So, this whole pandemic thing has us isolated. Is there anything worse than being alone with your thoughts? Prolly not. Here's a bunch of random thoughts that have been taking up space in my head.
I can now confidently rock white tube socks.
No one has said they miss baseball. NO ONE.
I'll allow this.
(The most work I've done for this post is researching for the above picture)
All these knudnicks running around that want everything open yesterday are subliminally screaming "My home life sucks." We know, but we ain't responsible for your poor choices, bro. (And they're all guys)
All the people whining they won't wear masks...are exactly the people who need to be wearing masks.
I've lost track of all days, and I can't blame my burgeoning alcoholism.
Still on my same stick of deodorant from early March.
Ditto travel size bottle of shampoo I stole form a Hotel 6.
In unrelated news, dreads take a lot longer to grow than I originally was lead to believe.
A lil' sumthin' for the ladies
April was last month, apparently
I still can't find a girl who can pull off the "girl looks hot in face mask" look.
Flobies are now more than Jordans on eBay
My rum consumption has gone up. Also, I don't have the 'rona. Coincidence?
OK, I really am wondering what would Jimmy Buffett do
18,000 new cases of Corona reported this day
Isn't it time for a reboot of 2 Girls 1 Cup?
I really like the new drive in bar at the bottom of the parking lot of the shopping center where I order my rum
There's this old dude at my home gym that can no longer pull off all the UnderArmour he wears. Don't get me started on his tube socks.
Screw it; for the rest of the summer, the Kevolution Theory archives is free for everyone.
"But, Kev, your blog has always been fr....." I SAID FREE FOR EVERYONE
I can't tell you the last time I wore pants that had a button. Or belt. or a zipper. Or just pants...
The thing about losing track of hours and days is it's always cool to start drinking. Is that an 8AM sun or a 2PM sun. Who's to say? Bottoms up!
With all this talk of contactless delivery, I can't be the only one wondering WHAT THE FUCK WERE THEY DOING TO OUR FOOD BEFORE ALL THIS?
Also, contactless is a new word because my SpellCheck flags it every time
You can have your hockey back, but Pierre McGuire does every game. Hhmmmmm...
So COVID porn is a real thing. I've watched some of it. A few twice!
I find on the days I don't use deodorant, the social distance thing isn't that big a thing. For everyone else.
Me, after I showered, used deodorant and washed my hair two days in a row.
I have contactless glasses.
Someone, somewhere, is designing a "sexy Coronavirus" costume.
How da fuck are Christmas movies supposed to make anyone feel better?
Your new avatar LOOKS NOTHING LIKE YOU! KNOCK IT OFF ALREADY!
I like Corona, but I wished they gave this a scarier name, like Coors Light or Lowerbrau. "Hey, did you hear about Steve? He caught the 'Brau."
I think we're all on the bus that we wear whatever when we're in our backyards. For example, I had on a coconut bra and a grass skirt today, and nobody batted an eye.
(Would the above joke be funnier if I said I was wearing white tube socks, too?)
People are using this time to learn an instrument, paint, draw, do magic. And all I have is this shitty post. Where's your art?
What if we decide we don't like the New Normal, say "fuck it" and just hang out in the house all day?
It seems my entire summer has been nothing but getting
barraged by vacation posts on my social media. “Oh, look, so and so is on
vacation. Here’s another 30 pictures and five check ins from Tuesday. Oh man, I
hope there’s pictures of food in this collection!”
Be more like her.
Guys, we need to have some sort of summit, some kind of “code”
where we reign in all this “Look social media!1! I’m on vacation!1!” Here’s what
I propose as I decide if I should add this to any of my #VoteForKev2020
platforms.
1)No more than 5 pics per day. And all 5 shots have
to be different, not just slightly different poses. Exception; unless you’re a
hot chick in a bikini. In which case, this is likely the only reason I keep you
as a FB friend. We both know the deal here.
2)Only 1 shot of the sunrise or sunset. You can’t
have both. What are you doing up so early on vacation anyway?
3)No more than 5 check ins per week. Plan your
attention whoring carefully.
4)Absolutely no video. Few care to see pictures of
your child on the Teacups, let alone video. In fact, you could post a video of
an entirely different child on the Teacups, and most of us wouldn’t be able to
tell the difference.
5)Absolutely no food porn. Can we just call a halt
to this banal practice anyway? I can’t tell you how many bullshit food porn
pics have been littering my feed all summer. To be quite honest, no one really
fucking cares. Is your ego really that inflated that you think, “I’m am going
to post this nondescript picture of what appears to be Michelob Ultra in a
glass along side a plate of food that looks like it could be literally from the
chicken wing place two blocks away from me.”
Pop quiz, hotshot
The above is a picture of
1) The finest pizza with expensive beer from a villa in Italy
2) The world famous boardwalk pizza and local craft brew
3) The Monday Night Special from the shitty sports bar
Well, what do you think?
Every time I see something like the above pizza picture, I go to your house
and pee somewhere. Pool, garden, doorknob, bed (both dog and human), car door handle, mailbox. I feel no
guilt, you brought this on yourself.
I myself abide by the same rules. To wit, this is the first
year for Theory Pup 2.0 on the beach. As this is a momentous occasion, it’s only
a momentous occasion for a small amount of people. I did shoot a video of
his first steps on the beach and brush with the ocean, but that really means something
to just me. I kept it and didn’t post it. And since we’re all being honest
here, I will tell you I took 64 pictures total. Of those, TP2 was in 58 of
them. And while most certainly yes, he was rocking the dorbs, you want to know
how many pics I posted? None. Zip. Zero. Nada. I value and appreciate my FB
friends that much that I don’t want to waste their time on videos they won’t
watch or pics they won’t look at, just long ass blogs they won’t read.
Vacations generally cost a lot of money because they are
worth it. Hotels and beach houses are
generally expensive to rent because part of the deal is the peace of mind.You don’t sit around thinking of what picture
to hang where or what color to paint the garage door or any other of the subliminal
messages those bastards at Lowes and Home Depot implant. You don’t worry about
anything because generally, there is nothing to worry about at the hotel/beach
house.Yes, there may not be a monetary return on investment, but what you can get out of them is often worth it if you know what you're doing. And that's why you're here because I know what I'm doing. For the record, give me an old school, “back in the day” beach house any
day. No, really, please somebody just give me one of those. HMU @ifyouseekev
Until that beach house pops up, let’s get back on point. What’s the point of
getting away from it all if you take everything with you? You know what I’m
talking about; this wonderful device we all use called “the phone.” You finally
get there, and you stare at your phone like you do every other damn day? That
makes no sense to me.
"I wonder what the weather on the beach is supposed to be like today. I better check."
What is that conversation like when you return to work on Monday?
“Hey, Dick, how was your vacation last week?”
“Hi, Harry, thanks for asking! It was great! We went to the
beach and I posted 50 photos a day! Then we went to the boards, and I stared my
phone. We ate great dinners while I took pictures and stared at my phone. We
ate ice cream and I stared at my phone. I even managed to stare at my phone while we rode roller
coasters!”
