Kvetch 22

com·plain

1. To express feelings of pain, dissatisfaction, or resentment.

2. To make a formal accusation or bring a formal charge.

When I was a small boy, I was very moody, even moreso than I am today. I wasn’t vocal about my pain or how I felt. After all, I was just a child, and I thought that every child, it seemed, probably had the same troubles. I was always being told how to feel by others. No matter how miserable I felt, every query as to my well-being was to be answered with a hearty “Baruch haShem!” I was just following orders.

One nondescript afternoon, I was sitting by the window, staring out into nowhere special in particular, when my Tante Golda o’h, noticing something amiss in her quiet, reticent nephew that he could not see in himself, came over to me and said “If you don’t complain, no one will ever know that you’re hurting.” I have never forgotten that lesson, though I admit, I haven’t always been as outspoken as circumstances demanded.

Now my father o’h was not quite as sensitive as his older and more educated sister. When my father used the word ‘kvetch’, it was generally in the context of shutting down any opinion that disagreed with his own views or tastes. Many people still use the “stop complaining’ tactic to shut down dissent by painting those who dissent as nothing more than cry-babies or whiners. It is always easier for those in power to squash dissent than to address the issues head on.

That’s not to say that complaining is always justified or proper in and of itself. Both complaint and response should be evaluated as to their respective merits. It's a two-way street. I have a childhood story that illustrates this clearly.

My father was an electrician. After several break-ins and thefts from his work truck, he decided, rightly so, that the best way to protect his investment was to unload the contents of the truck each night to avoid having them stolen. I don’t know when exactly this decision was made, but I was soon enlisted to help perform this task. I fully resented it at the time. While my friends and cousins were enjoying a few minutes of playtime or getting an early jump on their homework, I was spending up to 45 minutes each day lugging tools or supplies up from and down to our basement from the street. Naturally, I complained.

(A gentile customer of my father’s suggested a novel approach that was eventually adopted. That is another story.)

Many years later, it came to my knowledge that my father had suffered from severe and almost debilitating arthritis in his legs, and every day for him was sheer agony, especially in the winters. Did my father ever complain about his condition? Did he ever explain to me why it was that he was so much in need of my assistance? No. Had I known I may still have not liked my chores, but at least I would have understood why he was so adamant about having me do this chore, and my level of discomfort in doing it would have disappeared, or at least been minimized.

In light of the knowledge of my father’s daily suffering, I still have regrets over my complaints. However, my regret over my father’s inability or unwillingness to complain or share with me his pain is much stronger. I thought my chores were some sort of punishment or maybe worse. His silence caused me to needlessly resent him, where perhaps a short, sympathetic, and open conversation would have alleviated all the aforementioned traumas. I have no doubt, looking back, that bearing pain in silence and then inflicting it upon others, was a long and deep family tradition. If one refuses to share their pain then, as my Tanta Golda would say “No one will ever know that you are hurting”, and consequently would assume the motivations to be either cruel or capricious.

Contrary to the nonsense hyped by authoritarians and tyrants of all kinds, complaining is productive, and it is doing something when those receiving the complaints are willing to evaluate those concerns and respond. Imagine going to your doctor in pain or discomfort, seeking healing, and him telling you to stop complaining! Envision a police detective, counseling a crime victim to stop whining and accept their fate. Picture a parent ignoring the cries of a hurt child. Now imagine the consequences. The cycle of doubt, internalized anger, and petty hatred continues.

The secret is how to complain productively, and that has proven troublesome. In politics, it becomes a game of who to complain to, and how exactly to garner their attention. Currently, we have a government that abides by the rule of “money talks and bullshit walks”, where everything comes down to financing and ‘elect-ability’, which is loosely translated as “has enough clout to generate lots of campaign funding.” It seems that to get your way with government, you have to buy it.

