The City of Brotherly Love

Though I've lived in close proximity to Philadelphia most of my life, I've never really taken too many visits there. There's this dichotomy in Jersey where, if you're from the North you're an extension of "The City" (aka New York) and, if you're from the South, you're an extension of Philly. But I'm from central Jersey, a region about which their is some dispute as to actual existence. Still, if the NJSIAA says there is a central section, that's good enough for, um, something.

So this past weekend I made my second trek to Philly in as many months, this time in the company of some old college chums that I hadn't seen in what I would realize was too long. As my man Dave Matthews likes to say, "turns out not where but who you're with that really matters." Yes, I just called Dave my boy because aside from everything else, I used to put on "Crash" to go to bed for probably the better part of eighth and ninth grade (replacing Metallica's "And Justice for All" no less). But alas, I digress as usual.

After a dinner of cheesesteaks and forties and some leisurely boozing we would settle into an evening of salsa dancing, but not before awkwardly walking into an "uninvited" party somewhere on the Haverford College campus. Admittedly we were just looking for a place to hang out (and keep warm largely, it was a bit chilly) before the salsa kicked off at around midnight. Not much compares to walking into what you expect to be a crowded party to see about eight people wondering who in the hell you are. Me and Danny G. are getting too old for this shit. In retrospect and even in the moment, it really was funny over anything else. And once we entered the house of salsa, all order was restored. Now I am not a good dancer mind you, but I enjoy dancing, and I like to think that that carries over well. I mean, I got ladies to dance and groove, and whether it means you're laughing at my moves or you can absorb some of my enthusiasm, or both, let's just call it win-win.

Post dancing things took a mild turn for the destructive along with some failed attempts to borrow golf carts at Bryn Mawr, but nothing a little late night Mickey D's couldn't cure. They even still had the Shamrock Shake available, but alas all McDonald's ice cream machines "break" after 11pm. I don't know why they have to turn the machine off then, but I wish they wouldn't lie to me and say it's broken. Next time I will ask them, "Oh it should be fixed by 10am or so though, right?"

The real highlight of the trip, for me, was the morning after. I think I've discussed in here before the manic glory of sleep deprivation and lingering booze in the veins, but it really does work wonders. Now, as much as the AgBat and I were outsiders briefly at our uninvited apartment gathering, I couldn't help but feel like more of an outsider on the sunny morning streets of Ardmore. I was waiting for someone to say, "You boys aren't from around these parts, are ya?"

So for a truly bizarre interaction, I really can't top our IHOP experience. It was Sunday at 11am, so prime time, and I expected a crowd. I walked up to put my name down for a table for four. "Can I get a table for four please," I asked. "Name," asked the host. I gave him my name, which he followed up with, "You'll have to be sure to watch your language around here. As you can see there are little children behind you." No, wait, really? I literally said nothing besides my name. There was a pause and I said, "Do I look particularly susceptible to using foul language?" Sometimes I speak in such an archaic and scholarly fashion, especially when I'm thrown for a loop [in reality I said nothing]. I interrupted the ensuing silence after his bizarre comment by asking how long the wait would be. He told me twenty minutes. I opted to have us walk around outside while waiting.

There were some further classic moments once we returned and were seated but I'm running out of steam and you, dear reader, might be running out of interest. Remind me to remind myself to talk about taxes and losing my Sonic virginity because I've been meaning to do both of those things. Oh shit, it's almost Passover time...

Scenes From a Jane Austen Novel

So when I got home last night after a grease-inducing six hours of public transit I found myself pretty exhausted and a little bit hungry. Whenever I take public transportation after an exhausting day/night/weekend, grease is seriously the word. I've tried to figure out why it happens, in much the same way I tend to get greasy when I stay up late drinking soda and eating candy; generally my m.o. before paper writing, but I've not written a paper in a long time. In spite of my tired, greasy, and hungered ways, I had a compulsion I often feel: to run. I know, I know, I think my last entry was about running, but I mean, it's my blog and sometimes I run a lot.

