COMMUNITY SHOWERS
By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern



Concerned reader “B” writes:

“Do you belong to a gym?

I have this one pet peeve that has really been bothering me lately.

I have spent my entire life trying to keep men from being behind me when I am naked. When I get out of the shower at the gym and am drying off, guys will often walk past me on their way to the shower. Most will walk in front of me, but some insist on walking behind me.

Being naked and sometimes bending over to dry various body parts, I find it disturbing to have a naked man behind me when I am at my most vulnerable. To combat this, I try standing closer to the wall so that they will walk in front of me. Sometimes even this doesn’t work.

Naked guy literally has to turn sideways to get through when there is 10 feet of open space in front of me. WTF!

Also, when I am naked, don’t talk to me. Some guy said something to me while I was in the shower at the gym. Of course I couldn’t hear him because I was in the shower. That means I have to go over to hear him say “I like your rings” and point to my earrings. I’m strongly considering going back to work without showering.

What do you guys recommend I do?”

Well, "B," we understand why you would bring this problem to our attention. You can probably tell by looking at us that we’re both gym rats who spend quite a bit of time working out. We certainly weren’t born with these guns and abs.

Let us address your concerns, point by point.

Unlike women, who enjoy lathering and soaping each other tenderly in the shower (we’ve seen the movies), men are not big fans of touching or looking at each other while nude. It begs the question—Why hasn’t anyone spelled out the etiquette rules to avoid this most uncomfortable situation?

There's no excuse for that oversight.

That's why today, we're officially posting the "Unofficial Community Shower Rules For Men." Men, follow these rules to the letter and no one will be hurt or blinded.

Rule #1: Never walk behind a nude man when you are also nude.

What if you slip and fall forward? That’s the sort of forceful bodily contact that will haunt you forever. If it’s impossible to pass by another nude man without allowing at least ten feet of space, stay where you are until he leaves.

Rule #2: Conversations among nude men are strictly forbidden.

Think of the potential problems. “B” points out the problem of not hearing well when the water is running, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Even if you can hear the other nude man, what are you doing with your eyes? If you maintain eye contact, you will creep him out. Nobody likes unflinching eye contact like that. You’ll probably make the other nude guy so uncomfortable, it will force him to avert his eyes, and then…what is he looking at? If you don’t maintain eye contact, it’s even worse. It's best to pretend like the other guy isn't even there.


Rule #3: Hurry up, dammit.

The only acceptable thing to do in the community shower is to get in, wash as quickly as possible without washing certain areas as thoroughly as you normally would in one of your longer showers at home, go back to your locker without coming within ten feet of another nude man, dry as quickly as possible, and then get your clothes on as quickly as possible.

Rule #4: Resume normal activities only when fully clothed.

When every man within ten to fifteen feet is also clothed, you may return to your normal social activities. At this point, a high five, and/or a fist-bump would be perfectly acceptable.

How is it possible that these rules have never been spelled out before?

Without rules and boundaries, group male nudity has been known to take weird and unexpected turns. How weird? Well, when Dave was still in high school (Lane Tech in Chicago), his gym teacher made the boys take nude group showers before group nude swimming, followed by more group nude showers….but he made them wear swimming caps.

Dave’s community shower career has also been touched by celebrity. When Dave attended the University of Illinois, he shared a dorm floor community shower with two well known Fighting Illini basketball players (both of whom eventually played in the NBA.). Isn’t it wrong that Dave knows details about these two gentlemen that most groupies won’t find out until they camp out in a hotel lobby and volunteer to bring up room service with a “special” dessert?

If society insists on maintaining community showers, we have a suggestion for improving the concept. Instead of having men shower with other men and women shower with other women, community showers should be strictly coed.

Settle down girls, we hear your concerns.

We know you gals would miss soaping and lathering each other, so that activity would still be permitted. We won’t mind. Honest. Not in the slightest.

On the other hand, you could also simply soap and lather men instead. Don’t forget, men will need extra attention after their previously rushed showers to avoid uncomfortable-male-on-male nudity moments. A little expert soaping and lathering would be good for everyone. It’s win-win.

It’s the only way to keep America clean, safe, and comfortable.

Think about it America. The time has come.

"I SWEAR I DON'T HATE THE CUBS..."

By Dave Stern




If the Cubs played the Nazis I’d root for the Nazis.

I can hear Harry and Steve’s call right now:

Harry: Two outs bottom of the ninth and the Cubs are up by three. George Gobel digs in at the plate.

