2nd Journal for 2010: Workouts

I've been hitting the gym lately. Not to get in shape; I think anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I'm already very much "in shape". Working out can be about going from bad to good (which is something I would encourage you all to take part in), but for those of us who are already good it must be said that it is a worthwhile endeavor to perfect a good thing, or even polish a perfect thing.

Thanks to a decision that, a few years ago, made my tuition go from a number so big that I don't remember what it is to a number that I haven't looked at or heard spoken, the institution of higher learning that I attend now includes a membership to the Hannibal YMCA. I didn't ask for it, but I decided that I might as well start using this thing I'm paying some amount of money for. As often as possible, I drive on over to the YMCA (I don't feel as though I know it well enough to start calling it by its nickname, "Y") and shuffle through a locker-room full of wet, naked old men (who seem to spontaneously generate out of such conditions), change into my loose-fitting exercise gear and commence chiseling granite. The tools with which I attempt this feat are humble, but varied. With free weights, levers, pully things, and all kinds of weird looking chairs I task myself with reaching pinnacles of fitness that glorify the creator.

Though I am just now taking full advantage of my membership, I'm no stranger to workout equipment. In high school I took one semester of Weight Training and a semester of Advanced Weight Training. Both courses were taught by a football coach who seemed to be bitter about losing his hair. Honestly, his attitude may have had something to do with the fact that no one showed him any respect, but for my part I can guarantee I would have listened to him more if he had a decent head of hair. These classes taught me a little bit about weight training and a lot about "Jailbreak"; a variation on the Dodgeball convention that allowed for more players and more ways to reenter the game once eliminated. In retrospect, the title "Jailbreak" turned out to be an unfortunately accurate predictor of many futures belonging to those enrolled. Not in that any of the students I'm thinking of ever actually broke out of a prison; they are definitely still locked up.

My experience now is much more sophisticated. As an educated college man only months away from my graduation in December, my approach to "gym-ing" has become a fine-tuned personal science. Using audio, visual, and emotive aids, I've been able to maximize the effectiveness of my exercise time. I've thought about writing an exercise manual for those of you out there who want to look as good as me, but frankly I just don't have the time. What I'll do instead is list some of the techniques that have been treating me so well at the gym. In this way I'll be doing my part in America's healthcare crisis and our country's struggle to reclaim the title of "Most beautiful people" back from Argentina.

Workouts

Twitter-Crunches: 140 crunches, keep count with cell phone in hand by tweeting each crunch

Unemployment lifts: For every job you interview and don't receive, go back to the interviewer's office and lift their desk above your head. Who knows? This may end up getting you the job.

The Native American Guilt-Cycle: (for white people only) Set an exercise bike to its highest difficulty setting and bring mp3 player with headphones. While pedaling, listen to "Song of Crazy Horse" by J.D. Blackfoot. The song is over 20 minutes long and provides a history of the US Government's treatment of Native Americans. This provides ample workout time and you should be fueled by your righteous anger toward paleface and his empty promises.

Harry Potter pull-ups: For every Hogwarts professor you can name from the Harry Potter canon, do one pull-up. This makes sense because the more you know about Harry Potter, the more you probably need to work out.

Keyboard push-ups: Place your computer keyboard on the ground. Putting your hands at home position, begin push-ups. This isn't clever or meaningful, but I just want to see how it effects those with ergonomic arrangements differently.

I promise I'll come up with more, but I really must be going because it's late and I heard that if you don't get enough rest, you'll never bulk up and be more satisfied with your self image so you can go at least one day without spitting at a mirror.

If you have any tips, please share!

1st Journal for 2010

I'm terrible at guessing and I guess I always will be. Every day I guess what the lottery numbers will be and I've never gotten it right. Last time was even worse because, though I guessed that I could afford two lottery tickets and a blue slush-pop, it turns out that the guy who works behind the counter now is Rick Yates; someone who I owe an amount of money that I can't remember.

I tried to participate in an office football pool once. Not only did I lose my five dollars, but one of the guys came up to me and started taunting me, "You can't play if you don't work here!", "How did you get past the alarm system?" I get it man, but don't discriminate against me because of my bad luck. I mean honestly, I'd have better odds at the Kentucky Raffle than the Kentucky Derby, but too bad I don't get a shot at either because the fates caused me to be born in Missouri.

