I just wanted to post a link to a website made by an old friend. Sure, he hates sports, but don't hold that against him. Just enjoy his wacky website.
http://fat-man.angelfire.com/
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
It does a body good.
There are a few things you should know about me.
1. I have unusually strong bones, like the opposite of the avian bone disease. This is partly due to genetics, and partly due to the fact that I inject Cholecalciferol (Vitamin D3) daily. This causes my eyes to yellow, and my eyelashes to fall out. I suppose I could find a better place to inject, but I prefer to avoid looking strange, like an avid needle user.
2. I don't drink milk because I'm the most sane person I know. I've been to a farm. I've seen cows. I can assure you that what absolutely did not enter my mind was that I wanted to be breast fed by the cows I saw. It didn't appear motherly. And it's udders were ugly, chapped and dirty. I have consumed cow milk in my life, but when I think about what it actually is and from where it came, I can't do it again.
So there's a trade off, between the natural benefits of drinking cow milk, and the less natural benefits of injecting Cholecalciferol (Vitamin D3) daily. For example, drinking cow milk affects me psychologically for a few minutes. I mean, it tastes good, and I can tell my body likes it, but I simply dislike thinking about it. On the other hand, Cholecalciferol (Vitamin D3) has physical side affects. These include, but are not limited to headache, weakness, drowsiness, dry mouth, nausea, vomiting, constipation, muscle and/or bone pain, metallic taste in my mouth, weight loss, itchy skin, changes in heart rate, loss of interest in sex, confusion, unusual thoughts or behavior, feeling unusually hot, severe pain in your upper stomach spreading to my back, or fainting.
So I choose the injections, because who wants to get the willies when they eat something? I wonder if my abnormal aversion to cow milk is a direct result of my use of the Cholecalciferol (Vitamin D3).
A younger me, posing next to a sign depicting a cow doing the right thing.
Friday, October 2, 2009
This Tastes Immoral
Another coach told me a story that I thought was great. Her and her family were having a conversation. This family includes her and her husband and two sons, all WASP Canadians. One of her sons brought his girlfriend who happens to have a Lebanese Muslim heritage. Anyway, they were discussing what they would do if they were stranded somewhere and they had to eat a human. One of the sons said that he heard that human tastes just like pork. Well this girlfriend piped up and asked "Well what would I eat then?"
Absolutely perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Chainsaws are for trees.
I had a strange dream last night.
What I think happened (it's often difficult to piece together the logic in many of my dreams) is that there was some sort of zombie apocalypse, but some twisted person thought it would be lucrative to make a game show out of it. I and eleven others had to get through an underground series of tunnels and rooms. Interestingly some tunnels and rooms were bare rock, and others were completely finished, as though they were inside some classy old house. Other contestants would be placed strategically in certain areas to hide and frighten and kill the rest of us. So we had zombies to deal with, as well as sick individuals that would kill for money. We were unarmed and were trying to quickly make our way through the labyrinth to get to a room with a door that was sturdy, and could be locked. We entered a wide open hall, lit by weak gymnasium lights. As I walked past a pillar, someone popped in behind me and fired up a chainsaw and started to saw into me where my neck meets my shoulder. It didn't hurt, but it could definitely feel the force downward on me. I dropped, and jolted out of the way. He was grimy, and was dressed in filthy overalls with matted black hair. He was a new contestant. He came at me again, and lunged with the chainsaw, but I grabbed his arms. He shifted in such a way that he was able to nick away at both of my forearms. Again, there was no pain, just blood. I shifted my weight and he fell down. I grabbed the chainsaw, and while he was on the ground holding his arms up for protection, I sawed his arms off just below the elbow. Another player bandaged him up while I kept on, looking for a decent room. It was our understanding that the dominant player would get the safe room for the night. We found it shortly after, and it was decided that I would get the room. I was the dominant player at the time, likely because I was the only one with a chainsaw and obviously wasn't afraid to use it. We all entered the room together. It was a dank, but clean room that resembled a 70's motel room. There was wood paneling on all the walls, a hide-a-bed with white sheets and a tan colored, itchy looking blanket and maroon shag carpet. The doors were painted white, apparently many times, as they were very glossy, and I could see imperfections and drips painted over many times. I told everyone to leave the room and when they did, I checked every closet, kitchenette cupboard, and door, to make sure there wasn't anyone else hiding in that room, and that all the doors were locked and secure. Then I sat down on the bed and put down the chainsaw, exhausted.
Then I woke up.
I can't wait for hockey season to really get going.
