How To Win a Fight…or Die Trying.

I don’t fight people, at least not physically. As I write this, I’m 52 years old, and that’s just too old to fight. Truthfully, I never was much of fighter. Nevertheless, I’ve been in a few fights. I grew in Harlan County, Kentucky, deep in the mountains of Appalachia where people have a reputation of being rough and tough. I enjoyed no such reputation and for good reason. I am neither rough nor tough; however, these deficiencies give me great insight into the world of street fighting.

I haven’t been in fight in about 30 years or so. Even that fight was not impressive, as I was forced to fight a girl. You can read about that here. How, you might ask, would a man of such limited prowess ever even get in a fight? In my youth, I possessed two traits which made the occasional dust up unavoidable–a big mouth and small body. Pour strong drink into that mix, and you get in fights. The more I drank, the more I ran mouth. The more my mouth ran, the more people wanted to shut it. They would then size me up and determine that giving me a beating would be fairly easy.

I’m not offering any advice on how to start a fight. Starting one is easy. Mouth off, look funny at the wrong person, throw a punch and other offensive behavior will do the trick. I want you to know how to survive a fight. Here are the things you need to know:

PUNCHING IS OVERRATED

You know how in movies a guy will knock someone out with one punch? That doesn’t happen in real fights, except by accident. Hitting someone in the face is difficult. Unless you are battling Mr. Potato Head or the Elephant Man, the human head is a small target. Hitting it with one punch is almost impossible, especially if the person is trying NOT to get hit. The exception to this is the Sucker Punch (discussed below). The other problem is that punching a head only works if you hit the face. The rest of the head is very hard as it consists of a thin layer of flesh and a really hard human skull. Punching a skull hurts.

Punching someone can hurt the puncher more than the punchee. I suspect this is because hands are made for such things as holding pencils and tying shoes. They aren’t made for beating things, hence the invention of the hammer. If you punch someone two or three times in the face, your hands are going to be pretty banged up. That hurts.

If you must punch, know your targets. The nose is great because it hurts and bleeds like hell. You will at the very least stun your opponent, if only momentarily. The throat is great, too, but almost impossible to hit. Under the armpit or directly under the rib cage are great, too; however, if you miss even a little, you won’t do any damage.

Real life punching is also goofy looking. You won’t look like Floyd Mayweather throwing a punch. Your punch will more like a close-fisted slap. You also are likely to be throwing the punch off the wrong foot, destroying any leverage you might have had. You likely have the wrong kind of hands for punching, just like me. I have bony hands with sharp, protruding knuckles. I know that sounds good, but it isn’t. I’m not a doctor, but I’ve determined that human knuckles are made of some kind of styrofoam-like material that crushes easily. Hit something two or three times and your knuckles will swell up and be useless.

Note your author’s bony, protruding knuckles. These are ill-suited for a fist fight.

The best kind of fist for punching is a big, fat one that doesn’t even look like a fist. It looks like meat mallet. If you have those at the ends of your arms, use them.

KICKING IS UNDERRATED

Just as the punch gets way too much credit, the kick is virtually ignored. No, I’m not talking about some fancy karate-like spinning back kick. If you can do that, you should be out fighting all the time just to show off. I mean a kick like trying to kick someone in the testicles or the face.

The kick has several advantages. One, it doesn’t hurt like a punch. Two, it can create valuable space between you and your assailant (or victim, as the case may be). This space can be used for such tactics as running or head down bull rush. Third, if properly executed the kick delivers more force than a punch. The kick best applied when your opponent is on the ground. Despite what you’ve heard, kicking a man when he’s down is perfectly acceptable in a fight. In fact, it’s often necessary.

I must here mention the martial arts. I greatly respect any person who has mastered one of these ancient forms of self-defense. These people need no advice from the likes of me. Mastery is the key. As I once heard, martial arts teach you one of two things: (1) how to kill someone with your bare hands; or (2) just enough to get your ass kicked.

FIGHT DIRTY

This caption is deceptive. There isn’t any dirty fighting. If you want rules, become a boxer. Regular fights don’t have rules. Here are some moves to consider:

Sucker Punch: This is hitting a person when he doesn’t see if coming. This is the mark of coward, but it could win a fight for you before it starts.
Eye Gouging: This is an underutilized tactic. There are plenty of badasses who will dare you to punch them. None of them will dare you to gouge their eyes.
Groin Smash: If you’re male, I need say no more. If you’re female, well…I just don’t know what to tell you.
Clawing: I’m not talking about scratching (unless that’s necessary, of course). Clawing is similar to the gouge, except you can apply it anywhere (see Groin Smash above).
Rabbit Punch: This is a punch in the back of the head. This isn’t recommended because of the relative strength of the back of the human skull; however, you might want to just take a shot if you are running away.

These are just a few tactics you can use. During the heat of battle, you may think of many more. Try them all.

RUNNING

Running gets a bad rap. Many times, it is your last, best defense. The shame of running is no worse than the shame of getting a thorough beating and hurts it less. No one call tell you when to run. You must judge when the tide has turned. Profuse bleeding is usually a good sign. Unfortunately, many of us wait one punch or kick too late to utilize this move. For instance, I was once kicked in the stomach while on my hands and knees. At that moment, I thought “I need to run.” That thought was followed by another kick. Too late to run. Use your judgment.

AVOID WEAPONRY

I can’t emphasize this one enough. It’s bad enough to get in a fight. It’s even worse when you get killed. Weapons are good for that. For example, you might think hitting someone with a chair is a good move. You’ve seen movies and know that chairs splinter when they contact a human form. They don’t. They just hurt like hell (This all assumes you are strong enough to swing a chair like a club). You hit someone with a chair, beer mug, nunchucks, etc., and you better hope he doesn’t have access to something more deadly. You might find yourself at a gun fight armed with a chair.

CHOOSE YOUR OPPONENT

You don’t have to fight everyone with whom you have a conflict. If your potential opponent is a large, dangerous-looking man (or woman), you might want to think twice. You can save face by saying something like “Hey, dude, I don’t want any trouble.” That’s not cowardly. It has air of a man who has seen his share of trouble and wants to find a better way. If that doesn’t work, see RUNNING above.

