Shower of Shame

Too much information tripe

I've gotten a lot less modest as I’ve gotten older. I suppose that’s natural. Perhaps it’s the case that I’ve simply become less self-conscious, a function of both self-preservation and pragmatism. I just don't have the energy or the time to worry about what people think of me. Particularly when I'm scrubbing out gross places in the shower at the YMCA.

I lead with this little piece of uncomfortable insight to put this next item in context, I suppose. I'm really not that uptight about locker room etiquette. You can't be at the downtown Y, where the demographic mix makes for an almost anything-goes climate in the Men's Metro. Some of these old guys must have been pretty out there in their day, let me tell you. Wrap the towel around your waist, not your shoulders, pal.

So, in this light, I'm here to log a complaint.

There's a guy at the Y who takes dumps in the shower.

Let me clarify – there’s a guy at the Y who routinely uses the toilet located within the shower area.

I really have no idea why the folks who designed the Y a few decades ago decided to put a toilet and urinal right there in the shower, unless it has something to do with the general incontinence of all those old guys. Was this once considered acceptable? Yet there they are, recessed in the corner a bit but fully exposed for the world – or at least me – to see.

Mind you, there are a ton of toilets in the expansive locker room contained within perfectly civilized stalls. So, nobody – and I mean nobody – uses these vestigial receptacles in the shower area.

Except this guy. He walks into the shower area – he’s not even taking a shower; he has to make a special effort – and with towel wrapped around waist, down he flops on the toilet. The towel stays in place, for which I suppose I should be grateful. A few nerve-wracking minutes later and he’s gone, leaving only a flush and some mental scars for those of us trying to get clean.

He’s done this like five times to my direct knowledge, so it must be part of his routine.

Yesterday, I shared this life-affirming experience with a jovial Y compatriot, who is much less modest than I, I assure you. This fellow tends to use the dry sauna without the benefit of towels, and he’s not slight by any measure – after a few minutes of his jogging and bouncing about, you get the general sense that a sheepdog has just shaken itself dry in the sauna. Yum.

Even this unencumbered soul was at a loss for words when confronted with shower scatology.

“Mannnnnnnnnn…” he lamented in hushed tones. “Use the door, baby.”

I could never make it in prison.

And It's Free -- At Least for Now

Really a flattering pic.

Tech Tripe

I tend to frown on most consumer tech fads -- podcasting? -- but I've got to tell you that the Hello photo IM client and its BloggerBot just about rule the world. After a simple sign-up, you can just IM your photo to your Blogger site and, wham, up it goes. No hosting fee, no fee of any kind.

And people say monopolies are a bad thing. God bless Google and its Nebraska-sized server farm.

By the way, that's the bread van guy from a previous post. My friend Matt is a fine photographer.

Read a Comic Book, Will Ya?

Geeky Movie Tripe

I thoroughly enjoyed Batman Begins; even more than I expected I would, and I was unusually eager to see this one, for some reason I really can't explain. I'd agree with most critics that the film falters in the third act as it gives into the Hollywood penchant for huge set pieces -- but not as horrifically as you'd be lead to believe by the pseudo-intellectual critical masses who feel compelled to compensate for their pleasure at any aspect of a summer blockbuster.

The action editing is too choppy, to be sure. The director and critics have attributed it to an effort – perhaps misguided – to impart a sense of ninja stealth. I'm inclined to think that it's tough for a stuntman to pull off a convincing thrust kick in a stiff rubber suit.

My main complaint with the critics on this one is their insistence in saying the movie draws heavily from the works of Frank Miller, who authored the semi-apocalyptic "The Dark Knight Returns" and the far superior "Batman: Year One." Clearly, many of the story elements and visuals – young Bruce Wayne falling into the cave, the look of the Batmobile, the final Joker allusion – are boosts from Miller's work.

But the central theme of Bruce Wayne trying to channel his fear and anger into positive action owes far more the work of Denny O'Neil, who along with master artist Neil Adams created the fascist Ra's Al Ghul in the late 1970s for that express purpose. No one before had tried to explain why an obsessed vigilante such as the Batman refused to take the final step and kill; the convention originally was introduced simply to make comics more kid-safe.

O'Neil fleshed out this twist on dysfunction, as well as embracing the upper-class arrogance that tells Wayne he not only has the power to make a difference, but that he's entitled too. One of the main things I like about Batman Begins is its open concession that if not for Wayne Industry's weapons research, there would be no Batman; my least favorite aspect of the film is probably the pandering depiction of Wayne's father as a billionaire hippie doctor intent on giving away all his money.

In Miller's "The Dark Knight Returns," the protagonist is consumed with the idea that The Bat – which actually comes bursting through a window to "claim" him – is a elemental spirit of predation that possesses an utter lack of remorse for which Wayne yearns. The mini-series ends with Batman, now decowled, plotting the anarchistic overthrow of a government that has become worse than thieves and murders.

