A Cult Meets at My Gym -- A True Story (No Foolin')

The cult was there again today. They’re at the gym every time I go there. 

There is an Asian man of about fifty years. He’s fit but not muscular. (You don’t have to have bulging muscles to be strong or tough). He’s a regular looking chap, handsome for his age but no one who would stick out in a crowd. 

With him are a group of woman. Sometimes just two, often three, usually four. The man talks and they listen. And let me tell you something, they’re interested. As a veteran teacher I know what a person looks like when they are pretending to be listening and what a person looks like when they really are interested in what a speaker is saying. These women’s eyes are glued to him. They’re leaning forward. There are no yawns. There are also no questions, comments or interruptions of any kind. He holds the floor the entire time.

One of the women appears to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties, another looks closer to forty, the other two look to be anywhere from their mid twenties to mid thirties. I don’t know if this is relevant but three of the four are very attractive. 

The first couple of times I saw them I assumed he was giving them instructions or advice on exercise. But they don’t exercise. They always take  over one of the gym’s five mats that are designated for stretching. But sometimes, like today, he’s at a weight station sitting. No weights are added to the bar, he holds on to it. Either way the women are huddled around, listening.

I’ve walked right by them a few times and have noted that the cult leader sometimes speaks English and sometimes Mandarin. I’ve never picked up more than a word or two so have no idea what he’s going on about.

I’ve seen them in one place for the entire hour and a quarter of my workout. But usually at some point the party breaks up. That means the guru leaves. However the women stick around. With two exceptions I’ve never seen them do anything but stretch and they do little of that. They’re usually sitting on a mat, chatting, looking at their phones and occasionally stretching. I've seen them occupy a mat in such a way for as much as forty-five minutes.

As I said there have been two exceptions. I saw one of them once on a weight machine lifting a very low weight and today I saw one of them on a treadmill. That’s it. That’s the extent of the exercise I’ve seen any of them do besides stretching and working out their ear muscles to listen to der fuhrer. 

So I’m left to wonder: what the hell is going on? They are there every time I go to the gym. This will likely change next week as I go back to work so I’ll be going to the gym in the afternoon rather than morning on weekdays. I’ll probably still see them on weekends. 

What is he talking about for so long that is of such interest? I’ve no clue. There is something very creepy about how they listen to him for so long so often. And what are they doing in the gym? It’s not as though his talks segue into a workout. Why not meet at some ones house? You could have tea and cookies. If it’s a sex cult you’d definitely want to be at a house. Why a gym?

The frustrating thing is that I’ll never know. I can’t very well go up to the women and ask: “just curious, what’s that bloke talking to you about everyday for so long?”

I’d be half afraid to find out.

Anyway, it always gives me a story to tell the missus when I get back from the gym. She’s loves my cult updates.

Can you blame her?

What We Imagine, Keeping a Healthy Brain and a Few Stories From Mr. Blogger

Just for the heck of it here's Suzi Quatro

When I was teaching at a school in SF a colleague once asked if when I got home after work I kicked off my shoes, poured a glass of wine and turned on the telly. First of all I don’t drink and secondly I don’t turn on the TV when I get home from work unless there’s a football match (soccer game, to you Yanks) on. Another fellow teacher speculated that I lived in the Berkeley Hills. I pointed out that I’d been a teacher most of my professional life so could no more afford a home in the hills than a yacht. 

I suppose these two instances point to how we make up stories about people we don’t know intimately. We imagine what their significant other is like, what kind of place they live in and what they do in their spare time. Or we leave it all blank. I don’t tend to create stories for people I know. Now people I don’t know at all, there’s where I’ll go to town. Sometimes I’ll observe a person perhaps on a bus or in a cafe and imagine their background, what they’re doing and what fate has in store for them. In some of these stories I’ll interact with them. Nine times out of ten I’ll make their lives happy and successful. I might have them overcome some sort of adversity. It can pass the time and is good for the creative juices and the brain in general.

As I’ve gotten older (or, more accurately, old) I’ve been sure to keep my brain busy. I do a few world puzzles on the internet everyday, namely Octordle and Wordle and sometimes Connections. I also do the crossword in the Times. Writing as often as I can, like this stuff right here, also helps. Not to mention the fact that I’m still teaching. In other words I’m doing all I can to ward off dementia. 

I understand that exercise also helps the brain and I go to the gym regularly. It’s one thing to live a long life but we really want the quality to go with it, both physical and mental. I don’t suppose the fact that I’m back in therapy hurts. Reading is good too and I’ve always been a bibliophile. 

It seems to me that scrolling the internet is not particularly good for your brain regardless of your age. All those short bits of info, the quick looks at photos, the memes. Much better to be reading narratives, analyses, extended opinion pieces, personal accounts etc. People used to — likely still do — complain about TV rotting kids’ brains. Surely sitting in front of a set isn’t the best thing for you but I think it better than staring at your smart phone. 

I was just reminded of something again from my time working in SF. This was about fourteen years ago at the dawn of the smartphone. We had a meeting after school one day. I was chatting with two colleagues. One bragged to the other that he didn’t have a smartphone yet. She responded that she didn’t either. It was point of pride to them that they hadn’t succumbed to the latest trend. They were rebels and old school. I rolled my eyes (figuratively, though maybe literally too). During the course of the meeting we were told about a phone number we were required to have in case of an emergency like earthquake, power outage or major fire. It was written on the board. While people were scrambling to write it down I put it in an email that I sent to the entire staff. Took me seconds. I raised my hand and announced what I’d done and received thanks from all around the room. I then looked at my aforementioned colleagues, held up my phone and said, “smart phone,” then I smiled. Within a few months they’d both acquired smartphones. Occasionally there’s a good reason that something is popular. 

