Milkshake: Marathon Man

A few nights ago I dreamed that Milkshake competed in and won an all-cat marathon. I am not making this up. The best part of the dream was at the very end of the race, each cat had to locate and enter a hidden hole in a wall and then slide down a chute to cross the finish line. Save for a few panicked moments when he couldn't find the entrance (owners were not allowed to assist), I watched calmly from a distance...glowing with pride as the Milkman slid head first to victory.

So what does this tell us? First of all, it tells us that I am now subconsciously manifesting my athletic competitiveness and running obsession into my cat. Secondly, it tells us that there needs to be a cat marathon.

Milky would fucking rule in the cat marathon game. They say pets can take on the characteristic of their owners, right? Speaking as a runner who, no matter the circumstance, will NEVER let anyone of similar age or fitness run faster or farther than me (this mindset nearly ended my life on a cold two mile-long incline during a 5k in Blowing Rock a few years ago), if he takes on even half of my running psychosis he will be unstoppable feline force of fastness.

I outlined for him an 18-week marathon training regimen that I laid out in detail between his 31 naps yesterday. Cue "Going The Distance" from the Rocky soundtrack and get ready for a kick ass training montage.

2012 Bridgestone NHL Winter Classic: Yes, I Paid $45 For A Cheap Scarf, You Wanna Make Something Of It Chief?

OK, so the first thing I noticed on my trek from downtown Philadelphia to Citizens Bank Park was that good smells of the downtown area end at Broad Street train station. Replacing the warm, comforting aroma of breads, smoked meats and coffee was a cold, stark blend of exhaust fumes, stale urine and damp cement. No wonder the Flyers were nicknamed the "Broad Street Bullies" back in the 70's...if I had to smell that on a daily basis I would want to pound someones face in as well.

The "sports venue express" was more orange than Snookie's skin tone. Jam-packed with Flyers fans...and when I say packed, I mean shoe-horned in like some Japanese commuter train running a lunch special for fried squid eyes. I was surprisingly calm as I sat there taking it all in...alone, clad in my New York Rangers toboggan. There was a young Flyers fan beside me who kept nervously shooting me sideways glances as we bounced along down the track. Evidently, in his eyes, my allegiance to the Rangers was akin to me being a recently paroled axe murderer with an airborne strain of the Ebola virus. Several times he looked down at himself to make sure that no part of his physical being, or Flyers apparel were actually touching me.

Once we reached the station, it was a short thirty-six mile walk to the stadium. This march was made all the more enjoyable by the sub-freezing wind-chill and non-stop group serenade of "FUCK THE RANGERS". In fact, I would guess that never, in the annals of Rangers history, has that particular phrase been uttered as many times as it was that day.

Once at Citizens Bank Park, it was time to explore the Winter Classic Fan Zone! Twenty seconds later I was fed up. This zone should have been called the Winter Classic Fan Cryogenic Misery Queue Zone. Next it was time to get in line at the merchandise tent. There were actually two lines here...one to get in and a separate one to pay. The pay line was, no joke, at least 200 people deep. Now call me crazy, but my desire to purchase a $45 Winter Classic scarf can only be quantified to about a 35 minute wait in the freezing cold Pennsylvania air. The end of this queue was clearly on schedule for a post-game checkout. Couple these factors with my desire to actually watch the game, and the only logical conclusion was simple: break in line. Total damage after successful line break in front of teenage girls and checkout: $151.00

Inventory:
1 Winter Classic Program: $10.00
1 Winter Classic Ticket Holder and Lanyard: $18.00
1 NY Rangers Winter Classic Scarf: $45.00
1 NY Rangers Winter Classic Thermal Shirt: $44.00
1 NY Rangers Winter Classic T-Shirt: $34.00

The cost of both the thermal t-shirt and scarf could be justified as "necessary for survival" as my core body temperature had reached 34 degrees by this point...and only an hour and a half until face-off! It's amazing the lengths the mind will go to in considering warmth. Actual thought: "The bathrooms are heated, I could just occupy a stall. It would be at least 10 minutes before someone gets suspicious enough to intervene."

To kill time I decided to find my seat and watch some of the pregame festivities. My seat was fantastic and included a really handsome, complimentary Winter Classic seat cushion. Once the game was underway, the cold was a non-issue. The the stadium was electric, and the action on the ice was terrific. The usual Rangers/Flyers intensity was ratcheted up a few notches given the magnitude of the event and the intense build-up that the HBO series 24/7 Rangers Flyers: Road To The Winter Classic provided. If you haven't seen it, I suggest you check it out...especially if you are a fan of the game. Short of the playoffs, this was the most important game of the year. After a scoreless first period the Flyers capitalized on a couple of opportunities early in the 2nd to go up 2-0. For some reason I didn't let myself get down at this point. Maybe I could chalk my optimism up to the fact that the Rangers were playing really well and I knew we would break through. Or perhaps it was the Rangers fan in front of me who (very lovingly) took a picture of his beer. While he was snapping it he said out loud to himself, "God I love this fucking phone." Evidently this guy hadn't had much luck taking pictures of his beers with previous phones. Either way, I knew we were coming back. Mike Rupp cut the lead to 2-1 about a minute later, justifying my optimism. That's the way the second period ended 2-1 Flyers.

