Halloween - A Reflection on Last Year

                Ah, it’s that time of year once again where the leaves change colors, the weather becomes less predictable and cooler, and the sunlight’s hue takes on a more intense yellow.  I suppose the lattermost is due to the angle in which the northern hemisphere receives light from the sun… or maybe it’s just my imagination, but I don’t think so.  I always notice that the sun’s hue starts to change in late summer, around mid-September or thereabouts.

                Anyway, I wanted to share my experiences of Halloween 2010.  Halloween is actually my favorite “holiday” as there is much less social obligation to be all happy and lovey dovey, if you know what I mean.  Christmas and Thanksgiving is great and all but those damned television commercials drive me crazy, where I feel like I have to be all spectacularly joyful and how life is so great!  (I can’t speak to Kwanzaa or Hanukkah but I’d imagine it’s similar.)  Okay.  Life has great moments, no doubt, and I have a lot to be grateful for, but man, it’s not always that way, is it?

                Halloween, on the other hand, is fun because little children dress up walking around and getting candy.  Some of my favorite memories include the anticipation of going around the neighborhood and collecting candy, then, slowly over the winter months, I would consume my favorite candies last.  Sometimes I’d wait too long and the best ones, which were inevitably chocolate, would harden and turn that ashen gray-brown tone.  Oh well.  They were still tasty.

So now I reflect, as that special day, that last day of the month of October approaches.  You see, whenever I think of Halloween, I think of little innocent kids looking all cute and stuff.  For those that are not in the know, October 31^st is All Hallow’s Eve, the day before All Saint’s Day.  That’s why the cute little kiddies run around like ghosts and goblins saying little sweet nothings like, “trick or treat!”  Okay.  Most of the kids are still sweet – I’ll give them their props – but the older ones?  Ummm, not so much.  I just love it when those older teenage fucks come by and don’t even get dressed up!  What the fuck are you, a teenager wearing what you’d wear any other day?  Even worse, they might drive up to scope out the homes that still have candy and then come swooping down like mosquitoes in attack formation.

 Even more annoying is the middle-classed adult who comes through with a bag to collect candy.  These packs of assholes, whose 2-month old is sometimes dressed in costume attire, sometimes not, will park the chunky monkey’s buggy at the sidewalk and approach me as I nurse my beer, and won’t even say, “trick or treat!”  Love it!  Specifically, an adult man who appeared to be in his 30s and his 60-something father came by with his baby boy (dressed up) for Halloween.  I found this odd, as he had a nice stroller, appeared to be doing fine financially, and yet he was getting candy, as though his little toothless baby was going to be eating those Snickers and Butterfingers I was giving out.  (I give out the good shit, so the cutest kids get two…)  I thought, perhaps his father is dying of cancer, and they wanted to experience this together before it was too late.  Probably not, since his father looked perfectly healthy, walking through my neighborhood with his adult son who probably makes more money than me, and is gonna get fat from eating all of the chocolate that he managed to collect with total disregard to the ridiculousness of what he was doing.  Isn’t this child exploitation?  Maybe it’s an offshoot of the capitalist credo: take any edge you can get!  I should’ve asked for candy from him instead, since his little boy would be having a hard time chewing the mother lode that pops had collected.

Relatedly, a girl came by last year acknowledging that she was dressed up as a “pregnant teenager”.  I kinda felt badly for her, since she wouldn’t have said that had her friend she was accompanying not been quizzed by me as to what she was dressed up as (I always quiz older kids who come through without a costume).  Her friend responded something generic like, “I’m a teenage girl!”  I didn’t realize the second girl was even pregnant at the time.  The pregnant one followed with her response, held out her bag with a slightly embarrassed air, fully aware of the social stigma of having a child as a teen.  She seemed a sweet girl.

I wonder what I can expect this year.  As mentioned, there are some very cute kids that come by with responsible adults.  Well, sometimes they’re adults.  Other times the parent is still a kid and (usually it’s his/her mother) the parent is collecting candy, too!  I mean, at least dress up!  Shit!  I grudgingly give away a piece of precious candy, although I make sure they get my least favorite candy, despite the fact that I get only good stuff: Snickers, Nestle’s Crunch, Butterfinger, Kit Kat.  Maybe this year I’ll buy hard candy in addition, like Jolly Ranchers, and just put one into the bags of those that are less worthy.  Probably not, but I think of doing that every year. 

Another nuisance trick-or-treat tactic is when kids actually ask for a replacement of the candy I put into their bag!  I put in a Nestle Crunch and inevitably some shit will be like, can I have a Snickers instead?  One kiddo said that to me and I responded, “How about I take whatever I want out of your bag?”  He left without saying anything else.  Wise decision…

I do look forward to Halloween, though.  It’s the one day of the year that all of the neighbors are out at the same time and we can all wave and acknowledge that we recognize each other.  Well, most neighbors I recognize, so long as they’re not wearing some crazy ass outfit.  I make my rounds saying hello since in today’s world, you have to rely on your neighbors to look out for you: too many fucks out there that will fuck with your shit.

The other reason I like Halloween is it gives me an excuse to walk across the street with an open container to say hello to my neighbors.  I don’t feel badly about it because if the kiddies get to walk around with candy, why not me?  If I forget to look both ways before I cross the street because I’m too buzzed, at least this is probably the safest night to do it.

I just hope I don’t see that fool big bad candy daddy with his now one-year old child collecting candy.  I might ask who’s going to be eating the candy if I see him again and say, “Hey man.  You’ve gotten fat.”  And when kids come by without their masks on because they’re too hot or tired behind the mask, I’m going to have them put it on so they can earn their candy.  After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.  No free candy from this Comrade, either! 

What are you supposed to be again?  Oh.  Nice try.  At least you dressed up.  Here’s a Butterfinger.  And you?  What the fuck’s  your costume?  Huh.  Niiice.  Here: have a Jolly Rancher.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

The Driving Demon Emerges

                I am not one of those people who claim to be a better driver than everybody else and then drive like shit.  I am the kind of driver that drives very conscientiously and, as a matter of fact, I do drive better than most other people, thank you very much.  Now, I don’t deny that my driving surely annoys some people, namely those who are behind me as I approach a red light or slow traffic ahead, and I just coast to get to my ultimate destination: the inevitable complete stop so many yards ahead.  I mean, you do see what’s coming up ahead, no?  Why push on the gas when there is nowhere I’m getting to fast?  If I’m going to stop anyway, or at the very least slow down, then why waste precious petrol getting there any faster?  I say coast all the way there and perhaps, maybe, the light and/or traffic up ahead will start moving by the time I get there.  Okay?  So I do and will take my time under such circumstances.  I must say I look over at disdain at those drivers who accelerate only to stop at the red light just ahead.  Nice one, asshole!  You got there two-seconds faster than you would’ve had you not punched the accelerator!

                So that was my disclaimer.  I do annoy other people, no doubt, but not in an egregious manner.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve been driving and noticing more and more how shitty other people drive.  They don’t give a fuck about you or anybody else.  The majority of shitty drivers are just out for themselves, getting to their destination no faster than they would have had they driven like a sane person.  But no, they have to put others at risk and drive like maniacs, weaving in and out of traffic.  Hey motherfucker, how ‘bout you pick a goddamn lane?

                The worst, however, might be those individuals who try to be nice and let people in when they absolutely shouldn’t.  We’ll start right here.  So you’re driving on a regular road and someone’s trying to make a left turn from the opposite direction.  Oh.  Let me play traffic director!  “Go ahead:  you can turn.”  NO!  Don’t do it unless 1.) you’re not holding up a bunch of other people and there’s nowhere else for you to go because traffic ahead of you is backed up anyway, and 2.) you’re in a two-lane road, meaning one lane going one way and the other lane coming from the other direction.  If it’s a two-lane road, then there’s little danger to you, the turning car, and other drivers, because everyone else is behind you anyway.

