The Reason I Want Nice Things

For as long as I can remember, I've been fat. I have no problem being called fat because it has always been more accurate than saying something asinine like "big-boned" or "husky." I have always made it a point never to put myself down for being obese. Frankly speaking, I am too awesome, droll and worth-wild of a person to let my weight bum me out. Not to say there weren't times -- many, many times -- I wished I wasn't fat. So on Nov. 30, 2010, something in my head ignited, and I decided to stop wishing and start taking action

When people began to notice my body shrinking, they would always ask what made me, after nearly 26 and a half years, decide to lose weight. Not wanting to get too personal or take up too much of anyone's time, I would always spout off something generic. "I just wanted to get healthy." "I figured the time was right." But since I feel more comfortable writing than speaking, let me tell you all why I really decided to get my shit together.

I push myself in the gym, I suck in the chilly autumn air while on my three-mile runs, and I continue to shun the foods I used to love, all because longings and desires deep in my mind, heart and gut. The vain, superficial desires to which I cling but dare tell no one because admitting I want the things losing over 100 would afford me would make me sound vulnerable.

But I can't help it if I want to go into any store and find any shirt, blazer or pair of pants in my size. I want the "Big & Tall" sign to no longer be my beacon when I enter a department store, and I want to no longer have to pay $1 or $2 more for my size.

When I'm out and about with my more active and athletic friends, I want to be be able to keep up with them. Though I scoff when they tell me about the rock walls they climb and the hard-core, nearly physically impossible obstacle course they plan to run, I secretly long to do those things with them and be able to hold my own.

When I board the plane, I don't want to be faced with the ultimatum of paying for two seats or having to leave the plane. And, not to be too demanding, I'd like to be comfortable in whatever window, middle or aisle seat I'm assigned.

Although calling Shotgun is usually a display of victory, I don't want people to let me sit in the front seat of their cars because they think I will be more comfortable and or that it will free up more room in the back seat.

When I'm at a club or bar, I want to be the man the sober women approach. I want the quirky, attractive woman in the restaurant to send smiles and batted eye lashes across the room to me. I want the ladies in the supermarket to eye-fuck the shit out of me as I reach to back of the top shelf for the last Arctic blue Gatorade or bend down to find the Lipton green tea. Vain? Yes. But women don't tend to flock to someone who can crush them. I thought my wit, humor, individuality and authenticity could over-shadow my size, but I guess I was wrong.

I find children repulsive, but if the day comes when I want to have some of my own, I don't want to decide against procreating because I'm afraid of passing along my fat gene.

Whether the remainder of my life is long or short, I want it to be as healthy as possible. Numerous people in my family have diabetes; my late grandfather even had his legs amputated because of it. I do not want to spend the last days of my life in someone's hospital bed or wheel chair. And dying from an obesity-related stroke or heart attack in my 30s is not how I envision my story ending.

Although I'm getting in shape so I can be as healthy as I can be, I can't deny my ulterior motives. Some of my motivations to shed pounds seem reasonable while others are a bit absurd. But when people ask why I always eat Subway and why I'm in the gym four to five times a week, I want to clue them in to why I'm really busting my ass to drop down to 200 pounds. But my vocabulary fails me, and all I mutter is "I want to be a little healthier."

Public Men's Room Etiquette

Aware as I am that this country is more diverse than I can possibly imagine, I thought one thing was common knowledge among a large portion of the U.S. population. Though never taught in a classroom and rarely spoken aloud, bathroom etiquette whilst in the men's room should be -- or so I thought it was -- firmly ingrained in the recesses of the brains of all American human males ages 13 and higher. (I've lived in or been to another country so I can't speak for their men's room practices.) It's come to my conclusion though that numerous men either don't know or simply disregard the rules of the public toilet. 

As I am a man who seeks solution and enlightenment rather than condemnation and judgmental verbal barbs, I present to you the (cue movie trailer announcer voice) MEN'S ROOM ETIQUETTE MANIFESTO...

-There is no talking. It's a men's room, not a smoking lounge. There's no need to chill out and regale someone with tales of your life. It's not that we don't care about the UFC fight or the burgers you grilled on Labor Day. On the contrary; another man might have the perfect seasoning combination to make those burgers pop. But the men's room is no place to discuss that. Or anything else! Shut the fuck up, handle your business, and get out as soon as you can. 

