Down 25 pounds in 47 days.  I’m running three miles a day.  I am an animal.  The Spaniards at the gym having taken to calling me "La Machina de Fuck," which I think means "The Chubby White Boy Who Sweats and Pants A Lot and One Time Threw Up on the Treadmill." 

There is a possibility that, maybe not by the end of this diet (final weigh-in is Friday, August 25) but by the end of August, that I will be under 200 pounds.  Good lord.  My junior year of high school I ran for Student Council under the slogan "239 lbs. of Vice President" (I won).  Now, ten years later, I might be 40 pounds thinner.  Wow.  And 6’1" and under 200 is really not fat.  Goddamn. 

But we’re facing a tough stretch.  I don’t diet on Fridays, Saturdays, or Sundays.  That doesn’t mean that I’ll pig out on these days, but rather that I’ll entertain any reasonable request (Jersey Sloppy Joe for lunch – absolutely; 12 beers and 2 two slices of pizza after midnight – I’m listening; pint of Haagen Dazs at 4am – I’m sorry, but you’ll have to try back in a few weeks).  This weekend will be especially difficult though because I have three buddies coming up from Philly for the weekend and a Yankee game on Saturday (I’m dreading this), so there will be no time for eating even close to reasonably.  Then I have hot dates on Tuesday and Wednesday of next week, which means real actual meals that don’t require microwaving or George Foremaning and some beers.  And then next weekend I’m heading to Philly – the place where diets go to die – for a bachelor party.  So in reality I’ll only be dieting for two of the next ten days.  So forget about that under 200 thing.

But otherwise it’s going well.  I’m noticeably smaller and though I have not been lifting weights, I’m starting to notice muscles in my arms which had previously been covered by a good-sized layer of mashed potatoes.  So I’m kinda able to tell the difference now, and not only because my clothes are so much looser (my friend Annie told me last weekend that I was "swimming" in my shirts – and I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean anything about sweating).

Yet there’s still one problem that will keep me shirted at the beach: my back hair.  The good news is that this is much more easily resolved than 25 pounds of spare flesh.  I’ve been thinking about getting it waxed but I haven’t been able to pull the trigger.  I mean, I’m a man’s man – I like titties and beer and sports – I don’t know if I can get a waxing.  More importantly, I’m scared shitless, not so much for the pain but for the potential embarrassment.

But there is hope.  A buddy of mine, who shall remain nameless at his request, has upped the ante and is getting his back hair LASERED at a place appropriately named Silk Skin.  This sounds more appealing to me then waxing because when you get your hair removed via laser it is gone permanently.  You have to get in done in sessions though, going once a month for six months.  My buddy, who may or may not have the initials C.G., is in his fourth session and raves about it when drunk (as though he’s putting it in my face that he’s moving from the community of the hairy to the community of the hairless). 

And to be honest, I’m considering it.  He says that the place is very man-friendly, that’s it’s not a big deal, and that it really fucking works.  And I’m much rather get lasered once a month for six months by a professional – and never have to do it again - than waxed once a month for the rest of my life by some Russian broad whose cigarette is ashing onto my back.  And at the very least, it’d make a great post. 

But if I were to lose this weight AND the back hair, well, I just don’t know what would happen.  And I’m afraid.  But like I said, all it takes is one solid binge and I can gain ten or so pounds.  So pray for me.     

(And I know I said last week that I wouldn’t write as much about the diet, but give me a break – sometimes it’s hard to come up with six things to write for these posts and I’m a little hard up for material this week.)

***************

Over the weekend I was walking around in midtown and I stopped in a Starbucks for a water and to take a whiz.  I got in the bathroom line, which was three people deep, despite the fact that there were only about five people in the Starbucks in total.  And I waited with the three other people.  And waited.  And waited.

Suddenly, a kid who was about 17 or so, kinda hipsterish, complete with bad tattoos and earrings, came up and started banging on the door.  He then put his face in the doorjamb and started speaking into the bathroom.  I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but caught stuff like "People are waiting" and "Let’s go" and the like.

He walked away and a few seconds later the bathroom door opened and out came two of his friends, young hipsters his age, and boy and a girl, looking all disheveled and sweaty.  It was obvious to everyone in line that they were totally fucking each other in the bathroom.  They made no attempt to hide this when they walked out, aside from lowering their flushed faces and walking from the bathroom straight out of the Starbucks.

I had never seen anything like this before.  Prior to actually witnessing it, I would have guessed that my reaction would be something along the lines of "Oh – awesome!  Those two just had sex in the bathroom!  God that’s hot!  Wow.  I mean, wow.  Christ, I would really pay like $200 right now to be able to make out.  Fuck." 

Instead, I was completely and utterly disgusted – so much so that I wanted to chase the couple out of the Starbucks and say something like, "I just wanted to tell you that that was a really classy move in there."  I was repulsed and pissed off, surprising myself with the depth of my anger.

I don’t really know why.  Was it because I was mad that I then had to take a piss among their fluids and body heat?  Or because they were too young to be involved in such behavior?  Or maybe it was because the chick was busted?

I don’t know, but I know it’s not a good sign.  Maybe I’m getting mature.  Maybe I realize that it’s inappropriate to be doing each other in public coffeehouse bathrooms.

Or maybe I’m just jealous.  Yup, that’s probably it.  All over New York City people are having sex in public bathrooms and last night I hooked up my ancient VCR to watch the porn tapes that I enjoyed so much in college.  

…

This "internet quasi-celebrity" stuff is a crock of shit.   