There had been a weird and thick fog in the air when the bus crossed the bridge into Chinatown, and when I finally got home the promise of thunder-showers in a warm fifty degrees added some electricity to my compulsion for motion. And somehow my body found the energy to not just drag, but even bound in a fairly spritely fashion through the largely deserted streets of suburban Jersey. Of course, somewhere around ten miles my right ankle was trying to tell me the length of my run may have been a mistake but I knew I needed to keep going, and it would have been an awfully long walk at eleven o' clock at night. With less than two miles to go, the skies finally opened, bathing my scantily-clad body in a refreshing rain. My t-shirt clung to me and became translucent as only fifteen-plus year old over-washed cotton can, drooping slightly to make my shorts look even shorter.

When I finally got to my door, all I wanted to do was bask in the moment, the rain beating down on me, but it had slowed and my body quickly chilled. I thought nothing of it until I went inside and felt shivery like a character in a Jane Austen novel might after getting caught out in the rain. Luckily I didn't find myself bed-ridden a la Kate Winslet in Sense and Sensibility. Not yet anyway. Bum ankle and all, I still required no Colonel Brandon to make it home. I wanted to shower immediately but I was so hungry I changed into my rarely-used terry cloth robe and ate some cold stuffed shells, salad and cookies, and even had a couple of tugs of some Bailey's for Old Greg's sake. I was so hungry that on one bite I bit firmly down onto the tines of the fork and, though it hurt, couldn't help but smirk at my asshattery. I took a shower I never wanted to end before emerging to stare in front of this very computer screen. I considered posting something to this very effect last night, as I feel it would have captured a very different energy, but alas I was losing a battle of wits and eyelids. I'm waging that battle again, knowing that even if I succumb to sleep now it will result in an all-too early rise and perhaps some nightmares.

I was just looking through my wallet for something only to find an ATM receipt belonging to some stranger for a $60.00 withdrawal made on 3/19/09 at 1:52am. This isn't too extraordinary except that his (or her, but I am quite certain it's a male for some reason) checking balance is listed as -$58.52, meaning the individual in question had a stellar $1.48 in their account at the time. And that, that sucks.

And now, my wisdom of the day: Burning bridges can be tough unless you are just flame retarded.

Run, Drink, Repeat

In my many days of running and drinking, I've stumbled upon a theory that may or may not hold water. I mean, it certainly holds booze...Dating back to my earliest college days, I would often limit my drinking to Saturday evenings for the sake of maximizing my training. Early, or as early as I could muster (sometime between 10AM and 12PM), on Sunday morning, I'd head out for thirteen miles of fun Sunday long run. By and large, I always felt surprisingly good on these. It began to dawn on me that, after a dozen or more drinks and generally some late-night grub, I might secretly be loaded with gobs of early morning energy.

Of course, I think the state of my body does a lot to cloud my perception, making me feel as if I'm moving much quicker than I really am, but sometimes the watch doesn't lie. Okay, the watch never lies I guess, so I really mean it helps support my somewhat Swiss cheese thesis. With similar conditions weather-wise, I completed the same thirteen-and-a-half mile run these past two Sundays. Preceding the first I had a good quantity of beer as well as late-night pie, and preceding the more recent run I had merely had a dinner of pizza, Sprite, and ice cream cake. One thing about me, I'm always a pillar of fitness and health. Anyway, though quite similar, I completed the post booze run about a minute faster than the boozeless run, which equates to a solid 4.5 seconds per mile or so.

This morning then, fresh off many delicious drinks and some late-night pizza, I headed out for eight miles of glory. It was drizzly and 45°, but because I don't like clingy wet clothes while running (I kind of love them otherwise) I opted for shorts sans shirt. The result, not surprisingly, was a healthy dose of heckling. Of course, with my iPod blaring, many of these went unheard, but I'm pretty sure I caught a "Put a fucking shirt on" from some lady in a car. She was probably just jealous of my triangular chest hair and the strange daddy long-legs hairs populating my shoulders. But mixed with heckles, sometimes I get encouragement and hey, either way I consider it totally worth it.

