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Season Silliness


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The Season is upon us, dear friends. Peace and glad tidings. Have fun and enjoy. Part of me wants to dig in and celebrate and part of me, resenting the noise and exploitation, wants to run and hide. In the nick of time, however, a spot near my heart gleans enough warmth and laughter to accompany me into the New Year. I’m simple in my complexity.

He calls it complexity, but it’s really confusion.

One thing I know, one thing for sure: A good workout chases away the blues and puts a sweet song in the heart. Another thing I know, now that you ask: Smart eating prevents disorder in life and a bulge in the b ’n b, the butt and belly. 

You’re no doubt wondering from whence I gain my broad knowledge, deep insight and shallow paranoia. This is my 68th Season under the sun and steel. I was a burgeoning, bulky, blond 12+-pound powerlifter counting my mom’s contractions when I was born. You can do this, Ma… one more rep. She did and I was and I am.

Crime Stoppers Holiday Note: Blues and bulging b ’n b are intimately connected, a sort of love-hate relationship. Beware of conspiratorial activities: neglected workouts and overindulgence, sparse exercise and dense eating, or under-training and over-stuffing…

I’m just sayin’… better to be reminded of these distresses today before they’re disasters tomorrow. Prevention is straightforward: train regularly, eat smart, be happy.

The Holiday Season might not be the best time of the year to prepare for a record lift, or to get huge and ripped, although huge is a common side effect of the merry old festivities. Here comes Billy the Barge and Tillie the Tug. Put intensity, lofty goals and fanaticism aside; let steady and sure rule. A pair of Ss beats three Jokers hands down every time. You can bet on it. 

I’m not a passionate gambling man, but I am addicted to the iron and its seductive movements. Some men call iron their Lady; some women call iron their Man. I call iron when I need it… and Master Iron, Stud Steel, Mean Mister Metal Puss, and, lately, Tiny Tin.

Miss one workout and life drags on. Miss two and you stumble upon the mystery crossroads, Temptation or Triceps. Miss three and there you stand bent-back at the edge of a cliff without your miracle underwear. My child, you do not want to dally cliffside without your holy drawers, your sacred shorts, or, heaven forbid, your saintly snuggies. T’is a brief trip down… splat… and not a short jockey backside thou. Be faithful. Follow me. 

And about foodstuff, my dear Lilly and Lazlo Lardbottom: Thou must not be gluttonous or pigacious, covetous or given to theft of treats for late-night gobbling. Control your appetite, for Peter’s sake! Or next year will come, by Galoshes, and you’ll have the dimensions and shape of a dirigible.
 
Here come da blimp.

Together we face a serious dilemma and I promise to stick by your side, bulging or not. Committed to your goodness, I dare introduce you to course terminology I seldom reference. Esoteric and perverse in most cultures, they are stiff, stark solitary words that pierce. But before I do, you’ll need to sign the release form at the end of the newsletter. Relax. Trust me.

The first word is discipline with a D. Yup! The same reaction I get everywhere, every time. Discipline. Say it out loud, enunciate. Discipline has to do with control, regulation, restraint, authority and obedience and severe consequences. You cringe; you don’t like those concepts… I understand… creepy… no fun.

Consider discipline gold, much pure gold. $1400.20 an ounce.

Well, then, how about perseverance with a P. It’s easy to say: Put your lips together, move them aptly and blow -- per se ver ance. By Jove, I think you’ve got it. The Big P encompasses resolve and determination, or as they say at the Old Bomber Tailspin Saloon, stick-to-itiveness. You winced in unison. Very tricky. How do you do that? Ah, but you remain dazed, awestruck and bewildered, a sure sign of resolution.

Perseverance is as a magnificent, sparkling diamond to one’s fortune and future.

Let’s try fear, a pithy one-syllable word beginning with the letter F. Fear is both persuasive and pervasive. Like a pair of vise-grips, fear grabs its subject by the nose and drags him around dismal gym floors, splintery benches and racks of rusty, rattley mismatched dumbbells. Fear is felt when we consider what we might look like in January and February if we don’t work out and eat right in November and December.

Fear has the power of stampeding buffalo heading for your RV, like, man, a thick cloud of locusts descending upon your budding leafy crops hidden in the hills of Santa Cruz, or a thick layer of corrosive rust upon your 110-pound barbell set. Fear disarranges its prey’s physical features, prompting pure panic.

Here comes the Hindenburg.

You think fear is frightening? Ha. I’ve been saving this one for last. Guess what I have clenched tightly in my ironclad fist behind my steel-studded back? Go ahead… guess. You might want to pull up a bench or hold onto the squat rack. Once I let this sucker go, we’re all in a world of worry (or deep doggy doo, as the mutts say at the Tailspin). It begins with a G and I call it Guilt.  

Hello… 911… we have an emergency… another victim of guilt… hurry, please… the gym nearest you.

You see where I’m going with this and you’re getting nervous. No, that’s not nervousness I perceive; that’s gas and befuddlement, “He’s going nowhere.”

Not true, bombers predisposed to disbelief. I’m going to the gym where life begins, happens and never ends. On the way home I’ll stop off at the Old Tailspin and have a double Bomber Blend with a few of the windy wings.

Down the hatch…

Muscles and might and Godspeed… DD

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