on my wish list

what'd you say your name was?

F pulled me, the mayor and loucypher together yesterday to tell us he's got doubts about meeting a jan 15th deadline. the problem is, he announced, that most of you people are out next week. i heard the emphasis; so did the mayor.

-- what do you mean, us people? - he asked.

-- oh you know. you christians.
the mayor's about as religious as me, which is to say not at all, and he was looking nonplussed.

-- us christians? and you're what, again?

-- muslim.

-- muslim?

-- no, not MUZ-lim. there's no Z.

-- muslim?

-- not MOOSlim. MUSS-lim!!

-- oh. but you don't have an equivalent of christmas?

-- well, we've got Eid, which is at the end of Ramadan.
at this point as godless as i am, i'm feeling very superior because i know all about Ramadan; and it's a rare day when i'm more cultured than the mayor. F continued.

-- and there's a holiday that sort of coincides with christmas. you usually give stuff to kids, like a buck or two.

-- a buck or two?!? no wonder you people are at war with each other! a buck. you know, you could make it a whole lot easier on yourselves if you just gave up and assimilated.

-- like we did when J made us give up our macs! -- i piped up cos i can never resist a cliched argument. everyone ignored me.

-- in high school, my coaches used to call me Foo, cos they couldn't pronounce my arabic name.

-- yeah, you gotta dumb it down for us - loucypher explained. take J. there's no way we can pronounce his name in chinese, so he simplified it for us. jay. simple. and edgar -- you think that's his name in filipino? fuck no. in filipino, edgar's name is... he looked around wildly and grabbed a long network cable the diameter of my thumb, and flung it to the floor where it landed with a smack and shirr of unwinding coils. THAT is edgar's name in filipino and there's no fucking way we can pronounce it, so he's edgar to us.

-- dude, doesn't your name mean "i pimp for satan" in polish? - i wondered out loud.

-- absolutely, but you can call me lou.

in gaelic, my name means "there are no Wiis for you, hortense."

how i spent my weekend when i wasn't running all over gods green earth on a Wii wild goosechase

fri nite: dinner with girlfriend before show. talked about desserts, depression, and boys. saw damien rice at the tower theatre. awesome show. again, Amie/Eskimo Friend the highlite.

sat nite: sushi with crew in philly before show. talked about the mona lisa, blowjobs and boys. saw the killers at the electric factory. good show, but i have been spoilt by Nails' 90-min sets, inspired re-interpretations and thrashing pits. spent the next 4 hours hanging out in gay bars with 5 gay guys, listening to bad karaoke, dancing to jacked techno and ogling unobtainable hotties.

if reverse logic proves true, after this weekend i should be leaking soy milk and shitting edamame.

i need some Gears of War STAT.

(some holiday spirit would be nice too.)

MFHT

fucking awesome. thanks crammit.

you're soy gay

finally, someone figured out what makes people gay. it's soy, according to this article: Soy is Making Kids Gay, for:

Soy is feminizing, and commonly leads to a decrease in the size of the penis, sexual confusion and homosexuality. That's why most of the medical (not socio-spiritual) blame for today's rise in homosexuality must fall upon the rise in soy formula and other soy products.

of course; it all makes sense now.

when i explained this to our gay art director, he was sadly skeptical.

-- if only it were that easy, he lamented, inject a hot, straight guy with soy. insta-gay!
-- oh, you would use the power for your own cracked devices -- i retorted. gay dastardliness knows no bounds.
-- of course. it's in our Agenda handbook.

consider yourselves warned.

more than this one thing

tearing pell-mell after you past Trop tables, slots, in heels,
heads of security guards whipping but no one stopping us
huge weight on my chest, grasping, wringing, a futile mantra
i wish i wish i wish
there are so many wishes here and mine’s the least of the bunch.
you’re out of reach, not my responsibility; and i’m not your answer.

-- i'm not strong enough -- i tell reilly.
-- yes you are.

and if i die be
fore i wake
i could not swear
(or swim) you see.

newsflash: happiness is...

...i'm not exactly sure, but it's not buying stuff, at least according to this article: The Truth about Happiness May Surprise You.

By and large, money buys happiness only for those who lack the basic needs. Once you pass an income of $50,000, more money doesn't buy much more happiness, claims daniel gilbert, a harvard pychologist. 50K is a decent chunk of change, mind you.

Our genes hardwire us to reproduce, but children have a small negative effect on happiness, avers gilbert, who observed that people are about as happy interacting with their kids as they are doing housework. ha ha! another excuse to throw the defective clock out the figurative window. as for the "transcendent moments of joy" he admits kids may bring, well, i can get that from my new office chair. i can fart through the mesh seat without lifting a 'tock and folks, that's pretty fucking transcendent.

now here's some hope: with age comes increased happiness, at least until you reach doddering old age. the least happy men are those aged 18-29; the most happy are 65 and over, especially if you're republican, because they're purportedly happier than dems and independents, which i totally don't get. perhaps the happier lives are those lived selfishly (in the non-pejorative, ayn rand sense of the word).

finally, gilbert explains why a trip to europe brings more happiness than a new car. i dig what he's saying, and i've made my short list for 2007 vacay, but i still want an Acura. is that bad?

but to get granular, this friday morning happiness is:

• a good night's sleep (sponsored by unisom; thank you pfizer!!)
• ass coffee and dark choc M&Ms
• unhurried fly that just clicked

tonight we're going to atlantic city to dress up like russians and drink icyclear liquid from frosty bottles @ red square and F has pledged to help me fritter away $200 playing spanish blackjack and roulette. should i end up another bedraggled dream on the atlantic boardwalk, well friends it was nice to know you and adam i'm sorry about the camera.

have a good weekend, all.

tdy

noli me tangere

remember the hammie??

well, rudy's claimed my calf as his next victim. it crashed like a harddrive baby. while i lay sweating and groaning on rudy's table i considered biting my tongue in half because i thought that might make him stop sooner.

