I just looked up “fatigue” on the Internet. That can’t be a good sign. I’m so exhausted, you guys. I can’t even explain it.
One day during the Top Model strike, I went to visit Dan and sat with him for a second. He kept staring straight at his water bottle, the sunburn on his nose looking painful, as he mumbled, “I don’t know. I guess this is my life now. This is my life now. I hold a sign. For free. All day. And, I don’t know. Negotiations. Honking. My life. Not… not… why am I outside? Still? And… is this… what day is this? Why is the weather–? Are you? Do you have to go? Do I have to go? My phone’s ringing, isn’t it? Am I boring you? Are you… did you… we… I’m still thirsty.”
Right now, I’m in the middle of that feeling. I looked up today and saw my friends holding signs that say ON STRIKE and I suddenly thought, “What the fuck is going on?”
Dan wrote a piece for the LA Times about the series of mistakes made last year during the America’s Next Top Model strike that left him out on the street, holding a sign, wondering where the hell everybody went.
… I don’t forget, Dan. I never wear my red shirt without thinking of the first time I wore it: for you. I still wear it for you.
I’m thinking the roll-out of The Slow Roll means there might be considerably less Dan on this page.
I’m concerned about diving into their dissertation of Elizabethtown because I think it might bring up all of the anger I have about that movie, yet again. (It always ends with me shouting about Susan Sarandon tapdancing.)
I want to write about this weekend’s Festival of Books experience, but before I go all nerdtastic on you, and continuing the “Where Are They Now” aspect to my posts lately (Michelle is working on an update about her mom for all y’all), I have to give excited props to my former roommate Ray, who spent yesterday running the OK City Marathon.
Dan. I want you to guess what Ray Prewitt did this morning.
Okay. He stole a boat and –
Hmm. Okay, he was making this television show about a –
He has this chicken and –
I am literally out of ideas, particularly if this has nothing to do with a chicken.
Today, as Ray rehashed the details to me, we realized that we were both lapped by the same hunchback. Which is awesome.
“Pam, I have to write about this, because I have to warn the world. Never run a marathon.”
“I know, Ray. I know.”
“Lady, it’s all your fault I did it in the first place. I figured, well, if Pam did something, it must be a good idea.”
“No, Ray. It hurts. I never tell people to run a marathon or write a book. They both hurt and take way too long.”
“But thank God there’s no second draft of a marathon.”
“My friend Andy once said to me, ‘I couldn’t possibly be interested in running one mile, much less twenty-six of them in a row.’ And I said, ‘That’s because you like yourself, and have nothing to prove.’”
“Oh, lady. Ain’t that the truth.”
Ray wrote about his experience, and boy can I relate. … except for the part where he likens the entire thing to being involved in extreme porn.
Happy Birthday, Jeff “Old Man” Long. Uncle Junior is wearing a party hat and not much else.
Dan, I miss you. Please come home soon.
Rebecca, I cannot wait to throw down at your wedding…but how will we ever top the “Muppet Blowjob“?
“You know, it’s his other leg this time.”
That’s what the vet told me when I brought Taylor in. It’s his other leg that’s injured. And as Taylor hissed and growled in my arms and the vet gave me this look, I felt like the worst pet owner in the world. How did I not notice that the limp had gotten better and then shifted to the other leg?
I asked if it’d be best to put the cast on him this time, so he didn’t keep injuring himself. The doctor said that the rest he was doing on his own was probably for the best, and since Taylor gets himself so worked up when he’s unhappy in the slightest (fur was flying around the room as he said this), he’d rather prescribe some pain medication and take a look again in two weeks.
“You can, apparently, rent laptop computers at the Austin airport. And they have airport Salt Lick and Amy’s Ice Cream. In case you need that one last little taste before you go back to wherever. I already had my Salt Lick. We’ve got another couple of hours until our flight, which is more than enough time to shove in some Mexican Vanilla from Amy’s and maybe a brisket sandwich. One more Shiner. I’m not actually hungry, though, since I’m still working on that Freebird’s from last night. And the pepperoni rolls from Double Dave’s. I had both for dinner. Yes. Both. A king among peasants.” — Christastrophe
I was just talking about Double Dave’s pepperoni rolls last night. And on a night like this, some Salt Lick would be perfect. With a Shiner. Austin gives me food nostalgia.
As a reward, I put on my headphones. My marathon playlist keeps me moving. I see stee pass in his car down the highway. I’ll see him again in about an hour. I run the numbers. 15, 25, 27, 37, 39, 49, 51, 101. It’s all about getting that medal.
It rains, just slightly.
“You know, your father was proud of you for more than just that race.”
“I know, Ma.”
“He just didn’t always know how to say it.”
I got up at three in the morning. Sprang from the bed, actually, when the alarms went off. (Two different alarms). I got dressed. Wrote sleeping stee a note. He woke up and took pictures of me applying sunscreen. Took a few bites of apple and made a cup of tea.
I left the iPod, as I don’t like breaking rules, walked to the elevator, decided I definitely needed the iPod and ended up knocking on the wrong door trying to get back in. Panicked, I flattened against the wall and tried not to breathe as whomever I woke up answered to see who the hell was knocking so early in the morning.
“But why do you want to do this?” my mom asked in that tone, the worried whine of motherhood.
“For a lot of reasons,” I answered. “Because I want to, and because I don’t think I can, and… well, probably because Dad and that race when I was in the third grade.”
She sighed. She remembered.
I don’t know if I wrote about this before. Probably. Yep. I totally did. It’s worth reading, because it explains things a little.
“Just be careful out there,” Mom said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Mom, it’s 26.2 miles. It’s going to hurt.”
More sighing. “Good luck.”