VCR for Christmas

When I was a kid, Christmas had a different feel to it. Things weren’t necessarily better. Just different... you know what I’m saying?

I always think I’m part of that last generation that remembers the “old ways”. Simple gifts of trains, stiff plastic dolls and little metal cars. The entire family together at one table. Grandparents. Uncles. Aunts. Cousins. Relatives smoking through entire hard-packs at the dining room table during the coffee segment of the meal. Just snuffing-out butt-after-butt in greasy lipstick-stained tea cups and dessert plates of pizzelli and half-eaten anisette cookies.

I think, for me, the "old ways" ended the Christmas we got the VCR.

Man, Christmas 1984 was from the space-age. No shit. The old man must have bonus'd-out himself a couple of bucks from Ma Bell cuz we got a brand-spanking-new VCR from Sears.

Sears, man!!!

Nothing but the best. Nothing but!

And he couldn't wait to show us, either. Christmas Eve and my old man steak-knifed the shit out of that box to behold to us a top-of-the-line, top-loading VCR. Dammit! A top-loader. That Christmas the Crowleys were living in the future!!!

He hooked it up faster than I had ever seen him do anything. I was given the task of turning the TV on. My brother set the TV to Channel 3. My sister just jumped up-and-down in her lace-lined, flannel nightgown.

To this day I still don't quite understand the laced-lined, flannel combination in Wintertime bedwear. Fatty lace and cranberry plaid together - Yikes!

Finally, my old man gave my mother the honor of pressing the enormous block of a power button.

HARK AND BEHOLD ON THIS CHRISTMAS EVE - LIGHT!!!

The green digital display.

It struck 12:00 AM... and then, as a family, we stared at it.

“Okay, so, what do we do with it,” I asked my old man, careful not to be wrapped upside the back end of my head.

“You watch movies with it.”

“What movies?”

“Movie movies!”

WHAT?!? "Movie movies!" We have movie movies in our very own home. HOLY SHIT! We're not from the future... the future is here!!!

The anticipation was ugly. Almost painful. We had fucking movie movies in the house. The four of us waited for him to present his movie movie but, he presented... nothing. NADA!!!! So, we all sat watching the clock blink 12:00 AM.

“Do we have any?”

“Any what?”

“Movie movies?”

“I don’t know where to get them.”

Blink. 12:00 AM. 12:00 AM. 12:00 AM.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Can we put the TV back on, now?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because this thing wasn’t cheap.”

12:00 AM. 12:00 AM. 12:00 AM.

“Can we tape something from the TV on it?”

“What else would you tape from on it?!?”

What?!?

Grammatically, the old man had nothing to say, but from all the breath-y frustration that came from him... I got the point. He, basically, gave me the go ahead to use the thing but offered no medium in which to perform the taping activity. So, on behalf of the other three, (and against all judgement that I stand for) I had to man-up and ask, “Do we have any tapes for it?”

He paused.

For a long time.

Like, maybe, 8 blinking 12:00 AMs long.

Shit.

I'm doomed.

Then, Mom threw me a raft, “Did you buy any blank tapes for it?”

He wriggled.

He squirmed.

He did buy a blank tape for it. I saw it on the coffee table. And it was big, too. Like an ancient Russian tome. That fucking thing must have cost him a million bucks the way he was so reluctant to reach for it. I wanted so bad to tear the plastic off and record something but, there was no way I was living the rest of my life with the hand that picked it up. And since I had already gone over my question quota, I had to wait.

12:00 AM. 12:00 AM. 12:00 AM.

Fuck... I gotta ask again...

“Dad?”

He popped the top of his head in the direction of the coffee table, “Over there.”

I pointed to my brother to grab and open it in the event that the old man changed his mind. My brother was still young and hadn’t reached his quota for cracks across the ass, yet. I, because of my mouth, had gone way over my ass-beating quota years ago. So, I figured I could donate a few ass-crackings to my brother's cause. Opening that tape amidst the old man changing his mind could have, easily, been one of those donations.

He ravaged it. My brother tore open that package like a lion tearing into the side of a fallen zebra. Plastic and cardboard everywhere.

Panic set in my father's already bulgy eyes, “Hey, hey, hey…”

How much it set him back...

“… that thing was twenty-five bucks!”

Twenty-five bucks, man. Tapes back in ’84 were expensive. EXPENSIVE!!!

"Careful with it. It's a Memorex."

That tape was treated like a centuries old heirloom. Over the course of 2 months we must have recorded a thousand things on that tape at extended speed, quickly learning how to watch things through the grainy-static of an SLP recording.

