"Is your remarkably sexist drivel intentional, or just some horrible mistake?" -Lisa Simpson
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Ummm, its intentional. I love to debate, and I love to get a rise out of people, and one of my favorite ways to do both is by being intentionally sexist.
Note: I don't actually believe my sexist drivel. I've veered way too far to the left to actually mean it. However, my views on equal rights/politics have no correlation to my being an ass for the sake of being an ass.
And by "sexist", i mean way over-the-top sexist. Saying you don't think Hillary Clinton should ever be president because she's a woman and would have mental breakdowns once a month? Meh . . . too believable of sexism. I think 70% of the South actually backs that thought. Saying that a woman's best jobs are either in the kitchen cooking or typing memos for her boss? Come on, that's too Mad Men. That's like, cool retro sexism or something. And it was already done to perfection by one of my favorite comedians, Andy Kaufman.
NOBODY was better at getting rises out people just for the sake of it than Andy Kaufman. He created several personas (a foreigner comedian, a lounge singer). He wrestled women. He got slapped by Jerry Lawler on Letterman. He fought a producer on an SNL ripoff . . . and it was all bullshit for the sake of bullshit. If you were smart enough to be in on the joke, then he was a genius. But if you were on the outside, he was a fucking asshole. And he was the best at it (even though I was 4 when he died. I may be smart (on occasion), but not smart enough to get Andy Kaufman at 4).
More fake-sexism after the jump below
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Item #41 - Play the Ponies at Suffolk Downs
"No more peanuts until you pick a winning horse"
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This is Tablelegs.
Tablelegs was my hamster in grad school. Not grade school. Not middle school. I had a hamster in grad school. And he was the man.
Another very middle school thing I did in grad school? Cover my walls in posters. Like, every poster I had, in an attempt to cover up all available wall space. This included posters of Scooby-Doo and Kelly Kapowski. But, I at least I had a good excuse - I didn't want my place to look like it hosted 70's key parties. You see, my 420 square foot studio apartment was wall-to-wall wood paneling, and 80% of the floor was covered in orange and brown shag carpeting. It was like if John Holmes had a ski lodge. So it wasn't so much what was on the posters, so much as how much space they could cover ("but Alan, why didn't buy some updated posters, and perhaps frame them, so you looked like an adult?" Because I was a poor grad student happy to have enough spare change to buy a 12 pack of Natty Light. Stop judging me)
Anyway, Tablelegs was awesome. He was my little homie while I lived away in a little cow town (see many many previous posts for explanations and bitching). He lived to be 2 and a half year old, and yes, there were some tears shed when he died. He was a trooper, and he was also a little speedster, often waking up in the middle of the night because he wanted to go for a light 30 minute jog on his wheel. But this was fitting, as Tablelegs was named after a race horse.
More after the jump (this is the first time I'm trying the whole page break thing, where you click below to continue reading. Hopefully it will make the front page a little cleaner. And hopefully it actually works).
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This is Tablelegs.
Tablelegs was my hamster in grad school. Not grade school. Not middle school. I had a hamster in grad school. And he was the man.
Another very middle school thing I did in grad school? Cover my walls in posters. Like, every poster I had, in an attempt to cover up all available wall space. This included posters of Scooby-Doo and Kelly Kapowski. But, I at least I had a good excuse - I didn't want my place to look like it hosted 70's key parties. You see, my 420 square foot studio apartment was wall-to-wall wood paneling, and 80% of the floor was covered in orange and brown shag carpeting. It was like if John Holmes had a ski lodge. So it wasn't so much what was on the posters, so much as how much space they could cover ("but Alan, why didn't buy some updated posters, and perhaps frame them, so you looked like an adult?" Because I was a poor grad student happy to have enough spare change to buy a 12 pack of Natty Light. Stop judging me)
Anyway, Tablelegs was awesome. He was my little homie while I lived away in a little cow town (see many many previous posts for explanations and bitching). He lived to be 2 and a half year old, and yes, there were some tears shed when he died. He was a trooper, and he was also a little speedster, often waking up in the middle of the night because he wanted to go for a light 30 minute jog on his wheel. But this was fitting, as Tablelegs was named after a race horse.
