Fat Cat

Introducing Princess Chunk, a 44-pound cat found waddling around New Jersey. She is in the care of a local animal shelter and is awaiting adoption. One can only hope she gets on the Jenny Craig Program asap.

Standing in Line at the Movies

MOM: If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. NO MILK DUDS!

LITTLE BOY: You said I could have whatever I wanted. I want Milk Duds.

MOM: They stick to your teeth. You can have Skittles.

LITTLE BOY: I hate Skittles.

MOM: Then how about Butterfinger?

LITTLE BOY: No.

MOM: Okay, forget it! You get nothing, do you hear me? NOTHING!

LITTLE BOY: You're mean!

MOM: We're going home!

LITTLE BOY: Okay, I'll take the Skittles.

*****

MAN: This movie got great reviews. Two thumbs up.

WOMAN: That’s funny. I read that it was a real snooze fest.

*****

TEEN GIRL ONE: Josh is going to meet us in the balcony.

TEEN GIRL TWO: Omigod! You’re mom is gonna kill you.

TEEN GIRL ONE: Not if she doesn’t find out.

*****

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN ONE: I don’t care what they say. The Musical is not dead. Explain “Chicago,” “High School Musical,” “Hairspray.”

MIDDLE AGE WOMAN TWO: I can’t. But don’t tell me John Travolta in drag is a box office draw.

*****

BOY ONE: I’ve seen this movie six times.

BOY TWO: Don’t tell me how it ends.

BOY ONE: The guy dies.

BOY TWO: Shut Up!

*****

OLD MAN: Twenty dollars for popcorn and soda. What’s the world coming to?

OLD WOMAN: Nobody said you had to buy snacks.

OLD MAN: Are you crazy? You can’t go to the movies without popcorn. It’s sacrilegious.

OLD WOMAN: Well, at least we got the senior discount.

The Elevator

Jerry Milligan entered the vacant elevator and pushed the “down” button as the doors swooshed shut. Thank God it was empty. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. Especially today.

His meeting with Vincenzo hadn’t gone well. Jerry had borrowed some money from Mr. “V” to pay off a gambling debt. Four thousand dollars to be exact. “Borrowed” wasn’t really the right word…it was more of a “loan.” A loan with strings attached.

Jerry figured he could pay it back after Saturday’s horse race. He had gotten a tip that Placebo’s Dream was a shoo-in to place in the third. Well, Placebo’s Dream became Jerry’s nightmare. The horse didn’t keep up his end of the bargain and now Jerry had to ask Vincenzo for more time.

Alone in the elevator, Jerry recalled what had transpired just moments before in Vincenzo’s suite on the 19th floor. As Jerry offered his explanation in a calm, albeit panic-stricken manner, Vincenzo sat quietly in an oversized plush chair, his fat round belly extended to his knees. A Buddha statue in an Armani suit. Cigar smoke swirled around his head and his beady snake-eyes never blinked.

Vincenzo’s silence made Jerry even more nervous and he just kept rambling. Finally, the fat man spoke. “Good day, Mr. Milligan. You may leave now.”Jerry started to speak again, but changed his mind as Vincenzo pointed toward the door with a stubby, ruby-ringed finger. He left the room in a hurry and figured he was getting off easy. If Vincenzo was going to kill him, he wouldn’t have let him go, right? He would have called in one of his goons to escort him into another room where they would “discuss” the situation. A friendly little meeting that might involve brass knuckles, a blowtorch, blenders, bullets, boards, bed knobs, broomsticks … or any number of torture devises that begin with the letter “B” and end with Jerry bleeding all over his Birkenstocks.

Jerry had vowed to quit gambling over and over again, but every attempt had failed. The longest he had gone without playing the horses was six weeks … the worst six weeks in his life. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t sleep. He got headaches and night sweats. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and went to the track. Standing at the betting window and sliding his cash to the clerk, he salivated like a beagle in a meat market. That was when he realized the truth about himself … he was a compulsive gambler, and he always would be.

