Laundry lessons

This morning, when I was planning on picking up the laundry I had dropped off at the nice Chinese laundromat around the corner, I realized I had lost my receipt. I remembered the price, $20.20, both because it was unusually expensive and because it reminded me of how I used to spend Friday nights. I searched around the apartment, but I could not find that stupid slip. Immediately the nervous old woman inside of me launched into action. "Do you think they'll let me pick up my clothes?" I said to L, knitting my hands together worriedly. "Of course," she said. "What if someone finds the receipt and steals my clothes?" I whimpered. "That's not going to happen," she said.

But it might happen, I thought as she turned away. As I walked to the subway, dejected, I tried to make a mental inventory of my clothes at the cleaners -- basically everything I own, plus assorted bedding. I know those Chinese ladies pretty well, but would they stop a potential thief from handing over my receipt and receiving all of my clothes, valued in the tens of dollars?

Immediately after class ended this afternoon I went to the laundromat. "I DON'T HAVE MY RECEIPT," I said. I spoke loudly, since they're not native English speakers. I looked around for my white mesh bag, and the nice lady pulled it down and brought it to me. "It's heavy," she said. The bag looked familiar, but something wasn't right. "THIS ISN'T MINE," I said helpfully. Suddenly it clicked in my head. "THIS IS MY WIFE'S, IT'S NOT MINE," I explained. "I WANT MINE." With relief I located my bag, with my clothes, with the proper price ($20.20), safe for me to retrieve before some receipt-wielding thief rushed in and caused some sort of wash & fold dilemma. Thank God. "OK, I'M ALL SET," I said, indicating that the situation had been resolved.

The nice lady was looking at me. "I'LL TAKE MY BAG," I said. She looked at me still. Then something clicked in my head. "YOU KNOW WHAT? WHY DON'T I JUST TAKE BOTH BAGS, MINE AND MY WIFE'S."

The nice lady nodded. "Good boy," she said. "Good boy."

*****

And on a completely unrelated note, this happens to be my 250th post on ol' Clarity. Not too bad.

Could have been a country boy

It's happened on a few occasions in my life, especially back in college. It happened in Nashville a couple years ago. And it happens a lot more frequently now, thanks to L: the feeling that maybe I should be listening to country music. Country is like the flip side of R&B, the twangy yang to the soulful yin. Despite the differences, I do feel like the white people singing country approach their craft with the same kind of emotion and vocal expression as any good R&B singer.

I've been thinking about this lately because I read a great article by Sasha Frere-Jones in the New Yorker, talking about the lack of what he calls "musical miscegenation" in contemporary rock. Unlike previous eras, today's whiny indie/emo musicians seem to ignore the black heritage of most rock music. Frere-Jones talks about how most great rock incorporates the rhythms of black music, offering as an example the drumbeat in Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" -- it could belong to any dance track. Yet today's music (and he called out Arcade Fire and the Decemberists and other bands I could care less about) seems more focused on precious lyrics and affectedly bad singing than rhythmic impulse. Why would anyone do such a thing?

He traced one vein of "musical miscegenation" (still not sure how I feel about that term) back to the old recordings of folk songs from the 1930s. Songs sung by white country folk were nearly indistinguishable from black blues recordings. From this common source you get both country music and R&B.

The Oxford American magazine puts out a southern music issue each year, including a CD, and I always try to remember to grab it -- it's introduced me to some great tracks by southern and country artists I never would have heard otherwise. And the similarities to the black music I love are striking -- the same kinds of narrative, the same subject matter, the same vocal acrobatics and ad-libs.

L, of course, has provided me with a steady country diet, adding artists like the Dixie Chicks, Keith Urban, Sara Evans, and Johnny Cash to my iPod (I've also added some Keith Anderson, Chely Wright, and LeAnn Rimes on my own). Some of these songs are so striking and so beautiful. Many of the elements of country music are completely enjoyable in their own right: the twangy guitars and wurlitzers, the celebration of a rural American ideal, the optimism that marks most of today's country-pop. Even the reliance on real live instruments can be a breath of fresh air, when the purely electronic beats of, say, Beyonce, seem utterly synthetic and unreal.

What's most interesting to me are the songs that could fall into either camp: Ne-yo's "Do You," Keith Urban's "Tonight I Wanna Cry" (or as L calls it, "Just Drunk Enough"), or the Reba/JT collaboration, "The Only Promise That Remains." Any of these songs could be a hit in the other genre, simply by adjusting the instrumentation and changing the vocal style just a bit. I was trying to figure out how to sing "Do You" in a country way, and after a long while I tried to slow the song down, add some twang and some of those old-school country swoops where your voice drops in the middle of a word and then comes back up -- and it sort of worked.