More after the jump (this is the first time I'm trying the whole page break thing, where you click below to continue reading. Hopefully it will make the front page a little cleaner. And hopefully it actually works).
Monday, August 8, 2011
Item #40 - Indoor Rock Climbing
"Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no! And it ain't over now." - Bluto
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Last year I lived with 2 gal friends, Jill and Danielle. They're both running freaks, and because of the constant exposure to them, and their freakish running habits ("it's 25 degrees out, but I need to keep up my training, so I'm ONLY going to run 16 miles today"), I slowly made the final transition from soccer-player-who-runs to soccer-player-AND-runner. I began to up my mileage, and slowly went from running 3 miles to running 4 . . . and 5 . . and 6 . . . and 7. And around that point, Danielle decided to get me drunk enough that she could take advantage of my body . . . by getting me to sign up for a half-marathon she was running on Memorial Weekend, despite me never having run a race over 5 miles. The half marathon was on May 30. I signed up for on April 30. That . . . was a mistake.
Over the course of the next month, I trained as reasonably much as I could train. I went to 8, then to 10, then to 11 miles. Granted I hit 11 miles a week before the race, and most training regiments apparently say you should be hitting that 3 weeks before the race, but who cares? I'm a bad-ass. I'm 31 years old, play 3 soccer games a week and only sub out when I get dragged to the sidelines kicking and screaming. I have no stop button . . . or at least I have no stop button for the 70 minutes that out soccer games last.
On race day, I felt pretty good. Despite the rookie mistake of missing the first water station, I hit the turn (it was an out-and-back race) at around an 8:30 per-mile pace. Probably a faster pace than I should have been setting, back again, who cares? Bad . . . . ass.
At around the 8 mile mark (coincidentally about the length of my soccer games), I got caught by Danielle. Up to that point, I had actually thought she was ahead of me, so to finally see the veteran runner catch me at that point kind of gave me a runner's high . . . that lasted all of about a 1/4 mile. I then promptly waved good-bye to her and sent her on her merry way, as my body decided to say "Hey dummy. You're 30. You've never run a race over 5 miles. You want to run a half-marathon? Maybe you should have put a little planning into it, fuckhead." I tried to reason with my body, but all my engineering logic is sadly located north of my equator, and the dogged legs in the south ended up winning the argument (actually, that's the usual case when it comes to arguing with any part south in my southern hemisphere, especially my Cape of Good Hope (too many geography metaphors? Whatever. Look at map. It makes sense, I swear)).
So with 4 or 5 miles to go, the occasional walking began. A good 45 seconds worth, about every 4 minutes. I ended up finishing the race in 1 hour, 57 minutes and change, with a 8:59 pace. BUT . . . who cares. I am a bad-ass no more. I finished. I finished in a decent time for a first half-marathon. But I walked. And to continue the half-baked sexual metaphors, it was the difference between sex and masturbation. Sure, they both get you to the same finish line, but one is a way more satisfying way to get there, and far less embarrassing than the other. Sigh. It was a tough realization to face - I fought my body, and my body won.
When I was in Chicago last month, I went another round with my body, this time with the Northern Hemisphere, as I went indoor rock climbing with my friends Megs. Megs works at a college as a rec sports something or other (sorry Megs. You can define this in the paperback version), and she has full access to their facilities, which includes an indoor climbing wall. So I jogged a mile over to her work from where I was staying, we geared up, and we attacked. Oh, one thing I should mention - my lifetime preperation for this moment was about as thorough as my half-marathon training.
