With apologies to A.E. Housman
The time you won this town the game
We cheered your skills and praised your name;
Painted men stood cheering by,
And owner Ralph said you're his guy.
To-day, the road all true fans come,
Shoulder-high we send you home,
Once your family's settled down,
We'll pack a truck that's leaving town.
Smart lad, pink slip sends you away
From fields where All-Pros would not play,
And while resentment here did grow
Now you are free from shock jock shows.
Your sunglasses could never shield
Embarrassments upon the field,
Tho' angry shouts replaced the cheers,
Now media you need not fear:
No more must you withstand the rout
With lads whose contracts soon run out,
And DBs who were oft outran;
Coordinators lacking plans.
So go, the echoes long have faded,
Your effigy no more paraded,
Once your contract's been torn up
You may pursue the North's Grey Cup!
And past your New Era-capped head
We'll run to flog Perry instead,
And hope to hear within the hour
A long-term contract with Bill Cowher.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Never Gonna Give You Up
Marissa’s crying. Uh-oh. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room, Daddy.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to leave your purpilicious room until you’re much, much older.”
The tears start to flow. “But I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room!” Shoulders are heaving, nose is running.
“You’re gonna have to leave your room to go to kindergarten next year. You can’t stay in your room all day.”
“I know that Daddy. But I always want to play with my ponies in my purpilicious room. I want to take my clothes out of my dresser. And I always want to go to bed in my purpilicious room.
I hear what sounds like a puma clambering up the stairs, something lithe and swift and ready to pounce. It’s Stephanie. “What’s wrong up here?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mommy. Marissa doesn’t want to leave her room.”
“She needs a bath. Marissa, you need a bath.”
“I know I need a bath.”
“What’s the matter with you, then?”
“I don’t want to leave my purpilicious room, Mommy!” Tears are gushing now.
“What is she talking about.”
“She doesn’t want to leave her room.”
Frown. “I got that part. What does it mean?”
“I think it means she doesn’t ever want to move out of the house.”
“Where did that come from? What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything to her. I brought her upstairs, told her to put her clothes in the hamper, and she started on this.”
“Marissa, you don’t have to leave your room for a long, long, long time. You don’t have to leave until you’re in college.”
“But I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Daddy, she’s tired. She got up early, went to preschool, and then she was playing with Gianna all day.”
“I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Sweetie, you don’t ever have to leave, ever. You can stay in Daddy’s house forever. You can watch our TV, you can eat at our dining room table, and you can sleep in your purpilicious room. And when you have a baby, we’ll put the cradle in your room, and you and your baby can sleep together in here. All right?”
Sniff sniff. “Awright.”
“Go read her a book, Daddy.”
“How ‘bout Oh, the Places You’ll Go?”
“Funny, Daddy.”
“I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room, Daddy.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to leave your purpilicious room until you’re much, much older.”
The tears start to flow. “But I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room!” Shoulders are heaving, nose is running.
“You’re gonna have to leave your room to go to kindergarten next year. You can’t stay in your room all day.”
“I know that Daddy. But I always want to play with my ponies in my purpilicious room. I want to take my clothes out of my dresser. And I always want to go to bed in my purpilicious room.
I hear what sounds like a puma clambering up the stairs, something lithe and swift and ready to pounce. It’s Stephanie. “What’s wrong up here?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mommy. Marissa doesn’t want to leave her room.”
“She needs a bath. Marissa, you need a bath.”
“I know I need a bath.”
“What’s the matter with you, then?”
“I don’t want to leave my purpilicious room, Mommy!” Tears are gushing now.
“What is she talking about.”
“She doesn’t want to leave her room.”
Frown. “I got that part. What does it mean?”
“I think it means she doesn’t ever want to move out of the house.”
“Where did that come from? What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything to her. I brought her upstairs, told her to put her clothes in the hamper, and she started on this.”
“Marissa, you don’t have to leave your room for a long, long, long time. You don’t have to leave until you’re in college.”
“But I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Daddy, she’s tired. She got up early, went to preschool, and then she was playing with Gianna all day.”
