Back to the gym

After a day at work that seemed to consist mainly of looking at my computer displaying farcically unhelpful messages about me posing a security threat to myself by wanting to generate a sales report, I went back to the gym for a work-out. Without the benefit of a personal trainer, but with an ipod with the volume stuck on LOUD.

I was clad in black, which on reflection may, along with my mullet and my beard, have made me look like the Exercise Goth, going to pump up his abdominals before a busy night of not enjoying listening to Rammstein. Or whatever it is that Goths do these days. I haven't discovered a warehouse full of gloomy people wearing black clothes and listening to Kraut-Metal, so instead I'm taking the tram back to Happy Valley.¹

[You don't see many Goths in Hong Kong. Occasionally I see one on Shek O beach, but then I only ever go to Shek O occasionally. Maybe it's a teeming Goth wilderness down there.]

I ran on the treadmill for sixteen minutes (three kilometres), did 5 minutes on the rowing machine, and ten on an exercise bike, before going for a stretch and heading for the shower.

The showers are surprisingly nice; California Fitness has a reputation for being at the utilitarian end of the market, but it was clean, the water was good and hot, and the soap dispenser didn't explode in my face. Also, I didn't smell of cheese; this was a marked improvement on when I got to the gym, and realised that I stank; good, I suppose that I hadn't been trapped in a small room with anyone at work today.

Or as Rorschach from the Watchmen would have said, they would have been trapped in a small room with him.

If he was the regional analytics manager for a online travel agent, that is. Sure, that would have been a different movie to what played in the cinemas, but it might well have been a better one.

I'm using "better" in the sense of "irking purist comic book fans" there, rather than any indication of aesthetic quality. On the one hand, the film of Watchmen was an almost perfect rendering of the graphic novel comic, down to each frame. But on the other hand, it was just an almost perfect rendering; there was very little sense that it added anything new. Apart from a constant stream of shots of Doctor Manhattan and his bright blue King Dong.

Not that that would be a bad thing.

And not that I'm saying I like to spend my evenings relaxing looking at video of a ginormous, computer generated blue penis.

If anyone says that I do, they're a liar.

What kind of person would be obsessed enough about giant cgi blue penises that they'd turn any subject around, into a discussion of that?

Not me.

Oh no. Not at all.

Hong Kong Dog Rescue Comedython tomorrow. If you don't come, you're a Bad Person.<sup>2

1</sup> That's not as Goth-unfriendly as the name suggests: it is packed full of cemetaries, after all.
² Or perhaps you just don't like dogs. Or comedy. Or you can't be bothered to fly all the way through a volcanic dust cloud, just to hear some jokers. I don't know. It's your conscience you have to live with.