My Aversion to the Gym

Six months ago, I finally gave in. I had been touring local fitness centers for about a month, pricing them and checking out if I could ever see myself actually using these facilities. Generally, they ran from about seventy-five to a hundred and twenty dollars a month. No fucking way I was going to spend that kind of money every month on a place I knew would be loathsome to me. Finally, I alighted on a local public gym. It was unlike the 24 Hour Fitness or Club One. It was really basic, old school and kind of dingy, like an antiquated YMCA. It had a large basketball court – shooting hoops is one of the only “workout” activities I enjoy. And most importantly, it was only twenty-five bucks a month. So I decided I would give it a try. I could cancel any time, the lady at the front desk informed me.

For about three months I went pretty regularly, maybe three times a week. And then, of course, I fell off the fitness wagon and stopped going all together. I had been contemplating canceling my account, but it was on automatic billing and the first of the month came and went quickly. So yesterday I decided I would try yet again to get back into the swing of things. It was not easy.

Running around the basketball court, my lungs felt heavy and my legs felt weak. I persevered for about twenty minutes, but just wasn’t into it. I went into the room that had the cardio machines. Everywhere around me, seemingly healthy people worked out – the young girl with the tight ass pumping away on the Stairmaster, the fit septuagenarian man on the running machine, the forty-something guy reading his paper while easily riding the stationary cycle. His routine seemed the road of least resistance, so I chose the bike next to his, set it to medium, and began riding.

Seven minutes, thirty-six seconds passed and I had gone a mile and a half. My legs were burning and sweat was dripping off my brow. Good enough, I thought. The girl, the old dude, the newspaper man, were all still at their respective machines, working away. They were probably going to keep at it for another twenty minutes. I didn’t even go ten.

I went into the weight room and observed all the burly guys pumping iron. These are men who are truly in excellent physical condition, I thought, observing their bulging muscles and strenuous routines. They didn’t smoke cigarettes, blow rails or drink ten vodka-tonics in a night. Maybe some of them shot up steroids, though. I hit a few machines, worked the dumbbells and got out of there as quick as possible.

Finally, I was in the steam room: the one place where I can relax and kick back. My hands felt at my slightly bulging stomach: I had certainly put on weight in the last couple months. I knew I needed to be there but still didn’t like it.

I don’t want to be a slob or look bad. I take no pride in being out of shape and I intend to do something about it, as I have intended to do in the past. But I just can’t help feeling this difference between myself and other people at the gym. And I realize that this comes from inside me, not from others around me. Nobody can make me feel anything. I was an athlete in high school. I played varsity basketball for two years and was pretty damn good. I still play the game with a great deal of competence, even when I go up against the youngsters, teenagers who run like gazelles up and down the court, never needing a breather. I hit a baseball well at the batting cages; I play a solid game of touch football. So there’s no logical reason for me to feel strange at all about my physical abilities and in the context of playing sports I don’t. Yet the gym is an allergen to me and I really wonder why. Perhaps I’ll get to the root of the issue in the near future, as I am once again resigned to some kind of fitness regiment. After all, there has to be some time that can be put to good use between benders.

Wine Country Reprisals

On Sunday, I took a very pleasant excursion out to the town of Sonoma and the Sonoma wine country with Rick, as well as Patricia and Michelle, two friends of his from the Southeast out on a visit. We had a nice day lunching, touring the Mission, soldier’s barracks and home of General Vallejo, the last of which was surprisingly interesting. After this we took a spin out to Chateau St. Jean and did a wine tasting, which led to the purchase of an expensive magnum for a future dinner. All in all, the perfect afternoon. (And since the Forty-Niners didn’t show up against the Falcons yesterday, I missed nothing by not watching the game.)

As usual, however, I got to thinking about the absurd state of our DUI laws in this country, and the blatant hypocrisy that exists in our society. There we were, in the heart of American wine country, with wineries and tasting rooms separated by miles and nestled at the end of driveways hundreds of yards long, totally inaccessible except by automobile. And there I was, tasting my sampler of delicious wines from the purveyor, surrounded by dozens of other decent, hard working, law abiding citizens doing the same. And I couldn’t help but think that each of us was sticking his or her neck out pretty far in the pursuit of a healthy, happy Sunday afternoon.