There’s this four-lane road I drive on before I jump on the highway on my way back home from work, and inevitably, thanks to rush-hour, some Good Samaritan stops and waves on the drivers in the left-turn lane from the other direction to go.  Now generally they’re following the first rule in which their lane is stopped up ahead, and they leave space open to let the car facing them turn.  I can dig it.  They’re stuck in traffic and they’re practically staring the other person face-to-face.  They’re close enough to see the whites of their eyes, as cool-ass gunslingers used to say.  They don’t want to be stuck in traffic and know that the impatient motherfucker right next to them is bantering about what an asshole s/he is for not letting them turn.  Well, I got news for you.  This ain’t the Wild West!  (Not yet, anyway, although we’re getting awfully close to it with this conceal and carry craziness.  But I digress!)  Fuck ‘em, I say, ‘cause my ass is not in the center lane and I’m gonna keep comin’ through ‘cause I’m getting on the onramp to the highway just ahead in my lane to get my dumbass home to drink a glass of wine (see first blog entry on my drinking schedule).  You see?  They ignored rule number two.  Only allow someone to turn if there isn’t another lane next to you!  You’re jeopardizing my safety and impatient motherfucker’s, too!  Usually impatient motherfucker can’t even see who or what’s coming down the outside lane because there’s some gas-guzzling SUV that’s obscuring the view!

People like that drive me mad because I get all worked up about it but have to remind myself that the ignorant ass is trying to be nice.  We can always use more nice people in the world.  Just not dumb nice people.  Is that asking too much???  Oh, and lest I forget, when they do good-natured things like that, it delays me (rule number one), and more often than not, I end up stuck for another turn at the red light as the Good Samaritan eeks through in time while the light is turning red again.  Thank you!

                Today I heard a car trying to start.  Whrrr!  Whrrr!  Whrr!  Vrroom!  It started on the third attempt.  Congratulations, I thought to myself as I enjoyed a surprisingly mild-weathered late morning on my porch swing with a cup of coffee.  (It’s been hot as hell recently with record-breaking consecutive days of heat advisories.)  Then the car came out of the apartment driveway up the street into my view: an early ‘90s model gold Saturn sedan.  Badass then turned right onto the street and managed to squeal his tires leaving a gray plume of exhaust.  He barely managed to squeal his tires, I should say.  It was like for a quarter of a second, but damn, he must’ve felt pretty hard.  I sat from my vantage point and gave him a fist pump in the air: Yeah!  Badass!  (He of course couldn’t have seen me lest he really is a badass who would’ve beat me up for offering him support in recognition of his badassness.)  I wish I was that badass.  I mean, that takes some balls.  The tires squealing, errrr!  Or, more accurately for this guy, er!  Okay, I’ll give him two “r”s: err!  Really, I was impressed.

                Another thing that bothers me about drivers is when they stop about 10-yards behind the car in front of them at a traffic light, then they creep up six-inches at a time, every 15-seconds or so.  I drive a stick shift and I’m behind some asshole that leaves all of this space between him and the car in front of him.  Then, dude in an automatic transmission loosens the brakes just enough to creep up six-inches, then stops again.  He waits 10 to 15-seconds, and creeps up another six-inches.  Whoa!  He went eight-inches this time.  I can tell jerk-face is driving an automatic because the brake lights remain on as he creeps forward, and no driver in a stick-shift would purposely go through the trouble of pushing on the clutch to creep forward only six-inches at a time to fill the gap of 10-yards while we all wait for the light to change green.  This forces me to creep up with him, lest people behind me become impatient thinking that I’m the one holding them up from their immediate destination: 6-inches closer to stopping again.  Fine.  What a bummer.  I will follow the leader.  I too am now forced to puppet this clownish behavior, as are all the other puppets behind me.  Thanks, Puppet Master!  And you don’t even have a clue that you’re temporarily all powerful in this freakish ritual that we’re subjects to…

                Now I know that the tone of my writing(s) can suggest that I am an impatient, mean individual.  On the contrary, I am quite nice!  Really.  (Okay, I can be a jerk, but I’m no asshole!)  When I’m driving down a narrow street with cars parked on either side, I oftentimes wait to let the other person go first.  If they let me go first, I always wave my hand in gratitude: Thank you!  That’s very nice of you!  If she’s cute, I mouth the words “olive juice” to her.  I don’t know why the babes always look at me puzzled or even offended.  You should try it next time you see someone that you find attractive that lets you go first.  Mouth the words “olive juice”.  They’ll love it.

                I cannot stand it when it’s obvious I am waiting for another car to pull out or whatnot, just being polite because I think it’s the proper thing to do, and they don’t acknowledge my Jesus-like nature.  I mean, WTF?  WWJD?  He might reverse-Lazarus your ass, that’s what!  Just wave at me to be like, “Yeah, man.  That was cool of you.”  Nope!  Fucking entitled motherfucking self-absorbed driver!  I hate you!  I might reverse-Lazarus your ass myself!  Good thing I’m not Jesus.  Just kidding, in case I offended any fundamentalists.  My bad.  Forgive me?  WWJD?  He would forgive me, so you should, too.  I shouldn’t hate, though.  But admittedly, I get pulled in.

                Speaking of pulling in, don’t you love it when you’re waiting to turn into a parking spot of a crowded-ass parking lot and you even have your blinkers on indicating your intentions, and you’re waiting for some bitch coming from the other direction to drive-on past the empty spot so you can pull in, right?  Wrong!  Bitch done fucking took your spot!  What?  No you didn’t!  I feel like drop kicking bitches like that.  I’ll Hulk Hogan your ass.  Instead, I shake my head like an old gray-/blue-haired lady in a moo-moo, and drive on looking for the next spot.  Who knows?  Bitch might have a Hulk Hogan of her own that might Undertaker my ass.  Fuck it.  I’m better than you, bitch.  And may god strike down some harsh ass pain upon you.  Oh, my bad.  I forgot.  I’m trying to prove that I’m nice.  The lord bless you and keep you, my dear.  But you get no “olive juice” from me, bitch!

                Man, I could go on and on.  I could probably dedicate an entire blog to this shit.  Lastly, I have to say, I love it when I am driving the safe distance of the two-second rule from the car in front of me, and some shithead cuts me off to get over suddenly.  You know, the two-second rule, where whatever speed you’re traveling, you should leave at least a two-second gap between yourself and the car ahead of you.  So if a car in front hits a pothole, it should take you at least two-seconds to get to the same pothole, although I would advise you to avoid the pothole if you’re able.  Anyway, driving with that kind of safe distance seems to be an anomaly because most people drive like we’re part of the same pack of camels traveling along the desert or something.  When they see an opening, they’ll take it, forcing me to brake to avoid hitting them.  Thank you!  I love it! 

                Like I said, I could go on and on, and could probably write about my experiences with asshole drivers every day.  But I will try to refrain so I can prove to the skeptics out there that I am really a nice person.  Just don’t tailgate me asshole.  Please?  With a cherry on top?  And if you are actually a nice enough person to let me pass first, or even better, if I am walking and at a crosswalk and you let me cross (as the traffic laws actually say you’re supposed to do), you’ll undoubtedly get a wave from me and a smile as I mouth the words “thank you.”  And if you’re really lucky, I might throw in the words “olive juice.”

My Handstands Are Better Than Your Presidential Fitness Award!

Do you remember the Presidential Fitness Award?  It (assuming that it still exists) is a general fitness test according to one’s age and gender that the US Government encouraged all school children to strive for and reach.  For example, a 4^th grader should run the mile in so many minutes.  I think it was like 12-minutes; whatever the time, it assigned a reasonable, manageable time for a given age.  The award required you to complete certain physical feats within a given standard and check it off a list.  The series of tests included the mile, total number of sit-ups in one minute, flexibility, number of pull-ups (hands forward-facing), fat percentage pinch, and maybe another thing or two, I don’t recall.  If you reached or surpassed the standard time/number of reps for a given feat, you were all good.  If you got ‘em all, you would receive the Seal of Approval from the President.  It was pretty exciting!  The President was a pretty powerful dude.  If you got in with him, you were in.