Bear in mind, too, that there are people who actually like to fight. These people are deranged and will kill you. Avoid them. Sadly, usually we only discover this during the fight.

AVOID OLD MEN

I offer this for the young people. When you’re a young man, you feel indestructible to some extent. You are at your physical peak and look with pity at the middle-aged or older man, with his wife, kids, job and mortgage. This false sense of superiority often causes a young man to be mouthy or threatening. I know, for I was once young. Here’s some advice: Leave the old guys alone. Here’s why:

Old Man Strong: I don’t why–and science can’t explain it–but old guys are strong. They don’t look like it with their beer bellies and flabby arms, but they are. Even skinny old guys are strong. You will underestimate this, and he will beat your ass.
Old Man Don’t Care: Unlike a young fellow, an old guy isn’t concerned about losing a tooth or getting a black eye. He has no bright future ahead of him. He’ll wade right into you. It will catch off guard. Then you’re trouble.
Old Man Courage: Old guys don’t scare easily. Maybe it’s because they’ve seen a lot or maybe they just don’t give a damn. Fights are scary. They get your adrenalin pumping. Old guys don’t get rattled. They just wail away.
Old Man Mystery: Let’s say you’re a college age man and you get in a fight over something you said in a bar. Chances are that your opponent is about like you–college guy, drunk, mouthy, etc. You know what you’re dealing with. Now, add 30 years to that guy. For all you know, he got out of prison yesterday after 20 years for skinning some guy just like you. It’s best not to find out.
Old Man Army: He could also be Marines, Navy, Air Force or even Coast Guard. If you fight an old fellow, you just might be locking horns with a military veteran. Bad, bad move. These guys are just waiting for someone like you. It’s better to apologize and buy him a drink.

Just as boxers should stay in their weight class, you should stay in your age class. If you are an old guy, at some point, some young guy will mouth off to you. Have at it.

Those are my tips. Of course, none of this applies if you are a large, dangerous person or just psychotically violent. If so, you need no pointers me. I’m certainly not trying to tell you what to do or suggesting that you can’t handle yourself quite well. Take no offense. I’m not looking for any trouble.

©www.thetrivialtroll.com 2015

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Come Retire With Me!

I’m in my 50’s now, rolling toward my Golden Years. At my age, we think about retirement. We read about it, too. Mostly, we think and read about how we can’t retire because we don’t have enough money. To that, I say “Balderdash!” (I say that because I like the word “balderdash” but rarely get the chance to use it). I read somewhere that 20-30% of Americans think winning a lottery is their best chance to pay for retirement. I don’t recommend that plan. If that many American win the lottery, the pay outs will be so low, you won’t get hardly anything.

If you have a generous pension plan or trust fund or guaranteed inheritance, you may want to stop reading at this point. Little of this will apply to you. You have a safety net in place to assure your comfortable retirement. For the rest of us, it takes some planning.

We can, in fact, retire if we know what to do. First, we must understand what retirement is not.

Retirement is not unemployment. Unemployment is the drunk brother-in-law of retirement. The only thing it has in common with retirement is the lack of gainful employment. It’s very easy to be unemployed. AARP doesn’t publish articles on how best to become unemployed. We all know many tried and true methods: incompetence, sloth, thievery, amateur pornography, insubordination, felonious behavior, economic downturns, job outsourcing, bad luck and many, many others.

Retirement is not disability. You might be disabled and thus unable to work. That sucks, unless you are really a malingerer in which case you’re okay with it. Regardless, you’re not retired. You just can’t work. There’s no retiring from disability, unless death counts.

Retirement is not wealth. Perhaps you are incredibly wealthy and haven’t really ever worked. Whether you attained this status through dumb luck or the largesse of your ancestors, you aren’t retired. You are a ne’er-do-well or man about town or socialite or some other such fortunate soul. You can’t retire from those “jobs.”

So what exactly is retirement? Retirement is where one works his or her ass off for years until the point that he or she can no longer stand it and quits. Unlike unemployment, the retiree has sufficient income or assets upon which to live some modicum of a decent existence. Pensions, savings, Social Security, inheritance and the like all qualify.

Now that we know what we’re dealing with, what can we do to be prepared? If you’re my age or older and you haven’t thought about that yet, here’s the plan: Work until you die. You’ve waited way too long. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get disabled at some point. For everyone else, there are few things you can do–or not do, as the case may be.

1. Work. This one is simple enough. You can’t retire from doing nothing. Get a job. Pay your taxes. Set up an IRA. Contribute to a 401K if you can. Every little bit helps. Better yet, get one of those jobs that pays scads of money, like movie star or hedge fund manager.

2. Live Within Your Means. We’ve all heard this but spend much of our time either totally ignoring it or looking for loopholes. Anyone can understand that you shouldn’t spend money you don’t have or incur bills you can’t pay. That’s pretty basic stuff. If you don’t understand that, there’s really no hope for you. Even if you do understand, you aren’t out of the woods. Read on.

3. Spend Your Own Money. Do you still have your parents around? If so, good for you. If they are good people, call and visit them often. Be helpful to them. Pay them back for the many years they cared for you. Don’t mooch off them. Maybe your parents are generous sorts and willingly give you money and things. Here’s the deal: If the only reason you go on vacation or have a car or a house is because your parents still provide for you, you don’t live within your means. You live within their means.

Of course, many young people depend upon family to help them get started in life. That’s fine. If you’re 40 years old, you’re not a young person. If you haven’t gotten your start yet, it ain’t happening. Learn to support yourself.

You may be counting on your parents to actually fund your retirement. That plan may well work. Unfortunately, unless you mooch off them, it requires their deaths. That’s a high price to pay to retire. But, if that kind of thing doesn’t bother you, just look forward to the reading of the will.

It is equally wrong to plan to sponge off your children. This is particularly true if you have already bled your parents dry. Your children will be counting on you to support them forever, too. A cataclysmic clash of cultures awaits sure to tear your family asunder for generations to come or, at the very least, leave you all pondering which unfortunate relatives upon which you can descend.

