TWO HOURS OF BLISS

PBS, the home of Pretty Bland Stuff, managed to wake up out of its CPB stupor last night and broadcast some brilliance. "South Pacific in Concert" presented the Rodgers and Hammerstein score on Carnegie Hall's enormous stage, and it came across better than the helplessly literal movie version. Reba sang "I'm In Love With A Wonderful Guy," one of Rodgers' many infectious waltzes, with a sharp country twang that sold her character as actually hailing from Little Rock ARK (Mitzi Gaynor, in the movie version, never seems less than a showgirl and is totally unbelievable as a WWII nurse.) Brian Stokes Mitchell, in white dinner jacket, gave even the overdone "Some Enchanted Evening" a sexy and masculine quality. There were biceps galore on the Seabees in their two big numbers, and Bloody Mary's rendition of "Happy Talk" was incredibly happy. South Pacific has never been one of my favorite shows, in spite of my family's history (the original cast production on Broadway was my parent's first date.) I've always felt the music was just OK, and the times I've watched the movie I've wondered how they got all that seawater, sand and those airplanes onto the Broadway stage. But stripped down to its basic elements, the music showed its dexterity (by the time Rodgers wrote the score he'd had enough Broadway experience for ten composers nowadays) and the story flowed with charm. PBS showed a similar program early last year - a concert version of Bernstein's "Candide" - that was also incredible and entertaining and just plain wonderful. I love it when theater is shown as theater on television. Opening up plays and musicals, like ABC did with The Music Man , Bye Bye Birdie, and Annie, just does not work! (Well, maybe Annie wasn't so bad, although I HATE that show and anything they did to make it shorter made it better than the stage version and light years beyond John Huston's nightmare movie.) So, in conclusion, WHY DO WE HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH SO MUCH CRAP ON PUBLIC TELEVISION JUST TO GET ONE OR TWO GOOD PROGRAMS PER YEAR? I mean, "Lighthouses From the Air," "Masterpiece Theatre's Finnegan's Wake," and "What The Hell Do I Have In My Attic That I Can Bore Somebody With" do not make anyone smarter or want to go buy theater tickets or listen to Mahler. And don't even talk to me about the execrable "Blenko Retro."

AN EXCURSION TO THE BEACH, PRE-SEASON

I went with Feenix to Rehoboth Beach this past weekend. The drive to and from lacked the usual high spirits and joie de vivre since the skies were densely overcast and it rained much of the way there. However, my host D-, of D- and M-, was charming, entertaining, and most hospitable. Foods I accepted from the PD-approved list were fish, green beans, beef, tomatoes, fruit salad and sliced turkey. From the unapproved list, I managed not to pass up bagels, lite cream cheese, peach cobbler, deep-dish french toast, beer, coffeecake, little chocolate donuts, sausage links, tropical fruit juice and rum. Scooter the dog and Kitty the, uh, cat, entertained us with their antics. Feenix jumped each time Kitty meowed near him, most likely due to caffeine intake. While the rain fell and the wind howled and the temperatures stayed close to November, I shopped and actually enjoyed it. We also watched the last hour of Titanic, a movie with a undramatic subplot about a sinking ship and much concerned with Leo and Kate splashing about in frigid waters. Plus something concerning handcuffs. For a much better look at this most famous naval disaster, consult the British version, A Night To Remember, from which whole bits of business were stolen for the hundred-million-dollar remake. As if we didn’t have enough of water that Saturday afternoon, we then ventured out to the restaurant known as Fin (which means “end” in french), where a good time was had by all. As I was putting on my shoes Sunday morning, the sun came out. On arrival in DC, the sky was blue. And today was even better. Yes, we could have used Monday’s weather on Saturday. But D- provided a relaxed, peaceful, yet still quite entertaining weekend.

NO MORE FIFTY REP WORKOUTS!

