Sleepy...

Hey, really exhausted tonight. I'm down: 233.5. I did my exercise today. I got my three miles in. I can't wait to relax this weekend. Food wise I did okay. I had oatmeal a banana, and then Mac and cheese for dinner. Ok I'm not the Jenny Craig poster boy, but I am losing weight, and I'm getting fit. I can live with that.

A Stulka By Any Other Name

What’s in a name?  For Blaer Bjarkardottir, it’s six vowels and a butt-load of unpronounced consonants.

“Screw you, Pat! This puzzle is crap!”

Yah, nobody on Wheel is winning that one, but 15 year-old Blaer won the right to call herself that. It is her birth name, but all official Icelandic communication refers to her as “Stulka,” which means “girl.” Blaer is not a government-approved name.

I applaud it. Not Blaer/Stulka/Whats-her-face. She’s unimportant. What is important is a government imposed naming policy.  America needs one. That’s right Frank Zappa. Dweezle?  Really you had to name your kid that?  Fine, that’s a $10,000 fine and an extra $100 every time a federal worker has to type it on a page. Mr. and Mrs. Holder? The next child you name Dick, screw a fine, you get flogged.

Guns don’t kill people, names do.

Ask River Phoenix. Oh, that was drugs. Bad example. The point is, parents go way wacky when naming their children. We all know one or two that we can point to and go, “what were they thinking?”

According to an article on Circa, one Swedish family was fined $680 for naming their son “Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116” pronounced “Albin.” Bravo to the Swedes for throwing the book. I think those parents should also be forced to fill out a book of medical forms and college applications by hand, and then fined an extra $680 for each misspelling. “Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116,” really?  That’s child abuse.

If I made up a statistic, it would point to the horrors acted against children due to atrocities in naming. I would tie it to a graph proving that more children are named than die from any childhood disease.

It’s true, you can look that up!

Before you take the time though, let’s go back to Blaer. There is an important lesson to learn from her case. The reason Iceland upholds a naming law is to preserve cultural identity.  You’re not going to find Hayden born in Iceland, because it means nothing to them. It means nothing to me either. It’s a dumb name, but it is popular here. So is Robert. I do like that one. Iceland isn’t fond. It doesn’t have the right ring.

So what of “Blaer?” Blaer is an Icelandic word meaning “light breeze.” How could the Icelandic government not approve of cultural preservation in a word like that? Apparently Blaer is taken from a masculine article. Iceland does not believe in gender crossing names like Pat, Robbie, Blaer or Sue.

I kind of get it. I mean I wouldn’t name my son Amber, unless that was his stripper name. On the other hand, “Light breeze” has a feminine attribute. I don’t think of a guy when I hear “light breeze.” At least not unless that breeze is a fart, and no, I would never name my daughter “Fart.”

That’s a boy’s name.

It’s a difficult balance, but the Icelandic government did the right thing here by acknowledging Blaer. She sounds like a good girl, fighting for her name. Because, really, who wants to be called Stulka?

Hunter Green Roller Coaster

I was right: Ben & Jerry tied Kekua down and took her Happy Meal. Pigs! Sorry LA, I know you had so much hope in my fat butt feeding your fat kids. Please don't go teaching Hunter cannibalism so I can still feed him. That's not even funny.

"Happy Meal is people!"

Well I'm not up that much. 235. Hopefully today's workout will eat that up. Or at least the chili dog I had for lunch. Shhh. Don't tell Hunter. I don't want him clawing at the door. I did have a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. That's good, right? That and a chicken breast with green beans I ate for dinner. Oh and I had some coffee, and lots and lots of water. No, really, if Hunter comes after me, I can hide as an unusually old fountain cherub.

I'll give you a few seconds to clear the image from your head.

Think happy thoughts.

Okay, now we continue.

In my workout, I was about 15 seconds faster on my 3 miles, and I ran a 1 mile warm up to my weight training. I actually got going much easier this Wednesday versus last. I think it's because I'm in a routine. My body moves before it even knows I don't want to go. We'll see come next Monday, since I take the weekend to rest up. Monday will be a hard start.

The hardest part of today's workout was the noise pollution in the gym. I use a playlist on my iPhone to workout. Tonight, the other gym members had three TVs on three different station with the volume full blast. I could make out what they were saying over my headphones. So, I waited until the people who were there before me left, then I walked the floor, turning everything down. Nobody else does. They don't wipe their sweat off the treadmill rails when they're done, why would the turn down the TV?

"Bunch of savages in this town. "

I took my passive aggressive rage out on the weights.

And now, I'm relaxed and off to bed. That is one of the benefits from my workouts. I relax really easily.

This is the Great White Caboose, signing out.

