The Danger Zone

I was letting my dog out to pee, and once it’s later in the evening we walk out sans leash to the backyard so she can do her business in the lawn’s back corner, except I'm not so sure I can claim that it's a "lawn".  It’s mostly weeds with wild strawberry leaves and occasional little red berries.  Unbeknownst to me, a rabbit was chillin’ out in the front yard as I began to walk around the house, headed for the backyard.  Mr. Rabbit was like, “I hope they don’t see me.  I’m just gonna hang out and blend into the night like a ninja.”  Well, my ninjutsu skills are rusty but you betcha’ little miss doggie’s weren’t and boom! she was off to the races!  Fuck!  Oh, I was pissed!

“Hey!  Hey!” I yelled to no avail.  The staccato tapping of her paws against concrete was unbelievably fast.  I saw the rabbit use evasive maneuvers like Maverick in “Top Gun”: break right!  Break left!  Meanwhile, the MiG – my she-dog – managed to cover a distance of 100-yards in five seconds or some shit like that.  She was tailing rabbity Tom Cruise, quickly closing the gap; on his ass like stringy shit that goldfish just can’t quite pinch off.  (That’s gotta be embarrassing for goldfish.  If you were part of a school of goldfish, you’d better hope you shit before or after school, but not while swimming in formation as a school: ha ha ha!  Look at Goldie’s stringy shit hangin’ off her little ass!  Do goldfish even swim as a school?  Probably not, but you get the point: that would suck.)  Rabbity Tom Cruise, sensing his afterburners were no match for the MiG, used a parked car for cover like it was a cumulus cloud and veered right, flying across the street.  The MiG pilot was like, “I lost him!  I lost him!”  (Ninjutsu skills be damned at this point!  She had no clue where that rabbit went.)  I saw she-dog’s form disappear from the yellow-hued street light and vanish into the dark between two houses.  Man, it must’ve felt great to run like that!  But no time for admiration… I’m mad!

I followed her path to where she disappeared into – and by this time well-through – a neighbor’s yard, and called out for her, quietly, mind you, as I didn’t want to disturb anyone.  I knew it was fruitless to try to find her, so I walked back home, grabbed her leash and locked my front door in preparation for Operation Doggie Rescue.

As I came out to the sidewalk, just as suddenly, I saw a moving form approach me.  There she was, trotting back in relaxed fashion, totally content.  I clapped my hands for her to come and she ran directly to me.  I was furious!  Furious, I tell you!  She knew she was in trouble!  I gave her a tap on her head, a quick verbal reprimand, and although I was relieved she was safe, ooh, was I angry!  And my comrades, I even brushed her coat this afternoon because she’s shedding like crazy!  Boo!  I should have been reading in bed or asleep but was now wide awake!

I took her to the back to let her pee, but of course, she took care of that down yonder in a neighbor’s yard somewhere.  I felt so betrayed.  I, Jesus, she, Judas, this circumstance, Gethsemane.  She just laid down on the lawn and her shadowed face looked in my direction.  “C’mere!” I growled.  She obediently came.  I snapped my fingers occasionally to ensure she’d remain fixed to my side as I thought to myself, "Don't you leave your wingman, little miss doggie!"  We went back to the front door, my eyes scanning for any other rabbits.  In my head I could hear Kenny Loggins belting out “Danger Zone”.

Truly, I was relieved she was safe.  She was totally bummed that she screwed up.  You just can’t take away killer instincts from a killer.  She cowered into a ball whenever I approached her, totally sad and sorry…-looking at least.  The bad ass bass line from “Danger Zone” faded away.  She ain’t no Kelly McGillis, but she’s a cute one, my she-dog.  I pet her and warned her of the dangers of Tom Cruise.  I wondered if I should continue to allow her off leash to go pee late at night.  I already knew the answer… Yes.  I just hope some crazy engine-stall doesn’t happen in the future, resulting in a tailspin and a failed emergency ejection.  My heart always quivered with sadness when Goose’s limp-ass body parachuted gently, silently into the ocean…

News of the Strange: The Holy Foreskin(s)

I like Rick Steves.  Do you know Rick?  He just seems so familiar to me through his PBS television series Rick Steves’ Europe, that I feel chummy enough with him to just refer to him as “Rick”.  It’s like when you were a kid, and you built up your Cool Capital by bragging about who you know.  You got special cool points if whomever you were claiming onto your “friends list” is a few years older and your audience knows who s/he is.  “Oh yeah, Bono?  I know him.  We hang out all the time.”  Let that soak in for a few seconds into the sponge-like minds of your audience as you contain your nervous anticipation to drop the bomb on them: “He’s pretty cool…”  You just let them contemplate that one!  He’s pretty cool.  That gives the peons the impression that in my definition, he’s cool enough, but there’s still room for improvement to meet my standard of cool.  You wanna know cool?  Stick with me, kid! 

