Rocky Twoska

I suppose an explanation is in order for my absence from the blogosphere (buzzword alert!) over the past two months.  In Rocky II, Rocky lost motivation to train when Adrian dropped into some sort of panic-attack-inspired coma, which remains among the stupidest plot devices in the history of movie and would only be redeemed by the Thunderlips fight in Rocky III.  

In real life, Adrian has not been in a coma.  But I've been in Rocky's funk.  To wit:

1) I am still running.

2) My knee still hurts.

3) I am not in fantastic shape.

4) This is going to be another grind, one that I can now fully appreciate in its dreadfulness.

Marathon Oneska was an adventure.  It was a challenge to my lifestyle and a test of my own character.  It was a fun kind of difficult.

This "adventure?"  This is a nightmare, and I'm scheduled to sleep until sometime between 1:30 and 4pm on Sunday.

It's a physical test, unlike the mental reorganization required by the first run around the city,  and my body has failed it to this point.  I cannot stay healthy.  I've found it impossible to write about because, frankly, I hate complaining about pain, and it's dominated my thought processes of late.  I always found a way to suck it up and keep truckin', rub some dirt on it and let's go.  Lately, though, this truck has a blown-out tire and is grinding axle on pavement.  This truck is overloaded and running out of gas.    

I'm reminded of my last offseason of football in college, after my freshman year of what was a demoralizing season on and off the field. Still, I intended to come back and play.  When the first workout came up on the schedule, though, I couldn't convince myself that it was something I wanted.  I didn't go, to that or to any others.  When a coach called, I could barely muster the voice to tell him I'd quit.  But I had, and I did, I just hadn't told anyone yet.

I am not a quitter, though.  I am going to fight Thunderlips in Rocky III, and to do that I have to beat Apollo this week.  And so I need the old Matuska, the one that kicked ass, and knew he could.  He knew it because he was, and is, a "hard try-er," as current Phillies manager and always baseball man Charlie Manuel likes to say, and if the effort is there and the will is there, the body will adjust to the absence of "ifs" and will resign itself to the inevitability of the finish line and complain later.  

So I write this and smile, because this is going to be fun.  Because the finish is inevitable, because I'm already there, because my best is good enough. because I've written it and thus it is so. I simply have to run the path.

When it's over.

Miles run:

Who knows

Beers consumed:

Who cares

Let's do this thing.  

Thank you very much-o, Mr. Roboto

At a karaoke bar last week, I had first-person contact with a legitimate cyborg.  We all have our suspicions- Phil Jackson, for one, seems somewhat likely to be a high-profile Sports Bot, spewing non-sequitir responses to interview questions from the massive memory bank of human knowledge infused into his post-post-postmodern neural net that still doesn't quite pass the Turing Test.  (For the uninitiated- the Turing Test is a very simple concept which suggests that a basic three-way blind conversation between two humans and an artificial intelligence will reveal the non-human intelligence to a human judge.  When an artificial intelligence cannot be identified in said blind interview, we will have successfully created a human AI.  Jackson, while an impressive specimen, does not pass muster.)  In my own circle of friends, I know for a fact that Frisbie is part machine, part man; however, I think that in the Robot Uprising of 2032, I'll be able to appeal to the small part of The Fris that remains human and avoid plasma-ray vaporization, living out the rest of my days as a moderately amusing, low maintenance pet to our mechanical overlords.  Preemptively: all hail the Master Control Program!

I was not able to actually engage my digital karaoke compadre (we'll call him "Hal") in a Turing-oriented conversation, but I am nevertheless certain he has freon running through his veins.   I had just finished a stirring rendition of Guns 'n' Roses's "Patience" and was accepting congratulations from neighboring barstools that appreciated the performance when the opening piano of Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" came over the speakers.  As such, I barely registered initially that The Boss may has well have just entered the room.  Turning to my left, a small group of 40-somethings were gathered around a bespectacled, corporately-dressed singer who was just CRUSHING the song.  Generally speaking, I take a small degree of pride in my karaoke acumen, as my childhood voice training, coupled with my affinity for late-80's hair metal, tends to please the crowd.  I would stop short of describing myself as a Karaoke Master, however.  I may be good, but it is always my voice you hear.  I will never be confused for Jon Bon Jovi, in any sense.