-- it's all soft tissue, deep soleus, some gastroc - rudy said as he prepped an ice bath for me - NOT a stress fracture: there're no hotspots on the tib. but i don't want you running or doing anything high-impact for the next week; there's too much acute pain in there.

i might have pouted a bit here. or it could have been my pained face as i hobbled over to the whirlpool.

-- oh stop it with the hangdog look. this is no big deal. remember your hamstring? you got over that. you runners... vicki does the same exact thing. 'oh woe, doldrums, i'll never run again moan moan moan.'

-- my world's crashing down around me, like.

-- yes, that. it's not that bad. come back in two weeks, one if it gets worse.

MF FattyTime.

benefits of being a multi-sport athlete

this morning terry and i left the Y's shower room at the same time.

-- hi! haven't seen you for a while -she said brightly. were you on vacation?
-- nope. just sleeping in.
-- oh, that's nice. did you come in later?
-- no, just stayed lazy for a couple weeks.
she looked at me blankly.
-- what, don't you ever do that? - i asked.
-- oh no. i'm afraid if i did i'd never come back.

much respect to the terrys of the world, for whom fitness is work and diligence. it is easy to do something you love.

after 2 weeks it was soooo nice to get back in the water. like a little kid on christmas eve i DREAMED about swimming last night and was not disappointed this morning. sure i'm slow and i didn't even attempt fly, but that will come back.

in february.
it's still FattyTime.
and i'm looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow.

i hate running...

...or at least i did yesterday. and the day before wasn't so great either.

yesterday afternoon i ran for half an hour, and every minute was interminable and plodding. i felt absolutely awful. there was no rhythm, no fluidity, no unbearable lightness of endorphins. i have new appreciation for people who hate running cos if that were the way i normally felt, i would rather drive sharpened sticks into my kidneys than go for a run after work.

this is why there are playstations and xboxes.
this is why it's okay to sit in your skivvies bathed in blue monitor glow.

send donuts.

luv,
jabba

bfast of champs

last night was Make Yr Own Kahlau chez finn. it's eeeezy. the hardest part is finding the glycerin (which adds thickness & body).

homemade kahlua

1/5 vodka (~26oz)
3 c.sugar
2 c. water
2 oz glycerin
4 1/2 Tb instant coffee
1/2 c. boiling water
1 vanilla bean

mix water & sugar. bring to boil, then simmer 30min.
mix coffee & boiling water.
remove syrup from stove and add coffee, glycerin & vanilla bean.
let cool totally.
add vodka.
seal & let stand 30 days -- or several years -- before using.

the more this stuff ages, the smoother it gets, but it's drinkable right away. and it's the perfect morning bevvie, with serious sugar and coffee. oh, and vodka.

season wrap-up

5am visit to sir rudy this morning. my right calf is the color of a thunderstorm sky sunset. it's all soft tissue, says rudy, the soleus right next to the tibia, and NOT a stress fracture. permission to run, he said cheerfully, permission to train as normal.

rudy's unaware of super secret training shedjule which defines december's training objectives as follows:

• get fat
• get short-winded
• lose a shitload of muscle tone
• finish The Tin Drum
• beat Gears of War
• watch 40-Year Old Virgin (for the 9th time)

last weekend was my last race of the year -- the Delaware Open XC champs. this 5K race starts with a gently-downhill technical mile with rocky twists & turns, followed by a quarter-mile gradual climb, then a quarter-mile bitch-ass climb (the notorious Maintenance Hill), then a shin-jamming downhill, a short steep climb that took out my hamstring last year, then a seemingly interminable false flat leading up to another short climb right before the finish. FUN. really. sooo much better than a flat course.

F found me as i was chowing down a gel before the call-up.

- you’re wearing those? he pointed to my trainers.
- yeah…. what?
- you might as well be wearing timberlands. don’t you have spikes? flats?
- it’s MUDDY out there. plus i’m injured. and uncoordinated.
- lemme see your flats.
- do you WANT to see me covered in mud?
he cocked an eyebrow at me.
- gimmee.
i offered up my sauconys for his inspection.
- they’re fine. go with these.
- you think?
- do it. what’s your strategy?
he’s quizzed me before on this, so I know what to say.
- go hard and vomit at the end.
- that’s all you have? i’m mute; he rolled his eyes. okay. cruise the first mile. it’s fast anyway; you don’t want to go out TOO fast. keep it under control. short steps on the tight corners. keep start working on the gradual climb, punch it up maintenance and then do a full-on effort after the hill. gottit?
- yeah. i have to pee.
- so go.
- the line’s too long.
- go up there and he pointed up the hill where i’ve seen a trickly stream of runners going up and coming down. oh, that's what they're doing. i obeyed and as i trotted i marveled how light my feet feel in flats, compared to my timberlands. maybe F was right, i think.

and when i raced, i concluded he WAS right. i hung back for the first half-mile, letting the elbows fly until butterflies settled down. at the ¾ mark i passed blondie and cecily and cruised through the first mile in 6:35. followed the steeplechaser’s wife to the gradual climb, then passed her midway up it, her spikes grinding slipping over stone, breath more labored. on Maintenance Hill, gained more time on her, and some on the redhead in front of me. two more women ahead of her. hit mile 2 in 13 flat, attacked the steep, hamstring-crippling hill and peeeeeeeeetered out. the last mile was the bataan death march, only with less dysentery. i crossed the line 4th, in 20:40.

the.last.race.of.the.season.

so i’m a rock, and an island, blah blah blah, but i gotta confess: it was SO nice to have someone there -- someone who knows me and how i run, and fret, and whinge; someone who knows the course and how to run it; someone to think about the things i’m forgetting; someone to send you off with a hug & pull you in with another. it was so nice to not do everything myself. just a thought.

