As I sit here watching a movie, I can't help but wonder if I'm the only one who thinks that The Incredible Hulk was secretly created by a cartoonist with anger management problems and a penchant for domestic violence? I mean, the dude always lets the little things spiral out of control to the point of complete and utter insanity, a bunch of people get hurt that we are led to believe "had it coming," and then he acts all tearfully apologetic in the aftermath, vowing that this monster will never be unleashed again. Say what you will Hulk, but I think the only thing possessing you was a fifth of Jim Beam and some severely repressed Mommy issues. The fact that this wife-beating persona has been glorified to the point of eliciting hero worship is simply a testament to the might of the pencil. Give it another couple hundred of years and we'll probably even throw down a national holiday for this giant asshole like we did for Columbus.

On a related note, Edward Norton -- we're still cool. Although I do hold you somewhat responsible for the time I wasted on Kingdom of Heaven.

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Unsurprisingly, almost everyone who weighed in on my last post was in favor of me using the threat of self-inflicted pain and degradation as a motivational tool for getting into better shape. I guess it's just as much my fault as anyone else's, since my humiliation for the benefit of others is kind of a recurring theme around here. Although technically this humiliation, or the lingering danger of it to be exact, will actually be for my own personal benefit for once.

But before we concern ourselves too much with what horrid fate potentially awaits me, let's not forget that the terms of the deal are not to be taken lightly. I can't simply hinge the entirety of this on feeling a little healthier, or that I have to lose this many pounds by such-and-such date. There are metrics to follow, tracking mechanisms that must be put into place, and a host of impartial judges to recruit, right?

Yeah.... no. Fuck all that stuff too. Regarding what must be accomplished to spare the Internet from housing even more of my shame, I've decided to keep it pretty straightforward. In a little over 4 months from now, I will participate in (and complete) the 2009 Winter Pineapple Classic. If you're too lazy to click that link, the Pineapple Classic is essentially a combination 5-K foot race/obstacle course.

Now you might be thinking to yourself "5-K? BFD. I do more than that on my daily morning run." While that might be a valid point, so is fuck you. I'm not a runner. I sort of tried to be one once, but quickly fell back into the age-old trap of eating several bacon and mayonnaise sandwiches before crying myself to sleep each night. Going from desk jockey to guy who survives the Pineapple Classic isn't going to be easy, so there's a very real chance here that I could vag out on the whole thing. Which is where the humiliation part comes in. What will I be doing as a penance if come November 14th I don't finish the race (or worse, don't even start)?

No seriously, I was asking you guys.

What exactly are the appropriate reparations for this kind of thing? There are a few ideas left in this post, although I'm not sure that's thinking big enough. When I came up with those, I knew I was going to have to do one of them. This situation is different, in that I want the potential humiliation to suck so hard that it drives me out of bed each morning to exercise because the thought of following through on it is completely heinous. However, it can't suck too hard, or else I'll just delete this blog and/or fake my own death to get out of doing it. Dammit. I haven't even worked out yet and I'm already tired.

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Since the majority of my followers are corporate drones and probably not going to read this -- what with today being a Bon Jovi Friday and all -- I think I'm just going to give you the broad strokes. Plus this pseudo list-style blogging format is one of my favorites, as it effectively absolves me from having to be coherent. On with the stroking!*

~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~

In case you missed me spreading the word via Twitter or Facebook, this little blogging establishment of mine was recently placed under a microscope by the brutal team over at Ask and Ye Shall Receive. True to form, they managed to acknowledge my awesomeness while simultaneously making me wish my blog was a person so I could kick it in the balls. However, I've always been pretty good at taking criticism, so expect to see some changes around here over the next few weeks, specifically ones related to my out of control sidebar.

~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~

I've been feeling like I need a well-defined goal in my renewed quest of getting healthy; something above and beyond tracking weight and body composition metrics. Do you think it's better serves my motivation to a) set my sights high on something challenging and participatory, such as a competition of some sort, or b) agree to an overly-elaborate bet that rewards me for my achievement and humiliates me for my failures?