Hal struck me as a Master.  He was not a dancer or a showman.  But he nailed Bruce at every inflection point, every breath, every soulful voice crack.  I considered retirement for a short while.  And then I decided to kick some ass.

I perform Louis Prima's "Just a Gigolo" in the style of David Lee Roth as well as I do anything.  (A pessimist might argue that I don't do much very well, but trust me, if you haven't seen it, you're missing something.)  So I knocked it out in rousing fashion, getting the bar involved and momentarily taking over the room.  I was pleased, my companions were pleased, everyone in the bar smiled from ear to ear.  The gauntlet had been thrown.  Let's see whatcha got, Hal.

Hal responded with Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive," and the walk-off was on.  At this point, I became suspicious.  He was performing the song in Jon Bon Jovi's voice, just like he'd done with The Boss, and doing so as if he were playing a tape of the the recording from Slippery When Wet.  I took a closer look at Hal.  His clothes certainly could have been chosen by a socially inexperienced intelligence.  The glasses could be a prop, like a plastic retractable knife in a stage play.  And his head was practically hairless.  Perhaps the skin was rubber?  I thought to touch, then thought better.  I had no interest in picking a fight with a Karaoke Terminator.

I was not yet ready to cede victory to this machine, though.  Kasparov set one last trap for Deep Blue in the the form of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'".  While I have a small degree of difficulty with the higher notes at the end of the song, by then it usually doesn't matter- the whole bar is singing and the ladies are swooning as I wail away.  I concluded with a fist pump, and accepted high-fives from the peanut gallery.

How did Hal respond?

Meatloaf.  "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights," sung as a duet with an apparent female companion.  As before, the song was sung perfectly.

Now it was clear: at least two, and perhaps all six, of these purported middle-aged humanoid entities were mechanical in nature, with digitally-synthesized voices that can shift from one over-the-hill rocker to another.  I began to worry about the safety of the meat-people in the bar.  Could this be some sort of military surveillance program?  Maybe we had been targeted as "persons of interest," or worse, for extermination?  Is the Pentagon planning to invade Japan?  Is this a dry run?  Or is this mature technology?  Was Bon Jovi replaced years ago, like Paul McCartney, with a cybernetic organism?  Was Meatloaf?  And what does this say about our national security priorities, if Meatloaf ranks as a national personality without which our collective psyche would collapse?

Also, I was drunk.  I decided to sleep on it.

Week 5
August 15-21
Sunday: Rest, 0 beers
Monday: 7 miles, 0 beers
Tuesday: Rest, 0 beers
Wednesday: 6 miles, 0 beers, Doctor's office
Thursday: 3 miles elliptical, boxing, 0 beers
Friday: Karaoke, 12 beers (estimated)
Saturday: Physical Therapy, 5.9 miles, Ant's Bday, 12 Beers

Miles Run: 21.9
Boozecount: 24 beers

Overall Record: 3-2

  Week 6
August 22-28
Sunday: Rest, 0 beers
Monday: 7 miles, 0 beers
Tuesday: Rest, 0 beers
Wednesday: 6 miles, 0 beers
Thursday: Rest, 0 beers
Friday: 3.5 miles elliptical, Physical Therapy, 0 beers
Saturday: 7 miles, 10 drinks (estimated)

Miles Run: 23.5
Boozecount: 10 drinks 

A couple things to note from the past two weeks of training:

1) I've finally decided to get my knee checked out.  It's been bugging me more an more as I've been running, and I decided that it's about time I tried to actually solve the problem.  Doc Stark, whom I assume is a close relation to international playboy, corporate kingpin, and superhero Ironman Tony Stark, suggested I have patellar tracking problems, mild bursitis, and general weakness in my hip.  Physical Therapist Riggs, who is most likely the gay brother of Sergeant Murtaugh's partner Martin Riggs from the Lethal Weapon documentaries, prescribed some specialized stretching and strengthening exercises while cutting down on the continuous distances I typically run (i.e. if the run is 7 miles, run 3, walk 1/2, and then run the rest.)  I also was prescribed a new knee apparatus and bought some new shoes.

