Posts
In keeping with the recent basketball theme, I present this gem. This Serbian cat was Mr. J's coach last year... Obviously I went to the games for the basketball, but secretly mostly to watch this man put on a show.
For example:
In case anyone missed it, at the very beginning #4 in red (the coach's team) gets a technical for talking back a little to the ref. Stojan is obviously displeased by this and begins a tirade of unprecedented form to let reffy know whatup. Somehow despite the circus act just performed, no technical is given here...
I also love the NHL-style boards behind the visiting team bench, probably put in place precisely to protect in just such cases.
Pure gold.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Poor Little Lamb
This shot courtesy of Ian's game tonight.
From what I'm told, a hit like this is comparable in pain to something like childbirth... He claims it's worse than that if the shot is delivered by a 7'1" behemoth.
Regardless, the man's face says it all.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Gym Rats, Part II
I realized after the last post that I have a lot more to say about gym attire, etiquette and general gym gong show-ery.
First off I have to say that although I thought last week's flexing parade was a one-time deal, OH HOW I WAS MISTAKEN. I trudged across the street again yesterday, prepared for another delightful lift with the motley crew of characters in the gym. This time upon entering the gym my thoughts went from shock to horror to aaahahaha this is really happening to just ....... The equivalent of a mental flatline. There was just nothing left in my poor confused dome.
This was because this time, there was yet another short muscled dude flexing in front of the large wall of mirrors (I probably shouldn't be surprised anymore at this point). Except this guy was NAKED.
...with the exception of a tiny pair of purple boxer briefs covering his goods.
WHERE. AM. I?
It was all I could do not to burst out laughing and begin rolling on the floor. Also, though it's probably not worth mentioning after I recount that show, Arnold also made another shirtless flexing appearance later in the lift as well.
So that's hopefully the concluding chapter on clothes-less flexing in local Hungarian gyms but who knows. Next time I walk in there someone will probably be unhealthily tan, greased up and wearing a man-thong. Pray for me.
Speaking of gyms though, I have a few more things I don't understand, such as what's with the fact that EVERY gym has "that guy" who works out exclusively in jean cutoffs? And yes, for a change, I'm not exaggerating here. I have never lifted at a gym on a regular basis and not seen that guy. Doesn't matter what country/what kind of gym. Just once I just want to say to this guy, "Everyone else here is wearing regular work out gear. Why is khaki/denim your performance fabric of choice?"
Who knows, the rest of us could have it all wrong. Maybe these cats are onto something.
I will also, for the rest of my life, remain perplexed about the guy I saw wearing flip flops in mid-February at the university gym in Winnipeg. I first rationalized that maybe he just forgot his runners since he was otherwise dressed appropriately in workout shorts and a t-shirt.
But then I realized we were in the depths of Canadian winter and ain't nobody wearing flip flops to school when it's snowing. No, this was a deliberate choice.
Dude had to have had a moment that morning where he thought "No, these green Havaianas will definitely be a much better choice than the New Balances sitting in my gym bag. I'll take these."
Further, let's say I go back to throwing homie a bone and that he did actually just forget his runners, why wouldn't he have just worn the closed-toe footwear I'm sure he wore to school? I'd have paid money to see someone workout in Sorels. Just clomping around, trying not to step on people's toes or crush workout equipment like some boot-wearing Godzilla.
And I know all the Canadians out there know what I'm talking about because you had a pair from grade 1 through 6. Don't deny it. Along with the Canadian Tuxedo, it's part of the fashion heritage that binds us.
Finally, I should mention I once saw a woman asleep on a stationary bike at the same university gym. This is also not a lie. I've never seen anything like it before and doubt very highly I will ever see it again. You probably won't either so this is what it looks like:
A slim, middle-aged woman is sitting on a reclined stationary bike reading but not peddling. As her head begins to bob, I notice her legs finally begin peddling, albeit verrrrrrry slowly and umm, backwards. Then, as her head falls violently to her chest, she briefly wakes up, begins moving her legs equally slowly in the forward peddling direction.
Riveted, I sit on a bike nearby and watch this spectacle go on for about 10 minutes before the woman wakes up. She finishes up the last few pages of her Reader's Digest, all the while peddling too slowly for the "Use the arrows to select a workout or press quick start to begin" screen to disappear off the bike's screen. I guess at this point she decides she's had a gruelling enough cardio sesh for the day, gets off, and proceeds to spray the bike down with disinfectant.
