I ran a marathon on Sunday. I never stopped running (save for a handful of 15-second walks so I could gulp down some water) for four hours and twenty minutes. And aside from some minor stiffness in my quads, the only real pain I developed was in my knees—and they flared up only when I was trying to go down stairs.
In contrast, I got a tetanus shot yesterday morning in my left shoulder. It lasted maybe two seconds. And now every time I turn my head, use either arm, try to type, stand up, sit down, grab the phone, scratch my butt or reach up to make sure my hair is pretty for the cameras, I feel like a trailer home after a tornado.
In short:
Marathon = minor discomfort
Tetanus shot = KICKED MY ASS
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Pictures! I have pictures!
The marathon photo people are slowly sifting through the brazilians of pictures they took on Sunday, retouching unsightly wrinkles and matching bib numbers to runner email addresses—and the early returns (the picture matching is only 5% complete, according to the web site) show that:
1) I actually did run in the marathon, and these damn sore knees aren't just a sign that I'm getting closer and closer to death.
2) This year's shorts look better than last year's shorts* but they appear to ride up in the middle when I run, as though they were concealing a ravenous vagina.
The marathon photo people are a clever bunch, though, and their web site shows only tiny thumbnails of the lush, colorful photos they want to sell you. But for those of us with Photoshop and a rudimentary proficiency at using layers, a rudimentary montage of thumbnails can be produced in under five minutes.
*Last year’s shorts were far baggier, and their unattractiveness was further compounded by a sandwich bag full of Gummi Bears that bounced around like a vulgar appendage in one of the pockets. I forget which “friend” recommended that I carry Gummi Bears with me in the marathon, but Gummi Bears are a shitty idea because:
1) They’re heavy and they bounce around and slap against your leg when you run, and not in the junior-high-boner kind of way.
2) They require water, and when you’re running and parched and you decide to eat them you kind of choke because you’re nowhere near a water station.
3) They really don’t offer much of a sugar-carb pick-me-up.
4) All that heaviness and bouncing make half of your marathon photos unusable because the damn Gummi Bears end up looking like two birds are fighting to get out of your shorts because you farted or something. And nobody wants to see pictures of that.
Monday, October 10, 2005
4:19:53!
So marathon #2 is over, and it was just as spectacular as I'd hoped. I didn't quite reach my goal of beating four hours ... but I did beat last year's time by 16 minutes, sparing me the endless humiliation of having to admit I got even slower to friends, family members and blog readers across the galaxy. And I finished 15,710 out of 33,012 runners, so those 16 minutes moved me into the top half this year. Woo-hoo!
I knew I had to maintain about a 9-minute-mile pace to hit the 4:00 mark, and I did almost exactly that until mile 15, when suddenly my knees started feeling as though they would seriously buckle backward if I landed on them wrong. So I slowed down, stopped to stretch a couple times and made damn sure I landed every stride with my knees pre-bent in the proper direction.
I had to pee about half an hour before the race started, but I knew if I left the starting gate and got in one of the endless lines at the porta potties, I could damn well miss the entire marathon. And I didn't dare stop DURING the marathon for fear of losing precious time. (I did, however, see a lot of runners peeing in alleys, behind bushes and on the outsides of busy porta-potties along the route. Runners are weird people.)
My mom and sister came in this weekend to help me carbo-graze all day Saturday (Mmm ... Chipotle! Mmm ... garlic cheese bread!) and to navigate the crowds and the El to cheer me on in four spots along the marathon route, starting at the endless Boystown party at mile 8. I swear, there is a special place in your chosen heaven for all of you who come out to cheer on friends, family members and even perfect strangers in races. Your woo-woos and whoops and noisemakers make all the difference between excruciating pain and excruciating pain with a huge rush of adrenaline. Bless you, every one.
My GO JAKE GO shirt proved once again to be the best $10 I've ever spent—being cheered on by name when you're seriously worried your knees are gonna do something gross and embarrassing is priceless. Some nice lady at about mile 19 (you know who you are) even yelled NoFo at me when she saw my shirt. (At least I hope that's what she yelled.) How cool is THAT to be recognizedas one of America's premier blogging talents for my blog even in the middle of a sweaty, Gatorade-soaked knee crisis?
So I'm all done running for the year. The running togs are scheduled for a thorough washing today, and then they're going in a drawer for a good long time (and away from the shower rod, where they've spent the entire summer drip-drying). The knees and thighs and feet are scheduled for some serious stretching and maybe a nice massage this week. And the pictures,as long as they're flattering once they become available, will appear on a blog near you.
Thanks again for all your good-luck wishes!
I knew I had to maintain about a 9-minute-mile pace to hit the 4:00 mark, and I did almost exactly that until mile 15, when suddenly my knees started feeling as though they would seriously buckle backward if I landed on them wrong. So I slowed down, stopped to stretch a couple times and made damn sure I landed every stride with my knees pre-bent in the proper direction.
I had to pee about half an hour before the race started, but I knew if I left the starting gate and got in one of the endless lines at the porta potties, I could damn well miss the entire marathon. And I didn't dare stop DURING the marathon for fear of losing precious time. (I did, however, see a lot of runners peeing in alleys, behind bushes and on the outsides of busy porta-potties along the route. Runners are weird people.)
My mom and sister came in this weekend to help me carbo-graze all day Saturday (Mmm ... Chipotle! Mmm ... garlic cheese bread!) and to navigate the crowds and the El to cheer me on in four spots along the marathon route, starting at the endless Boystown party at mile 8. I swear, there is a special place in your chosen heaven for all of you who come out to cheer on friends, family members and even perfect strangers in races. Your woo-woos and whoops and noisemakers make all the difference between excruciating pain and excruciating pain with a huge rush of adrenaline. Bless you, every one.
My GO JAKE GO shirt proved once again to be the best $10 I've ever spent—being cheered on by name when you're seriously worried your knees are gonna do something gross and embarrassing is priceless. Some nice lady at about mile 19 (you know who you are) even yelled NoFo at me when she saw my shirt. (At least I hope that's what she yelled.) How cool is THAT to be recognized
So I'm all done running for the year. The running togs are scheduled for a thorough washing today, and then they're going in a drawer for a good long time (and away from the shower rod, where they've spent the entire summer drip-drying). The knees and thighs and feet are scheduled for some serious stretching and maybe a nice massage this week. And the pictures,
Thanks again for all your good-luck wishes!
Saturday, October 08, 2005
The final countdown
The training is over, the family is here to cheer me on, the kitchen is filled with bananas and pears and kiwis and Gatorade, the medicine cabinet is stocked with Ibuprofen, the running clothes (marathonsemble?) are (is?) laid out, the goals are set, the fingernails and toenails are clipped, the race packet will be picked up this afternoon ...
The marathon is tomorrow!
The marathon is tomorrow!
Thursday, October 06, 2005
The Noble Experiment Ends
Fifteen years ago, a young citizen emerged, bright-eyed and optimistic, from the ivory towers of higher academia and wandered out into the world to seek his fortune. Thanks to scholarships, miserly careful spending and sometimes up to three concurrent part-time jobs, he’d managed to make it through four years of college (and a misguided semester of grad school) with no loans and a small pile of money in the bank.
It was the dawn of the first Bush presidency, though, and eight years of Reaganomics had left no suitable jobs that were worthy of our hero’s august credentials. Indeed, our hero’s local paper, which usually featured a good 10 or 15 pages of job openings, offered only one page of jobs for most of the first year of his bachelor’s-degreed existence. Our hero had to fight to land a job as a waiter that first summer … and he had to live his first few years out of college with his parents. But that’s not really the point of our story.
The point is this: Our hero was going to be RICH and HAPPY and have a fulfilling career and a fabulous boyfriend and maybe write a semi-popular blog just as soon as blogs got invented.
But it takes money to make money, and our hero was determined to start early with his investing. So, acting on a hot tip from a rich friend with a distractingly round butt, our intrepid hero bought $377.31 worth of stock (including a $43.93 commission) in an up-and-coming company that developed disposable surgical supplies. The wave of the future!
But disposable surgical supplies never managed to capture medical consumers’ imagination, and the up-and-coming company spent the next decade bouncing around from merger to buyout, devolving from promising superpower to parts-is-parts corporate jetsam.
And one day, our hero woke up to news about a company called Tyco whose corrupt CEO and CFO had been shamelessly and quite conspicuously robbing the company and its investors blind … and our hero suddenly realized that—thanks to all those corporate buyouts—he was now one of those bilked investors.
And thanks to his minuscule initial investment, our hero owned a mere six shares of Tyco, which over the years earned him quarterly dividends that ranged anywhere from 8¢ to 60¢. And—thinking back to that original $43.93 commission (in 1992 dollars)—our hero believed that selling off his meager holdings would involve modern commissions completely eclipsing whatever value remained in his initial investment.
Until.
Until last week, when our hero casually mentioned his predicament to his investment advisor, who casually mentioned that the current investment company would probably buy back his meager holdings with only minimal feeage.
And when our hero called the 800 number and navigated clumsily through the frustrating voice-activation menu, he learned his investment advisor had been right! For a mere $15 selling fee (plus a bonus commission of 10¢ a share plus certified postage of $8.37), he could cut his losses, be free of the embarrassing stocks and laughable dividend checks, and probably see about $150 in cash within a few weeks.
Which is still a net loss of $225 (before inflation), but our hero trusts that the loss will also include some modest benefit on his tax return, which is always better than a kick in the pants and a case of the clap.
