Extra Extra -- The Weekly Bomber Buzz

Bomber Blend Rocks!

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It’s Saturday the 13th as my fingers, like refreshing April showers, splash across the keyboard. Spring’s vigor and fair-weather hopes gently rain from my heart, mind and soul. It’s grand to be alive, drenched in iron, soaked in steel.

Yeah, right. My right index finger, like a bent, rusty pipe, leaks foul water on devious, sodden keys, a slow torturous dripping. Pass me my wraps. Anybody using the 10s?  

How do I express my thoughts as I write to you today? Tomorrow, Betty Weider and Arnold are presenting a memorial for Joe W in Santa Monica. The popular website, bodybuilding.com, is live-streaming the event, but then, I guess you know that. By the time you read this IOL ditty (hi, there), days will have come and gone and the Memorial I reference will be a memory of memories. I was invited to attend, but as I expressed to the organizers with regrets, my get-up-and-go has gotten up and gone.

I’m sure I missed a remarkable occasion, a collision of old wineskins and new wine in a moment of time, captured on palm cameras and scattered across the internet before you can say cheese with your mouth full while scratching your backside.

Don’t get all drippy about it, Draper. There’s today, this set and rep, this exercise and pump; this can of tuna and cup of water. We have this ache and pain, this tear and strain. It goes on and on, bombers. But then, maybe it doesn’t.

And therein lies another reason -- the foremost reason, perhaps -- why we go to the gym, the iron arena -- to pick up our shield and sword against the enemy. Get ye behind me, Lucifer, or your bloodless head shall roll across the field of battle.

We must never let go. We must fortify ourselves. We must be strong and fearless. We must fight and win.

Whatever. Pause and take a deep breath. Sure is a pretty day, full of warmth, sunshine and promise in my neck of the woods. And this despite the fact I live in doped and dopey, broke and broken California. I think I’ll climb aboard the old rocket ship, mosey on down to Gold’s steel mill and make some funky noise. I can do plenty of constructive damage in one hour without even trying... just gotta get there while the gravity is good.

I’ve postponed this week’s plan to reveal and detail my matchless (magical and miraculous, maybe) method for making and molding monster muscles for maturing men. Works for women, too. However, I don’t think we’re quite ready for it today. Instead, let’s enter the gym together, side by side, and determine what to do according to how we feel, what we know, what we need, what we want and who we are.

Before we get started, bombblasters, any last-minute inspirational interjections?

No, Jack, they don’t have a coffee shop. No, Jill, they don’t have an apparel shop. You want to get sun by the pool? A massage? Pilates? No, no and no. The choices are bombing it or blasting it. Get it?

The main thing, the only thing, is getting the most from your workout without wasting energy, wasting effort and wasting time. Waste not your treasure. Get as much bang for the clang as you can. Seek rhythm and rhyme and a plump pump, the sweet pain of gain and action-satisfaction.

Getting ripped was cool when you were a tool, fool. Now you are a skilled craftsman, shaping your life for good.

A craftsman? I’m more like a carpenter’s goofy go-fer with two left hands and a bad back. Where does the 4x2 go, boss? Duh! Scuze me. Where does the 2x4 go, boss? Up my whut?

Goodness and training fulfillment, these are our goals. You go first, after me.

An expression of my aforementioned thoughts, this is what I did during my last workout:

Lying bent-bar triceps extensions and press-from-the-chest burns trisetted with stiff-arm dumbbell pullover and standing thumbs-up dumbbell curls. (4 trisets x 8-10 reps, 4 burns, 12-15 reps, 6-8 reps)

Targets: Lats, bis, tris, some pec and front delt and abdominal

I grab a chunk of unused gym floor or hunk of multi-use equipment and get to work without roaming. Weird. Walking back and forth here to there saps more precious bomber energy than focused blasting. Note: I no longer use sticks of dynamite when blasting. Those snappy, colorful inch-and-a-half Chinese firecrackers do the trick.

I caught a cab to the pulley apparatus on the south side of the gym floor and did the following combinations:

Overhand close-grip pulldowns, wide-grip pulldowns, freehand sissy squats and calf raises, rope tucks and seated lat rows. (3 combinations x 10 reps, 6 reps, 10 reps, calves for 30 seconds, 25 tucks, 6 seated rows) 

Objectives: Lats, back, bis, some pec, torso, mid-section, thighs and calves

I slugged down Bomber Blend as I staggered to my vehicle. Driving home is a blast.

Zoom, Boom... Godspeed... The Bomb

One more thing:
Thanks for your birthday wishes, bombers!
Monday the 15th I was 70. Fine.
Tuesday the 16th I was 71. Swell.
Wednesday the 17th I’m going on 72. Egads.

Final Word:
God Bless Boston.
Take down the wicked with swiftness and certainty, Lord,
Lift up the righteous with your strong right hand.


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