RICHARD NIXON WAS RIGHT

“Defeat doesn’t finish a man—quit does. A man is not finished when he’s defeated. He’s finished when he quits.”
—RICHARD M. NIXON

Man, I love Tricky Dick. What a great quote. What a great man. Did that guy EVER make a mistake? Oh, yeah, Watergate. But come on, everyone is entitled to ONE mistake. And you have to admit, those words are pretty powerful. Although they do lose some of their potency when you consider that Nixon is one of the biggest quitters of all-time, having resigned as President in 1974. Man, I have to start picking better mentors.

Well, I can’t be too hard on the Dick (no jokes, please), because I’m a hypocrite, too. I am guilty of being a pharisee, a phony, a liar and a prevaricator and fabricator of the highest order. As you can probably guess by now, I have NOT quit the marathon, nor have I quit my blog. The reason is simple: After posting that September 9 would be my last blog, I received 198,523 responses from people begging, pleading and demanding that I continue, that I brave the storm, that I never stop writing this all-so-important blog of immeasurable consequence. OK, I DIDN’T receive 198,523 responses. I didn’t even receive one. But, like I said earlier, I’m a liar.

The real reason for my triumphant return is simple: After writing my last post, all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull the sheets over my head, feel sorry for myself and retreat from the world. There were several motivations for that, which I’ll discuss in my next post, but basically, a lot of bad things hit me at once, and I simply wanted to quit everything: my training, the marathon, the blog, my job, heroin (just joking—I’d NEVER quit heroin; that shit’s the bomb!). But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum: After writing that post, I didn’t go back to bed or sleep the day away, but rather went for a run and thought things over. And then I had an epiphany of sorts: I finally admitted to myself that the STAR WARS prequels suck. Freed of the burden of having to defend those mediocre movies, I began to feel a new lease on life…

OK, another lie. Get used to it, suckas. The REAL epiphany was that I finally figured out that 1) I’ve worked too hard and long and run too many painful miles to quit when the end was in sight, and 2) Getting the suicide-attempt monkey off my back and just throwing it out there for anyone to see rid me of what I felt was my Scarlet Letter, my secret stain and shame that couldn’t be spoken of because people would think I was a freak, or a mental case, or some seriously disturbed person.

Yes, I am a freak, a mental case and seriously disturbed—but in a GOOD way, and not because I tried to kill myself. And of the handful of people who knew what I did, some, indeed, treated me differently, or stopped being my friend or simply tried to pretend that it never happened. But the thing is, it happened. I did it. Guilty as charged. Big-whoop-de-f**king-doo! One mistake does not make a man (just ask Nixon!), and I am now more comfortable in my own skin, and with who I am, than ever before. I am content with who I am as a person (and trust me, I realize that there’s plenty of room for improvement), and trying to kill myself is part of who I am, but it’s a part of my past, and it helped make me who I am in the present. I’m not going to dwell on it, but I’m not going to ignore it or treat it like Sloth from the GOONIES and keep it locked up in my mind’s basement, feeding it Baby Ruths until a fat kid named Chunk finally frees it and… Sorry, I’m kind of pushing it with the GOONIES/Sloth metaphor, ain’t I? But I digress.

So if people know that about me and can’t deal with it, or deal with me, or look down or oddly at me, I’ll politely go to www.mapquest.com and give them directions to my ass, so they can kiss it. Actually, I understand why most people aren’t comfortable with those who have attempted suicide, or have mental health problems, or suffer from severe depression. But, again, the thing is, I AM comfortable with those issues, and the people who have them, and I’m comfortable with myself.

This is getting a little too preachy and didactic for my sermonizing ass, so I think it’s time to hit the stop button. But come on, did you really think I would quit? Hell, my idol is Brett Favre. If good old #4 can change his mind and come out of retirement, why can’t I? Hey, wait, Brett Favre… Screw Tricky Dick, that corrupt, Watergate-scandal son of a bitch. And screw his quote. In Brett I trust. And in Brett I quote:

“Life deals you a lot lessons, some people learn from it, some people don't. Once again I am not perfect, but I thought there was one time when Brett Favre would always drink and be this crazy guy, I thought I would never change.”
—BRETT FAVRE

Well, Brett, I’m probably always going to drink and be crazy. But I’m cool with that. I’ll always be a drunken reprobate. But I’ve been dealt a lot of lessons this past year, and I’ve learned from a lot of them. And while I’m far from perfect, I have changed…for the better. I ain’t no Nixon. I ain’t resigning. I ain’t quitting. I gotta run, folks—literally and figuratively. I have a marathon I have to prepare for, and it’s time for me to get my ass in gear…

I QUIT

You win. Whoever you are. You win. I lose. I concede, abandon, relinquish, surrender.

I am quitting this blog. I am quitting my training. I am quitting the marathon.

I, Dartman, the Drunken Reprobate, ignoble and abject, ignominiously give up this fustian on-line melodrama and marathon attempt. I am cutting the cord on this flapdoodle. This blog balderdash has reached its conclusion. And while these postings have, for the most part, been a potpourri of nonsensical, self-contradictory, frivolous and facetious poppycock, my story, and this blog, does not end as a comedy, but, as it must, a tragedy. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM was never my cup of tea, anyway. I’ve always been more of a HAMLET man myself. Perhaps because I can relate to a man of no action. But I digress.

