I've been writing a lot, lately. Working on the novel, writing new songs, maintaining a few blogs, and sending out a weekly newsletter for the cheese and wine shop I run with Mrs. Troubadour. You may think I'd get burned out, but the opposite always happens for me when I'm busy doing what I love to do.
Just before I met Mrs. Troubadour I was performing an average of five nights a week. I'd usually get home at around 2 am, eat dinner, and surf the Internet looking for more gig opportunities. Then it was off to bed until 10:30 or 11 am. Once fully caffeinated I'd make a few phone calls to fill up my performance schedule for the months ahead. Then I'd work on a new song I was writing, rehearse for a few hours, and take care of a few mundane things until it was time to get ready for the night's gig. If I didn't have anything booked for the evening I'd try to catch a friend's show, or just hang out and watch a movie.
It was one of the most productive periods of my life. I wrote more keepers back then than at any other time in my career. Practice has always been the secret for me. The more I do anything the better I am at it. Of course, this isn't that much of a secret because it works for everyone, but most people lose sight of that.
I read an interview with Eric Clapton a while back. Eric Clapton still practices guitar SIX HOURS A DAY! And he's Eric Freaking Clapton! Yet I know countless musicians that don't pick up a guitar or blow the dust off of a keyboard until they're tuning up for a rare gig. I've been guilty of that myself, and recently.
But now I'm back in writing mode (and I know, you're not supposed to begin a sentence with BUT or AND, but it's a blog. C'mon.) and remembering how good it feels to be firing on all cylinders again.
Showing posts with label Exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Exercise. Show all posts
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Now Where did I Put That?
I've misplaced my discipline. I haven't got a clue where it might be, but distinctly remember having it in high school. In addition to my studies (if you can call them that) I was working two jobs and working out like a mad man.
Monday through Friday I'd get up at six and walk to my first job, getting to the grocery store by seven so I could buff the floors and help prepare for the eight am opening. I'd work until noon bagging groceries, then walk to school for my afternoon classes. School let out around three thirty, and from there I'd walk to the fast food joint and flip burgers from four in the afternoon until ten at night. I'd usually be able to catch a ride home from there, where I'd change clothes and go for a four mile run. During the day I did hundreds of push ups and sit ups whenever I had a few minutes to spare at one of my jobs. Weekends were a blast, as I only had to work for eight hours or so each day, and had the rest of the time to myself.
About half way through the school year I bought a used truck from one of my friends. This gave me loads of free time, so I filled some of it by lifting weights three times a week. By the time graduation rolled around, I was doing 250 sit ups every day, and many, many push ups. I'd do a quick hundred push ups when I rolled out of bed in the morning, and then do 75 clapping push ups in the afternoon, before I clocked in at my second job. At night, after I finished my four mile run, I'd do 50 one-handed push ups, each hand, before jumping in the shower and getting ready for bed at around midnight. I would also on occasion challenge one of my friends to a push up contest. I should have looked like a young Adonis, but in fact still had love handles and a layer of baby fat. Today I can barely do ten regular push ups.
I graduated and took a low paying job working about eighty hours a week. I stopped exercising completely for six months, then the truck broke down and I replaced it with a ten speed bicycle. It was exactly nineteen miles from the apartment I rented to where I worked, and I was back in shape in no time. Another six months went by, I reached burnout, quit my job and stayed in my apartment for a month, learning to play the guitar.
For the next seven years I played the guitar for a minimum of three hours a day, no excuses. For instance: A few times I went straight from work to hang out with some friends. We'd stay out late, and I'd get home at around three am. I had to be up at six in order to make it in to work on time, but since I had not yet practiced the guitar, I'd pull it out of the case and play until it was time to get ready for work. Now, unless I have a gig, I can go an entire week and not even pick up the guitar.
Monday through Friday I'd get up at six and walk to my first job, getting to the grocery store by seven so I could buff the floors and help prepare for the eight am opening. I'd work until noon bagging groceries, then walk to school for my afternoon classes. School let out around three thirty, and from there I'd walk to the fast food joint and flip burgers from four in the afternoon until ten at night. I'd usually be able to catch a ride home from there, where I'd change clothes and go for a four mile run. During the day I did hundreds of push ups and sit ups whenever I had a few minutes to spare at one of my jobs. Weekends were a blast, as I only had to work for eight hours or so each day, and had the rest of the time to myself.
