Tag: Humor

The Value of Volume

Having finished another season of coaching flag football – 2 teams this time – I find it’s always good/self-indulgent to reflect on the season(s). There are so many lessons to learn from coaching that I hope I coach long enough to compile a long enough list to make a ton of money off a book that people download, something with a title like “The Basics of Success: 2287 Tips to Get to The Top From Your Personal Rock-Bottom,” or “Win Today: Turning The ShitShow You Call Your Life Into a Success Orgy.” But I probably won’t do that too soon.

This entry is more about some people I encounter regularly who believe that making noise – literally and figuratively – somehow equates to “get shit done,” or GSD. This happens at work, on the field, in the 7-11 parking lot, church choir planning retreats, we could go on and on… In coaching sometimes I have to yell. I mean BELLOW to get a kid’s attention. A lot of kids seem to go by a nickname, so I yell their name and they don’t respond. Instead, they’re just NOT dropping back to cover the flat and just gonna stand there having a go at their, apparently very itchy bum while having a good look at the opposing player running past them. You can’t coach instinct, but you can yell about the lack of effort.

A co-worker of mine is like a human whistle. Noise. Just noise noise noise. Dropping f-bombs in a way that most people use a comma. Got it. You’re fired up. You’re a rebel, a breaker of convention, a THOUGHT LEADER. From 70 feet away, over the tops of cubicles, WE HEAR THAT YOU ARE CONCERNED AND YOU’RE GONNA BE OK. Good job. Now please, shut up so we can GSD. This person, I swear, equates being loud to Leading. That’s “Loudership” (just invented that, trademark 2018), and it’s annoying.

My wife tells me I “really need to yell louder” on the sidelines. I always do. About as loud as I can yell, I let it rip. She’s also usually on the same side as I am, 3 feet behind me, and 30 feet to my left or right. So she can’t hear me trying to get Kayd’n’s attention so he’ll TAKE 5 BIG STEPS FORWARD. Again in the past 3 minutes. And I’m shouting for him to move up, and waving my hand to move up, while yelling “KAAAYD”””N! TAKE 5 BIG STEPS FORWARD.” He looks at me, palms up, as if to say “I am holding an invisible sandwich that is at least 3 feet long. It will drop if move!”

Later, when I ask “Hey, were  you able to hear me out there?”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“Why didn’t you move up?”

“I didn’t know why I should.”

“OK… We don’t have time in the game to explain every little move. We coach that in practice so that, when we tell you where to move, you’re in the best position to make a play for the team. The basic spot you start from is on that corner of the penalty box. You’re not in the wrong place, but if  you move there’s a better chance good things will happen. You moved up and the other player had to try and come back inside, and lost the ball. Good job out there!”

(Blank stare)

“Good talk, get some PowerJuice.”

And this seems to be the way right now, in America. Being loud gets attention. It diverts us away from the constant thrum of whatever else is being hammered on. I’m not saying Kayd’n is trying to divert attention way from his meddling with his sister’s sleepover, or accuse his brother of eating all the Nutella with a spoon. I’m just saying that being loud has its place in the world. But not in the workplace, unless you REALLY need to be LOUD, or just like to yell at kids.

 

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Writing Wrong #1

There’s a challenge out there to write every day in November, and seeing as how my last post was a cookie recipe before the FBI started bringing people in, I suppose I should do something.

I have a joke in my act about the “Assisted Suicide” law in Washington state. I suppose it’s not a “law,” you don’t HAVE TO do it, as if there was a Yelp-like site where enough people could all post reviews of why it’s your time and they’re happy to help. It’s legally labeled as the “Death With Dignity Act.” You can take advantage of a medically-evaluated, doctor-assisted, relatively peaceful exit from this mortal plane. So, if you’re in a state of incurable pain, or terminal illness which a health insurance racket/provider will drain you financially for, or you’ve been convinced by a few family members, you can take up this option.

