Adventures in Laundry

Doing laundry in an apartment building is always an adventure. The communal nature and inopportune moments are firmly cemented in our heads. You never know when you are going to be emptying a dryer; pausing on a particularly nice thong when the owner comes walking in, you holding it like some trophy fish. Or as you try to rush to vacate a washing machine for your neighbor (of course they are hot), you accidentally leave behind your gold lame speedo. But aside from the embarrassing follies, sometimes odd things just happen in the laundry room. Today was no exception. I went down to the basement to do some much needed laundry. As I open the door I find my apartment manager keeping a feather in the air by blowing underneath it. Some other guy (Crazy Man) is keeping time. I slide by pretending not to care; after all I am in the laundry room where weird shit happens and he is my manager and we all know managers are weird. As I begin separating my lights and darks in walks Crazy Mary. Now I am eager with anticipation to see what unfolds. Mary begins to chat me up, of course talking about the weather. Somehow we end up on the subject of camping (I am doing my camping laundry). This is when she reveals that her and no women would ever camp because there are animals that kill people. She is terrified of bears and cougars. But men are strong and can handle cougars. I chuckle a bit in my head as my mind drifts towards the gutter as she continues telling about the perils of cougars. As her story draws to an end, I begin my wash and return to my apartment. Thirty minutes later I return to swap the loads. Crazy Mary is now staring at Crazy Man as he sleeps. As I walk in Crazy Man stumbles around and tries to look busy. I guess he thought I was the manager, and needed to appear busy for his boss. While swapping the laundry, my manager returns. This time Crazy Man gives him a comic in one of those clear plastic dust covers. For the next 15 minutes they discuss comics, illustrators, and the next issue. This is all making sense, I can see my manager as a comic book guy. I again return to my apartment wondering what my final trip will have in store for me. An hour later I return to claim my clean clothes. Now Crazy Mary is sitting on the dryer listening to Crazy Man. This not only makes extracting the laundry awkward, as she doesn't move, but the pontification from Crazy Man is hilarious. As I gather my clothes I hear him attempting to convert Crazy Mary. Biblical babble and tenuous arguments for his form of religion spew from his lips. I am just waiting for him to disclose the location of a spaceship in a comet tail and ask her to drink some Kool-Aid.

Poison Tipped Blow Darts

It was during my third rep of bicep curls (yes I do lift) when I realized a huge oversight of the modern gym. The floors and walls are littered with a confetti of mirrors, weighted objects, and modern fitness equipment which more closely resembles medieval torture machines. The space is populated with Lycra clad fitness enthusiasts, labored grunts, wheezing, and the demands of personal trainers. Hoping to drown out the peacocking antics of most gym men, the speakers pump some mediocre music over the system. The music attempts to relate to all lifters, but instead only becomes noticeable when a truly horrible song is played. This is the modern gym, for better or for worse. There are many different types of people that use the gym; but only one that truly drives me crazy. I call this person the treadmill mouth. They do little actual physical work, instead laboring their mouth in a non-stop garble of meaningless drama. The gym to them is cheap therapy, substituting the comforts of a professional's couch for the yoga mat and a half ass abdominal regimen. They drone on about relationships, or complain about how hard this is, or mock their friends, or pat their own back while placing themselves on a higher pedestal. The rest of us get to be a helpless audience in their dramatic production. Now to be fair sometimes you learn some truly hilarious things about people. But no person should have to hear a woman tell her trainer that the exercise she is hardly performing is less enjoyable than her last Pap smear. There are some things you cannot un-hear! So I purpose that gyms now come equipped with poison tipped blow darts (non-lethal) and blow guns. When one of these treadmill mouths pushes you beyond the limit, give their mouth the rest is so deserves. Pick up the gun and give it a nice go. You will feel better and your fellow gym mate will thank you.

