Monthly Archives: August 2011

Plaxico could have avoided this sad face if he had a holster like Rick Perry.

“Plaxico needs one of these!”

This was my response to an email sent by my friend Elissa entitled “Article about how to carry a gun while you run” with a simple link and the word “Bam”–can I call “bam” a word?–in the body.

The article, posted on Slate, opens with a story about presidential candidate Rick Perry and whether or not he packs heat while on the campaign trail (Perry declined to comment, but apparently he shot a coyote while jogging last year.) and then breaks down the discreet options for runners carrying guns.

I didn’t think much of the article beyond the obvious–”Who the fuck runs with a gun?”–until today when I turned a corner on the steps I go down and then back up on my run, steps I would assume no one even used if not for the detritus of drunks and potheads, and saw a man walking toward me carrying a long knife with a streak of what looked like blood across his forehead.

My first reaction wasn’t to turn around. Instead, I barreled toward him, fueled by three tablespoons of chia and Girl Talk, right fist clenched as tightly as possible. The man looked at his knife, smiled at me and began waving his other hand, as if to say, “Hello. I am not going to kill you,” and then I noticed his wife, a Hindu woman with a red dot on her forehead, walking behind him.

I was not going to get stabbed.

Shark, I will Three Stooges your face.

I passed him, somewhat freaked out, and began thinking about what I would do if I was attacked while running. After a lifetime of burglaries, muggings and other run-ins with people wielding guns or other weapons, I have compiled a mental list of well-thought out methods of escape and/or self-defense when confronted with various dangers (Bear? Smash a rock into its nose. Shark? Eye gouge; hope you only lose an arm in the process. Crazy meth head on the bus? By any means necessary.), but because I’m new to running, I hadn’t worried about my safety while doing it beyond the occasional showdown with an off-leash dog.

So, runners out there, do you ever fear for your safety while running? And have you made any efforts to protect yourself when on a jog?

Kids, wearing this jersey won't help you dunk.

I remember the last time I wore a sleeveless shirt. It was 1993 sometime during the summer before I entered seventh grade when I wore a Michael Jordan jersey nearly everyday. This was shortly after the Bulls’ first three-peat, and despite the fact that I was a size XXL before my teen years, I was convinced that someday I, too, would dunk, that I would “Be Like Mike.”

On the court, I had a series of shake moves, modeled after Jordan, that looked more like doing the Truffle Shuffle while dribbling a basketball than any move MJ used on ‘Nique, Dumars or John Starks. I couldn’t dunk–still can’t–but for hours, I’d jump from beneath the hoop, sometimes while running, sometimes flat-footed, at the park or in my grandmother’s backyard, trying my hardest just to clap the backboard while laying it in, tongue wagging like you-know-who. My mother never told me I wouldn’t make the NBA. She only asked if I did my homework first before I left the house to play hoops on the weekends, creating a fall back plan for me before I even knew what one was.

It was a good thing she did because one day during that summer I heard the familiar jingle of the Mr. Softee truck, always around 4:30 on our block, and I ran downstairs and out the door for my favorite, the Tu-Tone cone, a double-headed, half-vanilla and half-chocolate ice cream cone, whose deliciousness can be seen here, only mine came with rainbow sprinkles. After getting my order, the ice cream man pointed at the stretchmarks on my shoulders and asked if they were cat scratches. I told him they weren’t, and he began laughing. “Stretchmarks? You’re a fat one,” he said while handing me my change. The next day, I wore my Jordan jersey, but with a t-shirt underneath so no one would see my shoulders. I began playing hoops less often that summer and then quit playing league basketball altogether.

I haven’t worn a sleeveless shirt since, until about a month ago when, after an especially good run, I tried on a XL t-shirt and it miraculously fit. I decided to immediately retire all of my XXLs to work-out and yard-work use only and went on a shopping spree for t-shirts that didn’t look like dresses on me.