First, there are a lot of ways to make your exit. This is a very clean and controlled one. I think if you had a real friend, they’d probably talk you out of this, but more on that later. This has too many possible breakage points. For example, out of 234 people who took this option in Washington state in 2016, there were 4 participants that did not align with a death certificate. Did they live? What happened? Because if you think you’re going to finally receive the painless embrace of Eternal Sleep, and wake up groggy with all that illness hammering away in you, well I’d surely be writing quite the letter to my doctor.

The doc would be pretty shocked, I imagine, seeing you in the waiting room looking pretty good for a dead person. I’d be telling everyone in the waiting room “Oh really, you have a headache for 3 days? Good luck, this guy – YEAH, YOU, TIM – couldn’t even kill me last Saturday. YES, Carol, I am a walk-in because I didn’t think I would NEED TO MAKE A FOLLOW-UP APPOINTMENT FOR MY DEATH.”

Plus, there are far better, more majestic exits to take. I suggest doing it near your place of employment, like on a Tuesday, to give your friends a few days off to grieve and get paid. Don’t hoard it all in a comfy robe in the guest room.

  1. Human Catapult + Live Heavy Metal Band.

HC

That’s all I got. I guess “dignity” is different for everyone. Anyway, be well.

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The Gig Files – No Mic

If y’all like this post, let me know in the comments or the LIKES! or send me a basket of gluten-free brownies shaped like Jessica Biel or Diane Lane (whatever your local bakery will do for you based on their politics).  “The Gig Files” will be recaps of shows I recently did from the perspective of the performer.  Yelp seems to be a sounding board for everybody’s gripes and very few KUDOS! which is too bad.  Then again, I think people want to complain, and a bad dining/entertainment/hash oil-making-via-Groupon experience seems to resonate more than a great one.  I’ve had so many dine-outs that could have been ruined because of something small that I just brush it off now.  Same thing with gigs; it’s been a while since I had 3 in a row like these…

NO MIC
Saturday night show, crappy sportsbar/roadhouse about an hour North of Seattle.  I’ve done 8 shows there and I’ve been happy with 4 of them.  2 were complete failures (back when I was about a year into comedy), 2 were “meh,” and this particular gig I actually rate under the Happy-Withs.

I brought a newer comic along as an opener, dude’s very funny, and is much more slowly-paced than I am.  That’s good because I won’t have to really go all-out to get the crowd to pay attention.  The bar holds about 80 people, speakers way up in the rafters, and you have to be eating the mic to be heard.  I have no idea what the transfer rate of lip-herpes via shared mics is among comedians, but it’s gotta be higher than, say, motivational speakers.

15minutes into my 45minute set, the mic stops working. Cuts out. Dead. I wiggle the cable a bit, it comes back.  Then blacks out.  Then it’s back.  2minutes later it dies again.  Staff kinda works on it, but then it dies again. Dead.  Done.  DOS(tage).  And then they tell me, “Sorry. It did that the last couple shows, too.”  Oh, okay then.  Happy I’m not the WHAT?

So I shouted the rest of my set into the air. And it was work. I felt like I had to project even more, and subtlety was out the window without being able to whisper.

And it was in those 30-something, unplugged minutes I really felt like, hey, I’m gonna make this a great show for the people who are here.  Nobody left, and it wasn’t THEIR fault the mic cut out, so it won’t be MY fault if the show sucks.  I was friggin’ exhausted afterwards.  It went fine.  But honestly, that kinda sucked.

 

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Death With Dignity, Instead of What Some People Deserve

Brittany Maynard recently ended her life at the age of 29, having battled aggressive brain tumors for years.  As the tumors caused greater and more painful moments of being awake, and were found to be inoperable and terminal, Brittany called her own exit.  The story has been well chronicled so I won’t cover it again here.  However, a few years ago, this topic arose in Washington State, and it set my mind off into many different, somewhat dark regions.  Having grievously watched my dad’s slow decline to a shell of a man from 2004-2009 due to dementia, the impact and effects on my family and his friends, I really began to wonder what I would do if my health came to a similar state.

