It's June 4th, as good a time as any to look back at the past six months of my listening habits. Some brand new favorites made the charts (Sleigh Bells), and the usual suspects (guess who) maintained their stranglehold on my earbuds.
So, going back to December 4, 2009 -- here's how it played out.
TOP ARTISTS
TOP TRACKS
Here's a free track, just because you were kind enough to log in to this narcissistic business.
Heard a great song today, via random shuffle on the iPod. It doesn't spring up all too often, so it was a real treat: "Coma Girl" by Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros.
It doesn't matter what that man put his effort into... the result always sounded like the voice of God. For me, that's the deal: Joe Strummer and Chuck D are the voices of God on record. I spent a few minutes trying to think of another man or woman whose vocals have the same gravitas. (Johnny Cash, perhaps.) I came up with a lot of nahs (Eddie Vedder, Glenn Danzig, Jim Morrison) and a few sortas (Nick Cave, Scott Walker, John Doe, Frank Sinatra), but no one -- for my tithe -- with the depth and presence of Strummer and Chuck.
For skeptics, here are a few tracks that evidence the soul-stirring brawn of their voices.
Strummer's "Washington Bullets" vocal more than lives up to its weighty subject matter.
Chuck D's vocal horsepower is even more mind-blowing when set in contrast with Flavor Flav's meanderings. Here is 32 seconds of anticipation as we await Chuck's celestial "What goes on? Well..."
I can't leave this one out: When Rollins & Co. re-recorded Black Flag songs for the WM3 album, they needed a voice of God to kick off the record. They got Chuck.
This one was emailed to me from Brian Last Stop.
What happens when you play a record at the wrong speed? Sometimes something magical. Or, in this case, unnerving.
A few weeks ago on this site, I called Alkaline Trio's Matt Skiba a genius and wrote that the band's songs depict "every strain of heartbreak, revenge, rejection, and catastrophic no-mance you and I have ever survived." I'm still listening to a shit-ton of Alkaline Trio these days, and I'm sticking with my prior conclusions. Until a month or six weeks ago, I had never really gotten any Alkaline Trio on me. I was aware of the band, but oblivious to the music. I read an interview with Skiba (in Inked, I think), and grew more curious. The first few tracks I heard really put the hook in me.
I've been an Alkaline Trio hunter-gatherer lately, "borrowing" their MP3s off the so-called Internet, and legally purchasing what I can't borrow. I've gone pretty deep into the back-catalogue of albums, EPs, and b-sides, and I have been well-rewarded for the efforts. A few of their already-bulletproof albums are available in special editions with alt-versions and demos tacked on. The newest,This Addiction, can be had with six bonus tracks (including acoustic versions) and a DVD of the band live in Vegas -- for $15 of your hard-earned. The acoustic versions of "Dead on the Floor" and the title track are even better than their plugged-in, louder renderings.
The best part? These guys are crushing where it counts -- live.
After a nor'easter flooded The Starland Ballroom in New Jersey, forcing the club to cancel the Alkaline Trio's March 13th show, band and their management worked fast and got themselves booked into a March 15th show at the Gramercy Theater in Manhattan. Info was spread by word of Web; the band posted the news on their Facebook and Myspace pages, and fans and friends took it from there. It was one of the best shows I've seen in years. The band landed on it like a ton of bricks.
I grabbed a half minute of video as they laced into one of my favorite AT songs. The hand you'll see at the end off the clip belongs to a member of Gramercy Theater security. Sorry, guy; you caught me stealing thirty seconds of low-res video from about 75 feet away. My excuse is I am getting old and I'm afraid my memory wasn't what it once was. It helps to have video on my phone so I'll always be able to remember the days before the nurses took my phone and my favorite sharp items away.
When the set was over and the band had left the stage, the audience started singing. They were singing the same song. It was pretty cool. The band came back for the encore and swapped instruments; completely reminding me of an old flame -- The Replacements. Skiba, at the drums now, said he didn't remember the lyrics to the particular song the crowd was singing. The band played it anyway, and what sounded like the entire room sang it all: first verse, second verse, chorus, bridge... all of it. I thought: Iove this band, and I really dig their fans. It's pretty damn cool to hear several hundred people roar "I've got... a big fat fucking bone to pick... with you my darling!" from "Radio," another of my fave AT tunes. Maybe it is THE favorite. After a strange and tacky opening line, the song is fueled by pure, bilious rage. I love rage and bile. They are the coins of my realm. But you know that. Check out the song...
