The Registry

“It’s like playing laser tag,” said the smiling Crate & Barrel associate, explaining to my fiancee and me how to use the barcode scanner before sending us off into the wilderness that was two floors packed with home goods.

The laser tag comment, I gathered, was for my benefit—an attempt to engage the historically less-interested half of a male-female couple when it comes to registering for wedding gifts. Patronizing as it might have been, I couldn’t help appreciate the effort to involve me. It reminded me of the way older siblings let their younger siblings “play” video games with them by handing them an unplugged controller and letting them go nuts. The younger sibling gets to participate in the game, or so he thinks, despite the fact that he doesn’t actually have control over anything in front of him. (Sorry, Danny, but I absolutely pulled this stunt with you when we were kids. You were not, in fact, the Tecmo Bowl touchdown maker you thought you were.)

Our first stop was the refreshments table, set up for the exclusive registry event we were attending; “exclusive” meant we were allowed inside the store from 9 to 11 am on a Sunday morning, before the store opened to the general public. But much to our chagrin, we learned that the mimosas we’d been told we’d get were actually non-alcoholic cocktails of sparkling grape juice with OJ. We grabbed coffees instead and headed downstairs, past the couches and kitchen tables that our one-bedroom apartment wouldn’t be able to accommodate.

With only two hours on the clock, we decided to tackle place settings first. C&B’s display included about twenty pre-arranged dishware sets—that’s dinner plate, salad plate, bowl, and coffee cup for the nuptial neophytes out there. An associate found us perusing and encouraged us to “play around” with pieces from different sets and explained that we didn’t necessarily have to be so “matchy-matchy” with our selections. She even set us up with our own area at a kitchen table with a placemat.

We found a nice gravel-colored dinner plate with brown trim around the outside that we liked. Next was the salad plate. For that set, as with most sets, the salad plate was just a smaller version of the dinner plate in the exact same color and design. We didn’t want to be too matchy-matchy, so we looked for something else to offset the gravel. We found three different black salad plates from three different sets across a gradient of shininess—from very shiny to no shine (or matte). We chose the middle one. Next, we realized we couldn’t use the bowl from our original set because it was too shallow. What if I needed to bring my bowl of cereal from the kitchen to the living room? Was I confident that this shallow bowl would keep my cereal and milk within the confines of the bowl’s edges? I was not. Luckily, we found a bowl from another set, in turquoise, that we both agreed was functional and aesthetically pleasing relative to the dinner and salad plates.

After we got the dishware down, we move onto the flatware. (I know what you’re thinking: But you didn’t choose your coffee cups! YOU MUST COMPLETE THE SET. Relax. We decided that we liked the idea of serving coffee or tea using funky, mismatched coffee cups. Turns out, we were already avoiding matchy-matchiness in our home and didn’t even realize it.) Selecting our flatware was simply a matter of picking regular-looking forks, spoons and knives. (Incidentally, I wonder if there are couples who spend hours deliberating over their first set of flatware. Honey, I want people to remember our butter knives.)

Before we left that section of the store, it was time to scan all the items, LASER TAG STYLE. And let me tell you, that lady was right: it was exactly like playing laser tag. (Note: It was nothing like playing laser tag.) I was in charge of scanning each item. But after adding eight dinner plates to our registry, I noticed that our salad plates were double the price of the dinner plates…surely, no one would buy us such expensive salad plates! So it was back to the drawing board, but thankfully we were able to replace the black salad plates with white ones without throwing off the delicate balance of the place setting. Consider that bullet dodged. I scanned the bowls, the flatware, some glassware we’d chosen—including four port/sherry glasses, for all the port/sherry we anticipate serving to our hypothetical dinner party guests—and the original placemat the associate had set us up with (by then we were too drained to keep shopping for a different one).

After a quick stop in the cookware section—which included a free sample of bacon sausage cooked in a wonderful Le Cruset skillet!—we were just about out of time and decided to wrap things up by hooking our laser gun, I mean scanner, up to a computer that saved our list and created an account for us. Our registry was officially “live.”

My fiancee’s mother later explained that we should have registered for at least twelve of everything, not eight—our hypothetical dinner party guest list had grown by four hypothetical people—so clearly, there is more work to be done. But if nothing else, it was a start.

Read Full Post »

I Will Never Run the New York City Marathon

I’m running like my life depends on it. I’m not running fast, like I’m running away from something, but controlled, like I’m running toward something that’s far away.

My pace slows as I run up and then…OVER the Queensboro Bridge, leaving Queens, where I was born, and entering Manhattan, where I now reside. I allow myself a quick and barely audible YESSS!–three boroughs down, two to go–and then it’s back to work. At the foot of the bridge I’m greeted by throngs of spectators who make me feel like they showed up just to cheer me on. I turn onto 1st Avenue and head uptown towards the Bronx. “Bobby! You can do it!!!” someone yells from the crowd, a family member, maybe a friend, or perhaps just someone who’s reading the brightly colored duct tape that spells my name on my shirt. I smile and wave in the direction of the voice. But there’s no time to scan the crowd to find the speaker–I still have another ten miles to go. I think to myself, I’m really doing this.

I played that scene in my head dozens of times in the summer of 2012, like a high school mixtape in the days before iPods. It was part of my mental training to go along with the grueling physical training I endured as I prepped for the 2012 New York City Marathon. Only that marathon never took place.

The Decision

As Hurricane Sandy swept through the New York area in late October, leaving much of Staten Island, the Rockaways, and New Jersey devastated, the marathon was eventually canceled. I say eventually because New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg’s first reaction was that the show must go on. The public disagreed, loudly and angrily, embodied in the comments section of a Nov. 1 New York Times article, “Officials Defend Decision Not to Cancel Marathon.” The comments included:

“I think it’s wrong. There are still fatalities in the wreckage. There are still senior citizens sitting in dark, cold, flooded homes. Two young boys, ripped from their mother’s arms, have just been found in Staten Island.”

“Take the money that would be spent on the marathon and put it in a fund to help the affected. Running is such an individual sport. It’s a time to put the needs of the group ahead of those of the individual.”

“I am ashamed and disgusted that the mayor is allowing this marathon. So many homeless people, without water, food, or electricity. We need volunteers and the police should be helping those hurt by Sandy, not cheering runners.”