While shopping, I saw a package of “sleeveless undershirts,” known by some people, who may or may not be named Brian (with an I, naturally), as the un-PC term “wifebeaters” (The Internet has scolded me for not being politically correct, so…). I instantly thought about the cat scratches, which now just look like scars, war wounds from my lifetime battle with fatness, and that Jordan jersey, the last time my shoulders had a prolonged interaction with the general public. Holding the package of sleeveless undershirts, that childhood feeling of insecurity washed over me like an opened fire hydrant. I felt ashamed for my weight, for having been such a fat kid, for having gained back half of the 140 lbs. I lost, for still having about 20 lbs. to go.

And then I said to myself, “Fuck you, Mr. Softee.”

I grabbed the largest size they had, a XL, paid and left.

—

A month later, I’ve been wearing “sleeveless undershirts” everyday under my shirts and just lounging around the house, allowing my shoulders and upper arms to get comfortable with the world beyond brief appearances in the gym locker room and the shower. All that visible skin has shown me just how muscular I’ve become since I began lifting regularly nine months ago. I like to flex for Jaime and thank her for her recent online order of tickets to the First Annual Brian McGuigan Gun Show. (I’m not quite packing serious heat, but these guns could cause a flesh wound.)

Then, last week, I made a decision after consultation with my awful farmer’s tan. (Internet, is this a politically incorrect term that offends farmers? Please let me know.) If I’m going to run 4-5 days a week in the bright August sun, I need to expose the part of my arm that’s so white you might be blinded if the sun hit the skin right, if only to avoid looking like I’d be better off on a tractor. So I bought a sleeveless running shirt–Under Armor, again (I’ll be a spokesman!)–and have been running in it for the last week. Yes, like, in public. Never have I–or my armpit hair–felt freer.

—

Shame is a common feeling for the fat. People gawk at us, poking at our girth and pointing out our heft, as if we don’t look in the mirror and see what they see, yet worse, because these are our bodies after all.

We aren’t always comfortable with our bodies, and sometimes we wish we were other people. Some of us lose weight, by eating better, exercising or having surgery, and others don’t, but all of us look in the mirror and see a fat person, the person we are, were or hope to never become again.

Only now when I look I won’t see one with a farmer’s tan.

Look at all them meats!

Whenever Seattle Weekly’s annual “Best of Seattle” awards are announced, I have never disagreed enough to care–or cared enough to ever write a blog post– about them, but I have a beef with this year’s awards, specifically the one in the category of Seattle’s Best Meat Counter, given to the Capitol Hill Safeway.

Yes, Safeway.

In a paper that annually recognizes bands, bars and restaurants that are so Seattle I’ve never even heard of them, I can’t believe Seattle Weekly didn’t recognize Seattle’s true Best Meat Counter–or maybe it’s just My Best Meat Counter but really it should be yours, too: Rain Shadow Meats on Capitol Hill.

Rain Shadow reminds me of the neighborhood butchers of my childhood in Queens, minus the sawdust on the floors. The counter holds whatever meat they have in stock, though they always have the standards–steaks, pork chops, bacon, etc., but, like the neighborhood joints in Queens, you could get almost any cut you wanted if you called ahead because Rain Shadow has it all (even whole rabbits last time I was there), and again, like the neighborhood joints, they actually butcher all of the meat, which you can see hanging in the walk-in cooler through a window.

I have been eating meat from Rain Shadow almost exclusively (Some from Blue Valley Farms and the PCC in Seward Park.) since we found out Jaime was pregnant in April. Fearful of all the shit and hormones in meat and how that would affect our baby-to-be, I wanted to make sure we were eating well, and Rain Shadow is one of the few butchers that carry organic, grass-fed meat fresh from local farmers. After our very first steaks, the rib-eyes, we were both hooked.

When you buy factory farmed meat, this is where your steak lives before your belly.

