The Gym Attire

I don’t know if people will agree with this, but over the past 15-20 years our generation has shown that we are the obsessive generation. I don’t think it’s like any other generation. I could be wrong though. I didn’t live through the 70’s and 80’s. I’m just some shmuck who’s barely a nineties kid pretending not to be a millennial.

Every week there is something new with these people though, whether it be a fidget spinner, Pokémon cards, Call of Duty, Stranger Things, or a fucking Tamagotchi. We are a very obsessive group of human beings. Maybe that will help us in our careers to help develop products faster. Just kidding, these quick phase obsessions are just wasting our time. Our devotion to Netflix, Hulu, HBOGO, and all the other binge-watching type TV applications, is not going to help us learn anything. It might entertain us and help with emotional stress purely in an escapist type way, but these things aren’t helping. The fact that people have caught up on 300 episodes Grey’s Anatomy, which is approximately 8.3 days worth, is actually insane.

I have seen some healthy obsessions lately though. Maybe I’m crazy, but I don’t think there has ever been this many people addicted to their health, whether they become a vegan/vegetarian, stop eating red meat, shop organically, or, of course, go to the gym an unreal amount of times. This is one of the few obsessions in our generation that may be a good thing. Sure some of the diets are outrageous, like one time my friend ate only frozen blueberries, protein shakes, and egg whites for a whole week. Some people say cut out all of the carbs, but look how that turned out for the Atkin’s guy. Some vegetarians only eat pizza and peanut butter and jelly which is not exactly healthy. Then some people do juice cleanses and shit their brains out for days at a time.

I respect people who can spend time counting macros and watching every single thing that enters the body, because I did it for two weeks, and I’ll definitely never do it again. I enjoy eating at restaurants way too much to have a strict diet. I’ll go to the gym and try to eat healthy as much as I can, but after a few beers on a Friday night, I just want a couple slices of pizza with meatball.

Going to the gym though has turned into all sorts of different things. On one hand you got people doing crossfit, slinging weights around like the fucking original Greek Olympics. Then, on the other hand, you got these guys at the gym squatting 450 pounds trying to see if they can crush their knees into an oblivion. Every other weekend you have people racing through obstacle courses like it’s the God Damn Hunger Games. When it really comes down to it, there’s nothing better then the guy using the neck machine at the gym. That’s definitely good for the cervical spine.

Don’t, get me wrong, I love the gym. It’s the only place where there is peace and quiet. By that, I mean nobody talks to me. Except the occasional asshole who thinks I’m taking criticism that day, who will say something like “try less weight and control it more.” It’s always someone telling you to use less weight. Guy, if I wanted a fucking trainer I would have signed up for one at the front desk. I’m not trying to be Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger, I’m just trying to blow off steam before a long day of work.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen this sign, but it’s usually right at the front desk of the gym. It tells you how you should dress at the gym. I believe its called a dress code. It tells you what you should and shouldn’t wear. Despite that sign specifically telling you what you can wear in the specific establishment, people still manage to fuck it up. But regardless of the sign, I just feel like its common sense what you should and shouldn’t wear.

“Boots, sandals, and those fucking weird toe shoes”

I will never understand how the fuck people wear boots to the gym. Are you working out in the snow? My boots way about 5 pounds each, so why would I drag them around the gym? And the sandals, I mean, these are just self explanatory. Like god forbid you drop a weight on your toe. Actually, if you’re wearing sandals at the gym, I hope you drop a weight on your toe. The weird toe glove shoes, or whatever you want to call them, are just bizarre. You want to wear them that’s fine, but tell me how you are washing the disgustingness out of them every time you wear them.

“Jeans and Cargo Shorts”

Jeans have become more comfortable over the years but why wear them to the gym? I wear the same god damn gym shorts I wore to 7th grade gym class and the dude next to me is working out with a pair of true religion jeans on. If you’re going to wear expensive clothes to the gym, go to Lu Lu Lemon man, they’ll get you all your expensive gym attire. Also, you don’t need to wear cargo shorts to the gym. What are you keeping in those pockets? There must be something I’m missing.

