Fish sticks

Something blogworthy...something blogworthy...As I troll the channels of my mind, searching for that priceless flounder of humor, I will introduce you to the WSC boys. I see these guys nearly every day for one hour. They are a motley crew, composed of civil service employees and attorneys. The are beyond entertaining, and, when together, loose all tact and public decency. First, you'll note the buckets of beer on the table and while you marvel at said beer containers, you should really consider its imbiber. Let's go left to right, shall we?



Reflection: I call him reflection because it reminds me of his real name. Reflection is a nice guy, very protective of the circle of men in the photo and insists that I sucker punched him a few years back at a bar in Adam's Morgan. Naturally, I deny this accusation, because IF I were to hit a guy, he wouldn't look as pretty as reflection so many years later.

Gesticulator: Really, what can I say about the gesticulator? He's a smashing gent, good humored, well build, fantastically attractive. He is the standard by which the others aspire. Which, is why number two from the right is staring at me, but we'll get to him later.

Mort: Probably the most earnest of the group. It is in his honor by which we were pictured together. He'll be missed at the new job.

Ninja: The centerpiece of the photograph, and with good reason. Ninja has more ripples than a peaceful lake disrupted by a fat-jack cannonball, and he wears shirts (I think they are painted on) that show the most minute twitch of each muscle. Secretly, we all hate him. One of us will be getting our sweat on and in strolls ninja, chewing on the weights we were just staining to pick up. He doesn't bench press the bar, he bench presses the bench press. To add insult to injury, one of the boys might be darn proud that he just accomplished his goal and Ninja will come over and say things like, "Yeah, that's great but that won't do anything for you--you should eat more red meat, preferably raw, there's more protein. Then you can get cloths painted on you because you'll look so good"

The Stabber: Known for his preferred method of conflict resolution. Really though, he's a charmer. He's also a runner, what's more impressive is his ability to incorporate alcohol and nicotine into his diet and still be able to beat me down a stretch of land. It's a bit humiliating to have a guy pass you while taking a drag on a Marlborough red. The Stabber is a great initiator and is always game for a drink (or 15) and has the astounding ability to attract women who collect his hair and leave him food. What's most impressive is his ability to consume the same amount of alcohol as the state of Rhode Island in one evening and still show up for work and the gym the next day.

Discretion: How does one describe discretion, or in the case of our dear friend, the antithesis of discretion? This member of the WSC frat is fiercely observant and can quickly reduce the most confident to a pile of tears and off-white gym towels. Fortunately he's a member of the crew so we are privy to his thoughts. It is worth noting that his volume button is broken, so what he shares with the boys, he shares with the gym and no one can really argue with him, because he's usually right.

Corky: I struggled to come up with an appropriate epithet for the final member of the WSC frat. I settled on Corky (root being: Cork) because it is the most essential (but often lacking) part of his physique. Like Ninja, he is constructed of solid granite but avoids the paint-on clothing line. Oh, and he's covered in scars and came into the gym this week with a story. Apparently Corky was accosted at some night club by some not-so-smart skinny twit, so Corky threw him 30 feet, although I believe the exact term he used was "I tossed him like a shot-put" Fortunately, The Stabber wasn't hurt after the throw (or the amount of liquor in his system dulled the pain) and they were back to hugging again on Monday.

I neglected to mention the yogurt class.

I'm svelte, some have compared my physique to that of an otter or seal; the skin glistens over the rippling muscle. It can be tedious to upkeep the Athenian physical appearance, so I have subjected myself to various gym classes which sculpt and mold. The 9FG talked me into yoga last Wednesday. I can now write about it because my muscles have finally ceased seizing at the most inopportune times. First of all, ow. Second of all, you need to speak yoga to go to yoga. The following phrases now mean something to me: "Downward facing dog", "Eagle pose", "Warrior I", "Warrior II" and "Warrior III" and finally, my personal favorite the "Vrksasana pose." For your convenience, I've included the following link (you might need to skip the add) so you might visualize yours truly enduring such stretching techniques. There is a particular face one makes while learning to do yoga: have you ever seen someone who accidentally gave themselves a paper cut? It's kind of like that but with a look of deeper pain and more surprise. I know this because, of course, the room is plastered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors; which, in my opinion, adds insult to injury. If you see someone emerging from the aforementioned class, you should probably clap and maybe whistle because they just narrowly escaped death. It's sort of fun, actually.

A place I will never eat again, particularly the Pentagon Row store. Enough hate mail for one day, okay? Okay.

People! People! People!

Okay, okay, okay. So, the blog has turned into some odd obligation that I avoid like the weird cousin at Thanksgiving dinner. It could be that life has been so dreadfully dry that I need a three month break to glean information but that isn't true either. I just didn't feel like it. But I did today and this just might be sustainable.

Update (it's tacky but effective):

--It's June--I vaguely recall a spring that was hotter than two rats…well, you know…in a wool sock. June's here and it's lovely cool spring-like weather. Stupid global warming.
--The nine freckled girl and I went to Belize a few weeks back. It was lovely, breezy, and very relaxing. I spent the majority of my time lounging in a hammock. We were happy and tan and well rested.
--Tac, the Great Dane, is growing exponentially. We have deconstructed her kennel and now allow her to roam throughout our little city house during the day; causalities of said freedom:
1. My sleek caribou coffee leather mug holder. Is. Completely. Gone. We assume she's eaten it but lack the evidence (gross) to prove it.
2. Two Bibles, one pocket sized the other serious-study-size
3. Harper Lee's "To Kill A Mockingbird" (I believe this is a vendetta which I will explain below).
4. A blanket
5. My flip-flops (I'm still upset)

The Mockingbirds. Tac wakes up ridiculously early; I suppose I would too if I took naps all day. So at 5:30 she tip-toes (as well as 95 pounds of klutzy-and-not-so-sharp K-9 is able) up the stairs to see if we're awake. Which we aren't. But she sticks her cold, wet, dog nose in our eyes, just to make sure. I arise, don the closest pair of shorts and shirt (I have made some fashion STATEMENTS lately) and head for the morning walk. We have 45 minutes of unadulterated dog/dad time. It's great. So, we walk through the various sprinklers/misters which soak Washington early in the morning and begin our endeavor to exhaust each other. A brief side bar, Tac likes the sprinklers, she's discovered that sprinklers output water, which is her FAVORITE thing ever. She spends several minutes sprinting from sprinkler head to sprinkler head chomping at water like an idiot, while I, the dolt, am dragged behind looking like a the I-have-no-control-over-my-animal kind of owner in front of the Capitol police (we started taking another route). Sooo, yes, the mockingbirds. We like to walk on the National Mall, it's cool in the morning and empty (except for joggers) and Tac and I can trot along and enjoy the crunching gravel under our six feet. Until we get to seventh street. There is a magic line at seventh street, once crossed you enter the crazy birds of North West (we're South West snobs ourselves). Yes so, said kamikaze mockingbirds begin dive-bombing my beloved blue horse. Now, admittedly, Tac's not that bright, nor anywhere close. So, a bird flying down to pelt her on the backside must be…a toy! We spend the next several minutes trying to escape the assault while Tac, deep in thought, contemplates the toy's new direction. This. Happens. Every. Day. We return home. She sleeps. Wakes at lunch. Destroys something sacred.

I love routine.