i don’t need any help being a lazy bum for the month of december, though. i got that covered.

earworm...

and an abs stellar first verse.

when porn is downright funny

today's twofer tuesday: two (okay, 3; maybe 4) pterodactyl; one chick.
WTF is up with Mr Squawky Beak, who arrives mise en scene midway through??
most def NSFW. you've been warned.

pssssssssssssst. flap your arms some more.

i want you

Fiona Apple covers Elvis Costello

The VH1 Decades Rock Live Elvis Costello tribute. When Costello was asked about the highlights of the show, he responded "...Fiona's incredible job on "I Want You." For me, that was musically the high point of the evening, in terms of how much you can reach within a song and come up with something that was for you."

end of an era

that's it??

so long ian, and thanks for all the fish.

splendor in the grass

teh Good, the Bad, and the Yoda.

what november is

november is....

i'm looking forward to december, when all month i can celebrate national I Fucking Hate the Idea of Fake Grass in My Office. and boys who don't put out. and the pimples that come after waxing. and breaststroke kick. and pantry moth larvae in my granola squares. and some other stuff.

i'm ready to get thankful, bitches.

a pig in a poke

tomorrow my mom turns 60. she pleads for no fussing, no fete-ing, but i'm giving her the lladró i bought for her in barcelona. my mom’s tastes aren’t high-dollar by any stretch, but when she and my dad married, he gave her a lladró: a maiden limned in characteristic fluid pastel sweeps. she looks like my mom. llater, when they were going splitsville, the maiden fell over and her head broke off at the neck. my mom kept her and repaired her, and the maiden and her finely-cracked necklace occupy the mantel.

recently, to commemorate a seminal day in MY life, my mom gave me a lladró of a girl with dog, rampant, licking her face. it’s so perfect that when she gave it to me i bawled a little. (okay, a lot.) she’d had it for years, waiting.

so tomorrow i’m giving her a pig, un cerdito de la suerte, which, the accompanying brochure informs me, embodies “courage and determination, for it only fights to defend its own and knows how to use all its resources to sidestep difficulties.” fits. plus, my mother took a shine to pigs after my grandmother, well-versed in pen & ink ways, went through her pig period.

so, a pig for her birthday tomorrow, and last night, for an early birthday present, an argument about rose. my friend shteve, whose daughter i learned this weekend was a friend of rose’s before the accident, said that rose is hardly responsive. if you give her a present, she’ll just pluck at the wrapping paper; that’s about it. her situation hasn’t changed since last march.

- she’s 18 – i told my mom – and she’s not getting any better. if that were me, i don’t think i’d want to stick around. this is an argument for… whaddya call ‘em… those something wills.

- a living will.

- right. i mean, what’s the point?

- she’s still alive.

- but what constitutes “alive”? mom, she’s not like dr. fellows. there is NOTHING there that i can see. no brain activity, no responsiveness. steve says her state’s almost vegetative.

- so if that happened to someone you love, you wouldn’t take care of them?

my mom’s voice has gotten small and tight. we’re now talking about something completely different, and i am regretting those 2 glasses of shiraz. then again, would this conversation be any better completely sober?

- …. no, i’m not talking about caretaking. i’m talking about what i would want if i were in rose’s situation.

- well, how would we know what you wanted if you were rose?

- that.is.why.i.am.talking.about.living.wills.

jesus christ this should not be so difficult. we fucking stopped the machines on pete because we knew living in a wheelchair, in an unresponsive body, would be too cruel, against his wishes. we didn’t NEED a living will to understand this.

- but finn you don’t KNOW. you don’t know how rose’s family feels.

something is up,and it’s time to back down, to keep pete resting where he is.

- no, i don’t, no. and yeah maybe she’ll come back.

i’m unconvinced and my mom’s hackles are raised. i walked into the minefield of someone who’s taking care of a parent with alzheimers. i should have known better.

that lucky pig better work.

warming up with the gods

you can't be a runner in this town without hearing of vicki huber. after dominating at villanova and competing in 2 Olympics (in the 1500 and 3000m), vicki returned to her hometown and married the guy who holds her ITB and plantar fasciitis at bay, that miracle of miraculosity, sir andrew of rudawski, AKA rudy. officially, vicki's retired now, but she does show at the occasional race so that we mortals, as FMC so eloquently encapsulated, can fart along in her beautiful etheral wake though it be not quite as ethereal as the steeplechaser's but perhaps as a woman i'm slightly biased.

vicki's a friend & ex-roommate of my massage therapist denise, who's a gifted runner herself and one of the kindest, most grounded people i've met. by extension i'd grafted those qualities onto vicki, whom i hardly know.

2 weeks ago vicki, ML and i were warming up before the winterthur 5K. vicki had some trepidation about the footing, which was a little hillocky in places, but whatdya expect from XC?? -however vicki's had some bad experiences with precarious footing, and she told me and ML about spraining her ankle running in the dark the night before junior nationals.

-- so the next morning, i had my ankle taped and i went to the start line and my coach was FURIOUS.

-- furious? why?

-- because he thought that in my competitors' eyes it was a sign of weakness.

i considered this for a second. there was some merit.

-- well, could you have worn tall socks or something?

vicki fixed me with a steely gaze.

-- please. i didn't want to look like a DORK.

no indeed.

dorkus malorkus wishing you a fine frivolous weekend. bottoms up.

[how'd the story end? vicki bonked 200m before the line and got passed by half a dozen girls who may or may not have had questionable fashion sense.]

the mortals, and the gods

last night’s hard hills workout was the last of the year. 9 days & counting ‘til my last race of the season, it really doesn’t make any sense to do anything but taper & sharpen. and maybe race a 5K this weekend.

