It's late, and everyone's asleep. We'll have to be quiet or they'll hear us. I want to tell you something.
Just got back from walking the dog. It's fucking cold out there. I had my pajamas on and the wind would tear through the bottoms and sting my legs. Bo seemed impervious, and he was annoyed when I pulled him to come back.
Back inside the house, I kept my coat and hat on as I shivered off the cold, giving the dog a treat for having the decency to save his waste for outside. His reaction was neutral, hungry for the snack but yearning for the meat treats instead of the peanut butter biscuits. He scampered away. I could hear him plop down and start munching feet from Cathy as she slept. The white noise machine, the antidote to my snoring and apnea, mostly drowned him out.
I sat here for a while, knowing I really wanted to say something, but not sure what it was. I knew you don't want to hear all my really deep thoughts, I barely even care about them myself. They seem like perpetual distractions to the business of living, a constant annoyance.
It's okay, you don't have to tell me you care, you might wake someone up.
When it's this cold, it makes you ache in your soul. It makes me glad I don't live in New Hampshire anymore. If it's cold in Boston, it's insanely fucking cold up in Milan. It was so cold there, I used to be happy to see the school bus coming.
On nights like these, when we're the only ones still awake, it's tempting to tell you all my secrets, to unburden myself of things only I know. But there's not much to tell, only trifling things that are of little interest and could cause awkwardness when we meet again in the bright light of day.
I know you're thinking that I should share with you, that it won't change anything. That you can be trusted.
I'm sure you can, but we're simple animals, we're programmed to behave a certain way. Just like how if I had taken Bo's biscuit away before he had finished it, he would have growled at me in an unexpected show of aggression.
But I guess I have to share at least one secret with you. It is late, after all, and we're the only ones still awake. And you have been very quiet.
Wait. I can hear Cathy stirring. If she gets up, she'll want to know what we're talking about. I better not tell you now. I'm going to try and sneak into bed. You'll have to leave as quietly as you can.
Be careful, the front door squeaks.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Christmas at My Mother's House
It's a little after nine in the evening when we pull into the driveway. The porch lights are on. I let our dog, Bo, out of the back seat and take him around the yard. In the dim light I can barely make out his stream of urine melting the snow, leaving a bright yellow hole.
My wife, Cathy, coming down with a cold, lingers in the car. Bo and I climb the stairs of the porch, and I wrestle with the two doors to let him inside. My mother stands in the yellow light of the kitchen, and breaks into a warm smile. She's seventy now, her hair salt and pepper. I can smell cigarette smoke. For the rest of the visit, she will do her best to smoke discreetly, sneaking out the the sun porch, but the time we get home our clothes will still smell.
She's wearing a bathrobe as she often does, but this is a different one. For as far back as I can remember, she wore a dark blue robe. When I was small she would hug me and sway when I was upset, and I would get lost in the folds and warmth.
Cathy comes in soon after, and we smile and talk. Cathy and I talk about the previous two days at Cathy's parents, and my mother tells about her visit to my brother. My brother had come to pick her up on Christmas Eve, and they had just returned shortly before our arrival. My mother is physically capable of driving but rarely does because of paralyzing anxiety. She only leaves the house when she has to.
In the living room, the television is on, tuned to Fox News. I will be doing my best to ignore it for the next couple of days, and I hope that Cathy and Ma won't argue over politics. For the moment, all is well as we sit around the dining room table catching up.
There is no tree or decorations. The entire family used to gather for Christmas at my grandmother's farm, and the house was full of decorations, presents, and people. Some years as many as twenty people would cram into the kitchen for the holiday meal. When Nan died, so did the our family traditions. Everyone does their own thing now. My mother chooses to mostly ignore Christmas.
As we sit and talk, the topics become melancholic. My mother is lonely, but trapped by her anxieties. She talks fondly of Christmases past, and glances to the present only with resignation. As we always do, Cathy and I will later talk about what we can do to help, but there's nothing that can be done. Every offer will be refused, every suggestion ignored.
As I lie in bed that night, I feel the weight of my inability to help, and I ponder what I can do to save my mother from herself. I have no answers.
