Most of you know my opinion of exercise. Exercise, in my humble and yet highly developed opinion, is a worthless exercise.
Just the same, I bought one of those fancy-schmancy pedometers to count my little footy-steps each day. Now, mainly I’ve been using it for what I call efficency testing. It’s 212 steps to the place where I pick up the laptop if I take this route, but 257 if I go this way. Obviously, the first is best.
Effectively, I’ve defeated the entire purpose. I love it when I do that.
Anyway, they keep drilling it into my head that I need 10,000 steps a day, which is approximately 9,975 more steps than I want to take each day. Well, maybe 9,928. If you figure in a run to the mailbox. But who needs that? If I want junk mail, I can read my spam. At least that features lots and lots of dirty pictures.
I digress. I usually do in these things.
Tonight, I decided to walk over to the State Fair Park and buy a new bike. (By the way, folks. Thanks for all the advice about what type of helmet I should get. Everyone seemed to emphasize that with me. I’m not so sure why.) They have the big Wheel & Sprocket Expo over there and I figure if I’m going to do this anyway–might as well.
So I start to hoof it. I’m exercising away so I decide to give myself a little treat. I order the big basket of onion rings with the double cheesebutterburger at Cream City Custard. Now this is exercise!
Hobbling out of my booth at the Custard place, I notice my pedometer hitting 5500 steps. This isn’t good. My little footies suffer from platar fascitis or fascitaris or some such nonsense. Anyway, after about 6000 steps (this has been figured out by some testing in various theme parks in Florida–the only reason to walk so far is a lift hill going clack-clack-clack and a good first drop), my little feetskers start to scream out a chorus.
Well, I’m halfway so I figure–may as well. So I go over to the Expo.
The frigging place is packed. I mean, seriously packed. Little fartmaster kids all over the place (though they better watch out–I did have onion rings and soon they will call ME master.) Lots of old farts, too, which scared me. These bicycle dealers just dealing out heart attacks to these poor old people–I warned a few that all that pedalling might kill–particularly with their advanced age–but most seemed not to appreciate my sage advice, so I decided to let them die.
Then, I nearly died. I saw a price tag.
$1,000! Are they smoking pot? Are they chasing the dragon? Put down the crack pipe, baby, because you be nutso. Not every bike was this ridiculous, but plenty were over $500.
I decided to put my purchasing background into play and scored some major savings with my favorite form of savings: the avoided purchase. I thought, “Okay, the WalMart special is destroyed at home, but that old Huffy one-speed is in fine condition. All I have to do is reattach the old big fat seat on that and I’m good to go.” Besides, now I can get that LCD monitor I wanted.
Stay tuned for that Catastrophe in the future.
So I run out of there. My mother continually tells me I have no sale resistance. Hogwash! Why, everytime I enter a grocery store, I avoid buying any sort of vegetable. Or anything organic. Now that’s will power!
So I’m hobbling out of there and the Sun has gone down. And it’s getting cold. I guess that simple Spring jacket that seemed like overkill earlier just wasn’t enough now. I’m walking along Greenfield and actually starting to shiver. It’s about 8:00 p.m. and my nose is growing cold. Seems to always affect my nose first.
I can’t afford a cold, so I decide I have to dive in some place to warm up. In West Allis, the only places open that late is the taverns about every five feet. But I hate taverns being a non-drinker. So where am I going to go?
How about that place with all the action up ahead there? Look at all the cars pulling in there… Nice sign, too. “Church and Chapel.”
It’s true that I’m perfectly comfortable in funeral homes. I’ve gone to plenty. Not as many as my father, though. When he was president of the German club, he seemed to go every other day. The funeral directors would shout out “Elmar!” like the bar patrons in Cheers! would yell out “Norm!”
But this is crashing a funeral. Something is wrong about that. So I went in, anyway.