And thus our hero’s noble experiment ends. His lesson? Rich friends with cute butts do not investment advisors make. Plus: Well-managed mutual funds, diversified IRAs and licensed investment advisors can help you grow your wealth steadily and reliably. And jettison bad investments with minimal financial impact.
It was the dawn of the first Bush presidency, though, and eight years of Reaganomics had left no suitable jobs that were worthy of our hero’s august credentials. Indeed, our hero’s local paper, which usually featured a good 10 or 15 pages of job openings, offered only one page of jobs for most of the first year of his bachelor’s-degreed existence. Our hero had to fight to land a job as a waiter that first summer … and he had to live his first few years out of college with his parents. But that’s not really the point of our story.
The point is this: Our hero was going to be RICH and HAPPY and have a fulfilling career and a fabulous boyfriend and maybe write a semi-popular blog just as soon as blogs got invented.
But it takes money to make money, and our hero was determined to start early with his investing. So, acting on a hot tip from a rich friend with a distractingly round butt, our intrepid hero bought $377.31 worth of stock (including a $43.93 commission) in an up-and-coming company that developed disposable surgical supplies. The wave of the future!
But disposable surgical supplies never managed to capture medical consumers’ imagination, and the up-and-coming company spent the next decade bouncing around from merger to buyout, devolving from promising superpower to parts-is-parts corporate jetsam.
And one day, our hero woke up to news about a company called Tyco whose corrupt CEO and CFO had been shamelessly and quite conspicuously robbing the company and its investors blind … and our hero suddenly realized that—thanks to all those corporate buyouts—he was now one of those bilked investors.
And thanks to his minuscule initial investment, our hero owned a mere six shares of Tyco, which over the years earned him quarterly dividends that ranged anywhere from 8¢ to 60¢. And—thinking back to that original $43.93 commission (in 1992 dollars)—our hero believed that selling off his meager holdings would involve modern commissions completely eclipsing whatever value remained in his initial investment.
Until.
Until last week, when our hero casually mentioned his predicament to his investment advisor, who casually mentioned that the current investment company would probably buy back his meager holdings with only minimal feeage.
And when our hero called the 800 number and navigated clumsily through the frustrating voice-activation menu, he learned his investment advisor had been right! For a mere $15 selling fee (plus a bonus commission of 10¢ a share plus certified postage of $8.37), he could cut his losses, be free of the embarrassing stocks and laughable dividend checks, and probably see about $150 in cash within a few weeks.
Which is still a net loss of $225 (before inflation), but our hero trusts that the loss will also include some modest benefit on his tax return, which is always better than a kick in the pants and a case of the clap.
And thus our hero’s noble experiment ends. His lesson? Rich friends with cute butts do not investment advisors make. Plus: Well-managed mutual funds, diversified IRAs and licensed investment advisors can help you grow your wealth steadily and reliably. And jettison bad investments with minimal financial impact.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Ready as I’ll ever be
I ran my last marathon training run on Saturday: eight beautiful, sunny miles up and down the lakefront. My legs were feeling a bit sluggish after last week’s sprints (and a yoga class I probably threw myself into a bit too vigorously), so I decided to do no more below-the-waist activities (please keep your giggles to yourselves) this week so I can be completely healed and fresh for the marathon on Sunday.
The last run is always kind of hard in a weird, sentimental kind of way. I’ve developed little emotional attachments to certain landmarks and stretches along the trail, and I’m seeing them for probably the last time until spring:
• The Land o’ Shirtless Gay Muscleboys between Irving Park and Belmont
• The Gateway to Bigger Accomplishments between Belmont and Diversey (if I cross Belmont, that means I’m doing something more epic than a basic 5-mile run)
• The majestic Native American statue perfectly framed in a grove of trees near Diversey
• The drinking fountain at Diversey (BLESS YOU, city planners!)
• The Art Deco bridge and the gorgeous lake views between Diversey and Fullerton
• The four-headed drinking fountain at Fullerton
• The Land o’ Shirtless Straight Muscleboys between Fullerton and North (hot musclebodies + acres of beach volleyball courts = lots of welcome distraction)
• The outdoor chess pavilion and the concrete jungle south of North (you’re running right along Lake Shore Drive here, which generates a sense of urban street cred … but you have to hold your tummy in so people driving by just inches away from you can’t see how gooey you are)
• The Gateway to Supernova Coolness between Oak Street Beach and Navy Pier (if I’m running down there, I’m doing at least 15 miles, which makes me the prettiest little pony in the UNIVERSE)
Notice I didn’t mention anything north of Irving Park. It’s pretty enough, but there’s almost NOBODY running up there, so the whole area is a Land o’ Boredom that’s just something to endure at the beginning and end of each run. I won’t miss it one bit this winter.
While I’m not running this week—and since my four-month work glut has come to a welcome pause at the moment—I’ve been getting in some seriously hardcore upper-body workouts over the last few days. I’m in no danger of becoming aInternational Male physique model in the near future, but it’s been awesome feeling a serious pump in my muscles again … not to mention that achy burn feeling when I pee the day after a good workout.
And now, all that’s left to do is wait. And carbo-load. And pick up my race packet on Saturday. And not oversleep on Sunday.
And then beat 4:36:31 … which I think I could easily do, if only because I’m not running injured this year. My goal is to beat 4:00, but that involves shaving more than a minute per mile off last year’s run. (Again: I’m counting on that not-injured-this-year thing to help.)
And on Monday? Perhaps a nice massage. And a good shaving of my tummy, which I’ve been leaving un-manscaped so it won’t rub or itch or chafe during the marathon. And then, perhaps, a long and rambling blog post. Or two.
Or maybe just a nap.
The last run is always kind of hard in a weird, sentimental kind of way. I’ve developed little emotional attachments to certain landmarks and stretches along the trail, and I’m seeing them for probably the last time until spring:
• The Land o’ Shirtless Gay Muscleboys between Irving Park and Belmont
• The Gateway to Bigger Accomplishments between Belmont and Diversey (if I cross Belmont, that means I’m doing something more epic than a basic 5-mile run)
• The majestic Native American statue perfectly framed in a grove of trees near Diversey
• The drinking fountain at Diversey (BLESS YOU, city planners!)
• The Art Deco bridge and the gorgeous lake views between Diversey and Fullerton
• The four-headed drinking fountain at Fullerton
• The Land o’ Shirtless Straight Muscleboys between Fullerton and North (hot musclebodies + acres of beach volleyball courts = lots of welcome distraction)
• The outdoor chess pavilion and the concrete jungle south of North (you’re running right along Lake Shore Drive here, which generates a sense of urban street cred … but you have to hold your tummy in so people driving by just inches away from you can’t see how gooey you are)
• The Gateway to Supernova Coolness between Oak Street Beach and Navy Pier (if I’m running down there, I’m doing at least 15 miles, which makes me the prettiest little pony in the UNIVERSE)
Notice I didn’t mention anything north of Irving Park. It’s pretty enough, but there’s almost NOBODY running up there, so the whole area is a Land o’ Boredom that’s just something to endure at the beginning and end of each run. I won’t miss it one bit this winter.
While I’m not running this week—and since my four-month work glut has come to a welcome pause at the moment—I’ve been getting in some seriously hardcore upper-body workouts over the last few days. I’m in no danger of becoming a
And now, all that’s left to do is wait. And carbo-load. And pick up my race packet on Saturday. And not oversleep on Sunday.
And then beat 4:36:31 … which I think I could easily do, if only because I’m not running injured this year. My goal is to beat 4:00, but that involves shaving more than a minute per mile off last year’s run. (Again: I’m counting on that not-injured-this-year thing to help.)
And on Monday? Perhaps a nice massage. And a good shaving of my tummy, which I’ve been leaving un-manscaped so it won’t rub or itch or chafe during the marathon. And then, perhaps, a long and rambling blog post. Or two.
Or maybe just a nap.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Two observations
ONE
Dan Savage rocks. He’s articulate, entertaining, intelligent and pretty adorable. And he’s not afraid to say fuck in front of his mom (which, depending on your motherhood status and the cringe factor you find in that word, may or may not figure into the equation as to whether or not he really, truly rocks).
Bob and I heard him read from his new book last night at the Borders on Michigan Avenue, and Dan (I call him Dan) had the audience in the palm of his hand from the moment he got on stage. While his book is plenty funny and he tended to crack himself up just by reading it, he really shone at the Q&A portion of the evening … which he clearly relished. The man has a lot of opinions on a lot of topics, and he’s most definitely done his homework on all of it. And he’s not afraid to say things that might be unpopular, but he backs up all his opinions with logical, well-thought-out arguments.
And did I mention he’s adorable?
TWO
Peeing when you’re wearing your new cowboy boots (notice I didn't say "peeing in your new cowboy boots") is a little harder than peeing when you’re wearing your regular shoes. The urinal is just a bit lower, see, and it requires just a bit more aim.
In case you were wondering.
Dan Savage rocks. He’s articulate, entertaining, intelligent and pretty adorable. And he’s not afraid to say fuck in front of his mom (which, depending on your motherhood status and the cringe factor you find in that word, may or may not figure into the equation as to whether or not he really, truly rocks).
Bob and I heard him read from his new book last night at the Borders on Michigan Avenue, and Dan (I call him Dan) had the audience in the palm of his hand from the moment he got on stage. While his book is plenty funny and he tended to crack himself up just by reading it, he really shone at the Q&A portion of the evening … which he clearly relished. The man has a lot of opinions on a lot of topics, and he’s most definitely done his homework on all of it. And he’s not afraid to say things that might be unpopular, but he backs up all his opinions with logical, well-thought-out arguments.
