nyc avalanche

i'm up to my neck in rewrites for next week's show at dixon place and another funky fresh idea that i can't stop thinking about, i'm decluttering the apartment a little every day and editing my closets in anticipation of fall/winter, i'm assembling everything i'll need to make a cool video for my kickstarter campaign to finish my black americana album and all i can think of, aside from how slow i am in boxing conditioning class when i'm doing mitt work and how badly i need a mani/pedi, is this bread pudding recipe. that bourbon sauce looks potent.

i'm almost afraid to make it because i'll just eat most of it, so the next dinner party is going to get a nice big one, hot and fresh. in the meantime, i'm bringing letitia a green tomato pie to our brooklyn rehearsal tomorrow night. won't she be pleased?

in the meantime, the great news is that i'm running 2 miles a day -- pushing towards hitting a 10 minute mile. i hate running, so i figure if i do a mile right after each boxing conditioning class and get it overwith, i'll raise my stamina considerably. somehow, after wearing myself out so thoroughly and leaving the room with an all over ache that only a long sitdown in a steam room can get rid of, running that fast for that long is nothing.

"what do you do in boxing class, anyway?"

aside from pounding that bag, some simple stretches, variations on the push up, the sit up and the jump squat -- and of course running around the room and up and down staircases ad nauseum -- exactly what kind of excercise do i do in a circuit boxing class?

i'm glad you asked.

here's a few videos to illustrate some of what usually happens in an hour. i try really hard to do two sessions a day. there are some days when i'll do three, if things flow a certain way. the thing is, there is usually someone calling me out by name if i'm not giving 100% the whole time i'm in that room. and i'm in there for what feels like an eternity. for some reason, i have this bad habit of looking at the clock when i think a fair amount of time has passed -- probably because i'm sweating so hard i can't see -- and wow, its only been 10 frackin' minutes.

the routine i'm in now leaves room for three trainers: gennaro (who may as well be a negro and who yells a lot), negro (who isn't a negro and who mumbles a lot) and jay (who is from long island -- nuff said). sometimes there is george and sometimes there is son of gennaro. no longer do i wander off with anyone i don't know. i don't want any surprises anymore.

i've made a lot of progress physically and i've lost some weight but i still feel as though i've got to get in shape on some basic level so i can get through the whole class without having to stop because i feel as though i'm going to pass out. or die. when i can zip through class comfortably, i will believe that i'm in shape.

until then, here's what i'm up against.

mountain climbers -- this sister gives a great explanation of the right way to do this one. unbelievable, the way it wears my upper body out, in short order.




bear crawl -- we have to do this around the room over and over, and we have to drop and do this over and over and sometimes, he (that is, gennaro) makes us leave the room and do this around the gym over and over. the closer to the ground you get, the more effective it is.




spiderman crawl -- an especially foul move for me because i don't have much upper body strength. and like the bear crawl, the lower you get, the harder it works you.




burpee or squat thrust -- named after dr. royal burpee, this basic movement is the foundation for the burpee test. now there are variations that have found many colorful and interesting ways for me to throw my legs out from under me abrubtly, or repeatedly spring off the ground in short bursts of energy. no small wonder. burpees require agility, speed, coordination and a ton of core strength.




body builders -- he (that is, gennaro) makes me do 100 of these whenever i'm late for class. they are beyond gnarly. this video shows otherwise, but we do a jumping jack that falls into a plank and then a push up and back again. and you know what? i don't walk out. i take it like a man and i do the 100. sometimes he'll stop me before i'm done but lately he's been leaning on me...




focus mitt work -- this is really important because its makeshift boxing against an unknown opponent. the trainer is like a choreographer, putting together combinations on the fly that force me to move with speed and power. in a perfect world, i get used to moving at the torso, blocking shots and letting my movements flow with technique and form.




shadowboxing with weights -- this is what i really feel the next day. throwing my arms out there, even with three pound weights in my hands, is a burning sensation that just won't let up. sometimes he (that is, negro) makes us run around the room and shadowbox with weights.



why do i love boxing so much? i seriously don't know. it's physically way more challenging than anything i've ever done. and maybe that's it, maybe the physical exhaustion and growth is impacting the rest of me so completely, i can't relinquish it. sure, it feels good to hit people -- but it also feels good to get good at it. i can look in the mirror and see wonderful changes coming on. that's a kick in the head.

i love it that boxing is genderless. it's not something that belongs to boys. it's all technique -- and to my way of thinking, that levels the playing field completely. the bottom line is, either you can fight or you can't.

where it takes me is anyone's guess. how long will it take me to get my true body? who knows. what i know for sure is that i'm going to get great at boxing because i can't stop doing it. i can't give it up.

