Surf City Half Marathon
Naomi and I at the finsh line!
On Sunday morning I dragged myself out of bed to run 13.1 miles along the coast in Huntington Beach. I was a tad cranky and had a poncho handy just in case it rained. Before any race I deal with the whole “What the hell am I thinking doing this?” conundrum until my running mentor Naomi appears and makes it seem like a walk in the park.
We got down to the start at 7:30am-ish and were thrilled to see that it was a beautiful day. The race was spectacular with snow-capped mountains in the background and the crashing surf alongside us most of the way.
It was mostly enjoyable. The last mile was pure agony. Every step hurt felt like I was walking on sandpaper and the muscles in my legs protested all movement. I guess we swelled up in the heat.
But hey, we did it. 3hours, 8 minutes. One potty break. I even got a tan!
Orange County girl goes on insufferable date with former pro soccer player
When 27-year old Costa Mesa resident Melanie Chandler responded to a message on the dating website OKCupid she had no idea what she’d be getting herself into.
“He had a picture that was kind of hot and he said he was from Brazil and a pro soccer scout. Wouldn’t you be curious too?” Chandler asked.
So Cal residents with no experience potential beach volleyball Olympians
28 year-old Hollywood resident Bernard Edelen and 26 year-old Laguna Beach native David Foes randomly met through an impromptu MarioKart tournament at a Chuck E Cheese in Costa Mesa. While bonding over bad beer and ignoring their families they realized they were destined for great things. The next day, still in a drunken stupor, they began the process to apply for citizenship to Lichtenstein.
Running the Las Vegas Rock N Roll Half Marathon
If 30,000 people are doing it then it can’t be wrong. Right? After almost freezing solid waiting for the monorail at 5am, my friend Naomi and I were cheered when we saw the hordes of people lined up on the Strip outside Mandalay Bay. The crowds proved that getting up before the crack of dawn to run 13.1 miles in 30 degree temperatures was a reasonable idea.
5am in the hotel room.
We couldn’t feel our fingers while we waited in our corral. #26/30. We watched the elite runners jet past us on the other side of the strip. While we crept up to the start line we got close to the people around us in an attempt not to turn into blocks of ice. The fireworks did little to grab our attention as the sun had already risen.
The start line made it all worth it. There was a bridge over the top with a rock n roll band playing Johnnie Be Good. On each side was a showgirl and a white tiger. And we were off.
For about 20 yards. We’d waited so long to get going that we already had to go to the bathroom. We spent ten minutes waiting in line at a port-a-potty and watched the last runners go by. Then the cars that pulled up the rear. And then even the street sweepers.
Start line with white tiger.
That was a lot of ground to make up. We passed the first mile mark at the Welcome to Las Vegas sign more than an hour after the race had officially started. Since it wound up and back down the strip we saw people heading to the finish line when we were at a mile and a half. Just a tad demoralizing. That’s when I coined my new running phrase: I don’t race. I finish. Shirts and bumper stickers available soon.
By then we’d hit a groove and continued down the Strip, through the major hotels, appreciating each and every Elvis we saw, thank you very much. Once we got past the Stratosphere things changed drastically. When they said we’d wind back in downtown Vegas they meant ghetto downtown Vegas. The halfway mark was a guy sitting on top of a newspaper stand with three cups of beer giving us props. The bands had thinned out so a couple guys stood on the balcony of their ratty 3-story apartment building and blasted electronic music on a boom box.
Mile 1 mark.
When we made the turn to come back a guy was sitting in his yard on a lawn chair (bars on the windows, port-a-potty on the corner) telling us that mile 8 was just around the corner. I told Naomi it would be funny if he was lying. When we turned the corner we saw a sign for the Channel 8 news. Poor guy hadn’t been lying. He was just plain wrong.
At mile 9 we started to feel the effects of the race and the cold. Naomi was stiff as she was in shorts and I was in pain every time we walked. We came up with a system where we ran a block then walked a block. When the 12 mile mark came I announced that we had already done it since we’d walked over a mile to the start line. Still, we pressed on, wondering if Mandalay was actually getting farther away in the distance.
Lots of people to pass.
