The Downside of Summer: Things I am not good at

I've spent the last week without a steady job, and I am starting to go insane. Richmond Elementary finished school last Monday, and my work was done last Wednesday. I have spent those 7 days twiddling my thumbs, watching way too much NBAtv, and contemplating the insignificance of my very existence.

Seriously.

As we speak, I just finished a solid three paragraph analysis as to why Nicolas Batum is better than Dorell Wright.

I literally sat down at my laptop, researched their statistics, and organized a thoughtful analysis as to which mediocre NBA Small Forward is better than the other. I am pretty sure Batum is better, but I am even more sure that I am a worthless human being.

My daily schedule has consisted of Breakfast, Facebook, a nap, a workout, then hanging out with friends in the evening. It's the stuff that people write songs, about, right? Warm weather, no worries. Chillin. Just. Chill.

I've recently discovered I am awful at chilling.

However, being unemployed has given me no choice but to be CHILL.

In the last week, I have become a complete and total expert on Wimbledon, the NBA draft, The Today Show, and farting on my couch.

I've also realized I am severely underskilled at "relaxing" activities. You know, "creative outlets," like poetry, playing an instrument, drawing, or anything else requiring skill.

The problem is, I am a sucker for all of these things. I am eternally envious of people with artistic abilities, and try desperately to mimic them.

And by "mimic them" I mean, I end up playing awful, poorly strummed, predictable chords on my guitar over and over again, trying to match my voice to the pitch of the sound coming from the strings on the wooden thing on my lap.

Then I realize it is impossible to match the pitch of 'cats-fighting' with the tone, 'shitty A-minor.'

Okay, cool, so I'm not that good at guitar. I still have to pass the time, maybe I could pass the time by going to the gym. I am good at that.

I am good at going to the gym.

If you ever, every type this phrase, in your life...you know you've reached a new low.

"I can go to an air conditioned room and move my body. I am good at that."

Except I've discovered recently I am not.

You see, I sweat like Shaquille O'Neal in an oven. If Rosie O'Donnel was wrapped in a down-comforter in the middle of a desert, then put in a gigantic frying pan, and asked to work her way out by doing as many sit-ups as humanly possible, that would be me at the gym.

Then, compound the fact that Willamette's gym recently arbitrarily turned off it's ventilation, and you have one sweaty man.

I was doing lunges 2 days ago, planted my heel, and collapsed with all of my weight, and 135 lbs on a barbell that sat on my shoulders. In the first remotely athletic thing I have ever done in my life, I managed to land squarely on my left knee, and not collapse, or die, or snap my body in half.

Nope...I just sat there. On one knee, with a barbell with a lot of weight on it, and no idea what to do next.

Somewhere in my idiot-brain, I decided grunting was a good option.

"Euuugghhhh" I said, to nobody in particular, or anyone that would listen.

Nobody listened. The weight started to slip.

"Shit shit SHIT SHIT SHIT! ! ! !"

Why does cussing seem to cure these situations? Like...if I HADN'T used profanity, there's NO WAY the large bald man next to me would have came to my rescue. Thankfully, I used my potty mouth, and the adult words I uttered saved me from sitting on one knee with 135 lbs on my shoulders for the rest of my life.

"You've got the same problem as me, kid," said the sweaty bald man.

I saw the sweat dripping off of his fingertips, and finally felt normal.

"Sweaty-man syndrome?" I said, half laughing, half wondering why my leg wasn't broken.

"Absolutely. We've got to look out for eachother," he said.

Yes...yes we do. And buy towels. Lots of towels.

In other related news, I was on the elliptical today, and my shoes were so water logged, they were literally squeaking and sloshing with each motion. The girl next to me wanted to vomit, and I do not blame her. I would like to apologize to her right now, and formally admit that I was also extremely flatulent, and want to extend my apology not only to hear eyes and ears, but also her nose.

I am awful.

However, there's always basketball, RIGHT? I've ALWAYS been good at that. Right? RIGHT?

If you ever want to get emasculated in every aspect, do any sort of athletic event with girls. Not necessarily women. They will destroy you. Girls. Always girls, they sometimes have mercy.

I am working/participating in a basketball clinic for men and women. Individual coaches, basketball coaches, strength trainers...really, a solid experience overall.