~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to the socioeconomic melting pot known as public transportation, I am now able to cross the following items off my scavenger hunt-esque list of things to see in person before I die:

• A man missing half his lower jaw down an entire bottle of Clamato like he had just finished a God damn triathlon.
• A pregnant woman wearing a Jagermeister wife beater.
• A teenager sobbing into his bejeweled iPhone. Yes, I said his.

~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~

On a final note, after the wildly popular guest post I featured in April, I've decided that there's no good reason to thwart others from gracing my domain on occasion. Which means that going forward, I'm shooting for 1 or 2 guest posts a month. It should be lots of fun, as I've "met" tons of entertaining people throughout many years of blogging. Now all I have to do is convince them to take a couple of minutes to pen the good stuff for you guys. On that note, should the thought of having your work featured on these pages create any noticeable activity in your pants, then guest posting might be right for you. Simply answer the following three questions:

1. Can you write/draw/photograph/create something original?
2. Does it not suck?
3. Do you understand that guest posting for me does not mean I will do the same for you?

If you answered an emphatic "YES!" to all three, congratulations! Now send me an email. If you answered "YES!" to questions 1 & 2, and "WHAT A COCKSHINER!" to number 3, congratulations are still in order, because as with so many others things in life (insurance, mutual consent, etc.), question 3 isn't always needed.

*you're a filthy-minded bastard

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Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything starts unraveling at the seams, requiring considerable effort to keep it from splitting all the way open and spilling forth the contents of your life onto the 100mph freeway of existence, where the bulk of it would surely become nothing but another (albeit allegorical) oily stain?

OK, so maybe I'm being a tad melodramatic regarding to my troubles as of late. However, were such a thing allowed, I would have already typed up my official resignation from adulthood and be carrying it around in my pocket, waiting for the perfect moment to leave behind all the accountability and responsibility that comes with being a grown up. After which I'd go jump on a trampoline and eat Oreos all day until I puked.

Perhaps the worst part of such a crappy week is in attempting to decipher the lessons, if any, that lie within it. Or maybe the worst part is actually when you're trying to feel sorry for yourself and notable celebrities start dying left and right. This perks you up a little at the notion that the universe would kill off Michael Jackson for the sole purpose of issuing you some much-needed perspective. Even if the universe neglected to realize that -- while you appreciate his contributions to the betterment of music -- the Michael Jackson you knew and loved died some 20 years ago. But the universe is a son of a whore, and will retaliate by taking legendary pitch- and beardsman Billy Mays to ensure you've properly learned your lesson. While admittedly effective in driving home the trivial nature of our problems when measured against a larger scale, I've nonetheless decided to stand by my original assessment of the universe's mother.

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Join me in a game of make believe. I do it quite frequently, and trust me that it's good food for the brain. Although you should also trust when I say it's not ideal when it comes to being a safe driver or productive employee.

In the scenario put before you today, the world has effectively come to an end. Through whatever measure of luck, you are surrounded by exactly the people you'd want by your side for the daunting task of rebuilding civilization. Assume that at the stroke of the apocalypse your life is completely absent of any family or friends; pesky personal attachments shouldn't interfere with the assembling of your dream team.

Who would you want with you? I drifted off in thought about this the other night while setting off some fireworks (note: also probably not the best time to be playing make-believe), and I found the answer in the same place I go for life's other tough questions -- The Discovery Channel. Time for roll call.

Bear Grylls - There should be no surprises here. Seriously, can you think of anyone better suited to safely guide the remainder of our species through what will likely be extremely perilous conditions? Odds are that if society was crippled under the force of some cataclysmic disaster, all major cities will be rife with fires, noxious chemicals, and potentially radiation. This mean we'll have to flee to the country, which is this man's playground. Whether he's building a rudimentary shelter lined with animal droppings for warmth, or scavenging a maggoty snack from the week-old carcass of an elk, feel secure in knowing that you have the best possible chance of survival with this guy on your side.

Jamie Hyneman & Adam Savage - Eating fish entrails is fine and dandy, however, in the long haul you're going to want to up your quality of life factor considerably. That's where this duo comes in. It's true, science can be a bitter pill for some to swallow, but eventually you're going to need something that hasn't been looted from the ruins of Home Depot. These guys are skilled engineers, machinists, and all around wise asses on things of a physical nature. A bonus to having them around is that Adam is about the only person on my crew that I could actually beat up, so I may not have to be the first one eaten.

