Spontaneous Exercise

As a word of caution, impromptu workouts can happen at any time. This is the excuse I manifested when I found myself in a surprise session of exercise.

I was strolling through a pleasant and attractive museum with vaulted ceilings reminiscent of Villa Dei Papiri of Herculaneum (Italy) when the most attractive of sculptures caught my eye. My jaw hung slacked and I rushed forward to absorb the vision but in my hasty steps I failed to notice the rise of the threshold.

My foot caught the threshold and the foot following caught my heel and I fell in a long swoop towards the floor. I landed with a loud enough smack to gain the attention of those already admiring the statue that had beckoned me forth, worse yet, my companion had noticed my folly.

I did the very first thing I could think of and placed my hands beneath my chest and began to push myself up, then lower myself again, and repeat this in rapid succession.

My comrade cries in shock, "Are you alright?"

I answer as if the voice of alarm was entirely unnecessary, "I'm quite well, thank you."

"What are you doing?" I was demanded.

I reply just as casually the second time, "Push ups" "Why!?" I am interrupted before i can say anything more.

There has to be a reasonable cause for impromptu work-outs? I state, "Why... I saw the stunning vision of this statue and realized that I must begin to tone my body immediately if I wish to resemble such form of a marble deity!"

My comrade helped me to my feet and I cleverly followed up, "Alright, that is enough push ups for now, but I will require a recess later to complete my routine with squats." Obviously my clever ruse could not have raised any distrust in my word. My folly could be seen as nothing other than sincere enthusiasm for exercise.


In fact, on some level it pains me to retell this event to the reader as otherwise there would have likely been no assumption that I was anything less than entirely honest when I excused my misstep.

The Airport Security

My confident gait carried me through an empty air port and down long empty aisles. Aside from security, the only people at the air port were couples that clung to one another tightly in their final farewells before crossing the gates.

I stared at the affectionate couples and felt as though they magnified the loneliness of my own solitary travel. A security agent summoned me forth to move me through security and I motioned to the coupled locked in a tight embrace.

"I see your terminal provides complementary good bye hugs. Where can I receive mine?" I ask. The agent regards me with surprise and I query, "Here? With you?"

She quickly answers, "No." and she moves me along.

The agent beside the security check points declares as though accepting a challenge, "I will hug you." I look upon this agent with surprise. He states, "You weren't expecting someone to call your bluff, were you?"

I promptly dropped my luggage on the belt and spread my arms to accept his hug. Without a moment's hesitation he turned and walked away...

Though I was mildly insulted to be rejected by a security agent, I try not to take it too personally. It is possible that he was aware of my adventure with air port security and a penis in a jar. He could have known his best option was to turn and leave.

I never did receive my goodbye hug, but another security agents awarded me with a hand five when I passed through without setting off a single alarm (a considerable achievement, considering myself).

You Should Know Mister Stalker

There was a woman I once had a fondness for. To express my appreciation I dedicated myself to learning every detail it was possible to learn about her.  Our courting held more likeness to an interview than to a date.

I asked, innocently enough, "What is your favorite song?"

She answered, "You should know Mister Stalker."

I'd never heard of this song but it sounded interesting. It sounded like an ominous warning depending on the inflection and tone. "You Should Know Mister Stalker". I anticipated what the song could be about.

My imagination lead me to believe the song was informing the listener of a fellow known as Mister Stalker. It seemed they advised you should be familiar with his tricks and his intentions. Obviously, Mister Stalker was a very interesting person... but someone to be cautious of.

I searched for the song but there was no word of it existing in English or any other language we conversed in. Finally I returned to this woman and in exasperation I admitted "I never found the song."

She questioned "Which song?"

I answered, "You Should Know Mister Stalker."

At this point she laughs and clarifies for me that she had not given me the name of a song. She was calling me Mister Stalker, and considering my thoroughness in learning about her, she teased that I should already know what her favorite song was.

I learned a valuable lesson that day.

1. I am Mister Stalker.
2. You should know Mister Stalker.

Another Almost Ghost

I encountered an almost ghost recently while residing a small distance from Tombstone, an infamous Ghost Town of Tuscon Arizona.

