New Year's Eve: My ball just dropped.

I went on a journey.

I was a sojourner.

After a brief stint in a square state for such frivolities as “family” and “holidays,” I returned to Charm City. I took note of how much more it was a concrete jungle than I had first realized. One thing I had aimed to do back in June ’05 when my residence in Charm City began, was to be neighborly. I would say “hello” upon entering an elevator, and “have a good day – nigh, a great one” upon my egress. I had plans to become best friends with John the oral surgeon resident with a subscription to Netflix, and help Mr. Gray through the travails of middle-aged dating and Ravens losses. I also intended to eat a weekly dinner with Ben, the neighbor whose apartment was closest to mine. We had chatted warmly when he first moved into his place in July. He had never had Chipotle, so the idea was for us to go and have Chipotle together.

Our schedules continually did not align, but alas, the stars above our head did.

On my very last night ever in Charm City, we connected. It took us 5.5 months to make this a reality. We went out and finally got the chance to get to know each other more so than “Good morning,” or “How are classes,” and my favorite, “Turn your video game music down, or I’ll replace your contact lens solution with vinegar.”

Chipotle was great. He enjoyed it immensely. He talked of being an American were-medical student in Israel. He talked of regional ethnic-fueled knife fights and how you have to have a smile on your face when your are stapling skin taught over people’s skulls.

He is here in the midst of his medical schooling to get a masters in public health.

He talked also of an interesting culture in XBOX Live land. He said the game Halo 2 threaten to end his social and professional life. He also told of this delightful participant named “slippyslappy.”

XBOX Live is where you can play games with players all over the world. You can also get headsets and (trash) talk to them. Sometimes you are not just killing people you do not know, but are on the same team with them. Such was the case with slippyslappy.

I will present a transcript of how Ben relayed the amazing tale of slippyslappy. Keep in mind, the setting is a Chipotle, with Ben and fantasticterrific sitting at a table, and plenty of families with little girls with pig tails and guacamole on the corners of their little mouths (the veritable mouths of babes).

Ben: So slippyslappy will join the game, and start committing suicide. At first, you think he is inexperienced at handling grenades, so you forgive him if he’s on your team and laugh at him if he’s on the other team. But then, upon regeneration, he will do it immediately again. So then his teammates start yelling, “Hey, FAGGOT, STOP THAT.”

[Parents from adjacent table, in the midst of wiping guacamole off their daughter’s mouth, turn and look at fantasticterrific, the supposed perpetrator of homosexual advances]

Ben [continuing]: And slippyslappy says nothing. He just keeps doing this. And his team keeps yelling at him, “You faggot, you F%C#ING FAGGOT FAGGOT FAGGOT-KISSING FAGGOT” and keeps killing himself.

[A ruggedly handsome cowboy, fresh off a sheep herding season on Backdoor Mountain (down by D.C.) takes notice of me, and winks.]

Ben [continuing]: The other team is now making fun of slippyslappy’s team, because the deficit is now sizeable. And it is clear that if it weren’t for slippyslappy’s suicides, the lead would not be so definitive…in fact, the team with slippyslappy would be winning.
Slippyslappy says nothing. And keeps killing himself. Until four minutes remaining.

fantasticterrific: Then what?

Ben: Then he goes on a killing spree the likes that is rarely seen, even in the XBOX Live arena. He, in four minutes, will not only make up the -20 deficit, but will accumulate more kills than any one else playing the game, and of course lead his team to victory. You can [starts to laugh and escalate his voice] imagine the BIG SWINGING D*CK ON SLIPPYSLAPPY!”

[A 50 year old woman in a booth stops scratching the head of her seeing-eye dog. It is as if someone has sprayed her with a directed shot of seltzer water. Her hand falls down to her lap. The place is silent. Even the music that seemed to be everywhere in this modest east-coast Chipotle has ran away with its tail betwixt its legs. No one has to read it. Everyone knows what is stitched in yellow thread onto a purple dog collar: Slippy-Slappy.]

Luckily, after that, Ben and I leave before the manager asks us to high-tail it. On returning to the apartment building on foot, we swap New Year’s Eve plans. Mine is trite and expected. His revealed his great character, the character that will one day swear the Hippocratic oath.

“My buddies and I are going to rent four hot-tubs in this loft in Boston and have lesbian strippers fill the place from 11PM to 2AM. I’m in charge of the champagne.”

My rejoinder:

“Oh. Well,”

“Hot. I know you were going to ask it. Hot-hot. These are hot lesbians, not nasty Boulder-lesbians.”

“Ahha, I’m not sure what you mean by that. Have a safe time. It was nice finally getting to know you, my neighbor, my noble med-student warrior friend.”

I may wait with entering the “getting to know my neighbors” phase until I am old, fat, and with children living in some God-infested suburbia (Aurora, anyone?) so at least we can lie to each other about pleasantries and our progeny’s performance in swim class and the PSATs.

Now, the date of the neighbor date was December 29th. I had moved most my stuff back to the square state when I went home for the “holidays” with the “family.” I put some toothpaste in the holes in the wall, take a wet paper towel to the blinds (which I never closed, but somehow became broken…conspiracy theorist suggest that landlords have the technology to make blinds that degrade reverse exponentially in accordance to your lease-end date), throw away a lot of stuff, and then sleep on the floor. I awoke in the middle of the night shivering, and put on my parka and gloves, and then slept soundly.

I leave my apartment, flipping the bird to my 3 foot X 3 foot kitchen. The only thing I leave behind is a stain on the carpet from an ill timed opening of a liter of cola some months prior (might have been October…I think the leaves were starting to turn).

I have everything I will need for the next 10 days on my back, in my back pack. I conquered Europe in a similar fashion. The key to traveling is traveling unencumbered.

I walk down to a ritzy hotel hoping to score a taxi cab to the bus depot so that I can get on a bus and go to New York City. Before I can touch a cab door, a well dressed man accosts me and asks where I want to go, and that wherever it is I should be delivered by him and his Chrysler 300c.

“How much to go to the bus station.”

“10 dollars.”

Knowing that cabs cost 5 dollars to get the bus station, I offer:

“Cabs cost 4 dollars. I’ll take a”

“5 dollars. I’ll take you for five.”

Deal, suckah. Put me in that mother-loving briar patch!