Friends of the Caboose

Check that out!  A friend of mine sent it to me. The picture, not a real caboose—that would have been way awesome! Most friends send gifts or money. My friends send gifs, no money. Hey, at least my friends read my blog.

What are friends for?

I hope more than reading blogs. We write emails too. We used to write letters when we were kids, but that was before stamps cost more than a weekly allowance.

“Dude! How are you? I am totally fine!”

Stick that in the mail, draw some freehand monster artwork, add a dash of big hand-drawn spotted-font “HOWDY”s, and a compliment of “I saw the coolest girl…” angst and your up to date with our teen correspondence.

There was the time I included the smattering of hand-squeezed Minnesota mosquitoes, but let’s keep that one on the down low.  Minnesota has some harsh wildlife transportation laws.

“Sorry officer, I was young. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse, son.”

That’s what friends are for. Introducing you to the local law enforcement. That and 3:00 am games of “You know what sounds like fun?” Those usually end in introductions to the local law enforcement, or calls from the hospital.

“Yah, greasing the shopping cart wheels was probably overkill, but icing the ramp was an awesome idea!”

Friends are the people who help decorate your skeleton closet. They’re also the ones who crash your pity party and teabag you until you get your crap together.

Okay, we were never that close, but I would have hired a stranger to teabag him. That’s the least I could do: we’ve known each other forever. And that’s why he sent me a white caboose.  He was too poor to afford a teabag surrogate.

They’re expeinsive in Detroit.  Who knew?

My friend knew how to make me laugh. Isn’t that enough?  He thought I was down about the Great White Caboose.  When I said somebody else had written about that, he thought I was down about that too.

I wasn’t down, but it was so cool that he asked about my caboose. I told him that I’ve accepted the Great White Caboose. I own it.  Somebody else writing about it? That’s fine too. I’d rather someone else whined about it than me. Let their publisher throw them a tea bag party.

I’ve got a better party. A party of friends and family, who care enough to check in, and nothing is better than that.

Okay, maybe owning a real white caboose.  That would be way cool.

The Agony Without the Irony

Eat it, Hunter! No really, eat it. I'm down to 234.5. Here's your Happy Meal. Eat it before I gain it back Ben & Jerry stopped by, and one pint later, they're looking for their happy.

Other than that, today was okay. I had a decent workout. Still not quite the distance of last week, but I blame the weightlifting. My body is resisting the extra effort. Can you blame it?

This morning the walk to the gym came early. It was dark. I was tired. It wasn't until I got home that I woke up enough to whine about how much I didn't want to work out, by then it was too late. Yay me!

So, today I'm sore. Really sore, but in a good way. I'm not just saying the cuz I don't want you to see me weeping in the corner. I don't, but that doesn't stop my sore from still feeling good.

Today, my muscles were like "ow! I feel good and a little less flabby."

I was like, "shut up muscles! I'm drinking coffee, the other patrons think I'm weird."

The other patrons were like, "hello, police?"

I think the coffee is starting to affect me more. That and the lack of sleep. I'm going to bed until tomorrow. You can put a comma in that last sentence if you want. I wouldn't bother; it's not necessary.

Yah, sleep..

The Great White Caboose

Today’s blog, begins with an excerpt:

I am the caboose of the great white American locomotive.

Whoo! Whoo!

Here, take my hand. Climb aboard. I’ll give you the tour.

Let’s start with engine.  That’s where the power is. You’re looking at history’s generator. Feel your thighs rattle like you’re straddling a jackhammer set to “thrill?” That’s 200 years plus of phallic power thrusting this sleek beast into greatness. George Washington, Tom Edison, Bill Gates, they’re the coal and steam, the insatiable hunger and the lust lunging the great white head toward the Eve of manifest destiny.

That’s one monster dynamo of locomotion! It has to be! That’s what it takes; hauling all these bloated white cargo cars at immeasurable speeds.  Don’t stand in its way! The full weight of white wrath will knock you back like a tribe of Indians—but that’s another history stop along the way.

Let’s go to the next group of cars. Here you’ll find the robber baron boxcars. They supply fuel to the white machine. They only take up a few cars, but these are the primo luxury cabins, so slip on your white gloves, and don’t even knock without donning a day coat.

The other cars? Oh, they’re loaded with the apathetic, lazy and voyeuristic masses, yearning to be carried for free by the steam of other’s greatness.

Step quickly to the caboose! The languor here is contagious!

Woah!  

Watch your step! A history hic-up, has uncoupled my great white caboose from the great white train. Quick! Wave to the baby boomers as they hurtle into the pasty sunset.  See them smile? They made the train.

The rest of us on the caboose? Take a look over my shoulder, to the barren tracks stretching to the American wasteland. That’s my future. That’s the white train legacy: a trailing generation birthed in the last car of a runaway train and raised on the promise that the tracks of the manifest blessing of the great pale birthright would go on forever.

