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I want to look good naked

13 Mar

Sure, exercise could extend my life, fight off depression and all kinds of other positive things, but I exercise for the same reason you do: to look good naked. And that’s not easy to do at 41.

American Beauty is one of my favorite movies. What? I’m insane? I wouldn’t know a good movie if it crawled up my what?  Just watch the clip or at least read the dialogue.

Lester Burnhan: I figured you guys might be able to give me some pointers. I need to shape up. Fast.

Jim Olmeyer: Are you just looking to lose weight, or do you want increased strength and flexibility as well?

Lester Burnham: I want to look good naked.

I’ve been attending an hour-long YMCA class appropriately called “Boot Camp.” It’s clear I’m not in the best shape of my life, but it feels like I’ve found the proper motivation to hold me to a proper, enduring exercise routine, something I struggle with during the cold months.

The best thing about Boot Camp is that I can’t lie down and take a nap after ten minutes, which is what I’d do at home if I planned my own sixty minute exercise routine. In the group class we have a fit instructor guiding us, urging us to “push it.” We feed off of each other’s energy and determination. We smell (and slip) on each other’s sweat and tears. We motivate each other.

I have none of that at home. It’s hard to find motivation at home when you have couches and cookies and computers and books and pillows everywhere. If I’m sweating at home, give me some heavy blankets and drugs because I have the goddam flu. And if there’s someone in my house shouting instructions, that just means my wife’s home from work.

“Scrub that floor! Come on now, don’t stop! I know you can do it. Push it! Push it!”

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Psoriasis of the Inner Glove

20 Oct

While walking the dogs last week, on four consecutive days we passed an abandoned glove in the middle of the road. Each day it seemed to move closer to the curb, closer to our side of the street. I didn’t pay much attention to it.

Until Friday. I saw it was a Seirus glove. I bought a pair of Seirus gloves at Sports Authority last year. They’re expensive. And nice. I picked it  up and looked it over. This glove was a step fancier than mine. It was thicker. I wondered if its owner was mourning the loss. I would be. I pictured some random dude out running, trying to get in shape with his fancy new gloves. But his hands get warm so he tucks his fancy gloves into a pocket. Then one falls out and is left behind, probably lifting a limp finger going “Waaaait, you dropped me!”

I’ve jogged outdoors dozens of times with gloves. I would notice if one went missing. I stood there admiring it wondering why the dude hadn’t come looking for his dang glove. I glanced around for people before slipping in on my left hand. Perfect fit. I looked around again. Am I being set up for an appearance on What Would You Do? Granted, it would be the crappiest scenario ever, but I’m paranoid like that.

Okay, you’re probably wondering why I wanted the stupid glove in the first place. They come in pairs, dummy! Well, this new glove would be an upgrade on my left hand. Sure it would be nice to have matching gloves, but I’m the type of guy who can comfortably wear mismatching gloves. My right pant leg doesn’t necessarily have to match my left. The left side of my head is superior to the right and I’m fine with that. No cosmetic surgery needed.

Besides, if I don’t take the glove it will just sit there in the gutter and rot. Eventually, someone will rake it up with some leaves and burn it or send it off with the city lawn refuse collectors.

I slipped my hand out of it and stuffed it into my hoodie pocket. Do you you know that feeling you get when you buy something awesome? Well, I experienced a little more than half of that feeling the moment I resumed our walk. I had just acquired a kick-ass glove for jogging and biking.

The only thing that could go wrong would be if the mystery runner returns, retracing his route, looking for the missing glove. Maybe he suffered a stroke after that run. My god!–what if he dropped from a heart attack right where I first saw the glove? Who cares about a glove–no matter how fancy it is–when your heart has just stopped functioning. Did I just steal a glove from a dead man? Of course, I’ll never find out what happened, so the best thing to do is to just forget about it.

I’ve worn my new glove five times. It’s, by far, my favorite glove. And I have, like, six pairs.

