Day 81: Begin Anew, Shoulders, Chest, Triceps.

Just like how "Rosebud was his childhood sled", "Kevin Spacey was Kaiser Souzai", "Bruce Willis was a ghost", "Pauly Shore was never funny", and "Edward Norton was Brad Pitt", Coachella offered me a profound realization that was always present, always lurking in every scene in my life, but I just had to wait for the 'big reveal'. I was in the airplane on the way home listening to Jonsi, looking out over the large, winding expanse of the Rocky Mountains, when it hit me like a portly fallen angel, I began to cry and, to this day, I am not entirely sure why nor did the dude wearing the Ed Hardy shirt beside me. It was not something theoretically functional, but some fundamental emotional understanding about how much easier this whole thing can be. To explain it would be about as fruitful as telling someone who has never smoked weed, what it's like: you can use some words to describe the feeling, but they are about as useful for the endeavour as trying to dig a hole with a straw or have sex with a condom. Carl Sagan came close, but I am no Carl Sagan. I did, however, write this article on the experience that might shed some light on what the hell I am talking about.

Vague, weird spiritual revelations aside, I got viciously gang-beaten by the four-headed hydra of sleep-deprivation, heat-exhaustion, vodka, and Chef Boyardee. 

 Step One - Put Can in Searing Hot Sun, Step Two - Wait 15 Minutes, Step Three - Enjoy

I felt like John McClane at the end of every Die Hard going into this work-out. I was beaten, bruised, battered, and the heavy underdog against an evil non-descript foreigner and his platoon of equally foreign henchmen, but I knew justice had to be served no matter what. All my body wanted to do was shakily lift a vodka bottle to my mouth in the peaceful darkness of my bed. It reminded me I was only one small balding man with little to no military training up against a well-organized international group of highly-skilled mercenaries. I, in turn, reminded it that I represent the perfect form of escapism: the age-old story of the down-trodden little guy that stands up to the powerful, accomplishing the seemingly impossible. It's the same ol' story except David had stones, Rudy had footballs, and McClane had beaters, bullets, and bravado by the bushel-load.

Fuck! I should have listened to my body, I should have realized I am not a fictional God-like character like John McClane, I am the 40-something, short balding Bruce Willis. This work-out sucked. My sweat was vodka, my tears felt like blood, my muscles felt like they were being shredded like crumbly old cheddar, my brain felt like it was being pulled out of my ears with pliers, and my anus felt like it was leaking liquidy fecal matter. (Here's a fun game: guess which one isn't a simile!). In any event, I got through it...barely; at the last second I was able to ignite a line of jet fuel that I happened to fall beside by dramatically, but inefficiently tossing my lighter onto the ground, all the while thinking of a clever thing to say to no one in particular as the  plane that was carrying all my hopes of finishing P90X attempted to fade away into the darkened horizon.

Highlights: Laying there after the work-out, belly-down, star-fished on the floor, unable to move even though my testicles were firmly implanted in a make shift vise-grip composed of the hard-wood floor and my pelvis. 

State of Mind: This work-out sucked. Don't get me wrong. But, I immediately realized it's all worth it after loading my vacation pics. As I put them in my computer I compared some of the pics to last year's Spring Break pics (sorry, this might make your eyes bleed), 

This weird creature washed up on the shores of Puerto Plato; he made bad jokes and thrusted a lot

If you shaved my chest I would look like a 9-year old girl (with a gnarly shin-tan). And, yes, I still have the speedo, and, yes, it is an extra-small. Fast-forward one year: same ocean, same pose, but with far less eye-bleeding,

Rating: P77X

Day 80: Back and Bis and Coachella Break.

My journey of awesome body-rippitude and mass-level clit-boner induction unfortunately has to be put on pause for 6 days. I am going on a music pilgrimage to the Californian desert where I hope to exorcise the wholly unholy ghostly trinity of consumerism, materialism, and only Canadian girls seeing my jism. 140 bands, 4 days, 35-40 Celsius temperatures, searing hot sun, dirt cheap American vodka, 10-15 cans of Chef Boyardee, and a vacation-induced inability to assess risks: my body feels like it is Joe Pesci and being driven to a cornfield. Our P90X instructor who probably uses vinegar as cologne because he is such a douchebag, might be against spending 6 days drowning your liver and colon in vodka and processed food stuffs, but, alas, it would be mentally unhealthy to miss an event of this magnitude. Plus, I don't have to wear a shirt for 6 days.

