I had been physically lazy for two days (though writing my ass off yesterday morning to the tune of 3500 words), but I remedied that today. In 97% humidity, I ran three miles, walked three miles, and climbed the Bunker Hill Monument a personal best eight straight times. Soon, I will have a ten climb day. That's what I'm looking at for a top number. I could have done it today--just as I could have done it a while ago when I did seven climbs--but it was enough to hit my top mark and the humidity was awful. That is the prime influencing factor at this point in my climbs. I'm deep in the season, so to speak. Mid-season form. The problem comes when the Monument is shut down so often in the winter, because you lose what you built up. The Monument is hard. It's why I enjoy it over running. I'm not good at running, and I feel inside the Monument that I'm doing something that not a lot of people would be able to do. Back in March, I could not do a single climb without stopping to rest. It was humiliating, and I was ashamed of myself. True, with a very short amount of time, I started to approach respectable again. But I hate that feeling.
As I came to the bottom after my seventh climb, an attractive woman was waiting there, maybe twenty-eight. Normally, the impromptu Q&A sessions--"How many times do you do this?" "Are you crazy?"--occur mid-climb. She asked the usual question about number of climbs, and then inquired if I did this to stay in shape, concluding with a "Well, you're very fit." Result! Unfortunately, I did almost fall over during this quick exchange. Like I said, it was humid.
And Lord was I gross. My wallet and everything in it was soaked and soaked through, such that seven hours later at the CVS--where I had ventured to secure animal crackers, because part of my diet is that of a five-year-old's--the machine would not take my bills. You just sweat through everything. You sweat through your sneakers, so it's like you just forded a brook.
In work matters, a new piece on Jim Brosnan's Pennant Fever, his diary of the Reds' 1961 Pennant-winning season, came out in The Daily Beast, and I hit up the good Rich Kimball with an idea for this Tuesday's Downtown appearance, so we'll be discussing my recent Beatles pieces in Rolling Stone and Salon. This afternoon I went out to Cambridge for a screening of Guy Maddin's The Green Fog. It could make for a good piece to get into it in contrast against the derivative, boring ass dreck that is Hereditary. The Green Fog a retelling of Hitchcock’s Vertigo in an alternate reality where Vertigo does not exist, using footage only from films and television shows shot on location in San Francisco, with the musical backing of the Kronos String Quartet. There are these annoying would-be cineastes at the Brattle for screenings like this who make this big production of letting you know that they think deeply about cinema. They do this by the various rudely-loud, forced noises they make. They exclaim things, they over-laugh, they complain, they say things like "here it comes" before something happens. They want you to know what they think they're about--and the truth is, they know nothing--while you're just trying to watch the bloody film. After a screening of Too Late for Tears--a Dan Duryea-starring film noir from 1949 that had been lost for many years--one of them has to moan, super loud, "It should have stayed lost." I quite like Dan Duryea, actually. One of my top noir actors. (Also good in Winchester '73.) Black Angel (1946) is one of my favorite noirs. It's not a masterpiece by any means. But it's good solid noir, and it just gibes with me. Was the last film directed by Roy William Neill, who did most of the Rathbone-Bruce Sherlock Holmes films. Based off a Cornell Woolrich novel. I should write something on him someday.