Train Me.

A long time ago, a girl I know, like most girls I know, uttered something that she did not really mean, such as "Let's meet at Times Square for New Year's Eve."

I ignored this comment that was uttered at a wedding banquet - the first post college reunion for many ladies and yours truly.

But then all girls at the table (73 strong) chimed in the death blow:

"It'll be fun!"

And then it was on.

I made a note of this. I knew in my heart that no one would take the time or the effort save an off the cuff remark on Dec 30th over some staticky cell phone of "Oh, we should've done it. Oh well, Old Acquaintances and s#(t." I was determined to give the idea a fighting chance. So around October I started calling the ladies (also known as girls) and put a bug in their ear to start researching plane tickets and saving money.

All for naught.

However! I am still in. I am going to fly out in two hours for the trip of my life, a trip I am already regretting:

-Fly to Baltimore, put some muscle on my landlord
-Have Dinner with my neighbor for the first time (also, just two days before my lease expires - we lived by each other for 6 months...go hug your neighbor now, Blogger!)
-Bus up to New York New York
-Freeze my can off for 8 hours to secure 10 seconds of glory, riding that ball all the way down while flipping off Dick Clark
-Wait for 8 hours until the crowd dissipates
-Bus down to Philly, as a body guard for a reputable Catholic
-Hang out with my poor friend in publishing and my rich friend in stocks and bonds (guess whose house I'll be staying at - that's right, the one with GOOG IPO for bed sheets).
-Bus back up to NYC to celebrate a friend's B-day
-Train (I said train) to Chicago
-Sears Tower, chicago-style pizza, and an interview with A. Brown (will you and Simeon Rice have a baby and donate it to the Broncos?)
-Train (I said train) to Grand Junction, Colorado, home of the Liquor Barn (with Silo).
-Star in a Honda Dealership commercial as a coffee sipping "waiting room man with contemplative beard"


The train is cheap. The train is frickin' long. 18 hours to Chicago from nYc. 27 hours from CHI to GJT. To pass the time, I will attempt reading three books:

The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
The Sound and The Fury (Faulkner)
The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)

And Faithful Blogger-ites, I will write a script/short-story tying together all the themes of the three aforementioned tomes, just because Nicholas Sparks is a pansy.

The one time I was not watching C-SPAN...

Uproar in House as Parties Clash on Iraq Pullout - New York Times

WASHINGTON, Nov. 18 - Republicans and Democrats shouted, howled and slung insults on the House floor on Friday as a debate over whether to withdraw American troops from Iraq descended into a fury over President Bush's handling of the war and a leading Democrat's call to bring the troops home.

The battle boiled over when Representative Jean Schmidt, an Ohio Republican who is the most junior member of the House, told of a phone call she had just received from a Marine colonel back home.

"He asked me to send Congress a message: stay the course," Ms. Schmidt said. "He also asked me to send Congressman Murtha a message: that cowards cut and run, Marines never do."

Democrats booed in protest and shouted Ms. Schmidt down in her attack on Representative John P. Murtha of Pennsylvania, a Vietnam combat veteran and one of the House's most respected members on military matters. They caused the House to come to an abrupt standstill, and moments later, Representative Harold Ford, Democrat of Tennessee, charged across the chamber's center aisle to the Republican side screaming that Ms. Schmidt's attack had been unwarranted.

"You guys are pathetic!" yelled Representative Martin Meehan, Democrat of Massachusetts. "Pathetic."

The measure to withdraw the troops failed in a 403-to-3 vote late Friday night.

The rancorous debate drew an extraordinary scolding from Senator John W. Warner, the Virginia Republican who heads the Armed Services Committee.

"Today's debate in the House of Representatives shows the need for bipartisanship on the war in Iraq, instead of more political posturing," Mr. Warner said in a statement.

But as the third hour of debate opened, with the House chamber mostly full on the eve of the Thanksgiving recess, even two senior Republicans, Henry Hyde of Illinois and Curt Weldon of Pennsylvania, tried to temper the personal nature of the confrontation by offering tributes to Mr. Murtha. "I give him an A-plus as a truly great American," Mr. Hyde said.

Then Mr. Murtha, who normally shuns publicity, gave an impassioned 15-minute plea for his plan to withdraw American troops, who he said had become "a catalyst for violence" in Iraq. The American people, Mr. Murtha thundered, are "thirsty for some direction; they're thirsty for a solution to this problem."

The uproar followed days of mounting tension between Republicans and Democrats in which the political debate over the war sharply intensified. With Mr. Bush's popularity dropping in the polls, Democrats have sought anew to portray him as having exaggerated the threat posed by Iraq before the American invasion in 2003. Republicans have countered that Democrats were equally at fault.

The battle came as Democrats accused Republicans of pulling a political stunt by moving toward a vote on a symbolic alternative to the resolution that Mr. Murtha offered on Thursday, calling for the swift withdrawal of American troops. Democrats said the ploy distorted the meaning of Mr. Murtha's measure and left little time for meaningful debate.

Speaker J. Dennis Hastert, Republican of Illinois, denied that there were any political tricks involved and said pulling forces out of Iraq so rashly would hurt troop morale overseas. "We want to make sure that we support our troops that are fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan," he said.

The measure's fate was sealed - and the vote count's significance minimized - when the Democratic leader, Representative Nancy Pelosi of California, criticized the Republican tactics and instructed Democrats to join Republicans in voting against an immediate withdrawal.

"Just when you thought you'd seen it all, the Republicans have stooped to new lows, even for them," said Ms. Pelosi, who assailed Republicans as impugning Mr. Murtha's patriotism.

The parliamentary maneuvering came amid more than three hours of often nasty floor debate and boisterous political theater, with Democrats accusing Republicans of resorting to desperate tactics to back a failed war and Republicans warning that Mr. Murtha's measure would play into the hands of terrorists.

In South Korea, where Mr. Bush was in the final day of the Asian economic summit, the White House released the text of a speech that he is scheduled to make later on Saturday to American forces at Osan Air Base.

"In Washington there are some who say that the sacrifice is too great, and they urge us to set a date for withdrawal before we have completed our mission," Mr. Bush planned to say, keeping up the daily drumbeat of White House response from 7,000 miles away. "Those who are in the fight know better. One of our top commanders in Iraq, Maj. Gen. William Webster, says that setting a deadline for our withdrawal from Iraq would be, quote, 'a recipe for disaster.' "

"General Webster is right," Mr. Bush's text said. "And so long as I am commander in chief, our strategy in Iraq will be driven by the sober judgment of our military commanders on the ground."

On Thursday, Mr. Murtha called for pulling out the 153,000 American troops within six months, saying they had become a catalyst for the continuing violence in Iraq. His plan also called for a quick-reaction force in the region, perhaps based in Kuwait, and for pursuing stability in Iraq through diplomacy.

But House Republicans planned to put to a vote - and reject - their own nonbinding alternative resolution that simply said: "It is the sense of the House of Representatives that the deployment of United States forces in Iraq be terminated immediately."

Democrats denounced the Republican measure as a fraud. But Democrats privately acknowledged that they were seeking to escape a political trap set by the Republicans to box them into an unappealing choice: side with Mr. Murtha and face criticism for backing a plan that American commanders say would cripple the mission in Iraq or oppose their respected colleague and blunt momentum for an overhaul of the administration's Iraq policy.

House Democrats greeted Mr. Murtha with a standing ovation on Friday as he entered the chamber.

"This is a personal attack on one of the best members, one of the most respected members of this House, and it is outrageous," said Representative Jim McGovern, Democrat of Massachusetts.

While some 70 liberal Democrats who support ending American military involvement in Iraq have praised Mr. Murtha's plan, many of his other party colleagues appeared to harbor doubts. To a member, Democrats said they respected the counsel of Mr. Murtha, a retired Marine colonel who has earned bipartisan respect in his three decades in Congress as a champion of American service members.

But many senior House Democrats, including Nancy Pelosi of California, the Democratic leader, have distanced themselves from Mr. Murtha's resolution, saying a phased withdrawal is a more prudent course. The House debate is likely to stoke an intensifying partisan debate on Capitol Hill over the administration's handling of the war, including how it used prewar intelligence to justify the invasion of Iraq.

Democrats, including Senators Carl Levin of Michigan and Jack Reed of Rhode Island, as well as Representative Jane Harman of California, the ranking Democrat on the House Intelligence Committee, defended Mr. Murtha and gave examples of what they said were faulty intelligence.

The House action comes just days after the Republican-controlled Senate defeated a Democratic push to have Mr. Bush describe a timetable for withdrawal. Underscoring unease by both parties about the war, though, the Senate then approved a Republican statement that 2006 should be a year in which conditions were created for the Iraqi government to take over more security duties in the country and allow the United States to begin withdrawing.

Even as Republicans sought to make political hay from Mr. Murtha's plan, Democrats defended him as a patriot.

