Holy Crap.

A recent relationship ended because I wasn't the right religion for her. Now, I'm not going to hold it against the woman who ended the relationship, because that's her prerogative. She's a nice, sweet person, and we got along really well. It's just that once things looked like they might be getting more serious, she felt it couldn't go any further because I wasn't the same religion. It was a first for me.

It wasn't because I have a large ceramic bust of Elvis in my living room that she found creepy, or my Rocky impersonation got stale, or I showed her the video of my friends and I performing as the Village People, or my goatee scratched her...chin. Everything about the relationship was pretty good. She ended it because I used to pray to Saint Anthony whenever I lost something, and she would pray to God. No middle man for her religion. She's not Jewish, which can cause some logistical problems as far as who's holiday is better and all. No, we are not complete opposites, it's still the same God and all, just different approaches to how you appreciate the Big Guy.

Okay, I'm not a holy roller or anything. (In fact, does anyone actually use the term "holy roller" anymore? What the hell is a "holy roller" exactly? Christ on skates? Ouch, sorry.)I'm very willing to compromise on the religious beliefs of the woman I'm with. Hell, she can worship Ishtar for all I care(the god or the movie), as long as she's willing to watch "The Big Lebowski" once in a while and enjoys dancing naked. Although, allegiance to Satan is pretty much out. I was married to the Dark One's minion and it was far from a rewarding relationship. Biting the heads off chickens and sucking the blood may be fine for some, but it doesn't get me horned up, thank you.

My faith is basically rooted in nuns slapping me silly, serving mass as an altar boy for narcoleptic priests and paintings of the crucifixion that freaked me out from this big old Bible my parents had. But for the past 44 years, it's worked for me. I have my faith and my beliefs, which are personal. I'm not out to convert anyone to the Catholic Church. I have no plans to find an Amazonian tribe and get them to switch from eating people to eating wafers that represent a person. And I'm not the kind of guy to go around helping neighbors in the name of Jesus. My neighbors often take up two parking spots, so they can go to hell for all I care.

Of course, there's the whole thing with the pedophile priests. It never fails to come up when I mention I'm Catholic. You know what? There are pedophiles everywhere, so there will be priests who like little boy nookie, just as there are waiters, teachers, rabbis and ministers who like it. Sick and twisted all. Bottom line, the church was wrong. But I don't believe in my church. I have a belief in my faith. The church is run by humans. Some humans steal wallets, some kick puppies or drive like selfish pricks, and others cover up mistakes by other stupid humans. I don't have faith in them.

The thing is, I just don't think I have the capacity to relearn 44 years of Catholic conditioning and embrace a new religious direction, no matter who I'm with. I have a hard enough time believing man really landed on the moon, so how could I possibly believe in an all-knowing, all-forgiving Being who molded the moon with lint and sand from His belly button?

Well, I don't necessarily believe all that. Some people hold the Old Testament as a non-fictional account of the world. Again, I have a hard time with that. I get the message those stories are trying to get across, but, I mean, come on...Adam and Eve? Noah? Samson? Okay, Hedy Lamarr was freakin' hot as Delilah in that movie, and I would've cut off my hair for her. But show me proof that those things really happened, and maybe I'll start to believe they're true. Dinosaurs? Yes, millions of fossils found. They existed. Cavemen? Yes, hundreds of thousands of pieces of proof. King Tut? We have a body and lots of mummified cats. Noah's Ark? Not even a hunk of wood. Good story though. So, then why believe that Jesus rose from the dead?

Personally, I don't think that's what it's all about. Whether I believe in that or not is kind of irrelevant to my point. I believe what I believe because it works for me and it gets me through the day, sometimes the night, often through bouts of stomach viruses. It definitely got me through a hellacious second marriage. It keeps me from doing the really, really bad stuff. It's often my conscience when Jiminy is off busy banging lightning bugs. It's not for everyone, and I don't expect it to be. That's not my job.

And if I meet a nice Jewish girl who digs me even though I have a cross hanging in my apartment, that's fine with me. My mother probably wouldn't approve, but then again, she would never watch "The Big Lebowski" with me.

Amen.

Mandals.

Now that the weather is warmer, I see guys walking around wearing mandals (you know, men's sandals = mandals), their big finger toes out in the open, those hairy foot digits displayed to the world. And while I understand the desire to keep your feet cool in the hot weather, do I have to be subjected to them?

There are basically three places sandals on men should be allowed:
1. At the beach. And I'm talking about on the sand, by the water. Makes sense, right? It actually looks silly walking on the beach in anything other than sandals, or bare feet. Unless you're from South Philly, then white sneakers are okay anywhere.