And so it does, even if we’ve stopped.

It’s a history that was good enough for generations before, and damn-it, it would be good enough for me. If only I had made the train. If only I wasn’t the uncoupled caboose in a generation sitting dead on the tracks. Left behind to be a white dot on a statistical map.

You are here.

            Our choice is to walk the rails and hope to catch up, or strike out on our own, setting our own destiny. We chose neither of these. We chose a different path; a road less traveled by the on-the-go generations that came before. We chose to wait for another train to come along while whining about our horrible mistreatment by fate.

———

And ends with a whimper:

That caboose ending is how a happy go lucky book I began writing a few years ago started. It was good. It was true. It was exceptionally whiney.  Nobody needs that, not even the great white caboose. We need a call to action, and when I started that book, I didn’t have one. Which, seemed to prove the point I was making by writing the book, really.

But I’m a hopeful guy. I wanted a better ending, so I shelved the effort.

I was told that somebody else has since written the book, using different words. Good for him. I hope he caught the train. Me, I eventually struck out across the wasteland forging my own path.

Funny thing is that along my path I tried becoming a cog in the great machine, and the machine has found me wanting. Not because I’m some mal-shaped malcontent Robcog, but because the machine looked at my gifted teeth and said, “No, we don’t need you.”

Luckily the machine loves MyQueen more than it loves me. Still, life would be a lot easier for us if, for my part, we didn’t have to wait for the occasional writing job that paid, like desert wanderers waiting for rain.

“Oh, look, the vultures are leading us to prosperity!”

I could go back to retail and such, but MyQueen has already said, “no,” and I breathed a sigh of relief when she said it. I hate that work, but I would do it.

The pill that gags me is the big oval one that’s supposed to relieve the angst I get from failing to use the skills and training I’ve been given. 

My skills? I’ve got a face for radio, and a voice for mime. No, that’s not true. Well, not the voice part, anyway…

Back in my high school fast food days, I worked the drive through. A simple, but high pressure task for a fast food place, because there’s one row of hungry drivers needing to get back on the road before they realize the food they’ve waited for is a flat bun beef-puck and a soft drink, sans straw.  Me, I had a great voice. I worked it. Seriously, ask the ladies, they loved me, until they drove to the window and saw Opie-boy Robby. Then they felt like dirty old ladies.

“Oh my gosh, you’re young!”

“Oh yah, baby.” I’d say in my Barry White best, flipping my mullet through the windy air. Oh, ya, those women were butter baby.

I had a gift. After high school I thought I’d use it for good, in radio. I loved music; it seemed like a perfect fit. One year of broadcasting school, and four years later to complete my BA in Mass Communications, I was a trained communicator.

Then life transmitted something else.

If one excuse is a train leaving Chicago at 150 mph, and another excuse is a super-train fast thingy leaving L.A. in one flash per second, they’ll explode into nothingness somewhere around Omaha. But the bottom line is I took a different track. I used my skills in a non-traditional sense and that train hummed along pretty good until all tracks vanished.

Which left me with ten-year-old non-traditional experience baggage filled with my traditional communication skill set. So now I’m walking a wasteland trying to MacGyver my collective media skills into a career.

“I can take this microphone, switch it through a TV mixer, and take the “CNTL” key from a computer, a Photoshop image, some HTML code, and wrap it all together with three strips of duct tape…and there ya go: a career.”

I continue my free writing, which I enjoy immensely, but my years of riding the great white rails are deeply ingrained; I feel the guilt that my skills are not providing for my family. So I continue looking to other work to pay the bills. Other work that uses the skills I’ve learned over 44 years of life experience. Except when employers see my non-traditional experience baggage, and compare it to the traditional baggage they’re looking for, it doesn’t match. Funny, the baggage and experience always worked for me.

They got me here.

Wherever here is, I’m there, with MyQueen, and my great white caboose, snuggling together in my hand woven American Dream blanket.

Week Two Strikes Back

Today I'm back on track. I did my three miles this morning, and I started my weightlifting regimen tonight. The running was hard. I felt like I didn't do as well as last week, and I didn't. Still, the difference is negligible. There's no sense sweating minutia, so long as I keep sweating towards the big goal.

For the weightlifting, I use James Orvis' Weight Training Workouts That Work. It's a great all over body workout that concentrates on the major muscle groups. I do three days a week weight training. The first week concentrates on just getting going. Today I did bench press, lat pull downs, curls, leg press, shoulder press, dumbell pullovers and crunches.

The weights weren't as heavy as they were the last time I did this, but that's to be expected. The important thing is building a routine.

I'm starting that.

