Sick of the Tampon?

First of all, it's not a tampon. It's an ultradense foam roller. It has healed me. Don't make me choose between the two of you. Second of all, I've been more than a little busy. 15 hour travel days, insane people with insane requests, and of course trying to escape this awful heat. 113? That's simply wrong. We left Arizona for many reasons. Number 6 on the list was escaping the awful heat. Our neighbors are blaming us. That's ok, they're all pretty dull anyway.

So today's post. I won't bore you with my 16 mile run in triple digits. Nor will I comment on any of the movies I've seen lately. What I will write about is the Santa Cruz boardwalk. Because as most of you know, boardwalks are where the entertainment is. Deep fried twinkies, check. Centrifuge-like rides, check. Young girl who looks half drunk puking two feet from my feet, check. Swimsuits that are much, much too small in a very bad way, check. Pretty much the only thing that prevented the SC boardwalk from being Coney Island was the complete lack of freaks. I however refused to let the lack of freakiness deter my ability to be amused. I am a ghost faced killa, but c'mon, it was a Saturday at the beach.

I will now share my two favorite boardwalk events (and yes, I've reverted to the writing style that one of my International Relations political science professors dubbed, "The Most Boring Writing Style I've Ever Read". I blame my reversion on the enormous length of time I've spent on Excel over the past two weeks.). I will not use this space to comment on the heavenly reception we received at Vasili's post-boardwalk. I don't want to sully that experience with boardwalk dirtiness. Event #1: Parking at the boardwalk.

This event would be much more amusing with either a picture or a personal demonstration. The wait to park was a little long. As cars approached the $10 a day parking lot (Liz and I gave each other high fives that it wasn't $10 an hour.), three lanes of traffic were merging into one lane to enter the lot. As we were merging, a minivan next to us began honking like mad and pulled up next to our door. What we then witnessed was beyond amusing. Again, a picture or a demonstration would be worth so much more than this paragraph. A man with three teeth and a woman with purple hair were both screaming at the top of their lungs at us. The woman was especially amusing as she was also jumping in her seat and pointing at us. Instinctively, I knew what to do to infuriate them further. I simply pointed at them and began laughing. It was then that I saw her begin to foam at the mouth, at which point, I threw back my head and laughed even more. Unfortunately, once we got into the parking lot, we couldn't find them. We would have had the camera ready.

Event #2: Dance Dance Revolution 2. Again, a picture would make this story much much better. As we were making our way back to the car in order to go to Greek heaven, I had to visit the men's room. The closest one was in one of the boardwalk arcades. At the entrance to the arcade was DDR 2. Surrounding DDR 2 were about 15 guys with shaved heads, no shirts, and plenty of tattoos. One guy was dancing, but he was holding onto the bar. He was obviously doing very well. As he finished up the round, another huge guy with a shaved head, no shirt, and plenty of tattoos told him, "If you were a real dancer, you wouldn't hold onto the bar." The other guys with shaved heads, no shirts, and plenty of tattoos all murmured in assent. I'm glad that I stifled my laughter as I'm sure they would have first kicked my ass and then used me as their dance pad.

Mexican Food

Always gives me a little charge for the rest of the afternoon. At least for the first 30 minutes. After that, I'm more than a little sluggish. You might ask if it's worth it. I'll tell you that in those 30 minutes, I accomplish more than in the remaining 4, er, I mean 2 hours of my workday. Did I just say that out loud? I take late lunches. Late I tell you. Good thing the internet is anonymous.

For those who are looking at this as correlation, rather than causation, and are attributing my renewed energy to the walk to the taco stand, rather than the tacos themselves, you're wrong, dead wrong. I function off of grease and fat. It is my fuel. Short bursts of hyperactivity. Do you want to be a supernova or whatever the opposite of a supernova is? (If anyone knows, please share. Wikipedia AND Google both failed. Unbelievable.)

25 minutes left.

Dear Mr. ITB Part Ni

Hi there. Haven't heard from you in a while. Guess what? I'm pretty happy about that. I know we are close and you know some of the more intimate details of my life, but really, have we ever had a close emotional relationship? It's simply been physical and basically, you've only caused me pain and suffering. Well, after speaking to my therapist, we finally figured out that I couldn't let you run my life for me and I needed to take control. My medication wasn't working, resting wasn't working, and ice wasn't working. It was finally time to do what I'd talked about doing for years, but never really had the courage to do. Buy an ultradensity foam roller. I don't want to hear about your complaints. I know, I know. It hurts you not having the type of control over my life that you're used to. I finally don't give a damn. You should count yourself lucky that I didn't have you removed.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've rolled on the new love of my life. Sweet rolls that bring such pain. As you are squished between the roller and my femur, the pain slowly builds and by the third roll, I'm sweating and grimacing, but I know it's for my own good. Once I'm finished and stand up, the pain is gone. I can see you run away like a little girl into the corner and cry because of what you've lost. Just remember that I own the ultradense foam roller now. It has a special place in my closet right next to my running and cycling shoes. I will never get rid of it. Now crawl away into the darkness. I'm through with you.

With complete indifference,
PTC

For My

Econ geek loving friends. I know there are only two of you. Makes me nostalgic for business school.

Thank you Andrew Sullivan for making YouTube a part of my daily routine.

Update: The guy singing this is the Dean of Columbia's business school. Apparently he coveted Alan's old position.

For The Haters

Now tell me you're not saying, "Holy...". And this doesn't even do the last mile justice. 15% grade.

Many thanks to Klimb. What a sweet program. Sorry for those that don't live in the Bay Area or Ohio (how random is that).

Slow Afternoon

Funniest YouTube clip ever.

Middlesex

Apparently my devotion to non-fiction doesn't cut it on the Left Coast. I have been coaxed into trying a work of fiction that doesn't involve dragons or planetary travel. This should be interesting. I've heard and read the reviews. Hermaphrodite? Ok. As I have an open mind, I'll read it, but this is no guarantee that I'll continue down Pulitzer's fiction list. Why read make believe when I can read about reality?

The Devil Mountain

Walnut Creek is home to Mt. Diablo State Park. The centerpiece of the park is of course Mt. Diablo. Well, ever since I bought my tri-bike, the Cervelo P2K pictured here (stock photo, not my actual bike - mine has an upgraded seat and Rolf wheels), this mountain has been taunting me. Granted, it's only been two weeks, but I thought, "Hey, I'm an endurance athlete, let's do this." (I was speaking to my bike. I haven't named it yet, as it still feels like I'm just borrowing it.)

So off we went late Monday morning. I would have started earlier, but I had to hold my son down while the doctor tortured him. That cry. Ouch, makes me sweat. Horrible. At first, I wasn't really planning on going to the top. It is a 3900 foot climb over about 12 miles. That seemed a little too aggressive. I entered the park and the climbing began immediately. Switchback after switchback after switchback. I passed several people and was passed by several people. I quickly learned one thing. Tri-bikes are not made for climbing. They are made for speed. Oh I was wishing for some bigger sprockets or at least a granny wheel up front, but I had to make do with what I had.

Early on, there was a climb that almost caused me to puke. I haven't had that much lactic acid in my system since I ran cross country in high school. But I made it through. I passed the 1000 foot marker. I passed the 2000 foot marker. I passed the ranger station. I passed the Livermore lookout. It was at this point that my legs were beginning to get a little, actually more than a little rubbery. They just weren't used to this punishment. I made it up to Juniper ridge (a lower peak at around 2900 feet) and looked up at the summit. I didn't have it in me to go the rest of the way. Another 1000 feet over a mile and a half just wasn't happening. I wish I had had my camera because that was one steep road. It made the puking, lactic acid climb look like child's play.

I reluctantly stopped and it was at that point that I looked around. It was pretty amazing. I look forward to summitting the peak in another two weeks. I'll bring my camera this time.

The ride down was another story. I'd never gone 40mph on a bike before. I'd never gone 40mph down a narrow, steep, windy road on a bike before. Now that was a rush. Terrifying, but definitely exhilerating. I did use my brakes, sparingly. At one point, even though I was using my big gear up front and my smallest gear in the back, my hips were rocking because I couldn't pedal fast enough. It was extremely entertaining. Now if only I didn't need to share the road with those pesky cars. A guard rail would be comforting as well.

Dear Mr. ITB,

I had thought that we had come to an understanding and that your constant flareups were history. I guess not. Apparently, you have come to grips with my running, but throwing cycling into the mix has really pissed you off. I know that you don't care, but I want you to know that it's somewhat depressing.

Thanks to you I'm back to RICE, although I'll probably just skip the Rest and do ICE only. You know me.

Just so you know, I just bought an ultra-dense foam roller, which I will use to torture you into submission. You'll probably recall that that is how I beat you before and just so we're clear I will win again. You will lose. The other thing is that I used a standard density foam roller last time. Well, you've really irritated me now. Ultra-density. I'm not sure you know what that means as you're only a tendon and don't really have the capability of doing anything other than causing me pain, but ultra-dense means ultra-pain, possibly even bruises. Deep bruises. I know, I know. I can feel your glare now. Your threat of completely buckling is one I take very seriously. Thank you again for doing that in the middle of the Boston Marathon. So kind.

You better watch it or one day, I'm just going to cut you off. Floppy knee?? I don't care. I just want you to suffer. I have a marathon to run and many triathlons to win.

Love,
Your One and Only Highly Skilled Endurance Athlete

Worse Than Birkenstocks

This is wrong on so many levels and yes, these are being worn by a man. The socks kill me. I only wish I had turned down the volume on my phone, as there was a loud snapshot sound as I captured this on BART today.

Much, much worse than my new cycling sunglasses that I tried wearing with normal clothes.

6000 Years Old???

I'll just leave it at that as I don't want to possibly cause a ruckus, but for this to be said, wait, I said I'd stop...

It's still in me, but I must desist. Must stop snark. Please willpower, stop me from the cynicism and ripping that must be freed. It MUST be freed!