One last thing. Yesterday in class I showed a video to students related to their reading in the course book. I then asked them to write a reflection in which they could say anything they wanted related to watching the video. A nineteen-year-old French woman wrote a few sentences on the topic then concluded by saying that the video was a little bit long for her. It was eight minutes and thirty-six seconds. When you’re raised on TikTok I imagine eight minutes and thirty-six seconds can seem like an eternity. *Sigh*

The Author Provides a Look At His Day Including Something Really Weird at the Gym

There's no reason to use this photo of Lana Turner but there's also no reason not to

A woman at the gym today was signing. Loudly. And badly. I was on a stair master and initially couldn’t figure out what the caterwauling was all about. Was someone in pain? Was a TV on? Was I hearing things? Nope. It was a woman who I estimated to be in her mid thirties “singing.” That in itself was weird enough. But singing loud enough for half the gym to hear was another matter entirely. Maybe it wouldn’t have seemed so awful if she’d had a nice voice. Not even her mother would like this woman’s warbling. She was trying to hit notes that were well beyond her range. It was bizarre. Being sensitive to noises, I had to move from the machine I was on and put on my headphones which I bring with me to the gym for those occasions when someone near me is talking on their phone, or sniffling repeatedly, or loudly chewing gum or humming. I never imagined needing it for a singer.

At the end of my workout I do another set of stretches. This after walking to another part of the gym. The woman “followed” me there. I had to get the hell away from her. I got a good look at her first. She appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be “normal.” But the too loud and too high-pitched and too awful singing betrayed someone who had a screw loose. I hope she gets it tightened soon.

As to the question of what kind  of singing she was doing, well that’s hard to say given how pitchy she was and the impossibility of deciphering any of her words or whether there was even a tune. It might have been a hymn or it might have been a pop song or it might have been an operetta. Who could say?

Once again I’m reminded of that trite expression: it takes all kinds. I’m also reminded of my firmly held opinion that maybe certain kinds we can do without. Like awful singers who cut loose in the middle of a crowded gym.

My workout done I walked home. More accurately I sloshed home. It was pouring rain. My umbrella kept me mostly dry but there was no help for my gym shoes, socks and feet. There were massive puddles, some the size of Lake Tahoe, every three feet. Normally I cut through a park but due to all the precipitation it is currently suitable for submarine rides. So I settled for sidewalks. Or aimed to. Puddles abounded. A large percentage of my walk home was on the streets. It eventually got to the point where my feet were sopping wet and it thus made no sense to bother going out of my way to avoid puddles. Once you’re soaking wet more wet isn’t going to make any difference. 

After returning to our puddle-free home I very much enjoyed a warm shower and donning dry clothes, particularly socks that had not an ounce of water on or in them.  

The missus was kind of enough to provide a warm lunch and Bob’s your uncle. 

The holidays are well and truly over and I miss them dearly. It’s back to a regular work schedule and the total absence of holiday decor, trees and music. Regular ole life.

Depression has been beating me over the head of late and was particularly bad this morning. The trip to the gym, despite the unwanted crooner and the veritable swim home, have snapped me out of it for the time being. I’ve also enjoyed the Sunday Times though articles about The U.S. violating international law and ignoring the constitution do not give one cheer. We’re in a sorry place indeed.

Well, I’m not going to dwell on that, not while my mood is at last elevated. I’ve got a book to read, a book to write, movies to watch and music to listen to. I’ll not be able to do all at once so I get to pick and choose. Lucky me.

A Standoff Between Fowl is Reported

My walk to the gym takes me by San Pablo Park in Berkeley. The park takes up a city block. It features two baseball diamonds and a field suitable for all manner of sports including soccer, flag football and whatever you call that competitive frisbee game. There are also tennis courts and a tot lot. There’s room aplenty for picnics and barbecues and I’ve been to a few birthday parties for wee ones there. It’s a historic site having hosted Negro League baseball games some ninety years ago. Many prominent future tennis and baseball stars got their starts at San Pablo Park. 

The last two winters the main grass area of the park has been fenced off and unavailable for the public during the teeth of winter (aka the rainy season) for “renovation.” I think they just want to keep people off it. When I was a youth (and dinosaurs roamed the Earth) parks were available year ‘round. By the time I started coaching soccer, fields were given more protection that a rare Ming vase. If there’d been a touch of rain the night before, fields were closed the next day. When I was a kid we literally played in the pouring rain.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, the field is fenced off. It is thus currently occupied by ducks. Lots of them. There is apparently much for them to feast on. Yesterday as I neared the park I noted a flock of turkeys, well, seven of them, I don’t know if that qualifies as a flock. One can also refer to them as a rafter of turkeys, though who does? In any event there were at least seven gobblers walking in the direction of the park. They were all rather large, not a child among them. It is not unusual to see turkeys in Berkeley and we often find them in front of our abode. There are usually one to four of them with two or more appearing to be youngsters. So to see seven adults was unusual. What was also unusual was what they did. They halted their march, stood outside the fence and commenced to make a racket while directing their attention at the ducks.

The ducks in turn initially looked perplexed. What were these fellow winged creatures and why all the noise? The ducks started backing away although the fence meant that they were safe from a turkey attack. All the while the ducks kept close watch of the turkeys perhaps out of a mixture of curiosity and concern.

I eventually discerned that (as the cops say in moving pictures) there was nothing to see here and I was better off moving along. 

Living in a large urban area one does not often see wild animals in confrontation. We’re well-used to dog-squirrel confrontations and cats stalking birds but that’s pretty much the extent of it. And that’s the extent of my story. From there I went to the gym where I did the usual. Stretches, calf raises, planks, push-ups, sit-ups, lat pull-downs, tricep raises, arm curls, twenty minutes on the stair master, ten minutes on the elliptical, cool down stretches and Bob’s your uncle. 