For food, I had oatmeal, a scone at lunch, and tilapia with green beans for dinner. Also I had a caramel macchiato for a treat. Not the "best" food day, but not over the edge.

Today I feel tired, but good. Tomorrow I try to give Kekua her Happy Meal back.

Postal-geddon

Dear Dad,

Hi!  How are you?  I am fine.

Love,

Rob

———

Dear Mom,

Hi! How are you? I am fine.

Love,

Rob

———

­­Dear—shh!  Hang on blog reader: I’m writing correspondence.  It looks like the Post Office is raising the cost of stamps again.  Now it’s charging $.46 to send a letter, and $.23 to fit your love onto a postcard.

“Dear Suzie, I love your ----> over…”

“Dear Frank, I couldn’t read your writing over the postcard picture of ‘trade-show showgirls gone wild.’ I couldn’t tell where your pen ended and her tattoos began. I guess I love your ---> Over…”

“Dear Suzie, where did you get the ‘Thunder from Down Under’ card? You have some nerve sending ---> over…”

Take a hint from Frank and Suzie here.  Love is complicated enough, spend the extra $.23 for a letter, or do what I do: put your love in a blog.  Sure, blogs aren’t as private but that’s what secret codes are for.  In war, messages weren’t sent by postal services; they were sent over open air. Since open air is a very…well…crowded communication medium, war plans needed to be coded.

“Dear Johnny, Remember that pair of tighty-whiteys you left at my place? They’re on their way right now. Over.”

My messages aren’t nearly as imperative as that. My correspondence is more of the meh variety so I don’t need to worry too much about secret codes. Maybe that’s why I’m a little resistant to spend $.46.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame the Post Office. They’re in a hard place.  People don’t write more than 120 words any more, and those words are all posted through social media. Why not? Social media is free, and let’s face it, most written correspondence since the invention of the telephone equates to my inky meh at best.

“How are you? I am fine.”

At least I give my love.

Letter love waned when important messages were passed over the immediate crackle of Ma Bell and her circuit babies. The only message left to send was sent by forcing meh to paper, and we still did it.

Because our parents made us.

Now we’re parents ourselves, and the big debate is “should schools still teach cursive handwriting?” It’s clearly not as important as QWERTY. And while we debate, we’re forcing our kids to “talk to grandma” on the phone, because it’s the nostalgic communications medium of our youth, and anything immediate and important was already Tweeted.

“Help! My house is on fire! #burning#pain#BBQ @BFD”

Where’s that leave the post office? They can’t lower their rates and hope we’ll come back. We’ll never like them like we like Facebook, because they can’t work for free. They can’t even post near as fast as Twitter. What’s left?

Raise rates.

It’s the last desperate gasp of a dying giant. Our grandchildren may only see post offices next to trading posts in history books and ask, “what’s that?”

“It’s where olden-time people tweeted, Britney.”

There is hope for the post office. They need to find a new business model, because the old one leads to a mailbox along the road of the dodo. Maybe they should do what Facebook does. Facebook isn’t free. It is for us, but if you’re an advertiser, you’re gonna pay more than $.46 a post. If the Post office commercialized mail, or sponsored stamps, the sender could send mail for free and the receiver would get a little subsidized advertising with their message.

“This letter is brought to you by Tampax.”

We already get bulk loads of adverts in the mailbox, why shouldn’t advertisers pay a little more for the privilege? Bulk mail this, buddy! It’s in their best interest to keep the Post Office alive, because if the Post Office stops working, advertisers junk won’t ship anywhere, and then who will know where to find Cheap Chinese delivery?

It’s Postal-geddon.

Either way, I’m ready. I can’t afford $.46 a letter.  I have too many relatives, but I do have a free blog, and no readers. Sounds like an open communication platform to me.

Dear Sis,

How are you..?

Eating For Two

Some days I hate blogger. I used the mobile app last night to write this, and rather than"posting" to my site, the passive aggressive app pretended the blog never happened. So here, pretend you read this before the Dinner Out post:



Hooray for Hunter! He keeps his Happy Meal!



That’s right, today I weighed in at 235. That gives his imaginary sister Kekua an extra meal too. I’m losing lbs and giving LA the chubby—so to speak.



That’s good too, because today was tough. I spent five minutes this morning arguing with myself about whether I really needed to workout. I mean, really, did I? The reality is that eventually I will miss a few workouts. Why not figure in today as a “miss” and pick back up tomorrow?



The reason I don’t want to do this is because it’s still early. I’m building a workout habit. No, not the kind that nuns wear, although I have one of those too. I’m building a daily pattern habit that starts with me working out when I get up. If I don’t do it today, then it’s easier to quit later. On days when it takes me five minutes just to “choose” to put on a sweatshirt, I don’t want to give myself an extra reason to go back to bed.