And did I mention he’s adorable?
TWO
Peeing when you’re wearing your new cowboy boots (notice I didn't say "peeing in your new cowboy boots") is a little harder than peeing when you’re wearing your regular shoes. The urinal is just a bit lower, see, and it requires just a bit more aim.
In case you were wondering.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tuesday night adventures
ONE
While I’ve been diligent in keeping up my distance training for the Chicago Marathon (12 days away!), I haven’t done any sprinting this summer. And now that I’m tapering down from my 20-mile run a week ago, I decided to do some sprints last night and see how they felt.
So for three miles I alternated between As Fast As Humanly Possible and Pretty Damn Fast. The results? 1) It KICKED MY ASS—I felt even worse when I finished than I did after my 20-mile run. Who knew? 2) It was weird to dress and eat and stretch for a training run … and then be done in just 24 minutes. I broke a helluva sweat, but it all seemed hardly worth dirtying a pair of socks.
Unless, of course, it helps shave 36 minutes and 31 seconds off last year’s time. Then I’ll be a huge fan.
TWO
The dog has developed a dark spot on the end of his red rocket. It doesn’t seem to be bothering him, and we haven’t seen any blood in his urine, but we decided last night at 8:00 that we should probably take him to a 24-hour vet just to make sure everything was OK.
And after a not-too-long wait, we learned that everything was indeed OK—the vet dismissed the spot as a bit of pigmentation, but not before doing a few things involving his fingers and the dog that would probably be considered illegal if they were videotaped and sold for $23.95 on the Internets.
While we were waiting, we also witnessed the heartbreaking aftermath of a two-dog attack on a cocker spaniel and his slightly bloodied owner. The poor little dog survived, but it looked completely shell-shocked—not to mention shaved and bandaged and pink-tinged from all the blood—when we saw it in the waiting room.
THREE
Thinking our evening adventures were over, we crashed when we got home and quickly drifted off to sleep.
But we were slightly awakened by what sounded like a timid little knock on our door and a muffled “Hello?” at 1:30 in the morning. We figured it must be the neighbor’s door—or a dream—but it happened a second time. Then a third. Then our door OPENED—and our penis-pigmented guard dog BOLTED toward the door with barks a-blazing. It wasn’t until the door slammed shut that we were fully awake and aware that something was seriously up.
My guest found his clothes first and headed out to the hallway … where he was met by A WOMAN WITH A GUN. Unable to locate my own clothes—which were RIGHT BY THE BED—I cowered nakedly behind the half-open door while he figured out what was going on.
And that half-opened door was the key to the story. It seems that we never closed our door completely last night. And when my neighbor came home from her night shift as a police offer, she found her own door vandalized with ice cream (I think I’m not making that up, but I was still a little groggy when the story was being explained). She went exploring around our floor to see if there was anything else suspicious going on, found our door half-open, knocked … and the rest is history (herstory? our story?).
All of which cost us a bunch of sleep and actually made me late for work today because I couldn’t get my sprinted, vet-visited, neighbor-interrupted ass out of bed this morning.
But, thankfully, it made for a heck of a blog post.
While I’ve been diligent in keeping up my distance training for the Chicago Marathon (12 days away!), I haven’t done any sprinting this summer. And now that I’m tapering down from my 20-mile run a week ago, I decided to do some sprints last night and see how they felt.
So for three miles I alternated between As Fast As Humanly Possible and Pretty Damn Fast. The results? 1) It KICKED MY ASS—I felt even worse when I finished than I did after my 20-mile run. Who knew? 2) It was weird to dress and eat and stretch for a training run … and then be done in just 24 minutes. I broke a helluva sweat, but it all seemed hardly worth dirtying a pair of socks.
Unless, of course, it helps shave 36 minutes and 31 seconds off last year’s time. Then I’ll be a huge fan.
TWO
The dog has developed a dark spot on the end of his red rocket. It doesn’t seem to be bothering him, and we haven’t seen any blood in his urine, but we decided last night at 8:00 that we should probably take him to a 24-hour vet just to make sure everything was OK.
And after a not-too-long wait, we learned that everything was indeed OK—the vet dismissed the spot as a bit of pigmentation, but not before doing a few things involving his fingers and the dog that would probably be considered illegal if they were videotaped and sold for $23.95 on the Internets.
While we were waiting, we also witnessed the heartbreaking aftermath of a two-dog attack on a cocker spaniel and his slightly bloodied owner. The poor little dog survived, but it looked completely shell-shocked—not to mention shaved and bandaged and pink-tinged from all the blood—when we saw it in the waiting room.
THREE
Thinking our evening adventures were over, we crashed when we got home and quickly drifted off to sleep.
But we were slightly awakened by what sounded like a timid little knock on our door and a muffled “Hello?” at 1:30 in the morning. We figured it must be the neighbor’s door—or a dream—but it happened a second time. Then a third. Then our door OPENED—and our penis-pigmented guard dog BOLTED toward the door with barks a-blazing. It wasn’t until the door slammed shut that we were fully awake and aware that something was seriously up.
My guest found his clothes first and headed out to the hallway … where he was met by A WOMAN WITH A GUN. Unable to locate my own clothes—which were RIGHT BY THE BED—I cowered nakedly behind the half-open door while he figured out what was going on.
And that half-opened door was the key to the story. It seems that we never closed our door completely last night. And when my neighbor came home from her night shift as a police offer, she found her own door vandalized with ice cream (I think I’m not making that up, but I was still a little groggy when the story was being explained). She went exploring around our floor to see if there was anything else suspicious going on, found our door half-open, knocked … and the rest is history (herstory? our story?).
All of which cost us a bunch of sleep and actually made me late for work today because I couldn’t get my sprinted, vet-visited, neighbor-interrupted ass out of bed this morning.
But, thankfully, it made for a heck of a blog post.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Financial alchemy! Just like Dubya!
As you might recall, I recently bought a Big Boy Car, which came all tricked out with a Big Boy Loan.
Now, conventional wisdom (it would seem) would dictate that I should now curb my frivolous spending and maybe make some other financial sacrifices to accommodate this new pile of debt.
But conventional wisdom is (it would seem) a load of Limbaugh. Just axe President Dubya and his faithfulProgress Congress, who take on debt faster than our unprotected port cities take on water in a hurricane.
Inspired by such leadership, I’ve been waving my credit cards around this last month like they were American flags and I was a Republican at a prayer breakfast fund-raiser.
Fortunately, I still have my ability to stick to a budget, and my booty (HA! BOOTY!)—though as pointless as a Pope—falls within the parameters of that dying art known as responsible financial management.
Plus, I took a picture!
Clockwise, from the top left:
New boots!
ON SALE. The upcoming chorus show is called A Cowboy Christmas. And what do gay singing cowboys wear? You might think it’s concealer with a high SPF, but you’d be only half right. Cowboys also wear fashionable boots, and the cowboy boots I broke in so perfectly bysinging and dancing in amusement-park cowboy shows all through college herding cattle on the dusty range seem to have gotten smaller over the years. Or else I’ve developed a bad case of duck feet.
In any case, I received a postcard last week informing me that fabulous Chicago cowboy store Alcala’s Western Wear is having a boot sale through October 10 (up to 50% off!), so this weekend I went in and got me some black pointy-toed boot-scooters that fit like a glove (except they go on my feet). And as I was walking to the checkout, I noticed some brown square toes looking up at me all sad and lonely with their big dead-cow eyes (well, they would have done that if they’d been made with the face part of the cow). And before I could stumble haltingly through a chorus of Friends in Low Places, I found myself stumbling out into the daylight with two new pair of boots in my possession. Yee-ha!
New books!
ONE ON SALE. ONE FULL PRICE. No use boring you with this story again—butif you’re that hard up for entertainment you can read all about it somewhere deep in this long and rambling post.
Used CDs!
ON SALE. I got an inkling a couple weeks ago to buy Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits Volumes 1 & 2 on CD, but I didn’t have an inkling to pay full price. So I headed to my friendly neighborhood used CD emporium, where I found exactly what I was looking for AND two Frank Sinatra collections AND Free to Be You and Me, Marlo Thomas’ 1972 TV cast album of feel-good songs and stories and poems forlonely, anti-social losers who cry a lot kids of all ages who need pre-disco show tunes to help them become good citizens and friends and neighbors … and who aren’t afraid to cry once in a while.
I probably haven’t listened to the album since I was seven or eight, but when I popped the CD into my car stereo last week and all those songs and stories and poems came streaming out of my speakers—even though it had been 30 years since I last sat Indian-style in a circle with my classmates for a listen—I still knew every word. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but the damn thing is a veritable who’s-whom of ’70s celebrities, including Harry Belafonte, Diana Ross, Tom Smothers, Carol Channing, Dick Cavett, Jack Cassidy, Shirley Jones, and singers (!) Rosey Grier (who’s not so good on the pitch thing) and Alan Alda (whose soaring baritone freakin’ ROCKS).
New shirt!
ON SALE. The danger of wandering unfocused into a Gap is that there will be cool shirts on sale and you will be tempted to buy them. Fortunately, I already have at least one of every kind and color of shirt imaginable, so I’m usually able to be strong and resist the urge to splurge. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything in a shade of orange that doesn’t make me look like Trent Lott at a gay wedding. At least I didn’t.
