Run around, around and 'round.

The 90s didn't really begin until Clinton took office. The 80s hangover of the Bush I years included some of the most unfortunate clothing, hair and music choices of the 20th Century. At least, it did for me. During the 1990s I was hyper-conscious of living in the now, that these were THE NINETIES. And so was everyone else.

IT'S THE 90S! from Everything Is Terrible!

Of course, I spent a lot of the 90s wallowing in the 70s, but that has to do with rediscovering my childhood, which was a Gen-X pastime in the 90s. It wasn't until 1997 that I was suddenly obsessed with the Millennium.

Stereolab - Dots and Loops (1997)
Brakhage
Miss Modular
The Flower Called Nowhere
Diagonals (167 bpm)
Prisoner of Mars (171 bpm)
Rainbo Conversation
Refractions in the Plastic Pulse

Stereolab was my portal into the new century, maybe because they used it to advertised the reintroduced VW Beetle, maybe because it sounded so trippy -- but it was still retro, the early 1970s idea of what the 21st Century would sound like. It made me nostalgic for the future, an idea of the future that I had forgotten existed. Positive and hopeful, melancholic and doubtful.

Temperature: 62°
Distance: 3.25 miles
Knee-bends: 20

My knee was not hurting for almost a week, until last night or the night before. It comes and it goes. The zero drop shows have done astonishing things to my calves, and to my abdomen, which feels tighter, albeit under a layer of fat. Yesterday, I was having back issues. Standing up was challenging. Just yesterday. Don't know what that was about. But just getting out of a chair, or out of my car, I was doing the old man thing.

Speaking of old men, my father has gotten so old. My brother and I (he turned 51 on Tuesday) had a conversation earlier in the week. He doesn't get to see my dad as often as I do, and was surprised at how slow he is walking, the assistance he needs on uneven ground. I should be grateful he has spent a good deal of time fighting against entropy, either running -- which he can't do anymore -- or walking, which he still does, only now my mom goes with him. Last month he fell down, he falls down now, and banged up his face pretty bad.

My father is only 77. He himself makes dark jokes about the average life-expectancy of a white American male, and how his time is almost up. But I am not okay with that.