WI’d There’s thousands of reviews of TCM available online, though most are pretty straight-shot. My goal isn’t so much to tell you why it was such a great film or to go into too much detail about its impact, but rather to show the poor souls who’ve never seen the movie what it was all about. Course, you should hear at least a little regarding its background. Written and directed by Tobe Hooper on a shoestring budget, the film debuted in 1974 and quickly garnered a buzz (I didn’t intend that pun, I swear) for its depraved and graphic themes. Many audiences walked out, many theaters refused to play it, and long before the world decided it was a “classic,” most of the reviews said otherwise. The tiny budget mixed with the kind of direction and atmosphere that had to be at least in part unintentional gave TCM a “documentary” feel, only heightening the emotion.

The reason I liked the film isn’t because of the graphic scenes, because obviously, there’s been plenty of films ten times more graphic since. There isn’t much gore in TCM; the dirty bits are left to the imagination of the viewer. What really got me about this movie is its almost complete lack of a coherent arc — there isn’t a story told here, at least not in the conventional sense. It’s just a series of terrible events that happened to a bunch of poor teenagers. There are no moments of vindication, no pauses to truly explain the “why” of what’s happening. I’m sure this explains why so many of the pre-reputation reviews were so scathing, but ask yourself this: when you hear the term “horror story,” which of the two words gets you more excited? That’s not to say that TCM doesn’t have a story to tell; it does, but it certainly doesn’t follow the rules of how to go about it.

Anyways, the film is based — very loosely — on the exploits of a man named Ed Gein. Decades ago, Gein gained notoriety after being caught for several macabre acts. He liked to raid cemeteries for dead bodies, which he would decorate his home and himself with, with extra attention paid to women’s most womanly features. Use your imagination. Apparently, Gein had some crazy ass overly religious mother who brought him up untrusting and hateful towards women, a fact that goes a long way in explaining why he murdered a few of them. Gein was eventually caught, and died in an institution. He might not deserve to have a legend that lives on forever, but aside from influencing TCM, his story was also the basis for Alfred Hitchcock’s “Psycho.” The latter never purported to be a “true story,” and while TCM’s only claim was being “based on” one, both films took more than a few creative liberties. What you see in TCM did not happen in real life, though for the ends of making the movie more enjoyable for virgin viewers, you don’t have to tell them that.

Before we start the review, some final notes: TCM spun off three sequels. Of the three, only “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2″ has any redeeming qualities, and is the only one with Tobe Hooper again at the helm. Aside from the sequels, we’ve seen a “re-imagining” hit theaters a few years ago. This new film is actually the driving reason behind this review. If you thought the original was just a lower budgeted version of that, you’re very wrong. They only kept the basic points, and for my money, changed most of the stuff that really sticks with you. The original is the kind of movie that will invade your dreams, popping up in your head at the oddest of times. It might not be “scary” in the way some would expect, but if you’re down with 90 minutes of unbridled creepiness, look no further. This is the one.

I refuse to put a “spoiler warning” on a review for a 1974 film that most of the world has already seen. Oh wait, I guess I just did. Here’s an in-depth look at “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.” Yes…originally “Chain Saw.” “Chainsaw” is just an accepted alternative. These are things you should know!

After a minute of scrolling text (narrated by John Larroquette) sets up for the forth coming events we get to meet the victims. See, there this big thing down in Texas about graves being desecrated with corpses transformed into works of art, and the lead scream queen Sally Hardesty wants to make sure her grandfathers grave is in one piece. She is seconded by her retard brother, Franklin, who might just be the most annoying piece of slasher fodder in the history of the genre. Within the first five minutes of the movie, the wheelchair-bound idiot establishes himself as “the guy you NEED to see dead” by slipping and having his wheelchair roll down the hill, body flailing in the tumble. The rest of the teens seem to tolerate his insessant whining only for Sally’s sake, and that fact isn’t lost on Frankin. As annoying as everyone found the fool, they did a good job of illustrating his frustration as being the “freak” among perfectly normal, good looking teenagers.

Also on the trip to Hell is Jerry (Sally’s boyfriend), and another couple — Kirk and Pam. We don’t learn much about these three, aside from Pam’s interest in astrology and having big boobs. History notes that three of these characters merely there for the slaughter, with Marilyn Burns’ “Sally” being the only one frequently remembered by name. The rumors are true, folks — nobody screams quite like Marilyn Burns. At least not for such extended periods.

There’s your peeps. Let’s meet the creeps.

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It’s an incredibly hot day, and they are in an incredibly unpopulated area, so when the Teen Van spots a distressed teenager they can’t help but lend a hand.Yeah…I know. That’s one of those stupid cardinal rules about what not to do in a horror movie, but remember, this horror movie paved the way for many of those rules. Anyway, the hitchhiker immidiatly starts doing freaky things-he’s filthy, covered in cuts and bruises, dressed like a loon, the works. Franklin the Invalid sparks a conversation about cow slaughter after the hitchhiker brings up that is his family business, leading to our new pal sharing photos he took of the cows he smacked in the head with a sledghammer. Played by Edwin Neal, his character manages to creep you out despite ever last instinct telling you this isn’t the one you should be most afraid of in TMC.

After slicing his own hand open with a knife, the hitchhiker takes a Polaroid of the teens, only proceeding to burn it on the spot. Just as the gang begins to doubt the intelligence of this little pickup, the hitchhiker grabs Franklin’s arm and slices him open. Finally, they kick him out of the van, but before they can drive off, the lunatic smears his blood in a seemingly deliberate pattern on the side of the van. Franklin ponders the worst, but the rest of the crew just considers the experience a small run of bad luck. Retrospectively, it was probably the best part of their day.

Ah, damn. Wouldn’t you know it? They are low on gas. They pull into a Gulf station (though the “Gulf” part seems purely incidental; I doubt Hooper wanted to imply a large corporation with a large legal team had francises run by these sorts of people) only to be confronted by Drayton Sawyer, who brings some bad news: they are out of gas. Doh. Instead of pointing them towards Sally’s house he implores them to stay put until the next tanker arrives and warning them the locals don’t look kind on strangers around those parts.

At this point, the audience is unaware of Drayton’s intentions, only seeing him as a guy who’s kinda kooky. They still won’t follow his directions, opting to head off after buying some of his “home cured” barbecue grub. Audiences new to the movie thought nothing of it; the rest of us knew that this was time to say “ewww.”

From there, they manage to locate the old family house — run down beyond repair, but still fun to explore. Sally points out the old zebra wallpaper she used to love, while the rest of the gang makes the most of a strange day by telling jokes and cutting their sexual tension with knives. There’s not much of a musical score to TCM, ‘cept for small bits at the major points — a part of the score obviously inspired the “CHH CHH CHH” sound that arrives whenever Jason Voorhees walks into a room. As the background gongs become more apparent, we know that something’s about to happen. But what?

