BEAUTIFUL BODIES IN GLENDALE
Written by
Irene L. Hause
Muscle Mag International, Spring 1977
“Everyone should see at least one,” said Mike Armstrong, the Bob Hope USO Club’s very nice, very sexy, soft-spoken new Assistant Director, as he ripped the Southern California AAU Physique Championship information sheet off his bulletin board and handed it to me.
I looked over the blue mimeographed paper which listed everything from qualifications to entry fees to individual body parts to be judged. A poorly detailed map of how to get to Glendale College Auditorium was sketched at the top of the page.
“You know,” I said, “I took an ‘ag class’ in college that included cattle judging.”
“Then you ought to do quite well at the competition,” Mike replied with a smile. “We’re all just a bunch of body parts up on that stage posing for the judges.”
“You guys must look really cute up there in your bikinis!”
“POSING TRUNKS, not bikinis! POSING TRUNKS!” Mike laughed.

Even though Glendale College is only about 15 minutes from my house, I got lost. I finally found a sign that said “To Parking for Visitors and Deliveries” and wended my way up a dark hillside road that looked none too promising. But indeed there was a parking lot on top of the hill, and I drove in. When I saw the hulking, muscular bodies walking around with T-shirts casually tossed over them—minus coats despite the chilly evening—I assumed I’d found the place. So I parked and followed the T-shirts for what seemed like blocks of walking around corners, past buildings, and outdoor tables until we reached a line. If there is a line, a Southern Californian will stand in it. I knew I was in the right one when I saw an 81⁄2” x 11” poster of muscle men taped by a door.
Having paid $4 to get in, I wasn’t about to sit in the middle or back where the empty seats were, so I played musical chairs in the finest tradition, as learned from my retired neighbor Edith who used to go to dozens of TV show tapings, and I worked my way up to the end of the second row, just in front of a reserved seats rope.
I sat down in my fake glacial mink and leather coat and tried to look regal and important enough so I wouldn’t get thrown out. The seat next to me was empty, and I was backed by guys in their early 20s, and a couple seats away from me one lone girl was intently reading a paperback novel. As I looked around, I figured most of the crowd for college jocks who hung around gyms a lot.

Photographers with all sizes and shapes of cameras were maneuvering for positions in front of the stage, and there were a lot of preparatory comings and goings on stage. The clean stage contrasted sharply with the extremely dusty piano streaked with a big arm mark and the haphazard stack of dirty boards shoved to one side of the orchestra pit. And there seemed to be an incredible amount of talk about jails, cops, reform schools, probation officers, and prison terms going on around me.
The audience grew noisier and more restless as the starting time came and went. There were intermittent spurts of “let’s get the show on the road” clapping. A guy in his early 20s plopped down next to me, whipped out a hairbrush, turned his head, and proceeded to brush his long, dry hair in my face. He and the girl with the paperback and another guy talked and drank spiked soft drinks out of pop-top cans.
Finally MC Jim Morris, a former Mr. America, appeared and lost no time getting the Novice Mr. Los Angeles Physique Championship contestants on stage. Most of them looked like strippers with stage fright.
“OK, fellows, a quarter-turn to your left!” Some turned left, some turned right, some stood still, some looked around frantically to see which way the other contestants had decided was left.
“OK, another quarter-turn to your left!” Repeat performance. Audience laughter and derogatory remarks. The fellow next to me with the hairbrush asked me for matches. I had some.
“All right, men. File off stage, and we’ll continue with the individual posing.” Each man went through his paces, some to much applause, others to very little. I guessed that the amount of applause was directly correlated to the size of the contingent from the represented gym. Mr. Hairbrush apologized for grabbing my leg instead of his soda can on the floor. It didn’t even bother me.
There was quite a variation in muscles and posing skill in the novice group. I watched the muscles flex and reflex at different angles, all so neatly staged on a small individual posing platform with the beige stage curtains drawn to the edge, with just the right lighting and dramatic crescendos of recorded Victory-at-Sea type music enveloping each poser.
Mr. Hairbrush turned to me. “Are you alone? My brother here wants to know if he can sit by you. He just got out of jail.” Nothing fazed me that night.
“Sure,” I said.
A quick scrambling of bodies changing seats. “I’m on furlough from the Federal Correctional Institution. I’m not violent.” The words rushed out in one long streak. “I just want to talk to you. My name is Sam. Do you have a name? I have to go back to jail as soon as this is over. I’m in a bodybuilding program there, and I have a clean record, so they let me and some other guys come down here for this.” Sam was a pretty good-looking guy, giddy with sudden freedom and spiked soda.
The novice posing continued, the audience was noisy, and Sam went on.
“Are you shocked I’m on furlough from prison?”
“No, just that you’re so open about it.”
“Did you come here alone?”
“This guy I know asked me to come see him.”
“Is he up there yet?”
“No.”
“Well, he probably got eliminated in the afternoon prejudging. How old are you?”
“32.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“25.”
“27.”
On and on with questions and answers. Sam had been sentenced 20 years for armed robbery.
“And now we have the Over 40 Southern California Physique Championship,” the MC announced. I thought the men looked damn good. Sam remarked that he thought there was something wrong with any guy that age interested in bodybuilding.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“At the Gerontology Research Institute at the University of Southern California. We study aging.” Silence. “Our motto is ‘Use it or lose it.’”
Intermission. I needed a break from questions and answers. I excused myself and went to the restroom.