Another sure sign of not living within your means is borrowing money. I’m not talking about loans for houses, cars or business reasons. These are, to a great extent, unavoidable in today’s world. Have you ever borrowed money to go on vacation? Here’s a thought–STAY HOME. How about a “pay day” loan where you can cash your paycheck before you get it? Here’s word for you to learn: USURY.

It is axiomatic that drug and gambling debts are red flags. In fact, all debts are red flags. If you can’t afford your lifestyle while you’re working, what are the chances you can afford it when you don’t work?

4. Require Others to Live Within Their Means. Nothing good can be said about loaning money to people for personal reasons. Perhaps you are a business person and you do so as an investment. Assuming you’ve done your due diligence, that’s a business decision. Loaning money to people who just need money is like paying someone for doing nothing for you. Naturally, it can be difficult to refuse a close friend or family member during hard times. Here are a few responses which can gently dissuade such requests:

“BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“What do I look like–a bank?”
“What do I look like–an idiot?”
“I’m just going to pretend that you never said anything.”

5. Save First, Spend Second. This is a basic concept. Save money, then spend–not vice versa. Why? Because we Americans tend to spend all our money. We like to own things–or at the very least make payments on things. Famed motorcycle daredevil and spendthrift Evel Knievel once said:

The country singer Garth Brooks once said that he’s made more money than he could ever spend. Write me a check Garth – I’ll show you how to spend it in 24 hours.

That’s the American way. It’s also the way to guarantee that you die at work. Don’t die at work.

It’s Retirement, Stupid. With these few guidelines, we can all retire if we have reasonable expectations. You shouldn’t need as much money when you’re retired as you did when you worked. This is especially true if you have children–that is, assuming they heed the no-mooching rule and get the hell out of your house at some point.

Do you plan to travel the world when you retire? Good for you, but that takes money–a lot of money. You can retire without living the lifestyle of a Kardashian. Excuse my language, but if you can’t afford shit like that NOW, you probably can’t when you retire. That’s okay, you can still retire.

Here’s what you do. Work and save money and you should be okay. Then again, maybe not. There’s always the lottery.

©www.thetrivialtroll.com 2014

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My Over 50 Not-To-Do List

I’m in my 51st year on the planet. Although many people have exceeded my longevity, this impresses me. Of course, lots of folks lived less time than I have and did much more–Mozart, for example. All in all, though, living longer is a good thing.

I now read AARP publications. AARP recently ran a tongue-in-cheek article about things NOT to do after age 50. It was somewhat humorous. Somewhat. Like a lot of things, it got me thinking. Now, that I’m 50 (and have been for several months now), what won’t I do? Here are five such things:

PLAY BALL! I’ve written before about my mediocrity as an athlete. That never stopped me from trying to play sports. No more. No basketball. No softball. No flag football. Nothing where I risk injury. Why? I don’t want any other injuries. The older you get, the more injury-prone you are. My sports are now limited to baseball and basketball with my youngest son and even then I don’t go all out.

I’ve never had a serious injury. I’ve never worn a cast or had surgery or used crutches. I did tear a muscle in my shoulder once, but they can’t do much about that. I had a stress fracture in my foot, but it went away.

In my 30’s I scraped the outside of left calf sliding during a softball game. It looked like a burn and hurt like hell. It scabbed up in a couple of days. Then, the scab disappeared, and it looked like an orange peel, except oozy. You know how your mother said that a cut with red lines running from it is bad? It had those, two. It was something called cellulitis. The doctor said it was a “galloping infection.” I had to elevate my leg and put a heating pad on the open wound. I also had to draw a circle around it with a Sharpie. If the red spread past the outline, that would be bad. When I stood, the blood rushed to my leg and it felt like a thousand needles. I had to get a shot every day, too, for a week. The shot gave me diarrhea. For days, I was reduced to lying down with a heating pad on an open sore which burned like it was on fire while trying to control my bowels and drawing on my leg with a magic marker. I’m just too old for this kind of thing.

Even if I wanted to play sports, I probably can’t. The simplest of sports may be beyond me now. A few months ago, I passed baseball with my 17-year-old son who is a high school baseball player. He can throw 80-85 mph without much effort. I was terrified. Enough of that, too.

Fortunately, my youngest son is almost 11 now. If I had a younger kid, I’d hire someone to play with him. No sense taking unnecessary risks.

ANGRY UP MY BLOOD: The great baseball player Satchel Paige once cautioned against eating fried food, because it would angry up one’s blood. I don’t necessarily agree with that, because I like fried food. I do, however, agree with the caution about angrying up the blood.

I was an angry young man. Angry about all kinds of stuff–my job, politics, religion, sports–pretty much everything. I had a short fuse which was easily lit, too. I was an unpleasant person. I’m too old for all that, as well.

It seems that my peers become angrier with age while I mellow. I am aging in reverse, like a far less handsome version of Brad Pitt as Benjamin Button. It seems that everyone my age is mad about liberals, conservatives, the rich, the poor, taxes, drones, sports, religion and life in general. Here’s the deal: We all have opinions. So do I. I’m certain that mine aren’t all that important. In fact, I may be flat wrong on many (most?) of them. Same goes for you. I’m sure that pisses you off. Relax.

I’m confident that being mad shortens my life. How? Well, every minute I waste fuming about something, I could be doing something else. So, there goes part of my life down the old crapper. As a live and let live guy, I really don’t care if you’re mad, even at me. Just don’t ask me to play along.

GET IN MY CUPS: I was once quite fond of strong drink. I may still be, but I haven’t partaken in several years. Understand that I have no problem with those that do. I just believe that such indulgences are a young man’s game. Hangovers had bad for my brain. Why else would my head hurt like that? Vomiting is no good under any circumstances. Also, not remembering conversations or where I’ve been or what I’ve done is problematic. Soon enough, age itself will cause such problems. No need to speed the plow.

Here’s the kind of thing I did when I drank. A few years ago (not as many as you might think), my wife and I went to a party. I drank quite a bit before the party and quite a bit at the party. Oh, I had a grand time–or so I’ve heard. When we came home, I retired to the basement whereupon I quickly dozed off (the more crass of you might call it “passing out.”) A couple of hours into my respite, I had the urge to relieve myself. Rising from the couch, I was unsteady on my feet. No doubt this was from the deep REM sleep. As I staggered toward the bathroom, somehow I fell forward, striking my head on a wooden post. Oh, I also broke my glasses.