In lieu of sending massive amounts of cash which, by the way, I don’t have, I channel my efforts onto writing editorials, blogging, chatting with others, researching pertinent information, voting, and letting my Congresspersons know where I stand on the issues. I cannot force them to do anything. I can only hope they see the rationale of my claim and accede to its merits. If they refuse to do so, and I assure you they do, I have no recourse but to vote against them in the next election cycle.

Now, I am only one man, and not a brilliant one either, but there are hundreds of thousands who share my ideals to one extent or the other, and the only way we find each other is through complaining out loud so we communicate and join forces. When Samuel Adams and Thomas Paine were distributing leaflets ‘complaining’ about George III, it was that very dissent that rallied others of similar opinion and mind to their cause. Like the revolutionaries of 1775, today’s ‘complainers’ do get organized. I am among those who help that process.

We cannot have it both ways. We cannot have a society that sits silently when in pain and then expect that society to grow and produce civilized and enlightened citizens. There is a time to be Stoic, to go through the motions and do what must be done, but there is also a time for outcry, outrage, and vocal dissent when wrongs, perceived or real, are committed by those in power. We cannot be submissively silent and remain free at the same time.

Those in power seek to place the governed in a precarious predicament. If we don’t complain, they won’t think that we think anything is wrong, and if we do, they wish to discourage those complaints by insulting or stigmatizing those who speak out. Basically, they are complaining about our complaining.

Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. A Kvetch-22. No?

A Storm in Any Port

I really would like the world to settle down and chill out. I rather enjoy not ranting on and on about corporate greed, religious zealotry, and organized campaigns of national murder. However, the world keeps shoving these things into my face and I, forced by my own perhaps hyperbolic sense of trying to make sense of things, must respond. I’d much rather share with everyone stories about what’s lying next to my toilet or, if you prefer, the frequency of bowel movements, far above that which I am compelled to address at present.

There is a lot of commotion about this port deal with the UAE. The UAE (DP World) owns and operates the company that has won the bid to take over the ports from the privately-held British firm (P & O) which held the contract these last 30 years or so. I agree with Jimmy Carter that this deal is no big deal, and there is no reason to assume that allowing the UAE to manage the ports would in anyway reduce our national security. The UAE manages ports all over the world, and thus far, their record has been good. In fact, the UAE, in its effort to maintain a sound and profitable business venture, might even bend over backwards to help make those ports even safer. They are in it for the profit, and they will protect their investment. Even if the UAE did not get this contract, another foreign state-owned company would have. A Malaysian firm was also in the running.

This is not to say that I don’t find some really stinky stuff in all this. Here is a short list of questions to ask:

A. Why wasn’t this deal common knowledge? The top levels of the Bush Administration claim they knew nothing of it until it happened right under their noses. If it isn’t a bold faced lie, then we must refer to the next question.

B. What exactly is the Bush Administration doing in Washington? It seems that everything that happens they claim to either: a) not know about it, b) not get the right information regarding it, c) defer responsibility, or d) blame it on somebody else. I would get fired from my job if I knew nothing, did nothing, and tried to shift blame to others.

C. If this is simply a matter free market policy in action, then why so much Republican effort to get the deal through? Why was it signed without going through the Congress first? There is a law that covers these types of deals and how they are transacted. As we have witnessed with surveillance and torture, following the law has proven to be problematic for the Bush Administration.

D. Why was there such a large and recent influx of money from UAE into Bush family projects, such as the Bush library? At least $1.5 million dollars was donated by the UAE. There are two possible explanations and both are disturbing. Either a) George Bush is a lot closer to Arab royalty than we think, or b) the UAE was buying the upper hand in the proposed port deal.

E. Why were some basic legal provisions overlooked or ignored? Foreign companies doing business on American soil are required by law to keep their business records in the US and have an American citizen placed in a position of responsibility. This is to ensure that American courts can have jurisdiction if necessary. These simple provisions were enforced on the UAE only after there was outcry over the deal.

F. Is it no small coincidence that our current Treasury Secretary, John Snow, who runs the Committee on Foreign Investment in the U.S., sold his own company port, CSX, to the UAE in 2004? What about David Sanborn, who runs DP World's European and Latin American operations and who was tapped by Bush last month to head the U.S. Maritime Administration? You don’t often see strangers holding hands this tightly.