“I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Sweetie, you don’t ever have to leave, ever. You can stay in Daddy’s house forever. You can watch our TV, you can eat at our dining room table, and you can sleep in your purpilicious room. And when you have a baby, we’ll put the cradle in your room, and you and your baby can sleep together in here. All right?”
Sniff sniff. “Awright.”
“Go read her a book, Daddy.”
“How ‘bout Oh, the Places You’ll Go?”
“Funny, Daddy.”
Monday, August 24, 2009
Coffee's for Closers
“Hi, may I help you?”
“Yes, I need a new phone for my wife. We’re just looking for something simple, and when she was in here yesterday, she saw…”
“Well, we have this nice iPhone over here, it has email, video and MP3 playback, a high-resolution camera, a full keyboard, an appointment scheduler...”
“Yeah, well, that’s nice, but she just needs a phone for calls and texts.”
“Oh. I see. That’s too bad, because this phone over here is a next-generation unit, where she could send emails, check the weather, keep her appointments.”
“We just want a regular phone, nothing fancy. What about this one over here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That phone’s really out of date, last generation. The quality isn’t that good, and…”
“But you’re still selling it, right? It works, right?”
“It’s OK.”
“Well, that’s what I want.”
“OK.” Sighs heavily. “How can we help your wife maximize the productivity of this phone? How about a phone charger or a Bluetooth?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Really? We’ve got a law in this state that you gotta be hands-free when you’re driving. It’s really convenient when you’re wife is late or in a hurry.”
“You know her well.”
“And you don’t always get a chance to recharge the phone before heading out the door for dance lessons or the baseball game.”
“Seriously, we’re good. So I can get this phone for $9.95? That’s what it says here.”
Squints at sign. “Well, that’s what it says, but let me check. Hmm, I’m sorry. You need to have a $20 text or data plan.”
“Sounds good to me. I have an unlimited texting plan.”
“No, you have to buy a new service or bundle that adds up to an additional $20 a month or more.”
“Really. How much without the discount?”
“$39.95.”
“That'll work. We'll go that way, then.”
“How about a telephone protection plan?”
“A what?”
“A telephone protection plan. If something happens to your phone, we’ll replace it for a nominal fee.”
“Is that like life insurance for my phone?”
Smiles. “Exactly.”
Smiles. “No thanks. I think Obama’s gonna cover that in his health plan.”
Smile turns to frown. “OK, then, but if this phone gets lost or damaged, it will cost $200 to replace it.”
“Two hundred dollars? For this phone? A last generation phone without a keyboard that won’t do email or let you check the Web for weather?”
“That's correct, sir.”
“Still don’t want it.”
“Here you go. Now, if you get a phone call asking about the assistance I provided to you today, I would like you to feel comfortable giving me a five, the highest rating. Is there anything else I can do for you today that would help me get that five?”
“Besides trying to tell me a phone I don’t want and accessories I won’t use, badmouthing the phone I actually have an interest in , telling me I can get a $30 discount only if I agree to spend an additional $500 over the next two years, and then tell me it will cost $200 – the retail price of a notebook computer – to replace my last-generation, no email, no weather, no appointments phone?
Narrows eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“How about a moist towelette? For some reason, I feel dirty.”
“Yes, I need a new phone for my wife. We’re just looking for something simple, and when she was in here yesterday, she saw…”
“Well, we have this nice iPhone over here, it has email, video and MP3 playback, a high-resolution camera, a full keyboard, an appointment scheduler...”
“Yeah, well, that’s nice, but she just needs a phone for calls and texts.”
“Oh. I see. That’s too bad, because this phone over here is a next-generation unit, where she could send emails, check the weather, keep her appointments.”
“We just want a regular phone, nothing fancy. What about this one over here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That phone’s really out of date, last generation. The quality isn’t that good, and…”
“But you’re still selling it, right? It works, right?”
“It’s OK.”
“Well, that’s what I want.”
