Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

My apologies for being away from the decanter.  I hope it didn’t run dry?  It wasn’t until the Mothe gently reminded me of it yesterday that I realized how long it had been since I last posted.  Nothing to worry about, I do assure you.   Just a combination of busy Real Life and lack of inspiration.

Nonetheless, when your 80 year old mother tells you to post, you post.  Inspired or otherwise.

I may or may not have mentioned before that my primary source of exercise these days is a brisk lunchtime walk.  For about the past year and a half or so, I have been accustomed to doing a loop around the National Mall that takes me as far as 14th Street to the west (just in front of the Washington Monument) and to the Grant Memorial to the east.  Combined with the distance to and from my building and throwing in a few doubling backs and cross-overs, it comes in just under 3.5 miles altogether, a perfectly respectable distance, I believe.  My legs ache pleasantly by the time I’m done, my heart-rate is mildly elevated but not red-lining, and there is enough of an endorphin release that I start feeling jumpy and irritable when I’ve skipped it for a day or two.  For a fellah of 51 years with nothing to prove to anybody, I think this is quite sufficient.

Anyhoo, as I made the circuit today, I found myself musing again over the fact that for somebody who deliberately shuns attention, I’ll bet I’m in an awful lot of touron photographs by now.  On data sticks and FB pages, in photo albums and stand-alone frames, all over the country and, indeed, the world (what with all the foreign tourons), I’m sure there are many pics of people standing in front of the Capitol or the statue of Sam Grant, or using that silly trick of perspective to pretend they’re holding up or leaning against the Washington Monument, that also feature ol’ Robbo stumping along in the background and scowling squinting at nothing in particular.

I find this idea grimly amusing.

Pursuing it a bit further, I sometimes wonder whether anyone has ever remarked of me,  “Who is that guy? And why does he look so crabby?”

As I say, I generally shun attention, but when I think about this I find myself hearing the siren song of Vanity, wondering whether it is just possible that somehow, somewhere, I might be Dee Cee vacation photography’s version of Hazel Frederick.

I also find myself snickering.

As I march past them, this probably worries the tourons more than my squinting.

 

 

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