Update: I wrote the above and forgot about it until this week. I biked to Glen Carbon for my annual appointment with my dermatologist. (She prescribed me Tazorac, not for acne, but to make me look 15 years younger; it erases sun damage. By the way, I found this on WebMD in case you’re considering this stuff: Do not apply the medication in the eyes, eyelids, or mouth, or inside the vagina. I found this odd considering it’s use. But then I saw it’s also used to treat psoriasis. So I searched Google Images for “psoriasis of the inner theigh.” Don’t click on that link because there are some disturbing images, some unrelated to psoriasis. But now I understand the warning. And I hope to god I never get psoriasis. )

On the way home I zipped past another abandoned glove. This was on busy and fast Illinois Route 159, so I figured nobody was going to return for it. And I didn’t have time to stand around pondering the situation like before, so I grabbed it, put it on, and pedaled away. Another freakin’ left-handed glove! (I think the law of averages will kick in so when I have found my 100th lost glove, I should have a near 50-50 split.)

Unfortunately, it’s a bit large, but it’s a nice glove, probably marketed as some type of work glove. The next time I pick up a shovel or rake, my left hand will be protected from blisters.

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Some Randomness and then “Why You Should Use a Bicycle for Transportation”

2 Oct

Do you see the stuffed opossum finger puppet down there? Okay, how about the salad spinner down a little further? Everything between the opossum and the salad spinner I wrote yesterday. Unfortunately, it was giving off a “this all sucks” vibe, so I slammed my laptop lid and walked away from it. Today I wrote everything before the opossum and after the salad spinner. (And don’t think for a second that I believe what I wrote today is better than yesterday.)

Right now I’m in Sacred Grounds–or what we call The Coffee Shop. A middle-age couple is to my right, up by the window, arguing about something. They’ve been at it for an hour.  Papers are scattered on their table along with a laptop. It’s absolutely killing me not knowing what’s going on between them. I can’t make out a single word they’re saying. Why can’t they yell like normal couples? Are they divorcing? They’re not arguing over who’s going to mop the kitchen tonight, that’s for sure; it’s something serious. Am I too nosy?

Two couples at a table in front of me are playing bridge. They’re older than the fighting pair. They’re getting along just peachy. I can hear most of what they’re saying, but it’s all boring. They all look happy. Probably because it’s 10:37 in the morning on a Tuesday and they’re in a coffee shop playing cards. I know nothing about bridge. I suspect I’m too young for that game.

But I have been spending an inordinate amount of my time playing Animal Planet “Go Fish.” Ainsley seems to be carrying the cards around with her all day. We played two games before bed last night and two more this morning before we rode off to school.

Ainsley’s school is 1.5 miles from our house. To begin the school year she was riding the bus back and forth, but we’ve switched over to riding our bikes instead. Why you ask? Why go to all that trouble when I can walk a few steps to the bus stop? Well, there’s several benefits and I’m going to clue you in on a few because I want you to get on a bike too.

  • Riding a bike everyday will become your Fountain of Youth. You might be old and creaky now, but after a month of daily riding, you’ll look and feel younger and you’ll probably weigh less than you did before. In 1513, Ponce de León went to what is now Florida in search of this legendary spring and didn’t find shit. Do you know why? Because he didn’t get there on a bicycle. Stop reading and go stand in front of a mirror. See how tired and pathetic you look? Mark the calendar and begin using your bicycle for errands. Get a rear rack and some panniers so you can carry some groceries. After a month of this, stand in front of the same mirror in the same light. See how much better you look? Yeah, you look decent now. Keep it up.
  • A bike ride obliterates bad moods. Today Ainsley was riding behind me when I decided to ride in some small, loose rocks on the side of the road. I came this close to losing control and eating pavement, but cat-like reflexes and balance saved me. I had planned to skid a little–a teeny bit–to provide some Monday morning humor for Ainsley, and it worked. She giggled as my heart pounded. It’s not that she wasn’t in a fine mood before. It’s the breeze on our faces. It’s our heart pumping faster, and our muscles working harder that provides an instant shot of happiness.
  • Every bike ride is an adventure. Friday on the way home from school, I passed what I thought was a piece of ribbon or rope. I didn’t even really look at it. Behind me, Ainsley yelled “There’s a snake in the road!” I said no way and she said “Yes,  turn around!” I said I didn’t see a snake and she said “Yes, turn around!” I stopped because I wanted to see this play out. If it was just a piece of black rope, it would be hilarious and we would laugh about it. We turned around and went back and there was a freakin’ garter snake in the middle of the road just sitting there all calm and relaxed. This was the first snake I’d seen all summer. (I guess I don’t hang out in weeds enough.) Anyway, this was a semi-busy road, so I used my front tire to convey “Get on over there in the grass before you get smushed little snakey.” On another day, Ainsley crashed into a hedge; it’s always something different.

