My Dad's Balls

So. Lemme just preface this by saying ... the following is 100 percent fiction. It never happened. It's just a product of my warped sense of humor, And may or may not have been alcohol and/or herbally fueled.

Additionally, the characters are also 100 percent fictional and are based on no one in particular. Except for the Dad. That's 100 percent totally me.

Christmas, 2002

My dad sleeps in the nude. Which, ew. 

He's a big man, and like most big men, he's not too fond of tight clothing. And because he's a big man, most of his clothing is tight. So when he gets home from work, church, or anywhere that requires him to wear real clothes with belts and socks and undershirts, the first thing he does is shed them in favor of a graphic tee and shorts. 

And I'm talking the FIRST thing. He could have a turtle head poking out or bleeding from the eyes or the house could be on fire, and he'd STILL go change before anything else.

Growing up I remember him sleeping in basketball shorts. Not the 70s-style nut-huggers, but the long-ass past your knees kind made famous by 90s NBA basketball.

If he was at home, he was wearing those shorts. Blue with white stripes down the sides. He'd worn them for so long that the elastic was totally shot, so he had to fish two tied-together shoe laces through the waist for a makeshift tie so they wouldn't fall down.

Mom bought him umpteen different new pair, but he always found his way back to the blue ones. His "TV watching pants" he called them. 

For most of my childhood that's what he wore. Until one day he declared. "GOING FORWARD I'LL BE SLEEPING IN THE NUDE. ENTER OUR BEDROOM AT YOUR OWN RISK."

We were probably 14 or 15 at the time. And, of course, ew. With that statement he blessed his two teenage daughters with the mental picture of our him sleeping the way the good Lord intended.

"I've never felt more free that when I'm nekid," he'd say. Again, ew.

Anyway, I was home from college for winter break my freshman year. I was attending Rice University on a basketball scholarship. My older sister was still at home taking a gap year that had stretched into gap year two, working and saving money for whatever it was she wanted to do with her life. 

It was Christmas Eve, and we had just gathered around the fire for our annual reading of the original version of Dr. Seuss' The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. And when the Grinch, himself, carved the roast beast, that signaled it was bedtime. 

Although we were adults, we still bounded out of bed Christmas morning with eager anticipation. When we were younger we'd pile into bed with mom and dad, and he'd make his usual jokes about it being too early and that Santa probably hasn't even come yet it's so damn early. That was, until, his "I'm sleeping nekid" proclamation. After that we'd bound out of bed with the same eager anticipation, but we'd have to stand at the door of our parents' bedroom and yell at them to get the hell up.

"Dad, I miss piling into bed with you guys on Christmas morning. So, could you maybe wear shorts to bed tonight," I asked him. You don't even have to wear underwear (which, again, ew) I told him. Just shorts.

After bitching and moaning in the hyperbolic manner that he always does, he begrudgingly relented. "Just for one night," he barked, irritated but with a slight upturn of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

Surprisingly, Christmas came just the same - shorts or no shorts. We drank our traditional mimosas, noshed on our traditional chocolate almond croissants and had our usual big time opening presents. 

And, we took our traditional after-presents photo. Mom LOVED her Polaroid camera. It was one of the really old ones that folded down to the size of a book. "They're so much more PURE than other cameras," she'd say.

So out came the tripod, and mom snapped the camera in place while we gathered around Dad. Me on one side, my sister on the other. Mom set the timer and rushed over. CLICK. SNAP. BUZZZZZ. And out came our latest Christmas memory captured in its "purest" form.

Mom, dad, his girls and ... HIS BALLS!

If you've ever had a Polaroid, you've experience the joy, and often frustration, of patiently waiting for the while film to clear and the picture come into focus, We often have to do two or three takes, but this time, unfortunately, we got it on the first try. 

The image slowly faded into being. First mom smiling widely, then me and my sister draped across dad's shoulders. And then ...

"OH MY GOD DAD ... YOUR BALLS," I cried. 

The chaos that ensued was unlike anything I'd experienced. Mom in tears because "dad just ruined Christmas." Dad sitting there amused, "What? What'd I do?" My sister laugh-crying and alternating and between "Eeeeeeww." and "Let me see, let me see!" before melting down from all the commotion. 

Everyone scattered, leaving Dad sitting there dumfounded amongst the empty boxes, bags and crumpled tissue paper.

Later on, as mom was reading the paper and dad was napping, I wandered into the front room where everything was still a pristine mess from the "incident" a few hours earlier.

I looked down to see the offending Polaroid there in all its glory. I plucked it from the discarded wrapping paper and looked again. Which, OK - I was looking at my dad's balls. Get over it.

Upon closer inspection, my dad, a known prankster and a master-level dad joke teller who NEVER missed an opportunity to make us cringe , sat there with a familiar slight upturn of a smile in the corner of his mouth, holding up a peace sign with his left hand. And in his right? Holding up his shorts just high enough to let his balls drop out.

I laughed. Harder than I've laughed in a long, long time and thought, "That tracks."

THE END

Better Call Saul – Episode 3-3, “Sunk Costs”

CAUTION: SPOILERS AHEAD

COLD OPEN: Various shots of the unforgiving New Mexico desert. Old tires, long stretches of road, a bullet-riddled ALTO sign (if you’re not a hispanican, that means STOP). And an old, dusty pair of high tops hanging from the power line that crosses the road right at the ALTO sign. A Los Pollos Hermanos truck rumbles through the intersection, shaking everything in its wake. Which, do bobtail trucks like that really cause that much of a racket? As the truck pulls away, it generates enough hullabaloo for the frayed shoestrings on the high tops to finally break, and they come to rest in the middle of the road.

(ASIDE: There are many explanations to the practice of “dangling.” Most popular is it indicates the presence of drug activity or gangs marking their territory. Others say It’s a move by bullies, or that it’s a memorial to a person’s recent death. I think it’s safe to say that here it’s a marker of some sort. And as we know, everything means something on this show. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same brand that Jessie was wearing when he first meets Walter White on Breaking Bad, or something like that. Or they could just be shoes on a wire. I which case, screw me. END ASIDE)

REPRISE the ringing of the phone sitting on top of the gas cap. Mike answers, and this time we hear the dusky, dulcet tones of Gustavo Fring on the other end. He wants to ensure the meeting that’s about to happen ends in an amicable fashion. You don’t show me yours, I won’t show you mine. Two car approach from opposite directions, one carrying Mr. Fring. He exits and engages in a delightful conversation with Mike. The acting here is just awesome. Mike wants an explanation to the DON’T note that prevented him from offing Hector Salamanca. And while Gus doesn’t want Hector dead, yet, he is OK with Mike continuing his beef with Salamanca, which is still a thing because Hector killed the innocent civilian that happened upon the truck of his that Mike robbed. And while Mike’s original issue with Hector is concluded (Hector threatened his family, Mike took his money, the end, right?), Mike is far from done with Hector Salamanca. Which is fine with Gus. Because when Hector’s business is bad, that’s good for Gus’ business. Again, really great exchange between these two.

Back at W&M, LLP, Jimmy calls Francesca and has her clear his schedule for the next day, and let Kim know that he won’t be back in the office for the day. Jimmy is resigned to his arrest and fishes an old pack of cigarettes out of his glove box, lights one up and cops a squat on the curb to wait for Five-OH. Chuck ventures out to reinforce to Jimmy that it’s for the best and that there are always consequences for your actions. Then Chuck blathers on about why he’s doing this – he WILL be pressing charge, and he just wants to show Jimmy he truly must make a change for the better and hopes he will be a better person when he comes out of this on the other side. Man I swear to GOD I would kick Chuck right in his self-righteous nuts right then. “You’ll find your path. And when you’re ready, I will be there to help you walk that path.” Sure you will Chuck. I’m not sure you’re gonna make it past the season finale. Then we see that Jimmy has finally had enough with Chuck. After detailing how one day Chuck is going to have another one of his episodes, will get shipped to the hospital and hooked up to the machines that beep and whir and hurt (you can see Chuck physically whence at this), Chuck’s going to die there – alone. And judging by the look on Chuck’s face, he knows Jimmy’s right. For so long Jimmy has given Chuck the benefit of the doubt because he is family. But family doesn’t do this to each other, and it’s obvious that Jimmy is so dunzo with his older brother. “Welp, there’s my ride.”

Cut to montage of Jimmy going through the drills of arrest and booking. Mugshot (reminded me of Raising Arizona, “Turn to the right. Howdy, Kurt.”) and fingerprinting (another genius camera angle shot here, POV of the fingerprint pad). Deputy District Attorney Oakley spots Jimmy and takes great pleasure in a bit of gloating (How the mighty have fallen) while Jimmy is processed. They both jockey for position a bit, Oakley to see if he could get in on that “sweet Davis and Main gig” that Jimmy left, and Jimmy trying to find out who’s gonna catch the case (both judge and prosecutor wise). Oakley blinks first and says he’ll see if he can get Jimmy’s first appearance moved up, then departs with some unsolicited advice. “Find the biggest guy. Punch him right in the face. Establish dominance.” Thanks dude.

