Walked eleven miles, ran the Boston College stairs ten times. Not an impressive showing. Went to Trader Joe's for fruits, vegetables, nuts. Received a text from someone who told me I was the most masculine person they know. Then a text right after saying I was also the most feminine person they know. I think that makes a certain amount of sense. Or I know what they were saying, anyway. Probably does not translate that well to the reductionist terms. I threw away the old shoes. They were about as beat down as shoes can be. Someone is texting me now saying they know someone who can help me get the vaccine. I don't know if I will get this vaccine. I have given it no thought. My vaccines come in the form of stairs and the Zulu spirit. I feel like I have never been healthier, stronger, or more productive, even with how everything stands in this hell that is my present existence. When I have thought of COVID, I have thought of it as a test to see where I am at physically. I've also had strange reactions to flu shots, which I do get. I got pneumonia right after my flu shot in 2016, and that was easily as sick as I have ever been, temperature of 105, two trips to the hospital, though I made myself recover within two weeks. That was the deadline I set. I'm sure that sounds quite stupid. Laughable. I am sure it has no basis in science, strictly speaking. But I do believe in the power of the mind and the will and the fighting spirit. It's kind of a jokey thing that people have picked up on and say now--one of those phrases, slogans, what have you, that they associate with me--but the whole Zulu warrior thing isn't just for chuckles. It is actually a part of how I have to live my life right now. Next on Downtown I guess I should talk about the blog, with the 1000 entries, plus the underrated career of Wade Boggs, that half hour Johnny Dollar episode, "The Markham Matter," and especially how it's written--the ways compactness can be used in writing to create something quite larger (I do this a lot, and have been doing it since well before Longer on the Inside came into being); the irritating noises people make--like our friend from the Starbucks the other day; and the Bruins' potential Hall of Famers. It's possible to reach a level of writing where you're doing things with time and space that ought not to be possible. You're going past theoretical physics. It's a strange dominion. My sister sent me some photos of the Hans Christian Andersen collection of fairy tales I got for my niece Lilah. Looked pretty good. I don't know if she likes it yet, but I think she will. When I went to get a coffee at the diner this morning there were these two older gentleman discussing Dick Stuart. One asked the other if he remembered him. Stuart played for the Sox in '63 and '64. He said that he did, and cited Stuart's power. Rarely do I interpose in conversations--someone can asking someone else what year "Strawberry Fields Forever" came out, they won't know, and I won't say anything--but this time I did, and threw in some Stuart stats. The looks on the faces of these two. People are so shocked that you might actually carry knowledge on your person that when you reveal some--I'm sure my age had something to do with it, too, in this case--it's like you've performed a magic act. Listened to some of Townshend's demos for Quadrophenia.