Shaking like a dog shitting razorblades,
Waking up next to nothing after dreaming of you and me
I'm waking up all alone, waking up so relieved
While you're taking your time with apologies,
I'm making my plans for revenge
Red eyes on orange horizons
If Columbus was wrong I'd drive straight off the edge
I'd drive straight off the edge
Taking your own life with boredom
I'm taking my own life with wine --
It helps you to rule out the sorrow
It helps me to empty my mind
Making the most of a bad time
I'm smoking the brains from my head
Leaving the coal calling the kettle black and orange and red
This kettle is seeing red
I've got a big fat fucking bone to pick with you my darling
In case you haven't heard I'm sick and tired of trying
I wish you would take my radio to bathe with you,
Plugged in and ready to fall
Shaking like a dog shitting razorblades,
Waking up next to nothing after dreaming of you and me
I'm waking up all alone, waking up so relieved
While you're taking your time with apologies,
I'm planning out my revenge
Red eyes on orange horizons
If Columbus was wrong I'd drive straight off the edge
I'm seeing red
I've got a big fat fucking bone to pick with you my darling
In case you haven't heard I'm sick and tired of trying
I wish you would take my radio to bathe with you,
Plugged in and ready to fall
Plugged in and ready to fall
* * * *
That, and many other perfect songs, can be found on Maybe I'll Catch Fire from 2000.
The next song of the encore? A cover of the Misfits' "Angelfuck." Hot damn, I was a happy fellow when they kicked into that.
You didn't need me to solve this puzzle for you, but more Alkaline Trio info can be found over here.
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Coming Soon...
Thank You For the Flowers and the Book by Derrida: A Brief Appreciation of The Weakerthans.
I spent some time in Los Angeles recently. Driving the rental Hyundai around, I was forced to do something I never do in New York: listen to FM radio. Luckily, KROQ still exists, and better yet -- it's still good. It was exciting to want to listen to radio for a damn change. Though I'll never understand why it is I heard Bush's "Machinehead" (1994) enough times (about seven times in 9 days) to make me wonder if Gavin Rossdale had been kidnapped, killed, or was otherwise making headlines; nor how, at more than five minutes long, the station seemed to play Muse's "Uprising" every three minutes. Magic, I think.
Whatever. A bad half hour of KROQ is still better than... ah, well, you know how that one ends. I heard some good new stuff, some great old stuff ("Thunder Kiss '65" and "Los Angeles is Burning"), and was reminded of how much I like sharing music on this site. So, here this is. It's not a Pointcast, since you won't hear me talking on the thing; it's not a randomized Friday 10 -- these are a dozen tracks I handpicked for you to hear. It's a playlist, I guess.
Back Against The Wall - Cage The Elephant (Cage The Elephant): Had never heard of this band before I heard them on KROQ. I went back to the friend's apartment where I was staying and scorched the WiFi until I had everything they'd released, which is the self-titled 2008 album, a few alt-version b-sides, and an obscure Pavement cover. I really like this song, and most of the album as well. I haven't said this since forever ago: the video is cool. It'll creep out your kids!
Piss and Vinegar - Alkaline Trio (This Addiction): I don't know if I've ever written about Alkaline Trio here. That's a crime. I might have mentioned that Matt Skiba is a fucking genius. With ease, he could be mentioned in the same breath as Westerberg, Mould, Merritt. He writes lyrics with a big broken heart and bashes out the songs post-punk style. Listen to "Piss and Vinegar" from the brand new record, and then be aware that man and band have a back catalogue documenting every strain of heartbreak, revenge, rejection, and catastrophic no-mance you and I have ever survived. In 4/4 time. I don't have everything they've released, but I'm working every day to correct that.
Barely Legal (live) - The Strokes (bootleg, Vienna 03.09.02): I was just looking at a Strokes fan website that lists all their tours and setlists. They kicked off the 2002 tour with a secret show at the Merc in NYC (under the name The Shitty Beatles), and did 4-5 shows a week with practically the same setlist. That explains why they sound so tight almost two months in, at this show in Austria. I've seen them live a couple times. Once, Casablancas was so slack and indifferent it flat-out pissed me off. Another time, he and the band were keyed up like a killing machine, and that was a great show. This bootleg is worth pulling down off the so-called Internet; it's not hard to find. It's a great show.
