Sunday, June 11, 2006

Working It Out

I had a good workout tonight. About two weeks ago I rededicated myself to strength training with the goal of building up my legs dramatically, and eventually my arms as well. Since then, my strength has increased about twenty percent. That is not unexpected. As I reacquaint my body with working out, I should see a swift return to where I was when I stopped working out in November of last year.

I screwed up my right knee (again) when I tried getting into running shape. I got myself up to about five miles a day and then the tendinitis of old came back, and that was it. I solicited opinions from doctors and friends and the consensus was that I needed to build up the muscles in my legs, especially the quads, before I tried any more running.

So here it is, late July, and I am only two weeks into what I should have started months ago. I feel good that I finally seem to have got back to working out, so I am going to try not to kick myself around over my laziness. I really kicked my ass tonight at the gym, so that is where I shall focus my self-loathing, into pushing myself in a way I have not done before. When I was certain I could not possibly make my legs move the weight, I bore down and did it in spite of my misgivings.

The iPod helps me focus. I can’t hear the noises I might be making because of the music in my headphones, so I can really lay into the workout.

I need to write more than I have been lately. It seemed I was starting to heat up again, but then I stop cold for a week plus. I lack discipline. (Wow, there’s a shocking revelation.)

I may be getting a tattoo soon. I have long wanted one. I think it will be a rose. The tattoo would be my way of marking myself as Rosie’s man.


I have noticed a signficant shift in my voice lately, that is, the voice with which I write. I don't feel overly aware of The Reader. Instead, I feel as if I am writing to myself. I hear more clearly what I've written because I am the intended audience.

While this may make for boring reading, it's important that I receive what I am sending.

That makes sense, I hope.


Another good workout. I did laundry earlier.

Woo hoo.

Look at me.

I am being productive.


It cracks me up when I see the different search terms that bring search engine users to my blog.
The latest priceless gems:

coat sex
little april sex
sex in she
sex with dog
polish boy penis
and my personal favorite...

how to make my wife have more sex with me
Pal, if you have to go to the internet to get the answer to that question, that may be the answer right there. Turn off the computer and talk to her.

Just Do It

Incrementally, things are turning around.

Stop right there...

I cannot begin with the word “incrementally.” Pedant!

Coffee. Coffee is a good way to begin.

Hmmm, coffee. This, then, is how the piece begins...

I have been vegetarian for a little over five months now, and while I seem to be perfectly healthy, I still need to make some adjustments to my eating habits. Firstly, I need to eat regularly. I have a bad habit of letting meals go by. I try to eat some sort of breakfast, but it usually ends up being the famous deli standby, Two Eggs on a Roll. I used to get Two Eggs and Cheese on a Roll, but the cheese they use has rennet, and I am doing my best to avoid foods prepared with the slaughtered remains of animals.

The vegetarian kick started when my sweetheart, Rosie, posted an anti-meat blog with links to various sites. One of those sites has pictures of animals in various states of savage treatment at the hands of human slaughterers, and that did the trick for me. I had been in denial about what exactly I was enjoying when I had my bacon, and as someone who professes to love pigs (ones that are alive) because they are smart and cute and the genetic cousins of people, I was horrified that I was eating these creatures.

It was the start of Lent, and I realized that I had already gone a few days prior without eating any meat, so I gave up all meat for lent (no, I am not Catholic, but it was a good excuse to practice some self-deprivation) and I have not eaten any animal bits since. Along with the standard large hoofed critters, I do not eat fish or chicken or shrimp or grasshoppers. A week or two past, Rosie posted something about rennet in cheese, something I had never heard of until then, and so now I grinding the gears in my head to reorient my tastes away from cheeses with rennet. This will be more difficult than quitting meats as I LOVE CHEESE.

Before I went veggie, I had the occasional street vendor polish sausage or cheeseburger in a diner. These days, the thought of those foods makes me ill. When I saw what they do to chickens, I realized that there probably is not an animal on this planet that humans treat well if it will eventually end up in our bellies. There’s all this noise made about humane treatment of animals at the slaughterhouse, but what about how they’re treated during the lead up to their death? And since when did “humane” come to mean what it means? Humans never treat any living thing with respect or concern. We are savage vicious cowards. Look to the other animals for “humane.” Cats in the wild kill with mercy by tearing out the throat of its prey, severing blood supply and nerves for an instant and quiet death.