And, few and far between, a handful of supporters for the decision, including:

“The marathon is the most positive and uplifting event in NYC and the one where everyone joins together to support and cheer each other on. This is EXACTLY what we need right now! Good work Bloombito!”

Just two days before the marathon was scheduled to take place, Bloomberg released another statement, that “a shadow would be cast over the event,” and that it would be canceled after all. Contrary to the oft-quoted maxim, sometimes you can fight City Hall.

Meanwhile in Virginia, my fiancée’s family sprung into action just moments after the announcement, looking for a Plan B for us. They contacted us shortly after the news of the cancellation to tell us that, if we were interested, a marathon down in Richmond, Virginia, was accepting late entries from New York City Marathoners who still wanted to run. After a few minutes of deliberation, we looked at each other as if to say, “Let’s do it,” and pulled out our credit cards. As poker players say, we were pot committed–we’d already invested so much in the hand that even if it’s a bad decision to keep playing, it would be a worse decision to fold now.

Richmond

Six days after I was slated to run 26.2 miles around the five boroughs of New York, and twelve days after Hurricane Sandy had come and gone, I was lined up in the streets of Richmond, Virginia–“RVA” to the locals–to finish what I started.

I can’t say enough about the Anthem Richmond Marathon, which more than lived up to its billing as “America’s Friendliest Marathon.”

I told ya, it’s America’s Friendliest Marathon!

As the crowd of runners started to moved forward over the start line and onto the course, I took a quick inventory of my body’s trouble areas–my sometimes stiff right IT band felt good; my creaky left ankle and Achilles was pain-free. But I didn’t account for one body part, my eyes, and the fact that I might start crying.

I’m not much of a crier, and at first I wasn’t sure what had prompted that visceral response. I wanted to believe some of those tears were about for the circumstances–namely Hurricane Sandy and its victims–which rerouted my marathon plans from New York to Virginia. But they also felt like tears of joy, for having finally reached my goal of running (or at least starting) a marathon. Wiping my tears surreptitiously, as if I was wiping a bead of sweat in 40-degree weather, I glanced over to my fiancée, who met my glance. We’re really doing it.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that when we reached Mile 2, I turned to her and said, “We’ve gone two miles already?” She nodded. I looked at the time: we’d been running for 21 minutes. I’d been coasting, which made my first two miles feel like just a few minutes. I gather this is how the world’s top runners feel all the time, though for them, it actually does only take a few minutes per mile.

How do all these people know my name???

The first six miles were almost easy; even by the halfway point, my only concern was taking a bathroom break, which I took just after the Mile 13 marker at a porto-potty with a short line. Relieved–in all senses of the word–I felt renewed and my energy carried me to Mile 16 where I thought, dangerously, This isn’t bad at all. I feel great!

At Mile 18, I knew I was entering uncharted territory; the farthest I’d run in my training was 18.65 miles, and that had hurt. I knew anything after 18 was going to be a challenge. By Mile 20, what I’ve heard serious runners refer to as “The Wall,” I was in pain. And while I didn’t feel like I’d crashed into a tangible Wall, my knees were pounding. Mile 21 felt worse, but by then I was willing to injure myself permanently rather than stop just a few miles short of the finish line. (I also thought it might be fun when I’m 70 to say, “Yeah, that’s my bad knee…injured it running my first marathon back in ’12. You know what they say, the first marathon is the hardest!”)

The last mile was almost all downhill–which counter-intuitively sounds like a good thing, but is actually brutal on already-sore knees. As I ambled across the finish line, I was near tears again. The staff ushered me away from the finish line and towards the post-race festivities. I tried to plead my case to stay. “I’m just waiting for my fiancée!”, who was just a few minutes behind me. I felt like Rocky at the end of his first fight with Apollo Creed (3:16 mark), wanting no part of any interview questions, only concerned with finding Adrian in the crowd through puffy, bloodied eyes. (Yes, I realize how that sounds, but I swear, that’s how it felt.)

Weeeeee…are the chaaaaampions…my frieeeeends…

The Resolution

After that, we didn’t hear much from New York Road Runners, the organization that puts on the marathon, except to say, “We’re still figuring things out.” I misanthropically took this to mean, “We’re still figuring out how to keep your entry fees.”

NYRR finally announced its resolution on its website on December 20:

2012 Marathoners may choose one of the following options:

• Option #1 – Refund. While NYRR has always had a no-refund policy for the Marathon, given these extraordinary circumstances, we are offering runners who were entered in the 2012 Marathon, and were unable to run due to the cancellation, the opportunity to obtain a full refund of their 2012 Marathon entry fee (excluding the $11 processing fee);  OR
• Option #2 – Guaranteed entry to the ING New York City Marathon for 2013, 2014, or 2015. Entrants in the 2012 Marathon who choose this option will be granted guaranteed entry to the Marathon for the year they choose. Runners will be required to pay all processing and entry fees at the time of application (in the given year), with fees maintained at the same rate as those paid in 2012; OR
• Option #3 – Guaranteed entry to the NYC Half 2013. Entrants in the 2012 Marathon who choose this option will be granted guaranteed entry to the NYC Half 2013, to be run on March 17, 2013. Runners will be required to pay all processing and entry fees at the time of application. Availability will be limited.

Upon first reading, I was happy with this resolution. They did the right thing for people who wanted simply to get their money back and move on. I was also happy that, if I wanted to, I could re-train and run it at some point in the next three years. I even tweeted this:

Very satisfied and impressed with @nyrr‘s resolution on the canceled 2012 NYC Marathon: ingnycmarathon.org/resolution.htm

— Bobby Calise (@BobbyCalise) December 20, 2012

But as I read through my options a second time, I realized that I’d have to pay another entry fee if I wanted to run the race in 2013, 2014 or 2015, with my original payment going towards “guaranteed entry.” My spot was, in essence, being held hostage unless I was willing to pay twice (that’s $237 x 2) for one marathon.

I had originally qualified for the marathon by completing a series of nine races through NYRR in 2011 (at about $20 apiece, plus the $35 annual NYRR membership). The “9+1″ program is actually really nice, especially if you live relatively close to Central Park (where most of the races take place on Saturday and Sunday mornings) but it’s a time and money commitment I’m just not willing to do again. I could also try to qualify by entering NYRR’s lottery program, but as its name suggests, it’s a longshot.

