As you age you can reach the point where you can finally think, compare and contrast your life with that of your Dad’s. It’s not really possible when younger as the relationship is always Dad/Son. But when you reach the age your father had once been and where he was in life, you can more easily understand why he was the way he was. You are both men and can understand.
I’ve mentioned this before, my Dad was a “company man.” That was back when you gave your life over to the business you were employed with and showed enormous loyalty. Back then versus today, that loyalty was REPAID.
He scrambled, fought, and plotted his career life from bank teller till he reached the lofty position of CEO of a small chain of banks called First Federal Savings and Loan of Providence. It’s long since been defunct however. I can remember the day his contract for the new position was splayed across the kitchen table as he and my Mom discussed the good fortune and what to do next.
What to do next. Oh, he had plans.
I once overheard what he was going to plan for his sons, my brother and I. Due to our personalities, we required different career paths. My brother, who had a better school record than I (and probably an IQ of 150, no joke) was going to go study corporate management at Bryant, perhaps Brown University for the coveted MBA and higher. As for me? I was to be a tax attorney as I had the real ugly talent for never giving up once I got started at something. I clamped down like a pit bull on certain things if I wanted too. Hell, I still can be like that.
Well, those plans never came to fruition as my Dad slumped on the kitchen table on a cold February day a year later and died due to walking pneumonia. It’s the same thing that killed Jim Henson at a young age as well. It’s an odd thing walking pneumonia, you can get along for two weeks with it being a mild nuisance and then the last six hours it rages through lungs like Patton’s Third Army.
So, with Dad’s plans out of the way, we kids developed our own paths. And to think back, it was probably for the best as kids develop into their own people, not their parents ideal of what they should be.
So, I’ll be 48 soon and I’ve beat both my father’s and brother’s life span. I’m not a tax attorney nor could have I ever have been really. Dry office occupations never did hold out much allure to me. In fact, I first went into a career that’s the anathema to high finance and that was social work! Dad inadvertently raised a pinko socialist son. Well he didn’t really, but my experiences as a kid, young adult, taught me this world is way too fucked up and needed a janitor to help sop up the messes of people’s lives. But, that’s another long story…
*****
Here’s a telling memory why my Dad liked success.
I forget the movie. It was an old typical WW2 flick in which there was a scene that I noticed my Dad was wholly focused on, and seemed a bit frightened by.
The scene showed a captain chewing out a second lieutenant . The lieutenant was told to stand at attention while the captain told him (and I’m paraphrasing)
“I’m giving you all the goldbrickers, the lay abouts, the losers…and I’m holding YOU responsible for their work and it better be done RIGHT! The captain says.
The captain then tosses his lit cigarette on the floor and orders the lieutenant to “put that out” and the junior officers bends and stuffs the cigarette out.
“Don’t forget just WHO your commanding officer is! I’m going to make your life a living hell if you don’t follow my orders to the tee. The fitness reports I write up are going to be looking for the smallest failures I can find!“
The jist of that was here is this prick senior officer who hates the guts of this poor lieutenant and the other fact is, the military owns your ass and you just can’t leave.
You’re stuck where you are.
My Dad was riveted to that scene in the movie.
Ok, let’s move it up to 1976 and tale #2.
The mid seventies gave birth to the Three Martini Lunch. The high finance guys would rotate where they’d have lunch in Providence then and of course, you can’t eat your veal w/o a good few Manhattans.
Well, as my dad admitted to my Mom later, he was pretty buzzed when he shot straight though a red light on Westminster St and was pulled over by a Providence cop. The cop never suspected that my Dad was DWI and the fact remains, there were NO blood/alcohol tests or laws then. But the cop wrote up my Dad for blowing through the intersection.
I can remember my Dad on the phone with his lawyer and wanting to dispute his obvious guilty actions. When he hung up, I overheard Dad saying his lawyer would “get it squashed” in court fairly easily as Dad was a CEO of a major financial interest downtown.
One day after court, he came home triumphantly, telling my Mom, “Maureen! It was beautiful, Repucci made a total ass out of that cop on the stand. He had him explaining why he was “bothering an upstanding member of the Providence business community.”
Yeah, my Dad got off scot free on this little crime, and he reveled in it.
