Heart & Sole Race Reports

Last weekend our family spent the morning in Salinas for the Heart & Sole Races. This race always conflicts with the Carmel Valley 50K trail race, and most years I select the trail run for my weekend event. But this year I was happy to skip the trail race for a couple of reasons:
1) My son wanted to try another 5K, this time with me accompanying him instead of his Mom, and...
2) My employer is a sponsor of the Heart & Sole. It’s never a bad idea to put in some face time at a company charity event. Plus, it’s always amusing to see your co-workers and supervisors walking around in running shorts.

Since I wasn’t running the race competitively (well, sort of...you’ll see), I thought I’d keep a diary of the events for a race report blog post:

8:10AM (all times PDT): My son and I turn in our registration forms, and my friend Mike is working at the table. When my son is out of earshot, I lean over and half-jokingly ask Mike, “So how does the under-10 competition look?” OK, maybe it was one-quarter-jokingly. I’m pretty sure I was joking a little bit.

8:30: The Annual Heart & Sole Race is underway! For all but two people, that is. Despite peeing just ten minutes earlier, my son is crossing his legs and bending his knees throughout the National Anthem. Finally he tugs at my shirt, and we head over to the porta-potty just as the star-spangled banner was yet waving. So much for getting a jump on the field.

8:31: My son exits the porta-potty, and our race is underway!

8:44: Mile 1 completed in 12:05. When we were training, the farthest the kid ran continuously was 1600 meters. So when I ask if he needs a walking break, and he shakes me off, I’m more than a little impressed. The kid has his game face on.

8:50-8:55: I notice we are slowly gaining on a young-looking boy running alongside his iPod-wearing mom. Without even realizing it, I start accelerating to reel him in, leaving my son a few paces behind. I gradually slow down to my son’s pace again, and nonchalantly say, “Hey, that kid looks about your age.” No response; the kid is either focused or oblivious. Either way, we’re still jogging.

8:56: Mile 2 completed, total time 24:00. Pace holding steady. We’re still jogging. And we finally pass iPod mom and her kid.

9:00-9:04: We’re actually reeling more people in now, mostly very old men and a group of fifth- and sixth-grade girls. We’re also getting passed by the first 10K runners who are coming around the course a second time.

9:05: A young-looking boy catches up and runs beside us for a while. Before he moves ahead of us, I give him an enthusiastic “Nice job, keep it up,” followed a few seconds later by “So, how old are you, anyway?” You know,...just trying to be friendly.

9:08: We see the finish line and my son hits the jets, as I look over my shoulder to see if any other little kids are gaining on us. It’s good news: we’re in the clear. I can relax now.

9:09: We cross the finish line in 37:14. For my son, this is a 6-minute PR over his time at the Big Sur 5K 3 weeks ago. At this rate, he’ll be running sub-20 minutes by the end of the summer.

9:10: In the finisher’s chute, a 40-something, overweight Hispanic woman comes in behind us, and tells my son, “You were my inspiration to keep going!” Apparently she had been only 5-10 yards behind us for the last two miles, but seeing as how she wasn’t a 10-and-under male, I didn’t seem to notice her. This was her first 5K, and my 7-year-old kid helped her finish. How cool is that?

10:15: Heat 1 of the Toddler Trot features my 4-year-old daughter blasting away from the competition for a decisive victory. OK, there was only one other 4-year-old kid in the race, but still, my girl looked awesome. She’ll move up an age division next year, but she’s left behind a 4-and-under course record that could stand for years. I need to write more about her soon.

10:20: In Heat 3 of the Toddler Trot, my 2-year-old daughter jumps out to an early lead and gradually pulls away for another convincing win. Both of my girls have trounced the competition this morning – I feel like Venus and Serena Williams’s father at the 2001 US Open when both daughters reached the final.

10:25: The buildup to the eagerly-awaited Salinas Valley Fruit and Vegetable Dash (pictured) has all the odds-makers guessing. The carrot clearly has the best runner’s physique, but the chili pepper has been a bundle of energy all morning. The zucchini has a score to settle after everybody has mistakenly been calling her a cucumber all morning. And if you read this blog at all last week, you know who my family was cheering for.


The race was a tightly-contested affair, with contact amongst the runners and several lead changes to keep the crowd buzzing. The grape bunch surged to win by a belly at the line, just edging out the strawberry and the chili pepper. Results will become official after the grapes submit the obligatory urine sample and pass the drug screen.