Barreling through the Hacidic district on the beginning of my run I nearly gave an elderly Hacid a heart attack, but I can't say why. He just had this horrified look on his face and seemed unable to move. Sorry old dude. On the return journey, a little deeper in the heart of Hacidum, a guy headed into his building took a look at me and yelled "Ironman!" encouragingly. I gave him my preferred props-point and he gave me a nod. Then, closing in on the busier bits of Bedford Ave, I spotted another runner about my age, running in the opposite direction. He gave me a strong high-five that, with the force of our opposite momentum, nearly took my arm off. It was so worth it though, because for every high-five another runner has bestowed on me running (this being my second ever...the first also administered in Williamsburg, at McCarren Park), probably four-hundred runners have given me dirty looks. Seriously, aren't we supposed to support each other out there? Nothing like smiling at someone to have them frown back at you.

And really, I promise, I looked less toolish than this pair I might have referenced in my last post...

Things That Chafe

After seeing a ridiculous picture of Miley Cyrus running in cut off jean shorts, aviators and some other interesting garb with shirtless boyfriend in tow, I had posted something relating how much I would be heckled in a similar situation but, hey, when you're a celebrity, it's cool. But then I hadn't saved it and my browser crashed and you know how sometimes it feels, hm, off, to try to replicate the energy you had when first writing something? I mean, you know when you have a good idea, and then you don't write it down, and then you can kind of remember the idea later but it lacks that punch? Maybe not.

Anyway, today I went out for a little 13.5 mile jaunt and I should have known it was coming with the mildly damp and cool weather but boy did I chafe myself good. Yeesh. Also, since I generally do all my runs these days with my iPod and I just restored it (meaning all my tracks were wiped), I took it as an opportunity to switch up my jams a little bit. While I keep on rockin' out to The Killers' "Human" and "Spaceman" a little too much, I threw this priorly ignored Ingrid Michaelson tune in there. Tee hee.

Get Ya BM Pancakes Here!

Last week after my first ever Shamrock Shake, my buddies and I passed an IHOP with a sign that read "never-ending BM pancakes." Now I don't know about you, but the first thing that comes to mind when I see the letters "BM" is bowel movement. Just what in the Hell IHOP meant sadly eluded me until my friend texted me "BM=Buttermilk" the following day. It was so obvious and yet, without his message, I probably would not have figured it out, all the more because I like the way it sounds my way.

I remember quite well the first and last time I stepped to IHOP's never-ending pancake deal. Some friends had come up to visit me at school during my sophomore year of college and somewhere around eleven at night we decided it would be a good idea to see how many pancakes we could handle. We nearly hit a roadblock since not all IHOP's are twenty-four hours, including our first stop. None of us knew where a twenty-four hour IHOP might be as we were in foreign territories of Connecticut, but luckily the cook leaving his shift at that IHOP was on his way to another shift at a twenty-four hour joint. Not only did he lead the way and have us follow him, he also got us a huge discount on our check. The real beauty there is that you get to leave an extra generous tip, which is what really matters.

So there we were, sitting down to our $2.99 never-ending pancakes and, yes, that was the real cost...2003 was clutch like that. Now, with competitive eating there are a few factors that are always essential for me: 1) eat quickly before your stomach can tell you it is full; 2) be hungry but not starving as you otherwise fill up too fast; 3) variety; too much of any one thing without variety can be difficult to manage. Pancakes are brought out in stacks of three, so in order to satisfy the first criteria, you have to order the next stack pretty much immediately upon working on the previous. When I eat pancakes, I also cut up every single piece before my first bite. This might slow me at first, but greatly increases my pace thereafter.

The second criteria was fairly well satisfied, but with the third I was going to encounter problems as all I was eating was pancakes. Now here is where I may have slipped up, attempting to switch syrup flavors in an effort to interest my palate with variety. As sweet as syrup already is, I found all of the flavors other than original far too sweet and otherwise revolting. I quickly changed back, but the damage may or may not have been done.