I’ve started taking my post work-out showers at home, which I did yesterday. Then it was time for a beer (of the non-alcoholic variety) and fish jerky while listening to carols and boring my wife by relating the story above. We watched the 1984 A Christmas Carol starring George C Scott. I quite like it and Scott is a very good Scrooge though Alistair Sim still reigns supreme for me.

After work today I’m off for a week to celebrate the yule, I’m all about it. Favorite time of year and all that.

The Author Expounds on Various Topics Ranging from Guns to Music to Theaters...AND MORE!!!

Margot Robbie

Global warming. First of all, I’m against it. But seriously folks, there has been nothing as bad during my lifetime. I don’t believe that it threatens the planet, the planet will be fine, what it threatens is life on this planet — to date the only habitable one in the known universe. This includes animals and humans alike. Yet people are so damn dumb that many don’t believe in “it” as if climate change were some far out theory proposed by a single benighted scientist. Most troubling is that it’s already here. For so long it was a distant threat, now it’s with us and there are legitimate fears that not enough can be done to keep it from worsening. It’s hard to even read it about anymore so depressing is most of what’s written.

Music today. In the locker room of my gym members are provided with piped in music (not that we asked for it). It is all clearly new…Rock? Pop? What the hell do you even call it, anymore? By any other name it sounds as sour. It is all so bland, generic and uninteresting. I grew up with The Beatles, The Doors, The Who, Hendrix, Joplin, Neil Young, the Beach Boys, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, Buffalo Springfield etc. Talk about spoiled. But I wonder why there isn’t even a tenth as much good music today as there was in the Sixties and Seventies. There are no interesting voices. Male singers are high pitched and flat. Female singers have weak voices. The instrumentals are uninteresting. The angry dirge of rap is a sad comparison to the great days of the Motown Sound. Thankfully I have an extensive CD collection.

Gun nuts. From a CNN story on republican presidential candidate Nikki Haley’s recent town hall: “Haley for the first time on the trail came out against gun restrictions known as “red flag” laws, which allow officials to temporarily take away firearms from people determined by a judge to be a threat to themselves or others. The laws, which have become popular in Democratic-run states, have angered many Republicans and gun rights advocates. ‘I don’t trust the government to deal with red flag laws. I don’t trust that they won’t take them away from people who rightfully deserve to have them,’ Haley said. ‘Because you’ve got someone else judging whether someone else should have a gun or not.’” Maybe it’s simply a matter of playing to her base who evidently prioritize guns over human lives, but my goodness, coming out against red flag laws shows complete servitude to the gun lobby. These people have no conscience and don’t really care how many children are slaughtered by guns. Also we have the continuing theme of not trusting the government which was popularized by the odious Ronald Reagan. It’s a great way for public servants to abdicate responsibility and in many cases put power in the hands of their corporate overlords. So much for the notion of government by the people of the people and for the people.

What ever happened to going to the movies? As recently as three years ago there were three movie theaters in downtown Berkeley, all with multiple screens. There could be as many as a dozen different films playing at a time. Now there are zero downtown theaters with a combined total of zero screens that can show as many as zero films on any given day. There is only one theater within Berkeley’s city limits. Thirty years ago there were eight. There are two theaters that are not far, one in neighboring Albany the other in Oakland near the city limits. I recently noted that neither of these theaters are showing matinees — not even on weekends! In other words it used to be nothing to find and go to a movie any day of the week. Now it’s a miracle to be able to make it to a movie. Streaming is wonderful, convenient and provides endless choices, but I really miss the thrill of seeing a newly released film in a theater. (I believe they were referred to the good ole days.)

Anti-war films. Watched a film called Pork Chop Hill (1959) Millstone yesterday. It has rightly been called a powerful anti-war film. Here’s something I’ve noticed: virtually everywhere anti-war film I’ve ever seen can also be interpreted as pro-war and virtually every patriotic “pro-war” film I’ve ever seen can also be interpreted as anti-war. The mere depiction of battle at once shows its horrors and stupidity and also glorifies it. Every demanding non-compromising officer is an example of steely determination and dedication to the cause and an example of barbarity and callousness. Every dying soldier is an example of heroism and of the horrible cost of war. Pork Chop Hill made war look like a pretty stupid proposition to me but then again so did Saving Private Ryan and that’s as pro-war a film as you’ll ever see.

Phones. Haven’t gone on this tirade in awhile: try working out without your phone. It can be done, indeed I do it all the time. The benefits of not having your phone with you include not being distracted by it and thus better focusing on your purpose in being at the gym (one assumes you go to the gym for exercise) and not annoying people by talking into the damn thing. I noticed someone looking at their phone for at least five minutes before resuming exercise — two minutes worth — then resuming his romance with said phone. Not unusual.

Margot Robbie. This bit is just so I have an excuse to put a picture of the lovely actress atop this post. In truth I think she’s an excellent actress and has graced several excellent movies including Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I, Tonya and Babylon. We’ll see how this whole Barbie thing works out.

The Blogger (That's Me!) Emerges from Depression, Discourses on this and other Topics including Blood Simple

Frances Mcdormand in Blood Simple

Came out of a prolonged depression, first thought: this can’t last. Nasty thing depression telling you things like that. Doesn’t have the decency to leave you alone when you’re not experiencing it. Follows you around like an annoying acquaintance tapping you on the shoulder saying, “I’ll be back, ya know, probably soon so don’t get too comfortable.” 

Lot not to be depressed about. Had a wonderful vacation in Paris and London. Already planning next year’s trip — getting there is half the fun, the ubiquitous “they” say.

