Noah's Outer Monologue

When Dreams Die

2011-06-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

Long, long ago, I wanted to be a comic book artist.

Seriously. I know I make my living in probably the most left-brained field you can think of but, back then, all I wanted to do was crank out monthlies for Marvel or DC. Sadly, we don't always get what we want. This is the story of how that dream died.

Being an artist of almost any kind entails low levels of prestige, financial suffering, and countless other bits of angst which must be tolerated in pursuit of one's craft. Indeed, talented people spend years honing their skills trying to reach their full potential. Many of them simply never make it, and burn out after various periods of thrashing about. Logically, I suppose it's best to fail at something immediately, rather than wasting years with only marginal talent. Perhaps in this regard I was lucky, because I failed almost before I even began.

My problem wasn't one of lacking ambition or tenacity. No, my issue was far worse, for you see I AM THE WORST GODDAMN ARTIST ON THE PLANET. Seriously. Rarely have I met another human being with less natural artistic skills. I was reading books, practicing, doing drills, and I was still dogshit compared to the kid at next desk drawing idle doodles during third period english.

Like some folks, I had a knack for realizing that my shit indeed had the potential to stink, and it was pretty clear that I was destined for other paths. However, one incident in particular ground this realization into my face with a finality. In fifth grade I was stuck in St. Francis of Assisi Catholic School, one of the worst schools in one of the worst districts in one of the worst states in one of the worst countries for childhood education. One of my teachers was an unpleasant lady named Mrs. Cribbs. Cribbs was pudgy-on-the-way-to-matronly and narrow minded in the God-is-great way North Carolina conservatives favor. Above all, she was insecure enough to be legitimately threatened when a free-thinking ten-year-old questioned the profit-making motives of the religious institution that cut her a check every two weeks.

Suffice to say, we did not get along too well.

With both Cribbs and I lacking the maturity to agree to disagree and move on, a passive-aggressive game of attack and retreat played out on a daily basis. One day, I had poured a great deal of effort into a drawing depicting my teacher as a bloated Godzilla on a rampage through downtown Jacksonville, North Carolina, all the while sporting an XXXL Sweatshirt with the logo "No Eat, No Gain." Being the idiot fifth-grader that I was, I lost the drawing somewhere in the classroom.

Guess who found it?

During a class break, Cribbs, carrying a piece of paper to the chalkboard, announced to the class that she'd like to draw a picture for us. She then began sketching a scene eerily familiar to the one I'd sketched, down the finest details. She finished by labeling the sweatshirt of the marauding woman with a flourish: No Eat, No Gain. She spun on her heel and addressed me: "Noah, the next time you draw a picture that makes fun of someone's weight, just think of their feelings first."

She began erasing the drawing and I realized that that was it; she had no idea that the drawing was of her. I'd escaped punishment, but not the sad realization that maybe, just maybe drawing people for a living wasn't in the cards for me.

Local Theater Rant

2011-06-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, I briefly dated a girl whose "job" was in the local theater. Chicago, somewhat surprisingly, has a fairly well-developed local theater scene. Her job was stage managing. And acting (no one ever just stage manages; everyone's a star, right?). She lived paycheck-to-sporadic-paycheck, lived in a shitty $350-dollar-a-month apartment. She had, as far as I could tell, no reason to live. While I was in her sphere, I learned quite a bit about local theater. Horrible, awful things.

The theater crowd aren't my type of people. Remember the "theater girl" or "theater guy" from high school. Well, after they graduate from a shitty arts college with a major in sociology/english/theater, they find each other in big cities and live in lousy, interbred communes. Far from the precision and majesty of Broadway, local theater is where people who don't have an A game come to eek out an existence.

Here's the problem with local theater: the bang for the buck just isn't there. Ten bucks to go to the movies and see a polished project made by James Cameron, or twice amount to sit in an unairconditioned warehouse-cum-theater to watch a bunch of third rate daytime baristas flew their atrophied acting chops. The saddest part is how they're all so dedicated to what should be a casual hobby. Their passion has blinded them to just how shitty their game is in the big scheme of things, making it all the more ridiculous. Like this guy.

Do I think I'm better than these people? Yes, and if you actually had to ask that question you are, deep down, a theater person. But in one key way, I'm worse. Here's what made me realize it:

I think I went out with this girl a total of five or six times. At least three of our dates were to see productions that she was either involved with or knew people producing. One of the most memorable was this godawful affair called Pandora, where a woman finds Pandora's box in her attic and opens it. Instead of Pandora escaping, the woman somehow falls into the box and has a two-hour conversation about what it's like to live in the box.

That was act one. In act two, Pandora (shocker) leaves the box. Somehow, this turned into an assassination plot(!), where Pandora had to prevent the murder of an important politician. It was better than the first act, I'll give it that, but only because it was a straight up rip off of The Dead Zone. In the climactic scene, I was laughing as quietly as I could into my fist, much to the chagrin of my date. "Jesus Noah, it's not a comedy," she said with concern laced with a touch of indignation. This made me laugh even harder.

At this point, I realized that I was putting money into this farce, knowing full well how terrible it was. Worse still, I was one of only a few outsiders who had been suckered in. At intermission, my female friend pointed out the people she knew in the audience. Basically, the entire audience was composed of other theater geeks. Let me say that again: THE CAST MEMBERS KNEW EVERY DAMN PERSON WHO CAME TO SEE THE SHOW. Except me. Thus the revelation: The income these people drew came from their actor friends who came to see their show... which they would then spend to see their friends' shows. The only source for fresh money to enter into this financial loop of Henley came from morons like me.

Afterword: The story of this relationship was fairly interesting in an after-the-fact way. Obviously I wanted to dump her after all the theater bullshit, as she was not near hot enough to continue dating*. Ironically, I dumped her after receiving a frantic mid-day phone call in which she revealed to me that (a) she was having a major flare-up of bipolar disorder and (b) she was really freaking out about whether she could take care of the infant child she was babysitting that day. I lost her number pretty quick after that one.

*Side Note: I've noticed that almost everyone who does theater as an adult is on the chubby side. Rarely ever outright obese, but almost always doughy. I call it "theater fitness." I have no idea why this is.

A Bad Idea

2011-05-14T08:27:00.001-07:00

So I'm walking through Lincoln Park with Susan, and I pass this sign:

Upon closer inspection, it's a poster for the special olympics. THIS is the person they chose to put on the sign:

OK, I get that it's important for the group to emphasize that they're involved with the special olympics. HOWEVER, this poster strongly implies that a retarded person is finishing the Chicago Marathon. I doubt this. Once, I watched a 100m dash at the special olympics, and only five out of the eight competitors finished the race.

Second point: For an organization that supposedly promotes the welfare of retarded folks, is this really the face you want to put on the organization? Note the snot bubbles:

What. The. Fuck?

I am honestly wondering whether it is possible to make mentally challenged individuals look any worse.

To further cast doubt on the competence of the signs creators, I should mention that I've seen this sign before. Last year, an even bigger, printed version of this was piece of crap was plastered all over Castaways on the lakefront. I'd meant to take a picture of it back then, but by the time I brought a camera by, someone had cut out the head of the dude, so people could put their head through and take a picture. Apparently, the fact that this thing was a total joke to 99.9% of the population wasn't enough to convince the leaders of the special olympics that their "Marathon 'Tard" fundraiser theme wasn't the best look.

To be clear, I support retards. No, literally, my tax dollars support them. But I cannot support an organization whose goal seems to make retardation not look so bad by being even dumber.

My three suggestions

2011-03-19T10:03:00.000-07:00

When I was a saucy young undergrad at Duke, we had a suggestion box. This appearance of feedback attentiveness was possibly the most obvious concession of University officials to the fact that students were customers paying upwards of $40,000 a year for a piece of paper*. According to a plaque by the box, any suggestion we dropped in the box would be read by the University president. In three years as an undergrad, I made three suggestions, one per year.

Here were my suggestions, loosely verbatim:

First Year: 'I would like for all classrooms equipped with audio equipment allowing for a steady backbeat. This way, professors could literally "rap out the lecture" if they so choose.'

University Response: Deafening silence. Literally.

Second Year: 'I think we should change the name of the women's sports teams from "Lady Blue Devils" to "Devilettes"'

University Response: None.

Third Year: 'I officially nominate Robert van Winkle, AKA Vanilla Ice, for our commencement speaker. Barring this, one of the winners from Survivor would be nice.

University Response: Tom Wolfe spoke at commencement. Tom Fuckin' Wolfe.

So there it is. Duke, you know what to do if you ever want a donation from this alumnus.

*As an aside, I believe you that you can be successful coming from ANY school... provided you're good enough. Top universities, however, tend to be stocked by individuals who are both talented and motivated. In other words, the advantage of attending a top college isn't necessarily the people teaching you, but rather the people living in your dorm.

Smorgasbord

2011-02-08T09:41:00.001-08:00

So, the last month or so:

I've been enamored with this video.

Also, if you haven't seen it, I recommend this one too. There's a whole series of this kid freaking out.

Maybe some of you remember this video that I became enamored with some years back. Now there's a sequel! The music in both videos kick ass too.

And now a story from the gritty streets of Chicago:

It's the day after the massive winter thundersnow. Three feet of snow has fallen on the streets, and more is piled up on the sidewalks where it's been plowed and shoveled. Thousands of pedestrians have transformed this fluffy white powder into a dirty, hard-packed slush. I am rocking and rolling down the sidewalk, heading for the brown line, when I become aware of a presence coming up behind me. I turn to see a nappy-looking guy riding a Rascal (a motorized wheelchair) down the wrong side of the street. The dude is in his 50s and smoking a clove cigarette. On the back of his wheelchair is a sign that says "THIS is my UFO".

In front of us, a US Postal Minivan traveling the same direction makes an illegal U-turn towards us. With the narrow, snow-lined streets, the minivan is unable to complete the turn and screeches to a halt inches from the man, whom I will refer to as "wheelchair guy." Wheelchair guy and minivan guy are now nose to nose. Both are angry. They begin to fight. I stop to watch.

Clearly, both of them are in the wrong, but neither is willing to admit it. The yelling begins. The USPS guy is actually leaning out of his window to yell out insults. Things escalate quickly to violence. I could only really make out wheelchair guy's side of the conversation.

Wheelchair guy: Back off, muthafucka!
[Minivan guy yells something back about being able to walk]
WG: Oh, you wanna dance?
[Reply unintelligible]
WG: Fine then. Let's do this! LET'S GO!!!

At this point, wheelchair guy starts doing karate chops on the hood of the van. In between blows, he takes puffs of his cigarette. He is doing - by my estimation - no damage whatsoever. Minivan guy is honking every time he strikes the hood. While this is happening, an irate queue of motorists have traffic backed up. Everyone is now pissed off. Finally, wheelchair man is dragged out of the way by two peeved bystanders. He doesn't resist this; in fact, he openly celebrates his victory. As the USPS minivan rolls by, wheelchair guy yells out "Yeah, bitch, you got your ass whupped by a pimp on disability!"

Year-end movie review

2011-01-01T16:59:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Last year, I started a new tradition of ranking every film I saw from best to worst. I only rank films I saw, no explanations, no equivocation, other than a delineation between what I consider good and bad.

Let's begin:

The Fighter
Kick-Ass
Inception
Black Swan
Machete
The Girl Who Played With Fire (the Swedish one)
Shutter Island
True Grit
Get Him to the Greek
Iron Man 2
The Ghost Writer
Piranha 3D
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1
Mao's Last Dancer
Paranormal Activity 2
Dinner for Schmucks
127 Hours
The Twilight Saga: Eclipse

Fini.

2010-12-15T14:59:00.000-08:00

This is what happens when you don't get to a domain name first. In other news, my website is down at the moment. I'll fix it when I get around to it. That, however, could take awhile.

Out and About, with Hookers?

2010-11-15T00:31:00.000-08:00

So I'm in San Diego at the Society for Neuroscience annual meeting. Don't bother trying to break into my house while I'm gone either; Mike the cat is still there. I'm staying at the San Diego Bayfront Hilton. It's on the water, right by the yard where Dole (the fruit company) freighters unload truckloads of fruit. There's a plaque by the dock; apparently, 491,000 bananas a day are being delivered every. day. My room overlooks the yard. I am fascinated by this the way a cat is fascinated by running water or a flushing toilet. More interesting than the neuroscience.

I haven't had a single wedge of pineapple since I've been here.

Last night, I'm going up to my room when a girl sitting in the lobby makes eye contact and smiles at me. I give her the I'm-in-a-hurry nod, but she escalates. Now I think she might recognize me, so I slow. I ask her if we know each other. She says no. She asks my name. I ask hers. She asks if I want to hang out.

At this point I am 50/50 between her being someone looking to hang out or being a hooker*. Simply put, I am not, generally speaking, attractive enough to warrant a woman coming on that strong. Unfortunately, it's difficult to ask someone you've just met if they are a prostitute or just lonely. If anyone has a technique for this, I'd like to hear it.

*Full disclosure: I am in the process of reading Sin in the Second City, a book about early 20th century prostitution.

New Interview and Upcoming Chicago Marathon Thoughts

2010-10-05T09:45:00.000-07:00

First off, I did an interview on UFTUF (my book "Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit," or 'ufff-tuff' if you prefer) with Sherri Horner over at Health Fitness Broadcast. It's a longish interview, but I managed to keep my use of profanity and non sequiturs to an absolute minimum...

Now then, it has come to my attention that this weekend is the Chicago Marathon, the crown jewel of my running year. I know I've barely talked about my training, and that's because I don't say anything if there's nothing nice to say*. My training has gone horribly. During the year, I've worked a challenging job, bought a house, moved, and slogged through both a remodel and a refinance. This has been horribly straining on both my relationship with Susan and my marathon preparations and, if something had to give, it was going to be my training.

The net result is ugly; I've only got about 85% of the miles I ran last year, without a lot of the quality sessions that build speed and strength. My goal at the beginning of the year was to run under three hours for the marathon, my last significant running goal for myself. It now appears that this will be impossible, at least for this year.

Adversity is something we all have to face when we set challenging goals for ourselves. Rather than abandon the goal, I will set a new one: next year I will make my attempt to break three hours, most likely at the 2011 Chicago Marathon. I will also plan to run the Boston Marathon in April and maybe a few smaller events along the way.

However, just because I don't believe that I am capable of something doesn't mean I won't give it a shot. I'm not exactly in horrible shape, and miracles do occasionally happen. This Sunday, I'll be on the starting line, and I'll run with the three hour pacing group as long as I can. Once I crack, though, I'm done; There is a very good chance I will blow up 13-18 miles into the race, and slogging in to finish with a slow time is not how I roll.

So if you happen to be up and about in Chi-town early on Sunday morning, keep an eye out, I might be passing by. Hopefully still at a run.

*This is not, strictly speaking, true, but it made for a good transition, didn't it?

An Alaskan Cruise Ministory

2010-09-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

So I went on a cruise to Alaska. No, not for the whole two months I've taken off from blogging.

Sparing you the play-by-play, I instead give you the following story of human dignity:

After a particularly cold day, Susan and I returned to the boat shivering and with the singular mission of sitting in the hot tub. Sadly, one of the drawbacks of Alaskan cruises is that they attract old people and, thus, the entire ship shuts down after dinner.

The hot tub was closed. Desperate for heat, Susan and I agreed to retire to our respective sauna for a quick steam before bed. Unbeknownst to us, the saunas were also closed. Susan was defeated by a locked door, but I somehow bungled my way into the men’s locker room. Eager to bake, I rapidly struggled out of my pants when I was accosted by a crewman. By the look of him, he’d been cleaning the bathroom when I’d come in.

“Can I help you sir?” he inquired, adding the customary obsequious head nod engrained by Celebrity Cruise Lines.

“Where’s the sauna?” I demanded, waving my pants for emphasis.

“The sauna is closed.” He pursed his lips, as if to communicate the true bitterness the news caused him.