At the depot, I discover how annoying Greyhound online ticket purchasing is. It is does not save you a seat. The seating is first come, first serve. I get in the ticket line, and get my boarding pass, and the beauty school drop out informs me my gate for the 10:30 NYC bus is gate 7. With my western drawl, I inquire which is gate 7, only to receive the best customer service of my life:


“The one with all the people lined up at it.”

I think she even put a hand on her hip when she said it. I told her that her nails looked nice and not overdone in terms of design or size and got in line.

I was behind a group of four girls who were entering their 30’s. They had no engagement rings and probably had read “He’s not that into you” cover to cover 5 times in a row while sobbing on the can. They kept recalling all the drunken “Really? I don’t remember that. You saved me from being stuffed into his car? What kind of car? No, it doesn’t matter – unless it was a really nice car. I love convertibles – don’t you love convertibles?” stories.

The line started to move as the 10:30 bus was boarding. I thought to myself that this group of girls actually might be my salvation as far as getting on this bus, because it looked as though the line would be consumed up to their position. I projected that the bus driver would ask if they were together, and they would say “Yes! Always!” and the overworked and underpaid bus driver would ask them to step aside, as there would be only three seats left, and I would sneak in, victorious, solely due to my unencumbered traveling philosophy (and you thought I was only talking of baggage).

Then, the leader of the pack, took a deep breath, pushed her L.A.-augmented breasts (what else would a girl want for her 28th birthday? – besides a MAN) and uttered: “If there’s like two seats left, two of us will go and two others will wait. I think Kelly and I should go if that happens (because we are more attractive than you two).”

“Oh, ah, yeah. Sounds great! Girl power! Let’s get wasted in New York!”

She must have been telepathic! She totally quashed the scenario in my head. It ended up being a moot point because the line did not get whittled down anywhere near their position. I was staying in the City of Charm for another hour and a half for the Nooner to New York.

I started reading Sparks’ The Notebook. The girls took notice and whispered amongst themselves furtively.

The line winded throughout the small and stuffy depot. In fact, it contorted so much there was a right angle bend. I was near elbow of the line, and when people stood up in anticipation of the Nooner, it became apparent that the gentlemen in the leather jacket and Mohawk styled haircut had not been in the elbow of the line at 10:30.

I decided to ignore it, because I’m a pacifist.

Okay, I’m not strictly a pacifist. I turn it on and off. Like if I am out drinking with Toby Keith, I turn it off. If the man cutting in line is as big as a three St. Bernards standing on each other and is sporting a stare that could cut through iron and chances are that I will get on the bus regardless I turn my pacifism dial to “heavy load of pacifism.”

That is how I see it. This is not how the small Frenchman behind me sees it. He tugs on my arm, and asks loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to not only know that the biggest man in all of the Charm City Bus depot has cut in line, but the second biggest man in the same structure has been implicitly ordered to do something about it.

I tell the Frenchman in perfect French – strike that. I don’t know French.

I shrugged my shoulders like a wimpy Susan Sarandon fan and murmured “I dunnknow.” With the implicit “stop trying to start a fight against the heavy-weights.”

Anyway, my worries were quickly dismissed when the Frenchman took the initiative and confronted the aggressor (a first for the French, indeed!). The Mohawk’s mouth opened, and a faint “sorry” came out and he cordially readjusted his pack and relocated to the rear of the line.

I got on the Nooner.

An Aussie sat next to me. He discovered that I was from a square state with snow and mountains, and immediately started asking me about boarding and skiing. I wanted to immediately and congruently ask him about boomerang chucking and wallaby killing, but I just decided to lie my way out of this one. So I admitted to being a boarder, going to the same school as Jeremy “My jeans are name-brand, and I want to be paid to say so” Bloom, and that I had done stunt work in a 007 film. He asked how long the runs were in my state. The only time I went down a “run” was on the bunny hill and I had so many crashes it took around 4 hours to get down. My back was against the wall, and it was only minute ten of a 4 hour bus drive.

“Well, what do you mean? How long are the runs time-wise or distance-wise?”

“Oyt. Crykie. J’Tell me, mate.”

“There’s a range, sir. Some are as short as the ones you are complaining about in other parts of the country. Others are 12 hours long.”

“No way!”

“Yes. It’s usually back country and you need to ‘coptered to the summit. Very expensive. Bloom and I did it once, but he wussed out half way and got ‘coptered out because it was an Olympic year and all.”

“Hmmm. Is he that attractive in real life, mate?”

“No.”

“No?”

“All airbrushing.”



Somewhere in Jersey, my pants starting ringing. It was my apartment complex. They confirmed that I left a spot on the carpet. I told them that with 30% certainty they were not suffering from macular degeneration, because that spot was quite apparent. They also informed me that I did not leave a deposit when I moved in. I told them they never asked. They demanded that I come in and pay the $30 dollars, or my name would be on the minds of every collections agency in the tri-state area.

“I’m in Jersey.”

“What.”

“Oh, what is it with you -? Joisy. I am in Joy-zie.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have a place to live in Baltimore anymore.”

“You need to send us a Cashier’s check then.”

“How ‘bout a credit card?”

“Oh, sure. Give me the number right now.”

“I cannot, because I’m in a public place…”

[I notice the Aussie eavesdropping]

“Mr. Bloom, I’m tired of this conversation. I’ll call you after New Year’s. [Discretely hang up the phone with my thumb] Oh, really? Hot-tubs? Strippers? Lesbian-strippers? The Boulder kind? Well, Jeremy, you are a lucky sonuvagun. You enjoy yourself, and I’ll try not to be too depressed. Say, you want to back-country again sometime? Your agent? What does your agent have to do with you going back-country skiing…oh, Barnett scheduled practice every day for the next year? I understand. No. No. I still think you are a brave American. Yes, any girl, even the feminist ones would be glad to date you. Okay, Jeremy. Stop crying. I gotta go. Take care. Bye.”



On the bus I was drinking a gallon of water. This is known as “planning.” More on this later.


I finished The Notebook on the bus. This combined with the book “Pornified” keyed me into the fact that a lot of America’s relationships are houses built on sand.

We pull into the Port Authority in New York City. The smiling Aussie is off to a hostel to await New Year’s Eve with Paul Oakenfold complete with repetitive beats and strobing lights. I on the other hand, am on my way to discovering how huge the Port Authority is.