It was all I could do not to get off my own bike and give her a hearty pat on the back. Both for a workout well-done and for having accomplished what I never thought was possible - napping and working out at the same time.
First off I have to say that although I thought last week's flexing parade was a one-time deal, OH HOW I WAS MISTAKEN. I trudged across the street again yesterday, prepared for another delightful lift with the motley crew of characters in the gym. This time upon entering the gym my thoughts went from shock to horror to aaahahaha this is really happening to just ....... The equivalent of a mental flatline. There was just nothing left in my poor confused dome.
This was because this time, there was yet another short muscled dude flexing in front of the large wall of mirrors (I probably shouldn't be surprised anymore at this point). Except this guy was NAKED.
...with the exception of a tiny pair of purple boxer briefs covering his goods.
WHERE. AM. I?
It was all I could do not to burst out laughing and begin rolling on the floor. Also, though it's probably not worth mentioning after I recount that show, Arnold also made another shirtless flexing appearance later in the lift as well.
So that's hopefully the concluding chapter on clothes-less flexing in local Hungarian gyms but who knows. Next time I walk in there someone will probably be unhealthily tan, greased up and wearing a man-thong. Pray for me.
Speaking of gyms though, I have a few more things I don't understand, such as what's with the fact that EVERY gym has "that guy" who works out exclusively in jean cutoffs? And yes, for a change, I'm not exaggerating here. I have never lifted at a gym on a regular basis and not seen that guy. Doesn't matter what country/what kind of gym. Just once I just want to say to this guy, "Everyone else here is wearing regular work out gear. Why is khaki/denim your performance fabric of choice?"
Who knows, the rest of us could have it all wrong. Maybe these cats are onto something.
I will also, for the rest of my life, remain perplexed about the guy I saw wearing flip flops in mid-February at the university gym in Winnipeg. I first rationalized that maybe he just forgot his runners since he was otherwise dressed appropriately in workout shorts and a t-shirt.
But then I realized we were in the depths of Canadian winter and ain't nobody wearing flip flops to school when it's snowing. No, this was a deliberate choice.
Dude had to have had a moment that morning where he thought "No, these green Havaianas will definitely be a much better choice than the New Balances sitting in my gym bag. I'll take these."
Further, let's say I go back to throwing homie a bone and that he did actually just forget his runners, why wouldn't he have just worn the closed-toe footwear I'm sure he wore to school? I'd have paid money to see someone workout in Sorels. Just clomping around, trying not to step on people's toes or crush workout equipment like some boot-wearing Godzilla.
And I know all the Canadians out there know what I'm talking about because you had a pair from grade 1 through 6. Don't deny it. Along with the Canadian Tuxedo, it's part of the fashion heritage that binds us.
Finally, I should mention I once saw a woman asleep on a stationary bike at the same university gym. This is also not a lie. I've never seen anything like it before and doubt very highly I will ever see it again. You probably won't either so this is what it looks like:
A slim, middle-aged woman is sitting on a reclined stationary bike reading but not peddling. As her head begins to bob, I notice her legs finally begin peddling, albeit verrrrrrry slowly and umm, backwards. Then, as her head falls violently to her chest, she briefly wakes up, begins moving her legs equally slowly in the forward peddling direction.
Riveted, I sit on a bike nearby and watch this spectacle go on for about 10 minutes before the woman wakes up. She finishes up the last few pages of her Reader's Digest, all the while peddling too slowly for the "Use the arrows to select a workout or press quick start to begin" screen to disappear off the bike's screen. I guess at this point she decides she's had a gruelling enough cardio sesh for the day, gets off, and proceeds to spray the bike down with disinfectant.
It was all I could do not to get off my own bike and give her a hearty pat on the back. Both for a workout well-done and for having accomplished what I never thought was possible - napping and working out at the same time.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Rugged Good Looks
I lift in a gym across the street.
In my experience, this is a pretty ordinary place by Euro gym standards - carpeted floors, archaic machines with no instructions and a mini treadmill circa 1993. Seriously, most of the treadmills I've run across (pun not even intended I swear) in Europe are like, half the length of a normal treadmill. If the threat of faceplanting off the end of one of those things doesn't make you keep those knees up, I don't know what will.
What I've come to realize is not so normal of late are some of the individuals frequenting this gym. First off, I've noticed a strange affinity by many of the gym's users for working out barefoot or just in socks.
