Ghosts

[This post was originally written by Damon Costantini, the co-author of the blog at footdipper.blogspot.com.]

Our health club pool had an indoor pool and an outdoor pool that was only open from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

When the outdoor pool was open, we had members who gravitated between the indoor and outdoor pools. What separated the two pools was a wall of paned glass with a glass doorway that was usually propped open during the hotter days.

Some people, apparently, thought they had magical powers as ghosts, because they liked to try to walk through the glass wall to get in or outside.

Never mind the fact that the propped open doorway was right there to use to walk in between pools, these people would rather walk through the wall. Sort of like when someone says "Ahh, I'll take the stairs instead of the elevator", we almost imagined that these people said "Ahh, I'll take the wall instead of the doorway."

I have to say, there's nothing quite like seeing someone walk smack dab into a wall to lift your spirits. But the real funniness of this was the frequency that this happened. One time, maybe I can see. You're not paying attention and mistake a glass wall for an opening. You laugh it off and would be on your way. But this happened often. It sucks for them, but is ferociously funny to anyone else watching. I used to feel embarrassed for them, but still have a laugh at their expense. Honestly, who wouldn't?

That probably sounds mean, but I always felt sorry for the person, asked them if they were okay, and got them through the proper doorway in one piece. My sympathy usually went out the window though when instead of the person laughing at themselves with humility, they found some way to blame us.

"Those walls shouldn't be here, it's a safety hazard!"

Yes it's our fault you chose the wall instead of the door like one of the ghosts in 'A Christmas Carol'. What were the construction people thinking, putting a glass wall there, and that blasted glass door right next to it?

We never had a case of broken glass though. Thank goodness no one ever walked through with that kind of force. But I think that would have even been funnier, after the scrapes and cuts were cleaned up of course.

But never underestimate the supernatural powers at hand at your local health club pool.

D.

The Army of the Oblivious

[Originally posted at footdipper.blogspot.com.]

It seemed like every day at the pool, someone had to ask, "Are you the lifeguard?" It would take nearly every ounce of my being to restrain myself from responding, "No. I just really love the apparel, and this floating safety tube is kind of like a stuffed animal to me. I bring it everywhere I go. Especially to swimming pools.  However, I'm not the lifeguard here. If I find him, I'll let you know." With a shirt emblazoned with the word, LIFEGUARD, red shorts and a large red tube stating the same, what the hell else could I possibly be?

I suppose I could be mistaken for one of the regular freaks that came into the Health Club. After seeing a guy bring FULL SCUBA GEAR AND A SAMURAI SWORD (I wish I was making that up), to a health club's 50 foot long indoor swimming pool, pretty much anything is possible. I could just be a guy who likes to pretend to lifeguard. Heck, Pointy-Breasted Karate Guy thought, despite his rotund figure, that he was a kung fu master. Why couldn't I just be another poser? So they had to ask the obvious.

It didn't end there. They'd point to the clearly labled steam room and say, "Steam room?" No, Mr. Tumnus, it's the doorway to Narnia. Be sure to grab a winter coat before you go in there.

Then they'd stand there looking at you like a dumb barnyard animal until you verbally satisfied their curiosity by saying, "Yes. Steam room." But that wasn't enough. It was never enough. They had to go and open the door and see the steam in the room. This was the only thing that could have slaked their inability to read or comprehend English and it was this that made me loathe and despise the entire human race; why the hell did you need to ask me your inane little question if you weren't going to believe me no matter what I said? You knew damned well what that little room was! And you knew damned well you were going to look anyway! I know damned well that I hate you for making me think less of myself for being the same species as you.

The Army of the Oblivious are a stubborn bunch and they are everywhere. They refuse to engage their brains in any given situation, dismissing the possibility of figuring things out on their own, preferring instead to be told where they are, what objects are nearby and whether or not they can eat those objects.

