Monday, December 04, 2006

Today's post brought to you by burning hamstrings and distraction

I swear: I used to be in good shape. I used to be able to run a sub six minute mile, ride a bike to school, play soccer for ninety minutes without someone warming up the defibrillator. Now? I sit behind a computer five days a week, waddle to the elevator for MSG smothered dim sum, and ride the bus home. When I'm not doing that, we're on tour, which is a see-saw between spurts of bastardized exercise and hours of trucker-like immobility. Sure, we carry gear and jump around on stage for an hour every night, but calling that real exercise is like calling the Santa Clause 3 a real movie: technically true but philosophically disingenuous. As an aside: I really wouldn't be upset if Martin Short was smote by a righteous God. Somehow, I'm guessing you wouldn't be either.

Anyhow, I bring this up because I'm incredibly sore. See, there was a time when a couple hours of basketball wouldn't turn me into a salty, hobbled curmudgeon. That time, unfortunately: not now. Had a damn fine time though, atrophied muscles or no. If you need me later, I'll be in an Epsom salt bath sipping a brandy & milk, moaning about "kids today" and the buffalo head nickel.

Also: after a couple false starts, today is the day where I'm going to listen to music for 24 hours in a row. I woke up to an alarm clock radio---God knows what song, though. I do remember hating it. But I hate anything that wakes me up. I'd hate a golden unicorn with a cappuccino and the New York Times, let alone muzak-y jazz jams. Where was I? Yes. Clock radio, the requisite snooze button of five, then, to the stereo and the iPod and the radio and whatever else it's going to take to saturate my entire day with songs. Gillian Welch is distracting me right now---in the best possible way, of course. I have trouble functioning with music on, by the way. So if you talk to me on the phone today or happen to my boss, expect ditsy preoccupation to be the mood. In fact, I'm having undue trouble writing this. On the other hand, Gillian Welch sings a mean country song.

Rather than spiraling into a sea of run on sentences, dangling modifiers, and all the other not-quite-the-end-of-the-world shit that drives me needlessly batty, I'm going to mention one thing. You never want to see this sign on the wall in the bathroom where you work:

"If it becomes necessary, there is a mop and bucket in the break room."

If that becomes necessary, let me know where you ate. I'd like to avoid that and anything else in a ten block radius. Thanks.


Sabrina said...

it happens to the best of us. This cold weather is killing my knees and I'm only 35. My exercise has consisted of walking up the escalator at BART on an active day and allowing this hunk of metal to slowly raise me to the surface on a bad day. It's been 6 months since I've seen the inside of a gym and I can feel the difference. I did 20 crunches over the weekend and gave up, just because. It must have been all the pie at Thanksgiving?

I guess you shouldn't worry too much. I don't think wizards need to have a six pack. & if you just stick with being a rock star you can rest assure there is no accounting for taste in the world, if you have a guitar in hand. There are plenty of shallow women for every out of shape and even unshowered performer.

(I'd hit the gym and stick with the girlfriend)

birdmonster said...

The gym is overrated. Too many machines (see? robots: taking over) and too stuffy. I have a better move: no more excercise. I'd feel good if I hadn't played basketball, so, see, it follows that I should just set up a permanent residence in a soft leather chair. That's my new plan, anyway.

birdmonster said...

(Good call re: wizards too. Beards are a must, abs: not so much)

Sabrina said...

most gyms are overrated & stuffy but it sure feels good to fit comfortably in your own clothes. I don't like having to unbutton the jeans to sit and breathe at the same time. & I'm not vain enough to starve myself. I love food way too much

in about 10 years you'll be saying.. "I'd feel good if I didn't have to get off my soft leather chair"

Merlin didn't have a beard in Excalibur, wasn't he bald?

elvette said...

In the vein of the map and bucket note, the term "blowout" as in "Huge Blowout Sale This Weekend Only!" has that effect on me.

The result of hearing a story about two gentlemen, a first date, brand new 1000 thread count Ralph Lauren sheets and some bad Indian food. (Needless to say, afterwards there was some sheet shopping and no second date.)

Sabrina said...

now that is just gross! People should know not to eat anything harsh on a first date.

I'm a firm believer in a One Way Street! for me anyhow....

How embarassing to be seen retrieving the mop & bucket.
I always wondered how it was physically possible to spray the walls. It's one of those nasty things that come to mind as you survey your surroundings in the bathroom.

Katie said...

I drove to Asbury Park, NJ yesterday to see Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin play at a bowling alley. On the way home, I listened to Time the Revelator about 3 times in a row. I've been listening to a lot of Gillian Welch lately because I recently bought the latest Chris Thile album and it had a Welch tune on it which prompted me to go back and listen to the original.

If you like Gillian Welch, you might also like Jan Smith.
Her album 29 Dances was one of my favorites this year.

Beards are hotter than abs in today's modern hipster society, anyhow. And I'm ok with that.

When I was 16, I worked at a fast food restaurant and once cleaned shit off a wall located.....not near a toilet. Sometimes those signs need to be put up, you know?

Anonymous said...

on a completely different note, one reason you may have trouble concentrating with music on is because as a musician you process music on the left side of your brain while the majority of people process music on the right side. the left side of your brain is used for processing language, etc so when trying to read, write or talk and listen to music musicians have trouble processing both because music is like a seperate language.

Jon Klein said...

Moparrhea is an intense explosion that typically takes place just moments before the cheeks have a chance to securely dock to the porcelain ass station. Gluteal turbo thrusters ignite resulting in catostrophic blast damage. A mop is always necessary to restore the effects of such incident.

birdmonster said...

Sabrina: Merlin was a punk.

Elvette: That's horrible. Horribly horrible. That said: also hilarious.

Katie: Ah, the Yeltsin. God bless those kids. I'll check out that CD. Good point about the beards too. Be happy it's not ponytails. No one would be pleased. Except Antonio Banderas.

Anon: Good call. You're probably right too. Today's post deals with all of that and, sadly, more poo humor.

Brousin from another Mousin: That was graphic yet strangely inspriring.

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