The rest of the visit is pleasant, though tinged with sadness. I can still see my mother's strength and spirit beneath her sorrow. She was always calm, wise, and stoic, one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. While my grandmother was the emotional center of the family, it was my mother's strength that protected us. But now she was lost and without purpose, her fears no longer reined in by necessity.
When we leave, my emotions are mixed. I'm ready to get away from the sadness and cigarette smoke, but I ache with guilt for feeling that way. Once, Ma held me in the warmth of her blue bathrobe, and when she swayed the problems of the world faded. The bathrobe is gone now, as are so many things.
My wife, Cathy, coming down with a cold, lingers in the car. Bo and I climb the stairs of the porch, and I wrestle with the two doors to let him inside. My mother stands in the yellow light of the kitchen, and breaks into a warm smile. She's seventy now, her hair salt and pepper. I can smell cigarette smoke. For the rest of the visit, she will do her best to smoke discreetly, sneaking out the the sun porch, but the time we get home our clothes will still smell.
She's wearing a bathrobe as she often does, but this is a different one. For as far back as I can remember, she wore a dark blue robe. When I was small she would hug me and sway when I was upset, and I would get lost in the folds and warmth.
Cathy comes in soon after, and we smile and talk. Cathy and I talk about the previous two days at Cathy's parents, and my mother tells about her visit to my brother. My brother had come to pick her up on Christmas Eve, and they had just returned shortly before our arrival. My mother is physically capable of driving but rarely does because of paralyzing anxiety. She only leaves the house when she has to.
In the living room, the television is on, tuned to Fox News. I will be doing my best to ignore it for the next couple of days, and I hope that Cathy and Ma won't argue over politics. For the moment, all is well as we sit around the dining room table catching up.
There is no tree or decorations. The entire family used to gather for Christmas at my grandmother's farm, and the house was full of decorations, presents, and people. Some years as many as twenty people would cram into the kitchen for the holiday meal. When Nan died, so did the our family traditions. Everyone does their own thing now. My mother chooses to mostly ignore Christmas.
As we sit and talk, the topics become melancholic. My mother is lonely, but trapped by her anxieties. She talks fondly of Christmases past, and glances to the present only with resignation. As we always do, Cathy and I will later talk about what we can do to help, but there's nothing that can be done. Every offer will be refused, every suggestion ignored.
As I lie in bed that night, I feel the weight of my inability to help, and I ponder what I can do to save my mother from herself. I have no answers.
The rest of the visit is pleasant, though tinged with sadness. I can still see my mother's strength and spirit beneath her sorrow. She was always calm, wise, and stoic, one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. While my grandmother was the emotional center of the family, it was my mother's strength that protected us. But now she was lost and without purpose, her fears no longer reined in by necessity.
When we leave, my emotions are mixed. I'm ready to get away from the sadness and cigarette smoke, but I ache with guilt for feeling that way. Once, Ma held me in the warmth of her blue bathrobe, and when she swayed the problems of the world faded. The bathrobe is gone now, as are so many things.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Excuse Me, Sir, But Your Pants Are Falling Off
Riding home on the bus, and some kid is sitting there with his pants hanging down low enough that it looks like he's taking a dump. I watch him get off the bus, holding his pants up. (What else do they have keeping them up if they're under his ass?)
This is fashion? This is what someone considers to be a good idea?
This has me rethinking my staid opinions on clothing. Perhaps I need to take my look in an exciting new direction. Underwear over my pants, perhaps? Or I could try a shirt 3 sizes too big. (Or 3 sizes too small. Genius!) Maybe I'll wear my pants backward. (Oh right, that one's been done. Kriss Kross will make you jump jump.)
No need to stop with clothing. How about the one eyebrow look? Not just for the guy that passed out at the party first anymore! (Whoever just made the crack about my mono-brow: fuck you.) How about shaving all facial hair except what's on my neck? Gross, you say? Awesome, I say.
Now, I'm no fan of couture fashion, or being part of the hive mind. I don't buy clothes every year to keep up with trends, and I'm not too concerned about what people think of how I look. But wearing your pants so low you have to hold them up? That's neither stylish nor smart in any way. It really has no redeeming qualities at all.
Except to say, I'm a complete fucking moron, laugh at me!
Congratulations, sir, mission accomplished.
