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I briefly wrote about the time I ran the 2006 New York City Marathon back at the time, but whether it was due to fatigue or just pure laziness (probably more of the latter), I never went into much detail about what I went through before, during and after the race.

Last week, I finally wrote about the entire experience – from my early days of running cross county in high school, to over-training for the Marathon, to (spoiler alert!) finishing the race in my Mitch Richmond Kings jersey – on Stride Nation, a new blog started by SBNation.com's Tom Ziller.

Here's a short excerpt from the post, which sets the stage for the somewhat dramatic conclusion: 

As I crossed the 20-mile marker, I started to doubt whether I could finish the 2006 New York City Marathon. My quads were on fire, and my shins were excruciatingly stiff and sore. I slowed down and gingerly walked to the side, wincing in pain and groaning in disgust, as runner after runner zoomed by me.

A few weeks prior, I was walking around on crutches on the advice of my doctor, who discovered multiple stress fractures in both of my tibias. Despite being advised to rest for at least a month until my injuries healed, I couldn’t convince myself to sit out the race after vigorously training for over a half a year. But now, 20 miles in, I thought about how no one would blame me if I decided to stop.

I'd advise you to read the whole story, but, well, I'm probably a little biased. At the very least, make sure to check out StrideNation.com, which has an amazing community of knowledgeable writers and readers discussing running tips and race preparation.

A year-and-a-half ago, after the disaster that was Universal Mind Control and Common's starring role in the perhaps equally awful Just Wright, I criticized Common, my favorite musician growing up, for trying to "become an aspiring Hollywood actor who's now irrelevant in hip-hop and no longer cares about putting out quality music."

Despite the fact that Common was reuniting with producer No I.D. for the first time since 1997's One Day It'll All Make Sense (which was my high school year book quote, by the way), I was still skeptical about buying his ninth album, The Dreamer/The Believer.  U.M.C. was just that bad, a cacophonous mess so poorly considered and executed, which so desperately tried to appeal to the pop charts and accompanying video crossover circuit, that it made me reevaluate Common's place in hip-hop history as one of the most introspective and thought-provoking "conscious" rappers ever.

Still, I couldn't deny the fact the first two singles off Dreamer/Believer, "Ghetto Dreams" and "Sweet" sounded infinitely closer to the Common I used to know.  After a week-and-a-half of debating whether it was worth my $12, I decided to give him another chance.

As the album title would suggest, Common mainly sticks to preaching about (spoiler alert) dreaming and believing, whether it's about the type of woman he wants or about his aspirations to make the world around him a better place.  No I.D.'s production, full of soulful vocal samples and grooves, perfectly accompanies Common's uplifting vibe. The beats do get a little repetitive, and the choruses rarely stand out, but the nostalgic sound is unquestionably a step in the right direction.

On the intro track, “The Dreamer,” Common sets the tone with inspirational and uplifting rhymes over beautiful bass and drum kicks, before a spoken word piece by Dr. Maya Angelou. Common manages to use his own mainstream success as an example of striving to achieve goals in a way that surprisingly comes off as endearing and genuine.

“Kinda took me back to when I first had a dream / To be like the king that sang "Billie Jean" / Now it's gold records, and I'm on silver screens / At the mountaintop, you still gotta dream."

It's not exactly new and unchartered territory for him, but when Common is back to waxing poetic on tracks about love and relationships, such as "Cloth," a touching ode to women, and "Windows," a heartfelt song dedicated to his daughter, few can do it better.  “Lovin’ I Lost,” on which he reminisces about a break-up over a melancholy Curtis Mayfield sample, and "The Believer," which features John Legend, are his two best songs I've heard since Be.

At the same time, it's still hard to take Common all that seriously now when he fires shots at "sing-song" rappers (hi, Drake) on "Sweet," and plays up his street cred by boasting “’You Hollywood’/ Nah, n****, I’m Chicago / So I cracked his head with a motherf***ing bottle" on "Raw." At times, it seems like he's trying too hard to convince the listener to believe, fittingly enough, that he's still an underground legend rather than a commercial star.  The later track also includes two unforgivably bad puns -- “aware of her chest because I stay abreast” and “what’s in front of me is this great behind." Ugh.

