I am hereby publishing a joke I wrote a year and a half ago. I think it is pretty good, and as far as I can tell, original. Here goes:

Why did god give men nipples? So that when they get old, they know when to stop pulling their pants up.

From time to time, I get a little bored in my job.

I don't talk about work much on this blog, so let me disclose: I am a server at a great, Michelin rated restaurant here in LA, and we are fortunate to have some of the best food in the US, let alone LA. We are lucky enough to have stayed busy (knock on wood) throughout the economic downturn, I am still making decent money, and I work with great people. Really, it's a great job.

Nevertheless, as all of us do with any job, I get bored. The thing I can count on more than anything to keep it fresh is that I never know what customers will decide to let out of their mouths that day. For the most part, I have heard it all.
That being said, last night I heard something even I couldn't believe:

Int Night: Table of four attractive women, conspicuously wearing designer clothes, b/w 35 and 45, kinda Milfy. Drinks and menus on the table. Adam returns to take the order.

Adam: "Ladies-"
Woman #1, animated, to her girlfriends, ignoring waiter who is clearly present and listening: "...Which is why, I SWEAR, I will never have another Jewish husband!"

(That sentence alone is pretty remarkable. Wanting to neutralize the situation, and as I typically do so with with humor, I said the following:)

Adam "Wow. Well, you know what, neither will I."

(Please note: This is not because I am anti-semitic, really I am very pro-jew, but because I don't ever want a husband. I'm straight. That's the joke, and they laughed. But since I am a white american straight male, I will make the following qualification: In General, I really like Jewish people, with the exception being loud, stinky, obnoxious 20 yer old Israeli tourists who do things like, for example, repeatedy scream "Yankee, you're a pooosy! Drink!" in a hotel lobby in La Paz, but for the most part, I am the farthest thing from Anti-Semitic. Nobody be an over-sensiitive idiot and accuse me of being bigoted, which is clear to rational America that I am not. So let's move on.)

Women#2, #3, #4: "hahahaha"
[short beat]
Women #1, now even more animated and raising her voice a bit "Seriously, you know what, he wouldn't fuck me enough! I'm serious, He wouldn't want to fuck me NEARLY enough! He was a great father, a good friend, a great person, but he never wanted to fuck! You know what? I want to be fucked hard, and often. I mean, I want to be thrown on the ground, TAKEN, my arms held down and REALLY fucked HARD!!! you know?!?!?"

[beat]

Adam: "Anything else, or were you ready to order?"

Weekend Highlights:

In Palm Springs at Gary and Karla (JB's parents) at their winter house, in a very nice private club for a weekend of relaxing, catching up, and various sports. G & K were such gracious hosts, putting all of the club amenities at our disposal: tennis courts, swimming pools, and even inviting us to order whatever we wanted from the club bar and restaurant. Which, naturally, immediately led to:

Ext Day. JB and Adam poolside, mid afternoon.

"Gentleman, would you like anything to drink?"
"Yes. A Long Island Iced Tea. [pause] And make it a double. [pause] And subsitute everything but the ice with Macallan."

Actually, I had an Arnold Palmer. I was going to swim some laps, and besides we had been on a bike ride up this great big climb earlier that morning, so I was trying to rehydrate and put off the drinking for Margaritas were scheduled for after that pool. Even the tequila onslaught did not derail JB and I from our taking advantage of the late afternoon of our day of maximum fitness, as we followed them with a run and and tennis, followed by a night of movies and drinking.

Oddly enough, I was more sore than hungover the next day. The next day also happened to have 60 mph winds, which affected our tennis game. For the most part, it helped mine, which says a lot about my tennis game.

all in all, it was great to get out of LA for a few days. I am off to Europe to do the Haute Route with JB in a few weeks, and will be working pretty much non-stop until then. Thanks for tuning in!

On wednesday, I was on the losing end of what the ER nurse referred to as a "Bike vs. Car" Accident. A testament to my bad luck -I had a landscaper without a license cut me off and stopped me via my head and left shoulder smacking his pickup - and relative good luck - it happened near Fountain and Vermont within clear sight of a Hollywood Scientology Center surveillance camera. Here is the video - give it about 15 seconds, and I come in from the right, and the brown truck comes in from the left:




I couldn't figure out how maybe 60 seconds after I hit the deck there were all these private security personnel everywhere, and it is because the Scientology people have the neighborhood surrounding their center covered with cameras, which in this case worked out for me great. They called the ambulance (and the cops), and held onto my bike while I was in the hospital, AND offered me this security video. According to Trevor and Jason, the security guys I spoke to, they do this all the time, and if they are always like they were with me, they do it incredibly cheerfully.