My Dad had “arrived.” He achieved that position in society where you had some power and could be above it all. He was no longer that young lieutenant in the movie that could be kicked around by abusive power.
And this tells me, my Dad was that little guy who was kicked around a lot at one time. I may be wrong, as I don’t know for sure, but Dad sure had learned plenty of motivation to become the Big Dog
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
It Worked!
I admit, I have gone full geek. I have built my own computer.
Every Christmas, I buy myself something that I really enjoy. The last few years it has been buying components to my stereo system that I’ve been working on for a few years. Well, that stereo was completed last year and it sounds wonderful to me. Time to move on to something different.
For the last several months, I’ve been reading up on just how computers operate. I cannot understand it all as I’m no electronics engineer. But, these things are mesmerizing to me and how they work. Whatever is going on inside that black box is tempting for me to find out.
I’ve always been bitten by curiosity…always. If I cannot understand something I’m interested in, I have a tendency to go full-tilt learning it until I do. If you want to see someone be obsessed over something, see me when I’m focusing on some project. I’ll probably totally blow you off as I’m diving into a problem and when done, I’ll address you.
To sum it up in a nutshell, I invent projects just so that I can satiate that drive in me to know something totally new. Do I like challenges? Sure, but only those that interest me.
So, here’s a bunch of pics showing the progress of it all
Another shot from a shallower angle.
Every Christmas, I buy myself something that I really enjoy. The last few years it has been buying components to my stereo system that I’ve been working on for a few years. Well, that stereo was completed last year and it sounds wonderful to me. Time to move on to something different.
For the last several months, I’ve been reading up on just how computers operate. I cannot understand it all as I’m no electronics engineer. But, these things are mesmerizing to me and how they work. Whatever is going on inside that black box is tempting for me to find out.
I’ve always been bitten by curiosity…always. If I cannot understand something I’m interested in, I have a tendency to go full-tilt learning it until I do. If you want to see someone be obsessed over something, see me when I’m focusing on some project. I’ll probably totally blow you off as I’m diving into a problem and when done, I’ll address you.
To sum it up in a nutshell, I invent projects just so that I can satiate that drive in me to know something totally new. Do I like challenges? Sure, but only those that interest me.
So, here’s a bunch of pics showing the progress of it all
Here's the empty case...now I have to fill it.
This is the power suppy with it's hydra headed wires all over the place. They all have to find a home.
Power supply screwed into it's case. Cut my hand a few times on those sharp sheet metal edges there.
The mother board installed. I had already installed the CPU and heatsink and fan prior...
Another shot from a shallower angle.
All the wires hooked up where they supposed to go...I was hoping...
The final build. Everything in. Wires, video card, DIMMS and whatnots...
Ok. I was really hoping when I put the cover in this thing, plug it in, hit the on switch the thing would fire up and not shower sparks and smoke. I didn't turn it on for a good hour. I went over everything about 5 times making sure it was all there. And then I started to wonder what the hell am I going to do if nothing happened. There is NO warranty on this build and who do I go to...the only person would be myself...augh!
I had read when you do power it on, all fans should spin, and the computer should do something called a POST, which is a self check. After that, it should ask me what I want to to do and that would be going into BIOS.
Here's what happened...
It worked! The BIOS detected the two drives, hardward and all the other thingies I put in. Now all I have to do is get Windows 7 operating systemt and I have a new computer to play with.
Next, perhaps I should build an MRI?
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Over the River and Through the Woods!
Thanksgiving is upon us once again and some memories of the ones past come to me.
To begin with, I came from a small Irish family. Secondly, the Irish could never cook even if their lives depended on it. Our family dinners weren’t horrid, it was just that the available choice and fare was rather limited. Limited by the fact the Irish can’t cook anything besides the simplest meat and potato type dishes.
As a kid, my mom would cook this each and every year. A turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, disgusting squash and that bouncy, cylindrical thingy called Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. Now all the food she cooked was pretty decent, but that squash…ugh.
The problem with squash was that when put on your plate, some of the liquid would run into the other food on your plate. In my child’s mind, it would poison and ruin the other food there. I’d sit there deftly pushing the squash to a part of the plate where it couldn’t leech into my other food that I did like. On top of that, it was a vegetable and as a kid, all vegetables tasted like newly cut grass to me. Vegetables were vile weeds.
