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??