So , what do you do to prepare your body for this physical devastation? I hear blueberries are good, so I have been eating a lot of them lately - they make my toilet bowl look like a Teletubby graveyard. I also have notified all the significant people in my life that I love them and who gets what in case I die following a naked Indian through the desert alongside the portly ghost of Jim Morrison (he died looking like Val Kilmer does now; ahhh symmetry). Although it will be slim-pickings considering all the major things I own (i.e. my ballin ass 4-cylinder Toyota) are not in my name due to some legal reasons mostly circling around the fact I do not actually own them. I technically can only lay claim to a pellet gun, the complete 91-92 set of Upper Deck hockey cards, and an abstract painting done by my ex-gf. They will all go up for auction with all the proceeds going to fulfilling my dieing wish: having Doug Gilmour do my eulogy while Wendel Clark jerseys Zak Lester.

In short, there really is no way to prepare. I've worked my ass of for 80 days; I'm sure it can handle 6 days of abuse. The best I can do is send it off into the treacherous unknown as well-prepared as possible. Today's task: beat the hell out of my back and bis like a pedophile stealing my 91-92 complete set of Upper Deck hockey cards. (What? Bomber that analogy makes no sense. Well, I don't know about you, but, I am not a big fan of pedophiles and would like to hurt them. I also want to hurt people that try to steal the best thing I own. So, if a pedophile was stealing the best thing I own, he'd be in for an Undertaker on Manking-like beat-down. Again, Bomber, wtf?, who the hell do you expect to get that analogy? Contrary to the way you think the world should be, you are among the few and far between that own and have read the Mankind auto-biography and understand the awful devastation the Undertaker rained down upon him at WWF's King of the Ring when he tossed him off the top of the cage onto the announcer's table causing his teeth to mash up through his upper lip embedding themselves deeply into his nose. At which point, he didn't run to the bench like some pussy-ass NHL player, instead, he got up and tapped the motherfucking Undertaker out!* Jake the Snake, Charles Bronson, Rambo, General Lee, dude who cut his arm off with a pocket-knife when it got wedged under a boulder: eat your candy-ass hearts out, Mankind is all that is man; he is the universal benchmark for manliness; his jaw is made of granite, his facial hair is steel wool, his fists are like cinder blocks, and his heart is made out of the souls of vanquished foes. Fair enough Bomber, you are right...if you have not purchased a copy of Mankind's auto-biography and care about not being a candy-ass pussy, then go here: http://www.amazon.com/Mankind-Have-Nice-Blood-Sweatsocks/dp/0060392991)

With all our stuff packed in the living room, people bustling around excited for what could be one of those formative experiences you carry with you like an unearthed treasure or an epi-pen, Millard and I gathered up the focus and bared down on our increasingly-chiselled back and bis. This exercise still sand-blasts our egos with a healthy dose of humility, peeling away all those layers of false-bravado, that-chick-whose-line-of-sight-I-entered-wants-my-shit-bad-bro, and collar-popping cock-sureness. The other muscle-growth exercises either rotates between two or three muscle groups, allowing them a chance to rest and recoup. Not back and bis, it doubles up the bicep exercises, gnawing away at them like a methed-up Nazi zombie. No matter how many times we do this, muscle failure is inevitable. The only change since we started has been our rebound time: before, we had to make sure we had straws in the house the day after because the process of lifting a cup became a two-man job with a lengthy preparation round of "git' er' dones" and hyper-ventilation. "Hooo, Hooo, Hooo, lift brooo, lift, shit, shit, we're two far right, fuck brooo, you're spilling apple juice on my new Ed Hardy...fuck guy! you owe me your new Tap-Out shirt."** Now, the next day is like any other...filled with Sportscentre, naps, and fears about the impending global takeover by the illuminati/hours of Internet time. 