This is fashion? This is what someone considers to be a good idea?
This has me rethinking my staid opinions on clothing. Perhaps I need to take my look in an exciting new direction. Underwear over my pants, perhaps? Or I could try a shirt 3 sizes too big. (Or 3 sizes too small. Genius!) Maybe I'll wear my pants backward. (Oh right, that one's been done. Kriss Kross will make you jump jump.)
No need to stop with clothing. How about the one eyebrow look? Not just for the guy that passed out at the party first anymore! (Whoever just made the crack about my mono-brow: fuck you.) How about shaving all facial hair except what's on my neck? Gross, you say? Awesome, I say.
Now, I'm no fan of couture fashion, or being part of the hive mind. I don't buy clothes every year to keep up with trends, and I'm not too concerned about what people think of how I look. But wearing your pants so low you have to hold them up? That's neither stylish nor smart in any way. It really has no redeeming qualities at all.
Except to say, I'm a complete fucking moron, laugh at me!
Congratulations, sir, mission accomplished.
Monday, November 2, 2009
"There ain't no devil, there's just God when He's drunk." - Heartattack and Vine
I resign myself to the fact that everything I have to say has already been said better by Tom Waits. (Full disclosure, I really mean Tom Waits and his wife, as they've been a songwriting team for over twenty years, but I hear his voice in my head. And his older stuff was all just him.)
Who else could cram so much pathos in three lines?
"It's a battered old suitcase
In a hotel someplace,
And a wound that would never heal."
- Waltzing Matilda
Shit. I couldn't convey that in an hour long drunken ramble.
How about these gems:
"They all pretend they're orphans,
And their memory's like a train.
You can see it getting smaller as it pulls away."
- Time
"You haven't looked at me that way in years,
But I'm still here"
- I'm Still Here
"I will leave behind all of my clothes,
I wore when I was with you.
All I need's my railroad boots,
And my leather jacket,
As I say goodbye to Ruby's arms
Although my heart is breaking.
I will steal away out through your blinds,
For soon you will be waking."
- Ruby's Arms
Throw some amazing and depressing music and melodies in the mix, and holy crap. Grab the booze if you want to make it to the end of the album.
So why is it that depressing music resonates so well?
I think it goes back to the old adage about crying alone. Happiness overflows and is shared like exploding champagne, but sadness can feel like trying to draw water from an empty well when you're dying of thirst. We may lean on others and find comfort in family and friends, but in the end, the hard times we bear alone.
That's where Tom Waits and all the poets of pain come in. You may be alone, but you can connect to someone that has been through similar things to what you're struggling through and is unafraid to share it with you.
I remember sitting in my grandmother's kitchen after she'd gone to bed, listening to The Wall by Pink Floyd over and over. Songs of hope and happiness would have rung false, like some cruel mirage, but to hear someone talk about the things he'd gone through brought human connection when it was needed most. I was not able to say things I need to say to another person, but Roger Waters was saying them to me. Finding that kindred spirit was the hope I needed.
However, there's an important corollary here: there has to be that little tinge of hope (or at least a lesson to be learned from the lyricists woe.) This may not be in every song, but there will be something on the album to latch onto.
This is perfectly demonstrated in The Wall, which ends with "Outside the Wall":
"Outside the wall, all alone, or in twos,
The ones who really love you,
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand,
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists make their stand.
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all, it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall."
Here Roger Waters shows the tragedy of his fictional character, Pink Floyd, who, despite all he's endured, is still loved. In letting his struggles build the figurative wall, Pink has blocked off the people that could have helped him.
I was that guy, building my wall. And Roger Waters came along and saved me from myself.
So give me sad songs sung by damaged souls, and raise a glass to their courage to share what they have endured. They survived, and so will we.
I don't need a happy song to convince me of that.
Who else could cram so much pathos in three lines?
"It's a battered old suitcase
In a hotel someplace,
And a wound that would never heal."
- Waltzing Matilda
Shit. I couldn't convey that in an hour long drunken ramble.
How about these gems:
"They all pretend they're orphans,
And their memory's like a train.
You can see it getting smaller as it pulls away."
- Time
"You haven't looked at me that way in years,
But I'm still here"
- I'm Still Here
"I will leave behind all of my clothes,
I wore when I was with you.
