Roads, Mills, Laps

I’m interviewing Fam (Anthony Famiglietti) most likely this week next Monday.

Any questions?

http://www.runfam.com/

My Landice L-8 treadmill is broken. As I’ve written before, I can get it to run in Commodore 64 mode: pushing several buttons together at the same time, but I get no pace feedback or elevation options. I get no fancy stuff: no good times workouts. I have to run on it using my oven’s timer and can’t gauge my mileage.

Normally, this wouldn’t justify me wasting my time writing to a bunch of Googlelost Austrians–Tyrolean hat-wearing music lovers–who are out scanning the Web for more news about the unfortunate passing of a like-named DJ.

But then there’s that potentiometer debacle….

You see, it’s impossible to get my treadmill repaired–IMPOSSIBLE. The major Landice dealer in the greater Philadelphia region, Lifestyles Fitness, had recently gone belly up. All other dealers say that if it didn’t come from them, then tough shit buddy.

If anyone knows how to change out a grade potentiomenter on a Landice L8, please let me know. I have rubber, Doctor Frankenstein-appropriate, gloves, a voltmeter, and a box of rusted tools. I was also once a Ham radio operator, but have since reverted to my former self–reversing the white and black wires on my chandelier and blowing out the main breaker on one such occasion. I like to shove electric things where they appear to fit, shake them when they don’t turn on, and leave them alone for a year when they get wet.

Does anyone speak Finnish?

For reasons outlined in my note auf halb Deutsch below, my site stats increased dramatically in the past two days. We’re talking from 200 unique IPs to 3000.

The sad thing is that, until this posting, I had nothing to say to these folks. Much to the disappointment of some of my sworn enemies, I’m not the guy who died and, as such, I probably shouldn’t be consulted on the unfortunate event: I do have my own appointment in death’s book, though.

I’ve only been to Austria once: a week-long ski junket in the Tyrolean Alps spent as a wayward teen; a festive time, a careless time when I milked my lavish (lush)-for-a-Rotarian pseudo host father, for as much fondue and kirsch schnapps as possible; a time when I flew into wooden beam at 100 miles an hour and waved off the medical helicopter because future army men got to LIVE with broken ribs and just deal with shit quietly–British-officer-with-swagger-stick-like.

I’m not a DJ. I don’t say things like, “It’s a grand morning,” or “Now sit back, sip your coffee, and relax to this eclectic track by Pink Floyd.” Ahh you Austrians, bah! You love your Pink Floyd–your Queen too.

I don’t know how to mix records; I can’t rattle off the Stones’ 1000 albums verbatim or wax nostalgic about the time when Bowie darkened my studio dressed, androgynously as always back in his Ziggy Stardust days, in a plastic Lippanzaner stallion costume.

When I think about Austria (particularlly Vienna), I suck my thumb and think of Freud; I also recall recently reading one of Irving’s tedious short stories buried within the The World According to Garp: Pension Grillparzer .

And of course there was that bra-wearing bloke who, in the final miles, stripped me of 3rd place in the San Francisco Marathon back in the day.

Was noch?

Well since I have your attention, let me try to propagandize:

1. If you’re depressed or angry with your life, take up running. (The repeated generation of lactic acid tends to make things even better!)

2. Now that you’ve taken up running, don’t become beholden to jazz-hand/money-maker charlatans like Dean “Evel” Kraznarkzes. Don’t buy his book; don’t join his movement; don’t fawn over him when you watch him wave for the cameras as he pushes a terminally ill running friend across the Golden Gate Bridge; don’t open your mouth at his Today Show stunts–his Karnevel shenanigans; don’t follow that Pied Pieper of Hamlin (which happens to be kinda close to Austria) into the cave where he will shake you down for your hard-earned Geld.

3. Become a purist and a minimalist and a skeptic.

4. Study the great battles fought in the Tyrolean Alps in WW1–not very well known these days; lots of dead people for no real reason.

5. Read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. When you get to the grifters, the Duke and the King, re-read #2.

