Driving With Crazy

Now, I'm not a control freak. I just don’t like being in situations that I can't dictate. There’s a huge difference between the two. You shouldn’t ask a control freak to help you paint your house because they’d want to pick the color. You shouldn’t ask me because, well, I wouldn’t do it.

Painting is second, only to moving, on the “Man, I Know We’re Friends, but I’m Never Helping You Do This Again” list. Moving is the worst, isn’t it? I challenge you to name one fun thing about helping someone move…think about it. You can’t.

The Bonding? - You know, we could watch a football game.
The Exercise? - I’ve never seen floral sofa beds in the gym.

But there’s one situation that I hate not being in control of. Driving a car. Yup, that 3000 lb. piece of steel hurling itself 80 mph on the highway. I pride myself on being a good driver. I use my blinkers, I scan the road for any signs of danger, and I even come to full stops at Stop signs. There are some drivers on the road who obviously have no business having a license. You know the ones who weave in and out of traffic, never use their signals, and decide to text message every person saved in their cell phone while driving with their knee. You know the type. You probably ARE the type.

The sad thing is that I’m very close to two people who fit into that category. One is my roommate Al, and the other is my girlfriend Kris.

I’m going to start with Al, who’s the type of person to look at you in the eyes while talking. Now, that’s a wonderful trait to have. Eye contact is important. It exemplifies confidence, and seriousness. I wish I can do it so easily as he does. But there are times for it. Like during interviews, while talking to children, or while having a romantic dinner. Go head. Look them in the eye. Right in the pupil if you want. But doing it while driving on busy, city streets isn’t the right time for intimate gazing.

Al, while driving a vehicle, and looking at me: “So what you and Kris end up doing last night?”
“Just chilled,” I say while silently praying.
“Word. You know what I did?”
“Yea, you told me earlier this morning.”
“Well, I went to Sneaky’s, and had maaad fun. Had a couple Apple Martini’s, and a Long Island and a brotha was gooood for the night.”
Nervous chuckle. “Ha, that’s crazy.”
Silence. And he finally returns his eyes to the road. I finally exhale.
"Ooooo. I forgot to tell you ---”
“Yo, Al watch the road.”
“I am...But let me finish telling you this story.”
“Fine, but dont hit the old lady.”

To be fair, he does peek at the road every 10 seconds or so.

And just to let you know, I’m not lying when I say I’m scared or nervous when someone else drives. I really am. It really frightens me. Getting into a car accident is one of my biggest fears. Right behind slipping in the shower. Think about it, no one would hear you bust your head because of all the noise from the water. And you’re lying there, semi-conscious like “Damn. That’s what I get for trying to impress people. I should of just took a bird bath by the sink, put on some deodorant, and changed my draws…”

When I’m the passenger in a car, I’m paying more attention to the road than the driver. I’m glancing all over for potential danger. I’m looking out the window for other drivers who may be a threat to my - I mean our safety. I’m like a cat in a room full of flies. My eyes are darting all over the place. But my main responsibility is to help the driver. “WATCH OUT!”
“What? What the hell are you screaming about?!?”
“I see flashing lights 4 blocks away.”

See, I’m there when you need me.

Now I’m going to move on to Kris. Her problem is one that millions of drivers have, but it’s easily cured by purchasing proper neck restraints. She has E. D. B. S. T. O. W. D. That’s short for: Easily Distracted By the Slightest Thing Out the Window Disorder. Just rolls right off your tongue doesn’t it?

Every five seconds I’m telling her, “Beautiful road. Beautiful road.” But she can’t help it. The trees are so pretty. While driving to NYC a few times, I see her constantly looking out her window while driving down the highway…where’s there’s nothing but trees. Oh yea. There’s also those shiny, silver railings.

And if that’s not bad enough, she think she’s “The Wraith” sometimes. You know that 1980’s movie where Charlie Sheen comes back from the dead and has some futuristic-looking car? Well, he first died by being chased off the road by rowdy teens. Then he comes back just to kill them by running them off cliffs. Well, that’s Kris. Minus the being dead part.

But when she gets cut off, she doesn’t just curse and stick up middle fingers like normal people. Her whole persona changes. One day while she was driving, some guy swerved right in front of her for no reason. She barely avoids him and I’m still looking at the guy’s car in disbelief. “Man, that guy is craz--” But then I look over at Kris and suddenly, she’s in a black, leather, one-piece outfit! AND she’s wearing a matching motorcycle helmet like the Wraith. I’m not lying. 80’s rock starts blaring in the background, and she hits the gas. At this point I pee on my thigh.

So she’s flying through traffic trying to catch up to him, and I’m pleading with her to stop. “Kris. C’mon, Kris. He’s not worth it. You gotta slow down.” Have you ever seen a little kid who’s terrified of dogs actually in the same vicinity as one? They’re crying, begging for someone, anyone to take the dog away. All the while, the golden retriever puppy is like, “who, me?” But you hear the desperation and terror in that child’s voice as snot pours from his nose. Well, that was me. I thought I was going to die.

