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

BRETTBACK MOUNTAIN

It’s hard for me to concentrate on my marathon training these days. That’s my latest excuse for falling behind in my posts. You see, I’m a die-hard Green Bay Packers fan. In fact, once, when my Dad and I got into a knife fight at a nudie bar (he’s a Chicago Bears fan), he stabbed me in my left ventricle and I ACTUALLY bled green and gold (the Packers’ colors). I also bled red as well (and lost 5 pints of blood). Pops stabbed me in the back, too, but that wasn’t with a knife; that was figuratively—I caught him having sex with my fiancée. Needless to say, I didn’t end up marrying Carol. My Dad did. Now, Carol is my stepmom, which is kind of weird. And did I mention that Carol was carrying my baby at the time? So now, three years later, my son is also my stepbrother. That’s kind of weird, too. And did I mention that Carol’s my stepsister? And that… Well, let’s just not go there.

So there’s a Wisconsin civil war going on in Green Bay now, with QB Brett Favre and the Packers feuding over the possibility of Brett coming out of retirement. I love Brett. I love the Packers. Who do I choose? Who CAN I chose? This decision is tougher than Sophie’s Choice. And there’s more on the line. But I’m gonna have to go with Brett here. The man is my idol. I have his jersey, action figures, posters, address (I hired a private eye to get it, but the restraining order prevents me from any further attempts at trying to invade the Favres’ home). I even once dated a girl just because she looked like Brett (although kissing a chick with beard stubble is weird). And when I save up enough money, I plan on having plastic surgery so I look exactly like Brett.

Unfortunately, though, I’m still paying off the bills from my last facial plastic surgery from 12 years ago. You see, my former idol was that kid from JERRY MAGUIRE, and unwisely, after seeing and falling in love with that film (JERRY MAGUIRE had me at the opening credits), I had my face reconfigured so I looked like Jonathan Lipnicki (come on, that kid stole the movie!). But there’s something strange about having a six-year-old’s head on a 21 year old’s body. I haven’t really been a force on the dating scene since then.

Anyway, I’m straying off the subject and, once again, babbling like a brook. I guess I’ll talk more about Brett in future posts, so I’ll just leave it at this for now: I love the Packers, but I love Brett more. Just like the way Jake Gyllenhaal felt about Heath Ledger in BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, I wish I knew how to quit Brett. But I can’t. And I don’t mean quit Brett in a gay cowboy sort of way (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I mean it in a scary, taking-things-too-far, devout, extremist football fan way (and there’s probably SOMETHING wrong with that).

Brett is like the father I never had. Well, as you know, I DID have a father, but he stabbed me with a knife once and then stole my fiancée and turned her into my stepmom, and now I go to therapy three times a week because I have a serious oedipal complex. Brett would never do those things to me. And if he did, well, I’d be OK with that. Because having Brett Favre as my father would be the coolest thing on earth, and I would let him stick a knife in my heart and bang my girlfriend any day of the week. Did I mention that my REAL father is also my uncle…

Monday, June 30 – Sunday, July 6

RUNNING
24 miles (total for week)

DRINKING
8 beers/night (approx 112 oz., with Sunday off)

SLEEP
Approx. 5 hrs./night

COCKAIGNE ADDICT

Sorry that it has been two weeks since I last posted, but I have a good excuse: I was in rehab. No, you suspicious little bastards, I wasn’t in rehab for being an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Or a sex addict (I only wish). No, I was rehabbing my knee, which I unfortunately injured during a Pilates class in which I was extremely intoxicated. From what I understand, this is a Pilates first. I was also kicked out of the class for indecent exposure (my fifth time). And, from what I understand, this is also a Pilates first.

Still, there’s no excuse for not posting on this blog for two weeks. My knee was actually better by the next day, and I didn’t miss any running. Well, I guess there IS a good excuse: Someone cut off my thumbs. Yeah, I may not be a beer, drug or sex addict, but I am a gambling one (and the beer dependency is debatable). I owed $2,000 for betting on the Packers last weekend, and since the NFL season doesn’t begin until next September, that meant the Packers weren’t even playing a game, so I was destined to lose. And I originally DID have the 2 grand to pay my bookie—I’m not stupid—but I filled up my gas tank 30 times over the weekend in a cross-country trip from NY to California (I own a Humvee), and so I spent $1,500 in gas. (Note to self: NO MORE cross-country road trips). I spent the other $500 buying the first photos of Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt’s twins, which turned out to be fakes. (Actually, they were baby pictures of Chang & Ang, the famous Siamese twins).