“That’s unfortunate,” I replied.

A long moment passed as I waited for him to turn away and spare me the audience as I struggled back into my cold, damp trousers. Crewman X mistook my hesitation for dissatisfaction. And in that moment the cruise lines’ subliminal training to serve guests at all costs (including those of dignity) kicked in for the guy.

Please him, the corporate voice whispered, give him anything in the world he desires. Celebrity Cruises demands this of you.

The small man eyes rolled backwards as he searched his brain for a carrot to ease the pain of a closed sauna. “I can offer you toilet,” he said finally.

“Is it in the sauna?” I asked.

“No sir. It is at room temperature.” Said with the gravity of a doctor delivering a verdict of cancer.

I declined, returning to bed where my dreams were plagued with scenarios where I accepted the proposition, only to have him hover over me, fussing over details that no man should fuss over.

The Sweetest Victory

2010-06-24T15:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just have a good day. Like today.

It’s the last game of the group stage for the World Cup. I am stuck at work and am streaming the game through a very tenuous connection. We’re playing Algeria, which looked pretty easy a month ago, but two come-from-behind ties by the USA hadn’t engendered a lot of confidence. The first half goes by in a flash. I pretend to do work and watch the US pelt the Algerians with shots that go wide, hit the crossbar or are miraculously saved by Algeria’s suddenly-brilliant goalkeeper. In the other match, England is winning easily. The only way the USA will advance to the next round is with a win over this otherwise-crappy North African country.

The second half begins. Fifty minutes pass without a goal. Then sixty. Bob Bradley, the US coach, substitutes a forward for a midfielder. Then he pulls another defender off in favor of more offense. And then another. Eighty minutes pass, still without a goal. The US is pressing hard, taking crazy risks. I feel like a drowning man who feels a light burning that increases with every mounting second of realization that time is running out. Regulation time passed, and only a few moments of added time remained. On the other channel, England had won, dashing my feeble remaining hopes that an unsatisfying tie would allow us to fight another day.

Finally, it happens. The US had pushed too far upfield when they turn the ball over. An Algerian counterattack develops – five attackers and only three defenders. Here’s how it ends, I think, on a wasted goal that cements our fate for another four years. On cue, Algeria finds an open man, who rockets in a shot. Tim Howard, the US keeper, makes a brilliant save and instantly hurls the ball deep downfield to our awaiting midfielder. Within two seconds, a counterattack has developed in the opposite direction; the US now has a numerical advantage. Racing downfield, Landon Donovan, our captain nips the ball forward. The ball is crossed to Clint Dempsey, who pokes a shot from only a few yards out. The Algerian keeper smothers the shot and the ball ricochets harmlessly into the field of play. The momentum of the attack has taken all our players past the ball, save one. Donovan, still trailing the play, comes flying in like Tinkerbell and stabs the ball into the corner of the net.

As the pressure mounted, I had absorbed more than I could handle. I had resorted to a series of primal monkey grunts that signaled my excitement and – increasingly – my frustrations to my baffled co-workers. This critical, tournament-saving goal battered down the last traces of self-control. Here is a rough transcript of what followed:

Noah: (standing up and spiking headphones) Oh myyyy! Goal! Goal! Goal! It’s a goal! Oh… goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllll!!!! Baaaaaahhhh!!!!

This was not quiet. It was, however, a small price to pay for a little ray of happiness.

Home Rennovations and Marijuana: Kissing Cousins?

2010-05-20T11:12:00.002-07:00

As an adult, I have a finite amount of energy. It's enough to do three things reasonably well: Keep a job, keep in shape, and one other thing. Obviously that thing hasn't been blogging. That's because most of my life force has been sucked into the sinkhole of time and money that is my new house.

Through my efforts, I have reduced an outdated-but-functional home into a concrete cube 400 feet off the ground. With little left to destroy, it is my sincere hope that this truly represents rock bottom in the remodeling process.

No photos yet. Too depressing.

Naturally, there's the concern that the place won't be ready yet. With a full ten days to go, Susan has already sold out and extended her lease another week. This lack of faith would be more disturbing if I wasn't living with her right now. As off the 15th, I have officially moved out of my digs in Lincoln Square. My former home was no great prize, selected mainly for its proximity to my workplace rather than any real love for the 'hood. I had been living in one of the typical three story Chicago walk-ups with a couple (in a literal sense; they're engaged) of theater geeks. Good people and good company, but living there lacked the adventure of living with Rose and Jan (see previous posts circa mid-late 2009), save one notable incident which I had embargoed talking about until I moved out:

The roommate interview is an inexact science, but one that most college students and city-dwellers have down to an art. Usually, someone decides to leave an apartment for any number of reasons, ranging from flunking out to flaking out. Rather than absorb the costs associated with a vacant bedroom, the search for a new roommate begins. Invariably, things move to Craigslist, where one discovers just how many weirdos there are out there. Perhaps some of you remember one of my more interesting incidents while searching for my last apartment.

One you wade past the weirdos, there's the face-to-face. Example: I once found a guy to sublet a room and said he might be dropping by. Three days later, he says he'll be there in an hour, shows up 2 hours late, and wants the keys. He said he'd flown in that morning from Los Angeles and had already shipped his stuff to my (his?) address. The saddest part? He had a security deposit, so I rented to him(1). Anyway, assuming everyone shows up, there's the always-awkward tour of the place where you determine whether you can handle your potential new roommate and your potential new place in the span of 10 minutes. If that wasn't fucked-up enough, the dynamic is usually tres-weird. The landlord wants to fill the space. Now. Immediately. Forthwith. As such, they will tell you anything to get you to move in. For example:

Noah: Do you have air conditioning?

Apt Guy: Sure (translation: After you move in you will discover I have a window unit. Buy your own or sweat.).

Knowing full well this is going to happen, it is incumbent upon the new renter to ask questions that one would not normally ask. Does this door actually lock? What are your philosophies on the sharing of toilet paper? Are you an alcoholic?

I ask these questions for my own protection, and I usually think I do a pretty good job. But with these new folks, I missed a question I should have asked: Are you growing substantial quantities of marijuana in your front bedroom?

Had I managed this query, I would have likely been assured that, yes, a good number of cannabis plants were being maintained under improvised grow lamps. This would likely have been a deal-breaker for me; somehow, I don't think that the theater community cares quite as much about criminal possession charges as much as the biotech industry's HR department. Just a guess.

No doubt, the question now on everyone's lips is 'Noah, however did you come to discover the illegal activities of your roommates?'

I'll tell you. A day after I'd moved in, I'd released Mike the Cat onto the house. After overcoming his initial shyness, Mike began tearing around, exploring and looking for things to eat. Almost immediately, his explorations led him to the front bedroom, where I followed, wary that he might shed on my roommates' dresser. Instead of this, I walked in to find Mike eagerly sniffing at a two-foot tall pot plant. Just as the gravity of this hit me, Mike took a huge chomp out of one of the leaves.

"Mike, nooooooOO!" I shouted, plucking him from the foliage.

I called Susan. "Mike just ate pot!" I told her.

"What are his symptoms?" Susan asked.

"I don't know. He's milling around looking pissed off and hungry. He may have just farted."

"Is that normal?" she asked. I will now embarrass my girlfriend: Susan has never smoked pot.

"The farting? Not usually, but yeah, he usually acts hungry."

Susan went on to tell me that Mike had probably not eaten enough weed to make him sick. Apparently, she'd treated a cat who'd eaten his owner's entire stash and had gotten really sick. "We pumped the cat's stomach," she said. "Usually, we try to give back whatever made the animal sick, like when a dog swallows a sock, but the guy didn't want his drugs back. He asked us to flush them." She told me to call her if Mike started calling everyone "dude" or "bro" and hung up.

Then I had to confront my roommates about the pot farm, while simultaneously apologizing for Mike eating part of their stash. This was anticlimactic; we agreed that Mike should not be allowed to eat their illegal drugs and that no one should be told that I lived there.

I was shopping for a house three days later. It is my belief that interactions like this, over a long enough period of time, lead most renters to exchange the pain of dealing with unreliable strangers for the pain of having a mortgage and being the landlord.

(1) You would be amazed how many 30-year-olds are unaware (or claim to be) of security deposits.

Unpredictable Soap Opera

2010-04-27T21:17:00.000-07:00

So I haven't been blogging with my normal vigor. Rest assured there is a good reason for this, and rest assured that in the age of internet-fueled instant gratification, I will not cling to a pretense of privacy: I've been busy buying a place.

Nothing special, mind you, just a nice little 2/2 on lake inn Lincoln Park. Nice neighborhood, nice building. Actual space... well, not so great.

The pros: It's big, at least for Chicago. It's on the 40th floor and in a building with a rooftop deck and pool with views of downtown that you wouldn't believe. We also got it fairly cheaply (again, for Chicag0)

The cons: It needs work. Not rip-out-the-guts-and-start-from-scratch work, but more than a coat of paint and a new faucet. Susan and I (yes, Susan will be joining me) are going to be dumping many, many dollars into the place in the coming month. I suspect the efforts of a do-it-myselfer will provide a rich patois of comedic material for this blog.

For a bit of levity, allow me to share my newest social experiment: attempting to embarrass Susan by saying inappropriate and/or ridiculous shit at the worst possible time. For example, as we were walking through the lobby of Susan's building, we passed the building super and a small knot of Susan's neighbors. I took this gathering of friends as a sign that it was time to announce to Susan "Let's get you upstairs and get you pregnant." Susan blushed, eventually managing to choke out a half-hearted "Fuck you."

"They'll be plenty of fucking for both of us," I replied grandly as the doors to the elevator whooshed shut.

The bruise on my arm is still healing.

An interesting read...

2010-04-02T06:53:00.000-07:00

I don't often post links. But sometimes you come across something that must be shared. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Bulwer-Lytton fiction competition.

Let's set the table. Most of us are familiar with the opening line of "It was a dark and stormy night..." It's one of the most hackneyed, cliched, and overused expressions to open a novel, and we have Edward George Bulwer-Lytton's novel Paul Clifford to thank for it's inaugural usage. While researching the origins of the line, professor Scott Rice began one of the most awesome literary competitions of all time, the eponymous contest centered around the deliberate propagation of literary garbage. From the competition describes itself as:

a whimsical literary competition that challenges entrants to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels.

Since 1982 this abomination has run unchecked, piling up some hellaciously bad winners. One of my favorites:

As the newest Lady Turnpot descended into the kitchen wrapped only in her celery-green dressing gown, her creamy bosom rising and falling like a temperamental souffle, her tart mouth pursed in distaste, the sous-chef whispered to the scullery boy, "I don't know what to make of her."

--Laurel Fortuner, Montendre, France (1992 Winner)

And therein lies the gist of the site's (un)greatness. I have a few sentences I've tossed around, mostly excerpts from my forays into fat fiction, but I'll save them for another day. As a bonus, while cruising the Bulwer-Lytton site, I came across a compendium of 2007's "Bad Sex in Literature" archive. Again, my favorite snippet:

"She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn't shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet."

Someone published that. I think I could come up with a bad sexy-phrase or three, but for now I think I'll just roll this thing around in my head and see what pops out.

That's what she said.

The Heel Skin Incident

2010-03-23T19:26:00.001-07:00

Man Jesus, blogging FAIL.

Let's hit the high points and try to work our way into a rhythm. (((Suppress urge to yell out "that's what she said!")))

Let me tell you one of the most subtly disturbing stories you're apt to read this week: I had just finished an indoor soccer game, and my feet were killing me. In some pain, I drove to my girlfriend's house and plopped down on the sofa. Removing my shoes and socks revealed the source of the pain: the skin on the bottom of my feet had literally shredded off. The worst of it were the bottoms of my heels, where a two- or three-inch square of skin had flayed neatly away.

"Ewwwww," Susan intoned as I deftly plucked the square of heel skin from my battered foot. Sensing weakness, I began to taunt Susan with the flap of epithelials. As she pushed my arm away, the skin went flying and, for the first time, attracted the attention of Susan's dog, Cosette. Cosette was perched on the edge of her doggy bed, alertly monitoring the bit of skin with a look that I recognized instantly.

"Susan, I could be wrong, but I think your dog wants to eat this piece of heel skin." On cue, Cosette licked her chops.

"There is no way my dog would eat heel skin," Susan claimed. "And if you feed it to her, I will kill you."

"Susan, your dog eats cat shit. Heel skin is epicurean in comparison."

I'll spare you the debate, which waxed and waned over the terrain of a subjects surrounding the gastronomical proclivities of canines. Susan valiently defended her dog's honor. My argument, in comparison, was but a single question: Why, if her dog was indeed so refined, was I forbidden from offering it a piece of heel skin.

"I will bet you one thousand dollars your dog will eat the heel skin," I said.

"I don't have a grand," Susan conceded, surprising me with her willingness to make a serious bet.

"I will bet you a thousand bucks against your ten," I said.

"Your serious?" Susan asked. "That's a month of rent you know."

"I know. Let's do it."

"Fine, goddammit," Susan finally conceded. "Just see for yourself. But this is a real bet."

Cosette had patiently waited out the argument, still alertly intent on the bit og flesh between my thumb and forefinger. It occurred to me that I had just issued hundred to one odds on her dog's appetite. Nevertheless, the die was cast: I extended the skin to Cosette, who rose to sniff it vigorously. For a long moment, she did nothing. Behind me, I could hear Susan clear her throat to claim victory. Then it happened: Cosette wolfed down the flap of heel skin like it was some sort of French delicacy.

Gah.

"Oh my fucking God," Susan said. She made a sound suspiciously like someone who's thrown up in their mouth and then swallowed it. I understood; the dog might only live another ten years, but the memory of what it had done would carry Susan to the grave.

As the victor, it was my duty to gloat. Against tradition, I remained silent, contemplating what had just gone down. Let me tell you, watching a dog wolf down a piece of your nasty, sweaty heel skin is no picnic (for the humans at least). After a long, hard second, I turned around. Susan was curled up in a ball on the couch, face buried in her hands and repeatedly invoking the lord's name in vain.

I caressed her cheek. "She has a taste for human flesh now," I intoned in a creepy falsetto.

Susan dry heaved.

The Pad Thai Incident

2010-02-17T06:46:00.000-08:00

I will begin with a brief story: Last night, my roommates made Pad Thai. It was a wonderful, savory experience, extremely gratifying to the degree that it reaffirmed my faith in humanity and in life itself.

Here were my contributions to the preparation and subsequent ingestion of this transcendent dish:

- Distracted female roommate as she chopped ingredients.
- Went for a jog while she cooked.
- Returned from jog. Ate prodigious quantities of rice noodles, peanuts, carrots, et al. Failed to offer any form of compensation.
- Belched.
- Allowed cat to eat from roommates' bowls while they weren't looking.
- Ran off without doing the dishes.
- Watched Karate Kid III until bedtime.
- Got up and ate leftovers at 4 AM. Fed additional noodles to Mike the cat, which energized him to the point where he crept into the roommate's room and fucked with them until they kicked him out.
- Woke up with stomachache from too much Pad Thai. Violently irradiated the bathroom, then skipped out the front door just as still-sleepy roommate fell out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

God I love Pad Thai.

Miscellenea...

2010-01-31T08:23:00.000-08:00

Rather than taking the effort to link the following into a coherent stream of thought, I am resorting to the lazy man's tool of choice - bullet points:

- I am currently rocking a hairstyle that can be described as "billowing, non-threatening 80s style."