Highlights: The last exercise is a strip-set: max-out on a certain weight then do the same with a lighter weight and so on. After shaking the 30s around at my waist, jerking the 20s around, and actually lifting the 10s, I picked up the cute, light green 5 pound weights that women jog with. There I am, directly in the middle of our giant bay window, grunting, snarling, and sweating with my whole body visciously shaking attempting to curl these beastly 5-pounders when I lock eyes with a group of people passing by. Needless, to say I looked pretty cool and about as physically intimidating as a sleeping kitten.

State of Mind: Coachella! Coachella! Coachella! Try not to do acid! Seriously, you hate drugs, don't do acid!

Rating: P80X (still some failure).

* Undertaker actually won the match, but Mankind got back up and put up one hell-of-a-fight (perfect analogy for the upcoming Philly/Chicago series?).

** If Tap-Out shirts had collars, would they come pre-popped?

Day 79: Plyometrics

This will be our last rendezvous with the beast of cardio-burden known as plyometrics. I can remember our very first meeting with plyometrics - it felt like the wedding scene in Kill Bill. There we were, doe-eyed and excited on our second day, ready to get into P90X shape. The future held so much promise; it was supposed to be a blessed union between the will, the mind and the body. I was finally going to get into shape. About 15 minutes in, the first shotgun blast bounded throughout the room: I was 10 seconds into some sort of ungodly, sadistic squat type and my thighs were hit...hard. I struggled up onto my feet, eyes rolling around in their sockets, my heart crying and pleading for me to stop, and then time-slowed, I tried to warn him, but it was to no avail. Millard absorbed a point-blank slug in the right thigh, crumpling to one side, regaining his balance slowly, gritting his sparkly-white teeth, and continuing on. The rest of the work-out we felt like every person in that quant, Texan, church on that fateful sunny afternoon; taking every shot, every slug, every life-silencing knife wound, but we kept on going like some Terminator Tony Montana. We had the resolve of champions, but the cardio of Roseanne. 

Day 79 is a different story. Plyometrics is Carl Weathers in Predator and I am the Predator! It is those poor Iraqis caught in the night-vision of an overhead helicopter and I am the sadistic, scared, 18 year old manning the 80 cal.; it is the Leafs and I am an opposing team; it is a baseball and I am the mysterious monster dog in the Sandlot; it is unsuspecting young gay men in Milwaukee during the early 90's and I am Jeffrey Dahmer; it is constructive, rational political discourse and I am the American political institution; it is John Bobbit's weiner and I am Lorraina; it is Pauly Shore's career and I am the year 2000; it is Kristen French and I am Paul, errr, the point is, we can easily handle plyometrics now. 

In my adult life, although many might argue hasn't technically started, I have never been in better cardio-shape. I used to fake orgasms due to my cardio limits. Well, that's not true, I have the Cheddar Bob from 8-Mile syndrome: I shoot myself in the leg before I can get it out of my pants. Point being, in 79 days I have turned myself from a dude that hated walking to the corner store because of how taxing it was on his body to a guy that leisurely runs 13 k. 90 days and you'll be in the 90th percentile for fitness levels amongst your peers...at least.

Highlights: When we did this before it was complete silence, occasionally punctuated by coughs, weezes, and low grumbling "fuck mes". On this one, Millard and I carried on a conversation about the merits of the old G.I. Joe's versus the bunk-ass doll-sized one's that look like action figures from a gay porn called the "Gulf of Tom Kin".

State of Mind:  I feel like a strong, powerful, take-no-shit G.I. Joe in the actual Gulf of Tonkin.

Rating: P90X.

Day 78: Shoulders, Triceps, and Chest and Ab Ripper X

This is our final muscle-growth week, which leads us to the big question, have I grown muscle? Perception and reality rarely ever synch up; actual muscle growth and the psychological urge to think I look more cut, dangerous, and badass than Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon (1973), probably are not walking hand-and-hand. That being said, this is how I feel,