You might think someone like me is pretty bitter about their position in life. I'm not. I know that there have to be losers if there are going to be winners, but I'd like to meet these winners. Who are all these mega-successful guys who are getting all the positive vibes I clearly lack? I mean, I've got some theories as to who they might be. A couple weeks ago, on the subway, I saw this guy picking on his guitar. His fingers were flying and strumming against the strings with seemingly no rhyme or reason and what came out was beautiful music. Now I've done the exact same thing with a guitar in my lap and it doesn't sound like music at all. As soon as I start picking everyone gets real mad at me. How am I supposed to get any better if I can't practice? And how am I supposed to practice if you don't let me use your guitar?

Another recipient of my good luck must be these jokesters I've seen at the bar. These jokesters are always joking around, telling their jokes to women; it's gross. Hey, look at me, I'm so clever because I can lighten the mood with this joke. What they don't know is that they're walking a tightrope with these girls. They're balancing on a razor's edge of comedy that could land them in deep trouble; I should know. They may be ignorant of this fact because they got lucky with their joke. It may have resulted in their getting a girl's number or even taking her home, but it doesn't always work that way. I can't count how many times I've told a joke to a girl who ended up slapping me. But Nick, maybe you should stop using dirty jokes. You're missing the point!! The jokes I'm telling are the exact same jokes I've heard those jokesters tell time and time again. But Nick, maybe you're telling these jokes to the wrong women. Wrong again! When I tell these jokes, I'm often telling them to the same women who laughed so readily at the jokesters. Huh-haw-haw-huh! There seems to be no way to predict when you'll get what reaction because I've tried every day of the week, which by the way, just gets you banned from a bar.

Basically, I just wanted to admit that I'm coming to terms with my bad luck. I used to have hope that if I held out long enough something good would happen, but that hope has been shattered. I don't even bother guessing at the lottery anymore; I've switched to just picking numbers at random. The good news is that I found a great job that pays in cash. I'm usually just delivering packages to people behind buildings and everyone I come into contact with is pretty nice. My boss is hilarious and always poking fun at me. First time I met him, he said, "If you go and tell anyone about what you're doing, I'll kill you." Haha, "Understood, boss!"

Down with the Sickness

Getting sick can be an incredibly trying experience, both mentally and physically. I’ve always been fairly susceptible to falling ill and it tends to happen almost every month. The kind of thing I’m talking about here are stomach viruses, the occasional flu and of course, the malady to which no cure has or will ever be found, the common cold. As a result of this regularity, I’ve been able to study my typical response in an attempt to make it more efficient and advantageous to my health.

Usually things get kicked off with the sore throat. I like to think of this as “the egg period” because I’m waiting to see what eventual indisposition will poke its beak out from my initial sore-throatedness. I also like to call this “the egg period” because, in an effort to somehow rescue my health from falling overboard, I throw it a lifesaver of healthy egg-breakfasts. Unfortunately, by the time I’ve entered the egg period, my health has usually already walked the plank. I haven’t figured out what my health did to get such a sentence, but I’m already mixing metaphors so I think it best not to delve into those waters.

During the egg period I’m usually wracking my brain in a futile attempt to determine the root of my condition. Was it the dirty rail I touched in the train station? The leftovers I ate from under my seat on the train? Maybe it was that hobo I made out with to make my mom laugh. It really is a waste of time pondering these things, especially considering the fact that I always take the bus. It would be nice to know exactly how I’ve received the germs in question, but the answer is as muddled as the clogged-up basin that I always rinse my hands in.

What happens next is what I call “the sluggish period”. No matter what symptoms I begin to experience, my typical frenzied pace is curbed significantly. For instance, instead of flipping through the channels like I usually do, I just go ahead and sit through the commercials. I do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, my listlessness keeps me from reaching for the remote at every 60-second break. Secondly, there’s a slim chance a miracle drug may be advertised that speaks directly to my needs. Suffering from sore throat, back ache and mild fever? Yes, I would nod. Then try Xackalax; it’s free, comes with ice cream, and it’s guaranteed to work.

