The Power of The Media

I was working out with Andy today when he began to sing. Here I am, ankles tied together with a 24-inch piece of rope, chasing a rooster in a back corner of the YMCA gym, when Andy breaks out into some bluesy number having to do with his sister and no rent and his baby and drinking and ladies and, basically, a total lack of income to support all of these women. I put my cock down and asked him why. Why does he insist on vocalizing every 45 minutes? Is it out of boredom? Is he trying to prove he's a better singer than me? Is it to distract me so I can re-learn how to focus on what's in front of me?

Andy sat down and pet Monique (the rooster). He began to tear up. It is rare that you see a monstrosity of a man who could pass as a middle linebacker for the Giants allow himself to be so emotionally naked. I didn't sit. The ropes were burning one of my Achilles tendons and I tried to get them off of me while Andy spoke.

Andy: I just want to sing.
Me: Do you have something sharp, like a knife?
Andy: That's all I've ever wanted to do.
Me: Or a shard of glass?
Andy: If only I could get people to listen.
Me: Soap could work; maybe I could slip out.

He complained for another 10 minutes before telling me to hit the showers. We were done for the day.

Let me tell you, I felt like a kid in school just let out early by the teacher. Some of Andy's training methods are strange (I don't believe bobbing for apples helps my core as much as he says it does), but they're all hard. When he told me we were stopping two hours early, I jumped up for joy and fell. The ropes were still burning.

The shower room at the Y is a steamy place. Don't take that the wrong way. The water is hot and creates a lot of steam. I like it because the steam can act like a natural camouflage and disguise my binge-laden fatness from anyone else who may decide to soap up. Probably three and a half minutes into my shampoo, it started again. The singing, I mean. Andy was somewhere in the shower with me. The good thing was he didn't try to share the same head. He's so big, I'd have had to rinse the soap from my semi-balding scalp in a toilet bowl.

Andy: My woman don't understand, she don't think I'm no a man.
Me: (clearing my throat, clearly uncomfortable)
Andy: She won't smile for a hundred miles, even though I think she can.
Me: You just stepped on my foot.

In the locker room I sat blow drying my towel. I hate to pack wet things in my duffel bag. Andy sat down next to me. The bench shook for a moment; I think a 7.6 on the Richter scale. He spoke.

Andy: Can you help me?
Me: Yes, your pants don't match your shirt.
Andy: I mean getting me a gig.

I had thought I was Andy's gig. But what he meant was that he really, truly wants to be a singer. For a job. It's in his blood, he said, in his DNA. If you ask me, he does have a good voice and he is an interesting looking dude. But could he make a living at it? And how was I supposed to help him?

Me: How am I supposed to help you?
Andy: Use your influence with the media.
Me: You mean go on ESPN and talk about your vibrato?
Andy: No. Your blog.

So the following is for Andy. This is my influential, media-savvy blog letting the world know I have a personal trainer who really likes working out with me, but would really really love to sing for you. He's free most nights, except Sundays (he's a big Simpsons fan). If you need a voice for your bachelor party or office Christmas party or as a form of communication between you and your girlfriend, then I have the guy for you. He's a very, very large man, so leave enough space in the living room for both he and his voice. And he's great with animals, so no need to lock the dog and cat in the bedroom. He'll work almost for free, but you need to pay him a little bit. I'm getting 15%, and 15% of nothing won't pay my landscapers. We can start at $200 and work up from there.

In the meantime, I'm looking for some scissors or something. I can't seem to get these ropes off of my ankles.