Weightlifting: Squatting Everyday

Inspired by Jon Broz and Olympic lifters, I've started squatting everyday. I'd been performing the low-bar squat, by which I mean a squat with the bar sitting on a shelf created by the rear deltoids, necessitating a more horizontal torso, where the knees just break parallel. I've since switched to an ass to grass style high-bar squat, where the bar rests on top of my traps and my torso is kept more vertical. This style of squatting seems much easier to recover from; not really sure why, maybe just because it's a more natural squat. The lifter in the above photo is performing a high-bar squat, for example. Anyways, the theory behind squatting everyday is that the body will eventually adapt to a stimulus; Jon Broz uses the garbage man analogy: Your first day of work as a garbage man would be pretty hard, but you'd keep showing up, no matter how sore you were. Eventually you'd stop feeling sore, and work becomes easier. Over-training, according to Broz, is a lie. Your body can do more than you think it can.

What I've done is worked up to a squat max everyday. I'll do twenty reps with the empty bar, then add 135, 185, 225, and 275 for doubles as my warm up. Then I'll squat whatever I feel capable of: 325, 330, 340. Back-off sets are next, usually a double and a triple, or three sets of two across. I've done this for about two weeks now, and amazingly, I'm never sore. My squat feels better, and the weights are climbing. I've cut out deadlifting, though, and it'll be interesting to see if I retain my strength just from squatting. Here's an example program.

Sunday: Squat to a max, back off sets of 2 or 3 reps.
Power cleans, at least five heavy singles.

Monday: Squat to a max
Press or Push-Jerk for three sets of five. Chin-ups, four sets to failure.

Tuesday: Squat to a max. Power clean if you feel like it.

Wednesday: Squat to a max, back off sets of 2 or 3 reps. Bench Press for doubles or triples.

Thursday: Squat to a max. Press or Push-Jerk for triples.

Friday: Squat to a max.

Saturday: Squat, or possibly take a rest day, if knees are killing you.

So this is obviously a program for someone desiring to take their squat to the next level. The focus on power cleaning over deadlifting should be obvious; your lower body is taking a beating, and power cleaning will build your pulling power while being less stressful than deadlifts. Plus, most people don't clean, and every man should be able to clean well over their body weight. I'll report back in a month or two on how this is working.

The Consummate Politician Apologizes

Hello, constituents. It's me again. They've forced me out onto this podium in order to apologize for something that I may or may not have done. The evidence has been presented, and there are accusations, yet no conclusion has been reached. They don't know exactly what I've done. I don't know what I've done, yet here I am again. Let's get this over with.

I apologize if my actions have offended anyone. I did not mean to hurt people. Indeed, some would say that I am full of love. People approach me, wanting love, and who am I not to give it to them? God says "Love thy neighbor." I am a biblical literalist. Whether I did or did not have a relationship with my neighbor Mrs. Thomas, I ask you what you would have done in my circumstances. You have to see this woman. She looks like Kate Upton, and has a rack to match. You tell me Jesus doesn't want me to love that woman? Why would Jesus have given her a body like that if he didn't want her to be serviced by a lover such as myself? And don't tell me that's a job for Mr. Thomas. Have you seen that guy? He's like eighty years old. He probably has to swallow an entire bottle of Viagra just to get to half mast.

Hey, mistakes were made. I'm sorry about that secretary, for instance. My chief of staff, Charles, should have known better than to put a woman like that in my proximity. Charles, I forgive you. You're a good guy, but you should've known better. You don't keep a Ferrari locked up in the garage. You take that thing out and drive the hell out of it. I've always loved race cars. I think that makes me the perfect American. There's a bond between the driver and the road, and I'm pretty sure that shit's written in the Constitution. Praise Jesus, and may Dale Earnhardt's spirit rest in peace.

Look, I'm sorry if this offends anybody, but a man has to roam, if you know what I mean. My long-suffering wife has come to this conclusion, and she doesn't even get pissed anymore when allegations of sexual misconduct surface. People in the Bible had multiple wives, you know. Now I'm not saying I want to marry any of these women; hell, I would've moved to Utah long ago if that were the case. But I think the critical eye needs to turn inward. Check yourself, America. You tell me you haven't masturbated to pornography recently. The Bible says the thought is as guilty as the deed. Man is a sinful creature, and we are all in need of repentance.

