In October 2009, my good friend Mike sent this hilarious Rick Reilly article from ESPN The Magazine - The Body Issue. Rick Reilly rocks. I wish I could write like him. His article inspired me to write my own Body Issue. So here's my rebuttal, something I've been meaning to get off my chest, if you will.
WARNING:
This is not for the faint of heart. Sorry, no pictures or videos in this installment. You'll thank me later.
Riverside Junior High - Gym Class Locker Room - 1974
The first thing that comes to mind is the Junior High School locker room scene. In Junior High gym class, we all changed and dressed in one room, and showered in one big shower room together, too. Since our bodies all take on lots of changes during those Junior High years, we really could have used some privacy right about then - but there we were, buck naked right at the point where our proverbial caterpillars were turning into butterflies. Or something. It was confusing. Some of us were very self-conscious because we had developed much more quickly than others; and some were very self-conscious for exactly the opposite reason. Then there was the Spanish Inquisition of "gay"ness <-not that there's anything wrong with that (the standard Seinfeld disclaimer applies throughout here)). Some claimed that you must be "gay" if you were behaving in a self-conscious or shy manner; and some claimed you must be "gay" if you were not. You couldn't win. Or lose. I don't know. Like I said, confusing. I remember hearing a heated locker room argument about which was more natural - circumcision or not. Hmmm, isn't it obvious? In any case, we all attained our sexual identity in adulthood, and we now know one thing for sure: inevitably some of us were and are indeed gay. And I'm OK with that. It's OK to be gay. It's all good. I mean that. Really! I've always wondered what the Jr. High girls gym class was going through in those days. Surely, it's best I do not know (and stop calling me Shirley). Ba-da-boom...
Riverside Jr. High - Hole In The Wall Locker Room - 1977
During High School, I was part of a deliciously cliché locker room tradition which I hold myself personally responsible for ruining. Yeah, one of many minor regrets. I claimed my varsity basketball locker at Riverside gym directly against a cinder block wall that separated us from the girl's locker room. There was a hole drilled neatly into the corner of one of the cinder blocks a few feet over my locker. (I did not drill that hole. Honest, your honor.) Through that hole you could peek through and see down into the well-lit, warm and steamy confines of the girls locker room on the other side. It was a feast for the eyes of a hormone riddled teenager and I discretely enjoyed it mostly to myself for several weeks into the season. Then I made the mistake of showing off and sharing a particularly bountiful evening of viewing with some underclassmen. I didn't know it, but the word got out and spread through the grape vine. The next week I was horrified to see that the hole had been filled and capped. The jig was up. I don't know who drilled the hole in the first place, but I can't thank them enough. I'm only sorry the cover was blown, and the holiest of all holes had been unceremoniously wrapped in a cement chastity belt.
Springfield High School - They Call it the "Streak" - 1978
High School in the 70's also means one other fine tradition: streaking. My homies from the 'hood (and you know who you are), would camp out in the front yard during the summer, wait until the middle of the night, disrobe except for our sneakers, and sneak off onto the quiet, mostly untraveled rural roads of our neighborhood. We ran the entire length of Summer Street and back up Wall Street (not *that* Wall St, full of more debauchery than you will ever read here). It seemed like at least a couple of miles streaking. Our white butts we were occasionally flashed by the headlights of a car coming up over a hill and we would run like the dickens (so to speak) into the cover of the nearby shrubbery. And you know what? It's true, you really can run faster naked. Anyway, we talked seriously of streaking down to the local bakery when it opened at 5a.m. for fresh donuts. Cooler minds prevailed and we never did execute what would have been a classic Bart Simpson moment decades before our hometown actually became the official Springfield Home of the Simpsons.
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? (Physics prof Don Tiernan insisted yes). So, is it streaking if no one sees you (except perhaps a late night drunken driver who isn't even sure what he's seeing)? Debatable.
But there is no debate on the greatest streaking exhibition of my High School era. It was my junior year, and again, the scene of the crime was Riverside Gym. It was a cold, snowy December night but the bleachers were packed for the basketball showdown with the arch-rival Bellow Falls (real name!) Terriers. Most of the town was there to bare witness (so to speak). I was on the varsity hoop team, riding the end of the bench with no hope of playing in the first half, mostly lost daydreaming about the cheerleaders to my right. As the first half ended, we jogged off the court into the locker room - and once again I daydreamed, lamenting the filling of the locker room peep hole for the umpteenth time. The mood in the locker room was subdued and serious as we quickly devoured the juicy, fresh-cut oranges and toweled off. While we awaited second half strategy from Coach Wyman, even through closed doors, we suddenly heard a loud eruption of roars and screams from out in the gym. We looked at each other. What had happened? There had never been a halftime show at any of our games that had ever brought anything but mild, enthusiastic and polite applause.