I realize some people have less than two legs and are thinking “What’s wrong with this jackass, talking about riding a bicycle–like everyone has two legs.” And I apologize. For you I recommend a handcycle. Looks like fun. And I’ll bet you’ll have fabulously toned arms in, like, two weeks.

I also know some of you live out in the boonies where you’ll be mauled by a large animal if you venture more than ten feet from your front door. And if you live through the deadly attack, you’re looking at a twenty mile trip to Kroger. For you I suggest a Trek Madone 7.9. It’s light. It’s fast. And it costs $11,549.99. I know, that may sound a little high for a bike, but it’ll make the bear’s head spin and get you there and back so fast you’ll … I don’t know what you’ll do. Maybe you’ll just shrug, sit down, and drink some tea.

Ride on.

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Skunk Bustling in My Hedgerow

8 Sep

Today I got up at 4:30. It’s the best time of the day for me to write, run, bike, or any other type of exercise, including yoga. But this morning I was reminded of one downside of being outdoors so early: furry little creatures with sharp fangs and claws are still crawling around the neighborhood.

As I pedaled to the end of the driveway and paused for an approaching car, I saw something walking away from me, into the street. I thought it was either Timon from The Lion King or a primordial drawf because it seemed to be walking on its hind legs. But as the car came closer, the headlights showed me a fluffy white and black tail pointing to the sky. Skunk. It was probably chillin’ under our car as I rolled right past it. It could have reached out and shredded my ankles.

I don’t know much about skunks. I’m clueless about whether they always prance around with their tails up or if they only raise them when they’re pissed off at early birds like me. Do they squirt from under their tales or do they face their enemy, stand up on their hind legs, pull down their little skunk pants and squirt like a deranged man whizzing on a tree in a public park?

I can write with confidence that a skunk shower would have ruined my day. This afternoon I’ll be in St. Louis cheering on the New York Mets (The Mets did, in fact, beat the Cardinals). A severe beating would be in store if I showed up smelling of skunk wearing a Cubs hat hurling caustic insults at Matt Holliday (He didn’t even play). People around here already think Cubs fans are a little “off.” Some would even tell you–don’t believe them–we’re a bit smelly in general.

During early morning outings I’ve encountered foxes, cats, skunks, opossums, squirrels, moles, deer, and critters I couldn’t identify. And I live in DOWNTOWN Edwardsville, not out in the sticks. It would be different if it was like: “Oh look at that cute fox thirty yards away.” Instead, they sprint from nearby bushes, drop from trees in front of me, or are standing so still and inconspicuous that I almost run right up their ass.

This happened with a deer early this summer. I was jogging, not paying attention, just kind of watching the ground in front of me, when I suddenly noticed I was standing next to an unfazed deer. I could have ridden him home. Finally he looked at me and smiled–I swear it looked like it!–and bounded away and disappeared between a baseball diamond and the Children’s Museum.

And I forgot to mention the skunk-sized crows that get pissy when I’m outside early. They caw caw caw at me and pretend they’re itching to peck my face off. They sit low in trees I jog past and raise a big stink about my presence with their flapping and cawing before they fly off, leaving me with a dangerously elevated heart rate.

 * * *

Note: The above is all mock complaining. I even love skunks. I would even kiss a skunk if I knew I wouldn’t be sprayed. But not on the lips. Probably on the top of the head. So, yeah, it’s humans that are continuously encroaching on animals. So boo on us!

“They paved paradise to put up a parking lot”

- lyric from Joni Mitchell’s 1970 song “Big Yellow Taxi” recorded in 1970.

 

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This Post Smells Like Salmon!

4 Sep

Note: This post was written LAST week. Saturday morning, actually. I tell you this because today it’s sunny, dry, and hot and the remnants of Isaac have passed. Not that this matters, but that’s just how honest I am. I would never lie about the weather. That’s, you know, like a SIN … or something. 

What was Hurricane Isaac has reached Edwardsville. It’s dark and ominous outside where my bike is locked to a light pole. I’m sitting in Panera Bread with a mug of decaffeinated coffee. I know I’ll be rained on this morning, but I’m semi-prepared; I have an extra set of clothes. Also, I brought the lids to my kitty litter container panniers. So while I might get soaked down to my skivvies, the laptop, phone, iPod, clothes, and backpack will be dry.

