Little absurdities
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.