Kirk and Pam run off to find a swimming hole that Franklin swears exists but they find it to be dried up. They hear noises down the path and follow it only to find covered cars. Thinking the owners might be able to lend them some gas, they make a critical error in judgment by approaching…THE HOUSE.

Yes, “the house.” It looks mostly harmless from the outside — just your standard, beat up old white farmhouse — but even without knowing what was inside, a sense of dread sweeps over. Maybe it’s all those off-screen gongs, I don’t know. I’ve seen so many horror movies that’ve tried to recreate the tension and mysterious fright attached to what appears to be a regular ol’ house, but God, this just worked so much better. Keep in mind, I’m not one of those people who thinks TCM was a “masterpiece.” I don’t even think it’s a “great movie.” It’s just creepy, and where that point is such a hit-or-miss thing in so many films, TCM succeeds in bringing creepiness to the table every time they try.

In the new TCM, this is one of the things that bugged me so much. They gave it a shot, but the basis of this story is not one that can be pulled off with so much artificiality. It HAS to be raw. Creepy doesn’t come from special effects that only leave you guessing how they were pulled off, or cheap scares that are no more effective than someone clapping two cymbals together behind your unsuspecting head. “Creepy” is a dish best served with a realist touch, and for as outlandish as the original TCM’s story is about to become, it still feels like someone’s home video. I love it.

Despite finding a naked tooth on the porch — always a warning sign — Kirk decides to keep knocking on the door. Hey man, they really need some gas. Pam wanders off for a quick minute; I can’t remember what she alleged to be doing, but her breasts seem more level when she returned. Meanwhile, Kirk peers through the screen door and notices something odd on the walls of a far off room…

Even for the audience, it is difficult to determine what all that stuff is. We can clearly make out some skulls but the rest of the stuff is pretty obscure. That’s what makes it so scary. The camera does a few quick jumps, heightening the tension making even the audience want to get up and leave but still, it’s a movie and movies make characters do stupid things. In this case, Kirk enters slowly, using caution as he makes his way towards…the room.

Of course, “something” pops up and smacks him with a hammer, dragging his lifeless carcass inside and sealing off the room with the slam of a sliding steel door. We only got a second to see what that “something” was, but it was enough to see that this was no ordinary psychopath. We don’t know what that “something” is, but we know it’s god damned terrible.

And it’s only going to get worse from here.

Pam, silly Pam, eventually enters the house when her beau doesn’t return. She walks through the door and stumbles into another room, loosing her balance and falling into a pile of feathers and bones. Gathering her wits she scans the room only to see a chicken in a bird cage, chairs made of human bones and more macabre decor than a typical person could process and really, she didn’t. Puked right there on the floor. Wouldn’t you?

When Pam meets the culprit, it’s a shocking event. Not just because he popped up in typical “boo!!!” fashion — that’s part of it, but not the big part. After your heart races from the jump/boo/scare tactic, you’re forced to interpret the beastly man running around with a mask of skin on his face. It’s time to meet Leatherface.

Good God, this was the moment. Gunnar Henson gets a lot of credit for the work he did here, and to the unknowing that may seem a little undeserved. After all, we’ve seen Friday the 13th diehards praise Kane Holder’s mannerisms as Jason, but there are always those who say that anyone could look menacing in a mask with a machete. Maybe it’s the same for Leatherface but I don’t think so. Hansen creates a lunatic like I have never seen; a creature that terrorizes using a mixture of socially inept quirks and matter-of-fact movements that paints Leatherface as a real monster…not a movie monster.

As a character, he’s even better. We understand nothing, absolutely nothing about this beast. At this point, we don’t know who or what he is, why he’s there, why he does the things he does. Sound familiar? Sure, but most of the Leatherface knockoffs were satisfied enough just by performing a murder. Trust me, “killing people” is probably the least affecting nuance of the guy. The dreadful scene shown above, with Leatherface dragging an almost-escaped Pam back into the house where she’ll surely meet a fate worse than death, has probably been reflected in the dreams of thousands. Ever go to an old log cabin, or a country farmhouse for a weekend excursion? You know, some off-track place that’s away from society? Could you imagine watching TCM in that kind of setting? This is one fucked up film, and fucked up films often inspire their audience to conjure up alternatives or additions to the stories they’ve seen unfold. (see: “Jacob’s Ladder”) TCM wasn’t incredibly scary, but it certainly paved way for your mind to think up things that were.

Even worse, those “things” probably starred you. That’s a lot scarier than “Pam” or “Retard Frankie.” Okay, enough chit chat, I’ve got something really twisted to show you. Nobody could’ve predicted what was going to happen next, not that they’d actually want to.

Leatherface carries the screaming Pam into his chamber, fending off her last ditch swats and slaps. Almost casually, he lifts her up and drops her down, impaling her on a meat hook. Unbelieveable in 1974, perhaps not so unbelievable in 2009. Writhing in pain and agonny, Pam is helpless to watch as Leatherface revs his trademark tool of death; the chainsaw. He proceeds to work away on Pam’s boyfriend. Leatherface doesn’t act like a primadonna killer. He is just doing what he does- not carrying about it or impressed with himself. It makes the scene so much more horrifying. He’s not happy or sad, proud or conflicted…he’s just doing these terrible things.

The scene ends before we find out Pam’s fate, though obviously, it’s been more than implied. One of the biggest praises thrust TCM’s way is how it could scare you without really showing you all that much. And that’s no bullshit thing people say, either — when I think back about the movies that genuinely frightened me, this has typically been the case. Seeing something disgusting or horrific is nowhere near as effective as being left to wonder how disgusting or horrific it was. That’s why “Gigli” is going to keep that “worst movie ever made” moniker for a long, long time. Nobody saw the damn thing — we can only wonder how bad it was. Your imagination is infinitely more powerful than anything a movie camera could capture.

So, yeah, as far as we know: 2 down, 3 to go. Sally, Jerry and Franklin remain safe for now, and completely oblivious to all that crap we just saw. Jerry, macho Jerry, insists that the siblings stay behind while he goes searching for the rest of the group. Following the very same path as Pam and Kirk, he makes his way up to the house, goes inside, and…

After making his third kill of the day (that we know of, at least), Leatherface frantically storms around the house, perhaps worried that there’s more intruders on the way. He sits near a window, erratically rocking back and forth — it’s our first good look at his mask, and only here do we become certain that it’s made from human skin. “Disturbing” may be the only word to describe what we’ve just seen, but would you believe that it actually gets much worse from here? Oh, it does. Does it ever!