So, since I didn’t have the dough, my bookie cut off my thumbs POPE OF GREENWICH VILLAGE-style, and I was unable to type for the last two weeks. (When I type, I’m ALL THUMBS—yuk, yuk). Luckily, however, I came across a dead hitchhiker on the side of the road yesterday. The dude had two healthy digits, so I clipped them off with some wire cutters and got them reattached to my hands at the hospital. I also sliced off the guy’s right arm just in case I might need it in the future.

Anyway, besides being a gambling addict, I’m also a COCKAIGNE addict as well. Now, don’t go thinking dirty here. Cockaigne (kah-KAYN, noun) has nothing to with either sex or drugs (unless you want it to be). And I AIN’T talking about an addiction to a certain male organ, either. “Cockaigne” is an imaginary land of ease and luxury, and when I’m scurrying throughout the city, training for the marathon, I often find myself creating a fantasy world in which everything in my life is perfect and rosy. I conjure up a “cockaigne” and escape from the pain, exhaustion and the occasional vicious, explosive case of the trots. (Note to self: Bring a back-up pair of underwear on EVERY run.)

Since this post is becoming protracted, I won’t tell you all of the things in my perfect cockaigne, but I will give you my top three:

1) A buck-naked Liza Minnelli singing “New York, New York” with me in a martini-glass-shaped hot tub filled with champagne, hot sauce and drowned midgets.

2) A pet feline named Stevens, so that when people come to my home, I can tell them, “This is my Cat Stevens.”

3) A different ending to THE CRYING GAME, in which Jaye Davidson is NOT a dude but a gal. (Note to self: Never pleasure yourself to a chick in a movie until you’re ABSOLUTELY sure that said chick doesn’t have a schlong.)

In the interest of saving time, I’ll sum up my activities of Tuesday, June 24th until Sunday, June 29th by stating my average run, beer intake and sleep. I promise to get up-to-date soon. Although, I have another $2,000 in my pocket, and I have a feeling the Packers are going to win this weekend…

June 24 – June 29

RUNNING
17 miles (total for week)

DRINKING
8 beers/night (approx 112 oz., with Sunday off)

SLEEP
Approx. 5 hrs/night

POOP & POETRY

Not much time to write
Please excuse my brevity
This haiku must do

Sorry for this shitty post, but I’m trying to catch up. The best I can offer you is this weak-ass haiku and a picture of a midget vampire.

So, on Monday, June 23rd, I ran with Team Tiger. Like the porn star said in the scheisse video, “Here’s the poop”:



RUNNING
5 Miles

DRINKING
5 beers at the Tiger (approx. 68 oz.)
2 train beers (24 oz.)
2 home beers (12 oz.)

SLEEP
4 hours

7/01/08
BANANAS & VASELINE

Since I’m SO far behind in my posts, I’m gonna keep this short, like Verne Troyer, who (and this is TRUE) is rumored to have a Paris Hilton-like sex tape coming out soon. The question is: Is he hung like a Lilliputian? Or is this Tom Thumb’s 11th finger of Shaq-sized proportions? One thing’s for sure, that dude definitely has a more active sex life than I do. But the two of us do share something in common: My nickname is Mini-Me as well. It’s a “belittling” sobriquet that women call me, usually after they see me with my pants off.

But that isn’t the crux of my coitus problems; it’s simply bad luck. Take for example two Fridays ago (when last I chronicled my training regimen). Since I had no date (payday was the following week, so I had no hooker money), I was going to leave straight from the office for a run. But I had to change, which meant I needed to be aware of Alexis. You see, I work in a MALE Room. No, I don’t mean the mailroom of some corporation. I mean that my office is virtually all DUDES. The lone woman is Irene, who is 86, and lost both of her eyes 43 years ago when she drunkenly fell on a meat fork during an Army-Navy football tailgating party. She’s a nice lady, but refuses to wear dark glasses—or glass eyes. Trust me, it’s freaky. I can see her brain. (At office parties, when Irene gets drunk, she sticks martini olives in her empty sockets.)