My training started back in October with 5-mile Monday runs with Team Tiger, and it got serious around 19 weeks ago, when I began my marathon training. During the last 4-plus months, I’ve easily run over 500 miles, maybe 600. I’ve averaged 40-50 beers a week (12 and 16 oz., depending on the ABV). I’ve survived on a diet of coffee, burritos, pizza, ice cream, pasta and beef. And on the snooze front, I’ve done all this on around 4.5 hours sleep a night.

When people heard about my marathon routine, they told me I wouldn’t make it. They said I was crazy. They were concerned about my health. They told me there was no way I should drink beer BEFORE and DURING my training runs, and especially during the actual race. They assured me there was no way I could complete the marathon.

I tried to defy them. And I almost made it. Yes, I’m an imprudent crackpot. But I never got injured. Actually, I’ve never been healthier. I am a strong runner. I am reasonably fast. And, on Sunday, I did the longest leg of my training. I ran 23 miles in 3:20. I was actually sort of proud of myself. I was ready as could be for the big race October 12. But I was wrong. I won’t be running the marathon. YOU were right. I won’t be seeing the finish line in Chicago. I’ve wasted an entire summer running. That’s what these four-plus months have been: constant, never-ending running. I put in the time, the miles, the effort and gave my heart and soul. I truly did. But I won’t be running or finishing the Chicago Marathon, and there’s one, simple reason for that:

I quit.

And although it may not be fair, I’m not gonna tell you why. And not because I’m afraid of disclosure, but because it wasn’t any ONE thing. Yeah, something hurtful happened last night, but that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Basically, this past year has been like LEMONY SNICKET: one big SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS. To give you an idea of where I’m coming from (and so I don’t sound like an egocentric whiner), I will divulge the biggest secret of my life, something only a handful of people know, and which might explain why I chose to run a marathon and write this blog, and why I’ve now decided to quit both.

On July 17, 2007 I tried to kill myself. In fact, I should be dead. My alcohol level alone should have done me in. And the 50 or so pain killers I swallowed should have sealed the deal. But they didn’t. I lived. And I’m glad I did. I spent the first 32 years of my life hating myself, and spent this last year trying to learn to look in the mirror and not see some failure and horrible being, but a good person with faults who tries to do the right thing, who aims to be the best son, brother and friend he can be, and maybe finally believes enough in himself to act on his potential, to see what he has left in the tank, to see what he has to offer and can achieve.

So I have a history of quitting. I quit on life on July 17. Today, a little over a year later, I’m only quitting a marathon and a blog. That’s an improvement, right? (Come on, there has to be SOME humor in this post.) Coincidentally, the other day, I was watching Akira Kurosawa’s brilliant IKURU (which, I think, means TO LIVE in English), in which Takashi Shimura plays Kanji Watanabe, a man dying of cancer who has wasted his life and finally figures out how to live—a life of passion and dedication and worth—as he faces his own impending death. The film made a huge impact on me. I’m not dying. And I’m certainly not planning on a repeat performance of July 17. But I almost died. I should be dead. And I’ve spent this year, like Watanabe, realizing how to live, to search and reach for that passion and dedication and worth. In the movie, Watanabe beautifully, plaintively sings the song “Life is Brief.” It sounds corny, but, man, it hit home with me. So is it that surprising that I threw myself into running a marathon? I hate trite metaphors and analogies. Here are the facts: I tried to kill myself. I lived. I decided to commit myself to running a 26.3 mile race. Read into that what you want. But I changed my life.

However, there are certain things you CAN’T change. I understand that you can’t expect life to give you any breaks, but, boy, I’ve taken a lot of punches to the bread basket this past year. And not just personally, but my family and friends. It has been a truly sh*tty year. But I’ve rolled with the punches all the while. I’m no cry baby. My worst day is some poor sap’s best day. I realize everybody has their trials and tribulations, and there are TONS of people who are going through much worse crap than I am. Don’t break out a tissue for me. But there’s a line in ROCKY BALBOA (yes, I’m referencing Shakespeare and Sylvester Stallone in the same post) where the Italian Stallion says, “You, me or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you’re hit, it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much you can take and keep moving forward.”

Well, I’m not moving forward. Not in a marathon, not in anything. I can’t take the hits anymore. And there have been plenty of them this last year. And there’s only one person to blame. Me. I’ve run a lot of miles this past year, literally and figuratively, and while my legs aren’t tired, I am. All those miles, all that time, all that effort, and I always ended my runs right where I started them. All that, and for what? To end up in the same place I began. You don’t have to be Freud to read into that. At least if I had completed the marathon, I would have been 26 miles ahead. Ouroboros is not broken. My life has been one big, endless, repetitive cycle. The end is the beginning is the end. The serpent swallows its tail. But I’m not quitting on life. Just this blog and the marathon. Still, something in the back of my mind tells me they’re one and the same thing.


So I guess a Drunken Reprobate can’t be a marathoner. I guess you and everyone else was right. But you have to admit, I came awfully close and give it a hell of shot, didn’t I?

Adios.

