The last three miles is pure pain

That's me about to cross the finish line of the first annual City of Oaks marathon in Raleigh, NC. I finished the hilly 26.2 mile slog in 4:13:34, which equates to a nine minute and forty-one second mile. I'm pretty happy with the time (and the fact that I finished), considering the journey.

Last February on Superbowl Sunday, I smoked my second-to-last cigarette. I'd been meaning to quit for a while -- about ten years, actually. That's how smoking works. It's a short-term habit that lasts a decade. But I had finally come to the realization that it was now or never. After all, if I never got around to making the effort, I would always be a smoker. So I read a book about quitting and threw my last pack away Sunday night.

Monday afternoon I bought a new pack.

I walked up and down 40th avenue, whacking the pack with my palm and looking for a place to smoke. I felt a little criminal, or at least juvenile -- like my parents were around somewhere waiting to register their dissapointment. I opened it up and tapped out a cigarette. Lit it up and took about three good drags. Drags that filled my lungs and made my brain tickle with neuronal gratitude. Then I stubbed it out, crumpled up the pack and tossed it. Done.

I'm not going to say it was easy. It wasn't. I still have dreams about smoking. I'll be walking down the street with a cigarette in my lips, telling myself I'm still a non smoker even though I'm smoking. Then I wake up physically feeling as though I'd sucked down a cigarette.

I gained a few pounds back that I'd shaved off over the previous year. That fucking sucks, you know? Getting punished for quitting a filthy habit? But that's the wrong way to look at it, I tell myself.

And it's true, because my clothes no longer smell. My hair isn't smoke-cured and my breath doesn't taste like an ashtray. I don't wake up coughing and no longer have to clear my throat constantly. My energy is good. My eyes don't sting. I can breathe again. And it's done wonders for my running.

So it all led up to last Sunday. I'd done my marathon training. Flew into NC last Thursday. Was all set to do my first marathon. And then I couldn't sleep.

The race started at 7am. I'd set the alarm for 5:45am, enough time to drink a couple diet red bulls, pull my shit together and wait for my brother (also running) to pick me up. But after watching a little TV and lying down, I suddenly wasn't tired. Then I really wasn't tired. Then was positively wired. Tossing. Turning. Thrashing.

At 3am, I drank a glass of old Merlot in desparation. Nothing. Finally I fell asleep at 4am, then woke up an hour later after dreaming I overslept. Fell back asleep for about another 45 mintues.

Turns out it didn't affect me all that much. The excitement of the race pulled me through, along with about eight caffeine-laced gels. I cruised through the first half, hit the park and felt great. The second half was hilly. I mean, really hilly. By the 22nd mile I was hurting. But I kept trogging ahead. I ran slow but I kept running, never stopping to walk.

Got my medal and I'm stiff as hell. I've been hobbling around like an 80-year old. But it was worth it. I'll definately do another one.

Conspiracy

OK, here's the deal. I got an IM saying that a truck had crashed into city hall here in NYC. The IM said it was a breaking story on CNN.

But when I went to CNN, nothing. No breaking news, no top story, no reference at all. Same thing on NY1.com.

That can mean only one thing: CNN and the government have a highly covert agreement of deceit and fabrication that benefits both parties while preying on the fear of the American public.

What happens is this. CNN's editorial staff works with the state department to set up what is known as an "events calendar." This is much like an editorial calendar, with one crucial difference: The events to be reported upon are predetermined by a select committee, then outsourced to Blackwater to execute.

You see, every once in a while the American public requires what is called a "fear adjustment" to keep them supporting the highly profitable and diversionary war effort. The secret CNN/goverment committee decides what those events will be, and when and where they will occur.

THESE ARE COMPLETELY STAGED EVENTS DESIGNED TO KEEP US AFRAID.

The government benefits because the public remains fearful and therefore supportive of the current administration. CNN benefits because they get the early scoop on the events. In fact, so meticulously planned out are these events that CNN often writes the articles days beforehand.

Which is precisely what they did with this story about the truck crashing into city hall.

Only problem is that the story somehow made it onto the homepage for a minute before being taken down. You can be sure whoever made that mistake is already dead.

Check CNN tonight and tomorrow. You will see a story about a truck crashing into city hall. Frightening.

UPDATE: The person just IM'd me again and sent me the link for the story. It happened in NC. I thought she typed NYC. My bad.

RANODM #5

On seeing a small blob of doodie on the toilet seat.

