Greetings all, the time is 11:54 and I am listening to These Eyes, by The Guess Who. A random band from the 70s, but a great song none-the-less. So for those of you who don’t know, I have decided to try and move to California. Yes that’s right, it’s high time I hit the road. I really have little reason to be here anymore, outside of family. I have more good friends there then I do here right now. I am completely bored and uninspired here and while I do not want to flatter myself, one friend said to me “you are to smart to stay in Dallas,” which I appreciated greatly. How often do you get then chance to go live somewhere as cool as Southern California? Anyways, hopefully, Lord willing I will be out there soon. Now for some random stuff.
A 70 year old butt naked white man. That was NOT what I was expecting to see when I turned the corner into the men’s locker room at 24 Hour Fitness, yet that was the vivid image I was confronted with and now forced to deal with. He was just there, next to the sinks, not doing much of anything. I blinked and quickly turned the corner to the lockers. Now the showers are tucked nicely away around the corners and each one has a little cubby that you can use to dry off and change in, but no not this brave elderly gentleman.
He proudly stands with his sagging belly and pasty skin for all to see. I quickly put my stuff in my locker and gave it a minute or so. Maybe he will be gone by now, or even better, have clothes on. I take a breath and turn the corner. There he is, butt naked still, bending over and rubbing lotion on his legs. I shudder and run. The image still haunts me to this day and I quiver before I enter the locker room from now on.
This sounds like a Miller Lights Real Men of Genius advertisement, you know, we salute you, Mr. Proud-To-Be-Old-And-Butt-Naked. You, who proudly displays your pasty white gut and your purple veins. When older normal men would show even a modicum of modesty and restraint, you bare it all for everyone around you to see.
This next part I wrote just to practice writing..
Here is a profile of a customer of ours. I have changed the name to supposedly protect the innocent here but lets face it, anyone reading this that works at my store will know who he is. Raphael always walks in looking a little lost, as if he isn’t sure where he is or at least, what café he is at. I am sure that if he didn’t have a note to remind himself every morning, he would forget to put his pats on. I have seen him at various other coffee shops throughout the area at equally various times of night. He’s an accountant and seems to live in his own little world, oblivious to most other things around him. His mind must be a chalkboard filled with equations and numbers, consigns and statistics, logarithms and proofs. There could be an abacus tucked away in there as well. He always orders a doppio macchiato, always, but half of the time he fumbles around as if he is trying to think of it. He sits down and starts reading the paper or possibly works a crossword puzzle. You call his drink three times and give up because more often then not he forgets about it. He also has a little Chihuahua that stays in his car, unless he sits outside. Then he lets the little runt out. He is, beyond all doubt, hopelessly single. Perhaps that’s why he is so wrapped up in his own little world of mathematics and theories.