The net result of this so far is my legs feel worse than ever and now my lower back hurts.  Woo-frickin-hoo.

2) The above tallies aptly show my propensity to come from ahead and lose.  Both weeks, I had shutouts heading into the weekend.  Week 5 I fully shat the bed, while Week 6's conclusion was 10 seemingly meaningless unanswered points surrendered by the second-stringers after the starters jumped out to a 24-point lead. The team needs to show a bit more pride, I think.

3) I'm not really doing my long Saturday runs.  I even lied to Tim about Week 6 and said I'd run my scheduled 11 miles.  I felt bad about that, though, so I ran those 11 miles this past Monday after work.  Now I just feel bad in general.

Overall Record: 4-2

Travel this week.  11 miles in the bank.  Wedding reception in the offing.  Physical decrepitude advancing. What does the future hold?

A deviation

Over the short history of this blog, I've rarely dealt with any issues of social importance.  This is probably a result of my general "cuss. care?  cuss." attitude towards arguments that really cannot be won.  Usually, The Stupids prevail because they're louder and more persistent, and the Critical Thinkers get bored and move on.  It's not the proverbial "Good men do nothing" scenario; good men try, I think, and get frustrated by the endless red tape and Controversy in accomplishing the Good they set out to do, and even in success their faith in concepts like The World and Moral Order is mitigated by the bastardization and/or dilution of their initial intent.  The Point is lost, and the path to The Result becomes so discombobulated that Progress can hardly be discerned from Regress.

So we come to the "Ground Zero Mosque" and "Ground Zero" itself, and I find myself compelled to join the fracas.

The arguments have been made, and I'm quite sure there is a Right and a Wrong here, so I'm not going to belabor too much the intricacies of the plot.  Here are the facts, as I see them, of the "mosque" that is proposed on Park Place in downtown Manhattan:

1)  It is not, actually, a mosque.  It is purported to be a "cultural center" that will have something of a religious worship chapel on an upper floor.  It is clearly not Christian, however, and there may in fact be people who speak Arabic that go there.  I have not personally reviewed the plans, but there may or may not also be an Al-Qaeda training floor in the sub-basement, along with the auditorium, theater, performing arts center, fitness center, swimming pool, basketball court, childcare area, bookstore, culinary school, art studio, food court, and September 11th memorial found throughout the building.

2) It is not, actually, at Ground Zero.  Is is a couple blocks away from what is a 10 square block site.  My apartment on 102nd street is a couple blocks away when appropriately zoomed on Google Maps, and is probably more dangerous.  Maybe we should move Harlem.  In any case, its proximity seems to "disrespect" the memory of the brave souls who died when the Nation of Islam attacked.

3) It may or may not be funded by "terrorists," whatever those are.  Similarly, Fox News, BP, and the New Jersey Nets may or may not be funded by terrorists.

This is about all I know about it, other than that a whole bunch of people seem to be really upset about it and how it "disrespects" the memory of those lost in 2001.  It's not all I have to say about it, though.  Here is what I think about those three facts:

1) It is not illegal or immoral or even in bad taste to build a mosque.  It is a protected right.  This isn't even a mosque, but if it were, the letter and spirit of the law suggests that anyone who wants to front the cash should be able to do what they want (pending Zoning, DOB, and Landmarks Planning Commission approval, of course.  Don't get me started.)

