I'd like to take some time usually spent running to write something positive today. Most people that still hang around this space are either punch drunk from the spiked cynicism that I'm serving or they read it to get pissed off before a run. The pages and pages of sardonic jabs at various peoples or groups with appropriate grudges have now reached the ceiling and so I'm going to purge it all with a match about an establishment and a man that didn't either reject or ignore me. His acceptance of me and my idea came at a perfect time in my life--back when most things were dead ends or empty bottles. I think the timing is right for the story since I'm heading back to Vermont this week. About a week after Skirack told me about the hereditary nature of their sponsorships vis-a-vis my bloodline and said no thank you very much (ie. don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you, but we'll take your credit card for them skis). I was out for a late night run. It was either the 10-degree temps or a run past the Rotisserie that made me think of the idea. The Rotisserie restaurant sits right on Williston road in South Burlington. It's a small rustic cabin that serves as a frequent watering hole for a homogeneous group of men, mostly hockey coaches or washed-up UVM hockey players or their fans. Everything is simple there: wood bar, wood tables, TV with hockey or the Red Sox game on, spilled beer, and prime rib. The prime rib and the draft beer go real well together. They also have pull-tabs that tend to be lucrative if you buy the whole aquarium at the right time. I've hit the $500 tab before by buying estimated remaining tabs, n, where n <500. My buddy Ken and I washed up there by chance one night. We got to meet its bartender, Dick (a fine marathoner in his own right), as well as its new owner, a young guy named Brendan. We shut the bar down a couple times talking with Dick and Brendan about running and other things. This place became a home away from home of sorts for me. So I got an idea that night to write a letter. It was like something Max Fischer from Rushmore would write; it was almost poetic; it was overly polite, very 19th Century-esque with a salutation like, "Dear Sir" and a closing like "With Warm Regards, Yours Truly," The gist of the letter was a request for sponsorship. I simply asked that Brendan buy me a pair of shoes and provide me a Rotisserie singlet and I would guarantee him a top 25 place at the 2004 VCM and some free advertising. It was cut and dry, no blood test, no proof of the Plantagenet gene, no name on some dusty waiting list--demonstrated results, that's all. I took a deep breath, walked into the Rotisserie one night, and handed it to Brendan. The rest of the conversation went like this: Brendan: "What's this?" Me: "A request for sponsorship letter." Brendan: "Sponsorship for what?" (I then made a sales pitch about how the Rotisserie sponsors a stockcar and if they sponsor a car, why the hell not a runner? We are much cheaper and we could turn the Rotisserie into a kick ass runners' hangout similar to that bar in Oregon in both Pre. movies where Kenny Moore's backslapping Pre. who's toasting good times much to the chagrin of Bowerman). I had visions of race bauble everywhere and framed photos of a smiling Salazar with his thick Latin eyebrows making beautiful commas, sitting behind a plate of prime rib throwin' a big ass thumbs up. You'd even have plates like the "Pre Special" or "Skirack's demise."* He didn't get the whole bar-in-Oregon part or the vendetta thing, but he still nodded and ushered me back to his office. He closed the door; I prepared for rejection. He reached for his checkbook. I bought a pair of Mizuno Aero marathon flats with his money--my first pair. I ran the race in an embroidered singlet that could have come from Max Fischer's hand--big bubbly red letters stating "The Rotisserie." That year I kept my end of the bargain by finishing 12th place. Just knowing the fact that someone believes in you can give you strength when bad times come, and I'm not just talking about running here. If you're in town this weekend, stop by the Rotisserie. Their open-faced prime rib sandwiches are delicious and very affordable. Brendan's someone who deserves your business. -------------------------------- See, me and Pandu can also have soft sides; even us tough, grudge guys like to frolic and dance and dance and frolic and be happy and dance--from time to time. -------------------------------- Conspiracy Theory of the Day. Everything's all Da-Vinci'ed to the nines these days so here's mine: All the anti-virus companies get together and pool some funds; they then liquidate them into cash through some cosmetic, charity-like means, and pay shady, 20-something cretins in basements to write viruses that Ma and Pa Household then have to go to Staples and buy their software to defend against. 20-something cretins are paid peanuts compared to the guaranteed revenue stream that comes in from 10 million scared Ma and Pa households not to forget the abc company and the AB-Motherfu-king C companies. ------------------------------------ *I was thinking that "Skirack's Demise" would be a plate of something raw or only pan seared; maybe tripe. The intent of Skirack's demise would be for the waiter to come over to your table with something really bloody or runny. Hmmm...I guess people wouldn't eat it. Maybe instead anything, but completely covered in that fake 'grass' shit you get on the sides of some plates. You'd have to dig your food out of it to eat it. You could call it instead "Skirack demise-style' like, 'I'll have the open-faced pub sandwich Skirack demise-style!" Much like you can order things "Wild Style" at In-N-Out burger.