Like, I would estimate at least 50% of the dudes in there are shoeless.
Maybe there's a reason for this, but I don't know/can't figure out what it is and it violates what was always ingrained in me to be the first rule of the weight room - keep your kicks tied because one day you will drop something on your toe.
And it will be heavy.
This was impressed on me repeatedly from my first days in the "Wellness Center" at Salisbury Composite High School and though I doubt many of us stopped to think that a thin layer of whatever they make shoes out of these days would offer all that much protection, it just seems to make sense.
So there's that.
Then there's a character I see there each time I workout who I like to call Arnold. Arnold is in his early 20s and seems to think quite highly of himself. But hey, that isn't all that out of the ordinary in the gym you say.
True, and while I have seen guys check themselves out repeatedly in the mirror while doing the 3845th set of bicep curls, I have to say I have never seen a show quite like this boy put on last Wednesday.
I'm minding my own business trying not to be talked to since then the cat would be out of the bag that I neither speak nor understand Hungarian... and for some reason keeping this a secret for as long as possible is important to me in this environment. Probably because I don't want to be constantly suspicious that people are talking crap about me when they are standing right beside me.
I know it sounds incredibly vain and self-absorbed to think people are talking about me at all times, but any of you who have lived/visited places where people know you're a dumb foreigner understand the fear, however irrational. People take advantage of stupidity, I'm telling you.
Anyway, I'm minding my own business when to my horror/great amusement I look up to see Arnold has pulled his shirt off over his head and is in the process of flexing his pecs, Mr. Universe-style in the mirror in front of him. The strangest part, besides the fact this went on for a good 10 minutes, was that nobody else even batted so much as an eyelash that this might be slightly out of the ordinary. Nobody looked over, nobody even acknowledged anything was taking place. I was shocked and hard pressed not to drop my dumbbells on the barefoot kid beside me.
What? In what country is this a normal thing to do? Evidently I answer my own question. I also neglect to mention that last week he and the crew were lifting up their shirts to compare abs... so I don't know why I'm surprised.
My favourite part was that after this spectacle ended I get back to my workout, shaking my head all the while, only to look up again about 10 minutes later and discover Arnold has once again taken off his shirt. This time however, a small crowd of 7 or so homies had gathered - all of whom were admiring his chiselled musculature. Extensive leg flexing was also part of this second routine.
This would have been merely hilarious to me, except for the fact that I regularly get stared at in that place on the regular like I have a third arm or something. That day, I was wearing a particularly extravagant and ridiculous outfit consisting of a black shirt and black pants. You know how people sometimes say they have a particular song they would choose to act as their theme song on the soundtrack of their life? No contest, the period of my life lived in Europe would be set to circus music.
Speaking of staring, I'm not about to start a trend of complaining about things that I don't understand about other cultures, but I'll indulge myself once. Now.
One illustration will suffice: one day a few summers ago while on the metro in the middle of the city in France, I'm on my way to the park to go for a run. I'm being stared at profusely as usual, presumably because I'm wearing a clown suit in the form of running shorts and a t-shirt. This goes on for a number of minutes, before a man gets on carrying 2 huge long pool noodles. This, of course, is not out of the ordinary for anyone on the metro and Noodle Man proceeds to stare at me intently for the remainder of my trip... as if he has just watched me stomp on the toes of the granny standing beside me. As I exited the train I wanted to just grab one of the pool noodles and make a run for it. I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO STARE AT!!!!!
In my experience, this is a pretty ordinary place by Euro gym standards - carpeted floors, archaic machines with no instructions and a mini treadmill circa 1993. Seriously, most of the treadmills I've run across (pun not even intended I swear) in Europe are like, half the length of a normal treadmill. If the threat of faceplanting off the end of one of those things doesn't make you keep those knees up, I don't know what will.
What I've come to realize is not so normal of late are some of the individuals frequenting this gym. First off, I've noticed a strange affinity by many of the gym's users for working out barefoot or just in socks.
Like, I would estimate at least 50% of the dudes in there are shoeless.
Maybe there's a reason for this, but I don't know/can't figure out what it is and it violates what was always ingrained in me to be the first rule of the weight room - keep your kicks tied because one day you will drop something on your toe.
And it will be heavy.
