9.5.07

First…

No, I’m not looking for a job. I like my job.

Did it really sound like I was using this as a resume? What a terrible friggin’ idea.
Seriously—would I have outcast every major minority group and threaten to kill people based on their choice in gum if I was trying to get a job?

Come on...that's like Mike Vick coming out and saying that he only murdered dogs because he was trying to convince his mom to buy him a puppy.

I'm just hoping upon hope that someday someone reads this and allows me to write professionally and somehow have the disposable income of Christina Applegate in Don't Tell Mom, the Babysitter's Dead.




Second…

I appreciate the few of you who did respond to the blog via comment or email—but would love to hear more from people.

Third…

Yes, if you have a good link, I’ll post it. Bill sent one that was a guy doing a comedy act, making fun of Carie Underwood—only to find out it was John Mayer doing the act. How could something so cool be done by someone so worthless?

That’s like removing Darth Vader’s helmet and finding out that he’s actually Luke Riddenour.

Fourth…

I was walking into the gym Tuesday morning at about 4:45, half-asleep and saw one of the strangest things I’ve ever come across.

I was so groggy that it kind of happened in Polaroid shots…so I’ll present it the same way.

Picture One: Young woman (20ish) leaving the gym wearing black socks to her knees and no shoes.
Thought: Nobody in Newport dresses like that, and girls that young wouldn’t be done working out at that time. And where are her shoes?

Picture Two: Girl, with three athletic bags on her arms, falls down for no apparent reason.
Thought: It looks like she passed out…is she drunk?

Picture Three: Girl is laying on the ground, beginning to get back up. I’m yelling repeatedly, “ARE YOU OKAY?”
Thought: Why isn’t she responding?

Picture Four: Creepy dude in a red court-jester hat appears out of the fog and says, “She’s fine.” Thought: HUH?

Picture Five: Counter at 24 hour Fitness—with nobody sitting behind it.
Thought: This doesn’t happen.

Picture Six: Opening locker, putting bag in.
Thought: Those two crazy people just robbed the locker-room.

Picture Seven: Return to the front, freaks are gone—someone is back to the desk.
Thought: They definitely robbed the place—why else would they leave so quickly?

Picture Eight: The sight of the 24 hour employee going into the locker room to, “See if everything is there.”
Thought: Okay—you’re stupid enough to leave the desk unattended…but after there is suspicion of a robbery, you a) leave the desk AGAIN and b) think that you’re going to KNOW if unassigned, often-unlocked lockers have been robbed??


It turned out that nobody reported anything missing. But I ran around the block several times, trying to find these people—NOTHING. Were they really there? Was I dreaming? Why does an error on a pitcher not count against ERA? I have so many questions…

E…

Is a name that a couple people call me. Four thoughts on this:
a) Certain names shouldn’t be shortened.
b) Shouldn’t you be calling me, “I”?
c) Nobody realized that I went "First, second, third, fourth, E".
d) Eric from Entourage is a complete wank.

Sixth...

Our whole league was shutout of ESPN Fantasy Football last night because of a login error that was ESPN's fault. Is the fact that this has happened to me two years in a row a sign that God may not want me to do Fantasy Football? Or is the fact that it shook my very core a sign that my priorities are completely out of whack? Well--I'll let you decide, based on my reaction.

Essentially, I was fiending for a means to gamble like Christopha' looking for heroin. Without my fantasy-draft to wet my gambling palate, I went searching for some other source to feed my hunger. Where did it send me? Searching through the Boo's cupboard full of old Nintendo games. What did I find? Vegas Dreams.

Another PSA from yours truly--

If the idea of playing craps on a Nintendo gets your blood going, it may be time to attend a meeting or two.

And here's the best part: I'm going to Vegas TWICE this month (with a bachelor party near an Indian (feather) casino sandwiched in-between.) And I already have the rush going, which is fine for someone who plays blackjack and has limited control over their destiny--but for someone who loves craps, it is completely up to fate. Here is the difference:

Blackjack is like baseball. A team sport, where if the starter goes six innings, giving up less than three runs, you're in good shape. And if there is a man on second with less than two outs, you hit behind the runner---you're probably going to win. Methodical, and based around individuals doing the calculated, logical thing.

Craps is like fastpitch. Completely unathletic (it is played by women) and entirely based on coordinated cheers and screaming. I'm an absolute believer that if you had the opposite end of the craps table yelling, "H-O, H-O-M, H-O-M-E-R-U-N, HOME RUN, BRYAN!" that you could hit a point of three eleven times before crapping out. (Okay--so there was no reason to drop "unathletic" in there except to slam female athletes. Oh well---I can live with it.)

