Hollywood's new generation of superheroes aren't so much entertaining me as shaming me.
Enough, I was shocked to discover, that I felt compelled to do something about it.
by Shane Mitchell My husband, Bronson, thinks I swear too much.
That's why he presents me with a shellacked-cedar cuss bank at Luray Caverns in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley.
Sure, I haven't worked out in more than two years and eat like a person who hasn't worked out in more than two years, but if Rudd—who has always appeared to be the same slouchy, undefined mass as I am—can play a six-packed Ant-Man, then I must be able to as well.
I figured there must be a Hollywood trainer who specializes in the Geek-to-Superhero Workout.
Now, somehow, these funny schlubs have transformed into the shredded, shirtless muscleheads that guys like me are supposed to mock, fear, and envy, all at the same time.Now that winter's finally over, it's time to put the top down and hit the open road.We've got the car keys to terrific trips all across the country and our quick itineraries make it easy to find a drive and destination that's right for you.( In goes a quarter.) Once a year, we load up the Honda, bribe our black Lab, Diva, into the rear, and drive 500 miles south from New York to Charlottesville, Virginia, for an agrarian refresher.It's an exhausting slog, dodging semis until we hit the Old Dominion state line.