Finally we hit the 13 mile mark and there were my parents ready to take a picture. They hadn’t gotten alerts on their phones when we passed the 15k and 20k marks (for some reason the system wasn’t working there) so they’d been a little nervous.
We completed the race in 3 hours, 24 minutes with 3 bathroom stops and passed almost 2000 people. Our reward was a medal, a mile walk to the taxi stand and then a 45 minute wait. No problem! We weren’t sore at all. Maybe because we’d been icing our joints all morning?
Waiting in that line with my family (yes, Naomi is definitely now family) I remembered the end of my last race and my staunch conviction that I would never do this again. Yet the masochistic addiction continues. I’m thinking Surf City in February. Naomi’s in!
With our medals!
Ann Meyers speaking at Orange County Girls Inc.
Huntington Beach resident Ann Meyers is a basketball legend. There are too many peaks in her career to take in at once.
- The first player to be of the US national team while still in high school.
- The first woman to be signed to a four-year athletic scholarship for college (UCLA).
- The only woman to sign an NBA contract (Indiana Pacers in 1979).
- The first player drafted to the Woman’s Professional Basketball Association (New Jersey Gems in 1978).
Dancing Thriller at the Clippers Halloween Halftime Show
Me and Tiffany
I have a generic email address. It leads to a lot of incorrect email.
A few weeks ago my roommate was telling me a compelling story and I had the audacity to interrupt him.
“Hold on. I think I just got email for the Clippers dance team.”
I read it. I read it again. I got the impression it was telling me about my upcoming performance at a halftime show. It even congratulated me on it.
I replied with, “Are you sure you sent this to the right person?”
She emailed right back. “I sure did!”
I still didn’t believe it. The email said we’d get details the following week. I decided I’d wait until that email came before I took the time to learn the dance and buy my outfit.
But the details came! I was one of the 40 people chosen to dance Thriller at the NBA halftime show at STAPLES Center on Halloween. I’d never even entered a drawing. It was a miracle.
I didn’t want to take any chances. On Tuesday I went right to the head lady’s office and bought my tickets. I was dizzy with anticipation. I was really going! The only things standing in my way were a zombie outfit and learning a six minute dance.
I’ve never taken a dance class, only danced to a lot of videos in my room. I wasn’t worried about it, especially because the week before thousands of zombies had danced Thriller at LA Live to break a world record in Thrill the World. We were an off-shoot of that event and I was sure that if all those people could do it then I could too.
On Wednesday evening I shut myself in my room with the promise that I wouldn’t let myself out until I knew it. Two and a half hours later I knew it okay. And I was nervous.
On Thursday I had to go to an event in Hollywood after work so I didn’t have time to practice. I printed up all the dance moves and read them whenever I had a chance. I performed it for my boss once. It wasn’t enough.
On Friday night I had to put together my zombie outfit. I went through the routine a couple times but that was all the time I had for it. I was getting more nervous. I didn’t know it cold and I couldn’t do it without other people. At least I had learned that baby powder made clothes look older and I had a revealing yet ripped up dress that would work. My shoe situation was a disaster. We were supposed to have something that wouldn’t scuff the floor. I had nothing but big pink and white running shoes that clashed with everything I had going on.
On Saturday I put on my poodle skirt and went to Venice Beach to work as a glitter tattoo artist until late afternoon. Every spare second I went through my dance notes. I even attempted to teach it to a group of girls. Their attention span didn’t allow it.
After work I was supposed to go to my friend’s house to get dressed and get my makeup on. On my way over she called to let me know she wasn’t going to be able to make it. That’s when I totally freaked out. I didn’t even know how to get to STAPLES from where I was. And where was I going to get dressed? And who was going to do my makeup? I was supposed to have that all figured out before I got there!
I tried to convince myself to just let the opportunity go. It had been a difficult day at work and I didn’t need this kind of stress. But I couldn’t do it. I knew I’d always regret it if I did.
I took over a McDonald’s bathroom. I got in my dress. I poured baby powder all over myself. I shot silver-white dye into my hair. I smeared black and white makeup on my face. I had come into the place looking so cute and I was leaving looking disgusting. It was the best I could do.
