Day 16

Heading back home after being in Baltimore and then Pittsburgh for 6 days.

I do not like traveling at all, especially if I have to fly to get there. I become discombobulated and out of balance, often forgetting something in my rush out of the house to go where I don’t really want to be.

(By the way, this is the first time I have ever typed out the word “discombobulated,” and spell check did not correct me. It’s one of those words you say, but are not quite clear if it is slang, made up or part of the English language.)

When I am packing I many times wait till the last second. I hurriedly throw things into a bag and speed to the airport. On this particular trip I was dangerously close to missing the plane and I cut my hand twice that morning, resulting in looking like O.J. Simpson after “getting his golf bag out of the car” in 1993.

I’m not sure what the deeper meaning is for putting off my schedule, but I would think it has something to do with a subtle wish that the plans will change and I get to stay home with my family instead.

There is nothing in the world better than being around my wife and 3 sons. Nothing comes close. There is no sleep number hotel bed or in-room Jacuzzi that could come close to the comfort and peace I feel when I am around my wife and kids, so I avoid road trips, even though (strangely) I am in a business that calls for being up in the air.

I never had stability as a child, as we moved from rental home to rental home. When I was young, I actually thought the word “evict” meant “move,” like “here comes the eviction truck mommy!”

We would pack our tattered and borrowed suitcases and go to another Philadelphia neighborhood, but did not settle anywhere for very long. I had another childlike perception that there was an advantage to changing locations – because in each residence came an envelope filled with “Welcome Wagon” coupons! These were deals from local businesses, offered to lure you in for a taste of their goods or services, hoping you will become a regular customer.

Two things remain in my subconscious today. One is that I still have a very warm feeling around discounts, and am a huge Groupon (or others like it) user. Upon seeing a deal from my area online deals dealer I seize the opportunity, convincing myself I must not miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to save money.

The irony is, nine times out of ten it is not something I would normally buy, meaning that I am not saving money at all! Did I really need to be exfoliated?

The other part of my childhood that won’t seem to go away is keeping a couple of cardboard boxes packed, just in case someone sends us a note telling us we must vacate the premises. It is not realistic thinking, considering I haven’t missed a payment in 2 decades, but I am insecure nonetheless.

I think childhood memories are like Mel Gibson. You can numb 'em, arrest 'em, lock 'em up or ignore 'em, but there will always be a comeback.

Since this blog is supposed to have an ongoing theme, let me take this opportunity to seize a segue and talk about my belly coming back. Well, more like moving towards my back, as the stomach is on a descent.

I may have lost some waistline on this trip. The reason I know this is due to another reason I hate flying – airport security. They now choose you “randomly” to step out of the normal x-ray line and into a machine that apparently can see what you had to eat that morning.

In this contraption is not used in many airports, thus meaning it makes no sense to have the tighter security in one airport, but not another. I am not a clever terrorist, yet if I were I certainly would fly out of a city that hasn’t purchased this big unit. It makes no sense, similar to when I tell them I can prove my liquids aren’t explosive by taking a gulp in front of them.

This morning the TSA guy (of course) points at me and tells me to remove my belt. I did, and my pants came down about 6 inches. I was no hip-hop artist (“Bust A Gut”), although my jeans were on their way to the ankles when I moved fast to save the line from seeing a flash slob.

On the other hand, I wish I mooned the guy who picked me for the special screening. My pimply ass might make him hesitate next time.

On the plane now and will get to our bathroom scale to confirm the progress. And then I will get some needed rest from my discombobulation, which is not a word that escapes the spell correction.

Day 15

Spent two days at home in LA after being back east with 2 sons, where we ate the best dough products on earth. They say the reason the east coast has the best rolls, bagels and soft pretzels is the water. It is shocking to me that some chemist, who creates like 10,000 new prescription drugs a year cannot come up with a replica H2O to be used nationwide, so I can cancel my 23 year good pizza search in Los Angeles.

I took my California raised sons to New York City, where we partook in some of the local foods. A stop at Ray’s for a slice of pepperoni did not solicit the rave from the kids I thought it would. I think they are content with a mall Sbarro plain piece, since that is what they are used to.

We started our journey 90 miles south of Manhattan, when I turned them on to a cheese steak at my friend Suzzane’s Deli in Wyndmoor, PA. Now, her sandwiches will never be in the same conversations most have when talking Philly cuisine, but that’s not because they are not delicious.

Usually most out-of-towners will ask when inquiring about my favorite, “Pat’s or Geno’s?,” referring to the popular south Philly spots where you can get a gut bomb 24/7 from them. They are located right across the street from one another in typical competitive fashion for the City of Brotherly Love.