PD promised me today that we're moving to an all-new workout on Monday. And that's not a moment too soon. I made the mistake of telling him that the 50-rep squats were the #1 Most Painful Exercise. This was right before the 50-rep calf raises. PD said "Well, we're just gonna have to see if we can move these to the #1 slot." He had me do 10 reps, then hold the weight a few inches off the floor (I was on the seated calf-raise torture machine), then do 10 more reps, hold the weight off the floor while he counted to 3 million (10 actually), repeat repeat repeat. Afterward, when I regained my composure, he asked me what was #1. I told him that 50 rep squats and 50-rep calf raises were both number one. Squats for their whole-body massive ache and burn with sucking O2 tendencies, and calf raises for their intense, focused, extremity-based pain.

Time for a protein shake and bed, so I can get up and do Thursday.

My plans for the weekend include a trip to the country to amuse other people.

TODAY

PD just put me through another bruising workout. We're still on the 50 rep thing, where he has me do, well, 50 reps, be it bench press, squats, curls, whatever. 3 sets of them. He promised that this is the final week of that, and next week we go on to something else that isn't so - incredibly painful. Actually, he didn't say it wouldn't be painful. I'm just hoping it isn't. I'm down to 153, and I tried on a swimsuit that didn't fit and wonder of wonders, the velcro closed and I didn't have to suck it in. Now I'm wondering WHEN DO I START PACKING ON THE MUSCLE? And then I calm myself down and realize I've only been buttkicked personnally since February. I had to give up drinking Myoplex for a while, as it's started to screw up my stomach. PD said it'll do that, and gave me a couple of alternatives to try. My workout today was at 5pm, and since I never go at that time, I was amazed at the number of hunky, muscle-y, masculine guys with really awesome biceps.

YESTERDAY

Feenix said I have this screwed up relationship with my trainer - he said "Mike pays PD to talk to him and kick his butt." I said "And it's the most successful relationship I've had in years."

SEARCHING FOR MY PLACE
in the blogosphere... blogiverse... among the bloggerati... The number of blogs out there is so absolutely huge, I feel adrift sometimes, like Frank Poole in the vastness of space. Who to read? Who to link to? Who is out there? Dropping in on the few I visit everyday is not unlike eavesdropping on one of those tight, inward facing groups in Halo or JR's*, but without the cocktail. Those I've linked to and those I read - the innermost orbits around krooz - are an attractive lot, bearded, bearcubish, rugby-ing. I've detected other bodies, young drink-wielding party-types from Weho, Nebraskan plains-huggers, and the ubiquitous big apple denizens. And it takes a while to ascertain the strings of a blogger's life, the through lines that make up the day-to-day plot of his site. Yet while I've stayed close to the community that brings us all together under the krooz tagline, I haven't quite found those bloggers like me. Perhaps this is a good thing. Most of my days are pretty dull. Still, blog-wise, I feel sometimes like I'm sitting in the middle of Arecibo, listening to quasars while looking for a signal coming back. Whatever the hell that means...

*I haven't been in JR's in over a year, what with the smokeless situation over at Halo. But I will be celebrating Peg Friday there in two nights. Without alcohol. I read in FitnessRX for Men that alcohol inhibits the body's ability to burn fat for fuel. And I have this pound and a half of love handle I need to nuke in time for beach season. Plus PD's been keeping me honest about my diet.

WHAT WITH THE TIME CHANGE
and everything, I've been playing catchup with my life, and while I love it when the sun stays up until 7, 8, 9pm, I hate the week or so of adjustment I have to make to live fully in this new warped day.

PD put me through an intense and tortured workout, consisting primarily of 50-rep sets. Bench press, squats, triceps. 3 of each. 150 repetitions. "When you can't complete the motion anymore, then just lower the weight a couple of inches, but lock it out at the top!" he said, during the bench press nightmare. "That's looking a little easy, I'm not even breaking a sweat" he said after I howled through 48, 49 50... and then he'd load on some more weight. Sometimes he'd yawn, as if to say "your non-intensity is putting me to sleep!" He promised me more on Wednesday, and EVEN MORE fun next week. Oh Joy. Rapture.