Billed as Common’s return to making socially conscious hip-hop, the album as a whole has a familiar '90's style and recognizable flow.  It's not the second coming of Resurrection by any means, but it has enough going for it to at least not make me wish that the gifted MC would become a full-time actor (plus, there's no way I'm watching Just Wright II or even Hell on Wheels).

Barely 72 hours later, it still feels surreal.

Michelle and I, along with a couple of our friends, had the opportunity to go to a Tracy Morgan charity comedy show in Miami, which was presented by Dolphins tight end Anthony Fasano to benefit Veteran’s Housing. Thanks to the event organizers, Lunar Sports Group, we had invites to the pre-show VIP party, backstage passes and tickets to the after-party at the Shore Club.

We were informed beforehand that several of Fasano’s teammates could come out for the show, and sure enough, Reggie Bush, Davone Bess, Brian Hartline, Jared Odrick, Clyde Gates, Steve Slaton, and ex-Dolphin Lousaka Polite were among a dozen or so players in attendance. Michelle and I volunteered to check-in the VIP guests, meaning we had to put tiny orange bands around the massive wrists of professional football stars and the tiny wrists of their supermodel girlfriends. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

Once the pre-show party concluded, the players and VIP guests were ushered down the hall, where Morgan came out to welcome everyone to the show. Well, he didn’t so much welcome them, as much as launch into an impromptu stand-up act, explaining that he’s the sole reason why both the NFL and NBA lockouts had ended. That’s probably the one part that I can repeat with a straight face, much less reprint here.   Let’s just say the majority of his topics had a lot to do with bodily functions and bedroom acts most people would probably never want to try. Morgan walked up and down the hall, cracking everyone up with his unique sense of humor, driving home the point that absolutely nothing and no one was off limits (more on that shortly).

Before he went back to his dressing room, I made sure to shake his hand and tell him how much I enjoy his work, figuring it would be my one chance to speak to him.

The Dolphins walked to another section of the theater to pick up food and beverages before the main act, where MiamiDolphins.com beat writer Andy Kent introduced us to Bess, Michelle’s favorite player. Bess was extremely nice and personable, openly talking about Miami’s heartbreaking last-second loss on Thanksgiving, and taking the time out to pose for pictures. Michelle was star-struck and giggling in delight after Bess walked away – pretty much exactly how I’d react if I ever talked to Candace Parker.

As for Morgan’s actual stand-up, he began the routine by pulling no punches about Bush’s relationship with Kim Kardashian and her E! reality show, and continued to spew (heh) unfiltered raunchiness and crudeness for the next hour-and-a-half. I don’t think there’s a person on earth who can get away with anything he said or make such absurd topics so hilarious. My face actually hurt from laughing so much.

Soon afterwards, we walked several blocks to the Shore Club, where none other than Tracy Morgan and a few of his friends sat on a bench outside, with no bodyguards or bouncers in sight. When he saw us, he dove right back into his comedy act, telling us a few jokes he forgot to say during the show.

At one point, he said (I’m paraphrasing for language, clearly) that men can't live with or without women.  Michelle laughed and told him I was learning all about that.

“Nah, he’s a good boy,” said Morgan. “He’s domestically trained, like me. He knows not to pee inside the house.” I can’t argue with this.

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He then asked us if we were coming inside (as if we’d miss it for anything), at which point one of his friends told Morgan that I look like Jesus.

“He’s got the long hair, the beard – all he’s missing is the sandals,” he said.

Morgan took it a step further, declaring that I actually look like Moses’ mother. I still have no idea what to make of that, but it was fantastic. He then asked me if I’d seen the original Planet of the Apes, and for whatever reason, I told him I hadn’t. It didn’t matter – he went right into a Charlton Heston impression from some movie none of us knew; regardless, we laughed hysterically.

Inside the club, I spotted one of the comedians who opened for Morgan and had to get a picture with him, obviously because of that amazing mustache. Somewhat disappointingly, his act barely mentions the sweet ‘stache, with just one quick line about Super Mario being on stage.