I had not visited the Ghost Town, plenty enough cow boys died in this vapid desert around Tombstone to make the vast flat land a grave in and of itself. But considering I was in Tuscon for business unrelated to ghosts, ghosts were the very last thing on my mind... until night fell.  As I lay in a bed, staring up into darkness, I heard a faint metallic clicking.

click click click click click click

I held my breath and listened closely. The subtle ring of metal with each click made a very specific sound. Spurs, sharp metal spurs that quietly rang after clicking with each foot step.

click click click click click click

It was easier to hear now as the foot steps drew nearer. I gripped my bed sheets and my eyes searched the darkened windows, waiting for the shadow of a fallen man to eclipse my view of the sky. My lungs were burning as I held my breath. A chilled breeze penetrated the hot desert air.

click click click click click click

The clicking became faint, and it left. I breathed a sigh of relief and I forced myself to envision a local cowboy that was simply passing through on his way to a motel after a night of pensive drinking. We were safe, there was no reason to fear the locals.

But after some minutes of silence, I heard that sound again...

click click click click click click

I whispered to my friend, "Do you hear that?" He did not say a word and I shakily admitted, "I think there is the ghost of a cow boy walking around. I hear the spurs, but I cannot see anyone."

My friend assured sleepily, "If there is a ghost it won't want anything to do with us. We have not done anything to upset him." This was easy for him to say.  How did he know I had not done anything to upset the ghost?

It had been a long road that I traveled to Tuscon upon, and I had been required to stop and relieve myself on the side of the road at least once. Pray tell, what if I had unknowingly urinated on this un-known cowboy's final resting place?

click click click click click click 

I fall silent, the foot steps were drawing near again. I hold my breath and wait.

click click click click click click

The same as they had the previous time, the foot steps fade into silence as the apparition passes by. I'm quite certain I cannot endure an entire night of this pacing spirit. Even if I do not always subscribe to believing in Ghosts, the sound was audible and immediate, making it very hard to ignore.

click click click click click click

When I heard the clicking once more I could no longer be still. I slid out of bed and began crawling across the floor in search of a sufficient place to hide. I blindly pawed my way around the room, head-butting into a chair and dresser as I turned in circles, perhaps in a clever attempt to hide from the approaching spirit.

I turned around after head-butting the wall and continued crawling, becoming more frantic as the clicking spurs grew louder. Finally I stopped when I realized with dread that the spurs were clicking over my head.

It didn't take me long to consider the absurdity of this. A vengeful cow-boy ghost with spurs was one matter, but a floating cow-boy ghost with spurs was another matter entirely. I cautiously looked up and found that overhead there were two metal tassels gently swinging under the fan. Their rotations brought them together and further apart intermittently causing varying volumes of clicks that followed a consistent pattern like a metronome.

To be certain, I stood up and took the tassels in hand and I was relieved to hear the clicking stop. I pulled on them both several times, turning the ceiling light and fan on and off in rapid repetition as I mused over how silly I had been.

"Knight! Go to bed!" My friend abruptly interrupted by investigation of the ceiling light. I quickly turned the light off again and returned to my bed with the satisfaction that I had survived yet another almost ghost encounter.

Even better, my only injuries from this almost encounter was some minor bruising from head-butting furniture in the dark during my attempts to hide.

Sissy

On a merry night in spring my company and comrades gathered close and minstrel played a friendly tune. To the song I regaled a musical tale calling one of the men present a sissy. I did not know the man particularly well, but that was no reason for me to not include him in a song that teased the others in our company.

I called him a sissy with the assumption that he would laugh at the accusation as confidently as the other men laughed at the jabs directed towards them. Instead he got very huffy, voiced that someone should stop me, and stormed off to give us all the quiet treatment.

My twin, Dame, pointed out, "You cannot go be a sissy in response to being called a sissy. That is not how you prove them wrong. That would be like telling a fellow he has a bad temper and he replies "No I don't!" as he punches you."

Coincidentally, he punched my twin the next day when she failed to notice he was making angry eyes at her.

Plans to write the song "Sissy, The Woman Beater" have not yet been made. In fact, quite the opposite, I've been asked not to write any more songs about Sissy. Actually, I've been asked not to call him a sissy.



.... sissy.
[They will never keep me down.]

Rock Dive

On a bright and sun filled summer day on the vast and placid Lake Mead many years ago, I could be found rapidly sinking to the bottom of the body of water, carried down by the substantial weight of many rocks.

