Running is Stupid

With The Boston Marathon just around the corner I wanted to offer a comprehensive review of the “sport” of running.

I can sum it up in 3 words: Running is stupid.

Whew. I feel better just writing that down.

Let me backtrack a little bit. Running, for the purpose of exercise and general health is, I suppose, a positive and productive activity. Of course, running improves your cardio-vascular health, relieves anxiety, and certainly keeps the pounds off. But guess what, I don’t care. Running – just for the sake of running - is stupid.

Think back to when you were a kid. You ran for reasons. You were playing tag. You were running in a race against your friends. You were playing (real) sports. You were running from your Dad because you opened your big, sarcastic mouth one too many times (maybe that was just me?).

But, to run just…’because’. I’m all set.

Well, I can already hear the “BOOs” from all of you running rebels that live and breathe this horrific hobby. Several of my closest friends and family members love running and a few have even completed marathons. My Dad, my cousin, my college roommate to name a few. Listen, good for you Forrest Gump. Congratulations! WOO HOO! Job well done! Yippie!

Running is stupid.

Which brings me to a more specific aspect of running; marathon running. Are you freaking kidding me? Why on God’s green earth would ANYONE want to run a marathon? Anyone? Bueller? Come on! Forget the actual act of running a marathon. I can almost understand the satisfaction of having thousands of fans cheer for you as you trudge through 26.2 grueling miles. I get that. But, how about the incredible amount of training and preparation that goes into it all? No thanks. Months of work. Millions of miles (maybe not millions, but it’s called alliteration, folks). Hundreds of hours of your time.

Really, people? Sore muscles. Achy joints. Bloody nipples. Odd bowel movements.

Wow, that sounds fantastic…where do I sign up?

OK, bring on the counterpoint, Bill Rogers and Uta Pippig. I’m waiting.

“Running alleviates my stress.”

“I don’t feel right unless I get a run in.”

“If you have never experienced a runner’s high, then you should not give your opinion.”

Too late and here it is: Running is stupid.

Well, I think I have clearly relayed my standpoint on the subject, but I am going to offer you a chance to get back at me. Perhaps there is a more personal reason for out-of-the-blue attack on all of you jogging jackasses?

I started running this week.

Yes, yes…I know. Laugh all you like. Not sure what inspired me to start this week. Possibly because of the 87 pounds of corned beef and cabbage and 105 pints Guinness I have ingested over the past few weeks. Could be that I have been lacking any exercise program in my life for a while. Entirely feasible that I was feeling guilty that my wife has recently decided to taking up jogging with the rest of you imbosiles. Could be all of the above? Doesn’t really matter, but I woke up earlier this week and took to the street.

Mrs. C.I.B.F. leaves for work at 6:00AM and, with a busy day ahead; I knew I should just get this out of the way early. So, at 5:32, I laced up the Asics and hit the road.

I began my first jog in a very long time at a slow andsteady pace. I am not looking to break any records. I have no goal or end game in mind. I am simply out here to feel a little better about my health and possibly drop my blood pressure down to a normal range. What I soon learned was that it would not be the actual act of running that would cause me issue; but rather…panic.

As I made my first turn down a side street I realized how damn dark it is at that time of day strictly reserved for the newspaper kid and insomniacs. Suddenly, I felt an overcoming sense of fear.

A dog (90% positive it was Cujo) barked from its yard and I nearly jumped up a tree like a Tom & Jerry episode.

I smelled something? Oh God, it’s a skunk. Where is it? Christ, he is going to spray me right in the face!

Who‘s that coming at me? Crap! I bet it’s a serial kill….nope; it’s another one of you stupid joggers.

“Hey man” I huffed at him like a 80 year old, chain-smoking asthmatic as I am trying to play the role of neighborhood Kenyon.

I was completely thrown off my game. All of these distractions and empty fears were actually adding stress to this supposed stress-reducing activity. My pulse was not racing from the intense aerobic workout. It was because clearly there was a madman (or a blood thirsty, rabid animal) tracking me through the neighborhood. A Boogey Man (quite possibly Boogey Men?) was surely on my tail. That I know for a certainty.

Before I knew it, I was actually sprinting – not jogging – in one direction; back towards home. I am not going to risk my life over this silly pastime. I will not be maimed by some psycho or wildebeest for the love of this game. Just not worth it. I have a family to think about for crying out loud.

And there ends another chapter of my storied athletic career. Sneakers are retired. Wind pants are doing just that; blowing inthe wind. I am hitting the proverbialshowers for good.

