If You See Me Looking Fit, Be Very Afraid

Paul Newman's death played across the television screens while I was doing some cardio (as we physical culturists call it) at a gym in Shepherd's Bush. Last year, Ingmar Bergman's death was announced under similar circumstances.

American newsman Tim Russert's untimely demise was revealed during my workout some months back. And years ago, I was on or near a stationary bike when Orson Welles' death came across the airwaves he once terrorized with tales of an invasion from Mars.

The deaths aren't fast and furious enough for me to be absolutely certain there's a connection. Not like in the early '90s, when an old movie star died every time I went to Pioneer Chicken.

I think Garbo's death was the last straw. I never again went into a Pioneer Chicken. (Couldn't chance it.)

Even after all or most of the locations were taken over by Popeye's, I stayed away from them 'cause I love those old movie stars. What if the change in branding hadn't changed things? Was it worth losing another of our greats for me to find out? (I've more recently made tentative visits to New York Popeye's but they were never Pioneer Chicken outlets and going to them seems to be safe.)

Once, a friend came to my L.A. apartment with some chicken from Popeye's. I wasn't even sure it was one that used to be a Pioneer and as far as I knew, no one, except perhaps the person who ate it, had ever died from Pioneer/Popeye's take-away chicken, but as I ate it, I was more than a little scared.

Went to the gym again yesterday. Don't think I offed anybody.

But if you see me near a cross-trainer, treadmill or recumbent bike, please, I beg of you, stop me before I kill again.