- In the early days of the internet, I remember the difficulties in searching for specialty porn. This was the early 1990s, pre-Google, and finding porn was like wading through a darkened room while using your penis as a divining rod. After much effort (and a disastrous first encounter with gay porn), I managed to find a website called the iconophile (which, amazingly, appears to still be in business) that offered a broad assortment of tastefully nude photos of lesser celebrities. This was a good find if you ever wanted to see the oldest daughter on "Family Matters" naked (For the record, I was neutral-to-negative on this). Anyway, the funniest part for the site was the fact that the guys running it really seemed to care about the actresses they profiled. With each actresses' nude gallery, they would include a painstaking analysis of how each obscure actress could become more famous. Inevitably, these analyses demanded that the iffy star IMMEDIATELY do a nude film if they hadn't done so already, or MORE nude films if they'd already broken the seal. While this was fairly pointless typographical masturbation, it was just nice to see that the horny buggers who made the site cared enough about naked women to spew out this amateur bullshit commentary. On a related note, as an early adopter, I managed to learn about the "clear history" function on the browser before anyone busted me. My father, sadly, was not so lucky. When I confronted him (I wasn't mature enough to realize this was the natural order of the universe) he made a mea culpa plea, probably toeing the line of being a good role model.

"You know I don't do stuff like this normally," he said to me.

"Dad, you don't understand," I said, "I'm disappointed of you for checking out porn online. I'm just disappointed the best URL you could think of was boobs.com."

"What's a URL?" dad asked.

- Finally, my motivational guru line, thought up while running: "Mentally, you're only as strong as you decided to be." Can't decide if this is profound or incredibly corny.

Two Random Memories

2010-01-25T22:26:00.000-08:00

(1) Remember when "American Beauty" came out? Everyone was going gaga for it and it was winning pretty much any award out there? Yeah, that one. Somehow, I got JUST ENOUGH of the hype to remember only that "American [something]" = Good. This memory germinated for several years, until I saw "American Beauty" in the video store. Unfortunately, by that time, I had mistaken "American Beauty' for "American Pie." I rented it, then told all my family members it was supposed to be hilarious. Then we watched it. It was like renting gay porn that you think is straight porn - we just waited for the women to show up... and it just never happened.

(2) Roundabouts that time, I was fooling around (in the biblical sense) with my then-girlfriend in my parent's living room. This was the south, and the living room is the super-nice, stuffy room you only used for company. No one ever went in there, which was precisely the reason we were using it for what we were using it for. Anyway, in the course of our frolic, we broke the couch. The nice, came-from-the-fancy-furniture-store couch. I don't mean we scratched it; we broke that motherfucker right down the spine. I was kind of proud of it, but I lied and told my parents that I broke it by sitting down too hard. Because I was so fat, they bought it. This is possibly the only time being fat was actually helpful. Then again, my parents got divorced not long after this happened, so this might be debatable. Hmmm...

Goals

2010-01-10T07:54:00.000-08:00

Chicago Marathon, October 11th, 2009, just before 9:30 AM. I'm in South Chicago, moving along at a 7:15 per mile pace. After two-and-a-half hours of racing, I've covered 22 miles. There are four more to go. Though it's barely forty degrees, I'm quite warm. Sweat pours out of me, creating a crust of salt around my neck and on my shorts. My legs are aching, victims of miles of unrelenting pounding. My stomach shut down a half-hour ago; my fuel tank is emptying with each passing step, and lactic acid building up in my overstressed muscles. Slowing down is not an option. In the next thirty minutes, one of two things will happen: I will cross the finish line or I will physically fall apart.

Believe it or not, I'd worked quite hare to get to this very unpleasant spot. Years ago, I'd set a goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon. To do this, I need to run a 26.2-mile marathon in three hours and ten minutes, a pace that puts you in the top two percent of all those who take on the distance. It seemed to me that making this mark would mean that I'd really become a runner. No one qualifies for Boston on a whim. At the time, going to Boston might have well been going to the moon; I was too heavy and couldn't run a single mile at the pace I'd need to make for the 26.2 miles of the race. To call this a long term goal would be understatement.

Three years pass. I make a plan to improve my diet, my sleep habits and my training schedule. More importantly, I follow this plan- not exactly, but pretty closely. I begin racing, gradually increasing the distances I tackle. Forty pounds of excess weight come off. Most importantly, I train everyday, adapting my body to the same stresses I will feel in my attempt to qualify.

Finally, after four marathons of steady improvement, I judged myself ready to make a legitimate attempt to qualify. I make another plan for the final push. I select a race that best suits my requirements and devote 10 months to race-specific training. I will compete in only one race. In ten months of preparation, I run 2,100 miles.

People say that you can do anything you set your mind to. This is partially true. Indeed, few things of significance are accomplished without the mental ability to push yourself to the absolute end of your limits. The first 22 miles of racing has shown me I can do that.

With four miles to go, however, that doesn't mean shit. In that ragged edge where biology meets force of will, how bad you want it won't make your legs turn over any faster. At this point, your success or failure has been decided. The base has been laid, the hay's in the barn - pick your metaphor. People talk about the race as if that's it; no one mentions it on early Saturday morning runs.

2,100 miles for two-and-a-half hours of work. Three years for the last 30 minutes.

Unrelated addition: While this may weaken the above message substantially, I am becoming increasingly convinced that dental cleanings are a scam. Having your teeth professionally brushed once or twice a year will somehow prevent cavities arising from 363 days of regular abuse? Seriously?

Movies of 2009, a (very) brief review

2010-01-02T21:27:00.000-08:00

I saw 25 films at the theater this year. Here they are, ranked by me from best to worst, no explanations, no qualifications, and denoted only by a "watch" or "don't bother" delineation.

Watch
"District 9"
"Avatar 3D"
"Star Trek 11"
"The Hangover"
"Taken"
"Sherlock Holmes"
"Harry Potter And The Half Blood Prince"
"Paranormal Activity"
"Watchmen"
"Julie & Julia"
"Up In The Air"
"Inglorious Basterds"
"I Love You, Man"
"Duplicity"
"Angels & Demons"

Don't Bother
"Where The Wild Things Are"
"The Taking Of Pelham 1 2 3"
"Public Enemies"
"Sunshine Cleaning"
"Bruno"
"Drag Me To Hell"
"State Of Play"
"Fanboys"
"Transformers 2"
"New Moon"

Christmas in North Carolina

2009-12-30T09:20:00.000-08:00

"You lying sack of shit! No more back rubs for you EVER!!!"

These words were uttered - without a trace of softening - by my girlfriend shortly before lunch. I'd prompted this outburst after I'd told my father that I'd once convinced her that bicycle racers who are pedaling very hard make a sound like an angry cat. Whether she actually believed this claim was debatable; Susan would merely nod when I pointed out that, if you could hear it over the motorbike noise, the Tour de France guy on the breakaway was yowling like a pissed-off tomcat. Nevertheless, why Susan picked this moment to make her peculiar little threat was a mystery. Perhaps she felt picked on because I'd told the angry cat story directly after another tale where I'd revealed that Susan was unaware that Ronald Regan was an actor before he was president.

At any rate, Susan was mad at me. My dad and I caught each others eye. A smile crinkled the corners of our mouths. I don't remember who giggled first, but once the ball got going, it wasn't long before we were nearly on the floor laughing. "Welcome to the family," I choked out, between gaping sobs of laughter.

Susan did not understand why her most serious of remonstration was met with gales of mirth. Then again, she was a Midwesterner spending Christmas in the dirty south.

The undeniable highlight of the trip was going shooting. We did this last year, mostly on a whim, when I discovered that Chicago laws prevent anyone from owning guns (these same laws do not prevent Chicago from one of the highest murder rates in the country). Susan found a guy willing to teach us the basics of firearms the day after Christmas, and we were off. The guy we found, well, I'd say he was almost indescribable, but he was comfortable enough mixing in tidbits about his life and belief system with firearm instruction.

Here's what we learned about him during our first encounter:

- He was a man with three jobs: photographer, principal of a small christian school, and firearms instructor.
- He had no less than fifteen varieties of handguns with him, including a holster (he removed his holstered gun to show us that there was a round in the chamber and the safety was off) and a - not making this up - backup gun on his ankle.
- All of his photographs were of either weddings between 18-20 year-olds (I presume), or girls in the 8 to 13 range.
- During the lesson, our instructor shifted into sales mode and attempted to get Susan and I to book him as the photographer for our yet-unscheduled-or-agreed-upon wedding. Hence the display of the above-mentioned portfolio.
- He brought his wife with him, possibly as backup in case this was an ambush. She waited in the car.
- While reloading a gun, we're pretty sure he let a page slip from his binder that contained a letter to the editor that protested the separation of church and state, particularly in the classroom.
- At no point were we shown how to operate a gun's safety, but we were given detailed instructions on when to go for head shots versus targeting center mass when responding to attackers.
- He had never killed a man, but had gotten the jump on at least one trespasser.

Since the encounter, we've been tracking this guy from afar. Among other antics, his church put up thousands of tiny memorial flags for the victims of abortions (the babies, for those in doubt). Knowing all of this, it must be clear as to how exhilarating shooting a gun is for us to go back this year, although I should mention we brought my dad and his wife for backup.

Here's what we learned this year:

- Our instructor prefers a gun with a long trigger pull to wear when riding his motorcycle.
- He blames Muslims(?) for the violence in Chicago's public schools.
- Apparently, one lesson of gun training a year ago qualifies us to fire even bigger guns. We worked up to .45 caliber guns this year, which is like firing a kicking mule filled with joy.
- He has taken it to the next level with the proselytizing and is now cranking out homemade publications on violence in the public schools.
- Universal health care will trigger the collapse of the country, although it is unclear exactly how this will occur.
- Our instructor has many friends who pop in from time to time to voice their interesting opinions. One lady's quote to us: "If you're shooting a gun, you're having fun."
- Most disturbingly, our instructor has begun making references to shadowy forces who will free him from incarceration, should the government come down on him for reasons that were not entirely specified.

Susan quote, mid lesson: "I want a gun! Buy me a gun now!"
Noah: "Don't you think you should wait, have some sort of cooling down period?"
Susan: "What for??? I want a gun NOW."

Slowly, very slowly, Susan is becoming a southerner. In addition to the gun lessons with southern fundamentalists, I am also slowly weaning her to hush puppies (sweet tea was last year) and, on the last full day of the trip, I took her to Southern Pine's creationist museum, which doubles as a christian bookstore and homemade fudge shop. Christ, I wish I was making this last bit up.

Unrelated finishing sentences encapsulating random Noah emotions: Andie McDowell is overrated. And why are you supposed to put a chipped tooth in a glass of milk when you take it to the dentist?

Advice for Prospective Postdocs

2009-12-20T16:49:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, a friend asked me about my opinions as to how to approach setting up a postdoc. For the uninitiated, a postdoc is a temporary position that universities have created, ostensibly as a means to polish a young scientist's skills before moving into a faculty position at a university. In reality, postdocs are actually a low-paid position that most every scientist uses as a sort of holding pattern job, generally until they gain the resume experience to be eligible for bigger and better things.

The discussion of breaking down the science of taking a postdoc is a complicated matter, so I'll stick to my opinions on the subject,adding only the two caveats: First, there are situations that are exceptions to just about every rule I am about to discuss. Second, this is intended to apply to molecular biologists, cell biologists, and those in the biomedical scientists where the NIH or NSF is the one likely to fund you (either directly or indirectly). Still, I think my guidelines, while perhaps a bit cynical, are pretty good for protecting a young scientist from making some big career mistakes. Without further dithering, here's what I've learned:

As a super-brief background, I started working in science as an undergraduate in 1999 in an Alzheimer's lab. After I graduated in 2001, I spent a year working as a full-time technician before going to grad school (University of Florida College of Medicine) in 2002. From there, I found myself in a neural stem cell lab for an absentee professor mentor. I graduated in 2006 and signed on for a postdoc in 2006 with a genetics professor with the Howard Hughes Medical Institute at the University of Chicago. In 2009, I left the University for the private sector, and now work for a drug company in the greater Chicagoland area. For this post, let's focus on the part that comes right after you finish grad school.

Do I need to do a postdoc?

If you want to do research for a living, you do. Simple reason for this: you're probably not going to be able to get a job doing anything else. Very rarely, someone with several science papers, a powerful mentor, and a hot area of research will get a (research) faculty job (at a major university) directly out of grad school. This is not you. Do not try it unless you are very, very good. I knew a guy at the University of Chicago, let's call him John, who tried to make the jump without doing a postdoc. This was not a good idea. John eventually fell in with a group working at Wayne State, who promised him a sweet-sounding deal (basically a very junior faculty position). John stops pursuing other job leads and shows up six months later, only to discover that the position he was promised isn't there. Instead, John is now working as - you guessed it - a postdoc. Getting your PhD at the University of Chicago and going to Wayne State to work as a postdoc is no one's idea of success. John, needing money, accepts the gig, spends a year there, and jumps ship to go to the University of Michigan. Because he was now pretty desperate, John agreed to work for less than the NIH-mandated minimum of $37,000 a year. Net result, after seven years in grad school, his attempt to jump a hurdle netter him a wasted year and a fresh start making shitty money at a second choice lab. This was a guy who tried to hit a home run and struck out instead.

That said, postdocs are actually easy jobs to get. As I note at the end of my new book, I got a job as a postdoc at one of the (on paper, at least) top labs in the USA without ever actually proving I had a PhD.

The reasons these jobs are so easy to come by is simple: postdocs are cheap labor, a scientist who takes very little time or supervision and is willing to work hard in hopes of furthering their career for very little money. Often, postdocs are expected to write their own tiny grants, so they're free in a matter of speaking (assuming they can get a postdoc grant, current odds about one in four). This is a great situation for mentors, albeit a small subsection of established professors now tend to accept more postdocs than they can afford to support, on the hopes that one or more of their new postdocs will find their own funding.

What can you expect as a postdoc? More of the same as you experienced as a graduate student, only with a little more money. The obvious reason to work as a postdoc is getting more publications out, looking more impressive, etc. This is not quite as easy as it sounds. For a grad student, the last two years of a six year stint are when most of the publications come out, for good reason: it takes a lot of time for results to come out. Frankly, the NIH mandate that postdoctoral training be limited to six years is something of a joke - remember, the PhD it took 5 or 6 years to get wasn't because you were lazy. To build a comparable body of work as a postdoc takes time.

How do you select your postdoc?

This is a good question, and the answer is always "it depends." There are so many labs out there, it can be quite difficult to narrow it down and choose. There are two ways to narrow your range: lab status and lab area of research. For lab status, if you want to go into academics, I recommend picking a lab that is (a) strong publication record, (b) well-funded, and (c) if possible, run by a PI who supports his postdocs down the road, or at least doesn't have a record of being a dick. Ideally, this individual will work on something you can sort of blend with your existing research, creating a longer, more complete story. If you aren't sure if you want to go into academics (i.e., the professor route), play it like you do, then follow my instructions on getting into different fields.

As for academic topic, I strongly recommend doing something different than you did as a grad student. If you worked in Huntington's disease, work on multiple sclerosis. If you worked in the heart, work on the liver now. You can always go back to an old field if the new one sucks.

Additionally, I recommend working on something that adds to your skill set. If you did electrophysiology, do molecular biology now. In terms of getting hired down the line, the two best ways for making yourself marketable are either being the master of a highly specialized technique that is in demand or being incredibly well-rounded and capable of a broad range of investigative techniques. I was a cell culture biologist who did a lot of animal work as a grad student, and shifted to a lab that did heavy-lifting genetics. Barring that, I was looking at labs that did behavioral work.

I'd start by identifying well-funded guys, like Howard Hughes profs, then check them out by promising research areas. The one immutable rule of picking a lab is DO NOT STAY IN THE SAME LAB YOU DID YOUR GRAD WORK IN. The second rule is CHANGE UNIVERSITIES. This lets you meet new people and see how a different set of folks look at problems.

Obviously, people with spouses, significant others, or family concerns will have to weigh these. For couples, I recommend big cities, particularly Boston or San Fran, which give a nice mix of biotech, pharma and a lot of decent universities to pick from.

Once I have a postdoc, how should I play it?

If you're looking to do academics, this is a straightforward question. Bean along for about three years until you've got at least one first author publication under your belt and a couple more "in submission." Then pick up the chronicle of higher ed and apply to anything that your credentials remotely match.