“Give it to me,” as he gingerly ripped it from my brother’s claws.

In awe we watched him double-finger the eject button. The door rose from the top of the machine. CLEE-CLUNK!!! Opened and ready for that twenty-five dollar tape. My old man slid the tape inside the arm and, with both hands, pressed the door closed.

“You have to press the play and record button at the same time.”

His fingers covered the buttons.

Play.

Record.

And we watched the timer spin: 00001, 00002, 00003 and so on and so forth as we recorded 3/4 of National Lampoon’s Vacation off of HBO.

And when it was over, we rewinded and watched it back on the top-loading VCR until we went to bed at 12:00 AM. Or whatever time it really was.

We never figured out the clock.

AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!!!

Inspiration

Thursday night I was at the gym "working my chest", benching just enough to feel it, but not enough to truly justify leaving the house. I just didn't have it in me Thursday night. Just didn't, man.

When I feel this way, I look around at all the other sweaty chumps and try to find the cats who want to be here just as much as I don't so I can give them the "I'm with ya, brother" nod. Most of them are easy to find. I know who they are because I've categorized all of the cardio-bangers and circuit-clankers around me. You see, most of these fucks fall into one of three categories:

1) The 'Supdudes: The tanktoppers who live for this fucking place. Greeting each other with a head nod and silent, "'Sup, dude?" Sporting nipple through the sleeves of their sleeveless shirts. Their necks wider than their skulls. Arms that look like legs. "Cuts" in in body parts that don't even have muscles... like their eyes?!?

Dude, put the weights down. You have eye muscles, bro.

2) The Motivaters: The peeps that are only here because they motivated themselves to be here on a tri-weekly basis. You know, here for the health of it. Like me. Me and them hating it for a hour-and-a-half three times a week. Putting in our time like prisoners, then talking incessantly in the car on the way home about "how glad we were that we went".

3) The No-Business Crowd: 'Nuff said. Walking 6 minutes at a 2.5 on the treadmill. Wiping their brow of the sweat they worked up closing the car door on their way in. Rushing out to get home to a fatty oven roast, slice of Wonder with a dab of Country Crock, a side of corn and mashed. See, like I said, this is the No-Business Crowd, cuz these people have absolutley "no business" being here.

Now, here we all were and I had to find one of my own so I could throw him a nod and half-smile. I looked around but everyone primarily fit into Cats 1 and 3. Nobody was motivating it that night. Not a soul. Everyone either wanted to be there or just didn't want to be there. I was the only dick half-assing it Thursday night.

But, then, as I struggled to push a buck-fifty away from my chest, I saw... Him... a new guy... NEW... brand-spanking... Category #4... the man I called: Inspiration!

Inspiration was banging it away on the elliptical. Really going to town. Well, not really going to town, more trying to go to town. The bottom line was this: He had the focus of a Category 1, the energy of a Category 2 and the body of a Category 3.

The body of a 3.

So, where was this prick getting his Cat 1 drive with his Cat 2 energy in the shell of a 3?

I banged out another set of "chest", watching him, trying to figure out how I, a clear case 2, could bump up my focus to Category 1 and really kick-out these workouts.

Nothing seemed unusual in his motion. Nothing seemed particularly different in his speed. Certainly there was nothing about his flabby physique that was feeding his strength. He clearly had none.

So, what was this motherfucker's secret?

I looked him up and down, trying to be mindful of the unwritten guy-rule at the gym of "not staring too long at another fella".

He was dressed, totally, as a Cat 3. Cotton gym shorts circa High School Phys Ed. A vacation purchased tee: Sea World. White. Black short sleeves. Iron-on white racing stripes atop both sleeves. Sans ball cap. The only thing different about this running monkey and his fellow Category 3's were his old-school, over-the-head, headphones.

"YES!!! That shit must be in those headphones," I ah-ha'd in my head.

I wondered what was so fucking inspiring in the vibrations those tiny speakers were delivering to his ears. I started at the pods themselves and followed the left side cord to the cord blend, where the left and right join at the knot.

Down.

Down.

Looking for an MP3.

Looking for his iPod.

But... NO!!!

Inspiration was connected to the video display. This Fat Fuck was watching TELEVISION!!! Inspiration turns out to be the only guy EVER to be connected to the audio from the TV display at the top of the cardio machines.

So...

Now, that he's connected... what's so goddamn inspiring?

What was making him circle his feet next to each other? POOT-PUH-POOT!

