I hesitate to even mention this, but I might as well (if only for the fact that it gives me a great opportunity to write about it) See, instead of ballooning to 587 lbs, I thought I’d try to work out at a gym a little. Of course, the results are not obvious because after working out, I tend to ingest about 8900 calories when I get home. There’s nothing better than having a great workout then coming home and sucking down some twinkies, baking some cookies, pounding 13 beers, and then heading out to supper. Underneath this layer of globulating blubber is a rock-hard, chiseled Atlas of a man. Trust me. You just have to do a lot of searching to find it.
But seriously, although I’m not really shedding any significant pounds, I do feel a bit better about myself and I think that is fairly important in the whole scheme of things. And, as an added bonus, I don’t walk around like Jarred, the goober assbag from the Subway commercials, holding my ginormous pants around showing off the weight I lost. Man, I hate that guy.
I’ve never been a big fan of “working out”. Even when I played sports, I loathed going to the weight room. What’s more, I despise running. There’s no point in running unless you’re being chased. If you involve running into a sport…with a ball and scoreboard…then I’m all in. But to run for the sake of running…well, that’s just downright insane. Perhaps if I lived in Kenya and had nothing to do all day except swat flies from my face and run from leopards, then running would be okay.
The more I think about running, the more I realize that besides a slight jog on a treadmill, I haven’t really run in years. Running is like writing in cursive for me. It’s been so long since I’ve done either, that I have trouble remembering the last time I’ve done it and in fact, how to actually do it. Isn’t that really amazing? I’ve completely given up an entire means of communication! I’ve basically said, “To hell with your cursive letters…your flowing words…your efficient pen strokes! I’m going back to printing like I did back in 2nd grade!” Am I the only one that sees the significance in this complete abolishment of cursive writing? There needs to be some scientific study as to why a 35 year old man has essentially forgotten how to write in cursive, has reverted back to his earliest form of written communication, and has no desire to change? I find that extraordinarily odd. I might as well walk around with an inkwell and dip a feather into it…that’s how inefficient my current means of writing has become.
Anyhow, back to the gym. I don’t even like to use “working out” “going to the gym” or “exercising” in my vocabulary. It just sounds funny to me. “Yeah…going to the gym, baby. Workin’ out ya’ know.” If I mention to the wife where I was, I stammer and stutter as if I was down at the docks trying to pick up sailors or something. I’m just not comfortable talking about it.
But going to the gym offers one a unique perspective into those other folks who inhabit the sweat-stained space you share. You see all types of people at the gym. I’m pretty confident in saying that the rarest species you’ll find there is the normal, “just trying to lose a little weight” guy. The fella that comes in, tries to get a good sweat going…maybe lift a few stacks of weights, showers and gets the hell out of there.
I will attempt to identify and describe some of the various species of workout people that you may come in contact with if you were to venture into this jungle we call, “The Gym”
Odd, Psycho Guy:
This fella slinks around the free weights mostly. He peers at everyone through his shifty eyes as if he knows something about you. There’s a particular guy where I go that exhibits these characteristics. However, his most revealing attribute is the fact that he has a patch of hair on his forearm that can hardly be explained by my limited vocabulary. He’s not a particularly hairy guy (from what I can see…and NO…I haven’t followed him into the showers…yet) and he doesn’t have tufts of hair billowing from beneath his white t-shirt. But this chap has about a 6 inch oval of hair starting from roughly the wristwatch area, extending to midway through his forearm. The hair is easily an inch tall and is thick as a rug and black as midnight. I’m still doing surveillance but I have to believe one of two things: 1. he shaves the hair around this peculiar patch or 2. he has a high concentration of hair-grow juice in that one area of his body. Either way, it’s intriguing, eye-catching, and fairly disturbing.
Backward Hat Guy:
Here’s a few instances where it’s acceptable to wear a ballcap backwards. If you’re directing artillery from a bunker hideout…fine. If you’re taking batting practice before the All-Star game…okay. If you’re a wound-up football defensive coordinator and you’ve got headphones on to talk to “the booth”…I can handle that. But if you’re going to a fitness place situated in between a cash advance store, a Radio Shack, and a Pizza Hut delivery depot…then you’re a giant douchebag.
These guys are a dime a dozen. And to be honest, they probably bother me more they should. In fact, a perfect example of a backward hat guy is Ben Roethlisburger, the giant douchebag quarterback of the Steelers. Backward hat guy as well as Lil Ben are the type of guys you see hanging out at the Brewery on a Tuesday night. They’ll be draped in gold chains and fancy jeans…possibly a turtleneck as they stand at the bar and send out the “mojo” to da’ ladiefolk.
