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.

Surviving Asthmagate.

I didn't write about this when it happened, mostly because I prefer to use this forum to cast my gray-haired carcass in the best possible light. I'm a little too insecure to write stuff that leaves you thinking, "Wow, Tim sure is a dick."

And had I written it before today, that’s just what you may have thought.

A couple of weeks ago, I stood chugging on an elliptical trainer, one of the many iron maidens line the cardio room at the local Y. My asthma had been acting up all morning, and by the time I was halfway into the workout, it worsened. Some people cough or wheeze during a flare up, but I clear my throat, loudly and often. It feels sort of like when you accidentally inhale a beverage and you're just trying to bark out all the irritation. It's really obnoxious if you aren'† used to it, but the regulars who exercise are usually very cool about my respiratory Turrette's.

As my phlegmmy symphony built to its zenith, I noticed the woman next to me, first slowing and then stopping her machine. She stepped off and walked over to me. 

"Excuse me." She looked a little like Skyler on Breaking Bad. "Maybe you need some water or something. Maybe something to help you stop coughing."

I yanked out my earbuds. Of all the times for her to choose to address the issue, twenty-five minutes into my workout might not be in the top eleven thousand.

"I've got asthma," I said flatly between deep huffs of air.

"Well, maybe some water might help…"

"Don't worry about it, okay?" I felt my pace quickening.

"Well, you don't have to listen to it!" Her passive-aggressive tack vaporized like so much fog on the drippy windows. Now she was pissed.

"Look," I said quietly but intensely, "I do what I can. Leave me alone."

She backed away and re-mounted her machine, looking intently at her smart phone and punching in digits. 

"Shit," I thought. "She's probably texting or emailing the Y and complaining about the crabby guy next to her and his disgusting bird flu. Most likely, I can count on some YMCA intervention in the near future."

A couple of weeks passed. I saw Skyler a handful of uncomfortable times, yet didn't hear another word regarding Asthmagate. My indignation gradually lessened and melted into remorse,. "Man, you cannot talk to people that way," I thought. "No matter how angry you are, always keep a dialogue. Get people on your side and things always turn out better."

This morning, I entered the aerobic area, looked to my left and there she was—Skyler, standing by herself, staring at the magazine rack, the first person I saw. 

Have you ever just gotten an impulse and felt like something else was controlling your behavior, like you were just along for the ride? That's how I felt as I approached her. "Excuse me."

She turned and faced me.

"Um, I just want to apologize for acting like a five-year-old the other day. I know it's pretty nasty to have to hear that and I was an idiot to talk to you that way."

"Oh," she said, "Actually, I wanted to apologize to you. What you have is very personal and I shouldn't have handled it the way I did." She extended her hand. "What's your name? I'm Sarah."

I just realized this is starting to sound like Dear Playboy. Not the case, however. As we parted ways, I hacked up a stringy lung lizard and honked it onto the carpet, it's outer tentacles splattering her shoe. She chuckled at my indiscretion and wrapped me in a warm, damp bear hug.

Just making sure you're still paying attention.

Seriously, you’re killing me.

Every morning, I arise at Insane O’Clock to make it to the gym by Stupid Thirty. While there, I try to make the experience as devoid of emotion as possible.

Why? Because, and I’m sure I’m not alone here, when my heart rate reaches a certain level of anaerobic distress, little annoyances magnify into large obsessions.

At first, nothing is that big of a deal. That dude over there who wears so much Drakkar Noir I can taste it until after lunch? That's cool. That woman on the rowing machine who strains so hard she meows? Hey, she's working hard.

But after I’ve been on the elliptical for a good twenty minutes, I’m sweaty and crabby, and I find irritations everywhere.

On my shin is an itch that won't be tamed, so I have to perform a “marching scratch,” keeping my claw stationary as the lower leg rises to meet it.

I curse my shorts for hiking in the center, even though the problem lies within the shorts.

That guy on the machine next to me chomps his gum so loudly that I have to crank the volume on my iPod and turn the other way to avoid the aura of Eclipse Wintergreen and last night’s Pad Thai. On a positive note, I learn that “Total Eclipse of the Heart” sounds awesome loud.

I then fantasize about discovering a loose set of latex gloves, slipping them on, pulling the gum from the guy’s pie hole and calf roping him to the squat rack with it.

Once the workout is finished and the mild endorphins engage, I can tolerate the minor skin irritations, the sweat droplets clinging to my old man eyebrows, which are wilting over my pupils and obscuring my vision. But I’m far from tolerant.

A woman, while spraying and wiping down her exercise bike, accidentally mists my forearm as I walk by. Because she’s unaware of this egregious violation, I feel pangs of temptation to pretend that she sprayed my eyes and scream at her that my eye is still tender from yesterday’s paper cut.

Yet I endure in silence.

After an uneventful workout this morning, I entered the locker room for a quick shower and departure and noticed feet peeking from under the door of the room’s single bathroom stall. The Nikes within pointed to the right, which told me he was performing a more “invasive procedure” than if his feet had pointed to the left.

He exited the stall just as I was preparing to enter the shower, but I felt compelled to see things through. The man plodded past the sink and over to the scale. He stood for several seconds, obviously trying to achieve minimum weight on the sliding device, and finally stepped off.

He then stepped in front of the sink, gazed at his bed hair in the mirror and walked out of the room. His hands were as dry as a soiled bone.

Alas, I’d born witness, yet again, to a dump and dash.