I had an "I'm so very sick of Brokeback" moment last week when I saw the commercial for the DVD. Funny how they ONLY SHOWED SCENES OF THE GUYS HOLDING ONTO AND DANCING WITH THE GIRLS. Then I just had to laugh, when I saw the TBS promos for the Lord of the Rings, which they're showing next weekend. TBS did a Brokeback parody using Frodo and Sam, the ring, them hugging, you get the idea. That's just messed up: a movie about two cowboys in love is sold through images of heterosexuality, and a fantasy about little creatures saving a mythical land is sold through homo subtext. Granted, the LOTR promo makes fun of the myriad Brokeback parody previews. But it's some messed-up zeitgeist all the same!

WORKING OUT A MUSCLEFESTO
PD and I chatted about The Dreaded Steroids today during my workout. He ran through all the sports figures who have done them (the usual suspects, plus a few I hadn't heard of, since I don't follow sports), and he said that personal buttkicking school told him "don't promise a client size like you see in the magazines... only steroids can achieve that." PD's true to this - he's never guaranteed I'd look like Zeb, and I've never demanded it. But the conversation definitely got me thinking more about what exactly I want to achieve out of these sessions (and the $$$ I'm spending on them.) Sure, I've joked with feenix and said "we are SO doing steroids before next year's krooz." Trouble is, I don't really want SIZE. And needles - I hate the needles. I want... I want... what do I want? Walking home from work, it came to me. In layman's terms, I guess you could say I want to look sexy, I want to be comfortable on the beach, I want to turn heads. That's boring though - everybody says that - commercials sell it - as a set of images its ubiquitous and invisible. What I really want is presence, balance, heft. And this means... it's really, when I come right down to it, all about... all about the SPACE I TAKE UP. I've always taken up space that's sinewy, angular, faceted. I want to take up space that's dense, curved, primed for energy. Getting there has always been a challenge: trying to gain weight, lifting weights according to no one's program but my own, going to the gym, then going to the gym again, then going to the gym AGAIN ---- and staying the same. Now I'm seeing it in very Seurat terms, realizing it's the millions of tiny cellular changes that bring about the "building up the image" of the look I'm after. Plus having my personal buttkicked a couple of days a week by someone who really knows.

WHITHER IS FLED THE VISIONARY GLEAM?*
The sun was out all day today and maybe, just maybe, spring is gonna get here.

GOOD NEWS on the money front: I didn't lock myself out of my bank account (see previous entry). I remembered my pin number and got in and was able to get CA$H.

I NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED to start on draft #4 of my zombie movie, "EM:ZD" if I'm ever going to send it to my cousin (hollywood bob) and enter contests. But in true writerly fashion I am PROCRASTINATING. Although I call it "formative imaging." Well, not really. I just made that up.

OTHER BLOGGERS I've perused post references to music they're into at the moment. But since I'm a level IV Music Gaygeeknerd, all I can post is that right now I've got Gerald Finzi's Intimations of Immortality issuing forth from my computer speakers. Somehow, I don't think it's on the turntables at Nation or Remington's or Cobalt. I'm finding it's good blog posting music, as it kind of burbles along in that early/middle 20th Century British oratorio way (quite like Arthur Benjamin's "Cantata - The Storm Clouds" but without Doris Day's scream.) And by the time I'm finished, Immortality's over and Finzi's Grand Fantasia and Toccata for piano and orchestra is up to bat, a piece of music that is the exact opposite of sitting at a desk all day in front of a computer.

MORE PAIN from PD today. He's currently ingesting only oatmeal, protein meal replacements, and steamed broccoli in preparation for his big bodybuilding competition in July. I didn't tell him about the martini-and-a-half I ingested Friday night.

I WAS ABLE to purchase a box of 36 Myoplex Deluxe packets, 12 Myoplex Deluxe Bars and the same number of Labrada Lean-something bars through Bodybuilding.com for the price of 1 36-packet box of Myoplex at GNC. The online source has better prices than GNC (even with their gold discounts), plus you get your choice of a free water bottle, shaker bottle or t-shirt with every order over $75 or some such ridiculously enormous amount of money. PD said he usually gets the shirts. I asked, "Do you wear them?" He answered: "Nope."

*Wordsworth.