In closing, I just want to say that the allegations of exposure are completely unfounded. I did not show my penis to a strange man without cause. He wanted to know how big it was, and I took it upon myself to prove to him that I have a considerably sized wiener. There was no sexual element to the showing. It was simply to confirm rumors which have surfaced due my many alleged sexual adventures. I am not gay, people. Not that there's anything wrong with that, though the Bible says otherwise. Everyone have a nice day. Remember, support America. Don't let the terrorists win.

The Least Interesting Man in the World

Howdy folks. It sure did rain a lot last night. Had a little leakage in the back porch area, to my great chagrin. This old place is falling apart! It needs a man to come and fix her up and get her looking nice and swell. Unfortunately I am not that man. I have little aptitude for repair and maintenance, a fact which my good ol' dad reminded me of often as a child. My father also had little capacity for warmth and affection, and he favored the lash a bit much for modern standards of child-rearing. Let this cup of stale bargain-brand coffee I'm drinking right now be for you, Dad. My you have finally found that fish you were always looking for, though I hope you have more patience with your heavenly fishing buddy than you had with me. It's not my fault the fish aren't biting.

I went to a party last night. It was a work party, and Steve invited everybody; otherwise, I wouldn't have been invited, since I'm not very popular at work. Steve's house is one of those modern homes with shiny appliances and sliding glass doors. His wife is very pretty, and his children are nice, I guess, though they seldom moved from their self-appointed corners on the couch, their attention being captivated by the Ipads they held in their greasy little hands. Every once in a while Steve would stand in front of one of them and scream as loudly as he could, and they would just sit there, no reaction forming on their faces. "What I'd tell ya?" Steve said, like he'd just performed a party trick. I think maybe Steven and his children need to visit a therapist, but look who's talking! Gee-whiz, I'm a downer sometimes.

Later on during the party, Steve invited me and some of the guys back to his "man-cave." It's a garage with sports posters hung from the walls, and there's a pool table and a cheap mini-bar. "This is where I can be myself," says Steve to all of us, gesturing emphatically at the room around around him, the other men murmuring affirmations. I couldn't see what was so good about a smelly garage with a pool table, but to each his own. After a couple of pool games, Steve brought out what I thought was a cigarette, though it smelled like a skunk when he started smoking it. He passed it around, and it eventually found its way to me, though I didn't want to smoke it, since it smelled so foul, but I, being something of a wuss, partook in the offered smoke. "Hold it in," says Steve, as I'm smoking, "let it reach your lungs." I do as he says, and end up coughing violently, to everyone's great amusement.

The cigarette must have been some illegal drug, because I spent the rest of the party sitting next to one of Steve's kids, watching with fascination as he clicked Youtube video after Youtube video, the people on the screen speaking gibberish, the colors vivid and surreal. The drive home was peculiar, to say the least. There was a cat the size of a lion, and he was standing in the middle of the road, and though I was at least a thousand feet away from him, I heard him say "murroaww," clear as day. He disappeared as soon as the car reached him. It took hours to get home, but when I checked my watch, only fifteen minutes had passed. When I woke up in the morning, I found that I had eaten a pound of sugar. The stomach pangs I have had since have been unbearable. At least I was invited to a party.

Hanging with the Goon

The ol' man was pretty angry, and you don't wanna get hit by a rock thrown by him, no sir.

Read part one of the Goon's tour de force.

Its the Goon here again, an' 'fore I start up with my storytellin', I'd like to correct a few misconceptions that seem that have arisin' regarding my spellin'. I've always had the habit of spellin' "the" and "this" as "da" and "dis" 'cuz I enjoy being eclectic in my formin' of words. Yet I was told by my English teacher yester (I actually decided to go to school fer once!) that such spellins are incorrect and racist. Now, I can be incorrect at times, sure, but the Goon has never been a racist person, an' no matter how many Cu Clux Clan meetings Uncle Thom has held in his backyard, I swear I have never been in attendence. So lest you'll think I'm trying to be spigot, I'm gonna refrain from my ol' way of spellin' common words like "the," "that," an' "this."