2 weekends ago i raced for the first time since worlds back in july (not counting my delightfully disastrous first swim meet in october); and this past weekend i raced a 4-miler, the 2nd annual Race for Rose. a friend of a friend organises this fundraising event to defray some medical expenses for rose, a local high school student who last march was in a car accident that killed two other students and left rose with permanent brain damage.

rose showed for the post-race gathering and awards ceremony – rather, rose was brought in by two classmates who maneuver her wheelchair with nonchalant, practised ease. well-wishers showered balloons and flowers upon her; a woman with a french bulldog coaxed the dog to stand on its hind legs and rest its chin on rose’s knee. FMC, you might have squeeed with delite.

while this activity roiled around her, rose’s head lolled, her cocked wrist trembled and she scratched desultorily at her chair’s armrest. from my POV, on the fringes and admittedly unfamiliar with rose’s signs & signifiers, i didn’t see many conventional signs of awareness. i’m sure rose’s family would argue that her life is meaningful and rewarding, just different; but if i were in the same position, with no control over my body, few outward indications of sentience and an inability to communicate effectively, i’m pretty sure i’d be begging for somebody’s mercy just like that chick in Million Dollar Baby. rose is a teenager, not an 80-year-old stroke victim who can run movies of her solid past life in her head ‘til someone finally turns off the lights.

my take, anyway. the mileage always varies.

anyway, though my time wasn’t anything to write home about, i ended up first female, bested only by two UD XC guys and the steeplechaser mike diG, who’s peaking for the Rothman 8K in philly this weekend and was running a light tempo at 6:15min mile pace. i started at 6:30 and caught him at the 2nd mile. he looked like he was out for an easy jog, whereas i metered in a gasping breath after every 3 words, like george-bush speak:

dude you know – it would be – really nice if – at least you – were a little – bit out of – - - breath.

there was a response from him, and more words after that, but in my oxygen-deprived state they didn’t register very effectively and i didn’t put up a fight when he motored ahead on the last hill.

the steeplechaser – called so because he went to the last Olympic trials in that event but didn’t make the cut because he’s a bit of a head-case – is one of those creatures who looks perfectly human jogging (7min mile pace to him) but who, once put into overdrive -- that notch in the clutch that most of us don’t have -- settles into a fluid, light grace that drops your jaw and holds you spellbound. not bad for a cracker.

at the wintherthur 5K XC race, my return to racing 2 weekends ago, DiG ran a 15:07 – on an undulating course of hillocky grass. that’s a 4:53 mile pace. MF NotWorthy.

for adam, who will clamor for pix (by Bud Keegan):

• the steeplechaser, AKA mike diG (men’s winner)
• rudy’s wife vicki (1st F)
• finn (2nd F)

it is so good to be back, my friends.

a little help

THE GOOD

[13:54] [F]: u runnin hills today?
[13:54] [finn]: that was the plan neway.
[13:54] [finn]: am feelg rather wimpy.
[13:54] [finn]: not v warriorlike.
[13:54] [finn]: i need my warrior.
[13:54] [F]: u need to fast
[13:55] [finn]: U need to fast.
[13:55] [finn]: that's when you started to go downhill, when u stopt fasting.
[13:55] [F]: lol.....i know:-(
[13:55] [F]: that was my mojo
[13:56] [finn]: meb u need a substitute mojo.
[13:56] [finn]: like tons of candy corn.
[13:57] [F]: what i need is a miracle....
[13:58] [F]: i wish i was a prophet
[13:58] [finn]: rudy is a miracle.
[13:59] [F]: yeah i'm waiting for God to send me a sign like he did for jesus and muhammad
[13:59] [finn]: you want me to burn a bush for you?
[13:59] [F]: and then i can heal myself
[13:59] [finn]: well, rumsfeld resigned. that's a miracle.
[14:01] [finn]: and we did some ass kickin' yesterday.
[14:01] [finn]: u know, it would REALLY be nice to be proud of my country again.
[14:01] [finn]: inst of making excuses for our asshat leaders.
[14:16] [F]: yeah i'm so excited
[14:16] [F]: it makes up for my depression that i went through 2 years ago
[14:17] [finn]: me too!!
[14:17] [finn]: when i was driving to work this morning, listening to NPR, it was almost like a dream.
[14:18] [finn]: you know what i WISH were a dream?? that i didn't just go through that whole AAA meeting with my zipper down.
[14:18] [finn]: classy.
[14:18] [F]: yeah it's awesome to kick some butt
[14:18] [F]: LOL
[14:18] [F]: well good thing that wasn't me cuz i'm riding commando

(esplodes)

elekshun dei

thanks to The Chief Source.

teh good

after a most shiteous week, this is all i've got.

The Good:

• jeff schwaner

a prayer for all the you(andi)s
and if i die be
fore i wake
i tried to swim
(you know) i swear
            -- js

SCY @ GMU

learnings from my first swim meet, this past weekend:

• always circle-swim in the warm-up lanes. otherwise, you run the risk of head-on collisions with cranky competitors who assume you've been doing this for years and just have shit-for-brains.
• no matter now many times your coach has watched your individual medley in practise, you still might get disqualified in competition. twice.
• freestyle is the only stroke where you're allowed to travel backwards to touch the wall if you missed it. because, if you completely swish the wall on a flipturn, you're disqualified.
• after getting deeked and subsequently scolded by the head ref (twice), the possibility of walking into the men's locker-room (in error) is very high.
• even when performed by skilled, fast swimmers, breast-stroke is still a ridiculous endeavor whose only use, as i see it, is to make you appreciate freestyle even more.
• butterflyers are hawt. breast-strokers tend to be stringy. i imagine they taste like squirrel.
• it is possible to finish almost dead-last (or get disqualified) in every single event you swim and still have a blast.

you crack me up, said alicia my neglectful coach. everytime i looked at you, you were trotting around the deck with a huge grin on your face.

