chip and dale and dallas...

Over the past two weeks I’ve received “signs” of what this blog post should be about. The first sign was when I spotted a chap at the gym who I used to know from my youth. I had an almighty crush on him which was only made worse by the fact that he had a super cool name: James Dallas. When your name has “Dallas” in it, people immediately associate it with the word “Cowboy”. Needless to say, James Dallas wore his name very well and was very cowboyish in that hot-in-blue jeans kind of way. 

The second sign was when a Facebook friend posted a video of cowboys dancing in a field. The group of dancers are from a group called "Magic Men" and given the lil’ hip thrust they managed to sneak into their routine, I reckon they don’t generally dance in fields. 

Anyhow, both incidences reminded me of something that happened to me in the 80’s. 

I was all of 15 years old when we started seeing advertisements on the TV for a troupe of dancers from the USA. They were called The Chippendales and from what they showed us on the TV ad, they were an all-male group of dancers that toured the world. 

I need to back up a bit and remind you of where South Africa was historically with regards to “dancers”. The apartheid era was known for seriously cramping everyone’s style, not least of those who like to “dance” in public. Accordingly, if you wanted to see a “dancer”, you had to go to somewhere like the Wild Coast Sun, where “dancing” was allowed. Of course, there was tons of other things that weren’t allowed, but “dancing” was definitely one of them. Accordingly, the advertisements we saw only showed the Chippendales dancing, like for REAL, and not “dancing”.

To be honest, I’m not sure if my mum and older sister put two and two together, but if they did, they certainly didn’t let me in on it. Although I was curious to know why the chosen performance venue for the Chippendales was The Wild Coast Sun, I was not about to put up a fight when my mum (also known as The Queen) and my older sister (Liza Minelli) told me I could bunk school and join them to see one of the shows. They also booked a ticket for Exotica and before long our gaggle of girls was on their way to the Wild Coast. Exotica and I felt very grown up because we were the only teenagers included in the foray (which in retrospect should have been a red flag). 

We arrived hours before the show was due to start and The Queen let us mill around on our own with R20 in our pockets till the show kicked off. As Exotica and I strolled around, taking in the sights of gamblers, slot machines and card players, we stumbled upon a movie theatre which stated STRICKLY NO UNDER 18’s. Mystified as to what might lie within, we slowly got the gist as we saw man after man after man entering the theatre. As the realisation dawned on us, a discussion ensued between Exotica and I about the dynamics of watching a Blue Movie, and in the company of strangers to boot. Did they all wank off together? we wondered. Or, did they all rush to the loos immediately after the film to sort themselves out? Either way, we decided that it was a grubby, soggy business (“Ew, imagine the chairs!” we both exclaimed) and we wanted to get as far away from the theatre as what we could.

To ease our nerves, we decided to spend our R20 on a drink. I’d heard that Sambuca was a thing and had seen people in movies lighting their shot glasses and then downing it while it was still aflame. 

Eager to test whether this could actually be done, I assured Exotica that I’d done it many times and that she shouldn’t be nervous and should “just go for it”. The flame was hotter and bluer than I anticipated but by now there was no holding Exotica back. To this day I’m not really sure what she did wrong, but I think she went in for the kill a little too slowly. Once her drink was downed, she said “Your turn”. As I looked at her, something seemed different about her. Kind of odd. Off. Then I noticed. Where her eye lashes were supposed to be there were now little white balls of singed hair. I decided against lighting mine and downed it cold instead.

Even if Exotica and I had finished an entire bottle of Sambuca each, we would not have been prepared for what came next.

After being ushered into the theatre, we noticed a group of rather rowdy women in the front row, just a little along from where we ourselves were sitting. We weren’t sure what the reasons behind their rambunctious behaviour was, but we decided it wasn’t very orthodox to behave in such an uncouth way in a theatre. After all, the only other theatres we’d been in were The Playhouse in Durban and The Hexagon in Pietermaritzburg, and that was to watch ballet.

The music started. There was wild cheering and applause. Whistling even. A man, let’s call him “Chip”, sashayed onto the stage. He was wearing black trousers, a white collared shirt and a bow tie. Mmm. Smart, I thought, though a little impractical if you’re about to dance. Before long there was more sashaying, and hip wiggling and stroking of chests and flicking back of hair. Exotica and I sunk low into our chairs. 

After what seemed like a VERY long time, Chip started removing his clothing. I’m not sure who was in charge of garment construction but I confess, I did think it was a stroke of genius that both his trousers and shirt could be removed in one quick, snap-the-snappers move. The heat from both Exotica and my cheeks was radiant. There was nowhere to go. No way we could escape this nightmare. 

As number after number was performed, the rowdy ladies got rowdier, and Exotica and I started to look like we were actually grafted into the red velvet upholstery. To make matters worse, I was seated RIGHT NEXT TO THE QUEEN the entire time.

