The Rifle Man

At my local gym, the race to secure locker 15 is a battle over who begins their lunch hour sooner and arrives at this coveted spot first. I choose it because it mirrors my birthdate and is thus easy to remember each day, whereas my fellow athletes merely rely on its proximity to the showers. My chief rival is a gentleman about my age but much more bald. Although a comb-over is not yet on display, he does sport a Grateful Dead dancing bear tattoo on one arm, which fills my heart with gloom. Worse still, rather than update his life to today's technology, he still exercises using a Sony Discman. When he's in the shower, I always spy into his gym bag to gather evidence reinforcing my harsh opinions about his lackluster music taste rather than just hate him for his ill-informed inky accessory alone. Last week, it was Steely Dan's Aja; this week, the Meat Puppets (and not even from their interesting early period--he was listening to Monsters, an album which demeans all who listen to it). At the exact moment I was rudely rifling through his sweaty gym clothes and C-grade music collection, my iPod was rocking Sun OK Papi OK, and it's my feeling that the Japanese glitch grime, fractured electro-grunge and playful nonsensical fart-ness of each track reversed my transgression into a victimless crime. If you're reading this, balding work-out guy, please be aware that while my actions against your privacy might make me ripe for a lawsuit, I still have your sweaty disgusting underwear in my possession, and I'm not above introducing it as evidence in my defense.