I should stop here with the amateur rant against the “animals = food” world. The point I was intending to make was that, since I have gone veggie, I have lost even more weight than I wanted to, and with my poor eating habits, my weight is as low as it has been since college. I have been a slender wisp of a boy my whole life, but skinny is one thing, and then there’s “what the fuck, man, eat a few pies before you disappear completely” thin, and I am heading in that direction if I don’t get serious about my diet and attitude toward eating.

Sometimes I blow through mealtime because I simply cannot be bothered to eat. Whether it comes from having fucked up priorities or some screwed up deep-seated feelings that I don’t deserve food when I am hungry, this has to change. I am almost forty-four years out of the womb and it’s about time I behave like someone who has outlasted most refrigerators. (I use the fridge as a mile marker for longevity...I’ll explain another day.) Sometimes I feel that what I am doing is SOOOOOOO critical that I cannot possibly stop for food...hell, the world may hang in the balance.

I have a very fast metabolism (is it fast, or high?); this adds to the problem. I burn through calories like nobody’s business. So isn’t it about time I take this into consideration and make the adjustments necessary to keep my body running happy and healthy? You would think so. But I think part of the problem is that I do not, deep in my belly, believe that I deserve to be happy. In my heart I do, in my head I do, but somewhere deep in the DNA, there is a line of code that tells me, “You suck. Suffer some more, Asswipe!”

Well, fuck that. My heart and head are two votes, while my belly has but the one, so majority rules, and I will tell that little bastard to feck off. This is not even about being “happy.” This is about treating myself well.

Yesterday was a good day in light of all this. I woke early and took care of some things around my place. I had a good breakfast and after a fashion, went to the gym and worked my legs hard--a lot of weight, a small number of reps, and no cardio. I came home and slammed a load of protein and creatine, and I had a good day. The goal is to build my legs in strength and size to a point that I am satisfied with health of my knees. I want to run, and with my legs as they are now, I cannot because my right knee has problems and needs more support from the musculature surrounding it. (Also, when the hell am I going to remember that exercise is a powerful antidepressant?)

I FINALLY got in to see a doctor for a physical and got a clean bill of health. I also got a prescription for Wellbutrin. I had been avoiding the whole “mental health” issue for far too long. I have been on the drug for about a month now, and I do notice a difference. This is my second go around with psychiatric drugs. About four years ago I was diagnosed as manic-depressive, and while I think that the diagnosis is probably accurate, I didn’t help my cause back then by lying about the amount of alcohol I took in and about the other drugs I might have been abusing.

This led to a rough stretch for me. The worse I behaved, the higher the doctors upped my dosages of the drugs they gave me for the manic-d, and I started losing serious control of my head. That’s all in the past, thank goodness, yet it has caused me to be wary of taking drugs of any sort. Of course, and this is key, I am an alcoholic/addict and I went sober 26 November 2003, so my aversion to pills comes from my concern of falling back into the trap of believing that cramming stuff into my mouth can fix things. (Mightn't that also include food? Hmmm, I haven't considered this before.)

I think I am over that, sort of. I think I am starting to finally understand that I am responsible for my behavior. Just because I have certain “issues” doesn’t mean I can use them as excuses or explanations for my behavior. I am responsible for my behavior, and I can decide who I want to be. How I behave is completely under my control. Sure, it might be a small challenge to find workarounds for whatever is not quite right in my brain chemistry, but so the fuck what? People face challenges every day, and you don’t hear them whining and making excuses. JUST DEAL WITH IT AND MOVE ALONG.

I am writing again. This is a very good sign that I might be feeling a little better. Ultimately, I need to write because that is what I want to do. It requires discipline to write regularly. There are other areas that require discipline, such as grocery shopping and eating regular nutritious meals and processing the mail when it comes in get the point. It’s fair to say that I am not the most disciplined person in the world.

So get disciplined then. I hate to use a corporate slogan to make my point, but you have to give the Nike people some credit for coming up with one of the most effective and resonant hooks since advertising began. I suppose you have to give the credit to their advertising agency, but that’s for someone else to sort out; I am getting sidetracked. You know the slogan. Maybe I should have it tattooed on my forearm.

Just do it.

Quit my belly-aching and excuse-making and just fucking do it. Get off my lazy ass and get done the things that have to be done. Plan the work and work the plan. I read that somewhere. It makes sense.

I have reached a point in my life where it no longer matters if I like myself. It’s time to get over myself. (God damn, haven’t I heard that in one form or another for the last thirty years? Have I been this so egregiously self-centered, self-absorbed? Yes.) It no longer matters if it’s difficult or hard to move my intransigent psyche. Others carry massive boulders and complain not. They just do it. So while I recoil at adopting a corporate slogan as my motto, it certainly sums up the gist of what I need to tell myself to get my ass in gear.