Motherfucker - Primitive Radio Gods (Rocket): Yes. Primitive Radio Gods. Best known for the 1996 hit that heavily samples a killer BB King song. You know it. Unwieldy title. "Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hand." Last week, I was having a late lunch at a place near Amoeba Records, and it came on. It was cool to hear it again, but it reminded me that there were a couple other ear-worthy songs on that album, too. I couldn't name them then, but looked them up when I got back to where I was staying. Sure enough, "Motherfucker," was already in my iTunes. Right on. This song really does it for me once it's past the three-minute mark. That's when it heads off into a real cool place.
Swords of Truth - These New Puritans (Beat Pyramid): These guys are a trip. The music reminds me of Shriekback or Front 242, and then you hear that vocal and it sounds all wrong. What? Is somebody playing an Arctic Monkeys record somewhere nearby? Somehow, it just fucking works. I don't want to know too much about them, lest I learn something that completely turns me off. This song is from their first album, released in 2008. They just released a new one, called Hidden. TNP hail from Southend, on the southeastern knee of England, the same tract that bore The Horrors and Danielle Dax. Something's in the rain in Southend.
Brick By Boring Brick - Paramore (Brand New Eyes): I heard this virtually every time I got in the car in L.A. After the first couple times, I still hadn't heard a DJ back-announce it, so I had to do the caveman thing and type lyrics (as best I could remember/decipher them) into the Googles. I'll admit I was surprised, even a little embarrassed, when I learned it was Paramore. I had long ago written this band off as "not for me." And maybe they're still not -- I just know the one song -- but shame on me for not doing the due diligence and first looking into that which I denounce. Alright, listen: when the singer hits that refrain as the lead guitar drops out for a moment, I'm on the hook. Are you kidding? "B'dah bah b'dah bah bah dah!" I'm not made of stone.
Fuck Was I - Jenny Owen Youngs (Batten the Hatches): Famously used in a scene from season two of Weeds, I had been wanting to get this into a Pointcast for a long time. This week's playlist thing seemed like as good a time as any other, since no further explanation is necessary for this gem.
I Still Get Rocks Off - Blonde Redhead (La Mia Vita Violenta): It took me a while to get to Blonde Redhead. Usually when bands come with a lot of hipster hype attached, the music doesn't hold up. Reviews of their early records always compared them to Sonic Youth, and I just ran away from that kiss of death. The music is unique and challenging, makes me wonder why the hipsters dug it. The other day, I was in a serious Blonde redhead mood, so I pulled out the first four albums and just had at them. I love this band, and I'd always spent very little time listening to the earliest releases: Blonde Redhead (1995), La Mia... (1995), Fake Can Be Just As Good (1997), and In an Expression of the Inexpressible (1998). Their three releases since 2000 are so absolutely hot snot that they diverted my attention. So I have fixed that and spent a LOT of time with this brutal and beautiful music lately. Believe it!
Lay Me Down - Dirty Heads: Officially, that's Dirty Heads featuring Rome Ramirez of Sublime. But since Mr Ramirez was not actually in the original Sublime lineup, but rather in the newly reformed edition, maybe it's "Dirty Heads featuring Rome Ramirez of Sublime with Rome." Whatever. This is another one I heard a lot on KROQ. I liked it in spite of not knowing what the hell it's supposed to be about (are the main characters in some kind of trouble? Or is it, like, their Spring Break?). Sure, this could be 311, and I hate 311; but, what the hell?
New York, NY 10009 - Black 47 (Fire of Freedom): I'm sure I've written about B47 on TSP before; I've mentioned their legendary nights at Paddy Reilly's (10016). The celebrity guests at some of those shows would end up on Page Six -- the audience more noteworthy (to the New York Post) than the band, Here's a decent gig archive from their earliest days, with MP3s of those shows. OK... what's not to love about this track, especially if you're a music geek like me? In the first verse, Lance Kirwan sings, "...I drank my way down to the Lower East Side / 'cause I was nuts about Thunders and Suicide..." Straight off, references to three of my all-time favorite musicians. Then, for much of the song, he gives a lyrical bio of his first band, Major Thinkers. (Yes, I have the "Avenue B" 12-inch.) It all goes well until the girlfriend joins the Scientology Church and one of the Thinkers catches a bullet in Staten Island. Fucking love this song. Obviously.