-The no talking rule applies to friends and family. I could be talking to my buddy as we are (what we think) randomly walking around the office, but once we reach the men's room door and realize the other also needs to hit the head, all talking ceases. And during our time in the restroom -- especially when the down-there parts are exposed to air -- nary a word is to be spoken. Once we're both zipped up and out of the restroom, the conversation can resume. And if you walk into the men's room and see someone you know, simply acknowledge their presence by nodding without looking them in the eye. Which brings me to my next point...

-Do NOT make eye contact. Specificity is needed; don't let your eyes make contact with any part of anyone else's body. Not all bathrooms have the barriers between the urinals. And if I quickly (less than one second) scan my surroundings and notice you trying to get a view of my bat and balls, I will break the rule of silence and yell accusations and insults as loud as I can. Was your glance at my Duke Rainier Worthington III really worth the public outing?

-Stay out of the middle. Just like in every other instance (except sex), personal space is a very big deal. If there are an odd number of urinals, never is it acceptable to use the even-numbered urinal(s). If there are three urinals, don't use the second; if there are five, don't use the second or forth urinal. The even-numbered urinals are there simply for decorative purposes and are not meant to be used. If some inconsiderate chap decides to release his golden river in an even-numbered urinal, use the urinal at least three spaces away. If there are only three urinals and someone is at the middle urinal, use the stall. 

The exception to this rule is if you're in a public bathroom with a plethora of urine receptacles. Choose whichever urinal you'd like as long as it is at least two spaces away from the next person. If you can, choose the one closest to the ends. 

-Don't use a stall if you only have to pee. Unless motivated by the even-numbered urinal predicament and the urinals are in working order, you should not be in a stall if all you have to do is pee. Be a man, and stand at the urinal. No one wants to look at your member. No one wants to critique your stance or the way you count the wall tiles in front of you. Not to offend, but using the stall to pee is seen by many as a sign of weakness and insecurity.  

-FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET! Even though it's not your bathroom, clean up after yourself. If you take this years Browns to the Super Bowl, why would you not flush the toilet? ... I'm waiting! Why...would you not...flush...the fucking toilet? This is a public restroom, and you are a gigantic bag with which one douches if you leave the restroom unsuitable for future users. Five days ago, instead of using a portable toilet that molested my sense of smell and sight, I took a piss NEXT to the portable toilet, much to the chagrin of the people driving along A1A and the Hispanic family 20 feet away loading their car. Please don't make me have to make this choice while in a public restroom. Along with flushing the toilet, don't leave solid objects in the urinals, throw away your trash, and quit splashing water everywhere. Behave like a respectable man.

-Wash your hands!!!!! I don't care if you have to poo, pee, or just blow your nose, washing your hands is something that should be first nature. Not second nature; first nature! Think about it. When you leave the  public restroom, you're going back out into and interacting with the public. You'll be touching a lot of what everyone else has to touch, and I'm pretty sure everyone would appreciate not having to come in contact with your urine, penis, pubic hair, poo, ass and or snot residue. Don't do your business, leave without washing up, and then have the gall to shake people's hands. Take the 10-30 seconds and clean your hands. I will judge the fuck out of you and alert as many people as possible if I see you leave the restroom without washing your hands. And if possible, when leaving the bathroom, don't make direct contact with the door knob/handle. 

Guys, have I missed any restroom rules? If so, post them in the comment section. Ladies, I'm aware there is a beehive of rules and regulations surrounding the ladies' room. If you're allowed to divulge your rules, what is a no go when it comes to the ladies' room? 