The Italians revolve around food. We Irish used the food as an excuse to drink beer. As dinner was finished, we kids would be chased from the table so the adults could do what they really wanted to do on Tday, drink. My Dad, Mom, Grandparents and the occasional Uncle would sit there getting gooned. Though my Mom was a lightweight, she couldn’t handle more than three Narragansett beers total. My Uncle on the other hand could drink the brewery.
As we got older, Thanksgiving day meant getting sloshed ourselves. My brother and I would attend the yearly St Raphael/Tolman HS football game at McCoy stadium at 10 am. We did this for three years and each time we’d smuggle in the cheapest Popov vodka. We two weren’t the only ones in the crowd who were feeling no pain. I can remember a kid I knew in high school, Tim C., who fell down the stairs at McCoy and didn‘t feel a thing.
Ever drink yourself into oblivion at 11am? You can if your 15. You’re far too dumb to know otherwise. One time, my brother and I became soo drunk, that we got lost driving home from McCoy stadium. Want to know how bad that is? McCoy stadium is about 1/2 of a mile from my house and my brother was too silly drunk to figure out the drive. That was back when you could drive completely sloshed without much fear of being charged with DWI. Boy, how things have changed!
In our 20’s, Tday was becoming a hindrance to us. My brother and I would bolt the food down and head out of the door as we had “better things to do” than hang around with the parents and grandparents who were boring anyway. Again, culture comes into it. We Irish have “roving wakes” and roving Tday parties. We go from house to house to visit friends and have a drink or two. We’d be offered food but of course, that’s not what Tday is for…is it? Well, not for Pawtucket Irish it wasn’t.
It wasn’t until I was working in Western Cranston did I see what a “real” Thanksgiving was. Cranston is full of Italians and when I was working there, I saw the spread these people put out! I was amazed! These people used beer and wine to wash down the buckets of food they’d prepare and DEMAND you eat.
Let me tell you how bad the Irish are. I thought ravioli came from a can till I attended a Tday party on Phoenix ave in Cranston in 1987. Provolone cheese? I thought there was only “Kraft” cheese! There was course after course of food and very little drinking, now how weird is that?
So, enjoy your Tday, watch the Macy’s Day parade. And if you’re going to drink, pass out on the floor and become the joke to your family, it’s cheaper than hiring a lawyer.
 |
| Yum! |
To begin with, I came from a small Irish family. Secondly, the Irish could never cook even if their lives depended on it. Our family dinners weren’t horrid, it was just that the available choice and fare was rather limited. Limited by the fact the Irish can’t cook anything besides the simplest meat and potato type dishes.
As a kid, my mom would cook this each and every year. A turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, disgusting squash and that bouncy, cylindrical thingy called Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. Now all the food she cooked was pretty decent, but that squash…ugh.
The problem with squash was that when put on your plate, some of the liquid would run into the other food on your plate. In my child’s mind, it would poison and ruin the other food there. I’d sit there deftly pushing the squash to a part of the plate where it couldn’t leech into my other food that I did like. On top of that, it was a vegetable and as a kid, all vegetables tasted like newly cut grass to me. Vegetables were vile weeds.
The Italians revolve around food. We Irish used the food as an excuse to drink beer. As dinner was finished, we kids would be chased from the table so the adults could do what they really wanted to do on Tday, drink. My Dad, Mom, Grandparents and the occasional Uncle would sit there getting gooned. Though my Mom was a lightweight, she couldn’t handle more than three Narragansett beers total. My Uncle on the other hand could drink the brewery.
As we got older, Thanksgiving day meant getting sloshed ourselves. My brother and I would attend the yearly St Raphael/Tolman HS football game at McCoy stadium at 10 am. We did this for three years and each time we’d smuggle in the cheapest Popov vodka. We two weren’t the only ones in the crowd who were feeling no pain. I can remember a kid I knew in high school, Tim C., who fell down the stairs at McCoy and didn‘t feel a thing.
Ever drink yourself into oblivion at 11am? You can if your 15. You’re far too dumb to know otherwise. One time, my brother and I became soo drunk, that we got lost driving home from McCoy stadium. Want to know how bad that is? McCoy stadium is about 1/2 of a mile from my house and my brother was too silly drunk to figure out the drive. That was back when you could drive completely sloshed without much fear of being charged with DWI. Boy, how things have changed!