You see, when I went with my parent’s to New York City, we arrived at 5AM into the Port. We docked at low-numbered gate, and easily found our way to the street. I was left with the impression that it was a modestly sized building. Turns out, it cannot be measured in the number of St. Bernards it would hold, because the place would make the St. Bernards so agitated that they would keep eating each other, and thus an endless supply of St. Bernards would be needed. I will just leave you with the fact that it is huge, and my actress friend thought that meeting in the “food court” was a good idea, since there is not more than one food court, and no food court itself contains mini-food courts.

After some confusion and cell phone tag, I was received.

I get in the line to get a Metro Card. I was talking to my actress friend, who is tall and beautiful. The point is, I am not looking down, but rather out while in line. I feel a tug on my sleeve, and a Romanian lady asks if “she” was in line or if she cut.

“Who?”

“[pointing] She. There.”

And I look way down, and in front of me, and sure enough was this crazy haired Chinese lady who had snuck in front of me.

“Make her move! She cut! You are the biggest one in subway now! Deliver society’s justice”

The Romanian lady had a point, and it was the second time of the day that this particular logic was being applied. However, the Chinese lady turned around and looked at me, with a slightly crazed smile (empty, potentially magnanimous eyes) and I decided to let it slide. Mercy and strength and restraint and responsibility and mom and God and apple pie.

I (heart) New York.

Tall-beautiful-actress lady lives in the Upper West side right next to Central park. Her place is shared with two other girls. It small, but well done as far as hardwood floors, a fireplace, and a spiral staircase down to a dungeon with a triple bunk bed. Let me correct that: a modified bunk bed where the two mattresses are sky high, and a bunk of blankets on the ground where the more tropical of the three girls tends to burrow into quilts for warmth and solidarity with her favorite animal, the animal that represents her constitution and character: the rat.

The bathroom in the dungeon is quaint. Quaint is a polite word for small. So quaint is the dungeon bathroom that there is one inch between the front of the toilet seat and the wall. It is physically impossible for me to sit on the toilet seat. Luckily, I know how to crap standing up, and for kicks, I peed in the sink.

Some of you, in the spirit of being helpful, might suggest that I could have sat “sideways” on the toilet, with legs stretched at an angle from the traditional front of the seat. This would have required the door being open – a violation of personal privacy. And as George W. knows, I like my privacy – and upright dumping.

Others of you are probably wondering why I did not use the upstairs toilet. The upstairs toilet had problems of its own, namely, no seat. However, it was femur length away from anything else, so sitting was allowed, and I did so. Seats are merely a convenience. I remember once accidentally turning the corner in my house when I was five and seeing skinny Zach Heuscher on the can, he having forgotten to close the door. He was not using the seat, and was freckled from head-to-toe. I remember thinking distinctly that I was glad to not be freckled and that I would never have to use the toilet like an imbecile might.

Well, in New York, I contracted a nasty case of the freckles and had to sit on the toilet without a seat. Neither was that bad.

Back to the chronology. It is December 30th, I have just gotten out of the Port Authority and am in Actress-lady’s apartment. She needed to pick up a coat at UPS, because unlike my apartment complex, there is no front desk to accept packages during the day for her. This would become a common theme of my days in the City of New York.

We need to get to UPS in a hurry for they close at 9PM.

We are in a waiting room of angry people, but inconsequential story point made short, she got her package, in which contained huge coat.

We ate at the Market Diner. I ordered the double burger, envisioning something close to the Wendy’s #2 combo. What came was two physical burgers and a double order of fries. I ate it, because I am big fat dumb American.

From there, we joined up with a bunch of friends from the Square State. I will refer to them as the “Colorado Group.”

The Colorado Group is a motley crew. It involves one girl whose mom loved her so much that she landed her a room at the Hotel W in Times Square. She of course became the super friend of the friend group, and because she is overly nice (or weak?) seven people crammed themselves into the hotel room. The Colorado Group contained one engaged couple, one girl that was once engaged a year ago, and another girl that had until a day before Christmas been engaged.

This was a recipe for disaster. I pictured the following scene of the year-ago fiancée saying “doesn’t the engaged couple in our group act so cute with all the pet names and kisses for dumb reasons, such as the foam on the beer being foamy?” and the rest of the group laughing and chiming in “yeah! All right! Kucinich!” and the couple kissing solely for the reason that they were being talked about, and then silence gripping the table as week-ago fiancée was noticeably quiet...and trembling.

“Don’t mind me, guys.”

“Oh, no. Baby…don’t…”

And then year-ago fiancée would hug week-ago fiancée and everyone would start crying. Well everyone except me. I would be too intently focused on the shot glass from the car bomb not crashing into my teeth.

The point is, the potential energy for disaster was high. It was high from the beginning.

I was an unofficial advisor to the Colorado Group. I say unofficial because none of my advice was taken. I advised the group should be kept small. I advised that standing in Time Square for an extended period of time would not be “fun” or “awesome” but suck. It is the kind of event you are only glad you did the year following when you are sitting on a recliner watching it on TV, and some other naïve person says “I want to go to New York sometime” and you just chuckle, shaking your head knowingly, and sip your fat, “the cost of this cup of liquid could feed a third world child for 8 days, and I don’t care” eggnog.

The Colorado Group, while still in Colorado, would hold trip planning sessions known as “New York Trip Happy Hour.” Instead of discussing what to pack or how much to budget for food and transportation, they came to the consensus that they should “live like rock stars” while in New York. I advised them, unofficially, that rock stars and their lives only look great in photographs and on film. The rest of the time, they are shivering in their size-too-small t-shirt and pre-torn jeans trying to find a place with warm beautiful bodies to sleep, all the while tormented by the lyrics for the next Billboard smash.

So there’s a little background on the Colorado Group.

We meet up with the Colorado Group at the Rockefeller Ice Rink. It is tiny and looks better on TV. (foreshadowing, m’ladies).

The Colorado Group abandons the line that promises to fulfill the yearnings of their childhood wishes to ice skate in a place where it matters. They abandon it to go bar hopping (as rock stars rightfully should).

Actress-lady, myself and the Colorado group go over to the Hotel W. You enter on the ground level (the ceiling, made of glass, facilitated the viewing of moving water above our heads), immediately enter an elevator to go the 7th floor. I exit the elevator, and enter a the atmosphere of a club. There are smartly dressed people holding smart looking drinks in a manner that was, well, smart. Music was blaring. Talk of Kerry and H. Clinton having a baby snaked through the air.

This is the lobby.

The gals get bar-hopping gear on and identification cards (this is 1984, after all, Big Brothers).

