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.

a case of teh Mdays

the good

in the spirit of alex haley, who recommended "find the good and praise it," the good, today:

Halo 22:



the whiff of awitha teetha at the end of the above.

100IM.

morsels.

pisces; Only Revolutions.

the building not shaking quite so badly.

u-pick apples.

MFBT.

86

Grandmother
she sits on the edge of the bed and cries,
wishing that things were different.
she wonders when she began to feel this empty
and whether it's a permanent condition.
her husband does everything in the world to help
a stranger on the street
but he won't listen to her -- tells her
you don't need to read the directions.
her grandchildren visit occasionally
and she greets them with gifts:
a new book or game or small toy.
when she's caught by surprise, she rushes upstairs
to wrap one of her skirts or bracelets,
a piece of love her husband gave her years ago.

the doctor is too young, she says;
how would someone so young understand these feelings?
she squeezes her eyes shut and wonders if this is
a permanent condition.
(7 jan 1993)

my grandmother is 86 today. in general, she's physically healthy, but in the past month she's eliminated utensils from her narrowing focus and now eats with her hands.

i heard an interview with a woman who'd just written a book about caring for two parents with dementia. it's like watching them die twice, she said. first the person you know dies, then the body follows.

i wish i'd known this 13 years ago, so i could have told grandmother it wasn't permanent.

for arg, and MZD

roses are red
scranton is nORth
clinton got digs in
and blue sallies fORth

our differences bind us

[13:27] [finn]: so i spose u r not up for tues nite track tonite?
[13:28] [F]: i was just going to talk to you about that....i can run this week, but it won't be today
[13:28] [F]: i need to get used to it
[13:28] [finn]: warrior heart.
[13:28] [finn]: is u.
[13:28] [F]: i worked out sunday and the results weren't good
[13:29] [F]: so i'm trying to easily get into it w/o fainting
[13:30] [F]: u get used to it
[13:30] [finn]: whatev.
[13:30] [F]: see before it wasn't that bad bc we cud break our fast like 5
[13:30] [F]: now it's 6:50
[13:30] [F]: every year it's earlier
[13:30] [finn]: sundown gets earlier?
[13:30] [F]: no like every year ramadan is pushed up by like 2 or 3 weeks
[13:31] [F]: so soon it'll be in the summer
[13:31] [F]: that means the days are much longer
[13:31] [finn]: oh...what marks the start?
[13:31] [F]: so you have to fast longer
[13:33] [F]: ummm...it's complicated i've never really understood it
[13:33] [finn]: like easter
[13:33] [F]: it's like when you see the ninth moon of the islamic calendar
[13:33] [F]: yeah like easter
[13:34] [finn]: dude, fasting in the summer will be even HARSHER.
[13:34] [F]: i know...but it'll make me stronger
[13:34] [F]: :-)
[13:35] [finn]: yeah, you look stronger already.
[13:35] [F]: i'll be running in the 100 degree weather w/o food or water in me
[13:35] [finn]: and fainting.
[13:35] [F]: and then i'll never sweat
[13:35] [finn]: and die
[13:35] [F]: lol
[13:36] [F]: i'll get used to it, it's all mental
[13:36] [F]: so when u wanna run this week?
[13:36] [finn]: whenever your ass wont faint on me.
[13:36] [F]: lol
[13:36] [F]: wanna go tom.?
[13:37] [F]: i'll hydrate real well tonight
[13:37] [finn]: w/beer?
[13:39] [F]: lol
[13:39] [F]: i can't drink for a month
[13:39] [finn]: oh god, it just gets worse & worse.
[13:40] [finn]: F, i luv ya & all, but i think you're a nutjob.
[13:40] [finn]: but i still respect u.
[13:40] [finn]: just want to make that cleer.
[13:58] [F]: lol...y do you think i am a nutjob?
[14:00] [finn]: cos you can do things way beyond my ken.
[14:00] [finn]: rly, i am just jealous cos i do not hv Warrior Heart.
[14:00] [finn]: and if i dont eat, or drink or sweat i will die
[14:00] [finn]: or be v cranky.
[14:01] [F]: lol....this is good for me finn, trust me.....it helps me be more disciplined
[14:01] [finn]: i can respect that.
[14:01] [finn]: as long as yr ass dont faint on me.
[14:01] [F]: i won't.....nothing will change in our workout schedule
[14:02] [F]: i'm still racing in november
[14:02] [finn]: kay.
[14:02] [finn]: mb we run tom then.
[14:44] [F]: u know, u r a warrior
[14:44] [finn]: not really.
[14:44] [finn]: unless warriors drown their stress in choc & whiskey.
[14:45] [F]: yum
[14:45] [finn]: NONE FOR YOU.
[14:45] [finn]: SUFFER, WARRIOR.
[14:45] [F]: i can still have chocolate
[14:45] [finn]: when it's dark.
[14:45] [finn]: uv got a ways to go.
[14:46] [F]: ur beggin for a spankin:-P
[14:47] [finn]: i see hunger hasnt dulled yr brainpower.
[14:47] [finn]: yet.