The Death with Dignity act, or “physician-assisted suicide,” is available to people who have a terminal illness, incurable & excruciating pain, or have been talked into it by some family members.  There’s a review process after applying to a few doctors, findable via Google and maybe Yelp?  The applicant goes through a fair amount of testing to see what’s going on, and to make sure they’re not trying to get out of jury duty.  Plus there’s the “less than 6 months to live” criteria. Seems subjective, but whatever…

So in all of this involvement of doctors and pharmacists and party planning and “affairs in order” and what-not, comes two main points I think must be addressed.

  1. Is It Wrong?  This is, by nature, a judgmental and personal-ethics statement within each person’s answer.  Is choosing your own biological death’s date, based on a terrible illness, via the quiet undertow of a massive barbituate dosing, more acceptable than other forms of ending one’s life?  Or is it in the days preceding your passing that keep it on the “light side,” being able to say Goodbye and take care of all the particulars and throw a party and cut the line at Starbucks every morning, Bucket List items and what-not?
  2. What If It Doesn’t Work? You’ve said your “good-byes”, or “go F yourself”‘s, whatever the case called for.  Your belongings are accounted for, donated, burned, repurposed, etc.  And you gulp down the pills that are going to drop your blood-pressure to NIL, shut down your brain’s ability to fire off your heart muscles, and you’ll drift into the Great Other.  Until BAMMO you wake up again barfing all over your Red & Gold Satin Burial robe, wondering why Heaven would welcome home a lost angel in such a horrific fashion, or maybe this isn’t Heaven, OH NO, IT’S WORSE… It’s your living room.
    THEN what?  I’d have a quick call to the prescribing doctor and see what the deal is.  But at least you could start calling friends a few days later and freak them out.  Your number comes up on their phone in the middle of their brunch, EEEEEE, creepy for them, FUN FOR YOOOU!

In a time when a fair number of people choose this route I wonder how much Brittany’s beauty played into it.  Seriously, a young, beautiful person (by most standards) with a tragic illness chooses to die a few days after her husband’s birthday, and it’s national news for quite a while.  What about the 78 year-old with colon cancer and carry-on colostomy bag, where’s their press?

I’m all-for the controlled slide to the Afterlife if your health is failing and you wake up to a painful existence every day.  Sure, there might be a cure around the corner.  There might be a pharmaceutical lottery win with your name on it. Or a natural cure right in your own back yard that somebody finds the day after you pass.  But you should call your own shot if your body is taken over by cancer-caused agony.  Can you be a role model of strength and endurance to those around you?  For how long?  Would you call a “deadline” (ha ha) to it, and if you’re not better by that date, Drop the Beats, DJ, this party’s starting?

In case you can’t go the quiet Rx route, involving doctors and lawmakers and news pundits, give me a call. I have access to a human catapult and some moonshine, we’ll go out like a hero in the parking lot of your workplace.  As long as your insurance covers 80%.

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I feel like there’s an innate ability to parent a child under the age of 1, basic care and feeding. Most people who have a baby can do that, unless they are warped in some way. Most of it is a game of getting the kid on a schedule of sleeping, eating, and playing so they develop eyesight, body control, and communication skills. Also, you can’t leave them alone with a gun or a violent-breed dog, which are about the same thing in cultures that see either a gun or a pit bull as a status symbol above having a child. Anybody can have a baby, but it takes about a week and a couple hundred dollars to get a gun or a pit bull. I’m not saying I’m doing all of this perfectly, but I’m sure as shit not letting people I know, and people you know, get away with being or raising narcissists.

Anyway… After the kid’s 1 they need boundaries. Not just a boundary of a baby-gate to keep them from barrel-rolling down the basement staircase. Nor a leash to keep them in peripheral view while Parent does some on-line gaming. No, I mean intellectual & behavioral boundaries. In other words, working to help the child understand why NO is not a bad thing. I have seen up-close the effect of no “No,” in people my age (sociopaths) and children (theirs and others), and it is about as unnerving as watching a pit bull gnaw at a loaded Glock .40cal.