G. Why has the UAE hired former Senator and Viagra spokesman Bob Dole as a lobbyist this late in the game? Why, if this is just the free market at work, are Republican politicians, paid by the people, lobbying so hard for DP World? If the President likes the deal, fine. Why, however, does it require no less than a dozen different Republican senators and representatives, to make news talk-show circuits defending or pleading the deal? On our time no less!

I believe the outcry here is overall a misplaced effort, but the abovementioned questions are very important ones to consider. How many other deals are being conducted in the same clandestine manner, and how many more are games of political opportunism? I believe this administration is the ‘Axis of Political Corruption and Conflicts of Interests’, and the shadows lurking behind this port deal are indicative of other deals they’ve brokered.

Kol Tuv

My Jacket & Me

I have two favorite pieces of outerwear. One is my trademark charcoal-grey cap (worn backwards for the beret effect), and the other, an American-made black military-style field jacket. In spite of a few bumps, scrapes, and crude alterations, the coat has held up incredibly well. I don’t quite remember where I bought it, but I do remember why I bought it.

I prefer not to cart around a lot of stuff. Some people love to lug around large satchels or brief cases filled with whatever it is they may need, or think they may need, during the course of their day. I travel lighter than most, but still heavier than others, and I do need to keep my wallet, keys, pocket knife, a pen, cell phone, gloves, and maybe a book with me wherever I go. The field jacket has great pockets. I can place all the abovementioned articles into one or two of them, and still have room for a flask of bourbon, a few pieces of mail, my beret, and a sandwich. I can wake up, grab the jacket, zip it up, turn up the collar, and head directly out the door, sans luggage, ready for whatever life may deliver.

(Religious Jewish men, during prayer service each day, recite the blessing “Thank you God, for not making me a woman.” There exist dozens of lame explanations as to why this blessing should not be viewed as the most overtly chauvinistic statement ever made. These range from ‘men not having to experience the menstruation’, to the joy of having more Torah commandments to fulfill than their female co-religionists. I really don’t care about their rationale at all. When I see a woman hauling around a huge purse or bag, having to carry all of the necessary and possibly necessary items that a woman may require, I am reminded of that blessing. Maybe we can gender-neutralize it a bit to read “Thank you God, for not making me a pack-mule.”)

The jacket has long since been more than just something to wear. It’s become a trusted companion and maybe even a security blanket of sorts. It’s a comfortable, familiar sight I unconsciously greet every morning, and whether draped over the stationary bike or the back of my office chair, it gets noticed. Whenever I need something or have misplaced small items moved from here to somewhere else, I always consult the pockets of that jacket before looking anywhere else. I approach any repairs to my beloved coat with the seriousness of a surgeon, and any threat to its well-being is met with ‘mother-bear-to-her-cub’ defenses. Do not mess with my coat.

The jacket doesn’t get worn as often as I’d like it to, since it is not really warm enough for cold Michigan winters and too warm for any summer. I guess you could say the same about any coat. I wear a windbreaker underneath and that stops the bitter wind fairly well. There is a special lining sold for those jackets, but it isn’t quite as warm or efficient as the lined windbreaker. I prefer to dress in layers anyhow. Heavy coats make me feel trapped and restricted by their weightiness.

Temptation has led me out shopping for a newer coat once or twice in the past 20 years, and although I see many styles I like, I can’t help but feel all fuzzy-wuzzy and sentimental about the coat I already have, especially when considering its carrying capability and durable quality. I like solid colors that are uncluttered by logos, decals, or striping. If I am purchasing an item that has the manufacturer’s logo or name sewn into it, I kind of feel that he should be paying me for advertising his product! Had the patriarch Jacob offered me a ‘coat-of-many-colors’ I would have refused it saying, “Sorry, Dad. It’s not my style.”

