Some Thoughts on Michael Jackson

Does anybody else think the rapid deification of Michael Jackson is a little bit weird?

Granted, the guy DID just die. And there's no denying his achievements: the #1 selling music album in history... the moonwalk...

But let's not forget, he was also the trailblazing pioneer in the realm of washed-up celebrities prone to embarrassing meltdowns who seem to exist only for their next freak-show moment to be made public.

Seriously, y'all. Two days ago if I'd asked anybody what they thought of Michael Jackson, they'd have wrinkled their (normal-sized) noses and said, "Well, I like 'Thriller' but the man is a total perv who should have gone to jail for what he did with that kid from 'Home Alone'. Guilty, guilty, guilty."

But today, they've swept his baby-dangling episodes under the rug and all we're seeing are images of him at the height of his career in the bright and bouncy 80s. Nevermind the WEIRD goings-on at Neverland Ranch, his pet monkey Bubbles, his Frankenstein attempts at preserving his youth and beauty that resulted in his face melting off, and those curious rumors about the Elephant Man's skeleton hanging in his closet.

One friend said, "It really makes you think about your own mortality!"

I admit, even I was a teensy bit saddened by the news.

But now I understand why.

People aren't mourning Michael Jackson. They're mourning themselves. They're remembering those carefree childhood/adolescent days in the 80s when your Dad came home with individual copies of the BAD album for each of your siblings because you just COULD NOT SHARE something that rad. Michael Jackson's death really just reminds us that we're not children anymore. I'm not 8. I'm almost freakin' 30.

And that sort of thing makes everybody sad.

It's not like he was cut down in his prime, either. At least we'll always remember Marylin being eternally beautiful. No, with Michael we got to watch him decay into a pitiable sideshow attraction and are left with plenty of unpleasant memories of him.

It almost begs the question, if the Weekly World News online edition is to be believed, why he waited until NOW to fake his death instead of doing it YEARS ago.

Nhikchoalle Continued

I've seen Nickhoalle a couple more times since I last posted.

"I am SO ugly. My legs are SO FAT. I can't believe how fat I am. My friend had lipo, you know. You're the devil. I hate you. I blogged about you, but don't worry, I didn't use your name. I called you Satan. I can't believe how fat I am. My best friend had lipo and she HATES working out and she's SO BEAUTIFUL now. I can't believe you do this for a living, that you put your body through all this to be able to tell other people to do it. You must hate your life. You must hate what you do."

I really REALLY don't like Nikchoalle.

Every time we meet it's like an hour of sunshine.

I'm starting to question whether the iPhone is worth all this abuse.


* * * *


In other news, I think I'm dying. I twittered about this, but nobody seemed to care since Michael Jackson also died today. Which makes sense because I always worry about the health of cracked-out celebrities over the health dear, dear friends.

I think I have lyme disease, the Silent Killer. The Weekly World News did an exposé on it years ago and I've never forgotten it. I was bitten by a tick while on an outing in the Jersey woods a few weeks ago and suddenly I've developed flu-like symptoms. Chills and hot flashes, aches, fatigue, occasional headaches...

Or it could be swine flu. I DID go on a crowded airplane recently...

Whatever it is, I think it's slowly killing me. And crap. Me without my medical insurance. Oh well, Obama is going to pull an Evita and change all that anyway. Free, free, free. So I guess I should be happy that everybody else gets screwed while I get free healthcare and every hospital in America becomes like a Primacare.

Oh LORD. The thought of THAT sends a chill down my spine.

Or maybe it's the lyme disease.


* * * *


Since I don't know which family members read blog, I can't post about the whole "Daddy's Dyin', Who's Got the Will?" shenannigans going on down ol' Carolina Way.

It probably isn't a good idea to talk about the Luv Gov's recent scandal either. But that's okay because my Mom doesn't actually work for HIM so it's not like this is really messing with her job anyway.

I CAN, however, tell you about what my roommate Nutty McDonald is up to these days.


Oh, maybe I shouldn't. It isn't very nice to air another man's dirty laundry on the internetz for all to see.