Country music: the genre I could have loved. Clearly I don't know what I'm talking about with any of this, but I do enjoy thinking about it -- trying to figure out precisely what thrills you about music, what makes the music so vital and necessary to you, and then searching for that same thing in unexpected places. And then, of course, the startling thrill of actually finding it.

November Sunday

Sunday turned out to be a really pleasant day. Here's what happened:

1. Abruptly woken up at 5 am by the incessant clanging of the pipes in our apartment. For whatever reason, the pipes, which seem to be carrying lava directly from the bowels of hell, make this horrible series of clanging noises every few hours. You try to be polite and ignore it, but it's like the infrastructure of our building is having a heart attack. So I was awake and thinking about this already when the carbon monoxide alarm started shrieking, perhaps in the wake of an extremely successful Second Annual Faux Thanksgiving, which required the oven to be on all day. Ultimately I took the batteries out but not before noting, first, that we don't have a smoke alarm in our apartment, and, second, the neighbor's carbon monoxide alarm also seemed to be going off.

2. Woke up alive.

3. Spent two good hours at the gym, sweating out the red wine and yams that I steadily consumed for five hours the day before.

4. Had a fun breakfast at a fantastically lame restaurant, Johnny Rocket's, with my friend Russell from hip hop. Got a coke from Chipotle to pull it all together.

5. Read the paper, including some really good op-eds and a column discussing the design elements of the candidates' logos and bumper stickers. This is one of those topics I really get into, thinking about fonts and momentum and what colors mean.

6. Embarked on a meandering walk with L: to the bookstore, where we had a nice chat with the owner; to Rickshaw for a snack; and then on to the Angelika for a random screening of "Margot at the Wedding." It was the perfect kind of movie to see when you're wearing winter clothing: a moody indie film, bland colors, with screwed-up families and relationships that make you feel better about your own life. But I was perfectly entertained by it, there were some funny parts, Jack Black was less insufferable than usual, Nicole Kidman was great, and I really liked the ending -- emotional, kinetic, definitive, and unlike the rest of the flick. Thank you Angelika for these random winter afternoons.

7. Came home, did some work, and enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner again. Everything tastes even better a day later. Went to bed happy.

And now I'm off to Virginia in a couple hours. Happy Thanksgiving.

Marathon affirmations

That last one, especially, is so true.

A.M. New York

On Saturday night L and I had the great fortune of celebrating the engagement of two of our favorite people in this city of millions, Ashesh and Mona. We had known Ashesh was going to pop the question; being the astute woman she is, Mona figured it out too, which meant for several days we were all tap-dancing around the issue and asking prodding questions and trying to keep a straight face. But on Saturday night everything happened, and we happily crossed the hallway to Mona's apartment to celebrate with champagne and the kind of boozy good cheer that is the best part of having friends and alcohol in the same night.

I've known Ashesh since my third year of college, I think, when he and I were fellow history nerds. He kept me sane through college; he kept an eye on L in Greece. Margaritas at Amigo's in Charlottesville smoothly transitioned to margaritas at Benny's in the city, and wherever we are, Ashesh's intelligence and humor have brightened many of my days. And who can forget the rehearsal dinner for my own wedding, when he was the only person to make fun of my grandfather during his toast! I certainly can't. I can't wait to mock his relatives to their faces, as soon as I get the chance! Point 'em out to me! Outstanding.

I met Mona through Ashesh a few years ago, and I knew I would like her when she started making fun of me moments after we were introduced. She has definitely lived up to this initial assessment, and I've enjoyed the years of mockery since then. Nobody gives a backhanded compliment like Mona.

In sum, I could not be happier for these two. They are two of the funniest, snippiest, and most generous people you could hope to meet, and I feel lucky to be able to celebrate these momentous days with them. And to know that the best is yet to come ... what an honor to share this with you. Congratulations, you guys.

Parading

Today on the way to the gym my path was blocked by yet another parade down 5th Avenue. On every Sunday that I find myself in midtown Manhattan, there is some random parade going by, and it's generally an Ethnic White Parade. The Polish people had one earlier, and today's might have been Austrian or Croatian or something -- some culture where they have white people, marching bands, and flags with rectangular blocks of color. The cops directing traffic looked utterly bored. The crowds on the streets were either dedicated groups of fellow Ethnic Whites ("Viva Bulgaria!"), or else your standard New York mix of the curious, busy, lost, indigent, visiting, or irritated ("Which white people are these? Croats?").

