I find myself suddenly running a 5K on Saturday morning. How did that happen? It’s a sponsored event with t-shirts, race fees –the whole nine.
Think about it: I’m paying to run 3.1 miles. In the cold. When I could be sleeping.
Someone tell me why.
I’ve been watching lots of tennis of late due to the copious coverage of the US Open. This is having a serious side affect on me; I want desperately to play tennis. Yes, I’m using this here blog to further my own needs -forgive me, I’m jonesin’. I’m sending out the call for a tennis partner. Anyone, seriously, let’s play. Please. It’s cooling off here, I swear. Leave some info in the comments or drop an email at j (at) testmonkeydesigns (dot) com.
More to come…
A man, we’ll call him Clay*, lies naked, face down on his bed. His wife, armed with flashlight and tweezers at the ready, peers curiously -yet intently -at his bare backside. Clay wonders exactly how many years of marriage, how many years of clogged toilets and how much of his own noxious flatulence, it took to get to the point where he could -semi-comfortably -find himself in just such a position.
But I’m skipping ahead a bit. This is the story of a lesson learned. A lesson that really can’t be taught in any humane way. It is a lesson that must be experienced to really, really gain wisdom from.
Ask yourself what the worst possible thing that you could do in the following situation:
You’re a photographer for the local news channel. Your tripod is setup to be low to the ground. The head of the tripod is off balance, requiring you to squat low to adjust the horizon of the camera.
And you’re shooting in a cactus garden.
Give it a second…ah, yes. There it is: the worst possible thing you could do.
Moral? Always, always look behind you before stooping down in the desert.
As the cactus needles were being removed one by one with the crudest of tools, Clay realized with a solemn certainty one simple fact: his wife really must love him.
(* names changed to protect the umm… bare assed embarrassed)
Darkness All Around
I infiltrated a group of new-aged masochists. It was surprisingly simple to get the invite; the invite, it turns out, is the easy part. All one has to do is to actually infiltrate is awake at some unheard-of hour of the day (is it really day?) and follow these freaks as they run around a very, very nice neighborhood. These insidious people make nice chitchat about the weather, headlamps, their chosen profession, and the Superbowl of Masochism –the Marathon.
Good morning chafing
Why have I chosen to label this particular group of people “new-aged masochists”? The nineties are over. Flannel shirts and torn jeans have gone the way of the Pet Rock and Hypercolor shirt. This group of dedicated weirdos has traded the whips, chains, and mosh pits of yesterday for soft and supple running shoes, ultra short shorts, and the occasional tub of Vaseline. The result is the same, though –they love the pain. They revel in the sweat and the torture. And like Uncle Sam, they want YOU to suffer with them. Like women heading off to the bathroom, these people like to suffer in groups.
To you, my friends who are an abomination to us couch-sitters, I point a long and crooked finger in your general direction and shout loudly, “I will not join your ranks! I will not engage in such so-called healthy behavior. And I will certainly enjoy the extra sleep that you nutjobs are missing.”
Rivers amaze me. They entertain and kill. There’s a thought that’s a bit too deep to continue with.
The summer of 2004 took Christina and I to the river again -this time with two Salmon virgins. Seth and Shanalee Sadler joined us and put up with “guide J” (versus the regular version) for a couple of smelly days. Fun was had, Strongbad was quoted incessantly, and the same three songs are still stuck in our heads.
Have a looksee at some of our adventures. We’re behind the pirates.
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