I keep screaming at her to stop. But she doesn’t. She finally reaches his car and, while going 50 mph, gets only inches away from him. We’re gonna die, is all I keep thinking. We are going to die! Where is a slippery bath tub when you need one? And we’re not in a luxury car with sports tuned suspension, and electronic stability control. It’s a ’98 Honda with mismatched tires and no windshield wiper fluid. So for 5 minutes, she’s taunting him. Getting close and backing up, going from side to side, and flashing her high beams. She’s a maniac.

I screamed one last time at her, “Kris stop! I’m not ready to die!” And the helmeted figure just turns to me. I could see my reflection in the visor, and it faded away as she looked at the road again. “Kris. I know you’re in there. Let’s just go home.” Finally, she let off the gas. The music disappeared, and she became a woman again. The Leather one-piece was gone, and I couldn’t be happier. She pulled over, flustered, not knowing what just happened. It was like a WereWolf who went out, ate 3 people, wakes up, and can’t figure out why there’s flesh between his teeth. I told Kris everything that happened, and she could believe it. She started to apologize, but she couldn’t finish because I was trying to choke her.

That entire story was true. EVERY SINGLE, other WORD.

Multiply that story 43 times, and you’d have all my experiences driving with Kris. It seems I’m only safe in a vehicle when I’m driving. I have come to that conclusion. You want to pick me up or something, slide over, cause I’m driving.

Speaking of driving, I’m off. Headed to the auto body shop. Something to do with a snowy road, a hill, and a concrete pillar. That's right, a cat in a room full of flies, my friends.

A cat in a room full of flies.

Rock-a-Bye...Maybe.

I think I have mild insomnia.

And I say mild because it’s not that I can’t sleep, it’s that it takes me a long time to fall asleep. But soon after 3 a.m. (usually after a “Fitness Made Simple with John Basedow” infomercial) my waning mind finally gives in, and my night’s rest is horrible.

The last time I slept well was a 12 minute nap that I was able to take after a math lesson years ago. I finally woke up, folded up my blue mat, walked over to my building blocks and thought, “man, I could stay in kindergarten forever.”

Ever since then, it’s been downhill. The mattress is too springy. Why has all my saliva evaporated? Why is there a hair in my mouth? Ill, this isn’t human hair.

If you were to think of people you know, I’d bet at least two of them are picky eaters. (If you can think of only one, then the other one is you. Sorry.) But it’s wierd, isn’t it?
“Here, you want one,” as I hold out a Nacho-Cheese Dorito.
“No thanks, I don’t really like chips.”

Who doesn't want to experience crispy, cheesy, corn chip delight? It’s like learning about Isosceles triangles all over again, but doing it with orange lips.

Well, I’m a picky sleeper. I make my bed at least twice a day. Some may say I’m obsessive because I believe the top sheet and blanket HAVE TO BE TOGETHER AT ALL TIMES.

***Does the capitalization work there? Do you feel the fervor? I would’ve gone with the exclamation point but I think they‘re over used. I recently got an email where someone wrote, “It must be great to be finished with school - the real world can be rough!!” Now, why does she sound excited? “Ha Ha! For months you’re gonna struggle and only eat cereal for dinner!!”***

They have to be connected. They have to be in-sync. They have to be one. The corner of the sheet can’t be in place, while the corner of the blanket is off doing its own thing. How can people sleep like that? I can understand if you were a penguin and you didn’t have opposable thumbs, or any fingers for that matter. Then maybe - maybe there’s a reason for the two not to be together at all times.

So if you’re confused as to whether you are capable of utilizing the Sheet-Blanket combination, here are the guidelines:

1) One must believe that the Sheet and Blanket be harmonious in their relationship. That the combination divided against itself cannot be comfortable.

2) One must have at least 3 fingers for every two hands*
*If, in the rare case, you have oven mitts without thumb openings permanently attached to your wrists, then you may qualify for an assistance program...and it must really suck tying your sneakers.

3) One must have sheets and blankets.

Another part about sleep that I have trouble with is the H.P.E. Also known as the Hot Pillow Effect. I hate sleeping, waking up, and feeling as if I laid my head to rest on a hot plate. Recently, South Korean and American researchers successfully cloned a human embryo. On ShopNBC, Bose has developed audio technology so advanced, traditional speaker equipment will soon become obsolete. All that and I’m still forced to flip my pillow a dozen times a night so sweat doesn’t spew from my face.

Why hasn’t anybody capitalized on this void in the pillow industry? If I were the CEO of a pillow company I’d be worried that some washed up celebrity is going to take advantage of that void and monopolize on it for the next decade.

Think about it. Imagine how enraged kitchen appliance makers were when a washed up athlete appeared on TV with the ultimate product. A counter top grill - but one that’s slanted for less grease! Genius. Not only did all these companies get beat to the market, but they got beat to the market by George Foreman. A guy that has been pounded in the head thousands of time by angry, 300 lb. men. A guy that has taken beatings so bad that he had to name all 5 sons George so he wouldn’t forget.

Can’t you imagine overweight, former CEOs all over, who were doing fine until Georgey-boy came along. Now they’re in a basement somewhere, sweaty, tinkering with old, taken apart kitchen appliances.

So I’m counting on Martha Stewart or Ty Pennington to come up with an Anti-H.P.E. pillow. I would add NASA but they’re too busy taking over the foam mattress industry.

But anybody. Anybody! Please!! Come up with something.

