Tag Archives | being an idiot

Digressing

I’ve been laying low on the posting as of late, mostly because I’ve done even less than I normally do. Sure, I made it to the gym a few times, but who cares if an aging, fat white dude goes to the gym or not? Actually, who cares if an aging, fat white dude does anything? I digress.

After a week filled with back spasms and shoulder issues, the next week greeted me with more bad luck and a slight summer head cold, followed a few days later by what I can only imagine was food poisoning; all I know is that my body felt like it was trying to expel a feces-covered demon via my intestinal track for 8 hours. I continue to digress.

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Better Slugs & Stolen Sweethearts

The planets seemed to align for me on Thursday morning when the steady rain stopped just before I hit “publish” on my last post of unintelligible nothingness, and a Noon appointment I had was changed to 1 PM, thus allowing me to squeeze in a 3-mile hike at Deerfield Park. There was much rejoicing.

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No Swimming, No Bear Wrestling

This is part two in a nine-part travelogue devoted to a recent two-day trip to Boyne City. I jest, it’s two parts, and you are under no obligation to read a word. Part I is HERE. — Management.

With no job, dogs, or kid to be up for, Wifey and I took our time getting out of bed the next morning. Then it was off to Lake Charlevoix Coffee for, well, coffee.

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The First 25 & The Back 9

This is part one in a nine-part travelogue devoted to a recent two-day trip to Boyne City. I jest, it’s two parts, and you are under no obligation to read a word. — Management.

Earlier this week, Wifey and I went on a mid-week “weekend excursion” to the Boyne City, Michigan area to do some hiking, some beaching, and some celebrating of our 25th wedding anniversary. We would also acknowledge my 51st birthday, which would be coming two days later and have me making the turn on to the back nine of life. 

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Birds, Bees, & Pulled Pork

This post comes to you with all the enthusiasm of a blind man entering a strip club. Of course, based on some of the strip clubs I’ve unfortunately been in during the early “bachelor party days” of my life (looking at you, Hi-Way Playground in Washington County, PA, circa 1996 with your free stage-side pizza), that’s probably a good thing. I digress.

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Sweaty Cargo Shorts

In all my 17+ years of writing this shit-show, I finally find myself with a bit of writer’s block. Whilst the masses rejoice in knowing they are safe from my long-winded posts of sophomoric humor, tales of self-loathing, sub-par chubby middle-aged white guy pseudo adventures, and nonsensical word salad, I bemoan my stifled mind.

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Fruits of Thy Creeping

The past couple of weeks have been a blur of keeping up with B’s last days as a high school senior and his last weeks of club soccer. Somewhere between all that stuff, I’ve been at the gym 3 to 4 times a week, taking care of the springtime needs of the Cul De Sac Shack and getting out for some creeps around the woods, stalking birds and other critters with my camera.

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