Those of you know me can attest that it’s not for my physicality. My shoulders slope like Everest and I’ve never had an ass to hold my pants up. But that never stopped me, as a kid, from watching Jack LaLanne, hoping a few chair lifts and a tug on my mom’s glamour stretcher might turn me into Charles Altas or Joe Weider, two comic-book back-page, musclebound hucksters who hawked workouts, weights and supplements. They were just years ahead of the pack, who now assault my family room daily to do likewise, where I’m lucky to pump a Motrin bottle 4 times a day.
Jack had a great philosophy and I should have leaned more towards his message than to Timothy Leary’s but such is the folly of youth. Jack’s was simple: “dying is easy, living is a pain in the butt.”
Can any of you push-up a memory of this Oakland native and his rock-star Bay Area status gained from SFBay swims, hand-cuffed while hailing boats and a TV show with his wife and dog?