I can’t watch anymore ProActive informercials! I can’t look at Daisy Fuentes doing Pilates anymore! Did you hear what I just said?!? And if I see John Basedow's man-boobs

one

more

time,

I'M GOING TO LOSE IT!!

And don’t you dare say anything about all the exclamation points, I haven’t had a good sleep in years!!!

Leaps and Clowns

Have you ever done something embarrassing but no one witnessed it? It’s the funniest thing because your body temperature rises instantly, you begin to panic, but then it hits you.

“Oh, crap. I don’t think anyone saw.” But I’m a pessimist, so that’s impossible. “Someone had to see. C’mon, I just knocked three bottles of spaghetti sauce off the shelf…then slipped on it.”

Then I‘m even more embarrassed because I think everyone around is only acting like they didn’t see anything - as if they think that’ll make me feel better. But it doesn’t. It’s something about not knowing that bothers me more than the actual mishap. I can‘t help thinking, “did they see it?” Honestly, I’d be happier if everyone stood over me and laughed in my face. At least I’d know.

But nobody could’ve missed what happened to me a little while ago. I was in the living room and I had to get something from my bedroom. So I jumped up from the couch and ran through the kitchen towards my closed door. Actually, I didn’t start off running but then I remembered I left my ice tea in the room. Then I sped up when I thought, “THE ICE IS MELTING! AND I DON’T WANT THAT CLEAR LAYER ON TOP BECAUSE IT TASTES REALLY WATERY!” And for sake of imagery, I have long legs so my running is close to the gallop of a camel.

So, with my hooves clopping through the kitchen, I stuck out my right hand to turn the doorknob. I anticipated a running Turn-n-Open maneuver, so I didn’t slow down. Precise execution of The Turn-n-Open requires moderate hand/eye coordination.

I missed the knob entirely and slammed into the door.

And my door isn’t real wood but rather that faux, hollow crap that’s really loud when someone knocks on it. Now imagine me knocking on it…but with every bone in my body.

Kris was laughing so hard that drool was pouring from her mouth. Then I tried to laugh with her, but I was too mad at myself. How did I miss the Turn-n-Open? I’ve done it a million times. Thoughts like that were running through my head while Kris’ annoying laugh echoed in my ears. It’s sounds like a cross between a barking seal and a 6 year-old girl having an asthma attack. Excruciating.

Just the other day, I’m in St. Rose College’s cafeteria sitting in a booth by the window. The place is crowded with dozens of 70 year-old women in nun outfits. I would just say that they were nuns but I’m not sure. Anyway, I’m in the booth feeling more out of place than the black dude on CBS’ “Survivor.”

***Observation***
You probably know, but Survivor is a reality show where only one person gets a million bucks after a series of challenges and voting. Sorry, but no black person is getting off any island with that kind of money if 11 other white people have something to say about it. I don’t understand why black people go on reality shows...especially dating reality showes like "The Bachelor." They're as anticlimactic as a rabid pit bull would be in a room with a blind kitten.

***End of Observation***

So I’m looking out the window where there’s about 7 steps that lead into the building I’m in, and I look the other direction and there’s a guy riding his bike. I think nothing of it. Then I realize he’s by himself riding in circles 50 feet away with a crazed look in his eyes. I look at the steps again and think, “Oh, hell no.”

He’s thinking, “Dude,IcouldDoIt. Dude,IcouldDoIt. Dude,IcouldDoIt.” Suddenly he speeds toward the steps on his bike and the closer he gets, the more scared he looks.

I was thinking, "DamnHeGon'Die. DamnHeGon'Die. DamnHeGon'Die."

But his better judgment must’ve been on sabbatical because this guy was not slowing down. And he wasn’t riding a top of the line mountain bike made from some space metal with brakes and shocks adapted from Land Rover’s safari vehicles. No. He was on some $80 Huffy from Toys R’ Us with tennis balls in the spokes.

I look at him, hoping he makes it because I don’t have the daytime minutes to call 911. And this idiot looks at the steps, hoping he makes it because he doesn’t know the number.

20 feet away. He’s still pedaling.
15 feet away. I’m laughing already.
10 feet away. A nun asks me to be quiet.
5 feet away. He closes his eyes and hopes for the best.

There’s no surprise ending to this story. He didn’t make it. Actually, he was so far away from making it that he would have been closer if he’d tried it hopping in a potato sack.

Amazed he was still in one piece, he was thinking, “DudeI’mAlive! DudeI’mAlive! DudeI’mAlive!"

He looked around, ashamed that his Wiley Coyote moment had ended in failure. After standing there for a moment, he realized that no one saw.

He smiled.

His brilliant antics were witnessed only by one black dude behind a glass, surrounded by a troop of 70 year-old nuns.

Ignorance really is bliss.

The First Time

All time stops, and you wonder “how did this happen?”
Everything you hear sounds hollow, as if the world is now being spoken through a glass bottle. You notice the architecture hovering above for the first time. Windows that reflect so well, they look like a continuation of the sky. And since looking at the sky never fits into your schedule of things-to-do, this glass is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen since you were six.