When we ran back out onto the court we all looked around in wonder. There was a huge buzz in the stands. People were smiling, stealing glances at each other, wide-eyed, pointing and gesturing and very excited. The whole place was giddy with that "did you see what I saw?!" feeling of community disbelief.
Apparently this is what had happened: Two unidentified white males were the culprits. In my town, this ruled out nobody. They wore ski masks and running shoes and that was all. Their naked bodies covered only in green painted slogans. It said "GO" on one cheek, "COSMOS" on the other. By all accounts, they were evidently big supporters of the team. They had disrobed in the lobby men's room, ran through the lobby, and both arm's raised in victory they raced out onto the court and then through the padded blue double doors at the back of gym. A getaway car awaited to whisk them away. It was a well-planned, well-executed streak and they had pulled it off!
Everyone who was anyone in town saw it - except for the those unlucky few of us on the basketball team. Many of the people I would have suspected were actually with me in that locker room with me, so I had no idea who it was. We only heard second-hand that two of our bravest, boldest classmates had bared their third-leg and taken one (off) for the team. Ski masks, halftime, green paint and birthday suits. Legends are made of those.
I didn't get all the details of this in my original recounting of events, butt I recently caught up with one of the culprits and he shared his tail (so to ... you know, speak):
""
Here are a few things on the grand escapade.
It was Valentines day 1978, cold as heck, and I think the game was against Bellows Falls. The characters were me and G. as the streakers, ES drove the getaway care and i think HS drove the decoy, KJ was supposed to photogragh but was flirting with a girl at the time so no pictures were taken. As G and I entered the gym at top speed, the BF cheerleader pyramid collapsed...all I saw was wide eyes and none looking above our waists. Going up the snow-covered hill to the getaway car I encountered a briar bush in the darkness....have a cool scar as a reminder! The letter expelling me from school proudly hangs in my office along side my retired fire helmet and other symbols of an adventurous life. I used to have a tape of the radio broadcast but lost it in my travels...it was so funny..the announcer couldn't stop laughing and the audience was just wild.
How did this change my life? I was completely terrified but did it anyway because I said I would....it started off as a whim but ended up as a lesson about honor. I think that is why my parents weren't mad at me...
""quote - DC. Thanks, DC, you'll always be my hero!
Syracuse University - Big Man On Campus - 1979
It's the first few weeks of my freshman year at Syracuse University. I don't do any organized sports anymore and I feel odd not sweating every single day. So I'm sitting in the weight room and working out on the 'universal gym'. I put the pin under the plate that says 130 and struggle to bench press it a few times before giving up. I only weigh 135, but I will gain 20 pounds over the next few months, compliments three full meals a day at the all-you-can-eat dining hall. I feel great about benching 130. I get up and accidentally-on-purpose leave the pin to mark my accomplishment. I stretch and watch in utter amazement. A black man not much taller than me approaches the bench press. He's wearing a tank top and his body is layered with muscles I didn't even know existed. His broad shoulders cut a V of ropey muscle down his back to an impossibly narrow waist. His thigh muscles bulge. This guy is ripped. He bends over, removes the pin from 130 and puts it all the way on the bottom of the stack of metal plates. 300? I don't even know. That's alien territory to most mere mortals. He lies down on the bench, grips the bar, takes one breath, and pumps the entire stack about around ten times. Maybe more, I don't know, I lost track. I'm in complete awe of this man's body and strength.
Later on, in the locker room, I get a glimpse of this man in the Full Monty. If he had pointed to his own babymaker and asked me "you know what this is", I would have had to reply: "A penis. Only bigger."Later I learned that this perfect specimen of a man is Art Monk. Star receiver for the Syracuse Football team, future Washington Redskin and NFL Hall-of-Famer.