What if I don't want to go into academics?

If you are looking to get into industry, forget waiting. Publications aren't going to help you, nor is spending additional time in academia. Folks in industry don't give a crap about your publications after a certain threshold is reached. It's a tough jump and it can take while. If you know for a fact that you want a job in the private sector, I recommend chasing a postdoc in a company or, at the very least, consider geographically selecting a postdoc to be in or near the Boston or San Fran area biotech hotspots. As for your day-to-day activities, it's hard to say, but cranking out papers is no longer your reason for living. It's on you to develop skills. I got a lot more attention from say, scientific publishers, when they found out I had a book then when I told them about the time I published an article in PNAS. Your position as a postdoc is a job, something that will provide you with money and little else. Treat it as such. Trust me, most people in academia will use you to advance their own careers. Their first question will be, 'What can this guy (or girl) do for me?' You are being used for your skills and willingness to work for little money, and you should do everything in your power to improve your lot. Think of yourself as a mercenary and start applying to industry positions (or whatever) as soon as you can. Again, I can't stress this enough: you're on your own now. It is your responsibility to keep moving towards your own goals.

How to move up in academia or break into industry are two more long discussions. If anyone out there wants to hear my thoughts on that topic, let me know.

Good luck hunting!

Odd Press

2009-12-13T17:35:00.000-08:00

Of all the press surrounding the book, this article has to be one of the odder ones. Google translator yields this oft-hilarious translation:

"Most of us Americans imagine such a fat boy who loved to lie on couch watching television and munch chips zapivaya Coca-Cola. Although in reality many residents of the U.S. leading an active life in the country truly "epidemic" of obesity: more than 60% of Americans suffer from overweight. One of them was my friend Noah Volton. A typical teenager, he preferred a passive entertainment - video games and watching movies. As a result, already at 18 Noah weight exceeded 136 kg. Becoming an official disability, Noah will continue tovstishav - his weight reached 155 kg ...

Noah thought that sit on a diet, but it halted the attempted friends who warned - no diet has no effect. But somehow Noah heard from a veterinarian that the animal diet are in 100% of cases. "Everything is - said veterinarian - that animals do not know how to open the fridge ...

Reading the relevant literature, Noah came across an article about the experiments on mice. They each second day were not allowed to eat and other days they could eat as much as you like. These animals lost significantly more weight than control mice, which simply limited the number of calories. Noah has decided that the method works in mice, should work in his case. Diet appeared to be effective. Lost 25 kg, for consolidating the results of Noah decided to engage in sports: I created joined the football team Dynamo began to run, swim, ride a bike. So quickly have lost 50 lbs. Soon it did not satisfy the level of employment only to support forms. Noah began to participate in competitions run (initially on a short distance, then it longer, until the marathon), cycling, even Triathlon (triathlon - swimming, cycling, running), which qualify for the World Cup.

On his way to the transformation of fat, which suffers from breathlessness to the athlete Noah wrote a book.

- I was in one of the top universities in the world, was one of the best students, yet because of their excessive weight felt awful - told me Noah. - When you age, people do not tease you in the face, but always something to say about this. Sometimes you hear it ...

- A diet that you chose, ie fasting every other day, suitable for all?

- Do not recommend anyone to copy what I did, just because it worked for me. Follow this diet was hard, always something to hurt. But you can not deceive ourselves - as the traditional diet, when there is a little vague plan to reduce the consumption of food ... Diet without exercise is only to a certain extent. I'm on a diet every week hudnuv two pounds. But with time become less waste. Then started running, and quickly got rid of the remaining overweight."

Couldn't have put it better myself.

In Da (Comedy) Club

2009-12-12T10:22:00.000-08:00

Last night, at the behest of the woman I'm sleeping with, I paid a visit to the Lincoln Lodge to see a friend of the friend of my girlfriend. Let me stress, this was THE MOST EXCITING option available for my Friday night.

The Lincoln Lodge is a waffle house (called the Lincoln Restaurant, whose menu features things like the Stonewall Burger and Antietam Chicken Fingers) that has part of the dining room sectioned off into a stage on Thursday and Friday night. There were about ten comics, supposedly pretty good ones, as some talent search execs were allegedly in the audience from New York and LA. The friend of a friend was pretty unspectacular, but some of the guys performing were pretty decent. While impressive, the performer's combined contribution to the field of rehearsed humor was overshadowed by a single audience member, whose reactions to the material being delivered were, frankly, far more humorous than the jokes themselves.

This guy was a chunky lad with short cropped red hair and a good-old-boy facial expression that was equal parts incredulity and wonderment. It took us awhile to figure out that this guy was ADR (an abbreviation frequently used by doctors on medical charts for "ain't doin' right). Our first clue was the fact that this guy was mid-twenties and appeared to be out with his mom. No one, no one, takes their mom out to listen to R-rated comedy. Later, it occurred to us that the mom might have been taking him out in a chaperone capacity.

When the jokes started, the dude would get agitated and would take out an old golf ball and roll it around in his fingers nervously, especially when the choice of topics became sexual. He was also a little slow on the uptake, and his bursts of panicky laughter didn't coincide with the rest of the audience.

"I think this guy might actually be retarded," I whispered to Susan, after he'd laughed mid-joke for the third or fourth time in a row. "Lightly retarded," I whispered again.

When I was ten and much less sensitive to the plight of the mentally disabled, I came up with the idea that we could give the mentally challenged jobs as stand up comics. As it became less and less politically correct to mention this, I ceased and desisted until it all came rushing back last night. This guy was magical. The best part was that he was so uninhibited about yelling out his comments. One of his best veins of thought was in the field of homophobia. For example:

Stand up comedian: What's the deal with people who hate gay people, the gay-cists?

Light 'tard: That's me!!!

[ Awkward silence follows, interrupted only by Noah crying with laughter at the sheer political incorrectness of it all]

I would have paid double for this guy to have taken the mic and just tell us about his day. Fortunately, he was giving it away for free with a top-of-the-lungs announcement that he had to pee.

So I'm really thinking about the whole mentally-challenged-in-the-comedy club thing. Perhaps this idea is ahead of its time, but, dammit, it's got potential.

A Glimpse into Madness

2009-12-03T21:09:00.000-08:00

Starting a new job this Monday, time has suddenly become much more of a commodity of late. The first week at a new job is always the most draining as the struggle to not make an ass of yourself too soon. Anyway, the new job has curtailed my search for a new place; in fact, I've only been able to set up one visit this week. I found it on Craigslist, a fairly nice-looking beige house in Wilmette.

I suppose I should have known something was wrong when the woman didn't answer my email; no one who is incapable of answering an email should be a landlord. I should have canceled when she called to say she was remodeling and the place was in no condition to be seen.

But I ignored the obvious anger signs and rescheduled. What can I say - it was close to where I work and the price was reasonable.

I arrived at six PM, right on time. The house was a little more run down than I thought it would be, but nothing too crazy. More foreboding were the mixtures of "for sale" and "for rent" signs in that papered the front lawn. It looked as though someone was playing mommy against daddy. The front door was hanging open. "Hello?" I called out, as I entered the front room.

"Hang on a sec," a frantic voice called out. I waited, but heard no sign of the frantic rushing of a preoccupied homeowner suddenly distracted. Finally, I heard a flush. The landlord came out in a rush of fumes that strongly suggested I had interrupted the power dump she had chosen to undertake at the exact hour of our meeting. We shook hands and the real fun began.

The house was a disaster area. The woman (and apparently her whole family) were packrats. Shit was crammed into every corner and onto every shelf. The woman didn't even bother paying lip service to the idea that she would move any of the stuff. Seriously, this was akin to living in one of those garbage dumps populated by starving African children on christian TV infomercials. The home's lone occupant wasn't far from being in a bad way; she was dirty and rumpled and more than a little nutty.

The second floor was reached by taking a steep flight of narrow stairs, navigable only by bending over at the waist. The upper level was made by midgets for midgets. It was like that floor designed for midget in Being John Malkovich. I had to bend my head to go through the hallway. Worse, the roof bent in, such that 50% of the floor space was effectively unusable. The bathroom was total disaster. Naked plaster four stained four shades darker by the ravages of time and unchecked roof leaks seemed to be the decorative motif of choice. A pipe that may have been the shower head emerged at a crazy angle from the ceiling a good two feet below (my) head level. The landlord absently apologized for not asking me how tall I was on the phone.

No doubt trying to salvage something, the landlord babbled on about how people were lining up around the block to rent this place, then immediately contradicted herself by telling me I would like to rent the"garden" apartment in the basement, as the tenants she had lined up had awful credit and couldn't come up with the entire first month's rent. They sound like wonderful housemates, but the basement was even worse: I smelled several dead animals that weren't entirely masked by the scent of chemicals from the myriad open paint cans. I will spare the in depth description of this semi-semi-finished basement hellhole and say only that it looked like the basement where the Blair Witch Project ended.

After realizing this, it was a merry sprint back to the car for me. Very helpfully, the landlord claimed that she would have this all cleaned up by tomorrow. I noticed she slurred her speech slightly and was spewing out banal observations, like the description of her "gigantic 200 square-foot backyard," which would be "perfect for a vegetable garden." At the time, it was snowing profusely.

On the way out, we exchanged departing pleasantries. The landlord told me she worked in construction, which she much preferred over her previous job as - get this - a landscaper. She asked me what I did for a living, and her eyes just lit up when I told her I was developing antipsychotic drugs. Her exact words: "How do you know when they're really psychotic? I mean, sometimes there really are bugs crawling under your skin." I noticed an alcoholics anonymous program book by the door.

We shook hands and I turned to leave. It appeared, from my perspective, that this woman honestly thought that I was going to pay her $600 a month for the pleasure of living in this hole in the earth.

Sadly, this story seems to lack a moral, but hey, who doesn't love a good cautionary tale, eh?

Reader Correspondence

2009-11-25T09:35:00.002-08:00

Pre-orders for the book have gone out, and something unusual has started to happen: I've begun to receive more and more letters from people who've read my stuff. In the last three or four days, I've gotten almost a dozen messages, most of them vaguely pleasant and none of which told me I suck.

I must say this is quite odd. For the first thirty years of my life, I've been (and continue to be) a nobody. I am comfortable with anonymity, and have gravitated away from the spotlight to the point of xenophobia. Forget the desire to be an actor or a stage performer, I'm generally afraid of talking to people on the phone.

The main concern in mentioning this is that even mentioning this makes me look like an attention-seeking tool, like, say, Arthur Kade. Obviously, I'm far, far away from being even a minor celebrity. Nevertheless, I'm kind of liking the fact that total strangers are writing to me. Not so much for the affirmation. I never wrote a single word with the idea of getting famous (or rich, considering more people probably make a living professional sports than writing). However, the feedback is great; people see things that it sometimes takes me weeks to see in my own writing.

Alright, I'll admit it: hearing people like your stuff is nice too. I am, however, waiting for the hate mail. You know you got it made when someone loves you enough to tell you they hate you.

Marketing A Book

2009-11-18T10:00:00.000-08:00

Twelve days until the official book release. Now all that remains is the small matter of getting complete strangers to buy my book. Last time I talked about book design, how it's one of the main ways to attract attention from the casual browsers. Of course, the browsing customer makes up only a fraction of the total market for any given book. In order to reach your market, a publishing house (and an author) needs to be proactive in reaching out to people. I've heard that marketing actually outweighs writing ability in terms of success. Thus, in order to be a successful writer (one who gets paid for their work), you need to be able to self-promote.

Many writers seem to think that the publishing house does all your publicity. They do set up some things, but their attention has to be divided across many titles. As an author, you have even more invested in your work. In fact, previous sales of your book are a big factor in selling your next book.

Interestingly, the requirement to promote your book means that you are now asked to do something quite different from the job (AKA writing) that got you the publishing deal. This can be problematic for two reasons: First, writers are often introverted and shy, hardly the best starting material for marketing. Second, many writers are new to the idea of marketing. The good news is that books aren't like movies - you don't have to have a huge first week and then watch your attendance taper off quickly. Different marketing strategies can be tried and tweaked, which is great for someone new to the field.

When looked at in the long term, promoting yourself is particularly attractive in that there is a high return on your investment. With books being driven so much by the author (as opposed to a team of people), your name recognition is inexorably linked to your product. The effort you put into building name recognition focuses on you, rather than your product (as is often the case with movies). Having three or four books out creates a backlist that slowly builds the number of people who will recognize your name and (hopefully) remember that they read and enjoyed your work. If you doubt this, ask yourself why you've bought the last twelve books by John Grisham and are now standing in line to buy his newest work without even reading the back jacket. The answer is simple: you trust that JG will deliver a solid product because (a) you know his name and (b) you've read his backlist.

There are a ton of ways to promote a book, many of them fairly standard, some of them pretty creative. For the moment, I am going to overlook the obvious stuff, like ads and sending out fliers, an focus on some of my more exotic means of reaching people.

My book is about weight loss and going from fat to fit. Let's think about the specific kinds of audiences it might appeal to. Just off the top of my head, here's what I came up with:

- athletic people.
- people looking to lose weight for the first time.
- people who are thinking of taking on a challenge.

Looking at that list, a few ideas occur as to how I might approach selling. One market might come from doctors and health professionals who deal with weight loss issues. I used a plastic surgeon when I had skin removed from my torso after losing a hundred and fifty pounds; I can only imagine these guys are approached often by people who want a quick fix ("Lipo all my fat off, doc!!!"). Convincing one doctor might turn into a stream of book referrals. Same thing might be true for independent-minded nutritionists, weight-loss clinics, etc.

Since athletic people or people with athletic ambitions are also on my list, going to local races and distributing promotional literature might also be a good idea. Trying to attract 5K runners who are, say, thinking of running a marathon might be a good approach. Or maybe not. It's hard to say whether these things will work, but it's worth a shot, and I can always change tactics if it doesn't work. The idea, reaching out to a population enriched with people who are willing to buy your book, is sound.

I should also mention that I think that spending a lot of money on marketing is unnecessary. Most of what I envision should cost less than a few hundred dollars.

Next time, I'll talk about some more specific methods to reach these people.

Noah out.

Getting Closer and Thoughts on Book Design

2009-11-09T07:58:00.001-08:00

Last night, the girlfriend and I went to a bookstore down the street (a Borders I think) and I started poking around. Since I'd gotten early copies of my book, I thought MAYBE they'd have them too, even though it hasn't officially come out yet. I went to one of their computers and typed in my name as a search string and waited. I wasn't particularly confident that Borders would even be carrying my book; as I've said before, this is my first time doing this. But then, after a moment, this came out the other end. The only way I could have been prouder would be if a fertility specialist told me I had the world's highest sperm count. So officially, they're carrying the book, starting on November 30th.

Speaking of, let's talk about what the tome looks like, now that I've got the advance copies. It weighs in at 224 pages of steel and sex appeal. You can see the cover online pretty easily, and I'm working on getting the "Look Inside" feature up on Amazon, as well as posting a few excerpts on my website, but there's always more to it than that. The book is a large-format trade, meaning it's about twice the dimensions of a regular paperback novel, with a higher quality paper stock and a standard embossed cover. For fiction, hardcovers come out first, then paperbacks. Nonfiction, unless it's a biography of someone important or a book that's already a bestseller, usually goes the trade paperback route for initial releases.

There are a number of things that go into designing a book that I don't think the average person thinks about. One of the most critical pieces (in addition to the title, which - by the way - I have a hilarious story about in the book I'm currently working on) is the design of the front and back cover. People in bookstores tend to scan books quickly, and the cover is the main thing that makes people stop their search and thumb through your book. Everyone stops for a good cover, like the orange-in-an-apple of Freakonomics.