Anyway, a month ago, my dream came true: Lindsay Lohan’s little sister Ali announced that she would be starring in a new reality TV show, LIVING LOHAN, which would shatter the myths about her infamous family. But my other dream came true as well: A hot young chick named Alexis started working as the new secretary. I haven’t been this happy since I found out my Mom and Dad aren’t my real parents. (I was raised by wolves, and always had a lingering doubt about our biological connection. We don’t look ANYthing alike, I have much more body hair then them and my gestation period is a great deal longer.)

So I was hitting Ike Turner-hard on Alexis for the last four weeks, and I believe she was becoming responsive. She only pressed two sexual harassment charges against me (compared to Irene’s three). But, unfortunately, like the Mets last September, I think that I blew it. See, I do two embarrassing things to prep for my runs. One, I eat a banana, which provides me with a nice boost of energy, some complex carbohydrates and meets my phallic fruit requirement for the day. And two, I…uh, use Vaseline on my…uh…nipples.

Yes, go ahead, snicker, you bastards. Chortle at my expense. Scoff at my shame. But I tell you this, my friends: If you DON’T do that for long runs, a little thing called friction occurs, and then your nipples BLEED. I’ve seen dudes running where it looks like two ketchup packets exploded underneath their T-shirt. So, do you want to lactate blood, or do you want to suck it up and lube your teats? I ain’t no saphead. I grease up my mamilla like there’s no tomorrow.

So, it was quitting time on Friday. I had my trusty banana and Vaseline in my backpack, and I went to change into my running gear in the file room. (I refuse to use the men’s bathroom in my building. It’s worse than the water closet in TRAINSPOTTING.) I proceeded to strip down to my skivvies and broke out my petrolatum, and that’s when my banana falls out of my backpack (insert your own joke here)—and Alexis entered.

How does one explain to a hot chick you recently met why you’re half-naked in the file room with a jar of Vaseline and a banana? If you know, please tell me, because I was at a loss for words. It probably didn’t help that I was putting a condom on the banana, either.

So, basically, I blew my chance with Alexis, my day was ruined, and I decided not to run after all. But at least I was larded up and had a priapic fruit in my pocket. However, I was so depressed and worn out from a week of excess running and drinking that I crashed hard in the sleeping department over the weekend. I guess I needed more bananas. I could have used the energy. Just thank goodness I didn’t need more Vaseline.

JUNE 20-22 WEEKEND (FRIDAY to MONDAY morning)

RUNNING
5 miles
2 hours of basketball

DRINKING
6 Lagunitas IPAs (72 oz.)
1 Ommegang Abbey (22 oz)
4 Captain Lawrence Pale Ales (64 oz)
1 Oskar Blues Gordon Double IPA (12 oz)
2 Other Beers That I Can’t Friggin’ Remember (12 oz)

SLEEP
19 hours

JEWS & BREWS

This blog, like a lotto machine, sucks balls. It’s Wednesday, and I’m already a week behind in my running chronicles. And so much has happened this past week: After being single for 33 years (Yes, I CAN wear white at my wedding), I met the girl of my dreams last Thursday. We met at a SAVE THE WALES rally. No, that wasn’t a typo. This rally wasn’t about saving WHALES, but rather preserving that beloved constituent country located within the United Kingdom. Hey, I adore cetaceans, and my two favorite movies are ORCA and HOW STELLA GOT HER HUMPBACK, but I’m all about Celtic pride.

Anyway, I met Todd last Thursday. (Isn’t Todd a strange name for a girl? She had an Adam’s apple, too. And a penis. Isn’t that strange? But I digress.). Then we got engaged on Friday. We got married and went on our honeymoon on Saturday (we stayed at a lovely Econo Lodge in Camden, NJ). And then Todd was hit and killed by a Marlboro truck on Sunday. (See, cigarettes REALLY do kill people!)