Besides the fact that the two 12-year-olds that come every day make me want to cry, throw away my basketball shoes, and join the Vigorous Walking team.

I have fallen 4 times so far, once during ball handling drills, twice during agility drills, and seven times when this girl who could almost be my daughter crossed me over.

Okay, I exaggerated a bit. Being a 9-year-old parent would be weird, and probably impossible, but it doesn't change the fact that these girls have me seriously re-evaluating my life, and what it means to be 'good' at something.

Her mother also comes to the clinic, and likes to pretend to coach. And when I say "pretend to coach," I mean, "yell insulting things to me, in some bizarre attempt at motivation."

(after I shoot a lay-up, instead of dunking)

"Jeez, can you even dunk?"

(After I dunk)

"Well, that sure wasn't pretty..."

(After I miss a jumper)

"Does your mother love you?"

(After I lose the ball in a ball-handling drill)

"You were adopted"

(After I curl into the fetal position and start crying uncontrollably)

"You look fat."

The worst was this encounter with her daughter (after a shooting drill where I could not make a shot, execute proper footwork, run without falling down, or exist without sucking):

Girl: "Do you play anywhere?"

Me: (wearing a Willamette University Basketball cut-off) Um. Yes. Yeah, I do.

Girl: "Like, city league or what?"

Me: "No. I play here."

Girl: "For the school?"

Me: "Yeah...this is my second year"

I say this in an attempt to reconcile my ego. Maybe she doesn't know me because I am new.

Girl: "Oh."

(Silence)

Girl: "Keep working hard!"

She says this in the same tone my choir teacher used when she told me I need to sing quieter, and in the same way everyone who I want to hire me for a job says "we'll call you back."

So I did what ANY sane human being would do. I rolled her up into a ball, and dunked her.

Just kidding, I can't dunk.

Just kidding, I can.

Maybe? I don't know. Come to the Salem city-league, and find out for yourself.

I am going to start knitting.

Summer: 1, Sean: 0.

25 Things People Don't Know About Lebron James

If you own a television, have access to a computer, breathe oxygen, or say "ouch" when you stub your toe on the coffee table, you're probably aware of the media downpour going on regarding all things Lebron James.

And when I say "media downpour," I mean, "every single human on planet earth is taking an aggressive, stinky, dense, $hit on Lebron James." Literally, everyone is unleashing their pent up waste, and dumping it directly onto Lebron James' stupid headband in a violent, unrelenting fashion.

Here's a list of things we don't know about Lebron James.

1. Lebron James is actually NOT Osama Bin-Laden. He is a professional basketball player.

2. Lebron James does NOT have a forehead tattoo that reads "compare me to Michael Jordan please."

3. Deshawn Stevenson DOES have a forehead tattoo. Of a crack. His explanation; "it's cuz I never crack under pressure." Got it.

3. Lebron James is 26. Michael Jordan won his first ring at 28. What will you be doing when you're 26? What did you do when you were 26? Were you winning MVP's? Were you being 6'8 260 lbs? If so, thanks for reading. Tell your rich friends about me.

4. Lebron James refers to himself as "King James." Don't beleive me? Read here

5. There is no specific scientific reason that Lebron James wears a headband.

6. There is also no explanation as to why he makes this face.

7. Lebron James did not steal your lunch money during recess.

8. Delonte West had sexual relations with Lebron James' mother. Can we all take a second and feel sorry for Lebron. Okay. Thanks.

9. Lebron James did not have sex with your mom. Probably.

10. Lebron James is leading the 2011 NBA Finals in assists in the 4th quarter.

11. Lebron James is leading the 2011 NBA Finals in times where Stuart Scott, Magic Johnson, That One Barry, and Michael Wilbon say the word "choke."

12. Lebron James always makes the right pass.

13. Except for when he makes the wrong pass.

14. Lebron leads the league in jersey sales.

15. Lebron leads the league in jerseys that were bought, and then burned.

16. Lebron leads the league in jokes at his expense about currency:

-Lebron should play hockey, they don't have a 4th quarter.

-Lebron got asked for change for a dollar, and only gave 3 quarters.

-This was considered especially cheap because Lebron James is very wealthy.

-I omitted #4 from this list, just to make these a$$holes who make up these jokes HAPPY.

17. Lebron James hates quarters.

18. Lebron James could not win a basketball game 1-on-5. Neither could Michael Jordan. We seem to struggle with coming to grips about this.

