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.

Lou Brown, greatest manager in Indians history, dead at 70

In the early spring of 1989, I was 9 years old. A nine-year-old who loved baseball. My team, the Cleveland Indians, had never won a pennant in my lifetime; somewhat incredibly, the last time they'd sniffed the World Series my father was 9. During the '88-'89 offseason, the longtime owner of the Indians, Donald Phelps, died of an apparent heart attack, leaving majority stake in the hands of his 40-years-junior wife Rachel. She was lampooned in the press for her career choices prior to her marriage to Donald, having been a Vegas showgirl (and who knows what else) before marrying into her good fortune. These were things that, while aware of them, I was unable to process wholly in my ten-year old mind. To me, March just meant Spring Training, the weather turning, school's end on the distant horizon, and Hope. Hope that this might be our year.

Most of the city of Cleveland did not share my optimism. On paper, this looked to be the most anonymous collection of has-beens and never-weres ever to populate a "major league" squad. Our most proven starting pitcher, 41-year-old Eddie Harris, was coming off a subpar season and looked to be playing out the string of his long, up-and-down junkballing career. Our third baseman, Roger Dorn, while still a very good hitter, was nothing short of a complete liability fielding his position. And our catcher, former All-Star Jake Taylor, around for his second stint with the Tribe, had spent the past two years playing in the Mexican league. The rest of the roster was filled with non-prospect rookies and similarly unspectacular veterans.

"Do you think we might be good this year?" I remember asking my Dad.

"We don't look too good," was his unenthusiastic response.

"I think we'll be good," I retorted. "I think so."

The roster and coaching staff itself were topics of great debate in the Cleveland media and between barstools across the region. Rumors swirled that Rachel Phelps was trying to lose on purpose so as to exercise an "out" clause in her lease with the City of Cleveland for Municipal Stadium. Such rumors were not entirely unfounded, as Miami (among other cities) looked to be an attractive, willing destination for an owner looking to relocate. In hindsight, however, her moves look to have been acts of brilliance- and none moreso than her choice to manage this hodgepodge of unripened or expired talent, one Louis Brown of Sandusky, Ohio.

I only met Lou once, and to say I "met" him is a bit of an overstatement. In May of 1989 on my 10th birthday, I asked my father to take me and some of my young friends to a ballgame. This was not then the exorbitant expense that it is today, as right field general admission tickets cost only $4.25 apiece and hot dogs cost 2 bucks. The Indians were not drawing well at the time, either, as befit their uninspiring 10-18 record. As such, we had the run of the place. I liked to get to the ballgame early for batting practice, in the ever-optimistic hope that I might be able to shag a ball that reached the stands.

As we were walking towards our seats and the small throng of hopefuls in right field, Willie Mays Hayes was taking some swings. Through the first few weeks of the season, Hayes had been underwhelming, as the only suspense during his at-bats was whether he'd pop up to the catcher or give himself a chance to beat out the inevitably weak grounder to the shortstop. As I noted as I watched him, his batting practice display hardly inspired confidence in projected improvement. Which is why, when first base coach Pepper Leach lobbed in a batting-practice fastball as we passed the Indians dugout, I was in perfect position to field the foul pop off of Willie's bat.

I'd brought my glove with me to the ballpark, as kids do. I only had to back up two steps to get right under it. I was about to catch my first baseball at the ballpark- on my 10th birthday, no less.

Until some grown-up jerk reached over my head and caught it himself.

I was crushed. My Dad yelled at the guy, who slinked off into the concourse as the few onlookers who had seen the atrocity launched epithets in his direction. I sat down in a seat and felt tears beginning to well up in my eyes. That ball was mine. It was mine.

Suddenly, as I was about to suffer greater indignity by crying in front of my friends at my birthday party, a gravelly voice shouted from the direction of the field.

"Hey kid!"

It was Lou Brown. He was holding a baseball.

"Catch!"

He underhanded the ball to me, smiled, and turned back towards the field to berate Hayes on yet another popup. I'm not sure if he knew that he'd just made me the happiest kid in Cleveland, but he'd just gained his biggest fan.

The rest of that season is well documented in Indians lore. Brown coached through a slow start, taking a zero-tolerance stance on any overblown egos in the clubhouse, and somehow fashioned a team that could compete with the best. Attendance began to pick up as the Erie Warriors found themselves hanging around in mid-August. After a crushing loss to the hated Yankees to drop the Indians to 60-61, eight games back of the Eastern division-leaders, Brown led the Tribe and the city of Cleveland on a comeback run for the ages. They finished they year 32-9, placing themselves in position for a one-game playoff with those same Yankees for the Eastern Division crown.

