witness

This morning while I was at the gym, something very significant happened to me.

The Event occurred when I was doing some sort of exercise that I’m pretty sure made my biceps especially intimidating, which is something that is Very Important for reasons I really don’t know.

I was listening to some Wu-Tang and thinking about how they could probably solve the economic crisis if they wanted to because in high school whenever shit would go wrong I’d smoke tons of weed and listen to them and magically my problems would disappear, when I saw Sassy Old Woman out of the corner of my eye.

Some background on Sassy: she is there everyday at the same time as me, just like The Singer and Grandpa. She is somewhere between 85 and 457 years old, and she wears sports bras and tight workout pants.

Now that you have a mental picture, let me continue.  I turned and saw her sitting down, and lo and behold there it was: Sassy Old Woman’s butt was hanging out.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am a Butt Man, and I’m sure back in 1734 she was probably pretty hot, but this was not something I enjoyed seeing.

Sassy Old Woman was leaning forward, and her iPod, which she hooks into her pants, was dragging down the back of her pants, so the entire gym – and I – got a glimpse of her butt and her ancient crack, all in one amazing display.

Maybe if Sassy wore clothes like any normal woman at they gym does, this would not have happened.  But it did, and now my eyes and mind are forever scarred.

I cannot unsee what I have seen.

In fact, right now, as I type these words, all I see is Sassy’s butt crack.  I wish I could continue this post, but as you can tell, I have a very serious issue here.  I think I might need to go home sick.

r.i.p.

If you feel, for some strange reason, that today is a good day – you’re mistaken.

I realize that it’s Tuesday and you’re wearing your favorite socks. And some guy is being sworn in and it’s great and there’s a strong possibility that he won’t be a complete fucking idiot, but listen to me – today is not a good day.

It’s not a good day because when Obama takes over, there will be no more Bush jokes.

No longer can you attend a party and, upon realizing you don’t have any of your typical crowd-pleasing weather-related jokes ready, drop a Bushism and get laughs from everyone.

No more explaining that someone “misunderestimated” you.

No more telling your friends who work in finance that “It’s clearly a budget. It’s got a lot of numbers in it.”

No more soothing your vegan buddy by saying, “I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully.”

No more.

Sadly, today marks the beginning of a man who appears capable of not saying the stupidest thing possible at the stupidest time possible.

Obama, unfortunately, is a smart man.

He thinks before he speaks and his speeches rival the one in Braveheart (though the Braveheart speech still has the edge because it makes me want to fight for the honor of something.  And maybe start wearing a kilt).

Today is not a good day. Today is out with the dumb, and in with the intelligent.

Goodbye George Bush, you were, well, you were good to us.

The Internets will miss you.

there you are

Somehow, despite my best attempts to not interact with anyone at my gym and spend my time lost in Toto’s obsession with a continent, an old guy has befriended me.

It happened swiftly, so I had no chance to act like I didn’t hear him.

New Friend: [Approaching me while I was getting ready to leave the gym] “You’re in here everyday huh?”

Me: [Stunned, I look around for something to bury my face in, but find nothing aside from my dirty boxer briefs] “Yeah, well, just Monday through Friday.  I think five days is enough.”

New Friend: “That’s great, seeing the younger generation working out is really good.  I’m John.”

Me: [Defeat sets in] “I’m Chris, nice to meet you.  John is my middle name, actually.”

New Friend: [Excitedly] “Oh?  My middle name is Chris!”

Me: [In my head: "Well life is just crazy!"] “Ha, that’s funny!  See you around then.”

That’s how it all started.

And you know, whatever.  It’s fine.  He’s a nice guy.  But the thing is I’ve never recognized him after that first meeting, and he always recognizes me, which leads to some awkwardness that I don’t feel like dealing with.

Every time he sees me he says “Hi Chris!” and I’m always surprised by it.  So I immediately scramble to blurt out “John!” which I’m sure seems odd to him and those around us considering I’m not actually looking at anyone.

But since he always seems to remember me, I feel like I have to get his name out quickly, somehow fooling him into thinking I noticed him first.

When I don’t yell out “John,” and he completely catches me off guard, it’s like he’s my Dad and I’ve disappointed him by taking an ugly girl to the prom and then not even getting her to put out.

