That is not a political statement. You may interpret it as a political statement if you’d like, that’s your prerogative, even though it is not a political statement. No, it is definitely not a political statement; it is mostly a statement about all the rocks in PA. As anybody who has ever dug a hole in Pennsylvania can tell you, when you dig a hole in Pennsylvania, you are going to hit a rock, at least one, and usually more than one.

Pennsylvania rocks are prodigiously ubiquitous (and for you Penn State grads, that means exceptionally abundant). As if I didn’t already know about our rocks (because I’ve dug a prodigiously profuse aggregate of the collections of different mineral grains fused together through geological processes—and once again for you Penn Staters, that means I’ve dug a lot of rocks), yesterday’s experience rocked my perception of Pennsylvania rocks.

My dog, Luna, and I hiked up South Mountain on a trail at the newly opened Black River Conservatory. The trail we chose was rather steep, winding its way up the mountain through twists and turns on our often-deceptive expedition. (Although the folks in Colorado would hardly call our mountains mountains. Oh no, those highlander snobs think we live among ant hills compared to the mighty majesty of the Rockies. They believe that because they are stupid. They are stupid because they’ve smoked way too much wacky weed. They didn’t use to be stupid; they used to be smart when I lived there about 50 years ago. I now live in Pennsylvania, and now Pennsylvania is smart.

Hey, I’m only one man—I can’t be everywhere!

And in case you don’t believe me, I was skiing with a client in Colorado a few years ago, and while riding up on the lift, I told her that the Appalachian Mountains used to be as high as the Rockies, but it’s a much older mountain range, and over time, erosion and moving ice have worn them down. Someday, the Rockies will be like the Appalachians. Well, she thought that was the funniest thing she ever heard, and said, “I’m in these mountains all the time and I don’t see no erosion, you silly goose.”)

Anyway, the trail we traversed was narrow, barely distinguishable from the rest of the woods, and full of rocks, many of them sharp and perilous without any further help from Mother Nature. But Mother Nature’s a conniving mistress (I was going to write “conniving bitch,” but I didn’t want to offend any of the conniving bitches who follow me—I’m sensitive like that) and covered most of the rocks with fallen leaves. I had a hard time stepping over and around and betwixt the menacing extrusions—I couldn’t see the damn things! Accordingly, about halfway up the mountain, it hit me: WTF am I doing here? I could see the lead in today’s paper: “A 77-year-old man of questionable sensibilities fell on South Mountain yesterday and broke his neck. He expired during the night, and his dog ate him.”

Well, I did not fall, and I did not break my neck, and Luna still prefers bacon and cheese-flavored Beggin’ Strips. But I did have a fun time and saw some really cool views of Allentown, not to mention the grand forests and topography, except, of course, for the intrusive power lines. (I don’t understand why everybody can’t have a personal-sized nuclear reactor so we can get rid of those ugly power lines?)

So, you see, when I say Pennsylvania rocks, I’m mostly talking about Pennsylvania rocks….and roll…if you fall and tumble down the mountain. Because here in our worn-down hills, if you don’t watch your step, you know what they say? Rock and roll is here to stay, and we all be r-o-c-king in the USA!