Sometimes I Take Pictures

This was back in April of 2011 when I and my brother chaperoned his son at the Boston Anime Convention. We were hungry so we went to the Food Court at the Pru. And there I found someone in a pretty great Master Chief outfit.

Also: Master Chief likes Chinese food apparently. So maybe Microsoft can work that into the next Halo.

Hey, a rule is a rule, and let's face it, without rules there's chaos.

Kramer may have been talking about golf with Steve Gendason, but he just as easily could have been talking about gym etiquette. In particular, the etiquette at my work gym.

The work gym is a fascinating place. You go there to sweat and work out, but the people there are the people you see all day outside of the gym. So you can't be overtly rude or insensitive, because it could have real-world consequences. Forget to wipe off the bench press, and suddenly you lose Conference Room B.

But there are really only three rules that need to be followed:

• Wipe off your sweat when you're done with a piece of equipment
• Don't turn the heat above 70
• When you have the remote to the TV in front of the cardio machines, be sure to offer it to the first person who came after you when you are finished.

Can you tell which rule I am going to talk about?

The first one is obvious. The sweat from other people in general is nasty, with the sole exception of whatever you work up in the throes of passion with your significant other. The sweat from other people on gym equipment brings nasty to a whole-new level. And even passion sweat doesn't get a pass on the incline press.

The heat rule is also obvious. No one needs to have the heat at 75 degrees in the gym when your purpose for being there is going to MAKE YOU HOT! Personally, I feel it should be kept at 65. But I also recognize I am an outlier in that department. So maybe it could be a few degrees warmer in the gym. But 75? No frickin' way.

Which brings us to rule #3. This one may not be obvious to some people, so I'll explain.

My work gym has roughly 12 cardio machines (elliptical, treadmill, bikes) at one end of the gym. In front of them is a single big-screen television. The understood rule (which I try to reinforce by following it every time) is that whoever gets there first gets to watch what they want. When they are done, they offer the remote to the first person who came after them. If they refuse it, you go to first person who came after that person. And so forth. It's very orderly, makes sense and is easy to follow.

Which brings us to yesterday. I come out of the locker room ready to hop on the elliptical machine. There are two people there: a man on the treadmill and a woman on another elliptical. A third man has just finished working out. He is about to offer the remote to the man, who was there before the woman. But then the woman belts out "Hey! Can you put it on 71?"

A massive breach of etiquette. The guy with the remote still tried to check with the treadmill guy. At which point she says "Ah, he won't mind!" At which point Treadmill Guy, who didn't look particularly...assertive, backed down. So we flip to 71, which is, of course, Country Music Television. Or as I call it, Hell.

For the next 10 minutes I had to endure watching this twangy claptrap. I'd have rather been under a dentist's drill with no anesthetic. But then, miraculously, she gets off her machine. I'm getting ready to take the remote and flip away to anything. News, MTV, The View...anything as long as it isn't Country Bumpkin and His Downhome Jug-Time Band.

But does she give me the remote? No. She walks over to the TV, puts it back on the shelf, and walks off to the machine behind the television. She thinks she's going to listen to CMT while she does the rest of her workout.

Guess again, sunshine. I get off the machine in the middle of my workout. Which I hate doing because I lose the groove I settle into when working on those machines. I grab the remote and march back to the machine. At which point I do something somewhat juvenile: I jam the volume up about seven steps and flip to ESPN. Which happens to be playing a NFL Films recap of Super Bowl XXVI, or "When the Bills were Halfway to Infamy."

For the rest of my time on the machine, this woman shot me the dagger eyes, vowing some sort of redneck justice for what I did. But there are RULES, madam! And you did not obey them. Don't be angry at me for your transgressions.

And when I was done, I proffered the remote to each of the three people who had gotten on the machines after me. In order. And everyone was pleased and content when I placed the remote back on the shelf, because I followed the rules.

So screw you, Snarky Country Hick Lady.

Sometimes I Take Pictures

I took this back in April of 2011. It is looking south towards the Custom House in Boston. This shot would have been impossible 10 years ago. Behind me is the Zakim Bridge and I am standing in a park. 10 years ago it was a I-93 overpass that cut the North End off from the rest of the city. The transformation of Boston over the past 20 years is nothing short of amazing.

Bonus shot: boats in Boston Harbor

Etiquette

I don't know what rules the fairer sex have when it comes to restroom etiquette. From what I can tell, it requires a minimum of three women, two of whom may not actually have to use the bathroom.

As far as guys go, most of my friends are like me: The restroom is a no-talk zone. You don't even say "Hi" until you're done doing your thing and washing your hands.

Personally, I like to take it a step further and not breach the speech barrier until I am out of the bathroom completely. Maybe it's anti-social, but I just don't see a room who's primary activity is defecation and urination as the place to strike up a conversation.