19. Lebron James allegedly cracks under pressure.

20. Lebron James has a tattoo on his back that reads "Chosen One."

21. So do I.

22. Lebron James is the best player in the NBA.

23. He is not playing like it.

24. He had a triple-double last game.

25. Shit.

Shaq Daddy

A week after Shaq announced his retirement via Twitter, I'm sitting here in a mildly depressed state.

I'm watching an 8 minute compilation highlight film of Shaquille O'neal, which is fine. He's dunking, being 7'1 330 lbs, and smiling while he destroys inferior human beings on the basketball court. Like, actually, as we speak (write) he is a human wrecking ball, annihilating any and every object between himself and rim.

Basically, it's his career summed up in 8 minutes, minus Phoenix, Cleveland and Boston. Nobody wants to remember that. OR MAYBE THEY DO. Did you know Shaq made the 2009 All-Star team? Did you know that he was 36 when that happened? Did you know that Shaq was A LOT more fun to watch when he was young, running, jumping, and sometimes LITERALLY dunking other humans through basketball hoops?

He did all of those things. Now I am watching them. Here are the things I think while I watch. Here's the video. Follow along.

-Shaq just dribbled the ball the length of the court, and dunked the ball with such force that my right arm now hurts. The man is 7 feet tall and over 300 lbs. Do you KNOW WHAT THAT IS LIKE? Because I don't and I really wish I did. Maybe I will ask Shaq.

-His response would probably be something in a really deep voice like "Man, it's coo," then we'd become best friends.

-While Shaq and I are best friends, he would give me a sick nickname like he gave himself 372 times over the course of his career.

-I think my nickname would be "the big, little, less massive diesel."

-I am awful at nicknames.

-Especially compared to Shaquille O'neal.

-He just dunked on Rik Smits. But who hasn't, really?

-He just stared into the camera.

-He looks hungry.

-I am terrified.

-I should mention right now, I put the YouTube volume on mute, and instead, I am listening to Death Cab For Cutie's Transatlanticism. "We Looked Like Giants" is too fitting. The other tracks work well too. Shaq dunking on some dude's head seems way cooler when words like "perpherated sphere" highlight his, well, highlights.

-Shaq just made David Robinson look like a ragdoll. Nobody does that.

-Remember when people thought Arvydas Sabonis could guard Shaq? And by "people," I mean, "Blazer Fans," notoriously the most passionate, and least knowledgable sports fans in the galaxy.

-Scott Pollard's bleached goatee is still awful. He looks like the lead singer of Sugar Ray, whose name fortunately slips my mind at the moment.

-Mark Mcgrath. Damnit.

-If I hadn't watched Shaq his whole career, I'd assume all he ever did is dunk.

-Oh, wait.

-Scott Pollard decided a headband would be better.

-Scott Pollard is a bad decision maker.

-"I need you so much closer," Death Cab, on "Transatlanticism,"

-"I'd like it if you were further away from me most of all of the time on the basketball court," -Shaq's opposition.

-"Get the F**k out of my way," Shaq, to everyone.

-Kobe misses an easy lay-in, Shaq cleans it up for a dunk. Think Shaq had anything to do with the editing? "Kobe, how my a** taste?" Hahaaahaa!

-Shaq did a 360 dunk. In the open court.

-SHAQ DID A 360 DUNK. IN. THE. OPEN. COURT.

-He just pulled down an entire basketball fixture.

-Remember when it was cool to shatter the backboard?

-Shaq's turn around jump hook was unstoppable. You can't ever say he never had moves, Blazer fans, I am looking at you, you IDIOTS.

-Shaw-Shaq-Redunktion. Seriously gives me chills. If you know what this is, please please god leave a comment. If you don't, GROW UP, and GOOGLE IT.

-Shaq was so good in Miami. I blocked this out of my memory.

-Okay, too perfect..."Old age is just around the bend, I can't wait to go gray,"-Death Cab, Sound of Settling, as it pans to Shaq's latter years in Miami. COME ON PEOPLE!

-Shaq should have won the MVP in 2005-06 as well. Sorry, Steve Nash...love ya, but come on.

-Chris Mihm cannot guard Shaq.

-Chris Mihm cannot guard most people.

-Chris Mihm just got beat off the dribble by my oven.

