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Paul Solotaroff has a terrific piece on the original Gold’s Gym and the rise of bodybuilding in the latest issue of Men’s Journal:

Muscle, in all its meanings, is such a deeply American trope that it feels like part of our national narrative. We’ve made strength the flag of our exceptionalism and believe, however vainly, that our might will prevail in any test of wills against our foes. We’ve even found a way to monetize muscle, building an industrial complex of health clubs and home gyms and their hugely lucrative sideline: nutritional supplements. Thirty years ago, men stopped at a bar for a cold one after work; now those bars are Ballys and Crunches, and the person sweating beside you is as likely to be a woman as the guy who used to buy the second round. Most of them aren’t there to build contest-quality mass or prepare for strongman shows; they go in pursuit of fitness, which is strength by another name — muscle fit for stock traders and internet geeks.

But if you were born anytime after the release of Conan the Barbarian in 1982, it may shock you to learn that as late as the 1970s, Americans were repelled by the sight of brawn. “I’d go to the beach, and they’d give me the wolf whistle, guys on a blanket wanting to fight,” says Eddie Giuliani, the 1974 Mr. America (short division) and one of the early legends at Gold’s. “Nobody liked guys with the lumps back then. They thought we were all morons and fairies.” George Butler, codirector of Pumping Iron — the landmark documentary that made a rock star of Schwarzenegger and almost single-handedly changed America’s view of well-built men — says, “I always liked to walk behind Arnold in the street so I could check out people’s reactions as we passed. They’d point at him and sneer: ‘God, look at that fucking freak. What a clown.’”

Gold’s Gym didn’t blow that bias away the day it opened for business in 1965. But in less than a decade, it became the Athens of muscle, the cradle of a full-blown body culture and the place where the gods of iron inspired millions. Everything we have now, from moonshot-hitting shortstops to film stars busting out of their bandoliers, began in that no-frills bunker by the beach. Joe Gold, the ornery seaman who built the place and has since been largely forgotten, had a lot of timely help from other people, not least of them Butler, whose charismatic film spread the Gospel of Huge to a scrawny nation. None of that would have happened, though, without Gold’s vision. He made a space where titans congregated.

Solotaroff also wrote a book about this subculture, “The Body Shop: Parties, Pills, and Pumping Iron–Or, My Life in the Age of Muscle.”

You can read an excerpt over at Deadspin.

Here’s another, from Men’s Journal:

It was the fall of 1975, and I was having such a rough go of it that even my hair was depressed. Styled on David Bowie of Aladdin Sane vintage, it was long in back and purportedly spiked on top, but drooped like Three Dog Night in a two-day downpour. I stood 6-foot-1, weighed 150 pounds, and hadn’t been laid since Nixon’s reelection, making me, like George McGovern, a landslide loser. At the ripe age of 20, I had a mad crush on Ginger from Gilligan’s Island and organized my day around the 4 pm reruns. I had plenty of time to watch, having dropped out of college and been fired from a series of flathead jobs, including two at which I actually volunteered.

And so that January, I did what middle-class kids do when life gets bored of beating them senseless — ran, hat in hand, back to college. Though the State University at Stony Brook billed itself as the “Berkeley of the East,” it was fairer, I think, to call it the “McNeese State of the North,” a school whose students were mostly interested in cars and picking up overtime at Sears. To walk the length of my residence hall was to know both the joys of a fierce contact high and the canon of Gregg and Duane Allman.

With the exception of mine, the one door on the hall kept closed belonged to a tall blond kid with big muscles. Actually, big doesn’t begin to give a sense of the guy. The first time I saw Mark, he was leaving the john, wearing a towel so small it gaped at the hip and thigh. He had cannonball shoulders that looked carved from brass — burnished arcs at the top of his arms that flowed into half-moon biceps. His chest was a slab of T-squared boxes, beneath which knelt columns of raised abdominals that bunched and torqued as he moved. I turned around, slack-jawed, and watched him go; it took all my self-control not to applaud.

[Photograph of Paul Solotaroff by Jim Herrington]

Chad Jennings on Michael Pineda’s first outing as a Yankee.

[Photo Credit: Corey Sipkin/ New York Daily News]

Over at Grantland, Charlie Pierce takes on the NFL:

Think of all the illusions about the National Football League that the revelations of a bounty program in New Orleans shatter. Think of all the silly pretensions those revelations deflate. The preposterous prayer circles at midfield. The weepy tinpot patriotism of the flyovers and the martial music. The dime-store Americanism that’s draped on anything that moves. The suffocating corporate miasma that attends everything the league does — from the groaning buffet tables at the Super Bowl to the Queegish fascination with headbands and sock lengths while teams are paying “bounties” to tee up the stars of your game so they don’t get to play anymore. What we have here now is the face of organized savagery, plain and simple, and no amount of commercials showing happy kids cavorting with your dinged-up superstars can ameliorate any of that.