"I won't stand for the Swift-boating of Jack Murtha," said Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts, the Democratic presidential nominee in 2004. Mr. Kerry, who is also a Vietnam veteran, was dogged during the campaign by a group called Swift Boat Veterans for Truth that challenged his war record.

"Judges" is a book in the Bible, not what I do.

So there have been some ways listed on this blog to discern what people are like.

I give you, the "Guy in Front of me at the Grocery Store" game.

Judge him on what he is buying. If it is a shopping cart load, then boredom might take over. However, the best are usually young men, unaccompanied by anyone, buying only a couple of items.

For instance, today the "Guy in Front of me at the Grocery Store" bought a handle of Everclear and two of the biggest cans of Bush's Baked Beans I have ever seen. Undoubtedly, this man wanted to not be coherent when he takes the dump of his life.

When I was in Target seven months ago hurriedly buying a Wedding Gift, if someone was behind me, they would have seen a big curly-haired kid with a heat-resistant spatula and thought that I eat my feelings and must have also eaten the spatula too when making a comfort cake, thusly explaining my exasperated look of urgency for buying just my one little item.

But no one was behind me that day.

What's that? Was I behind someone, you ask?

Why yes. Yes, I was. A skater-gentleman. And what was he buying?

A pack of condoms and a colander.

I don't EVEN wanna know, and hey, I ain't here to judge people who cannot fathom the size of a spermatozoon...it is just a shame that by being that stupid, his probability of reproducing has skyrocketed.

Oh my Demographics.

Is he gay and Republican as well?

Oh won’t you come and join us: Baltimore Marathon!

Before I forget all of the events that were my “first marathon,” I have decided to write them down in this humble transcript.

I first conceived of doing the marathon while my summer internship was concretizing. I officially signed up hours before the early registration deadline, thus saving 20 dollars off the ‘at the door’ price. I trained on a 16 week schedule that was for people who had a “running base.” I did not have a running base, but thought spinning classes might count for something.

I probably took over 80 runs throughout Baltimore during training. I took a lot of insults from passersby and even four spills (two within three days of the race!) but persevered.

My friends Dana, Nicole, Meg, and Ryan all had run marathons and they offered excellent support throughout my training.

Nancy, a friend befriended here in Charm City, was kind enough to drive me out to a run shop where my registration papers were redeemable for 15 dollars worth of merchandise. The goal was for us to leave without the running store employees uttering “nip guards.” My body-glide, socks, and GU packets were being rung up when the clerk said, “body-glide…good stuff. Do your nipples get chaffed up? You want some nip-guards? Have you told this lady what nip-guards are and how they guard nipples from chaffing and bleeding? Have you told this lady that you are a runner and that you have needs, calorically, sexually, and nipplely?”

Embarrassing to say the least, but Nancy is going to be a doctor, so she might as well get used to gross and taboo things.

Things really did not get exciting until the week of the race, so let’s start there.

Ryan and Paul graciously offered to come out to Baltimore from Colorado to offer support and see if the reports back home of “women and clubs and steakhouses as far as the eye can see” were true. Strangely enough, Ryan and Paul chose not to fly in together due to irreconcilable differences based on a questionable call in a jai alai match back in ’85.

I told Ryan, quite adamantly and with great repetition, to fly into Baltimore-Washington International airport. BWI. Ryan- not Dulles, not Reagan, B-W-I. I can facilitate a pick up from BWI. B-W-I.

So of course, Ryan flies into Reagan citing “internet dumbness.” Anyway, not too big of a deal since Reagan is plugged into the wonderful metro system of DC, and therefore plugged into the mass transit of Baltimore proper. Ryan arrived in Baltimore on Thursday. He brought a gift for me. A gift that keeps on giving: the remnants of a 25 lb bag of Reese’s Pieces, all orange. This bag and I have history, y’all. Ryan’s parents shop where Sam’s Club shops. They buy bulk of bulk products. 25 lbs of orange confectionaries. Over the years I have made several attempts to put a dent in this bag when visiting Ryan’s home in Thornton, but to no avail.

From a quick stop at my 22nd floor “trash-rise” studio apartment, Ryan received a 3-star tour of Baltimore. I had consulted Dana the night before what I should eat for the carbo- load dinner (which needs to take place two nights out from the race, not the night before). She said since I was not an elite runner, it did not matter. Well, then. I took my non-elite self to Unos Pizzeria (like an Old Chicago’s) and loaded.

It went like this:

Waiter: Hi, what can I get you guys?
Ryan: Uh, clam chowder. The east has good clam chowder, correct?
Waiter: Absolutely, and you sir?
Bruce: Your Chicken Penne dish, please -
Waiter: Very good. I’ll bring that right –
Bruce: And a large pepperoni pizza.
Waiter: Oh-oh-okay.
Bruce: Thanks.

So I pounded it down. A big pasta dish and bread with half of a pepperoni pizza.

Then the waiter had the audacity to drop off the check.

Bruce: You’re not going to ask us if we want dessert?
Waiter: Are you kidding me? I think I know the answer –
Bruce: The answer is “a giant ice cream cookie, two spoons, please.”

Hey, a cookie has carbs, right?

Well, gluttony can be scratched off the weekend’s deadly sin list.

Boston and I slept long and hard, on our separate beds, mind you, and when I finally awoke I had an email from my Japanese Korean friend, Paul. You see, apparently flying into Baltimore is the hardest thing in the world, because mis dos amigos jacked it up right and proper. The email stated that Paul had misinterpreted his flight information and instead of flying out of Denver at 11 AM and landing in Baltimore at 5 PM Friday, he was flying out at 11 PM Friday and landing in Baltimore at 5 AM Saturday, a mere three hours before the gun shot starting the race of my lifetime. Oh well. At least he flew into the correct airport, which is more than what I can say for Ryan.

Friday was low-key, save for a trip to the run-expo at Ravens Stadium. This run expo was brutal. They had three stations for picking up the necessary goods to participate in the run (timing chip, shirt, bibs, etc) and all three were the farthest away from the other as possible. I’m not jesting. It made no sense, except from the standpoint of making everyone walking through the maze of vendors. I finally got to the shirt station and I was bummed to see the UnderArmour shirt type and color the full marathoners were receiving. The 5-K runners got a mean looking red short sleeve shirt. The half marathoners got this slick blue with white highlights short sleeve shirt. The relay runners got the “baddest of them all” black UnderArmour shirt. The full marathoners got a 90% white long sleeve UnderArmour shirt. What a crock. The full marathoners deserve the coolest shirts, and instead we’re all made out to look like a bleeding Moby Dick dressed unflatteringly in white.

I digress.

Ryan and Paul were coming to be spectators, but for a 26.2 mile event, that means being mobile. So I spent an hour or so printing off maps of “meeting points” and approximate times and how to get there using mass transit. The plan was for Ryan and Paul to meet me at these points and have at hand a variety of things I might need during the race. After completing a rather thorough itinerary, it was time for bed.

Ryan, given his unnatural sleep tendencies and the fact he was jet-lagged, did not feel like going to bed at midnight before the race. So, instead he stayed up while I tried to sleep. He filled this awkward time by looking at fight videos on the internet. Some of which are listed below, viewer discretion is advised for the first one, as it contains graphic violence:

http://gprime.net/video.php/completeass

http://www.compfused.com/directlink/227/

The reason why I included these is because as I am attempting sleep and Ryan is watching these amidst the soft glow of a computer screen and via earphones, I hear muffled “ohmigosh” and “oohweeoh”. Sometime around 1:30 AM, his cell phone delighted us with a tonal rendition of “In Da Club” by 50, who, from time to time, rocks New York City.

Ryan apparently went to sleep around 3 AM.

6 AM came quickly. I got up and went immediately to the kitchen to eat some oatmeal, enacting the early morning routine I had done two mornings prior. I was in the shower, singing Toby Keith’s Courtesy of the Red White and Blue, when Paul opened the door and made fun of my warbling. Scared me half to death, but it was good because you want hormones involved pre-race time. I applied body-glide to the problem areas and noticed that I was just about out of it, which surprised me since this was only the third time I was using it. More about body-glide later.

We stopped by a Starbucks so the boys could get some eye-opening liquid, and then went down to Camden Yards where the start line was. I was looking for a group of people known as “pacers,” for my intention was to join the 5 hour pacing group. While waiting, I realized that I had forgotten something in my pre-race early morning routine: deodorant. I voiced this to my colleagues, and they said they would run back to my place before the first meeting point so I would not be super-nasty-cat-corpse ripe but instead only super ripe by the end of the race.

The president of UnderArmour took the microphone 10 minutes out from the race, and yelled, “Good Morning BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALTIMORRRRE!”

During the aforementioned yelling, many people got bored. That’s how long it was. Ryan astutely noted that Marathons do not need intense pumping up – it is an endurance event after all. Yet, Paul disagreed, and insisted on hitting me in the chest to pump me up. He did so, and I took a step back to absorb his force, and stepped on the ankle of a petite lady. Nearly ended her career. She was crying and would not be consoled. She was inconsolable. The medics carried her off and she said I could expect a lawsuit.