It’s nighttime now, and on that alone, things have become more frightening. Sally and Franklin are still by the van, believing (hoping?) that their pals just got lost in the woods without the aid of a flashlight. This leads to a fairly annoying exchange where Franklin tries to persuade Sally into driving off for help, but it’s a moot point — one of the missing teens has the car keys. Instead, they have no choice but to search for them on foot. It’s a task made all the more difficult since Sally has to wheel her idiot brother around. Fortunately, that doesn’t last long.

Leatherface, wielding a chainsaw and only vaguely lit, attacks and immediately slices Franklin to bits. We don’t see it happen, but rather focus in on Sally’s face as she stands by watching her brother die. Leatherface ultimately turns his attention to the only teen left who’s still breathing, taking us to a famous chase scene where Sally runs and runs and runs. She doesn’t know it, but Sally is only circling the very house she so desperately needs to escape. Rapidly breaking her way through assorted vines and woodsy things, the scene is widely remembered not only for its intensity, but also because poor Marilyn Burns was really getting cut up to all Hell on those vines. I wouldn’t say that all of her bloodstains were legit, but yes, some of them were.

Leatherface only plods when using the chainsaw to cut through shit — when he’s not doing that, this mofo is pretty quick. Sally runs into the house, and remember, she’s not yet privy to the torments that’ve already transpired inside. As the monster closes in, she jets up the stairs into a sparsely decorated room, only to find a pair of rotting corpses all dressed up. Or, at least, we think they’re two corpses. One of them might not be…stay tuned. To make a long story short, she jumps through a second story window to escape Leatherface, and though only temporarily, Sally finally succeeds in getting away…

Okay, so she makes her way all the way back to that gas station/BBQ joint the gang visited earlier, screaming for Drayton to help her. He assures the poor girl that whatever was chasing her has gone off, and tells her to stay put while he pulls up the truck. Sally, almost incoherent with fear, tries to gather her wits. Everyone she loves was sawed to pieces, but maybe she’ll make it out okay. Her eyes are drawn towards Drayton’s red oven, and she can’t shake the feeling that the meat inside looks a tad off. We don’t get enough of a view to properly identify its contents, but there’s no way that’s a cow’s ass inside. Just as she begins putting the puzzle together, Drayton return with a rope and a sack, beating Sally senseless with a broom before tying her up.

He loads her into the car, and during the ride, gleefully pokes his “prize” with a stick while telling her that everything’s going to be okay. Jim Siedow is great in the role, taking a character scripted to act sadistic to heights so depraved that the word no longer does it justice. On the drive, he stops the car to chastise the very same hitchhiker from earlier, and as they pull up to the all to familiar farmhouse, we finally understand just how freaky the Texas Chain Saw Massacre really is. That’s right — Drayton, the hitchhiker and Leatherface are all part of the same inbred family: three brothers from Hell raised to kill who know no remorse. Plenty of clues have been dropped about the Sawyer family’s meal of choice, but it isn’t until the next scene that it’s put out there for all to see.

So it begins. The infamous “dinner scene.” It’s the thing many fans missed the most in the new TCM flick, and with good reason: it’s absolutely sick. After the hitchhiker torments Sally, he and Leatherface carry down that old man corpse she earlier encountered upstairs. Only, it’s not a corpse. It’s alive. Yep, Grandpa Sawyer, as fluid as a brick…but still breathing. The boys make a small incision on Sally’s hand to let the old coon taste her blood, which he seems to like. Jesus Christ, this was some movie. For those curious, this scene was copied almost exactly in the half-spoof “Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2,” only that time, Grandpa’s “dead man” makeup was more involved. Course, the scene pictured above gets points for being the first.

I know reading a recap and looking at a few pics isn’t going to instill the same sense of dread as actually watching the film, so for those new to TCM, I hope you can see between the lines. Maybe it’s not much to hear about, but seeing it is another matter entirely. I think I was desensitized to most of these kinds of movies after seeing #7,503, but this one still gets me every time. Oh, wait…we’re not done.

The dinner scene continues! Leatherface, now in full transvestite garb with a wig, dress, heels and make-up smothered over his mask, takes a special interest in Sally’s skin. She, appropriately enough, accepts his face-grabbing gestures by screaming bloody murder. The rest of the scene plays out with Sally forced to watch the Sawyers converse and bicker at each other, only taking time out to make light of her situation by cackling at her or insinuating the many terrible things they plan to do to her. We learn that Drayton serves as the chef for the other brothers’ catches, and yep, Sally’s the latest catch.

Sally’s torment is illustrated with some thrifty yet effective camerawork, focusing in on her way-too-wide-open bloodshot eyes. It’s one of the reasons TCM was so difficult to watch for some. Usually, in cases where a character is victimized beyond belief, they’ll either get killed or make an escape just as they’re hitting their personal breaking point. Sally hit her breaking point twenty minutes ago, and they’re still torturing her. The movie is in bad taste by design, but this scene really pushed the limits. As a viewer, you’ve stopped rooting for Sally only in as far as her escape — now you’d be just as satisfied if they killed her, because at least then the suffering would be over with. Time and innumerable rip-offs have softened the movie’s blow, but it’s still capable of getting you to feel things. Bad things. Terrible things. Speaking of which, the Sawyers have one last trick up their sleeve. Remember Grandpa? Well, today’s his lucky day!

The boys decide to let the old man have one last glory — a final crack at a human skull. Grandpa is thrilled, but his decaying body precludes him from being able to hold the hammer. Sally is held down, head over a blood bucket, as Grandpa tries and tries again to split her head open. The brothers suggest doing it themselves, but just before they can make good on that, Sally breaks free and jumps through another window. It’s now daylight; a stark change that only emphasizes just how long she’s been tormented.

Burns is fantastic here — she looks like she’s in real pain, and actually, she was in real pain. Low budget…1970s…a lot of corners were cut, and a lot of Marilyn Burns was cut. (the earlier scene with Grandpa drinking her blood — that was a real cut, too) She’s not out of the woods yet, figuratively and literally, as the younger brothers march out to reclaim their dinner…

After making her way up to the road, Sally waves down a truck for help. The hitchhiker gets run over in the process; a satisfying end for at least one of the bad guys. Leatherface is still on the prowl, chainsaw in hand. The truckers throws a wrench at him, knocking the beast down and causing him to slice some of his own leg up with the chainsaw. It’s not enough to keep him at bay, but Sally manages to wave down another hitchhiker, narrowly escaping as Leatherface dances around in the background.