Cut to Montage Number 2 – Kim waking up on her couch at work. She grabs a cup of Joe and a set of dry cleaned clothes, walks across the street to North Valley Fit and proceeds with a morning get ready for work routine. Shower, hair, Visine, makeup, fresh set of clothes and back across the street to the office. Looks as if she’s done this before, which means that while things are good between her and Jimmy at work, I’m not sure they are an item between the sheets anymore. Upon her return, Ernie is sitting outside the office. Evidently, he’s been fired and he feels awful for what happened to Jimmy. Man, for someone who didn’t mean for a lot for this to happen, it sure does seem to happen. He again spills the beans, and Kim now knows that Jimmy’s been arrested. And for me, it showed the depths of what Chuck will go to to prove his point. Jimmy is not the most scrupulous lawyer in the world, but at least he has heart. Chuck is a vindictive, lowlife asshole who only thinks he’s doing the right thing. And that only makes it worse. The entire thing was a ruse. A trap. Not just getting Jimmy on tape, but letting Ernie find and hear the tape knowing he’d go to Jimmy, that Jimmy would kick in the door mad as hell and destroy the tape, and that he’d have Jimmy arrested. All with one goal in mind – to get Jimmy disbarred. What a colossal dick. And what a colossal long con.

It’s Jimmy’s turn in front of the judge. Nice banter back and forth between her and Jimmy. “Not how I’m used to seeing you. Not how I’m used to being seen.” As Judge Arch reads the lists of offenses, Jimmy enters a plea of “not guilty” and Kim makes an appearance. And while she tries to insert herself as Jimmy’s attorney, he will have none of it. After making bond and cabbing it back to the office, Jimmy unveils a (somewhat) heartfelt and impassioned plea to Kim that he’s sorry for not calling her and telling her but he just has to do this himself!! “I can’t and I WON’T load this on to you, too.” He also explains how Chuck’s plan played out, that he played Jimmy like a fiddle and how he fell for it hook, line and sinker. Kim stares blankly at him, pauses and simply says, “OK.” Not what I think Jimmy was hoping for. Francesca points out to Jimmy that she finished the mural, touching up the edges that needed a little help after Jimmy ripped off the painter’s tape in anger. Another small sign of the growing relationship between Jimmy and Francesca. I think she will become a much bigger player as the season unfolds.

Mike makes a visit to the Clinica Gratuita to obtain something from a doctor, a meeting set up by a “mutual friend.” El doctor asks about the gringo waiting for him and is told it’s for “the revenge.” The doctor will see Mike, er, Mr. Clark, next. Seems Mike needs “package” about “yea” big. Doesn’t know how many grams. Just, you know, “yea” big. Mike takes the package and tucks it away in the trunk with his long-range sniper rifle, so we know he’s again up to no good.

Back at the courthouse, DDA Oakley takes his vending machine coffee and two bags of chips and settles at a bench for lunch. Jimmy joins him with a burger and fries. Jimmy proceeds to feel out Oakley (eww!) to see if he can get him to agree to a favorable plea bargain. However, seems that Oakley is not the one who’s drawn the case. He’s been conflicted out. In fact, the entire Albuquerque office is out. “We all know you, Jimmy.” They’ve pulled in an outside prosecutor, on that’s “tough but fair.” And Jimmy is none too happy about it.

And now to my favorite scene of the episode. Mike pulls off to the side of the road next to our bullet-riddled ALTO sign, pops the trunk and extracts a box containing a brand-new pair of high tops – the exact brand and color as the ones that fell from the power lines earlier in the episode. Mike opens the “package” and take what looks like either a bag of cocaine or heroin and shoves it deep down into the toe of one of the shoes. He then ties the shoes together and takes at least three tosses to get the back to hanging from the power line.

Mrs. Hay, Chuck’s attorney, arrives at his home and begins taking Chuck’s statement about the incident with Jimmy. Jimmy had a key and used to help Chuck out but Chuck had recently changed the locks (important to note because I think Jimmy can argue that he was concerned for Chuck’s welfare and only kicked in the door when the key didn’t work, thus negating the B&E charge). As she questions him, Chuck paints the picture of what happened, but also says that Jimmy has never been prone to violence and certainly would never physically assault him. Chuck assures her that he won’t back out at any point, and then asks about her strategy. She doesn’t plan on taking it easy on Jimmy because he’s a lawyer, and she won’t let him plea down the felony breaking and entering charge. She’s ready to get to work, and Chuck continues to play out his devious plan. He shows remorse and regret and caring for his brother, and he can’t help but think there is a better solution, for everyone. BEWM.

Cut to the barren New Mexico landscape and a slight reflection from atop a distant ridge. Mike is hunkered down with rifle and binoculars keeping watch on our favorite intersection. He soon spies Hector’s boys coming his way and lines them up in his sights. As they stop to deposit their gently used guns in the drop point, Mike fires off a few rounds into the sky. They drop for cover before determining the shots are probably coming from hunters in the area. The boys continue on their way and return to the truck as shots continue to ring out. As they start to pull away, Mike trains his sights on the high tops and drills the toe of the lowest hanging one. A cascade of cocaine/heroin falls silently onto the roof and back steps of the truck. Not a lot, but just enough. While very elaborate and a tiny bit far-fetched, it was still pretty brilliant, as we’ll soon see when the truck arrives at the frontera Mexico y Usatdos Unidos in 20 km. At customs, we see the same scene we once saw in Breaking Bad, officials and drug sniffing dogs comb over and through the trucks before being allowed to cross the border. A dog hits on our boys’ truck, and they are immediately arrested. Dugus supplyus interruptus. Just brilliant.

Kim and Jimmy are both working late, and she notices the glow of his cigarette through the glass block wall. Kim joins him for a drag of the incredibly old and stale cigarette (probably from when the doors still matched). Jimmy heard from the ADA, and it’s not what he expected. It’s different. Pre-prosecution diversion, an even more legalized term for deferred adjudication – what seems like the best possible outcome. Lucky break? Not really. The PPD was Chuck’s idea. What’s his game? Jimmy pleads guilty to all charges, but if he stays clean for a year, he avoids any jail time.  “I thought he wanted me in jail. He just wants my law license.” BEWM. Jimmy thought he could get through it, but Chuck has him boxed in, and Chuck practically owns the bar having made half of their careers. But Jimmy’s not alone. Kim offers her help in a plea that is essentially the EXACT OPPOSITE of what Jimmy tried to plea with hear earlier. It’s all chalked up to the fallacy of sunk costs (throwing good money after bad). So what next? Take that PPD and shove it right up Chuck’s ass! That’s our Jimmy!

So, what do you think? Was Jimmy running a long con on Kim to ultimately get her to help him? And make it her idea? He couldn’t have foreseen the PPD could he? Or is he sincere on all of this? Lemme hear from you!!

› the idea that a company or organization is more likely to continue with a project if they have already invested a lot of money, time, or effort in it, even when continuing is not the best thing to do:

Economists would point out that the sunk cost fallacy is irrational, and could be described as "throwing good money after bad".

Is This Thing Still On?

So according to this here blog, I haven't posted in more than 3 years. Um, procrastinate much?

So where the hell have I been? Life got in the way. Aliens abducted me. I got mistaken for Kevin James and have been in Los Angeles shooting Mall Cop 2: Blart Strikes Back.

Actually, I got caught up near a rip in time fabric in the alt-universe and the Fringe team Ambered the entire block.*

Truth be told. Life just plain got in the way. I once read in Writer's Digest that if you say you don't have time to write, then you're not making your writing high enough priority. And while that piece of no-shit-Sherlock wisdom can pretty much apply to anything**, it pretty much fits me like my favorite pair of skinny jeans.***

For those of you who tuned in to FAT GUY before when I mused about my weight loss surgery experiences, I won't leave you hanging. I'm still around 30-35 lbs. down (give or take a hamburger or two) from my pre-weight loss surgery, which, if you read the fine print in all the commercials, it tells you that 30-35 pounds is the average amount of weight loss lap band patients achieve. The ones who lose 100-plus work out like 8 times a day. That's not me folks. I don't have time to write and/or work on my toenail sculptures, much less work out.

So if I would take my rotund caboose to the gym every once in a while, I might lose a pound or two more. But I've lost 30 pounds, and that can add up to 10 years on to my lifespan. So, the good news is that I'm not going anywhere, at least for another 10 years anyway.

The better news is that I've found my writing mojo again. And of all places, I found it at my 25-year high school reunion this past weekend. I ran into a friend who I hadn't seen in, you guessed it, 25 years. She told me that she had just LOVED what I was writing previously here on FAT GUY, so much so that she got her husband to read it. Then, said husband proceeded to tell me how much he enjoyed it and how funny it was.

So thank you to high school friend and said husband. Your compliments have inspired me. Was great to see you and meet said husband, too.

What can you expect from FAT GUY 2.0? Same warped sense of outlook on the world, applied to whatever tickles my underbelly. And hopefully a little more often than once every three years.

