A Decision

I'm visiting my parents, taking a shower when I notice that there are two variations of the same brand of men's body wash sitting next to the shampoo: Revitalizing Cool, and Invigorating Clean. Apparently my brothers have minor but important differences in their choice of body washes, and now I'm left with a choice. A big choice. The consequences could reverberate the rest of the day.

Do I want to be revitalized or invigorated? I assume both products get you clean, so does that mean one gives a bonus aura of "cool"? What do I want to say later in the day when someone asks how I am? Will I be telling a beautiful woman at a bar that I'm invigorated, maybe wishing I could be saying that I was revitalized...and cool, baby.

And there's more. The invigorating brand says it's "50% more value", yet it's clearly only a third bigger than the other bottle at most. Can I dock points from a brand for lying? Will using it influence me to lie? Will they be invigorating lies?

The decision was impossible, so I did the only logical thing: I used both. So, I was invigoratingly revitalized clean and cool. That's four adjectives to start the day.

Hot Hot Heat

I hate sweating. The sticky, slick slimy feeling of your shirt clinging wetly all over; like being pawed at by a moist-palmed pervert. And that little trickle down a leg or the small of your back, it's a sudden jolt of ickiness. A reminder of how disgustingly flesh and bone you are.

It's been remarkably hot lately. My room nearly reached 100 degrees Sunday and yesterday. My apartment has AC, it just doesn't reach my room. I have a large, towering ineffectual fan instead. If you want to move hot air around, I can't recommend it enough. At least today is a little cooler.

I've been good with the exercising, and up until a brotherly visit last week, good with the eating. I'm back on track now, though, so hopefully my goals can still be reached this summer.

Gym Security

I never used a padlock to protect my gym locker until today. That's roughly twelve years of leaving my belongings naked to whoever came upon them. Why do that? I never felt it was a serious threat; not serious enough to spend eight or nine dollars to prevent, anyway. Of course, if you ask people who know me, they would say something different:

A Random Friend: He's too trusting.

My Brother: He's fucking stupid.

Girlfriend: He's too trusting...and fucking stupid.

Today, though, I bought a metallic green lock to protect my locker. Why? It was the first time I had my laptop with me. I was planning on hitting up an Internet cafe right after my workout. Access at my apartment has been slow and sporadic lately. And has trusting -- or stupid -- as I may be, I'm not leaving a two-thousand dollar computer sit by itself, unprotected, while I do singe leg raises¹.

So World(or as my mother calls it, common sense), you win. I'm using a padlock. Happy?

¹Interestingly, I have no problem leaving my laptop -- albeit in its carrying case -- next to sweaty gym clothes while I shower.

Rap Brings Brothers Together

Ghostface Killah thunders from the blue car's speakers. My two younger brothers sit up front; Scott(four years younger) driving and Mike(eight years younger) beside him going through CDs. The blue car is a Saturn Ion. My entire family owns Saturns, so we differentiate them by color. Mike's car is the blue car, my mother's is the black, and Scott's is the white.

Normally we would be in the white car, but someone stole Scott's massive speakers out of the back while he was at work.

"Did you hear? Someone stole my fucking speakers, right out of the back of my car!" he says.

"How much was all that shit worth?" I ask.

"...a couple grand," he answers.

"Well...fuck."

He asks Mike to skip to the last track, "Three Bricks.", featuring the from the grave flow of the Notorious BIG. I ask Mike to instead to play the badmouthed kid skit. He chooses the latter and we all laugh at the child spewing profanities at Ghostface while he laments the perceived lack of discipline in today's children:

"That's the problem, ya'll kids don't get beat no more..."

I get Mike to play "The Champ" next, my favorite track. The fusion of lines from Rocky III and the boasts of Muhammad Ali delivered in guttural rage along side Killah's rapid-fire delivery is sick.

Mike moved into rap from metal during his last couple years of high school, though he still wears a Tool hoodie. The fact that we both own Fishscale -- though I bought it from Best Buy like a sucker -- is comforting. To say nothing of the nearly decade age gap it bridges, to me it shows that I haven't completely shed my connections with them and the old neighborhood. Or at least I hope it does. I've always had the sneaking feeling my brothers suspect that since I left PG County to live in relatively quiet Towson, then Foggy Bottom and now Columbia Heights, that I became somewhat...too highbrow for Laurel. Or that living in walking distance to Georgetown, having a real job and briefly being a married man, that I had grown up and looked back at them the way an adult might marvel at his baby pictures.

Ghostface brings me back to them, albeit with tons of obscenity.

We arrive at their gym in Bowie. Years ago when I still lived close by in Laurel, I worked out here. There was a Laurel location, but the basketball courts here are 94 feet long, like God intended.

The place hasn't changed much. The walk through the gravel parking lot; the climb up the stairs; the glass double doors; the familiarity is thick and I have to remind myself I wasn't just here yesterday. They even have my old information in their computer, and I spend a few minutes explaining to the front desk man that I don't live around here anymore, I'm just want to workout with my brothers today. Somehow, giving a former member a guest pass -- even at the absurd price of twenty dollars -- feels dirty to this man.