Those places have good food, but I think some of the lore is based on the attitude that comes with your order, which you better have down, or suffer the consequences of a sweaty Italian guy serving up some annoyed sarcasm. “I’ll have one wid sauce & onions” will get you a good, meaty meal without the eye roll and head shake of shame.

Suzanne has a small place on Willow Grove Avenue in a village-like town, cooking for a steady clientele, half of who just walk in and say, “the usual.”

One thing our host/owner/chef does have in common with all the famous grilles is the confidence. Everywhere in the area, there is a claim that their hoagie or steak is the best in the Delaware Valley, accompanied by a brief reasoning as to why. “Dellasandro’s chops the meat too much” might be something you hear, but for my kids it is all new to them.

We took them to go and went over to the place where I myself learned how to cook when I was a teen, the Flourtown Country Club. Yes, it was there where an apparently clueless owner hired four close delinquent friends, Tommy (“Jack Benny”), George (Megaphone Mouth) and Dave (Wrong Way Feldman or El Whoppo).

I will save our escapades for another day (if requested), but needless to say, if something was sent back to the kitchen, it went back out a little more “moist.”

The place has hardly changed a bit in 30 years, and we all sat at the picnic tables to enjoy our food. I watched my boys take their first bites and paid close attention to their reactions.

Typical for the territory, as if he has been living there his entire 13 years, my son Justin says, “it’s really good, dad, but it’s not the same as Delesandro’s. I think their rolls are better.”

I guess the water is different 7 miles away in Roxborough than in Wyndmoor.

Or as Justin says to blend into his adopted hometown accent --  the “wooder.”

Day 13

I hope no one’s keeping accurate track of the days I’m into this weight project. If this was a television show, I have been on the equivalent of a hiatus. I've been “the biggest snoozer” when it comes to staying awake for this cruise to Thinville.

I’m thinking about shutting it down, not the desire to lose a few pounds and eat healthier, but the journaling of it. This has not caught on as I had hoped, and (frankly) I am so busy with numerous projects, it seems fruitless if no one is reading this. I am not as popular or interesting as I had hoped!

Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t look heavy enough to qualify for a challenge like this. The “steaks” are not high enough. When it comes to trends and ratings, the current societal system seems to be one of short attention span.

I am a storyteller, and I fear this art form is dying a slow death. A hundred and forty character tweet from a Kardashian sister telling the world what kind of Tampon she switched to is garnering 8 million times more attention than my musings about poundage.

Perhaps if I removed the lbs by making some sex tapes?? 

Day 12

I’m on my way to my childhood home of Philadelphia.

This is going to be my greatest dietary challenge thus far. Not only was it named the “fattest city” a few years ago, but add to that the fact that I am looking forward to putting a few favorite restaurants, delis and food stands on my historical tour, and methinks there could be a slight setback in the program.

To put a positive spin on it, my stomach will continue to have “forward” progress…

Philly is not known for producing alternative eating delicacies. It is mostly a town of tradition and repetition, and this is especially the case at mealtime. Recipes have been passed down for centuries, without so much as a blink to change an ingredient. They have no clue what is outside the normal patterns of a meat & potatoes meal, followed by sitting around the telly watching Channel Six Action News with a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer you got at the local bar down the block.

There is not much awareness of much outside a 20-block radius, except for the Jersey Shore trips that fill every summer.

For instance, if you announced you were trying a vegan lifestyle, most would think you were just talking about vegging out on the couch for a while. Ketchup is considered an essential vitamin source there. And don’t tell them a tomato is not a vegetable, or prepare to have your fruity ass kicked back to the west coast!

There are local foods most of our country has never heard of, let alone tasted. I use the term “taste” loosely, because most food there is consumed without thought or touch of a taste bud. It is “wolfed,” “rifled” and “piled in,” but rarely eaten for its succulent culinary delight.  Sometimes teeth are more of an impediment to the rush to the stomach than an essential tool in digestion

Conscious eating in the City of Brotherly Love is practically non-existent. This is a place where one of the most celebrated events is the “Wing Bowl,” as 20 thousand fans gather to watch gluttons down as many chicken wings as possible before passing out.

I guess you could say it’s “unconscious” eating??

Grown men are horizontally strewn about a stadium boxing ring, wishing for a ring girl to give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and relieve them of their self induced misery.

When I wake up in the morning in my hometown, I begin with a breakfast “meat” called Scrapple. I put meat in quotes because I am not quite clear if or what meat is contained in this slab. The best guess I can give is that scrapple is one vowel away from what it probably is – a scrap pile. Yes, it is what’s left over AFTER they make sausage, which is oh-so-healthy for you!

