Dammit.  I’m in the breakfast aisle in Publix, and I have no idea what the hell is good for me.   I’m trying to eat more healthfully, but once I’m in a grocery store, I’m a complete tool.  And reading the ingredients is no help, because for some reason it is always in Russian or French or some damn language that I can’t decipher.  Well, I did once manage to memorize that high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) means Instant Death (ID).  If you ingest it, you actually collapse right there at the table.  At least, that’s what my sister Lori thinks.

Since I can’t afford a personal nutritionist, Lori serves that function, albeit by phone.  She lives in northeast Ohio, where her husband Doug hunts and fishes for all of their meat and she tends to a garden for all of their vegetables.  They also scour the Internet daily for the latest conspiracy theories, like how HFCS is an example of big corporations trying to kill us. 

There’s not a whole lot to do in northeast Ohio.

Nutty theories aside, Lori is a good resource for all things diet, so she’s gotten used to phones calls like this from me:

Ring!  Ring!

Doug:  “Lori, answer it!”

Lori:  “I’m doing the dishes!  Why don’t YOU answer it?”

Doug:  “I can’t hear you over that phone ringing!  Answer it!”

Lori:  (drying off her hands to answer it) “Damn lazy ass.”  (Into phone) “Hello?”

Me, yelling over the sound of a loud bar at Happy Hour:  “IS RANCH DRESSING LOW CARB?!?”

Lori:  (Annoyed and sighing) “As long as you don’t go overb—”

Me, to someone else:  “Dude, shut the hell up.  I’m talking to my sister.  Just because I don’t want to be a lard ass like you doesn’t make me a homo.  Now get me a beer, Fat Boy.” (Into phone)  “What was that, Lori?”

Lori:  “If you’ll eat it you’ll die”.

Me:  “Thanks!” (click)

She actually usually gives me accurate information, but I guess over the years she’s grown a little tired of administering this free service.  Which is why I’m standing here right now trying to figure out which hot cereal will lower my cholesterol and which ones will assassinate me.

I give up.  I’ve been staring at this stupid shelf for ten minutes now.  It’s time to call my nutritionist.

Ring!  Ring!

Lori:  “Areyoubleeding?”

Me:  “Uh, what?  No!”

Lori:  “Ihaveguestsseeyoulater!”

Me:  “Wait!  Didn’t you say sucralose is the same thing as HFCS?”

Lori:  “Noyouidiotbutit’sbaddon’tbuyitloveyoubyebye!”  (Click)

Well, I guess I learned two things: One, don’t buy anything with sucralose.  And two, when it comes to nutritionists, you get what you pay for.

My mother gets every Thursday off from work.  She’s employed by the State of Florida, and some time ago they went to four 10-hour-a-day work weeks.  In order to avoid a lot of office infighting, everyone was given the choice of having a free Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.  Nobody was allowed to choose Monday or Friday, because everybody was going to want a Monday or Friday.

“But Joe,” you’re surely saying.  “Certainly government employees are grown adults and can fairly agree on a way to assign who gets Mondays and Fridays off, right?”

Sure, and I just came home from a date with Keira Knightley.  Government employees argue over everything.  I worked for the government for two years, and if you “borrowed” someone’s stapler, you were risking getting shot.  I can only imagine the riots that would ensue over trying to get the day you actually want off of work.

“But Joe, couldn’t they use seniority or—AAAUGGHHHH!  MY EYES!  MY EYES!!”

I apologize for using mace on you, but if you keep interrupting, I’ll never get this damn blog finished.  Besides, the point of this essay isn’t shitty government employment; it’s the fact that my mother was off of work last Thursday, so she, my father (who’s retired) and I met for lunch at Olive Garden.

I hate to admit this, but I am a functional idiot when it comes to food.  I don’t know what half the items are on any decent restaurant’s menu.  The problem is exacerbated when the restaurant is a chain that supposedly makes food from a different country, because the shitheads in marketing are always going to make the dishes sound as “international” as possible.  This is to convince you, the ordinary ignorant fat-ass American, that you are indeed spending your hard-earned money well.  You see, you might not want to pay more than six dollars for “Baked Chicken Next to Vegetables”.  But hey, ten bucks for “Venetian Apricot Chicken”?  Sounds like a bargain!

To make things further complicated, I’m on a low-carb diet.  That means I can’t have pasta. 

Or tomato sauce. 

In an Italian restaurant.   

So, I have no idea what anything is, but I was secure in the knowledge that 95% of their food could possibly kill me.  That’s why, when the server came, I just blindly pointed to a random item on the menu:

Server:  “And what will you be having today, sir?”