WHO DOES NUMBER TWO WORK FOR?!?

as dung beetles, i and all the other laborers here at MyCo should get a free pass to The Scoop on Poop exhibit at the Miami Zoo.



here's more info on the exhibit.

even when you're down, you can take joy in teh poo.

because, friends, everyone does it.

happy halloween.

someone take these dreams away

my parents' neighbor walt died last week. i'd say walt suffered from alzheimers for the last couple years but that's not really accurate: rather, his wife pat suffered from walt's worsening condition. he refused to give up the car, and a couple times a month pat would have find and escort him because he'd forget how to get home. the house became too big for them and though pat wanted to move she knew that was impossible because walt couldn't cope with the change. whomever bought their house would have to deal with the familiar scenario of walt trying to use his old key on the new door.

pat returned from work last wednesday to find walt peaceful in his chair. the night before he died, she said she woke to an empty bed. walt was pacing from window to window, peering out each one.

-- walt, what are you doing -- his wife asked gently.

he looked at her, stricken.

-- someone keeps calling me.

neither rock nor island

atsea.

but the law of the spinning plates says
s/he who maintains divers loves
can let one fall
without destroying all.

you are more than This one thing.

wedgies in oz

you need to know this about aussie lifeguards and butt-ocks.
(adam you probably already do.)

might be NSFW if your boss is a stinker.

riding & running for the cure

hen’s running the Race for the Cure in princeton NJ this weekend. in one season, his physique’s morphed from a cyclist’s to a runner’s, and you could use his legs as an anatomy lesson for discrete muscle groups.

he and AJ finished up their duathlon (that's a run-bike-run race) seasons @ henlopen a couple weeks ago – without ME i might add, sulkily. hen’s a uniquely trained individual, in that he prepares for his races by getting shitfaced the night before and using the first miles of the race as detox. AJ made the mistake of following his lead when it came to jagermeister shots, and when race morning arrived, hen found him notably unenthusiastic about waking up.

-- i woke you up in the bedroom, and when i went back to check, you were gone. then i found you asleep in on the sofa. i woke you again, and somehow you ended up asleep in a corner of the kitchen. you kept running away and going back to sleep.

-- i don’t remember that.

he doesn’t remember hen driving them to the race, nor does he recall reaching up into the truck to hoist his bike out and in the process hurling the contents of his stomach onto the pavement.

hen shrugged.

-- it’s your truck. well do you remember this? when we were on the starting line in our gaylets (hen-speak for our tight racing singlets) and everyone’s all nervous and you can smell other people’s diarrhea farts, i said to you, “andy, is that a hickie on your neck?” and everyone craned to look.

-- i do remember that.

hen turned to me.

-- he’s kinda embarrassed but also a little proud and i lean closer to him but say loud enough so the people nearby can still hear: “andy, you’re a dirty little bitch.” the guy next to me’s jaw dropped and the starting gun went off. he looked great in that first run, but when i passed him in the transition zone and he was walking i knew he’d probably sobered up.

-- the first thing i remember about that race is wandering around in transition looking for my bike. i felt like a kid in the grocery store looking for his mom. you could have helped, asshole.

-- it was too funny. and i knew i had to make up time before the second run. even drunk, you’re faster than me.

hen ended up 7th overall, AJ 5th.

-- see what you missed tearing your shit up, finn?

that’s perfectly clear. resolved for next year: stay healthy. but don’t overnight @ hen’s beachhouse before a race.

so he’s racing for the cure this weekend, as i did last weekend in baltimore MD, where i saw race numbers in the 21,000s. my mom and i ran together, like we always do, finishing in around 34:40, NOT including the minute-forty it took us to reach the line after the start gun.

my mom did great: that’s one of the faster times we’ve run in recent years. and even when she’s running uphill, out of breath and suffering, she’ll still shout out "thank you officer!" to the police stopping traffic for us. i’m for some reason embarrassed to do the same thing when i’m with her, but i’ll do it during my own races, and thank the volunteers during a cooldown. i wish she knew i did this without having to tell her straight-up.

anyway, when we were running down Key Highway two chicks running in front of us were having an animated conversation. one looked to her friend to make a particularly emphatic point and ran straight into a traffic sign on the median. i can still hear the tuning-fork ring of that signpost after her body flattened on it. we thought she was out for sure, but she got right back up, giggled, and resumed her story.

i don’t even know the winner’s time.

-- a couple weeks ago i did support for a Ride for the Cure, which went from manhattan to trenton -- hen said -- and we had to mark the course with pink triangles.

-- triangles? not ribbons, or arrows?

-- triangles. which is stupid cos you can’t see which way they’re pointing on turns. turn all ways!! anyway, it was a crappy, cold rainy day, and where they started the pavement was buckled and potholed. and these women didn’t bitch AT ALL. they just got on their bikes and rode and talked and joked.

-- nice.

-- and i said to them, “you know i’ve done a lot of support for pro bike races and the racers make a stink about everything – even the weather. somebody can always find something wrong. but you ladies just take it in stride.” and one of them said to me, “are your racers cancer survivors?” “ummm, no.” “well, there you go.”

so you see life is good, mostly, if you choose to take it that way.

tickled

BAD: Killers show postponed last night bec of illness in a band member's family.

GOOD: this photo. it just warms my cockles.