One last thing ... you'll notice I've done the whole asterisk/footnote thing here. I saw it in an Adam Davies book once and I kinda liked it. I thought it would save on the overusage of parentheses. Not sure if I like it or not. Guess we'll see.

And a piece of advice: make sure you go to your high school reunion. All the people you didn't know that well in high school and who you thought weren't cool are now very nice people and, in fact, are likely cooler than you are now. Plus, you never know what you'll find.

Until next time, peace, love and footnotes.


FOOTNOTES:
* The wife and I are on 5th and final season of a Fringe-a-thon, so you're likely to see many more Fringe references. I can see the question mark forming over your heads already.

** I don't have time to make life-sized statues of the cast of Firefly out of toenail clippings either, so I guess that, too, has fallen down my priority list.

*** Yep. Try to get THAT image out of your head.

The Lap Band Reunion Tour Date Confirmed

Starting weight: 328 lbs.
Current weight: 283 lbs.
Amount lost: 45 lbs.

Mark your calendars, boys and girls. The Band is getting back together and is coming to a city near ME! With insurance approval and clearance in hand, I recently visited The Good Doctor again to find out what's in store for Lap Band 2: Beyond Thunderdome.

Good news all around! Bandin' 2: Electric Boogaloo should be much easier in all facets (or should that be .. fat-cets?). Liquid diet for only a few days instead of a week before. Three incisions instead of five, which is good since my scar-heavy belly is running out of uncharted territory. And since the band is already in place, I won't have to take the agonizingly slow stair step progression back to solid foods. Burgers, brats and beer in post-Op for everyone!

But most importantly, I get the Ball of Pain-meds back, along with my concubine and liquid gold BFF ... say it with me ... HY-DRO-CO-DONE ... CLAP! CLAP! CLAP CLAP CLAP!

Procedure should take only about 30 minutes or so and entails actually replacing the port on my left side. A new port on my port side. HA. Nautical shout out!

And about a month after surgery I get going again with another fill. I won't be able to go straight back to the level I was at pre-spleen splatter, but at least I'll finally have some gastric restriction again. And who out there isn't longing for a little gastric restriction, right?

Surgery day will still be a little bit of a whipping. Arrange for someone to take the girls to school. Get up at the butt crack of dawn. Get to the hospital, fill out the paperwork, sit and wait and wait and wait. But last time I was in at 6 a.m. and out by Noon. So in truth, it'll be more of a whipping on The Wife than it will for me. I'll be in La La Land counting rainbows and unicorns all hopped up on goofballs in a constant state of hooby gooby. She'll be the one dealing with it all on top of my stoned ass. Good times, right honey?

So the One-Day, One-City Lap Band Reunion Tour is set for Oct. 20. Which is deliciously ironical or coincidental (take your pick) in that it's almost a year to the exact day of my original surgery date (Oct. 21, 2009). That really doesn't mean a whole helluva lot. I just thought it was kinda neat-o (really? who still says neat-o?).

Honestly, it can't get here soon enough. While I've enjoyed partaking in food and drink that I previously couldn't or didn't partake in (see earlier reference to burgers, brats and beer), I'm ready to get back on the bariatric bandwagon. A colleague of mine recently hit the 100 lbs. down mark after her gastric bypass, and come hell or high water, or really tall trees for that matter, I'm going to hit that mark as well.

Next time out I'll review Lap Band 2: The Spleen Strikes Back while heavily sedated. Good times.

Peace, love and hooby gooby!

Putting the Band Back Together

Starting weight: 328 lbs.
Current weight: 280 lbs.
Total weight loss: 48 lbs.

It's been almost two months since my unfortunate yard diving incident splattered my spleen and rendered my bariatric implant null and void. But boy howdy if it hasn't made for a good story. I mean, I fell out of a tree. That's some funny shit.

Good news is that I'm all healed up and surviving just fine without my purple antibody making little buddy. Bad news is that my underwear is currently providing more restriction than my Lap Band is. So now that my surgeon has given me the green light to get back into my normal routine, it's time to make like Jake and Elwood Blues and put the band back together.

"We had a band powerful enough to turn goat piss into gasoline."
- Donald 'Duck' Dunn, bassist, The Blues Brothers

Now I won't go so far as to say that my Band was that powerful. I mean, I didn't actually TRY to use my Band to turn goat piss into gasoline. So I can't truthfully say that it couldn't. But what it could do was help me lose weight. And ever since my ill conceived and poorly executed turn as Tarzan, Lord of the Apes left me singing the little Billy Joel/Garth Brooks ditty, "I'm Spleenless," a plate of nachos (with cheese) and a heaping pile of jalapenos has done more to help me lose weight in the past two months than my Lap Band has.

My crash landing caused the tube to the port to come loose, and my surgeon had stitched it back into place but couldn't re-attach it. So, last week I went to see The Good Doctor (TGD) to find out what needs to be done to fix my band.

Let me just say up front here that I made a tactical error when scheduling this visit. Best piece of advice I got at the outset of this was to ALWAYS take the earliest appointment possible. Doctors, in general, tend to run long on each patient meeting. The Good Doctor, especially. Multiply that by 10-15 patients, and afternoon appointments become LATE afternoon appointments.

Needless to say, my 3:30 turned into 4:45, and by that time I was, as the kids like to say these days, HAWT!!!! And not in a good way.

For WHATEVER reason, The Good Doctor's minions had flagged me as a new patient, and that only made things worse. So as I not-so-calmly and not-so-politely informed them that what should have been a 15 minute consultation had turned into an hour-and-a-half ass whipping, The Good Doctor magically appeared out of nowhere a la All-American Burger manager Dennis Taylor after Brad Hamilton said, "Mister, if you don't shut up I'm gonna kick 100 percent of your ass."

Just had a few questions. What's involved? How much will it cost? How much pain medication can you legally give me without the AMA taking notice? (hee. I kid!) I was already a little irked by the disclosure I had to sign when I got there stating any "revision" would cost a fat (heh!) $1,100 outside of insurance coverage. So my blood pressure had red-lined from the get-go. Throw in a 90-minute wait and I was Mount Freaking Vesuvius all ready to get my pyroplastic flow on up in here!

OK, I wasn't really that irritated and loud, though I did tell them through clenched teeth that I had to leave and needed to reschedule. But you wouldn't know that by how everyone was scurrying around with ducked heads and tucked tails. I guess they aren't used to us fat people raging against the bariatic machine.

Anywho, just like that The Good Doctor and I tipped off into an empty office for a little chat. I explained to him what happened, and that my surgeon had faxed over the procedure notes so that he'd know exactly what went down at the spleen scene. Ain't no thang says TGD. Fax in a letter of predetermination to get insurance approval (which he seemed to think wouldn't be a problem) and then they'll put me on the schedule. Don't have to pay the $1,100 because this is not considered a "revision." Should only have to pay what the insurance won't cover (which hopefully will be only about 10 percent of it all). Three incisions, half an hour, in and out, done and done.

See. Now was that so hard? Next time out my ass will be waiting out in the hall for them to open the door. Early bird gets the fat worm and all that.

So, while I wait for clearance to fly from the friendly skies of UnitedHealthcare, I have to remain culinarily diligent and keep up with the exercise. Because the bariatric floodgates are open and all I can think of is ... some toasted white bread, four fried chickens and a Coke.

Peace, love and three orange whips.

My Spleen Has Fallen and Can't Get Up

Starting Weight: 328 lbs.
Current Weight: 273 lbs.
Amount lost: 55 lbs., minus whatever a spleen weighs

If you are at all familiar with Douglas Adams' mind-blowing, ground-breaking novel, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, you know that the answer to the ultimate question is simply this: 42.

And if you are at all familiar with the mind-blowing, earth-shattering events of my life from this past week, I can honestly tell you up front that the answer to your ultimate question is simply this: I have no freaking idea what I was thinking.

Saturday, my youngest and I were playing in the front yard. She's always been curious about climbing trees, so I often prop her up in the crook of one of the ones in the front. She gets the giggles of being up there for about 5 minutes but then wants down because said tree really isn't a good climbing tree, and she can go no further than said crook.

BUT ... for whatever reason, I decided it would be a good idea for me to show my youngest that her Big Bad Voodoo Daddy can make like the monkeys. So up I go, and quite nimbly I might add (thank you Mr. Lap Band). I proudly shouted down to my youngest, who smiled broadly and even got the attention of her sister. They both waved back quizzically as if to say, "Look at that silly Daddy up there in the tree. I hope he doesn't fall and bust his ass." Ah, the wisdom of youth.

So as I started to get down, I honestly thought to myself, "I need to be careful here so I don't fall and bust my ass." I surveyed my options and decided that the quickest, easiest and OBVIOUSLY the safest route would be to swing out on a branch, hang for a few seconds, then drop down. Easy breezy, right?

I must have underestimated my strength, grip, forward momentum, air-speed velocity and the limb's desire to be held onto, because at that moment, Howard Cosell started shouting in my ear.

DOWN GOES FRAZIER. DOWN GOES FRAZIER. DOWN GOES FRAZIER.