Mike Rowe - While Mike doesn't really have any unique skills to bring to the table (not that I do either, but this is my delusion daydream), we're going to need a strong back and a high threshold for pain if we want to get any real work done. After all, it could easily take a decade or two before the army of slave apes is fully trained. Mike is also a well spoken and learned man, which will be necessary if I want to have at least one decent blog to link to (Jamie and Adam aren't exactly big on proper grammar usage).

Richard "Mack" Machowicz - It's a frighteningly real possibility that on top of everything else we'll have made it through, the aftermath could hold even worse things for us. Zombies, vampires, aliens, and other assorted unfriendlies could very well be lurking behind the giant hush that has fallen over humanity. Not a problem, so long as you've brought along an ex-Navy SEAL who also happens to be an expert in tactical weapons use and Bukido. Once he's rained down fire and arm bars upon the enemy forces, Bear will field dress the victims so that Mike can cook up their flesh on the 25,000 BTU grill that Jamie and Adam improvised. Now that's survival of the fittest.

Oh, and for all of you who are thinking that post-armageddon Discovery Channel-themed existence is a major sausage fest, worry not, because Kari Byron will be there to help re-populate the planet.

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Last week got off to a pretty rough start, but was otherwise really good. Whether that has any correlation with me also having a guilt- and blog-free week is hardly worth consideration. How about we just say that after 30 days of assaulting you with pink tacos and me sounding/looking like a woman, everyone needed a break. That and the ten days of inactivity were necessary to get me off the first page of Google results for "Bigfoot in drag."

Over the weekend I was fortunate enough to spend some time with an old friend of mine. One of those special kind of old friends that -- even though your paths only cross annually -- little changes in your dynamic. The conversations are the same as they were when you lived together over a decade ago, laughs remain shared, and you are yet again reminded of their seemingly unnatural ability when it comes to coercing an excessive amount of controlled substances into you.

Is it me or did I just make my old friend sound sort of like a gay frat boy date rapist? Whatever you're thinking right now, rest assured that only two of those three things accurately describe him.

As is inevitable when hanging out with someone you've known so well for so long, stories come up, tales are told. One in particular that always seems to resurface between us, however, isn't even about the two of us. Rather it was a somewhat sordid happening that involved me and his brother, who we'll call Paul because, well, that's his name. It all went down at a little restaurant in Portland's Chinatown call The Golden Dragon, where the portion sizes are in wonderful contrast to the modest prices.

It's late in the evening, JAY and PAUL are sitting at a large table in the middle of a cluster of fully-occupied large tables, apparently management's way of consolidating service towards the end of the night. Even though the other tables are all filled with parties of 5 or 6, JAY and PAUL's table has quite obviously gone through as much food as everyone else. They are growing boys after all.

JAY: So. Full... It's not even the funny kind of pain anymore.

PAUL: No. We must finish.

JAY: (nodding in agreement) We have indeed come too far to turn back.

Over the next 10 minutes, they both finish in silence. There's now no mistaking the pained look on their faces as any form of enjoyment whatsoever. Between labored breaths, JAY manages to call for the check. He pays and leaves a cash tip on top of the ticket.

JAY: We outta here?

PAUL: Hang on a sec.

PAUL, in a very matter-of-fact manner, makes his hand into a fist and places it over his mouth as if to cough. Instead, he leans forward and through said hand, unleashes hell in a raging torrent of sick all over the table. You know how a clown will pull that never-ending handkerchief from his hand and we're supposed to believe it somehow emanated from inside of him? Yeah, it was a lot like that.

JAY: (halfway through PAUL's display) Dear God man.

JAY and PAUL are treated to the sound of forks hitting tables all around them, a tinkling stereophonic indicator of the restaurant's collective disgust.

PAUL: (finally done) blrglefrumba... ugh... too much...

JAY: Are you okay?

PAUL: Not even close.

JAY: You hit the bathroom; I'll grab your shit and meet you out front.

