cardio: 10 mins (figuring out the) jumprope, 10 mins (remembering how to use the) Wii Fit
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: leftover vegetable pie, an apple, vitamins
lunch: dry salami, maple yogurt (Australian-style), beans on toast, bread and cheese
apartment clean?: passably
I must be quick, since I'm rushing out to go see Performing Diaspora at CounterPulse. Quick updates:
1) I was wrong. Old school protest can have significant effects -- if the protestors are willing to step out of their comfort zones. They have, and the media is paying attention.
2) The jumprope workout will work perfectly, I think, and since it is a bit more intense than the cardiomachines, I can unguiltily bolster it with some Wii Fit stuff, which means I'll get to start reporting back here on my weight and BMI and such (didn't get a chance to write it down today, but the cute little computerized voice made fun of me for not having reported back in months, then called me overweight). This will make it much easier to balance fitness and dissertation. Three weeks and counting -- woot.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Day 11: Mr. Roper
cardiomachine: 20 mins leakybeaky, 15 mins ellipsis
(read James Joyce's Ulysses)
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: one eggs, beans on toast because I wish I were British, an apple, vitamins
lunch: dry salami, maple yogurt (Australian-style), cold cauliflower soup (Ara's mom's recipe), a few brussels sprouts
apartment clean?: reasonably
Last weekend we saw DV8's To Be Straight With You at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, and it was one of those rare pieces of art that was both politically effective and artistically virtuosic. Not least because of a monologue, made up of text from an interview with a young Caribbean homosexual whose father stabbed him when he came out of the closet, a monologue which a dancer performed while performing Olympic-level feats -- with a jumprope.
A fucking JUMPROPE.
Keith (see yesterday's post), who is friends with that dancer, and told me that the dancer had once been a competitive jumproper, and that the director just decided that he'd have his performers use what they know. Keith said, "You know, they say that ten minutes with a jumprope is as intense a workout as a thirty-minute run." The Jump Rope Institute (yup) confirms that this is true (click here). Of course, I could never jog because the impact is bad for my bad arches, and so, the elliptical and exercise bike are my albatrosses.
Cut to me in the stretch room at the gym today. One of the biggest difficulties in this new fitness plan is simply getting to the gym -- when I need all the time I can to deal with pressing dissertation deadlines, and plays that just won't get written, an unnecessary trip away from the home office fucking sucks. And I hear this Indiana Jones whoop-crack sound and I look up from my downward-facing-dog and see, again,
a fucking JUMPROPE.
One of the other things I hate about the gym is how laws of probability necessitate that most of the people at the gym on any given day will be people who go to the gym regularly. Fucking in-shape undergrads walking around in muscle shirts while I grunt through my paltry twenty pushups don't you judge me. And one of those very fit undergrads was right there, jumproping.
And it was so cool. Criss-cross, double spins, or whatever the hell, superfast, I just watched in awe for a second, which was embarrassing, and besides, at the gym, you're not supposed to look directly at anyone, which is another reason why I hate it.
And another thing I hate about the gym is the elliptical, because all that work doesn't go anywhere, because elliptical-walking is neither a transferable nor an impressive skill. But jumproping, as we have seen, is. And if I do that frequently enough, I could have something neat to whip out at parties.
So I bought a jumprope. Weighted handles, for my fitness enjoyment. And now, two days out of my weekly four, I can get my cardio in without going all the way to the gym. The foot impact, which is light if you're doing it right, shouldn't be a problem for my feet. In fact, I think it might make me lighter on my feet.
Oddly, I just realized that the dance piece we saw at Yerba Buena the week before that had a major section that mimed a jumprope, which we discussed at some length in the car on the way home. THE FATES HAVE TOLD ME TO JUMPROPE.
(read James Joyce's Ulysses)
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: one eggs, beans on toast because I wish I were British, an apple, vitamins
lunch: dry salami, maple yogurt (Australian-style), cold cauliflower soup (Ara's mom's recipe), a few brussels sprouts
apartment clean?: reasonably
Last weekend we saw DV8's To Be Straight With You at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, and it was one of those rare pieces of art that was both politically effective and artistically virtuosic. Not least because of a monologue, made up of text from an interview with a young Caribbean homosexual whose father stabbed him when he came out of the closet, a monologue which a dancer performed while performing Olympic-level feats -- with a jumprope.
A fucking JUMPROPE.
Keith (see yesterday's post), who is friends with that dancer, and told me that the dancer had once been a competitive jumproper, and that the director just decided that he'd have his performers use what they know. Keith said, "You know, they say that ten minutes with a jumprope is as intense a workout as a thirty-minute run." The Jump Rope Institute (yup) confirms that this is true (click here). Of course, I could never jog because the impact is bad for my bad arches, and so, the elliptical and exercise bike are my albatrosses.
