Summer Nomad Tales

What's the Jerschina secret to travel?

I'd argue, as a 22 year old dude with a petite knapsack of answers and one or two trips notched sloppily into my belt, that taking the first step is the secret. Nothing replaces a trip other than leaping into it - with the crazy (or crazily mundane? You decide, reader!) lives we all lead, the window of precious opportunity you need to leap out of isn't quite so big as you'd imagine.

Trips start out with an idea - like a stubborn wind-blown marijuana seed sown in an elderly neighbor's garden that covertly gleans sunlight... or maybe it's watching a movie like Into the Wild or The Secret Life of Walter Mitty that fuels the glimmer of wanderlust; or it's a hike in the woods or even a lame facebook post. Like anything else, perspective and wanderlust fade when the same friends, foods, and roadsides swirl around you everyday.  

Going to the beach helps your perspective? Probably. (Oahu)

That's my take, with my particular kind of getting out there: a few threads of a plan and a jar of peanut butter for emergencies; a big atlas with some questionably large areas circled. Hobo travel is scary for the unknown at first but gets easier with time- there's something enticing about being out there. Last year in Europe, my itinerary didn't have a planned conclusion and vaguely stretched no more than four days out over the course of a month. Two years ago, returning from South Korea via Japan, I stayed with a friend in Alaska on a whim. Three years ago, I hitchhiked (for the second time) out of Ohio and went 500 miles in three days and couchsurfed with a buddy in South Carolina for a week. There's no regret in adventure, and if there is, well, maybe you need a new kind of adventure.

It just takes bad idea and a first step to get going. Now, I find the uncertainty petulantly attractive. I pretend there's a platinum member "Reckless Traveler" card in my map-print wallet. It's not for everyone, sure, but they all should try it. You too, reader. You're one of "they all"... or y'all, if you're from Ohio or the South.

Other times you try local delicacies (poi) and realize they're, uh, different?

Coming back from Hawaii was interesting- there I was working as a nurse orientee in an Army hospital on Oahu. On days off, there's plenty to do with the awesome buddies that were there with me... but I've already been here twice. It's kinda old hat... which is only something you'd hear me say about Hawaii.

So since the Air Force likely has me on some kind of watchlist after the last two years of airborne shenanigans, I'm opting for Canada! Hitchhiking, backpacking, couchsurfing until my feet hurt and moose are tired of charging me! My vision is I'll drop my pack on rocky sand, take out my last Clif bar, and dip my toes in the Pacific and reflect on just how bad an idea the whole thing was and how great the stories are, some 5,000 kilometers later (personally I think it's more exotic and impressive to say kilometers, my secret is revealed!) Let's hope I make it that far without too many close calls and rainy days.

Or savage Canadian militants like me and Brown :D

So here I am, leaving for Canada in a few hours- a day on a bus to get me antsy for a few weeks leather tramping it. I encourage you, reader,  to grow that same seed of restless nomadism, not in pursuit of discontentment, but in a savage chase after curiosity and adventure.... more on that in a few weeks when I'm back. So long!

CLC: (Cadet Leader's Course, featuring Fort of Hard Knox) "Packing List" v2.5, the Jerschina way

There's only a few days left before I'm off to Ft. Knox, Kentucky for a wonderful, exciting month of training! I had the absolute privilege of going on a CULP trip to Kosovo, and for in and out processing I was able to spend a short amount of time in the cadet barracks there; a sampling of things to come this year.

Now hold up- "barracks" seems to be an evokative and nominal term for many people, evoking glorious pictures of parades, men in fresh, starched uniforms and the Greatest Generation diligently preparing to invade the borders of the Axis of Evil.

When I say barracks, imagine a slum tenement from the 1920s getting a visit from the "convincable" health inspector. "Heya, Phil, y'know 3 toilets work in the entire building? And there's one roll of toilet paper to share between all 3- I saw cockroaches marching in formatiown down'th corridor earlier, too. Yah, I'll sign off on it, becuz' we're buds, but this is some jacked up shit you got going on hur, bud." 200 dollars of renovations later, you have something akin to Ft. Knox barracks- oddly cold during the day, furiously arctic at night, impenetrable layers of dust and grime with cadets wandering through halls, searching for purpose and escape from days to come and flooding portajohns in their near future.

Maybe not quite that bad, but if you go in with low expectations, you'll be pleasantly surprised, though I've heard enough stories about Densberges and Pickett to make me wary of any and all Army AOs. Anyway, here's some packing tips I've learned over lots of solo trips driving, hitchhiking, flying around, and talking to LDAC cadets from years past. Words of advice: Bring everything on your packing list you were told to bring by cadre, that should go without saying. Bring most of the optional stuff (sewing kit? Seriously? any aspiring seamstresses going to be around?...) and some more of this optional stuff that might just make the month crawl by with more gusto and see you return with a touch less of Lyme's disease.

Note: traveling on your own, you want to travel light. At Knox, you want to have your equipment prepared and ahead of time (that you were given by your detachment) and keep track of it (I sharpied just about all clothes, towels, equipment that could be sharpied on any oblong surface available- 500+cadets having identical gear? What can go wrong?) in order to expedite the shakedown and unpacking there. A bit of preparation on the front end saves lots of trouble on the backend. Anyways, here's some things that should be useful:

Anti mosquito arsenal
Army uniforms are treated with permethrin, an industrial pesticide. After an unauthorized procedure called "washing," ACUs begin to lose this potent deterrent to flying malarials. In your best dermal interests, consider-
1+oz of 98.11% DEET. I'm bringing a 4oz spray bottle and 1 oz pen for FOB days. Mosquito net: I read in an ArmyTimes interview with an LT, said he wished he brought a mosquito net... so this one's a nobrainer.
Bracelet, etc: I bought two "rechargeable" anti bug bracelets that I'll loop onto my assault pack and dab some DEET on to give me some additional protection from ticks, chiggers, leopard mosquitoes, and tiger lice that surely roam Knox and wait to pounce and bloody hapless cadets.

