An Open Letter To Plantar Fasciitis (a running manifesto)

I know I messed up.

I know I ran around the streets of New York with unsupportive shoes on in the winter of 2009.

I know I did too many “jumpy” cardio classes at the YWCA.

I know I shouldn’t have trained twice a day that one summer.

I know I probably should have stretched more.

I know I overdid it.

I know.

But you.

You took away a year of my life.

You took away the Frozen Half Marathon, the first race of its length I ever completed, the first and only race in which I peed my pants at the finish line.

You took away the Twin Cities Marathon, the first marathon I ever completed.

You took away Grandma’s, City of Lakes, Monster Dash and countless others.

You took away the 18 weeks of long training runs, the runs that make sweat turn white and lungs turn to iron.

You took away the gun belt of fluids strapped around my waist.

You took away the knowing glances from trail compatriots; soldiers on the mission not to win - but to finish.

You took away the final stretch of every training run - the moment when I lost all sanity and convinced myself that I could really win this thing. (Well, maybe my age group.)

You took away the Brisk Fall, the feeling of the leaves under my feet as I swished through them.

You took away the strangers who clapped for me even though they didn’t know my name.

You took away a good idea when I had an hour to kill and running shoes in my backpack.

You took away Minehaha Parkway - the never-ending parkway that is as beautiful as it is demonic.

You took away packet pick-up.

You took away waterstops.

You took away deodorant under my arms, between my legs, and around my back.

You took away the 5:30 AM warm-up inside the Metrodome.

You took away the noon beer at the Capitol.

You took away the deliciousness of a lime popsicle after 18 miles in 90 degree weather.

You took away the safety pin holes in my Dri Fit shirts.

You took away Lemondrop Hill.

You took away the Blue Angels in Two Harbors.

You took away the Port-a-Potty negotiation.

You took away the iTunes playlist titled “26.2.”

You took away Summit Avenue; oh, Summit Avenue, you deceptively flat bastard, I miss you.

You took away any excuse for carbo-loading.

You took away a special trip up North from my parents.

You took away the “You’re nuts!” poster that Aunt Sue would hold in the crowd.

You took away early mornings around Lake of the Isles.

You took away the 20 milers on Milwaukee’s Lakefront, where Dad would be waiting at the car every 5 or so miles with a towel and a water bottle.

You took the “Polly Positive” reminders from Coach Mary.

You took away the rage I’d feel when someone would ask if I’m about to “go jogging.”

You took away the awesome feeling of annihilating someone in the final stretch.

You took away any reason to pound my fists on my thighs.

You took away my time with God under the sunshine.

You took away the feeling of cold rain against my warm cheek.

You took away the smell of gross compression tights inside the clothes hamper.

You took away frosted eyelashes and frozen nose hairs.

You took away my silent pre-race dedications to loved ones passed.

You took away the 20,000 strangers with whom I could have befriended on a road.

One day, about 15 years ago, I realized something.

I realized that if I could run a 5k, that I could run a 10k.

And if I could run a 10k, I could run a half marathon.

And if I could run a half marathon, I could run a marathon.

And if I could run a marathon, I could accomplish anything in life.

Plantar Fasciitis, you took away my first love.

Well, fuck you, Plantar Fasciitis.

I’m going to win her back.

Whip My Hair ft. Willow Smith, Faith No More, Living Colour + Random Headbangers

Willow Smith's video for "Whip My Hair" made me think of the hair-whippers of yesteryear...

The bird that binds.

Last night's Twins/Orioles game at Target Field was, quite literally, a wash. First off, the Orioles snagged a 2-0 lead early in the game, which they held until the end. Second, Mauer wasn't playing. Neither was Hardy. Oh and did I mention it RAINED THE ENTIRE TIME. For my first exposure to Target Field, last night's game could have possibly been the most boring professional baseball game I ever attended in my life.

Except it wasn't.

Perched high atop the right field foul pole was a hawk. Just sitting there, chilling. But when the lights came on to illuminate the moths, the hawk went for the kill, scooping down for its moth prey at fever pitch, only to return gracefully to the pole. And the hawk did this again. And again and again and again.

1 out. Bases loaded. Double-play.

2 outs. Runner on third. He swings and...fly ball.

Potty break.

Ground out to first.

For most of last night's game, sections 100-102 sat on wet seats, huddled under ponchos, sipping $5 hot chocolates and eating moist Dugout Dogs while trying not to yawn too loud. But when the hawk flew on its routine hunt for dinner, it unknowingly entertained thousands of soaked Twins fans in desperate need for action.

The hawk did not disappoint, and from innings 7 through 9, edges of seats were warm with anticipation. For every successful kill, raucous applause. For every missed attempt, a collective "awww." At one point, the hawk dropped a dead moth into young woman's lap. Any chick would normally be like "ew." But the woman stood up, triumphantly holding the moth in the air like a victory flag. Raucous applause, followed by a round of "Eat! The! Moth! Eat! The! Moth!"

As dumb as the entertainment value of a hawk trapping moths may be, these are the moments that remind us that no matter how rich or young or old or how cool we are, at the end of the day, we're all the same. We're just humans who can find joy in the simplest of things. And as dumb as being entertained by a hawk trapping moths may be, it was a moment we shared. In the rain. Under the lights. That could have never happened inside the Metrodome. This was my first introduction to outdoor baseball in Minnesota.

PS: Sorry, Michael Cuddyer. This is why the crowd was going wild during the TV time-out.

Correction: Sources say it was a falcon, not a hawk.