[props to blogorrah.]

enough with the Ribbons

the ribbons have gotten out of hand, people. one yellow "support our troops" ribbon affixed to your car's bumper makes an effective statement sure, but what's the point of adding another, and another? do you stutter?

and to those people who have a ribbon for every single disease state under the planet -- again, what's the point? are you truly advocating awareness of breast cancer, autism, ovarian cancer, diabetes, gay pride, child cancer, gang prevention, HIV/AIDS and polycystic ovarian syndrome? aren't you tired of being so aware? not to mention the fact that the more crap you stick on your car, the more you run the risk of being accused of discrimination. hey, you don't have a periwinkle ribbon. does that mean you're FOR eating disorders and pulmonary hypertension??

friday afternoon, when i was languishing in pre-weekend rush-hour traffic on the interstate, i saw this van:


i have to give some credit here, as this individual displays singular focus instead of whacking across the awareness board. from left to right, we've got:

• POW*MIA
• 101st Airborne
• Support Our Troops
• Cancer Awareness
• One Nation Under Bob
• [something white w/patriotic ends]
• Relay For Life
• [something freedom-y]
• Veteran
• [something veteran-ly]
• Support Our Troops
• America the [something]
• One Nation Under Bob
• Support Our Troops
• Another Nation Under Bob
• In Bob We Trust
• Der 10 Commandments (those tablet-y things)
• POW*MIA (x2 and now wrapping around the side)

so we're probably a god-fearin' vet, maybe of 101st Airborn, and perhaps we lost a comrade or two in combat. someone in our fambly ran the Relay for Life after a relative was diagnosed with cancer because that was the will of Bob. we voted for bush, twice, and we have no regrets. we like people who look like us and we don't give a shit about ending a sentence in a preposition. in fact, what the fuck's a preposition?

horrible stereotyping to be sure, but it's such fun.

Eid mubarak.

the good

your grandmother said the funniest thing yesterday -- my mom told me on the phone last night -- i was buttoning up her shirt when suddenly she blinked and said, "life is good. mostly." i figure if she's that sentient she can't be too bad off.

so today, the good -- mostly.

• small red things
  
• hill repeats on a healed hamstring
  
• dropping 6sec from your 200yd free
• inspiration
• fresh bluefish pulled from the ocean last weekend
• dreams of an acura
• knowing you're not alone

what's your Good this friday?

book recommendations

i need your help, peeps. you're intelligent folk -- so i don't know why the hell you're here but i'll not gift a look horse in the mouth -- and you're readers, so here's the dilly. F's preparing for the MCATs and feels his verbal skillz need improving, so he's requested a list of ~30 books that will challenge him without putting him to sleep.

can you help? who makes you feel smarter when you're reading their prose? who makes demands of you, as a reader, but engages and then rewards you?

things to consider as you're coming up with your recommendations:

the verbal section of the MCATs tests the ability to

• read critically and actively
• comprehend written material
• capture the essence of a passage by main idea
• intuit a writer's tone, and draw inferences/conclusions.

F:

• is a dude (--> no austen or DH lawrence)
• is a chemical engineer, not an english major (--> no danielewski)
  
• is someone who'd rather read 5 short books than 1 long one
• loves fitzgerald, salinger & orwell
• got bogged down in the 1st chapter of Absalom, Absalom
• got bogged down on the 1st paragraph of Ulysses
• reads history books for fun

here's what i've gathered so far, in order of increasing demand on reader:

In the Lake of the Woods – Tim O’Brien
A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
Demian – Hermann Hesse
The Master – Colm Toibin
Other Voices, Other Rooms – Truman Capote
The Third Policeman – Flann O’Brien
Portrait of Dorian Gray – Oscar Wilde
Oliver Twist – Dickens
The Turn of the Screw (long short story) – Henry James
The Beast in the Jungle (long short story) – Henry James
Dubliners (short stories; esp The Dead & Araby) – Joyce
Saturday – Ian McEwan
Shakespeare’s King Lear
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting – Milan Kundera
Labyrinths (short stories) – Borges
Invitation to a Beheading – Nabokov
Transparent Things - Nabokov
Death in Venice – Thomas Mann
Dante’s Inferno – Mark Musa's translation

what do you think? help please!

pa(RED)y

i can't take cred, unfort. a couple more here.

for lemony snicket fans

(it's earwormy too...)

distorting -- er, *creating* -- beauty

like tossing pearls before swine

Quasar just spent 45min trouble-shooting one of his newly-programmed modules after a client complained about bad formatting. now he's bitching because it's the client's fault: vidya (aka the "vidiot") kept changing his CSS classes. "men don't make passes at women who change classes," i observed. dead silence.

sigh.

well, at least it's october. grab some lurch-worthy drinking buds and go on a Zombie Walk.

(sorry FMC and adam; this seems to be a yank fenom.)

petulant

yesterday morning, while i was sitting on a beach surf-fishing and resting my cranky OTHER hamstring, the American Cancer Society's Making Strides Against Breast Cancer 5K took off in downtown wilmington.

a women's-only race and fun walk, this event brings out thousands of people. our gov usually shows up to give the pre-race pep talk and fire the starting cannon. a local women's sports store puts up the 5K awards: a $100 gift certificate for the winner, and a voucher for a free pair of new balance running shoes for each winner in the 5-year age group categories.

last year none of the really fast chicks showed, and i won, taking the lead after playing some headgames with blondie. winning a race is always cool, but this win's even cooler because, since there are no men miles out in front of you, YOU get to follow the lead motorcycle and bask in the hoopla that comes with being the first across the finish line. and if your mom happens to be a 12-year survivor of breast cancer, the win's that much sweeter.

anyway, i didn'tcouldn't go this year, mollifying myself with the thought that rudy's wife vicki would show and win with a sub-16min time as she's done in the past.

but no, the results are posted and the winning time this year was 19:02, 15sec slower than my time last year, and the winning time for my age group was 23:48. arrrgggggh!

god i miss racing.

lord forgive me for i know not what i do. i am petulant, cranky and horny and therefore must be forgiven for this early monday morning impulse buy.

it's RED. and i love the leibowitz campaign.