New centerpiece!
FULL PRICE. Friday night I happend to wander by (OK, into) a cheesy suburb chain retail establishment … and I wandered out with a lovely new tealight holder and a big bag of “Asian pear” scented tealight candles.
And now my Big Boy Table (which is all paid for) is complete.
Now, conventional wisdom (it would seem) would dictate that I should now curb my frivolous spending and maybe make some other financial sacrifices to accommodate this new pile of debt.
But conventional wisdom is (it would seem) a load of Limbaugh. Just axe President Dubya and his faithful
Inspired by such leadership, I’ve been waving my credit cards around this last month like they were American flags and I was a Republican at a prayer breakfast fund-raiser.
Fortunately, I still have my ability to stick to a budget, and my booty (HA! BOOTY!)—though as pointless as a Pope—falls within the parameters of that dying art known as responsible financial management.
Plus, I took a picture!
Clockwise, from the top left:
New boots!
ON SALE. The upcoming chorus show is called A Cowboy Christmas. And what do gay singing cowboys wear? You might think it’s concealer with a high SPF, but you’d be only half right. Cowboys also wear fashionable boots, and the cowboy boots I broke in so perfectly by
In any case, I received a postcard last week informing me that fabulous Chicago cowboy store Alcala’s Western Wear is having a boot sale through October 10 (up to 50% off!), so this weekend I went in and got me some black pointy-toed boot-scooters that fit like a glove (except they go on my feet). And as I was walking to the checkout, I noticed some brown square toes looking up at me all sad and lonely with their big dead-cow eyes (well, they would have done that if they’d been made with the face part of the cow). And before I could stumble haltingly through a chorus of Friends in Low Places, I found myself stumbling out into the daylight with two new pair of boots in my possession. Yee-ha!
New books!
ONE ON SALE. ONE FULL PRICE. No use boring you with this story again—but
Used CDs!
ON SALE. I got an inkling a couple weeks ago to buy Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits Volumes 1 & 2 on CD, but I didn’t have an inkling to pay full price. So I headed to my friendly neighborhood used CD emporium, where I found exactly what I was looking for AND two Frank Sinatra collections AND Free to Be You and Me, Marlo Thomas’ 1972 TV cast album of feel-good songs and stories and poems for
I probably haven’t listened to the album since I was seven or eight, but when I popped the CD into my car stereo last week and all those songs and stories and poems came streaming out of my speakers—even though it had been 30 years since I last sat Indian-style in a circle with my classmates for a listen—I still knew every word. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but the damn thing is a veritable who’s-whom of ’70s celebrities, including Harry Belafonte, Diana Ross, Tom Smothers, Carol Channing, Dick Cavett, Jack Cassidy, Shirley Jones, and singers (!) Rosey Grier (who’s not so good on the pitch thing) and Alan Alda (whose soaring baritone freakin’ ROCKS).
New shirt!
ON SALE. The danger of wandering unfocused into a Gap is that there will be cool shirts on sale and you will be tempted to buy them. Fortunately, I already have at least one of every kind and color of shirt imaginable, so I’m usually able to be strong and resist the urge to splurge. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything in a shade of orange that doesn’t make me look like Trent Lott at a gay wedding. At least I didn’t.
New centerpiece!
FULL PRICE. Friday night I happend to wander by (OK, into) a cheesy suburb chain retail establishment … and I wandered out with a lovely new tealight holder and a big bag of “Asian pear” scented tealight candles.
And now my Big Boy Table (which is all paid for) is complete.
Monday, September 26, 2005
A run, a reading and a rock
Note: All this stuff happened two weeks ago, but work and life and the flu got in the way of timely posting. It was half-written all this time, though, and I’ve finally cleaned it up and I’m posting it now. Which saves me from having to do anything interesting this week. So everybody wins.
THE RUN
The second annual Run Hit Wonder was Tuesday night, which I ran with a handful of work people, a friend from the chorus and about 15,000 other hip ’n’ trendy kids.
And once again, it was a clusterfuck—but just a partial clusterfuck, not a total clusterfuck like last year’s run.
Aside from the sweltering heat (which I blame on the Republicans), the Dri-Fit shirts that were itchy and warm and barely breatheable and exactly what you would NOT look for in a running shirt, and the running path that at times was no more than two people wide (I remind you: 15,000 runners), the bands were fun, the runners were pumped up and the guys were HOT.*
*I’ve decided hot straight guys are way hotter than hot gay guys. Hot gay guys wear their bodies like suits of armor and use them to induce eating disorders in other gay guys. Hot straight guys just live in their bodies. And we’re all a bit richer for it.
I finished the 10K in 57:09, but I always run slower in uncomfortable heat. I also run slower when I’m trapped in a cloud of 15,000 runners all vying for space on a wee tiny path.
Speaking of wee tiny, this year’s race organizers put our bib numbers on our sleeves in mightyfine type—instead of on our chests in hella-huge type the way REAL race organizers do it—so the Joe Photo people who took all our pictures had no way to match up photos with runners so we could order copies online (see clusterfuck, paragraph 2). But I did find one photo of (most of) me sprinting clumsily across the finish line on the Joe Photo web site:
And remember how I called the other runners hip ’n’ trendy (see hip ’n’ trendy, paragraph 1)? I apparently am not hip ’n’ trendy, because of all the bands playing along the race course, I recognized only one: headliner Joan Jett and The Blackhearts.
As for Chingy, Nina Sky, DJ Z-Trip, The Aquabats, Fountains of Wayne and The Donnas, I had at least heard the names of the last two groups (WARNING! COOL POINTS DANGEROUSLY LOW!), and when the race DJ played that your-momma’s-hot song by the Wayne boys before the race, I realized that was one song I had heard (accidentally) this one time when I was changing show tune CDs in my car. (BEIGE ALERT! BEIGE ALERT! TOTAL COOLNESS MELTDOWN!)
THE READING
My poor friend Bob has been extremely patient with me and my work schedule these last few months. We used to regularly hit off-beat lectures, exhibits, plays and concerts all across the city, but I’ve had to turn down his last billion or so invitations to do these things because I’ve been so damn busy.
But when my Wednesday night magically cleared uplike a zit the day after prom, I was able to join him for a (WARNING! FOO-FOO PSEUDO-INTELLECTUAL POSTURING AHEAD!) free poetry reading that was pretty spectacular.
For an enjoyable, thoroughly reinvigorating hour, Garrison Keillor, host of Minnesota Public Radio’s inimitable A Prairie Home Companion, read from and provided fascinating commentary on Good Poems for Hard Times, an anthology he just published.
And Garrison (I call him Garrison) doesn’t just read a poem. He climbs into it. He wears it like a tailored coat. He conspires in it like a trusted friend. He devours it like a peach, working his way ravenously to the core, leaving nothing unsavored, unselfconsciously letting juice and seeds run down his chin and hands and arms.
And when he’s not reading, he tells stories. Stories about the poets he’s selected. Stories about how poems can periodically fall out of fashion. Stories about the stories behind the poems. And he does it all in such a mellifluous, languid baritone, you just want to climb into his lap and hold on tight so you don’t miss a word.
THE ROCK
I ate at Hard Rock Café on Thursday at a good-bye lunch for a colleague I’m really going to miss. I’ve never been to Hard Rock Café, and I have to say it was just as I’d expected: a little on the loud side, with decent-but-overpriced pub grub and a clientele that spoke volumes about how unhip the place has become.
And that’s saying a lot, considering what little clientele there was. The place was about 10% full … and even then we had to wait 20 minutes for a table.
But now I can add it to my list of touristy places I probably don’t need to visit again: Ed Debevic’s, Hooters, Planet Hollywood, etc.
Don’t think I’m getting all food-snobby on you, though; I’m always gonna love my Cajun chicken pasta at Chili’s and my Cheddar Bay biscuits at Red Lobster and my Victoria’s Filet at Outback and especially my barbacoa burrito at Chipotle.
Just because they’re low doesn’t mean they’re still not standards.
THE RUN
The second annual Run Hit Wonder was Tuesday night, which I ran with a handful of work people, a friend from the chorus and about 15,000 other hip ’n’ trendy kids.
And once again, it was a clusterfuck—but just a partial clusterfuck, not a total clusterfuck like last year’s run.
Aside from the sweltering heat (which I blame on the Republicans), the Dri-Fit shirts that were itchy and warm and barely breatheable and exactly what you would NOT look for in a running shirt, and the running path that at times was no more than two people wide (I remind you: 15,000 runners), the bands were fun, the runners were pumped up and the guys were HOT.*
*I’ve decided hot straight guys are way hotter than hot gay guys. Hot gay guys wear their bodies like suits of armor and use them to induce eating disorders in other gay guys. Hot straight guys just live in their bodies. And we’re all a bit richer for it.
I finished the 10K in 57:09, but I always run slower in uncomfortable heat. I also run slower when I’m trapped in a cloud of 15,000 runners all vying for space on a wee tiny path.
Speaking of wee tiny, this year’s race organizers put our bib numbers on our sleeves in mightyfine type—instead of on our chests in hella-huge type the way REAL race organizers do it—so the Joe Photo people who took all our pictures had no way to match up photos with runners so we could order copies online (see clusterfuck, paragraph 2). But I did find one photo of (most of) me sprinting clumsily across the finish line on the Joe Photo web site:
And remember how I called the other runners hip ’n’ trendy (see hip ’n’ trendy, paragraph 1)? I apparently am not hip ’n’ trendy, because of all the bands playing along the race course, I recognized only one: headliner Joan Jett and The Blackhearts.