At this point, a young woman has been promptly dispatched to deal with the mess that has covered literally everything on the table. The floral arrangement, sugar packets, salt & pepper shakers, soy sauce, and so on. She tries to wipe the mess from the table into her bus bin as expeditiously as possible, all the while retching into it herself. JAY watches this for a few seconds before reaching into PAUL's jacket, removing the last $20 from his billfold, and handing it over to the young busgirl along with the money he had previously laid down for the server's tip. He reasons that a few polite words would have been of even less help to the situation.

JAY is waiting outside for PAUL, who at last emerges from the restaurant.

JAY: That was horrible. You scarred the busgirl for life.

PAUL: I guess everybody has their breaking point.

JAY: Seriously, I've never seen someone get sick in such outstanding volume.

PAUL: Maybe it was food poisoning?

JAY: Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Shamu throw up at Sea World? You beat that. Handily.

PAUL: Not to mention all the bonus trauma I just inflicted on the children in there.

JAY: And we mustn't forget the busgirl who will no longer be able to enjoy her native cuisine after seeing what it looks like spilled from the gut of an old man.

PAUL: Too bad I won't have the chance to apologize, since I can clearly never step foot in there again.

JAY: Clearly.

JAY and PAUL proceed up the street to Voodoo Doughnut, as PAUL is hungry all over again, and JAY ends up having to pay because something mysterious happened to PAUL's last $20.

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One of the drawbacks to being a writer and office monkey is that it becomes fairly easy to assign a lower value to one's personal health without even realizing it. The slow boil of lunch meetings, community donuts, and having your ass firmly planted in a chair all day will eventually reduce you to a big flabby stew if things are allowed to fall out of your control.

I'm speaking from experience on this one.

Right now I weigh in at around 245 lbs. At 6'7" tall that's not too bad, but would only be awesome were my body fat hovering somewhere closer to 10%. Now don't misunderstand these general concerns as a desire to be some vein-popping fitness nut. While I'm sure that very few of us would mind being shredded in all the right places, I have my doubts that the majority obsess over it, myself included. In fact, my relationship with health and fitness has always been a road full of ups and downs. I'll push hard, get in shape, eat right, and then all of a sudden it's as if I took some magic pill that jettisons me from the healthy train. I'm sure it's no coincidence that said magic pill looks an awful lot like an Oreo.

I believe that each time I've taken this ride has not only given me greater insight into my own shortcomings, but also the ability to foresee when the next of these cycles will be crossing the horizon. This is rather silly if you think about it, as in a perfect world I'd be able to settle into a happy middle ground of unforced diet and exercise, with the occasional deep-fried triple heart attack burger thrown in there for good measure. That doesn't seem like too much to ask of myself.

The reason I bring any of this up is because over the past week I've felt the initial twinges of that oh-so-familiar burgeoning desire to feel healthier, and I'm thinking that maybe I should try to have a more structured approach this time around. You know, a system that might just set me up for long term success. Lifestyle design and what have you. My previous attempts at implementing any kind of system were handled very loosely, as in I only followed a handful of the tenets from various plans. Perhaps stricter adherence is in order.

This train of thought leads us to an obvious question: what plan? Should I design my own that's rooted in common sense, or seek out a designer plan that requires little to no sense at all? It's not like there isn't an insane amount of options available. Anyone who has spent even a small amount of time online is likely familiar with the more pathetic examples out there, if for no other reason because these poor marketing attempts have been highlighted by such places as FAIL Blog:



Another one I feel like I've been seeing a lot lately is for the Gabriel Method. I'm not sure if the guy in the ad is Gabriel or not, and while I applaud his radical transformation, I can't help but wonder if I'm the only one who thinks he's kind of creepy looking:


He's undoubtedly cut, it's just that he looks so... pointy in places, and doesn't appear to be comfortable in his own skin. But what the hell do I know? Dude has a six pack and is flush with fancy internet advertising money.

It's safe to say that the above three options have been removed from the table. For now I'll keep looking for something that better fits my style (have yet to discover a bacon-based diet), and would love to hear what you guys have to say on the subject. Take note, however, that the first one of you that tries to be witty by quoting Michael Pollan at me is going to get a lifetime subscription to Gabriel's newsletter.