The movie ends right there — we never find out what happened to that poor trucker, and as we never see the face of Sally’s savior, we’re not even sure if her terror has really ended. With Leatherface swinging his chainsaw around, the movie ends abruptly and only resolved in part. Not a typical way to end a flick, but it works. Again, I stress the importance of leaving some events up to the audience. Here’s a big one — you don’t know what’ll become of Leatherface, or really, even Sally. If you always envisioned the second car as being just another road back to the slaughterhouse for our heroine, well, it might as well have happened, because nobody could give you an argument that’s any more true. TCM ends with Leatherface still very much in control of his weapon, with the terrible house still standing, and with no cliche triumph of good or evil. Like I said earlier, everything that happens in this movie just happens. It’s just there, for whatever it’s worth.

Overall: This has been a pretty long review. Okay, I’ll be honest: “recap.” I’m going to assume that the majority of those who read the entire thing either haven’t seen “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre,” or saw it so long ago that the events are only partly remembered. Do yourself a favor, rent this bitch. It’s an experience, that’s for sure. I’m not of the same mind as some other fans — I don’t see TCM as being anything more than a screwball thrillride, but if you’re into those sort of movies, this is the grand-friggin-daddy. Many films have a reputation, but TCM deserves its hype and delivers on the promises made therein. I mean, come on…a half-dead cannibal grandpa sucking blood from a teen’s finger? You have to see that. A+. Maybe that’s generous, but what the Hell? I broke 5,000 words on this thing. Gotta give ‘em something back, ya know?

Live…

More than your neighbors.

Unleash yourself and go places.

Go now.

Giggle, no, laugh.

No…stay out past dark,

And bark at the moon like the wild dog that you are.

UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS NOT A DRESS REHEARSAL.

THIS IS IT…YOUR LIFE.

Face your fears and live your dreams.

Take it all in.

Yes, every chance you get…

come close.

And by all means, whatever you do…

Get it on film.

- Jon Blais “The Blazeman”

Thank you Jon. You are my hero.

I also posted this on VeggieMacabre. I have comitted this poem Jon wrote to memory and repeat it every chance I get. This isn’t a dress rehearsal and if we are going to do it, let’s do it now. So with that, see you in the pool, on the road, in the gym or on the trail. Do it for the Blazeman.

by Crisitunity

Disclaimer: Because my experience with hot yoga is currently confined to one studio (although my browsing on the internet seems to have shown that it’s a pretty standard experience), what I’ve written here might not apply to all studios, everywhere.

As yoga in general has become more and more popular, hot yoga has sprouted up as an option for people who are looking for something a little more hardcore than the average Iyengar class. The wisdom runs that if you sweat like mad in a 100-degree room, you will sweat out all kinds of impurities and toxins and leave them on the studio floor. This, combined with the emotional/mental cleansing properties of the poses, means you will be as clean as a line-dried sheet when you walk out of the class.

Hot yoga started because Bikram yoga had gained popularity, but Bikram Choudhury, its founder, was unwilling to allow any studio to offer Bikram classes unless the instructors had undergone training at his own hands, and unless his organization had given its blessing to the studio to do so. He even initiated lawsuits against studios that used his name without getting the go-ahead. This has caused a good deal of discomfort in the yoga community, because after all, the practice should positively not be about money and notoriety. But I digress. Bikram yoga involves a room heated to 105F and a specific sequence of 26 poses done twice over the course of a 90-minute class. Hot yoga, because it’s deliberately not Bikram, is entirely different.

I went to my regular studio for my first hot yoga class that Friday afternoon in April not really knowing what to expect, or even if what I was doing was a good idea. I was curious about hot yoga, and because I totally adore hot weather and abhor wintertime, I thought I might just take to it. After a life-changing workshop a couple of Sundays previous, I had decided that I wanted to do yoga for the rest of my life, and with this journey laid out before me, I wanted to see what different kinds of scenery the various roads had to offer. The friendly studio owner told me that for my first hot class, I should probably park myself near the door, and if it got to be too much, I was always free to take a child’s pose (a resting pose with chest between knees), or just to leave.

What she failed to tell me was that the class was being taught by a lithe, gorgeous ballet dancer with an exotic Greek accent. Really, a ballet dancer. That’s what she did for a living, with yoga instruction on the side. So my self-confidence started a slow nosedive into the toilet pretty much as soon as the instructor started the class, and as I huffed and puffed and sweated and felt like I might faint, or fall over, or die, the surface of the water just seemed to dip farther and farther down. There were two other instructors taking the class that day, along with a woman who I think was a fellow ballet dancer, and all of them were obscenely flexible and strong. I was barely able to do one vinyasa (a specific series of poses – plank, chaturanga, upward dog – bookended by downward dog), and over the course of this class I was asked to do dozens of them, it seemed like.

Even though the instructor was challenging to the point of horror, and beautiful enough to make me avoid the mirror for days, I found that I was really enjoying myself. The heat felt wonderful, like a Jacuzzi of air, and the sweat was just pouring off me like it never has before in any situation I can remember, not even a sauna or a Louisiana summer. It was so much sweat that when I tasted it, it wasn’t even salty anymore – the water from my water bottle was just evacuating through my skin.

Another of the named purposes of hot yoga is so that your muscles, warmed by the heat of the room, become more flexible and allow you to get a deeper stretch than usual. I’m not sure I found this to be true in my first class; it’s true that my hamstrings were playing themselves a little banjo tune for days after the class, but I think that’s because I pushed myself too hard, not because I was bending too far without realizing it. (That’s a permanent lesson in yoga: get your ego out of the way and only bend until you need to stop. Don’t compare yourself to the instructor who can wrap her hands under her heels. It’s a waste of energy.) But I did feel forty feet tall when I walked out of the studio that day, and my limbs felt lean and long and wiry.

I went back a couple of weeks later to another hot class, taught by a different instructor (the ballet dancer has since moved to Virginia, thank God). She was a little less intimidating, and I took it a little easier. I went back week after week, and soon I was doing a classful of vinyasas without grunting, without suffering. I have muscle on my arms and legs that sort of alarms me. And I can’t tell you how good it feels to sweat and sweat and sweat, to actually wring out a small towel at the end of class. I’m not sure I totally buy the toxins-out thing, but I definitely feel fresh and happy, ready for the next set of challenges, when I wake up the next morning. And, yeah, okay…a little sore.

TIPS:

-Try taking a power yoga class before you take a hot class, to see if you and “athletic” yoga are a good fit.

-For your first class, don’t lay your mat down near the heaters to try and be tough. Park near the door and accept your limitations.

-BRING A TOWEL. Or two.

-Bring a bottle of water and don’t be afraid to drink from it…but be wary of possible upchucking if you overdo it.

-Ask the instructor how hot it gets, and decide whether you can actually handle it. My studio only goes to 95-100F, and I’m not sure if I could go to a 105-110F class.

-If you need to slow down or stop, slow down or stop. No one’s judging you (the serious practitioners have all been where you are), and if they are, it’s their problem.

