Sober Isn't Always The Most Sober Part 1

It's been over 50 days since my last drink. I still feel tired. In fact, midday...I feel like I could just pass out standing. Then someone would take photos, post them online and I'd be right up there with bat boy. The headline "Man dies standing up. Probably Doesn't Know He's Dead." Yeah, slow news week.

I did some research recently on these "side effects" of quitting the bottle. A lot of people have reported that their bodies, when denied something they've been living off of for years, health issues that arose from the quitting aspect. In other words, the body got fooled into believing booze was now a part of your chemical makeup. To retract that element from your body sustaining itself, means you're depriving it something it needs. How messed up is that? Some doctors have even prescribed NOT to stop drinking because to do so would be so shocking to the system that they would die. The body is so fascinating, that even if your brain decides to poison itself, it re-wires itself to sustain your living thru that. Penicillin anyone?

That would explain why my doctor suggested I give the drinking thing a rest. He wasn't firm, but he brushed off my drinking like it was a hobby. Like if building model airplanes with glue was giving me a headache, I should just stop. I guess they try not to sound too judgmental. He did happen to murmur some penis thing in between the alcoholism. That reminds me...if alcoholism is a disease...then wouldn't your employer want you to keep it secret, so if your employment comes into question, they could fire you for everything but this disability. Maybe I can now park in the handicap parking space. Course, if I really had a drinking disease, I probably shouldn't be driving anyway. Which leads me to...

...being booked into the Los Angeles County jail.

This happened roughly 5 years ago. One of my favorite season is football season. I'm not going to say autumn, winter or any of that nonsense. It's college football, pro football, high school football. Hell, if nuns played football, I'd show up to mass every weekend (I don't know crap about Catholicism so I'm making this junk up). I grew up in the Midwest, so football starts at a respectable 1PM. On the West Coast, it's 10AM. Now I'm not sure how many who read this are true degenerates, but I never imagined in my life that I would be sipping a bloody Mary at 10AM. Many Americans seem to believe this is a ritual. Ask anyone who does the Sunday brunch mimosa thing.

I go to this bar that is a mix bag of football fans. Mixed in that there are some serious drinkers at this dive. People celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and holidays at this place. I just happen to stumble upon it when I first moved to the Valley. It looked cheap enough. Well, the bartenders there do not hide the fact that they are there to get you drunk. Not just drunk, but you crawl out. I'm a Cincinnati Bengals fan, so for those who know football, you also probably know why drinking really soothes the loser mentality.

This particular year was exciting. My team was actually winning. I befriended a few Steelers fans who frequent the bar the way bonding happens. By me shouting smack talk drunkenly into their general direction. Drinking booze makes you stupid and invincible. It was my God given right to tear into these guys since years and years of being in the same division and suffering constant ridicule.

Drinks were flowing. I grew out of hand. I may as well place a very large void here since I can't remember the rest of the game, only that the Bengals did win. Their victory was my victory. The bartender, growing concerned called me a cab. I was livid. I threw napkins at them. I threw olives. I threw whatever cash I had in hand at them. And they finally escorted me out. Gently though. I was not the worst they've seen, and I got the feeling they felt sorry for me. I got in the cab, and this moment I look back with regret...

...because the whole time I was screaming and kicking the seat of the taxi cab driver. Shouting horribly racist things. Spitting, cursing, pleading that I couldn't be without my car. He took me all the way to my apartment which is when I pulled out a wad of cash and threw it at him and demanded he take me back. Poor guy was just an immigrant trying to make a living. And here I was, the fare that stood between him and his dream vegetable garden. Not that I was fully coherent. And he did the worst thing possible. He took me back.

There was my car. The bar didn't take my keys. The cab driver asked me if I was okay to drive. And I honestly believed I was. He left, probably grateful. I'm pretty sure he forgot to take my sweaty booze soaked cash.

And I commit the worst crime I could think of. I get in my car; start her up. And drove home. Fear is gripping when you start to feel yourself lose control. The smart thing would be to pull over the side of the road and wait it out. But I'm determined. The drunk mind doesn't think logic. It thinks goal. And the goal is to conquer this. I've been drunker. And guess what, when I get home, this will all seem like a nightmare. And I'll secretly high five myself for overcoming this. It's all a state of mind. Yeah right...I would've driven better if someone would've dropped an anvil on my head.

