Oh, you can keep your froufrou gyms, your pantywaisted health clubs. Go soak your head in the Jacuzzi. Pull up to the juice bar and take your slug of wheatgrass. Go ride your stationary bike, 'cause you ain't goin' nowhere. Yeah, sport, just wrap yourself in a freshly laundered, club-provided terry-cloth towel and leave us the hell alone. We're over at Doug's, sweating our asses off in the middle of summer and freezing our nuts off come February 2; we ain't got no time for such luxuries as air conditioning. We come here to do one thing: get ripped, baby, pumped to the pecs. Doug Eidd, owner of this joint since Jack Ruby was a free man, has no patience for the namby-pambies of your more expensive gyms; this is bare bones, man, down to the sinew. Doug trains with the counsel of the elders and the patience of the divine, as both men and women who care only about getting fit hang here and endure the regime he will design solely for you. Weight lifting, boxing, jumping rope--it's simple, and yet so danged tough. We're still not sure if we're exercising or enduring ritualistic torture--really, who in 2002 tosses the medicine ball, save for us dopes--but we like the way we look; so do the ladies. Well, not really. But they will, damn it. Oh, they will. Won't they?