This jacket mimics my self-image. I tells you who I am and what I aspire to be; non-conformist, reasonably subversive, and yet, at the same time, determined and practical-minded. My jacket is plain and straightforward. It is dependable and useful. There is nothing fancy to it. You can ball it up in the corner, throw it on the floor, or leave it in the car, and when unfolded it always returns to its former self. It is me.

Well, almost. I’m not machine washable.

Things Found Next to the Bed (Or Not)

“Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.” (Fran Lebowitz)

Yesterday, I made the mistake of looking around my own bedroom with the lights on. The following is only part of what I discovered there.

v A well worn copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. You have to really like a guy who writes about hiring prostitutes and makes it seem more romantic than most marriages. I seldom use bookmarks. I am one of those hated ‘page-folders’, and the bane of every librarian in history. For this reason, I have to be very careful when borrowing books and therefore I prefer to own. I also write in the margins and highlight when I feel like it. If you don’t like it, don’t lend me any books.

v An equally tattered volume of Meditations, by Marcus Aurelius. Considering the kinds of buffoons we have running (or ruining) the nation at present, it’s comforting to know that at some point in humanity’s chequered past, there was at least one leader with philosophical backbone and wisdom. His stoicism provides a good idea before bedtime. In lieu of sex or cash raining down from the ceiling, Meditations isn’t the worst thing to experience before passing out.

(I picked this edition up at a rummage sale many years ago. I already had a decent copy of Meditations, but this one was special. There is a hand-written inscription on the inside cover which reads, "To Robert, from Carolyn. I love you." I have never met said Robert or fair Carolyn, but I get the impression he was a lucky man loved by a hell of a woman. Little acts of love make me all mushy inside.)

v Several editions of Scientific American magazine. A little light reading before bedtime. The material this magazine is printed on is very glossy and reflects too much light back onto my eyes, so it is hard for me to read more than a few pages at a time. Sometimes the subject matter requires me to check reference materials, and I’m not getting out of bed to chase down a physics textbook or encyclopaedia.

v A stack of essays, speeches, and articles I wrote or printed from somewhere off the internet. Subjects are varied. I prefer the disarray. That’s the only way I’ll ever read them. Organizing them into binders is kind of like placing them into a coffin, where one dispassionately places a ‘headstone’ on the cover and buries it on a shelf. Exhumation is a rarity indeed. The best way to kill an idea is to organize it.

v Asimov’s Understanding Physics. I haven’t seen it in ages, but I’m pretty sure it’s right under the pile of papers and magazines. If you’re interested in the history of scientific discovery and the basics of physics, I suggest you read Asimov’s book. That man knew how to teach a subject. I'm surprised and somewhat dismayed that it isn't being used as either textbook or supplement to physics courses.

v A sleeping mask. Don’t ask me where it is exactly. I haven’t used it in ages, because by the time I get to bed I’m too tired to look for it. Taking an extra pillow and 'sandwiching' my head between them sometimes duplicates the effects of a mask. As a note, two shots of bourbon and a 20 oz. beer chaser usually render any sleeping mask obsolete. If the alcohol doesn’t work, try Benadryl or Nyquil. Among the several warnings printed on the back of the product should be one that reads, “Don’t make any f***ing plans. You’re not going anywhere.”

v A couple of extra blankets. Never hurts to have more of those. Pillows, too. I love lots of pillows. Oh. And women. Those are nice, too. I just don’t have any extras lying around at present.

v A cat maybe. I have two. Silo sleeps on the bed. Princess, when she isn’t playing “Almighty Queen-Keeper of the Living Room”, will curl up next to the bed on a heap of unfolded laundry. Albert Schweitzer was renowned for his love of animals and his musical talent as a classical pianist. The good doctor would never wake a sleeping animal and, if his beloved cat happened to fall asleep in his lap while composing, he would sit quietly until the cat awakened. If either of my precious feline companions read this blog, I want you both to realize this: My last name is not Schweitzer.

