BY WILSON | Texting zombies mutilating themselves and harming others are infiltrating emergency rooms citywide. Their ever-increasing accidents on pedestrian sidewalks remind me of a music video, “Bittersweet Symphony,” by The Verve, where some dude walks down the street bumping into people the entire way, block after block, just not giving a crap.
But unlike the more dangerous selfie sorts on today’s pavement, our cute, lip-syncing lead singer doesn’t even have a stupid gadget. (The reaction shots in the video are a total scream; they had to use extras on a second day of shooting because he got attacked by a passerby he “encountered” on day one.)
Yet, despite the theatrical catastrophes that permeate, people-watching on the avenues will soon cease to be as entertaining and arresting. With summer long gone, a major “mutation” of the human body on parade is getting bundled up for the season. This look (facade, actually) has always been around. But like the clumsy, obsessed and twittering invasion, it’s gotten way out of control this year. The mutation, or transmogrification, if you will, is even more striking than dear Joan Rivers in a wax museum — and sorry, it’s just for men.
It’s called the Double-Triple Triangle. To fully understand the term, please draw a plain triangle. Then draw an upside-down triangle right below it. The thick and meaty neck of today’s man is represented by the bottom of the first triangle. His head is symbolized by the narrow and tiny top. With the second triangle, our boy’s upper arms and torso are shaped like the (large) top of the triangle, and the lower half of his body (and feet) equal the bottom. And in between the two triangles, surprise, is a trapped pot-bellied pig! Squee!!!
The possessor of the Double-Triple Triangle (D.T.T.) engages in mind-numbing, repetitive lifting of dumbbells or tiresome pacing on a treadmill like a lab rat, when he could be out playing an actual sport, building or making something or dancing; riding a bike, walking, hiking, swimming, climbing and jogging (outside!); having sex and/or making love (inside, if I’m outside!); gardening, cooking, cleaning or doing anything else less boring.
Why pick on these people if they’re not doing anything wrong. What difference does it make? Of course exercise is terrific, but must it be so creepy? Is going to the gym really a healthy lifestyle choice? Fitness centers gobble up tons of time, money and energy. They’re a space-time continuum of digital electronics, mirrors, noise, germs and addictive calorie counting (with gambling odds worse than Vegas).
Somehow, the mutation (abnormal condition), is related to football vs. soccer. Americans want instant gratification, results and scores. We have zero patience for foreplay. Compared to the lumpy, bumpy, fumbling and bumbling in and of baseball and football, you never see a bad body on a soccer team. O.K., there might be a couple of triangles here and there, but it’s rarely, if ever, the “heart of the matter.”
Earlier this summer, I discussed the D.T.T. with the Fios/Verizon guy who came to my sixth-floor walk-up one hot and very humid day to help me get over an iniquitous divorce from Time Warner, with whom I recently ended a sick and twisted “three-way.” The week before, I had to visit a sports bar during happy hour for the World Cup.
Somehow, “F/V” and I got on the topic of physical fitness after discussing the merits of walking up and down stairs hauling heavy loads. I said I had less cellulite than 18-year-olds. He lifted up his shirt, patted his tight gut and bragged his age. I announced mine, and spanked my butt.
F/V had a real body. It wasn’t an alien mutation. If he were younger and had that sexy soccer hair, maybe an accent, he could totally be a “futbol” player, happy hour 24/7. His normal-looking physique (hot bod) came from movement and activity that had purpose and value; it was time spent productively, that even earned income.
Just trying to keep my home clean and chaos-free is a gargantuan occupation that includes extreme and inappropriate amounts of ladder climbing and Pilates (which I’ve never even taken, having stopped long ago at aerobics). Living on the top floor is a killer. I so fantasize about washing machines and dryers (a stainless-steel, double-stacking Miele from Gringer & Sons on First Ave. in the East Village).
But instead, just in time for back-to-school, I finally got a pair of those really skinny jeans from a nearby army/navy shop at half price (which is what my new friend F/V is compared to Time Warner).