Eleven and a half feet later, I landed flat on my ribs on the ride side, as well as the right side of my face. After taking a personal inventory to make sure I didn't have a bone and/or stick poking in and/or out of my body, I summoned my youngest, staggered inside and coughed out words rarely heard from a married man's mouth ... "Go tell your mother that Daddy just fell out of a tree."

At first glance, my injuries seemed minor. Ribs weren't in too bad of shape, and the small gash that had opened up in my right eyebrow near the bridge of my nose was only trickling blood.

Nonetheless, I stuffed my macho-ness into my back pocket and had the Wife take me to an Urgent Care facility just to be safe. Once there, the rib x-rays came back clean, and the small cut needed no more than a couple of stitches, mostly for cosmetic reasons.

But then, much like a recalled 2008 Honda Element sitting on a steep incline, I started going downhill ... Q-U-I-C-K-L-Y.

I knew at that point something wasn't right, and while I never miss a chance to don Shakespearean garb, embrace an English accent and shout, "Something's rotten in Denmark," (Hamlet, Act I, Scene IV), I grunted toward the doctor that I didn't feel so swift.

First came the cold sweats, then the nausea and then my systolic and diastolic decided to see how fast they could reach zero. Before long, the paramedics arrived to transport me to the big hospital, and upon arrival, a gaggle of doctors, nurses, technicians and for all I know, a few clowns, descended upon me to suss out the situation.

They did a CT Scan of my belly and watched my blood pressure ride the Shockwave at Six Flags, going up, down, round and round before finally deciding that I would be better served with my spleen on the outside of my body instead of letting it leak blood BP-style into my abdomen.

So ... a short time later I was out of surgery, which at that point had been deemed "emergency surgery," minus one spleen. Scary note: I had bled two pints of blood into my belly, thanks in part to the fact that the impact had caused my spleen to split into THREE PIECES!!!!

I spent the next day and a half in CCU, moved to a private room on Monday afternoon and was discharged late Wednesday night. Rest of the week pretty much consisted of hours and hours of cuddling up in a warm, loving embrace with my sultry mistress hydrocodone.

So what does all this mean going forward? Well, you can obviously live without the spleen. It does some cool stuff, but the amazing human body adapts. The spleen works primarily with your immune system, so I had to get several immunizations before discharge and will have to get yearly vaccinations to protect against particular infections. It also means that I'll need to immediately start taking antibiotics if I start running a fever above 100.4 degrees.

A small price to pay considering the alternative. It's amazing how an instantaneous decision can quickly turn into a life-threatening event. I consider myself very lucky and am very thankful to all the doctors and nurses who took such great care of me. I'm also appreciative to all my co-workers, friends, family and extensions thereof for the prayers, thoughts and well wishes.

Next time out I'll discuss how all of this affects the Lap Band and my weight loss efforts going forward. But for now ... PICTURES!

TOP: Behold ... FRANKENBELLY. 13-inch scar. 21 total staples. GAK!
BOTTOM: An illustration of the offending tree and surrounding area.

Until next time ... peace, love and pints of blood

My Cup Size Runneth Over

Starting weight: 328 lbs.
Current weight: 275 lbs.
Amount lost: 53 lbs.

So where have you guys been? I haven't heard from you in a while.

Yeah, I know. I have been a bit, um, shall we say, delinquent in my updates. I could sit here and give you a million excuses, but you know what the proverbial "they" say: Excuses are like assholes - everybody's got them, and most of the time they are really stinky (OK maybe I added that last part).

Truth is, when I decided to blog about my experience traveling the Bariatric Highway, I knew that putting myself out there warts and all meant that I was accountable to anyone who decided to read along.

So when the losing slowed, stopped and even began to go up and down more times than Linda Lovelace, I simply felt like I was letting myself and you as friends and followers down. And quite honestly, I was embarrassed.

To borrow a turn of phrase from Lost's great Benjamin Freakin' Linus, "Weight loss can be a fickle bitch sometimes."

When all is well, she can boost your confidence, quicken your step and energize your soul. But when all is not, she can leave you curled up in a blubbering heap clinging to an extra large bag of baked Cheetos (chewed slowly and thoroughly, of course).

All this to say that the reasons behind the decrease in weight loss are not highly scientifical or a Mystery of the Universe.

I was intaking more calories than I was extaking (hey look, new word!). I stopped eating right. I stopped working out. I stopped losing weight. Well, duh!!!

But, after a three-week bout of pneumonia that left me moving slower than British Petroleum, I have reversed course, gotten back on the eating right and working out train and am down a total of 53 pounds! More than halfway to my goal. YEAH!

So there you have it. I have confessed my shame and beg your forgiveness. Dramatic much?

Last time out I promised pictures, and here they are in all their shirtless glory. I realize many of you have no desire to see my man boobs, but hey, that's the way I roll! At least I have pants on.

Oh, and there is no truth to the rumor that 5 pounds of my weight loss came from getting a haircut.

BEFORE (top): Taken Oct. 25, 2009, four days after my surgery.
DURING (bottom): Taken June 4, 2010, 7 months and 14 days after my surgery

























Until next time ... Peace, love and baked Cheetos.

50 is the New 40

Starting weight: 328 lbs.
Current weight: 278 lbs.
Amount lost: 50 lbs.

That's right. You read it correctly. 50.

Fifty. One half of the greatest Van Halen album of all time.

Five O ... M ... G!!! And there was much rejoicing.

Since we last spoke (and the phone rings both ways, you know), I have been pounding the revolving rubberized pavement on a regular basis, choosing from the heart healthy section of the menu and generally behaving in proper Lap Bander fashion.

I won't say that things haven't been without incident. I went in for my second fill at the end of January, and I continue to be reminded on a regular basis that I MUST CHEW WELL and SLOW DOWN. I need to be such a superior chewer that I get named the captain of of the United States Chewing Team. I need to be the slowest train in the world.

Chew......... chew ........ chew ........ chew ....... chew. Wait for it. OHHHhhhhhh. I get it now.

I know I'm beginning to sound like the Department of Redundancy Department. Eat slowly. Chew well. Ad nauseum. But unless I hack this thing up and out and earn a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records with the weirdest loogie ever, it ain't changing anytime soon. So I'm all Don Cornelius here on the SLLOOOOOOOOOOOOW Train.

Another awesome bit of awesomeness to share. I've been walking two miles a day and slowly adding a bit of jogging into my workout. Well the other day I RAN A WHOLE MILE. All at once.

First time since high school. First time I've wanted to since high school. I can't say it's as a big a deal as receiving total consciousness on my deathbed, but the only time my former fat self would have run that much was when there was a B.O.G.O. on all Cheeto products at CVS.

So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

Next time ... Pictures!

"We wish you love, peace ... and SOUL!"

The Big Reach Around

Starting weight: 328 lbs.
Current weight: 288 lbs.
Total lost: 40 lbs.

Hello all. First, I've held serve since my last post and am still at 40 pounds lost. I go in for my second fill this week, so that should give me and my weight loss a much needed kick in the pants. I'll report back next on how all that is working out.

Secondly, in my last scribbling I threatened to start delving into the more personal benefits I am seeing as I shed the elle-bees.

So consider this your first warning. I'm about to describe in great, gross and stomach-churning detail the SINGLE GREATEST BENEFIT I have seen and will see, even after I lose 70 more pounds.

There is no doubt that what I'm about to go into will put horrendous images in your head that will cause weeks of nightmares and most likely some intensive psychological counseling. That or you will fall on the floor laughing your ass off. Either way, consider this warning No. 2.

As a pre-emptive strike, I sincerely apologize to my wife, mother, mothers-in-law, step mother, sister-in-law, niece and any other female that I know. The following mental pictures are something you should never, ever, ever have to consider about your husband, son, son-in-law, step son, brother-in-law, uncle or friend. If you're a dude, it's gross, but you'll get over it.

This is your third and final warning .....

If you are still with me, then hold on tight. We're about to get all scatological up in here.

Going to the bathroom is something you don't give much thought to, kind of like sleeping, breathing and the dialogue of a Steven Segal movie. So when you've gotten so fat that it affects the shadowy and secretive goings-on behind the brown door, well then, Houston, we have a problem.

Now don't get the wrong idea. I've never actually had a problem, err, producing in the bathroom. I can drop a deuce with the best of them and still will be able to when I'm 100 pounds lighter.

It's the post-bomb cleanup that has been an issue.

As a fat man, I've always carried my weight in my belly and lower back (lots of real estate for a tramp stamp should I ever get drunk enough).

And all that back fat has meant that I couldn't get back there and properly clean what needs to be cleaned without FIRST taking my pants halfway off and hiking a leg up on the side of the commode.

And even then, with my reach improved, I still had to strain and stretch to get to where I needed to be. And EVEN THEN, when I finally got in position to clean the back porch, I often came away with, uh, dirt on my hand. Which then sent me into an explosive convulsion of icky grossness as I put my pants back on one-handed and spent the next 10 minutes scrubbing the offending hand at the sink until the skin comes off.