Later, as I walked through the parking lot to my Kia minivan, I resolved to not let this dirty, dirty man’s behavior ruin my day. Much of the world lives in far less sterile conditions than we do here in anti-bacterial land, so I desperately tried to put the affair out of my mind.

I returned home and lovingly greeted my family with fist bumps.

This must be how a stripper feels

It happens almost every Wednesday.

Around 6:30AM, I stagger into the YMCA men's locker room after a fairly vigorous aerobic workout. I quickly peel off my soaked clothing to avoid wallowing in my own filth any further, and prepare to enter the shower. I am naked.

And then he walks in—the supply delivery guy.

As I stand there basking in my funky glow, we look at each other. He always says something like, "I'll just be a second. I just need to refill the antibacterial soap." At this point, I usually feel like we're filming the opening scene to some gay porn flick, like "Towel Snappers IV" or "Saving Ryan's Privates," and it doesn't really matter what he says to me. This man has seen my nude body more than I have.

After these experiences with Chuck (that's what his name patch says), I always feel just a slight bit better due to one fact—he was wearing a uniform.

People just don't wear uniforms like they used to. Back in the day, gas station attendants would jog out to your car, their crisp uniforms accentuated by a hat and bow tie. They would pump your gas, check your oil...one Chevron attendant was so thorough, I can remember turning my head and coughing for him. These days, someone sits behind bullet proof glass, takes your money and sells you a Baby Ruth and a pepperoni stick.

Garbage collectors, at least in my neighborhood, no longer wear uniforms, but that's fine with me. If they're willing to haul my odoriferous waste away, rain or shine, they can wear assless chaps for all I care. The same goes for bus drivers. I'm simply thankful that someone is willing to confront rush-hour traffic while a passenger two feet behind him chops up crack with a machete. If the bus drivers want to wear nothing but a boa and a change belt, good on them.

Some occupations require their workers to wear a uniform for safety reasons, like the water meter readers or mail carriers. I'm sure there are areas of rural Snohomish County where they must also identify themselves audibly: "Attention, homeowner. I am reading your meter. I don't want your meth stash. Repeat, I am not a tweaker. Thank you."

In my opinion, the most important uniform of all is the physician's white lab coat. I don't think I'd be able to relax enough for "the exam," if the guy slipped on the rubber glove while donning torn Levi's and a stained wife beater.

If that gym supply guy wore a lab coat next time, I might stand around and talk for a while.

America's favorite game show

Hey, everyone! I'm your host, Chip Bickerson, and welcome to America's favorite game of male insecurity and cliché, "Locker Room Lingo Lab." Today, we've got a locker room stocked with pudgy white guys between the ages of forty and fifty, whose athletic days are a fuzzy speck in the rear view mirror of their lives. 


They're currently lounging in the men's locker room of their suburban gym, recovering from an intense, albeit sluggish, game of basketball. Okay, without further ado, let's meet our players:

Contestant Number One is a cost accountant from White Center, Washington. He loves Peter Frampton, any clothing with elastic and Bud Light with Lime, please welcome Herb Green (applause).


Contestant Number Two is a used Pontiac salesman from Fife, Washington. He's been married a handful of times, and has finally decided that his ideal woman has four wheels and is named "Red Trans Am," give it up for Chuck Jowler (applause).

And last but not least, Contestant Number Three hails from Gorst, Washington. He enjoys "Three's Company" reruns and the leg and thigh bucket at KFC, give a hardy hello to Quinn Carpo (applause).


Okay, men, you all have been briefed on the rules: The three of you must engage in a conversation. No awkward silences trying not to stare at each other's "nether regions." The first player to utter five statements not concerning injuries, work, sports, glory days of old or heterosexual prowess will be the winner of today's contest and will return next week to face two new challengers. Remember, correct responses will be followed by a bell (dinging noise), and incorrect statements will result in this noise (buzzer sounds). Let's begin. Go ahead, guys.

Herb: Oh, my back! (buzzer sounds)

Chuck: Wow, that was quite a game. (buzzer sounds)

Quinn: Yeah. (bell dings)

Herb: I'll tell you guys, I'm not that all-conference point guard I was back in '78, but I can still hold my own out there. (buzzer sounds)

Chuck: Hey, Quinnster, help me peel off this back brace. Ahh, thanks, much better. (An awkward silences ensues as the Herb and Quinn try not to stare at Chuck's breasts). Looks like I've lost a few pounds, guys. Should make things even easier for me to sell some Grand Ams and Fieros to the classy single ladies. (buzzer sounds)

Quinn: Yeah. (bell dings)

Chuck: I hope I stop sweating before I get to the car. I just bought some new sheepskin seat covers for the Firebird. Those bastards at work are so jealous of my sweet ride that they laugh at me. (buzzer sounds)

Herb: Chuck, they're making fun of you because you look like a human midlife crisis driving that thing. You look like Jordan in a baseball uniform. (buzzer sounds)
 

Quinn: Yeah. (bell dings)

Herb: I'm sure you guys must've noticed my stats today: ten points, eight rebounds and six assists. I haven't pulled that off since February 18, 1977 against Kent Meridian High. If either of you are interested, I've got the newspaper clipping in my briefcase. (buzzer sounds)

Quinn: I am. (bell dings)

Chuck: Hey, do you guys think I should have this looked at? (awkward silence as the two men examine a mole on Herb's upper buttock.

Herb and Quinn, together: Yeah. (bell dings)

Quinn, it looks like that last statement put you over the top. Congratulations! Thanks for watching, everyone, and we'll see you next week as Quinn takes on two new challengers on..."Locker Room Lingo Lab."