I did the calculation in my head. How much wine did I have to drink? How long were we at the winery? And I realized that, in all likelihood, I was still well below .08% blood alcohol content and could drive without excessive fear of police reprisal. (I could not, however, drive completely confident, as even being below .08% BAC does not totally shield me from the law; I could still be charged with a PC 23152(a) DUI or a PC 23103.5, better known as the "wet and reckless.") But could everyone leaving the winery drive with my relative confidence? How many .09% or .10% drivers were leaving the winery that day? And even though they were driving in a state made illegal by legislation, were they truly unsafe to drive? I think not. I believe these people were perfectly safe, and I have no substantial fear in sharing the roads with them, day or night.

So what do I think we should do? I’m certainly not advocating drunk driving, despite my many posts on this topic. I accept the proposition that truly drunk drivers should be punished according to the law if they are caught and proven guilty. However, it is extremely vexing to think that a glass or two of wine makes me an offender of the law and an enemy of the State. I think of Italian Minister of Agriculture Luca Zaia and his comments on this subject, on which I wrote in September. Ultimately, I believe this: we should roll the legal blood alcohol content back to .10%. This is the level that the law recognized for many years as acceptable, before biased, politically powerful groups like Mothers Against Drunk Driving bullied legislators into submission. At least if we do this, we will provide some breathing room for responsible drivers who do not wish to become criminals.

When we returned from Kenwood to the Sonoma square we were walking around, touring the shops when we saw a woman on the sidewalk flanked by two police officers, doing the roadside two-step. Her balance was pretty good but her face was flushed and a little droopy.

“She’s done for,” I said to the group. “I don’t even know why they bother with those field sobriety tests anymore.”

We walked around the block and came back just as the cops were cuffing her and leading her to the police cruiser. And I don’t know if she deserved it or not. It’s not my place here to determine the judgment of the officers on the scene. But it was such a coincidence to see this event first hand, after having just returned from my drink and having mused on the topic only minutes earlier.

A Quote from Fyodor Dostoyevsky

"The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."

Bus Ride

There is nothing quite like riding the bus when you want to experience and get to know the true residents of a particular area. And when I say “true” I mean, of course, the lower level, economically depressed denizens who deal with tangible problems of basic survival on a day to day basis, people for whom mac and cheese and hot dogs is a good meal, folks who regularly drink Natural Light and aren’t in college, people who smoke GPC cigarettes. These, of course, occupy the bus in droves. But there are others too: intellectuals, greenies, adolescents, municipal employees with good jobs and transit tax deals who also ride the bus and make it a diverse, interesting environment for observing the human condition in action. It’s also a great place to get into a conversation. I’ve learned more random things on the bus than possibly anywhere else. Whether they’re all true or not…that’s a discussion for another time.

I won’t lie and say I ride the bus when I have any other option, because I don’t. But I do find myself on my local municipal lines ten or fifteen days out of the year. And while this is not a great investment of time, I do value these moments and am glad to experience them when I do. Every difficulty in life does indeed present an opportunity.

So yesterday I was coming back from dropping my car off at a fairly distant shop. I had to take one line then transfer to another to get to my town. On the second leg of my journey, I overheard a conversation that I will share with you here. It is a shining example of superstition, drug culture ethic and the brotherhood of those who have a little less leading to a moment of crystalline beauty. I shall do my best to recreate it faithfully and accurately.

Two white guys were sitting in the very back of the bus. One of the dudes must have been close to my age – mid thirties or so. He was pretty grizzled but had an optimistic tone to his voice. The other was younger, perhaps mid twenties. He had a mullet and a goatee. I thought mullets had gone the way of the dodo. Anyway, they got to talking.

“Yup,” was the first thing I heard from the older guy. The word popped off his tongue. “I was involved in a pretty nice harvest out there on the coast near Jenner.”

“That’s south Sonoma County, right?” inquired younger.

“You got it. I worked a plot of fifty six footers. They had cola’s on ‘em the size of my forearm, man. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Good deal. You make decent dough?”

“I did all right. Four grand for the months work – I was only involved during the last stage. But that was all cash. On top of that, they gave me a quarter pound of the best shit. And during that time, I didn’t spend a cent. They provided everything. Three square meals a day and all the beer I could drink. Man, it was sweet.”

“Sounds good.”

“Was it ever. But you know, I owed a little money around town and by the end of this week I was already down to two grand. And my baby and her mama are living at my Mom’s place. We’re trying to get a place of our own, but it’s tough. And two grand wasn’t going to last us any amount of time. So I put a G on the Forty Niners with my bookie to cover the spread against the Rams. And they won 35 to nothin’. So I parlayed that money and put it on the Vikings to win straight up against the Packers and I won again. My bookie paid me the next day. So here I am, right back with four grand.”