why can't i do a push up yet?

i am struggling with push ups in my boxing sessions. i'm pushing myself off of the ground with everything in me and it's just not enough. my arms shake like i'm palsied. we do so many that after a certain point, all i can do is hold myself in a plank position and wait for the next phase. it's embarassing. i'm sick of myself and how puny i am. whenever i push my body to do more, it turns on me in a way that feels deliberate and calculated. it's as though its telling me, leave me and this extra chub on your backside alone! with every day, every meal, every work out, my body and i are slugging it out. it's fighting me for every freaking pound. i am not lying.

watching the first lady do push ups with desmond tutu was nothing short of breathtaking. that was all the motivation i needed to push against the floor as hard as i have to, a little bit more every day, to make it happen.

i do girl push ups - yes, they're modified push ups but no one calls them that (and yes, "girl push ups is an incredibly sexist name for them) - and today for the first time, i did them comfortably and easily, without feeling that tremble rise up and overwhelm my arms. that's probably because i started lifting weights on my arms and upper body a little while ago. weightlifting works.

here's the correct way to do them.



here's the right way to do what most people refer to as "normal" push ups. (they call them "military" too.) you may not be able to do them after watching this, but at least your form will be correct.



am i impatient? absolutely. but then again, when does anything move fast enough for me? am i having fun? you bet. i like the idea of learning something useful, not just working out and bouncing all over the room to break a sweat and lose a calorie.

ultimately, i want to condition and spar on a regular basis. i figure i'm at least 6 months away from attempting that. i know that i've found the thing that will keep tweaking me physically for the rest of my life.

i have to be able to make it through two hardcore boxing sessions a day - push ups and all - with serious mileage afterwards to believe that i can make it through a few hours with monty negro.

hitting that wall

i went to a bootcamp class yesterday at noon. i did it on a dare, sort of. a dare and a handshake. m, the person in question, held up his end of the bargain, so seeing as how i've grown into being a man of my word these days (finally!), i showed up. i wasn't looking forward to it. boot camp sounds like something impossible will be asked of me physically. but he'd lost weight in the weeks since i'd seen him and he blamed it on boot camp so out of curiousity, i went.

the class was crowded with all types and filled to the brim with enthusiasm and dread. and one of the mommies was there. (and she'd lost weight, too.) i was genuinely surprised to see this much of a horde on a wednesday in the middle of the day, but stranger things have been known to happen. i threw myself into every move. while i was doing each one, i remember thinking, this isn't so bad. at least i didn't feel like my chest was about to cave in, a la gennaro's boxing class. when i woke up the next day, i could hardly move -- so of course, i went to that aforementioned boxing session. because i want progress. because i missed it. but mostly because the only cure that i know of for that level of soreness is a solid workout.

and then comes the blind fury, when i'm swinging my arms and doing those combinations and my arms are trembling under the weight of me with every push up, like i'm palsied. at least my midsection isn't doing that anymore. progress.

towards the end of class after negro wore me out with mitts and the room was clearing out, this dark haired girl looks at me and goes, you aren't sweating enough. she looked like someone had hosed her down, and she was beet-red in the face.

you look like i feel, i said.

it's not that you aren't sweating, she went on. you have this overall sheen going, and she waved her hand in my general direction and said, but it's not really sweat.

i'm glistening, i mumbled. that's what i do.

once i explained my boot camp handicap, we introduced ourselves. whaddya know -- her name is zoe (i have a niece named zoe!) and she's a musical theater performer (non-union) and a 20-something nyu graduate. we talked shop, had this running commentary going as negro and j were boxing that was hilarious and totally sexist and over the top and then we hit the showers.

she's got a non-union gig in new hamster, so she'll be gone for awhile. but she'll be in boot camp next week. and so will m. i liked it enough to go back. i'm sorry it took a dare to get me to do it.

the real girls in the room

today in boxing class i watched a guy that was much bigger and stronger than me hit the bag like a total girl. he didn't put his body into it. he didn't pivot. he just threw his arm forward repeatedly in an almost absent-minded way, like a little kid. he had this stupid grin on his face while it was happening, like he knew what he looked like. and he certainly seemed to care but it couldn't be helped.

oh, yeah. and he had chicken legs.

he had a friend with him, who was just as big and strong and goony as he was, and who hit the bag the same way that he did. his friend wasn't smiling. he was watching the women in the room and the way their punches landed with impact and power. neither of them were really working hard with all of the cardio that keeps you exhausted and out of breath and on your last leg. squats. sit-ups. push-ups, endless push-ups. once things became a strain, they backed off and did the minimum -- the way some girls do, that don't want to sweat their perms out or whatever.