I think my dick got bigger. Seriously, I am not a doctor - but, my dad's a dentist - and this seems totally possible to me. I never thought of taking before and after pics so it will be difficult to gauge, but I definitely think it is a lot bigger and way more cut. Yeah, it actually got cut: it went from being like a mildly soggy piece of wood that had been in a stream for about a week to a rigid, strong, dependable steel-rod. You could hang a fridge on this thing. Bomber, you sound like an idiot, firstly, who hangs a fridge, and, secondly, you're penis cannot get bigger from working out, this is a scientific fact. First of all my dick doesn't believe in science - he's an Episcopalian as well as a Pescatarian - but luckily I do and I can prove there is room for dick growth in science. I'm working on the powerpoint and visual AIDS as we speak, but here are my bulletpoints:

1) Science does not reflect objective reality; it is our best conception, at the time, of what we think it is. The objective world didn't actually change from Newton to Einstein or from Einstein to Quantum Physics - our ability to perceive some of its complexities did. In 1906, we simply couldn't fathom the notion of matter not truly existing - that all matter was an illusion created by energy vibrating at different frequencies. And just like science couldn't grasp the sub-atomic world in 1906, science cannot, today, wrap it's egg-head around the breakneck, badassery that is P90X. I hypothesized that 'P90X' can make your dick bigger, I created this 'P90Xperiment' to test this and I have observed penial growth, and, thus, can infer, and conclude, that "P90X made my weiner bigger". What just happened here? I think it's what we call 'science'.

 

2) Scientists are weak and flabby and don't work-out like awesome, strong, alpha-males like myself. So, like the scientists that practice this 'science', it has no place in the gym. 

3) Dicks can get more cut - i.e. rigid - when you improve your circulatory system. Blood pumps faster, smoother, and easier, which means there will be more to material fill your dick with. P90X is Lorraina Bobbit: it cuts the shit out of your dick.

4) You know how when you shave your pubes, your dick looks bigger? More of the actual shaft is perceptible. Yeah, the same thing happens when you lose weight.

5) Fuck science! What has science given us? Really? The atom bomb? Abortions? Spitting in the face of God's will elongating Dick Cheney's life?* The Tuskegee experiments? Eugenics?** Automated telephone operators? Ford and GM cars for the last two decades? Fuck science. Yeah, sure, it gave us the printing press mass producing knowledge and innovation, but, guess what it also gave us? A Sarah Palin book. So, yeah, science can eat my intuitive, gut-based reasonings' asshole. 

It should be pretty clear that P90X made my dick bigger, which is pretty cool. Anything else?

I have these weird bumps of tissue over what used to be my exposed breast-plate; these are pretty cool also. I honestly looked like an 11-year old girl before P90X. I sort of have pecs now - they aren't like big beef-pot pie pecs; more like, quarter-pounder pecs. 

I definitely didn't get super-bulked. I lost no weight during this; so I surmize, with the fat loss, I probably gained 4 maybe 5 pounds of muscle. Who knows really. I did gain some muscle mass across my shoulders and arms; nothing too insane: it looks like I'm wearing Gordie Howe's old, barely protective, shoulder pads under my shirt. But, bulking aside, the best results occured in my mid-section. You could grate steel on my abs. If Lex Luthor slammed Superman's head against them, he would be left bloody and unconscious. You could pour water in between them and play boats, pretending you are Cartier sailing up the St. Lawrence river and it's tributaries all the way down into promise land. 

Unfortunately, working out does not change your face. I can actually call myself a butterface. But, alas, it is better to be a butterface than a Jofa - good bucket, bad equipment. 

In short, I sort of don't look like an extra from Schinder's List anymore.

Highlights: The whole workout went well until Ab Ripper X. Butt-cut is back again and it is killing me. (If you are not familiar with the evil entity that is 'butt-cut' go here, http://bombersp90xperiment.blogspot.com/2010/03/day-59-shoulders-and-arms-and-ab-ripper.html).

State of Mind: I really actually enjoy working out now. It is slowly becoming less of a duty and more of a hobby. This statement blows my mind: I never thought that would be possible.

Rating: P90X

*Cheney has commited less war crimes than he has had heart-attacks. 