He says hello and then I say hello after stuttering and thinking “Where the hell did he come from?  Did he just appear in front of me???”  Then, while we exchange pleasantries, he frowns.  It’s the frowning that really upsets me, because I don’t want to let John down dammit!

But I do.

Every single time.

I really don’t think he’s fooled by me yelling his name when my back is turned to him, so I’m going to have to come with a different approach.

Maybe next time I’ll simply look at him and say, “Alright, look John. I can’t remember what you look like. Maybe it’s because I’m busy trying to make my muscles look bigger than they are by shifting my poses in the mirror and maybe it’s because you look exactly like every other old white dude with his shorts on too high, but I just can’t.  So let’s just cut it off or you’re going to have to start wearing a bright orange construction vest.”

I bet he opts for the vest.  That’s so something John would do.

like no other

Joe, the guy who works in the lobby of my office building, is one of the most awesome people I know.  He’s even slightly ahead of Harrison Ford, but that’s only because I don’t actually know Harrison Ford.  

Every morning that I come in, he knows exactly the right thing to say.

If I’m having a bad morning, and I’m tired from staying up too late to watch The Island (c’mon Abram, you’re not fooling anyone – what kind of “major company” do you leave if there’s really a “big deal” closing?  You quit you fucking pussy) then I know that when I offer a “Hey Joe” he’ll just give a “Good morning Chris” back.

Nothing more.  No pressure to talk about work or anything else.

Then when I come in and I’m having a good day, he’s right there, ready with any reply necessary.  

If I’m talking sports, he talks to me about how he’s still not happy with the Jets.  If I’m telling him about how I just got a new shirt back from the dry cleaners and there’s still stains on it because I happen to eat like a small child, he tells me, “I’m real sorry to hear that Chris.”

I mean, he’s perfect!

Now I know you’re probably wishing you could come to New York and steal him for your building, but I haven’t even told you the best thing he ever said to me.

About a week ago, it was raining like crazy and there was no end in sight.  I walked in and being my usual witty self, told Joe, “It’s a beautiful day!”

But Joe had something even better than that. He smiled and said, “A beautiful day for ducks!”

!!!

I was floored – a beautiful day for ducks!  It was the most perfect reply I had ever heard, and on top of that, that’s all he said.  Because he knew that was all that needed to be said.

Whatever they’re paying Joe, they need to double, no triple it.  Men like that only come around once in a million years.

Imagine what he’s like at a cookout!  Or maybe don’t, your brain might explode simply from the thought of it.

discovered

I’m sorry.

I have something to tell you and you’re not going to be happy about it.  But I hope when this is all over, we can still be friends.  Or at the very least I can still drunk text you at three in the morning telling you how I just won three dollars by winning an arm wrestling match.

The thing is, I know how hard you’ve been looking for The Coolest Man In The World, but I found him.

I found him this morning, while on the train to the gym.

He is cooler than Montell Jordan.

He is cooler than ALF.

He is even cooler than that time you did a keg stand longer than everyone else at the party and didn’t even puke or sleep with anyone ugly.

Yes.

He is that fucking cool.  I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.

You can keep looking if you want, but I found him.  Behold.

He is better than you.

Notice the all white outfit.  From the “New York” tank top to the shoes – all white.

Notice the sunglasses.  Sure, it was 6:50 AM and he was underground, but The Coolest Man In The World must shield his eyes from the paparazzi, who lurk around every corner.

Notice the body language.  Not a care in the world.  No rent to think about because he simply tells landlords, “I will live here.  That is my payment to you.”  

The search is over friends.

You tried your best, but I think we can all agree, there simply is no beating this man.  

Victory is his.

(I’m guest posting over at A View From 5280Ft (a great blog) today so please go check it out.  I’m writing about feet, which I think is enough of a reason to get you to read it.  Go!  Please!)

spellbound

Last night on the train ride home, I was thinking about how I love Beat It, but I can’t get fully behind a song that is essentially telling me to turn and run like a frightened little boy when faced with any sort of conflict.

I just can’t.

Then, while making a sad face On The Outside, I looked up and saw this.

This man had hair like I had never seen before, so of course I started to think about him and his life.

I wonder what his parents think?  Actually, his parents probably haven’t spoken to him for years because his father never understood The Hair even though his mother supported it.