Catching up to Scott and Mike, I get berated for asking how much the guest pass was.

"You never ask how much," Scott says. "They might say 'fuck it' and just let you in, they don't care."

"I know, I just froze up. Technically I think I still owe them for four months back in 2002."

I have my own routine to do, so Scott and Mike go off to do their regular workout. I walk to the mat area, still in the same place. The machines are set up identically, though some are new. The walls are still lined with before and after pictures of the more persevering and disciplined members, portraits of the personal trainers, and basketball and racquet ball sign-ups.

Has nothing changed in Bowie?

It's painfully obvious one thing has when I rejoin Scott and Mike. I haven't worked out with Scott since before his stint as a Marine, and even then I considered it an accomplishment to lift the same weight, do the same amount of reps, or just to plain keep up with him since he was the athlete of the family. That was about four years ago.

Today, I find the Marines combined with his own discipline turned him into a machine. After watching him tear through an exercise, I don't even consider trying to keep up -- lightening the weight each time it's my turn. Mike does the same, though it doesn't seem to bother him at all.

"I don't think the kool-aid worked," he says.

The kool-aid is some kind of energy drink mix they took(and made me drink) before we left. It tastes like a sour version of it's namesake.

"This will get you jacked, son," Scott had said. "And this time, you won't puke."

Brothers never forget. Before a workout -- five fucking years ago -- Scott and his best friend(and current Marine) Greg coerced me into drinking a protein shake concoction of theirs. I downed the entire thing quickly, held it with a smile for a split second, promptly walked to the kitchen sink and heaved it all back up. Somehow, I still worked out that day.

Scott was right this time; I kept the entire thing down. Unlike his previous drink, this one doesn't taste like liquid feet.

Anyway, it doesn't seem to be working for Mike.

"Maybe it's because your working on four hours sleep dude," Scott says. "You stayed up all night again."

"That...could be it."

Good, two things haven't changed.

The Game

The game Sunday was fun, even though the Redskins lost. They lost, after going up 14-0 early, in the first game I've been to in almost twenty years. Which means, as a friend pointed out, the last time I was at a game my youngest brother James - who was sitting next to be - had yet to be born. Of course I was eight then, but that's beside the point. I was there with Scott(my other younger brother, but the oldest of the three), his girlfriend Devin, and James.

I only have a couple pictures of us tailgating:

Scott, drinking while wearing his Laguna Beach sunglasses.

James, who only slept two hours the night before(Scott, zero)

We waited for the local liquor store to open at 11 am before heading over to FedEx Field. Without a parking pass, we had to pay $30 for the privilege of parking in a nearby strip of brown office buildings and taking a Metro shuttle to the stadium. We managed to kill about half of a 30-pack of Coors Light(Scott's girlfriend's preferred beer, which does taste as if it was brewed in a mountain stream: cold, watered down dirt). In the middle of our Rocky Mountain fun, though, a man walked up and asked us:

"Are you under the influence....?"

I panicked. Was James(who is underage) drinking? Are we going to get busted?

"...OF THE REDSKINS!" he finished, producing some Redskins buttons. He asked for a donation of a couple of bucks to some charity in return, and we obliged, even if the charity was probably "The Button Guy Charity".

After this, Scott announced for at least the fourth time he really had to pee. I gave him my advice, which was to think about fucking(I read in Men's Health that this helps by blocking the urinary tract, but I could be mistaken). Since his girlfriend was right there, I didn't think it would be too hard, but it only worked for about five minutes. We set off to find him a bathroom.

Circling the brown office building(which was locked), all we could find were some small bushes surrounded by other Redskin fans. The only possibility was to run across 202 to the woods on the other side, or pee in some empty AMP and beer cans in the car. He took the second option.

James, Scott's girlfriend Devin and I surrounded the back of the SUV to prevent any peeping and Scott proceeded to fill up one tall can of AMP and half a can of beer. The AMP can was a stroke of genius; before disposing of it he loudly announced if anyone wanted anymore "AMP" before he poured it out.

On the way to catch one of the last shuttles to the stadium, we found a porta-potty just over the crest of a hill. Scott was not nearly as amused as I was.

The bus dropped us off on the opposite side from where our seats were. After a little hike to the correct gate, we split up; James and I going to our seats, Scott and Devin going to theirs.

I gave James twenty dollars to get us two hot dogs and a soda before we went to our seats. If I hadn't actually seen the lady ring the items up, I would have accused my younger brother of trying to steal from me when he gave me my change: $4. I finished the hot dog before we even got off the escalators up to the upper deck.

You can read about the actual game here.

Afterwards...well, right now I'm finding it hard to write because I keep getting up to help my roommate clean the kitchen. Every time I feel we've finished and sit down, she starts cleaning something else. She's sweeping the front room as I type this. I'll get the dust pan.