I finally spotted the 5:00 hour pacing group, and went over to be with them. I noted a lot of oddly shaped women and octogenarian men. This was probably the first sign that I might not be in the right group.

The gun went off at 8AM sharp, with confetti and a foghorn. I followed the guy holding the 5:00 sign. He was yelling and really jazzed up, kept saying things like “Yeah, 5 hour pace group! Yeah, baby! Wohooo.” Now, people in a particular pace group were noted so with a bib on their backs. So I had a bib on my back that said “5:00 Bruce.” I also received a band on my wrist that listed what time I should be at each mile marker, so I could make sure I stayed on track with my 5 hour goal. I started running real nice and easy, trying not to let the excitement propel me to running sub-5 minute miles. I kept right behind the loud-5:00-pacer-sign-carrier. About two minutes in, he stops, walks to the side, and gets in a car.

I look around me and see no other 5:00 pacers. I figure that I am ahead of them, and that I will keep it that way and amaze my friends with a sub-5 hour time.

As I am running the first mile of this event, some bystanders chime in “Almost there.” One of my fellow racers gave the rejoinder, “That’s not very nice.” And they replied, “Deal with it.” This was pretty funny in retrospect.

I arrive at mile marker 1 and check my watch and the time band. There is a one minute discrepancy in the wrong direction! I am already behind in my goal and it is only mile one. This means that my assumption of being ahead of my 5:00 group was erroneous, and that I had to play catch up. So, I did. I ramped up my speed a little. Around miles 2 and 3 I started passing racers wearing 5:00 pacing bibs, and feeling better about the race in general. There was one guy there that was skipping rope. I think he intended to skip it the whole marathon. That’s incredible. There was also a gentleman in a blue tuxedo (the kind with the ruffled front) running the race.

Now that’s classy.

Mile 6 was the first meet-up with my crew. They intercepted me beautifully, and ran beside me. Ryan asked if I needed anything and I replied, “Deodorant.” I was handed a brand new stick from Wal-greens, because apparently in the pursuit of breakfast, my steadfast crew did not have enough time to snag my stick from my closet. It was probably a humorous scene to see a marathoner being flanked by two gentlemen in street clothes running and handing him deodorant, then the marathoner applying the deodorant, all while without missing a step. Paul noted how great it felt to have all the spectators cheering, and also that he was surprised I could talk having run 6 miles already (thanks for the vote of confidence, my Seoul-mate). I also handed over my gloves and long sleeves shirt for I was fully warmed up by then. Paul and Ryan like a couple of middle-school girls were grossed out by the sweatiness of it, and thusly tossed back and forth between and in doing so lost my gloves. Oh well. Such are the casualties of the war known as “marathon.”

Paul and Ryan asked where my pacing group was, and pointed behind me. Ryan warned me to be careful, and then they departed and told me they would see me at mile 13. From mile 6 to 13, the course ran around Fort McHenry, which is really picturesque and a great place to learn some American history, if you get the chance. It was slightly before Ft. McHenry around mile 8 that I fell in with the 4:45 pacing group and took my first and only bathroom break. While looping around Fort McHenry, I realized that staying with the 4:45ers was cramping my style, so I broke away from the pack. I think the leader saw my 5:00 bib and announced to the group how important it was to stay with your pacing group so you do not run too hard in the beginning and hit the wall around mile 18.

Is this decree foreshadowing future events?

Read on!

So around Mile 10 I turn on the juice. I start thinking about all the times my friends have had while running marathons and thought how cool it would be to beat them. Also around Mile 10, my attitude start changing. A bit of advice that I adhered to, and that I recommend, is to view a marathon as 3 races in 1. The first 10 miles should be light hearted and fun, joking around and talking if you want. The second 10 miles you should be getting more serious in your inner dialogue and thinking like a predator. The last 6.2 miles should be where your psyche and ego and id are each full blown, and you are a pure racing machine. So I started the transformation after looping Ft. McHenry and leaving the 4:45ers in the dust.

Just before mile marker 13 I fell in with a group of ladies wearing pink. They had cute temporary tattoos and their hair was up nonchalantly and all in all this was the most attractive group of the whole race. I thought of staying with them for the whole race, crossing the finish line with them, hugging them and consoling them as they were sobbing with joy at completing such a great feat, treating them to a real good meal of food, dropping the factoid that I had a place with a view, and just seeing where things went from there.

But no.

They were going too slow.

I passed them, and checked my watch at the halfway marker, 13.1 miles: 2 hours, 17 minutes. This was great! I was on pace for a time that was way under 5 hours. I had to stay focused. Strong. Serious.

That’s when Paul and Ryan met with me.

I applied some body-glide to the nips, and was in high spirits. Ryan noted how I was still carrying my Gatorade cup, and that it annoyed him. I told him I was “tending to my juice, sitting on my Hennessy.” I was in high spirits. We sang the Biz Markie lyrics:
“Girl, you got what I need, but you say he’s just a friend, you say he’s just a friend, oh baby you, you got what I need”

for most of mile 13. It was awesome. I was so glad that I had my buddies there to run with me for a little bit, because it propelled me into the “teen” miles of the race. They broke course with me, and said they would see me at mile 18. This would necessitate a metro ride on their part, and 5 miles of running on mine. I was looking forward to seeing them, because mile 18 is where the fabled “Wall” starts to hit marathoners. I would definitely need their boost.

At the mile 15 water station, I picked up a cup of water, a cup of Gatorade, a bag of pretzels, and a bag of chips. I was carrying all these things in one hand at one point (for whatever reason) and one spectator pointed and yelled,

“That guy has a frickin’ buffet!”

This guy is also running a frickin’ marathon, you dolt.

I eventually consumed my “buffet” and was pumped up as I started running through some neighborhoods by Johns Hopkins School of Public Health. Some people would lackadaisically be clapping and then I would run past them and I would wave my arms like wings with my palms turned upward, much like Ray Lewis, a local murder, would do during NFL contests. This always got a good response and made me feel like a rockstar.

Several people in this neighborhood, angered at traffic being held up, would yell after me, “What’s the cause of all this!” I would just yell back, “Marathon, baby.” I know that is fairly unintelligent, but I did not have time to stop and tell them that I was unsure what charity was receiving what fraction of my race entry fee. Also, through this neighborhood were many hills. I loved the hills. I took a sports conditioning class at CU – Boulder and we ended every class by running up this brutal hill near Folsom Street several times. I was always able to overpower people on the hills - given that the hill was of a moderate length. This training must have engrained that in my head, for I did the same thing during the marathon: I overtook people on the hills like crazy.

I remember leading a pack up this one hill and nearing an intersection where a police officer was holding up traffic. Underestimating my speed, he waved a bus through. I kept my speed and came upon the bus lethargically accelerating through the intersection, so I reared my hand back and spanked it like errant calf during branding season. The portion of the crowd that saw this got quite the rise out of this, and the cop was shamed a little bit by his misjudging of what a fine runner I was.

Enter mile 18. I was excited at the prospect of seeing my friends and getting a re-application of body-glide. I checked my watch and my 5:00 pace wrist band and noted I was over 15 minutes ahead of my ideal pace. I ventured a guess that my friends and I were not going to meet. I kept my eyes peeled, and all I saw was a man on a giant unicycle cheering us and the mile 19 marker. Ryan and Paul could not handle simple metro directions, or I was so far ahead of pace they did not have ample time to make the trip. In either case, I was on my own.

At the mile 19 water station, I grabbed a cup of water and a cup of Gatorade. Now, apparently they had run out of the bottled Gatorade and had to urgently switch to powdered Gatorade. How did I know this? Have you ever decided to see how many teaspoons of Country Time Lemonade you could tolerate in 8 oz. of water? That’s how my swig of Gatorade tasted. I nearly keeled over from glucose induced shock.

By now I am pretty close to being a pure predator. I am powering up hills and I am in the zone. I reach mile 20. I cross mile 20 and I announce, aloud, “Now the race starts,” as if I am some kind of elite runner, which Dana has assured me I am not. That did not matter at that point.

I was a rockstar.

Of course, at the beginning of the “third and final race,” there is a monster incline. I started having really intense inner-dialogue, and some of it spilled over into verbalizations. I kept muttering, “What hill? What Wall? You call this a Wall? Come and get me, Wall!”

I visualized the Wall being some kind of football player trying to wrap up my legs as I was sprinting with the ball to glory, and my stride powering through his futile attempt. In some of the visualizations I would turn around and flip-off the Wall.

I nearly flipped off a lady in real life as well. Just before the mile 21 water station a lady yelled out to me, “Winning time, 2:16.”

Great.

That is just what I want to hear during the hardest part of the marathon: that some guy had finished it before I was even halfway. Put a sock in it lady, you have no class or tact.

I blew through the mile 21 water station, and passed two lovely ladies. One of them voiced out, “You’re way ahead of your pacing group, Bruce.” I told her that I hoped it was not to my detriment. She very convincing encouraged me with a “You got it, baby!” and then I took off. Another hill greeted me around mile 21.5.

