That slogan, on a t-shirt worn by a ten year-old kid I saw when I was running today, kept me laughing for a few hundred feet of the 16 miles I ran today. This was the second-longest run of my marathon regimen, and was the longest distance I’ve run, period. The day was perfect, and the run felt great.

After seeing George off to Dave’s wedding and George’s subsequent trip to Montana this coming week, Aimee and I headed to the Longfellow Bridge, where I started running, over the river to Cambridge and heading west. She met me three times along the course for water breaks, and gave me three opportunities to try the various carb gels I picked up at Marathon Sports last week. Today’s run would also be a taste test among PowerBar’s PowerGel, GU Energy Gel, and Clif Bar’s Clif Shot. I was hoping for something less medicinal than the last flavor I tried, and stuck strictly to fruit-related flavors, going against Aimee’s chocolate-based suggestions. Like I said, there’s no “Wild Fudge” Gatorade for a reason.

Before I ran, I popped a Clif Raspberry, which actually tasted pretty good. At my first stop, I tried the Clif Strawberry, also decent. The Gu Orange tasted like something at Dr. Sedwick’s office, so I think I won’t be a repeat customer. The final flavor, the PowerGel “Raspberry Cream,” got my vote for most disgusting-sounding but definitely best-tasting gel of the day. It’s funny to be ingesting packets of pretty much straight carbohydrates, while running by billboards announcing the latest “low-carb wine” or other ridiculous new product of the moment.

I ran from the Longfellow Bridge on the Boston side to Watertown Square and back again, just over 16 miles, and managed a respectable 1:08 out and 1:13 on the return, for a total of 2:21, or about an 8:50 mile pace. I do a lot of math while I’m running, forever calculating what it would take to run a four-hour marathon, how many minutes a mile I can lose if I’m running a certain pace for a certain number of miles, and so on. I feel good, better than ever, actually, and more confident that I’ll be able to do it when the time comes, five weeks from today. Today’s run was a night and day contrast with last weekend’s hellish 10 miles in the baking heat. The weather was perfect, with the first real cool breeze of the season, a hint that fall might actually be on its way at some point. Let’s hope Chicago in October is just as nice.

George and I went to the Sox game today; he flew up from the City and I met him at the airport, where we got to ride the Maverick Shuttle (sounds more cool than it is) in order to get around the still under-construction replacement Airport T station). Facing the Rangers, who fielded nine men, one-third of whom had the last name Young, Tim Wakefield and the Sox were blown out 8-1 by the fifth inning, even with their “deep depth,” as the souvenir program bragged. What does that mean? Anyway, they brought the game back within striking distance by the end, only to fall on a questionable Soriano double-play.

Also at the game were Peter Farrelly, his film crew, and Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore, shooting scenes for the new, Americanized adaptation of Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch. Note the film crew and two actors in this photo from George’s Handspring Treo. I’d heard about the adaptation for awhile – “pitch” meaning soccer field becomes a baseball “pitch” – but didn’t realize it was a Farrelly Brothers film until Aimee told me about their presence at the Sox game a few nights ago. Nick Hornby’s books make good films, but I feel like About a Boy is the only one that will be a faithful British adaptation. As Fever Pitch is a memoir about a lifelong Arsenal fan seeing his team finally win the Premier League championship, will this adaptation be a fiction, or are they counting on the Sox winning the series to make their storyline come true? It probably has less to do with the book than I’m hoping, which might be a good thing.

While walking to catch the bus yesterday (ok, so I’ve been either a T user or a walker/biker up until now, but I’m discovering now how convenient the #1 bus from Cambridge over the river to Boston can be), I ran into my freshman roommate from college, who was also a roommate of mine one summer at CTY. What a strange set of circumstances that was, as I think back on it. No need to get into how the weird camp-to-college roommate transferrence happened or what it was like; let’s just say it didn’t really work out, he left our two-room triple at the end of first semester, and transferred to another school at the end of freshman year. So it’d been ten years since I’d seen him, and we chatted briefly about the interim: a PhD, a teaching position at MIT, still the same mannerisms and way about him. Add him to the list of CTY people doing impressive and interesting things these days. ‘Twas a long time ago.