10:30: Heading back to the car, I check the age group 5K results. My son was 5th in his 10-and-under age group, behind one ten-year-old, two nine-year-olds, and an eight-year-old. Not a bad showing for the kid – and he has three more years to conquer this division if he keeps at it.

10:35: Best aspect of the Heart & Sole: every kid in every race gets a medal. As our family walks back to the van, my kids are wearing medals (or, as my 4-year-old princess predictably calls it, her “necklace”) and talking about the good time they had at the race this morning. My wife and I tell them how proud we are of everybody, and they’re all talking about doing it again next year.

The medals on these kids are merely an outward sign of what their parents already knew: they’re all winners to us.

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Berry Burnout

You know what? I've done a lot of blogging this week. The whole strawberry mini-series idea turned out to be more work than I anticipated. I cranked out four posts that were much longer than I originally intended. I spent way too much time on the computer each night.

I'm tired. My kids miss me. My wife thinks I'm becoming an Internet recluse. And to top it off, the number of comments dropped off steadily with each post - a clear sign of collective fatigue settling in to R&R this week. (One other comment-related note: is anybody else interested to see a post from Olga elaborating on her comment about teen love in a strawberry field? Maybe if enough of us suggest it, she'll indulge us.)

So today, I'm keeping it short. One quick story with a strawberry theme, and I'm calling it a week. Just for kicks, I'll even relate it to Wednesday's Jewel post as well. And I promise to keep it under 300 words. Starting...now:

My favorite flavors of energy gels have always been 1) just plain, and 2) vanilla bean, in that order. But you know what they say about plain vanilla guys. So every now and then I get this wild notion to try something different.

So at the Big Sur Marathon expo I bought energy gels from a vendor, and noticed one of the Clif Shot flavors was "Sonic Strawberry". And, well...you know how I feel about strawberries by now. I bought a few packs to add a little flavor to my training.

Last week I did my first long run since the marathon, and brought the Sonic Strawberry with me. About 8 miles into the run, I finally got to try it.

It tasted absolutely awful. How could they screw such a delicious flavor up so badly? It reminded me of cough syrup and Sucrets. I drank about half of my bottle of Gatorade just trying to rinse the taste out of my mouth.

Then I remembered that the reason I settle into patterns in the first place is because I like those particular patterns. Sure, I'm a plain vanilla guy, but that's what I've found works best for me after years of trial and error.

The Sonic Strawberry experiment was my version of Jewel trying out hair extensions and body glitter in 2003: the notion that being more exotic or exciting will make life more appealing and/or successful. Not surprisingly, the results didn't work out well for either of us.

So on my next long run I'm going back to using my vanilla bean and just plain Gu packets, and not second guessing my boring preferences.

And the next time I get a strawberry craving, I'll just eat some out of the refrigerator.

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Strawberry Fields

Occasionally I can block out the middle of the day for a workout, and I’ll go for a run or bike ride through the fertile fields of the Salinas Valley.

The campos (fields) are generally laid out in a large grid pattern, with major thoroughfares paved, and the others left as simple dirt roads. It’s an easy area to run or ride, because there are a lot of opportunities to cut a workout short, or tack on an additional square as needed.

Given the Valley’s distinction as the “salad bowl of the world”, most of the major agricultural companies are based here. If your next bag of lettuce is from Fresh Express, Dole, or Ocean Mist (among others), or if your current box of strawberries is from Salinas or Watsonville, chances are I’ve rode or run right past your meal in its early stages of production (don’t worry – I make sure I’m in the middle of the road when I blow snot rockets out).

The aromas of the fields vary with the seasons. Sometimes I’ll avoid particular grids simply because of the smells I anticipate there. There are certain crops – cauliflower, for example – that have a powerfully unpleasant smell when baking in the sun all day. And needless to say, when it’s time for fertilizing any of the fields, I make a beeline upwind.

This time of year, the overwhelming smell is the sweet fragrance of strawberries. I like to ride my bike through the campos and smell the berries with every breath I inhale.

The visual effect is also pretty cool. The tops of the bushes are covered with leaves, and as my bike glides between two adjacent fields, it’s like I’m sailing through a lush green ocean, with a strawberry-scented sea breeze in my face.

In the campos, I also witness the labor that harvests the strawberries I’m so fond of.

Typically there are teams of migrants who pick the berries by hand, walking bent over from the waist for miles at a time, collecting the berries in boxes that are stacked on a nearby tractor, for other workers to bundle and strap together.