Looking Out For #1 and #2: An Intimate Guide to Sports Bra Shopping

Those women who not only have washboard abs but also a washboard chest don’t have the same concerns as I do when it comes to athletic wear. Unless you have a rather ample bosom, you couldn’t possibly understand the pain and injuries that can occur if you’re not properly outfitted. Running, jumping, boxing or anything that requires you to move quickly in an up and down fashion is likely to be painful unless you smash your boobs. Working out is definitely not the time to enhance them. Goal number one when sports bra shopping: make your boobs as flat as possible as the correct bra will inhibit breast movement.

Therefore, the first thing to look for in a sports bra is support. So what constitutes support? That would be the back and you should choose either a full or racer back which allows your shoulder blades free movement. If made well, the thicker the back the sturdier the bra. You don’t want hooks or zippers as sweat makes metal slippery or sticky and both are cause for embarrassing moments – trust me.

Next you should look at straps, which must always be thick. Anything that resembles a spaghetti strap is going to offer about as much support as a wet noodle. Your boobs shouldn’t be hanging low when exercising but that’s exactly what will happen if you choose a thin-strappy tank top sports bra, with or without a shelf. Rule of thumb: if it’s more of a tank top that you’d wear to the beach over your swimsuit, then it’s not the right bra to work out in. Thick straps will always stay in place and you will never pop out of one – no adjustments necessary no matter how intense your workout.

BAD                                                                                GOOD

Style and liner. I dislike the uni-boob look that short sports bras will give you, which is why I always choose the tank top sports bras. But not just any tank, one that has a double liner. Nike usually wins in this category with a tight and durable outer layer and an underlying cross-shaped bra liner with thick elastic underneath. This double bra action gives an extra layer of support and ensures no flopping around.

Material. Get something that breathes or you could suffer from chaffing or zits in weird places. I’ve discovered that anything Under Armor makes is basically mana from heaven. I don’t feel wet or sticky and sweat never rolls down my back when I wear it. You want a material that absorbs as much sweat as possible without making you feel like an old shower towel. Also, never go with any bra that is made entirely of spandex as it absorbs about as much as duck feathers in a rain storm.

 v

Finally, purchase a bra that’s a little too small for you. Not so small that it inhibits breathing or creates cleavage in your throat, but small enough that it keeps everything in place and doesn’t allow for free movement. If you wear a 36D and purchase a Large sports bra, chances are there will be material gaps on the sides of your breasts – so get a Medium instead.

For those of you who might be basically breastless, this doesn’t mean it’s acceptable to go braless as ALL women should protect their goods.

Be tasteful, tactful, and true to yourself.

-Pam Shep: Hey There, It’s Pammy-Girl

 

Man, this website is taking forever! I am officially a week late on the launch but that’s ok. I saw a brief overview of the flash page thanks to Imagine Tech and it is really cool. So I guess I can say that it will be worth the wait. And! And the sponsors are eager to advertise and give free stuff away on here. Win Win! Ok, so here’s a random blog just to tide it over about music to train to. You may have different choices so I encourage you to share them on here. Remember, I want this place to be one big info sharing love fest of fitness and fun. So, party on and here are a few of mine.

RUNNING!

The important thing about any aerobic activity is pick music with like beats and a relatively repetitious beat. Whether you mean to or not, the pace of your run is indicative to your subconscious. If you go out for a jog with stressful issues on your mind it is almost guaranteed that the pace will not only be quick but inconsistant. Same goes for the music. Progressive rock is not the choice of the long distance runner. Too many different beats, too many tempo changes and most of the time it starts slow, then changes too fast and then finishes slow. That maps out the same as a really shitty run. So stay away from Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Cold Play, The Beatles (drug years), anything new from Metallica (because it sucks) and usually any song over 8 minutes. Personally I go with Daft Punk, certain songs from Blur, AC/DC (because it all sounds the same) and so on. Here are some examples.

Daft Punk has had a long history with my running years. They stay consistent and it is fun to listen to without getting so wrapped up in the meaning of the song that you end up on the bumper of a Buick. “Human After All” is a great running song. And so is “Make Love”. That’s my trail running song and I have it on repeat for at least an hour. It sets my heart rhythm perfectly. Take a gander.

Weight Training!

This is when you need to step it up a notch. Having a melodic and repetitious beat can have an opposite effect on your mind when you are feeling the burn. It’s okay to be angry here so turn up the volume and rock on. This is especially important when you are killing the abs.

This may not resonate with many people but if you want to get the adrenaline pumping there is no greater band to help you than Slipknot. I give these guys mad props because they have been with me for every milestone in my lifting endeavour.

I’m not a huge Korn fan but I love this song. In fact, it saved me from a possible ‘episode’ at the gym. True story: I workout at a 24 hour gym and sometimes I take them up on the 24 hour aspect and lift by myself. (don’t do that) So, I had a long day and was feeling surprisingly energetic. I had a great workout and decided that it was a good idea to finish the night by pushing a new lift record on the incline bench. Well, upping the weight by 30 lbs proved too much for my over-zealous ego and got stuck on the bench with 225 lbs on me and no way to get it off. I felt like Tom Hanks in the Money Pit when he sank with the rug into the hole in the floor. I started laughing but the pressure on my chest made it difficult to breath. I had no way out. That is until I gained composure and this little ditty came up on my mp3 player and I turned agony into sheer anger. I lifted it off and quickly racked the bar. So, I owe it to Korn for…I guess embarrassment of staying at the gym until someone came in and saved me. So Thanks Korn!

Hot Dog Eating Competition!

If this doesn’t make you smile then you have no soul.

So, that is a little blurb about fitness and music. It was random and semi pointless but I didn’t want people to think that Macabre Fitness went to the way side. It’s going to be bigger than Uncle Sam’s nipples, I tell you.

Ok, we all know that I am a big fan of inspirational stories that have to do with human endurance. I mean, this is coming from a guy who watched the 2006 Hawaii Iron Man documentary no less than 700 times. But this time I am really pressing the issue that you break out of the norm and see this film. What film am I talking about? It’s the one day release of 50 Marathons. Our buddy, who you read a quick blurb about a couple of days ago Dean Karnazes, ran 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 consecutive days. Read that three times over and try to digest the enormity of that. It is true that this guy is a super human but that is incredible.

The movie is only being shown on Thursday, July 31so you should get tickets soon. Go to 50marathons.com to find the theaters and buy tickets near you. This is an epic event and even if you don’t run at all I am sure this movie will inspire great things. So get off the couch, off the bar stool or out of the cubical! Bring your friends and family and go see 50 Marathons next Thursday. I promise it will be a movie long remembered.

The book reviews will be out on Sunday! Sorry that it is taking so long. My bedtime storybook reader has really been slacking.