We hung  around in the back for a while, where some of the guests played pool and hit on scantily-clad women, and went home around one thirty in the morning. After spending some time with him, I can safely say that Morgan basically plays himself in 30 Rock (within the confines of network television, of course) – an outrageous and unpredictable character who’s always on and lives for making others around him laugh.

Needless to say, it was an unforgettable experience with the hands-down funniest person I’d ever met.

With no NBA Summer League or preseason games on tap, I’ve resorted to honoring players’ birthdays on Twitter with some of their best (or worst) highlights or cheesy commercials. Since New Jersey native and NBA journeyman Anthony Avent was born on October 18, I’ve decided to commemorate him with the story of how I met him 16 years ago.

As a kid, there was nothing I loved more about summer than going to my camp in Union, NJ. I didn’t care about arts-and-crafts projects, swimming classes or field trips to the mall – all I ever wanted to do was sneak out to play basketball with anyone who’d happen to be on the courts.

On occasion, random NBA role players who lived in the area, including former New Jersey Nets Tate George and Chris Gatling, dropped by the facility to practice during the offseason. Most of the time, they’d quietly work out with a trainer on a side basket and bolt before any eager campers would catch wind of the fact that NBA players were in the building.

One day, when my friends and I were about to play a quick pick-up game, we noticed a freakishly tall, muscular player stretching on the sidelines. Since the Shaquille O’Neal and “Penny” Hardaway-led Orlando Magic were one of the league’s most popular and televised teams, I quickly recognized that it was backup forward Anthony Avent.

We watched as he picked up a ball and began shooting from just outside the three-point line on the right baseline. Swish. Swish. Swish. We stood in awe as Avent made all but one out of a dozen long-range bombs and moved on to shoot from the top of the key with the same results. It would’ve been incredible had we been watching a shooting clinic put on by Steve Kerr or Reggie Miller, but Anthony Avent? I would’ve never expected him to have been so accurate at the time, and looking at his statistics now, Avent’s NBA career field goal percentage (40.3%) is actually the eighth-worst for a big man in the last 50 years (minimum 300 games played). Yet, there he was, drilling hundreds of uncontested 25-foot jumpers as if they were lay-ups.

I considered myself to be a good basketball player at time, and despite being a five-foot tall Jewish kid with glasses so think they would’ve made Steve Urkel blush, I dreamed of making it to the NBA. But seeing a fringe player like Avent effortlessly knock down shots made me realize just how extremely talented even the so-called worst professionals truly are.

When Avent finished practicing after making what seemed like a thousand baskets, I gathered the nerve to approach him to challenge him to a shooting contest.

“Mr. Avent, um, can I play with you?”

He turned to me, chuckled, and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t get down like that.”

My friends broke out in laughter before I even realized that Avent made an immature, and in hindsight, very inappropriate joke at my expense. I felt like I’d just been humiliatingly turned down by the girl I liked at a middle school dance (which also happened that year, by the way).

His questionable sense of humor aside, Avent turned out to be very pleasant, signing my Kings hat that’s still sitting somewhere in my parents’ attic (funny enough, he’d briefly play for Sacramento a few years later). I don’t remember if I ever did get my chance to exact revenge by beating him in a game of HORSE or if that was just a daydream. I just know that from that day forward, I vowed to become a better shooter than Avent and work even harder on making it to the NBA (still working on that one) and make sure to use better wording when challenging someone to a basketball game.

Happy 42nd birthday, Anthony.

On May 29, Michelle and I were married.  As special and amazing as the day was, I won't bore you with too many of the wedding details.  My beatiful bride looked amazing, of course, and I also received quite a few compliments on my R. Kelly-inspired white jacket.

But without question, the most unforgettable and incredible highlight came during Michelle's speech.  All I'll say is, I had absolutely no idea this was coming, and Michelle rocked it, as only she can.  Enjoy my new favorite video of all-time.

It goes without saying that everyone remembers exactly where he or she was when the tragic events of 9/11 unfolded.  10 years later, I'm instanty drawn back to walking on Washington Place, on my way to Spanish class as a freshman at NYU.  A crowd of students and faculty stood in the middle of the street, nervously watching a thick cloud of black smoke in the distance.  None of us knew what had just happened, or how our lives would never be the same.

