New cardio machines at my gym! A new bank of treadmills and elliptical machines, sweat free and working properly. Our membership dollars at work.

In terms of Wow Factor, I’d say they’re about a 4 out of 10. Nothing new really, same screen, keypads. Better inner workings, though, noticeable like going from an iPhone 4 to 4S. Their resistance gave new life into my calves and ass. Bring it on, long walks in DisneyWorld!

As I was huffing along, Mr Breaky McBreaker got on the machine beside me. I know this guy has snapped a couple cup holders on the old-style machines due to his inability to understand that putting all your upper body weight on the keypad and resting your arms across the top of the machine will NOT help you lose weight or do anything positive for his back. No, he’s actually broken a couple machines that way.

The new machines befuddled him. He asked me: “How… What are these things for?”

He was referring to the two very LARGE toggles at the bottom of the keypad. Both looking like light switches neither in the ON or OFF position, with arrows pointing up and down.

“One is for increasing or decreasing the height of your step and the other for speed… resistance,” I offer.

Instantly he starts running at a million miles per hour like a captain off a cruise ship.

He fiddles with the buttons and looks back towards me, face like a question mark.

“How do you make it work?”

I show him on mine, toggling the resistance and height up and down as demonstration. He keeps at the impossible breakneck speed and gets into his slouchy position, both arms lazily across the top of the touch panel.

“Better not rest there, they’re only held on there by a couple screws!” I suggest. Not much of a lie but I’m more pissed that he thinks going so fast and hunching over almost at a 90 degree angle is anyway a good work out. I want the machine to snap and watch him take a tumble but then again, they are new machines and my money went into them.

“I don’t like it.”

“Upgrade or die,” I say, misquoting from Dr Who.

I’m walking home from work last night and as usual I pass by The Spa Excess, a popular bath house that’s been operating forever. Often I see men coming out of there with de-spunked looks plastered across their faces so I guess it’s popular – I haven’t been inside there since 1998.

Outside the door is a man who is doing the tourist dance: looking up at the building, looking down the street, looking at me with questioning eyes, looking back at the building. As I approach he asks: “Where is Steamworks?”

I’m taken aback. Do I look gay? Or more specifically, do I look like a guy who goes to a bath house? He must have wanted it bad if he’s “randomly” asking strangers where bath houses are.

But I answer (and it takes me a moment to remember): “Up on Church Street… you go–”

“Is this place any good?” he asks, interrupting, pointing at the doors of Excess. Obviously he wants particular tourism information. To know the vibe/popularity of the place, not directions.

“Don’t know, don’t go,” I say and leave him to his (t)horny dilemma.

As I walk away I think of some better responses and file them in my “Shouldacouldawoulda” file:

“They seem to be bed bug free!”
“It’s where I met (KAFFF KAAAFFFF hoark KAFF) my boyfriend!”
“It’s full of… Somalians!”
“I lost my favorite penis scab in there.”
“They clean. So yeah.”
“Worst Souvlaki ever!”
“You have to wish to make your heart’s dreams come true!”

A (airquotes)psychologist(/airquotes) over on Fox News tells us that the iPhone’s Siri will dehumanize us to the point of not caring about human interactions.

No, seriously. He means it. It’s a damn funny read! And then it gets sad when you think he might actually believe the crap coming out of his mouth. I mean horror-hate-fear-techno-blog.

Snip:

To the small extent that we say we “love” Siri or use “her” name or rely on her to get us out of a jam (even if it is just being lost), we cut ourselves free from the interpersonal tethers that bind us, one to another, and which act as insulation against acting toward one another in dehumanizing ways.

Yes, Siri is to blame for us becoming unsociable zombies. Oh hey, my Ford Focus (which I LOVE) just told me to drive away from you, you ambulance chasing quack.

College of Dental Hygienists, 3pm.

“Alright people! Our ad is due today. We have to create something that says who we are and get more people to visit their dentists! To not be afraid of tooth health. Also enrollment is down and we have to make the public aware that Dental Hygiene is a viable career choice. Or something… We need to get the artwork to the printer by noon today and we’re still no further along on what we’re going to say. So I’ve called in the designer…”

“PLEASE KILL ME!”