“Wow, that sounds really awesome! Well, welcome back and
enjoy staring at your computer screen for the next 8 hours, dick.”
On vacation, I consciously unplugged, and you know what? It
was fucking glorious. I didn’t bring my PC. Left the work phone at home and never
checked my work communications once and didn't feel a damn shred of guilt about
it. My constituents can go a week without me. I mean, c’mon, when 45 takes his
weekly 4-day vacations, you think he has his work phone, or even “the football?”
No, he doesn’t, so I see no need for any of us to do any different. I used my
phone sparingly. For example; running tracker & music, directions, Yelp to
find new places and reviews, weather, tide chart. Maybe FB once a day. I didn’t
drunk text anybody. I didn’t check my usual sports sites, besides, what other
meaningful sports are in season now beyond NASCAR and UFC? I didn’t check my
usual newsites. And you know what I missed? You know what happened?
Nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, for the second time this
year, I find myself coming back to a Del Amitri song:
And nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before
You know it’s possible to go to the beach and not bring your
phone? I know, right, pretty freaking mind-blowing. I’m so old school, I
brought these things called books and this ancient technology called an “iPod.”
Not “iPad” but “iPod.” King Tut had one. Go Google it. My mind boggles when
people stare at their phones all day on the beach. Yet they do, in scary, big
numbers. Doesn’t matter the age, everyone is doing it. And it got me
wondering, what’s the point here? Why do you pack a bag, towel, umbrella, food
and drink, set yourself up, then stare at your phone the whole time?
What’s the endgame here? You can just do that shit at home. Your phone is with
you all the time, the beach isn’t. What am I missing here? I could have been
sitting on that beach, phasing in and out of unconsciousness (naps, not
blackouts) with my iPod on. A tsunami warning could go out, I could miss it and
wake up to an empty ass beach with a huge wave coming at me all Rogue One
style. Whoops, SPOILER ALERT! Damn it. Sorry. Anyway, I’d just look at that
wave with Zac Brown playing in my ears and enjoy my last few minutes of peace.
And some chicken fried.
OK, I can hear you naysayers out there, asking, “But, Kev,
what if they were actually not screwing around on their phones? What if they
actually were reading?” That’s a fair question, and here’s my common sense
answer; because I can tell. So, let’s see, when they are constantly tap tap
tapping on their screen. When they are lying on their back, neck craned to the
left, where their hand is holding the phone. Lying on their stomach, creating a
mountain around their phone with their t-shirt so they can see the screen, robbing
themselves of the beach and ocean. Taking selfies, Twittering or Twattering or
whatever it’s called, checking in, everything from the beach but not actually being on the beach.
Every morning, I would watch this family of 3, a mom and two
teen aged daughters, walking to the beach. And without fail every time, the mom
was eyes ahead on the prize of the beach, while her two kids mindlessly had
their necks craned at 45 degrees so they could stare into their phone.
One day
I even saw another teen girl texting while pedaling her bike next to a busy road.
Is this where we’re really heading? Using this marvelous thing called a phone
to not -oh I don’t know-actually talk to people? Anyone remember when the big threat was people just merely talking on their phone? Now it’s people texting while driving, even though handsfree devices are far less dorkly than previous models. Even when every new car comes with BlueTooth. When I saw this girl texting while on her bike, I had half a mind to run across the street and barrel into her just to teach her a valuable lesson. Alas, I had already run ½ mile in ten minutes before gassing out and just didn’t have the energy. She probably could have beaten me up.
And yes, I know this is Old Man Theory running out into his
yard wearing tall white socks, screaming at the clouds and telling those durn
kids to turn down their infernal music. I get kids today never not had phones. They’ve
probably never bought a physical cd or physical book. Nope, all that stuff
today comes magically in the air to your phone. And it stays there. And it gets
lost there.
Everyone has their place; their place that heals them, inspires
them, soothes them, encourages them. For me, that is the beach. So why would I bring
anything to distract me from that? I have a playlist on my iPod called SummerSongs.
(Yes, there’s no space in there, and no, I haven’t figured out how to correct it.)
And it’s literally hundreds of songs that are about summer, remind me of
summer, or were big hit songs in the summers of my current youth.
Some days, I would put my iPod on and just listen to all
those songs. Two things would happen. 1) If it was an older song, memories of
past summers would come rushing in, much like the tide. Where I was when I
heard this song, who I was with, beach visits from the past. 2) Or if it was
another song, I would find myself making new memories to it. That kid in the
green shorts with matching skim board that always went ass up when he hit the wave.
Those 4 girls who were talking about guys they were stalking or “ruin.” The
stand up paddle boarders paddling by. Embedding memories in these songs so the
next time I heard them, these moments would come back. Pleasant time bombs.
I would venture out into the ocean. Without the books or
iPod of course, because that would be stupid. I would wade so far out, the
lifeguards wouldn’t whistle me in, because they knew I could fight any shark
dumb enough to be coming by. My eyes saw it like this; for 180 degrees, from my
left to my right was nothing but me and the ocean. I could see no one else.
Just me and the ocean, my ocean. The ocean I can still never make myself pee
in. The sun beating a trail down on the waves tracing back to me. A million
tiny suns shining back in the waves. Occasionally, dolphins (the fish,
not the football players, because that would be kind of weird) would breach way
out in front of me. And this was it. I hit my Zen. And
IT
WAS
AWESOME
Up to me and what’s left of my brain cells to somehow hit
the pause button and remember this scene, this feeling. I didn’t have to post
anything about it. I didn’t have to check in about it. It was just me and my
ocean. This would have to hold me for another 51 weeks. So, soak it all in. I
was able to hit this Zen moment a few more times on the beach. Each time trying
to consciously be in the moment. We don’t remember the moments we lifelessly
stare into our phones, we remember moments like this.
There were times on that beach where I was just trying to
hit the pause button. I don’t think we need the KT Bureau of BS statistics to
tell us time flies much faster on vacations. I believe the variant to be at
1.3. So when you get those moments where you have Zen or are able to live in
the moment, do it. Don’t take pictures or blab about it on ChatterGram or Friendster
or wherever people are jerking off these days. Appreciate where you are and
hold onto it for as long as you can. There are actual non KT Bureau of BS Statistics
that show people who constantly take pics with their phone remember far less than those who try to be present in the moment.
Top; Tiger Woods teeing off 2002, bottom Tiger Woods teeing off 2018. Progress?
In case you didn't get that joke.
It doesn’t matter where your Zen is. It could be a golf
course in Ireland. Setting up camp in the forest. An iceberg in Alaska. (Yea, I
don’t get that one, either.) The point here is, find that place and go to it.
With my favorite kind of abandon; reckless
abandon. Go to it as often as you can. Unapologetically. And when you get
there, be there. Put the phone away.
It’s just you and your Zen here, kid. No phone can capture that. Only you can.
And while we’re at it, keep an eye out for forest fires, because that’s kinda your
responsibility now too, champ. Only you…
I also hit these Zen moments while running, of all things.