The pièce de résistance unfolded as follows. A man – let’s call him “Dale” – sauntered onto the stage wearing a beach towel and carrying a little basket of, well, we weren’t sure yet what was in it. As the music progressed, Dale removed his towel in a rather dramatic way and laid it on the stage floor in the manner that a gentleman might lay down his coat over a puddle. Standing in a speedo swimming costume, and despite there being no threat of sunburn, he took a bottle of suntan oil out of his little beach bag and rub it suggestively over his chest and thighs. 

 

To more cheering, whistling and applauding, he sashayed down the stairs and off the stage, and strolled slowly, in a very hips-forward kind of way, past the front row. By now my embarrassment had left me and I was left with a faint feeling of nausea. This only got worse as I saw Dale stop RIGHT IN FRONT of The Queen.  

 

Putting one foot and then the other on the armrest of The Queen’s chair, he proceeded to gyrate in The Queen’s face. It got worse. His Speedo was a snapper-Speedo and in one swift move, he whipped it off to reveal a very scanty G-string. My mum sat there, as a queen might, utterly unruffled. I’d been at the receiving end of one of her withering looks many times and I wished she’d shoot him one right now.  By now Exotica and I were utterly dead. We could not wait for this blasted “dance” show to end. 

 

It was a long, silent, awkward drive home and to this day I have never returned to the Wild Coast Sun. And neither shall I.

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common species of the gym region...

So, due to holidays and then a bout of flu or a chest infection or who the hell knows what, I’ve been off gym for like…EVER. Anyway, I hit the gym this morning but managed to convince myself that, given my break, I shouldn’t work to my full capacity. Instead, I decided to document the different species one can typically spot at any gym.

The Grunter

This species makes Monika Seles look positively reticent. Typically occurring in males, this beast isn’t limited to any particular region and has been known to grunt loudly in the free weights, functional training AND weight machine sections of the gym. He normally has a grimace on his face that suggests the he is, without a doubt, busy with seriously heavy things that no other mere mortal could even contemplate.  He’s loud and can give you quite a fright if you’re not expecting a sudden SHOUT from the bench press you’re lying next to.

The Poser

Both males and females of this species are common in gyms. They may train hard or they may not, but the main identifying feature of this animal is that both before and after completing a “set”, they’ll look at themselves in the mirror, often plucking at their stomach area to check their body-fat percentage. They’ve been known to fuss with their hair and flex their arms in front of their reflection and generally behave as if they’re in the privacy of their own bedrooms rather than in a public space. They’ll often look like they’re “checking their form”, when in fact they’re just checking their form. If you watch them for any length of time, you’ll start to feel like a Peeping Tom – such is their deep relationship with themselves.

The Body Builder

It’s mostly only males of this species you’ll see. This block shit-house still fits into his cartoon- print baggy pants from the 80’s (think Mike Hammer). You’ll find him wearing a kind of shredded vest that looks like someone just tried to rip off his body (that could well be the impression he wants to create. Grrrrr…) and he’ll definitely be wearing a weight belt. He has a hairdo like Dolf Lundgren and will almost certainly be wearing black trainers.

The Rugby Guy

This species may not actually be that common. It might be a singular species that exists only in my gym. The Rugby Guy will do sprints, not really worried who he might plough down in the process (I once nearly saw a little old granny go flying. Frightening stuff.) He’s kind of a cross between a Grunter and Cross-fit junkie. He does lots of functional moves and has his stop-watch set up coz, you know, counting in your head can be tricky.  Oh yes, and of course, he’s wearing short rugby shorts and long socks. Killing it.

The Lipstick-wearer

This species occurs only as females.  You’ll generally spot her on the bicycle, often with a book in her hand. There will be absolutely NOT A DROP OF SWEAT on her. Not on her face. Not on her chest. Not on her anything. She will be wearing mascara too and no, miraculously it won’t be running. She will most likely NOT be smiling because, as you know, smiling causes wrinkles. After 20 minutes of peddling away as if she’s in the South of France, she’ll sail out of the gym, leaving a waft of Thierry Mugler’s Angelin the air.

The Black Guy

Typically only occurring as males, this species is secretly the envy of the whole gym. You’ll typically find him doing like a one-arm push up or tri-dips on the parallel bar thingy. His most identifying feature is that he makes it look REALLY EASY. He’s ripped AF and doesn’t need to wear that weird, suntan shit that all the white body builders rub on themselves when they do body building competitions. In fact, he wins all the body-building competitions, and probably has a sexy job as a fire fighter or something. He’s friendly and doesn’t grunt like the grunter. You’re not sure what his name is but you’ve been calling him “Rob” for years.