I picture the sausage being made in a factory in rural Pennsylvania, and then a guy with a broom sweeps the leftover snouts, guts and innards into a mold. Perhaps there is some congealing fluid added (or glue), but then it is made into a 3 by 2 by 4-inch rectangular block and put into a hermetically sealed wrapper.

Okay. I am going to stop right there. I have eaten this since birth, and even I’m getting nauseous describing this day starter.

Sorry…

A helpful hint I picked up a long time ago when I am having a hard time with offensive food – put ketchup on it.

Day 11

I am indeed losing it. Down from 213 to 203 today. I don’t want to do the “goal weight” thing because it sounds like I will get some trophy at the end. For me, it also spells an end, when in this case, daily wellness is my destination.

I simply want to get into a (more) healthy program, and shed some extra pounds in the process. I guess that’s my goal, right?

I get my picture taken often, so I’d prefer to be less conscious of getting caught in the candid shot, where I am not doing the suck-in belly pose. I am smiling, but you can see that my teeth are actually being used to seal in the oxygen. If I opened my mouth slightly, you would hear a sound that resembles poking a hole in a tire.

I am doing these special shakes, which are really working. I still have energy, and feel satiated at breakfast, allowing me to have a full and refreshed morning. But once I see the lunchtime coming, I begin to obsess over my “reward” of a hearty meal. Gimme something to chew on, baby!

It is so hard to believe that I’m even thinking about losing pounds. Nostradomus would not have predicted this if he knew me as a boy.

I had four major food groups – candy, hot dogs, peanut butter and soft pretzels (with mustard). Ketchup was dumped on things like I was pouring motor oil into my car. And I always had to have Charles Potato Chips and Tasty Kakes with every meal.

I turned down so many foods. My mom had to cook on the down low, so she could hide certain ingredients. If I found an onion in something, that was the end of the meal right there on the spot! I turned into Ghandi on a fast against the British. Only my cause was not so noble…

The result of my picky eating was the body of a child Sally Struthers would raise money for. I recall thinking, when I would see her commercials with the starving kids by her side was my thought; “even those kids wouldn’t eat Lima Beans.” One time, I took my vegetables and put them in an envelope and told my mom to send them to the “starving kids across the sea,” as she called them.

My grandmother teased me about “seeing my ribs,” but nothing could get me to eat better. I was skinny to the point where I swallowed weight gain pills. In 9^th grade, I was the only wrestler who had to GAIN weight. I was my own class, below the minimum to be in a division. While the rest of the team was running in rubber suits to get down, I would be gobbling ice cream cones with sprinkles (although we called them “jimmies”).

So, I am now grown up and obviously do not have the metabolism of a field mouse anymore. I’ve been over 200 lbs for many years, which is still hard to comprehend, considering I was in high school trying to break the century mark as my “goal.”

It is sometimes hard for me to grow up, which ain’t helping with the growing “out”!

Day 10

Can’t believe how much golfing helps with the weight plan. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m playing on the surface of the sun!

Damn, are we all getting the hint from the man upstairs yet?? By the way, if he really is upstairs, I’d hate to live in his place right now. Heat rises!

Well, I guess if you are the creator, you already know that…

I haven’t been announcing my weigh-ins, but I guess today is a good day to give the update, considering I’ve been sweating like Rupert Murdoch asked to tell the truth.

I started at 213 pounds and today I logged in at 204. Not too bad, especially since I have not officially worked out in that time span.

It is also due to these shakes I’ve been drinking in the morning. I notice the difference when I don’t bring them on the road with me. When I am on a consistent program at home, I do so much better in all ways. I center when I’m around my personal space, and that includes having my infomercial scores – the magic bullet blender and slap chop.

The comedy clubs aren’t known for having a menu created by Dr Oz. Most of the time the cook is the brother-in-law of the owner, who is 3 days out of drug rehab, dripping wet in front of a deep fryer, tossing breaded food items to their sizzling death.

I guess one can see how this wellness trip has had a few detours.

Off to golf again now. It is a foursome of business clients for a film I am developing, so I can justify my time “off” with a possibility of a future investment.

At least that’s what I tell my wife….

Day 9

Ok, true confession. This is more like “day 19,” not “9.” I have been lax in my blog writing, and even more so with my diet regimen.

I don’t like the term “diet.” First, the word “die” occupies three quarters of the word, and I have no interest in dying of starvation. Now, perhaps if the word was more like “live-et,” I might jump right in with both feet!

Yes, I want to LIVE. I want to have fun with my life and enjoy every moment I can. Whenever I feel I deprive myself of something, it takes some joy out of my day. It would be like hooking up with a super model, and mid preamble she says, “Well, you can only touch this tiny portion of my body. The rest you leave for somebody else.”