Oh. What the hell.



Yep, he's still sleeping till 4pm every day. He says he doesn't need a job because he's busy studying for the MCAT. He wants to go to med school, you see. Which makes sense because he's never had a REAL job and has no savings. He's utterly penniless. He eats Milk of Magnesia because he can't afford anything else.

Anyway, Psycho Yoko is all nervous about the upcoming piano recital. She proposes consuming two pots of coffee so she can stay up all night practicing.

Ever the helpful gentleman, Nutty tells her, "No, dear. Don't drink coffee. Take some adderall."

What happens next is the stuff that after-school specials are made of.

Not satisfied with Nutty's laughably small recommended dosage of a fourth of one of the teeny-tiny pills (she's REALLY nervous, y'all), Yoko takes a half. Feeling no affect after five minutes, she takes the other half. Still nothing. So she takes the other pill (yes, instead of giving her just that fourth of the pill, Nutty gave her two whole pills).

I could tell you what happened next, but I think this video does an adequate job. Let's just say we knew there was trouble when Nutty got a phone call from Yoko screaming, "MY SKIN IS ON FIRE!"





Then again, Nutty REALLY didn't want to stay for Bible study last night so there's a chance he was lying about the whole thing. He lies. A LOT.

I'm free from personal training tomorrow and have taken two sleeping pills to see if I can sleep through the night without being woken up by a case of the shakes.

R.I.P. Michael. You're the lucky one. You got out before things got--

Whoa! My tooth is really aching!

Getting old SUCKS!!

The Train in Spain...

Yesterday was my first day of personal training.

I have mixed feelings.

It's a little awkward. Because you're a trainer in New York City. It's different than been a trainer in Poughkipsie. They expect something different. I don't know--more polish? More confidence?

And if you've been lifting logs for the past year, it can be hard to grasp the notion that other people *can't*.

But despite how awkward it is, one thing keeps me moving forward with this, keeps my eye on the prize and gives me the boost I need when I feel like giving up:

The iPhone.

Client #1: Hektor Salsa-Verde

Hektor used to be in really good shape. Then he became a serious drug-addict. Now he's a born-again Christian working at Times Quare First Happy Clappy Church of Ecclesitonians. He's raising four children on his own and on the waiting list for a liver transplant.

He clearly can't afford the $1400 40-session package. And what's more, he doesn't need it. At most, we just need three sessions to teach him proper form and how to use the elliptical machine.

It won't make Them happy, but I don't care. I got in this business to help people. The iPhone can wait.

For now.

Client #2: Alvin Simon

Alvin is pretty hopeless. He's from Australia but has an accent I simply cannot place. He's in New York for five weeks with an internship at the Untied Notions building.

He's about my age, a lanky beanpole, and, of course, has a secret desire to get buff.

But towards the end of our session he almost passed out. Like, "What the crap is wrong with this guy?" passed-out.

I sat him down and got him some water. "Did you have anything to eat or drink before you came here?" I asked. He, sheet-white, replied, "I had a hotdog and chocolate croissant at 2."

It was 6. Dude. We've got our work cut out for us.

And finally,

Client #3: Nihkcoalle

I kind of hate Nihkcoalle.

She was the one that made me think personal training wasn't for me.

Brassy, sassy, hateful, rude, with a mouth like a sailor, middle aged, flabby, unwilling to change her diet, entitled white princess from Dallas, she pissed me off so much I put her through a circuit I knew would make her sweat. But do you think she stopped talking for two minutes?

Nope. Instead I heard about her exercise-loathing hog of a best friend who used to be 260lbs and then had liposuction and is now, like, 125.

I mean, just LOOK at the RIDICULOUS way she spells her name. RIGHT AWAY you should know what we're in for. A woman who, all her life, has said in thick "Dally Girl" voice, "Ex-CUSEME. It's not spelled Nicole. It's spelled NHIKCHOALLE."