I realized then that, in all likelihood, I’ll never run the New York City Marathon. And that kind of bummed me out. It would have been an amazing feeling to come off the Queensboro Bridge, cheered by thousands of people, just as I’d fantasized about. But there are other marathons out there, and I could even see myself running Richmond again someday.

As I re-learn every day, things don’t typically work out the way you plan them but, if you’re willing to adapt, your Plan B might not be so bad. And after all, life is a marathon, not a sprint. (Oh come on, don’t roll your eyes at me. I had to!)

Read Full Post »

“I Am Adam’s Lanza’s Mother” and the Inevitable Internet Backlash

On the internet, there’s always a backlash.

In early November New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg declared, just a few days after Hurricane Sandy ravaged New York and New Jersey, that the New York City Marathon would still take place. The backlash to this decision, personified in the comments section of an online New York Times article, was so severe that a few days later Bloomberg went back on his word and canceled the event.

In the wake of the recent tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut, Bloomberg was in the news again, urging President Obama to take action on gun control, telling us that conversation alone won’t help curb the national epidemic of gun violence–we need action. (Arianna Huffington expressed similar sentiments.)

And of course we hope our politicians will take swift action to rewrite our gun control laws and reexamine the way we treat mental illness in this country.  Meanwhile for the rest of us, the conversation continues–especially online.

On Monday I came across the now-famous “I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother” blog post by Liza Long, a mother who documented her own struggles with her mentally ill 13-year-old son named “Michael” (not his real name).

Long was lauded by many for her bravery in telling her story, as an overwhelmed and “terrified” mother of child she believes is dangerous enough to be compared to Lanza, Dylan Kleibold, and their ilk. (I won’t retell her story, but I recommend you read it for yourself at the link above.)

And then came the backlash.

Just a day later I came across an Adam Lanza article on Slate.com in which Long is criticized for being an “imposter.” The author of that piece, Hanna Rosin, implies that it is Long herself, not her son “Michael,” who  may be suffering from mental illness. Using another blogger’s research, she points to examples from some of Long’s other writings where she appears frazzled, frustrated, and overly dramatic about her home situation with “Michael.” And she criticizes Long’s willingness to out her son with only a thin veil of anonymity, a fake first name. Further, she compares Long’s described situation to those parents featured in a May 2012 New York Times article, “Can You Call a 9-Year-Old a Psychopath?” and concludes that Long’s  ”Michael” is not nearly as bad as those children.

Without being in Long’s household on a daily basis, it’s impossible to know whether she’s giving us an accurate representation of what goes on with “Michael,” and if the situation is really as dire as she makes it sound. As a non-parent, I can barely comprehend what it feels like to deal with an ugly tantrum in a grocery store, no less a son who grabs a knife and threatens to kill his mother and himself.

We certainly can see why Slate for running their backlash story, which I’m sure has brought a lot of traffic to their site as it piggybacks Long’s original post. Once again the conversation continues in the comments section, where some readers have defended Long, while others agree with Rosin.

But is this a case where the backlash is ultimately harmful to progress? We can poke holes in Long’s story all day long, or point to her earlier writings and label her as a fraud, a mentally ill person, a bad mother. However in doing this, many are now dismissing her message outright–which is that she worries that her son, one day, may be capable of committing mass murder on the scale of Sandy Hook, Columbine, or Virginia Tech.

Maybe she’s right; we hope she’s wrong. But is tearing her down truly the best way to make use of her story? Even if we believe Long’s account is a “false alarm,” are we in a position as a country to take that chance? And perhaps the scariest question of all: would we have dismissed a blog post by the real Adam Lanza’s mother just as quickly?

Read Full Post »

Sports, Like Any Good Story, Is Character-Driven

Have you ever stuck with a TV show long after it jumped the shark?

Most of us have done this at some point in our lives–we invest so much time and emotional capital in a show that no matter how much it frustrates us from week to week, we can’t bring ourselves to give up on it until it eventually, mercifully, it goes off the air.

For me, that show was Lost.

Lost aired from 2005 to 2010 and was set in the aftermath of a plane crash that left its surviving passengers–nearly all of them with movie star looks–on a desert island. The show was designed to manipulate viewers’ perceptions as we struggled each week to figure out what was going on. Was the island actually a metaphor for purgatory? Are The Others good or bad? And what the hell is with that black smoke monster???

The black smoke monster just kinda hangin’ out.

As the plot confused us more and more each week–driving viewers like me to seek out any crazy theory the internet could come up with–Lost‘s only saving grace, perhaps, was its character development. The show’s format in the first few seasons focused on one main character each week, jumping back and forth between the their lives on the island (post-crash) and off the island (pre-crash).

My favorite character was Sawyer, the good-looking conman with the southern drawl who called everyone only by sarcastic nicknames. I was always pumped when I found out next week’s episode was “a Sawyer.”

But as the writers dug themselves deeper into a hole and it became obvious that many of the questions posed in season 1 through 5 weren’t going to get answered during season 6, the final season, my interest in the show began to wane. Yet I couldn’t make myself walk away. When the finale aired on May 23, 2010, I wasn’t exactly satisfied. Really, I was just relieved.

I found myself watching a rerun of Lost two Mondays ago on G4, an off-day during the Yankees-Tigers playoff series. (I recommend every fan of the show try this at least once–watching the show completely out of context is trippy.)

At that point the Yankees were in the midst of their own crash. Their sputtering offense could hardly manage to score any runs and their shortstop/team captain/my favorite player, Derek Jeter, broke his ankle late in Game 1 and was sidelined for the remainder of the playoffs.

Back in 1996, I was the biggest Yankee fan I knew. At age 14, the Yankees were more important to me than anything. I wore Yankee gear as often as my laundry rotation would allow, except for days after the team had lost the night before–I suppose I did this so no one would call me out for wearing the colors of a team that lost occasionally. Keep in mind the Yankees hadn’t won a World Series in 18 years, so younger fans of the team hadn’t yet developed the braggadocio they have today.