I once read a weightlifting book that suggested that for days you didn’t want to workout, get dressed, go to the gym and get on the floor. Once there, if you still don’t want to work out, then go home with a clear conscience. Everybody has bad days. But chances are, once you are there, you’ll want to continue.



So, this morning that’s what I did, and it was hard. I did my treadmill “hill” for the full 40 minutes with a 5-minute cool down. It wasn’t pretty, and I didn’t get the distance I wanted. I tried for 3.25 miles, but only got just over 3. That’s okay. Today’s victory was showing up, and some days that’s gotta be enough. Be reasonable with your goals, or that will make it easier to quit.



Today, I didn’t quit. High five!



Hunter’s happy.



Today’s meals were pretty basic. I drank lots of water. I don’t want to dehydrate. I also drank coffee. It’s not great for me, but I’m addicted. I’m not giving up that vice. I’d like to continue getting along with my wife.



For breakfast, I ate one egg, 1 slice of bacon, and 1 multigrain thin bread, thingy (technical term). For lunch I had a scone. It was my treat for myself. Now dinner things went to the wonky side. We went out. Things have been stressful lately, and we needed an "ahhhhh" moment. So, we went to Macaroni Grill. Yeah, buck up Hunter, we'll talk tomorrow.

Dinner Out

“So how do you plan on letting Detroit know you’re dumping her?” That’s MyQueen.  She likes to play along. I’m just happy she reads my blog. She’s already seated at the table.

“I dunno.  I figured I’d just let it go. She’ll get the idea over time.” Yeah, I’m a classy guy. I take off my coat, throw it over the chair next to her and sit down.

“You can’t do that! You have to sit her down and let her know.”

“Uhm, are you guys ready to order?” The waitress is giving us the look. You know the one. The “I know what’s going on here, but I don’t know what’s going on here,” look.

I give her a look back that says, “I do know what’s going on here and you have no clue.”

“Sir?” The waitress looks a little panicked, and turns to MyQueen, “Should I call him a doctor?”

Maybe that wasn’t the right look.

MyQueen sighs and sips her wine. “No, he’s okay. That’s his normal face.”

The waitress hangs out while I look over the menu. When she has our orders, she leaves and we continue our 50 ways to leave your location conversation.

“Slip out the Ren Cen, Glen…”

It’s been a long week, for both of us. I found my dreams like Ralphie found his glasses in A Christmas Story: crushed under foot. MyQueen had an interview with Cagney and Lacey, except Lacey didn’t even care enough to show up, and Cagney might as well have come drunk.  Yeah, I lost my dream, she dodged a bullet and yet we’re both mixed—we both hoped for more, and we both need a drink.

“I think it’s okay, I don’t think Detroit is that into me. I think she’s trying to distance herself.”

MyQueen takes another drink. “Mmmm,hmmm. What happens then?”

“What do you mean?” I’m pouring more wine into my glass. I’ve already chugged the glass she had waiting for me.

“Well, if you leave her, you end up in Denver, LA, wherever.” She swirls the wine. Fruity goodness climbs up the glass as if it’s drawing to her voice. “Where are you if Detroit leaves you?”

“Wichita?” I shrug.

“Ain’t that the truth.” She downs the rest of her glass, then dangles it before me, in a “Fill!” fashion. “I think we need to avoid that.”

I nod, and fulfill my responsibility by refilling her glass. We’re gonna need more wine at this rate. I make a subtle motion. The waitress may not be able to interpret table banter, but roll an empty bottle across the floor at her, and she takes a hint.

In the meantime, my wife grabs a crayon from the table. Yeah, we’re eating in that restaurant.  (I’d mention their name, but they refused to pay for adverting.) “Okay, so where do we want to move?” She writes down “LA” in blue wax. 

I shake my head. We’ve both been there, done that. She draws a frowny face next to it, then pulls a crayon line across the letters.  Next word: “Denver” I nod.  It might be cool.  It’s kinda like where I grew up, except 10 times the population and none of the relatives. “Actually it sounds pretty good.”

“Okay,” she nods and puts a smiley next to it.

“Rotelli?”

“Where’s that?” I look up.  It’s right here. That was our waitress. I point to MyQueen. She gets the plate slid before her. I get the other plate full of cheese red sauce.  I think there’s meat underneath.

As we eat, we unwind and continue our conversation. She mentions Vegas, and then says “Scott!” cuz she likes watching “Flipping Vegas” and believes we can move in and become instant friends with the stars, Scott and Amy.  MyQueen’s “Scott” is a perfect imitation of Amy whining.  It’s sort of like Mary Tyler Moore saying “Oh, Rob” to Dick Van Dyke, except MyQueen’s mouth is full of pasta and it sounds like “Scoh-waht!”

