Sad Story

Al's taking a break from his witty little title thing ("unbelievab-AL") to report on this one.

Today, at the Olympic Men's Marathon Team Trials, Robert Shay, 28, dropped dead. Shay collapsed about 5.5 miles into the race in front of the Central Park Boathouse. Shay was a tremendously talented runner. Here's a blurb on Shay:

Shay was a favorite going into the 2004 trials but was hampered by a hamstring strain and finished 23rd. He was the 2003 U.S. marathon champion and was third at this year's U.S. 25K championships. He also won the U.S. half marathon in 2003 and 2004. He was the NCAA 10,000-meter champion in 2001, the first national individual title in track for Notre Dame.

Shay was the U.S. 20,000-meters (20K) road racing champion in 2004, making him a four-time national champion.

There has not been a report yet on the cause of his collapse. But this is a terrible thing, and I just wanted to post this bit on it.

More on Shay here.

Calling Damone

Al is the man who can hook your ass up for any show in the NY metro area. The dude lives and breathes the arena life. Back when Moveitfred was a young lass he used to drop his wad now and again on some passing fancy of a concert.

Some highlights from Moveitfred's concertized youth include Van Halen and Red Hot Chili Peppers at LA's small, rat-infested Troubadour nightclub, being in on a private show by R.E.M before they hit it big, braving the Long Beach Arena to see The Time and Prince as prolly the only white dude in the audience, and sitting next to Valerie Bertinelli at an Elton John show back before she got fat and we, ahem, knew about Sir John.

The lowlight of Moveitfred's concert past was likely the stirring combination of Christopher Cross and Fleetwood Mac at the Hollywood Bowl. Jeeeezus, what was Moveitfred thinking. Had to have been some surf-infested blond involved in that equation somehow.

Anyway, back on point. Al continues to pound out the concert scene to the tune (pun intended) of two or three shows a week. You name it, Al's got the seats and a lighter at the ready.

Al can also hook a brother up with any ticket in town.

So Moveitfred is making a public plea to Al. Can you hook a brother up with some tix? Moveitfred ain't talking about some reunion of aging 80's rockers, he needs some seats for the next wave, the new thing, the up-and-coming.

Moveitfred needs tix to Hannah Montana, bro. Daughter is busting Moveitfred's chops to go. It's the rage. This is bigger than Moveitfred. Every freakin' pre-teen girl has got to witness this Billy Ray Cyrus spawn. Please, help a bicoastal out, man. It's the least you can do.

Fredtastic-AL

In which AL explains what a DOUCHE Fred is


If you are like me, you've been waiting and wondering "where, oh where, can poor Fred's post be; oh where, oh where can it be?" I mean, Fred wow-ed us with his prowess at the Halloween Party where he wined 'em and dined 'em and even woo-ed 'em a bit.




Fred told us how his unparalelled party performance led to Craigmeur permission for this last Sunday. Logically, we were waiting for his stunning sideline pics and thrilling color commentary. But nothing... we waited. And still nothing...we waited.

Finally, I could wait no more. I approached the legend and asked the age old question, "what the fuck Fred?" Fred told a tale of terror, horror, and mayhem. Lock up your children folks, and drape your shawls tight about you. This one's a doosy. (By the way, how the fuck does one spell "doosy?")


The wind poured across the brutal steppes of New Jersey, driving snow and sleet mercilessly down upon our hero. (Ok, this was an out of season ski mountain and it was sunny and cool, but go with me.) Fred pulled his trusty steed out of the stall (Yanked the Zank outta the Yak rack) and set out to explore the wild wilderness that was the Craigmeur course.

As Fred motored through a practice loop, he made a startling discovery: the course would call for riders to transition from the upper mountain to a lower section by navigating class 5 rapids, crossing a chasm akin to the Grand Canyon, and braving several South Central backstreets (gats a-blazin'). Fearless Fred propelled himself over downed trees and glacial erratics, past crackheads and slowly cranking crossers. At some point he felt a rumbling from deep within the earth. It was a quake, and Fred's keen senses could tell it was a big one. He careened down the trembling terra (not so) firma trying to find stable ground. But there, ahead of him! A damsel in distress. She'd fallen during dismount and was still clipped in with one foot. The earth was open before her and the land fell away towards the open maw. She would certainly be swallowed. Brave Fred flung himself into the hole, spreading his 7 foot 7 inch frame across the opening. The maiden used our bony buddy as a ladder and climbed to freedom. But the ground grabbed up our Fred. He was chewed up by mud and gravel (and even some concrete). She dug to save him, but it was too late. He lay, broken and battered, the victim of an act of god.



In the end, Fred would rise from the ashes like the Phoenix.


But a painful bruise on his vulva would keep him from racing.

Sniff. Hang tough brother. We're with you.