Another reason I call this “the sluggish period” is that, at this point, any discomfort I may be feeling can be easily alleviated through the use of medical marijuana. I prefer a mellow Indica blend smoked through a bowl. Brownies can be nice, but may come back to haunt you if you develop an upset stomach. Interestingly, I’ve found that in the absence of medical marijuana during the sluggish period, normal marijuana works just as good.

At the end of the sluggish period is when things get tricky. The next period is called “the grasshopper period” because grasshoppers are green, just like the trickiest creature on earth, the leprechaun. Here, my affliction can clear up without a problem, or take one of many drastic turns for the worst. Such a turn will almost always lead me to the toilet. And whether I’m perched upon the bowl like Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”, or grasping the bowl with the kind of anguish represented in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”, it’s sure to be a long and painful process like Mick Jackson’s “The Bodyguard”, starring Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston.

Frankly, if I’m going to be spending time with my round porcelain friend, I’d just as soon be vomiting than anything else. Though, there’s a sort of “ripped-off” feeling I get when pukey-sick. What’s the point of all this torture if I didn’t get to finish off everyone’s rum bottles? Instead of cursing the bitch that drove me to drinking, I’m cursing friend that drove me to the movies (I know they don’t disinfect the seats between screenings). Whatever my business happens to be in the bathroom, my mantra is always the same: out with the bad. I used to spend a lot of this time talking to Jesus, but now his mom refuses to clean the bathroom until after I get better.

From here on out, it’s pretty much wash, rinse, repeat until I’m back to normal. I have a special toothbrush for when I’m sick that I’ll sometimes give to guests as a prank. The final period I simply call, “the cleanup”. This is the period between my recovery and the redeployment of my maid squad. The cleanup usually entails a lot of hose water and incense. Raymond, my pet raccoon who comes in through a hole he chewed in the back door, does a good job of cleaning up a lot of my food mess. When I see him dutifully munching up my litter, I’m especially glad that germs can’t be passed between species, or else he’d be in all kinds of trouble. I think about all of the stuff I could have gotten done if I had remained healthy. I’m sure that a much bigger portion of my model train collection would be properly detailed if I didn’t get sick so often.

Although it tends to be an ordeal, I really don’t mind getting sick. It gives me a chance to reflect on my own health and appreciate those times when I can function as an independent adult in society. It also gives me a great opportunity to guilt my grandma into bringing me a Vanilla Milkshake. “Just leave it by the raccoon hole, grandma. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

Halloween Monster Story

As the chef pried open a fresh crate of bananas, he noticed something odd about it. First of all, bananas didn't usually come in crates, so right off he knew something was wrong. Also, a large bat flew out of the crate, carrying a severed head.

The chef proceeded to stack the glowing, green bananas in their usual spot. Immediately, students began flooding the cafeteria to get a taste of the freak fruit.

Surprisingly, everyone loved the bananas. They were the most popular food item at breakfast. By lunch time though, the chef started noticing strange behavior in the students.

"Get me more bananas, Chef Tim!" said a burly, hairy, toothy girl.

"We're all out." Chef Tim replied.

"Look harder!" the girl shouted, in between unpleasant monkey noises.

Chef Tim looked around and noticed some very primitive behavior. Students were jumping up down, hanging from chandeliers, and picking lice off of each other to eat. Anyone who had eaten bananas (which was pretty much everyone) was turning into big, stinky apes. Their features were animal-like. Chef Tim felt like Charlton Heston.

Rushing back into the kitchen, Chef Tim alerted lunch lady Bertha of the emergency. "The kids are all going ape out there! It's a madhouse!"

Lunch lady Bertha turned around. Her teeth were yellow and her lips were covered in drool. Unsightly body and facial hair stuck out all over. She breathed heavily.

"Oh no, it got you too!" said Chef Tim, "You ate the green bananas!"

"What are you talking about?" Bertha grunted, "I hate bananas!"

"Oh..." Chef Tim backed away slowly, "Sorry..."

Back in the cafeteria, plates were being thrown, the floor was covered in soda, and the warm apple crisp had been violated several times over. Chef Tim knew he had to do something.

He went back into the storage where the mysterious crate waited. In it, conveniently sat a small note. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Because he was distracted by that bat.