Snow began to fall at this point, making the scene even more surreal. But the magic of this moment was lost on the 11 year old Flyers fan across the the aisle who was shouting "FUCK THE RANGERS" in 10 second intervals at the joyous approval of his morbidly obese father. The Rangers tied it up early on in the third on Rupp's second tally, and took the lead shortly after when Brad Richards slammed home a rebound. At that instant, section 113 where I was seated erupted in a jumping, screaming, high-fiving fury. The beer photographer and I, who had said almost nothing to each other up to that point, found ourselves in a three-way hug/circle of strangers, wide-eyed and screaming like drunk fraternity brothers who just found an untapped keg of beer. Citizens Bank Park was comparatively quiet for the remainder of the game...at least until the NHL and NBC tried their best to send the game to overtime by awarding the Flyers with a penalty shot with 19 seconds left. But King Henry (goalie Henrik Lundqvist) made the clutch, game-winning save. My joy was unleashed in a torrent a vile obscenities in the face of my 11 year old tormentor across the aisle. Only kidding, of course. The little pussy ran off before I could get to him.

The Flyers fans were actually really great. The ribbing was genuinely good natured and I only witnessed one confrontation that looked a bit nasty. Aside from losing my wallet, the entire trip was an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime affair. The magnitude and coolness of the whole thing is still sinking in. In particular the game, as it was pretty much sensory overload for over five hours.

Thanks Philly!

The city of Philadelphia did a great job hosting the event from every aspect, except having The Roots perform. I would have rather had a root canal than listen to anymore of that shit in the freezing-ass cold. My stay, the hotel and the people I met far exceeded my expectations.

Whew, that was a long post. God I love this fucking phone!

I Left My Heart, ID, Money, Credit Cards and Proof of Insurance in Philadelphia

My forty second year has started off by providing me with tangible proof that my brain functions are in a steady decline. At this rate I should be at Trembling Hills...slumped over drooling in a pool of my own filth...wearing some type of one piece hospital gown in just a matter of hours. Losing your wallet on the way to the airport in Philadelphia, on the train no less, provides one with a number of dilemmas. Especially if every shred of evidence that you exist and every monetary option at your immediate disposal is contained therein.

I discovered that my wallet had gone AWOL while standing in line at the TSA check point in the Philadelphia airport. I wish I could have seen myself at this moment as I'm sure it was comedy gold for the others in line. The panicked full-body self pat down...the mad rummaging of every crevice and cranny of my two carry on bags...the look of pasty terror on my bewildered face. A look probably reminiscent of the time John Olenick peed himself in the first grade when Sister Mary Margaret refused to let him excuse himself to the restroom during circle time.

If given the choice of peeing myself in line or losing my wallet, I'm not quite sure which would choose. Hopefully no one will ever present me with the opportunity to answer that question.

I can be very cool headed in the clutch, so I quickly gathered myself and assessed the situation. I could either remain on the floor crying or just start running and screaming. Luckily, the TSA doesn't allow either so I explained to them what happened, my brow so furrowed you could have planted a crop of corn in the folds. After being handed off to a very pleasant woman, I was taken to a metal desk and told to sit down. She then presented me with a piece of paper and asked me to write my name, address and phone number.

TSA Lady: "You have four names?", she asked.
Me: "Yes, my mothe..." (she interrupted)
TSA Lady: "So Stuart Reid is your middle name?"
Me: "Well, technically that's two names, but I go..."
TSA Lady: "For our purposes today it's your middle name."

Next came five minutes of white-knuckled question and answer as TSA Lady relayed queries from BIG BROTHER on the other end of the telephone. Whoever was on the other end of that phone line knew way, way, way too much information about me, my personal life, and my work history. I half expected her to hang up and say, "Good news is that we've identified you. Bad news is that we've identified you. How do you feel about horizontal stripes?"

Anyway, I got through security without a full cavity search...more easily actually than I could have imagined. I was genuinely surprised that not once did they ask me if I was proficient on the monkey bars. As we all know, all real terrorists are black-shrouded, bad-ass fucking monkey bar ninjas. Not one question! Oh, and the whole time all of this was going on I was on my phone verifying and re-verifying my identity to Wells Fargo bank and Capital One as I cancelled my check card and credit card.


My next problem arose when I arrived in Greensboro and had to get my car out of the parking garage with no money to pay my parking bill. I had actually made a quick mental note of the surrounding area, considering whether or not I could drive my car over a curb. If I didn't love my car so much I might have given it a shot. But instead I had to call a friend, remind them who I was, and get their credit card number so I could pay my $13.50 bill.