Yes, longtime readers who haven’t yet got quite tired of my juvenile humor know
I absolutely detest running. I am only doing this because I have the stupid
Warrior Dash coming. But running at the beach in the
morning is a whole different animal. I have a running tracker, and music to
help me as I huff and puff like an asthmatic Jabba the Hutt. The music I “use”
for such occasions is a mix of aggressive, heavier type music, along with a few
from my SummerSongs playlist. And I found as those summer songs hit, I was
taking more of the sights in. The umbrellas gently moving on the beach, the
hotel that somehow had palm trees on some on the balconies, trying to look
studly and unfatigued as I ran past the boardwalk webcam that I often look at.
Again, the next time I hear those songs, I will recall those scenes in slow
motion. Because that was pretty much the way it felt like I was running.
Music is funny that way, you can hear a song you’ve heard
before, but when at the right time and right environment, it can capture a
memory you want to hold on to. For example, I heard this Michael Franti song while
I was eating breakfast outside on Monday morning with a Crabby Mary. The Crabby
Mary of course being the drink and not anybody I may have been with. So, of
course, I bought this album (people still do buy music) and put it on my iPod.
(OK, I might be alone in that behavior.) It will always remind me of this -and
really, who has good memories of any Monday morning?- breakfast and the
overwhelming gratitude that I was even able to be in this space and time. And
that the Visa gift card miraculously didn’t bounce, or it would have been
another morning run.
It was on these runs that this blog started taking form.
As I sluggishly made my way, I literally see hundreds of people of all ages
actively ignoring the beach and the life on the boardwalk to mindlessly stare
into their phones. They didn’t smell the popcorn and cotton candy, nor hear the
seagulls or waves. If I had the other half of my mind, I’d recklessly careen
into them like I am a movie getaway car driving through boxes in an alley. I
just couldn’t get away very fast. Plus, those assholes would quickly post
photos of me running away. Lousy social media.
And yes, it’s not lost on me that I use a lot of these very
same social medias to pimp this blog. I know, it’s lazy. I know it’s the nature
of the beast. But at least I am trying to get some good, sound advice out
there. And, trust me, this is all good shit. It’s also not lost on me that as I
write this first draft (and let’s face it, I’m just gonna run it 95% the way it
is) that I have been staring at a screen for 154 minutes now on a beautiful
Sunday when I could be reading, hammocking, walking Pup 2.0. Instead, here I am,
spouting sound common sense that will largely be ignored. I have faith that one
day my work will be discovered and feted. I see a liberal and forward thinking
college naming a wing after me.
Let me end this life lesson. If you must surf the Web while on
the beach, reading this blog is acceptable. In fact, you are encouraged to let
others read it, too. Afterwards, I am sure they will put their phones down and actually
enjoy the waves. And if someone actually is reading this blog while on the
beach, send me a picture, and I will donate some money to the charity of your
choosing. (See, that’s how you use education and social media for good.)
Now put the phone down.
DVD Extra
Bonus scene with commentary
For the most astute of you, you probably notice there has
been an unexplained gap from Theory Pup 1 and this New Guy, Theory Pup 2. Theory
Pup 1, was lost, so, so suddenly last fall. I thought there was more time. It’s nothing
that fits this humor blog, other than I truly miss him every day. Every
fucking day. But TP2 is doing a really good job at plugging this dog sized hole
in my heart. I mean, not enough to get a tattoo, but you never know. I don’t
believe in signs. But the following is true.
As I arrived on the beach on Saturday, the first day of this
illustrious vacation, I was rifling through my shorts, hoping for 20s, 50s or
something even greater. I fumbled through a few old receipts. And I found a yellow
square of paper, a Post it. And on that small yellow square of paper was a
series of questions I was going to ask the doctor who evaluated TP1.
Ultimately, they were not needed to be asked. TP1 was gone so shortly thereafter.
(And yes, this opens me up for how often I wash my clothes, so fire away,
fucktards.)
So here I am, at the very same beach TP1 quite possibly had
the last, best time of his life. On those shores, in that sand, in front of
that ocean, he found his inner pup. Acting, dancing far younger than his 13
years. Squirrel speed. Energy boundless. A part of me, a very big part of me,
was dreading this "Yappy Hour." TP2 was proving to be stubborn, but to be fair,
he was so much younger, by years, than the first time I brought TP1 down. TP2 was being a very good boy, but still a bit
of a dickhead.
The last day of Yappy Hour, Friday, I held that little
yellow square tightly in my hand, TP2 in my other hand. I knew what I had to
do. In the Grand Scheme of Things, it was full circle. Again, I don’t believe in
signs. But it seemed to make all the sense in the world. As I was walking TP2
along the tide- a struggle in itself- I bent down like a Ninja and placed the
small yellow paper into the ocean. The tide knew what to do with the rest. I
watched it disappear into the ocean, knowing TP1 would never disappear from my
heart. Not now, not ever. I miss you Big Guy, you are a great dog.
Look, I hate writing these ‘voice of reason’ posts. You guys
all expect me to have a point, an experience, or an idea and to express it
rather hilariously. Recently, I have identified an issue that is a huge
epidemic, yet no one seems to talk about it or discuss it. There is an issue
slowly killing us all, and I hate to be the one to bring up. I am sure CNN, Fox
News, Time and all other sorts of media –both fake and real- will be placing their
interview requests for me after I bring this up, but here we go.
The stockiest of stock photos I could find.
GUYS, IT’S TIME TO PUT
THE FUCKING PHONES DOWN.
I recently-like literally just a few scant hours
ago-returned from a week long vacation. More than any other year, I felt
grateful to just even have the opportunity to spend a week at my favoritest
place in the world; the beach. Not everyone has this opportunity. Now maybe you
are one of those freaks who doesn’t love the beach. That’s OK, though a bit
mind boggling to me. But I am willing to bet you DO have a place you go to that
relaxes, recharges, refocuses, inspires, chills, calms, heals, excites you.
Maybe it’s a week camping or hiking or skiing, whatever; you do have your happy
place. I just prefer some bikini girls be hanging around my happy place.
Anyone know what dafuq beach this is?
This phone epidemic hit me especially as I made my two
annual boardwalk runs. As I ran-poorly, awkwardly and slowly-the numbers of
people/zombies who were mindlessly lost in their phones on a fanfreakingtastic
summer morning next to the ocean was staggering. Aside from the personal safety
standpoint of being surrounded by a bunch of runners and bikers, these people
were oblivious. Trust me, the thought hit me more than once that if I barreled
through some of these morons like I was a bad guy running away in an action
movie. I would be doing the world a favor and teaching a very valuable lesson.
This attitude is also exactly why I could never be a teacher.
Truth.