Dartman (a.k.a. The Drunken Reprobate)

WHY SO SERIOUS?

I am chaos. I am anarchy. Lawlessness. Mobocracy. I incite riots. Encourage disorder. Give me tumult and turmoil. Bring on rebellion and revolution. I am a crazed malcontent whose brain has been warped by too much beer and marathon training. I am a rabble-rousing drunken reprobate. I am no longer Dartman. There was an accident… A terrible accident. And my face is now hideously deformed. My grin is a craggy slash, a razor-blade frightening, demented smile. My skin a pasty, tallow-faced, sickly white. My hair a dirty, sewer-green, greasy and grimy, filthy like a stringy, worn-out mop. Don’t call me the Dartman. Don’t call me the Batman. Call me…

The Joker.

HA! HA! HA! HA!
HA! HA! HA! HA!
HA! HA! HA! HA!

Why so serious?

OK, I’m NOT the Joker. I just saw THE DARK KNIGHT one too many times. Same thing happened a few years ago when I saw that Chris Kattan film and thought I was CORKY ROMANO for three months. Still, there is a method to madness, and my proclamation that I am now a subversive agent of chaos. (And no, I’m not referring to GET SMART).

You see, what happened was… This is hard to admit… And it’s why I haven’t posted in some time. I also went into my third coma in five years after drunkenly smashing my head against a lamp. That doesn’t sound so bad, but it was actually a LAMP POST. And I smashed my noggin against it while I was sticking my head out of a Corvette doing 80 mph. I was brain dead for three days, but luckily my brother was a perfect match and unselfishly donated his brain. My benevolent sibling gave up his life for me, and all I can say is… SUCKA! I would have NEVER given my brother my brain. I wouldn’t have even given him a pint of blood if it would have saved his life. If I came across him dying of dehydration in a desert, I would have guzzled a 5-gallon water bottle of Poland Spring in front of him, stuffed his mouth full of dry Saltines and watched him die. That asshole thought he was so… Sorry, getting off track. That’s another post. But, bro, if you’re reading this, and this comes from the heart: Now, I’M THE BRAINS OF THE FAMILY, DOUCHE BAG!!! Yeah, that’s what I said, tough guy. You are, were and always will be a douche bag! Vaginal irrigation is even above you. You’re a friggin’ enema nozzle, butt munch. Mom WAS right. You were smarter than me. But now you’re topsoil and I’ve got your brain. HA! HA! HA! HA!

Sorry. Like I said, I may not be the Joker, but I am mad as a hatter. Anyway, so there are two reasons why I haven’t blogged lately. One, as you can probably tell from my last few blogs, is that I’m having a ¾-life crisis. No, not a mid-life crisis. I had THAT when I was 20. So that means I’m a goner at 40. But at age 30, I’m having a ¾-life crisis, and I blame it on REASON #2. And REASON #2 is: I started taking running seriously. Why so serious you ask? I don’t know. Running is like a drug to me now. I love it. I need it. I abuse it. I snort it. I’ve sucked d**k for it. I’ve tossed the salad of a 1,324-pound shut-in amputee named LaSandra just to feel the rush of a 5-mile sprint. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I’ve never snorted running. But the rest is true.

Two Sundays ago, I ran 20 miles. Not biked or drove or flew. I RAN my first 20-miler. And I averaged 9-minute miles, and that’s with hills. I ran 40 or so miles that week, which was another new record for me. I also ran 9 miles at a 7:30 pace, my fastest ever. I can now sprint one mile in under 6:30. And I’m following it up this week with another 40 miles and my upcoming 23-mile run (the longest of the training).

Am I patting myself on the back? NO!!!!! These are all BAD things. That’s what SERIOUS runners do. I’m a joker, a toker, a midnight… Wait, I hate that song. But I’m becoming dedicated to this training and the marathon and, well, I don’t like it. I’m Dartman. I’m a Drunken Reprobate. I’m NOT a runner!

So that’s where the Joker comes in. The anarchy. The craziness. The madness. To make up for all the progression I’ve made as a runner, I went off the deep end and mutinied this past week. Yeah, I’m still gonna run 40 miles, but like Sinatra, I’m gonna do it MY WAY. Last Sunday, yeah, I ran my 13 miles. But I did it after drinking 10 strong-ass beers the night before, mainly Captain Lawrence Double IPAs. Last Tuesday, yeah, I did my speed run of 5 miles at a 7:30 pace. But I did it after drinking sangria, a margarita and three pints. I was sweaty and stunk of alcohol afterward, but I was still fast. I’ve increased my miles, my drinking and my lack of sleep. I live on coffee, fried foods, burritos and hot wings. And I LOVE it!!!

My name is Dartman. Not Batman. I am not on the side of good or order, lawfulness or compliance. I am a rogue runner. I am a good-for-naught. I am self-destructive. I am an unprincipled, scampish, frolicsome scapegrace. And if I fall on my face and don’t finish the marathon, you can wag your finger at me and say, “I told you so.” But if somehow I DO finish the marathon, while DRINKING BEER, and I get a decent time, well, then my puckish personality will have paid off. I won’t have compromised. Runners are a methodical, systematic, orderly and regulated lot. I am a stye in their eye. An irritant. I defy classification. I am chaos. And my goal is to watch the running world burn. Call me…

The Dartman.

