Johnson and Johnson.

Bless his heart... and... all other organs that aren't clearly visible.

I'll call him Burt. He's an older guy; looks to be in great shape, like he's led an athletic lifestyle since before I was born. The two of us have been cohabiting the Y locker room on an early-morning basis for the past few months.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, Burt had faithfully regaled a different patron of the cramped men's quarters, his raconteuring prowess something I'd passively processed with minimal attention. But when his main listener stopped showing up, Burt's extroverted demeanor required only seconds to view its options and realize I was the only other dude in the locker room for him to talk to. Obviously undeterred, he promptly introduced himself and has been supplying me with his lanky yarns ever since.

As you can imagine, it's not easy to be at your target emotional and physical plane at six in the morning, which is cool since all I usually have to to is listen to him and nod. Speaking with calculated nonchalance about his DEA agent son-in-law or brother with a PhD from MIT or friend who randomly encountered Frank Sinatra in Palm Springs and ended up spending the entire day with him, Burt waxes on the daily abut his life's journey and the many fascinating individuals who've orbited his world. So don't get me wrong—Burt's a treasure, really, and what I'm about to tell you is my problem, not his, so I'll cut to the chase.

He seems to like to talk to me most when we're both naked. I wouldn't say he waits for it, but, well... After having spent my adult life in and out of YMCA locker rooms and getting to nakedly know several fellows, it didn't take long to learn one of the cardinal rules: When having a conversation with someone, all talking ends when your last article of clothing comes off so that you might move unencumbered into the shower. Why? Let's just say that assuming the role of stationery naked man presents profound challenges, where constant motion is as critical to the nude male as swimming is to the shark.

Standing still presents an alarming risk of contracting the scurrilous Italian malady, "Roman eyes." An errant, split-second glance is all it takes to tell the other person, "I'll finish hearing your story, but I'm gonna need to check out Little Anthony and the Imperials real quick. Okay, go ahead, I'm listening now."

In other words, dudes tend to do anything to avoid the dreaded "lookdown," which brings me back to Burt. The other day, just as I stepped past the scale, mere inches from the shower area's relative shelter, he suddenly blurted, "One day I was drying off in the locker room of a Jack LaLane gym in San Jose, I want to say around 1963. Well, wouldn't you know it, a goddamn woman came right in there and started talking to me."

My fears realized, I stood motionless. I had no idea what to do with my hands—no pockets, no towel to hold—all I could think to do was put my hands on my hips like a humbled pink superhero. I felt my peripheral vision surveying naked Burt as he demonstrated how he was standing, one foot on the bench and the other planted on the floor. as the lady entered the room. "It was like we were both at the grocery store or something,. She didn't even blink," he said.

It felt as if my chin had grown two eyeballs that were focused on nothing but Burt's balls and the hanging hypotenuse that bisected his bold stance. Thankfully, the clouds briefly parted and a line came to me straight from the pages of The Towel-Snapper's Guide to Locker Room Clichés.

"Did she laugh and point?" Good one, I thought. Put Burt on the defensive so you can make a quick exit.

It took Burt a second to get it, but when he did, he began laughing so boisterously that his belly shook, which in turn made a few things start rhythmically nodding and bobbing. That's when I'm convinced I lost focus and surrendered my gaze to Burt's single-act puppet show.

Attempting to avoid further embarrassment, I interpreted his prolonged laughter as a signal to continue into the relative haven of the shower area and maybe just hang out until he was dressed and gone.

As I said, Burt is a great guy who tells wonderful stories and obviously doesn't clutter his life with superficial hangups (hangdowns?). as I do. Maybe someday I'll be as comfortable in my air-dried skin as he, but until I arrive there...

... I'll need to keep moving.

Let Them Eat Crab.

It’s been a great summer; best in a long time. I can think of a few reasons why, but number one on the list is an unprecedented preponderance of household harmony. The home and hearth, while fully occupied, has emanated the aromatic bouquet of tranquility.

Why? Because the kids have gotten along.

Why? Because they haven’t been around each other much.

And for the last time, why? Because the older kid’s been working! 

Gives me goosebumps to say it. All summer she’s been whacking the alarm clock and punching the time clock, packing a lunch and coming home spent like a two-for-one Applebee’s Groupon. To a skeptical parent, how soothing flow the foamy waters of the Protestant work ethic. 

By the same token, for a college sophomore who typically brims with the boundless energy of a seven-year-old, what more serendipitous summer vocation exists than an opportunity to professionally frolic with genuine seven-year-olds? None that I can think of, so let’s see how things went.

I caught up with our YMCA-camp-counselor-in-residence, codename Zebra, last weekend during a ninety-minute car ride down to Olympia. Able to nap at a moment’s notice, I felt compelled to engage her prior to her succumbing to the taunting luxury of our ’06 Hyundai. 

They call you Zebra. Why is that?

All the counselors have nicknames. It’s to keep the kids from finding us on social media. Like a little kid would actually do that.