Deep breath. I'm holding it in.

I used this experience to help fuel my 4:20am ride this morning. It's amazing what observed obtuseness and a non-response can do for one's cadence and speed. I was 4mph faster during this recollection. Maybe I should make a new friend. It'd do wonders for my cycling.

BART

BART, not the BART, or Bart, but I rode BART today or I BARTED in. It wasn't like this when I rode THE subway. I didn't subway in and I definitely never rode subway in. Very interesting, this Northern California place, which doesn't quite feel like home yet and doesn't really feel all that different from the blur of places that we have lived in so far. If you're counting, this is our sixth residence in seven years. It's not as bad as it sounds, as we lived in three places in our first year, but still, our nomadic existence continues. This place just has a weird hippy vibe to it. Maybe speaking of the mass transportation system as if it was a living thing has something to do with it. Or maybe the six trash cans I have. Or the fact that I found myself in lycra yesterday riding around on a bike. Has this place already begun demasculinizing me? Is that even a word? Did I just invent a word similar to how the NoCalites have invented a living thing that goes through tubes and takes you to the city (I refuse to capitalize city. There is only one City and that is NY.)?

Ok, on to the picture. Apparently, it is ok to sit on the ground on BART. I'm not sure how BART feels about this because you know, he's alive (oh, crap, what if BART is a female and my chauvinistic tendencies are creeping in assuming that BART is a he?? - I hope none of the NoCalites I know read this or I'm screwed. Wait, who am I kidding, I have Vinny Bag O' Donuts on my side. What are they going to do? Call the recycling police on me?) So yes, I've seen this behavior many times by people dressed casually and by those dressed professionally. It's weird I tell you. Now I'm assuming that the NoCalites are comfortable sitting on carpet and would likely not do this on THE subway. Let me tell you something, BART's carpet and cushions are nasty. It skeeves me out just sitting on the thing. I don't even want to think about what's been spilled or shot into those things. The carpet and cushions have got to be the originals. They are seriously brown.

Ok, next amusing BART story, but first a sidenote. I hadn't posted anything recently about my travels on the subway. Not because the subway became boring, but because anything that I'd see had become commonplace. Subway performers? I knew them all by name. Women getting punched? I could pick the guy out in a lineup. Women purse snatchers? Again, line 'em up Law and Order and I'll testify. The one thing that I thankfully didn't see was a guy dropping his drawyers and diarreahing all over the place. I've heard about it, but never witnessed it. If I ever see that on BART, I'll take a pic as I'm plugging my nose. Ok, so I thought that my BART rides would be considerably more tame than the subway and that my days of mass transit photography were over. I was wrong. Within the last 24 hours, I have the lovely pic above, as well as one of the funniest lines I've ever heard. No pics. Sorry.

I'm riding home last night and happen to sit next to a woman whose age I couldn't even approximate. Oldish, but not super old. I think. As soon as we're out of the tunnel that goes under the Bay (I'll capitalize this one.), she whips out her cell phone and begins conversing with someone that I assume is her daughter. Her daughter has problems. Can't handle the kids, can't handle her job, can't handle her boyfriend, her car is messed up, her house is a wreck, and to top it off, she wasn't able to go grocery shopping yesterday and has nothing to eat. This isn't just me snooping. The whole car knows what is going on. Wait, it gets better. The mother (remember, she's sitting right next to me) begins to go off on her. "You need to listen to me. All you do is complain and whine. You're never trying to solve your problems, just talk about them. Listen to me and I'll tell you what to do. Focus on the solution, not the problem." blah, blah, blah, blah. Now this wasn't done with a calm, soothing voice, but with a voice like sandpaper. I know where her daughter got that whine from. They just whined differently. It was painful and amusing at the same time. I received many a sympathy look. Ok, that's not the best part. This went on for fifteen minutes or so. Finally, one guy in the car couldn't stand it anymore and yelled, "Put a sock in it Dr. Phil." Oh, yes, it was sweet. Me and about half the car were rolling. The best part was that she just ignored us and kept on advising. Screech screech.

PUT A SOCK IN IT DR. PHIL!

"It's Chasing Me Around the Kitchen"

Break time from RFP writing. RFPs are only so exciting. Even when you have the Sweden-Paraguay game in the upper left hand corner of your screen. Time to talk about our washer.

You see, it was installed last Thursday. We didn't have the venting for the power cord for the dryer until Monday so we didn't use the washer until then because we didn't feel like hanging our clothes all over the house to dry them. Monday night, I go to Home Depot and buy the venting and the power cord, go home, and install them. Everything is now hooked up. Time to test these beauties out. I load the washer and Liz and I both pull up chairs to watch. It's beautiful. A proud moment in our family. No quarters. We watch for five minutes and then proceed about our business.

Thirty minutes later I hear an awful racket. I go upstairs and the washer is shaking violently and dancing across the floor. I shut it off and Liz and I get out the manuals to figure out what the deal is. The manuals tell us to get out a level and use the adjustable legs to make sure it is balanced. Move the washer, get out the level, adjust many legs, and sit back. The shimmying doesn't stop. Frustration begins to set in. Liz leaves a message with the guy who installed it, who agrees to come over.

He comes over the next day and levels the washer some more and leaves. Liz calls me about 30 minutes later and yells over the din that the washer is chasing her around the kitchen. She's determined to wash our clothes and has thrown her body on top of it in order to stop the thing. She quickly finds out that she needs to gain at least 200 more pounds before that tactic will work. She's frustrated. I'm frustrated. What's the deal?

This is where the magic of Google comes in. Vibrating, Frigidaire, washer, why? are all entered in. First entry: shipping bolts and plugs must be removed in order to balance the thing. I go home, turn the washer around and guess what?? The guys who installed the washer didn't follow the directions. The bolts and plugs are still there. I unscrew them, push the washer back into place, and put it on spin only. What a beautiful, quiet sound. I'm so excited that I call Liz, who happens to be out buying us a new phone (VTech phones are horrible by the way) and put the phone to the washer. We both squeal with delight. Happy times. No more rabid washers.

Things I Require Immediately

- Shelving for all of my books. Playing my PSP every day on BART is getting a little old. I need variety.

- A newspaper subscription. WSJ, NYT, or SFC? I'm leaning toward the WSJ.

- A tri-bike. I have a helmet, shoes, cleats, and shorts. Now I just need the bike. Hopefully Thursday works out.

- A new right index finger. This tiny mouse is just not working out.

- A new mouse.

- A BBQ.

- A 4 day, no make that 3 day, workweek.

- A place to stay at Yosemite the weekend of July 22. How can every cabin and every tent be sold out?

- An Xbox 360.

- A larger trash can, but just for two weeks. I need to get rid of all of this moving trash.

- For either Zane and his running stroller to lose about 70 pounds or for that hill up to Marchbanks to not be so steep.

- The ability to wake up at 4:15am. It's just not happening right now.

3043 in 62

That's with a 12 hour stop in Cheyenne. We had to stop to watch the Suns game. It was a sad series. The Suns lost three of those four games headed into the fourth quarter with a lead. Live by the jump shot, die by the jump shot and a big freaking German. With a 2005 Amare, it would have been a different story. Here's hoping that Amare's microfracture surgery has a different result than every other athlete who has had the surgery. Something tells me to expect the worst or at the least, only 80% of what we had.

So Long

and thanks for all the fish.

Feedback? Please.

I'm finished, right? I have my MBA. The grades are in. I achieved the GPA I was targeting. New job. New location. Everything is peachy, right? No, everything is not alright. And let me tell you why, I have not yet received any feedback on the cleverest group project I've ever been a part of. When I say clever, I mean, wow, I wish I would have thought of that clever and just so you know, I didn't think of it. I usually am not the one with the clever idea. I'm the one that takes the clever idea and teases it out, asks the tough questions, and finds a way to fit everything together. I'm also pretty witty (and humble), as evidenced by my paper on the death of globalization vis-a-vis Rod Stewart, but hey, I'm not here to sing my own praises. I'm here looking for feedback on an idea that wasn't mine, but that still has my name somewhat associated with it.

The class: Game Theory with Adam Brandenburger (the brilliant strategist that co-wrote Co-opetition).

The assignment (55% of our grade): group project defining a situation and how to use game theory to solve it.

Our specific project: a paper on how game theory is used in group projects (I'm giggling right now as I write this. I mean, is that clever or what??)

Our base approach: Usage of a decision tree to show that when a group project is assigned, it should never be completed.

Our solution: Usage of added value to calculate the willingness to pay and opportunity costs of each participant in the project.

I won't bore you with all of the details, but I must say, that was an entertaining project. We're not going to bore the professor with nuclear arms races or what should Google do next. Nope. We're going to talk about how group projects suck, nobody likes doing them, and how they eventually are completed.

Yes, there is a small part of me that will miss this.

Delivered to the Curb

Who knew that buying a washer and dryer could be so thrilling? Not just one of those hook me up to the sink washers or a dryer that takes five hours to dry one towel or worse, going to the laundromat, which we did for years in Brooklyn, but a real washer and dryer. Just take a look at this beauty. I won't even need to go to the garage or put in quarters.



And the corresponding dryer.



Maybe I'm confusing my excitement for these appliances with my overall excitement at our new adventure, but whatever it is, what a rush.

The Irony

Nothing like reading an article like this on the train two days after graduating. If only I'd known. Well, at least I was able to wear sweet purple robes for a day.

It Is Finished

CA

Mission accomplished, thanks to our friends the Wheelers. I neglected to take a picture of the most important part of my house finding trip, but I will leave this with you instead. Stop wasting your time with blizzards. Cherry Mr. Misty Float please.



Our new home. Well, not exactly, but close enough.



A new friend?



Pt. Reyes



Marin County has cheese factories. The deal was sealed.

