... you'll find it at the Y.M.C.A.

There's some stuff the Village People didn't mention about the YMCA.

It is certainly true that it is a place you can go when you're short on your dough (relatively short, compared to the new young men in town who can afford memberships at private gyms) and it is by all means a place where you can hang out with all the boys (having either a hetero or homosexual agenda), who are in turn being enjoyed by the men (this is not a lyrical misinterpretation). Most importantly, there ARE many ways to have a good time. Observed first hand, these are some of the ways that good times can be had at the downtown Montreal YMCA.



Be nude, station yourself just inside the women's locker room, and start chattin' about arthritis.

Load the thigh machine with the minimum 50lbs, position yourself in the machine correctly ... And take a nap for upwards of 20 minutes.

Place towel and/or water bottle on the only hamstring machine. This is now your personal bench for relaxation and all other desired purposes throughout the duration of your gym session. Gaze at yourself in the mirror, flex occasionally. Pick up the skipping rope and appear as if you intend to use it. Don't. Sit back down on the bench. NEVER use machine for intended purpose.

Hang out with all the boys ... Whether or not you would like to. You grab a medicine ball ... So does the boy. You find a place on the mats to stretch, and the boy finds a place beside you. You book treadmill number 6, the boy books treadmill number 7 and so on.

Have excessive, extensive cellulite? Wear brightly coloured lycra with loud patterns and use the stair master.

“Stretch” on the mats facing the glass-walled yoga studio (only applies to lurking men 50+).

Misread treadmill booking chart. Approach heavily sweating, heavily breathing user on treadmill of choice, and insist that their booking is up. Persist until they stop the machine and get off to show you that they actually still have 8 minutes left. Slouch off. Repeat.

You're a man? You have long, luscious locks? Said locks are grey beyond the point of denoting sexual prowess? Let them flow free and lope around the indoor running track, ogling the women on the stair masters and flexing as you pass. You are Fabio. You are Don Juan. You are the Harlequin hero of the everywoman.

Wash your gym clothes in the shower and dry them with a blow dryer. Create a locker room lake and wet the socks of those changing nearby.

Be the lone man in a posse of no less than 8 women on the elliptical trainers. Wear short jean shorts, pull socks up to knees.



Times have changed a great deal since that song was released. Firstly, the YMCA that the Village People wrote about was not a gym. Secondly, it was not co-ed. Finally, it was run for and organized by Christians. Despite this much of the same youthful optimism remains – You can still have a good time and, apparently, do whatever you feel. Sensibilities of other patrons aside.