These Lifestep machines are a waste of time. The Stairmasters are harder, better for your ass they say, and if there’s one place I need work, well, it’s the stomach, but the ass is a close second. Why do they have the Stairmasters at the other place and not here? Might as well do 24 minutes. They say anything under 20 doesn’t give the heart that good workout; got to get the old ticker thumping. Should’ve brought the Walkman. There’s something wrong with this one; the step is short on the left. Knew there was some reason nobody was on it.
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Not a bad Super Bowl, actually. Wouldn’t want to see it again, though. Key was not expecting it to be a good game. AFC keeps sending those wimpy Bills. Stomp ’em, stomp ’em, and stomp ’em again, harder each time. Couldn’t even make it respectable; kept dropping passes in the end zone. “Next time send us a real football team–if you can find one.” Knew the Cowboys would blow ’em out. Who would’ve thought rooting for the Cowboys and Jimmy Johnson would be tolerable, much less fun? Still, it wasn’t a game one could pay attention to. Just sit back and watch the NFC romp again. On that level, even after it got unwatchable it was still watchable. That Leon Lett, hotdogging it, stripped of the ball at the goal line. Good to see that. That weasel Sterling Sharpe of the Packers did the same thing and away with it when the all right back up into his hands–lucky stiff. Leon Lett, not so lucky. Maybe what happened to him will keep kids a little more honest. Whatever happened to sportsmanship? Hate to sound like such an old fart–especially in my own head–but it’s not right, showboating into the end zone with a 52-17 lead. What’s he thinking? Wish it had meant something–if the Cowboys had trailed by, say, four points at the time. But who am I kidding? The game is meaningless these days; it’s the spectacle, the event that packs the significance. When the contest gets that big, the players are an afterthought; it’s us who are important, really.
League knows it, too. Bringing in Michael Jackson at halftime. Here comes that long boring stretch. The only song he had time to finish was that lame “Heal the World.” Still, take that! In Living Color–no more rebel halftime show for you guys. And forget it Riddick Bowe. Even if they had scheduled that championship bout at halftime, he can’t compete with Michael Jackson. Besides, 2 minutes, 19 seconds, and then what?–30 minutes of ads? Madison Avenue would like that. Bowe can’t compete with Mike Tyson, and he’s in jail. Tyson whips Larry Holmes, and the instant he’s out of the picture the division is overrun with Holmes clones. Where’s the new Tyson? Silly question. Only one like him, and the women of the world thank the gods for that. Tyson now handing out weights at the prison gym. Once in the spotlight of the world, now left alone with his duties and his thoughts. Wimpy workout of my own today. No stamina; should’ve had something to eat. Miss that warm. tingly, inflated feeling in the arms. Maybe some curls after this on the way downstairs.
Cool down. Mop the old brow. Must be getting in better shape–hardly breathing hard at all, and not sweating as much as before. Who’m I kidding? Probably look pretty much the same as now in a year. Still, no guilt after a full workout. Like taking the escalator up the stairs at Washington after doing the Stairmaster. Fully deserved. “No thank you, no exercise for me out in the real world; I got all my exercise in an artificial environment.” All sports artificial, basically. Who needs my more real-life competition? Still, it’s there–all the world a sporting proposition. Must be extra tough for athletes–no separation between real and artificial worlds. Arbitrary games, win or lose, but other people are watching how you move, what you project, what you mean. And if we worried about what we mean?
