HermTheWorm’s B.L.O.G.

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As you know, or maybe you don’t: on my short walk to the gym I always say "Hiyo f–kin’ silver" as I bound the front door. That is because I am "The Chief", baby.

I always start my workout with abs and say "Hiyo f–kin’ silver" yet again under my breath (at least I hope it’s under my breath as my ipod is on very loud).

Which brings me to yesterday. After I said "Hiyo f–kin’ silver" and was about to do leg lifts, I felt a tap on the shoulder.

Yup, it was my bitch, Ian.

"Didn’t I tell you never to disturb me during sets?" I growled.

"You’re already dithturbed." He said.
"Ian, Leave the unfunny humor to me, okay? What the hell do you want? I mean besides ‘you-know-what’ in the ‘you-know-where?’"

"You thaid ‘Hiyo thilver’. Did you know the Lone Ranger wath gay?"

"Ian," I replied "I think you’re getting him confused with Superman. Flying through the air. Cape, bright red underwear, pantyhose. You’re thinking of superman."

"No" insisted Ian "The Lone Ranger. I thaw it mythelf on Youtube."

"Okay, after this workout I’ll go see for myself. Happy?"

"Yeth" He nodded and adjusted his headband.

I checked. He was right.

But still, he said Hiyo Silver. I say Hiyo f–kin’ silver. They’re entirely different.

Right?

Someone throw me a bone here.

No, not that kind of bone, Ian!

I really abhor putting people on my friends list.

Loathe, detest, despise, just chuck in any pejorative verbiage you want here.

Out of 76 requests, I’ve made 76 people my friends; even the guy who wanted to "touch my strong hard muscles".

I understand.

He was probably surfing this site with his wife and two wholesome children snuggled on the couch watching America’s Funniest Home Videos when he came upon my image (Eeek, poor choice of words). I could understand how a happily married man who is pillar of his community and a deacon in his church could simply and instantaneously lose it, after all, it’s me we’re talking about. Herm the friggin’ Worm. All hail.

It basically reminds me of the scenario of the two hillbillys in Deliverence. They were probably two happily married chaps who never had an impure thought about another man, just ambling along in the woods when…Wham!…They spy Ned Beatty; overcome with lust, they couldn’t help but have him "drop them pants" and make him "squeal like a pig" at gun point.

It happens. Not a biggie.

I understand the effect my physique has on others and can’t blame him for his completely sordid, extremely unappreciated and totally unnecessary and vomitous comment. I added him to my friends list anyway, because that’s the kind of swell guy I am. A beautiful person inside and out. A good egg; down to the yolk.

But still, I hate, and I mean hate, adding people to my friends list.

Why, you ask?

Because they start off as "fans". I’ll look at my bodyspace page and see that I have new "fans".

The only thing better than having fans is having a fan club (note to self–Form a group called: Hermaniacs). Fans. Yeah, I can live with that.

Then comes the crummy part. I have to turn my "fans" into "friends".

Bummer.

Friends schmiends, I want fans! (In an Eddie Murphy as Gumby voice) I want fans, goddamit!

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I don’t love each and every person on my friends list. Not the way the guy who wanted to "touch my strong hard muscles" does, but a different kind of love; the way people love family members, inhabitants of the Ozark mountians notwithstanding.

And then there’s stalkers.

Now that’s what I’m talking ’bout baby!

I want stalkers and plenty of ‘em. I want Santa to put stalkers in my christmas stocking. I want the Easter bunny to put a few in my Easter basket (note to Easter bunny–ease off on the jellybeans and green plastic fluff so that you can fit more stalkers in the basket) and I want the tooth fairy to put a few under my pillow–Hmmm, actually, the tooth fairy being the tooth fairy, he’d probably leave another Ian under my pillow, and one is all I can fend off at the moment. He’s relentless.

Capishe?

Fans! Stalkers! That’s for me! I mean "friends" are fine and dandy, but fans and stalkers? Can’t beat it with a stick.

So there you have it, that is why when I add a "friend" to my list, it is with a heavy heart and a reluctant hand.

Another potential "fan" or better yet "stalker" bites the proverbial dust. Poof. Gone. Outta’ here. Next?

Dang.

Where’s Glenn Close when you need her?

Read the post before this in order for this to make any sense

Sorry guys (and gals), I gots me a bitch.

I was going through my video posts and happened upon this one:

Ian Bernado

It never dawned on me that this guy is from New York!

OMG!

I live in New York!

Bingo, a match made in heaven.

I manged to track Ian down through the internet and cooreced him to come over to my place for an interveiw–which wasn’t very difficult, as I told him we would listen to Babara Streisand CD’s, snack on Quiche Lorraine and rearrange the furniture.

On arrival, I hung up his mink and we got down to brass tacks. We haggled a bit over his fee, but when I agreed to let him give me Patchouli/clove oil rub downs post workout, the deal was sealed.