A month after I left my watch at his dad’s house after the Newburyport Homecoming 10 Mile Race, Chris dropped it off at a secret rendezvous location under some trees next to a staircase on Mass Ave., where I picked it up on my way to work. We hadn’t been able to connect, and I was getting ready to buy another watch, but I thought I’d suggest a dead drop in the style of the great “leave the Wilco ticket in a crack in the wall on Landsdowne Street and tell Michael how to find it when he calls me” scheme of 2002.

It’s good to have the watch back, to know exactly how long my long runs are taking. I’ve got a 16 mile run scheduled for this Sunday, which will be the longest distance I’ve ever run, by a few miles. I’ve been obsessing over the marathon lately, buying more gear, trying to imagine what it will be like to run 26 miles, but I’ve been distracted by things small (the Yankees’ current dismal slump; can it get any worse than losing 22-0 last night?) and large (the looming election and the lumbering Republican disinformation machine that, when combined with voter apathy and ignorance, keeps me awake at night and threatens to send me into a deep funk). I’ve got only a month to go on the marathon; hopefully I can keep it together and focus on that, and spend the rest of October fretting about the future of the country.

Almost a month after moving in, I’m finally settled into my new place. I assumed I was living on Antrim Street, but apparently, according to the sign at the corner, it’s “Antrim At.”

Can someone tell me what that might mean? I’ve looked at a list of “Acceptable Abbreviations Used on Traffic Signs,” with no luck. I can’t believe it’s just a mistake, though; it’s in clear letters, on both sides of the sign. Is it a huge, permanent, highly visible and weatherproof typo? Impressive.

Night before last, I watched Barry Nolan, prodigal son of Boston news, recently returned from his stints on Hard Copy and Extra!, deliver an editorial on CN8, the inherently strange cable channel run by the cable provider, about the Swift Boat flap. He quoted an unidentified writer with the following passage from a memoir:

I am angry that so many of the sons of the powerful and well-placed … managed to wangle slots in Reserve and National Guard units …. Of the many tragedies of Vietnam, this raw class discrimination strikes me as the most damaging to the ideal that all Americans are created equal and owe equal allegiance to their country.

Now, when he read the quote, printed on the screen for our convenience, he pronounced “wangle” with an “r,” as “wrangle.” Now, I suppose their meanings are not that far apart, but I wanted to make sure that I hadn’t been using a made-up word all along, and that perhaps Barry Nolan was correcting me. After looking into it (hooray for free OED through work), I discovered that “wangle” is indeed a word, of unknown origins, that was first recorded in 1888 as printer’s slang. Today, it means

To accomplish (something) in an irregular way by scheming or contrivance; to bring about or obtain by indirect or insidious means (something not obtainable openly); to manipulate, fake (an account, report, prices).”

I love the OED’s note on it: “Probably, like many other slang words, it was formed involuntarily, under the influence of an obscure sense of phonetic symbolism; the suggestion may have come from WAGGLE v.]”

So, Barry Nolan’s mispronunciation was just that, and the author, one General Colin Powell (apparently somehow not speaking about his boss), used it correctly (though those whose page I link to manage to spell it “wrangle” as they try to quote him). It’s much closer to “finagle,” as Aimee pointed out, than “wrangle”; “Wangle a Bagel” just doesn’t sound right. “AWOL from the Texas Air National Guard” still sounds right, though.