Besides mandatory weight lifting for 6 weeks in gym class in high school, and a very brief period before I started actually getting off my ass and running where I thought I could sit on my couch and do a few curls for 10 minutes and develop a 6 pack overnight, I haven't lifted. I find it boring, and I kind of just figured I'd wait until (maybe) having kids and then gaining my Dad Strength (you cannot beat your dad at arm wrestling until you've owned a house for 5+ years and had kids for 2+ years. Its science). So me climbing a rock wall was like bring a knife to a gun fight, as pictures from the chest waxing post clearly show that I do indeed lack guns.
So yeah, the rock wall. The wall itself had 2 parts. The main part was 10 feet up, and just a giant wall of grips. To get there, you could either use a ladder and start at the bottom of that section, or, you could first traverse the very bottom part of the wall - the much tougher lower section that actually went into a 30 degree inversion. Being hard-headed and forgetting anything my body had previously told me about no longer being a bad-ass, I went the inversion route . . .
. . . and I failed. I got my hands on the grips on the main section, but couldn't overcome the inversion. So I tried again . . . and I failed again. So I tried again . . . and I failed again. So I then said fuck that, we got the ladder, and I started at the bottom of the main wall . . . and I failed again.
My self-proclaimed-god-like legs were worthless, or at least, I made them worthless. At this point, my spotter finally got it through my head that I should have been using my legs for the majority of the climbing, while only using my arms and hands to hold on to the wall. Up until now, I had been doing 90% of the climbing with my weak-ass arms, and bringing my legs along for the ride. Big mistake, especially after initially trying the inverted route, which absolutely crushed my forearms. I was then lowered down, so I could watch Megs take care of the wall (sans inversion) in her first try, furthering my embarrassment. Also furthering my embarrassment? The 15 children that were there for a summer camp and watching us the whole time. "Hey kids! Do you know what the word emasculation means?"
So after seeing Megs conquer the wall, I decided that quitting is for quitters, and that I should give it one more try . . . and I succeeded. I rang the bell. Hooray for me. I'M A MAN!
Bu the damage had been done. Like the half-marathon, I had finished, but I had basically "walked" my way up the wall with multiple stop-and-go's. Success and failure all at once. What a country!
Sadly with my upper body stamina, the whole indoor rock climbing excursion only took about 10 minutes. I was sweaty. I was tired. Afterwards, I needed a nap. I finished after the girl, and that was after she had made me feel embarrassed . . .
(insert final sexual metaphor here)
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Last year I lived with 2 gal friends, Jill and Danielle. They're both running freaks, and because of the constant exposure to them, and their freakish running habits ("it's 25 degrees out, but I need to keep up my training, so I'm ONLY going to run 16 miles today"), I slowly made the final transition from soccer-player-who-runs to soccer-player-AND-runner. I began to up my mileage, and slowly went from running 3 miles to running 4 . . . and 5 . . and 6 . . . and 7. And around that point, Danielle decided to get me drunk enough that she could take advantage of my body . . . by getting me to sign up for a half-marathon she was running on Memorial Weekend, despite me never having run a race over 5 miles. The half marathon was on May 30. I signed up for on April 30. That . . . was a mistake.
Over the course of the next month, I trained as reasonably much as I could train. I went to 8, then to 10, then to 11 miles. Granted I hit 11 miles a week before the race, and most training regiments apparently say you should be hitting that 3 weeks before the race, but who cares? I'm a bad-ass. I'm 31 years old, play 3 soccer games a week and only sub out when I get dragged to the sidelines kicking and screaming. I have no stop button . . . or at least I have no stop button for the 70 minutes that out soccer games last.
"Too Much, Too Soon" - my half-marathon training / many a girls response to my advances
On race day, I felt pretty good. Despite the rookie mistake of missing the first water station, I hit the turn (it was an out-and-back race) at around an 8:30 per-mile pace. Probably a faster pace than I should have been setting, back again, who cares? Bad . . . . ass.
