Rich

by G. Sax

The shortstop on my softball team has been in and out of a coma for weeks now after a severe head injury from a bicycle fall. He’s not a tall man but he hits the ball over fences. He’s not a loud man, but his actions have earned him a bundle of friends that care deeply about him. He’s not an American man, but us Americans are happy to claim him as our own. Rich is a fighter, and he needs all his strength to get through this. And if you believe in anything cosmic, he could use the positive energy of friends and strangers alike.

2008 Update: Rich came out of his coma and promptly moved to Canada, where he is from and where the healthcare system isn’t totally fucked up like it is here. He got excellent care, got his strength back, and promptly moved back to the Twin Cities. Aside from some hearing loss and mild memory loss, he is totally back. He is again on my softball team, fielding and hitting better than me and pretty much everyone else on the team.

Calorie Counting

G. Sax

The title of this entry should be sung to the tune of “Domino Dancing” by Pet Shop Boys.

I declared Independence Day on the 4th of July. Independence from a reliance on fatty foods, sugar fixes, salt licks, and a generalized pattern of overeating for the last 14 years.

The lament goes on for many of us… “I used to be something,” we say.

Oh, I was never an Adonis like my friends Paul and Laci, but Paul himself once said—in a typical homosexual lean—”you’re good looking in a unique sort of way.” And you know what? I’m not terrible to look at. Although…

My face is puffy, my chins are doubled up, my saddlebags could hold change for laundry, and my ass is all chumbawamba. I finally decided that that’s not working for me anymore.

I’m doing pretty good so far. Much better than my infamous Weight Journal of 2002 in which I documented my struggle to get below 200 pounds. I’m being more methodical in my efforts this time.

I’m focused on exercise and diet more than I’ve been in several years. I’m actually monitoring what I eat rather than just guessing at it. Progress is good and (for once) healthy. My weight fluctuations are natural but always encouragingly in the right direction, and I’m not cheating (too much) on calories or exercise routine.

The new regimen is time-consuming but invigorating. Time will tell if I can stick it out. I feel as though I have to this time. I deserve liberty from chumbawamba.

Man of Action I

by G. Sax

No More Food After Dark, More Water, Steady Exercise…
I want my bikini body back. The one I left behind at 21. I’ve been plumping around now for the better part of a lifetime—except for a few stressful months of leaning down during 2005. But last year, I pudged up again with happiness and glow. This glow eventually degraded into glowering over too much beer, Doritos, cheese, and more cheese.

I’ve learned to lay off some things. I don’t eat nearly as many chips and cookies as I used to. Same with the soda pop (mostly) under the tutelage of CarlyGirl who thinks the stuff is akin to battery acid.

But I cheat. On busy work days, I’ll suck down a Mountain Dew and a Nestle Crunch in lieu of a real lunch. How long have I been doing that shit? Like 22 years? You’d think I’d get the picture when the flabby abbys started rolling over on themselves. I look like a potato in all my clothes now, whether tucked or loose. I look swollen. I have man boobs.

There is a photo of me I’m fond of because I’m all sweaty and pissed off. Pissed off at fat. If Ross the Intern can get skinny, then so can Greg the Eater. I’ll have to cut back on my beloved evening friend, Beer. I’ll have to get some new running shoes. I’ll have to be more disciplined. None of these things are bad things. Staying up past 2 a.m. to rant like this…kind of a bad thing.

Posture

by G. Sax

Hump…Back…Get It?
I may be getting a hump. At least Carly says there’s a humpy angle at the base of my back neck. I’ve always been angled odd. If you look at me close enough or at straight-on photos of me, I lean left.

Let’s call it a permanent pimp lean rather than what it really is—an underdeveloped newspaper boy carrying too many Sunday papers over one shoulder for too damn long.

I’ve been waking with neck and back pain of late. I don’t sit right, which isn’t good because I sit at a computer all day. If you ever come to this spot for a G. update or a laugh and you have seen very little on either front of late, it’s because I’m pretty sick of sitting at a computer by the time I get around to playing with whaletime.net.

My current job doesn’t call for as much getting up out of the chair. At least one of my shit tasks at the last job involved pretty constant trips to the printer and all the things associated with printer operation. I was miserable doing it, but at least I was moving.

I’m also an excuse maker from way back, so take this entire entry with a shaker of salt. I have a sack full of excuses to explain my lack of writerliness…

I work too much. This would be a great excuse if I really needed to put in the hours that I do. With a few tweaks of some time-eating tasks, I could open up more time for the tipple-taps that make for a worthwhile “Key of G.” column.

I have a life. This one’s true, thank goodness. But being a writer-dude is kind of a big part of my life, so this excuse gets a big WTF.

My computer is slow. True again, but it’s not that slow. Another hole in this argument is the fact that I own a wireless-ready laptop. I can write from anywhere! I don’t even need to be sitting and increasing the size of my hump. I could stand like a cool guy at the Chipotle window bar or at a Panera Bread or a Starbucks or a Caribou Coffee or wherever dudes who wear ties and real leather shoes and have real leather daily planners stand with their earphones and Blackberry jams. But…

I’m fat and lazy. I almost started my old “Weight Journal” again to try to shame the pounds off like I did back in 2002. But then I remembered that it didn’t work before. I actually gained 5 more pounds on the Shame Diet.

So this brings me to what I know is the truth of all truths, damn the excuses…

I’m into procrastination. Oh, if only it weren’t true. I procrastinate so much that it’s crazy, really. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m a pretty smart and capable guy when I put my mindgrapes to it. I can take charge when I need to, but the problem is I don’t seem to go for it until I’m in a time crunch or the problem has reached a level that requires a fire extinguisher (quite literally, in one famous case).