Sexy and Classy

So I follow a blog called the Sartorialist. It is a simple blog. A man consumed by good fashion travels the world posting dramatic images of people exhibiting smart fashion. Rarely do his posts include anything more than the image of the person, the title detailing the location. This blog provides visual eye-candy of some of the most unique and classy examples of fashion. It is this one I am reposting here that recently captured my attention. The allure of sexy and classy is one that people strive for daily. Often woman miss the mark; their look coming off as slutty as oppose to a vibrantly confident feminine masterpiece. But this wonderful ensemble put together by Anna Dello Russo is refined expression of the marriage of sex and class. Her look is minimal and simple. As Americans we have much to learn about fashion and good style. 


Image credits the Sartorialist.

Stop and Smell the Flowers

Sometimes you stumble across a story that causes you pause. This latest one for me took place on 8 April 2007. The Washington Post decided to conduct an experiment about beauty. You can read the full article and see the videos here. The editors at the Post wanted to see if people when confronted with a true act of beauty would recognize it. So they hired 39 year old Joshua Bell, an internationally acclaimed virtuoso, to play Bach's "Chanconne" on Kreisler's violin (valued at $3.2 million) at Metro's L'Enfant Plaza Station during morning rush hour. Dressed as a street performer, the Post set a camera and watched as he performed a 43 minute concert. A compressed version of that video is displayed below. They tabulated how much money he brought in and how many people stopped to watch him play. Bell's haul for his music was a meager $32.17. Only a handful of people stopped to listen and only one person recognized him.

After reading this and watching the videos I sat in silent reflection. How could this be? I may know little about classical music and even less about the violin, but I recognize the skill this individual has is something special. But if I was faced with the same situation as all those that just casually walked by, would I act no differently? Of course my heart screams that I would have stopped, for fear of letting something so beautiful pass one by. But the experiment brings up an interesting discussion. How often do we pause in our lives to just enjoy the moment? Do we notice the vibrant fall colors, or pause to breath in the heavy sea air during sunset? When was the last time you paused and just closed your eyes and let the sounds, smells, and textures around you take center stage? This article while inspirational should serve to remind us all of the beauty around us. We can't become so engrossed in our jobs, our destinations, or our technology that we forget that the present is what today is all about.

Inconsiderate Crossword Couple

It is an early morning flight; one which is oversold and they have already populated a 'volunteers' list. Everyone knows that the flight is packed; and for the most part each person is doing their personal best to be good neighbors. The overhead bins are full and bags are being checked on the jetway. Those travelers who didn't have assigned seats are being shuffled while still trying to honor their preferences. Two young (mid 20's) people are such travelers. The woman looks like a trashier version of Lindsey Lohan and her boyfriend a round squat man who probably still plays D&D while working on his Fragglerock look (his style is a buffet of colors and textures that fail at hitting the hip look). They are sat in the row behind me, but separated by the aisle. This upsets them. They begin in a pathetic passive-aggressive triad about how tough it is not to get to sit together. Everyone ignores them and their poor attitude. Then the flight attendant has a family to try and seat. A young child and his mother and father. The three remaining seats are sprinkled around the main cabin with one being in the woman's row. The attendant asks the young woman to move back a few rows, trading an aisle seat for an aisle, so that one parent can sit with the child. She then tells the family the other one will have to sit alone in the other available seat. But NO!, the young woman thinks this is an injustice. She looks at the attendant and says, well I want to sit next to my boyfriend and I don't get to do that. The attendant, clearly a seasoned veteran, interrupts the self-entitled diva. Matter-of-factly she states, "Well you didn't purchase seats together anyway. The flight is only one hour and ten minutes, I think you will survive." The woman dramatically exhales and whips her hair in distaste and begins to move. Now the boyfriend asks the guy next to him to move so his girlfriend can sit by him. This passenger is 6'3" and could really use the extra legroom his current row offers, which I suspect may be why he selected this "assigned seat." But for the sake of us all and the diminishing hopes of our on-time departure he acquiesces. So now all the world is right, the prince and princess seating side by side in a row with extra legroom. As the plane climbs and we reach the safety of 10,000 feet, he pulls out his headphones never to utter another word to his girlfriend. His girlfriend opens her trendy magazine and does the crossword. If this is how you were going to spend your flight, why was it relevant to sit next to each other? A punch in the face would have been just.