                Where was I?  Ah, yes.  My friend, Rick.  Rick’s done well for himself.  He gets to travel to Europe with his entourage consisting of a camera and boom man, to share tips and cultural information of different countries and locales, opening doors to a different world and life outside of our United States.  What a job!  He’s been doing this for decades, and has even had opportunities to take his family there as part of his work!  Wow.  He’s quite the likable host as he vacations and teaches his audience.  I am not suggesting that just anyone can do this, either.  He is good at what he does and I like him.  Therefore yes, I shall lay claim to Rick as a friend.  Rick?  He’s cool.  He’s been my friend for years!

I was driving to the Home Depot (instead of the local hardware store because I fell prey to the mindless decision-making of everyday contemporary American life) to purchase some air filters for the house.  On the radio, my boy Rick’s radio show was playing.  He was talking about various Catholic relics and his guest was apparently some guy who was doing research on some of the more embarrassing relics that the Catholic religion has had to deal with.  Now relics are gross and macabre to begin with.  I’ve seen photos of an arm encased in gold and jewels, purportedly that of one of the Apostles, like Luke or somebody.  It’s a bit disturbing to see an arm just chillin’ out decked out in bling.  Then people come from all over the place, drawn to worship it.  There’s not even an authentication process like they do in MLB homerun balls.  Even Barry Bonds’ record-breaking home run ball can be authenticated.  But this arm?  Not so much. 

Relics are strange.  They’re disturbing to me because they all too often end up being a body part of a supposed important dead person.  The pilgrims then make arduous treks to be in its presence so as to experience a holy moment.  (At least in other parts of the world, the people physically trek to their respective locales, like going to Mecca, taking a pilgrimage through the Basque country, or a Buddhist pilgrimage to Kapilavastu.  In the United States, people just drive and then pray.  Okay.  Maybe that’s an oversimplification with regards to Americans, such as hopping into the car and driving to the Shrine of the Holy Relics in Maria Stein, Ohio.  Don't forget to check out the gift shop, pilgrims.  Forgive me!  WWJD?)

Now I am not dissing anyone who goes to such places as the Shrine of the Holy Relics in order to have a spiritual experience.  To each his/her own.  However, it is my personal opinion that these supposed body parts of important people in Judeo-Christian History are suspect.  I believe that it’s more likely to be some schmo’s arm or leg or toenail or dingle-berry.  Again, let me stress that I mean no disrespect!  I just find it unlikely that it’s really Ezekiel’s toe-jam, you know?  As they say in the English vernacular, I’m just sayin’!  Ya’ dig?

As mentioned, I heard today that there is indeed a Holy Foreskin, the very foreskin of Jesus Christ himself!  There were many Holy Foreskins at one time that people paid homage to.  But the Catholic Church put a kibosh on that.  But why?  Jesus’ penis and subsequent circumcision is holy, is it not?  Jesus.  I’m going to hell for this one.  I mean, I’m already damned to hell, but this one has guaranteed my entrance.  At least I’ll be with my boy Rick…  Well, maybe not, since he’s so professional, he didn’t question it or make suggestive statements that could be construed as disrespect.  Comrades, let us pray… for me!

Through my frivolous research, I have learned that there were as many as 18 different Holy Foreskins throughout Europe in the Middle Ages.  The official decree of kiboshitude on the subject of the Holy Penis occurred in 1900 when the Roman Catholic Church exclaimed in authoritative fashion, “no way, dudes!  You shall not speak of our Christ Jesus’ peepee  lest you be excommunicated from our club!”  Now, that isn’t an exact quote, but you get the idea.  Perhaps that is when the whole problem with sexually acting-out priests really escalated.  Forgive me!  I couldn’t resist!  I am a sinner!  (I’m really going to hell…)

Religion is good.  I really do think so.  Not necessarily for me, but good for many people, and good for the whole of society.  But it’s bad, too.  Terrible, as a matter of fact, considering how many wars and deaths have occurred in the name of the father.  But more importantly, who knew Jesus had 18 penises?  Now that is a real man!  I feel guilty writing this, even as I guffaw quietly as I contemplate this whole subject.  I now realize that Catholic Guilt is truly something to be reckoned with.  I mean not, to poke fun.  Really!  It’s just that this whole thing is crazy, no?

Good people, I just felt the need to share this fact of human history.  It is a history that we all share in the short time that we walk upon this earth, our dear planet.  Be good to yourself and be good to each other.  If all religions simply stressed this, and this alone, maybe we would be in a more peaceful world.  (I would also add be good to Mother.  Mother Earth, that is.)  But money, status, popularity, having an extensive friends list via social media, and absolute power over one’s minion takes precedence in this world while one walks upon it.  Let us question some of these things, shall we?  I don’t mean simply to question whether Jesus had multiple penises that manifested into omnipresent Holy Foreskins, but just to consider what is really important.  Did you see the cute little girl kissing the golden hand of St. Gregory in the link above?  Eerie.  Strange.  Scary.  Gross.  Let us pray… for us all.

Devolution: Homo Americanus

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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.