Steve: Actually Harry, the batter’s name is Joseph Goebbels. George Gobel was an American born comedian who starred on the Hollywood Squares in the seventies. Joseph Goebbels is the fine Nazi 3rd Baseman who also runs their PR department.

Harry: Rick Sutcliffe on the mound.

Steve: Ironically, Sutcliffe’s nickname is the “Red Baron”.

Harry: Goering on third, the evasive Eichmann on second and Albert Speer on first. You know Steve, Speer backwards is Reeps. The wind up and the pitch. Goebbels hits a deep drive into center. This could go. It might be, it could be, it is! The Nazis have beaten the Cubs in the bottom of the ninth.

Steve: The team is mobbing Goebbels as he crosses the plate. They sure have an odd way of high fiving.

I was different from the other boys in my neighborhood. While my buddies were ogling playboy pictorials of Adrienne Barbeau, I got my blood engorging excitement from watching the chiseled good looking Mike Schmidt break the hearts of the Cubs with bottom of the ninth heroics. The first time I saw the Cubs blow a game in the ninth I got a Cubby Flubby Chubby.

It’s no wonder I grew up as an Anti-Cubite. My father was an avid Cub racist. When he moved to this country in 1950 his first American friend taught him English through baseball. Whereas, most off-the-boat Germans are taught phrases like, “Excuse me, where can I buy a good strudel?” my father was taught, “Hank Sauer, you suck!” Martin Dryer was a White Sox fan and he indoctrinated my dad into the wonderful world of white hot Sox hate.

When I was born thirteen years later, my dad schooled me on the ways of hate. Some of my fondest early memories revolve around criticizing and ridiculing the Cubs storied battery of Paul Reuschel and Steve Swisher. Just thinking about the ineptitude of Pete LaCock and Ken Frailing still gets me all weepy. My dad and I were White Sox fans and the bond we shared should have lasted forever. Alas, the ways of rebellious adolescence and peer pressure would temporarily halt such gleeful times.

Right around the time I was twelve I started to stray from my people. All my friends were Cub fans and I was beginning to feel isolated from my buddies. I already was the only Jewish kid in the neighborhood so I desperately felt the need to fit in. That’s when I became indifferent to the Cubs and actually found myself going to Wrigley and not hating them with every fiber of my being. I even praised Manny Trillo once in front of my father just to push his buttons. I was living a lie but was too young and stupid to know it.

In 1977 my dad passed away and we buried him at Graceland Cemetery on Irving Park and Clark. I remember hearing the muffled cheers from the 8,200 fans at Wrigley during his gravesite service. Sadly, I didn’t realize the cruel irony of the location of his final interment. Thankfully, the cheers have been few and far between in the thirty years since his death.

During the next six years, baseball became an afterthought and I paid little attention to it. Then came 1983 and by the grace of God and Carlton Fisk I was reborn. The White Sox won 99 games and came within a half a Falstaff of the World Series. Sure, losing to the Orioles was a bitter pill to swallow, but the old feelings of pride were stirred once again. This time for good.

My justified and totally understandable Cub hatred was still absent until the following year. The Cubs luckily got into the playoffs and were playing the Padres for a trip to the World Series. They were up two games and were a lock to win the pennant. That’s when Rick’s Cub smugness surfaced.

After game two, the subtle taunts and innuendos started. Rick conveniently has failed to mention his constant remarks about how the Cubs would finally bring Chicago their long awaited championship. He couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful Wrigley’s gold ivy would look in the crisp autumn sun during the World Series. “Hey Dave,” he would innocently ask, “Do you think that Sutcliffe can win 2 games in the series.” Evidently, Rick had forgotten that it was only a year since my beloved team lost in the ALCS. The wounds were still open and Rick couldn’t help himself from sticking salty nachos in it.

He would refer to the team as, “his Cubbies.”

“Wow, Rick owns the Cubs and he’s eating Ramen noodles everyday in college, he sure is a man of the people,” I thought.

He would wear a “Cub Power” shirt every day further rubbing my nose in it. He also did the absolute worst Harry Caray impersonation morning, noon and night. He even referred to all the players by their dumbass nicknames: Ryno, Sarge, The Bull, Penguin, Eck blah blah blah.

