Saturday night pre-Wilco, good friend Jeff and I had a couple beers (and Jeff food poisoning) at a local (no name to protect the potentially innocent) watering hole. The place was jammed with twenty something’s that were in Grammar School when Jeff and I first saw the band back in ’95. Yeah, we’re old, especially me. (Clarification: When I asked Jeff if he thought we’d still be going to shows, “When I’m 75 and you’re 65,” Jeff made a point of parliamentary procedure and corrected the record that in fact, he’ll only be 63. Fifteenkey apologizes for the error.) Anyway, as we were exchanging words verbally, Jeff wandered into a story which prompted me to interrupt, “I already read that in your blog.” What followed was an amusing couple minutes about all the personal information we share with anyone who can read or be read to in our online diaries. Generally I’m very forthcoming with personal information outside of my Social Security number vault, and probably am guilty of “TMI” in the minds of some conversation partners, but that’s just me. In a recent management training class, I assessed as a high “I,” including the characteristics of “demonstrative” and “trusting.” At the point in the conversation where a masturbation joke happened (we overheard it from some other guys, it certainly wasn’t us…), I said, “See, if we wrote about that in our blogs, we’d have nothing to talk about in person…” There you go… TMI.
Author: fifteenkey (Page 31 of 95)
Last night at the Lowell Spinners game, a $6 “Steak Tip Sub” delivered more beef than I grilled for my whole family the night before and surely more than this “Biggest Loser at Work” contender should have consumed. I mindlessly housed it and two carbonated adult beverages… Oh, and there were peanuts, but no Cracker Jacks. They’re bad for ya.
Guilt ridden and bearing down on the scale more this morning than in previous days, I had to step up. I’ve only had the stair machine in a place I could use it for less than a week and in the 3 sessions so far, I’ve progressed from 20 to 25 to a full 30 minutes this morning. I highly recommend it paired with reading. As muscles work and blood rushes, synapses explode with ideas as words hit them. Add to that the LeoPod and Wilco’s new record and it was a jumbled, exhilarating mess. I’m certain it looked and sounded ridiculous as I climbed and sang badly. I don’t care. It was a great start to the day, which now continues with breakfast with Maddy!
Tonight I spoke soft words of small steps and encouragement. Then I took my first literal steps on the stair climber toward exercising a complement to my “I’m not eating that” weight loss strategy.
Lately Kyle and I have been taking the backstreets on our weekend trips. “Avoid Freeways” is a basic, yet nice feature to my GPS. Yeah, it’s the long way home, but it’s so much more interesting than the cold numeric concrete of 2, 3 and 495 to traverse some of the old historic Massachusetts turnpikes that are now state roads like 27 and 117.
“The Long Cut” is more visual and topographical, but tends to be trickier to travel and less well lit than modern interstates , but to get to some places, you can’t take any shortcuts. Take sobriety for example. There’s no fast lane for multiple passengers there. You’ve got to putter alone down a dark, lonely road with rough grade, steep inclines, sharp curves, scary descents and lurking potholes everywhere. There’s also the temptation of local roadside fast food joints, liquor stores and ice cream stands. Yeah, the ice cream is good, but it’s bad for ya and you’ve got to keep your eyes clear and looking ahead. Otherwise you could be off the road and a drive-by flashing light curiosity for the rest of us. Just keep progressing as slowly as you need to. Breathe. Eventually, your grip on the wheel will loosen, darkness will lose to light and beautiful new discoveries will be all around you…
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To this day I still get music from my Tar Hut partner Dave. One song that hit me hard upon its release in 1996 crushed me tonight…
I can remember the afternoons
Just laying around and playing on the floor
Yeah you gave me a hard time now and then
Well that’s what big brothers are for
So I never made the trip to the city
Guess I didn’t want to have to see you that way
The thought of you alone in some hospital bed
Is something that still haunts me todayWell there’s no mercy
There’s no second chance
“No Mercy” from Waiting Around For the Crash by Go to Blazes , produced by Dave’s friend, Eric “Roscoe” Ambel
Yesterday’s festivities took Kyle and his father through mostly back roads to Rockport (via Gloucester), Brookline (via West Roxbury) and home (via 117 through Bolton). Along the way we passed landmarks that reminded me and had me thinking about and mentioning old girlfriends to young Mr. Daley. Well, past girlfriends. I certainly wouldn’t use this space to call these lovely women old. From “Sally lived near here,” to “Cheryl lived around here somewhere” to “Suzanne lives right up that street,” it was a trip down mamory (I’m going to leave that typo squared right there…) but still ex-Memory Lane.