As for Chingy, Nina Sky, DJ Z-Trip, The Aquabats, Fountains of Wayne and The Donnas, I had at least heard the names of the last two groups (WARNING! COOL POINTS DANGEROUSLY LOW!), and when the race DJ played that your-momma’s-hot song by the Wayne boys before the race, I realized that was one song I had heard (accidentally) this one time when I was changing show tune CDs in my car. (BEIGE ALERT! BEIGE ALERT! TOTAL COOLNESS MELTDOWN!)
THE READING
My poor friend Bob has been extremely patient with me and my work schedule these last few months. We used to regularly hit off-beat lectures, exhibits, plays and concerts all across the city, but I’ve had to turn down his last billion or so invitations to do these things because I’ve been so damn busy.
But when my Wednesday night magically cleared up
For an enjoyable, thoroughly reinvigorating hour, Garrison Keillor, host of Minnesota Public Radio’s inimitable A Prairie Home Companion, read from and provided fascinating commentary on Good Poems for Hard Times, an anthology he just published.
And Garrison (I call him Garrison) doesn’t just read a poem. He climbs into it. He wears it like a tailored coat. He conspires in it like a trusted friend. He devours it like a peach, working his way ravenously to the core, leaving nothing unsavored, unselfconsciously letting juice and seeds run down his chin and hands and arms.
And when he’s not reading, he tells stories. Stories about the poets he’s selected. Stories about how poems can periodically fall out of fashion. Stories about the stories behind the poems. And he does it all in such a mellifluous, languid baritone, you just want to climb into his lap and hold on tight so you don’t miss a word.
THE ROCK
I ate at Hard Rock Café on Thursday at a good-bye lunch for a colleague I’m really going to miss. I’ve never been to Hard Rock Café, and I have to say it was just as I’d expected: a little on the loud side, with decent-but-overpriced pub grub and a clientele that spoke volumes about how unhip the place has become.
And that’s saying a lot, considering what little clientele there was. The place was about 10% full … and even then we had to wait 20 minutes for a table.
But now I can add it to my list of touristy places I probably don’t need to visit again: Ed Debevic’s, Hooters, Planet Hollywood, etc.
Don’t think I’m getting all food-snobby on you, though; I’m always gonna love my Cajun chicken pasta at Chili’s and my Cheddar Bay biscuits at Red Lobster and my Victoria’s Filet at Outback and especially my barbacoa burrito at Chipotle.
Just because they’re low doesn’t mean they’re still not standards.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Know what I like about working until 12:30 am?
1. You get a little loopy, and you joke about the most inappropriate things with your co-workers.
2. You all swear a lot.
3. While you're waiting for something to print so you can proofread it, you discover the scanning station down the hall. You suddenly remember you've been wanting to scan your driver's license photo to post on your blog because, in your humble opinion, it's a rare and valuable example of relatively flattering DMV portraiture. And the scanning station is usually backed up with hours of work, but at 12:30 am it's deserted. And there are instructions.
4. And even though you don't have a CLUE what you're doing, you actually make the damn thing work:
2. You all swear a lot.
3. While you're waiting for something to print so you can proofread it, you discover the scanning station down the hall. You suddenly remember you've been wanting to scan your driver's license photo to post on your blog because, in your humble opinion, it's a rare and valuable example of relatively flattering DMV portraiture. And the scanning station is usually backed up with hours of work, but at 12:30 am it's deserted. And there are instructions.
4. And even though you don't have a CLUE what you're doing, you actually make the damn thing work:
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Know what I like about being sick?
You're practically required to lie around and watch TV all day in your underwear. (It's in the job description. Look it up.)
And when you have a backlog of CSI reruns and that silly Dancing with the Stars: The Dance-Off waiting patiently in your TiVo cache, your job is even easier.
Except for all that button-pushing. Using a remote can freakin' wear a guy OUT. TiVo clearly has no respect for the frail.
My day of leisure (and coughing) yesterday was rudely interrupted a couple times by my insatiable thirst and my eventual need to stand in a freezing shower to try to bring my temperature down. It seemed to work, though.
In any case, I'm back among the living (and working) today, with only a slight cough, aching joints and a monster headache to remind me of my halcyon day of leisure.
Ah, memories.
And when you have a backlog of CSI reruns and that silly Dancing with the Stars: The Dance-Off waiting patiently in your TiVo cache, your job is even easier.
Except for all that button-pushing. Using a remote can freakin' wear a guy OUT. TiVo clearly has no respect for the frail.
My day of leisure (and coughing) yesterday was rudely interrupted a couple times by my insatiable thirst and my eventual need to stand in a freezing shower to try to bring my temperature down. It seemed to work, though.
In any case, I'm back among the living (and working) today, with only a slight cough, aching joints and a monster headache to remind me of my halcyon day of leisure.
Ah, memories.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Hit. By. A. TRUCK.
Have you ever been so sick you quietly hoped you'd die in your sleep and make the misery go away? I was ALMOST there last night, with fever, chills, a monster headache, and profound pain in my joints and neck and spine. And a slight cough that made my whole lower torso feel like it was filled with shrapnel. (But, thankfully, no bodily substances fighting to get out for some air. So far.)
I woke up yesterday at 5:30 feeling kind of iffy, but I had to get to the airport for an 8:00 flight and I didn't think I was that ill. By the time I landed in NYC at 9:30 local time, I knew things were just gonna get worse, but I really couldn't turn back then, so I spent the day pretending to be perky and engaged at three client meetings.
And when I finally tumbled painfully into bed last night at 10, the ugly thoughts had started creeping into my head.
I slept 11 hours, though, with the phones turned off and a cold compress on my forehead that got immediately hot and steamy and completely unhelpful. And the fever and chills seemed to be gone when I woke up. But I'm not out of the woods yet, and I actually called in sick today for about the 7th time in my entire professional life. (Which is gonna turn out to be a good decision, because I could really use this day toget caught up on my TiVo rest up and get better.)
Wow. This post is really on the boring side. I'd apologize, but I'm SICK, people! I can't be entertaining you with stories about poop and hookers 365 days a year. Show some respect.
And bring me some TheraFlu.
I woke up yesterday at 5:30 feeling kind of iffy, but I had to get to the airport for an 8:00 flight and I didn't think I was that ill. By the time I landed in NYC at 9:30 local time, I knew things were just gonna get worse, but I really couldn't turn back then, so I spent the day pretending to be perky and engaged at three client meetings.
And when I finally tumbled painfully into bed last night at 10, the ugly thoughts had started creeping into my head.
I slept 11 hours, though, with the phones turned off and a cold compress on my forehead that got immediately hot and steamy and completely unhelpful. And the fever and chills seemed to be gone when I woke up. But I'm not out of the woods yet, and I actually called in sick today for about the 7th time in my entire professional life. (Which is gonna turn out to be a good decision, because I could really use this day to
Wow. This post is really on the boring side. I'd apologize, but I'm SICK, people! I can't be entertaining you with stories about poop and hookers 365 days a year. Show some respect.
And bring me some TheraFlu.
Monday, September 19, 2005
A pirate walks into a bar.
The bartender says, "Hey, Pirate! Do you know you have a steering wheel sticking out of your fly?"
The pirate answers, "Aargh! It's drivin' me nuts!"
Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day.
The pirate answers, "Aargh! It's drivin' me nuts!"
Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
¡El Sábado Gigante!
¡La mañana temprana y las 20 millas!
Where were you at 6:00 am on Saturday? I was gently unlocking my hamstrings and choking down some gritty energy bars in preparation for the longest run of my marathon training. And when I stepped out the door at 6:30 and discovered it was just on the cold side of perfect, I knew my run would be a breeze.
20 miles later, I returned triumphantly to my refrigerator to chug a quart of victory Gatorade and officially mark the beginning—the blessed beginning—of my tapering. From now to October 9, the longest run I’ll do is 10 miles, and I’ll be able to freakin’ SLEEP IN on Saturdays.
And, unlike last year’s festival of debilitating injuries, I’ll be just fine when the marathon finally gets here. Yay!
¡Los maricónes y los aficionados de Cubs!
Normally, I give myself a couple hours to warm down, stretch, and locate my strangely silent appetite after a long run. But my secretary booked me to the gills on Saturday, and I had all of 45 minutes to recover, shave, shower, get dressed and even put on a freakin’ necktie because I was scheduled to sing the National Anthem with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus at Saturday’s 12:20 Cubs game.
It was our third time singing for the Cubs, and it’s always so much fun that I’d reschedule my own autopsy to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. About 90 of us sang on Saturday, and the crowd wasn’t sure what to make of us when we marched on the field in our white shirts and our expertly dimpled ties. And, as usual, there was a bit of a surprised buzz when we were introduced as a group of homosexuals at a sporting event. But about two bars into the music—when our bass notes began to rumble and our gorgeous sound washed through the alcoholic vapors in the stands—the stadium fell completely silent … and then erupted in patriotic whoops and cheers when we finished.
But by then my appetite had awakened from its hibernation, and the Cubs fans were starting to look like food to me. I had to get to a restaurant STAT.
¡Los zapatos unidos mal!
I headed back to the car first to change out of our monkey suits and plug my meter (that’s not a metaphor for anything) … and when I pulled all my carefully packed clothes out of my backpack, I discovered I’d packed two different flip-flops. Like a moron. (Thankfully, I had one for each foot—just imagine how thoroughly Dubya’s PR people would have destroyed my candidacy if I didn’t at least have that accomplishment to stand on. So to speak.)