Those crops that aren't hand-picked utilize an enormous harvesting machine that drives among the rows. A large group of workers walks behind or alongside the giant machines to gather the produce that the machine doesn’t catch. Still more workers ride on the machines to sort out the endless stream of roots, stems, rocks, and leaves that rains upon them from a conveyor system below.

If my bike is like a sailboat on the green sea, these machines and workers are the leviathans of the ocean, slowly trolling the landscape and scattering vast amounts of dirt and leaves in their wake. Many times I’ll roll by them almost unnoticed, as the entire crew remains focused on the task at hand.

Since I’m frequently in the fields during the middle of the day, I ride past some workers on their lunch breaks. They usually sit in the dirt roads on the fringes of the fields, leaning against their cars to utilize whatever shade they can find in the midday heat. Their clothes and bodies are filthy, and they sit quietly to save their energy to get through the remainder of the day.

I know their bodies probably ache from the strain of yet another day of hard labor. I know they make far too little money for the pains they inflict upon themselves. By comparison, the fatigue of a strenuous bike ride or run is trivial.

I know that most of them will go home and share a house with as many as 30 other workers, living in conditions that we normally associate with third-world poverty. I know that most of them left wives and children behind many months or years ago to work in these conditions. I know that they sleep restlessly, worried about their health or their security or their ability to provide for their families. I know that the next morning, they’ll wake up and do the same routine all over again.

In those moments, there’s definitely a guilty feeling in my stomach when I ride past them on an expensive bicycle, dressed in colorfully clean workout clothes, peering at them from behind darkened glasses, taking a midday break from a job that pays me more money than in a month than they may see in a year.

I sometimes wonder what they think when they see me. I’m sure it’s some mixture of resentment and envy and disregard, but you would never tell by their expressions. When I pass in front of them and our eyes meet, I’ll lift my hand and say a quick hello, and occasionally I’ll get a head nod or a quick greeting in reply. Then we go on with our respective tasks.

But when I get off my bike and notice the layer of dust on it blown from the soil, I think of how much dust must be in their lungs. When I see the tan lines from my bike shorts, I think of how harmful spending day after day in the sun can be. When I feel the soreness in my legs, I think of the damage they endure just to make it to the next day.

And when I smell the beautiful fragrance of strawberry fields, I think that for many people, perhaps that smell is not particularly sweet.

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Goodbye Alice; Hello Jewel

I’ll get to today’s post in a minute, but first, an administrative note. Check out the anonymous comment I received yesterday from my Spellbound post: “I’ll be(e) there for the national finals competing as number 19. I really hope I can make it to the ESPN or ABC telecast.”

Can somebody confirm this? Did I really just get a comment from a real NSB contestant? If so, this would be a watershed moment in the history of the blog. Honestly, I wouldn’t be any more stoked if Malcolm Gladwell ever decided to post a comment. How very extremely cool.

If this is legit, I’ll totally be cheering for number 19 on June 1st. And if not…well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been fooled.

As for today’s post, I thought I would get to Rhianna, but it just got too long in the end. I’ll save the ideas for another time. You’ll have to settle for Jewel on her own.


I can’t believe it’s taken me four weeks to say how happy I am to have Jewel back in the game. Not only is she making a comeback, but she seems to have found herself again.

Remember in 2003 when Jewel released an album called 0304? She made a video for “Intuition” where she wore hair extensions, torn form-hugging clothes, makeup and glitter, and danced around the streets of New York City. Somehow she got soaking wet in the process (I can’t remember how – I think it was an open fire hydrant), which was a, um...nice touch.

Her record was full of dance grooves and beat-box rhythms, with number and letter substitutions for words (like “Run 2 U”) in all her titles and printed lyrics. It was Jewel’s attempt to make herself more “street” and broaden her fan base a bit.

You can’t really blame her. Remember that this was 2003. She was competing with the most amazing collection of video hotties anyone had ever seen: Beyonce was inventing the back pop in “Crazy in Love”, Christina Aguilera was playing the ultimate bad girl with “Dirrrty”, and Britney Spears - the unbelievable 2003 Britney, not 2006 trailer park Britney - was dressing in lingerie and making out with Madonna. (All in all, it was a fantastic time to be a music video watcher. But that’s neither here nor there.) The poor girl was just trying to keep up with the popular gals. A lot of us probably would have done something very similar.

But in Jewel’s case, the experiment clearly misfired.

