Stupid Workout Gadgets

Whenever I go to the gym, I'm always astounded by the amount of oddly shaped contraptions that are supposed to help you become fitter and healthier. I realize that a small part of my disdain for these machines is simply a sublimated hatred that arises from feelings of inferiority engendered when I realize I have no idea how the machine is supposed to work.

But mostly, it boggles the mind as to how these people think these machines are necessary for them to get into better shape. "I haven't been able to work out lately because I haven't had time to go to the gym," I hear people say.

The fact is, most of the machines in a gym are relatively modern inventions, developed in the past couple decades. Before that, for thousands of years, people all over the world managed to become fitter -- stronger, tougher, and with more stamina -- than most chiseled gym rats today can ever hope to be with their so-called "modern" equipment.

Want to get in shape and stay there? In an ideal situation, here's what you need:

• A full barbell weight set (with clips or collars)
• Running shoes (and associated clothing)
• Pullup bar
• Ab wheel (basically a wheel with handles)
• and for variety, a jump rope and ...
  
• a heavy (70 pound) bag.

Those last two are optional.

As an alternative, I love using kettlebells.

Either option will give you a full strength, endurance, and cardiovascular workout.

And even that's being extravagant. You can get a full-body strength and cardio workout with nothing more than your bodyweight and a sturdy wall if you have to. Some people even say this is preferable to using weights, though I think there are limits to how far you can go with just your bodyweight.

Instead, the fitness industry and various financially compromised publications and medical professionals would have you believe that you need. I'm not even talking about the obvious gimmicks that are marketed on late-night infomercials. (No one really believed the thighmaster could be of any benefit, did they?) I'm talking about those Nautilus-style machines -- the ones with the elaborate wheels, gears, chains, and hydraulic pumps that resemble a predecessor to the Terminator. Guys pump themselves up on these things, then walk around flexing their empty muscles. But ask them to help you move a couch, and your realize that you would have been better off asking your wife to help. I'm not trying to insult my wife (because I don't have a death wish) -- but geez, I'd expect a guy who can press a stack of weights on the pec deck machine would be of more use than her ...

So please. Go to the gym, by all means. But don't use the stupid machines. In addition the equipment I mentioned above, the only things in a typical urban "health club" that are truly useful are:

• treadmills
• rowing machines
• saunas
• steam rooms
• eye-catching hot women in spandex or lycra -- motivational visualization can be very helpful
• -- unless you're a woman or you're gay, in which case you can stare at the muscular men

Basically, gyms are useless, and the sooner Americans realize that getting in shape is simply a matter of a healthy, regular dose of effort and beneficial misery, the sooner we can all stop wasting our collective shares of GNP on gym memberships.

Why Is This Newsworthy?

So I finally (12-18 months too late) got around to checking out the blog of Jessica Cutler, the Washingtonienne. It’s the tale of a Capitol Hill senatorial intern who sleeps around. Among her lovers are allegedly one high-level Bush staffer who pays her for anal sex and a variety of other guys, some of whom gave her expensive gifts (as opposed to cash) for sex. Plus a few guys who are poor, but are nevertheless attractive enough to catch her attention.

Cutler, who has since written a novel based on her blog, explains that she didn’t feel guilty taking the money since she, like most other interns, couldn’t possibly survive on the $25,000 a year she was paid to sort through a senator's mail.

Now, I don’t find anything all that objectionable about what she did; it seems like she mostly had a good time, as did her partners. And she does have a point: $25,000 is a suck-ass paycheck, though considering what she was being paid to do, it seems fair. But are her exploits really worth all the attention she got? Come on, there are slutty girls galore in this country. And slutty girls are great -- they're often smart and nice, and without them, I never would have gotten laid until I was, like, 30. I mean, god bless slutty girls -- girls who were willing to have sex with a guy as disreputable, lazy and broke as myself solely because I have a nice smile, occasional good manners, and a acerbic sense of humor.

But why does this slutty girl in particular deserve all this attention? Is it because she's particularly smart? Not that I can see. She's not even that great of a writer.

Maybe she's really hot, I thought. Certainly, Jessica seems to think she's absolutely gorgeous, basing her opinion (I assume) on the fact that she's slept her way through this country's corridors of power. Then I checked out some photos of her.

How disappointing.

Jessica is either incredibly non-photogenic or kind of average looking. About the best I can say for her looks is that at least she’s reasonably thin, I guess. But please: everyday on the subway I see at least a couple better-looking women.