We laugh. It’s ok. You don’t have to. It’s not funny to anybody else but us. Later I draw a US map that looks like wounded dog. We laugh some more, and the waitress calls the manager.

“So you folks having a good time?”

It’s true. We are. We need it. In truth, we need each other. When things get rough, it’s good to know we can come together at the table and laugh. To know that sometimes life kinda sucks, but things will get better. We’re here. We have each other and we’re in this together. I down the rest of my glass, take MyQueen’s hand, we pay the check, and leave.

“What about Chicago?”

“Isn’t that like kissing Detroit’s sexy sister?”

We haven’t got everything figured out yet, but we’re trying, together. And no matter where we land, I know we’ll have fun in the process.

Now I just have to work up the nerve to tell Detroit.

MyQueen in my official "Happy Hat."

Location, Location, Location

You never know how much you want something untill your inner three-year-old drops into a boneless tantrum when you can't have it. Yesterday my inner three year old found out that it’s been given a Detroit time out.

“WAAAAAAHHH!”

Funny, little Robby never thought that Detroit was a problem before.  Is there a problem? Apparently so, the news totally trashed my Tuesday.

I didn't even see a problem when we made the list.  MyQueen loves lists. Trust me, she has lists of her favorite lists and lists on how to organize them. Me, I stick to the indices and appendi—appendages? No, that’s not it either. Appendixes? Really? That’s just stupid. Anyway, I love those too. My list said I didn’t love Detroit.

It was a list of reasons to stay and go.  My gos far outweighed my stays.

“Cuz MyQueen’s here.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.  Why else?”

“Uh…no. That’s it.”

But that wasn’t even when I realized I didn’t belong here. When we moved here, I told MyQueen, “Location doesn’t matter.”  It didn’t. At least I thought it didn’t until we missed an opportunity to move away from here. My heart fell hard like a crush gone wrong.

Suddenly it mattered.  Suddenly I was the prom queen realizing her prom date was the ugliest guy in school.  Yeah, Tammy, sorry.  Now I know how it feels. Suddenly this sucks.

So what went wrong? What made Detroit my ugly prom date?  Part of it is the Detroit attitude. When I first met her, I wanted to believe in her. She’d had some tough times and I was a white knight kinda guy. I believed I could fix her. Corrupt politician, entitled residents who believed the American dream was meant to be served on a golden platter with all the steamy fixin’s while they lounged on the sofa watching the Lions lose. These were all in the past. Detroit was ready to be saved.

And yet some girls don’t want to be saved. Ask Lindsay. Neither does Detroit. She’s happy in her misery.  She attends meetings crying, “yes! I deserve better,” but then she goes home to repeat the cycle. Now I’m dizzy.  I might overlook that, but she can’t cook and she doesn’t like to go out.  She just sits and drinks and feels sorry for herself.

Well I’ve got news for you Detroit, that’s my job.  Your job is to make me feel good.

But really that’s it, isn’t it? Detroit, it’s not you; it’s me. I’ve changed.

“Location doesn’t matter.”

That’s what I told MyQueen.  I believed it when I said it. That had always been the truth before. D.C., Milwaukee, Palm Desert, Burbank, Riverside, Garden Grove, Sunland, Prescott, Yuma, these places all meant the same thing: one night stands, a means to an end. Sure some places were more fun than others, but what mattered was the conquest and not the faceless place itself.

Just another notch on my Google-map post.

I was younger then. What I failed to realize now is that my last notch changed me. We were friends with benefits, safe, for almost twenty years, hanging out until the next thing I know, I’ve stayed longer than I’ve ever stayed with any one place. Before I met SoCal, location meant nothing. Now it’s gone, and I don’t really want it back, but I know that I want something more. I want a locationship.

I want a place I can grow old with. I want a place to settle with MyQueen and raise a family. I don’t want somebody else’s white picket village, I want what’s mine. I don’t know specifically what that is, but I have a list, and I know that my locationship is out there, somewhere. I’ll find it.

Until then, I’m not worried. MyQueen and I can hang out here. As for my inner three-year-old and I, we’re good. I’m a dreamer and a writer, for now we’ll focus our talents on finger paints and writing. And someday, when the right locationship lights up the room, I’ll know.

For now, I only know that it’s not Detroit. 

Now I gotta figure out how to let her down easy. She’s already been through so much already…

Hunter Hears a Wrapper

Lets make this short but sweet: Hunter gets his Happy Meal back.

Blam!

Today's weight? 236.

That's right! I've got a meal to spare for Hunter's sister, Kekua. Oh, Hunter will still get it, because we all know Kekua doesn't exist.