There are two kinds of big public urban celebrations here. The first, like the Ethnic White parades, or even the Marathon, are generally very well-organized, very disruptive of traffic patterns, and very heavily monitored by cops and other city officials. They usually end within a day and are as fleeting as a summer rainbow. The second, like Halloween and the Gay Pride Parade, are more raucous affairs, where many people barge into the city for the sheer childlike pleasure of yelling in the middle of the night and vomiting on the sidewalks. On the mornings after these events, it looks like God took a frat house, turned it inside out, threw up on it, and then put it down outside your apartment building. There's also a third set of celebrations, like the St. Patrick's Day parade (and don't even mention the Puerto Rican Day parade), that manage to combine, in a most magical way, municipal organization and drunken anarchy. Those are really special moments.

I didn't know what to write about tonight, but seeing that random Ethnic White parade got me thinking about all the other celebrations you endure here in the city. Generally you decide to hunker down and wait them out, rather than actually participate in them -- but maybe the right Ethnic White parade might change my mind.

Run Mike Run: the marathon

Yesterday I ran the marathon. It happened, it was a success. I was pleased with my time (according to the New York Times, I came in 10,012th out of some 39,000). I got 3:55:01, just above the respectability line of 4:00:00; that breaks down to 8:58 per mile. I was thrilled to complete it and to come in at that time, as I realized midway through that there was no way I would make 3:40. I had heard that your first marathon is all about finishing it, rather than making a certain time. I hadn't believed this, but it turned out to be true. It was harder than I thought, and today I still feel stiff and sore and tired, but it was wonderful. Let me break down what happened.

The night before the race, I was extremely anxious, and only got three hours of sleep. At 4 am I woke up, pulled on my clothes and caught a cab to midtown, to catch the bus to Staten Island. There was no one waiting for the buses, I hopped on one immediately and reached Staten Island, in the pitch black darkness of night, at 5:20 am. Out of 39,000 runners, I am sure I was one of the first, say, 200 to reach Staten Island. So I spent four hours -- four hours -- sitting on a curb in the cold, thinking about things, eating a bagel listlessly, finding a new curb, peeing, sitting, thinking, not talking, sipping Gatorade, thinking, sitting, squatting, sipping, peeing, and walking up the same stretch of sidewalk. It made me think of how sometimes, in adulthood, you have to do unpleasant things, things that are unavoidable and require patience and fortitude, and there's no reason to complain because there's nothing to be done and you just have to endure. I first learned about this facet of maturity on bitter winter camping trips with the Boy Scouts; the same lessons applied as I waited for a November sunrise in Staten Island, in old sweatpants and an undershirt.

Cut to the race. Four hours later the cannon (or whatever) fired, and the race was on. Twenty-five minutes later, my lowly corral of people actually started running. The first couple miles over the Verrazano bridge felt great; a few people spread across the wide smooth asphalt, the city to our left, finally running and warming up the muscles. It was profoundly quiet, considering the unending scream that accompanied most of the rest of the course. I was feeling great, and darted quickly through the first section of Brooklyn, say the first ten miles. I really didn't feel a thing. As we began to see people along the sidewalks of Brooklyn, cheering and handing out paper towels, I couldn't help but grin as I ran. It felt amazing; the first ten miles or so were heavenly.

I knew my friend Sarah would be out on the course ("Incessant Anonymity," in the links) so I looked forward to seeing her early in the race, an occasion that gave me something to think about and focus on. The best part of knowing people would be on the course was both the thrill of seeing them, that lightning flash of energy and happiness it gave you, and the ability to break down the race in terms of friend-sightings, rather than mile-markers. Much easier to think, "four miles until I see the Core," rather than, "twenty-two miles until I get to sit down."

And so it went. L and the family had bought two blue "It's A Boy" balloons, so it was easy for me to spot them all as I chugged down the pike. It was great seeing them on a few different occasions, as they darted around the city to intercept me. I saw my friends, and friends of friends, and people from law school, and work folks. It was more than I could have asked for. I saw 12 people on that course cheering me on, and I found out later that there were others who had seen me and were cheering, even when I didn't see them.

The key to everything, honestly, was the shirt that said "Run Mike Run." From now on, I will be wearing that shirt to school, work, funerals, etc. It was the best feeling in the world, to be running along and hear some random voice yell, "RUN MIKE RUN"! These people didn't know me from Adam, but it always gave me a little boost. I always tried to smile or wave or pump a fist in acknowledgment. (And let me tell you, strictly in confidence, that it seemed to be a big hit with young women of a certain demographic -- I felt quite a bit of encouragement from the twentysomething crowd. Find me on Myspace, ladies!) Sometimes, though, I would sort of want to be left alone, so I would run in the middle of the pack, where no one could yell at me by name; other times I could hug the edges of the running pack, so people would clearly read it and call out. The other funny thing was at the water stops, when I would be walking and drinking Gatorade and somebody would yell it, and I'd think, all right, for God's sake, give me a minute. But it was all meant kindly, I guess, and sometimes I would reply with an exaggerated "Okay!" of faux annoyance as I set off again.