Gives you goosebumps, huh?

I have been a fan of That’s What She Blogged for quite some time. It is a funny look into the life of a young wife, mom, professional, and woman. The wit is something that I always take away every time I read it and try and incorporate that outlook into my daily life. And every so often Allison finds herself in positions that I thought would only happen to me. This is one of those. Please enjoy!

The unthinkable happened last weekend.  My extreme dorkitude collided with my affinity for the gym in a way so profound that I had no choice but to blog about it.  I realize that by doing so, I am risking all remaining semblance of my dignity.  However, if I can keep this from happening to just one other person, it will all have been worth it.

The imp and I were enjoying a typical Saturday afternoon at the gym’s indoor pool.  She splashed, and I hovered.  She frolicked, and I rubbed chlorine out of my eyes.  This continued until Matt signaled through the window that he had 10 minutes remaining on the treadmill.  I then forced persuaded the reluctant imp to get out of the pool and into the locker room.  We always use the same shower stall (the bench and the wand make it perfect for cleaning a small child), and I was dismayed to see that our stall was taken.  I noted that the occupant’s leg was in need of a good razor and headed back to the pool to stall for a few minutes.

When we returned, I was pleased to find our shower stall empty.  However, I noticed that the bench and the wand were missing.  I peeked into a couple of shower stalls and found one that did have a bench and wand.  I figured that there must have been a compelling reason for the gym to make the switch.  Once we were in the stall, we disrobed and started the shower.  We had our usual shower ‘conversation.’  She said things like, “Mommy, put bubbles on my belly,” and I said things like, “Wash all the bubbles off.”  This continued for several minutes until something strange happened.  I heard a very deep voice coming from the dressing area.  A masculine voice.  A man’s voice.  Then it hit me….the hairy leg, the missing shower bench.  I was in the men’s locker room.

I WAS IN THE MEN’S LOCKER ROOM.  NAKED IN THE MEN’S LOCKER ROOM WITH MY LITTLE GIRL.

“What do I do now?” I thought.  I had to think quickly.  I became acutely aware of how many times the imp had called me Mommy during the shower, and about just how loud her voice is…never mind the fact that I was talking very loudly (in my very non-male voice) about the bubbles on her belly.  My first order of business was to put my bathing suit back on in record time.  Then I finished the imp’s shower because, what difference would another half minute make?  And then we fled.  I booked it back to the pool deck and ducked into the women’s locker room.  Somehow, miracle of all miracles, I never actually saw a man in the men’s locker room.

I don’t really know how it happened.  I go there all the time.  I know which door is the correct door.  Even if I had forgotten, the doors are clearly labeled.  For crying out loud, how dorky am I?  I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn’t heard that man’s voice.  We most certainly would have paraded into the dressing area (where the imp and I would have certainly seen several undressed men and vice versa).

I learned an important lesson…the same lesson I’ve been teaching the imp for the past couple of months.

Always look for the skirt symbol on the door before proceeding.  Always.

PS! Send my your fitness stories!

When I purchased this book at Borders the check out girl smirked and ask, “are you an ultra marathon runner?”. I quickly responded with a sturdy “no way” and an accompanying hand gesture of dismissal. “Then why do read a book about ultra marathons, silly?” I could tell there was a little flirtation in the question but still, I hope people don’t judge me on my book purchases because last week I bought a book called Useless Knowledge. No, I told her that I read these books for pure entertainment. She raised her eyebrows, smiled and said, “a book on running, sounds like a blast.” I wished she would hurry and make the transaction.

The truth is I read books like these for a very personal reason. In 2002 I received an injury to my lungs in the military that not only cut my career short but took me from a professional athletic level to barely being able to climb stairs. I had damaged over 30 percent of my lower lung tissue and with months of therapy the doctors were convinced that I would be a severe asthmatic at best. I sank into a deep depression as I watched my buddies go off to war, some returning disfigured and some not returning at all. I felt a feeling of failure for the first time and that stuck with me for years. I tried to fill the void by hopping from one relationship to the next, each ending horribly. I changed careers over and over, never understanding why I had the urge to keep moving, thinking the grass had to be greener on the other side. My friends became distant and I stopped going to church all together. It was the typical surrender to life and my white flag was tied to the end of a beer bottle.

On one a particular day, when life had a strangle hold on me I combated it the same way I had always done before; I pulled into the local pub and drank. As I sat there I looked across the bar and saw the same faces expressing the same contentment for missing their opportunities in life. I looked up at the TV and became acutely aware that I could now read the lips of the anchors on CNN because the music from the pub always drowned out the volume of the TV. The smells from the kitchen reminded me of what day it was because each day had it’s own same special. It was a Friday that day because it smelled like wings, the typical Friday special. I recognized people’s stroll from my peripheral vision and knew exactly who they were. My hands and feet went cold and I realized my life was  like two roads that diverged into the woods, and at that moment I took the one less traveled.

I threw a five dollar bill on the bar to cover my full Mich Ultra that I left and headed for the door. I didn’t say goodbye or turn for one last look, because I knew I wasn’t coming back so there was no point. I got into the car and turned off the radio because at this moment of clarity, Cinderella would have been simply white noise. Driving home is a blur and I had no plans for what to do with this ‘episode’ I was having. All I knew was that when I would got home I would know what to do. And I did.

I ran through the front door, peeled of my work clothes, pulled on shorts and a t-shirt and stepped into my running shoes. Without even a second thought I sprinted out the door and ran. I can’t tell you what I was running for but I can tell you what I was running from. I ran from the guilt of many heartbroken girls as I drug out doomed relationships for fear of being left alone with my own demons. I ran from the memory of watching my buddy in the Army who was a rock, return from the battlefield without both legs and an arm. I should have been there with him. I ran from endless nights, drinking to extremes and driving home only to fall asleep in the driveway listening to the radio. I ran from everything and felt the faster I went the further  away it would all be. And then my lung condition started to rear it’s ugly head.

It first feels like you are breathing with a sock in your mouth. Every breath is laboring and heavy as you try and fill the lungs. That repetitive struggle starts to exhaust your upper back and neck muscles, the tips of your fingers go numb and pretty soon the lack of oxygen that the lungs get, produce a build up of carbon dioxide in the muscles and cramps start to set it. For me that takes place relatively soon without the aid of a bronchial inhaler. But I never took that aid and when the doctors gave them to me in 2002, I threw them out on the way out of the hospital. Not smart, I know.

When my lungs started to contract and my quads to my hamstrings began to seize I could feel all my demons catching up. I became enraged. My breath became gasps and my strides became leaps as I ran faster. I ran without any technique and my breathing had no rhythm. To a passerby I probably looked as if I was being chased and really, I was. I would not stop until I gave the demons the slip or die on the side of the road. For the first time in years I felt like I hopped the fence of slavery, and even though it was symbolic, I was free. I had taken the wheel and now I was cruising on a road that wasn’t on any map.

