Lifes Minor Irritations

Been a stressful past week or so. I am slowly trying to work through it but sometimes it just feels like you cant let go of stuff you know you should.
Anyways, training has been my saving grace (along with friends and family), and I have really been hitting the weights with a vengeance.

Sundays Pull Session:
I love getting up and starting Sunday's with training. The gym is dead because most people are nursing their hangovers. The training session wakes me up for the rest of the day and makes me feel deserving of my once a week cheat meal that I will later have (pizza).

One Arm Dumbbell Rows: 3 Sets
130lbers x 12
130lbers x 10
130lbers x 10

Close Grip Pulldown with Extended ROM: 3 Sets (reps are 4-6 seconds eccentric followed by fast concentric)
100lbs x 12
100lbs x 8
100lbs x 8

High Pull supersetted with Rope Face Pull: 3 Sets
190lbs x 12, 60lbs x 10
240lbs x 10, 60lbs x 8
240lbs x 10, 60lbs x 8

Seated Calf Raise: 4 Sets (slow eccentric/fast concentric)
135lbs x 15
135lbs x 15
135lbs x 13
135lbs x 14

Training only took 45 minutes. I kept the pace up.

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TC Luoma
Lifes Minor Irritations

Some of you might have noticed that last week's column was a repeat. While I prefaced the article with a note that indicated I was "just too pissed about a variety of things to write a column," the truth is that Tim, me, and a couple of the boys had taken off to go on spring break.

Yep, nothin' but sun, fun, and debauchery. Wet T-shirt contests, tequila shooters, and cruising up and down the streets in our ragtop, looking for hard bodies and perky ta-tas. The trouble is, we had to be back in the office in two days so instead of heading down to Florida or Cabo, we just pretty much hung around the basement of Tim's house in Colorado Springs.

And so what if there weren't any girls around? Who needs 'em? We just sprayed powerlifter Dave Tate's thin, white T-shirt down with some seltzer and watched the big guy shake it as we stood around rhythmically clapping and shouting, "Who's your dad-dy? Who's your dad-dy?" We even taped it and sent it in to those people who do those Girls Gone Wild videos.

We had to quit, though, when Tim's wife got mad about us getting water all over her grandmother's quilt.

And the fact that it was 30 degrees in the Springs last week didn't make cruising around in the convertible one bit less fun, except for when those kids pelted us with snowballs and put one in Tim's right ear which resulted in a serious infection and permanent hearing loss.

Okay, you're probably on to me. We didn't go on "spring break." I really was too pissed to write. I sat there looking at my computer screen last Friday for about three hours before I gave up and went to the gym.

The funny thing is, I wasn't overly mad about any one thing. Instead, I was pissed because a whole bunch of minor irritations log jammed together. It was like one of those freak accidents that you read about where ice and fog cause a 300-car pile up on a freeway in Pennsylvania. And so rather than calling a psychological tow truck to haul away one or two cars, I had a regular demolition derby of crunched fenders, exploding gas tanks, and burned out husks of cars floating around in my psyche.

I guess the first minor irritation occurred last Thursday morning in the gym where I work out. They've got this new manager — an "aerobics specialist" — and if he had things his way, he'd clear away all those nasty weights and equipment, put in wall to wall hardwood floors, pipe in Destiny's Child all day long and do high kicks like a Radio City Music Hall Rockette 'til he was silly.

What this guy did was jam a Swiss Ball storage rack right between the two power racks so that it's literally touching them. That means just about when I've psyched myself up do a heavy set, gotten myself all fired up and angry and strong and scared at the same time, marched into the power rack and attacked the bar, some housewife with a fat butt is saying, "Excuse me," and leaning in front of me to grab a pink Swiss Ball. This results in me losing my concentration, my balance, and my spleen.

So I stuff my spleen back in and go back to my office fuming and try to unwind by listening to some spring-training baseball on the radio. Trouble is, Clear Channel, which is the Devil's present incarnation, has bought the radio station — along with 1100 others throughout the country — and replaced my favorite play-by-play guy with a chipmunk. Literally. A little chubby thing with big acorn-filled cheeks who's a purebred corporate shill. I complain but all I receive are condescending e-mails from executive types. I'm ready to go down to their office and super glue some headphones on their pointy little Devil ears so they have to listen to the shit they pump out over the airwaves all day and all night long.

Then the UPS guy delivers this 6-foot-long plywood crate. It's my Real Doll! I get a crowbar and pry off the boards, remove the packing straw, and pull her out. She's the most beautiful love doll I've ever seen. But what's this? She's only got two orifices, when I specifically ordered three! I called them up, but they make some snide comment about that position being "illegal in most states, anyhow."

So the bad feelings are starting to boil up even more, and I'm told by co-workers that I've got the same look on my face as that guy who tried to blow up the plane a few months ago by igniting his shoe.