Consequently, his gaming lifestyle put him the company of some pretty shady characters. Guys like Vincenzo who hung around casinos and racetracks, using their “patsy” radar to zero in on poor suckers who lost all their dough and needed some quick cash for a sure thing. Jerry didn’t like dealing with those bums. But two weeks ago, he had run into some bad luck at the track and Vincenzo was more than happy to help out.

Jerry’s worrisome thoughts were interrupted as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. A man walked in wearing a black suit, his long hair tied in a ponytail. He was well over six feet tall and looked like he could lift a Buick with one hand and not even break a sweat. Jerry caught a glimpse of a gold front tooth as the man glanced his way.

The man positioned himself in the middle of the elevator, arms folded, looking at the numbers above the door. Jerry retreated to the corner. The only sound was Jerry’s raspy breathing and the muffled swoosh as the elevator made its descent. The piercing sound of a cell phone shattered the silence. Mr. Ponytail flipped open the phone and spoke with a pronounced lisp: “Yeah...I’ll take care of it, bosth…don’t worry…I’m on my way.”

Jerry tried to keep from wetting his pants. This was Vincenzo’s goon sent to give him the “business.” But did he know that Jerry was in the elevator just an arm’s length away? Mr. Ponytail seemed oblivious. Of course, he could just be pretending, acting like everything was kosher. And then when they got outside…a shiny black sedan and a couple of gorillas ready to shove him into the backseat for a ride “downtown.”

But maybe the man didn’t know it was Jerry. Maybe Vincenzo gave orders to nab Jerry at his apartment. Yeah, that had to be it. Hope flinched in Jerry’s gut as he planned his escape. As soon as the doors opened, he’d make a run for it. He figured he could out-run the goon, if it came to that. But what if Mr. Ponytail pulled a gun and started shooting?

Jerry couldn’t think that far ahead. He had to get out of here! His eyes focused on the doors and sweat broke out on his forehead. His tongue swirled around his dry lips in anticipation. Suddenly, the elevator lurched to a complete stop, slamming Jerry and the man against the rear wall. The lights near the doors lit up like the control panel in a nuclear power plant at melt down. Jerry’s fingers shook as he randomly pushed the buttons, but nothing happened.

Jerry looked at the man and stammered, “I…I think the elevator is stuck!”

“Don’t worry, Misther Milligan,” the man replied. “You’ll be on your way down in no time.” He smiled at Jerry and his gold tooth glimmered in the fluorescent light.

The Other Coast by Adrian Raeside

"Take Your Dog to Work" Day

Yes, it's official. June 20 is "Take Your Dog to Work" Day. For those of you planning to participate in this exciting event, I offer a few "pointers" (pun intended) to make it a pleasant day for all:

1) Before taking your dog to work give him a nice bath. And please, don't torture the dog with soap and water...let him swim in pond scum. Dogs love to splash around in algae and plankton. Be sure that your dog is still a bit wet when he gets to the office. The scent of wet dog always gets a reaction. In fact, Calvin Klein is creating a new perfume inspired by this potent, organic aroma.

2) Be sure to introduce your dog to all your coworkers. Especially those who are allergic to dogs. Of course, they may run down the hall panting for breath with their tails between their legs (the coworkers, not the dogs), but don't let that deter you. Deep down inside, these people love dogs. It's for their own good. Remember the adage: "That which kills us only makes us stronger."

3) While at the office, your dog may get a sudden urge to gnaw something. Don't bring a chew toy from home. Let the dog explore the office and find his own chew toy: the only existing copy of the 30-page marketing report that Sally worked on all weekend...the computer cables in IT...Harvey's brand new $500 Italian leather briefcase.

4) Of course your dog may have to "piddle or poop" while at the office. Responsible dog owners always clean up after their pets. Have a supply of plastic bags handy. Scoop up the "droppings" and discard them in the garbage bin in the break room. When your coworkers take their coffee break, they can't help but smell the offensive fumes, thus ruining their appetite for donuts and helping them to lose weight. They'll thank you for it.