Last Dance - The Raveonettes (In and Out of Control): I am a big Raveonettes fanboy. I was late to get to this, their latest album, but was well-rewarded when I finally arrived. A generous handful of good songs, but this one is a standout for me.
Prodigal Son - Bad Religion (New Maps of Hell): And, like that -- 30 years of solid music sneaks up on you. Amazing. Teenagers from El Camino Real high school in the Valley evolve and morph through several lineups, and end up with three of the original four members playing on this one in 2007. A new album will be recorded in the spring. Those of you who know, KNOW. Those of you who don't, you really owe it to yourself to not go to jail or get hit by a train so you can dive into the deep end of the Bad Religion canon.
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Please, leave comments. Thanks for reading and listening.
I was at the gym again this morning. I’ve had to make some adjustments to my training, as I gradually get back up to strength after almost two weeks away. I am not just fighting the effects of the time off, however. I’m also up against serious weight loss. Unintentional weight loss. Inches have been coming off me like dust. It is not fun. I’m left with, well nothing to wear that fits me. I have the six pack of abs that I never wanted. I always knew that if I looked down and saw that shit, it would mean I was too skinny, too weak. A 500 lb squat just up and jumped months further away on my calendar.
This weight drop is a product of a cold, some travel, a viral infection, and of course – the blues. Check out the weight graph from my FitDay account. Looks like Jim Bunning’s approval chart or the south face at Corbet’s Couloir.
But that’s not what I came here to write about.
I came to share a new installment of Public Gym WTF.
I was in the cage, doing set after set of standing shoulder press: three warmup sets, three work sets of 65%, 75%, and 85% of my max, and then I stayed in for three more sets at 50%.
Just outside the cage, or power rack, was my stuff. My backpack, a sweatshirt, a towel, some Jumpstretch bands, a powerlifting belt, a quart of water, a pouch full of gym chalk, a notebook, a pen. Also there was the foam roller I used pre-workout. Between sets, I crouch down next to the heap of gear and write my rep/set/weight numbers in the notebook, take a drink, or whatever.
After the SSPs, I did some shrugs because – sue me – I have an ego and want a big yoke.
I slid the plates off the bar after the shrugs, and consulted the notebook as to what was next. A cleaning guy comes over with a vacuum and pokes the sucker-nozzle thing around the cage and around my stuff. No problem. I see this guy all the time. He is a danger to everyone around him. He plugs the vacuum cleaner in at one end of the large room, then navigates the place while his 700-foot extension cord coils around equipment, dumbbells, benches, human ankles, yoga instructors, entire Senior-cise classes. As long as I can see him, we’re fine. I can tolerate him and watch my step around his cable.
Standing next to the King of Vacuum Rodeo is another guy. He looks like one of the cast members from Jersey Shore. He’s big, but all biceps and pecs. He’s got a tank top on the torso and gel on the head. He’s just standing around there looking like a tool: one hand caressing his abdominals, both eyes flirting with the mirror.
I can’t do anything until the vacuum is out of the way, so I take a minute to return the foam roller to the corner of the room I got it from. When I get back the Jersey Shore guy, The Bitchuation, is sliding plates onto the bar in the cage.
Hmm?
I hate that shit. Not a fucking nerve inside him to just ask if I was through. And this guy has, well now, about twenty pounds on me, stands about three inches taller, and has probably been shooting equine-grade testosterone into his ass since his first junior year at Queens College.
But you know what? I have been in a bad mood for weeks. I don’t feel like being nice. I don’t feel like filtering what I tell him, and I don’t care how he reacts. So…
“What are you doing? You somehow assumed I was finished here?”
His response was a dead giveaway that he was more rude than stupid. “Oh, I didn’t see anything.”
I asked him how it was that he didn’t see any of my things piled up next to the cage. I even gave an open-palm wave of the hand, game-show style, so he knew what “things” of which I spoke.
He’d tried ignorance; now he’d try arrogance. At least, I think it was arrogance. It started with “Well, what the fuck…”
I cut him off mid-sentiment and said, “Listen, before you get your clit in a twist about it, just know that what you did was bullshit, and I should move you out myself.”
Wow. I don’t know how I assembled that one, but it sounded pretty fucking good. And it effectively adjusted his attitude, as I suddenly became his “bro” and was looking at his right paw offered for a handshake.
I stared at the hand for a few seconds. I don’t know why. Dramatic effect, maybe. “What’s your name?”