Me:  (Pointing randomly) “I would like this.”

Server:  “You would like ‘Copyright Olive Garden 2008’?”

Me:  “And please hold the tomato sauce.”

Actually, at her suggestion, I ended up ordering the Venetian Apricot chicken, which tasted like (surprise!) chicken.  I tasted neither anything Venetian nor anything apricot about it.  I did detect a hint of Swanson’s Microwave Dinner, though.  At least my parents seemed to enjoy their meals.

One last anecdote before I end this pointless essay.  Before eating my non-Venetian non-Apricot chicken, I excused myself to use the restroom and wash my hands.  The first thing I said to myself upon entering it was, “wow, do Italians not have urinals in their restrooms?”

I’ll let you figure out what mistake I made and why I was apologizing profusely to several people about two minutes later.

1. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I last blogged.  MARCH!  I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long in between posts.  Needless to say*, I’ve had a very trying two months.  Some of the items here will be interesting, some will be funny, and some will be decidedly unfunny. 

*But notice I say it anyway.

2. I can’t wait until I’m a crotchety old man, somehow bitching to my grandkids about how rough I had it.  “When I was a child, we didn’t have 1000 channels on TV!  We only had 112!  We only had one HBO…but we dealt with it.  Because we were tougher back then.  We were—hey!  Where are you going?!?”

3. In my last blog, I linked to an article in MSNBC that stated that Asians who suffer from Asian Blush Syndrome when they drink (i.e. me) have a 6-10 times greater chance of getting esophageal cancer in their lifetime.  I mulled that over for a week and then embarked on Alcohol Free April.  I lived my life as I normally would; going to bars, parties, and hanging out at friends’ houses, all while completely stone sober, just to see what it was like.  The result: not too bad.  I’ve discovered I can have fun without it.  Only two things suck about it:

  1. I seem to get sleepy and ready to go home earlier than I used to.

  2. I can no longer blame my dorky-ass behavior on drinking.

Anyway, after April was over, I kept it up with a few exceptions.  I had a margarita on Cinco de Mayo, and I had three beers last Saturday when meeting up with an old friend I hadn’t seen in probably six years.  I’m not going complete teetotaler, but I am greatly reducing the amount I imbibe.

4.  I’m performing this Sunday night at Reserve in Fort Myers, and the headliner is pushing me to go 30 full minutes.  I’ve never gone past fifteen before.  I’ve written a lot of new material, but obviously I never know if it sucks or not until I perform it.  It should be interesting.  If you’re local, you should come out.  What the hell else do you have to do on a Sunday?  There’s no cover, no drink minimum, and you’ll get oral from me.*

*As in talking.  You know, jokes?  You pervert.

5.  On April 13^th, I woke up and said to myself, “Self, you’ve already quit alcohol.  What can you do to make your life even more miserable?”  So I quit caffeine and went on a low carb diet.  If you’ve never done low carb, let me tell you: that first week is pure hell.  Your body has a natural addiction to carbs because it’s the first and easiest fuel for your body to process into energy.  So when you deprive your body of them, the symptoms are like withdrawal from Vicodin.* 

*Not that I know anything about that.

However, after that week, low carb is basically a piece of cake.  I lost ten pounds in three weeks.  I’ve only lost one more pound in the last two, but I seem to remember getting stuck at one weight for a while the only other time I successfully did low carb.  Plus, I’m doing a hell of a lot of bike riding and weightlifting, so I know I’m getting in better shape regardless of what the scale says.  I am patient and will stick to it for a long while; in fact, I’m changing my eating habits permanently. 

6.  Have you ever noticed that no matter what time of year you get a cold, some jackass tells you, “Oh, it’s going around.”  Every single time.  No one ever says, “What the hell are you talking about?  No one else has a cold right now!  It’s you!  You’re starting that shit!”

7.  By the way, I have a question: Is MySpace dying?  It seems quiet here.  My favorite bloggers hardly write anymore.  I’ve been getting fewer comments, messages, etc.  Even the bulletins are sparser.  I’m wondering if MySpace’s archaic website architecture is starting to catch up with it.  It seems like every “new feature” of this site is a direct rip-off of facebook, only more poorly executed.  And speaking of facebook, my account over there is blowing up.  I had to turn off phone notifications because my damn BlackBerry was buzzing me every 45 seconds.*

*No, I’m not bragging.  Okay, maybe a little.

It would be a shame if MySpace goes the way of Friendster, because I really do (did?) enjoy this place, and the creativity it encourages.  Unlike facebook’s stale profile pages, MySpace allows you to actually manipulate how you express yourself.  And, of course, there are actual blogs.  AND, you can make friends on here, where facebook is more geared towards networking with friends you already have.