Actress-lady escorted us to the bar. She hurriedly explained how the Metro would get me back to her place, then kissed my cheek, said “Ciao-babe” and left. I should have left with her.

Essentially, New York men quickly latched on to the Colorado women. I was quickly pegged as “guy who was invited to prevent abductions” since I was not handsome enough to be in the friend group. So, the smooth-tongued New Yorkers try to buddy-buddy fantasticterrific in order to score even more points with the starry eyed wannabe rockers (He’s taking time to talk to my unsightly body guard! He is caring. Yes, I think I will accept the invite to a room with a view…).

This drunk businessman is buying drinks for any lady that wants one. A Colorado Group member cried out “Red Headed slut” and, apparently, it is a drink, not a moniker for the girl how gave me a scorchin’ case of freckles.

The engaged couple and several of the other girls wanted to head back to the W (the Hotel, not the President – distinction paid for by the committee for Hilary in 2008).

The girl who had been wooed by New York’s classiest, wanted to celebrate her birthday her way, and of course this meant going 16 miles out of the way to go to this bar the name of which was written in felt tip on the inside of her arm by Casey, the smooth-operating, ribbed-shirt wearing New York wolf.

I am the only dude left that can serve on abduction control. So I am roped into going to this other bar with a small group of girls just so one can have her heart broken. I do this.
Attitudes erupt, and suddenly we are going home in a taxi.

It is here, in the taxi, that Birthday Girl comments on week-ago fiancée’s situation. Birthday Girl’s mistake was not knowing her audience, more specifically, that her crammed in the backseat of a cab audience contained none other than year-ago fiancée.

The retort was brief, wickedly tart, and not malicious. It basically stated that Birthday Girl had not place to comment for she was never engaged. The beauty of this is it made Birthday Girl not only feel guilty for gossiping, but also reason something must be wrong with her since she was older and had not been engaged yet.

Happy Birthday, Wanda June.

The girl’s get dropped off at the Hotel W. I however, will not fit in a one bedroom space that has seven people in it…I will better fit in a two level studio built for one that has four people in it: Actress-lady’s pad.

I run through the 3:45 AM New York City only to discover that the Metro station is closed. Its sign tells me to go across the street.

I do so, relieved to find out that only that particular entrance was closed. I go up to the glass booth and ask the attendee a crucial question, the answer upon which will determine if I get to sleep that night.

“Does the Uptown A train come through here?”

“The … [static through speaker, intermingled with silence.]…A.”

I heard “A”. I deciphered “A.” I was home-free. I swipe my card, and enter the system.

All I see are signs that say Downtown. I do not initially panic, but instead run for a staircase thinking maybe there is another platform for the Uptowns.

I run back and forth across the field of vision of the broker-speaker-lady three times. I look like a mountain man chasing a bear, and then, after comedic beat where the bear and the mountain realize how ridiculous it is for the bear to be scared of a mere man, the chasing direction reverses. I say “mountain man,” because I have a beard and carry an axe and have a blue ox on a leash.

I finally stop, and lean against the turnstiles and the broken-speaker-lady just shakes her at me as if to say “Child.”

I pronounce loudly my question about the Uptown train.

She, without the aid of a speaker, speaks through the glass that I need to exit and cross the street.

I do just that.

Problem solved, except for the fact that I cannot find a green “M” anywhere across the street. I finally ask two New Yorkers who were talking about dumb tourists. They pointed at green globes (not “M’s”) that marked the station entrance.

I’m good to go on the Uptown, finally.


I am to call the Hawaiian roommate of Actress-lady, since Actress-lady has an audition for a maxi-pad commercial in the morning. I feel horrible, since it is now 4:30 AM. I am that guest. The guest that is a total and absolute a-hole.
I call.

I get a voice mail greeting: “Hi, I’m Hawaiian and New York is cold. Leave a message to warm me up! Mahalo!”

I’m looking at spending the night on the steps of an Upper West side apartment. Great. How’s that for traveling unencumbered.

I dial again, and she appears in her coconut bra and grass skirt. All is well.

All is well, except that my Hawaiian friend was entertaining a friend of hers for New Year’s, and because of this the living room was all shifted around to accommodate this guest’s stuff as well as the folded out hide-a-bed. Case in point, I am in a place I am not familiar in the dark, my stuff is no where to be found (thanks for putting my toiletries bag in the soot of the fireplace!) and it is 4:30AM and I have never been in control of my limbs in any way to make the moniker of “maladroit moron” undeserved.

I stumble over to the spiral staircase. The only bed open is the middle bunk, the bed above the rat nest and just below Actress-lady’s stage for role of Sleeping Beauty. The Hawaiian in her nest is whispering pointers on how to get into the modified bunk bed, since no ladder is in sight. It is just high enough to where trying to get in it quietly and undetected will be quite a chore.

I want to just grab a post and swing myself and up and over, and was about to do so, when I remember that this apartment of girls did not have toilet seat on one of the toilets, so it seemed logical to assume that the bed frame would not be mounted to the wall, so my plan of brute forcing my way up would have resulted in me pulling the whole frame over, and the death of three aspiring citizens: Actress-lady, being catapulted into the ceiling, ricocheting into the opposite wall, Hawaiian-rat-nest lady as my frame slides on socks on hardwood slamming into her throat, and fantasticterrific, crushed to death by a mahogany bunk bed frame.

So, instead of brute forcing it, I reach for the side of the bed closest to the wall, and with one-arm slowly ratchet myself up onto the bed. It took such muscle control that every vertebra in my back popped, and consequently, woke up everyone in the apartment. So much for my efforts.

Timeline check: 4:45AM December 31st. I do not want to oversleep. I need to meet the Colorado Group to stake out a spot in Time Square for the festivities starting at 1:30PM. I decide I am going to set the alarm on my cell phone, and then hold onto my cell phone like a GI-Joe holds onto his gun no matter how hard he is tumbling down a mountain, just so a phone call or the alarm will be sure to wake me up so that I do not miss out on the main reason I am making this outrageous 10 day trip.

I fall asleep, thankful to God above for a place to sleep.

I wake up maybe an hour later, just because I’m in a new place. I tighten my fist around the only thing that promises security: my cell phone. My fist closes all the way. I have lost my cell phone. I grope in the dark quietly for it, and then I turn to roll over and search between the mattress and the wall and smack my fat face against the bed board that is above me. I heard an audible “hmph, This Maxi-Pad is the coolest! Thanks, Always!” from my audition tormented friend above, and a slight nibbling of pineapple from the rat below.