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Believe it or not, but back in the day I was surprisingly successful with the fairer sex. Despite lacking the generally requisite chiseled features and/or inflated bank account, for a short period of time I managed to notch my belt with ease before ultimately tricking persuading a great woman into a serious relationship. While I'd love to take all the credit for my consummate cocksmithing, there's a special someone who deserves a much bigger nod than myself. His name is Angel, and he was undoubtedly the world's best wingman ever.

Although charismatic, attractive, and ethnic, it was none of these traits that made him the Bucky to my Captain America. Unparalleled as an all-around decent human being, his biggest weakness became my greatest strength. For you see, Angel was blind, having been that way since birth. Our paths happen to cross in the most serendipitous of ways. In a time when I was just beginning to explore advanced techniques for attracting girls, his useful situation practically fell into my lap.

I was on my lunch break from the firm I temped at in downtown Portland, weaving my way through the multitude of crosswalks and high traffic streets, when all of a sudden I spotted her. A red-haired vixen within shouting distance, diagonally across the intersection from where I was standing. Deciding to go for it, I attempted to catch her attention with a loud "Hey!" only to have it muted by a large cement mixer truck that barreled around the corner and right in front of me. To my disappointment, she was now out of range and would be unable to hear the "Wanna go halves on a bastard!?" I had planned on following it up with.

Then someone had a death grip on my forearm. Turning to face what I had assumed would be a belligerent bum, I started to channel Steven Segal in anticipation of having to spare some pavement for their face. Instead I came around to a ghost white Mexican wearing sunglasses -- on a dark October day. "Holy shit man," he said, "Thank you." Apparently he mistook my mating call as a cry of warning, which in fact saved him from being turned into a quesadilla by the cement truck's high speed illegal left turn. Who was I to steal his sense of gratitude, especially at such detriment to my own personal glory? Besides, he was adamant about buying me a few beers that evening, and I had no intention of relinquishing my penis by forsaking the opportunity.

Later that evening, after we had a few pitchers on his tab and I smoked him in 5 consecutive games of foosball, we retired to a seat at the bar. As the alcohol began to overtake his higher brain functions, he regaled those nearby with a tale of my heroics from earlier that day. Somehow it came out as if I had physically thrown my body on top of his in a spontaneous act of courage. I decided to let Angel have his moment -- he had earned it.

What I never expected was the windfall of being looked upon as an utterly selfless individual. People buy you drinks, give you the "pat on the back with sincere shoulder squeeze" move, and women seem less -- if not at all affected -- by an overworked looking guy with a no respect temp job that pays mostly in self deprecation. Very soon I not only settled into this role, I built upon the very foundation of what made Angel the wingman of my dreams.

The Ice Breaker. Like it mattered. I could always approach a group of women with Angel next to me, asking them to confirm to him how good he looks, as I myself obviously had no fashion sense and could not be trusted. A blind guy is about the least threatening suitor for any woman, as appearance is completely removed from the equation. The fact that he came with a semi-funny and cute "in a geeky kind of way" friend who had rescued him and his six kittens from a burning building was nothing to blink at either.

The Drinks. Angel was independently wealthy, thanks mostly to a few "better living" patents he held. Between his deep pockets and inability to read a receipt, only on rare occasions did I actually pay for anything.

The Moves. Having never seen someone dance, out on the floor Angel came off much like Elaine from Seinfeld. Standing next to that, my 6'7" ass might as well have been Gene Kelly. And if things ever got too talented, I'd just tell him that some guy was checking him out and that we should go sit back down.

The Big Fat Friends. Likely the most important duty for any wingman is to keep occupied the ever oppressive, usually repulsive, cock blocking mother hen who lives and dies by the mantra "We came together and we are leaving together." Most packs of guys will have a rotating assignment, or even resort to groveling just to have a buddy fall on that grenade. Angel didn't care. His only requirement was that she not smell like tequila, because according to him, only whores drink that stuff.

