Thursday, Apr. 24, 2003 - 4:45 p.m.

The 107th Boston Marathon

Part Two

Friday � April 18th

7:30 a.m. Kitty and I talk marathon while enjoying the pleasantries of American Airlines business class. The CBS Eye on American in-flight program included Celine Dion�s latest and greatest music video, "I Drove All Night" which rightfully became the weekends anthem and many times sung with amended lyrics to fit the mood and spirit of the occasion. For example, during the continual hydration process necessary prior to running a marathon the song quickly became, "I peed all night just to get to you, is that alright?" and "I hydrated all night just to pee on you, is that alright?"

5:00 p.m. EST Mother Bukkake and her chum, Marie, fetched us Logan Airport curbside. By the end of the twenty-five minute ride to the Fairmont Copley Plaza I was actually able to understand a word or two that the Bostonian ladies were speaking. As far as I could tell it was English although a strange variation. It sounded almost as if they were attempting to speak English with unhinged jaws. Some say the people from Boston speak with an accent rich with history and beauty. Huh?

8:30 p.m. After chanting, "I think I can, I think I can" up the stairs of a Backbay elevatorless brownstone building I arrived at the 5th floor apartment of friends TJC and J-me. Joining us for dinner was TJC�s homophobic lawyer friend, Dod. Poor Dod was under the delusions that I held Medusa like powers and if he dared to make eye contact he would turn fag. All through dinner I felt Dod�s malignant discomfort emitting from his every pore. At one point Dod mistakenly thought my foot brushed his and the repercussions from his leap to safety resulted in the overturning of both his wine and water glasses subsequently soaking his crotch ceremoniously ala a catholic priest performing the miracle of turning water and wine into the blood of Christ. Dod, using it as a reminder that sex is a sin if preformed incorrectly. The blatant religious symbolism made me wonder how long it had been since his last collegiate dalliance.

Over the next two days running pal and shopping diva, Corky, dragged me to the marathon expo three times in search of every Boston Athletic Association authorized licensed article of clothing. Watching slack jawed as he purchased numerous T-shirts adorned with such witticisms as "Bahston: This ain�t no tea pahty", "When endorphins run out inner strength kicks in" and "Boston Marathon: It�s wicked awesome."

As we entered the John B. Hynes Convention Center for the third time the entry guard growled, "Leave some merchandise for the others why don�t you." Inevitably trip three was cut short by the declining of Corky�s Amex card. However, after two pairs of running shorts, two short sleeve running shirts, two long sleeve running shirts, one pair running pants, a polar fleece sweat shirt, pair after-running mules, baseball hat, T-shirt after T-shirt completing a balanced array of long and short sleeve it was hard to empathize with his sorrow that Amex had declared enough is enough.

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