I’m drinking “decaf” because earlier this summer I realized I was drinking more coffee than ever. Each day I held my hand up in front of my face and watched it vibrate. My mind raced. I jumped over cars. Not really on that last one, but I felt like I could. Caffeine is a socially accepted drug. It’s mostly harmless, of course, but I realized that I’d probably be better off without it.

So here I am, like a newborn baby: drug and alcohol free. No smoky, no drinky, no caffeiney. And yes that does include a ban on all caffeinated soda. Boring, right?

There’s nothing better, some would say, than a roaring drug habit to fuel my need for writing topics. You know, interesting stuff. Last night I could have been out on the streets of St. Louis selling myself to score some crack, but I was in bed at 8:30 reading Junie B. Jones to Ainsley. I can’t remember the title, but it’s a Halloween story where Junie dresses up like Squirty the Clown.

After I don’t know how many chapters, Ainsley left and came back with a handful of stuffed animals and her blankey/pillow combo. I grabbed a plush dog named “Delgado” by the back of the neck and made it talk and move around for a few minutes before Ainsley told me to stop. She wanted to play by herself. Offended, I said fine. I thought I was hilarious with that dog; Chloe would make me animate her toys for hours. I remember I could do it while napping on the floor. Something like the following was was common when she was around the age of four.

“Daddy! Wake up!”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. (in a high-pitched voice) Why yes Chloe I would love to come over for dinner, but what about Moo Cow, can she come too?”

I get a kick out of asking the girls “Who PLAYS better, mommy or daddy?” With no hesitation: “Daddy!” I got all warm and fuzzy inside and that just made me want to “play” even better. Yes, my talking animals were a hit.

Since they’re 7 and 12, my puppeteering days are pretty much over. This morning that fact is making me sad and teary. Right here in Panera I’m going to cry. There’s nothing better, nothing harder, than having kids to raise. But then they grow up.

Ainsley wants to live at home with us forever. I told her that’s fine and I would love that. I also mentioned that she’d probably change her mind when she’s fifteen. She didn’t believe that for a second. She then asked how old I’d be. I guess she was thinking that since I’m so damn old I’m not going to be around very long for her to live with anyway.

I brought extra clothes because I might bike over to The Y to exercise. Some say exercise is like a drug. I’m one of those people, but the hardest part is the crossover moment between “not exercising” and “exercising.” It’s the getting started part that kills me. Once I leave here, the deciding factor will be the direction I point my bike. If I head towards home, I’m screwed and I won’t make it to the gym. If I point my front wheel towards the gym and start pedaling I’ll reach the safe drug and my self-esteem will tick upwards.

We live two miles from one YMCA and four miles from another, larger, nicer one. On Thursday I biked to the nice one and realized when I rolled up to the bike rack that my back tire was flat. I dug a piece of brown glass from the rubber. I momentarily thought about just forgetting the whole damn plan to exercise. “I should just go home and take a nap; nothing’s going right today!” But I stayed.

Then I walked the bike a mile and a half to Target. I went in and looked around for 20 minutes until the next bus came along. The bus was crowded and the girl next to me smelled like salmon, but I didn’t mind. Not that I like the smell of salmon; I don’t. Even when I used to eat meat, I didn’t like salmon. I guess I was simply in a high mood where salmon people can’t bring me down. I love seeing the bus crowded, but that’s for political reasons I won’t go into today. I heard a guy behind me talking to his little boy. He said “A guy kissing his son is the only time it’s right for two males to kiss. But a guy kissing another guy–I’m not having it.” It’s always interesting on the bus.

Well, the sun is peaking out and ducking in–over and over–so I’m going to unchain my bike, hammer the pedals, and see where I end up.

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Two Wheels Good, Four Wheels Bad

2 Jul

Heat waves are great for one thing. I mean, I’m sure they’re great for something, right? I just can’t think of anything. I guess if you like to sweat and you like to feel like you’ve peed in your pants, scorching hot days are awesome. This morning I ran a mile and a half to beat the heat–this was at 5:15–and, amazingly, it was amazingly hot.

After my run I jumped on the road bike and sped the 1.8 miles to Panera. Beginning today I plan on keeping track of my transportation miles. At some point on some blog, I did the same thing. Or maybe I simply kept track on paper. Don’t remember. Anyway, the goal is to not drive or even ride in an automobile as much as I can get away with. Last night six people piled into a car to travel the 1.8 miles to a Mexican restaurant near where I am now. I left on my bike as they were gathering at the door and I beat them. Of course, they didn’t realize a race was going on, but the Olympics is beginning soon and I’m in a competitive mood.