Before I go, I need to stress that I wouldn't be thinking along these lines if Rosie hadn't come into my life. If I finally pull my head out of my arse, it's because of the motivation she has provided. (Besides, she can't fist me if my head's lodged up there. But that's another story for another day.)

I have gone on for more than I had intended to with this piece, so it’s time to shut it down and get to the business of laundry and housecleaning and bill paying. If you have actually read this entire piece, thanks for your time. But really, shouldn’t you be off doing something else? (Oh, wait, you’re not me...)


Beautiful day here in NYC. Yesterday was complete shite. I spoke with a friend today who lives in Staten Island and he said they had thunderstorms into the afternoon. Nothing like that here to report from Manhattan Island. Some low thin clouds shaded the morning, but it’s been perfect temps and sunny skies since.

Pete’s sake, I sound like I have a bluebird on my shoulder. Yes, it’s been a lovely day.
I made it to the gym today. Shit, I make it sound like I had a boulder on my back. I...made it...*gasp* the...gym. I worked my legs, my scrawny legs, and when I got home I slammed a drink with 40 grams of protein and a load of creatine. I am determined to get back the weight I have lost since December, and to get myself back into good shape.

Listening to Louis Armstrong’s Hot Five playing “Gut Bucket Blues.” I am eating TastiDLite Oreos ‘n’ Cream, a whole pint of the stuff, and I am thinking of my next move. I had some tasty Pad Thai noodles with tofu and some wicked red pepper sauce at Union Square. I may attend Rooftop Films showing tonight in Brooklyn.

I have to stop. Sure, this is my blog, and I write it for myself, but this is starting to read like something I read a few months ago, the most boring blog ever written.

I just cut my toe nails. I think I will straighten my desk.

I took a break to straighten my desk. It is straightened now.

Something like that...


Lat night, I took out my shiny Tibetan prayer wheel and asked for sunshine today. We had shite weather yesterday in NYC, and my girl HATES shite weather. She needs the sun to shine indefinitely.

So, Weather Gods, please give her sunshine this week.

Fisting of the Week

After reading this article from the NY Times, I know who needs a good fisting. To all the bureaucrats and politicians in the MTA who commission studies and reports but never actually DO anything, I am proud to present to you the Fisting of the Week.

(Hey, this might be a new feature.)

You might think the Fisting of the Week should go to the bastards who set off the bombs in London, but we can't recognize them until they're identified. No, my friends, we've got to doff our caps to those wonderful folk running the MTA in NYC. If you had $600,000,000 to spend since the attacks of 11 September 2001 toward making capital improvements with the aim of securing the transit system of New York City, don't you think you might have found a way to spend more than just $30 million of it. So far, the MTA has given us a public campaign telling transit users, "If you see something, say something." That, plus they've hiked fares.

Keep in mind that just this past winter a fire was set in a switching room that crippled a part of the subway system for days. The fire was set by a homeless person who was doing nothing more than trying to stay warm. (That's the story as I recall, but since this is the Internet, I don't have to check my facts...caveat lector.) Imagine what an Evil Doer could accomplish with a homemade bomb. Now, look at London.

I have only lived in NYC for a year, but I feel I have the right to do what New Yorkers do best--complain about everything and spout my opinion as if it is the last word. To date, the only thing that has changed in this country since 11 September 2001 is the level of fear and intolerance among the masses. Our leaders have managed to foment even greater bigotry than before the attacks in NYC and Washington, DC.

Over the past few weeks, while strolling with my fiance, I have seen, on city sidewalks, Muslim men on their prayer mats (in most cases, a flattened cardboard box), kneeling toward Mecca while engaged in devout prayer. I admire that level of devotion and faith, as I am a faithless heathen. Do you know what most redneck fucks think of this display of faith? That's right, they'd like to string them towel heads up from the nearest light standard.

This is, after all, the country that guarantees inalienable rights, unless you are a darkie or a broad or a slant-eyed or a wetback. Just because the signs have been taken down doesn't mean that there still isn't Separate but Equal in the USA. But who am I kidding? There ain't no "equal" about it. That is, however, they way things work in this world. Humans are chickenshit pathetic little fucks, especially the spoiled, lazy, and "entitled" blobs that call themselves Americans.