2) Ground Zero is a place where careful bureaucracy has resulted in the (ongoing) construction of a monolithic monstrosity that IS an affront to the memories of those killed that day.  As far as I'm concerned, put the damn cultural center on the top floor of the Fear Tower.  Instead, we're suggesting the Muslims ought to sit in the back of the bus, drink from the Arab fountain, repurpose the Negro lunch counter and move their culture to Jersey, since it would make us all feel better if they did.

Here's the thing about respect: it is, and always has been, a two-way street.  Should we deny Islam its right to exist, and subsequently deny its believers their rights to exist as citizens of this country and the World, then it is both a natural and perhaps necessary reaction for Islam to wish us ill.  The attitude of mutual disrespect will not end well for anyone.   And the greatest disrespect shown will be to the people who died on 9/11 if this cultural center is quashed, because its symbolic absence will affirm that in their death, so died America, now the land of the mostly-free, home of the xenophobic, insecurely afraid.

3) I'm just about tired of this whole "terrorist" thing.  Not all Muslims are terrorists, and not all terrorists are Muslims.  I'd guess very few are in either case.  I hope someday we are reminded and shamed of this sad instance in New York City history in which latent popular bigotry was allowed to masquerade as political discourse.  If anyone remembers, a couple of white guys blew up a building in OK City a few years back.  And a bunch of white and black and purple Americans are blowing up buildings all over the world right now under the guise of a war on "terrorists."  You and I are "funding" that for sure.

We are nearly ten years removed from the atrocities of 9/11.  We are NOT safer.  We in fact are significantly more vulnerable to the vitriol of others not like us because of our government's actions in the interim.  Not only is this result undesirable, but it was predictable and inevitable.  We may get Mayor Bloomberg and President Obama speaking out in support of this cultural center's right to exist, but their pleas fall upon deaf ears and dumb expressions, as they contradict the atmosphere that they themselves have cultivated for the past nine years.  One may observe that we are losing wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, but an equally sinister problem is the isolationist culture we have nurtured at home.  One wonders if the paranoid suspicion of all that is unfamiliar will eventually result in some sort of implosion as we look left and right and back left again and again until finally we collapse from exhaustion.

I know I'm tired. This is exhausting.  I had intended to write about the stupid building that is being built at Ground Zero, One World Trade Center, the ironically-nicknamed Freedom Tower.  That's going to have to wait until tomorrow. My frustration with the World as it Is, and an ongoing debate over a question with an answer so obvious, leaves me deep in the Pit of Despair.   I push on, though, through training and writing, with just a bit of Hope: that tomorrow, everyone will get It, and we can all concentrate on Moving Forward, and avoid falling Back.

In the meanwhile, I happened across a quote from the occasionally sage George Will which I think will set my tone for the week:

"The nice part about being a pessimist is that you are constantly being either proven right or pleasantly surprised."

I hope to be surprised pleasantly one of these days.

I wear my sunglasses at night

I've been doing all of my running in Central Park this year, other than the weekend I was in Ohio, and with rare exception I run at night.  Elder statesmen who remember a bygone era of New York City crime and Law and Order junkies might consider it unwise to run amidst the stillness under the dichromatic orangeglow of high-pressure mercury halide luminescence, but I prefer the desertion and perceived vulnerability to the ill-intentioned.  For one, I am saved the bruised ego experienced in AM hours as one actual, serious, life-committed runner after another passes the portly pretender ambling around the Park Drives.  Night running also helps me mitigate the brutal heat of this greenhouse summer, despite the fact that the weather up until this past week has largely been oppressive even after 9pm. Lastly, I relish the opportunity to try and convince a mugger that my MP3 player is incapable of playing rap music, per the urban legend of the woman who deterred a potential assailant in the '80's by suggesting that her Walkman only played music of the Classical variety.  I understand that it's only likely to get me pistol-whipped, but I think it'll be a funny story.