2. Around a pool or in a sauna. Not that I've ever been in a sauna, nor do I have the desire to share a sweat with other guys. No, sitting in a steamroom with a towel draped over my naughty bits with a bunch of fat, clammy men is not something I have ever wanted to experience. But I can understand wearing sandals in there. No bare feet in hot rooms where men perspire. It's a good rule to live by.

3. In a movie about Jesus or ancient Egypt or something. For the sake of historical accuracy, I don't think Moses would have been seen parting the Red Sea in a pair of Italian loafers.

Other than those things, guys should be wearing shoes. It's pretty casual where I work, and some guys show up with sandals. I find it very disconcerting seeing your coworker's or boss's almost bare feet in a meeting. With those little leather toe g-strings between each digit. Kinda nasty. I don't mind women in sandals, of course. It just seems more natural. Not that I'm a foot fetishist or anything, but most women have pretty nice feet, especially when they put the nail polish on them like colorful little hats on each toe. Cute. On guys, not so.

I will never wear sandals anywhere but the beach, unless, of course, I get a bit part in the remake of "Samson and Delilah". First off, I don't want people seeing my feet. Secondly, people don't want to see my feet. And third, I don't want to see my feet.

Would I say that I have bad looking feet? I would. I have bad looking feet. There, I said it. I won't get into any details, because someone reading this may be eating corn on the cob or beef jerky or something, but let me just put this out there: Remember how Fred Flintstone would start his car by putting his boats out the bottom and running over gravel? My PT Cruiser may not actually require this kind of power, (not yet anyway, but soon) but by the looks of my feet, it might as well have.

Yeah, tough, leathery and just as big as Fred's. Yeah, I could wear the shoeboxes instead of the shoes.

So, no. I won't be wearing sandals. But even those guys who get pedicures and care for their feet as if they were newborn babies shouldn't wear sandals. Especially to work. Or the mall. Or restaurants. Or on the streets.

I'm looking forward to the fall, when the mandals get put away and feet get completely covered in leather or suede again. For now, I'm just gonna have to get used to looking up.

What's goin' on?

Yo! I'm back after a long blogless hiatus. And I'm tired of not writing fun stuff. So here I am.

So, what's been going on with you since our last communication? Not much? Are you kidding? Have you looked at the friggin' news even once over the last month or so? Damn, some crazy shit going on out there. Which is why I'm glad I live in my little nihilistic cocoon, safely surrounded by my DVDs and bobbleheads. Do I need to peek out and be part of all that nasty shit that's happening outside my door or in another state or across the ocean? No, of course not. But at least I know what's up.

For example, there were two, count 'em, TWO natural disasters in the past month. I'm sure you've heard about them when they first happened. They're not so newsworthy anymore. After all, Ashlee Simpson being pregnant is far more happening than several thousand Chinese people being killed in an earthquake or a couple hundred thousand dying in a cyclone in Myanmar. Hey, Myanmar wasn't ever mentioned in social studies, so why should we care, right? Besides, it was basketball playoff time. I gave to a charitable cause. I can't do anything about the money actually reaching there. But at least my conscience isn't stabbing my brain with a pitchfork.

Ahhh, I'll never forget the day I spent $4.00 on a gallon of gas. It's a moment I will always remember. But is it me, or are there still lots of SUVs on the road. Smart choice there. I'm sorry, if I have to feel more adequate in life, there are a lot of other ways to do it rather than buy a gas guzzling yacht on wheels. And people still drive like imbeciles too. I read about something called "hypermiling" which is basic driving techniques to save gas. Coasting, driving the speed limit, no hard breaking. So I'm trying to coast more and stay at the speed limit, but that's damn near impossible, because everyone else around me drives like gas is as free as piss. I guess everyone else is making a hell of a lot more money than me and has no problem supporting the big fat oil company a-holes.

Oh yeah, the economy is failing, Hilary is out of the running, finally, and Obama knows how to fist pump with his wife. More important news coverage. Good for him, I'm sure that if he becomes president, that fist pump will help him solve all the country's ills. First, he'll take his magic dust of change and sprinkle it over the economy and the war and global warming and all will be better, just as he promised. Fist pumps all around! Honestly, I'm not a very political person, and I don't think any candidate will make any bit of difference. But it's disconcerting when half a nation can drink the Kool-Aid of a guy who has no experience at all and believe him when he preaches about change and hope. Yeah, we all want change, Mr. O., but I don't think a bunch of well-spoken words are going to get us very far. Where's Ross Perot when you need him? At least he had charts.