Anyway, I’ve been sitting shiva since then, and that Jewish week-long stage of mourning reminded me of last Wednesday, when I went to the Blind Tiger for Shmaltz/HE’BREW night. I first tried their Genesis Ale and Messiah Bold years ago because of the shtick factor, but actually enjoyed the beers, and have become a supporter of theirs ever since. Their anniversary beers and RIPA kick tuchus, and they also have a line of Coney Island beers that has recently been expanded. Check out their websites (www.shmaltz.com & www.coneyislandlager.com) for more info, because I ain’t spending the time right now describing all of their beers. As you know, I’m a very busy man, and I’m still grieving the loss of my wife of one day (Todd!! Why you, Todd?!?!). I’ll just say this: Their beers are good, they use LOTS of different malts and hops, and they get you drunk. What more do you want? Anyway, this shegetz decided to take a day off from training and instead get shickered at the Tiger. So, you can call me a meshuggener, but this goy boy had a great time trying their new beers. (Sorry if my Yiddish is a little rusty.)

Here is a list of what I imbibed. Mazal tov!

ALCOHOL
1 Coney Island Lager (16 oz)
1 Albino Python (16 oz) (A wit I ACTUALLY liked—and it’s a lager!)
2 Human Blockhead Lagers (24 oz)
1 He’brew Rejewvanator (12 oz)
3 Train beers (2 Sierra Nevada Stouts, 1 SN Porter) (36 oz)
3 Lagunitas IPAs (36 oz)
1 glass of wine

RUNNING
Jack shit

SLEEP
4 hours

SPOUSAL DEATHS

1 TODD (R.I.P.)

THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RUNNER

Wednesdays or Thursdays are the long-run days for Louise and me, but since she’s still sunning it up in California, I’m doing 14 miles today solo style. Louise has assured me that she’ll be doing her long runs while she’s away. Louise is also full of shit. Fifty bucks says that while I’ve been huffing these long runs alone these last two weeks, she’s been boozing it Ray Milland LOST WEEKEND-style in Cali. And what timing, too. Louise has missed a 95-degree running day, an 85-degree 10-mile run, another humid day with heavy showers and Wednesday’s long run had me getting pelted with rain throughout the 2-hour ordeal. I put an ad in the classifieds looking for a new running partner, but terminated it when I realized that Louise will be returning with bottles from various West Coast breweries. Yes, I am a bitter man. But I am also a fickle one. Good beer heals all wounds and remedies all damages—except for cirrhosis of the liver, and perhaps head trauma.

RUNNING

14 punishing miles

ALCOHOL

5 beers at the Blind Tiger (1 pre-running Bear Republic Racer 5 IPA) (approx.68 oz)
2 train beers (24 oz)
3 Lagunitas IPAs (12 oz)
1 glass of wine

SLEEP

4 hours

TUESDAYS WITH MAXIE

One of the things I’ve discovered about writing a blog is that it’s like a relationship: It takes a lot of time, a lot of effort, a strong commitment and the sex isn’t always satisfying. Wait—scratch that last part. But the rest is true. So, it’s Sunday, and I haven’t put in the time, effort or commitment to this blog. Maybe I need couples counseling. Anyway, I’ll use several posts to recap my training week.

Tuesday: I was going to make this a running rest day and just play basketball, but my dog, Maxie, dictated otherwise. Here’s a picture of her. She’s rabid, hates people and likes to rip off squirrels’ heads and leave them on my doorstep, but I love her anyway. Actually she’s a six-year-old boxer-pit bull that I got from the pound. And she LOVES to run. She saw me getting dressed up for basketball and hounded me until I agreed to jog with her. Like all of my dealings with women, she wears the pants in the relationship. I’ve got to learn to say NO to women, because they’ve certainly learned to say NO to me.

After the run, I played basketball for a while. It killed my knees, but there’s nothing like hearing the swish of the net as a three-point shot is sunk. Of course, I’M not the one making the shot, but it’s still nice to watch other people playing the game well. After doing my Shaquille O’Neal impersonation and going 0 for 20 at the free-throw line, I call it a day, head home and console myself with some Lagunitas IPAs.

RUNNING

Approx 1 mile; plus 50 minutes of basketball.