The Park at night is not without its peculiarities, though.  One is much more likely to happen across wildlife of the unwelcome variety, for one.  On the north side of the park, raccoon families make frequent road crossings and eye me suspiciously as I cruise past, giving them a wide berth.  Last week, Baby Cub found himself a straggler in the middle of the road as Mama and/or Papa Rocky scuttled into the underbrush maybe 25 feet in front of my path.  Generally speaking, I understand that animals are typically more afraid of me than I am of them, but I have no interest in playing chicken in a mother-protecting-child scenario.  I passed the potential wildlife insurgency without incident, but not without a moment of tension as a hiss arose from the underbrush as I passed between adult and toddler.

Then there are the bats.  I've seen enough of them over the course of my life to recognize the swooping, flapping, drunken black objects to not be nocturnally-inclined retarded birds.  I'm not sure if they have a tendency to hang around lightposts or if that is merely the only time I can see them, but I know they're around, nonetheless.  I have no harrowing stories of being divebombed by a rabid flying rat or guanoed by Sooki's vampire boyfriend, but I feel that story comes in just a matter of time.  In the meanwhile, I nearly always run with a hat, and otherwise bask in the benefits of my garlic pills like the Department of Homeland Security counts thwarted terrorist attacks. (As in: No one has flown into a building lately, so we must be doing a good job!  That said, we need the Cavity Search Bill to pass to effectively counteract potential Anal Bombs and further promote National Security (TM), since we've now made the Shampoo Bomb a a thing of the past.)

The lights themselves are interesting in a sort of semi-dangerous way.  There seems to be some sort of electrical problem on the stretch of East Drive on the northeast side of the Jackie Kennedy Reservoir.  As such, the lights on the path adjacent to the body of water have a tendency to just shut off spontaneously, leaving the would-be runner in pitch blackness.  The adjacent road's streetlights similarly fluctuate between states of on and sometime-on, like they've been shut off in series as a precursor to a demon's arrival in a religio-thriller flick like Constantine.  I've nicknamed this stretch "Watch Your Cornhole Corner," as it strikes me as a lovely place to sexually assault someone running along who suddenly finds him or herself transplanted from a well-lit path in a large urban park to an inky, isolated forest pass of twitching illumination where no one can hear you scream.

All in all, I like running at night.

Week 4
August 8-14
Sunday: Rest, 12 beers (estimated)
Monday: 4.5 miles, 0 beers
Tuesday: Rest, 0 beers
Wednesday: 7 miles, 0 beers
Thursday: 3 fast miles elliptical, boxing, 0 beers
Friday: 7 Miles, 2 beers
Saturday: Rest, 2 beers

Miles Run: 21.5
Boozecount: 16 beers

While the Cleveland recap sits languishing in the editor's bin awaiting review (his last comment was "remains Longwinded and Boring, and is also generally UnFun and specifically UnFinished"), I'll relate one story from Sunday evening.  We were wandering around the festival at St. Mary's in Mentor and the group of relatives I was with ran into a group of people they knew from church, or school, or the Rogaine clinic.  Whomever they were, I knew not, so I walked over to the beer tent to grab myself a frothwagon.  I rejoined the group, seeing my young second cousin standing idly with no one to talk to at his mother's side, and tried to strike up whatever conversation a 31-year-old could with someone 20 years his junior. It went something like this 4-line play:

Me: Hey Jake.  How's it going?
Jake: Everytime I see you, you have a beer in your hand!
Me: (stuttering, holding back a laugh) That's very perceptive...
Jake: It's true! 

This is not the first time I've considered I might have a problem, but it is both the most recent and the most memorable.  Nevertheless, the count favors me this week.

Overall Record: 3-1

Stay tuned for the eventual post that details the Exciting, Riveting, and 2 Week Old (and counting) events during my visit to the balmy shores of Lake Erie.  And a new blog entry is also due in 3 days or so.  We'll see if it actually happens.  Until then...

Let me take a moment to complain about Tim...

