In case you missed it, this is what I'm doing. And this week's exercise is The Reluctant. (Also, this is completely unrelated, but it's my first leap-year post. How cool.)

Here's the gist (From: The 3 am Epiphany):
First-person narration? After writing this blog for so long? Piece of cake. But not using the first-person pronouns? Holy crap. A lot harder than I thought it would be. The I's and me's wound up slipping out all over the place. And I had to change the trajectory of this snippet a couple of times in order to fit the narration. I guess it's difficult for me (me, me, me!) to accept the premise of a narrator who isn't primarily and absolutely interested in himself above all other things. A definite leap for any blogger. Anyway, here goes ...


The Lovers Lane Tom Thumb near The Village was a busy place at six on a weeknight. Single twenty-somethings picking up TV dinners after work. SMU kids buying beer and cigarettes for parties. Hipster couples discussing the merits of ginger root ... Did you know, honey, that ginger root can do all sorts of great things ... relieve nausea, reduce cholesterol, fight inflammation. It can even boost the immune system. This was all explained in great detail by the pale-skinned, mid-20s guy in a blue winter hat speaking loudly to his ... let's see, what might she be? Girlfriend? No, too familiar with one another for just "girlfriend." This woman, this small elfin creature with pointy nose and cute little rosy cheeks and a matching blue winter hat ... this was his wife. Ding, ding, ding. Twenty points to the tall, slightly overweight, nerdy-looking dude with the thick, black glasses and long nose. The woman did, in fact, know that ginger root had these health benefits and, she added, it was also great served in a chicken fondue. Well, shit. Perhaps they should get some. Guy: Yeah, but you're not supposed to eat ginger root when you could be pregnant. Remember? The nutritionist advised us against it. Woman: Aww, honey. You're always looking out for me. Then there was a kiss, this benign little peck that had all the passion of something you'd give your grandma. Fucking married people.

This was clearly a couple who knew a thing or two about ginger root ... and blue winter hats. Their conversation was enough of a distraction that I failed to notice the girl with cart directly ahead looking at grapefruit.

Our carts bumped. Just barely. The impact was light. But I was blind-sided.

She smiled. She didn't seem bothered or hurried or annoyed like so many people do. Her eyes spoke something like an apology. Something like sincerity. Then she continued on to the berries. Picked up a small plastic container of the black variety, weighed it in her hand. Her mind? Her imagination? Then set it in her cart. She did the same with a pack of Driscols. Sweet, sweet Driscols. God, now here was somebody you could eat strawberries with. She pushed her cart toward the apples, her dark thrift-store jeans tight against her persuasive curves. Her long brown hair sweeping down her back in these thin wispy curls. Her jean-jacket insulated with lamb's wool. Like a fighter pilot's. Somebody was bound to get shot down.

Love in the produce aisle? What was this, a Woody Allen movie? It made perfect Woody Allen sense to walk up to her at that very moment and ask her for her name, her birth sign, the way she liked her oatmeal in the morning, the particular type of lettuce she enjoyed. Her philosophy on organic versus conventional? Did she take her tea with sugar or milk? Both? Neither? Yes, if this were a Woody Allen movie, this might be the thing to do. It might spark a long meandering conversation that would lead to a highly neurotic love affair, filled with self-doubt and over-analysis, and ultimately end up as a dead shark. It sounded delicious. But sadly, this wasn't a Woody Allen movie. This was just the Lovers Lane Tom Thumb at six in the evening. This shark was surely dead already.

The girl lingered around the broccoli while this 30-something car salesman from Louisiana—recently divorced and broke, Katrina'd out of his home, starting a new life in Dallas selling Toyotas all day and eating frozen pizza and ice cream for dinner every night in front of a TV set in a one-room apartment with a single lamp and a futon mattress on the floor, and a DVD player and a stack of Wicked films—dallied among the apples, thinking how much he'd like to eat strawberries—or any sort of fruit, really—with this brown-haired girl in the jeans-jacket.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Fiction  Exercises 

This past Christmas, during a group outing to the mall to put Christmas money to good use, C's mom wound up buying The Story So Far, a 2-CD "Best Of" compilation of Rod Stewart hits. My outward reaction to this purchase was cool, non-committal enthusiasm. Standard hipster stuff. She asked me what I thought. I said, "Yeah, good." I may have smiled. If others around me were watching, they would have gathered from my reaction that I was clearly far too cool to be listening to the likes of Rod Stewart, but at the same time they would have seen that I was considerate enough not to show my smug contempt for the CD to my Mother-in-Law, who I obviously respected and admired. Yeah, it's a lot to put into a reaction, but I think I pulled it off.