ALCOHOL

(9) Lagunitas IPAs (108 oz)

SLEEP

4.5 hours

THREE SHEETS (AND PEOPLE) TO THE WIND

“But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears.”
—Macbeth (ACT III, iv)

No, I’m not having second thoughts about whether I should go with bolognese or marinara for my pasta dinner tonight (“saucy,” get it?), but rather, like Shakespeare’s infamous Scotsman, I’m haunted by a decision and course of action I took 6 weeks ago. No, I didn’t commit regicide. I’m referring to embarking upon 21 weeks of marathon training. I’m up to Week 6 now, and I feel older than Methuselah—my legs hurt, my knees hurt, my head hurts (well, I can blame beer for that last one).

My Dad once told me that he didn’t raise me to be a quitter, but since I didn’t meet my father until I was 31 (he abandoned my mother and I two hours after I was born, and reintroduced himself to me solely because he needed my passport and one of my kidneys), he REALLY didn’t raise me, so I have no issues with quitting. In fact, I’m quite good at it. Let me give you a rundown of this last week, and maybe you’ll better understand my dilemma.

Flashback to Monday:

Although I treated myself to a couple of growlers of Captain Lawrence Double IPA and their 2008 St. Vincent’s Dubbel on Friday and Saturday, I, like God, rested on the seventh day, and abstained from sex and alcohol on Sunday (I didn’t really have much say about the former). Louise was on vacation with her boyfriend Bob in California, and the weather in NYC, for the second Monday in a row, was bad. The Perfect Storm was brewing, the clouds above an ominous black as furious and wrathful winds exacted their vengeance, forcing panicked pedestrians to flee for safety—and their very lives. A violent, lethal shower was imminent. Impending death was guaranteed to any audacious souls foolish enough to brave the elements. And fools there were. Three of them: Pete, Susan and myself. We would represent the depleted Team Tiger tonight. Laughing in the face of death, this trio of racing warriors stepped out of the Blind Tiger and into a turbulent…


Enough with the purple prose. The weather sucked, the three of us put up with the wind and getting wet for 40 minutes, and then we returned to the Blind Tiger for some beers. So maybe I was exaggerating for effect a little bit. If you think my description was misrepresentative, you should check out my on-line dating profile. So I hit the Tiger with Pete and Susan (including 1 beer before the run; I was running late, so I didn’t have my normal cocktail trifecta), and then later on met up with some friends to get pie-eyed at the teneleven bar on the East Side.

Tallies for Monday:

RUNNING:

5 miles

DRINKING:

11 BEERS

• Lagunitas Censored Ale (12 oz)
• Bear Republic Racer 5 IPA (16 oz)
• Captain Lawrence St. Vincent’s Dubbel (6 oz)
• Smuttynose IPA (16 oz)
• La Caracole Nostradamus (12 oz)
• Arcadia IPA (12 oz)
• (2) Brooklyn East India Pale Ales (24 oz)
• (3) Lagunitas IPAs (36 oz)

SLEEPING:

4.5 hours

I finished my last beer at 2 a.m., went to bed at 2:30 and woke up at 7 a.m. on Tuesday to go to work.

Once again, my wordy post is becoming long-winded. (“Wind” seems to be the theme of this post.) I will get to Tuesday’s misdeeds tomorrow. Auf wiedersehen for now, my friends.

CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH OUR INDUSTRIOUS YOUNG HERO DISCOVERS THAT IMBIBITION AND EXERCISE ARE GOOD BEDFELLOWS

Two days in a row. Wow. I’m a blog addict. Like a Robert Downey Jr. in LESS THAN ZERO addict. But at least I woke up this morning with all of my clothes on—and in my own house. But I digress. Let’s move on with the story, and excuse me if I do little PULP FICTION shifts back and forth in time—I want to try and keep things interesting. So, when we last left our lovable hero (that’s me)…

I believe it was October (sorry, I’m bad with dates, just ask any girl who has gone out with me) when TEAM TIGER made its auspicious debut. About 467 people showed up (actually, it was probably closer to 12), and outside the bar, a posse of paparazzi were taking pictures (not of us, but of Britney Spears, who had just driven her SUV through the storefront window of John’s Pizzeria across the street).

It was 7:30 and time to hit the West Side Highway for the 40-minute run, and I was feeling pretty good—especially with three beers in me. That’s my pre-run regimen: 2-3 beers, starting an hour before race time. And I ain’t downing Bud Lite Lime bottles, either. I’m talking serious ABV microbrews here: Imperial IPAs, barley wines, Imperial Stouts (I once drank 3 Dogfish Head World Wide Stouts—close to 20% ABV—before a run, blacked out during the jog and woke up three days later naked on the deck of THE INTREPID).