-Shaq just dunked on Shawn Bradley. See (Rik Smits).

-Shaq wore a 6-inch wristband on his right forearm, so his bone would stop bruising from violently colliding with the rim. A functional sweatband? I wish I was kidding.

-It's the same reason Lebron James wore a headband. So his ego didn't literally explode past the limits of his own inflated head. We wouldn't want DIVA BRAINS smeared all over the court.

-Lebron James is the best player in the NBA. Sigh.

-I actually forgot that Shaq played in Cleveland. I just went back to the top of my blog to add it. Whoops.


-The Superman Strut. Nostalgia.

-Shaq...Most underrated passer of all time? Yeah.

-Matt Geiger. Anyone remember him? hahahaha.

-Todd McCullogh. I just realized I've spent half of this post making fun of white dudes Shaq dunked on.

-I just realized Shaq made a career of dunking on white guys.

-Video's done, but his legacy lives on. Plus, there's still at least three more seasons of "Shaq Versus" to look forward to, and his Twitter account will never die.

-Also, he is rumored to become a Poiceman now that he's retired. If you are caught speeding, he will curl you up into a ball, dunk you, then put you between two slices of bread and devour you.

-If you are a white guy over 6'10, he'll probably just leave you alone. He's done way too much to you already. Long. Live. Shaq Daddy.

Going Home, Going Crazy: Dogs, and other things that my mother loves more than me.

You know home isn't home anymore when your dogs are higher in the family totem than you are.

I sat down in the middle of the couch to watch some TV and talk with my mom, back home for the first time in a few months.

"Hey mom, how's it..."

"You know...that's Kobe's spot," My mom interrupted.

"What?"

"That is where Kobe sits." She said, with a dead-serious stare that could have pierced metal.

"Um...he's a DOG!?" I said.

"Sean, don't SAY that! He's right there!" She replied.

I looked over, and Kobe was licking his balls.

"He looks really offended," I said.

He stood up, and nudged me with his nose.

Mom made me move, Kobe sat next to me, and continued licking his balls, as if to say, "Check me out. I'm in your spot, licking my privates, and mom is talking about how gorgeous I am. When you lick your privates on the couch, she threatens to stop paying for your education. Sucks, dude. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to sitting here and looking adorable."

How the hell do I compete with that?

Being home from college is AWKWARD. There is no other way to describe it.

You're independent, convinced you know everything there is to know, but you're still probably partially dependent on your parents, because they give you this thing called MONEY which buys you things like AN EDUCATION, and FOOD.

These are important things, and your parents like to remind you of this, by hanging it over your head every second of every day, and it fuels them.

So...fellow 19-22 year olds, where do we turn? I'll tell you where we turn. To the place we ALWAYS turn when faced with adversity. Jon. Bon. Jovi.

Jon Bon Jovi politely says, "who says you can't go home?" To that, I say...well, Jon Bon...I say that. Everyone says that, actually. Home, for college students is not home at all, but rather, a subtle reminder that, while you DEARLY love your family, it's nice to be ALONE and do things on your own, where you can sit wherever you want on the couch, not get ridiculed for cleaning your "personal AREA" and poop with the door open and not get yelled at. Or is that just me? Just kidding. Seriously.

I tried my best to avoid this awkwardness, by being KIND and making my family breakfast. Apparently, I cannot do that right.

"Low heat works better," my mother said, breathing down my neck as I stood over the stainless steel pan.

I was making potato pancakes out of left-over mashed potatoes, and my every move was carefully critiqued.

"You shouldn't leave the handle out like that, it could catch on your shirt and make the pan fall over," my mother reiterated.

"A non-stick pan would be better."

"I do not want hot oil all over the floor."

"Okay. And I do not want to be told how to cook. I am 21. You will enjoy your breakfast, just give me, like, maybe a foot to breathe?" I replied.

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!" My mother grunted, as she left the kitchen.

The potato-pancake turned out fine. My mother ate it with a look of disgust.

"A little burnt on the bottom."

(sigh.)

When I go home, it's not like I'm in high school again, it's more like I'm an infant. I need my mother at my beckoning call to do ANYTHING. This is not because I am incapable, but rather, it just feels like I need her by my side to make sure I'm not ruining everything.

"Mom!"

(silence)

"MOM!" (louder)

"What!?"