Today I ran/walked another 3 miles. It wasn't quite as far as yesterday, but I ran faster, working more on speed endurance. Tomorrow I'll work hills again.

Foodwise I ate ok, but not great. I ate the remaining pancake batter in the fridge (cooked it first) for breakfast. I did add syrup. For lunch I had a bagel, and dinner was the same as last night with a side of peas. So, I was a little carb heavy today. On the plus side, my portions were reasonable. We'll see tomorrow how that fares for Hunter.

Tuesday

Mondays get a bad rap.  Seriously, other than the first day of the workweek, what’s wrong with Monday?  You know what day slides in under the guise of fair-weather weekday friend while it holds a knife against your back?  Tuesday.

That’s right, Tuesday.

Can you think of a more evil day?  Think on this: Monday ushers in the workweek.  We hate it for that, but usually everybody’s too busy hating Monday to realize how good a day it really is.  I mean everybody’s so busy reminiscing their weekend that if you ground up your boss in a meat grinder, nobody would notice him missing until Tuesday.  Well, nobody but your boss, that is.

Tuesday, everybody is focused on the job, the week and well aware of anyone who stands between them and Saturday.  The target on your back? Yeah, that’s you. Don’t worry too much about it. The meat grinder is still clogged from Monday. That’s the kind of friend Monday is: it’s got your back.

Tuesday morning, on the other hand, has it’s own interests in mind. It also has 4 more days to stretch to the weekend, and Monday’s meat-grinder is starting to stink. That’s gonna make the rest of the week crawl.

No, Tuesday is evil. Ask Wednesday.  Wednesday gets all of Tuesday’s leftovers slammed into its lap, cuz Tuesday everybody says, “I’ve got till Friday.” Tuesday pushes everything back. Tuesday’s a lie, and every other weekday pays for it. 

What’s more, coming out of Monday, we’re happy, we feel like we’ve survived the worst day.  We haven’t, but that’s how we feel.  Tuesday is a precarious balance. If Tuesday your wife gives you an Indian rug burn with her heels before getting out of bed cuz she thinks it’s cute, it not only ruins the rest of the day, it runs the risk of ruining the whole week. Why? Because Wednesday you feel robbed by the rude awakening Tuesday. Now, not only do you dread the same joy Wednesday morning, but your passive aggressive gun is cocked and loaded. It goes off in one big smelly under cover fart makes everything even as soon as you waft the covers. At least until Thursday. Meanwhile Thursday’s going, “Hey, hey, hey! This isn’t my fault!  Do that on somebody else’s day.”

That’s Tuesday.

How do we get around it? I don’t know. It’s Tuesday, and my week is going down quick. I’m still trying to get the boss out of the grinder. aå

I am a Jelly Donut

So today's my first day of losing weight for LA. Last Friday I weighed 237, so how did I do over the weekend?

I failed. I'm up a pound.

One poor LA kid, we'll call him Hunter, will miss out on his second happy meal. Sorry, Hunter.

I think it was the Mexican. No, not Hunter, the food that gave me the pound. Saturday, MyQueen and I went to our local Mexican restaurant. I had a combo platter and two margaritas. The salt and the lard are probably still bloating my veins.

The five worst things you can eat at a Mexican restaurant are: chips, quesadillas, nachos, refried beans, and shredded cheese. I ate 3 of those, with an emphasis on the cheese.

For the record, the four best foods, which I should have ate: tacos, arroz dishes, fajitas, or the soups. This is all thanks to the eDiets website. I ate none of them.

Now I've got to explain to Hunter that the reason Brianna gets two McDonaldland surprises to slip into her 3x sweatpants and He only gets one, is because Robby likes his drink. This keeps up, and Hunter's gonna have to choke down a carrot, like some sickly New York kid.

Today I ate better. I drank lots of water and I did 3 miles on the treadmill in under 45 minutes. Clearly not a marathoner, but I'm trying to get my stamina to where I can work out. I had oatmeal for breakfast, a sandwich thin with tuna on it for lunch, and dinner I ate sofrito beef with cheese, but I kept my portion small, and went without desert.

We'll see what tomorrow holds for Hunter. Hopefully he'll get his cheeseburger back.

The Land of Milk and Money

Utopia is here!

Not the Utopia we read about in public school, where things went wrong and worlds crumbled. This is the Utopia promised to the idle rich where somebody else cheers for the chance to wipe your butt with silk toilet cloth.

“care for a spritz too, sir?”

That’s right, Utopia is here!

Well, not necessarily here, unless your “here” is 11 miles south of Guatemala City, Guatemala. But if you’re “here” is there, you’re in Utopia—or the city of Cayala, to be more precise.

Map not to scale. Texas is a little fuller in the butt.