At around the 8 mile mark (coincidentally about the length of my soccer games), I got caught by Danielle. Up to that point, I had actually thought she was ahead of me, so to finally see the veteran runner catch me at that point kind of gave me a runner's high . . . that lasted all of about a 1/4 mile. I then promptly waved good-bye to her and sent her on her merry way, as my body decided to say "Hey dummy. You're 30. You've never run a race over 5 miles. You want to run a half-marathon? Maybe you should have put a little planning into it, fuckhead." I tried to reason with my body, but all my engineering logic is sadly located north of my equator, and the dogged legs in the south ended up winning the argument (actually, that's the usual case when it comes to arguing with any part south in my southern hemisphere, especially my Cape of Good Hope (too many geography metaphors? Whatever. Look at map. It makes sense, I swear)).
So with 4 or 5 miles to go, the occasional walking began. A good 45 seconds worth, about every 4 minutes. I ended up finishing the race in 1 hour, 57 minutes and change, with a 8:59 pace. BUT . . . who cares. I am a bad-ass no more. I finished. I finished in a decent time for a first half-marathon. But I walked. And to continue the half-baked sexual metaphors, it was the difference between sex and masturbation. Sure, they both get you to the same finish line, but one is a way more satisfying way to get there, and far less embarrassing than the other. Sigh. It was a tough realization to face - I fought my body, and my body won.
When I was in Chicago last month, I went another round with my body, this time with the Northern Hemisphere, as I went indoor rock climbing with my friends Megs. Megs works at a college as a rec sports something or other (sorry Megs. You can define this in the paperback version), and she has full access to their facilities, which includes an indoor climbing wall. So I jogged a mile over to her work from where I was staying, we geared up, and we attacked. Oh, one thing I should mention - my lifetime preperation for this moment was about as thorough as my half-marathon training.
Besides mandatory weight lifting for 6 weeks in gym class in high school, and a very brief period before I started actually getting off my ass and running where I thought I could sit on my couch and do a few curls for 10 minutes and develop a 6 pack overnight, I haven't lifted. I find it boring, and I kind of just figured I'd wait until (maybe) having kids and then gaining my Dad Strength (you cannot beat your dad at arm wrestling until you've owned a house for 5+ years and had kids for 2+ years. Its science). So me climbing a rock wall was like bring a knife to a gun fight, as pictures from the chest waxing post clearly show that I do indeed lack guns.
So yeah, the rock wall. The wall itself had 2 parts. The main part was 10 feet up, and just a giant wall of grips. To get there, you could either use a ladder and start at the bottom of that section, or, you could first traverse the very bottom part of the wall - the much tougher lower section that actually went into a 30 degree inversion. Being hard-headed and forgetting anything my body had previously told me about no longer being a bad-ass, I went the inversion route . . .
. . . and I failed. I got my hands on the grips on the main section, but couldn't overcome the inversion. So I tried again . . . and I failed again. So I tried again . . . and I failed again. So I then said fuck that, we got the ladder, and I started at the bottom of the main wall . . . and I failed again.
So after seeing Megs conquer the wall, I decided that quitting is for quitters, and that I should give it one more try . . . and I succeeded. I rang the bell. Hooray for me. I'M A MAN!
Bu the damage had been done. Like the half-marathon, I had finished, but I had basically "walked" my way up the wall with multiple stop-and-go's. Success and failure all at once. What a country!
Sadly with my upper body stamina, the whole indoor rock climbing excursion only took about 10 minutes. I was sweaty. I was tired. Afterwards, I needed a nap. I finished after the girl, and that was after she had made me feel embarrassed . . .
(insert final sexual metaphor here)
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- Thanks to Megs for the free indoor rock climbing
- After having done generic yoga and then hot vinyasa yoga, Friday I did bikram yoga (thanks to Katie, Sarah and Malinda), also done at 100+ degree temperatures for 90 minutes. It was a quality ass-kicking, and I dug it more so than the hot vinyasa (though maybe it was just teacher dependent). The vinyasa was like going on a distance run - a constant exersion of of a moderate amount of energy. Bikram was like playing soccer - constantly going back and forth between going as hard as you can and taking short breaks.