I’m doing this no drive-bike heavy thing for four reasons:

  • My Body
  • My Sanity
  • To have fun
  • To promote the awesomeness of alternative transportation.

My Body. Exercise is good, right? Most of us don’t get enough. For me to get in a workout and get around town at the same time is unbeatable. I might have been a little sweaty walking in to La Casa last night, but I felt great. No matter how I’m feeling before, after a quick bike ride (or a jog), I feel good. Of course, that’s one of the best reasons to exercise daily. It’s a fast-acting anti-depressant, a drug-free high.

My Sanity. Shit, I already covered some of what I meant by “sanity” in the previous paragraph. Oh well. In my opinion, driving a car is a bit depressing. I’m on constant watch for crappy drivers because they’re EVERYWHERE. How do I know this? Because I’m one of them. I’m not embarrassed about that. It’s not that I’m an aggressive driver, but I tend to make some shaky decisions. So, yeah, be thankful I’m not driving this summer. Driving does nothing for my body or mind. I walk more when I’m using the bus and I read or relax while getting around. I feel safer and I don’t have to worry about gas or running over pedestrians.

To have fun. Riding a bike is as fun for me now as it was when I first learned. Why do most kids learn to ride at 6, 7 years old when their bodies and brains are mature enough to accomplish such a feat? Not to get around or to change the world, but because it’s loads of fun. If you haven’t ridden a bike since childhood, go to a local bike shop and spend at least $300 on a nice one after being properly fitted. I think Target has some decent bikes, but they don’t have multiple sizes of each model. One size fits all? Uh, no, obviously, humans come in all sizes. If you’re used to the $99 walmart model, you’ll be thrilled with a better bike.

To promote the awesomeness of alternative transportation. There’s a guy in town who gets around by bike exclusively. And this is a “normal” guy. He’s not homeless; he’s not a drunk with six DUIs; and he’s not too poor for a car. Well shit, now I feel bad–nothing against people down on their luck, but this guy is diffferent because he chooses to transport himself by bike, leaving the car in the garage. Often, I see this other rough guy on a cheap bike in acid-washed jeans and a dirty t-shirt and I can almost guarantee that he would be driving if he could. Some people look pissed that they have to ride a bike.

My point is, this guy (not the homeless-looking one) is an inspiration to me and I want to inspire others, to show that it’s easy and fun to get around by bicycle. Last night, I was seen on my bike wearing a backpack with a loaf of bread sticking out. In the past I hauled groceries with a bike trailer. I have large panniers on two bikes that come in handy for carrying everything from library books to groceries. I carry folding chairs to the park with my recumbent trike to watch the Municipal Band. People see me doing this who have never considered using a bicycle for short trips.

Links! This first essay is especially well-written and gets to the heart of why bicycles are better than cars in many ways.

So Why Ride a Bicycle?

Top 10 Reasons to Bike Instead of Drive

10 Reasons to Bike Instead of Drive (Don’t look at the photo of the five guys in spandex. Consider yourself warned.)

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Philosophy of Life, Home Improvement Edition

14 Jun

When we were looking to move from Maryville in 2010, I wanted to buy a smallish, updated condo. I didn’t want a yard to maintain. I didn’t want to move knowing, for example, that the kitchen cabinets would have to be changed out. So what did we do? We bought a large house in Edwardsville that’s, like, a thousand years old. With a large yard full of plants I can’t name.

My wife and I have “discussions” about my flimsy motivation for renovation. She might think I’m an alien. I call it “philosophical differences.”

On Monday I found a catalog on the dining room table that said something about an IKEA dream kitchen. I don’t physically roll my eyes when alone, but I did make a point to roll my “internal eyes.” I don’t dream about kitchens. In fact, I don’t think much at all about kitchens, or bedrooms, or bathrooms–I don’t fantasize about home improvement. And I don’t like to watch HGTV.

I occasionally venture into the room where she’s watching that stuff. To me, it communicates this basic message: Your house sucks!

If I could expand on that a bit it would be: Your house sucks and we’re going to show you why it sucks and how much it sucks and then we’re going to make it look easy to fix and then we’ll show commercials and will expect the depression we caused to compel you to spend thousands of dollars to fit in with the rest of the country. If you don’t you’re a big … fat … loser.