All I need's my railroad boots,
And my leather jacket,
As I say goodbye to Ruby's arms
Although my heart is breaking.
I will steal away out through your blinds,
For soon you will be waking."
- Ruby's Arms
Throw some amazing and depressing music and melodies in the mix, and holy crap. Grab the booze if you want to make it to the end of the album.
So why is it that depressing music resonates so well?
I think it goes back to the old adage about crying alone. Happiness overflows and is shared like exploding champagne, but sadness can feel like trying to draw water from an empty well when you're dying of thirst. We may lean on others and find comfort in family and friends, but in the end, the hard times we bear alone.
That's where Tom Waits and all the poets of pain come in. You may be alone, but you can connect to someone that has been through similar things to what you're struggling through and is unafraid to share it with you.
I remember sitting in my grandmother's kitchen after she'd gone to bed, listening to The Wall by Pink Floyd over and over. Songs of hope and happiness would have rung false, like some cruel mirage, but to hear someone talk about the things he'd gone through brought human connection when it was needed most. I was not able to say things I need to say to another person, but Roger Waters was saying them to me. Finding that kindred spirit was the hope I needed.
However, there's an important corollary here: there has to be that little tinge of hope (or at least a lesson to be learned from the lyricists woe.) This may not be in every song, but there will be something on the album to latch onto.
This is perfectly demonstrated in The Wall, which ends with "Outside the Wall":
"Outside the wall, all alone, or in twos,
The ones who really love you,
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand,
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists make their stand.
And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all, it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall."
Here Roger Waters shows the tragedy of his fictional character, Pink Floyd, who, despite all he's endured, is still loved. In letting his struggles build the figurative wall, Pink has blocked off the people that could have helped him.
I was that guy, building my wall. And Roger Waters came along and saved me from myself.
So give me sad songs sung by damaged souls, and raise a glass to their courage to share what they have endured. They survived, and so will we.
I don't need a happy song to convince me of that.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Marinade Master Meat Tumbler Machine
I stumbled upon an ad for the "Marinade Master Meat Tumbler Machine."
Where do I begin?
The first thing that pops into mind is those toy rock tumblers I always saw in the Sears catalog growing up. Throw some rocks in and hours later, they're worn smooth. Exciting!
Now I had to assume this invention wasn't to make meat smooth. Delving further, I discovered the tumbler both rotates the meat in a bath of marinade, but also sucks out the air in the container to marinade your meat in as little as twenty minutes!
This glorious, nay, indispensable item was a mere 54 dollars with free shipping.
Thank God someone has finally saved me from having to marinade my meats over night! The wait was unbearable. Sometimes you get home from work and need marinated meat, stat.
Now that I got the sarcasm out of my system, I want to know who would buy this item? (If you did please leave a comment, so I can mock you.) What people meet the following criteria?
Where do I begin?
The first thing that pops into mind is those toy rock tumblers I always saw in the Sears catalog growing up. Throw some rocks in and hours later, they're worn smooth. Exciting!
Now I had to assume this invention wasn't to make meat smooth. Delving further, I discovered the tumbler both rotates the meat in a bath of marinade, but also sucks out the air in the container to marinade your meat in as little as twenty minutes!
This glorious, nay, indispensable item was a mere 54 dollars with free shipping.
Thank God someone has finally saved me from having to marinade my meats over night! The wait was unbearable. Sometimes you get home from work and need marinated meat, stat.
Now that I got the sarcasm out of my system, I want to know who would buy this item? (If you did please leave a comment, so I can mock you.) What people meet the following criteria?
- Enjoy marinading meats
- Think marinading takes too long
- Have 54 bucks to spend on useless junk
- Enjoy watching meat tumble
- Don't live with anyone that would mock them incessantly for buying a Marinade Master Meat Tumbler Machine
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
In the Middle of a Proverbial Marathon/We're Out of Control
Hello, my name is Mike. I'm still fat.
We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.
I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.
But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.
That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.
Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.
Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.
We're out of control.
You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.
How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:
We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.
And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.
Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.
I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.
In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."
And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"
P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!