v Perhaps some dirty socks, a pair of pajamas, a bath towel, and forgotten underwear. Ok. Ok. It’s not a 'maybe'. I consider anything up to six inches underneath the side rail to be technically next to the bed, but since I seldom, out of fear no doubt, actually look under the bed, I have no idea how many fugitive briefs or running socks have taken it for a safe haven. If they make it that far, they are on their own. If you love them, set them free.

v A piece of base molding that isn’t likely to ever be installed. I have no idea what the hell it is I’m waiting for. No one else does either. The universe contains yet another unresolved riddle. It’s not that I don’t enjoy solving a good mystery here and there, but rather I prefer to sleuth the mysteries of others. My personal enigmas, ironies, and inconsistencies are much too profound for an unprofessional like myself to untangle.

v Several other books that I haven’t finished yet and will probably have to reread from the beginning. I’m notorious for reading several books at once. It’s not due to superior intelligence or even a wide range of interests, but because I’ve become a bit of a scatterbrain in the last several years and no longer possess the mental focus and acumen of my vigorous youth. I better keep taking those vitamins. I just have to somehow remember where I put them. Maybe next to bed?

So? What’s next to your bed? Or under it?

“Blessed is the person who is too busy to worry in the daytime and too sleepy to worry at night.” (Unknown)

Am I Happy?

John Stuart Mill said “Ask yourself whether you are happy and you cease to be so.” I came across this quote when reading the bibliography of another book I’m browsing, and ever since then, the truth of Mill’s words have been slowly, but surely, ringing true to me and, simultaneously, wringing yet another truth from me.

Humans have the unique ability to peer forward and back in time so far that we fall out of touch with our present; so much so, in fact, that fears or worries of future consequences stifle our living. Be it fear of loneliness, death, disliked relatives, or nuclear war, we humans find any number of ways to shield ourselves from feeling at peace. My cat has a good memory as well, and her experiences shape her interaction with certain person she trusts, others she doesn’t at present, and some that she never will. I doubt, however, that she somehow sits alone in the house worried sick should ever one of the latter two come to visit, nor is she devising any intricate proactive strategy to deter their comings.

I’m learning how to be like this cat a little more each day. I come home from a long day at work and she runs to the door mewing, clawing, and acting silly. My frustration disappears when she greets me, no matter what has occurred in my time away from her. It is more than just about her animal innocence. It’s her simplicity. She never asks if she’s happy, if I’m happy, if you’re happy, etc., because she doesn’t know what ‘happy’ means. She doesn’t have an active sense of ‘unhappiness’ gnawing at her psyche. I also don’t know what the word ‘happy’ means, so why can’t I be so simple?

We can look up the definition of any word, but using words to describe another word leads to the need for more words to explain how those words relate to the word you first wished to define. We have a common understanding of most words we use based upon their practical function, and for the sake of expediency we don’t stand around the gas pump arguing whether the ‘gas’ we wish to pump is gasoline derived from crude oil or gas derived from a few too many burritos and beer. ‘Happy’, on the other hand, is a word many people spend a great of their lives agonizing over, both in defining and finding it somehow, someway.

Happiness isn’t always attached to pleasure. Some find their pleasure in self-denial. Some believe that the ‘agonizing’ is our raison d’etre, and have constructed intricate paradigms and philosophies around its effects. I’m a practical sort of person. Maybe I’ll stop using the word ‘happy’ altogether, and see what comes of it. It is likely that one would stop seeing in terms of self, but in terms of the thing itself one is observing. It’s this ‘detachment’ from reflexive personal judgments that perhaps leads to the peace of mind so often associated with happiness.

Buddhism offers us Four Noble Truths. The First Truth states that “there is agonizing.” I know this one well. Mill’s words offer the source of this ‘agonizing’. Every time we ask ourselves if we are ‘happy’, we ratchet up our level of unhappiness to newer heights (or depths as it were), leaving more inquiry and leading us away from that simplicity that so exemplifies the ridiculously silly and moody Calico curled up in a ball at the foot of my futon. Just watching her sleep makes me drowsy.