The note read, "These bananas are evil. Don't feed them to anyone. If you do though, just recite this incantation: BALAWALANAK..."

Suddenly, a monkey child snatched the paper from him and ran back into the cafeteria.

Chef Tim tried to throw his most stale bread at the monkey child to slow it down, but to no avail. The monkeys were too quick for him for now, but he had a plan.

Immediately, Chef Tim started cooking up as many flapjacks as he could. Being a school chef, he had plenty of opium on hand and cooked it right into the flapjacks. When he knew he had enough, he shoveled the flapjacks into a shopping cart that he stole from Walmart and reentered the cafeteria. Like frisbees, he hurled the opium cakes at every devolved student within sight. They eagerly gobbled up the cakes.

Carefully stepping over the now-sleeping monkeys, Chef Tim successfully located the note and pried it from the clutches of the monkey child. Lifting it up, he recited the incantation, "BALAWALANAKTOFALA!"

Like Disney magic, all the hairy, apelike students transformed back into normal, filth-covered human students.

"That was pretty cool, eh Rex?" Tim asked his previously unmentioned talking-dog companion.

Rex answered with his old catch-phrase that has endeared him with countless children, "Yoooouu BETCHA!"

Earning Sleep

Usually, I don't mind a housefly. In the summer, when they are most prevalent, they are only a minor annoyance; A bother done away with by waving a hand, as if I had all the power of a king. But as I sat up in my bed, my neck supported by an awkwardly folded pillow, the fly that buzzed around my room captured the bulk of my attention with its performance. It was the quiet and solitude that the fly had broken. I'm sure countless insects and spiders had successfully crept in and thwarted my pure loneliness in the past, but they had done so with subtlety enough to keep the Giant unstirred and blissfully ignorant of his guests. I must admit that the thought that it is so hard to escape the world of life and survival perturbs me to some degree. There is always something not far off that would see your end to further their's.

The concentration of my read would not be broken by a passive stalker, but the buzzing fiend that left haphazard and imaginary dash-marks in its wake as it flew about the unstirred air of my room. The volume of its unattractive buzzing was directly linked to the distance it kept from me. If this distance was halved, the sound was doubled. Such a change was easily noticed in my self-induced, yet somewhat broken meditative state. Soon after becoming aware of this unwanted cad of an insect, it became the second party in the room, thereby ruining my linear thought process.

The linear thought process is the one thing that I absolutely must maintain to achieve any meaningful level of cognitive retention of reading materials. I blame the fragility of this process to all those damn video games I played as a kid. It's when my linear thought is disrupted that I end up writing something, the subject of which can usually be found at the branching of my thoughts and is rarely interesting to anyone but myself (though this particular digression is of distinctively fuzzy and faint importance, even compared with houseflies).

After a series of paths taken by the fly, many of which brought it to every cardinal direction in relation to myself, its buzzing faded. My composure rocked, I began expecting to hear the sound again. So expectant was I that the soft hum of electricity within the house started sounding incredibly insectish. I feared that the fly was just waiting for the right time to play a trick on me; To ambush me and crawl under my skin to lay its eggs, or maybe jump up and spit in my eye. The fear had hatched ugly, writhing maggots, intent on foiling any line of productive or useful thought.

At a picnic, set upon by a gang of flies, I would have no problem hearing the cry of the warrior. I'd brandish my long, plastic, flatish blade with which to bring an untimely and gruesome death to the outmatched and miniscule monsters plaguing our plates of potatoes and ham. But the idea of an army makes sense. Some would even sell the idea as noble. A lone wanderer however; A "Jack the Ripper" of the bug kingdom could certainly haunt my read as ignobly as anything under the sun.

I reached with quiet trepidation for the entomology textbook, which the fates had placed so conveniently near to my side, hoping to procure from it some advantageous nugget of knowledge regarding my enemy. The common housefly (Musca domestica) only lives for an average of two weeks as a fly. Attrition was the obvious answer. I could be certain, with all the confidence that science could bestow, that the beast would be dead within this relatively short period of time. There was no doubt in my mind that the fat reserves I had built up within the past few years at college, coupled with the pallet of Ice Mountain bottled water I had "temporarily" placed near my bed only four hours earlier would sustain me during this deadly chess match.