What I think happened (it's often difficult to piece together the logic in many of my dreams) is that there was some sort of zombie apocalypse, but some twisted person thought it would be lucrative to make a game show out of it. I and eleven others had to get through an underground series of tunnels and rooms. Interestingly some tunnels and rooms were bare rock, and others were completely finished, as though they were inside some classy old house. Other contestants would be placed strategically in certain areas to hide and frighten and kill the rest of us. So we had zombies to deal with, as well as sick individuals that would kill for money. We were unarmed and were trying to quickly make our way through the labyrinth to get to a room with a door that was sturdy, and could be locked. We entered a wide open hall, lit by weak gymnasium lights. As I walked past a pillar, someone popped in behind me and fired up a chainsaw and started to saw into me where my neck meets my shoulder. It didn't hurt, but it could definitely feel the force downward on me. I dropped, and jolted out of the way. He was grimy, and was dressed in filthy overalls with matted black hair. He was a new contestant. He came at me again, and lunged with the chainsaw, but I grabbed his arms. He shifted in such a way that he was able to nick away at both of my forearms. Again, there was no pain, just blood. I shifted my weight and he fell down. I grabbed the chainsaw, and while he was on the ground holding his arms up for protection, I sawed his arms off just below the elbow. Another player bandaged him up while I kept on, looking for a decent room. It was our understanding that the dominant player would get the safe room for the night. We found it shortly after, and it was decided that I would get the room. I was the dominant player at the time, likely because I was the only one with a chainsaw and obviously wasn't afraid to use it. We all entered the room together. It was a dank, but clean room that resembled a 70's motel room. There was wood paneling on all the walls, a hide-a-bed with white sheets and a tan colored, itchy looking blanket and maroon shag carpet. The doors were painted white, apparently many times, as they were very glossy, and I could see imperfections and drips painted over many times. I told everyone to leave the room and when they did, I checked every closet, kitchenette cupboard, and door, to make sure there wasn't anyone else hiding in that room, and that all the doors were locked and secure. Then I sat down on the bed and put down the chainsaw, exhausted.
Then I woke up.
I can't wait for hockey season to really get going.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The day I got Burned.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but on the side, I like to sell sport drinks. I do this as a leisurely way to pass the time, not for the money. It's not the drinks themselves that I am interested in, it's the salesmanship, and the strategy of setting up shop in the ideal spot.
A few months back, I was in the locker room at my gym, and was discussing the greater contribution to society that athletic people make, when compared to non-athletes. I went further to say that athletes should be given preferential treatment. I believe the group I was speaking to was in agreement, because they offered no opposing view, in fact, very little was said at all in reply to my statements. I assure you they weren't ignoring me though, because when I changed the subject to my sport drink endeavors after an excruciating lull in the conversation, one person spoke up.
I feel it is important to mention what this person looked like. He had hair that looked like a woman's. It was red, and looked clean and brushed. It reached almost down to his tie-dyed trunks. He also had a thick, curly beard of the same color. On his chest, he had a tattoo of a woman's face, with straight blue hair parted down the middle with a band around her forehead with a flower on the center of it. Behind the woman was some floral, yet tribal design. I couldn't look too long, because I didn't want him to think I was gay. I think he had the same idea, because he wasn't making eye contact with me either, but I was pretty naked after my shower.
He spoke. "You should sell your drink at burning, man. Lot's of thirsty people there, man."
This confused me. "I should sell it at burning? What are you talking about?"
"No. Burning MAN, the festival." He spoke as though he was saying something that was obvious to everyone. What planet was this guy from?
"Should I now?" I said with a hint of disagreement. "I'm not taking a trip across town, just to sell a few drinks to some little party."
"Actually, it's in the desert near Reno, and I think 48,000 people went last year." I realized he was giving me a sales tip.
"Alright. Thanks. I'll look into that." I thought maybe I could catch the Vegas to Reno desert race while I was down there.
Flash forward to a select few experiences from my trip down there.
1. As soon as I arrived at the lake bed where this festival takes place, I knew I found the planet that guy from the gym comes from.
2. The people here are strange and they all expected the drinks to be free. Someone explained to me that the purpose of the festival was to create a community where everyone contributes something. Everyone brings something to give away to the community, and they take something home with them, be it a spiritual truth, an experience, a skill or talent, whatever. I think he just wanted free juice.
3. These were not the type of people to experiment with the sales pitch: "Electrolyte replacement promotes proper rehydration, which is important in delaying the onset of fatigue during exercise." They laugh at such remarks.
4. I got so many complaints when I put up the banner advertising my sport drink that I started telling people it was art.
5. I questioned a group of customers whether recycling the plastic bottles is worth the effort. This was a grave mistake. This was a turning point in the first morning of the festival. My only friend at this point was a member of the Washoe County Sheriff's Office. We were outcasts here.
6. A useless fact I learned from overhearing some older ladies talking about drugs. Nevada doesn't recognize that medical marijuana is legal. Why would senior citizens know this? I also heard that the police use night vision goggles to detect drug use. I figured these old stoner ladies were paranoid, but then my cop friend confirmed it.
7. There didn't seem to be any cool car buffs there, and people put stupid ugly crap all over their cars here. Someone tried to put a ceramic daisy on my car and I got after them and nearly made them cry. They said something about bad vibes and I knew I couldn't stay here for a week.