Inwardly, however, my reaction was: "Holy shit! You must buy that puppy RIGHT NOW, because if you don't, I will!" I knew I couldn't actually be caught carrying the CD to the counter myself, but I'd find a way to get that thing, even if it meant smuggling it out of the store in my pants. (And yes, I realize that there are several layers of disturbing to the act of putting a Rod Stewart CD down your pants.)

It's still not clear exactly how it happened, but somehow a few of the tracks from that compilation wound up in my iTunes library. It's almost as if, while nobody was looking, somebody feverishly opened the plastic wrapping on that purchase before any of the other CDs he (or she) had bought that day and ripped a few important gems to my computer. You know, stuff like Hot Legs, Maggie Mae, Da Ya Think I'm Sexy? and Some Guys Have All the Luck. Weird. I'm sure whoever it was had their reasons.

So now, whenever one of those songs pops up in my play-list, I tolerate it. I give it the courtesy of a listen. But it's not like I sing along or bob my head or dance a little in my chair ... or anything ridiculous like that. Sheesh. It's just music, people.

On a related note, I was listening to Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me this weekend—because nothing goes better with biscuits and eggs on a beautiful Sunday morning than a little Paula Poundstone snarkiness—and learned that '80s music is now being marketed by radio stations as "Oldies." Which means, brothers and sisters—because I feel this needs emphasis—that if you're approximately 32 years of age or over, the music of "your time," the stuff you may first remember listening to—Cyndi Lauper, Van Halen, Pat Benetar, Duran Duran, Chicago, Huey Lewis and the News—is now officially "Oldies" music.

And, of course, Rod Stewart falls into this category too ... but let's face it, he's been "Oldies" for some time now.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Age  Family  Music  Pop_Culture 

C went to California this weekend, and I went to Southpaw Prison in Brooklyn with A & K and a few others to watch Johnny Cash perform. Okay, it wasn't really Johnny Cash. It was Alex Battles. And Southpaw isn't really a prison, but if it were, it would be the best damn prison ever. Because this prison had a coat-check and free-flowing Kelso on draft.

It was the Johnny Cash 76th Birthday Bash that brought us out. The main event was Alex Battles' Whiskey Rebellion faithfully recreating the Folsom Prison concert in its entirety, right down to the "announcements" that occur between the songs. There were even visits from June Carter (played by Jessica Rose and Becky Birmingham). It was a lot of fun, and Alex Battles was very convincing as Johnny Cash.

The evening opened with the Susquehanna Industrial Tool & Die Co., who played some classic hillbilly country. Swing, swing, swing. That was followed with some rare Johnny Cash films displayed larger-than-life on the side wall. It was kind of eerie seeing Johnny Cash's giant head floating above the crowd like that, but it helped set the mood.

Here's a shot of Battles. And there are some more fuzzy photos here.

And here's a shaky video I took. Now, before you go making fun of my video skills, keep in mind that I wasn't really trying to get the band. I mean, anybody could do that. What I really wanted was a close-up of that guy's beer-hand blocking Alex Battles' face. And I got it, brother. Spot on. Not bad, eh?




link to this | comments (3) | File:  NY  Music  Brooklyn 

There are a million and one reasons not to do something. But they all usually amount to one thing: fear. And let me just say that I've got some of the fear and some of the dread when it comes to this thing I've started, Fiction Fridays. I've gotten used to writing certain types of posts in a certain voice. It's gotten comfortable. I write about particular topics. I poke fun at myself. I try to be humorous, when I can. I've begun to whittle down the focus of things here. And so it's become somewhat safe and easy for me. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. But I'm never one to ride the wave of "safe and easy" for very long. Safe and easy waves are usually short-lived ones, low and close to the shore. And so last week I decided to throw this Fiction Friday thing in the mix to stir things up and generate some big surf. And, you know, I think I've succeeded because, I have to admit, what I'm looking at here—these waves—they're awfully big, and I'm apt to fall off of these crunchers—and often. It was, in fact, a real challenge to stick to Fiction Friday this week, but not for the reasons I expected. I'll explain ...