6. The running world has a lot of grifters, parasites that infest tents where you are to pick up your race-day bib: people who con you into buying nostrums or their aggrandizing books in exchange for supposed good feelings and fast times. Avoid them: Your fast times are in your head and legs.

7. If you come to the states and are unfortunate enought to have to fly Southwest Airlines, log in 24hrs before your flight and print out your seat–otherwise your skinny Austrian ass will sit between two stereotypically American beasts.

8. Don’t bring cowbells to a race over here; don’t say “Hop-Hop!” and certainly don’t paint your face. Marathon fans are practically nonexistent in America. We don’t follow anything other than football, baseball, and NASCAR

9. Do they have dollar stores in Austria? I suppose you’d call them Euro stores. Well anyway, they sell gloves in dollar stores over here. Buy them; they are great to run with in the winter. They also sell former Attorney General John Ascroft’s first book AND Chinese-made Bible games and activity books. Oh the irony!

10. Put another shrimp on the barbee mate!

Gestern, habe Ich gelesen dass ein Mann der Ich die gleiche Name habe, ist gestorben. Vor ein paar Jahren hat er mir geschriebt und sagte dass es ironisch ist genau die gleiche Name zu teilen. Ich bekunde sein ‘Radio Fans’ und seine Familie mein Beileid.

Up recently from its lair in my dank, Pompeian basement, my Landice L8 treadmill was put to use tonight.

And it failed.

It gave me some oddball warning–something about grade potentiometer out of range or some such malarkey. So I did what I had to do: I Googled the error code and got back tips that involved voltimeters, socket sets, rubber gloves, telephone wire, amperes and wattage. So I just unscrewed the thing and Googled “reset L8 treadmill.” I got some help. You see, I’ve been running on it in diagnostic mode. (pressing “Start” and “Display” at the same time). It’s similar to trying to navigate your way around a computer using DOS. I’ve got no timer or track of mileage. In fact, I timed my run tonight using my oven’s timer. I don’t know the mileage, but do know the speed: a desperate 8.5mph.

About 10 minutes into this little ramshackle adventure, my treadmill started making this weird noise. It sped up and then the entire treadmill lurched forward–as if it were going to throw me through my porch wall.

Turns out, my purple Swiss ball–my trusted friend from days past–got caught under it. It didn’t deflate, it just bent in half, sent me forward, and then blew out the back of my treadmill like an ill-placed potato in the tailpipe of an enemy’s car.
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All things are sports franchise again, now that we’ve entered into pigskin timez; all things are NFL jerseys and drunken stumblers–all things swine. Yesterday, West Chester hosted a restuarant festival. It’s kind of a tradition round here for people to wear Eaglez jerseys and walk around various bars with plastic cups full of Yuengling.

People wear jerseys with names like Raymond or Howard or Kinders on the back. Women wear pink ones; men wear mostly green ones but there is an occasional visiting team jersey or even a limited-edition jersey with a big picture of a sucker on the front and a dollar sign on the back. On the sleeves is a Rebus, that spells out WASTE OF TIME using a transhcan and an old father time-type guy–an aged figure with a long beard wearing an old times nightshirt–bent down with a cane staring in front of a television set.

Priests and Deacons ’round here insert Eagles references and jokes into their homilies, about how if Jesus could walk with McNabb for a minute he’d…or if Jesus called the play he’d..HAR-HAR! [The congregation chuckles because they get it; they’ve got their church-appropriate jerseys on, the button-down ones.]

Aint it funny how the sports franchises LOVE to say how much they are doing for the schools? At some inner city schoosl, I’ve been told by teachers that I know that you get to wear Eaglez shirts on certain days a little Eagle makes an appearance, rallying the downtrodden kids. Besides the pledge, the kiddies learn the “Fly Eaglez fly” song. Donovan McNabb makes random appearances. Camera men accompany him as he drives up in his Benz; they film him signing autographs and flippin’ burgers in the cafeteria. He hams it up with the suited Eagle guy. Good times and jazz hands are at hand; all is made better because of the Eaglez. They galavanize William Penn’s beloved city; they hand out big checks and get those little fatherless/motherless kiddies to want to grow up and someday become .0001% of the population where they can drive Benzes and live in big-time mansions with lots of things.

