Remembering Gord's Chick

I was reminiscing the other day while walking to the office about the changing face of the St. Catharines downtown core. I thought about Gord’s Place on James Str. and the times that I used to waste away there on weekends drinking my face off during my High School and University days.

Ahh, Gord’s. Yes, the den of inequity from which spawned a thousand pubescent substance abuse problems.

Specifically, I was thinking about what might have transpired to the infamous “Gord’s Chick” who also happened to frequent the place. “Gord’s Chick” was your typical Goth girl you see at any “alternative bar” you may wander into; all done up to the nines in retro lingerie, tights, knee high boots, pale make-up and black eyeliner…basically, your average local Siouxsie Sioux rip off. While there – and she was at Gord’s every night – she would dance up a storm to any hard-edged Goth tune the DJ had a mind to play at the time. She was part graceful ballerina; part whirling dervish. She was both scary and exhilarating to watch. It looked as if she was trying to conjure up some wrath of God via a typhoon, hurricane or some other random destructive act of nature…and man, was it sexy!

But where does someone go after being a Goth? What’s the next stage of the fashion evolution once you submit yourself to looking like a zombie corpse? I just can’t picture her in later in life wearing cowboy boots and skinny jeans dancing away at a Taylor Swift concert…but who knows? Maybe she has mellowed out in her old age (or whatever age it is that “old” constitutes itself as when you’re classified as an undead), popped out a few puppies and now lives on social assistance down by the railroad tracks.

You never know, do you?

I prefer to think of her as still raging against the dying of the light - a perpetual benchmark as far as full-time dedicated Goths go. I sincerely hope I see her again at some point. Perhaps at the market trying to buy kitten whiskers for her next witchy concoction, or maybe trying to raise spirits in some deserted graveyard or something. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll catch a glimpse of her dancing away by herself in some abandoned bus stop somewhere without a care in the world as if time had stood still and she was still back on the dance floor at Gord’s.

Jogging Your Mind About Running Safety

I have been getting more into long distance running as of late, and it seems I’ve been stressing about all the wrong things.

When I originally started pushing the 10-15km mark on these runs, my initial fear was typically in the usual areas: chaffing, cramping, proper hydration, nutrition, pulls, tears, sprains, heart spontaneously combusted inside my chest cavity – that kind of thing. Little did I know that there were much worse concerns that I should have been considering before heading out on these early morning death marches.

Specifically: crashing airplanes.

Robert Jones of Woodstock, GA was recently killed while running along the beach when a single-engine plane making an emergency landing managed to crash right on top of him. Sucks, huh?

But, hello? How does that happen exactly?

Where it’s true about why would a runner ever need to keep his eyes on the sky while out jogging, how on earth can you manage to miss a plane coming directly at you after it has fallen out of the sky? Well, it seems that Mr. Jones had a fondness for his iPod on these runs and therefore did not hear the airplane coming at him. I also assume then that Mr. Jones really likes his music loud.

Personally, I too love my tunes when I run but I doubt I would ever miss the sound of a crashing plane. This sounds more of a case of “stupid runner syndrome” to me, where once a runner begins to experience that euphoric rush of adrenaline, they also make the idiotic assumption that they are the center of the universe, where everything conscientiously revolves around and avoids them (ie. cars, cyclists, and as it were…crashing airplanes).

To this I would advise: turn down the Bon Jovi and focus more on the impending dangers going on around you. Trust that the impossible is possible and that stupid people are everywhere ready to hurtle into at high speeds reducing you to an oily smear on someone’s windshield.

Skull Quandary

Hey, maybe somebody slipped an asshole tablet into my Corn Flakes this morning or something, but what is up with the recent fashion trend of having skulls emblazoned on everything?

Who shops at Walmart exactly – the undead?

Seriously, on just about every t-shirt, casual shirt, and even dress shirt in the store there is a picture of a skull. Either as the main design across the chest, or small cutesy little skulls sewn onto the breast pocket the skulls are everywhere. When and how did this become the popular designer motif? It's as if the department stores of the world have performed some kind of mass marketing Vulcan mind twist on us all in order to convince us that skulls are, in fact, cool.

I’m sure the teenybopper vitamin-C deficient Goth kids and the greasy meth people you see hanging around at the bus station bumming cigarettes love their skull shirts - but I’m thirty-fucking-seven years old, dammit! I don’t particularly want skulls on my clothes, as I don’t feel that they accurately represent where I am at this stage of my life, thank you very much.

Can you image me wearing skull clothes? What kind of message is that to send out for a single thirty-seven year old man? “Hi, my name is Terry and I may or may not have a body in the trunk of my car. Can I get your number?” I'm not going to coax many dates that way am I? No! I’m likely to have an easier time teaching square dancing to coma patients.

Now, I’m not saying that I’m some kind of a fashion plate or anything – shit, I couldn’t get pussy from a dead cat. Even my fantasies just want to be friends. But if I were to suddenly take to wearing any of these plentiful skull shirts I’d give off all the sophistication of a two marbles rolling around inside a tin can.

Doesn't anyone wear shirts with cute, little harmless alligators or non-assuming horses on them anymore?

Mad Dash of Shame

There comes a time in every mature adults life where they must endure some single catastrophic event that ultimately humbles them enough to remind them that no matter how bad things can get that they could definitely be worse…a whole lot worse.

And I had just such a near tragic epiphany only yesterday. Yes, if you really want to take yourself down a notch and remind yourself how quickly things can spiral out of control simply try shitting yourself; because nothing says “I’m not in control of my environment” like a grown man standing on his front porch with his pants full of crap.