Though a bit off topic but related to running, here’s
another pro tip, ya shoobies; recently, shrewd developers have taken to building
“outlet” shopping centers near vacation spots. Here’s the dirty truth; very few
of these stores are true “outlets” and most are just a store for that brand. It’s
pretty much the same shit you can buy back at home for the same price. Still,
this doesn’t deter the vacationing masses from descending on these “outlet”
stores like hawks on prey. Just because you suddenly think you can now afford
Under Armour doesn’t mean you should go buy it. For example, the few days I did
drag myself to run on the boardwalk, I saw tons of out of towners wearing brand
new Under Armour stuff. And by the way some of these blobs looked, I really
though the UA stood for UnActive. Just because you can buy it, doesn’t mean you
should wear it. Full disclosure, there was one day I just happened to be
wearing mostly UA stuff, and I did not run any faster or feel less like shit
when my horrible run was over. My moobs, though, did appreciate the additional
support. So, what was I saying? Oh yea…
PUT THE FUCKING PHONE
DOWN AND LOOK AT THE LIFE PASSING YOU BY.
“Hey, Tom, how was your vacation?”
“Great, Fred! Stared at my phone all day!”
While I was on vacation, I saw people texting in no less
than four different dangerous positions:
Walking
Driving.
Skateboarding.
Bicycling.
I could only hope they were texting Darwin, because we need
to clear the herd of such dipshits.
Now I can already hear some of you sissymaries whining. “But
I use my phone for important stuff! I was calling the sitter! I was texting my
husband! My mom called so of course I let it go straight to voicemail and now I’m
just seeing what she wanted!” Look, I get in some cases it is a necessary call
or text to make sure Jaws didn’t make off with your dog and your kids. But when
you’re lost in your phone for extended periods of time, you’re losing what’s
around you.
I consciously made the decision to unplug as much as I
could. No email, no socials, no score checking. And you know what? It was
awesome! The sun came up and the world spun around and I saw a lot more of it
than the doofus glued to his phone.
I stayed off the book of Face as much as possible. I posted
exactly 2 statuses to FB, neither one vacation based. And on those rare times I
did log in –thanks to slow ass bartenders- you know what I missed? Absolutely
nothing. The same cat pictures, the same political posts, the same
piss-in-my-Cheerios posts.
So predictable. If anything, I had a sudden twinge
of guilt over not posting my usual brilliance. All my poor friends, crying out
for my witty posts to make FB all worth it wallowing in literally the same shit
every freaking day. Though, that twinge quickly disappeared as a cold one
appeared. Yay beer!
And speaking of drinking while on vacation, I felt no urge
whatsoever to post the same picture everybody else does. Pop quiz, hot shot; is
this picture of a beer like looking liquid in an unmarked glass from an exotic
bar or the shithole down the street?
Q; From a legendary bar in County Cork or the dumpy TGI Fridays in the mall?
A No one cares.
Like, seriously, rookie, knock this shit off. More pro tips
from your pal Kev. Your friends should thank me.
Being on the beach is no less different. I didn’t even bring
my phone. Yet there were plenty of jabronis who stared at a 4 inch screen
instead of the ocean RIGHT FUCKING IN
FRONT OF THEM. And not just the twatty girls you’d expect, but every type
of moron. Me, I brought my iPod and this thing called a book-not with pages to
color but to read! (I know, I know, my white socks were pulled up to my knees
and my walker was next to me. I know I’m sounding all old man here, but you
know I am right regardless.) Beautiful weather, sun out, the ocean in front of
you, sandy toes, ocean breeze-but I guess these dipshits gotta check their
Foursquare or look for deals on eBay or what not. Can people buy a clue on eBay
yet?
So here’s my point. It’s OK to unplug from your phone and
social media. In fact, it’s really healthy. You don’t have to document every
single thing on your vacation. Newsflash-most of us could give two smelly shits
about your GD vacation. So not only do us a favor, but more so for yourself-put
the phone away and live in these moments. Trust me, I assure you there will be
a time and it may be sooner rather than later-that you wish you could be in your happy place; the sounds, the smells, the
sights. Those are the things I am holding onto from this vacation. Don’t spend
this time checking in on a meaningless baseball or preseason football game.
Your teams suck, anyway. The people you follow on social media who don’t even
follow you back don’t appreciate you are wasting your precious vacation time
looking at their pictures. You can do that at work, but don’t let this week
slip from you. The end of vacation is a brutal bastard.
Wait, you want more? Geez, needy bastards. I don’t get paid
per word here.
As I write this, it’s Wednesday, September 7th.
And this is actually news to me, since I have been “between jobs” for a few weeks
now, days are relative to me. I used to know trash day was Thursday, because,
well, I actually knew when it was
Thursday. Now I rely on my employed neighbors to wheel their trash out on
Wednesday night, and I know the trash has to be out the next morning. Actually,
it’s not the trash I am worried about, it’s getting rid of all the empties…
This time of year, I am beleaguered by people who endlessly
prattle on how they “love the fall,” “I love all the leaves” and “it’s the best
time of the year.” Um…no. These people are wrong and also the type of people to
not stand for the National Anthem. (Too soon?) These people are not to be
trusted. I have found that upon hearing the leaf comment, presenting them with
a rake is usually enough to get them to shut their ignorant pie hole.
Eat shit, Rusty.
OK, so let’s take a breath here before we cast judgement,
let’s be impartial to these ignorant shit heads. Let’s look at some of their
chief arguments (who, by the way, is also the name of the Indian in the Village
People, I believe)
“I love the color of the leaves.” You sick freaks. You know why leaves change colors? It’s because
the tree is
sucking back all the water and oxygen from the leaf itself. Fucking trees.
These are also the people who say they love “all the color”, then refuse my constant
invite to rake my GD yard.
“It’s so much better than the summer.” See the top two pictures,
feel free to insert the person of your desires and tell me again with a
straight face. Though, I will concede any girl who wants to rake my yard
instantly gets one full point more attractive. And what 8 doesn't want to be a 9?
Your move.
“I love pumpkin.” Enough with the pumpkin thing already.
Nowadays, you can’t move your head without seeing pumpkin spice coffee, pumpkin
scented candles,pumpkin chunkin,
pumpkin puree, pumpkin beer, pumpkin soup, CM Punk in UFC,
pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin pie, Smashing Pumpkins, pumpkin hand soap.
Summer is the best season. You actually have to prepare for summer. You have to get in
shape. You never see articles like “Fall Shred For Winter Abs!” or “Best Places
To Go For Your Winter Vacation.” Summer is the only season where it’s implied
you just slack off for three months. That’s why, come Labor Day, it’s ‘back to
work’ and ‘back to school.’ No one ever says, “Welp, now that winter is done, I guess winter hours will be over at the office now.”
There are literally thousands of songs-many considered
classic songs-about summer. Acts like the Beach Boys and Jimmy Buffett make
their bones by singing only about summer. Can you name 10-hell, I’ll go ya
5-songs about fall right now? 5,4,3,2,1 buuzzzzzzz. You can’t do it. Maybe you
tried to sneak in a ‘harvest’ song or something, but you can’t do it. That’s
because musicians hate fall (and winter) because it makes touring that much
more dangerous. You’re never gonna hear Drake singing about a booty call when
there’s wet leaves on the road.