What, still having trouble figuring out where to find Guatemala, my public school classmates? No worries, I’m with ya. I had to look it up too. If you start at the beer-hefting mitt of Michigan, you’ll travel south, past the belly bulge coast of California, and down through the pants of Mexico.  Once you reach the bulging inner calf, you’re in Guatemala. If you’re looking for the specific location of Cayala, look down from the festering wound to the mole shaped like a dollar sign. It’s there.

See, the thing that makes Cayala a Utopian paradise is all the greenery. At least the greenery you spend, because Cayala is not just exclusive, they’re elitist too. And they’ll expect you to be too, if you plan on entering their master planned community. A community of natural and material beauty only the rich can afford, and they don’t take American Express.

Well they might. They probably take anything that looks like big money, but why shouldn’t they? They’ve created Utopia. Cayala has no crime, no poor, and not even a police force to corrupt. If the “local” police want to get in, they need to get permission from the gate guard.

He may be corrupt, but it’ll probably take more than the local police make in a lifetime to buy him. He knows where the greener grass grows, and that’s inside Cayala. 

Cayala residents are the affluent who no longer wish to consort with life’s riff-raff, unless they’re getting their riches from the riff-raff, but even then, even a crime lord needs to step away and smell the roses. And in Cayala, the roses smell oh-so-sweet.

And how can Cayala residents be sure to not be bothered by beggars and street urchins?

“Please sir…”

Armed guards at the only city entrance are one deterrent.  Want another? The cheapest apartment costs over 70 times what most Guatemalans make in one year, so they won’t be Utopian squatters either. Most Guatemalans are very poor. 

They might not have recognized that without the Emerald city of pretention looming 11 miles away. Now they’re not just poor, they’re an attraction.

“Look kids, see the strife?”

But at least it’s a caste of local superiority: everybody hates a tourist. And that’s probably why you won’t visit Cayala. It’s only for locals only. Locals with money, which pretty much means tyrants, drug lords, and corrupt politicians.  Maybe the world would be a richer place if they locked the gates when the last house sold, and never let anybody out. Guatemala City residents could stop by and sell meat and produce for exorbitant prices, or just call Cayala an anthropological zoo, and charge visitors to look.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m as big of an elitist as the next guy, but there’s something wrong about rubbing my elite juices in people’s faces.  I think that’s why, in a few years, people will find that this is same type of Utopia they warned us about in school.

Sorry idle rich.

LA Fitness

It’s On!

According to a CDC report, Los Angeles kids are fatter than New York City kids. Why do they always have to hate on the west coasters?  Well actually they aren’t hating on all the west coasters, just the kids.  That’s cool.  Nobody likes LA kids. They’re all brats.  What’s more it’s not even all the LA kids, just the fat ones, or more specifically, just the poor fat ones. 

Yeah, this isn’t even a unilateral kids vs. kids urban chubby struggle.  This is just pokin’ pizza at the poor people. According to the CDC, of the LA kids who receive government assistance, 21% are obese.  In NY, only 16% ate the surveyor as a snack.

So where’s the extra pork comin’ from?  Are LA poor people lazier than the NY poor?  The weather is easier. LA kids get no winter shiver-cize. Some say that WIC started offering healthier food options in New York before it started doing the same in Los Angeles. Others say that New York’s superior public transportation is the cause.  I’m not sure how that figures in. You don’t lose any extra weight while riding a bus, unless they tie the poor people up outside the bus.

“Poor little guy. Probably kept up with you for a mile or so.”

I’d buy that: New York is a tough city.  LA is a little softer.  Apparently flabbier too.

So, in that light, I gonna take one for all the poor kids in LA. I’m going to start losing weight. That’s right. Maybe I can balance things out and lose some pounds for them. I’m more than 21% fat, I should be able to lose to make up the difference.

It’s either that or I teach the LA kids how to eat New Yorkers…No, the diet thing is better.

I’m big, I’m fat, and I’m losing weight for LA!  Let those kids have that extra happy meal, we’ll take it off of Rob.  Here’s what I’ll do: I’m gonna start working out and watching my diet. If a bunch of poor New York kids can do this, so can I.  And each week I’ll report back to you about how I’m doing.  I’ll try to report daily, but let’s waddle baby steps here.  I’ll report at least once a week on my progress.

As a writer, I know my exercise level is key.  Because of that, I’m going to push for 5 days a week, at least once a day, and for about 40 minutes.  Diet, for right now, I’m just gonna cut down on snacking.  If that doesn’t help, then I’ll look at more drastic measures.

I'm so big that

I can't even fit

Right now I’m 237, naked.  Either picture my fleshy glory without the clothes or add a few pounds for what you see in these pics.  Your call.

Follow me, or join in yourself. LA fatties need our pounds!

3 pctures side-by-side