I saw Elvis last night.

OK, it was the Jewish Elvis, but still....

Please don't ask me why, but I went to see Neil Diamond in concert at Key Arena last night. Don't pretend you don't know who Neil Diamond is. Remember this album cover?



Neil Diamond is 64 years old and still rockin'. Wait. "Rockin'" probably isn't the best adjective to describe The Elder Stateman of Kitsch and Ugly Shirts. He is a sort of living legend, a cultural treasure. Yes, he's cheesy but we love him anyway. There's something admirable about an old man crooning, making love to his adoring fans. He kind of reminded me of an aged, attention-hungry college professor, winking at 19 year old co-eds in the front row and hinting at a daring life whose daring has long since passed.

My concert experience last night was pretty much the opposite of what occurred at a Jewel concert I went to a few years ago. (Wow, did I just admit I went to a Jewel concert? Oh well... I *am* writing about Neil Diamond, after all. I have suspended all pretense of pride by now). At Jewel, *I* was the elder statesman at 25 years old, informally chaperoning girls half my age and feeling rather self-conscious, shrinking into my seat lest anyone recognize me. Last night, I felt proud to be witnessing the Master of Melodrama himself, an icon from my mother's generation, a star who did NOT overdose on pills or become a shrill, annoying, impotent political spokesperson -- who instead survived the 60's AND 70's without sanctimony and continues to do exactly what he enjoys. Who's going to tell him to stop? Go ahead and try -- he'll just turn down his hearing aid.

I know who WON'T tell him to stop: the 40-something women dressed as though they wished they were 20-something, the mulleted refugees from whatever monster truck show recently let out at the Tacoma Dome, and the rotund lesbians seated in front of me who looked like they hadn't budged since the end of the Seattle Storm basketball season a few weeks ago.

This country has far too few cultural icons. We are definitively a derivative society. Neil Diamond is generally too inconspcious to have been the source of many derivations (UB40's Red Red Wine is a notable exception), yet he is still the one and only Neil Diamond. I had to choke back my own vomit while watching seagulls soaring across the sunset-drenched horizon on the Jumbotron while Diamond sang from Jonathan Livingston Seagull, but I still admire his courage in resorting (and PERSISTING) to such cornball showmanship. During the seagull montage, I thought I heard my friend Julie mutter "...what the...?" so I leaned over to her and said "I don't really remember the 70's much, but apparently most people spent that decade stoned."

And I really have no problem with that.

About a month ago I hiked to the top of Mt. Adams in southwest Washington for the third time in the last four years. This third trip wasn't as amazingly visually spectacular to me simply because I had seen the views before, but more importantly I didn't experience the same sense of accomplishment I felt in 2002 and 2003 when I reached the 12,276 foot summit. In 2002 I suffered from a bit of altitude sickness when I got up above 11,000 feet. The headache and nausea dimished my enjoyment of that day a bit; in 2003, I didn't get the headache but I felt very dizzy and maybe a little under-fueled.

This time, in 2005, I pretty much did everything the same in terms of my approach (hiked up to the lunch counter the evening before the summit hike; ate lots of food and drank lots of water), but this year I practically sprinted to the top of Mt. Adams and did NOT notice any effects of hypoxia, dehydration, or insufficient energy. I barely paused to rest! When I got to the top, I could hardly believe that I had made it because I wasn't even tired.

Part of the reason for my alacrity and strength, I'm sure, is that I was inspired by the torrid pace set by my hiking partner, Linda, who is one of the most well-trained athletes I know. A certain self-consciousness, I'm sure, prevented me from even outwardly manifesting any signs of fatigue -- but I can honestly say I didn't even *feel* tired.

Why?

I think I am in a lot better shape than I was in 2003 and 2002. It's a pretty good feeling. I have been significantly more physically active in the past few months than I have ever been in my life, perhaps.

But before you think I'm too cocky, allow me to share with you what I discovered a couple days ago: I AM WEAK AND OUT OF SHAPE.

I joined Linda for a session with her personal trainer after work on Monday. Her trainer, Scott Beckett, is a former Marine Corp drill sergeant and currently works as a professional trainer to high-level athletes. He spent an hour+ on Monday making me look and feel like a bowl of limp jelly. 48 hours have passed since my torture session with The Sarge and I still can barely walk. My quads feel like someone owns a voodoo doll of Max and is sticking its little quads with barbed pins.

OK, OK, maybe I'm not in that great of shape after all. However, it's all relative. I'm off to a good start and now it's up to me to take my momentum and run with it. Metaphorically and literally. I feel really good right now in this corporeal shell and I want to sustain this novel feeling of physical centerdness and health. If it can get better, I want it. I know it can get worse; I don't want that.

I've had a very busy summer -- but very busy in a very good way.

In fact, I went into Labor Day weekend thinking to myself, for the first time ever at this time of year: I have no regrets about my summer. I played hard. Normally at this time of year I'm frantically trying to squeeze in a backpacking trip or some sort of adventure so I will feel like I didn't totally waste my brief Northwest Summer. The summer of '05, will go down in my memory as perhaps The Best Summer of My Life.

Why? It would take too long to explain all the details here, plus they are rather personal. My biographers will have to reconstruct this summer by examining my emails and Instant Messenger chat logs -- hopefully post mortem. I'll keep a copy in my safe deposit box.

The other day I was running through beautiful Carkeek Park near where I live; at the top of one of the hills the trail emerges from the trees on a bluff and I was presented with a stunning view of Puget Sound and Bainbridge Island off in the distance with the Olympic Mountains in the background; the sun shone at a rather oblique and stunning angle and left me feeling like I was gazing into the belly of an alien space ship, only I felt warmed by the rays and calmed by the beauty and tranquility of the scene.

I paused briefly to catch my breath (after running uphill for 2 miles) and glanced down at the park bench against which I was resting; there was an engraved plaque which pretty much sums up my new Life Philosophy:

Relax.
Enjoy the view.
Live life.

And that is PRECISELY what I intend to continue doing, because it is working so well for me right now.