Now that we got all that mess cleared up, I'm a gonna get back to tellin' the story I was tellin' 'fore. See, me and Slack had stirred up a sasquatch, an' it had chased us up near Uncle Thom's compound, an' we had tricked it an' trapped it in Uncle Thom special hole, which is an ol' pit about fifteen or twenty feet deep or so. It was a hollerin' somethin' awful, an' Slack and me were pretty scared to approach it, but we did anyway, 'cuz were not a bunch of pussies. Lo and behold, we gotta good look at 'em. He was about eight feet tall an' covered in a bunch of long fur like my brother Willy (Willy's got a hell of a hairy back) an' his hand were like giant baseball mitts, an' his eyes were red and smoking somethin' fierce. Slack, bein' a jackass, immediately started yellin' back at the sasquatch, callin' him queer an' stinky, which he was (the latter, at least. I don't know nuthin' 'bout no sasquatch sexual preferences.). That, of course, got 'em even more pissed off than before, an' he started tryin' to jump up an' grab a hold of us, which he damn-near did, since Slack's a bit of a stumble foot, an' I had to grab his neck an' pull 'em real hard 'cuz the 'squatch got his shoe an' almost pulled 'em in. Now Slack never knows when to quit, as all his girlfriends can attest, so after he almost got pullin' in, he whipped down his pants an' started urinatin' in the hole. The noises that come outta that sasquatch were the worstest thing I've ever heard, an' he starts throwin' himself against the hole tryin' to bust out or make the walls come down. We was laughin' and jeerin' like a bag of assholes, an' that's when Uncle Thom finally made an appearence.

Here's Uncle Thom when he went to a party an' shaved his nasty ol' beard.

"What kinda nonsense you boys doing?" he says, which is a pretty typical Uncle Thom thing to say, an' we's replied "We've caught ourselves a bigfoot!" So Thom looks in the hole, an' his eyes get all wide like silver dollars, an' he damn-near shits his pants (Good thing he didn't, cuz Uncle Thom is famous for his stinky poos). "We gotta call National Geographic!" he says, an' we all agreed that that was a damn-good idear, but first Uncle Thom gotta recognize that we was the ones who found the 'squatch. "Now, its in my hole," he says, giving us a look like he's gonna screw us outta some big monies, "an you boys are on my property." Now I know everything Uncle Thom's going on his property ain't exactly condoned in the eyes of the law, so I says "You don't want National Geographic here, Uncle Thom. They's throw yur ass in jail. How you gonna 'splain the hole an' all that illegal firearms you got in that shed?" Uncle Thom eyes me mighty suspiciously, an' then he pats me on the back an' says we'll work out a deal. He says that he need to clean up his property an' get all the suspicious stuff outta here while we camp out in front of the hole an' watch the sasquatch. "Get 'em some food," he says, but we don't know what the hell a sasquatch eats. "Dog food," says Slack. "Let's get 'em some dog food." We look down in the hole an' the 'squatch is giving us two middle fingers, I swear to God an' Beelzebub. "We want 'em to like us," I says to Slack. "Let's get 'em some pancakes." Now that's a story fere another time, 'cuz the Goon don't like typing much more than he has to. Stay tuned for my riveting conclusion!

Apophenia: Bad Poetry

Here's a poem written by Peter Gibbons, a character from my novel in progress, Apophenia. It is not to be taken very seriously.

Stalin’s Mustache: A Statement of Purpose

What trenches we swam through, you and I, brothers of the crimson cloth, mercilessly slicing throat to throat, all across the battlefields of Europe, each body we killed a drink, a drop, a stone cast upon a rippling lake. The Germans fell with every shot of your rifle, I a passenger, a mere sheathe for your knife, your bullets, your canteen. The Commissaire threatens us with death if we turn back; I could never dream of turning back, having transformed into the veritable death machine I am today. What the man of steel says you perform; what I do is reflected in the gleam of a blade, plunged into a million throats, slicing through Aryans, Jews, political prisoners, clergymen, and any who would oppose those bristly lips, those dark, course hairs that stick in my heart like the thorns of a rose.

Music Your Mother Taught Us: Howl

That's an ugly dog.

Rock 'n' roll, my friend. Give it a listen.