People don’t get seasonal
affected disorder in the summer. Typically, SAD starts in the fall and
lingers into winter. One of the treatments for SAD is light therapy. You know,
light, like the sun that is abundant
in the long days of the summer. You may love fall, but fall is trying to kill
you. Just like leaves on the tree. Fall is when things die; leaves, plants,
grass, my hopes and dreams, Taylor
Swift’s relationship. No wonder Halloween works so well in the fall.
I do my best to hold onto
the summer. I wear shorts everyday for as long as possible; flip flops, too.
(This makes for awkward job interviews, though.) The hammock stays up for as
long as possible, I try to grill outside for as long as possible. And look at what we do when summer is over; we burn shit to stay warm outside. Bonfires. You can’t walk into a store without seeing firepits. Hey, here’s an idea; if it’s cold outside, stay inside. That’s what we have shelter for.
To be fair, there are some things I like about the fall.
Halloween is my favorite holiday, and the amount of slutty Wonder Women
Aaanndddd I'm done....
and
Harley Quinns
Close enough, let's go.
this year should be bonertastic. Fall also brings God’s greatest
sport-hockey-back. Football also returns, and this year I am looking good as
none of my players have been seriously hurt-yet.
Fun facts; the following are things you don’t have to worry
about in the summer; raking, scraping, shoveling, blizzards, frost bite,
freezing your nuts off, avalanches, forgetting to get a Xmas present for that
one damn aunt who always buys you something every year and Wampa attacks.
I've made my case. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get the trash out.
I went for a run. Let me be clear. I hate running. I loathe
running.
So, why am I running? Well, for the last 4 years, I’ve been
doing the Warrior Dash,
"Boy, I hope this is chocolate milk. Nope, not chocolate milk."
one of a multitude
of 5ks that are run through all kinds of mostly harmless obstacles. Of all the
similar “mud runs”, it by far has the best name and least daunting/challenging
obstacles, so it’s right up my alley. It’s probably the most competitive thing
I do, so I do wanna set myself up to do well. And that means running. Running
more than 5k, and running once or twice a week as it approaches. Unfortunately,
the WD is usually at the very end of summer, so I have to keep running all
freaking summer. No way I’m letting that 60 year old woman with the walker beat
me. Again.
Every spring, I go through the ritual of buying new running
shoes. I spend an exorbitant amount of money (you know, like over 20 bucks) on
some new revolutionary shoe with all kinds of gizmos and “technologies.” Things
like better rebounding, softer cushioning, space age polymers, breathable
fabrics, lighter weight. I find I have this internal, angry dialogue with the
sneakers. “Look, I spent an exorbitant amount of money on you. So I damn well am
going to get my money’s worth. I am absolutely going to beat the shit out of
you this summer. You GD well better earn your keep. I don’t want any blisters!
You hear me? No blisters! With all your high falutin “technology” you fuckers
better make me run faster and have less pain! Got it?” And then I go yell at
the toilet because it runs more than I do.
You would think it would be simple. Put one foot in front of
the other. Repeat. Repeat, preferably faster. Try not to fall. Repeat again.
Fun! Last year, I actually discovered there are different types of running. Do
you strike heel first or toe? Maybe flat footed? I tried a method where you
alternated your breathing when your feet struck the ground. So, you alternated
your breathing every three strikes; breathe in on left foot strike, exhale in three
so your inhale is on a right foot strike. Supposedly, this makes you faster and
prevents injury. In reality, you run like a flaming dorkwad because you’re
constantly counting in your head and trying to time that all important frantic
gasp of air with the proper foot strike. This isn’t very fun nor does it make
running any more enjoyable. It doesn’t prevent injury, in fact it promotes it
because you’re busy counting strikes as opposed to minding the other runners
around you.
Then I tried this thing called pose running. In theory, I guess it
made sense. You lean forward a bit, to the point where you’re basically running
so you’re not falling over. Cross fitters swear by this type of running. You
also “pull” your legs. It’s funny it’s called “pose” because I felt most of my
‘pose’ was best labeled as ‘awkward flamingo.’ (Which, by the way, totally
sounds like a yoga pose. “Ok, everybody, downward dog into awkward flamingo.
Namaste!”) I found at best, it difficult to hit (as it’s supposed to be) and if
anything increases your energy expenditure so you gas out much faster. So, I’ll
just settle for the type of running that results in leg soreness and general pain
for the next few days.
Running is painful. It’s absolutely horrible for your knees.
I read somewhere that the act of running is like dropping the Refrigerator on
your knees. Did you read that right? Not a refrigerator, but the Refrigerator, Chicago
D lineman from the 80s and 90s William ”Refrigerator” Perry. And he weighed 335
pounds! You can get blisters on your ankles (though I found using the lace
lock actually helps a lot).
"We both contain a lot of food."
Shin splints, foot issues, chaffing of man
bits. I seriously don’t get the obsession with it. I would like to think the
act of running is some sort of “escape”, but we all run in circles, so that’s
not it.
Does anyone else have the complex that it feels like
everyone is watching them? As I am making my laps, I feel people are not just
looking at me, but staring at me.
Like not just the occasional “Hey, there’s that hot guy running by again.” It’s
more like a “Jesus Christ, look at that hairy mess huffing and puffing. He’s
probably running from the law because he just stole a bunch of Iron Maiden
t-shirts.” I am constantly wiping my face, because I know it’s probably covered
in boogers, snot and sweat.
Every track always has that one thin guy with such a good
stride he looks like he’s from fucking Black
Swan. This guy just glides and his feet barely touch the ground. He’s
usually wearing a tank top, making 7 minute laps and not breathing heavy. I am
pretty sure these types are on PEDS (performance enhancing drugs) and will die
shortly. While that’s probably not true, I find it helps make me feel better.
At tracks, there is a Code. I don’t know where it came from,
I don’t know who came up with it, hell, I don’t even know how I learned it, but
there is a Code. Maybe it’s better called etiquette. Maybe it’s a collection of
common sense and observation. Hell, if some dunderhead like me can pick up the
Code, then surely any other novice or numb skull runner can quickly pick it up.
Problem is when people don’t observe the Code. For example, walkers move to the
side of the track. Leave the middle open for the runners. If you are walking
with a friend and two wide, still, walk to the side. You two aren’t going to
get lost.
"I....I feel like I could run a marathon."
There is nothing worse than coming up on a twosome (or
worse, a threesome. A track is one place I do not want to see a threesome.) and
they refuse to move over and give up the middle of the track. So now it’s on me
to see if there is a runner coming at me and if we will meet near said annoying
twosome, or is there some young kid coming up behind me and how best to avoid a
collision. There’s nothing more annoying than having to run off the track to
avoid the two dipshits who are busy talking about squirrels and Zumba classes.
But, I always get my revenge. I make sure to crop dust them as I pass. I don’t
even care if they can hear it; in fact I hope they do. (Yes, I am aware it may
be against the Code to audibly fart, but I’m not claiming to know the entirety
of the Code.)
So here’s what you have to understand about me. I am 6 foot
tall, and 200 pounds on a good (or bad, depending) day. I’ve already gone
through one knee. Once this train get’s a-rollin’ it takes a while to put on
the brakes. And if I absolutely have to take someone out, I assure you it will
be a spectacular collision with arms and legs flailing, sunglasses, hats and
earphones displaced and hopefully near a bunch of empty boxes and a fruit stand
just like in the movies.
