Editors Note:

EDITOR'S NOTE: Fresh off a three year managerial stint, your friendly neighborhood lenslinger is back on the street and under heavy deadline. As the numbing effects of his self-imposed containment wear off, vexing reflections and pithy epistles are sure to follow...

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Jock Itch by Proxy

According to the suits at El Ocho, our viewers dig 'em some fitness. Why else would they insist I (and other actual reporters) keep turning these Weight Loss Stories? Hey, I'm ALL for exercise; I got a 20 pound shoulder weight I can thrust-squat while backpedaling one-eyed down a courthouse stairwell. But a gym? No thanks; I'd rather climb on my mountain bike and dodge river birches than pedal in place inside one of those thumping temples of spandex. Still, I didn't have alot of choice, as I sampled the funk of fitness emporiums all over the Piedmont. Much of it was drudgery. Brackish light, muddy sound and a few unfortunate unitards made this a series I'll be glad to put to bed. There were, however, two exceptions: Joey Motsay dropped whatever barbell he was lifting when I cold-called him. Days later I was barefoot in his dojo, where he, I and a big ole exercise ball made some half-decent television. Thanks Joey, I'll never ignore another piece of perfectly functioning gym equipment without first thinking of you.

But to be honest, my blood didn't really get pumping until I crashed personal trainer Ivor Buffong's early morning circuit training class. Not since quivering in my own body fluids at Navy boot camp have I witnessed so much legalized torture. And the victims! A guy couldn't ask for a more colorful bunch of gym-rats, none of whom seemed to mind the scruffy cameraman sleepwalking through their workout. That kind of unfettered access makes for good TV and before Ivor's booming taunts stoped echoing in my head, I pounded out a script and edited it with relish (and a few low-carb corndogs). The incredibly cut Brad Jones stepped in the booth to voice my thoughts, draping my picture in his highly defined dulcet tones. The result is a fitness piece even I can live with - though I'm nowhere closer to joining a gym than before. Not when Owl's Roost is just a mile from my house. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put on my sweats and feel the burn. You write every night without breakin' a sweat...


Mal James said...

Great reading Lenslinger , enjoy your words from a normal world

turdpolisher said...

Good stuff, you,ve inspired me to get off my loaf-pincher and get to the gym . . . tomorrow.