Yet, through all of this I took the high ground. I was happy for Rick, his team was about to win, good for him. In fact, I even wanted to watch game four with him so I could witness his joy. For the record, Stu and I did high five after Steve Garvey hit that homerun. It was totally innocent-- Stu got an “A” on his Women Studies paper about social inequalities resulting from sexism, and I was just congratulating him. We were barely paying attention to the game. Now we’re the bad guys.

That’s when I was viciously assaulted by Rick and his Cub fan roommate, Skub (again with the nicknames). I was deeply hurt when I was thrown out of the apartment. I realized at that moment that smug Cub fans make the Grinch (before he compromised his Grinch values) look like Mother Theresa. The latent hatred I felt as a young boy was rekindled on that glorious October 1984 evening and remain a part of me to this day.

Twenty plus years have passed since I was persecuted by Rick and he’s never apologized. In fact, the White Sox have been the focus of his petty barbs and insults ever since. When I say petty, I mean PETTY.

For example, Rick mentions the Sox attendance pretty much every day. For some unexplained reason he gets some satisfaction that the Cubs draw more than the Sox. I guess when you were the least popular kid in high school you need to have a sense of belonging. For the record some pretty awful things have also been very popular (Fascism, the Macarena, Ricky Martin and Zima are just a few that come to mind.) I can’t wait to attend the big attendance trophy parade.

He also makes condescending remarks about Sox fans and their moral upbringing. In short, he thinks that all Sox fans live in trailer homes and have tattoos. This all stems from the misunderstood “William Ligue” incident. If you remember, tattooed and drunken White Sox fans William Ligue and son ALLEGEDLY stormed the field and beat up Kansas City’s first base coach, Tom Gamboa.

First off, the evidence is sketchy at best. With a Mac and some cheap software you can produce a video of a pig flying. Second, no one ever says anything bad about Tom Gamboa. Everyone seems to forget that he had his base runners take an extra base on two occasions in the first three innings. We were in pennant race for Pete’s sake. Give Ligue some credit; he took his son to a ball game.

Speaking of moral deficiencies, Rick idolizes people of dubious distinction. Take Sammy Sosa for instance. After witnessing Sammy’s home run hop one day at Wrigley, I mentioned that he was a bit of a bad sport. Rick said that Sammy wasn’t a show boat but an “entertainer.” For the record, the only entertaining Sammy sang Mr. Bojangles. If you want to make excuses for a steroid eating, cork using clown go right ahead. By the way, didn’t the Cubs draft Ben Christensen? For those of you who don’t remember, Ben Christensen was the guy who beaned a batter…while he was in THE ONDECK CIRCLE!

Rick also mutters that the White Sox 2005 World Series Championship wasn’t earned. He blubbers that when AJ stole first base in the ALCS he cheated. Who would you rather have; a smart hardnosed catcher that wills his team to victory or a meanie who slugs people without provocation? You can shove the 2005 World Series trophy right up your asterisk.

The Cubs are nearing a hundred years since their last championship. How could God smite such a faithful fan base with a century of futility? It’s because of you, Rick. God is punishing all those “loyal” fans filling the bleachers because you are a condescending little man. You are depriving all those cell phone wielding Susie Sorority’s and Frankie Fratboy’s a chance to wave at the cameras on national television in October.

Not only do I hate you, but so do they.

P.S. For the record I would only root for the Nazis during the baseball game. After that, not so much.

P.S.S. If anyone from the Cubs front office reads this piece, my buddy Andy has a Cub logo tattooed on his shoulder. Knowing your past litigious ways, I assume you will want his personal information to sue for trademark infringement. Give me a call.

I SWEAR I DON'T HATE THE WHITE SOX...

By Rick Kaempfer




I actually grew up liking the White Sox.

I always preferred the Cubs, but I never understood why it was necessary to also hate the White Sox, so I didn’t.

That changed in October of 1984. I was 21 years old at the time, a college junior, living in an apartment at the University of Illinois. Most of my friends, including the guy who normally writes this column with me (Dave Stern), were Sox fans. At first, their petty jealousy about the Cubs' drive toward the World Series didn’t bother me. I thought it was a little pathetic that they couldn’t let it go around me—-especially since I was rooting for the White Sox the previous year when they were in the playoffs—-but I figured, consider the source.

I hadn’t counted on Steve Garvey.

For those of you who don’t remember what happened that year, the Cubs were up 2 games to zip over the San Diego Padres. They only needed to win one more game to go the World Series, and they had three chances to do it. They lost pretty convincingly in Game 3.

