Tag Archives: chris graham

The Cuba Experience

(I don’t have time for rewrites and zero flair for editing in pursuit of publication so here you are, in its entirety. Not necessarily exercise but we did walk (infinity) miles in pursuit of each day’s adventure 😉)


We began by the mention of a Cuban sailing expedition.

A year prior my friends had made the trip and they were so full of amazing stories and experiences that could only be read in their eyes and expressions so I had to make the trip myself.




Leaving on the sailboat out of Naples, Fl. I had only just gotten off of my flight an hour or so before we were thrust into the sea, our bow cutting through the six foot waves to make it out of the harbor with the wind blowing in and the tide going out. I worried that we were in for a rough crossing but was assured that most likely this was as bad as it would get.

The night proved that to be untrue.

As we plunged down the back side of one crossing wave and up the front of the next there were times I was worried about the entire boat going over on its side and filling with water, dumping us into the tepid waters of the Gulf and setting us adrift like so much flotsam from a freshly sunken sailing vessel full of equally intrepid travelers.

Morning brought at least the relief of being able to see what was coming over the horizon but the waves continued to roll in and toss us like a child’s pool toy.

Soon though the sea deepened and we were sailing over a vast canyon. The charts indicated that the depths were now measured in thousands of feet instead of hundreds and the water was alternating between midnight blue and shades of iridescence.

The rolling ocean became more of a gentle rocking and we were like infants in a bassinet with sleep finally coming at ease.

A little too easy.

I awoke to a “HOLY SH*T!!!” from my current co-captain and adrenaline flooding my system in an instant, peed a little in my board shorts and struggled to maintain control of my spasming colon. I sat bolt upright and saw a huge ship having already passed us about 25 yards off of our bow. It had approached as we were paying absolutely zero attention and motored by us silently not even registering that we were there.
A mere twenty five yards is what separated us from blissful ignorance and the deep six and I for one am grateful for the chance to live on.

Suddenly and “inexplicably” alert I decided to try some fishing so we threw out the lines and motored on. After what seemed like an eternity both lines suddenly started to sing and the fishing string began peeling off of both reels in a hurry. We each grabbed one and the fight was on.

My compatriot and I each began reeling for our lives and the fish were fighting us for every inch. My line kept peeling off of the reel and I’d fight back, winding for all I was worth, my brother doing the same thing all the while.
Eventually his catch broke the surface and we saw that it was a 2ft Bonita. Fun to catch and an amazing fighter but not good to eat. When my fish finally came up we at first thought it was the same thing but on second glance found that it was a bluefin tuna. SCORE!!!!!


We couldn’t wait to get that baby on board and make some tuna steaks, poké or whatever else came to mind. It’s in the freezer right now waiting on our decision.

The rest of the day was uneventful and we sailed on through the deep blue waters that now belonged to the Atlantic.

First Sighting

Having gone back down to sleep for a while I woke back up in the dark and glanced outside only to see a thin line of lights on the horizon. Approximately 30hours after our journey began, we finally had Cuba in our sights.



Motoring into the harbor we tied up at the dock and began my first interaction with the Cuban people. It was 11 o’clock at night but several people were on duty at the government controlled dock. A well dressed and pressed gentleman greeted us cordially and a documental parade rivaling the amendments of the American constitution ensued. Our passports were checked and rechecked, forms filled out then filled out again. We had a VERY thorough examination by the official Doctor which consisted of our collective temperatures being taken with a device that read our internals never even touching us. For a moment I felt like I was in a star trek episode.
We were then asked into the customs office and told to fill out another form which turned out to be our tourist visa. Our picture taken and our visa stamped we the. headed back to the boat while we were checked out by what I assumed was a recreation of the WOPR computer from the teenage Matthew Broderick movie War Games. After what seemed like an eternity later we were told “Welcome to Cuba” and off we went to find our moor for the duration of our trip.