I do make it home. And what do they always say?  Most car accidents happen within a block from your home. At the time, I had a roommate that parked in the garage, so I couldn't use the space. I end up attempting to parallel park. Some of you may be groaning others laughing. Others may feel a mixed bag of wanting to kick my dumbass or choking me out. Either way...this parking job was going to happen.

I remember so very little. I do remember not having any level of control of anything. I drove stick shift at the time, which made what I was trying to do much more difficult. Well, I remember metal grinding on metal. And the sound freaked me out, so I drove out of the first spot and drove down the road to take the corner so that I could round back to search for another space. This was on a Sunday, so all spaces are occupied. I'm pissed. And getting more and more drowsy. I finally find a parking spot. And I beeline home. I think I've passed a few people along the way that seemed to be confused. When I'm drunk, I can almost see myself. It's not a pretty sight. I look pissed and ready to kill. Worst...this was when I had packed on 15 lbs. of muscle. So...not sure how many people want to get in the way of mini-Hulk.

I finally make it back to my apartment. I run as fast as I can to my bed and nosedive into it. I just want the day to end. And the very worst part...it wasn't even 2PM yet.

Living In Irony

Lone wolf workout today. I really enjoy these sessions since I put on my iPod and listen to music. I went thru the Ludus workout today, which you can read about here:
http://gladiatorconditioning.com/

One of the features an iPod has is something called "shuffle songs" which acts, more or less, like a random roulette music changer. What I enjoy most is when you're throwing a sandbag over your shoulder huffing and puffing and a song comes on that completely contrasts to your condition. Steve Winwood seems to encompass a LOT of irony in situations like these. Like naming your kid something expensive you could never afford...right Tiffany?

Anyway, "Back In The High Life" came on as I was drenched in sweat and wanting to puke my guts out under an early afternoon sun. Quite the high life. But this brings me to my friend Vince.

Yeah, I'm not hiding his name. He's guilty until proven innocent. If you want his number so you can harass him...I'm more than willing to pass it out.

This mug lives under what I call "functional irony." Picture it...

...It was another typical Sunday of booze filled recovery. I'd been off the sauce (so I'm just bored), so I figured what better way to waste time than to jam on an acoustic guitar. Well, Vince is sitting there naming off the tunes I'm playing. I think...yeah...we're jamming. Then he brightens up and says to me "you know what's a really good movie?...'Air Guitar Nation'" Now I've heard about this movie before and I'm pretty sure I broke the land speed record for skipping by it on the Netflix queue. I already know it's made by douches for douches. And I look at Vince, pick in hand...frozen in mid-strum a little taken back that my guitar playing inspired this. Alright, I'm a bit game for this. Moreso, that I didn't have a say as he was already changing the channel, convinced I would appreciate this. Any refusal was met with focused (albeit hungover) action.

To summarize, it's about a competition to see who the greatest air guitar player in the country so they can send them to the world finals in some country that is in desperate need of irony...I think it was Amsterdam. I'm not going to get into the weed thing...but...the obvious nature of this should not escape anyone. So I watch a bit of this documentary hoping that I would draw from it some form of entertainment. Instead, a sad vignette of a subculture that I had rocker dreams with lazy musical aptitude.

Yes, late night shows jumped on this phenomenon like a bunch of bored nuns dipping into cheap mull wine. Yes, they packed bars with super hip people that loved the intensity of spaz-oids. Yes, these were grown ass adults. But, Vince...oh Vince didn't happen to realize he was watching this with a guy who actually spent the time to learn guitar. Air guitar, at its funniest apex, is a brief moment at best. A few moments later, it becomes sad. Here are people who LIVE for this exposure. Strumming away at imaginary axes, making guitar-gasm faces, mimicking the greatest moves of familiar rockers. And it was taken to be a serious craft. I've played venues with legitimate crowds. I've felt the fear of being drawn out as a phony. I've faced the criticism of other musicians. And here we are...somewhat a mockery of a talent boiled down to pageantry and nothing but irony to support it. People don't turn from car wrecks...they slow down for them.