Hey, you never know. Did you name yourself?

We all name ourselves. There’s T-Rex, Sharkzilla, Scooby, Snickerdoodle…let’s see… Razzle, Flounder, Puppy…

Sounds like a mushroom-inspired Barney episode.

Good one, Dad.

So what was it like having to wake up at 6:30? 

Really hard. I haven’t gotten up that early since eighth grade. It made naps even more crucial than they were before. I still managed to get in eight hours a night.

Yeah, that’s not true. But moving along, was there anything that surprised you about this job? 

It’s fairly unstructured. Each counselor gets a group of ten kids, and it’s up to us to find things for them to do. We go on field trips a few times a week, but the rest of the time is sort of our choice. 

How do they behave?

Overall, they’re pretty good. The worst time is when we’re lined up for the bathroom. It takes a full 25 minutes to get everyone through, so they start messing with each other. They throw rocks and pine cones at each other. They use acorns like currency. 

Sounds like a prison yard.

I still can't figure out how their faces get so dirty. Did my face get dirty?

Filthy. Just disgusting. Yes.

The other day a kid came up to me holding a little crab he found on the beach. It was still alive. He said “Zebra, can I eat this crab?” I said “Absolutely not.” He said “Well, how come Tristan gets to?” I went down to the beach and Tristan had already eaten a couple of the legs off a live crab. I said “Tristan, why are you doing that?” He said “Because people eat crabs all the time.” I said “Tristan, you have to kill the crab before you eat it.” He said “I didn’t know that, Zebra.”

What part of your job did you enjoy the most?

I always liked it when we ate our lunches. The kids were always content and liked to talk about stuff.

What kind of stuff?

This one kid, whose name is Joseph, is so cute. When he makes the “s” sound it sounds more like “sh.” The other day, he said “Zhebra, I have to tell you shomething. Well, remember when I told you one of my momsh ish dead? Well, I feel bad. That wash a lie. She’sh alive. I jusht wanted to shee what you would shay.”

They don’t care about hanging out with the opposite sex. A couple of kids even became boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re so adorable, you can tell by the looks on their faces that they really like each other. They give each other acorns.

Sounds like quite a learning experience. Do you think working with kids may be something you’d like to do for a career?

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dad.

Thanks for your hard work with the little ones, Zebra. Relating to them is easy. Taking care of them isn’t.

1001 incorrect uses for a blow dryer.

I've been spending more time at the gym lately. It''s not because I'm training for the Iron Man or because I want an even better body than I currently have—that's impossible.

Nope, I've been hanging out at the "Y" more because my ten-year-old daughter has taken an interest in improving her health. And really, what parent wouldn't rather follow his child's lead than order her to turn off the TV, put on her pink nylon shorts and head to the gym with her grumpy, old dad.

Whatever motives people have for working out, I fully support them, because no one likes a nation whose citizens are more marbled with lard than Kobe Beef. I just wish I didn't have to watch some folks while they exercise. Maybe it's because I'm usually highly anaerobic and sweat-drenched when I'm looking at these people, or maybe I just see myself in the mirror next to them and wonder when I turned into a gray-haired old man with a throbbing forehead vein, but here are the types of people who annoy me the most at our local YMCA:

The Self-Admirers: This group is ninety percent male and lifts massive amounts of barbells, dumbbells and sports drinks. They dress in tight shirts from Old Navy, borrowed from their little brothers, which form fit their torsos while exposing massive arm loaves. I like to make faces at them in the mirror because they never look at anyone but themselves.


The Incorrect Machine Users: These gym patrons usually don't dress for working out, either. An average member of this group is an older woman with a flowered blouse, stretchy polyester pants and powder blue flats. Many machines, such as the seated chest press, include a foot lever for putting the handles in proper position for the arm workout. She ignores this and pushes the foot lever up and down approximately seven times before stopping and just sitting there for a while. Nothing quite like a toned right calf muscle.


The New Agers: These people like to flop a mat down right between the lat pull and curl machines, thereby making my left knuckle touch their downward doggie ass every time my arm achieves full extension. I would appreciate if they would practice their art somewhere others will welcome them, like the Whole Foods bulk food section.

The Malodorous Mafia: I won't go into too many specifics because you might be eating, and I realize they probably can't help it. I'll just say that there's this one guy whose body chemistry is so objectionable that if I see him, I'll turn around, get dressed, go home and play Wii croquet.

The Real Housewives of West Seattle: These are two person teams, usually youngish moms. They chit chat as they jog on their tandem treadmills, usually about whose PEPS group raises more money for breast pump awareness or whose kid is more advanced in his preschool calculus class.

After observing some or all of these personalities, my daughter and I are ready to return home where things are familiar and relaxed. It's been a good workout, so I'll just get my stuff out of the locker and we'll hit the road. What could I possibly see at this point that's any weirder than the past forty-five minutes?*


*I saw a guy in the locker room blow drying his bottom on October 18, 2010.