For the love of God, bring DEET.

Apparel
 On the packing list are 2 sets of casual clothing- remember, Kentucky is HOT. HOT. And unless you're there for 4th of July, chances are you'll only need this stuff on family day- just think smart.
Extra PTs- I wasn't issued ANY extra because the QM has a permanent shortage of PTs, aka they look nicer in shelves than on cadets. Hopefully I'll be able to purchase another 2 complete sets at the mini shopette there.
Extra tan Tshirts- somehow I ended up with nearly a dozen of these... and I'm taking 9 over the recommended 4. Will extra ones be issued?... Does it matter? If you've heard nightmares of their laundry service, of confused cadets winding up with bags of nothing but socks and the knickers of the CG, you'll be wise to bring extra anything you can wear and MARK IT SOMEHOW. Sharpie on the bottom of the hem where it's not visible when tucked so you can ID your own stuff among thousands of identical shirts.
Extra socks- seriously, 2 pairs of green and/or black socks? For a month? I don't care how many they issue us, there's few better feelings than slipping off sweaty boots, powdering your feet and having fresh, clean socks hug your feet and whisper, "I'll never let you go." If you bring too much of something, you'll  be able to stash it somewhere when we're not in the field (most likely... I mean, logic is a rare beast in the jungles of Knox). Helmet padding- I have a few small pads in my kevlar to distribute the weight better than the sweaty, wonderful suspension system that crowns you with pain and 3lbs of neck crushing goodness!

Cadet Stuff 
Some of this gear was noted "As required" on the supply sheet. Bring it because you're screwing yourself otherwise, things like: Notebooks- y'know, for writing OPORDs and writing letters? Rite in the rain notebook- I'm bringing one of these because the moment you don't think you need one... boom. Thunderstorm just as you're finishing a PLT combat OPORD and you're soaked, along with your precious OPORD skeleton that you just filled out and is now dribbling down onto your TMK in sodden paper bits. Remember- Fort Knox hates you, and once you accept that it's still uphill, but, uh, yeah. There's no upside, it's just nice realizing. Pens and pencils- laugh now and regret not having them when your TAC is making you cry over not having anything to write with and you whittle a pencil out of a branch and ashes. Folder- you'd think it's a no brainer... Keep papers, pamphlets, travel orders in here. Books/Kindle- even if they take this away during the shakedown, I'd rather take my chances. Without cadets being pressured to do retarded hip pocket training during all down time, there's the occasional lull in training (or waiting) and open opportunity to read... or play/bring playing cards! Worth their weight in gold during long days in the barracks, AKA every day in the barracks.
3x5 notecards- good for to-do lists, assigning positions and tasks to other cadets in garrison, jotting down notes when a notebook isn't suitable. Laundry- I'm bringing little pods, a cadet last year had laundry detergent explode in one of his duffel bags- equal parts hilarious and horrifying. Colored duct tape/sharpie- As mentioned earlier, there'll be plenty of times where 200+ duffel bags are being lobbed out of the back of a truck and guess what? They're identical! Label as much gear as you can, and duct tape your duffel bag or at least your locks so they're distinguishable in a sea of OD green and cadet sadness.

Attitude- leave your baditude at home. CST will have lots of terrible, terrible moments where you haven't showered for a few days and your PLT smells like Beelzebub's sphincter gone rogue and your tent was flooded and somehow alligators are patrolling the AO between tents. Come in with low expectations but high hopes for learning and developing as a leader. You're the 1%< of people in the USA that will ever be an officer, and that's a privilege; being able to serve our country and lead its finest. You'll butt heads with pants on head retarded cadets, that's normal anywhere you go. Suck it up and have fun with your battle buddies, make sure you know your OPORDs and TLPs and basic Mil Sci stuff and it won't be as bad as it could be!

Not a viable leadership strategy.

Hope you found this helpful as someone related to a CLC cadet, cadre, or just wondering about how great training is- so great! Have fun @ the Fort of Hard Knox, I know I will!.... hopefully.

Thoughts on a Plane (somewhere over the Continental USA)

Well, I figured a year hiatus of writing would get any audience ready for another dangle of goodness, right?! Here's a cop out: once upon a time, I was on a plane across the United States- the inside of a wonderful ol' C-17 cargo plane. It's a place that has a strange, cold familiarity to it. For context, I wrote this while beginning my month long trip overseas, which ended up with me traveling from New Jersey to Charleston, SC to Travis AFB in California to Hawaii to Japan to Shanghai Airport (doesn't count as the country if you're just at the airport!) to Korea for over a week, back through Japan and then to Anchorage Alaska with a wonderful, hospitable friend and finally a fateful 20 hour journey home through Edwards AFB involving waiting 6 hours for a Greyhound, walking five miles, and taking more public transportation than can possibly be healthy for you.

For you, the reader, I just poured geography soup on the screen. I'll elaborate on the good bits of the trip sometime, hopefully before I repeat the insanity this summer. However, right now I'm sharing something I wrote a few miles up when I had a terrible feeling of foreboding and anxiety like I'd never felt before- but I'll stop talking and you can start reading now, and gain a glimpse into the fear driven thoughts of Jerschina the Younger.

Imagine me in here, where it's cold and loud!

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I paced around the steel body of the aircraft, bobbing my head anxiously, deep in thought. To calm myself, I walked over to one of the C17 side windows and peered down at the ground, trying to hash out a favorite lesson of mine: “Look at how small everything is from up here… everything we do is insignificant, save for the work of God. It’s just all worth nothing in the scale of things.”

"Wonder how many people down there are pooping right now..."

For some unfathomable reason, this did not help my anxiety at all. The problem was, much like eating a disgusting brownie, you’re not exactly sure what the problem is- poor baker hygiene? Too much sugar, not enough chocolate mocha lovin’ poured into the brownies? Except in this case, I was on my way to Travis Air Force Base in California with plenty of ideas but nothing serious. Japan was on the table, but as a cadet, I’m supposed to stay in the US, but that never stopped anyone, ey? There’s two nights in between flights to Hawaii and Japan, and I don’t know what to do- probably just hunker down in some corner of the base and sleep, hopefully unnoticed by MPs.

