Who?

     Making the rounds on the InterTubez is a little video PSA that I find quite relevant. It has nothing to do with either idiot politicians spouting nonsense about science, or cute kittehs/puppehs/bunnehs (though I'm never opposed to the latter).

     No, this has to do with one of the great science fiction dynasties of our time.

     Doctor Who.

     For the uninitiated, that is not a question, it's a title. The good Doctor is a creation of the BBC, and next year he'll be celebrating his 50th anniversary, having first been portrayed by William Hartnell in an episode called "The Unearthly Child" in 1963. 

     A native of the planet Gallifrey, the Doctor roams all of time and space in a craft called the TARDIS (Time and Relative Dimensions in Space). He often travels with a companion or companions, depending on his mood. And, oh yeah ... he regenerates. At a point of death, his body can generate a into a totally new form. That explains how 11 different actors have played the role over the last 49-plus years, a stretch that includes a 1989-2005 programming hiatus (with only a one-off 1996 TV movie starring Paul McGann in between).

     So why, you ask, am I Who-ing it up today? 

     Well, a new season — the seventh since the 2005 series reboot welcomed the Doctor into the 21st century — will begin airing on BBC America on Sept. 1.

     I'm excited. So are many of my friends and fellow Whovians. We just want to share the Who love.

     Plus, there's that PSA I mentioned earlier:

     In this clip, celebrity nerd Chris Hardwick, founder of Nerdist, supports the current BBC America campaign on Twitter, #newtoWHO. Think of it as a pledge drive for Whovians. 

     The idea is to have existing Who geeks — such as myself — tweet (or perhaps blog) about when they first felt the call of the TARDIS. Hopefully, the theory goes, we can entice some fresh blood into the proceedings. Or at least aid some of our own family members who may have difficulty following our conversations/vocabulary.

     In his lifespan — OK, his TV lifespan; the character himself is more than 900 years old, though at the moment he doesn't look a day over 29 — the Doctor has been fun, fresh, cheesy, wise and dangerous. He's been through different faces, different wardrobes (fezzes ARE cool) and different tastebuds (fish fingers and custard, not so much). He's brought death to some and salvation to many.

     But there is one constant for those of us who remain devoted to the show: You never forget your first Doctor.

Good Old Four

     Mine's Tom Baker.

     Good old Four. He of the iconic 67-foot-long multi-hued scarf and tricked out hair. Oh, and the constantly proffered bag o' jelly babies.
     I fully admit the plots in his tenure (1974-1981) were utterly cheesetastic and the f/x were worse. It was a guilty pleasure. And I loved every second.

     Back in the Long Ago, when I first watched Four and his various traveling companions hurtling across space in that blue box, there was no cable. No On Demand. No DVDs/DVRs. Not even a VCR. All I had was a console TV the size of a damned Buick. There were maybe 10 channels feeding into it via signal from a roof antenna. I HAD TO GET UP TO CHANGE THE CHANNELS MANUALLY.

     There also appeared to be no set schedule for this cheesy show I stumbled across as a kid and really, really liked. Our available PBS station seemed to only get episodes in when it could afford them. So I never had a sense of episodic order to my Who experience. But it sure was fun. I still rack up old episodes these days, too, despite my love of the rebooted series. I was just watching 1975's "The Ark in Space" a few nights ago on Netflix.
     If you have that service, that's actually the best way to get into the Doctor. All six of the reboot series are available there, in order, in their entirety. If you're like me, you'll start watching and emerge a few days later sleep-deprived but utterly enthralled.
     As I said, season seven begins Sept. 1 on BBA America. So you've got two weeks to catch up.
     Geronimo.

Yoga of the Tuesday

     I have stood up to my fear and spit in its eye. My fear, meanwhile, seems to be taking out its frustrations on my knees.
     It's sort of like a sweaty circle of life.
     A few posts ago, I wrote about stepping up my efforts at the gym. I'm happy to report I continue to progress. Elliptical, treadmill and weight machines all are integrated into my routine now.
     What's more, I've taken the utterly terrifying plunge into uncamouflaged group exercise with Bodyflow. As I've previously related, this Les Mills creation is described by my gym as:

 "A yoga, Tai Chi and Pilates workout that builds flexibility and strength, leaving you feeling centered and calm. Controlled breathing, concentration and a carefully structured series of stretches, moves and poses create a holistic workout that brings the body into a state of harmony and balance."