But she really wants to lose weight. So we're meeting two more times this week, which means I have to see her nappy face for two whole hours. Ugh. I don't wanna.

iPhone.

iPhone.

Too Juicy

The post I originally had up here has to be removed. See, I don't know which of my family members reads this thing. Which is a little annoying because MAN. SOMEONE needs to be writing all this crap down.

If you didn't read it earlier, basically the plot from "Daddy's Dyin', Who's Got the Will?" is playing out right now down old Carolina way. IN REAL LIFE.

There. That shouldn't offend anybody. And if it does...well...

Tough! Truth hurts, don't it?!

Cackalakee

My flight was cancelled yesterday due to puddles on the runway.

But that's okay. Because I doubt I would have made it on time anyway due to the fact that the drizzle caused all the trains yesterday to malfunction and break down.

New York really is extraordinary. Blizzards, heat, and terrorism. You'd really think they could handle a rainfall--not even a rainSTORM, a rainFALL--without completely losing their shnit.

The subway yesterday. Oh man, y'all. The pushing. The screaming. You just can't imagine. You can't. Some old dude slammed me into this mild-mannered woman reading some Jane Austen book. She assured me, in a gentle voice, that it was okay, she wasn't injured. Two stops later she was screaming, "JESUS CHRIST!" with the rest of em.

Then when you try to transfer at 59th street, you find you can't get to the NRW because some pipe broke and water is gushing all over the subway platform.

Pandemonium.

So it's up at 3am and off to LGA for a 6:05 flight to Ohio (non-stop! Terrif!) and then to South C.

Horrors.

They don't serve food on Delta flights.

Well crap!

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Too Many Twinkies

Rudolfo didn't show up.

Which is probably a good thing, because when I told the girl at the front desk who it was I was waiting for, she said,

"Crazy Rudolfo??"

I thought she was just being cute.

I called him to follow up and see where he was. He called back and said he was in the bathroom and would be out in an hour.

Nope. Not being cute. Guy really is crazy.

She also said, "He's blind in one eye, so don't throw anything at him. And if you wink at him, there's a 50/50 chance he won't see it."

Next up is Malachi at 1. But our meeting isn't exactly FORMAL as he very quickly said, "Yeah, I be there at, like, wun uh clok."

I don't want to sound judgemental, but this guy doesn't strike me as the type who's going to be buying the Three Sessions for $99 package.

Hard Part's Over

Okay, the unpleasant part is over.

All the new gym members have been called and now know that there's a scared-sounding young man who is standing by to offer them a free personal training session.

Now I just sit back and wait for the money to start rolling in.

Oh wow. I'm SO bad at this.

See, I didn't realize that being a personal trainer was less about actually making a difference in people's lives as it is about selling "the package".

The manager is heartless. "They're just numbers to me," he said. HE SAID! "I don't care who any of them are. All I'm concerned about is they're buying stuff. So when you finish a session with them, bring them back here into the 'inner sanctum' (ha! ha!) and show them this book here with Arnold on the cover and open it to where the personal training packages are and get them to buy."

"One trick," he said, "Is to tell them the price and just sit there. Don't say anything. Don't say a word. Make them have to speak. Oftentimes they'll buy something just to get you to stop being quiet."

Well, he didn't say that part at the end, but he said all the other stuff.

So tomorrow I have my first session.

His name is Rudolfo. He's obese and rides his bike from Battery Park to work and back every day. He can't figure out why he's still fat. The manager said I needed to really knock his socks off or I'm not going to make the sale on this one.

So now, Forky teh noob has to assume the role of Mr. Fit and knock this guy's socks off.

Holy crap.

Holy Crap

HOLY CRAP GUYS!! I'M FREAKING OUT!!

I went in to talk to the manager of Cid-Mity Gym.

And whoa. Man. Uhh.

So...the kind of want me to start NOW.

I don't think I'm ready for that. I'd like a couple of days to get organized.

But no, they really want me there now. And the unfortunate thing is they're really disorganized so when they asked me my availability and I said, "I'm usually available whenever you want on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays" the manager guy said, "Okay! All day MWF it is!"

