jeff yen

Insanity.

Well, I nearly have a new roommate. He's a cool guy, who I actually (almost) know. Several years back, seven of my friends rented a house for a year as they went to school. The house was pretty rickety, and had some interesting quirks; namely, one of the "bedrooms" was a poorly converted garage, two others had ceilings about 6 feet off the ground, and there was a totally badass cat named Tank that came with the house. Well, this guy comes over to look at the apartment, and we're just chatting about our mutual renters' histories, when he starts talking about this crazy house he shared a few years back with six of his friends.

"Clearly illegal... seven rooms... I lived in this drafty garage... two rooms had really low ceilings..."

My jaw drops.

"No. Fucking. Way," I interrupt, exhibiting my usual savoir-faire. "Was it on [XXXXX] Street?"

He looks at me with his mouth open.

We gape at each other for a minute, as crickets chirp outside in the darkening twilight.

"Bullshit!" We chorus, and bust up laughing. Turns out, he and his friends moved into that house the year after my friends lived there. This was hilarious, because he had also lived in two of the same apartment complexes as I had, at about the same times as I had. This last coincidence was almost too much to bear.

He said the house was just as full of character (read: sketchy) as I remember it, and the cat was healthy and as badass as ever when he moved out.

After such a seemingly predestined set of discoveries, you would think that this guy would be a lock for the room. And he more or less is, in my mind. But there are some issues that need to be worked out first, all but one of which are enormously boring, and one of which I can't talk about right now with any specificity at all. I should have an update tomorrow. I can tell you this, though: It's nothing good.

On a lighter (and dumber) note, I had another entertaining moment at the gym tonight. You'll probably think it's stupid, and it really is. On the other hand, when you're on an elliptical machine for 45 minutes, and the televisions are all tuned to 10 o'clock network schlock, you tend to manufacture your own entertainment.

I'm starting to hit my stride, right in that meaty middle section of the cardio routine, when a stunning brunette glides past my field of vision. There are hardly any adjectives to describe the way she moves that would not conjure up visions of great cats stalking prey through the jungle, so I won't even try to attempt it.

She stops at a weight machine, one of those twisted, Inquisition-esque devices that you only ever see attractive women using. They grimace slightly as they spread their legs wide against the tension, and we men within visual distance practically screw the heads off our necks in an effort to appear casually aloof.

Most of us, anyway.

I check the clock on the far wall of the room, and since I have no interest in watching the latest screeching refrain of the "Ohmygod, the Michael Jackson verdict...." discussions that pass for local television news these days, my eyes wander across the room on the way back to their usual fixed, glazed position, dead center on the far wall. On their journey home, they manage to intersect the path of a paunchy, pleasant-looking man, probably mid-40s, with salt-and-pepper hair and enormous sweat stains fanning down his torso. He's strolling past the brunette's weight machine on his way to the locker room, just as she's bending over to drop her magazine on the floor.

I see his eyes flicker.

"Don't do it, man."

This is the message I try to force through my eyes, into the air between us, to hammer at his hindbrain. Even as I will it, I know exactly what's going to happen next. Possibly my talents lie in precognition rather than telepathy, but I guess we'll never know.

The tendons on his neck flex, and his head starts to pivot, as if he was a bull with a rope threaded through his nose.

At this point, all I can do is watch and grin.

For every step the man takes, his head arcs smoothly in the opposite direction. This goes on for a good nine or ten steps, until I almost expect him to start vomiting split pea soup all over the nearest priest. After a few more steps, his torso actually starts to twist, until he's turned sideways, a crab scuttling for safety among the waves.

My grin has stretched to show my teeth, now, and I'm choking back a laugh, wheezing with the effort of simultaneously keeping my speed up.

By the time the side of the man's foot catches the corner of a rubber mat, and a hand meets the ground as he stumbles with eyes still riveted on the brunette, I can't help it. I'm laughing and panting at the same time, wondering at the miracle that is my gender.

The punchline: a woman of about his age is watching him too, from across the room, with a decidedly serious set to her lips, and a gold wedding ring on her finger.

I imagine the conversation the man will have with his wife in the car ride home, and I have to grab at the stationary handlebars for balance as I snicker and pant.

The guy on the machine next to me shifts a wary eye over to me a couple of times, but other than that, faithfully observes the Code of Beefcake Gorilla Workout Etiquette which, after a long study of my fellow primates at the gym, I figure include the following:

1) Any activity that might be construed as homoerotic (i.e., anything) must be compensated for with ultra-masculine grunts, grimaces, and unequivocally heterosexual gestures, like slapping each other on the ass or teabagging your buddy's face while he's benching.

2) Look straight ahead whenever possible, preferably into a mirror as you admire yourself while you pump those guns. Attentional wandering is allowed, to follow T&A of reasonable caliber.
2a) Prolonged eye contact with another male is punishable by immediate death.

3) Women must either be studiously ignored, openly gawked at, or totally rocked out of their senses by old T-shirts with the sleeves raggedly cut off.

4) When greeting another male friend, the accepted custom is a curt nod and "Sup." Other acceptable methods include: Firm handshake, slap on the ass provided there is no lingering contact, or an A-frame hug with backslaps of unsurpassed violence.

5) When listening to music, one's brow must be furrowed, and the lips pursed slightly, as if in deep appreciation. Gentle but firm nodding to the beat is encouraged. Singing or humming along is strictly forbidden, lest your peers discover that your iPod has Cher's "This is a Song for the Lonely" set on repeat.

What? I don't make the rules. These are all applicable in their form as written only to the True Beefcake Gorilla archetype of gym guys, but they all apply in varying degrees to most guys I see there regularly.

I'm no special exception, so you know, but I tend not to talk or look at anyone, male or female. Way I see it, I'm there to work out and go home, so that's what I do.