Jessica, if you ever read this, which I doubt, because I’m pretty sure no-one is reading this: (score at least one for you. Plus you have a book deal. But I digress) The reason you got so many guys to sleep with you isn’t that you’re hot. It’s because you were willing to put out fairly easily. I’m not saying this is a bad thing – where were you when I was single and lonely? – but any non-repulsive girl willing to take it up the ass, take (or give) a spanking and indulge in other kinks (at least I assume you're willing to try new things) could have done just as well. If not better.

In Defense of Tom Cruise and Scientology

Tom Cruise has provided a lot of material for late-night comedians lately, what with his manic declarations of love for Katie Holmes and especially for his outspoken, insistent exultations about Scientology. And yes, it does seem a little odd and strange.

Scientology is a pretty weird religion, and it’s quite easy to see why people raise an eyebrow when they hear it’s premise. Here’s, in a nutshell, what they believe. Each of us is composed of spirit, body, and genetic material; the spiritual component is called a thetan. Once there was an alien race similar to us, and a galactic tyrant kidnapped a bunch of his enemies and brought them to Earth, where he stacked them around various volcanoes. When the volcanoes went off, his enemies’ bodies were mostly destroyed, and their thetan portions were captured and brainwashed via some sort of cinematic experience to believe all sorts of nutty things. These traumatized thetans then spread around the world, where they, like parasites, clung to humans. This is why humans a) believe in the religions they do (the traumatized thetans were brainwashed with images that led to the world’s religions today) and b)mentally troubled and blocked. Since thetans are eternal, each person’s own spirit (also called a thetan), along with the parasitic thetan, causes illness, guilt, etc. and only Scientologic processes can cure these ills.

Sounds pretty weird, right? I think they’re nuts too. But here’s another one: there is one almighty creator of the universe, who also created the world and all mankind. Though this creator is kind and loving, he nevertheless demands total obedience from all humans, or else he will punish them by inflicting suffering or sending them to an unpleasant, evil place for all eternity. Sometimes he plays little jokes on his worshippers, just to see if they’ll still love him afterward. For instance, he’ll kill a worshipper’s kids, make him suffer disgusting and painful illnesses, and take away his house and his means of survival, and make him ugly. All just for fun. Among the creator’s commands are that we refrain from seeking knowledge, that we obey him unquestioningly, even if he orders us to kill our own children. Because we are so disobedient, he sent his son down to us to teach us right from wrong. His son could walk on water, turn water into wine, and heal the sick with a simple touch. So wonderful was this son, that the creator killed him, and allowed him to die in a most painful manner. Then he came back to life and died again right away. These days, you can now disobey the creator and commit any heinous act you want. As long as you then confess and apologize, you are forgiven and can do it again. Oh, and though you are not to kill, you are allowed to kill if you are doing it for him.

You know what that second “cult” is. It’s Christianity, and it’s no less silly, illogical and creepy than Scientology. There’s just as little proof of the veracity of Christian beliefs as there is for Scientology. It’s just that a lot more people were brought up in some Judeo-Christian religion and find it easier to accept.

So give Tom a break for his beliefs.

Scientology. It’s no worse than Christianity.

Farewell

I said goodbye to Chicago this weekend.

I moved away from that great City of Big Shoulders about five years ago, choosing to broaden my horizons by living in another city. Chicago had been all I knew as an adult, and I felt Boston would be an interesting contrast. For the three or so years I lived in Boston, I was mostly miserable. Or, rather, I was quite happy, but that had more to do with the friends and family I had living there. The city itself, I found, sucked.

I’m sorry, Boston, but you’re not really a city. You’re a community that used to be a city and now struts around like a skinny 15-year-old boy trying to prove he can take on the big boys at the biker bar. You talk about how tough and great you are, but deep down, you know you have nothing to back it up, and you’d be so screwed if you ever had to deliver on your boasting. Just look at what a dullsville affair you made of the 2004 Democratic Convention. You have no nightlife, little in the way of cuisine or culture, and despite the presence of a large population of young people and college students, you’re remarkably stodgy, prissy, close-minded, and mired in the ways of generations past. There might be a lot of new and good ideas generated in Boston, but not one of them has a chance of being implemented within your boundaries. To put things simply: you offer no fun, you offer no innovation, and you have … no … energy.

For the entire time that I lived in Boston, I rhapsodized about Chicago. The world-class theater. The straightforward, honest, tough people. The 24-hour public transit (and accompanying bars, clubs and nightlife). The plethora of great food of all types, genres, and ethnicities. The influence it has had on world culture. I dreamed about a blessed return to the only real city I’d ever known.