So why does the game without skill or logic appeal to me?

Because every guy has to have one vice that endangers his bank accounts, potentially alienates him from friends and family, and strikes pure terror in his girlfriend/wife. I don't snort coke, and haven't smuggled guns to Nicaragua in years---so gambling is my vice.

And ESPN robbed me of it.

(Raise your hand if you forgot that this was actually a rant about ESPN and not one about my appeal to craps. I'm going to leave it, but this last section reminds me of that Simpsons episode where Bart gave the report about Egypt: "Egypt is a vast country with many crops. One of those crops is corn. The Indians called the corn "maize". Pocahontas helped the white man find food...")


From the Vault…

I’ve gone through a bunch of my old writings and decided that I needed to sort out some of my favorite topics to (re)introduce you all to my uniquely uncreative brand of writing…



Good Friends…

Remember “Class friends”? Those people who you had classes with in high school and were completely chummy with—even worked on projects with—but never saw outside of class? They were the best.

Unfortunately, the natural replacement for that in real life is work friends…but work friends like to do happy hours, off-sites, and ropes courses—you really can’t say you only see them in the office.

But humans are creatures of habit—so what do we do? We find a replacement.

And who are they? Gym friends.

I’ve now been a frequent-visitor to 7 different gyms in my post-college life (four of which were 24 Hour Fitness operations) yet I’ve had the same friends at every gym I go to. Allow me to introduce you to a few of them:

”Mr. Social Butterfly”: Definitely spends more time in the tanning bed than doing lat-pulls. Knows EVERYONE in the gym...except for you. Normally has trendy workout clothes, and is there at the same time every day. (Actually—every gym has two of these guys—one for the morning and one for the evening. I often wonder what would happen if, on a weekend, they both showed up at the gym at the same time? I think the impossible would become possible and we could start dividing by zero and understanding the lyrics to Credence Clearwater songs.)



“Mrs. Social Butterfly”: Similar to above, but normally not nearly as attractive, nor fit. She tends to do the elliptical machine with a sweatshirt around her waste and stretch a lot...anything to avoid exertion.

“The Cougar”: She's in great shape for her age, she's wearing a tube-top, normally has fake boobs…and by the look on her face, she’s been divorced several times. She usually splits her time between two groups: a) Fifty-something rich-looking guys and b) Guys with tattoos of flaming eagles on their shoulders.

“Sweaty Sweat-Suit” Guy: I actually like this guy, he's one of the few that I'll talk to, because he's in the gym to actually work. Normally pretty strong, and always does cardio first. He is sweating profusely, but believes that it is 1983 and the only thing that you can wear to the gym is a sweatshirt and sweatpants--oh, and a weight-belt. (“Hey—if it is good enough for Rocky Balboa, it is good enough for me.”)

”This Shirt Means that I’m a Professional” Guy: This is pretty-much exclusive to 24-hour Fitness—but it happens at clubs everywhere. This guy is a beauty. He is big, but not in shape by any stretch of the imagination. So he becomes a trainer, and suddenly thinks that he’s Duke in the final scene of Rocky IV.
Shouldn’t there be some kind of rule that if you can’t spell anaerobic that you shouldn’t be able to say it? These guys sound like John Madden explaining Copernicus' Lunar Cycles—except dumber.
The one thing that I love about these guys however is their supplement regiment. They will take ANYTHING (and do!) Myoplex, Met-rx, Creatine, Androstene, CLA, B-12 shots, green tea extract…if it says the words, “Energy”, “Lean”, or “Bulk” in the description, they’ll put it into their bodies. I absolutely believe that if “Muscle and Fitness” put out an article that said that, “Anthrax greatly increases lean muscle mass and can aid in muscle oxidation” that these guys would take it. But here is the kicker: THEY DON’T EVEN WORK OUT!
And supplementing without working-out is the gym-equivalent of shutting the door to your room instead of making your bed.



“Comfortably Naked Man”: This ain't a high school locker room. It's a downtown gym...yet this guy, normally 40-55, feels completely comfortable walking around naked, stretching naked, and striking up conversations in the showers. Usually you can tolerate him, but you cut it off when he does the “leg on the counter, towel under the leg” thing.



“Grunting Buddies”: These two (sometimes three) work out every day, and lift a lot of weight...but you only know that because they grunt on every set, and let the whole gym (and everyone in the neighboring municipality) know that they are lifting weights. (You’ll generally find them wearing the colors of whatever the local NFL team is in your area—and if you don’t have a team, plug in the Steelers as their team of choice.)