Oh, and another season of American Idol has come and gone. And now that it's all over, America can go back to not giving a damn about who won. I mean really, when can that madness stop. Idol, "So You Think You Can Dance?", "America's Got Talent", "Look At Me, I'm an Idiot, But I'm On TV". I know I'm not the only one annoyed by the hoopla that surrounds these shows, but most can avoid them. My 9-year-old daughter is hooked on Idol. I had to watch whenever she was here. Ouch. Well, it's over, until next year. Maybe she won't be into it as much next year. One can hope, right?

Finally, Iron Man was awesome. Speed Racer loses torque about 25 minutes in, and Indiana Jones was just missing something. Summer movies are here with a wallop. There are still a few I'm looking forward to, and none of them star Adam Sandler. I saw the recent Patrick Dempsey entry into the Hall of Shitty RomComs, and man, was it sad. I can't believe that there are screenwriters and directors and producers and actors out there willing to commit to a project like this. Every cliche and inane plot device you can imagine, thrown onto a steaming pile of celluloid. For example, he's trying to get to the church before the woman he really loves but could never tell gets married to someone else. The only way there is to go around a lake. There's no time to run! What to do? Well, thankfully, a guy with a horse trailer shows up. Does he borrow the truck or ask for a ride? NO. Guess...yeah, he rides the horse. Oh, sweet Mother of Mercy. I threw up in my mouth a bit on that one.

Did I ramble enough? Sorry. I have to run. One of the highlights of my summer is here. I picked up the special edition of Dirty Harry on DVD. "Do ya' feel lucky? Well, do ya', punk?" Oh yeah, it's gonna be a good afternoon.

Daddy's Little Girl

I always hated that song. When I was in a band, and we played the big South Philly serenades or weddings, "Daddy's Little Girl" was always on the request list. Watching those squat, balding fathers-of-the-bride dance with their big-haired, over-made-up daughters, while their bouffant-headed mothers and grandmothers cried on the sideline was just all too much to stand. How sappy and annoying, I thought. "You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold...The star on my tree..." Oh, give me a break.

Then, I had a daughter.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Yes! I get it! A precious gem! The pot of gold! Sugar! Spice! Everything nice!

Now, she's turning nine. And she is still my little princess. She's still the Cinderella-watching, ringlet-haired, wide-eyed angel. Even if Cinderella has been replaced by Hannah Montana, ringlets are now waves, and wide-eyes are, well, still wide-eyes. Of course, she always will be my little princess. Just as I know I will always count my son as one of my best friends, or my couch as a good place for my butt.

I know that my mission in life is to protect her, to show her what a good man is and what a decent man should be to her. And despite being divorced from her mom, I want her to know the importance of responsibility, love, devotion and most of all, respect.

When she puts her hand in mine - something I know she won't want to do too much longer - I feel like she is putting her complete trust in me. That her daddy won't ever let anything bad happen to her. That I'm her protector, her hero, even, at times, her big huggable teddy bear.

Sure, there are the assorted bonds between parent and child. The mother/son bond, the mother/daughter, father/son, Michael Jackson/spawn of some twisted union bond. But this bond between father and daughter is probably stranger, more difficult, more heartwrenching and more amazing than all of them. Why? I think it's because fathers see their daughters as forever innocent, a girl who will someday be a woman, yet always a little girl. And as men, we know exactly how guys think. And never, ever should a guy think that way about our little girls. As men, we look to be that protector of women, that hero in their eyes. It's even moreso with our daughters. No man should ever match the strength and sanctity of The Daddy. And even when they are married and pregnant, we still don't want to think of them as ever being touched by a man.

Having a son and daughter will be difficult enough with the double standards that exist. I don't want to be the dad who's high-fiving his son if he scores with a girl, but locking his daughter in a closet until she's 30. So now is the time that I'm trying to teach her what to look for in a man. A man who respects women, is kind and gentle and funny. I want her to someday say, "I want a man like my dad." That would be the ultimate compliment. Of course, with all the stuff I put the family through in the past (See: divorce; satanic second wife), I hope I can make amends and be that hero in her eyes.

Last night, for her birthday, we had a father/daughter birthday date, as we've been doing for the last several years. I take her to a nice restaurant where the waitstaff sings opera and the napkins are linen. She acts like such a refined little lady, folding her hands and thanking the people around her for their compliments and birthday wishes. I asked her if she thought we'd still be doing this when she's older. She said, "Of course, but, like, when I'm a teenager, I'll be talking about who I'm dating and all." Oh. My. God.