Girlfriend?

Boyfriend?

He’s definitely in a relationship of some kind.  No doubt about it.  There is always someone out there who will see beauty in the hideous.  People still go see Mike Myers movies, right?

What was the thought process before he decided to do this to himself?

One day, while sitting on his couch, he must’ve just decided:  I am going to grow hair that upsets people.  I don’t care.  My hair will grow and grow and people will resent me for it until I die.

And the job he must have!  It must be an amazing job, something that allows him to rock hair like that without fear of termination.

In fact, he must be a Wizard.

Of course!

He must be on his way home from The Upper East Side, where magic happens all the time.  A land where people live in million dollar one bedroom apartments and there are street corners without crackheads trying to sell you a tent.

All of these thoughts happened between when I saw him get on and when I had to step off at my stop.

I wanted to ask him about being a Wizard.

I wanted to ask him to teach me a spell that would make be able to do The Robot really well.

But I didn’t get the chance to.

I stepped off the train, looked back through the window and watched as the Wizard left my life forever.

He was probably going to do Wizard Business for The Good Of The World, helping the poor and assisting the needy.

Or maybe he was just going to visit his dad and turn him into a frog.

doing it and doing it well

Yesterday I went and got my hair cut at the place around the corner from my office that I always go to.

This is it:

I took this picture after I got off work.  Pretty nice looking place, right?

Obviously the best part about the outside of Roman’s is the sign, which has this dude on it.

I like to think that is Roman – the Founding Father of Roman’s Barber Shop Hairstylist, Inc.

I’m not sure though, because no one that works there looks like that.

There are two dudes who cut hair at Roman’s, one older foreign man and one younger foreign man.  I say “foreign” because I have no idea what nationality they are, but they both clearly have an accent of some kind.

I don’t even know their names.  I just refer to them in my head as Old Dude and Young Dude.

Young Dude is by far my favorite.  Every time I get my hair cut by him, he snaps his fingers a lot.  When he throws the shower curtain-like thing over me to keep the hair off – snap!  When he reaches for the clippers – snap, snap!

It’s pretty awesome.

Then, when a song comes on that he likes, he signs along to it a little bit - but not too much.  Just enough for me to appreciate that he appreciates it.  Yesterday it was Love In This Club by Usher.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.

And when Young Dude is done, he always, no matter what day it is, says, “And now you are ready for the weekend!”

It is, without a doubt, the best way to end getting your hair cut.

Yes, it was Tuesday, but I was ready for the weekend!

Already!

Because of him!

And my hair cut!

Of course I always tip them both well.  They only charge ten dollars, so I always tip five, because c’mon – that great of an experience is worth it.  And what’s $15 anyway?

Because of my generous tipping and the ease of my haircut (you’ve seen me, I don’t have much to cut) the guys at Roman’s love me.

Every time I come in they both greet me and every time I leave we all say a heartfelt goodbye.

So next time you’re visiting New York and you’re done doing all the touristy things and whatever else, why don’t you pay a visit to ol’ Roman’s for a haircut experience Like No Other.

And just because you read my blog, first one’s on me.

 

(I also have a post up at the Back Fence PDX blog, which is more of a story than a blog post, so it’s slightly longer than my usual stuff.  Please check it out if you have some time, I think you’ll like it.  If you don’t just remember it was my first time writing a “story-like” post in a loooonnng time so be nice.  Or don’t be nice. Either way, please read it and just lie to me if you think it sucks.  And be sure to check back at that blog regularly for all the other great stories posted there.)

age is nothing but a number

The last time I wrote about one of the regulars at my gym, it was The Singer. Just this morning The Singer was belting out, “Lose My Breath” by Destiny’s Child and loving every minute of it.

Today though, I want to tell you about Grandpa.

Grandpa is somewhere between 134 and 187 years old and is about as tall as a garbage can.

He wears the exact same clothes every single day and he does not wash them. I know he doesn’t wash them because he has body odor strong enough to peel the paint off the walls and maybe make me vomit when I walk by.

I try not to though, because for some reason people generally don’t like vomit when they’re working out.

Grandpa also has a unique way of lifting. Oh yes, he lifts. He lifts like every rep keeps his dear friend the grim reaper from taking his skeletal body away from the bench press.