Waikiki Hawai'i - Hotel Penthouse - 1985
In Hawai'i, I hung out with an Aussie chick from the International Youth Hostel. Her name was "Pahky" and she was uninhibited. That action quickly rubbed off on me. In her Aussie way, everything was "heaps" of fun and she would agree with me with an "Ahh yeah" that would melt my heart. We would go 'au naturel' on those warm Waikiki beach nights into empty lifeguard towers or in unattended hotel hot tubs. One night, we were buck naked in a jacuzzi on the top floor of a skyscraper luxury hotel right on the beach. We weren't supposed to be there, and Pahky and I got busted by a rent-a-cop shining a bright flashlight in our faces. The 'cop' was loud and indignant, and ordered us to get dressed and follow him down to the "basement lock-up". Being me, I immediately panicked. I'm thinking drunk tank with my girl. Oooh. Pahky played it so cool. She put on her skimpy dress but left her breasts exposed. She smiled at the cop, gave him a coy pose, and told him seductively, "quick! take my mug shot". I cracked up, but he ordered us to follow him to the elevator. The cop remained stoic, but staring, as she got on the elevator bare-breasted. We were giggling. She pressed up against me while he pressed the elevator button for the Basement - not the Lobby. I gulped. As we descended I got a bad feeling, but she just stood there in all her glory and smiled at the rent-a-cop. When we reached the basement, he turns and just grins at her. Then he turns and sneers at me and says, "I never want to see YOU in this building again!" He gets off the elevator, turns around and presses the Lobby button for us. We burst out laughing. Pahky covers herself before we exit into the lobby. As we retold the story back at the Waikiki Youth Hostel we laugh so hard, we cried.
Ito Japan - Hot Spring Public Bath - 1985
It's my first week working in a small beach tourist / fishing village in Japan. My traditional Japanese apartment, with tatami mat floors and a slew toilet has no shower or bath. I'm told to bathe at the local sento 温泉 "onsen" (natural hot springs public bath) just down the road, right on the ocean. I grab a change of clothes and head down to the sento. I walk in the front door and there's an old lady sitting high up on a desk just inside the door. She doesn't make eye contact. I pay my "hyaku en" (100 yen, less then a dollar back then) and she hands me a small hand towel and a white bath towel. There are two entrances. The one to the left is marked 男 "otoko" and one to the right marked 女 "onna". I know this. I go left into the men's side. There is a small locker room with tiny cubbies. I disrobe, put my clothes in a cubbie, cover myself with the hand towel, grab a round, shallow plastic bucket to use to wash myself and head for the bathing area. I slide a wooden door which opens into a very large, completely tiled bath area.
In the middle is a long shallow pool filled with steaming hot water from the local natural hot spring (think: sub-volcanic heat) and filled with locals sitting and relaxing. Along the walls are a long line of pairs of hot and cold faucets only a foot off the floor. Men are squatting near them, soaping themselves up and rinsing themselves off. The routine is to squat near a faucet with your bucket, wet yourself with hot water, soap up completely using the hand towel, rinse off thoroughly, rinse off the hand towel thoroughly, and only then get up and go and lower yourself slowly into the incredibly hot pool and relax, then when your ready to go, get up and rinse / cool off in some cold water from the faucets, and go back into the locker room to dry off and change.
I know all this. I stand up above the scene in the open sliding door and wait too long. The air is hot and humid, and the lights are bright. There is no where to hide. There is chatter, talking and some laughing, water running and splashing. Every little sound echos off the tiled walls, and it all blends together. Every one is a local Japanese - but me. I'm well aware of this, too. But no one openly looks at me, the Japanese are masters of privacy in a very crowded public space. No one looks, but I just know everyone sees me. I think of Jr. High gym class. I muster up some courage. I spot an open faucet in the far corner, step down on the hot, wet, tiled floor of the sento, and my two bare feet unstable. I'm terribly self-conscious so I keep my hand towel and bucket down below my waist and this doesn't help my balance. I keep my head up and my eyes on the open faucets. I take two or three steps and lose my footing in a stream of hot soapy water. My hands wave up wildly and I step far forward trying to catch my balance, but it is no use. My back leg slips out from under me and I lose it. Suddenly, I am airborne. CRASH! The sound echos loudly, like a gun shot. I land on my back, my head cracks back against the hard tile and my bucket pounds loudly off the floor and goes bouncing away. I am stunned. The people around me are stunned. The place goes silent. Am I hurt? I don't know. They don't know. I lay there looking up into steamy bright light. I am OK, but I briefly consider feigning being unconscious so I won't have to face anybody. Two old men, stark naked are standing over me. They are concerned. I open my eyes and slide and squirm to get up on one knee at least. My bucket and hand towel are pushed back within arms length. I struggle to gain my composure. My back is OK, my head is throbbing but coherent, but my pride is shredded beyond repair. The place has gone completely silent. I unfold from the floor and half stand, half squat. A pair of faucets has opened up immediately behind me and I squat waddle the few feet over to them. My back is now to the entire scene. There are murmurs and comments and water starting to flow and splash behind me again. I feel somehow safe and invisible in the steam and the echos. I can't understand what's being said around me anyway. Just as well.