Then some friends and I hobbled over to a nearby diner, where I proceeded to eat everything in our bread basket, everything on my plate, half of what everyone else ordered and a few of our neighboring patrons who, frankly, weren’t very fast anyway and didn’t deserve to survive.
Then we went and got pedicures! Marathon training hasn’t made my feet all troll-like and repulsive like it does for some runners—I barely have blisters, and only one pinky toenail has turned purple—but it sure has made them sore. So my focus at the pedicure store was all about keeping my feet in the little footsie hot tub as long as possible. Plus: I got to read all about Kirstie Alley’s weight loss in People! So now I’m all caught up on my celebrity news.
¡Los libros nuevos!
And while I was in a literature frame of mind, I headed across the street to Unabridged Books for some post-pedicure, still-in-mismatched-shoes browsing, and I stumbled back into the sun an hour later with American Gothic: A Life of America's Most Famous Painting and David McCullough’s Pulitzer-winning John Adams in my hands. Not that I’ll have any time to read the damn things, but at least they’ll be within arm’s reach should I suddenly find myself with a couple free hours and no CSI reruns on my TiVo. (The horror!)
¡Las fiestas de cumpleaños sin fin!
But my Saturday adventures were far from over. I headed back home to shower and upgrade shoes and then I trekked back out into the world to celebrate three birthdays (which were, mercifully, condensed into two parties).
And after four hours of food and drinks and cake and singing and conversations with strangers and looking for parking, I headed home once again for the final leg of my jorney:
¡El agotamiento completo!
Yes. I was completely exhausted. And I slept like the dead. Like the poor dead patrons of the diner who weren’t fast enough to escape my ravenous hunger.
And on a completely unrelated note, has anyone seen my cat?
Where were you at 6:00 am on Saturday? I was gently unlocking my hamstrings and choking down some gritty energy bars in preparation for the longest run of my marathon training. And when I stepped out the door at 6:30 and discovered it was just on the cold side of perfect, I knew my run would be a breeze.
20 miles later, I returned triumphantly to my refrigerator to chug a quart of victory Gatorade and officially mark the beginning—the blessed beginning—of my tapering. From now to October 9, the longest run I’ll do is 10 miles, and I’ll be able to freakin’ SLEEP IN on Saturdays.
And, unlike last year’s festival of debilitating injuries, I’ll be just fine when the marathon finally gets here. Yay!
¡Los maricónes y los aficionados de Cubs!
Normally, I give myself a couple hours to warm down, stretch, and locate my strangely silent appetite after a long run. But my secretary booked me to the gills on Saturday, and I had all of 45 minutes to recover, shave, shower, get dressed and even put on a freakin’ necktie because I was scheduled to sing the National Anthem with the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus at Saturday’s 12:20 Cubs game.
It was our third time singing for the Cubs, and it’s always so much fun that I’d reschedule my own autopsy to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. About 90 of us sang on Saturday, and the crowd wasn’t sure what to make of us when we marched on the field in our white shirts and our expertly dimpled ties. And, as usual, there was a bit of a surprised buzz when we were introduced as a group of homosexuals at a sporting event. But about two bars into the music—when our bass notes began to rumble and our gorgeous sound washed through the alcoholic vapors in the stands—the stadium fell completely silent … and then erupted in patriotic whoops and cheers when we finished.
But by then my appetite had awakened from its hibernation, and the Cubs fans were starting to look like food to me. I had to get to a restaurant STAT.
¡Los zapatos unidos mal!
I headed back to the car first to change out of our monkey suits and plug my meter (that’s not a metaphor for anything) … and when I pulled all my carefully packed clothes out of my backpack, I discovered I’d packed two different flip-flops. Like a moron. (Thankfully, I had one for each foot—just imagine how thoroughly Dubya’s PR people would have destroyed my candidacy if I didn’t at least have that accomplishment to stand on. So to speak.)
Then some friends and I hobbled over to a nearby diner, where I proceeded to eat everything in our bread basket, everything on my plate, half of what everyone else ordered and a few of our neighboring patrons who, frankly, weren’t very fast anyway and didn’t deserve to survive.
Then we went and got pedicures! Marathon training hasn’t made my feet all troll-like and repulsive like it does for some runners—I barely have blisters, and only one pinky toenail has turned purple—but it sure has made them sore. So my focus at the pedicure store was all about keeping my feet in the little footsie hot tub as long as possible. Plus: I got to read all about Kirstie Alley’s weight loss in People! So now I’m all caught up on my celebrity news.
¡Los libros nuevos!
And while I was in a literature frame of mind, I headed across the street to Unabridged Books for some post-pedicure, still-in-mismatched-shoes browsing, and I stumbled back into the sun an hour later with American Gothic: A Life of America's Most Famous Painting and David McCullough’s Pulitzer-winning John Adams in my hands. Not that I’ll have any time to read the damn things, but at least they’ll be within arm’s reach should I suddenly find myself with a couple free hours and no CSI reruns on my TiVo. (The horror!)
¡Las fiestas de cumpleaños sin fin!
But my Saturday adventures were far from over. I headed back home to shower and upgrade shoes and then I trekked back out into the world to celebrate three birthdays (which were, mercifully, condensed into two parties).
And after four hours of food and drinks and cake and singing and conversations with strangers and looking for parking, I headed home once again for the final leg of my jorney:
¡El agotamiento completo!
Yes. I was completely exhausted. And I slept like the dead. Like the poor dead patrons of the diner who weren’t fast enough to escape my ravenous hunger.
And on a completely unrelated note, has anyone seen my cat?
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
You know what I suck at?
(Aside from performing brain surgery and giving birth and spinning kitten poop into gold and saying “innuendo” without giggling, I mean.)
I really, really suck at making small talk with security-desk guys.
And it’s not some hooty-falooty elitist/classist thing. I pretty much suck at making small talk with everyone. Dinners with old friends, date nights with the boyfriend, family reunions, strangers in bars … my whole life is one long string of awkward, deathly silences. And it’s all my fault.
But security-desk guys are supposed to make small talk. It’s in their job description. (Right?)
Here’s how a typical morning plays out in the lobby of my office building:
Me (walking through door): Good morning!
Security Desk Guy (barely able to tear himself away from the fascinating stain on his tie): Hi, Jack. (The entire security staff in my office calls me Jack. See how much I suck at this?)
Random homeless person who wanders in behind me: Mumble, mumble.
Security Desk Guy: Didja watch that Bears game last night? Here’s a picture of my wife naked. Do you need a kidney?
It’s just as bad in my condo building—and I see those guys waaaaay more often. I pass by the security desk at home at least six times a day, and all I get is an occasional nod and a complimentary opening of the automatic door. (Modern security guys have tons of cool remote-control toys that let them open doors, dim lights and probably even manage Willie Aames’ career with just a touch of a button. Little buttons are the future of technology, I tell you.)
In sharp contrast, my dad comes to visit me about once a year. He’ll pass through the lobby just once to buy a paper across the street, and by the time he gets back he’s gotten Lakers season tickets with the entire security staff.
I. Cannot. Win.
And just what would I hope to accomplish if I could make small talk? Manage FEMA, for one. Apparently all it takes to get that job is to chat blithely with Dubya about … oh, I don’t know … horses. Or something. And Dubya’s apparently a total crack whore, which is kind of like horse. And for him, managing the country is more about making kind-ofs than addressing realities.
Anyway, I gotta hone my skills first before the real job interview. So if you need me, I’ll be in the lobby. I hope my voice doesn’t get too … um … hoarse.
I really, really suck at making small talk with security-desk guys.
And it’s not some hooty-falooty elitist/classist thing. I pretty much suck at making small talk with everyone. Dinners with old friends, date nights with the boyfriend, family reunions, strangers in bars … my whole life is one long string of awkward, deathly silences. And it’s all my fault.
But security-desk guys are supposed to make small talk. It’s in their job description. (Right?)
Here’s how a typical morning plays out in the lobby of my office building:
Me (walking through door): Good morning!
Security Desk Guy (barely able to tear himself away from the fascinating stain on his tie): Hi, Jack. (The entire security staff in my office calls me Jack. See how much I suck at this?)
Random homeless person who wanders in behind me: Mumble, mumble.
Security Desk Guy: Didja watch that Bears game last night? Here’s a picture of my wife naked. Do you need a kidney?
It’s just as bad in my condo building—and I see those guys waaaaay more often. I pass by the security desk at home at least six times a day, and all I get is an occasional nod and a complimentary opening of the automatic door. (Modern security guys have tons of cool remote-control toys that let them open doors, dim lights and probably even manage Willie Aames’ career with just a touch of a button. Little buttons are the future of technology, I tell you.)
In sharp contrast, my dad comes to visit me about once a year. He’ll pass through the lobby just once to buy a paper across the street, and by the time he gets back he’s gotten Lakers season tickets with the entire security staff.
I. Cannot. Win.
And just what would I hope to accomplish if I could make small talk? Manage FEMA, for one. Apparently all it takes to get that job is to chat blithely with Dubya about … oh, I don’t know … horses. Or something. And Dubya’s apparently a total crack whore, which is kind of like horse. And for him, managing the country is more about making kind-ofs than addressing realities.
Anyway, I gotta hone my skills first before the real job interview. So if you need me, I’ll be in the lobby. I hope my voice doesn’t get too … um … hoarse.