Beyond the politics of meat (which I can sum up as grass-fed is better for the animal and better for the environment), grass-fed meat is so much better for your body than the grain-fed stuff you buy at Safeway. It is lower in calories and fat, rich in omega-3s, has more vitamin A and E, higher levels of antioxidants and up to seven times the beta-carotene. Since I began eating grass-fed in April, I’ve lost about 25 lbs. and don’t feel bloated each time I eat a beautifully grilled steak–even if it’s bigger than a deck of cards, as most of the steaks are at Rain Shadow (Thankfully!).

But let’s be real here: If you want to eat right, you have to pay to play. Meat at Rain Shadow isn’t outrageously overpriced, but you won’t find the 5.99/lb rib-eye sale Safeway has about once a week. Rib-eyes and porterhouses are 14.99-17.99/lb generally, which isn’t much to pay for what will be one of the greatest steaks you’ve ever eaten. They’re so good A-1 will only drown out the natural flavors–a little salt, pepper, maybe some granulated garlic; that’s all you need. Rain Shadow’s pork chops (about 7.99/lb), short ribs (about 7.99/lb), sausages (about 6.99–the brats are my favorite!) and bacon burgers (sometimes 6.99/lb, sometimes 9.99/lb) round out my almost weekly purchases, none of which are priced that much higher than your local Safeway or QFC. (Maybe the pork chops, but trust me… They. Are. Worth. It.) Rain Shadow’s prices are mostly sensible. They may fluctuate a bit, probably based on their own expenses and supply, yet the prices reflect the true cost of eating meat from animals that aren’t stuffed with grain and/or hormones to expedite growth and living in prisoner of war conditions.

The slight increase in cost has altered my perspective on meat consumption. In the past, when we’d shop at Safeway or any other supermarket, our meat purchases were dictated by what was on sale and how much more meat we’d get at that price, meaning we were buying more than we needed and eating more than we should. Shopping at Rain Shadow puts my meat consumption in check and makes me ask myself some tough questions about my eating habits: Do I need the Safeway Value Pack of 85% ground beef, from which I’ll make a hamburger the size of my face? Should I eat meat seven days a week? And if I do, shouldn’t I avoid meats with the words “natural flavors” on the packaging? I was raised not to question where my food comes from but simply to consume as much as I could before the sale ended, before mom’s paycheck was all gone. We didn’t know any better, and now that I do, I’m making a healthy choice for myself and for my family.

I have shopped at a lot of Safeways since moving to the West Coast, but none have ever sold meat that comes close to the deliciousness butchered behind the counter of Rain Shadow. Don’t listen to Seattle Weekly–Rain Shadow is the best in Seattle.

Protect your junk when pregnant ladies are near!

“I want to punch Sam-I-Am in the dick.”

This is what Jaime said to me a few nights ago as I perched over her growing bump and read from Dr. Seuss’ “Green Eggs and Ham,” a childhood favorite of mine that I purchased earlier that day. I have been reading to her stomach–to our son–for the last few weeks after the baby books informed me that he could begin hearing noises from the outside world within the womb. (Normally, the books are full of bad news, harshing my pregnancy mellow with stories about episiotomies and gestational diabetes, so knowing somewhere in there the baby could hear my muffled drawl, like Charlie Brown’s teacher, makes me believe there’s a silver lining to all this pregnancy stuff, besides, you know, having a kid.)

These moments where I read to the bump just before bed have helped me feel a connection with a baby that only Jaime can tell actually exists. Words were something I came to love through doing crosswords with my grandmother when I was a child, so being able to share this love of language with my son before he’s even born helps me understand what I see my role being in his early life, chiefly a saturater, soaking the spongey confines of his ever-developing brain with knowledge and information–and a tolerance for eggs of all colors and nationalities.

Without Dr. Seuss, I only know my son through his effects on my wife, mainly vomiting, intense cravings for Doritos and ice cream, and “pregnancy rage,” which is what had her threatening Sam-I-Am’s dick, interrupting my bonding moment with the baby to right the overbearing annoyances of a character in a children’s book written more than 50 years ago.

“You know it’s just a book, right?” I asked Jaime.

“But why doesn’t Sam-I-Am just leave him alone?”