WHOA WHOA WHOA

Slow down! I'm freaking out! I need to get organized! I need to do some role playing! I need to create some hypothetical clients and practice on them in my imagination! Please!

Oh yeah, and the best part?

If I'm not doing anything, they suggested I be on the telephone calling people telling them to hire me to be their trainer.

Now, I know this is a business, but I had been a member of this gym for two years and not ONCE did nobody EVER call me and urge me to hire them to be a trainer.

And if somebody called me up and offered their personal training services I would get really annoyed and hang up. Dude, if I want a trainer, I'll inquire about one.

Maybe that's why I'm not a millionaire.

Or the Incredible Hulk.

Getting on Widdit

I'm waiting for this green tea to cool off before marching into the gym to talk to the manager about personal training. Oh Lord, what am I getting myself into?

I'm really sore. Sunday is fun day for the New York City subway. I spent probably 2 total hours waiting and sweating on subway platforms. And with this heavy bag slung over my shoulder.

At first I thought that pain in my lower back was my kidneys failing. You know, from eating too much protein. But now I'm pretty sure it was just the 5 hours of lugging the bag around.

I auditioned for a "reimagined" version of "the Hound of the Baskervilles" yesterday. Reimagined by way of Studio 54.

They just lost their Holmes and they open in one week. I was called in to read.

And they "decided to go another direction" (I hate it when they say that. Why can't they just come out with it and say, "You're too fat"?).

Okay, that's fine. I'm *way* too young to play the great detective anyway. But it would have been fun to play that part.

But yeah, it's probably a very good thing. Especially considering the "hound" is played by a girl in a black leather bra and KISS makeup. And, looking at the postcard, I still can't figure out who the drugged out Alan Cumming guy with the heavy eyeliner and wifebeater is supposed to be.

And my roommate is a bad bad man.

So wealthy, pathetic Yoko offered him bags of money if he'd take her back.

And Nutty, who has no clue what an open book he is, thought loudly, "Sweet! I don't have to get a job because Yoko is going to pay my rent!"

And even though Yoko *has been informed* about all the girls Nutty keeps on the side as "backup", she responds to this information like a true Asian woman. "It's my fault. If only I practiced the piano more..."

Okay. Time to get on with it. I'm going to go make it happen. Just watch me. Here I go. Moneysville, here I come.


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Stupid Crazy

I'm tired.

I'm tired because of last night.

Remember my new roommate?

Remember how I said my world had just entered a new level of crazy?

Last night, Nutty, my roomate, leaves a voicemail for Yoko, his psycho girlfriend.

Now, I'm never wrong. I have a real knack for seeing the future. If I have a strong hunch about something, you can bet your life it's going to play out exactly the way I forsee it.

I think it's from all the video gaming. It's made me really good at pattern recognition and cause and effect.

But for some reason, nobody EVER believes me.

So Nutty, bored with dating three codependent girls at once and tired of being subjected to Yoko's abusive mind games, decides to play some games of his own. He leaves her a voicemail saying he's dumping her and not to bother ever trying to get in touch with him again because he's blocking her phone number, email address, facebook, the works.

So he goes to hide out at Sethro's. At 3am guess who is buzzing at my front door for 15 minutes? Yoko. She's hysterical. I'm furious. She wants to know where Nutty is. Long story short, Nutty comes home and she spends the night.

Is the madness over? I doubt it. For theirs was a love that was true. And you know what they say about the course of true love.

Rawr

Poor dinosaurs.

They used to be so awesome.

They used to strike fear into the hearts and souls of critters all over the planet. Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring' was their theme song. Not many creatures get that privilage, clomping around to riot-inducing symphonies.

And now look.

Forced to cower under my windowsill during a New York rainstorm like a couple of poor, wet kittens.

How the mighty have fallen.


UPDATE

Looks like these little birds are actually babies. Every now and then a bigger one swoops down and they start sticking their beaks into her mouth like maniacs. Could be they're eating. Or maybe they just like making out.