Am I a hater? Maybe. Who wouldn't appreciate having something that took years to learn and constant performance anxiety turned into a hipsters symposium? Wouldn't this be like showing "West Side Story" to The Crips and asking them to join because you can plie like Tony?

Maybe I'm old, crusty and no fun...but irony just gets on my nerves these days. In L.A. it's a movie called "The Room." It's full of irony. SO-bad-it's-good type attitude. What people don't know...and I've rarely mention...my sound mixing teacher did music for this project years ago, before it became a hipster's paradise. I remember him telling me that he's never seen anything so awful...and he's from Bosnia! If this flick is worst than genocide...hey...line starts around the block.

A few years later I was invited by hipster co-workers to go watch and treat it like "Rocky Horror." I couldn't do it. And to this day, I still refuse. Not my cup of tea. And before anyone accuses me of being a complete hard case about it...I once conquered "Resident Evil" while Britney Spears' first album played on repeat in the background. Irony can save you from looking like a raging homo. I guess sometimes you do need the sweet with the bitter.

Summer Is Over, But We'll Always Have Camp Memories

Ahhh summer...swimming holes...Mad Dog 20/20 binges...burnt fannies...But there were times that were a lot more innocent...
I remember, as a kid, going to a few summer camps. Whitewater bible camp. Vacation Bible School. Jesus's Great Outdoors. Okay, I made that last one up. But it might as well be. I grew up in Ohio. The bible heart of America. Hell, the state itself looks like a heart. Not really a human heart, but a Valentine's Day replica. Anyway, I was pawned off by my folks to these thumpers for two reasons:

1) Cheap. Most of the times the trip was funded by the church collection plate. I guess they figure that if they could get us into the wild they can indoctrinate us faster. And it did kinda' work. I can't tell you how fast I prayed when I got explosive diarrhea from the over-saturated generic bug juice I drained by the gallon. "Oh sweet Jesus, may there be a pine cone large enough for my cornhole!" "Cheap" happens to be one of my Mom's favorite words too.
2) Chinese people church. You wanna know a really screwed up combination. Take some already out of control judgmental people and introduce them to religion. I think my Mom is atheist. Never got around to asking. But I remember being at my Grandma's funeral, and I could've sworn when they talked about heaven, she rolled her eyes. Tough cookie, no matter how she crumbled. She'd drop us off at church only to go shopping on Sundays. That kinda' was a clue too. She'd pick us up, and...well personally I couldn't wait to get out of there. Her attitude was that they were Chinese and maybe some of that Mandarin language would rub off on us. Never did. Not that she pushed the issue...or tested us. I think for some, you find your peace on Sunday wherever you can find it.

Every summer they'd have a retreat. I remember Mom would bring the subject up subtly "Hey, instead of wasting your life around the house doing bunk, how about go on this retreat?...whitewater bible camp!!" In my mind, I'm thinking "Hell yeah...tackle the rapids. Cheat death. Just like 'Race For Your Life Charlie Brown'" Who gives a crap if I had to learn a few verses in between. This is how stupid I was. This is Ohio. The only rapids we have are if a bunch of rednecks stitched together a few Slip n' Slides. But I was sold. Must've been the humidity.

Meanwhile, my Dad was always in the background. He spent the better part of the summer running his restaurant and mowing the lawn. He's got a fixation for his lawn. I didn't realize until later that from a person who came from a concrete jungle of Taipei...the feeling of grass between your toes must feel like clouds. He really earned it.

Whitewater bible camp seemed to be a wash. It was on this really weird island in the middle of northern Ohio. It was actually on an old plantation. The rapids? A creek with a canoe. The rest was bible studies. Man...did that suck. Didn't have no archery. No horseback riding. Not even wallet making, like the Native Americans use to do :). We made suncatchers to bask in the rays Jesus provided us for the day. And like a buncha' damn Pilgrims, our noses were in scripture for about three hours a day. The other few hours were listening to missionary stories where the people of the Amazon were referred to as "savages." That was the best part. The guy who told these stories was a pediatrician. And had a jackrabbit laughing style that freaked me out. He was genuinely a nice guy, but I was a punk kid who snubbed any attempt at interpersonal connections.

