Monday, Nov. 04, 2002 - 5:39 p.m.

Wednesday � October 30th

6:15 a.m. As I reach to turn off the alarm clock I am instantly reminded that my back is still out on strike. I�m convinced it�s really my knees, feet and ankles banning together and somehow blackmailing my back into being the scapegoat of unwillingness to run the NYC Marathon on Sunday. Either way I have no choice but to blow off the gym and with great effort gingerly roll over and go back to sleep.

11:00 a.m. Chiropractor. Maybe it just needs an adjustment.

12:00 p.m. Therapy. Maybe it�s psychosomatic.

1:00 p.m. Lunch. Maybe it�s hungry.

3:00 p.m. Massage. Maybe it just needs to be rubbed out.

5:00 p.m. Doctor: Maybe it needs an anti-inflammatory

7:00 p.m. Rite Aid Pharmacy. Maybe it�s gonna get some Vicadin.

Thursday � October 31st

9:00 a.m. I lie in bed very still and very sad as my scheduled flight to New York departs without me.

10:30 a.m. Arrive at the office. I speak with The Boss on the phone. He seems to be in a particularly humorless mood. I pray he�s not dieting again. As his foul attitude escalates I half expect and half hope the shrill of his voice to burst the tender and delicate veins in my ear canal preventing me from having to listen to today�s tirade of nonsense about how liberals have single handedly destroyed his right for his son to get a decent education in a $20,000 per year private school for troubled youths.

10:48 a.m. Went home to pack for New York.

12:35 p.m. Arrive at LAX and am quickly ticketed, x-rayed, scanned, boarded and seated in a beautiful upgraded bulk head inside aisle business class seat of an American Airline 767 headed to Gotham.

Friday � November 1st

10:30 a.m. Moved from the bed to the couch.

7:15 p.m. Having spent most of the day lying around the hotel room and wondering whether I�m just being a big baby about not running Sunday or whether I�m a huge idiot to even consider it I decided to take a shower and meet up with friends.

9:46 p.m. While at dinner, with Miss Kitty Bukkake and her Mr S, Kitty says the impossible. She pulls a well-orchestrated miracle from her Dennis Miller hat of brilliance and nonchalantly interjects into the conversation an apropos Tova Borgnigne reference with the skill of an ancient Catskill master. Kitty B has once again proven herself in yet another arena to be second to none.

Saturday � November 2nd

11:30 a.m. Joined T-Tot and his wife, Leenie, for brunch. Laughed so hard that the waiter and busboy had to lower me to the floor while I waited for my back seizure to subside. Watching T-Tot and Leenie is like being able to watch happiness.

3:00 p.m. Kitty B and I arrived at Day Spa G for an hour of good ol�fashion Russian massage. I promise to come back and share more details once I�m able to face them.

Sunday � November 3rd

11:15 a.m. Hopped up on painkillers that may cause drowsiness and caffeine pills that may or may not counteract the drowsiness of the painkillers Kitty Bukkake, J-Mo, Corky and I cross the Staten Island starting line of the New York City Marathon.

2:05 p.m. Pulled into the First Aid Station complaining of horrific lower back spasms. As Urethra, the volunteer physical therapist, helps stretch my screaming aching body she tells me she can actually feel the rapid contractions of my lower back muscles. Urethra asks, "How long have you been in pain?" I reply, "Since Monday." "We�ve got to get you to a hospital." She states with grave concern. "A hospital?" I ask. "Yeah, Bellevue. Cause you�re nuts. What�s wrong with you running a marathon with a fucked up back! All you crazy white boys out there trying to kill yourselves. You don�t see brothers out there�" Before she had a chance to bound me to the stretcher with surgical tape I said my good-byes and joined the thousands of other marathoners on the long and lonely road to personal glory why all the while hearing Urethra screaming after me, "Urethra�s trying to knock some sense into you, fool!"

4:15 p.m. Five hours, four bottles of water, three Power Bars, 3 1/2 Vicadin, two first aid stations, one bruised ego and 26.2 miles later I arrive at the finish line of my 6th marathon to receive the ugliest most lamely ridicules cheap ass medal I�ve ever seen along with a piece of ultra thin space-aged tinfoil colored saran wrap that�s supposed to keep you warn in New York in November in 40 degree weather with a wind chill that makes it seem more like 30 degree weather while so drenched in your own retched stinking sweat that you�re afraid to collapse in a blubbering heap on anything or anyone softer than asphalt for fear of icing over and not being able to get home in time to eat as much Ben & Jerry�s Ice Cream as you possibly can before your whacked out metabolism rights itself.

4:45 p.m. Fuck! In my Vicadin induced runners state of dazedness I fricken bought Cherry Garcia frozen fricken yogurt instead of the real deal. Damn me!

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