Game 4 was another story. The Cubs had the lead late in the game when Steve Garvey came up to bat. I was watching the game in my living room surrounded by Sox fans, led by my good friends Dave and Stu. Just before Garvey stepped into the batter’s box, Stu declared: “He’s going deep.” I scoffed outwardly, but inwardly my intestines were twirled into a knot.

When Garvey lived up to Stu’s prediction, I was stunned—-it’s a moment that still stings today—-a young life forever altered, an optimistic young lad transformed into a bitter, cynical old man in the blink of an eye. I saw the world clearly for the first time—-there was no joy or happiness on this planet—-life was just going to be a series of bone-crushing disappointments leading up to my eventual death.

Seeing your best friend’s hopes and dreams crushed in such a dramatic fashion would have given most humans with actual feelings a moment’s pause.

Not stereotypical Sox fans Stu and Dave.

No sir. Stu and Dave took that moment, which incidentally was the worst moment of my life at the time, to high-five each other right over my head. They were giggling with glee.

Their hatred of the Cubs was stronger than their affection for their best friend.

That showed me what it meant to be a Sox fan. I figured I had to choose at that moment. The way I figured it, I had three choices.

#1: Take the high five in the spirit it was intended, laugh about it, become one of them, and eventually enter the gates of Hell with no soul.
#2: Get a gun and blow their brains out.
#3: Sever all ties with the White Sox forever.

I chose #3 because I didn’t have a gun in the house.

I’ve never looked back.

The only problem with this plan was that I didn’t have the blackened soul to properly counteract the dark, dark hate of the White Sox fan. I wasn’t a heartless beast roaming the earth, devouring sunshine for breakfast, ravenously gorging myself on my fellow man’s good will for lunch and dinner, sucking away the last few vestiges of the Earth’s hope and love with my empty vacuuming soul.

I tried. I really did. I went to the '93 White Sox playoffs and tried to root against the Sox. I sat right next to Dave…but all I felt was pity. I was a friend first, a hater second.

Dave repaid my restraint by calling me up during Cubs no-hitters so he could be on the phone with me to hear the disappointment in my voice during the inevitable hit. I’m not kidding. He actually did that. Each time he did it, the no-hitter was ruined.


We went to the Cubs-Sox games together the first couple of years they played against each other, but more often than not, I was just setting myself up for more despair. One year when the Sox swept the Cubs at Wrigley, he brought a broom, and swept me.


During the 2003 Bartman debacle, I wouldn’t answer the phone. Later he claimed he was just calling to offer sympathy—he claimed he actually felt sorry for the Cubs.

Right.

During the 2005 World Series, I went to Game 2 with Dave. Scott Podsednik hit the home run to win it in the ninth, and the ball fell about twenty rows in front of us. Dave, a man that had actual evil pulsing through his veins, was being rewarded for his behavior. It just didn’t make sense to me.

It wasn’t until I went to buy a beer that I understood. While the White Sox fan in front of me was buying a beer, he turned around and pointed at me.

“I’m buying for this guy too,” he said. “This is a day to celebrate.”

That’s when it hit me. God wasn’t rewarding Dave; he was rewarding other White Sox fans, many of whom are actual human beings with decency and regard for their fellow man. I realized at that moment, that I didn’t hate all Sox fans.

I only hate Dave.


Next week, Dave responds.

GRIEVING FOR YOUR HAIR LOSS-- DENIAL (Part 4)

By Dave Stern (with Rick Kaempfer)

By now, scientists and psychologists all seem to agree with Elizabeth Kubler Ross’ five stages of grieving: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

For some reason, however, nobody has ever applied these five stages to men with male pattern baldness. We’re also losing something close to us that has been a part of our lives forever…our hair. But does society, or science, or psychology care about us?

No.

That’s why we’re going to spend 2007 dedicating one column a month to helping balding men through the stages of grieving. This month we’re focusing on Stage 1 Denial, and the specific scourge known as: Isolation.


You’re Not the First

Isolation seems like such a logical solution to the problem of hair loss, but we have to believe that anyone who chooses it hasn’t really thought through the process. History is strewn with men who believed that isolation was the only answer.

The Jews

You can understand the appeal of Moses’ pitch to his (largely balding) people. We just go that-a-way and we’ll get to the Promised Land.

“Away from the taunting and mocking? Lead the way, Moses.”