No problem. Holding my forehead, I made it to the bathroom and did my business. My right brow was really throbbing, so I thought I might take a look at it. Leaning close the mirror–remember my glasses were broken–I moved my hand from my right eye to get a good look.

The funny thing about cuts to the head is that they bleed far in excess of the severity of the actual injury. When I moved my hand, blood fairly gushed from a small slice in my right eye brow. It ran into my eye and down my face. It just kept coming. There was only one thing to do–I puked and went into a full-blown swoon. Then I sat in the floor convinced that I was bleeding to death and would be found covered in blood and vomit–not a glorious demise.

So, I did the only thing I could do. Holding a towel to my head, I climbed the two flights of stairs to the master bedroom and consulted my dear wife. Let’s just say that the evening suddenly took an even uglier turn.

I’m too old for this kind of foolishness now. Let the young men bleed profusely and copiously vomit. I’ll sip my Starbucks, work the crossword puzzle and retire for the evening at 9:30 or so.

EAT WELL: This takes some explaining. I don’t eat all that poorly. I don’t have a weight problem. I’m a lean, mean 160 pounds. Perfect middle-weight size. Think of me as a whiter, less-imposing, soft version of Marvelous Marvin Hagler (if you don’t know Hagler, you’re not my age). At one time I weighed 176 pounds, which was a little too much. I quickly shed that weight. That’s just a genetic thing. Don’t get all pissed off (see section above).

People want me to eat well, and I guess I should. My family has a bit of a history of heart disease. Regardless, there are things I like to eat. They include, but are not limited to:

High fructose corn syrup
Sugar
Chocolate
Ice Cream
Eggs
Bacon
Pork in general
Deep fried anything
Gluten
Peanut butter
Hot dogs
Red meat
White meat
Meat

I also don’t mind my food being laced with preservatives. Why not? Hey, I like it preserved until I want to eat it. Call me crazy.

I’m not diabetic. I don’t have celiac disease. Or diverticulitis. Or any food allergies. If you do, please watch what you eat. The key here is to watch what you eat, not what I eat.

If YOU don’t want to eat this stuff, I’m okay with it. I won’t force it on you. I don’t have people to my house for dinner anyway. Eat what you want. You can eat free range horse for all I care. Just don’t tell me what to eat. I enjoy food and fully intend to continue to do so.

FIGHT CLUB: Chief Joseph said: “From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.” That’s a good philosophy, and I agree wholeheartedly with him. Fighting isn’t good, especially if you run the risk of getting the crap beat out of you.

Like heavy drinking, fighting is a young man’s business. When you’re young, fighting can be a test of your manhood. It can also be provoked by heavy drinking. Either way, it’s usually a one-on-one situation and little harm is done.

Unlike in the movies, real fights rarely result in a lot of punching. A good punch is almost always a “sucker” punch which the recipient doesn’t see coming. Otherwise, punching is mostly a bunch of embarrassingly wild swinging.

It hurts to be squarely punched in the face. It also hurts to squarely punch someone in the face. Your hand explodes in pain. I don’t like pain. That said, real fights end up with a bunch of rolling around on the ground.

Another thing about real fights. No one gets punched in the face repeatedly and keeps fighting. Nor do you punch anyone in the face repeatedly. The human head is hard. It’s like a bowling ball with a few soft places on it. Go punch a wall five or ten times and let me know what you think.

At a certain age–maybe 30–I realized that people who are willing to fight might be dangerous, especially if they, too, were in their 30’s. These folks also tend to carry weapons, because they’re looking for trouble. I don’t want even a remotely deadly weapon used on me. I don’t want to throw a punch and miss, only to end up with a Chinese throwing star stuck in my forehead.

One possible exception is that I might fight a younger man. Why would I do that? Wouldn’t youth put me at a terrible disadvantage? Possibly. However, don’t discount the power of being Old Man Strong. We all reach an age where our years create a certain toughness without us even knowing it. Some suggest that perhaps we lose the will to live and become fearless. I prefer to think of it as God’s way of rewarding us for surviving.

When I was in high school, a friend of mine foolishly punched his dad. His dad didn’t flinch. Old Man Strong. Fight over.

So, if you’re a young fellow, be careful. If you get mouthy with an old guy and he just chuckles or, worse yet, takes a step toward you, run. It may be all that saves your dignity.

CONCLUSION

This is hardly a comprehensive list of things I won’t be doing. Such things as starting a meth lab, amateur pornography and polygamy are also taboo. These, though, are things I wouldn’t have ever done, as far as you know.

I’m not perfect. Maybe one day I’ll be shooting basketball with my kid, and you’ll wander into my yard spewing about politics and telling me to reduce the MSG in my diet. Like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, I’ll take a swig of whiskey and then start a fight with you. Let’s try to avoid all that.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The 100th Post

This is my 100th blog post. That’s apropos of nothing, I suppose, except that I’m quite full of myself to believe that I have that much to say of interest. A year ago, I said to my wife: “I think I’ll start a blog.” She said: “A blog? Those are just full of trivial bull shit that no one wants to read!” True to her word, she has never even looked at my blog. So, I can say things like this: I’ve been married 25 years, but it seems like 100 sometimes.

She was wrong. A lot of people have read my posts. My posts have been viewed 18,500 times, in fact. One I wrote about hippies is the all time leader at almost 2700. It even drew the ire of a real hippie who posted a scathing comment castigating me as materialistic. People as far away as Estonia and Moldova have read me. America of course leads the way, but I’ve had hundreds of readers in the UK and Canada, too, this despite posts needlessly attacking both those fine countries. Go figure.

People often ask me: “How do you come up with ideas for your blog?” Actually, I’m never asked that, but I like to imagine that people want to ask me. Things just pop into my head. I usually have drafts of two or three posts just lying around waiting for inspiration to finish them. Sometimes, people suggest things–like my recent post about becoming Pope. Other times–like the hippie post–I just spew a stream of consciousness which offends many, many people. Occasionally, I’ve tried to be helpful with tips on small talk, child-rearing and the law. Oddly enough, no one has thanked me yet for these pointers.