Then again, models I have known are worse than a Big Mac enema for my health, so maybe that wasn’t the best comparison. The temperamental ultra beautiful ladies I’ve known have the grace of Al Qaeda if they don’t get their way. Plus, I have long said that I find their bodies to be anything BUT attractive and healthy, and have no clue why girls aspire to look emaciated.

As my friend Carlos always said, “The bone is for the dog.”

Now that I have started the conversation about women who focus on scoring a magazine cover or a Milan runway, I think I will explore this further, relating to the blog I’m writing here about my weight loss.

To be honest, I arrived to the most wonderful place in my personal life journey a few years ago, and one thing I now know is that the folks who work on their thinness are not happy people. Even with fashion magazines the women look angry, as if they are saying, “somebody give me a lamb chop.”

My theory is that they have given into some societal myth, where “you can never be too rich or too thin.”

I disagree about the “too rich” part, but will save that for my blog about money! But as far as too thin is concerned, “concerned” is the operative word. I’d say skeletal remains of someone dead of malnutrition would be “too thin.” Because of a few supposedly hip experts in the fashion world have deemed it a good thing to be skinny, we now have a country- wide epidemic of anorexia and bulimia.

These are diseases caused exclusively by culture, and if anyone put this under further review, one would see its deceptive origins, as well as the fatal outcome. Also, whenever I exist in the energetic space of lack or less, it causes angst and a sense of loss, not a loss of pounds, but an incessant deficiency of abundance and good things. The mindset of deprivation manifests itself in a variety of ways, where I end up feeling unworthy of greatness. How can I be fulfilled, when I’m not filling myself with that which causes me to feel internally uplifted?

Basically, I have had the most pleasure in my life when I am being genuine. The more honesty and core integrity I ground in, the better the results.

I find diets to be just that – disingenuous. Why do I want to force a body type that is not natural? If I am dieting, usually it is for someone else (their view of what looks good on you), and people-pleasing is never a good starting point for anything. Also, despite the ads that claim delectable treats aplenty with their particular program, I have yet to see a regimen that includes my favorite – Girl Scout Cookies.

With a diet, I’ll be eating foods that do not have the taste I find to be the most satisfying. “Delicious” is my goal, not “deprivation.”

The other issue is that I have been taught to think that fats and sugars are the only way to please the palette, and that organic (natural) eating is for the hippies who smoked the taste buds off their tongues. It is stored in my mind that sweets and fats are a reward, and that greens will not give me strength, even though hay-eating horses would kick my ass in a fight or a race.

Now, good health is another story. Instead of allowing the script to be written by societal “norms,” I now choose to look elsewhere for my positive changes. Once I began committing to wellness, my world opened up. And I mean literally it showed me a way of being that is not exposed to us on a regular basis. What is shown to us on a mega scale is the quick and easy fare, and there are billions of dollars spent promoting something that is not organic to our digestive system. Actually, a lot of it is poison, but we would not know that, since the mainstream media cannot and will not reveal these secrets, or the sponsors who pay their salaries would shut them down.

Therefore, I had to explore alternative methods of healing and wellness, and I am damn glad I did! Sure, I don’t have perfect body/perfect health, and certainly a sleeve of thin mints would contradict myself, but in general I am far closer to great living than if I took the road of the masses.

The consumer mentality has consumed much of our psyche, but the bummer is, the things we want more of are harmful to us. 

The “more whores” have taken over our collective thought patterns, and I personally want to stay clear of that. There is no end to their foundationless desire to attain happiness by accumulation, and this includes devouring a Denny’s Grand Slam Breakfast or an all-you-can-eat 99-cent buffet in Reno.

Big quantities and small quality. What if we focused on re-labeling our ideas about good food, and put more importance into the octane of the fuel we put into our bodies? It’s one thing to put the 87test gasoline into a rental car, but I want to get more than a hundred thousand miles out of my vehicle!

I am digging the simplicity, depth and breadth of my current lifestyle, where I place importance on critical thinking and expanding my creative spirit. Limiting, as we do when we diet, does not serve that purpose of expanding my world.

More about this in days to come, but to sum it all up – it’s all about balance. The more I focus on the yin AND the yang, the better off I will be. The times I take a step back and look for core truth, is when I am most successful.

I will do just fine in this latest goal documentation. It will evolve into something unique and fun for me, and if I lose a few pounds in the process and can play with my family with a touch more bounce, then I done good!

Day 8

I’m not sure what day of my stated weight loss intention this is, but needless to say I am way off schedule. I do like the blogging of simply categorizing it by days, because it cuts down on my time spent coming up with clever titles for the piece.

These days, it’s always about time efficiency, isn’t it?