I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere, so I kept reading, making direct eye contact with Jaime’s innie-becoming-an-outie, as if just below her belly button the baby was intently listening and eagerly wondering, “Does Sam-I-Am ever get him to eat green eggs and ham?”

"What you got on my gallon of ice cream, homie?"

Pregnancy rage is a side-effect of pregnancy that I’m learning to manage. A few months ago, I took it personally when Jaime would grill me up like Deebo from “Friday” and spew the kind of threats you’d assume would be the precursor to a prison shanking. I’ve even considered taping phone books to my torso for protection from an oncoming blade, but we don’t get the Yellow Pages anymore because we’re on that “opt-out” list. I guess phone books are useless until you fear a woman that points at her stomach and yells, “You did this to me!” with a twinkle of crazy in her eye.

But recently, I’ve begun accepting that some days she’ll tell me I’m great (I’ll cherish the moment she said those words forever actually.) and others she’ll growl at me and say, “I hate your stupid ass-face.” (I try to forget these moments, but they happen all too often.)

So, I was mentally prepared for the rage last weekend when Jaime and I, along with the rest of her family, were trying to clean out her grandmother’s garage–an experience, if described as a reality TV show pitch, I’d sum up as “Hoarders” meets “Jersey Shore” and not because grandma had bronzer by the barrel but because I feared Jaime was going to get all Ronnie on her.

Jaime doesn't spray tan, but she will knock you out.

An hour into the clean-up, which was going quickly as Jaime directed me to carry and place all the heavy stuff in piles to keep or not keep while she took inventory of the hoard, Grandma came out to the garage and began questioning the most obvious not-keep stuff, like a folding table that looked like it barely survived a bear attack (“Someone could eat on that table…); a frayed extension cord just waiting to start a house fire (Someone could use that extension cord…”; and a pile of boxes I broke down and put in the recycling. (“Someone could put something in those boxes…”). This went on for awhile (“Grandma, the table is fucked.”; “Grandma, you shouldn’t even use this extension cord.”; “Grandma, what are you doing in the recycling bin?”), but it didn’t take long for Jaime to go from the calm-speaking Dr. Zasio of “Hoarders” to Dr. Dre back in his N.W.A. days. I could see the progression of the pregnancy rage on her face, going from warm and understanding to unfashionably frustrated to flesh-searing laser beams shooting from her eyes. She finally admitted she needed to cool off, so we left for a bit.

“What the fuck is my grandma’s problem?” Jaime asked as we drove away.

After a long talk with Grandma, we were able to clean up the garage to a point, mainly due to Jaime’s uninhibited pregnancy rage permitting her to say things no one would ever say to anyone’s Grandma–even if you were robbing one for her change purse–but we didn’t get as much done as we could have.

On the drive home, I, in my least judgmental voice, asked Jaime if she thought she was too harsh.

“I don’t give a shit. I’m right,” Jaime snapped back.

Thankfully, we only have a few months left–and I know how to defend myself.

post by Steve Barker

One day I’ll be fat. My family history says so. When my father was my age he was just as skinny as I am and a regular runner. Around the age of 40 he added a few extra pounds and has been struggling with his weight ever since. That terrifies me.

I love running for the high, the freedom, the clarity, but something I rarely share
with people is I also love running because it makes me not fat. Running a 5K with a 40 lb. weight vest gave me a little taste of what being heavy would feel like.

Forty-five minutes before the run started Brian and his wife picked me up. Since
the easiest way to carry the vest is to wear it, I put it on then. Although a little
uncomfortable, the car ride was easy. Brian was bumping DMX while Jaime drove.

When we arrived at the starting line, I stood around in the vest waiting for the run to start. This is when I first realized what I was getting myself into. Just standing was hard. I second guessed myself.

I hadn’t trained in the vest. Originally I thought that was the plan when I agreed
to the challenge, but Brian was in charge of ordering the vest from Amazon and
got sidetracked by a pregnant wife and full-time job (priorities, right?). I was kind of hoping he’d forget. Then two days before the race he brought it over to my apartment. I wore it around and it made simple tasks like vacuuming and taking out the trash exhausting. I was ready to give up before the run even started.

