Times were when a gym was a gym. You know what I mean. Real Rocky Balboa stuff. Crappy old brick building; overhead pipes; lead weights scattered everywhere; dried blood and wet sweat on the all-canvas floor. No windows, 100% humidity, and a bunch of tough guys banging weights and slapping each other around in the boxing ring-there was always a boxing ring . (Not that I have ever set foot in one of those places, but at least that's what I was told.......). And there weren't that many of them. In those days, people got their exercise by actual work. The idea of going to a gym to "work out" would be ludicrous and alien to a guy like my dad, who busted ass every day and felt absolutely no desire to work up any more sweat after having done it all day long. Anyway, the boomers got fat and sloppy, working as many of us do in jobs where the most strenuous thing we do all day is hurl complaints, climb a career ladder, and pummel a keyboard. Of course, we think we deserve to live forever to eternally enjoy that new Jeep Cherokee and special Starbucks blend, so we have to make up for lost time by going to the gym of the nineties, the health club. In these places normally recognizable and familiar people morph into creatures of astonishing ego and comic relief. Here are the main classes of health club rats:

The Grunter: This guy (it's always a guy) needs everyone to know he is working harder than you. He does this by constantly grunting at the approximate decibel level and tonal quality of a rutting Hippo. Sample sounds: "GRRRRAAAAAAHHHHHH". "UUUUUUHHHHHHH".

Sometimes his office homies have a cheering section, shouting things like "PUMP IT, ADAM!" and "NO PAIN NO GAIN, TROY !!".

The Pretty Boy: You'd think this type would be women, who are commendably more concerned about their appearance than your average pig-man. But, no. It is no accident that in most health clubs every available square inch of wall space is covered with mirrors. This type is always looking in a mirror. Always. Yes, yes, the only reason for this is to improve one's weight-lifting technique and not injure a muscle by improper curling and pressing. Uh-huh. You will never find one nanosecond this person is not lovingly staring into his own eyes, no doubt saying to himself, "Yes, you're a stud. A real stud. Stud, stud, stud. A Studley man.....". Hey, those of us who need to go to the gym avoid mirrors like a vampire, or Janet Reno.

The Babe: Here she comes, just a-walkin' down the street......and into the health club, wearing a skimpy, skin tight, spandex, low-cleavage, thong-thingie. She will be the very first to complain about the Troglodytes whose gaze lasts more than two seconds.

Babe the Pig: The Babe's opposite, this creature has more skin folds than Jabba The Hut. Just realized that mixing Slim Fast with Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Gut Surprise ain't making it. Total workout consists of lifting one leg onto a stair-stepper, then running to the car for another snickerdoodle.

The Geezer: Really disgusting. I'm sorry, but these people are shedding bodily exudates, hair, boogers, skin cells, old-person funk, and God-knows-what-else at a frightening rate. Which wouldn't be so bad, except this type congregates in the pool, steam room, and hot tub, where these discarded and pissed-off organic life forms will coalesce and breed and enter your pores and lungs and turn you into a nursing home resident. This is serious, people.

The Inspiration: Yes, as much as I hate to admit, it ain't all bad. There are some people who are twice as old as me who are just amazing. They seem to live at the health club. They're there when you arrive and there when you leave, all the while keeping up a killer pace on the most difficult machines. They maintain a focused, almost frantic thousand-yard stare that must mean they're running from something. I don't want to know from what.

The Know-Nothing: Usually one of the employees (excuse me, 'personal trainers') but not necessarily, these folks think they know everything about fitness and how to properly use the machines. Don't you bet on it.

And, speaking of the machines......What in hell is the deal with these new Nautilus contraptions? They're just weights, for the love of Arnie, configured in space-age design and wrapped in plastic. Supposed to give the impression that NASA science has found a way to buff your stuff without lifting those awful lead barbell things.

See you at the gym. Don't shed on me.