The anxiety started the moment I finished reading In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson. I guess the sadness of finishing a book, which is comparable to slowly suffocating a good friend, simply was compounded by my anxiety over literally knowing nothing about what I’m doing and where I’m going. Plopping down unceremoniously into my jump seat, I pulled up YouBible and started scrambling for something to calm me. I found it: Psalm 19. Also, eating everything I could helped.

Jerschinas are supposed to be invincible… and we ARE. But I’m constantly eating loads of food and chugging water, and so even a perceived lack of either can be very stressful, despite my knowledge that I should be able to survive weeks without the former and at least half a week without the latter. Either way, knowing that I don’t have some horrible intestinal disease and consequently do not explosively spew the contents of my stomach into the seat of my pants periodically, does not alleviate the fact that I am hungry. (One year later editor's note: I'm not sure how I made this jump here, from one train of thought to a barge on a river thought... musta been something I ate.)

The worst thing is waiting. I want to get somewhere and do something, or even nothing. Either is fine. If Japan doesn’t work I’ll do the HelpX exchange at that camp. If I do make it, I’ll be in a country I’m not supposed to be in surrounded by people I don’t know and can’t understand, and that actually sounds like alot of fun, at least for a little while. Right now, though, I’m out of reading material and stuck pacing around the cargo bay, peeking down through the crew chief door window.  It’s like being on the other side of a glass window with the shades down, knowing that all sorts of goodies wait on the other side, except you don’t know what they are. Hopefully Australia, soon!

A land of marmite, sweet accents, and deadly everything.

I need motivation is my problem, and right now “It’ll be an awesome story” isn’t really cutting it. I’m not about the suck. I’m about looking pretty and being cool. If I get to Japan and bum around and couchsurf, it’s better than stewing at home, but within a month Kosovo awaits, and there’ll be camaraderie and photos and food and supervised trips that I’ll dutifully abandon. See, hitchhiking a thousand miles through Canada would be cool, and there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so to speak; a tangible end goal… “the wild.” This is what the Army has done to me: instilled this terrifically insane notion that I need a team around me and I need a mission to complete. Like noone says, the Army giveth, and the Army taketh away…

Planet Fitness - Face to Face with Mediocrity

Disclaimer: Try reading Part 1 first: http://nevercollege.blogspot.com/2014/05/planet-fitness-down-and-dirty-part-1.html  The disclaimer there should save me a little bit of time. Plus, word on the street is Part 1 is hilarious.

Thanks to CJ for proofing this post. I know it comes as a shock to you, the reader, that someone cares to proofread something like this. Don't worry, I usually don't! I'd rather look at myself in the mirror to compensate for my lack of will to correct myself. Enjoy!
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Signing up Online
Last time I was spotted exiting Planet Fitness, an employee informed me that signing up online would shorten my time at the front desk, waiting for some chump to clomp around on a keyboard... more or less verbatim, actually. And so, in the better interests of not having my time wasted while a simultaneous attack was staged on my eyes by the purple-yellow walls drilling into my retinas and the horse-like clomping of fists on a keyboard, I listened to a PF employee. Don't get used to it, buckos.

"Uh-huh. Wow. This is fascinating. Please, tell me more. No way."

However, there were some concerning things that caught my attention on their website. For instance: you receive a free t-shirt when you sign up, which was a nice touch, but not as if I'm ever gonna wear that sucka. That same free shirt is available up to the tent-like size of 7 X-Large. Beautiful ladies and gentlemen, I knew that this is the Land of the Brave, the Free, and McD's, but what exactly entails 7 XL? I'm having trouble imagining this size. I can see now, dozens of small, Singaporean children dressed in rags with dirty feet and faces, nimbly sewing a garment the size of a small city block. Days later, the shirt is loaded into an entire shipping container and sent overseas. The entire container ship leans dangerously towards the side the container is on. Upon arrival, the t-shirt is draped over the Empire State Building to ensure a snug fit, and then brought to a local Planet Fitness to be given away to a new patron. This is the story of a 7 XL, more or less from start to finish.

As for myself, I did not choose a 7XL shirt, because my house does not need an improvised fumigation tent anytime soon. Instead, I went for a regular ol' large. That way, there's just enough fabric leftover when I tear off the Planet Fitness logo and my pecs are scandalously exposed. It's ok, though, when people faint from such a magnificent sight. Why? Because I'm a very well qualified nursing student, so I can confirm they have a pulse and assess the texture of their hair, both quite important things to monitor.

Anyway, two of the options on "How you heard about Plant Fitness" were the 'Biggest Loser' show and then simply Drive-by, without any elaboration. I'm just going to go ahead and leave you to fill in the incredulous comments I have about both of those.

Entering the Pagan Abode
For those of you who haven't read my brief thoughts on the accoutrement of PF, feel free to check my last post. For those of you who had the opportunity to appreciate such fine literature, read on! To summarize, a normal Temple of Swole is built as a monument to the glory of the muscle-bound human body. A few chest hairs of Arnold Schwarzenegger are buried under the foundation to imbue the entire room with pure excellence and Austrian testosterone. This, as opposed to a PF, which is a poor adulteration of true Temple- small, weak machines surrounding an island of unspeakably horrid cardio machines, all slowly sinking into a foundation of pizza grease, pure sadness and beer sweat.

It turns out beer sweat and sadness are not stable building materials.

I walked in with this in the back of my mind, and as I attempted to retrieve my ID from them the two women fumbled around and clomped around on the keyboard, much to my chagrin. Eventually, I was on my way. Stashing my things in the locker room, which smelled vaguely of sadness, alcohol, and BO, I began to circle the entire gym like an agitated jaguar, searching for muscle-prey: weights. Horrifyingly enough, there were literally no free barbells. That's like running a hot dog stand with only soda and overpriced pretzels, and no hot dogs. It's wrong by principle. In the place of real barbells were a few Smith machines. After I picked myself back up off the floor after weeping for want of a real barbell, the diesel-swole journey continued. Along the way though, I ran into a few interesting characters...