“OK.” Sighs heavily. “How can we help your wife maximize the productivity of this phone? How about a phone charger or a Bluetooth?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Really? We’ve got a law in this state that you gotta be hands-free when you’re driving. It’s really convenient when you’re wife is late or in a hurry.”
“You know her well.”
“And you don’t always get a chance to recharge the phone before heading out the door for dance lessons or the baseball game.”
“Seriously, we’re good. So I can get this phone for $9.95? That’s what it says here.”
Squints at sign. “Well, that’s what it says, but let me check. Hmm, I’m sorry. You need to have a $20 text or data plan.”
“Sounds good to me. I have an unlimited texting plan.”
“No, you have to buy a new service or bundle that adds up to an additional $20 a month or more.”
“Really. How much without the discount?”
“$39.95.”
“That'll work. We'll go that way, then.”
“How about a telephone protection plan?”
“A what?”
“A telephone protection plan. If something happens to your phone, we’ll replace it for a nominal fee.”
“Is that like life insurance for my phone?”
Smiles. “Exactly.”
Smiles. “No thanks. I think Obama’s gonna cover that in his health plan.”
Smile turns to frown. “OK, then, but if this phone gets lost or damaged, it will cost $200 to replace it.”
“Two hundred dollars? For this phone? A last generation phone without a keyboard that won’t do email or let you check the Web for weather?”
“That's correct, sir.”
“Still don’t want it.”
“Here you go. Now, if you get a phone call asking about the assistance I provided to you today, I would like you to feel comfortable giving me a five, the highest rating. Is there anything else I can do for you today that would help me get that five?”
“Besides trying to tell me a phone I don’t want and accessories I won’t use, badmouthing the phone I actually have an interest in , telling me I can get a $30 discount only if I agree to spend an additional $500 over the next two years, and then tell me it will cost $200 – the retail price of a notebook computer – to replace my last-generation, no email, no weather, no appointments phone?
Narrows eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“How about a moist towelette? For some reason, I feel dirty.”
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Just Like Me, They Long to Be, Close to You
Marissa and I almost hit a deer today.
She bounded out at us near Tonawanda Creek as we were traveling to Mucka's house.
Mucka is the name my mother-in-law assigned herself when her first grandchildren were born. I've always insisted she did so to avoid being called "Grandma," which would make it seem like she was old.
Anyway, we were cruising along minding our own business when I heard a rustling from the brush at the side of the road. All of a sudden, boom! There she was, a full grown female, clambering up onto the road.
I didn't have time to hit the brakes, but fortunately I didn't need to. The deer was in no mood to linger, and she skittered across the road and disappeared into the brush at the other side.
It's a good thing we didn't plow into this deer. It was the biggest damn deer I've ever seen up close.
Besides, Marissa and I were on a bicycle.
She bounded out at us near Tonawanda Creek as we were traveling to Mucka's house.
Mucka is the name my mother-in-law assigned herself when her first grandchildren were born. I've always insisted she did so to avoid being called "Grandma," which would make it seem like she was old.
Anyway, we were cruising along minding our own business when I heard a rustling from the brush at the side of the road. All of a sudden, boom! There she was, a full grown female, clambering up onto the road.
I didn't have time to hit the brakes, but fortunately I didn't need to. The deer was in no mood to linger, and she skittered across the road and disappeared into the brush at the other side.
It's a good thing we didn't plow into this deer. It was the biggest damn deer I've ever seen up close.
Besides, Marissa and I were on a bicycle.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Dance, Little Sister
"Where are you?"
"Uh, I'm in the truck. Where are you?"
"We're here at the school, and we can't find the Snow Princess."
"She should be there. What school are you at, anyway?"
"Sweet Home High School."
"Is that the one on Sweet Home Road?"
"Yeah."
"You're at the wrong school. The recital is at Sweet Home Middle School, on Maple."
"Dammit! Good-bye!"
* * * * * * * * *
Thus began Marissa's Dance Recital, a gathering of about a hundred girls ages four to 18, each performing for five minutes while forcing their fathers to fidget in their seats nervously for the other 2-1/2 hours they're not on stage.