This is probably when I noticed some spectators were grimacing at me. Then I looked down at my shirt and noticed why: bloody nips! Son of a gun! My mind raced with “if only’s.”

If only Ryan and Paul had met up with me at mile 18.
If only Nancy hadn’t entered the running store with me making me embarrassed to buy a product with the moniker “nip guards.”
If only I had a brain.

It was then I saw a Red Bull truck. Now, on my longest training run of 20 miles, I was dwindling very quickly with two miles left when a Red Bull truck pulled up beside me. A driver leaned out and asserted I could use some energy and he exited the truck around to the bed, and pulled out a sugar-free Red Bull. I knew it had carbonation, which is supposedly bad for aerobic events, but at that point I did not care. I downed it, and felt so good at mile 20 that I wanted to do 6.2 more just to say that I did it (I restrained myself, as my training log suggested). Upon seeing this truck close to mile 24, I called out to the lady in Red Bull apparel,

“Sugar-free!”

and she slapped a can right in my hand. My plan was to down that sucker a little after mile 25 and zip right in to Glory!

Mile 24 was approaching, and it was the fourth and final meet-up point on Paul and Ryan’s itinerary. I wondered if I would see them, given their absence at mile 18. Luckily, I saw Paul’s eternally youthful face approaching me at mile 24. He asked me what I needed and then called Ryan on his cell phone while running beside me. Eventually we intercepted Ryan, and I told him I need Vaseline. He suggested I go shirtless, and I did, as well as apply the Vaseline.

Paul and Ryan were awesome. They ran beside me for miles 24 and 25. At one point Ryan ran in front of me and slowed me down a bit, and I barked for him to “not slow me down.” I was a rockstar, and I commanded a rockstar’s respect. I was uttering lines that I used to save only for Bradley Van Pelt, such as “Six-two, two-twenty-five, too big, too strong, too fast!” to describe myself. I want it to be clear that I was trucking the last two miles of this race. They might have been, in all reality, the fastest two miles of the race. Paul and Ryan had to disembark from my side at Camden Yards. I ran through the corridor and passed two guys that had this exchange:

“This was your idea.”
“No, it was definitely yours.”
“Okay, okay. It was mine. Let’s agree to never do this again.”
“Agreed.”

I came out of Camden Yards into the parking lot by Ravens Stadium. The course was lined thick with people, all yelling off their heads. I saw the numbers ticking over the finish line off in the distance. I remembered my friends saying how they did not have enough energy for a sprinter’s finish. Now, it might be because I am a manly man, or it may have been the Red Bull, but when I saw those numbers I kicked it into high gear. I was passing plodders left and right. The numbers were zooming in quickly, and the crowd got louder and louder. I raised my right arm and made a lassoing motion with it, and this amped up the crowd even more. I blasted right through the finish line! It was all over, the most exhilarating event of my life!

The end of the race they herd you through like cattle.
I wobbled to collect a heat blanket.
I was given a finishers medal. Given that the 5kers, relayers, and half-marathoners finished on the same finish line (and collected the same glory as that of the full-marathoners, those lampreys!) I sternly asked my medal giver if this was the right one.

He assured me it was.

I numbly wandered over to a table where water was advertised. I asked for some but they said they were dry. What kind of marathon runs out of water at the finisher’s area!?

I put my heat blanket on like a cape and was still shirtless. My medal lied on top of where the corners of my cape/blanket were tied. I felt less like a superhero and more like a kid pretending to be a super hero. I was searching for water. I entered the UnderArmour tent, and was greeted by this ripped muscle head in, of course, a size too small UnderArmour shirt. He was really nice and noticed my medal and asked how it felt to have run the full thing. I said it was the most exhilarating accomplishment of my life to date, and that he should definitely do it. He said the longest he has ever run was 10 miles, and I told him before I trained I hadn’t even ran 7 miles continuously. I just might have inspired someone through my athleticism…me. The most unathletic person I know.

I started feeling more like a superhero.

I eventually found water at a kiosk and drank a good amount. Then Paul, Ryan, and I decided to leave and go meet Drew who was waiting in the lobby of my apartment building. We boarded the light rail and garnered a lot of looks since I was still dressed up like a second rate superhero.

I showered up and then went out on the town with the boys. My gait was awkward and there was a deep fatigue (not soreness) in my quads and hamstrings during the rest of the day. Ryan departed from Penn Station shortly before midnight and Drew left around the same time. Paul and I went back to my place and had a nice slumber. In the morning I conducted a breathtaking and courageous outside monuments tour of Washington DC. The soreness had taken residence in my quads, hamstrings, and calves, and surprisingly in my traps. After Paul left and I was home, I decided to Google “marathon recovery” and came upon a site that warned of depression. As the sun was setting and I was a lone in my trashed apartment (hosting three gentlemen who insist on throwing around 12 lbs of orange Reese’s Pieces will do that), I realized I was depressed. This great driving force in my life had occurred and was now gone. The whole race was a blur. Even this transcript does not do the race justice. I quickly left my apartment and hobbled down to the metro to catch a movie. I saw “A History of Violence,” and “40-year-old Virgin.” On the metro I read a paper on Paired Kidney Donation (for which I am writing a grant proposal) and realized that I have plenty of other goals to serve as driving forces in my life, so depression did not need to claim me.

By the Wednesday after the marathon I was 85% recovered, consciously. I put “consciously” because the soreness was gone, but if I walked for too long or attempted working out I would feel restrained or wholly out of shape. It was as if below a conscious level my body knew it had taken on a great burden a few days prior.

Some people have horror stories about their marathon, which makes me think mine might have been a fluke (or at least I should have run mine faster.) I did not hit the Wall (although I did flip it off), and my recovery did not involve me getting forcibly re-hydrated with 30 lbs of fluid or wearing a soft-boot and using crutches. All in all, I ran a good, well trained race, beat my ideal pace, and collected a medal. The jury’s still out on whether I will do another one. I think an ultra (50 miler) would be cool, as well as a half triathalon (1.2 miles swimming, 13.1 running, 56 biking).

My final time: 4 hours, 36 minutes, and 7 seconds.

Shawn and the Pawn

I was walking home last night when this guy in a suit hustled passed me. We stopped at the crosswalk, and he turned to me and started a dialogue:

"Hey, you know of any mass transit down to DC?"

"Marc trains."

"[checks watch] Yeah, I missed the last one, and besides the storm that came through messed up the schedules. My rental car was towed, and I am four dollars short of a cab ride...I'm in town for a convention on behalf of Microsoft. Do you know the city well?"

"Downtown proper I know fairly well."

"You're the first white guy I've seen tonight."

"Uh, where are you trying to get, sir?"

"College Park. Tomorrow I'm staying at the Sheridan...I have to stay out of town tonight because of some art expo. I'm from Pittsburgh."

"I'm from Colorado."

"No sh*t, I'm from originally from Colorado. I graduated from CSU, and my dad works for the Broncos."

"Well I graduated from CU - "

"F*_ker. [holds out hand and grins] Shawn Masterson."

"[shaking hand] Bruce."

"Hey, can I buy you sodas or something to get some cash...all I got is an AMEX business account card, my car is towed, and I'm not about to go through the city dressed like this [motions to his fine suit, rings, and watch]."

"We could do lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah, Yeah. Let me get your number. [number exchanged]. Sh*t, I can't dial you. I'm not in my service area. I have a beeper. Here [number exchanged]. You got one of them crazy hair-dos, not too many of those around anymore."

"I'll beep you tomorrow, I have some business in the inner harbor tomorrow. How much will get you to your hotel."

"Thirteen dollars."

"Well, you're in luck. I have exactly thirteen dollars in my wallet."

"Well, looks like the Lord led me to you."

"I guess so."

"Now, you got enough for yourself?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine until tomorrow. See you, Shawn."

"Hey, if you want any discs from Microsoft, let me know. I'll hook you up."

"I'll beep you tomorrow."

Okay, so I go back home thinking I have just been swindled, but I can't be sure. There were a lot of little details that made sense. I even called Drew to tell him about the occurence the following morning. I told him that I would get him Microsoft Office if I could.

I headed towards the inner harbor to conduct my business, and I dialed the beeper number.

It rang.

"Hello?"

Crap. Do beepers have human operators?

"Is Shawn there?"

"No, you have the wrong number."

"Oh, uh, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure, hon. What?"

"The next time you see Shawn, a Shawn, any Shawn, you slug him in the arm. Hard. Make it hurt."

"Have a good day, Sug."

"You too. I'm serious, now. Shawn - slug in the arm."

"Got it. Byebye."

Jesus said to give the hungry food, the thirsty drink, and the naked clothes. He said nothing about giving swindlers booty.

There's no impression like the first.

Ever wonder what your vibe is?

A smart fella at Princeton has launched a website that allows people to get a feel for how others perceive an individual based on a photo. It is reminiscent of Hot-Or-Not.com, but I guess has more of a point than intertaining (this is a term I just coined, stands for "internet-entertaining") young men of the USAFA.