I also never forget the most emotional moment I've ever experienced at a sporting event -- the Mets' incredible comeback victory over the Atlanta Braves in the first baseball game in New York after 9/11 -- which I recounted on Deadspin, of all places, in 2008:

This One Was For All Of Them. I'm not a good enough writer to describe how Mike Piazza's go-ahead home run in the bottom of the eighth inning on September 21, 2001 lifted an entire city. I remember standing up and cheering with my friends, at a time when none of us could imagine ever smiling again. I was a freshman at NYU, and just 10 days prior, the tragic events of 9/11 brought about unspeakable pain and suffering. To many, going to a game during a time of mourning was appalling and heartless, but we needed baseball to remind us that we could get past the tragedy and move forward. After Armando Benitez (who else?) gave up a run in the top of the eighth, putting the Braves ahead 2-1, Shea was eerily quiet and dejected. The good vibes from the touching pre-game tribute were all but gone; I don't think we had the heart to go home with another loss. And that's when it happened. Edgardo Alfonzo reached on a walk and set the stage for Piazza to rescue the Mets, and in many ways, us all from being down. I'm not ashamed to admit that it was the only time I ever cried during a sporting event. We left the stadium in a state that was somewhere between hysteria and disbelief. Whatever that feeling was, I'll never forget it.

My heart goes out to all of the victims of 9/11.

I tried to not get too excited when Michelle, my wonderful wife (still feels weird to not say, "fiancée"), told me that she was able to get two VIP tickets from Showtime Sports to the Boxing Hall of Fame weekend, where Sylvester Stallone would be one of the inductees. Never mind the merits of a Hollywood actor who played a boxer over the span of four decades getting recognized among the sport’s all-time greats – someone joked that by the same token, Whoopi Goldberg should be in the Basketball Hall of Fame for her role in Eddie – we’re talking about Sly freakin’ Stallone here.

Now, I’m sure most guys own the first Rocky, many have the entire box set, and every single one stops whatever they’re doing if they catch the last few minutes of any movie from the series on cable. About three years ago, I took it a step further and and started a Stallone DVD collection (if you’re wondering, I have a couple of Frank Stallone movies, too, such as the brilliant Terror in Beverly Hills). The only Sly movie I still don’t own is Rhinestone, partly because its IMDB description is, “A country music star must turn an obnoxious New York cabbie into a singer in order to win a bet” (must see!), but more so because it’s out of print and sells for $71 on Amazon. So, yes, I guess you could say that I’m insane a Stallone fan.

Last year, I came across a Rocky mini-poster at a New York street fair, and it’s been displayed on our credenza ever since, patienly waiting for an autograph. If I lived in a dorm room, I would absolutely hang my old Rambo poster on the wall, too, but apparently adults in their mid-twenties are expected to act like grown-ups. I almost forgot to even bring the Rocky poster with me, but luckily, Michelle remembered and went back to get it.

Anticipating that Stallone would make an appearance at the Saturday morning golf event or the afternoon celebrity workout session at the Hall of Fame grounds, Michelle and I made the four-hour drive to Canastota, NY on Friday night. When we arrived at the course the next morning, it turned out that no one, including the chairman of the Hall, had any idea when (or if) Stallone, who was shooting a movie in Texas, would arrive. A security guard at the museum then told us that Sly wouldn’t come until Sunday’s ceremony and would leave immediately afterwards. There goes my plan.

With little else to do, we stuck around on the golf course and met a few boxing legends, including “Marvelous” Marvin Hagler, Ken Norton, Leon Spinx, and Kostya Tszyu. I’m sure these names mean something to avid boxing enthusiasts, perhaps as much as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Julius Erving, and Moses Malone would mean to me as a basketball fan, but their autographs seemed like mere consolation prizes at the time.

When we arrived at the Awards Banquet dinner later than night, I told Michelle that I was bringing the Rocky poster anyway. “I know he won’t be there, but just humor me,” I told her.

