Benchmark
A new recovering benchmark:Bench Press: 295lbs.
Body Weight: 249lbs.
My boxing coach, Jack, says I’m pushing my broken arm too hard.
He’s 80 years old, still fit, and the real deal. I’ve been with him four years now, and he’s right, I am pushing myself, maybe a little too hard. I have a lot of respect for Jack. His wife of 58 years was diagnosed with cancer and has been no more than seven months to live, probably less. This morning she kicked Jack out of the house and sent him to boxing class. Jack knows her death will be hard. He’s fit for 80, but has survived three heart attacks himself. I have to respect the courage he’s showing, knowing a hard blow is coming, and facing it square.
When Jack first saw me pounding the heavy bags again he said he’d never thought he’d see me do that again. Jack was the first visitor through the door when I was in the hospital. He’s always advising me to take it easier, slower, and smoother.
I mean to recover though, and I can be stubborn.
On a lighter note I spoke to Ashley again. My friend Steve tells me she’s single, but she’s also much younger than I expected. There’s no harm in saying "Hello" though, right?
This morning, after boxing class, I found Bea and Michael’s older daughter Madeline waiting in the hall outside our room. She’s eight (I think), and was very excited to have won a drawing contest. She is quite the little artist. Her prize was six tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet in Portland after Bea’s workout. She’d also get to meet the cast and take pictures on the set after the performance.
While I was lifting earlier I chalked up my hands and approached the weight bench. An older man stopped me with "Excuse me, Big Guy. You knocked the chalk bag over."
He was right, I had. I set the bag right, and said "Thanks."
There was a time I thought people whom called me "Big Guy" were mocking me. I know now none meant harm. I get called "Rugged" a lot too, or compared to various animals or machines. I’m stronger than average, but almost anyone can achieve what I’ve gained. I won’t take steroids or otherwise cheat either.
Later, in the locker room, I saw the older man again. We got to talking, and he has an interesting scar too, where Willie Horton bit him.
Horton, along with two buddies, robbed, tortured, and killed a teenage convenience store clerk in Lawrence, Massachusetts, back in 1974, even after the lad had handed over the register’s money and otherwise cooperated. Horton is a burly, six foot three inch psycho. He cut off the boy’s fingers, toes, and genitals, then dumped the boy’s body in a dumpster.
The man said the two accomplices were meek followers, but Horton was challenging the guards straight away. At one point Horton tried to break the now retired guard’s neck. They got wrapped up, and Horton bit the guard’s arm hard enough the scar is still visible in 2008. The bite broke up when the guard’s sergeant used a baton to apply blunt force trauma to Horton’s head.
Later, Horton took advantage of an ill-advised furlough program to escape, pillage and rape. Sometimes I don’t get why we insist on locking up non-violent offenders with violent criminals, or why we think we think our penal system is anything but a money-making sham, or what level of incompetence does it take to furlough a Willie Horton?
I’m no Willie Horton, though as an atheist I’m still the bad guy to a great many people. I’m reading Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion. A waitress whom is usually curious as to what I’m reading asked if she could borrow this when I’m done, as I frequently pass books on to friends. While examining the book she read a few of the chapter titles aloud, silently mouthing any overtly atheist sentiments. She was wearing a crucifix, and surrounded by Christians. I’m not going to publically out her: she’d loose her job, certainly, following a no doubt unpleasant, emotional blaze of "Christian Love."
After boxing this morning, I caught the matinee of Rachel Getting Married at the Eveningstar. I sat on a couch down front of course. I thought the movie powerfully acted. After the credits I noticed a pocketbook had been left behind. I rummaged through it…
I brought it to the counter, joking with John, the owner. I typically skip the trailers, arriving just in time for the show, or "Late" as John likes to call it.
John’s an honest man, and I left the pocketbook in his good hands. I visited the lavatory. It was stuffed full of old men. The geezer in front of me managed to spray everything but the urinal. I noted he didn’t wash his hands either. This is The Greatest Generation?
I stepped back outside to find a crowd milling about discussing the film. Twelve people is a crowd in small-town Maine. My landlord Jim stepped up to say "Hello" and shook my hand. Jim is friends with John too, apparently. John asked Jim "How do you know ‘Dozer?"
"He’s one of my tenants", Jim replied.
John decided to tease me, right there. "Oh, does he pay his rent on time?"
"One of my best," Jim replied. I knew by Jim’s hollow smile the question made him uneasy, and I'm never late with rent.
"Well, he’s always late here", John sniffed with mock outrage.
Just then I spotted a panic-stricken older woman running through the crown. I just handed her the purse from the counter. She was melting even as I walked away.
Previously: Benchmark.