 The first thing I noticed was a person’s whining. For the adults it was usually an issue in a restaurant where they equated a missing item on the menu with a personal attack. A guy I grew up with pulled this a few times, and the second time he did, I saw what he was doing… because he’s a cheap asshole who plays this game, and doesn’t realize he’s the flat tire on the fun bus. Here’s the ploy:

1)      Ask to modify a menu item by complicating the order (The cheeseburger, but with swiss instead of cheddar and an onion roll instead of regular and no pickles and medium-well).

2)      Keep talking while the server tries to read it back, to confuse the server or muddle the communication.

3)      Fries on the side, not on the plate.

4)      Act like it’s no big deal and be just oh-so-sweet about it.

So, by telling this server to greatly change a simple thing, they set the entire chain up for failure. And usually it’s a break at how the meat was cooked. The average person doesn’t know Medium-well from Medium, but this fuckpuddle would always eat half the burger then send it back for being under- or over-done, and ta-daaa!

We all have to wait while they make a new burger for this dick, and he gets his for free as an apology for upsetting a grown man over the hue of the center of his meat patty. The heavens nearly crumbled…

 As a child he got what he wanted by whining, because his parents had 4 other kids, and his whining was quickly shut-down/rewarded with the cookie, the toy, the shoes, the extra hour of TV, the 17”-rims on the new truck, and eventually the family landscaping business which he plowed into the ground after 4 months and zero work. Whining isn’t in his DNA (his brothers and sisters are talented, fun, hard-working people) but it is hardwired in at this point. He’s now divorced and bankrupt and it’s his parent’s fault for not helping him out of these jams, of course.

The last time I saw him he started to pull the prank, I told our server, “He’s fine, don’t listen to him, he’s just joking.” He got pissed at me and sat quietly staring at SportsCenter while the other 4 of us laughed and drank. That’s right…

HE POUTED LIKE A LITTLE KID. Later he told another friend I was a dick. Behind my back. Good.

Now, a friend’s kid is a spoiled little brat if ever I’ve seen one. As an only child, he is treated like THE only child. His deal is that if he’s told “No” he reverts to pouting (he’s almost 6) and whiiiines and starts to fake-cry. His parents let it roll for about 3min while the kid stews in his own stink and then eventually, while the kid is still in pout mode, his parents say “Ok, you can have this now.”

So the kid hasn’t detached Pouting from Reward. Maybe his mom & dad think they have instilled a clean break between the whining and the lesson, but all they’ve shown the kid is, “Hey, hang on to being rude and withdrawn and eventually you’ll get what you want. You don’t have to apologize or ask nicely. Just be stubborn.”

I know this because I’ve seen it happen a few times. One time he tried to take a toy from another kid, and I said “No, you have to ask nicely if you can play with the Ninja Monster PitBull Cannon.”

Then he cries and says he hates me, which I find a way to overcome. Then he sits right there and turns away and cries loudly, as if his fingernails were being chewed off by a bullet-powered Rottweiler.  Because of a “no,” and a reminder to mind our manners.

His dad swoops in, lest his child be scarred for life with such harsh discipline! After explaining to his dad what happened, his dad does the fatherly thing…

And asks the kid with the Ninja Cannon if his kid could play with it. Well of course the kid’s gonna give it up because a grown-up just asked him to. So not only did his dad miss the teachable moment, he killed the kid’s chance to build manners and a bridge to another kid. Double Middle Fingers, folks. But hey, at least his son quit crying, pouting, whining, or moving on towards growth. Yay.

It’s not easy to have your own boundaries, but it’s a basic need for most of us to keep our sanity. And it starts early. If we’re always told “No,” then we don’t think we’re worth anything and deserve nothing. If we’re never told “No” we don’t understand that some things must be earned, asked-for, or are just off-limits until further notice and some sweet talking and probably a bottle of wine.