"C'mere!" I said, from the living room, feeling like a helpless grade-schooler.

"How do you work the TV?" I said, staring at the remote like it was a foriegn artifact. This is the house I grew up in. I watched Power Rangers on this television. I first saw BOBBY FLAY on this television. Now I was staring at this box with pictures in it, wondering how the hell to operate it. I felt like a caveman. A caveman baby.

"Just give it here," my mother said.

"No. I need to hold it. Just walk me through it," I protested.

"SEAN TIMOTHY" She said, in that way that mothers use your middle name to scold you.

A lot went through my head here:

1.) Why did my parents give me "Timothy" as a middle name? It is an atrocious name, and it makes my initials STD.

2.) Why does my mother always have to HOLD THINGS. I want to HOLD the remote. Is that SO BAD?

Anyway, pretty soon it was World War 2 in the living room, a heated debate about "Why you ALWAYS have to HOLD the remote. Why can't you just SHOW ME!? I WANT TO HOLD IT."

It was irrational, immature, dysfunctional, and silly...but I was operating as any cave-man/baby/college student home for the weekend would.

We went on to have a 20 minute argument about what to watch. We settled on Tennis. I am still bitter.

Then it was time to go to the Death Cab For Cutie concert, and I practially had to tackle my mother to get out of the house wearing "unsuitable attire."

My mother chased me around the living room trying to drape a dog-fir covered fleece on me, insisting "it will be below freezing tonight, Sean."

"No, it won't."

"YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING!"

I eventually escaped, and did not die of hypothermia that night.

The weirdest part about being home at this age, however, is not the experience of your home no longer feeling like HOME, but once you return to independence, how glorious it is.

As soon as I walked into my extremely ordinary apartment in Salem, Oregon, after a long weekend in Bend, I felt like I was returning to a palace.

You begin to notice, and love, extremely trivial things about your home.

"Dude, mom's dish-brush SUCKS. Ours is SO much better," I said to my brother.

"Our hand-towels are so much softer than moms." I continued.

"Look at how easy our remote is to operate. I know every single button. Do you want me to mute it? I could mute it. Or I could pause live TV, then change the channel. Do you want the Bachelorette to be recorded tonight? Why do I watch the Bachelorette? Oh wait...it doesn't MATTER. It's MY HOUSE. TAKE THAT MOM!"

Unpacking was a ceremony. I turned on my ipod to Death Cab, played it softly while not wearing a fleece. I practically danced around my room, unfolding shirts and shorts in a rhythmic pattern. Every placement of each individual sock was glorious.

"Do you see how SOFT my bedsheets are!? My bed is SO BIG. And SOFT!" I said, to nobody in particular.

"The carpet just FEELS like home!" I said, on all 4's, stroking the spot at the foot of my bed over and over again. It was at this point that I decided "It's my life," and I should really stop listening to Bon Jovi. For good. You CAN go home, I would just say sometimes it's better to not, or at least refrain from making potato-pancakes. But that's never a good idea, because they are DELICIOUS, duhhhh.

These are the People at the Gym That You Hate. (Warning: You are this person. And so am I.)

You know that Common song? "Drivin' Me Wild?", where he says "She was the type to watch Oprah and The Today Show / Be on the treadmill, uh, like Ok Go."

He was rapping about me.

Seriously.

Except the line should go more like, "He was that dude at the gym hoggin' the elliptical / Changin' the channel to any major sporting event and sweating an inordinate amount. People mostly hated him, uh."

Yep, I'm that girl. Or guy. WHATEVER. I have a horrible habit of feeling entitled to every cardio machine at the gym, and any television set near it.

If I see someone on said cardio machine, watching CNN or something else STUPID like that, I am immediately irrationally irritated. I will exhibit some awful passive-aggressive tendencies, like standing a few feet behind them for minutes at a time, clearing my throat repeatedly.

"AHEM..."

"AAAAAHEEEEMMMM"

Most times they have headphones on. FINE. I will usually go to a different machine and act extremely offended.

I think it has something to do with how much time I spend in the gym. If I'm there for hours on end, how dare YOU, random elliptical girl, steal MY spot in front of MY sporting event. I OWN THE NBA. AND THAT TV. Do you UNDERSTAND?