Wait. I’m getting a little full of myself here. I admit, I AM crazy. But I’m insignificant, not super-serious-runner-fast and like 32 people have read this friggin blog. No one cares about my revolution. The real runners rule. During my 4-month training, I can almost guarantee that I will have had more beer, eaten unhealthier and gotten less sleep than anybody else in the Chicago Marathon. But who cares? I’m a delusional dork trying to pose himself as an unhinged firebrand and psychotic troublemaker who actually has a voice that is heard and listened to. But wasn’t the Joker delusional, too? Exaggerating his importance and impact on Gotham City? Batman saves the day, is the hero, gets the girl and represents righteousness. Oh, wait, that’s Spider-Man and Superman. Batman is actually pretty cracked, too. But the Joker will always be the cynosure of my eyes.

Why so serious?

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

8/16-9/4

DRINKING
8 beers (avg. ABV: 7%) (5 days a week)

RUNNING
40 miles total/week (and my first 20-miler)

SLEEP
5 hours/day

NICE GUYS FINISH LAST

I’ve decided to be a bad guy. A louse. A no-good, irredeemable, malignant, nasty, nefarious, unscrupulous, vile son of a bitch. I tried to be a good guy. I’ve helped old ladies cross the street. Put my coat in a puddle so a pretty woman wouldn’t get her feet wet. I’ve donated time and money to charities and the community. I’ve been a good friend, a good son, a good brother and so forth. Trust me, I’m not stroking my ego here. I am a deeply flawed person, but I’ve always had good intentions, and I’ve always put others before me. I even created The Timmy Fund, which is like The Jimmy Fund, except all the money goes to one boy named Timmy. Timmy isn’t even sick. He’s just a nice kid and I wanted to help him out. Timmy is now 13, worth $15 million dollars and no longer returns my phone calls. But I still love him to pieces. Anyway, my point is, I’ve tried to be an altruistic, kindhearted, caring, benevolent and philanthropic person for 33 years.

But not anymore.

Because here is a fact, folks, an irrefutable axiom that, once you understand and accept it, will change your life forever: Nice Guys Finish Last.

I began to realize this during my marathon training. Even though I was running more and drinking less (I cut down from 9 days of drinking a week to 7. I invented two new, imaginary days—Runday and Laturday—so I could pretend I wasn’t getting drunk daily), my times were getting slower. At first, I thought it was my running shoes. I had went the costly route and bought the most expensive running sneakers in the world: Nike Gold. The sneakers are literally made from two bars of gold, and while they look fabulous, they weigh 50 pounds apiece. Running with those things feels like Kirstie Alley is holding onto my ankles.

So I got new sneakers (Nike Steel—they’re made from the popular alloy, and are 20 pounds lighter), but that STILL didn’t work. I tried changing my diet, and switched from all-fried food fare to a regimen of amphetamines, steroids and painkillers, but that didn’t cut it, either. Flustered and fatigued, I started to realize that every time I committed a good act or deed, I got SLOWER. If I held the door for someone, that cost me 10 seconds. If I said “Please” or “Thank You” to someone, that cost me 15. If I helped out a co-worker who was behind schedule, that was 20. You get the point…

What verified and validated my assumption was when I checked the history of EVERY marathon ever run. And, you know what? In EVERY SINGLE FRIGGIN’ race, a NICE GUY FINISHED LAST. It’s unbelievable. In fact, everybody who finished at the tail end of the field in every marathon was a Nice Guy. Immorality has prevailed in every marathon, sport, business and enterprise since the beginning of man. Checking the fastest runners in the history of men’s marathons backed it up for me: These guys—all the winners and frontrunners—were PURE EVIL. And they were speedy!

So that did it for me. Gone are the days of goodness, righteousness and rectitude. Integrity and probity my ass! I’m no Luke Skywalker. I’m Darth Vader, baby! I bow to the altar of Hannibal Lecter, Freddy Krueger and Kiefer Sutherland in THE LOST BOYS. Wait, those aren’t real people. Well, I guess that’s beside the point.

Ever since I’ve dedicated myself to a life of wrongdoing and peccancy, my legs have felt stronger, I’ve had more energy and I’m the fastest I’ve ever been. Man, it’s awesome being a rotten son of a bitch. So for all of you out there in TV Land who are reading this and want to change your un-wayward ways, here’s a list of unforgivable acts I’ve recently committed to make myself a worse (and therefore better) person:

DARTMAN’S ACTS OF DIABOLICAL CRUELTY TO MAKE HIMSELF A FASTER RUNNER

1) I laughed uncontrollably at the end of MILLION DOLLAR BABY.
2) I became a Cub Scout leader, and took a group of 11-15 year old boys on a 30-mile hike in the Adirondacks. Come nightfall, I abandoned them without food, water or shelter and sprayed their bodies with a special homemade concoction that enrages and attracts carnivorous bears.
3) I pretended that I was terminally ill and was granted a wish by the Make A Wish Foundation. My wish was for them to never grant another wish to another sick child again. Bound by their rules, they had to agree, and thus, the Make A Wish Foundation exists no longer.

