I didn’t go surfing last weekend, but I hung out in McKevlin’s parking lot all day Saturday. Does that count? Mrs. Blog and I attended the annual ESA swap meet and we had a pretty good time chillin’ and swappin’. I got a cool cut-away single-fin from Burbo, who got some sporty Doc Marten’s from Mrs. Blog. But not much surf though.
And there doesn’t look to be much surf on the horizon either. There’s supposed to be another ESA contest this weekend, but the chances for surf are so slim that the contest directors are thinking about canceling it. And if you’ve been around the ESA as long as I have, you’ll know that’s a bad sign. Because those dudes will hold a contest in anything.
So I’m thinking we’ll have to amuse ourselves in other ways this weekend. Hope you have a hobby. I’m thinking about laminating the Oldsmobile wagon with Hawaiian-print fabric and polyester resin.
When it’s surfless like this, about the only exercise I get is over at the health club gulag. I’ve written about it before in this column, so you’ll have to forgive me for being repetitive, but doing mindless repetitions of stuff gives me time to consider. And one of the things I have been considering is this giant tractor tire they now have in there. And what the brawnier people do is they grab it, and toss it over end for end, back and forth over the floor. Which is groovy by me, because it makes all kinds of weird noises and takes my mind off of clanging together whatever mediocre weight I can manage.
So what it has me considering is that there are probably a bunch of people doing this exact exercise except they are getting paid for it. It’s called working at a tire store. And yet, across the street are people who are actually paying someone else so that they can do it. And, to boot, most of the people I’ve seen doing this particular exercise are doing it with a personal trainer in tow. So they are actually paying the facility which houses the big tire, and paying someone to supervise them moving the big tire. And less than 100 yards away is a tire store, which also houses a big tire, where they are paying someone to supervise someone else they pay to move the big tire. It’s like a parallel universe.
I think I have discovered a rip in the fabric of the universe right here in Mount Pleasant. It’s somewhere between the health club and the tire store. I’m not sure, but it might lead to another dimension. I’m thinking if I stand in the right spot, I can pass through it into the “other” Mount Pleasant where they pay me to eat Skoogie dogs and drink cold Heinekens. Plus, I’ll bet there is killer surf every weekend — even when they hold ESA contests.
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