Anyway, the ambulance came, they put me on a backboard, and drove me the 2 blocks to the emergency room. I was originally planning to walk, but once the ambulance showed up they kind of had to justify being there, hence the neck brace and all.

The good news:
X-rays were negative, no stitches, no concussions, but I was pretty banged up and had a huge lump on my head and a very sore shoulder, back, and ass (that's the part that stopped me when I hit the ground). My blackberry got smashed, my bike is within the range of repair but certainly worse for wear, and I now get to retire this helmet, which yes, mom, I was wearing. I am not going to be working out for a while and will probably need a few chiropractic visits and massages, at the least, to make things right.

After it's all over let me be clear in saying that I wouldn't recommend it.

The good news is that the landscaper who hit me, although without a license, does have insurance.

I'll keep you posted, and thanks to all who have called in support and to check in on me.

We have a new president. About time.

My favorite moments (so far) from the inauguration coverage:

1) Stephen Spielberg being interviewed on CNN prior to the speech while the screen shows the crowd on the mall:

"What are you thinking Stephen?"
"Barack Obama is a force of energy-I can't wait to hear him speak. That and I could never afford this shot in a movie."

2) John Roberts Screwing up the Oath of Office.

Really? It's 35 words. The whole world is watching. One thing: Rehearse. Faithfully, if you will.


3) Dick Cheney being in a wheelchair for the inauguration

Has a certain Karmic beauty about it-being forced to remain below everyone around him, marching into Washington with a destructive, fascist agenda and being rolled out a broken man. I confess a certain note of unfriendly glee as the cameras showed the indignity of being placed in a limo from a wheelchair, just having to wait there as he is handled, the brake of the wheelchair put on, that unpleasant indignity of just sitting there while the people around you put the foot flaps up because you can't. Of course, I wish him to be happy and healthy so he can be around for many years and suffer the consequences of his action in the form of criminal convictions, publicly experiencing whatever public reputation (or his own idea of it) that remains being shredded, and time served in jail for his repeated, egregious violations of the Constitution and the duties to lead this country well. But in the meantime, I'll take him having to visibly suffer the indignities of throwing his back out and being forced to look up to Obama and Biden, and have to work to maintain his dignity while being heaved into a limo.

4) Bush's Fratboy handshake before getting on the helicopter.

The Obama's and the Bush's walk together down the steps (a cool move) and the final moment is Bush turning to Obama and giving him not a handshake that says "You are king now" but more "Put 'er there-That was a great barbecue" It was nice of him to "Bro' it out" with Obama before heading out.

5) Cannons on the mall.

That was awesome.

No one else has said it yet (I googled), I hope they rename Air Force One "BHO Speedwagon."

I was recently asked by Kirk Reynolds, Women's XC and Track Coach at Pomona Pitzer, to say a few words about the final decade of Pat Mulcahy's career as the Head Men's XC and Track coach at Pomona Pitzer from 1969 until 2007. He was my coach from 1997-2001. Below are two versions, one I read at the actual P-P Athletic Hall of Fame induction ceremony before 250 people, and one for the after-party of the "Pat Faithful." I hope that anyone who knows, or knows of, Pat appreciates them.

Toast #1

Pat is a close friend and was my coach for 8 seasons of XC and Track ending in 2001, but tonight, I want to start at the beginning: Pat played soccer at Pomona, and in track he threw javelin, where he saw distance runners and thought to himself "Wow, I want to spend my career yelling at guys just like that."

Many years later, I was a high school senior when I met Pat outside of Baggage claim at the Ontario Airport in February 1997, and I couldn't believe the person in front of me was this Head XC and Track Coach with a huge, storied resume. He was wearing a polo shirt covered with stains, shorts, and orthopedic shoes. His hair was messed up, and he was driving a beat up Ford Probe covered with dirt on top of primer. I spent the entire ride back to campus Reeling with doubt, when this "alleged coach" took to practice, pointing out campus highlights along the way, including the ocurtyard where he had just gotten married. We arrived at practice where he got out of his car and –I say this with a lot of love-where I first saw that Pat shimmy, which although great for picking him out of a crowd, was a little hard for a green teenager to understand was the trademark of a running coach. I thought- "This can't be right. The actual track coach must surely be someone else. This man is obviously insane, and maybe homeless."

