My last post seemed to imply that I never listen to music, or at least you may have inferred that from the statement I made about never listening to music. If you’ve been following along (and I know you haven’t, nobody actually reads this, except you, and just this once), you’ll know that I recently found myself in the sudden and dire predicament of being a big fat guy. So, when I’m not turning (the same 3) fresh vegetables (every time) and great slabs of meat into low-karb meisterwerks, I’m down at the YMCA* working out with my damn iPod.

If nothing else, the iPod is a reason I can never truly hate Apple Inc. I tell you, when you’re in the zone on the elliptical fitness machine, and Kim Shattuck’s screaming in your damn ear, it all make sense. McDonald’s should buy stock in Apple—every super-size is a potential future iPod sale to some big piggy trying to make the exercise bike friendlier.

*I heard it’s fun to stay there.

And speaking of Apple, apparently they also make computers, as well as phones and music players. If you have one, you can make this site hurt your eyes less by the key combination Apple+Option+Control+8. I neither know nor care whether Windows has a similar feature.

Speaking of Fats Waller (who apparently stayed Fat because he found exercise boring, without being able to listen to music while he used the Stairmaster), I just heard that song, and, well, it’s a little cleverer than The Damned. But that’s not Damning the Damned with faint praise, it’s still the Best Damned Love Song to come out of England’s first wave of punk.

The best way to judge a punk rock bass player is by the length of his strap. Or any bass player, for that matter. those “bow-tie bass” types, with the really short straps and too many notes, they’ve obviously gone to school way too long to make good music.

Speaking of music, I was just listening to some, which I almost never do unless I’m being paid to learn something*, and you know what? The Damned’s “Love Song” has just that kind of punk rock bass that I do treasure so dearly… I don’t even know if it’s Captain Sensible or Algae whatshisname or even Lemmy Kilmeister, but sheet, bro, that sounds like a long-ass strap. I mean after the false intro, right after the “hey man, what’s happening?”

Maybe that song’s not “punk” enough for you. Try listening to it with a safety pin in your eye; works for me. I also love the way it lyrically references Fats Waller’s charming “Porter’s Love Song To A Chambermaid” which I used to sing to very old people in very expensive restaurants.

Go listen to some music kids! It’s great (in small doses)!

Both songs mentioned are buried somewhere in this finetune playlist:

*I believe this may be related to the curious mental block that restricts me from playing guitar off the clock. Ever. I’m nearly positive I used to enjoy it a great deal…

It’s not Good News when you can’t wear your “fat pants” without a belt. It’s just Very Bad News when you can.

One thing’s for sure. I have a lot more inertia than I used to. So, watch out, step aside, etc.

There is good news, though. Once you’ve been puffy for a while, people around you start to mistake “better” for “good”; as in: “you look so goo-ood” (when you lost 3 pounds). What they really mean is you look “better” as in “not as bad”.

My theory is that anybody can look “good” at, say, 300lbs. – so long as you do 6 months or so at 450. An enterprising fatty might even fake it: wear several pillows under big baggy clothes, tight collars that push your neck flab up into view more prominently, etc. Folks will fall all over themselves telling you how great you look the day you show up without the extra padding.

Me, I’m almost done with the experiment. My heart’s not in it anymore. I was curious to see how big I would get (especially comical was my extremely fat-phobic wife’s silent agony) but it feels too awful. My knee gave out, my wardrobe gave up, and I never even cracked 200 (by the bathroom scale, which I always found to be kindest). Also, I’ve tasted some results from dieting and exercise, and now I’m obsessed with trying to recapture some of the glory of my youth. My hopelessness, which had served me so well at the buffet, is all but gone, as I redirect my obsession to counting carbs and minutes on the elliptical machine.

I guess I’ll move onto fretting about my hairline next. And I’m going to be 40. Well, not soon, but I will, someday.