The Ukrainian pole dancer

This species is can sometimes be mistaken as the Lipstick-wearer but can be told apart by the hot-pants and long, hot-pink compression socks. She will never wear the same outfit two days in a row and has lots of gym tops that look like they could be in a bondage porno. She’ll be tanned all year round and, despite her skinny legs, can leg press double than the Grunter and Rugby Guy combined. All the other gym girls don’t really like her. But the men do. Ooooh yes.

The Towel Booker

This species is generally found in two sub-species: the ghost, and the Sargent Major (SM). If you make your way to a bench or a machine and you find a towel resting on it, you can be sure that there is a Ghost-Towel Booker in the area. They won’t really make an appearance but you’ll feel very uneasy about moving their towel, lest they suddenly swoop down on you and give you a tongue lashing. The SM-Towel Booker is much easier to spot. In fact, they’ll spot you. They’ll be busy using something like “cables” and you’ll innocently stroll up to, say, the upright rowing machine and sit down on it. Unbeknown to you, the towel that’s resting somewhere nearby, actually serves as a territorial marker. The minute your arse hits the bench, the SM will unleash their fury and shout that THEY’RE NOT DONE WITH THEIR SUPER-SET.

The Yoga One

This species occurs as both males and females. They generally arrive late for the real yoga class and then have to do their own little routine on the mat somewhere. They’re varied in what identifies them. Some of them could be mistaken as The Injured One, because they never really look like they’re doing anything but lying on the mat. Others, however, look like they just stepped off the bus from Cirque de Soleil, their backbends-into-aerial-splits giving them away. The females tend to have a pinched look and are often ex-ballet dancers who have “found themselves”. (Namaste). The males of the species mostly just fart a lot.

The MMA Guy

This species is very easy to spot because they’ll start kicking and punching RIGHT WHERE YOU’RE DOING SIT UPS! They train alone and almost certainly have EMINEM’s “Lose Yourself” playing in their ear-phones. Generally speaking, they’re barefoot, which is probably against gym regulations but is also probably why they do it. They’ll be wearing black, like a ninja, and the outfit is likely to include tights. This species only comes in a masculine version.

The Old Fuckers

This species occurs as both males and females and can be identified by an overall getting-in-the-wayness. Oblivious to any and every gym conventions, they’ll do the super circuit in any order they fancy and have an utter inability to anticipate what other gym members are doing (thus the nearly ploughed-down by The Rugby Guy incident.) They’re known to cause a bottle neck at the water machine – in fact at any machine - and are prone to long conversations with other Old Fucker gym members. You’ll often find them wearing inappropriate footwear, like crocs or sandals.

The Rolling-Stretcher

Found in both males and females, this species will leave you wondering WTF? They’re typically seen in the functional area and will be doing movements that can range from very small, Mr Beanish stretches, to full-on medieval torture shit on the foam rollers. It’s all very mysterious, because you never actually see them work out. 

The Machine

This species is generally only found in females. She’ll often be wearing a buff and can do hand-stand pushups. She puts The Grunter, The Rugby Guy and even The Black Guy to shame, but she still thinks she’s not good enough. She’ll have an impossibly good physique and will generally take up very little room in the Functional Training part of the gym. She might work out with the Cross-fit Junkie but she’s definitely not friends with the Lipstick-wearer or the Ukrainian Pole Dancer. She manages to train for 5 hours a day on a diet if quinoa and kale and she has a “cheat meal”, rather than a “cheat week” like the rest of us.

The Cross-fit Junkie

This species can mostly be found doing box jumps or waving those big, fat ropes around. They’re also fond of skipping and like to use the weighted barrel bags. They seem to do a lot of moves that either involve sliding things on the ground or lifting them up and carrying them. The females of the species are all under 35 years of age and the males are all over 35 years of age. I dunno, maybe. Hard to tell.

The Chunky Chick

Generally found as females only, this species is a constant gym-goer who, despite her dedication, seems to sort of be in a fitness holding-pattern. She often looks like she’s going to die from over-exertion and is mostly sweaty. She can be seen chatting to The Old Fuckers but tends to avoid contact with The Machine and The Cross-fit Junkie. She knows The Black Guy’s name is actually Simon.

The Hippie

The Hippie species looks like they just arrived back from a trance party. Mostly occuring as females, their workouts generally involve wafting and waving movements. She’s almost certainly wearing a tie-died something, her hair is unruly and hangs loose and she’s bare foot. Flared leggings are a constant identifying feature. She can sometimes be mistaken as The Lip-syncer, because she tends to mouth along to whatever is playing on her iPod. Given her tree-in-the-wind like movements, you can bet it’s either Jim Croce or Bob Dylan. Be warned, she WILL get in your way. She probably also does Nia and arrives late for yoga class.

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