found in our decision to donate the van that I had been driving back and forth to work to charity instead of selling it (either to a car lot or junk yard). Proceeds will go to benefit National Kidney Foundation of Middle Tennessee. It will not help much as is valued at less than $200 in the books, but we are thrilled to do it.

The Nashville Predators downed the Detroit Red Wings 3-2 tonight, so optimism reigns supreme. Here is to a prosperous and exciting 2009!

Hockey season is well underway, with the Nashville Predators sitting at 3-4 on the season. I watched their sixth game the night of BarCamp and their seventh on television. I am still trying to wrap my head around the notion of four unanswered goals and an empty netter after leading the Calgary Flames 3-0, but I guess that is just the way it goes some times. Hopefully those two points will not be too important later on next spring.

We are just about into single digit days until the November 4 Election Day, and I can say with some certainty that most Americans are ready for this process to draw to its conclusion. We have been hearing about town halls, Iowa corn fields, gaffes, discredited “advisers”, lipstick and other overall silliness since February of 2007. The usual caustic tone seems to have quieted in the last few days, for what reason I cannot be sure. Over 800,000 Tennesseans have already voted, and most analyst think that our state is not really in play this time around. We have already voted.

Now to figure out what to do this bright Saturday morning.

The game crashed every time I went to use the tutorials or practice modes. While most people might just dive right in, I usually like to try out the controlls first. After starting a game, playing through it and then restarting the disc, all the modes seem to be working now.

Gameplay is very different from its PlayStation 2 counterpart. There is a lot of jabbing and moving the Wiimote and Nunchuck around to perform basic tasks like shooting the puck or checking another player. The opening sequence for each team is rather impressive for a video game. I think they obscured the goal songs just enough to avoid paying royalties, but you get the idea. Nice touches like having the growls count up to the number of goals on the scoreboard are impressive.

I hope there was not anything important that I was supposed to be doing with my free time at home. Those prospects are looking fairly dim.

A Nashville, Tenn. resident blogging mostly about politics, news media, technology and hockey.

The word blogging moved on to writing. In the absence of hard and fast rules, I consider blogging the active participation in an ongoing discussion with other bloggers. This makes up some sort of “blogging community,” where current events or proposed topics are analyzed at length and then linked to other community members for their thoughts. The typical blogger gets several comments on each post from passionate readers wanting to further add to the discussion.

There are quite a few examples of people being paid to post links and commentary on the Internet for our enjoyment. Many are skilled wordsmiths and unabashed self-promoters. Most have devised a plan to even make more money annually than you or I do with advertising and affiliate links. My hat is off to them.

I am not a blogger.

What you read here is written for no particular audience. I have a couple of friends and co-workers who drop by on occasion. Facebook regularly imports my posts and shares them with friends there. Sometimes I might write something someone feels is worthwhile to share with others, but I rarely return the favor.

I write simply to keep writing.

A few years ago, someone told me that I had better figure out a way to use my background with IT and Web technology to make my way in life, “because [I] certainly won’t make a living by writing.” I have also been told I have zero business-sense. Lacking those two elements would obviously put me at a disadvantage for running a successful blog or being a successful blogger.

As for the rest of the tag-line:

• I am trying to resist the urge to rant about politics. That is more challenging than I previously imagined.
• Critiquing the news media is likely akin to armchair quarterbacking, but I do it anyway. It needs improvement.
• I still try to write a bit about hardware and software. New stuff comes out every single day.
• There is a gracious and loving God in Heaven. Not entirely unrelated, hockey season starts soon.

For the un-indoctrinated, FFL is an online simulation of what would happen if you took players from all 32 NFL teams and each participant “drafted” his or her favorite players. Each week, the players on your roster are scored based on their performance in a real game (number of yards rushed, interceptions returned, field goals kicked, etc.). The scoring is a complicated formula and varies widely by FFL provider. Your roster’s points are totaled to come up with a team score, which is then matched in a round-robin style of scheduling against other league members.

The most time consuming aspect of fantasy football is managing your rosters. You can only have a certain number of players “active” so that their performance score is counted in the team total. A participant must watch the schedule (if an NFL is on a bye-week, no performance points are recorded) and figure out which players among your choices are bringing in the most hypothetical points.

Most fantasy football leagues of any decent size have three kinds of participants. The die-hards buy a stat book from last season and agonize of who they start or sit. The casual players login ever couple of weeks to see how they ar doing. The no-shows do not bother to ever update their roster. As it is all a game of chance, no particular kind of participant performs better than another on a given week.

I really just want the hockey season to start.

I prefer the fall. The weather in Tennessee generally holds steady in the mid-70s, with only the occasional evening thunderstorm. My two preferred sports of hockey and football shift into full gear in September and October. I am generally in a better mood during hockey season, even if that means dragging a bit the next morning at work because the game in Vancouver or Calgary went to a shoot-out. I have fond memories of cold nights at football games.

