Sculpting the Guns

Recently, Men's Health Magazine (aka the Gospel According to Whey Protein) came out with an article about proportionality in your workout. They insist that if weighed on a scale, your biceps would only amount to about 3% of your total body weight. And in the world according to MH, only about 3% of your workout should be dedicated to said muscles.
Now, I'm a firm believer in Men's Health. It's my homepage. It's my spiritual text. It's what I read on the elliptical. Actually, it told me that men are allowed to run on the elliptical to begin with (no longer the Title IX version of the treadmill). Hell, I even have a copy signed by one of the male models who posed for the special abdominal issue (BTW, I know what you're thinking and no, this does not make me gay). The periodical has taught me how to eat right, how to exercise, AND it taught me all about what women want. That's an ability that only Mel Gibson has.
But this new article has gone too far. Biceps are the greatest muscle in the body. Way more important than the heart. Besides, the heart has become the bastard child of crappy poetry. "You have a good heart" has absolutely nothing to do with blood flow.
But back to the guns. I probably spend upwards of 70% of my time in the weight room working on my arms. I do three variations of curls followed by pull-ups and lat pull downs. And that's just for biceps, not even accounting for triceps or delts. I believe that this is the perfect percentage. People ALWAYS notice big arms. Have you ever heard anyone refer to legs as "guns?" Does Ron Burgundy spend his free time working on leg presses and crunches? NO! He sculpts his biceps.
I'm going to write an angry letter to the good people at Men's Health insisting that they redact their last comment. It's not like they haven't done it before. Three months ago they told me that stretching between sets of bench press stimulated muscle growth. Last week they say that stretching makes you weaker between sets. Classic liberal media, flip flopping on the important issues.


So now allow me to end on an emo note and list off the "Song of the Moment."
So Complicated - Carolyn Dawn Johnson
Take that as you may.

GWC,
MGD

In the year 2000....

We were waiting in line for Bill Clinton tickets last Monday, and since there was a moritorium on Assassins, boredom set it. So we did the only thing that bored college students with pens and paper could....we played MASH. I know what you're thinking: Isn't that game meant for 6th graders on 2 hour bus rides to the aquarium for a field trip? I like to think that MASH fits well for any line in which FastPass is not an option.
A lot of people have postulated as to my future. Some have predicted that I'll end up rich, famous and alone. Others have predicted that I'll end up in a ditch after offending the wrong minority. So allow me to stop the guessing game and give you my MASHIP'd future:
I'll be living in an igloo, married to Emmy Rossum and we'll have 2.5 kids. I'll be working as a Naval Aviator and I'll drive a Diet Pepsi Truck to work everyday.
Yup. Future's not going to be too bad. Only problem is that these results confuse me a tad. For the past 2 years, Ms. Carrie Underwood has exclusively been referred to as "The future Mrs. Davison." But now that I know that I'll be spending my days with the talented star of Phantom of the Opera, do I have to find a new moniker for Carrie? Do I give up on my dream of settling down with a country music star? Maybe I should convince Sarah to do another MASH and answer these questions. But then my destiny might end up being in a Shack, married to Joy Behar with 30 children, stuck killing rats with toothpicks in a hotel for a living.
Tough call. I think that I'll stick with Emmy.

My take on the power ballad

I submitted this last week for the Writing Center's little literary journal competition. I never heard back, so I'm assuming that the first prize e-mail got lost somewhere in the interweb, or that I'm probably not getting published. But isn't that what these blogs are for?
So, in its entirety, is my entry. It started out as an epic poem, turned into a power ballad, and is now just some sort of Seussian work.
I would also like to add that none of this is based on my own personal experiences. I may have a thorough knowledge of people's lives, but I would never resort to what follows.

Facebook Stalker

By Max Davison

Hey there, do you also think this party’s lame?

I can’t stand watching the same old Beirut game.

I really wish there was something more to do

Maybe if they had a tournament for Taboo?

No fooling! It’s my favorite board game, too! I suppose

The toughest word I ever got was “Axl Rose”

Luckily my teammate’s favorite song is “Paradise City”

The two of us had great chemistry, like Levin and Kitty

Anna Karenina’s your favorite book? What are the odds!