Hardly a guy who would try to hook back up with an old girlfriend in the D.A.'s office.

The idea of The Bat as Wayne's primal fear that must be channeled but not entirely conquered – that's the '70s all the way, man. I mean, the filmmakers used O'Neil's villain, who nobody – including a large number of geeks I know – had ever heard of. Is it that tough to do a little reporting, beyond reading whatever self-aggrandizing pabulum The Times ran with?

Personality Goes a Long Way ...

Hey, hey, hey ...

This gentleman was one just one of the charmers we ran into at a local karaoke bar in Bloomington during recent bachelor festivities. Even more fetching – at least to my way of thinking - was a gnarled fellow driving the rusted-out shell of a bread delivery truck.

Neither of these characters asked us for money – either they were too proud or too far gone. They were both smitten with a very pleasant, but a little rough, biker chick. The bread truck man kept telling her that they had a lot in common, given that he had three classic Harleys back at his home.

I don't think she was taking.

The Best Picture Ever Taken of Me

Full of and surrounded by hot air.

Serendipitous tripe

This photo was not posed. It was snapped by a friend of mine, Matt Stone, who was married a couple weekends ago near Bloomington, Ind. I had the pleasure of being the best man. It was a fine wedding. The reception featured opera grad students singing karaoke.

Matt is a professional photographer, as were two of the groomsmen. At various points, there were four professional cameramen snapping each other as they snapped the festivities.

I do not usually chew gum, but big, fat gumballs are a routine menu item when I'm on one of my caloric benders, which was surely the case this day. I suppose the surroundings sparked some subconscious urge to blow the bubble, but I can't imagine the odds of my gum perfectly matching the color of the wedding decorations.

I say it's the best photo of me ever because there's so much else to look at.

The Ultimate Irritation Machine

Self-aggrandizing tripe

I am tempted to urinate on the only other car parked on the sixth floor of my garage.

Problem is, I don't imagine the owner would notice, given that the ugly little BMW's color could best be described as "piss."

Please understand -- I park on the sixth floor every day because I am old and will surely lose my little Sonata if I don't. Really, I've been known to drop 30 minutes at the mall looking for my car. I have a lot on my mind. Like 37 years of deposits from cooking in aluminum pans.

Anyway, this ass -- I've seen his squirrelly little carcass leaving at 4 or so -- parks his BMW M3 across two spots in what is an otherwise vacant floor of a large gargage. (The facility was built in anticipation of an e-boom commercial district that obviously did not happen; after the third floor, it's clear sailing.)

I checked -- the M3 lists for $47,000 or so; in general, the thing reminds me of a mid-'80s Dodge Charger rehash. It packs a whopping 3.2 liter V6; my '03 Sonata pulls a 3.3 and cost me a cool $16,500. Of course, this thing is so ugly they probably had to throw in a couple UK football tickets to get some clown to drive it off the lot.

I'm a mess, to be sure. But I'd hate to have such a low opinion of myself that it was wrapped up in such a lame status item.

This is just gross

Confessional tripe

My jeans are digging in more than just a little bit after a day-long eating binge. I get like this about three days a month; it takes me the other 27 days to work off the pounds I pack on during these caloric rampages.

Adjectives fail; only a catalog can fully describe my shame.

Today, I ate:

4 Balance bars. I have to quit buying those in bulk; the bag lasts only a couple days, at best.
A regular Coke. I keep them for freinds, but it's a special day.
About four gum balls
4 or 5 steamed dumplings
An ample lunch of fried tilapia and Asian risotto. I cleaned the plate in like five minutes. Wasabi-miso sauce, yum.
An 8-ounce frozen yogurt
A Reese's Cup ice cream bar
A whole bag of black pepper Doritos. A big old bag. It said "No Trans Fat," so what the hell.
4 antacid tablets
A small Cold Stone Creamery sweet cream, with a brownie thrown in.
2 KFC Snacker sandwiches
A piece of Cappuccino cheese cake
An order of pancakes and eggs. Actually, I didn't finish these – they were not good, and even I have my limits.

My repentance begins tomorrow, when all I'll have to eat is a Big Salad for dinner.

I am so ready.

Up yours, Uncle Walt

A young friend of mine just showed me a handsome scar he earned this weekend thanks to a swan. Seems that he has playing fetch with a Labrador puppy in the pond on his family's farm when a swan took umbrage at the canine intrusion. The swan – as most large birds are want to do – rushed and pecked the much smaller dog. My friend jumped in to the save the puppy – who wouldn’t? – and in turn got a stout pecking himself, resulting in a nice gash on this thumb.

Having grown up as the victim of frequent geese attacks at Cave Hill Cemetery, I was a little unnerved by the whole story.

Animal lovers don't know much about animals.