The ultimate realization that my baby isn't such a baby anymore came last night when she put her hands on the table, looked right at me and said, "So, dad, tell me what's going on in your life."

My little girl is definitely growing up and it's scary and wonderful at the same time. And even when she decides she's too "big" to hold my hand, or too "old" to call me daddy and would rather just go with 'dad' instead, she'll always be the "end of the rainbow, my pot of gold."

I totally get the lyrics now. I just wish I liked the damn song. But hopefully, I'll have many years to pick out a different one for our father/daughter dance at her wedding. Where I'll be the squat, balding father, and she won't need to be wearing too much make-up to be the most beautiful girl ever in my life.

Jumpin' Job Jive

So I got a new job. It was a good offer, seemed like a great firm, and the timing was right. I've done the job switch thing about a dozen times in my career, and while most of them were pretty smooth, sometimes the transition takes a little more time. For example, when no one acknowledges you exist for the first couple of weeks. Or there's sometimes that moment when you realize you may have gone from the frying pan into the fire. (Sorry for the use of the tired cliche. I hate cliches. They're just so, I don't know, cliche.) And then of course, there's always the chance that you will be completely lost and have no idea what the frigg you're supposed to be doing or how to do it.

Anyway, thankfully, none of those things happened at my new place. Everyone has been great and the job seems like it's going to be an interesting challenge. Cool.

A few good things about starting a new job:
- All of my old material is brand-spanking-new! Old jokes? New to these folks! Rocky impersonation? Totally new! My leg lamp from "A Christmas Story?" They love it! Goofy iTunes music collection? Complimented! The whole South Philly Italian shtick, works again! For a while, I totally rock as the new guy.

- You have the "I'm the new guy" excuse for a few weeks.

- You can scope out your own stall in the bathroom. For guys, this is the equivalent to a woman finding the right pair of slingbacks, on sale. That stall will be your daily companion, a place for rest and comfort, to find solace. A place to poop. And for most guys, bowel evacuation is next to Godliness.

- If it's a managerial position, you can establish some guidelines that suit you. Not to say what they have going on is bad, but here's the opportunity to make it your own. Shirtless Fridays, anyone?

- The first paycheck. If you've ever switched jobs without getting a salary increase, shame on you. (Unless, of course, the last job included a lot of unwanted sodomy and beatings about the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument.) So, you get that first paycheck and you see what your new salary amounts to, after taxes, healthcare, child support and other assorted deductions. But it's still nice.

- People are usually looking to be impressed with you out of the gate. So you try to impress them early on.

Okay, so a few not so good things about starting a new job:

- You may finally realize that all that material you've been using over and over actually sucks big time. The iTunes selection is lame. The leg lamp is cheesy. The South Philly Italian shtick fails to impress. Time to come up with new stuff, which I'm just too damn old to figure out.

- The "I'm the new guy" excuse gets old real fast.

- Someone else may have an affinity to your stall. And he could be someone with nasty hygiene.

- Your guidelines are just plain stupid. "Deodorant-free Thursdays" anyone?

- You may be surprised by your first paycheck. And not in a positive way.

- You may work with people who are not easily impressed.

- Oh yeah, and you've got to find new places to eat lunch, after getting used to the same places near your old office.

- There's always a learning curve. Some places more than others. Right now, besides learning the procedures and digging into the background of all the clients, I also have the added joy of figuring out a PC. I have never used a PC, being a Mac guy since I sat down at a computer. I mean, literally, I have never put a finger on a PC. Now I know why. Generally, PCs suck. After using the intuitive, user-friendly, elegant Mac for so many years, I can not even begin to fathom how anyone would rather use the cumbersome, ugly PC. But, I have to figure it out. Ugh.

Well, it's an adventure and I'm looking forward to it. In the long run, what I do has gotten me through. I'm a creative writer guy and I enjoy writing. So I'll write. Hell, it's saved my ass more than once.

Now, I just hope some guy with a love of eggs and Mexican food hasn't also claimed my stall.

See ya!

MIA

Sorry. I know it's been a while. And I'm sorry.

A lot has been going on, okay? Give me a break. I know, I know, it's getting less "Live Musing Nightly" and more "Live Musings Seldomly" than ever. But I'm back on track. Hopefully. Might as well fill you in on the goings on, right? Hey, you're here, so let's chat.

I'll begin with the whole health thing and my series of tests...