But I also remember clearly that first day: I could see how he spoke to his athletes, and more importantly how they spoke to him, like a respected peer- an odd mix of equality and reverence. Nevertheless, I was still puzzled. It was like watching Stephen Hawking give voice lessons, or say, a rabid wolverine teaching etiquette. Very disorienting, but he seemed to be good at it, and I liked him, realizing there was so much past this odd, eccentric exterior. I asked myself, was he crazy? Maybe. Great coach? I'm willing to take a chance, and at that point I knew I wanted to go to Pomona and train with him.

But I still couldn't reconcile this claim about supposedly being married.

He even introduced his wife to me, with the actual words- "Adam, come meet my wife." I remember thinking to myself: no, this isn't real. How could this disheveled madman get a woman to be seen with to him, let alone marry him? Especially a woman like Barbara, who is charming and has seemingly good judgment? I want everyone here to understand how first impressions are deceiving, and of course Pat turned out to be a fantastic coach who amazed me by the things he got us to do on the track, but I am blown away that he got Barbara to say "I do."

Pat had high expectations, but also knows how to help people meet them. I suspect to him the only thing I really did right over my career was in 99 when I somehow squeaked in and made All-American, which REALLY REALLY surprised me, but not Pat. At 20, I was moody, self-absorbed, overly intellectual, doubtful of my ability, marginally depressed, constantly dealing with injuries-real and imagined- and incredibly sensitive.

In other words, your normal distance runner.

Pat taught me how to let go of my fear, to be present, to expect more of myself and- a lesson many of us have heard him repeat - to explore my limits, the real, not imagined ones. It all came together for us that crisp day in Wisconsin, and I still feel more lucky than really capable, even if Pat always saw it differently.

A little side story about that time: When I got back for spring term that year, Barbara pulled me aside-and I am paraphrasing- "Adam, I need to thank you." I said "Um, Barbara, that's great, but why are you thanking me?" "Adam, you don't get it- I Have to LIVE with this man, and you KNOW HIM--- since Nationals he's not cranky, he's listening- he has never been so easy to get along with. No pressure, but I'd appreciate if you kept this up." In other words, Pat –and Barbara- have always had an enormous personal investment in the success of his athletes.

I feel so lucky to know Pat and to have had him as my coach and friend: He is a brilliant, insightful, and invested coach who helped me, and many others here, go farther than we ever thought we could. As for the All-American thing, I can only take so much credit- I might have crossed the finish line in a place high enough to get the distinction, but it was you, Pat, believing in me, putting up with me, caring for me, and sharing your immense wisdom with me, who got me there at all. I love you Pat, and Congratulations!



And this is the version I gave at the after party. Basically it is all the material I came up with that wasn't quite right for the, let's just say "mixed," audience of the hall of fame dinner. The after party were all alums and old friends, none of whom had any misconception about who Pat actually is. So, in other words, a lot more fun:


Tonight I talked about how Pat is a great example of how you can't judge a book by its cover. In fact Pat is like a great book, full of insight and wisdom, that you can spend endless afternoons with. A great book indeed, just one that happened to get runover a few times and left outside all winter. In other words: you wouldn't know how much he has to offer at first glance, but underneath it all he has a heart of gold.

Three rules about dealing with Pat Mulcahy-

1) Work Hard
2) Play Hard
3) Never Call him Patrick, unless you are trying to piss him off.

I of course, I called him Patrick all the time. Pat is the only person in the world I talk, or more correctly, yell, back to. I felt like his second spouse. Pat and I had a very close relationship: in those four years, I think I might have seen more of him than his own wife, Barbara, did. I am lucky we got to know each other well, and I learned how to annoy him: just call him coach, or sir, but if you really want to get under his skin, call him Patrick. Being to my knowledge I am the only person besides his parents and his wife to call him that and walk away in one piece. that was probably because he couldn't afford to injured me and risk the points at Conference meets.

Be advised, only use the P-word under extreme circumstances- one time I clearly remember having to resort to this was when I came to the track my junior year after separating my hip a few weeks earlier, barely able to walk and legitimately worried about my long term recovery and hip function. Pat started into me about how I needed to start running again, to ignore the pain and how my hip would be fine.


