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| 03/12/09 Well, I’ve endured another week of flat surf. I did follow my own forecast and go out Saturday at midmorning. It was rideable and therefore fun, but surfing cold slop is more an act of desperation than sport. Surfing slop is also a preferred alternative to working in the yard. When the weather turns nice, we suburban savages seem to have a compulsion for yard work, and being out for a surf is a good way to delay conscription onto Mrs. Blog’s labor camp. Because Mrs. Blog doesn’t like to just plant flowers — she pretty much likes to set me about digging up trees and shrubs and moving them to other parts of the yard. Sort of like a giant chess set, with me as slave labor. I can never figure out why she wants something moved; it’s just my job to man the shovel. Plus, she really likes things that don’t occur here naturally — like rocks. She likes rocks, and the bigger, the better. She especially likes rocks that need to be carried. There are these man-made rocks that are called pavers. If there ever was a rock from hell, it would be a paver. And you can’t just have one paver, you have to have a whole bunch of them, and they need to be dug into the ground and leveled with bags of sand that have to be carried. So, knee-high 52-degree water looks pretty fun. As for the surf forecast, this weekend is the first ESA contest of the year, so that, along with the time change, is an indication that the worst is behind us. I can smell the sunblock already. The theme of “better surf somewhere else” holds true again this weekend, with south Florida looking like the East Coast place I’d most like to be. The swell model shows a nice glob of wave height pushing through between the Bahamas and the coast, and bet you the spots from Sebastian Inlet all the way south to Juno pier are going to be fun. If you are reading this Thursday morning and can get away, throw your board in the car and head south fast. I think the waves here will be good enough to ride, so if you are like me and can’t go south, look for something on Saturday, get wet and just be glad you’re not digging up a tree the size of the Angel Oak. Because I’m not surfing very much, I instead seem to be working out my frustrations in places where people do weird things. Like the health club gulag. Why do some people wait for another car to leave so they can get the closest parking space and then come inside and walk on the treadmill? Today, there was this really loud noise, and it was this big, sweaty guy who was picking up the heavy medicine ball and smacking it down on the floor over and over. It sounded like: “oooph-grunt-WHAM, oooph-grunt-WHAM, oooph-grunt-WHAM.” I don’t think this is an exercise. I’ll bet it’s something his mom yelled at him for doing and, now that she’s not around, he’s making up for lost time. Apparently, when you are in the health club, you can pretty much pick up anything you want, make all kinds of strange noises, and people around you will pretend that it’s perfectly normal. I’ll bet that if you were big and sweaty enough, you could pick up the other big sweaty people, carry them around the building, put them down and then carry them back, and everyone would count the reps. Pretty inspiring, really. So what I’m going to do is rig up a clothesline to the middle of the backyard and hang a bunch of whole, raw chickens from it. Then I’m gonna get this vintage 1950s LP of Incan cannibal chants that Mrs. Blog bought it for me on eBay, Legend of the Jivaro by Yma Sumac. I’m gonna fire that bad boy up at max volume on the stereo, mix up a big pitcher of mai tais and sit out in the tiki bar and watch BlogDog go nuts — like the jumping gators at feeding time — to the soothing sound of ancient cannibal ritual. If I hang them higher than the privacy fence, the neighbors can enjoy the show, too, and it should take a few pitchers before BlogDog figures out how to get ’em down. That ought to show Medicine Ball Boy how weird is done in my neck of the woods. |
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