And I read it before Oprah told us it was the novel of the gods.

I was never a big fan of Thursday night book clubs

I’d rather stay in and watch the new episode of “Scrubs.”

I’m glad that I’m making you laugh, and I’m not even trying

Because you either get busy living or get busy dying.

What movie is that from? I’m drawing a blank.

You’re telling me it’s your favorite movie: Shawshank?

So you like Morgan Freeman, Zach Braff and Tolstoy

Let me take a random guess and say you also enjoy

The taste of Coke opposed to Pepsi or Sprite.

And if you don’t mind me saying, this is your lucky night

Because there’s something that I really want you to know

I’m aware of your favorite movies, music and TV show

I know everything in the world that you need

I see it updated daily on your News Feed

I check your profile daily, admiring your status

You’re too good to be true, and that’s hardly a shocker

I’ve wanted to say Hi for awhile, so how do you do?

Pleasure to meet you; I’m your humble Facebook stalker.

That fake marriage of yours threw me off for a while

But your deceptive nature just continued to beguile

I know you have a heart, so I forgive you if you lied

Since you immediately joined a RIP group after Steve Irwin died.

Our political views are both liberal so there will be no drama

And we’re both part of “A Million Strong for Barack Obama.”

Whenever I’m bored, I check out your groups and I scan.

Congrats on joining a couple to donate a dollar to Sudan

It seems like you care about poverty in Africa

Bono’s probably your favorite rocker

No, I’m not a telepath reading your mind

I’m just your modest Facebook stalker

I saw that your friend count just hit three hundred

You’re popular, but not to the extent that I dread

Because I don’t want you to be an ostentatious girl

Who grabs a different guy each weekend for a whirl.

Saw there were some great photos of you from the beach

That purple bikini really shows off your knockers

If you post more shots of you looking like that

You’ll have an army of Facebook stalkers

Why are you walking away? I’m the guy who fits you best

So tomorrow, please don’t reject my friend request!

We’d be perfect together; you’ve got nothing to lose!

We both respect Radiohead and a woman’s right to choose!

Please don’t tell your friends that I’m some kind of shmoe

Especially not your hot friend you met freshman year on W.O.A.

You’re taking out your phone. Are you giving your number to me?

Oh. You’re threatening to call campus security.

I guess that destiny hates me. Our love is not fate.

Cause if it were, we’d be sexiling my roommate

But that’s not going to happen; I struck out on my first pitch

I guess there’s no Facebook category to indicate you’re a bitch.

You say you’re looking for a relationship. Obviously not true.

So it’s hardly my fault. God was I wrong about you!

I know it’s not me, because I’m such a sweet talker.

Fine! Walk away! You’ll never find a more courteous Facebook stalker!