I fall asleep again, hoping the vibrations of the phone would save me from oversleeping.

I wake up. Light is fighting its way through the spiral staircase, and the dungeon is as lit as it will ever be. It could be 6AM, it could be 4PM. This is how Trace Adkins prefers to keep his dungeons, but that is a whole other story.

I spiral my way upstairs, and the place is devoid of people. The hide-a-bed is hidden. The front door lock starts to move and I stand shirtless in the middle of the living room.

The Hawaiian comes in, her head turned out talking to a new guest in tow, and then her head turns to the living room, and she screams, having forgot that a bearded man a welcomed guest of her roommate’s. Or maybe she was screaming at my six-pack abs. I’m not sure.

The new guest was not the one that had stayed the night last night. She was softer, and had a voice of a hippy. If you have read Ayn Rand’s The Fountain Head, she would be Catherine, the almost Mrs. Keating.

We will call her Dynah.

Dynah learns of my intentions to go to Time Square. She is quick to offer her expert opinion, which is nothing but hear-say. She pleads me not to go, offering many “I heard this” and “I heard that” statements.

“I heard people wear adult diapers.”

“I heard people get peed on.”

“I heard it can get cold.”

“I heard Dick Clark runs on sand and cannot be killed, even by Sky Captain.”

I smile at her. I go to hug her, but then remember I am shirtless, so I grab a blanket and wrap her up in it. I rock her slowly back and forth, quietly explain that it will take so much more than hear-say to prevent me from stopping the gears of the world and riding that opulent chandelier all the way down to the orgiastic explosion known as 2006.

I spend some time on a seat-less toilet because I was tired of the upright #2 special. I shower up, and don my UnderArmour suit. I scarf up. I hat up. I glove up. I coat up. I granola bar up. I 16 oz. water bottle up.

I cowboy up.

12:30PM December 31st. The W Hotel. We have less than 12 hours until the world of 2005 ending and the world of 2006 being born unto a people that do not want it.

The plan that was formed the night before was to meet at the corner of Broadway and 49th at 1:30PM. I had arrived an hour early, not because I am that good, but because I underestimated how easy it would be to find Times Square in the daytime.

1:30PM might seem like a rather arbitrary time, but it was selected because the Colorado Group had heard that Times Square was barricaded off at 2PM to traffic and pedestrian flows.

Having arrived early, I decided to go up to the hotel room at the W, and did so. The room displayed quite the range of activity. One girl, who was a member of the Colorado Group but loathed going to see the Ball Drop decided to lamprey onto the free room and see a love interest in New York. This girl was asleep like a rock in the bed. The rest of the Colorado Group was up and about – a little nervous, a little excited. The Birthday girl from the bar scene had gone to get a massage (and had it charged to the room. Happy Birthday, Wanda June, INDEED.)

At 1:30 we popped out onto the street, and moved closer to the ball. There were fence/barricade sections lining the sidewalks, serving as a barrier between the street and sidewalk. Some people had already started to accumulate by these barriers. Some had cute foldable chairs. When I saw this, I was humbled. Here, I thought my drinking the gallon of water the day before on the bus to stretch my bladder, drinking only 16 oz of water in miniscule sips throughout New Year’s Eve, having granola bars and an UnderArmour suit was all I needed.

Chairs.
Sitting.

The founding fathers nearly wrote it into the constitution: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Seating.

Part of the Colorado Group (from here forth: CG) became disdained early on (really early on) and went back to the W. Myself and two of the braver of the CG sat against a building, and watched the foot traffic. The plan was to wait until traffic was barricaded off, so the streets would then be empty and then be there for the bum rush to get primetime position in the street between two stages (which were set up in the wide medians of Times Square) and a very unobstructed view of the Ball.

While waiting, an Ecuadorian came up to us and handed a video camera. We filmed him, alone, standing in front of the lights and advertisements that make up Times Square. He did not do or say much. He just stood still for a minute.

Then he came back to us, reclaimed the camera, said something in Spanish, and waved at us while filming us. So we waved back like the drunken cowboys that we Americans are, and that continued for two minutes. I know that some family somewhere in the world is rolling their eyes at this guy’s video, which captured all these randos waving and grinning like idiots.

It starts to sleet.
And rain.
And snow.

Chairs would have been nice. An umbrella would have been gold.

We noticed some people, some of the fellow loiterers, were moving to the street side of the barricade, even though traffic was still whizzing by. Our eyes got green with the envy of the greener grass on the other side of the barricade…these people were smart. They were going to lead the bum rush! Our collective of three moved to the other side of the barricade, and took care to stay on the skinny curb, just out of reach of the mirrors of huge trucks. Some auto drivers would stop and ask us how long we had been there, and we answered from our teeth-chattering huddle, “Three hours,” and they laughed at us.

It was at this point that the dissidents of the CG came and joined us. Slowly, traffic was pinched off, and then we saw a giant flatbed truck with wooden barricades marked NYPD go by, and we knew it, the bum rush to glory and 2006, was near.

There was a noticeable absence of sound when we looked both ways and ascertained that traffic no longer existed in Time Square. I lead the charge fantastically terrific out into the street. The CG was behind me, and soon, all the other street side barricaders joined us.

The girls were squealing, noting the great positioning to the two stages, and the splendid view of the Ball. It was too good to be true.

And it was.

The NYPD, part of a collective of 10,000 beautiful, strong jawed men (and some ladies) started going over to the barricades and pulling them into the street. At first we were as dumbfounded as cattle coming through the chute to get castrated and branded. Then we noticed that they were not pulling the barricades out into the street, but rather pulling out sides of pre-made pens, or containment areas. So, essentially, the pens were made the night before, but collapsed into a straight line on the sidewalk. One of the NYPD’s yelled at a lower rank officer, “Who let these people in the street? We have a stampede here.”

My stomach tightened. I saw the thick crowd on the sidewalk side of the pens, and realized that they were in line, and we essentially stepped out of line. Cops quickly came by and told us we had to go all the way to 8th and Broadway to re-check in. We were herded to the intersection, where 3 other street’s worth of misfits/bum rushers were accumulating.

Cops kept telling us to go to the check point, which was disheartening because the reason we had waited for so long in Time Square was to avoid going to the check point and to secure amazing spots. Now it seemed one bad decision was putting the ball drop in jeopardy. I had resigned that we were going to be in the equivalent of Jersey and need telescopes to even discern a lit ball dropping through the night, burning off a year in its trajectory.

