Saturday, May 30, 2009

A Return, of sorts (Six down, and Six? to go)

On a day where I took a Facebook quiz and was told that Kate Hudson would play me in a movie about my life (Which I oddly wrote about LAST November), I was definitely in need of some good news.

I'm not pregnant.

Also, I advanced from a recumbent bike to stationary bike today. Only ten minutes, and I'm not allowed to lean on the handle bars, but it was something! Now, I need to digress here for a second. Am I the only one who never heard of the word "recumbent" before? For years, I just called it a "recline-y bike." I knew it wasn't the "official" term...but shit, do you call that little punching bag thingy in the back of your throat that little punching bag thingy in the back of your throat or a uvula? Seriously, recumbent? Anyway...

I also went swimming today...kind of. I got in the pool and did 500 yards of kicking. Sadly, I was once again reminded that efficient swimming is to me as an award winning smile is to Mylie Cyrus. Some things are ugly no matter what you do.

Did you know that about two years ago, when I would use a kickboard in the pool that I would actually go BACKWARD in the water. BACKWARD. How is that possible? BACKWARD. Either that is a sign of a shitty-ass swimmer, or I was so powerful, my legs opened up a time-space vortex. Maybe a little of both. I wasn't that bad today...but I definitely wasn't feeling great. Worst part is...if I drowned, Kate Hudson would have played me in my biography. What would that movie have been called?

How to Lose A Mark in Ten Strokes?

Almost Famous Backward Swimmer?

Can't Swim Wars?

You, Me, And The Dead Guy in the Pool?

God, she has made some shitty movies. My death just might save her career.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Would Somebody Please Think About the Children (Five Down, Seven? To Go)

I went for a doctor's visit yesterday and received some great news. My doctor said, and I quote:

You are healing like a child.

I'm not a smart man; in fact, some might argue I am neither smart NOR a I queried: Is that a good thing?

Yes...yes...that means you are healing very quickly and faster than expected.

And for the first time in weeks, I actually felt something other than a sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder. I felt something that felt like...glee...and I wasn't even at a prostate exam!


But this conversation got me to thinking about the word "child," and the ramifications of using this word to describe someone.

Clearly, as we all just learned, "healing like a child" is a GOOD thing!

But being a "child molester," well that is bad (Yes, Chris...very, very bad).

Being a "child prodigy" seems pretty cool, but maybe packed with too much pressure...and what if one is prodigious at something stupid like playing the flute. Yeah...I said it...and we were all thinking it. Nobody really likes the flute, homo.

A "child star" seems like it could be good...if you want to end up a drug addict by the age of 13. And don't even get me started on "child pornography." How do you think Mylie Cyrus got her start?

There are situations where being "with child" could be one of the happiest moments of someone's life...but the entire birthing process ultimately seems wet and messy. If I want wet and messy, I'll just buy another dog.

I can't think of many occasions where being considered "child like" has a good light. Maybe if you murdered someone and your attorney uses this as a strategy for averting the death penalty. But that seems extreme.

A "child psychologist" seems like a crap job. You are most likely treating the effect (the child) not the cause (the parent). That's a lot like talking to an empty carton of ice cream. There might have been something good in there before...but I don't remember where I put the whipped cream.

When someone tries to tap into his "inner child," I believe that is only a euphemism for "I am about to cheat on my wife." And that's a no-no....isn't it? Well...I'll just chalk that up to a "maybe."

Point being, not only did I have a great checkup yesterday, I actually received the best compliment possible that contained the word "child" in it!

Who says HMOs suck?

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Man Code, Broken

As I finished peeing in the urinal on campus yesterday, another man walks into the bathroom towards the sink. I don't want to have any real interaction with him (Man Code), so I hesitate and pretend I am still going when I am clearly done. Not even a drop left....I stand and wait for him to hurry up and leave.

After about fifteen to twenty seconds of waiting for him to finish at the one sink in the bathroom, he hasn't budged. He has his right foot on the counter, and he is using paper towels to dab his forehead AND shine his shoes. What a multitasker.