****

December weekends with you and Daddy playing in the snow, while it was falling, was a tradition. Mommy stayed inside. “My hands get too cold, sweetie,” she would say. “But you go and have fun with your father.” And after a few minutes of begging her to come, too, you did. Throwing snowballs at daddy was hard with your mittens, but he dove into them and fell down, acting as if they had just come out of a cannon. But he would get you back. Even if you thought you’d run a thousand feet away, his snowballs reached you. Exploding somewhere on your snowsuit.

Most times you would gain enough courage to charge at him with a snowball in each mitten, usually missing with one of them. Then both of you ended up on your backs making snow angels, and Daddy promised that your snow angel would, someday, be as big as his. Laughing and looking up at the sky, you thought about what the clouds looked like. Sometimes, you thought you saw people, and other times you saw shapes or cartoon characters.

Winter afternoon don’t happen that way anymore. There are no 3-step porches to jump from and no century-old trees to hide behind. The only oak you see is the desk in your office and on the dash in your $60,000 sedan. Executive Vice Presidents of national banks live that life. They must. Express elevators and fine print. Conference calls and coffee breaks. It’s what you do best.

Every four years or so, you decide you need a break from that. So you pack your laptop and cell phone, and head toward an island somewhere. You lie on the beach, ignore the translucent ocean water, and type away. Memos that must be sent the instant you get back. Occasionally, even an email to a friend. Whatever it is, you can’t escape where you just left, so you head home early.
“How was your vacation?”
“Great. It felt so good to get a break from this place.”

Liar. This is what you now call home. The cold streets of Manhattan are your playground, and Fifth Avenue is your backyard. And to make up for the couple vacation days you dropped, you decide to do a little shopping on a Sunday. Bergdorf Goodman sounds good, but only because Tiffany’s and Burberry is right across the street.

Holding your head high, and feeling good about the matching cashmere scarf and gloves that were on sale, you don’t notice the patch of ice on the ground.

…The glass never looked so beautiful.

O, That's Classy.

I hear people all the time saying “I’m going to go for a walk.” And I think, “a walk where?” But the reality is that a lot of those people walk just for the sake of walking.

I don’t understand that.

Whenever I walk , I do so with the purpose of getting somewhere. Either it’s to the store, to the mailbox, or to class. Walking isn’t something I like to do, but it’s something I must do. To me, there has to be a definite reason for doing it. I don’t just walk out my door, close my eyes, take a deep breath and say “Ahhhh, where’s the wind going to take me today?” Who does that? Even dogs walk for a reason. They wanna poop, pee, chase squirrels, and smell other dog’s poop and pee. I once knew a dog that barked whenever the wind blew hard enough. Stupid, stupid animals, yet smart enough to know why they’re walking.

When are humans going to reach that intellectual plateau? Have you ever seen a person happy to be walking? It’s quite funny. There they are - not in running clothes- smiling at nothing with their hands in their pockets. And most of the time, it seems those people are walking across the street I need to turn on when I’m driving. That’s the most annoying thing about Walkers, they think cars cannot hit them. I think of all of them with stuffy voices saying, “La-dee-dee, La-dee-dah. I have the right-of-way Mr. Vehicle. You must wait until I have ascended onto the sidewalk. Thank You Very Much.” Meanwhile you become an ostrich, twisting and stretching your neck to see if the light above you is still green.

“Now you may proceed, Mr. Vehicle. Thank You Very Much.”

And I know that’s how they think because I used to be a Walker. I hated cars who tried to make me walk faster when I was crossing the street. Uh-uh. Wouldn’t do it because I didn’t have to worry about something like points being put on my Walker’s License. But car drivers have to worry. “Man, I wanna run over this old lady with the groceries. She’s really taking her sweet time crossing.” Then I think about it. “But, alas, I can’t. One day I will see you again old woman. One day. And on that day I need not worry about points, because I will be riding a bicycle..."

I feel the same way about running. I tried running on a treadmill at the gym the other day and I couldn’t do it. I had never done it before in my life, and it was the most awkward thing for me (asides from the time I sat in the same car for 25 minutes with my girlfriend‘s mute cousin who doesn’t blink). But I was afraid of falling off the treadmill like I’ve seen millions of times on Funniest Home Videos, so I didn’t want to let go of the handle bars. I looked like a baby in a walker…but one with long, hairy legs.

So my feeling of inadequacy prevailed and I decided to get off the treadmill. But how? Should I jump off? Should I stop walking and roll off the back of it? I looked around to make sure no one was watching, and no one was. Everybody on treadmills was either listening to their Ipod, or guzzling down some fitness water. What is fitness water, by the way? How can water be fit? Anyway, I figured there has to be a logical way to get off this machine going 10 mph. Ok. The answer lies in one of these buttons.

Have you ever looked at the panel of an advanced treadmill? It’s like the cockpit of an airplane. Freakin’ barometers, altimeters, and heart gauges all over the place. Buttons are lighting up here and there. All it needs is a glass windshield and Top Gun‘s “Danger Zone” playing from its speakers. C’mon you know that song.

Hiiiighway to the DANGER ZONE
Gonna take you Right in to the DANGER ZONE.

I admit that song would’ve gotten me pumped to jump right off that thing, but all I wanted was a helmet that said “GOOSE.”

