The reincarnation of 90s Northwestern grunge-punk shakes me out of bed.
Remember the band Everclear? They're playing a hundred yards from my balcony. Part of this Austin musical 10K something or other. I'm confused, too. It's all cacophony and heavy bass and a screaming fan base... of at least eighty. If I really wanted to jam to these guys, I'd rummage through that dusty stack of NOW CDs in the box labeled "middle school," buried in the back of my parent's garage.
Propelled by bad music and feelings of general sluggishness as I meander past the finish line on the way to grab coffee, I settle for the gym. Which is teeming with characters. That's the best thing about a new gym membership, I've decided. People watching.
Bald Guy rowing in loafers and cargo shorts. Not a chaffing care in the world. Manic Stationary Cyclist, death grip on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Just a-burnin' calories and soaking up current events. Motor Mouth, exerting more energy on iPhone than treadmill. Full-on Makeup Face, preening in the mirror. Meathead, with an ass that rivals Nicki Minaj's, also preening in the mirror. The Rays/Sox game I'd planted myself in front of plays second fiddle to this deck of cards for three and a half miles. Couldn't even tell you the final score.
Offensive in my own right, I stop for groceries on the way home. Tomato-faced. Smelling like a dude. I've got no shame. And a good sweat gives way to sugar.... as it should.
These bars? They're what happens when cheesecake flirts with chocolate chip cookies...
And before you know it... they're getting physical on the couch.
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