“Not That Hot” Girl: You know her...I hope you aren't her. She is in good shape, and flaunts it--but really isn't very attractive. She's at the gym 4-5 hours a day because she knows that once she puts clothes on, no guy is going to talk to her. (This brings up a question—is there a Not That Hot Girl store? They have yoga stores and Lucy for most women—but there are forms of spandex that Not That Hot Girl wears that look more like graffiti than clothing.)

"I'm Here to Sleep with White Women” Guy: (No explanation needed)



“Lots of Weight, No Reps” Guy (AKA "Gallon-of-Water Guy"): Like oversized, solid-colored t-shirts without graphics? I've got your guy. He's fat. He doesn't do cardio. But he can do one rep of cable flies with the maximum weight. (Oh—and he's apparently hydrated.)



“George Burns”: He's 70 and still lifts with a belt on. Inspirational? No. You've seen him in the locker-room and anyone who is that loose-skinned shouldn't be lifting that much weight...and he makes the weirdest faces when he lifts—the kind that make you think that he’s going to need more than a hand towel to wipe-down the bench when he’s finished. For some reason, he and The Cougar have a very close bond, despite George Burns never holding a job that didn’t require him to wear a nametag.



“Tan and Anorexic” Lady: She may be dead...but she's been on that eliptical for 3 hours now, and she'll spend another three in the tanning-bed. Makes you feel bad for supporting the idea of all women looking like runway models...

No it doesn’t…



”I Hate being a Woman” Woman: My least favorite gym friend. She uses four machines at a time, and does such short reputations that she only works her shoulders. She walks around mumbling harsh non-swear words like the dad in A Christmas Story. Oh—and she sort of looks like Ana Lucia from LOST.

”Weightbelt on the Exercise Bike” Guy: Pretty much explains itself—but come on—we get the idea—you’re all about safety. (Of course there’s nothing wrong with being too safe. After shaking Shawn Kemp’s hand once, I started popping birth-control like Pez…and I’m a dude…)



“Homeless” Guy: (Undisputed Champion.) He comes in in street clothes, looking like he lives on the street. Does as many reps as he can, as fast as he can...pulls a water-bottle out of his khaki pants, dances a little bit to his tape-player---and NOBODY DARES COME WITHIN 30 ft. OF HIM!

He is a close relative of…

”I Came Straight from the Construction Site to Bench Press 365” Guy: He is normally around 50…big gut, looks like he eats 5 meals a day from a sack—but there he is, construction-shirt on, dirty jeans, and the vital brown, steel-toed Chucka boots, lifting ridiculous amounts of weight. No cardio for this guy—he gets his sweat in while he's jack-hammering your driveway.



“We Don’t Need a Personal Trainer because we’re in Love” Couple: Usually 35-50, always wearing trendy workout gear. They do all the same exercises and have never once done a full-motion repetition. Oh—and they spot each other on pull-ups—will you please stop that???



"Super Fitness 50-Year-Old Chick": She's in really good shape, does cool yoga stuff, but absolutely hates you for some reason and you can’t figure out why.



"Backhair Tanktop Guy": Doesn't he know? And why do these guys always seem to make up their own exercises? "Let's see--I've got two 15 lb. dumbells...I'll lift them over my head, followed by a half-squat/half-bow...now I'm going to swing them down as fast as I can, and do the same thing over again, except not at all."

”The TV Nazi”: She’s got control of the remote and doesn’t care if there has been an attack on the White House (and apparently doesn’t care if the Sportscenter Top Ten is half-way-through) because she’s going to watch Will and Grace if it costs her her life. (The "We Don't Need a Trainer" couple and I have actually teamed up against this chick in a battle for TV supremecy. Between the three of us, we can change every station and control the only remote. It is completely childish and stupid--I love it.)



“Nice Scary Gigantic” Guy: The first time you meet him you’re kind of afraid that he’s going to eat you, but it turns out that he’s eloquent and a little shy. (But nobody else knows that, so if you befriend him, you’re GOLD!) Oh--and he's black.

”Crazy Neck-lift Guy”: I miss this guy. He has an IQ of roughly eleven, and is the kind of guy who thinks 16 is a good age for his son to “share a beer with his old man”. But he trains like he is 16, trying to be the starting nose-tackle on his high school team. You wonder why he’s doing so many squats, and why he still has a mustache—but he really let’s you know he’s serious when he breaks the Hannibal Lector-looking neck-lift apparatus out of his gym bag. 20 45-lb. curls using only his neck muscles are the only thing keeping him from the varsity…
(It isn’t too late to make a “Real Men of Genius” about this guy—I’ll gladly sacrifice the idea…)


COMMENTS???

Tell me how I’m doing by clicking below…

ALSO…

You can now email me at mcflyblogs@gmail.com or click onto my profile on the right and follow it to the email section.