Upon finding a spot to tie up near a booming nightclub we were greeted yet again by a small mob of helpful gentleman who worked for the marina and the dock master himself. They docked us and seemed incredibly grateful for the tips they received. That small gesture alone made the rest of my trip a breeze. Tipping even a small amount means a great deal to the average Cuban citizen who in general makes very, very little money and anything extra is like a Christmas bonus. If a $1 cerveza becomes $2 it’s not much to me but if a persons salary in this country is say, $30 a month that’s a damn good bonus. How do you think you’ll be treated if you hang out at that particular bar for say, six or thirty beers?(Actually most bars in the neighborhood are more like a walk up snack shack. The front of the building (loosely termed) opens up to the street and voila, your half lidded afternoon awaits!)
Anyway, back to the dock. The dock master came on board and filled out even more paperwork, informed us of the costs of our stay, accepted our tip and off he went, taking his gang with him.


The local marina security guard stayed around to introduce himself and await his tip as well. It’s never a bad idea to make sure that security gives even a minuscule damn about your property in order to retain said property for the trip home. I was told several times that crime and theft in Cuba were very low but I still wondered why there were bars, fences and gates surrounding every property in the neighborhoods as well as the city of Havana.
Having been in the country once before, my traveling companions had met and befriended a “taxi” driver (herein referred to as “Captain Taxi”) and his beautiful wife so we made a call and arranged a day of sightseeing, shopping, drinking and man stuff.
Drinking cervezas from morning until night doesn’t seem to be frowned upon by many of the Cuban people and we felt obligated, nay, delighted to partake in the local customs. Cristal seems to be the local favorite and is much like an American style Pilsner.

My favorite of the local brews was one called Claro, much like the champagne of beers, Miller High Life but being a fan of darker brews I’m still on the lookout for a robust and tasty beer. I’m told I need to visit one of the breweries for that so it’s on my list. One to steer clear of unless getting incredibly “sh*tfaced” (*techical term, not to be used by the layman) in the span of say, three beers, is your goal, is one called 8•6.



The name also an indicator of the alcohol content and, if you’ve ever worked in the restaurant business, the sign that it’s probably over for you in short order.
We stopped at one “bar” in a neighborhood for a beer and found that the beautiful young girl behind the counter that served not only cerveza and sodas but also loosely termed “pizzas” in a country with almost no dairy products, and an instantaneously addicting elixir known as Cuban Coffee. A sweet, viscous, black as night beverage with a powerful punch served in a child’s tea party cup.



If you ever, and I seriously mean ever, get the chance to drink this incredible coffee, don’t ever turn it down. Buy several, tip heavy, prepare for your journey of enlightenment.

*Side note: This morning I decided to make my own and add Irish cream. I drank it like I usually do and finished a pot in short order. I’m currently projectile sweating and can accurately predict the future of any living being on the earth. I’ve cleaned the boat from top to bottom, donning scuba gear to scrub the hull and much like Festivus, performed feats of strength for the occasional horrified passers by. I picked up one scurrying housemaid on her way to the local hotel and spun her like a circus performer spins a plate to the delightful sounds of “AAIIIEEEEEE!!!!!” before she was wrestled away by her equally frightened grey & white clad compatriots, all in my head, of course.
Such is the joy of mucho amounts of sugar and a generous dose of booze at 5am on a Tuesday morning.

Off To Havana

We were told that the bus ran every hour on the hour from the hotel near our dock so we
decided to hitch a ride. The bus is $1 C.U.C, (fondly called the “Kook” by the touristas) the official monetary unit of Havana with the rest of the country operating on the Cuban peso. After hearing that the American dollar was taxed at 10% before exchange we had each decided to try our own approach with one friend getting Canadian money, me getting the Euro and our captain sticking with the dollar. With the exchange it seems that I came out on top but being a mathematical midget a.k.a. “little person” I can’t be sure.

The bus must be on island time because it arrived precisely 30 minutes late and proceeded to take us all the way to the next stop two miles away where we were told that’s all the further it went and another bus would be along “on the hour…”
We’d been riding with an older British couple from north of Newcastle near the border of Scotland and we collectively decided to take one of Cuba’s numerous 1950’s leftover American jalopy’s turned taxi cabs the rest of the way. I’m not sure but I think our ride was a ’52 Dodge Death Wagon.