Then, two years ago, my fiancée (now wife) and I made the move to New York. And Chicago, as I discovered this weekend on a return visit, just can’t compare. Yes, the theater scene is just about as vibrant, in its own way, as New York’s. The food is as varied and as delightful (if not, in some cases at least, more so). Yes, you have great bars, new ideas and innovations. And Chicago is grander – cleaner, brighter, more gleaming – than New York. (Chicagoans, at least, have the sense to keep their garbage in dumpsters secreted in alleyways, instead of in leaky garbage bags on the sidewalk where all can take pleasure in the odors.)

But New York has the energy. That sense of being in the center of the universe. Walk out the door, and everyone is going places, doing something, go, go, go, go, GO. The sense is there in Chicago to a limited extent, but it’s more relaxed. In New York, it’s lead, follow, or get out my fucking way before I rip off your head and shit down the stump. And everyone has this attitude. It’s exciting, and it gives you life. And that’s why, although on paper, Chicago has just about as much to offer as New York, it’s been replaced in my heart, and I must bid it a fond farewell.

I’ll always love Chicago. I’ll always miss it. And if I have to live there – well, that would still be pretty cool. But Chicago – you’re no longer real-world representation of the dream of the Great White City in my heart.

Goodbye. Thanks for the great times and for helping me grow up. Let’s keep in touch, huh?

In support of flogging

It might surprise people to know there is still someone out there (me) who believes in the old-fashioned methods of criminal punishment (many of which are still in use in other civilized countries). I think that criminal penalties for felons should always involve public flogging, caning, and other types of painful punishment. I also believe U.S. prisons are far too nice and need to openly be made more unpleasant.

Why am I bringing up this subject? Because of the case of William Crutchfield, who two weeks ago shot his mail carrier seven times. Not because Crutchfield was upset at poor Earl Lazenby or at Lazenby's performance, or because Lazenby kept bringing him bills or because Lazenby had slept with his wife. Nope. Crutchfield was in debt up to his eyeballs and thought that being sent to federal prison for the rest of his life was a pretty square deal -- free food, shelter, and medical care for the rest of his life. And of course, one way to get thrown into federal prison is to kill a federal employee such as a mail carrier.

You know what this says to me? It says to me that our prisons are too damn nice. Or at least, our prisons are perceived as being too damn nice. Now, I know that prison life sucks. Anyone who's ever seen the HBO series "Oz," develops a profound and deep desire to stay the hell out of prison. But clearly, our prisons aren't scary enough to deter men like Mr. Crutchfield from thinking that it might be nice to go to prison.

So here's my idea: every prison sentence includes not an exercise room, or a library, or cable TV, but instead regular corporal punishments that are open to the public. I don't care if it's flogging, or caning, or branding or whatever. As long as it makes the criminal scream in pain and beg to be put to death, and as long as it makes spectators pale and vomit, it works for me.

But prison is a chance to rehabilitate the dregs of society, Drunken Pig, you say. They have no way of bettering themselves in the real world, and prison is a good opportunity to convince criminals to learn a trade, to get a GED, maybe even get a college degree.

Well, trust me, if you make prison unpleasant enough, a criminal will do whatever it takes when he gets out to better his life and make sure he never does anything to even make a cop glance his (or her) way.

Of course, the Eighth Amendment makes my idea completely illegal. Which is why this Amendment should be repealed. Sure, I hear the howls of outrage, but consider the general wording and you can already see why this is a stupid amendment:

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Let me ask you something. Isn't punishment, by definition, supposed to suck? A punishment is suppsed to cause hardship, to cause pain, to cause distress -- to provide instant negative feedback to a criminal. "Yo, dickwad," a punishment says. "See what happens when you try to pull that shit? Don't do it again!" A good punishment makes it so the criminal will never want to commit a crime again, and convinces people who hear what happened to him decide to do anything to avoid going to jail.

Since the definition of cruel is "to cause pain or suffering" I think that a punishment, by definition, will always be cruel. But so what? Is anyone out there actually going to tell me that we don't need to punish our criminals? Didn't think so.

And if the punishment is unusual, what of it? Einstein was unusual. So was Picasso, Amadeus, and Gandhi. There's nothing wrong with being unusual, and if we can provide someone out there an outlet for his somewhat alarming creative urges, I think that's just icing on the cake.

I mean, fuck me. I didn't say anything when it was clear that prison didn't necessarily strike fear into the hearts of all Americans. But damnit, when it starts looking like an attractive option, it's clear that our prison system is presenting far too nice of an image to the world.

Boxer Girl

The Los Angeles Times has been running a five-part story this week about a little girl who trains to fulfill her dream about being a boxer. At risk of sounding like a condescending privileged liberal, this is a really fascinating story.