With every season, life seems to pause and give us an opportunity to reflect a bit about where we have gone and how we have grown. I must confess that I cannot give a sufficient answer to that question; I am as much in awe of the world around me as I am befuddled by it. My resolve is as strong as ever, but I cannot shake this feeling of confusion and uncertainty. Most people say it is called “being in your twenties.” What kind of answer is that?

This month I am trying my best to take up reading books again. I have never been much of one for pleasure reading, although I can say that I make a point to read several of the articles from our subscriptions to Wired and Rolling Stone. I would much rather read a concise article than a 300 page book on the same subject. My technical books notwithstanding, my most recent purchases have been books on business and self-improvement. That just about sums up my areas of personal focus.

The apartment is quiet except for the din of an air conditioner units downstairs. I should probably make a point of wrapping up my writing at a decent hour.

Image Credit: 2K Sports; GameSpot

According to an interview with 2K Sports’s Jeff Thomas, the first NHL game for the Wii will have an added bonus that I thought they would never add to a hockey game: driving the Zamboni.

[...]
Action has also been taken to enrich elements peripheral to the actual hockey gameplay. The fighting engine has been completely redone, and NHL 2K9 will even feature a Zamboni-driving minigame between periods. Steps have also been taken to bring out the pageantry of playoff hockey. Players will now grow playoff beards and, if you are lucky enough to win the Stanley Cup, you will have the opportunity to skate around the ice with the cup hoisted.
[..]

Of course, most of this is gimmicky stuff that has little to do with the actual gameplay. It does add a bit to the overall replay value of the game; If it were not for the promise of cool cut scenes and added facial hair, why bother completing season mode? It is clear that EA Sports will skip this year for a Wii console release, so NHL 2K9 will win this round by way of forfeit.

Bonus: The screenshots show the Predator’s Ryan Suter hip-checking Columbus’s Manny Malhotra off his skates while another shows She Weber beating the ever-living crap out of Chicago’s Patrick Sharp (image 17 in the set). I seriously cannot wait until the season starts.

Okay Peter Moore, the puck is at your end of the ice now. Are you going to let 2K run away with a year of hockey for the Nintendo Wii and leave EA Sports on the bench?

From GameSpot:

NHL 2K9 sticking it to Wii

2K Sports announces first licensed hockey game for Nintendo’s system, promises Wii Remote stick control and full feature set.

By Brendan Sinclair, GameSpot

While the NFL, NBA, MLB, PGA, and even the WWE have all seen their professional athletes and entertainers appear on Nintendo’s Wii, there is at least one three-letter acronym in the world of sports that has yet to be converted for use with the motion-sensing Wii Remote. 2K Sports today announced that it will bring “the first and only” NHL- and NHLPA-licensed game to the Wii with NHL 2K9.

Already announced for the Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, and PlayStation 2, NHL 2K9 will retain the full feature set of those versions, while adding motion-sensitive controls. 2K Sports has said that players will be able to use the Wii Remote as a virtual hockey stick to mimic a variety of actions, including face-offs and slap shots.

To mark the occasion of the NHL arriving on Nintendo’s latest system, Mario will make an appearance on the red carpet at tonight’s awards for the 2008 NHL season. The mustachioed plumber is no stranger to hockey fans, as his “Super Mario” moniker has long been the nickname of Pittsburgh Penguins legend Mario Lemieux.

All four versions of the game are being developed by Visual Concepts, and will see release in the fall.

It is about time. Wonder if we will get a picture of Mario standing next to Mario? I am looking your direction, ESPN.

Here is a statement from Dave Freeman, the largest stakeholder in the team and chairman of the group (emphasis mine):

“The developments of the past several days have been shocking and disappointing. I am particularly disappointed because so many have worked so hard for so long to bring stability to this franchise. This is an unfortunate distraction for the NHL, the city of Nashville, our fans, and our business partners.

“Obviously, I cannot and will not comment on Mr. Del Biaggio’s personal situation.

“Here’s the bottom line for the citizens of Nashville and fans of the Predators: regardless of how many lawsuits are filed against Mr. Del Biaggio, regardless of the amounts of the claims, regardless of the details of the allegations, Mr. Del Biaggio’s problems are personal. Mr. Del Biaggio is a minority owner. His minority ownership stake and its final disposition will not impact operation of the club. It is my hope and anticipation that the club will be even stronger once this saga reaches its logical conclusion and Mr. Del Biaggio is no longer associated with the club.

“We are in frequent contact with the City, our banking partners and the League to ensure that we are responding quickly and appropriately and we will continue to work closely with these partners throughout the process. At the same time, our organization is moving forward uninterrupted and unaffected by these developments.”

I would much rather be reading stories about who they are bringing in to the organization to wrestle the Stanley Cup away from the Detroit Red Wings instead of a lot of red on a balance sheet.