I remember there was a main house where all the older kids stayed in. We stayed in cabins. Slave quarters to be precise. Stacked in bunks. Which was really cool. But the kids there were total Squaresville. The already knew the bible forwards, backwards and upside down. Me...I couldn't remember which day God rested. And all those dudes begat-ting other people. I'm like...this is pure smut. And I said so, to anyone near me. No one believed me. They went with it like the were rubbing elbows and children popped out. Those dudes laying pipe like you wouldn't believe. I guess before "Mad Men" or "The Simpsons" it was the best form of entertainment.

I spent a week here and something really interesting began to happen. The kids in my cabin...started to lighten up. Not sure if my constant snide remarks or open defiance to learn the Good Book had anything to do with it...But I guess they were like me, trying to gauge who the narcs were. Mid-week we were telling dirty jokes, making fun of people and conspiring to burn down the whole place. Cooler heads prevailed. We rode the damn sad canoes. But we'd fence with the oars. We'd splash water at the truly uptight campers. I added profanity into the community bibles so that the next group of readers had the privilege of reading the Book of Blow Job.

All and all, it was actually a good time. When Jesus wasn't involved. I get the feeling what we were doing probably was an affront to the almighty. But it was my damn summer...and you cannot force feed faith. You end up digging a trench and hoping the splash back wasn't going to be too awful. God and heaven above!

I caught myself rolling my eyes at that thought.

Juicy Juice

Alright, I'm doing the ultimate douchey thing. I'm at a Starbucks drinking a Pike's Roast tall and typing on a laptop. How many around me doing the same? How many with those epic screenplays that are going to sell...like...for a gazillion dollars. They peer above their screens scoping me out and probably thinking the same thing. But little do they know...I want to talk about juice.

Specifically vegetable juice. I don't know what inspired me to get into it, but...recently I've been into squeezing my own juice from vegetables. Maybe I'm a dummy, but I didn't think there was all that much juice in vegetables. And technically there isn't, compared to a more juice related item...like an orange. Even those take a lot of work to get very little.

So I went shopping for a juicer. These things are really pricey. I was shocked. It seemed to me, these things could be streamlined and put into the collective consciousness to make cheaper to the public and, therefore, provide a healthier juice alternative. I've read, and want to believe...they put all sorts of junk in the 100% juice we get from the store. I mean, a company can't mass produce a vegetable juice without it containing some level of preservative. Right?

I think a lot of people tend to believe they're too busy to properly juice. Which I completely agree with. I am lazy myself. The last thing I want to do is to blend a bunch of smelly vegetables and fruits and press it into a jar. But ever since I gave up drinking, I realize I wasn't lazy as much as I just couldn't be bothered. Plus that blending noise didn't bode well with the hangovers. Quite frankly...you get more benefit from eating the actual vegetable or fruit than juicing it. Which goes back to why these juicer cost so much. Alright, bitching aside...

I found an alternative that works for me...it you put some time into it. It starts with a blender. I use celery, spinach, carrots, cucumber and tomatoes. I dice these items up and place them in the blender under "chop". It takes some work but use a wooden spoon to push (SLOWLY) down to chop. Then liquify. It gets to a consistency of baby food.

Then I have a sieve...like this one:

You can find these at Target or WalMart really cheap. I put this over a tall glass and pour the blended mush. You'll notice this mush collect above the sieve as some of the fluid drains into the glass. That's where the press comes in handy.

First, you need to figure out the size of sieve you have. I wouldn't go with anything larger than 6" in diameter. That's the widest mouth of a glass. Also, I don't think they sell them, but it bears mentioning since you may find one in some Bangkok fish market and think the larger the size the more you can press thru. It's just a clean-up nightmare. As is a night in Bangkok. PLUS...the smaller sizes fits in nicely with...

...the orange juice press:

Mine is the one of the far right. The sieve fits perfectly in the press with all the mush. I use it to press the mush juice thru the sieve. Lookit' the juice just flow thru!