We shook hands, then put on a little Rick Astley and vouged together.

Granted, he’s not that strong, but he dabs the sweat from my brow ever so gently and is excellent at kicking people off equipment that I want to use: "Lifting? You call that lifting? Get the hell out of here and let Herm become fabulous. Now shoo!"

So, my search concludes with a happy ending.

Actually, Ian suggested a "happy ending" at the end of my work-outs, but I had to draw the line.

Does anyone know where I can hire a good reliable bitch to help me with my workouts? Or do you think I need to find some random person and convert them into my bitch? I looked in the phone book and came up empty-handed.

Let me backtrack a bit.

I think my strength would increase exponentially if I had someone to spot me on movements such as the bench press, military presses and preacher curls; but not squats, as the idea of some fellow standing behind me with his crotch pressed against my bum is not something I relish, and besides, that would make me the bitch, not him.

"Oh Herm, you silly, silly man, what you want is a personal trainer!"

Yeah, right. I want a "personal" trainer like Richard Simmons wants Pamela Anderson. I do not want anyone lecturing me on which exercises to do, in what order to do them and what poundages. I’ve forgotten more about working out then most trainers know, and those few that are more knowledgeable than me? I don’t care to hear their spiel or anything else coming from their pie holes. Odds are anything and everything they have to say will irritate the living bejesus out of me when I’m in the workout mode, and unless it’s forearm day, and I can get some grip strength training in by choking the s–t out of said trainer, then I’m not interested. I have nothing against trainers per se, but it would just be oil and water with me. I know what I want and I know what I have to do, I just want some damn spots. (And don’t be a wise-ass and say: "Oh Herm, you old bastard, don’t you have spots, liver spots, already?")

And also don’t say, "Hermy, Hermy, Hermy, what you need is a workout partner."

Strike two, bubula.

I don’t want to have to spot anyone else between sets. I want to sit or stand there and glare angrily into the blur that is the gym (I take off my contact lenses before work-outs to blot out distractions) and concentrate on my next set. I don’t want to have to stand over some nudnik saying "Okay! Okay! One more! It’s all you, buddy! You got it! One more!". Besides, when the occasional gym person does ask me for a spot and I try to coax a few extra reps out of them, they get uber pissed at me and look at me with a "What are you trying to do, kill me, dude?" expression. So f–k that. No good deed goes unpunished.

I need someone to follow me around the gym in silence, with their head bowed, always walking a respectful two steps behind me. They need to spot me on all movements (except squats, fellas) and wipe the sweat off any equipment I’ve used. They need to refill my water bottle before it is empty. When I need to use something that is already in use, I need them to politely inform the person that "The Great and Masterful One"tm is waiting, and could they please finish up sooner rather than later because Herm does not like to be kept waiting (ADHD). I need them to dab the sweat from my brow when I’m doing cardio. Repeatedly, as needed.

In short, what I need, Is someone to be my bitch. It doesn’t matter if it is a man or a woman, although if it is a woman she has to be very, very physically strong. They will receive the same compensation as the best personal trainer, and, as an added bonus, Get a half dozen black double weight cotton tee shirts enblazened with “Steven Herman’s bitch” on the front in  bold pink script (with sparkles!)–free of charge. I am a Jew, but not a cheap Jew.

So there you have it.

There’s an old expression “Good help is so hard to find.” In my opinion, so is a good bitch.

Any takers out there? (No double entendre intended!)

I read this a long time ago and thought it was an excellent anecdote.

This story has occasionally surfaced in the back of my mind from time to time, but I never really "walked the walk" (…Or limped the limp after leg day). I’m living it now, for the first time in my life.

So, without any further adieu–Jeezus, did I just write that? What a lame-o expression–here’s "The Secret of How to be a Bodybuilder". I didn’t cut and paste, so I’m paraphrasing this from memory:

Once upon a time, an adolescent boy saw a Mister America contestant walking along the beach. The young man approached the bodybuilder and told him how much he admired the man’s physique and that he, too, wanted a body like that.

"What is the secret?" Asked the young man.

"Well," Said the bodybuilder "meet me here tomorrow morning at 6 AM sharp, and I will give you ‘The Secret’."

The next morning at 6 AM sharp, both he and the bodybuilder met.

"Are you going to give me the secret?" Asked the young man eagerly.

"Yes, but first we need to get into the water." Replied the bodybuilder; and they both waded into the ocean.

The Bodybuilder motioned to the boy.

"A little further out."  He said, and they swam out into deeper water.

"Even further" said the bodybuilder, and they swam out deeper still.

The bodybuilder swam over to the boy and proceeded to hold him under the water. The seconds passed, and the boy struggled with all his might to get to the surface. The bodybuilder’s grip was like iron, as he continued to hold the lad under the water. Just when it seemed the youngster would lose consciousness, the bodybuilder let him to the surface. Soon, they were back on the shore. The youth was panting and his chest was heaving.