I was in the middle of Eagle stupor when I was running last night. My unfortunate route took me through the dung heap that was West Chester’s restaurant festival at 7pm; when it was just over–when the streets were littered with beer cans, pieces of cheese fries, vomit and painted black with hops-smelling streaks of urine; when stumbling fat men were wearing traffic cones on their heads and trying to to get their bimbo gals to kiss each other Girlz-gone-wild-like.

I write all this because I had to pass through this shit-lined sewer at about 7:00 pace. Conehead ran in front of the street and tried to catch me, his arms all sloppy, his shoes untied, his oversized Eaglez jersey flapping. Ha-ha, ah those are some fun times there. Ah, let’s fuck with a runner now that the game’s over; we’ve only been screaming at a television set all Goddamn day shoving wings down our gullet, thinking we are part of something we are not–thinking we are tribal, thinking we’re part of something big: a money racket, a cult, a modern-day replacement for nationalism…flags, blood lust, uniforms, generals calling the shots, rivalries, war: smashmouth violence.

So here’s to you barbarian conehead. Good job; glad you can’t see the angle. Glad you’re stuck in that vortex of conformity, may it suck you down, may it turn your liver into an object worthy of a Bodyworldz glass case: a holey, sponge-like organ that, when squeezed, pours out a soupy concotion of Yuengling and bile. May you spend all your worker-in-a-Bruce Springsteen-ballad money on Eaglez seats, banners, trading cardz, face paint, and other franchise paraphanalia ; may you waste fossil fuels driving your recline o’liner across the blessed plain in pursuit of sitting on your ass all day rooting for a cartoon–a group of spoiled-rich, charity-faking primadonnas and their richer white owner who thank you–to the bank–for your stupidity.

First you must watch this!

Wolf Parade’s Electricity at the Electric Factory: Shredded Vocal Chords? Blown Ear Drums? Sign Me Up!

I’m sitting down a week later trying to piece together the doctor-like handwriting, the seemingly random scribbles in my black moleskin notebook. I took down many names and recorded many stories that night; I had a good time doing it. That’s evident, because the phrase “good time” is the most easily translatable—appearing more than any other in all that gibberish.

On July 30th, I covered the Canadian band Wolf Parade concert at the Electric Factory on North 7th Street in Philadelphia. I got a free ticket as a member of the press and was provided a plastic triangular sticker. Someone had written those words “press pass” on the sticker using a thick-tipped Sharpie.

Before the concert, I met up with a group of newly made friends (Lydia, Anne, Char, and Dominic). We headed first to the Abbaye, a local watering hole in Northern Liberties. Inside the bar, a balding DJ played vinyl records on an ancient turntable using a 3000X mixing board. His name was Becker; he played an eclectic mix of 80s music. I asked him if he was excited about the concert.

“What concert?” he asked.

“Wolf Parade,” I said.

It was loud in there.

“Who?”

“Wolf Parade!”

From that moment on, I used a lot of exclamation points. It was loud that night. I used too many of them—to the point of losing my voice.

After a few beers, we left Becker and his antediluvian turntables and drove to the Electric Factory. I got my ticket and my unofficial-looking sticker and was then frisked by meaty men waving beeping wands. We arrived a bit late. The opening band, Wintersleep had just finished. People—mostly college kids–were mingling; buying tee shirts and drinks–making small talk about Wintersleep’s mellow set. To the right of the entrance was a metal stairway heading up to the bar. We showed our IDs and approached the bar. We were handed cold beer in plastic cups in exchange for five-dollar bills.