Inside, we realized that Michelle got the serious hook-up (holla if you hear me!) with the VIP seats. We were sitting at table four of over 150, alongside a New York senator (not Anthony Weiner, unfortunately), and directly in front of Don King, who was among the boxers, trainers, and celebrities seated at long tables behind the podium. We spotted a placecard for Stallone, and I took a picture in front of it, figuring it would be the closest I’d ever get to seeing him in person.

Not surprisingly, when the celebrities were introduced and walked onto the stage, Stallone’s name was skipped from the order. But after the last boxer sat down, the announcer gave one last unexpected intro.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, you know him as Rocky Balboa, 2011 Hall of Fame inductee, Sylvester Stallone!”

No way. I watched with my mouth agape as Stallone walked out from behind a curtain to a rousing ovation and shook hands with every person on the stage. “Holy crap. Stallone is here. I might faint,” I Tweeted (half-jokingly) after getting close enough to get a picture.

I started daydreaming about how I’d tell Sly I own all but one of his movies, how he’d laugh after hearing which one I don’t have, and how I’d show him pictures of me and Michelle dressed up as Rocky and Adrian on Halloween. Yes, I live in a fantasy world.

Shockingly, it turned out that I wasn’t the only person who was interested in seeing a famous movie star. Hundreds of people crowded near his table, watching his every move and snapping photos like paparazzi. I asked a couple at our table, who’d attended the last 10 inductions, whether I had any chance of getting Stallone’s autograph, and was told that the odds were “slim to none.” Damn it.

After three hours of speeches, video clips and auctions (I unsuccessfully bid on signed photos of Burt Young and Mr. T), the dinner unceremoniously ended and the crowd rushed the stage. By the time I ran across the room to Stallone’s table, nearly a thousand people were already holding up boxing gloves, photos and ticket stubs for him to sign.

Instead of organizing the fans into one line in front of him, the security guards yelled for everyone to move back and threatened to end the autograph session. Of course, no one listened, and it turned into a mob scene – people pushed, elbowed and stepped on others’ feet, with no regard for women or children. I fully expected to wake up with bruised ribs the following morning after enduring a worse beating than Ivan Drago (sorry, I had to go there).

 
I made it to the front of the crowd – at this point, shoving just like everyone else – three times in different locations, just barely missing Stallone, but I kept picturing Adrian telling me to win. I could barely even see Sly over the outstretched arms and memorabilia in front of my face (you can see my attempts in photos above), but on my fourth try to get his attention, he finally took the poster out of my hand, put it down on the table (getting a little cheesecake on it in the process) and signed it. I felt like I just took down Clubber Lang after 15 grueling rounds.

When I was able to escape the vicious crowd, I searched for Michelle, who as I soon found out, went through a similar experience while trying to get Sly’s autograph for me on the other side of the stage (if you haven’t realized it by now, she’s awesome). After nearly getting trampled over, she just barely missed Stallone as he ducked behind the curtain right in front of her. She might’ve been even more excited than me when I showed her my signed poster.

The next day, Stallone was officially inducted and received his Hall of Fame ring. True to form, his entire speech was a nod to Rocky, with several quotes from and an emphatic, “Yo, Adrian, I did it!” finale. It almost felt like being in a movie, with the crowd giving him a long standing ovation and chanting “Rocky!”  Is it really that far-fetched to think he'll go up against Mike Tyson (which Stallone said almost happened once before) in Rocky VII?

Sly left shortly afterward, and although he didn't pose for pictures or do much signing, he acknowledged the fans and shook my hand as he was escorted to his car.  It should also be noted that moments before he walked by, I stood right next to Frank, who said something like, “the real star is up ahead.”

As Michelle and I drove back to the city, I looked at the poster again in disbelief. I read the tagline underneath Stallone's signature – “Their lives were a million to one shot” – and I couldn't help but smile.  I couldn't have said it better myself.

Living in New York over the last decade, I can't explain why I haven't run into celebrities more frequently.  Sure, I've seen plenty of movies and TV shows filmed on the streets and caught glimpses of Denzel Washington, Angelina Jolie, and Will Smith filming a few scenes.  During my freshman year of college, I saw Robert DeNiro trip over and then stare down an orange cone on the set of Analyze That.  Signs for Law & Order: SVU and Nurse Jackie filming hours are regularly hanging on street poles in my neighborhood.