This is a great way to see how people perceive your image.

However, this is a cowardly way to get people's opinions of you. In the comments post your first impression of me (even if it is based solely on this weblog...that's right I said "weblog." Did you know that that is from what "blog" is derived, "dawg?")

Holler.

Lesson in Economics: Supply and Demand

Background reading:

1) More men than women are in the Air Force Academy.

If you understand that concept, then you are ready for the lesson. (Click WATCH THIS VIDEO).

I really bring the Mosh.

My first blogger spam that I am unleashing:

Hey, I like your blog and it is sweet. Woot! I heart your blog. I will be sure to bookmark. It is awesome. I noticed you liked Homestarrunner.com and Wikipedia.org, so I *commissioned* this creation, just for you.

Sir Mix-A-Lot, what hath you wrought?

Well, everyone should be up to speed on this one.

It seems that butt-craze is sweeping nation once again, in Pop (Black-Eyed Peas' "Lady Humps") AND Country (Trace Adkins' Badonkadonk).

QOTD: "How did she get in them britches?"

It Takes a Wife-Beater

I saw the last half of a show on the Discovery Channel recently called It Takes A Thief. My viewing was a little disorienting since I started watching with it half-over and had no idea what the premise was. Essentially, these former robbers break into homes while a film crew films it so that they can show the family and America how accessible their belongings are.

Things get pretty emotional, and the robbers get to meet with the home-owners a day later and reveal the booty they took. The robbers on these shows are such smirky little jerks-offs. Essentially, they break in, tear crap up, then get to rub it in the person's face while talking to them. The show pays for security measures to be taken, and then the thieves try again.

I was thinking of creating a similar show revealing the weaknesses of spouses. A former domestic abuser could work his old craft on an unsuspecting wife. After the beating, the show could pay for her viewing of self-defense films or give her a gun. Then the former domestic abuser could attempt to whoop her again.

I know it would be a hit.

I'm just having troubles thinking of a name...

I would like two Queer class tickets, please.

I saw a commercial for Orbitz awhile back. I thought it was a joke. Then I realized it aired during a re-run of this show. Then I realized I was watching that show. Then I realized I was the joke.

And the internet link still exists to this day.

Be sure to clear the cache before your dad gets on the computer, or at least get a girlfriend to ease the suspicion...or else ultimately it could lead to your dad sharing a rainy kiss with your pot-smoking neighbor.

Key Ingredient to Greatness: Roommates

I found out today that the following people were roommates before fame hit:


Suze Orman and Judy Belushi Pisano.

Michael Caine and Vidal Sassoon.

Al Gore and Tommy Lee Jones.

Toby Keith and Jane Fonda.

No, the other Elaine. The GOOD Dancer.

My friend Elaine* is super tough. She shattered her hand while sky-diving. One of the instructors at base camp was making fun of her for "b*tc# - botching" a simple rip-cord pull. Elaine kissed her swollen hand, made a fist and hit the guy while he was laughing in her face! The doctor thinks the punch afterwards really made things worse. Luckily, her humor is just as fierce as her gender-defense: in her own expression, the emotion that the scar evokes:

*name changed to protect identities.

U.N.satisfied

Written September 5th, 2005:

When I was in New York I visited the United Nations. Not only did I visit, but I toured the facilities. Our tour was lead by a girl of mocha skin and big, bushy, rizado, black hair. I do believe our closeness in age and my predilection for being the nearest-to-the-guide when in a tour group lead to the events that transpired on that glorious day. Little did I know that it would lead me here by the River Piedra, to write down the lines of my story, and to weep.

She mentioned she was from Cuba, and looked smart in her azul power suit. She started taking us around the grounds showing us various gifts given to the United Nations from countries around the world.

We were going up the escalators, and she turned to me (and me alone, for who addresses a group of tourists on an escalator?) and asked:

"From where are you visiting us today?"

"Colorado."

The escalator kept escalating our passion. My turn to initiate:

"When did you leave Cuba?"

"Oh, well, I was three...I don't really remember Cuba too well."

Noted.

She lead the group by various other gifts and then we were at a window that had a panoramic view of a courtyard and the grounds of the United Nations compound. She told us that there are flags that fly for each of the countries that are members of the United Nations, and that they are flown in alphabetical order in English. She asked what the first one was. No one replied for a long time, because rarely do people who are not the 8th grade science fair winners who wear canadien tuxedos answer immediately in group situations.

Someone ventured: "Albania."

In my heart, mi corazón, I knew that this was wrong. She confirmed its shortcoming in veracity.

I answered in baritone: "Afghanistan."

Her eyes, sus ojos, lit up. She confirmed the correctness, and pressed the group further: "What is the last country, English alphabetical?

My father, mi padre, offered: "Zaire."

She grimaced. She is gentle, and she must be by necessity since she deals with tourists, the Bison of the East, day in and day out. She informed my father that Zaire no longer existed.

If sons pay for the sins of their fathers, then that day was the day of redemption.

"Zimbabwe." I asserted.

She smiled and commented, "Impressive, yes. Zimbabwe is the last."

Now, a quick note...there is obviously chemistry here. No. No. Serendepity. I do not know from where the answers to these simple questions came, but I felt eerie that I knew them - I am clueless when it comes to geographical matters...and even more clueless when it comes to impressing women.


The tour must go on no matter who is falling in love, so she led us to one of the group meeting rooms. She was telling us the purpose of the room was to facilitate peace talks. She asked us if we knew why the ceiling was unfinished. I put my 1.000 batting average on the line in the name of love:

"The unfinished ceiling represents that the business of the peace committee is unfinished so long as there are areas in the world that are in states of unrest."

As far as I can tell, she nearly fainted, and had to support herself on the railing. My answer was dead on - Cassanova dead on.

She summoned her strength and led the group onward. She started small talk with me and opined that Colorado was beautiful and that she knew this from first hand experience from spending past summers and winters in Aspen. She then strategically played a line that utilized what Cosmopolitan cites as an essential element to successful flirting:

"I guess you're always in the Mile High Club out there, huh?"

Oh sweet momma baby, sweet baby momma. I'm just a small town country boy...I'm not used to these souped-up, super-fast New Yorkers. I played it cool and volleyed:

"Uh, yeah. [chuckle pause nervous chuckle], because it is five thousand, two hundred - you know the rest, you know, the 80 feet."

She led the group into another room. I'm thinking of ways to possibly ask for her email address or phone number. Something like a "Hey, I am really interested in what the U.N. is doing for the betterment of the world, and was hoping to talk about your views on its execution of its mission statement." or something amazing like that. Oh yeah. All those years of reading Men's Health in Barnes and Noble were going to pay off.

She waited, like the great tour guide she was, like the beautiful and talented tour guide she was, until all of the group was seated in this new room. She then asked, "What do you think of when you hear the 'U.N.'?"

I was batting a thousand, and in the words of Mike Ness was feeling "as strong as a thousand armies" so I decided to up the ante in this intellectual dance of playfulness.

"Nicole Kidman."

This is not true (I actually vacillate between two thoughts when I hear 'U.N.': nations coming together to better the world, with concern for something grander than themselves; and, my dad's thought of it being a giant joke that would be funny if it wasn't so pathetically riddled with ineptitude). Regardless, I figured this was humorous, and could be found as au currant, since the movie The Interpreter was fairly recent (even though I did not see it).

My dad let out his horse-laugh and the timid father of the Indian family in the tour group flinched a foot out of his chair in response to the sudden uproar.

She did not even verbally acknowledge it.

Humorous...no.
Au currant... no.

If only looks could kill.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Ice Princess from Havanna!

She let the answer and the paternal equine jovality go down her back as water down a duck's. She called on a polite little girl raising her hand (grade school manners are useful), and the girl gave the obvious answer of "nations coming together to better the world, with concern for something grander than themselves."

From the mouth of babes!

Mi Cubana Mujer distanced herself from me in body language and mouth language. She was cordial, professional. I, like all the other men that looked promising in the Big Apple, were ultimately slimey little worms with bad jokes when it comes to world affairs.

No phone numbers were exchanged.
No email addresses were exchanged.

She would not let me keep my commemorative tourist i.d. sticker. She took no one else's sticker. Just mine. She then said that she was sorry that things couldn't work out, and said she would never love like that again. Ever.

Aspen. Our children would have been bilingual. Really smart. Just like their mom. Little Guillermo would have been a math whiz, and little Mariposa would have written a Pulitzer winning book entitled "Through a Child's Eyes" commenting on how lucky she was that when she picked up a toy she could be certain it was not a land mine.

But no. Humor is lost on those vying for peace. Just ask Sean Penn, or better yet, Seth Meyers.


Such was my first experience in the Big Apple.

Such was my first experience of International Love.

The Concert Game

With such an overwhelming reception of the Blog Game, I put my head together with Merv Griffin's and created the Concert Game.

It is simple and entertaining, just as America demands!