But if somebody brings a loaded gun or chain-jerking pit bull into a Farmer’s Market, and nobody says “Hey, come on… This could get ugly, and it’s better safe than sorry,” and something terrible happens then either we have no market for these dipshits to come to, or we have boundaries that say “You have to stop here.  There are very sensitive people within.” 

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My Smartest Joke Of All Time?

My humor really comes from a few layers under the “joke,” finding wit and layer under the window dressing.  Sometimes it’s mean, sometimes it’s really lame, sometimes nobody gets it.

But this may be the smartest joke I’ve ever written. 

“And as Pheidippedes last few breaths came and went, he uttered to his Athenian brethren;
Let history resound my love for Greece on every new moon, with 18 consecutive hours of reality television programs!’ “

In other words, we use the word Marathon quite liberally in the American language (I don’t want to offend the English).  We misuse a LOT of words for slang and what-not, but sometimes, were you to put yourself in the place of the person who invented or is afflicted by a word used for marketing or humor, hey, maybe not so funny. 

Another example;
If I were an addict, I think I would take great offense to somebody tagging their peccadillo with “-aholic.”  Like a “shop-aholic” or a “chocoholic.”  Because alcoholics struggle to control the signals in their brains and thoughts on a moment-to-moment basis so they can keep their lives together, and that shouldn’t be taken too lightly.  Unless of course you tried to rationalize that time you blew your friend’s step-dad for a bag of miniature candy-bars, of course, OK, you ARE a Chocoholic!  Now THAT is a Hershey’s Kiss.  You need to get to a meeting and stop Looking For Mr. Goodbar.” 

So anyway, don’t accept lame comedy.  You’re better than that.

 

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If you’d like to see how quickly the civilized world is degrading, look no further than the Comments section of any on-line local news story.  What starts as a forum for community members to express their opinions of how much clothing a barista needs to wear, quickly spirals into political pissing-matches, name-calling, race-baiting, Obama bashing, and general dumbassery.  It’s the kind of language that if used in a public place across a table would get the speaker either removed from that city council meeting and/or punched in the face many times.  Many, many times.

For example, after reading this article about a man arrested for cutting into safes and being caught, here is one of the comments… Is it about the detectives?  The criminal?  Let’s find out!!!

Thats why I read the story. Wasn’t anything near a safe. Maybe sheeple boxes, but definitely nothing I would have much less use for storing anything but crap in.

Keyboard Badasses.  Qwerty Warriors.  Internet Assassins.  Trolls.  This dude’s lettin’ people know ain’t nobody gonna do nothin’ to his safe that’s not a piece of crap no-how.
The anonymity of the internet allows people to express, at times, a linguistic acuity within a spectrum of “skull half-full of sloth vomit” to “prison-educated neo-Nazi.”  And it’s all because we gave people with access to the internet a “voice” via the Comments section.  And that’s how we’re using it.  #ApocalypseNowPlease

SlothdumbBut lately there’s a growing genre of internet input that I am calling full “BULLSHIT” on.  It’s the “Epically Hilarious Customer Review,” which started, I think, with the Amazon reviews of the Bic “For Her” pens.  The reviews took a sarcastic tone early on, and for good reason.  While Bic aimed at a pretty pen women would enjoy, the interwebs took it to a new level, submitting reviews such as this one from “Amy O’Rourke:”

“For years I had dreamed of penning a masterpiece and yet, when it came to that blank piece of paper the harsh offensive masculinity of the pen was just too intimidating. Finally it seems someone has actually considered what it is like to be female in this cruel world and how easily our little minds can be intimidated and denied the opportunity to do our life’s work. Five stars. “

And this one… from a”daveyclayton:”
“I bought this pen (in error, evidently) to write my reports of each day’s tree felling activities in my job as a lumberjack. It is no good. It slips from between my calloused, gnarly fingers like a gossamer thread gently descending to earth between two giant redwood trunks.”