The marriage not only survives our travels but gets stronger from them. The wife is an amazing woman who’s endlessly patient when the blackness has enveloped me. She is also good when anxiety strikes, which it often does when the depression is in abeyance. There’s some bloody unfairness for you. The depression passes and in comes the anxiety. Doesn’t always happen that way but can. Worse is getting the depression and anxiety as a set. Double-teamed. Ugly business.

Today the depression was driven away by a visit to the gym. I’ve only recently returned to the gym having had to settle for working out at home in a good example of better than nothing. Actually in the years away from the gym I was able to focus a lot on core work specifically through planks, push-ups, squats and the like. Can still do those at the gym along with other exercises but now can hop on the stairmaster, elliptical machine and do fast-walking on the treadmill.

It’s really good to sweat again. That’s what I’ve been missing. Figure I’ll trim a few pounds in the coming months.

No, I don’t need the depression about. Lord was I feeling miserable yesterday. Every possible thought came with pain. The happiest memory came with a side dish of misery. Hard to get much accomplished. A work day is no problem. You’ve got to work. The depression steps to the sideline while I’m teaching. There ARE limits — thankfully.

Novel is done. Well, it’s all in the hands of the editor. After that, depending on the verdict there could be days, weeks, even months more work. Hoping to have the whole bugger done by the end of the summer. Then fame and riches await. Actually I’ll settle for finding a publisher and enjoying moderate success.

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I’m resuming this on Monday morning (began it Sunday afternoon). Still feeling good. Don’t mind Mondays anymore. I only teach the one class so going to work is no great chore and of course I enjoy my students and helping them speak and write better English. There’s a podcast I listen to every Monday, it’s about my favorite English football team (soccer to you Yanks), the Arsenal. The co-hosts are insightful, charming, witty and do a lot of work for charity through the podcast, the blog and forums. Proud to follow them. The  season ends next weekend. The British football season is a long, long slog starting in mid August and not ending until May. Even longer this season due to the interruption of a Winter World Cup. Arsenal will finish second which is at once disappointing given how many days they were top of the table and a great accomplishment given the competition and how far they’ve come.

Sometimes when you're wearing attire representing your favorite team a perfect stranger will make a derogatory comment about said team. Why do they think this is okay? I've had this happen while entering a cafe, walking down a quiet street, standing outside my abode, leaving the gym. I find it incredibly rude. I see people wearing shirts and jackets and jerseys of a team I abhor but wouldn't think of saying anything to them. I satisfy myself with muttering under my breath. But others.... people are weird. In the most recent case I had crossed a street and a gent going the other way said, "Arsenal is bad." I replied by asking, "why would you say that?" As I continued past him he said, "it's banter." But an adult telling another adult that the team they support "is bad" (never mind that said team is having a great season) is just obnoxious. And what kind of "banter" were we going to have? Exchanges of my team rocks, yours sucks? Pointless if you're anything over nine-years-old. 

On a cheerier note I watched Blood Simple yesterday, the Coen brothers first film (wow, came out nearly forty years ago). Not sure how many times I've seen it (at least five) but liked it so much more this last time. Classic noir. Frances McDormand is terrific in her film debut, especially considering she'd only just come out of acting school. She provides quite a contrast opposite the great veteran actor, M. Emmet Walsh. It's one of the better scripts you'll ever come across and that's something that gets lost in discussing the Coens. Yes, they're great directors but they're equally good as screenwriters. Blood Simple is one of the best film debuts by a director ever.

Ronstadt, Free Stuff, My Mom, Gym Machines and Jerks

Linda Ronstadt

I know that people have different taste in music and I respect that but I also think that if you don’t like Linda Ronstadt there’s something wrong with you. I also imagine it’s been discouraging for young female singers to hear Rondsadt. How many, upon listening to her sing, have said, “fuck this,  I’m out.” Must be a lot. Her brilliance doesn't need a documentary to be obvious but there is one nonetheless called Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice which was in theaters last Fall and was aired on CNN recently. It is also available on DVD. What comes across is not only a supreme talent seen from her early years to the present, but a perfectly charming and delightful person. She was a brave performer who sang in many different genres, all successfully. There are interviews, a lot of concert footage and the story of one of the singular performing artists of our time. The best thing I can say about the documentary is that has inspired me to listen to her more often and it has increased my appreciation for her.

Most anytime you walk more than a block or two in a city— and you often needn’t go that far — you’ll see an old computer, or clothes, or books or kitchenware or — well, the list goes on —  by the side of the road. People don’t throw things away or donate them to goodwill anymore, they leave them for others to pick through. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure. Or woman for that matter.
What I find interesting is how often people will leave a sign next to the discarded items that says, “free.” This is really helpful. How often have you noted junk on the sidewalk, seen something that interested you and said, “I’d really like this but I’ve no idea how much it costs,” then looked around for a salesclerk to help you out? It can be damn frustrating. But when there’s a sign telling you that everything is gratis, your worries are over. Thank you people leaving junk on our city streets, for providing this information

Today is the 100th anniversary of the birth of my late mother, Gertrude Marie Hourula (nee Kurki). Her first name, Kerttu, sounds much nicer in Finnish. I’ve written about mom before, particularly in this blog post. The poor woman became a paranoid schizophrenic in adulthood. She went untreated and it ruined the remainder of her life (she lived to be 81) and shattered my father’s (remarkably he recovered and re-married). I have permanent scars from my childhood with her. It was a terrible tragedy for all concerned. In the years since her death the decades long hatred I felt towards her (I was a victim of emotional abuse) has gradually dissipated and against all odds I have forgiven her — realizing that she was a victim too — and I've managed to occasionally think of her fondly, remembering some of the lucid and loving moments she had with me. This change in my attitude toward her has been a good thing for me but in truth the anger has been replaced by depression. Thinking about her as I have today has made me sad and what makes me sad often, as today, triggers my depression. Life is harsh.