I started out wanting to bitch about the MTA and government inertia and ended up ranting about the status quo. Wouldn't it be interesting if the news comes out that the bombings in London on 7 July 2005 were the work of domestic antiglobalization amateurs who wanted to upstage the G8 summit?

Two words to remember: Timothy McVeigh.

Whether the attacks were by Al Qaeda or homegrown fucks, London's back on familiar ground. War is declared, and battle lines are drawn in quicksand. I can't help but wonder what Joe Strummer would have to say about all this. I think I'll go back and listen to some old Clash and refresh my memory.

In case you were curious about fisting...

...this entry in Wikipedia explains it all in clear language.

Play safe, everyone.


From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Fisting is a human sexual behaviour that involves inserting the entire hand, and sometimes part of the arm, into the vagina (vaginal fisting) or anus (handballing or anal fisting) of a sexual partner. Fisting is also called fist fucking, sometimes shortened to "FF". The medical terms for these practices are brachiovaginal eroticism (vaginal) and brachioproctic eroticism (anal).

Often, fisting does not involve forcing the clenched fist into the vagina or anus. Instead, all five fingers are kept straight and held as close together as possible (forming a beak-like shape), then the hand is slowly inserted into a well-lubricated vagina or anus. Once insertion is complete, the fingers either clench into a fist or remain straight. But in more extreme forms of this practice, such as "punching," a fully clenched fist may be inserted and withdrawn.


Due to the potential risks, lack of knowledge, perceived pain level, and taboos, the number of people who engage in fisting of any kind is likely much smaller than for other sexual activities.

While handballing is popularly associated with gay men, it is practiced by people of all sexual orientations. Handballing is pleasurable for some men because it results in direct stimulation of the prostate.

Vaginal fisting is known to be practiced by lesbians, bisexuals, and heterosexuals; a few women with very flexible bodies and wrists are able to perform it on themselves. Perineal massage, an exercise recommended to couples who are preparing to give birth, sometimes results in fisting.

Health and safety

Fisting is generally considered low risk for the spread of sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), provided a few basic precautions are followed, but there are other serious health risks that must be taken into careful consideration before engaging in the activity. Fisting is sometimes seen as a violent activity; done properly it is gentle and slow. Done improperly, fisting can result in serious injuries including ruptured bowels and internal tears and infections, as well as urinary tract infections and pelvic inflammatory disease, bruising of the cervix, mucosal laceration, muscle tearing, and temporary fecal incontinence, among other conditions, sterility and even death. When fisting is done slowly and carefully, the risks are quite low.

Fecal matter can cause irritation; any abrasions can easily become infected, but douches and enemas can also cause irritation. The fingernails of the fister must be trimmed and filed, and his or her hands covered with nitrile or latex (but not vinyl) gloves or calving gloves. Both the fister's hands and the anus or vagina of the fistee must be very well lubricated, usually with vegetable shortening or mineral oil (latex products and oil-based products should not be used together as oil weakens latex. Oil-free lubricants suitable for use with latex are widely available).

Pain and/or bleeding are warning signs; significant bleeding could indicate a ruptured bowel or a major tear.

While most people do not mix fisting with recreational drugs, the use of muscle relaxants (most notably "poppers"-amyl nitrite ) are sometimes used with handballing. The use of drugs may increase the risks of serious injury from fisting, for example by reducing the sensation of pain, reducing inhibitions or causing loss of consciousness.

Related topics


  • Donovan B; Tindall B; Cooper D. Brachioproctic eroticism and transmission of retrovirus associated with acquired immune deficiency syndrome (AIDS). Genitourin Med. 1986 Dec;62(6):390-2.
  • Medical terminology and some information on risks were taken from The Intelligent Man's Guide To Handball

External Links

Happy Birthday, Sirigirl

When was it...

...I wonder, when was the moment when I went from being a goofy silly guy to being the clueless thoughtless dumbshit that I am now? I am such an ass.

Q: Can I be anything else?

A: I can if I want to be. I can if I choose to be.

Something to Write About

I have no plan. My life lacks any discernible direction. I have not laid out any goals or future targets to shoot at. No course has been selected. I am rudderless.

Where am I going? What do I want for this life?

Has my life become nothing more than marking off days? I remember having dreams. Now, I have none. Holy shit, this is something I didn’t need to mull over tonight, but then again, this is definitely something I need to address.

Where do I want to go? What do I want to do?

It’s fair to say that I have picked myself up off the ground. I’ve dusted off my clothes and have done the best I can to straighten myself out. It’s not enough that I have “survived” to this point; I have to get my ass to work at the business of living.

