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Cordarounds Model Citizens
 After hearing 16 days of bureaucratic ups and downs, threatend deportations, and gulletfulls liver fat, I received this notice at midnight, penned in Tyler's unmistakable pixelated hand:
We start the run in 4 hours from the Caspian Sea! We've been put up in a 4 star hotel, and have a TV crew waiting at the starting line. Also, there is an ambulance ready at all times in case anything happens. They want me to carry flags promoting nuclear energy, but I said it might be hard to run with a flag. It's going on the car instead. Lots of tea and kisses in fancy offices. the local track team might join for a few miles. no sleep on the drive up here last night. going now to catch a few zzzs. we can hardly believe what's happening. the river of honey is flowing, now I just hope we have the strength to paddle.
meanwhile, 325km away in Tehran, there is a grumpy man in his office trying to figure out a way to deport me. Golden times in Iran, Tyler Now it's only appropriate that I catch you, the millions of I Ran Iran fans, up on the action. It goes like this: For the past 2 odd weeks, our friend **and first sponsored Cordarounds athlete** Tyler has been trying to get government clearance to run from the top of Iran (the majestic Caspian Sea) to its bottom (the scorching, supertanker-laden Persian Gulf). About 1000 miles lie inbetween. A clever idea indeed, but not if you're a member of the Iranian tourism industry or the ministry of foreign affairs. To them, your first instinct is to say, "that's not how it's done and, my curly haired friend, you're out of your mind." Their second instinct is to work themselves into a bureucratic lather when you persist to run Iran. What follows is an emotional rollercoaster of approvals, denials, threats of deportation, shouting matches between opposing governmental organizations (all in Farsi, mind you, which apparently sounds like a shouting match at all times) and finally...finally...the merry band of runners, wrestlers, and government minders leave Tehran in the middle of the night, destination Rasht. Throughout the diplomatic wrangling, Tyler has trained with an Iranian wrestling legend who, to date, has been the lynchpin of the I Ran Iran team. He goes by The Captain (and for those Iranian freestyle wrestling buffs among you, I promise to deliver his full name in future blog posts.) When Ty failed to get clearance through the tourism ministy, the Captain turned him on to the Physical Education Organization, which is something like the International Olympic Committee, and they were able to cut enough red tape to make the mission possible. So hats off to them. And a free pair of Cordarounds to its visionary leader! Sir, just send me your address. A final and very important note to close today's update: Tyler is joined on this mission by his old friend Bobak, who's of Iranian descent, and will be running with our hero every step of the way. He's keeping a blog of the mission, so I Ran Iran junkies can get more and more info there. The next update will be filed early next week. Keep the words of encouragement coming. I Ran IRAN Is On!
The following Cordarounds Style Lab breakthroughs are now up for auction on Ebay. Through this Friday at 11:30 AM, these remarkable, one-of-a-kind items are available to the bidding public. The winner will receive a custom sized pair for himself. Be sure to visit the Ebay sites to see photos of these pants and jacket in action.
LAST SUPPEROUNDS (visit the auction)
THE BLINGAROUNDS (visit the auction)  THE SILVER FOX (visit the auction)  
 So you want to run a thousand miles across Iran. Where do you start? You train. But training can be a bit difficult when you're training in Tehran, which is a smog broth of a city, and you have a theocratic bureaucracy standing in between you and your cross country quest.
Challenge one in Tyler's trip across Iran is getting the approval to do so. That means a massively extended visa and a tour guide who's willing to keep an eye on him for over a month. You see, when you're foreigner in Iran, particularly a tall, big-haired foreigner wearing wacky clothing, they want to keep an eye on you. So the first couple days have been spent haggling with tourism officials, eating cow eyeballs with his crew, and techno dancing to keep in shape at night. Tyler informs me that injecting anything remotely sexual into your dance moves can earn you a flogging--anywhere from 40 to 80 lashes depending on the degree to which you bust a move.