Anyway, after the game, we couldn't find the right shuttle back to the parking lot. Scott tried to get us to board the bus back to the Landover Metro, despite the fact that we didn't park at the Landover Metro. We found what we were told, by a Metro employee, was the correct bus.

The bus was packed; Scott and I stood while Devin and James sat. We traded disappointed banter and looks of dejection and fatigue. Suddenly, I had a nice kick in the shin to go with my dejectional bantering.

A drunk girl seated behind me was going on and on about her asshole boyfriend, and in between repeated exclamations of "is it me, do you understand?" to her friend, she was kicking her leg out with an exasperated sigh before bringing a hand to cover her bloodshot eyes. What followed was the most cliched conversation I've ever heard: the dying relationship pep talk. The girl's friend and the friend's boyfriend kept telling the drunk girl how strong she was, how independent she could be, and that she was too good for the asshole boyfriend. Before the bus ride was over, everyone in the back of the bus had shared knowing glances of annoyance and laughs under their breaths. Scott and I wondered if we should turn around and offer some kind of intervention in the form of an inspirational rap, or repeated slaps to the face.

After running off the bus, we realized we were in the wrong parking lot. Sure enough, there was a brown building, just not our brown building. In fact, there was nothing but brown, nondescript office buildings for as far as we could see(if you didn't count the stadium mocking us in the distance). We wandered between the buildings, crossing grass fields and hedges, ending up behind a warehouse.

We found the road to our lot at the front of the warehouse, where Scott and James also found two small pumpkins. In the middle of an asphalt parking lot, just chilling, doing whatever it is pumpkins do in the wilds of Landover business parks. Whatever that is, it couldn't have been has thrilling as the aerial ride the pumpkins took before their untimely demise a half mile before we finally found the car.

We had dinner at Outback, and there - in the usually tranquil burg of Bowie - something happened that will now forever be known as the Tabasco Incident.

After Scott and Devin went to the bathroom, I dared James to put Tabasco sauce in Devin's cosmo(because I'm an evil asshole), but he put Tabasco sauce in Scott's water(because, being related to me, James is also an evil asshole). The trap was set, and what James did when Scott got back should be in the set-up hall of fame. It should be framed and studied by spies, negotiators, and con artists.

Scott sits down, and James simply says: "H20!", to which Scott replies "H20, yeah!" and takes a HUGE gulp of water. There are no words, in English or any other language, that can accurately describe the look of horror that was on Scott's face when the taste hit him. He froze for a second, then spit the water back into the glass.

"You FUCKERS! Watch out! Watch out, see what happens when you get up!" he said, pointing his steak knife at me and James.

James' plan for me was almost as brilliant. When I returned from the bathroom my potato soup and obviously been tampered with, so I reached for a piece of bread. Luckily, one side was very, very damp from the Tabasco sauce and I didn't eat it. If he hadn't gotten greedy and soaked it, he would have fooled me too.

And that was the end of that. It was a good day.

The Boys

A father and his boys. I found this picture while going doing some late(by about three months) unpacking. It was taken - I think - three years ago. I don't remember whose idea it was, but all the boys of the family where asked to stand together: My younger brother Mike, me, my younger brothers Scott(the Marine) and James(in the red), and my father.

It's the only picture I have and may be the only picture that exists of all five of us together. In the three years since it was taken, Scott has left the Marines with an honorable discharge, Mike and James have both graduated from high school and gone on to college, and I've gone through a divorce.

For most of that, we weren't together. Mike and James still lived in the house we all grew up in, Scott was at various times in California and North Carolina, and I was in between places in DC. Wherever I was, I had this photograph. At one point, I had two copies; one for work, and one on my nightstand, resting on the lamp(I was always meaning to get a proper frame, but I kept forgetting).

Through the hard and hardest times, the photograph would remind me I was not alone. It was taken before my grandmother's funeral, one of the hardest. And even in the wake of grief, we managed some joy. We were all together,all four of us; and when that happens, something unspoken - that assurance of home, comfort, and belonging - takes over. It's having three best friends who will always be there; they will always have your back.

Now, instead of four boys, my parents have four men. James, the youngest, is 18, and I, the eldest, will turn 28 soon. The bonds that bridge ten years are strong, but men need more room then boys do. As boys we played, went to school, fought, cursed, and laughed with each other for what seemed like endless days. As men, the times together are shorter, and they come less and less. School, jobs, careers, and girlfriends all take up our time now. The endless days have ended.

Yet, when we get the chance to hang out, get drunk and play some video games, and fuck with each other the way only brothers do; we get to go back in time. Even if it's only for a night.

My father has one brother, and they rarely speak. That's what years, distance - life - can do. I can't imagine that happening to us, even though as of today, I haven't spoken to Scott in weeks since he moved to a new apartment in Crofton. Where do we find the time? Besides, I will see him(and the rest) at Thanksgiving. Right?

I hope that photograph is never the only reminder I have family.