Now I may be mixing some things up because I also recall as a 4^th grader that we didn’t have to do pull-ups, but maybe the test evolved as you aged, or the test standards and measures changed as the knowledge of sports and health science evolved.  I do recall as a middle-schooler, however, a gymnastics proficiency test that required you to pick from a list of (loosely) gymnastics-related feats to accomplish.  Anyone recall that, too?  But more on that later.

I was recently hanging out with a buddy and he told me a story about his experience with the Presidential Fitness Award.  Neither he nor I ever got it, but for completely different reasons.  He grew up a multi-sport athlete, played in Division I, and meddled with the pros.  Me, I was not that.   I was never particularly athletic or confident in my ability.  I was just “ok” enough.  (That is still the case.  I just talk a lot of BS and not back it up.)

Man, I was the most athletic kid in my grade and I couldn’t win that Presidential Fitness Award!  I could beat everyone in everything, you know?  But I couldn’t do the sit-and-reach test!  You know what I’m talkin’ about?

He proceeds to describe the flexibility test, which required you to sit on the floor with your feet together and straight in front of you, feet flush against a metal box.  I recall the one we used as being painted a drab gray color.  The box has a slight overhang above your feet and a metal tab that you pushed forward across the top of the box with your fingertips, one hand atop the other. 

Yeah!  That’s the one. 

The metal tab was on a track across the top of the box with measurements in inches along its top face.  One… two… three!  On each count you would lunge forward and push this metal tab in front of you as far as you could. 

Yeah.  Exactly.  You know what I’m talkin’ about. 

He couldn’t do it to save his life.  Funny.  I could kill that and the sit-up test, and managed the running… I think.  But I couldn’t do the pull-ups.  I could only eek out three, whereas four was the standard.  Bastard!

Anyway, this conversation spurred a topic about gym class in the fourth grade.  I remember the sit-up test and the mile, as well as the 50-yard dash.  But I also recall the aforementioned test that involved gymnastics.  I think that was a separate, unrelated standard from the Presidential Fitness Test.

Any upper-body strength was pretty limited for me, especially in 4^th grade.  As mentioned, there was this list of feats that were gymnastics related.  One of those items involved a long metal pole that hung from the rafters of the gymnasium ceiling.  It was essentially a fireman’s pole that you would scoot yourself up until you touched a black line high above the floor.  I was lame.  I didn’t even try.  I had allowed myself to accept that I couldn’t do it.  Therefore I could not. 

But I knew I could hold my ass on the pole for 30-seconds, so I did that instead.  It was, after all, an option on the piece of paper that gave you credit for doing at least that!

To my surprise, I was the only boy who did that.  There were some other boys who didn’t attempt the climb.  Instead, they just opted out.  Several girls deferred as well.  I didn’t care.  I figured just holding on was better than not trying.  As I held on for the 30-seconds, I could hear snickers from other boys who already climbed to the black tape above.  Fuck ‘em.  My ass is holding on for 30-seconds.  Aaaand, done!  Whew!  30-seconds…

Next was the handstand test.  Same thing.  Most boys, as I recall, attempted it and some fell forward into a somersault.  But they tried and tried again until they held the handstand for 3-seconds or whatnot. 

Me?  No, thank you.  Oh, no, no.  I’m not opting out.  I will do a headstand instead. 

That requirement was to hold it for 10-seconds or something.  I would fall forward from my headstand but I too tried and tried again until the exasperated gym teacher would give me credit out of pity.  Again, snickers from the peanut gallery. 

Shut up, you A-holes!  Hey, at least I tried!  You guys are jerks! 

As I recalled these moments that might cause me trauma in my less malleable mind today, I thought of my gym teacher in grade school.  He was not unkind, but rather quiet and reserved, and not particularly fit.  He wasn’t terribly out of shape, but he did not strike me as someone athletic nor particularly interested in physical health.  He always wore matching velvet-looking athletic jacket and pants.  I can still see him wearing an ugly brown one whose cloth seemed to have a soft sheen against the light.  Silly looking, but it worked.  The sport stripes down the sides of the arms and legs gave him authenticity as our gym teacher. 

Perhaps he once was athletic but he most certainly did not impart much teaching or coaching to his students, sans one or two specific kids whom he deemed “talented”.  I now see that he was simply coasting as a middle-school gym teacher.  He would essentially babysit us for the bell period and have us do our own thing as long as it was somehow related to a given sport or physical activity, which required minimal intervention from him.  Basketball: everyone grab a basketball and shoot it.  Gymnastics: everyone take turns on the rings.  Track: run as fast as you can for 50-yards; I’ll time ya.  Then, if someone got out of line in one way or another during our respective activities he’d tweet his whistle loudly and play temporary referee.  Then it was back to standing back and supervising for the next 40-minutes or so, until we broke to change back to our school clothes in the locker rooms.  

In retrospect, I do wish my gym teacher took more interest in teaching the basics of something to each student, for he was the keeper of the gymnasium after all.  He, however, did not.  His passion had burned off long ago.  Maybe that’s not an entirely fair assessment, but I don’t recall any encouragement or instructions from him worthy of being taught something.  He certainly didn’t inspire me to want to work on my physical abilities.

I did a handstand today for the first time in years.  I don’t know how many I did, but it is definitely the first time I did several handstands against a wall since I was in 4^th grade, no doubt.  It was exciting because it was something new to work on, and it forces me to use my lower back in ways that I generally don’t.  I’m still scared to do it without the support of the wall, but hopefully I can learn to balance myself over time.  I’ve always been amazed at how some athletes and yoga practitioners can slowly bring themselves up into a handstand in controlled movements.  I must say, my goal is not that, but rather, to kick those fourth graders’ asses in the handstand within a few months.  Maybe not.  But it is fun.

I am curious about the Presidential Fitness Award.  Does it still exist?  I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t, based on the low levels of fitness for the general population as well as children who are in poor health and shape.  Furthermore, the backlash against various health initiatives such as the Lets Move Campaign or movements to limit the amount of junk food at schools inevitably produces complaints that the government is overreaching its power, taking away the right of personal choice.  But truly, what is the government to do?  Medicine is advanced enough to sustain life well beyond what an unassisted human body could endure.  Thus those individuals in poor health who have preventable conditions can be kept alive despite their near-fatal circumstances.  Unfortunately, it is often at the cost of one’s quality of living, not to mention the financial costs to the patient, his or her family, and to the taxpayers.  (C’mon health insurance.  A little help here?)

I must say, I do think it would behoove this nation to embrace the Presidential Fitness Award and make people of all ages eligible, not just school-aged children.  This could be done via the internet.  It would be on the honor system and you would enter your results online.  If you succeed in all of the feats based on your age and gender, you can print out your certificate with an “auto-signed” John Hancock of the President.  Why not?  Now that, my friends, is an award worth working toward.  So I raise my glass (it’s red wine and they say it’s healthy):  To us!  To our health!  Hear hear!  And you saw it here first, folks.  If the government doesn’t already have a site like that, I would like to copyright the idea and sell it for a cool, reasonable $2 million.  I am willing to negotiate on that price...

The Amusement Park

                I went to an amusement park this weekend.  Let me tell you, it was badass.  This was some plain-old, kick your ass Thrills Central.  The roller coasters were sweet: surprisingly smooth, ridiculously tall, and thrillingly death-defying.  That’s some dangerous shit.  You just gotta succumb to trusting that you’ve got no control in this shit.  If the engineers fucked up or the maintenance was shoddy, and worst of all, if management sucked, that’s it.  Too bad.  Shit could get real-ugly-real-quick.  These things go so superfast and through ridiculous shit, it’s putting pure trust into the predictability of the world as we know it: reliable for the most part, guaranteed to fail. 

                A big-ass magnet pulled our train of two-by-four seaters up a steep hill as we fell back into the seat astronaut-like, staring straight up into the blue sky.  That thing pulled us up that hill no problem!  Ridiculous.  The fall in front, pretty much straight fucking down.  Cool.  Bring that shit.