Thanks for listening and (hopefully) sharing,

B.rand

Come inside my world

I wish the entire year looked and felt like spring in late march in north Florida.
I believe my fear of rejection has crippled a vital span of my life.
I aim low because it's my belief that when I aim high, things can't possibly meet such expectations. Me and my dreaming big, eh?
I'm always apprehensive about calling, text messaging, IM'ing and any other form of reaching out to people because I always feel like I'm imposing on their free time.
I'm not a simple man and neither are my tastes, despite appearances.
I love writing and appreciate when writing's done well, i.e. song lyrics, scripts, magazine articles, etc.
If I lose a lot of weight and someone decides to do one of those before-and-after photos, I want my before/fat photo to be one of me smiling and or having a good time. I'm not a sad/disgruntled person.
Having said that, sometimes I just want to be left the fuck alone and not talk to anyone or do anything.
But most times, I crave interaction with other people.
I wish I could be the center of attention (in a good way) when I go out.
I believe hard work and skill speaks for itself, and as a result, I don't ass kiss.
I wish people loved Y Tu Mama Tambien as much as I do.
When it comes to friends, it's definitely about quality, not quantity. Who wants a lot of half-assing friends?
I hate hate hate hate hate my bald spot and gimpy leg. The gap in my teeth, though, I feels makes me more distinguished.
I love love love love love that I'm awkward and weird and random because trying to be like the masses seems like way more work than I'm willing to put into anything
I don't care if I ever get married; I won't rule it out, but I never pray about it happening. But I do not want kids.
I wish there was at least on person who truly got me 100 percent.
I make it a point to have at least one great belly-aching laugh a day.
The older I get, the less fucks I give. And the less shame I have.
At least twice a day, I think of going to the bank, getting every dime I have to my name, getting in my car, and just driving somewhere far and never returning.
If I won a huge lottery, I would put half of it in an interest-earning acct, and with the rest I'd travel the world non-stop.
I have wanted to write scripts for quite a while, but Tarantino makes me want to direct.
I don't have lots of close friends, but the ones I have I treasure more than they could imagine.
I hate when the biggest deciding factor behind any choice is wondering what people would think of you if you did or didn't do what you're deciding to do.
I love standing in the rain with no umbrella and just enjoying what God has given me.
I have an unexplained and oddball fascination with cornfields. Whenever I pass one, I want to pull over, get out of the car and frolic in the corn.
I find myself fascinated by how people look naked. People go through a lot to dress themselves and present their personality to the world via clothes and accessories. But seeing them naked is almost like seeing who they really are.
I get bored easily.
I always feel like people are hanging out without me.
If I knew I could live forever without, I would devote one day to doing every drug known to man, drive a motorcycle extremely fast, and go skydiving once a week.
I always thing about what life would be like if I had super powers. Telepathy is boss.
I think it's time I stopped.

Laissez les bons temps rouler

Once upon a time, there were four fun-seeking and free-spirited young adults who wanted to travel to New Orleans to take part in Mardi Gras. There was Beaumont the Devilish, Jack the Awkward, Simon the Inappropriate and Winston the Mischievous.

The members became whole in Tallahassee and made their way to the Big easy, stopping only to pee, get gas…and to sleep for six hours in a cheap Mississippi (redundant, much?) motel. Arriving in N’Awlins too early to check into their ridiculously over-priced hotel, our heroes hit the town early in the afternoon in search of beignets (ben-yays), crawfish and alcoholic beverages. Please don’t bother judging the group; they’re all adults and fully-functioning members of society. If they want to have hard liquor at 1 p.m., goddamnit, they are allowed that privilege.

Having not showered in more than 24 hours, the group members were happy to finally check in, shower and grab a power nap to prepare for the night’s adventures. Awake, dressed, and tipsy off two bottles of wine between the four of them, Jack, Simon, Winston and Beaumont made their way to the nearest 4 Loko dispensary they could find. Unwisely, they ignored the prophetic words of a wise local black man on the streets. “Y’all brown baggin’ 4 Loko? Y’all gon get fucked up! Don’t drink two.”


Fast forward about an hour later, Jack’s drunk as shit at 6 p.m. They crew is still drinking, in Popeye's, and Jack’s making Katrina and levee jokes…loudly! Realizing he was too drunk too early, Jack threw away the Loko and the quartet made their way to the parade. Being the first there for the parade meant we were front row once the festivities started. Later, Beaumont, Winston and Jack decided it was time for another Loko, while Simon wisely opted for a Bud Lite. Simon’s wisdom was a godsend and presumably kept one, maybe two, of the group members out of jail.

What started as a trip to drop off some of their beads in the hotel room turned into chaos. Beaumont, drunk off life, two cups of wine and two and a third cans of Loko, was put under constant supervision by the group. Winston, the enabler of many things wicked, didn’t have as much of the Loko as Beaumont, but was just as drunk. Among many things, the two raced down the hotel hallways and threw numerous broken beads around the hotel room. Beaumont even began demolishing the metal towel rack in the hotel bathroom.