The CG and I linked arms, and I started snaking the way to the check point, and then noticed that the sidewalks were not fully enclosed with fence/barricade sections. So, I flipped a 180 and reasoned we would just wait with the sidewalk mass and pretend we had never stepped out of line, and eventually the pen entrances would be opened and we would be set.

So, that’s the plan we executed.

Not even 30 seconds into waiting in the sidewalk side mass, we see the intersection mass of misfits/bum rushers start funneling into the pen. What the cop told us about the check point was total and utter malarkey. I snaked us out of the sidewalk mass and back into the funneling intersection mass.

Now, this was the tightest part of the night. People were kind of pushy, and cops were yelling for us to enter one at a time, with our coats open. But keep in mind, this crowd is made up of the entrepreneurs and risk takers and bum rushers. They, as a rule, do not listen well, especially to blue-eyed cochinos (their words, not mine, Jeanketeers!).

I was close to a legitimate entrance, with my coat splayed wide open and my UnderArmour suit exposed. Then a Che Guevara bum rush happened. The cops let them go, but immediately the third biggest cop in the world swung out his arm and placed a thick ham of a hand on my stomach, which was exposed due to the coat being open. He was holding back the whole crowd through my being, through my stomach. It was strangely comforting (much like a dog must feel when its stomach is getting rubbed) and alarming (no one touches the six pack but my family care practitioner and my sumo wrestling coach).

However, the cops see that I am, in fact, not trying to sneak in an AK-47 or a canister of mustard gas, so they let me in, but confiscated two Luna bars, joking that they were for girls and then twisting my nipple (the UnderArmour prevented too much bleeding).

Frickin’ cops!

Anyhow, the whole CG is in a legitimate containment area. Albeit, we are away from the two original stages, we are near a stage and about two blocks closer to the Ball than we would have been. We choose to be as close to the median-side barricade as possible, since the street was sloped, and the other side had rain gutters and potholes filled with sleet/snow/rain juice.

In retrospect, if I may, it makes perfect sense that there would be containment areas and defined, wide paths that separate the proletariat from the celebrities on the stage. It is for protection and control, and allowed media and law enforcement to move quickly up down and Times Square.

We are set. It is about 5:30PM New Year’s Eve. A cop comes up to us, and actually says,

“Move all the way to the front of the pen, or we won’t drop the Ball.”

If the CG has learned anything at this point, it is that positioning is only because of dumb-luck and persistence, and you only listen to the cops for a second or two. So we shuffle a few steps to appease him, and then stay put. We take note of our surroundings, and we are outside the Total Request Live (MTv) booth. We are standing where on warm summer days scantily clad screaming girls would have, hoping to get to say four exasperated words pertaining to their love of some flash in the pan band, and then screaming as if a genie had just told them they would never gain another pound so long as they live.

The people on the elevated median stage were fun to watch. It was way before any actual filming would take place, so some were still in hair rollers and/or sloppily dressed. One striking young man, looking poised with his umbrella, responded to someone in the crowd. He was nice and personable, and seemed to care that we existed and were cold. We ascertained he is the new TRL VJ guy. My generation would call him the new Carson Daly, but that is a harsh moniker. No one should be related to Carson Daly unless they have done something horrible, such as eating the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese (incidentally, Carson Daly is accused of nibbling a corner of it).

Beside the CG on the median-side barricade were a batch of very attractive 17-20 year olds. The cops loved these girls. I never really heard the verbal exchanges, but from time to time up to 10 NYPDs would be surrounding the girls, talking with one in particular. She did not look like any one “famous,” or the sister of anyone famous (even though, being a sister does not guarantee anything…just ask Ashlee Simpson or Heather Duff or the sister of the Norte Dame quarterback that was dating the Ohio State linebacker named “Hawk”, who purportedly tackled the quarterback for a huge loss, stood above the ND quarterback and yelled “I sacked you worse than I sacked your sister, last night, in your bed, while she was wearing your jersey, as per my request, d*ckweed”)

However, the cops kept bringing camera men and reporters with microphones to the gaggle of beauties. I heard something reasoned as “These gals drove all day from Shnecadty. Ask them a question.”

What the heck? We’re from Colorado? Is it the beard, officer? Or am I too dangerous as a world class blogger to be put into mainstream media, you piece of mindless badge-garbage!

Digression over.

6PM. Oh gosh. It starts to set in. The hardest part is just coming. We have 6 hours of waiting. Our hopes were that the rumors of live entertainment starting at 6PM were true. And at 6PM, the voice of an angel came on the broadcast system.

The voice said, “Hello, New York.”
And the voice belonged to Regis Philbin.

He stated that we were going to sing “New York, New York” to warm up so that we would be ready to do it after the Ball drop. He said the lyrics would come up on the screen. The music started, and Regis warbled. He could be seen on the Panasonic screen, looking rather “casual” in a sweatshirt and jeans. No lyrics appeared, so the crowd sort of mumbled the lyrics from memory of once hearing the song on a Sinatra mix CD that was left in their cubicle by the coworker that was being supplanted due to a wage war at Johns Hopkins.

“Did no lyrics show up?”

“No, Regis!” answered the crowd.

“That’s what I thought. It was awfully quiet out there. Maybe if my producer was competent…he’s from Hollywood. Don’t hire him.”

His mic was still near his mouth. All of Times Square is finding out what a jerk Regis can be. The following is what he said within a ten minute span, for all of New York to hear:

“I can’t read the cue- HEY. When you hold it like that- THE CUE cards. Yes. I can’t see it like that.”

“Do you have the cd that receives the feed. THE FEED. CD. Receives? THE FEED.”

“I’ll need to earn my only kiss of the year. [to his wife] Your delivery on your lines is horrible.”

Music would play on the speakers, good music, music to keep us warm. The crowds were not thick at all at this point. From time to time, an announcer would interrupt the music and tell us that were privileged to hear a particular band rehearse. Puddle of Mudd played first, and they were lame. They played the song where he states how he “likes the way you smack my @$$.” Everyone just laughed at him.

Essentially, the feeling of the experience was that we showed up to a recording of a television show 6 hours too early. Various musical groups did rehearsals, only playing parts of songs at times. To pass the time, the CG group played “travel games” where you ask weird questions in an attempt to try and get to know each other. I was entertained by watching the cops and beautiful girls interact, and more and more camera people and interviewers talk to this girl in particular. They were the pretty, popular group. Tina Fey might have penned them the “Plastics”.