Earlier today I was at the gym where I had — as usual — an excellent workout. Except for having to tolerate the idiots who think gym time is really yak on their cell phone time, I love my visits to the gym, which come every other day. However one thing that annoys and amuses besides cell phone users (when did phone conversations become so important?) is a feature of the stair masters and treadmills I use. They all have TV screens on them. Fair enough, some people like looking at a screen when they’re exercising (personally I think it’s a bad thing to do as it breaks the mind and body connection you should have while exercising and it can in no way enhance your workout). I of course do not watch TV while working out and when I come home I do not work out while watching TV. But the strange -- and aggravating -- thing about these screens is that they try to decide for you. The second you get on the TV comes on, you turn it off, then when you’ve entered all the pertinent information  and start to move, the TV comes back on and so you turn it off again and then what happens? It pops right back on as if to say “you don’t seriously want to work out without looking at me, do you?” So you turn it off a third time. If for some reason you have to pause during the workout the TV comes back on when you resume — “surely,” it is saying, “you must want to watch me now.” No, I don’t, I really don’t. I swear I don’t. Who designed these machines to be so persist and why? Irritating.

Speaking of irritating, I have the misfortune of knowing  a person who can best be described as…let me see I want to be careful here, I’m going to go with total jerk. Although complete asshole would do nicely. Mind you I'm acquainted with many, many other people and about 95% of them are either fantastic people, nice people or perfectly tolerable people. This dickhead is none of the above. I’ve never met a person who was so cynical and negative and had such great difficulty conjuring up pleasant things to say about any topic or failed so miserably to observe basic social niceties.  Recently — for a second time — he felt compelled to go to great lengths to convey his disdain for the sport of soccer (as you Yanks call it). First of all, no one asked. Secondly, why? What is the point? He knows full well that I am a huge fan yet feels compelled to deride the game. Again, why? He even quoted a friend of his (he has friends?) who had said, “soccer is sport for people who hate sports.” Mind you, soccer is the most popular sport in the world. Literally billions follow it. But we are dealing with that nasty American combination of ignorance and arrogance combined with dickishness. You may toss in hypocrisy too because my loathsome acquaintance asserts that he roots for the US Men’s National Soccer Team. Of course. The US is full of people who don’t understand the game and even hate it but root on the national team with boisterous chants of U-S-A!

Here’s a tip if you do not like a sport, particularly because you are largely unfamiliar with it and grew up playing and watching other sports, shut the fuck up about it. Accept that while you don’t like it others do and leave them alone about it. Thanks for letting me ventilate on this topic. 

A Poet's Birthday, Time Travel, Killing Hitler, The Gym Again, Working Again, Commencement, Also Etc.

Allen Ginsberg born on this day in 1926.

It is the 93rd anniversary of the birth of my favorite poet, the gentleman pictured above, Allen Ginsberg. He has been one of the great influences of my life not only for his poetry but for the admirable life he lived.

People often say that if they had a time machine they'd go back and kill baby Hitler. How awful! Killing a baby?! Me, I'd go back and kill teenaged Hitler. He must have been a particularly obnoxious teen and offing him would probably seem a relative pleasure compared to killing an infant.

Speaking of time machines...(dot, dot, dot) besides killing Hitler people often speculate about other deeds they might do when time traveling, many of which would change the present. Hogwash. You cannot change the past because it has already happened and we have a record of it. If you could go and change something in the past it would be changed now too. I thus can only conclude that if time travel ever becomes possible voyagers would only be able to view events and not interact. Perhaps we will -- I'm talking hundreds of years in the future, most likely -- be able to witness past events. Imagine solving all those ancient mysteries, murders and conspiracies. The truth revealed at last. How cool would that be? (I'm going to go with pretty cool.)

Check out these lyrics from the Mamas and the Papas song, Monday Monday:

Every other day, every other day
Every other day of the week is fine, yeah
But whenever Monday comes, but whenever Monday comes
A-you can find me cryin´ all of the time

Is that the most EMO shit you've ever seen? I mean, dude, crying because it's Monday? Get over it. I can see being a little bummed at the return of another school or work week, but if you're crying one out of every seven days, you need help. Plus, this sucker is a singer. It's not like he's a working stiff for whom Monday means the start of another arduous work week. You're a singer, you can sleep in on Monday. Hell, you're pretty successful, you can take the damn day off. Crying about it? Gimme a break.

I've complained ad nauseam about people who can't tear themselves away from their cell phones even while working out at the gym so it shouldn't surprise anyone that I'm on that topic again. Recently I saw a woman working out who wasn't looking at her phone between sets (as many do) but stopping to look at it and text between reps! (I believe that was worthy of an exclamation point.) My god, can you imagine the mindset? The level of addiction? I saw someone yesterday on the elliptical machine stop and get off and look at a video for a couple of minutes before resuming his workout. Madness.

Another gym behavior I've noticed is a male thing. I often seen men get on gym mats (communal spaces, mind you) and spread out horizontally taking up space that two other people could occupy instead of being considerate human beings and taking up a vertical space. Last week, for the first time I saw a woman spread out horizontally. No gender is perfect, I suppose. Some people are so self possessed they think of no one else, like those jackasses who blast music out of their cars so loudly you can hear it in the confines of your own home.

I started working again today after 93 days of retirement. I hasten to add that I am now teaching but one class a day -- in the mornings -- and whereas I used to have a commute totaling one hour and twenty minutes one way, I now have a 15 minute walk to my place of work. I don't know how long I'll keep the job, two months minimum and after that we'll see. As it is it's paying for a trip to New York in October for me and the missus.

I saw that German Chancellor Angela Merkel was commencement speaker at Harvard recently. Good get. When I graduated from Chico State (aka the Harvard of the west) we had a German sausage maker speak. I'm totally kidding, I've never gone to any of my college graduations, truth to tell it never crossed my mind to. I have attended my daughters' and as they are both starting graduate school in the Fall it looks like I have a couple more to enjoy.