Jack, merely partially drunk, went into wrangler mode, taking it upon themselves to talk down the two drunkards and, in numerous instances, physically restrain Beaumont from leaving the hotel. But the devilishly elusive Winston could not be contained, and headed out into the night. Not wanting to leave Beaumont -- now passed out -- alone, for fear he’d wake up drunkenly disoriented and expose himself to the public, Jack and Simon called it an early night and were asleep before 1 a.m.

On Saturday, after Winston and Beaumont slept off the booze, the group had some orgasm-inducing Cajun food. They then checked out of their hotel and loaded up their car just in time to get caught in parade, stand-still traffic while baby Hurricane Katrina pelted the city. Incredibly cranky, our weary companions were finally able to drive in the rain 35 miles -- 24 of which were over one bridge -- to their hotel for Saturday night.

Determined not to let dickhole-like weather muck up what was meant to be an awesome trip, the four took solace in the cause of and solution to all life’s problems, booze. At Daiquiris and Creams (yes, Creams), they discovered they could buy daiquiris in the following sizes: small, medium, large, half gallon and gallon! Simon and Jack drank half of their half gallon daiquiris, took the party to Outback (thanks, N’Awlins, for not having open container laws) and got ready for the night’s festivities.

Simon, Jack and Beaumont had no idea Bourbon St. would be so densely packed. After fighting their way through the crowd to get to the Hand Grenade hut, seeing titties of various sizes, colors and pleasantness along the way, the gang shelled out $5 to set up shop on a balcony to be more discriminate with the way they distributed their beads. The rain may have left behind winds and chilly temperatures, but the crew didn’t it ruin their night. They gave out beads, saw someone they knew from home, ate a diet-mutilating (and thereby great) burger, made fun of a half naked woman drunkenly rolling around in garbage juice, among other things. And one of them, not the one society would dictate, even earned a gift of his own.

Sunday arrived and with it, came time for our protagonists to head home. But not before someone got tattooed. Leaving New Orleans around 1 p.m., our weary heroes made it to Tallahassee around 10 p.m. to drop off one of their companions. Thanks to almost no gas stations being open when the car carrying the remaining three was almost on E and a hellishly slow drive on a 10-mile stretch of road when they were 28 miles away from home, the three arrived at their homes in less than stellar mood. Subsequently, two of the group members were “sick” when it came to work the following morning.

Although there was an early night and the weather kept us from doing some of the things on our list, Amanda, Andrew, Matt and I had a great time in New Orleans. We came back with this story and many more that would make this blog way longer than it already is. When/if we ever go back to Mardi Gras, we will have learned from out mistakes (easy on the Loko, book hotels more in advance) and build on the good times we had (eat more great food, bring our own booze so we can save money but still get good and drunk). And as fun as road trips are, if money allows, we’re flying. I hope you had as much fun reading about the adventures of the Fantastic Four as we did living them. We continually live happily ever after.

Yo mama!

Every now and again I hear about an obscure, cult, and or limited-released film that might be worth my time. After watching the well-advertised, commercially-successful Pan's Labyrinth, I perused the movie's trivia page on IMDb.com. It noted how Maribel Verdu's modest, subservient character in the movie was different from the sexpot characters she normally plays, i.e. Luisa in Y Tu Mama Tambien. I have no qualms about the fact that I love seeing naked people, especially naked people simulating sex in the name of art and cinema. So immediately I looked up Y Tu Mama Tambien and was surprised that it was as critically acclaimed as it was, that it was and still is the highest grossing film in Mexico's cinematic history, and that I'd never even heard of it. So, as an antidote to my cinematic ignorance, I went to Video 21.

I'd like to take a moment to clue you all in on the wonderful wonderfulness that is Video 21. It's not just a movie rental store; it's the greatest fucking video store I've ever visited. They have damn near ANY movie you want to see. Mainstream movies, independent movies. Movies from years and years past. Cult B and blaxploitation movies. Foreign movies that were never officially released in the United States. This place even has a back room full of porn for sale and rent. Why anyone would pay for porn is beyond me, but that's another topic for another day. Video 21 shames Blockbuster and Redbox. 
  
"Tambien" is about two 18-year-old boys fresh out of high school (or secondary school. Whatever everyone other than Americans call it) whose girlfriends are spending the summer in Europe. (Side note: if you send your lady to Europe alone for more than a week, she's coming back single.) The friendship is an unlikely pairing. Julio's family is working-class, while Tenoch still has servants who prepare his meals for him. Breaking the summer monotony, they meet Luisa, who's married to Tenoch's cousin, and invite her to road trip to a beach that doesn't exist in hopes of at least one of them sleeping with her. Although she initially declines, she gives in and leaves her stable life behind after her husband confessed to her his multiple infidelities.