We'll, I'm decidedly less fat. Over the last three months, I've lost 32 lbs. I'm eating fairly well, and I'm getting a decent amount of exercise. The metrics all sound good (and we recovering tubbos love metrics): weight down from 252 to 220; waist went from crammed into a 38 to a comfy 36; neck from 19 down to 17.5. Even better, I've actually added muscle, so it's a much healthier 220 then when I hit it on the way up.
I take a lot of pride in what I've accomplished so far. I can see the difference in the mirror and I'm happy about it. People comment on how thin I am. Its enough to give me a big old warm and fuzzy.
But the fact still remains: I'm overweight. My BMI has crossed over from "obese" to "overweight." That is a good thing, but to hit what is considered healthy weight for my height, I need to get down to 184. And yes, BMI is just a rough measure and not an exact science, but I wager it's not that far off when it tells me I have to lose 36 more pounds. Maybe when I hit 195 and I look in the mirror, I'll see something worthy of being called a physique, with little extra flab and healthy muscle tone.
That is the future. For now, the battle continues. And really, when that day comes, nothing much will change. I'll eat a few more calories, but still eat healthy food. I'll continue to get a decent amount of exercise. A few indulgences will probably be allowed. But this a marathon that doesn't end; I'll be a recovering tubbo no matter how long I'm a healthy weight.
Okay, so this has all been pretty dull so far. Fat guy has lost some weight. It was a struggle, but he's succeeding. Let's all feel good about the human spirit. The audience applauds, the credits roll.
Here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to think (especially during all those workouts, when the only other things to think are either this sucks so bad, am I insane? or bored bored bored bored bored BORED! ), and I've come to a conclusion.
We're out of control.
You may be way ahead of me on this one. Truth be told, I've had my suspicions for a long time. But the evidence keeps mounting.
How many ways are we out of control? Too many to count. But here are a few examples:
We consume without concern for consequences or cost. We sell our souls to corporations to get shiny toys and tasty treats, and we don't care who gets hurt or what things they do to shave costs and drive up profits. We look to talking heads that shill hate and outrage, and cause further division and create problems instead of solving them. We let the purity of faith become corrupted with prejudice and intolerance. We allow ourselves to believe that we have to choose between left and right, when the real choice is between regular people and those that want to take advantage of them. We're happy as long as we have big TVs and iPods and sports and beer. We sweat in the winter and freeze in the summer. We look for others to blame, and absolve ourselves from guilt. We eat sentient beings when we have humane options. We reproduce without any thought to how the world will be able to hold us all. We trade fulfillment for material comforts. We say the right things, but we don't mean them.
And, as Thoreau would say, we lead lives of quiet desperation.
Okay, I admit that rant was a bit excessive, but I believe it's mostly true. And this is where it all comes back to losing weight.
I made a huge effort to improve myself in one area I've always struggled with, but there's so many more things that need to be fixed. I could make a list, but my rant hit on many of them.
In the end, the only hope for all of us if we accept that we are all constant works in progress, and that we must keep struggling towards becoming our ideal selves. We may differ in our view of what that is, but I have to believe that for the vast majority of us, it would be a very positive thing. Throw in a healthy dose of tolerance and acceptance, and we could all get along in our new enlightened state. And for those that would strive to become beings motivated by hate and greed, to quote an old song, "get off my cloud."
And as they crept off my cumulus, I'd also say to the back of their heads, to quote another song, "what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding?"
P.S. I'm not really that much of a dreaming idealist. We're going to stay out of control for the foreseeable future. If I've learned anything about humanity, we'll keep going with our bad habits until we have our toes dangling over the edge of the abyss. Then we'll kick a rock over to see how far the fall is before we decide to turn around. We're all fucking nuts!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Random Thoughts Interspersed with Song Lyrics
The poets down here
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"
I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.
By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)
We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"
One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.
The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.
Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.
I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.
I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"
When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.
Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.
Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"
When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)
I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"
Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)
Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.
If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"
In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???
"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.
But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"
In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.
It's true, I swear.
Don't write nothing at all,
They just stand back and let it all be.
-- Bruce Springsteen, "Jungleland"
I've never been interested in blogging about what I ate for lunch, what celebrity died last week, what's the hottest thing on reality TV, etc. The problem is when you cut out the noise, how much signal is left? Often, not too much.
