People are always like, "Big C, you are a lazy load," and I'm like, "Really? Is that actually true?" Damn.
Today I ran three miles in the rain, then stopped at the Starbucks to use the bathroom, where I wrote a new personal essay in my head as I washed my hands. All done. Just need to formally type it out. Then got a coffee at Anthony's, walked back to Charlestown, and climbed the Bunker Monument...eleven straight times. Personal best.
For the first time in all of the years I've been doing this, someone else was trying to do it as well. But this guy. He ran none of it, took breaks after each climb (he totaled three), and carried on with his grunting and groaning like he was giving birth or repeatedly having an anvil dropped on his foot. Lapped him a bunch of times. Resisted urge to declare, "Weak! You are weak, sir!" The first five climbs, I ran the first 100 stairs; then ran seventy-five the next time; the first fifty on climbs seven and eight; ran the first seventy-five on climb nine, then the first fifty on climb ten, then the first seventy-five and last fifty on climb eleven. Finish strong, baby.
Not once in the eleven climbs did I stop. This was with three layers of shirts completely soaked through with rain and sweat. You know the glass of a hockey rink gets fogged over when it's kind of cold out but not that cold out? Well, today inside the Monument I was a one person fog bank there was so much heat coming off of me. The stairwell became a kind of gloaming. Also sent out an op-ed pitch pertaining to "Baby, It's Cold Outside." And spoke to Kimball about what I'll discuss on the radio Tuesday. As it were, alternative Christmas films, so Black Christmas, both versions of 3 Godfathers, Holiday Affair, The Thin Man.
A hot but boring forty-three-year-old photographer asked me if climbing the Monument was fun. No, of course it's not fun. I don't do it for fun. And truthfully, I haven't had a single moment of fun, not a second's worth, in almost seven years. I do it to stay fit and strong to battle and defeat an evil industry that wants to bury and suppress me. Also, for later, so that I am making matchless art and impacting the world until I hit triple digits. And when I get past those people, it won't hurt to be the fit, good-looking artist genius guy for TV and speaking things. Also in the question department: a rather nonsensical twenty-three-year-old saw this site, and then asked me if I was homeless. Awesome. Hell is not other people--I have come to know hell intimately--but other people can be akin to a migraine. You just want it to go away.
Went to H&H's Messiah at Symphony Hall. Mixed bag this year.