Archive | Random

Teeth, Birds, Gas, & Ice

Over the years, it’s been well documented that I am a creature of routines and habits. Some are good, like going to the gym at the same time every morning, and some are bad; we won’t speak of those right now. Still, I dig a good routine, and Tuesday’s gym time was ruined by a dentist appointment I apparently made after a cleaning six months ago and only found out about via a Monday night reminder text from the office. Oh well, it seems my body will have to remain in this sagging and flaccid state one day longer.

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It’s Not You, It’s Me

As I write this, it’s a dark, cold, icy Saturday morning in mid-Michigan, and I can’t make up my mind if I want to go for a photo walk in the icy woods, go to the gym to lumber nowhere fast on the Dreadmill or go back to the Bed of Torment for a second sleep; the world is my mother friggin’ oyster as they say.

Somewhere between morning bowel discharges, too much coffee, and my 3 egg white omelet with veggie sausages, I was made aware via a variety of Instagram posts that today is the Barry-Roubaix gravel race near Grand Rapids.

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The Inebriated Agenda

Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader, 

I apologize in advance for this post. I started it on Friday but then became slightly “under the influence.” So I shelved it until Saturday evening. But then I became under the influence again and shelved it until Sunday morning. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I tried to clean up this mess up as best I could, but I don’t care enough to work on it any longer. It also seems I enjoy being under the influence a bit too much. But we all knew that. I’ll let you decide which parts were written when.

— Management

As mentioned in my last unneeded post about nothing, I experienced a bit of knee pain while on the Dreadmill the other day. Well, thankfully, that pain didn’t stick around, and I was back to doing “sprint” intervals the very next day and actually felt really good (enough) over the 3 miles. 

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Mid-Weekishness & Weakishness

The week has been moving along pretty darn not bad, with daily workouts in the gym, including a 5-mile lumber on Tuesday that took me so long that the Dreadmill started going into cool down mode, and I had to hit stop and start again, just to keep walking my “sprightly for a fat man” 4 MPH. I guess most people don’t stay on a machine for over an hour, especially someone who is a shadow of their formerly fit self. I do love me some cardio, though, even if it is just a fast walk while listening to music and trying not to notice that there is a war going on via the rows of talking heads on the TVs in front of me.1

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What’s In a Name?

I have been thinking more and more about this site lately, and I find that I’m sort of in a conundrum. See, as many of you know, I started this blog back in April of 2005. My first “real” post was about a hilly 55-mile road ride back in Western Pennsylvania, some of which was in a cold rain. 

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Plans & Dog Poo

The best-made plans can often end up being steaming dog poo. It’s a fact. However, there are times, as in this case, that the ruined best-made plan was only a blog post; it was just OK-ish, and instead of dog poo, it just became an unpublished file of word salad on my hard drive.

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Stacy Was Right

In May 2021, I took the advice of my fictional editor and chose not to write a post concerning this topic. Now here we are in 2022, and this time I’ve decided to ignore the guidance of Stacy B. You have my most insincere apologies — Management.

In July of 2019, I started back to the gym for what I referred to here as “Operation Pec-Lift.” OPL was my code for lifting heavy things for no reason. I had just turned 48 years old and wanted to re-start strength training for my bones, overall health, and of course, to deflabafy1 my arms, pecs, and flaccid white man ass.

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Finding Traction

Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following lengthy post deals with my ongoing search for inner peace and self-love (not code for masturbation). There is talk of mental health and depression. I am CLEARLY not a doctor, just a putz with a blog and 50 years and counting of personal experiences dealing with some depression-type shit. 

I’ve waffled back and forth on whether it’s in my best interest to post something like this or not, but given the stuff I’ve already written about myself and/or my hatred of the orange buffoon that had been in the White House for four years, I think I’ll be alright. If a potential employer sees this and is offended, you’re not the sort I would want to be associated with anyway.

And if the Google machine somehow pointed you here because you were looking for immediate help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

— Management

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Dead Carps & Cabbages

Looking back through my January posts over the years, I have talked ad naseum about my loathing of January, so I will just say, a mid-Michigan January for someone dealing with depression is like throwing a drowning man a dead carp. Sure, it might be funny for a second, but the dude drowns, and you’re out your best dead carp.

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