Subcultures of a Staten Island Gym-Part I-Rage Against the Juiceheads

As long as there are gyms on Staten Island, MTV will always find the stereotypical Staten Island "meathead" (If you get the All In The Family reference), oops "juicehead". Gyms on Staten Island are pretty hysterical if you are bold enough to put aside the fact that you are a weak, girly man and have zero expectations to achieve "juicehead" greatness. I'm confident in this statement and will boldly address the Staten Island gym subculture that makes life on Staten Island a humorous experience for us three-digit IQ people.

I started frequenting a gym in 2003 after Ava was born. Michelle stayed home, allowing me to work out in the early morning hours each day I could drag myself out of a warm bed. I went to New York Sports Club, then the JCC and now I frequent Synergy, a 24 hour gym located on Richmond Hill Road, about five minutes from Levine Manor. I joined early in the school year and soon after Michelle followed me into the belly of the beast. Michelle is partly a ghost writer for this blog as two, not one, Levines rage against the gym to provide you, the reader, with the subcultures who frequent these socialization centers found all over the motherland.

First Subculture: The Juicehead. These people you can not miss. Stevie Wonder can't miss these people. They are enormous. They have product in their hair. Their eyebrows are well-manicured. They have a multitude of piercings. (Come on Juiceboy, eight earrings? I waited until I was 18 to even get one and my father went to criticize it by calling me Elton John. I proceeded to have the hole close.) They have tattoos, some have a plethora of them, but the similar characteristic of the juicehead is the South Pacific tribal tattoo that make these steroid-taking monkeys brethren of Troy Polamalu or The Rock. Many of these "animals" have the sleeve tattoo that takes up their arm or leg. They can lift fourteen times their own weight. They grunt and have more vanity then a beauty pageant contestant. I'm psyched to finish a set of ten chest presses (140 lbs without juice) or lat pulldowns (100 lbs.) but I never go over to the mirror and check myself out. The Juicehead does either with or without his fellow man. I never criticize the juicehead to their face, I have the blog, but when these testosterone-run-amuck shmucks look three times at the same muscle, I quote my friend Ross Goodfellow, who would say, "I'm seriously cracking up in your face." However much I laugh, Staten Island girls (whom I affectionately call the Snookies) with IQs no higher than Sean Penn's character in I Am Sam flock to them as if they have tidbits of intellectual knowledge. When you are huge, brains are secondary and to see the mating call of a juicehead-you need a strong stomach and commentary from Marlon Perkins (again, I'm dating myself, so Google him) to appreciate the vanity and to accept the fact that these people are just part of the weirdos that make the rest of the world stereotype the people of Shao Lin as half-brained idiots, which we are not.

Its 9:30, I'm tired, I had an interesting day and will post another subculture soon. To my wife, thank you for helping me sort out the genus and species of the people who frequent our gym and make Staten Island like no place on Earth.