I can safely report that a tremendous amount of work went into designing the cover. We ultimately selected from several different designs. Ironically, the cover design is very closely related to two photos I'd sent in, a side-by-side of me as a beefy 340 lbder and - five years later - ripping through the run of the Ironman triathlon in Arizona. This made a big impact on my publisher and - we hope - will make a big impact on potential audience. The message behind these images is clear: here's a fat guy on the left who's transformed himself into a bona fide athlete. If you want to do the same, why don't you thumb through this here book. I think that this will set me apart from many of the other books in the market, most of whom focus on selling a particular diet/exercise plan or fixating on a celebrity who lost weight (and usually puts it back on, after their print run is over). The visual aspect is very important to me. There are several pictures in the book of key people and moments, so that the folks at home can put a face on the characters (err, people) populating the story, and visualize a couple of the finnier moments.

The spine is also an important and oft-forgotten part of selling a book. A bland book spine is easily overlooked when your book is stuck in a line of books and the cover isn't visible to casual browsing. We went with an orange background with red lettering, dedicating much of the space to making the title as large as possible. Maybe when I'm Steven King, I'll get a bigger name font.

The back cover has a straightforward synopsis of the plot and a short bio of yours truly. Nothing special.

To make these decisions, I enlisted the help of professionals. After I got a number of color schemes and layouts from the publisher, I printed them out, walked over to the nearby Barnes and Noble, and asked every staff member I could find which cover they preferred. Each one picked the design that we're using. In a business where no one really knows what they're doing,I figured this was as good a way as any to pick what you present to the world.

Of course, no book will sell without a good marketing plan. This is something I've been working on very quietly for the last six months or so. This marketing plan will start to ramp up after the book is "officially" released. Frankly, I am quite sure I will be doing some things that are pretty creative forms of guerilla marketing. For those interested, I will be blogging about these efforts, as well as reporting about the news outlets I am able to access. Soon... soon...

Upcoming Article

2009-10-21T14:20:00.000-07:00

I was approached to write an article for Mature Spirituality magazine, which focuses on baby boomer fitness/nutrition, spirituality and general wellness. After chatting with the folks over there, I've agreed to do a medium-length piece, which should run early next year. As part of the deal, I get a free ad for Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit. Sweet, eh? I don't want to give away what I'll be writing about, but I think it will be a very illuminating discussion into why even drastic measures of diet don't work. At any rate, I've got a little writing to do in addition to working on my next book.

Finally, on a scientific note, I was at the annual Society for Neuroscience meeting in Chicago today. At one point, I found myself in the bathroom, where one industrious professor had posted an advertisement for a postdoctoral researcher over the urinals in the men's room. As I watched, one chubby scientist finished peeing, then carefully tore off a contact info strip at the bottom of the flyer. No word on whether women's rights activists are irritated over the prof's (supposed) failure to post equally in the women's restroom.

Chicago Marathon Race Report

2009-10-12T14:32:00.000-07:00

Well, it's the day after and I'm watching the Chicago Marathon on DVR and thinking about the race.

What a ride. As I mentioned in my last post, everything leading up to the race was perfect. The night before, I loaded up on sushi at my favorite place, came back home and relaxed for a while, got a pre-race leg rub from Susan, then headed to bed. Usually, I sleep badly the night before a big race, but this time I slept soundly until Susan's alarm went off at 5:30. We linked up with my dad and took the El south to the park. I pressed through the crowds to the seeded corrals and wedged in as they sang the national anthem. A moment before the gun went off, I shucked off the old sweatshirt I'd brought and got ready to run fast.

The gun went off. Even being in the second corral, it still took a minute to cross the line. A beep went off as I passed the starting mats and I began the race I'd spent the last year or so training for.

There was only one goal for me this race: qualify for the Boston Marathon. For me, that meant I needed to cross the finish line in less than 3 hours and 10 minutes. The marathon provided a service where good runners volunteer to run a steady pace for the entire race. My plan wasn't fancy: plant myself behind one of the 3:10 pacers and stay on their heels until we crossed the finish line or I couldn't follow any longer.

The crowd support was incredible in downtown Chicago. The sound of 45,000 runners pounding down the street sounds like rain on a roof. In most races, my pace would quickly have thinned out the crowd, but the crowds were thick several miles into the race.

The course wound through the loop before heading north into Lakeview. The pace felt quick at first, then became a little more comfortable as I warmed up. Most people who take on the marathon do so with the idea of surviving it. To actually race a marathon requires more dedication than most people can muster. You hit a pace that is just a little higher than is comfortable and hope that you aren't pushing yourself to exhaustion too quickly or too early. As such, the first miles are only opportunities for mistakes in nutrition or pacing to seep in. For pacing, I had pacesetters, and a professional race course saw to my nutrition needs. At every aid station, I took a gulp of gatorade. Every third mile, I swallowed an energy gel. At mile seven and nine I saw Susan and dad, who provided a cheer and a fresh supply of energy gels. Coming back into the loop we passed the halfway point. I was still feeling good, and actually set a new personal best for the half-marathon by a few seconds.

Around mile 16, I noticed the pacesetter I was following was losing ground to the other two pacers for the group. Not knowing whether he was falling off the pace, I picked it up and settled in behind the heels of the stronger pacers.

The race headed south. Mile 20 came with the first cracks in my armor. My stomach began to sour. By mile 22, I wasn't able to swallow anything without throwing up. From lack of calories and the accumulated fatigue from miles of pounding, my legs started to misbehave. Four miles from Boston, I was starting to tank. This is really where the race begins. Days and weeks of training go into making these feelings occur just a few kilometers farther into the race and being able to fight off the fatigue for just a few more minutes.

And so I slogged on. For two more miles, I hung on. People were peeling away from the pace group as the damage was done. At mile 24 I was deep in the hurt locker, and was hitting the point where mental willingness meets physical inability. I was still running, but my stride was starting to shorten, my turnover was slowing. I started to lose ground.

Over the previous 24 miles, I had built up a cushion of about 60 seconds on the magic number. Each kilometer, I was giving some of that time back. I was in damage control mode, trying to give back each precious second as slowly as possible. I hit mile 26, which is the only hill on the course. Even though it's small, it's a cruel joke at this stage. To hit the hill, the road bends right, then turns left for the final stretch to the finish. Dad and Susan were at the top of the hill, waiting for me. I was not in a good place to receive visitors. Coming around the final bend, it was all I could do to run for the finish. A quarter-mile later, I was in, too exhausted to celebrate.

When I first started running, I was 342 pounds. I couldn't run a mile, and wasn't sure if I ever would be able to. But I tried. And I did. Three years after that, I thought about running a marathon, but wasn't sure I could finish one. But I tried. Four marathons later, I wondered if I was physically capable of running a Boston-qualifying time. I made it. Yesterday, I answered that question in 3 hours, 9 minutes and 25 seconds. What else is possible is a question I'll consider while I make my travel arrangements to Boston.

Chicago Marathon Weekend

2009-10-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'm going to be spending the day (hopefully only part of it) running the Chicago Marathon. I've been quiet about this, since people rarely enjoy reading about how hard or how far you've run, but I've run about 2,000 miles this year preparing for the race.

This is the first race I've run since November of last year, and the first running race I've done in 18 months. I have no idea what kind of shape I'm in, and I'm afraid I'll discover I've overestimated my fitness the hard way. That said, I'm planning to race this race. Ever since I started running in 2002, I'd always wanted to run a qualifying time to qualify for the Boston Marathon. For me, this is completing the race in 3 hours, 10 minutes, a time that puts you in the top 2-3% of all marathoners. For a long time, I worked towards this goal, and this weekend will be my first legitimate shot at making it. Blogging about this goal is just another way of making myself accountable, and ensure that I'll leave everything out there tomorrow. Sadly, the marathon doesn't give points for effort, just for time and distance. A cramp, an upset stomach or even an inexplicably bad day can ruin six months of training. Whatever happens, one thing's for certain: if I don't make my time goal, it won't be because I didn't do absolutely everything I did to prepare. And that's really all you can ever ask of yourself.

See you at the finish line!

Seven More Days, Seven More Stories...

2009-10-07T16:03:00.000-07:00

Incidents from this week:

Fights were the main order of business. Our first dispute centered on the overcluttered dining room, which Rose was intent on cleaning out and Jan was intent on not doing shit and being a packrat. To cope, Jan got drunk real fast and tried to stall her. Rose began yelling about being sick of Jan's shit and tired of him fucking up her house. At this point she invites him to get the fuck out and get a divorce while he's out. Jan declines, backs down.

Verbal highlights of subsequent cleaning session:

Rose: Jan, put your peanuts somewhere else.

Jan: I can't.

Did I mention that Rose pronounces 'peanut' very loosely, almost as 'penis.'

Another:

Rose: There's no goddam room for your squirrel food in here! It's going in the pantry!

Jan: That's no good; the cats pee in there.

R: Not on the third shelf!!!

Then the sparring ended, and I was serenaded by Rose's grunts of efforts as she maneuvered herself. These strained grunts would, in any other arena, be sexual, but are, in fact, a woman struggling to function beneath significant obesity. Sigh.

Next day:

Jason (35-year-old son kicked out for a myriad of problems) calls Jan and starts talking. From what I hear, he's clearly under the influence of either drugs or mid-grade schizophrenia. Jan listens for a moment, tells Jason he can't understand what he's saying, and hands the phone to Rose. She talks to Jason for a minute before hanging up. "I didn't understand a fucking thing he said," Jan announced. "Jan!" cried Rose, "you be nice!!! All he wanted to say was how the wind today reminded him of how the gate by his room [now my room] used to creak. It made him miss his room, Jan! He also said we should call it Noah's Ark."

Day three:

Also, I have been monitoring the bathing situation around here. Jan takes a shower perhaps once a week. The family actually recognized this accomplishment on one occasion, with Jan accepting plaudits for bathing with good humor and a bit of pride. In a similar vein, I am becoming increasingly sure one of the sons who remains in house does not brush. To investigate, I have positioned his toothbrush such that I can see if it's been moved. Two weeks into the study and the thing hasn't twitched. Reminds me of a test I did in middle school where I hid a french fry under the lettuce on the buffet of our school cafeteria. The fry was still there 10 days later (albeit soggy).

Day 6:

Bizarre interaction of the day:

Jan: I can get you some Early Grey tea.

Rose: No, that stuff gives me rabies.

Day 7:

Jan's pants, or lack therof, stole the show. The big man's been sporting a pair of sweatpants with a hole the size of Rhode Island in the crotch. They provided the same coverage as a pair of assless chaps. If not for Jan's tighty whiteys, there would be significant danglage. Normally, I say to each his own, but today Jan opened the door to two of Rose's clients while wearing his "bare exposure" ensemble, effectively exposing himself to his twig and berries. This did not go over well for any of the involved parties. Rose - pardon the pun - tore Jan a new one. Jan's defense: he claimed he doesn't own another pair of pants.

There's a book here.

Maybe the Best Argument Ever

2009-09-29T23:45:00.000-07:00

Just brace yourself for this one:

Jan and Rose begin to argue about Jan's blood pressure and over his upcoming doctor's appointment. Rose says "I'd rather spend 15 bucks now than have you have a stroke and pay for the rest of my life." This devolves into a conversation into Jan's value financially to the family. Without irony, the pair begin to analyze the financial repercussions of Jan's impending death, with Rose criticizing him for his failure to buy life insurance. This leads into a protracted argument over Rose's benefits as a widow. This is where it gets fucked up: Jan actually takes the side of the argument that Rose would be better off dead, thus, would be better off if he did not going to the doctor.

I've never heard anyone argue that they were financially and personally worthless so vigorously.

And now Billy Joel presents few other scenes from this particular Italian restaurant:

- A minor misspeak by Rose (directed towards me): - "You can't operate in a vacuum cleaner." Not normally worth mentioning; HOWEVER, as I was documenting this, Jan mistook the word 'aesthetics' for 'ergonomics'. Then he tried to play it off by suggesting the ergonomics had been forsaken for the aesthetics. Didn't work.

-As an update on his alcoholism, Jan broke the 9 AM barrier for drinking on September 22nd with a glass of red wine at 8:52 AM.

- And now a little dialogue:

Jan: [Attempting to discourage Rose from applying to a job that is, admittedly, probably a scam] With that deal, you might as well work work for the mafia.

Rose: [pissy and irate all of a sudden... well, 38 years of marriage later] If they paid me, I'd go there!!!

- When Jan sneezes, he releases a mighty grunt or audiblization. It sounds like a man who's just had a massive orgasm. In sequence, there's this massive inhale, the 'choo' part of the sneeze, and then a mighty "uuuuuuuhhhhhh!!!" as though he's just deposited a load of spooge.

Mental rape.

- On that note: I have never seen Rose and Jan kiss, hug, or (fortunately) dry hump. Not once.

- Reset: Rose and Jan are fighting about the proper preparation of (wait for it) egg foo young. We enter shortly after Jan makes a ridiculous claim regarding the dish's preparation.

Rose: Jan, shut the hell up! Didn't your mother ever make your lunch when you were a kid?

Jan: No.

Rose: Did she give you money?

Jan: No.

Rose: (losing steam) Well, what did you eat then?

Jan: Hamburgers. And I didn't get home until one or two in the morning.

Jan provided no further elaboration. I am not sure if this is funny written down, but it was both surreal and hilarious as shit in person.

A series of skirmishes...

2009-09-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

Jan and Rose have been active this week. In fact, to keep up my efforts to document the hilarious shit they say to one another, I have taken to emailing myself each time there's an incident. This week, I sent myself 16 messages. I will continue to do this until (a) I move, (b) I develop carpal tunnel syndrome from the typing, or (c) my Gmail account fills up.

The real problem is where to begin. There's simply too much stuff to cover. Thus, I will cover the incidents of a single evening in this house. Six hours, listed roughly chronologically. To make sense of this, one must only realize that Jan grows steadily drunker as each incident occurs, and Rose grows accordingly more irritated.

4 PM:

There was a significant dust-up over how to raise money after it came out that the family needs 2,100 bucks by the end of the month. The matter of selling Jan's piece of shit car comes up. [This is a non-working 1991Mitsubishi - originally a showpiece for a sound system - that has three flat tires and hasn't been driven in five years.] Jan goes on a tantrum. The highlight of this was him threatening to tear out all the audio components (minus the stereo, which was already ripped out by thieves) so as to not get ripped off "for a nickel on every dollar" by prospective buyers. According to Jan, he would then box up said components and put them in a box labeled as "my hopes and dreams." Seriously puerile tantrum in the face of the car's obvious neglect and the family's financial situation; it was difficult to even look at Jan for a while.

4:23

Later, Jan pronounced the word "phlebotomist" as "pie-bottomist".

5:00 PM

Rose (really pissed and really shrill): Jan! You're saying shit like you don't know how to think!

Jan: So I don't then! Let's drop it!

5:25 PM

Jan just tells me he likes to listen to enya. He finds it "calming. peaceful. serene." He struggled to even name a second group he enjoys, eventually coming up with "Peter, Paul, and Mary, and that old stuff." I begin asking about the piece of crap car. I asked Jan a question, forgot he was talking, worked on a program for about 5 minutes, then realized he was still talking.

5:35 PM

I ask Jan what his remaining dreams he hopes to accomplish in life. His answer: 18 second (timed by me) pause. Then "Keeping the house. And I was thinking of designing my own audio equipment." When pressed further, Jan spent the next 11 minutes babbling about creating special rooms to reduce the static fields a speaker produces using the "golden rule" [which he is confusing with a golden rectangle I believe]. No solid advances were appreciated in my opinion.

Then Rose just threatened to piss all over herself if Jan didn't get the fuck out of the bathroom.

6:15 PM

[News program comes on about a woman who called paramedics to her home after supposedly giving birth. Turned out she'd prematurely delivered a fetus at the doctor, then freaked out, took the kid home, and called the paramedics to "save" her dead fetus. Jan believes this was a deliberate abortion attempt. Rose initially disagrees.]

Jan: She did it on purpose! There are chemicals you can take to do it. Drugs.

Rose: You're crazy.