Or, as it's known in Cleveland, The Greatest Game Ever Managed.

Brown began his masterpiece by switching up the rotation, starting the rejuvenated Eddie Harris instead of young fireballer Ricky Vaughn based upon Harris' superior track record against the team from New York. Harris justified his move with 8 2/3 innings of 2-run ball, an excellent start by any standard. Then, rather than bringing in one of his regular relievers with 2 men on and two out in the ninth with the AL Triple Crown winner Clue Haywood at the plate, he went with Wild Thing Vaughn, the man who had given up four home runs to Haywood in only eight PAA's in the past year. The result: a strikeout. On three pitches.

I remember jumping out of my seat in right field as Ricky fist-pumped after the third pitch.

The Tribe still had to win the game, of course, and Brown was the manager for that time and place. After a two-out infield single for Willie Mays Hayes, Brown gave him the green light to steal during Jake Taylor's ensuing at-bat. Everyone in the stadium knew Willie was going, including Duke Temple, the Yankee closer. After a close play at first on his first pickoff attempt, Hayes got out to an even bigger lead. Inexplicably, Temple threw a pitch.

3.1 seconds later, Willie was on second base. The stadium was louder than anyplace I'd ever been, then and now.

And then, Taylor did something entirely unexpected. He pointed to the center field fence. He was calling his shot. Temple, unimpressed, threw at his head. Spinning out of the way and hitting the dirt, Taylor pulled himself from the ground and stepped back in.

And he pointed to the center field fences. Again.

The lunacy of the situation was entirely lost upon me, as I'm sure it was to everyone else watching in Cleveland that night. The season had been something unlike anything we'd ever seen already; this sequence of events was just par for the course. We were on this bandwagon, however disorienting the ride. We knew a base hit would win us the division. And we believed old Jake Taylor, the heart and soul of the team, bad knees and all, would find a way.

In years since, barroom pundits have debated whether the call for the bunt came from the dugout or whether Taylor acted on his own. No doubt, the pointing theatrics were all Taylor. In either case, Brown deserves credit for approving the tactic if not spawning the idea. It was unconventional in every sense of the word. With two outs, Taylor, the personification of slow-footed, would have to leg out the bunt for a hit if the play were to be successful. Even with the third baseman playing deep, this was an iffy proposition. However, Taylor's lack of footspeed also proved integral to the play's success, as the third baseman had to realistically believe he had a chance to nab Taylor at first in order for Hayes to score from second on the throw. And so, as we all know, Jake beat the throw before tumbling over first base, and Willie kept running, and Haywood's throw was in time but a bit up the line...

Safe. I could hear the umpire from my seat, the entire stadium was so breathless.

Delirium.

All things considered, it was the most logical magic I've seen in person. And the head magician was Lou effing Brown, a guy who had managed the Triple-A Toledo Mud Hens for thirty years prior, who worked the phones at Tire World in the offseason, who took a team of nobodies in an underdog city and turned them all into winners.

The guy who tossed a kid a baseball on a lazy Sunday in May.

We'll miss you, Lou.*


*James Gammon, an actor whose notable roles include Lou Brown in the movie Major League, died July 16, 2010 at the age of 70.

Matuska Gears Up for the Big Race, Insults Old Woman

October 30, 2008

NEW YORK, New York- On November 2nd, over 39,000 runners will begin a 26.2-mile trek in Staten Island and continue on through all five New York City Boroughs in attempts to complete the 2008 ING New York City Marathon. Some of these are professional racers with realistic chances of winning; others are the semi-competitive "recreational" runners that run for fun and fitness. Still others, though, fit neither of these categories and are running for more personal reasons. Today, we sit down with one of these runners and ask him, a first-time Marathoner, how he feels about the upcoming race.

Barbara Walters: Mark... May I call you Mark?

Mark Matuska: No.

BW: OK. Mr. Matuska, how-

MM: Don't call me that either. Call me... Tooskie.

BW: OK. Tooskie.

MM: Better.

BW: Can you please describe to me your state of mind leading up to this, your first attempt at running a marathon? I mean, by even your own account, you're not a runner.

MM: Attempt? Who said this is an attempt?

BW: I merely meant-

MM: I know what you meant. Listen- I'm going to finish this race. It may not be pretty. There may be bodies strewn about the course, there may be blood on my shirt, there may be vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable dry-heaving, gnashing of teeth, screams of despair, spontaneous urination, blistering skin, chafing, gouged eyes, bloody nipples, and perhaps a white milky discharge. But I will finish.