I know what to do at a sporting event. When your kid's at bat or on the football field, you focus on your kid. When your kid is on the sideline or in the dugout, you watch the ball.
Tell me, where am I supposed to focus at a dance recital when my Little Princess is not on stage? Do I stare at the best dancer and risk being accused of leering unseemingly? Or do I stare at the worst dancer and risk being accused of insensitivity?
Heaven help me if I leaf through the program; that makes me look like I'm ready to leave.
Last year, I entertained myself by texting my sister during the performance:
"The male dance teacher is doing a solo. I think grandpa just swallowed his tongue."
"How can you call this thing a dance recital if there isn't a brass pole?"
"I think we call that one The Can't-Can't."
* * * * * * * * *
The curtain pulled back, the stage lights came up, and a squeal erupted from the audience. It was time for the Little Princess' dance crew, a collection of six little princesses all five years and under teetering out to their starting positions on the stage.
Shirley Temple started belting out "On the good ship, Lollipop...", and in unison, all the girls looked to the left side of the stage and tentatively started their routine. You could tell that they knew what to do, they just didn't know when they were supposed to do it. You could almost see the lightbulbs going off over the girls' perfectly coiffed heads as they realized "Oh, that's what I'm supposed to do."
"What are they looking at?" someone in our group asked.
"Their teacher. She's standing off to the side."
Four minutes later, the music wrapped up. The girls attempted to curtsy -- awkward as it is in their brand-new costumes -- and then scampered off the stage to the roars of the crowd.
* * * * * * * * *
"Excuse me, sir."
She can't be talking to me. Nobody calls me sir.
"Sir, excuse me."
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a headset shaking her head at me. Geez, woman, how much trouble could I get into this sober? "Yes?"
"You can't be back here."
"I just came back here to see my Little Princess. She was in the second number, and she won't be going back out there until the..."
"That's OK. You still can't be back here. According to state law, this is technically a women's changing room, so it's illegal for you to be back here."
I stared at her for a minute and started walking for the door. "I didn't see a sign. Was there a sign?"
"Thank you, sir." Slam!
* * * * * * * * *
Everybody gets flowers at a dance recital. The Little Princess got a bouquet, of course, and you won't get any dispute from me. So did her teacher, the 17-year-old who got paid minimum wage to try to teach six five-year-olds how to dance in unison, more or less, and then had to listen to the six mothers of the five-year-olds complain about how she went about it.
The owner of the dance joint? Even though we paid her a hundred bucks a month -- maybe more, I don't know, the Snow Princess hides the actual costs from me -- and even though she was struggling under the weight of enough flowers to pay for the florist's condo at Myrtle Beach for the Fourth of July holiday weekend, we had to give her flowers too.
"Here you go!" Marissa said excitedly as she shoved the flowers at the owner.
"Mmph. Thanks, Jordan."
"It's Marissa."
"Of course it is. Thanks, Marissa! See you in the fall!"
Grrrr.
"Uh, I'm in the truck. Where are you?"
"We're here at the school, and we can't find the Snow Princess."
"She should be there. What school are you at, anyway?"
"Sweet Home High School."
"Is that the one on Sweet Home Road?"
"Yeah."
"You're at the wrong school. The recital is at Sweet Home Middle School, on Maple."
"Dammit! Good-bye!"
* * * * * * * * *
Thus began Marissa's Dance Recital, a gathering of about a hundred girls ages four to 18, each performing for five minutes while forcing their fathers to fidget in their seats nervously for the other 2-1/2 hours they're not on stage.
I know what to do at a sporting event. When your kid's at bat or on the football field, you focus on your kid. When your kid is on the sideline or in the dugout, you watch the ball.
Tell me, where am I supposed to focus at a dance recital when my Little Princess is not on stage? Do I stare at the best dancer and risk being accused of leering unseemingly? Or do I stare at the worst dancer and risk being accused of insensitivity?
Heaven help me if I leaf through the program; that makes me look like I'm ready to leave.