In our 20’s, Tday was becoming a hindrance to us. My brother and I would bolt the food down and head out of the door as we had “better things to do” than hang around with the parents and grandparents who were boring anyway. Again, culture comes into it. We Irish have “roving wakes” and roving Tday parties. We go from house to house to visit friends and have a drink or two. We’d be offered food but of course, that’s not what Tday is for…is it? Well, not for Pawtucket Irish it wasn’t.
It wasn’t until I was working in Western Cranston did I see what a “real” Thanksgiving was. Cranston is full of Italians and when I was working there, I saw the spread these people put out! I was amazed! These people used beer and wine to wash down the buckets of food they’d prepare and DEMAND you eat.
Let me tell you how bad the Irish are. I thought ravioli came from a can till I attended a Tday party on Phoenix ave in Cranston in 1987. Provolone cheese? I thought there was only “Kraft” cheese! There was course after course of food and very little drinking, now how weird is that?
So, enjoy your Tday, watch the Macy’s Day parade. And if you’re going to drink, pass out on the floor and become the joke to your family, it’s cheaper than hiring a lawyer.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Misheard Lyrics and The Neighborhood
I can remember someone of importance in the Reagan administration mentioning that Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” was Reagan’s favorite song. The official said it was a high energy, uplifting song that exemplified the greatness of America. However, some DJ once commented that if you read the lyrics to that song, it had nothing whatsoever in it that was uplifting about America at all. Sure, the song is energetic and the refrain “born in the usa” being repeated over and over again does sound patriotic. But…as that DJ mentioned…
In an ironic sense, the Reagan administration sure picked the song that encapsulated America at that time.
*****
Speaking of Vietnam vets, I never knew one personally. I barely remember one that was blown to bits and was a neighbor when I was just a tiny kid. That would’ve been Michael Dalton.
Patrick and I were playing in the street by the curb (yes, our parents thought the street was a safe place to play, it was 1971) when we were about six years old. I overheard Mr Robinson and Mr Jeffries discussing a funeral they had to attend. They spoke in hushed tones but I managed to pick up on some of the phrases.
“Jan, did you know it’s a closed casket?” and another phrase I heard, “Damn, half the torso?”
Mind you my idea of death was what cowboys did after killing 200 Indians first. The cowboy gets shot, grabbed his chest, slumped over and died a hero. I never knew what the word “torso” was but what do you know of anatomy at six?
I found out years later Michael Dalton was blow up by a booby trapped Viet Cong defense complex they had earlier fled. It was one of their nasty tricks, wire an abandoned military position to explode if it was tampered with by the enemy. And poor Michael tampered with it just enough…
Later on that year, we kids romped through the neighborhood on Halloween. As we approached the darkened Dalton house, the parents ushering us told us all to quiet down. One of the younger ones of us asked why we couldn’t ring their doorbell and get candy. The parents ignored the question and pointed out the Britt family across the street always had tons of candy and we all stormed that house instead. We never heard from the Dalton family much again after that.
Michael Dalton
In an ironic sense, the Reagan administration sure picked the song that encapsulated America at that time.
*****
Speaking of Vietnam vets, I never knew one personally. I barely remember one that was blown to bits and was a neighbor when I was just a tiny kid. That would’ve been Michael Dalton.
Patrick and I were playing in the street by the curb (yes, our parents thought the street was a safe place to play, it was 1971) when we were about six years old. I overheard Mr Robinson and Mr Jeffries discussing a funeral they had to attend. They spoke in hushed tones but I managed to pick up on some of the phrases.
“Jan, did you know it’s a closed casket?” and another phrase I heard, “Damn, half the torso?”
Mind you my idea of death was what cowboys did after killing 200 Indians first. The cowboy gets shot, grabbed his chest, slumped over and died a hero. I never knew what the word “torso” was but what do you know of anatomy at six?