I see in the news that there was another mass shooting and once again the NRA has forgotten to apologize or put forward a restitution plan. My but they've got a lot of blood on their hands as do Republican members of Congress. The latter group is, by the way, saving their resources to have spine implants. It won't be a moment too soon. A bigger group of cowards is hard to imagine.

Well I've damn near finished with another novel and wish me luck because within a month's time I'll be trying to interest someone in it. I'll say this for me, I don't give up.

The Author Again Assails Cell Phone Use But Extolls Museums, Exercise and Books

A photo the author took at the de Young yesterday that was painted by Gauguin

I wonder if before there were cell phones some people wouldn’t go to the gym because they might miss a phone call. I also wonder if these same people wouldn’t go to the gym because while there they couldn’t make a phone call. I further wonder why the actual fuck people feel compelled to answer and make phone calls at the gym. I continue to be amazed at how so much of some people’s workouts are punctuated and interrupted by talking into or looking at their goddamned cell phones. I wonder how much better my work outs are than people who bring and use their phones to the gym. You see, I actually go to the gym to workout. Old fashioned, I know, but that’s me.

I don’t only complain about people. The missus and I went to the de Young Museum yesterday. I love museums. They make me happy and relaxed and I feel smarter and more cultured just being in one. I learn and am inspired and become more creative. I appreciate the people who curate museums, the people who work at museums and the people whose contributions make museums possible. I also appreciate my fellow museum-goers.

Speaking of people who work at museums…How about those folks who have to stand around all day, mostly just making sure that nobody gets too close to the exhibits. Occasionally they get asked a question, usually about directions to other exhibits. You talk about thankless jobs. Standing for hours on end usually without a damn thing to do. They’re like well-dressed security guards. Bless them.

Whenever we go to a museum I always make a beeline for the gift shop. Museum gift shops are ridiculously over-priced and rarely have anything I’ve the slightest interest in. One exception is bookmarks. Most museums sell or give away bookmarks and some are very nice. Those I’ll buy. I bought a tee shirt at MOMA in New York but that was an exception. They had a really cool tee shirt at the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington DC but none in my size. Yesterday at the de Young there was nothing of interest in the gift shop. They had free bookmarks which were a value at the price. The thing is there were two more gift shops in the museum and excitedly went into both of them. Why? Beats me.

I’ve written a lot about running on this blog but I haven’t written anything about not running. I should explain. I’d been having pain in my knee whilst running for a few months. I went to the doctor and was sent for an X-ray then I saw an orthopedist. This was in March. I was told that the ligaments in my left knee were wearing away and if I continued to run I’d eventually need knee replacement surgery. So I’m not running anymore. Ever again. I always thought that I would be devastated if told I couldn’t run but when I actually got the news I shrugged and got on with my life. I’m like that. The good news is I can do everything else. I started lifting weights and still get in 40 minutes of cardio on the elliptical. I can also use the stair master and the stationary bike. (A stationery bike is one that you can write and send letters on.) I feel fantastic since I started using weights. And I don’t miss running. I also don’t miss teaching anymore. I just move on, whatever happen. (Full disclosure: I may return to teaching on a part-time basis to pick up a little extra cash.)

In casual conversation recently someone said to me that nobody reads books anymore. “I do.” I responded. It seems so do a helluva lot of other people (albeit not to the extent that they used to). Two Saturdays ago was Independent Bookstore Day. I noted that two local bookshops had big doings going on and both were packed with book buyers, enticed by special deals and their on-going support of indy book stores. Last Saturday the Bay Area Book Festival was held in Berkeley and there were hordes of people in town to see the various speakers — all with books to promote — discussing their books and related topics. There were also people buying books from the many sellers who set up shop. It’s a big annual event that shows that reading books has not quite yet faded into history. This coming Saturday the public library is going to have its annual book sale and judging by the past few years, the joint will be picked. Nobody reads books indeed.

Hi There? Back in What Day? Can You Bake a Pie? Explain a Movie? How Do You Relax?

I thought I'd add these wise words from Marge Simpson.

I got one of those emails asking for money for some worthy cause and it began as follows: “hi there.” I deleted it. They weren’t going to get any money from me anyway as I’ve been charitable enough lately as it is, but usually I hear those letters out. But “hi there” is a deal breaker. I’d literally prefer: “dear human” or “shmuck” or “anonymous person who may have some dough you can send us.” Just not “hi there.” I once worked with a person who “hi there'd" everyone. It was disconcerting. Hi where? Here? Maybe you respond with “and hi over there.”

So you’re probably wondering what kind of a person gets his panties in a bunch over “hi there.” There’s no end to what will irritate me. Like “back in my day.” You had a “day”? Just the one? Or are you referring to a time period? Why isn’t this your “day”? Did I have a “day” too?  I must have missed it. Maybe its coming up. There’s another version of that: “back in the day.” When was “the day.”? Is this not “the day” too? Ya know what I do like? Halcyon days. I want some more of them. I’ve had some and they’re great. I had them back in “my day” which coincided with “the day.” Yeah, back then.

Of course you hear a lot about “the good old days.” White conservative men just love the “good old days.” For many of them those were their “salad days.” What made them great for old white guys was that they were undisputed kings. Women, African Americans, gays, people with disabilities, and other people of color were second class citizens and didn’t kick up a fuss about it — or not much of one anyway. I would love to have a time machine and travel back in time visiting various epochs but as the saying goes: “the past would be a great place to visit but I’d hate to live there.” Ain’t that the truth. Depending upon how far back and where you went you could be dealing with a lot of really awful odors. Showers and baths have not always been readily available nor thought to be healthy. Washers and dryers have not been plentiful until recently, not to mention laundromats. Many rivers and streams, and lakes in urban areas served as sewers and received industrial waste. And of course to spend a lot of time, for example in the US before the 1990s, meant inhaling a helluva lot of second hand tobacco smoke.