“Manny.”
“Alright, Manny. Well… I’m Tommy.”
His handshake was weak. It was like he only wanted to shake with his fingers, like a woman from the Victorian era might offer her four gloved fingers to a gentleman suitor. And worse, there was something on his hand. It felt… buttery.
My hand slid off his, and I wiped it on my pants. I think it was hair gel.
I told him I was done, gave him the cage. When I peeked over at him a minute later, of course! – he was doing curls in the power rack. Dumbass.
Still in a bad mood.
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I’ll have another post here tomorrow. It’ll be music-related and include a download for you. I don’t know if it’ll be a Pointcast, because I don’t know if I’ll have the time. Someone wrote and told me to bring back the Friday 10. That’s a good idea, but tomorrow’s thing will probably land somewhere in between, with a lot of music to hear and a lot of notes to read.
I've been trying to get to this for a few days, it's a bit about what-all went on over the weekend in Philadelphia at the USAPL Meet.
After a simple dinner Friday night, my wife S. and I just went back to the hotel to relax. It was an up-and-out early plan ahead of us for the next morning. We half-watched a shitty movie with Vince Vaughn. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. I fell asleep pretty early – by my standards – and was out straight through the night. I woke up about twenty minutes before the alarm was set for, and started what I thought would be a routine. Really, it was just getting dressed, doing some brief myofascial work with a foam roller, munching a couple granola bars, and downing some supplements (Beta-7, BCAAs). Not exactly the morning routine of the world-class athlete, but this was the part of the undertaking of which I have very little knowledge: day of meet stuff.
I must have been pretty nerved up, because I remember so very little about that morning, just four days ago. I definitely remember S, from bed, saying “What are you eating?” I was crunching the granola and sitting at the desk in the total black-out darkness of the room.
The next thing I remember is walking down the long hotel hallway and out into the parking lot to the bitter cold of dusk.
An email earlier in the week informed us that lifter weigh-ins were to be held in a ballroom attached to a hotel that’s attached to the Expo/Contest site, and we found that no problem. In fact, there was a handwritten sign in the lobby, directing me to the bathroom past the ballroom. I bumped into the promoter, Niko, an easily recognizable man-mountain of muscle and affability, who told me I was very early and “Glad you’re here! We’re gonna have fun today.”
After some coffee, it was time for me to head to the men’s bathroom for weigh-in. Awfully strange, lining up along the restroom sinks behind other men in various stages of undress. In socks and underwear,* I tipped in at 205.5 pounds. Very low weight for my 220-weight class. In fact, just seven pounds less would have dropped me a class.
I cared very little about the low-weight thing; it’s my first meet, I just want to see if I can do what I think I can do. I’m not here, I’m not in this, to compete against the others today, but to compete against myself from yesterday. (Musashi, right?) Before I left the bathroom, Niko needed me to declare my opening lift numbers for the bench and deadlift. I consulted the pounds-to-kilos chart and gave two considerably low numbers.
After a brief, well, briefing in one of the nearby ballrooms, Niko led the competitors (and friends and family) out of the room, down stairs, through hallways, and into the contest site. The main stage area (where the lifting platform was) and the adjoining warmup room looked fresh and clean, and even with my limited knowledge of these things, I knew that many hours later these spaces would be messy, crowded, and slightly foul-smelling. True, true, and yup!
S secured a seat in one of the spectator rows and I made a beeline for the warmup room. I knew that the sooner I was able to do a set or two, the sooner I’d be able to gauge my strength and calm my nerves. Also true. I did a set on one of the benches with a warmup weight, and it felt good. I tried convincing myself this was just a day in the gym.
Sixty lifters didn’t look like a lot on paper. It feels like two-hundred sixty when you are all crowded into the same 25’x50’ space, with your gear and your bags and your coaches.
I should say that everyone was real cool. Good people. Some more intense than others, some extremely intense, but either way… kind, considerate, and easy to exist near for the duration of the meet. There was a strong camaraderie in the room as well, and that trickled down from Niko and his staff and judges to the lifters. People sincerely rooted for the man or woman on the platform, and helpful pointers were getting offered around “backstage.” (stuck in my idiotic head, of course, was a single-word line from the previous night’s hotel room movie, in which an overzealous, handsy yoga instructor shouted “Encouragement!” to his yoga class. But that’s me. I’m an assclown.)