                This hill really is almost straight down.  These new generation “coasters” push technology to the limits of acceptable safety, giving thrills of death in a controlled manner.  That’s what makes them fun.  We love thrills ‘cause it reminds us of death.  That’s life…

                If I could, it would be fun to describe how scared I was.  I wasn’t.  This was pure fun.  I knew I wasn’t gonna die, but really, that’s some guaranteed death if something goes wrong.  Shit.

Wanna hear scary?  Driving a car is scary.  Roller coaster?  Damn.  That’s fun.  Fun because it’s so much more controlled and regulated.  Driving on a highway with cars has so many more variables, it’s much more scary.  Dying out there is considerably more likely than on a roller coaster, unless you’re stupid and get thrown out of your seat, like I once pushed the limits of as a teen by keeping the restraints loose and shit.  A buddy hauled me back into our cart… absurd, but true.

                So the roller coasters were sweet.  I was nervous at first.  Really.  I wasn’t sure how I might react to coasters because it had been so long.  We got to the park to raid the best rides as soon as they opened.  In line on the first ride, I turn behind me to chat with a couple behind me wearing glasses. It was the part of the line where you split off from the constraints of the queue and enter the relative openness of getting to choose what part of the ride you want to get on: front, middle, or back.  They were at least in their 50s.  I asked them about their glasses and whether they feared losing them.  They were like, “Oh no.  They’re (the coasters) so smooth.  It’s no problem!”  That’s all I needed to hear.  I never saw anyone else come close in age to them the rest of the day standing in line to ride roller coasters but I was glad to see them.  That was cool as hell.  They were badass.  And did I tell you?  The coasters were sweet. 

                Amusement parks aren’t strictly rides, though.  Let us not forget the games of chance.  Three balls for $5.  Get the ball into the basket and get a stuffed animal.  Get a second one in and get a bigger one.  Get the third in and get both. 

                My favorite one though was a rope ladder.  It was like a pirate ship ladder, rope on either side, connected with wooden pegs for climbing.  This thing was on a free-turning swivel on both ends, which allowed the entire ladder to twist and pitch and yaw freely.  It was hung in a mostly flat, horizontal level, the object being to climb to the third rung from the top, painted red, and to put both feet upon it.  Then, you had to reach up and hit a red button in front of you.  Ding ding!  If you lost your balance, you fell over the side onto a huge air mattress.  If you succeeded to hit the button, you won an outrageous, big-ass six-foot tall frog.  It’ll only cost you $2 a try, motherfucker.  Step right up.

                It was easy enough for the first three rungs, but as you progressed toward the red rung, the angle steepens considerably.  Never mind that there’s only like eight to ten total rungs.  Getting to the Holy Grail red peg with your feet, let alone your hands was tough!  This is deceivingly difficult, but worth taking a chance at $2 a try.

                How’d everybody do?  Not a chance!  One by one, each of us got bucked by this thing.  Nope!  You?  Nope!  Try again?  Fuck!  That kid got in the way.  Sweeeet.  Yeah, I’ll go again.  Fuck!  Impossible, but doable, damn it!

                Everyone was dumbfounded trying to figure out how to beat that shit while standing in line for the next ride, a wooden teeth rattler.  This shit was not smooth.  This shit was scary.  Lots more could go wrong with a wooden coaster: an old wooden coaster at that.  It bounced you up and down for real.  You got off this motherfucker with your teeth ground down and a headache to boot.

                But wait, there’s more!  There’s the hammer where you hit the target and it hits a bell.  Ding!  You got it to the very top.  You win something.  Even better was the booth next door.  This carnival would be incomplete without the “guess my age or weight” booth.  The guesser employee stands in front with a microphone incessantly greeting the park visitors until some sap goes up to be like, “yeah, I’ll give you $5 to guess my age/weight.” 

                This was thrilling!  I don’t want to be sounding mean just to be rude, but this heavy broad wearing a light-blue strapless tube top looking all grim as she paid up to have this poor 20-year old chick guess her weight was, shall we say, large.  If anything, she looked rather angry, giving the guesser an intimidating stare, as though she were Ray Lewis letting his opponent know his ass was gonna be tackled... hard!

                Drum roll please…  What was chica gonna guess? I was thinking like, “Oh, damn, bitch.  No you didn’t put her into this predicament."  If she guesses too heavy, she might offend.  If she guesses too low, she’s giving you free shit.  Poor girl.  It was a lose-lose situation for the employee.

                “Uhmmm.  Let’s see here.  Hmmm,” says she.  Then she says it.  “Uhh, 142?”  Immediately, I was like, “No fucking way!”  Perhaps double that, and maybe we'd have a game here.  I already knew she was more than no stinkin’ 142.  I didn’t even wait to see how much she really weighed.  I couldn't believe it.  That must be the worst fucking job in the park.  Or the best.  If you didn’t give a fuck, you could be honest and call them out for steppin' right up.

I think guessing someone’s age can be  just as tough.  You put someone on there that looks old, you might guess too high and they get pissed off.  Maybe there’s an unspoken rule that you guess “nicely” to keep the guests happy.  I couldn’t do it.  I’d feel like a fraud.  I’d get fired.  I mean, can you imagine if you needed to feel better about your age or weight and you go to the amusement park for some validation, only to have some jerk be like, “You look like hell.  I’m gonna guess you’re 59-years old.  Oh?  36?  Let me see some ID!  I’ll be damned!  We have a winner!  Here’s this little Snoopy doll!  Next!” 

                The amusement park lived up to its promise, though.  It was amusing as hell.  It also helped me figure out what I’ll do in retirement: I’m gonna build me one of those rope ladders in the backyard and practice so I can master it by the time I retire.  Then, I’m gonna get a season pass and win those six-foot tall frogs for $2 at least three times per day and give them away to random strangers.  I’ll look like some badass ninja running up that ladder.  Then, I’ll pop a squat in front of the “Guess my age/weight” booth and heckle those guests who put the guesser in a bad spot, and heckle the guesser if he/she guesses too nicely.  I’m gonna be the number one fan at this sporting event with laypeople in lieu of athletes.  It’s entertainment.  It’s the American Way.  It’s badass… literally.

Two Conversations

"That's the cloud factory", she said matter-of-factly, although beneath this veil, she was proud of her clever interpretation of the tall cylindrical pillar that spewed bright white fumes.  She knew that they were not factories that made clouds, but was still of the age in which such explanations sufficed, awaiting confirmation from me, or just as readily, an alternative explanation.  These clouds, if not for this day's overcast November afternoon, would have starkly contrasted themselves against the bright blue sky.  But they melted into the grey heavens above and disappeared almost immediately.  Five-months later, I would see the factory's white cloud against the backdrop of the bright blue sky and to my pleasant surprise, return to continue our conversation.

It was a sunny, perfect afternoon, a pleasant break from all of the rain we had been getting in the past month.  As a matter of fact, we endured a drought last summer, followed by consistently periodic, moderate snowfall this winter, to a rainy spring that has now over-saturated the local water table.  I am relieved that the effects of last year's drought has been compensated with the snow and subsequent rain, so long as it does not overdo itself and result in any serious problems for myself or others.  (Too late for some, unfortunately, as the river has yet to crest as it further floods those who live closer to it.)

"Remember when you told me that the cloud factory wasn't making clouds, but was actually throwing out poison?"  I cringed a bit inside, as I recalled my internal struggle about whether I should try to reveal to her the reality of pollution, or just go with encouraging the creative juices.  I opted for both, but apparently, those magical words I used when explaining the Debbie Downer reality of pollution made a more lasting impression.

She understood that the factory wasn't spewing out clouds, but there was something a little sad about my contribution to helping her understand the world in this more adult way.  I had added to the loss of innocence by way of my explanation.  I remember grasping for concepts and words as I drove northbound on the rural road, fishing for more basic, child-specific words.  I had forgotten, but that winter afternoon months ago when she revealed the factory's purpose to me, I had resorted to offering an alternative theory, in the process equating "pollution" with "poison". It was the only comparo I could come up with at that moment.  She was too smart to simply appease anyway.  She would not have been satisfied with simple validation of something untrue, I reasoned.