Can I share something that has absolutely baffled me my whole life? Well I’m going to anyway. There’s a line from the song Anything You Can Do from the musical Annie Get Your Gun that is as follows:
[Frank:] I can do most anything!
[Annie:] Can you bake a pie?
[Frank:] No.!
[Annie:] Neither can I!
For the whole song the two characters have been asserting that they are superior to the other at doing this or that. This includes such skills as killing a bird and speaking softly (frankly I’m not impressed) then suddenly Annie asks Frank if he can bake a pie. Fortunately for her he can’t. Because she can’t either. So why did she ask? What if he’d said, “why yes, I bake delicious pies.” Then suddenly she’s screwed. That is, unless she lies. Indeed, why doesn’t Frank lie? Because if Annie in fact could bake…You see what I mean? Ludicrous. Yet there it is in the middle of a hokey song from a hokey musical that I wouldn’t watch anyway so what do I care?

Recently on tweeter a well known gentleman asked if someone could please explain the last ten minutes of the recent film, Personal Shopper. I can’t for the life of me understand why someone would want a movie they just watched “explained.” That’s something I need “explained” to me. I saw Personal Shopper two weeks ago and was mystified by the last ten minutes. I was also enchanted, beguiled and amused by it. Someone “explaining” it would be akin to someone telling me why the peach I just ate tasted so good. Saturday night I finally saw Take Shelter 2011 a film which also ends mysteriously. If someone tried to explain it to me I’d sock ‘em in the jaw. Math problems should be explained, new laws need to be explained, computer features have to be explained, but art should be left to wonder at. To savor. To consider. To ponder. When it comes to art, being bemused is one of the most wonderful states I can imagine.

I’m off this week (actually most who know me would contend I’m a little off every week). I love vacations. But they don’t always make me happy. I don’t know how to just enjoy down time. I always feel like I should be doing something. Idling about doing this that and the other, taking naps, scrolling through the internet, feels like I’m wasting valuable time. I’ve got a damn novel to finish. Plenty of reading I can be doing. Languages to study. I get frustrated first with not “achieving” anything, then for being frustrated at being frustrated. I don’t know if it’s a cycle but it is vicious.

I see my psychiatrist today. I’ll probably talk about my difficulty accepting relaxing. Maybe I won't. I never know what I’m going to talk about besides of course updates on my “mental state.” I’m sure we’ll talk meds today. He had me on lamictal and as we were increasing the dose (this med was going to solve everything, by god) I developed an allergic reaction in the form of body wide rash that itched like hell. The rash is finally under control and fading but now the question becomes what — if anything — will replace the lamictal? I’m rooting for something without side effects. Such things do exist. Goodness knows I’ve experienced enough side effects over the past few decades. Lamictal rash effects only 5% of all patients who try it. Aren’t I special?

Hey what am I talking about? I ran nine miles today, finished a poem, finished this blog post, did some chores around the house and will get my head shrunk. This’ll have been a productive day. Tomorrow — the novel.

Hey! Wanna Meet Some of the People I See at the Gym? Well, You're in Luck (Warning: This Post Ends on a Somber Note)

As a teacher I am respected, appreciated and even loved. I have an ongoing mutual admiration society with my students. These days my higher ups think the world of me and co-workers enjoy my senses of fun and humor and often come to me for advice.  At work I am a garrulous dynamo. Similarly at family gatherings I am typically a delight and my presence adds to the occasion whatever it may be. All that being said I can be and often am a misanthrope. I am a sullen commuter with my nose buried in a book. I am the shy neighbor who barely manages a hello and avoids stopping for chats. And at the gym I keep to myself and don't use the setting to socialize. There are a few people at the gym I know and exchange how-ya-beens with, they are the exception. I go to the gym to work out and am serious and focused on doing so. I'm not interested in locker room banter. I want to get in my gym clothes and get to sweating or want to get dressed and go home. The very idea of talking during exercise is anathema to me. But I have ever been an observer. I notice other people, many of whom bug the heck out of me. I have been diagnosed as being hyper vigilant as many abuse survivors are. Little things irritate me and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. What follows is some of the people I regularly observe at my local YMCA. I don't dislike a one of them, but to a person they either vex or bug the hell out of me.

The Cadaver. I think this gym member is dead and no one has had the heart to tell him. He looks like a walking cadaver. This is true: Once he’d finished getting dressed for his workout and left as I went to the sauna. I was in the sauna for ten minutes and the shower for five. For the math challenged out there that totals 15 minutes. When I returned to my locker, there he was, his workout over, he was readying for a shower. He literally spends more time getting dressed then he does working out. It would be no never-mind to me except he always seems to use the locker next to mine. And forever gets in my way and I in his. The deceased “talks” but these verbalizations are in the form of half grunts half words. Whatever he says is indecipherable. His skin is veritably translucent and his movements suggest that rigor mortis has set in. I've never seen a bead of sweat on him, probably because all of his bodily fluids have long since evaporated.

The Pacer. Fortunately I rarely see the Pacer anymore, but when I do all my buttons are pushed. Part of the reason he bothers me so is that I sort of know him. His daughter was a student of mine a dozen or so years ago so we chatted at parent conferences and back to school nights and what not. When I first saw him at the gym we exchanged pleasantries. Now when we pass each other we give the quick head nod. The Pacer lifts weights. The Pacer — after every single set, mind you — paces the gym in a serpentine fashion. Seriously. This is wholly unnecessary and distracting as hell. I and many others are forever bumping into him during these circuits. If I’m on the treadmill or another apparatus I’ll see him walking by over and over again. Some people have said that this is very odd behavior indeed but they don’t see why it gets under my skin. I don’t either but it sure does. A half minute rest between sets is sufficient. What the hell this bozo is doing is beyond me.