Running is stupid

Best of luck to all you marathoners!

Guilty Pleasures: Justin Timberlake

A new series for the C.I.B. F. column coming at ya': Guilty Pleasures. I am swallowing my pride, ridding myself of any ego, abandoning any tiny bit of machismo I may possess and laying it out there in the name of (hopeful) comedy.

Let’s begin with a clear definition of a ‘Guilty Pleasure’ so we are all on the same page.

Our good friends at Wikipedia provide us with the following:

“A guilty pleasure is something one enjoys and considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. The "guilt" involved is sometimes simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes. Fashion, video games, music, movies, and junk food can be examples of guilty pleasures"

So with that understood, I am opening up my personal Pandora’s Box of Guilty Pleasures.

Chapter 1: Justin Timberlake

Justin Timberlake (or JT as I like to “call” him), for you recluses that do not own a television or computer, is an international entertainment sensation. Ten years ago he was a squeaky-dyed-blond-curly-haired-teen-idol that was part of boy band N’Sync. Today, he is an A-list singer, actor, dancer, golfer, comedian, and perhaps the most sought-after man this side of George Clooney.

If you asked me what I thought of Justin Timberlake in 2000, I would have probably responded with a roll of the eyes and some subtle homophobic remark. If you ask me today what I think of him I would likely snap my neck around and giddily respond “Why, is he here???”

Is that wrong? Wait, don’t answer yet.

Let me clarify. Similar to the column I wrote about Tom Brady a couple of years ago, these “man crushes” are in NO WAY sexual in nature. More accurate is that he, like Brady, is like the real life version of Austin Powers; Women want to be with him - Men want to be him.

Just stating an honest fact about myself and, as I outlined in the very beginning, I am completely “guilt” ridden by this feeling.

So, wherein lies the “pleasure”?

In the simplest terms; JT is just a cool dude. Sure his music is good, but it is the more recent accolades he has added to his rockin’ resume which make him “must see TV” in my book.

Just a few examples…

•He hosted sports’ version of the Academy Awards - The ESPY’s - a few years back and was hilarious.

•He has been the most anticipated Saturday Night Live host since Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin. (Google: ‘Dick in a Box’ and you will quickly know why.)

•He captured the most memorable moment (as well as Janet Jackson’s right breast) in SuperBowl Halftime History

•Jimmy Fallon & The History of Rap: Parts I, II and III – all You Tube Classics.

•He is a scratch handicap golfer (for your non-golf enthusiasts, that means he is REALLY good and what many of us hackers aspire to be)

•His (rumored) ladies? Britney, Beyoncé, Fergie, Janet (Miss Jackson if your Nasty?), Scarlett, Cameron and The Future Mrs. Sexy Love Sounds, Jennifer Biel. Case closed.


So, while I am admittedly guilty and even slightly weirded out by my fascination, er, I mean interest, in Timberlake, I think I build a fairly compelling case as to why a 37 year old heterosexual, married man with children would be so intrigued?

Sure, I DVR his frequent appearances on Ellen. So what?

Fine, I have seen The Social Network like 8….teen…times.

Regretfully, (and by ‘regretfully’ I mean ‘justifiably’) I yelled at my 5 year old when she accidentally changed the channel during the final ten minutes of Friends with Benefits.

I suppose it is technically possible that I may have taken down a picture from our wedding and replaced it with an 18 x 36” version of his Teen People cover photo. Maybe.

For crying out loud, the man single handedly brought SEXY back to the world!

Go ahead; pass your judgment on me. But, don’t be so quick to…walk away because we all know What Goes Around Comes Around. I just think the guy is someone I may want to hang out with and I am a brave and forthright soul for admitting this to the world.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just purchased the entire Timberlake Collection of his time on The Micky Mouse Club House.

More guilty pleasures to follow…

P.S. Can I Be Frank?: The Book is hopefully on it's way!

Fish Tales

For all you animal lovers, I respectfully warn you of the story you are about to read.

Pets. A cherished addendum to any household. Many pet owners emphatically claim that their pet is truly a member of their family. Pets get their own beds, their own toys and even their own Christmas stockings. Frankly, I think some of you take this a little too far (READ: COO COO), but that is not the point today, folks. Today, I share the reason why my family will likely lead a pet-free existence given what has happened in the past week.