Now that you are all sufficiently appalled, let me just say what a difference 40 pounds make. My reach around (not that kind!) abilities have vastly improved, I no longer have to do the No. 2 one-legged clean up dance, and when I wash my hands before leaving the room I do so as a matter of routine hygiene and not because I'm trying to recreate the Silkwood shower scene (look it up!).

And I don't care what happens from here on out. The fact that I no longer have to go through all this on a (sometimes twice) daily basis is the single greatest benefit of my weight loss.

Raise your hand if you agree, but only if you've washed it first.

Peace, love and antibacterial soap!

The Big Fill

Starting weight: 328 lbs.
Current weight: 288 lbs.
Amount lost: 40 lbs.

Ah, so much to talk about. But first, my sincerest and most gracious and humble apologies to the global throng of 10, nay 20, loyal followers of this here bloggy thing. I haven't written since Thanksgiving, and I deserve nothing short of a good Singapore caning, followed by a week in the hot box with a case of Ex Lax and a dozen rolls of barbed-wire toilet paper. Truthfully, I just haven't felt like writing. And when a writer doesn't feel like writing, then nothing gets written. And that's all she wrote. Am I right?

Secondly, I'm happy to report that I'm 40 pounds down and feel great. I'm walking 2 miles a day, eating healthy, and with the exception of The Christmas Day Dinner Roll Debacle (which I'll explain in excruciating detail shortly), I've been relatively incident free.

Finally, I went in Dec. 16 for The Big Fill. This is where the Band de Lap takes center stage and shakes its moneymaker. I've included handy dandy visual aids below for reference, but for those of you unlearned in the ways of the bariatric underbelly, here's a the short 4-1-1:

The Lap Band sits around the top of the stomach, just as it meets the esophagus. The inner side of the band is inflatable, like a bicycle inner tube. A tube runs from the band to a port, which is inserted under the skin and muscle and attached to the lower part of the ribcage.

With me so far? Good.

When you get a "fill," a needle is inserted through the skin and into the port, and saline is injected, filling the band's inner tube and squeezing the stomach opening, thus restricting the amount of food that can pass through the stomach at one time.

The tighter the band, the less food it takes to get full, the less food you eat, the more weight you lose. Get it?

And now, handy dandy visual aid No. 1:

Now I know what you are thinking. "Boy, there's a tornado in your belly. Get in the tub pronto and cover up with a mattress!" And yes, that was my initial reaction, too. But while there is often torrents of wind of F5 proportions swirling around in my lower intestines, the dark parts you see above is the yummy shooter of barium that Dr. Fill (heeeee) gave me in order for my insides to show up on the fluoroscope (that's a fancy word for X-ray!).

Here is handy dandy visual aid No. 2:

This is one of those medical model representations you see in the doctor's office. You know the ones that you start playing with but then it falls apart in your hand the exact moment the doctor walks in? Well this one gives you a good idea of what it looks like in my insides, except that my insides are covered with thick layers of vodka and bacon. Mmmmm. Bacon martini.

Anyhow, back to Dr. Fill. After finding the port with a sonogram (insert pregnancy joke here), the actual procedure was fairly painless; just the short prick (heee) of a needle.

The Band 'O Lap holds 10 CCs of saline. My first fill was 3 CCs. The idea is to eventually find that "sweet spot" where you can eat the foods you want and maintain once you reach your goal weight. So I imagine I will have another fill or two before it's all over.

At first I hadn't felt any difference. Like before, as long as you take small bites, eat slowly and chew well, then all remains well in Lap Band Land. However, as the Band get tighter, your margin for error shrinks.

Enter Christmas Day dinner. Like any good Texan, we blew off cooking dinner in favor of ordering takeout from Sonny Bryan's BBQ. And if you've ever eaten at Sonny Bryan's, you know about their dinner rolls. YUUUUMMMMMY! Well, the meal went well. Small portions, small bites, yadda, yadda, yadda. I even ate a dinner roll. So far, so good. But when you continue to sit and talk around a table of food, you tend (at least I do anyway) to nibble. And I nibbled on a second dinner roll.

Not. Very. Smart.

Regardless of whether I chewed well or slow or swallowed it whole, bunches of white flour bread in your belly is a no-no. White bread expands and clumps together into a big wad of WOE, and when your newly sectioned off stomach is the size of a thumb, well, you do the math. And when that newly sectioned off stomach the size of a thumb has an opening the size of a dime for food to pass through, well, do more math.

I quickly broke out in a cold sweat and had to get up and walk around with my hands on my head doing that twisty, turny torso dance that I do so well. For the next 15 minutes, I swallowed, gagged, squirmed and squiggled. Now I'm not going to compare this to childbirth. I am smart enough, having grabbed a leg during the birth of our oldest, to know that the pain involved here is not even a fraction of what you ladies go through.

But I will say this. I now have a new appreciation for the idea of something the size of a watermelon slowly and painfully pushing its way through a hole the size of a peach. It was not a pleasant experience to say the least. Much like the Pecan Pie Incident, consider it lesson learned.

Dinner rolls. Bad.

So I've made it through the Holiday Foodfest Triangle of Death, but not without some internal bumps and bruises. However, I've emerged thinner and smarter and begin the New Year wearing clothes that haven't seen the light of day in years. So yea for me!

I'm starting to see some true benefits of weight loss; things that you take for granted, and I'm re-learning that life is so much better without loads of lard weighing you down.

In the next few posts I'll talk about that. I've been pretty wide open about my experience with this so far, but this will be more out there than ever. So prepare yourselves accordingly.

Peace, love and BBQ!

The Pecan Pie Incident

Starting weight: 328 lbs
Current weight: 299
Amount lost: 29 ... uh, oops.

After four days of turkey and dressing ad nauseam, I came away from Part 2 of the three-headed holiday gluttony monster a mere three pounds heavier than I was entering. Now considering the fact that the only exercise I got on the four-day weekend was climbing up a one-rung step ladder to put up my Christmas lights, that's a moral victory if ever there was one.

Now wait a minute, my not-as-rotund-as-you-used-to-be friend, aren't you supposed to be LOSING weight with this Lap Band doodamahickey?

Why yes, yes I am. But I didn't. I'll own that.

I actually did very well at our Thanksgiving feast, loading up my plate with little portions of everything. I took small bites, chewed well and ate slowly, just like the Lap Band Instruction Manual says. But I was stung by something much more venomous than the big bad turkey day meal itself.

Leftovers.

You can prepare yourself for the big bird. It's not hard to psyche yourself up, gird up your loins and limit your intake for an hour or so as you sit surrounded by cranberries and corn casserole. In and out. One and done. That wasn't so bad, right?

But leftovers linger. Like a wet, hacking, snotty cough. Like the smell of burnt popcorn. Like a Pancho's buffet gas attack. Leftovers never go away. Hell, I think I threw away some sort of cheesy green bean dish from last Thanksgiving while cleaning out the fridge to make room for this year's leftovers.

In the end, there were more leftovers in my belly than in the fridge. Not that I gorged. I grazed all weekend. Moo. Sweet potatoes here. Pea salad there. Turkey omelets everywhere. Moooooo. So that three pounds is on me ... literally. But I can live with that, because out of it comes a very valuable, yet painful lesson learned.

We ate early on Thursday, as per family tradition, so we'd have plenty of time to clear the table and load up on Rolaids and Prilosec prior to Cowboys-Raiders kickoff. And as you know, Thanksgiving afternoon in front of the TV watching football is PRIME grazing time. So as the game was winding down, I wandered into the kitchen and snatched up a relatively small piece of pecan pie.

Maybe it was the familiar and comforting taste of room temperature gooey sweetness, or maybe I was in a hurry to get back to the game, or maybe I was racked with guilt for eating something I shouldn't and reverted to pre-Lap Band scarf mode so no one would catch me. Whatever the reason, I neither took small bites nor chewed well, and as best I can tell, yonder relatively small piece of pecan pie got relatively wedged into my relatively small stomach opening.

I didn't realize it at first, since it was just a feeling of fullness. Time to stop eating, I thought. The painful part came later after I stupidly drank a glass of water, which only served to drive the pecan pie wedge in tighter.

Now was it kicked in the crotch painful? No. But it was a might uncomfortable and stomach crampy as it radiated angrily into my lower back. I felt like I was getting gut punched by Sugar Ray Leonard and kidney punched by Marvelous Marvin Hagler all at the same time.

Laying down made it worse, so I got back up, recalling the advice of a fellow Lap Bander, and walked around with my hands on my head, doing this sort of twisty turny torso dance in hopes of dislodging the pecan pie blockage so it could move on through.

I finally landed all squirreled up on the couch in a semi-reclined position with hands on head. I looked funny as hell, but at least I didn't hurt. It all passed a while later, and the pain thankful subsided.

So let's recap: small bites, chew well, eat slowly, and when they say don't drink liquids while you are eating ... they mean it. And next Thanksgiving? Pecan Pie Smoothies. Lesson learned.

Peace, love and gooey sweetness.

Who's Bringing the Gummy Worms?

Starting weight as of 10/14: 328 lbs.
Current weight as of 11/22: 296 lbs.
Amount Lost: 32 lbs.

