Several months ago I noticed a new member at the gym. She was as cute as can be and to my eye she was already in tip-top condition. She had some nice, feminine curves and a softness about her. As far as I could tell she was in perfect health and was there just to maintain her wellbeing.

After about a month, I noticed one of the trainers, a hulking XXL mound of muscle, go up and talk to her every time she was on an elliptical machine. I think it was a combination of flirting and fishing for a new client. Apparently, he must have had a pretty good rap because soon thereafter, she was exercising under his tutelage each morning. The regime looked brutal—far more extensive than what I subject myself to—but that’s what you get when you hire a trainer.

As the months peeled away, I could see a noticeable change in her physiology. The results were dramatic and, to me, tragic. She is now solid and cut—pure muscle—but not in a good way. She lost all of her femininity and the aura that made her so beautiful has vanished. I believe it even changed her face. She’s not—and I know this sounds awful—as pretty as she use to be. Her face now has some angles and a tautness that do not flatter.

There’s a cautionary tale in there somewhere

Every year for my birthday I blow off work for a day and drive down to Atlantic City alone to shoot craps. I always pick a weekday for this blessed annual event because on the weekend the city fills up with fancypants people who are only interested in drinking, going to clubs to chase tail, eating in the better restaurants and make a show of themselves with their expensive, tacky wardrobes. If you go during the weekday, you are more likely to rub elbows with degenerates, professional gamblers, the broken and the destitute. In other words, my people. There is also a heaping helping of senior citizens. The corridors are choked with wheelchairs, walkers, canes and oxygen tanks being towed on little hand carts.

I arrived early yesterday morning and had my customary 10:00 a.m. bloody mary to get my groove on. I had to spend a little time on the boardwalk airing out because my customary bloody mary was unusually powerful and I got a little loopier than I like to be when I’m bellied up to a crap table.

I. Love. Craps. Shooting craps seems like a terrible waste of time until the money starts to pour in. Then, I can assure you, it’s a brilliant way to spend an afternoon. I give it my highest recommendation. Blackjack is boring. Roulette is dignified but a bit too quiet. Slots are for old ladies and lazy people. Bill Bennett, conservative author of The Book of Virtues was found to have a gambling problem. At the same time he was telling everyone how to live a moral and virtuous life, he lost an estimated $8 million in casinos. Do you want to know how he lost that money? Slots! What a little girl! I could almost forgive him if he had done the hard work and lost it at the racetrack or a crap table or a baccarat table, but he poured all that money into slot machines. I’ll bet he was wearing a frilly dress and a bow in his hair at the time.

For lunch I ate at the coffee shop. Casino coffee + casino eggs and sausage = nature’s laxative. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Mrs. Wife has had a bee in her bonnet for quite some time about taking the kiddies to the Bronx Zoo. It’s not that far geographically, but it’s a treacherous ride because of the traffic and all the complex twists and turns you need to take once you exit the George Washington Bridge. I successfully evaded the subject for six years but she finally won out and we went on Saturday. Well, I was right, and that doesn’t happen too damn often. We sat in August summer traffic for almost two solid hours. At times we were at a dead-stop. My righteousness filled the car and turned it into a pressure cooker. Yay me.

The Zoo was lovely but the common theme that ran through all the exhibits was how mankind is destroying the animal kingdom. I ended up feeling personally responsible for mutilating the habitats of all the fuzzy animals in the world. I just wanted to look at a stupid giraffe, not be lectured to about how there is a direct link between myself and the extinction of certain species. Outside of the tiger exhibit they set up a “poacher’s truck” so you could see what the tools of the tiger poaching trade look like. Tiger traps, nets, pelts, etc. Mrs. Wife had to explain to 6-Year Old Daughter what poaching was. Fun.

Zoos are no longer a place where animals sit in cold grey cages. They live in areas that replicate their natural habitat as closely as possible. That’s lovely and humane, but the problem is that the animals are able to stay very well hidden. More often than not, you have to settle for a quick peek of a swish of a tail from behind a mound of grass.

We stopped for lunch. I didn’t expect the healthiest cuisine, and I was right. The menu contained a lot of fried junk and sandwiches with melted cheese dripping off the sides. I was walking to our table and thinking that people really should start eat healthier (myself included) and I turned a corner and saw this:

Holy mother of Jesus! Hide the children! Now, ain’t that America? I momentarily felt bad about taking the photo, but I got over it pretty quickly. They should throw her in the lion pen. We’d finally get to see some wildlife and she could certainly use the exercise.

July and August is the dead zone for the theater in Manhattan, which is a bit of a drag for me because it’s something I really enjoy. It sustains me through the long commutes and endless hours spent chained to a desk. There are very few theatrical openings. The fall season won’t begin in earnest for another month. Next up: Jeremy Piven in Mamet’s Speed-The-Plough. How do you like them apples?

For a lark, I got a ticket to a production of Around The World in 80 Days at the Irish Rep. Honestly, the story didn’t interest me at all—I’m not a big Jules Verne fan—but the Irish Rep is sure-fire and I had read a few nice notices. What I hoped would be a pleasant diversion and an excuse to avoid the Friday evening city exodus was actually an amazing display of stamina and dedication. There were only six people in the cast and four of them covered over a dozen roles. They worked their asses off. They made it look easy. And fun. You wouldn’t think that they could do justice to such an expansive story on such a small stage and with only a few meager props but they were pretty amazing. The audience was great. They laughed in all the right places and you could see how the actors fed off of that. I love a good sneak attack.

* * *

Two posts ago I spewed my stupidity all over the Olympics. I bad-mouth China. Said I didn’t care. Well, I caught the opening ceremonies and guess what? I softened my heart a bit. I am still no fan of the oppressive government. I cringed while watching the goose-stepping military regiment and Chinese corporations continue to strip Africa of her natural resources. But the opening ceremony was a breathtaking spectacle. Lord, they have a beautiful culture and people, don’t they?

According to a New York Times Article:

It’s No Boo-Boo: Bandages as Fashion Accessories

WHEN Nicholas James Brown prepares to go out for cocktails at the Tribeca Grand or to a clambake in the Hamptons, he sticks on a few boldly patterned Band-Aids by the Brazilian fashion designer Alexandre Herchcovitch.

… the colorful strips are an important accessory, and he’s careful to coordinate them with his Kris Van Assche sweater or his Balenciaga bag.

Do I need to just lighten up? You can tell me. I won’t be offended. But they seem take this very seriously, which feeds my nausea. Sometimes I wonder why I still live here.