I have noticed this blog run has not caught on with the viewers. Kinda like having a show on Discovery Health Network; it’s interesting, but the more compelling ratings grabbers involve some sort of consequences like a fall into a sewage pit or a verbal reaming from an actor playing a military sergeant diet coach.

Frankly, my losing it has lost its steam. I went down 7 pounds immediately, but then stalled. I’m not gaining, but am stuck in neutral. Hell, I am part Swiss!

Yesterday, I realized that having kids does not help with the eating well system I’d like to fully adopt. And since they’re 3 boys 11 years apart, the variety of events and tastes adds to the bad menu choices.

For instance, yesterday I woke up earlier than I would have liked, with Jackson the (almost) two year old repeating over and over into the baby monitor, “daddy, daddy, daddy,” a beautiful thing, but hearing it at 5am diminishes the cuteness. I went in his room and rocked him in my arms for a while, which is great for my heart, yet not so good for my stomach, which is now thinking it is breakfast time and wants an omelet.

Then it’s time to get the 7 year old to camp. He is happier with the dreams he was having, so now I spend an hour trying to convince him that kickball was a better thing than the sugar plumbs (or Twix) dancing in his head. So, he’s now late and we are wolfing down food on the run, always a great idea for digestion, right? We are supposed to chew a few dozen times a bite. I think every other bite passed the teeth on the way down.

Now it’s time for my eldest son’s 13^th birthday party. By the way. Can I ask you all something? Is it “eldest” or “oldest?”

He is hosting 19 twelve year olds at a big trampoline place called “Sky High,” where kids bounce around for hours on end, with the future prison guard teenagers yelling rules every few seconds to justify their summer job. If I heard the word “policy” one more time…

So, daddy has to feed the tweeting tweens, and the place will only allow their food to be served – pizza.

My wife laughed at me when I was serving the kids, as I made sure I got my slices of pepperoni. “Honey, you are supposed to give the kids their food and then you take what is left over.”

Yeah, right.

“I’m paying. Like they’re gonna remember this party for the food. And the girls are already in their not-going-to-eat-in-front-of-boys mode anyway, so I’m taking some slices for me. I’m starving from all this work I’m doing on the party.”

Needless to say I held the same attitude when doling out the cake. My wife is cutting it like she’s trying to win a geometry contest, so I grab the knife and begins chopping away. Each square loses a little section on the pass to the plate, and all the extras went in my mouth. I’m glad they were occupied, because I was licking me some fingers.

Now we have 13 year olds not only possessing hormonal changes, but are now hopped up on sugar. Added a whole new meaning to the sky high thing.

Day 7

It’s strange to me to have to stay with a scheduled writing, as if I’m on staff for a sitcom. Luckily, I’m not getting paid to stay within a deadline, and considering only 16 people have signed up to follow this, there’s no pressure!

Last night I went off track a bit. And when I abandon a regimen, I go full out. Once I put my foot on the slippery slope, I hurtle all the way to the bottom, sliding like I’m on the grease I’m eating.

I took my wife to the movies. We saw “Tree Of Life,” a movie I had not heard of that she picked out. She is my earth girl, so I figured it was a documentary about trees. My wife gets turned on if I buy her plant seeds, so I knew this was going to lead to a good goodnight.

It was actually a feature film with a plodding story and emoting actors, one of those movies made by some serious “auteur” cats that seem to think they are making the most important film of all time. And if you don’t think so, there’s that arrogance of them being above it all and you are just too stupid to get it. It is only shown in art houses, as if all other movies in a multiplex are Top Ramen and they are beluga caviar. 

I got it all right. I got bedsores from a hundred and forty minutes sitting quietly in a theatre chair. Glad I missed the previews, or I might have had permanent damage.

Tree of Life was two hours of symbolism and irony. And I slept like a log.

But not before I loaded up on comfort food. I think this type of eating can be divided into categories, and in this case it can be put under the label of “movie munchies.” From the moment I enter a theatre I go on automatic pilot. There is no weight loss blog or voice of suggestive reason. It’s dark in there, no one can see me and I go off like a crack addict behind a dumpster, a guy in 12 steps hiding from his sponsor.

I simply must have my salt and sweet combo. My wife didn’t want anything from the snack area, so I had my own bag of popcorn and a box of candy. I had a choice of treats from the top row, or I could splurge and spend an extra fitty cent on the high-end milk chocolate. Or will I go for the stuff so imported it has its own designated area outside the window display?

But I took a detour. I turned around and there was a freezer filled with ice cream. The real good stuff, too. There really are advantages to the art house over the fart house!

I got my chocolate and popcorn mix, but forgot that this particular treat melts. I had to wolf it down before the hand thaw, always following my pattern of a one to one mouthful ratio of consumption. Problem was, I had to eat so fast it made noise, and this was one of those quiet flicks, where I had to wait for a scene with thunder so I could bury my hand in the loud paper bag.