I found out years later Michael Dalton was blow up by a booby trapped Viet Cong defense complex they had earlier fled. It was one of their nasty tricks, wire an abandoned military position to explode if it was tampered with by the enemy. And poor Michael tampered with it just enough…
Later on that year, we kids romped through the neighborhood on Halloween. As we approached the darkened Dalton house, the parents ushering us told us all to quiet down. One of the younger ones of us asked why we couldn’t ring their doorbell and get candy. The parents ignored the question and pointed out the Britt family across the street always had tons of candy and we all stormed that house instead. We never heard from the Dalton family much again after that.
Michael Dalton
Friday, September 30, 2011
More and More I'm Seeing...
“I’ve been laid off over six months now, live with my grand parents, have tattoos and a four year old boy. I’m a great catch for the next guy that comes along.”
This dripping sarcasm was said by H. who I was talking to last week. Actually, for the little, frail looking hipster woman she was, she had a better grasp of reality than most. She was right. When I found out she was living with her grand’s, I thought there was no way was I going to carry her around financially. I wasn’t about to be purchasing “good times,” laundry detergent, gasoline and the occasional winter coat for her kid.
She knew her polish is now worn off and can’t compete in the single arena with those with jobs.
What I’m stumbling across now, or running into more often, are people who are out of work. A lot more.
Unemployed. I’ve been there once. The thing about it is the incredible boredom that comes with having every day of the week off for months. I learned to clean the house, deep clean it, three times a month. I found myself painting, doing yard work and inventing inexpensive projects around the home to keep busy. Anything to have purpose for that week.
Also, you live in some sort of weird limbo even amongst your friends. You may be laid off due to no fault of your own and yet you feel “different” still. Your friends get up, work, have a goal, direction; even if it’s only for that day. While you get up and look out the window and reread the newspaper twice. You float.
Your occupation, without you knowing it really, is a huge part of who you are and at some levels, where you derive some of your pride and self esteem. Go without that work, even a chintzy job, and you’ll feel the loss.
Nowadays, I’m reminded of when I was out of work by all these new ones I keep running into. If I was out of work again, what would I do? Besides pumping out 20 resumes a week? I’d be cleaning the house, doing yard work, painting…
This dripping sarcasm was said by H. who I was talking to last week. Actually, for the little, frail looking hipster woman she was, she had a better grasp of reality than most. She was right. When I found out she was living with her grand’s, I thought there was no way was I going to carry her around financially. I wasn’t about to be purchasing “good times,” laundry detergent, gasoline and the occasional winter coat for her kid.
She knew her polish is now worn off and can’t compete in the single arena with those with jobs.
What I’m stumbling across now, or running into more often, are people who are out of work. A lot more.
Unemployed. I’ve been there once. The thing about it is the incredible boredom that comes with having every day of the week off for months. I learned to clean the house, deep clean it, three times a month. I found myself painting, doing yard work and inventing inexpensive projects around the home to keep busy. Anything to have purpose for that week.
Also, you live in some sort of weird limbo even amongst your friends. You may be laid off due to no fault of your own and yet you feel “different” still. Your friends get up, work, have a goal, direction; even if it’s only for that day. While you get up and look out the window and reread the newspaper twice. You float.
Your occupation, without you knowing it really, is a huge part of who you are and at some levels, where you derive some of your pride and self esteem. Go without that work, even a chintzy job, and you’ll feel the loss.
Nowadays, I’m reminded of when I was out of work by all these new ones I keep running into. If I was out of work again, what would I do? Besides pumping out 20 resumes a week? I’d be cleaning the house, doing yard work, painting…
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
At the Gym Zoo
I joined a gym not too long ago from the helpful push of friend who was wishing to knock off a few pounds herself. My motivation for it is two fold. One, get my weight down to that range where it should be, and, to build up my health. I see too many patients in the field I work who are nearly awarded cripple status. I see the future and the future says to me: “You’re not going to get younger but OLDER.” I have no wish to end up like my Dad who had the World’s Greatest Beer Gut either.
But, I’m not going to chat about health, cardio or vegan diets, I’m going to tell you of the types I see in the gym. I’ll try not to be disparaging and caustically sarcastic.
Planet Fitness is divided into three exercise areas. Cardio, weight lifting and this Olympic style workout area where they do exercises I’ve never seen before. I spend my time in the weight lifting and cardio areas. Others spend their time elsewhere as you will find out.