After all, everybody knew her as the girl raised on a farm in Alaska, who played guitar and possessed a soulful, operatic voice. She sang simple, intimate songs with tenderness and soft vulnerability. Her first single just wouldn’t have come across the same way if it were written “U Were Meant 4 Me”. Above everything else, she was genuine.


So when her video for “Again and Again” premiered last month, it was gratifying to see she had fallen back into her comfort zone. It’s like 0304 never happened. (Fittingly, the new album is called Goodbye Alice in Wonderland)

Jewel’s simply a beautiful girl, and appears to have figured out that she doesn’t need to be anybody other than who she is to find success and happiness. Think Britney has learned that yet?

The reason I’m describing all of this – you know, besides giving me rationale for posting Jewel pictures - is that as a blogger, I tend to identify with the 2003 version of Jewel. Allow me to explain.

I enjoy reading other people’s blogs, and hearing about the different events everyone is doing. If I could just leave it at that, everything would be fine. But whether it’s my competitive nature, or my longing to be “in the arena” at all times, I find that whenever I read about other events, I want to do them as well.

So when Jeff writes about going to Boston, I want to go, too. When Olga runs Miwok, I want to run it with her (OK…probably behind her). Anytime someone does this marathon or that ultra, I want the race experience for myself, too (except for Rob's last 50K – you can keep that one for yourself, dude). And I haven’t even mentioned all the Ironman bloggers out there yet.

Rationally, I know I can’t possibly do that kind of race load. But sometimes I get the urge to throw my common sense out the window and try playing everybody else’s game. And like Jewel putting on glitter and torn clothes, I know that I couldn’t carry that act for long before I realize it’s the wrong path for me.

I run a lot. I participate in a handful of events that I love. I typically train just as much as I want to (I’ve written too much about this in another post already). I like to gradually push the boundaries of what I’m capable of managing.

I’ll probably take on new challenges from time to time in the years ahead, but I don’t want to completely throw away the events that have come to define me over the years. Like everything else, it will be a balancing act.

I want to stay like the 2006 Jewel, not the 2003 one. I’d love for Jewel to stay in 2006 mode for a while longer, too. Now if we could only figure out some way to get the 2003 Britney back, I couldn’t ask for anything more.

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Fresas de la Bodega

(OK, I made it about 24 hours before I wanted to bail out on the whole “strawberry theme” idea for the week. There’s a post about Rhianna and Jewel just jumping out of my head right now. But I think I can hold out until tomorrow. So here’s Part II of the strawberry mini-series, with a probable break for shameless pandering tomorrow… )

On the outskirts of Salinas sits a tiny gas station. It occupies an intersection of Highway 68 and one of the main paved roads through the strawberry fields on either side of the highway.

The building is so small that many drivers pass by without even noticing it. But the business isn’t just a gas station: on the inside it’s a mini-bodega and taqueria, a place where workers from the fields can come in for a soda and a bite to eat on their lunch break or before returning home.

The station is owned by two Mexican brothers who always work behind the counter, assisted by various sisters and cousins as needed. There is a small TV beside the counter that is always tuned into a game of Mexican league futbol. All of the signs are written in Spanish, and almost none of the customers speak English. At the end of the day it becomes a gathering spot for a lot of the laborers.

Since their operation is so small, they can afford to charge a few cents per gallon less for gasoline. When gas prices spike, the bodega/gasoline station is home to a curious mix of Mexican immigrants and frugal white folks trying to save a few bucks. Some people like me come in just to enjoy the atmosphere.

You won’t see a lot of luxury cars or guys in suits entering the store. The overwhelmingly Mexican nature of the store tends to keep the overly pretentious or self-important white people away.

On the other hand, I’ve been buying gas there for years.

The brothers are two of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet. They always address me first in English, and when I answer in Spanish, we’ll converse a bit before they give me some small tip to improve my second language. They even hand out small packs of chicle (gum) whenever the notion strikes them.

Everyone that comes into the store is greeted as “amigo”. We all say “amigo” so much that we’ve never bothered to learn each other’s names. In fact, I’ve come to use that word as the name of the business, as in, “I bought gas from the amigos today.”

(OK, I’m finally getting to the strawberry part now…)

One evening after work about four weeks ago, I walked into the store to see a huge stack of strawberries beside the counter, with a piece of paper taped to the top basket saying “Fresas $1.00”. One amigo explained, “They’re from my amigo who is in charge of this field (pointing over his shoulder). They’re the first berries of the season – they usually have an extra sweet flavor. Son muy buenas.”