After the movie ended, I waited through the credits, not that I needed to see who the key grip was, but because I didn’t want anyone to see the loud eater with the popcorn crumbs stuck to his shirt.

I got heartburn, too. I usually don’t get this anymore, ever since I started taking this miracle juice about four years ago, but I had rushed around and hadn’t done my afternoon shot of liquid health.

My chest aches did not stop my food run though. We had a coupon for a new restaurant, which served Tapas, so we went there to have dinner.

This was my kind of place. We ordered numerous dishes instead of traditional entrees, and this was the way to go. The selection was diverse, and unlike the movie we had just seen, I didn’t mind if it was pretentious. If this is the way snobs eat, I am all in!

Then came the moment of truth, or in the case of my belly girth, “critical mass.” We went through the variety of delectable Tapas, which is apparently a fancy way of saying “appetizers,” and needed to decide if we wanted to be stuffed or satiated.

Did I want to try one more, and also have another one of the favorites I had just enjoyed? There was one that had a sauce (me love sauces!), which was basically crabmeat in a donut. Kinda like California Roll meets Krispy Kreme.

Yes, I went for round two. No regrets. Had a wonderful night with my love, and I am well rested. Next time, I choose the movie. And if it involves trees, there better be some ninjas in ‘em!

Day 6

This one’s quick. Won’t even proof read. I have a date w my wife. Much needed. No kids. Gonna go off my food plan and eat movie food.

But won’t go off my frugal plan. Will not pay their prices for candy. So, will have a bigger Lovemaster bulge than usual when I enter the theatre. Is that a kit kat in your pocket? Well, yes it is.

I’ll hopefully work it off later a natural way with my wife! Yeah, baby…

Day 5

I have already blogged about my difficulties working out in a traditional sense. I am not a fan of exercise equipment. Similar to the future in “The Terminator,” machines and me don’t mix. I just hope a Stairmaster with an Austrian accent does not attack me one day.

This past weekend I did it my way with working out– I laughed my ass off.

We’ve all heard that term before, along with “kick your ass,” “tap that ass” and “what an ass.”

Strangely, I have yet to see a tush fall off from giggling, a fight where an opponent focuses on striking the derriere, love making with tapping sounds or a person resembling two cheeks divided by a crack.

The thing is, my ass is fine. It is not trophy worthy, but my rear end does the job. It’s a moderate, and I am okay with that and don’t look to change much.

I don’t need or want to laugh my ass off, or I’d have little left to sit on. What I need when burning calories is for only specific areas to be peeling off the poundage. In my case, it is the belly region, where it appears to have a mind of its own. If the rest of my body is a family, my stomach seems to be the rebellious and independent one. This gut has busted loose!

I took my shirt off in public to hang at a lake in Dallas with one of my oldest and bestest friends, Steve Lawrence. He’s got his own little monster of the mid section to deal with, so (with him being shorter than me) it looks like the team of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble have returned.

We tried to stand together, with his dog too, on a blowup paddle board with boat wakes shaking us off balance. Our attempts were what made us howl with laughter, knowing how past our prime we are, but stubbornly trying again and again.

Then…we did it! We got 7/8ths to a full stand, his terrier in the middle and the two of us about upright on the paddle board. Being taller in this case had a disadvantage, because my fall was a lot more severe (and looks worse to an observer). It would have been fine, but I landed on rocks that I didn’t see, three inches below the surface.

Ouch. Made a gash in my side about that looks like I was stabbed by a bayonet.

Good news is the wounded area is exactly in the desired space I want to lose – the love handles. So I’m looking at it as a good excuse to absolve myself of all this hard work. This scar is the perfect start to my next weight loss program – liposuction!

Day 4

On the road now in Dallas (Addison), Texas.  I am concerned about my food plan when I’m in another city, but my fears are somewhat cancelled out by the fact that I can lose pounds through alternative methods – stepping outside.

I enjoy the outdoors, but in this case, my experience with nature is the run from an air-conditioned building to the next. I guess I owe God a fee for the steam bath use. Today, I saw a building sweat.

I did my usual press run this morning, and hung out with my old buddies on radio, Lex & Terry. I go way back to the late 80s with Terry, who lived in Southern California and started his radio career there. I knew him with a mullet and he knew me with a cut that resembled “Wham.”

When Terry teamed up with Lex several years ago, their syndicated show took off, primarily appealing to the young male demographic, meaning their show usually contains humor based on hot chicks and alcohol.

The reason I bring them up in a blog about weight loss might be a stretch, but most times I take off my shirt I have a memory jog. I am reminded of an appearance I made a coupla years ago, during another media stop while in Dallas.

