Blogspot, sweet Lardo of my dreams.
In Jerry Spinelli's children's novel Maniac Magee, our protagonist spends days slowly untangling Cobble's Knot, an infamous maelstrom of rope fiber, in the town pizza joint. Although I have not read the book in over a decade, the image of Maniac scraping away the shell that had crusted around the knot with his fingernails and then pulling the knot's infinite tendrils into a terrible array has remained with me to this day.
Cobble's Knot is basically how I envisage my heart. Having lapsed into the very picture of a dying 50-year old investment banker lusting for a child's untimely death so he can have a heart transplant, I set off about a month ago to untangle the ruined monstrocity my heart has become.
My friend Celeste lives in the Sculpture for Living on Astor Square, a many storied baby-grand-piano-prism of glass. So along with automated lighting, a closet with a washer/dryer and bedrooms where the beds literally feel like oceans of down, she has access to a private gym. Episodic encounters with ultra-intense powerwalkers notwithstanding, we never run into anyone, so nobody can see my secret shame.
I go to the gym after work about three days a week. The first time, I didn't own any workout clothes, so I went to a KMart across the street and blew a whole $20 on supplies. Fun fact: my workout shoes are velcro.
Celeste's roommate Sasha has made her a Kylie Minogue-intensive workout mix. In contrast, when I run I put my iPod on shuffle and get stuff like The Beach Boys and Weezer. Basically: Worst. Workout. Music. Ever.
To feel sexy on the elliptical the other day (an oxymoron if ever I spoke one), I cranked up the wattage to 115 and proceeded to imagine my movements powering an industrial grade lightbulb somewhere in a North Jersey Home Depot. This proves to be a poor choice, since the electronic display soon flashes a marquee in all-caps "HEART RATE HIGH." Of course, given my great concern for my health, I keep going, since I am so out of shape that I get that message every time.
By the end of every workout my shirt is completely soaked--not a problem, since there is a mini-fridge perpetually stocked with free bottles of Poland Spring. Besides, the sweat forms fun Rorschach patterns on my chest. A couple days ago, it was an oak tree, my glandular homage to Ted Leo.
In Jerry Spinelli's children's novel Maniac Magee, our protagonist spends days slowly untangling Cobble's Knot, an infamous maelstrom of rope fiber, in the town pizza joint. Although I have not read the book in over a decade, the image of Maniac scraping away the shell that had crusted around the knot with his fingernails and then pulling the knot's infinite tendrils into a terrible array has remained with me to this day.
Cobble's Knot is basically how I envisage my heart. Having lapsed into the very picture of a dying 50-year old investment banker lusting for a child's untimely death so he can have a heart transplant, I set off about a month ago to untangle the ruined monstrocity my heart has become.
My friend Celeste lives in the Sculpture for Living on Astor Square, a many storied baby-grand-piano-prism of glass. So along with automated lighting, a closet with a washer/dryer and bedrooms where the beds literally feel like oceans of down, she has access to a private gym. Episodic encounters with ultra-intense powerwalkers notwithstanding, we never run into anyone, so nobody can see my secret shame.
I go to the gym after work about three days a week. The first time, I didn't own any workout clothes, so I went to a KMart across the street and blew a whole $20 on supplies. Fun fact: my workout shoes are velcro.
Celeste's roommate Sasha has made her a Kylie Minogue-intensive workout mix. In contrast, when I run I put my iPod on shuffle and get stuff like The Beach Boys and Weezer. Basically: Worst. Workout. Music. Ever.
To feel sexy on the elliptical the other day (an oxymoron if ever I spoke one), I cranked up the wattage to 115 and proceeded to imagine my movements powering an industrial grade lightbulb somewhere in a North Jersey Home Depot. This proves to be a poor choice, since the electronic display soon flashes a marquee in all-caps "HEART RATE HIGH." Of course, given my great concern for my health, I keep going, since I am so out of shape that I get that message every time.
By the end of every workout my shirt is completely soaked--not a problem, since there is a mini-fridge perpetually stocked with free bottles of Poland Spring. Besides, the sweat forms fun Rorschach patterns on my chest. A couple days ago, it was an oak tree, my glandular homage to Ted Leo.
posted by Byron at 11:46 AM
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