Marathon Monday 2013

I could say the day began like any other. But that wouldn’t be entirely true. That’s because this particular Monday, April 15, was also my birthday. 

Three friends were in town, visiting to celebrate my birthday with me. They were all staying with me and my partner in Roslindale—just a quick train ride into the city where we planned to spend the day cheering on those ambitious enough to run 26.2 miles.

It was set to be a memorable afternoon, a birthday to remember. But the afternoon would become decidedly more memorable than I could have ever imagined in the most horrific and terrifying of ways.

The next morning a shop in
Roslindale was selling these T-shirts.

We were running behind schedule, as is usual with this group, and we didn’t get into Boston until some time after 1 p.m. As we maneuvered our way through the various barricades—in place to keep the marathon route clear of spectators—trying to make it to the finish line, it was just about 2:30 p.m. before we could see a clear path to it down Exeter Street. 

We decided to stop for lunch beforehand because we knew the foot traffic would only be thicker on Boylston Street where we could hear the crowds cheering. So we got our buzzing thingamajig from Joe’s American Bar and Grill on Newbury Street and were told we were in for a 45-minute wait. My three friends, my cousin and I converged on the corner of Newbury and Exeter with hundreds of other revelers who were enjoying one of the city’s first spring days—a little crisp perhaps, but perfect for runners—and waited and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company.

We were standing on this corner when we heard the first boom and the sidewalks simultaneously shook beneath our feet. I say “boom” because we had no idea what had happened just a block away. We all looked at each other with varying degrees of concern and confusion. The question was in all our eyes: “What was that?” Then, just seconds later, the second boom shook the city and each one of us as we began to notice the smoke billowing down Dartmouth street toward us. Next, it was the crowd—massive and running at us in a panic—that told us all to run.

Nothing made sense. It still doesn’t make sense.

My heart goes out to all those who were at the finish line and in harm’s way, whose lives are forever shattered and altered by the acts of cowards. And for those we lost, there are no words of condolence that can suffice.

Wood's words for thought: Although our hearts may be broken, Boston is not.

Girl Scout Cookie Gluttony

My niece is adorable, but clearly the devil incarnate.

Don’t let that face of a cherub mislead you. She comes bearing bogus treats in the form of thirty more minutes on the treadmill per cookie per day.

All I have to say is I’m glad Girl Scout Cookie season over. Though two boxes still sit in my bread box unopened, I made short business of the first two. (Yes, I have a bread box. And, no, you shouldn’t hide Girls Scout cookies in the bread box. Any time you want a piece of toast or a sandwich you see them and they taunt you. They talk. I swear they talk. Seductively, too.)

My 10-year-old niece is quite clever at sales. That smile, those batting eyes: “Pleeeeeezzzzzze, Uncle?” But just because they are $5 a box, doesn’t mean you must buy four boxes to make it an even 20 bucks—unless you want to spend the next six weeks cursing at a stair climber like me.

Buy one box and give your Girl Scout the other $15 bucks with your blessing to donate it to the Girl Scouts’ cause—or spend it on whatever she wants. It’ll save you days at the gym, and instead of treadmilling for Jesus you can do something productive…like lament about the evils of cookies on a blog when you should be working.

Wood’s words of advice: Eat fruit.

Old(ish) Dog, New(ish) Tricks

I’m mightily impressed with myself I must say. Just a few days ago I signed up for Twitter, LinkedIn and I created my own blog…all by myself. Mom, I’m all growed up. Okay, okay, I’m late for the Twitter train, and about 10 million other neophytes began writing blogs a decade ago, but you gotta start some time, right? Better late than never, I say (or someone always says…I never really say that).

Now, of course, just signing up for these things doesn’t make me any different than the first one million or the next 10 zillion people to do so. Slowly but surely I’ve got to figure out how to use them and what to use them for. It’s all about the journey after all, not the destination (that I do say).

Slowly, I’m beginning to explore Twitter and learn about its hashtags (#latetothegame) and RTs (retweets for the one non-Tweeter who may be reading this) and its customs (#FFs—which, it turns out, is something nice and friendly to do on Fridays even though it means something entirely different in the gay lexicon. I’m so not going there.) It just so happens I joined Twitter late on a Thursday so I saw a lot of those #FF tags the next day and had no idea what was happening. Now I do, and I breathe easier.

Twitter pretends it knows me. The little bird is constantly recommending those it thinks I should follow, and some seem right on track (@chelseahandler, @billmaher), but others just #dontmakeanydamnsense. (How was that for hash tag usage?)

Inexplicably, this Twitter character continues to insist I might want to follow Lil Wayne and Busta Rhymes. Even I after I politely decline (clicking that little “x” is politely declining, right?) these fellows reappear religiously in my “What to follow” column. I have nothing against Lil Wayne or Busta Rhymes, and I suppose I could just follow them because Twitter keeps insisting I should, but what I really want to know is why this little bird thinks it knows me like that?

I’m not sure there’s anything I need to hear from either one of these fine gentleman on a daily basis, but I don’t want to underestimate the wisdom of the sacred Twitter algorithm. Here’s what I think: I think it’s that damn bird. He’s a little bit of a spy I do suspect. 

You see, some 10 years ago I did stand shirtless in a field in the middle of nowhere wearing only leather pants (true story) and freezing my tits off for an obscure Busta Rhymes music video called “Fire”—back in the day when I did such things to pay the bills. And back in the day when I did things like wear leather pants. Okay, that day was never. The pants were the choice of the wardrobe stylist on set of the music video, not mine. Promise.

Okay, wait. I wasn’t shirtless. I just looked it up. I was in a tiny white tank-top. All I know is that I was freezing cold which goes well beyond ironic when you’re shooting a video called “Fire.” Couldn’t they have let a guy keep a hoodie nearby and just digitize that sucka out? (That's me smack-dab-in-the-middle looking like I'm clapping for Jesus—I was cold!)

I’m totally off-topic now, but I think I’ll have to go back to YouTube and see if I can screen capture some other gems from back in the day. Oh, yes, gems, people. Gems. But, hopefully no more leather pants.

Wood’s word of wisdom: Mom was right. Always bring a sweater.

P.S. If you think you might care what I have to say on Twitter, follow me @mikewoodwriter or follow @BustaRhymes  (he's got way more followers than me)

Fluffy Defiance

Spring is less than two weeks away, yet as I look out my window I see that there are at least six inches of fluffy defiance sitting on top of my car.


It's just not nice.

It's a little more than ironic that she still proudly wears her California plates like badges of honor through yet another Boston blizzard. Even if you can't see them because they're covered with snow.

I had a choice when I moved back to Boston from sunny Southern California four months ago. But Bessie? Not so much. (Yes, my Honda Accord is named Bessie.)

Wood's word of advice: If you're thinking about moving from somewhere sunny and warm…you're not thinking.