Yes, M!ch!gan!
Tuesday: Sam's Store - Ann Arbor
Wednesday: Flounders - 75th anniversary, 1926-2001
Thursday: Tony's I-75 - "I Survived the Rush Hour at..."
Friday: Michigan (maize block letters on a blue shirt)

Now I just need to get a "WORST STATE EVER" T-shirt from the MGoBlog store: Ohiolink. (It should be noted that just as the site of the United Nations complex in New York City is not part of the territory of the United States of America, I do not consider Cedar Point to be located in the blighted State of Ohio. After all, it is "America's Roller Coast" not "Ohio's Roller Coast.")

Ricky Fitness
I've been pretty much on my own this week and have come to an unsurprising conclusion: exercising is not fun. Exercising with someone to converse with is not fun, even if the conversation is entertaining. Exercising without anyone to converse with is not fun. It's weird, because I always loved swim practice. I was nicknamed The SKP Machine after a popular warm-up routine, the 500 SKP (swim 500 yards, kick 500 yards, pull 500 yards). I was, at best, so-so during meets, but I excelled at practice. I loved practice. I've always said that I love the water, and when considering that remark you should know that the majority of the time I've spend in the water has been at swim practice. So when I say I love the water, and I do love the water, I'm really saying that I love swim practice.

I hate the treadmill. This week, I increased the speed at which I run during both the flat and angled stages of my daily run. I want to run faster and at a steeper angle, but I feel no affection for the ritual. The whole enterprise reeks of masochism, not amelioration. That small, stuffy room is a prison. All gymnasia are prisons. And they stink like prisons, though, of course, by sweating like a Wilson I contribute more than my fair share to that horrible gym funk. I'll own up to that much. The chlorine-tinged scent of a natatorium, though? That's the fragrance of Paradise, the essence of joy. (And yes, it is natatorium, not "nautatorium.") When my sentence here in the Purgatory of the Lone Star State is done, I shall go home, meaning not Grand Blanc but a pool. I do not know where, but I shall find a pool and I will be home.

You know what I should have listened to yesterday when I was in such a foul mood? "Rape Me" by Nirvana. Let's remedy that unfortunate oversight, shall we?