“No shit,” the younger said, obviously impressed. “I knew the Niners were gonna kick butt.”

“Easy money,” older replied, “any fool knew how that game was gonna go.”

“I need to hang out with you, man. Maybe you can get me some work or something.”

“Well, the harvest is almost over. But let me write down my name and number anyway. You got a pen?”

Younger produced a pen from his jacket.

“Here you go. And hey, have lunch on me today, brother,” older said, presenting the guy a bill. It must have been either a twenty or a ten, but I couldn’t tell, as I was only looking out of the corner of my eye.”

“Hey bro, no…you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s only bullshit money. It’ll be gone tomorrow. Anyway, I’m tryin’ to pump my luck. With me, there’s no middle. It’s either all good or all terrible. You’re helping my karma.”

“Hey, right on man. Thanks.”

The bus was nearing my stop. But the story was not yet over.

“Hey brother, I get off at the stop after next. Take this for yerself and give it a try. I know you’ll like it.” Older handed younger a nice little bag of weed, what I would normally view as a “twenty sack.”

“Jesus,” younger said, awestruck. “This must be my lucky day.”

“My lucky month,” older replied.

I got off at the stop nearest my office. My spine tingled with the joy of bearing witness to such an event and knowing I would be able to share it with you here. Part of me wants to break it all down and analyze it. But I’ll refrain from doing that. The story speaks for itself.

Addict Recommends: (Film) Hard Eight (1996)

Starring: John C. Riley, Phillip Baker Hall, Gwyneth Paltrow, Samuel L. Jackson

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson

John needs six thousand dollars to bury his dead mother. When he meets Sydney, he is slumped against the outer wall of a seemingly ubiquitous diner somewhere between Las Vegas and Reno. Sydney offers him coffee and a cigarette. John reluctantly agrees, not knowing at first how to react to the kindness of strangers. When Sydney is informed that John is broke and has few prospects of earning money, he offers to teach the younger man what he knows. Which, it turns out, is how to get a free room and meal, how to scratch out a comfortable living as a professional gambler. But he makes it clear that he does not have six thousand dollars to give. Having no other options, John agrees to give it a try. “It’s always good to meet a new friend,” Sydney says sincerely.

So opens one of the great gambling films of the 1990’s. For a movie that generally flies under the radar, the cast of characters is frankly astounding. John C. Riley gives a perfectly flawed performance as “John,” always misusing words and phrases at just the right time to expose his character’s weakness. Philip Baker Hall gives an almost career-defining performance as the tough but generous and honest “Sydney.” Gwyneth Paltrow shimmers as “Clementine,” a waitress and sometimes prostitute. Samuel L. Jackson brings a charged performance in the portrayal of “Jimmy,” an egocentric scam artist, gambler and would be dangerous dude. Even Philip Seymour Hoffman makes a brilliant cameo as a loudmouth drunk at the craps table.

Sydney does teach John the ropes of how to make a living as a professional gambler, and the funeral is held somehow. Two years go by and the duo are still together, skulking around Reno’s casino-hotels, angling for comps, skimming the percentages. Clementine tells Sydney in the bar one day, “I see the way John follows you around and worships you, like you’re his captain.” And indeed it’s true.

But why is Sydney doing this, we wonder? He clearly has nothing to gain, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who gives away his trade secrets for free. As the story goes on, John and Clementine fall in love. Where will it lead? And what does Jimmy know about Atlantic City anyway? The answer just might cost Sydney six thousand dollars after all. Then again, every gamble contains the possibility of victory.

Directed by P.T. Anderson, (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) and containing an excellent musical score, Hard Eight is one of those movies where, at the end, you will feel enriched but not know exactly why, at least not on the first go around. I believe this reaction has three foundations. First, the story is pure, unadorned with superfluities that distract the viewer from focusing on the journey. Second, the acting is simply first rate: raw and honest, practiced but not polished. Finally, Hard Eight, while well known to cinema cognoscenti, was a real sleeper. The first time I saw it, I felt like I was in on a great little secret that only a few people knew about.

Well, I don’t know if the word’s already out. Either way, you should definitely see this film.