Jan: Herbs, then.

Rose: Oh. OK, then.

6:16 PM (the following commercial break)

Jan attempts to slander a lawyer who calls offering bankruptcy services. He goes with "What's the difference between a flounder a lawyer?"

Standard answer: One's a bottom-dwelling scum sucker and the other's a fish.

HOWEVER, both Rose and I yell out guesses, like "one is a mammal and the other isn't" and "one has lungs, the other has gills!" This makes Jan lose focus. One glass of wine later, he is placated and shuts up. Approximately 20 minutes later, OUT OF NOWHERE, Jan blurts out something approximating the punch line and launches into a protracted series of creepy giggles.

7:00 PM

Rose farts loudly, blamed it on the heat.

Jan attempted to make a science-themed joke about pressure and flatulence, but botched it by calling Boyle's law Boylee's Law (and claiming it related to temperature, pressure, and volume of a gas when, in fact, only pressure and temp are involved.) Jan bluffs, but falters when I call him on it.

7:42 PM

Jan cries. But I warn you, you're not going to like the story that caused it: Apparently Rose and Jan owned a little dog that they hadn't neutered. One night, they let it out and it picked a fight with a German Shepherd. The dog (named Pee-Wee) comes home "with two-thirds of its head severed." Dog goes to the emergency room and the vet saved its life. I look over and Jan is tearing up badly and hiccup-sobbing over Pee-Wee. Jan was also (wait for it) piss drunk.

8:45 PM

Setup: We're all sitting around and Jan suddenly makes a claim after drinking a TON:

Jan: I just blacked out.

R: When?

J: Just a minute ago. It's my diabetes.

R: That's not the diabetes, that the alcohol.

J: You're right. I'll get some more. [Gets up over Rose's protestations, then farts loudly and sits down.]

R: Take your blood pressure right! now!

J: [Takes pressure] I should be dead! (reading 82 over 54). Giggles wildly. I know how to play dead! I know how to play dead!

R: (irritated) You're an ass!

J: So... that Viagra's taking effect on me, huh?

Then we all measured our blood pressure. Rose attempts to diagnose Jan's ailment, when this gem comes out:

Rose: Jan, maybe you're taking too much blood pressure medication. Remember that day you told me you couldn't pee?

10 PM

Jan and Rose run out of gas (literally and figuratively) and head to bed.

One. Night.

Fathers of the Year

2009-09-15T09:54:00.001-07:00

Recognize the above photo? No? Maybe you've suppressed it, but these are the painted ladies of Alamo Park in San Francisco (see the TransAmerica Pyramid in the background?) Most times, when a sitcom wants to intimate that action is occurring in San Fran, they'll throw out the same three or four images: the Golden Gate Bridge, a cable car, and this particular row of houses. In fact, the vile bit of Americana that was "Full House" strongly implied that the family lived in one of these houses.

Anyway, Susan and I were in San Fran a couple of weeks ago, and I was badgered into finally visiting the park, which is at the top of an amazingly steep hill in the middle of the city (Side note: do not attempt to navigate San Fran in a vehicle equipped with manual transmission.). We cruised up to the top of the hill and parked, carefully turning the wheels into the curb in case the parking brake failed. Looking back down the line, Susan noticed that a particularly massive SUV didn't have their wheels turned in. "Oh my God," said Susan, "there's a baby in the car!"

And there was. A little kid of indeterminate age (let's say 0-3 years old) was sleeping in the backseat of the ill-parked car. I am no expert on child-rearing, but I am reasonably sure that this is somewhat unsafe. The only reason to leave your child in the car, I am quite sure, is to be in the act of delivering a pizza. We looked around for putative parents. People were everywhere, but none seemed to be keeping a particularly close eye on the SUV or its cargo.

Things got a little worse: I noticed that the rear window was halfway down, probably an admirable attempt to prevent the child from overheating in the blustery, mid 60s desert that is San Fran. On the other hand, the open window made stealing the unguarded kid painfully easy. Who the hell would do this?

Naturally, Susan and I dropped all our plans and parked by the SUV, waiting to get a look at the owners of the SUV and/or kid. At some point it occurred to me that we would need proof that this actually happened. See below:Susan and I debated who would come back to collect the kid. My theory was that a. This may have been influenced by breakfast earlier that day. Susan and I had unwittingly stumbled into a restaurant that was staffed entirely by recently-released convicted felons (food was surprisingly excellent). Perhaps an outlaw couple had struck it rich and stolen back their kid. "No mother would do this," Susan stated flatly. It turned out we were both right. After about an hour, the parents came back to the car. To be sure, they hadn't been on a blanket a few feet away, but literally hiked back up the hills from the nearby antique district. This baby had two daddies:

Yup. Two dudes walked up, giggling and holding hands, got in the SUV, and drove off, leaving us all to ponder our views on gay marriage. As they peeled off, Susan said, "There's no way lesbians would do that."

Finally, because no blog would be complete without it, here's the best unintentionally sexual exchange between Jan and Rose from the previous week:

Rose: Jan, could you bring me some coffee?

Jan: OK [does nothing for twenty minutes]

Rose: Jan, I need some coffee! You kept me up all. Night. Long! And I need some caffeine to get going again [emphasis hers].

Hopefully this was unintentional.

Unintentionally Sexual

2009-09-09T16:06:00.000-07:00

Rose prepares guacamole.

In the last ten days, Rose has almost single-handedly worked her way through an 8-pound can of nacho cheese. We're talking the liquid faux-cheese that movie theaters put on nachos. If the choice of foodstuff wasn't so disturbing, the banter that accompanies its consumption is, if possible, even more disturbing.

In spite of their frequent bickering, Jan and Rose have tender moments. By and large, these are almost entirely by coincidence. Many times, I have to stop myself from saying "that's what she said" after the latest bit of hilarity. Here's an example from this morning. As it always seems, it has to do with food preparation:

Rose: What do we need to get rid of? (food in fridge. Things get kinky)

Jan: We've got some strawberries...

R: You trying to stuff something down my throat?

J: Uh... no!

R: Good, 'cause I've had enough sugar today.

(pause)

R: All I want is some salty meat.

J: It's too hot for meat right now.

R: (angry and shrill) I want some meat!!!

J: I've got a bone you can pick.

R: Well... that sounds delightful. I'll gobble that up tonight.

My dictation broke down around this point, but there was a substantial amount of continued conversation about some mushrooms Jan had. It was not clear from the conversation whether the mushroom talk was euphemism for Jan's meat popsicle or a more literal reference to psychotropic fungi needed for them to get freaky. After Rose said she "enjoyed a little mushroom," they began discussing inviting others over to enjoy them as well. I fled, tears streaming from my eyes.

As a bonus for reading this far, I give you the king of the unintentionally sexual stuff (do not read if you've eaten in the last week or so):

Jan and Rose are sitting down to dinner. Rose is not feeling well. Jan is putting the final touches on the meal.

Rose: (weakly) Thanks for tossing my salad.

Jan: (characteristic pause) Thanks for lettin' me toss it.

Sweet Fancy Jesus.

Texts from California, Part 4

2009-09-02T10:22:00.000-07:00

To really put you into the situation I'm living in, I've decided to spend this week's post posting the texts I've sent to my girlfriend about what goes on at the house. These are roughly in chronological order over the last 10 days or so.

Brace yourself:

- Another fight. Rose has curtailed Jan's wine budget. Storm brewing.

- Rose just broke a chair by sitting on it. Said they used to have 6 of them. Now only 4.

- Most dangerous phase of visit home underway: getting ride to airport with drunkish Jan.

- Rose is watching Touched by an Angel and cooking fried chicken. She just used her cell to call her son to dinner.

- Rose has cursed Jan for making her stand to find a button. Jan responded by opening his last bottle of inexpensive wine.

- (one minute later) After the fight Rose prepared a root beer float. She is blaming her and Jan's weight gain on stopping smoking.

- Jan just suggested starting a fake company to pay Rose's health insurance bills. Not sure he understands how money works.

- Am now encouraging Jan to enter mixed martial arts tournaments.

- Rose just mentioned she makes a point of buying "bacterial" soap.

And now an interesting email sequence documenting an average day for Jan's power drinking:

Message 1:

Jan has taken his first drink. It is 10:19 AM.

Message 2:

Rose comes home from her agency interview. Rose is discussing her job interview with an employment agency and is discussing her proficiencies. Jan is still drinking wine and eating cold ravioli directly from the can. The following exchange occurs:

Rose: So the guy asks me what my skills are in excel?

Jan: (long, long pause) Excel-lent. (Giggles profusely at own joke, then finishes ravioli as though he's made a contribution to society).

Message 3:

Jan just walked through at 1 in the morning going "he-loo... He-looo... he-looo". Then he sees me, and explains that he is worried that Jared is not back (ignoring my suggestion to call him) and informs me that he is taking the trash out now. Also drunk as fuck.

My safety level is entirely unclear. Tell the world my story if I don't make it.

Living in Thunderdome, Chapter Three

2009-08-24T20:23:00.000-07:00

Oh God.

Though most people shy away from admitting it, there's an art to arguing that must be respected. Individuals who have mastered this sub-specialty of heated rhetoric are acknowledged and grudgingly admired, the generals in the war of words.

And then there are the enlisted men and women. Witness this rapidly-degenerating argument between Rose and Jan, which occurred just this afternoon. To my credit, I smelled a doozy of a story brewing, and grabbed a pen to transcribe the festivities. Good writers aren't supposed to foreshadow too boldly, but I will state for the record that I, sitting there on the couch, was probably witnessing the weakest battle in the history of debate, possibly the spoken language.

Rose and Jan were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing lunch as amiably as could be expected. Rose crinkled her nose suddenly. "Jan!" she cried, "are you... gassy?"

"Uh... no," Jan declared finally. Jan then began to blame a bucket of plants that had been removed from the aquarium sitting next to the dining room table. This defense appeared to fly, until Jan farted (again, apparently). Rose did not appreciate this obvious lie, and tore into him with her usual ferocity. Jan decided he needed to defend himself after being busted in another obvious lie. Suddenly, he stood up, walked to the mini-fridge, and rummaged through the bottles of condiments stored there. After a moment, Jan spun on his heel and accused Rose of opening one bottle of salad dressing before finishing the old one. Rose was now angry. She promptly accused Jan of sleeping all day (true) and of being an alcoholic (debatable, but an argument could be made). Jan was completely on the defensive. He stood by the counter, casting about for a bit of reparte. "You know what you need to stop doing?" he asked, "You should stop putting silverware on this side of the counter, because they might fall into the trash."

I looked at the silverware, sitting unmolested on the solid marble counter, and wondered how often Jan lost forks in the trash can. Rose failed to join the battle at this point, preferring instead to continue their exchange of completely unrelated accusations. "Jan, where the hell is that bag of pretzels you were supposed to by me," she fired back.

A brief concordance ensued, as they agreed to blame the disappearance of said pretzels on their youngest son. Things might have ended there, but this was only the eye of the hurricane; Rose was going for the knockout.

"You know, Jan, you might be getting a social security check. Won't it be nice to contribute to the house again?" she asked. Turning to me, Rose proceeded to tell me a little story about her husband: apparently, in the early 1990s, Jan had been working at a place and was being considered for a promotion. "At the last moment," Rose explained, "the foreman gave Jan's job to his Mexican cousin. They paid him under the table."

"Was he legal?" I asked.

"He probably was!" Jan blurted out, possibly trying to save face. "You could see why Jan hasn't worked in the last 15 years," Rose said, with a laugh that was anything but nice.

Jan had a little postscript that made this whole affair all the more sad and comical. I didn't get all of this down, but he told another crazy story that concluded with him roller-skating around the parking lot of the Hewlett-Packard Building, possibly getting himself fired in the process. Oddly, Jan seemed to regard this story as somehow vindicating, allowing him to win the fight with his wife. As he was concluding the story, he farted again.

A pyrrhic victory indeed.

In Sickness and in Health

2009-08-11T08:33:00.000-07:00

The events at my house have taken the course of a medical drama, as both the "parents" (Jan and Rose) seem to be suffering from any number of health problems, ranging from the spectacular to mundane. Rose has taken the lead in this, having been sick on no less than four occasions in the six weeks I've lived with this family. Seriously, I suspected she had lupus, and am still figuring out how to get some biological samples with which to run diagnostics. The other, equally likely, explanation is that carrying around 250 extra pounds is starting to take its toll.

There's no nice way to say that Rose gets bitchy when she's sick. The best example of this occurred when she was laying on the couch, not looking too good. I was worried she was going to up and die in front of me, when she weakly beckons Jan over. "Jan," she whispered, "I need to check my blood..." she trailed off into something unintelligble.

"Your blood pressure?" asked Jan.

"NO!" Rose exploded. "My blood SUGAR! We already checked my blood pressure. Find my meter!"

Perhaps the most entertaining (for me, anyway) illness afflicting Rose happened last week, when Rose got an ear infection. "Swimmer's ear," she confided in me, "from my workouts." What's that? I didn't tell you that Rose swims? Rose swims twice a week, although she hasn't made it to the pool once or twice, on account of being "too busy," and she also drives to the pool, which is at a YMCA located all of 300 yards from our house. From this brutal regimen, Rose developed a persistent ear infection that would curtail her training to be the next Dara Torres. "I can't get ANY water in this ear," Rose announced darkly, "so no swimming for me for a while." Oddly, she seemed less troubled about her ailing eustacean canal than the lost opportunities to lord her exercise program over me and the completely sedentary Jan.

Jan's health problems are more subtle, but no less significant. Shortly before I entered their lives, Jan had emergency surgery for an anal fistula, possibly the grossest medical condition in existence. An anal fistula, for those of you fortunate enough to never have encountered one, is a secondary passage that forms between the anal glands and the perianal skin. This means, in short, that you've grown a second asshole, one that copiously weeps pus and other delectables. If this is not mental rape enough, I should mention that it is occasionally possible for the afflicted individual to poo out of this second asshole.

When I moved in, I noticed Jan sat on a cushion. Knowing why made me queasy. Plus, what has to happen for you to require emergency surgery for that type of problem? I won't examine the scenarios, as I'm writing this before lunchtime, but they aren't particularly pleasant.

Apparently, the surgery has left Jan rather sensitive; he sneezes like a total pussy - rather than taking a good rip at things, we hear this delicate, high-pitched "aHHH-cHHOOOOooo!" come out of his room. When this happens, everyone looks nervous, as though he will somehow shit out his guts from the pressure of the sneeze. Each time this happens, I feel the overwhelming urge to say "Well I'm not stuffing 'em back in!"

Jan also suffers from diagnosed and (in my opinion) undiagnosed mental disorders. Lest you think me an ogre for spilling the beans on this, I assure you, I am not speculating on many of these issues. Rose regularly briefs me on the medical dramas of the family, from the childhood maladies of her brood to the current stock of antidepressants Jan is on. Anyway, a fool could see it: Jan takes long naps every day, drinks at least a bottle of wine a night, and has a certain lack of emotional response enjoyed by mild psychotics everywhere.

Still, there's a certain indefinable mental wrasslin' match going on in this man's head that defies categorization. While the medical establishment can't put a discernable diagnosis on it, language exists to describe the condition. In the veterinary world, ADR (ain't doin' right) is notated on the chart. In human medicine, SAR (somethin' ain't right) is used.

Let's elaborate. Jan will tell stories that, clearly, no one is interested in. Rose will literally tell him to shut his goddamn mouth, to which Jan will press on, unperturbed in his description of how he made a flanged manifold keyboard for an out-of-business tech company in 1983. Perhaps you can understand why I thought he had early-onset Alzheimer's, especially when he ran out of stories and went into re-runs after the first several weeks of living there. Eventually, though, I realized the issues in Jan's dome go far beyond a simple debilitating disease of recall. I'll give you an example: last night, I asked him what his favorite food was, and (after a period of soul-searching) he told me he didn't have one. How fucked up is that? Better yet, let's take this morning: I got up around 7:30 to come into work. As I was heading out the door, I ran into Jan, who was acting... really twitchy. He had the same crazy eyes a kitten gets before it starts tearing your couch to pieces with its claws.