Go with Christ
-MGD

The firebell in the night

I had to go to Pitzer last week to get my final study abroad course form signed. I timed myself and it takes me only 8 minutes 42 seconds of brisk walking to traverse two campuses and get there. I only had to cross Mills and I was already in another world. You would think that 8 minutes wouldn't change your surroundings too much, but it was like I walked through a magical wardrobe or got swept up in a tornado or started tripping on LSD. But this time I didn't see fauns or munchkins or Jim Morrison telling me to shoot everybody (although I did find a dealer within my first two minutes on Pitzer). No, rather I got a lot of weird looks from people dressed like John Lennon before he got shot (read: Urban Outfitters). It's as though Pitzer students have a seventh sense about people like me. Their spidey sense starts tingling and immediately they all think "Voted for Bush! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
But the mere fact that this campus is so different from every other one at Claremont got me thinking: why do they stay in the consortium? I know that it's entirely to boost their sense of accomplishment. These are the students who buy those "THE CLAREMONT COLLEGES" sweatshirts they sell at Huntley. Honestly folks, why would a self respecting CMC student purchase one of those? We're better than the rest of the colleges here, why would you want to be associated with them? Let Scripps and Pitzer students buy them as a way of elevating themselves.
My views on 5C immigration have already been published, but now I've come up with a new tactic. I'm currently taking a class about the road to the Civil War and it got me thinking...Pitzer and the antebellum South have a lot in common. They're both completely different from the rest of the Union. They both think that they're superior to everyone else despite obvious statistical data that they're not. Their input to society can easily be replicated elsewhere (i.e. the West could have produced cotton and does Pitzer really supply the Pomona-Pitzer teams with any credible athletes?). All the South has ever contributed to society was the cotton gin and William Faulkner. Pitzer...not so much. And while I'm not going to insinuate that Pitzer employs slave labor...they DO all vote against the party of Abe Lincoln, so take that as you may.
Long story short, I believe that Pitzer should secede from the Union and get the hell away from the rest of us and marry their attractive cousins.
It would be beneficial for all of us...except for Kyle Salter who's convinced that Pitzer girls are the most attractive. For KSalt and others like him, we can issue a temporary sex visa that lasts 8 hours...12 if you qualify for re-entry. But that will be it. Their dining hall sucks. Their murals look like five year olds threw up on canvas. And that luau they threw during orientation nearly made me want to transfer. And have you ever had a class with Pitzer students? Two ideas that obviously haven't made their way north of 9th street: Military Spending and Showering.
So if you agree, please e-mail me so we can start the crusade.
Thank you, and go with Christ.

By "popular" demand? Up top!

I never thought that I would remotely see the day when people actually asked me to update this shrine to my own ego that some call "a blog." But the impossible happened, and I'm back in blogging business.
The other reason that I've decided to do it is that from now until April 26th, I'm going to have over 60 pages of papers due. (Pause so that all men reading this will say "Wow. What a man!" and so that all women will take pity on me and offer to cuddle). So for the next 4 weeks while I'm twitching due to sleep deprivation and Red Bull overdoses, I'll find more time to get away from James Joyce and Tennyson and start aimlessly ranting about nothing at all.

Kind of like the resurgence of the high five. Recently, Man Law has determined that the high five is going out of style and is overplayed. Jerome Bettis testified that he gave his teammates a high five after the Super Bowl...but he also gave a stranger on the street a high five after he found a great parking spot. Burt Reynolds offered a continuance on the five until a better alternative is found.

Well, I doubt that's ever going to happen because the high five is classic and timeless. Who'd have thought there would be so many nuances to a simple hand slap?
The Todd has demonstrated the full range of potential for the five. The pride of the surgical staff at Sacred Heart Hospital, Todd has blessed the world with such variations as the Miracle Five, Mental Five, Betrayal Five, I Miss You Five, Self Five, Face Five, Tough-Break Five, Hypothetical Five, Assisted Five, Sterile High Five, Air Five, Inflatable Five, Fist Five, Euphemism Five, Breast-Stroke Five, Hot Belly Sex Five, Make-it-Stop Five, Cyber Five, Duct Tape Five, Let's Get Our Last Day On Five, Five Up High For Cherry Pie, Something Might be Wrong Five, Weenie Roast Five, Mind Five, Sterile Five, Skeptical Air Five, and In Trouble Five.

Borat has also done his job to bring the five back from relative obscurity, proving that inopportune moments are perfect for slapping palms.

So if I see you at a party, get ready for a high five. Because whether you just got rejected, hooked up with a "Sunday Morning Facebook Photo" kind of girl, or just bagged a 7 (Claremont Scale equivalent of a 10), I will slap your hand. It may be a soft one, imparting a notion of remorse, or it may be such a high five that you have to ice your palm for the next two days. But no matter how red your hand may be, just remember that the only things more American than a high five are the bacon cheeseburger and Columbus Day.



Oh, and Naomi also asked me to add two fun facts about the state of Georgia. One of which had something to do with the 5th most police brutality, but I really don't remember exactly. You'll understand why when I tell you that the second factoid is that oral sex is illegal in the Peach State. So allow me to recap. General George T. Sherman salted the land and took away the ground's fertility. Ted Turner took away the state's credibility. And now the legislation has taken away the right to mouthification. Just another reason why if I was from Georgia, I would ice myself.