I could be wrong but that was the phrase that continued to run through my head the entire harrowing way. It was a four door and the posts had been cut from between the doors and a piece of rebar welded from side to side to support the car and keep it from caving in like an origami racer. I was informed by gesture and interpretive dance by our faithful guide that I needed to hold on to the main body of our steed because my door had a habit of opening on its own and I could slide out to my impending doom. The seats had given out somewhere around 1971 and I thought maybe I should have been asked permission before being nearly violated by the spring prodding me in the backside. The driver however, drove like a seasoned pro. Dale Earnhardt himself would have genuflected in the presence of this automotive wünderkind. Weaving in and out of “traffic” he mastered that four wheeled scow as though he was Yo Yo Ma and it was a cheap rental cello.

I use traffic as a loose term.

It was more like one huge train with thousands of cars and a small gap between each one.
Using the horn was as arbitrary to him as me using my middle digit to indicate my disgruntled “hello” in traffic and this guy was a master at “The Finger”. He drove in and out of the mob with a quiet disregard and as much concern as a child with a hot wheels car has while weaving between his action figures on an imaginary track.
He dropped us off a couple blocks from the city center indicating that was all the further he could go and I soon understood why.

Downtown Havana

As we began to drift our way to the huge city center square I was struck by the amazing amount of garbage in the streets. I thought New Orleans was the epitome of filthy streets after witnessing the aftermath of Mardi Gras but it is now reduced to mere “dirty” status. It seems that even though we saw garbage cans everywhere on street corners and in the middle of the esplanade, I watched as the tourists looked for a place to leave their garbage while the natives dropped theirs with complete disregard wherever they stood.


The street in front of the capital building was torn to shreds and channels cut every which way. We were told that Internet cables and new electric lines were being installed and Havana was on its way to being a modern city. I understood then why our driver could go no further. His car and its zero suspension wouldn’t have made it ten feet.
The center however was PACKED.
Being Monday it was the destination of every vacationing tourist (including us) and anyone with absolutely anything to sell. We would walk two steps, tell someone we weren’t interested in their peanuts/meat/convertible car tour/daughters (“yo siento, no”) and move on only to be stopped by the next guy who had us pegged as American tourists. We did give in when we spoke to a gentleman who offered us Cohibas at a good price so we decided to give them a look. He led us two blocks away, down a seedy, dilapidated alley and up a set of stairs inside a dark doorway where I swear I heard the Cuban equivalent of banjo music.



I was actually afraid that we were getting ready to be mugged as a “Welcome to Havana” gesture but the guy turned out to be a decent man. We bought many boxes of cigars from him at an amazing price compared to US equivalency and felt we made quite the deal. I have no idea where he got them but it seemed after talking to several of the same kind of guy, there’s a brisk trade in under the counter cigars. Everywhere we went men would see us with the boxes and offer to sell us more. We wanted them but nobody wanted to carry any more. I was informed later that many people who work in the cigar factories, in order to survive and supplement their sham of a salary, take boxes and sell them to people just like me and my friends. A $50 bill for a box of Cohibas is an absolute steal but the five boxes we purchased from our new best friend and cigar hookup beat his monthly salary by up to five times. Later in the week we were led to a shack of a house where yet another gentleman sold us seven more boxes at the exact same price. He even treated us each to a free cigar that later I found out was the number one rated Cohiba this year.
Everywhere there were street vendors and little closet like stores selling cerveza and small burger looking sandwiches aptly named “hamburguesa”. As of this writing I haven’t tried the burgers but they’re on my list.

(***I finally got the chance and for $8 cuc was treated to a slab of mystery meat with two quarter sized dollops of indiscernible hot sauce on a sesame seed dinner roll. Disappointing on the heels of what was actually really good tapas but the roll was pretty tasty.)


Sloppy Joe’s, a former favorite of Ernest Hemingway, is a prerequisite stop on any tour of Havana and Key West so we stopped in but left after 20 minutes of being ignored while sitting directly in front of the bartender. I was willing to spend my dollars and of course tip well but I realized why the place was almost empty when others were completely full. The service was terrible.
(***I have since returned and although the drink service was a bit more attentive (not a lot), it took 45 minutes to get three tapas plates when there were less than 20 patrons, three of whom had food while I was there. I guess “island time” is a factor the world over. I ordered the shredded pork mini tacos, the prosciutto and cream cheese roulade with honey and the pork medallions with what looked like chimichurri not really realizing I was gravitating to my favorite animal to eat but each plate was really very good and the best commercially made meal I had in Havana.)