Goodie bags were handed out. They contained crazy Dr. Seuss top hats that were green and yellow and touted Chevy’s (An American Revolution) emblem. Coca-Cola handed out mittens which I appreciated, not because I needed them. No, I wore thick huge gloves. My counterparts in the CG did not wear sturdy gloves, and instead were taking turns sticking their freezing hands on my neck underneath my scarf. Talk about a brain freeze – all the blood going up to my head was at least ten degrees cooler than it should have been. The coolest “goodie” was a metro card charged for four dollars paid by Phillips. A lot of people used mass transit to get home, so that was very thoughtful of you, Phillips. I’ll be sure to invite you to the baby shower.

Korbel, the makers of champagne, handed out these long balloons that had their namesake on them. I forcefully and repetitively thrusted mine toward the TRL booth, where a party was in progress. I caught the attention of a girl out of my league. I can die as the happiest AGO man to have ever lived.

I get a call from the Hawaiian. She wants to know if Dynah’s cautions were materializing. I told her that I could not hear her over the sound of adult diapers exploding. I yelled at her that people were wearing adult diapers over their heads to prevent from taking shrapnel from exploding adult diaper bombs. I told her that the streets were running with excrement, and it was going to be a miracle if I escaped without contracting some type of disease. I think she hung up after the fourth time I said adult diaper.

So everything is fine. I think we have 3 or so hours to go at this point. Everything is fine, people are fine. Around 9PM, it is noticeably starting to get more crowded. One snake of people actually pushed past us in order to get near the aforementioned gaggle of beautiful people. These people, these people that are in flux, are just as beautiful as the ones they were joining. The girls barely wore enough to not be arrested (how they stayed warm, only the Lord knows) and the gentlemen looked rather streamlined in their jean jackets and British racing caps. The snake of people was a little too pushy for those who think they can stand in crowds and never be touched (these people usually attend Social D concerts but haven’t bought a single album on CD and vote Democratic because they do not believe in blindly stirring up trouble, but yet, will shove anyone who bumps into them towards the mosh pit, causing more destruction and chaos than what was originally there), but I did not mind the snake of people. As I stated, it was 9PM, and time was rolling forward with a purpose.

Everything was fine.

Then everything smelled like mint.

Barry.
Frickin’ Barry.

This guy was part of the snake of beautiful people. With his ice cold blue eyes and two day stubble look (that looked good), no one could ever hurt him. He whispered to British racing cap man that he was going to go find “Sarah”, and then he moved to step by me and I moved into my circle as an act of indifferent deference (if such a thing exists). I did the same thing when he came back with the girl that he had fished out of the crowd. He apparently was brining a lost sheep back to the herd. I moved into my circle of companions to clear a way for him and his lady. The following conversation ensued:

“G@ddam&. What part of the country are you from?”

“A square state.”

“Oh. You have different terrain out there. [motions with his hands “mountains”] We’re more [motions with his hands “flatness”]”

“What’s your name?”

“fantasticterrific. Yours?”

“Barry. Barry from Pennsylvania”

“Nice to meet you.”

“G@ddam&. [turns to CG members] You gotta make friends with a big man like this. He’s a pillar of the Times Square.”

Barry disappeared. The smell of mint dissipated eventually. Then, as craftily as he left us, the smell of mint preceded his sighting. I looked left to try to find him, as the stench of peppermint was strong on the left, but it must have been the wind because I felt a hand on my right shoulder, and turned to be met by the most piercing and simultaneously dulled blue eyes I have ever seen.

A member of the CG made the mistake of trying to speak to Barry first.

“How’s it going, Barry?”

He just stared at her. He turned to me:

“How does she know my name, fantasticterrific?”

“She eavesdropped on our conversation from before, Barry. Ignore her, Barry. Barry, look at me. How are things going?”

“Oh, people hating me from all sides.”
“What about ‘cup of kindness yet,’ Barry.”

“Not here. Nope. Must be in the bars.”

The smell of mint again left us, and took Barry with it.

The CG group was a friendly one, and met John from Charm City. And of course it was assumed that we knew each other, since everyone in Charm City knows each other. He was a nice chap, regardless.

There was a Time Square proceedings host that reminded me of some slicked up version of the porn star Ron Jeremy. He was lame. His celebrity guests were lame. He would lead a countdown to the countdown. For instance, from 9:59:30 PM we would count down 30, 29, 28… down to 10PM, which would be the 2 hours to go mark. The part that enraged me was that around 11 of this countdown to the countdown, the powers that be would play a track over the PA system of a crowd counting. It was so blaring and crisp that it drowned out the real participants. It totally took the wind out of my sails. I made note that if this counting track was played during the real countdown, I would grab the nearest cop and kiss him. Hard.

Then, the beautiful people are talking with a guy who is standing in the “no-man” zone, the stretch of street between the median stage and the barricade. At first, his spiky haired head is kind of shaking side to side, not looking to interested, but the personification of teen beauty is enthusiastically asking something of him, and very quickly he nods “yes”, points to a bunch of them, and they leave their position in the crowd and disappear for a while. Then reappear in the “no-man” zone. They are escorted to the other side of the stage by various men in military dress. My only thought is that they (the girls) were enlisted to kiss the enlisted (the soldiers) in some hackneyed pre-filmed kissing bonanza to be shown on TV during the singing of Auld Lang Syne. They promptly returned to their original roost after 10 minutes on the dark side of the stage.

Then, the band OK GO performed on top of a skyscraper. Flippin’ amazing. The front man was so charismatic and looked so crisp in his suit. I declared him the next Jagger. The next Mick. I know, blasphemy, especially with the big Rolling Stones concert happening during the Superbowl XL this February.

After two incredible songs, the lead singer yells into the abyss, “New York, do you want to see four grown men break out in choreographed dance?”

Crickets.

“New York, do you want to see four grown men break out in choreographed dance?”

Eruption.

So, they have playing their “Million ways to be cruel” song while dancing this dance/fight scene. It was tongue in cheek, which made it all the more indie-rock chic. Blew my mind. Super awesome. OK GO is definitely a band of which I am going to listen and follow and possibly be ashamed of liking them when I am meeting my fiancée’s friends from Princeton in four years.

