running to stay vertical (out of spite)

A year and a half after blowing out my back (stupidly) carrying a standup freezer by myself down uneven-at-best basement stairs (I was pissed about something stupid and refused all help which was, say it with me, fucking stupid), I've managed to get myself back into a daily running routine. Aiming, by late Spring, to get back to my six-miles-a-day (I'm currently doing half that).

Why six miles, you ask? Simple, really: spite.

In Haruki Murakami's WHAT I TALK ABOUT WHEN I TALK ABOUT RUNNING, he said that he ran six miles a day six days a week. Loved that book, but HATED his 1Q84 follow-up, COLORLESS SOMETHING SOMETHING AND THE SOMETHING SOMETHING (I only remember the first word of the title), so I decided I would do six miles a day, seven days a week, as a middle finger for writing that shitty book (IMO, 1Q84 is the last great – or even readable – thing Murakami wrote).

So long as I don't blow my back out again, I should be on track to get back to the six and continue my reign of spite-running two years after the herniation. Hopefully this will shut my doctors and father-in-law up about my weight gain over the last couple of years.

punching sand to improve my capacity to outrun myself

The heavy bag is assembled in my former office after finding that the bag / stand was not too wide but rather too tall (after assembly, of course) for the current office in the paintshop; much hilarity ensued. Learning the basics of boxing and incorporating it as my fourth daily solo exercise alongside yoga, HIIT, 5k run, and, I suppose, drumming into my daily exertions has long been a goal. Similar to the previous three / four, I've no interest in competition against anyone but myself, my exertions being simply another means of outrunning the shithead in my brain.

Intriguing to recognize the similarities between a boxing practice and my efforts to re-learn – and improve – upon my previous drummer-iteration: both are hand-led disciplines of metronomic timing, coordinated limb independence, relaxation, rhythm, and movement – foundational jab/cross/hook/whatever are to the bag what foundational paradiddles/flams/flam accents/rolls/open/closed/etc/etc are to the drums. Also explains why I'm getting the hang of boxing quicker than I expected: still, have to learn to slow it down and break each movement down as I would each rudiment on the drumset; either way, a fascinating experiment in fortuitous timing, right/left/right right/left – related: 10-foot-long headphone cable arriving today so I can play the TD-1K without getting my sticks and myself tangled up.

Newsletter writing flurry: a piece that I had intended to be a humorous and somewhat snarky look back has metamorphosed into something else, something different. Such is the way: every time I tell myself I'm going to write something quick and short and entertaining I transform/terraform it into some soul-searching meandering. Either way, it arrives tomorrow morning in subscribers' inboxes.

Treetrimmer invasion update: a growing number of trees in The AC look either like pieces of broccoli or middle finger amputees waving proud in the air but, on the bright side, my grandfather's lawnmower is no longer stuck in the mud – though treetrimmers had fuckall to do with that: self + Amish passerby riding lawnmower lift FTW.

Madisynn and Wong need their own MST3K-inspired MCU show. Wongersynn.

i am disappointing the dogchildren because i can’t make it stop raining

68ºF, rain: a calmer Derbz than yesterday, having either reached an acceptance of inclement weather (he really, really hates rain) or increased hopes of at least one game of DerbzBall today – until it rains again (and again) because I really don't want him to slip and tear something; another fortnight in the cone of shame isn't in the cards. I'm sorry, dogchildren, but I'm not Halle Berry in a bad wig. Stop looking at me like that.

More TD-1K fiddling yesterday: the included songs keep the tradition of charmingly lame playalong accompaniments that are, nonetheless, useful for improv: fond memories of having to come up with things on the spot, working to get that independence of feet and hands and right and left back – and better than before, given that I'm not (as much of) the undisciplined jackoff of my previous musical iteration.

The rower has founds its new home: my back no longer screams every time it enters that room; in the rower’s place, the punching bag will rise later today – undoubtedly with the aid of a bored Derbz and much impatience.

i am their revolving doorman

68ºF, rain – and yet: inside and outside and inside and outside, one dogchild after another, sometimes solo, sometimes a duo, sometimes a trio / inside and out and inside and out: this is my day, already; Derbz-meltdown potential rises as DerbzBall likelihood dwindles.

I'll probably likewise be inside today; should've gone to pick up that punching bag yesterday, shit (my days of rowing are over as it's proven to be murder on my back (my back, my fucking back) and I've decided to cut my losses and try something I've always wanted to try). Yoga/HIIT? Try out K’s recumbent bike? Run around in circles, etc etc? IDK.

The TD-1K is hooked up and sounds great. Better than my acoustic kit, surprisingly enough. Still have to get the pads and cymbals in the right spot: still a bit claustrophobic.

Cool uncle (maybe) cred reupped by getting my niece hooked on GOAT SIMULATOR. Victory is mine – kid can even get the goat to stick onto the donut-car: impressive. Note: need to buy a switch so I can practice on MARIO KART, still: I can't let her reign of terror against my gamer's pride continue – no matter how proud I am that she can kick my ass.