So I bought a box of fresas to take home. Which led to the following exchange with my wife when I got home:

Me: I bought some strawberries.

Her: But I just went shopping today – there are two big baskets of strawberries in the fridge already.

Me: Yeah, but these are from the amigos – they said they’re extra sweet. Try one.

Her (trying one): Wow.

The strawberries were amazing. We didn’t have to worry about clearing space in the fridge, because they never made it there. The box was empty before dinnertime.

The next morning, after a hard training run, I stopped at the bodega again on my way to work, and bought another basket of strawberries. My amigo said, “Son buenas, si? Por desayuno, tambien (good for breakfast, too).”

That box didn’t make it through the work day. I don’t think it even made it to lunchtime. On my way home, I stopped at the bodega again.

My amigo said, “Sorry amigo - no mas”. And less than 24 hours after I discovered them, the sweetest strawberries of the season became a mere memory. It was the gustatory equivalent of seeing a shooting star.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had plenty of good strawberries since then. But there was something distinctive about the first fruits of the season from the local fields, gathered by workers who I had probably passed by countless times without saying a word.

They gave me a moment’s appreciation for the pleasures this land has to offer, and made me grateful for the bodega that serves as a convergence point of two disparate worlds. I’ve also spent a lot of time thinking about the hands that brought the berries to the store in the first place – which I’ll explore further in another post.

(You know,….after I get the pandering out of the way first.)

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Strawberry Week

It’s springtime in Monterey County, which means one thing. OK, that’s not true – it means a lot of things, but for the purposes of this blog, this week, it means only one thing: strawberries.

Strawberry fields are prominent and plentiful in the Salinas Valley from April through September. They serve as a backdrop to everyday activities in incidental ways that take on more meaning with each passing occurrence.

I’ve had several strawberry-related snapshots in my head I’ve wanted to discuss over the past several days, but instead of including them all in a single long-winded, meandering post (which if you’re a regular reader, you KNOW I’m capable of), I decided to make it more like a recurring theme.

Think of it as an on-line mini-series. I don’t exactly have lofty ambitions – this won’t nearly be as groundbreaking as Roots or as instructive as North and South, or (thankfully) as exhaustive as Ken Burns’s Jazz. But I think I have enough material for a collection of decent posts.

So that’s my plan for the week: the topic of each post will be related in some way to strawberries. Of course, if Thursday rolls around and I’ve run out of things to say or my hit count takes a dramatic plunge, I reserve the right to change my mind. I know that sounds noncommittal, but that’s pretty much as good as I give nowadays. Don’t you judge me.

As for today’s post, I’ll flash back to the Big Sur Marathon.

I’ve already written ad nauseum about the most difficult portion of the Big Sur Marathon: miles 21-24 through Carmel Highlands, where the road rises and falls mercilessly at the point of the race when runners are in their most fragile mental and physical state. It’s the stretch of road where pleasant or strong marathons go to die.

There is, however, one outpost of comfort and relief during this daunting stretch of the race: the strawberry station at mile 23. Runners speak of it in a reverential manner, like travelers who come across a silhouette of the Blessed Virgin in the markings on the side of an abandoned taqueria. Many of them don’t know the station is coming, but their hearts leap with joy and hope when they come across it.

This is a point of regret for me, in that I’ve never stopped for the berries. I don’t know who mans the aids station, where the berries come from, or how many runners they serve. I’ve always been too paranoid about losing precious seconds to eat a handful. I’m also fearful that if I stopped, I might enjoy the moment so much that I would decide to kick my feet up and stay a while.

I do know this: every runner I’ve ever talked to that has stopped for the strawberries considers it one of the highlights of their race. It’s something that keeps them moving through the hardest miles: the knowledge that the strawberry station is ahead, at which point they can stop to recharge their batteries before conquering the final 5K.

I haven’t completely missed out on the strawberry bounty at Big Sur, though. One of the things awaiting runners at the buffet table in the finisher’s tent is an enormous stack of strawberry crates. So in addition to bagels and water and energy bars, I always walk off the course with a full basket of Monterey County strawberries.

Those strawberries are always the first thing I consume, and they never fail to be absolutely delicious. Maybe it’s the context of complete exhaustion or the satisfaction of accomplishment, but those post-race strawberries stand out as one of the most pleasant experiences of race day.

Actually, just about all of my strawberry experiences are satisfying in one way or another…as I’ll talk about in my posts for the rest of the week.

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Masters Rock

Hey, did you hear? Pearl Jam has a new album out!