But I didn’t need a helmet because I finally figured it out by crouching and reading the fine print instructions on the panel. That may sound easy but try doing it while running 10 mph. And it didn’t help that I’m cursed with extremely long legs and a stubby torso. I stand in front of the mirror naked sometimes and think I look like a giraffe without the long neck.

So after I manage to get off, I head over to the weights. “Now this is what I’m talking about. A real workout.” Then I grunted like Tim The Toolman Taylor.

After lifting weights for 40 minutes, I was spent. I hadn’t done any lifting in a long time and my arms were starting to burn so I decided to stop. Guzzling down a gallon of water during my workout didn’t help my stomach. “Maaan, I got bubble guts in a public place. This sucks.” If I’m in public and I have to use the bathroom, I hold it as long as I can because public restrooms are atrocious. Dirty toilet tissue wads are all over the floor and I don’t even want to mention the smell. But the worst thing is how a public bathroom develops its own evolutionary life cycle. There were pubic hairs walking around in the last bathroom I went into. I could’ve sworn one knocked on my stall and asked for some tissue.

But the gym’s bathroom wasn’t that bad. I covered the toilet seat with an entire roll of Charmin’s and tried to imagine I was at home. It didn’t work, but I finished and I reached over to get tissue. As I moved my arm I realized that I had overworked it, and now they didn’t work. “This isn’t happening.” Digging deep inside myself I mustered the little strength in me to reach back and wipe my butt. Or at least tried to. My right arm was so weak that it was shaking uncontrollably. I wish I had the guy from The Waterboy standing outside my stall screaming, “You Can Do EhhT.” But I couldn’t. The tissue was too heavy. Still can’t picture it? Well imagine Mohammad Ali trying to wipe his butt and that’s how I looked. Sorry for the graphic imagery.

I never thought I would go so low and write toilet humor, but I had to tell this story. I don’t even want to get into how I tried with my left hand (which I must‘ve never done before). I looked crippled. Don’t believe me? Next time try using your non-wiping hand, and you’ll see.

Now that’s a Danger Zone.

Just a Moment

The other day I made breakfast. French Toast, bacon, and eggs. After I’d finished cooking everything, I picked up my plate and walked in my room. I wanted to close my door, but I didn’t feel like walking all the way over to the desk and putting everything down first. So facing away from the door, French toast in hand, I leapt in the air, kicked my left leg back and said, “HI-YAH!” The door thundered shut. No one was around, I didn’t recently watch a Kung-Fu movie, nor was there any gain in my jump kicking my door. I just did it. And I didn’t even realize I’d done it until I noticed everything in my room was shaking. My form felt good. It felt professional.

Sometimes I wish I had a photographer following me around all the time like Mohammad Ali did, waiting to capture me at my best. Because at that moment - for that split second I bound in the air, I felt perfect. Have you ever watched a gazelle walk? If you haven’t, it’s an extraordinary thing. They keep their back perfectly straight while covering ten feet with each stride. All with a tiny twinge of their muscles. During this display of grace, the gazelle’s head and neck remain still like cast iron, while its eyes and ears dart back and forth, relentlessly processing nature’s information. Watching it becomes a humbling experience because you realize just how physically insignificant humans are.

But at that moment, I wasn’t human. I wasn’t bound by our pathetic limitations. At that moment I became the world’s illogical production. All with French Toast in my hand.

Hi-Yah.

"The Albatross"

In Albany, where I live, there are these commercials and billboards all over the place for a place called Best Fitness. It’s a gym that's $20 a month for life. Two months ago, after I picked Kris up from work one day, we headed over to take a look.
“C’mon, it’ll take a second.”
“Ahh man, I wanted to go home and watch MaxEX” (If you haven’t seen it, your missing out on home videos of crazy things like Komodo Dragons attacking 80 year-old women in wheelchairs. It’s great.)
So, I concur. Actually, I have no choice because it’s her car…And if there was no concurrence, I would’ve had to take the bus home. And Andrew no like to take big bus home.

We arrive to Westgate Plaza, and look for Best Fitness. “Where is this place,” we ask each other, then finally we see the storefront. Some guy, watching us from inside is waving for us to come in. Kris saw him, but I could barely make him out because of the saw-dust covered glass he was standing behind. “You gotta be kidding me.” This place was under construction. Now when I say, “under construction,” you probably think I mean the place is being built. No. This place was literally under construction.

Plywood was all over the place. There wasn’t a floor. Yes, there wasn’t a floor, just rubbish and concrete. It was like it was a continuation of the parking lot, but with an open, upside down cardbox on top of it. Don’t get me wrong, it was the most promising pile of rubble I’ve ever seen in my life, but I was starting to understand why it was only $20 a month. And the best part about the gym membership, was that for only $5 more a month, you could actually help with the construction. (No hard hat is provided though. Sad face.)
The gym guy - let’s call him Joe - walks over to us and asks “So, what brought you guys to our gym?”