By the way, I tried quinoa for the first time today. Isn't that exciting? (I'm not making that up. It's real, I swear.)
We're too young to fall asleep,
Too cynical to speak.
We are losing it,
Can't you tell?
-- Radiohead, "My Iron Lung"
One thing worth mentioning is that in last six weeks I've made a serious effort to eat better and exercise. The results have been very good thus far: 17 pounds lost. Considering I started at 252, I still have a ways to go. At six feet tall, I'm aiming to get down to 185, but I'll settle for under 200.
The remarkable thing is that it's been much easier this time around. I cut the soda, improved my diet to get rid of junk and eat healthier, less processed foods, and workout four to five times a week. I've tried this before, and it always eventually failed, but this time it's been almost easy.
Love of mine,
Someday you will die.
But I'll be close behind,
I'll follow you into the dark.
-- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"
Some credit goes to new tools at my disposal. I've followed the South Beach Diet (which is more science than quackery, from what I can discern) and have used EA Active on the Wii to keep me motivated to follow a workout schedule. While these have helped, the real key is my own mortality.
I'm a lot of things, but I'm not stupid. Those 12 teaspoons of sugar per can of soda and all the fat from burgers and fries was setting the scene for mid-life drama. Heart attacks and diabetes were a when, not an if.
I still don't know what I was waiting for,
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made,
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.
-- David Bowie, "Changes"
When I was in my 20s, I always felt there was time to turn things around before health problems caught up with me. Suddenly, I was approaching mid 30s and carrying a large spare tire (I'm guessing tractor-sized) and had a very bad Coke habit (the beverage, not the drug, I swear.) And that why it's sticking this time. I don't want to keel over at 40, or live with self-induced health issues. And I don't what to curse my youthful bravado in my senior years.
Now, I'm not one of those self-delusional types. I didn't think I was big-boned, or that it was all really muscle and not fat. When I looked in the mirror, I saw the belly hanging. My BMI puts me at obese. But now that I've gotten down to 235, it's been sobering how many people comment on my weigh lost. I was so fat that in comparison, I now look comparatively skinny. This is frightening, and reinforces the need to fight on.
Always felt like giving in
To the feeling I can't win.
But I took it on the chin.
Now I'm finally cashing in.
...
My losing streak is done.
I said my losing streak is done.
-- eels, "Losing Streak"
When I put before and after pics of my first six weeks side by side (no, you can't see them,) I see a bit of difference, but I also remember what I used to look like in those long ago days when I was in shape. (It's true, I swear. I was 185 at one point in college and went to the gym daily.)
I still have a long way to go, but this time, I feel like it's going to stick. I'm going to make it.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
-- Simon and Garfunkel, "America"
Now that I'm getting my ass in gear on the weight front, I want to keep up the good mojo in other areas. I'm going to do my best to write more. I have a great story idea burning in my head (called "The Healer," but don't tell anyone I told you.)
Writing is, and most likely will always be, incredibly difficult for me. Yet, I'm like a moth drawn to the flame. If I don't keep trying, something vital will be lost, and there will be an emptiness I feel that will never be filled. It may never be filled, but I have to keep trying.
If you're not going to keep trying to do the things that matter, why go on living?
You've heard my latest record,
It's been on the radio.
Ah, it took me years to write it,
They were the best years of my life.
It was a beautiful song.
But it ran too long.
If you're gonna have a hit,
You gotta make it fit--
So they cut it down to 3:05.
-- Billy Joel, "The Entertainer"
In the end, one thing I have to accept is that my artistic impulses don't take a direction that heads toward mainstream appeal. I mean just look at this blog post. Random lyrics all over the place, and in red???
"A little self-indulgent, don't you think, jackass?" you ask. I nod gravely.
But this is part of the equation for me. No compromises, no committees, no marketing plans. I don't want to make a product, I want to make art. And I'd much rather have a drawer full of terrible art than terrible products. There's at least poetry in being a failed artist, even if it's bad poetry.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, oh what did I say?
Well you just laughed it off, it was all OK.
-- Modest Mouse, "Float On"
In short, I'm going to find more things to say more often, so keep your eyes peeled.
It's true, I swear.
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