A Dull Weekend in March

Not real cold, but not springlike. I sat on the Dupont Circle fountain this afternoon after the gym. The temperature at the bank showed 56F, but there was a cold breeze bringing a chill. I'm not a big fan of these early spring Saturdays, as they bring out the extreme dullness in me. And I am just a bit bored.

The weekend started on a bad note, as I completely blanked out on my debit card pin number as I was getting cash to buy a drink at Halo last night. In my panic, I tried a couple of number combinations, forgetting that if I entered three or more improper pin numbers the bank would shut down access to my money. I think I exceeded the maximum number, because the giant steel teeth at the ATM quickly closed and I had to snap my hands back quickly so my arms would not be bitten off.

In reality, it wasn't that exciting. My card just didn't work. That's all. And now I have to go through all kinds of rigamarole to get the thing working again. I'm wondering if I can get through a week without any cash at all. I still have my credit card.

I think the reason I blanked out was: for a couple of weeks now I've been setting usernames and passwords both at work and here at home. All kinds of letter/number/character configurations have been forming in my head and I think my brain is just tired of Qz**&blotto.$RPM-zert. And why hasn't anyone figured out a method of keeping all these codes straight? We've got this entire information superhighway, and vehicles to move us through it, but nobody's figured out what the keychains look like.

Living in DC
I just attempted to file my DC taxes online, through their Electronic Taxpayer Service Center. After I entered my itemized deductions and clicked "save and continue," the deductions screen re-appeared with this note: "Please verify your DC deductions." However, there was no button with "verify" on it, no link to what this sentence means, no identifiable way to move the process forward. I called the DC tax office, and was given a phone number of the ONE person who can help in these online matters. I said "You mean you only have ONE PERSON who can answer questions on the web site's tax form?" "Unfortunately, yes, that is the case," the person on the end of the line said. "You'll have to leave a message and have her call you back." I told the tax office I wouldn't even bother to call. Doesn't DC realize that, when you're offering an online service like this, that there will most likely be THOUSANDS of people with THOUSANDS of questions, who don't want to wait around for someone to call them back? Oh, yeah, right. I forgot. I'm in DC.

In the end, I did call the number I was given, and got voicemail. I didn't leave a message. DC needs to learn a lesson from grants.gov about effectively building an online system of forms and customer service.

PD took me through a workout today that was notable for the level of
EXCRUCIATING PAIN
I experience during the 90lb calf raises.

Screaming, searing, apocalyptic pain.
Pain that flowed like lava up from my ankles
shot along my shins
and gathered, spinning
like hot gas at the beginning of the universe
right there in my gastrocnemius.
And that was during the rest phase of the superset.
PD saw that I was letting the weight touch the floor,
taking off some tension.
"Oh, no," he said. "Don't let it rest!
Guess I gotta watch you like a hawk!"
So he started counting down from 30, again,
and the big bang started, again,
and whole galaxies must have been forming in my lower legs,
that's how much pain I felt.
Yeow.

ONE ODD MOVIE
It’s Leave it to Beaver gone all wrong.
It’s Dr. Seuss’s only live-action movie (that he actually wrote.)
It’s on TCM TONIGHT! (Thursday):

The 5,000 Fingers of
Dr. T

When I was a kid, my elementary school would show movies on Saturday afternoons. For a dime, plus a couple of nickels for candy (which they sold right in the open in those days), we were treated to a string of grade-C westerns, grade-Z 3 Stooges flicks, and once, a Hammer-produced pirate flick which I remember mostly being about piranhas eating wenches, mostly. Only two movies they showed stand out in my memory as being any good – The Incredible Shrinking Man, featuring 50’s hunk Grant Williams, and "The 5K Fingers"...

Now the Shrinking Man was exciting stuff. The 5K Fingers was ... well ... LSD for those of us who weren't removed in the first 15 minutes. I remember thinking “cool!” when some kids started crying and their moms had to take them home. Hopped up on Sweetarts and Junior Mints, my “fragile little mind” eagerly scooped up this Hollywood accident of good intentions and subconscious boyhood trauma.