Correction 2: Sources now say it was a kestral hawk, not a falcon.

Correction 3: Sources Googled "kestral hawk" and it came up with a falcon. So whatever, it was a hawk.

Behold the Snacksuit.

This is our entry to the 2010 Doritos Superbowl Contest.

Directed by: Ryan Taylor & Brian Slater

Edited by: Brian Slater

Written by: Craig Ferrence, Jim McClarty & Paula Maki Biondich

Starring: Aaron Richey, Bob Barrie, Rachel Gall, Craig Ferrence, Sam, Chantille, Jeff, & Jim McClarty

Four: A celebration.

A tribute to the number 4, in honor of Number 4.

Linda Hamilton Can Sell Anything.

I've decided that as long as Linda Hamilton has an assault rifle, she can be advertising spokeswoman for everything.

"No hassles"

"Financial planning"

"Hunting sale"

"Stick to your resolutions this year"

"For bloating and irritability"

Real American Apparel 2

Real American Apparel

Literal Metaphors

Community Punchline

Johnny Carson finishes a joke with a little help from his friends.

Synchronicity: A Salmon Line

Who wants a side of salmon with their glitter? A Chorus Line's "One" meets The Salmon Dance by The Chemical Brothers.

Synchronicity: Imma Ballerina

Forget Tchaikovsky. Ballet goes well with Black Eyed Peas.

Synchronicity: West Side Sparxxx

West Side Story meets "Heat it Up" by Bubba Sparxxx. "Walk It Out Fosse" just got served a platter of fierce with a side of tahdow.

Synchronicity: Duranadu

A happy accident took place while I was listening to Duran Duran's "Skin Divers" off of Red Carpet Massacre while watching Xanadu. No additional editing took place; this is the complete song to the complete scene. P.S. No, I don't know why I was listening to Duran Duran while watching Xanadu.

Introducing: The Moon Shirt™

Ever eat a big meal and need to let out your pants? Well, now you can let out your shirt, too. In collaboration with designer Jacqueline Polzin, mono is proud to introduce a groundbreaking revolution in the world of t-shirt design: The Moon Shirt™. Designed to add flexibility and on-demand breathability to the standard t-shirt, The Moon Shirt is perfect for those who need a little extra belly room on-the-go. And coming soon: Moon Mother™, a maternity version of The Moon Shirt, just with a bigger hole. For orders and investment opportunities, email pbiondich@mono-1.com.

When closed, The Moon Shirt looks like a typical t-shirt.

When opened, The Moon Shirt allows for maximum belly breathability.

Homage

I saw some t-shirts online the other day that had the names of famous figures on them in basic helvetica font. Simple on the surface but it got me thinking how people generate meaning from names. So I decided to make some videos.

Million dollar dirt

I thought I had the address wrong. It looked like a private home. But then, sure enough, there was the buzzer. I anxiously pressed the button, waited a few moments, thinking I could still get out of this. But then, with a startling REEE, the door buzzes open and a medium-sized, typical art gallery-fonted sign inside directs me upstairs. Okay, so it appears as if it's "arty." All I can think is, either this is going to be amazing or totally bizarre.

Totally both.

A quiet man sits behind a basic desk. I awkwardly ask him if I have to pay anything, like a donation or a fee or something. He says no, and gestures towards the room. A 3,600 square-foot loft. Full of dirt. Modern civilization calls it the New York Earth Room.

Perfectly manicured, perfectly level, perfectly dirty dirt. In 1977, the artist Walter De Maria hauled 280,000 pounds of it into a primo loft space in SoHo Manhattan and called it an interior earth sculpture. Natural light was the only light source when I viewed, and the room was obviously temperature- and humidity-controlled to keep the dirt happy. As it should be. Economically speaking, a 3,400 square-foot loft nearby recently sold for $5.75 million. Which means 1 square foot of dirt = >$1,600.

(I am not supposed to take photographs. I know. I did read the sign. Sorry. I had to. If it helps, I didn't use a flash.)

Now, many of the reviews I read were of the head-scratching variety; most people just didn't "get it." Honestly, what's not to get? Manhattan, like the rest of everything everywhere, is Christopher Columbus 2.0; we are the culture of urban conquerers. If humans are given space, their first instinct is to fill it with something. So what if Walter De Maria decided to fill his space with dirt in 1977? Or hire a guy whose sole job is to tend to the dirt and let people in the door? Was Walter's big political statement supposed to be against the excessiveness of the developed world around him? Or was his choice of filling a multimillion-dollar space with dirt the highest level of excessive behavior?

Either way, fantastic space. So close to Starbucks!

Life in matchbooks

Matchbooks are a dying art form, with the whole smoking ban and all. I started collecting mine about 12 years ago. The other day I took them out of their box and started arranging them according to places and experiences.

Minneapolis: Places I've been where some really important things have happened. 1998-2007.

World Travels, 2003-2008. I can't claim visitation rights for all of the books (though I would have LOVED to check out the Outback Steakhouse in Korea).

Santa Monica: advertising production trips, 2005-2007. Once upon a time, when the American economy was booming, a girl could eat $100 kobe beef steak on a Tuesday without batting an eyelash.

So...you think you got troubles (pt 2)

I recently came across some old family photos. Most of which were taken by my uncle, an artist who served in the Korean War in the late 60's/early 70's.

So...you think you got troubles (pt 1)

I recently came across some old family photos. Most of which were taken by my uncle, an artist who served in the Korean War in the late 60's/early 70's.