Usually before a 5K I’m excited. Three point two miles is junior varsity type stuff for me. I don’t even consider it a run, for me a 5K is a race. It’s good that it usually raises money for some disease, but I’m there to compete. I came in third two years in a row for men between the ages of 25-30 in the Nike 5K for Kids. This was a different story. My only competition was going to be the 40 lbs. I was dragging along with me. I was just hoping to run the whole thing without walking.

As I tried to reassure myself that the weight was no big deal we all got in line for the run. Brian and I both started our iPods and moved with the herd until crossing the starting line. We weaved ourselves between the walkers, trying to carve out some space. This is when I realized I signed up for a lot more than I thought. Not only was the vest heavy and awkward–it made me 20 percent wider than normal. Just passing people took an extra calculation. Eventually Brian and I got some room and fell into a pace. I quickly realized that Brian didn’t need any of my help or encouragement.

Since this was Brian’s first 5K I thought I was going to have to encourage him, but that was not necessary. He looked quite casual, and as I huffed and puffed Brian broke away at the halfway mark.

Even with the weight of the vest I was able to manage a steady pace. I was passing more people than were passing me. I wasn’t going to let the vest beat me. But usually when I hit the 2.5-mile mark I increase my pace. I always chamber enough energy so I can really kick it up towards the end. I wasn’t able to do that this time. Every step took everything I had. I also knew there was about a quarter mile of uphill at the end that I was dreading.

When I arrived at the bottom of the hill I looked up and saw half the people walking. I was determined not to be one of those people. At that moment Girltalk’s mash-up of Metallica’s “…And Justice for All” and Lil Mama’s “Lip Gloss” came on my iPod. I lowered my head and carried my weight up the hill, passing another walker with every stretch of my legs. At the top I could see the end and made my best attempt to sprint to the finish line. I crossed it at 32 minutes and 27 seconds.

I kept on the vest as I searched the crowd for Brian and his wife Jaime for a ride
home. Once we finally got to her car I took off the vest. All of a sudden I was 40 lbs. lighter. I stood up straight for the first time since putting the vest on and the strain on my body was lifted. Sitting down in the back seat felt like the greatest feeling in the world. I wasn’t fat any more.

I spent only a short amount of time with the 40 extra pounds, but it was enough
to know that I do not ever want to be fat. Life is hard with extra weight. Having
seen my father struggle with his weight for the last 15 years of his life I know that
I will have to continue running 3-5 times a week to maintain my current weight. I can’t see myself stopping anytime soon. I love it too much. In fact, I’ve been putting off running an organized half marathon for close to five years now, but I will be running the Whidbey Island half marathon in April. Seeing Brian conquer the 5K has inspired me to sign up. If a 5K is Junior Varsity, a half marathon will be College Division One. I’ll have to spend the two months prior running 4-5 times a week, between 7-12 miles at a time, as opposed to the 3-4 times a week between 5-10 miles I’m doing right now. It will be tough, but at least I’ll run it at my own weight.

Learn more about Steve and listen to his pre- and post-5K interview with Brian at ordinarymadness.org.

I may never be a better rapper than Ol' Dirty, but I will be a better father.

When looking at the sonogram, we have no clue what we’re actually seeing. The sonographer sometimes says, “This is baby’s foot.” Or “You can’t really see it, but here are baby’s eyes and nose.” Other times, she just types “ARM L” and “ARM R” and saves the images, the computer chiming and then churning the data with a hum.

So I didn’t know we were looking at our baby’s first cockshot until the sonographer inserted an arrow pointing at the small blob that was our child’s penis and typed, “IT’S A BOY!!!”

Yes, in all caps with multiple exclamation points.

