Sympathy for the syringe.

I feel a slight bit of empathy for Barry Bonds, now. Not because I think he's right, on the other hand, I still find it hilarious that he still denies bathing himself in toxic concoctions, and he's just naturally becoming like the roont children from Wolves of the Calla or the Mr. Hyde version of Tweety Bird.

But I can completely understand why someone would turn to juice. I started lifting last week. Part of it was just for a change, but mostly because I sadly needed exercise in my life. I once bitched two years ago that I was a fat slob when I reached 180. Well, I was approaching the double-century mark last month. I had also settled into an all-processed diet, replete with consistent frozen burritos. In terms of self-loathing manifestations, this is not quite tongue bifurcation but way beyond dressing like Fred Durst if you're over 16.

So, I've been hitting the weights. I still use the plural, even though I'm straining at levels Minnie Mouse could handle. And I see the point in hitting that needle, the same I wish I could take a pill that would make me play the guitar like Eddie Van Halen, as long as I didn't LOOK or ACT like Eddie NOW, sweet crap, man, even Gary Cherone's laughing at you now.

I will say that I'm enjoying the unaccustomed consistent exercise. I hope I'm still enjoying it when I fail to warm up properly and end up shooting my vertebrae out of my corn-chute.