I could go on with my multitude of transgressions, but I just swiped a wallet from a blind man on the subway and am feeling particularly fast today. I gotta tell you, people, it feels good being this bad. Like I said, nice guys finish last…

STATS FOR THURSDAY 8/15

DRINKING
10 Beers

RUNNING
Nada

SLEEPING
5 hours

NUMBER OF SONGS I DRUNKENLY SANG ALONG TO DURING THE NEIL DIAMOND CONCERT
3

DIAMOND IS FOREVER

Hello again, hello...

A picture speaks a thousand words, so I'll keep this post brief and just let you soak in this ultra-cool picture of Neil Diamond. I have tickets to see him play at MSG tonight, but Louise can't make the show 'cause of work, and nobody else I know seems eager to pay $70 to see a sexagenarian songbird serenade an audience with "I Am, I Said" while dressed in a 1970s gold-sequined outfit and a girdle to hold his gut in. Go figure. My plan was to get hammered with Louise and then see the show, but now I don't know what to do. Here are my options:

DARTMAN'S OPTIONS FOR THE NEIL DIAMOND CONCERT

1) Go to a homeless shelter and find someone who is a huge fan of THE JAZZ SINGER and JONATHAN LIVINGSTON SEAGULL and offer them 50 cents and three bottles of OLDE ENGLISH to go to the concert with me.

2) Get drunk at a TGIFriday's, put on my "Kentucky Woman" T-shirt, go solo to the concert and then wallow in depression throughout the show as I realize how pathetic it is to be alone, drunk, 33 and singing "Song Sung Blue" with a crowd that is basically twice my age.

3) Scalp the tickets and use the money to by a super-intelligent chimpanzee. We'll become instant best friends, I'll teach him to love Neil Diamond (and malt liquor) and we'll get drunk every night and listen to "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" over and over again until we pass out.

I don't plan on running tonight. I do plan on drinking. As for sleeping, I accidentally cut off my eyelids yesterday while trying to trim my lashes, so I don't think slumber (or blinking) is in the cards for me for quite a while. 

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

Greetings and salutations, fine readers. With the Olympics going on, the war in the Middle East, a distressed U.S. economy and the death of Isaac Hayes (“Yeah, I’m talkin’ ’bout Shaft!”), I know what’s on your mind: How is Dartman doing in his marathon training?

Well, thanks for asking. Actually, I’m doing just peachy keen. I’ve increased the running, decreased the drinking and accepted Christ as my savior. But enough about me. Wait, this is MY blog. These posts are all about ME, ME, ME! I don’t have to be parsimonious with my words. It is my right, my entitlement, to bore and tax you with my list of complaints, achievements and endeavors. So here’s the latest rant from the running, drunken reprobate (I’m so vain, I now refer to myself in the third person. I tried referring to myself in the second person, but every time I used “you” in a sentence, the other person thought I was talking about them.)

So, I gather you’re surprised about the decrease in my alcohol intake. Don’t fret. I still enjoy my cocktails, but I’ve found new and exciting ways to abuse my body: 1) Painful and dangerous piercings (I just got an earring put in my frontal lobe), and 2) Having the unhealthiest diet possible. Because of the former, please forgive me if I ramble; my memory isn’t so good since my cerebral cortex was punctured.

Anyway, most marathon runners consume complex carbohydrates, lots of protein, fruits, vegetables, etc. for energy and endurance. Smoothies, energy bars, whole grain foods…blah, blah, blah. You get the point. Most runners eat EXTREMELY healthy. But not yours truly. I don’t eat vegetables, stay away from fruit and haven’t eaten anything healthy since the third grade, when I accidentally took a vitamin, mistakenly believing it was a Quaalude. I concentrate on eating meat, fat, fried foods, desserts and humans. Did I mention that I was a cannibal? Did I mention that I ate my twin in the womb? And did I mention that I ate my entire family when my hunger got the best of me during a NY to Orlando flight that was 30 minutes behind schedule due to turbulence? Anyway, here are my basic food staples that I’ve been eating during my training

DARTMAN’S RUNNING DIET
Ice Cream
Chocolate Bars
Pepperoni Pizza
Hamburgers & Steaks
Tacos & Burritos
Potato Chips & Onion Dip
Nachos & Salsa Con Queso
Anything to do with a potato (including “Spuds” MacKenzie)
Anything to do with BBQ (including humans)
Naked Mole Rats
So, as you can see, I abuse my body in a multitude of ways, but this past Sunday, I finally paid for it. I did my long run on Sunday, and I promised myself on Saturday that I would eat healthy and abstain from alcohol. Well, I kept one of my promises: I didn’t have any beer on Saturday. Instead, I waited until the clock struck midnight, officially making it Sunday, and then I had three pints of Captain Lawrence Pale Ale. But my Waterloo was what I ate for dinner on Saturday night: I pigged out at Taco Bell.

I love the Bell. It’s by far my favorite fast food. But eating two Big Beef Burrito Supremes and a Gordita wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life. And it didn’t help that I ate a homeless person’s appendix (my cannibalism got the best of me). Come Sunday morning, I downed a cup of coffee (also not a wise idea), ate a bowl of cereal and a spleen (left over from the homeless person the night before) and went out for my two-hour run.

