So, what’d you do this weekend?

…oh, not much of anything, really.

(That is my thinly veiled attempt to be sarcastic, of course.)

I am not the happiest of birthday boys on this, my birthday.

Facebook.com is a wonderful thing. It allows us negligent and forgetful college students the opportunity to say “happy birthday” to our friends, which not only helps us feel better, but it also makes the birthday-ee feel as though he/she actually has friends that would remember his/her birthday. In reality, of course, we never have any idea of when anyone’s birthday is.

This is why Facebook is helpful. It sends us little notices when our friends’ birthdays are approaching, allowing us the false foresight to write them a little note, wishing them a happy birthday. The birthday boy feels happy to have heard from so many of his friends, and the world continues to exist.

Anyway…

This past week has been a struggle as far as the weight loss goes; virtually all of my effort has gone into finding decent menu choices and having the time to get some running in.

What is the reason for this madness?
Well, it is work, actually.
Because of the fourth of July, there have been a lot of extra gigs happening, since everyone wants to share in the patriotic fervor of the season. This means an endless procession of Sousa marches, more than a dozen numbers with the word “stars” in the title, and a goodly number more which feature music written for the silver screen. And if you’re good, we may even throw in some Beatles arrangements.

All in all, not the most stimulating of repertoire, from a musical standpoint, but fun none the less, and it is fun to see the audiences turn out wearing umbrella hats, red,white and blue t-shirts and black socks with sandals. Plus, they really get into it. You’d think it was like they didn’t hear John Philip Sousa ever single year. Over and over again. Ad nauseum. Every. Single. Year.

So there are two orchestras that have conspired to try and destroy my weight-loss efforts. By their forces combined, they seek the destruction of my valiant effort to join America’s Armed Forces.

The culprits:

The Lima Symphony Orchestra
The Ashland Symphony Orchestra

Both of these cities reside in South-Western Ohio, a good 1.5 hour drive minimally, a 3.5 hour drive maximally.

The observed conclusion: There is nothing in this gosh-forsaken part of the state.

Nothing.

We saw a Pamida once, but we spooked it, and it ran away into the brush, never to be seen again. Too bad. It had Coke 12-packs on sale for $2.59.

So the past five days had seen me spend nights in two different cities, driving approximately 22 hours, spotting precisely 15,304 corn silos, and playing for audiences whose medium age averages around 93.

The breakdown:

Thursday: First rehearsal with the Lima Symphony. Drive with amiga Lala to forsaken town no. 1: Lima. Over three hours in the car over one deserted country road to the next, sharing a single-lane road with spatially-unaware semis and senile Oldsmobile operators.

We arrive at the lovely theater in Lima, sharing a stage which was once graced by the likes of the traveling production of Bedknobs & Broomsticks and the Second City touring company. It boggles the mind.

Fifteen hours later, having exhausted the complete catalog of Sousa marches, we are freed from our imprisonment, only to discover that we must make the lengthy traverse back to the Land which is Cleve in the dead of night, when were-tractors and their minion stalk the countryside, preying on those foolish enough to travel through their dominion.

Despite the overwhelming odds, we make it home in the dead of night.
Waking up the next morning, we realize we have to repeat the entire ordeal.

At the end of this evening’s rehearsal, the idea of returning home proves too much for Lala, and we instead take a safer route to the land of Bowling Green where we stay with a friend of Lala’s who offers us her couches in exchange for spending the late-night hours awake in various establishments of debauchery and sinister behavior, imbibing beverages and smoking like a chimney. Our hero reluctantly agrees, thinking of how hard running in the morning will be in his flip-flops.

The next day is our first concert. We travel even further into the desolate forsakenness that is Ohio. We see endless carcasses of those who have gone before, unknowing victims of the merciless were-tractors.

Our heroes arrive in the little town of Van Wert, recently devastated by were-tractors, but more relevantly, news that Honda has decided to put its new factory in Indiana, instead of in the basement of the local United Methodist church. The entire parsonage is weeping, and the orchestra is forced to listen to endless diatribes lamenting the loss, yet self-congratulating themselves, yearning to find the silver-lining to the cloud that was pouring acid rain down upon them.

Another night in Bowling Green, another endless vigil at a similar house of debauchery, engaged in pointless conversation about an ex-girlfriend who turned out to be a lot more insane than I ever thought. Our hero is immediately glad that we decided to cut things off with the Amazing Insano.

Saw a most curious example of genetic engineering gone wrong:

In Bowling Green, a local, (or Flatlander, as they’re affectionately referred to by the superior out-of-towners,) will stop for an emergency vehicle. Now this is a normal, conditioned, law-abiding response, but not if you’re a PEDESTRIAN!

What a moron.

We return late Saturday morning to find things quite the way I left them, (i.e. a complete mess) and am curiously disgusted to find my right knee is no longer capable of supporting my flabby frame on long runs. This is not a good development.

Sunday comes, brings my birthday with it. Unceremoniously beats the snot out of it, and leaves it for dead on my doorstep. I unwittingly find my day of birth on my doorstep when I leave the house for my daily run, and decide rather quickly that this is a bad omen.

I race out of the house to Ashland, hopefully evading the deadly Sunday who enjoys killing birthdays, only to find myself stranded in another sinkhole of civilization. There is a Wal-mart here, but its sandwiched between a Tractor Supply store, (probably the same place where those stupid were-tractors are nesting during the day) and a Payless Shoe Source. All tell-tale signs of white trash. Let all who enter beware.

We find ourselves in the four-hour break between rehearsal and concert. In another hour we will begin our set of patriotic tunes, bookeneded by, what else?
Sousa death marches.

May the star-spangled banner be soaked in the blood of were-tractors forever.

And can I please get some sleep tonight?!! Those who are three hours ahead of me on the clock can take notice!!!

T.