“Why do you watch?” I ask her.

“Ideas.”

I understand all the fuss with home improvement. I know it’s important to feel comfortable in one’s home. I get that. But it seems excessive. And expensive. Happiness, what Aristotle called “our highest good,” will not be satisfied by a kitchen remodel. And it will fail to magically create a love of cooking.

My goal is an easy, undemanding happiness, regardless of  living conditions. I see myself living in a Tumbleweed Tiny House some day. All the wise people will tell you: happiness comes from within, not without. With that in mind, our kitchen is fine.

So where does home improvement fit into my life? Well, it doesn’t … right now. I often ask myself: what really matters in life? And in June of 2012, this is it:

  • Creating (writing, blogging)
  • Education (For me right now it’s self-education and includes studying current events, philosophy, history, politics, and literary fiction)
  • Family (Spending time with the family, teaching the kids how to best live to maximize future happiness)
  • Health & Wellness (exercising, yoga, meditation, eating well, etc. and this includes helping the family achieve this)
  • Social Responsibility (helping others, driving less, etc.)

(Hey, stop judging my list!)

Luckily, nothing on there requires much money. I have no expensive hobbies (unless you count Starbucks, where I am right now). Notice that “creating a dream house” is absent, as is “winning a beautiful yard contest.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m capable of working on the house. I do have experience. And when I get one thing done it can lead to a string of others. For example, I experienced an epic wiring binge a few years ago. With a good book, I can knock out even the more difficult household tasks.

It’s just not the kind of book I gravitate towards, you know?

So the next thing I do is compare what I want to do to reality. So over the last eight years, I’ve added and subtracted to align with what’s most important to me. Here’s a partial list.

  • Quit smoking, drinking (health & wellness + Social Responsibility + Family)
  • Went from carnivore to vegetarian to vegan (health & wellness + Social Responsibility + Family)
  • Meditation (enhances all)
  • Jogging & bicycling (enhances all)
  • Joined a CSA, or community supported agriculture (Social Responsibility + health & wellness + Family)
  • Began a regular writing habit (Creating + Education)

And how can I fit this stuff into 24 hours? That leads to a third bullet list. (Wow, that’s a record!) So I try to account for my time. Like this:

  • Sleep, 8
  • Jogging, 20 minutes
  • Strength Training, 30 minutes
  • Eating & Food Prep, 2
  • Writing, 3
  • Reading & Studying, 2
  • Meditation, 20 minutes
  • Yoga or stretching, 20 minutes

Then I keep going until I have a full day

On paper, it looks easy. I should be able to fit it all in. But that rarely happens. Such is life. Some days I feel like crap and have trouble doing anything. That’s when my reading and sleeping numbers inflate to the detriment of everything else.

Marriages collapse when priorities are too far apart. One wants another child; one doesn’t. One wants to move to Europe; one doesn’t. One wears underwear; one doesn’t. Or whatever. Recently, I asked my wife to create her list, because I can’t always piece together her life philosophy by watching and listening. I don’t know if she will, but I can assume “dream kitchen” fits in there somehow.

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Yes! I Awkwardly Worked “Snot Rocket” into a Post About Soda

7 Jun

After I write this I’m going to invent something amazing in my basement. You know those convenience store sodas that are large enough to climb into? Well, you really should carry that with two hands. My invention will free up a hand for some candy bars. And since your pockets will be free of candy bars, you can stuff a couple of donuts in there. If you manage to get your super-sized soda to your car, the thing won’t fit in your cup holder anyway. (Unless you buy this.)

I started to think about sodas served in cups the size of garbage cans when I heard about New York City Mayor Bloomberg’s proposal to ban their sale in certain places, like restaurants, movie theaters, and street carts. Here’s what I heard: if you so much as think about a soda larger than 16 ounces you’ll be tossed into a cage and whipped with, um, whips. Luckily, that far off land, if it really does exist, is nowhere close to St. Louis where we can legally buy sodas containing 512 sugary calories.

My grand idea came from someone who knows someone else who knows someone who exercises, like, every month and carries water in a bag that straps onto her back. A straw extends from the liquid, loops around her head and hangs limply under her chin. When she gets thirsty she can run to the nearest 7-11 to buy a Big Gulp with a silly tube bouncing around her face. No, seriously, the straw is conveniently placed for easy access to her beverage of choice, which for exercisers is rum and Coke to help numb the realization that they’re in the middle of a workout. We all know exercising hurts; that’s why we sit on the couch instead.

