At 12:00 AM on January 1^st, people of all shapes and sizes across the world stood up and proclaimed, “This year, I will go to the gym more often.”

At 6:00 PM on January 3^rd, there was not a single treadmill available at Work Out World.

I would be a hypocrite if I were mad about that. It had been my New Year’s resolution as well. But, I had been making a substantial effort to attend the gym more often even before the ball dropped, so in a way I felt cheated.

Having long since joined and attended the gym, but bitching and moaning all the way, did I deserve the right to a treadmill more than someone who had no delusions about fitness before last Monday? No, certainly not. I didn’t have any more rights than anyone else there, new member or regular.

Of course, I wouldn’t call myself a regular. Even though I’ve been able to maintain my target attendance rate for a few weeks now, calling me a regular was like calling Paris Hilton a celebrity. Oh sure, she’s at the parties, but what does she really do?

Luckily, the problem wasn’t as evident when I went Saturday. But that raises another interesting question. If it was 60 degrees and sunny out, why was I looking to use a treadmill? I think it’s funny that I hadn’t even considered that question until I was in the car, and even then I dismissed it immediately. Jog, like, outside? Ha! Right. There are, like, bears outside.

Ultimately, I could argue that I needed to go to the gym anyway to use the weightlifting machines. I can’t picture any real world activity that would emulate what those machines do for me. Maybe if I was trapped under a log, which I had to lift 10 times in a row to escape. Of if I had to pull myself onto a moving train in sets of 3. Perhaps if I wanted to clap for my favorite band on stage, but there were two 8-year-olds clinging to each arm.

Have you ever felt attached to something that is completely without emotional value? I’m not talking about a teddy bear, or a book written by someone you know. I’m talking about a chair, a computer chair that I’ve had. I’ve just had it. I wasn’t sitting in it when the towers fell. It wasn’t a gift from a deceased relative. It’s just a chair. A chair I have been sitting in. A place for my ass.

I’ve just put my old computer chair out by the dumpster. In a way, I hope someone takes it before the garbage truck comes later this week. Not that it’s in very good condition; it’s missing screws and had a chronic squeak that can’t be fixed. But I hope someone takes it because I don’t want to look at it out there. Seeing outside by the dumpster makes me feel like I’m walking around naked.

Why would I be attached to it? It’s just a chair, and an old, overused one at that. I suppose the fact that it still looks like it’s in good condition makes me feel like I’m wasting it. But, anyone who takes a look at the underside will see there are some parts missing (broken off and lost). And if anyone sits in it, they will hear a creak that they may think could be fixed with WD-40, but they will be wrong, because the squeak is inside the very mechanism that attaches the seat to the base, like the support itself is warping. It is a squeak in the very soul of the chair.

I hope it doesn’t rain.

ARG! Shut up, it’s just a chair!

Bachelorette: Te he, OK, bachelor number 4; If I was an ice cream cone, how would you lick me?

Audience: Wooooo!

Bachelor Number 4: Well first, I would take my Lactaid pills, because I am lactose intolerant and I would hate to lick you then get all bloated and nauseous. I would then lick you hard and quick until I get an ice cream headache, at which point I would sit down and put my head between my legs, and say things to you like, “This has never happened to me before.”

So I’m at the gym yesterday, sitting the wrong way in the chest press machine, wondering how I’m supposed to lift all that weight with my elbows, when it occurs to me that I don’t have any pent up energy.

“Go to the gym,” they say, “I’ll be a great way to work out that pent up energy and stress.”

Not me. I have the opposite of pent up energy. I have pent up naps; threatening to break out at any moment.

Shitty Horror Movie #439: The Prowler

I think after chipping away so much at my personal standards, I may have finally managed to lower the bar. Though it is a bad movie, I can’t bring myself to say it was a total waste of time.

It’s 1945. A young couple drives away from the homecoming dance to be alone in the park.
Strike one.

They sit down by the gazebo, but they are unconcerned when all the lights on the gazebo suddenly go out.
Strike two.

The man, aggravated by his date’s mild reluctance to play tonsil hockey, says, “C’mon, kitten. Don’t play hard to get.”
Strike three!

And screwed they are. They are both murdered by a love-stricken ex-solder who, though he was carrying a large knife and a gun, decides to murder them with a pitch fork. Um, is that regulation?

Before I go on, let me quickly add a few snippets from this film to my list of “Lines in your dialog that indicate you will be murdered in the movie:”

“C’mon, kitten. Don’t play hard to get.”

“Any of you girls got rolling papers?”

(Producing an unlabeled bottle of vodka) “We can fix the punch, as soon as the chaperon is looking the other way.”

Bam bam bam. A blind man could write up the hit list for this movie.

Anyway, back to the… um… plot.

Fast forward to the present (1980, you know, back when that was the present). For the first time since the murders, there will be a homecoming dance at the School For Girls With Low Standards And Loose Morals, or whatever the name was. But our soldier friend, who was never caught, now prowls the town, seeking new victims this night. Why, you ask? Why has he returned from hiding to begin killing again? That’s a good question. Having watched the whole movie, the answer is still apparently none of my business.

And let me ask you this. Don’t you hate it when you’re running from the killer and all the exits are locked from the outside for some reason? I mean, this chick tried, like, three doors before she gets out of the dormitory. Even the fire exit was bolted shut. WTF?

I don’t want to sound morbid, but the scenes where someone is not being killed are boring. In an effort to create tension, the director created scenes so long and dull that I could have done my taxes while waiting for something to happen.