The crowds were massive throughout. Brooklyn was fun and multi-ethnic and optimistic, given the earliness in the course; I loved the gospel singers and steel-drum bands and garage bands rocking on the sidewalk. There were desolate stretches where the locals eyed us warily as many male runners ran off the road to pee against warehouse walls. In Manhattan there was a wall of people 5 or 10 deep in places, holding signs and offering candy (I ate a lone Sour Patch kid someone offered, unthinkingly, and regretted it shortly thereafter). In the Bronx people were yelling into microphones, "You're in the Bronx now baby! South Bronx welcomes you!" In Harlem I shamelessly pumped my fist to the rap music blasting from speakers. For the final couple miles in Central Park, I ignored the crowds and ran as hard as I could, with great result.

The 26th mile was a good thirty seconds faster than the 25th; I did finish strong, which I was really proud of. The race was slower going than I had planned. Maybe I started too strong in the initial euphoric miles, but the narrow roads and tight turns made navigating the crowd nearly impossible. Spectators would loom into the roadway, and due to the odd system of start times, corrals, and staggered starts, I always felt like I was in the middle of a much slower crowd that I should have been. I was constantly battling to move ahead, for the entire race; I spent a lot of time and energy moving laterally to dance around slower runners and find a clear break where I could move ahead. This was frustrating, and I think it definitely slowed me down overall.

On the other hand, the last eight or so miles were hell. My knee was hurting, my muscles were tired, and the novelty of the experience had nearly burned away in the hazy sunlight of midday (that's a really bad sentence, but forget it). I had only done one 18-mile run, and one 20-mile run, before this; it's not like miles 18 and 19 were a walk in the park, but I was aware of those last 6.2 as uncharted territory. But there was no question of stopping, and I was happy that I didn't take any walking breaks besides the water stations. And once we hit Central Park, I shoved the discomfort to the back of my mind and the event became something between me and the road and the Park where I had traced loop after loop after loop; I tried to make the crowd dissolve and finish strong, and somehow it worked. And here I am now, 26 hours later.

I am still wretchedly sore. Last night we went to bed at ten and I slept wondrously. As soon as I finished the marathon yesterday, I felt woozy and hot and cold and feverish and twitchy. Several people were vomiting along the fence as medics were dispatched in every direction. To be honest I was trying hard to not pass out and control my bodily functions during the twenty minutes it took to inch through the crowd, and collect my medal, tin foil blanket, and bag of food. Fortunately it worked. I could barely stretch, though, could barely touch my toes to relax my muscles. Right before I crossed the finish line, and in the moments after, I did find myself getting a bit emotional; for many reasons I guess -- pride, surprise at myself for accomplishing it, disappointment that it was over, and maybe the sheer overwhelming physicality of doing this without much sleep or food. It was a heady mix of stimuli, I'll tell you that.

It meant a lot to me to think about how much support I've been shown during this whole thing. Since this started in earnest in July, I've really appreciated people asking how training is going. There aren't even words to thank my family and friends who cheered me on and made signs and t-shirts. In training, during particularly rough moments, I used to encourage myself by fantasizing about seeing my friends and family on the marathon course; the reality was even better. Their presence, and support, and faith, is what gave me the strength to do it (as well as the tacit pressure they provided by spending their own time to be there). The night before the marathon I wrote about the people for whom I was doing this run -- and it was the truth, during the run I thought about all of them, or rather, all of you, at different points along the way and it pulled me through. It really pulled me through.

Anyways, as you can see by this absurdly long post, the marathon really meant a lot to me. It's one of the best New York things I've done, it's one of the biggest (ok, the biggest) athletic accomplishment of my life, and it gave me a lot of faith and pride in myself. I stick with what I said before: the marathon was the entire 18-week period, not just this last 26.2; but damn, this 26.2 was brutal, and difficult, and sublime. I'll be turning this experience over in my head for a while, I think.

To end on a lighter note: my two favorite signs of the entire race: "YOU SHOULD BE PROUD," and the classic three-word mantra: "U GO BITCH."

Dear reader, that was the marathon.

More reflections

You know what? I'm ready for this. This is going to be fun, and it might be amazing. I'm ready for this, I trained my ass off, and this is going to be wonderful. The marathon experience isn't tomorrow's race, it's the hundreds of miles I've been running since July, and tomorrow is the victory lap. I can do this. I'm an athlete. This is the marathon.

So, this is for my parents and grandparents and Kels; my friends (including the Core); Eliza, Russell, Arnold and everyone else at the gym who got me into shape in the last couple years; the people who have encouraged me about this whole endeavor; and the old, small, irrelevant part of myself who thought I couldn't do things like this. And most of all, for L.