When last I wrote, I was prepping for the ole' scoperooni in the patootie. (I believe that's the correct medical term for the procedure.) And I've gotta tell you, the whole prep thing was nothing like I thought it would be. It was freakin' worse. Oh, man. I'll spare you from the nasty details, but let me just say that if you've ever wanted to be wrung out like a dirty sponge you've been washing your car with, then have I got the stuff for you. Three and a half ounces of pure colon cleansing dynamite. I could have swallowed a bulldozer and a fire house on full blast and gotten the same effect. By the next morning, when I had to take the second dose of this atom splitting liquid, I already felt like I was ready to curl up in a ball and cry to mommy. A second dose was like pouring mercury into a burn wound. Try this: take a thawed chicken, with all the guts out, turn on your spigot and let the water run into the top of it. Where does the water go? Yeah. You get the idea.

Anyway, the good news is my test was normal. And I managed to drop a few pounds in the process. Along with finding a little plastic G.I. Joe gun I lost in 1969. Hmmm, I was wondering where that went.

Then I had the stress test. I was really nervous about this one. Why? Oh, I don't know, but something about the thought of a blockage leading to my heart just makes me feel a bit tense. So I went through a week of panic attacks. Honestly. It was the first week of my new job (more on that later), and here I am, under the weather and imagining the lining of my heart looking like a month old peanut butter and roofing tar sandwich. Not a good week. So I didn't eat much. Hardly at all. I actually lost a few more pounds. Okay, I never read on the Weight Watchers website anything about panic attacks helping weight loss, but hell, I'll take it any way I can get it.

So, I went last Monday for the first part of the stress test. Easy. They injected me with some nuclear imaging stuff then take pictures of my heart at rest. Key words: At rest. Nice. Lay on the table, no treadmill, sweating or heavy breathing. That is to come a couple days later...

I go back for the second portion of the stress test which is far more of a stressful stress test. First, the woman uses something like a dull car window ice scraper to shave some of the fur off my chest. Oh, did I mention that frigging hurts? And now, almost a week later, and my chest looks like I was shirtless and locked in a closet with a bobcat. Plus, it itches like crazy. But, I guess the EKG sticky pads wouldn't stick to my chest, since it would be like trying to get Scotch tape to stick to a bear's ass. Which I've tried, and it doesn't work.

Anyway, I'm injected again with the same nuclear stuff as the other day, and now I'm wondering if I'll ever need a nightlight again, or if I'll just be able to find my way in the dark by opening my mouth. I'm put on the treadmill and begin my heart pumping workout. Basically, it's a treadmill from Hell. It speeds up and increases the incline every minute or so. So by the sixth or seventh minute, it's like you're having a walking race up Mount Kilimanjaro. Fun for the whole family!

I'm sweaty, heaving, and ready to puke out the granola bar I ate three days earlier, when the masochist running the thing tells me she's got my heart at the right rate and I can slow down. Super. I'm glad I could get my heart to the rate you want it, before dying.

I then get the imaging of my heart and I'm allowed to leave. Thanks! See you guys in the emergency room.

A few days later, I got the call that all is normal in CardiacTown. I guess it was worth it.

So, yes, I also started a new job, which means all my old jokes are suddenly new again. Yessss...I have material! I'll save that for the next post, which will be very soon. I promise.

Once again, sorry about the delay. Now get off my butt, I had a rough couple weeks.

Eschewing the Fat

I'm overweight.

There. I said it. I'm not ashamed of it, nor am I particularly proud of it. It's just what I am. Always have been, as long as I can remember anyway. First of all, from birth, I was destined to be forever among those who claim "big boned" as a reason for needing bigger sizes. My birth weight was ten pounds, four ounces. Chubby? Yeah. But cute as hell. By the time I was in school, I was also in "husky" sized pants (which I guess isn't as bad as the heavier girls having to wear the un-PC "chubby" sizes, as they were called back then) Among my friends, I was always the funny, roly-poly guy. I was the likable, "teddy bear" type among the girls in high school. All the '80s teen movies had the guy like me. The funny fat guy who never got laid. The one who always wound up with the chunky girl with glasses. Because, according to those movies, if you're overweight and wear glasses, the only women who are attracted to you are nerdy, overweight and wear glasses. Unless you're Peter Griffin, and he's a cartoon. Or Fred Flintstone. Yeah, Wilma was pretty hot. Not Betty-hot, but hot for a guy like Fred. Again, though, a cartoon. Although, King of Queens isn't a cartoon, and his wife is hot. But it's not real, it's a sitcom. Thankfully, some women enjoy my sense of humor and think I'm kinda cute, despite my chubbiness.