Ask a friend what were the two first major concerts they attended.

Then, judge them!

For example:

Cybil: Lyle Lovett and Cake.
You: Cybil wants to be Julia Roberts and eat her too.

Bradley: Rufus Wainwright and Social Distortion.
You: Bradley is an old homosexual punk rocker who hates his dad!

Leave your first two concerts in the comments section and we can play right here online!

Fun, fun! Take it away, Wink!

A commentary: Logic Prevails and Subdues

Do yourself a favor... and go pink yourself.

Ignorance is Blisstering

I went out into Charm City tonight, and I wanted to report that although Hurricane Katrina has inundated the Big Easy and plunged it into the strangle-hold of human depravity with raping and pillaging galore, she has failed to deter the spirits of Baltimoreans.

That's right, America. That hussy Katrina could not keep a good city down. Women still put on their $45 - $47 Ipexes, slick tank tops, and denim skirts to dance for the Quarters of France. Men still rolled up a gym sock or two and put them in their Euro-roos before they headed to the clubs as if to say to Katrina "Life will go on several miles away from your warpath."

All right, all right. So I'm not any better because I am not selling all my possessions to give a donation to the Hurricane Katrina Relief Fund (why do we immortalize this Scorned Lady by putting her name in the moniker of the restoring effort? - We don't usually name Funds after the tragedy...I have never seen on the news "Please donate to The Smith's House Burnt Down Fund" or "Dave Pluntero Died and His Family is Bummed Fund"). I just feel that some people are not getting the scope of the damage and chaos that is occurring to our brethren in the South. We are a generation that would rather zone out, dress to impress, and dance our faces off in attempts to get some action or at least attention while getting plastered at the clubs only to spend the money left over from cover charges, parking, drinking, bras, tank tops, denim skirts, gym socks, and hair gel on a "Chicken McChicken" ordered too loudly while fumbling for change and trying to answer our cell phones to yell "WHAT'S UP ?! I GOTTA BE QUIET! I'M DRUNK IN A MCDONALD'S TALKING TO YOU!"

Hey, it is a free country. Do what you want.

Although, equally frustrating are some of the denizens of Atlantis - er, Nahlins. There are reports of people taking pot shots at Cop Copters because they won't come and pick up their family. I imagine it goes something like this:

Man: Come get me and my family! We're stranded on a roof!

CopCopter: Please remain calm. We are approaching you.

[shotgun blast]

Man: C'mon, what are you waiting for?

CopCopter: Whoa. Did you just shoot at me?

Man: No, it was an accident...safety don't work cause of the water. Come rescue us!

CopCopter: Are you going to shoot at me?

Man: Why would I shoot at you? You're going to help me.

CopCopter: That's my point.

Man: We are on the same page.

CopCopter: Okay, I'm approaching you. Please remain -

[shotgun blast]

CopCopter: What the *&^%, sir! We had an agreement!

Man: You must understand my plight...I'm a man with his back against the wall; a dog that has been kicked over and over again, and I am bound to bite.

CopCopter: Do you want help or not...we're running low on fuel hovering about like this, and you don't even want to know how much that is costing us - we fill up in Atlanta, sir.

Man: Please help my babies!

CopCopter: Put down the gun, first.

Man: Okay.

CopCopter: Step away from it.

Man: What? Why? Silly CopCopter, I can't shoot it with my feet.

CopCopter: Good point. Remain calm, we are approaching -

[shotgun blast]

CopCopter: Son of a ^%$#@!

Man: That'll teach you! Now come pick me up!

* * *

We as a nation should unite because of this. This should be on par with September 11th, 2001...but maybe it won't be because we do not have some party to blame but Nature. You cannot start a war with Nature, although Toby Keith is rumored to have tried once. He drove his Ford right into a tornado and released all of these little robots to collect data...this was during his years of dating Helen Hunt from the best movie on earth...oh wait. Yeah. That was the guy who looks like the President of the U.S. of A. from Independence Day which starred Will Smith who is Hitch who teaches men how to dance in order to meet girls even in the midst of a monster crisis.

Now that's CLOSURE.

I (conquered) NY

My parents wanted to see NYC and deemed me their leader.

And, I'm a little sheepish about admitting doing so, but I actually printed off and used this map to find our destination from the Port Authority.

I know the good folks at Google are laughing at my expense.

The Elusive Free Drink

Comments: Hi, I love love love Chipotle. Back in Colorado, it served as a great study spot as well as a social rendezvous point.I am addicted to cheap caffeine. In Colorado, I always made use of the Student Drink. You can imagine my horror and dismay when I moved across country for an internship with Johns Hopkins this summer and picked my apartment online largely based on its proximity to the comfort of Colorado (ie Chipotle) to have the friendly register attendant give me the rejoinder of "We don't do student drinks" when I held out my ID. Also - my friend came to visit me, and she is serving our country in the Armed Forces, and they told her they do not do Military drinks as well. What's up? Where's the love in Maryland? Is the grace of free drinks for the aspiring and the serving a store by store policy and not corporate? Keep rockin. I won a shirt at the Hampden and Wadsworth spin the wheel pre-open party, and gave the shirt to my pregnant sister. My hope is that my niece will develop an affinity for Chipotle while in the womb, under the shirt.

-fantasticterrific


fantasticterrific,
Thank you for writing us! And unfortunately, sorry, whatever local discounts some of our restaurants do in whichever parts of the country are not always the same in other parts of the country, and most of our restaurants don't do any discounts at all. It's alas up to the individual restaurant to determine whether they need to discount drinks or anything like that. No offense to anyone, by any means, since we all love students, and we all appreciate the efforts of our armed forces to protect our country.

Sincerely,
Joe StuppManager,
Duct Tape and PlungersChipotle

Identity Theft Prevention and Personal Security Maintenance

In Charm City, I do not have a paper shredder. Therefore, when the liars and cheats of Bank of America send me three envelopes each containing five sheets of paper (two of them saying I am approved for a Credit Card because of my recent Checking Account opening, and one of them saying I am denied the right to any credit card with BOA due to a 'sketchy' application - someone has their act together), I must protect my identity with three times the precaution.

Usually three times the precaution with a paper shredder involves shredding your sensitive documents once, then collecting the shreds and re-shredding them, and then like an obsessive- compulsive Nervous Nancy re-re-shredding those documents that contain social security numbers, bank account numbers, personal identification numbers, and bra-size numbers (and letter(s), I suppose).

Without a shredder, three times the precaution involves the following process:

Crumple all of your sensitive documents. Tear them up if you wish, but crumple them at least.

Fill them into a large Ziploc sac.

In a smaller, separate Ziploc sac, put in a cup of laundry detergent and a Casio Illuminator watch that doesn't work any more.

Put the smaller Ziploc with detergent and out-of-commission Casio in the larger Ziploc gingerly, without closing the smaller ziploc and without spilling the contents into the larger bag.

Squeeze some dish soap into the larger bag, distributing soap all over the crumpled papers BUT NOT IN THE SMALLER BAG.

Now, fill up the larger bag (BUT NOT THE SMALLER BAG) with hot water, so that the crumpled numbers that are so darn important are submerged, but the detergent in the smaller bag is dry.

Close up the big bag - and close it up good...or else the terrorists will win.

Now shake, massage, and embrace the bag with all your might, making sure that water is mixed into the detergent/watch Ziploc and that things are really sudsy.

Then eat it. Just kidding.

Now, stick that impenetrable mass of information into the freezer.

Let it sit for 24 hours.

Then, send it down the trash chute in your apartment complex.*


Now, if any would-be Identity Thief happens upon it, remember you are triple protected:

1) It is frozen.
2) If it melts, the ink will be all smudged from the hot soapy water and kinetic energy.
3) If he is able to read anything, he'll be too busy wondering what the watch is doing in the mess to act on ordering your size bras off VictoriasSecret.com with your credit card number.


Triple protection - no paper shredder.


*if you do not live in an apartment complex, you are probably rich enough to afford a device that exists only to shred your paper

The Evils of America's Bank

My life now has meaning.

I hope Tameika is cruising Blogs while working her job
at Bank of America.

In Charm City, there are no WellsFargo Banks. This
necessitated a new banking institution for yours
truly.

There are all sorts of options for banking in this fine
city. The three I contemplated were CitiBank, M&T,
and Bank of America.

Now, Citibank has that great ad campaign were they put
orange quotes around all sorts of cool rewards as if
saying "Thank you" to the customer for their business.
Similarily, M&T has all these great signs up around
Charm City that show in the upper left a face of a
common (yet beautiful) person with a slight look of
uncertainty/anger/dismay/constipation/consternation,
and in the lower right corner a bigger version of the
same person's face SMILING. Between the two images is
the catchphrase (and thus living, breathing mantra of
every M&T employee): "Being appreciated makes all the
difference." Bank of America has ATMs everywhere (I
trip on them while walking to the Inner Harbor) and
their namesake plastered on the top of a huge
skyscraper.