It’s always interesting when a formerly enormous band disappears for a while, then releases a strong “comeback” album to a lot of fanfare and excitement. The marketing idea is to have people recall the band in its glory days, and make us believe that the current band is the same as it ever was.

And we’re generally a forgiving culture, so we can selectively forget the reasons why a popular band actually becomes unpopular in the first place. We’re the society that gladly gives second chances to people like Marion Berry, Martha Stewart, or Ron Artest - so we can certainly overlook the terrible albums like Binaural orYield that Pearl Jam offered us in the late 1990s.

Like just about everybody else between the ages of 20 and 30 in the early nineties, I was a huge PJ fan. They even influenced my running career: during the 1993 Los Angeles Marathon, I was feeling miserable on a hot day, and one of the only things that kept me going was repeating the chorus of “Alive” over and over in my head until I reached the finish line. (To this day, whenever I hear that song, I remember myself staggering through the last 10K in the heat at L.A. Despite the way it sounds, it’s a good memory.)

So I’ve been listening to the new album a bit, and it’s actually not too bad. A few songs are old school grunge-rockers, and there are also some brooding, melodic pieces that were PJ’s hallmark back in the day.

But this morning I heard “Even Flow” on the radio, and noted that Pearl Jam hasn’t made any songs on the new album nearly as good as that old one. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the old band was way better than the current version.

We need to have some special category for rock bands that get older, just like there is a separate category for masters runners at road races. I mean, nobody expects a 45-year-old guy to come out and win a local 10K – so why should we expect a rock band of 40-year-olds to compete against younger groups at the height of their talents?

Sure, that 45-year-old dude may be an excellent runner – let’s say he ran a 33 minute 10K ten years ago. He probably runs something like 37 minutes now, which will still beat everybody but a handful of racers. But he just doesn’t have the goods to seriously challenge the best 25-year-olds who can crank out 35 minute 10Ks on any given weekend.

And it’s fair to compare the master runner’s best times to the younger runners’ best times, and conclude that the master would have kicked their butts if he were in his prime. But his best days are behind him, so he usually comes up a bit short when trying to hang with the big dogs. It’s a cold dose of reality that is sometimes hard to swallow.

That 45-year-old has changed in too many ways to pretend that he’s still 35. He’s most likely got a family and a career, and matured such that running is not an overriding priority in his life anymore. If he tried to mimic the lives of younger runners who eat, sleep, and breathe their training, he would look strangely out of place.

The 2006 edition of Pearl Jam is that 45-year-old dude. They’re never going to match the energy and intensity of songs like “Porch” or “Rear View Mirror”, but they are still good enough to crank out “Life Wasted” and “Big Wave”, which are better songs than a lot of rock music on the radio.

But – here’s the cold reality - the new album isn’t strong enough to make me take the Foo Fighters or Avenged Sevenfold out of my car CD player.

Pearl Jam is the mature band now, singing about poverty and politics and a larger worldview. How can you compare their work to a song like “I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor” by a band called the Arctic Monkeys? Despite their enormous talent, it seems a bit odd to hear PJ songs in a modern alt-rock lineup on the radio.

It’s fair to argue that when they were at their best, Pearl Jam was way more talented and influential than groups like Fall Out Boy will ever be. Ten was an absolute classic, to the point where it was like a soundtrack of my college years. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy listening to it more than FOB’s From Under the Cork Tree today.

So can we recognize older rock bands in some manner besides putting them up against what is currently popular? Because you can apply this exact same thesis to U2, Jon Bon Jovi, Metallica, and even (gasp!) the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Why couldn’t there be a separate Grammy category for “Best Masters Rock” or something similar? You could even go across genres and include “Best Masters Rap” now that guys like LL Cool J and Reverend Run are putting out CDs again. And when the Beyonces and Shakiras and Mariahs of today keep making records into their 40s, there could be a category for “Best Formerly Smoking Hottie Who's Still Workin' It” – come to think of it, Madonna could win that award now. The possibilities are just fascinating.

There would be more awards to give out, older musicians wouldn’t compete against younger ones, and fans of the older bands can see them recognized for their talents. Does anyone think this wouldn’t be a success?

For a group of older dudes who released their best album almost 15 years ago, Pearl Jam has done a darn good job on the new disc. And from a personal standpoint, it’s great to see them back in the spotlight again. Whatever additional fame and money they gain from this CD is well-deserved.

They’ve definitely earned the age group award for their effort. And I’ll give any age group winner a great deal of respect.

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