"Yeah, I remember," I told her.  At this point, it was useless to seek support through the fact that I did indeed encourage her cloud theory initially, albeit short-lived.  "Yeah!  Those totally look like clouds!", I recalled saying to her.  But somehow the limited enthusiasm in my voice and the latter use of the powerful word "poison" rendered any hope for salvaging that "glass half-full" memory and experience empty.  Debbie D. overpowered that noise in her mind long ago...

As I drove up the road, I told her that I wasn't sure what kind of factory it was, but that I thought it was a coal-burning power station.  Sure enough, as we drove on, there was a large mass of coal, forming an artificial black peninsula.  "Yeah, it's a coal burning factory", I explained.  "It makes energy.  See all of that?  That's coal."  Thankfully this conversation changed shortly thereafter.

The air was dry and not a single cloud was in the sky with exception to those behind us being perpetually produced by the cloud factory.  The road in front shimmered as though a mirage of water in a desert.  "Is that water?", she asked.  It was as though she read my mind.  Just a day or two before, I had been thinking about this visual phenomenon, and as soon as she asked the question, I knew exactly what she was talking about. You know the scene in movies that depict a two-lane highway driving through the American southwest desert in the heart of summer?  The camera shot of the ongoing highway shimmies in the heat of the bright-yellow midday sun?  It was just like that, except it was a beautifully perfect spring afternoon.  It was the type of scene where you would not have been surprised to see a scorpion walking along the edge of the highway.

As the light waves shimmied from our vantage point of the moving car, we could see images of approaching cars and surrounding trees reflect off the mirage of water.  It was one of those simple physics situations that I considered on occasion but wouldn't necessarily need to understand in my life, as such thoughts quietly float into the dusty archives of my thoughts and experiences... perhaps never to be accessed again.  But to have the opportunity to share this moment of childhood innocence and strength; her actual verbalizing of this event as it unfolded, was a profoundly satisfying experience that I was grateful to have been a part of.

"You know what? You were right", I said.  "Those were clouds being made at the factory."  It was, after all I reasoned, water vapor that we were seeing pushed into the sky, as they spun the generators to create electricity.  I chose to ignore the coal ash and its contaminants that infected our surroundings as we admired the bright white clouds rising into the air and disappearing into the beautiful blue sky.  It was a perfect spring afternoon.

Bureaucracy at Its Finest

                This morning I went through my usual Sunday routine of purchasing a newspaper.  Every Sunday I walk to the local gas station, say hello to the attendant and pay $1.75 for the local paper.  I walk over to buy the Sunday paper for several reasons: 1.) to feel like I’m somehow contributing to sustain the struggling newspaper industry.  2.) to maintain some semblence of social connectedness to my fellow locals.  [The lady at the gas station knows me as a regular and this routine has been ongoing for several years.  Saying hello to her as a non-anonymous entity is important to myself and I believe to a much lesser extent, to the greater society.]  3.) to read up on what the publishing powers that be considers newsworthy.  4.) to get coupons and save money here and there – so long as I save at least $1.75 in groceries, I figure my paper’s free.  [Today being Easter, there were no coupons.  Must be a slow newspaper day on holidays…]  5.) to hand it over to my elderly neighbor whose age and health limits her ability to go out and do things.  [She’s really sweet and a great friend.  She primarily wants the TV guide as the television is her main source of information and most regularly available companion; which of course, is the case for most people.]  6.) to criticize, laugh, and (occasionally) ridicule that which I read. 

                I opened up the paper after skimming over the headlines on the front page.  I always find it interesting how a local newspaper dictates and prioritizes what it considers to be newsworthy by putting stupid and oftentimes laughable local stories that are meant to tug at your heartstrings.  I suppose it can be argued that it is important to maintain a sense of connection with your fellow locals, in the same manner that I do by walking to the gas station to purchase a paper in part to say hello to the attendant, or similarly, walking to the library to say hello to the local librarian and chit chat.  However, it drives me crazy as to the degree newspapers and other local reporting sources try so hard to play the role of emotional subjugator over its readers.   You know, the stuff that makes you say, “aww”, or “eww”, or “grrr”.  Shouldn’t that stuff be reserved for the “Local” or “Metro” section of the newspaper for the most part?  (The assumption here is that mainstream news media no longer even attempt to be “objective”, if that’s possible at all.)  I mean, I would like to get more national and international news on the front page rather than all three front page stories being about local stuff (today’s front page articles consisted of: local roller coaster closed again this year; local woman converts to Catholicism; local weather hits all-time rain high).  Out of these three front pagers, I can only justify the last one because there’s some people being flooded out of their homes due to the inordinant amounts of rain we’ve gotten this month. 

Anyhoo, I was reading this short little diddy that the local newspaper publishes from USA Today.  I guess there are a couple of pages inside that are reserved for USA Today reporting to save money by firing local staffers garner strength by joining forces in this flailing industry.  It simply prints out the entire page’s layout; font, everything as though you’re suddenly reading USA Today: a full “copy and paste” job.  I felt terrible because I just flat-out guffawed when I read this quick paragraph about an elderly woman who died.  I didn’t find her death amusing in the slightest, but rather the way it was written: “Janet Richardson fell ill while on a Scandinavian cruise and was being transferred to a rescue boat on March 29 when coast guard officers let her stretcher drop into the sea.”  [Italics added for emphasis.]  I mean, it makes the coast guard of whatever country (unidentified, but presumably the UK, based on the rest of the short, mini-article) seem like they just didn’t give a shit (Click here for a slightly more detailed version of the same article I read.  This particular article specifies that it was the Norwegian Sea Rescue that “let her” take a swimmy-swim in the freezing waters).  Man, whoever the “Staff and wire reports” author of that article is, sure had little empathy for those bloody “coast guard officers”, huh?  As I said, I felt badly that I laughed, but for an AP article in a newspaper, it seemed pretty harsh.  (Maybe the author is a blogger, too…)

So back to the newspaper.  That was just the frosting – the aforementioned article’s poorly written sentence made me laugh, although riddled with guilt immediately thereafter.  I couldn’t help myself, comrades!  I read two more articles that made me go “hmm”, or more accurately, “Goddamn, that’s fucking crazy…” 

The first was on female soldiers on combat duty on the front lines in Afghanistan.  What got to me was that the military does have female soldiers that are (and have been) taking direct “enemy” fire and returning fire to the “enemy” for some time now.  Yet the Army still has a gender-exclusion policy.  Granted, the pay is the same as their male counterparts based on the soldiers’ respective ranks, however, despite these real-combat experiences, these women face absurd and quite frankly, impossible hurdles when it comes to advancement!  This is because female soldiers are officially not part of a given infantry that they serve, but rather, they are “attached” to a unit so as to bypass the present gender-exclusion policy enacted by the Army.  Therefore there is no female officer that is allowed to lead an infantry company, let alone officially be part of one.  Yet there they are, belonging and serving alongside their male brethren and comrades, facing life and death, doling out life and death.

Then the article continued to describe the brilliant notion that the women are subjected by regulation to have the opportunity to bathe “every few days”.  Okay.  So the female of our species is to be kept clean.  How sweet.  In order to make this happen, they need to leave their unit (I guess they become temporarily “detached”), jump onto a truck convoy to drive an hour or so back to the nearest base, and get cleaned up!  Mind you, this is a warzone, ergo jumping on a truck convoy to get back to base in order to get cleaned up and smell like the roses that the female combatants “attached” soldiers should, is not without risks. 

I cannot say whether these female soldiers like this opportunity to bathe or not, however, I would guess that if given the choice, they would prefer to go through each day as the rest of their unit does.  I would imagine that basic hygiene accommodations already exist, such as antibacterial wipes or the like.  But really?  “Sorry toots, but you gotta go get cleaned up ‘cause you are one fine mama.  Just make sure the driver avoids IEDs and mines n’ shit.  By the way, thanks for your service.  You did a hell of a job with that suppressin’ fire, darlin’.  But I’ll be Goddamned if they ever promote you to lead an infantry company!”