Next: Benchmark.
Body Weight: 249lbs.
My boxing coach, Jack, says I’m pushing my broken arm too hard.
He’s 80 years old, still fit, and the real deal. I’ve been with him four years now, and he’s right, I am pushing myself, maybe a little too hard. I have a lot of respect for Jack. His wife of 58 years was diagnosed with cancer and has been no more than seven months to live, probably less. This morning she kicked Jack out of the house and sent him to boxing class. Jack knows her death will be hard. He’s fit for 80, but has survived three heart attacks himself. I have to respect the courage he’s showing, knowing a hard blow is coming, and facing it square.
When Jack first saw me pounding the heavy bags again he said he’d never thought he’d see me do that again. Jack was the first visitor through the door when I was in the hospital. He’s always advising me to take it easier, slower, and smoother.
I mean to recover though, and I can be stubborn.
On a lighter note I spoke to Ashley again. My friend Steve tells me she’s single, but she’s also much younger than I expected. There’s no harm in saying "Hello" though, right?
This morning, after boxing class, I found Bea and Michael’s older daughter Madeline waiting in the hall outside our room. She’s eight (I think), and was very excited to have won a drawing contest. She is quite the little artist. Her prize was six tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet in Portland after Bea’s workout. She’d also get to meet the cast and take pictures on the set after the performance.
While I was lifting earlier I chalked up my hands and approached the weight bench. An older man stopped me with "Excuse me, Big Guy. You knocked the chalk bag over."
He was right, I had. I set the bag right, and said "Thanks."
There was a time I thought people whom called me "Big Guy" were mocking me. I know now none meant harm. I get called "Rugged" a lot too, or compared to various animals or machines. I’m stronger than average, but almost anyone can achieve what I’ve gained. I won’t take steroids or otherwise cheat either.
Later, in the locker room, I saw the older man again. We got to talking, and he has an interesting scar too, where Willie Horton bit him.
Horton, along with two buddies, robbed, tortured, and killed a teenage convenience store clerk in Lawrence, Massachusetts, back in 1974, even after the lad had handed over the register’s money and otherwise cooperated. Horton is a burly, six foot three inch psycho. He cut off the boy’s fingers, toes, and genitals, then dumped the boy’s body in a dumpster.
The man said the two accomplices were meek followers, but Horton was challenging the guards straight away. At one point Horton tried to break the now retired guard’s neck. They got wrapped up, and Horton bit the guard’s arm hard enough the scar is still visible in 2008. The bite broke up when the guard’s sergeant used a baton to apply blunt force trauma to Horton’s head.
Later, Horton took advantage of an ill-advised furlough program to escape, pillage and rape. Sometimes I don’t get why we insist on locking up non-violent offenders with violent criminals, or why we think we think our penal system is anything but a money-making sham, or what level of incompetence does it take to furlough a Willie Horton?
I’m no Willie Horton, though as an atheist I’m still the bad guy to a great many people. I’m reading Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion. A waitress whom is usually curious as to what I’m reading asked if she could borrow this when I’m done, as I frequently pass books on to friends. While examining the book she read a few of the chapter titles aloud, silently mouthing any overtly atheist sentiments. She was wearing a crucifix, and surrounded by Christians. I’m not going to publically out her: she’d loose her job, certainly, following a no doubt unpleasant, emotional blaze of "Christian Love."
After boxing this morning, I caught the matinee of Rachel Getting Married at the Eveningstar. I sat on a couch down front of course. I thought the movie powerfully acted. After the credits I noticed a pocketbook had been left behind. I rummaged through it…
I brought it to the counter, joking with John, the owner. I typically skip the trailers, arriving just in time for the show, or "Late" as John likes to call it.
John’s an honest man, and I left the pocketbook in his good hands. I visited the lavatory. It was stuffed full of old men. The geezer in front of me managed to spray everything but the urinal. I noted he didn’t wash his hands either. This is The Greatest Generation?
I stepped back outside to find a crowd milling about discussing the film. Twelve people is a crowd in small-town Maine. My landlord Jim stepped up to say "Hello" and shook my hand. Jim is friends with John too, apparently. John asked Jim "How do you know ‘Dozer?"
"He’s one of my tenants", Jim replied.
John decided to tease me, right there. "Oh, does he pay his rent on time?"
"One of my best," Jim replied. I knew by Jim’s hollow smile the question made him uneasy, and I'm never late with rent.
"Well, he’s always late here", John sniffed with mock outrage.
Just then I spotted a panic-stricken older woman running through the crown. I just handed her the purse from the counter. She was melting even as I walked away.
Previously: Benchmark.
Next: Benchmark.