It Begins

Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve written about it repeatedly. However today, the day I’ve anticipated for over eight months finally arrived. Rejoice!

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And not a moment too soon, I might add.

No, Charles Barkley didn’t convince me to join Weight Watchers. You’re getting warm, though.

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Eschewing Mornings

I have been in pure, unadulterated pain all day long. It was self-inflicted no less. No, it’s nothing morbid; as a matter of fact I’m in pretty good spirits overall.

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Not to mention largely pharmaceutical and supplement free.
Image credit: Forbes

It’s because of something I did. Was it running? Was it going to the gym? Nah. Well, not yet. I’m still in the 2T. It’s because of something I did today I haven’t done in a very, very long time.

I woke up at 6:30 am. On purpose.

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Winded on the Central Bench

OK, I know all six of you who read this blog religiously have been wondering when I’m finally going to go to the gym. Well … I haven’t done it yet. However, a couple days ago I went out and exercised, dammit.

Back during the dark days of Milli Vanilli and New Kids On the Block I was a distance runner. I was on the cross country team in fall and on the track team in spring. Although I never seriously contended for any sort of championship, I was a fairly decent athlete who usually finished in the middle of the pack in varsity races and in the top 10 in JV races. I was also a hell of a lot thinner back then.

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Note the awesome “Flying T” uniforms of the day.

I was pretty hardcore about running, too. During the season I’d run up to seven miles in a single practice. That’s a little over 11 K for you metric types. During the off-season and in summer I’d occasionally compete in community “fun runs.” I never ran anything real intense like the Rim2Rim in the 2T or Robie Creek here in Boise. I might have had I not lost interest in the whole deal during my senior year.

Nevertheless, the experience earned me the enduring symbol of the musclehead jock: the varsity letter. I lettered twice in cross country, once in track, and once in, um … debate. I still have the jacket, even though I haven’t worn it in years. For one thing, people my age really shouldn’t wear such things in public. For another, it doesn’t fit anymore anyway.

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Voir!

Anyway, where the hell was I? Oh yes, exercise. Some two decades later my fat ass decided to reprise an old cross country workout known as wind sprints. Cross country workouts were usually conducted on the 2T’s country roads. Since these roads are laid out in a grid system with an intersection every mile, it’s easy to judge how far you’ve run. Like most country roads, they’re lined with telephone poles at fairly regular intervals.

As far as the 2T cross country coaches were concerned, wind sprints worked as follows. From a starting point one walked to the next telephone pole, then ran at their 5K pace to the next pole, then sprinted to the next, then repeated the process. This typically went on for three to four miles and possibly preceded and/or followed a traditional practice run.

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Not quite a 2T rural road, but you get the idea.

Being old and fat I adjusted the workout a bit. I replaced the 5K run pace with a power walk, conducted my wind sprints to the suburban Central Bench (where the telephone poles are closer together than out in the sticks), and limited myself to one mile. It felt like a good four-miler back in the day, but I completed the task with minimal embarrassment.

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Maybe next time I’ll wear the right damn shoes too.
Image credit: jacob earl

I’m going to the 2T for the weekend tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll do some more wind sprints there. Not at the old practice venues, however. I don’t need another ambulance ride.

Sans Pants (Again)

A few weeks ago I mentioned I’m a bit obsessive when it comes to laundry. It’s my sole domestic quality. Being a divorced bachelor and all, I occasionally wash all my pants at the same time, leaving me with, um, no pants to wear.

Today is one of those days.

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I’ll spare you further imagery.
Image credit: Stuart Chalmers

An occasional lack of clean pants at the Command Center stems primarily from two circumstances. For one, like many men I almost never go clothes shopping. Since I was separated in late 2008 I can count the times I went on one hand. One of those times was a few months ago in Portland when I found myself without a belt.

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How the hell did this happen? Your guess is as good as mine.

The second, and more disquieting, reason is my weight. For most of my adult life I wore a 38 waist. Accordingly all of my slacks and suit pants have a 38 waist. The problem is over the last year or so I’ve expanded to a solid 40. The 38s simply don’t fit anymore. That leaves me with four viable pairs of pants at present, all jeans.