After a nice brunch with family friends in Anchorage, Aimee and I headed to the airport to fly back to Boston, via Seattle. As we stood in line to check in – quick quiz: do you get in line behind the people with the dog, or the people with the half-dozen boxes of frozen fish? Or what about the guy with the ton of hockey equipment? Answer: it doesn’t matter. No matter where you stand, you’re going to wait in a long line leaving Anchorage – anyway, as we were waiting to check in, I talked to Amanda in Seattle, who said she’d head out to the airport to entertain us during our three-hour layover. Earlier in the week, I’d put this offer to Brent, also in Seattle, but I hadn’t heard back. When we landed at SeaTac, Amanda was on her way to meet us, and so, apparently, was Brent, whom I received a voicemail from upon landing. So, we met Amanda, got her car parked in the lot, and then went looking for Brent, whom I found not too long after, and we all settled down for some Pyramid Curve Ball Kölsch in the Alaska departure wing. It was really an abundance of luck that they were both free and willing to drive out and that we all found each other. It was great to see both Amanda and Brent again after a few months/many months, and even better to be able to introduce Aimee and Amanda to Brent, all of whom had heard about one another but neither of whom had ever met him. We chatted, watched some Olympics, and enjoyed ourselves, and before we knew it, it was time to catch the overnighter back to Boston. What a treat, though, to have so many favorite people in one place.

Doing our best to keep the place alive, Aimee and I headed to Sub-Zero last night after Neil and Melanie’s barbeque, and true to form, it was nearly empty at 8:00 on a Saturday night. The cool bubble-tank windows and the pricey martinis are keeping away the beer and wings crowds, apparently. Mom and Dad joined us for martinis and Belgian beer, of which they have an impressive selection. Dad’s beer, all one and a half pints of it, came in a bottle nearly the size of a wine bottle, and came with its own matching glass, featuring a man wearing a snail shell as a helmet. Mom finally figured out that the aftertaste we were trying to identify was soy sauce – not as disgusting as it sounds – when all I could think of was rice.

My camera’s flash died a few weeks ago, so even if it’s bright outside, it will only take pictures with the flash off. Sub-Zero’s blue interior worked fine, though it’s almost time to get a new camera.

I was glad Aimee could come up here with me for the wedding we attended last night, firstly because it gave her a chance to meet Neil and Melanie, and also because it was one more opportunity to see the uniquely Alaskan way people do things here. The ceremony was great – equal parts religion and philosophy (at no other wedding do I think I’d hear the words “As S?ren Kierkegaard once said…” in the marriage vows) and definitely personalized – and the reception afterwards was fun as well.

The goal for today was to get the 12 mile run done that I’m supposed to do tomorrow, because I decided I’m allowed to fudge things a little on vacation. I decided to revisit the scene of the first running race I ran (not counting the 60 Minute Challenge races we ran as kids), the Humpy’s 10k in 2001, and run on the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail. In order to maximize the number of times I could see Aimee, who was my water/gu/gatorade helper, i started out going into town along Chester Creek, and then headed back through the Coastal Trail start and out towards Point Woronzof. I stopped there, at the eight-mile point in my run, in the shadow of extremely low-flying and almost motionless-seeming cargo jets taking off from the airport out over Cook Inlet. I felt great, especially with the help of my first use of a shot of carbohydrate goo during the run, which I guess I should have been doing all along. I managed to set a good pace and keep it thoughout, and finished the twelve miles at about an 8:10 pace, which I was very happy with. Tonight we’re off to Neil’s brother’s house for a barbeque, and then we’re going to pay another visit to NYC in Anchorage, the ailing Sub-Zero bar, home of great Belgian beers, expensive martinis, and a tiny clientele. We’re doing our best to keep it going, and we’ll see how it’s doing tonight.

We got in to Anchorage at around 1:30 last night, after about eleven hours of travel time. That’s just what it takes, but it seems longer when you do it with someone who hasn’t been doing it all her life; I feel apologetic for the mess that is always an Alaska Airlines flight from Seattle to Anchorage, forever delayed and full to the brim, and I wish I could speed things up. Mom and Dad met us at the airport, and we headed home and hit the murphy bed immediately, no arrival excitement this time around. I guess there’s only a first time in Alaska once.