Speaking of encouragement, most mind-bogglingly cool was my pal Dennis, who boarded a bus from northern New Jersey to Philly ‘round about 0600 hrs., then transferred at the 30th Street Station to a SEPTA bus to King of Prussia. He got to the contest venue before the very first lifter hit the platform, and sat with my wife for the entire five- or six-hour duration of the meet.
I was zoned-in before my lifts, but when I watched the videos later I could hear Dennis yelling “Tah-MEEEE” every time I walked onto the platform. That’s an officer of good will, a gentleman, and a devoted friend.
Comprising about a third of the lifters was a powerlifting team from Pennridge High School somewhere in Pennsylvania. (Pennridge, maybe?) About a dozen of these kids were girls. Wow. Imagine that? Imagine a school system so rocking that the local high school has a competitive powerlifting team! I was mightily impressed. They were all outfitted with gear in their team colors and logo, and they wore bench shirts and deadlift suits for the associated lifts. Serious stuff. They were all easy to cheer for, especially the smallest of the 14-, 15-, and 16-year old girls. I’ll admit, I was silently thankful that none of them lifted my planned amount of weight.
The boys were funny. All were strong, and they had great form on the lifts, but they were all awfully hung up on slapping each other.
At some levels of competition, and in serious training, a coach or fellow trainee will sometimes slap the lifter in the face or the head seconds before a lift. The thinking behind this is simple: the slap is a stimulus that fires neurons and gets the person into an immediate state of hyperarousal. It’s fight or flight. Catecholamine hormones start flowing and the lifter’s heart accelerates, blood vessels in the muscles dilate, necessary fats and glucose rush into the muscle tissue, and the body is ready for combat.
But these guys, these high school boys, were slapping the living shit out of each other’s faces, necks, and backs long before any of them were due to lift. Not one minute or two… sometimes ten or fifteen minutes beforehand. I think there was something more to it for them, all these singlet-clad boys, surrounded by singlet-clad teen girls; comparing the red hand prints each was leaving on each other. There had to be something exquisitely hormonal about it, in a way that teens cannot explain and grownups can’t understand.
Bench press was first, and as per protocol all lifters get three tries; the best weight they lift, according to technique requirements deemed by three judges – that’s the weight that goes next to their name in the final “standings.”
By the time I went out for my first bench, I was already warming up backstage with more weight, so I knew I could hit it. Since all of your numbers are given before the lifts, that’s the general approach to your “opener”: choose something easy. If you never get a first lift, you’re out. My approach was: choose something easy, then subtract weight to allow for nerves. Good approach.
There are three steps to the bench. That is, the main judge will give you three commands. (Wow. It seems powerlifting has even more “threes” than Christianity.) First, you have to hold the weight still at the top and wait for a “go” command. Then, you must come to a deliberate stop with the bar on your chest, and wait for the “press” command. Finally, if you can lock it out at the top, you wait for the “rack” command before putting the bar back on the hooks.
My very first competition bench: took the bar off the hook and saw my elbows quivering. Pure nervousness. The main judge saw it, too, because he made me stay in that position until I got the bar motionless. I lay there, just trying to calm down for what felt like at least the duration of a Ramones song, as the bar grew heavier in my grip. I began to think, “Holy crap, this is taking forever! I am really screwing up. When will he say ‘go’? Are people laughing at me?”
I finally got the go, waited at the bottom for the “press,” and remembered to hold my lockout for “rack” at the end. Good. Done. The first lift was in the can. I walked off the platform and back into the warmup area, but had to get called back onstage because I forgot to declare the weight for my next lift.
(After watching video of this first lift, I couldn’t see any shaking in my elbows. It was there – I saw it and the judge saw it, but we were the only ones. And that long-ass wait for the go, that felt like three verses of “Blitzkrieg Bop”? In reality, it was about one and a half seconds.)
Watch for yourself...
The second bench was a misadventure. I’d added weight. It was slightly more than I was warming up with backstage. I hit the platform, got into position on the bench, got the wait up, down, and back up again without a hitch. Nailed it! No problem. Except for the minor detail of the regulations. Idiot Boy forgot to wait for the judge’s commands. I was in my own beautiful, clueless world up there. It was called “no lift.”
Watching the video later, I can see myself shake my head while I’m pressing the weight up, depicting the exact moment I realized I’d fucked up.
I jacked up the weight slightly for bench #3, but still not near what I’d expected to finish with. I was too conservative. I should have declared my training max for lift three.The missed lift really got in my head.