Monday, September 12, 2005
My running club
I’ve been getting up at 6:00ish every Saturday for the last few months to pound out my long training runs. It’s a great time to be running because the temperature’s cool, the lakefront trail isn’t clogged with pedestrians, and Dubya is usually out cheering everybody on and passing out FEMA directorships to the runners who don’t spit on him.
And even though I quickly get lost in my zone when I’m doing these runs, a few other runners consistently pop out at me week after week. They’re like members of a running club that’s so secret, they don’t even know they belong. And the cheapskates NEVER pay their dues.
Anyway, I‚d like to introduce you to a few of them:
The co-workers. There are two women in my office training for the Chicago Marathon and hoping to qualify for the Boston Marathon (which means they have to finish Chicago in an inhumanely fast time determined by their age and gender). I see them EVERY TIME I go running, and I’ve logged a good 10 or 15 miles with them over the summer. And even on the hottest, muggiest days, they’re always cheerful and chatty and too perky for their own good. (I think they might be robots.)
The other co-worker. He’s training for the New York Marathon. I see him only once in a while—usually at the free Gatorade stations sponsored by the totally cool people at Fleet Feet. (I think he might be thirsty.)
The Great Dane. Tall and lanky and handsome in a quirky European way, the Great Dane seems like a hardcore runner … who needs a gay best friend. He wears this cheap sun visor, see, and he has this terrible short-on-the-sides, long-on-the-top haircut that pooches out of his visor like a bleached sea anemone. And everyone knows that sea anemone are, like, soooo ’80s. (Just ask the Sturgeon General.)
Cap’n Gaspy. This Rastafarian-looking dude is always sprinting at the speed of light in an oversized T-shirt, heavy track pants and a massive set of dreadlocks that look hotter than a wool blanket in a tanning bed. And he always sounds like he’s about to hurl a lung.
Circuit Boi and the Abinator. I assume these two are a couple. I always see them together, and—bless them—they almost always have their shirts off. Circuit Boi is your standard-issue handsome muscledude who won’t make eye contact. The Abinator is tall and muscular and so unbelievably ripped he should really come stamped with a government label saying “Warning: Contemplating my abs can induce eating disorders in grown men.”
The Abercrombie Twins. These guys have it all: well-defined muscles, tiny waists, smooth skin, nice, even sheens of sweat, faces so handsome they borderline on being pretty, and a turbo pace that leaves me plodding along in their dust like a pregnant camel on a broken skateboard. I usually see them four times on a run, which means the fuckers are clearly running the course twice every morning. They’re the Hottie McHotHots you love to hate and the serious athletes you have to admire. And, on some mornings, the eye candy that totally keeps you motivated.
The 12-year-old. This poor guy will be carded until he’s 72. He’s cute and tiny and built like an Altarboy centerfold. I’m pretty sure he’s gay (and well into his 20s), but he’s always too focused on his runs (his training runs—not the other kind of runs) to look up and smile.
Matthole. I used to think this guy was pretty smokin’ when we went to the same gym five years ago. All hissycophants friends clearly thought the same thing. And, apparently, so did he. I made numerous friendly overtures to him, but he never showed much interest. Then one day I found myself on the bus with one available seat: right next to him! I sat down and tried to chat him up, and—panic-stricken—he pulled a magazine out of his bag and turned his back on me without even a pretend “excuse me.” Then he decided that wasn’t rude enough so he gathered his things, abruptly got up and finished his ride standing in the back of the bus. I soon left that gym, but I still see him around town—and on the running trail every weekend. Lucky me. He’s obviously been running a lot over the years. So much, in fact, that now he looks like the lost Olsen triplet. And since he’s not so smokin’ any more, he’s suddenly trying to make friendly hellos with me when we pass each other on the trail. But I’m usually too busy reading my magazine to notice.
Um … so as I re-read this list, I see that the only people I don’t already know who can break through my three-hour running zone seem to be men.
Do you think I might be gay?
And even though I quickly get lost in my zone when I’m doing these runs, a few other runners consistently pop out at me week after week. They’re like members of a running club that’s so secret, they don’t even know they belong. And the cheapskates NEVER pay their dues.
Anyway, I‚d like to introduce you to a few of them:
The co-workers. There are two women in my office training for the Chicago Marathon and hoping to qualify for the Boston Marathon (which means they have to finish Chicago in an inhumanely fast time determined by their age and gender). I see them EVERY TIME I go running, and I’ve logged a good 10 or 15 miles with them over the summer. And even on the hottest, muggiest days, they’re always cheerful and chatty and too perky for their own good. (I think they might be robots.)
The other co-worker. He’s training for the New York Marathon. I see him only once in a while—usually at the free Gatorade stations sponsored by the totally cool people at Fleet Feet. (I think he might be thirsty.)
The Great Dane. Tall and lanky and handsome in a quirky European way, the Great Dane seems like a hardcore runner … who needs a gay best friend. He wears this cheap sun visor, see, and he has this terrible short-on-the-sides, long-on-the-top haircut that pooches out of his visor like a bleached sea anemone. And everyone knows that sea anemone are, like, soooo ’80s. (Just ask the Sturgeon General.)
Cap’n Gaspy. This Rastafarian-looking dude is always sprinting at the speed of light in an oversized T-shirt, heavy track pants and a massive set of dreadlocks that look hotter than a wool blanket in a tanning bed. And he always sounds like he’s about to hurl a lung.
Circuit Boi and the Abinator. I assume these two are a couple. I always see them together, and—bless them—they almost always have their shirts off. Circuit Boi is your standard-issue handsome muscledude who won’t make eye contact. The Abinator is tall and muscular and so unbelievably ripped he should really come stamped with a government label saying “Warning: Contemplating my abs can induce eating disorders in grown men.”
The Abercrombie Twins. These guys have it all: well-defined muscles, tiny waists, smooth skin, nice, even sheens of sweat, faces so handsome they borderline on being pretty, and a turbo pace that leaves me plodding along in their dust like a pregnant camel on a broken skateboard. I usually see them four times on a run, which means the fuckers are clearly running the course twice every morning. They’re the Hottie McHotHots you love to hate and the serious athletes you have to admire. And, on some mornings, the eye candy that totally keeps you motivated.
The 12-year-old. This poor guy will be carded until he’s 72. He’s cute and tiny and built like an Altarboy centerfold. I’m pretty sure he’s gay (and well into his 20s), but he’s always too focused on his runs (his training runs—not the other kind of runs) to look up and smile.
Matthole. I used to think this guy was pretty smokin’ when we went to the same gym five years ago. All his
Um … so as I re-read this list, I see that the only people I don’t already know who can break through my three-hour running zone seem to be men.
Do you think I might be gay?
Friday, September 09, 2005
It’s official!
After only:
• three weeks
• three phone calls
• two trips
• three separate checks
• three filled-out forms (pressing firmly for the duplicates!) and
• four relatively short lines in two different buildings,
my fabulous new Big Boy Car is now officially a resident of Chicago.
Let us commence celebrating.
The three-week wait stems from an epic surge of projects that has kept me at work—and unavailable to go stand in all those lines even for two business hours—late into most nights for the last couple months.
The two trips stem from the fact that my dealership neglected to give me a Very Important Document that was the critical first step in getting my car licensed and registered and stickered when I finally made it to the DMV last Friday. So once the VID was found, FedExed and in my hands I went back this morning and got everything taken care of.
Except there’s this receipt for my city sticker, see, that’s housed in a folder where I store the documents I’ll need when I do my taxes next spring. Had it even occurred to me to bring the receipt to the DMV—which it hadn’t, obviously—I could have gotten a $50 credit on the cost of my new city sticker. But I decided the promise of having all this form-filling and line-waiting and building-hopping over and done with NOW was worth $50, so I just forked over the full payment and got on with my life.
In refreshing counterpoint to all thisneedless bureaucratic cocksuckery document-locating and line-standing, the people at the DMV were actually very nice and very helpful … but if they didn’t have thick foreign accents, they sure went out of their way to mumble.
Now, I’m thrilled when foreign nationals come to America and find a way to blend their cultures and ours and land jobs and succeed here. I look at their accents—even the nearly impenetrable ones—as part of the great celebration-of-cultures-and-peoples fabric ofblue state America. Seriously. But if you were born in America and grew up in America and speak English as your native language—and if you work in the public sector where you use your mouth to communicate with people all day as a key part of your chosen profession—SPEAK THE FUCK UP.
I know that makes me sound like I’m gonna run out and start one of those “Take Back America!” petitions that declares English the official language and heterosexuality the official fight song and Dubya the Exalted Supreme Leader, but really: Am I asking too much here?
There’s a distinct—and profoundly useful—difference between “wabkhsyrln” and “what bank has your loan?” And if a fine, upstanding, enunciation-enabled citizen has to ask you to repeat your lazy-ass “wabkhsyrln” THREE TIMES, you clearly have a problem providing the minimum skills required for doing your job.
And, believe me, you WILL be blogged about.
Or perhaps I should say: yuwlbblgdbt.
• three weeks
• three phone calls
• two trips
• three separate checks
• three filled-out forms (pressing firmly for the duplicates!) and
• four relatively short lines in two different buildings,
my fabulous new Big Boy Car is now officially a resident of Chicago.
Let us commence celebrating.
The three-week wait stems from an epic surge of projects that has kept me at work—and unavailable to go stand in all those lines even for two business hours—late into most nights for the last couple months.