Before we could enjoy my drink, the lights dimmed; the crowd roared. In the shadows on the stage, I could make out shapes moving; skinny men slinging guitars; a drummer adjusting his seat; a roadie, bent over double running across the stage with wires in his hands like a giant church mouse. The crowd chanted. A few wayward voices rose above the din, hollering song requests at the half-invisible men on stage.

And then bright lights (shining as bright as a Boeing 707’s landing lights) shone down on the crowd. Wolf Parade began to play their first song “You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son.” I handed my beer to my friends and reached for my notebook. “Got to go downstairs; got to get in the front to cover this properly,” I said excitedly.

I worked my way to the front. Kids bouncing their heads up and down let me through. I didn’t say much and hoped that they’d see my odd-looking triangular press pass. I got to there and turned around.

“WOULD YOU MIND BEING INTERVIEWED FOR THE PAPER?” I screamed at a young kid with long hair and many piercings.

“WHAT PAPER?”

“TREND—CHESTER COUNTY EDITION!” I screamed.

“OK!”

I hurriedly scribbled down the kid’s name: Alex. He told me that he was a Drexel college student. Just behind me, Wolf Parade’s guitarist and co-singer, Dan Boeckner, thrummed on his guitar and blared into the microphone. Every time he sang something, he closed his eyes. His hair shook while he plucked the guitar’s strings. He was passionate and intense; he had several tattoos on his long arms. To his right of him, the bassist, Dante DeCaro played and nodded.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?” I asked.

“BECAUSE THEY ROCK! I LOVE THEM!” Alex screamed with cupped hand into my ringing ear.

I nodded and gave him a big thumb’s up. A small mosh pit began to form beside me. Wolf Parade played louder. The drums beat; Boeckner strummed. DeCaro walked around in circles, holding his bass down low. One of the keyboardists, fellow lead singer Spencer Krug poked at his synthesizer. He played the opening to the band’s magnum opus, “Soldier’s Grin,” from their new album At Mount Zoomer. The crowd erupted. I was thrown into the mosh pit and carefully fished my way out of it.

I started firing off questions at people:

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” (I thought I heard “Kyle.”) “TELL ME ABOUT WOLF PARADE, KYLE!”

“IT’S MILES.”

“SORRY! TELL ME ABOUT WOLF PARADE KYLES!”

“MILES I SAID!”

“OK MILES!” I screamed while feverishly scribbling in my little moleskin notebook.

Miles’ older brother had introduced him to the band. A woman to his left, Lauren, was from South Jersey and had discovered them from a mix tape. A person, Christian, liked them for their “unique sound.”

The band played around ten songs, and then thanked everyone—bowing and waving. Behind me, the crowd begged for an encore. The lights dimmed. It looked like the concert was really over. But we were tricked; the landing lights came on again and out walked the boys from Canada for one last song. I retreated from the mosh pit and snapped images with my camera—going so far as to tape a 10-second video segment replete with hundreds of flying arms and hands.

Boeckner slammed his hand down one last time in perfect timing with the dimming of the spotlights and then it was really over. After the band left, you could feel the heat coming off the stage; it was like the exhaust from an 18-wheeled semi. As the drummer left, he threw his sticks wantonly. People scrambled after them as if they were chasing Barry Bond’s home run ball.

Sam, a self-described Wolf Parade fanatic was beside me. He reached his hands out and caught a flying piece of paper that one of the roadies had tossed: the band’s set list. I had him show me it. It was full of scribbled names on wrinkled paper; it must have been in someone’s pocket for a long time. If it were on the street, it would be trash, but in the Electric Factory, it was as good as gold. Sam held the paper in the air and a group of us praised him with hosannas. We were ushered out by impatient, black-shirted security guards.

After a few post-concert, vegan friendly snacks at the retro-looking Silk City Diner we headed home. Our last decision that night—a decision faced by many of Chester Country residents–was a fateful one. Our conversation went like this:

“Should we take I-95 or the Schuylkill?”

“Let’s take the Schuylkill. There can’t be traffic at 2am.”

“I don’t know. I’ve run into traffic at 3am before.”