Last year, I entertained myself by texting my sister during the performance:
"The male dance teacher is doing a solo. I think grandpa just swallowed his tongue."
"How can you call this thing a dance recital if there isn't a brass pole?"
"I think we call that one The Can't-Can't."
* * * * * * * * *
The curtain pulled back, the stage lights came up, and a squeal erupted from the audience. It was time for the Little Princess' dance crew, a collection of six little princesses all five years and under teetering out to their starting positions on the stage.
Shirley Temple started belting out "On the good ship, Lollipop...", and in unison, all the girls looked to the left side of the stage and tentatively started their routine. You could tell that they knew what to do, they just didn't know when they were supposed to do it. You could almost see the lightbulbs going off over the girls' perfectly coiffed heads as they realized "Oh, that's what I'm supposed to do."
"What are they looking at?" someone in our group asked.
"Their teacher. She's standing off to the side."
Four minutes later, the music wrapped up. The girls attempted to curtsy -- awkward as it is in their brand-new costumes -- and then scampered off the stage to the roars of the crowd.
* * * * * * * * *
"Excuse me, sir."
She can't be talking to me. Nobody calls me sir.
"Sir, excuse me."
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a headset shaking her head at me. Geez, woman, how much trouble could I get into this sober? "Yes?"
"You can't be back here."
"I just came back here to see my Little Princess. She was in the second number, and she won't be going back out there until the..."
"That's OK. You still can't be back here. According to state law, this is technically a women's changing room, so it's illegal for you to be back here."
I stared at her for a minute and started walking for the door. "I didn't see a sign. Was there a sign?"
"Thank you, sir." Slam!
* * * * * * * * *
Everybody gets flowers at a dance recital. The Little Princess got a bouquet, of course, and you won't get any dispute from me. So did her teacher, the 17-year-old who got paid minimum wage to try to teach six five-year-olds how to dance in unison, more or less, and then had to listen to the six mothers of the five-year-olds complain about how she went about it.
The owner of the dance joint? Even though we paid her a hundred bucks a month -- maybe more, I don't know, the Snow Princess hides the actual costs from me -- and even though she was struggling under the weight of enough flowers to pay for the florist's condo at Myrtle Beach for the Fourth of July holiday weekend, we had to give her flowers too.
"Here you go!" Marissa said excitedly as she shoved the flowers at the owner.
"Mmph. Thanks, Jordan."
"It's Marissa."
"Of course it is. Thanks, Marissa! See you in the fall!"
Grrrr.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Whatever
What does it mean when I say whatever? Whatever means stop, I heard you.
Whatever means I want you to cease with the pitch, your salesmanship is not working.
Whatever means I've heard what you had to say, I've processed it, and I've decided that anything else you have to say is just going to be endless variations on a theme.
Whatever means while you have gone to great length to state your position, it is, after all, your position, and one where you're just trying to get me to do something that benefits you.
Whatever means I fail to see what's in it for me, and while that may be selfish or narcissistic, the only person in the conversation we just had who is going to look out for my interests is, after all, me.
Whatever means I respect you enough to say "whatever," when I could just as easily smile, nod my head, and then walk away, as I would do if I trusted you less.
Whatever means it's time to go back to work and I'll probably do it anyway; just stop trying to convince me that I stand to benefit too.
Whatever is not about you. Whatever is how I protect myself, keep myself sane.
Whatever means "yes, but."
Now go away before I say no.
Whatever means I want you to cease with the pitch, your salesmanship is not working.
Whatever means I've heard what you had to say, I've processed it, and I've decided that anything else you have to say is just going to be endless variations on a theme.
Whatever means while you have gone to great length to state your position, it is, after all, your position, and one where you're just trying to get me to do something that benefits you.
Whatever means I fail to see what's in it for me, and while that may be selfish or narcissistic, the only person in the conversation we just had who is going to look out for my interests is, after all, me.
Whatever means I respect you enough to say "whatever," when I could just as easily smile, nod my head, and then walk away, as I would do if I trusted you less.