Oh, hello.
You startled me a bit.
How'd you get up there?
Normally your kind stays in the bowl.
I didn't mean anything by that.
But you usually don't make it to these parts.
What am I up to?
I'm actually here to poo.
Yeah, it is kinda funny when you think about it.
Can I confide in you?
This is a little uncomfortable.
I have a dilemma.
I want to clean the seat.
But that means I run the risk of touching you.
But if I don't clean the seat then I might sit on you.
Nothing against you, but you're not one of mine.
That's just how I feel about it.
Sorry.
Don't be like that.
Fine, I'll just find another stall then.
Take that back!


The preceding was inspired by a recent events that took place here on the 14th floor.

The idea that doodie on the seat disturbs us because of culturally enforced ideas about where matter belongs comes from the (seriously) excellent book Poop Culture by author and office mate Dave Praeger.

Global Warming will eat your brain

When I think of global warming I think of melting ice-caps, polar bears stranded on ice floes, rising beaches, flooding, heatstroke and Al Gore.

I don't think of killer amoebae eating their way up my optic nerve to feast on my brain.

But that is another grim reality of global warming--dangerous new forms of life blooming in algae-thick lakes and kicking our asses in strange and horrible ways. Like this ameoba that has recently killed six people in the south and southwest.

You get it by swimming in lakes and ponds that harbor the ameoba. They say guys get it more than girls, probably because we splash and flip around like idiots and are more likely to get a blast of infected lake water up our noses. Once the amoeba takes hold you start getting headaches. Then you start to hallucinate. As your brain is consumed, you lose the ability to function. And that all happens in like a week-and-a-half. By the weekend you're dead. Nice.

Did you know there's a postion at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention that specializes in "recreational waterborne illnesses?" And did you know that the guy who holds that position has the last name of "Beach?" I find that funny. But what's not funny is that Michael Beach predicts more of these kinds of diseases to occur as water temperatures continue to rise. Awesome.

My girlfriend says she's not worred about the amoeba because she doesn't swim in lakes. Case closed, next topic. But she does worry that global warming will ruin barbeque. That's because she read that global warming might be behind the sudden drop in bee population, which could wipe out our supply of honey. And honey, according to my Dinosaur Barbeque Cookbook, is the number one ingredient used in barbeque. What a conservationist.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to snort some pond water.

It's come to this.

That's right, dude. Shaolin Shnutz.

Two of the greatest videos ever made

Period.

YouTube: Knee jerk or just jerks?

An anti-creationist group put up some pro-evolution videos on YouTube. An angry creationist organization sent copyright requests to YouTube, because the videos used clips taken from the organization's Web site. 

Even though it appears the videos are protected by fair use, YouTube jumped the gun and took down the vids. And after the anti-creationist group called foul they banned them completely.

Let's hope YouTube comes to its senses soon.

From my widget to you.

I've loaded the blogger widget on my laptop, so all I have to do is hit f12 and a panel pops up and lets me type the entry I'm typing now. Then I hit publish post and we're good to go.

Cool.

Eighty-seven pounds crashes to the ground

I think the watering pot threw off her balance.

Like, totally

I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because uh some-a people out there in our nation don't have maps and uh I believe that our a education like such as in South Africa and the Iraq and everywhere like such as and I believe that they should our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. um er should help South Africa and should help the Iraq in the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future...FOR OUR CHILDREN.

Chocolate Rain!

Here's a little tune that will burrow it's way into your brain and not leave even though you want it to. It's equal parts bizarre, inane, goofball, catchy, clever and snot-nosed-college-punk-shaddup-you-little-suburban-brat.

His name is Tay Zonday (already annoying) and he sings kinda the way Michael Clark Duncan speaks in Green Mile. That might not be the greatest comparison but you get my point. It's a very old fashioned, affected way of singing that is sort of fascinating. Some of his lines are clever and even nice, but he's also a dopey 25 year old college kid.

By the way, Wasklewicz found this. He always finds good stuff.



Then watch this. Of all lame video responses, this is the best. Some very good lines in here.

Chicken with pears

This looks delicious.

Bruce!

We've been looking at directors' reels at work and came across this Old Spice spot by the Perlorian brothers. Only later did me and my art director realize that (duh!) the guy at the piano is none other than Bruce Campbell! Now the commercial is six times cooler.



By the way, the Perlorian brothers also did this great spot. A pattern emerges?

Pole Position

It'll leave skid marks on your soul!

Ice Hockey

Sexually harrass women right from your car!

Chophouse

I have no plans to make this a dream blog, but I did have another weird one last night. Scary as shit when it happened, but not so sinister thinking about it now. It's short:

I'm at work at around 11pm. This art director Ryan asks me if I want to get some lunch at "The Chophouse." Instantly my mind conjures a chopped steak and cheese sandwhich and we leave.