I was sitting at the far end of the console in the Lex & Terry studio and trying to pull some focus my way. When I wake up at 5am, the purpose is to move tickets for the shows, and to do so I look for opportunities to get some funny in and turn on some new fans.

Well, this day I had a rough go of getting some mike time, since the studio was filled with other guests, including an ongoing L&T bit called…”Drunk Bitch Friday.”

So here I am talking about my kid’s birth and it gets constantly interrupted with the hosts screaming, “Ohhhh! There she goes. She’s blowing chunks!” This is followed by another tradition of Terry spraying Lysol in the room, as that week’s young drunk girl vomits into a bucket.

Not so easy competing for voice time with a trollop in a tank top bent over with her hair in a trash can…

To top it all off, in our world of short attentions, they had a guy come in to have a tattoo mural put on his back of the host’s logo. Now I’m really alone on the other side of the room, thinking of how to fit a tattoo routine into the mix just to get some attention.

Finally, I blurt out; “I’ll get a tattoo.”

Boom! All heads came my way. I could have said I was kidding or bowed out, but no. I went all in, like a poker player down to his last chips. They asked me if I had any tats. Not only do I not, but I always refrained from having ink, no matter how drunk I ever got or how many strippers told me it’s hot, I had a self proclamation that I would never go through with it. Let them love me for my bare arms and bony shins. If they want artwork, I will take them to a museum.

I had a dot put on by the visiting studio artist. One dot. I figured it would not be seen, and it was worth it if I drew more of a crowd to the show. They “encouraged” me to add two more dots, and then tell me after the last one, “You know, that’s a gang symbol. It means jail-hospital-death.”

Yeah, that’s me all right. A guy who looks like John Boy Walton and John Ritter’s love child is a regular bad ass from the hood. Call me “Busta Gut.”

My kids make fun of me, and that includes the young ones, who scratch it to see if this asinine sign comes off. It resembles a notification for radioactivity or smurf moles.

Today on the show I brought up this story, which at the time had a disappointing ending. I asked the crowd that night how many had heard me on the radio show that morning. Ever hear the sound of one hand clapping?

When I told the tale today, I asked that listeners go to my facebook fan page and give the code word, “Tat.” Much to my pleasant surprise, I found a bunch of new friends visit the page, all of who gave me a tat comment. Too funny!

So, finally my idiotic move paid off. A little, but I need to find some worth, like selling a bad stock when it makes a tiny upswing on the way to bankruptcy.

I’m just hoping now the Texas summer will melt the tat away. I think I got all I could out of this one…

Day 3

Today, I worked out.

I have told a joke in my act, “I work out once a year…January 2^nd, when I join a new club.” There is much truth in this, as is the case with most humor. I have signed up for countless fitness clubs, usually as part of a New Year’s Resolution vow, and I swear every time it will be a regular commitment, only to fade away and never be seen on their Stairmaster again.

One thing that happens is my first day I do too much, and I can’t go back because I need to recover from going too far the first day. After my orientation, I am so sore; I can hardly reach for my ID to get back in to the club.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I go full out and over-do it, trying to impress the club trainer who’s assigned to me five minutes before. If it’s a good-looking woman, I go even further, knowing how she will stroke me with a “you are amazing for not having worked out in so long” comment. I wait for it with quiet confidence. I know she says it to everybody, but let me be in denial.

I will bust blood vessels in my brain before I put those keys on the lifting machines to the upper third of the weight stack. Yes, I make a lot of noise that I’m sure makes my guide uncomfortable, especially when I let go and cause that loud crashing sound, but I’ll be damned if I will be labeled a beginner.

Note. Pause. Something just happened that might take me off course.

My wife just sat next to me on the couch with two ice cream cones. She says, “Does it make you nervous when I read over your shoulder?” I said, “No, I’m anxious because you are licking Häagen Daz an inch from my nose, and I am writing a blog about losing pounds!”

Back to the workout…

Ok, I will admit I did not go to a gym or anything close to it today, but I did work up a sweat. Someone please tell me what I did will suffice as a P90x session.

I hit golf balls. Nonstop for two hours. One violent swing after another I hit, until my left palm started to blister. I must have hit 400 balls. I was drenched and I could hardly see with the salty drops pouring into my eyes. One reason I don’t like working out is the goal of looking better doesn’t do it for me. I also hate those big mirrors surrounding me, lowlighting all my flaws. It’s like seeing yourself have sex, and that ain’t pretty. And sex with myself is even uglier. (Not that I’ve ever seen myself!)

But in this case my desire to lower my golf handicap was inspiration for the perspiration. I’m on my way to Dallas, and I want my friend Steve to notice how much better I am, as well as kick his ass.