** Yeah, yeah, Eugenics was unscientific, but, still, the power of scientific validity was used here.

Day 74 & 77: Chest and Back and Kenpo X

Weekend workouts suck. I'd rather spend a 'Weekend at Bernie's' as Bernie, go to a Nickelback concert, and again suffer through having sex on a trampoline and double bouncing myself onto my boner, being forced to wear the red Power Ranger costume my mom turned pink in the wash, and watching Wayne Gretzky's high-stick on Doug Gilmour go uncalled in game 6 of the conference finals, than struggle through another weekend workout. (Ironically, the last three events occurred at the same time: I was having sex for the first time on a trampoline in my pink Power Rangers get-up, watching the game through the window when Kerry Fraser's unnecessarily giant, taxidermied, head-of-hair caused him to miss one of the most obvious calls in sports - the blood-letting high stick - sending me into a fit of anger inadvertently ruining my perfect thrust rhythm, double-bouncing me into the air and forever changing the angle of my wiener. That's right folks, Kerry Fraser broke my wiener. And shattered my dreams of a Leafs/Canadiens Stanley Cup Final, which, since the conferences have been re-drawn, is now an impossibility. We shall never forget, never forgive).*

But, alas, they have gotten better, the workouts have become easier. I'd just rather drink copious amounts of cheap vodka and talk about whether the demise of Martin Brodeur in both the Olympics and the 5-game rout the Flyers laid on him in the first round, tarnishes his legacy than have to do 298 push-ups in 52 minutes. (For the record, it doesn't tarnish shit. He is the greatest goalie to ever play the game minus Felix Potvin who, like Bobby Orr, had injuries shorten his career making you ask and wonder, 'what if'?**). Weekend distractions aside, we trucked and mucked through both of these workouts efficiently and with ease. But, like I said in the last blog, it's not exactly surprising that after doing these individual workouts upwards of 15 times, we have gotten better. It's a law of human nature: do something a lot and you will get better. (The Leafs' prospects over the last 15 years - Kim Johnnson anyone? - are apparently a glaring exception to this rule.) So, really, the interesting question is, what else has gotten better?

Well, my mirror has officially taken over my computer-screen as the thing I masturbate in front of. So, that's good. I aslo find myself purposely wearing sweaters without a zipper down the middle, so when I take them off it's like a curtain slowly rising, unveiling my gleeming, sparkly, aneurysm-inducing, hard-cheese grating, mid-section. It's like watching Cirque de Soleil on mushrooms. However, we went over the physical affects last blog, the hardware - what about the mental, the software? How do I feel inside my brain, are my thoughts good and stuff, faster, sleeker, sexier, or just the same ol' slow-moving, ranch-dipped, electrical signals shuffling around aimlessly and lackadaisically bumbing into neuronal bundles here and there?

To borrow an analogy I used earlier, I feel like I went from DOS to Windows 7. The speed, clarity, and random ability to access memories and wayward thoughts has grown exponentially. It's like the Windows of my consciousness have been cleaned 7 times removing the grimy, yellow, caked-on ranch-cheese goo. It's not that my RAM has been affected, it's that I have become RAM (Random Analogy Machine). The random thoughts and associations that occur when I'm thinking or talking about anything persistently create these random, yet perfect, analogies. The lanes have been widened, the roads have been cleaned, and there is constant, fast-moving, Autobahn-like, traffic hustling from one neuronal bundle of memories and concepts to another. Throw any acronym at me, and I will turn it into a statement regarding my hotness. DOS? Dildo Obfuscating Sexiness, Dastardly Osiris-like Sensuality, Distant Occular Spraying. MAC? Major Awesome Cock, Mystical Anal Contractor, Mitochondric Anal Capitulator. (Ok, so the last one doesn't make sense, but, I bet, it took a double-take to figure that out).

Other than the sheer processing power being affected, I feel calmer. In many ways I am more mellow, more caught in just being here and now, and not worrying as much about what has happened and what could happen. Don't get me wrong, doing a bunch of push-ups and curls while yelling "extreme" in my basement for 77 days has not allowed me to enter into the effervescent, transcendent world of momentary consciousness; I just feel less pent up and anxious. 

Highlights: A group of teenage girls walked by the window as Millard and I were simultaneously karate-chopping the shit out of the air. I've never looked so cool.

State of Mind: Calm and quick. My mind is Bruce Lee.