This was also before the internet really exploded and we were able to know all the intimate details about the players’ personal lives. For the most part we only knew about them on the field. The team featured “characters” like the soft-spoken center fielder Bernie Williams; the hot-headed right fielder Paul O’Neill who would punish a Gatorade in the cooler after making an out; and the former rival from the Red Sox turned Yankee Wade Boggs, who was known for superstitiously eating chicken before every game. It was also Jeter’s first full season on the team. (I remember having conversations about Jeter with friends, trying to figure out his ethnic background based on his last name and his looks–he’s half white, half black–because back then there was no such thing as Googling “Derek Jeter ethnicity.”)

If you go to a game today, you’ll still see the names and numbers of those guys from the 1996 team on the backs of fans. Incidentally, I wonder how many fans will be wearing the names and numbers of guys from the 2012 team in 16 years.

But by 2011, nearly all the guys from those 90s teams had retired, leaving only the “Core Four”–Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Andy Pettitte, and Jorge Posada–the players who were drafted as young men by the Yankees and came through their farm system, then went on to win five championships with the team.

As Jeter was carried off the field, the Core Four had lost yet another member: Posada had retired after the 2011 season; Rivera suffered a season-ending injury back in May; and Pettitte, who retired after the 2010 season then unretired before the 2012 season, pitched well in this year’s playoffs but also missed a large chunk of the season to an injury.

Meanwhile Alex Rodriguez, known more commonly as A-Rod, became the character Yankee fans loved to hate, a role he was not unfamiliar with. As A-Rod continued to struggle at the plate during this most recent playoff run, it was almost comical to watch him pick up a bat in a crucial situation, only to strikeout and hear the boos from the home fans at Yankee Stadium.

I’m not prone to booing, especially a guy on one’s own team (unless he displays a lack of effort) but A-Rod brings a lot of the ill will upon himself. He has been awful in October (except for 2009, when his play carried the team to a World Series–but Yankee fans have already forgotten about that). His off-the-field behavior–a high-profile divorce followed by a series of even higher-profile relationships with celebrities–is perceived by some as a distraction. He’s an admitted steroid-user, though only in 2002 to 2004, when he wasn’t playing for the Yankees. And he makes a lot of money. Like a lot of money. The Yankees owe him $114 million over the next five seasons, making it unlikely he’ll play for any other team other than the Yankees until after he turns 42, because no other team is crazy enough to take on that contract.

A guy like that is just more fun to root against than for.

Perhaps A-Rod simply came along in the wrong era. If he had played 20 or 30 years ago when the contracts weren’t yet so big, or the media wasn’t quite so ubiquitous, he might’ve been able to fly under the radar a little more if he wanted to. But others say he’s an ego-maniac who loves the attention, even if it’s negative, which is why he still insists he wants to be a Yankee even after another dreadful post-season performance that had fans calling for his head–he reminds me of a TV show character fans hope will be killed off.

Not even going to bother captioning this one.

For contrast, Yankee first baseman Mark Teixeira generally seems to be liked by Yankee fans. He’s a very good hitter, an outstanding fielder, and though he also makes a lot of money, he doesn’t get booed nearly as often as A-Rod. His personal life is so quiet–I’ve heard literally nothing about him off the field–that many fans would probably consider him the most boring Yankee on the team (maybe ever?). He’s only there, seemingly, to help move the plot along.

When Jeter became a free agent a few years back and the Yankees played hardball during contract negotiations, it seemed that there was a real possibility he wouldn’t be a Yankee for much longer. I contemplated whether I would still be a Yankee if Jeter was wearing another team’s uniform. Luckily the two sides came to terms and I didn’t  have to make that decision. But when Jeter eventually retires, I’m not sure which Yankee character’s story I’ll care about enough to follow for the next 20 years or so.

Unlike Lost, which I knew would eventually go off the air and release me from its black smokey grip, the Yankees are a show that will go on forever.

A-Rod, who’s actually a year younger than Jeter, may end up being the last man standing. Yankee fans many want to be careful about trying to run A-Rod out of town, because once the rest of the Core Four are gone, he may be the only character we have left to root for–or against.

Read Full Post »

The 2012 Tri-State Tough Mudder: A Recap

I am a Tough Mudder.

That’s right. This past Saturday I completed the 2012 Tri-State Tough Mudder event at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey.

For those not familiar with Tough Mudder, I’ll let them tell you what they’re about (from their website):

Tough Mudder events are hardcore 10-12 mile obstacle courses designed by British Special Forces to test your all around strength, stamina, mental grit, and camaraderie. As the leading company in the booming obstacle course industry, Tough Mudder has already challenged half a million inspiring participants worldwide and raised more than $3 million dollars for the Wounded Warrior Project. But Tough Mudder is more than an event, it’s a way of thinking. By running a Tough Mudder challenge, you’ll unlock a true sense of accomplishment, have a great time, and discover a camaraderie with your fellow participants that’s experienced all too rarely these days.

I got the idea to run the event from my friend Mike, who was looking for a new physical challenge beyond his normal gym routine. He recruited me and eight others, and we had our squad.

I’m running the New York City Marathon in two weeks, so my first priority was surviving the course without a major injury that might jeopardize my marathon hopes. I’m happy to report that I completed the course relatively unscathed apart from a few knee scrapes.

Tough Mudder prides itself on its badassness. Its branding is all about being a counter-culture event, more exciting and physically demanding than distance running. In fact, here are Tough Mudder’s thoughts on marathons:

Marathon running is boring. And the only thing more boring than doing a marathon is watching a marathon. Road-running may give you a healthy set of lungs, but will leave you with as much upper body strength as Keira Knightley. At Tough Mudder, we want to test your all-around mettle, not just your ability to run in a straight line, on your own, for hours on end, getting bored out of your mind. Our obstacle courses are designed by British Special Forces to test you in every way and are meant only for truly exceptional all-around people, not for people who have enough time and money to train their knees to run 26 miles.

Well, having completed my first Tough Mudder, I can say that any of my longer training runs (13+ miles) have been physically tougher. (I can neither confirm nor deny whether I have a stronger upper body than Keira Knightley.) Still, if it takes that sort of in your face rhetoric to drum up business, I can’t fault them for it–besides, it seems to be working.

Rather than taking you step-by-step through the event, here are some of my thoughts from the day:

Smells like team spirit. Tough Mudder is incredibly rah-rah, meaning it’s a lot of pump-me-up, Jock Jams kind of stuff–which I’m not a big fan of. Before we could begin the event, our emcee did a 20-minute spiel that included many a “hoo-rah.” I just wanted to start the race.

