This morning was a lot like the previous few up on Mount Tabor; slate-gray, damp, with a hint of chill in the air. It might be nearing spring on the calendar, but winter seems determined to get at least one more jab in before hitting the mat. So I’m up on the mountain, doing what amounts to the only exercise I get during your average day, when it happens again: the completely, utterly, ludicrously unexpected.

This isn’t the first time odd things have happened on my morning stroll, but it’s the first weirdness in a while. I’m nearing the bottom of the hill, coming around a curve that leads out of the park when something pale and doughy catches my eye. You know how, after an earthquake, people always say “for a moment there, I thought it was just a heavy truck going by?” The mind doesn’t immediately register the grossly out of the ordinary for what it is. The emphasis, this time, on grossly. Standing not two feet from the road is a rotund gentleman, sweatpants around his ankles, happily pissing into a rhododendron. We’re not talking about a fleeting, discreet zipper drop. This is a full-on I’m all alone in my bathroom so let it all hang out whiz.

Natch, this is the only side of the street with a sidewalk. Still, I ain’t walking past that. Uh-uh. So, like the couple a few paces in front of me, I dive for the opposite curb while simultaneously trying to pretend nothing unusual is happening. Why do we do that? Here’s a guy standing on a public street, dimpled butt cheeks in the breeze, and I’m the one who’s embarrassed. The worst part of it is that I recognize this shameless chap as a guy I often pass on my way down the hill. Well that’s just super—one more thing to look forward to each morning. Now, in addition to carnivorous hippie zombies, I gotta worry that random hikers will drop trou and hose down the greenery without warning.

And city folk wonder why people move to the suburbs.