This morning, we did some marathon shopping (that is, shopping for the marathon, not an extended stint of shopping) after my feeling of unpreparedness from a few days ago, which meant a stop at Skinny Raven as well as the REI Anchorage store. While we were picking up wicking shirts and padded socks, I decided to ask someone about getting my REI One jacket fixed. I bought it before our REM/Wilco show at Red Rocks last year, in the massive REI Denver flagship store. It’s a great jacket, with protection from the wind and rain as well as the great iPod pocket and headphone cord inside-pocket hole. That’s probably not its official name. Anyway, last time we were at Fenway, the zipper pull disappeared, possibly caught on a Fenway seat or something. Anyway, when I asked today, I was told they couldn’t repair it, but could give me an exchange for a totally new one. I was taken aback, but happy to get a brand new jacket, one that finally zips shut again. That’s a great policy – it seems a little expensive to uphold, but it’ll keep me as a loyal customer, that’s for sure.

Yesterday was a long day. We woke up in Newport, where we’d spent the night in anticipation of our morning meeting with a potential wedding photographer. I had to run seven miles, to boot, so that cranked back the wakeup hour somewhat. It felt ok, a little sluggish and hounded by traffic on the usually desolate road to the Newport Undersea Naval Training Base or wherever it is I’ve taken to running when I’m down there. The meeting, in Providence, went well, and the photographer seemed thoughtful and normal, with a good eye and an antique camera collection much like my own. We zipped up 95 after the meeting and delivered me to work, only a few minutes late, and I put in the final edits for our fall calendar. After work, it was off to the Esplanade for one of the WCRB Classical Concerts at the Hatch Shell, the Longwood Symphony, featuring Michael on cello. Aside from the ship-like creak of the sign hanging above the orchestra, the sound was great, they sounded great, and they did some nice pieces – “Fanfare for the Common Man” among others. We had to leave at half time in order to pack for our AK trip, which starts this afternoon.

George had some exciting news when we saw him on Sunday in New York: he’d seen the trailer for The Life Aquatic at the theater the night before. It was finally posted online yesterday, and though the quality is pretty horrific – thanks, Windows Media ‘Player’ – it provides a pretty tempting glimpse of what’s to come. I’ve been keeping an eye on the news of the film, and this is the first element of what will probably be a pretty big build-up.

A lot of elements in the trailer weren’t surprising, like the ensemble cast, the choice music (great call on the New Order song), and a storyline having something to do with family issues. Bill Murray looks terrific in his Cousteau red knit cap, and the trailer moves along well, not giving away too much of the film. Some new faces are present, plus the non-American locale and the Henry Selick animation, as well as the most foreboding element, a co-writing credit for Noah Baumbach. I was surprised to see they’re going with the entire, lengthy title, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou; I was sure it’d be trimmed. Some questions: is it pronounced “Zee-sou” like “pea-soup”? Or “Zissou” like “miss you”? Both pronunciations are heard in the trailer. And does Willem Dafoe do the narration in the film, a la Alec Baldwin in The Royal Tenenbaums, in addition to his role on screen, or his his voiceover heard only in the trailer? If so, and even if not so, does his character have an English accent in the film? It sure sounds like it – not a good sign. I’m excited at the prospects for the film – heck, I’m even excited at the prospect of getting to see the trailer in Quicktime – and I look forward to seeing it, apparently around Christmastime.

Now that I’m mostly moved into my new apartment, I’ve had some time to think about other things; namely, my marathon, now less than two months away. I’ve been reading a little bit of Marathoning for Mortals every night, a gift from my mom which has told me one thing, if it’s told me anything at all: besides the miles I’m running, I’m doing pretty much everything else wrong. I’m not cross-training on my off days. I’m not wearing the right shirt. I’m not not putting my running clothes in the dryer. I’m not eating the right foods, at not the right time in relation to my run. And the list goes on. I think I need to start by getting some gear – a real watch, a better shirt, more good socks – and go from there. An understanding of ‘calories’ and ‘carbohydrates’ would be nice, too.