Looking back at that pivotal point in my life, I have no idea how far I went. I do know how long I ran for. I ran from 6pm to 11pm. I know it was eleven because I stopped at a gas station to buy a drink and inquire where I ended up. It turns out I ran due north and I went seven exits up GA 400 through some fairly back wooded areas. My feet were torn to shreds, my ankles were swollen, I couldn’t hear very well out of my right ear and I had been coughing up blood for over an hour. Many would think I took a step closer to death but it was there that I found my life again. I was at a BP station north of Dawsonville, Georgia and that is where I took everything back again.

After I drank a few bottles of Gatorade and downed two turkey sandwiches (that was probably made the week prior) I hobbled down the road on the long trek home. I never thought about going home when I started; I just ran. Every inch of me hurt but with this pain came a new sense of self. I know that sounds like an Oprah moment but it was true. I hobbled all the way back to Roswell and at 9 in the morning I fell on the front yard. I picked myself up and barely made it to my door before I fell over again. This time I was a little nervous that I may have done something bad. I unlocked the door and crawled up the stairs to the bedroom shower, tuned on the cold water and crawled over the tub with clothes and shoes on. With the cold water running over me I drifted in and out of consciousness, cognoscente that there was blood steaming down my elevated legs from my shoes. It may have been ten minutes it may have been two hours but I finally turned off the water and pulled myself out of the tub and took hold of myself. I got undressed, peeled off my shoes and socks, revealing that I had done some considerable damage to both feet, and walked gingerly down the stairs to the kitchen and replenish what I had lost.

It took days to recover from that. I was still bleeding from my lungs days after but it didn’t deter me. I went running again. Everyday I left the comforts of the couch with Everybody Loves Raymond and Family Guy for the pain of the trail. The lungs began to burn less, the feet were constantly blistered but tougher, the legs became stronger and I started to find that I wasn’t actually running from my demons but dealing with them on my own terms.

Earlier this year I went to a pulmonary physician for a few tests to see how my lungs were. After my injury I never accepted that I had a handicap so going to another doctor just to reconfirm that I was disabled was not in the cards. But now I had a handle on life and in order to truly conquer my past I had to face things head on. He put me through every test they had including taking bronchial dilators to test the amount of air I can take in to a MRI to view the damaged tissue. After the tests were concluded I went home and waited two weeks for the test results. It was a long two weeks.

Well, the results came in and I went to the clinic to have a face to face. He sat down with me and showed me the folder with all my tests and a summery sheet. To make a long story short the test came out very good. I still only have 83% of undamaged lung tissue but with my running they expand to take in more oxygen. From what he explained, I had trained my body to adapt to my lifestyle. I can accept that.

I guess that little story would have been an overkill for the girl at the checkout counter at Borders but that is why I read books about running. It’s a sport that is the purest form of raw stamina and endurance. My runs bring me closer to God and I know myself better every time I feel that I can’t take another step because I know, I can. Running to me is a way to explain life. It isn’t suppose to be fun, it isn’t easy and sometimes it hurts like Hell, but it should. The rewards and accolades are completely intrinsic and the only person you need to impress is yourself.

I was planning on reviewing the book Ultra Marathon Man but I don’t think I will today. I will say that it is an amazing story of self determination and the will of Dean Karnazes is matched by no one I have ever heard of. Maybe Ernest Shackleton. Maybe. Anyway, I read the book in one sitting and I found myself at times pumping my fist in the air, getting caught up in the moment so I would suggest you read it from the privacy of your home. It is inspirational and the first part floored me because I felt like I was reading my own story.

So buy it, borrow it, check it out, do what you need to do. Just read it. You will take something away, I promise.

EDIT: Someone emailed me and asked what my favorite tune is that I run to.  Here it is, “Coffee & TV” from Blur. It’s on repeat for many miles. Plus the video kicks real ass.

This very funny post is from one of my favorite (favourite…right Romi?) bloggers of all time. You can check her out at Year Of The Chick and I highly recommend it too. Her unabashed honesty and wit is rivaled by no one. It’s great to read someone’s site and say, “that’s so true! Why didn’t I ever think to say that?” Warning, don’t eat or drink while reading. Chocking is probable. So without further ado, I present Romi.

Fitness War: Wrestling vs. Interpretive Dance

It’s been 13 years since I found myself in Junior High gym class.

That seems appropriate, since it’s probably not okay for a 27-year-old woman to give out ”well done!” post-game ass
-slaps to 12 year olds.

Even if it’s been a while, I’m not so old that I’ve replaced my actual memories with scenes from the “Wonder Years”.  And yet, sometimes I feel like it was a TV show…

***

Year: 1993
Age: 12
Body-Type: Tall, boyish, small amount of junk in the trunk

***

Three weeks of basketball and finally the embarrassment of air balls and double-dribbles were over.

Time to move on to something fun.

Our gym teachers (one male, one female) announced that wresting was next on the agenda.  Well…wresting and interpretive dance, to be exact (hmm…is that a new Olympic Sport?).

I quickly realized that the boys would be doing the wrestling, whilst the girls would be gyrating awkwardly to a song that didn’t match.

I had never known a thing about dancing (interpretive or otherwise), but I didn’t enjoy being cock-blocked from wrestling.

And why couldn’t I partake?

Pretty simple: it was just because I didn’t have one of those “penis” thingys (a male organ I didn’t know a lot about in 1993…I still don’t know a lot about it now, but that’s another story that I’ll save for my bottle of Prozac)…

Despite the inherent disappointment that comes from being born without a “package”, I decided to pull up my socks and give this new-age dancing a try.

The gym was split into two, with a thin wooden wall that would shield our sexy dancing from the wrestlers’ prying eyes.

Now when it comes to “interpretive dance for 12-year olds”, there isn’t a lot of technique to the affair.  In fact, there’s nothing more to it than an overweight woman in a flower-printed wind-suit, showing some girls how to move their arms to and fro.

I should probably mention that the advanced interpretive dancers got to use ribbons…and no I didn’t get one….dammit.

Though I never moved up to “ribbon” status, my dancing improved in the weeks to come.

After lots of practice, it was time to show off our skills in the end-of-term “Interpretive Dance” showcase.

And so, for the next 4 minutes and 6 seconds, we KILLED Bryan Adams’ ”Everything I Do, I Do It For You” with our awesome moves!

I’m not gonna lie, I enjoyed the attention of 15 males, I really did.

By the time we finished our dance, it was time for the boys to put out the mats and show us their wrestling skills.

As soon as the first pair of pasty-thighed boys locked into position, I was entranced.