Back to Havana

My traveling compatriots, seriously having the time of their lives decided to rent a little two bedroom house a few miles away arranged by our intrepid friend with a maid and a cook and most importantly, air conditioning.

The hosts of that fine and amazing house that was an oasis in a neighborhood looking like a World War II demolished French village also made what became my favorite meal in Cuba.


Eradio, a Cuban baseball fanatic,who knows for absolute certain that local player Kendrys Morales singlehandedly won the 2015 World Series for the Kansas City Royals and his beautiful wife Landia made us grilled, open faced lobster tails with clarified butter and freshly crushed garlic, another lobster dish made with pieces of the still shell clad tails and an amazing red peppered sauce that went amazingly well with the delicate rice. Fried bananas and sliced tomatoes with shredded carrots topped off the meal and I couldn’t get enough. Eradio made me a Cuban coffee after dinner and gave me a glass of fresh guava juice as well as a slice of chilled guava. I’d never tried the actual fruit and was surprised at how hard and prolific the seeds were.

As I’m constantly surrounded by people in my every day and the little rental was a two bedroom I was more than happy to take my leave and go back to the boat by myself.

It was spectacular.

The first night I made dinner with some chorizo that I’d purchased at a local super mercado and some pasta I’d found on board. I thickened the sauce with an egg and holy haysoos it turned out good. I was in bed by 8 thinking I might go down to the local hotel bar later in the evening but woke back up at 1am and delightfully went right back to sleep.
The next night, with the same intentions in mind, I got back to the boat after running around the countryside with our taxi friend and did the exact same thing.
Before though, I had decided to visit the US embassy and with any luck, meet our ambassador to Cuba so I left the marina and headed for town. I ended up walking about 10 kilometers trying to find the right bus and finally hailed a cab for $10 cuc. He took me to the front door of the embassy by way of every back alley, hooting and whistling at every pretty girl along the way, asking if I had a wife or girlfriend and if I wanted a Cuban girlfriend.
Keeping my libido in check I asked if we could just soldier on to the embassy.
After being dropped off at the front door and watching him drive away I walked over to the guarded gate, informed the guard as to my nationality and asked if I could come in and visit the embassy. I was immediately told “No way, José” and informed that although I was welcome to visit I would have to call and make an appointment. I found that to be a difficult proposition as I hadn’t had cell service since a couple miles offshore of Florida. I’ll see if I can regroup and try again another day.


(At least a hundred flag poles in front of the embassy with the Cuban flag prominently displayed and the American flag down in the bottom right.)

Once again trudging the streets of Havana, I walked along the street and sea wall fondly called the Malecón by the locals and the gathering spot for friends, lovers, the lonely, the happy and the sad, toward downtown and decided to cut inland and see some more of the city.


What I got was a glimpse of the seedy underbelly of a government consumed by itself. While the tourism areas of town are being built up and rehabbed to their hopefully former glory, the rest of town is literally crumbling away.


Piles of rubble litter the street and trash is everywhere. Everyone I’ve met on this trip has been incredibly nice and very helpful but even being a pretty large and occasionally intimidating looking man It felt a bit dangerous to walk the streets alone. No real reason to believe I was in any imminent harms way, just a general feeling of angst and extra watchfulness. Maybe it’s the abject poverty and seeing that the people don’t really have anything to lose.
Finally, having walked to the capital building from the embassy, (I was proudly informed that although the US capital building was the tallest governmental capital building in the world, theirs was now three feet taller) I wandered about and finally decided to splurge on a classic car tour and hopefully a ride back to the marina. I settled on a ’56 Buick with what I was told was a 2005 Mercedes Benz diesel motor and negotiated a $30 tour. Basically $10 more than a regular cab ride and well worth it.

Enciento (I think I’m saying it right) is from northeast of Havana. He inherited his car from his father and is hopefully making a good living with it. He took me all over. Down the Paseo and through old Havana then through new Havana, the difference being old Havana was built around the 1820’s-1830’s and new Havana is about a century newer.
We went through revolution square and past the largest cemetery I’ve ever seen in person. Embassy row on what I was told translated to Fire Bunny avenue was eye opening. Every country I’d never thought would want an embassy in Cuba has one. South Africa, Jordan (I think), the huge Russian embassy, and the precisely groomed and immaculate Swiss embassy along with many, many others.
Enciento was kind enough to allow me to act like I’d driven his car and even took a few pictures of me behind the wheel.
My dad is going to be amazed.