The second article was about the recent debacle with the FAA.  Apparently in the airline industry, fatigue is a significant cause or contributing factor to aviation accidents.  This is not surprising, considering how some days I am so tired at work that I find myself struggling to stay focused whether I am at my desk or worse, while driving to an appointment at times.  I am sure most of us have experienced that fatigue factor while driving, where your head tilts forward and you suddenly raise up your head realizing that you nearly nodded off.  Similarly, airline pilots experience fatigue and the FAA even proposed that pilots be permitted to nap during the cruise phase of their flight, so that they can be more focused during landings.  Nope!  The FAA apparently rejected their own recommendations. 

The issue with fatigue for flight controllers is with regards to the overnight shift.  These flight controllers sit in dark, dimly lit towers, staring at the iridescent glow of a radar screen for hours.  The overnight shift has been scrutinized in recent weeks due to the many mishaps that were occurring: flight controllers falling asleep, watching movies, not responding to requests for landing, etc.  Now I’m not excusing these situations and am just as outraged about it as anyone.  However, I also understand that if you’re the only person doing the graveyard shift, and you’re bored out of your mind, fending off the desire to lay your head down even for a moment because your internal clock is all fucked up; well, I get it.  You gotta do something to keep yourself awake.  That sucks!

Just last week, I heard on the radio US Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood say brazenly (and quite confidently, I might add), “On my watch, controllers will not be paid to take naps.  We’re not going to allow that.”  Okay, Mr. LaHood.  Well, apparently two years ago, the FAA made the recommendation to officially allow the air traffic controllers to take naps when they were not directing traffic due to this fatigue issue.  Sounds reasonable enough, no?  Nope!  Uh, can I take a quickie nap during my personal break?  “Nope!  Listen up!  This is the United States!  You think we’re gonna pay you to take a nap?  Not on my watch, you little motherfucker!  Oh, you just wanna go have a smoke?  Go for it!  What about public safety for passengers and those on the ground?  Shit.  That’s your job!  Just do your job!” 

Sweet.  Bureaucracy at its finest, ladies and gentlemen.  I am sure some kind of reasonable arrangement can be made for both pilots and air traffic controllers (as well as others in the transportation field), which would not be construed by the general public as offensively as workers that are “paid to nap”.  It seems reasonable to put safety over this political hubbub, which is nothing more than bull-shit-talk based on perceived public perception of indignation.  "What?  They sleep while they’re on the job?  Who do they think they are?"  Yeah, kinda like you, who checks out porn on the job, or you, who streamed a basketball game during March Madness while on the job, or you, who drank too much the night before and put your head down on your desk to take a quick nap last year. 

And lest we forget, for you ladies in camouflage, you ladies go get yourselves cleaned up ‘cause we love our women combatants “attached” soldiers smelling nice and clean.  See what we do for you?  Just don’t mind the possibilities that you’ll get blown up by enemy combatants during your drive back to base, and oh, forget about that promotion in the future.  You’re just a girl!  Thank you, by the way, for your service.

The Macabre Reality of Life

                Today I witnessed the most violent death that I ever have, and ever hope to.  It was not a murder, but an accident.  It was not a human death, but rather, an animal.  However, it was a violent death nonetheless.  I hope never to witness such an event again, or personally be involved in such a tragedy. 

                I was driving down the interstate to get to a work appointment, and a pretty strong deluge was in play.  The usual 70 miles per hour speed limit was limiting all vehicles to a more reasonable 50 to 55 miles per hour, as the windshield wipers on all vehicles were on high swipe, or at least should have been.  Despite it being three in the afternoon, the dark overcast skies were much more reminiscent of dusk, as the occasional lightning streak would illuminate the black-gray clouds above in the typically awesome display of nature. 

                Just ahead, perhaps a mile or two, you could see the skies clearing and I was looking forward to seeking asylum from the onslaught of rain for safety purposes and, ironically, being able to accelerate back to the ol’ 70 mph speed limit mark again.  Traffic was pretty heavy due to the rain as well as it being a commercial area with a mall and a very established business district.  The cars in all five lanes began to accelerate back to more normal velocities, myself included.

                Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what took me a moment to process.  Is that a dog?  Yes.  Indeed, it was a large dog, perhaps 70 to 90 pounds, that resembled a German Shepherd, at least in part.  I saw its profile, looking around in confusion at the fast-moving vehicles on the interstate. S/he continued to trot along across the highway, and the car to the right of me honked at him, swerved slightly, and successfully avoided him.  The dog continued its trajectory toward the center of the interstate, and came into my lane.  I, too, successfully avoided him as I instantly checked my driver’s side mirror for clearance and swerved slightly to my left into the fast lane to avoid him.  Now that I was in front of him, I watched in my driver’s side mirror in hopes that he would be safe at least during the stretch of highway that he was still within my visual range.

He proceeded to cross into the high-speed lane, the left-most lane, and instantly was struck by a white Hyundai mid-size SUV full-on, hitting the front bumper on the passenger’s side.  The driver was probably going at least 75 to 80 miles per hour, as I could see she was gaining on me slightly at the time.

His body instantly shattered into what looked like a thousand pieces!  It reminded me of works by surrealist Salvador Dali, with paintings of figures exploded into segments.  It was an incredible sight and terribly disturbing.  Instantly I yelled in horror as my heart went into the shocked panic of staccato anxious beats.  After about 15-seconds of oh-oh-horror-expletives, I simply grasped my head and rewound the image I had just witnessed over and over.

The unlucky driver of the white SUV instantly slowed down a bit, but remained in the fast lane for half-mile or so, then cut over three lanes and eventually into the slow-lane.  I am still not sure if she knew what she had hit, as it happened so quickly.  By this point on the highway, the lanes decreased back to four across the width of one side with off-ramp exits branching toward various semi-suburban areas. 

Despite being in the slow-lane, she still gained on me over the course of several miles, and I couldn’t help but be curious as to what reaction I may be able to discern from her, even considering slowing down to be nosey and take a quicky-glance in her direction.  I felt guilty and was tempted, but never had the opportunity, as she had gotten off the interstate, perhaps to check out the damage to her vehicle.

The SUV bumper was made out of the typical hard-shell plastic, and this thing was cracked heavily.  I was surprised to see that it had no noticeable trace of blood or marks on it, however.  It had a long vertical crack along the front of the bumper on the passenger side, but it appeared that the forward velocity of the vehicle at that high of speed simply exploded this dog in his/her entirety in that same forward direction.  Simple physics, I suppose.  Nasty.  Poor ol’ dog…  The sole comfort I can seek from witnessing this awful event is to think that its suffering was limited temporally, as the event occurred in less than one second: from the point of impact to the complete physical dislocation of all essential body parts that comprise life as a complex physical entity.  Goodness!  I truly hope that its ability to process pain was limited to a spectacularly short timeframe.  I didn’t see what happened to the dog’s head, except that from the vantage point of the driver’s side mirror, the dog’s entire body comprised no more than two centimeters or thereabouts as a reflection on the mirror at impact.  Hopefully the head, too, exploded nearly instantaneously…

So I reflected on this awful experience as I drove, and immediately thought to myself: you know, the fact that my life and social context in which I derive my reality allows me to think about this as seriously unpleasant is something to be acknowledged.  I am not a child living in Iraq… nor Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, or countless other places in the world that witness atrocities of war and violence, some on a daily basis for their entire lives.  But then again, there are certainly areas in the United States that have such incredibly disparate inequities that their lives are not far-off from the daily stress and strains of a war-torn world.  Still, I am certainly not coming across dead bodies and smelling death and decay.