“Basketball Jerseys”

I don’t think that this one is a rule up front, but its just aggravating. Kobe Bryant doesn’t even work out in his basketball jersey, why are you doing bicep curls next to me wearing that jersey? That shit is not fucking comfortable, and you know it, I know it, and so does everyone else.

“Shirt cut all the way down to your hips”

How did you even do that? Did you buy it like that? I just don’t get the point of this one. Good circulation I guess. I hope guys bring back half shirts soon instead, of this shit soon. If I could wear a half shirt, I probably wouldn’t have so much belly button lint.

“Men with spandex”

Take your cock somewhere else.

“Socks up to your thighs”

What is this, the 7th grade? Are you dressing up for school spirit day? I see the same guy wearing these socks almost every day at the gym. I don’t know whether it would be worse if he was wearing the same pair of socks everyday, or if he has that many pairs of long socks.

“Women with make-up on”

I don’t know if this is a misogynistic thing to say or not but what the fuck. This girl at the gym yesterday was wearing a full face of make-up and bright pink eye shadow. I know you’re not wearing the make up for me or whatever, but you look like a clown. I don’t know exactly what a full face of make up really is but my girlfriend told me that’s what it was. I can’t imagine how sweat doesn’t pour that down your face. I got fucking P!nk working out next to me and a white guy wearing a doo rag with pink fucking capris and a black silk vest. Where am I?

But hey, after all, at least we’re all getting healthy. I have a funny feeling that half these guys are throwing the skis on and hitting the slopes hard before they show up to the gym, doing some BOOGERSUGAR, a little of that nose candy if you know what I mean. So, to each their own I guess. But for me, I’m going to stick to my Reebok shorts and ratty t-shirts that I stole from the laundry room in college.

 

A Whole New World

So, this is another roommate story that I have yet to tell. I’ve been meeting to put the metaphorical pen to paper for this one, but I just haven’t got around to it. When I moved into a house with these two people, I felt like it was great. I am still friends with one of the two people that I lived with. It isn’t that I just can’t live with people. There’s no way this one was my fault. Living with these people was great. Everyone got along. Our schedules never conflicted. It was beautiful. We even all hung out every once in a while. It wasn’t until May, 4 months after I moved in, that everything went downhill.

I really have no idea how the whole dispute started, but I’m going to do my best to describe this situation in as much detail as I can from my point of view. My two roommates, the homeowner and another renter, were in a fight over something. Who knows what, but shit hit the fan when the homeowner decided he wanted to redo the floors by the bedrooms. For some reason, “the renter,” decided she did not want anyone to open the door to her room to do the floor up to her door.

Now, it’s one thing to not want strangers in your room. I get that. Totally understand. But the landlord was going to be home, supervising the whole thing. It wasn’t as if a bunch of people were going to be in her room going through her shit.

So, in the spirit of keeping me out of this whole thing, one day I came home, and she asked me “hey, can I talk to you about something?” So, here we go. Now, I basically already knew that she was very upset about the whole thing, but I was ready to hear her side of the story now. Usually, I’m a full believer that there are three sides to every story, your side, my side, and the truth. I was pretty sure her side of the story was going to be about as crazy Trump’s last 5 tweets. I was not disappointed. She told me all about how upset she was about the strangers in her room but it wasn’t because of what you would think. She didn’t think her shit was going to be stolen. She didn’t think it would get dirty. No, she told me it was because she didn’t want people stepping on her rug because it had special powers.

Special powers, good vibes, whatever the fuck she called it. I call it crazy. I tried to keep a straight face when she said this, but I couldn’t. I laughed right in her face. I thought she was kidding but apparently, she really thought that. I wish the shit storm stopped here but it doesn’t. I get a text about a month later; I was already moved out of the apartment. She texted me and asked me if I threw out her graduation flowers. I really didn’t know how to answer because I wasn’t sure. If there were dead flowers sitting in our kitchen I probably threw them the fuck out. I told her that and she gave me some sarcastic answer about how I should remember whether I threw out flowers or not. I apologized and said “sorry but throwing out flowers is not a significant memory in my brain.” 

I can’t imagine thinking that I would give a shit if someone threw out my flowers. Especially, because after she graduated she left the city for a week. Did she expect someone to take care of her beloved graduation flowers? I’m not too sure. I probably never would’ve wrote about this if she didn’t accuse me of maliciously throwing flowers away. After she did that, I had to write about my disdain towards her. Flowers… give me a break.  