These fellas tend to hang out in the free weight area as well, and most of their time is spent staring into the mirrors in front of them. This guy typically has two earrings, will be wearing sweat pants or Zubas, and wearing some sort of fingerless gloves. Backward Hat Guy will probably be driving a souped up Durango that has its suspension lowered and a lot of items hanging from his rearview mirror. A few years ago, this person would have definitely had the “No Fear” sticker somewhere on his auto…but that’s so 1990s, and he’s way cooler than that. He’ll also always be 5’6” and under.
The thing that always makes me laugh about Backward Hat Guy is that he thinks this is Venice Beach or Gold’s Gym instead of the Mini-Gym next to the Cash Advance. He’s there to throw some lead around and he wants everyone in the room to know it. Everytime he lifts a weight, he’ll grunt uncomfortably loud and/or make the loud “ppsssshhhhh” as he expels the breath from his hulking midget body. At the end of his set, he lets the weights crash to the ground in a resounding “thud”, letting all of us know he has completed his task of hulking out. The rest of us should stop what we are doing and applaud, but for some reason, we continue doing our thing.
Chatty Guy
Chatty Guy is at the gym for one reason and one reason only…to chat with everyone there (especially the ladies). He’ll be clad in normal workout garb and, generally, has a pleasant demeanor and a smile on his face. I’ve got no problems with Chatty Guy, but it seems odd to me that this guy pays his membership, packs his bag, heads to the gym, dresses into his workout clothes and then…well…then he hangs around people who are working out.
Dressed Up-Slacks Guy
Many years ago, I used to go to the YMCA and now I belong to this little local gym. But in both places, I’ve found the same cast of characters. Dressed Up-Slacks Guy is certainly one of the constants you’ll most likely run into while working out. Like Chatty Guy, this fella seems like a good person and always offers up a smile. While Chatty Guy probably does 3 minutes of “work” while at the gym (and most of that occurs when he’s getting his workout clothes on), Dressed Up-Slacks guy puts out a little more effort. What makes him unique though is that he doesn’t bother changing clothes. I think he plans on going to the gym and says “Got my Dockers on. Loafers. And button-down oxford shirt. Check! I’m ready to work it out”. He subscribes to the point of view that only suckers own a gym bag. He figures, you know what…I’m going to work out a little bit, lightly sponge off, and then catch a show and maybe some dinner. He’s ready for an emergency meeting to break out. If the gym instantaneously turned into a church, he’d be dressed appropriately to be an usher and hand out the collection basket.
When cold weather hits, you should be able to see Dressed Up-Slacks Guy with the same garb on, only he may be wearing a sweatshirt with his alma mater silk-screened on the front.
In Shape Soccer Guy
You can always pick a soccer guy out of any crowd. He’s always thin, very tidy, and dressed in the latest fashions from some metrosexual boutique at the mall. Another dead give away is that he’ll be wearing black adidas shoes, making out with another dude, and handing out communist party propaganda.
In Shape Soccer Guy really doesn’t need to be at the gym because, as I his name suggests, he tends to be in pretty good shape. The only problem you may have if you encounter him is that he’ll be apt to watching a soccer match while jogging on the treadmill. Don’t panic. Yes, it’s frightening that a station in America would waste airtime broadcasting a soccer game, but be not afraid my friend. What you need to do is quietly walk behind him and gently reach up and lightly grab his headphone cord and wrap it into the drivegear of the treadmill.
Oscillating Fan Lady
This lady is very prominent at most health clubs throughout the country. They think that it’s ridiculous to go workout at a gym and actually sweat. So, they turn every fan in the joint on and direct them their way. Instead of working up a good sweat you find yourself trying to fight off hypothermia (SP) as frostbite has set in to your extremities. The blast emanating from the fans shoots a steady stream of arctic air into face as your eyes tear up, then freeze. If I were jogging in a parka and wearing a sealskin cap, perhaps I would be a bit more comfortable.
So, if you decide to venture out into this cruel world of physical fitness, be aware of the people I previously mentioned. Many of them won’t harm you but most of them will annoy you.
The other day, I attended a small carry-in luncheon at work to celebrate our last day before the holiday break. While there, I was able to visit with a lot of folks that I just don’t get much opportunity to talk with.