I also thought about the recent tragedy in Japan, where tens of thousands perished in those moments of terror, derived from the great earthquake and tsunami earlier this month.  So many individuals lost, whose bodies have yet to be recovered, if ever at all!  Speaking of Japan, what about the atomic bomb from 1945, during World War II?  In an instant, people’s physical bodies simply disintegrated into elemental molecules and atoms as the intense heat from the nuclear blast simply obliterated those individuals who were within the immediate impact zone.  Those poor souls who were just beyond that radius of what could arguably have been a welcome immediate death, suffered intense burns that resulted in skin that melted off the bone, eyes that fell out of the eye-sockets, and the curse of not dying instantly, as they endured their last pangs of life in utter pain and discomfort.

I witnessed the death of someone’s beloved pet dog, likely trying to find his way back home after becoming lost in the irrational matrix of human social “order”: the completely unnatural, socially constructed “concrete jungle” that I occupy and live within as though it is a natural manifestation.  My experience of witnessing this event was terrible and awful.  But when compared to the human suffering occurring concurrently around the world, thanks largely to politics and the already created momentum of the advancement of “progress”, my personal exposure pales in comparison. 

Let us experience to the fullest those things which we are subjected to.  However, let us also experience to the fullest those things which we do not choose to be subjected to.  Life is unpredictable and full of variables that we cannot control nor even account for.  Therefore the best one can do is to experience life as it happens, and acknowledge it.  Sometimes, there is nothing one can do.  Things just happen.  If you’re fortunate enough to witness an event and survive, then accept the responsibility to acknowledge and deal with it.  That is the primary human condition: survival within an unpredictable world.  If you’re living your life in awareness, you’re ahead of the game: don’t take anything in life for granted.  Easier said than done, but the returns are exponential for every moment lived fully.  Accepting that life is forever partnered with death can only enhance one’s understanding of the ephemeral nature of life, and appreciating it for what it offers at any given moment.

Gentlemen, Cover Thy Nipples

                I love running outside, despite the weather or temperature for the most part.  This is because my runs are generally half-hour runs, a manageable timeframe for most weather conditions sans a deluge, single-digit (Fahrenheit) temperatures or less, or absurdly icy conditions.  I don’t enjoy running indoors because I feel like a hamster running in a wheel.  I mean, if I have a misstep, or if I look over to my side while running on a treadmill, serious disaster could ensue!  The machine will keep whirring at a constant tempo, as I envision my face hitting the sand-belt-like moving ground, leaving me with the most hellacious rug-burn ever… or even worse.  Furthermore, there are bound to be witnesses in the gym from whom you can’t just walk away from as though nothing happened, whereas if you’re outside, any witnesses would be either in a vehicle that is passing by or pedestrians who have their own respective destinations to get to.  The embarrassment is much more ephemeral, if at all, since there’s always a chance that no one saw you bite the dust.  If you’re tired or fatigued outside, you can slow down or stop at will, and the ground will not forsake you.  You need not be a slave to the sand-belt-moving-ground-torture.

                I am presently training to run in a marathon.  No, no, I am by no means an accomplished athlete.  Far from it, as a matter of fact.  However, I do derive pleasure and totally unnecessary egotistical inflation from pushing myself to run ridiculous amounts of miles.  To the relief of those around me, this maniacal ego boost doesn’t occur too often, since I typically run outside by myself.  I never run with a group, although many have sung the praises of being part of a running group.  (Namely, I am intimidated about running with others because those groups have some seriously elite runners mixed in there.  You know, those obsessive types who are addicted to running.  There are runners, and there are crazies.) 

                Anyhoo, in recent weeks, I have hit the treadmill a couple of times in lieu of running outdoors due to some crazy rain storms that have been coming through.  Also, even if it’s a mild rain, it becomes too uncomfortable running outdoors when one must endure the “long run” of the week, which was about 2 ½ hours for me yesterday.  So I opted to walk to the Y in the rain and bite the bullet. 

                Most treadmill hamsters are on for half an hour, or an hour at most.  Many walk at a brisk pace or mix it up by walking and jogging.  I, however, am training for the marathon!  I cannot subject myself to such luxuries as short runs or simple jog-walk-jog-walk combos!  I must endure my long run!  So there!  Just watch as I, a running machine, put you to shame.  I can’t help but notice that my pat-a-pat-a-pats of my feet against the whrrrrrr of the sand-belt are more upbeat and faster than anyone’s!  My breathing?  Steady and relaxed; one with the whrrrr!  Plus look at my treadmill.  It’s moving up and down ‘cause I’m doing hills.  Take that!  Oh, there goes another one: she got on after me and got off before me.  Look at me.  I’m still going.  What now?  Got something to say?  Yeah.  I thought so.  What’s that?  You’re just jealous.  What?  Did you call me a loser?  Okay.  Um, I have nothing to say to that.  You’re right, of course.  So what?  My dad can beat up your dad.

                Last night, the air was so still in the workout room.  Maybe because there were so many people in there and the treadmill that I grabbed was one of the center-most ones in the room.  Ever notice how when there are treadmills lined up, people generally stagger to occupy every other treadmill until those are all filled, then the open ones get chosen by default.  It’s kind of like picking teams for kickball and you’re always one of the last ones picked.  Yes, that was me.  The default loser…  Obviously I’m still reeling from such treatment during childhood which now manifests as self-inflating ego-needs described above.  Wait a second.  That describes this entire blog!  That’s what motivates my writings.  I am running away from my status of the “big L”!  How depressing…  But I digress!

It was freakin’ steamin’ in hamster central.  I was wearing a wicking shirt made from soy materials that I’d never worn before, and within a short while, I was dripping uncontrollably.  Within the first hour, my shirt was thoroughly soaked, but the wicking was allowing the excess waste-sweat to succumb to gravity.  Bucketful after bucketful of sweaty nasties trickled their way down onto my running shorts, which were grey.  However, as I took quick (careful) glances down, my grey shorts were resembling black shorts, no thanks to the sweaty tricklies.  Pretty soon, my shorts began to feel like poopy diapers from the added weight that first permeated in totality the built-in inner shorts, and eventually my shorts in its entirety.  The shorts were now plastered onto my legs as I continued my pat-pat-pats against the whrrr.  Nevertheless, “badass” undoubtedly echoed through the collective minds of all those in the gym this night, as they bore witness to my toughness.

                As mentioned, my cool-ass soy shirt was drenched.  Such conditions cause exceptional friction against one's chest as your body moves up and down and the shirt rubs up and down against you.  After 2 ¼ hours, I looked down at my bright yellow shirt and noticed a streak of bright red snaking its way down the front of my shirt.  Damn it!  There it was: the bleeding right nipple!  I could feel both nipples being tender but didn’t anticipate bleeding nipple syndrome today!  Ironically, during lunch on this very day I had just talked about men’s need to wear Band-Aids over their nipples when running marathons because of this exact seriously painful chafing problem!  (Even worse, I actually picked up and pocketed an unopened Band-Aid that I found on the floor of an elevator during work today.)  I just didn’t anticipate that my cool-ass soy shirt was going to succumb to such vicious attacks from physics.  I was bummed.  To throw salt upon my wounds, the chafing upon certain “hot spots” in my derriere region is omnipresent as well.  Next time I run in the heat, I will have to resort to Vaseline to cover such sensitive areas.  And of course, I must protect myself with Band-Aids, although it would not surprise me at all if laziness and wishful thinking may overrule rationality, as I take my chances against mein enemy (feind), physics.

Let Us All Be Enabled and Entitled

                I go to the YMCA (herein “the Y”) quite regularly to get a quick work-out in; about five to six days per week.  Now I don’t go this often because I’m some tremendous athlete or big time muscled mass of protein.  I generally go because it’s convenient, happens to be right down the street from my home, and to help keep a formerly dislocated shoulder and surgically repaired knee (arthroscopy) strengthened. The truth is, I do a quick 30-minute run around the neighborhood, and end up at the Y to stretch and do a quickie-5-minute workout.  However, I inevitably end up spending more than the 15-minutes or so that it would actually take to stretch and do my quick exercises.  Why?  Well, it’s to socialize, of course!  I pay big bucks monthly to belong to this Y in order to chat with my primary social circle, the Ladies Club.