The Back Country

Captain Taxi, our intrepid driver, fixer and friend, is a literal driving force and arranger of our days. His faithful steed is the omnipresent loved and equally hated Russian Lada. It looks as though a 1980’s Volvo, a 1985 Civic and a 1983 BMW 3 series had a sadistic threesome and the Beamer wound up preggers. After the embargo the Russians flooded Cuba with these cars and having no other real alternative than say, the Yugo-esque/Ford Festiva wannabe Fiat of yor, many Cubans are still driving them.

Captain Taxi. Is. A. Master.

As we rode around town one fine afternoon, the Lada began coughing and lurching as my cat Henry is wont to do when he’s coughing up a particularly dry hairball. The Captain pulled over by a really nice park which turned out to be a wonderful setting for Lada-auto 101 de Cuba.
“No pro-lem!” With a smirk on his face and a “watch this” attitude, he switched the #2 & #3 plug wires, started the car again, revved it up, shut it off, re-switched 2/3 and started up again with the engine running perfectly. I don’t know if there was a little back flushing going on in the fuel filter but it was pure genius.
Another time, we were driving off into the back recesses of the north central coast at night and the lights suddenly flickered and went out.
Popi pulled to the side of the road, shut off the engine and stuck his hand under the dash. Fooling with his wiring and/or fuses by feel, the lights suddenly came back on and the forever phrase “No pro-lem!” flowed from him and once again we were hurtling into the void.

When we pulled into a neighborhood where the local fishermen sold their goods I was informed with a thumbs up gesture “You no speak. You talk and she know you tourist, price 👍🏼 PPFFFFT!!!”


So, as I watched the cane fields burning in the distance, he disappeared around the corner only to appear minutes later to gesture me back, taking me to meet the local fish monger.
He had informed her that I was a comisaro (cook) from the United States and was interested in buying some fish.
She showed me several fish I’d never seen before along with some parrot fish and what looked like white mullet along with pulpo (octopus) that although is amazing, I couldn’t imaging stinking up the small galley on the boat with that juicy baby. I could smell it even frozen.
We settled on a dozen lobster tails that looked 6-8oz each for $40. A damn fine price since we hadn’t been able to dive on the way down to catch our own. We had the one tuna but I think I’ll wait and see what she has today.

All through the little what I would call a village, there were people walking in the streets, calling out to one another, greeting each other warmly, catcalling and generally happy to see one another after a long day of doing whatever job they’d been given. The little bars were all lit like tiny las vegas’s and advertising their particular specialty foods along with pictures of the various beers they carried. Although devastatingly poor, the natives are also fiercely proud and hopeful for the future of Cuba. In general, happy that Fidel has stepped down for a more progressive Raul and soon, with all the hope they possess, a younger, progressive man that will pull Cuba and its people back into the modern world.

(***BTW, currently doing jumping jacks and stretching into shapes I never knew existed after this mornings Cuban caffeinated elixir.)


Heat Wave

It was twelve degrees when I walked outside this morning.


I shrieked like an adolescent girl at a Hansen concert and ran back inside to cower in the warmth for just a bit longer before forging ahead into the dark and frozen winter wasteland that is Kansas City.


(at twelve degrees)

Trying to whistle a happy tune but only making a horrifying blowing noise with steam flowing out of my mouth like a ketchup packet filled with stale air and mucus being slowly driven over, I made my way to the truck.


Have I mentioned that it was twelve degrees?

Even the truck protested at being awakened in the frigid morning. If an inanimate object can fake emphysema, my truck has it. Having been a daily chain smoker for 11 years now, it wheezes in the morning while coughing like a career coal miner with three pack a day unfiltered Lucky Strike habit.


I have to admit that while feeling completely asinine for donning a swimsuit in order to immerse myself in water this morning, it was really nice getting in the pool. Pausing between laps to discuss our respective Christmases, the Aqua-Ettes and I were feeling pretty good doing our laps and listening to the oldies station (although I do find it disconcerting that the oldies are now ye olde Duran Duran and the timeless classics by Depeche Mode).