Please note that I'm not talking about STUPID people. We had our share of those at the Health Club. One such moronic patron, a bearded gentleman pushing fifty years of age, came down to swim in a collared polo shirt and his tighty-whities. When informed he needed to wear a bathing suit, he responded, "I have to wear something?" He trudged back up to the locker room dejected but determined, and the following day he came to the pool in khaki shorts which was close enough for me. Not knowing how to swim but really wanting to, he experimented with different kinds of helpful floatation devices until he finally settled on the neckbrace for the backboard. It was an odd choice being that the neckbrace itself did not float, but he tried tying it to his head to keep his nose and mouth above water and nearly drowned. I didn't see him much after that.

But the Army of the Oblivious are not stupid people. They are capable of figuring things out for themselves but choose not to. They are so lazy that they make everyone else do their thinking for them and as such, they should have most of their privileges taken away. They are a burden on society. They shouldn't drive, go out unaccompanied by a social worker or feed themselves. Asking questions as easy to self-answer as they do, The Army of the Oblivious should be in a home for their ilk and stay there, leaving the rest of us to go about our business unencumbered by their defiance of basic cognition.

If you know a card-carrying soldier in the Army of the Oblivious we'd love to hear about it. Post a comment with your story, and please feel free to subscribe to this blog if you like what you read.

P.

An Oldie but a Goodie

I found an old bit I wrote maybe 6 or 7 years ago as I was digging through some old emails. It discusses a topic I've often wondered if other people know about me. I'm a chronic nose-picker. In my car, in my home, in other people's homes, I dig. I do it so often with little to no regard whether or not other people are around, but as few people have actually called me on it, I dont' know if anyone has really noticed. Is this a faux pas that people discreetly overlook? Is it so heinous that no one will talk about it? Is it no big deal? Has no one even seen me do it? Am I paranoid?
I don't know.
Let me know what you think about nose picking and/or other socially acceptable/unacceptable vices. And until then, enjoy my old nose-picking piece, unedited from its original form.


I was 18 and working at Bally's right out of high
school. It was a slow morning and pretty soon I was
alone in the pool area when I felt some large, alien
obstruction in the depths of my right nostril. I
figured I was alone so I could take care of this beast
without embarrassment, but, just in case, I
double-checked and the coast was still clear.
This monster was so deep, that I had to go in with the
pinkie-- the only digit thin enough to reach back
where this thing had taken up residence. However this
was too big a job for the pinkie alone. But with the
pinkie I was able to partially dislodge it and move
the asteroid down to a more palpable level. I then
brought out the big gun, my right thumb, for the
ultimate removal.
What came out of my nose, I had never seen the likes
of before. I have still to this day failed to find
it's equal, and I assure you it's not for a lack of
looking. It was like there was a softball on the end
of my thumb.
Anyway, I had just pulled this monstrosity out of my
nasal cavity and had just begun to contemplate the
international repercussions that this thing may have
caused when out of nowhere, a woman in her 40's is
STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO ME, STARING AT ME. I have no
idea how long she had been there, but I really wasn't
concerned with that at the moment.
What concerned me was the watermelon attached to my
thumb, and what exactly I was going to do with it in
front of some woman that wanted to discuss something
with me. Flicking it off or whiping it on the table or
wall was right out of the question. Not only would it
have been disgusting to do so, but this booger
belonged in the Smithsonian, not the underside of some
dirty deck furniture in Catonsville.
But at the same time, I could not in sound mind leave
this historic occasion strapped to my thumb and have a
conversation with a total stranger. So I did the only
thing I could at the time. I folded my thumb, historic
occasion and all, into my palm. I felt the
stomach-churning "squish" and said in a wavering
(damned near whimpering) voice, "Can I help you?"
It turns out this woman was recruiting for some
pyramid-scheme company and wanted me to buy into it or
something. She had papers and charts (the pages of
which I was sure to turn with my left hand) and talked
to me for a good 20 minutes, with my award-winner
still oozing around in my right hand. I really can't
elaborate more on what she talked to me about, but
considering the circumstances I think I remember more
than most would.
After she left, it felt as if I was allowed to breathe
for the first time in my life. I looked in my hand and
felt a strange mixture of relief (at the woman
leaving), regret (at not being granted the recognition
and esteem that I felt I deserved for this discovery
of intergalactic proportions) and disgust (at the
devastation these intergalactic proportions had just
left on my right hand).
It took almost 5 full minutes of washing to finally be
free of my burden, and now, 6 1/2 years later I am
finally beginning to be free of the psychological
burden this incident (if that is indeed a strong
enough word) left me with. I'm glad I was able to come
clean about this whole thing. I feel so much better.
But at the same time, I have dredged up old feelings,
particularly of loss, that I haven't felt in a long
time.
"Farewell, oh Prince of Coagulated Mucous, wherever
you fare. Don't look back! Be brave! I hope you find
happiness in all of your adventures!"
I suppose that a booger of that magnitude didn't
deserve to be in a museum after all. A free spirit
like his, he needs to be out there in the wild,
roaming, roving and wandering, picking up chick
boogers; loving them and leaving them, hopping on his
Harley and flying down Route 66, heat waves rising on
the road ahead.

