Falling down in the mud in front of scores of school children was just the start of the Old Man Weekend. It began with a Friday 4 a.m. rising to drive over to Love Field. As you can see, there are two things very wrong with that sentence – 4 a.m. and Love Field.
Still, since we were in Big D, we decided to pass on the State Fair and go to the arboretum. My bride, who will take a photo of things no normal human sees (or would even consider taking a picture of [like tree bark or sidewalk cracks]), is in snapshot heaven at the arboretum.
We arrived early and everything was wet. On the backside of the place, which was very cool decked out in pumpkins and other autumnal whatnots, is a long grassy hill that slopes down toward White Rock Lake – site of several marathons where, while running, I said I would never do again.
Still, since we were in Big D, we decided to pass on the State Fair and go to the arboretum. My bride, who will take a photo of things no normal human sees (or would even consider taking a picture of [like tree bark or sidewalk cracks]), is in snapshot heaven at the arboretum.
We arrived early and everything was wet. On the backside of the place, which was very cool decked out in pumpkins and other autumnal whatnots, is a long grassy hill that slopes down toward White Rock Lake – site of several marathons where, while running, I said I would never do again.
Busloads of school children flooded the place. My bride was far below, taking a picture of the ground. I decided to waltz down via the grass, eschewing the long snaky sidewalk. Halfway, I fell down. On my bottom. On grass that was just pretending to be grass; it was actually greenish mud. I skidded a ways then, while the bride laughed, rose substantially muddy.
I needed to disrobe and wash and dry my clothes. Naturally, I wasn’t about to do that in the normal bathroom filled with school children; instead I stood around in the handicapped restroom in just a shirt while my wife rotated my shorts and tightie whities under the blow drier. So, like a sad old person, I fell down in the mud. At least my hip didn’t break.
The next day, I headed out to run, one of the first outings in weeks while recovering from nasal surgery. I went to a track to be safe, in case I keeled over – especially since I now am required to squirt 15 cc of some kind of yellow-green funk up each nostril twice daily. (Aside from the fact that it was ridiculously expensive, I have to mix it myself. Shooting 60 cc of fluid up your nose daily, with your head upside down in the sink, to flush your sinuses is hardly the definition of fun. [Remember that time you jumped off the roof into the swimming pool and water shot up your nose at 10,000 mph? It’s like that. Twice a day.])
Anyway, later that evening, I was set to go to the Peter Frampton concert at Billy Bob’s. Back in the 70’s when he was super hot with the biggest selling live album of all-time (then), saying you liked Frampton was akin to extolling your love of the Bee Gees – you’d get savagely beaten up immediately. But times have changed. Especially for me when I discovered the concert starting time was 10:30. At night!
Even though Numb3rs was coming on TV, I cranked up the truck and drove to Billy Bob’s. The honky tonk is one of those places where the concert area is non-smoking, but you have to walk through a chimney of cigaretted wannabe cowboys to get there. (My poor pristine nose...)
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I needed to disrobe and wash and dry my clothes. Naturally, I wasn’t about to do that in the normal bathroom filled with school children; instead I stood around in the handicapped restroom in just a shirt while my wife rotated my shorts and tightie whities under the blow drier. So, like a sad old person, I fell down in the mud. At least my hip didn’t break.
The next day, I headed out to run, one of the first outings in weeks while recovering from nasal surgery. I went to a track to be safe, in case I keeled over – especially since I now am required to squirt 15 cc of some kind of yellow-green funk up each nostril twice daily. (Aside from the fact that it was ridiculously expensive, I have to mix it myself. Shooting 60 cc of fluid up your nose daily, with your head upside down in the sink, to flush your sinuses is hardly the definition of fun. [Remember that time you jumped off the roof into the swimming pool and water shot up your nose at 10,000 mph? It’s like that. Twice a day.])
Anyway, later that evening, I was set to go to the Peter Frampton concert at Billy Bob’s. Back in the 70’s when he was super hot with the biggest selling live album of all-time (then), saying you liked Frampton was akin to extolling your love of the Bee Gees – you’d get savagely beaten up immediately. But times have changed. Especially for me when I discovered the concert starting time was 10:30. At night!
Even though Numb3rs was coming on TV, I cranked up the truck and drove to Billy Bob’s. The honky tonk is one of those places where the concert area is non-smoking, but you have to walk through a chimney of cigaretted wannabe cowboys to get there. (My poor pristine nose...)
Frampton was exceptionally good. The problem was the audience. At 51, I was clearly under the median age. And the old timers had come to boogie. You know how there’s nothing sadder than seeing your parents dancing or trying to be cool? It was like that times 100.
Thanks to a combination of age, little blue pills, and longnecks, most of the classic rockers in the audience had already passed the point of not caring what anyone thought. By cracky, they were going to rock! And they did.
If enough people witnessed this display, they would not gripe so much about the kids’ “dirty dancing” of today. The efforts of the elderly gyrating amid back pops and knee cracks – all off key, by the way – caused plenty of body grinding, all of it accidental, as they crashed into each other, Medic Alert bracelets flying at Frampton like panties in 1977.
I spun around like a ninja, guarding my clean, if slightly sooty, snout. Clearly, plenty of people wanted to “feel like I do,” as Frampton sang, but simply could not.
I drove home, went to church the next day, then took a long nap, legs sore from the previous day’s run. There are plenty of good things in this world but few can match the Sunday afternoon nap. I knew I should go run or get the bike out; after all, a storm was coming the next day. Instead, I rolled over and didn’t wake up until halftime of the Cowboys game. And I stayed in bed for hours after that.
I wouldn’t have gotten up at all except my nose needed squirtin’. That’s when I got a back spasm bending over the sink. My bride took a photo of it.
Mark K. Campbell is the Azle News sports editor.
Hear this column read online at www.azlenews.net.
http://www.azle-news.com/news/get-news.asp?id=7910&catid=2&cpg=get-news.asp
Thanks to a combination of age, little blue pills, and longnecks, most of the classic rockers in the audience had already passed the point of not caring what anyone thought. By cracky, they were going to rock! And they did.
If enough people witnessed this display, they would not gripe so much about the kids’ “dirty dancing” of today. The efforts of the elderly gyrating amid back pops and knee cracks – all off key, by the way – caused plenty of body grinding, all of it accidental, as they crashed into each other, Medic Alert bracelets flying at Frampton like panties in 1977.
I spun around like a ninja, guarding my clean, if slightly sooty, snout. Clearly, plenty of people wanted to “feel like I do,” as Frampton sang, but simply could not.
I drove home, went to church the next day, then took a long nap, legs sore from the previous day’s run. There are plenty of good things in this world but few can match the Sunday afternoon nap. I knew I should go run or get the bike out; after all, a storm was coming the next day. Instead, I rolled over and didn’t wake up until halftime of the Cowboys game. And I stayed in bed for hours after that.
I wouldn’t have gotten up at all except my nose needed squirtin’. That’s when I got a back spasm bending over the sink. My bride took a photo of it.
Mark K. Campbell is the Azle News sports editor.
Hear this column read online at www.azlenews.net.
http://www.azle-news.com/news/get-news.asp?id=7910&catid=2&cpg=get-news.asp
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numb3rs
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