"Noah, the house cleaners are coming tomorrow," he said, voice audibly quivering with excitement. "They said Tuesday, but they didn't have enough people on Tuesday, so they'll be coming tomorrow."

I looked at Jan. Why was he telling me this now, at 7:30 AM the day before? Why, for that matter, was this even on his mind? And why was he looking at me the same way Anthony Hopkins looks at Jodi Foster in Silence of the Lambs?

"Good to know," was all I could muster.

"Have a good day at work," he called after me, as I flew the coop.

While Rose and Jan suffer few identical afflictions, both are significantly affected by the occasional heat of the San Jose Valley area. The first day I arrived, it was a dry 95, perhaps 80 degrees in the house. Most homes in the area aren't air-conditioned, as the heat is something of an aberration. The first day, though, was pretty hot. I was OK with a cool glass of ice water; Rose, however, was dying, obviously on the brink of a heat-induced panic attack. I have seen this woman beg - BEG - for her husband to install the window-unit air-conditioner that cools their bedroom to a frosty 55F.

"Jan, get me something cold to drink," she crooned, forcing Jan to lumber into the kitchen. "Do you want water," he asked, "or juice?"

"Juice," announced Rose, looking at me. "Cranberry juice. Good for a urinary tract infection, right doctor?"

Shudder. Jan brought her a glass of cranberry-flavored high fructose corn syrup.

The people I'm living with...

2009-08-06T11:52:00.000-07:00

Alright, I've held out as long as humanly possible, but in my last post I started to crack and now I'm just going to break down completely and write about the people I'm staying with. Before I get into this, I want everyone to know that I do feel a little guilty about writing about the people who keep a roof over my head (even though I'm paying for it). These people are generally nice to me, they have moments of sweetness towards one another, and they're all good and decent human beings.

That said, there's just too much comedic material not to write about. Shit, I've only been there for a month and already I've got a backlog of stories. So while I will be taking you into the madhouse where I'm living, I will, out of respect for my hosts, keep this anonymous, and use only first names.

Ready? Let's begin...

As I mentioned in the last post, the heads of household are a mom-and-pop team, Rose and Jan. Neither of them works right now, and they're always around, usually in front of the TV. Based on my observations, Jan is clinically depressed, and spends a great deal of his time sleeping in the master bedroom, which adjoins the kitchen. At night, the door is, as a rule, left open for all to see a slumbering Jan, clad only in tighty whiteys. During the day, Jan wears one of two pairs of sweatpants, one of which has been sporting an increasingly large hole over his genitals. According to Rose, Jan has not worked in ten years, and recently "retired" from this pursuit to spend his full energies at home. Jan's hobbies include religiously tracking sales at grocery stores (which he compiles into weekly lists that he keeps in his pocket and will produce, often without being asked), and compulsively taking readings from the house's solar panels to gauge how much energy they're generating.

Rose is also currently unemployed, although her departure from the work force was the result of a somewhat recent layoff, and I can report she has been trying to find work. Rose is sweet usually, but can become quite crabby when provoked, leading to some dynamic arguments over topics that most would not sully themselves by partaking in.

Both Rose and Jan are fairly sedentary, and I estimate both to equal or exceed 300 pounds. Rose has difficulty standing for more than a few moments, and, despite being mutually unemployed, the couple has resorted to bringing in a cleaning service for their home. Note I am not complaining, as they include me as though I was one of their sons, an interesting segue to describing the rest of the house's occupants. You see, until very recently, all the couple's adult children lived at home. Now only two of them do, Jared and Nate. Both guys are pretty solid fellows thus far. Jared, as far as I can tell, has not moved out of the house since his conception, while Nate moved out for college for a period before returning. Rose refers to him as her "boomerang son." Nate has established his presence in a cabin (possibly former toolshed) behind the house, where he has an almost unlimited supply of video game equipment. Though both are physically similar, they have very different personalities. Jared is quiet and very reserved, almost to the point of being reclusive. Nate is more social, appears to be actively engaged in courting one or more women, and has more of a sense of humor. My fascination with the pair stems from the fact that both work in the videogame industry as quality control testors, yet come home at night and appear to do the same job for free. Neither overtly contributesto maintaining the house, cleaning, or bill-paying. This, remarkably, is something of an improvement over son #3, a surprising observation considering he is the only offspring not in residence.

A few weeks after moving in, I learned that I was actually staying in the former room of the family's oldest son, Jason, who is in his mid 30s. I met Jason my first night moving in, as he pedaled up and waited outside for his father to come out. While he did this, I moved stuff from my car into the house and was quite surprised to see Jason use the time in between trips to relieve himself on the path I was using to access the side door. Rather than give the blow-by-blow story of Jason, a story that could occupy many, many posts, let's just say that I learned that he was kicked out over drug problems some eight months previous. While banished, Jason is far from gone, appearing almost daily in the little soap opera that surrounds me.

So that's the cast, crew, and setting for the little play we're embarking on. I suppose it wouldn't be fair if I didn't give you at least a little taste of what happens. To do so, one needs only go back as far as last night: I arrivred home to find an argument in full swing between Jan and Rose. The subject: a meat grinder. Several months prior, the family had given Jan a new meat grinder for father's day. This was done for several reasons, one of which being that Jan feels that ground meat from the store contains cow eyeballs. Yeah, no shit. Jan had been feeding partially-frozen meat into the grinder. Too frozen, apparently; the meat was too much, and Jan had ignored the smoking grinder's shrieks of protestation until the motor blew out. Faced with a tight budget and a meat grinder in need of repair, Rose was letting Jan have it. All the while, Jan is denying responsibility.

At this point, I should mention that Jan frequently feels the need to ask me oddly-timed technical questions. Often, these attempts only serve to expose his ignorance. For example, he recently asked me why hydrogen cyanide in peach pits made his skin feel younger, only to subsequently reveal that he had confused peach pits with apricot scrub. Before this happened, he was quite confrontational about the whole thing. The following exchange said it best:

Noah: You really rub peach pits on your face to appear younger?

Jan: (obviously lying) Yes.

With this sort of thing happening fairly regularly, it was interesting to watch Jan, who obviously fucked up, squirm as his wife kicked him while he was down. Still, this was taking it too far. It's one thing to tease or say something you don't mean; it's quite another to scream at your husband "you screwed up the meat grinder, just like you screwed up everything else in your life!!!"

Say that to me, I'll have a divorce filing in your hand tomorrow. Jan, however, took it standing up. Well, technically standing up, but he soon went to bed for his nightly 8:30 PM depression nap.

Next time: the couple makes up with distubingly sexy talk in front of Noah.

World's Lamest Fight

2009-07-23T10:14:00.000-07:00

In San Jose, I decided not to rent my own apartment. There are several reasons for this. First, I am cheap. Paying for a whole three rooms for slightly more money pales in comparison to surrendering a little dignity and cramming yourself into a little room in a communal home. Second, Susan isn't here yet, and won't be for some time. Thus, I really don't need the privacy or extra space. Third (and closely related to point #2), I don't really know anyone in San Jose or the Bay Area; living with some new people might expand my social circles.

Long story short, I spun the wheel and went fishing for a place to live on Craigslist. I really didn't know what I was going to get - I wasn't planning on going out there to look at places or talk to potential roommates face-to-face. No, I would be basing my decision on who sounded the nicest over email and who had the prettiest pictures to post (and who would take a stranger who claimed to be moving from another state). The first time we met would be when I showed up, bedraggled and exhausted from driving across the country, the only contact having been a handful of emails and a check for first month's and a security deposit. Truly, I was made of the primest of cuts for every Craigslist scam artist.

But I got lucky- the place I'd rented in theory turned out to actually exist, and was actually pretty much what was described: a nice one-story at the border of San Jose and Saratoga in a quiet neighborhood full of middle class homes. Ringing the doorbell, I felt a bit of tightness in my chest; after all, whoever answered the door would be the people I would be living with for the next several months. What exactly was going to come out of this box of chocolates?

The doorknob rotated, and my life took a very interesting turn. A bearded man in his early sixties opened the door, spotted me, and greeted me with a "hee-looooow" that was decidedly singsong. This was Jan (pronounced 'Yahn'), . That's right, family. Instead of living with a bunch of dudes who shared an apartment, I'd stumbled into the rarest of situations: an honest-to-god family that was taking a border. I actually knew this going in, along with the basics: Jan was married to Rose, an accountant who was recently laid off. They lived in west San Jose with their two adult sons, both of whom worked in the video game industry in Silicon Valley. I pictured a couple of contented baby boomers basking in the glow of raising two highly motivated young guns, poised to conquer the world.

It's funny how the pictures we paint of people rarely match the actuality. Jan has actually been retired for 15 years, for reasons that have not been made entirely clear to me. Rose has been laid off for several months, and money is apparently fairly tight. Rose and Jan are home all the time, and I get the impression that being around each other so often grates upon each of them. The two sons are both nice guys, but don't show much motivation to get out of the house and into their own places, and are content to let their parents cook for them and clean the place. It's hard to be critical of this when I, in fact, am basically doing the same thing. When you live with a bunch of dudes, it's rare to come home and find dinner on the table (and a standing invitation to chow down) and the carpets vaccumed (before the emergence of obvious microorganismal infection, no less). Suffice to say, I'm taking full advantage of cooked food every time I get the chance.

Ah yes, the title of my post. It might be a bit misleading. "World's Lamest Verbal Fight" might be more accurate, as I saw a physical fight break out between a guy on the street and a guy handing out fliers in Argentina. That little scuffle earns the blue ribbon for lamest brawl ("Have a coupon sir." "Hell no, let go!"), but this one could have been heading that way.

It happened earlier this week. I was sitting at the kitchen table, directly between Jan and Rose, eating the turkey pot pie they had prepared from the turkey they had roasted last night. Lured in by tasty free food, I failed to notice the brewing storm between Jan and Rose until the two were in full flight. The topic was the couple's online Ebay business, which they've been operating to earn a little extra dough. Earlier that day, they'd sold a board game for $8.50, including shipping. Rose's plan was to send the game media mail for about $2, netting a tidy $6 profit. Nothing to get too excited about, but still a little gain.

Jan, however, had reservations on this plan. He felt media mail was too dangerous, claiming that the package would be crushed beneath "pallets of books." Jan wanted to ship it priority, which he instantly calculated to be $8.25. Thus, the crux of the argument was whether they should (a) ship media, risk the box being crushed, and make $6, or (b) ship it priority and lose $6.

Many of you are bored merely by reading the description, for good reason: The stakes of this game are so low that I found it difficult to type them out without drowsing off. Had you or I run into either argument, the normal response is to say (a) whatever, it's only a board game, or (b) whatever, it's only $6. In other words, no one gives a shit enough to fight about this, much less two people.

Rose got us halfway there though. She wouldn't budge from the idea of pocketing her six smackers, and bemoaned how priority would basically be making them give the game away for free. I got the impression the argument had been going a long while before I got in. How many hours of the day I had spent pushing back the mysteries of the cellular world had these two spent bickering over how to mail this game? Two hours? Three? What was the per hour earnings, even if media mail prevailed? What was the cost per histrionic?

Still, it takes two to tango. Under Rose's protests, it apparently fell to Jan to be the adult, or at least to knuckle under and/or be apatheitc. But Jan is a funny guy. He has the retentive, slightly anal mind and personality you'd find on an engineer, even though he doesn't have a degree. He's very detail-oriented: one of his jobs is to go shopping, and he spends a large portion of the day scanning and compiling a list of what's on sale where, which he writes in a list he carries in his back pocket at all times. For dinner conversation, he will often list the items we are eating, where they came from, and how much he paid for them. He also loves to discuss the power output of the solar panels on the roof of the house. He has exacting data on this, as he takes multiple daily readings. This, along with the coupon searching, appears to occupy roughly 75% of Jan's work day.

My point is that Jan isn't a normal guy, and, unlike a normal guy, wasn't prepared to abandon his position on shipping a box over something as trivial as a $6 profit or an all-out screaming match with his wife of 38-years in front of a near-total stranger.

Which brings us back to the present: me, shoveling turkey into my mouth as two rotund adults screamed it out. While I had initially thought Rose's bitchiness on the issue would prevail, it was Jan's steadfast remonstrations of the USPS that finally wore her down to the point of capitulation. I won't go through the argument blow-by-blow, but I will give you the climactic line. Rose, acceeding defeat, takes a final dig at her hubby. In a voice I found highly reminiscent of the mother from the movie "Throw Momma From the Train" she shrilly pronounced "We only made 25 CENTS!!!" This line... I can't do it justice with the written word.

Then Rose stormed off to eat the better part of an Entemann's danish and Jan got drunk on red wine. I had seconds of pot pie.

The moral: poverty sucks. Divorce, on the other hand, might not be so bad.

Racism: For or Against?

2009-07-17T16:46:00.000-07:00

In my new company, we've got an honest-to-God African. Not an African American; this dude was born in Ethiopia and immigrated here about five years ago. He has little in common with African-Americans, including little knowledge of African-American culture. In fact, today found one of my lab members (an Arab Israelite, no less) educating our African friend on the finer points of African-American culture. Actually, these pointers were basically the dissemination of stereotypes about black people. I only let the guy go through a couple (because this guy is a huge oversharer; within an hour of meeting him, I learned he suffered from impotence and just got out of a relationship with a diagnosed nymphomaniac. God knows what shit he would drag up if left to ramble), but he hit the fried chicken and watermelon stereotypes rather quickly. The bona fide African found this hilarious.

I got to thinking about the interaction, specifically, about whether this was racist. I got to thinking about other situations where I've witnessed some things where I am genuinely not sure if I'm having a racist thought or not. The best example I can think of comes from some of the fast food restaurants in the area. The kitchen area of a Taco Bell is chock full of Mexican workers. They're back there (a) because they'll work for little money (a stereotype?) and/or (b) they're hard workers (another stereotype?). However, few of them speak english (this one's a fact, I'm afraid), and a buffer needs to be put in place between them and the customers. In San Jose, that buffer almost always takes the form of black people. Naturally, this sounds like some sort of joke setup: "A white guy walks into a restaurant and says..." "...then the black guy says..." "...then the Mexican says," and concludes with the punchline "No, I said put salsa on the Chalupa," or something equally droll. In practice, though, communications don't proceed that smoothly. A lot of times, my english is translated into ebonics and hurled back to an english-deficient cook who is unable to hack through the thick patois coming through the register. More often than not, the register guy will answer the cries of "no comprende" from the kitchen by saying the exact same thing, only much, much louder. In practice, here's how this goes (I will attempt to spell the ebonics. Apologies):

Register Guy: "Bee' burritah wi no sah creem," [Translation: bean burrito with no sour cream]

Cook: "Eh? No comprende..."

RG: "NO SAH CREEM ON DA BURITAH!!!"

Cook: "Eh?" [Makes enchirito, a fossilized remnant of Taco Bell's menu, circa 2002]

And that, roughly speaking, is how it goes. Now, how many little racist stereotypes went into documenting this interaction? Rather than guessing at that, let's ask questions that are more useful. Did violence ensue? (No) Did I actually get an enchirito out of the deal? (Yes) And how many of you will now go to a Taco Bell to watch the same show? (I'd say at least a few).

Noah out.

Updating the San Jose experience

2009-07-10T11:40:00.001-07:00

So I've been in California for about two weeks now, and I have the following critique of the area: pretty damn good. Those who know me know that my dissatisfaction with Chicago was rooted in the horrible weather, which kept me surly for seven months out of the year. I'm happy to now report that Chicago, to put this bluntly, can kiss my ass. SJ/NorCal is so much better it's not even funny. I have abundant opportunities to roam freely, and this area offers that in spades. A paved trail runs right by where I work, and I can run more than ten miles on it in either direction. I can do hills, flat terrain, suburban or rural runs, anything. Biking is easy access, traffic is not so bad (no killer Midwestern drivers to deal with), and today was my first day bike commuting to work (and it shan't be my last either). There's even a pool just around the corner from where I live. Life is good.