Rewind to Friday, December 23; the day before Christmas Eve. My wife suggested that maybe it is time to get the kids a pet. Due to some serious allergies to dogs and cats, the options were limited and so she suggested we try a fish.

OK, sounds easy enough. A contained, non-hair shedding animal that does not bark, bite or cost a lot of money. I can get on board with one.

“Sounds good, hon. I’ll run out today and take care of it so the kids will have it for Christmas morning.”

And off I go to one of the 5,000 pet stores, not sure which (PetCo? PetSmart?, PetEdge?, Pet & Wild?, Pet Offensive?, Benny & the Pets, Ready, Pet, GO? Pet It Be?, Place Your Pets!?, Heavy Petting?, Don’t Pet Me Down? Live and Pet Be?, Pet Him to the Greek?, ....ok…you get it).

Walk into the store with a very clear mission in mind: quickly identify the simplest, user-friendly fish available. I track down one of the store workers and ask for her help.

“Hi, I am looking for the super basic, easy to take care of fish. It is our first fish and 3 small kids will be trying to take care of it. What do ya got?”

Inside of ten minutes I had a fish – a “Beta” – a tank, food, chemicals and was at the register. Perfect. Mission accomplished. Maybe this will be as easy as it seems?

Safely arrive home. Kids at school. Wife at work. My initial thought was to assemble the tank and get our new friend acclimated to his new home. Open up the box with the tank and all its parts. Pull out the instructions. Oh boy. Little more confusing than I thought. No problem, we will tackle this project later.

So I did what, I thought, any new responsible pet owner would do; I locked him in the dark, cold basement and threw some food in his tank. A few “shakes” (a critical detail of this story) of fish food and I was off to my next errand that day.

Fast forward to dinner time. Everyone home. I whisper to my wife, “I got the fish! Should be all set. We have to set up the tank and then we’re good to go. He is down in the basement so the kids don’t find him before Christmas.”

She applauded my efforts and we carefully snuck down to the cellar so I could make the proper introduction to “Fish” (yeah, no name yet – that’s the kids’ job).

Yep, he’s dead.

After nearly 7 full ours of ownership, our first family pet was gone forever.

While I can not be sure, I am fairly confident that our new addition was murdered.

Well, more like suicide.

A frantic Amy panics and asked me EXACTLY what I did?

“Nothing! I brought him home. Fed him and….”
“How much did you feed him?” she interrupted.
“I don’t know. A few shakes. Not much. Why?”

Apparently these fish only require 3 to 4 PELLETS of food per day. So, my “shake” might have caused our new buddy to take his own life like the ‘Gluttony’ guy from that movie Seven.

Oops. My bad.

OK, time for Plan B.

My idea…we assemble the tank and give it to the kids empty of any fish.
My logic…let them pick out their own pet!

Perfect, right? After about 15 minutes of being berated for my lack of direction-reading, my wife conceded to my idea and agreed this would play well to the kiddos.

Christmas arrives. Kids are very excited about their gifts, especially the new tank where their first pet would reside.

Bravo, Daddy. A well laid plan.

Day after Christmas, I pack up the little ones to head off to the neighborhood pet store (key word being ‘neighborhood’, as you will learn).

Arrive at store and I know EXACTLY what to buy. I lead them to Beta fish section, they make their selection and we are headed home. Once again, an easy purchasing process.

The ‘new’ first pet, safely captive inside a small plastic container, is placed inside my cup holder and we head back home….less than one mile away.

And then…

As we worked our way back to Fish Headquarters I made a call to relay the news to Mom that we had a NEW, NEW pet on route. I glance down to peak at my pal…..Sweet Mother of God…there was a CRACK in the container. Water rapidly leaking into my car and our friend of 11 whole minutes gasping his last breaths

Have I actually murdered two innocent animals inside of 48 hours?

Images of PETA, MSPCA, PAWS and every other animal rights group chasing me like an angry mob flood (no pun intended) my brain.

No time to panic. I hit the gas as the race against time begins.

STAY AWAY FROM THE LIGHT, MAN! WE ARE ALMOST HOME!

Driving like a Columbian drug lord headed for the border I endanger everyone in my path, especially my own children. Pull in the driveway. The fish is now squirming around in the equivalent amount of water as a tear.

Car still running, kids still buckled, I run my little guy in the house. Throw him in that tank and pray for the best.

I am pleased to report that ‘Gil’ is alive and well (Day 9 and counting) today.

That said, I highly suggest that none of you ever ask me to pet sit anytime soon.