Once I got past all the hootin’ and hollerin’ and hit the course running, I realized that the spirit of the event is genuine. Anyone who needed a push, whether it was over a wall, through a tunnel, or up a muddy hill, got one. And there always seemed to be someone standing on the other side with an outstretched hand to pull you through. It was very cool to see that sort of teamwork from people who didn’t know each other.

During one of the mud hill climbs, a team of men wearing blue shirts with the Wounded Warrior logo formed a line and set up a pulley system with rope. It appeared that they were clearing space so that only they could use the rope. Several among us started to question them–it seemed against the spirit of the event that they brought a rope but were only allowing their own group to use it. However that notion quickly vanished when we realized that they were clearing space to haul a man in a wheelchair–an actual Wounded Warrior–up the hill. As we all started to realize what was happening and the crowd broke out into hearty applause.

One of many Tough Mudder walls that needed climbing. (Photo credit: Linda Germann)

Yeah, no…we get it…it’s very muddy. The majority of the obstacles involved athletics running through, being submerged in, or slipping in mud or muddy water. While I fully understand that the event is called Tough Mudder, the amount of mud on the course seemed borderline gimmicky. Nevertheless most of the obstacles were challenging. Here are my favorites:

• Arctic Enema: The very first obstacle, it’s nothing more than a plunge into ice water. We got lucky with gorgeous weather so hypothermia wasn’t an issue, but this would have been much tougher on a cold day.
• Funky Monkey: Monkey bars are set up over some muddy water. The bars are spaced far apart and slippery with mud. The first half of the bars inclined, and the second half declined. Despite my lack of height, I managed to get across.
• Hangin’ Tough: Five hanging gymnastics rings are set up, you guessed it, over muddy water. I was happy to have completed this one without the entire contraption falling on me–as we waited in line for our group’s turn, we noticed repairmen fixing a few of the rings with duct tape.
• Twinkle Toes: The goal here is to walk across a thin wooden beam, else you fall into muddy wa…you get the point. I nailed it, Gabby Douglas style.
• Everest: The final hurdle before tasting sweet victory (and a free pint of Dos Equis), you must take a running start and run as far as you can up a half pipe, and either grab the top of the wall or catch a fellow Mudder’s outstretched hand to pull yourself over. My teammates were standing by and, with their help, I got up on the first try.

Who the hell would pay $100 to run in mud for four hours? Though most participants seemed reasonably fit, you need not be physically elite to complete the course. Tough Mudder hits you over the head about it being a teamwork event, not a race to the finish. Conquering all the course’s obstacles isn’t mandatory, but I didn’t see too many people who didn’t at least attempt an obstacle before deciding to skip it.

It was great to see so many women participating–I’d guess it was about 20% female–and all the ones I saw handled the course as well or better than their male counterparts. There was no, “Let me help you with that, sweetie” stuff either. On the Tough Mudder course, everyone is treated as an equal. (According to Tough Mudder’s site, 25% of registrants are female.)

Many people wore costumes while running the event. I don’t know if it had to do with Halloween or just because. I saw a couple of princesses, a guy in an ape mask, and four dudes wearing nothing but leopard print thongs. In hindsight, as I’m still figuring out how to de-muddify my own clothes from that day, the thong guys might have had the smartest outfit of all.

Did I mention it was muddy? (Photo credit: Linda Germann)

A few gripes. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the few negatives of what was largely a really positive experience:

• Wait times for baggage were very long and didn’t seem particularly organized.
• The “showers” were literally garden hoses with no hot water and no water pressure. (In fairness, I didn’t think they’d even have showers, so I can’t complain that they at least had something to wash off the caked mud and allow me to be semi-comfortable on my way home.)
• The parking lots were 40 minutes from the site of the event by shuttle bus, which is a long way after a four-hour race.
• They nickel-and-dimed participants, charging $10 for parking if your car didn’t contain at least four people; and spectators were charged $20 to watch the event (or $40 if they hadn’t bought their tickets in advance).

I’ve participated in a lot of running events, many in Central Park through New York Road Runners, and save for the above points, I thought that overall, Tough Mudder, was pretty well run. Tip: If you decide to do the event, sign up as early as possible–it’s $95 for early entry and the price increases as you get closer to the event. I can’t say for sure whether I’ll do the event again, but I feel like I got my money’s worth.

Read Full Post »

Did You Hear Who Won Gold at the Olympics? Well, Keep It to Yourself.

When my fiancee’s father, a superfan of the great tennis player Roger Federer, found himself traveling on his way back from a vacation on the Sunday of this year’s men’s Wimbledon championship match, he set out to do the impossible: avoid the match results until he arrived home and could watch it on his DVR.

Federer was playing in that final against Scottish hopeful Andy Murray, a highly anticipated match which, if Federer won, would improbably launch him back to the #1 ranking for the first time in two years. (If Murray won, it would mark his first major title and the first time a British male had won Wimbledon since 1936.)

My fiancee’s dad only made it as far as his plane change in Dallas before accidentally gleaning the result from a TV in the waiting area that was tuned to the news. Though I knew he’d have no real chance to avoid the score for an entire day, I still felt his pain. It wasn’t all that long ago that people relied on the next morning’s newspaper to tell them everything that happened since, well, the previous morning’s newspaper. Of course the internet changed the immediacy with which we receive news forever which is, generally speaking, a good thing. But when it comes to sports, and in particular, the Olympics, I find myself in the same boat as my future father-in-law, meaning I’m looking for less news.

The Summer and Winter Olympics only come around every four years, respectively, and the fact that most of the sports they include are scarcely televised or talked about other than during the Olympics. You couldn’t pay most Americans to watch gymnastics in an odd year but come the Summer Olympics they fall in love with their favorite American gymnast who, just moments earlier, they didn’t know existed. The same goes for the media-fueled rivalries like Phelps versus Lochte that no one was paying attention for the past few years.

Last week while on vacation, I found myself checking Twitter on my iPhone. Twitter has become my #1 news source, customized with the types of updates I want based on the people I follow–all 971 of them. I suppose it was naive of me to think that once there, all 971 people would keep it a secret who won that day’s swimming events, and that I’d get to watch it on tape delay later that night without knowing the results ahead of time. (Media outlets like ESPN, for that matter, had no motivation to keep it a secret and let competing network NBC rack up the ratings if it could spoil the results for would-be viewers.)