BW: So you're confident going in?

MM: Confident? Hell no. I'm a mess. Everything I anticipated could go wrong has gone wrong. Both of my knees have given me trouble through training. I've been dealing with a cold the past few days. Every joint in my body creaks. I'm about 20 pounds heavier than I'd hoped I'd be at this stage. After my 18-mile tune-up, I thought I could break four hours. Now, it could be days.

BW: You know, they make you stop after a certain amount of time.

MM: Do they? That's un-American. Those Commies won't be pulling me off the course.

BW: I see.

MM: Do you? Do you see?

BW: Moving on... You mentioned your training. What have you been doing to prepare yourself for this race?

MM: Well, Barb, I started on a 16-week program. I'd been running about four times a week during the first 13 weeks of training, maxing out at about 35 miles over the most strenuous seven days. Since then, though, my chronically achy right knee has been giving me some more acute troubles, so I've been toning down the impact workouts and working more toward cross training and getting it healthy. I've also been keeping a blog-slash-diary of my progress, and comparing miles run to drinks consumed. I've also been reminiscing about the 1980's.

BW: Is that a typical training program?

MM: I dunno. Did anything good come out of the '90's?

BW: Not that I can recall, but-

MM: Neither could I. Other than Point Break.

BW: -BUT-

MM: But nothing. I know where you're going with this. Training's over. I haven't had a beer in... four days. Let's talk about the Marathon.

BW: You mentioned in your blog this past week that you're running against yourself this week. Can you explain that statement?

MM: I can.

(silence)

BW: (Becoming frustrated) Let me rephrase. Please explain that statement.

MM: OK. Let's just say that I have a history of sabotaging myself and trying to make up the difference between readiness and accomplishment in days, hours, or minutes prior to an event. This is evident in my daily life- I'm never early for anything. I instead am always counting on the best-case scenario, expecting the trains to arrive just as I do, expecting traffic to be light, relying upon an alarm clock to wake me up when I've been out until 4am the night before... Being as self-aware as I am, I realize the biggest obstacle between me and the finish line isn't the distance.

BW: So what is the biggest obstacle?

MM: My own laziness. And that saboteur alter-ego.

BW: And what makes you think that this event will be any different than, say, freshman year Calculus at Princeton?

MM: I'm ready this time. I know what it's going to require of me. And I'm willing to give it. In fact, I'm excited to.

BW: Excited?

MM: Absolutely. I can't wait to meet the throngs of adoring fans, press, and race groupies at my afterparty.

BW: Groupies? You seem to have delusions of grandeur, Tooskie. You're not a rock star.

MM: Oh, I'm not now, am I? Y'know, Barbara, I can see why they shoot you in soft focus on TV. Your skin looks like it's made out of distressed leather. You're not a cyborg, are you? Tell me the truth: how much of you is metal?

BW: I believe this interview is over.

MM: I believe it is.

BW: Good luck on the run.

MM: Don't need it.

Matuska Makes Statement Against "Discrimination"

From wire reports

New York, NY- "Cautiously optimistic" were the words Mark Matuska used in a pre-race interview while lining up to run in the ING New York City Marathon Tune-Up, an 18 mile, three-loop jaunt around Central Park scheduled to serve as a barometer for fitness to complete the main event of November 2nd. "I think I can win- that's why we're all here, isn't it?" he said, smiling, as he waved to identify others preparing to run. "But there are a lot of great competitors in this race. I'll just lace up, do my best, and God willing, things will work out."

Matuska's optimism initially may have seemed misplaced. The Tune-Up attracted over 3,900 runners, some as young as 15 years old while others eclipsing 80. Within that group were several long-distance race veterans expecting to post times well under 2 hours. As if that were not daunting in itself, the conditions facing participants on this morning were less than ideal, with intermittent rain expected and 93% humidity to accompany the higher-than-ideal starting temperature of 67°F. Matuska, however, was characteristically defiant. "I don't worry about conditions. Everybody's got to deal with it."