I got the lift and it was time to start focusing on the deadlift half of the event.
The minute-by-minute details are unimportant. The gist is: I felt very strong in the DL. I nailed the first two attempts easily, and the announcer even mentioned that I lifted using a double-overhand grip. (Generally, people are weaker in the deadlift using double-overhand, or pronated, grip. I use it all the time, except for my heaviest attempts.)
Mentally and physically, I was feeling good. I was having fun. And I was enjoying being announced to the platform before each of my lifts; it’s been a long time since I’ve been announced to a stage.
I sensed I was in a race to beat an empty stomach, however, since all I’d eaten to that point was granola, half of a protein bar, and a carb drink.
For deadlift three, I went with poundage I hadn’t achieved at any point in my training. I had, in fact, failed once or twice trying to lift about seven pounds less. I got to the platform and, using an alternating grip this time, felt a slight struggle but made it. I was really happy about that. I felt like I’d gone six-for-six with an asterisk.
Believe it or not, I got medals. Two first places. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t expect it by a long shot. A lot of people moved a lot of weight that day, and though it’s hard to tell who’s competing against whom at times, I was certain I wasn’t first in anything. Turned out, the divisions for awards were pretty narrowly defined, and because I was an “out-of-state” lifter, I got the benefit of being among an extremely small sample of the crowd. It was slightly embarrassing. I was just happy to accomplish my lifts.
I walked off the stage and took the medals off my neck as I sat down with S and Dennis to watch the rest of the awards get handed out. I thought about how unselfish and well-meaning it was for the promoter and his team to put the event together, and get these medals to some of the competitors. I felt like maybe I was acting disrespectful, so I put the medals back around my neck like everyone else. I’m not embarrassed about them now. Yes, the competitors were divided up into many different segments and subdivisions, but not even half of the people got anything; and what the fuck… I lifted the weight.
* The underwear deserves its own discussion. My personal preference is boxer-briefs. However, the USAPL rules, and the rules of most other powerlifting federations state: “A standard commercial ‘athletic supporter’ or standard commercial briefs (not boxer shorts) of any mixture of cotton, nylon or polyester shall be worn under the lifting suit.”
You know them as “tighty-whiteys,” and I know them as something I haven’t worn since Phnom Penh fell to insurgents. Really. (Don’t ask.) I had to make a special trip to Target last month to buy a packet of these cottony implements of genital torture. I hope I never have to wear these things again. (The one positive by-product of this particular undergear is they made me remember that cool line from the Bloodhound Gang song – “I’m mighty tighty-whitey and I’m smuggling plums.”).
Today was the final workout before the powerlifting meet on Saturday. As is protocol for the last week leading up to a meet, today’s workout was real light. Just got the lifts in, and did extra flexibility and mobility work. To some degree, working out this week has been tougher mentally, as I have to fight the ego the whole time. I’m in there working out bodybuilder-style, with much lighter weights and higher reps, and it kills me to do it that way. It makes me feel weak, and very much like I’m wasting my time. I keep reminding myself that the work work is done: last week was the final heavy week for the lifts; this week is what it is. Now I have to believe that the training percentages and protocols have worked, and what I’ll be ready to peak on Saturday with a 270+ bench press and a 405+ deadlift. Those numbers aren’t going to knock anyone down, but I’m competing against myself. I am proving my training regimen. It’s all on me and what I’ve got. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open at the meet and hopefully learn from the people who can use my PRs as their warm-ups.
As the day draws nearer, there has been a measure of nervousness collecting inside. Not too much, but it’s there. When I sit and think on it, eyes closed, I can really bring on the butterflies. I’ve done this purposely several times in the last week or so. I guess it can be called “visualization.” I put myself on the platform. There are lights. There are unfamiliar noises. There are people staring. There’s a judge, upon whose commands I wait. There’s a backstage area, with warmup weights and other competitors. In my visualizations, there is even time to kill between lifts – time spent staying warm but not overworking. Then I bring on the nerves. I have brought myself damn near panic level: stomach flipping and nauseated, sweat forming, shuddering slightly… all artificially. I don’t really feel that nervous over this event, but I make myself feel it anyway.