I look at the ground (Man Code), and start to walk towards him. He says "What's up, man? How are you?"(Man Code, Broken). I don't know he really shouldn't speak to me unless we accidentally make eye contact somehow. Confused, I say "Fine."

He backs up to let me use the sink he has been crowding, but he is still standing between me and the paper towels. Did I mention he has a gun? Because he does...he is a sheriff, and I wouldn't think a thing about it, until he starts talking to me again:

"Nice day, huh?" (Man Code, Broken).

I feel at a loss and cannot figure out what is going on..."Um, yeah?" And hope this awkward transaction is over. I just want to dry my hands.

"You going to graduation?" (Man Code, Broken)

", I'm not." And here we in the middle of an actual conversation in a place meant for release and solitude (Man Code). But...I am, and always will be, an idiot. So, I engage him to see where this goes to fuck with him (Man Code): "Are you?"

This was clearly a mistake. He then tells me how he has to go because he is running security...and how it is in a nice part of La Jolla...on and on he went. His feet now alternating on the counter as he continues to shine his perfectly shiny shoes...

In the middle of one sentence, he puts both legs on the floor, and appears to be done. I decide to make a lunge for it. I reach across him to get to the paper towels, and as soon as I do, he kicks one of legs right back on the sink so that I run into him. My hand simultaneously on the paper towel dispenser and my torso on his inner knee and thigh (Man Code, [very, very, very] Broken).

Did I mention he had a gun?

I say "EXCUSE ME," quickly dry my hands, and turn to leave. I get to the door...I push it open...and although you won't believe me...he really did say the following:

"Hey, Buddy?"

Almost to freedom, one foot in and one foot out of the restroom: "Yeah?"

"How do my pants look?"


"How do my pants look? Are they too big?" (Man Code, Destroyed)

And I paused for what seemed like eternity to me. I didn't know what to make of the past three minutes of my life. But a sort of courage took over me as the sun was glowing on my, you know what I did...and this is the God's honest truth...I made a spinny motion, counter-clockwise with my index finger pointing up...signaling for him to turn in a circle so I could see.

And he did. He turned around for me...360 little ballerina.

As I left, I lied. I said they were fine...but his pants were clearly too big. I just didn't have the heart to tell him (Man Code?).

I think he knew.

Monday, May 11, 2009

The Great Debate

I'm growing a beard right now in protest of my broken shoulder. What am I protesting? Not important...but it is going well.

Unfortunately, this stupid beard of mine has A LOT of gray hairs in it. Which led me to have the following debate in my shower earlier today:

Self: Wow...I really have a lot of gray hair for being 34.

Other Self: 34? Are we 34?

Self: Shoot. I think so. When was I born?

Other Self: quick math...

Self: Yup...2009, that is 34 years...

Other Self: But we haven't had a birthday yet!

Self: I am definitely 33.

Other Self: Shit...We REALLY have a lot of gray hair in our beard for being 33.


You know you're old when you don't know how old you are.

I really need to stop with the "we" voice in my head. That Smeagol shit really freaks me out.

No gray pubes yet. So I got that going for me.

Friday, May 08, 2009

12 Steps (Three Weeks Down...Ten to Go)

As a reader of my blog, I can only assume you are familiar with 12 Step Programs. If you regularly read this, you are most likely a drug addict, a loser, and/or gay. Some of you are probably all three. Point being, here is what I am going through.

Twelve Steps To Collarbone Recovery

Week 1: I Am Powerless (aka My fucking arm doesn't work) -- During this stage, the injured collarbone is literally powerless. You can't move it because the bone is not attached to the joint. This shit hurts so much, you can't even masturbate.'s like that!

Week 2: There is a power greater than me (aka God likes to fuck with people) -- During this stage, you start to itch in places you can no longer reach...and your armpit smells from lack of air circulation. You may or may not be able to wipe your own ass. Even your own dog thinks "That dude smells. I lick my own asshole every five minutes...but I aint licking that guy."