Legs of Steel

My legs have the beginnings of that iron feel to them. Richard, there is no way in hell you'll ever beat me in a race. Maybe if you go Tonya Harding on me. Otherwise, keep looking at my back, 'cause that's all you're ever going to see. BTW, I'm officially challenging you to the Olympic distance of the St. George Triathalon, 2007. I know, I know, I don't have a bike and haven't ridden one in over 10 years, so what. Let's race. My friends, who organize the race, have already been told that we will be racing to the death. The death. I should probably start swimming again too. Wait, can we make it just a run?

JP, you can join in the fun as well. May, 2007.

St. George Tri

Whoa Nelly!

I couldn't let a whole month go by without entertaining you. That just wouldn't be neighborly and it appears that where we are going (sshh, don't tell my current employer. I'm going to surprise them in a couple of weeks. Probably right after I get the welcome package. I hope it includes balloons and a clown.) ahem, ok, it appears that where we are going, being neighborly is very important. In Bronxville, neighborliness - not so important. Aside from our next door neighbors, who happen to own a dry cleaning business. I am going to miss the neighbor discount and my clothes magically appearing on my doorstep. Having to drive to pick up my clothes doesn't sound like fun. Wait, who am I kidding. It'll be Liz picking up my 25 shirts, including the three new pink ones. Yes, I feel like a beautiful butterfly.

In Brooklyn, being neighborly was also not very important, especially in our first Brooklyn apartment. Did I ever tell you about the time I left my building in South South Park Slope just in time to witness the SWAT team, battering ram in tow, crash through the building three buildings down? How about the mariachi band and their 50 cousins that lived upstairs from us for the first six months? Or what about the time they had the hugest party, then unexpectedly left the place, but left their trash, all 20 bags of it, sitting on their landing, thus stinking up the entire building? Or the time that someone's female products clogged up the pipes in the basement, thus causing the basement to flood with raw sewage? Or the hallway being under construction for the first six months? Or the fact that I could place a ball at one end of the apartment and watch it roll across four rooms and two doors to the other end of the apartment due to the funhouse-like tilt? How about the said neighbors banging on my door at 2am because they couldn't get to sleep because my ceiling fan was too loud (hello, mariachi band)? And my personal favorite, the time the entire kitchen ceiling collapsed due to a pipe in the kitchen upstairs breaking. Oh, yes, we had visitors due in town a day later.

Good times. I'm going to miss this place.

No More Numbers

I've grown lazy. I admit it. I've begun using numbers as post titles. I'll slap myself twice on Tuesday if I do that again. Now, I'm no writer, but if I was and I began using numbers as the titles of my articles, I'd fully expect to be fired. Not numbers combined with actual nouns and verbs, but just numbers. Like say, 488 or 160. I really don't know how I got into Stern. It must have been that interview where I told them that I was born in Sonora. (And yes, I know I've said something like this before. It shows again my lack of creativity and overall limitedness of my brain power. If I could only remember.)

Even if I'm not using a number for a title, I still have numbers on the brain. 11.5 and 13.5. The past two Saturdays, I went on runs of these distances. The 11.5 was an accident. Well, not really. I was just tricked into it by someone with superior intellect. Again, not surprising. The 13.5 was deliberate. Now I know, you're thinking, "11.5 and 13.5? You could run that in your sleep." Well guess what? I haven't run that far since last September. The closest I've come is 6. Did it hurt? Oh yea. Was it worth it? Yep. I'm back in the saddle. Or is it Liz who is back in the saddle. Whatever. I'm a runner again. I even ran with this super smart guy who tricked me the first time past the reservoir. It was beautiful and I felt fast. My last mile was 6:40 and I was raring for more. Kind of. Once I stopped running I could barely walk.

Single Digits

This morning's weather for my run along the East River was in the single digits. At one point, I was wishing that I was a duck. There they were just floating on the river. No clothes. No thermal gear, no beanie with a tassle. Just them and their feathers. I wasn't sure what kind of ducks they were as I wasn't able to get a good look at them due to needing to continually look straight ahead. Turning your head when you're that cold requires the whole body turning, Freinkenstein-like, and that was something that I was not prepared to do. Not when a gust could suddenly go down my shirt.

My East River running partner told me yesterday that he is changing offices and will no longer be coming to the City. Instead, he will be staying in Jersey. Have I told you about my ability to avoid Jersey? Maybe another time, but those jug handles irk me and you don't want to see me irked. I kind of resemble a pigeon when I'm irked. Well, it looks as if my morning Manhattan runs are over. No way I can do those by myself. I'd rather be running on a treadmill watching Sportscenter.

Anyways, I'm not feeling it. This hasn't been an amusing session.

488

12 miles to go before I hit the magic 500 mile marker on my shoe odometer. For those not familiar with running, 500 miles is when the internal components of a shoe begin to break down. In other words, I have 12 more miles and then these shoes are going to the Boys and Girls Club bin on Central Ave. Now I've had many, many shoes and I've hit 500 miles on all of them. It doesn't take that long as I'm running between 100 and 200 miles a month. Although I did have that phase where I had this strange compulsion to go to the running store every other weekend and I ended up with five pairs of running shoes, each with under 100 miles. I still have four pairs of those. It's tough to hit 500 miles when you're rotating shoes every day.

Anyways, this pair is special. As a matter of fact, as I sit here thinking about these shoes (Asics Gel Kayano Xs), I'm a bit melancholy. I might even have an Interpol song going through my head. Usually, any of you could call me a girl if I spouted off about some song that meant something special to me (something that has never happened btw), but in this case you cannot. I don't pay attention to lyrics. None. It's all about the beat and the sound. I could care less what some dude is crying about. If he's singing about his pet rock that he used to bash his girlfriend's head in or about how some guy broke his heart, it's all the same. The only differentiator is the sound. Anyways, as I'm thinking about the impending retirement of my AGKXs, the 2nd song on Antics is going through my head. Good beat.

So let's talk about this particular pair of AGKXs, as I've had more than one pair. They are orange, which strangely, is one of my more favorite colors. For having no soul, I seem to like bright things. Very odd. Maybe I'm hoping that the shoes will rub off on me. This pair is the pair that I Boston Qualified in two years ago. I didn't run Boston in them as I was seduced by this hot pair of Mizunos. I shouldn't have given in. They were just eye candy and gave me blisters. So, they have a special place in my, wherever my heart would have been. Should I save them in remembrance of the fastest marathon I've ever run? Will that be the pinnacle of my marathoning career?

Forget it, they're going in the mice infested trash can under the stoop.

Pow Pow

I can't wait for the first time I catch my son doing something really wrong. I've waited my entire life to say, "Son, go cut yourself a switch." Parents are still allowed to whip their kids, right?

SF Bound

But don't tell my present employer. I'm waiting for just the right moment to spring that one on them. They'll be devastated I'm sure. And totally surprised. Now to figure out this logistical nightmare. Anyone have a huge truck? Free flights for L & Z? I'm begging at this point. I'll even paint myself blue and ride through downtown naked on a horse.

I Am

not VTOL. I am PTC, as in PassTheChips (which will be my new gamertag whenever I get another Xbox - damn Microsoft not wanting to fix my current Xbox. So what if I had opened it up? Your lousy 90 day warranty had expired about 45 months ago. The only reason I will be getting a 360 is because I have a hell of a lot of original Xbox games that I still want to play.). Where I got this moniker, is a long and boring story, kind of like how I was going to nickname Zane JJ. D Y N O M I T E!! Needless to say, I like chips, I don't put a lot of thought into nicknames, and my mind wanders. A lot. Now, go off and continue to be bored reading something else.

And Just To Be Fair

If I were president, I wouldn't illegally spy on Americans, wouldn't trash the constitution, wouldn't condone torture, would clean up corruption, would curb spending, would stop borrowing, would ditch most of the religious right's nutty social agenda, would fire Rumsfeld, would actually show an interest in things other than clearing brush in my desolate part of Texas, and would answer honest questions and provide honest answers without spin rehearsing for two weeks prior. Worst president ever, quite possible. This coming from someone who voted for him twice and is as far to the Goldwater right as Kos is to the left.

"If I were president...

I'd disband the military entirely." Never has such drivel from such a wannabe intellectual who wants nothing more than to be taken seriously and to make a difference made me laugh louder at work. That's a lot of caveats, but I like to cma. It's a nice sentiment and maybe that's where that person was going with his comment, but think about the consequences before you spout off nonsense. Another reason I cannot take the far left seriously. I still read them. The things they aspire to are noblesque and the ways they want to reach them leave me in stitches.

PXVZP

I won't be needing Prozac, Xanax, Valium, Zoloft, or Paxil after all. My anxiety/panic attack about my running capabilities appears to be much ado about nothing. I can run after all. It just appears that I actually need to run in order to build up my muscles. Very wierd concept. You'd figure that if you ran comfortably fast at one point, you'd be able to run comfortably fast forever regardless of training. Ah, the young and deluded. We just don't learn. And if anyone comments about how I'm not so young any more, give me a call because I have a special gesture and phrase just for you. I'm not sure it's even found here, but it could be. (By the way, I've never been more excited about a book in my life. Even Liz likes it. It belongs in all personal libraries. It's that cool.)

Too Much Too Soon?

I've run three times over the past 10 days for a total of 10 miles and my ITBs are already sore??? I'm breaking down more quickly than I thought. Good thing I have those amazing metabolism genes.

What's Wrong with Foie Gras?

Absolutely nothing and yet when a plate of foie gras terrine came to the table last night, no one would eat it except for myself and one other. Let them have their hummus, their lobster, their chorizo. I'll take the buttery, engorged duck liver goodness. I can still taste it. Mmmmmmm. Terrine is good, but what I wouldn't do for seared foie gras. Now that is heaven. Looks like I need to drop some hints to the next vendor. Just kidding. I wouldn't do that. Pass the envelope please.