(An exception to this is a sports event/concert. You have zero expectation of privacy and are most likely drinking. So, of course, the bar is set lower. I settle for someone saying "hey" and not vomiting on my feet.)

I bring this up because the other day I had the worst-case scenario occur. I'm standing there, doing what guys who are standing in a restroom do, when another fellow ambles up and this happens:

zipper sound

guy: Hey! How are ya?

me:Ummm...okay.

guy: (clueless) Boy, this is beautiful weather, isn't it?

me: (trying to go faster) Yup.

guy: (completely oblivious to my growing discomfort) I'm here from New Mexico. This reminds me of the weather in Santa Fe. You know, you can play golf there year-round...

me: (giving up completely and running away) AAAAAHHHH!!!!

Actually, I just sorta clammed up, finished up, washed up and got the Hell out of there. But inside, I was screaming. Loudly.

I don't know what the Hell I would do if I was sitting in a stall and someone hunkered down in the next stall for a "crap and yap." Either spontaneously combust or commit hari-kari with that metal tube that holds the toilet paper in place, I suppose.

Luckily, my house is a glorious refuge from all this. A brief exception to this was when my son was around four. He went through a phase where closed doors and repeated cries of "I just want a few minutes alone, please!" were invitations to enter and gawk. Thankfully, those days are long, long gone.

Bourbon

I don't know when it was that I fell in love with bourbon...

It is wrong to use "love" with a type of liquor? Some people may say "yes". Those people are idiots.

Anyway, in my early 20s I was more of a gin and vodka man. That, my friends, is the callowness of youth in action. I want to go back and slap the early 20s me sometimes, but he was in pretty good shape and would likely whip my ass. Anyway, this basically sums up that idiocy:

To be fair to my younger idiot self, I did enjoy a Jameson's from time to time but it wasn't my go-to drink. Then in my late 20s the Jameson's replaced the gin and vodka. This is also when my younger self stopped being an idiot. It wasn't until my 30s that bourbon, or whisky for that matter, made their appearance.

Perhaps it's an age thing. We are fed images of bygone years where men sat around at parties and drank scotch on the rocks. Heck, my dad was a Chivas man. They ate porterhouse steaks and smoked cigars. This is also known as the Greatest Time Ever on Earth.

But bourbon...as much I enjoy single-malt Scotch (and I do), I have a special love for bourbon. Equally good in a mix or by itself, a good bourbon is an unparalleled drink. This picture here at the top of the page is of my go-to bourbon, Buffalo Trace. It's high quality and not expensive at all, a rare and wonderful combination. Really, I feel only Woodford Reserve is better when it comes to affordable, high-quality bourbon.

I know some guys cut things like this as they get older in the misguided belief it will make them live longer. If they're alcoholics, maybe. Otherwise, a glass every now and again will just make you more content and relaxed. And I bet that will extend your lifespan more than ditching bourbon for prune juice.

Beards

I spent most of my 20s and early 30s clean-shaven. I looked pretty much like this.

Well, maybe not that good-looking. Pretty much no one is that good looking. But it wasn't bad either.

Anyway, when my daughter was born in 2005 I began to get lax about the facial hair and then by the summer I decided to let it grow. Since then I have either had a full-on beard of some fashion or a trimmed-down on, usually in what is sometimes called a "van Dyke" style. But it really isn't. It's basically a mashup of a mustache and a goatee.

So I had this great idea to shave off my facial hair about a week ago. It's been eight years, I was kind of tired of it, so why not, right? And I wasn't losing all of it, I decided to keep the mustache. A style I haven't worn in 16 years.

So last Sunday I went ahead and did it. Now, in my mind I pictured it coming out something like this:

Instead, the end result was more like this:

Now, I am not as swarthy as this guy*. My hair is better and I dress better. Which is saying something because "GQ" is not a nickname I have ever held. And I look better than this guy. But the mustache ... no. No no no. It doesn't work for me anymore.

Suffice it to say, I have immediately begun regrowing my beard. Luckilly my hair grows at a decent clip so it shouldn't take too long. Thank God.

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* For those of you who do not recognize the image, this is the former #2 of Al-Qaeda, Khalid Sheik Mohammed, when US forces arrested him. I do NOT look like him. Just that the gap between the expected result and actual result was this wide.

I Take Pictures

This is near Thunder Hole at Acadia National Park in Maine. I actually have a better picture of this scene. But it also has an old white guy wearing black socks and sandals in the frame. So we're going with this one.

Vegetables

As you approach, hit and pass 40 on life's freeway, you notice a couple of things. More gray hair is practically a given. If you pull a muscle or twist an ankle, you don't bounce back as quickly. But for me, the most noticeable thing is that you cannot eat the way you used to.