Week 3: Turn my life over to a greater power (aka Invest in a large stick) -- The greatest thing about being an "evolved" animal is that you can choose to worship false idols when it suits you best. Personally, I believe in Stick. Stick scratches me. That's pretty spiritual when you've had a itchy ass for three weeks.

Week 4: Moral inventory (aka What did I do to deserve this bullshit) -- At this stage, you reflect on all the other injuries you've had. The thought "I'm a fucking klutz" comes to mind when you think about the number of bones you have broken...and you are pretty sure you must have raped a midget in previous life. You only hope he was an evil midget and somewhat deserved it because you don't want much more punishment in this life.

Week 5: Admit I am wrong (aka Realize you are just a jerk, and you had this coming) -- no one saw you swipe that chick's underwear from her house...but you knew it wasn't right. It was even worse to follow her around with them sticking out of your coat pocket like a handkerchief. But seriously, did you have to send them back to her with you in them while you were wearing nothing else? Getting pushed down some stairs and breaking your collarbone seems like the punishment fits the crime, weird-o.

Week 6: Ready to remove my defects (aka You just suck, invalid) -- After six weeks, you really just want to be healed. You feel the "trendy" and "strappy" sling is a bit played out at this point.

Week 7: Ask a higher power to remove the defects (aka Beg, pussy) -- You lost Stick weeks ago...and your dog isn't going to help you do shit unless you bathe in bacon grease. Why not? You'll try anything once. Covered in bacon grease, you beg your dog to help you get your sling off. Your dog asks you to sit and rollover before she helps you take off the damn thing. She gives you the "How do you like it" look. Fuck her, anyway. You had her fixed for a reason.

Week 8: List people I have wronged (aka Think about people you could beat at a triathlon if you weren't hurt) -- It's a short list. Stick is on it. So is some guy named Brian Gunn. Don't ask.

Week 9: Make amends (aka Start moving your arm) It's been two months. You finally have the ability to look at your bike again. You have saved up enough money for a sledgehammer...and you have already written your bike's eulogy. In the speech, you mention what a nice bike it WAS. Your bike cries, but you don't give a shit...

Week 10: Continue admitting how wrong I am (aka You are Catholic or Jewish) You haven't stalked any women in months...but Stick and your dog do hide from you in the corner in the fetal position. You keep doing arm curls in preparation of fucking your bike up.

Week 11: Meditate to connect with a higher power (aka Your arm stopped throbbing, so you can finally get some sleep) -- You start to realize you never purchased a stick, you don't own a dog...and your bike is incapable of crying. You did steal some chick's underwear, though. You really are a sick fuck.

Week 12: Connect to others (aka Finally leave your house, recluse) Your arm is all better. You don't have much desire to kills others anymore. Much. You start bike riding again only to fall off and break something else. Man, maybe that midget wasn't evil after all.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

I Don't Know Anymore. I Just Don't

So I have had a couple of weeks to sit, reflect, and mope about my shoulder, and something is bothering me. I don't have an answer about it either...all I have is time to keep wondering.

I would say I have been seriously biking for about three years...and never had a serious issue. Once it took me about 30 minutes to change a flat because my gears were jacked up (sorry, Darron)....but beyond that...nada until about one month ago when a series of unconnected? events happened one after the other. And it's killing me because I don't know if I am giving them meaning or if they have meaning in themselves.


Not Good: First, I went riding with my training partner, and while waiting for him at one tire EXPLODES and gets a huge gash in it while I am sitting there doing NOTHING. WEIRD. Not riding. Waiting. BOOM. Tire destroyed. The ride needs to get cut short...and according to my Garmin...we do 28-ish miles or so. Result: No more riding that day.

Bad: Five days later, in the middle of riding...I get stung by a bee at about 20 miles into my ride, and can't continue riding. Result: No more riding that day.