- Friday - bikram yoga in Harvard Square. Saturday - degenerate gambling at the horse track (post forthcoming). Sunday - an exhibit at a Boston Library (another post forthcoming), followed by an impromptu 3 person pub crawl . . . I am a man of many faces.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Item #39 - Climb the Bunker Hill Memorial
"Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time" - Stephen Wright
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The Bunker Hill Memorial resides in Charlestown, MA. It actually sits atop Breed's Hill, as some jagoff screwed up his history back in 1827 when the construction began. The 221 feet tall obelisk was finished in 1843 and has 294 steps. I've been to the bottom of the monument before, but didn't actually climb it (partly out of apathy, partly out of pure laziness), so I had added it to the list. But, since my tree trunk soccer legs can knock that out no problem (I may have average self-esteem about most of my body, but my legs bring out the cockiness), I decided to up the level of difficulty. Boston likes to call itself America's Walking City? Well, I decided to prove that moniker by walking 7 miles to the monument before walking up it.
So at 11:00am Sunday morning, I put on a dry-fit running shirt and a pair of soccer shorts (I initially had on cargo shorts, but the vast amount of swass I expected to have on a mid-80's day with the sun beating down made me decide otherwise), threw on my backpack, and headed out to Charlestown. Here's the rundown of my adventure, noting my personal monuments along the way.
A - Cafe Nation. My first stop (and really, my only stop) to fuel up for the trek with some iced coffee. If you're an anti-big-corporation hippie that dislikes Dunkin Donuts because of their connection to the Bush family and the Carlyle Group (damn you Aaron G for teaching me this), then this is your place in Brighton Center
B - Devlin's. A nice bar with an outdoor patio. I've gone on a few internet dates over the last year+, but on that patio is the only time I've met up with someone and the second she walked in I said "Ah crap. She. . . . does not look like the picture." I'm no 10, but I at least know how to set up a profile without false advertising.
C - A statue of a hammer thrower, in which the artist could not afford an extra $200 for some steel chains to connect the handle to the ball. You want me to use my imagination? Screw you fancy artist guy.
D - Redneck's BBQ. They have several items they call "double stuffed subs." We got one once there. It was a version of a chicken parm sub that had chicken, cheese, marinara sauce . . . and waffle fries . . . and cheeseticks. U-S-A! U-S-A!
E - Sunset Grill. Mandatory dining for all visitors that don't think a a good beer includes the word "lite" in its name. 380 beers. 112 on tap. Dee . . . lite . . . full.
F - Agganis Arena. Home to the BU terriers. I've seen Michigan play basketball and hockey here, and we had front row seats for both. One required connections. One required us showing up 5 minutes before game time to buy $15 tickets. I'll let you figure out which was which.
G - Fenway Park. I've been to home games for 29 of 30 MLB franchises, and this is my favorite. 35+ games, and I STILL haven't been kicked out of one. Something to strive for I suppose.
H - Former home of my friend Katie, who lived on the 9th story and had a roof deck. It was basically the perfect place to watch both the marathon and the fireworks. However, she's since moved out to the burbs with her hubby and daughter. So, until I become better friends with Tom Brady, I'm going to need one of you people to move to a top floor apartment in Back Bay so I can abuse your living situation as well.
I - Lir. The bar that's home to the Santa Speedo Run. I'll be hitting you people up for donations for the 2012 charity run soon enough, but in the meantime, you can go back and read Item #10, which, according the Blogspot stats, is the most read post on this site because apparently you people are a bunch of masochistic bastards. Either that, or because it will eventually turn up as a hit if you search for the words "naked" and "mile." (though now that those words are in this post too, maybe this one gets some extra hits also? and if that's the case . . . . boobs boobs boobs)
J - Mindy Kaling. AKA, Kelly Kappor from the office. I rarely see famous people in public. I've seen Hulk Hogan at a casino in Fort Lauderdale. I've seen Fab 5 legend Jalen Rose at a steakhouse in Mandalay Bay (maybe I just to to hang in casinos more often). And I've seen Mindy Kaling walking Newbury St. I'm so hip and cool.