***Interactive Part of Story***
Pick a response:
A) Home Depot does animal testing so we wanted to buy 2 x 4’s from you guys.
B) Oh, I’m sorry the wind from the saw-dust storm blinded us, and we accidentally wandered in here. We meant to go in Pottery Barn.
C) Instead of going to Vieques to see the results of bomb testing, we decided to come to Best Fitness.
D) I’m sorry, but it sounded like you said this was a gym.
***Thanks For Your Participation***

Well, I kept my mouth shut while (input your answer here) ran though my mind. Kris said she was thinking of signing up. “OK, I’ll show you guys around.” Show us around what I thought, but decided to let him humor me. “Where all those buckets are, yea, that’s gonna be the aerobics room. And to your left, that wheelbarrow is where all the free weights are going to be. And to the right of that is where our state-of-the-art cardiovascular machines like treadmills and ellipticals are gonna be.”

Are treadmills really state-of-the-art? Is anything in a gym state-of-the-art, besides the steroid the really buff dude next to you has injected in his butt cheek?

Joe then took us downstairs to a big, empty space with three doorways. “This is a separate area for women who don’t want to workout in front of everybody. And this room is going to be for boxing.”
For the first time, jokes stopped running around in my head. “Wait, you said boxing? Is it free?”
“Yup, everything is. All our classes are free, and you get your own personal trainer for free as well.”

Now my interest has peaked because I want to try boxing. Sadly, “The Contender,” a boxing reality show on NBC, has got me hooked. It has me so hooked, that I was thinking of getting a pair of custom boxing shorts that stop right below my nipples. And you know how boxers have some cheesy insignia on their waste band. Like it’ll say, “Punisher,” “Sugar,” or have the token, athletic Bible scripture “John 3:16.” Well, I want one too. But I was thinking of something to throw my opponent off, like the name of an animal that’s thought to be weak. I’m torn between “Otter,” and “Albatross.” After a long deliberation, “Alaskan Snow Monkey,” came in a distant third.

Daydream with me, people. I can see it now.

The lights. The crowd. The score-card girls.
And the announcer, Michael Buffer (the “Let’s get ready to rumble” guy) grabbing the microphone. “The challenger, in the blue corner, born and raised in Haaarrlem, New York…but currently living in Albany because his parents decided to move to Orlando out of the blue for no real reason…Standing at a lanky 6’1 and weighing in at a light, but meaty, 169 pounds. Aaaaaandrew ‘The Albatross’ Daaaaavis.”

Now I was officially impressed with this wonderful facility. “OK, where do we sign up?”

Sitting down in the one room that actually had tiles, Joe brought us the paperwork. Kristin, who knew she was going to sign up before walking through the door, signed the papers as quick as a celebrity giving an autograph. I, on the other hand, read through each word because there has to be a catch…and I’m cheap. Ah-HAH. “So if you cancel within 2 years, you have to pay $150?”
“Yea, that’s the severance charge.”
“Ah, man, it sounded good until then. I don’t know if I‘m going to be going for 2 years. I don’t even know what I‘m doing 2 days from now.”
Then Kris chimes in, “C’mon, you’re definitely going to go if you have to pay.”
I pull aside her jacket to see if she’s wearing a Best Fitness name tag on her shirt. She always tries to sell me something. “You just want me spending money again.”
“Oh, no I don’t.”

In supermarkets: “You should buy this ToFu salad mix.”
“What? I don’t even eat ToFu.”

In clothing stores: “Don’t you need more undershirts?”
“Well, thanks for reminding me, Kristin. I am feeling kind of nippy under this goose-down jacket.”

Finally, I’m persuaded to sign up. But only because I can get my money back until 7 days after the gym opens. When is that? By the looks of it, late 2009.

Sorry, I Darted.

(should read previous post (below this one) before reading. it'll make more sense. but if you're confident in your ability to connect dots, just go for it.)

On Sunday I showed this site to Kris, and she read the story about the game of darts we played on Thursday night. She looked at me tight lipped with the corner of her mouth slightly raised - a smirk. I knew what she’s going to say before she did.
“You better put up what happened last night.”
“Yea yea yea. I am.”

So here it is:
I figure I’d start with a quote from my last post about the game of darts me, her, and my roommate played on Thursday night. “So, Kris, if you read this - I’m sorry. I preyed on your inabilities to hold it together after losing. I knew you’d buckle like a stool under a fat lady.”

A lot has changed since then with our dart capabilities. Before going out on Saturday night, the three of us decide to play a game of Cricket. Here’s the rules: Imagine the dart board as a pizza pie, and it has 20 slices. Each slice is numbered 1-20 (bulls eye is 25). You have to hit slices 15-20 three times each. After you hit a number 3 times, you have now ’closed’ it. If you hit that number after you have closed it, you gain that amount of points. You can only gain points until everyone has closed that number. The point of the game is to close everything, including bulls eye - and have the most points when you do. If you close everything, but don’t have the most points, you keep trying for points until you have more than anybody else… then you win.

So we come up with the brilliant idea of wagering on a game of Cricket. “Whoever loses has to buy a round when we go out.” Game 1 starts, and Al hits 20, but misses with his next two darts. Kris, who threw like she had no thumbs on Thursday night, can’t miss a thing.
15.
Bullseye.
20.

I now go, still confident from my victories of two days ago. I don’t throw a dart, and I’m already walking to the line talkin’ smack. “This is like Michael Jordan playing pick-up ball at a school for the blind.”
THWACK!
“I’m a little rusty. I just want to get yal hopes up.”
CLANG!
“Alright, Imma stop playing around with yal.”
DIONG!