Addict Recommends: (Literature) Poker: A Guaranteed Income for Life (1968) by Frank R. Wallace

There are a thousand books about poker. Almost all teach the dry theory of the game. Whether the game is stud, draw, hold ‘em or crazy pineapple, these books focus almost exclusively on the odds and strategy, the universe that exists within the four corners of the table. They focus on esoteric knowledge that only a few will ever practically apply, and they teach us little about human nature or ourselves.

But there is one book that is absolutely different. Poker: A Guaranteed Income for Life (by using the Advanced Concepts of Poker) by Frank R. Wallace (which is actually the pen name for Dr. Wallace Ward) is the very best book on the game that I have ever read, and possibly the best that will ever be written. Mr. Wallace (I am going to refer to him as such here) was not only a master of psycho-poker strategy, but a publisher, mail order magnate, infamous federal tax evader, successful Supreme Court litigant and founder of Neo-Tech philosophy. While I am only superficially familiar with Mr. Wallace’s many other achievements, this book is one I have studied carefully and regard as one of the great anti-addict treatises of all time.

The book teaches you almost nothing about poker. It assumes the reader already has a reasonably strong grasp of the game. Instead, the text focuses on the theory behind the table, the infinite intricacies of human nature that create the winning or losing player, and the way in which the individual can shape his or her own nature and manipulate others so that he or she can create a winning environment. It is much more than a book about a game. It is a book about human weakness and vice, and how to exploit these character flaws to your own advantage.

“Luck is a mystical illusion that does not exist in reality,” the author writes in a footnote on page 2. This is the essential basis for the whole book, which is broken down into chapters such as, “Tailor Made Game,” “Behavior,” “Cheaters,” and “Exploitation” to name but a few.

The thing that sets this book apart and makes it entertaining is the fact that each section is broken down into two parts. First, the author discusses the particular theory he is espousing. Then, through creative fiction, he illustrates these theories. Wallace creates a game filled with characters that represent several player types. “John Finn” is the guy applying the author’s theories, and therefore the big winner and manipulator of the game. “Quintin Merck” is the solid but too tight player who can be easily offended. “Scotty Nichols” is the guy with the inferiority complex. “Sid Bennett” is a card cheat. “Ted Fehr” is the compulsive gambler.

There are so many humorous and insightful passages contained in this book it is hard to choose just one to illustrate the overall astuteness of the work. But the following passage is, I believe, one of the best:

Professor Merck subconsciously suspects Sid of cheating. One night, Sid cheats him out of a $700 pot. After sitting in silence for several hands, Quintin suddenly leaves without a word and slams the front door…Knowing that Quintin detected Sid’s cheating and fearful that he might tell others, John pursues him out the door. Quintin stops under the streetlamp when he sees John approaching. For a moment, neither say a word.

“You saw it too?” Quintin asks with squinting green eyes.

“I see it every game.”

“Why haven’t you said something?” Quintin half shouts. “He should’ve been bounced from the game.”

“Who’s the biggest loser in the game?” John snaps. “It’s Sid. And you’re a big winner. In the past couple years, you’ve taken Sid for thousands of dollars. Sure he’s cheated you, me and everyone else out of pots. What if we’d thrown him out two years ago? We’d have done him a forty thousand dollar favor.”

Quintin’s mouth opens; he scratches his moustache.

“Sid’s a cheater and deserves to be punished,” John continues. “The best way to punish him is to let him play. We only hurt ourselves by bouncing him out of the game.”

Obviously, this passage reflects a cynicism and callous opportunism that many people may find offensive. And don’t get me wrong: I’m not suggesting that I’ve directly applied the principals of this book to my game or life. I’m no John Finn. If anyone, I’m a Ted Fehr, who is the worst player, a junkie. However, this work is extremely valuable on a number of different plains. By reading it, you could learn how to create, manipulate and take advantage of people at the poker table, and thereby make yourself a better player. Or you could expand this book into the greater lesson the author is really trying to teach you and practice manipulation, moral relativism and opportunism in the greater game of life. Finally – and this is the lesson I take from this great work and the lesson I hope you will also take from it – you can learn in a very unique way how cynicism, callousness, opportunism, deception, manipulation and greed form the basis for almost every interaction you engage in while you move about in the world. If you are an addict, even a functioning one, you are more susceptible to these pitfalls than most. Reading this book may help you avoid one or two of them in the future. And it can help you to know yourself more honestly and completely.

A Quote From Friedrich Nietzsche

"...at the very bottom of my soul I feel grateful to all my misery and bouts of sickness and everything about me that is imperfect..."