On the Road Again

Well, not exactly. It was more like the treadmill. Three miles. First time in three or four months that I've run. It felt good to stretch my legs doing something other than trying to reach for the remote with my toes. I could bore you all with how my chest felt (bad) or how slow I was going (9:15 pace) or even how the multiple signs posted in the locker room banning the use of cell phones due to men taking pictures of naked men for their after-gym viewing pleasure kind of skeeved me out, but I won't. Let's talk about genetics.

I've been the first to complain about how screwed I've been due to my parents choosing that particular moment to mix their genes together to form me. If they'd have waited an hour or two, I'm sure that I'd be 6'3, 190, with the ability to jump, a genius, and better looking than I already am. Seriously, where did these eyebrows come from. It's like I have a giant fuzzy caterpillar on my forehead. Well, if I'm going to complain about the things I've been batsued with, I might as well do the noble thing and brag about those things I've been blessed with. Actually, it's not things, just a thing and before you think that I'm just a dirty little 32 year old, it's not that thing. You guys are seriously ill. I wouldn't talk about Wilbur on a family site like this.

So my blessing is my metabolism. Before I ran the other day, I stepped on the scale, like I always do, but hadn't done in 3.5 months. I was nervous. What had the holidays done to me? What had my inactivity done to me? My pants were definitely snug. Please, not 160. Please not 160. I was at 151 the last time I ran. My ideal racing weight is 148. So what did all of those tamales, menudo, gravy (I drink it straight from the boat sometimes it's so delicious), and more candy than I care to think about at the moment do to me? Three pounds. I weighed in at 154 and this was after lunch. I almost started to cry. I was so happy. So thank you mom and dad for this magical gift. I seriously appreciate it.

To All My Friends With a Net Worth of Over $10 million

Private Banking is the business of the day. For some reason, a very large wealth management institution is very interested in me becoming a private banker. Now, if you've seen my resume, and you probably have because I like to hand it out at dinner parties and boy am I a dinner party kind of guy, you'll be scratching your head right about now. Let's see, technology, supply chain, customer service, ..., ..., ... . Nope, don't see any finance. Let's check his education. Political science, Japanese, business, strategy, economics, ..., ..., ... . Nope, no finance. So how does this experience turn into private banking? Is this very large Swiss organization secretly profiling me at the networking events I've been going to? What about my blog? If so, they know I'm a great communicator. I mean seriously, is there any doubt about my verbal and linguistic skills? It is all very mysterious.

So I went to the first round of interviews. Two guys, one in the business and one HR. I gotta tell you, that I was on fire. I'm not sure what happened. My stuttering went away. I never said um. I was the King. All that buildup of communication jujitsu came out in one huge burst. I just hope I have something left for the interviews that I really care about.

Yes, I have been invited to the second round. Yes, I'm going. Yes, I'm still puzzled. I even asked what exactly they saw in my resume. I mean, it is dazzling, but it's not finance dazzling. Maybe that super nice paper that Liz made me print them on had something to do with it.

So people. All of you with a net worth of over $10 million, make sure we keep talking. Supposedly this fine Swiss institution has the secret to 8% annual returns, with a sigma of 3. Now that is impressive. I'm clueless about finance, but looking at my investments over the past 10 years, I'd kill for 8% annualized. Maybe I can just have them give me the secret and then I'll be on my merry way.

Spaaa-iiicyyyyy

As you can tell, my mind and hence my writing, wander quite a bit. I've written about running, the subway, politics, school, and now food and drink. Red Bull probably wasn't the best way to introduce my new topic, but like I said, my mind wanders. My organizational skills are lacking. I sure hope that I remembered to delete this site from my email signature. "Hi, I'm looking for a job. Here's my bad ass resume. Oh, ignore that link at the bottom. Look, I'm running a $125 million business. Beavers, what? Hey, over here. Stern MBA. Much suffering for learning's sake. Let me draw you a picture of one of the 100 frameworks I've learned about. Wait, wait, that wasn't me wiping my butt with my bare hand. It was someone else. I know EQUATIONS. EQUATIONS!" Crap, struck down by the online gods again. Speaking of which. One more droll recruiting anecdote before I start to talk about why I'm really here, which isn't just to ramble.

Yes, I'm going through the recruiting process. I like my job. I'm not dissatisfied with it, but you never know what's out there until you go out there and Stern does one thing fairly well. Networking and recruiting for experienced professionals. So I went to one of those events and am schmoozing, telling every recruiter there how exciting his/her company is and how I'm such a great match and have skills to die for. Basically lying for two straight hours. You get the picture. Make lots of contacts and then follow up the next day with resume submissions, phone calls, etc. Fun you might think. Not really, but this is what I've been programmed to do. Well, I receive a reply back from one of the recruiters and he is very interested to continue our discussion (of course he is - I just made myself out to look like a demi-god). Well, when I open his email, I'm wondering why within his reply is another email I had sent to a different recruiter from a different firm. You guessed it. Gmail chaining. It's a known bane, but in my eagerness to show that I would be responding within the requisite 24 hours, I must not have noticed that little detail. Yes, I was sheepish. Particularly because these two recruiters represent two very different companies, both of which are under the impression that I am only for them. Not anymore. At least one of them knows that I am what in recruiting terms is defined as a (cover your eyes small children) job prostitute. I'm not picky. Just give me the money and I'll take you higher than you've ever been. Unless you've done heroin. Which I haven't.

Ok. That was exhausting. Do I really want to go into the reason why I initially felt my muse coming on? Not really. Time to start the day. I'll get back to you in two weeks. As a reminder to myself, as well as a teaser for all of my adoring fans, I'll just tell you that my next post will be about silky smooth goodness, with a little habanero thrown in for good measure.

Red Bull

is ill. I've heard people sing its praises, but that might be because they are mixing it with alcohol. I guess beer goggles apply to taste as well. This stuff is nasty. And it was $2.99. Dad, I'm not sure why you drink this stuff. Just get a Dr. Pepper or a Mountain Dew if you need a caffeine rush. Soda is 50% less and actually tastes good. Red Bull tastes like really bad cough syrup.

Delicious Pie for Celiacs

Favorite ad ever.

Consecutive Day Surprise

If I could wrap this gem in a bow and hand it to you I would. People have come to expect twice a month entries and I've tried not to mess with those expectations, but today is a special day. It's consecutive post surprise day, something I haven't done in a long long while. Why is it consecutive post surprise day? It's the day prior to five days without work or school. I'm going to sleep, play with Zane, play with Liz, and try not to use my brain. It will be wonderful.

Ok, so aside from my witty remarks above, I do have something to say. I've been considering switching sides. Not in a gay way, but in a political way. I've been a libertarian, anything goes political junkie, for quite some time. The problem is that even though anything goes, this side of the political spectrum is quite boring and with me, it's all about entertainment. If I never read a right-wing blog again, it will be too soon. Sure, they are right, but damn, they are dull. Trolling over at Kos, Eschaton, the Rude Pundit, etc and hot holy hell am I laughing my tookus off. Seriously, these people have fun with their politics.

I want to stomp my feet, wave my hands in the air, froth at the mouth and scream. That's my definition of fun. Sitting in the library coldly typing about the theory behind why the individual is the most important entity in politics is ... wait, I'm searching ... still searching ... don't feel like opening a thesaurus, but don't want to use dull or boring again. Well, you get the point.

Wait, dreary. That's a good word and yes, I cheated. And just so you know, I have gone to the wingers' blogs, where they do like a good hoedown, but I can't stand the stupidity, the illogic, and overall obtuseness. I need intelligent mania.

Ok. My muse has left me. It must be this conference call that I'm on that is headed into its fourth hour. This call and the right definitely have something in common. Kos, here I come. Pass me a sombrero.

Two Slices

Toasted of course. Yes, I had a delicious sandwich the other day. Two slices of toasted gluten-free bread, with deli-sliced turkey, mayo, spicy mustard, two kinds of cheese and lettuce. Never has a sandwich been so good.

I don't really remember if I've mentioned that I have Celiac Disease. Basically, it's an allergy to all things containing gluten. That means wheat, barley, rye, and oats. Let me break it down. That means, no pasta, no bread, no pizza, no Key Lime pie, no German Chocolate cake, no oatmeal with fresh honey, no twice baked cookies, no delightful chicken parm' heroes from Smiling Pizza in Park Slope, no meatloaf sandwiches that my Grandma Egerer has perfected. Essentially, my diet sucks.

Well, yesterday, I had a little bit of heaven. Liz has always been very aware of my disdain for all of the imitation products that act like delicious gluten-containing foods, but that I've very loudly stated taste like kaka. Liz found a bread for me that doesn't taste like kaka. I'm crying now. I wish you could see it.

89

The fact that this site has gone from a hardcore running diary to a complaining session has not gone unnoticed by myself. Well, now we're switching gears. This has now become the refrigerator report card. Yes, I received a very unexpected 89 on my Corporate Finance mid-term, well above the mean. This is funny to me as I haven't really understood what's going on in that class until the past week and a half when I actually started reading the book and using the frameworks...for a different class. I've come to realize that Stern does know what it's doing when it sets up its curriculum. I've even begun to use accounting and although I'll never be a fan, I have seen glimpses of the beauty that is a financial statement. Ah, Monte Carlo. I need to go there sometime.

Dance Little Sheep

I'm not posting this picture for any other reason than my site looks very bland. As you might know, I'm blandness's biggest enemy. If something is bland, be it food, a book, scenery, school, music, whatever, then I'm going to go to war. Literally. If Liz is cooking chili and I reach in for a taste test and it's bland. Out comes the red pepper. (Don't tell her, please.) If a class is bland, I'm bound to take a little nap, with my eyes open of course. I've perfected the technique.