Some of my posts are torn from the fabric of real life experience–like the tale of my being violently assaulted by a coarse ruffian of a woman in a restaurant. Some are apocryphal tales which could be true, at least to some extent. Others are just things that interest me, like freak shows and the film Road House. Sometimes, I blog about things I hate like TV’s The Waltons, Aunt Bee and Charlie Brown. My blog is a vast array of trivial bull shit as some might say.

Some of the reasons I am so prolific:

I write a lot in my job, but that writing requires research and proofreading. The slapdash nature of blogging is fun.
The use of curse words. I don’t often get to use those in writing, unless I’m writing my Congressman.
It’s cheaper than therapy
It’s fun to broach a controversial topic and then deflect it with a series of flippant and inaccurate observations.
As long as I don’t defame someone, I’m free to write what I want. Even if I do, it’s okay as long as the defamed person never sees it.
No one reviews or edits my work (obviously)
I can start sentences with words like “and” and “but,” and no one cares.

Now, I’m on the verge of a milestone: 100 posts. What significant topic can I address? Can I change someone’s life for better or worse? Can I move someone to tears? Perhaps I can intone on some mundane subject and move thousands of Brits and Canadians or even the random Moldovan to action. What about that one guy or girl in Iceland who read one of my posts? Maybe he or she is waiting for a topic of interest. Should I blog about that Icelandic volcano–Eyjafjallajökull? Probably not. That’s just too damn goofy to type over and over.

100 is special. A 100th blog post should be, too.

Dictionary.com defines 100 as “A cardinal number. Ten times ten.” That’s plain enough. It’s one after 99 and one before 101, too. It’s the square of 10. It’s also an 18-gonal number, which sounds slightly dirty but isn’t.

Anyway, 100 seems significant. Why? Maybe because 100 is an important number. Don’t you feel kind of special when you have a $100 bill? Four twenties or two fifties just aren’t the same. The $100 bill is usually new and crisp. It’s so special that you worry that people can even make change if you use it.

There are 100 pennies in a dollar and most other currencies are based upon units of 100. 100 is important. Without it, our money would be a confusing mess. We might as well go back to pelts.

If you’re a sports fan, answer this question within five seconds: “Who scored the most points in an NCAA basketball game?” Time’s up! I have no idea, either. Try this one: “Who scored the most points in an NBA game?” Wilt Chamberlain. How do we know this? Because he scored 100, not 98 or 102. An even 100. Wilt, as we know, was a man of prodigious numbers: 55 rebounds in a game; 20,000 women; averaged 50 points a game one year and 27 rebounds a game another; led the NBA in assists as a center and on and on. But the number we remember is 100. 100 points in a game. Because I am repository of useless information, I know that he also hit 28 of 32 free throws in that game, astonishing considering Wilt’s infamously horrible free throw shooting. Others just know the 100.

Wilt knew how to set a record people wouldn’t forget.

One of the many reasons that American football is better than Canadian football is that our fields are 100 yards long, not 110 like our friends in the Great White North. We know how fast is fast to run 100 yards or even 100 meters. How about 110 yards? No clue.

If a running back rushes for 100 yards in a football game, we take notice. If he slogs for 99, we think “Eh, decent game, I guess.” Pitchers who hit 100 mph on the radar gun are to be feared. 95 is great, too, but hittable.

It’s special when people live to be 100. Bob Hope did (I think). So did Charles Lane. Who? If you watched TV in the ’60’s and ’70’s, you know him:

Actor Charles Lane, TV’s grumpy authority figure.

I bet you’ll remember him from now on. I’ve had a lot of relatives live into their ’90’s. My Papaw died at 91. An aunt at the same age. I have an aunt still going strong at 95 and another at 93. My wife’s grandmother is 95. 100 years old, though, is rarefied air indeed. During one of my infrequent forays as a regular church-goer, I went to church with a man who died at 104. He seemed like a super hero. Let’s be honest here: 90 or 95 or 99 are just as impressive as 100, but we don’t think of it like that.

If you’re 100, congratulations. Also, why the hell are you wasting what precious little time you have left reading this? You were 16 when the stock market crashed in 1929 and 28 when Pearl Harbor was bombed. When you turned 40, I Love Lucy had only been on the air for a year. You are 4 years younger than JFK. You were in your 60’s when Nixon resigned. On 9/11, you were already 88. You’ve seen the advent of air travel, sound films, TV, computers, cell phones, space travel, innumerable wars, super models, the Internet and just about everything else that makes life worth living these days. You were alive when the Tsar ruled Russia and outlasted the Soviet Union for its entire existence! You survived the Spanish Flu Pandemic. You’ve seen a lot and probably done a lot, too. You may even remember some of it.

I suspect that living to be 100 isn’t so great. We probably just see the folks who are doing well, like this lady:

The ideal 100th Birthday Party

A lot of people at 100 are probably just like a lot of folks at 95–infirm and not able to do much. Let’s just not think about that. Some people make it way past 100–often in Japan. That’s also impressive, but they usually die. Even though living to 100 might actually be miserable, we all would like to do it anyway.

When the temperature is 100 degrees, it’s damn hot. It’s still damn hot at 99, but 100 is worse. Of course, I’m talking Fahrenheit, not Celsius of Kelvin or some other weird foreign scale. 100 is the worst. 100 degrees Celsius is probably a lot worse, but it could be better for all I know–I have no idea.

Take your temperature. If it’s 99.5 degrees, you’ll think “That’s weird, but I feel fine.” If it’s 100 degrees, you’ll become bedridden. At 100, you’re sick as a dog.

What if you get a speeding ticket for driving 100 mph? That’s seriously reckless behavior. 99 mph doesn’t seem quite so dangerous, does it?

100% is great in just about everything. Athletes try to claim that 110% is better, but it isn’t, mostly because it’s not real. 100% attendance, grades, effort, etc. All good.

100 is the sum of the first nine prime numbers which means nothing to me but is probably very cool to my son who is a math major.

100 is the atomic number of fermium which you can find in abundance in nuclear fall out. Bad.

100 years ago is a long time. A century is 100 years, not 90. There’s a reason for that, I’m sure.