Of course, the caps and exclamations didn’t come close to capturing my joy. Anyone that asked me what I preferred, a boy or a girl, heard the answer before they could even finish the question. “BOY!!!” The next question was always, “Why?” without any caps or exclamations, mostly a suspicious curiosity, as if they didn’t understand why I answered with such immediacy.

Ladies, I want you to know the joy of splitting the uprights. No, that is not a sexual euphemism.

My reasons ranged from “Law & Order: SVU” to boys can’t get pregnant to the NFL won’t allow a woman to suit up and play in my child’s lifetime–even if she was just a kicker. Some people told me I was sexist, but I shut that down quick by saying, “The world is a fucked up place for women,” and listing all the injustices towards women I could think of, which usually ended the conversation. No one wants to talk about whether you want a boy or a girl when you quickly turn the conversation into a discussion of female genital mutilation as a tool of oppression.

The real reason, which I’ve only told Jaime, is that I wanted a boy because I wanted to stop the cycle of abandonment. My father wasn’t exactly Ward Cleaver, or even Dan Connor. He left before I was born, and I never met him, but, according to my mother, his fledgling career as an acid dealer was only overshadowed by his gap-toothed smile and stocky but short stature. (Apparently, a man who could file a legitimate tax return and reach something without a stepping stool are qualities my mother didn’t find attractive.)

I can only assume my father’s father did the same to him, scoring somewhere between Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Ryan O’Neal on the scale of bad fathers. Between the two, there are more than a dozen kids, almost as many STDs, multiple accounts of abandonment and abuse, including forced drug use (O’Neal made Tatum snort coke to lose weight.), and one MTV-broadcasted ride to the welfare office in a limousine. If this is what my childhood could have been like, it’s probably better that my father left.

But growing up as a boy without a father made becoming a man challenging. I often blamed myself for his absence–if I only I had been smart enough to understand the complexities of hallucinogenics distribution–and felt ashamed for being different from nearly all of my Catholic school classmates, of whom only a couple didn’t have parents, both dying in tragic accidents where the entire class mourned with them. I, on the other hand, was called a fat bastard so much I wondered if my classmates even knew my real name. (Once the real Fat Bastard came along, I really should have sued Mike Myers for copyright infringement.) Most of the things a father would teach his son I had to learn on my own–and rarely did I do them right.

So, when we first found out Jaime was pregnant, I hoped for a boy because I wanted to make sure he’d know all the things I didn’t, like how to tie a Windsor knot, shave without making his neck look like a case of stigmata or pee standing up, all essential elements of manhood that my mother, despite her best efforts, was never able to teach me. If we were having a girl, the cycle would still end with me, but by having a boy, I could ensure a new cycle would begin, one where dad was always there–even for the gross parts.

Moms, you have it tough, but you're keeping the tattoo industry afloat in tough economic times.

The same couldn’t be achieved with a girl because if she became a mother, she would always be expected to be there, to band-aid the boo-boos and put dinner on the table (I’m not saying this is how it should be, but let’s be real here.), which is why when moms abuse and neglect, like Casey Anthony or the two moms who left their combined 10 kids, ranging from seven months to 11-years-old, in a Chevy Tahoe while they were out drinking, the media frenzy is immutable. (I still don’t understand why “When Moms Attack” isn’t a TV show. You heard it here first.)

Unfortunately, fathers aren’t held to the same standards, and little is said about the one out of three children in America that grow up without a father in the home (Is it just me or is this number unbelievably staggering?) and the numerous effects growing up without a father has on a child. (Here’s a taste: 63 percent of all youth suicides; 71 percent of pregnant teenagers; 85 percent of all youth in prisons; 90 percent of all homeless and runaway children; and 71 percent of all high school dropouts come from fatherless homes.)

Being there won’t mean that my son is guaranteed to not be a fuck-up, but he will have a father to guide him into manhood, to teach him how to shave, knot a tie and pee without having to squat, which is more than I ever knew as a boy, and as a parent, I think that’s all I can hope for–that I’m able to provide a better life for my child than I had.

And if he acts up, I always have the threat of embarrassing him by showing everyone his first cockshot.