Which is why Roger Goodell is going to land on the Saints, and on their coaches, as hard as he possibly can. It’s not so much that they allegedly paid players to injure other players. That’s just the public-relations side of the punishment to come. Goodell can see the day when one of these idiotic bounty programs gets somebody horribly maimed or even killed, and he can see even more clearly the limitless vista of lawsuits that would proceed from such an event. But what the Saints will truly be punished for is the unpardonable crime of ripping aside the veil. For years, sensitive people in and out of my business drew a bright moral line between boxing and football. Boxing, they said, gently stroking their personal ethical code as if they were petting a cat, is a sport where the athletes are deliberately trying to injure each other. On the other hand, football is a violent sport wherein crippling injuries are merely an inevitable byproduct of the game. I always admired their ability to make so measured — and so cosmetic — a moral judgment. This was how those sensitive people justified condemning boxing while celebrating football, and, I suspect, how many of them managed to sleep at night after doing so.

Fine column.

[Photo via Painting Canvas]

Our old pal Diane Firstman weighs in on Robin Ventura over at ESPN’s Sweet Spot blog. Don’t miss it.

I saw a wonderful documentary over the weekend.

Just see it.

Here’s Buck on Letterman:

Manohla Dargis reviewed the movie last summer in the Times:

Working with the cinematographers Guy Mossman and Luke Geissbühler, and shooting in digital that I often wished were film (the big-sky landscapes deserve a more nuanced texture), she tags after Mr. Brannaman, well, kind of as his trained horses do. That isn’t a bad thing. He and all the pretty horses make for mesmerizing viewing, especially when he’s quieting colts (he calls them babies) and their often more jittery handlers. “A lot of times,” he says in the voice-over that opens the movie, “rather than helping people with horse problems, I’m helping horses with people problems.”

Sometimes they’re the same thing, as a violent interlude with a weepy woman and her seemingly crazed stallion proves. This part of the movie works like a punch to the gut, but, given how close it edges into hagiography, it’s also necessary as a reminder of what’s really at stake. “Buck” is an imperfect documentary. It leaves nagging questions unanswered, including the fate of Mr. Brannaman’s brother, and the movie’s beauty shots at times threaten to embalm nature instead of exalting it. Yet in some sense it was beauty that saved Mr. Brannaman, that of his conscience and that of horses, which, having been tied to humans long ago, became companions, workers and for some, as this lovely movie shows, saviors.

Zorianna Kit’s Q&A with Buck answers  some of those nagging questions.

Oh, and Johnny France plays a small but critical role in Buck’s life. Go figure.

[Photo Credit: Flicke Flu]

I never got into Yoo Hoo and as a kid that was upsetting to me because the name was so appealing.

[Photo Credit: LMF RNF]

From the Chicago-Sun Times (via Ego Trip):

Here’s more from David Hoekstra.

[Photo Credit: Brian Jackson]

“Still Life with Lemons, Oranges, and a Rose,” by Francisco de Zurbaran (1633)

Detail…

You can see this gorgeous painting–reproductions don’t do it justice–at the Frick.

Pictures

by

Louis Stettner

You’re Welcome.

Alex Rodriguez had a great spring training last year and it didn’t carry over to the regular season because of injuries. He’s not going to be too happy about having a good game yesterday, according to Chad Jennings. Here’s more from Wallace Matthews.

Yanks and Phils on YES this afternoon.

Knicks vs. Celtics. Then Heat-Lakers.

Happy Sunday.

[Photo Credit: Richard Prince via the most incredible This Isn’t Happiness]

Sunday Morning Fats.

1-06 My Very Good Friend The Milkman

[Photo Credit: She is Glorious]

According to Tim Brown of Yahoo Sports, Alex Rodriguez addressed the team for 10 minutes.

Yanks and Phil are on the MLB Network this afternoon. Wallace Matthews at ESPN New York has the lineups.

Enjoy, y’all.

[Photo Credit: MrBrnMkg]

Cold Chillin’:

[Photo Via: Refused Unicorn]

[Photograph by Reka Nyari]

Via Serious Eats: Hot Chili Chutney.

[Photo Credit: Joshua Bousel]

Gangsta Gangsta