However, facebook has flown by MySpace in number of active user accounts.  If facebook ever comes out with blogs and profile customization, you can stick a fork in MySpace.

8. I also have a Twitter account.  You can follow me here.  But let me say for the record: Twitter bores the hell out of me.  And 140 characters just aren’t enough.  I think it’s a fad.

9.  One advantage facebook definitely has over MySpace: fewer fake accounts.  Fake accounts are a fact of life in MySpace.  I am loath to admit it, but I’ve been duped three times now.  I must have no sense of pattern recognition.  I’m like an idiot rat that keeps pressing the lever that electrocutes it.

Anyway, I’ve noticed one thing in common with the girls who I know (and a few I suspect) are fake profiles: They’ll all do MySpace and even Twitter, but they all stay the hell away from facebook.  I’m thinking that facebook’s requirement of more information disclosure spooks them all out. 

10. This last item is a big part of why I haven’t written in so long.  Over the course of two weeks, two very close friends of mine lost their lives in entirely separate incidents.  They were both right about my age, both have May birthdays, both had a lot going for them in life, and both of their deaths were completely unexpected. 

And, oddly enough, I am apparently the only friend they had in common, as I was the only person who attended both funerals. 

Anyway, it doesn’t seem right to eulogize them in an item in a shitty blog like this.  I’ll probably post a separate dedication to them another time.  For now, just know that it’s been kind of tough on me, more so on their families, and it’s really had me thinking about what the hell I’m doing with the rest of my life.

R.I.P. Martha Feeney (May 15^th, 1970 – April 23^rd, 2009)

R.I.P. Steve Adkins (May 26^th, 1971 – May 5^th, 2009)

© 2009, Joseph Simmons

This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Electronic or print reproduction, adaptation, or distribution without permission is prohibited. Ordinary links to this blog at http://blog.myspace.com/officialslowjoe may be posted or distributed without written permission.
 

I know what you’re thinking:  Oh, great.  Another blog by that jackass Slow Joe.  Hasn’t he blogged enough lately?  Doesn’t he realize that we already know he’s a shaggy-haired, no-talent-having, young-women-stalking, comedian-wannabe pervert?

First off, that’s an out-and-out lie: I do NOT have shaggy hair.  Secondly, I assure you this will be a short blog, because, as has been the case for seemingly the last three goddamn months, I am fighting a cold and need to get some sleep.

I have no earthly idea why I keep getting sick.  I have to be setting some kind of world record.  And no matter which of the two generally accepted methods I choose to get rid of the cold, it never really works:

Method One: Aggressive Care

1. As soon as I feel symptoms, I start swallowing down everything anyone tells me to, such as Airborne, Vitamin C, Zinc lozenges, valium, ecstasy, etc.

2. I stop working, go home, spend most of my time in bed, I cancel all plans with my friends.

3. My friends call me a big fat vagina.
 

Method Two: Fight Through it and Beat it With My Mind

1. As soon as I feel symptoms, I start telling myself, “that isn’t a sore throat, it’s just scratchy” and “that isn’t a huge green gob of phlegm I just coughed up, that’s just lime Jello I ate in sixth grade”.

2. I continue working and maintain all plans, including partying until the wee hours of the night.

3. I get horrifically ill, having to call in sick to work for days, and cancel any plans to party.

4. My friends call me a big fat vagina.


Obviously, I can’t continue to use the above methods, mainly because I am getting really sick of being called a fat vagina.  So I guess…tomorrow…I’m…actually…going…

(Cue ominous “Jaws” theme music here)

…to the doctor.

I am no fan of actual professional medical care because, well, I’m a guy.  Deep down, we guys pretty much believe any ailment will heal on its own, even if it’s a limb separated from our actual body.  Additionally, as a guy in my late thirties, I’m always afraid that no matter what reason I go to the doctor, he’s going to want to check my prostate.  The last time I had that done, he had his finger so far up my number two hole I think he was checking my liver, spleen and kidney function as well.  Fairly uncommon examination method for an orthodontist.


Anyway, despite my fears, I don’t feel I have a choice.  I can’t keep on going like this, getting sick every damn week.  So tomorrow, I’ll go to the doctor, get examined, follow his recommendations, and take whatever he prescribes.


Then my friends will call me a big fat vagina.

Note: if you are offended by my use of the term “vagina” in this blog, please do me a favor: stop being such a vagina.

© 2009, Joseph Simmons

This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Electronic or print reproduction, adaptation, or distribution without permission is prohibited. Ordinary links to this blog at http://blog.myspace.com/officialslowjoe may be posted or distributed without written permission.