5) Allow your dog the freedom to follow his natural instincts: barking, jumping, running, scratching, licking, crotch-sniffing. Don't worry about offending your coworkers. Many people who work in offices practice these behaviors as well. Photographs taken at the last office Christmas party attest to the fact.

6) Remember, just because your dog is at the workplace doesn't mean that there will be less productivity. To avoid encounters with your dog, your coworkers may choose to lock themselves in their offices, refusing to come out until quitting time. The result? Your boss will encourage more "Take Your Dog to Work" days.

Metamorphosis

It had to happen sooner or later. It was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, poor old Marvin was the hapless victim. People looked up in the sky, shook their fists and shouted, “Why Marvin? He never hurt a fly!” There was no answer. And there never would be.

Marvin Gardner was a 64-year-old banker, who always wore a gray felt fedora, even though they had been out of style for thirty years. In fact, his entire wardrobe was acquired from a second-hand store that sold “authentic” clothing from the 1950s.

As was his custom, he arrived at DaVinci’s Deli on 63rd Street in Chicago promptly at 1 p.m. He’d eaten lunch at DaVinci’s every day for the past 24 years and he always ordered the same thing: corned beef on pumpernickel and a cup of black coffee. He sat in his favorite spot at a table near the window where he liked to watch people pass by. Rich ladies in their mink coats. Winos begging for coins. Punks with purple hair and safety pins in their noses.

But that afternoon something unusual happened. Something totally unexpected. Something that parents would tell their children about for generations to come. Something unprecedented since the dawn of time.

On November 16, 1984, at 1:13 p.m at DaVinci’s Deli, while eating his corned beef on pumpernickel, Marvin Gardner transformed into an ape.

Thick, coarse hair started to grow on his hands and face. He began to slouch and his visage favored King Kong’s younger brother. His first clue that something was amiss was the looks on the faces of the other patrons in the deli. Looks of fear and confusion. Looks of surprise and dread. Marvin tapped the shoulder of a woman who was seated at the next table to inquire what was wrong. She looked at Marvin and ran shrieking from the deli.

At that signal, everyone screamed and dashed out the door as fast as they could, occasionally looking back at Marvin in utmost terror.

Marvin suspected that he was the cause of the chaos. As he reached up to adjust his glasses, he noticed his hairy hands. Panic-stricken, he charged into the men’s room to investigate. Staring wide-eyed into the mirror, he discovered to his horror that he, indeed, had become an ape.

He took off his clothes and examined his body. He was ape all over. It took a while for Marvin to recover from the shock. How did this happen? What could it mean? How would he function day to day? What would his friends and family think? Should he go to a hospital? What kind of warped disease was this? Was it even a disease? Who ever heard of a man turning into an ape? Would he gain celebrity status and become rich and famous? But what good is money and fame if you’re an ape? And what about his sex life?

Marvin was going through a terrible time thinking about his future as a primate. They could send him to a zoo. Perform experiments on him. Quarantine him for fear that he might contaminate others. They could even kill him.

These thoughts raced through Marvin’s mind, rendering him incapable of action. Every few minutes DaVinci, the deli owner, would peek into the men’s room to get a look at Marvin, and then quickly shut the door when Marvin made eye contact. Marvin grew more and more uneasy. He knew he couldn’t spend the rest of his life in the men’s room at DaVinci’s Deli. But he was afraid to leave. He feared the humiliation of exposing himself to the public. The leering glances. The questioning eyes.

When he finally summoned the courage to open the door and walk out, he saw that the deli was empty. But not for long. The cops stormed the deli and soon reporters arrived with their cameras and microphones. Outside, crowds of people pushed and shoved to get a better look at Marvin … a 224-pound gorilla in a sixty-dollar suit.

