Pork and the New Gentleman

At some point, I realized my weight was effecting my life.

There’s a huge denial cortex in the brain of every fat person.
“I’m healthy so it doesn’t matter”
“I’m happy now so it doesn’t matter”
“Who has time”

The list goes on and on. It’s bullshit.

Being fat sucks. Being a little fat sucks less than being a lot fat, but it still sucks.

It’s a literal, actual first world problem. It seems trivial but isn’t.

About a year ago and half ago, I realized that it was really, really something I wanted to change, and change for life.

I started slow, with learning, and with measurement of my current state with the best tools I had to hand.

A year later, I have lost and kept off 40 some pounds. Which still leaves me fat, by the standards of any reasonable person.

I am full of thought on this. Full. And it FOR SURE changes the main focuses of this blog. It challenges my work, my cards, my comedy, my writing. It will impact how much I get to enjoy things which, subconsciously, I have chosen as pursuits because they can be late life second careers…second careers aren’t much good if you’re fucking dead. Fact.

So this is, in part, going to become my space for that.

Cock a fuckin’ doodle doo

I woke up this morning feeling unusually good. No idea what has come over me, except the engine just turned over for the first time in a while.

I think it was Orion flying by. I think maybe the sound of it passing woke me up, on time, at the perfect spot in the REM cycle and shit just cranked.

I’ve been trying to hit on a perfect guided image for my daily attempts at meditation, couter-intuitive for my hard-cranking, fast churning monkey-house of a brain, and finally this morning, as I kept forcibly reminding myself, “Stop, don’t bring that stress here. Stop, only think  about one thing. Stop, don’t follow every squirrel, steer the damn ship,” it finally hit me. My image is chips in racks. My image is the decimated strip at 4am in the off-season. My image is water on the pavement as I blast from SLC to Vegas in four hours flat.

This images bring me stillness. Wholeness. I realize that, indeed, if 6 was fucking nine, I’d have your world, and you’d have mine.

The volume knobs on things turn in the right directions. My mind is suddenly still, mystic, initiatory.

I look out on this town and it’s like a fucking zen garden built in a garbage dump and I feel perfect and  I think, for the first time in a couple years,

“I’m a motherfucking card player, that’s who the fuck I am.”

Good times. Good times. Good times to come.