The sky was as dark as a poem by Sylvia Plath livestreamed to an audience of zero by an emo girl alone in her basement bedroom. The air was heavy with sarcasm and "That's what she said" jokes. The humid atmosphere of the emerging twilight was punctuated by the dry humor of Gnarly Goat and the esoteric astronomical references of Canuck. It was, by all accounts of mortal men, a normal morning at Fission.
After a brief and unremarkable stretch warmup, Goat and Canuck settled their dispute about sextants or some other obscure and unnecessary technology for which I had no interest and even less patience. The thorny throng then moved en masse, like a murmuration of poorly dressed sparrows, to the land of smooth rocks and no cars on the other side of the tracks. There, under the looming threat of the sudden emergence of an improv team from the conterminous theater, we undertook a series of ill-advised exercises with our geological consorts in hand, along with some requisite running and random variations of otherwise normal feats of strength.
Upon returning to our starting point, your humble correspondent used what little leverage he had to shame Bel-Air into Q-ing a workout, but our ever-vigilant (and perhaps fed up) pax put the kibosh on the plan by calling time, thereby avoiding the execution of even a single burpee by most of the assembled asses gentlemen.
The Polygon of Trust brought mentions of Bel-Air's son, who is going through some dark times, and Canuck's family, who will be traveling soon (including someone 85 driving on 85, going—I presume—85). We also acknowledged the founders and OGs of F3 who made all of this inspired nonsense possible.
The mandatory meeting of men known in local parlance as "coffeeteria" was well-attended by Fissioners and I-Paxers alike. The standing-room-only back patio of Dunkin Donuts was bathed in bullshit and body odor, with the usual suspects claiming the lion's share of the coffechatter while the humble minority remained content to let the rest of us talk until we inevitably embarrassed ourselves.
As the pax dissolved into the morning light like the steam from a Turkish bath through a door left open by a drunken tourist, I spotted a man sipping his coffee alone by the railroad tracks. Sensing an EH opportunity, I approached with my usual misguided demeanor that signals either that I intend to rob them or ask them on a date. As it turns out, Saul is from my hometown of Boca Raton and is in town visiting relatives. He sells rare coins for a living, so that was another thing we had in common, since I used to be an enthusiast in my youth—buying and selling coins for candy money and crack cocaine (as far as you know). Saul's eyes lit up when I mentioned that I still have a 1937-D 3-Legged Buffalo Nickel, informing me that my MS66 condition example was worth about 40 grand. Turns out that was a way better investment than Bitcoin (thank you very little, Blackbeard), since I only paid $300 for the coin back in the 70's. The more you know. . .
Thanks for your attendance, gentlemen. It is always an honor to force you to do things you don't really want to do at a time when you'd rather be sleeping.