I pressed another buck-fifty, readying myself for the greatest workout inspiration of all time.

My eyes floated from the butt of his audio cord to the bottom of the monitor...

His drive... his Inspiration... was coming from...

Mass. Catholic Mass. This dude was watching church.

Now, I've seen the the live show a million times and even in the throws of Catechismic concert, Mass is a snore.

But this Eucharistic ellipticaller was just staring at Father O'Fattery's Thursday night sermon. Sweating with each wave of the telecast incense. Mock-running to the Alter.

I pressed a buck-twenty-five (because the buck-and-a-half was too heavy), looking, staring, a want for his Inspiration. I so truly wanted to be "also with Him".

Lord, hear my prayer.

But, unfortunately, as a well-known Atheist (in my own circle), He, Him, The Almighty was not going to grant me My wish. I had to find Mine from Somewhere else. So, I put the weights down another 25 to a simple 100 and pressed away from the cavity where my Soul ought to be. Maybe if I believed in He, I could go a full set at the buck-and-a-half, maybe He would have provided me with the Strength that He was providing to the Prophet on the Elliptical machine.

CLANK!

My Penance was done so I sat at the machine, looking over to my exercising Moses, the weights still raised. I just watched him running in place. Running to the Promised Land. Running with everything he had. Running with...

Oooh, that fat guy's getting pooped.

His legs started to slow. He wobbled.

The sweat no longer spriting his cheeks, but pouring down his face like the thorn-provided blood cascading down the cheek of Christ. I began to fear that the Lord had let this poor bastard wander the Land of Sweat and Honey alone.

His Sea of Schvitz rained down his forehead and parted at the bridge of his nose. He used the last of his energy to drop his hand down to the volume control of the Mass he was watching to turn up the sound.

HE WAS TURNING UP THE VOLUME!!! THE LORD WASN'T LOUD ENOUGH!!!

Then, it dawned on me, by gum, he wasn't watching Mass for the Inspiration, this fat-ass was watching it for - SALVATION. He thought he wasn't going to make it.

HEH-HEH!

This motherfucker is a Cat 3. Faker. Hope you have a heart attack, you big fat phony!

I clanked down the last of my pyramid workout (lowered the weights because I started to get hungry for dinner, not because I have some muscle build-up plan). I wiped down the remnants of my sweat from the seat (that I earned) and as I walked behind this False Prophet, this Phony Prophet, I whispered, "Dude, if you think it's going to turn out this bad, get off the machine."

Coupons for Christmas

How in the name of God's Good Boy's birthday do you explain to a hopped-up on Christmas-listed 5-year old that the anorexic Santa on the back of the Chrysler Dually is shilling pizza coupons?

Happy Birthday, Jesus, but COME ON!!!

I was hoping that the light at the intersection where The Regina Pizza was would stay green, but I'm not light lucky and never get the green. I never get the yellow I can roll through. I'm all red, folks, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall red.

Stop.

Dead.

"Hey, Dad," Tiny started because I'm no longer Daddy since Kindergarten began, "Why is that Santa so skinny. He looks sick."

Think quick.

RUDOLPH SPECIAL!!!

"Remember in Rudolph?"

"Eat, Papa, eat?"

"Yup."

"Can you roll down the window so I can tell him?"

"Sure."

No stupid. No! He's shilling pizza coupons.

So, I rolled the window down. All the way.

"50 cents off your first pie," screams Jolly Ol'.

"What did he say, Dad?"

"50 cents off."

"Off what?"

"Pizza."

"What?"

"Pizza. Santa said 50 cents off pizza."

"Why?"

"Because that's what the coupon says that he's holding... probably."

"But why is Santa giving out coupons?"

Yeah. Why IS Santa giving out fucking coupons?

"Because it's Christmas and he's trying to be nice."

"But he's Santa."

"That's why he's giving out coupons."

"But if he was really nice like he's supposed to be, how come he's not giving out free pizza?"

Yeah. Why ISN'T he giving out free pizza?

"You know, babe, I don't know. Maybe he hates Italians."

"And why is he on the back of that truck and not on his sleigh?"

"Jesus Christ, babe, I don't know. Maybe because they're cleaning it for Christmas."

"Who's cleaning it?"

"I don't know. The elves? Forget about it. So, what? Santa is giving out pizza coupons on the back of that truck. Why does that EVEN bother you?"

Silence from the back seat.

"Tiny, why is it bothering you?"

"Because what if I only get coupons for toys and not toys this year?"

Then I thought...

"Behave or you will."