Make that my ONE-hour run. With all that Taco Bell in me, plus the coffee and those organs extracted from that inebriated hobo, and all that jostling going on in my stomach as I pounded the pavement… Well, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what happened next. Thank goodness I’m actually a good runner now, because if I hadn’t gone supersonic and sped to my house, I probably would have ended up with a Nachos Bell Grande in my pants.

But I made it. Crapping myself would have been REALLY embarrassing, especially since it would have been the fourth time that week. (After numerous co-worker complaints, I now wear adult diapers at the office.) But something good came out of all this, because I learned a valuable lesson: If you’re going to eat a homeless person, stay away from the spleen. It tastes awful. Go for the liver instead. As for eating healthy and staying away from Taco Bell, hell, I STILL haven’t learned a thing. Excuse me, but I must go. I have to do a run today and I need to have my lunch. Let’s see, I’ve got a six-pack of beer and a burrito the size of Fatty Arbuckle. Oh well, if I get the trots later, at least I’ve got my adult diaper on…

STATS FOR SUNDAY 8/11/08

RUNNING
13-14 miles

DRINKING
4 Dogfish Head India Brown Ales (48 oz.)
5 North Coast Red Seal Pale Ales (60 oz.)

SLEEPING
6 hours

BRETT THE JET?

Screw running. Screw the marathon. Screw everything. The Packers have just traded Brett Favre to the New York Jets. It's the worst thing to ever happen.

TOP 5 WORST THINGS TO EVER HAPPEN

1. Brett Favre being traded to the Jets

2. The Holocaust

3. Louise ditching me as a running partner

4. The Vietnam War

5. Brett Favre being traded to the Jets

I'm currently buying a ticket to Green Bay so I can visit the Packers' management, rip out their large intestines and beat them to near-death with them. Then I will put their half-alive bodies in shallow graves, drive to the nearest chili festival, find the four nastiest port-a-potties and dump their foul contents into the graves and bury Packers General Manager Ted Thompson and Coach Mike McCarthy alive with that excrement.

Brett has been wronged, and now I am a broken, broken man.

RUNNING

Who cares?

DRINKING

Keep 'em coming!

SLEEP

Who can sleep at a time like this?

SHE'S GONE

She’s Gone, Oh I, Oh I’d
better learn how to face it.
She’s Gone, Oh I, Oh I’d pay the devil to replace her.
She’s Gone…what went wrong?

Remember “She’s Gone,” that song by Hall & Oates? Well, now that Louise has left me as a running partner, that is one of the songs that I perpetually listen to on my iPod as I run back and forth on the West Side Highway, unattended and abandoned, an outcast forgotten and forlorn. Like Neil Diamond once sang, I truly am a “Solitary Man.” That is another tune that I listen to while solitary forging ahead in my marathon training. The other melodies this woebegone loner listens to while I melancholically and miserably count the miles I tread are “One is the Loneliest Number” and “All By Myself.” I also listen to “Someone Left a Cake Out in the Rain” by Richard Harris, but that has nothing to with my running companionless. I once left a strawberry shortcake out during a thunderstorm, and I just really relate to that tune.

Yes, dear readers, I have been betrayed and discarded by my running mate. Yes, dear readers, it is true, I am a running cuckold. At first, I believed the lecherous Louise’s explanation that she was now working for TOP CHEF and could no longer participate in the marathon training. But now I have my suspicions that she has left me for another runner, and I am plagued by self-doubt: Am I too slow? Is my gait off? Are my calves to small? My quads undersized? Do I sweat too much? Should I start wearing underwear when I run so my balls don’t hang out of my shorts? Man, that’s a GROSS image.

I’ve been keeping my eye on Louise. I would keep both of my eyes on her, but I lost one orb three years ago when a beautician with dangerously long nails accidentally skewered my left eyeball while plucking my monobrow. I won’t tell you what happened when that beautician waxed my nether regions using those same Freddy Krueger-like talons, suffice to say that I’m now circumcised and, like Hitler, only possess one testicle. Man, that’s even a GROSSER image. (OK, I pledge, no more ball jokes.) Anyway, Louise says that she isn’t running anymore. She swears that she doesn’t have the free time now that she’s constantly working and, plus, she claims to have hurt her neck while mimicking Steve Wonder’s side-to-side head sway during a live performance of “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”

But I suspect that Louise is running behind my back. Last week, she was wearing her running shoes and wolfing down energy bars. Another time, I saw her varnished in sweat. And Louise NEVER sweats unless she has the DTs or is failing a lie detector test. Then, two days ago, I barged into her apartment and caught her watching RUNNING MAN with a Kenyan wearing a headband and a JACKRABBITS RUNNING CLUB T-shirt. Yes, dear readers, I think I have been played for a sucker. I believe my marathon compadre has ditched me for a better runner. Also, yesterday probably cinched it for me when I spotted Louise running by me on the West Side Highway with Renaldo Villarubios, my despicable archenemy and also the best runner on Team Tiger. Still, I’m not sure. Maybe they were just walking together really fast.