This! Is the marathon!

Reflections on training for, and competing in, the New York City Marathon, on the eve before the actual race

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

You try to tell yourself that this anxiety is normal, that it's something you feel when you're about to accomplish something, but still, oh, shit.

Marathon panic update: three days left

As the week began I was feeling pretty nervous about the upcoming marathon -- it was like a low rumbling underlying everything else that was going on. I felt anxious, like a squirrel, or someone who lives in southern California.

But as the week has progressed, as I've made an effort to sleep as much as possible and battle the potential head cold I'm feeling, I'm gaining some confidence. Today L and I went to the marathon expo, which was remarkable: every brand of shoe you had ever heard of set up their own shopping area, other marathons were advertising, and people had all sorts of products to sample and try: insoles, energy bars, sports drinks, gels, sunglasses, shoes, water, even beer. I bought a wicking-away running shirt from my fave running shoe company, Brooks, and later on we got it customized down at Paragon Sports (after a ride on their complementary shuttle). Now my shirt says, RUN MIKE RUN. Also at Paragon, they had a complimentary "Runners' Lunch," including pizza, bagels, bananas, apples, and water. We all ate as if we had just finished a race (and, uh, ordered a pizza) even though the most activity any of us had was taking off our jackets to try on running shirts.

Oh, one fun thing to look for at the marathon: oblivious people from other countries, who were bonking around the expo all day and seem ready to make a big splash at the race. Try to run in a general forward direction, everybody!

I'm looking forward to the marathon. We watched a documentary on PBS (we're big PBS fans in our house, naturally) featuring real, everyday, lazy people who spent nine months training for the Boston marathon, and by the time these people crossed the finish line, sobbing and running with their families and kids besides them, L and I were getting emotional too. This evening I just spent twenty minutes at the gym bouncing around on the elliptical, which is the last training thing I have to do in my eighteen-week plan. Now I'm ready for a big run, I'm ready to push my body after a fairly easy couple weeks of tapering.

I think the pieces are starting to come together here: my body is ready physically, mentally I feel like I understand the challenge and am ready to tackle it, and emotionally, as I mentioned before, I'm choking up at marathon tv shows. If that's not adequate preparation, then I just don't know what to tell you.

This is the marathon!

Top Halloween costumes for women, 2007

Slutty nurse
Slutty cop
Slutty matador
Slutty UN Peacekeeper
Slutty clergymember
Slutty terrorist
Slutty ghost
Slutty prostitute
Slutty kitten
Slutty Hillary Rodham Clinton
Slutty pumpkin
Slutty headless horseperson
Slutty witch
Normal bitchy witch.

Fall into the gap

L and I went on a massive shopping excursion today, a four-hour trek that left us exhausted (her) and irritable (me). Besides our fruitless search for cool sneakers, the main point was a trip to The Gap (specifically, Gap Men) for my official fall/winter shopping "spree" ("spree" means, "I went to the store willing to buy more than one item, but I still felt bad about it").

Here's what I got: a pair of dark jeans, a pair of brown pants that are somewhat jeans-like, a dark blue sweater that will probably get a lot of use, and a cool sort of shiny brown shirt that I can wear when go out. The shirt is shiny in such a way that it looks like it might be water-resistant, or possibly flame retardant, or might even be made of actual tent material, but I think it's coolness really radiates through. Things I didn't buy: a striped button-down shirt that made me look like 1989, a pair of bizarrely skinny jeans with a button-fly that took me way too long to deal with, and a pair of gray pants that looked like half of a gas station attendant's uniform.

The best part was that they were playing awesome music throughout our time in the store: some Beyonce, Janet, Usher, Amerie, and more. So of course when it was time to hit the dressing room I made a beeline for the handicapped room (with the full-length door) so I could rock out as I changed my clothes. It was great, and made trying on clothes a lot more like a music video, which is my general aspiration for life in general.

As we paid for the stuff, we complemented the guy at the register on the music selection. "Oh, we're not actually supposed to be playing this," he said.

Marathon training update: week 17, day 5

Now is the time in the marathon training schedule when I am getting freaked out by the whole thing. Sometimes I'll be ambling along the street feeling good about my life, and then a malicious little voice in my head will chirp, "You think you're going to run a marathon in a week!? Bwa ha ha!" And the stone drops into the pit of my stomach and I'm in an existential funk.

The other day I saw an email that a fellow marathoner sent out to wide list of people. This email included: a spreadsheet with her anticipated times and mileage markers, the address of the bar where she booked a room for the after party on Sunday afternoon, the colors of the clothing she would wear, the fact that there are special t-shirts made up for the people who are cheering her on, and a detailed explanation of where people could watch her run, and which parts of the course would be especially challenging.