I just got through reading Bret Easton Ellis's Lunar Park. There's some interesting stuff in that book that I want to flesh out in another post, but for now, I just want to cite this one quotation that touches on the heart of what I'm struggling with here. The main character of the book is "Bret Easton Ellis," and this "character self" says early on in the book: "I could never be as honest about myself in a piece of non-fiction as I could in any of my novels."(25)

In the book, there are many levels of irony with that statement, which I love. But what struck me most about the comment is how strangely accurate it is with my writing on this blog. I feel much more vulnerable posting fiction than I do the non-fiction riffs I usually write, even though, as I've written about before, there are definitely elements of fiction in most of my posts, which I call the "exaggeration license." And maybe it's that ability to fictionalize the non-fiction that makes it "safe." Along with the ability to pick and choose what I write about. The stuff that's true, that I don't mind sharing, is just what it claims to be: fact. (At least as much as anything filtered through the psyche—the id, the ego, the super-ego—and written down is "factual.") And the stuff I don't want to share is conveniently left out, glossed over, or otherwise hidden.

But with fiction, the entire thing is open to interpretation. It's not "truth," per se, because none of it actually ever happened, at least not exactly the way it's described. But there is truth in it. And sometimes that truth is more true than anything else I write. Sometimes that truth is the scariest thing to put on paper (or screen) and show to people.

Which brings us back to "the fear." We live in a world of fear. And, I'll tell you, I'm scared. A lot. I'm scared of dying. I'm scared of things like cancer. Of bacteria. Of the crap in our oceans poisoning our bodies. But I'm also scared of living, brother, and I'm sometimes scared of myself. Because with all the standard set of fears that got instilled in me as kid, it really is true that "my mother never warned me about my own destructive appetite" (thanks Jenny).

When it comes to my writing, I'm scared like hell of using cliché, of being trite or boring. But I'm also scared that if I don't indulge in cliché at least a little bit, I won't be understood. And more than anything else, I'm scared that the stuff I'm putting down is just plain bad. That's a big one. I had a short story from college I was going to post this week, but yesterday I got cold feet. Because it's really weird looking back at things you wrote almost 15 years ago, even for me, let alone you guys. It needed a heavy edit.

So, for now, I think what I'm going to do is use Fiction Fridays as a way to post short "writing exercises" that I get from this book called The 3 am Epiphany, which I bought about a year ago, but haven't done much with until now. In my college creative writing classes, my professors always kind of frowned upon writing exercises. Their feeling was just that we should write what we wanted and bring it to class for a very public lashing and embarrassment in front of our peers. Good times. But that approach really leaves things wide open, and tends to fuel a bit of the "writer's block." Because when everything is possible, it's difficult to focus on just one thing. Sometimes the restrictions put on you by an exercise can be oddly "freeing."

For the purposes of my posts, using the exercises will, I think, take some of the pressure off and makes the posts more "casual." I won't have to feel the pressure of "finishing" a story and biting my nails wondering how it's going to be interpreted. Okay maybe, I'll still have some of that, but having the rules of the exercise there (along with a self-imposed length restriction) will put a little more separation between me and it. I also think it'll make for more bite-sized (read: "blog-able") stuff, frankly.

I started this as an "intro" to this week's Fiction Friday post, but quickly realized it was going to have to be it's own post because, like most of my posts, it would be too damn long. So there it is. I've got another post ready, but I really don't like to post twice in one day. Other than the weekends, Friday is always the slowest traffic day. It's pretty much universally that way on every Web site I've ever managed. I can't figure it out, because you would think Friday would be a big Web-surfing day. But I suppose it's also a day for "long lunches" and "leaving early" or catching up on the shit that you put off all week. So chances are most people who stop by my blog won't even read any of this until next week, if at all. So that means I sort of copped out of Fiction Friday this week. But not really. Because I had something ready. (Really, I swear!) I just had to say this other thing first. Anyway, if you have any thoughts, speak up. Leave a comment or send me an email. I'd love to hear them.