Owned by Title Nine

last weekend F and I went to the sallies invitational XC meet in the Creek where, if all goes well, we’ll be coughing up lungs at the end of nov. the invitational hosts high schools from DE, MD, NJ and PA on a tough, hilly 5K course – the top guys were running just over 17min; the girls around 20.

i never ran XC in high school – badminton (don’t laugh, fuckers) was my fall sport – but surveying the runners last saturday, i wished i had; and it once again reminded me how good sports are for kids. 10min before the race, guys were doing striders and plyometric drills in team syncopation; 5min before, the air rang with guttural cheers and team chants while girls joined arms and high-stepped over the tall grass and then broke up to cheer their teammates when the horn sounded. parents clambered atop stone walls to encourage or exhort their kids to move faster, smoother. old men were young again.

i wondered how long it’d take someone to recognize F from his running days @ glasgow. 5min later, kenny introduced himself; F barely recognised him. that’s kenny? he marveled as we walked away. he used to be so short and dorky.

kenny and many strong runners of delaware’s past & present now coach high school XC & track. st. marks is coached by the olympic steeplechaser and his wife lauren, who told me one of their junior runners was thinking about attending her alma mater, JMU, largely because of the strength of the running program and lauren's high opinion of the coach.

the week before, the boy went to visit JMU, and after meeting with the XC coach he called lauren to tell her the men’s XC program had been axed because of Title IX, which stipulates spending on sports programs must be commensurate by percentage with the percentage of student population by gender. JMU's student population is 60% female and 30% male, so men’s sports get 30% of the total budget for sports programs. Citing inadequate funding, JMU’s shutting down its men’s XC, track and swim teams – and its mens’ and womens’ fencing and archery teams.

fencing and archery i can see as intramural sports, but what college doesn’t field running and swimming? running has got to be one of the cheapest programs on the planet. you could fund it on the football team's gatorade budget, or the money you'd spend on legal defense for members of the team indicted for gang-banging a cheerleader.

i am all for parity for men and women in academics and sports, but let's be reasonable. there are certain staples in college athletics, and swimming & track are right up there with the F-word. (hockey, too. Go Big Red.)

:squish:

brush with big brutha

yesterday we presented the initial strategy doc i and several others labored over all weekend. this account is our first significant one with a local pharma giant, and since we’d all love to fasten on that teat, this job = Huge Fucking Ado.

5 of us trekked to the client’s HQ and stood goggling in the 3-story lobby like schoolkids on a trip to the zoo.

-- this lobby is as big as our entire building, M breathed.
-- is there a Vending Machine, i wondered.
-- there’s a Brasserie, The Mayor replied, and cocked his head upward where visible were little pharma lemmings bussing their trays.
-- yeah, but josé used to work here and he said that all their salads have meat, M observed.

well, there is one advantage we have. our Vending Machine does offer vegetarian options. and you’re not a closed-caption TV star the whole time you’re on our premises.

-- when i used to work for GSK -- D offered -- one of our vendors arrived late for a meeting and didn’t have time to make it to a restroom, so he relieved himself next to his car. of course everything was caught on camera, and security apprehended him. he got in big trouble.

hmmm. kinda makes you think twice about a late-night roll on the conference room table.

we’re expected guests, so all our security clearances and credit checks have been processed beforehand; straightaway we’re badged and given some really convoluted directions. all 5 of us listen and nod, naturally assuming that someone else has been the one paying attention. so when we’re sent on our way, we’re like puppies tumbling out of a kids’ pool, inclined toward clumping, but still nosing in different directions.

i get held up by the pockets of scent dropping down from the brasserie and am thus the last one to make it to the revolving doors, one of the first entrances into the inner sanctum. in video games, this is usually where the first Boss comes out and kicks your ass. in real life it’s not much different. next to the door there’s a pad with a red LED light. i push the light and sail in with blithe confidence, but the door does not budge. hmmm. again push light, which does not seem very pushable; and again, nothing.

but look – here’s someone coming the opposite way. it is a good thing everything here is glass, so you can plan for oncoming traffic. the other woman enters, the doors revolve and i slip in. hooray! -then the doors grind to a stop. there is a Voice:

-- the doors will now reverse direction. please move accordingly. the doors will now reverse direction.

the doors reverse direction, and the other woman and i dutifully shuffle backwards, looking at each other quizzically. an asian dude joins the queue behind her. the system resets, the other woman enters as do i. the Voice:

-- the doors will now reverse direction. please move accordingly. the doors will now reverse direction.

the reverse, shuffle and reset. M’s in paroxysms of giggles, D looks absolutely horrified and The Mayor’s jiggling his blazer at me. the other woman is looking rather pained. thinking to catch me off-guard, she charges quickly, but with my super-caffeine powers i am right on her. again, that fucking Voice. M almost collapses on the floor.

asian dude missed half the fun, but he’s already had enough. he waves his ID at me. DO YOU HAVE A BADGE he hollers. oh, THAT thing. i never knew they DID anything. i’m always losing them; usually The Mayor finds them in the elevator. i have one. SEE? I brandish my badge at asian guy. USE IT!!! he implores. i guess he wants to get out of the building real bad. i hope he's not planning to take a whizz in the parking lot.

i pass my badge over the pad, the light glows green, the doors move smoothly and i sail through like the fucking queen of england joining her subjects.

-- god you’re a loser, J says to me.
-- yeah and you still live with your mom.
turning to The Mayor, i explain with a touch of defensiveness, look i never knew these things had a USE. he shakes his head and flaps the badge clipped to his lapel.
-- i tried to tell ya.

the next 15min is a wild goose chase as we try to find our conference room using directions that were confusing even before 5 different people misinterpreted them, so we finally arrive 10min late, when we appeared at the reception desk 15min early. by this time D is so frazzled and fidgety her lips are thin white lines. it is a good thing i’m the main presenter, not her. once you get caught in a revolving door, things can only get better.

after this day, it was lovely to get out on the track. my still-weak hamstring triggers errant, compensatory pains but so far they’re minor; and i finished up my set of 1000m intervals at 6min mile pace and felt absolutely giddy. endorphins, man. wish i could bottle ‘em.

thermopylae was the shit

if you're not working at the MIT Media lab, the next best job would be making movie trailers. it'd be just like you imagined.