This email blew me away because compared to her, I am grossly unprepared. We haven't figured out where L and my family and hopefully my friends will be; I assume I'll be wearing running clothes, but I haven't quite committed to that yet; based on previous experience, I'm planning on spending the afternoon after the marathon in bed or in the bathroom; and I had figured on not worrying too much about the course, since I knew I wouldn't make a wrong turn anywhere and since I'm already fantastically bored with Central Park, which right now is about as new and exotic to me as my local subway stop. I'm trying to keep this marathon under control in my head: it's just a long run that I'm ready for, and know I can complete. It's going to be a little crowded and weird, but ultimately it's just about me and the road and running in a smart way.

The other day my mom asked what would happen if it rained on the marathon day. I had never even considered this possibility, with my marathon fantasies involving crisp autumn days with leaves falling majestically around me. So I'm trying to broaden my imagination here, to make sure I'll be ready for the main event, no matter what happens. I'm focusing hard on resting and not getting hurt and staying healthy and upbeat; the hard part of the training is done, and now I'm trying to let my body recover until it reaches that point where it is awake and springing up, ready and alert and alive and hungry to do the longest run it has ever known.

This is the marathon.

Languishing in the library

I've been here a while now, eight, nine hours, maybe more. Same carrel for the last three days. Extremely little progress on the paper -- now I'm just summarizing all these cases so I can hopefully arrange them in an interesting and enlightening way later on. I hope this is helpful and not stupid. Sometimes it seems like a fine line, much finer than it ought to be, but these are the lines we draw when we do things with reluctance. And resentment, maybe.

I've rediscovered YouTube as my own personal jukebox. One of the first bands I really was into was called The Party, and they sprang fully-formed, like Athena out of the head of Zeus, from the Mickey Mouse Club on the Disney Channel, which could very well be the pinnacle of all television for a lot of reasons. Anyways, The Party was this ethnically-diverse, totally rocking pop band from about 1990-92 that came out with some really kicky songs. Needless to say I bought their first tape immediately and my entire family was really into their music. And who wasn't? "That's Why," "Coulda Shoulda Woulda," "Summer Vacation," "I Found Love"... The list goes on. Honestly, can you even imagine 1991 without "Coulda Shoulda Woulda"? Unrecognizable!

So I've been rocking out to The Party on YouTube, wondering why they aren't on iTunes, noting with dismay that their cds are bizarrely expensive on Amazon. Some of the clips on YouTube are from a concert special they had on the Disney Channel, and I laughed when I saw the screaming fans. Not out of callousness or mockery of their early 1990s style; no, I laughed because I immediately recognized my long-dormant envy of those lucky 13-year olds who actually got to go, since at that point I would have gladly sold myself into white slavery to make their concert, and was stuck instead banging on the tv screen with my hammy youthful fists and dry-heaving a little bit, and yet now I can't even find their music. I'm pretty sure I tossed out their tape a few years ago.

Man, why can't I write a 25-page paper about The Party? I definitely have a lot more to say.

Call me Ishmael

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, the horribly abbreviated name for National Novel Writing Month, which is this project where you bang out a novel in the month of November that's at least 50,000 words, or at least 175 pages. I heard about this last year but I missed the boat on signing up for it. I'm excited to do it, to have a project post-marathon, even though I'm already right on schedule to develop carpal tunnel even without this, thanks to the law school professors who just won't rest until I have bloody fingertips and wristguards on both hands.

The NaNoWriMo people say that the important thing is just getting the words out, and to not worry about editing or direction or anything like that -- the goal is quantity, not quality. This is the kind of low expectation that makes me think this could actually work. Every once in a while I feel a strong hankering to write creatively, so for a few nights in a row I'll irritate L by punching at the keyboard while she's trying to sleep, then I'll come up with a few vignettes and false starts and nothing to show for it. When I was younger I used to write a lot more: in 8th grade there was this ridiculous adventure story featuring a character who was basically Bilbo Baggins, enmeshed in the Colombian drug trade; there were also a few stories, humiliatingly enough, imagining adventures for the cast of "Star Trek: The Next Generation." ("Lt. Worf, throw me a phaser!")

I'm thinking for this latest attempt that I'll generally stay away from sci-fi fan fiction. Instead I'm thinking it will probably be a thinly-veiled autobiography, about some young dude in the city, maybe with some wacky neighbors and friends, work experience in the legal realm, and a dope soundtrack. But hopefully I can make it a little bolder than that.

Anyways, I'm sort of excited about this. Hopefully having some external framework around the writing process will help me get through it better, like training wheels or physical therapy. If I manage to complete it, chances are the novel will be a total trainwreck, but at least I'll be the only one who knows it.