Now, out of curiosity I had weighed myself before the pancake effort, a healthy 158 pounds. Thirteen pancakes later I had ballooned to 163, admitting of course that some of that was probably water weight and pancakes can be spongy. Still, I considered it a rather unprecedented turnaround when I awoke at around ten in the AM and managed to produce a BM that put me right back down to 158 pounds. The manner in which my mind typically operates, coupled with this strong pancake dump memory clearly influenced my reading of that IHOP sign but can you honestly say "buttermilk" is what comes to mind when you see BM?

In light of the fact that pancakes tend to make me really sleepy and put me into a short-term diabetic coma, and prompt me to utter statements like, "I'm never eating pancakes again," I think I'd like to take one more shot and see if I can't break into the upper teens (say seventeen) pancakes. Probably silly, but then so is the Cy Young Award winner only signing to a $650,000 contract...

Escape

Two stories you can't escape of late are Michael Phelps' late 2008 bong rip, and A-Rod's steroid use. They're both athletes, but you don't have to follow sports at all to have read endless criticisms of both. Honestly, I shouldn't even weigh in because I'm just perpetuating the bs. So it goes.

I'll start with A-Rod for alphabetical purposes (um, first name instead of last, right). I was never an A-Rod fan, especially when he went to the Yankees, a team I have long despised, but I can separate the player from the man, and he is a stat machine. The revelation that he used steroids, which is hardly a revelation if you are as cynical about drug use in sports as I am, doesn't actually change that all that much for me. Maybe now all sorts of impressionable youngsters or, hell, other professional athletes, are going to feel now as if they need to use performance-enhancing drugs (PEDs) to compete but, then again, I have a hunch a lot of them felt that way anyway. And without entering long discussion, I'll simply say that I don't condone A-Rod's steroid use but, since it's one of the popular topics, I think he belongs in the Hall of Fame regardless. When two players are exceptional, it seems logical to assume that the one using steroids has the edge, except that who knows that the other player was not doing the same? I find baseball games a bit too long to capture my attention span these days anyway, but I'll be content in the knowledge that, with all the drug enhancements a contract as lucrative as A-Rod's can buy, I still would not be half the player he is. So it's a little sad, but you move on or, if you are a sports writer, you write hundreds or thousands of words on it and, for at least one writer, I'm sure they will attempt to craft a book.

Far sillier in my eyes is the hullabaloo over Michael Phelps apparent marijuana usage, so silly that I used the word "hullabaloo." The first thing is that it is a reminder how shitty it can be to be a celebrity. If I was at that University of South Carolina party, you can be damn sure no one would have given two shits if I was taking a bong rip. But of course, some asshole takes a picture with his camera phone and opts to sell it. Now, why exactly it took so long to surface is the same question I ask with the Christian Bale angry sound byte. Both took place a while back, especially Bale's incident, but they have only come to light now. It's an interesting game the media plays on when they release information.

As with A-Rod, I am not a Phelps fan. My allegiance and dislike of athletes and other celebrities bears no logical explanation, as I am sure would be the case for a lot of people. Still, guy is an amazing athlete, and I was rooting for him every time he dove into the Bubble and chased a gold. I wanted to see him perform his best. Even when I root for a person or team to lose, I really just want their opponent to outplay them, I'm not asking for my object of disaffection to shit the bed.

So right, again it comes in with Phelps being a role model, and this is where it gets oh-so-very dicey. What if instead of or, in addition to, labeling Phelps a poor role model, we teach kids different things. We all want that great athlete to be a great person too, but wait, all he did was smoke marijuana, right? The same marijuana that can be legally obtained in many states for medicinal purposes. Maybe Michael Phelps is a complete asshole in real life. It wouldn't surprise me if he was or he wasn't. Maybe I'm an asshole in real life too. Maybe I'm an asshole in this blog. And you know, maybe it's just a dose of reality. Do kids get over it when they find out Santa isn't real (sorry kids if you're reading)? Maybe not all of them. Will every kid with swimming or any other type of athletic aspirations go out to grab the nearest bong now? Maybe. Maybe they would anyway. That's a whole lot of maybe.

