At last we spoke, your hero was heading out for some much needed R & R at a Northern Michigan resort for warm suds, cold suds, and some belly laughs sans children. It’s taken me this long to report back because, frankly, the unwinding that the weekend provided is still occurring if, sadly, slowing to a stop. Several hours lost in a hot tub and/or hovering over a cold brew (or other drink) has a strange transcendental time-traveling effect, ala Lost, on me. Time moves quickly and often out of sequence. One moment, I’m splashing in the tub like a toddler with one of those adorable little baby laughs with my legs spastically kicking out. Then, I’m Don Juan Nitmos as I romance Mrs. Nitmos with one of my patented early 80’s electric bugaloo dance moves (which, ironically, also involves spastic leg kicks). Then, like a teenager, I find myself laughing at fart jokes told by a surprisingly filthy-mouthed comedian. Once time unspooled, it just kept going and going and going like one of those hilarious handkerchiefs from a clown’s lapel pocket. I’ve only now started to stuff the stress and aggravation back into my pocket knot by knotted handkerchief.
If only life could always be a warm soak with fun little bubbles constantly running up the testicles…
While in TC*, I made my annual pilgrimage to the local book seller to investigate his wares and purchase a broad sampling of literature through which I’ll spend countless hours this year on the toilet refining my brain while expunging my waste. That’s called a “win-win” scenario. A nice smattering of writers from Eliot to Cather to Dostoevsky to Roth to collected short stories all to provide entertainment during my private time on my stool sans children (but, sadly, also sans fun little bubbles…) I like to think that, as Willa Cather goes in one way, it forces Beverly Cleary and her damned mouse on a motorcycle out the other.**
Also, while enjoying a warm soak (and fun little bubbles tee-hee), I resolved to alter my writing style to a more manly, Hemingwayesque testosterone-driven, short, choppy sentences, preposition-filled style. At least, temporarily. So, here goes…
The comedians performed on Saturday. They were funny. One after the other, they insulted Sarah Palin. And joked of unspeakable things at Waffle House. After dark, in cold lines, we waited for Roseanne. The crowd was impatient and chilled. The doors opened. Entering in a rush, we took our seats and prepared for the 90’s flashback.
First, The Great Controversial Liberal introduced her. He didn’t dress for the occasion. Stretch pants? Yes. The camera, seemingly repulsed by the leisure wear, couldn’t capture the image well.
Roseanne appears like an aging Pippi Longstocking. A mish-mash of clothing that, if you met her on the street, you would think belongs to a bag lady.
It’s midnight. Most are asleep. We laugh a little but not a lot. Amusing, yes. Hilarious, no. Back out in the cold we go. Back to our rooms….our warm tubs…our fun little bubbles. /hemingway
Between shows, Mrs. Nitmos managed to capture my enthusiasm for reasonably priced well drinks at a local yuppie pub. (Pay no attention to the date stamp. Camera error) Though I’m not wearing stretch pants, the camera also seems unable to stabilize the image…mainly due to my awesomely energetic thumbs:
*Traverse City for you non-Michiganders.
**You can save your Richard Gere joke. Already thought of it.
The Big Melt appears to be, finally, officially on in these parts. I do not expect to take any more runs on the treadmill in 2010. That’s the plan at least. However, I did take my final treadmill run – a 15 mile long run – on the mill this Sunday timed to watch the Olympic 50k cross country ski race and the start of the USA vs. Canada hockey game. Every run complete for February! I’m over 200 miles for the year during my annual slow down/maintenance months. I call that: A Good Start! March brings a shift in intensity. Longer long runs and the introduction of a second day of speed work. Hooray for March! (Also, someone cool with two thumbs turns 39 this month. This guy!)