I think about it, and I wonder if I’m the bad roommate. Am I the one who can’t be lived with? Am i better off living in a studio apartment alone? Should people not live with me? Then I remember that I don’t really give a shit. I especially don’t give a shit about her flowers. Whether I did or did not throw them out, I’ll never know. I do wish I could take a ride on her magic carpet. Maybe see a whole new world? Some shining shimmering splendor? The whole deal. 

When you decide to live in someone else’s home or apartment, just remember that it’s not your fucking house. Just like when you live with your mom and dad there are rules. Like don’t leave dead plants in the kitchen for a week. Don’t park your friend’s car in the garage without permission, and definitely don’t expect anyone to give a shit about your magic carpet. This is real life folks, not a fucking Disney movie, so get over yourselves.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

What is the number one thing you look for in a good bar? Not a nice place or anything, but just your regular bar where you can drink heavily and not get judged, or go for that nightcap before you head home. What does that place need? For me, the TV sitcom, Cheers, really nailed it. Where everybody knows your name. I just like going to a place where there are a few regulars that I know and they know me. The bartenders know me. Once in while you get a free shot or a heavy pour on the wine. Mostly, it is just about going and feeling like the people appreciate when you come by. I don’t want to feel like I felt in Cortland, like pigs at a trough.

I’ve been searching for that bar in Vegas since I’ve been here. I actually found it too. It was a little Italian restaurant. The bartenders were Ray, Angel, and Samantha. There were always regulars there, like Terrick and Ben. I loved going there. But then I moved across town. Now, I’m working on finding another one.

Marisa and I have been going to this bar called Remedy’s. In Vegas, almost all of the bars are franchises or chains. It sucks. Like I’ve mentioned before, this creates a lack of authenticity. But you get what you get and you don’t get upset. One of my supervisors from grad school told me that one. We deal and we go try to find good bartenders as opposed to cool places.

The first time we went, we go in and the bartender comes up to us and introduces himself, “Hey guys, I’m Steve-o, have you guys ever been here before?” He was super  excited and now, so was I. “He’s going to know our names!” I thought. We bullshit for a minute or two and then he says, “alright guys, round of shots on me!” Awesome. Tequila baby. Time to put our party pants on.

We leave Steve-o for the night and we head on home. Our bellies filled with shitty food and good tequila.

Later that week, we meet a girl at the dog park. We start talking to this girl about the bars we frequent and what not. We tell her we like Remedy’s. She says, “yeah we go there all of the time, but the bartender always forgets our names.” I wanted to tell the girl, “who the fuck are you though? Does Steve-o really need to remember your name specifically, or should he just know you’re a regular?” Honestly, she didn’t strike me as a regular at any bar. I would say twice a week is a regular, not once in a while. But I didn’t want to be mean to the girl, because “we’re trying to make friends” or whatever.

Fast forward to Saturday night, we finish up at a wine bar and head back to Remedy’s. We walk in and who do we see? Steve-o, tending the bar. We sit down and he comes over and we both say hi to him. What does he do? He introduces himself to us, “Hey guys I’m Steve-o, have you ever been here before?” Are you sure you aren’t fucking ten-second Tom? This was the 4th time I’ve met him and the 3rd time Marisa had met him. We don’t even answer his question before he says, “you know what, 1st rounds on me guys!”

I really wanted a place where everyone knows my name, but should I settle for this instead? A place where no one can remember my name, but we get free drinks because he constantly thinks its our first time at the bar. The fucked up part is every time he introduces himself, he repeats your names over and over again like he’s trying to imprint in his brain. How many Italians, let alone Vinnys are walking into this bar. Bald Vinnys,  to be exact.