Ramalamadingdong

F and i have a rolling date to run sunday afternoons. this past sunday he texted me this:
run w o me... fasting statred tod. feel too waek. sory.
even on his shittiest days, F can spell passably well, so i infer that fasting has really fucked him up.

wait. fasting?!?

for all his afghan-ness, it never occurred to me that F might be a practicing muslim. with his new acura, weakness for blackjack & roulette tables and affinity for barbados rum, F seems, well, like ME. american. corrupted and secular. so the fact that he celebrates ramadan was an eye-opener, as was the reality behind the fasting the holiday entails.

-- so, when can you eat? i asked him yesterday. at 6:30 in the morning he sounded like an old man, nasal and wavering.
-- well, i woke up at 5:40 – he paused for a gulp of air. ah, that was filling – and i’ll be able to eat at 7:20.
-- so, like in an hour.
-- no, like tonight. you fast from sunup to – gulp & swaller; ah, nummy – to sundown.
-- dude, that's harsh. how long do you do this?
-- a month.
-- a MONTH?? i screeched. that is outrageous. F is my main man, my munchable morsel, for the XC race in november. this fasting bit is a definite wrench in my works.

and even for a sedentary human bean, fasting for a month cannot be healthy, can it? to gorge yourself at night and fall into bed? or do you sleep during the day and graze all night? is it understood that, in the muslim world, people will be pretty much dazed and tottery for the next month? do businesses and stock markets close during that time when people will not be making very wise decisions?

i did a little research and came up with dr. shahid athar’s writings on the medical benefits of the ramadan fast:

There is a peace and tranquility for those who fast during the month of Ramadan. Personal hostility is at a minimum, and the crime rate decreases. This psychological improvement could be related to better stabilization of blood glucose during fasting as hypoglycemia after eating, aggravates behavior changes.

or it could be related to everybody being passed out on the kitchen floor! o folly folly folly. dr. athar also makes a case for not drinking during fasting time, arguing that dehydration is GOOD for you because it makes PLANTS live longer. right. dr. athar obviously wrote this treatise while dazed and tottery himself. it probably took him all month.

and what if you’re an athlete? your choice seems to be:

• train late in the day, on fumes
• train early, then eek out the rest of the day on a major glycogen bonk
  

either choice sounds like misery to me, and hell on your bod. did muhammad ali celebrate ramadan? if smokin’ joe frazer were smart, he’d’ve scheduled all his matches with ali in during ramadan.

ever-respectful of other people and their crackhead beliefs, i don’t tear apart the whole ramadan/fasting thing before F in his weakened state; but over the next couple weeks you can be sure i’ll be working on making him feel guilty about leaving me in the lurch.

because that is MY religion.

the cheese stands alone

the city had its way with our block on friday, reducing the delapidated building alongside to a pile of rubble. the air's now a mix of sodden carpets and old sofas with delicate septic undertones, and the homeless guy who used to live there is now, well, homeless again.





sexy chicken, quest que cest.