No Judgment Zone?

I'm not sure what the big deal about the 'No Judgement Zone' at PF is. Maybe I'm not in the position where that kind of thing benefits me, but the concept of settling in an athletic setting doesn't sit well with me, like an amateur fakir sitting on an extra sharp bed of nails. When I go to a gym, I don't scoff condescendingly at the guys that are smaller than me or fatter than me... and that's because I'm pretty focused on me, quite honestly. That, or admiring (admittedly for a little too long) the crazy brolic dude who's squatting an entire tractor in the corner and how phenomenal his form is... and dude, did you see his sick hams? Dang, bro. I don't care about someone chugging away on an elliptical. That thing is literally just a sadsack excuse for cross-country skiing. It looks like you're flailing in midair. It's the exercise machine version of being thrown off a building and wishing you were a bird with the added benefit of burning a calorie every now and then. It's physically impossible to look intimidating while actually using an elliptical, mostly due to the fact that you look like a duckling that's been raised by rabid chickens with all your flailing.

"This week, on "Is He Using an Elliptical or Actually Falling?!"

But just for your amusement, and of course not anyone's judgment, let's recall some of the interesting characters that I had the pleasure of running into at PF on my first real visit. Let's start off with some sensory buzzwords to warm up: beer sweat. Inverted muffin-top. Confused vagabond. So let's start off with one fella who walked out of the bathroom with two 35lb dumbbells... like, what was he doing with them? Was he simultaneously droppin' a deuce while doing curls or shoulder presses? I feel like there'd be some mind-sphincter-muscle confusion there that couldn't possibly end well, or at the least some odd grunting noises that would sound like he was rhythmically pushing out his Taco Bell lunch with a great deal of pain and effort.

Then there was elliptical boy- believe me, there's a reason I was making fun of that machine so much. Some skinny teenager in a bro tank that he didn't deserve kept staring at me while I was working out. I'd sense white pupils drilling into me and just look up at the mirror to see this guy jolt up and look back to some lame TV show. When he was going to wipe off the elliptical from all the sweat that wasn't there, he accidentally knocked one of the spray bottles of suspiciously murky green cleaning liquid into the trash can with an audible thump, not unlike a small child being knocked unconscious. Perhaps awakening some repressed memory from that sound, he straightened upright like a middle aged man during his prostate exam and shot me a deer in headlights look right before scurrying off quickly. I would've said something just to scare him, but I was legitimately afraid that if I said something his poor ol' heart would give out at the young age of 15 or whatever.

Next was mushroom head. Ladies and gents, I'm sure you're all familiar with bowl cuts, and if you're not, that means you're likely sporting a mean one at this very moment. However, what I saw was nothing like that- it can most accurately be described as 'mushroom head.' The hair was nonexistent up to his brow-line, at which point it erupted outwards to look like a respectably sized volcano erupting from a young Hispanic teenager's head. This man could've had his whole body covered in tattoos, but his haircut still would've completely destroyed any street cred he had. Also, he walked between me and the mirrors in the middle of a set, which is one of the most inexcusable things in the history of the world, right below the Inquisition.

Last, we feature a myriad of interesting smelling men, and by interesting, I mean those who proudly spread their aroma like a dog marks their territory: sloppily and liberally. One guy, a short, middle aged Puerto Rican man with oversized jeans, could be recognized by the trademark beginning of puberty middle schooler scent, 'Eau de Drowned in a Bathtub of Axe.' On the other side of the ring was someone who bore a striking resemblance to the previous fellow, but trains with the philosophy that a tipsy workout is better than no workout, and broadcast his lovely cheap beer breath like a dragon breathes fire at dwarves stealing his gold, and with similar range, too.

"This feels like a movie refere-AHHH A DRAGON'S EATING ME!"

Ready for Round 2
Between duct-taping weights together to achieve respectable weight and sobbing like a lost kid at a supermarket because deadlifting is straight up outlawed there, my first visit at PF had come to an end. Unfortunately, I did not set off the Lunk Alarm, but fortunately. I was able to spend most of time in front of the 1 mirror panel in all of PF that was not in the bathroom. It's like they don't even want you to see yourself at this place, and isn't that what the gym is all about?

So it turns out this place is more of a club than a gym, with free pizza, pathetic free weights, and only Smith machines. This is a place Arnold Schwarzenegger outgrew before he started growing pubes, and where swarthy Hispanic men come to gloat that they're lifting the biggest weights on the rack. I'm not about this life. This isn't living the dream, at least not for me. It's a cardio palace, sure, but between bouts of travelling far and wide, I'm going to be looking for a carved-out-of-stone, monuments to the Rock, bona fide Temple of Swole with grunting, sweaty men (no homo?) and weights that a 15 year old punk won't be able to lift. If you need me, I'll be at the nearest quarry squatting a boulder while googling local temples of swole.

Terrible form, buddy. 

Planet Fitness: The Down and Dirty, Part 1

Disclaimer: All posited self-impressions of insecurity and body dysmorphia are only partially true and greatly embellished. Also, I'm sure that Planet Fitness serves as an excellent vehicle for some people trying to get in shape, I'm just not sure how or why. But more on that next!
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Now, there's no beans about it- you can't walk into a gym without properly casing it first. You need to find out some basics: who is the swolest, monster-huge diesel bro in this place? What kind of traffic is there around the bench press and free weights? How many bands of puny, roving, time-wasting little teenagers are there swarming single pieces of equipment for hours on end? Do the water fountains actually work? Also, how many layers of slime mold are there on the water fountains? Without this important information, you can find yourself helpless with an arm pump fading; the blood slowly evacuating every single axillary blood vessel you have and nowhere to revive the dying friend that is, or rather was, your sick arm pump. Why? Because there's a half a dozen gangly teenagers watching a cat video in front of the free weights, and apparently, it is poor gym etiquette to throw 45's at people.