The two of them are laughing at me, but I know that it’ll all come together my next turn. Al goes. 20. Miss. 20. “Yea, scrub.” He looks at me.
Kris goes. 17. 20. 15. She doesn’t talk smack, but rather politely removes the darts from the board, slowly walks over, and hands them to me. All while never breaking eye contact. That bugs me more than being called a scrub.

I go, same results. Diong. Clang. 5. Now, remember I get no points for hitting 5. What I do get is a loud, piercing buzzer sound like the one on Family Feud if the answer is wrong. Or if you remember the noise from the game “Operation” when you mess up putting the organs back in the guy.
The whole game goes on that way. Kris - first place. Al - second place. Andrew - last place, PO’d, and out of 9 dollars because I gotta buy a freaking round.
“Another one?” We all agree.

Al wins this time, and Kris comes in second. I’m now out of $18. And the incessant trash talking and quiet, evil stares begin to bug me. “One more.” This time though, before I step to the line, something hits me.
“Since when did you get so good," I ask Kris. "I think you hustled us you - you dart shark.” I’m told by certain people that when I get mad or excited, my voice cracks. (Once, after trying to remember the name of the movie theatre in our mall, I finally screamed, “Hoyts.” But sounded like Alvin from the chipmunks.) I’m pretty sure that happened this time too. So I throw my three darts and a couple hit. But the other two opponents of mine, are playing too well at this point. I lose again.

“Expletive. Bigger expletive. Same expletive as the first.”
“One more game,” I say out of breath from rage. “Same bet.”
They agree, and why not? Free rounds all night for them. And Kris is especially happy because there are no garbage bags involved.
They throw. They hit. I throw. I miss.
I throw again... but it's a chair. Bullseye.

Now I’m practically sobbing. “I don’t believe this. *sniff* What’s going on?” I sound like an uninjured person in a car wreck whose face is all powdery from the airbag deploying.
“OK. Last one.” Both of them now seem to feel sorry for me - at least Kris does. I could see it in her eyes. I’m out $36. “But this time. Double or nothing. If I lose, I buy a round next weekend, or whenever we go out. IF I WIN, I only have to buy 3 rounds, and whoever loses buys one. And if I come in second, I stay the same.”
Al jumps on it like a dog in heat. Kris reluctantly agrees.

They start. They hit again. I go. I hit. (Don’t reread that. I said I hit, gosh darnit.) They go, miss a couple. I go again, and I can’t miss. I’m kicking the crap outta them. So the end of the games draws near. I close out everything, except I need one bullseye. I have 240 points, and the next person, Kris has closed everything, but has 200. The second I hit, she automatically comes in second. Al has about 150. So if I hit a bullseye, I win plus Al is out of $9. Life can’t get any greater at this moment.

All I need is one bullseye. One. Just One freaking bullseye, but I keep missing - barely. Kris goes, she can’t hit the side of a barn now. Al goes, and gets closer. 180. I go again, and barely miss the center 3 times. Kris - well by now she’s a lost cause, but is rooting for me. So that’s pressure. Nevermind the pressure I’m putting on myself.

Al gets closer.
I miss yet again.
Al misses.
I miss.
Al misses again.
I suck.

Al steps to the line. I don’t even look.

Bullseye. Tied with Kris.
Next dart. Bullseye. He needs one more to surpass me and win.
Next dart. A motha-fu ----

Well I don’t need to finish but I will say, the dart board is now broken.
Kris is mad cause I couldn’t finish it out. Just me and her left, and I ending up beating her so now she‘s out $9. Not Al. Not punk, scrub, the luckiest-three-dart-throws-in-the-history-of-Dartopia, Al.

I promised to tell this story and I'm a man of my word. This time, my friends, I buckled like a stool under - well, you know the rest.

Confession

Thursday night was fun. My roommate and I finally decided to put up our dart board in the living room. My girlfriend was there as well, and suggested that we’d play a game of 301. “Three-oh-what?”

See, I don’t imagine darts as a “black person’s hobby.” And many are going to think that’s ignorant, racist, naïve or whatever, but let’s be real. Not many black dudes I know, play darts. The bar across the street from my house has 2 dart boards, and 2 pool tables. I’d always gravitated towards the latter. But not because I’m black, but because I love to relive my childhood days of playing with my 3-in-1 Fisherprice Pool Table.

Do you remember that? It was the best. Pool, Ping-Pong, and Knock Hockey all in one. Our family played ping pong and pool endlessly for four months straight after we got it. My mom was a pro at ping pong. She grew up in suburban New Jersey with her four siblings where they did nothing but play ping pong and capture wild animals (refer to story of my Uncle Stevie somehow bringing a tiny duckling home, than later crushing it by rolling over in the middle of the night.)

Anyway. My mom was a seasoned vet at ping pong. My father was no slouch either. Who knows when he learned to play? Then I remember the first time they played each other. I never saw my father moving his hand so fast - except when he impatiently shook loose his Pall Mall cigarettes. And my weirdly sweet, “I’ll bake you a cookie for no reason” mother was quite a competitor. There I stood by, watching as the plastic ball whizzed back and forth across the miniature table. My father had the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up, apparently oblivious that it’s the shirt that’s making him leak from his forehead. My mother, with her pupils dilated - focused more than I’d ever seen her, pruned and pursed her lips tighter with each stroke of the paddle.