With modern television the way it is, where a large chunk of the best content is time-shifted with DVRs and online video streaming, we’re at the point where “appointment viewing” and the next morning’s water cooler conversations have all but disappeared. As a result, it seems to me that sports–particularly those that we only get to see every four years–might be the last remaining and most purest form of drama on TV.

I’ve watched most of these Summer Olympics without the word “LIVE” in the top right corner of my TV screen. In fact, as I write this I’m awaiting the start of the women’s beach volleyball gold medal match, featuring legendary pair Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh Jennings. The match started about five hours ago in London and probably ended while I was wrapping up my workday. But I don’t know the result because I’ve avoided the internet all day in search of a genuine fan experience. The internet has brought me more information than I could ever hope to retain, but tonight, ignorance is bliss.

Read Full Post »

Sorry Means Nothing

Most of us can recall a handful of expressions our parents repeated to us throughout our childhoods. Things like, “I’ll turn this car right around if you don’t behave!” or “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.” I’ve written a lot about my mom on this blog, most recently in “Camp” (which received some really positive feedback–not so much for my writing but for my mom’s mad parenting skillz). There was one saying my mom used to use that stuck with me more than some of the others. If my brother or I screwed up and tried to apologize, hoping those magic words would automatically erase whatever mistake I made, she’d tell us, sorry means nothing.

I know what you’re thinking–that’s a pretty harsh thing to say to a kid. But I spent many years reflecting on and ultimately understanding that expression, and I assure you its meaning is more profound than it sounds. Rather than letting my us get away scot-free with bad behavior just by thoughtlessly apologizing and going back outside to play, my mom was trying to make us hold ourselves accountable. The words that make up an apology truly mean nothing unless you don’t repeat–or at least make a real effort not to repeat–the sort of behavior that has you apologizing in the first place.

The worst on the spectrum of meaningless apologies, the public apology, has become fashionable in the last few years among athletes and celebrities. Perhaps the most famous in recent memory was Tiger Woods’ 14-minute apology press conference. And just last week, comedian Daniel Tosh issued a half-hearted Twitter apology for some questionable jokes he made at the expense of a heckler at one of his stand-up shows. Whenever I hear about these forced public apologies, I think of that episode of The Simpsons when Bart is forced to apologize to the Australian government.

Bart: No problem. I’m great at fake apologies!
Marge: Bart!
Bart: I’m sorry…

I was the victim of a less-than-genuine apology a few months ago while out to dinner with family. We had reservations for later that night, but two members of our party stopped into the restaurant during the day to request the round table situated closest to the front window. The daytime hostess made a note to seat us there when we came back later, but when we arrived for dinner we noticed another party of the same size was sitting at the round table and was just starting their meal. The nighttime hostess sat us at another table and went to track down the owner.

By the time the owner came over to our table, we’d been apologized to by the hostess, who apparently never got a message from the other hostess about saving us the table, and our server, who may have been concerned that we’d take out our frustrations on his tip (we didn’t, though he later semi-apologized again when one of our entrees was wrong, saying “Sorry…but it’s not my fault”). The owner told us he was sorry for the miscommunication and explained that the group that got our table were his friends from out of town. In other words, he was sorry we were upset, but if the same circumstances arose again, we would still not get the table because we were not his friends from out of town. Sorry means nothing.

Semi-phony apologies are extremely common in customer service situations because sometimes just hearing the word sorry, even if it’s disingenuous, can often assuage a customer’s negative experience to some degree. (It might also soften an otherwise harsh Yelp review.) Comedian Louis C.K. has a great bit where he talks about hanging up on an airline customer service representative from Pakistan–where they likely have bigger problems than a long layover–because he knows whatever contrition she offers is purely fabricated. Instead he’d rather speak with the saccharine woman from Texas who seems more sympathetic to his plight.

On the subject of fake apologies, there’s one last kind that comes to mind–one that any tennis player should know. When a player unintentionally hits a ball that grazes the top of the net and barely trickles over–making it impossible to return–often the player will put his head down and his hand up, as if to say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to win the point that way.” It’s meant as a gesture of sportsmanship, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a tennis player who would offer a “do-over” in that situation rather than keeping the point for himself. (Next time you’re watching pro tennis, look for the Fake I’m Sorry Wave.)

Every one of us will give and receive a fake apology at some point out of politeness, nervousness, self-interest, or even professional pressure. For my part I’d like to think that when I do decide to issue a genuine apology, when I’m legitimately remorseful for my actions or words, the recipient will know that it means something.

Read Full Post »

On Being 30

In the weeks leading up to my 30th birthday this past February and in the weeks following, I sat down several times to write a thoughtful blog post about what turning 30 meant to me. What had I learned? What would I have done differently? What wisdom could I share with someone a few years younger than me, like my brother, to save them a few headaches and heartaches? I was going to call it “Reflections on 30.” But ultimately I felt the piece was too preachy and I decided to scrap it. (If this was 20 years ago, I’d have a little garbage can filled and surrounded with crumpled up balls of paper–instead, there was only an unpublished draft sitting in my WordPress queue.)

I had all but forgotten about my failed blog post until this past Thursday when I came across an article called “Turning 30: 10 Things I Know Now About Getting Older” by Melanie Curtin via The Huffington Post. I was excited to read it. As a part-time writer, I always like to see how someone else might tackle a subject I’ve written about, or tried to write about, myself. And as a 30-year-old, I was curious to see what sorts of reflections Ms. Curtin had gleaned from her own three decades on this planet. Would she have reached any of the same conclusions I had about relationships, family, money, career, or social awareness?

Before we get to her piece, I’d like to explain myself. I realize how lazy and hacky it may seem to give up on my own “turning 30” piece only to critique someone else’s writing about the very same subject I myself had failed to articulate, so I hope you’ll forgive what seems like judgment and see it instead as a second opinion that in no way negates Ms. Curtin’s thoughts or feelings based on her own life experience up to this point.  Okay, onto some of her Reflections…

Reflection #10: I am impressed with myself for simply ‘getting by.’
Since graduating, I’ve supported myself with limited credit card debt (<$6k) and without relying on things like antidepressants. This is probably a better track record than at least 40% of the American population. I’m going at life full-out, experiencing it all without numbing it or dumbing it down. Every day. That makes me proud.