Let's review: Pat Mulcahy, leaning on a cane, advising someone that running through massive hip pain will not have long term consequences. Pat, In which of the titanium tubes that make up what used to be your real hips do you keep that piece of information? I realized that not only does this man have diamond hard titanium hips, but after that comment, there is some substance much harder that makes up his balls.

I did a lot of recruiting for Pat. Pat, you have no business being a track coach. You are impulsive, moody, you love wine and fatty foods, you have the tact of a brick heaved through a window, and oh yeah, you have a gut, a wrecked shoulder, and not only one, but two bad hips. But you always said "Adam, you could sell Ice to Eskimos." I have always wanted to say: look who's talking. You got me to come run for you. But maybe you are right about me: As many in this room can attest, you have to be kinda crazy to be a distance runner, and just like Ice to Eskimos, I was selling them on the idea that they needed Pat, someone even crazier.

In a Claremont Courier article announcing Pat's Retirement, Kirk Reynolds said. "Going to practices or competitions with him was always a great adventure and great fun."

I agree, Kirk, going to competitions with Pat was a great adventure which brings me to Pat's driving:

Any of the alumni here know the van rides with Pat consisted of the following: speeding, occasional and rapid stops, sharp corners, and hitting your head on the ceiling when we went over train tracks- the ones as a Class B vehicle like a Team van was legally obligated to stop at- around 50 gut churning miles an hour. It was never the races I wanted to puke after, just the van rides. Furthermore, Pat's driving really helped me get over any fear I had about competing, mostly because after the van ride to the meet, the race didn't seem so scary.

They say that new cars lose 20 percent of their value the moment they are driven off the lot. I think that any car loses most of its value any moment it is being driven by Pat.

I was with pat through a transition time in his career. To all of the runners who came before me, I not only envy you not only for getting to see Pat as a younger, even crazier man, but also because Pat didn't yet have the stories from those years to tell over, and over, and over again. How many times can Pat tell the story of how John _____ set the school 5K record the day after a pitcher and a whole pizza, or the "Jacques Cousteau" story? Great college students, naked and drunk, in a hot tube, awesome. Wait, I take that back, that IS an Awesome story. God I wish I ran in with you in the 1970's.

Pat: you were the most important part of my time at Pomona, I felt like we were married for 4 years: Like most marriages, you made me crazy but I couldn't have done anything without you-and most of all, I love you old man.

Blogistas:
Believe it or not, I am actually back in Seattle visiting a few friends. I got here via Virgin America, which is kind of like a doctor's waiting room trying to pose as a combination of Hollywood Club meets San Francisco based Internet Startup, all at 35,000 feet.

It was great. Nice, young attractive employees, leather seats, and they have a feature where you can text message other passengers that seemed absurd, and I did not use, but I might try on the way back just for that reason (absurdity, if it isn't obvious enough, can be great fun).

17f: Hey there
19A: Um, hi?
17f: How are you?
19A: What is this? are you actually text messaging me from two rows away?
17f: Yeah, I think U R HOT
19a: What are you, 15 yrs old? If you want to talk to me, be a man and start a conversation. With Talking.
17F: uh, are you sure you don't want to just chat like this for a few minutes? I am not really comfortable actually speaking to people outside of IM. I am, apparently, Virgin's target market.
19A: I am going back to my magazine now. and don't try to chat with me in baggage claim.


Anyway, things are good. I am enjoying Seattle and seeing old friends. My first stop was Salumi, the number one lunch spot on the planet. As it turns out, the place was empty and I had the full attention of all four of the lovely ladies running the place. Sarah, Allison, Melanie, and best of all (!) Ingrid, a lady who I not only helped admit to the Art institute culinary program back in my AIS Admissions days, but actually worked with in the culinary school classes I took. She is doing great, in charge of the private lunch program where she gets to actually do creative work designing and executing menus for clients who are in love with her at a nationally recognized restaurant. Not bad for barely a year out of culinary school. It was such a wonderful experience seeing her and how she's doing, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't really proud of her.

In other news, I am still working at Osteria Mozza, which is going great, and I just finished a big draft on a piece I wrote about Ramona (German moto chick) for a show in Hollywood called Save The Date. They like crazy, hilarious, and outrageous (and occasionally tragic, if you can make it funny of course, and we all know the best comedy comes from tragedy) stories of dating and romance. Well, that one qualifies on all fronts. I might go up next month-if I make it in I will try and post the video.

I have some other writing projects I am working on, so stay tuned.