What’s worse is mornings, when a bunch of moms (nary few a
MILF) all meet up at the same time, and form some sort of stroller convoy with
any number of demon seed. They hog up the entire width of the track. How rude.
These Stroller Patrollers, as I call them, ignore the running world around them
as the kibbutz about how smart precious Connor or Madison is at such an early
age. Hey, here’s an idea; keep your future Presidents and Senators out of
harm’s way; i.e. my way.
My favorite marathon picture.
All my runs seem to start the same way. Within the first
quarter mile, my lungs are already wheezing and my mind is already whining. “This
sucks. I hate this. What’s the point? Three miles of this shit? OK, this is the
LAST YEAR I am doing all this. What was that sound? Did something just pop in
my knee? Shit, I bet it was my larynx. I probably just tore my larynx. And,
man, I should NOT have had that suspect burrito from 7-11 on the way here. I
need to fart…… I just farted. I hope it wasn’t a cheek slapper and that lady I
just passed heard it. Uh oh, wait a minute, was that a shart?” My mind runs faster than me.
Now, I don’t subscribe to this “runner’s high” phenomenon.”
I think it’s all hullabaloo, along with things like “consciousness” and “enlightenment.”
All utter bullshit, designed to torture people. What I do get, however, at the
end of any of my runs, is an immense sense of self-satisfaction. This is a very
odd feeling for me. I am proud of my accomplishment. I get all full of myself.
Suddenly, my brain is all like, “Way to go! Now let’s go buy $200 of Under
Armour so we can sit around the house!! Athletically sit around the house!!”
Like buying a $40 shirt will actually make me run any faster or look any less
awkward. However, if it makes my moobs jiggle
less, then $40 is a steal.
At the end of my run, I grab a Gatorade from the car and
walk one last lap, but in the opposite direction I was running. It’s inevitable
that as I walk past people, I expect them to think, “Jesus! That dude is
sweating his ass off, and all he’s doing is walking.
Man, TBNR.”
The worst part is this is just the beginning. I still have
over 4 months to get myself in shape. I might even run a few ‘regular’ 5Ks,
just to see where I’m at. All this getting in shape now, all for one freaking
Warrior Dash. However, I will confess, the feeling I get when I cross that finish
line is pretty damn rewarding.
Maybe rewarding enough to do it all over again next year.
I think you know me to be an honest kinda fella. But, truth is, I’ve been hiding something from you. I have my reasons. I will call your attention to an analogy that has seemed to be running through my pathetic existence the last few years; life is like Charlie Brown trying to kick that damn football. And for the last 8 months, I have seen that ball teed up right in front of me. Not taunting me or mocking me; just there. Enough distance that it wouldn’t be tantalizingly close to me. But has time has gone on, it has come closer. I mean, this is very good news for me and all. But it is just my pessimistic nature to not jinx it or call attention to it. The last thing I want to do is make a big deal, only for that bitch Lucy to come along and swipe the ball just as I kick. But now I have reason to believe that it will happen.
Something I wrote is going to be published. Like, semi-real deal, ink and paper published. Using my real name, and will be read by thousands of people published. Retelling a tale that was vital in my youth. About a topic that is near and dear to my cold, black heart. Surprisingly, this has nothing to do with fart jokes.
I wrote a ‘piece’ as real deal writers like to call these things. I submitted it to a paper, and they are going to run it. And this is no Penny Saver BS. The fine institution that will give the rest of the ignorant world my brilliance publishes five issues a year, and my article will be featured for the spring edition. Sure, it’s no NY Times, but who writes for that rag these days anyway? This is quite the thrill for your esteemed Klogger. On top of that, the topic is about something I love; the beach.
So now as this all gears up, it seems tailor made to Klog about. Writing about writing. I am sure you can throw in some BS Seinfeld reference, but I never watched that show. So how this all came to be follows. Last April, my wife and I had the opportunity to go to Wildwood, NJ for a few days. This was a big deal to me, as my obsession with all things beach started with my one weekend all summer I got to spend in Wildwood. (You can search out those Klogs with the summer tag) I had been away from Wildwood for about 20 years, so I was really looking forward to returning. It’s funny how many of those memories are so vivid.
We went down and had a blast. Part of the trip was to revisit the house my sisters and their friends rented for a few summers. When I was a kid, my entire year was based around the one lone weekend I would get to go to Wildwood. Those brief trips actually taught me a lot. It taught me how to save, as I would squirrel away my paper route money for months in advance. It taught me the value of having good times with good friends. The place we stayed in –basically a converted garage-taught me that I don’t need the finest things in life to have a good life. Er, wait a minute, being an unemployed loser taught me that. I learned that the beach is where I want to live one day. At the rate I’m going, I might be homeless under the boards, but that still counts.
So when I came back from this trip, I had a ton of material floating around in my head. So I do what I always do, huffed some gold spray paint and got to writing it out. I liked the resulting Klog, if not my keyboard being colored in gold. While we were down there, I brought back every paper they had. I felt like I was bringing a little piece back with me. One of the papers I brought back was mostly about people reminiscing about their favorite Wildwood memories. A light went off. Damn faulty switch.
I revisited the resulting Klog. I tore it apart (removed all the zombie references, didn’t think that would fly), drastically shortened and re-edited it and added some new material. Voila, I have a story. Feeling all WTF, I sent if off to this fine publication. Lo and behold, they will run it, but not till next spring, as it is spring themed. OK, a tease, but something to keep my eye on down the road.
Cripes, this Klog is going on too long already.
I made a rookie mistake. I never actually titled the story. The Klog name wasn’t going to work. So I had one weekend to come up with a title. In essence, it seems so easy, right? Just a few words, and you’re good to go.
Well, if it was that easy, would I be Klogging about it? Turns out it’s pretty damn difficult. Title is all important. If you have a good, appealing, original title, more people are apt to read it. Have a bland, boring, mundane title, and most people think it reads like a WEA new release book (ZING! But only my old work friends would get that one.) Cripes, this is tough. It seems far too easy to use some pap like “Summers of my Youth” or some such. I wanted to somehow work Wildwood in there as well. Because, surely, no one uses that in a Wildwood paper.
I feel the same torment parents must feel when naming their kids. This is my first published piece, is there some sort of bad karma if I give it a dud title? Will I forever rue the day I named it “Kev’s Totally Awesome Scenes of Neon Summers”?Maybe I shouldn’t stay away from the Summer Teeth pun? Man, all the hard work is done, I just gotta slap a title on the thing. I even try to do the cool singer/songwriter move. I go over the piece again, just looking for any random string of words that just might be a good title. No such luck, and who the hell wrote this drivel?
I spend many hours staring at the PC and the ceiling, trying to come up with that magic collection of words that will pop. I didn’t want anything too cutesy. I am always against alliteration. (Please tell me you got that joke.) No sense in rhyming anything. A witty turn of phrase would be nice, but I can’t come up with any to fit the bill. I know the clock is ticking.