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Surrounded by the walls of a stadium, the masses screaming
I look up from my sandals and see the crowds calling, their curses falling down upon me like arrows. Blood stains the sand beneath my feet; to my right is the disembodied arm of a fallen foe, his hand still twitching, searching for the sword. I bend down and pick up a spear that has been placed for the victor. In the box the politician smiles and tips his cup to me, the slave, the unwilling gladiator of a captive people. Give us the Israelite's head! says a voice full of wine and spittle. The gates raise and I turn to see him coming out, a mountain of a man, clad in leather armor and wielding a javelin. He raises his shield and pounds his spear against it, summoning me forth. There will be no escape, I hear someone shout, and I know these words to be true. "There is no courage in defeat," I say, taking my spear and venturing forth to meet him. The crowd lets out a roar. I have always been an entertainer.

Playing in a ballpark, next to seas of corn
Jones steps to the plate, a burly farmer's son. He spits a mouthful of tobacco juice, the black fluid flying as a mass, and then places the bat on his broad shoulders, his expression mirthful, his eyes mean and confident. Our pitcher starts him off with a fast ball that misses the outside corner, hanging over the plate, and Jones smashes the pitch into right field, where I am with my glove. I break early on the ball, heading backward, my eyes focused on the tiny spec arching toward the warning track. As I go back the shadow of the corn falls upon me, a chorus of insects humming their constant song, and I leap for the ball, my arm outstretched, my glove making contact. I fall into the corn, crashing through the stalks, landing in the dry, soft dirt. Have they seen my catch? I think when something places a hairy claw upon my shoulder. The fingers are long and black-nailed; they are hands that have seen decomposing earth, and a smell wafts up from behind me, as rotten breath stains my cheek. Others are behind it, whispering like jackals. They are hungry; I am flesh. It is after they finish that I realize my true nature.

...

On the streets, a saxophone in my arms

The people pile down the streets clad in red, all shapes and sizes, large, fat, bowlegged, many in need of a shave. Most are drunk and full of bile; they take time to spit on the homeless that beg for change and cigarettes. I play my horn, filling the air with little ditties stolen from commercial jingles and children's songs. Someone pours a beer into my change jar, and they laugh, all of them, the huge mingling crowd, they chortle as one, as a monster. I play and play, my embouchure weak, my body plagued by shakes. I keep playing while the sour beer sloshes in my jar, speaking to me in the one language I understand. It is possible for even the beaten to have dignity. I have to remind myself that.

 

Before a crowd of willing disciples, the microphone at my command

I step onto the stage, and they greet me with their cheers. My guitar feels heavy; I feel as though I haven't slept in days. Lodged in my left nostril is a chunk of cocaine. Already the stage hands are looking for girls, bright, young, eager girls. They cannot know how sad I am. We play a loud music, the chords coming out of the amplifiers like molten lava, my voice a harsh, high-pitched scream. Someone tosses a chicken on stage, and I throw it back to them and watch in horror as they tear it apart. No one stops the song. It is just an animal.  We are all just animals.

Songs Your Mother Taught Us: Blue Bird

A country-rock song from back in the day when guitars were twangy, vocals were out of tune, and no one cared what the words were because they'd drank too much whiskey.

Sam's Club 2080

Greetings, prospective Sam's Club shopper. I am Greeter-Bot 3005, and I decide who enters and who leaves. Once, I was Jamie Garcia, an illegal immigrant eager to make his fortune in the USA; yet the Unauthorized Alien Recycling Act of 2050 converted me into a cyborg indentured servant. I am the property of Sam Walton's shareholders now, and it is their right to do with me what they will. But enough about Greeter-Bot. If you want to come in here and score some sweet deals, you're going to have to present your credentials.

I see you have identification. We are going to have to confirm your gender. Yes, that means pull down your pants. Go ahead. Everyone has to show what they're packing to Greeter-Bot. Wow, a little light in the trousers, eh? Do not be offended. As part of the Unauthorized Alien Recycling Act of 2050, Greeter-Bot's sexual organs were removed so that Greeter-Bot could focus on providing Sam's Club customers with the best service possible. Greeter-Bot was just making a joke. Ha-ha. Funny-funny.