*****
The Ahnult Schwarzeneggars
The first thing that struck me was the weight lifting area. You have these guys who are muscled out and never leave that section. Now I can’t condemn all of them, but a good many watch themselves in the huge panel wall mirrors when they press weights, and also when they’re not.
I hear they watch themselves in mirrors to improve their “form” as they pump iron, but I swear, I sense a huge amount of vanity there. The fact that when they’re not working out, they’ll go by the mirror and look at themselves strutting tips me off to a bit of self love there.
A friend once commented on them as these Ahnults say to themselves in the mirror, “Do you love me? I love me!”
To be totally honest. I’d like to look like that and be 21 again. But, I never had the body type nor will I be 21 again. Also, you can tell which ones aren’t juicing it up and it is totally natural. Those guys I find aren’t staring at the mirror all the time.
*****
The Moms.
This group is forever 39 years old. They sport a slightly pudginess and are trying to knock off that stomach and ass bulge. You’ll find them on the stairmasters for an hour and a half at times. A lot will read a book balanced on the top of the machine, or have ear buds planted into their heads. They pump their legs away at a dizzying speed and are in their own world then.
It seems most are pretty oblivious to the night club, pick up, meat market nature to this gym. Though I few I swear look like they’ll stray, but most are VERY married. I can imagine these Moms speeding up their work out around 2ish to finish up and pick up the kids from school and getting on with their busy Mom lives.
I understand why these women do this. Growing older isn’t a crime for a guy but it IS for a woman in this American culture. So a little vanity won’t kill them, in fact, it’ll improve their health as well.
*****
The Teenager/Stripper/Fell-On-This-Earth-Cute-and-Thin/Possible Anorexics
These types do not need to workout at all. These young ones come in and ride the bikes, stairmasters and jog on the treadmills, all cardio stuff. They also are the ones who will wear the most skin tight workout clothes you can imagine. I suppose starting early working out is a good thing but to look at them, you’d swear they didn’t have any reason to lose any body fat. There are two types really. One set will work out and sweat puddles on the floor and ignore everyone and the other group might curl 5lb weights ten times and then open their iPhones and text for 20 minutes. The worker ones don’t bother to strut around the gym while the little cheerleader ones with the cute outfits and cell phones will.
*****
The Staff
The majority of them are helpful. They check you in, clean up rags, keep the bathrooms fairly well and will answer any questions you may have about the machines or workouts. You can also “hire” one of them to specifically design and run you through a routine.
I did notice this however.
If you’re a cute, thin and in no need of losing weight, the male staff instructors will trip over themselves guiding you through your workout. I’ve watched and overheard a few staff talk about the “form” of the pretty girl’s workout then switch to, “So, where do you live again? You live in Seekonk? I have a good friend that lives in Seekonk! We’re so alike!”
If you’re not cute, thin and adorable, the instructors work you through the routine like a dray horse pulling a plow. And there is very little chit chat. No attraction there.
As for instructors guiding us males through a course, it’s drill sergeant time. “Oh, don’t make any effort to get over my obstacle Private Pyle! If God wanted you over this obstacle he’d would’ve miracled your ass over it!”
“That’s it? You’re doing 125lbs? My grandmother does that before her tea every morning!”
*****
And Lastly, The Guys Like Me
There is a set of us guys pushing 40, 50 and 60 in there. The ones I’ve talked to are there for two major reasons. One group had their doctors harangued them to lose weight or get fit, the other group laments their loss of youth and are trying to reclaim some of it back. Most of us belong to either category in some sense or the other. I can understand it. One guy, about 55, said that this was his last real chance to get fit again before getting “fit” would become an impossible chore. “I want to look as good as I can before it’s pointless.” he told me. Another comment I can understand.
I told him I didn’t want to turn into a greasy slug as I aged. He was a bit jealous of me as he said that he wished he started in his 40’s. But actually he was in better shape than me when it came to jogging on a treadmill, which makes me pant like a dog in July. This guy could run to Boston and back and not stop.
We’re all youth abscessed here in the ol’ USA. Then again, what culture from time immemorial wasn’t?
But, I’m not going to chat about health, cardio or vegan diets, I’m going to tell you of the types I see in the gym. I’ll try not to be disparaging and caustically sarcastic.
Planet Fitness is divided into three exercise areas. Cardio, weight lifting and this Olympic style workout area where they do exercises I’ve never seen before. I spend my time in the weight lifting and cardio areas. Others spend their time elsewhere as you will find out.
