You Gotta Fight for Your Right to the Stairmaster!

by Princess Superstar

I am staring at this really skinny guy in the X-large T-shirt. His eyes are closed and his legs are crossed. Funny, I think, people at the NY Health & Racquet Club don't usually wear X-large T-shirts. Usually it's old guys in "Advil 5K Run" T-shirts, or else old ladies wearing leotards and shiny tights and legwarmers, one of my favorite looks (and I am not being sarcastic). Hmmm, I think, that guy looks like Mike D. But that guy is doing yoga. NO WAY that's Mike D doing yoga!! Well, my friends, that's Mike D doing yoga. His legs are crossed and he's doing this funny breathing thing. "Rock the Bells" is going really loud in my walkman (I'm doing leglifts, really attractive) and I turn up the music even louder. STOP IT, MIKE D!! C'MON, SING ABOUT DOIN' DUST! PLEASE! I send a mental message, but I think he is too far gone. All I can think about is being 16 and seeing the Beastie Boys dumping champagne on sluts in cages . Maybe if I had a sack Îo White Castles and some Brass Monkey I could wave it all under his nose and he would become Mike D again. Oh god what is this world coming to?

I joined The NY Health & Racquet Club last year after scoring an $80 membership through my job. I was particularly excited about this club as opposed to, say, Crunch, because while Crunch had all the good-looking actors/advertising execs/waitresses/whatevers with thongs up their asses, MY new club only had old boring people with money. This meant I could go to the gym reeking of cigarette smoke, half asleep and wearing a ripped T-shirt (that also served as a nightgown the night before), and not have to worry about a thing. I'm sorry but when you're jumpin' around in aerobics class doing moves you wouldn't be caught dead doing even in the privacy of your own home (for those of you in the know, one word: grapevine!) the last thing you want is people you know watching you through that little glass window. And conversely, the last thing you want to see is people you know doing that shit. So imagine the absolute horror of seeing a respected idol, one who has enjoyed the fine reputation of bein' baaaaad, doing something as pussy as yoga?

You would think it couldn't get any worse, but then Mike D walked onto the treadmill next to mine. My ass was bouncing up and down from the impact of running on the treadmill — like bouncing in 10 different directions. My hair was really dirty, and it doesn't get oily, you know? It gets dry and split and looks like a blonde Buckwheat. My eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. On top of that, and definitely worst of all, I was doing that annoying thing of mouthing the words to the song in my walkman and staring at every aspect of my person in the mirror while I was running. The song you may ask? FUCKING "Sure Shot." Yeah, I was wishing to just die right there and then. Aha, gentle reader, but then Mike D started up the treadmill. And I haven't been able to listen to "Sure Shot" since. It wasn't like he was a bad runner or anything, but watching the great Mike Dâs spindly legs running really fast in oversized shorts like a 12 year old in PE class just kinda ruined the whole hallowed concept of the Beastie Boys.

THEN, Mike D ventured into the exercise room where I was stretching. Could I not get any peace? And, playing in my walkman was "Hold It Now, Hit It." I had a 90 minute hiphop mix tape with only two Beastie Boys songs and some marvelous god decided that they should play precisely when I am watching one of my favorite rock stars doing weird jerky arm stretches in the mirror. I suppose the overwhelmingness of it all compelled me to open my mouth. It came out almost in slow motion... "Hey, I'm listening to you right now!" As soon as it came out, I was transported to those good old days of high school perennial dorkdom. GODDAMN it, what was wrong with me? "I suppose it's better than me listening to it," he smiled back. "Uh-huhh huuhh," my laugh was like Beavis', as I thought about how I listen to my band's music sometimes when I exerciseyou know, to make sure the mixes are OK. (James, here is where you insert, "yeah, right.") "Oh," I said "I suppose that could be embarrassing." Boy was I cool. So now I felt like the biggest asshole in front of a rock star that was doing weird jerky arm stretches in the mirror. MIKE D, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GYM!!

Just a little end note: The next blow came when I was on the ass machine. The one where you have to lift your leg really far behind your butt — well let's just say it's not very pretty. And sure enough, in walks Russell Simmons, the drummer from the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, one of my most favorite drummers. He had on sweatpants, an oversize T-shirt and an oversize belly and was looking around at the equipment, obviously new to the gym. I must now silently pray that Russell Simmons will not be in my step class. Who's next — Iggy, my punk rock idol? Oh wait, I think he belongs to Crunch.