I scrape as much of the mush I can and press again thru the sieve. It drains nicely into the glass. I then pour the juice into a Ball jar, cap it and place in fridge. Some suggest you should cover in aluminum foil. Light is killer for the fresh juice. Know what else is killer for juice? Air. This bottle will last you roughly three days, so you have to drink sorta fast. This is what I consider a concentrate, so drink it straight or with a mixer. I squeeze a little bit of lemon juice in to extend the life and reduce the funk. But...the funk comes later.

Vegetables ferment like you wouldn't believe. Some people refer to this as rotting. And it leaves a pungent smell this side of Calcutta. Guess what it does when the enzymes in your gut reacts to it? Like toilet napalm.

For a few days while you're suffering the indignities of smelling like a hobo that tossed back a handle of Cisco, you will get a shot of energy tasting what comes down sucking down a garden. Yes...it will taste somewhat like dirt. Yes, it is really ripe and pungent. I cut it with freshly squeezed orange juice. But...you do feel energized. Go ahead and get creative with the mix. There is no right way, as you will discover. Waiting for passion fruit season to come around.

Another benefit I noticed...alongside making you feel energized, it does have an aftertaste that turns you off to eating. Don't know what that's all about, but I was not hungry for a solid half day. In my mind, the moment I started to feel hungry, I took sips of water and that feeling subsided. Try it and you tell me.

Maybe you'll start asking yourself why you would subject yourself to this gastrointestinal punishment. Well, like most things...we just have to get use to it. It's been a week and it tastes like juice to me now. I don't wince when I think of the concoction and I'm starting to enjoy the creative mixes I can make. There is obvious fear that you could potentially be developing a new form of diarrhea even people in the deep forest of the Amazon couldn't identify, but...it's a great way to get in your vegetables without the sodium of something like V8.

I'm a fan of making your own juice. There is a sense of accomplishment. It is a lot for so little, which seems to me, why people buy the juicer and be done with it. But, if you were concern about eating/drinking right, would taking the effort to make your own even be a question?

Turkish Bath Stare-O-Thon

I did promise that I would talk to you about the time I got busted for drinking. I figure, if we're going to be honest, we better be honest.

First things first though. I reached 150 lbs. three days ago. Hit my goal of weight loss. 7 lbs. in a month. I feel slim and trim. I feel lighter on my feet and my balance seems to be back. That is except when I was in the gym today...the gym I go to today has no barriers in the shower. It's like a very large area that looks like a Greek fight ring. The floor is slimy and there are limited hooks to put your towel. Alright, modesty is a big deal to me. There...I said it. I don't like my junk dangling in front of other dudes. I don't care...but sometimes, people really don't try to hide the fact they check out your junk. Worst, they make it a point to constantly catch glimpses. Anyway, when I entered this pit, there was a guy in the far corner. Look like a tall version of John Oats from Hall & Oats. Yes, hairier than a Persian, yet less hairy than Robin Williams.

I'm as straight as an arrow, but you couldn't help notice...the guy had a third freakin' leg. Yes, his twigs and berries were more like bowling balls and branch. Effe it. There I stood, clearly...ahem...proportionate to my body size, and here's a dude sporting a baby's arm. But get this...he checks out my junk! No b.s. Not a glimpse. Not a glance. Straight up stares. I'm not trying to draw comparisons here, but I tried my hardest not to look. I just can't go for that. But, I'm sure as women have boob radar, dudes have junk sonar. The guy just keeps looking. And here I am thinking "great...guy can't believe he's seen one this small and feels really bad." I half expect him to say something. Like "bro, stereotypes...sorry." Instead, I lather away hoping the following five minutes (the length of my showers) will end soon. So John Oats gets his Pert Plus and leaves. Thank God. I can finally clean the ol' b-crack.

So here's my thought process here:
-pray that we don't share the same locker area
-look around this musty room and look for someone with equal junk size to nod acknowledgement.
-cry silently. Reminding myself like a mantra that I can see my abs now.

So I get out of the shower and head to my clothes. Slightly slumped over until I catch a view of myself in the mirror. I look pretty damn cut. Hope the beotches in the locker room got bandaids...

...until I get to my locker. Guess who's standing on the other side of the locker row? Mr. Private Eyes.

