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.