Wow. I figured this blog would eventually reach the point where I had to risk my life in order to push the limits, but not breathing for a whole minute! Come on! I'm not The Incredible Hulk Hogan. Therefore I dedicate this tryout to anyone who said I play it safe, don't live dangerously or "my parents will love you." Good luck giving your parents that easy, trustworthy feeling when they hear that you're spending the night with some guy who once stopped breathing for an entire 60 seconds...ON PURPOSE!
Being bored usually spurns my interest in trying something new. What's pathetic about this, or more pathetic, I actually didn't think I could hold my breath that long. I don't remember ever doing it and I was never a huge fan of swimming so holding my breath isn't really something I had to learn. Unless you count wanting to impress your friends by making yourself pass out, junior high style.
My first attempt I made it to 30 seconds. Half way there and yet I felt like my head was going to burst like a fruit gusher. I obviously had to seek some counsel or I would get nowhere near my goal. So when I need to know something I google it. "Tips and tricks to holding your breath." Gee the internet is cool. Thousands of links come up including a 9 step solution to my problem.
Breath slowly through your diaphragm to get the excess air out of your lungs. Check. Meditate to lower your heart rate and calm yourself. Check. Inhale a massive breath, taking in 80-85% of your lung capacity. Check. Exhale slowly. Check.
40 Seconds.
Crikey!
After two more attempts at 45 and 50 seconds a piece I thought it would be interesting to chalk this one up as my first failed tryout. Then I remembered that nearly everyone and their pet canary can hold their breath for a freakin' minute and so can I!
5th attempt I was successful. 1:03.07. Decided one minute was too easy and I wanted the world record. Pretty sure Guinness will be calling me any day now to discuss the emotional rollercoaster I endured through my record breaking achievement.
But I won't hold my breath.
Stop breathing for 60 seconds, check.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
9th Street Italian Market Festival
In celebration of my Italian heritage, 9th Street in South Philadelphia was putting on a festival that only a spaghetti-twister like myself could appreciate. May 15 & 16th marked the annual outdoor festival of America's oldest outdoor market. Quizzo cats take note. My friend and I got a decent start on the festivities Sunday afternoon hopping onto 9th beneath a vendor's tent hawking a number of ridiculous phrases on t-shirts, baby jumpers, and hats. I was tempted to pick up a jumper that read "My little Italian Princess" but realized I didn't know any princesses and didn't want to portray myself as a liar.
Sauntering away, we made our way North through the throngs of handsomely dressed hipsters, pushy Moms wielding strollers, and the occasional unsightly Jersey guido. The party was capped off at Sarcone's on 9th and Fitzwater, so we ventured back South, passing three stages with live music (including one raucous middle-aged dance party), Peroni salesmen, and table after table of South Philly's finest fare.
By now we had walked the festival 1.5x and were ready for the appetizer. Fresh tomato & mozzarella salad with just the right excess of olive oil held us over until we could make it back up to Sarcone's for what would be the best Italian hoagie I've ever had. I'd heard good things and they lived up to the hype. Quite sated there was still a small cannoli sized hole in my heart that needed filling...vanilla with chocolate chips to be exact. Not the best I'd ever had but still hit the spot. By now I was sweating olive oil and lumbering around like a lb. of pepperoni and needed a rest.
Commence 4 hr. fat nap
Upon waking I was shocked to see what time it was. Water ice time. John's Water Ice was our next stop, which left something to be desired but was still refreshing after a long hard day of walking about 2 miles and napping twice that. Ready to call it a day I headed home and made myself a bowl of pasta before bed.
Truth be told I'm not Italian (I had to look up the spelling for nearly everything I ate that day) but that doesn't mean I can't eat copious amounts of unhealthy food and wear my "Little Italian Princess" tee in honor of a joyous day at the Italian Market Festival.
9th Street Italian Market Festival, check.
Sauntering away, we made our way North through the throngs of handsomely dressed hipsters, pushy Moms wielding strollers, and the occasional unsightly Jersey guido. The party was capped off at Sarcone's on 9th and Fitzwater, so we ventured back South, passing three stages with live music (including one raucous middle-aged dance party), Peroni salesmen, and table after table of South Philly's finest fare.
By now we had walked the festival 1.5x and were ready for the appetizer. Fresh tomato & mozzarella salad with just the right excess of olive oil held us over until we could make it back up to Sarcone's for what would be the best Italian hoagie I've ever had. I'd heard good things and they lived up to the hype. Quite sated there was still a small cannoli sized hole in my heart that needed filling...vanilla with chocolate chips to be exact. Not the best I'd ever had but still hit the spot. By now I was sweating olive oil and lumbering around like a lb. of pepperoni and needed a rest.
Commence 4 hr. fat nap
Upon waking I was shocked to see what time it was. Water ice time. John's Water Ice was our next stop, which left something to be desired but was still refreshing after a long hard day of walking about 2 miles and napping twice that. Ready to call it a day I headed home and made myself a bowl of pasta before bed.
Truth be told I'm not Italian (I had to look up the spelling for nearly everything I ate that day) but that doesn't mean I can't eat copious amounts of unhealthy food and wear my "Little Italian Princess" tee in honor of a joyous day at the Italian Market Festival.
9th Street Italian Market Festival, check.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Lose My Balls
A few weeks yonder past this day, one of my best friends from University got engaged. Mr. and Mrs. Gary and Ellen Clark, as their mail will now read, are definitely in my top three couples, ahead of Jim and Pam but just behind Bert and Ernie. So needless to say I was excited for my friend. Not only because her fiancee is awesome but because I will be in attendance at the wedding and get to misbehave quite wonderfully. Think every inappropriate quote/scene from Old School and Wedding Crashers.