Right… Because lumberjacks use parentheses and words like “gossamer thread gently descending…”

Now comes the Haribo Sugarless Gummy Candy reviews.
Sugar-free candy is loaded with an artificial sweetener like a sugar alcohol, which is a solidified, probably indigestible form of the gas kinda like your intestinal flora create when it can’t digest something properly.  Primes the pump for some serious issues in the back of the factory.  If you like to fart, I mean like LOVE TO FART… I mean like “Competitively Fart”… eat some sugar-free ice-cream the night before a road trip with a friend.  You’ll set a record for decibels and oxygen displacement.

So the reviews start off with a few funny ones, then somebody went all-in, and it got a little viral heat on the web.  Then people went batshit and piled on and WOW, all of a sudden the internet is not only full of people who have a real gift for literarily expressing bodily functions, but THEY ALL SEEMED TO HAVE EATEN THE EXACT SAME CANDY WITHIN A FEW DAYS OF EACH OTHER… ?  Is that possible?

Does a sugar-free gummi bear make you shit in the woods?
That’s why you gotta soak ’em overnight in tequila.  Pfff… amateurs.  Go back to your parent’s insurance coverage, noob.

Call me a buzzkill, a jerk, a loser, a pooh-poo’er, a handsome-as-hell-despot-of-backlashing-to-attempts-at-comedy, I don’t mind.
But here-forthwith, I put into this internet record a declaration on all “Hilarious, Epic, Embarrassing, Overly-Detailed Product Reviews” as BULLSHIT.

Please leave a comment.

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The “Ray – Lee” Files; Female Edition pt 2!

In a rare version of the “Ray-Lee Files” saga, we have a FEMALE participant.
It happens, but it’s rare!

In blogs-past I have noted that the purveyors of violent crimes seem to have the middle name of Ray or Lee. 
I’m not sure if it’s the brevity of the name where people feel slighted and act out, or perhaps the names belie an upbringing in environmental factors ranging from low education, inability to spell longer/4+-letter words, or hatred of syllables.  Regardless, it’s pretty simple to see that these two names usually mean trouble…

Charge: Mom stabs woman caught in bed with son  by Levi Pulkkinen
“King County prosecutors contend Christina Lee Robinson stabbed her adult son’s girlfriend in the leg after finding the two of them in bed together at the family’s Haller Lake neighborhood apartment.”

Daaaaam-n.  Mama felt disrespected that her son was bumpin’ booties, took a knife to the bed while they were still in it! 

IT GETS WEIRDER…

“Writing the court, Senior Deputy Prosecutor Jeffrey Dernbach said the woman’s son had been shot in the leg. Police recovered shell casings from the apartment.

“However,” the prosecutor continued, “no one at the scene claimed to have any knowledge of the shooting.”

So, just something to keep in mind when choosing your kid’s middle names.  Sound it out. Does it sound crimey?  Does it sound like a judge will shake their jowls while pronouncing it?  Then NO.  Spartacus needs a new middle name. 

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The Time I Met Adam Carolla

A few years ago, about 3+ now, I met Adam Carolla at Laughs Comedy Spot in Kirkland, WA.  As a comedian and near deviant in my early 20’s, the work of Adam and Dr. Drew on “LoveLine” was a life-saver.  Not only that, Adam’s humor and sensibilities match, and often surpass, my own.  When I heard he was coming to my home club I immediately did everything I could to help facilitate the evening.  And naturally I didn’t want to act like a total dumbass because Adam’s like the older brother a lot of us wish we had or needed.

Fast-forward to a few things Adam has said about his life and that night in particular.