Financial Statement Analysis - bland - sleep time.
Corporate Finance - somewhat bland - sleep time during figuring out the beta of debt, but waking up for real options
Competitive Strategy - lectures - bland - sleep time. Presentations while the crazy red-socked professor, who told us he likes to smoke a joint Friday nights on his porch in East Hampton, rips the presentors to shreds - not so bland, almost entertaining.
History of Finance taught by an Oxford professor - spicy, riveting - no sleep. Immigration will solve all our woes and the death of globalization is nigh.

Anyways, blandness is bad. Anything but boredom. I would have made a great emperor. Now dance.

This Is Not The End

I'm sorry if I scared some of you and made you cry by my previous post. I'm not abandoning my blog. I wouldn't do that to such a treasure. Liz, Zane, and VTOLing are all up there at the top of the importance list. Work, baaaa! School, double ba baaaa! VTOLing, I love you. You are my soul's retreat.

So I've been reading mindless drivel before I get my usual four hours of sleep. Just finished the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever. I read those books when I was a kid. Gotta tell you, I was a smart kid, with a big time D & D imagination. I remember one time wishing that the pie tin that was sitting in my backyard was a spaceship that would whisk me away to a place full of wizards, dragons, and fair maidens. I think I stood wishing, staring out of the back window of my house on LaDonna for a full 45 minutes. I think this was after I set fire to my neighbor's house. Yes, I was and still am disturbed.

V E N G E A N C E!!!

Alienation

I realize that I have lost whatever momentum I ever had with this thing and that my readers, all three of them, are long gone. Them's the breaks. I wish I could help you out. I know most of you. Just call me. I'll probably forward it to voicemail and never call you back, but you never know.

If anyone knows how to quantitatively measure risk using marginal contribution and salvage rates, let me know. My brain hurts.

100% Dumb

Yes, I'm an idiot. My continual public self-flagellation might appear strange and you might think it is some form of catharsis, but it's not. That's just who I am, a self-torturer. Who wouldn't be after the example this government has set? Torture is fun. Everyone join in.

Ok, so here is why I'm not the brightest bulb in the box. First week of class this week for the fall semester. By the way, that one week break between Financial Statement Analysis and this week was sorely needed. Why am I doing this again? Ah, yes, the supposed pot of gold that will supposedly be coming post-May 4th. I have been slowly convinced otherwise, but we'll see. Rambling again sorry. No sleep and I think my son gave me pneumonia. Back to dim-bulb boy.

Monday and Tuesday went well. Well, Monday didn't. I decided to take the red eye home from Arizona, with a 1 year old who decided to wake up and scream his head off with about 90 minutes left in the flight. Upon landing, we went home and I logged in and worked for the day. Then I went to class, Corporate Finance. It's still a little hazy and I don't remember much. Tuesday was much better. Competitive Strategy. Going to be a good class. A lot of work, but work that I'll definitely use going forward. That brings us to Wednesday. Supply Chain Management. Again, a very exciting class. Seriously, I have been looking forward to this class all summer. I showed up, having read the case and ready to rock. I sit down and the professor starts by talking about how this is the second session. I'm completely confused. Second session? Am I in the wrong class? Nope. Prof's name is on the slides and it's definitely supply chain. I take a closer look at my syllabus. Apparently this class started last Wednesday. You may point your fingers at the screen and screech now.

Apparently, Monday and Tuesday classes started this week, but Wednesday and Thursday classes started last week. So I missed the first class last week of the course that I've been looking forward to all summer and had no idea I was missing it. You'd think that being an MBA student at Stern, I'd have learned to read by now. Apparently not. Well, at least my idiotness was only known to me.

It wasn't to last for long. So the professor is talking about inventory and shows some industries with their inventory ratios. He asked if anyone was in those industries. I was and raised my hand. He called on me and asked what my ratio was. I said 85. He gasped. He was very impressed, as was the class. They immediately labelled me an outlier as I was heads and shoulders above the industry average, which is around 7. The funny thing is that I gave 85 because I thought initially he was asking about inventory turnover, which when you plug in 85, is downright horrible. My actual inventory ratio (COGS/average inventory) is around 3, which is why I'm in this class. Yes, I am a fool. I still don't know how I was accepted by this fine institution. I hope they never find out that I am in fact not an Eskimo.

The Truth

I'm a dork. A geek. A big time nerd. The gelled spikey hair might portray a GQ male supermodel, but deep down, I just can't get away from my dorkness. This blog is just further evidence of this. Aside from teenage girls screaming for attention, who keeps an online diary? Look at me, look at me, I'm a dork. Possibly even worse, I'm a dork screaming out for attention.

My sister is getting married next week in the home country and of course I will be there. After the festivities, I'll be there for another seven glorious days of Mexican food, something that New York is getting better at, but still has a ways to go. All other cuisines, New York does better than just about every city in the world, but for some reason, good Mexican is difficult to find, aside from this little tamale stand in Sunset Park. It's a sad day when I make the best menudo within a 1000 mile radius.

During my time in the motherland, I will of course be visiting with friends and in all likelihood playing video games. It's who I will be playing video games with. I will be playing video games with people that I have known for years, but only hung out with two or three times. That's right, video games with my fantasy sports league friends. Double whammy. These are again, guys I've met and might have even played volleyball with a couple of times back in the day, but people that I've only gotten to know since the establishment of several fantasy sports leagues post-moving to New York. They are my online fantasy friends. And we will be playing video games. I'm not sure if I should just shake their hand and give them the stone faced glare that I do so well or if we should kiss cheeks New York style. I'll have to check the online dating sites to see what proper protocol is.

Do Not Hump

On the way into the city this morning, my train stopped at a train yard to let one of those super fast diesel commuter trains rush on by. I looked out the window and saw a flatbed car sitting there with a bunch of walkway side railing tied to the top of it. Painted in white stencils was the phrase above. It wasn't graffiti. It had a very official look. I would have taken a picture, but my camera phone doesn't have a zoom function. I've resisted the temptation to google this and am throwing it out to my readers. What exactly does this mean? Don't google it. I'll know if you do.

The Dark Side

If any of you have a positive image of myself that you would rather not have change, please discontinue reading now.

I am a small 'l' libertarian. What this means is that I annoy conservatives because I don't believe in legislating morality (i.e. drugs should be legalized, gays should be able to marry, etc) and I annoy Liberals because I believe that the government's job is to stay out of the way (i.e. end all entitlements, abolish the income tax, etc). Why am I telling you this when I have striven so hard to keep politics out of this site, aside from my favorite links? Because a girl called me stupid this weekend and it filled me with glee. A glee that I'm still buzzed from as sad as that may seem.

I had the unfortunate experience of being required to go to school last Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from 9am to 4pm each day. The official title of the class was Professional Responsibility, but the content was about the market, ethics, and law. The first two days were a bore as the pharmaceutical kids took over. I wasn't interested in arguing about the drug industry's creation of diseases and their 'public service' announcements to raise awareness of this awful state in order to find consumers for their drugs (i.e. anxiety disorder and Paxil - c'mon, who isn't anxious?) or in the glorification and funding of breast cancer research at the expense of other diseases that kill many more Americans, but just aren't sexy enough. Pardon the pun.

What I was interested in was in our discussions of the third day of insider trading, which I think should be legal (the price of the stock reflects the true value due to insider knowledge, as well as being practically unenforceable Martha aside), corporate negligence aka tort, and in universal human rights, which is really a misnomer as there are no such things.

I won't go into all of the fun little arguments I had that day. Let's just get to the girl who called me stupid. We're talking about universal rights, which I've already stated are relative to society and that until a market fails, the only rights a person has are the ones granted by the government. Once the market fails and people no longer accept the current state of things, political will and action changes the rules and additional rights are granted. Rights, not being inherent, but granted. As you can imagine, this annoyed some of the bleeding hearts in the class. I heard many a sigh. Yes, I was beginning to giggle.

The professor then posed a hypothetical situation where a U.S. company owns a factory in another country. Above the exit to the building is a large sign that states that anyone caught stealing will be turned over to the authorities and punished to the full extent of the law. Inevitably, you catch someone stealing. You turn him over to the police. The police take the person outside and shoot him in the head. What do you, as the owner of the company, do? Many comments such as leave the country, dock a person's pay if caught stealing, etc were given. I raised my hand. The professor, at this point was smiling because he knew what was coming. I said to change nothing. Keep the rule as it exists. Everyone in the factory saw the thief shot. The likelihood of someone stealing again is zero.

It was then that this girl said I was stupid. No argument. Just a playground retort. I simply laughed. No greater compliment can be paid a debater than to insult rather than argue. I'm still smiling, but it's an evil smile.

ABackwardsAttraction

Liz's photoblog
My favorite is the most recent pic. This is how Z looks everyday when I come home. Sometimes he stomps his feet and shakes because he's so excited. Yes, I love it.

It Will Not Subside

Items on my mind that probably deserve entries of their own, but due to my poor writing skills and memory, will only receive bulleted entries:

- "You know?" This phrase turns my stomach. What's worse is that it has entered into the Mike lexicon. I shiver every time it escapes my mouth.

- Chaffing. Last Saturday, I went running on a horse trail (Yes, a horse trail in NY. This is Westchester, albeit the West Side.) in 100 degree heat with 90% humidity. I meant to run 6 miles, but had no idea where I was going and ended up running 8. I wouldn't normally run on a day like that, but it was Saturday and I had only run once that week and I guilted myself into it. I did want to eat ice cream that day. Let's see, one bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup is about 1000 calories (four scoops). Running eight miles took care of that. Anyways, sidetracked again. Sometimes I really don't know how I am able to tie my shoes. Ok, unsidetracked. I ran in that miserable weather and sweated quite a bit. Arrived home, headed for the shower not knowing the pain that was about to commence. Turned on the water and stepped in. Liz heard the screaming. She probably thought I had hit my head on the toilet seat again. No, no toilet seat. Just the water coursing down my body to the unmentionable/taint/chode. Apparently, it was rubbed a little raw.