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live"

Last night I had a really remarkable dream. Usually I find that people generally don't care about other people's dreams, but this one was significant and I don't want to forget about it, so I'm putting it up here.

In my dream I was with myself as a young child in a strange and foreign place. It was like Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" -- we were outside in this barren wasteland, me and myself as a kid and many other people, on this dirty road next to a gully or something, stark and empty. There was a body in a plastic bag off to the side. And yet it wasn't a threatening environment, really -- it's just where we were.

So I was with this other version of myself as a little kid, and I was there to protect him and watch over him. I felt a strange love for him, as he was myself and yet someone totally different. Yet his physicality was so familiar to me. At one point I asked him if he thought we looked alike, and he laughed and said no. I remember walking along holding his hand and just chatting and moving through the day.

I don't think I've ever felt such paternal feelings before, consciously or not. As I've mulled over this dream today I keep thinking about different facets of my life that were expressed by it. Current facets as well as things I can't begin to grasp: the idea of fatherhood, of being responsible for a child, of feeling that innate connection, of seeing someone else with your very features. Knowing someone as intimately as anyone possibly could, because you knew and loved them from the start. Yet unlike fatherhood, in my dream I loved this kid because I knew he was me and that things would work out for him and he would be happy. I knew he would have a sense of humor and that the body he would grow into would be mine.

Anyway, it was a complicated stew of emotions and thoughts, from walking around an alien place with a little kid who was and was not me. It was oddly serene, and I felt all right when I woke up. This dream, though, took a lot of threads in my life and knotted them up in a way that I can't quite untangle.

Marathon training update: week 15, day 6

Today I ran 20 miles. Twenty miles is so far, today I basically ran from New York to LA and back. And then back and again. Or at least that's what it was feeling like for the last few miles, and specifically how it felt when I stopped for water with my finish line in sight, having already run 19.96 miles, but I was thirsty, dammit, and I was going to stop and walk for a moment because at that point most of my leg muscles had dissolved into liquid and were sloshing around in my calves.

It wasn't really that bad. In fact, when I finally made it up to the park today, tired and boozy, I was shocked into wakefulness by the beauty of the day: bright clear sky, brazenly cloudless, a brisk breeze and the first signs of fall hanging from the trees and underfoot. It reminded me that it was almost time to bring out ol' "Autumn in New York" -- another year, another season of change and renewal.

As I ran I thought about how this is such a pleasant experience, to be placing one foot in front of another, keeping it nice and easy, in such a beautiful place -- where else would I rather be right now? The truth, for the most part, is nowhere.

The low point, inevitably, was when I sort of walked into a woman on a bike. I had just finished 12, and was getting ready to buy a gatorade, when I turned a corner and basically walked into a European woman who, fortunately, was riding her bike at a glacial pace. I apologized immediately, and she chided me with a "be more careful" in a lilting accent, and I couldn't even be mad. Unless she had been targeting me with her slow, rickety bike, like a 1912 missile.

So I came home, showered, iced, and fell asleep, hard, until now. I haven't eaten anything and I feel a little woozy, so I need to find some food and draw up some energy. I feel tired and beat, but in a very good way. This week was the most intense training of the whole 18-week program, so now I just taper down until the actual event in November. This is the marathon!

Rocket ship

This morning I was standing on the train considering the fact that I was facing opposite the exact same girl from yesterday morning's commute. I could tell it was her because she carried the same black plastic purse with spacey pink flowers spiraling towards you -- I had been listening to Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" and was considering how this song could send you into a real psychedelic trance with the art on that purse, and how I was surprised that the subway provided me with this bizarre visual nugget that coincided so aptly with my song of choice. I was thinking about this, and wondering if the girl had any clue that she had seen me yesterday in the exact same circumstances, when a crazy person got on the train.

You get used to crazy people in New York; you learn to ignore them, for your dignity and their own. This person was short and stout, in casual clothes, with a majestic, jet-black pompadour that flowed into a mullet trailing down most of his back. He carried a red folder high over his mouth, like he was in a choir. He started talking.

"I am an angel," he said. "I am an angel Don't look at me my eyes are sensitive I am an angel."

I turned off my ipod so I could hear him better. He started talking about how he was in the ministry, and how he was friends with God and God had sent him rocket ships for all the unbelievers, and they would be shot into space. Also in attendance on these spacebound rocket ships: demons, disbelievers in his ministry and followers of Sodom and Gomorrah. All the while he was clutching this folder in front of his face and telling people not to look at him, as he turned and addressed everyone.