The great thing about a funeral home is all the great furniture. I found a real big sofa and plunked myself down. I was probably the only guy there in blue jeans and grooving to tunes on his MP3 player (NOT AN IPOD! –Apple got enough of my money when I was a Mac user. Ever meet an ex-Machead? We’re like ex-smokers. We get all evangelical on your backside about the evils of the old habit. Meanwhile, we secretly still crave the old habit. We have a word for that in our family: Ernie.)
End of rant.
An old guy sits down next to me. I quickly look around the room. Okay, they are all white folks. I just thought, geez, at least they couldn’t tell I didn’t fit in so obviously this time. I’ve done enough Captain stories where that’s happened already.
He looks me over, “What are you listening to?”
I look at the MP3 player and it says “K.C. and the Sunshine Band.” So I look him in the eyes and say, “Maroon 5.”
He nods and turns to me again, “So how did you know him?” He said the name…but I’ve already forgot it. It some old guy name. Like Herb. Or Ralph. Or Elmar. Something like that. Not something young and hip. Like Tim.
So, I figure I could tell this nice gentleman I was just passing through–he sure as heck wouldn’t care–or I could do the usual and make up a story. “I grew up in his neighborhood. I’m visiting my parents and they brought me along.”
Good, hunh? You may want to remember that one when you crash a funeral. You may want to print this one out. I demand credit for that one!!
I’m warmed up by then and I decide to beat it out of there (to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”–I’m going through another Disco phase. It will pass. I pray. Huey Lewis–I need you! Save me!)
I’m walking along and I’m passing that overpriced Owl Imports place when I see this huge guy in camouflage and a red and white bandana. His face is half covered in facial hair from a huge beard and he has a scar across his forehead.
He looked pretty darn tough. Now, me–tough isn’t usually a word used to describe me. Potential victim of a violent crime. Designated punching bag. These are words usually used for me.
My brother always tells me to look this sort of character in the eyes so they know you aren’t afraid of them. This is easy for him to do. He’s half a head taller than me, in shape and if he were to throw a punch it would feel more like a mule kicking than the tip-tapping of a sparrow that my punches would best be compared to.
So I divert my eyes. Well, this guy’s a head case, because he takes offense and says “What’s up with you?”
Now, I actually am scared.
So I point at the funeral home and say, “He’s gone. He’s gone.” And I turn and walk away. The guy didn’t say another word and just walked away.
Again, I deserve points.
But this wasn’t the weirdest person I met on my walk home. That is reserved for the guy with the megaphone dressed as Uncle Sam. He is spouting the gospel of Liberty Tax Service. Now, at least he isn’t the usual for them which is some overweight biker-type with a big beard dressed as Lady Liberty. That always freaks me out–say, I wonder if that other guy was coming off his shift???
Anyway, Uncle Sam is shouting into the megaphone, which frankly seems counterproductive to me, about getting to Liberty Tax Service and beat the April 15 deadline. By now, I’m in that weird place I get at this point in a day.
It always reminds me of a scene in “The Secret of My Success” with the pre-cancer version of Michael J. Fox and he’s on this ferryboat in New York Harbor and has learned he’s sleeping with the boss’s wife, which is his aunt, and his boss’s mistress and they are all about to spend the weekend at the same retreat. The line goes something like “There is a calm place you get to when you are completely screwed. And you stop worrying.”
I get to that place often. This was one of those times. I stuff my ear buds in a pocket and I approach the guy in the star-spangled cape. All I’ve got at this point, (remember I had some beauts earlier), is: “So, are you Captain Ameritax?”
Now, I expect kind of a chuckle, maybe a grin, a nod of the head and off we go. Ameritax, though, goes all pricky on me. “Whatever, guy. Get out of here.”
I could have left at that, but this guy was considerably smaller than the guy with the scars so I’m considerably braver. “Why are you even out here? Isn’t the tax place closed?”
He lowers the megaphone. “No, we’re open late. Aren’t you listening?”
“I was supposed to listen?”
Captain Ameritax sighs and walks away.
And I go to warm up in the tax preparation office. It’s still a long way home. 3,594 steps in fact.
Sincerely,
Captain Catastrophe