Yep, there's a title here, I just seem to have misplaced it....

So to bring you up to speed on our valiant hero:

My drinking is mostly nonexistent now. And by nonexistent I mean treated as if it were a child one has supported for years, only to find out that some other male fathered it. You choose to let it go, but as you've developed parental urgings regarding it, you visit cordially.....but infrequently. In its place I have substituted my new 'child,' exercise. I rejoined (after something like a five year absence) 24 Hour Fitness at the same damn club in Federal Way. Matter of fact, when I last had a current membership there the Toys R Us that I used to work at across the parking lot was still open. I've entertained several thoughts of trying to entice some adventurous investors into funding my idea of turning that into a music venue......yeah, good fucking luck with that, eh?

So.....exercise. Cardio seems to be no problem for me, which is amazing considering I've not done anything considered exercise in years, kick in the fact that I'm about 20-25 lbs overweight, asthmatic, and I have smoked regularly for....going on twelve years now. Which reminds me, today (technically) being Monday, I only have 374 days left to beat the 27 year curse! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, since I were a lad and Kurt Cobain chose to spray his frappe'd brain matter on the group of musicians that died at the tender age of 27 [Jimi Hendrix, Mama Cass, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison (who some forget about!), and I'm gonna go ahead and add Ron "Pigpen" McKernan, Mia Zapata, Jean-Michel Basquiat (since yes, he did form a band), Kristen Pfaff, and Robert Johnson], I've always been nervous about the possibility of joining that club. Even more so now that I have a wife and kid to provide for. Anyway, I digress.....so cardio has been easy. Weight training, however, has left me with a few dead-limb days at work, most notably the other day when the girl at work who has a penchant for hitting me in the arm brings up to my boss that she is eschewing the practice temporarily. Before she gets to the reason why, my boss chooses to volunteer his own punch - right in my overworked tricep/bicep region. My yelp of pain is reportedly heard in the checkstands - downstairs, and a good three hundred feet away. I fucking hate the recovery period and am yearning for the days where I heal up overnight. For the record, I have vowed to lose 20 lbs by July 1st.

Those of you who have been adventurous enough to read this far will now be exposed to something that rarely sees the light of day: rap lyrics.....that I have written. Some of you are somewhat aware of the fact that I think I'm pretty fucking good at riding the beat (such as The Ska Song lyrics and the performance of "Forgot about Dre" during a concert at HIGFOM at the Western Washington University campus circa 2001), so this will not be much of a surprise to you. To the rest of you, think what you will. My brain forced me to remember a somewhat catchy couplet on my way home tonight that I turned into a quick rhyme:

Water is the best drink I've ever had
Next to five shots of tequila, two beers, and I'm sad
To say that I'll be never clean
Like Noxzema mixed with motor oil and benzoprene
The worst part is when it's forced
Like driving a one-twenty horsepower racing a Porsche
There's no way you'll ever make it
So I take it in stride just like a cancer patient
Who's only got three weeks
Live it in style, say it's worthwhile, and kiss the cheek
Of the next one taking your place
Kinda like bringing in a pinch runner in the rat race
We're sliding out the next opponent
To bust you in the eye, just say goodbye and fast-forward
Flaming out in the fifth lap, thinking
"Why in the fuck didn't I ever stop drinking?"
Screaming out in a padded room, too late
To contemplate your place while you sit and masturbate
To thoughts of the wife and life you used to have
And now you're deemed too dangerous to even have a pad
Of paper cause they're thinking you might attempt
To slice yourself across the throat and make yourself exempt
Don't even think about the possibility of a pen
Cause God forbid you'd put the two together and then
Author something malicious, fictitious though it may be
Sanity is the edge of the knife that makes you breathe
A little shorter, gave no quarter, doomed to stay inside
And face all of the demons that you've ran from all your life.

Whee! Disclaimer: the author claims no autobiographical context to these lyrics, and any reference (or similarity) to any persons, fictional or living, is purely coincidental.

K bye!