We took the Schuylkill; it was a mistake.

“Let’s not take the Schuylkill next time,” I said.

Despite this setback, my mid-week adventures as the Electric Factory watching an up-and-coming band were well worth it and something I highly recommend. The price of admission was reasonable: $22. And you never know, you may get sucked into a mosh pit and actually enjoy yourself.

I did.

I’m down at the Delaware beach right now. I made some sort of ridiculous resolution: I decided today at the spur of the moment to run for exactly 2:00 down the length of Bethany Beach, past Fenwick Island, ending up along the busy tee shirt and shell store-lined streets of Ocean City, Maryland. True to my, devil-may-care running preparatory tendencies, I just shot down the strand heading west for 1:00 and wherever I ended up, figured I’d turn around and battle my way back to my starting location. I didn’t bring any water (I’m still Siddartha-esque despite my average of 1.4 miles over the course of 13 months.) I didn’t bring gels or gus or gummi bears.

You see, there are these people that fish in the ocean. Through some mad loophole in the blue state’s law, they are allowed to drive their monstrous trucks right up to the water’s edge, get out, stick big rods into the sand and set up a little get down. They fly big flags–American, confederate, and NASCAR. They drive vampire-killing-sized stakes into the sand and chain their foaming, sadly abused mongrels to them and then they drink beer–lots of watered down, hoe down beer. They sit in throne-like lawn chairs with cozy holes augured out of their arms–their hairy paunches sticking out–and make idle chit-chat about Bobby Engram beating Boober Flakenhurst at the HOME DEPOT 500. Their mulleted kin wander aimlessly around the beach–throwing footballs, maiming fast-retreating aquatic life, and wrastlin’ with each other as if they were in the back of pappy Jenkins’ rusted truck up on blocks out behind the trailer.

From afar while approaching them bobbing along at a pathetic 7.5mph clip on the hard, wet part of the beach, the part where the sandpipers zip along with their little feet;the part closest to the approaching waves, these folks look like aliens to me–a Mad Max crowd of rowdies; a beach-bound trailer park; a circus–no, a carnival. I expect drunken babes atop fat shoulders flashing me; I expect Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring; I expect entire rows of missing teeth; dirty cutoff jeans; and lumpy, tattooed bodies with buttcracks and back hair.

Whatever, to each his own as they say, but they horde the beach and so it is not to each his own! It is to be written about! It is worth the spite; trust me. These are me-me, land-grabbing, love-it-or-leave it barbarians.

To run down the public beach towards the surfcasting crowd–to approach them properly–one has to remove one’s shades in order to spot the location of their flagpole-sized surfaster’s monofilament line; you have to gird yourself–expecting to be called a faggot at any moment; you with your shirt off and your short, faggoty shorts that expose the strangest of leg hair and the whitest of flesh. Their fishing lines run high–for the most part. Some are untended, though–left to the drifting tides, sagging and limp–ignored by the worst of the surfcasters as they heckle and thump their chests while tearing off sections of grilled meat with one hand and pumping vapid beer into their gullets with the other. Smoke from convenience store cigarillos wafts into your face; music–Bob Seger and Springsteen; dopey ballads sung by that lowbrowed countryboy Napoleon, Kenney Chesney–play in your ears and sear holes into your medulla oblongata.

Their flags flap proudly, you see, because these proud Americans are there to catch big American fish–big, fleshy fish; angry fish; territorial fish. The surfcasters love so much about America–the flag is so much theirs–that they feel OBLIGATED to bring them to their fishing spots in order to ward off any foreign invaders–any devils or terrorists arriving in wooden junks or gunmetal gray destroyers or old Spanish man o’wars on those sacred shores to lay claim to their public beach. American surfcasters are their to tell you that no prisoner will be left behind in Vietnam–even now; and that nobody races better than Bobby Engram, number 8 (Bobby Engram Sr.: may he rest in peace.) American fish; American prisoners of war; American cars driven by chaw-chewing good ole’ American boys that can push their feet down on a metal pedal and turn a plastic steering wheel better than the rest of ‘em.