We returned to New York for the first time in more than six months this weekend, and had a fun-filled, jam-packed time. We managed to miss the worst of the traffic on the way down, even though we made the exact same navigation mistake we’d made the last time we went. After heading down the West Side Hwy. and crossing over to the east, we met George, who was still at work at 9pm on a Friday, at his office. We headed to his neighborhood for dinner at Baby Bo’s, where we watched the nearly endless Opening Ceremonies and enjoyed their burritos and margaritas. George digs in, as we were short a glass:



After being serenaded by a friendly patron with a few bawdy limericks – he reminded me of Judge Stone’s dad on Night Court – Geo, Anne, Matt, Aimee, and I headed to a local Irish bar and had a drink before Aimee and I took a cab home. We left the car at George’s to take advantage of the free parking we’d found earlier in the evening.

The next morning, we enjoyed egg sandwiches at a local deli, and took the subway to get the car over in Murray Hill. I got a second pair of jeans, period, which was a great idea on Aimee’s part, as well as a new shirt, sort of but not totally on sale. Jeans are getting baggier, or my legs are shrinking, because I bought a size shorter than normal to avoid stepping on the cuffs all the time. Hmm.

We passed the Manhattan Mall, and stopped in for a go at their photobooth before retrieving the car, and heading to Brooklyn for an afternoon of wandering and sightseeing. We looked for a couple of photo booths – the one purported to be at the Grand Press was gone, and I had the wrong address for Buttermilk, so no success there – but hit the jackpot at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. I’d mentioned the store before, and we were really glad to finally be able to pay it a visit. It’s in an unassuming section of Prospect Park, I guess, with a storefront awning that doesn’t look too dissimilar from those of neighboring convenience stores, upholstery shops, and discount emporiums. But when you get a little closer, you realize the minds of Dave Eggers and Co. are at work, and that the place is unlike anything you’ve ever seen.



It is, in fact, just what the name would lead you to expect: a store that sells things superheroes might need, like capes, disguises, secret identities, 3-D goggles, 4-D goggles (!), and secret code paraphernalia. Aimee tried out one of the elements of disguise, becoming, for a moment, “Sharon Boone,” or perhaps “Meghan Toller,” or one of the other identites for sale in the store.



In case you were still too unique and exceptional, maybe some anonymity is in order?



The place was a real treat, brimming with imaginative, hilarious, and clever toys and gear, all beautifully designed and well-thought out.



After choosing to buy the very non-superhero t-shirt and July issue of The Believer, I got to take part in the best part about the store: the check-out procedure and superhero vow. Much like the set-up at the old McSweeney’s store in Brooklyn, the store clerk’s desk is above the height of the average customer, in this case inside a glass enclosure atop a steel cage. I was told to place my purchases in the door of a vault and wait for instructions, which I received from the clerk who spoke into her microphone. After she took my items, I recited the Vow of Heroism and then passed my credit card into the vault, as well. “Nice job. Please take your credit card and your items.”



After the refreshing superhero experience, we headed from Prospect Park to Williamsburg, where we couldn’t pass up the cheap lunch special again at Thai Tai. It was early afternoon, naptime, when we headed back to Manhattan, made one more unsuccessful photo booth run (to Siberia Bar, marked only with a dim red light over a battered door; photo booth gone at least a year), and crashed at the hotel for a crucial hour and a half of shut-eye.

We took the subway downtown to meet BK and Lauren at Alex and Peter’s place near Chinatown, and stopped in for a piece of peanut butter and chocolate pie at Bubby’s in Tribeca. The place was really charming, and we vowed we’d stop in for brunch our next time around. We enjoyed their excellent built-in photobooth in the basement, as well as a few invigorating rounds of Ms. Pac-Man.

We met the gang at the apartment, and took off for the East Village, where we dined at Three of Cups, a delicious Italian restaurant on 1st Ave. The promised rain from Charley was starting to fall, but we walked around the area a little more after dinner, and stopped for a drink at a quiet bar nearby, where I exercised restraint in preparation for my early morning run the next day and chose water over chocolate martinis and Magic Hats.

