Peeling, two-toned skin.

For the four or five of you who still read this blog, I did indeed lumber past the finish line, clocking in at 6 hours and 10 minutes. Two weeks later, I still have the "scars" to prove it.

Right around when I started the half marathon portion of the race, the "Two-Scoops" Raisin Bran sun popped up ready to deliver 97% humidity and temperatures in the high 80s. Protected by sloppily applied Coppertone Sport SPF 30 and some apparently somewhat see-through spandex, my body still looks like its been ravaged by vitiligo.

At this very moment, I am staring at my thighs and can't help but think of the half moon cookie. Anyways, back to the thank you letters which are proving to be far more of a challenge to write than doing the actual race.

Embracing my own mortality on the eve of the Gulf Coast Half Iron Man.

Perhaps the most self-centered, navel gazing thing a person can do is write his own eulogy (or as Derek Zoolander likes to pronounce it... eugoogly). I'm not saying I expect to meet my doom in the rougher than expected Florida Gulf Coast waters... but just to be safe I'd feel better knowing (as I finally succumb to a ferocious battle with a giant squid) that my last written words were not about my aspirations to be white trash, or I guess in my case yellow trash.

Anyways... here's what I would imagine my eugoogalizer would say at the funeral.

As a child Robert W. Tai aspired to be two things in his life. An Olympic champion in anything and Spider-Man. He failed to reach either goal. Later in his life, after watching Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock convincingly play law enforcement officers in Point Break and Miss Congeniality, Robert set his sights on joining the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Upon hearing this, Robert's mother and father feigned heart attacks and threatened that the next ones would be less dramatized but more real (much like Redd Foxx used to do in Sanford and Son). Loving his parents and not wanting to deal with the guilt of being the cause of such suffering, Robert ended his pursuit of that dream. Always eager to impart advice (unsolicited or otherwise) to others, Robert decided that teaching would be a noble use of his time. Unfortunately, despite nearly 8 years of college... Robert realized he did not know anything well enough to actually offer something of value to any would-be disciples.

However let us not dwell on his failures, which we can continue later on at the reception, but rather celebrate his many accomplishments.

At the age of 14, Robert peaked as an athlete after being crowned the National Rec Center League Standing Broadjump Champion for the Mid-Atlantic States by setting a NJ state record 9'3" standing broad jump for boys aged 13-14. (Unfortunately this record would be shattered three years later by his next-next door neighbor.)

Robert also has the rare distinction of gaining a graduate degree in a program at a world renowned university where he had absolutely no idea what the point or value of the degree was at any instance before, during, or after his stay there. Here's a hint.. the mascot does not match up with the school nickname.

Robert had worn many hats in his all too brief life. Spoiled son, bratty brother, amateur pugilist, doting uncle, cameo husband, sort of father, professional glad-hander, and Las Vegas MVP.

He was kind to animals, small children, and the elderly. He was usually honest, sometimes modest, and always willing to help a buddy out. But above all, what I will remember most about the man his friends have known as Robert, Bobby, Rob, Javi Colayco, Cookies, Bobby T, Puddles, Mr. Furious... is this....

He always looked good in a 'beater.


And that folks is all she wrote. Wish me luck tomorrow morning in the surf, sand and blistering roads of Panama City... because this might be the last time you'll ever get a chance to.

Rollin' in Redneck Riviera

Some of you may know that Panama City, Florida is the annual destination for MTV's Spring Break. Just two months ago this town, this beach, this hotel, and very likely this bed I'm sleeping in was overrun by debauched, sloshed college kids doing body shots and making "unfortunate mistakes" immortalized by their camera phones.

Like Spring time's youth gone wild, I am a grateful visitor of Florida's panhandle. The sea water and local color recall a much simpler time from my childhood.

