In the Still of the Night
Dave with his old Jersey pal, Jerry Winick, 1963
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I don’t do ‘still’ very well. Stationary is not my favorite position. Though I don’t tap, fidget or wiggle when at rest, I tend to squirm and writhe. Laree in comparison has momentum-free motionlessness down. After a long day at the rock pile, we retire to the living room for a book or TV. She is quiet and unmoving; I snort and sniffle, squirm and wriggle.
We watch the news and I blurt out intelligent and responsible comments at the screen, like... jerks, dirty rotten bums or stupid, miserable fatheads. Huffing and rocking in my chair (I’m bad), I toss a glance in my gal’s direction. She sits, composed, considerate and at ease. We give the news 30 minutes. We agree on most everything.
During the cops and robbers programs, I outwit the actors, writers and producers by vocally predicting what’s going to happen in the next scene, and who the mass murderer, serial killer or terrorist is (gotta love today’s TV). Laree sits, looks and listens, ignoring the immediate chaos.
Frequently, imitating the voice of the actor, I utter the next line to be spoken in a tense and emotional exchange. I’m not even close. Still is very hard to do.
12/7 -- twelve hours a day, seven days a week -- Laree is consumed with work: writing and editing, compiling and publishing, shipping and receiving, emailing and computing, fixing and faxing, wheeling and dealing. She makes me dizzy, I, who does not do inactive with ease, who automatically orbs in slow circles while whirring, and occasionally clinking and clanking.
I’m totally amazed. I’m abundantly proud. I’m truly fortunate. I’m absolutely blessed. Good thing she met me when she did. She might still be a photographer for the local periodical, the Santa Cruz Good Times. They endorse bare feet, skateboards, surfboards, bicycles, tricycles and green energy and community pot farms.
Wait! Don’t go! Come back! There’s more. I have exciting information to reveal.
Laree has been diligently at work creating and developing a very cool, secretly longed for and most needed website, movementlectures.com, featuring downloadable lectures by today’s most notable speakers in the world of fitness, nutrition and sports medicine. These exclusive lectures come in a ZIP file that includes the lecture in an audio mp3 format plus a transcript of the lecture for reading in a pdf.
Be motivated, be educated, be inspired, be entertained. The smooth-listening talks are for lifters and coaches, students and professionals and fans of sports performance and conditioning and 21-inch gunzollas. They’re for us.
Fifty lectures are ready to go, 10s more are in the hopper. Topics range from the rehab of injured muscles and the how-to of personal training as a successful business, to movement screening, sports nutrition and the golden days of bodybuilding.
Six months in production, movementlectures.com is only weeks from going live. “You won’t believe it when you see it,” said Ripley to the talking duck. Quack.
I happen to be the lone witness of the vigorous process, which is worthy of the S-6 rating -- stunning and staggering, smooth and slick, sensational and superior. Eyes to screen, ears to earphones, nose to grindstone, fingers to keys, brains to thoughts, nerves to edge. Sssssmokin! I might have the talents, skills, dynamics, creativity, intelligence, guts and personality, but the girl makes an effort, I’ll give her that.
After I do the dishes and take out the garbage, I’m going to the gym. I might have to take the ferry cuz it’s been raining in California for half a day. Nothing stops the Bomber. Rain or shine, I’ve got that bouncy springtime feeling in my left artery. Outta my way, girls!
Had I not started this whole workout thing, like, 60 years ago, would I be going to the gym today? Good question, huh? I get emails not infrequently from folks asking if in their 60s, it’s too late to start lifting. “Of course not,” I say, offering a few precautions, a dose of insight and lots of motivation.
And then I, in my skewed and narrow mind, ponder the difference in our realities: over 50 years on the face of the earth and this person has not lifted weights. Weird, man.
The inquirer might be an astronomer like my neighbor to the north, who knows the universe like the back of his hand. But I grew up with weights at the foot of my bed. Is he a doctor, I muse, like Terry, the cyclist who resides at the top of the hill outside my window? Maybe, but I lifted weights in the Dungeon in ’63. “Yo, Zabo. What’s it all mean?” It’s not entirely impossible the person seeking my advice is an attorney, not unlike the vigorous gal who pushes a rock-filled wheelbarrow up the steep grade approaching our distant Aptos abodes. Heck. I got a ticket for speeding on my Harley en route to the Y on the Jersey Turnpike in 1960. I didn’t see no sign, aufisa!
Our paths may be absurdly different, but they eventually lead to the same exotic intersections: strength and health, long life and feeling good, exercise and right eating, sets and reps, chins and dips.
This is what I would do if I were you: Since engaging the iron occurred to you, I encourage you to commence the pursuit. Seek the iron, man, for heaven’s sake. Go to your garage, remove the pile of rubble and bring the cruddy old weight set to the foreground. Or visit the gym on Main Street and take a free trial workout with a personal trainer who’s over 14. If none of this kills you, you’re good to go.
You will build muscle and strength and endurance. You might not win Mr. Fresno or set a world record in the bench press, but you will surely look better and feel stronger should you try.
Working out and eating right and improving your life are noble and worthy causes.
Did I mention Bomber Blend? It’s the very best. In all humility, if it were not for Bomber Blend I would not be nearly as fantastic as I am today.
Your Captain speaking… David Proudly Doright
<> God’strength <>
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