The gym

I'd like to introduce you to my metabolism.

I can hit the gym hard, seven days a week, for six months. I can sustain myself by chewing one green leaf a day like the bald kid in The Golden Child. And all I have to do is walk past a McDonalds and all the weight comes rushing back. This is because I have a sloth for a metabolism and he thinks it's funny to torment me.

A few months ago at work a team photo was taken. I looked like one of those fat, wrinkly Chinese dogs. I've been in the gym ever since. So far I've lost six pounds and have developed some semblance of my old muscle tone. In my mind that translates to like twenty pounds and Arnold Schwarzenegger so I'm strutting around like  Charlie Sheen's ego right now.

The guy who works the breakfast grill at work calls me big guy, as in "Heya Big Guy, what can I get you?"

And I'm thinking 'Hey, hey, hey man...easy with the Big Guy sh*t. I'm five foot freaking eight, that means you're just calling me fat. I'm down six pounds. Can't you see that?'

I don't say anything. He's the kind of guy that calls all the female customers honey or darling. Besides, as a general rule of thumb, I do not argue with people who cook my food. I used to work in the restaurant industry. Believe me, angering the folks that handle your grub is not wise. 

I have a nemesis at the gym.

He looks a little like Lindsay Lohan's father. By that I mean you can just tell by looking at him that he's a prick. He stomps around. He slaps his membership badge down audibly at each station he works out at.

I don't even take the sweat yellowed T-shirts, hot pants-esque-old school basketball shorts/ flood water socks thing against him. Nope. I just think he lacks gym etiquette and I find that annoying.

He doesn't wipe up after himself and he sweats like a lawn sprinkler on full blast. He erratically moves from machine to machine doing cardio. Slamming the equipment and just overdoing it in general. He swings his whole body so that he can curl and push weights that are way out of his range. One day he's going to snap his back and a dumbbell is going to cruise across the sky. The guy is a menace.

Last week I'm on the elliptical next to him and he starts passing gas. I couldn't believe it. I'm clinging to my machine for dear life, pedaling like mad to keep my heart rate up and this SOB is dropping ruthless farts like it is no big deal. What do you even say to such an animal?

I coughed.

I gave him a dirty look.

"Thanks a lot guy." I said as I dismounted the machine. Dude didn't even break stride.

This weekend I'm auditioning new gyms. Thanks Mr. Lohan.

So what all is this?

Technology hates me. I don't know why. It just does.

All manner of electronic wonders have malfunctioned within the confines of my home. Cell phones, DVD players, TVs, stereos, Playstations, computers. You name it and it has fizzled and died on my floor. I'm like leprosy for high tech items, I touch them and instantly they begin to crumble and fall apart.

No, thanks, I don't want to play with your Iphone. Damn thing'll explode in my hand and I'll be owing you a chunk of money. I'll pass.

I roll lean. 

I have a giant f*ck off cellphone that I've carried for four years. I'm totally satisfied with the old school, long Ipod shuffle my brother got me for Christmas years ago. I own a ghetto blaster. I have CDs. Hell, I even have cassette tapes. Basic technology functions fine around me. It's all I can use.

Hence the drawings on this blog are made on Microsoft Paint, the electronic equivalent of sticks and stones. 

That said I just bought the new Itouch. So far so good. I just spent three hundred bucks to throw cartoon birds at little green pigs. Best investment I've ever made.

By the magic of my new I-thingy I bring you a decoy coyote in the wild. Note the intent stare and realistic bushy tail. Also note the single peg leg. I'm totally slapping an eye patch on this guy.

Apparently the decoys are the animal friendly method to discourage the geese from hanging out behind office buildings and crapping all over everything. There are also decoy crocodiles. I hope they get those where I work too. 

I've been dating this particular Precor for the past few months. Between work, the gym and hating on those little green pigs I haven't posted as much as I should. I've also been holding back because it takes a long damn time to make the pictures on Paint.

In the interest of providing more content I'll be adding freehand drawings and photos from the Itouch to supplement my ramblings. 

Stay tuned...

Hey There. Hi.

So much for updating every week...

It's like trekking all the way through the burning lands of Mordor to find out the great red eye is taking a smoke break....well, ok, maybe not all that...but close. You've been showing up but I haven't been updating.

Lately I have been putting all my creative drive into my first novel The Spark. After catching the Stewie-Brian "how's that book coming along" bit a few times I knew I had to push all projects aside and focus.

Which kind of sucks because I've had a few other wild ideas I've neglected to share in the meantime.

Like, why is all the good Valentines schwag gone by the 1st of February? WTF is up with that? I was literally in CVS on the 1st and the shelves looked barren.

There were Valentines squids, hissing-heart adorned possums and the few teddy bears that remained looked like they limped out of the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. Some missing limbs, some carrying them.

It isn't as if I waited to the absolute last minute.Valentines Day was two weeks away and already the stores had replaced the teddy bears with Easter Bunnies and the heart shaped chocolates with Peeps. 

