I enjoy going to the gym and keeping in shape, but I’m slightly creeped out by the treadmill space at LPAC: 80 individual aerobic lives lived solely through one-way screens of digital distraction, with the only sound a belt-driven wail of angst sputtering constantly forth from the gray implements of mechanized human exertion. It’s a Giger-esque display of connectionless collective biomechanical activity.
On the plus side, each Tuesday I’ve taken to watching The Biggest Loser.
I wish I could say I’m shocked by the idea of two chicken patties as bread, but I’m really not:
KFC tests out new bunless burger to rave reviews in America’s heartland, Vancouver Sun, Aug. 25
My favorite part is how the Canadian paper made sure to get “America” into the headline as an ever-so-subtle dig at our fatness. Yeah, we’re fat as hell, but what are you going to do about it? Try and fail to buy back an NHL team from our ice-free desert?
(And for the record, this is what I meant by the title.)
When I finish lifting for the day, I always find that I walk around afterwards with my chest out, my shoulders back and my arms hanging down about six inches from my side in this light-on-my-feet stance. This is unconscious, and I’m not even that swoll at the moment. I look around and every other dude is doing this too.
That’s my observation.