Spending my summers on the Jersey shore growing up, my friends and I coined the term "beach hick". Unofficially a beachhick is defined as a resident of a beach town, usually between the ages of 20 and 50, whose defining characteristic is that his/her car payments likely exceed what he/she pays for his/her housing. This usually comes in the form of 2-3 pristine Trans Ams, I-Rocs, Corvettes, etc. parked in front of shabbily kept, weed overgrown shanties. The distinctive sound of hard rock or the Beastie Boys echoing from sub woofers. "Beach hick" is a derisive term. Although its shouldn't be. It really is just a way of life whose proponents should be commended. In a world where our life's priorities are often too skewed towards careers, mortgages and fashion... beach hicks embrace life's guilty pleasures unapologetically.

I suspect Panama City has its own variation of beach hicks, as do all beach towns. On the surface the residents appear as cheery and relaxed as residents of the Jersey shore. The most obvious distinction primarily being that accents down here more closely resemble Dale Earnhardt Jr. rather than Tony Danza.

Truthfully, I'm incredibly envious of beach hicks. Where I a braver man, I'd relocate to the nearest shore town, regrow my late 90's mullet, tear off the sleeves of all my tee-shirts, find my boogie board and buy a Dodge Charger. I suppose there's still time.

The end of the taper...

It's 10:53pm, two nights before race day. My flight to Panama City, via Memphis, is tomorrow and my ride picks me up at 9:20am. Bruno Kirby offers Meg Ryan a kiss two minutes before New Year's while Princess Leia pleads with her to stay, but settles for a peck on the cheek instead. Simultaneously, Billy Crystal can't find a cab and therefore decides to run through the sparsely populated streets of shockingly temperate NYC to Park Plaza (it is supposed to be the middle of winter). I bet in the end Sally still hates Harry, but not really. I need to stop getting sucked into the Oxygen Network (what?).

I probably should quit procrastinating and start packing, as I don't want to forget to bring my wetsuit, bike helmet, or decidedly un-modest TNT race uniform. I also should eat the three bananas on my kitchen counter that I bought earlier this week to counteract the cramp that was in my left calf. Don't want fruit flies when I get back on Sunday.

I feel confident and calm, but I imagine my impending insomnia belies this to a certain extent. Hopefully my hotel room faces the beach.


Postscript:

In response to the comment from MoC in the post below:

• roughly 10 hours a week since November
• Yes, I could have earned more money with the same time commitment by taking a second job or pickpocketing yuppies at nightclubs. I would have needed to still be living in Michigan to take advantage of its 10 cent bottle and can deposit to realistically achieve the goal through recycling. It would have taken me roughly 4 months alone to learn to play an instrument or master a similar talent to a degree that I would deem acceptable for busking outside of a Metro stop.
  

Taken to school by an expectant mother.

Coaches are allowed to put you down, question your toughness, call you fat, and ridicule your gait all in the name of constructive criticism. For some reason we're all ok with this. Similar pointed, yet accurate, statements don't go over so well when they're made by spouses, friends, coworkers, the guy sitting next to you on the metro, etc.

The last coach I had was an AARP aged Catholic priest from England by the name of Fighting Father Pat. Father Pat would personally challenge the "raw meat" one by one in the ring to see if they were ready to spar. Under certain circumstances, this would have been funny. Father Pat could have easily passed for legendary pro-wrestler George “the Animal” Steele, except he didn’t chew turnbuckles, sounded vaguely like Sir John Geilgud as the butler in Arthur, and sometimes wore his priesthood collar in the ring. I’m not a religious man, but something just seemed wrong about trying to hit a priest. Of course, this kind of tentativeness was just what Father Pat relied on at his advanced age. He had no reservations pummeling college kids too timid to hit a man of the cloth.

It would be eight long years until I'd be coached again. Geoff and Laura are the team's half iron man coaches. Two of the most athletic people you’ll ever meet, they’re also expecting their first child who will also be more athletic than you or I. Thanks to them, I’ve discovered that I run like a duck and swim like a man drowning, among other things. Two weeks ago they brought me to the pool to help fix my broken swim technique. Besides doing everything technically wrong, I also learned the following.

1) I have trouble balancing in the water because I don't have enough "junk in my trunk".

2) You shouldn't be ashamed of getting lapped multiple times by a seasoned swimmer who's 6 months pregnant.

3) The swimming portion of this race will not be my strong suit.