Rating: C & B: P85X +Kenpo: P87X = P86X

*This didn't actually happen. I was born in 1986 - do the math. I would have been 7 when this occurred. I didn't hit puberty until well into the other Pat's (Quinn) coaching tenure. 

** Felix Potvin had no major injuries in his career. And, no, no other person on the planet has ever made the Potvin-Orr comparison. 

Day 73: Shoulders and Arms and Ab Ripper X

I could write about today's workout, which I have done upwards of 15 times, and tell you how much better I am at it than the first time I did it. "No way, you did the same thing 15 times and now you're better at it?!" Yeah, it's a pretty basic law that if you do something 15 times, your ability in that particular activity will increase. There are some exceptions to the rule like cricket, which I'm pretty sure you need a P.H.D. in set theory to understand or sex. I can honestly say I have not gotten any better at 'the sexin' than the first time I did it. I'm not insulting myself, I was just that good. You know how some people have a natural, god-given (yes, those can both occur at the same time) talent to do super-difficult math questions and they have no answer for this ability, no explanation, and have not undergone any rigorous training for it. They simply claim that their brain spits out some shapes and they interpret those shapes as representing various numbers and, voila!*, they have their answer to the square root of 999 876 674.7890. I'm like these guys, but with fucking. I'm a sex-savant, a sultry swinger of seduction, a purrrveyor of punani punishment; my brain just immediately spits out all the right answers and moves, directing my hips into some sort of multiple-orgasm-inducing satanic salsa. A few times -- at parties, restaurants, movie theatres and the like -- my powers have been activated by, say, a kiss or that scene in Wild Things**, or Graham's sister or imagining Graham's sister in that scene in Wild Things, and, bam!, I black-out and when I come to it's the same thing time and time again: a gigantic pile of mildly-paralyzed, overly-satisfied women panting, huffing down cigarettes with reckless abandon, and speaking in tongues. If some million-woman march occurs in Washington and starts to get out of hand, send me in. All I need is an Ipod equipped with the director's cut of Wild Things and patriarchy will once again, prevail. 

So, yeah, instead of talking about the obvious improvement in this exercise over 73 days, let's dig into something juicier, something more personal and deeper. Let's discuss my self-image. There's a lot to cover here and I intend to work through it during this week's blogs, but, for today, let's just cover the surface, the strictly physical. How do I feel about my body?

In short, I like it and I think you should too. I'm not like Swayze in Roadhouse by any means, but it no longer acts as an obstacle that is conquered by, "well, he's sort of funny". Weirdly enough, I can no longer take my shirt off at parties; before, I was the funny, slightly too drunk guy, with the make-a-wish kid frame and Jewish accountant gut, but now, I would be the douchey guy that has no other positive social characteristics other than triceps you can drink water out of and abs you could grate cinder blocks on. If there is a ketchup bottle in front of me or across the table, I find myself reaching for the one across the table, allowing my t-shirt to ride up on my arm as I flex and crane lift my ketchup to my plate. I refuse to do any social activity where I can't take my shirt off. "Yeah, that sucks man, but I'm going to have to pass on the funeral; it's beach-day bro". 

In all seriousness, whenever something occurs in our lives that is socially positive - getting a senior role in a company, getting stronger, getting published, banging some girls etc. - it is very easy to allow that confidence to cede into other areas it has no business being. You can get in really good shape, but that doesn't mean you should feel more correct when arguing about gay marriage, or Quantum Theory, or find your jokes funnier. The same goes for all other things. And, the opposite occurs too. If you, say, feel insecure about your looks or you didn't get the job you wanted, then it is really easy to feel less confident about your opinions, thoughts, abstract ability to reason etc. The better we feel about ourselves as a whole, the better we feel about the parts that make up the whole; this is illogical. These parts are separate entities - how your face looks and your ability to judge sound reasoning do not reinforce or influence each other. Easier said than done, but it is silly to do so. 