I haven’t confirmed this, but based on the last time I exercised, 2002, the beverage bag can be used in reverse. I remember running for exactly ten seconds before feeling the need to stop running. But first I put a finger over one nostril and blew air forcibly through the other one. Snot zipped through the air at 200 mph. This is what runners do. Don’t judge.

But when you’re running and you pass, say, a McDonald’s, non-exercisers (let’s call them “normals”), failing to see a grizzly bear or rabid dog behind you, will help you by shouting “Whatever was chasing you has done gone. You can stop running!” This is the worst time for a snot rocket (or farmer’s blow). I mean, come on, you could get shot. With a real gun. Hence, the snot tube: A discreet snot disposal system. So, yeah, we can blow snot into the tube. Or maybe that’s gross.

That’s where my brilliance (finally) comes in to help people buying Super Big Gulps from 7-Eleven. With the exerciser in mind, I imagine a flexible bladder that straps onto your chest and has a straw that can be adjusted to rest five centimeters from your lips. You can fill it up and walk around gathering other snacks. Then later when you’re driving and texting, all you have to do is pucker up and suck air in and–magically–the straw is vacuumed into your mouth. Drive, text, and gulp. Simultaneously.

The Soda Holda will sell for 10 dollars (or enough to make me rich). When you wear it on subsequent visits, refills will be something like five cents.

The second version will be more discrete, made especially for movie-going New Yorkers unable to buy the giant sodas once the ban kicks in. Soda Slacks. You put them on like–duh!–pants and it holds two gallons of soda. The design is too complicated and I don’t have the space to go into to it right now. Sorry. For now, just picture the lower half of your body packed in bubble wrap (the big bubbles, not the tiny ones) and just know it’ll be way cool.

When I take my kids to see some crappy cartoon on the big screen, I deserve 256 ounces of carbonated sugar water. I play this game. I have to take a swig every time a penguin talks. Or a squirrel. Or an owl. Or a sea urchin. Basically, I drink when a non-human or inanimate object speaks. Take away my soda slacks and you’re asking me to march up to that little room to go all kung-fu on the projector. And I really don’t want to ruin it for everyone.

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Ahhh! There’s Blood Everywhere!

31 May

On Saturday I ran a 5k (a good thing) and then bit the hell out of my tongue (a bad thing).

Now, there’s a difference between “biting the hell” out of my tongue and simply “Ow, I just bit my tongue.” I was chewing the hell out of a piece of gum a short time after the race. Again, “chewing the hell” out of my gum is different than “chewing gum.”

Some runners experience an altered mood after a race. It’s an elevated mood; everything is faster, better. So I was jazzed up and chewing about 50% harder. I was opening wider. My CPM was near 90. That’s Chews per minute.

So I’m chewing the hell out of this gum–bubble mint–when the left side of my tongue somehow got in the way of my teeth. My tongue being pounded by my teeth sounded like this: cckkccrunch.

My hand shot to my face and my face wrinkled into an ugly mess. I didn’t yell though. It was more like a hum combined with a moan. With blood pooling quickly, I said “Shit, this is going to ruin my whole day.”

Well, it hasn’t exactly ruined an entire day, but it’s lessened the pleasure of eating and increased my love of sucking on ice.

I knew it would be annoying me for days. This is day four and it feels the same as it did on day two. I can’t put my tongue in a sling. The slimy thing’s moving all around in there, 24 hours a day. I’ve looked at my tongue more this week than I have in the past ten years combined. It’s ugly. Just ugly.

And it’s swollen. I can’t eat right. I can’t talk right. If I could pull the damn thing out of my mouth and slap the shit out of it . . . I would.

Heal! Heal! You stupid-ass tongue.

** The Race **

You might have been wondering how bad I smoked the field during the race on Saturday. Oh, you weren’t. Hmm. Anyway, I finished 218th out of 551. I should be happy that only 217 people beat me, but I beat over 300 people. Smoked ‘em. Sure, some of those I finished ahead of were fossils. (That was an insensitive, derogatory thing for me to write). Some had leg injuries. Some were twelve. Some hopped the entire 3.1 miles on one leg. Still . . . I beat ‘em.

But it’s depressing to see that I would have finished 5th out of 12 in the men’s 60 to 69 field. That’s not so hot. I’m re-thinking that “fossil” comment up there. I wrote that before I saw how fast those geezers can run.