About half way through the school year I bought a used truck from one of my friends. This gave me loads of free time, so I filled some of it by lifting weights three times a week. By the time graduation rolled around, I was doing 250 sit ups every day, and many, many push ups. I'd do a quick hundred push ups when I rolled out of bed in the morning, and then do 75 clapping push ups in the afternoon, before I clocked in at my second job. At night, after I finished my four mile run, I'd do 50 one-handed push ups, each hand, before jumping in the shower and getting ready for bed at around midnight. I would also on occasion challenge one of my friends to a push up contest. I should have looked like a young Adonis, but in fact still had love handles and a layer of baby fat. Today I can barely do ten regular push ups.
I graduated and took a low paying job working about eighty hours a week. I stopped exercising completely for six months, then the truck broke down and I replaced it with a ten speed bicycle. It was exactly nineteen miles from the apartment I rented to where I worked, and I was back in shape in no time. Another six months went by, I reached burnout, quit my job and stayed in my apartment for a month, learning to play the guitar.
For the next seven years I played the guitar for a minimum of three hours a day, no excuses. For instance: A few times I went straight from work to hang out with some friends. We'd stay out late, and I'd get home at around three am. I had to be up at six in order to make it in to work on time, but since I had not yet practiced the guitar, I'd pull it out of the case and play until it was time to get ready for work. Now, unless I have a gig, I can go an entire week and not even pick up the guitar.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Karma
I used to work with a fitness freak. Ron took all the necessary precautions to have a healthy life. During a company-wide meeting, the flu shot line was next to the free donut line. Ron looked at me and laughed. "You better get a flu shot," he said. "You're going to regret not doing it if you get sick." I refused, on the grounds that flu vaccines were manufactured using a weak strain of the virus. I understood the science. Truth be told I rarely get sick. I'll get the flu about once every twelve years or so, and wasn't due for a while. Besides, I really wanted a donut.
Two weeks later Ron got the flu. When he finally made it back into work, he looked pale and sounded rough. Not one to pass up an opportunity to be an ass to my friends, I teased Ron a little bit.
"You must be really frustrated."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you go to the gym, you eat healthy, you don't smoke and got a flu shot, but still got sick. On the other hand, I don't go to the gym, I smoke, I eat junk food and didn't get a flu shot, and I feel great!"
Fast forward to last night. Despite the occasional donut or order of fries, I eat pretty healthy. If there is an option, I'll shell out the extra bucks and go organic every time. Last night I prepared a dinner of organic baked potato and organic, free range chicken thighs, baked on a rack with the skin removed so that the fat could drain. I started feeling queasy soon after the meal, and went to bed earlier than usual. A few moments later I was in the bathroom, my body rejecting (and ejecting) the free range organic chicken with extreme prejudice.
I was up every hour on the hour until about eight this morning, and spent most of the day in and out of consciousness. Whatever it was, a bad 24 hour virus or a touch of salmonella, I am back to feeling like myself, and remembering how I teased poor Ron and why I believe in karma.
Two weeks later Ron got the flu. When he finally made it back into work, he looked pale and sounded rough. Not one to pass up an opportunity to be an ass to my friends, I teased Ron a little bit.
"You must be really frustrated."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you go to the gym, you eat healthy, you don't smoke and got a flu shot, but still got sick. On the other hand, I don't go to the gym, I smoke, I eat junk food and didn't get a flu shot, and I feel great!"
Fast forward to last night. Despite the occasional donut or order of fries, I eat pretty healthy. If there is an option, I'll shell out the extra bucks and go organic every time. Last night I prepared a dinner of organic baked potato and organic, free range chicken thighs, baked on a rack with the skin removed so that the fat could drain. I started feeling queasy soon after the meal, and went to bed earlier than usual. A few moments later I was in the bathroom, my body rejecting (and ejecting) the free range organic chicken with extreme prejudice.
I was up every hour on the hour until about eight this morning, and spent most of the day in and out of consciousness. Whatever it was, a bad 24 hour virus or a touch of salmonella, I am back to feeling like myself, and remembering how I teased poor Ron and why I believe in karma.