Now take an early lunch, already! And have a good weekend.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Writing  Fiction  Chewing  Blog 

There's a new physical "feature" on my body. And I've been noticing it lately whenever I happen to be completely naked and looking down at myself or in a full-length mirror. And that tends to occur at least once a day. Some days it's more frequent, though. Like this weekend, for instance. For reasons I don't fully understand, there happened to be a slightly higher occurrence of nakedness than other days. And that's weird because we were in DC all weekend with a pretty packed schedule of meeting with friends and family, watching anime at the KC, and replacing sink faucets at our condo. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I found myself needing to change clothes a lot.

Anyway, I've been noticing this thing, but haven't been able to put my finger on what it was. All I knew was that something was different. Then, this past Sunday, when I was taking a shower in our hotel room at the Washington Plaza Hotel on Thomas Circle, it finally hit me. I was developing a bald spot, smack dab in the middle of my ... left thigh. (You thought I was heading someplace else with that?) Still ... left thigh? What's up with that shit? For real. What could it mean? I thought all my bodily changes were supposed to have occurred years ago.

The spot is about the size of a tennis ball. And the placement—so neat and precise. It's like coming across a corporeal Stonehenge or something. It sort of leaves you marveling. How did it get there? And when?

To truly appreciate this, you have to understand that there is a lot of hair on my legs. I'm fifty-percent Italian, okay? It comes naturally. Don't let my fair complexion fool you. It may be lightly-colored hair, but it's hair nonetheless, and there's a lot of it. I mean, back when I was a swimmer and would do a full-body shave before big meets, I'd have to take a freakin' beard trimmer to my arm and leg hair just to get it to a point where it could be shaved with a razor. And after that, it took two men, a push-broom, and some hefty bags to clean up.

It's weird, though. Because despite the veritable rug covering my lower extremities, I've always had a disappointing amount of hair on my chest. Well, it's disappointing for me. C doesn't really dig the chest-hair thing, so I guess it worked out well in that regard. What's funny, though, is she actually tells people I do have a "hairy chest" just because I have some random hairs sprouting here and there, mainly around my nipples. (I know, I know, ladies, stop swooning.) Obviously C never watched an episode of Magnum P.I. Because that there is what real chest hair looks like. Actually, if I'm going to tell you the full truth here (and why shouldn't I?) C has actually threatened to divorce me if the hair ever spreads to my back in any unruly manner. Cruel, isn't she? She says she never signed up for hair of that magnitude. And technically, she's right. There was some garbage about "sickness and health," but I don't remember anything about hair. So it's either divorce or the hot wax. Lucky for her, I'm a masochist.

It's crossing my mind that, quite possibly, I'm telling you a little more than you want to hear.

Anyway, I didn't really acquire the chest-hair gene, but I definitely got the rest of 'em, including the one that gives me the ability to grow a fairly respectable beard when I'm so-inclined. Though I have to say, my mountain-man beard is nothing like j's. I'm extremely jealous of his rock-star beard and he knows it. I think if I could grow a beard like j's I would join a Harley gang and roam the earth spreading enlightenment to the less-fortunate, hairless masses. People listen to you when you have facial hair. Jesus knew it. Believe.

