So as part of my “second half of New Year’s Resolution” I have been going to the gym more and doing more running. So after work yesterday (3 cheers for working on Saturdays) I went to New York Sports Club to work on my Ron Burgandy guns (“It’s boring, but it’s part of my life. Watch out, they’ll get ya.”). And like a NYC subway ride, the gym would be an interesting experience.

I was going to grab a 95 lb. dumbell to do a tricep exercise that involves a vein popping out in my forehead, but to get said dumbell I ha to cross in front of a 50-something year old man who was doing some shoulder presses. And as I passed in front of him (we were 2 of 3 people in the weight room at the time) he said quietly, but very clearly, “Get the f–k out of here.” I then stared at him the way a (fully) black man would stare at a crazy white guy who was dropping the N-word. “I am offended and want to fight, but also a little nervous because this guy must be out of his mind or looking for a fight to say something like that.” I acted like nothing had happened, but when I returned the weight he said it again! So this time in my most unconfrontational voice I asked, “Sorry, did you say something?” To which he replied, “ME? No.” And then 15 seconds later he muttered what sound like, “I need my gun (I don’t think he meant guns like mine). But then 2 minutes later, he asked me, “What question did you ask me?”

This blog entry is just basically a plea to NYSC to do some background checks on their members to make sure they are not out of their minds. Even the two trainers (some Eastern European power-lifting type dude and some southern Amazonian lady) agreed with me. I often wonder how the homeless guy on the street who talks to himself got started down that path. Evidently it begins with a passport membership to New York Sports Club.

Then on my train ride home I had the pleasure of sitting next to 3 girls who the only thing more offensive than their bellies hanging out of their shirts was the volume at which they were playing their reggaeton on their radio. I actually was able to envision myself taking their radio and smashing it to the ground like some bi-racial sequel to the Michael Douglas’ movie Falling Down. And then they sang along to it which was a pleasure – just think Rosie Perez with nails on a chalkboard and a bass line. And then I found myself muttering something to the effect of, “Get the F–k out of here with that.” And it was at that moment that I realized that we all have a little crazy New York Sports Club-guy in us.