"I exist as I am, that is enough.
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
and if each and all be aware I sit content."
(W. Whitman, from Song of Myself)

Allah Has No Funny Bone

“Our five senses are incomplete without the sixth - a sense of humor.” (Author Unknown)

“A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.” (Clive James)

I remember many years ago, when still religious, staying in a hotel while on vacation and enjoying the luxury of watching television, something that I never did at home and still would prefer to avoid today. The late, great Johnny Carson was doing a bit about the Ayatollah’s takeover of Iran and the outrage over Salman Rushdie’s ‘Satanic Verses.” The Ayatollah’s threats consisted of the usual Islamic vitriolic claptrap i.e. blood flowing in rivers, revenge of God, etc. Carson, with masterful delivery, summed up the matter in one simple question, “Is there a word in their language for lighten up?”

There is no doubt that Islam needs to lighten up. Frankly, they need to join the rest of the civilized word and learn to accept a little joke once in a while. It’s not as if they haven’t earned the right to be laughed at, when one considers how unbelievably backward their religion and culture seems to be. Like all religious fundamentalism, it should be ridiculed as much as possible, especially in light of how Islam reacts to mere insults.

Islam could learn a thing or two from the Jews. No one has faced more ridicule, persecution, and universal malevolence than have the Jews yet, when faced with neo-Nazi web sites, Klan rallies, and a thousands of anti Israeli and anti-Jewish articles and cartoons published by Arabic speaking periodicals, one doesn’t see the Jews staging violent protests, burning embassies, or wishing death upon the authors. We are a civilized people.

I fully understand the outrage that many true believers feel over this alleged slight of their ‘prophet’. So they’re angry. I get it. Now when I am outraged, I write my representatives in Congress, boycott the newspaper, and address the issue on my blog or directly with others. Peaceful protest is an effective tool as well. Violence is never an option. My detractors have an opinion, I have an opinion, and those opinions, in the civilized world, battle in out in the realm of opinion, not on the streets of flesh and blood.

The danger posed by Islamic violence is symptomatic of most fundamental dogmatisms. They would use violence to stamp out my right to expression, thought, speech, and belief. I hear the same sort of Dark-Age speak from many Christians, too, and it bothers me that people have so little tolerance for other ideas that they react with violent intent upon confronting an idea coming from anywhere outside their own little comfort zone.

If your belief system is so fragile that you can’t handle a little joke or two, then you need psychotherapy. If you are violent as well, then you need to be separated from society and treated with whatever it takes to make you a civilized human being and able to function peacefully in our world. No matter where we go in life, we will face some disagreement, and how we handle such circumstances reveals our own sense of worth and maturity.

Dear Moslem Earthling. Get the fuck over it. You are showing the world just how brittle your 7th century mentality and beliefs really are. Sheesh.

“Anyone without a sense of humor is at the mercy of everyone else.” (William Rotsler)

My Beard

Some people hate the way it looks

And others how it feels

They say it makes me look too old

I say it’s no big deal

Some say I have a pretty face

And it’s such a shame to hide it

They joke and laugh about the things

I could tuck inside it

Some suggest that I should strip it off

And facial growth avoid

They complain it makes them nervous

I say they’re paranoid

Some think it’s highly unhygienic

And still many deem it crass

They assume one day that it will be shorn

But they can kiss my ass

Gym Drama

Last year, my regular boxing gym suddenly closed down without warning. I show up one Saturday morning as usual to discover the doors locked and lights out. I figured the manager must be late again. It’s happened before. I bike up to the 7-11 for some fresh coffee and sit down at the closest bus stop bench and wait a few minutes longer, gathering my thoughts and enjoying a quiet morning alone, piping hot java in hand.

A good 16 oz. Cup of coffee takes me about 40 minutes to finish. There is a specific temperature at which I drink hot beverages, and the first ten minutes of that forty consist solely of my waiting for the coffee to reach ideal drinking temperature. Sometimes interesting cars go by or the local vagabonds wander down the street collecting cans and bottle for return. Occasionally, a lone jogger strides past and waves.