Sadly, as time moved on, so did Angel. A little over a year after I accidentally saved his life, Angel was married to a beast of a woman named Sophia. Probably the most ironic thing is that they were set up by friends -- you guessed it -- on a blind date. But my time with him availed me to more than just a lot of fun; having that level of exposure with women helped me to understand them better, learn to carry a greater respect for them, and even understand why my infamous line of "I must be huntin' treasure, 'cause I'm diggin' yer chest!" isn't really as awesome as I thought it was.

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Originally I had hoped to finish out the month by selecting another movie I had no hope of liking, because really what chance would it stand of ruining me after everything else I've been through over the last 30 days? So I found two that were particularly awful -- Crossroads and Kate & Leopold -- but was unable to watch either due to some unexpected technical difficulties. I can't imagine why the unseen hand of fate would bother stepping in this late in the game to try and rescue me from the end note to this symphony of pain. Although I suppose it's possible that the vaginazation process has simply rendered me incapable of operating home electronics. After I finish this post I'm going to try to open some pickle jars and play Halo 3 so I can see just how far away from the essence of manhood I've slipped.

After failing to scrape a particularly stinky one off the bottom of film history, I poured over our DVD collection in hopes of finding a previously unseen chick flick worthy of the final day. Then I got tired of looking and settled on In Her Shoes, a sister/sister dramedy starring Cameron Diaz and the mom from The Sixth Sense. Compared to a Britney Spears or Meg Ryan movie, watching 90 minutes of a half-naked Cameron Diaz feeling sorry for herself was a walk in the park.

The premise wasn't really anything I could sink my teeth into, because even though my brother and I are close like the sisters in this film, we've managed to not turn into a couple of insecure crazies in spite of our collective Mommy issues. I will say that the performance from Diaz caught me off guard; her portrayal of a functionally illiterate alcoholic whore was shockingly dead-on, almost as if she had been preparing for it her entire life.

While this film didn't hit all the marks of your average chick flick, the signs were still there. Women fought over men, broke through long-held misconceptions, altered the course of their cliched, misdirected lives. 4 pink tacos; minus one due to a lack of random singing/dancing and the obligatory gay friend comic relief.




Looking back at the beginning of this month long chick flick challenge, I recall thinking that by the end of it I'd not only have some great insights to offer regarding the mass appeal of the genre, but have made great strides in understanding the female dynamic with cinema. Which is total bullshit. I did learn many things, but nothing of real value. No labored rhetoric could better sum up this month than these two words: never again. Never again will I watch a movie about niche female sports. Never again will I watch a movie about a guy or a girl that dates someone under false pretense and then falls in love with them for real only to have the truth exposed at the most inopportune of times. Never again will I watch a movie with Jennifer Lopez in it.

I do hope that on some level, others were able to enjoy what I put myself through. Hopefully not as much as my "normal" posting, because that's what I'll be back with starting on Wednesday. The next two days will be a much needed break from blogging, a break that I'll use to run up into the forest, wrap my naked self in a cocoon of mud and animal detritus, then engage in mortal combat with whatever creatures are foolish enough to cross my path. Squirrels and birds most likely, but as it is with both chick flicks and the game of survival, a victory is a victory no matter how small.

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Last week it was promised that I would do something embarrassing in exchange for having a one day reprieve from chick flick hell. To make sure things stayed fair, I allowed my blog readers to decide which form of embarrassment would befall me via a poll on the side bar. And decide you bastards did. The landslide victor was "Have Christie give me a makeover, then post the resulting glamour shot as my Facebook profile picture for one full week."

As promised, earlier this evening Christie set to work on me. I didn't document much of the process, although there was one part in particular that managed to surpass even the torture of having Christie "shape" my eyebrows and begged to be photographed. I'm not sure what you call this particular implement of torture, but I plan on burying it in the backyard next time Christie isn't looking.


If you assume that some kind of lengthy photo session took place after I was all dolled up, well, you'd be absolutely right. However, there's no way in hell more than one of those pictures is making it onto this blog or Facebook, so you had better fucking enjoy it.


It would seem that between my excessive exposure to chick flicks and makeup, my transformation into a woman is near complete. I hereby give myself 5 pink tacos.

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