I can make you 6' 5"
Perhaps it can be said that the only good thing in New York for me right now is Chelsea Piers. I never thought I'd say this about a gym, and it all comes to an end in two days when my free one-week membership expires.
But what a playground. Tonight it was basketball first. I shot around with the aforementioned mafiosi (earlier post) and got some clarification on the back injury of the young stud. I asked him how his spine was, and he said, "See, I was standing against the bar, and she came up behind me, grinding, and I wanted to push back, but she got these big hips, and I don't got big hips..." Seemed backwards, but that's cool.
The mob wouldn't let me in, so I wound up on the junior court in a 3-on-3 game. My play was compared to that of Moses Malone, which led to a slight from the South Asian I was covering: "Is he that old?" Then I was likened to Phoenix playmaker Steve Nash, which was more appealing. Nash, said the guy shaving next to me in the locker room, played soccer here all the time over the summer. (We won, for those of you keeping score at home, 11-10 on an acrobatic shot by yours truly.)
See, everyone's got a famous name on the tip of their tongue at this joint. They're just dying for you to ask them who they saw here at Chelsea Piers. I saw my college friend Beard in the locker room tonight, and he said he saw Phillip Seymour Hoffman.
"You see 'Capote'?" I asked him.
"Yes."
"It sucked," I said.
He looked around the corner and said, "Yeah, but...best not to be insulting the talent," or some such.
The other day I showed up for some ball, spotted my new friend Jason shooting around. There was a 5-on-5 game going on. I said, "You playing next over there?"
"Nah man," he said. "There's so many famous people on that court I don't think they'd let us play with them."
"What the fuck is this, junior high school?" I thought.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Who we got."
He stood next to me, conspiratorally, and said, "We got (he listed three names)," and when he saw my blank face he added, "You know, Jay-Z's posse."
At least yoga gives a chance to get away from this famestruck city for an hour and a half, if you can tune out the beat from the next room of the latest fitness craze and if you can get over the theatrical teacher Paulo's "iiiiiiinnn-aaa-heeelllll" (that's "inhale") AAAANNND exhellll." I've traveled a lot but I've never heard anyone talk like that.
In the locker room I was talking to Beard, and Paulo comes up to me. I did the thing straight guys do when talking to gay guys: "Tsup."
"Hey, how did it feel?" he asked.
"It was great," I said, truly.
"How tall are you?"
"About six three."
"I could make you six five. I feel that you're six five naturally, but there's some tightness in the hamstrings and back, you're hunched, trying to fit into this shape (demo). I can stretch you into your true height of six five, but you'd have to own it (demo, standing proud)."
Bye to Beard, bye to Paulo, all alone for the best part of all. Taking your sweaty body and putting it under the hot blast of the shower with the eucalyptus squirt body wash and the green tea shampoo, then out for a shave. What a wasteful extravagance. You toss your disposable razor. You pull out a little plastic cup for a squirt of mouthwash, then toss the cup. You Q-tip the ears, spray on some deoderant, and if you're a man of a certain generation you pull a black comb out of a jar of blue liquid and comb your hair. Squirt out some lotion and rub it into the face and body. Now you're all ready for...eh...my post draws a blank.
But what a playground. Tonight it was basketball first. I shot around with the aforementioned mafiosi (earlier post) and got some clarification on the back injury of the young stud. I asked him how his spine was, and he said, "See, I was standing against the bar, and she came up behind me, grinding, and I wanted to push back, but she got these big hips, and I don't got big hips..." Seemed backwards, but that's cool.
The mob wouldn't let me in, so I wound up on the junior court in a 3-on-3 game. My play was compared to that of Moses Malone, which led to a slight from the South Asian I was covering: "Is he that old?" Then I was likened to Phoenix playmaker Steve Nash, which was more appealing. Nash, said the guy shaving next to me in the locker room, played soccer here all the time over the summer. (We won, for those of you keeping score at home, 11-10 on an acrobatic shot by yours truly.)
See, everyone's got a famous name on the tip of their tongue at this joint. They're just dying for you to ask them who they saw here at Chelsea Piers. I saw my college friend Beard in the locker room tonight, and he said he saw Phillip Seymour Hoffman.
"You see 'Capote'?" I asked him.
"Yes."
"It sucked," I said.
He looked around the corner and said, "Yeah, but...best not to be insulting the talent," or some such.
The other day I showed up for some ball, spotted my new friend Jason shooting around. There was a 5-on-5 game going on. I said, "You playing next over there?"
"Nah man," he said. "There's so many famous people on that court I don't think they'd let us play with them."
"What the fuck is this, junior high school?" I thought.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Who we got."
He stood next to me, conspiratorally, and said, "We got (he listed three names)," and when he saw my blank face he added, "You know, Jay-Z's posse."
At least yoga gives a chance to get away from this famestruck city for an hour and a half, if you can tune out the beat from the next room of the latest fitness craze and if you can get over the theatrical teacher Paulo's "iiiiiiinnn-aaa-heeelllll" (that's "inhale") AAAANNND exhellll." I've traveled a lot but I've never heard anyone talk like that.
In the locker room I was talking to Beard, and Paulo comes up to me. I did the thing straight guys do when talking to gay guys: "Tsup."
"Hey, how did it feel?" he asked.
"It was great," I said, truly.
"How tall are you?"
"About six three."
"I could make you six five. I feel that you're six five naturally, but there's some tightness in the hamstrings and back, you're hunched, trying to fit into this shape (demo). I can stretch you into your true height of six five, but you'd have to own it (demo, standing proud)."
Bye to Beard, bye to Paulo, all alone for the best part of all. Taking your sweaty body and putting it under the hot blast of the shower with the eucalyptus squirt body wash and the green tea shampoo, then out for a shave. What a wasteful extravagance. You toss your disposable razor. You pull out a little plastic cup for a squirt of mouthwash, then toss the cup. You Q-tip the ears, spray on some deoderant, and if you're a man of a certain generation you pull a black comb out of a jar of blue liquid and comb your hair. Squirt out some lotion and rub it into the face and body. Now you're all ready for...eh...my post draws a blank.
posted by Thon at 9:30 PM
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