I will resist the temptation to rip myself to pieces. I could declare myself a lazy no-good shit who is content to coast, satisfied just to be breathing. I could tear myself a new asshole over the fact that I am a first rate pussy. I could do those things and more (believe me, there’s more), but I won’t.

Instead, I will draw a line right here and step over it. Everything behind me, behind that line, is done with, over. Now I must--MUST--face forward and decide what I will do with this life of mine.

So. What’s it going to be, Bucko? What are you going to do? Are you going to continue with your pathetic life of avoidance and denial, or are you going to suck it up and set your wretched little butt into action?

This is a prologue.

War of the...Oh, Who Gives a Shit?

I viewed “War of the Worlds” tonight. I felt compelled to see the film because my mind was spinning in many different directions. I felt swarmed by a chorus of indistinguishable voices, all buzzing and chattering. This might be due to antidepressants I have started taking recently. What ever the reason, I needed relief.

I went for a walk. I spoke on the phone but had trouble making words come up. I finally said to hell with it and went with an old stand-by: I went to the cinema. Since I was young, films have been a sure fire drug for me. A week or two back, I saw “Batman Begins” and had an awful experience. I went there for a similar reason and was dismayed by the shitty movie and the fact that IT DID NOT WORK. Like a druggie whose drug of choice no longer “works,” I came to see that I couldn’t go hide in the movies any more.

Tonight I decided to test that conclusion. It seems that I may be correct in the assessment. Damn. Movies actually suck. What the hell is the point of sitting in a darkened room with a bunch of other people you aren’t even allowed, by convention, to speak with?

So what about the movie? As I settled in my seat, I considered that I was about to watch a film in which millions would be killed--millions. The film starts in Jersey and there was a comfortable feeling there. The license plates looked familiar and the people all talked funny. Tom Cruise plays Tom Cruise, Dakota Fanning plays a kid who is very grown up for someone so itsy bitsy, and there are some other people in the movie but they don’t matter. Most of them get killed by alien war machines or descend upon each other in a fine display of true human behavior. I started feeling happy that so many miserable fucks were going to be slaughtered. People suck. Kill everyone.

The movie was helmed by Mister Spielberg. He created some amazing sequences, but I kept wondering, what the hell is the point of all this? It wasn’t to show us humankind’s decency in the face of adversity. It surely wasn’t to demonstrate the special place humanity or the United States has in the Cosmos. In the source for the film (H.G. Wells’ “The War of the Worlds”--note that Spielberg dropped the “the” from the title, sort of makes it snappy--that’s Hollywood for ya), the main thrust is Anticolonialism. I think the filmmakers do well when they stick closely to the source, but the explosions and soot and incinerated or floating bloated corpses overwhelm whatever Ideas there may be buried beneath the mountain of rubble Spielberg whips up for the audience.

It is difficult to ignore imagery borrowed from the terrorist attacks against the World Trade Center. White ashen faces, impromptu murals of photos of the missing, and the swarms of people running and screaming. But these images are hardly new. People have done this sort of thing throughout the ages because we hate each other and wage endless war. We will never stop the fighting. But as more familiar images pile up, I could not help but feel the familiar manipulation Spielberg’s critics lambast him for.

Terror is the main thread throughout the film, and this is a telling commentary on the current zeitgeist. Terror sells. Let’s make a buck on it while we can. You think 11 September was bad, try surviving an all-out attack by an alien invasion force. Now that’s terrorism. Hey, I wonder if the Iraqi people might find the events in the movie familiar, considering their present situation? You know, overwhelming invading force, death and mayhem, and Tom Cruise, Tom Cruise everywhere, everywhere you turn you see the annoying fuck.

I left the theater feeling even more empty than when I left the Bat movie. The ending of “War of the Worlds” was one of the worst, empty, automatic, and bullshit endings I have ever witnessed in all my years as a filmgoer. I was able to suspend disbelief for attacking spacemen and death rays and all that gee whiz crap, but Come The Fuck On! I’m not complaining about the denouement concocted by Wells. The novel’s conclusion is brilliant and subtle in its anticlimactic way. Instead, I was greatly dismayed by the utterly ridiculous Everyone’s Safe in the Family ending that Spielberg decided to end the film with.

But these are quibbles.

In conclusion:

Movies, like people, suck.
Spielberg is a genius of film craft and a jackass as an artist.
Tom Cruise has an interesting voice.
The movie gave me a headache.
Tim Robbins plays a pedophile whack job.
The swirling in my skull has abated.
I need to go to bed now.