The new way of the world; the ongoing, ever bolder encroachment of one holiday onto the next. Its why you hear Jingle Bell Rock on the friggin' radio in early November.

I propose a push back. If you are picturing turkeys chasing elves back into December then you are beginning to see what this would mean. War of the Holiday Icons. COMING SOON!!!

By request: My Bruce Willis moment

I was in PJs and bare feet making an omelet on the stove. The morning coffee had just finished brewing.

I slid the perfectly bronzed fold of egg and cheese to a plate and placed it on the counter to cool for a second while I finished emptying the dishwasher. I opened the cabinet and the door came right off the hinge, crashing down to the counter and shattering/ scattering a bunch of wines glasses.

So now I'm toes to the floorboard with a wide semicircle of shardy, pointy glass pieces on the floor behind me. Trapped. There was also glass dust all over the counter and that put my omelet into question. Whatever came next was guaranteed to be a pain in the ass, all I wanted to do was eat my breakfast first.  So I examined the eggs. Played a little 'Is it salt or is it glass dust?'

 Eventually I ate the omelet.  It was ok.

Leaping across the floor was out, as was climbing on the counter.  I couldn't reach the dish towel or the broom.  I did throw some silverware at both objects and that was useless. Then I spotted some large Tupperware containers, wore them like shoes and shuffled to safety.

On my triumphant step out of the Tupper-shoes I stepped on a small piece of glass and I left a few tiny blood prints on the floor- my Bruce Willis moment.  

Introducing the Snow-o-meter

From left to right here is the Snow-o-meter:

Practically beach weather:

Let's face it, the weather forecasters

almost never get it right.  We all know the jokes.  Sometimes when they call for a blizzard we end up with sunny and clear.   

Bread and milk:

The irrational New England phenomenon of hoarding food and supplies before a snow storm.  I'm talking full parking lots and lines from the checkout lanes down the actual shopping aisles.  Total panic city. In my thirty odd years I've yet to be completely snowbound.  I think its all just a conspiracy between the news stations and the supermarkets. Hello! Domino's Pizza!  Expect two inches tops.

Fun snow:

Oh fun snow, how I once loved thee.  I remember when I was a kid nothing was cooler than playing in the snow.  I'd run out of the house with my mother trying to put a hat on  my head and I would roll, sled, throw and wade through that fluffy white stuff until I was dragged back inside for dinner.  I'm still a polar bear at heart, but even I now dread that five minutes in the morning waiting for the car to warm up watching my breath fog up the windows.  What a difference time makes.

War with the plow folk:

This is when you get six inches or more of snow.  Not only do you have to shovel the stairs and sidewalk but in addition to the mound of snow on your car the plow people have left you an impenetrable four foot wall of snow along the side of your car.  The best part of this is the knowledge that after you clear it away eventually the plow will bring it back.

Freaking buried:

This is when you get a foot or more of snow.  It is rare.  This is calling out of work, heart attack level snow shoveling territory. During storms like this if you wait long enough you might see an abominable snow person stroll by your second floor window.  

 This is what I woke up to today.  I opened the door and there was a foot of snow slanted across the porch.  The plow people hadn't even bothered to swing by.  Those humps of snow out there are cars, they look like igloos with no doors.  Total snowpocalypse.  

Ice tubing

I remember looking up at the steep hill from the parking lot across the street and thinking something didn't look right.  There were bare, muddy patches here and there between the tracks and the snow looked...shiny.  It had been a sunny winter day and we were arriving to do some night snow tubing.  The melted sections seemed cordoned off from the actual runs and there were little kids everywhere tubing with glee...nothing to worry about.

I had gone snow tubing with this same crew of friends the year before.  It was a blast.  You rode a conveyor belt to the top of the hill, chose a lane and down you went. If you were going too fast you could drag your feet to slow down.  There were four lanes.  The first and closest lane to the conveyor belt looked like the straight down water slides I had avoided my entire childhood, the second had a big S turn in the middle and steep side walls, the third had a few small hills along the run and the last was a bunny slope with a subtle incline.

The smallest of the children shamed us away from the bunny slope, thus we started at lane three.  I went second to last.  I'll be honest, I'm not the most adventurous man in the world.  I've done my fair share of crazy stuff over the last thirty years.  Now I like to pick and choose where to push my luck.  

That year everyone made it down the hill safe and sound.  Before the day was out we were taking running starts, shooting off the jumps, skimming the walls...I even went down backwards on the double tube.  

So when my friends little sister, who also noticed the brown patches and glistening snow, asked if this was OK and relatively safe I answered of course.  I wouldn't be there if it wasn't.  I suggested we watch a few people go down the hill so she could see for herself.

The first two people we watched went down no problem.  Then a small girl from our group went down the second lane.  She took off like a bullet but instead of skimming the side wall she was climbing up it...backwards and she was letting go of the tube.  She sailed into the sky.  Spun.  Separated completely from her tube.  Crashed into the ground below.  Bounced once.  Landed again and didn't move.

I looked around and there was no one but myself and my friend's sister whose eyes were now bigger than dinner plates.

