Ask me if I'm bad

There's been a load of compromisin' on the road to my horizon.
- Glen Campbell

Back when I was a runner, I would go for a longish run with my running partner (see MacKenzie's Laws somewhere in the archives) every Sunday. The state of that run, whether we found a rhythm, felt good, and kicked butt on the bike trail, often set the tone for the day. After an exceptionally good run, just ask me if I'm bad.

Gven: "Were you bad?"
Sven: "Was I bad?! I was so bad, the baddest guy didn't even have a chance. Whadya mean was I bad?!"

Weekends are not exactly like that anymore. I'm out of school now. I have a job. I'm not a young buck of 40 anymore.

Saturday

Got up, worked for a couple of hours, took a long, productive, work-related phone call, did some chores, worked a little more, went to the State Fair and parked (free!) where we always park, on Dora St., right by the railroad tracks.

A few minutes inside the gate we ran into some old friends from Grandview, Byron and Rosemary, we hadn't seen in 16 years. Our kids and their kids played soccer together, went to first grade together, we moved away, they didn't. The first-graders are now 24, but we all look exactly the same. Right?

We wandered into the Colisseum just in time to watch a high school rodeo - after some interminable patriotic anthems and displays of the colors on horseback reminding us how very free and proud we are. Then for some reason they have to play bad country music during the calf ropin' and steer rasslin' and bronco ridin'. The cowboys and cowgirls were all named Cody Blackburn and Amanda Goodwell. The barrel racing was the best part - lots of skill required by horse and rider. On the way out, we checked out the competitors waiting their turn in back of the coliseum: big girls with long hair on their fine-looking (I'm guessing) quarterhorses.

As we walked to the next venue, we talked about high school cliques, identity crises, comfort-levels, and clothing styles, then and now, in rural Ohio and rural Georgia, suburban Ohio and suburban Michigan, circa 1968 and 2008. The designer labels are different, but the social dynamics look pretty much the same (just what a middle-class-suburban-jock-who's-been-to-college would say).

It was time for ice cream at the dairy building, so we paid our respects to the butter cow and Ohio's eight butter presidents.

While I slurped my chocolate shake, we looked at lots of cool chickens, ducks, and geese, who looked fairly calm in their open-air cages in the shade. Some breeds had really unusual colors and patterns in their feathers. We looked at the rabbits, same deal, some really pretty animals that look like they would make cuddly little cat-like pets.

We took a quick walk through the fine art exhibit, but there wasn't much of interest, except one mixed-media piece called "Rock Paper Scissors." We got some pretty good corn on the cob, looked at Aunt Irene's blue-ribbon quilts, and went back to the car on Dora St. It was a good way to kill four hours, and it left us time to go see a play in the park.

So we got a portobello mushroom sandwich at the Old Mohawk and got to Schiller Park just in time to set up our chairs and settle into the back row of a very good crowd for "Cyrano." But for some minor sound problems, it was a fine performance, kind of a wordy play, a bit long and repetitious, which is good because if you doze off after your bello sandwich and miss something, they'll just say it again. The evening cooled off quickly, and we made good use of the wool poncho and afghan in Gven's trunk.

Sunday

Got up, worked for a while, went downtown to the Buddhist Center and meditated for an hour, listened to the announcements about their other upcoming classes and retreats, came home, worked a little, went to the Methodistville Golf Center to give blood, came home, and worked a little more. Whoever gets my blood can expect a caffeine rush.

Made two batches of bread, swept the patio - always a satisfying task, I highly recommend it - and did some laundry. The yard wasn't cleaning itself up, so I began breaking down a small portion of the tree-branch mess leftover from last weekend, and it felt good to get my hands on a) future firewood, b) future kindling, and c) present compost, as my brain sorted pieces of pear tree into different piles and my arms tore things apart limb from limb.

With bread out of the oven and sun setting rapidly, I went for a short but intense bike ride uphill against the wind, the only way to go out, according to MacKenzie's First Law, then just sailed home with a good tailwind. All in a day's work or was it play. Ask me if I'm bad.