Anyway, back to the bald spot. I've seen stuff like this happen to guys who wear long socks. They wind up with leg hair that starts at their mid-shin. Which is kind of humorous, really. But what was up with the thigh? After some head-scratching, I finally figured it out. I wear my wallet in my front-left pocket. Combine that with the fact that I tend to wear jeans with deep, low pockets—you know, cuz my wallet's fat, ya'll—and you can start to put two and two together. So, to test out my theory, I slid my jeans on and compared the positioning of my wallet to the positioning of the bald spot and, yep, that was it. Mystery solved! And so it got me thinking—maybe I should put this new-found hair removal device to work someplace where a little bald spot would be more welcome. Time to start wearing my wallet in my rear pockets again. Oh, wait, that won't work.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Weird  Ho_Hum  Health  DC 

I've decided to try a new recurring feature here. It'll be called Fiction Fridays. And, true to the name, it will involve fiction and it will fall on the day of the week called ... Friday. God I'm creative, sometimes. Anyway, these posts will be drafts or snippets of drafts. Sometimes, I suspect, they'll fall under the category of "Very Short Fiction." Like these. But hopefully whatever these end up being, the routine will help to get things flowing again, and if it doesn't, well, then maybe the whole thing will be short-lived. We shall see.

So I'll kick this off with a story I wrote some time ago when j and I were doing this fiction-writing back-and-forth thing. Some of you may have read it before. But it's been modified and edited so it's worth another read, I hope.

Okay, here goes...Apricots and Boot Polish ...


[Redacted]

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Fiction 

Casey Dienel has been in pretty heavy rotation on my iPod for close to a year now. Especially the song "Frankie and Annette," which I frequently put on "Repeat One," a setting also known as "OCD? What OCD?" Her solo album, Wind-Up Canary, left me scratching my head a bit at first listen. But something about it grabbed me and pretty soon I found my thumb spinning that click wheel to her name again and again. Her voice just floats over her songs, held up by this thin piece of yarn, which is worn and fraying a bit. And so you sit there biting your nails wondering if the damn thing will collapse right in front of you, quivering and broken on the ivories. But it never does. And I think it's the danger and recklessness of that ongoing tension that is so addictive and exciting about her music. And beautiful.

Casey Dienel is now playing with a band and they call themselves White Hinterland. I saw them last Friday at Cake Shop. They've got an interesting sound, kind of jazzy, only with a violin and some sort of eastern stringed instrument I didn't recognize. I do wish they had done more of the songs from Dienel's solo album, but it kind of sounds like maybe she has "moved on" from those a bit. They did do one, though: Doctor Monroe. Overall, it was a solid performance. And by the time it was over, I found myself wanting more.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Reviews  Music 

Saturday. A father and his little boy. I walk by the two changing in their row of lockers. Dad, buttoning shirt. Boy, balancing on one foot, stepping clumsily into jeans. I find my locker in the next row. Begin changing. And there's this exchange:

"Daddy?" The kid's voice is the only sound in the locker room. And the octave range—I forgot they made voices like that—puts him at about four. He seems to be chewing over something, like he's on the brink of asking one of life's most perplexing questions. You know, something like, Why is the sky blue? or Why do men have wee-wees? Something profoundly important.

"Yeah, son?" Dad seems accustomed to relentless questioning.

The boy sighs. He is searching for the right words to express this worrying thing ... and then, he finds them:

"Do you like my Spiderman shirt?"

I can almost hear the father's grin. Or maybe it was my own grin I heard. After a pause, dad says: "Yes, son. I like your Spiderman shirt very much."

"I do too," says the boy.

And I could tell it satisfied him very much that they both liked his shirt.

And if you want to know the truth, it satisfied me too. Because I miss the days when having a Spiderman shirt on—and having your dad like it—was all you needed to feel good and right in the world.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Overheard  Gym  Chewing 

In Texas, the truck is the most revered of all automobiles. They even get special license plates which identify them as a "Texas Truck." And I think that's how it should be. Because in the hierarchy of trucks, it's surprising, but size usually plays a secondary role to location. And that makes the Texas Truck the Lion King of bedded vehicles, brother. Believe. And so you know what that means? It means my old 1989 Nissan Pickup from the Lone Star, with its diminutive size and its two-wheel drive, would still trump that Ford F-250 from Delaware. And if it stepped out of line, well, there'd be a posse on call ready to ride his Yankee ass out of town. It's just how it is, son. Respect.