The Lady with Abs

Recently I was in Portland cheering on my sister as she ran her second marathon. Watching a marathon is quite fun as the people watching is amazing. For the most part the participants are in good shape, which means the likelihood of seeing attractive women is increased (as is the saturation of attractive men for all my female readers). Secondly, many runners turn to odd antics to get through the race. Whether it is an odd hat, dressing up the dog, or just wearing a bizarre outfit to run in, one is certain to see unexpected pleasures. Thirdly, you will see the participant that looks like there is no way in hell they could complete a marathon. They may be overweight, old, and wheezing; but they will shame your lazy ass as they blow past you. I saw a man run barefoot, but that is trendy now. A dad and daughter ran in bedazzled street clothes. A dog went for a run with its owner. One man looked to be old and starving, running the race "for fun." But none of these fantastic individuals managed to capture my attention like the lady with abs. She turned the corner in front of where I was sitting. Sweat slowly splashing off each of her washboard abs, a sensual glow of athleticism. Simple running shorts and a white jog bra clearly defining her competitive nature and simple pursuit to life. She was a warrior, taking on the course, but focused on the internal battle with herself. The fight to beat the clock. Her long legs laboring silently as she strides long. Her light brown hair was streaked with highlights, badges of honor to the endless hours of training in the sun that now culminate in this one moment. She was focused on the course and I was focused on her. As she approaches she reaches out to me asking me to take a piece of trash as she is not inclined to litter on the course. I acquiesce to the demands of this divine environmentalist. She streaks past me and I find myself eager to run after her. I know I cannot keep up, but my body cries out to attempt. She was the beauty of athleticism personified in movement.

Three Reasons I can't support Spain

After taking a month off to enjoy the FIFA World Cup I find myself ready to make the one and only post about the tournament. The final was far from enjoyable. The Dutch came out with a physical style of play that aimed to break-up the elegant passing game of Spain. De Jong committed one of the worst fouls I have ever seen in a final, escaping with a yellow. These tactics were not beautiful and will not be defended here. But in spite of the Dutch tactics, Spain failed to act honestly. They committed rough tackles, delayed play, and challenged the referee from the opening whistle. As an adamant German supporter, I feel Germany was the best team in the tournament and should have raised the Cup, but they did not. 

So here are the three reasons I can never support Spain:

1: They beat Germany.

This was a close and hard fought game. Both teams put together attractive football, constantly trading barbs and generating some impressive chances and exciting counter-attacks. As entertaining as this game was I wish Uzbek referee Irmatov would have kept his cards in his pocket in the previous match so Mueller could have participated. Both teams had to play with the resources they had available, but the presence of Mueller only would have made this match better. At the end of the day Spain beat Germany and that makes me despise them.

2: Their Jerseys

After battling through 120 minutes of physical play, Spain emerged victorious as World Cup Champions. An honor usually accepted with a classy humility. Spain bombastically proclaimed their triumph in a truly classless act by donning new jerseys with a world champion star resting above the crest. No other Champion in the history of the game has done something so narcissistic and self-serving. Wearing a championship kit prior to raising the cup is putting the cart before the horse.

3: Iniesta

This is the biggest reason I despise Spain. In minute 86, he engages in a reckless tackle on Sneijder which clearly warranted a yellow card in this game. Now to be clear, I am in no way pardoning the Dutch's style of physical play during the match, but in remaining consistent with what was a yellow card in this game, he should have been booked. But he takes his play to an unacceptable level in minutes 109 and 111 when he embelishes the contact by Dutch players. Minute 109 earned Heitinga his second caution and Spain a man advantage. The contact was minimal and after Iniesta realizes he won't get the ball he goes down begging for justice. Robben did the same thing earlier and received a caution for looking for a foul. Then in minute 111 Iniesta falls to the ground, this time without any contact. Adding insult to injury Iniesta, the most dishonest Spanish player on the pitch gets the winning goal. I dismiss you and your "Italian Style" antics. Iniesata tainted what could have been a respectful victory from the Spaniards.