I ate very healthy from start to finish today, the longest day of the year. I may have a contact high from the sugar my wife just waved around me, but I am pretty clean overall.

I haven’t hit the scale, but I think I may have dropped a few…and hopefully a few strokes off my golf score too.

Day 2

My wife was just showing me some pictures from our family day at the beach. Most of the pics were of our 1 year old; Jackson, and I commented that I didn’t see me in any photos.

She says, “Well, I have some of you, but you’re not going to like them.”

Damn, she was right! I had been smiling as I paged through, seeing the 3 boys playing in the Malibu sand, but moments to treasure turned into profound displeasure. This clown had a big ole frown.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a kid put a harpoon in me. It was that bad. Sitting in a beach chair, there I was with man boobs (moobs) so pronounced it shaded an area between belly and breasts, causing a large white area resembling an alabaster bra, to contrast the rest of my freshly sunburned body. Apparently my chest can be used as a protective roof.

I put on some pounds. You can now spot me on Google Earth. I am out of denial now. Even my wife, who is the kindest and most gentle person I have ever met said, “Wow Craig, you sure can put on pounds fast.”

I think part of this sudden protrusion has to do with my recent sugar cravings. I’ve had them in the past, but this is to a whole new level. I went to a local candy/soda store called Rocket Fizz and went through it as if someone told me I had won a shopping spree.

I don’t want to examine this too deep, but something is clicking in me that wants to be nostalgic, to go back to fond memories of childhood, and sweet treats are some of the greatest memories I have.

Rocket Fizz takes me back to Gever’s Pharmacy or Buckley’s General Store, where me and my neighborhood buddies would spend all the money we made shoveling snow or helping ladies with their groceries on penny candy, which eventually went to 6 cents, traumatizing a kid on a fixed income. I wanted to organize a protest of Mr. Gever for raising his prices, and I actually believed my friends and me could sting his wallet enough to bring down the cost of Good N Plenty to a reasonable sum. Our boycott probably cost him around a buck fifty a week. No idea how he made it through the winter.

So, now that I don’t have the same financial concerns as a child, I filled bags with taffies, gummies and cherry flavored chewables. Then, I capped it all off with downing a Birch Beer soda, acting as if I was a crack addict and had found my long lost dealer. With every bite or gulp, I thought of certain times hanging with guys who are still my friends today, and how we didn’t have a care or cavity in the world.

I think I’d better find some alternative methods of strolling down memory lane.

Anyone know where I can get a Pogo Stick?

Day 1

I’ve written blogs before. Well, I write short stories, anecdotes and prose and post it somewhere in cyber space and call it a “blog,” just so it appeals more to “you kids today.” Hell, “blog” is not even in my spell check in a word doc, so how hip can it be?

It used to be a letter to the editor, a Reader’s Digest entry or a pen pal letter, but now the reach is far more expansive by posting my musings on the internet. Now thousands of my closest friends can have full access to my bathroom habits.

Oh, what a world!

This is the first entry in a new style of blogging for me, which in the old days would be called a “journal.” I am going to attempt to put daily entries into this particular blog, because my progress report is essential to my process.

This time, I have chosen to meet a personal challenge concerning my health, and by writing about my journey, it helps me stay committed to my goals.

I am not a “health nut” so to speak, but am very much on a path of good living. My lifestyle has been an evolution of sorts, and I am very pleased with many of the results.

One thing I do is to not put stock or focus on building up my health, either in a positive or negative way. To me, if I keep too much of an eye on negative sources like germs or seasonal illnesses or dangerous viruses, it seems the universe will respond to my fear based messages and hand me what I think about. It seems to me that my friends who are germ-a-phobes get sick far more than I do.

I just realized I should save this stuff for future blogs, so I will cut it off there.

Bottom line is I gained weight again, and I now want to lose pounds. Many factors go into this decision, not the least of which is seeing candid photos where I’m not sucking in my gut while posing, resulting in shame and disgust. Call it an accidental intervention, but I’d now like to see myself in a picture without the need for photo shop.

I weighed in yesterday and had my son video my initial confessions. His giggling and zoom into my protruding belly are also signs I need to develop a program that tightens, shrinks and rejuvenates certain body areas, as well as gives me a revitalized energy. Hell, I gotta keep up with 3 sons under the age of 13!

Today, I am 213.6 pounds. At 6 foot 2, this is not making me a candidate for “The Biggest Loser,” but I’m not ready for my “after” photo to be seen either.

I will keep a daily log, in hopes it might inspire, amuse or entertain, as well as keep me on the path to wellness!

Thanks for peaking in, and all feedback is welcomed.

Ps. I used the word “blog” six times, and in every case it was highlighted in red. Time to tell my computer to “learn spelling.”