But Moses wasn’t exactly Mr. Rand McNally. After about twenty years of chewing sand and peeling burnt skin from their bald pates, you would think they would have given up. But no. Why not? Were they running toward something or away from it? They did another twenty years of wandering. What was the turning point? It might have been the subtle taunt from Moses to his balding followers when he “parted” the Red Sea. That was uncalled for.

The Great Explorers

The Age of Exploration was the time between the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the Renaissance. This was a dark time for bald people because the wig had not yet become popularized. Is it a coincidence that this is also a time that seemingly healthy men volunteered to go on boats without the slightest notion of where they might land? Classic isolation.

• Christopher Columbus vowed to prove the world was round, even if it meant he might sail off the end of a flat Earth. That suicide mission didn’t turn out so well for him. He hit land.
• Magellan said he would sail around the world. He obviously thought that voyage would never end, but it did when his men got sick of his whining and killed him during a mutiny.
• Ponce De Leon didn’t even bother coming up with a lame excuse like Columbus or Magellan. His stated claim says it all: He was looking for the Fountain of Youth. You have to love the ironic place he hit land: Florida.
• Marco Polo went looking for the Orient. Is that far enough away for you?
• Amerigo Vespucci, the man after whom both South America and North America are named, spent his years at sea “calculating the circumference of the Earth.” Sorry, Amerigo. There is no escape.

Realizing the purpose of these “explorations” makes it a little easier to understand what happened when the Great Explorers eventually landed on the shores of the New World. It doesn’t excuse the killing and the spreading of disease, but it explains it.

The American Explorers

The quest for isolation and escape didn’t end with the arrival and colonization of the New World. Even after the U.S. became a country, our balding brothers faced their own moments of truth when some nice young gal at the pillories or the latest Minuet-social glanced in the wrong direction repeatedly. For some, it meant embracing the wig. For others, it was: “Let’s see how big this country really is.” It’s big. But it’s not big enough.

• Daniel Boone went into the Appalachian Mountains thinking they would never end. Whoops.
• Lewis & Clark volunteered to go deep into the wilderness “looking for a passage to the Pacific Ocean.” Mmm Hmm. Don’t think that Fullhead President Jefferson wasn’t cracking up when he sent them a female guide; Sacagawea. Sacagawea is actually the Native American word for ‘that beaver hat isn’t fooling anyone fellas.’
• Zebulon Pike went to northern Minnesota looking for the source of the Mississippi in 1805. Right. A man volunteering to go to northern Minnesota. Nothing suspicious about that.

Within a hundred years or so, balding man realized that there was no place to hide within the continental United States. That just sent him on a more extreme course.


The Poles

We aren’t referring to the countrymen of our all-time favorite Pope. We’re referring to the most extreme examples of Earthly isolation. History has recorded their names for other reasons, but we know the real reason these three famous men spent their days and nights in the most Godforsaken parts of our planet.

• Commander Peary, the first man credited with reaching the North Pole, was a balding man.
• Roald Amundson, the first man credited with reaching the South Pole, was a balding man.
• Santa Claus, the only resident of the North Pole, is a bald man.

The stories of the men who first reached the Poles are sad enough, but the story of the man who chose to remain there has to be the saddest story of all. It’s textbook isolation. Over the years his isolation has gotten so bad that he only comes out one night year. It’s enough to break to your heart.


Space

Men spent years training for this chance. They put their lives on the line. The space suit was tempting enough; it covered what they wanted to cover. But the location of the voyage was the real tip-off to their actual motivation. Think we’re being unfair to our heroic astronauts? Get out your astronaut scorecards.

• Neil Armstrong—balding.
• John Glenn—bald.
• Buzz Aldren—balding.
• Jean Luc Picard—bald.
• James T. Kirk—hairpiece.

Lessons Learned

What have our bald ancestors taught us about using Isolation to avoid confronting your balding head? There is no place to hide.

Where are you going to go? A deserted island? It’s no better there. Gilligan, the Skipper, and the Professor all had full heads of hair and couldn’t get anywhere with Ginger and Mary Ann. You would have had the same luck—unless they secretly love men with peeling scalps.

Are you going to hide out in the tundra of Siberia or the most remote portion of Greenland? Fine, but remember that there are two definitions of ‘blue balls’ and you’re going to experience both of them there.

Of course, in this 24 hour delivery world, there is no reason to go to extremes. You can just hide out in your house or apartment all day long without having to interact with any other humans. Try that if you want, but at least one night a year another guy just like you will come down your chimney uninvited. And if he doesn’t get his milk and cookies, he’s no less judgmental than anybody else.