 

Point of all this? I have been watching this process occur in myself and have begun the process of building dams, blocking any positive feelings about my physical appearance from flowing into any other areas it has no business being in. (Plus, lifting weights does not help your face). Ego can ruin experience - if you think you're bigger than the world, how can you be in constant awe of it, if you think you are always right or as smart as anyone, how can you learn from people or become excited by their ideas. Humility allows you to take so much 'new' stuff in; with Ego, you just patch these new experiences onto the old-construct that stands to prove you are this or that great thing; with humility, you are allowed to tear down some of this construct, constantly renewing your perspective on things and yourself. The ego-driven person derives pleasure and contentment from their positive self-image, to tear aspects of it down, is to tear down pieces of the mechanism that allows them to be happy, thus, real, powerful, spell-binding new ideas or experiences will be ignored in favour of serving this construct.

Wow, that was so deep, I am truly awesome. 

In short, I look better, but I am still the same ol' insecure guy that will pull out his penis if it will make people laugh.

Highlights: Millard staring at his reflection in the window flexing his biceps. I think him and Zak share a storage unit for their self-image in the same building. 

State of Mind: I think I am so cool, but not that cool, but pretty cool.

Rating: P90X

*I have gotten manly enough over the last 73 days to be able to say Voila and it still sound cool.

** Do not mistake Wild Things with Where the Wild Things Are. Wild Things has Kevin Bacon and Neve Campbell in it and has no giant, hairy, monsters that represent what our insecurities turn us into, blocking us from attaining the one thing we want, to not be alone, to be loved and cared about. Saddest fuckin' movie ever. I considered putting in Schindler's List afterwards to cheer me up.***

***That's not a Jewish joke...the movie does not actually cheer me up - it's a hyperbole used to underline how sad Where the Wild Things Are is by comparing it to a super-sad movie that powerfully illustrates in grueling, gut-wrenching detail, one of the greatest atrocities in human history. Thought I should clear the air. 

Day 72: Plyometrics

We're rounding the corner, coming into the homestretch, 18 tiny lil' days until the finish line. We've shown the heart, determination, and ability to overcome the odds like the Jamaican Bobsled Team (the movie version with Doug E. Doug, which I imagine is way more inspiring than the actual one), but will we end up face-down, all our hard-work, dreams, and hopes for not having to wear a shirt all summer, scraping away like the black, gold, and green paint from their helmets?

Well, if we can get through the all-out, breakneck, soul-crushing 'total war' on our bodies that was the first 18 days, the last 18 should be like the invasion of Grenada. (By that I mean it should be easy, not a staged, overblown, hard-fought victory of the courageous and good against the dastardly forces of evil that can occupy any dark corner of the world - like, say, a small isolated island of 100 000 peaceful subsistence-farmers - growing and growing into a freedom-strangling, liberty-raping, baby-killing hegemony.)

It should be easy; we have already soundly defeated the Triple-Alliance of chin-fat, meat-bagel*, and running out of breath while masturbating. (The Italians naturally representing the latter, given their rabid libidos and love of all things cheesy and fat, which also explains their deep admiration of Pavarotti). After that, it should be smooth-sailing unless we encounter something comparable to a U-Boat or other sort of poor analogy that allows me to move on to that other total-war we had, WWII.

Our go at Plyometrics today speaks to how easy it should be to complete the final 18. During the first 18, this exercise would gut-punch us, take our lunch money, and then use that lunch money to buy a large dildo to rape any hope of completing this exercise out of us. Times have changed, tables have turned? We are doing the gut-punching, lunch-money stealing, and anal dildo raping? Either way, we can now competently get through it.

But, really, you never know what the next 18 days has in store for us. In the deep, dark, unknown, depths of our consciousness, could lurk a demotivational torpedo heading directly our way. (And, B-Bam, a fully-functional, non-forced U-Boat analogy...eat it, "when in doubt you do not have to use analogies Bomber"; you know who you are).

Highlights: It is becoming crystal clear that we need to institute a rule that forbids inviting people over while we do plyometrics or yoga. You simply cannot look cool doing squat-jacks in matching board-shorts.

State of Mind: I like working out now and it yields super-positive mental results -- however, I have moved far enough away from how I mentally felt before working out to be able to compare exactly how much better it does make me feel. I guess it's like any drug, it's beauty and splendor fades with repeated use.

Rating: P90X

* Scrunch up your stomach fat into a circle around your belly-button, and, that, my friends, is a meat-bagel.