I've never been very flexible and squatting for any period of time is hard for me. I do my best and wet, soap and rinse my body. My elbow is cut open and bleeding in the heat. My ego is beyond cleansing. But I do feel better. Nothing like washing up immediately after a mortifying experience like this. I know I can't go into the public pool bleeding, and certainly don't want to. I rise, keep my back to the hot spring pool, and keep one hand on the wall as I inch my way back to the sliding door. I climb back up, don't wait to cool off and dry off as quickly as possible. It's futile. I'm still sweating like crazy as I pull my clothes on. I walk out, slide on my sandals, and escape into the December night. The cool coastal air feels fantastic on my face and in my lungs. I have never felt so alive and so happy just to be alive and unharmed.
The sento is my only way to bathe. I have to return there again, night after night. Nothing can shame me more than that first grand entrance, so I manage. I get it down and get in to a routine. The men's sento is full every night of local fisherman (it's a fishing village), laborers, dignitaries, riff-raff, great-grandfathers, grandfathers, young fathers, teenagers and young boys. This is a place where you see the naked male human form in every state possible. The humanity of it is stark, wet, well-lit and as real as it gets. There is no where to hide here, so there isn't a better community building exercise imaginable than this. Here, I feel I've discovered a remarkable secret to the Japanese society and their world-renowned group culture and peaceful co-existence. It doesn't take me long to feel part of the whole scene and unselfconscious. I'm sure it took the locals much less time, despite my original crashing of the party and my unmistakable 'foreignness'. The fact that I soon become just another human part of this scene makes me feel accepted and at home.
A few weeks later I am sitting in the hot pool up to my neck. I'm soaking in the super hot water that is almost unbearable - but warms me to the bone. I try to stay there in the hot pool as long as possible before I can't stand it any longer and have to lift myself out on the edge to cool off. I practice writing the Japanese hiragana alphabet with my finger on the floor of the pool as I sit there. I write all the characters, and pull myself our and sit on the ledge of the pool with legs still dangling in the water. I'm naked and think nothing of it. I'm dripping wet with sweat as well the hot water. (I don't think Japanese people sweat.) I'm relaxed and I lean back on with my hands supporting me. My legs are spread out into the water and between my legs I'm hanging flaccid but not shriveled (just the opposite of what all me are like men from being very cold).
Two muscular young men still submerged in the pool up their necks move toward me. They sidle up right next to me now and are looking at me, smiling. They have lots of tattoos on their necks and shoulders and back. Colorful, but I can't make them out under water. I sense they want to tell me something. They assume I don't speak Japanese at all, which is mostly true. I assume they don't speak English, which is true. With just his head still out of the water, one of them slides to edge of the pool right between legs and looks up at me. We make eye contact. Then his eyes pointedly glance down between my legs and then back to my face. I look down at myself, and then back at him. I cock my head. He smiles and pulls his buddy over next to him. His buddy stands up out of the water and towers over me. He's tall and covered in beautiful tattoos of red flowers, some kanji characters and a large bird. He's completely exposed with his hands on his hips before me and grinning. His buddy is still in the water but he is looking at me intently. We make eye contact, and he turns his head away this time to look between his buddies legs. He stares for a second, then turns his head to stare between my legs. I follow the same visual path and the message is clear. His tattooed friend is bigger. Much bigger. I'm the (stereotypically bigger) white guy but here's a Japanese guy with a much bigger, fatter, swinging babymaker. I make eye contact with them both, look down at myself and then up at the manhood standing before me. I nod at his specimen in contrition, look up and say one of the few words I know, but it is perfectly appropriate 大きいね! "ookii neh!" (translation: big, huh!). They both smile wide with mock surprise and nod their heads slowly in agreement, clearly satisfied but clearly a bit surprised and pleased that I've spoken their language. I smile in acceptance. The bigger one crouches down back into the water and the two buddies are elbowing each other under the water as slide away from me. I can hear them laughing. It doesn't bother me at all. I spread my legs a bit further apart, lean my head back and let out a small snicker through my nose into the steamy room and think, it's a small world we live in. Smaller for some than others.