*****
The Ahnult Schwarzeneggars
The first thing that struck me was the weight lifting area. You have these guys who are muscled out and never leave that section. Now I can’t condemn all of them, but a good many watch themselves in the huge panel wall mirrors when they press weights, and also when they’re not.
I hear they watch themselves in mirrors to improve their “form” as they pump iron, but I swear, I sense a huge amount of vanity there. The fact that when they’re not working out, they’ll go by the mirror and look at themselves strutting tips me off to a bit of self love there.
A friend once commented on them as these Ahnults say to themselves in the mirror, “Do you love me? I love me!”
To be totally honest. I’d like to look like that and be 21 again. But, I never had the body type nor will I be 21 again. Also, you can tell which ones aren’t juicing it up and it is totally natural. Those guys I find aren’t staring at the mirror all the time.
*****
The Moms.
This group is forever 39 years old. They sport a slightly pudginess and are trying to knock off that stomach and ass bulge. You’ll find them on the stairmasters for an hour and a half at times. A lot will read a book balanced on the top of the machine, or have ear buds planted into their heads. They pump their legs away at a dizzying speed and are in their own world then.
It seems most are pretty oblivious to the night club, pick up, meat market nature to this gym. Though I few I swear look like they’ll stray, but most are VERY married. I can imagine these Moms speeding up their work out around 2ish to finish up and pick up the kids from school and getting on with their busy Mom lives.
I understand why these women do this. Growing older isn’t a crime for a guy but it IS for a woman in this American culture. So a little vanity won’t kill them, in fact, it’ll improve their health as well.
*****
The Teenager/Stripper/Fell-On-This-Earth-Cute-and-Thin/Possible Anorexics
These types do not need to workout at all. These young ones come in and ride the bikes, stairmasters and jog on the treadmills, all cardio stuff. They also are the ones who will wear the most skin tight workout clothes you can imagine. I suppose starting early working out is a good thing but to look at them, you’d swear they didn’t have any reason to lose any body fat. There are two types really. One set will work out and sweat puddles on the floor and ignore everyone and the other group might curl 5lb weights ten times and then open their iPhones and text for 20 minutes. The worker ones don’t bother to strut around the gym while the little cheerleader ones with the cute outfits and cell phones will.
*****
The Staff
The majority of them are helpful. They check you in, clean up rags, keep the bathrooms fairly well and will answer any questions you may have about the machines or workouts. You can also “hire” one of them to specifically design and run you through a routine.
I did notice this however.
If you’re a cute, thin and in no need of losing weight, the male staff instructors will trip over themselves guiding you through your workout. I’ve watched and overheard a few staff talk about the “form” of the pretty girl’s workout then switch to, “So, where do you live again? You live in Seekonk? I have a good friend that lives in Seekonk! We’re so alike!”
If you’re not cute, thin and adorable, the instructors work you through the routine like a dray horse pulling a plow. And there is very little chit chat. No attraction there.
As for instructors guiding us males through a course, it’s drill sergeant time. “Oh, don’t make any effort to get over my obstacle Private Pyle! If God wanted you over this obstacle he’d would’ve miracled your ass over it!”
“That’s it? You’re doing 125lbs? My grandmother does that before her tea every morning!”
*****
And Lastly, The Guys Like Me
There is a set of us guys pushing 40, 50 and 60 in there. The ones I’ve talked to are there for two major reasons. One group had their doctors harangued them to lose weight or get fit, the other group laments their loss of youth and are trying to reclaim some of it back. Most of us belong to either category in some sense or the other. I can understand it. One guy, about 55, said that this was his last real chance to get fit again before getting “fit” would become an impossible chore. “I want to look as good as I can before it’s pointless.” he told me. Another comment I can understand.
I told him I didn’t want to turn into a greasy slug as I aged. He was a bit jealous of me as he said that he wished he started in his 40’s. But actually he was in better shape than me when it came to jogging on a treadmill, which makes me pant like a dog in July. This guy could run to Boston and back and not stop.
We’re all youth abscessed here in the ol’ USA. Then again, what culture from time immemorial wasn’t?