And as for the the fish–those supposed objects of their profligate pursuit: I never saw one caught–never even saw a line dip and shake. I just saw empty bottles, plastic sacks stuck on shafts of dune grass blowing in the wind, snarling dogs, mullets, piles of half-empty white Styrofoam containers (with red hamburger blood pooled in their bottoms), and big, idling trucks dripping oil down onto that proud American beach.

I obviously didn’t enjoy the beach during that segment of the run: I was on guard; I expected to be closelined at one moment and the heckled the next. Running this gauntlet made me cringe and so I ran up and behind them and their trucks and their dogs and their kids; I ran on the snow-like sand, my legs giving away with every step.

And then I gave up entirely and crossed over the grassy dunes–running along the side of the hot, asphalted road where jeeploads of teenagers yelled out various har-har things just as they passed me (you know, in order to pull the old “scare the runner” trick?).

1:00 came and I ran back.

A few “faggots” and other drunken catcalls later, I was back on my bike (a beach cruiser)–riding west again, chasing the setting sun, wearing no shirt, no socks, carrying no towel or bottle of water–just living and running pure again.

The Frank Shorter-era treadmill that I was running on today got stuck every 1K or so. It would go from 8.6mph to 9.5mph to 4.5mph. The first time it happened to me, it nearly threw me into the flabby arms of the sweaty man who was huff-huffing away on the exercise bike behind me. Pretty soon I figured out the pattern. When it was going to hiccup on me, I would jump into the air and let it do it’s shitting underneath me while I floated above it, hovering like Bob Beamon in the pristine, mile-high Mexico City air.
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Good watch: Fam’s steeple qualifier this weekend. Even better: his buck-the-system comments about NOT wanting to pursue the American dream–about wanting to seek a life outside maximizing comfort position.

Good watch as well: the woman’s Oly Marathon. I watched it starting about the 10K mark. As soon as the TV warmed up and I saw the lead pack, I was like “Where the hell is Deena?” Throughout the whole race, I was consulted as to how it was going to unfold.

About 20K into it I said something dopey this: “Tomescu is a nut; this is not how you run a race.”

25K: “She’s going to get caught and dusted; just you wait and see.”

30K: “She’s stupid; here comes the chase pack.” I then clapped my hands slowly together and said, “Boom! Like that.”

35K: “She’s going to win the race.”

I was then asked why my opinion suddenly changed. “Her form; she looks strong. Look at it; it’s all intact. The chase pack is a mess.”

I was then asked by a non-runner, a casual observer, why I originally said it was stupid to run from the front like that. I was then asked what made me change my mind and why I got the whole race wrong. I suddenly felt confronted. The expert in the room was a boob.

“I guess I haven’t run a race in so long I forgot,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“You should stick to print interviews and not branch out into live coverage of running,” I was told.

40K mark.

“Look there’s Catherine Ndereba! I interviewed her! Isn’t that cool?” I exclaimed, changing the subject.

Bad watch: pretty much the rest of the show. Worst: Phelps’ mother blabbing for 10 minutes about ADHD and her poor gold-medal-winner-of-a-sad-sack-for-a-son.

I despise the ubermasculine announcers–that one guy with the bulging carotid arterial veins and the $1000 coiffure. I want skinny, Tim Broe-type guys and gals to announce the track and field results to me: a former distance runner. I don’t want a shot putter or a guy who undoubtedly DVRs NFL pre-season football games while he’s out of country telling me about the Bekele making his move at the 6500-meter mark as if he knew anything about what it means to say “67-second to 57-second quarters.”

I don’t want the Flying Tomato making a cameo with his zits and his peyote-stained teeth; I don’t want babbling in-studio guests like the President of America stumbling over his spoon-fed lines about South Ossetia. I want them all to disappear. I want NBC to pack up the 10,000 experts in their air conditioned vans and hand the broadcasting reigns over to the Canadian Broadcasting Company. When I last watched their Olympic coverage a long time ago, it was 24hrs and CSPAN-esque; it had no soundtracks–no cheesecloth. It was pure Olympics.

