And take that stuff off your face before your mother sees you!

So, if you're just joining the blog, let me catch you up: Last week, I identified Jerry Orbach (or, more specifically, Jerry Orbach as Dr. Jake Houseman from Dirty Dancing) as a "nefarious" enemy of Patrick Swayze, playing the also edificially-named Johnny Castle. Upon re-watching this fine film, however, I've come to the conclusion that it's not really Daddy Houseman that's the enemy in this movie, but the ever-ambiguous society of early-1960's middle America.

Put yourself in the Doc's shoes for a moment: you take your happy early '60's family off on a little summer retreat. Your oldest daughter is a certifiable dunce and your son is a twit; really, your "Baby," as it were, is your only real chance at non-mongoloid grandchildren. She's a little bored by the squares at the retreat so she starts hanging out with the help; that's not exactly

ideal, but you can live with it. It turns out she's taken a liking to dance, but not "proper" dancing; rather, the dancing she's interested in is downright scandalous. Ok, I'll say it: the dancing is dirty. Again, this is not ideal, but also not an unexpected type of thing coming from a teenage girl exploring the universe.

Then she starts shacking up with an older, devilishly handsome, going-nowhere but the STD clinic dance instructor.

Imagining myself a father, I can't see a single way to feel good about this development. Especially the "But Daddy, I looove him!" argument. Seriously? This bum?

THEN, to top it off, you're woken up in the middle of the night by the light of your life to provide medical attention to this devilishly handsome dance instructor's presumed ex-girlfriend who has apparently just undergone a (then-) illegal abortion that's left her in obvious distress. You're supposed to approve of this relationship? Really? This is goddamn vacation! I'm surprised Daddy didn't start power drinking and domestic-abusing during his stay at Kellerman's. What. A. Nightmare.

Instead of flying off the handle at his completely irrational daughter, though, what does he do? He says, "I won't tell your mother about this, right now I'm going to bed." He later continues to forbid her from seeing her devilishly handsome statutory rapist boyfriend again, noted specifically as a precaution against the next hack-job abortion being performed on his Baby.

Wow.

Not that I'm dissatisfied with my family, but being a Houseman doesn't sound too bad. So, Jerry, you might have been a contract killer in Crimes and Misdemeanors, and you may have had an endless supply of semi-inappropriate clever quips at murder scenes on Law & Order, but as far as 1963 Dad duties go, you're alright by me.

Because, hey- when I'm wrong, I say I'm wrong.

On to the week of September 29th:

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: 6 miles

Wednesday: Rest (aka inexplicable drinking of massive amounts of Sake with Petrov & Wee)

Thursday: 8.5 miles

Friday: F.U.N.K.Y. boat cruise, out @ Stout

Saturday: Rest

Sunday: 16.5 miles

Big bottles of Sake measure 1.5L. Were I to send a message to myself in that now empty bottle from the future to Wednesday, the first of October, it would be, "Do Not Drink." Thursday sucked. Morning Matuska hates nighttime Matuska.

For those that read this and don't know of the organization, F.U.N.K.Y. is the Flatland Urban Network by KC Yankees, a nonprofit group made up of migrant Kansas City socialites currently residing in the NYC area. They raise money for somepeople somewhere via a couple events every year, and I like to go, because many of these folks are my friends and it's probably a good cause. And they serve booze. And because I'm now making light of something that is most definitely completely serious, I'll direct you to the serious website so as not to have these friends of mine un-friend me: http://www.funkynyc.org/

One last note on Jerry Orbach week: I was scheduled for 18 miles on Sunday, but didn't really map a route. I decided to run the length of Central Park, over to the East River and Randall's Island, up the island, back to Manhattan, and then weave back and forth over bridges until the bridges started to look too far away. I was going to go up to the GW bridge on the Harlem River side to see if I could run to the Bronx that way, but certain (lack of) pedestrian paths up the River alongside the FDR frustrated my efforts. So I turned back. The real revelation here, though, was that the run was... well, kind of easy. Mark this week down as the week I became overconfident. And victorious- no way I consumed 31 alcobeverages between a Wednesday and a Friday night out. Definitely no more than 25, anyway.

Which, of course, means that the next week, the week of October 5th, would be the week I came crashing back to reality.

And that can mean only one thing.

Keanu Reeves in...

Johnny Utah Week!!!

Yes, he's a former Ohio State quarterback. And, he's an EFF! BEE! EYE! AGENT!