"Remember, when I was holding you under the water? Remember how badly you wanted air?" Said the bodybuilder "That’s the secret. That’s how bad you gotta’ want it."

No one knows if the young man went on to Mister Olympia fame or trudged home with his tail between his legs muttering "F–k this s–t, maybe I’ll take up volleyball."

But one thing was sure. He knew "The Secret".

Original lyrics:

It’s the most wonderful time of the year
There’ll be much mistletoeing
And hearts will be glowing
When loved ones are near
It’s the most wonderful time of the year

Herm’s Lyrics:

It’s the most wonderful time of the year
All the newbies are quitting
Their asses, doors won’t be hitting
the coast is now clear
It’s the most wonderful time of the year

(Wow, that was pretty filth’-free, considering some of the numbers that I’ve come up with through the years.)

High five, baby. Let’s hear it for late February. Huzzah!

Yup, folks, it’s that time of year; when all the losers and schmoozers who’ve made it their New Year’s resolution to get "toned" ("toned". Pfffft. I got something you can tone right here) for 2009 start dropping like flies. Good bye. So long. Happy landing. Arriva-effen’-derce. See ya’, wouldn’t want to be ya’!

My gym is way too crowded as it is now, chuck full of frat boys and fat boys, tatooed pierced 140 pound side-show oddities, chicks running around with more cleavage than brains and less clothes than gym etiquette (very little indeed) and my very least favoritest gym entities of all–and you know damn well what I’m talking about–those buff water bottles and cell phones; Lord, are they ever prima donnas!

This happens to me a least once a week: Someone will leave their cell phone or water bottle on a bench in a very crowded gym while I’m waiting to use a piece of equipment. I’ll wait 30 seconds, a minute, etc…Finally, I’ll have to take off my f–king headphones, break into their all important conversation and ask "Excuse me, would you mind terribly if I could work in a few sets with your cell phone?".

Well, luckily, by the grace of God, their ranks are beginning to thin out by this time of year; not as much as I’d like, mind you, but Rome wasn’t build in a day. Baby steps, right?

Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries? You can have them. For me, this is the most wonderful time of the year. Oh, and if you’re one of those "charmers" who leave their cell phones on a piece of equipment at my gym, and you’re reading this, and if I drop a 70 pound dumb bell on said cell phone and smash it to smithereens, it was an accident. Honest injun’. "The Chief" would not lie to you (I have my fingers crossed behind my back).

And what’s that time?

It’s time to get ill!

So what’s that time?

It’s time to get ill!

It’s time to get ill by the Beastie Boys really gets me going in the gym. I mean, duh, the title speaks for itself. And besides having samples from the old TV shows Green Acres and Mister Ed, it also has the line “I got more rhymes than Phyllis Diller.” Wow, I never even knew Phyllis Diller did rap. You learn something new every day.

Conversely, if you’re the type of gym person (and I use the term “gym person” very loosley here) who goes to the gym and thinks to themself  “Now what’s that time? It’s time to get on the stairmaster and talk on the cell phone!” or “Now what’s that time? It’s time to get on one of those silly plastic ball thingies and do flies with 5 pound weights!” Then this cut is definately not for you. But, if you’re like The Worm, and work out until blood flows from your ears (I’ve ruined many a pair of headphones this way), then you should download this cut as soon as possible, because, judging from my watch, it looks like it’s time to get ill.

As usual, it was a pleasure hearing from me. Thank me very much.

I cannot work out without my ipod.

No exaggeration.

A lot of the stuff I listen to is Jock rock/adrenaline/motivtional madness mixed (by yours truly) with soundbites of Legends of the NFL, George Patton, Billy Martin, Duke Nukem, etc. etc. etc.

And down the line, if anyone wants me to e-mail them an MP3 or two, I will be more than happy to send. My e-mail address for all things physical fitness–that would be anything re: this site is: wonderfuljew222@live.com. I only check that site like once a week, so if I don’t get back to you in 5 seconds don’t have a cow. My best stuff is for motivating coming back and not giving up on yourself.

That being said, I’d like to use this blog to share little gems I have found on itunes that you can simply download for your workout(s).

Not being a young whippersnapper (and proud of it) I have a deeper well to draw from, as I go back many decades in my exposure to all sorts of music.

So here it is…My latest little gem… I’m in love. <3.

"Give it whatcha got" by the B.T. Express

For some annoying reason, if you do a search for "Give it whatcha got" on the itunes it won’t pop up (aren’t there pills to help you when things don’t "pop up"?) so instead, do a search for the group: B.T. Express and it’ll be there.

(I used to have a girlfriend I called "The B.T. Express" because she had big…Well…It rhymes with zits).