K - The Rattlesnake Bar. When I first moved to Boston with Walter, and we didn't really know anyone yet, I think this is the only place we went to (once) as just 2 guys going to the bar. Walter thought it was "kind of gay" for just 2 guys to go to a bar, and I don't think we did it again. In 4 months, I will be giving the best man speech at his wedding. If I can keep the Walter stories under 20 minutes, it will be a miracle.
L - The start to the Corporate Challenge, a 3.5 mile charity race with approximately 10,000 runners. In a normal race at that length, I'll typically run at a 7:15-7:30 per-mile pace. The last time I ran this clusterfuck? 8:49 pace. Though with the amount of weaving we had to do, we probably ran 5 miles. This . . . . is not an enjoyable race.
M - The Duck Pond, which is now a wading pool and fountain for kids. Approximate ratio of water to piss? 50-50 at best.
N - Massachusetts State House. Massachusetts? More like TAXachusetts! Right? I just came up with that.
O - The Greenway. For you non-Bostonians, as you can of see on the map, the highway runs underground here, thanks to the Big Dig, which was definitely not built by the mafia with substandard materials. It's actually pretty damn cool. Though what's not cool the is $800 I end up paying each year in tolls. Occasionally, I do miss the free pot-hole-ridden constantly-under-construction highways of the Motor City.
P - The part where I got a little lost. Damn you Boston and your wacky unlabeled curvy roads.
Q - 7 miles and approximately 12,320 steps later . . . I'm there.
And after an additional 294 vertical steps . . . .
Nice. Maybe not "I spent 135 minutes walking in 85 degree heat while sweating my balls off" nice, but nice none-the-less. (I realize that we have soldiers in much more gear doing much more bad-ass things for much longer times in much hotter conditions . . . . but I'm a pussy, soooo . . . ya know).
So after my adventure, I put in another 0.7 miles and walked over to my friend Megan's place (R) to enjoy the quintessential American monument to summer and opulence. U-S-Freakin-A.
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The Bunker Hill Memorial resides in Charlestown, MA. It actually sits atop Breed's Hill, as some jagoff screwed up his history back in 1827 when the construction began. The 221 feet tall obelisk was finished in 1843 and has 294 steps. I've been to the bottom of the monument before, but didn't actually climb it (partly out of apathy, partly out of pure laziness), so I had added it to the list. But, since my tree trunk soccer legs can knock that out no problem (I may have average self-esteem about most of my body, but my legs bring out the cockiness), I decided to up the level of difficulty. Boston likes to call itself America's Walking City? Well, I decided to prove that moniker by walking 7 miles to the monument before walking up it.
So at 11:00am Sunday morning, I put on a dry-fit running shirt and a pair of soccer shorts (I initially had on cargo shorts, but the vast amount of swass I expected to have on a mid-80's day with the sun beating down made me decide otherwise), threw on my backpack, and headed out to Charlestown. Here's the rundown of my adventure, noting my personal monuments along the way.
A - Cafe Nation. My first stop (and really, my only stop) to fuel up for the trek with some iced coffee. If you're an anti-big-corporation hippie that dislikes Dunkin Donuts because of their connection to the Bush family and the Carlyle Group (damn you Aaron G for teaching me this), then this is your place in Brighton Center
B - Devlin's. A nice bar with an outdoor patio. I've gone on a few internet dates over the last year+, but on that patio is the only time I've met up with someone and the second she walked in I said "Ah crap. She. . . . does not look like the picture." I'm no 10, but I at least know how to set up a profile without false advertising.
C - A statue of a hammer thrower, in which the artist could not afford an extra $200 for some steel chains to connect the handle to the ball. You want me to use my imagination? Screw you fancy artist guy.
