This is going to be a multi-parter folks. I'm telling you straight up front. Don't act all surprised when the "to be continued. . . " gets thrown up there. Ok. Disclaimer done.
I spend a lot of time at the UMass pool. And, conveniently, there is an old locker room attached to the pool. I should add that the new gym complex just openned, but doesn't have a pool. What this says to me is that an old gym locker room from the 80's which is already filthy gross is now going to get forgotten about (due to only being used by swimmers) and get super dirty filthy gross. Anyways. This is all the setup for what I am calling "The 5 People You Meet if you Spent Time in the Men's Pool Locker Room."
Number 1: Ol' Man Whistler
Ol' Man Whistler (OMW) is almost always around . . . somewhere. He's a lifer in these parts and the locker room is more like his home bathroom than a public area. But, OMW's most prominent feature is his ability to constantly whistle the first 3/4th of a line of a song, that you are just about to recognize, when he switches to the first 3/4ths of the next song. It's vocal ADD really. But when you echo your song fragments across a gym locker room, it is the mouth music equivalent of chinese water torture. I have actually run into someone that I met at the pool, and the first thing he talked about was OMW. And while i find his "tune" incredibly obnoxious, this guy was talking violence. OMW better watch his back.
Next time on TBRARUMUD . . . #2: Chief Stands on Bench and #3: Mr. Confidence
The 5 people you meet when you go into the men's locker room.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009 | 0 Comment(s)
Sunday, November 8, 2009 | 2 Comment(s)
Today i folded a bunch of my laundry. About two hampers full. And the fact that the last thing i did after folding and putting away all those clothes was to fill the hamper to the top with dirty close strewn on the bedroom floor (in my defense, the vast majority were sitting in the negative space where the hamper should have been), leads be to believe that i really need to get rid of some clothes. But that is a post for another day. Today's post is RE: leftover sock.
Now i know that most of you expect me to wax philosophical about the meaning of the leftover sock. But you are way off. I'm all about volume folks. I did not have 1 unmatched leftover sock. I had 10. TEN FRIGGIN UNMATCHED SOCKS. im not sure i understand how that's possible. Because i know you are dying for evidence, i took a picture of the unmatched colored socks (there were two unmatching white socks of about the same length that i gave a "close enough" sigh to as i balled them together).
Now, 2 things that you can't tell from this photo. The blue socks with the white strips are clearly different colors. The two black socks of similar length, while passable, are two different brands, styles, and thicknesses.
How is this possible? Is THIS a metaphor for something deeper. Seeing all those orphans on the floor, i didn't know whether to throw all my socks away and start from scratch or start singing from the musical 'Oliver.'
Suggestion lines are now open. If you've got a reasonable explanation, we've got an operator standing by.
Now i know that most of you expect me to wax philosophical about the meaning of the leftover sock. But you are way off. I'm all about volume folks. I did not have 1 unmatched leftover sock. I had 10. TEN FRIGGIN UNMATCHED SOCKS. im not sure i understand how that's possible. Because i know you are dying for evidence, i took a picture of the unmatched colored socks (there were two unmatching white socks of about the same length that i gave a "close enough" sigh to as i balled them together).
How is this possible? Is THIS a metaphor for something deeper. Seeing all those orphans on the floor, i didn't know whether to throw all my socks away and start from scratch or start singing from the musical 'Oliver.'
Suggestion lines are now open. If you've got a reasonable explanation, we've got an operator standing by.
Saturday, November 7, 2009 | 4 Comment(s)
One of the things i look at in my extended studies is gender. And when you study something specifc for long enough, you start to see trends and differences everywhere. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, so im just gonna leave it at "a thing."
Here is one of my recent observations about gender differences. Men and women have a different relationship with jumping. And I'm not talking about sports or athletics in any way. I'm talking about "why" us normal boys and girls jump.
Men will jump to hit any high point. We have a natural drive to see if we can put our bodies up that high. Be it a door frame, basketball rim, or trapeze hanging from a tree 40 feet up in the air and you are expected to just fling your body off this tiny little wooden plank to grab it--i digress--but men will jump for it. We are achievement oriented in our jumping. We jump to be given the chance to succeed. To grab the carousel ring (emotionally).