Prior to sinking into the cold depths I had been admiring the rocks decorating the shores of the lake. I leaped from my boat to swim ashore and spend the sunny afternoon collecting rocks.

I gathered the smoothest and most colorful red and white rocks by putting them into my child-sized wetsuit. I was limited on how many rocks I could carry against my body but I was determined to pack the wetsuit with as many rocks as possible so I could share with others the treasure I'd collected.

It took some time until I was satisfied with my collection and content with returning to the boat. I stepped carefully along the shore and out onto the rocky peninsula to get as close to the boat as possible before having to make the swim.

I waved to my family that sat merrily upon the aquatic vessel and I leaped forward from the rocks into the water and began swimming.

The swimming was immediately followed by sinking. My substantial collection of attractive rocks would be my great downfall as I fought to return to the surface in a futile effort to overpower the weight dragging me down.

Finally my greed gave way to my desire to not drown for some rocks. I opened my wetsuit and let the rocks pour into the depths of the lake, allowing me to return to the surface. By the time I returned to my boat I had regrettably lost the majority of my treasure.

The few rocks remaining had settled into the lap of my wetsuit and were forgotten soon enough anyhow. My attention refocused on a photograph my parents were requesting, of me standing on the bow of the boat...

The picture, that my parents still have on display in the den, is pleasant enough if not for the rocks jutting from my wetsuit, granting the appearance of a set of balls and a horrific shaft that no child of 8 years old should be entitled to.

Admittedly much worse is that my parents insist there were no rocks within my swimming attire and that I simply had not yet grown into my (evidently disproportionately monstrous) genitals yet.

The Quest for the 'Holy Grail'

After much debating and negotiating a woman hatched a deal with me. I would be granted anything I wanted from her, anything, if I delivered to her a specific book. She told me the name of the book and warned me that I would learn it was exceptionally difficult to find.

With the name of the book in mind I ventured forth towards the nearest book store. The store had never heard of the book, had never held it on their shelves and had no sign of holding it in the future. I take my second choice and embark towards the Library. The library had no traces of the book, no catalog for it, no sign of ever holding the book or ever intending on having the book.

Rather annoyed with this turn of events, I returned home in defeat and dedicated time to research. The book featured an ominous cover and ominous title, muted colors depicted an image in textures and styles appropriate for the time it was made.

It was a lewd and scandalous novel, the cover made a subtle promise that tickled my curiosity. Unfortunately, the book had been out of print for over 40 years.

I refused to allow this turn of events to stop me, I would seek out the book, I would find it and I would present it to this woman in exchange for my prize. I searched for wherever the book could be hiding, I investigated online and in person.

Over the course of a year I'd poke my attention through various stores and antique locations, online and offline, always in search of the book and always returning empty handed. Friends who presented themselves to me a sleuths would be met with a challenge to find this book, and despite their earnest efforts, they would come away empty handed.

The book had become such a challenge, simply collecting my prize would no longer be enough. As soon as the book was within my hands I would greedily devour the book and read it from first word to last. The book that had remained hidden from the public world for so long would be a unique chapter of knowledge that I and few others possess.

The quest for the book would continue for four long years. Over this course of time I came into the acquaintance of a young Russian who soon became my friend. The Russian casually mentioned, "Between my friend and I, nearly the world is at our fingertips."

I carefully breached the topic, hopeful, but not expectant of success, "There is a book I've been looking for." I told myself that perhaps the Russian would have access to sources outside the country I had never known of, beyond what my previous comrades could accomplish through our efforts.

"What book?"

I answered, and to my surprise I was rewarded with success. The briefly mentioned friend sent me the book and as my eyes rolled over the cover I questioned the Russian, "Have you read it?"

"It does not interest me" were the final words I heard before I let the pages of the book consume me.

I read the book from the first word to last and finally conquered the goal I had pursued for years now.

 
I thought with bitter resentment on the scarcity of the book and how long it had been out of print. It had taken me till now to realize that perhaps the book was never truly known or recognized is because the book was horrible and poorly thought out.

Few owned the book because few were even willing to buy it. The book ceased to be printed because no profit was being made. I had spent four years now, eagerly hunting this book with assumption I was hunting a thing of worth.

I finally deliver the book to the woman who requested it. Admittedly she was impressed how thoroughly I had completed my quest but she was far less impressed with the book and scarcely skimmed it.


At least my prize made it worth it, God damn it.