It's fitting that only a few weeks past the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall that I, myself, have taken a sledgehammer to my own physical, mental and emotional Iron Curtain.

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I can proudly tell Mr. Gobachev that I have torn down the 300-pound wall, metaphorically speaking. I've lost 32 pounds and currently weigh 296 lbs., which means I'm below 300 lbs. for the first time since, well, I truly can't tell you. It's been that long.

All it took was a bottle of Turbo-lax and a spoonful of intestinal parasites (I kid!).

But not only am I seeing the results on my already well-worn bathroom scale, I'm getting into shirts that I haven't been able to wear in years. And when I miss a workout because of a conflict, I really miss it. I'm starting to crave that feeling of satisfied exhaustion you get from working up a good sweat. I've had that feeling before, but now it's different. Previously I'd only get it from a morning visit to the porcelain throne after a long night at Fogo de Chao, if you know what I mean!

And all of this comes at the perfect time of the year. For me, the holidays, though festive and and full of awesomeness because I get a bunch of free stuff, have always been a time of great consternation and struggle.

I'd enter into the Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas triumvirate with the greatest of intentions, vowing to limit the sweets and eat sensibly. But then I'd exit hurriedly through the back door amidst a flurry of Almond Joy wrappers and giblet gravy, only to be found sometime before New Year's Eve in a back alley, slumped against a wall in a tryptophan haze while clinging desperately to a gnawed-clean ham bone and muttering something about The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

But this year I've looked forward to the Holiday Troika more than any other time in my life, or at least since I was a little cheat.

Reason being is that My Friend Lap Band has kindly taken all my consternation and struggle, given it the middle finger and unceremoniously sent it on its merry frickin' way. All that worry and hollow self-promise about eating right has vanished. And just like that, it was gone. Keyser Soze gone.

With My Little Lap Band in place, and a with my heat-seeking, laser-guided, thermonuclear, infrared night-time-vision-goggle focus zeroed in on eating right, overeating is simply not an option.

• Like the NCAA ever instituting a BCS playoff system
• Like Rosanne Barr ever singing the national anthem before a baseball game again
• Like me getting all giddy about going to see New Moon
• Not ... going ... to ... happen

And if it's not an option, then I just don't have to worry my pretty little head about it. Plain and simple.

Now, I did help myself to a few of the gummy worms in my girls' candy cache. But that was during my soft food phase. And gummy worms are ... soft. And I will have my share of turkey and dressing with all the trimmings. But in small bites and proper portions. And for the first time in recent memory, I will push myself away from the table, full but not miserable, satisfied but not stuffed, and happily say, "I've had enough."

Overeating will not be on the menu this holiday season. Because I've had enough.

It's either that, or I puke all over myself. And I'm saving that for the Christmas Party. Anyone for a chocolate-peppermint martini?

Peace, love and turkey legs

Bacon Good, Patience Bad

Starting weight as of 10/14: 328 lbs.
Current weight as of 11/12: 300 lbs.
Amount Lost: 28 lbs.

Just over three weeks ago, The Good Doctor shaved my belly, waved his magic laproscopic wand and left his calling card in my gut, in the form of a plastic C-clamp with the words "The Good Doctor Was Here" inscribed on it, gently wrapped around the upper part of my stomach.

Today, I stand, er, sit, on the precipice of a milestone that I haven't seen since little Suri Cruise was hatched in a Scientology petri dish. I'm a scant two pounds, technically three, away from being below 300 lbs.

Now that, kittens (BvBB!), may not seem like that big of a deal, but to someone who was mortified to reach the 250 mark, was horribly embarrassed to hit 275, was in denial at hitting 300 and was utterly humiliated and in angry disbelief at passing 325, trust me, it's a BIG ... FREAKING ... DEAL.

But for now I'm in a holding pattern at 28, and to be quite honest, I've been a little frustrated by the fact that I've been circling the tower for just over a week with no additional drop in weight.

Not that I expect it all to fall off in big chunks. I mean, 28 lbs. in 29 days is nothing to jiggle your man boobs at. Extra Large Oprah from a few years ago would sell Stedman for a handful of bacon bits if she could drop weight at that kind of rate.

But for those of you who have never experienced weight loss on a grander scale, and we're not talking 'oh gosh, this dress is too tight, I need to lose 5 lbs. let me barf up my dinner weight loss,' losing weight is like being addicted to crack, heroine, meth and my personal favorite, liquid hydrocodone, all at the same time.

Once you experience it, you have this insatiable, carnal nagging; an intense clawing, gnawing, painful desire for more, more, more, MORE. You can't get enough, and it can't happen fast enough. A least that's how I currently feel. Daddy needs a fix and needs it bad.

So before I panicked (dude, haven't you already?), I took my neck out of the noose and called my doctor, as well as one of my good friends who was banded last year, for some sage advice.

What did they tell me? Patience, young grasshoppa. Patience. Something that is in very short supply around here and seems to be on back order with no ship date in site. Patience. Try telling that to your friendly neighborhood crackhead when he's looking to score some rock.

But, I have since taken sufficient deep breaths, along with a couple deep bong hits (kidding!!!) and calmed myself, realizing that my first week back on solid foods might have something to do with it (again, burying the lead here).

Especially since the first bite of solid foods last week consisted of two words. BA ... CON! Remember what I said in my previous entry about the first bite of soft foods? Take that, turn it up to 11 and set it on fire. That's how good that little piece of pork heaven was.

But after that initial bit of bacon, it's all been by the book. I've eaten right, watched my portions and worked out every day, which means I've worked out more in the past two weeks than I have in the past two years. And I keep reminding myself that this isn't a 100-yard dash I'm running here, it's a marathon.

At least now, thanks to 28 fewer pounds, I can run 100 yards without having to stop halfway for oxygen and medical attention.

Peace, love and BA ... CON! And remember, DON'T PANIC!

Scrambled Eggs and Studio 54

Starting Weight as of 10/14: 328 lbs.

Current Weight as of 10/29: 305 lbs.

Amount Lost: 23 lbs.

So it's been two weeks of liquids, a week on The Band and my ass is 23 pounds lighter. But that's like kicking a couple rocks off of Mount Everest. It's still freakin' huge! Nonetheless, I'm on my way. And to be completely honest, so far it really hasn't been that bad. The pain was dispensed in short order by my good friend Liquid Hydrocodone, who unfortunately is no longer with us. Hell, that's been the hardest thing to handle. I swear I sat and stared at the empty bottle for 20 minutes. I liked it when things were all tingly and a nice shade of cerulean blue.

The soreness has been minimal, but the swelling is still there. And not in a good way. My belly, which is now minus the 14 staples across 5 incisions, is still as tight and bloated as it would be after a happy, pre-Band night at the Super Jumbo Bumbo Chinese Buffet.

But Dr. Follow Up says that will go away in due time. Remember, he said, with every incision on the outside, there's the same size incision on the inside that still has to heal. And that can take a while, especially when you have skin like you do that is as thick and blubbery as a humpback whale's. Maybe he didn't really say that last part.

The good news is, and I think I'm burying the lead here, I'm eating SOFT FOODS! After my visit with Dr. Follow Up the other day, I high-tailed my big tail up to Cafe Brazil and dined on the world-famous culinary pairing of two soft scrambled eggs with salsa and a cup of cream of jalapeno soup.

Think about the best meal you ever had. Add to that the most earth-shaking, teeth-rattling, breath-taking, knee-knocking, toe-curling orgasm you every had. Add to that what it felt like for the 1987-88 Newman Smith Trojans to beat J.J. Pearce on Homecoming (We sucked! It was our first district win other than R.L. Turner in I don't know how many years). Multiply all that by 42 and that only begins to get slightly close to how good those eggs tasted. I mean, they were Eddie Murphy Best Cracker I Every Ate good. The waitress stopped by three times to ask if I was done I was savoring those eggs so long. There truly was a party in my mouth. And we're talking circa-1978, Studio 54, cocaine on the dance floor and sex in the balconies type party here.

Now all the eggs, cottage cheese, fruit smoothies and yogurt I've dined on since then haven't quite set off the same amount of oral fireworks as that initial plate of huevos, but that's OK. It's nice to finally be eating real food again, even if it is soft.

Next week it's on to solid foods. Somewhere out there is an unsuspecting yet very lucky chicken fajita nacho that will soon be attending the next great Mouth Party. And he better bring some hot and slutty friends.

Peace, love and scrambled eggs!

No pain, no gain. Who cares about gain?

Starting weight before liquid diet: 328 lbs.
Weight before today's surgery: 317 lbs.
Weight lifted off my shoulders: Immeasurable

I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed I was abducted by aliens and they stuck probes in me and implanted a device that gave me unparalleled superpowers. Behold I am ....

LAP BAND MAN!

Maybe my last dose of pain meds was a bit on the heavy side.

So it's done. I officially have a foreign object locked in around my gullet. Let the small bites and endless mastication begin. And that's mastication. Not that other word.

As far as I can tell, things went about as ducky as could be. In at 5:30 a.m., out by noon. I've gone to dry cleaners and photomats that didn't work that fast.

