NYC Marathon: There was a guy at the Marathon, a spectator, who stationed himself right at the corner outside Candy’s building. “Way to go, Joe!” None of the runners seemed to recognize his voice. I thought it was sweet that he would go and yell out encouragement at whatever name (what are the odds that, in a clump of 20 men, one of them is named Joe?). But then: ““Nice job, Peru!” and Go, Aimee!” I noticed a woman who had “A-I-M-E-E” stenciled on her butt—I assumed she had the same on her front.

Now, I have absolutely ZERO desire to go run a marathon myself. I don’t even want to ride a cab 26 miles through all five boroughs. But next year, I swear, I’m going to find myself a spot along the route and yell, “There is no wall, Paul!” and “Nice job, Bob!” “We love you, Sue!” “Give ‘em hell, Belle!”

So, I have a year to find rhymes for every name in the book.