The tension was so thin that I doubt you would need a knife to cut it; a spork would suffice, providing it didn’t just fall apart on its own, which it did, leaving weak piles of tension all over the place that the actors were constantly stepping in, saying, “Eww! I stepped in tension!”

So, the film’s only redeeming value is in the overly gratuitous murders that take place. It’s absurd how over-the-top yet entertaining these horrific scenes are; orchestrated by one of the greatest prosthetic effects men in the industry, Tom Savini. These aren’t half-assed CGI effects, these are old-school meat-cleavers-and-fake-heads effects, and it’s compelling how much care and attention to details went into them. Though most viewers would scoff, cringe, or file a lawsuit, I think these scenes had heart.

But it’s not enough to save this movie. The story and acting are complete crap. But, I got what I thought I'd get when I rented it: a popcorn movie for times when you're tired of thinking.

I’ll leave you with this inspiring line:

(Angrily) “You’re going after him alone? Oh, that’s fine, Mark! You just go play sheriff!”

(Reader’s Note: Not only is Mark the only officer in town, he is, in fact, the sheriff)

Every once in a while, when I’m going through my to-do items at home, I’ll come across the sticky note I wrote a while back that says, “What am I doing with my life?”

I haven’t been able to answer that question, so the note goes back to the bottom of the pile, below the gas bill and the newspaper clippings of singles events.

My bathroom sink blew up in my face.

It’s blown up before, but not while I was home, much less looking at it saying to myself, “What’s that noise?”

BLORP!

That’s the noise it made. B-L-O-R-P. All capitals.

Before today, I didn’t know why, once every few months, I would come home to find dingy water stains and bits of mildew all around the sink, and the drain stopper rolling around on the counter or the floor. To finally answer this divine mystery, God sent the plumber with his compressed air gun to the neighbor’s apartment while I was getting ready for work on Tuesday morning.

I forget exactly what I was doing looking at the bathroom mirror; I may have been brushing my teeth, checking for stray facial hair, or generally just admiring my bad self. Then there was a brief gurgle from the drain, followed immediately by a full scale BLORP of stagnant water, bits of hair, and drain mold.

Apparently the plumber didn’t hear me scream like a little girl through the walls, because he fired two more shots of compressed air into the pipes, shooting out more water and even blowing out the drain cover in the shower. (Note: I didn’t scream like a little girl. It was more of an “AAAA!” than an “EEEEE!”)

I stepped back and sat down on the toilet seat, then, thinking better of it, stood right back up in fear. I was wet and covered in flecks of grime. I took some consolation in knowing that while our sinks and showers drain from the same pipe, the toilet is on a completely different pipe. Thus, whatever came out of that drain was mostly pipe grunge and not, you know, people grunge.

In a way, I felt like it was my fault. I wanted so badly to know why it looked like our sink blew up every few months. This was the punishment I got for questioning the power of plumbing. Still, who the hell connects pipes like this?

SPLOOSH!

My roommate’s cat is trying to eat me.

I think it’s the soap I use. I got out of the shower a little while ago, and now she’s sitting on my lap, as she does from time to time. She seems pretty content, but every time I try to pet her she goes into a sniffing and licking frenzy. Even when I’m not petting her, but typing, I look away for one second and I feel that freaky cat tongue on my elbow. She took a little nip at my finger, not biting, but tasting.

I’m beginning to wonder for my safety. She is, after all, a very fat cat.

If I suddenly go missing, check the litter box for my watch.

Man, my life is exciting.

Exercise blows. It’s one of the few things that only gets better after you keep doing it.

Beer giving you a headache the next morning? Drink more, the hangovers will go away!

Donuts making you fat? Keep eating; your body will eventually absorb them!

No. The things that are bad for you start out great, but go wrong eventually. The things that are good for you suck at first, but pay off in the long run (Allegedly. Let’s just say I’ve never reached the physical fitness finish line).

I can’t discuss my own physical inadequacies with anyone because their answer is always the same, “It’ll get better the more you do it.”

What the hell kind of solution is that? That’s ass-backwards. I don’t like getting punched in the face either, but does that mean if someone keeps doing it I’ll develop an immunity to fists?

It’s boring too. I can’t seem to multi-task in my head as I exercise. Even if I listen to music, all I can think about is, “This sucks. It’s boring and exhausting. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Wow, check out the junk in that girl’s trunk! Sigh, I’m pathetic.”

I should consider taking up something more engaging like rock climbing or running away from bears; something where you don’t really have an option to give up. That’d whip me into shape. As it is, I get two sets done on the chest press and I’m thinking, “This sucks, I’m going home.”

I guess you have to ask yourself what your ultimate goal is. You have to keep reminding yourself what you’re working for, because frankly, I’m not doing this for kicks. My goal? That girl on the treadmill in front of me. I figure if I just crank this thing up faster and faster, I’ll eventually catch up to her, maybe ask for her number.

Do you nullify the health benefits of yogurt when you pour bits of candy into it? I’m talking about “Yo Crunch” yogurts which come with bits of Nestle Crunch or M&Ms in the lid. Sure, you might think you have the option not the pour the candy in, but I dare you to buy this stuff and then deny the urge to mix the two.

So does the candy cancel out the yogurt in terms of nutrition? Are you any better off from eating the yogurt, or does the candy contribute enough fat and sugar to render the digestive enzymes and bits of fruit useless? Does a caramel apple a day still keep the doctor away?