As my dad once said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” I know Benjamin Franklin is credited with that quote, but my Dad said it first. And my Dad should know a thing or two about beer, because he was a world-class drunk. I just find that alcohol makes everything better—from running to improving your memory to driving your car to operating heavy machinery.

Flash-forward to present day:

Sorry, I was getting bored with that trip down memory lane. It must be my ADD. I’ll get back to Team Tiger’s first run later on. So there are two reasons I’m doing this abominable blog: 1) I’m running in the Chicago Marathon in October (for once, I’m not joking), and I want to chronicle all of the dangerous, demented and detrimental (sorry for the alliteration, it must be my DDD) things I do as I unconventionally prepare for 26-plus miles of pain and agony; and 2) I want to chronicle all of the bad food and good beer I consume along the way—especially the Team Tiger brewery sponsors who are contributing to our kick-ass retro running uniforms (more on that later).

This posting is getting too long and preachy. I don’t want this to become the ATLAS SHRUGGED of blogs. So I’m going to avoid pulling an Ayn Rand and wisely NOT delve into a diatribe concerning laissez-faire capitalism, and will instead continue the colorful adventures of intrepid young Allan in another post. Speaking of intrepid, did I ever mention the time I woke up naked on the deck of… Oh, sorry, I already did. Beer does make MOST THINGS better, but I probably should cross memory off that list.

DRINKERS WITH A RUNNING PROBLEM

I hate blogs. Let’s just get that straight from the start. I understand why people do them, but I think, for the most part, that they’re self-serving, egotistical, uninteresting and unfunny accounts of boring peoples’ humdrum everyday monotonous existence. So, why am I writing one? Well, in addition to being a drunken reprobate, I am also a steadfast hypocrite. Pull up a seat, and I’ll tell you the beginning of my story, the immortal tale of how I ended up writing this godforsaken blog. It’s a little slow and dry at the start, but I promise some rollicking good times as things progress.

I drink. A lot. There’s a bar in the West Village on Bleecker St. called the Blind Tiger. I go there. A lot. Louise is the cook there. She drinks, too. A lot. And she, too, goes to the Blind Tiger. A lot. Of course, that’s because she works there.

Louise is a scratchy-voiced, two-fisted gal who would be right at home in a Howard Hawks film. She looks like Drew Barrymore but talks a blue streak like Jack Nicholson in THE LAST DETAIL. She’s a real card. A pisser with a hollow leg—two of them, in fact. Anyway, it’s a Sunday morning in early September, and I’m hungover and on the L train and heading home after crashing at a friend’s place. Then the train gets stuck. That’s when I see Louise, who is hungover as well, and heading to a New York Road Runner’s race in Central Park.

We had been bullshitting of late about how much time we spend drinking and not doing anything healthy—like exercise, sports, extreme fighting, King Crab fishing in Alaska—and Louise had been talking about forming a running club at the Blind Tiger. But we wanted the club to be run OUR style: No health nuts or running zealots. We wanted our club members to be beer-drinking, out of shape, overweight, fun-loving folks. No Prefontaines in THIS group.

So Louise and I get stuck on the friggin’ L for like an hour, and it’s during that time we come up with TEAM TIGER: DRINKERS WITH A RUNNING PROBLEM. The team would meet at the Blind Tiger every Monday at 7:30 (now 7) and go for a 40-minute run on the West Side Highway. Afterward, we would reward our noble effort with copious amounts of alcohol. The idea was brilliant—not quite as groundbreaking as the discovery of fire, but definitely more revolutionary than the invention of the wheel and the sports bra.

And so the legend began…

As for why I’m writing this crap down, I’ll get to that in my next entry. Origin stories suck. That’s why SPIDER-MAN 2 is better than the first movie. And why I STILL KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER is far superior to I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER. Ugh! I hate all this exposition. I’m quitting now while I’m behind. But, trust me, things will get better—and funnier—I hope. In fact, after writing my first entry, I have to say I kinda…

Nah. I STILL hate blogs.