And so even though my new truck is a bit bigger than my old one. Even though he's all 4-wheel drive and big wheels and stands up tall with the big boys, even though his growl is an octave lower, even though on all counts this guy is much more truck than my old Nissan ever was ... (and I say that with all my love, Ol' Boy) it's still just a Jersey truck, with pale yellow plates. Out here, neurosis comes standard. It's not an "options package." And so these trucks are just a little more high-maintenance than their brothers to the southwest. They tend to be filled with a little more of the angst and self-loathing. They have "body issues." And that's fine. All it means is you have to feed their egos from time to time. And it's not that hard, really. Just throw them a few 'atta boys,' and smack 'em on the tailgate when they've done good. A little encouragement goes a long way.

But I'm being rude. Formal introductions are in order, here. So Internets, meet Remington. Remington, Internets. You can call him Remy for short. He's a 1999 Toyota Tacoma 4x4. Green. And like a Remington rifle, he's cool and smooth to the touch, but he'll fire smoking hot, when necessary. He stands tall in his wheels and runs great, but like all 9-year-old trucks, he has a few neurological issues. Most people don't realize it, but Tacomas are sort of known for their enthusiastic experimentation with psychedelic drugs. And it tends to lead to some brain misfirings in their latter years. Like when I first picked him up, Remy's horn didn't work. I mean, he'd open his mouth, but nothing would come out. It was kind of funny and sad at the same time. He just sort of forgot how to talk. But now it's fixed. Mike the mechanic rewired him. Which is good, I guess, except that now he won't shut up. He's your typical New York driver and enjoys cursing and flicking off the other trucks if they get too close. Sometimes he'll purposely annoy the sports cars on the road by going slow, then he'll push his weight over the lane line and make it difficult for them to pass. Cracks me up. And look, don't tell him because he's apt to get a big head and all, but I kind of think he's the shit. He sleeps outside because Hoshi has dibs on the garage. But he's fine with that, and really wouldn't have it any other way. Because despite his rough exterior, he's a gentleman at heart, and he knows Hoshi has delicate sensibilities. Also, it's kind of obvious that he crushes on her.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Remington  Hoshi 

A guy named Don came and installed my FiOS today. It took 6 hours. But Don was a good guy and we had lots to shoot the shit about. Like the tragedy of Comcast. And the wonder of fiber. Not the kind that cleans out your "inner plumbing." (Though that stuff is plenty wonderful.) The other kind. You know, of the optical variety. The stuff that allows you to surf porn—a-hem ... sorry—work at blazing speeds. And thank god it's finally here. Because it was getting really uncomfortable doing it at Starbucks. (Working, working. Geez, people.)

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Ho_Hum  House 

In 1972, Franco Harris made the now-famous Immaculate Reception in an AFC playoff game against the Oakland Raiders. And, you know, we really need a name like that to describe what David Tyree did in the fourth quarter of Sunday's Super Bowl game, 3rd and 5 on the 44 with 1:15 left. Was there anybody sitting down on that play? I mean, that catch — hell, the entire drive — just begs to be immortalized with some clever title ripe with miraculous and/or religious undertones. And I've been racking my brain since Sunday trying to think of one, but I've got nothing. All I can think of are bad puns about how Tyree was really "using his head" or how he did a great job of "keeping his head in the game." No, no, no. That's all wrong.

How about . . . Immaculate Reception, Deux? Crap.

Speaking of reception, C and I went all old-school for The Big Game. We watched it — get this — over the airwaves. Because we still lack the Fios. (It's supposed to come tomorrow, but I've heard from our neighbors not to get our hopes up). Anyway, we had planned on going to a bar to watch it and be surrounded by Giants fans. But we were torn because, while that sounded like a lot of fun, we also wanted to see (and hear) the commercials and when you're in a bar, you tend to lose that ability to ambient noise. You also wind up missing crucial moments in history that can occur in a split second. I learned that lesson the hard way a couple of years back with Janet's boob. And let me just say that damn, that Etrade baby cracked me up. So it was all worth it.

So if I remembered my history correctly, we actually had television signals all around us, we just needed a way to turn those signals into a discernible picture on our set. What we needed was that relic of TV communications known as the "rabbit ears." Luckily we had a set, which I had been keeping in my plastic bin of wires for a special occasion such as this. So we got them out. And we stood there, staring at these strange things in my hands, trying to remember what we were supposed to do with them, again. Did we have to plug them into something or did we just put them near the television set and wait? Were we supposed to pray before using them? Should we get out the aluminum foil? We had so many questions.