sparring with the boxing instructor made chicken legs giggle. i remember thinking, he's such a chick. i wonder if these two will come back?

george (my boxing instructor) is 100% right. boxing isn't the exclusive domain of men because they have more testosterone or whatever. it's all a matter of technique. either you know how to fight or you don't. the guys who don't know what they're doing are the real girls in the room.

i don't know why i want this so much. because i'm learning so much, all at once. because my body is changing. because it's fun, and when something is fun, it's not work -- especially when it is work. because it's a useful skill. because i have more stamina, overall. because when i do it right, it's like dancing -- and when i do it really well, it's like dancing and flying at the same time.

a day in the life of queen esther

wake up early. too early.

realize that you're not ready for your 10:20am audition because you haven't learned the original song they sent you. no, they didn't send the actual song. they sent sheet music. and you know what that means. it means that you have to find the song on iTunes, and if it doesn't sync with what's on paper, you have to find a pianist to play through the song so you can record it and obsess over it for nearly a week until you know it well enough to give some semblance of a performance when you go into that audition room and face most of the production team. not a "sing your way through this" kind of a deal. i mean, nail it to the wall. perform.

thinking about this exhausts you so much that you immediately go back to bed. and thinking of standing in front of that long table freaks you out so totally, you can't go back to sleep. so you lie there and stare at the ceiling and try to remember the melody of the song, to somehow reassure yourself that you've got some of it marinating in your head. but the only thing that comes floating back to you is the last song you had to learn overnight. it's called how blessed we are from the musical big river: the adventures of huckleberry finn. and once it comes back, it stays.

this is the start of your day. fun, right?

when you finally crawl out of bed, you are more than relieved that you popped a zantac before you went to bed because you ate something before you abrubtly fell out. simply put, acid reflux is a bitch. nevermind what you're supposed to eat. none of that really matters. not with you, anyway.

by 9:30am, you run out of the house like your butt is on fire - with the wrong address. once you actually get there, they've been alerted and all is forgiven. you go into the room and give one of the best auditions you've ever squeezed out of yourself, ever. everyone is smiling and warm and glowy. it feels like an amazing first date.

and to think - they were actually expecting queen esther marrow.

you run out, get time sheets, run to the bank, deposit money, run out of the bank, find a mailbox and mail stuff, run to drop off the time sheets. somewhere in all that running, your commercial agent calls. you've got an audition in the flatiron district for a lowe's spot. you stop and ask: what about the one i thought i missed yesterday, the pizza hut spot? they put you on hold, pop back on the line after a brief pause and say, you can go in for it but you have to go before 12:45pm. that means you drop everything and go now. everything is your new boxing gloves. you're annoyed that you're going to miss your 12:30pm kickboxing class but a national commercial is at stake. you very quickly get over it.

you zip over to chelsea from columbus circle, you do the deed. you go home and change clothes because you need casual attire for the lowe's spot and you know the wrap dress you're wearing just won't cut it.

when you come out of the subway, you buy a gigantic melon in the street from some mild-mannered dominicans. and it's so supercheap, you smile all the way home. you turn on the soaps while you check your makeup and change your clothes and slice that melon and shove it in the fridge to chill. you leave your place in a t-shirt and blue jean skirt. you think to yourself, yeah, i look like i'm married and shopping for stainmaster carpet. as you're running down the street in the flatiron district, looking for the address, you run into chris. he comes to the audition with you and afterwards, he takes you to lunch at la petit abielle. a really terrific salmon salad, actually. you have a wonderful conversation. as it turns out, chris used to box as a kid. you show him your boxing gloves. he laughs at your pink hand wraps. we take the 1 uptown - you jump off at 50th and hit the gym. he goes to catch up with a friend for the museum mile festival, which sounded like way too much fun.

after the gym - which did not include boxing conditioning class, and that makes you feel cheated, somehow - you could go run around but you'd rather go home. because you haven't touched your guitar what feels like forever, you've got rewrites to deal with and yes, you are officially in preproduction on something else. besides -- it's taco night.

the end -- more or less.

oh. here's that song that you couldn't stop singing all day long, from that musical you weren't auditioning for, as sung by jennifer leigh warren, for those of you keeping score at home. enjoy the money note!

bring the pain

in an effort to burn a calorie in the most mundane moments of my life -- like when i'm in transit -- i rode my 15 speed mountain bike from my place in west harlem to a new york sports club on 14th street. and because i had to take it there physically, i took a boxing conditioning class that worked me so hardcore, it made my arms and legs tremble involuntarily whenever i stood still.