1) Adam’s wife once told him, paraphrasing, that he has a way of “Bringing out the idiot in people,”  I heard this years after the night I’m writing about, but it rang true that night.  As part of Adam’s weekend, he was going to jaunt across the parking lot from the club to a bar called the Liquid Lime, wherein he’d sign autographs, take photos, and then try to beat it back to the club a mere 70 yards away.  Instead of walking out the front door, or walking all the way from the club to the Lime via the backdoor, I was asked to drive Adam and Mike August, his road manager, over in somebody else’s 1990 Camry.  So I did.
Cut to IDIOT TIME.
I gotta get Adam back to the club so we all head out the car which is parked right in the front of the Lime.  I’m 8 steps ahead of them so I can unlock the car, open doors, and get back around the comedy club and drop ’em off.  First I need to unlock the…
I need to unlock the Camry… Stupid button… What the… Unlock the …
I pushed the button, held the button, etc for about 10 seconds which is an eternity in the world of Adam’s Efficiency Sphere.  At which point I hear what equates to “Nevermind, dumbass, I’ll walk.”  It was actually “Hey, I’ll just walk.”  The Idiot had been brought out.  And I don’t think Adam’s being an asshole at this point, it’s just embarrassing and he’s just a guy who would rather not deal with speedbumps, and it ain’t personal.

So I manually unlock the car, alarm goes off, we get in hastily and I hit the button to unlock it and stop the alarm.
The alarm stops, I start it up and we go.

As we enter the back of the club I hand the keys back to the owner of the Camry, a guy who’d been hired as “Security” for the night.  Nice enough guy.  I say “Your unlock ain’t workin’,” and he goes, “Oh yeah, I heard the alarm! HA HA HA I should’ve told you it was broken.”  Yeah.  You should’ve.

2) Adam has referred to this particular weekend as a gauntlet, which went from I think 4 shows to a whopping 9 shows over 3 nights.  He’s just so damn popular people wanna get close to him, and Laughs was exactly the spot to get close.  Adam’s a worker, a do-er, and this was a weekend that put everything else I’ve done to shame.  9 shows, 90min at a go, on-stage alone.  Fuggin’ amazing.  Since then he’s only done bigger venues and fewer shows for more money, deservedly-so.  It’s a great model to follow; if you can get to the same audience with less repetition, you’re not working harder, you’re working smarter. And less.  And that’s good.  No need to burn out making people laugh.  Truly a hard working entertainer and philosoteur.

They say “Never meet your heroes,” because the shine’ll come off the bust.  Not true.  Adam’s a dude doing what he does, and great at it.  I haven’t hit the Bucket List item with Adam, which is getting invited to Jimmy Kimmel’s Football Sundays and catch a Mangria buzz.  But until that happens, we’ll always have a fritzed car alarm story.

 

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20 by 40 – Part 2 – Progress

OK, so I’m down 2.5lbs as of this morning.  Sure, probably just water weight but still happy to see the ball rolling.  Consistency is gonna be needed, big time.  It’s usually around day 4 or 5 that I go bonkers, so I need to do the right thing and keep the healthy carbs (like a yam with dinner) coming in and keep that leptin level slightly up.  I ain’t been 100% or even 95% clean, probably closer to 85-90%.  But I had 2 great workouts so far this week.

In the meantime my co-worker’s eating an apple like it’s the anchor leg of some Young Life event. Ease it off there, buddy.

So dropping the immense amount of carbs from my diet which I had daily ingested last week has proved beneficial.  Sometimes something is just too friggin’ good to pass up.  So, low carb’in’ it works.

Drinkin’ a lotta water at night, too.  I realized I pretty much stopped drinking water after 6pm, so I was getting that weird fake-empty feeling of “hunger” an hour after dinner.  Keeps the skin clear, the pipes clear, and helps motivate an early rise from bed, lest I piss said bed.  You can get away with that only like 3 times a year before trouble starts.

So there we go.  Sigh.  On my way.  I’ll be even more motivated when it comes to that 10lb mark.  When I see the results of consistent action (i.e. not eating like a dipshit on the weekends) I know I’ll be feeling even more motivated.

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