About an hour ago, I parked myself out at the newly pressure-washed patio table on my deck with a Maker’s Mark seasoned cigar and my Intel powered appendage to write something. As I savored the marked tobacco, I asked Megan to pour me a Maker’s on the rocks. Being an inexperienced, yet generous barkeep, she brought me this, so el posto may be a bit messy.
Relationships can be messy, but among the three noted above, one wasn’t a relationship at all, one was an engagement before its time and the latter a relationship before I could handle one. Oh, and they’re not in that order. See? Messy.
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Anyway, somewhere between the strands of fibers known as this long weekend I also wondered, “Will I ever buy another woman a diamond ring?” Since I don’t much buy into the forged feelings of Valentine’s Day, my inclination is to challenge the validity of the diamond ring as some attestation of love. If love is proven by a shiny cut of compressed carbon, that’s, well, kinda shallow. Now that I’ve done a little research on this here net of inter, it’s even more unlikely, but I’m a sap, so who knows? It won’t be from DeBeers though. That’s for sure.
I bought some yesterday for someone I visited in a psychiatric hospital. There, the residents time their days by hourly smoke breaks and “group” sessions, between which they contemplate the shadows they hide in but cannot handle. I imagine some visitors leave and never return, but I don’t know any, and frankly I’m sick of spending holidays in these places for fear of the spiral a no-show might trigger. This post isn’t going well… I was hoping for some insightful observations from the experience, but honestly they’re always the same people, broken by their own hand gripping a bottle, pipe or syringe. I wonder how many suffer organic mental illness among the masses that’ve caused theirs. Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but after a life of booze and/or drugs finally renders someone a hollow black, carbon crusted shell, why the fuck are the rest of us obligated to coddle them until discharge and repeat performance? Actually, the reason is to avert the collateral damage to other loved ones if the sad circus leaves town early.
“Yes Man” was an entertaining couple hours for Kyle and me Saturday night. The plotline takes a “no man,” (Jim Carrey) a guy dodging life, and turns him into a “Yes Man” responding affirmatively to everything after a life-changing experience at a “Yes” seminar. The film had some hilarious moments, but also got me thinking about saying “yes” more to opportunities in life’s playground.
Early in the movie, Carrey’s protagonist ignores phone calls (totally me) just to avoid talking, but as he renovates, answering leads to opportunities. Today I answered two personal calls often ignored in the past and both were from callers needing some help. They were challenging in different ways, but had I not answered, personal histories would have been altered, likely not for the better.
Saying “yes” today didn’t lead to a fateful romantic meeting or comic movie moment, but my instinct tells me choosing to engage helped others, and I feel some affirmation knowing that.
As I continue descending the sliding scale, down in the distance I see an intermediate goal aligned with the end of our “Biggest Loser” contest at work. My weekly goals are set in a “Weight Tracker” spreadsheet as are the weekly standings. From 6th place (down 4.2%), victory is attainable, but I’m not sure my -15.6% goal will get me there. All but a couple of people ahead of me really don’t have that much poundage to shed, so it’ll likely end up a two or three man race…
So far the only cheating I’ve done is a sourdough roll with butter while I worked from home last week. Single, reasonable portions are my key and they have been pretty easy to stick to. Temptation and fridge door dancing have been tempered with a single thought. “Everything in there but water has calories.” As I over think this thing, what concerns me most is a sub-conscious fight to retain the body type I’ve had for over 40 years, and if so, why?