This was impressed on me repeatedly from my first days in the "Wellness Center" at Salisbury Composite High School and though I doubt many of us stopped to think that a thin layer of whatever they make shoes out of these days would offer all that much protection, it just seems to make sense.
So there's that.
Then there's a character I see there each time I workout who I like to call Arnold. Arnold is in his early 20s and seems to think quite highly of himself. But hey, that isn't all that out of the ordinary in the gym you say.
True, and while I have seen guys check themselves out repeatedly in the mirror while doing the 3845th set of bicep curls, I have to say I have never seen a show quite like this boy put on last Wednesday.
I'm minding my own business trying not to be talked to since then the cat would be out of the bag that I neither speak nor understand Hungarian... and for some reason keeping this a secret for as long as possible is important to me in this environment. Probably because I don't want to be constantly suspicious that people are talking crap about me when they are standing right beside me.
I know it sounds incredibly vain and self-absorbed to think people are talking about me at all times, but any of you who have lived/visited places where people know you're a dumb foreigner understand the fear, however irrational. People take advantage of stupidity, I'm telling you.
Anyway, I'm minding my own business when to my horror/great amusement I look up to see Arnold has pulled his shirt off over his head and is in the process of flexing his pecs, Mr. Universe-style in the mirror in front of him. The strangest part, besides the fact this went on for a good 10 minutes, was that nobody else even batted so much as an eyelash that this might be slightly out of the ordinary. Nobody looked over, nobody even acknowledged anything was taking place. I was shocked and hard pressed not to drop my dumbbells on the barefoot kid beside me.
What? In what country is this a normal thing to do? Evidently I answer my own question. I also neglect to mention that last week he and the crew were lifting up their shirts to compare abs... so I don't know why I'm surprised.
No I don't know this cat. And no he isn't Arnold.
But I have no doubt he would've been taking advantage had a camera been present.
But I have no doubt he would've been taking advantage had a camera been present.
My favourite part was that after this spectacle ended I get back to my workout, shaking my head all the while, only to look up again about 10 minutes later and discover Arnold has once again taken off his shirt. This time however, a small crowd of 7 or so homies had gathered - all of whom were admiring his chiselled musculature. Extensive leg flexing was also part of this second routine.
This would have been merely hilarious to me, except for the fact that I regularly get stared at in that place on the regular like I have a third arm or something. That day, I was wearing a particularly extravagant and ridiculous outfit consisting of a black shirt and black pants. You know how people sometimes say they have a particular song they would choose to act as their theme song on the soundtrack of their life? No contest, the period of my life lived in Europe would be set to circus music.
Speaking of staring, I'm not about to start a trend of complaining about things that I don't understand about other cultures, but I'll indulge myself once. Now.
One illustration will suffice: one day a few summers ago while on the metro in the middle of the city in France, I'm on my way to the park to go for a run. I'm being stared at profusely as usual, presumably because I'm wearing a clown suit in the form of running shorts and a t-shirt. This goes on for a number of minutes, before a man gets on carrying 2 huge long pool noodles. This, of course, is not out of the ordinary for anyone on the metro and Noodle Man proceeds to stare at me intently for the remainder of my trip... as if he has just watched me stomp on the toes of the granny standing beside me. As I exited the train I wanted to just grab one of the pool noodles and make a run for it. I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO STARE AT!!!!!
Monday, October 04, 2010
This Ish is Bananas
First off, a couple things I saw while in Budapest the other day:
While leisurely strolling the boulevards of the capital, I witnessed a handcuffed man on a leash.
Dude was being walked by who I assume were the local cops, hands cuffed in front. Attached to said cuffs was a thin leather leash. This method instantly removes the "this guy is so tough we need to cuff his hands safely behind his back, while maintaining a firm grip on his shoulder or he could throwdown" aspect of the equation...
This. Is. Absolutely. Brilliant.
At this point I was half-expecting homie to lift his leg to relieve himself on the nearest goulash stand.
Because really, what is more humiliating than being paraded down the street attached to the leash that's normally reserved for Sheriff Gabor's chihuahua during off-hours?
I say, Budapest Fuzz: 1, Everybody Else: 0.
Secondly, wild beasts are once again runnin' free in the Hungarian streets:
Granted, those aren't wild. But that's not important right now.
We had an appointment to get to at the U.S. consulate so Ian, his American teammate and I debated for a hot minute whether passing the carriage would make the horses feel bad... At that point though, we'd been following the coach (carriage? handsome cab? What is the proper terminology here?) for a cool half-kilometer, and its pace was seriously starting to cramp our style. Not to mention the 11 cars jammed up behind us.