The most interesting story of my time here thus far happened three days ago. I was running just south of town on a nature trail when a large housecat scampered out of the brushes. Actually, this was an enormous housecat, possibly a world record; it was taller at the shoulder than my knees. And we weren't even near the suburbs... Characteristically, it took me a moment to figure out that I wasn't looking at a common species of pet, but rather a young mountain lion, which was now sitting by the path watching my approach with the glazed indifference of a middle schooler who's trying too hard.

What's the etiquette for dealing with a mountain lion? Does one flee? Attack? Assume a fetal position? Again, I don't know these things. My inertia had carried me to within 20 feet or so of the wildcat, and I just sort of cruised by, giving him a circumspect look from the corner of my eye. He was equally cool, and we both went about our business, tenuous alliance between man and beast left intact.

So... just how big do these things get?

In other news, Susan's in town for a visit, which is great, and I'm finishing up a final tweak of my second book, also great. Once I make final corrections, I'll get to work on cranking out some new stories and getting things compiled for the next book. No dates, but promising.

And that is how I'm gonna leave this update.

The flattened ass...

2009-07-01T15:23:00.001-07:00

Oh my.

2,350 miles of driving in 3 days does some terrible things to a person. Where to begin? First of all, let's examine just how long it takes to get from Chicago, Illinois to San Jose, California. Check it out on google maps. Doesn't look too bad, does it? Sure, it'd be a little uncomfortable for a while, but it would be over before you really start to go crazy, right?

Wrong.

At an average speed of 70 miles per hour, 2,350 miles will occupy 33.5 hours, roughly 11 hours a day for three days. Practically, this means you're going to be driving from sun-up to sundown, which gives you a lot of time to think about how much driving sucks.

There were precious few highlights of the trip to share: In Wyoming, I got gas at a little town (population 78, according to the sign) that appeared to be selling pimp canes. What exactly is the demand for pimp canes in this little town? In Elko, Nevada I stayed in a Motel 6 located adjacent to a (completely legal) whorehouse called the Starlight Ranch. I saw a few of the girls working there, and I can definitively say that the first-team prostitutes do not work along I-80 in the interior of Nevada.

Terror also punctuated the trip. The road into Salt Lake City is winding and harrowing, screaming downhills at 90 before slamming on the brakes to take a turn at 50 mph. Same thing at the Reno-California border, where I skied through the Sierra Nevadas with only inches to spare between semi-out-of-control semi trailers and cement construction walls.

But in between these notable highs, there was boredom. Poking along the midwest on the great flat roads there, I would wonder how fast I could get there if I just punched it to a hundred and let it fly. I guessed I could have saved about 8 hours, but I doubt I had the driving skills to survive the attempt (otherwise I would have done it in a heartbeat; on the whole trip, I saw not one speedtrap, and I was going pretty fast at times).

Almost 2,000 miles of the trip was on I-80, and I got to see a lot of the country along the way. It was mildly interesting to see the landscapes change gradually, melding into one another in a very natural way. It was also interesting to note that I could tell legitimate differences between the states. Even without the borders, I could tell when I passed from Wyoming into Utah, and from Utah into Nevada. There's a fundamental alteration in the character of the land that just seems to say "hey, you're in a new place."

Or maybe I was just delirious from driving, and was just desperate to find something, anything, to entertain myself. I played every CD I had, scoured the radio (I hit one part of Utah where I got ONE station, and it was a Mexican-Country smorgasbord), and had little conversations with myself, where I usually vowed never to drive over 10 miles continuously again. I also analyzed at length the effect of being able to beam people anywhere, like they do on Star Trek, when I wasn't yelling at myself to quit being a pussy and suck it up.

After three days of fast food, crappy little towns, and a whole lot of Americana, I rolled into San Jose late on Tuesday, whereupon I promptly got lost*. I wondered if I should tell my new boss that I was only able to follow directions as long as the road was straight. This is my second full day in the city, and I've both met my host family and have been to work. Both of these topics to be convered at length soon, because they're both doozies. I definitely smell another book, or at least some new material...

Bye for now.

*It should be noted that this was not my fault; google maps just left out a turn.

Repositioning my Brand

2009-06-25T14:54:00.001-07:00

In other words, I'm moving this weekend. Sorry, I've been reading the bizarre ramblings of Arthur Kade. This guy is crazy as all hell; he regards himself as a celebrity and a major actor, when he actually has appeared in nothing more than an extra in Gossip Girl. He reminds me of Emperor Norton of the San Francisco of the late 1800s, an odd spectacle that one cannot help but monitor out of morbid curiosity over what they'll do next.

Speaking of Northern California, I'm moving there this weekend. I'll be firing up the car on Saturday morning and trucking cross-country to the 49er state, where I'll begin a new job and resume an old one: cranking out new writings. My plan is to be in place by Monday and back online shortly thereafter.

This is an old school move: one man, one car, and a hell of a lot of fast food. My only stop will be in Boulder, where I'll spend the night at a friend's house, plus another night out in the desert if I need to crash. Yep, lean and mean, that's me.

Today is my last day at work. Sadly, I'm not quitting with the bang every employee dreams of, but at least I have somewhere to go, which can't be said for everyone in this economy. When I moved from Florida to Chicago, I commented on how depressing it is to move from one place to another. Like that move, it's not the place I will miss so much as the people I made friends with. One friend I've even fallen in love with and, since I've been asked a few times, yes, she will be coming with me. Eventually. Until then, I'm going to be on my own to roam the geologically unstable peninsula I will heretofore call home. I'm looking forward to the experience, especially writing about it.

Funny Story...

2009-06-22T13:16:00.000-07:00

On Saturdays in Chicago on days when m girlfriend works, one of the habits I've fallen into is run uptown to Susan's practice and get lunch with her. The clinic is in Edgewater, a kooky little neighborhood full of ethnic restaurants and slacker kids who go to Loyola. Case in point, the clinic is flanked by a number of Asian and Mexican restaurants, which I must pass behind through an alley to access the clinic's back door.

I arrive, sweaty and disheveled, and am taking a moment to make myself beautiful (OK, drier) before heading in. Suddenly, my grooming was interrupted by yelling voices. From the Taco place next door, a portly Hispanic woman bursts out and lumbers into the small parking lot. She is crying (rather overdramatically, I think). Following her is a rather petite Hispanic man, who is clearly attempting to reason with her. The woman, who I will call Ezzie, makes for one of those large, uncool motorcycles with the beige fiberglass paneling, and the man moves to intercept her. I know what a desperate man trying to apologize looks like when I see one.

Without warning, Ezzie turns from the motorcycl and turns her wrath on her pursuer. She starts swinging - really throwing some hard-looking slaps and punches - all the while screaming "Oh Kenny! How could you Kenny! Oh Kennnney.... You got dirty!" All the while she's beating this little guy down, who is severely outmatched from my vantage point.

While I don't know specifically what "you got dirty" means in this context, one assumes Kenny had been caught planting his seeds in another's pasture. The real travesty was that he was trying to reconcile with a woman who was trying to pound him when he apparently had someone in the wings to have sex with.

I was never able to share these thoughts with our tale's male protagonist. Either as a last-ditch romantic option or a tactic to preserve life and limb, Kenny launches himself under one of her ponderous swipes and hugs Ezzie, doggedly hanging on as she swats at him impotently. Fortunately, she seems to tire quickly, and stops swinging at him. Kenny is speaking rapidly to Ezzie, probably trying to spin a web of lies to get himself out of the jam he's "dirtied" himself in. I admire his spirit, and think he might be onto something with this "hold the angry woman" tactic. Ezzie has climbed onto her motorcycle and is about to turn it on when the situation suddenly destabilizes: she begins swinging on Kenny anew, who once again rushes in to hug her. Kenny then climbs on the back of the bike (The part called the "bitch seat," I note) and continues to cling to Ezzie, who is still crying and intermittently swatting at him. She starts the bike and almost wipes out twice before leaving the parking lot. As I watched Kenny cling to Ezzie, now more desperate than ever, I wondered if they would make it home alive - better to be punched by an angry woman than trust your life to her teary-eyed traffic skills. Then again, Kenny wasn't wearing a helmet for either event.

In the spirit of experimentation, I have attempted to apply the "extreme hugging" tactic to Susan: whenever she becomes irate with me, I now hug her and make soothing noises while petting her. Unlike Ezzie, Susan merely finds this creepy, but is generally put off enough by the display to settle down and forget about the original slight. As such, I give this move 3 out of 5 stars, mostly for the ballsiness of it all.

Noah out!

A Revelation About Gastric Bypass

2009-05-26T19:22:00.000-07:00

The above photo is from a 2007 Swedish study (Karlsson et al, 2007 in the International Journal of Obesity) done to evaluate the efficacy of bariatric surgery. The most interesting part of this study is that the study tracks patients over a 10-year period following their procedure, allowing researchers to ask whether people who lose weight are successful in keeping it off. I've shown you what I believe to be the most interesting figure from the whole paper, the one that tells you whether people lose weight or not.

Taking a look at the graph, the vertical axis tracks the percentage of body weight lost by the person undergoing bariatric surgery over the years (i.e., 30 means you've lost 30% of your body weight). The horizontal axis tracks this measure over time, for the ten years following the procedure.

The researchers divided the subjects into two groups, a high weight loss group (HWLs) and a low weight loss group (LWLs), corresponding to the best 25% and the worst 25% of those in the study. Let's look at the LWLs (the dotted line group) first. One year after bariatric surgery, those in this cohort had lost a total of 20% of their bodyweight. This is expected; it's difficult to keep weight on when you're 300+ pounds and your stomach is the size of an egg. From there, though, things rapidly become alarming: even with a surgically resected stomach, the LWLs steadily regain weight at about 2% per year. Over ten years, these people are only 2% thinner than they were before undergoing a dramatic weight-loss procedure. This means that a 300-pounder in the LWL group would weigh 294 10 years later. Is this worth being flayed open and having your internal organs rearranged?

The high weight loss group (HWLs, solid line) tells a slightly different story. These individuals lose a good bit more weight than their unsuccessful counterparts, approaching a loss of 30% of their bodyweight. From there, however, this group regains weight as well, albeit more slowly. After about six years, the weight gain in this group plateaus and then reverses itself, leaving individuals in this group with an average weight loss of 20-25%. For a 300-pounder, this leaves us with a person who weighs between 225 and 240 pounds. Certainly an improvement!

The big question all of this is aimed at answering is whether bariatric surgery works. The answer is... it depends. Clearly, weight-loss surgery isn't a fix by itself. At the same time, though, the surgery does appear to be a gateway to losing weight. In my opinion, bariatric surgery acts as a primer of sorts for you to retool your diet. If you suddenly have a stomach that's tiny, your eating habits must, by necessity, change dramatically. The patient is forced into a new and drastically different world of eating, shocking the system and providing a de facto window to create new habits. But this change is not permanent: after the initial period of weight loss resulting from physically being unable to load enough calories, the stomach can be re-stretched to its original dimensions and weight can be regained. Whether this happens is a function of the person making the decisions. Will you, the patient, make these changes permanent, or will you fall back into your old habits? Clearly, as witnessed by the two groups, the decision leads to two very different outcomes.

The bottom line here is that bariatric surgery is a procedure that thrusts an opportunity on you, nothing more. Without conspicuous action on the part of the individual, though, the procedure has now been shown to be a complete failure as a quick fix. To this end, I should mention that, after 10 years, almost 10% of people undergoing bariatric surgery actually weigh MORE than when they started.

Once again, a supposedly different path leads to the same old conclusion. Whether you are successful in weight loss doesn't depend on your stomach, it depends the three pounds of fat that sit between your ears.

Weight Loss in Animals and People

2009-05-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

One of the things that inspired me to take on writing my first book was an interesting observation in weight loss between pets and people that came up in a talk with a veterinarian. We were talking about going on diets when the vet in question made a passing remark about how all animals on diets lose weight. I found this to be a statement of questionable veracity. "Let's be clear," I said, "100% of the time when you put an animal on a diet, it's going to lose weight." "That's right," she said.

The only evidence I had to dispute her was in the form of analogy. I had just read a number of studies that suggested that only about 5% of people who went on diets had any success in losing weight and keeping it off. "Why do you think that is?" I asked the veterinarian.

The vet thought about it for a minute, then said something that I won't forget anytime son. "People don't lose weight because they know how to open the fridge. Animals don't." This got me thinking, could eating better and exercising, something we can literally impose on our pets, translate perfectly to humans in terms of weight loss? Up until that conversation, I had been under the impression there were some sort of vaguely-defined factors that could hold people back, things like having a slow metabolism, glandular disorders, or simply having bad genes. The knowledge that any old dog could lose weight under the right conditions forced me to think about what held 95% of people back and, specifically, why I weighed more than 340 pounds. Ultimately, the revelation that I was holding myself back was a catalyst in shedding 150+ pounds and creating the fat-to-fit story that is Ultra-Fat to Ultra-Fit.

While the details of this revelation are explored in more detail in the book, I wanted to follow up on the fat pet aspect of the equation, mainly to see how weight loss in pets affects the animal. To do this, I spoke with Susan Heatter, DVM who practices at VCA Misener-Holly in Chicago, IL. I asked Dr. Heatter what happens to pets that lose weight. Among the more notable observations:

- Animals do lose weight 100% of the time, provided they remain on a strict diet.

- Certain animals are very food-oriented, others, not so much. Food-oriented animals will whine constantly, and (in at least one or two cases) actually develop the ability to open the fridge.

- Animals who do lose weight are generally more mobile, energetic and (although this is difficult to measure) happier.

- In summary, the process is difficult for the pet, but generally succeeds under the right conditions and ultimately results in a happier and healthier pet.

Interestingly, pets who are overweight and/or fail to respond to their diet seem to have a common risk factor: a fat owner. Dr. Heatter mentioned that many owners of obese pets fail to disclose all the food they're feeding their pet until closely questioned. Usually, a fat animal's owners will admit to feeding their pet table scraps, additional treats, etc. She also mentions that fat owners are much more likely to see their pet's weight problem as being insignificant. On a related note, owners usually have unrealistic expectations of what constitutes a normal weight. Interestingly, Dr. Heatter also notes that confronting a pet's weight problem is often received with hostility, as though she is suggesting that the owner is fat AND irresponsible. This rush to perceive a personal judgment is very curious, suggesting a defensive mindset that might not be receptive to the idea of change.

If you don't see it already, allow me to emphasize that the behaviors taken by pet owners toward their pets are the same behaviors that, applied to themselves, conspire to keep the owner fat as well. If an owner is willing to enable his DOG, just imagine what he's willing to overlook and what limits they're willing to stretch when they're the one feeling the discomfort from a strict diet and exercise regimen.

Take a good look at your pets. If they're fat, take a look at why and how they got that way, and take a moment to think what you might learn about your situation from studying theirs.

NMW

Considering a Move

2009-04-29T19:46:00.000-07:00

Consider this an experiment of sorts. In order to move some of my webload to the ethers of the internet, I am seriously thinking about moving a good bit of my day-to-day blogging to blogspot. All the other content for my website would remain unaffected. The main advantages to this will be (a) I will be able to post while away from my computer, (b) technical issues relating to upload simplicity. On the other hand, using this site means losing a modicum of control and being forced to work within the parameters of this site. So I'm going to experiment with it and we'll see how things work out...

For right now, I think I owe my readers an explanation for why I'm not posting quite as often as usual. More accurately, I'm going to beg for a little more time; I am planning on making an announcement sometime next week that should explain why I've been so distracted lately. Fortunately, this announcement will not stop business from going back to business as usual after it's made. So it's all good.