D - Redneck's BBQ. They have several items they call "double stuffed subs." We got one once there. It was a version of a chicken parm sub that had chicken, cheese, marinara sauce . . . and waffle fries . . . and cheeseticks. U-S-A! U-S-A!
E - Sunset Grill. Mandatory dining for all visitors that don't think a a good beer includes the word "lite" in its name. 380 beers. 112 on tap. Dee . . . lite . . . full.
F - Agganis Arena. Home to the BU terriers. I've seen Michigan play basketball and hockey here, and we had front row seats for both. One required connections. One required us showing up 5 minutes before game time to buy $15 tickets. I'll let you figure out which was which.
G - Fenway Park. I've been to home games for 29 of 30 MLB franchises, and this is my favorite. 35+ games, and I STILL haven't been kicked out of one. Something to strive for I suppose.
H - Former home of my friend Katie, who lived on the 9th story and had a roof deck. It was basically the perfect place to watch both the marathon and the fireworks. However, she's since moved out to the burbs with her hubby and daughter. So, until I become better friends with Tom Brady, I'm going to need one of you people to move to a top floor apartment in Back Bay so I can abuse your living situation as well.
I - Lir. The bar that's home to the Santa Speedo Run. I'll be hitting you people up for donations for the 2012 charity run soon enough, but in the meantime, you can go back and read Item #10, which, according the Blogspot stats, is the most read post on this site because apparently you people are a bunch of masochistic bastards. Either that, or because it will eventually turn up as a hit if you search for the words "naked" and "mile." (though now that those words are in this post too, maybe this one gets some extra hits also? and if that's the case . . . . boobs boobs boobs)
J - Mindy Kaling. AKA, Kelly Kappor from the office. I rarely see famous people in public. I've seen Hulk Hogan at a casino in Fort Lauderdale. I've seen Fab 5 legend Jalen Rose at a steakhouse in Mandalay Bay (maybe I just to to hang in casinos more often). And I've seen Mindy Kaling walking Newbury St. I'm so hip and cool.
K - The Rattlesnake Bar. When I first moved to Boston with Walter, and we didn't really know anyone yet, I think this is the only place we went to (once) as just 2 guys going to the bar. Walter thought it was "kind of gay" for just 2 guys to go to a bar, and I don't think we did it again. In 4 months, I will be giving the best man speech at his wedding. If I can keep the Walter stories under 20 minutes, it will be a miracle.
L - The start to the Corporate Challenge, a 3.5 mile charity race with approximately 10,000 runners. In a normal race at that length, I'll typically run at a 7:15-7:30 per-mile pace. The last time I ran this clusterfuck? 8:49 pace. Though with the amount of weaving we had to do, we probably ran 5 miles. This . . . . is not an enjoyable race.
M - The Duck Pond, which is now a wading pool and fountain for kids. Approximate ratio of water to piss? 50-50 at best.
N - Massachusetts State House. Massachusetts? More like TAXachusetts! Right? I just came up with that.
O - The Greenway. For you non-Bostonians, as you can of see on the map, the highway runs underground here, thanks to the Big Dig, which was definitely not built by the mafia with substandard materials. It's actually pretty damn cool. Though what's not cool the is $800 I end up paying each year in tolls. Occasionally, I do miss the free pot-hole-ridden constantly-under-construction highways of the Motor City.
P - The part where I got a little lost. Damn you Boston and your wacky unlabeled curvy roads.
Q - 7 miles and approximately 12,320 steps later . . . I'm there.
And after an additional 294 vertical steps . . . .
Nice. Maybe not "I spent 135 minutes walking in 85 degree heat while sweating my balls off" nice, but nice none-the-less. (I realize that we have soldiers in much more gear doing much more bad-ass things for much longer times in much hotter conditions . . . . but I'm a pussy, soooo . . . ya know).
So after my adventure, I put in another 0.7 miles and walked over to my friend Megan's place (R) to enjoy the quintessential American monument to summer and opulence. U-S-Freakin-A.
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