Tokyo - Hash House Harriers Hazing - 1992
I've joined a new company in Tokyo. My new boss is American and he is a runner so he asks me if I want to join his running group in Tokyo. Tokyo is a very crowded city with busy narrow streets. Running in Tokyo? How can this be? I tell him I love to run but can't imagine it in Tokyo. He says simply, "Oh just show up. You're in for a treat!"
The group is called the Hash House Harriers. Weird name, world-wide loosely knit organization. We meet at 9pm at a train station just wearing running shorts, shoes, t-shirts. There are men and women, and there are some Japanese but mostly foreigners. I don't know anyone but my new boss (who I barely know). We would get to know each other real well...
Here's how the Hash works:
One runner is the Hare. He leads the run and sets the trail by leaving piles of chalk and chalked arrows on the streets. Everyone else 'chases' the hare and follows the run. There is backtracking and group teamwork involved. If you are hot on the trail you shout "ON-ON" while you're running so those behind you can follow quickly behind without looking for the clues you've already found. If you're lost you shout out "ARE YOU?" and hope to hear someone reply "ON-ON" so you can follow their voice. Confusing but fun and really builds comaraderie. The faster you can run the harder you have to work and the more blind alleys you run into. The goal is to get everyone to finish, not just yourself, so you may end up running back to retrieve groups hopelessly lost. It's not a race, it's a social event. I ran about 10 times more than what I expected. We end up in a bar. (aside: The motto of the Santa Cruz Chapter of HHH is "We're Drinkers With A Running Problem.")
The run is always followed by a heavy beer drinking session. In Tokyo it the run ended at at an 居酒屋 "izakaya" (bar) in Shinjuku. So about 20 of us sweating men and women sit there on the floor around a low table and eat and drink and just have a great time.
On this night, there are three first-timers, including me. First timers must learn a Hasher song and sing it solo for the group. This particular ditty is to the tune of some well-know children's song (which I do not know), but the Hash lyrics are R-rated.
It goes like this:
""
Do your balls hang low?
Can you touch 'em with your toe?
Can you tie 'em in a knot?
Can you tie 'em in a bow?
Do you get a funny feeling,
When you bounce 'em off the ceiling?
Oh, you'll never be a HASHER
If your BALLS hang low!!!
--
Do your tits hang low?
Can you touch 'em with your toe?
Can you tie 'em in a knot?
Can you tie 'em in a bow?
Do you get a funny feeling,
When you bounce 'em off the ceiling?
Oh, you'll never be a HASHER
If your TITS hang low!!!
""
Now each first-timer has to stand up and sing it (in English of course).
Directly across from me is a cute young Japanese woman who is a fellow first-timer. Ladies first, I insist. She stand up alone and her voice is sweet. Remarkably she nails it with only a little help, heavily accented, but spot on. Everyone pounds the table and cheers for her while she raises her arms in triumph. They pull her back down to the table and make her chug a beer.
Next up is a gaijin guy at the other end of the table and he is already wasted. He doesn't get past the first line. They help him through the whole thing - which gives me a chance to get it down pat. Lucky me! When he's done they pound the table and cheer while he raises his arms in mock triumph. They reach up and pull him back down make him chug a beer.
I'm next and last. I stand up in my place next to the table in the crowded room. My singing voice is less than stellar but not heavily accented. I'm not completely sober either, which helps, and my new boss is sitting there smiling, getting a kick out of it. So I belt out the whole thing with gusto. Everyone pounds the table and cheers. I grin and raise my hands in triumph and dance in place. Two or three people reach up - and then it happens. Instead of pulling me back down to the floor, they grab only my running shorts (and cotton underwear with it) and pull them all the way down to my ankles. I'm standing there with my arms in the air, naked below the waist, giving the group a Full Monty. There are screams of delight, giggling and boisterous laughing. The table uproots and food and drinks are spilled. People are literally rolling on the floor laughing their asses off. (aside: Whenever I see ROTFLMAO, I think of this scene.)
I turn bright red. I bend over (to more applause!) and struggle to pull my sweat-soaked raveled-up shorts and undies back on. They're not on all the way up but I sit down as fast as I can. I'm still partially exposed when a full mug of beer is pushed into my hands. They clap in unison and chant "chug-chug-chug". I forget all about the shorts and bring the mug to my mouth.
I've had a few good beers in my day, but let me tell you.
That beer right there, right then. That beer tasted GREAT!
The "End"
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