Was the name of the lady at the rental car place. REKKEDAL. The double K summons Viking ghosts, I said. She said “oh?” and didn’t even look up.  Her name sounds like “Wreck it all”.  Did she know that?

“Yes”,  she said, “when it’s badly mispronounced.”

Oops.

OK now don’t say it. Please don’t, myself. You me are motherfucker/s.

“I guess I Rekked it.”

Death.

She shook her head and gave me my card back.

Who are you?

I’m Wreck-it-all.

Well then. Stay out of my wine cellar, please. Well then. Stay out my china collection please. Well then. Stay out of my collection of long glass shards please. Well then. Stay out of my tissue paper sculpture room please. Well then. Stay out of my antique porcelain-and-cobweb vase museum showroom please.

OK, I will.

Running on the beach is special. Your impacts are padded and comfortable, but you lose momentum on the push-offs. You get the sense of both boundless progress as the shore streams past you on that one side, and also a sense of futile inertia. You spend energy powering forward only to have much of it absorbed by the surface. You move slower than you’d like, and tire quickly. Your calves burn. You can move down to the hard-packed surf zone of the beach, where the waves actually crash, but that sand is hard as concrete when freshly washed, and usually at an incline, which makes long running risky. I know, you turn around and do the same route to get the other angle. I know, monkey holes. It’s still a bad angle, and then it’s just bad on both sides.

But that’s fine. Do it anyway. I do, and look at me. I’m not even half gimpy yet.

And I enjoy it. Running on the beach, sweating under the direct sun with a nice breeze coming off the shore. Keys jingling in back pocket, with big, under-used, testicals bouncing out of synch with the rest of my body. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. Sunglasses sliding down my bashed and crooked nose. Feeling mildly assholeish with people all around,  running through their coconut haze. Whomp-jingle-whomp-jingle.

So, tacos are the best thing the place has to offer, besides the weather. And the water, of course. But aside from those things, there’s really not much else, besides hot boobs. Nothing besides the water and weather and tacos, and hot boobs everywhere, and  asses. Tanned, fit asses you just want to besiege.  But besides those things.

Oh, hi mom.

NYC is gorgeous today. Sunny and mid-60s and the kind of day that makes you love the place, the kind of day you hold in your mind’s eye when you’re far away from here, say in northern Nigeria next week, where Rekkedal would be the most appropriate name imaginable.

Happy to you. No subject or object. Happy to you on hump day while I catch up on sleep. Bye there precious objects.