So I packed up my kit and spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in Reno. It was nice, walking around, being normal. I saw some people who were clearly involved with that festival being spoken to by police. I thought to myself, I could get away with a lot, like I could go into a store right now and steal their security television, but the cops wouldn't suspect me, because I look normal, unlike these other people. On my way out of town I saw another car pulled over. It was covered in snow globes. Apparently ugliness is illegal in Nevada too. I couldn't wait to get home and put on the game and live a normal life again.
I saw that guy in the gym again. He looked like he was smirking when he walked by and my jock friends were asking about burning man. I take comfort in the fact that I am a winner, and he is a loser. I mean, just look at him. I'm so glad I'm not weird. But even if I was, like if I had a medical condition where I just dressed terribly, I'd still make sure I could beat up anyone who said anything about it. I thought about the discussion I had in the locker room and realized that athletes do get preferential treatment. It's because we're not weird that we fit in, and everyone looks up to us because we can do what they can't, what they wish they could do. They love us because they compare themselves to us and see that we are simply better.
That night I had a pizza with Coke for supper, and watched football over a six of Bud. This was my protest against all that happened at burning man.
A few months back, I was in the locker room at my gym, and was discussing the greater contribution to society that athletic people make, when compared to non-athletes. I went further to say that athletes should be given preferential treatment. I believe the group I was speaking to was in agreement, because they offered no opposing view, in fact, very little was said at all in reply to my statements. I assure you they weren't ignoring me though, because when I changed the subject to my sport drink endeavors after an excruciating lull in the conversation, one person spoke up.
I feel it is important to mention what this person looked like. He had hair that looked like a woman's. It was red, and looked clean and brushed. It reached almost down to his tie-dyed trunks. He also had a thick, curly beard of the same color. On his chest, he had a tattoo of a woman's face, with straight blue hair parted down the middle with a band around her forehead with a flower on the center of it. Behind the woman was some floral, yet tribal design. I couldn't look too long, because I didn't want him to think I was gay. I think he had the same idea, because he wasn't making eye contact with me either, but I was pretty naked after my shower.
He spoke. "You should sell your drink at burning, man. Lot's of thirsty people there, man."
This confused me. "I should sell it at burning? What are you talking about?"
"No. Burning MAN, the festival." He spoke as though he was saying something that was obvious to everyone. What planet was this guy from?
"Should I now?" I said with a hint of disagreement. "I'm not taking a trip across town, just to sell a few drinks to some little party."
"Actually, it's in the desert near Reno, and I think 48,000 people went last year." I realized he was giving me a sales tip.
"Alright. Thanks. I'll look into that." I thought maybe I could catch the Vegas to Reno desert race while I was down there.
Flash forward to a select few experiences from my trip down there.
1. As soon as I arrived at the lake bed where this festival takes place, I knew I found the planet that guy from the gym comes from.
2. The people here are strange and they all expected the drinks to be free. Someone explained to me that the purpose of the festival was to create a community where everyone contributes something. Everyone brings something to give away to the community, and they take something home with them, be it a spiritual truth, an experience, a skill or talent, whatever. I think he just wanted free juice.
3. These were not the type of people to experiment with the sales pitch: "Electrolyte replacement promotes proper rehydration, which is important in delaying the onset of fatigue during exercise." They laugh at such remarks.
4. I got so many complaints when I put up the banner advertising my sport drink that I started telling people it was art.
5. I questioned a group of customers whether recycling the plastic bottles is worth the effort. This was a grave mistake. This was a turning point in the first morning of the festival. My only friend at this point was a member of the Washoe County Sheriff's Office. We were outcasts here.
6. A useless fact I learned from overhearing some older ladies talking about drugs. Nevada doesn't recognize that medical marijuana is legal. Why would senior citizens know this? I also heard that the police use night vision goggles to detect drug use. I figured these old stoner ladies were paranoid, but then my cop friend confirmed it.
7. There didn't seem to be any cool car buffs there, and people put stupid ugly crap all over their cars here. Someone tried to put a ceramic daisy on my car and I got after them and nearly made them cry. They said something about bad vibes and I knew I couldn't stay here for a week.
So I packed up my kit and spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in Reno. It was nice, walking around, being normal. I saw some people who were clearly involved with that festival being spoken to by police. I thought to myself, I could get away with a lot, like I could go into a store right now and steal their security television, but the cops wouldn't suspect me, because I look normal, unlike these other people. On my way out of town I saw another car pulled over. It was covered in snow globes. Apparently ugliness is illegal in Nevada too. I couldn't wait to get home and put on the game and live a normal life again.
I saw that guy in the gym again. He looked like he was smirking when he walked by and my jock friends were asking about burning man. I take comfort in the fact that I am a winner, and he is a loser. I mean, just look at him. I'm so glad I'm not weird. But even if I was, like if I had a medical condition where I just dressed terribly, I'd still make sure I could beat up anyone who said anything about it. I thought about the discussion I had in the locker room and realized that athletes do get preferential treatment. It's because we're not weird that we fit in, and everyone looks up to us because we can do what they can't, what they wish they could do. They love us because they compare themselves to us and see that we are simply better.
That night I had a pizza with Coke for supper, and watched football over a six of Bud. This was my protest against all that happened at burning man.
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