I want to be told thank you.
I want to be appreciated.
I want to destroy Bank of America.

It all starts with the fact that at my place of
employment, they only allow direct deposit to Bank of
America. Fair enough, I thought. Bank of America
sounds like a good bank.

So I start the on-line application process, and as I
am about to click the link to apply for a checking
account, a pop-up window flies into my vision and
says (if it had a voice, it would be the cutest voice
ever) "Would you like to talk with an on-line
representative as you apply?"

This is a great idea. All those little dumb questions
that pop up when filling out the easiest of
applications annoy me. Yes, yes, little Pop-up
Window, I accept your offer. Thank you little Pop-up
Window.

Little Pop-up Window goes away and a bigger, badder,
scarier window pops up. It looks like a renegade IM
window. The prompt has

>Tameika: How may I help you! Let's start your application now!

I explain the situation of I am about to click the
link, but I have some questions first. I had decided
that I was going to grill Tameika on everything, just
to cover all the bases and not be one of those
disenfranchised consumers that feels like they have
been suckered but in fact just did not take time to
read the fine print.

I ask her if I can transfer funds to and from my Bank
of America (BOA) account and another institution's
account. A fairly simple question, and Tameika
handles it with

>Tameika: I'm not sure, please call our customer
service department.

Strike one, Tameika.

So I call customer service and get connected to a
gentleman whose voice can only be described as "Bren."
I ask him my question with careful,
I'm-just-out-of-college-and-I-am-determined-to-be-a-savvy-adult-customer diction. Are there any fees for transferring funds to
OR FROM my BOA account and another institution's
account?

Bren responds with verbal gentility: "Absolutely no
fees."

None?

"Absolutely none, sir."

So, back to Tameika, who is now glad to know that
factoid. I ask her if there is a fee to close the
account.

>Tameika: As long as it is open for 6 months or
longer, there is no fee. Otherwise it is 25 dollars.
Let's start your application now!

I will be in Charm City for at least 6 months, so I
figured this is okay. I asked her how soon I will get
a checkcard and checks.

>Tameika: In a week. Let's start your application
now!

I ask her if those are free.

>Tameika: Yes, the check card is free. Let's start
your application now!

What about the checks?

>Tameika: No, they're 8 dollars. Let's start your
application now!

Ugh. I don't want checks. Can I not have checks
sent...I'm on a tight budget you see...

>Tameika: Sure. Just write that in the comment
section. Let's start your application now!

Do people actually read the comments section or just
robots?

>Tameika: Humans. Let's start your application now!

Another question I had was on the fees. I asked her
to confirm that as long as I had direct deposit that I
would incur no monthly fees.

>Tameika: Right! Let's start your application now!

I then told her that my problem was that direct
deposit took 6 weeks to set up at my place of
employment.

>Tameika: That's fine! We give a 60 day grace period
to let customers get direct deposit set up! Let's
start your application now!

I then asked her if why I could not save the text in
the IM window so I could keep what she had told me for
my records.

>Tameika: I guess that feature is not yet
implemented. Let's start your application now!

So, I recapped to my consumer-savvy self:

-No monthly fees due to my direct deposit and the 60
day grace period to get said direct deposit
configured.

-No fees to transfer money in or out (thus I would not
need checks, and save 8 dollars because of not needing
checks).

Then it hits me - I need one check. Just one. Not
for rent, not for utilities, not for Elvis
Stamps...but to set up DIRECT DEPOSIT. Darn it. I'll
just eat the 8 dollars. Or send my checks back to mom
and dad and thereby Wellsfargo...No. I must grow up. Grown-
ups eat costs. I'll eat the frickin' 8 dollars.

So I apply. All was peachy. Peachy keen. Palisade
peachy keen...for one week. Then I start reading the
fine print. My outrage is displayed in a Ignatius
Reilly meets Ted L. Nancy type of email
correspondence with BOA (they let me save the emails,
unlike the text from the IM).

Email 1:

Message text: I feel I was lied to ... I was told that
transfers TO AND
FROM another institutions checking account was free. I
called customer
service to double check this before I opened the
account, because it was
crucial. Is this how you treat new customers? I'd
close my account,
but then you'd charge me 25 dollars because it hasn't
been open for 6
months. You guys really get us coming and going, don't
you?
Disgruntled in Maryland, fantasticterrific

Dear fantasticterrific,

Thank you for your inquiry dated 7/20/05 regarding
Other Online Banking
Features. We are committed to providing you with the
best banking
experience possible.

Allow us to apologize for any inconvenience that you
may have
experienced in this matter. Our commitment is to
provide the highest
level of service possible. These standards demand that
we treat our
customers and their requests with understanding and
respect. It is
disappointing to hear of an incident where we have not
met this
commitment. We are currently reviewing your message
and, if necessary,
someone will get back with you for further
clarification.

If we may be of further assistance, please contact us
again by e-mail.
Thank you for choosing Bank of America.

Sincerely,

Rosy Hay
Bank of America

Email 2:

I was told that there is no maintenance fee for 60
days to allow the set
up of a direct deposit so that the checking is 'free'.
If this turns
out to be untrue, I will close out my account
immediately, 25 dollars or
not! Is it true there is a 60 day grace on the
maintenance fee until
direct deposit is set up? -fantasticterrific

Dear fantasticterrific,

Thank you for your inquiry dated 7/21/05 regarding the
maintenance fee.

Please note the MyAccess Checking account features no
monthly
maintenance fee if you have a direct deposit to your
account each
statement period, for example: a payroll or Social
Security check.
Please note that for each statement period that a
direct deposit is not
received in the account, the monthly maintenance fee
is $5.95.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have
caused. If we may be
of further assistance, please contact us again by
e-mail.

Sincerely,

Noella Johns
Bank of America

Email 3:

I was lied to again! I was told the initial check fee
was 8 dollars,
and now I see my account has been charged 10 dollars!
I'm living on a
very tight budget! Why aren't you guys honest with
potential
customers!? I'm keeping the account open only long
enough to avoid the
25 dollar close fee, and then I'M CLOSING it. -fantasticterrific

Dear fantasticterrific,

Thank you for your inquiry dated 7/21/05 regarding the
Fee.

Our records indicate that the check order fee of
$10.00 was posted to
your account on 7/21/05.

Please note that the answer to your question may be
found in the
Disclosure Agreement that you received when you opened
your account with
Bank of America. According to this agreement, account
ownership;
statement periods; combined statements; funds
availability; NSF,
overdrafts, and overdraft protection; ATM and Check
Cards; paying
checks; returns and deposits; check safekeeping and
check copies; or
other sections appropriate to the customer's inquiry.

Because you are an important customer to us, we would
greatly appreciate
the opportunity in keeping your account relationship
with Bank of
America. If you need assistance with your account in
any way, please
send us another message, as we are more than happy to
serve you.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have
caused. If we may be
of further assistance, please contact us again by
e-mail.

Sincerely,

Noella Johns
Bank of America

Email 4:

This is egregious! I talked with ¨Tameika¨ on Bank of
America's live
chat as I opened the account. She said for 60 days
there was no
maintenance fee so that I could have time to set up
the direct deposit
without incurring fees. Is that true or not? Answer
that question,
please. If the answer is ¨not true¨, then I was
flat-out lied to AGAIN
by an employee. Very disgruntled, fantasticterrific

Dear fantasticterrific,

Thank you for your inquiry dated 7/22/05 regarding the
Online Banking
Features. We understand your concern and sincerely
apologize for any
inconvenience you may have experienced.

Please accept our apologies for providing the wrong
information to the
account. The MyAccess Checking account features no
monthly maintenance
fee if you have a direct deposit to your account each
statement period,
for example: a payroll or Social Security check.
Please note that for
each statement period that a direct deposit is not
received in the
account, the monthly maintenance fee is $5.95.

MyAccess Checking offers
-- Easy and unlimited access to your funds through
Bank of America ATMs
-- Online Banking with Bill Pay
-- Automated telephone banking
-- The Bank of America Check Card with Photo Security
-- No minimum balance requirement
-- Unlimited check writing
-- Unlimited teller transactions.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have
caused. If we may be
of further assistance, please contact us again by
e-mail.

Sincerely,

Christina Victor
Bank of America

There are two ways my life has new meaning (as I
mentioned long ago in this post):

1) To email BOA everyday and tell them that I am
their customer because I don't want to pay 25 dollars
to become 'not-a-customer', not because I am happy, as
well as that I wish I had M&T Bank telling me I was
appreciated or CitiBank telling me thank you.

2) If I ever offend someone and they want an apology
to coldly reply, "Sorry for the inconvenience."

I'll keep you updated on the BOA situation. If anyone
needs to vent on BOA, please post a comment.

__________________________________________________

The Blog Game

I invented this game while brushing my teeth last night.

It is very simple. You can play it right now if you wish.

Think of five words. Quick, c'mon! Write them down as soon as they come to you. Don't look around the room. And they can be cusswords, just be sure your mom or the Calvinists do not see your list. (I'll give tips on preventing Identity Theft and maintaining Personal Security in another post soon).

