Green Day: “Chump” [Live]
I don’t know you
But I think I hate you […]
Strange how you’ve become my biggest enemy
And I’ve never even seen your face
I was up and well into my ten miler this morning before the sun had even cleared the roofs of the residential neighborhoods I ran through, the ones with just-waxed luxury cars in the driveway and lawns big enough to host the Pro Bowl. I’ve left a lot of footprints past these addresses over the years because they’re largely traffic free and always quiet on Sunday mornings, save for the occasional yip of a dog the size of a throw pillow or the muffled conversation of breakfasts taken on the side patio.
I passed a number of other runners, all tangled in the white cords of their earbuds and wearing the same goofy-looking sunglasses I had, all hoping to be inside before the humidity hit jockstrap levels. At the top of yet another brutal hill, I stripped off my dB’s t-shirt and tossed it atop a street sign beside someone else’s sweat-wicking garment, making a mental note to grab it on the way back home.
After a solid hour of exposing my pale flesh to a number of unlucky souls, I swung back by the street sign and…it wasn’t there. I paused the timer on my watch and looked at the hedges beside me to see if the Sweat Wicker had absentmindedly knocked it off the post. I stepped over the bottles of Gatorade stashed by other runners, looking between them for a glimpse of blue cotton. No shirt. After a song’s worth of searching, I was pissed on a number of levels, both because I really dug that tee and also because I managed to erase my timer, so charting this run would be impossible. And YOU KNOW I chart every single minute I spend on the roads.
I sulked all the way back to my car, sulked harder as I stood in the Panera line feeling like I should apologize for ruining everyone’s breakfast, whispering an “I’m so sorry” to the families who caught a glimpse of my bare torso in between bites of their Cinnamon Crunch bagel.
So this song’s for you, unknown shirt-stealing resident of Runnymede Road. If I see you out tending to the gardenias while wearing Chris Stamey’s silhouette across your evil little ribcage, you can guarantee I’m going after you. It’s ON, tee thief. I’ll be comin’ at you like a spider monkey.
Watch your back. You know, the one covered by my shirt.
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