Then it ended. Score 21 to 19. My mother, in slow motion, raised her arms in the air - victorious. Looking at them, you’d think they’d just run the New York City Marathon. My father reached for his jar of water , panting. (Note: he drank from old, rinsed out relish and mayo jars. Never cups. Don’t ask.) His flannel button up shirt drenched. My mother's lips finally unclenched each other, then shifted into their normal shape.

That afternoon I saw my parents sweat, yell, stretch, and moan in ways I had never imagined. I’m still in therapy.

I became better at ping pong, and moved my way to playing pool. Keep in mind the Fisher Price 3-in-1 was smaller than normal. The pool sticks were as short as rulers, and the balls were as small as gerbil poop.
We made it work. I'm now proficient in the art of miniature pool and half-size table tennis.

So back to Thursday night. The three things I knew about darts:
1) You throw the thing, point first, at the red dot in the middle.
2) Don’t throw it, point first, at a human.
3) You can, however, throw it tail first at someone’s eye… and it’ll be really funny.

***RANDOM THOUGHT***
Why is it that even the biggest, and baddest of men are still scared of having a rubber band pointed at their face?
***End of RANDOM THOUGHT***

So my girlfriend explained to me and my roommate the rules of 301. Hit spots on the board worth certain amount of points, so they get subtracted from 301. The first one to 0 wins.. But you can’t go past zero (so if it’s your go, and you have 15 points left, if you hit 17, you turn is over because that leaves -2, and you remain at 15.)
We play. Did I mention that the dart board was hers, that she and her roommate used to play everyday? Well, she won the first game. Getting to zero while I had about 115, and my roommate, Al, had like 299.

She wins, looks at us, says nothing, struts off to the kitchen for her pointless victory lap. Little does she know that Al and I are extremely competitive. (We once played Madden football on Xbox for seven straight hours, never going more than 45 seconds without talking trash to one another… On thanksgiving.) So we decide to make a wager. Play again, but the loser has to buy beverages for the weekend. She’s game. We’re P-O’d and focused so she doesn’t stand a chance.

See what you have to know about her is that she’ll buckle under pressure if you keep in her ear about how much she sucks. Clang! “You might wanna hit the board this time.” B-dong! “See that red circle in the middle? Yea…aim there.” Diong! “You know, you’re allowed to play with your eyes open, right?”

I win, Al comes in second, and she finishes with a bunch of points left. Now she’s steamin’ mad. I, being the shark that I am, know she’s mentally incapable of beating me at this moment. Believe me, I cant take this girl bowling without her blowing a gasket because that one pin she barely knicked, was supposed to be a strike. Yea, OK.
So we make another wager. "OK, since we’ve begun throwing garbage on the floor and started putting pots in the bath tub, the loser has to get garbage bags and dishwashing liquid."

She knows she’s in a funk, but we persuade to agree.
CLANG!
B-DONG!
DIONG!
She missed the entire board just like the previous game, but this time her bad aim is compounded with anger and frustration. And the wall paid dearly. “No. Uh-uh. I’m not buying any *expletive* garbage bags.”
“Fine, that’s fair cause you don’t live here. But at least buy the dish liquid. Cmon you did lose.”
“Fine.”

But I can’t help myself. “One more game. This is the last one. This one for garbage bags separately.” It takes a lot more convincing but she agrees. Her dented pride interferes with her better judgment.

The dart board now hangs on a piece of Swiss cheese thanks to her performance.
So, Kris, if you read this - I’m sorry. I preyed on your inabilities to hold it together after losing. I knew you’d buckle like a stool under a fat lady. But Al and I really needed dish liquid - and garbage bags.

Welcome

Well, I'd just like to welcome myself to blogging. Please, hold the applause. Thanx. On here, Im going to have many things. Some of my posts will be random thoughts - just observations and questions I may have. A chuckle may come about when read (I was teased recently for using the word chuckle...was that warranted?). I'll have short stories, long stories, but no poetry. CANTSTANDIT. There, I said it.

Why is everyone so scared of saying they hate poetry? Just admit it, you do. What is it, exactly besides a bunch of short sentences that never line up with each other that uses no punctuation, but too many adjectives. I don't get it. I have one world literature class that was interesting for the first two weeks, but then we read Walcott for the next 4 months. Whatthehell is that guy talking about?!? Anyway, my professor, a young, skin-and-bones brunette from Canada who has an English accent and wears flannel belly sweaters in the winter, loves Walcott. Seriously, every time she talks about him her eyes become glossed over with infatuation. It's scary. All she needs is a bunch of cartoon hearts circling above her head. One day, when she asked me what I thought about Walcott's use of "Sir" in A Sea Is History, I was gonna say, "actually, I couldn't care less. I hate the guy's work. And I hate poetry too." But I pictured her gasping then walking over to me wide-eyed, and whispering in her English accent, "how dare you? One mustn't utter such wurds."

Yeah, so there will be no poetry.

Most likely.

Actually, some poems blow my mind and are simply, extraordinary.

A grain of salt, people. A grain of salt.