Who Should I Dress Up As?

I know I'm tempting the green-eyed monster by writing this, but I have to make this announcement: I'm going to the "Philadelphia" Premiere of Star Trek on May 2, 2009. (Philadelphia is in quotes here, because the premiere is actually being held in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, which is very close to my home town of Marlton.)

I'm very excited to see this movie, as anyone who has had the misfortune of reading this blog on a regular basis already knows. I'm even more excited I don't have to wait until May 8th to see it on the big screen.

I've been to two premieres/advance screenings before, and I must say, it is an entirely different experience than regular movie-going. The audience attending the premiere consists of people rabidly excited to see the film. The theater has a charged atmosphere about it, and you don't have to worry about any ignorant a--holes talking on cell phones, being obnoxious, or otherwise ruining a cinematic moment for you. Just the opposite, in fact.

My wife and I were lucky enough to see Shaun of the Dead at an advance screening. Every seat was filled, everyone clapped at the beginning and the end, and one out of every two was dressed up as a zombie.

So, in keeping with the customs of the movie premiere, my question is this: who should I dress up as?

a) Captain Kirk (with a rug, of course)

b) Khan (with a fake He-Man chest, of course)

c) Spock (with fake ears of course)

d) Uhura

e) A Jedi Knight (to piss off the Trekkies, Trekkers, and Borg that show up)

f) Other

Tell me what you think by leaving a comment. Live long and prosper.

____

Special thanks to my sweet mother-in-law, Helene, for winning the tickets by listening to Oldies 98. We love going to the movies together.

I Feel Better About My Golf Game Now...

...that I've seen how bad Charles Barkley's swing is.

The Golf Channel aired its new reality show, The Haney Project, last night. Hank Haney is considered to be the one of the best professional teachers of the golf game right now, probably due in no small part to the fact that his number one student is a fella by the name of Eldrich Woods. Tiger will one day set a new record for number of Majors won; I have no doubt he will surpass Nicklaus's mark of 18, so long as he stays healthy and maintains his passion for the game.

Anyway, Hank has taken on Charles Barkley, of NBA fame, as his latest Padawan. For those of you that don't know, Barkley is quite a character, in both good and bad ways. During his pro-basketball career, he was caught at least once spitting on sideline hecklers. One of his more famous commercials was when he stared into the camera and said, quite seriously, "I am not a role model."

Maybe he's not a role model--okay, he's definitely not--but that doesn't mean the guy isn't fun to watch. He is notorious for having an atrocious golf swing. It has more planes in it than Philly International, and he has a habit of stopping the club once, twice, sometimes three times on the downswing before he strikes the golf ball.

I remember reading a story awhile back that Tiger called him the day after a pro-am finished. Tiger joked that he was about to congratulate Sir Charles on winning the tournament, but he realized he was holding the newspaper upside-down while looking at the scores. See, even Tiger Woods has a sense of humor.

I don't usually care for celebreality television shows, but I think I'm going to tune in to this one. Barkley doesn't hold anything back, so this show has a good chance of being truly "reality" TV. And even though I've only played a handful of times in the last two years, I am still fanatical about the game of golf.

Fellow Philadelphians take note too! The guy doing the voiceover work for The Haney Project is none other than Preston Elliott, of the Preston & Steve Show on 93.3 WMMR.

Blogs I Follow: Detectives Beyond Borders

For anyone interested in expanding their literary horizons--and aren't we all--I highly recommend Peter Rozovsky's blog, Detectives Beyond Borders.

Detectives Beyond Borders is about crime fiction that is written by non-American authors and/or set in non-American locales. Peter is a copy editor working in Philadelphia, and his blog is always informative, articulate, and just plain fun. Well-read and opinionated, Peter always has something interesting to say. Recently, he made the case for involving literature in crime fiction discussions and vice versa here, when he discussed Hamlet of all things.

Even if you don't get to read as much crime fiction as you'd want (like me), Peter's blog is still thought-provoking. As an added bonus, if you live in the Philadelphia area, Peter often schedules "Noirs at the Bar," which usually feature authors and where fellow crime fiction readers meet to talk creative shop and imbibe.

Happy Thanksgiving From Florida

Hello all. The missus and I are in Florida, visiting my parents. My aunt and uncle are also in town. We're having a great time, this being the first opportunity to see the folks' new house near Tampa. The men played golf yesterday, while the ladies went out to shop and eat. We started drinking and playing pool around three in the afternoon and kept going till one.

I've convinced my knees to call back the hit they put out on me for running the marathon. Little do they know I'm considering a run later today. We'll see what happens.

I hope everyone enjoys their holidays and time off from work. And I wanted to thank everyone that showed up for the Chat on Monday night. A good time was had by all.

My Knees Are Calling Me All Sorts of Names...

...which I won't repeat here, because this blog has been rated PG-13.

The Philadelphia Marathon was absolutely brutal. A half hour before we started, the temperature registered at 24 degrees. Roughly 18,000 people crowded and rushed about near the Art Museum, up and down the Ben Franklin Parkway, in futile attempts to keep warm and find an unoccupied Port-O-John. The announcer's voice squawked incomprehensibly over the PA system, so most people had no idea where to go or what to do.

Crowd control wasn't even theoretical. Runners filtered into the corrals when they weren't supposed to; others waited in the back, unsure of where to go. Supposed to go off in the second wave of marathoners, I missed it and somehow ended up in the third wave. More than twenty minutes passed between the start of the race and when I took my first step past the Start Line.

But none of that really matters. The little things tend to lose any significance when 26.2 miles stretch before you.

The first half of the race was fantastic. Down the Parkway, Arch, and Race to Columbus Boulevard (I still don't know why they changed the name from Delaware Avenue). Several groups of brave souls huddled on the street corners to cheer us on. It was cold enough for us runners, but it must have been the final circle of Dante's Inferno for the spectators.