The last hour flew. I mean, from 11PM to midnight was a blur. By that time, time meant nothing. It was so inevitable and unstoppable that I found myself looking at the clock and seeing 11:55 PM and the seconds ticking and I thought “Oh, auh, well, I guess this is going to happen. I suppose I should, um, get my camera and cell phone, ready? It is going to happen right? Okay.”

The focus.
The energy.
The counting of 750,000 people in such a tight spot looking at the same descending ball, which had been hovering in its position since 6PM, was incredible. No voice over counting track was played, so the cops were safe from me. The ball could not be stopped. It was fueled by our 10’s, 9’s and 8’s. The ball propelled its way down to the unlit sign leaving in its wake a year that had seen more victories and triumphs and heart ache than any other year of my life. The Ball slammed into a lit, blinking “2006” as everyone shouted “One!” and pandemonium broke loose.

Everyone was on cell phones. Nothing could be heard by anyone who received a call. The only hope was that it would be received a piece of memorabilia. Loud, shrieking Asian girls screaming “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it.”

I high fived the gentlemen in the CG group. Hard. I frickin’ meant it.

Hugged all the girls.

We sang Auld Lang Syne.

We sang “New York, New York” and even though Regis messed up the lyrics, he could not take away the incredible sense of community. Singing “New York, New York” while on 44th and 7th, with the confetti flying was incredible.

However, I truly feel that the event is sugarcoated and intended for the TV audience. While waiting we had no clue or announcements of what group was performing where. On TV, the camera is constantly bouncing from cheering group to cheering group, and they are cheering only because they are gluttons for being on TV. If the lights and the cameras were not on them, they definitely were not cheering, but sedentary and cold. I will reiterate the sentiment that it was like we showed up for a TV production 6 hours too early, and got to see all the ugly rehearsals and sound checks.

We were allowed to stay in Time Square until 12:30 AM, January 1st, 2006. Then the cops came and took off the front of the pen and said “Scram.” We moved down 44th and we all held hands so that we would not lose one another. I saw liquid snaking down the sidewalk, seeking to go with gravity down to the street. I stepped over it and looked to the right and saw a guy facing the corner of an alleyway, with a girl standing facing me, her back to the man. He evidently did not drink a gallon of water the day before, and only 16 oz. during New Year’s Eve.

We made it to the W. We met up with Actress-Lady, the Hawaiian, Cat, and Dynah. The excitement wanes, and tired and hunger set in. I went to the street and ordered 24 dollars worth of chicken kabobs and hot dogs and diet cokes at a street vendor. I devoured a hot dog and moved over to another vendor and ordered another hot dog. Extravagance is required at times like these.


Many decide to stay in and sleep. It was my plan to stay up.

I will see the Ball drop again, but next time I will just show up at 10:30PM or so, like all the street smart New Yorkers do.

This is just the first installment in describing my big huge long journey bridging the years 2005 and 2006. Come back and find out how the trip continued soon. I promise the next installments will be much shorter. Thanks.

Wrap the NYSE in foil

Chipotle goes public tomorrow (Thursday).

CMG is the ticker symbol. No, this does not stand for "Chipotle-McDonald Group." It stands for "Chipotle Mexican Grill."

It is a sweet company started in Denver. Charm City has a location, which I frequented frequently. I even befriended a young burrito maker named Monica. We spoke Spanish to one another. Some day, when you can fathom what it means to love, I'll tell you the whole story.

Since IPOs are underwritten, and I was not invited to the party, I must wait until CMG goes secondary. Hopefully I can get a bol-full of shares...but it does bring up the financial dilemma of whether I should invest my money in CMG or invest my money in burritos...I must do some serious cost-benefit analysis. Some questions to help guide the process:

1) Does CMG have the option of guacamole for a 1.50? Do chips?

2) Can a burrito be traded as an option? Is it blue chip?

Oh man. Word play with "option" and "chips." Sweeet.

Check out Chipotle.

Wheel of Fortune lip-biters

The National Jewish Hospital of Denver, Colorado has a room with the moniker of Heitler Hall.

Just in case you're running on a celeron chip:

The National Jewish Hospital of Denver, Colorado has a room with the moniker of Heitler Hall.



Does anyone else think this has potential for disaster/parody?

I mispronounce words more often than George W. Bush...I may slip up when giving directions- to a Holocaust survivor. Great. There goes my career in politics.

On Family Planning and Polygamy

I know why polygamy fell out of favor.

Comedians would be quick to point out something about males not being able to take the nagging times 10 and middle school boys (the ones with the deeper voices) would say "guys can only do it like, 8 times in a row, which leaves two ladies out of luck, yo."

But I venture it was neither the nagging nor the sexual insurmountability.

There was no birth control in the Before Christ days, therefore family planning was used. Most husbands who were sensitive (Nicholas Sparks came from this line) did not mind abstaining from the *act* for half-months and having one wife. However, real men (like Ayn Rand...I know, she's a woman, but if you've read any of her stuff, you'd do a Man Show salute in her honor...or at least for Howard Roarke) realized that if they staggered their sexual partners correctly, they could have sex without the fear of children being created.

Thus polygamy was born.

Now, God had been maxing and relaxing up to this point (He created everything and thought that humanity would 'get it' since he created Adam and Eve and not Adam and Eve and Chloe and Gina.) However, humanity did not 'get it', and thought it had found a loophole to understanding a partner's needs and way and having a new bun in the oven every 9 months.

It was then that God did the most staunchly passive-aggressive thing ever.

He did not make a commandment against polygamy. He did not knock on the door and yell "Cut it out...I'm serious! Stop it now!" Instead, He introduced into the world the strange phenomena where women living in close quarters with one another all drift towards a common menstrual cycle.

Thus, the staggering would be in vain, and the poor hapless old testament codger would be left with either a lot of children, a lot of nagging Delilahs, or both.

Don't believe me? It's science!

On Children and Usefulness

I was waiting in New York (City!) for a package to be found in the post office. I wondered, while very smart and adept personnel searched for my friend's parcel, what I would do if the package required a dollie (or wheel-barrow...).

Would I wuss out and ask for a re-delivery?

No. I would give five dollars to one of the kids playing hookie that was wearing those annoying/cool shoes with a wheel in the heel. I would tell him to stand as stiff as a board, then I would waddle the box up on his feet. Then, I would tip him back, enacting the wheel action of his super sick-nasty-licious shoes and dollie my parcel past glory and eternal cleverness home.

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?"