Not that I fancy myself a word nerd or anything. But I do have certain words I like. One of those words suddenly pops up; no it’s not “motard”. That’s it! That will work! I think the word really pops. My only fear is that people don’t readily know what it means. I don’t want to be getting “writerly” all over their ass. It works and is original and I think at the very least will draw people in just to see WTF it means. I am happy, and really that’s all that matters. I wonder if every great writer or artist goes through this process every time. Not that much of my stuff will be published (outside of the music reviews), but I just don’t see an audience for a Klog like “Mandy Moore Watches Me Pee”. And that is really a travesty.
By now you are surely screaming, “What’s the damn title?” I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you because it gives me all the power. That’s just how insecure I am. No, really, I am afraid some bad karma will strike, or the very least someone could Google it, and end up here. Yea, I don’t think most of these Klogs would fit well with that crowd. I am just that damn good of a writer, I can write for many audiences. And I know that audience probably wouldn’t enjoy a Klog like “F the PH”. Call me Kreskin.
So look for this to be a series of posts, as I have plenty more neuroses to cover about my future award winning article.
Surprisingly, I am a sentimental guy. Whenever I go away with my wife, I always try to get her some little memento of our trip. And that usually involves cheap little tchotchke with my name emblazoned on them. Over the years, she has garnered a quite nice little collection of various necklaces with yours truly’s name on them. I know she has a surfboard and I think a flip flop necklace with my name on them. In fact, I remember the first year I started this tradition. I came bounding out of the boardwalk store with a personalized surfboard necklace, much like a cat presenting its’ owner a bloody, dead bird. Cheap little bright orange thing (the necklace, not the bird). She smiled and said it was “nice”. I said, “Great! It’s yours. Put it on now.”
You’ve never seen a facial expression change so fast. Now this little sign of my enduring love for my woman looked like a heinous piece of cheap jewelry. I asked her what the problem was; I would proudly wear something with her name on it. She slowly put it on like it said “I kill puppies and eat their brains”. Really, I don’t see what the ado is all about. It’s not like she ever bought me anything on these trips. So every year, it’s a bit of a challenge to find something ugl…er meaningful for her to wear with my name on it.
This year it was easy. It was on my first therapeutic trip to the boards that I saw it, like a bright neon light in an otherwise dark sky. It was indeed bright. It was loud. It was ugly. It was just like me.
Yea, that’s right. One of the big fad t-shirts at the shore this year is this.
How. Fucking. Cool. A rare smile creased my usually unsmiling face. I ran back home with all the enthusiasm of a 5 year old child on Xmas Eve. “Youwon’tbelievewhatIsawuponheboards!It’sawesomeandIcan’twaittogetit.Ican’twait,Ican’twait!Andyouaregoingtolooksohotinit.I’mgoingtobuyoneforeveryoneinthehouse!”
They looked at me like I had two heads, and neither one was thinking straight. “Yea, right.” “No, I’m not making it up. They are actually selling neon I Heart Kevin t-shirts!” Even John couldn’t get my back here, “Um, how come they don’t sell I Heart John t-shirts?” John’s always gotta piss in my Cheerios. It’s because no one Hearts John, they heart me, damn it. They didn’t believe me. T says if I can find it, she will wear it. Game fucking on, beyotch. I was like the town loon, warning of impending disaster. Well, the disaster usually comes, and for some reason, the loon always seems to buy it, too. But I knew what I saw; I saw it in at least two different places. I knew I was right, and they would soon see.
The next morning, I went to the boards armed with my cell phone. I slyly took a picture of it. It’s rather difficult to sneak in taking a picture of an I Heart Kevin t at the boards, and still look manly. I immediately sent the pic to my wife, smug in the knowledge, she was truly busted, and she was going to be wearing this thing at some point for all the world to see.
A day later, we were at one of the 432 Sunsation locations that seem to dot the blocks like Starbucks used to do. And I see the IHK shirt, this time in a flattering fit model. I find one in her size, but she all hems and haws that the heart looks a little off and she wouldn’t want to wear one like that. So I find another shirt in perfect condition and in her size. Wow, what a heartfelt and loving memento of our wonderful vacation. We get home, and she tries it on.
Now, if you’re like me, you’re probably thinking she is only too proud to be seen wearing such a lovely item proclaiming the love for her husband. Why foolishly spend thousands of dollars on tiny little rings that no one can see from 10 feet away? No, love demands a bright green neon I Heart Kevin shirt so everyone can see you coming. Again, if they made such a thing that said I Heart T, I would proudly wear it. She comes down the steps with a look of…embarrassment? Huh?
Look at that pose. Shoulders slumped. Will clearly broken. A faint attempt at a smile.
And look at me. It looks like I won the Stanley fucking Cup. I am thrilled my pookie will do this for me. And she can’t even look at the camera or fake a smile. I look like the King of Siam, and my humble servant looks so sad. God, I can such a prick sometimes.
She claims the shirt is ‘too tight’, even though she okayed the size. I say it made her boobs look wicked. She is clearly not enthused. Tonight is a night we’re all going out, and I have seen this scenario a hundred times before. She is all pissy, and will do everything to drag everyone down into her pit of despair. Me being the bigger man and all, tell her she can take it off. Happiness returns to her face like air to a drowning woman. Yes, I have lost this battle, but the war is still on, and I will not lose.
April loves to instigate, probably because T likes to instigate a fight between J&A. April finds a place that sells the IHK t, in white, and it’s buy one get one. Damn, I always knew I was a cheap lover. Another day goes by as me and T hit a few of the beach type stores. None have the desired black IHK shirt. (Yes, for the record, I know most of these joints can probably just iron it on a black shirt, but that sounds like far too much work, and I don’t have the time to wait.) We walk into one place, and April subtly points out a whole row of IHK t’s! Suh-weeet. There’s the large, and hey, an XL too! You can never get too many of these. T sees me, she knows doom is impending. She walks around the store in a haze, like a convict awaiting the chair. I proudly plunk down $20 for my second and third IHK shirts.
T nervously says, “O, hey, you bought two.” She’s thinking she’s totally busted, which of course she is. “Yea, one for you, one for me!”
Yes. Yes I am that shallow, vain, foolish, proud, dorkly, stupid to wear my own IHK shirt. Really, dear reader, if you were in my position, you would do the same thing, no? If you saw a big, bright shirt that said I Heart , you would snap that summa bitch right up and wear it proudly. Aside, I’m leaving town in like two days, and could care less what anyone thinks of me. I get outside of the store, take off my non IHK shirt, and replace it with this fine, fashionable shirt. I felt like Superman putting on his ‘S’ shirt. (Unfortunately, I was capeless.)
T deserves credit, because she puts hers on as well. Wow, we’re such a cute couple, don’t cha just wanna hug us?