But I've hardly ever actually bumped into someone famous outside of a nightclub or at a nice restaurant.  Now, this could, of course, be due to the fact that I rarely go to fancy places (or just out, in general), but just by sheer luck and coincidence, you'd think some celebrity and I would be walking down the same street at the same time.  Until last week, this happened exactly once.

After I graduated college but before I could afford to move into my own apartment in the city, I lived in NYU housing for one summer semester.  As I made the turn on Broadway and Chambers Street on my way home from work, Sam Waterston, better known as District Attorney Jack McCoy on Law & Order, came out of his trailer parked on the side of the road.

I immediately recognized him and told him that I watched the show every week.  He was surprisingly interested in talking to me, and asked if I was still going to school and if I lived in the area.  I told him that I'd recently graduated and worked at an investment bank, but was temporarily staying at a college dorm a few blocks away.  His reply was nothing short of epic.   Now, I don't know if he was still in character or if he just naturally talks like Jack McCoy at all times, but he sharply turned his head towards me as if he was interrogating a hostile witness on the stand and yelled, "a DORM?!" in apparent disbelief.  I started telling him that I had to save money, but by that point, he seemed to have lost interest and went back inside his trailer with a quick good-bye.

This was six years ago, and professional athletes at sporting events aside, I hadn't seen a single celebrity in person since.  Well, some Real Housewives reality TV star once had dinner in the same restaurant as me and my friends, but since I had no idea who he or she even was, I don't really count that.

But after a long drought. it finally happened -- and it wasn't even in New York.  I flew down to Miami for a college buddy's wedding, and we had dinner afterwards at Emeril's Restaurant in South Beach. I went to the bathroom towards the end of the night, and just as I was washing my hands and getting ready to leave, I noticed a familiar face.  It was Zach Gilford, who happened to play one of my favorite TV characters of all-time, Matt Saracen on (the sadly defunct) Friday Night Lights.

I felt a little awkward approaching him in the bathroom -- I'm sure there's some kind of guy code against doing this sort of thing -- but I told him that I was a big fan of FNL.  He thanked me and we talked about the show for a few minutes, at which point I asked if he'd mind taking a picture with me.  He hesitated for a second, and then said, "How about we do that outside?"  Good call, Zach.

We walked out into the hallway, where Michelle had been waiting for me, and Zach asked her if she'd take the photo.  I told him that she was my fiancée, and he asked if we were from Miami and congratulated us on the upcoming wedding.  Afterward, Michelle told me she thought I ran into an old friend by the way Zach and I were chatting on our way out of the bathroom.

Nope, I was only talking to the greatest quarterback in the history of the Dillon Panthers.  Clear Eyes. Full Hearts. Can't Lose!  And no, I didn't actually say that to him. Regrettably.

There are certain songs we'll never forget that play a special part in our lives.  “Our songs," whether they remind us of a school dance, a first kiss, or some crazy party, come on the radio and instantly put us in a good mood as we sing along, pretending as if we know all of the lyrics. For me, aside from all R. Kelly tracks, of course – which are either unintentionally comedic beyond words or brilliant, with no in-between – there are a few songs, for better or worse, that always take me back.  Well, at least, these are the ones I can talk about on this (somewhat) family-friendly site.

Carl Carlton, “Everlasting Love” – I was a horrible basketball player during my first year of summer camp. I pretty much nailed all of the stereotypes of the nerdy, unathletic white kid, and I'm pretty sure there was a time when other campers decided five-on-four would be more competitive than picking me for a team. So, when I came back home, I convinced my parents to put a basketball hoop in the driveway and spent hours pretending I was Mitch Richmond. During the bus ride back to camp the next year, "Everlasting Love" came on the radio, and for some reason, I took it as a sign. I stepped out on the court at camp, and the same kids who used to ridicule me, couldn't believe how good I'd become. Feeling cool and confident, I played a guy one-on-one for his girlfriend in front of everyone and emerged victorious, all while humming "Everlasting Love" the entire time. This will always be the highlight of my basketball career. Yes, I was 14.