So Tim moved to London in May.  Since then, we've been interchatting fairly regularly, but haven't actually spoken but for his visit back over Memorial Day weekend.  Since training began 3 1/2 weeks ago, though, our chats have been nearly without fail opened by (ugh) training updates.  Tim ceaselessly wants to tell me how much he's run, wants to know how much I've run, and then discuss one's misery relative to the other.  This is tedious work for me, but eventually we move on to more interesting things.  Or perhaps they're not interesting, but at least it''s not discussing how he's running his Week 8 schedule while I huff my way through Week 3.

In fact...

Tim DID tell me he wanted to contribute to the blog somehow.  I told him he could write something anytime he wanted, and he's chosen to comment on each of the first two weeks' entries.  This strikes me as a poor effort on his part.  So, without ado of any kind, including permission from the co-author:

Tuskers's and Bigfnbird's chat transcript (with commentary) from August 9th!

1:43 PM bigfinbird: how was cleveland?

1:44 PM me: OK. Had a good time while I was there

 bigfinbird: with the other tuskas

 me: 60 hours is about right

A quick note: My Cleveland trip was a bit more complicated than I've let on here.  I didn't feel like talking much about it at the time.  There is an extended recap in the editor's bin awaiting posting which I think will enlighten the reader.  Tune back in sometime in the next few days.

 bigfinbird: or should i say "how was north dakota appeals court?"

1:45 PM me: Yeah, apparently there's a Mark Matuska out there that deals meth

 bigfinbird: and he's you?

 me: Ha

From an appellate brief in State v Matuska entered in the North Dakota State Supreme Court:

"On December 28th, 2006, Mark Matuska pled guilty to the crime of Possession of Methamphetamine within 1,000 feet of a school, a Class B Felony. Prior to sentencing, he sought to withdraw his guilty plea. On March 6th, 2007, Judge Bruce A. Romanick denied his request to withdraw his guilty plea. On March 20th, 2007, a criminal judgment was entered sentencing Matuska to five years in prison with credit for 187 days served. (App. 6-7)"

So, there's a Mark Matuska out there that likes to deal meth to kids.  Many thanks to my friend Jen for bringing this to Tim's attention.

 bigfinbird: so how did running go?

  i have to make sure you're still on pace

1:46 PM me: There's also one who's a staffer for a Minesota state rep

This is actually incorrect.  Mark D. Matuska of Minnesota WAS a staffer for the former Congressman Mark Kennedy of Minnesota.  He is now a Regional Director in the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources.  How do I know this?  The Internet.

  I did run

  Not very well

 bigfinbird: 7?

 me: No sidewalks in willoughby hills

 bigfinbird: yeah, i did 18 in aurora/solon last year

  that blooooowed

 me: I cut it short. It was annoying and I almost died twice

  I'll make up for it this week

I was exaggerating a bit with the "almost died" stuff.  There is something disconcerting, though, about running along a rural Ohio route with a 12" berm while cars pass you from behind at 50 miles per hour, not to mention uneven footing, blind hills and turns, and the occasional crumbling concrete bridge curb.

 bigfinbird: well, now things get serious

1:47 PM week 4

  8 miles

 me: yes yes

 bigfinbird: i did 15 and it was painful...big jump from 12

 me: You are insane

Read that again.

15 (!?!?!) miles?  It's frickin' Week 3!  Why is this so easy for this jerk?

1:48 PM bigfinbird: off week, or off saturday this week

  did 5.5 or so today

  and then i might do 8 wednesay

  but then off til tuesday

  so i'll be rested

1:49 PM me: Well, I need to get in better shape still

  my beer gut is still prominent

1:50 PM bigfinbird: i desirable attribute among power lifters

  among marathoners....not so much

Thanks, buddy.

1:52 PM - 2:00PM snip!

Here is where I save Tim some embarrassment and cut the part where he asks me a relationship question with an obvious answer that he somehow doubts. Tim is almost without peer in Goonsmanship, but every once in awhile his neuroses come through to the point that the Brute Squad considers revoking his license.