44 Benjamins.

Write it down in your history books boys and girls, because at 1:45pm EST on April 22, 2008 Michael Kyle took a handoff from Keith DePoorter and fatbacked the ball past the goal line. In hindsight, the $4406.20 you’ve all helped raise wasn’t all that difficult to do. A couple of annoying emails, a party, and this completely egocentric blog is all it really took… besides the 10 hours/week of training, which lets face it is time better spent than what I likely would have done instead (i.e. watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, inhaling 2^nd hand smoke at Kitty O’Sheas, being Gold’s Gym’s resident meathead).

In the grand scheme of things, reaching my fundraising goal was what this whole thing was about. Truthfully, I would have reached my goal anyways (because TNT has my credit card as a safety net), but I am truly moved by all of you who have been supportive these past few months, whether it be through donations, party planning, coaching, quiz writing, gift cards etc.

So allow me this opportunity to honor you all (besides the first magnificent 7 I already thanked earlier in this blog). If I’ve forgotten to thank a few people… let me know and I’ll rectify. Again, I’ll use initials to protect the innocent.

AA: In my Rolodex of friends Wonder Streaks, you’ll always come up first and not just because of alphabetical circumstance. Don’t forget to tell our boy that his Pops loves him.

R&M to the B: I hope to be there watching with you when Bones and Booth finally express their undying love for each other… thereby signaling the end of our favorite show.

CB: Peanut Butter and Jelly man. I know that when you’re around it’s always “No Retreat, No Surrender.”

BB: You mocked it daily, but I’m sure a piece of you misses my goatee.

C&B to the B: You two can party and throw down like no other couple I’ve ever met. The perfect combo of Colorado brass and Jersey sass.

JB: The nicest guy in the office award goes to you… hands down.

SC: You got me started with TNT, and I can’t thank you enough for that.

MC: My mentor, my role model. Don’t forget the King of Powerpoint when you’re a Hollywood bigwig.

JD: My lifeline to London. By hook or by crook I’ll make it back across the ocean and throw down some bangers and mash again.

AD: It’s true what they say. You really are a pleasant fellow.

KD: We should strongly consider forming a team for VH1’s next World Series of Pop Culture. And it’s absolutely ridiculous that I still haven’t seen Superdot perform in the decade that I’ve known you.

MD: Classy, stylish, and worldly.

RD: Oh how I miss my BSA mom and her jar of starbursts.

LE: Deceptively sunny… it’s been a pleasure being good cop to your bad cop. Now go conquer the legal world.

MF: With your help, I hope to earn MVP at Vegas for the third consecutive year. I’ll see you at the pool bar.

JF: Back in the day you were the awesome-est kid in the crew, and remain so today. 50 years from now, you’ll probably be the awesome-est kid in the convalescent home.

TF: We miss ya! The CorpCom kids are still having trouble adjusting to life without you.

DG: Whenever I have a chance to describe you to someone, I often say you’re the epitome of cool… like Fonzi… but not in a forced way. Also, it should be known that you were the top, non-family donor I had by far. As generous as you are Fonzi.

EG: Keeping the bigwigs in headquarters in line. Thanks for sitting through the most uninspired 101 I’ve done…and not falling asleep.

JoH: When I came to DC, I was a naïve kid who didn’t know how to tie a tie. You took me under your wing and showed me the ropes. We made quite the tag team, but I must admit not missing the Forums.

GH: Your heart is only eclipsed by the number of shoes I suspect you own.

JaH: Despite all the bullets you have to dodge at work, you seem to handle it all with such calm and grace.

AI: I’ll always remember your appreciation for the Howard Stern movie. Good luck on that wedding planning.

FJ: People who don’t know you are missing out on the humor, wit, and wisdom of the world’s tallest, French lobbyist for cybersecurity.

MK: You’re no Mr. Brightside big guy. About time you finally realized that.

JuL: You’ve got to help me justify reasons to come up to the NYC office.

JoL: Mike and David are two of the most intelligent, well adjusted, and personable people I know. You and Mr. L should be very proud. I’ll see you all during the holidays.

BM: My old cubicle mate and fantasy football consigliore. You are well on your way to being known as DC’s raddest dad.