I returned to the gym an hour later only to witness the same set of quiet, sullen circumstances, only now I am joined in my continuing quandary by several others also eagerly waiting to work out, and wondering what the hell is going on. Some of them are on cell phones calling the business number, others are stretching in the doorway, and some are standing around with that drawn look of boredom that standing around doing nothing etches into one’s face. At that point, I went home. Misery may love company, but I sure as hell don't.

A week later, Janice and I are visiting some old friends who happen live right behind the gym. Their daughter, now eighteen, and her somewhat older boyfriend were there. When I mentioned if they knew anything about why the boxing gym hadn’t opened all week, the boyfriend, who was somehow in the know about drug happenings in the neighborhood, explained that the gym was shut down by the police for selling cocaine and steroids. The owner is facing some serious jail time and the building and equipment had already been seized by the proper authorities.

Damn! I paid for a full year up front!

I was not surprised at all to find drugs being dealt in a gym of any kind. People who work out, especially younger ones, are not really concerned with health as much as image, and are willing to cut some corners to get into the ‘look’ they want. Gyms, like any public place, have cliques and little sub-dramas going on in the background. Beyond the tapping speed-bags and the clank of steel barbells there is some business being handled, and drugs are sometimes part of it. Personally, I have never taken any drugs for that specific purpose, and it probably shows. For me it has always been about health, and I don’t even take the medications doctors prescribe, let alone what some steroid junky or nutritional ‘consultant’ is hawking at the ‘smoothie’ counter.

I never liked the commercial health clubs. I miss my old gym because at least the walls weren’t plastered with televisions and corny advertising. When it was hot outside, it was hotter inside. I don’t come to gym so that I won’t sweat, and turning up the air conditioning seems counterproductive. I miss my old gym because the people there were for the most part serious about their training, and maybe too serious at times. There wasn’t the usual meat-market atmosphere that makes everyone afraid to talk to anyone else lest it be misconstrued to imply something sexual. I dreaded the thought of joining the ranks of mainstream gym goers.

Alas, my fate was sealed. I have broken down and joined a commercial health club, replete with noisy urban music, televisions blaring endless loops of inane network programming, annoying personal trainers, and sadly, no heavy bag or speed bag upon which to vent my frustrations. They do, however, allow me to skip rope. Unlike my old gym, where new faces became familiar friends, everyone here seems to be standoffish and distant. I think it’s normal though. There are likely to be 100s more at this gym on any given day than were ever in my old one.

On the plus side, there are plenty of fine looking women running around in tight outfits to admire. Some of the younger ones (they’re all younger it seems) have taken to wearing the latest work-out fashions. This consists of very tight fleece-wear with words emblazoned across the buttocks reading “Boodilicious.” For most of these young ladies, there is definitely truth in that advertising. The yoga class is kind of entertaining, too, unless I’m in it. Then it’s just painful.

As a full time voyeur the larger crowd does afford me the unique opportunity to watch more people in action. I already know the rituals of many of the gym members. Trust me, exercise is a ritual, and people are very careful not to alter it in any way. For example, this one Chinese fellow carries a huge backpack with him around the gym. I thought at first he was just without a locker or lock to lock the locker, but I was mistaken. This guy carries an array of cleaning supplies with him! Before using a machine he cleans the entire machine with disinfectant, and then, after doing his exercise, repeats the cleansing process over again. When I first saw him doing this, I thought he worked at the club.

There is another woman who spends a good hours each night walking on the treadmill while on a steep incline. She always looks like she’s in pain, but never stops for a minute. I’ve made eye contact with her a few times, you know, just to be friendly, but she insists on being robotic in her routine. Either she wants me, or she doesn’t want me. Not that I should be concerned about that either way, but it would be nice to know if I still have the ‘stuff’. My poor ego.

It’s time for bed. It has been another really long day.

Kol Tuv