I freeze in place. This can't be real. The locker room is empty. I can hear the water droplets hit the ground from my wet hair, it's that empty. I started humming to break the awkward silence. 'Cause he's looking. You ever feel that someone wants to say something but they don't? I get back to humming. What tune, you ask? It sounds like a mix between "Mary Had A Little Lamb" and "November Rain". It was filler until I can get my boxer briefs on. Yeah...I finally negotiate that. John Oats finally leaves. And I sit at the edge of the bench. Humming has stopped. I look in the mirror that is directly across from me. Sad sack staring back.

Then I start to think...

I'm in the best position anyone could possibly imagine. "Why?" you ask. Think about it...the stereotype is that all Asian dudes have small deezies. Okay...so expectations are low. I couldn't possibly disappoint. I'm pretty normal. So it's going to shock a girl.

And there is the truth you didn't want to know.

I skipped out of the gym. The sun felt great.

If You Break It We Can Fix It

Remember how flexible we were when we were kids?

Ben and Kayla

Man, I remember taking a few tumbles down a hill in heavily wooded forest area running into trees. This is how we played Army. No surrender. No retreat. And we really did believe if we couldn't evade "the enemy" a concussion or being permanently maimed was the better alternative. In my late 30's I don't even want to think about injuries. The powers that be don't want to repair whatever it is I just did to myself. I'm probably seen as a liability. And they'd rather run a triage on people who have real problems. Unless I have a rebar stuck in my forehead, I really shouldn't bother people. A ten year old doesn't think about co-pays, HMOs or being dropped from medical insurance. I think about rebars and foreheads.

Why can't we be kids again? Wildly flailing our arms as we take the beach of Normandy. Or dodge bullets by the calvary (being the darkest in my neighborhood guess who was always the Indian?). We didn't think about it, but that's cardio. Darting across fields. Cartwheeling down hillsides. Rolling into creeks. It's all some type of life spoof.

One time when I was a kid, I remember at recess we would play tag. You know the jungle gym bars that you climb across? Well, one kid got the bright idea to walk on the top of that. One kid was on one side of the bars and another on the other side, essentially blocking him in. What choice did he have? They were closing in...so...I remember this part vividly...in order to not be "IT"...he did a flip off the top of the bars and landed...squarely on his back. THUD!

I heard it all the way from the top of a tree I was hiding in. It was like a sack of wet sand. The aftermath was a body writhing around in pain. We couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying. It was that kind of situation. There were a couple of people who hovered over the body. Someone got the bright idea to take off his glasses...as if it was going to make him breathe easier. Just a crowd of kids watching this boy rock to and fro like a turtle on his back. Forget calling any teacher, this was entertainment. Half of us ran away from the scene of the crime. Laughing. And I'll never forget this...the one dude who was "IT" tagged the injured kid on the ground.

You'd do the same thing. In war, there are going to be casualties.

Here is a few workout lessons you can take from a baby...don't forget to drool:

http://youtu.be/GPkRYNGKJXw

Be Thankful For What You Got

I tell anyone in my past that I've given up drinking. However, I NEVER say that I'm an alcoholic. Nor preach to others the dangers of booze. I mean, to guilt oneself to quit is going to be counterproductive no matter how kind to yourself you think you are. A follow up question has always been, how did I kick booze?

My sister says that I'm just a stubborn pig-headed person. Which I kinda' agree with. I mean, I kicked smoking ciggies because I hated the fact that I was paying someone else to kill me. Slowly. If anyone is going to profit from my death, it might as well be me. I had some violent withdrawal symptoms. In the middle of the night sometimes I'd have a surge of energy that made my leg kick up--pretty much punting myself out of bed. It was aggravating and embarrassing, because it was so uncontrollable. When your body starts doing things your mind cannot control, fear strikes you at the most primal. The physical makeup that designs your every movement is imbalanced and you are about to get a HUGE lesson that your mind and body is not going to last forever. Mortality questioned.

I woke up from binge drinking with shakes. Dehydrated I would drink about a liter of water, followed by a few capsules of milk thistle, iron, B12, and St. John's. That did nothing. My head constantly spun. EVERY morning I told myself to remember how bad I felt that morning, so that I wouldn't repeat it. But inevitably, the cycle repeated. Drink to go to sleep. I didn't know any other way. The bags under my eyes grew. My face bloated. I woke up to a melted face. Splotchy and red. How the hell did I fall asleep at 18 years old and wake up 36?