We go outside, but instead of midtown Manhattan it's a town park in upstate NY, and we're sprinting through the inky darkness of moonless night. I can barely see Ryan. He's a dark shape against a black background. But as we race up a grassy hill another human shape (a sinister shape) passes in front of us. We're not alone and I know we should keep running, but just then Ryan pulls a hamstring and yells out for help. I turn around and see him collapsed on the grass as the other figure now slows to a stop and starts moving slowly toward him.

I want to keep running, but I can't leave him there. So I yell out. "I'm coming to help. Let me just get my knife out. And my gun!" I try to talk all street but it comes out soft and suburban. Comical.

And then I wake up.

Dreams are all about mood. This one, recounted in the light of day, is a fairly bland little story. But it was terrifying at the time. And I think "The Chophouse" is a great touch, don't you?

I gave the most brilliant speech in a dream last night

I don't know whose ghost I was channeling last night. But when I woke up this morning I had the sensation some great unwritten novel had been whispered into my ear as I slept. And I repeated the words of the dream over and over and over as I lay in bed, knowing if I simply remembered them I would have something Great.

Then I forgot the dream completely, only to remember it now. All that remain are it's ruins; like a once great civilization whose ancient pillars sit like broken teeth on a hillside. I have fragments, remembered bits. Phrases. And images of the disapproving looks on the fat faces of my audience.

Here's what I remember. (I can't emphasize enough how fucking genius this was in it's original form.)

This group came in and I spoke with them about the meaning of commitment. “People talk about change all the time,” I began, “but it never leads to actual change.”

“You know the kind of discussions I’m talking about,” I said. “You’re sitting in some meeting room with a bunch of people and it’s like 11:30 and there’s half a stale croissant on your plate from the continental breakfast bar. And some guy wearing a bad tie is talking about how to create a Sea Change in an Enterprise Company as you watch the clock tick toward lunch.

"Everybody nods in agreement at everything this douche says, but they know full fucking well they’re not gonna do a goddamned thing differently than they did yesterday. All he represents is the dickhead standing between them and lunch, and their nodding heads are the key that gets them out the fucking door."

"And why don't people change? Because people are lazy."

Then I told them about how a guitarist by the name of James Marshal Hendrix taught himself how to play the guitar left handed, and how he willingly took a secondary role in an obscure blues group so he could give himself the freedom to master the guitar. “That,” I said, “is the commitment to change.”

I don't know where all this came from. Why did I refer to Jimi as "James Marshall?" Is the anecdote I gave about him even true? And what about the awful corporate phrase "sea change," a buzzword straight out of 1999, filed in the same box as "e-business" and "monetize?" Where did it all come from?

Strange dream. But trust me, it was genius shit when I dreamt it.

Four years ago.

The diner is overflowing. People standing in the doorway waiting for a two-top, a four-top, a six-top.

"Two, two" the owner says, wiping a table, his fingers in a "V."

A man and a woman follow him back, follow him back. A man and a woman. A woman and a man. Men, Women, in neat, complimentary pairs. And I'm watching from my two-top (for one) by the window.

A plate slides in front of me. "Two eggs over easy, a side of bacon and white toast. More coffee?"

My, that's a lot of bacon on my plate. And look at all those potatoes. I put my book down to eat, but I'm not happy with what I ordered. I'm never happy with what I order. It's a problem. I get overwhelmed by all of the choices on the menu. I want pancakes and eggs but I don't want to look like a pig, so I only order one. Invariably, it's the wrong one. Then, while I'm waiting for my meal to arrive, someone at a table next to me gets the thing I should have ordered. The hot, fluffy thing that steams from their plate while they hover toward their lover, who also has made a wise choice. Then I get jealous. Jealous of their meals and jealous of their lovers. Jealous, jealous while I spread jelly on my toast. While I jab a yolk with my toast. While I wipe the crumbs from the corners of my mouth in my corner of the diner.

Take all twelve inches of Snow

I've got an old song stuck in my head and I don't want it there anymore. It's "Informer" by Snow, and I have no idea how it got there. It was stuck in my head in 1993 when it first came out and somehow it's come back.

So I'm posting the video here, hoping that by putting it in your head it will leave mine -- kinda like how the devil goes from Regan to Damien Karras at the end of the Exorcist.



But wait, there's more! I was curious about whatever happened to this guy after '93. Turns out he's maintained a moderately successful career in his native Canada. (Not "Informer-successful," but successful) In fact, here's a "hit" video he did a few years back featuring Bubbles from the Trailer Park Boys. This is mesmerizing in a way that Mesmer only wishes he could have been.

Funny? Yes. Bad? Sure, but don't give me any of that "he's so white" nonsense. It's no different than any other R&B/Reggae crap out there today.

Bubbles makes it work.