Yeah, yeah. “Go to the gym.” Easy for you to say. Recently because of my bipolar and other factors, getting up by 5 pm has become something of an accomplishment. It’s not that I don’t want to (no, really). It’s just that I haven’t been able to.

Besides, without pants even simple tasks like getting the mail become … shall we say, problematic.

Friday Crap Roundup X

Woo hoo! We’ve made it to the 10th Friday Crap Roundup! What’s the anniversary gift for that? Ah yes … iPads.

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Just be glad it’s not spyware behind Door #3 … this time.

Quite Simple, Really

SB is not a soapbox for me or anyone else, so I try to keep the political comments to a minimum. However, this graphic I came across on Facebook earlier this week is too good not to share.

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No caption necessary.

Hey, What About …

Longtime readers have no doubt noticed I haven’t said much about Cracked or the gym recently. The reason is quite simple. I haven’t done anything with either. Doing something about that is on my agenda for the next few days. No, really. Trust me.

A Word on Phnom Penh Nightlife

Since I started this blog around 10 weeks ago I’ve deleted nearly 550 spam comments … and kept four which were legitimate. It’s obvious these people don’t read the posts. Case in point: one guy told me, “I like Your Post about Khmer Karaoke Celebrities.” Um, WTF?

SB has covered some 1,250 topics since its inception, but I’m pretty sure “Khmer karaoke celebrities” isn’t among them.

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Yup … pretty sure.
Image credit: dalbera

I would have kept the comment, but I don’t want to encourage the bastards. Let them hawk their fake Nikes and Dutch porn sites elsewhere.

Track of the Week

Rush was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this week, an egregious slight finally rectified. Let the lobbying for Mojo Nixon commence.

About damn time.

Expired Food

Regarding yesterday’s post, it occurred to me the pronunciation of “x” in Basque is roughly equivalent to “sh” in English. Therefore, I fell into my own double meaning trap by referring to my daughter as “Bitxi.” Crap. And I thought I was so clever too. Well, back to the sandbox with that one.

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In short, no cigar.

Anyway, it was shorter than usual weekend with my daughter. That means I’m back to my slovenly bachelor ways sooner than usual. Coffee and hot sauce days are back again.

I’ve been separated and for the the most part on my own for well over four years now. I also have the cooking skills (or perhaps more correctly, the cooking desire) of a sloth on barbiturates. Any dish more complex than “microwave for two minutes” earns a blithe dismissal. I often get nutrition rather in spite of myself.

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Yeah, buddy.

This is not to say I subsist entirely on takeout. I’m not that rich. Like most people around here, I’m familiar with the neighborhood Albertson’s and Fred Meyer. It’s just that most things I buy are prepared foods. Prepared foods have expiration dates and rarely come in sizes appropriate for one. In other words, I wind up throwing out a lot of expired shit.

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Yes, even the spray cheese expired. I’m such a barbarian.

This is one of two things about me that irritates my daughter to no end. The other being that I never carry change, which inevitably comes up every time we pass a gumball machine. My rebuttal of “We live in a cashless society” brings no relief.

The expired food issue came to a head about a year ago when my daughter attempted to eat expired pudding, “attempted” being the critical term here. She then looked in my refrigerator and announced EVERYTHING I had in there was expired. Turns out she was right. Oops. Expiration dates remain a contentious issue when she’s with me at the Command Center.

I suppose she’d appreciate it if I got a girlfriend (or at least a roommate) who could cook. I’d like that too, actually. Or, maybe I could learn to cook for myself and become the Gordon Ramsay of Idaho.

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HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I’m funny!
Image credit: Dave Pullig

In the meantime, a diet of such culinary delights as frozen chimichangas and chicken nuggets await. Yes, I’m well aware this does nothing for my weight problem. However, barring further freak illness and/or injury I think I’m set to make a return to the gym this week.

Oh, this should be good.