The Gabber can't and won't shut his pie hole. If he put half as much time into exercising as he does to talking peoples’ ears off, he’d be in magnificent shape. As it is he has a protruding belly -- unusual for someone who logs so many hours at the gym. Last weekend I saw him buttonhole someone as I began a 30 minute run on a treadmill. When my run ended he was — you guessed it — still yakking at the person. I do mean “at” and never with. I’ve observed maybe precious few occasions in which someone got in a word edgewise. Perhaps worst of all he is a “close talker” as defined by Seinfeld. He turns his head at an angle and looks the person in the eye and prattles on no more than two feet from the poor sap's face. I’ll give him credit for one thing, he knows a lot of people. He never seems to run out of people to talk at. A few times I’ve seen him workout but I've also noted that he'll stop his workout if he notices a victim -- I mean a person -- to talk to.

The Popper is a fully grown man of perhaps 60 or more years. He is a distant second to the Gabber in talking, which is to say he talks one helluva lot. But he does take time out for exercise. What he is second to no one in is the thunderous sound he makes when popping his gum. Yes, an adult male popping gum. If you don’t know the Popper is there, that first pop can sound like gunshot. Even when you do know he’s present, the pops — which seem to come in 20-40 second intervals — are unnerving. I have never in all my years on this planet met or known of an adult bubble gum popper or smacker who is an intelligent human being. Imagine meeting the person who is going to perform your open heart surgery and find that he is popping gum. Or being introduced to your lawyer and as you're speaking she's smacking her gum. I am not alone in abhorring gum sounds. I realize some people chew during workouts which is fine. But popping? Gimme a break.

The Sniffer. Maybe its not his fault. Maybe he's got an allergy of some kind or asthma or a breathing problem or nasal or adenoid issue. In any case I’m certainly not alone in finding him annoying. As he runs on the treadmills he sniffs. Repeatedly. Loudly. I just want to scream at him to blow his goddamned nose, already. The fact that he doesn’t get off the machine and give his proboscis a good blow suggests that perhaps that is not a viable solution for him. I also wonder if he should be running at all given whatever is vexing his schnoz. Sniffs are another irritant to me and this bloke is a world champ at it.

The Sitter is a real puzzle. Here’s what I know about him: he is a successful immigration lawyer and he’s gay. Here’s what I don’t know about him: why he comes to the gym. On only a few occasions have I ever seen him in the workout areas and I have never seen him do any form of exercise or stretching. Where I always seem to see the Sitter is either sitting (hence the name) in either the sauna or on the bench outside of it. He goes back and forth between the sauna and the bench. I’ve also observed him showering and dressing. Maybe he considers taking off and putting on clothes and the rigors of a shower to be ample exercise. One person theorized that he’s there to pick up men. No. While there are gay men at the gym the vast majority of members are straight (pure conjecture on my part). Also, if he wanted to meet someone for purposes of sex he’d be better served going to Berkeley’s gay bath house which I assume is patronized exclusively by gay men and you can engage in the act right there. As an attorney he could certainly afford it. Maybe, suggested one person, he wants to look at men. No. No straight woman or gay men is going to enjoy most of the old coots, geezers, reprobates, eczema sufferers and lard butts that go to the YMCA. There are but few Adonises such as yours truly. I don’t know what this guy’s deal is.

The Beast. I award him this moniker for the noise he emanates while running or while on the elliptical machine. Every other breath sounds as if it is emanating from a water buffalo. I’ve never heard anything resembling it. It is a bellow that comes from deep down and suggests a great amount of air is being expelled most adamantly. I can’t for the life of me understand how a human can create such a noise, least of all during strenuous exercise. The Beast is of average height and slender, he certainly does not boast a frame that one would associate with such load exhalations. He also does one helluva work out. The beast is washed in sweat at the end of his workouts.

The Hummer, it shouldn’t surprise you, hums. Not the soft humming of a favorite tune but a loud tuneless hum of compulsion. I believe the hummer has no control over his humming. I recently worked with a woman who hummed constantly, never creating a tune. She hummed during conversations she was having and between bites of food. It bugged the hell out of everyone, particularly those of us (and we were many) who didn’t like her. This Hummer had a personality that was as sour and cynical and caustic as any I’ve encountered. The humming was the ideal background music for her angry trod through life. The gym Hummer may well have quite the opposite personality. Indeed I’ve noted him in pleasant conversation on several occasions. He seems agreeable and intelligent. But that goddamned humming has got to go. It's remarkable how loud and incessant it is. I believe if used as torture it would violate the Geneva Convention.

I close by mentioning a former member of my gymnasium "family." She was a woman who looked to be in her late 30s. She was a handsome woman whose body reflected her rigorous work outs. For many months we were on the same workout schedule so I saw her a lot. We often ran on adjacent treadmills and did so at a similar pace. Once she made an observation to me about the new treadmills the Y had installed. This led to a much longer and more pleasant conversation than I typically have at the gym. I saw her twice after that. Then I saw a photo of her on a website dedicated to news about Berkeley. She had died. Age 40 in her sleep of causes that were not revealed. She left a husband and seven year old daughter. She had been a middle school history in Berkeley. I had been a middle school history teacher in Berkeley for 20 years. Her tenure began after I left the district so I didn't know of her. The news hit me like a punch in the gut. For months thereafter (she died at the end of August) I would look for her in the gym hoping that the person in the photo was merely a lookalike. But in the gym they had a memorial photo of her. I still hoped to see her. A young successful woman with a family. Tragic.