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Well, I was sitting with a couple of guys and we were joking about this and that when one of them brought up “this girl” who works for an outside company and visits once a week to check stock on certain items. She’s a salesperson and her clients, in this case, are manufacturing people. What does that matter? Well…she’s apparently very good looking and quite a revealing dresser. **Editor’s note: I have not personally seen her, but according to eyewitness accounts, her level of hotness is very high**
But the story they told me is one that I feel could have been cut right out of a movie and give you a glimpse inside a typical day in a manufacturing facility. A couple of guys sitting around a picnic table in the middle of a manufacturing plant, eating carried-in meatballs and cold cuts talking about what most guys talk about while often sprinkling in multiple combinations of cuss words (for effect). The one fella told me that this very good looking lady told him about the day that her dog ate her thong (which I feel is a strong marketing ploy and would certainly make me consider her for more business. Let’s see, give the business to some greasy guy or some chick who wears thongs…no brainer if you ask me) Anyhow, this guy was telling the story of her telling him about the thong-eating dog. He finishes by saying “and she said it caused a lot of rectal bleeding”. Now picture this: We’re sitting there, mouths wide open in stunned silence at this entire tale when he hits us with the “rectal bleeding” line. In perfect comedic timing (and the reason this scene should be in a movie), each one of us, in unison, and true concern asked “who had the rectal bleeding…the dog or her?” About 5 seconds past and then we all broke out into laughter.
I don’t know, I guess it’s one of those things where “you had to be there”…but I found it to be one of those funny moments that I’ll probably never forget.
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What I’m about to say is, to some, horrible and unspeakable. But it is time that I finally got it off my chest. I’ve lived with this notion all of my life and it is at this time in my years on this earth to finally open up and tell the world. Ok….here it goes….Ragu spaghetti sauce is way better than any spaghetti sauce you have ever made or eaten.
Wow…I feel much better.
I’ve been fortunate that my wife’s family are quite adept in their culinary skills. Her aunt and uncle both make homemade stuff all of the time (her aunt’s whole grain bread should be against the law it’s so good). Her cousins from Michigan make some incredible recipes…everything from soups to main courses to desserts.
When it comes to spaghetti, everyone has tried their hand at crafting the perfect sauce. They use only the freshest, homegrown ingredients, nurtured and cultivated by their own hands. Their sweat and care spill into the rich soil and at harvest time they reap the rewards of their work by hoisting high above their head a gift from Mother Nature…a perfect tomato. This tomato soon becomes primary ingredient in which they will craft their homemade spaghetti sauce. They’ll doctor up their brew with some exotic herbs and spices…a dash of some ground up weed, a slice of some root.
I’ve had different spaghetti meals from different people and quite honestly, they’re all pretty good. You throw in some homemade meatballs…then you’ve just increased the deliciousness by a factor of ten.
But I do have to say that no matter how much hard work and fresh, home-grown ingredients go into this sauce…it’s no match for a simple 10 ounce jar of Ragu. Not the fancy “Robusto” or “Chunky” sauces…just the smooth stylings just as the good lord intended.
I am looking at the jar right now and marveling at all of the natural goodness packed inside. I kinda’ half expected to defend the fact that the contents included toxins and 14 products from Dow Chemical…but not so! Ingredients? Tomatoes and some other natural stuff. The real beauty of a jar of Ragu is this…you pay about $1.50, you pop the jar open, heat then enjoy.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t taste as good as my homemade sauce?” some might say. To that I say, You’re right…it doesn’t taste as good as your sauce…it tastes 15 times better!
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The other day, my middle daughter, Sophie and I were riding along listening to some music and she was dancing and clapping. Suddenly she stops and looks at me very seriously and says, “Dad, I think I have a clapping infection”. Holding back laughter, I asked her what exactly a clapping infection was. My first thoughts, when I heard the words “clap” and “infection”, were of shore leave in the Philippines back in ’63. But Sophie cleared up my misconceptions by explaining that her clapping infection occurred when she clapped her hands really hard. It stung her hands, therefore, she figured that she had a clapping infection.
With my youngest, Ava, she eliminated any doubt she was actually mine, she told me the other day that “Me hate people”. Ahh…the honesty of little kids. Out of the mouths of babes…my little girl already feels like I do most of the time toward other members of the human race.
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I passed a Highway Patrol car the other day and on the side of it, it read “Excellence in Service”. A seemingly innocuous phrase plastered on the side of a patrol car, but the more I thought about it, the more it puzzled me. Why would the Highway Patrol take the time, effort, and expense to have a decal made to put on their car promoting the fact that they excel in service when, in reality, they’re not competing against anyone? If there was some competition in the field of law enforcement and patrolling highways, I’d understand. But they’ve kinda cornered the market in this niche. They’re a monopoly in terms of walking the beat of our state’s highways. I doubt that they have shareholders who are sitting around a boardroom saying “Men, profits are down at the highway patrol. The Sheriff’s department and local police are cutting into our profits big-time. Law breakers are giving their business to them instead of us. We need to let these convicts know that we write better tickets and pull people over better than anyone!”