Lachrymose, disheartened and dewy-eyed, I am a lost and broken man, traveling this world alone like David Banner in THE INCREDIBLE HULK—except I’ve never been exposed to Gamma radiation and only turn green when I drink too much whiskey. Damn it, I’m welling up again. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Between Louise going all Judas on me and Brett and the Packers fighting, I’m a friggin’ mess. Like my sole testicle, I have no counterpart to hang with. (OK, I truly avow to tell no more ball jokes.) I run. And I run alone. Actually, it’s time for me to hit the West Side Highway right now. Excuse me, dear readers, I must go. “She’s Gone” is playing on my Ipod, and this sniveling, broken-hearted shell of a man must train for a marathon. I only hope I have the balls to go through with it. OK, I had to tell one more sophomoric gonad joke…

STATS for 8/5/08

RUNNING
9 miles

DRINKING
2 Smuttynose IPAs (32 oz.)
1 Victory Baltic Thunder (12 oz.)
1 Stoudt’s Fat Dog (12 oz.)
2 Brooklyn East India Pale Ales (24 oz.)
1 Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ale (12 oz.)
Flying Dog Wild Dog Dopplebock (12 oz.)
Ommegang Chocolate Indulgence (12 oz.)

SLEEPING
4.5 hours

R.I.P. LOUISE

It’s time to talk about it. No more Corey vs. Corey debates. No more procrastinating. No more delays, deferring, dillydallying and foot-dragging. This scrimshanker ain’t evading nor shirking no more. The proliferation of my grief has reached a point in which I must either plummet into a valley of despair or rise to the summit of my ambitions. And, dear, readers, I have chosen to plummet. Quitting is so much easier than giving things a second chance. You know that saying: “If you fall off a horse, you should get back in the saddle again.” That’s bullshit. Just ask Christopher Reeve. OK, that was vicious. But I’m hurt and I’m angry. And I never proclaimed that I was a good man. I’m a damnable, odious son of a bitch who is a master of malefaction and whose impenitence knows no end. And, like I’ve said before, I’m also a natural born quitter.

And what do I want to quit? I want to quit this dreadful marathon training. And why do I want to quit? Because, as I noted in my last post, I lost my running partner. Louise is dead. From the account I was told, apparently Louise was drunk as a fiddler, having a jag on, three sheets to the wind, under the sauce, crocked, cocked and blotto—enough, you get my point. Disoriented, confused and clothed only in a discarded garbage bag and a pink pillbox hat, Louise attempted to cross the West Side Highway during rush hour and, I’m sorry to say…this is so hard to recount, excuse me, I need a moment…

Well, that’s when Louise was mauled and killed by a mountain lion that had recently escaped from the Central Park Zoo. The damage and disfigurement was so extensive, identifying the body was difficult. Fortunately, I know that Louise is a hermaphrodite, possesses a vestigial tail and has a superfluous third leg (from a twin that never fully developed). After seeing the corpse’s third leg, useless tail and reproductive organs of both sexes, I told the coroner with a heavy heart (my heart weighs 18 oz., which is 6 oz. more than the average male) that, yes, indeed, this dead body was Louise. I then asked the coroner for a moment alone with my former running partner. When he left the room, I gathered myself together, stole Louise’s wallet and jewelry (unfortunately, I had to clip off one of her fingers to get her diamond ring) and got the hell out of there.

OK. I lied. Louise DIDN’T really die (I told you I was damnable and odious). At least not literally. But figuratively, she’s dead to me. And that’s because she has stopped being my running partner. Yes, it is sadly true. Louise has left me to go on Rumpsringa, that rite of passage for Amish youths. OK. I lied again. Louise DID leave, but not for Rumspringa. She left the Tiger for 7 weeks to work on the TV show TOP CHEF. It’s a 7-days-a-week/long hours commitment, and so she’s unable to run with me anymore. To say that I’m crushed would be an understatement. Upon first hearing the news from Louise, I caused a scene, bawled like a baby and tried to kill myself by swallowing my tongue. But since I was born without a tongue (Did I tell you that I’m a mute?), my suicide attempt was fruitless. Instead, I told Louise she could go to Hell (not that place where Satan lives; HELL is actually a clothing store on Bleecker Street where I figured Louise could pick up some nice threads for her new job) and ran home to make a second attempt at doing myself in by listening to “The Best of Bread” for 58 consecutive hours.

There is much more to tell of my tragedy and this travesty, but I’m writing this post on my laptop as I sit on a bench in Central Park and, oh my God!, there’s a mountain lion coming my way…

TO BE CONTINUED…

RUNNING
3-4 miles

DRINKING
1 Black Forest Chocolate Doppelbock (16 oz)
1 Black Forest Imperial Stout (16 oz)
1 Growler of Black Forest Choc. Doppelbock (64 oz)
½ bottle of Jose Reyes wine

SLEEPING
5.5 Hours

COREY VS. COREY

I am a wreck. Devastated. Demolished. Quashed. Bulldozed like a building in Williamsburg to make room for luxury apartments. I’m a month behind in my blog, I’m two weeks behind in my marathon training and I’m way behind in my child support payments. It just seems that no matter how hard I try to catch up, I remain off the pace. (OK, I don’t have kids, but if I did, my child support payments would most certainly be in arrears.). Every epic journey—from THE ODYSSEY to THE LORD OF THE RINGS to the POLICE ACADEMY saga—has that moment of crisis, that point of seemingly no return, that moment of truth where all seems lost, never to be regained again.