Around 9 last night, I found myself with a handful of Bethany Beach fudge in my mouth. I had been watching the $40M opening ceremonies. I mumbled (bragged?) to members of my extended family that there was a chance that I had actually spoken to one of the hard-working athletes who were parading in front of the cameras at that very moment (the U.S. contingent had just entered the stadium). I half expected to see Ryan Hall or Nick Symmonds on the screen; I half expected to jump up and down and say that I have their voice still on my Best Buy/Nixonian digital tape recorder. Even when the South African team walked on, I half expected to see Ramaala or when it was Kenya’s turn, Catherine the Great. I expected something to raise my fudge finger in the air at.

No.

I got nothing. I am fully accustomed to disappointment at this stage of my life and I should have expected it then.

When it was time for team ‘Merica to walk into the limelight, the cameraman was obviously an NBA fan, because we got to see the redeem team for an unusually long amount of time. We got to see Kobe Bryant, strutting like an ostrich, snapping his gum–all relaxed; his arms limp at his side, awaiting a basketball to be thrown to him at any moment; awaiting to “take it the hole.” We got to see Bob Costas’ band of merry Olympic celebrities, the NBC cast of superheroes who we will be constantly reminded of throughout the Olympiad: Phelps, Gay etc. (Remember that zany Flying Tomato 2 years ago?) And the “redeem team:” Let us never forget these under-covered, distinguished giants. They don’t get on TV that much, so we should zoom in on them and let them be actors, playing the chewing gum-chewing Americans in some unpublished Bertolt Brecht play about ugly American stereotypes.

Lord God, creator of all that is good and just, bless us with a Chicom Gold for the redeem team, because first-place medals belong in the wide palms of superstar American professionals. And the Chicom gold-plated basketball coach whistles belong the mouths of the rooster-strutting Coach Normand Dale types who’ve always got a life-changing proverb at the tip of of their tongues.

We Americans love our sprinters–hot damn do we or what? We love to hover around the track for 9 point whatever-it-is-these-days seconds and then going on to doing something else. We never love to wait for anything; we like Fast Pass and reset buttons. We love on/off switches and instant results. We hate chess matches and marathons. We don’t wait well. In high school and college, we especially love footballs, 4th down-and-10 situations, and warm hot dogs in our mouths on crisp fall nights. We don’t like counting out 8 laps for the 2-mile event. We’ve been accustomed to call anything where little skinny people flail for more than a minute around a dusty track “faggoty.” Real men thump their chests like apes, take knees at the edges of 100-yard fields of glory, and motivate men while looking like Phil Cowher. “Faggots” wear short shorts, expose their rib cages, and run a lot for no real real reason.

You know Costas himself reminded us fudge chewers last night that the world fastest human is a Jamaican man named Bolt. I corrected him from my angry perch, but he didn’t hear me. I said screamed (with pieces of brown sugar lard dripping on the floor) something like “He is the world’s fastest accelerator at 100 meters! He is not the world’s fastest sustained runner at 5000, 10,000, or 42,195M! Is Bolt the world’s most efficient fat converter? HE IS NOT!” Ah damn them all–injustice will always sit on us American distance runners like the weight of a suit of Gothic plate armor.
———–
Two other great and terrible American broadcasting moments from last night:

1. Costas joking about the Central African Republic when it was time for their one athlete to march on. It struck me as somewhat arrogant. He chortled–reminding us Americans (ourselves completely ignorant about geography) that it is a republic in central Africa. I wanted to say, “And the United States are a bunch of states that are united–hardee-fucking-har!”

2. The infamous Sesame Street moment: Some China expert telling me and the 100 million tear-dripping Cracker Barrel grandmas about the Chinese belief in Chi: describing it thusly “It’s a force that runs through everything–including me and you!”