JM: My new cube mate and next door neighbor. Looking forward to partying in Clarendon sister.

DM: You remind me so much of myself when I was your age… except you’re much taller and far more sarcastic.

AM: I’m so glad I sat next to you on that train home for Christmas rather than that annoying teenager who was with his parents. Although to be honest, that was probably one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made.

MM: From the only neighbor on the floor who talks to you, know this… you rock.

GP: You are the true brains behind the 101s.

VP: Congressman, Senator, whatever… you know you’ve got my vote.

GR: You’re truly one of a kind and the best girl a guy could ever know. As soon as you get out of the sandbox and back to the states... I'm taking you to the outlet mall to make up for the two birthdays and Christmases I missed and then we're getting some sangrias.

AS: You make a very convincing Great Emancipator.

JS: Don’t let the haters get you down. You are more than adequate at Rock Band karaoke.

DS: One of my only regrets at BSA was not being able to have you as my boss.

GS: Good luck on your tri kid. This old man would offer advice, if he had anything worthwhile besides empty platitudes.

JT: It’s an honor to still be walking the path you and Ken trail blazed for us fellows.

MT: To think I was there (and probably hammered) when you met the man of your dreams. That’s going to be a heck of a fun story to tell your grandkids.

JV: I tried walking on my toes for a day like you do all the time. The next day, my calves were in so much pain that I fell down a flight of stairs.

SW: Unlike most Boston fans, you are generally reasonable and walk upright. But you also appreciate David Lee Roth so you’ll always be aces in my book.

HW: If the secret to attracting women is knowing how to dance, as you say, then I probably should join a monastery. On the other hand, it is true that few things are hotter to a guy than a girl who knows the difference between the wishbone and a pro-style offense.

RW: We took a poll and all of us young-uns in the office want to be like you when we grow up.

TW: Mark my words. In about a year, Dan Snyder will once again fire all his coaches and decide to throw more money at Steve Spagnuolo… but this time Spags will take it.

DW: You’re a running machine. By the way… one of my life goals is still to lay the smackdown on Dwayne like you did during our APP presentation.

The Internet dislikes me

Sorry for spamming all of you last Friday. As I understand it, my last "begging for donations" email was sent out like 6-10 times. I can only blame the Internet and its series of imperfect tubes.

Would this motivate you to fight cancer?

I was told that sad pictures might motivate people to donate more.... So here are the saddest pictures I could find when I googled (plug!) "sad pictures".

Cherry Bombed.

"Over a million people visit Washington each year to admire the blossoming cherry trees and participate in the Festival that heralds the beginning of spring in the nation's capital," according to the official website of the National Cherry Blossom Festival in Washington, D.C.

It's too bad the city doesn't offer bubble boy suits or at the very least hand out complimentary packs of benadryl for unfortunate people like me who obviously should take a long vacation this time every year.

As un-fun as training has become over the course of the last several weeks, its become all the more un-funner thanks to spring allergy season. Nowadays its pretty easy to tell when I've been outside for a run or a bike ride. Runny nose, bloodshot eyes, rapid fire sneezes, occasional hives... coupled with a dazed lethargy that results when you try and survive on antihistamine cocktails. All in all, lets just say I'm not exactly at my best between the months of showers and flowers.

So enjoy the cherry blossoms while they last and take lots of pictures. I hear they're beautiful, so long as I'm not within a half a mile of them.

A fistful of dollars.. and a few dollars more.

First off I want to thank everyone who came to my Fundraiser/30th birthday party this past Friday and left me $637 dollars richer (at least until transferring it to the Society the next day). My only regret is that before taking the wad of cash to the bank, I didn't spread it over my bed and roll around in it like Woody Harrelson in Indecent Proposal. Before I proceed further... some backslapping is in order.

• The fine people at Adams Mill bar certainly deserve your future patronage. They were exceedingly generous with their outstanding second floor bar space, and the staff was top shelf.
  

• Niall, thanks for helping set up and co-masterminding the effort in general.

• Alexis and Mark, let the world know that your beautiful minds came up with at least half of the pub trivia questions.

