HULK NOT SMASH!

     "Do you think he looks good?" I asked my wife.

     "No.  Actually, that looks nasty!" she answered.

     We were looking at a TV commercial, wherein a Black bodybuilder directs traffic.  A recent Yahoo news article featured similarly buffed up dudes, all of whom were sprayed with some kind of bronze-looking insta-tan.

     In answer to the same question, my wife said:  "No, they don't look good either!"

     "But don't you believe in fitness?" I countered.

     "Not when it turns you into a freak!"

     A month ago I set up a college marketing demo, wherein we built an outdoor gym that featured fitness challenges and exertion tests.  The Grand Prize was the opportunity to win a Spring Break vacation with all the amenities, including airfare, hotel and a complimentary bail bond.  The "at least you tried, you wimp!" consolation prizes consisted of the usual T-shirts, cups and samples of a curious fitness elixir.

     "What is this for?" I asked, holding up a tube of thick, pink liquid.

     My co-worker - a guy who looked more like he belonged on a construction site than a magazine cover - said:

     "Those are for body building."

     "Oh."

     I sipped one; it tasted like Cherry-flavored Robitussin and aluminum.

     My son is built like a gazelle and looks like he has zero percent body fat.  Years ago, I had a physique like his, and even dabbled with fitness briefly (VERY briefly).  To a young(er) man, the prospect of having women ogling over one's finely chiseled physique is intriguing.  After all, who wouldn't want to be able to strut into a room with a snap-away policeman's uniform, strip down to a Speedo and gyrate while crazy frauleins stuffed greenbacks into the waist band?  Years ago, I wanted to try this, but I never did:  With my luck, the women would have paid me a dollar to go away.

     I know I will  never regain my former, svelt figure.  And I will never look like those Hulks in the TV commercials.  But then again, nobody is testing me for steroids or taking away my (imaginary) gold medals.  Sometimes it is great to be a real-life, never-changing Clark Kent or an eternal David Banner. 

Always B Positive!

Spots

     By day I am Clark Kent.  But by night, I am...

     ....Actually, I am just Clark Kent without the suit.   I specialize in doing what other people can't or won't do.  Whether in media/stage production or making sure some pretentious know-nothing has the right wine or scaring little kids while wearing a mascot suit, I do it all.   I like to think of myself as an opportunist; however, I am just a spotted hyena of the African plains, seeking opportunity.

     For over ten years I was a teacher.  With assignments ranging from Kindergarten through University I earned the derision of administrators who could not see past their next accreditation review or Friday night football game.  Vision is in short supply these days.  Yet my most rewarding years were spent in the midst of the Forgotten Ones:  Juvenile Justice.  I taught for over two years at a Residential Facility and one in an Alternative School.

     These were the Statistics.  The Rejects.  They were told by the Establishment that they were Learning Disabled, which gave them justification for dropping out, chasing fast money, and abusing everyone in their paths.  Some would return to public school.  Some were waiting until their eighteenth birthday, whereupon they would be transferred to one of Florida's many Vice Factories and N-word Universities (a.k.a., prisons).  But some had dreams.

     He was a quiet young man.  He was intelligent.  He was probably middle class, but based on his street cred the other kids knew not to mess with him.  In quiet, calm tones he said that he said he wanted to be a fire fighter.

     Fast forward a few years.  I was working as a drone in a bureaucracy that I hated.  One day while walking through the basement (a short-cut to the back parking lot), I saw him; he was my coworker.  He looked the same, albeit a bit more mature.  We exchanged pleasantries, and he let me know that he still wanted to be a fireman.  In this day and age of budget cuts I knew his dream was unlikely, yet I kept my doubts to myself.

     "You'll get there!" I said.

     I changed employers and have exchanged my cage for one far more interesting.  Recently I went into a convenience store and there he was, all decked out in his firefighting gear.  As serious as ever, he smiled.  And I said that I was proud of him.

      I have never seen a fire company with a dog, other than in Norman Rockwell paintings.   But when I met my former student, I felt like I had exchanged my hyena's spots into those belonging to a much nobler creature:  The Dalmation on the fire truck.
 
     We rats have to race, always.  But I believe we find the most satisfaction when we take time to encourage others.

     Always B. Positive!