I wouldn’t see it again for almost thirty years...in a now-defunct U-Street bar, the Andalusian Dog. Flying baguettes all along the ceiling, multiple video monitors throughout. The Washington Psychotronic Film Society programmed it and, along with the $1 Rolling Rocks and the festively attired crowd, I sat on a bar stool and the movie worked on me. Again.

I suspected the Dog’s patrons were ready that night to laugh post-modernly at the onscreen battle between Bart and his prissy piano teacher. They didn’t. They loved it.

The film is now considered “cult.” Some people even believe that the Bart Simpson/Sideshow Bob Terwilliker conflict owes its origins to this movie, although this has been disputed.

I own Dr. T now, and I usually watch it every third Christmas Eve.

Things to look for:
On top of Bart’s piano, at the beginning and end of the movie – notice the two framed pictures - of the roller-skating bearded guys.

Mrs. Collins criticizing the “beanie-makers” for producing a limp-wristed “Happy Fingers” skullcap.

Also her “half and half” outfit in the same scene.

The nonchalance with which the flick introduces its most bizarrely Freudian concoction – the “Lock-Me-Tight.”

The somewhat-shirtless boxing guys in the aforementioned dungeon dance.

The bear-ish guards who need to shave twice each day.

The pre-diva era snap-and-leap Dr. T’s impossibly broad-shouldered valets execute in the “Dress me, Dress Me, Dress Me” number.

IT MIGHT BE THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING
But it's still cold.

I found a great recipe for turkey meatballs on bodybuilding.com. Scroll down past the Falafel and the Dal Masala to the "Baked Yam with Turkey Meatball Marinara." Actually, now that I look at it, I didn't follow this recipe. Using it as a rough guide. I procured a pound of ground turkey (from Whole Foods, dark meat, claimed it was 4g fat per serving unless they're lying sacks of circus peanuts), and mixed it with a couple of egg whites, some chopped onion and garlic, onion powder, salt, pepper, and the universal ingredient Mrs. Dash. The resulting concoction was a bit sloppy and formed into meatballs rather messily. I baked them at 400 for 20 minutes (got that from the recipe). They stuck a bit to the cookie sheet (note: gotta get more Reynolds Release foil) and they looked like turkey macaroons, but they tasted FANTASTIC. At least to me. My kitchen was a mess afterwards. And now the leftovers are beckoning, sirenlike, which is just fine, since it's time for dinner.

SO IT'S ST. PATRICK'S DAY

The only way I know? GW students in bright green are bar crawling all along M Street on this one day of the year I'm embarassed about my mostly Irish heritage, mostly. The rest of the year I really don't think about it. On this "holiday," if I'm really bored and so sick of winter that I could kill myself with the handle of a butter knife, I pull out my LETTERBOX copy of Finian's Rainbow and marvel at the breeziness of this 1968 movie musical. The flick was produced at a time when the major studios were smashing themselves over their heads with sledgehammers trying to make money out of a dying art form (just try to watch Dr. Dolittle, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Star!, Hello Dolly! and Camelot to see what I'm talking about). Francis Ford Coppola of all people lensed this 40's property on a relatively small budget and delivered the goods. I remember seeing it, first run, at the Rialto Theatre in New Hampshire over summer vacation, and it added about 2 billion DNA strands into my musical comedy homochromosome. Notice how REAL SINGERS were engaged to play the parts (not like Camelot!) Notice how the whole thing TAKES PLACE OUTDOORS. Notice the not-so-subtle take on RACE RELATIONS through 60's sensibilities. And revel in the BEST 11PM SONG EVER TO GRACE THE BROADWAY STAGE when Tommy Steele's (annoyingly overacted) Og the Leppercon sings to Susan the Silent. And not a mug of green beer in its entire 141 minutes. (Oh yeah, Fred Astaire's there too.) That's entertainment. I'm turning into such an old fart.