I was listening to this while doing heavy curls yesterday and my friggin’ arms were thisclose to falling off. Luckily, it didn’t happen, or I’d have to walk around looking like Venus de Milo; which would be a tragedy, because, I’m already trying to transform myself into a diety of another sort. Of course you know I’m talking about the notorious Irving Sexbaum: the Jewish God of Love.

So seriously, if you lift, go to itunes and download this little ditty for a whopping .99 cents. This is the first of many, as the name "Ear Candy Part I" indicates.

I wish I had a nickel for every time I got to the gym, found out that I had left this product at home, prosponed my workout and went back home to get this little handy dandy thinga-ma-jig.

It’s called The Sport’s Inhaler and you can order it here: http://www.sportsinhaler.com/. (cut and paste)

This little cylinder the size of a lipstick case or Chapstick tube contains a potent peppermint/menthol scent that you stick up your nose (yes, up your snoz) and inhale prior to doing a heavy set. It works especially well before sets of major heavy-duty lifts such as deadlifts, squats or heavy benches; but it pretty much works for everything–even a few quick stiffs before you get on the old stairmaster or treadmill.

It’s 100% natural and 100% safe and very, very inexpensive (buy three or four if you’re like me and always lose things). This product is the main reason that I do not own any sweatpants without pockets!

It’s also good for those times when you hit that wall between sets, you know, those rare times where you look heavenward and say "Oh lord, why oh why do I put myself through this?". One deep sniff up each nostril and you’re chuck full of wim and wigger (that’s my silly way of saying "vim and vigor"), chomping at the proverbial bit, as they say (whoever "they" are).

I am not a spokesman for this product or any other product(s) I endorse on this blog–although hopefully after this spring I’ll get offers, and plenty of’em, by gum.

So try it. It’s cheap, it’s natural, it’s effective and it will give your workouts that little extra, especially, as I mentioned earlier, on heavy lifting days.

And if you come off looking like Dennis Hopper in that scene from Blue Velvet (Bear with me, folks, I’m prone to make obscure pop culture references), such is the price one must pay in the pursuit of awesomeness.

Smells like motivation to me,

Steven "The Nose" Herman

Okay, everybody, you’ve been hounding me and hounding me about this (actually, nobody has).

So here it is: My Blog (Expects raucous applause, hears crickets chirping).

Incidentally, is it just me, or does “blog” sound like something that pirates drink?

I’m going to use this blog to share my “secrets” of keeping youthful and fit–and yes, there are secrets–and also to vent my spleen about various things that tick me off, that’s secret number one right there. It’s not good for your muscles (catabolic) or appearance in general if you keep stuff bottled up. I don’t advocate going around punching out everyone that annoys you–albeit, there are those who, lord knows, deserve it–but sometimes it comes in handy in the gym when you’re trying to grind out those last few agonizing reps to tap into that “stuff”.

Often, I’ll go to the gym in a less than stellar frame of mind and leave wanting to put flowers in my hair, convert to a Hare Krishna and have a soulful, compassionate conversation with the nearest tree, however, residing in Manhattan, a parking meter usually has to suffice.

Maybe I’ll post a picture of that. On second thought, maybe not.

On those occasions when my spleen needs a little extra ventage, I will use this blog as an alternate venue.

Subsequently, if you’re one of those 100% positive people who are happy 24/7, then more power to you, and, this blog is definitely not for you. Obviously, you’re trying to fool the world, you are completely and blissfully insane or your meds are working out peachy keen.

Perhaps, even, an amalgam of the three.

Mozal Tov, you should live and be well.

As for the rest of you, here are my ramblings, but mostly my tips on staying youthful and fit. I have a problem with people who tell me I have good “genetics” (that is, if you define problem as wanting to choke the living bejesus out of someone). Genetics shmenetics*. There are a lot of things you can put in you and on you to help you achieve–or at least get close to–the look you desire.

Am I a “know it all”?

Hell yeah. You want to be a “know it all”, do it on your own blog. Harumph.

In closing, I hope this sets the tone and timbre of this blog. I’m going to be sharing goodies, links, nutrition tips, scams and scammers and, If you haven’t noticed already, my very bent sense of humor (I know a lot of people who take themselves too seriously and don’t take their workouts seriously enough, I am the opposite), but I’m also “bent” on sharing what I know about health, fitness and youth extension; and guys if you’re interested in an “extension” of another sort, there are many pop-up (no pun intended) windows all over the internet for that, you won’t find it here.

* Often when many Jews, and I am one of them, want to disparage something, they will take that word and put a “schm” in front of it. I.E. “Do you like big boobs?” “Boobs, schmoobs, I’m a leg man.” You get the picture. I don’t actually have a picture but, picture schmicture, I have words.

That’s all for now,

Herm Shmrerm

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