My early memories of self-image probably began in junior high school when a school shopping trip permanently traumatized me when my mom insisted on perusing “husky” pants. I rationalized “fat” with “big” and thereafter pursued the “good” of being big, most prominently as a “power hitter” in baseball. That carried me through the ages of Little League, Babe Ruth League, High School, college and beyond. In the years since, I’ve always worked out and weight trained, partly to retain a strong, athletic, “big guy” image. As the years have padded the reflection, I’ve been blinded to its reality and of the metrics inflation glaring up from under my feet.
So I wonder, “Do I fear losing myself to a new, slim version of me that I’ve never known?” A little research turned up an article by Tracy Rose called, “Self-Sabotage – Reasons Not to Lose Weight.” In addition to the one above, she cites several methods of self-sabotage relevant to me:
- Letting fear of life without the fat barrier get the best of you.
- Being afraid of how you’ll respond when people show they are attracted to you.
- You won’t be able to use fat as an excuse to stay on the sidelines of life anymore.
I don’t know why “fear of damaging my relationship with pizza” didn’t make the list, but I do know the Neapolitan is pretty pissed off at me right about now… Down is an interesting journey.
Michael Jackson influenced my life at 10, 25 and now at 50.
I’ve never owned a Jackson record. I didn’t have to. My “Summer of 69” and several after were spent at Revere Beach with my family and 680 WRKO AM. Back then there was no “FM” and ‘RKO DJ’s Dale Dorman, J. J. Wright, J. J. Jeffrey, Shadoe Stevens and Frank Kingston Smith played the hits all day long. Of course those boys were flipping vinyl platters back then and the songs of the Jackson Five were the soundtrack to the 1970 season. While we broiled, swam the not so crystal waters and dined on Kelly’s Fish n’ Chips, Michael and his brothers poured out of transistor radios in multi-stereo up and down the beach in varying quality. Of course the highlight of that summer was seeing a 34C escape its bikini island prison to bask glowingly in the mid day sun, even for just a second… but I digress.
The Jacksons and other Motown acts seasoned my musical tastes, but no self-respecting member of the KISS Army would buy into the disco lie, so I was spared the embarrassment of that era… until 1983. Out of college and waiting tables at the old “John Martin’s Manor” on Route 1 in Saugus, I donned dark pastel shirts, thin black leather tie and red (very red) “Members Only” jacket to hit the floor, but with conditions. I wouldn’t dance to the old disco hits I rejected years earlier, but in 1983, one could dance to Prince, Talking Heads, David Bowie, and of course Michael Jackson. Everybody got up for “Billie Jean.” I’m not sure if I would have allowed myself to be into Mike without it, but dammit, he had Eddie Van Halen playing guitar on “Beat it” and he looked tough in the video, so I rationalized and jumped in.
As a parent raising young children in 1993, the abuse allegations were pretty sickening, but I remember thinking he was just a kid in an adult’s body. I recall his 1988 Grammy performance of “Man in the Mirror.” At the time I was amazed at the emotion he projected and with his constant physical transformations over the years, I have no doubt he hated what he saw there. Some speculate he saw his father and wanted that reflection removed. Anyway, I guess we’ll never know the many mysteries of Michael, but those child charges will always stain the trademark white glove.
Now, only a few months older than me, Michael Jackson is no more. Game Over at 50. The sad end of his life seems normal, another “Candle in the Wind” moment. It’s as if the steep trajectory of his existence had to end in self immolation, like a soaring rocket lighting the sky and spirit, only to lose power, tip awkwardly downward and explode. The dead at 50 thing is just another reminder of mortality and an additional nudge to live a healthier lifestyle.