Monday, June 2, 2008
How I Motivate Myself To Exercise
First, the wrong way:
I imagine myself on the treadmill, then imagine my physique six or eight months later. Looking good! I’m sporting a new, hipper wardrobe to accentuate and celebrate the slim devil I have now become. For some reason, my hair is darker and fuller and I’ve also moved to Paris, apparently, because I’m surrounded by 17th century architecture as I stroll confidently down cobblestone streets, the other men jealous of the attention I’m receiving from their wives and girlfriends. Strange women stop to chat me up, and bat their eyes coquettishly just before I deliver the disappointing news that I am happily married, and not the type to stray. Bravely, they turn away, giving me one last lingering glance that says, “Someday, if I’m very lucky, I will find a man such as you.”
Reluctant to give up this beautiful daydream, I decide to catch a quick power nap in order to embellish the scenario a bit while resting up for my sure to be vigorous workout. Three hours later I snore myself awake, tossing the drool soaked throw pillow to the other end of the sofa on my way to the kitchen to grab a diet cola and a salty snack. Chips, maybe. I’ll workout tomorrow. One more day won’t make a difference.
A more effective way:
Our oldest daughter just graduated college and took a job teaching English in Vienna, Austria. She leaves in September and returns next June. We decided to join her over the Christmas holidays, with a side trip to Paris. Last week I started thinking with actual sincerity about getting on the treadmill, then started muttering about how boring it is to exercise. Then I imagined myself seven months from now while on our family trip to Europe. My wife and two daughters are out exploring the glorious city, having the time of their lives while I am holed up in the hotel room, face down on the bed, too tired to move after an hour of walking up and down cobble stoned streets. I fall asleep dreaming of skinny Frenchmen luring my wife and the girls with promises of private guided tours of the Paris few Americans ever get to see. Three hours later I snore myself awake in an otherwise empty hotel room while rooting through the mini-bar for something salty. I snapped myself out of this impending nightmare and got on the treadmill for half an hour, keeping cadence with the self-flagellating phrase, “Fat bastard, fat bastard.”
I have to say, I think I’ve found the proper motivation. It’s been a week now and I’ve only missed one day.
I imagine myself on the treadmill, then imagine my physique six or eight months later. Looking good! I’m sporting a new, hipper wardrobe to accentuate and celebrate the slim devil I have now become. For some reason, my hair is darker and fuller and I’ve also moved to Paris, apparently, because I’m surrounded by 17th century architecture as I stroll confidently down cobblestone streets, the other men jealous of the attention I’m receiving from their wives and girlfriends. Strange women stop to chat me up, and bat their eyes coquettishly just before I deliver the disappointing news that I am happily married, and not the type to stray. Bravely, they turn away, giving me one last lingering glance that says, “Someday, if I’m very lucky, I will find a man such as you.”
Reluctant to give up this beautiful daydream, I decide to catch a quick power nap in order to embellish the scenario a bit while resting up for my sure to be vigorous workout. Three hours later I snore myself awake, tossing the drool soaked throw pillow to the other end of the sofa on my way to the kitchen to grab a diet cola and a salty snack. Chips, maybe. I’ll workout tomorrow. One more day won’t make a difference.
A more effective way:
Our oldest daughter just graduated college and took a job teaching English in Vienna, Austria. She leaves in September and returns next June. We decided to join her over the Christmas holidays, with a side trip to Paris. Last week I started thinking with actual sincerity about getting on the treadmill, then started muttering about how boring it is to exercise. Then I imagined myself seven months from now while on our family trip to Europe. My wife and two daughters are out exploring the glorious city, having the time of their lives while I am holed up in the hotel room, face down on the bed, too tired to move after an hour of walking up and down cobble stoned streets. I fall asleep dreaming of skinny Frenchmen luring my wife and the girls with promises of private guided tours of the Paris few Americans ever get to see. Three hours later I snore myself awake in an otherwise empty hotel room while rooting through the mini-bar for something salty. I snapped myself out of this impending nightmare and got on the treadmill for half an hour, keeping cadence with the self-flagellating phrase, “Fat bastard, fat bastard.”
I have to say, I think I’ve found the proper motivation. It’s been a week now and I’ve only missed one day.
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