So it was that man became ape. The significance of this phenomenon was unsurpassed in human history. Marvin was soon caught up in a frenzied media blitz. His face was plastered on the cover of newspapers and magazines. He was featured on “Sixty Minutes,” and even made a guest appearance on “Cheers.” Writers bombarded him with offers to publish his story. He was probed and analyzed under the cynical eyes of doctors and scientists. There was no explanation. The greatest minds in the world could not comprehend how a man could metamorphose into an ape. Marvin was an enigma.

Immediately after the event, authorities closed down DaVinci’s Deli. It was thought that the food caused this freakish transformation and DaVinci was losing money. But savvy businessman that he was, he turned the deli into a tourist attraction and grew rich. Everyone wanted to see the place where Marvin Gardner went ape.

Marvin longed for the good old days when he could walk down the street unnoticed. How he wished he could sit at his favorite table at DaVinci’s and eat his corned beef on pumpernickel. But it was not to be. Marvin was an ape and there was nothing he could do about it.

Marvin’s metamorphosis caused a dramatic change in his way of life. He used to read the newspaper in the morning while sipping his coffee; now he just wanted to swing from the branches of the sycamore in the front yard. He used to listen to Bach and Mozart on his stereo; now he could amuse himself for hours playing with a jack-in-the-box.

Marvin’s future was uncertain. Scientists wanted to keep him in their laboratories for observation. Hollywood offered him a movie deal. Barnum & Bailey insisted he become their main attraction. None of these options appealed to Marvin. He needed solitude and a place where he could reflect on his predicament. When animal rights activists suggested that he be sent to a pristine rainforest where he could live out the rest of his years in his natural habitat, Marvin agreed wholeheartedly. He was on a plane to Brazil before he could say “monkey’s uncle.”

Months passed. Marvin enjoyed the jungle. Squawking parrots in their colorful plumage. Lazy anacondas basking in the sun. Stealthy jaguars prowling the forest. He liked sitting in a high branch of his favorite tree where he could watch the action while he ate a banana.

And to Marvin’s delight, his banana always tasted like corned beef on pumpernickel.

Free Range by Bill Whitehead

Bubblegum Voodoo

I'm one of those people who likes to dabble in bubblegum voodoo. That's what I call popular cultural trends that determine your personality traits and life path. The word "voodoo" refers to mysticism and magical thinking, while "bubblegum" connotes childlike innocence and not taking things too seriously. Bubblegum voodoo is pink. Bubblegum voodoo is gooey. And before its approval by the FDA, bubblegum voodoo caused mad cow disease in laboratory rats.

One of the most well-known aspects of bubblegum voodoo is astrology, inspiring the famous pick-up line "What's your sign?" I'm a Taurus, which, according to the charts, proclaims that I'm a stubborn, bull-headed rose-sniffer who overeats and listens to Mozart.

Despite my affinity for flowers and Wolfgang, I wasn't too happy with this analysis, so I found out what the Chinese have to say. According to the Chinese Zodiac, I was born in the Year of the Rooster, which means I like to primp in front of mirrors, go shopping and tell everyone else what to do with their lives. That's more like it.

I also get a kick out of those personality quizzes in magazines and online. There's something intriguing about answering a few multiple choice questions and discovering that because you prefer mashed potatoes over French fries, you're a fiery extrovert with anal tendencies who would do equally well as a blackjack dealer or a marine biologist.

A few years back, color analysis was the big thing. To succeed in life you needed to know which "season" you were: Spring, Summer, Autumn, or Winter. According to the experts, each person looked best in the colors that matched his or her skin tone and hair. As a "Winter," my colors were, among others, red, white and blue. I couldn't wear an orange pant suit, but drape me in an American flag and I was good to go.

And let's not forget numerology. This ancient art determines your Life Path by assigning you a number between one and nine. By calculating the numbers in my birthday, I learned that I am a nine. This means I'm generous, artistic, passionate and spiritual. Cool. But it also means that I have the managerial skills of a cockroach.