What do you have to do in this town to make a friend. No one can even remember your fucking name, forget about being your friend. It’s impossible to even create a semblance of relationships with people, because they are so self-serving. I’m not saying I’m a selfless guy or anything, but from these blogs, you can obviously see that I love talking to people. Even if it may not be to make friends. Hearing people’s stories amaze me. For the most part, it seems like people have their heads so far up their ass, they taste their food twice. If people for one second would listen to what people said, instead of concentrating on what they were going to say about themselves, maybe they’d be a little happier. Steve-o is trying so hard to remember people, you can tell by the whole repeating names things. It’s just so sad how badly he fails. So people, moral of the story, head out of your ass and remember peoples names. Or just say fuck it and enjoy the warmth of your own ass because honestly, you’re the real heroes. You make this literary nightmare a possibility.

The Idiot at the Pet store

I went to the pet store yesterday to buy some toys for my dog, who doesn’t play with any toys. I know that makes no sense. I feel like if I buy her enough toys, eventually, she’ll play with one or like me or whatever. That’s a moot point. Some of the weirdest fuckers I have ever met work in pet stores. Everyone is an expert it seems like. They’re so smart they actually talk to the animals, like they are going to get an answer. I do that to my dog in the privacy of my own home, like a normal wack job. But I was a wack job long before I got a dog. I was talking to myself half the time, now at least I talk at something.

I go to this one specific pet store, mostly because it’s the closest to my house but also because it seems pretty cheap I guess. When I walk in, the two women who work there always come over to me, probably cause I’m so fucking cute. Although, they only call Effie cute, not me. These two idiots never actually talk to me though. They talk to my dog and ask her questions that I obviously need to answer. She said today, “what are you looking for today?” I answer her and tell her what I need. She then asks the dog, “well what kind do you like?” Again I have to answer, “she likes the peanut butter bones.” Then she asks the dog, “when did your daddy adopt you?” Now, I’m starting to feel annoyed that this idiot can’t even look at me and have a conversation, but yet I answer again, “1 month ago.”
These two shmucks start simultaneously asking the dog questions. I decide, you know what, I’m not going to answer anymore. Let’s see what they do then. The next question she asks the dog is, “what does your daddy help you do to not be so shy.” I didn’t answer. Then she says, “Do you face away from your daddy when you make poops?” What the fuck lady. My dog doesn’t want to discuss her bowel movements. Finally, she asks the dog if she wants to come in for a treat tasting.

I’ve had enough of this shit. I get that you want to talk to your dog. I do it and it’s fucking weird enough. Lady, get off the floor of this disgusting warehouse and wake the fuck up. My dog doesn’t like you. She doesn’t like anyone. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even like me. You’re not the damn animal whisperer, so just tell me where the damn rawhides are so I can get out of this place.

I picked out a couple toys and when I go to pay she tells the dog, “if you don’t end up playing with these toys your daddy can return them.” Naturally, I respond, “That’s disgusting, so this toy could’ve been in your house?” I don’t think she loved that comment, because she stopped talking to the dog at this point and turned towards me. It seemed somewhat difficult for her to have a conversation with a person. She said, “well, we clean them.” With as much sarcasm as I could gather from deep down I responded with “righttt…”

She didn’t say another word except the total. I smiled at her and said, “thanks so much!” And now I have to find a new pet store. Sorry Effie but I can’t imagine going back in to the passive interrogation room. 

 

Fast Food Workers: Love ’em or Hate ’em

,In the past few years there has been a lot of controversy about how much money fast food workers should make. I feel like people have some very strong opinions about how much money these guys make. “The guy shouldn’t make $15 an hour flipping burgers,” or “we’re paying them that anyway in food stamps and welfare.” That’s not to say that everyone who works in fast food deserves $15 an hour or that everyone in fast food is on welfare. Merely just an observation about people caring too much about stupid shit.

I made $6 an hour when I got my first job at a deli and a lot of people use this logic to say that people don’t deserve this pay. When I was getting paid this wage, I had my parents who were really paying for my things. They just wanted me to learn the value of money. I wasn’t trying to take care of myself on this salary. So, if you’re asking me if I think fast food workers  deserve that money…I’d have to say yes. Fuck the guy that’s charging me $12 for a big mac at the airport. The company shouldn’t get to rape us and the people who work for them.
But that’s not really what I want to discuss today. Fast food workers can make or break your day. I don’t often have fast food, but I do stop at a Starbucks once in a while. A few too many drinks and I end up at a Taco Bell for my fourth meal. Maybe a rough night lands me at a McDonalds in the AM. My boss might take me to a Subway for lunch one day (yes, I am going to label Subway as fast food). In these instances I don’t want my food to be messed up and I don’t want to wait a long time. I hope the higher rate of pay makes people care more about their job and, therefore, care more about me. That is not always the case though. There are just some people who are morons. It’s not always the worker’s fault either. We have to discuss both the moron working and the possible morons ordering food.