                I call my circle of friends the Ladies Club because the three closest friends of mine there are ladies.  Easy enough, right?  Also, the time of day determines this as well.  I generally arrive at the gym anywhere between 7:30am and 8:30am.  Most people are headed into work by this time and there are specific types of people who are at the gym at this time of day: the retired and/or elderly, those with flexible work schedules, and those who do not work or work part-time.   Generally speaking, there are more women there at this hour than men.  (The meat-heads plug up the free-weights in the early evenings, being obnoxiously loud, moaning and groaning like they’re gonna throw-up.  I hate to imagine what they sound like when they have an orgasm…  “Uhhh-waaahhhhhh-rrrr!!!”  Maybe they’re shitting themselves, too.  If so, they deserve it because they’re obnoxious as hell.)

                One morning last week, I did my run and had to rush to the bathroom.  You know, I had some business to take care of after my run, which can double as an unexpectedly effective laxative.  (And it’s completely natural!)  Okay.  Gross.  You didn’t want to know that, I’m sure, but if ever you’re in need of regularity – which by the way, television commercials freely talk about this as well as other bodily functions without so much as an apology nor eliciting from its audience the slightest response to the grotesque – you should take up running or some physical activity that pushes your cardiovascular fitness.  Constipated?  No such thing!

                I went to the sink to wash my hands (I role-model proper hygiene) and came across a man whom I see regularly at the Y.  He is an obese man.  Morbidly obese.  He is friendly enough and we exchange basic pleasantries as usual (“Hi, how are you?”  “Why yes, it is quite cold outside.”  “Yes.  I ran outside.”  “Umm-hmm.  Yes.  Quite cold!”).  Anyway, this man is relegated to a wheelchair and the only time I see him out of the wheelchair is when I should see him doing some exercises in the pool.  Quite painfully and sadly, I might add, to see the state of his physical body.

                I stare straight ahead in the mirror to check my sweaty self out as I scrub-scrub-scrub any potential nasties on my hands with the bubbly soap and water.  I once heard that one should scrub away for about 30-seconds or the approximate length of time it takes to go through the ABCs jingle.  This time, however, I didn’t recite the ABCs.  Mr. Man-in-the-wheelchair was talking to me.  What was remarkable was that he had his shirt off and was at the sink.  I don’t know what he was doing at the sink, except that the next thing I witnessed was quite startling.  There was a white plastic grocery bag and he had reached into it and pulled out something.  What?  What could it be, you ask?  It crinkled in a plastic packaging of its own, and he proceeded to tear it open.

                Chomp!  Chew-chew-chew.  I could smell the sweet smell of processed peanut butter-laden-chocolaty-corn syrup deadlies.  It was a Nutty Bar.  Now I love me some Nutty Bars like the next person, but eating something in a public bathroom, let alone my own bathroom always grosses me out.  Furthermore, such a blatantly bad-for-you food at a gym is akin to sacrilege.  I had to give it up to him though.  He didn’t care about none of that shit.  Chomp!  Chew-chew-chew-how’s the weather-chew-chew-chew.  He did, however, hide in the locker room to chow down rather than to dig into the deadlies in the lobby…

                Later that morning, on my way into work, I was listening to the local radio and they began talking about the strategies of changing the available foodies at the kiddies’ schoolies.  Carrot sticks instead of freedom fries.  Bottled (processed tap) water (by Coca-Cola Co., Pepsi Co.) instead of Sody-Pops.  Give the kids healthier choices!  Discussions on strategies to combat the deadlies ensued.  Stupid shit about trying to get parents to make better choices and teaching their children, blah blah blah.  Why stupid?  Well, because it might be impossible to try to get someone whose daily life is survival (and has always been that way, and always will be) to give a shit about buying carrots and broccoli so they can cook something up that’s healthy.  I don’t disagree with the basic premise, but truly, how do you expect to alter the course of someone’s life when the greater social structural forces are constantly working against them?  (Then the conversation turned briefly to genetics.  I about lost my head…)

                Have you ever noticed how cheap some of this bad-for-you shit is?  Subsidized by the government, no doubt.  Who would give up pop for expensive-ass orange juice?  Cheap-ass potato chips over carrot sticks?  No, thank you.  The Native Americans (Who?  You know, them Injuns) are faced with the challenge of moving away from fat-laden fry bread and other such foods that many see as synonymous with Native American culture.  Do not be fooled.  It is a result of government commodities that made high fat, high starch foods readily available to the masses of Natives compartmentalized to reservation lands.  Similarly, the poor in this country resort to consuming foods in the same manner.  Unless you were raised in a middle- to upper-class, college-educated household, your chances of eating well and appreciating it goes down exponentially.  Try going to a grocery store in a poor neighborhood and see what you find in the patrons’ grocery carts.  Even better, compare the prices of some of the produce with a higher socioeconomic grocery store.  Don’t be surprised to find the prices in the latter to be cheaper.  More people buy the produce that has a limited shelf-life in the better-to-do neighborhoods, so the supply is easier to maintain. 

                So, what exactly are we?  Creatures of habit as dictated by the hypnotizing effects of commercialism and its dizzying dance with consumerism.  Demand that you get to eat whatever the fuck you want.  But demand also that you maintain a good physical appearance.  Don’t forget to demand good health either.  (I know a person who would argue that part of the source of her weight gain is from diet sody-pops.  Well, I really don’t think so but tell you what.  How ‘bout you stop consuming that shit ‘cause its got some aspertame in it.  Now I don’t know much about this controversy, but I just know it ain’t natural.  Did you know that regular drinks such as Coke and Pepsi don’t even use sugar?  I would never have known they use corn syrup until Pepsi came out with their “Throw Back” cans, advertising that they use “real sugar”.  WTF?  I just assumed they always used sugar.  I guess it’s cheaper to use corn syrup.) 

                It never ceases to amaze me that people complain about their weight and appearance, health and well-being, but fail to account for their own contributions that led to their circumstances.  I know that most of us are automatons, slaves to the directives as dictated by commercialism, but really, is it necessary to be so indignant about your physical reality of existence?  I’m sorry, but don’t blame genetics.  I’m pretty sure that if you were born 200 or more years ago, and not born into the bourgeoisie, then you would have a completely different physique and lifestyle.  I mean, your body was meant to be worked, to sweat and toil and labor.  None of this sit behind a computer all day and eat fatty shit.  A good friend of mine recently commented, “You know, I’ve gotten to travel around the world a bit with my work.  The United States is the only country where the poor are fat!  I mean, everywhere else, the poor are thin.”  Well, to that, I say, “Look out World.  Prepare to get fat ‘cause them freedom fries is gonna be just around the corner if it ain’t already!” 

My sympathies go to the working class poor, where access to such information and knowledge, culture and upbringing, make change damn near impossible, as evidenced by the Native American tribe example above. I would imagine it would take a pervasive change in a family across an entire generation before any change of significance is assimilated into an individual’s culture.  Bottom line: ‘t’ain’t gonna happen, I’m afraid.  It’s especially lovely when the well-to-dos such as Sarah Palin or the fat pill-poppin’ fuck, Rush Limbaugh bitches about First Lady Michelle Obama’s “Let’s Move” health campaign for children, arguing that the government is trying to control what its citizens eat.  Um, no dumbasses.  You’re obviously not the one getting hurt by this.  

                Let us not forget that we are biological beings.  We are animals.  We eat, drink, sleep, and shit.  That means that we are meant to use our physical bodies to interact with our physical environment.  It is understandable to fall prey to the plenty that exists in our midst, manifesting as a mass-produced pretty product in glossy packaging at the grocery store.  The mass production includes living things, too, such as chickens, pigs, and cows.  Hell, we humans are practically mass produced.  It’s just that our land of plenty is not the land of milk and honey that the commercials suggest it to be… unless you’re eating some Nutty Bars.  I’ll have a diet sody-pop, too, please.  That’s some good shit.  And I’m being good, ‘cause it’s diet.