And I'm feeling just fine, thank you for asking. **PAUSE: It's time for my next dose of pain meds. So if things get a little psychedelic after this, you'll know why. Ah, all better now. Everything's a pretty shade of blue. **

The routine for the next few days is quite strict. I have to drink 1 ounce of something (water, juice, soup, bloody mary, you know, all the standard liquids) every 15 minutes, except when sleeping of course. I was never quite able to master the eat while you sleep technique, so unfortunately I can't apply that to liquids. This is to make sure that I stay hydrated and get all my nutrients. It's also to make sure that I spend a good part of my day in the bathroom.

As for medication, I'm wearing, quite literally, a medicine ball around my neck in a junior-sized fanny pack. This is delivering pain meds directly to the incision sites so I won't be screaming in pain like a little sissy baby.

On top of that, I have a rather large bottle of possibly the greatest invention known to mankind ever: liquid hydrocodone. G-O-L-D! And for anyone of you who has every been on pain meds for any length of time, you know that while I will be spending half my day in the bathroom, it won't be for No. 2. Sorry, TMI.

And if I'm not hooked up to enough stuff already, I have to wear these circulation socks for the next week when I sleep. These contraptions strap to my feet and and periodically inflate/deflate to help with circulation in my legs so I won't throw a clot. Well with your bad knee, Ed, you shouldn't throw anybody. It's true.

So I'm home and feel good. Glad it's over and starting to healing. But now it's time to go. I have to go take a dose so something or other.

Peace, love and pain meds.

Give me a P! Give Me Another P! And another, and another, and another ...

Current Weight: 325 (scale was actually way off yesterday, in a good way for once)
Current Wait: 6 days

Liquid Diet (LD) Day 1 is in the books. That sloshing sound you hear is not the ocean, toilet or washing machine. That's me. I drank so much orange juice yesterday that I now have a MEDIUM PULP sticker affixed to the side of my head.

There is a path worn from the ballroom to the bathroom on the second floor of the Crowne Plaza in Addison. If restrooms gave out frequent flyer miles, I'd be Platinum three times over. I can describe in intricate and exacting detail the pattern and coloring of the granite wall, and truthfully tell you that there is a small chunk missing from said granite wall just above and slightly to the left of the plumbing fixture at the third urinal from the left.

I think you get the point. I visited the facilities 10 times in an 8 hour period. While I'm sure that's not any sort of record, I've known pregnant women who could hold their water better than I could yesterday.

And props to Steve Crescenzo for putting up with my girly bladder. Not only was his Creative Communications seminar amazing, Steve's irreverent style and Chi-Town delivery made for a quite an entertaining day. I was inspired, energized and a tad bit turned on (was that out loud?). Check out his fine work at http://www.corporatehallucinations.com/. This dude's got mad skills. And I'm not just saying that because I hope that someday he will mention my blog while plying his fine craft across North America. No really. I'm not.

So as expected, the day was filled with free food at every turn. Pastries and fruit in the morning. Italian buffet for lunch. Caramel popcorn and movie candy in the afternoon.

At lunch I wandered down to the hotel restaurant to see what kind of soup was on the menu. Texas Chili or Beef and Barley. So naturally I took the third option, a second helping of Protein drink. But then I told the catering manager about my situation, and he graciously brought me a piping hot and incredibly tasty cup of beef and barley soup, minus all the chunky beef and barley parts. Thank you Mr. Catering Manager Man. You made my day.

To be honest, LD Day 1 was not as hard as I thought it would be. Don't get me wrong, it was (literally) no picnic either. What I quickly learned is how much you can take food for granted. Eating is so ingrained in your life that you just don't realize how automatic and instinctual it is.

As I was taking my girls to school yesterday, The Oldest handed me her apple while she climbed in and buckled up. Without thinking I took a bite, then not-so casually spit it out on the lawn. After school The Youngest gave me her half-eaten package of peanut butter crackers, and I eagerly fished one out, then not-so-eagerly put it right back. Even as I was fixing their dinner, I had to fight the urge to lick the spoon.

It's like the old saying goes, give a Fat Man a burger, and he'll ask you for another. Take the Fat Man's burger away, and he'll curl up in the fetal position on the floor and cry for his Mommy.

I think that's how it goes. I'll figure it out later. Right now I gotta pee.

The Day My Girth Stood Still

Current weight: 338 lbs.
Current Wait: 7 days.

On April 27 I published my first entry on The Fat Guy in the Third Row, which one friend suggested I should change to the more humorous, The Fat Guy in the Third AND Fourth Row. I really wish I had thought of that. That's some funny shit right there.

In that first missive I threw my hat into the Weight Loss Surgery octagon and challenged my outer Fat Man to a no-holds-barred, winner-take-all, pinfalls-count-anywhere Texas Lap Band Steel Cage Death Match, with The Good Doctor as the special guest referee.

Along the way I've tried to detail my perilous journey using only my love of the written word and warped sense of humor as my trusted and loyal sherpas. And up until now, it's all been theory, supposition, conjecture, here say, uneducated guessing and a healthy dose of hyperbole. Basically, it's been all talk and no action. All smoke and no fire. All hat and no cattle.

Today, in keeping with the farm animal reference from above, it's time to kick this pig. Today, in similar keeping to the mountain climbing reference also from above, I begin my final, week-long push toward the summit; the apex that is Surgery Day. This final leg is the hardest; a test usually reserved only for hardened criminals, severe IBS cases and people with broken jaws.

Yes. It's what you think it is. The liquid diet.

Liquid Diet? Hey, isn't that what got me into this corpulent conundrum in the first place? Beer. It does a body good, right?

No more, my frothy, cold-filtered friend. Your hops and barley are not longer welcome around here. Instead, this week it's all about broth, fruit juices, protein supplements and drinkable yogurt. Or as my instructions say, "anything that pours without solid food matter." YUMMY! Seems it's needed to help shrink the liver prior to gut cuttin' time. Hell, it's the least I can do. I've kicked the crap out of my liver for a lotta years. 'Bout time it gets a little rest.

So everything I've gone through to this point, all the hoops, all the doctors, all the fat people, and for what? Today, on the first day of my liquid diet, I get to attend a communications seminar, which, of course, features free breakfast, free lunch, and all the free sodas and cookies you can eat during the morning and afternoon breaks. You know, all the things that make attending these kind of seminars almost bearable. Thanks Bossman, your timing is impeccable. You'll be getting some day-old pastries, a boxed lunch and a shirt full of mini-Sprites and oatmeal cookies for your troubles.

But that is not all. Oh, no. That is not all. Since it would be my final bites of anything resembling solid food for the next four weeks, I put a lot of thought into my final meal. Grilled Parmesan prawns with garlic butter, roasted new potatoes and a glass or two of my favorite Merlot.

The Calendar Gods, however, had other plans, choosing to double-book last night's grand finale with National Night Out. So instead of spending a romantic night with The Wife enjoying mouth-watering shrimp, tender rosemary potatoes and a full-bodied red with earthy tones and subtle finish, I spent my might choking down chili dogs, chips and sweet tea while shooting the shit with my neighbors.

How's that for being born under a bad sign. Anyone for shrimp and potato smoothies?

What It's Really All About

Current weight: Not sure. But I feel fatter than normal. But then again, when don't I.

So we're just about two weeks away from the big day, and it can't get here soon enough. Any normal-brained, jolly ol' fat person wouldn't be as excited about surgery day as a 6-year-old waking up at the butt crack of dawn and running into the living room to see what another jolly ol' fat person had dropped off the night before.

But for me it's the middle of December, the tree is up, the lights have been strung and the spiked eggnog is flowing. Because come Oct. 21, I'll be saying hola to one jolly ol' fat man and adi-freakin'-os to another. And as the day draws nigh, I've started to ponder the reasons why I'm willing to put myself and my family through all of this financial, emotional and gastrointestinal rigmarole.

There are obvious reason. Health, family, the ability to buy clothes at any place other than Thornton Mellon's Tall and Fat. You know, the important stuff.

There are other reasons. Reasons that don't seem like much to Mr. and Mrs. I Never Have a Problem Finding My Size. But to Mr. and Mrs. Fat Around the Middle America, these reasons are what it's really all about.

It's about not feeling like your skin is stretched as tight as Roseanne Barr's leopard-print thong.

It's about not having a stain on EVERY nice shirt you own because the food that would normally drop onto the napkin in your lap instead splats onto the big belly that is parked directly between your mouth and said napkin in said lap.

It's about not having to ask for a table after you've first been seated in a booth and found out that you can't sit in the booth without causing internal bleeding.

It's about not having to see the fake-smile, pitiful look on the face of the pretty, still in high school hostess whom you've just asked to re-seat you at a table.

It's about not smiling and patting the sweet little girl on the head after she points at your belly and asks, "Is there a baby in there?"

It's about not sitting in a meeting unaware that the fifth button on your shirt has popped loose because it could no longer withstand the strain its been under.

It's about not standing up in front of a group unaware that your shirt tail has come untucked because there simply isn't enough material to cover your belly AND leave enough shirt tail to stay tucked in.