Rebranding

my company began a Rebranding effort in 2005. half a year later, all we'd accomplished was cosmetic updates, a fresh coat of paint (literally).

another 6mos later, after interminable late night sword-clashing sessions between ego-hound, navel-gazing designers, we have a new name and identity. our palette is rich, power colors and we’ve chopped down the number of syllables in our name from 9 to 2 – one less than razorfish. we are that damn tight. only god has fewer syllables, and his design skills are suspect. look at penguins for chrissake. i saw that March of the Penguins movie and that is just way too much effort for scant fucking ROI.

our new website will probably meander down the pike in another 6mos, but as far as demonstrable brand identity goes, we now have this:


that’s right. look and weep, my friends: a Vending Machine. it just arrived this week, with much hue & cry. there are Apple Snack Pies. Tiny Twists. Limited Edition Kudos (we're elite, but approachable). and, of course, cans of fizzy sugar.

this is Progress.

the VM is strategically placed at the front door to provide maximum WOW-ness to visiting prospects & clients. with our tiled elevator floors, partially-tiled vestibule and VM, what sensible person could fail to be impressed? game's up, razorfish/Avenue A. we've got the Vending Machine.

sneak attack

the weather’s turning. the air bites now, has an edge; there are colors on the other side. yesterday felt like the first day of fall.

-- that picture always makes me smile.

i am in my dermatologist’s examining room, where one wall is dominated by a picture of dr. b in a boat, hefting a 26-inch rainbow trout. he’s wearing a floppy hat with a trailing skirt that flows down his bare head over his shoulders. he looks supremely triumphant and at the same time utterly ridiculous. the picture always makes me smile, and i tell him so.

-- this is my happy room -- he confides. sometimes in the middle of the day i just come in here and sit. i sit in that chair you’re in and after a couple minutes i feel that yes, there is life after death.

that is good to know. because when i woke up the previous night flaying my skin off with my nails i really craved something dark and merciful to stop the itching and fever in my upper arm. it is good to know you can come back from that. what is my thing with the fucking insect bites, i want to know. but he has more to say.

-- i don’t have a place like this at home. it’s bare. it’s not me.

i came for dr. b’s opinion about my body’s virulent reaction to a bald-faced hornet encounter, but what i’m getting is his loneliness. when his wife left, he explains, she stripped the house and it no longer feels like home.

-- and i’m not the kind of person who likes to be alone. i can't see a movie by myself. i loved going to wine-tastings but i can’t go anymore because i just sit there making idle conversation, trying to ignore how uncomfortable i feel because i’m not part of a couple.

is this what it comes down to, then? sinking your life into someone else and giving half of it away ifwhen she leaves? revealing your delicate skin to an infrequent patient?

-- when did she leave?
-- a year ago.

who am i to advise a 50-something divorcé who's uncomfortable alone? i am on the opposite end of the spectrum. what's my line?

-- it’s not so bad when the weather’s warm and i can be outside. but in the winter… he shrugs and stares at his younger self. i don’t get out enough to meet people. i see my kids, sure, but most of my time i spend here and, well, i just miss wine-tastings.

he’s still focused on the boat but the life-after-death perspective is sluggish today. a shoulder twitch and suddenly he recalibrates.

-- enough of that. what’s up.

our discussion turns toward allergic reactions to venom and the possibility of anaphylactic shock, but it’s a superficial riffle atop the undertow. as dr. b ushers me out of the examining room i need to make some attempt to dispel the pall.

-- maybe you should take that picture home -- i said. put it in one of your rooms.

his head tilts slightly but i am a patient now.

-- perhaps. you should get an ana-kit. have a good fall.

i don’t have answers. i’m sorry.

but my 200 IM felt sublime today. it is a rare day when all 4 strokes click. this morning the water was an ally, and sometimes that is enough.

before the wrecking ball

the city informed us yesterday that the adjoining building will be demolished today.

