Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Style

Trebay may not be breaking new ground here, but his writing snaps, crackles, and pops. Case(s) in point:

...the onetime male porn star, the guy with the bloated Popeye muscles and nipples so distended they resemble elevator buttons: Floor please!

...

With a low-double-digit body-fat ratio and a pectoral shelf that brings to mind the busts on Mount Rushmore...

...

The value of spending a full day inside a gym is that it gives one the opportunity to survey a rich gallery of human types: the male gymbots with their proud bosoms and stick legs, the flesh mountains, the solitary ponytailed hippie who passes hours leisurely pedaling a recumbent bike while meandering through "Within a Budding Grove," the aging rockers with taut bodies and faces like Salvador Dalí clocks, the young men and women — New York University students, at a guess — in the first flush of adulthood, their flesh firm, their carriages still limber because the ravages of serial hangover, student loan terror and mortgage payments for closet size co-ops have not yet made inroads on their faces and physiques.

...

Clearly it is no longer just women who are plagued with body-image paranoia. If the widely trumpeted feminization of men has demonstrated anything, it is that the world is now a place where all are free to obsess about belly bumps, crepey knees or the cruel Newtonian joke that gravity eventually makes of everyone's aging rump.

Okay, I'll stop. Read for yourself.

Man, what I wouldn't give for a bowlful of Kelloggs. Cocoa, and not these.

Posted by princess kanomanom @ 1:20 PM