Okay, enough about that.

Who's to blame for the blubber? Oh, I could blame myself, but that's too easy, isn't it? I think it was my upbringing. Yeah, that's it. Hey, I'm Italian, we like to eat. And my mother liked putting butter on everything. Everything. So I inherited that butter-loving gene. Butter on graham crackers. Butter on Melba Toast. Butter on biscotti, on bread, on Stella D'oro treats, on butter cookies, on margarine, on low-fat snacks, because those things taste like shit if they're not slathered in butter. (I just love the word 'slathered') Okay, I will blame myself too. I was on a regimen of walking. (See: http://livemusingsnightly.blogspot.com/2007/11/fat-squirrels-and-other-distractions.html). But once the weather got too cold, I gave up walking for sleeping in an extra hour, and somehow, it doesn't have the same calorie-burning effects. Too damn bad. So, the calories needed someplace to go, since they weren't being burned by my powerful thighs rubbing together while I walked. They decided to take up residence in the flesh under my neck, along with assorted places around my body. Like my gut, my ass, and my thighs.

Okay, I'm not horribly slovenly or sloppy fat, but I have extra poundage. Probably about 40 or so pounds extra. I have decided that I would like to live for a while longer. After all, I've been smoke-free for two years this month, satanic second-wife-free for two years this month, and butter-slathering-free for a couple days (It was Easter, and we had dessert at my mother's house, so sue me.). If I want to do all those things on my bucket list (see previous post), I need to drop some of the weight that could crush my already overworked heart.

Hell, I even visited my cardiologist. You know what he told me? That I'm overweight. Oh, ya think? Gee, thanks for that completely surprising insight, Mr. Cardiac Care, Degrees-on-the-wall, $60 a visit, top heart doc. He wants me to have a stress test. I told him I had one already, It was called a second marriage. He wasn't very sympathetic. He still wants me to have one. I've had them before, and they're not fun. A lot of grunting and sweating, heavy breathing and leg cramps. Kind of like sex, without the big payoff.

One thing I don't get, and I'm sure I'm not alone here, is why I always weigh more on the doctor's scale than the one I have at home. Okay, so their scale is a finely tuned, medically certified, $400 piece of equipment. Mine was four bucks at IKEA. But come on, it's a difference of ten pounds! TEN POUNDS! Christ, that's a lot of weight. Which one do I go by? Sure, I'd choose my scale, but is theirs more accurate? I weighed myself at home before going, just to compare. Did I mention it's a TEN POUND difference? That's a whole ass cheek right there.

Today, I'm kick-starting a diet and exercise program. Why today? Because besides seeing my cardiologist yesterday, I also went to my gastroenterologist. Yeah, I'm like an old hypochondriac lady with time on her hands. He suggested that I'm at the age for a colonoscopy. Having something shoved in my butt was not on my "to do" list for that day. I told him about my second marriage and how I got screwed everyday on that decision. He wasn't sympathetic either. I'm having a colonscopy tomorrow. So I have to fast all day today and do some, shall we say, "prep" cleansing tonight. The perfect way to start a weight loss program is after you've completely emptied your bowels of everything that's in there. I'm sure in the middle of the night, I'll finally get back that penny I swallowed in first grade, and the bowl of cheddar cheese I ate as a dare in freshman year of college. So far, it's going well. I haven't eaten anything since the Dunkin' Donuts bagel and coffee almost four hours ago, except for some Italian Lemon Ice. Tonight is really going to suck. I'm not Ghandi for crying out loud. I'm a healthy male who needs food, not some already malnutritioned do-gooder in a burlap smock.

So, I'm fasting today, pooping a lot tonight, and being probed tomorrow. I'm hoping that after all this colon probing, (which I'd really prefer to have done by an alien abductor; at least I'd have an amazing story to tell afterwards) I'll start my walking regimen and watching the diet. Then I go for the stress test, and hopefully, I won't need my chest cracked open and all sorts of plastic stents and balloons and such to keep my aorta from choking like Michael Hutchens in a self-inflicted asphyxiation game.

And I guess what's most important is that I get healthy. I can do without the extra helping of rigatoni or that chocolate cupcake if it means a few extra years with the kids, a few more years to complain about crappy music, another decade or so of nut-scratching life. I don't think I'll ever be trim and svelte, but it'll be nice to once again see what I'm scratching.

Wish me luck on my adventure.