Moral of the story: don't lose your wallet on the train on the way to the airport. My guess is that my driver's license has been sold at least three times and I've committed at least one felony in the greater Philadelphia area. It sucks getting old, but I can still rock the monkey bars.

Philly On Phoot: They Built This City On Beef and Donuts

Ok, so Philadelphia loves classic rock. Today during the course of my three hour walk around the shopping district and surrounding downtown areas, the only music I heard was of the classic rock variety. Methinks Bob Seger has his own church somewhere in this city.

Actual conversation I overheard today on the street (no shit):

Girl: "What's the name of that song about the city?" (girl sings nonsense)
Guy 1: "Fool For The City?"
Guy 2: "No, no, no...I know it..." (humming to himself)
Girl: "It's a girl singing..."
Guy 2: "We Built This City On Rock and Roll"
Girl: "YES!"
Guy 1: (singing) "We built this city. We built this city on rock and roll."

I was truly privileged to be privy to such an exchange. I think I was destined to pass them at that point in the afternoon. It explains why I heard Robin Trower's "Day Of the Eagle", Bad Company's "Shooting Star" and Journey's "Loving, Touching, Squeezing" during lunch today. Now although weaned on classic rock, there are times it makes we want to repeatedly stab screwdrivers into my eardrums. Those times are every second of every day, sans one three minute window in the summer when I want to hear Skynyrd's "Tuesday's Gone".

At least they can be somewhat selective in their classic rockiness...other than for purposes of performing the song with my band Plonk!, I have never heard a Robin Trower song over public airwaves in my life. Thank you Philadelphia...if I hear a Humble Pie song at dinner tonight I will be looking for Allen Funt.

Speaking of lunch...the food here rules. Aside from there being a Dunkin Donuts on every street corner - I will have two jellies please - the smells wafting from every corner are enough to turn you into one of those fat Eagles fans you see yelling at the camera, jowls jiggling, every Sunday. The overall aroma is an amazing mix of coffee, bread, various meats and an undercurrent of smoke flavoring. This mix changes a bit depending on where you are, but it's pretty consistent. My burger today was a work of art...


There was also some big parade going on today...a Philly tradition known as the Mummer's Parade. I found this info online:

Local clubs (usually called "New Years Associations") compete in one of four categories (Comics, Fancies, String Bands, and Fancy Brigades). They prepare elaborate costumes and moveable scenery, which take months to complete. This is done in clubhouses, many of which are located on or near 2nd Street in the Pennsport neighborhood of South Philadelphia, which also serve as social gathering places for members.

It was actually pretty cool as far as parades go I guess. I watched about 20 seconds worth, which is about double the lifetime quotient of parade watching for any normal, functioning human being. Here, I even snapped a picture of it's noisy, parade-y, weirdness:

The game time tomorrow has been moved to 3pm because the brainiacs of NHL Operations couldn't forsee the chance of sunlight at 1pm in the afternoon. No big deal though, more exploring tomorrow and extra time to sleep in as I have found an absinthe bar three blocks away.

Off for some dinner and cocktails. Cue the Bob Seger.

Hockey New Year! Hello Philadelphia, I Defy Your Brown Juice

Well, right now I'm sitting on an USAirways Express flight from Greensboro, NC to Philadelphia, PA. Destination: the 2012 Bridgestone Winter Classic game between the New York Rangers and the Philadelphia Flyers.

If you know anything about me, you know that the Rangers are pretty much my lifelong maddening obsession. I can say for sure that the Broadway Blueshirts made a sizeable contribution to the demise of my second marriage. So even more reason to love them!

My first thoughts today are primarily regarding being a solo Rangers fan in the "City of Brotherly Love". So loving in fact, Philly fans shower opposing players in their love in the form of batteries hurled at their heads. So, if I live to tell, this experience should be amazing.

The trip has been smooth so far. And aside from going full-retard and leaving my phone in the car...I realized this while trying to check in at the gate...all is proceeding as planned. Yes, I made an OJ Simpson sprint back to my car (minus the brutal, double homicide) to get my phone.

The most interesting thing about this flight so far is that the co-pilot must be in training as we keep making these completely random, sweeping, banked turns. There's also a guy on here who has "woman hands". Creepy.

On the train to downtown now...brown mystery liquid on the floor. Eyes forward, breathing out of the mouth only. Evidently the piercing, soul-deafening alarm that was sounding when I exited the train at Suburban Station was not normal. I just overheard that there was a fire in elevator shaft B on Track 12 and that the crullers today are a bit dry.

Just got to my hotel, which is really great. Perfectly situated for sightseeing, shopping, dining and mad panicked dashes from the train station with angry Flyers fans in tow.

Unfortunately, I get to sit in the lobby waiting for a room to be available as I arrived a mere six hours before check in. The manager, who looks like a cross between a short Madonna and slightly more feminine Frank Zappa, has been very accomodating. She only appeared mildly annoyed when I asked her to help me kill some time by performing an acapella medley of Like A Virgin/Let's Make The Water Turn Black. So for now I will watch Bill Clinton bowl on television.