Easter, for me, is the weekend everybody leaves town and I get a lot of time to myself with nothing to do but start drinking at noon precisely and let my imagination take me where it will. Saturday, lacking the joys of an IPod shuffle, I decided to make epic mix tapes so I would have some new music to listen to in the car (actually not new music, just old music in a different order). I get kind of crazy when making these things, growing more excited with each beer, turning the volume up in increments, scrapping whole tapes that were two songs from being finished only to start all over, etc. The whole process took several hours - like seven or eight hours, to be exact. Hey, that's seven or eight hours I wasn't shopping or running errands, right? (And is that seven or eight hours inadvertantly helping the terrorists win their war on freedom?)
Anyway, that is the boring part of the story. The interesting part occured the next day, when I realized that my ribs and thighs were sore, sore like post-exercise sore. And I thought back - my tape planning station was sitting Indian-style on the floor, where I could make a giant mess of CD cases and box set paraphernalia and crumpled lists thrown casually aside and running lists complete with times, valuations, mapping directions (track located at Nuggets II Disc 3), etc. Everytime a song would end or I would change my mind, I would lift myself off the floor, change CDs, sit back down on the floor, write some things down, and then repeat the whole thing again for the next song. Or I would get up and get another beer. Or consult a reference book. Or make a phone call. Or smoke a cigarette. Each time I did anything, for eight hours or more, I would lift myself off of the floor and sit myself back down.
So much so that I am still sore. My muscles ache from making a mix tape. Hidden deep in the tiny mechanical workings of my little digital bedside alarm clock, Time is laughing at me.