Take It Easy

What is it about the gym that brings out the weirdness in people? From elderly ladies wearing sports bras and skin tight shorts to muscle-bound guys with chalk all over their hands sounding like they’re giving birth to twins over in the bench press area, the situation has gotten completely out of control. There is a bizarre sense of comfort that seems to overtake people in the gym. I can’t even speak to the atrocities of the locker rooms, as I swore off entering them many years ago after running across one too many naked guys in no hurry to change that status.

Umm, no sir, this actually isn't okay.

The last time I was at the Y, while diligently plodding through my treadmill-based workout more appropriate for a man about 20 years my senior, I found myself next to a guy running backwards on the treadmill. I’ll definitely admit to being entertained, waiting (hoping) for the scene to turn into an outtake from that OK Go video. But mostly I was just left wondering how this guy was pulling it off with a straight face. If I could release myself, like the rest of my gym mates seem to have done, from the concerns of appearance and protocol, I would show up with those oversized Bose headphones that are marketed for blocking out noise on airplanes. Forget the nuisance of jet engines and screaming babies, how do I block out the grunts coming from the guy with about 60 pounds too much loaded onto the leg press machine? Even more importantly, how do I block out the view of the inappropriately sized running shorts in action on the rowing machine in front of me?
Has it always been this way? In the 1920s, when guys played golf and tennis in suits and ties, did they still gather in gyms, strip down to their wife beaters, and scream at each other while somebody cranked up the tunes on the victrola? Somewhere along the way society decided to confer safe zone status to gyms. Much like sanctuary cities for illegal immigrants, the gyms of America opened their arms to the masses looking to wear inappropriate clothing and make primal sounds not even meant for the bedroom.
All I know is that it’s time someone took a stand. Is it too much to ask for people to remember that they are still in a public place? If you want to go crazy in isolation at your house, they make some great workout products for you. I hear the Total Gym XL is phenomenal. What are you, better than Chuck Norris? Or perhaps I should just embrace the situation, strip down in the locker room, casually throw some talcum powder on my nether regions, grab a spotter, throw a couple of 25-pound weights on the bar, and set free my inner workout beast.

U2 Officially Jumps the Shark

U2, I'm afraid we need to ask you to go ahead and call it a career. The Joshua Tree is one of the all-time great albums, and there are plenty of other solid U2 songs to go around. But good God, is anyone truly paying attention to these new tunes they are slinging out there? I was driving around this past week and for some reason actually listened to I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight. In case you haven't paid attention to this gem, I need to let you know that it starts as follows:

"She's a rainbow and she loves the peaceful life
Knows I'll go crazy if I don't go crazy tonight"

The new U2 lyricists

I'm sorry, I guess I missed the press release announcing that Smash Mouth was writing U2's lyrics these days. I'm making my way up the age chart right along with the good lads from Dublin, so I'm reluctant to give them too hard a time. Still, are they churning this nonsense out because they somehow still need to collect some cash, or do they really think that these tunes are still legitimate? Bono, perhaps it's time to focus your efforts on American Idol Gives Back or the Clinton Global Initiative. It's been a great run, but it is most definitely time to hang it up.

Open and Shut Case

So here's a question just for the men. What's the proper protocol when you are forced to pee in the stall toilet rather than the urinal? I've never felt truly comfortable when faced with this dilemma, though it happens rather frequently. You walk into the men's bathroom, and there are a couple of occupied urinals and an open stall. Lurking behind the guys at the urinal feels a bit awkward, so you head for the open stall. But what's the next move? Do you close the door or leave it open? Closing it gives the appearance of a guy scared to pee in public. Leaving it open, though, gives off the creeper vibe of one who is inviting your fellow man to take an unnecessary gaze at your pee session.

I always end up devoting far too long to the situation and trying to appear casual while easing the door to the near closed position. Inevitably the door will slowly open as I pee, leading to thirty seconds of profuse sweating and panic.

A Lot Of Nerve

For sheer ballsiness, I’m not sure anyone or anything can hold a candle to the owners of assembly line burrito restaurants (I'm talking to you, Moe's). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge their general business model. In fact, the rapidly assembled burrito absolutely makes my list of positive cultural advances of the past 10 years.

No, my quarrel is with the travesty that occurs when you reach the register. Fresh off a five minute session of guiding your lunch from station to station, intently steering your burrito clear of cilantro, sour cream, or some other unwanted accoutrement, you arrive at what ought to be the easiest part of the transaction. Yet rather than mentally preparing for the upcoming elbow throwing session at the salsa station, you must first deal with the signing of the receipt- a receipt with a tip line brazenly plastered on it. So the tip is for what exactly? Not sneaking jalapenos onto my burrito when you saw me looking away? Approving my request for chicken rather than substituting tofu squares? I don't love the tip jar that sits by many a register these days, but at least you aren't forced to state your intention not to contribute before your meal is handed over.

So That's How It's Done

There are many, many tasks that strike the common man as infeasible. Balancing a checkbook, changing a tire (or is that just me?)- these are certainly tasks that try men's souls. But one thing about which I've always felt confident is that were I to have a son I could figure out, with relative ease, how to give him the same name I have. For those who prefer to leave nothing to chance, rest easy with the knowledge that a six step guide is available to walk you through the labyrinthine process. Next in the series- a seven step guide for opening a canned beer.

First Post

Oh, the pressure, the pressure. This is the inaugural post, and it feels like it should be momentous. This post marks the start of a new blog, and its readers should celebrate the innocence of it all. A few years from now, when I am using this space to extol the virtues of trans fats and children's toys with lead-based paint, you can say you read me before I sold out to the man.

A bottle of champagne should surely be broken against the side of a ship to celebrate the occasion. Failing that, I will just say thanks for checking out the blog and leave the rest to the poetic stylings of Judge Smails.

It's easy to grin,
when your ship comes in,
and you've got the stock market beat.
But the man worthwhile,
is the man who can smile,
when his shorts are too tight in the seat.