DOGS:

Okay, there are no ACTUAL dogs in the gym. Unless you go to a dog gym, in which case, who ARE you? Everyone in the gym is actually a Dog, though. Except less furry and probably not as adorable. The territorial nature of everyone at the gym never ceases to amaze me. It's not just me, you do it too.

If I am using a bench at the gym, get up to get water, come back and someone is using it, I almost lose my mind.

"I was on that."

"(Silence...which should probably not be put in quotation marks.)"

"I WAS ON THAT. I WAS USING THAT, NOW YOU ARE USING THAT. I WAS NOT DONE, WITH THAT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?"

If you're on a machine, bench, treadmill, etc. and you see someone eyeing it, you immediately get defensive. If you are like me, you will just pee on the machine that you are using.

Problem. Solved.

OLD PEOPLE:

Sometimes, people that are old people like to exercise. This is totally cool. I love seeing older people maintaining their physical fitness, it's nice, because they could totally be playing checkers or making a puzzle, but instead they like to walk on treadmills, barely pedal an exercise bike, or mimic a sloth on the elliptical.

This is TOTALLY fine, guys. Like, really, it is SO OKAY I can't even begin to say how okay it is.

But, sometimes, I want them to mostly leave ALWAYS. And by that, I mean, if you are on a machine that someone could be actually using, maybe use a different one? Or at least be mindful of the time you are spending sitting on the bench doing wrist-curls? Or maybe go knit? I'm sorry?

GIRLS, IN GENERAL:

Why are you wearing only underwear at the gym? Why do you think everyone is a pervert for looking? Why are you complaining about how bad everyone smells at the gym? Why do I smell so bad at the gym? Why are you lifting more weight than me?

GUYS, IN GENERAL:

Why have you been benchpressing for 45 minutes? Why does your 'rest period' consist of hitting your lifting partner and questioning his sexuality over and over? Why haven't you showered in 4 days? Why are you wearing a bicep band? Why are you hitting on the girl wearing underwear? Why are you lifting more weight than me?

ME:

I am sorry I am so sweaty. IF I KNEW HOW TO CONTROL IT, I WOULD.

YOUR FRIEND THAT YOU SAY YOU WILL WORK OUT WITH BUT YOU SECRETLY HATE IT BECAUSE THEY NEVER STOP TALKING:

"How hard are these pushups? Man, I hate these. Why do you do so MANY? Don't you stop when it hurts? It hurts now, I think I wanna go outside. What do you think about the Facebook case being taken to The Supreme Court? Why aren't you talking back to me? You do too many abs. That girl is wearing underwear. Seriously. That girl is WEARING UNDERWEAR."

You are an awesome friend, but an awful workout partner. You know who you are.

THAT PERSON THAT DOES THE SAME THINGS YOU DO BUT WITH MUCH MORE WEIGHT, BETTER TECHNIQUE, AND OVERALL JUST SEEMS TO BE BETTER AT EXERCISING THAN YOU ARE:

Jerk.

GROUP STRETCHES ON THE AB MAT:

Stop. There are too many of you.

MIDDLE AGED WOMAN GOING THROUGH A MID-LIFE CRISIS THAT SINGS ALONG AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS TO KE$HA SONGS ON THE ELLIPTICAL:

Seriously. This was really funny at first, and sort of inspiring to see how much you enjoyed endorphins. Now it is bothersome, and if you don't stop going "hard, hard hard hard hard hard," I am going to vomit vomit vomit vomit vomit.

Stairmaster: The End of my Masculinity

I recently did something I said I would never do. I always see it in the gym. Just hanging out, lonely. Sitting there, idle, chillin'. At times, it has taunted me. At times, it has mocked me. At times, 60 year olds stand on it and kind of shuffle their feet.

I walk past it, in my cut-off and basketball shorts, and I scoff at it while flexing my bicep. I like to imagine our dialogue going something like this:

"I just did 1700 sit ups, and benchpressed a building. What are you doing there, Stairmaster?"

"I am just sitting here, really. If you want to get good at walking up stairs, you can stand on me later."

Thanks, but no thanks, Stairmaster. I can master stairs on my own, or actually, you know, RUN.

Something changed, though. I was on the elliptical, and I was thinking, "You know, this is fine, but I'd like something MORE. You know? Something like...climbing a pretend staircase!!"