Having let the shower warm up for approximately 40 minutes I hopped in, climbed the ice waterfall that had formed at the shower head and scrubbed myself in record time.

Looking down at the pride and joy I realized that the goods were missing.
I was as smooth as a JC Penny’s mannequin (one less thing to do my thinking for me…)


Disregarding my lack of manhood (who needs it) I ventured back to the parking lot and drove my wheezing and smoking coal miner back to the house.

Ps. Eleven degrees by then. Mother Nature can suck it.




That unwanted and unnoticed trickle slowly and sedately making it’s way out of the corner of your mouth when you’re:

A: On a wonderful cocktail of pain relievers and anti-inflammatories.
B: Napping where other people are not napping.


As you jerk awake like you’ve just dreamed that you’re in imminent danger of being turned into the squishy stuff between a raging elephants toes, you smack your lips and realize that although the dream wasn’t real, the people looking directly at you are.


You wipe the crystallized trail from the side of your face (of which such sediment can only mean that there’s too much sodium in your diet so lay off the ‘tato chips) and act as if nothing happened while in your mind you’re still figuring out where the hell you are and trying desperately the get your sh*t together.


Next time pay attention to the warning labels on your medications but for now, take your foot off of the brake and get out of the intersection.


Ps. I recommend throwing your back out occasionally so you too can have such interesting mornings 😉

The Wing Suit

And so Friday morning happened…

I learned a valuable lesson.


After watching innumerable YouTube videos and making all of the required purchases I found that a wing suit is not nearly as aerodynamic in the pool as in those worldwide base jumping videos.


I came walking in to hoots and cheers from the Aqua-Ettes clad in my new suit with the screaming raven stitched onto the back and dove into lane three between the chatty lassies water jogging in lane four and Samantha L. Jackson in lane two jabbering away colorfully with my special friend. “What the &*$# is that?!?!” I heard her say.

The dive was smooth and flawless but my new leather helmet immediately shifted all the way to the back of my head and began choking me with the nylon chin strap and the goggles leaked profusely, blurring my vision.


The suit quickly filled with water and became the sea anchor I should have known it would be but hope clouded my judgement as it so often does.

Trying to salvage even a smidgen of my dignity I reached down in the water and ignited the smoke packs I had so hoped would trail my sleek and elegant swim through the pool leaving a mystic smoke that was a wonder to behold.

This was not the case either.


Enormous gouts of red smoke came belching out of the depths of the pool from my ankles making my eyes burn and everyone else around me shoot away like grease from a drop of Dawn in the sink.

A strange film was left on the surface of the pool like an oil slick and I was left to trudge up the wheelchair ramp wheezing puffs of red smoke with every step and the sound of unrestrained laughter emanating from every corner of the aquatics center.

The maintenance crew showed up just as I was leaving and I heard one guy mutter under his breath “Oh, it’s him again…”


Thank (insert deity here) it’s Friday.

I think the ladies should pay for my membership just for the entertainment quotient I bring… 

The Hottie

I met a new girl at the gym last week.

She was beautiful.

I don’t mean just good looking but really beautiful like an airbrushed Health & Fitness magazine cover model.


I noticed that she’d gotten into the pool when I resurfaced after a particularly grueling set of laps.

I had ingested a mere 1.5 gallons of chlorine tainted pool water while thrashing back and forth like a first timer in the ocean during a shark attack so what I’m trying to say is, I looked pretty good myself.


As she finished her lap she stopped for a minute and I though maybe I might lay a smooth line on her.

Maybe something classy like “Do you come here often sugar britches?”


What actually came out of my face was “Good morning!”

A big smile broke out on her face and he said “Hi!” (Perfect teeth, of course)

Me: “I haven’t seen you here before.”

Supermodel: “This my first time but I like it so far.  Everyone’s been really friendly and it’s close to my house.” (Sweet!)

Me: “Oh, did you just move into the neighborhood?”

Supermodel: “Mmm hmmm.  I’ve been traveling between Paris and Milan between jobs (supermodeling, of course) and I decided to come home to Kansas City.  It’s kind of a lonely life and I want some new friends.” (OMG, I’m feeling faint.)