     After surviving two whole classes, I can't really comment on the harmony part. I can say with great certainty, however, that my balance utterly stinks.
     I can also say with great certainty, "Ow. ... Ow, ow, ow. Ow." I'm merely quoting my knees.
     Additionally, I have commented on Facebook that I am quite stunned I haven't spot welded to the floor.
     My mantra — aside from "Ow, ow, ow" and under-my-breath random cursing —is "It'll get better."
     And it will. Honestly, I was very pleasantly surprised to find I had begun to noticeably adapt in just two classes. I'm not kidding myself, I've got a long, long way to go, but I feel I can do it.
     The unfailingly pleasant instructor, Kay, who strongly reminds me of one of my favorite high school teachers, has been wonderful. She gave me a quick rundown of the process my first class and simply said, "Do what you can. Don't beat yourself up. You'll learn."
     The other folks in the class — it's a mix of ages — have been welcoming and encouraging as well. That's something I worried about, given some previous encounters with ultra-fit gym rats who look at fat old me as though I am something they just scraped off the bottom of their shoe. Thankfully, though, they are turning out to be the ones in the minority, and as I go forward, I'm learning to be less intimidated by them.
     I can't say I'm going to be totally free of my Simmophobia, though. I think I'll always be embarrassed/scared by the thought of falling on my face/butt/other extremities in public exercise situations. That, and, well, Richard Simmons is a little frightening.
     In the meantime, I'll just keep at the Bodyflow thing in addition to my other gym work. I'm getting to the point that I really like it, and I'd like to be more proficient at it.
     But I do have a suggestion. I stumbled across a meme recently that appealed to me very much as both a budding yoga fan and as a geek, and I think the gym might benefit if it adapts this into a real program. Surely I'm not the only sci-fi nerd out here who wants/needs to improve fitness-wise.
     Behold, Star Wars Yoga:

   

     The whole set of poses can be found here.
     Apparently there are SW yoga mats and bags available on Etsy, but I've not heard of this as a real class. ... Hmm, maybe that's my new million-dollar idea. Remember, you heard it here first.
     May the force be with us all.

Bon anniversaire, Julia

     Hold the phone. I am prepared to make a shocking announcement.

     I do not own a single, solitary cookbook by Julia Child.

      Honestly, I am unsure how this has come about. I just checked my beautiful Big Kid Bookshelf, the one where all most of the cookbooks live, and ... nope. We've got Paula Deen, Giada DeLaurentiis, Ted Allen, the Frugal Gourmet, various Disney collections and lots, lots more.
     But I am sans Madame Child.
     Why all the fuss? If you're on Twitter, you may be seeing the proliferation of the hashtag #CookForJulia. Because today, Aug. 15, would have been the grand dame of French cooking's 100th birthday. PBS, on whose Boston affiliate Julia's legendary show began in the early 1960s, has a large tribute set up online. People everywhere are being encouraged to #CookForJulia — to attempt any of her dishes then blog, tweet, FB or Pin the results.
     She's even today's most excellent Google doodle, and the subject of YouTube hit "Julia Child Remixed," as seen below:

   
     Meanwhile, I remain dreadfully embarrassed that I own not a page out of Julia's vast body of work. I've never even attempted one of her recipes. *shakes fist at self* What kind of cook am I?
     Honestly, French cuisine has never been a big blip on my food radar. I'm more into Italian or Mexican these days, with a smattering of Asian here and there, dotted in between big, juicy steaks. Of course, I remember seeing Julia's shows and her big, bold personality in passing throughout my childhood. In the pre-cable days of the long ago, PBS was one of only a handful of channels we could pick up via the old antenna. But Saint Joan, who admittedly never has been a particularly adventurous cook — though her pot roast is still enough to render her born-again foodie daughter incoherent, it's so good — never was a regular viewer.
     Still, it's impossible to deny Julia's impact on the culinary landscape.
     I may not have gravitated toward her cookbooks, but I fully understand that without her, there would be no Food Network. She created the industry of the celebrity chef. She singlehandedly ushered in an era of good, fun food to home kitchens that were dominated by dry chickens, canned vegetables, TV dinners and Tang.
     As someone who has evolved from the stolidly Pennsylvania Dutch cooking of her childhood to a woman left squee-ing after eyes-roll-back-in-your-head-good meals in the restaurants of Emeril Lagasse and Mario Batali, I have the utmost respect for Julia, whether her food was on the table or not. (As an aside, come hell or high water, one of these days I'm going to dine at Alex Guarnaschelli's Butter and Michael Symon's Lola, too.)
     I think, though, that in honor of this great food heroine's day, I really need to attempt one of her recipes. I do love French onion soup — Supportive Partner Man (big damn cook in his own right!), not so much ... meh, more for me — and naturally there's a Julia recipe for it. I have all the fixings, so I'll give it a go later. I also have a brisket in the freezer, which may also turn into a Julia attempt. We'll see how the soup goes.
     Naturally, I'll report back later.
     In the meantime, if you love food, go raise a glass of wine in Julia's honor. Watch "Julie & Julia" or maybe find an episode of one of Julia's shows on PBS or YouTube. Cook something.
     Oh, and definitely watch the hysterical 1978 Saturday Night Live sketch with Dan Aykroyd as Julia: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x7tnc9_the-french-chef_fun. It's a classic, one that Julia herself reportedly loved.
     And ... bon appétit!

BlogHer: Postmortem '12

     A week and a day have gone by since the whirl of gaiety that was my inaugural BlogHer outing.
     I confess to being slightly disappointed. Not by any of the myriad reasons other folks have been posting on Teh Intertubez the past several days (too crowded, too whiny, too dissed ...), either. No, I was saddened because I thought this was supposed to be a party happening ... and no one thought to break a champagne bottle over my noggin and call it a christening. Oh well, I guess no one wanted to risk arrest.
     There's always next year.
     So, yes ... more than a week has evaporated, and I haven't published a single, sodding word to this space. I have no excuse other than being sucked headlong back into the vortex of my regular night gig. Instead of writing, I've edited a host of copy about rail-trails and sewer bills ... oh, and some super genius who hijacked a pickup, crashed it, then swiped a tractor-trailer, crashed it and got shot at all while leading a bunch of PA staties on a 100-mph chase down the turnpike. You know, normal, every-day stuff.
     Honestly, I began writing this post a couple of times only to find myself blocked. Still processing, I guess. All the while, I've been reading a host of other wrapups and recaps, some positive, some negative.
     Perhaps I'm just not trying hard enough, but I can't summon up any rage to speak of.
     In fact, I had a pretty damned good time. I got to kick around New York for a bit, visit a great Lego store and attend a Disney movie screening and reception. What's not to like?

The Manhattan skyline at dusk, during
a rooftop reception after a Disney event.

Rockefeller Center ... in Lego.

 
     To be certain, there were hiccups. It was a conference with several thousand women milling about. Of course there were megalines for the ladies room and fighting over "swag." Have these people never shopped in an outlet store on Black Friday? You've not lived until you've witnessed a couple of grannies come to blows over an ugly purse at 3 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving. OK, some of the swag was a little overrated, and if you haul around too much of it, you'll still have a crick in your neck several days later. But I can't complain. I got some useful stuff. Who am I to argue with free vitamins or vibrators? (Yes, you just read that correctly ... but, like many things, it's a whole other story.)
     And lines? Please. I'm a Disney-holic. Don't talk to me about waiting in lines. Pikers.
     Would I have liked to have made a few more personal connections? Sure. But, like every Disney addict will tell you, there's always the next trip. And I very much liked the new people I was fortunate enough to be introduced to. Many were Whovians, because, after all, we geeks do tend to naturally gravitate toward each other.
     Ultimately, despite some newbie fits and spurts, I was able to accomplish what I set out to do ... learn useful stuff and leave feeling inspired to do more.

