Rob is off frolicking on some far-off, Iowa’s-apparently-not-good-enough California coast today so Scott parked in Rob The Snob’s usual spot before this morning’s run because THAT’S WHAT FAITHFUL RUNNING BUDDIES DO ROB SO PUT *THAT* ON YOUR AVOCADO TOAST AND WASH IT DOWN WITH YOUR LOCALLY SOURCED ARTESIAN VEGAN WATER.
In other capitalized news, BOY HOWDY IS IT MOIST OUT TODAY. MOIST MOIST MOIST. AND HUMID.
But: Three miles. Exactly 11:00 pace, which felt rushed so I still have some cardio-catch-up to do now that my hip is better. My groin is a little sore but I’m telling you this just so I can say groin and not because I think I’ve injured myself. So groin. Groin groin groin. And moist.
... mostly because of its toddler-creativity title and Hal David's criminally mind-numbing lyrics. But the gloriously jerky melody and never-gonna-be-boxed-in phrasing are Burt Bacharach at his finest, and I think Michael Bennett defined an encyclopedic choreography vocabulary for the next half-century of show choir competitions in this song alone. Plus I've had a gay-dancer crush on Donna McKechnie -- she of the endless legs and beguiling self-awareness and almost poetic extensions -- since probably before I was born. Plus HOW THE HELL DO THEY ALL DANCE THIS NUMBER WITHOUT IMPLODING IN CATASTROPHIC EXHAUSTION?
Anyway, it's Black Friday, which means it's Turkey Lurkey Time somewhere. So please shout the lyrics to anything -- ANYTHING! -- else to drown out these linguistic burps as you marvel at Donna McKechnie (in red, who first captured my heart as Cassie in A Chorus Line), Baayork Lee (in green, who kinda got shafted when all her great Connie recitative got cut from the original A Chorus Line cast album) and Margo Sappington (in blue, who went on to a life of fame and fortune as the choreographer for the Doonesbury musical) powering through their tipsy steno-pool production number that has absolutely no relevance to the already convoluted, dirty-sexy, nothing-to-do-with-the-holidays story of Promises, Promises:
This is the hair of a man who cashed in his semiannual I-don't-want-to-do-a-20-minute-elliptical-warmup-before-my-workout card this morning. Which is why it's fluffy-vertical instead of sweaty-droopy.
This is also the hair of a man who is so selflessly dedicated to his art that he hasn't had a haircut in two months so he looks decade-appropriate for a show he's in, which is set in 1963.
This is also the hair of a man who has TONS OF FRIENDS FLOCKING TO SEE THIS, THE FINAL WEEKEND OF SAID SHOW. Ahem.