***************

I get about five spam emails a day to my work address.  There is something I could do about this (I can’t explain the technology behind it, because I’m not tech savvy), but it would risk spamming and thus not receiving personal emails.  What, then, would I do all day at work, if I could not email my buddy John about the fate of Derrick Lee or my old roommate Brian on the sex crimes I nearly committed the previous weekend?  So I simply get the spam and delete it. 

Earlier this week, I got a spam email from a "person" that has the same first name as one of my ex-girlfriends (and she doesn’t have a very common name).  However, all I saw was the first name and immediately thought, "Holy shit – why the hell is my ex-girlfriend writing me?"  I quickly grabbed the mouse to pop open the email but then realized it was spam.  My heart rate returned to normal.

But then they kept coming.  But they weren’t from the same full name.  By that I mean, let’s say my ex is named Cindy.  The first spam email was from Cindy Walker.  Then the second spam email was from Cynthia Hoyt.  The third from Cindy Gorman.  Three spams, all in one day, with the first name of my ex.  Coincidence?  I think not.

I don’t know exactly why Fate has intervened like this, but I’m going to assume that this is a green light for me to leave a very long voicemail for my ex this weekend around 4am.  I mean, that seems like the logical thing to do, right?  We haven’t spoken in a long, long time, so there’s no better reason to break our silence than because I got a few spam emails from someone with her first name.  I’ll have to remind myself to bring this up in the message, slipping it in somewhere between "So I’ve lost a bunch of weight" and "I’ve slept with, like, eight girls since we’ve broken up."  It’s going to be magic.  Or magical.  Whatever. 

***************

Someone is impersonating me by leaving comments on random blogs.  I know this because I’ve gotten several emails from blog proprietors responding to my comments.  For example, I did not leave the comment attributed to me on this blog post. 

I don’t really care about this, but if you’re impersonating me, you really need to reassess your life.  Because the only thing sadder than being me is pretending to be me.  I mean, wow. 

(Well, I guess making love to me is saddest of all, but I don’t want to get too down on myself right at the start of the weekend.  I need good self-esteem if I’m going to try to make out.  I’ve been reading a lot and apparently girls like confidence.  But it also says that they like a sense of humor, and, well, we all know how far that’s gotten me.  I’m the funniest person I know and last Friday night I would have made out with a man to conquer my loneliness.  So I don’t even know what to think anymore.)

***************

This morning on the ride into work, I noticed an interesting 311 subway ad.  For non-New Yorkers, 311 is a number to call for just about everything that isn’t an emergency, from reporting potholes to asking for help with your alcoholism to finding out when your trash will be picked up. 

Anyway, this ad had a picture of a woman’s face, which was black and blue.  Underneath the picture, the ad, whose purpose was to encourage abused women to call 311 for help, said, "38% of battered women will be victimized again within six months."

Is it wrong that the first thing I thought of after reading this was, "38%?  That’s really not a high percentage." 

I’m not trying to make a cheap joke here – I’m being serious.  Beating women, which is not funny at all, seems like one of those things that once you break the seal or cross that line, you say, "Well, fuck it.  I did it once – I might as well do it again."  It’s like how serial killers always say that the hardest victim was the first one, but after that, it was pretty easy.

…

You know what? I don’t like where this is going, so let’s just stop here and get on with the fucking music.

***************

Six Songs

Some really good ones this week, so be sure to get them all.

"Torn & Frayed"  Rolling Stones
Sing it with me – "Heeeyyyyy, let him follow you down…"  This is another random/awesome Stones song, again from Exile on Main Street, an incredible album.  Also, this is the flagship song of a new playlist I created, "Whiskey, You Son of a Bitch."  More will be added later – probably when I’m drunk.  God I fucking love the Rolling Stones and so wish they weren’t a complete travesty now.   

"Death Letter"  White Stripes
I mentioned "You’re Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)" in a post earlier this week.  Great song.  Well, the whole album, De Stijl, is terrific.  I’ve been enjoying the White Stripes for years but only downloaded this album a few weeks ago and am kicking myself for not doing it sooner.  This is just a total fucking badass song, which immediately grabs you by the balls and shakes you around.  And you’re all like, "Whoa – let go of my balls!" and it’s all like "Fuck you, bitch! Shut up!" and you’re like "Um, ok."  That’s how badass it is.  Please download it.   

"It Ain’t Easy Being Me"  Chris Knight
I’m still liking the country very much.  Something about the simplicity of the lyrics really gets me.  Don’t get me wrong - I’ll always love the witty wordplay of Elvis Costello, but when it comes right down to it, can you really beat:

I shoot the lights and I curse the dark
I need your love but I break your heart
And I know the words that’ll bring you back but
But I don’t say nothing as I watch you pack

I don’t think you can, sir.  I don’t think you can. 

"She Moves in Her Own Way"  The Kooks
Recommended by Erika in Boston, a tremendously catchy little ditty, even if the lead singer’s accent is so thick I can’t really understand what the fuck he’s saying.  Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from playing and singing along, speaking total gibberish.  Great stuff.  

"Fill My Little World"  The Feeling
Also from Erika, making her the first reader ever to get two songs into a single Six Songs suggestion.  Good ol’ fashioned Brit power-pop at its finest.   

"To Be the One"  Ryan Adams
"The empty bottle, it misses you/But I’m the one it’s talking to."  Yup, it’s official – after my spectacular death in a hotel fire nine weeks from now (a hotel fire I started, mind you), someone should immediately contact Ryan Adams to start composing the music for the film about my life.  Not that it will take him awhile to do the music, but we’ll want him to get it all down before he also dies in a hotel fire, seven weeks after I do.   

[Have a good weekend.]