In other words, case the gym- find the hot spots, the sticky spots, and the slippery spots, and bring rubber-soled shoes as appropriate to the situation.  Here's what I found in Planet Fitness.

A land of terrifying and mystical crimes against humanity!!!
Although I'll be the first to admit, this picture conveys that
in a much more emotional than literal sense... meh! We can
work with it.

Breaking (my own will) and Entering (a P-F)
I sat there in a petite gray Toyota, gazing balefully at the front of the Planet Fitness. The clashing purple and yellow colors were causing me physical anguish; literally burning into my retinas with their gaudy hues. To calm my eyes and steady my heart palpitations, I read a relaxing space opera for a few minutes. Slamming the book shut, I took a few deep breaths, hurled myself out the driver door, and assuredly walked towards the Planet Fitness. Questions raced through my mind faster than fat people chasing Twinkies on an indoor track- that is, rather slowly but very prominently: would I be chastised for not being fat? Would the purple and yellow walls literally vaporize me with their horrid color patterns? Would the Lunk Alarm sound the moment I opened the door? Most importantly of all, was there actually any real weight inside of the P-F?

Battery and Assault (of everything I once thought decent in a gym)
A Pacific Islander woman of some sort turned her head in my vague direction as I strutted through the doors. Fazed by confidence unseen in the premises for some time, she stuttered a greeting as her mind attempted to cobble together the words to properly acknowledge me.

"Good afternoon! I'm looking into possibly maybe, hm, considering the potential option of eventually joining this gym. Can I get, uh, a tour or something?" I asked, pretending that I couldn't already see the entire gym from where I was standing. The only reason I wanted a tour was because word on the streets from my man Izzy-G was that P-F only had dumbbells going up to 60lbs. I refused to believe such an acrimonious accusation without seeing it with my own two eyes, which now had purple and yellow patterns blazed into them permanently.

The woman gazed at me from behind a fort of makeup and insecurity which barricaded all facial features inside her head, and apparently, also coherent words. "Uh, well... gym. Yes. I am... I mean, it is. This." (Slightly exxagerated for comedic effect.)

"Hahaha! I'm so confused, tee-hee!"

Luckily, her partner in gym-crime and common bro-decency violation swooped in and helped me. He responded promptly to my request for a tour. From behind a mop of chestnut brown hair and a braces-induced lisp, he began talking to me while he calmly exited his cute little desk castle, offering me windows into this incredible, seedy underbelly of the fitness world. He talked about some of the machines, and then gestured towards purple booths that resembled indoor outhouses. (Not bathrooms, mind you, but literally indoor outhouses.) "Do you tan?" He asked in a manner more personal than professional.

 "My beautiful complexion is only bronzed in the finest tropical suns, good sir," I informed him.
"Oh... because we have tanning booths with the Premium Ultra Bonanza P-F Card. It's only 249.99$ extra a month. It also includes those massage chairs..." I shook my head.

Walking by the bathrooms, he gestured, remarking, "Well, these are our bathrooms... your garden variety bathrooms, really. They have lockers and locks and, y'know, all the bathrooming stuff."
I nodded as if I was paying really close attention, which I was. I had to survive this ordeal and document it for posterity's sake.

A World (of Gainslessness) unlike any other
The environment in which we were conducting our safari did not seem at all conducive to gains-seeking forms of human life. I was perplexed. How does one survive here? By wringing the sweat out of towels and drinking the questionably translucent green liquid in the spray bottles? By eating what must be spony weights attached to each of these feeble machines? Lo and behold, I could not see anyone sweating anywhere around me, and the machines seemed too feeble even for sustenance. The mysteries, and odd substances in the spray bottles, thickened.

I would've put a picture here, but after googling 'congeal,' 

my board of editors advised rather strongly against it.

While my courteous guide was cutting our tour short of the dumbbell rack to trundle between equipments intended for some exotic sort of exercise known to indigenous P-F populace as 'Car-dyow,' I stopped dead in my tracks and stared wistfully over at the dumbbell RACK (that's right, barely one, I was as shocked as you surely are at this moment) in order to attempt to verify Izzy-G's audacious claim that dumbells in this foreign place only matched with numerals up to sixty. I squinted and flexed most of my facial muscles in order to increase the bloodflow to eyes, and I almost wish I hadn't- a 60lber was the largest weight I could see, gym patrons nonwithstanding, hehe.

I must've let out a tiny gasp, or perhaps an inaudible scream from my very soul, because my personal P-F sherpa followed my gaze and consoled me, "Oh, those are the dumbbells over there. Not much to look out. However, that Lunk Alarm goes off is someone's being loud grunting or banging weight around."

I shed a lonely tear of agreement and mourning, then sucked it back in. I refused to let this house of heathens receive even a drop of my precious moisture. That bit about the Lunk Alarm definitely caught my attention, however.

"I'm 2 years old and I use 70s to shrug, waaaah! Need bigger weights!"

End of Recon Brief
As my personal pathfinder concluded our tour and talked to me about some finer points of P-F culture, I recalled several fascinating tidbits. First, he kept referring to this place as a 'club.' This was deeply disturbing to me. I thought this was a gym, and perhaps I was misled into this state of mind- but clubs are for swarthy Italian men and corrupt Union mobsters smoking cigars, splayed out contentedly eating strombolis and cannolis, and other fun foods that end in that satisfying 'i' sound. As if confirming this suspicion indirectly, I was informed there were Pizza Mondays and Bagel Tuesdays on the first and second weeks of the month, respectively. I gasped again. How DARE these people desecrate this, huh, SO-CALLED temple of swole with such impure macronutrients!!! I politely excused myself, eye twitching and legs cramping up from sheer absurdity, and dashed out the door of Planet Fitness. As the blasphemy induced dizziness subsided and the swirling yellow and purple bands of color in my vision faded, I realized I had seen all I needed to see...