And his lifting style is basically to go as fast as he can.

It is an incredible thing to watch.

This little old man, rapidly firing tricep extensions like he was daring you, just daring you to do the same. I imagine he probably looks around at all of us younger guys and thinks, “I’m not dead yet motherfuckers!”

Because of this, I don’t mess with Grandpa. I let him stink up the place and do his thing.

But I was always kind of unsure how to feel about him until this morning.

I was getting a drink from the water fountain in the locker room before leaving for work, when I saw Grandpa waddle over to a stall.

With my head down, I heard the click of the stall door, and then as I looked up, I saw Grandpa look into the stall and say, “Oh! Excuse me!” Then close the door. Obviously he had just walked in on someone dropping the kids off at the pool.

Most people would be embarrassed by this, and rightfully so. Seeing another man take a dump can be quite traumatic.

But not Grandpa.

As I turned to leave the locker room, I heard Grandpa laughing.

“Heh, heh, heh, heh.”

I looked over at him and he had the widest smile on his face. Grandpa thought it was hilarious and that made it official: He was awesome.

If he can duck the grim reaper over the weekend and I get to see him once again on Monday, I may just shake his hand.

Because not only is Grandpa stinking the entire gym up and lifting weights like a man possessed, he is laughing at other people.

And that is something I can always get down with.

sing you bastard, sing

If you go to the gym every morning like I do, you begin to take notice of certain “regulars” who are there at the same time as you.

I have nicknames for all of them, and they are all entertaining in their own ways. Over time I’ll post about each one, but my favorite, is The Singer.

The Singer sings along to his iPod – at the top of his lungs – from the time he gets to the gym to the time he leaves.

From looking at him, you’d expect him to just be a Normal Dude, but he clearly is not. He has a song in his heart and he wants you to know it.

The songs he sings are always about love and relationships, and he even puts inflection into his singing, like he is right there with the band, belting out his feelings about a scorned lover.

The Singer is always there and he is always singing.

When I am just finishing my run. “But you don’t LOVE ME anymore!”

When I have just finished a set of curls. “Why HAS HE LEFT, he was my ONE and only!”

When I am getting dressed to go to work. “Oh you LOOK lovely, YOU are my baby!”

Non-stop.

And I hope you don’t think that The Singer is limited to just singing.

Because the man can dance too.

Just this morning – as he was getting ready to do some bench presses – he dipped his shoulder, shimmied his hips ever so slightly, gave the mirror a Sassy Look, and slipped smoothly onto the bench. Oh yes, he was also singing, “GIRL, it’s time WE TOOK the next step!”

I’ve tried to identify the songs that he sings, but I never can.

If I could, you better believe I’d jump right in with him, sing my ass off and try (TRY!) to simulate his Dance Moves Of Sexiness.

The Singer makes my mornings at the gym go by quickly.

I can always count on him to be singing and dancing – straight into my heart.

right side down

I’m going to go ahead and put this out there, even though I know some of you will no doubt make me sad by disagreeing with me, but Seinfeld was and still is the best TV show ever created.

Hands down.

No contest.

Well, I was watching a rerun last night, and it turned out to be my favorite episode – Bizarro Jerry. For those of you who don’t know every single Seinfeld by heart (losers) it’s the one where Elaine befriends the exact opposite – the Bizarro – of Jerry, George and Kramer. It’s also the episode featuring Man Hands.

Being that I am A Thinker – and maybe because I wasn’t drunk for the first time in three nights – I started wondering, what would Bizarro Chris be like?

He’d certainly be successful.

I’m sure he’d also enjoy Meeting New People and would express a genuine interest in what they had to say.

I bet he wouldn’t think roller coasters were a sure way to prematurely end his life in a giant ball of flame and metal.

He’d probably have a cat, not a dog that eats tennis balls instead of fetching them.

Bizarro Chris would also hold back from saying things like, “You’ve got issues” to a woman whom he has just met, that was complaining about eating too much.

I’m sure he’d even be an optimist, and not make a habit of expressing the darkest consequences of every single action – including mismatched socks.

The more I think about it, Bizarro Chris is probably a much more enjoyable version of me.

But really – who wants another Nice Person in the world?

There’s enough of those out there already.