Women are not wired this way. They are wired so oppositely, that if you look in a woman's eyes when she's watching a man jump and hit a door frame you may actually catch the telepathic signal she is sending screaming, "Why am I forced to watch this. Why am i subjected to the idiocy which is these buffoons leaping at low hanging wood. And they wonder why we like older guys." (*the jokes on them, men will jump til it hurts their back to do so).
Women also love to jump. In pictures. On a beach or in a group? Lets take a picture of us all jumping together. It's not that men won't oblige in these pictures, but it is never their idea. Women like to be caught in the air on film. Why? Not totally sure, but my guess is that it has something to do with achieving the ability to fly. to be weightless. Unbound by the earth. It's just a theory.
If you know of women who jump at door frames or a man who INSISTED on your group taking an in air photo shot, by all means let me know. All theories are open to revision.
Here is one of my recent observations about gender differences. Men and women have a different relationship with jumping. And I'm not talking about sports or athletics in any way. I'm talking about "why" us normal boys and girls jump.
Men will jump to hit any high point. We have a natural drive to see if we can put our bodies up that high. Be it a door frame, basketball rim, or trapeze hanging from a tree 40 feet up in the air and you are expected to just fling your body off this tiny little wooden plank to grab it--i digress--but men will jump for it. We are achievement oriented in our jumping. We jump to be given the chance to succeed. To grab the carousel ring (emotionally).
Women are not wired this way. They are wired so oppositely, that if you look in a woman's eyes when she's watching a man jump and hit a door frame you may actually catch the telepathic signal she is sending screaming, "Why am I forced to watch this. Why am i subjected to the idiocy which is these buffoons leaping at low hanging wood. And they wonder why we like older guys." (*the jokes on them, men will jump til it hurts their back to do so).
Women also love to jump. In pictures. On a beach or in a group? Lets take a picture of us all jumping together. It's not that men won't oblige in these pictures, but it is never their idea. Women like to be caught in the air on film. Why? Not totally sure, but my guess is that it has something to do with achieving the ability to fly. to be weightless. Unbound by the earth. It's just a theory.
If you know of women who jump at door frames or a man who INSISTED on your group taking an in air photo shot, by all means let me know. All theories are open to revision.
Thursday, November 5, 2009 | 0 Comment(s)
I was not a rebellious kid. My parents were achievement oriented, which is a nice way of saying that they expected me to ace school, which is a passive aggressive way of saying they wanted what was best for me. However you say it, I rarely fell out of line, and when i did, it was mostly due to my excess of energy (I believe they call is ADHD now) getting me sent into the hall.
For the purpose of example: One time in middle school i was dared to put my arms inside my t-shirt and then out the opposite holes. "Cross-arms." Oh, this was during math class. Anyways, i successfully complete said challenge only to find myself (much like getting punched while cross-eyed), stuck that way. I am heaving back and forth trying to free myself, my classmates are now laughing their faces off, and soon the teacher inevitably sends me into the hallway to, and i remember this quote clearly, "straighten myself out." For me, the funniest part of this story is that once in the hall, I still couldn't free myself. SO you can imagine the print shop teacher's surprise walking down the hallway only to find a 7th grader flailing cross-armed in front of him. Mercifully, he helped me out.
I think ive made my point in any event.
The setting for today's actual story is elementary school. In the lunch room you had multiple options. I believe that there was the days "lunch" plus PB&J and PB&F or the "Fluffernutter." There may have been more options, but it was a long time ago and I can't remember. What i DO remember is that my parents were lenient enough to allow me something like 2 Fluffernutters a school year. Maybe 3. And i remember being smart enough to let them know when i used my "Fluff passes." But here's the thing. If you figure there are 180 school days, and 5 of them I brought lunch because of Passover, and probably 100 of them I wanted what they were cooking that day, and then the 20 or so days where i would trade lunches with kids who brown bagged it, well then you would have the times i ate Fluff at school. That number = EVERY FUCKING DAY OF SCHOOL (minus passover). I ate that fluff silly. I sucked up that white mellowy sugar hug of a substance each and every day i was in that cafeteria. And I am extremely proud of that. How ahead of my time. All i had to do was make sure my older brother (2 years my senior) didn't catch me (aka. tell on me) and I was golden. So now, think to those days when i would tell them that i had "one of my 2 Fluff sandwiches today." I was a little friggin genius, rebelling with marshmallow slathered white bread.
Later, in college or after, I told my parents all this. They laughed. Mom called me, "a little shit." But i know down deep they were proud that I was already thinking for myself by 3rd grade.