Mid July and Sunless in California
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The sun’s struggling to break out and shine this late morning. I know the feeling. There are thick clouds between us and the place our light and warmth belong, are enjoyed, needed. Persistence is discovered and practiced on days like this. There’s no giving up when the prize is precious, and its possession so near.
I’m heading to the gym anyway, just to pack on some muscle and display my might.
From the assortment of admirable qualities at my fingertips, I choose prudence to complement persistence in my grasp of the iron and pursuit of might. Without a lot of time or energy to splash around, I must be resourceful in my approach and cunning in my execution of each and every exercise, set and rep.
As a stick can serve to mark a line in the sand, so can it fend off an attacking dog or be leaned upon when weary or fitted with a hook ’n string to catch the evening meal. There’s more to the iron, a bar, a curl and a press than meets the eye. If you know where to look, it’s all there.
I’ll work arms in a common superset fashion (nothing we do in the gym with the iron is common): standing barbell curl supped with lying triceps extension (yeah, you read it right the first time, a novel combination fresh from drawing board) 4 sets x 8-12 reps. Out of this ordinary combination (nothing we do is ordinary either) I shall, by superior multi-muscle focus, exercise-execution finesse, repetition-directional contraction and extension, work the entire body from foot to forehead.
Just watch the Bomber in action. By all means, feel free to encourage.
Who said boring, dismal, amateurish… painful? I think it’s time we had a talk, you and me. Okay, you and I.
A very special book sits at my desk, one I particularly appreciate. At first I said adore but cancelled that in favor of appreciate cuz adore sounded too girly coming from a rugged bomber like me, though the pink hardcover volume is totally and absolutely girl, woman, female, lady and she.
Brand-new, just published and free of dog-eared pages ’n splotches, the title is Sharon Tate: Recollections. And that’s exactly what it is, a dazzling book compiled and written by Sharon’s sister, Debra Tate, and Sharon’s husband, Roman Polanski. Oversized with thick glossy pages, the pictures are abundant and the words are few but choice. Being a deep thinker and studious fellow, it’s my kind of read.
It’s been 45 years since I last saw the sweetheart, her voice ringing out my name above the din of a sleepy late-night LAX terminal. She was enthusiastically happy, one of three 25-year-old girlfriends running to me like I was long lost and terrific, a big puppy maybe. We hugged tightly, gushed like kids, gathered ourselves hastily and were off, she north, me south.
Blink! A blink I’ll never forget.
As I leafed through the pages of Sharon’s life -- Recollections was a gift for me from sister Debra -- I came across us, her and me, Malibu and Harry, somewhere in the middle of it all. There we were playing on the beaches of sunny Southern California in Don’t Make Waves.
Devastating, infuriating, painfully sad, ironic. Yet Sharon Tate: Recollections rises above it all, allowing -- daring and compelling -- truth and beauty to shine, unfiltered or shadowed.
~Sharon Marie Tate, January 24, 1943 - August 9, 1969~
Train hard, be strong, be happy. God Loves us. DPD
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