He's very excited to be there, and, of course, people are very warm to him. The goal of this trip is learn about this member of "The Axis of Evil" by running from South to North. But will Tyler get his permits? Or will his project have to be renamed I Technoed Iran? More news next week... Super duper I Ran Iran junkies can catch up on Tyler's travels as told by his old friend, translator, and travel partner, Bobak, on this blog. If you have any news or comments for Tyler, leave a comment below and I'll pass it on to him when we talk on the phone.
Originally designed for relaxing beside the spittoon, Cordarounds have, rather unexpectedly, become the trousers of great adventure. Yes, the horizontal wonderslacks have seen action in Antarctica and Afghanistan, and have bested the Ultimate Hamdog in Atlanta. Impressive feats, no doubt, but no past Cordarounds adventure can quite compare to what follows ... 
Fresh off his victory in the Amazing Race, our friend Tyler has opted for adventure over a spot on the Hollywood Squares. Tomorrow, he sets off for a monthlong, ultra-ultra-ultra marathon across Iran!
Tyler will be filming his 1,000-mile adventure along the way, with plans to produce a story as inspiring as Kintaro Walks Japan, his first cross-country epic. The Cordarounds blog will be base camp for the duration -- expect weekly updates, photos and, perhaps, an international incident.
What can you do to support Tyler?
1) Run. And if you happen to run in Cordarounds, we don't mind the eccentric promotion.
2) Post inspirational messages and whip-smart quips for Tyler in the Cordarounds blog.
3) Write your Congressional representative, imploring them to postpone another war for at least two months.
Cordarounds fans in NYC now have a forum to celebrate the waled wondercloth. On November 11th (11/11) you're welcome to attend the semi-annual meeting (the other one's on 1/11) of New York's Corduroy Club. Last year, Cordarounds won the coveted award for Exemplary Usage of Corduroy--an honor that was chronicled by none other than the New Yorker. This is only the 3rd meeting of the Corduory club, so it's fun to participate in the creation of something that, one day, could be as big as the Shriners. Here's everything you need to know. If this is too small for you to read, click here.
For more on the Corduroy Club, visit: www.corduroyclub.com
Cordarounds is proud to annouce a guest blogger this week, one Maurice Updike, frequent contributor to Electric Storytime, the Internet home of inane microliterature. Mr. Updike has twice won the Raymond Carver Prize in its lesser-known Aquatic Fowl category
 For Whom the Duck Quacks
By Maurice Updike “You know what?” Jim Fletcher said. “I ain’t never heard your duck quack. Why is that so?”
Billy Troutman stared at Fletcher like he’d asked why more people don’t drink motor oil. “Just never you mind why that duck hasn’t quacked,” he said. “But I tell you what, if you ever do hear that duck quack – and I’m not saying the duck will ever quack, but it most certainly could – then you best run.”
“And why would I run?” Fletcher said. “It’s just a damn duck. A defective, no-quackin' duck.”
“Oh, that duck can quack,” Troutman said, “It can quack like you wouldn’t believe a duck could quack. I just pray that it don’t care to anytime soon, lessun you want to trade in them work boots for a pair a runnin' shoes and a cast-iron overcoat.”
Fletcher laughed and lit a cigarette. “Look here, friend, if that duck quacks, I ain’t going nowhere, and that’s a fact,” he said.
“Well,” Troutman replied, “I expect the duck will have a thing or two to say about that.”
When the duck in question waddled up from the pond, Troutman put down his cup of coffee and began backing up slowly toward the house. The duck looked at Fletcher and then at Troutman, and then it fixed its gaze firmly back on Fletcher. And then it began quacking. The cows in a nearby pasture began stampeding. Troutman’s pigs tried to bury themselves in the mud. Troutman himself hurled open the cellar door, grabbed his family and leapt inside.
But Fletcher, true to his word, did not move. Though he could sense that something indescribably horrible was erupting from deep within this duck, it was like he was hypnotized by its languid eyes and glossy green head feathers and, above all, its rhythmic, scalp-tingling quacks. The air grew deliriously hot, and the world was bathed in fiery orange light. The last thing Fletcher remembered thinking was that perhaps his curiosity had finally gotten the better of him.
And then his face melted off. For many more stories like this, visit electricstorytime.blogspot.com.
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