Interrupting the Boredom

I named this one B&W in Color. Click it and enjoy it in it's full size splendor.

As the hitcounter tells me, my readership has been waning in the last week or so. I'm not really worried about losing anyone in the long term, but I want to make sure you diehards are rewarded for your loyalty. I've been in a bit of a rut lately, with nothing much to report. I wouldn't want anyone to think my narrative has become stale and as a result have been keeping a distance between my fingertips and my blog.

Tonight was my Thursday Night Run at Kennedy Park. It was chilly (mid 50s) and I wore a long-sleeve shirt. This - of course - made the run extra hot, but was nice to keep the cool breeze off my arms. For some reason, the cool breezes don't reach your lower limbs until you dip into the low 40s. That allows me to continue wearing shorts right up until I make the bold switch to mantights. Before you judge me, there is nothing finer than running in tights. It's probably better than nude running in that it leaves little to the imagination but supports you all over. A little support goes a long way.

Afterwards we supped at O'Laughlin's Pub, where I filled my belly with traditional Irish fare - a Buffalo Chicken Sandwich. In Buffalo it would be called a Spicy Chicken Sandwich. The food was good and the water came in a really cool carafe one would probably use to serve cheap white wine to make it seem fancier. It had a name printed in the glass (what is that raised printing called that they put in glass?) that made me want to steal it, but the restaurant is owned by my running buddy's - and fellow Pretty Boy - neighbor. Plus one of the guys seemed to be a regular.

It said something like Cristal or Alize.

Now I sit in my livingroom draped in cats, watching a documentary on Andy Warhol of soup can fame with a fire crackling to my right, nursing a warm cup of Starbucks coffee (brewed right here in my own kitchen). My right leg is ever so tender after a week of running roads and an evening turning my ankle on rocks and tree roots, and it feels like my homemade concoction of Advil and Target brand Ibuprofen might be kicking in. With that, I'm ghost.

Over and Out,
Old Coot