the beauty of it all is that i was never allowed to stand still, really. i had to stick and move and run and shift and go go go every nanosecond that i was in that room. because there was this jumbo sized freakshow of a trainer that was screaming over the music constantly, a most excellent trainer who decided that he liked me (how do i know he liked me? because he came up to me as he was telling everyone what the routine would be around the room and he said, i like you, love. you spar with me first...) and that meant that he had his eye on me for the whole hour. so when i wasn't moving, he made a point of calling me out in front of the whole class. he'd say stuff like, what are YOU doing, love? are you trying to HIDE behind that bag? give it to me! keep that front leg steady! put your body into it! all this directed at me as a bag worked me across the room, while he was sparring with someone else. now that's love.

what was worse? maybe it was the sweat that poured off of me so steadily, it looked like my whole body was crying. maybe it was the bad disco/house music. and when i say bad, i mean God-awful. don't get me wrong. i don't mind a big beat. but that thud-thud-thud eurotrash sucks. more fatboy slim, please. less haddaway. and no, they don't know who fatboy slim is. if it stays this bad, i may be wearing headphones during the next class...right about now/funk soul brother/check it out now/funk soul brother...

by the way, i zipped down the cherry walk along the west side highway to get downtown. the bike path is complete and it is pristine. shockingly so. maybe it was the sun and the heat or whatever but that 12 + mile bike ride was punishing, way harder than i thought it would be. so hard on the way there, in fact, i seriously considered taking the train home. but then i thought about all the cool vintage clothes and whatnot in my closet that i can't fit my larger than usual midsection into these days and i powered my way through it. when i got home, i downed my second quart of water, had a naked protein shake and sat still on my sofa, listening to my body hum.

yeah, i know. tomorrow i'm really going to feel this. it will be that low dull steady ache that makes me feel muscles i didn't know i had, in places on and in my body that i completely forgot about. if i keep this up, i'm going to need a banya. every week. a lot of banyas, actually. and when i say need, i mean require.

yeah, i intend to keep it up. God help me.

here's a little taste of fatboy slim for you, the uninitiated. long live the 90s! whoo-hoo!

i did it!

as i was leaving my building with my 21 speed mountain bike this morning, i stopped to say hello to the lady in the window, this older dominican woman that i’m friendly with. she's there all the time, cooking or chatting on the phone or babysitting or something. i was wearing this bike helmet that makes me look like a ritalin kid and i thought she was going to say something about it but instead, after exchanging social pleasantries, she looked me up and down and, with her hand propping her head up as though she were weary, she smiled a little and said, “you fat.” she said it in a real laconic matter of fact way, in this low dull voice, with this heavy accent and this wierd inflection that happens so often with people who don’t speak english as a first language. they stress all the wrong things, thus illuminating whatever they’re saying in this whole other way.

she sounded like she was telling me that i was made of blubber.

i know that black girls and dominican girls are bigger. i know she’s used to a bigger girl. but she’s known me for years. she knows what i’m supposed to look like. i know i don’t look that bad, i’m not that far off. but if the weight gain is noticeable enough to warrant a statement of the obvious from her, then i definitely need to do whatever i have to do to lose it.

talk about motivation.

we rode from my place on 137th and riverside into the park and headed to the little red lighthouse and then we found our way across the george washington bridge. the view was nothing short of spectacular. once we reached the jersey side, we veered onto river road which was harrowing and dangerous and a total freak-out roller coaster ride straight down, at first. somewhere in there i almost got hit by a bus and my friend flat out pulled us over and suggested that we go back. remembering the downhil ride and thinking of the uphill return, i adamantly refused. we forged ahead to the ferry, which let us out at 39th street on the west side for $7 (plus one buck for the bike). “what a rip-off,” my friend said, half-laughing. he was right. we should have gone down to hoboken and taken the path for $2. but in the midst of the heat and all that traffic, the bottom of the island was a million miles away.

the next thing i knew, we were on our way up the west side highway to the cafe at the 77th St. pier, where we shared a cheeseburger and fries and took in our little trip. we made it home from there in less than a half hour. and just like that, it was over. the lady in the window was right where i left her. was i still fat? well, sure. but at least i did something about it.

by my mapmyrun.com guesstimations, we only did about 15 miles. it felt like 30! if i rode my bike to work, i'd do 12 miles round-trip everyday. wow. that would be 60 miles a week. now that would burn some calories!

okay, maybe this challenge was a little too easy. sure was fun, though. how about i go for that pesky learner’s permit? it’s high time i learned how to drive.

See more progress on: enjoy Fall 2007 by having one new and fulfilling experience in October, November, and December