Thanks for reading and subscribing and as always...

My lips to yours.

New Blog

http://footdipper.blogspot.com

Phil and Damon recount their experiences at a Health Club swimming pool.

Please read, enjoy and subscribe!

My lips to yours!

An Introduction

[Originally posted at footdipper.blogspot.com.]
Welcome, friends, to a new literary effort inspired by the absurd behavior exhibited by those who frequent health club swimming pools. We understand that health club swimming pool patrons are not often recognized for their behavior, absurd or otherwise, but as seasoned lifeguarding veterans, we feel it's time for their comeuppance.
I'm Phil. I worked as a lifeguard in the pool area of a Health Club in Catonsville, Maryland for most of my late teens and early twenties. Most of those years were spent working with the co-author of this blog, Damon. You can read my personal blog at http://philbertun.blogspot.com and Damon's fitness blog at http://yourtrainerdamon.blogspot.com
As I mentioned on my other blog, as lifeguards at a Health Club, Damon and I kept rather meticulous records. This is odd for two people who were attracted to a job that required little more than a pulse and slight positive bouyancy, but we did.
We realized early on that we knew all of the same lunatic patrons and, as Damon put it, we figured we needed a way to keep track of these oddballs and if one of us didn't know the reference, we could look them up on the list. Sort of like a nutjob card catalog. And thus was born The Directory.
The Directory contained a detailed list of our regulars and a brief description of what made them stand out. A few of them (whom we referred to as The Heroes) were the people we liked to hang out with (Ray), were wacky and fun (Carlos) or had interesting stories to tell despite their proclivity for random acts of public nudity (Big Al). Each entry had a paragraph outlining their basic personalities and those qualities which made them memorable.
Most of The Directory, however, discussed The Heels: those people who drove us near the point of madness. These included anyone who perplexed, angered or irritated us, especially those with bizarre appearance or apparell (Wash Cloth Bathing Suit Lady), those with over-the-top personalities (The Intense How-Do-You-Do) or particulary whiny individuals (Most Obnoxious Woman on the Face of the Planet Who Deserves to Die 100,000 Horrible Deaths). Some of the Heels simply confounded us with their incorrigible regularity (The Bald Foot Dipper), others with their pointy man-boobs (Pointy-Breasted Karate Guy).
Often, instead of an individual with a particular charicter flaw, we'd lump together groups of perturbingly like-minded folks who, for whatever reason, could not resist performing the same aggravating maneuvers as their equally oblivious bretheren (Chair Re-Locators, Loogie Hockers Incorporated).
These stories, the story of that time when Ghetto Fabulous ate my pizza, and more when we return. Stay tuned, dear readers. Stay tuned.
P.

Ahh... Bally's!

I started this blog to get back into the swing of writing again. I haven't been making much use of my English degree, so this seemed like a good way to practice. But I often have trouble with thinking of topics and finding inspiration. When I was a child, when my parents tucked me into bed, they would give me "things to think about" so I wouldn't have bad dreams. There is no one these days to give me "things to write about."
But as luck would have it, my friend Sarah wrote a blog about romantic foibles and lame pick-up attempts. While romantic foibles and I are familiar bedfellows, what she reminded me of was a time when every day of my life I witnessed some of the most bizarre behavior imagineable: the years I spent lifeguarding at Bally Total Fitness. My co-worker, Damon, and I chronicled in an extensive 140-some entry directory of some of the weirdest, meanest, and dumbest people you could possibly scrape together, every one of them a new bechmark in awkward, indignant buffoonery. We would have contests to see how many of them would show up during a single shift.
Ah those were the days!