-- is it safe? i mean, we're still gonna be here?? i ask HippieBossMan. no one told me stay home.
-- well, for a while. then we'll be dead.

the phones are already crackly and unpredictable, and our DSL connection drops periodically. supposively, our servers have been backed up & secured, but our Chief Tech Ottocrat has fled to beijing.

if the sitch gets dire, there's always the balcony. it's only a 4-story drop and there are some big planters below, with plenty of cigarette butts and a couple crack-whores for cushioning.

MF windoze

it's an easy cliché, the whole mac-PC argument, and taking up the cause against the opposing side is like arguing with a pro-lifer. neither of you will budge a fucking inch and you'll end up beating each other with umbrellas or whatever's at hand.

that said, rob's recent rant, jesus fuck i hate windows, is spot-on. all my woes summed in 2 competent paragraphs, featuring this observation:

every time i use it, microsoft's ugly hunk of shit operating system manages to find new ways to make me want to take a dump on my pc and light it on fire.

i have been sitting on my ass long enough. i think it's time to get a mac laptop.
maybe i'll even get net access at home.

wait.
let's not be hasty. it's a slippery slope.

history doesn't repeat itself

this weekend i went to see an ACLU-sponsored performance about a japanese-american's experiences in WWII internment camps. a month after pearl harbor, hiroaki nishimura was bustled out of his san francisco home and for the next 3 years shipped between hastily-constructed camps in california, wyoming and arkansas. his only offense was being japanese on the west coast.

in his writing, he's stoic and weirdly accepting of his loss of liberty -- it seems he and the other inmates thought that their blind obedience would prove their patriotism.

6 months after the war ended, nishimura was finally released.

18 years later, his american citizenship was restored. when the reagan administration agreed that all surviving internees should be remunerated, nishimura spent his $20,000 check on a brand-new honda accord.

during the time of the japanese-american internment, 10 americans were convicted of spying for japan. they were all caucasian. the attorney general would no doubt argue, well that's because we had all the others in custody.

after the peformance, i exercised my god-given american freedom to go out and buy hair color and liquor... on a sunday. the woman behind the counter registered my presence slowly, so engrossed was she in a Rolling Stone articled footered "torture."

-- i'm just reading about what bush is doing to all those people we're holding.
i felt like i was in a time warp.
-- mmm, happy reading, then.
-- you know, i didn't like him before, but now i like him even less.
-- with god on your side, you can do just about anything.

she looked at me uncertainly, passing over my whiskey and change.

history doesn't repeat itself. people repeat history.

another reason to stick around

[i thank god for the danielewskis, and the reznors and banksys.]

detox monday

I thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty.

John Waters

my lesions are better

hash is back, victorious. maria won the US Open. she's now officially the highest paid female athlete in the world, and she and her dad want to retain hash for all of 2007.

-- would you do it? - i asked.
-- i'm still considering, but i don't think so. with the World Cup, and then her, i've spent three-quarters of my year travelling. i didn't recognise my dog. i'd have to leave this place -- he swept an arm around the therapy area -- and maybe sell my house. but the money'd be great.
-- but you'd have no time to spend it.
-- right. but it's not so much the time. i was only working 8- or 10-hour days, but when you leave, you don't go home and hang out with your friends. you go back to your hotel room and watch the same shows.
-- you didn't get chummy with the other therapists & trainers? you've gotta see the same people over & over at these matches.
-- yeah, but the women are weird. the guys -- they go out and beat the shit out of each other on the court and then go out and have a beer. the women are just as competitive off the court as on it. you get caught hanging out with someone from another women's camp, and you're in deep shit. women are just different.

that's why most of my friends are men. women wear me out.

rudy pronounced me healthy, ready for battle. your lesions are so much better, m'dear. you can go back to full training. just don't be stupid. moi??