Eminem, "The Way I Am" - Just as I dreamed of becoming the first ‘cool’ white rapper (Vanilla Ice and Snow obviously failed in that regard), Eminem busted on the scene with “My Name Is” and crushed my hopes. So, I did what any normal person in my position would do – I wrote Jewish parodies of Eminem’s singles, and eventually other hip-hop artists’. “I Am,” “Stan,” Dr. Dre’s “Still D.R.E.” were a few of my bigger hits, which I’d post on Napster and rename as popular Limp Bizkit, Christina Aguilera, and 'N Sync songs to get more downloads and get my name out there. The strategy sort of worked, but I was banned from performing them at my school’s talent show for risk of offending someone (I think I had a Yiddish swear word in one). I probably still have the MP3s (or WAV files) on my parents’ old computer, but I don't plan on re-releasing them anytime soon.

Donell Jones, "Where I Wanna Be" – Jones’ hit is still one of my favorite songs, even though it was playing on the radio when I was involved in a minor fender-bender in high school – with an off-duty cop. It was definitely not where I wanted to be at the time. Making matters worse, I was wearing my school's windbreaker track pants, which I conveniently "forgot" to give back at the end of the season because they were incredibly comfortable. So, of course, my track coach happened to be passing on the street during the time of the accident, and called me into his office the next day to get the damn pants back. The good news is, after years of paperwork, I somehow convinced the insurance company that it wasn't my fault. No such luck with the pants.

The Offspring, “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)” – You may not believe this, but there was a time when I acted, um, ‘hood’ in my tiny, suburban New Jersey high school. Naturally, everyone decided that “Pretty Fly” was written about me and sang it whenever I was in the hallway. If that wasn’t enough, some of the girls also started calling me “Kenny,” in honor of Seth Green’s character in Can’t Hardly Wait, which came out around the same time.  Shockingly, I was single the entire time. Ninety-two percent, yo!

For some unknown reason, I've been fascinated by beards ever since I was a little kid.  It drove me nuts that my dad refused to grow out a goatee and that no one in my immediate family had ever sported any kind of facial hair.  One day, I found an old stack of my dad's photos, and drew a beard on his face in every single one.  Shockingly, he didn't care how awesome it made him look, and grounded me for a week.

When I could finally grow something other than a wispy, Adam Morrison-esque mustache in high school, I put my razor to work.  Or rather, I didn't.  I decided to first experiment with an Abe Lincoln beard, and went an entire summer without shaving or trimming it.  Needless to say, there were no girls in my life during this time.  I'm pretty sure Kyle Orton in his heyday still has me beat in the ugliest beard of all-time category, though I wouldn't do any NFL Betting on it.

As time went on, I tried out a different look every week, and well, let's just say some worked better than others.  Actually, none of them really worked.  Let's take a look back at the best of these bad boys.

Sadly, I didn't rock this look in school, since I'm almost certain it would've gotten me all the ladies.  Because, honestly, who wouldn't want to date a guy with such smooth handlebar mustache?  I'll bet ex-Kings center Scot Pollard did pretty well for himself.  It just screams, "How you doin'?"

Ah, yes, my all-time favorite: the R 'n Beard. I could never get mine to look as perfectly thin and neat as Craig David's, but that didn't stop me from desperately trying to look like a reject from a '90's boy-band.  I apologize if you have Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up" stuck in your head now...

I don't think I need to go into much detail here. These exquisitely fancy whiskers were favored by '70's porn stars (or so I hear) and former NFL quarterback Jake Plummer.

You may remember this beard from the time I attempted (and failed) to get out of jury duty in April.  I cleaned it up a little, and it still makes me look like a shady homeless guy you wouldn't want to come across in a dark alley (or Jack Shephard during his dark period).  The original inspiration, of course, came from Sly Stallone during the epic training montage in Rocky IV.

According to Michelle, I look like a sleazy car salesman with the goatee.  I can't really argue with that, though I think the Elvis sideburns make me look a little more gangsta.  I only wish I'd taken a page out of Pollard's book and braided the chin.

Wolverine of the X-Men was my favorite comic book character as a kid, so naturally, I'd grow out mutton chops as an adult.  Admit it -- you're jealous.