It was harder than I thought to wait out the fly. My checkmate would come after roughly fourteen days of motionless thought and appreciation for my adversary. I received bed sores and came down with minor scurvy due to the lack of Vitamin C. But reading in peace, and greeting slumber with certainty has never felt so good.

The Summer of Pickle Sandwiches

When this summer got underway, I was in a bit of a pickle. The kind of pickle that is sandwiched firmly between two pieces of bread that somehow symbolize laziness. I had just completed the most apathetic and lackluster semester of my college career, and I had done absolutely nothing to secure for myself a job to help ease my financial situation which can only be described as Chrysler-esque. I had relied on parental bailouts and infusions of cash loans to support my travel in the fall semester and bad habits in the spring. Waking up to my precarious situation, I felt guilt, anxiety, and hunger. Hunger for a job, and hunger for a pickle sandwich. Immediately, I began to find for myself chores to justify my existence on a daily basis, as well as a few hours here and there dedicated to applying for jobs delivering pizza. My seemingly helpless situation bogged me down and even caused a few days of real depression; the kind of depression that just boils up inside of you, urging you to do something with your life because you have no money to buy alcohol to drown it in. My Mother (who will be subsequently referred to as "Ma") saw this and it troubled, or at least annoyed her. "Why don't you apply for one of those medical studies." She suggested. I had thought of it, but refrained because I wanted to leave my schedule open for a job. As soon as I figured out my hours, I'd be able to fit a medical study around my work schedule. [Point of Information: These "medical studies" I'm referring to are amazing little opportunities that Cetero Research offers. Basically they give you a drug, take some blood from you, and give you money. It's important to note that there is almost no work involved in this process, and lots of money. I'd say it's low risk, which it is, but you're probably a superstitious jerk, so I won't waste my time.] Ma had come a long way from opposing my participation in such studies to now wholeheartedly endorsing them as a means of income. I am certain that this kind of resignation and apathy is what keeps any good family together. I explained why I hadn't signed up for any studies, but what met with Ma's cold, hard, and immovable logic: "You won't make any more working a part time job than you would doing one of those studies." I was tempted. But also worried about a potential secondary problem with signing up for a study without any other prospects lined up. That problem would turn out to be one that didn't really exist, except in my wildest imagination. You see, I was concerned that without real employment--a job that tagged me as an "associate, employee, or partner"--I would not find true satisfaction. That somehow, the title of "volunteer" would make any money I received from that position a little less satisfying. Because, you see, when I found out that I would most likely be participating in a study that paid $1,180 over the course of two weekend stays, I made a rough appropriation of the funds in my mind and figured out that this sum of money is pretty nice for me right now, and I would most likely line up another study after this one was over. What washed over me wasn't some feeling of emptiness, but one of relief and satisfaction. So I'm sitting around reading, playing video games, cleaning up here and there, and maybe riding my bike across town later... whatever. It's awesome. When I'm hungry, I tell the dog to bring me a bagel. When I'm tired, I sleep; wherever, on the couch, on the toilet, or perhaps just standing over a running lawnmower. What's most important is that I don't feel like a broke loser; just a single loser who lives with his parents, which, if I may speak so freely, is a pretty decadent lifestyle. Pickle sandwiches are a great metaphor. And even though that's a lie, and they aren't a great metaphor, I'll still slap some kosher dill spears on wheat bread and call it breakfast. Because even though pickles have almost no nutritional value, they taste good, so stop being such a drag, man.

Trying

A wolf walks past a birch tree in the snow

His fur is silver with the morning dew

And as he passes by, my slinking foe

Is drawn in by the scent of my hot stew

I long have had it cooking by this fire

So that I might fill up and warm my soul

He licks his teeth in hopes he will acquire

The meal that slowly cooks above these coals

I slowly reach for rifle by my side

So that I might then slay approaching beast

My hand lifts up the cover of cow-hide

The wolf continues lusting for his feast

Intently, creeping gently, getting close

My nerves are steady as I raise my gun

Though ignorant, I guess that my wolf knows

His days of stalking prey will soon be done

A shot rings out and breaks the silent morn

The wolf falls limp upon the waiting frost

I never, from the day that I was born

Have paid, for any breakfast, such a cost