Cut to me in the stretch room at the gym today. One of the biggest difficulties in this new fitness plan is simply getting to the gym -- when I need all the time I can to deal with pressing dissertation deadlines, and plays that just won't get written, an unnecessary trip away from the home office fucking sucks. And I hear this Indiana Jones whoop-crack sound and I look up from my downward-facing-dog and see, again,
a fucking JUMPROPE.
One of the other things I hate about the gym is how laws of probability necessitate that most of the people at the gym on any given day will be people who go to the gym regularly. Fucking in-shape undergrads walking around in muscle shirts while I grunt through my paltry twenty pushups don't you judge me. And one of those very fit undergrads was right there, jumproping.
And it was so cool. Criss-cross, double spins, or whatever the hell, superfast, I just watched in awe for a second, which was embarrassing, and besides, at the gym, you're not supposed to look directly at anyone, which is another reason why I hate it.
And another thing I hate about the gym is the elliptical, because all that work doesn't go anywhere, because elliptical-walking is neither a transferable nor an impressive skill. But jumproping, as we have seen, is. And if I do that frequently enough, I could have something neat to whip out at parties.
So I bought a jumprope. Weighted handles, for my fitness enjoyment. And now, two days out of my weekly four, I can get my cardio in without going all the way to the gym. The foot impact, which is light if you're doing it right, shouldn't be a problem for my feet. In fact, I think it might make me lighter on my feet.
Oddly, I just realized that the dance piece we saw at Yerba Buena the week before that had a major section that mimed a jumprope, which we discussed at some length in the car on the way home. THE FATES HAVE TOLD ME TO JUMPROPE.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Day 10: Everybody's Fight
cardiomachine: 20 mins psychbike, 15 mins ellipsicle
(William Tydeman's The Medieval European Stage, 500-1550)
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: two eggs, potatoes and toast at Ann's Soup Kitchen, vitamins
lunch: root vegetable tostada from Tacubaya in West Berkeley (compliments of my lovely wife)
apartment clean?: certainly
Ann's Soup Kitchen has a 15% discount for anyone wearing UC Berkeley gear. Before I stepped up to the counter, I quickly grabbed my Cal gym shorts from out of my bag and put them on over my jeans -- the cashier told me that the discount only applies on Fridays, but that, yes, the shorts would have counted.
On the way from Ann's to the gym, I bumped into a former student of mine. She asked if I was going to the rally. We spoke for a few seconds, I awkwardly said "Well, I'm not teaching this year, so I've got nothing to strike from... it isn't my fight, I guess," then she went to the rally, and I to the gym.
Later on, I sent her this email:
"It was nice to run into you today -- just to let you know, I did end up attending the end of the rally, and marched through the streets of Berkeley in the protest. Two minutes after we spoke on Bancroft, I realized that I had actually said the words 'this isn't my fight,' which is untrue anyway, especially because any fight, anywhere, that affects access to education is a fight I shohuld consider 'mine.' I
don't agree with everything that the protestors were saying, but I reminded myself that marching in solidarity is not the same as marching in lockstep, and that an imperfect gesture is still sometimes better than no gesture at all. So, thanks for reminding me, if only accidentally, of what my priorities are."
My voice is hoarse from the chant-yelling (when I do such things, I do them right, and yes, I did get on the mike for the giant speaker system so that I could rustle up the crowd); my favorite part was when we marched outside Berkeley High and did a special cheer just for them:
This is everybody's fight!
Berkeley High is hella tight!
As usual, the Berkeley protesters have offered up a massive prix fixe spread of broadly-defined and often half-baked demands and philosophies; I prefer to order a la carte. At the march, between the deafening calls and responses, I discussed with Keith (from Performance Studies at UC Davis) all of the points I complained about in yesterday's post, particularly because Keith's thesis is on a relevant topic. Keith shrugged after a while and said, "Yeah. It's hard to be smart at a protest." I said, "Exactly. Exactly." And we marched on, in solidarity but by no means in lockstep.
(William Tydeman's The Medieval European Stage, 500-1550)
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: two eggs, potatoes and toast at Ann's Soup Kitchen, vitamins
lunch: root vegetable tostada from Tacubaya in West Berkeley (compliments of my lovely wife)
apartment clean?: certainly
Ann's Soup Kitchen has a 15% discount for anyone wearing UC Berkeley gear. Before I stepped up to the counter, I quickly grabbed my Cal gym shorts from out of my bag and put them on over my jeans -- the cashier told me that the discount only applies on Fridays, but that, yes, the shorts would have counted.
On the way from Ann's to the gym, I bumped into a former student of mine. She asked if I was going to the rally. We spoke for a few seconds, I awkwardly said "Well, I'm not teaching this year, so I've got nothing to strike from... it isn't my fight, I guess," then she went to the rally, and I to the gym.