70 days to the DE XC championships, then. F has pledged to train with me, F with his shattered afghan family, marvelous cheekbones and new car of which he's so proud, an acura burbleburbleburble -- all i know is it's dark and sleek and i would go for a ride anytime.


hard to believe that at this time last week i was searching for things to live for.

when dogs laugh

this is sure to trigger another massive influx of mice into my litter box and the microwave:

To: The Dung Beetles
From: The Dung Beetle Administrator
Subject: Just a heads up... maybe

All,

Word from our man Luigi has it that the dilapidated building behind us will be demolished this week...if the City keeps it's word!!!

As an added precaution, when they start demolishing, save any work you are doing often and be prepared for the building to shake a little!!!!

Thanks,
The Dung Beetle Administrator

that "delapidated" building shares our rear wall. it used to be fine until the city got at it with wrecking balls last year. the "delapidating" would begin around 10am and desist at 2 -- meanwhile, the floor groaned with each impact, several whiteboards slid off the walls, and the exposed support beams shed showers of paint and dust. as a result of the historic Delapidation, the floor's now gently pitched so that anything cylindrical (like pens on a desk, and wheeled chairs filled with people) naturally roll to the back of the building.

to say we're awaiting Demolition with bated breath is an understatement.

lou and i discussed getting the fuck out of dodge and opening up a pub instead... but what to name it? he suggested The Winged Rat, quaintly evoking our urban surroundings, but since having learned that scientists now believe dogs chuckle, i'm partial to The Laughing Dog.

what does a laughing dog sound like? check this out. to me, it sounds like two pugs eating rice pudding, but i'm not a dog scientist.

Celebrate Banned Books Week

google's made it easy: explore banned books.

some of my faves there:

• gatsby (oooh she smells of money)
• LOTF (hey piggie)
• sun also rises (the red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer)***
• as i lay dying (my mother is a fish)
• call of the wild (but mine was jack london's. oops)
• for whom the bell tolls (i prefer the metallica version though)
• anything by DH lawrence. how he must get christian preservative undies in a twitch!
• a separate peace (which i always moon for this time of year. i miss school.)
• naked lunch (why so pale and wan, fair bugger?)

if i were man enough i'd have ulysses up there, but i'm afraid i've fallen off the wagon with my page a day. didn't even get to molly's soliloquy, but i know the riverruns.

UPDATE
***oops that's stephen crane. well, same thing.

i had a dream like this last night.

skinny models banned

citing a responsibility to the impressionable yoot of the world, madrid has banned excessively thin models from its fashion week runways. onsite doctors will measure models' Body Mass Index and turn away anyone with a BMI under 18.

this action begs some questions:

• is it really possible to discriminate against skinny chicks, as modeling agencies are yowling?
• will designers have to re-size their collections to fit normal bodies?
• will clothes that look ridiculous on conventional models look twice as ridiculous on "normal weight" bodies?
• what time is lunch?

finally, would you make the BMI cut? here's a calculator (with metric & US tabs). i am In Like Finn. this may be MY only shot at the catwalk, folks.

i'm too sexy for my mice...

persevere

cheney and rumsfeld suggested we "persevere."

banksy posted a life-size guantanamo bay inmate in front of a pitch-pole fence inside a disneyland ride in anaheim.


rob recollected, with pics.

M and i went for a 2-hour ride.

9/11

today's rules:

• no online NYT
• no NPR
• no News Journal
• no TV (as if i needed an excuse)
• no drinking at work

here's a perspective: more people die from suicide than murder and wars, combined.

on a local front, Mouse Wars continue. the poison tray installed last week under Hippie Boss's desk has been decimated. i wonder who thought it was a good idea to put a giant tray of poison at someone's feet -- although the placement alongside a forgotten bag of potato chips (and pair of shoes) was a stroke of genius.

entire generations of mice must be dying in our walls now.

cingular adventure

i feel horrid. i am a bloated puffy monster. in the past 48 hours i’ve accrued about 15 extra pounds and increased a dress size. my tits ache and i hate EVERYONE.

running yesterday afternoon only made things worse. i plodded along at a 9:30min/mile pace, my internal organs gurgling and slopping with every step. i honestly thought my uterus was going to jolt right out of me, dropping in the trail with a squishy red *glurp*.

i whacked my funny bone in the shower (not so funny) and was 15min down the road before i realised the parking brake was still on. entered the cingular store with a chip the size of texas on my shoulder. behind the counter is a pinch-faced man with harry potter glasses.