But the minor irritations keep… piling… on. I go out to walk my 50-pound English Staffordshire to clear my head, but the first guy I run into asks me if he's one of those "Canary dogs that done ate that woman up." I say, "Sure, if you add about a foot to his height and about a hundred pounds," you maroon.

In fact, ever since that dog-mauling story and subsequent trial hit the papers, my dog and I are suddenly the object of fear. Now I don't mind that ordinarily, but when I start reading articles and letters-to-the-editor in the paper about how all dogs that aren't poodles or that cute little dog on Frazier should be sold to Korean restaurants who specialize in dog kabob, I get a little pissed.

So T-dog and I go home but there's no solace to be found there because they're remodeling the house next door, which they've been doing seven days a week, from 7 in the morning 'till 10 at night, for the last 8 months. It's just a constant thump, thump, thump, all day long, which is occasionally interrupted by the soothing sound of a jackhammer.

In an effort to drown out the constant noise, I turn on the tube. And there's "no spin" Bill O'Reilly doing a special on The Corruption of the American Child. O'Reilly is metaphorically sinking his teeth into Jack Valenti who, from what I understand, lobbies the government on behalf of the motion picture industry. Valenti, it seems, is marketing sex toward children! It's true! They even showed clips of American Pie and American Pie 2!

Valenti is back pedaling furiously and hemming and hawing, like everyone pretty much does when confronted by O'Reilly. He's saying it's not true, and they've cut down on the sex, and blah, blah, blah.

What I would have told O'Reilly is something along the lines of this: "You're damn right, Bill. Rather than showcase the splendid dialogue or a thrilling plot, we pushed a little sex. Whats'a matter Bill? Are you a Quaker? Are you a virgin? I like sex. People like sex. People who are having sex don't go out and kill people. And if I had a kid who wanted to know about sex, I wouldn't blush like some Puritan, I'd show him pictures or videos. I'd say, 'Look junior, here are two people making a naked pretzel. Pretty silly looking, isn't it? Here's a crazy woman who's making love to a horse. Isn't she stupid? And if you want to go see a movie where a guy superglues his hand to his dick, well you go right ahead. Maybe by seeing it, it'll save you from the same fate. And if you ever want to look at Playboy or Penthouse or anything else like that, ask me. I'll give 'em to you after I'm done with them.'

"Is that going to corrupt my child, Bill? No, you friggin' idiot. I'll have demystified sex, and if he grows up perverse and deviant, he can get a job at Testosterone with the rest of us.

"And by the way, Bill, did you notice the time slot you've preempted with this special? Do you know what show this paragon of a virtuous network, FOX TV, ordinarily shows at this time? Temptation Island, a show that's sole purpose is to incite people to cheat on their boyfriends or girlfriends, for which the camera conveniently hangs around. So get the hell out of my face, you hypocrite."

I turned off the tube by sticking my remote control in the blender and then went to bed. I hoped to seek refuge and comfort in the arms of sleep, preceded by a little action — if you catch my drift — but in the darkness I mistakenly grabbed a jar of horse liniment that I use to soothe my sore muscles instead of my Stay Hard™ cream. Don't ask.

That was Thursday night, so when I woke up, I had the disposition of a man who had to go downtown for a tax audit, followed by a colonoscopy, followed by a root canal.

There was no way I was going to be able to write an Atomic Dog. So, I pulled out an old column instead and went to the gym, a different gym, one where they understand lifting and the power racks are properly isolated from puffballs and fat asses. As I powered through my workout, the bad feelings started to fade.

And I remembered that that's pretty much how I've shoveled the shit out of the Augean stables of my mind for as long as I can remember. Whenever I had a bad break up, I went to the gym. When my parents died, I went to the gym. When I pulled down my shorts that one time and the girl pointed and laughed and took pictures for Ripley's… well, I sat down and cried. But after that, I went to the gym.

In fact I don't think there's been one blue period in my life, one instance of having bad chemicals in my head, that the gym hasn't been able to fix.

I get e-mails all the time from people who are in the midst of some sort of crisis, and, because of severe depression, just aren't able to train. A lot of times the depression's persisted over months or even years. It's tragic because if it's not a clinical problem, going to the gym might very well clear their depression. It's a horrible Catch-22 situation.

I'm probably the least qualified person to give psychological advice, but I humbly suggest that those of you who are angry, depressed, or maybe just have a small bug up your shorts, go to the gym and train. Perhaps a nice little squat session? Some dead lifts, maybe? Some bench to forget the wench?

Sure, it's probably no cure-all, but sometimes all it takes is a little pump, a little physical exhaustion, to give you a new take on things. But if working out doesn't give you a new perspective, drop me a note. I'll send you a copy of Dave Tate Gone Wild. That ought to do it.

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