Supermodel: “I found a great house about three blocks from… wait… “
As she said that last word “wait” her hand rose out of the water and her delicate finger was pointing up and down from my chin to about mid chest.
I looked quickly down to see what she was pointing at and the thin line of snot that had apparently been flowing out of my right nostril had decided to slowly escape the confines of my face and rappel toward the earth at a snails pace (and also viscosity).  It was hanging about eight inches off of the bottom of my chin.
It was also sickly multicolored and as I frantically tried to hide the evidence I sneezed , blowing the biggest snot bubble I’d ever seen.  This includes the multitude of YouTube videos I’ve seen late at night (laughing maniacally). 
It looked like I was trying to envelop my head with a green, yellow (& a little red) translucent and lumpy balloon.
The supermodel had a look of pure horror on her face and I could see her gag reflex working furiously as she did her best to keep her (dainty, I’m sure) breakfast from making an appearance.
I ran as fast as I could toward the ladder (which is kind of funny because running in chest deep water is incredibly slow) and exited to pool, leaving my towel, goggles and dignity behind.
I haven’t seen her since.

A Word To The Wise

I heard the most ridiculous thing today.

The Glamour Boys were having their usual Oprah Winfrey show going on over in lane four when a strikingly beautiful woman walked out of the gym door leading out to the parking lot wearing pink yoga pants.

With the huge windows next to the pool you can see the entire lot and the conversation screeched to a halt (yes, complete with scratching record…) while the boys watched her walk away.


“Man, would I like to get in her pants…” one said to the other.


Now, I don’t know about you but that line really stuck with me for a couple of reasons.

1. He’d look awful in pink.

2. She was like, waaaaay smaller than him.


I could see in my (psychotically bent) minds eye this huge man trying to get those teeny little pink trousers onto his enormous frame.

The seams would blow apart like an incredibly over inflated balloon and he’d be left wearing a little pink waistband and some tattered remnants around his ankles.


Plus the authorities would have to be involved because let’s face it, both he and she would be half naked in the parking lot at that point, several laws having been broken or, at least bent beyond any reasonable flexibility.

Let’s take a look shall we?

1. Theft. (the pants themselves)

2. Public nudity. (two half naked persons of semi interest)

3. Lewd and lascivious behavior. (Glamour Boy in pink stretch pants)

4. DIsturbing the peace.  (Seriously, at 5:30 am the sound of rending seams on pink yoga pants drowns out the sound of a woman screaming about losing them.)


As the pants trying-on-er was being carted off to the loony bin (still in my psychotically bent mind) I noticed that the pink remnants of the yoga pants complimented the stark whiteness of the straight jacket nicely…


To recap, gentlemen, you NOT want to get in her pants.




Exorcise & Die-eting

I’m dying inside.

Just a little bit each day.

After several months of dedicated self emasculation and exercise I decided to make my way over to the absolute liar sitting benignly on my bathroom floor just to see if I’ve made any progress.


I stuck my toe out towards the scale & I actually heard it growl at me.  It had a menacing look but I was dedicated to my task and I stepped aboard.


I was delightedly surprised to see that in the last 6 months of swimming, running, weightlifting and projectile crying I had lost absolutely zero pounds.

Not.  One.  Ounce.

My eyes welled up and threatened to spill over.

My first thought was “What the *&%# have I been doing this for?!?!”

My second thought was “Maybe I should lay off that third funnel cake and the half pound of bacon in the morning…”


So, rationale took over and I’ve begun to diet as well as exercise.

The first few days didn’t go so well.

On day 1, after a breakfast consisting of 6 wood chips and a bowl of grout, I began my run.  About 15 minutes in I heard a low rumble deep in my belly and was racked with spasms I can only equate to childbirth.  I ran the rest of the way home on my tiptoes with my knees clenched together and hunched over looking like a damned fool but not caring in the least. 


I barely made it.

My blushing bride thought I was killing something in the downstairs bathroom but it was only my squeals of unbridled terror about what was happening in that very confined space.

Day 2 was slightly better with the morning meal made out of a miniature hay bale and flavored with beaver anal glands. At least the algae beverage was…well…never mind what it was.  Rest assured that the result was clearly (rather murky actually) the same as the day before.