I had this very same thought many times throughout my 20s. In New York City, but really anywhere, being able to support yourself when you’re just starting out is almost miraculous. Just ask the college kids graduating now and the ever-increasing numbers of under-25s who are forced to live at home because the job market is so tight. If getting by at 30 (for me, anyway) means I can make my rent every month, afford to feed myself, and occasionally bring home flowers for my fiancée, that’s a pretty nice worst case scenario.

But I think we can do better than the worst case scenario. Some of us—myself included—may never do any better than getting by. I don’t think that means we can’t set our sights a little higher.

Reflection #9: No job will be entirely perfect.
There are a lot of ways to do good in the world. Some pay better than others. I’ve worked as a highly-paid tutor teaching French to kids, and I’ve worked as an advocate on behalf of survivors of sexual abuse. One isn’t better than the other, and sometimes it’s OK to get a job just because it pays well. Do-gooders can be self-righteous. Finance people can be kind and giving parents. Sometimes it’s OK to chase the money.

Ms. Curtin is right on the money here. There’s no right answer to the question of whether to chase passion or security, money or fulfillment. Very few people get all those things all in one career, and even fewer get it right on the first try. If you’re not one of those people, that doesn’t mean you’ve necessarily settled.

The book on Millenials–a term which describes those of us born in the 1980s–is that we’re entitled (a nice way of saying we’re spoiled brats). We feel that just for being born, we deserve to have everything life has to offer. We eschew paying dues because we all think we’re wunderkinds who will change the world some day.

And with that mindset, many of us struggle when we don’t end up with the careers our teachers and parents promised us. We’re ready to cash in our thousands of hours of homework and studying and SAT prep and AP credits for a high paying–but also intellectually stimulating and emotionally rewarding–career. Only we’re starting to realize that it might not exist, or that it does exist but when nearing age 30, it’s too late to switch career paths (or that in this economy, we should be thankful to have a job at all). That makes us frustrated and confused and pissed off. Curtin’s suggestion, to simply accept that no job is perfect, might be the best solution as long as you’re relatively happy in the other more important aspects of your life, i.e. your personal relationships.

Reflection #4: I am fortunate to have solely first world problems … and my problems aren’t insignificant.
Should I get a Kindle or a Nook? What should I do with my life? Maybe I should see a show tomorrow, instead of staying in. What do I do about the fact that I wore the shoes today so my feet are wet — do I buy new ones? Should I eat my Luna bar now, or later? Who left the toilet seat up!? #firstworldproblems.

I don’t have children to feed or schlep up and down subway stairs. I don’t have HIV/AIDS. I don’t have to walk two miles to a well every day, twice a day, that might have malaria in it anyway. I’m not an orphan. I’m not addicted. I have access to clean bathrooms (with soap) and potable water — the water that comes out of my shower is drinkable, for crying out loud.

At the same time, the emotional growth I’ve done has been extremely confronting and arduous. It’s not better or worse, it’s just distinct. There are lots of types of challenges in the world. I used to be ashamed that my problems weren’t ‘enough’ or ‘valid.’ Now I feel grateful that I’m physically housed, clothed, and fed, but I also recognize that the work I’m doing in this lifetime is also legitimate — it’s just different.

I believe Ms. Curtin is trying to say this: Each person’s problems, and in turn their happiness, is relative to their environment. Her point is valid to a degree, but I don’t like the way she makes that point. Problems like “Kindle or Nook” aren’t insignificant problems because they’re not problems. When those of us fortunate enough to have #firstworldproblems start comparing ourselves to people who don’t have access to clean water, I think we’ve lost sight of what constitutes an actual problem.

Don’t get me wrong. I am absolutely guilty of complaining about the exact same stuff she’s talking about. But can I really compare slow service at a restaurant or losing hot water in my apartment for a few hours to being an orphan or contracting malaria? OF COURSE NOT! And when I actually take the time to think about that, I feel like spoiled a-hole…and I probably should.

I give  money to a few different charities, but I can probably afford to give a little more. I’ve done some volunteer work, but not nearly as much as I could be doing. While it might not be realistic to donate large portions of your money and time to the less fortunate, I also don’t think it’s okay to let yourself off the hook for those things under the guise of “my problems are as valid as anyone else’s.”

—

Since I spent most of this post dissecting Ms. Curtin’s Reflections, I decided it was only fair to share some of my own Reflections after all. Here goes:

There is a HUGE difference between good coffee and bad coffee, and between good beer and bad beer. (But boxed wine is just fine.)

My best friends are the ones who would still be my best friends even if Facebook didn’t exist.

Texting is a completely valid form of communication, just not when you’re asking a girl on first date.

On many the happiest days of my twenties, my bank account was empty.

And here’s one last Reflection that was common to both my list and Ms. Curtin’s:

Reflection #2: I still look pretty hot for 30.
Booyah.

Read Full Post »

Standing Up for Death Cab For Cutie

This past Saturday night, New York City let me down. I’ll explain.

My fiancée and I scored great tickets–Row A of the Loge section–for my favorite band, Death Cab For Cutie, at the Beacon Theatre on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. We’ve seen Death Cab once before, last summer at the Williamsburg Waterfront in Brooklyn. It was one of the best concerts either of us had ever been to. At that show, an outdoor concert, there were no seats; everyone stood and faced the stage, free to move about the giant lawn to dance, sway, or buy another beer, as the Manhattan skyline loomed at our backs. No one was fighting or jockeying for position; when people bumped  into you, they apologized.

Fast forward to Saturday night at the Beacon. The venue is beautiful inside–it reminded me of an opera house–and seemed fitting for Death Cab’s three performances over the weekend, which included an eight-piece orchestra accompanying their four usual band members.

The crowd seemed a little subdued. From our seats in Loge, one level above the Orchestra section, we could see a few heads bobbing but no one was standing up or dancing in their seats. But by the middle of the set, a few brave souls decided to stand, swaying and singing along. And by the time the set was over, everyone in the Orchestra was on their feet. (There had been tickets available in Orchestra, but I thought the first row of Loge would be a better value than the back of the Orchestra. I was incorrect.)