It's about not getting those icky looks from friends and co-workers when you raise your arms above your head for some reason and they see that the pits of your shirt are soaked through to the point that even a Sham-Wow would have a hard time sopping it all up.

It's about not getting sweaty and out of breath from any of the following: tying your shoes, taking a dump, getting the mail, getting the newspaper, reading the mail, reading the newspaper, sitting down on the ground, getting up off the ground, getting in bed, out of bed or changing the sheets on the bed.

It's about not having to explain to your friends who graciously asked you and your wife over for dinner and drinks that you just broke their toilet seat.

It's about no longer being the guy everyone at work brings the extra brownie, cookie or lunch leftovers to.

It's about not avoiding bending over for any reason whatsoever. Not even if means letting a $20 you dropped flutter away on the lightest of breezes.

It's about not deciding against chasing after the $20 that is fluttering away in the lightest of breezes because there is no way you could catch up to it, despite the fact that it's fluttering away on the lightest of breezes.

It's about not almost giving yourself a hernia because you would rather bust a gut - literally - than ask the flight attendant for the seat belt extender.

It's about not having to wonder if the rickety old wood chair you are sitting on is going to collapse under the weight, since it's happened to you twice before. On the same night.

It's about not having executive leadership take a thinner, better dressed, more put-together person more seriously than the fatter, sloppier, sweatier you.

It's about not walking into a bar and knowing that no chick would give you a second glance or even the time of day if you were to go up and say hello. Not that I would or want to, since the one woman that matters in this world gives me both a second glance and the time of day. But still.

It's about not experiencing the horrible, self loathing feelings the nano-second after realizing that the fifth button popped loose, or that the shirt tail is untucked, or that the pits are soaked through, or that you can't fit into the booth, or that the hot chick at the end of the bar whom you smiled and winked at is not only giggling at you but is now telling her friends next to her that the fat guy who just walked in the door just smiled and winked at her.

Don't take any of this the wrong way. I'm not bitter about all the above. Ok, maybe a little. But I'm the one who drew up the blueprints, built and tirelessly maintained my tool shed. I have no one to blame but myself.

But finally, for once in my fat life, enough is enough. Now I'm not naive. I realize that not all of this will change once I'm a lean, mean Lap Band machine. I mean, who am I kidding? I'm still going to sweat - I have very active glands (Thanks mom!). And I'm still going to get stains on my nice shirts - that's just clumsy ol' me.

But the next time you see a $20 fluttering by on the lightest of breezes, that'll be my skinny ass chasing after it.

Peace, love and leopard-print thongs!

Into the Belly of the Beast

Current weight: 335 (I've kinda let myself go. I'm so ashamed.)
Current wait: 29 days and counting

So I'm a month away from the big day, the day I say FU to F-A-T, and I'm feeling pretty good about myself right about now.

It has nothing to do with the six pieces of bacon I had for breakfast. And no, I have not suddenly had a self realization about my body image issues after spending the entire night standing in front of a mirror naked chanting "I love my fat folds" over and over again.

Why then, my bellyrific buddy are you so giddy, you ask. Is Denny's giving out a free stack of pancakes with every order of Moons Over My-Hammy? Did Ben and Jerry's just come out with a fat-free, calorie-free cheeseburger flavored ice cream called "Cheeseburger in Paradise?" Did Vogue just declare fat, sweaty and out of breath the new black?

No, friends, none of the above. But those are all good guesses.

Last week I spat in the face of the school yard bully. I hurled a rock skyward with my trusty slingshot. I donned my best Rocky Balboa getup and stepped into the ring with Apollo Creed - The Count of Mighty-fisto! Yes, that's right. I dared to question the Insurance Industrial Complex.

What?? You'll get murdered to death! At best you'd be left bleeding profusely while laying in a variety of your own bodily fluids.

Yes, I knew I was taking my life into my own hands a few days ago when I called the AETNA Fat Police to question some recent insurance charges. But guess what? I'm still standing. In fact, I'm standing here victorious, proudly holding high one of the North American Tag Team championship belts.

Dramatics, hysteria and hyperbole aside, lemme 'splain.

I recently got an Explanation of Benefits for my EGD procedure in July. On said EOB, the charges from the facility where I got my gut checked were billed out at 60 percent, meaning the number listed under the Total Patient Responsibility was a whopping $6,300.

W ... T ... F?

After peeling myself off the ceiling and putting my eyeballs back into their sockets, I placed a rapidly frantic call to AETNA to ask what is the BFD? Seems that the facility is out-of-network (thus the 60 and not 90 percent) and nobody bothered to tell this guy.

I entered into this thing with the understanding that The Good Doctor was in-network and all of this was going to be covered at 90 percent up to $1,000 maximum. Meaning, my total out-of-pocket for this here deal would be no more than a cool grand.

But Holy Fat Farm, Batman. Sixty-three hundred dollars? That queers the deal right there. If I'd have known that, I would have been right back to eating rice cakes and lettuce wraps because that particular portion of bodily waste ain't gonna soar gracefully through the air.

Now, this is the same facility where I'm scheduled to have my surgery, so naturally, I asked if the upcoming procedure is only going to be covered at 60 percent. No, the nice lady said, this facility has been approved as "in-network" for this procedure and will bill at 90 percent.

Again, say it with me now, W ... T ... F?

That makes no sense, I argued, that this facility is first out-of-network for a procedure that The Good Doctor ordered, but later approved as in-network for the larger procedure.

Well about 45 minutes and 4 or 5 transfers later, I ended up on the phone with a bigwig at the facility. After calmly (which took a bit of doing on my part) explaining my dilemma, she graciously apologized and said not to worry, that I would not be held responsible for the charges and to let her know if I get any bills stating otherwise. She even gave me her cell phone number.

After this time picking myself up off the floor and snapping my dropped jaw back into place, I thanked her, hung up the phone and stood there dazed for a second. Then I did what a crowd of anxious onlookers would have done had they been listening in for the duration. I gave myself a slow-clap ovation!

Now, regardless (or irregardless) the reason, be it someone made a mistake or the facility decided to eat the costs knowing good and well that on the horizon they were going to get paid, and paid well, for my upcoming procedure (I'm guessing the latter), I still declared myself Supreme Insurance Fighting Heavyweight Champion of the World.

Which is fine until I have to get the championship belt re-sized in about a year.

Peace, Love and Nutter Butters.

Save the Date

Current wait: 48 days.

Oct. 21 is the day.

The countdown has started. The thin man buried under layers of fat globules inside me has just reached over and smacked the snooze button. He's got a little bit longer to sleep, but soon he'll be getting his skinny ass up and getting dressed because it is on like Donkey Kong. The primordial forces have started to stir.

Or maybe that's just the bean burrito I had last night. (Badda Bing!) Either way, my final visit to The Good Doctor this week yielded what I've been working toward for 4 months - the beginning of The Fat Man's Farewell Tour.

John Bender said it best: "There are two kinds of fat people: there's fat people that were born to be fat, and there's fat people that were once thin but became fat ... so when you look at 'em you can sorta see that thin person inside."

If you look at me closely, you can see that thin person, though some people often mistake that for my left leg. (Badda Bing!) And that constant gurgling in my gut that I have for years mistaken as something akin to the Barnett Shale natural gas field is just the Thin Man trying to tell me via some sort of weird gaseous Morse code that he wants the hell out! Patience my skinny little friend, your time is drawing nigh.

As visits go, this one was one of the most pleasant. I first shared space with Dr. Follow Up, appropriately named since he will be the one I meet with going forward after the surgery, hence the name, Dr. Follow Up (clever, I know).

He asked me a few questions, and I laid upon him all the knowledge and learning I had regarding this whole deal, which apparently surprised him. "I wish everyone that came in here had the same attitude and had done as much research and put as much thought into it that you have. You are a breath of fresh air."

Now, anyone that knows me and/or has been around me after a healthy stay at Pancho's knows that the words "fresh air" are hardly, if ever, used to describe me. (Badda Bing again! I'm on a roll!).

But I've done my due diligence on this thing. I've sussed it all out. I've been on it like a school of pissed off piranha on a bucket of fresh chum. My sack is on the line here, so I made sure I dotted and crossed.

Nonetheless, that was nice to hear from Dr. Follow Up. Evidently the patient he saw previously didn't have the same attitude and is madder than hell that she has to have a "revision" on her band. And of course, she is blaming it on Dr. Follow Up for not impressing upon her strong enough the importance of not eating in the same ravenous and voracious manner that she did pre-Lap band. Good luck with all that lady.

After bidding adieu to Dr. Follow Up, I actually, physically, live and in person had an audience with the one and only Good Doctor himself for a short discussion about the procedure, and again what to expect before, during and after. And the best part? There was NO forward attack from the Gastric Bypass infantry. I know ... knock me over with a feather.

So here I am, happy as a little girl. I've circled Oct. 21 on the calendar with a big red marker; counting the days and helping The Fat Man pack his shit so he can carry his large ass down the road for good. So long, big man, and thanks for all the fish.