I began to realize that apparently the correct diet was one that not only made you regular, but one that made you unstoppable.

I’m now happily munching away on a box of sawdust bars and not straying too far from my porcelain throne which, subsequently, is now decked out thanks to “Pimp My Throne” from the fine folks at Home Depot.

It’s got gold accents and the handle spins after it’s done flushing.



Manly Man

Some crazy bastard wanted to hit me today.


She was swimming (sinking, actually) in lane two looking like her body fat was about 0.000000000001% and her hugely muscled arms stuck out from her even more muscly body so swimming was a chore.

Occasionally she’d look over after a particularly harrowing lap, compose herself and give me that special “come hither” look that unfortunately looked more like the “I’m gonna get you” look.


Once, after some particularly confusing body language that consisted of pushing herself halfway out of the pool and looking over at me “seductively” (as seductively as one can while wearing a track suit in the pool) I giggled nervously.


The woman came unglued.


I think she thought I was laughing at her but any excuse I had would have been drowned out in her steroid fueled rage. 

She came after me like a hungry grizzly bear on a bunny.


Swimming away in sheer terror I couldn’t help but think how insane this scenario was.  I’d just come in, sleepily rubbing my eyes, to swim like any other morning and now this was happening. 

I was certainly awake.

Jumping out at the far end of the pool, I ran toward the men’s locker room but she beat me there by a couple of steps and I ran straight into her outstretched paw.

In the grip of my fight or flight syndrome as she reached back to punch the soul directly out of my body I did what any red blooded American man would do in that situation.

I wet my shorts and threw up on myself.


Seriously, what girl wants to touch a guy who does that? 

She released her grip on me with a cry of disgust and I escaped into the relative safety of the men’s locker room.


I’m currently waiting for her to come crashing through the cinder block wall like some deranged Kool Aid psycho.

We’ll see…



As I’ve begun to exercise out of the pool as well as in (and I have the relative anonymity of the faceless Internet) I’ve notice a bit of chafing in all the wrong places.


Once I made my mind up to take action I had to stop and consider my alternatives.

One does not just simply attack their “area” with a pair of scissors and some electrically charged shears if one would prefer “action” ever, ever again.

I’m sure that with some shears I could effectively yet accidentally neuter myself but missing the berries from the twigs & berries combo is definitely not what I’m shooting for.


So, with trepidation in my heart, I delicately proceeded to trim the nethers in order to avoid the man scourge known as Monkey Butt and the occasional Crotch Rot (seriously, the next time you see a man waddling around like he’s wearing a cactus between his person and his undies you’ll understand what I’m talking about.)


Having visions of my bits looking like they should belong in an Obsession for Men ad I happily trimmed away.


I’m fairly sure that if my significant other walked in at the time it would have seemed slightly awkward with me hunched over my goods, paying waaaaaaay too much attention to the cash & prizes.


When I finished, I took a look on the mirror expecting to see something like a 1920’s finger wave hairdo in my midsection but what I saw was something vastly different.

I looked like I had given myself instant mange.


Bits of me were completely bare while others looked like they’d been in a bar fight.

So now I’ve had to take it all away and  I’m bare as a newborn.

Things are a bit itchy.

If you see me on the street furiously scratching my junk, please, please…

Look away.


Sweet, Sweet Shame

I went running again this morning.

It probably looked more like shambling but I couldn’t find it in me to care.


I think I made it about a block before snot began spraying out of my nose with each explosive exhale.  Run one block, walk one block, run one block, walk one block. 

That’s what I was supposed to do.

What actually happened was that I started off from the house with joy in my heart and a spring in my step while whistling a merry tune.


Later, when I came to, I was in a strange neighborhood with a skinned knee, a bloody nose and missing a shoe.  A large chunk of my right buttock had bite marks.

People bite marks.  

Like some evil grin had attached itself to my hiney and wouldn’t let go.


My only recollection was of a large and overly amorous hermit looking lady running out of her shrub covered shack shouting “Wait up Love Muffin!”


Now, I thought I was fast, but this mountain of heaving aggression had gained on me like a lightning strike with sheer determination on her face.

I don’t remember much after that but I’ve been left with a strange sense of humiliation and I can’t seem to stop blushing.

I may just run that way again tomorrow…