Nowz ze time on Shprockhets when Tim tellz me zumsing aboutz London:

2:00 PM by the way, i live by london city airport (small but still international flights)

2:01 PM and planes taking off from there 1 mile away look like they're gonna plow into planes lining up to land at heathrow every 10 minutes

  i know they are thousands of feet apart

  but it must be a mess to keep track of

 me: Is that Gatwick? Or someplace altogetehr different

 bigfinbird: different

  gatwick is way south

2:02 PM i'm at the east end, it's called london city airport

  planes take off west from there

  and planes line up overhead there to fly west to land at heathrow

I have no real comment here.  I reprint it only for the reader's edumacation, as it's clear that I don't know much of anything about various London airports and the inner workings of intra-airport air traffic controller coordination.  A fascinating subject, no doubt, which briefly reminded me of the John Cusack- Billy Bob Thornton vehicle Pushing Tin, which I don't really recommend unless you are in fact fascinated by said subject

And then a pause...

7 minutes

2:10 PM bigfinbird: lasagna time!

  that's what i say

  when i'm eating lasagna
And we're done.  That was fun, no?  Maybe I'll do it again sometime.


A quick recap of This Week in Running:


Week 3
August 1-7
Sunday: Rest, 0 beers
Monday: 4.5 miles, 0 beers
Tuesday: Rest, 0 beers
Wednesday: 4.5 miles, 0 beers
Thursday: 4.5 miles, 0 beers
Friday: Fly to Cleveland (boy are my arms tired), 6 beers
Saturday: 5.4 miles, lots and lots of beer


Totals: 18.9 Miles, Eleventy Beers
Saturday was marked by excessive consumption of High Gravity Steel Reserve, which not only qualifies as a malt liquor at 8.1% ABV, but also comes in a handy 16oz. can.  My father purchased it.   I find it depressing to contemplate what this stuff is doing to my insides, so I'm just going to skip it and chalk one up in the loss column.  


Overall Record: 2-1
Hey, the Browns won't be going 16-0, either.


Up this week: More travels, I'm afraid.  I've been running well so far, but probably not enough to make up for what was a brutally irresponsible Sunday.  Keep a look out for my Cleveland recap, which looks to be chock full of seriousness with some lighter interludes entwined.  Till next week...

Run run run run run run run awwwwaaaaaaaayyyy....

In examining my recent health choices, I've uncovered an alarming pattern: no matter what the task might be, no matter how small, briefly engaging, obvious, or simple, I will avoid making the correct and/or responsible choice.  Let's examine what I did today as an example:

My boss leaves the office at 12:30 today to visit his son in Boston, leaving me with a sketch of a townhouse we're working on in highly schematic form.  My task?  Figure it out- not an unreasonable thing for an 8-year architecture vet to attempt to do.  How did I spend the rest of my day?

Not drawing.

Honestly, I don't know how I spent the day.  I was tired, having actually shown up on time after staying up late the night before.  But still- couldn't I have at least made an effort?

Apparently not.

 At 7pm, I decided I'd just stay and work while listening to the Indians game.  When they play on weekday afternoons, I often do this. Were these productive hours?

No.

So I walk in my apartment door at 11:15pm not having had dinner, not having run, and not having actually accomplished anything over the course of the day.  I consider the dinner options: go grab a sandwich or two from the all-night deli,heat up some leftover beef stroghanoff, go with cold leftover nachos from the night before, and/or munch on a half a bag of leftover Cheetos from a Sunday binge that also included inhaling a bag of Gummi Bears.  What do I choose?

Leftover nachos and the bag of Cheetos.