So the Cup is behind me and I will let the excitement build towards Brazil 2014.

Bagels and Smear

A recent outing in the rain revealed a rather passionate distaste for bagels and smear. Now let me be emphatically clear; I like bagels and I like them topped. So then how is it that smear got me all worked up? I detest when new words are invented to describe something which already exists. To me, smear represents the epitome of the trendy bagel re-branding campaign. Prior to the mid-2000s bagels were a ubiquitous ordinary food consumed by the middle-class in the comfort of their own home. You only had three flavors; plain, wheat, and cinnamon raisin. Then some brain child got the idea to make bagels classy. They became gourmet chic, an icon of healthy eating. Soon bagel eateries popped up all across this great land. Bagel sandwiches were far more hip than a simple turkey on rye. A smorgasbord of bagel options appeared overnight and with it a plethora of topping options. But to complete this culinary mirage one could not just top boiled artisan breads with cream cheeses, no they required an entirely new topping. Enter the smear (to sarcastic trumpets). Simply put a smear is a whipped flavored cream cheese. Let's dig a bit deeper. Whipped: the incorporation of air into the cream cheese. This allows easier spreading, genius. It also leads to you consuming less, marketing genius. So now I think I am eating something healthier cause the calories of smear are less than cream cheese, when all I am really doing is consuming less cream cheese with a side of air and paying more for it. If this wasn't bad enough, they gave us the word smear. If you are going to invent a word for whipped cream cheese, it could have been anything; or at least something more appetizing. The act of smearing is not terribly appetizing. Why didn't they just call it 'plop'? I mean it is a similar action, is equally as appetizing, and one letter shorter. You could walk up and order your Pumpernickle bagel with honey almond* plop, toasted and sliced, to go please. What is next; gourmet doughnuts?
*By the way your plop contains nuts. 

Girls on Bikes

The other day I was reminded of a few simple things that can take an ordinarily beautiful woman and propel her into the accolades of stunning. I am driving home after another mindless across town nothingness; my mind wandering as the vuvuzela humming drones on the radio. Everything about this moment is ordinary. My mind and body content in the moment. Only something magnificent could shake me from the mechanized commitment to my drive home.  And then it happens as I approach the next incessant red light. A motorcycle now occupies the space in front of me. My eyes drift and I find myself staring at this person lit perfectly atop her motorcycle. At least I hope it is a her, but how can I know? The purely utilitarian nature of her wardrobe offers no hints to her gender. I mean chances are probably greater that I am now staring at some man on his bike admiring his ass. This possibility worries me and I find increased desire for this to be a most attractive woman. A girl on a bike is hot. Green light. Off she accelerates, weaving between cars letting the power of the engine propel her at will. I struggle to keep up....who am I kidding. The four cylinders of my 88' Camry putt down the pavement, broken-in shocks whining with each bump, a bent antennae proudly proclaiming my fiscal constraint. Watching her go not only makes her more elusive and thus hotter; but watching her delicate and comfortable control of the machine makes her stunning. Like the tortoise in some childhood fairy tale I plod on. Approaching the next stop light, I come to rest next to her just before the light turns green. She lift her visor and our eyes meet. They are raven black and flicker with an unbridled quest for living. And they are a woman's eyes. Her arrow turns green, slamming her visor down she banks left and away. Leaving me to discover one final secret about her. As she banks the sunlight cracks upon her neck revealing a small tattoo. Who was this most epic woman on a bike with a tat?

In Green We Trust

We may not be the best country when it comes to football; but we sure know how to frustrate the Brits.