"For those of you who have just come on board, I am an angel," he would helpfully announce when new people got on. I actually couldn't help but laugh at the good-natured crazy of it all, and I made eye contact with one guy who was smiling too. Most people ignored him with the Manhattan expression of studied indifference. By the time we got to Columbus Circle he had been drowned out by the crowd and he couldn't command the same kind of audience.

It was nice to have a laugh on the subway today, to break my morning stupor. I wonder if he finally got off the train thinking he had finished his day's work, or if he's still riding around telling people not to look at him. Either way, no sign of any rocket ships today.

A great moment

This afternoon I stopped in the men's room after a particularly dispiriting day at law school. I had decided to leave my backpack in my locker overnight, since I'll be back first thing in the morning, so I was ready to go: I had the New Yorker rolled in my pocket and my ipod in my ears. So I walk into the men's room and there are a typical number of other people in there -- three, maybe four. So be it.

So I sidle up to the urinal and proceed to begin going about my business, when I quickly realize two facts: 1) through some horrible confluence of timing and circumstance, it is completely and utterly silent in the men's room, and 2) I am listening to the new Britney Spears song on my ipod, and it might be loud enough for other people to hear.

Gimme gimme MORE, gimme MORE, Gimme gimme MORE!

I can't very well try to change my ipod now, when I am fully engaged with the urinal process. I can't be that guy with one hand on his junk and the other spinning around the ipod wheel until you hit that perfect song to pee along with.

But wait a second -- what the hell are these other guys doing that it's so quiet in here? Mooning at their reflections in the mirror, staring at the paper towel dispenser, contemplating the urinal cakes? It's like a still life or something. Britney is still yammering away as I start to think, Make some noise, please someone make some noise. I will take whatever excruciatingly audible bodily function anybody wants to engage in, just somebody please wash out this constant and growing threat of

Gimme gimme MORE, gimme MORE, Gimme gimme MORE!

Ultimately, of course, I have to accept my situation and realize that I am the guy listening to Britney Spears as I pee. Maybe these other dudes will pass judgment on me, but my question to them is: what are you doing in the bathroom that makes no noise at all? Are you a ninja? Because if you're not, you should be making some noise by doing your business, running the faucets to wash your hands, slamming the crap out of the soap dispenser to get some soap, or pumping the paper towel box to finish up and get on out of there. Enough with the mime act, fellas -- either make some noise to bury my embarrassing musical selection, or leave so I can enjoy it in peace, and fleetingly wonder if my support of Britney Spears' musical career is contributing to her very downfall. See? Everyone's a winner.

Marathon training update: week 14, day 1

Yesterday I ran 18 miles. I have never run that far, and I find it hard to believe that anyone else ever has either, because that is a long way. I am happy to report, though, that it went very well. Keeping in mind my ultimate goal of 8:00 miles for the marathon (which is now looking more like 8:20, maybe) I aimed to mosey along at a nice 9:00 pace for the 18-miler, following my training plan. After a glacially-paced first mile at 9:30, I did a fine job of keeping it between 8:15 and 9:00 for the rest of the race. For the final mile, I wanted to finish strong, so I really tried to keep up a good clip, regulate my breathing, and end on a high note. I was pumping my legs, eyeing the finish line as it approached, systematically overcoming runners ahead of me, and after I ran through the line I checked my watch and was shocked to see that I ran that last mile in 7:31. Unbelievable! Where does this come from? How am I doing this?

I had a huge grin on my face for the next few moments as I shuffled along the line and got some Gatorade and an apple. I really didn't think I had it in me to run 18 miles, let alone run my 18th mile so well. This training program is actually working, apparently. (Incidentally, my average mile time for this race was 8:35, which was great, considering that I was trying to go even slower.)

Some more good news: the thigh/knee pain I've come to live with and accept, like a prominent mole or a conjoined twin, was nowhere to be found. Instead today all of my leg muscles are generally throbbing, and the muscle behind my left knee is pulled so tight that I can't quite extend my leg. I am trying to keep my limp under control, but it was well worth it.

Some good or bad news, as you look at it: my ipod battery died at mile 8 of the run (leaving me ten miles to go), so while I got some good thinking done during the race, it looks like it may be time for me to go blow a couple hundred bucks at the Apple store and come back with an awesome new ipod, one a' them fancy square kinds. I'll keep you posted. (I also have amassed some good new tunes lately: the new Kanye album, which is way better that I would have expected, the new Britney, which is undeniable, and a little touch of Reba for those tender post-run moments.)

A few weeks back I realized that this marathon is much more than the 26.2 miles I'll be doing in a month. I've come to consider each training run, each dreaded weekend long run, as a part of it, too. So even when I think to myself, I'm going to run a marathon!, I remind myself that I am running it already, and I've been running it for 14 weeks now, and what happens during that last 26.2 is merely the icing on the cake.

This is the marathon!