What interests me about the story is what Seniesa, the young girl, is getting out of boxing. According to the writer, it's all about building a better life for herself and giving her troubled but loving father an outlet and distraction from the troubles he's facing.

But what I see is a girl who's learned how to focus and to discipline herself to overcome difficulties -- qualities that have helped her become a top student in school. I also see that Seniesa, who has had many difficulties finding opponents, hasn't learned one of the great lessons that martial arts training teaches -- how to lose.

In the martial arts, you learn by getting hit. You learn how to take pain -- without letting it control you. You find the weakness in your reflexes and your techniques. And, perhaps most importantly, you learn how to come back from a loss.

Seniesa, because she can't find any opponents and thus rarely gets a fight, hasn't really learned that yet. I know that her troubled childhood and dangerous surroundings mean that she's already been exposed to the losing side of life already. But somehow, I don't think she's ever been shown what to do with a loss, and usually, the combative sports are a good avenue for learning this invaluable lesson. Today's installment features her losing a match -- and not in a very gracious manner. It's too bad none of her trainers apparently know how to teach herwhat can be learned from a loss.

I hope that I'll hear about her flourishing -- in whatever field she chooses -- 10 years from now.

Masochism

I swear I have a streak of masochism in me. Right now it's Friday afternoon, and the only thing I really want to do is go home and drink lots of cold, delicious beer. Actually first I want to take a dump -- I can tell I have a nice lincoln-log dump in me right now, and I love those.

[I'm on a drinking phase right now, when pretty much the only thing I want to do is drink. Lots. Not so much that I, hypothetically, wake up wearing ripped leather underwear, handcuffed to an amorous marsupial, with a large cooking implement jammed up my sphincter (those were the good ol' days), but at least a couple generous glasses of whiskey a night. Hey! I said a generous glass! More! Come on, don't cheap out on me. Oh for ... just leave the damn bottle. And take away the glass. Prick.]

But instead of drinking up a good buzz and enhancing it with some excellent chorizo quesadillas, what I'm going to do instead is drag my ass all the way up into Queens -- and not just Queens as in Astoria or Long Island City, which are just over the bridge from Manhattan, but all the fucking way to Jamaica. That's where my baguazhang/xingyiquan teacher runs classes every Tuesday and Friday evening, in a converted garage with no air conditioning. The no-AC thing is significant because I sweat at the drop of a hat, even in the middle of winter. It makes me disgustingly slimy, which means people tend to squirm when they see that they're going to drill with me. It also makes me miserable and gives me a rash.

Am I whining? You bet your ass I am. I may hate whiners in real life, but if you hate my whining, you can always close this window. So fuck off.

...

You didn't, did you? I knew you couldn't resist me.

...

To be fair, it's not like I even have the longest commute to class: those go to two students who regularly travel to class from Philadelphia and Montreal. That's just nuts. I might not live in the same borough, but at least I'm from the same fucking state. I have to admit, though my teacher is scary good, I don't think I'd put forth that much effort to study from anyone. At least, no one currently alive.

What's worse about this class is that drinking is discouraged. You see, xingyiquan and baguazhang are what are known as "internal" martial arts. They stress using the whole body -- even muscles that aren't normally under conscious control -- to generate power and mobility. For them to work and for you to improve, you should avoid alcohol because it interferes with balance and control.

That's one thing I miss about my old school, where the teacher told me upon the commencement of my training that, "We don't hold class on Fridays. On Fridays you should be out and about, drinking and doing stupid shit that makes people try to kick the crap out of you and forces you to see if what you learned during the week really works." Not only did my teacher approve of drinking, he encouraged it. Sometimes, we even trained drunk. The official reasoning was that a common factor in a lot of fights is alcohol, so you might as well get used to fighting with a buzz. The real reason is that we all loved to drink to excess, and we all loved to train to excess, and usually it seemed like a good idea at the time. A few occasions, we even went to a tittie bar, where -- I kid you not -- I got some of the most valuable martial-arts pointers ever -- key instructional tips that took my game to the next level. Also, I learned just how much I love watching strippers wearing (and taking off) Catholic schoolgirl uniforms. It's a pretty close decision as to which lesson was more useful. On the one hand, I never get into fights anymore, but on the other hand, I'm married, so I can't ogle strippers (at least not on a regular basis) anymore either.

So that's my Friday, now and for the foreseeable future: drag my ass into a cultural wasteland, sweat, grunt, and experience pain for 3-4 hours, and then drag my ass back.

And even though I hate this -- I also love it. Damn, I'm a sick fucker.

Enjoy your weekend.

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