First off, any morning can be ruined at a Dunkin’ Donuts. There are more than one way that they have destroyed many people’s mornings. Sometimes it seems as though they are trying to move so ‘fast’ that they ruin everything. They get coffee all over the lid, all over the napkins, they don’t put the cover all the way on the cup so you spill it all over your car, or the “egg sandwich” they give you is so fucking mismatched its like a two year old was trying to make a god damn play-doh meal. When I used to go to work with my dad we would stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts and one time his coffee was completely watered down. I remember he actually called the fuckers to say “what the fuck.” That’s right around the time he switched to 7/11 coffee.

Second, is the late night foods. How many times have you gone to a Taco Bell and it was almost as if they didn’t even listen to your order? They just put together their own assortment of foods. These tasks aren’t difficult so I understand when it pisses people off.

Finally, let’s talk about the idiots who go to fast food restaurants. Imagine being the guy who works a late night shift at Taco Bell and has to deal with your drunk ass. Someone’s mother who works in the Penn Station Mickey D’s after 12 AM getting yelled at by the privileged of Long Island. You think she wants that job? Like she enjoys customer service or something. No, you are part of the problem. Treating fast food workers like shit makes the service shit. People will not care about their jobs if people make them feel worthless.

You know what bothers me even more than that though? The person who goes into a fast food restaurant and has to ask questions or modify menu items. I went to a Subway with someone recently who had way too many questions. These are the types of place where you should know what you want. This person asked the guy what he thinks of the Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sandwich. He responded, “Uh, well it’s been on the menu for like ten years, so I guess people like it.” Then she asked, “what’s on it?” He said, “Uh, sweet onion and chicken teriyaki. Whatever else you want, I guess, have you never been here?” He was so confused he didn’t even know what to say. If you’re at a fast food restaurant don’t ask the guy what’s on something while your online. Don’t even get on the line unless you know you’re ready.

Fast food workers shouldn’t have to answer your questions. It’s supposed to be fast food. Not food at whatever pace you like that day. If you don’t want mayonnaise, that’s one thing. Don’t sit at a BK Lounge and create your own burger. If you don’t like what they have then go to a different restaurant. Go home and make your own food.

There is only so much shit people will put up with before they spit in your food. So, people don’t fuck it up for the rest of the us. Unless someone is really screwing you, don’t fuck with fast food workers. They are the “waking you up with Folgers in your cup.” They can make or break your morning. If you’re ordering a breakfast burrito from T-bell prior to 8 AM and they screw it up, I think we all know who has the bigger problem. It ain’t the guy putting eggs and taco beef in a burrito, it’s the idiot stuffing it down his throat.

The “New York” Pizzeria

Over the course of the past year, I have spent the majority of Friday nights looking for places where pizza or, food in general, can be comparable to New York. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that every food in Las Vegas sucks, because that’s not true. I do believe that it lacks authenticity or tradition, which makes sense. The town is transient and it has only been around for less than a hundred years. How it could it possibly compare to a place that has a history of over 400 years?

So, I troll the streets looking for pizza, gyros, halal (doesn’t exist here), Chinese, etc., that remind me of the way it tastes at home. It has been a year and the closest pizza place I found is hit or miss. If the owner happens to be there it’s great. The gyros taste like bologna meat and the Chinese must have just never settled in Vegas because that’s a no go for me. There’s one weekend here where a huge Greek Festival takes place. I went last year and there were great gyros, unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time to figure out where the food came from. I’ll report back on that in three weeks when I attend the festival again. Thai food isn’t bad and neither is Japanese, Hawaiian, or Philippino. New York isn’t really known for any of that food.

