REEFER RANT
the morning, and I’m running. I’m a 52-year-old moderately overweight man in rather poor overall physical shape, and I am drenched in acrid sweat, out in the blazing late-morning sun, with every bone and muscle in my body screaming for me to just stop or at least slow down. But I ignore those warnings as I run clumsily up Swan Road, a real drag of a main street that runs north to south in Tucson, Arizona. I only pause for a few brief moments when my fatigue becomes so severe that my vision begins to blur and go dark—just like Daffy Duck used to talk about when he was guilt-tripping Elmer Fudd and pretending