• Team Lymphomaniacs, you proved your mettle as champs. No one can ever take that away from you... even if those Google shirts you won don't quite fit. (by the way I can exchange those for you)
  

• Best call of the night goes to Andria for re-donating the Ipod nano she won in the raffle to an equally deserving KidsPower DC cause.
  

Great effort all around and I really hope everyone who attended had a good time. This past weekend cut my deficit in half, as I'm now 1 grand shy of my mandatory goal. Not too shabby.

However, I think I've nearly bloodsucked everyone that I know. So I'm open to any suggestions on how to raise the rest of the money. I was reminded that I forgot to sell "ad space" on my body, as suggested by Josette. So if anyone really wants to brand me with marker like a cow... I'm open to reasonable offers.

No soup for me.

Tell me if this sounds familiar. You like hanging out with your friends. Drinking your Bud. Watching the game with the local riff-raff. You're comfortable, but you feel like you're in a rut and you want to see what life's like on the other side of the tracks. So you put on your best duds, and venture off one night to a new place. It's a little bit fancier than you're used to, but you're ready to see how the other half lives. Once there you meet an absolute knockout. Completely out of your league, worldly sophisticated and gorgeous, you're shocked when you're able to set up a date. But you're looking great, you're on your game and you've convinced yourself that you're actually a pretty damn good catch. Full of optimism, you're confident that things have finally come up aces. With your chin held high you call to confirm the date a few days later. Just a formality at this point... a courtesy call really. How can things go wrong? Seconds into the conversation...its suddenly over. You've been rejected. Welcome back to reality.

This just happened to me. And though I could be describing some foxy lady who stomped on my heart... in this particular example, I'm actually talking about a bar. A bar named Saloon.

Saloon is located at U and 12th Street in Washington DC. It's one of those specialty import beer bars. Big selection of Belgian beers. It's run by a peculiar fellow... who bears more than a passing resemblance to the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld. In its main bar, Saloon doesn't allow its patrons to stand. Everyone must be seated, no exceptions. If there's no seat available... there's no Saloon for you. Odd, I thought and more than a little elitist, but I'd be damned if they didn't have some good beer.

Normally the bars I patronize tend to be on the more "working man's" side. In other words... places where I can wear a T-shirt comfortably and hear classic rock on the juke box. But in my search for a place to host my Team-In-Training Fundraiser/30th birthday party, I didn't want to settle for the ordinary, beaten path.

When I called the proprietor of the Saloon, he refused to listen to the specifics of my request. Instead he demanded a face-to-face interview with me; to see if I was worthy of having my party at his establishment. "Fair enough," I thought. So after work on a Monday, I head over to the Saloon. It's closed, but the owner lets me in to have our one-on-one. Before he sat me down to peel away at my story like an onion, he took me up stairs to the private party room. I was not prepared for what I saw.

The room wasn't just any room. It was a whole, separate and far superior looking bar from the main bar that normal customers see. Straight out of an old Clint Eastwood western, this second floor masterpiece was the most authentic looking "saloon" I've seen outside of the southwestern states. I'm not articulate enough to put into words how magnificent this room was. So I'll just throw out some things I recall. Balcony. Spiral staircase. Leather couches and chairs. Rich mahagony.

The owner led me back downstairs and sat me down in a booth. He then proceeded to grill me. I needed to 1) justify to him why I deserved to use the room and 2) convince him that the people I was bringing were up to his standards. So I proceeded to tell him what the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society was, my personal reasons for doing this fundraising effort and my assurances that the people I was inviting were about as threatening as the cast of Beverly Hills 90210. It was a good conversation. We traded stories and contact information. He penciled my fundraiser into his calendar and said he'd call me within the week to confirm that I could get the place. If I didn't hear from him by next Monday, then he told me to call him.

After a week of daydreaming how sweet the room was I call back the Saloon to confirm my reservation. A mere formality right? Not so fast Jack. The owner picks up, and I confidently tell him who I am. He says he remembers me and then abruptly says I can't use the room. This whole conversation lasts roughly 10 seconds and no explanations were offered. All dressed up... with no place to go.