Everyone is interested in the President of the United States’s First Hundred Days. No one gives a damn about his first 63 or so.

The number 100 is significant, for sure. The evidence is undeniable. A 100th blog post should carry the same significance. Alas, I have failed. Regardless, though, I can now truthfully say I’ve posted 100 times on this blog. Now, that’s impressive.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Gym Rant, Part II

I’m back with more ravings about the gym. Don’t get me wrong–I love the gym. But I spend a lot of time there, so I’ve developed certain likes and dislikes, even prejudices. Many of these are just personal to me. They might not bother a so-called “normal” person. That matters not, of course. What matters–as always–is me. If you’re interested in things that bother you, I suggest you write about them yourself.

Your beastly author

A few months ago, I posted thoughts on a few things that bother me at the gym. Since then, I’ve thought of others. Here goes:

PUT YOUR $&#^! CLOTHES ON!

Every time I go in the locker room, there is a naked guy. Oh, it’s not the same naked guy. If it were, I’d make a formal complaint. It’ll be some dude, and he’ll be naked. The locker really is a public area (public, not pubic). The public–me included–is present. How about covering up?

Put on a towel. Better yet–your damn clothes. You can towel off back by the showers. No one–NO. ONE.–wants to see you towelling your ass. This is especially true if we non-naked folks are sitting. Oh, do you want to sit down naked guy? Put on your damn clothes first or lay down a towel. We don’t want your ass matter on everything. I’m sure I speak for everyone on that point.

Hey, here’s another problem. Don’t talk to me. You’re naked. You want to talk? Here’s what I have to say: “Put your g **damn clothes on!” That’s the same thing I’d say to a dinner guest or co-worker under similar circumstances. Simply put, I am incapable of engaging in casual conversation with naked people, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Do you really need to bend over? Then, you damn well need to cover up. Getting naked in front of strangers is weird enough, but bending over? Unless you’re planning on tucking bucks, that ain’t gonna fly. Stop. And see the comment above about the rest of us sitting. Please.

Finally, you would think that folks who parade around naked would probably have enviable physiques. Nope. It’s like a nude beach. The people who do this have every reason in the world to wear many, many layers of clothing.

Until we join the 21st century and embrace my plan for non-sexist, unisex locker rooms, I’m not backing down on this one. And, if I do back down, don’t worry–I’ll wear a towel.

SPOT ME, DUDE

If you go to a gym long enough, someone will ask you to spot him. If you’ve ever lifted weights you know what that means. If you haven’t, I’m sure it sounds vaguely obscene, but it isn’t.

Here’s how it works. Someone is lifting, usually the bench press. He is working with weights that are just slightly too heavy. He needs a boost to get going. So, you spot him. On the bench press, this means you hold the weights to give him just a little more lift to get going. Sometimes, the spotter needs to stand there for the whole set, you know, just in case the weights come crashing down on the lifter.

Spotting is considered a courtesy at the gym. It’s kind of like holding the door for someone. I don’t mind doing it on occasion, but really that’s not why I’m at the gym. I would, of course, like to point out a couple of things to keep in mind.

If you weigh, say, 300 pounds and are benching let’s say 400 pounds, you might need someone of similar girth to help you. I’m 50 years old. I weigh 160 pounds. I’m in pretty good shape. In fact, for my age, I’m in excellent shape. It’s a solid 160. This does not mean, however, that I am the appropriate person to spot someone benching 2 1/2 times my weight. If you start to give out and the weight is coming down, what can I really do for you? Perhaps I can hang on to the weights and crash down on top of you. Maybe I can throw myself between the weights and your body to cushion the blow. That’s about it. If you are a behemoth of some sort, bring another of your massive ilk with you. You guys can put on those big leather lifting belts and spot each other. Trust me, it’s a better plan.

Also, if you need spotting for your entire set, it’s possible you’re using too much weight or you need a permanent assistant. I’m there to work out, not be your spotting manservant.

With those qualifiers, I’ll spot you, just not too often. If you bug me too much, I could just drop the weights on you anyway.

SUPPLEMENT GUY

Maybe this guy is just at my gym, but I don’t think so. He uses dietary supplements. He asks me if I use supplements. “Do you use creatine?” “Do you load?” “What kind of protein do you use?” “Do you use a T booster?” The list is endless. He’s like a drug dealer. He wants to know what you’re doing and then tries to get you to do something else.

My gym’s Supplement Guy doesn’t look like he uses any supplements, but he does. He’ll tell me I need more supplements so that I can look the Michelin Men who work out at the gym. I’ve told him, gently, that some of those guys are using REAL supplements, nothing you can buy at GNC. He doesn’t care. He needs to tell me what he uses. What he uses certainly doesn’t work, but he doesn’t care.

Supplement Guy bothers me and not just because I don’t care for idle chatter at the gym. I’m in far better shape than he is. He has no business suggesting I do what he’s doing. In fact, he should do what I’m doing. Maybe that’s why he asks, but I don’t think that’s it.

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

We all reach a certain age where people become curious about our age. I guess. I’ve been asked on several occasions at the gym about how old I am. Why? It’s possibly because I am an Adonis of some sort. That’s doubtful. I think it’s because I’m there almost every day, and some folks are fascinated that an aging fellow like me would do that. There’s one guy at our gym a lot older that I am–20 years at least. I’ll admit that I want to ask how old he is. Even though I’ve known this guy a long time, I still won’t ask his age. It just seems awkward.

It’s not an awkward subject for some people. They’ll ask without hesitation. Sometimes, this can be misconstrued. I will believe I’m being flattered. A while back, I was approached by a comely lass who couldn’t have been more than 25 years old (at my age, I can’t really tell–she was no more than 40 for sure). Here’s the conversation:

HER: “Excuse, me. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how old are you?”

ME: “49”

HER: “Do you use a personal trainer?”

[Now, it’s clear that she has seen something she likes. I still got it!]:

ME: “Well, no.”

[This is 100% ME, baby!]

HER: “Oh, I just wondered. My dad is 46, and I’ve been trying to get him to get in shape. I thought I’d ask if you used someone here. Thank you , sir.”

ME: [sigh] You’re welcome.