The pizza is what I want to discuss. I get my pizza from a place called Joey’s. He makes a decent pie. The key word is “he.” If he’s not the one making the pizza, its like there are just a bunch of morons there. The last time I went there was hysterical. It was a circus They had to stop delivering pizza because it was “so busy.” I’ve seen restaurants back home banging out 50 pies an hour with a line 20 deep ordering slices.

I’ve seen busy. This wasn’t busy. Being that I was the only guy standing there waiting for pizza, they need to figure their shit out. The kid who was answering the phone kept telling people, “sorry we’re not delivering because we’re too busy to handle this many orders.” What?! How can you tell customers that? People are not going to be okay with that answer. I would laugh if I called Gino’s and they said they were too busy for my order. That’s a yelp comment waiting to happen.

Joey was actually there at this point and you could tell how angry he was. I don’t feel bad for him because he hired these morons. One of the kids kept asking him how long he should wait to take the knots out. Finally, Joey turned around and said, “when they’re fucking done, take them out. Is it that difficult?” I felt right at home.

Every time they got a phone call while I was there, the kid had to turn around and ask the owner, “How long on pick-up?” It was the same answer every time. Your job is to answer the phone and tell them how long. You know exactly how many pizzas have been ordered. How can you not figure out a general number. Half hour. Forty-five minutes. It’s an estimation.

I’d love to open up my own pizzeria so I can feel the pain that poor Joey feels. Go back to Brooklyn where you belong man. Alright, time to order a pizza now. Later.

 

Globs and Hairs

In the past, I have lost a couple of good bets. I’ve fell victim to a few dares. I don’t mean that I lost any money or anything of value. Dignity was on the line. I should probably place a little bit more “value” on my dignity. In this particular instance, somehow I ended up having to eat a piece of hair. I know… terrible. This was no regular strand of hair. It was a thick curly Q.

A few of my friends and I were sitting around a backyard patio table at someone’s house. After the dare or the bet happened, I wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. I wrapped this piece of hair around my finger a few times and rolled it into a ball. I worked it in my mouth for a few seconds to try to push it to the back of my throat. Finally, when I thought I had it, I took a really hard swallow. My friends, and I use that term very loosely, were all staring at me, waiting. I smiled and opened my mouth. I just remember Squirrel’s face, a friend of mine. He covered his mouth and pointed and screamed at me. Unbeknownst to me, the hair was wrapped up in my front tooth. Needless to say, I was unable to swallow this hair.

This brings us to yesterday. A similar feeling but just about 10 times worse. I had just returned home from work and I was exhausted. I was supposed to go to visit my girlfriend at work and I wanted to get some things done prior to leaving. I was going to make a cup of coffee, but with it being about 105 degrees in Vegas yesterday, I didn’t want something warm. What a conundrum! But I looked in the fridge and there was my Cold Brew Coffee. I would have to thank God. Actually, I just patted myself on the back for buying it. What is it they say? God helps those who helps themselves? Seems convenient.

Anyway, I check the date on the box, which was 10/17/17. Perfect. I shake the box up a bit and put some ice in a red solo cup. Real Classy. I pour the contents of the box into the cup. I put the leash on the dog and out we went. I had a nice cold coffee and I was happy as a pig in shit.

This was quite a large cup of coffee. About 10 minutes into the walk, I was done with about two-thirds of the cup. As the dog is taking care of business (taking a shit), I took a big gulp of the coffee and feel something odd. It felt like something weird was on my tooth. I had my phone out so I opened up the camera. I smile and there was a big glob on my tooth. I start wildly spitting. I honestly had no idea what it was. I took a look down in the coffee.

There it was. Pieces of mold floating around in my cup. There was so much of it. I don’t know how I got through as much of the coffee as I did.

I looked at the expiration date. How could this have happened? It made me absolutely sick to my stomach. At this point, there was only one thing that could wash such filth from my mouth. Only one thing that would wash away the stains from my dignity as the old memories of curly Q hairs in my teeth resurfaced in my brain. I jogged home, and as soon as I got there I ran to the fridge. No I don’t keep my toothbrush or my Listerine in the fridge. I keep the fixer of all problems in the fridge. The solvent for all complications. The Ice. Cold. Beer. I popped her open, swished her around my mouth, and swallowed. And just like after I tried to swallow that hair, my mouth curled into a big smile. Nothing like a beer when you need one.