Her- Is she ok?
Me- (taking another peek down the hill) Probably not.
Her- What do we do?
Me- I don't know if anyone down there can see her.

That was when I realized what the problem was...the snow had melted earlier and now a sheen of ice covered the lanes. Thankfully someone down there saw what happened and was able to help her up and off the lane.  Both the first and bunny lanes were muddied out so we could only choose between the middle two lanes.  After explaining the ice situation and the need to drag legs and keep slow we decided the second lane was still our best bet.  She wanted to go first.  She went right down the middle, no problem, and now I was alone at the top.  No other way down.  I grabbed my tube, hugged it tight and went down the slope.

I couldn't believe how fast I was picking up speed and I was heading for the side wall.  I dragged my legs but they just bounced uselessly off the hard snow like a pebble skimming the surface of a pond.  For one fleeting second, as my tube climbed up the side wall, I thought about letting go. I was pretty sure I was going for a flight anyways, maybe bailing early was a good idea. Thankfully I held on and gravity prevailed.

When I reached bottom I could tell my legs were banged up.  Half the group didn't notice the big fall or the icy conditions and continued to tube.  The other half were sitting it out for a few.  Most had bruised legs like I did.  The girl who fell said her head and back hurt but that she was fine. When the rest of the group noticed our absence they found us on the benches.  There was less than an hour of tube time left, we decided to wait it out while the others enjoyed a few more runs.

A few minutes later a tuber staggered by with his lower face looking like something out of a horror movie.

A few minutes after that our group checked in again, assuring us that they had seen no one else get hurt.  It was just a little more slippery than usual.  Aghast at what we had just witnessed we opted to stay put while they took a final run.

It was night of the living dead in scarves and mittens out there.  One by one another injured tuber limped, hobbled or crawled by.  All mumbling about ice, flying and pain.

Snow tubing is fun, ice tubing...not so much.  We're going again this year, I'll let you all know how it goes.

Santa Claus just knows stuff

Santa Claus, jolly old Saint Nick, Father Christmas.
He's climbing in your windows,
he's snatching your milk and cookies up...

I've always been creeped out by the 'he knows if you are sleeping, he knows if you're awake' business.  Nowadays maybe not so much. But back then, without modern technology,  Santa had to be little more than a glorified Peeping Tom.

My parents said that adults everywhere have access to a top secret phone line to the North pole and that when you are naughty they rat you out.

Its a 24/7/363 call center manned by high strung, morally pristine elves who lack any real world perspective on the great grey divide between actual naughty and truly nice. Some otherwise well meaning adult tells on you for not eating your green beans and the easily shocked elf on the line translates that as tantamount to kicking cats and robbing banks. Instant bad kid list.

But how about when no one is watching?  How does Santa find out then?  There has to be a supernatural element to Santa Claus, an omniscience that can be explained no other way.  Santa just knows stuff.  He reads your thoughts.

When attempting the annual seat on Santa's lap it is important to clear your mind.  Naughty thoughts and greedy thoughts must be stuffed way down deep; your mind must be a blank slate.  It is like passing through the sphinx gates to the southern oracle in The Neverending Story.

One impure thought and the reindeer eyes open and you are TOAST!

I usually cannot completely clear my thoughts, instead I would think things like:

"I hope my little brother Dwight gets better, more fun toys than I do."
"I'd be satisfied with even the smallest of Transformers, there are starving children in Africa."
"World peace.  No toys, just peace, I'll get by."

After a few beard tugging incidents my parents explained that Santa Claus has to work through surrogates at the malls and office parties.  He simply cannot personally attend each event. Santa is a busy man.

Pop was a steel welder at a factory. The surrogate Santa at his office party looked like he was in a motorcycle gang and the elves all had overly long arms.

I didn't want to get within snatching distance of those freakishly long arms so I asked the old man if I could skip the lap bit.  Why bother with the surrogates?  If Santa knows whether I behave or not, then he also knows exactly what I want for Christmas. I was assured that it was merely a symbolic gesture and that Mom wanted a picture and if she didn't get one see might telephone the elves.

I tried to duck under the twig-like fingers of the lanky elf but he caught me anyway and placed me on  surrogate Santa's lap.  The man had a voice like a bear roaring down a tunnel made of sandpaper.  He asked what I wanted for Christmas and I froze up. This had to be some mistake.  I looked out at the old man and shook my head.  He wasn't supposed to ask.  I'm just here for the photo. 

Surrogate Santa frowned and asked again.  Mortified, I rapid fire rattled off the names of every toy I could think of.  When I ran out of breath I gasped in terror.  What had I done? No one asks for EVERYTHING.

This was bad.  I was practically begging for coal.  My tiny mind whirled.  I tried to strike up a conversation about school.  I asked about the magical snowmen.  I even tried asking what he wanted for Christmas.

As the elf pulled me away I squirmed around and in desperation shouted one last thing.  I told the surrogate Santa my name was Dwight. 

Now all I had to do was find a certain telephone number...