I tip my proverbial hat to those horses for their efforts though. Their trotting was probably a reasonably "grueling pace" (Oregon Trail, HOLLA) by old-timey standards, but we had an appointment to get to. So we left Black Beauty & Firefoot in our dust.
I have to respect/be confused by a place where horses-drawn vehicles get to roll in the bus lane. What is this society coming to? Evidently, something like the turn of 19th century.
Finally, this has nothing to do with the above, but Hungarians are made of raw steel (as opposed to unraw steel like say, the Germans). Or at least the women are. It probably has something to do with being born behind the Iron Curtain or something to do with smelting iron... I don't really know what that means but I've always wanted to say smelting.
I digress.
I make this observation because in my game this past weekend, the middle & captain of the other team was a spring chicken of no less than 46 years old. Forty. Six.
That is straight up 3 years shy of double my age. Just let that marinate in your dome for a few seconds and imagine playing ball for something like 3 decades.
1976 called, they want their knee pads back.
Naturally, as I began to do this math my mind was blown to small pieces. Mostly because I suck at math. But upon consulting my abacus, I realized, yes, this woman could in fact easily have sired me herself.
And yet, this story gets better. Because her own flesh and blood was already on the court. In the form of the team's setter aka her daughter.
There is so much to say there I don't even have anything to say. What? Who? HOW?
I would just like to shoutout my own coach who betters this, by having participated last year in the Budapest schools' Jr. Olympics as a setter (surrounded by her 16-year old teammates) at the ripe young age of 49. Hot dayum.
While leisurely strolling the boulevards of the capital, I witnessed a handcuffed man on a leash.
Dude was being walked by who I assume were the local cops, hands cuffed in front. Attached to said cuffs was a thin leather leash. This method instantly removes the "this guy is so tough we need to cuff his hands safely behind his back, while maintaining a firm grip on his shoulder or he could throwdown" aspect of the equation...
This. Is. Absolutely. Brilliant.
At this point I was half-expecting homie to lift his leg to relieve himself on the nearest goulash stand.
Because really, what is more humiliating than being paraded down the street attached to the leash that's normally reserved for Sheriff Gabor's chihuahua during off-hours?
I say, Budapest Fuzz: 1, Everybody Else: 0.
Secondly, wild beasts are once again runnin' free in the Hungarian streets:
Granted, those aren't wild. But that's not important right now.
We had an appointment to get to at the U.S. consulate so Ian, his American teammate and I debated for a hot minute whether passing the carriage would make the horses feel bad... At that point though, we'd been following the coach (carriage? handsome cab? What is the proper terminology here?) for a cool half-kilometer, and its pace was seriously starting to cramp our style. Not to mention the 11 cars jammed up behind us.
I tip my proverbial hat to those horses for their efforts though. Their trotting was probably a reasonably "grueling pace" (Oregon Trail, HOLLA) by old-timey standards, but we had an appointment to get to. So we left Black Beauty & Firefoot in our dust.
I have to respect/be confused by a place where horses-drawn vehicles get to roll in the bus lane. What is this society coming to? Evidently, something like the turn of 19th century.
Finally, this has nothing to do with the above, but Hungarians are made of raw steel (as opposed to unraw steel like say, the Germans). Or at least the women are. It probably has something to do with being born behind the Iron Curtain or something to do with smelting iron... I don't really know what that means but I've always wanted to say smelting.
I digress.
I make this observation because in my game this past weekend, the middle & captain of the other team was a spring chicken of no less than 46 years old. Forty. Six.
That is straight up 3 years shy of double my age. Just let that marinate in your dome for a few seconds and imagine playing ball for something like 3 decades.
1976 called, they want their knee pads back.
Naturally, as I began to do this math my mind was blown to small pieces. Mostly because I suck at math. But upon consulting my abacus, I realized, yes, this woman could in fact easily have sired me herself.
And yet, this story gets better. Because her own flesh and blood was already on the court. In the form of the team's setter aka her daughter.
There is so much to say there I don't even have anything to say. What? Who? HOW?
I would just like to shoutout my own coach who betters this, by having participated last year in the Budapest schools' Jr. Olympics as a setter (surrounded by her 16-year old teammates) at the ripe young age of 49. Hot dayum.