The grunting, the intensity of the throw-downs, the sweat-beads…it was exhilarating!

And all the while in interpretive-dance world, I’d been moving my arms to the tune of zero aggression (and almost zero calorie-loss).

As I watched the hefty kid (who I was sure ate pizza + donuts for a living) squeeze the life out of his tiny opponent, I became  enraged: why couldn’t girls do this to each other?

These weren’t the beginnings of lesbianism I assure you, but it was the athletic aspect of it all: kick ass and get in shape…GRRR!…

…It was a dream I never realized, and I can only hope that the school in my town is a lot more forward-thinking now.  That’s right, girls should be totally free to tackle/grab at each other for sport, and I’m sure there’s no shortage of boys that would like to watch (it’s what we call a “win-win”).

On a personal level, sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened to my life if I’d wrestled at age 12.  There’s a chance that I could’ve become the top female wrestler in my region…and maybe eventually, world champion?  There’s also a chance that the wrestling could’ve helped me grow some muscles on my own (which might’ve stopped me from taking all those ‘roids in the late 90’s).

But most of all, if I had done intense activities like wrestling back in the day vs. the relative inertia that is “Junior High Interpretive Dance”, maybe I wouldn’t be struggling to lose these last 15 pounds…

Thanks for NOTHING Bryan Adams!

Romi

While I mull over the perfect site design for the website I still want to keep up with the blog portion. So today I will be reviewing some of my favorite and least favorite sport drinks, protein bars and shakes for reading pleasure. I know what you are thinking and no, I’m not the guy at the office that drinks Myoplex shakes and eats Powerbars all day long just to show everyone I am health conscious. But I do require some energy boosts and short cuts to ingesting the right amount of protein after lifting weights. I refuse to eat two dozen eggs a day.

They have finally done it! They have made a sports drink that was designed especially for me. The company Function prides themselves in making these drinks that are designed by physicians to combat what most of us deal with on a daily basis. My favorite of the selection is the Urban Detox. The “function” of this drink is to cleanse the lungs and sinuses from pollutants that are ingested while running around a smog filled environment. It does this by using a super antioxidant called NAC and prickly pear fruit extract. Not only does it do that they also boast it cures hangovers. Sold!

They have quite a selection, each with different functions. I have tried them all and as sceptical as I was to the validity of their design, they have won me over. I can honestly say I have felt a whole lot better since I have started drinking these as a part of my morning routine and it is not psychosomatic. Not only have my lungs and sinuses felt clearer but my Wednesday night after work beers haven’t slowed me up a bit on Thursday morning. Check them out at funtiondrinks.com.

Gee, protein shakes have come a long way in the past ten to fifteen years. I remember drinking them in high school and it was everything I could do just to choke down one packet of 40g protein Myoplex shake. Of course back then I was a 150 pound teenager that shouldn’t have ingested 40 grams of anything because the human body can only process so much. Today, I am older and a little wiser to what I put in my stomach and I know that if a shake is so thick that it stalls a blender, I had better not to drink it. Luckily today we have better choices of where we get our supplement protein because lets face it, drinking raw eggs like Rocky makes anyone with any sense throw up in their mouth.

I will be honest, I am the laziest person in the word when it comes to preparing protein shakes. It’s a messy process that requires a blender. No shaker or hand stirring motion can break up the lumps of powder that will make a goat sick when chugging down a chocolate supplement shake. No, you have to have a blender for this and I guess that is why I am not a huge fan of the EAS Myoplex brand. I require easy, quick and a clean preparation if I am going to drink something with that much protein and no matter what Myoplex boasts, it has never mastered the easy mixing solution that I need. Plus it has so many ingredients you never know what you are really drinking. I mean, the FDA label says it is giving you 60% of your daily copper requirement. Copper? This product is really for the die hard weight lifters who have the time to measure minuet things like copper levels or appropriate calorie counts of the tens of thousands. Plus, those guys shit like six times a day and that alone makes me never want to be like that. Seriously, is this a good look?

Don’t get me wrong, EAS is a great company and they have been one of the leaders in supplement research and design. I just think for people who work full time but exercise in a serious fashion, the Myoplex Meal Replacement shakes might be an overkill. It is expensive, hard to prep and sometimes it is hard to drink. But that is just my opinion.

Now this is more my speed. I lurve Cytosport Muscle Milk not only because it tastes great but it is easy to prepare. It dissolves much like those Carnation Instant Breakfast shakes and I find that pretty incredible due to the fact it has over 20 grams of protein per serving. It’s design is inspired from a human mother’s milk ( I try not to think too hard about….gross) which has a higher complex of amino acids and peptides that burn fat as it increases muscle growth. Why does that matter? Simple. Every time you lift weights tiny muscle fibers rip and the protein elements rebuild them making them leaner and stronger. During that process lactic acids can build up in the afflicted area causing soreness. Muscle milk’s complex blend of peptides and different amino acids combat that process giving you shorter recovery time and tighter muscles. In short, you get ripped faster. So be sure to drink your Ovaltine. And by Ovaltine I mean Muscle Milk. Check the out at Cytosport.com!

It is GU! Every time I take one of these things I feel like Ivan Draco and I am training with the help of pure Soviet science. It comes in a cool space pouch and it is a shot of energy like no other. I love these things because I am a man of extremes. If I run, I run fast. If I lift, I lift hard. If I drink beer, I drink beer hard and fast. So to keep up with that aggressiveness I need to have a mid-stride boost and nothing boosts harder or faster than GU.

If you can get past the texture this is a great energy supplement. The problem is that when you need a pick-me-up, you are usually at the point of exhaustion and the last thing you want is to squeeze hot pudding in your mouth. But other than that, there isn’t a drawback to GU. Nowhere else can you find a more portable and powerful kick in the rump. The one thing people should know is that GU, especially the new Roctane packs, contain a lot of caffeine so be careful of your heart and exercising in high temperatures because caffeine tends to complicate things a little.

Oh yes, Clif the hippie bars! I have always been a fan of Clif bars because they really prided themselves on being 100% organic, soy, tree hugging, peace and loving outdoors, bar of goodness and there is a part of me that really digs that. But I never considered them as anything more than an emergency ration while hiking up in the Sierra’s or Yellowstone. That is until recently when I found out about builder bars and my whole opinion changed about Clif.

These are really great little bars that pack 20 grams of soy protein which is a little bit more fatty than whey, which you find in shakes. But with the fatty bad also comes the good because this little bar is full of organic goodness, fiber and 23 vitamins making it a great pre-workout bar that is not very big at all. Oh yeah, it also has a high melt factor too. So don’t keep in your glove compartment like I did. Choco-fingers which led to choco-dash, which led to choco-steering wheel which then lead to choco-shirt.