Meanwhile in our section no one was standing, save for a couple of energetic people next to us. When Death Cab came out for their encore, which is usually five or six more songs, my fiancée and I decided to stand up in our seats as the Orchestra fans were doing below us. That’s when we heard the people behind us. “Sit down please. Sit down please!”

We turned to address the angry couple behind us. “Are you kidding me?” I said. “This is a concert. It’s the encore! You could stand, too.” The male half of the couple said, “If we stand then the people behind us are going to hassle us.” Still incredulous, I implored them. “But it’s a concert!”

Then I got a response from the guy’s girlfriend that floored me: “This is the Beacon. If you want to stand, go to Brooklyn.”

Furious and frustrated (and a little confused by what the hell that even meant), we took to the aisle to stand, staying out of everyone’s way and hoping to enjoy the rest of the show. Within seconds, security ushered us right back to our seats, which meant we had two options: 1) stand and deal with the lames behind us for five more songs, or 2) give in and sit, and try to enjoy the rest of the concert on our butts. We opted for #2; as much as I enjoy arguing with strangers, I paid good money for Death Cab and they were my priority.

When Death Cab left the stage, my fiancée immediately turned back to our buddies behind us for a parting shot–but they were gone. While we were staying seated for their benefit (and to avoid the headache they were giving us) they had snuck out before the last note in an effort to avoid a confrontation. We couldn’t help feel a little disappointed–we were  hoping to get further explanation on the Brooklyn comment…

As I write this now, a day later, I’m still stunned. I don’t even know where to begin. Much has been made the last few days about fan etiquette after an incident at a Rangers-Yankees baseball game. And I’ve written before about fan behavior and  etiquette at the U.S Open. Part of going out to live sports or music event means dealing with people, many of whom have different opinions and habits than your own. But I’ve been to enough concerts to know that unless you’re at the opera (or possibly seeing the Beach Boys at Jones Beach), people are going to stand up to engage with the performance on stage. To look behind me and see 20 rows of people not standing–and yelling at us when we did–was and still is mind-boggling.

I don’t often ask for reader feedback on this blog, but I’m dying to know what you think. To sit or stand, that is the question!

UPDATE (11/7/12): I posed the question–sit or stand?–to the New York Times’ new The Ethicist columnist Chuck Klosterman. He settled the debate, kind of.

Read Full Post »

Why Jeremy Lin Still Matters

Late last week news broke that Jeremy Lin, star of New York’s short-lived Lisanity movement, would miss the rest of the season due to a knee injury that required surgery. This marked the official end to Linsanity, and the already-waning interest many casual basketball fans had in the fate of the 2011-12 New York Knicks.

Rather than mourning this loss, or hatching conspiracy theories to fill the sports pages once dominated by Lincredible headlines, I’d like to look back about two months to the height of Linsanity. It was the quintessential bandwagon-y sort of sports phenomenon we don’t get to see that often: short-lived, unsustainable, and exciting as all hell while it lasted.

On a Friday in February, I was celebrating the start of my thirtieth birthday weekend in Chinatown. A visiting relative offered to treat us to dinner at his favorite Vietnamese restaurant in the city, a thank you for letting him crash on our pull-out couch while he was in town for a few nights.

It was about 7:15 when the three of us met up for pre-dinner drinks at Whiskey Tavern, a pub that seemed out of place among the Asian restaurants and fish stores that make up most of Chinatown. But it was loud and packed for the Knicks game.

The Knicks had been improbably led by Asian-American and Harvard graduate point guard Jeremy Lin for the past week or so. Now on a three-game win streak, they were on the verge of reclaiming their status as the hottest ticket in town as they hosted Kobe Bryant and the Lakers.

During the week, the media had goaded the Lakers’ star to look ahead to the Knicks game. Classic Kobe, he replied with a caustic and dismissive “Jeremy Lin who?” response, downplaying the match-up as just another game on the schedule. After all, he’s a future hall of famer with five championship rings, and Jeremy Lin is…well, a guy who was sitting at the end of the bench about a week ago.

We stuck around for the first quarter of the game, had a couple of beers and a celebratory round of Whiskey Tavern’s specialty, the “pickle back shot,” then left the bar to head next door for dinner. Afterwards, we went back to Whiskey Tavern for the second half, just as Jeremy Lin was going off on the Lakers, eventually tallying 38 points.

Whiskey Tavern ohhhh-ed with every made basket. Onlookers shook their head Lincredulously with every spin move and teardrop and bank shot. If–no, when–they make a movie about Jeremy Lin, and they do the cutaway to crowded local bar (the one that every sports movie has), it will look a lot like Whiskey Tavern looked like that night.

New York hasn’t been this excited about the Knicks in a long time. With the recent success of the Yankees and Giants and even the Rangers this season, the Knicks were becoming the least relevant team in New York City. But Linsanity brought them back. The next morning after the Laker game, my girlfriend gave me my birthday present: tickets to see the Knicks at Madison Square Garden the following Friday, which she had the foresight to buy just before the previous night’s game. After Jeremy Lin’s 38 against the Lakers, the Knicks were officially the hottest ticket in town and, on this rare occasion, we had it.

Hundreds of articles were written about Jeremy Lin during the height of Linsanity. About how he’s a Tim Tebow-like role model, how he was an underdog looked over by several NBA teams because he played for an Ivy League school (or because he’s Asian-American), how he was a target for one ESPN headline writer (a “Chink in the Armor” moment of poor judgement cost said writer his job), how the Knicks’ top scorer Carmelo Anthony is going to have to move over for Lin, and how not even Linsanity could save the Knicks’ head coach’s job.

Jay Caspian Kang at Grantland wrote a piece about the future of Jeremy Lin from a basketball standpoint. It was an interesting read, but to be honest, I don’t really care. The rest of Jeremy Lin’s career could manifest in a number of ways, including a path that’s completely devoid of basketball–he’s got a freakin’ degree in economics from Harvard–but he’ll never recapture the excitement he created during the Linsanity era.

The lesson I’ve taken away from all of this is this: As satisfying to your ego as it may be to dismiss something as a fad, it’s incalculably more fun to get caught up in it. Every so often, go ahead and embrace the Linsanity, the Lincredible, and the Linpossible. There’s always room on the bandwagon.

Read Full Post »