However, when asked how he expected to compete with all of the seasoned race veterans around him in this, his first long-distance race, Matuska laughed. "Oh, I don't. That guy over there is probably going to lap me midway around the second loop. The wheelchair guys are going to leave us all in the dust. No, I'm just hoping to win my weight class." Upon being informed that there are no weight classes in typical running competitions, Matuska's tone changed from flippant to stern. "Well, I know that. That doesn't mean there shouldn't be. All of those skinny guys up front- they've got an unfair advantage. That girl over there (pointing towards a particularly diminutive female competitor)- I could probably eat her. Answer me this, reporter: Why is it that in boxing or wrestling, they separate the little guys from the big guys? I'll tell you- the big guys would kick the crap out of the little guys. To pit a heavyweight against a flyweight would be absurd.

"But.. what happens when there's a sport in which the little guys have an advantage? Do they even the playing field? No. They let the little guys win. It's discrimination. Racialism. Long-distance running has been begging for a big-boned high-profile athlete to carry the flag for weight class delineation." When asked who that high profile athlete might be, Matuska replied stoically, "I think I can make a difference. Someone has to put their foot down. That foot is me."

When asked to weigh in on the topic of runners' weight classes, Matuska's team member and fellow 200+pound "super-heavyweight" Timothy Petrov simply responded, "Matuska's a retard. And he's going to lose- to me. And he stole my idea."

As it turns out, Petrov was prescient in his prediction. While they ran stride for stride over the first lap, Petrov pulled ahead over the latter half of the race, managing a time of 2:35:40, an 8:38 average mile. Matuska lagged behind with a time of 2:51:10, or a 9:30 mile. Still, Matuska remained upbeat. "He got me today. I battled through some knee tendinitis, but I'm not here to make excuses. Still, I think it was a good result. Five more weeks to the Big Dance. For all I know, I finished second in the super-heavyweight division. And I lapped Bertha McGruder. That's something to build on."

Click here for searchable race results

Whooooaaaaaa.... Halfway theeee-er.....

Whoa-ho!

(Livin' on a prayer...)

Cuttin' through the wind like a greased-up spacemonkey, rumblin' through the streets of Manhattan like a K-Yed Hulk(amaniac), cruising down the coastline with raccoonish ferocity...

Comin' atcha' at 6.8 miles per hour... It's a meandering flightless bird! It's a plane(t)!

It's MAM2K8INGNYCMTB!

Allow me to break with the normal pre-statistical rant about nothing in particular and recount this past Thanksgiving, now nearly ten months gone. A moderately inebriated portly fellow, 1+ years removed from a smashingly... eventful entry into amateur boxing, begins spouting off at the dinner table about how he plans to run the NYC Marathon in 2008. Upon further questioning, it becomes apparent he's done some research into the subject, even detailing a then-underway workout regimen that is probably at least 50% accurate. His relatives gathered around the dinner table, while supportive, are understandably skeptical. After all, this fellow was a college football player (sort of), high school wrestler, and of course had recently pretended to be a pugilist. Never before, even as an extraordinarily bored senior-year member of the Gilmour Academy track squad (as a shot-putter), had he been a runner. Sure, he had run the mile as a larf at one meet that year, finishing 7th (out of 8) with a sub-spectacular time of 6:32. This, however, was seriously strange talk coming from the 230-pound linebacker out of Willoughby Hills, OH.

Skip to Christmas at the Matuska household. The younger generation cousins of this clan typically engage in a randomly-drawn gift exchange in which everyone receives a gift from a non-immediate family member. The delusional fellow's cousin and contemporary Tim and his wife Jamie draw his name and deliver the goods via USPS from their abode in DC. What follows is a detailing of the gift sent to Ohio from Tim, Jamie, and their newborn son Hank to...

You know who that guy was, Danny?

Mitch Cumstein. My roommate. Good guy.

The gifts came enclosed in a plastic container, with a photograph of a paramedic and a marathon crowd taped to the lid. The caption to the cover reads: "*Marathon Response Kit Not Responsible for Injury or Death Resulting from Running 26.2 Miles for No Good Reason." Additionally, a note was attached. It reads (w/ recipient's commentary in italics, like now):

Your Marathon Response Kit (MRK) contains the following items to assist in your bitter undertaking:

1. One 1 pound box of pasta for carbohydrate loading before the Marathon

This should be helpful in combating my ammonia-sweat problem, which persists, despite my best efforts to have ample supplies of Brawndo (it's got what plants crave!) coursing through my veins while running. It's somewhat disconcerting, taking a shower smelling like a combination of gym socks and gym mop.

2. Two Guinness draft beers to avoid "pussying out syndrome" before the Marathon, and carbohydrate loading (Not pictured)

Yeah, these lasted about 26.2 minutes.

3. Safety pins for attaching your race number

Also useful in puncturing blisters, boils, and nipples. Speaking of...