I will be the first to admit that I was not a "good" eater, in that I didn't follow the food pyramid, or trapezoid or whatever shape they're using now.* But I was a good eater, in that I could put food down. It just happened to be pasta or pizza or fat steaks. Nachos too....mmmmmmm, nachos.

Yeah, well those days are over. Running on a diet of fried foods and slabs of beef apparently causes some problems in middle-age. Like your stomach feeling like a road flare is in there. Or having a gallstone the size of baseball.

So I have had to become reacquainted...let's be honest, acquainted, with eating vegetables on a regular basis. And as much as I hate to admit it...it really does work. All those pains have gone away, I have more energy...you can't deny the evidence. I guess those doctors are on to something with this "eating healthy" thing

This isn't to say I don't still have steak or pizza. Let's not go crazy here. But you have to make adjustments as you age. Which is kind of annoying. But it's better than ignoring it and keeling over.

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* Maybe a dodecahedron? I'd be all for a food chart like that.

Scars

As the immortal Shane Falco once said...

Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever.

I know about the first one. The third one is pretty subjective. But the second one...I must admit I will likely never know how true this may or may not be.

This is all I have as far as scars go.

You can barely see it. It's not even a cool scar. I got it from a piece of glass when I was seven. People trip on the sidewalk and get cooler scars than this.

I'm not saying I want a huge, disfiguring scar. Just one that adds a little character or allows for a cool story.

Oh, this scar? I got this from saving a wayward nun in Mexico from the Sinaloa drug cartel. Then she showed me a trick with a bottle of Tequila...

Nope. I got the "I was a dumb kid who couldn't handle glass properly" scar.

This must be a guy thing. I am pretty sure the number of women who want a scar is a number approaching zero. Probably just zero.

Coffee

I love coffee. Love it love it love it.

If I remember correctly, I had my first cup when I was 10 on a Sunday after church. If you are (reasonably) asking "Who was letting a 10-year-old drink coffee at a church??" well...the early 80s were a wild time.

Since then, I have grown to enjoy it more and more. With some reasonable guidelines.

1. More filtered coffee than French Press: As good as a French Press is...and it is...it allows the fatty oils of the bean to remain in the coffee. Which ups the cholesterol content significantly. And as you blow past 40 on life's freeway, you actually have to start giving a shit about that stuff. Filtered coffee keeps the oils out of the brew.
2. No coffee that came out of an animal's butt: I don't care how trendy or neat it is to drink Sumatran coffee that came from a bean that passed out a civet's ass. I. Won't. Drink. It.
3. No more work coffee: This was a new rule as of today. I had a cup of work brew that tasted like something dead. And then proceeded to flavor my burps like that all day. You're welcome for the visual. I'm buying a cheap $20 coffee maker and avoiding the problem entirely. The worst part? My company used to carry Green Mountain Coffee. Now it's the kind you find stuffed in a carafe in some $30 hotel room in Dubuque, IA.

But coffee overall is a wonderful and miraculous drink. Consuming it cuts down on the risk of Type Two Diabetes (probably the main reason I haven't gotten it yet), Parkinson's and dementia. The latter two matter a lot to me because my grandfather suffered from both. It also lowers the risk of heart disease and stroke. Show me another beverage that does all that.

All hail coffee!!

Why Is Good Coffee So Hard?

I work from home once or twice a week. There are a few reasons for this, chief among them that I pick my son up from school in the afternoons.

But if there is a close second reason, it's that the coffee at my work place sucks. I'd call it mud but that would be insulting to mud

It's a heady mixture of sticks, dirt and leaves with just a hint of ass.

At home, I can drink a fine French roast. Which makes the whole thing a real no-brainer.

I know I have it easier than most. There are people striking for decent wages and a safe work environment, and I'm bitching about the coffee. But good coffee is a great morale booster...and it's cheap.

I Take Pictures

This is one of my favorites. It's the CN Tower in Toronto reflected in a nearby building. This was taken in May of 2011.

I Take Pictures

This is a flower at the base of Gorham Mountain in Acadia National Park in Maine.

I Post Photos Too!

I like to take pictures from time to time. I am not some awesome photographer by any means, but sometimes I think what comes out is decent.

Anyway, this is the Scotch bar* from my wedding last June. I bought the bottles over a period of about six months. It was a nice mix of easy-drinking Scotch (like the Auchentoshan) to some peatier brands like the Ardmore 12 (which I loved).

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* Technically it was all Scotch and one Irish Whiskey. But Redbreast 12 is a fine, fine drink and worthy of inclusion at the table. The gin? That was for the ladies. As Ron Swanson says, "Clear alcohol is for rich women on diets."