I must have done some really bad things in my past for fate to suddenly turn around and deliver such a lethal kidney shot to my already damaged ego.

And here I thought things had been going pretty well. I’m still working out and training hard, I’m eating healthily and I’m trying to look after myself. So how then did I end up sprinting down the middle of my street with my butt cheeks clenched tight to prevent the fecal matter from dripping down my pant leg?

If I knew that healthy living was going to come at the risk of spontaneously shitting yourself in mid-dash for your apartment complex then I might have reconsidered that gym membership. Likewise, I might have to ease up on the vegetable salads and bean dips in the future.

I suppose the glass-is-half-full attitude is that because I’ve now become accustomed to running in the evenings I can honestly say that the whole incident could have turned out worse had my mad dash to the front door been any slower. It could have escalated into a total Orange Alert situation instead of the minor toxic leak it was.

Who knew that the “Mechanics of Running” workshop I’ve been attending on Tuesday nights would prove so handy?

Nipping "Jogger's Nipple" In the Bud

I woke up today with a most peculiar ailment.

Now, I’m used to the aches and pains associated with living out an active lifestyle – particularly now that I’ve begun training in earnest for triathlons – but what I woke up to this morning transcends any level of comfort I had for enduring any sporting injury. You see, I woke up this morning with throbbing achy nipples. And I’m not talking about any slight discomfort here; I’m talking about a nagging pain as if I had spent the entire night breastfeeding a litter of baby badgers.

WTF?!

As it turns out, after a little investigation on the Internet I learned that I am in fact suffering from an acute case of what has become known as “jogger’s nipple”.

Oh goodie.

If having to take special care of the plantar fasciitis in my feet and the bursitis in my wrist – not to mention the developing arthritis in my elbow – is not enough, now I also have to worry about icing my man tits too?

I’m just not prepared to deal with this jogger’s nipple or any other nipple-related injuries for that matter! I think it’s time I rethink this whole healthy living thing!

After all, the remedies – albeit easy enough – just don’t sound too enticing either. Most informational sporting injury sites I visited simply suggested the wearing of and-aids on my nipples when I go for a run.

Pardon? That doesn't sound very masculine does it?

If I remember correctly that didn’t turn out too well for Janet Jackson either did it?

Shit, if I have to start putting band-aids on my nips I may as well just go full hog and get myself a pacifier and take to wearing sparkly leotards and face paint while I’m at it.

Sheesh!

Raking In the Terror

(This was conceptualized and written months ago but was promptly forgotten about. It was added now in hindsight as further warning of the pending animal apocolypse looming over us.)

A new research being conducted by Japan’s Institute of Physical and Chemical Research (RIKEN), conducted over a 60-day period, has taught 6 rodents to use tools – namely, a rake – to obtain food.

Now, obviously no one has paid the slightest bit of attention to me when I warned you all about the stick-wielding chimpanzees, so here it is again:

SMART ANIMALS ARE A THREAT TO US ALL!

It is not “cute” in any way. This signals another small slip for mankind towards an all out war with the entire animal kingdom for total supremacy of planet earth!

These rodents are actually degus who have learned to use a miniature rake to retrieve sunflower seeds from under a glass fence. This is the first known case in which rodents have been taught to use tools.

Swell.

First of all, shouldn’t the Japanese be more interested in utilizing their best scientific minds to research more important things like being able to take muff shots from outer space, or designing a sleek, fuel efficient automobile able to fold up into your wallet?

But I digress.

A Japanese scientist may someday also teach an octopus to tap dance, but at least that shouldn’t threaten man’s place on the evolutionary totem pole…although Gregory Hines may be a bit nervous. Clearly the Japanese researchers have not completely thought about the possible consequences of these particular actions. I doubt they’re looking to train a new wave of cheap labor to look after their Zen gardens, no sir! As it was with the chimps using sticks to stab their prey, it’s only a short leap from using a rake to firing an RPG at a school bus full of children.

Don’t put it past the fucking rats!

They already out populate we human’s almost a million to one or something crazy like that. Do we also need to teach them how to use tools? We’re not going to be happy until we just totally hand over control of the planet to our new rodent overlords. In fact, rats multiple so often that within 18 months a rat can have over a million descendents.

That’s a lot of potential rodent terrorists floating around with itchy trigger fingers!

In time, we’ll all just be subservient peons to our new rat masters who’ll be guarded by the militant stick-wielding super monkeys with robotic limbs.

How’s that for a bleak future?

I’d rather take one of those tiny rakes and have some chimp stab it directly into my frontal lobe now than suffer a fate to the Rodent Regime later.

Weightroom No-No

It’s already been established by this point that I have become a bit of a gym snob. I like my sweaty late night workouts; I like my exercise routines; and I like developing these things I’ve heard people refer to as “muscles”.

Cool.

I’ve even become the kind of person we all hate at the gym. The kind of person who wears all the hip, fashionable workout wear, sports the newest in gym accessories, and knows all the trendy drinks and protein supplements available on the market. A regular Jack Lalanne if you will – only younger and with more pigmentation.

Yep, I’m “that guy”.

That was up until this past weekend, however, when one of my normal gym visits took a rather embarrassing turn for the worse.

There I was, standing in front of all my buff, ripped peers by the water fountain struggling to get the top off my water bottle.

How embarrassing!

Not exactly a good sign when you start your workout by fighting to remove the lid from your water bottle.

Yeah, some tough guy, huh?

So what do you do? Do you ask someone else for help? Do you start tapping the lid with a small dumbbell to loose it, or do you just run the bottle under hot water?

Either way you’re going to look like a colossal pussy.