It is my destiny to set off the Lunk Alarm time after time again, until the pillars of this establishment come crashing down and there is nothing left in the carnage save for the 45lbers and the sole rack of dumbbells contained therein, relics kidnapped by this realm of philistines and barbarians- except that those words might conjure images of strong, pillaging, marauding men of brawn and, well, not valor, but whatever's the opposite of that, so perhaps a realm of philistines and softbodies. Anyway, destiny and all that. In the words of the great Arnold, "I will be back," though next time with some tinted goggles to protect my eyes and some preworkout to fuel my anabolic rage!!

This suspicious gaze matched my own. The beautiful jawline, unfortunately, did and does not.

My Foray into an (Il)Legal? Underground Fighting Ring

Surprising as this may be, I've never actually been in a dead-to-rights fight, even being from North Jersey and all. Sure, I pick up plenty of street words and sound like I may be from the suburbs around the block, but that's just Jersey big talk. But fights? I'm not sure alot of people have gotten into a serious one- maybe the classic being shoved into lockers or lashing out blindly in the general direction of the punk who just called you tubby (let's be honest, he's not fooling anyone about his size either). Misguided imaginary youthful anger aside, let me sprawl out a roll of word-canvas... paper, they may call it, these days... and paint a night of fun,eternity, and pain, with words. Writing! That's what it's called. So, enjoy.

My Foray into an (Il)Legal? Underground Fighting Ring

Veering towards the treacherous, rocky, and frankly quite boring highway that is semantics, let me be the first to admit the need to clear up any misconceptions about that racy title: everything here is exaggerated waaaaaaay out of proportion, just like those earrings make your nose look like an angry hippo- knurly and garguantuan!

'Your mom joke' here.

Getting Involved
Much like switching career choices from a garbageman to a trash collector, becoming involved in a fighting ring was a scarily passive experience. There was no special training involved, no diploma mill to attend, no faux fighting instructor who never actually set foot in a dojo but saw oodles of sweet 90's Bruce Lee action flicks. A good friend simply looked over at me, sized me up real quick and asked casually, "Hey, wanna fight someone?" Of course, being the incredibly tough and hardcore guy I am, I responded, "Uh... sure, I guess, I mean, when?" He got the hint. I wasn't someone to be trifled with. If I was in, I was in it for real. Pink slips or nothing. Boxing gloves with glass shards in them. Spectators armed with cattle prods and dart guns. Or whatever a real underground boxing ring looks like. Thing is, I was in it to win it- "Except I have a dope BBQ earlier that day, so it'll have to be late."

Turns out the (il)legal? underground fighting rings happen late, and I was out a fairly truthful excuse.

The Preparation
When you're gearing up for your first fight, you want to make sure you do things right. Rigorous preparation, carefully planned smack talk, and a randomly chosen gang sign shaved into your chest hair. Also, calling your big brother to beat the other guy into a pulp. Unfortunately, I don't have an electric shaver and didn't want to alarm any friends with my sudden LA Kings (Either that's a dangerous gang or a basketball team made up entirely of retired gang members) membership, and I skipped right to trying to get my brothers here. Again, in the most inopportune of circumstances, I live thousands of miles away from them, and to be frank here, if one of them suddenly called me asking to venture out to the wasteland-y cornfields of Ohio to beat some punk up to get 'em out of a fight- well, I'd turn them down unless some delicious and rich dessert was involved. Seriously, Ohio blows, 'much as I'd love to help a brotha out, literall, there'd have to be some kind of compensation, like a trip to Cheesecake Factory.

"Get me some carrot cake cheesecake and I'll gladly see to it that he goes sleepin' with the fishies."

Instead, I ended up tiring myself out endlessly before the fight- a draining physical fitness test then going nuts in a weight room the day before, and then an hour of ruthless cardio a few hours before the fight, with some brownie/peanut butter chip cupcakes to boot. Needless to say, I was readier for a beating than a seal with a flat skull heading towards a shore filled with men waving clubs. On the other hand, I did google "beginner boxing tips" and browse for nearly 10 minutes, so call me a full-blown amateur if you will.

The Night of the Fight
For the sake of some semblance of confidentiality, I'll omit describing the venue other than saying it was outdoors and near a cornfield at night, surrounded with some tailgatin', blaring speakers and beaming spotlights... that is to say, I could've been just about anywhere in the American Midwest.

Literally anywhere in this picture could've been the spot where we fought.

My opponent got colder feet than me and was stuck in terribly suspicious traffic, although in Ohio that could mean following a single tractor for hundreds of miles on a dirt road. Anyway, between rounds of others ruthlessly beating each other, I'd be announced as they searched for a challenger. I was excited. I wanted to fight. Also, I wanted to go to sleep, but the preworkout I took earlier was shaking my vascular system like an earthquake shakes a pool full of jello and fat people; also, there's a good chance a train could've passed through my pupils from all the caffeine in my system.

Anyway, they found an opponent- he was someone's cousin from out of town and claimed to be 170lbs, though he looked more like 200- you'd swear he was a woman from the way he lied about his weight, and said he'd never trained for this (someone later said he was training a little over 2 weeks... dirty out-of-towners.) However, the two of us scrambled looking for someone who could tell us literally anything- when were we fighting? How many other people are we sharing a mouthguard with? Can I wipe my own blood with a towel and frame the towel? That'd be a great table centerpiece.
We received a few answers, some more satisfying than others, and had our hands wrapped while we heard the crowd cheering with bloodlust at some other chumps knocking the snot out of each other.

The Fight
Our names, hometowns and walk-on songs were hastily jotted down earlier and a fellow ran the paper with all that info out to the tailgate DJ. We were called on, respectively taking our hoodies off and showing the crowds what kind of fight it was going to be. "Fun fun fun," I thought, failing to see the crazed glare of whom I'll go ahead and designate Captain Meth at this point. Called to the center, we listened to the ref tell us no more than two rules, one of which I believe was, "Don't get too much blood on the gloves, we need those clean for the next fights." The disjointed sound of a fighting bell went off as we entered our edges of the circular wall of what can only be described from my perspective as short shorts, snapbacks, and brotanks. The three judges, jotting down notes on lined notebooks, nodded expectantly.