My brother gave me directions and I shot over to STAPLES. I ran from the $7 lot to LA Live. I passed no zombies and looked really out of place.
The zombies were taking a group picture. They were done up to the nines. I needed really needed to step up my outfit. There were still three hours until show time so there was hope.
We moved over to as secluded a spot as possible and attempted to get our release forms in order. The forty zombies had turned into a hundred zombies.
Tiffany's friend Paul who put blood on me.
A girl named Tiffany said she could help me with my makeup. I asked her how she had become involved in the event. She said that she and her friends had sent in audition tapes and then driven down from Santa Cruz. She said that Michael Jackson had meant so much to her and we both teared up when she said, “I feel like when he died his love burst into the world.” The event took on new meaning. We would perform Thriller where he’d performed it. Where his funeral had been. It was a Big Deal.
Tiffany had covered my arms, legs, chest and face in white makeup. I had made it look dusty by smearing baby powder all over it. We had to stop for our dress rehearsal.
My first time dancing Thriller with other people! We had no music. And no real leader. Somebody started. Nobody was counting. We ended up hammering it out in triple time and trying to figure out why.
Amanda, our leader, intervened. We did it in real time. Then we did it from a pretend entrance. A crowd had gathered to watch us. We did it again. We all made sure we had tickets. Then we moved out to the middle of LA Live in front of where the radio station 104.3 was set up.
This was going to be our first real performance. We waited. One of the lead people started dancing to Beat It that was playing on the speakers. He was good. We all fanned out. There he was in the middle of hundreds of people, an exact replica of Michael Jackson’s moves.
A kid about twelve stepped out into the circle. He mirrored all the moves. We were enchanted. So was the lead guy. They kept it up for a couple minutes before the lead guy got on the ground to bow to him and the kid melted back into the crowd, embarrassed but pleased.
The lead guy finished the dance and then 104.3 introduced us. We got in our lines and away we went. We just got better and better. Then we did it again. Our makeup started to melt off. Everyone wanted to know who we were. Why were a hundred zombies doing Thriller at LA Live? When a lady asked me I had nothing for her. I settled on, “We’re a motley crew. Kind of a flash mob.”
And we were. When we were done with that dance we spread out everywhere. I headed to the game.
I fell into step with a couple from Israel, a couple of the best zombies around. I found out that they had heard about this event a year ago. And they had auditioned. It turned out that everyone had auditioned. Somehow I had circumvented the system. I hoped I hadn’t taken a deserving person’s opportunity but even more I hoped that I wouldn’t disappoint the lead people.
We went to our seats to watch the first half. Up in the rafters at center court we peered down at the players. Baron Davis. Dirk Nowitzki. Jason Kidd. NBA greats running around where we would soon be dancing. Surreal.
My friend arrived. My stomach began to somersault. It felt like the hour before I went skydiving. It didn’t make any sense! I was going to be in a crowd.
We were supposed to be at Section 109 ten minutes before halftime. A little prep time in the bathroom and I was running late. I snuck into the last line and was awarded a court access sticker. Instead of triumph I felt nausea.
My friend dashed inside to see what section she’d be taking pictures from. I failed to grasp it.
We moved off. Through a secure door. Down a flight of stairs. Into the bowels of STAPLES.
We made lines in an area surrounded in concrete. Off behind us were some of the players’ cars. Or so I assumed.
“This is the back line,” someone announced. “This is the front line.”
I was in the front. I moved to the back.
She made an announcement that reversed what she’d said before. I scurried back to my previous spot, trading spots with a girl.
We were given last minute instructions that I didn’t catch. I made a deal with the guy in front of me, Paul, that I’d follow him. We had a bond anyway. He’d put fake blood on my face and neck earlier.
We lined up in a wing just off the court and waited for the second quarter to finish, watching on the teletron. With less than a second to go someone was fouled in the act of shooting past the arc. He had to shot three free throws. We all groaned.
Finally it was time. We were zombies from this moment forward.
I followed Paul out across the court and did my best zombie walk. My mouth was desert dry. I had to make it to the far corner.
Walking out on that court was not at all what I expected. For starters, it was small. It was just a basketball court. There was no more room than that. And the court wasn’t all shiny and slick. It was kind of dull and scuffed up. The thousands of people in the seats around us didn’t seem real. They seemed like some sort of badly executed trick. Still, I could feel their curiosity pressing down on us and felt the dread of expectation.