PERSONAL BUTTKICKING CONTINUES
PD put me through his workout today, and the amazing thing about it is: he doesn't spend all day throwing weights around! And he's training for a major bodybuilding competition! We worked out each body part once... in massive sets that blew the muscles out. I think it has something to do with the miracle of DYNAMIC mic mic mic TENSION shun shun shun... I mean, Hyperacceleration and Hyperadaptation. He's keeping me on the edge between stagnation (undertraining) and chaos (overtraining). It has something to do with the body's natural inclination to stay at whatever weight and musculature it already is. Although why the body seems naturally inclined to put on massive amounts of adipose tissue and not fast- and slow-twitch muscle in response to even minor amounts of Krispy Kremes is beyond me, since Krispy Kremes take so little effort. But PD is huge, while I don't look like Jason. But it's only been a little over a month. And even Charles Atlas wasn't built in a day.

BUT WILL IT KEEP GOING?
So far, the combination of
Blogging
Protein-enhanced diet (3 meals/3 snacks per day)
PBK (personal butt kicking w/Pump Daddy)
and two (2) vacations in warm climates this year so far
Equals:
Less television zombie-ness
Less alcohol consumption
Less food cravings
and...More NRG!
(plus I've gone down one belt loop but I'm sticking with my usual weight.)
Let's hope this all continues!

A LITTLE BIT OF DC IN FORT LAUDERDALE
Was denied entry into the Fort Lauderdale Gold's Gym because "you don't have a transfer pass and you can't come in." The front desk guy there could not have been ruder. He mentioned something about "franchises," but did not say anything close to "why don't I give a call to the DC gym and verify that you're a member there. This'll just take a minute." No, he chose to say "If you get your gym to fax you a transfer card, we'll let you in. Otherwise, you can't come in." Checked the Gold's web site and can't find anything that says you need a transfer card to visit any other Gold's. But I keep forgetting the #1 rule of customer service: Make the customer memorize every single detail about your operation, even the ones you don't have written down.

Even though it's Presidents Day (Observed) and I have the day off, that doesn't mean it isn't PERSONAL BUTTKICKING DAY. So, I have a session with Pump Daddy in just a couple of hours. It's low weights/high reps, and I will be reduced to sugar-free Jell-O.

I've been training with PD for a week now, and following the meal plan he gave me. It looks like this:

Meal 1 - Breakfast: Myoplex w/banana
Meal 2 - Whey protein
Meal 3 - Lunch: usual foods, just keep it healthy
Meal 4 - Myoplex or Myoplex bar
Meal 5 - Dinner: see lunch for regulations
Meal 6 - Whey protein or cottage cheese (nonfat)

So far this meal plan has been very effective at reducing my intense food cravings (especially during prime couch potato hours), as well as reducing my overall appetite to normal levels. PD said "if you follow this plan for two weeks I'll give you a day where you can eat whatever you want." I have until Friday of this week.

Also...I haven't had any alcohol since getting back from vacation (oh, allright, I did have a beer a couple of days after I returned but that was before I started PBK.) I've gone out, and ordered nothing strong than diet soda. And I keep telling myself "summer's gonna get here...summer's gonna get here."

TODAY AT THE GYM: It was Day 1 of Personal Buttkicking with Pumpdaddy. I went in thinking "this is gonna be painful," and the session was as I expected. Except for the lightheadedness and nausea, which, if I really think about it, I experienced last year when I started training under Dustin. But I survived, and with good form - so said the trainer himself. The endorphins kicked in about an hour after I got back to work. I was happy.

Didn't get my butt kicked today at the gym. It was merely a consultation. With Jerry. Who used to be a WWF or WWE wrestler. Under the name: Lucian Bagwell. He gave me a diet to follow and briefed me on the kind of workout he'll be leading me through in the next six weeks. I am full of excitement at the possibilities ahead...which I felt last year at this time when I was going into Personal Training with Dustin. After the first workout, however, I was singing a different tune. IT HURTS! One thing I did notice last year - I was having to wash my workout wear more often. Since I was sweating. Buckets. So, in preparation for next week, I'm going to Sports Authoritah this weekend and loading up on inexpensive gym clothes. With my name on them in big block magic marker letters. Just like gym class in 7th grade. With Mr. Menninger. Blond, muscular, tall, tanned Mr. Menninger. More about him later. For now, I will follow Mr. Bagwell's instructions to a T. Even if I lose all my mon-nah and it kills me. First workout: Monday.