Kiss my yellow ass Saloon. My friends and I will just have to take our business elsewhere. And no, I'm not bitter. Now where the hell did I put my can of Bud Light?

Rad things I saw this past week.

Ah, nostalgia....as comforting as hot chocolate on a brisk Sunday morning and cheesy as the bottom of a plate of half eaten nachos.

1) On Wednesday around 11:15 am, a flat bed truck carrying a silver DeLorean rocketed past me somewhere in the vicinity of Dupont Circle and McPherson Square in DC. I immediately thought how much I could have won if I placed $500 on the Giants to win the Superbowl in September of 2007.

2) While running in Rock Creek Park on Saturday morning I passed by a guy wearing a St. Olaf College hooded sweatshirt. As a die-hard fan of the Golden Girls (what?), I was tempted to ask him if he had any "Back in St. Olaf..." stories like Betty White used to have. Unfortunately I was out of breath and he probably couldn't tell a Rose Nyland from a Blanche Devereaux any way (what?).

3) Sunday at around 5:00pm walking down Wisconsin Avenue in the heart of Georgetown, a Corvette convertible (with top down), driven by a gray haired man probably in his 50s, was blaring an unmistakable mid 80s Madonna hit. As my friend noted upon seeing this... "That guy just doesn't give a shit."

For Hannah and Dad.

This week my good friend Grace's sister Hannah starts her radiation treatment. Grace is an army ICU nurse saving lives in Baghdad and she's smack in the middle of a 15 month tour. I know she wishes she was back home with her sister and playing with her brand new nephew, but Uncle Sam screwed that one up. Please keep Hannah in your prayers... because if you don't Grace will kick you in the shins :)

Coincidently next week my Dad goes into surgery to start his treatment. Its not exactly how I envisioned spending my 30th birthday, but I'm glad I'll get to spend it with Mom and Dad (for the first time in a long time). I know Dad's going to be fine, and hopefully the Nets decide to win a couple games while he's recovering to make treatment go a little easier (and make that push into the playoffs).

So if there's one thing this soon to be suddenly over-the-hill triathlete wannabe wants for his birthday wish...it's a full and speedy recovery for Hannah and Dad.

Things I thought about on the treadmill this week.

1. After paying attention to her lyrics, I'm just realizing Sheryl Crow's a real Debbie Downer.
2. My feet hurt.
3. If (when) I finally make it on American Gladiators... am I going to refer to host Hulk Hogan as "Terry" (his given name), "Hulkster" or "Thunderlips... the Ultimate Male" during those awkward rehearsed interview segments. I'm leaning toward Thunderlips.
   
4. That G-37 Coupe is sure one sweet ride.
   
5. What's the difference between V-8 and tomato soup?
6. Gene Wilder doesn't get enough respect.
   
7. Could I beat my 13 year old self in the Standing Broad Jump now?
8. Why am I not running outside?
   
9. Britney Spears video, Avril Lavigne video, Christina Aguilera video, Jessica Simpson's sister's video.... Who are you catering to Gold's Gym?
   

Fifteen minutes to Judge Wapner...

Effing rain, man. Half an hour ago it was sunny and 67 degrees with a brisk breeze. Now it's all London outside without the accents. Way to piss on my President's Day nature. Why did I ever leave southern California?

Celebrate our forefathers with a sunburn

It's 70 frickin' degrees out in DC on a federal holiday. I encourage you all to step away from the computer/TV and do the same. I'm going out and flying a kite or something.

This RIO is ready to take the front seat.

Try as they might to do the contrary Mom and Dad raised a Goose, not a Maverick. Goose, as most of us know, was the role made famous by Anthony Edwards in Top Gun. As the Radar Intercept Officer (RIO) for Tom Cruise's Maverick, Goose literally and figuratively took a backseat to his charismatic Alpha Male buddy. But that was what he was supposed to do, as Goose was by most accounts popular culture's gold standard for Beta Males.

A Beta Male as defined by Urban Dictionary is "an unremarkable, careful man who avoids risk and confrontation. Beta males lack the physical presence, charisma and confidence of the Alpha male."