Later on, I sent her this email:
"It was nice to run into you today -- just to let you know, I did end up attending the end of the rally, and marched through the streets of Berkeley in the protest. Two minutes after we spoke on Bancroft, I realized that I had actually said the words 'this isn't my fight,' which is untrue anyway, especially because any fight, anywhere, that affects access to education is a fight I shohuld consider 'mine.' I
don't agree with everything that the protestors were saying, but I reminded myself that marching in solidarity is not the same as marching in lockstep, and that an imperfect gesture is still sometimes better than no gesture at all. So, thanks for reminding me, if only accidentally, of what my priorities are."
My voice is hoarse from the chant-yelling (when I do such things, I do them right, and yes, I did get on the mike for the giant speaker system so that I could rustle up the crowd); my favorite part was when we marched outside Berkeley High and did a special cheer just for them:
This is everybody's fight!
Berkeley High is hella tight!
As usual, the Berkeley protesters have offered up a massive prix fixe spread of broadly-defined and often half-baked demands and philosophies; I prefer to order a la carte. At the march, between the deafening calls and responses, I discussed with Keith (from Performance Studies at UC Davis) all of the points I complained about in yesterday's post, particularly because Keith's thesis is on a relevant topic. Keith shrugged after a while and said, "Yeah. It's hard to be smart at a protest." I said, "Exactly. Exactly." And we marched on, in solidarity but by no means in lockstep.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Day 9: Stupor Mario
cardiomachine: 20 mins excitebike, 15 mins ellipsical
(William Tydeman's The Medieval European Stage, 500-1550)
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: top sirloin, one egg, half Ara's apple, vitamins
lunch: Musical Offering Cafe -- lentil vegetable soup, salad, bread
apartment clean?: particularly
There comes a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't take part, you can't even passively take part, well, not for three days, but then it's of course back to business as usual. And while putting your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus, would make the machine stop, it would also result in hurt feelings all around, and potential physical injury -- and so, the owners of the machine have kindly cordoned off a specific time and place in a "free speech zone" that will keep protestors away from the dangerous gears. And in that zone, when you use your safe, inoffensive, glib, and generalized chants and signs to protest the machine, you've got to indicate to the people who run it, the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine could theoretically be prevented from working at all, if it ever came to that, though of course it will not.
Seriously: exactly what member of senior management ever shook in his boots for a strike that had a predetermined end date? With all due respect, I am glad I am not teaching this year -- because, though solidarity would compel me to cancel my classes in honor of the strike, I would do it grudgingly. (I hope that going to the library and gym doesn't count as crossing the picket line.) This kind of nonsense is more of the typical snakeoil that makes a continually abused body of students, educators, and staff feel like "well, at least I'm doing something."
Either strike or don't; no real strike could be as safe and pleasant as this one is promising to be. I wonder what Mario Savio would say.
Today, I broke my promise to myself that I would not read any emails at all related to the budget crisis. And it cost me work hours on my dissertation -- what could have been time spent in a worthwhile and relevant scholarly pursuit was instead squandered on an endless, facile, discourse. Which is exactly why I made the promise to myself. And I will not break it again.
But I kept the promise that counts -- and I think I took out my frustration on the exercise bike.
(William Tydeman's The Medieval European Stage, 500-1550)
stretching: yes
pushups: twenty
crunches: thirty
breakfast: top sirloin, one egg, half Ara's apple, vitamins
lunch: Musical Offering Cafe -- lentil vegetable soup, salad, bread
apartment clean?: particularly
There comes a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't take part, you can't even passively take part, well, not for three days, but then it's of course back to business as usual. And while putting your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus, would make the machine stop, it would also result in hurt feelings all around, and potential physical injury -- and so, the owners of the machine have kindly cordoned off a specific time and place in a "free speech zone" that will keep protestors away from the dangerous gears. And in that zone, when you use your safe, inoffensive, glib, and generalized chants and signs to protest the machine, you've got to indicate to the people who run it, the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine could theoretically be prevented from working at all, if it ever came to that, though of course it will not.
Seriously: exactly what member of senior management ever shook in his boots for a strike that had a predetermined end date? With all due respect, I am glad I am not teaching this year -- because, though solidarity would compel me to cancel my classes in honor of the strike, I would do it grudgingly. (I hope that going to the library and gym doesn't count as crossing the picket line.) This kind of nonsense is more of the typical snakeoil that makes a continually abused body of students, educators, and staff feel like "well, at least I'm doing something."
Either strike or don't; no real strike could be as safe and pleasant as this one is promising to be. I wonder what Mario Savio would say.
Today, I broke my promise to myself that I would not read any emails at all related to the budget crisis. And it cost me work hours on my dissertation -- what could have been time spent in a worthwhile and relevant scholarly pursuit was instead squandered on an endless, facile, discourse. Which is exactly why I made the promise to myself. And I will not break it again.
But I kept the promise that counts -- and I think I took out my frustration on the exercise bike.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)