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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Valley&State Backpage O&E Sports Archives Classifieds Faith&Beliefs Obituaries Revels October 2, 2004 Pugh's Muse A topic that doesn't work out Lance Pugh We all got our problems. One of mine is procrastination, the art of turning any simple task into an emergency. If it can be done tomorrow, I'll let the hour hand twirl. If there is no deadline, it's time to take a vacation. With extreme vacillation dominating my thoughts, I sat down and looked at the keyboard, hoping for something to spring forward. I tired to pry a thought, budge an idea, lift a line ... anything to get things going. I was stuck in place with torturously slow thoughts snailing their way in endless dead-end mental loops. I needed to shake things up. I needed a jolt of inspiration. My wife, Annette, and I had driven to Portland. There, in addition to attending to some business, we planned on doing some serious window-shopping. I had hoped that this change of scenery would force a few ideas into the hopper, whence I could force-feed them into an article. Well, it was worth a try. I looked into the mirror and recoiled at the sight of such vacuous vapidness. In a desperate move, I jumped into my workout clothes and headed for the gym, which sported an indoor track, pool and all manner of the latest strength training equipment. Nothing like a jog and some serious iron to flog things back into working order. I was pleased at being handed a complementary gym pass at the front desk. Maybe things were looking up. As I entered the physical facility I did a jaw dropping 360 as I slowly realized that "looking up" was as prophetic as neck numbing. Most of the ceiling tiles had been removed, revealing a crooked wealth of pipes, wires, valves and other things mechanical. Atop a dozen ladders a troop of tradesmen swung like monkeys through this jungle's upper canopy. Pipes were being rerouted, electrical circuits conducted, phone lines bundled and ducting directed. Sparks dropped as high-speed drills and saws whirred and grinded, shaping the future of the building for decades to come. To keep those trying to exercise from being shocked, burned, soiled or otherwise maimed, plastic and plywood had been hastily erected to act as walls, which blocked the track and encircled the weight room like so many medieval siege engines attacking the redoubt of buffness. The weight machines were shoved tight one against the next, resulting in a fitness regime that more closely resembled an auto accident than a refreshing workout. It was clearly a scene out of a disaster movie. Realizing that there was nothing interesting at hand about which to write, I called Annette and asked that she meet me in the adjoining restaurant for lunch. I quickly went to the room and changed, as our meal was to be taken in an establishment known for fine food and a dignified clientele. Only the well-dressed and refined frequented this famous establishment, so I wore my best and padded on down to the ground floor. As I entered the eatery, I espied my lunch mate about 30 feet away, sitting behind a rather noisy gathering, to which, at first, I paid little attention. The room was divided into booths by the windows, with long, green velour drapes hanging at regular intervals throughout. I never thought that these curtains concealed ornately carved pillars from view, which I soon discovered with a stride-stopping emergency face stop into the drapes. My sudden deceleration and subsequent moan drew a loud and enthusiastic response from the boisterous table of some twenty construction workers, the same contingent that had turned the gym into a war zone. Each was wearing lumberjack suspenders that doubled as a place to park a pair of well-used work gloves. Hardhats were placed under the seats. Not wanting to appear the snob, I made some inane comment about the fine workmanship of the post that had nearly ended my afternoon, which only further fueled the fires of gruff chortles that barked and squeaked from the merry pranksters at the next table. After such a fine entrance I shielded my eyes with my hands and squinted in an attempt to read the menu, which I held at an angle in an attempt to obscure the now rapidly rising bump on my forehead. When the lunch arrived I immediately thought that I had ordered too much, but having blurred, double vision, can have that effect. After an eternity the nearby jocular table slowly cleared, releasing a strut of defiant workmen for more daring-do in the bowels of the building. Each seemed more interesting than the next, though a common-denominator of appearing rough and tough seemed at hand. The last to leave was wearing a welding mask backwards on his head, this, I presume, a fashion statement of dubious origin. While lost in thought Annette leaned over and whispered: "What's on your mind?" I sat back for a moment, then leaned forward to reply: "I sure could have used one of those hardhats when I walked to the table. I'm going back to the gym and see if I can get some sparks flying." Lance was last seen welding together an article about working hard and eating well. You may throw him a bone at: [email protected]. DailyTidings.com Home Page Valley&State | Backpage | O&E | Sports | Archives | Weather | Classifieds Columnists | Faith&Beliefs | Obituaries | Revels | Subscribe | Contact Us Copyright 2004 Ashland Daily Tidings and Ottaway Newspapers All Rights Reserved Click Here Site Search: .:Advertisements:. RESOURCES - Mail Tribune News - ODOT Road Cams