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One of my favorite television channels is the History channel. They have a show called Modern Marvels where they focus on everything from battleships, roller coasters, distilleries, bullets and rocks. But you have to like the guts of a show when they do a whole half hour devoted to another great Modern marvel…Cold cuts! I thought to myself, “Are you kidding me?”. The show turned out to be very interesting as they took an in depth look “behind the deli counter to reveal the secret ingredients in boloney”. They didn’t focus solely on meat but also touched on packaging and spiral slicers. Actually, it was quite interesting.
I was hoping they’d do a little more to explain what that shiny, pearlescent segment you sometimes find in roast beef at Arby’s actually is… or maybe delve deep into the bitter, timeless debate of Chipped or Sliced that has the potential to tear this nation into half.
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It’s time once again to jump into a popular segment where we open up the mailbag and answer actual reader’s letters. Let’s get right to it:
From Mark in Pottawattamie, Iowa:
Hey, your beloved Bengals stink and will finish the year below .500. Ha!
Dear Mark, you are obviously a classless moron who spends his day digging boogers out of his nose and taking care of your housecats. I’m sure you’re probably wearing a Roethlisburger jersey too. Since you are, without a doubt, a halfwitted imbecile asshead, I must point out from going through the J-Bird Blog archives, that I said I’d eat my hat if they Bengals finished above 8-8 and that “if they win more than 7 games, they should fall to the ground and pray to Allah” (blog entry September 7, 2007)
Again, you don’t take a team that was nearly last in all defensive categories…add no significant free agents and not draft well and expect to miraculously get better. Just doesn’t happen.
Mark, you are a simpleton and I command you to never tune into my blog again. This site has standards ya’ know. (when we figure out what those standards are, we’ll let you know)
From Tammy in Tarpon Springs, Florida:
Bird, I imagine you penning these great blog works while sitting in a massive private library while a small fire crackles in the fireplace and you sip brandy while perched in a large leather chair, contemplating your next topic. Is it like that?
Tammy, sorry to blow up this mental image you have of me, but none of that is true. This question has been asked a few times previously. In fact, if you go through the archives, you'll find that this similar question was asked.
Anyhow, if you had said that I’d be sitting at my kitchen table in a pair of old shorts, a torn Reds t-shirt, with a chaw of Redman in, and drinking a glass of chocolate milk, then you’d have me nailed. Sometimes I listen to music when I write (in fact, right this minute I’m listening to the Best of Neil Diamond. Terrific! Reminds me of being a kid on Sunday mornings…dad would always be playing his Neil Diamond tape while working in the basement). What I’m doing here is not quite as romantic as you envision. But if your mental picture helps you enjoy the blog more, then so be it.
*To give you more background on the environment I write in…my daughter Anna just walked up to me and said, “I just sneezed and LOOK” as she revealed a giant gob of snot stuck to her nose. I’m betting Hemingway and Steinbeck didn’t work in these conditions!
From Sindee in Las Vegas, Nevada
Mr Bird, I understand that you have been working on building a new barn. How is that project going? Will there be a brass pole installed inside?
Excellent question, Sindee. Thanks for asking about the barn and my pole. The brass pole has not been installed…yet.
The barn is done and it looks great! We’re very pleased with the construction and the care that was taken while it was built. We now have a concrete floor and we’re about ¾ of the way done with the re-construction of The Bird’s Nest…the most famous “workshop” in the county, which was disassembled while in the old barn and many of the components were saved. We have a bunch of landscaping to do once the weather turns favorable, but in the meantime, we’re starting to get things organized inside.
Sindee, when my shop gets complete, you can come by and get a personal tour of the place.
From John in Gallup City, Montana
Please explain to me how in the hell Brady Quinn gets his own Subway commercial?
John, I just saw that commercial a minute ago. I sat here dumbfounded. How can a back up quarterback get a television commercial? Plus, when you factor in that he’s a Cleveland Brown…well, I just can’t explain it. Consider this: Most Browns fans are penniless, living in the streets waiting for government cheese handouts. They can’t afford an expensive submarine sandwich! Subway is trying to appeal to the wrong demographic.
This now confirms I’m right about my lifelong boycott of Subway and their $6 sandwiches with a couple of paper-thin pieces of meat. Plus, I hate Jared.