[here's the high definition link if you've got good pipes. badd ASS.]

evolution of the whiteboard

my undergrad engineering courses would have been a lot easier with this:

GRASS

partner-at-large corners me in the hallway, excitement writ on his face. christ. this will take hours. partner-at-large is notorious for his volubility and blue-sky abstractions.

-- hey, finn. let me run something by you.
-- i have to pee.
-- okay. what do you think of this for the space downstairs: we tear out all the architects' stuff except for the reception area and the east side becomes the production area.
he's already lost me. i'm not moving. i'm not giving up my window. it opens. air comes in. it's the greatest thing evar.
-- dude, my bladder.
-- okay. so there'll be transient work units [partner-at-large speak for "desks"] and whiteboards and print stations but we won't have enough money to do hardwood floors for the whole area so what do you think of -- he puffs his chest and breathes deep -- grass.
-- grass??
-- grass. not real grass, of course, kind of like astroturf but longer, with more texture. when you come into work, you could walk by the reception area and leave your shoes at the entrance to production what do you think?
he's looking at me the same way my dog does when he's waiting for me to throw the B-A-L-L. i expect his head to cock and one leg to lift. neither occurs, but he's still trembling with anticipation.
-- grass.
-- YES!!
-- um, what about the wheeled chairs?
there have to be wheeled chairs. my main stress relief in this place is packing loucypher in his chair and racing the width of the building.
-- we're thinking of those chairs that slide back and forth, you know, the suspended ones that...
and then he descends into some kind of herman miller jumbo but all i can think of is the slider-glider on my porch, which makes me think of summertime and mint juleps and boys with fans. ReveryTime.....
.........-- so, what do you think?
i think i have to piss.
-- well, i don't know. i mean, some people might be a little weird about their feet.
like jooliebooliemonkeystoolie. it's a safe bet that the chick who makes huge toilet paper nests in the bathroom so that her ass won't touch the same seat that other people's asses touch will NOT be thrilled about prancing barefoot with other barefeet.
-- and you know what a bunch of slobs we are. god, the Mayor can't make it from the kitchen to his desk without leaving a trail of coffee drips and donut sprinkles. who's gonna vacuum the grass every day?
partner-at-large looks visibly deflated. he really thought i'd be down with the grass.
-- but i'm only one opinion. ask joolie. can i pee now please?
without waiting for a response, i shoulder by and don't emerge from the bathroom until i'm reasonably sure he's gone.

fucking grass. WTF.

yesterday lasted forever

litany of yesterday’s sufferings:

stopt sleeping @ 1am
out of bed @ 2
3400yds in the pool; main set ended w/
6 x 100yd on 4:00; not so bad except it was:
6 x 100yd ALL OUT
meang the 1st 50 is suffering and
the 2nd is hanging on for deer life.
arms limp; shoulders burning
tummy upset
bc breakfast = Ass Coffee + bag of candy corn
(split w/loucypher tho)
listng to loucypher whinge abt how much his tummy hurt
Fmorsel looking impossibly delectable
(smells nice too)
shakyBldg
5 x 4min intervals @ tuesNiteTrack
Fmorsel running impossibly fast
(even w/fasting)

and then? POPCORN AND NACHOS AND BEER BEER BEER.

fellows and bellows

this sunday, the local paper featured a story about a vascular surgeon coping with life as a quadriplegic following a cycling accident a year and a half ago. while riding his bike on memorial day, dr. fellows struck the side of an SUV when it made a last-minute turn in front of him.

fellows severed his C2 vertebra and stopped breathing 3 times on the way to the ER. now he’s a quad, paralyzed from the neck down. once an avid tennis player, cyclist and windsurfer, he now navigates his life in a wheelchair.

this is the man who gave me back my athletic career after i’d spent 4 frustrating years exploring multifarious branches of medicine trying to figure out why my right leg would lose all power under intense effort. some doctors were utterly mystified; some wondered what the big deal was. “you can still walk. what’s the problem?”

fellows and i figured out the problem was vascular in nature, and it was he who carved out 5cm of my iliac artery, replacing it with gore-tex. it was fellows who adjured the residents checking my post-op status to MAKE SURE the pressures in both legs matched. and it was fellows who drove back that night through a driving snowstorm to perform emergency surgery when i clotted my new, strange vessel.

every race i do is a gift from dr. fellows, and i try to not squander it or take it for granted.

this doesn’t mean i’m not a total asshole.

since i’m one of fellows’ more unusual patients (i.e., not an elderly smoker with plaque-stiffened arteries), the article’s author interviewed me extensively and quoted me recollecting:

unlike most doctors, who treat you like you have half a brain and are supercilious and patronising, [fellows] listened to you and wasn’t in a hurry to get to the next patient. he treated you with respect.

i may be in some trouble here – first for harshing on the entire medical profession (okay, MOST, not the entire) and second for dragging out the 11th grade SAT vocabulary.

granted, supercilious depends on context. if you’re talking about dracula, it’s kinda sexy. OTOH, when you’re summing up MOST doctors, it could be construed as a wee bit critical.

-- most doctors are “supercilious and patronising”? D mocked me. only if you’re an elitist, over-educated ivy league brat. you could WALK.

in a town where everybody’s connected by at most two degrees of separation, one of which is usually a dupont scion or capano, i fear my torrid phraseology may have gotten me black-listed in the local medical community. my name isn’t common, so i can’t play the “oh, that must be a different jan brady” card.

i can’t wait for the next time i establish a new patient relationship. “and what’s your name? ah…. yes… um, well, the doctor’s seeing patients in 2009. shall i put you down for june, you judas iscariot??”

i’d quote a wise man and say we get what we deserve, but that doesn’t hold true for fellows at all. he's undaunted, however, and continues to practise medicine as an advisor and educator -- his most important lesson, arguably, that your life can flip in a split second.

carpe diem, friends.