The More You Nerd...

     As an added bonus, I got to team up for the weekend with my very dear friend April. Best move I could have possibly made. We got to split the cost of a room and hang out, which we seldom get to do, me being in Pennsylvania and she being in Connecticut. We also were able to cover a broader selection of conference sessions. In the long run I think that will be a real boon for the Disney-themed website she owns, I edit and for which both of us and several others write: Enjoying the Magic.
     Oh, and to top everything, I got to see an "Ace of Cakes" culinary sculpture live and in person at an annual shindig called "Sparklecorn." It was, appropriately, a giant silver unicorn with a Zachary Levi/Nathan Fillion-approved "The More You Nerd"-style logo on a fin erupting from its back. It was a thing of beauty.
     What more could anyone want?

No pain, no ... well, you know

     I am sore.
     And it's likely to get worse, entirely of my own volition. That's not a bad thing.
     Come hell or high water ... and given the storms in Lancaster County tonight, the latter is entirely possible ... I will be hauling my tubby self back to the gym in the morning to lift more weights.
     I started back at the gym right about a month ago, spurred by the enthusiasm of Supportive Partner Man (toning up and slimming down!) and his truly epic War on Fat. I'm happy to report that I am still on the road to wellness. Up until now, however, it's been an exclusively cardio road.
     To try and get my cholesterol-saturated ticker and its accessories used to the idea of pumping blood again instead of melted butter, and so my joints wouldn't die of the shock, I stuck to the elliptical the first two weeks. Then I added the shiny new treadmills to my rotation. Just my second time on that, I forced myself into my own little HARC Death March ... a 5K at a 5.0 percent incline. It took me an inglorious hour. But I did it. The next morning, my Achilles' tendons felt like they were on fire. I could barely walk down the stairs.
     You could say I overdid it a bit. Earned me a minor scolding from Rachel, our awesome nurse practitioner. But I got back on the horse, er, machine, and started conditioning myself. Two more weeks down the road, my Achilles' don't feel like they're going to rip away, and I miss the cardio if I don't do it. I'm feeling much better, physically.
     So I've upped the ante again.
     On Monday, I had a 10 a.m. meeting with Dave, one of HARC's resident fitness instructors. At 67, he's more than enviably fit, leg-pressing 415 and hitting 125 on the abdominal crunch machine of doom. His challenge was to take me through all the Cybex weight machines and help me find proper form and correct settings.
     I only did one full set on each machine, but that apparently was enough to make a dent. I woke up Tuesday morning feeling quite achy. Given my intent to hit it harder today ... and throw in some cardio ... Thursday could be a big-time ibuprofin day. But again, that's not a bad thing.
     Maybe by the end of August, I'll be up for the next change in routine. Dave heartily suggested I try a group class in Bodypump or Bodyflow. That'll be a caution. I have long lived in fear of group exercise classes, as I am alarmingly uncoordinated. I've always been afraid of falling smack on my face in such a scenario and making a complete fool of myself. I know several people who do group classes and love them. My friend Cindy, for example, is the Zumba queen. Lori is a spin class fan who also has described herself as a "Pilates evangelist." And John is actually in training to become a yoga instructor. These friends often speak glowingly of their disciplines' benefits. I believe all of them. Meanwhile, part of me wants to try Bodyflow, described in the playbook as:

 "A yoga, Tai Chi and Pilates workout that builds flexibility and strength, leaving you feeling centered and calm. Controlled breathing, concentration and a carefully structured series of stretches, moves and poses create a holistic workout that brings the body into a state of harmony and balance."

     But I'm still petrified of publicly choreographed exercise.
     I wonder if there's an official name for that. Jazzerciseaphobia, maybe? Or, the unnatural fear of Richard Simmons ... Simmophobia?
     In the meantime, I'll just be over here in the weight room, picking things up and putting them down.