Then I realized the person next to me was staring because I was talking to myself. Now seemed like a good time to get off of the elliptical and try to become the master of stairs.

I was not even 2 flights in, by the time a girl I know came up to make small talk while I am on this OBVIOUSLY easy cardio-machine.

I am a big fan of casual-cardio-chatter. You know, the friend that comes up to you and punches you on the arm to say "what's up" while you are cooling down or warming up? Totally fine. I am that guy sometimes.

But the kind of cardio-chatter where you look like you just took a luke-warm bath with all of your clothes on as you breathlessly labor on this demon-child of a machine? That is the cardio-chatter that I am not okay with.

"Yeah, I'm just really glad this semester is over!" She said, as I was sinking into the immovable quicksand that is level 12 of the Stairmaster.

The steps were sinking to the ground like I was walking on water, and I was grasping onto the side-bars to try and keep myself from plummeting to the floor.

She looked on in either disbelief or embarrassment for me, but continued to speak, regardless.

"Yeah, I just had a really tough course-load, but it was worth it in the end."

(Silence)

(Sound of the steps sinking because I can't keep up)

"Uhhuh....aauughooohGOD!" I muttered through niagra falls that was spilling down my upper lip. It was a unique combination of sweat, snot, and a little bit of drool.

The Stairmaster made me lose control of all of my bodily functions. That is how difficult it was. I was peeing down my leg, crapping my pants, and blowing my nose all over the handlebars while I drooled like a teething baby.

A teething baby with very poor cardio-vascular fitness, and the inability to climb fake-stairs at an efficient rate.

"Are you okay?" She finally asked, even though she was thinking it the whole time.

"S'really hard," I gasped inbetween breaths.

"Yeah. I don't know, I just can't wait for the summer," she said, completely oblivious to the fact that I was nearing the end of my life.

"M'ne'ther!" I replied.

"Okay, well I'll let you go. See you around," she said, visibly trying to hold in the laughter at my overall inadequacy.

"Bleh," I replied.

I figured this conversation took at least 10 minutes, because it felt like an eternity. I looked down at the time screen, and I saw a little caricature of the trainers from "The Biggest Loser", hopping around the block numbers that read "4:26, you WUSS, mocking me, chanting "fatty, fatty, fatty" over and over again.

It was sixth grade all over again.

I managed to conjure some focus, and keep a solid pace for another 6 minutes, when the older gentlemen I always see on the Stairmaster decided this would be a good time to try and talk about basketball with me.

"So how's the team lookin' for next year?"

I love talking about basketball, really, I do. And he is a very nice man.

I also love being able to breathe. These two things could not occur simultaneously at this moment in time. Master of the Stairs was taking over my social-gym-life.

"I actually can't talk right now," I managed, a pretty eloquent sentence.

And by can't talk, I mean I physically cannot speak right now. I cannot form words.

"Ahahaha...what, are ya busy?" He said, essentially mocking the fact that I couldn't keep up with this STUPID MACHINE.

"A'ctlly, I am. This'real hard," I said.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, ya won't be running full court sprints this year, or anything. I'm sure conference play will be much easier than walking up stairs," he said.

Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life.

He playfully slapped me on the butt, only to realize his right hand just took a full body dip into Lake Sean, where all the fish die, and nobody swims because salt and horrendous odor are not fun to swim in, DUH.

"Oh, my! You sure are working hard, ha ha ha!" He said, in that jolly old man voice that reminds you of Santa Claus, but you still kind of want to punch them. You know, that voice.

"Tr'y'n" I exhaled.

Lebron James, and the "R-Word."

Alright, I usually don't do this. And when I say "usually" I mean, I NEVER do this. I haven't written about anything serious on this blog, literally, ever.

However, there was a recent event that took place that really "got my blood boiling," and "grinded my gears." This is not because I am a grumpy old man, which I undoubtedly am, but rather, it's an indication of what we deem acceptable and unacceptable in society, and frankly, it makes me want to vomit.


About a month ago, Kobe Bryant used a homophobic slur to express his distaste with an official's call. He called the referee "The F-Word," and I watched on my couch in disgust, as I witnessed my favorite basketball player of all time absolutely lose his mind and offend probably everyone in America simultaneously.

This guy has been hanging from my wall since I was 8. I drew free-hand sketches of him and sent them in to Sports Illustrated For Kids. I named my DOG after him. I grew an AFRO and changed my name to KOBE because of him. Okay I made that last part up.

