Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Complete, pathetic failure.

I was planning on waking up at six a.m. to run 10 miles this morning. Well, remember what some author said about the best laid plans of mice and men? It seemed that my best plan was continue my morning laid out in bed.

I had prepared for this longish run all evening, eating extra Thai food and going to bed early. I normally sleep through the night, but for some reason, I woke up at 3 a.m. I suspect that the monsoon pounding on my window was what woke me up, but I can't be completely certain. Anyway, I rolled over, thinking to myself with a warm, gooey, half-awake joy that I had three more hours in sugar-plum dreamland.

At some point, presumably around six a.m., my alarm went off. I don't remember that actually happening, but I do remember slapping blindly in the dark for the damnable machine. Maybe I hit the wrong button, or maybe I slept through a full hour of this album, because I embarked on the strangest dream.

It seemed in the dream that our union local had been taken over by a radical labor leader. He pursued a strategy of beating down reporters' wages in order to get them to foment a proletarian revolution.

Wearing a green berret with a red star, I was his eager lieutenant, telling him in a bad Russian accent that: "The purpose of a trade union is to wake the proletariat from its stupor and achive revolutionary class consciousness, not to raise the wage-slave's paltry ducats."

What's up with that? Communism is so 1985. And how can I hope to awake all workingmen (and women) to seize the global means of production when I can't even get out of bed on an overcast day?

By the time I woke up, it was 8 a.m. and I had to go to work. The specter of laziness haunts the newsroom today.

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