Well here is my first blurb in what will hopefully be a series of stories (with Damon's help) about being trapped in a room with a pool, a hot tub and some very strange people.


I must have been about 20 or so and I was lifeguarding at Bally Total Fitness on Rt. 40 in Catonsville. I had my little table with the records log, the chemical kit for testing the chlorine, the first aid kit etc. While there were two chairs on either side of my table and only one of me, it was fairly apparent that this was "my area" and I liked to keep it that way. This never really stopped anyone from choosing to sit there when there were plenty of open seats and this one fella in particular decided that was the right spot for him.
So he sits down and I furrow my brow deeper into the book I was reading but he undauntedly ignores my body language and begins chatting idly, not getting much more than a word out of me. He was rough-looking, fifty-ish, gnarled teeth and faded tattoos. His pleasantries ended abruptly when he asked me a question that caught me off guard.
"Do you drink?"
Just an odd question to ask a stranger. "Sometimes," I replied before springing his little trap.
"Do you drink," I stupidly, stupidly asked?
"Oh I'll do anything that pleases me." He proceeded to discuss some sordid details I can't quite remember about what he and his partner enjoy doing in the bedroom. I put down my book and got up.
"What are your plans this evening," he continued.
"Don't really have any, Mack."
"Why don't you call your friends and have a threeway or a fourway?"
I left the pool unattended.

Thanks for reading and as always,

My lips to yours!

A Lousy Relationship

It's the top of the 8th inning at Camden Yards. The Tampa Bay Rays are winning 3-1. Wait, make that 4-1. Literally as I was writing the previous sentence, Carl Crawford hit a solo home run off of Orioles reliever, Mark Hendrickson. They were locked in a 1-1 tie a few innings ago, but starter Jeremy Guthrie gave up two a few innings back. We had a nice little two-out rally going last inning but due to some ridiculous base running by Luke Scott and Ty Wigginton, the Rays got out of the inning unscathed.
Why am I watching this? What am I doing, year after year (ooh, a strikeout for an Orioles relief pitcher!) rooting for a team that hasn't won more games than it lost in 13 years? Why do I continue to cheer at the ballpark, only to see blown saves, runners left on base and starters who can't make it through the third inning? (Hendrickson just struck another batter out to end the inning, thank the Good Lord above).
The answer, I suppose is that I love Baltimore. I do. For better or for worse, the Orioles represent my hometown and because there is no better option, I must love them and root for them and give them my all.
There's no divorce in baseball. I can't suddenly start rooting for a different team because the O's suck. I can't cheat on them, leave them or have a trial separation from them. I'm in an "until death or Peter Angelos do us part" marriage to a team who just can't seem to get their act together year after year. Sure we had the good times: 1983, 1989, those "wild '90s"... but for over a decade now we've had some really rough times.



And the promises they make! "Don't worry, baby, we've got Matt Wieters now! We've got a talented, young outfield! We'll have a big house on 2110 Eutaw Street! Just wait until our pitchers in the minor leagues get here, that'll fix everything! Look at Koji Uehara! We can do exotic too! Koji? Koji?"
But it's the same story as last year. At least last year they held my attention for a few months. They got back into shape, lost those extra winter pounds and started dressing nice. They wined me and dined me and gave me a glimmer of hope for improvement until the All-Star break where they fell back into their old routines.
And now here we are at 1-5, in the cellar again, going into the ninth inning of what will likely be another losing effort.
What a loveless relationship this has turned out to be.
But to you, the Orioles, I will still designate my signature tagline (ok, so I stole it from a movie, sue me) in the hopes that tomorrow, you'll be the Sportspouse I've always hoped you could be.
O's... my lips to yours.