I broke down and joined a gym about 5 weeks ago, since I'm still recovering from the IT injury I sustained during my 50 miler and need to mix in cross training with my running. I don't generally like gyms, but I found one about a mile from my pad that was cheap, really low-key, and had everything I need...which, when I thought about it, isn't very much. But one unexpected amenity: Saloon style doors to the men's locker room directly beside the stretching area, hung in the center of the doorway so, even if you close one eye, squint and try to not see someone's junk or hairy butt, you will. And I have.

Tonight, I popped in for an hour of cardio cross training and some weight training ("some" = "virtual seconds"), and as I scanned my card to enter, witnessed a youngish dude set up at a countertop area facing the free weights...who was DJing. There was a live DJ at my gym! Amazing.

I felt like how God must feel when He works out.

“GOOD”.

By definition: Having the appropriate qualities to be something or to fit a particular purpose.

“Good”: A word used in such catch phrases as, “It’s all good,” or as heard in the coffee jingle, “Good to the last drop, Maxwell House”. Or as, most famously, made eternal in the film title dreamed up by that fat, black kid from Nickelodeon: “Good Burger”.

“Good” describes all that we, as living, functioning, feeling creatures, after searching our truest wants and desires, find to be…

“Meh.” (And then we make that so-so sign with our hand.)

On a tiny corner, inserted in the ultra-hip, urban setting of Silverlake, in the city of LA, this amazingly obtuse adjective, this guardian against any other explorative descriptive, also hangs in advertisement above a restaurant, not as a review of the foodstuffs or services found within, but as the NAME of the place. Seriously. And it’s packed each and every night after 7PM.

So “Good” is the chosen name of your eatery. ‘At’s fine. I guess it wouldn’t be so bizarre, save for the fact that EVERYTHING IN THE DAMNED PLACE IS MERELY “GOOD”: The beer selection, the service, the flavor, the presentation, it’s all...”pretty good”.

I must admit, I’m amused every time I pass the place, as I dream of someday owning an automotive garage called “Looks Okay To Me”, or opening a chain of dry cleaners, “This Is Pretty Clean In This Light!” , or even perhaps dedicating a hospital to “Our Lady of ‘That Should Do It’”.

It is indeed ALL good. Why ask for anything more?

Reflecting on the below post, where I took you on a virtual tour of the various places I've lived, I can say without hesitation that Los Angeles is the strangest and most wondrous of them all.

Yes, even more wondrous than Milwaukee, where I'd smell the refuse wafting from the slaughteryards each and every hot summer day. Or Nashville, where I worked in a FotoMat booth that had been converted into a coffee station. In the summer. In the south. In a suburban area where no one drank coffee.

Last night, while picking up groceries and sundries at the virtually empty local supermarket, a cashier snagged the intercom and announced that it was the security guard's birthday. In his broken English, he counted to 3 and led the 8 people meandering the aisles along with me to sing a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" to "John".

I loudly sang along as I selected from the various cans of Wolfgang Puck's soups (tomato basil is on my current favs playlist), pausing only to note that the cashier - who started this raucous celebration to commemorate the birthdate of his coworker - had forgotten the guard's name by the song's end.

"Happy birthday, dear....nanuhhhh...happy birthday to you!"