Yet Another Self-Help Tip
In yet a further attempt to transform this sad little space into some kind of nutty-crunchy-huggy feel-good site, I’m here today to offer yet another charming lesson on your life and how to live it.
Today’s talk will discuss endorphins.
As I’ve been (inadvertently, I swear) discussing my various successful weight-loss plans through my long decades, I’ve been riding the stationary recumbent bike at the gym semi-regularly on my doctor’s strong and firm suggestion. For a variety of reasons, not all of them related to my own fat-assed laziness, I haven’t been going for the last couple-three weeks. I finally dragged myself over to the gym for a session…
…and the (bad kind of) funk that had infiltrated my head lately, the greek chorus of ex-girlfriends and ex-bosses and ex-friends and ex-bandmates would line up int the folds and crevices of my grey matter and delineate my every fault and shortcoming, it all magically disappeared.
I had begun to understand why some people take to chemical abuse – it’s just to silence what really can only be termed as ‘those voices’. The smallest setback or obstacle during my day would set me to remembering fondly those halcyon days of my youth where stepping into the bar at noon was both socially acceptable (and even encouraged) and feasible.
But, because I’m now forced into the weird role of ‘grown-up’ (how the fuck did that happen?), that sort of behavior is not really possible (as long as I want to maintain the happy perks of maturity – job, house, wonderful family and like that).
So with all of this bloody turmoil in my skull, I finally, like I say, dragged my fat ass over to the gym and morosely mounted the bike, turned the iPod onto stun volume and began pedalling mindlessly.
It surprised me when the clock on the wall told me I had been pedalling for my alloted twenty minutes, and it surprised me even more when I tried to resume my fretting and feeling crappy…
…and I couldn’t. The greek chorus had disappeared and my every internal entreaty to them fell upon deaf ears. A startling sense of well-being had entered, shining a bright light in those nooks and crannies where the ugly thoughts had lived earlier.
And so I discovered that those disgustingly bubbly exerniks were telling the truth. Excercise does apparently release endorphins into your brain, and those endorphins do make you feel better.
I don’t think this will make me give up beer, but maybe I’ll crave that sweet hoppy release a little less before noon.
The Great White Hunter
Recent addition to the household Wonder had an eventful evening last night, capturing not one but two mures musculi, who were subsequently rescued from the moist, dark confines of his mouth (where I am told that the sight of their paws and tails peeking out from between his ferocious teeth were incredibly cute, if disturbing) and released into the wild.
Between my neighbor and my faithful feline, I am sleeping very easily these days.
Except for the urchins.
CORRECTION (9/5/07): Per self-described ‘latin wonk’ Dr. Dan, Plural is mures musculi. Thanks, Doc!
Why The Internet Will Destroy Conservatism
From noted hate group Daily Kos:
Conservatism can only rear its ugly head or sustain itself in a top-down society where information is guarded by a few Fauxes and concealed from the general masses. The real views and real positions of right wing conservatives are fringe positions, which only a small minority of Americans (and a small minority of people in any country) believe in.
Thus the conservatives have carefully tried to construct a society where the newspaper, radio station, network, and religious institution in their community are right wing propaganda outlets with the silent majority stifled through intimidation tactics or lack of an outlet. And they’ve been able to do that partly because their economic philosophy is beneficial to those who can afford to buy up these corporations.
But that is now changing.
You might want to read the whole thing.
Reasons To Be Cheerful, Pt. x
Sorry, fresh out.
Karl Rove’s New Book
My neighbor and I respectfully suggest it should be entitled “If I Did It“.
Learn How, Pt. 2
(See the first part of this rambling dreck here.)
You’d like to think I’ve forgotten to mention my other life-changing program, but, despite my brief drunky respite Saturday evening, I’m here to tell you all about it.
It’s the urchins, plan and simple.
With the two kids, I’m a lot less likely to hang out at the dinner table and graze beyond that one helping – those kids got other things they need to do, man, things that are way more important than mom and dad finishing their dinners. The other thing I’ve noticed is that I’m a lot less likely to indiscriminately snack in front of them, since if they see me eating a snack, they automatically want some too – even if its great green gobs of monkey guts. Heck, especially then.
Snacks for the urchins are something of a production number, requiring plates, juices, waters, milks and an exactly equal portion of whatever foodstuff for each diner.
The kids aren’t starving. I just find that I’m gradually losing weight, which, as previously discussed, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Another interesting effect of having smaller human beings in the house is what I like to think of as the unleashing of my inner meth head.
If you’re a parent. I expect and request no sympathy – you’ve been here. I don’t guess I expect and request sympathy from anyone, really. I consciously made this bed and I lay in it willingly.
Except that I can’t actually get much sleep there. The lovable ragamuffins have decided, for the last few days, that the day ahead is far too exciting to waste any precious moments, so they have started to wake bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at about a quarter-to-five each morning.
Which wouldn’t be so bad but they insist that mom and dad share these precious pre-dawn moments with them. So that leaves me & my wife as perpetually sleep-starved automatons, reacting to each event we come across during the day, rather than ever being able to proact.
There is an advantage to this perpetual feeling of zombie-ness, though. I find that my ability to strongly focus on tasks, especially strongly structured and definable and accomplishable ones becomes incredible, nearly obsessive. I settle down with a bizarre tunnelvision to pick up scattered toys and building clocks and complete and organize the sets, frequently eschewing any interaction with my housemates – my family – until I’m done. I’ve frequently caught myself beginning to count each of the 100 blocks in their respective sets (a recent grandmotherly gift which has been a huge hit), just to make sure that each of them is accounted for and properly returned to their home.
If I could only apply this focus to my constant attempts to rule the world, you’d all be my crafty minions by all. I guess for now, though, I’ll work on some sort of check-in/check-out system for the toys.
Unpleasant News From My Family Tree
My dad forwarded me some news about familial discord among our black sheep ne’er-do-well cousins.
They asked me if I’d like the house, but I called ‘bullshit’ on that. I don’t think my fan base could get behind my living in a house where the could move in as well – and never actually run into me.
UPDATE: Link fixed – sorry!
Saturday Night’s Alright…
…for getting drunky wit’ yr pals!
(dazed look ©Tim, Jo’s Derby, 1987-)