As a psych major, I studied handwriting analysis. Loopy letters meant the writer was friendly and creative. Angular letters depicted someone who was methodical and exacting. My handwriting varied between perfect penmanship and psychotic scribbling. To this day I'm still trying to figure out whether I'm more like Martha Stewart or Britney Spears.

"To sleep, perchance to dream." The first time I read a book on dream analysis I was hooked. The interpretations were so correct it was eerie. My dream of a polar bear storming through my kitchen looking for scrambled eggs obviously meant that my purchase of plaid Bermuda shorts was a huge mistake. You better believe I took them back the next day for a full refund!

And just when you thought a coffee table was just a coffee table, along comes Feng Shui. Who would have guessed that the arrangement of the furniture in your home effects your success and well-being? According to followers of Feng Shui, your front door is the portal of positive energy, also known as "chi." The chi must be allowed to flow around your home unhindered. Mirrors will deflect the chi. A heavy sofa will stop the chi. A chipped plate will anger the chi. Best advice: hang wind chimes to soothe the chi. Afterward, make the chi a cup of hot cocoa and tell it a bedtime story.

Don't worry, the chi is polite. It won't stick its bubblegum on the bedpost before it goes to sleep.

The Sloop John B

I should have known there would be trouble when I opened that birthday card from my grandfather. It had a picture of a sailboat on the front and inside were two round-trip tickets to the Bahamas. Nassau, to be exact.

“That’s right, boy. We’re going sailing. Just you and me.”

“Wow, Gramps, this is really a…surprise.”

He took a swig of his Michelob, which dripped down the gray stubble of his chin onto the front of his stained Hawaiian shirt.

“You’re twenty-one years old and it’s time to party! And what better place to raise hell?”

When we got to Nassau, we didn’t stay in a hotel. Gramps had chartered a sailboat called the Sloop John B. I was surprised to see that the crew were not native islanders, but Americans. Weird hippie-types in their 60s, like Gramps. In fact, Gramps told me they were buddies of his from “back in the day.” These guys lived in the Bahamas and made their living taking tourists on sightseeing trips around the islands.

I have to admit, those dudes looked scary. They all wore stained Hawaiian shirts like Gramps and spent most of the day passed out on the deck or walking around in a drunken stupor. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was in a Dennis Hopper version of “Pirates of the Caribbean.”

The first night we made port on one of the islands and went to a local tavern. I had more than a few beers and started feeling loopy, but Gramps and the crew were drinking tequila. The next thing I knew, some humongous dude with a skull-and-crossbones tattoo started arguing with Cheech, the first mate. Soon everybody in the place was fighting, just like in the movies. I ducked as a bottle of beer barely missed my head. This was not my idea of a fun vacation.

The only guy I got along with was the cook. They called him the Egg Man. His specialty was corn and grits, which weren’t bad. But one day he sort of went crazy. I was eating breakfast and suddenly he grabbed my plate and dumped the grits into the garbage. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he ate all of my corn. I couldn’t believe it.

“Egg Man, what are you doing?”

He ignored me and stumbled over to the side of the boat where he barfed into the ocean. That’s it. I was ready to go home.

I found Gramps playing poker with some of the crew.

“Gramps, I’d really like to go home now.”

“Sure thing,” he slurred. “But we have a little problem. Sheriff John Stone took Cheech to the jailhouse.”

“What happened?”

“He broke into the captain’s trunk and stole his tiki doll.”

Cheech was released the next day and we set sail back to Nassau. I was so glad when Gramps and I finally got on the plane for home. This was the worst trip I’d ever been on.

THE END

Turtle: Running at Large

Okay, I am NOT making this up.

Our local newspaper printed a story about the city council's decision to change the city's animal ordinance to make it easier to prosecute owners of unruly pets.