- can i help you.
- well, see my cellphone, which i got less than a year ago so it’s still under warranty, well the hinge broke and it flips open kinda jiggly so i was wondering if i could get a replacement.
i hand over the phone for his inspection. harrypotterman fiddles with the hinge, which is predictably jiggly.
- yep, she’s broken. let me see if we’ve got this model in stock.
harry vanishes and i gnaw my cuticles for several minutes. the door opens and in march two women. they’re both outfitted with walkie-talkies, nightsticks and handguns; both wear shirts saying “parole enforcement officer.” why do i suddenly feel as though i’ve committed a felony?? but harry’s back. and he’s smirking at me.
- sorry. we don’t have these in stock right now. AND there’s water damage, so we can’t accept this phone.
- excuse me?
- water damage. see?
he’s slid off the back of the phone to reveal some telltale dot that confesses my sin of getting caught in the rain once while riding with my cellphone.
- but… that has nothing to do with the hinge.
- sorry. it’s water-damaged.
- it is NOT water-damaged. i can call people on it. people can call me. i can play SOLITAIRE on it. the only thing wrong with it is the broken hinge, which has NOTHING to do with water WHATSOEVER.
- sorry. it’s damaged. we can’t accept it.
i’ve just sat in 30min of rush-hour traffic for nothing. i sigh deeply and turn to the woman behind me.
- can you shoot this guy please??
she straightens, thrusting her shoulders back, hand on holster.
- ma’am, that is a terroristic threat.
motherfucker. is this what the world’s come to? harry’s stiff as a fucking board and helga and her dominatrix sidekick look like they’re ready to handcuff me. they do not know that i am suffering from probably THE worst PMS of my life, and even if they did they would not give a rat’s ass. it’s off to one of those secret CIA holding cells and then straight to guantanamo for me. my dog will grieve for years, wondering why no one takes him for R-U-Ns or plays goalie with him anymore. i had better tread carefully.
- i’m sorry. that was a joke.
- it was a terroristic threat, ma’am.
technically, it was a question not an imperative, and terroristic is one of those words like irregardless, used by people who haven't enough to do with their time besides add extra syllables to words that don't need them. then again, our Commander-in-Chief persists in saying "nucular" so why should our law enforcement officers be any more eloquent? we get what we deserve.
- i am sorry. i didn’t mean it that way. i think i’ll just take this – i pluck my now-perfectly-fine who needs a non-jiggly-hinge-anyway phone from harry’s palm and sidle toward the door – and call later to see when you’ve got it in stock. thank you for your time. have a super evening.

all the way home i check my rearview mirror for flashing lights.

this shit better pass before i get myself in real trouble.

query:

WHY is it that sometimes PMS ain no big thang, and other times i want to bite the heads off babies??

crits: love 'em or hate 'em

george carlin once defined a sport as something that involves a ball and a chance of goddam serious injury. bike racing, therefore, is not a sport but we can rally around it anyway because it does involve a chance of goddam serious injury.