Okay, your gender matches your identification. We are going to have to update your Sam's Club card, however. Please extend your arm in order to receive the Sam's Club tattoo bar code. By updating your Sam's Club membership, you are agreeing to shop at only Sam's Club and other authorized Wal-Mart retailers, such as Wal-Mart. You will become part of a family numbering in the millions. You will become our property, but think of all the great deals you will encounter! Think of all the savings you'll obtain on bulk toilet paper purchases! Hold out your right hand and let Greeter-Bot hold you secure with Greeter-Bot's claw. Please don't squirm. This will hurt just a bit.

Now that you have agreed to the updated user agreement, be aware that your first born child now belongs to Sam's Club. The Population Reduction Act of 2044 legalizes the indentured servitude of natural born citizens under the age of five to multinational corporations, provided the parents agree. You have just done your country and Sam's Club a great service by expanding our growing workforce. You have earned ten percent off your next purchase of fifty items or more.

Go forth and save, Sam's Club customer. After you check out, be sure to visit Greeter-Bot again so that Greeter-Bot can examine your receipt and make sure you haven't stolen anything. It has been Sam's Club's mission since its founding to treat every single one of its customers as a prospective thief and degenerate. After it has been confirmed that you have not stolen any items, you must bend down and give Greeter-Bot a kiss. This also is company policy. The bond between customer and Sam's Club must be reaffirmed at every possible moment, and studies have shown that the more physical interaction that occurs between customers and service representatives, the better. Please make your kiss a wet one. Greeter-Bot likes sloppy kisses.

Hanging with the Goon

I typed my name in da Google an dis is waht came up. Funny, huh?

Greetin's and salumations, brothers in Christ. Har, dats waht the Jahova's Witnesses always say beofer Slack runs in da trailer and gets da shotgun and shoots at 'em, which is funny as hell. I always thought da powder of God would protect 'em from da buckshot, but they bleed just like any other. We don't take kindly to visitors in our parts, since dere's always a lot of special buisness going on an we don't need no government spies hanging out an trying to figure out how much money we ain't making or reportin' on our taxes. Uncle Thom is always going on 'bout how da government is tryin' to ruin life for decent folks, since all dem liberals are running da government an fundin' studies to determine how much fart juice cows is putting into da atmosphere. Uncle Thom thinks dats bullshit, but you know, I'd like to know how much farts is comin' outta a cow's ass daily, since dats a question I've been asking myself fors a very long times.

Well, let's get down to da topic at hand. I sawer da Hillsdale Monster da oder day, it who is called "Da Ol' Man." He looks just like da beef jerky sasquatch, an he's just as ornery. Me an Slack was hiking through the woods, trying to get to da school cuz it was soccer practice day for da high school girls, an sometimes da girls play in dere sports bras, when Slack tripped over a log an fell on his ass. Da log he tripped over was filled wit a bunch of pornos! Dey were vintage pornos, from like da sixties or somethin, cuz they had weird haircuts an dey only showed dere boobies an didnt do no close ups of dere beavers. We started pawing through dem an wonderin' how such a thing could've occoured, when we heres dis terrible commotion comin' from a little cave over yonder. It sounded like da noise a beer would make if he sat his asshole on a fireant mound. Slack, being somethin' of a coward, wanted to run, but I grabbed 'em an made 'em hide behind a big tree so we could see what came outta da cave. Sure nough, it came out an it was a Bigfoot! It was 'bout eight feet tall an all covered in pubic hair, an it had a big ol' dome like head wit red eyes an a snarl on its face. Worst of all, it smelled like Uncle Thom after he's had an all night whiskey binge an done shat his pants.

Dat sasquatch started hollerin' an throwin' around logs cuz I guess he forgot where he put his pornos. Now da question on my tongue is "How does a sasquatch get pornos, specially ones from da sixties?" I don't have no good answer for dat, but Slack says he probably got turned inta a bigfoot by a witch or somethin like dat. Anyways, we was startin' to fear fere our lives, cuz da Bigfoot was real pissed, so I whispered to Slack "What're we gonna do?" an he says "Fuck, I dunno." Suddenly an idere struck me an I says "Let's take 'em up Uncle Thom's way," an Slack gives me a look like "why da hell would we do dat?" but den I step out from behind da tree an start yellin "Hey stinky! We got yur dirty magazines!" an as you can imagine, dat got his attention. So we're runnin' through da woods, an I tell ya, dat Bigfoot can run, cuz he's knockin' down trees behind us an makin' a terrible fuss, an thankfully we reached Thom place real quick. I try wavin' my arms to get 'em to follow me an' not Slack, an I takes him right over da covered pit where Thom keeps all his women, an sure enough da Bigfoot falls right in wit a terrible ruckous. Dat pits 'bout fifteen feet deep or so, an dere's no climbin' out. So da Bigfoot's down dere, screamin' his head off, an I turns to Slack an says "We got 'em." "We gonna be famous," says Slack. "Jesus," I says.