When we got to our corner we had to leer and look menacing, something I’m terrible at. Two of our lead people stood at center court. The other half of our crew crept up from the opposite end. We rushed in to pretend to eat the two women.
On cue we moved back into our lines. I lost Paul. I came to a stop in the back row at center court. I prayed that my underwear wouldn’t fall off and that I wouldn’t throw up.
I knew I’d be fine when we started dancing and I was. I just couldn’t believe how full the arena was. From above it had looked empty. And everyone looked so interested. “What the hell is this?” stamped on their faces.
We rocked it. We looked amazing. We were all down when we were supposed to be and up when we were supposed to be up. It was really something. Even as we proceeded off the court the fans were rooted to their feet, wondering what they’d seen. I saw famous people blown away and couldn’t help but high five a security guard.
As for my shoes? I’d done it in bare feet. Shh.
The next day I went to the movies by myself to see This Is It. I cried more than once.
I grew up with Neverland Ranch in my backyard. Michael Jackson was known to shop at my Toys R Us. His molestation trial was held in my hometown. I never thought much of any of it. He seemed like a far off fixture in the background of my life.
Now I see that you don’t gain this kind of following without having something real to offer the world. Watching dress rehearsals of his epic last concert that never came to be I was lifted up. I was shown how much better I can be. How much better we all can be. There’s no going back.
This is it.
Huntington Beach man is gearing up to run across America “barefoot”
Paul Both at the 2009 Surf City Marathon.
43-year old Paul Both is a simple man who loves running. He loves it so much he’d do it for four and a half months straight if the opportunity presented itself.
On February 9, 2010 it will.
Both will average 20-30 miles per day as he makes the Run for Liberty from Surf City to Liberty Island. His friend, colleague and cameraman Chris Swenson will join him to document the trek on video while also talking to people along the way about liberty and the Constitution.
Why would they want to talk about something so boring? Because for Both it’s a serious matter.
Ron Artest’s interaction with his fans is making him LA’s sweetheart
Angelica and Ron at an LA Sparks game.
He’s come a long way from the Malice in the Palace. LA Laker Ron Artest has done a lot for his fans since arriving in LA this summer. His frequent responses to his followers on Twitter and ticket giveaways through his personal email account are just the beginning.
Here 20 year-old Harbor City resident Angelica Raquid discusses her new friendship with Artest and shows us why we may all want him over for dinner this season. They are scheduled to appear on ESPN together on October 27th at 4pm.
How did you and Ron meet?
Ron and I met through a tokbox video chat that he had with about 20 fans one night in August. My friend sent me a link via AOL Instant Messenger telling me that Ron was live online. So I decided to enter the room. Little did I know that it was going to turn on my webcam! I was in such shock that I covered my face because I was in my pajamas getting ready to sleep. Ron then yells, “HEY! hey you Asian girl! If you’re just gonna hide your face, get out of this room!” So I…
Things to keep in mind before going to an Angels playoff game
1. Leave early. Really early. If you live in Orange County give it at least 2-3 hours before game time. Pretend you’re going on a trans-Atlantic flight. The traffic gets so mind-numbing you might consider taking the train.
2. Tailgate. Don’t skimp on getting the full experience of the playoffs. At a minimum bring beer and lawn chairs and crank your music with the ones you love. Then sweet talk the people who brought the whole nine yards like they’re competing with Bobby Flay into sharing their food. Remember, Angel fans are family but this is especially true during the playoffs.
Newport Sports Museum hosting benefit dinner featuring Hall of Famer Brooks Robinson
The Newport Sports Museum at Fashion Island in Newport Beach houses one of the world’s largest and 
most comprehensive game-used sports memoribilia collections. A trip there is a sports fan’s dream. Almost every sport is represented with jaw-dropping items like baseballs autographed by every World Series Championship team since 1940, footballs autographed by every Heisman Trophy recipient since 1935, the Miracle on Ice jersey and complete golf club sets from seven US Presidents. It’s almost too much to take in over just one trip.
Rachel
