To Twitter or Not to Twitter -- Tweet Tweet
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I’m considering twittering. Some influential friends of mine (Joe, the gardener, Buzz, the pizza-delivery guy) say if you don’t tweet, your voice is not heard. My fear is once you twitter, there’s no turning back. Thou must twitter. Tweet or die.
Sounds like a bird thing, and not of the hawk and eagle variety, soaring and bold, but more like a canary with clipped wings perched in a cage.
Then there’s Facebook: No Face, no trace. And texting... give me a break. I struggle all week composing complete and illiterate sentences and paragraphs for the newsletter, and now I should abbreviate, condense and tweak our alphabet and exclude the prolific use of adverbs and adjectives. No way, no say, Jose.
I miss my yellow legal pad and cup of well-sharpened pencils, Ticonderoga #2s. Sit, think, scribble, erase, scribble, doodle, gaze, sit.
Newsletters, like newspapers and Golden Age bodybuilders, are becoming obsolete. I’m applying for a job at the solar and wind factory down the street. I hear there are openings for dazzling blowhards like me... better get in line.
I don’t think so. The only thing I get in line for is an In ‘n Out burger once a month when Laree and I hit the great California highways to stretch our bones. Zoom.
What is it with me? It’s Sunday, just after noon and the sun cannot empty itself fast enough on the gorgeous world outside my doors. It’s warm and clear and there’s a hopeful breeze in the air. “God’s smiling down on us, Davie,” my grandma used to say. I’m seriously considering going to the gym to improvise a way to rig my lifting belt and a heavy-duty rubber power-band to the squat rack to enable me to perform bent-over rows without overloading my testy lower lumbar region.
I can hear you saying, “Gee! Why didn’t I think of that?”
So, while the surf crashes and Frisbees fly and beers are guzzled and girls meet boys and kids scream with laughter along the shores of the Pacific, I’ll be causing a ruckus at the gym, clashing with steel boy-toys and raising real-boy noise.
Brats-r-us.
You’ll note I’m developing my twitteresque style and a repertoire of twittercisms as we twitter-twatter.
Since the lami-wami (affectionate reference for laminectomy) nearly a year ago, I haven’t given barbell rows a go. I miss the suckers. Seated lat rows and one-arm rows do the trick, but where’s the beefy Oly bar? I also miss squats big time. Leg presses and Bodymaster squats work, but there’s nothing like the Olympic bar across the back, especially with a Top Squat slapped on for control and comfort and shoulder safety.
Here’s the plan, minus the exact engineering genius: I wrap a double strand of power-band around my lifting belt and, allowing a three-foot lead, attach it butt-high to the squat rack -- a tether of sorts resembling a leash.
Next, I, Fido the dog, buckle up for safety -- click it, or ticket -- and, standing upright with chest out and shoulders back (tris fully contracted and face grimacing), step forward till the tension on the power-band, lifting-belt contrivance feels right.
I woof once or twice, bend over and grasp the bar like I did in the good old days a year ago, and proceed to test the action with a 95-pound bar (bar plus two 25s). Testing is a curious and entertaining practice to determine feet and body positioning, band tension and support, realistic muscle engagement, range of motion and exercise viability.
I tip, teeter and tilt when attempting barbell rows and it was quickly evident no practice was going to improve my groove. The stabilizing effect of the bands could be subtle and just enough to maintain the balance this ole bowwow needs. Might work with deadlifts, as well -- no records, just exercise and health. Life without deadlifts stinks.
What would my orthopedic surgeon, physiatrist and neurologist say? Jus’ sayin.’ “Woof! Woof! You can do this! One more rep, Big Dawg! Woof!” Unlikely.
Squatting presents a similar problem. Heave ho, whoops, he’s going left, he’s going down, no, he’s going across the gym floor, sideways... I envision myself amid the squat rack tethered off in a web of power bands from all directions. Life without squats sucks.
I’ve been putting off both these experiments for lack of energy and time and care. When I make it to the gym in one piece after scrambling down hi-ways and bi-ways, I don’t want to mess around with a possible, a trial, an attempt or a maybe. I want the most and the best for the buck, the sure thing, the real deal, without much more than a block under one end of a bench or an added length of chain to the cables. I don’t have time to play, energy to spare, or the curiosity to satisfy, or wonder to please... except today.
Play, time, energy and wonder have collided like a big bang and I’m going to create a new world within the silent space of the gym. I’m ready, I’m stoked, I’m hungry for the iron and itching for the steel. Stand back, I’m coming through and nothing’s going to stop me...
Oh, no... It can’t be... Not again, not today... It’s a plane, it’s a bird, it’s a blue jay... He just flew through the wide-open French doors and is fully loaded and highly agitated. This is a bi-annual occurrence and not a pretty one. The frightened and furious bird heads for the sky-high windows 17 feet above the floor and cannot be convinced there’s another way out.
This unscheduled stopover requires immediate attention as emotions run high and feathers and poop are in the air and on the walls and windows. Laree comes running with a long pole and a clothes basket hastily duct-taped to its end. She’s gently attempting to snare the little sweetie tweety as she balances herself on the back of the couch and a lampshade, and I clod off to get the hook n’ ladder, all smiles.
The scene continues -- basket is now on Laree’s head, pole duct-taped to the wall, bird clinging to rafter -- for another screeching, feather-filled minute as I clamor up the ladder and rescue what’s left of the guest. He’s out the door and in another forest in less than two seconds. Bye-bye, tiny tweeter.
While the ladder‘s in place and the windows are smeared and I’m feeling loose as a goose, Laree has brainstorm -- let’s clean the walls and polish the windows. I promptly and cheerfully agree to undertake the back-breaking endeavor, if she promises to serve cookies and milk when we’re done. We’re a happy-go-lucky couple.
So much for a pliable Sunday of flexing and stretching at the house of iron.
Maybe tomorrow... I’ll keep you posted... or not.
Bombed... the Bomber <<< Godspeed>>>
THE BEST KEPT SECRET -- TOP SECRET TOP SQUATS
Save your shoulders, be nice to your back, improve your squat, delight in the action and build thunder thighs. Grasp the handles of a Top Squat, settle the padded bar across your back and lower yourself safely, comfortably and precisely to your favorite depth, and in the same way lift yourself up.
You can’t squat -- you will. You squat poorly -- you’ll squat properly. You hate squats -- you’ll adore them. You like squats -- you’ll love them. You love squats -- you’ll marry them.
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