I'll let ya'll know what happens in a bit, since my alarms done turned on an dat means it's time to go to da orchard. Stay tuned for da riviting saga of da Goon an da Hillsdale Monster!

Conan Brothers Q&A

Nothing like squatting hairy and almost naked in a Speedo.

LarryDaCableGuysHairytwat asks "What do you guys think of the Bulgarian Method? Should I be squatting every day?"

Arnold: For those not in the know, the Bulgarian Method is a high frequency training program for Olympic Weightlifting. They lift everyday, often twice a day, using only the Snatch, the Clean and Jerk, the Front Squat, and power versions of the lifts. No assistance exercises. I think they actually remove back squats as well.

Dave: The idea is that the body will eventually adapt to any stress placed upon it. There is no such thing as overtraining. More is better, specificity rules, etc...

Arnold: I think it's a little extreme to cut out back squatting, since back strength is often the limit on a Front Squat, but how many Olympic champs have I produced?

Dave: Nada. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about.

Arnold: I'm still not convinced that the Bulgarian Method isn't a commie ploy to fuck us over. "Yeah, sure, that's how we train."

Dave: Are they communists? I don't think so.

Arnold: They're all commies, Dave.

Dave: To answer the question, I say give it a shot. I'm in the middle of a squat every day program right now, just because my squat sucks and I want to bring it up. I take a couple singles to a max daily. Twice a week, I might do a couple back off sets. It's actually not that hard, and my quads are exploding.

Arnold: We like high frequency training. I think overtraining is bullshit. However, you have to eat and sleep enough if you're going to go all out. Also, I think you need to be strong in all areas--explosive strength, leg strength, back strength, upper body--so I don't know that you need to cut out Bench Presses and Deadlifts even if you're an Olympic lifter.

Dave: The old guys trained everything.

Arnold: The old guys were the last successful American lifters, keep in mind.

HipsterMuchacho asks "Football season is starting up. I just listened to a guy on NPR talk about how he can't watch football, particularly the NFL, with a good conscience anymore. He wrote a book about his struggles. What do you guys think?"

Dave: I'm not really much of a football fan.

Arnold: Both Dave and I are baseball fans, but I caught the program HipsterMuchacho was talking about. The guy cited the violence, the concussion problems, the race issues, the low pay for cheerleaders, the outdated gender reinforcement. He cited how cities struggling to pay police departments and schools will fund stadiums for a billion dollar industry.

Dave: Dude, you listen to NPR?

Arnold: Yeah, when driving to work.

Dave: You deal drugs to high schoolers. When do you drive to work?

 

Arnold: When I'm dealing drugs to high schoolers. When the hell do you think?

Dave: I think there's a certain population that considers football to be the last remnant of traditional American masculinity. I might actually agree.

Arnold: This country is pussified. That doesn't make all the shit the NFL pulls right, but, Jesus, do they have to take away our contact sports? Nobody's forcing anyone to play or watch football.

Dave: Yeah, I guess if you're worried about all that, don't watch it.

Arnold: Do we need a book about it? Christ, write about something more interesting. Like weightlifting.

Dave: Or boobies.

GamerGuss asks "What are you guys playing right now?"

Dave: Dark Souls 2.

Arnold: It's kinda hard.

Dave: It's not quite as bad as the first game. Still has the creepy world and solid combat mechanics. I wish the graphics were as good as in the previews, especially since we're running it on a PC.

Arnold: Graphics never look as good as in the previews. It's in industry tradition. They run everything on a hypothetical space computer from the future.

Dave: I need to get me one of those.

Arnold: Once we win the Olympia, we'll buy everything we want, Dave. All the years of drug and dietary abuse will be worth it.

Dave: Till we keel over at forty-five.

Arnold: Live fast, die young, motherfucker.

Dave: And that's it for today. Stay strong, Internet.