The lively trio drives through rural Mexico smoking pot, regaling each other with tales of their respective relationships with their partners, talking about and subsequently having sex. It would be unfair to say Luisa is easy, but that fortress is definitely not impenetrable. And those loose castle gates stir up some deep-seated and repressed emotion as well as a few naughty yet spiteful confessions. 

I love this movie for so many reasons but the movie's greatest selling point is director and co-writer Alfonso Cuaron's tendency to make the background seem more like a character than just the setting. Different time throughout "Tambien," the video plays but the audio is muted, allowing a narrator to add more depth and information to the scene. Narration topics range from the real-life political shift in 1999 that put an end to a 71-year political party's reign to the harsh lives of some of the poor people the trio pass on their way to the beach to Tenoch's hesitance to touch anything in Julio's house and Julio's reticence while in Tenoch's house. Initially off-putting, the narrations serve as a way to show the viewer that the movie isn't just about Julio, Tenoch and Luisa. There are other, more important things going on around them that make their arguments seem petty. It's easy to see how much Cuaron appreciates the landscape, from the seldom-traveled roads to politically stirring metropolitan areas to the beach that turned out not to be so made up.

Although the movie is funny, erotic, insightful and at times chaotic, "Tambien" makes me extremely sad. In an effort not be be a heaping bag of homemade vinegary douche, I'll let the ending and other key parts of the movie stay a secret. But during this 106 minutes of cinematic delight, we witness how easily life can change for the worse. Whether it's a family losing their livelihood or a girl dying way too young due to her harsh living conditions, no one is exempt from hard times. But the saddest part of the movie is how easily negligence and inconsideration can shatter a friendship that until a carefree poon-hounding car ride was considered unbreakable. To me, it mirrors how I am not as close to friends with whom I thought I'd never go a day without communicating.

Do yourself a favor. Put Y Tu Mama Tambien in your Netflix queue. If you see it available at Redbox, invest the dollar plus tax. If you happen to be in Blockbuster or the vastly superior Video 21 and they have a copy, jump on that shit and ride it out of the store. This is not a movie that will leave you nonchalant about it. Turn on the English subtitles and let it wash over you like the surf over the shore.

Status Update

Since Nov. 30 I've been trying to get my shit together. In my desire to lead a healthier lifestyle, I have given up fast food, traded sugary drinks for water and fruit juices, and fucked up fruits and veggies like they owed me money. As a result, my body feels a bit healthier, but more importantly, it feels cleaner. I felt guilty during the holidays when I ate a Christmas tree Reese's. I get a bit put off when I see a large amounts of fried food in one place. I can't visibly tell tell if I am losing weight, but I feel like I'm doing better in regards to my health.

But my quest for better living requires me to lose weight. Lots of weight. And to do that, simply eating healthier won't cut it. So now that the gift buying of the holiday season is over, I have money to spend on a gym membership. Fortunately for me -- more specifically, my wallet -- working at PRC gets about ten bucks knocked off my monthly membership fee. So on Jan. 10, for the first time in roughly seven years, I went to a gym.

I feel a bit ashamed to say this, but I was and still am (to an extent) intimidated by gyms. I am a bit unfamiliar with some of the equipment. I'm not sure if i should work on shoulders and legs in one workout or if I should do abs and back. My inability to run a mile without stopping to briskly walk. My overall heavy-duty frame. There are numerous aspects of working out that make me feel very insecure. But I don't like living in fear. And I definitely hate feeling inadequate. So the insecurities and fear can go kick rocks; show me to the treadmill.

My fears proved to be unwarranted since at least half the people were either as out of shape as I and or significantly older. It doesn't take a nuclear physicist with a minor in marine biology to work a treadmill or curl a 20 pound barbell. Working out is like riding a roomy, extremely heavy bike. After about a day or two, I should be back in the swing of things. I think what really has me worried is the amount of effort I'll have to put into working out to finally see physical results. And the amount of time it will take for me to even get close to my goal weight range.

So here's to me keeping my shit together and making these gym visits a daily thing. I appreciate all the encouragement from everyone and will use it as fuel to keep me going. Keep me on my game, folks.

B.Rand