Just A Little Off the Top

I suppose I'm as guilty as the next guy, but isn't it odd how quickly we can forget about little things like "nuclear holocaust," the "end of the world" and so forth. "Hey, that was at least a month ago--right?" Saddam's got some pretty spooky offensive weapons, but what about the offensive weapons of the Los Angeles Lakers? Iraq Shmaq--what about Shaq? Can he be stopped with an Ostertaq?

And for me a far more important concern than worldwide destruction, is the fact that summer's already here and I doubt I could take my shirt off in public without being openly ridiculed. You can't blink an eye without your body backsliding--one month of neglect and my waist has gone to seed, my face looks all bloated and I'm as pasty as a corpse. I really think Vanity is a bigger pain in the butt, than it is a deadly sin. But it's time to get back in the gym when I can no longer open a jar of my daughter's baby food without suffering chest pains.

In any case, embarking upon my annual physical comeback is going to be a little different this time around--I can't simply grab a towel and zip over to the gym. Nowadays I have to take a baby with me everywhere I go. You see my wife has a real career--and by default I've inherited the task of being the DB--Designated Babysitter.

For the most part I've adapted surprisingly well to Motherhood, (a change of lifestyle not unlike, a large mouth bass becoming a flight attendant). My daughter, Lennon, is adorable and good-natured--but taking her to the gym may prove to be a challenge I'm not equal to. You see--where germs and viruses are concerned, Lennon is John Stockton and I'm Karl Malone. I get slammed with the coughs and sniffles and she gets the "assist".

Consequently I've yet to work up the courage to leave my Daughter in the "gym-nursery" while I workout. I suppose I'm a tad paranoid now, but there's always one kid in that nursery that looks like the monkey from Outbreak. "Don't worry sir that's just little Petey Dish, Sam n' Ella's boy." All of the sudden that little dinky gym in my apartment complex is starting to look pretty good.

I became a gym rat years ago while working with and around bodybuilders--which is where I picked up the version of my nickname that I write this column under. The Boneman was a sarcastic way of poking fun of my unfortunate inability to lose enough bodyfat to ever cross the "wannabee" line.

Anyway to make a long story boring, as a result of this experience I now face the unenviable task of managing about two hundred pounds of bodyweight. Weight that doesn't look too bad as long as I'm tanned, dieting, doing plenty of cardio and training five days a week. Remove any one of these factors and I'm a garden slug in a tank top. Where bodybuilding is concerned my only aspiration is to be able to get away with wearing a tank--weather permitting. That's it--for a man my age it's an ambitious goal.

I guess I must appear somewhat imposing, I used to bartend at the Blarney Stone and before we were married, my wife overheard some kid tell his friend that he was afraid to go in the bar because they had some big biker guy working there. Friends and readers, this was the proudest moment of my life. I grew up a scrawny little kid, and any information confirming the possibility that I'm not a total wuss is music to my ears.

I wear a beard and I've since grown my hair out fairly long, so I pretty much look like some kind of freak/loser/scumbag these days. Which has been an extremely unpopular development where my Mother's concerned. It's as though the woes of the world would instantly vanish the moment my offensive follicles were swept from the floor. Though my wife is in full agreement with this assessment of my appearance, she grudgingly accepts it, and contents herself by occasionally offering me directions to the Care and Share Center.

True, it's not particularly flattering and it meets with almost universal disdain, but I persist for personal reasons and because of the many advantages the long-hair life offers. I particularly enjoy the lowering effect it has of people's expectations. For example, if I'm in the least bit friendly or polite when I meet people, they think I'm perfectly charming. And I get the impression from strangers that as long as I don't murder them, they come away thinking "Y'know he seemed like a pretty nice guy."

As I've mentioned, I seldom go anywhere without Lennon; and it's the combination of a cute smiling baby being carried by someone who looks like he's done time for manslaughter, that doesn't fit comfortably into people's minds. It's like seeing a four year old girl smoke a cigarette while she loads a hand gun. It rattles around a while before it absorbs. The image either disarms people entirely, or deepens their conviction that something is very wrong--"call the police" wrong.

The reason this works like a charm is because I've been blessed with the cutest baby ever conceived. You, no doubt, take this to be the inflated opinion of a proud parent--you might even think that all babies are cute. This just isn't the case. There's a lot of bitter-beer-face babies out there. Ours is "win the contest" cute. She makes the Gerber's kid look like Greg Ostertag.

Another advantage her presence offers, is that if anyone ever gives me any kind of hassle, I simply whip out the child and my problems melt before me. "You don't have a backstage pass? No problem, come right on in--have you met Madonna?" I could rob a bank with this child. "Excuse me Miss? It seems my baby want all your money. She's in kind of a hurry because of her diaper, and funny business always makes her cry." Next thing you know, "Here's you're silly money you little pumpkee wumpkee, Mr. Bag o' Cash wuvs you."

Honey, if you're thinking about cutting my hair while I'm asleep, just a little bit off the top.