Oh, well.

Here’s another one:

Young Man: “Hey, how old are you?”

ME: “50”

Young Man: “Wow. No wonder you’re here all the time. It must be hard to stay in shape when you get older.”

That passes for a compliment in some cultures, I’m sure. Here’s the deal. Unless you’re older than I am, don’t ask me how old I am. It’s not really relevant to anything other than your morbid curiosity. I will say this, however, to these youngsters. Check in when you’re 50. It IS hard to stay in shape at my advanced age. It’s called OLD MAN STRONG!

I HAVE LEGS LIKE A GIRL

I suffer from some genetic anomaly which results in my having oddly feminine-looking legs. I know this, because I’ve been told so on many occasions. Usually, someone will say: “I wish my legs looked like yours.” That someone is always a woman.

I’ve worked on my legs. I’ve lifted with them, run miles and miles–they’ve never changed. They get no bigger or smaller. That’s just how it is. I also lack superfluous body hair. I like to think of it as advanced evolution. My ancestors crawled out the primordial ooze a little bit ahead of yours. This only adds to the girlishness of my legs.

My penchant for sitting like this certainly doesn’t help with the girlishness of my legs.

I don’t need to hear this anymore. If you see a man with girly legs at the gym, it is probably me. Don’t tell me. I know it’s a compliment, but it doesn’t come across that way.

WHITHER MY CUBBIE?

My gym used to have cubbies. You know, the little cubbie holes like elementary school kids use to store their stuff. They were great. They were in the work out area, and you could just toss your coat and car keys in one and be done.

This past year, my gym was sold to a large, national gym chain. Overall, this is a good thing. Whether it was the economy or just poor management, the gym had slipped some. Equipment was in disrepair and cleaning was poor. Plus, our gym’s owners had been subject to many complaints over their business practices. It was probably a good time for a change, but it came at a price.

The price was our cubbies. Why? No one seems to know. If the workers at the gym know, they aren’t telling. Oh, we tried to protest, but it was to no avail. Corporate America often ignores the little man. Now, even if it’s just a light jacket, we must use the lockers. Not only does this expose us to naked people, but we also must hang out in the stench of the locker room. Do we need locks now? So far, no. At some point, they’ll probably force that on us, too. Frankly, I thought my stuff was more secure out in the open where I could see it–in my precious cubbie.

Despite our begging, the cubbies are no more.

So, the cubbies are gone, and I’m none too pleased about it. Sure, there was the time someone took my car keys, but they returned them several hours later. And, yes, someone took my lifting gloves once. I consider this a small price to pay for the convenience. Oh, well, I’m glad I had the foresight to take pictures of them before they were gone.

Even this last ditch appeal to the Christmas spirit failed.

You might have read this and thought “He hates the gym. Why does he go?” No, no, no. I love the gym. That’s why these little imperfections bother me. It’s just like with my children. I dearly love them all, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have traits which make me curse them. Much like the gym, I’ve spent quite a bit of money on them and gotten much enjoyment out of it, but they can and should do better. I would blog about them, but the Draconian “rules” of the so-called child welfare authorities prevent that.

I could go on about such things as people working out in jeans or couples who hog up machines for 30 minutes at a time, but I think I’ll stop. By the way, I just got back from the gym. I’m pleased to report that I remain clothed the entire time.

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Try Not to Worry

I tried to follow Alfred E. Newman’s advice–without much luck.

“What–Me Worry?” So says Alfred E. Newman, MAD Magazine’s iconic cover boy. As a kid I read this as “whatmeworry” not “What? Me Worry?” as intended. I loved MAD, by the way. Nothing thrilled my more than when Dad would pick up a copy for me at the store. Secretly, Dad loved it, too. But this post isn’t about MAD, although that would be cool.

I wanted to live by Alfred’s wise words, but I was always a worrier. Here’s some crappy advice: Try not to worry. That just makes me worry about why I can’t not worry.

I was a born worrier. Maybe it’s because my Mom fell through the back porch when she was 8 months pregnant with me. I might have started worrying about what the hell was going on out there. I was born on August 11, 1962 at 6:20 a.m. I’m sure I worried about being born so earlier in the day. Would coming out this early disrupt my schedule? It was Summer, too. Would I be too hot in this new world? How hard would it be to make friends?

I worried about stuff when I was a kid. I even worried about other kids. When I was about 6 or 7, a kid named Dennis Martin disappeared in the Great Smoky Mountains. He was my age. He just walked away from the campground and never came back. I worried about Dennis. Where was he? What happened to him? Would that happen to me? Every now and then–some 40+ years later–I check the Internet to see if they ever found him. Nope. Still missing.

I grew up at Ground Zero for the War on Poverty. Social workers would come to school and give kids coats. I worried about the kids who didn’t have coats. My uncle was a social worker. He was the “Shoe Man.” He would come in the class rooms and kids would stick their feet up in the air to show they needed shoes. Personally, I never saw this, but he talked about it. He talked, and I worried.

I’ve worried about my health. Germs, disease, accidents. Let’s be honest: A lot of bad crap can happen with your health. If you live long enough, it will happen, unless you get killed in an accident. Geez. Think about all the diseases and accidents that can happen. This doesn’t even count the chances of running afoul of a serial killer, mass murderer, terrorist or random nut case. I read a court case about a guy who got killed when one of his co-workers goosed him with a high-pressure air hose. Blew out his colon. What are the odds? Who knows? But I stay the hell away from high-pressure air hoses.

I’ve worried about sports, mostly sports played by other people and over which I have no influence. I’ve lost sleep over such things–before and after the event. I’ve worried about whether people would think less of me because I cheered for a team that lost a big game. Then, I worried about why I would worry about something like that.

I’ve worried about money, even though I’ve been fortunate enough to never have had any serious money problems. That never stopped me from worrying about it. Will I have enough to send my kids to college? To retire? What if I lose my job? What if I can’t work? These questions are all fertile worrying ground.