On Delaware Avenue, the horde of runners got a chance to thin. Planes lazed across the sky, headed for Philly International. Everybody was happy. It was still early. We'd reached our first fluid station. All was well.

We spent too little time on Front Street--the locals had hilarious signs everywhere to cheer us up: one reminded us that the average temperature on November 23rd in Philly is in the mid-40s; others called into question our sanity for running.

We spent some time on Chestnut Street, and by now, the spectators had multiplied. I'm still amazed by the sheer number of them that braved the elements to cheer us on. Everyone's always saying that Philly fans are the worst in the country, but I beg to differ.

We plodded up 34th Street, so I got to run through Drexel University's campus. I haven't been through there in a few years now. Fraternity Row was relatively quiet, except for one or two houses. I don't blame them though. They were probably just going to bed when my wife was driving me to the marathon.

We started encountering our first major hills of the race. Everyone I was running with slowed noticeably. Everything was still going fine, though.

Mile 13 and all was well. People were finishing the marathon as I reached the halfway point, but I knew that was going to happen so it didn't bother me. My good friends Nate and Jess Green, who ran the 8K, magically appeared and offered encouragement and a bottle of water. I took the bottle greedily, nearly drank it down in two gulps.

The wheels started coming off at Mile 15. My pace was off, and my stomach was pitching with nausea. That sometimes happens during a long race, I don't know why. I fought through it and kept going.

We headed up Kelly Drive into Manayunk. It didn't make it any easier that there were runners headed in the opposite direction, nearly finished with the race.

By Mile 17, my left foot wasn't cramping so much as it was seizing up. I'd come too far to stop though.

Someone offered me a beer at Mile 18. I was too tired to answer verbally, but I managed a weak smile and shook my head. She laughed and said, "I know you want one." Had it been Mile 8, I would have indulged. At that point, though, any alcohol would have sent me straight to the hospital or the morgue.

I somehow managed to reach the top of the hill on Main Street in Manayunk and turn around at Mile 20. Now the real pain. I didn't think it could get any worse, but it did. A diffuse hurting everywhere. I waited for the numbness to come, but it didn't. I could feel my heart beating, working overtime. The left foot fooled me, seemingly getting better, before getting worse. Those last six miles were as much running as they were walking.

Still the crowd cheered us on. They were great. They were all my new best friends. I even managed to high-five a few of them. It was ridiculous how much effort it required to raise my arm.

Eventually, I saw the Art Museum looming on the Schuykill River. It was a beacon. It took forever to grow, tantalizingly close and infinitely far away. Of all the things to think of, I remembered Zeno's paradox, of being able to travel halfway to an object, then half of that, then half of that, and never being able to reach it. Goes to show how little good some philosophy offers in the real world.

I heard the roar of the crowd. By now, it felt like I was running with knives in my legs. My left foot refused to function anymore. I saw the Mile 26 marker and kept running. Of all the arbitrary distances ever conceived by man, why in the hell is a marathon not just 26 miles? I know of the derivation of the race, but still, is the extra .2 miles all that necessary in today's world?

Jenna took some "action" photos, for lack of a better word, as I neared the end of the race. Through the Finish Line. As Apollo Creed said at the end of Rocky, "Ain't gonna be no rematch." And as Rocky responded, "Don't want one."

Congrats to everyone else who ran on Sunday! I'll be back next year, but maybe I'll do a shorter race and focus on time instead. Or I'll just cheer on the runners and drink beer. Or I'll just stay home and drink beer. We'll see :)

Eight Days

I'll be running the Philadelphia Marathon in 8 days. While scanning the Internet for an appropriate image, I accidentally stumbled across this one. I fully expect to need a stretcher when I'm done, but let's hope I don't need the O2 as well.

You see all manner of folks during a marathon. I ran one down the Jersey Shore in 2004. I encountered a 70-plus year old man running in a tuxedo with tails. Early on, as I was reaching about three miles, the then leader of the race zipped by going in the opposite direction (he'd already done seven miles). He zoomed by in a sprint that looked tireless and effortless. Three miles in, and somebody had already more than doubled my distance! Incredible.

I lucked out with the weather my first time around. It hovered between 45 to 50 degrees the whole time, beginning with the sunshine and ending with overcast skies. It drizzled, once or twice, but only for a minute or two.

Along the way, the fans were awesome. At mile 10, some lady was nice enough to say, "You don't look tired at all." I assured her that it was my finest moment of acting. My wife was kindly waiting at mile 11 with a bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar. I sucked down the Gatorade, ate half the bar, and kept the other half for later. Around mile 13, I passed a house that was blasting Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." Perfect timing. I felt great. I was halfway there.

And then it hit me.

The wall.

It was bad. I wanted to stop. I wanted to never run again for as long as I lived. Around mile 15, a live band was performing in front of somebody's house. I hardly heard them. Somehow I managed to reach the energy station at mile 17, where I proceeded to scarf down pretzels, candy, gatorade, and water. I rounded the circle at mile 19, headed back the way I came. That same band was still playing; I still barely heard them. Each step was painful, becoming borderline excruciating. I kept my head down and tried to think of something to take my mind off the agony. It was a weird feeling, trying to get myself to think and not being able to.

Then the pain ceased for awhile. My body had gone numb. That was fine by me. When I reached 23 miles, I realized I was going to make it, and from there, I ran the rest of the race on adrenaline.

The day or two after the race, I must have looked like Frankenstein's monster when I walked around, hobbling, lumbering, awkward.

Don't marathons sound fun?

Good luck to everybody running the Philly Marathon! I'll see you out there next Sunday.

-Brian