Under the current ordinance, the owner is ticketed only if a pet's bite breaks the skin in an attack. With the new law, owners can be ticketed and ordered to appear before a municipal court judge if their pet "bites, attacks or causes bodily injury." Also, pets that make a second trip to the Cheyenne Animal Shelter would have to get a microchip ID implant.

The following is a snippet from the actual discussion at the council meeting:

Councilwoman Georgia Broyles: The change will make a difference in the health, safety and welfare of our citizens.

Councilwoman Judy Case: A constituent called me about a pet turtle. It has bitten people on occasion and he was concerned he'd have to purchase a microchip ID for his reptilian companion.

Broyles: Is the turtle running at large?

City Attorney Claudio Angelos: I do not believe the ordinance applies to turtles.

Case: It was my understanding the ordinance applies to animals with spines.

Angelos: If you're referring to animals with vertebrae, yes, I suppose you could have a turtle with rabies, but I don't think it would be running at large.

Movies: Best Supporting Dog Award

Verdell (As Good as it Gets)

Queenie (The 'Burbs)

Einstein (Back to the Future)

Waffles (Manhattan)

Bear (Crimson Tide)

Buster (Legally Blonde)

Toto (Wizard of Oz)

Brinkley (You've Got Mail)

Precious (Silence of the Lambs)

Speck (Pee Wee's Big Adventure)

Erma Bombeck

A friend never defends a husband who gets his wife an electric skillet for her birthday.

Did you ever notice that the first piece of luggage on the carousel never belongs to anyone?

Housework, if you do it right, will kill you.

I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.

Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.

ABSOLUT - ly!

A controversial Absolut Vodka ad has some Americans up in arms. It appears that the company created ads in Mexico to market their product. The ads feature a map of Mexico, showing parts of Texas, California and several other southwestern states, approximating the borders in the 1840s before the U.S. annexation of Texas. The ad copy reads: "In an Absolut World."

Extremists groups in the U.S. are upset about the ads. These fringe groups believe American sovereignty is threatened by the Reconquista movement, which seeks to reclaim U.S. territory for Mexico.

These groups boycotted Absolut. So in order not to alienate the United States which accounts for more than half the company's sales, Absolut issued an apology:

"As a global company, we recognize that people in different parts of the world may lend different perspectives or interpret our ads in a different way than was intended in that market, and for that we apologize."

Not surprisingly, one of Absolut's competitors took advantage of the situation with this ad:

"SKYY Vodka, made in the USA, proudly supports treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo."

Metaphysics and the Macchiato

If it weren’t for that double-shot caramel macchiato with extra whip I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Okay, let me start at the beginning. I was already late to the Philosophy Club meeting when I decided to stop off for a caramel macchiato. Heavy doses of sugar and caffeine were essential as I would be participating in lively discourse on Existentialism, Rationalism and “Which Came First – The Chicken Or The Egg?” It was going to be a long night.

Coffee and scone in hand, I jumped in the car and raced to the community center. I enjoy these weekly discussions with other armchair philosophers. We understand each other. No one even raised an eyebrow when I confessed that I own a full-color poster of Aristotle in a “beefcake” pose.

Reuben is the facilitator. Pompous, arrogant and anal retentive, he can be quite intimidating. You can’t really blame him. Despite a Ph.D. in philosophy and a Master’s degree in anthropology, the only job he could get in our small town was at Sears. Fortunately for Reuben, he works in “home electronics” where he can watch PBS to his heart’s content.

I was late to the meeting and tried to be inconspicuous as I took my seat in the semi-circle of folding chairs. Reuben despises tardiness, among other things. He glared at me and continued his opening remarks. I carefully placed my drink on the floor so I could take notes. And then it happened.

As Reuben expounded on Kant and the metaphysics of morals, I accidentally knocked over the macchiato with my foot. The pool of liquid oozed toward Reuben’s brown leather wing-tips. By the time he looked down, it was too late. He took a step forward and slipped, falling flat on his back.

