The year of the cuke continues …

Two weekends ago Sunday was the much-hyped “polar bear jump” into the Atlantic Ocean. Air temperature was confirmed at 32 degrees Fahrenheit (that’s a big ZERO Celsius), 28 with wind chill. Decked out in a snow cap and robe, waterproof disposable camera in hand, standing on a sleeping bag on Rehoboth Beach with a couple thousand friends. The whistle, or gun, or whatever it was, was inaudible. The approach was chaotic as I started to run. Ten seconds later I was totally submerged in 38 degree water (I believe I did take a photo underwater — I also suspect the developers at Ritz Camera saw the murky brown polaroid and discarded it). Thirty seconds after that I was running back to shore, and a minute later, I was back in my robe, shivering and cleaning sand off of my completely numb feet. Threw on my complimentary sweatshirt, and headed to Rams Head Tavern for some crackling fire and crab soup. After that, headed home.

The thawing out period (otherwise known as the workweek) began after that. Highlights were few and far between, but a few chuckles came as the workdays crept into the early evenings. The only people around after 6:30 or so are the serial clipper and the evening janitor (who kind of looks like this guy) so when I hit the vending machines I get to hear them talk over each other, which is always entertaining. The janitor knows I play fantasy football, so he always peppers me with quips (”Redskins they got them big boys” “Saints — who they quarterback?” “Bears they gonna run all over the Colts on Sunday”). Meanwhile the clipper simmers, then finally pontificates on what he perceives as the true opiate of the masses from a table in the corner (”Redskins, football, sports, waaahhh … while the village is pillaged, the granny is scratching her crotch“)

This weekend I stayed in DC, feeding Diana’s cats. Though it’s a very specific regimen I do it without question. Though it’s a bit disheartening when twice a day, I prepare a delicate Glindan concoction of wet food served with precisely two droplets of fish oil (from a punctured capsule of Omega-3), a pinch of brewer’s yeast, eye of newt, etc… and then watch them all run away, ’cause they’re afraid of me anyway. Sigh.

Last night I ran up to Delaware, ended up watching TV with the folks. Fox News beating to DEATH the paternity battle over Anna Nicole’s offspring, complete with an equivalent payout and only slightly fewer possible winners — including Zsa Zsa Gabor’s hubby, wtf? — as the lottery number broadcast that followed. Next was an airing of King of the Hill supposedly featuring not the Warrior, but rather John Goodman as a corrupt animal control specialist. WTF? AND I think my parents are becoming King of the Hill fans. My dad wears a mesh cap not unlike Dale’s.

Back to work tomorrow. Spent most of the today at various free wi-fi spots, catching up on the latest dirt. Like over at Morgalogue, Morg’s humble dispatch on the South Indian “universal city” of Auroville gets visited upon by a resident. Some interesting back-and-forth ensues.

Haven’t posted in over a week, but there hasn’t been too much to report. Spent the mostly lazy weekend working on Shelly’s birthday mix. The great part about making mixes for your friends is the quality control — meaning it has to sound good while driving around aimlessly. So drive I did. Up to Wilmington and back, then all around town, over local byways and back roads. Over to Wawa, then to Borders.

Got a few items from Mom to buy at the market so I headed to the Pathmark. Got out of the car mid-song, bopping and nodding my head in approval with the mix CD. Little did I know that my listening pleasure would not abate as I walked inside the store, where the loudspeakers were laying down some rather catchy rhythms and beats. I recognized them instantly, in fact, they were nearly the same rhythms I had playing in my CD changer. The last time I was in here they had Nada Surf playing. Time before that, it was the Shins. Now the Postal Service was thumping along as I snaked through the aisles, putting carrots and juice and aftershave in my basket.

NO Muzak! NO Mantovani! NO Celine Dion! Have the gods of satellite radio shone their light down towards the humble local grocery store? And more amazingly, has the person responsible for such a devilish backbeat on the airwaves not received a stern “turn that off!!” admonishment from one of their less rocking colleagues or clientele? Texted my brother, who texted back “somebody’s got good taste. Rock and roll Pathmark.”

Visions of 1979 ran through my head. I envisioned Joey Ramone doing a blitzkrieg bop down the frozen foods aisle. Debbie Harry splayed out on the conveyor belt at register 6, reading the Weekly World News. Lou Reed and The Velvets posing coolly near a Warhol banana print in the produce section. Jello Biafra yelping out “Soup is Good Food” in front of a Campbell’s display (or a Jello display!) Yes! Joe Strummer in a shopping cart pushed by Mick Jones, speeding through the parking lot, shades on, fist pumping, yelling “Safewaaaay, they don’t like it …. ROCK the Path-mark, ROCK the Path-mark!”

Too funny. I paid for my goods, let out a rebel yell and peeled out of the parking lot.