You never heard that from me.”
— the prophet john joseph lydon
He was just hanging out by the side of the creek yesterday, sporting a Johnny Rotten mohawk, complete with the surly attitude and a saunter that reeked of anarchy.
Mo and I saw a distant relative of his once, the Zorro Hummingbird, sporting the same black tuft. Neither of these birds seem to actually exist in bird books, so I assume I’m hallucinating. Which means training must be going OK.
Mo says that you shouldn’t publicize locations of birds because then they’ll get annoyed when the masses descend upon them. So I can’t tell her where he is hanging out for fear that she’ll show up with her Fancy Camera and scare the bejeebies out of him. Nothing worse that being out for a pleasant run when a bird flying over you loses his bejeebies.
He wasn’t there today, so I’m guessing I made the whole thing up. One of those crazy hallucinations, like Will Smith punching out Chris Rock on live TV. You think afterward that maybe you saw it, but it’s just a bit too weird to have been real.
An OK hour with the Sex Pistols to get the weekly mileage up to 33 miles. I’m an ultramarathoner, if I’m allowed all week to run the ultramarathon. Maybe my legs will come back someday. Maybe.
Until then, run the mile you’re in. God save the queen. Disco really DOES suck.
But mostly, don’t make fun of my bird’s hair. Yeah, I’m looking at you, Chris Rock.