Tuesday, February 24, 2004
The Great Debate
There is quite a debate going on in my head right now, the crux of which is: if you join the gym, you can get an I-Pod.
To join the gym would be quite a coup for me. For years I have resisted the gym, for no reason really. If we look at the numbers, the gym is $60 per month, which comes out to $720 a year. If we crunch those numbers down a little further, that’s about $720 per visit.
But cost is not a concern, because I think that being a gym member might in some ways give me a new lease on life.
Question: “So, do you work out?”
Old Answer: “You’re joking, right?
New Answer: “I’m a member at NYSC.”
Question: “Where do you work out?”
Old Answer: “Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”
New Answer: “At the one on Broadway.”
Question: “How often do you work out?”
Old Answer: “Please stop. Just stop.”
New Answer: “A bit. Not never, but not, like, everyday.”
And the I-Pod, well, I don’t think I need to go into its advantages. I feel like a dinosaur on the subway with my cd player. I can sense the I-Pod people looking at me with condescension as I fumble through my cd booklet, trying to switch cds from Color Me Badd to Tevin Campbell.
It kinda reminds me of that old anti-smoking commercial – remember the one? A bunch of young people are at a party, and this good-looking guy sees this attractive girl across the room and starts making his way over to her, but then retreats when she lights up. It works the same way with the I-Pod: all smiles with the cute girl who’s rocking out on hers on the subway, until I take out my Sony Car-Ready CD Walkman® and my Trex® cd carrying case, and she looks away in disgust. Provided, she may turn away not because of my ancient cd player but because I’m pointing at her, then pointing to my crotch, then pointing back at her and smiling and nodding, but if I had to guess, I would say it’s because of the cd player. [And I never understood that stupid commercial anyway. A cigarette? Come on! That just means she’s a slut! My ex-grilfriend smoked and she cheated on me all the time! A super-hot girl could be standing there with a fucking bloody head on a pike in one hand and a econo-size can of mace in the other and that wouldn’t stop me from retreating. That is, if I talked to girls. Which, of course, I don’t. Unless you count the internet, which I don’t think we’re doing here. I should probably stop now.]