About three days passed, and he kind of apologized. Then he got fined $100,000, and his kind-of apology turned to a real apology.

Kobe went on to film a public service announcement about how "gay" is not synonymous with "stupid" or "inadequate." Yes, it took him about a week. Yes, he was extremely out of line. But, in the end, he apologized and took a proactive step towards righting his wrong. He cannot be forgiven, but some positive outcome can emerge from his insensitive remarks.

Two weeks ago, Lebron James used the word "retarded" in a press conference. A press conference. You know, the place where there are microphones that pick up everything you say? That place where you are asked idiotic questions over and over again, and you say things like "we gave 100 percent tonight," and "we executed the gameplan, I just have to give all the credit to my teammates."

Yeah, those press conferences.

A reporter asked a STUPID question to Dwyane Wade, postulating that maybe Wade is a dirty player because he committed a foul that lead to Rajon Rondo dislocating his elbow.

To which, Lebron gave his least impressive assist of the season, interjecting, and providing his own idiotic comment:

"That's retarted," he said, under his breath, his mouth covered by his hand.

You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91JlOqzxp_w

Okay.

I get it.

That was an imbicilic remark. I do not think that he hates people with developmental disabilities. I do not think Lebron James is an advocate of discrimination. I do not think Lebron James is a bad person, and I know he is really good at dunking and putting that round orange thing through a rim.

It is not the comment itself that is so insensitive--even though it is--it is the fact that he, and most people, fail to understand how offensive it is.

When first offered the opportunity to apologize for his use of "The R-Word," Lebron took it as an opportunity to further criticize the reporter's question.

"I didn’t understand the question," he said.

James went on to add, "It’s definitely blown out of proportion. I don’t think Dwyane is a dirty player."

He went on to justify the use of "The R-Word."

"So it’s the same as me saying, ‘I don’t think that’s a great question,’ or, ‘I think it’s a stupid question.’ Dwyane has never been a dirty player, so I don’t know why someone would even ask him that question.”

Clearly, this is an oversight by Lebron. You cannot justify using the "R-Word" by insisting that "it's just the same as me saying I think it's a stupid question."

That is the problem. Retarted and stupid are not the same thing. And if you operate under this assumption, you are compartmentalizing and offending all people with disabilities.

Evidently, he had a moment of clarity that night, as the next time he faced the press, he opened his conference with an apology.

“First of all, before I answer your questions, I want to apologize for using the ‘R-word’ after Game 3, if I offended anyone, I sincerely apologize.” James said.

Good. Progress. He's shown remorse, and we can follow suit. If it's not okay for Lebron to use that word, it's not okay for anyone to use it.

The problem is, though he apologized, the public response, or lackthereof, shows we have a long way to go.

I really hate to compare discrimination. To say homophobic slurs are more or less offensive than slurs that are insesnsitive to people with disabilities is to make one seem acceptable, while the other is not. I want to be clear--both are unacceptable.

This raises the question, however, if both are unacceptable, shouldn't both be punished? And in the same way?

Kobe Bryant got fined $100,000 for his comments, and rightfully so.

Lebron James didn't get fined.

I'm not asking for Lebron's head. I'm not asking for an extended apology. I'm not asking for a time machine, or a politically-correct sensor to make sure nobody says things to piss people off.

What I'm asking for is awareness, and acceptance. Awareness that the "R-Word" is deeply hurtful, and offensive. Acceptance that it's just as bad as "Insert Slur Here."

Also, I'm looking for some pro-activity. Maybe Lebron doesn't film a public service ad. Maybe he doesn't donate $100,000 to disability awareness programs.

But at the very least, maybe we can all learn from this. Maybe we, as people, can see through this word, see through Lebron's mistake, and take a proactive approach ourself. Lebron need not be scolded. Lebron is not the problem.

If we can admit and acknowledge that the "R-Word" is offensive, and use King James's slip-up as an opportunity to eliminate it from our own vocabulary, we can all take the proactive step. If not, we'll be stuck in the same rut, and people will continue to feel isolated, discriminated, and not accepted by others.

Let's learn from this, you and I, and anyone else who cares to listen. Let's be proactive, let's make a change. If anything, this is a start. Erase the R-word. Thanks for reading.