Whatever means it's time to go back to work and I'll probably do it anyway; just stop trying to convince me that I stand to benefit too.
Whatever is not about you. Whatever is how I protect myself, keep myself sane.
Whatever means "yes, but."
Now go away before I say no.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm"
Fact 1:
"In 2008, total national health expenditures were expected to rise 6.9 percent -- two times the rate of inflation. Total spending was $2.4 TRILLION in 2007, or $7900 per person. Total health care spending represented 17 percent of the gross domestic product (GDP). U.S. health care spending is expected to increase at similar levels for the next decade reaching $4.3 TRILLION in 2017, or 20 percent of GDP." -- National Coalition on Health Care
Fact 2:
"Find out if you qualify for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter at Little or No Cost to You!"
The SCOOTER Store is America's number one provider of power chairs and scooters for one simple reason - we make it easier for you to use your Medicare benefit to help you get the mobility you need. Medicare could cover 80% of the cost of your new power chair or scooter. And if you have supplemental insurance, it may cover the remaining 20%. That means the mobility you need could cost you little to nothing!-- The Scooter Store
Retail cost for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter: $1,395 to $6,700.
These two facts are not even remotely related, I'm sure.
"In 2008, total national health expenditures were expected to rise 6.9 percent -- two times the rate of inflation. Total spending was $2.4 TRILLION in 2007, or $7900 per person. Total health care spending represented 17 percent of the gross domestic product (GDP). U.S. health care spending is expected to increase at similar levels for the next decade reaching $4.3 TRILLION in 2017, or 20 percent of GDP." -- National Coalition on Health Care
Fact 2:
"Find out if you qualify for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter at Little or No Cost to You!"
The SCOOTER Store is America's number one provider of power chairs and scooters for one simple reason - we make it easier for you to use your Medicare benefit to help you get the mobility you need. Medicare could cover 80% of the cost of your new power chair or scooter. And if you have supplemental insurance, it may cover the remaining 20%. That means the mobility you need could cost you little to nothing!-- The Scooter Store
Retail cost for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter: $1,395 to $6,700.
These two facts are not even remotely related, I'm sure.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tramps Like Us, Baby We Were Born to Run
Why I like running:
1. It's a break in the middle of the workday.
2. I love the smell of sunscreen in the morning.
3. My lungs feel amazingly clear lately, and I can see the inches melting off my mid-section
4. I can catch up on podcasts.
5. It's a thrill to run under planes as they land at the Buffalo-Niagara Airport a few hundred yards away.
6. Human beings were meant to be outside in the sun, not hiding in a cave staring at screen turning on and off 70 times a second.
7. It's an excuse for me to forego the non-fat salad dressing, diet soda, and the like. "I ran today, I can eat what I want."
8. A little sweat never hurt anyone. Neither did a lot of sweat.
9. I crave a little alone time in my day to order my thoughts.
10. Clif bars taste awesome, especially the carrot cake flavor.
Why I hate running:
1. I loathe the actual running part of running.
1. It's a break in the middle of the workday.
2. I love the smell of sunscreen in the morning.
3. My lungs feel amazingly clear lately, and I can see the inches melting off my mid-section
4. I can catch up on podcasts.
5. It's a thrill to run under planes as they land at the Buffalo-Niagara Airport a few hundred yards away.
6. Human beings were meant to be outside in the sun, not hiding in a cave staring at screen turning on and off 70 times a second.
7. It's an excuse for me to forego the non-fat salad dressing, diet soda, and the like. "I ran today, I can eat what I want."
8. A little sweat never hurt anyone. Neither did a lot of sweat.
9. I crave a little alone time in my day to order my thoughts.
10. Clif bars taste awesome, especially the carrot cake flavor.
Why I hate running:
1. I loathe the actual running part of running.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
See Me
On the way home tonight, the sun is blazing on the Main Street campus of Erie Community College, a maze of one-story buildings on an oversized city block surrounded by a sea of asphalt and athletic fields.