"Are we really rating the fight, or taking notes, or what? This is much better than class."

Captain Meth lunged towards me and began pummeling me like a farmer presses a hardy grape. I was backing away slightly, attempting to keep my gloves up. A frenetic punch nailed my jaw, jolting my head to the side. Another one slammed into my nose, knocking one of my contact lenses into the grass below. "This isn't what I imagined it like," I thought to myself. "Things were supposed to be muuuuch slower, and he wasn't supposed to be hopped up on what I can only assume is pure Colombian snow." The novelty of being shirtless in front of an admiring crowd was quickly eclipsed by the pain of another flailing attack on my front, where I eventually found the wisdom to keep my gloves up. The round ended and I stumbled into my corner, slamming down into my resting throne (aka plastic lawn chair). Spitting out my mouthguard, I muttered to my loyal pit team, "Oh my god, I'm actually going to die. I lost a contact. Let's get some pain, baby!" Or maybe probably not that third one, who remembers for sure? They ignored me, sprayed my general mouth area with cold water, and watched me pant as feardrenaline pumped throughout my body and I tried to focus with my one good eye.

Footage from the scene, add a bloody nose and raring crowd and it's just like you were there!

Second round. I'll be honest, at this point, I don't remember much except I flexed my traps and made eye contact with Captain Meth at the beginning of the round, seeing from his pronounced heaving that flailing at me was apparently more exhausting than being flailed at. Still living up to his name this round, Captain Meth was running himself into the ground as the cheers of the crowd broke out whenever a half-solid punch landed and I began catching the rhythm of the fight, contributing weakly to a barrage of fists. It was sometime during this round I distinctly remember thinking through the haze of a mild concussion, "These are the longest seconds of my entire life, and I've watched old Arnold movies for fun."

Third round! I was ready. This was my time to shine. Captain Meth was exhausted, and I spent this round pushing him back into the crowd and flailing away, though whenever he turned his head, I'd throw my gloves up so the judges could see I wasn't hammering the back of his head. This was the 2nd rule we were told. I don't even remember why I cared so much about this rule- he had no qualms about punching me when I stumbled backwards earlier; perhaps the fact that both of us were exhausted beyond words contributed. Still, I felt a tinge of superiority- I may have been deflated, trucked, and cracked during these rounds, but at least I fought fair, though I might've gotten some blood (my own, of course) on the glove from wiping my nose... well, at least I kept half the rules. Anyway, eyeing Captain Meth with my one contact I had left, I feinted and landed a solid blow on his jaw. That's all I wanted, and I got a few more good ones in as the seconds crawled by. As the end of the round was counted down, Captain Meth and I stepped closer menacingly to the middle of the circle and the crowd got quiet, then we both backed away, seeing that one more punch either way probably would've just left us both on the ground. Collapsing into my corner, I was congratulated for surviving my first boxing match, had more water sprayed generally towards my face, and some blood wiped from my nose. The pair of us were called in for the decision of the ramshackle judges, and Captain Meth was declared the unanimous winner.

'Captain Meth' according to google. I'd say this is a stunningly accurate picture of my opponent.

I was tired. Also, my head hurt. Most of my face did, actually, along with most of my body. But I survived my first real fight- and I was only a contact and a bit of pride out. I slothfully trundled inside to congratulate Captain Meth on a good fight and try to figure out why I could hear a train coming towards me out of my left ear and not my right.

Free Roads: A Heavy Pack. Hitchhiking!

"Yea, I'd reckon that the days of hitchhiking are pretty much over. Back when I was younger, you didn't really think twice about thumbin' it really," Mark guffawed at me. A retired triple dipper drawing pensions from social security, the post office and another job, Mark dreams of getting a boat and RV and traveling the states. "Did you know it's legal to hitch a boat behind a trailer in 28 states?" My life was fundamentally changed by this resoundingly important information. "Wow, that's impressive," I replied, trying with great difficulty to express just how life-changing his previous statement was.

Over and over, I heard hitchhiking is a thing of the past, like lead paint or white MJ. "The world's changed, Jeff. There's crazy people out there." Well I'll tell you what, lead paint's still out there helping make our nation great, and white MJ... well, there's always more lead paint somewhere.

There's crazy people out there. Sure, maybe there's a few more than once upon a time the drug-induced comatose 60's, but that's just because the burying-bodies-under-the-porch and cannibalism-crazed people no longer keep to themselves. There was a time and day when nutters had the gosh-darn decency to keep to themselves and cozily murdered in their private culdesacs and  forlorn side streets. Then came the media and turns out you go bonkers, you get famous for a bit and your mugshots with the crooked glasses and terrifyingly large smile go viral, and suddenly, every hitchhiker is either murder-bait or just scouting for some throats to slit and hatchets to dull on bone... seriously, do you know what bone does to a blade?

Arrested for crimes against fashion and life, I presume.

Well, Jack Keruoac, I did you proud and I went crazy for a few days. A little over half a dozen rides in three days spanning half a thousand miles. Maybe I didn't make it halfway to Mexico in the back of a pickup truck, smoking a Lucky Strike and fighting the occasional sailor punk, but I got a taste.

So here's some tips on what to look out for when you decide to give it all up for a bit and stick out your thumb- while I'm no expert, I'm much more qualified than you, so wait, I am an expert- so perk your ears up and pay attention to these tips, amateur.

1: Start in a solid spot with not-so-solid stuff

So, you're sick of people mocking you for your bowlegged walk and the funny way you slurp beverages out of foam cups. After coincidentally quitting your job the day before that big fire broke out at work, you hit the road. Make sure you have a pack! Bring food like Clif Bars, peanut butter and jelly and tortilla wraps, canned sardines, and plenty of water in a camelbak or reusable container. Pack clothes- not too much, not too little, mostly socks and boxers. I brought a tent and sleeping bag and some other junk, but I'm insane.