OK, my training for a measly marathon is NOT an epic journey, but like the U.S. economy and a balloon vendor, I’m prone to inflation. Much the same as when I’m discussing my sexual conquests, size of my manhood and the number of times I’ve been arrested for loitering, I tend to exaggerate and amplify—in this case, I’m speaking of embellishing the drama in my life. Yes, my Internet extended family, I plead guilty to that. When the most interesting thing going on in my life is finding out that pomegranate-blackberry is the upcoming flavor in my Jelly of the Month Club, I HAVE to add a little flair to my blog. So my transgression is I try to add a little panache to my posts. Sue me. Actually, please don’t—I’m REALLY behind in those child support payments…

Anyway, the reason for my despondence is… Damn it! I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry. Grown men shouldn’t cry. Midgets are allowed to cry, ’cause even though they’re men, they’re not really “grown,” so it’s OK for dwarfs to let the tears flow. But normal-sized guys shouldn’t weep. It’s not a manly thing to do, and it’s also offensive to midgets, because crying is one of the few things that little people can do that we normal-sized people can’t. It’s one of the benefits of being a little person. That, and they’re very rich and have hidden treasure chests. Oh, wait, that’s a leprechaun. My bad. Anyway, just like the pervert at the peep show, excuse me while I grab some Kleenex. I haven’t felt this bad since The Spin Doctors broke up. I apologize. It’s just that… it’s just that…

I lost my running partner. Louise is gone. I…I… I can’t talk about it now. It’s too soon. So, like I do with all of my problems and difficulties, I’m going to ignore the issue and focus all of my energy and efforts on something unconstructive, inconsequential and beside the point. That’s right, folks: I’m going to rate the Two Coreys and decide who is the better of the two: Corey Feldman or Corey Haim.

• Both share the same first name of Corey.
ADVANTAGE: EVEN
• Feldman shaved his head and killed Jason with a machete in FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE FINAL CHAPTER. In SILVER BULLET, Haim played a paraplegic who kills a werewolf and has Gary Busey for an uncle.

ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman fought GREMLINS and acted with Sloth in THE GOONIES (in which Feldman wore a PURPLE RAIN T-shirt throughout). Haim co-starred with Burt (ROCKY’s Uncle Paulie) Young in the short-lived TV series ROOMIES.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman starred as Ricky, “the hottest water instructor around” in the lamentable MEATBALLS 4. Haim starred as Griffin, “a rollerblader in the not-so-distant future of LA” who fights a rollerblading white supremacist youth gang in PRAYER OF THE ROLLERBOYS.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman played DONATELLO in TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES I & III. Haim has never played a pizza-eating, crimefighting, talking reptile who knows kung fu.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman divorced his parents when he was a kid. Haim did not.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman released the atrocious album FORMER CHILD ACTOR. Haim released the atrocious album YOU GIVE ME EVERYTHING. Feldman’s band is called TRUTH MOVEMENT. That ISN’T a joke.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman was “close friends” as a kid with Michael Jackson (and even dressed like him), but says even though Jackson supposedly showed him nude photos, the two never got it on. Haim was “close friends” with (and was even engaged to) CHARLES IN CHARGE’S Nicole Eggert. Even though the two didn’t marry, the two DID get it on.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman got married on THE SURREAL LIFE, in which he dressed up as Louie the XIV. The ceremony was officiated by M.C. Hammer (an ordained minister). Motley Crue’s Vince Neil and WEBSTER himself, Emmanuel Lewis, were in attendance. Haim is still single, has never married, but did blow up to 300 pounds at one point in his life.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN

Last one, and we’re all tied up at four apiece. Isn’t this exciting? So, who will be my favorite Corey? Ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please…

• Feldman is allegedly sober, drug free and has gotten his life in order. Haim is allegedly a mess, NOT drug free and reportedly showed up “disoriented” on the set of LOST BOYS 2.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM!!!!

There you have it, folks! COREY HAIM is now officially my favorite of the Two Coreys. And what does that mean? Jack shit. But it was a nice diversion and kept me from thinking about losing Louise. My running partner. My little buddy. My soused sidekick. My colleague in crapulence (that doesn’t mean shitting our pants; I’m referring to a gross excess in drinking). Great, now I’m crying again. I’m just a boo-hooing, blubbery, sobbing sad sack. Like the flat-chested girl stuffing her bra said to her best friend, “Could you please pass me a tissue?”

Monday, July 7 to Sunday, July 27 (Hey, I’m trying to catch up here)

RUNNING
23-25 miles/week

DRINKING
7-8 beers a night/5-6 days a week

SLEEPING
20 hours/day (I got hit in the head by a leaping sting ray and was in a coma for two weeks. OK, that’s bullshit, but I DID get hit by a leaping sting ray, although it didn’t put me into a coma. It just rendered me impotent. Now I spend all of my time re-reading THE SUN ALSO RISES and responding to Viagra spam e-mails. Man, I’ve got shitty luck.)

SLEEPING (FOR REAL)
5 hrs./night