That’s Nach-os, Macho.

I made up my mind today: I’m going to Texas.

The decision came upon the realization that I have ceased to find an opportunity to make cash over Spring Break. Minot is nice, basking in all of its Super WalMart and mistreated historical buildings glory (which, I find seems to make me increasingly angry each time I see a new parking lot in place of an old establishment), but I just can’t imagine ten consecutive days of it. My road trip south will be a good opportunity to meet new people, learn more about myself, and photograph my adventures while living off a steady diet of PopTarts and Welch’s grape juice. Plus, as a completely random side note, I had one of the best sleeps of my life during last year’s trip, on a gym floor in Rockford, IL. Don’t ask how, but dang! Those were some incredible Z’s.

[Random awkward moment, followed by a change in subject]

I was kicking myself today after I forget my iPod when I went to the gym. Certainly I can move my appendages without tunes, but dangit if Lady Sovereign and Daft Punk aren’t motivation. Nothing helps me bench 100 pounds quite like “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” blaring in my ears! Later on, while toughing out the “random” mode on the cycle, I conveniently positioned myself in front of the television that was tuned into the movie “Ray“. I like Ray Charles, he’s an all right fella, and when forced to decide between viewing his story or watching Tim Allen run around with tribespeople in 1997’s blockbuster “Jungle 2 Jungle” (playing on the opposite television) — I’ll choose Mr. Charles any day.

Settled in and on minute eight, Ray’s just begun his drug use and things are getting pretty engrossing. From the weight lifting area approaches Studmuffin McMacho*, who conveniently positions himself on the treadmill to my left.

Studmuffin has, unbeknownst to his wavy-locked, toned-calf self, jumped on a defunct treadmill. I know this because I enjoy watching people hop on this treadmill time and time again, only to find out after six minutes of pressing buttons that it’s busted; he doesn’t know this because, well, obviously his beefy head has been back in the “Beef Zone” (self-proclaimed) working on his “Which way to da beach?” flex pose for spring break.

After about four minutes of pressing buttons, McMacho is trying to keep his cool and not make it apparent to me that he’s unable to fix the machine. Unfortunately for him, I am a treadmill connoisseur and totally know what the dealie-o is. Busted. At long last he smoothly withdraws from the machine, and in an attempt to make it look like he was actually DOING SOMETHING in the general vicinity, went straight up to the television which was educating me on the life and achievements of Mr. Ray Charles and changed. The. Channel.

OH! SNAP!

Now CLEARLY — emphasis — CLEARLY I was viewing the program on this television. Believe me, I was not staring up in the direction of the TV and watching the wall. What was worse, not only did he change the channel, but he changed it to something that, even if you dangled a bag of Double-Stuf Oreos or a photograph of a shirtless Matthew McConnaughey near the screen, I probably still wouldn’t watch: Basketball.

I don’t know if I’ve made my views on sports coherent. If not, I will right now. You see, I’ve lovingly graced one too many benches, played on one too many “B” teams, seen my share of JV days. I tried, and I was true — but with all do respect to the retired athlete that is banging her head against a wall somewhere in the depths of my soul: you sucked. I’m sorry.

I can live knowing that I wasn’t ample enough to be first-string, or that the reason Coach played me in center field was because no lady on any opposing team hit there. And you and I both know that I was like fine wine riding the pine pony, aging a little bit to get just right before tossing me into the volleyball game and hitting the opponent like a WMD. There’s a reason why they called my position “Defensive Specialist” and my epithet was “Secret Weapon #11” (my number). My day rarely came.

Thus, bitter feelings for sports ensued. I have found far greater talents, including my abilities to gracefully walk in high heels, imitate scenes from “A Night at the Roxbury“, and finally, polish off four cans of hairspray in a fortnight. Impressive.

Studmuffin slinked over to another treadmill down the row and carried out his machoness in front of a different television, one that was broadcasting the same game that he had changed “Ray” to. Meanwhile, I played through a list of possible in responses in my head if, in fact, he would have asked me if it was all right that he change the channel:

1] “Awww HAAAAAAALLLL naw!”

2] “Do I look like a tool to you?”

C] “Let me consult with my cycle on this one….NO.”

iv] “You’d rather watch basketball than Ray Charles using hard drugs? What?”

Through less than amused eyes I watched about two minutes of the game, before I could no longer bear the agony. Departing from my machine, I made a distinct effort to glare in McMacho’s direction. He probably just thought I thought he was a steaming pile of burning love. Blech.

That concludes today’s developments in the life and times of JMC, although today certainly would not have been complete without the formation of new tastebuds for Oreo Cakesters.

Signing off,
jc

*Good looking, but totally not my type.