The other day, while the springtime sun burned away the lies of the world, I went for a run.
I did not run atop a treadmill, as is my fashion. Instead, I stepped outside the cozy, fragrant confines of my home and went running down the sidewalks of my neighborhood, like a common vagrant. I set a brisk, confident pace for myself by imagining I was being trailed by animals of unimaginable ferocity. I find that allowing myself to vividly imagine the horror of my body being clawed open for the filthy snouts of these beasts to feed upon ensures that I won’t get lazy and start walking.
My run that afternoon was particularly enjoyable because along the way I happened upon several of my friends. My old adversary Tom Hipps slowed down as he passed by in his car. Shouting from the street at me like a retarded man on vacation, he startled me and caused me to break my stride. I sidled over to say hello, but our halting conversation made clear that the lingering tensions from the breakup of Three String Chord have yet to heal. I will never forget the fury I felt in early 2009 as I sat in impatient silence while Tom and Craig exchanged farts and giggles.
A few minutes later, I came across my friends the Goodwins and their two kids. As they enjoyed their family walk, I lumbered by in my sweat-drenched shirt and grunted unnaturally. The combination of my wrenching physical agony and longstanding inability to make comfortable chit-chat conspired together in one wholly strange and unsatisfying encounter. I’m sure to them it just seemed like some open-mouthed, sweaty degenerate had brushed by while shouting something slurred and indecipherable. Indeed, I imagine this is how I come across most of the time.
Soon enough, I was home to the fatigued arms of my pregnant wife (who is repulsed by my perspiration) and my son (who is generally more interested in the cats). I retired to the basement to recover in cool, dim isolation. The workout had been a success – my assymetrical galumphing managed to simultaneously burn calories and bridges. This is my gift.
Our conversation was a bit awkward, only because when I myself am running, I hate it when I have to break my stride to stop and make chitchat… it’s too hard to get going again, and of course running is far more important than talking to someone. I figured you felt the same way, and were silently praying I’d shut up and leave you alone. But now I know you’re holding a grudge because of something that was your fault anyway. If you would have farted and giggled with me & Craig, we’d still be together today. Someone always has to spoil the fun.
Just passing through to see what the local plebs are rambling about these days.
John, are you jealous that, out of his two readers, he picked ME to write about today? I just can’t get the smug grin off my face. (hint: you’ll probably need to stalk him and interrupt him at something to make the JLP. I’m going to do it all the time now.)
You might have gotten one blog post Tim, but this entire site is a result of my years of hard work covertly entering his house each night, feeding his cats opiates, and awkwardly standing beside his bed until he begins to stir each morning.
Curses! Foiled again!!
P.S. Loved your comment on my website, John. If you do indeed show up at one of my concerts holding up a giant cutout of Peter’s face, I will bestow upon you the most inspired performance of my career. Even better than the one where the girl jumped onstage and grabbed my… well, let’s just say I hit a super high note.
I didn’t realize you actually knew and worked with Peter. I’m sorry, Tim.