I’ve a goal to run 21 miles this holiday weekend.  It’s a modest goal.  One of many.

I’d also like to get a lot of reading and writing done. 

Normally, Dreamland is quiet enough for reflecting, composing, writing.  Today, however, there are a couple of young blonde caregivers tending a group of about ten brats (Okay, some of them are cute.  I mean, besides the one blonde caregiver.)    They’re here, I gather, to observe the National Air Show in Cleveland this weekend from upon the hillside where I normally lounge after running, blog, get smacked around by my muses, etc.  The brats are essentially acting like hippies and running all around the hillside, dripping popsicles on headstones, and screaming at the top of their lungs.  It’s charming.  I think.

uh-oh.  They must have heard me writing because they just left.  Either that or the sight of a madman who runs around the cemetery for seven miles, then drinks beer as he pounds on a laptop is too much for that one hot blonde to handle while she tries to martial law the brats.  And I was just starting to adjust to them.  In fact, my muse, was prepared to make a sport of the whole event.