I cut past the campus on an access road next to the parking lots to avoid traffic lights and the corresponding logjam at quitting time, especially with all the road construction in the immediate vicinity.
As I zip along, I glance to my left to see a weight bench on the grass near the baseball field. Hmm, that's odd.
Not quite odd enough. The leg lift is loaded with free weights, a barbell is positioned next to it, and there's a dude, shirt off, stretching next to a pickup truck.
Got it. The basement is a vast disappointment, and the gym does not present the appropriate platform. No, for this guy, the only way to make a proper spectacle of himself is to load up his bench and weights in the back of the pickup, haul them down to the community college, and unload them behind the outfield fence so everyone can get an eyeful.
Well played, my good sir. Well played, indeed.
I cut past the campus on an access road next to the parking lots to avoid traffic lights and the corresponding logjam at quitting time, especially with all the road construction in the immediate vicinity.
As I zip along, I glance to my left to see a weight bench on the grass near the baseball field. Hmm, that's odd.
Not quite odd enough. The leg lift is loaded with free weights, a barbell is positioned next to it, and there's a dude, shirt off, stretching next to a pickup truck.
Got it. The basement is a vast disappointment, and the gym does not present the appropriate platform. No, for this guy, the only way to make a proper spectacle of himself is to load up his bench and weights in the back of the pickup, haul them down to the community college, and unload them behind the outfield fence so everyone can get an eyeful.
Well played, my good sir. Well played, indeed.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Too Much Time on My Hands
Given the whole of human history, exercise is such an extremely odd phenomenon.
For many of us, the task of living our everyday lives is not physically demanding enough, so we have to spend thousands on proper equipment and admission to special social clubs in order to voluntarily torture our bodies into shape.
How could you possibly explain this to someone from the time Jesus walked the earth, or the Civil War, or even World World II?
"You see, Mr. Caveman, and, ha-ha, this is the funny part, we really don't have to work anymore throughout the vast majority of our lives. We don't have to track, hunt, kill or butcher animals for food; we just lift it out of the freezer case.
"We don't even have to chop and haul wood, nor do we have to labor to start fires; we just push a button in our house, er, cave."
Isn't it patently ridiculous what many of us spend to have someone else show us how to work? Pilates? Spinning class? Step aerobics? The sweaty dividends fueled by a desire to look and feel healthy all went by other names previously: laundry, cooking, cleaning, hunting, farming, splitting wood.
I have an awful lot of respect for anyone who performs physical labor to earn a living these days., and it's why shows like "Dirty Jobs" and "Ax Men" are doing well on cable. It's been so long since many of us have seen work that brings sweat to one's brow, it's impossible to take our eyes off it when we come across it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop a couple Advil. My calves are sore after my jog today because my orthotics didn't provide adequate support for my elongated stride.
Sigh.
For many of us, the task of living our everyday lives is not physically demanding enough, so we have to spend thousands on proper equipment and admission to special social clubs in order to voluntarily torture our bodies into shape.
How could you possibly explain this to someone from the time Jesus walked the earth, or the Civil War, or even World World II?
"You see, Mr. Caveman, and, ha-ha, this is the funny part, we really don't have to work anymore throughout the vast majority of our lives. We don't have to track, hunt, kill or butcher animals for food; we just lift it out of the freezer case.
"We don't even have to chop and haul wood, nor do we have to labor to start fires; we just push a button in our house, er, cave."
Isn't it patently ridiculous what many of us spend to have someone else show us how to work? Pilates? Spinning class? Step aerobics? The sweaty dividends fueled by a desire to look and feel healthy all went by other names previously: laundry, cooking, cleaning, hunting, farming, splitting wood.
I have an awful lot of respect for anyone who performs physical labor to earn a living these days., and it's why shows like "Dirty Jobs" and "Ax Men" are doing well on cable. It's been so long since many of us have seen work that brings sweat to one's brow, it's impossible to take our eyes off it when we come across it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop a couple Advil. My calves are sore after my jog today because my orthotics didn't provide adequate support for my elongated stride.
Sigh.
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