I'm just saying things happen, and if we're blaming Michael Phelps and A-Rod for shattering dreams, then we should go ahead and take responsibility for creating them in the first place. What if NBC came out and apologized for all the hype and the human interest around Phelps? Or what if Kellogg's came out and said, "Well, we thought long and hard, and we realized that, after a good bong rip, somebody might just want themselves a bowl, or a box, of Frosted Flakes...theeeeeeeyyyyyy're great."

Groundhog Day

I knew I just wouldn't feel right if I didn't get in a Groundhog Day post. If I end up repeating myself at all over the course of this writing, it will only be a bonus.

My strongest memories of Groundhog Day are of The Today Show, watching Willard Scott from Punxsutawney, PA, where he would view the famed Punxsutawney Phil. Interestingly, in reading P. Phil's wiki entry he took the year off in 1943 on account of WWII. Seeing as how that war was fought for several other years, why he chose only to take that year off, I don't know. More importantly though, in reading Willard Scott's wiki, I discovered that he was the creator of Ronald McDonald. Apparently this came to light in that flick Super Size Me, but as with a lot of movies these days, I never saw it. Scott also portrayed Ronald, but was replaced when his fleshy body was deemed harmful to Mickey D's precious image.

At the risk of this precious (damnit, there's that word again) intellectual property being stolen, I feel it's the time to share a Groundhog-themed joke concocted by my good buddy Max and I while living in Hawaii. We'd only been there a couple of weeks, but the island had already taken it's effect when we decided upon a strong (in our compromised estimation) comic strip type effort. During the Winter, people tend to tub up a bit. This is okay because, not being in a warm climate, they aren't exposing too much skin. Plus, the additional meat keeps you that much toastier. Of course, in preparation for Spring, all sorts of diet plans and/or tanning need be undertaken as preparation for that following glorious season of Summer. Now, I would not have gone to the trouble of explaining this if I'd simply illustrated the cartoon already, but since I haven't, well, I did. Follow? Plus, explaining your jokes makes them much funnier.

So the Groundhog, a rotund creature in general, would emerge from his hole and look down to discover, to his dismay, that he couldn't not see his prized family possessions. The caption reads, "Uh oh, six more weeks of dieting." Now, I happen to not like The New Yorker, cartoons and otherwise, but we thought this would go well in there. In fact, I'm going to draw that shit tonight and mail it on over. Okay, I won't, but I could. Also, in 2010 I might try reading the New Yorker again.

Something else I don't like, but in a much more intense way, is Ann Coulter. She falls into that category of people that I am still trying to figure out how they became famous. Of course, for all that I might not like Coulter, I actually think she is pretty intelligent. I am not sure what her true beliefs or motivations for her terrible terrible points of view are, perhaps she is just milking it all the way to the bank. I had forgotten about Ann for a while until something recently reminded me of the tirade she went on when Michael J. Fox did a political ad promoting stem cell research to help find a cure for his affliction, Parkinson's Disease. Rush Limbaugh, another right-wing windbag, also chimed in for that bit of course. How these and other famous blowhards manage to to maintain employment is astonishing and a bit frightening to me.

Foolishly I burned close to an hour today watching Ann Coulter videos, with the accompanying commentary of those supporting her more infuriating than Ann herself. But infuriating people like me is surely one of, if not the sole aim, of Coulter's remarks. I'd sort of like someone to speak to her like Christian Bale when a lighting man walks onto the set during filming, but somehow I think an Al Franken response achieves so much more. Puts the theatre d'absurd in a whole new light for me.

Soon I'll discuss my efforts to create a book that teaches the art (or handicap, however you view it) of puns, witticisms, and wordplay. Actually, shit, I probably won't...but I might. Either way, Larry Fitzgerald is amazing.