2 weeks ago Downers Grove hosted crit nationals. the pre-race talk was all about the perennial sprinter favorites tina pic and laura van gilder. i was pumpin for LVG, not just because she's my friend but because she too is a crusty relic racing wee sprylings half her age. and for the last 4 years, tina's pipped laura on the line to win. i figured there was shit to dish.

it was the LVG and pic show going into the final corner before the finish. then laura was vectoring over her top tube, tina was going over the handlebars in front of jen mcrae, and a no-name ended up national champion because she was in the right place at the right time. LVG was 2nd. again.

to view some great action shots, start here and continue "next"ing.

serious goddam injury. i don't miss crits onebit. i hated them. crits are all about positioning yourself close enough to the front so you can cover breaks and not rubberband around every corner or get caught in the crashes that occur there; while at the same time you don't want to do any extra work at the front. but everyone else wants that perfect position 6 people back, so the whole race is a physical and mental fight to STAY IN ONE PLACE.

the people who are really good at this have certain characteristics. they typically

• have huge quads and shoulders and pointy, convincing elbows
• are great bike handlers
• either come from the track or believe bike racing is a contact sport
• have very large balls

at the lower providence crit eleventy-billion years ago, i watched the pro 1,2 men set up for the sprint. in the field was my at-the-time boyfriend -- a little guy with a powerful sprint -- and marty nothstein, a trackie from trexlertown with a closet full of national, world and olympic medals. going into the last corner, marty decided that dave's line was better than his own, so before my wondering eyes he delivered a powerful head butt to dave's left shoulder and forced him off his line. i don't remember if marty won, i just remember pissing myself and thanking god my race was done because my shrinking violet spirit had been crushed just watching that.

dave was undeterred though. that guy's such a dick. i know i could have taken him, he ranted. i had to hustle him home before he started a fight with cycling's version of mike tyson.

goddam serious injury.

sine metu

from yesterday's associated press:

ORLANDO, Florida - A missing runner was rescued from a Florida swamp after spending four days stuck in the muck with only the waist-deep swamp water to drink. His first request: some good, old-fashioned drinking water. more.

FUCK THAT. if i get stuck in a swamp with biting insects and stinky mud for even an HOUR there had better be jamesons in my near future post-rescue. and after four days, there better be goddam laphroaig.

that is the problem with old people. they do not exercise sound judgement.

water. feh.

but hurrah! good news to report. yesterday afternoon i went for my first run since worlds, over a month ago. sure it was raining and i had to run on the roads during rush hour because the trails were a soggy mess, but i ran almost 4 miles and it felt wonderful.

i didn't know just how cramped and curtailed my stride'd become since that first hamstring tear in june, but now that rudy's ironed out the muscle fibers so they're running smooth and straight, running is pleasurable again. not perfect -- piriformis is a bit crankly -- but certainly this morning is much brighter than yesterday's, bright enough to celebrate with my own pot of ass coffee and 2 handfuls of dark chocolate m&ms. b-fast of champs.

word to motherfucking SLJ

just be glad they were snakes, and not stingrays.

banksy trumps paris

if you haven't heard about banksy's latest prank -- his skewering parody of paris hilton's Paris CD -- here's more detail and here are some pix, courtesy of The Gossip Rag (where you can see the entire CD booklet):

the orig cover:
banksy's take:

insets:



the going price on ebay for one of banksy's Paris CDs is now $762.
meanwhile, the paris version is $2.35.

justice.

lance in paris

that bastion of gossip integrity, The New York Post, reports that lance armstrong's been consorting with paris hilton. now paris may be a vivacious young lady capable of scintillating repartee, but i can't help wondering what she and lance talk about. like, blow jobs, maybe? and, like, how they, like, put holes in your face?

"My mom told me that you get those holes in your face, craters... from giving blow jobs. "I totally believed her. She's like, 'It's from sucking.' I'm like, 'Ewwww!' "I told my boyfriend - he's like, 'Why don't you ever do that?' I'm like, 'Because my mom told me you get these craters.' And he's like, 'Paris, you're 19. You're allowed to do this.' "I've only done that (fellatio) with maybe three people in my life."

i didn't make this up, though i'm embarrassed to be able to reference it. the web is a terrible thing.

lance armstrong & paris hilton is just wrong. that's like ian thorpe & ... oh ... tommy lee. i'd dwell on this more if i hadn't just been struck by this:

upon further thought, i realise i have never seen these two men in the same place at the same time. and then i found this:

run with that, NY Post.