Thanks for everything, Michael.
Those lyrics are stuck in my head, and since they’re not the title of a song, it’s a bit more challenging to find them on the interconnected network. Find them I did though and Mad Season’s “River of Deceit” was a 1995 song that once propelled me around the one mile odd oval at Fitchburg’s Coolidge Park. Anyway…
Other than obvious health benefits like reducing chances of heart disease, stroke (the bad kind), Type 2 diabetes and cancer, there are other bennies like:
- Better nutrition for the family – I buy the food, so Megan, Kyle and Maddy are learning to love things like baked haddock, spinach salad with fresh roasted beets and goat cheese, mangoes, avocados, and sautéed beet greens. These fine foods have taken the place of corporate slop from giant agribusiness conglomerates.
- Less money for giant agribusiness conglomerates – IBID
- Less stress on fingers – It’s much easier to fasten pants when you’re not trying to hold back a glacier of fat.
- Better visibility driving – I can see much better now that I’m not sunk six inches into the front seat of my car.
- More roomy seats in coach – I appreciate that as I’ve lost weight, the airlines have increased seat size. Thanks Southwest!
- Save money on clothes – Soon I’ll be able to wear all the clothes I grew out of. Sadly, they’re from the 80’s.
- Less wear and tear on your mattress – Yep, with less crushing weight on your coils you’ll no longer feel like you’re sleeping in a foxhole. This benefit extends to anyone between you and your coils…
- Once again, women are right – The boobs are the first to go!
Tonight after work I picked Maddy up at her Grammy’s. Mommy Megan was attending a wake for yet another young victim of heroin. Like too many others, there won’t be a tomorrow for him.
My little grand-daughter was happy to see me, but sad to leave her “Ky-Ky.” She doesn’t quite get the Kyle splitting time at Grammy and Papi’s… So with it just the two of us, two words ruled: ice cream. “Wanna get an ice cream, baby?” She smiled and wiggled affirmatively in her car seat. After a while we were trading, “Who wants an ice cream?” for “Meeeeeeeee!” Patiently, Maddy waited while we hit the bank and the dry cleaners before arriving at the Cherry Hill Ice Cream Barn. Even in a kiddy cone dish, “Extreme Chocolate” kicks serious ass, blending dark chocolate ice cream with equal dark dashes of fudge and chocolate chunks… Yeah. I really wasn’t falling off the fatty wagon, but in case I needed a reminder, the one piece picnic table literally sank underneath us and tipped over on us. We, and the Extreme Chocolate were unhurt…
After a “I don’t want to get back in my car seat” dispute won by me, we headed home for jammies and a dinner consisting of fresh salad and chicken sausage with multi colored peppers and pale Vidalia. As I cooked, Maddy visited often, leaving the comfort of her soft pink and fluffy bean bag chair and “Dora” to give me hugs and kisses… and to beg like a puppy with her mouth open for salad tomatoes. When I asked if she was ready for bed, she shook her blonde curls East to West, but curled up in my arms. I tried to reason with her about how she loves her bed and her blankie and the nice music (WCRB) softly filling a little corner of her room. She hugged me tight in what I incorrectly interpreted as agreement. I put her into her white crib and said softly, “no crying now. Papa wants Maddy to be happy, not sad.” She looked at me with her big blue eyes brimming with contentment. We had a nice couple hours and Madison Olivia had another fun day of breakfast with Papi, mommy time, school with her friends, and after-school with Grammy, Papa Scott and her Ky-Ky.
After about 10 kisses and another big hug, I said “I love you. Goodnight,” and left Maddy’s room, shutting the door behind me. Immediately, the sound of crazed prehistoric raptors ripped at the door… Strange, I thought. Why does she cry? My feeling in the moment was that she just doesn’t want the days to end. It was as if she were crying out, “Nooooo, Papi! I don’t want this day to end! I don’t want any of this to end!” Me neither, baby. Me neither.