“…and we should be able to stand over him while we create this ad. Ideas? Go!”

“I saw The Grunge last night on TV… that chick in it was pretty scary!”

“Good! Next?”

“Yes, ‘scary’ is good – a lot of people equate dental check ups with fear so we should shock the viewer into going to the dentist.”

“But we should be gentle, of course. No punctuation or capital letters in the copy…”

“Except the first word!”

“Okay, you scamp! Good! Next?”

“I heard on the radio this morning “Now with More Ham!” –can we use that?”

“No, but we can say how ignoring your mouth health will KILL YOU! Put: 3rd most chronic illness right below the main image. No other explaining copy around it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense…”

“Shut up, designer fag! Who asked you? Make the words appear!

“…this job is chronic…”

“Great! Next?”

“I like “disorder” – can we use it?”

“Yes! Right under the main copy!”

“What we have now sounds a little weird when you say it in your head…”

“I don’t so think no not all at!”

“Okay, then the main copy is fine. Oh… And we need a “non-equal” symbol in there. That will make us L337.”

“I don’t know what you just said but you’re brilliant! Do it!”

“Okay – happy ending… we need something to bring them back into our arms, from all this horror – words?”

“Pickle!”

“Koala!”

“Victory!”

“NO!! DEFENSE!”

“Winner! Okay designer, show us what you got!”

After my workout, I arrive to my locker to find a 75 year old guy closing the locker right next to mine.

“Nevah fayls! Emptah room and we’re the only two guys heyah.” His voice is a trifecta of decades of liquor and smoking, Italian and possible mild stroke.

“Ain’t it always the way,” I vapidly offer.

“When Iwazza coming heyah back garbleaglrerlajz churfff crarkle…” He’s speaking fast and since his voice is like sandpaper over rocks I can only catch every other word. “It waz alwaahzy with da hurrf and the veins.”

He’s closed his locker and is lacing up his shoes. He doesn’t stop. He’s a pleasantly enough guy and I let him go, but he’s the kind of talker who won’t let you interject anything, not a “oh dear!” even…

“Its awayz the doctorsss. They’ll find a way to glerble your gluff–”

“Yeah I–”

“–I mean they really know florfzzgch, right? Right?”

“…yes–”

“–flarbledy blood test with this Asian flarp–”

And on he went. I start to undress for my shower because if I didn’t do anything I’d still be standing there. I’ve long since try to interject, or  comment since his verbal floodgate is wide open.

“And the needle was thiz big! This big! Big! and he jabbed it into my flarglezzguh and I was oh! Then that nurze I had my eye on hubba flargle–”

BRAAAAAAA. Someone across the locker room started to use the bathing suit dryer. As difficult as it was to understand before, all hope was lost now.

BRAAAAA we had four AAAAAAA with the garh flappy pain AAAAAAA I’m verlty deuce! AAAAA Two of em shuved up in AAAAA until I stahted screamin’ aaaaaa (the machine spins down)…

By this time I’m super naked. Just a towel. But not a smartly wrapped towel, no. I thought I could find a moment where he’d stop talking and offer a “Well! Have a great day!” and exit to the showers so I didn’t bother to wrap it around me. I never wrap a towel around me to get to the showers – I like making the repressed religious freaks uncomfortable. Plus I was hoping that he’d notice I’m super naked and realize I’m on my way and he’d shut himself up to let me go. I’m backing away and he’s not noticing.

“It’s a vaylve in dere, ya know? And they’re sticking needles in mah leg and I’m all fuggedoarljk!”

So for about a solid minute (3 hours when you’re super naked) I’m standing with my saggy ass to the room, covering/not covering my “acorn sitting on a peach” (it’s cold, ok?) looking for an out.

“That’s when he says, ‘You need a bypass!'”

“That’s awful! Butthatslifetoobadyouhavea GREAT DAY!” I say and turn.

I’m a horrible person.