I still hit the gym though. Pretty sure the patrons there were getting contact drunk from my booze breath and sweat. Nothing more demoralizing than standing in the shower in complete pain as lukewarm gym water poured over you whilst the hairy meatball of an overweight has-been gym rat in the next stall watches you shuddering while I'm trying not to sob because my life ended up like this. So scared to give up the bottle. Not scared enough to quit. And what did I look forward to?...enough energy to digest cheap sushi and washing it down with a grapefruit and some yogurt. Are we having fun yet? So you tell me, how many more days did I want to live like that?

I was addicted to a show called "Intervention." That seems kinda' ironic...addicted to a show about addictions. I use to go to work and trade episode topics with a co-worker who also loved the show. We'd laugh at the alcoholic who would pound mouthwash and then pass out on her lawn while her kids hopped over her like roadkill. There is something really dark in finding the humor in reckless behavior. Large fortunes have been made on this fact. I probably shouldn't throw stones though. One time I passed out in between the legs of a girl at a keg party and the only thing I could think to say was "your hair smells nice." Luckily she was in nursing school at the time. On the job training. Speaking of which, she had to wrestle the bottle of vodka out of my hands. Nurses are strong.

I think my biggest problem with drinking was boredom. How my life was spinning its wheels. Neither going up nor going down. But boy...when I got that first sip of booze, it was normal again. You know what is really scary? When your tolerance to something no longer has boundaries. In my prime, It took me a full day to polish off 750ml of booze. To a casual drinker this is about a week's ration. And then when I woke up, I swore some of it had evaporated. Oh it evaporated alright right through the sweat in my skin. One of my worst moments in life was when I was arrested. Not for drunk driving (although I should've been)...it was a nightmare. And I have a crazy story of having to turn myself into the Los Angeles po-po...which I'll regale in my next blog-o-roni. Meanwhile to mis-quote William DeVaughn, I'll be diggin' the scene with a gangsta' lean.

Squats And Your Chicken Legs

Squats. Blech. The word itself is a really harsh thing to say. Squats. I can't even think it without a conjured image of torture. It definitely seems like something that you have to do behind closed doors. Like combing your hair. Yeah...hair combing...that's the ticket.

I've taken to doing squats with the 50 lbs. sandbag. It's abuse to say the least. But it will carve up your lower mid-section. Even though you feel like you're giving birth. And your whole body hates you. I guess you gotta weigh how much you hate yourself.

The sandbag for this is great...one benefit that it has over the straight bar, is that it sits snug against your traps. In "work" terms you could be pressing a baby corpse. That drowned of course, cause babies don't weigh that much. Or maybe they do. I don't squat baby corpses. Unless they pay me. But I can't see a career in it.

Chicken legs are the goofiest thing ever on anyone trying to gain muscle. I see it at the gym at an alarming rate. I understand though. Whenever I try working the legs I always feel like I'm about to fudge myself. Especially the calf raises. I guess when you lift that area of your body, a great deal of exertion is on your lower abs. Which happens to be the part of your body you use for dumpage. That's a lot to commit to for the body parts that aren't all that showy until summer. And for internal damage, it sure may not pay. But you have to do them. It should probably be every other day too.

I must say...if developed properly, the real bodybuilders appreciate and will compliment you on your legs. I can't dodge it though. I need to get more leg workouts into my regiment. That's the other thing. We need our legs to walk and move us around. Whenever I do leg workouts I walk like I was prison raped. My legs are jelly and tend to steer me lopsided. Whereas in working the upper body I don't need to move much post workout. And you know something else?...I've never heard a girl say "hey, nice legs, sailor." 'Course I never sailed before either.

This week, I will torture my legs, the way I did with my upper body. I will go for less rest in between five sets. Squats and press. With my body weight. Let's see if I can get any definition. I mean, my legs aren't chicken, but they aren't defined either. They seem like doughy, but not saggy doughy...like shapeless and kinda' disproportionate to my upper body. two weeks of this and we'll compare the before and after. Something tells me I'll be moseying like some rhinestone cowboy.