The two trips stem from the fact that my dealership neglected to give me a Very Important Document that was the critical first step in getting my car licensed and registered and stickered when I finally made it to the DMV last Friday. So once the VID was found, FedExed and in my hands I went back this morning and got everything taken care of.
Except there’s this receipt for my city sticker, see, that’s housed in a folder where I store the documents I’ll need when I do my taxes next spring. Had it even occurred to me to bring the receipt to the DMV—which it hadn’t, obviously—I could have gotten a $50 credit on the cost of my new city sticker. But I decided the promise of having all this form-filling and line-waiting and building-hopping over and done with NOW was worth $50, so I just forked over the full payment and got on with my life.
In refreshing counterpoint to all this
Now, I’m thrilled when foreign nationals come to America and find a way to blend their cultures and ours and land jobs and succeed here. I look at their accents—even the nearly impenetrable ones—as part of the great celebration-of-cultures-and-peoples fabric of
I know that makes me sound like I’m gonna run out and start one of those “Take Back America!” petitions that declares English the official language and heterosexuality the official fight song and Dubya the Exalted Supreme Leader, but really: Am I asking too much here?
There’s a distinct—and profoundly useful—difference between “wabkhsyrln” and “what bank has your loan?” And if a fine, upstanding, enunciation-enabled citizen has to ask you to repeat your lazy-ass “wabkhsyrln” THREE TIMES, you clearly have a problem providing the minimum skills required for doing your job.
And, believe me, you WILL be blogged about.
Or perhaps I should say: yuwlbblgdbt.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Perpetuating the stereotype
10 things about me that are really, really gay:
1. I use high-end foo-foo skincare product.
2. I use the word product.
3. I regularly shave more than my face.
4. I have the perfect shoes for every occasion. With backups.
5. I’m good at catching innuendo and bad at catching a ball.
6. I’m a competent piano player and a damn good tap dancer.
7. I can find a show tune that’s relevant to pretty much any occasion.
8. And I usually know the composer, the lyricist, the original artist and at least two lines of harmony for each song.
9. I’ve gone out in public in drag. And tried to look good.
10. I’ve gone out in public in Abercrombie & Fitch. And hoped I looked good.
10 things about me that I like to think aren’t that gay:
1. For me, cooking a fancy meal involves reading instructions off a box.
2. I have no admiration for Madonna or any of her pop-princess progeny.
3. I use girlfriend only in its traditional context. And I never use mangina. (But I think munt is a pretty funny word.)
4. I’ve never been to a diva concert.
5. But I have been to an Oak Ridge Boys concert.
6. I’ve never been a drinker or a smoker or a drug user. Unless you consider ice cream a drug.
7. My coiffure is Le Salon de Supercuts. My wardrobe is La Maison de Old Navy.
8. My decorating sense is more drabulous than fabulous.
9. I’ve done seven skydives, two triathlons and (so far) one marathon. And I once threw a ball.
10. I have my own toolbox and enough handyman skills to install a faucet, replace a light switch, fix a toilet, repair drywall and reinforce a closet shelf so it can support 20 boxes of off-season shoes.
1. I use high-end foo-foo skincare product.
2. I use the word product.
3. I regularly shave more than my face.
4. I have the perfect shoes for every occasion. With backups.
5. I’m good at catching innuendo and bad at catching a ball.
6. I’m a competent piano player and a damn good tap dancer.
7. I can find a show tune that’s relevant to pretty much any occasion.
8. And I usually know the composer, the lyricist, the original artist and at least two lines of harmony for each song.
9. I’ve gone out in public in drag. And tried to look good.
10. I’ve gone out in public in Abercrombie & Fitch. And hoped I looked good.
10 things about me that I like to think aren’t that gay:
1. For me, cooking a fancy meal involves reading instructions off a box.
2. I have no admiration for Madonna or any of her pop-princess progeny.
3. I use girlfriend only in its traditional context. And I never use mangina. (But I think munt is a pretty funny word.)
4. I’ve never been to a diva concert.
5. But I have been to an Oak Ridge Boys concert.
6. I’ve never been a drinker or a smoker or a drug user. Unless you consider ice cream a drug.
7. My coiffure is Le Salon de Supercuts. My wardrobe is La Maison de Old Navy.
8. My decorating sense is more drabulous than fabulous.
9. I’ve done seven skydives, two triathlons and (so far) one marathon. And I once threw a ball.
10. I have my own toolbox and enough handyman skills to install a faucet, replace a light switch, fix a toilet, repair drywall and reinforce a closet shelf so it can support 20 boxes of off-season shoes.
Monday, September 05, 2005
6:00 a.m.
I’m deep in the heart of Insanely Long Marathon Training Country—which means weekend runs that cover anywhere from 15 to 20 miles (which translates to a good three hours of huffing and puffing). And since the temperatures here are still landing in the low 80s, I do everything in my power to make sure I’m done with all that huffing and puffing well before the weekend has a chance to get hot.
So I tend to be in bed on Friday nights by 10 p.m. and I get up at 6:00 on Saturdays to get my dirty,farty sweaty deed done and out of the way.
Which isn’t all bad. Running in the cool morning air is definitely a high point of my week. Most hardcore runners are up at that hour, so I get to splash in puddles of runner camaraderie and train without armies of civilian dorks wandering aimlessly all over the lakefront path. And I love the feeling of accomplishment I get when I finish my training just as the rest of the world is tumbling out of bed.
Best of all, I sometimes get to witness a Walk of Shame.
This weekend, for instance, I had a trashy, shameful dinner on Friday night at a chain restaurant in a mall parking lot (but it was Olive Garden, I was carbo-loading and it was delicious). Then I snuggled in for a long, restorative sleep. And when I got up before the sun headed out into the morning, I rode the elevator partway with an obviously lost couple who 1) had clearly just met 2) were doing that weird drunk leany thing where they could not find their center of gravity (or their correct floor) and 3) left a toxic effluvium of alcohol, smoke and the promise of really bad sex in the elevator when they finally got off (HA! GOT OFF!) at (presumably) their floor.
Somehow I get the feeling that my 18-mile Saturday morning was way more satisfying than their 18-minute Saturday morning. (Plus: No chlamydia!)
Speaking of bodily discharges—and I know I’ve stated this before—there is no quiet way to fart when you’re running. And running long distances definitely makes you farty—especially if you’ve just eaten one of those gritty energy bars. I’m really good about checking—twice—over my shoulder to see that the coast is clear before I let anything rip when I’m out running, but some runners just open the floodgates with no concern for any potential victims behind them. (Public service announcement: Do NOT be one of those runners!)
Unfortunately, I made a less-than-discreet trumpet call Saturday morning that I’m still flush with embarrassment over. There’s this old stone bridge, see, that the running trail goes under. And you turn a sharp corner before you go under it, so when I did my double-over-shoulder-check, I didn’t see the guy who was just about to turn the corner and go under the bridge behind me. And since it’s a stone bridge, it has the acoustics of a Medieval church—which gave my demure little gas bubble all the subtlety of a hunter’s duck call.
Which means the guy behind me has probably already told all his cool runner friends about the out-of-control farter in the green wife-beater he got trapped behind on his morning run, and now I’m the laughingstock of the Chicago running community.
But still: No chlamydia!
So I tend to be in bed on Friday nights by 10 p.m. and I get up at 6:00 on Saturdays to get my dirty,
Which isn’t all bad. Running in the cool morning air is definitely a high point of my week. Most hardcore runners are up at that hour, so I get to splash in puddles of runner camaraderie and train without armies of civilian dorks wandering aimlessly all over the lakefront path. And I love the feeling of accomplishment I get when I finish my training just as the rest of the world is tumbling out of bed.
Best of all, I sometimes get to witness a Walk of Shame.
This weekend, for instance, I had a trashy, shameful dinner on Friday night at a chain restaurant in a mall parking lot (but it was Olive Garden, I was carbo-loading and it was delicious). Then I snuggled in for a long, restorative sleep. And when I got up before the sun headed out into the morning, I rode the elevator partway with an obviously lost couple who 1) had clearly just met 2) were doing that weird drunk leany thing where they could not find their center of gravity (or their correct floor) and 3) left a toxic effluvium of alcohol, smoke and the promise of really bad sex in the elevator when they finally got off (HA! GOT OFF!) at (presumably) their floor.
Somehow I get the feeling that my 18-mile Saturday morning was way more satisfying than their 18-minute Saturday morning. (Plus: No chlamydia!)
Speaking of bodily discharges—and I know I’ve stated this before—there is no quiet way to fart when you’re running. And running long distances definitely makes you farty—especially if you’ve just eaten one of those gritty energy bars. I’m really good about checking—twice—over my shoulder to see that the coast is clear before I let anything rip when I’m out running, but some runners just open the floodgates with no concern for any potential victims behind them. (Public service announcement: Do NOT be one of those runners!)
Unfortunately, I made a less-than-discreet trumpet call Saturday morning that I’m still flush with embarrassment over. There’s this old stone bridge, see, that the running trail goes under. And you turn a sharp corner before you go under it, so when I did my double-over-shoulder-check, I didn’t see the guy who was just about to turn the corner and go under the bridge behind me. And since it’s a stone bridge, it has the acoustics of a Medieval church—which gave my demure little gas bubble all the subtlety of a hunter’s duck call.
Which means the guy behind me has probably already told all his cool runner friends about the out-of-control farter in the green wife-beater he got trapped behind on his morning run, and now I’m the laughingstock of the Chicago running community.
But still: No chlamydia!
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