So anyway, yeah I lost my manhood...er uh balls if you will. After initially getting word of the engagement via text message, I called Ms. Fleming the following afternoon to congratulate her and so on. What was planned to be a brief 5-10 minute conversation turned into a half hour of me asking where Gary proposed, if they set a date, did they find a site, a wedding planner, floral arrangments...or my balls by any chance? Apparently I was "giggling like a school girl" during this conversation and for the first time ever, Ellen had to try to end the conversation with me and not vice versa.
Photo courtesy of Michelle Gardina Photography
Do I have girlish tendencies for getting excited about all this? Maybe. My cousin is getting married in June so I was a little curious as to the details of her wedding in comparison to his. Does that make me a great friend, concerned cousin, or both? All of the above if you ask me. But in the end these tryouts are not only to encourage me to get the most out of life but to learn something from the experiences. I now know never to get excited about anything Ellen tells me and going forth my only interest regarding weddings will be whether or not there is an open bar and how many bridesmaids are single.
However, I still did...
Lose my balls, check.
So anyway, yeah I lost my manhood...er uh balls if you will. After initially getting word of the engagement via text message, I called Ms. Fleming the following afternoon to congratulate her and so on. What was planned to be a brief 5-10 minute conversation turned into a half hour of me asking where Gary proposed, if they set a date, did they find a site, a wedding planner, floral arrangments...or my balls by any chance? Apparently I was "giggling like a school girl" during this conversation and for the first time ever, Ellen had to try to end the conversation with me and not vice versa.
Photo courtesy of Michelle Gardina Photography
Do I have girlish tendencies for getting excited about all this? Maybe. My cousin is getting married in June so I was a little curious as to the details of her wedding in comparison to his. Does that make me a great friend, concerned cousin, or both? All of the above if you ask me. But in the end these tryouts are not only to encourage me to get the most out of life but to learn something from the experiences. I now know never to get excited about anything Ellen tells me and going forth my only interest regarding weddings will be whether or not there is an open bar and how many bridesmaids are single.
However, I still did...
Lose my balls, check.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Be Homeless
Another accidental try out and probably the stupidest one to date. Within the past week, twice I have left work only to realize upon my door step that I left my keys in my office and now twice I have locked myself out of my apt. Sure it sucks to have to go all the way back to my office but not as much as it does to be homeless for 24+ hours.
I leave my keys on my coffee table at 7 PM on Monday night. Yes! I'm getting psyched for more stupid things I can do before the day is done. Ride down to Center City to watch the Flyers with some friends, realize I cannot lock my bike up because my key is on aforementioned key chain. Take it to a friends house and leave it inside. Then beers, chocolate vodka shots, margaritas, sangria, tequila, and huge chalice of Lionshead. Stupid Adam is locked (out) and loaded (with booze).
Wake up the next morning...at 2:30. Phone died, thus no alarm clock. Ride back to Fishtown to get my landlord's spare set of keys. Landlord has already left for the day and went home. Stupid Adam prevails! I now have no phone, no shelter, and no clue what to do. Thankfully it did not rain like the weather forecast had predicted, I had that going for me at least.
I head down to Broad and Mifflin, my buddy just moved there and he was the only one I knew that was not working. Not working because he was eating shrooms and walking around South St. Detour to Chinatown instead. No cell phone to call, no buzzer to let them know I'm outside, so I scream and throw rocks at their windows...like a homeless person. Despite my efforts no one answered.
Can't go to Fairmount (friend went to the suburbs) or Center City (both at work until 7) or South Philly (don't know anyone's specific address). I ride over to Marathon Grill to see if my friend is working. I'll sit outside, keeping an eye on my unlocked bike, eat lunch and kill time. Turns out she was there and able to give me keys to her apt. Which I gratefully accepted, ending my desperate search efforts and giving this poor peasant a roof over his head.
Slept on Drew's futon again and I met up with my landlord this morning. Showered, brushed my teeth, and peeled the sweaty stink-clothes off my body.
Be homeless, check.
I leave my keys on my coffee table at 7 PM on Monday night. Yes! I'm getting psyched for more stupid things I can do before the day is done. Ride down to Center City to watch the Flyers with some friends, realize I cannot lock my bike up because my key is on aforementioned key chain. Take it to a friends house and leave it inside. Then beers, chocolate vodka shots, margaritas, sangria, tequila, and huge chalice of Lionshead. Stupid Adam is locked (out) and loaded (with booze).
Wake up the next morning...at 2:30. Phone died, thus no alarm clock. Ride back to Fishtown to get my landlord's spare set of keys. Landlord has already left for the day and went home. Stupid Adam prevails! I now have no phone, no shelter, and no clue what to do. Thankfully it did not rain like the weather forecast had predicted, I had that going for me at least.
I head down to Broad and Mifflin, my buddy just moved there and he was the only one I knew that was not working. Not working because he was eating shrooms and walking around South St. Detour to Chinatown instead. No cell phone to call, no buzzer to let them know I'm outside, so I scream and throw rocks at their windows...like a homeless person. Despite my efforts no one answered.
Can't go to Fairmount (friend went to the suburbs) or Center City (both at work until 7) or South Philly (don't know anyone's specific address). I ride over to Marathon Grill to see if my friend is working. I'll sit outside, keeping an eye on my unlocked bike, eat lunch and kill time. Turns out she was there and able to give me keys to her apt. Which I gratefully accepted, ending my desperate search efforts and giving this poor peasant a roof over his head.
Slept on Drew's futon again and I met up with my landlord this morning. Showered, brushed my teeth, and peeled the sweaty stink-clothes off my body.
Be homeless, check.
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