- I've been wondering why my pants have been so tight. I'm down to 151 and yet my pants are as tight as ever. I discovered the culprit the other day. Apparently fat on my body congregates between the top of my butt and my lower back. It's kind of hidden so that when I stand up, you can't see it. It's only when sitting down that it pushes up and out on my pants that it is noticeable. It's very sad. What do you call this portion of your body? The bass?

Ok, this has turned into a gripe session. I swear, I'm normal, even-keeled, and not prone to mood swings. Maybe this all is coming out because I'm not running enough. Running is usually the way I eliminate all of the negative vibes. Or I could just need a new crystal.

The Muse Cometh?

Sometimes my muse comes, sometimes it doesn't. Forgive me for my long spells of no writing. I'm sure both of you are devastated. You see, the problem is that my muse only comes during peace, tranquility, and not worrying about $100 million projects that people seem intent on sabotaging. Oh, wait, no work talk. I don't want to get dooced.

So lately, the muse hasn't been around. Lately, I've barely had time for running. Running three days a week is a major accomplishment these days. If I haven't told you already, and I probably have, but don't feel like checking my archives, my goal of breaking a three hour marathon is on hold until after I graduate May 4, 2006 at 9pm. Oh what a sweet day that will be.

Sorry for the pause. I was mumbling again. Something about how the $36k coming out of my own pocket better being worth it. (Thank you employer for picking up the remainder). I learned how to mumble effectively from she who shall remain nameless. It's an art really. Just loud enough so that the person knows you said something, but not loud enough for the person to understand. Then the feigned look of innocence and the loud pronouncement of, "Nothing". I use this technique at work all the time when I don't know what I'm talking about, which is often. It's amazing how far mumbling can take you when you're ambitious, but don't have any skills. I've made a list of times where mumbling is a requirement. I might share it sometime.

Freak Indeed

Brian, if that was you pretending to be slutty Brittany, bravo, well done. I always knew you had a little she-male in you. Just to let you know, I'll be running with my shirt off tonight. Me and my donut. It's not quite a spare tire yet.

New book. No, Simple Rules for a Complex World is not a self-help book, a book about how to make money, or a book about how to make people like you. It's a book about law, about how in a more complex world, we need a simplified set of laws. Very libertarian. Very Cato Institutish. John Rawls, you've met your match.

Window Cube, My Window Cube

Yes, I have graduated to the window cube. Not only do I get a window that looks down at Water Street, but it's bigger than my old cube. Now I get to watch what the two people in front of me are doing.

Science and Smoke

You'll notice that I'm on my second book of the week. Already finished up Harry Potter. No spoilers here, but I was a little disappointed in the quality of the writing. The story is still solid, but this book felt like filler and the end wasn't that dramatic. It was more of a "That's it? That's how it ends?" type of ending.

Freakonomics won't stay on the list for long. I started it today and have only read it on the train to and from work and I'm already half done. Very well written. Engaging style. Great questions. Great anecdotes. Questionable science. If you read it and judging by its sales, you probably have, don't take what Levitt has written as 100% fact. If I hear one more person tell me why the crime rate dropped, I'm throwing something.

Running, something I haven't written about in a while. I'm up to 15 miles a week. I'm slow as hell, but my knees don't hurt that badly anymore. On a 4 miler yesterday, I was struggling to run a 7:30 mile. It's tough being the slow kid. We're in a new ward and my bishop is an ultra-marathoner that routinely runs sub-3 hour marathons. Did I tell you he's in his mid-50s, has six kids, and practices international law? Not sure where he gets the time to train, but I'll tell you one thing. I'm going to smoke him when we race in the fall.

If This Guy

doesn't stop smacking his lips, I'm going to have to open a can. Who chews with their mouth open? Who chews with their mouth open at work? Who chews with their mouth open at work, making horrible sounds for hours at a time? He's going down.

This is what 94 degree heat with 90% humidity does to a man. It unleashes the inner animal.

Impediments

New York never ceases to surprise me. Actually, let me take that back. The surprises have ceased being surprises. One fine summer afternoon I walked outside and wasn't surprised at being surprised to see this.

My first thought was, "How am I going to make it across the street to Mr. Softie for my afternoon butterscotch sundae with these cowgirls and horses (the Calgary Stampeders) blocking the sidewalk?" Once I discover my path, it is only then that I say to myself, "You know, 25 cowgirls in frayed chaps and bright red boots riding horses up Wall Street doesn't happen every day. Maybe I should take a picture and call my brother-in-law, who hails from Calgary, and tell him that Alberta has finally made the big time."

The Little Boat That Could

My two fans have been at me again. Although I might have three now. The Cereal Pimp apparently has become a reader as well.

I've been at an off-site this week. And by off-site, what I really mean is that my boss had his team meet in a building two blocks away from the building we normally work in. Off-site indeed. As a part of this off-site, we usually go out at night. One evening, we went out into the harbor and watched the yacht races. Twenty-two J-boats racing around Liberty and Governors Island. Now I know what you're thinking. Yacht races - Miami Vice size yacht, guys in pink, supermodels in bikinis. Let me tell you something. It was just like that. Wine, cheese, and nose candy for all. That and my two Diet Cokes. Miami Vice aside, this was a little too Hamptonish for me, but that's another story.

Well, to get out to the floating clubhouse, we had to take the yacht club's personal taxi, which is what you see here, Lil' Toot. Such a cute little guy. He's a little underpowered though. I wasn't sure we were going to make it back to the marina at one point. The Hudson's current is pretty strong. My faith was weak. Lil' Toot was strong. I made it back.

Borat

My brothers and my sister-in-law came to visit last week. One night, my brother who is married, went to the ballet. He had heard that some famous dancer was going to be performing in at the Metropolitan Opera House and he just had to go. So he dragged his wife there. My other brother and myself wanted no part of watching guys in tights with giant packages jumping around and twirling, so we went to see a movie.

Both of our events ended at roughly the same time and we decided to meet at Ellen's Stardust Diner, a couple of blocks north of Times Square. On a Saturday night. Now for those of you that haven't been to Ellen's, it's basically a diner where Broadway hopefuls are the servers. The servers practice their art, singing, in between orders. On Saturday nights, this place is packed. It took us an hour just to get our milkshakes and disco fries. They didn't know what disco fries were at first, that's a Tick Tock Diner specialty, but once I explained to them that disco fries are simply cheese fries with brown gravy on them, they made them for us. Brown gravy, cheese, and fries, mmmmmmmmm!

Well, while we were waiting for our food, we were of course subjected to the singing. Not only do these people sing, but they perform as well. My brother that went to the ballet's favorite was the guy singing, "I am Don Quixote, the Lord of La Mancha..." This particular server got up onto the booths and was singing while walking above everyone. For some reason, he would always stop directly behind me at the "Lord of La Mancha" part and give a couple of hip thrusts as he said La Mancha. Fortunately, my back was to him or my scalding hot gravy would have found a new home.

Now to the picture. This guy was sitting at the bar before we arrived and was there after we left. He loved Ellen's. He loved the singers. Every time someone started singing, he would get off of his stool and start tapping his foot and clapping. I kept looking for cameras because the guy looked like Borat from Da Ali G Show.

The Wasting of the Gluten

You see that ice cream cone sitting on top of the trash can? The very sad looking cone with chocolate around the edges, the one that is begging to fulfill its purpose of being eaten. Oh delicious sugar and wheat flour, how crunchy, how crisp. I wanted to eat you. I really did. It's not as though I haven't been partaking of the forbidden gluten all weekend with my brothers in town. Cheesecake, pasta, bread, pizza, etc, the gluten was mine. However, it was not to be. I made a promise. No more gluten. Next time I'll have Erin leave her book full of cancer and lesions at home.

A Nice Run

Accompanied by massive pain. Zane woke us all up at 5am this morning. Poor little guy had a cough. After Liz took care of him, we decided to make good use of the time and go for a quick run. Bad idea. The pain in my left knee came roaring back. Had to stop at one point. Maybe I should just go back to writing about the subway. Although if I did that, I'd be negative 90% of the time. (Last night I stood on the platform for 45 minutes.) Not sure what I'm going to do at this point about my running.

Sweat Pants

Who knew that six weeks of not running wouldn't be enough to heal my broken knees? I thought six weeks would have been plenty. I ran twice this past weekend. Two miles each time. Once by myself and once with Liz and Zane. Each time, about a 1/2 mile into it, my knees started aching. My right knee especially bothered me. The stabbing wasn't as strong as it was going up Heartbreak Hill, but it was definitely uncomfortable. Surprisingly, after about two miles, when I was about to finish up, the stabbing turned into a dull ache. I'm not sure what this means. Are my knees sore because of non-use? Can I run through this? I don't really know. I'm going to run every other day this week for two to three miles each and see how it goes. I need to do this, as even my fat pants are getting too tight. I might need to start wearing sweat pants to work. Sweet elastic.

Happy Birthday Liz!

28 spankings for you!

I like exclamation points!

Oppressed Youth

Another extremely interesting and entertaining subway ride. I'm on my way home from school at about 9:30pm. School was ok, but I can already tell it's going to be a long summer. If I have to listen to another story from the NYSE specialist in our class, I'm going to be ill. Inventory management just isn't that exciting.

Ok, back to the subway. The 6 train to Grand Central. At 23rd Street, two young black guys get on, dressed interestingly enough, like hardcore punks. Torn up jeans, Megadeath patches, chains glued their pants and jackets, and of course the obligatory combat boots. However, they were carrying an 80s style ghetto blaster. As soon as they stepped on to the train and the doors closed, they both yelled, "Hey, if the mother f-ing hip hop guys can do it, so can we." Then they pressed play on their ghetto blaster and out forth spewed Testament and Slayer-like speed metal. The guys then proceeded to bob their heads in rhythmn to I'm not sure what and play their air guitars. All the way to Grand Central.