Merrily we go, down the boardwalk. Of course, it’s one thing for a girl to be wearing such a shirt, but it’s another thing when it’s a guy. I totally expect to get shit for it, and it doesn’t bother me. It isn’t long before I get some feedback. As we wander in and out of stores, I do get positive comments. First, two young girls giggle. I realize my fly is down, so I XYZPDQ. Then they tell me they “love Kevin, too.” Ergo, 2 girls have already said they love me. Sure, if you added up their ages, I probably still had a good ten years on them, but affection is affection. A few stores later, another girl sheepishly tells me she loves me, too. But she was chubby, and Kev don’t play that, homie.
As we continue down the crowded boardwalk, I keep my eyes peeled. I do get the occasional double take; “Is that dude wearing that shirt?” T points out that if I wasn’t so ‘big’, I would be getting a lot more shit. But I guess being 6 foot 215 pounds of twisted steel and raw sex appeal can get me away with a few questionable fashion choices. I was walking by a bench with a kid about 16-17 and a few girls about that age. This kid was your typical kid, wearing Hurley shirt, definitely trying to be a bit of a hardass, too cool for the scene. As I walked by him, even he snorted and said, “That’s a great shirt” in a manner like ‘yea, ya got me dude, I ain’t ever seen a guy wear that’.
We were stopped by a store, when I distinctly heard a teen aged girl say something to the effect of “I think it’s cool he’s comfortable like that.” Yer GD right. I wore the shirt the whole rest of the night-wouldn’t you? I give T credit. We walked a bit, and I told her she could take it off, but she troopered on and kept it on for a few blocks more. So we went to OCMD, and all I got was three I K t-shirts. But they’re really the best things I’ve bought in a long, long time. And I promise you, you will be seeing me wearing that shirt.
I am not a runner. I find it boring, physically awkward and sometimes gassy. I got these bitchin’ new running shoes with bouncy things at the bottom. I am sure they make me run faster, or at the very least, a little bit higher. I made sure to pack them for the big week at Ocean City, MD. Please note, that for the rest of these Klogs, Ocean City, MD will be shortened to the far easier to type OCMD. Please don’t confuse it with OCNJ. We were able to spend a week there last year. It’s a nice place, nice beaches and boardwalk and all. But it’s dry. And that immediately disqualifies any seaside town from being a place I want to frequent. It’s much harder to pee on the corners when one is sober.
I have found running on the boardwalk at the beach to be a surprisingly serene thing to do. In fact, I already wrote about it at length, so feel free to familiarize yourself with it here: http://kevolutiontheory.blogspot.com/2008/06/vacation-2007.html Just read the 5th through 9th paragraphs, and ignore all the rest. It’s all jokes I will probably repeat here, so cut me some slack.
For not being a runner, there is something rather cool about loading your iPod with all kinds of summer tunes and shreddin’ surf instrumentals and running by the seaside. I ran the boards the first opp I had; Monday morning. And I will admit, I get a perverse amount of pleasure running the boards knowing other saps are actually working. Stupid gainfully employed suckers.
It’s insanely hot. It’s so hot, if I was back home, my ass would be in the AC. But since we’re at the beach, it doesn’t bother me at all. I spray on suntan lotion until there is an unpenetrable cloud surrounding me. Grab a bottle of Powerade, and go out in the sun. I interval up the few blocks to get to the boardwalk. And finally, I see my old friend, the sea. It’s good to be back. There is a new strength in my spindly legs as I start intervalling.
Since my last time here, there has been a new monstrosity recklessly corralling about the bwalk. I don’t actually know what these bikes are called, but they look like this:
Maybe they are called reclined bikes? Spider bikes? Crab bikes? I really think they are called ‘drive like a motard bike’. I saw dozens of these damn things all over the bwalk. And it didn’t matter if it was an 8 year old child or 40 something old man driving, they all drove it the same way. Like fucking assholes.
Now I admit to never having been in one of these things. And I guess that’s a requisite of renting these things. I can just see every out-of-town-yokel renting them, “Yea, well me and my family ain’t ever seen one of dese here bicycles with the tree wheels and so low to da ground. What’s dat? Do we know how to drive them? Son, I’m fixin’ to terrorize dis here boardwalk with dese here things. Give my family four, chief.” I am not sure of the steering mechanism on these things, but from what I can tell, it only makes turns one way; sweeping.
I found most of my time playing some sort of demented game of Frogger. Except in Frogger you avoided the empty spaces. Now I am trying to weave through all the empty spaces, and these new bikes at knee height aren’t helping. I swear, every freaking one doesn’t drive straight. They weave in and out, clogging up precious space. No lie, I ran right up to one. I was looking to politely run to the side and get in front of Mr. Asshole because he was slow. Every time I ran to the right, he swerved to the right. When I dodged to the left, he glided to the left. WTF, these things have rear view mirrors or something? I slowed down as I proceeded to watch him careen into his daughter.
He bounces off of her (she was fat), and right back into my way. I can hear his wife now yelling at him to get out of my way. Man, if I ever wanted to get diarrhea while running, now would be the time. He’s at the perfect level for a splat.
I get that the bwalk has to be shared by everyone using it. I try to be conscientious-even if I can’t spell the word-and check behind me as I try to dodge the slacker walkers. I know a majority on the boards are just walking. But do they still have to fan out? And what’s up with the yahoos that just fucking stop right in the middle of the damn bwalk? I try to obey the unwritten rule about staying to the right, but sometimes I have to jet all the way over to the left just to get by the human barricades. I know that sets me up for a heinous and gnarly accident and injury that will surely be caught on the boards’ webcams, and be the hot viral video of the first half of the week. I am surprised there aren’t more virals of bwalk accidents. I am sure they would be hilarious.
All in all, I went for 3 runs and 2 walks (i.e. was too hungover to run 2 days), pretty good for me. And even though the time varied around generally mid-morning, it was funny to see the same people running/walking. There’s always the shirtless ripped dude who runs up and down the bwalk at breakneck speed. Just one for one of those spider bike thingies to jut out and send him sprawling on his ass. Serves you right Mr. Younger and in better shape than me.
I saw the same red faced girl huffing and puffing up and back. I saw the same groups of walkers. The only two mullets of the week I saw in the morning, and I saw those guys repeatedly. The same employees working the same shops. See the same couples running. I saw the same old man ‘running’. I mean, mechanically, he was running and all, but he was going so slow. A bit of a bummer to think that will one day be all of us. But still, gotta admire the guy, out there huffing and puffing. I am sure when I get to be his age, it will be everything just not to make in my pants. It was here I also saw the baddest ass tattoo of all time. It was on a guy with long raggy black hair, his pasty white skin already had multiple illustrations. On his shoulder was a picture of the face of a woman. With a ballgag. Badass. Cripes, how do you explain that one to your dates’ mom?
All in all, these runs were among the highlights of the week. It was cool to add new memories to the summer songs in my iPod. So calming and peaceful. On the trips back down the bwalk, I would cop a squat on a bench and just look out at the ocean. One day I managed to camp myself out in front of a bikini volley ball game. What are the odds of that happening? But still, just for the sun to be shining, time have no meaning, worries all back in PA and staring at the ocean is time I will hold onto. I came back to the house calm and relaxed. And reeking of BO and sunscreen as well. I can still see the beach now….