After evading police patrols while getting out of town, you need to decide where to go, hopefully, a state where arson's not such a big deal. You can go big- get to a highway rest stop and head, y'know, away. Travel stops and such are a decent place to hang around if a long haul's the ticket you have in mind... or you can cowpath, which means hitchhike along local roads and state routes, because like cowpaths, you will zigzag across the landscape with the directional prowess of a lobotomized madman and eat lots of grass. Point is, know how far in general you want to go, and pick a spot to start from that doesn't suck. For instance, the center of NYC is decidedly a poor place to start a journey, much like your Aunt Linda's dinner table is a poor choice of venue for a conversation with any semblance of sanity. Aunt Linda's crazy, yo.

Not the cute crazy, either, the "nibbling on a crayon while staring at you with soulless eyes" crazy.

2. Embrace the Road

It's good to be free! You burned your bridges (ok, maybe just an office, so just one bridge) and the road is your bumpy, cruel, and occasionally maddening mistress. Fields of wheat, an open sky, and stories lay ahead, and the only thing stopping you is, well, you! There's plenty that's terrible about hitchhiking, but a feeling of freedom and joyful irresponsibility is one of the best parts. You can travel yonder and let wanderlust whirl you around like a particularly light tumbleweed, through golden wheatfields and well-mowed lawns and avenues of trees standing at leafy attention.

Now's the time to realize: being self-conscious does not work for the hitchhiker. While you want to look presentable and minimally murdersome, you need to reach out to people. Your mum will not stick your thumb out for you, and your buddy won't kick your legs to walk for ya. To stick your thumb out and succeed at being a derelict of civilized society, there's plenty that needs to happen. Get over yourself. You're interesting, but noone owes you anything, dammit! It's easy to feel entitled while hitchhiking, but thinking out loud and talking to yourself (like Aunt Linda does) helps you realize how absurd your thinking can be. "I'm a well-off white person who wants you to inconvenience yourself and pick me up at risk to yourself so I can shamelessly benefit! Aw, c'mon!"

Expect rejection. Not many people pick up hitchhikers, because most people are stupid and soulless floozies who stumble through life not doing much other than trimming their nose hairs and dreaming of happiness. These drones, set on automatic programming, find it easy to miss you on the road. They'll stare past you, at you, into you, through you, or at their glowing crotch as they play Candy Crush and nearly crush you in the process. I got stuck thumbing on an on-ramp for a few hours, a major intersection, what have you. sometimes, there's just noone that wants to pick you up. Ya suck it up, throw a hissy fit, and keep walking. Wait an hour, two hours, remember- you're not entitled to anything, shameless parasite!

"Ah, the beauty of being a complete bum..."

3. Be interesting and active when the situation requires

If you sit and do nothing, you will go exactly 0 miles while hitchhiking. Well, 0 might be a bit specific, there's wind and tectonic plate movement to account for, but let's just round off and say you're not gettin' awful far.

You need to be walking, thumbing it, smiling at drivers, asking where people are going, and thinking of alternate routes all the while. When I was on a rest-stop on I-70, I'd walk in front of all the trucks with a sign reading, 'East.' When someone cast a glance in my direction for a moment too long, I'd start a dialogue with them and shoot off a smiling, "Hey, how are ya?" Other times, when there was little interest in enabling a dreg of society, I'd sit and read a book by the main path in the rest stop looking generally pathetic, pitiable and harmless. Time and place, people. When I got a ride nearly 3 hours and a state trooper later, I was constantly talking to Eric. Eric, my longest and last ride, took me from an I-70 rest stop in Ohio to Niagara Falls. The whole time we were talking and I was making however extra fuel 180 pounds costs worth it.

Eric, who has a PhD in history, was a great driver. He told me about some of his other jobs, from milking cows in Canada to trucking cheese from Wisconsin to Alabama. Currently a bus driver in Ohio, he has a reputation as a mean bus driver, which caused me no little amount of laughter. He goes out of his way to pick up hitchhikers because, "They're interesting, alot more so than me. They have good stories." Eric also revealed I was a poor example of a hitchhiker, they're usually "between 30 and their late 40s and look alot more like tramps than you do. They're always heading somewhere, which I find odd because they don't have anywhere to be."

4. Suck it up, buttercup
There's a bitter moment of realization, a lump of rancid cocoa in hot chocolate, so to speak, whenever you do outdoor things. It's that moment when it's raining and terrifically cold outside at 2am in the morning and you wake up in a clammy, uncomfortable sweat realizing you have to pee. Or, you wanted to hitchhike at least 40 wundy-dundy miles today and ended up walking 10 heat-stroke and sobbing fit soaked miles instead.

Or you take a Greyhound/Mega-bus and encounter the colorful demographic of a city. In my own travel-induced, weariness-laden words:

"The person who had previously entered the Aggressive Odor event in the Olympics seemed to have incapacitated themselves and fallen off the bus, taking their singular stench cloud along with them. I was going to miss that stench cloud; it had the character of a thousand sodden trashcans or a dormful of once lava hot, now forgotten-under-the-couch hot pockets mixed with fresh sewage. It's characters like this that define the greyhound experience in a way ordinary travelers often struggle to do."

Easy and boring are normal.

Being adventurous with a touch of insane? That's the stuff stories are made of. Just remember that insanity means putting up with mundane troubles along with extreme problems: It's often a matter of, "My breath smells worse than the armpits of a thousand dragons" rather than "I wish I had more than two spoons and a motley sleeping bag to fight off this rabid jaguar." But do the ends justify the means- a world of inconvenience for an unknown goal?

Well, it depends. Are you asking a traveler?

"I'm glad I made it here after crossing the mountains of death.
But right now, I need to pee." -Struggles of a traveler