4. Nip Protectors; let's face it, no one likes to sandpaper any body parts-especially those ones- over the course of 26.2 miles

I've already detailed the joys of cotton shirts and sensitive nipples. Here's a link to the NipGuard website- you should click on it, the frontpage photo is borderline hilarious. I'm still not convinced I'm going to run this thing with Janet Jackson-style pasties on my man-boobs, but I do appreciate the thought.

5. One pair double-lined running socks; who needs blister treatments if you never get any?

Yes, these have certainly proven useful, hence the fact that they're not pictured in the above photograph. Now what I need is a girlfriend and/or cleaning lady to do my laundry. Remember my snark about smelling like gym socks and gym mop? Remove the mop bit, and you have the general funk that is my 118th St. studio.

6. One tube chap stick; so the girl of the week doesn't have to kiss the Sahara desert after you cross the finish line; alternatively, so the paramedics can get a good seal while applying mouth to mouth after a collapse at Mile 11

Now holding auditions for "girl of the week" for November 2nd. Any takers? My lips will be moist as a towelette. Don't make me fake those convulsions in hopes of a hot female paramedic.

7. One jar Vaseline; MRK Tester "Henry" insists nothing prevents chafing between the legs better; apply liberally

Hank uses Vaseline? Man, he's started early.

8. Five electrolyte/carbohydrate gel shots to get you past miles 5, 10 15, 20 and 25*

*used effectively by some for miles 2,3,4,5, and 6

These have become my go-to mid-run carboreloader. They have the taste and consistency of chocolate-flavored toothpaste. They remind me of that instant brownie mix before it's microwaved- like raw cookie dough, except 3000X less appetizing. The fruit ones swallow like strawberry-banana-flavored snot. The Clif Shots advertise 90% organic- from what organ they were produced I don't wish to know, but I can certainly guess.

9. Immodium caplets; MRK Tester "Henry" claims moving in soiled pants is no fun and nothing spoils a victory party more than uncontrollable diarrhea - probably best to take his word for it

Unfortunately, I've already decided to take the day off after the Marathon. Explosive diarrhea is usually my typical "I'm not sick but I'm skipping work" excuse. Works as a symptom-specific explanation that the boss never wants to hear about. Try it- take a day off on me.

10. One .44 caliber pistol, loaded,** for the pain

Saweeet! Oh...

**removed due to cross-state transportation of your MRK, replaced with one vial Aleve pain medication

Hmph. This would be useful, were not two of the more prominent commandments in the Matuska translation of the Bible "Pain Don't Hurt" and "Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body." You hear that, Chuck Norris? When I run, the Earth spins!

Well, that about wraps 'er up. I'll be posting briefly tomorrow to recount Week 8. Thanks are due to Tim, Jamie, and little Henry Charles (Hank Chuck) for the fantastic care package. And thanks to the smartasses that are going to write me to tell me that the Earth spins even when I'm not running. Don't taunt me. I'm getting faster.

Agent apprehensive over Matuska losing weight, sex appeal

From wire reports

New York, New York- Ark Palooska, agent and doppleganger for minor marathon celebrity Mark Matuska, has recently come forward with concerns about his #1 client's participation in this year's ING New York City Marathon. No, it's not anxiety over Matuska's ability to finish the race- he feels confident that he will do so in inspiring fashion. Rather, it's the consequences of that success that strike fear into Palooska. "He's got an investment to protect. I hope he understands that," remarked Palooska in a recent phone interview. "We don't have any insurance on that derriere of his. We're not J-Lo."

Palooska was referring to the rumored weight loss that Matuska has incurred during his training regimen. "He looks emaciated. A shell of his former self. Much more of this, and we might start shopping in SoHo," lamented Palooska. "How will the fans react? They've become accustomed to this roly-poly, happy-go-lucky public persona. What happens when that behind doesn't jiggle anymore? Women ages 18-92 are at least 50% of our audience." When prompted as to whether he approved of Matuska running the marathon, Palooska replied he'd "rather see Mark sitting on the couch eating Cheetos and investing in our future."

Close associate Timothy Petrov had additional thoughts about the incredible shrinking Matuska, remarking "I don't care if he's losing weight. He'll always be fat to me." Petrov refused to comment further, instead relaying his opinion via the following sketch:When told of their concerns, however, Matuska was upbeat. "I understand that there may be skepticism about my future marketability as a reasonably physically fit individual. I nonetheless do not share those concerns. The public has come to love chunky-style Matuska; they're going to love smooth & creamy Matuska even more."