After eating "dinner," the appropriate thing for me to do then is to take my nutrient cocktail, which was assembled with no real rhyme or reason based upon the pills that I have in-stock.  It includes: a Vitamin C tablet, the object of which is to stave off cold infections, which, because of my absurd (lack of) sleep schedule, I am particularly susceptible.  I should note here that I seem to be less susceptible these days, as I've (by real estimates) contracted roughly 94 of the known 200+ cold viruses over the course of my lifetime, and as such am immune to almost half the bugs out there.  Next up is a Vitamin E liquigel, as my doctor prior to Marathon 2008 suggested them as a liver booster to combat the chronic side stitches which may or may not have been related to my drinking habits.  (The stitches are gone, by the way, for the most part.)  I also take a one-a-day multivitamin, for the hell of it, and two glucosamine-chondroitin-MSM tablets which are supposed to promote joint health, because my knees hurt.  Finally, I take two garlic pills, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, other than that they are there.  Why do I have them?  Eh- another day.

Anyway, I'm leaving the kitchen and have turned off the light when I remember I should take my pills.  Do I do so?

No.  At least, not until I slap myself upside the head for being the laziest POS on this entire island.

Will I brush my teeth tonight after I'm finished typing?  50-50.

Let's get to the tally:

Week 2
July 25-Aug 1
Sunday: 3.3 miles, 2 beers
Monday: Rest, 1 beer
Tuesday: Boxing, 0 beers
Wednesday: 4.5 miles, 0 beers
Thursday: 3 miles, 1 beer
Friday: Rest, 5 lonely beers
Saturday: 6 miles, 1 beer

Totals: 17.8 miles, 11 beers

I suppose it's a win.  2-0.  I'm going to hold off on congratulating myself until I validate my humanity somehow.

More to come soon.  Off to Cleveland this weekend to assess the scorched earth of the LeBrocalypse.  Be seein' ya....

And... We're back!

Well, the "royal we" are back. I suppose it's more accurate to say that I'm Back, hoping to not waste your time, or mine, with further musings on an upcoming NYC Marathon, in which I expect to be a factor and finish in the top 10,000. This iteration portends to be something more than a blog of dreary runs in oppressive heat (of which there have been several so far- we'll get to that in a moment), but instead an exercise in conscience. Things left begun but unfinished, half done, almost there, and not quite, a log of which could, and may in fact someday, fill a book.

If only I could learn to use a comma appropriately!

Anyway, the runs have begun. I did Week 1 twice, a decision of necessity, as I'm in brutally incapable shape. We're only going to chart the past week, though, as in my old age my long term memory is fading. Not to fear, dear readers. We'll get there, individually, but as a group.

The plan:

16-Week Marathon Training Schedule

Week	Mon	Tue	Wed	Thu	Fri	Sat	Sun	Total
1	3	Rest	4	3	Rest	5	Rest	15
2	3	Rest	4	3	Rest	6	Rest	16
3	3	Rest	4	3	Rest	7	Rest	17
4	3	Rest	5	3	Rest	8	Rest	19
5	3	Rest	5	3	Rest	10	Rest	21
6	4	Rest	5	4	Rest	11	Rest	24
7	4	Rest	6	4	Rest	12	Rest	26
8	4	Rest	6	4	Rest	14	Rest	28
9	4	Rest	7	4	Rest	16	Rest	31
10	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	16	Rest	34
11	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	17	Rest	35
12	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	18	Rest	36
13	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	20	Rest	38
14	5	Rest	8	5	Rest	9	Rest	27
15	3	Rest	5	3	Rest	8	Rest	19
16	3	Rest	3	Walk 2	Rest	26.2	Rest	34.2

The reality:
July 17-24
Sunday: 4 miles, 1 beer
Monday: Boxing, 1 beer
Tuesday: 3 miles, 0 beers
Wednesday: 4 miles, 1 beer
Thursday: 3 miles, 1 beer
Friday: Heavy Drinking (TM), 12 beers
Saturday: 5 terrible, terrible miles, 2 drinks (Hair of Dog corollary)

Miles Run: 19*
BoozeCount: 18

*Out-of-shape Matuskas running in 90-degree heat at 90% humidity sometimes need to walk

I should get some credit for boxing on Monday, right? So it's not that close. Week 1 is a win!

Overall record: 1-0

Soon, we'll have some actual content. In the meantime, check out my In Memoriam for Lou Brown below. Have a pleasant week!