We played around with the positioning of the rabbit ears (which really look nothing like the ears of rabbits) for a while, doing that dance our fathers did, and their fathers before them. Rabbit ears have such a rich cultural history. I tried standing on one leg, then I held one end of the antennae while pointing to the ceiling with my free hand. There was still a fair amount of snow. C suggested I try it naked, but I was really skeptical that would work. Finally, we found a placement that allowed us to get two channels: NBC and Fox. And of the two, Fox came in the best. In fact, it actually came in better than our Cable-supplied CBS channel in Baltimore, something which had always been a bit of a sore spot for us.

So great, we had Fox. Now we could watch . . . House. But aside from that, who cared? We figured the Super Bowl would be on NBC. And while that channel came in, it certainly wasn't at all purty. Oh well. It would just be part of the experience. We would just pretend it was snowing. Indoors. In Arizona. It would surely put a test to our imaginations. Why did Fox have to be the good channel, anyway? Of all the bloody channels. Then we realized we didn't actually know which channel The Game would be on. Hell, it might be on ABC, which didn't come in at all. So we checked to verify the broadcast station and, well, did I mention things are just kind of clicking here in Jersey? I've never been so happy to watch Fox. Ever.

So we watched the Super Bowl, with damn decent reception, over a set of rabbit ears that had been buried away in a plastic container for years, waiting for this one chance to shine.

And it was glorious.

We watched all the commercials. In part because we wanted to, but also because we lacked a Tivo "Pause" button. When we needed food, we went one at a time so that the other person could tell the one getting food if they were missing something.

And look, I'm not one to gloat about victories, okay? Particularly when it comes to a team which has only recently become my "home team." But when I watched Eli make that final drive down the field, it did generate a few of the warm and fuzzies inside me, I have to admit. And I'm just real sorry there, Pats . . . 18-1 just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

So it's a day of celebrations, not just in New Jersey and New York but all over the states. Because it's also Super Tuesday (which is sweet, sweet nectar for political junkies among us — show me your Roll Call) and Mardi Gras (which is sweet, sweet nectar for the cocktail-inclined among us — show me your flask).

Oh, and yes, today is celebratory for one more reason . . . Happy Birthday, C!

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Sports  Giants  Football  Cath 

As I've already indicated in my previous post, I'm kind of in love with our local JCC, with all it's sexy modern equipment and Wifi-equipped cafeteria. But as with all good things, there's usually some kind of trade-off. This time, it's this: apparently, the main workout area doubles as a high-school teen hangout (read: "meat market") during the late afternoon and early evening hours. I've poured over all the literature I received from the Center and this is definitely not mentioned anywhere.

Please believe this in case you forgot: There is nothing subtle about teenage flirting. Holy crap. You can barely see through the haze of hormones in that gym at five o'clock. The guys offer their ridiculous demonstrations of physical prowess while the girls try to appear cool and unimpressed — but then let the whole loosely-erected facade collapse with a hand to the mouth, a whisper to a friend, and a cascade of giggles. It's so cliched you could pull it out of just about any teen movie. And as I lay there on the mat yesterday absorbing the rush of endorphins from the jaunt on the stairs, as I lay there feeling the good ache in my chest and arms from the weights I haven't touched in months, as I lay there doing these various stretches and exercises, as I lay there listening to Galaxy Kings Napoleon's Palace on the iPod, as I lay there . . . I began to feel this uneasy sensation and I suddenly realized I was surrounded by all of these teenagers involved in some primitive mating ritual and it occurred to me just how sad and vulnerable I was to these creatures. There I was . . . actually exercising. Actually sweaty. I was easy prey, and the sheer number of them made me a little nervous. They could take me out, no problem. Somehow, I'd been cornered off from the rest of my clan, and I looked around frantically for somebody my age, shit even somebody in their early 20s would do. I could make out the bobbing heads of a few stationary bike riders on the other side of this group of kids and I longed to call to them, but it was like one of those bad dreams where you open your mouth and nothing comes out. My throat was dry and scratchy. All I could do was make this hair-ball retching sound. It was not pretty.