I pulled myself out of bed this morning with designs on a nice eight mile run through Central Park, hoping the rain would hold off until I was done. It was three blocks from the hotel to the Artisans Gate on the south side of the park. I ran the entire main loop of the park road, thankfully free of cars (but filled with joggers, bikers, and bladers) on this weekend morning, plus the lower loop, adding up to nearly eight miles, in about 67:00, which felt pretty good. I overheard two horse-drawn carriage drivers point out the same Central Park West apartment building to tourists as the building “where Steven Spielberg and Dustin Hoffman have apartments” (on my first lap) and “where the big marshmallow man attacked in Ghostbusters” (on my second). Glad to know ’80s movie trivia is alive and well in the minds of the carriage drivers.

After showering (and waking Aimee up from her luxury sleep-while-he-runs), we attempted to get the car and head downtown for breakfast. I say ‘attempted’ when I really mean ‘got in our own way’; unbeknownst to me, Aimee went to the front desk to pay for the overnight parking, while I tried the more direct method of giving the guy cash who was giving me the key. So, we paid twice for one car, and had to wait around until the same valet showed up so we could get our cash back. Once that was finished, we headed to Grey Dog for our Sunday breakfast tradition, this time some delicious challah french toast with forty of our closest friends in Grey Dog’s intimate eating space.

The Whitney Museum was our next destination, mainly for their Ed Ruscha exhibit, some of which we’d seen in San Francisco in April. I realized, walking through the exhibit, that Ruscha is really one of my favorite artists. His books of photographs, like Twentysix Gasoline Stations (1963), Some Los Angeles Apartments (1965), and Thirty-Four Parking Lots in Los Angeles (1967) all deal with buildings and spaces in series, not particularly notable individually but fascinating in quantity. An unknown inspiration for my Espresso Shacks project? In addition to his photographs, there’s his attention to typeface evident in his paintings of words and sayings, written in block letters or in flowing, folded pieces of paper. I like his attention to detail and his sense of humor, and I’m really happy we took the time to see the exhibition.

After a tea break with George, once again at work on a rainy Sunday afternoon, we headed out of town, though not quite back to Boston just yet. Like everyone else in New England, we decided to visit the weeks-old IKEA New Haven, which was a mob scene of the first order. The store maintained a miraculous level of flow despite the crush of people inside, and we enjoyed perusing the different sample rooms with their inscrutable names and Swedish books lining the bookcases. I picked up a KILBY bookcase for my room, and Aimee got some wine glasses and other stuff for her new place. What a zoo.

After packing the bookcase into the car, we got back on the road home, and made one more stop before Cambridge: Ralph’s Chadwick Square Diner in Worcester, an unlikely but rewarding destination. Their photo booth was out of order, but the free pizza bagel bites at the bar and the phenomenal jukebox made up for it. Before the dj for the evening pulled the plug and began spinning his records, we got to hear our Badly Drawn Boy, Wilco, Blur, and Squeeze selections, in addition to the Liz Phair, Sex Pistols, and Smiths tunes that were already playing when we walked in. It really was about the best jukebox I’ve ever seen – I hope we can make it back there sometime. Another 45 minutes and we were back home in the Hub, and ready for another week, with our whirlwind Alaska trip beckoning on Thursday night.

I was interviewed on the phone yesterday by a reporter from the Anchorage Daily News, for a story she’s working on about “Espresso Hut culture” in Anchorage. She had found my photo project detailing the 100+ shacks I’ve documented over the past six years, and since mine is pretty much the only legitimate result of a search on the subject, and since it seems no one else has written about or studied this phenomenon, she interviewed me.

The interview was fun, though I really didn’t feel like I had a whole lot to offer. The reporter asked me how I started taking the photos, which one was my favorite, and what I thought about why they were so many of them in Anchorage and south-central Alaska in general. Words I couldn’t think of while being interviewed: “ubiquitous” and “vernacular architecture.” Questions that came to mind afterwards: “Hut” or “shack” – which is a better name? And will I sound creepy having told her I never actually talk to anyone in the shacks and rarely order a drink, but simply photograph them from a safe distance like some sort of pre-fab trailer stalker? We’ll see if and when the article comes out.