No one moved. Time stood still. Reuben struggled to his feet, but slipped again, sloshing around like a harp seal among the coffee and whipped cream. He finally managed to stand up and, in a sinister voice, told everyone to go home. We were alone. The silence was deafening and the smell of caramel filled the room. I glanced at the door, wondering if I should make a run for it. He seemed to read my mind and walked to the door, locking it. I panicked. I had no idea what Reuben was capable of. Certainly not ending a sentence with a preposition.

My mind raced. Reuben was a philosopher. A man of reason and intellect. Surely he wouldn’t do anything rash simply because of embarrassment and ridicule. I was wrong.

And that’s how I ended up locked in a closet with a flashlight and Reuben’s dog-eared copy of “Philosophy for Dummies.”

Free Range by Bill Whitehead

Shakespeare's Birthday Tribute

In honor of the Bard, I pilfered some quotes from "Shakespeare's Insults" by Wayne F. Hill & Cynthia J. Ottchen:

(All quotes from The Merry Wives of Windsor)

How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease.

What tempest threw this whale, with so many turns of oil in his belly, ashore?

He shall die a flea's death.

I'll provide you a chain, and I'll do what I can to get you a pair of horns.

If I be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a New Year's gift.

The philosopher went out...

...on his first date with a woman and took her to a restaurant. They sat quietly for a while and he finally says, "Do you like philosophy?"

She says, "No."

He says, "Do you have a brother?"

"No."

He says, "If you had a brother, do you think he'd like philosophy?"

(from A Prairie Home Companion Pretty Good Joke Book)

I Jog, Therefore I Am

I’m a jogger. I don’t consider myself a “runner,” though technically jogging and running are the same, the only difference being that runners are faster than joggers. I don’t know at what point a jog turns into a run. Maybe it’s when you realize that you’re actually faster than that 85-year-old lady walking her Pekinese.

Being a runner might have something to do with the clothes, too. Fashion attire for the runner includes spandex leggings, a skin-tight tank top and designer socks. The jogger, on the other hand, prefers sweat pants, a baseball cap and the “I’m The Jogger Your Mama Warned You About ” t-shirt. And while runners carry MP3 players or ipods for their favorite tunes, joggers enjoy vintage Sony Walkman cassette players and can be found bobbing along to “Help Me Rhonda.”

But there’s one thing runners and joggers have in common: shoes. When I first started jogging in the early 1980s, it didn’t take long for me to realize that it was not a good idea to go on a three-mile run wearing my K-Mart “Dennis the Menace” canvas sneakers. Not only did they cause painful blisters, the soles were so thin that I could feel the cracks in the sidewalk. I still remember the shocked stares of passers-by as I found myself maneuvering down a gravel path, waving my arms and screaming in agony every step of the way. Children clung to their mothers in fear and loathing. Young lovers ran for their lives. Even stray dogs ran whimpering with their tails between their legs. Oh, the humanity!

Needless to say, I was forced to journey into a strange new world called “Shopping For Running Shoes.” I discovered that there are hundreds of brands, and each brand had hundreds of features. “Running Shoe” terminology was foreign to me: multi-piece heeling system, stability, pronation, lug patterns, gel pods, forward propulsion, shoestring theory. I needed a Ph.D. in physics to figure it out.

After finding the perfect shoe, I was ready to explore the training rituals of the die-hard runner. One of these is a delightful little secret called “carbo-loading.” This takes place the night before a marathon when a runner will feast on huge amounts of carbohydrates such as pasta, bread and potatoes to improve his performance. I won’t tell you what happened when I did this the night before my three-miler. Let’s just say between the stomach cramps and the feeling that I was wearing cement shoes, my typical 35-minute jog took four hours.

I’ve come to the realization that I will never be a “runner.” I have no interest in marathons, training journals and stopwatches. I’m happy to just jog down the road, smell the lilacs and try to outrun the lady with the Pekinese.

W. Somerset Maugham

"There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are."

-- W. S. M.

Secret Asian Man by Tak Toyoshima