And so I wrapped it up as quick as I could and retreated to the locker room. And in that warm, humid oasis, it looked like maybe I had just narrowly escaped . . . or so I thought. At first, it was just me and this old naked guy in there. Gray hair, sagging boobs, probably in his late 70s, a perfectly normal encounter for a community center locker room. Exactly what I was used to at the Rhode Island Avenue Y. Old men with boobs and sacks that hung down to their knees. This was men's locker-room gold at it's finest. And there he was, old naked guy, laboring over getting undressed — maybe this was his workout? And there I was, thirty-something aging hipster, unplugging my earbuds, applying the dozen or so layers of clothing I use to keep warm this time of year. And that's when these two teenage boys came in, fresh from the hunt, stinking of cologne, engrossed in this heady discussion — presumably about one of "the hunted" — and old naked man and I were lucky enough to be a party to it.

The conversation went something like this:

Teen Boy 1: "So, what do you think of her?"

Teen Boy 2: "Not bad."

Teen Boy 1: "Dude, if she wasn't so dirty I'd be all over that ass."

What?! I had seen the girls in question. They couldn't have been more than fourteen. My cousin is fourteen. I felt strangely protective. You punk. Yeah, I have no doubt you'd be all over that ass . . . tonight . . . in your head, alone and under the covers. Abusing yourself. You pimply dork. Do you even know where your dick is?

Teen Boy 2: "Man, I don't know." Then changing the subject (by his tone, I think he may have actually liked the girl in question): "Hey, have you heard this song? Listen to this shit."

Teen Boy 2 fumbles with his iPhone. Yes. Teen Boy 2 had a freakin' iPhone. While Teen Boy 2 does that, Teen Boy 1 has ample time to come up with another witty remark. This time he decides to call into question Teen Boy 2's sexuality.

Teen Boy 1: "Do only gay people listen to this kind of music?"

Teen Boy 2: "Yeah, which is why I thought you would like it ... Shut up and listen."

They listen for a bit to something which I didn't recognize (did I mention that I'm an aging hipster?), but basically sounds like your typical hip-hop/rap song.

Teen Boy 1: "Cool."

Teen Boy 2: "I like that sort of mix of techno and wrap."

Teen Boy 1: "Tight."

At this point the old naked man heads for the shower. He has to step between the two boys. As he disappears around the corner, the two boys do not bother to restrain their snickers.

Teen Boy 1 (laughing): "Did his dick hit you?"

Teen Boy 2 (also laughing): "No."

Teen Boy 1: "Do you wish it had?"

Teen Boy 2 (still laughing): "Dude, that's nothing, my uncle knows this guy who got hit in the head by Wilt Chamberlain's dick."

Teen Boy 1: "No way."

Teen Boy 2: "Tellin' you . . . it happened . . . "

Teen Boy 1: "Hold on . . . my phone is vibrating . . ." Into the phone: "Yeah? We're in the locker room, we'll be out in a minute." Teen Boy 1 hangs up. Then, to Teen Boy 2: "That was them. They're waiting outside. Alright, back to this guy your uncle knows . . . dude, that guy is lying."

Teen Boy 2: "This guy doesn't lie." Then, in a leap of logic that was completely lost on me, but seemed to make sense to Teen Boy 1: "He's like 90 and plays tennis every day."

Teen Boy 1 (nearly convinced by that tennis remark, but still skeptical): "Okay, how'd it happen, then?"

Teen Boy 2: "Okay, here's how he tells it . . . "

By this point, I was dressed and, while I hated to miss the details of the unlikely encounter with Wilt Chamberlain's member, I figured I had about all I could take of these two.

I guess I have more of this to look forward to out here in the NJ burbs — rich, homophobic kids with iPhones talking about tapping ass when they've probably never tapped anything other than their own sweaty palm.

*Sigh*

I've always hated teenage boys, even when I was one. If C and I have a kid someday, and it's a boy, then I may have to kill him before he reaches puberty. That's all I'm saying.

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