I don’t know if this is good or bad. Is this little exercise in agitation going to help me cope with the butterflies if/when they really happen? Maybe like muscle memory, my psyche will be accustomed to feeling it, and be well rehearsed at flushing it away. Or… is this all damaging to performance? Could I be, in effect, “teaching myself” how to get nervous? Either way, my head sure is pretty deep up my own ass, don’t you think?
Ah, whatever. I am definitely looking forward to this thing.
As I was gathering my stuff out of my locker this morning, a guy comes bounding into the locker room, saying hello to one of the personal trainers who was in there. “Not done, going back up, going back up! Did shoulders and arms, and I’m going back upstairs. Not finished!” He looked like a real tool, so I kept an eye on him, knowing I’d witness some form of entertaining stupidity. After 15 seconds, he closes up his locker and goes to a mirror. He leans in, rounds his shoulders, and tells the trainer guy, “Traps!”
1) No. There were no significant “traps” to be admired.
2) There was also no significant muscular hypertrophy to be seen anywhere on this middle-aged Adonis’s frame. Fine.
Next, I saw the trainer guy touching Adonis’s upper pectoral area, sort of poking it with two fingers. He might actually have been poking the guy’s collarbone. “Is that muscle, or bone?” he asked.
“Nah, man, that’s muscle! That’s traps!”
That’s traps.
Want to know what I think it is? It’s a guy who let his general physical fitness decline for too long, until his latest new year’s resolution. He has recently acquired one (1) overpriced gym membership and one issue of a men’s fitness magazine from the newsstand. I’ll bet the coverlines practically scream: “Get Hard Traps! Get Easy Wimmen!” Dumbass resolutionary.
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Tommy Himself is listening to: "Wamba"from the albumSorobySalif Keita
The best thing about shuffling the songs on the iPod is the possibility that you'll hear the right song at the right time. It happened today while I was on the subway, one I hadn't heard in a while came on, and sounded better than ever: Love Spit Love's "Am I Wrong," from the self-titled record.
Howard's lyrics and guitar work could rip you to shreds. The great Kakophonia weblog has lots of downloads you'll want to hear. And here is one of MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE songs, "Sonny's Burning," by The Birthday Party, featuring the best opening line in the history of recorded music.
On iTunes right now: "The Dangling Man"from the albumJust South of HeavenbyCrime & The City Solution
OK... This is a cool song. The video is EXTREMELY NOT SAFE FOR WORK. You might not even think it's "safe" for home. If you are watching at the library, please clear the computer's cache before leaving the workstation. Girls is from San Fran. Lead singer Christopher Owens grew up as a member of the Children of God cult.
Again, the song is cool. The video either has something for everyone or nothing for anyone.
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Tommy Himself is listening to: "Chicken and Meat" by Das Racist
Here's a cool one from almost 30 years ago. The Modernettes are out of Vancouver, and play it like Ramones vs. Undertones. That's good. The "Teen City" EP is out of print, I believe, but easy to find if you have a Google; plenty of diehard fanboys and -girls have offered it up online.
Enjoy. Download The Modernettes "Celebrity Crackup."
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It's good to get back here after so long. The Sticking Point has been on my mind for months, but I had far too little time to get anything up here that would be worthy of your time. Now I'm ready to hit it again, and hopefully keep things going on a regular sked.
Oh, man, has some stuff happened since the last time I wrote or produced a Pointcast: music fans lost Jay Bennett, Sky Saxon and Michael Jackson died on the same day, Rashied Ali and Les Paul died 24 hours apart. Jim Carroll, one of my biggest inspirations when I was a young boy trying to figure out how writing could help me feel better about things... he's gone, too. Some great music was released, and a ton of crap came out as well; guess which kind we probably heard most often?
The posts will be back, and the Pointcasts will be better: guests, interviews, more music, and more unmitigated snark. Plus, I've got new software that should make it all sound better in your earholes. I can't wait for you to hear the new stuff by Raveonettes, Converge, Mars Volta, Sunn O))) and Julian Casablancas; the reunion release from Os Mutantes, and -- of course -- the mighty Dino Jr.
I'll be back in just a few days with more.
Good news: Congrats to Tilly Derek and Tilly Jamie, who had a baby last night; she's named Willa.
All web site text, as well as the selection and arrangement thereof, and adjunct performances ("Pointcasts") are copyright 2003-2010 by Tommy Himself and The Sticking Point. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Any use of materials on this web site, including reproduction, modification, distribution or republication, without the prior written consent of TSP and Tommy Himself, is strictly prohibited.
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