The good news is that as I’ve aged, I worry less. I’d like to say that this is because I’m mature or just wiser. The real reason is that there are fewer things to worry about, because I’ve experienced most of the things I’ve worried about. That doesn’t stop people from trying to get me to worry about stuff. Nevertheless, it’s obvious–even to a worrier–that most of it isn’t worth the effort. What it comes down to is “What if…?” For some reason, I rarely think “What if…everything turns out GREAT?!?” Fortunately, there are a growing number of things for which “What if…?” just doesn’t matter to me.

With that in mind, here are some things I won’t be worrying about:

The Mayan Apocalypse: Some Mayan made a calendar that stretched out for hundreds of years and just stops on December 21, 2012. That’s supposed to be the end of the world or so some say. This discounts the possibility that the guy who made the calendar just got tired and quit or maybe someone killed him or he died of syphilis or something. If the world ends on the 21st, so be it. Really, what can I do about it? It’s the first day of Winter, and Winter sucks. Plus, Snookie is supposed to have her baby on the 21st of December. If that’s the end, it’s well-timed.

End Times: This, of course, is related to the Mayans but different. If the end is near, I can’t stop it. Every generation thinks the end is near. One of them will be right. Maybe it’s us. If it is–and it’s a God thing–what I am supposed to do about it? Just roll with it.

High Fructose Corn Syrup: This is supposed to be bad stuff, some sort of deadly poison. I don’t care. I’m certain that everything I’ve eaten with high fructose corn syrup in it has been good. I like it. Period.

Brain Chips: I’ve had a bunch of emails telling me that Obamacare has a sneaky provision in it requiring everyone to have a tracking chip placed under their hides in March of 2013. It’s also called a “slave chip.” This is disconcerting, of course. It’s also not true, but that doesn’t matter. I’m willing to assume it’s true. Here’s what the government would find out about me. I wake up, go to work, go to the gym, go home. That’s it.

Gay People: There are gay people. Always have been. Always will be. They don’t bother me. They don’t try to recruit me. They don’t try to make my gay. I’m not worried about them getting married or having jobs or being out of the closet or being gay. No worries here.

Tim Tebow: Hey, Tebow is a nice young man. Or he seems to be. By NFL standards, he’s not a very good quarterback, but a lot of my religious friends disagree. They think God makes him play well. (Somehow, they don’t realize that Tebow’s fellow Gator and Heisman Trophy winner and equally religious and all-round good guy Danny Wuerffel wasn’t a good quarterback, either). I think he can be a good player–just not a good quarterback. I don’t worship Satan, either. I’m not going to be concerned about Tebow. If he does well, great. If not, fine too. I wish ESPN would quit worrying about him.

The Royal Family: If want to obsess over the lives of ugly, inbred people, I’ll watch Toddlers & Tiaras. Maybe I should worry about the fact that I occasionally watch Toddlers & Tiaras. By “occasionally,” I mean “regularly.”

Robert Pattinson: Like most people, I was traumatized to learn that Kristen Stewart (“K-Stew”) cheated on hunkilicious Robert Pattinson. It took awhile, but I’m over it. My intuition tells me he’ll be okay. He might even be able to find a new girlfriend. I’ll just keep my fingers crossed and no worry about it. It’ll be tough, but I can do it. Maybe.

Mercury: I’m talking about the element, not the planet. No one has urged me to worry about the planet (yet). The element, however, is all kinds of worrisome. Deadly. And everywhere. In our water, our food, the air. There’s no escaping it. I suppose I should read up on it to find out what it’s doing to me. My high school chemistry teacher had a big plastic jug full of mercury in our classroom. We’d dump some of it on a table and blow on it to watch it roll around. We’d even put it in the palms of our hands and play with it. Now, if a drop of mercury is exposed, the entire school is evacuated and raided by HazMat teams. I’ve already been exposed to a lot of mercury. Too late to start worrying about it now.

Getting Older: A lot of people worry about this. Seems like I would, too, but I don’t. I like getting older. It means I’m still here. I’ve known way too many people who stopped getting older way too soon. If I get a letter from AARP, it just reminds me that I’ve survived. I like that. Another thing is that I’ve progressively gotten older since birth. I’m used to it. If you don’t want to get older, you really want to die. I don’t want to die. Of course, the older you get, the closer you are to death. Worrying about death is different from worrying about age. Plus, I don’t think most of us worry so much about death as about how we die. Slow, painful death or loathsome disease are what we worry about. I better stop now, I’m getting concerned.

Global Warming: I’m sure this makes me a horrible person, but it’s just how it is. I love the coal industry and just don’t cotton to crusades to put it out of business. That’s what the Global Warming is all about. Second is that I’m just a wee bit too selfish to live by candlelight and ride a bicycle everywhere I go. I like electricity and the internal combustion engine. Global warming is the cloth diaper of this generation. When my first son was born, people said we should use cloth diapers to save the environment and keep our landfills from overflowing with Pampers. These people either: (1) Never had a baby; or (2) Are just plain odd and don’t mind having piles of cotton cloth soaked with human filth. Global warming works the same way. I’m sure there are people who live off the grid, as they say. I just don’t know any of them. I’m certainly not going to be one of them. And I don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll wake up one day on the beach in Lexington, Kentucky, fighting off polar bears. Now, THAT is something I’ll worry about it when it happens.

There you have it. A small list of things which won’t be on my mind. I’m going to add one more thing to the list every month or so. Eventually, I’ll run out of things to worry about it.

For now, I’m not worry-free. I still have plenty of things that are fret-worthy. I worry about my children, which I guess most people do (I mean worry about their own kids, not mine). And not just about their safety and futures. What if they do something stupid? Doesn’t that make me a bad parent? Worse yet, won’t people think I’m a bad parent? I also occasionally think I’m more important than I really am and worry about my job, becoming convinced that every thing I do is a referendum on my worth as a human being. I still worry about sports for no rational reason.

I also worry that I blog too much. Maybe it’s a sign of mental illness. That’s worrisome.

I’d like to be one of those people who say “Everything will be okay.” Actually, I am one of those people. What I mean is I’d like to be one of those people who say that and mean it. What I really mean is “Everything will be.” And it will.

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Coal Troll's Blog

Age

How To Win a Fight…or Die Trying.

Come Retire With Me!

My Over 50 Not-To-Do List

The 100th Post

The Gym Rant, Part II

Try Not to Worry