** Chloe’s injury **

Oh, I have another injury report. My daughter, Chloe, dropped a circular piece of thin metal on her toe. It’s the size of a large pizza (the metal, not the toe). It’s supposed to hang on a wall to tack notes onto with magnets. If I would throw this thing at you like a Frisbee, it would definitely cut your head off. Right off. Messy.

I saw it happen. It cut right through her toe nail, near the base. It was bloody (from all the blood) and loud (from her freaking out). It looked painful and I wished it had happened to me instead. (No I don’t.) Now she keeps banging it on things, but it’s healing better than my tongue.

She had planned on running the race too, but the toe injury happened Friday morning. She won her age division at her first 5K earlier this Spring. I really should write about that separately.

Please, pray for my tongue tonight.

NOTE: This was written 2 or 3 days ago. My tongue is finally healing. Thanks for your concern.

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Metal Studs in My Skin Would be Totally Sick, No, I Mean That in a Bad Way, Like Ewww

15 May
Cool Dude! Nice iPod Nano Sixth Gen watch!

Couldn’t he have centered it a little better?

Why can’t I come up with cool shit like this? This tattooed, professional body piercer implanted four metal studs into his skin to hold his sixth generation iPod Nano. I saw that and was like “Yeah man, that’s what I need. I gotta make me an appointment with this guy.” I’m always searching for a convenient spot for my iPod and I’ve tried almost everything.

When I’m jogging I can’t stand my iPod bouncing around in my shorts. It feels like there’s a small agitated monkey in there. I’m already in a piss-poor mood when I first set out (especially if it’s above ninety or below thirty degrees outside,) and the jiggling makes me want to break into the nearest dwelling and beat someone upon their head and neck. (Kidding!) After a mile, though, I settle into a more peaceful place.

My fourth generation iPod Nano (okay, this “generation” nonsense is getting on my nerves) like the one in the photo will shuffle away from what I’m listening to if I shake it, intentionally or not. It’s the worst idea ever; nice going Jobs. I’ll venture into the settings to turn off this lame feature, but it always comes back on, like it’s an evil mini-robot sent here to mess with me, probably to kill me. The other day the stupid thing seized up, and then iTunes told me that it couldn’t recognize it anymore. Another clue that it’s planning to murder me in my sleep. “I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

Back when Nano was sane and functional, I’d dress it up in a rubber suit and strap it to my right bicep with a Velcro strap. It was a decent solution, but it’s uncomfortable after 30 minutes and I’ve experienced strap tightness issues: too tight, my whole arm goes purple and dies . . . too loose and it slides down towards my wrist. Also, I have to contort my arm to look at the tiny screen and that’s almost impossible on the run.

My old Shuffle was fantastic for exercising. Before I gave it to Ainsley (and before it was filled with every Alvin and the Chipmunks song ever recorded,) I would clip that bad boy onto my neckband, shove the ear bud cord down my shirt, and hit the streets. My new fourth generation Shuffle is too small. I occasionally pop it into my mouth thinking it’s a mint. Unfortunately, it stopped working last week. It’s definitely in cahoots with Nano.

So this week I’ve been using Ainsley’s iPod Touch, which looks like it’s been tossed from a moving car twelve or thirteen times. Here’s a fun thing to do: give a delicate, expensive gadget to a six-year-old, and then check on it in six months. If it’s not, just, GONE, then it will certainly be beat to holy hell. The screen is shattered; I’m waiting on one of us to slice a finger off playing Temple Run. This is the same child who, to clean her Nintendo DS, rinsed it under running water. Needless to say, the “techno-bath” turned it into a hundred dollar paperweight.

Really, the larger problem has always been the earphone cord. Sure, this “studly” guy’s wrist-pod looks cool without wires hanging from it. If a “strapless” watch is all he wants–okay, I’m souring on this idea. God, I’m glad I didn’t go through with my implants. I mean, this genius didn’t do a dang thing for the headphone problem. Now, if he would’ve implanted the cord too, then we have something to talk about here.

And what about the lightning pace of change in the portable music market? How many magnets would it have required to securely haul a 1979 Sony Walkman? Eventually, the player will be IN the buds, activated by voice. Oooh, I just excited myself right there. Wouldn’t that be awesome: no wires, no armbands, no pocket jiggling, no implants.

I’m gonna go invent that real quick before lunch.

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