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Po Po
There have been instances where friends, coworkers and acquaintances who know me well enough have accused me of being judgmental, opinionated and…picky. It’s true…and I’ll tell you why.
After years and years of being taken by friend and foe alike (now mind you, I’m not totally cynical and jaded yet) I’ve learned to put my radar on “high” when meeting someone new. You can never really know a person from by just looking at them. It can give a hint as to who they are, and that’s it. Most people aren’t going to volunteer that they’re alcoholics, cocaine addicts, gamblers, wife beaters and so on and so forth…will they?
So, my radar is “on” when I run across someone new. Also, my brain has a sort of smoke detector that rings like BLOODY HELL when it comes across someone that’s pure trouble. I had the perfect example last night at the wonderful Irish bar I attend for mass.
I was talking to J. when this unmanageable street whore stumbles into the bar with a black eye (no joke!) and slides up to the bar asking M, pointing at me, if I was a “po po.”
She then spins around, far too close to my personal space and asks if I was a po po.
“What’s a po po?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t give me that…you know damn well what I’m talking about” she says.
“No.I.don’t.” I respond back.
“Hey, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter sweetie, I know people and you‘re a po po” she goes on.
Ok, so I lose it. I don’t ordinarily blow my temper but I hate, just hate it when people insist that you understand something when you plainly don’t.
“NO, I DON”T KNOW WHAT A PO PO IS! YOU HAVE TO USE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!” I yell back at her.
She’s startled a bit, leans back. Then she goes on to quote some kid’s rhyme but re written by her that included the word “fuck” in it about 21 times.
“Oh, Ok..fine…fine.” I say and break off eye contact and go back to talking to J.
She finally stumbles off, out the door when I turn to J and M and ask what a po po is.
“A po po is a cop, policeman…she thought you were a cop Ron” J. tells me.
“A po po is a cop? I really wondered about that. Sure, I don’t know every word every generation creates for it’s own slang but “po po,?” it sounds like a two year old talking.
Yeah, my radar and inner smoke detector went off like a nuclear bomb. All I saw was this threat, this wreckage of a person, covered in parasites, diphtheria and plague germs wanting to get it on me. No way EVER!
My judgmental attitude unfortunately gets reinforced by encounters like this…
After years and years of being taken by friend and foe alike (now mind you, I’m not totally cynical and jaded yet) I’ve learned to put my radar on “high” when meeting someone new. You can never really know a person from by just looking at them. It can give a hint as to who they are, and that’s it. Most people aren’t going to volunteer that they’re alcoholics, cocaine addicts, gamblers, wife beaters and so on and so forth…will they?
So, my radar is “on” when I run across someone new. Also, my brain has a sort of smoke detector that rings like BLOODY HELL when it comes across someone that’s pure trouble. I had the perfect example last night at the wonderful Irish bar I attend for mass.
I was talking to J. when this unmanageable street whore stumbles into the bar with a black eye (no joke!) and slides up to the bar asking M, pointing at me, if I was a “po po.”
She then spins around, far too close to my personal space and asks if I was a po po.
“What’s a po po?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t give me that…you know damn well what I’m talking about” she says.
“No.I.don’t.” I respond back.
“Hey, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter sweetie, I know people and you‘re a po po” she goes on.
Ok, so I lose it. I don’t ordinarily blow my temper but I hate, just hate it when people insist that you understand something when you plainly don’t.
“NO, I DON”T KNOW WHAT A PO PO IS! YOU HAVE TO USE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!” I yell back at her.
She’s startled a bit, leans back. Then she goes on to quote some kid’s rhyme but re written by her that included the word “fuck” in it about 21 times.
“Oh, Ok..fine…fine.” I say and break off eye contact and go back to talking to J.
She finally stumbles off, out the door when I turn to J and M and ask what a po po is.
“A po po is a cop, policeman…she thought you were a cop Ron” J. tells me.
“A po po is a cop? I really wondered about that. Sure, I don’t know every word every generation creates for it’s own slang but “po po,?” it sounds like a two year old talking.
Yeah, my radar and inner smoke detector went off like a nuclear bomb. All I saw was this threat, this wreckage of a person, covered in parasites, diphtheria and plague germs wanting to get it on me. No way EVER!
My judgmental attitude unfortunately gets reinforced by encounters like this…
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