In addition, sitting three feet across from these metalheads was a sunburned family from Kansas, with their shorts up to their waists and Guggenheim posters in hand. Prior to our young friends boarding the subway, they were laughing, having a good time, telling everyone who would listen that "...they weren't from here..." (no kidding), and falling all over the train every time it stopped, started, or turned. Well, once Living Colour boarded, the fun stopped. They huddled, stopped talking, and started emitting tourist fear pheromones. You'd have thought they were back in Wichita at the height of the BTK madness.

For all you Family Guy fans out there, "What's CPR?"

The Blocker

Yes, I've been ignoring my three fans. I'm sorry. Finals and work have killed me the past two weeks. I'm back.

Yes, this picture is of shoddy quality. Yes, it's dark, it's fuzzy, and otherwise worthless. It was the best I could do. I needed to show you rush hour technique at Grand Central Station. It's called, finding a blocker.

During rush hour, there are thousands upon thousands of people going to trains, getting off trains, going to the subway, going to the street, getting something to eat, shopping, etc. All in a single building. In order to make your way effectively through the station to your post-station destination, without stopping every two steps as someone blocks your path, you must find a blocker, or better yet, several blockers.

The technique is thus, find a blocker(s) and stay on his/her hip (I don't discriminate). You choose a hip by determining which side the traffic perpendicular to your path is coming from. If it's coming from the right, you are on the left hip. From the left, on the right hip. Switching blockers is acceptable. Losing your blocker is traumatic.

FYI on my running. I had an MRI on my right leg yesterday. The nice MRI people gave me the pictures to take to my doctor. I oohed and ahhed at them. Unfortunately, I cannot interpret what is going on. I tried running 10 days ago and took about 15 steps before the rotting feeling in my right leg came back and it felt like my leg was going to snap in half. I'll try again next week.

Not to 160

Yes, in my effort to completely stuff my face, I've broken the 160 pound barrier. I haven't seen 160 for almost eighteen months. Good thing I'm not going to the beach any time soon. Four more glorious days of BBQ, sweets, and soda before I start working out again. Even though I'll barely get to know 160, it is nice to see an old friend. I even had to break out my fat pants.

As I'm sure you're all wondering about my knee, let me tell you, it feels great. Next Monday will be the test. I'm going to run a leisurely two to three miles and see how it goes. The plan for the next month or so is to run three or four times a week, with a total weekly mileage in the ten to fifteen mile range. I'm coming back slow. After a month of no pain, I'll up my mileage weekly following the 10% rule. If I'm drawn in the NYC Marathon lottery, I'll be right on schedule and will hit 35 miles a week right when I need to start my 16 week training program in the middle of July.

You'll note that I don't have a plan B.

Decadence

Recovering from a marathon is full-time fun. In addition to Boston Creams, there is non-stop soda, non-stop candy (Jelly Belly jellybeans and white chocolate truffles), and mint 'n chip ice cream. It's like Christmas, but better because I'm not training for anything.

For two weeks, I will do nothing but eat and do nothing. Yesterday, I even played a game on my Xbox, something that I have not done in months. Saturday, I watched the NFL Draft live for five and a half hours. All done while enjoying all of the things I deprive myself of 48 weeks out of the year.

One week left. I'm going to make it count.

My Sincerest Apologies

To those that are revolted, please leave now. To those that are revolted, but are a little fascinated and unable to click away, stay a while and let me tell you what happens to a runner's toes.

What you see here are the toes on my right foot. For some odd reason, my right foot is slightly longer than my left foot. Genetics strikes again. This makes it a little tough when buying running shoes. I need enough room in my toe box on my right foot, but not so much room that the same size shoe on my left foot causes my heel to slip. Heel slippage bothers me much more than my toes being slightly uncomfortable and this is the result.

I've tried everything. I've worn two socks. I've used handfuls of vaseline. Thin socks, thick socks, socks without seams, etc. Nothing works. Any run over 16 miles and this is the result. Blisters on top of blisters on top of blisters. I once popped four blisters, each under the other. The beauty on my second toe from the right was actually underneath my toenail. That felt good yesterday. Sorry about the oozing. I just thought it looked cool.

I have a feeling I'm going to lose that toenail. It was pointing at a 45 degree angle up from my toe. Ah, running.

Oh, if you're thinking that my second and third toes from the left actually look like one toe that was split in half or my pinkie toe looks like a torpedo, I know, I'm a freak.

Peeker

Liz catching Zane trying to see what's going on on our way back from the expo.

Sweet Caroline

This is me on my way out the door to the bus that would take me to Hopkinton. Look at me. Look at my left knee. I'm so happy. I'm so excited. My left knee is the same shape and size as my right knee. I'm about to run Boston, arguably the most important marathon in the world, with the best athletes in the world, the creme de la creme. I'm about to stand shoulder to shoulder with men and women, where a 3:08 marathon is 4027th best out of 20,000. The 20th percentile. My last marathon, I finished 86th out of 4000, the 2nd percentile. Not to sound all elitist, but man, I was stoked to be around my people.

Let's start from the beginning. Liz, Zane, and myself woke up Sunday morning, packed, and took off for Boston. Three hours later, we showed up at The Omni Parker House Hotel. It's located across the street from King's Church and two blocks from The Commons. We stayed there last year and loved it. Once we were settled into our room, we left and began walking to The Hynes Center to pick up my bib and to see the expo. As we were walking, I noticed that I was sweating. Not because we were doing that hip shake that speed walkers do. I was excited, but not that excited. I was sweating because it was in the mid-70s. Liz was thinking the same thing. Training in sub-30 degree weather and then running in 70 degree weather just isn't something you want to do. The weather gods heard plenty of prayers from me Sunday.

It took a while, but we finally arrived at The Hynes Center (a good 25 minute walk). We picked up my number and then walked around for a bit. Not much, as the narrow aisles just weren't jiving with the stroller. By this time, it's close to 4pm and we hadn't eaten lunch. In my excitement to get to the expo and to get my number, I had neglected Liz's signs of famishment. We quickly stopped at a Japanese restaurant and had sushi, my marathon food of choice. Omega fatty acids, mmmmmmm. Well, I had sushi. Liz had a California roll and teriyaki chicken. We then just went back to the hotel and relaxed and eventually crashed.

We're back to Sunday morning and the very happy picture above. I walked out the door thinking that I was definitely doing a 3:30 marathon. Twenty-two minutes slower than my best, but still acceptable to me based on my whole not running for six weeks due to injury thing. The buses were waiting at the Commons and there were thousands of runners waiting. The volunteers were loading the buses 10 at a time and I still stood in line for an hour. Amazing. Once on the bus, I ate another banana and drank another Gatorade. Big mistake. I didn't realize that Hopkinton was so far away, especially in traffic. By the end of the bus ride, I was cursing out loud and demanding to be let off so I could use the facilities. I was desperate. An hour after my bus left, we arrived and I ran towards the nearest port-a-john. I wasn't to learn until later that on Marathon Monday, any tree will do.

Now, it was only 9:30am. Two and a half hours until the gun. I walked around, checked out the Athlete's Village. The line for massages were too long. The line for the port-a-johns was too long. The line to go in and sit down to listen to whatever bands that were playing was too long. I just decided to relax in the shade until I was scheduled to meet up with some friends that I'd met through the old St. George Marathon forum. I met up with them at 10:30, chatted for a few and was presented with my victory cigar from Tom Slick. I'm not a smoker, but I thought why the hell not, I'll wear this around my neck. It'll help distinguish me from the other runners. Tom and The King of Junk Miles, as Boston veterans, gave me some good advice on the course (1:40 first half and 1:50 second half), which I decided to follow. I mean, we're talking about a guy that ran a 1:27 last year and a 1:32 four weeks ago. 1:40 and 1:50 would be a snap. You may laugh now.

After we parted, I headed down to the starting line. I know you all have read a lot by now and if you're bored, you may leave, but I just want to get down as much as possible, while it is still fresh. I might edit this later and add more detail as it comes to me. At the starting line, I found my corral. It was about 300 yards back. I went in and just tried to relax. Well, I must have relaxed a little too much as I had to go again. I wasn't waiting in line for a port-a-john though, so I just looked around and saw some runners running out of some bushes next to the public library across the street. Good enough for them. Good enough for me. Sorry Hopkinton Public Library.

We're finally to the start. It's ten to noon. The guy who sings at the Patriots and Red Sox games sang the Star Spangled Banner, two F-18s flew over the runners, and then it was game time. The gun went off. Um, I didn't move for a solid minute. Then slowly the pack started moving forward. Two minutes later, I was at the starting line and the race was on. I was really pumped, but I didn't want to kill myself. A marathon is longer than you think and this marathon is a killer with all of those hills. I tried to curb my enthusiasm and succeeded somewhat.

The first 5k was truly incredible. Running through Hopkinton and Ashley, with people shoulder to shoulder, bands out, everyone screaming, AND the downhill was great fun. I felt tight cardiovascularly, which was not surprising due to my inactivity, but my legs felt good. Man, it felt so good just to run for the first time in four weeks. I LOVE THIS SPORT!!! My first 5k was 22:56 (7:24 average mile). I was right where I needed to be to do a 1:40 first half. I was worried though because my lungs and chest were bothering me, but again, I thought I could run through it.

Second 5k. Framingham. Still feeling pretty good. The victory cigar is bouncing all over the place, annoying me a little, so I just tuck it into my bib. Kids are lined up along the side of the road hoping for high 5s from runners. I slap a few hands. The kids would get so excited when they received a high 5. People were everywhere with oranges, wet naps, ice, water, gatorade, etc. The people of New England were out in force to support the runners. It was a sight to behold. I finish my second 10k in 23:48 (7:42 pace). You'll start to notice a trend here. Slowing down. Not much here. Maybe there were some hills. I don't remember.