Betas can certainly from time to time exhibit Alpha characteristics, but its not who we are in our blood. Popular culture dictates that Beta Males make ideal sidekicks and wingmen. Betas lack the self assuredness and ego necessary to be a natural front runner. Beta Males don't like buzzing the tower.

For about 7 years now, I've been passively trying to get off my ass and do a real triathlon. But I failed to grab the bull by the horns and commit. I could blame my passivity on my Beta tendencies, but its probably more likely that I was just being lazy.

My Dad's diagnosis late last summer provided all the motivation that I needed to finally do something. I'm not doing this triathlon for myself. I'm doing it for my Dad who I know will be better by the time I'm done training in May. And that's why this Goose is in this race to win, as completely unreasonable and unrealistic as that sounds.

And even though ultimately Goose gets cooked, Top Gun has proven to be the exception rather than the rule of Betas getting the short end of the stick... at least according to the movies. Here are a few notable examples of Betas succeeding.

(Superbad -2007) We can all rest easy knowing that TV and Movie producers can always turn to Michael Cera to effectively portray awkward, introspective nerds for years to come. And yes, in case you were wondering, Jonah Hill was obviously the movie's Alpha Male.




(Back to the Future -1985) Ironically enough Alpha Male Marty McFly helped his Beta Male father George McFly overcome his Alpha Male tormentor Biff. Also its unfortunate that there are not more women named Lorraine out there. Every girl should be so lucky to be somebody's density... I meant destiny.




(Sideways -2004) Pig Vomit from the Howard Stern movie and Lowell from Wings show the classic Beta-Alpha friendship.










Pictured here with TV's favorite ad pitchman and Alpha Male older brother, Eli Manning proved to Tiki Barber that Beta Males can in fact win a Superbowl.

Eli Manning?!?! Superbowl MVP?!?!

The Big Blue Wrecking Crew is back.
I think 2008's going to be a good year.

Now I know 2 whole swim strokes.

I'll never get used to water unexpectedly dripping out of my ear or nose 3 hours after I've been out of a pool. It's disgusting and unnerving, but I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise. These are unsealed orifices that are being submerged in water after all. I'm sure it will be hilarious when someone accidentally slips on some excess nose water that has been dribbled near the office water cooler. Hey... we live in a dangerous world.

Speaking of living on the edge, I've finally graduated from the Level 1 (i.e. slow) lane to Level 2 (i.e a bit too fast for me) lane during team swim practice.

A little less than 30 minutes into drills, with my lungs burning like Tommy Chong's secret stash, both calves cramping up, and my right contact lens aimlessly floating around my eyeball... I did something that I didn't realize was humanly possible. I was closing in on the swimmer ahead of me, not because I was swimming well... but because we were supposed to do some sort of special drill which I had no idea how to do... so I just swam normally. Anyways, before my head smacked into this person's feet I instinctively pulled my head out of the water, bent my legs like Kermit the Frog, and jabbed my elbows out while pushing water to the side.

Like a caveman discovering fire or a dog bravely climbing stairs for the first time, I had achieved what most 6 year olds learn on their second day of swim practice. I learned the breaststroke . And without arm floaties no less.

You have my gratitude...

I wanted to take this opportunity to recognize the pioneers of my fundraising efforts. Right out of the gate you magnificent seven people so graciously donated to help me reach my goal of $4400 plus. So not to embarrass anyone and respect privacy, I'll only use initials.

PL: The very first donation comes from the man who puts the bomb in Jaeger Bomb. Keep those hands up killer.

MD: My long lost neighbor and after school street football teammate. Those were the days old buddy.

JF: Who knows? Another time and another place... and we might have been something. Ha! At least you'll always have the memory of me flipping out over group work.

Mr. Y: I've always thought of you like a second dad. My family and I are so very fortunate to have your family in our lives.

K,L,W,D to the H: You guys are the real reason it was so hard to leave California. My favorite recent memories are from being there for the start of your family and finally becoming Uncle Bobby.

RJ: You probably don't realize how much I appreciate all your help during some really tough times. I'm glad I can call you my brother.

HL: I'm thrilled that you and Pony Boy Curtis are still together. All us other Berkeley Heights Asians continue to look to you as our role model.