Have your list? Okay, good. Now, in your web browser's site address bar, enter

[word].blogspot.com

and see what pops up.

My list was as follows:

HorseTeeth

Bolo

Undercarriage

Kumquat

FieryLake

And all save one are duds in that no blog exists at the address site (even though I know for a fact that "Bolo" is a reserved domain..."Bolo," why are you sitting on this sweet domain name? Why!?!).

The only fruit of my labor:

Kumquat

Man, this game sucks.

Would you like your frustrations in paper or plastic?

Lately, grocery shopping has been a chore. The heart
of Charm City is very charming but not very
fecund. Wal-Greens and Rite-Aids are not (!) grocery
stores, because man cannot subsist on cheap make-up
and Captain Morgan alone.

My apartment complex is accomodating to this...not
quite. My apartment complex attempts to be
accomodating to this. A shuttle will come on Saturday
to cart all who wish to get real food out to a
Safeway. Today, I did this. Today, I regret having
done this.

First off, I get dropped off at the Safeway and ask
the shuttle driver when she will be returning.

"Hour an haff."

Excuse me? What am I suppose to do at a Safeway for
the hour and twenty minutes I am not shopping? Read
about TomKat in People? No, I'll tell you what I did
- figure out how to keep the food in my buggy cool. I
had acquired all my produce and items of purchase in
ten minutes, and then was staring in disgust at all I
had amassed that required refrigerant methods of
maintenance. So, I decided the best thing was to hang
out in the cooler areas of the store: produce, dairy,
eggs, deli, etc.

In my maundering, I passed a blood pressure machine,
and figured I should sit down and find out what numbers I
should buy for PowerBall. 132 over 62 with a 56 bpm
pulse.

I used to post 120/80 nine times out of ten. Can
someone tell me if I'm going to die soon?

Anyway, I pass an hour twenty of my life and keep my
purchases cool. Then the shuttle comes back. I am
the last to board, and I notice that a lot more people
are getting on than originally were dropped off.
Also, my cat-like acumen detected that these people
had groceries (the clues were the 80 blue sacks
hanging off of them AND the fact that I was at Safeway
on Saturday...I'm not gifted, just observant).

I step onto the shuttle with my six bags and have all
my presuppositions confirmed in quikrete: there are
no available seats.

I stand there and admonish my compatriots with my
eyes. I glared at the guy who wore aviators for
picking up groceries (and apparently no chicks) and
his seat of toilet paper and paper towels and cereal
boxes. I turn my eyes of rebuke to the lady who walks
as fast as two turtles heading in opposite directions
with their tails tied together and her 80 gallons of
gatorade (why does she need this gatorade..."does she
have it in her?" No! She doesn't break a sweat because
she doesn't break 1 mile per hour, so why is she
getting vast amounts of electrolytes?).

And then the straw that made the camel shout out
cusswords.

A small, petite Korean lady. Very kind. I have no
doubt she is the kindest lady on earth and says "I'm
sorry" and "Thank you" and "Please" to everyone. How
many seats should a small, petite Korean lady take?

One.
Two.
Thrrrrrrree. (KRUNCH).

NO! Five.

Five seats. One for her. One for her groceries. AND
THREE for her empty cardboard boxes.

Even with no seats for me to sit on, the shuttle
driver had sense and sensibility, and a small bladder
and a lead foot. She closed the door and started
going, and I quickly motioned for one of the
passengers to move her two sacks to the ground and let
me sit down.

My fingers became numb. Why? Ask the Korean lady if
she knows. No, she wouldn't, because she had a seat
for her groceries. If you do not have a seat for your
groceries, you cannot set them on the floor, because
the shuttle driver who is training for the Baja Race
next Thursday will easily displace all your various
cans from the bag. My fingers ached. My fingers
almost fell off.

Finally, I am dropped off, only to discover in the
safety of my own kitchen, that two eggs took a hit due
to the compressed grocery commute space. Which brings
up the point of why does this still happen? We can
build titanium bikes that weigh as much as a credit
card but we cannot design a box that is structurally
sound enough to keep Humpty Dumpty intact? What
happened to all those 8th graders who got A's in the
Egg Drop competition? Why are they not getting their
MS in Packaging Sciences? Is the Egg Industry buying
them out while they are undergrads in MechE? Is it a
conspiracy to get me to switch to liquid eggs sold in
cartons?

And the whole fiasco (which took two hours all
together...two hours.) made me think about
Consumerism. Now, I'm the last bloke to ever attack
this country and the prowess of its economy, but
c'mon. Did everyone need 10 bags of groceries for the
week? Why are my grocery bills 50 dollars every week?
My family got groceries for 100 dollars a week
(although, a sidenote: I definitely ate 80% of the
food that my family of four brought home during my
high school years, and somehow when I left for college
the bill did not go down at all, but increased. Did
my parents start getting lobster for dinner and caviar
toothpaste after I left the nest?)

I think dietary changes are in order. I think I will
start getting my fruits from Rite-Aid: Black
Cherries, Green Apples, Lemon-Limes, and Oranges.

Thanks, Zima!

__________________________________

The Fruit Conquest

The city is great.

But, as Bible Scholars have noted, Adam and Eve did
not live in the city because there was no fruit in the
city. So, what did Adam and Eve do?

They took a shuttle to the Garden of Eden.

Thousands of years later, not much has
changed...except the Garden of Eden has now been
replaced by a ghetto Giant Food Stores.

I wanted to get lots of fruit on my arduous out of the
city once-a-week shopping trip, and thought how cool
it would be to report that I ate these mass quantities
of fruit during the week, partially due to the fact
that fruits are healthy (unless they contain
Knowledge, Eve - who are you laughing at, Adam?) and
partially due to the fact that fruits go bad if you do
not eat them quickly.

In one week, I have eaten:

2 containers of Blackberries
1 pint of Blueberries
3 Apples
2 lbs of Clementines
4 lbs of Grapes

Now I know a lot of you are wanting a question
answered that you feel you cannot ask, so let me
address it: Grapes in and of themselves are not a
laxative, but grapes in and of excess of four pounds
are.

Oh, Blog, I wonder what shopping adventures await me
this week!

PETA would not approve.

If you are looking for a barrel of monkeys, then please click the barrel of monkeys.

Shame on you if you actually clicked it. Barreling monkeys for the sole purpose of entertainment is so cruel!

My Look-A-Likes

It is already hard not being pretty, but then to add salted insult to injury, perfect strangers come up to me and tell me who I look like. The first day I was in Charm City, a female employee at Ikea was telling me how hard nursing school is when you have to wait on transfer credit and not live at home anymore. I barely blinked and nodded when she asked, "Who do people say you look like?"

The conversation progressed like this:

"

,

,

and

."

"Ooooh...Paul Newman? I guess the eyes [is the trait you two might share]."

"So who do you think I look like?"

"

."

I flinched. In my mind I thought why couldn't I look like Simon? Everyone likes Simon. He even has a game named after him where you have to do what he says. None of the little boys and girls want to play "Garfunkel Says" because even little boys and girls know you cannot respect someone who does not respect themselves. Unkempt. Egregious.

She then said, "It doesn't matter, you're cute anyhow."

Hello Mrs Robinson.

I then asked her if she worked on commission. She said that she did not, so then we platonically cuddled on a sofa that folds into a bed that folds into chair that folds into a handkerchief that folds into a single Lingonberry and Allen wrench.

A few days later I was exiting a building and I heard the security guard say to a patron in the lobby, "Do you know who that boy who just left looks like ?" And then the door shut and I thought I would never find out. Well, it turns out that TB tests that fester purple need to be checked twice, so I returned to the building and sure enough she was working again. I asked her if she remembered me from the other day. She said that she did. I asked her if she remembered what she had said about me. She said I looked like someone from "the t.v.", but she could not place who.

I volunteered, begrudgingly:

"

."

She said that that was not it. Thank goodness. I'm likened to this Hyde guy way too often. So often that I did not even mention it to "No Commission- yet on a Mission" Nursing Student at Ikea. I pressed the security guard, and she said with a snap of her fingers, "Everwood - you look like the football star. Ooh, I loved that show."

I have never seen Everwood. I went home and researched it, and found out it was set in Colorado, which besides being square, also plays host to South Park and the #1 Party School in the world. Nevermind the Nobel Prize winning physicist who contracted and lost his arm to the flesh-eating disease, the world (or at least France) just cares about taking a swig of alcohol whenever the kid in the orange coat is killed during a Comedy Central SP marathon. Anyway, this kind lady must have been sampling the Sharpies after the Locking of the Revolving Door Hour, for I do not look as Abercromb Pomp as this:

"

."


So, with all of this, I decided to exhaust the list of all my look-a-likes, once and for all. Enjoy.

Wrap me up in Cellophane and tell me to be a Good Girl.

This is a 2-for-1: I am a horrible joke teller.

PBS what were you thinking!

(By default)

Non-Animated Version click here.