After intermission the crowd settled down to some serious muscle gazing. The mammoth black man in the cinnamon-colored turtleneck sweater with sleeves that could barely contain his arms who had been sitting in front of me appeared on stage as a guest poser. The stage lights reflected off his well-oiled body revealing for all the world to see why Dave Johns had been chosen 1974 Junior Mr. USA and 1976 Mr. Western USA.
Then the second MC, the great-looking weightlifter John Barzacchini, wearing a dark green custom-made suit, announced the Junior Southern California Physique Contest as the row of contestants marched on stage. Juniors were entrants who hadn’t previously won that or a higher junior contest.
“There’s Mike” I hollered.
“Where?” Sam asked sharply.
“The guy just to left of center in the black trunks!”
“You mean the one with the black hair?” he said, indicating a none-too-handsome fellow.
“No!! The one with the mustache!”
“Oh.” Pause. “He looks pretty good,” Sam conceded. I agreed wholeheartedly, but I don’t think Sam and I were looking at Mike in exactly the same light.
The crowd was really turned on to this group. None of the stumbling or hesitation trying to decide what constituted a quarter-turn to the left. Just gorgeous bodies smoothly going through the group posing phase. The guys in the row behind me were quite impressed with what they saw on stage.
“Wow, that guy on the end must have at least 20” biceps!”
“Look at those thighs! Must be at least 28”!”
“Yeah, but look at that other guy’s chest. At least 52”!”
Sam stayed a little quieter during this event, but not much. “How come you aren’t married? How come your hair is so short? Do girls really go for all those muscles? Is that guy up there your boyfriend? Do you live alone? Do you like animals?”
Barzacchini announced that Jim Torres would be competing in his warm-up trunks because he was a Viet Nam vet who had lost his right leg below the knee. Torres received thunderous applause, much of it for his courage from those of us who wondered if we’d dare to continue had it happened to us.
I absolutely refused to let Sam distract me during Mike’s individual posing. “And from Gold’s Gym in Venice, Mike Armstrong!” Loud cheers. If Southern California is the physique center of the world, Gold’s Gym is the epicenter. Mike looked like a bronze Venice Beach god as he went through his varied poses and turns, much more gracefully than most. Even Sam admitted he’d probably win a trophy.
Sam told me that the last two guys in the group were from the prison. “That guy up there now can bench press 390 pounds, but he’s got no symmetry.” The contest continued, the turning, posing, flexing, theatrically complemented by the swells of classical music overlaid with the crowd’s remarks about body dimensions and posing skills and Sam’s questions.
Trophies were awarded in this division, and Mike walked away with third place. “See,” Sam said, “I told you he’d win something!”
Next on stage was guest poser Eddie Giuliani, 1975 Mr. World (short class). What a poser! The audience responded to each quiver, each ripple, and each turn with cheers and applause that bulged each muscle even more. What a ham! I loved it!
Giuliani was followed by the final contest of the evening, the Senior Southern California category. These contestants included only those men who had won certain junior level contests, with juniors permitted to compete in the senior contest for body parts.
Some of the spectators were still shouting at MC John Barzacchini about the allegedly prejudiced choices made in earlier events. Mike was again on stage, quarter-turning to the left, in the group posing.
Again awed comments came from the row behind me. “Look at that guy! Can you even believe that chest?”
“Yeah, but the one in the black trunks has better muscle definition.”
The contestants walked off stage in preparation for individual posing. A blond-haired fellow who’d been in the novice competition quietly slipped out from behind the curtains and whispered something to the MC.
The crowd was very intent on the individual senior posing. Lots of applause, comments, sounds of admiration for the well-built bods. Sam kept nervously looking at his watch, knowing that he’d be returning to jail as soon as it ended.
Mike looked like a work of art up there. My dancing teacher Toni would have loved his graceful, yet individually defined, movements as he smoothly went from one pose to another. I learned that Sam worked in a shop that printed government forms, that the only reason he robbed the bank was that he hung out with a rich crowd and he couldn’t stand being the only one without money, and that he wouldn’t be eligible for parole for another three and a half years.
A real crowd-pleaser, Ron Bourque from Pasadena, came on stage. At 210 pounds, he was bigger than most of the other contestants. His face was filled with a huge jack-o’-lantern grin, and a hint of arrogance glimmered in his eyes as he flexed and turned, flexed and turned, each cell of his fantastically muscled body soaking up the adulation of the crowd. Oh, I loved it!
Finally it was all over. The camera shutters clicked furiously, and Mike was holding a trophy for best abdominals in the show, Jim Torres won a special, much applauded award for courage and bravery, and Ron Bourque reigned as the 1976 Mr. Senior Southern California.
Sam wanted to know if he could walk me to my car. I hesitated. Armed robbery didn’t bother me that much at the moment, but three and a half years away from women did.
“I suppose you have to wait for Mike,” he said.
I picked up my cue. “Oh, yes, that’s right!” Little did Sam need to know that Mike wasn’t even aware I was there.
So I played the game. I stationed myself by the stage door, right next to where I’d been sitting, where most of the men were exiting the backstage area. Lots of men, but no Mike. He’d probably taken another exit. I’d at least wanted to offer my congratulations. One of the guys told me he hadn’t seen him backstage. Just as I was turning to leave, Mike appeared, happy, exhausted, heady and dazed with excitement, duffel bag in one hand and a trophy tucked under each arm.
He looked at me with surprise, his face broke into a warm smile, and he said, “You really came! You really did!”
I walked over and gave him a big hug and kiss and said, “Congratulations! When’s the next contest?”
—end—