I have a lot of interests, which is part of the problem. I fancy myself a Renaissance Man, but please. A man shouldn’t have so many interests that he is unable to have a true impact on the world because of his lack of action beyond the dabble of “interest.” I stretch myself thin rather than focusing on one or two career endeavors, hobbies, or life tasks.

At work, it’s not enough to be a good writer/editor type. No, I’m not satisfied until I also learn page layout, photo editing, mapmaking, font design, color processing, database management, website development, public presentation, and so forth.

At home, I partake in far too many stupid TV programs; I like to get out of the house and explore; I follow most of the major professional sports and attend several sporting events during the year; I play sports; I join social clubs; I read as much as possible; and I recently went through a serious jigsaw puzzling addiction. Closer to the bone, it’s not enough that I “blog” like millions of others with some degree of webbish know-how, but I have to write a “column” and I have to build an online pseudo-magazine where writerly friends can express themselves, too.

That’s just the surface of my spaz. Throw in the chores (including an obsession with clean dishes), the fantasy football (which has become an all-year “lifestyle choice”), the driving to and fro (so many freeways in the Twin Cities), and I’m too thin for the number of friends I like to keep, the kind of father I want to be, and the sort of loving partner I hope earns me a lifetime of joy.

But, see, I’m not thin. Just thin on time, and there’s only one logical reason for that, given that I’m not any busier than you are. I suck at time management. I think I was good at it once, but that’s a delusion. I delivered newspapers late when I was a paperboy. I was late for high school and college classes all the time. I rarely see the first pitch at a baseball game. I consistently find jobs that allow me to show up later in the day. I’m late on website updates. I’m late for dinner.

I’ll point to my last column entry about strengths and weaknesses—the one that was up for far too long because I was procrastinating on this new entry—as my first serious realization that I have to approach my weaknesses differently. It’s not so much that I need to fix what makes me weak, it’s that I need to focus on my strengths.

Everything that is negative in my above statements can be manipulated to read more positively. I have a full and enriching life with many interests and wonderful people in it. I have smarts, my health, and a few less luxury items than the others but luxury items all the same. I have learned to make time for a variety of endeavors, now maybe I could stand to learn how to harness time with better quantitative and qualitative results. Whoa; that’s deep, yo.

And with that, I point to this column as my first step toward better time management. So if you’ll excuse me, it’s nearly 11:00 a.m. and I have to get to my 9-to-5 job. Okay, I clearly have a ways to go, but I promise to sit up straight today.

Small Things

by G. Sax

“Breathe fresh air if you can but do not forget the small things. They go to make up the large life.” — Elaine Lewis

I agree with all my being. I say add up the small pieces to create a wonderful whole. Just this eve, as I was driving toward my tiny apartment in Novato, I stared in wonder at the fog being sliced so beautifully at the peak of Mt. Tamalpais. I rarely tire of such things.

I went jogging tonight. As I stretched in a neighborhood park, I watched little kids of five and six years old practicing soccer. It was so unbelievably amazing. If you have children, you already know. The grin stretched, uncontrollably.

At the halfway point of my run, I ended up at an empty but lush soccer field at the College of Marin (Indian Valley Campus) tucked between gorgeous, rolling hills forming a little valley that seemed built specifically for me to enjoy a moment of solitude.

I hope to never forget the small things, even as the larger things tighten the muscles around a man’s shoulders, and even as things beyond his control cause disaster both natural and man-made.

Much love.

Sumtime Role

by G. Sax

The first half of summer was about preparations for big changes; i.e., stressssss. I’m going to have a permanent scar on my left eyelid because of a sty I worked through (twice). Other bits and pieces of me showed signs of wear throughout the ordeals, and even now I’m battling some strange pain in my elbow that I would swear is tennis elbow if I had played tennis more than once this year.

But no matter what hits a man in the guts and nuts, if he’s still breathing he should be capable of leaning forward into a brighter future.

Not everyone agrees. Take your medicine, they say. Hell, I often agree in action. I’m a soft-bellied realist-slash-pessimist-slash-fatalist more often than I would like to admit. But I catch my Blue Nile “High” moments and I linger over them with the fuzzy slipper kind of fuzzy. I feel warm or content or excited or goosebumped, and I think, damn, why can’t I always feel like this? Why can’t everyone always feel like this? It’s so gorgeous.

Isn’t it what we all really want deep down? Pleasure … Joy … Happiness … Ours. Earned. Felt. In the fingertips. Forcing our eyes closed. The essence of blues and jazz and soul and rock and hip-hop. Brushing across your skin without a breeze. Athletic achievement. The dunk, the touchdown, the home run, the goal, the finish line. Shouting aloud for everything ever done up to that point.

Whatever gets us there, we should get there. Or at least we should try to get there without stepping on others with metal-cleated golf shoes. Compete, no doubt. You’d better. But like Echo said, “Do it Clean.”

So I admit to enjoying myself sometimes though the world is as unsafe as I’ve ever seen it and my world is as storytold as ever it will be.

I admit that I like attending baseball games. I like frisbee golfing. I like random trips to third-tier towns. I like exploration. I like to read. I like to taste new wines. I like finding the free or end-around way to do things. I like making people laugh. I like a good day’s work. I like to jog. I like to hike. I like to think about the past. I like to be in the present. I like to wonder about the future. I’m not so unlike you and you and you.

Am I?