Worse: The next day, I somehow get diagnosed with pneumonia out of nowhere. Result: No riding for a week.

Terrible: Eight days later, I somehow get flung off my bike while going about 20-25 miles/hour breaking my collarbone. No other bike or car involved....again, about 28-ish miles into the ride. I'm on my bike...then...not. Result: No riding for about three months.


And this is what has been eating at me. How? How is this possible?

This can't be coincidence, can it? Can it? Is this my insignificant and fragile psyche/self giving meaning to meaningless events so that I don't feel isolated and alone? Am I merely a victim of bad timing/luck? Is there nothing "bigger" going on here?

Was it meant to be? Was this my fate? Was something REALLY bad going to happen to me at my race? Was the world saving me...telling me don't do that race?

Did I influence my world and make these things happen to me? Did I subconsciously not want to race so I made my tire explode...had a bee sting me...made myself sick...and when all that didn't work...I broke me?


Normally, I would chalk all this up to coincidence because I'm so "educated" and "agnostic" and "in control." What I see is real, right?

But maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe I don't have it all figured out. The weeks before I broke my collarbone sucked. So have the weeks after. But my collarbone isn't the only thing broken here. So is my vision of my world. I ask again: This can't all be coincidence, can it? Can it?

I don't know anymore. I just don't.

Saturday, May 02, 2009

The Lighter Side of Breaking a Collarbone (two weeks down, ten to go)

So, I should be doing my race right now...instead, I am sitting on my couch typing one handed. This got me thinking about some other things I have noticed the past two weeks:

(1) My left armpit STINKS (yes, this is a change). The combination of having a swollen elbow, arm, and ribs PLUS a sling have made any kind of ventilation to my left underarm nearly impossible. It is ALWAYS damp....and it is ALWAYS hot and drippy in there. I believe I may have created a cure for cancer in my pit...and if I have...that cure don't smell so good...unless you are into dank-three-week-old-baby-food (swirled carrots, I believe)vomit.

(2) I "got in the way of" a eighty-year-old, who huffed and puffed to walk by me on a sidewalk. He was hunched over and walked with a limp, but he had NO time for my slow-moving ass. I could only assume he was either rushing off to die or he was about to shit his pants...

(3) People who see my sling and ask me what happened, but clearly don't care, have been the norm...but one person (who shall remain nameless) had the following interaction with me:

Her: (Walking towards me) Oh no...what happened? (keeps walking towards me)

Me: I had a biking accident (I have now made a 180 to finish my sentence as she has completely walked past me.)

Her: (Five feet away from me, the back of her head strangely couldn't respond to the answer of her own question)

Me: YOU'RE FAT (, I didn't yell this at her or even think it....but that would have been funny since she only weighs 90 lbs. What kind of adult weighs less than her own body temperature. EAT something already, lady.)

(4) I received a call YESTERDAY from my doctor's office, and I shit you not, we had the following conversation (remember, this was yesterday)

Nurse: May I speak with Mark Managhiiyggd, please (really, is my name that hard to say???)

Me: This is Mark MAN-ASS-E

Nurse: Mr. Managjhsoosuigyugytdflkjs;j, this is Brenda from Doctor Marlowe's office.

Me: Yeah...

Nurse: I am calling to let you know that you have a broken left collarbone.

Me: (silent)

Nurse: Mr. Maniohiugutfsaytfyuiuhoijoihyutytd?

Me: Yeah...I know. It has been broken for a few weeks. I have been to your office to have x-rays and spoken to the doctor.

Nurse: OK...I wanted to let you know your collarbone is broken, sir. I have the x-rays right here.

Me: (I look at my arm and then the phone to make sure it is by looking at, I would be able to fix it or the stupidity of the person on the other end of it. So...I try a different approach...) Thank you for letting me know????

Nurse: You are welcome, Mr. Manoihigyttsrscvnkmj. Have a nice day.

Ten more weeks. Ten more.