Friday, Sept. 12, 2003
Dear Diary:

Some poor lost soul looking for information on septic tank venting ended up dropping by my virtual home on the range here today. Clearly this was a topic of some import to them, because as you can see, The Big Adventure is result number 50 or so in this search.

Being the person I am, when I read that search string my first response was to imagine my septic tank hissing to a nearby maple tree, "I sweartogawd, if that woman washes one more baked bean supper down with a couple of beers, I will spew doo doo from here to Timbuktu."

A venting septic tank! Really, the words rich inner life don't begin to cover it, do they?

This morning was my last gym day for the week. I find Fridays hard. There's something about being so close to the weekend that makes it particularly difficult to exert a little self-discipline. My heart dropped down to somewhere near the level of my toes when I walked in the door and realized I was the only person there. There is nothing worse than working out all by yourself.

I count on my small group of workout buddies to relieve the tedium through little jokes. We coax each other to extra reps, and the guys will spot me when I'm doing an exercise that could end up in a world class owie if I lose control of the equipment.

Oh, and even worse? The gym sound system was turned on to some sort of easy listening rock station. Easy listening rock saps my will to live. Normally what I do in a case like this is clamp on my headphones and listen to one of the workout CDs so generously provided by my three loyal readers. But heck, I was the only person at the gym. Why not see if I could just get the CD piped into the room through the sound system?

"What do you want to play?" the young girl at the desk asked me warily.

There was a pause. I weighed whether or not I wanted to reveal the true depths of my dorkicity to this stranger.

Oh, what the heck.

"Disco," I said.

You should have seen her face light up. "Oh, I like that really old music," she said. "My mom used to play that a lot."

"Ah," her body English said. "Music from the Jurassic age. How quaint. I will make this elderly person happy. I will play this ancient music."

Fine.

Well, I was about ten minutes into my elliptical machine run when other people started trickling into the gym. At one point there were five of us--three middle-aged women of dubious fitness, a serious weightlifter in his early 30's and the zygote behind the desk--all companionably mouthing the words to "Play That Funky Music, White Boy".

I know. The word silly does not begin to cover this, especially since the group of us, dressed as we were in the tatty old mismatched stuff we work out in, pretty much personified the anti-funk.

Be very, very grateful that I have chosen not to describe the pseudo disco dance moves that occasionally erupted as we ambled from machine to machine and from exercise station to exercise station. Sights such as this are exactly the sort of thing that could cause deep psychic scarring and perhaps even permanent retinal damage.

Oh, man, but it was fun. What started out as a dreary obligation ended up being one of my most light-hearted gym days ever. The best part? Now that I've outted myself, others have admitted that they, too, have disco stashes. There have been promises of more disco workout music appearing at the gym.

Can a mirrored disco ball be far behind?

--Marn

There's no new inductee into the Bazonga Boosters Hall o' Fame, today no one decided to spend some of their hard-earned buckazoids supporting me as I run the Jog for the Jugs Oct. 5 in Montreal.

No one new can proudly sport the shoddily Photoshopped yet justly coveted red rectangle below. *Siiiiiggggghhhh*

Boob oop de doop eh

P.P.S.- That iron woman, Karen is doing an unbelievable 60 MILE WALK FOR BREAST CANCER! If you don't want to sponsor me, perhaps you'd want to sponsor her. Yowza, that makes that 5K Jog for the Jugs seem embarrassingly short.

Mileage on the Marnometer: 423.24 miles (675 kilometers)
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Half way smoochTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.