Third 5k. I'm running next to a dude dressed like a lobster. A LOBSTER. I liked running next to him just because he was dressed like a lobster. The kids loved it. When I run Boston again, I need a cool costume. More on that later. I'm running through Natick. My Garmin shows 8 minute miles happening. Once in a while it says 6:50 miles. I have no idea how fast I'm running. The watch is really beginning to annoy me. Good thing I got it at a steep discount. Around this point, my cigar disappears. One minute it's flopping around my neck. The next, it's gone. The wrapper unwrapped itself. Mysterious. My favorite spectator of the course is in Natick (I think). A guy was in the back of his pick up truck, with a full sound system sitting in the bed belting out Neil Diamond. If you've ever been to Fenway, you know exactly what he was singing. "Oh, sweet Caroline (holds the microphone out and all the runners - "Oh Oh Oh"),Good times never seem so good." I smile just thinking about it.

Natick is nice, except for that kid telling me that the Wellesley girls were just around the corner. Four miles later and I still don't see the Wellesley girls. I'm wondering if all the hype is just hype. 24:36 - 7:54 pace.

Fourth 5k, the 1/2-way mark, and fifth 5k. It wasn't just hype. I run into Wellesley after cresting a hill and the noise is deafening. I mean, my ears were ringing. A mile of women screaming as loud they could. My calfs tingled, whatever that means. I must have seen 100 girls holding up signs asking to be kissed. I must have seen 50 guys run over and get kisses. I was not one of them. Liz told me afterward that she would have if she were me. I'll tuck that one under a pillow for later. I'm still feeling decent. I think I can do 7:50/8 minute miles. My fourth 5k was done in 26:11-8:30 pace and my half total time was 1:43:08-7:52 pace. I still thought that a 3:30 was in the works. 1:47 second half, no problem.

Then the wheels fell off. When I say they fell off, I mean that I didn't think I was going to finish. After Wellesley, I headed up a hill. About a 1/4 way up, disaster. My left knee, yes, my left knee, not my right knee or either hamstring, completely buckled under the intense pain. It's pain I've felt before, except magnified. My left ITB had decided to act up. It was a sharp, stabbing pain. I cried out and almost fell down. I skipped on my right leg for a few steps and then tried to keep running. I couldn't. I slowed down. I still couldn't. The pain was too much. I had to walk. The one thing that I swore never to do was to walk. I'm not trying to offend anyone here, but I just don't think that people should walk during a marathon. Did Phidippides walk? No, he ran until he delivered his message and then died. I've always had an elitist attitude towards those that walked. Gallo walkers, don't get me started. Last spring when my brother suffered a similar injury during the Flying Pig marathon, he didn't walk. He slowed down, but he didn't walk. I always thought that that was the epitome of toughness. Marathoning is about battling, not strolling.

I have been humbled. I have changed my mind. Battling through whatever challenges a person faces, just to finish, no matter how you finish, is now the name of the game. I have a new found respect for all that finish. I apologize.

I am now at the beginning of the hardest part of the course, the Newton Hills, which culminate at Heartbreak Hill. Bad time for a serious injury. To top it off, it's getting very very warm. I'm taking two cups of water at every aid station. One for replenishment, one for my head and neck. I resolve to finish and if I can to finish in under four hours. Fifth 5k in 28:19 - 9:08.

Sixth and seventh 5ks. I'm dying. Huge hills. The long hill between miles 17 and 18 is brutal. It never ends. I feel like I'm still on that hill. I wonder what I was thinking about ever doing a sub-3 on this course. There's no way. I'm running for five minutes, then walking for a minute. My knee feels like it's going to explode. I don't even know if I can finish. It's at this point, after being thoroughly humbled that I do something that I haven't done in a while. I say a little prayer and ask for help for myself. Just to get through the pain. Just to finish. I'm not saying that a miracle happened and all of the sudden I was my old self and was pain free. I was still in pain. I was still suffering. I still had to walk once in a while. However, the stabbing pain. The I see spots pain. It didn't happen again. For that I am thankful.

At the top of Heartbreak Hill, a hill that isn't as long as that other hill that I've given a name to, but won't reveal. This is a family site after all. At the top of HH, I was relieved because the uphill was over, but still had no idea how I was going to finish another 5.7 miles. It was frustrating. I run 5.7 miles to warmup usually and here I was wondering how I was going to get through it. Let me tell you. It was the crowds. If I had thought that Wellesley was impressive, Boston College was even more so. Three times as many people as Wellesley for twice the distance. A friend of mine is a BC alum. He told me that Wellelsey was overrated and the true fans were at BC. I believe him. It's at this point that Liz calls. She tells me I'm doing great and where she's at. It's a real pick me up. I want to puke. Sixth 5k - 32:27 - 10:28 pace; Seventh 5k - 34:56 - 11:15 pace.

Four miles to go. It's hot. It's dusty. I don't know if I can break four hours. The King is running next to me. Not the King of Junk Miles. The King. Dude in a foot tall crown and a red mantle. No shirt. People loved him. When people started to cheer him on, he'd lift his hand just like a king would waving to his people, similar to the beauty pageant wave. I ran with him for a while until I had to walk again. It was good to run with The King.

I'm on Beacon. I've passed the 40k mark. I have about 1.5 miles left and about 17 minutes to do it in. I don't walk again. The entire city is out to cheer all of us on. I hear someone in the crowd say that this group of runners is where the normal people are and he meant it in a complimentary way. I've been way too elitist. I know it. I turn onto Boylston and I see the finish line. It appears so close. I'm going to make it under four hours and I do. 3:58:36 - 9:06 pace. I've never run slower. I've never been so elated. What an experience.

Boston

My dad is a marathoner. I remember waking up at 4am one morning when I was six or seven because we had to go and drop him off for a marathon. I think it was the Phoenix Marathon. Well, one day, I told him that I wanted to run too. The next morning he woke me up at 5am and I ran to the corner of Baseline and Rural with him. He then ran back home with me and then went off for the rest of his run. I've been hooked ever since. Well, this Monday, I reach the penultimate goal of my marathoning career, a mere two years after I decided to run marathons.

It's off to Boston. To be honest, I haven't thought about it that much. Qualifying for Boston last spring was 95% of the journey for me. Running Boston, beginning in Hopkinton, past Wellesley, through the Newton Hills, over Heartbreak Hill, past Boston College, and then on to Beacon and Boylston Streets will simply be the icing on the cake. Unfortunately, I will not be able to race Boston. My hamstrings and ITBs just haven't cooperated. I'll run it and enjoy it and then limp around next week with my finisher's medal around my neck.

I probably won't run Boston again until my father and/or siblings qualify. I'm going to savor it.

For those interested, you can go to the Boston Marathon and track me. The race starts at noon and there are checkpoints every five kilometers. Monday morning the home page will change and it will have a spot where you can plug in bib numbers to track athletes. My bib number is 4027.

Titan's Playground

I recently read Titan, Ron Chernow's biography of John D. Rockefeller. In it, I learned that I live twenty minutes from land that Rockefeller bought and set aside for nature's sake, the Rockefeller State Park Preserve. It's 1200 acres of rolling hills, scenic overlooks, trails, and cows. Yep, cows. Cows in New York. Who would have thought?

Pictured here is Swan Lake, which we walked around. Beautiful spring day in NY. I can't wait to come back and run with the family.

Boston in 8 days.

TOAMGR

To all my gay readers: 335 Madison Avenue = a Bally's Sports Club where apparently management doesn't care if guys shower together.

So I went to the gym yesterday for my swim. It went well. There was someone there that was slightly faster than me. I had to struggle to prevent him from lapping me. It was a good workout. After my swim, I went over to the shallow area of the pool and water jogged for about ten minutes. Back and forth, back and forth. I stopped once I realized that I was irritating the bottoms of my toes. Don't need any blisters on top of everything else.

After I left the pool, I went to take a shower and to try to get as much of the nasty chlorine smell off of me as I could. Well, about midway through my shower, I felt like somebody was watching me. The shower walls are about five feet tall. So I turned around and there was this dude, peering over the wall from the stall next to mine. Just two beady eyes staring. I'm not sure if it was an invitation or if he was just admiring the view. I didn't ask. As I quickly left the shower, I noticed one other detail. There was another guy in the stall with Mr. Beady Eyes.

Recovery

Recovery is tough, especially when you just want to do what you love. In my case, run. I'm still not running, just swimming. Yes, the chlorine is still way too strong. I thought about running on Saturday, but then it was raining the entire day. I told myself I'd run Monday. However, I didn't. The reason I didn't was because on Saturday, I went to see Downfall, which by the way was a spectacular film. Warning: It's a German film with English subtitles. Bruno Ganz's portrayl of Hitler's last ten days was fascinating. I highly recommend it.

Anyways, because it was raining and because I hadn't brought an umbrella, I ran from my car to the theatre. 200 yards max. Ouch. My ITBs didn't hurt, but my hamstrings sure did. Again, running 26.2 miles after running only four or five times in the six weeks leading up to the race is going to be a very interesting experience.

Toxicity

Get this smell out of my nose. Now please.

I went for a swim this morning. I finally gave in and accepted that I'm running a marathon and I can't totally veg out even if I can't run. I swam a mile. 800 warm up and then eight 100 repeats. It felt good. The lanes were a little narrow, so it made passing people a little difficult, but once people realized that I swim like a fish, they would just get out of my way, which was courteous and appreciated. No 2mph treadmill walkers at this gym. And no, I refuse to wear a speedo. I figured out long ago that that is just too much Mike for the public to handle.

My body feels nice and tight, as it always does after a good swim. I haven't swam in about seven months and I forgot how good swimming makes me feel overall. I should incorporate it more into my marathon training. I probably won't though. Being the hardcore runner and all.

However, what I can't stand is this chlorine pool smell stuck in my nose. I sure hope I don't smell like this. It's a revolting smell. Make it go away. Any suggestions?