Meta-Monday

I was doing my hamster time at the gym yesterday, trying to sweat out the weekend and finish David Mitchell's disappointing new novel, when Jerry Brown ran by me. Jerry is a semi-regular downtown, so few folks gawk when he does curls in his all-black cotton sweats. I had one eye on the page and one on the big screen, as the US Open final was in a rain delay and I was hoping Judge Judy would disappear and Nadal would continue his quest for the career grand slam, when one of those new Whitman ads came on. You know the one from the 1992 campaign, in which Bill Clinton calls Jerry out about higher taxes in California? Anyway, twice when Jerry came up the track's home stretch, he stared into three giant screens with his mug plastered on 'em and a fiery Clinton looking ready to bite it off. Did the man look up? Not that I could tell, as I was contorting myself into gumby to get a good look, which is probably the source of this morning's back pain. Zen training seems to have paid off, as he was either too tired to raise his head or he learned something about discipline along the line. So, still no camera video footage of Jerry Brown gazing up in horror at Meg's cheap ads at the downtown Oakland gym. It was a meta-Monday.