Weight Watchers Works. Wait, What?

In case I haven't mentioned it, I'm fifty. Oh, I have mentioned it? How many times? Wow, sorry.

Anyway, after 18,417 days spent cruising down life's interstate, I can glance in the rear view mirror and see quite a few stretches where I wasn't exactly wearing a seat belt.

Safe sex analogy? I'm going to say no, since my dad reads this.

What I'm really getting at is, how often have you looked back at an event or entire time period in your life, slapped your forehead V8-style, and yelped, "What the hell was I thinking?"

The thing is, no matter how savvy and seasoned my old carcass grows, these OMG moments still occur, the most recent a mere month ago. But first, a few more dated examples:

How could I have allowed a girlfriend to convince me that popping my collar, wearing penny loafers with no socks and stylishly tying a sweater around my neck, even with Miami Vice sitting atop the Nielson ratings, was a solid decision?

Why did I promise the same emotionally rickety individual that, in the event of her untimely demise, I would personally pen her biography, so that everyone on our big blue marble could understand the calamity of a brilliant life cut short?

Since I'd always wanted to wear my hair in a ponytail, yet preferred short bangs to locks which cascaded over my eyes, why did I surmise that a mullet provided the best of both worlds? After testing this naturally-cultivated 'coon-skin cap look one afternoon at Safeway, my wife forbade me from ever venturing out again with such an abhorrent hair hat.

While slightly offended at the time, I thank you now, my bride, one thousand fold.

But no obscene behaviors, no loathsome practices, have reared their little, double-chinned prairie dog heads with more frequency than my eating escapades. Since I was old enough to pronounce the word "Caligula,", I've vacillated between moderation and all-out Homer Simpson-esque gluttony.

Eat an entire pizza?  Come on, challenge me, my man. Pint of ice cream? Easy, then I'll eat Ben and Jerry.

Today marks the end of four full weeks on "Weight Watchers Online For Men"(I can't really tell any difference from the regular Weight Watchers, other than the bold font on the homepage and how the words might be uttered by the dulcet baritone of James Earl Jones.).

And since it's now been a month, I've again had an opportunity to revisit my behavior prior to beginning this regimen which is more about sane eating than it is a gimmicky diet.

The concept is simple—keep track of everything you eat. It's similar to how accountants or lawyers record billable time, but without the social stigmas of repressed arsonists with mother issues or soulless sycophants who pray on baked daytime-TV-watching whiplash victims.

So unfair. I was an accountant, and my mother issues were minimal most days.

It's all about ownership. Everything you throw down your mineshaft, you report to James Earl Jones. The day before I started WW, I enjoyed a twelve-inch meatball sub with chipotle sauce (What the hell? Was I fourteen and going through a growth spurt?). It was delicious, no doubt, but if I'd introduced a bag of Sour Cream 'n' Onion Lays, that single meal would've devoured all my points for an entire day.

As with so many other areas of life, I'm just trying to be mindful. I'll still knock down a couple of beers or glasses of wine on the weekend, but when all my choices show up in digital splendor, I'll think twice about lining up another IPA.

So far, I've given birth to a fairly robust food baby—nine pounds down. My clothes are a little looser and when I look in the mirror, there's a little less fleshy overhang, but this train needs to keep on rolling for another twenty ell bees.

Then I can buy a smaller sweater to tie around my neck.

I solemnly swear.

Warning: The following post is intended for mature audiences. Okay, actually, it's intended for immature audiences.



What is it about swearing? Forbidden, yet alluring. Crass, yet liberating. Easy, yet sometimes difficult to sculpt into a perfect delivery.

In some situations, swearing is acceptable or even expected, as in the  animated example above. Coaches, athletes, tavern stool sitters or any other manifestation of pure testosterone demands a firm grip on the profane. You can't punctuate a good fishing story without a few expletives. You're not going to win over the dudes in the locker room if you comment that the chick on the Stairmaster had "some beautiful gosh darn skin." Nope, you've got to go for broke, and preferably with a few of George Carlin's seven words.

As kids, most of us were warned against using foul language, even though we frequently heard our parents spew their vitriol, most notably while driving or immediately after a holiday with the in-laws. We knew that one day, we would also enter that forbidden land.

And therefore, cussing is one of the first vices most people adopt. It's possible, as a youngster, to pilfer a couple of smokes out of your mom's purse or top off the vodka bottle with tap water, but swearing out of parental earshot presents far fewer risks.

I'll never forget my inaugural sailing on the SS Potty Mouth. I was around eight or nine years old, playing in my room with a couple of friends. They'd already begun their foray into vulgar verbiage and were highly encouraging, so I dipped my feet into the water, tossing out a quiet F-bomb.

That's when my life changed forever, as I realized what a truly victimless crime I had committed. I swore loudly and I swore proudly. From that moment forward, I've embraced blue language more tightly than Robin hugs Batman on the way down the Bat Cave pole.

Sure, some don't swear because they prefer to be more "folksy." I'm speaking of people like Donald Rumsfeld, former U.S. Defense Secretary, who used to say things like, "Jiminy Christmas, gee willikers and dad gummit! Stop whining about serving one more year in Iraq, folks!" He reminds me of my grandpa telling me to go back down to the basement and finish removing that rabid wolverine's teeth, and then we'll have some nice oatmeal.

There are also people who refuse to swear, but they're willing to come ridiculously close. Seriously, what's a "gosh" or a "freakin'" or a "darn" or a "geez," other than a nasty word in Donny Osmond clothing? Come on, either say it or don't say it. Don't be like those weird people who go swimming but won't get their hair wet.

There are a lot of colorful, versatile words out there, and they're just itching to drive your point home. Put a few in your shopping cart, load them in the trunk and bring them out when you need them. You won't be sorry for a f*(_^&g second, you g@%^&*n @$$*0)e.

America's favorite game show

Hey, everyone! I'm your host, Chip Bickerson, and welcome to America's favorite game of male insecurity and cliché, "Locker Room Lingo Lab." Today, we've got a locker room stocked with pudgy white guys between the ages of forty and fifty, whose athletic days are a fuzzy speck in the rear view mirror of their lives. 


They're currently lounging in the men's locker room of their suburban gym, recovering from an intense, albeit sluggish, game of basketball. Okay, without further ado, let's meet our players:

Contestant Number One is a cost accountant from White Center, Washington. He loves Peter Frampton, any clothing with elastic and Bud Light with Lime, please welcome Herb Green (applause).


Contestant Number Two is a used Pontiac salesman from Fife, Washington. He's been married a handful of times, and has finally decided that his ideal woman has four wheels and is named "Red Trans Am," give it up for Chuck Jowler (applause).

And last but not least, Contestant Number Three hails from Gorst, Washington. He enjoys "Three's Company" reruns and the leg and thigh bucket at KFC, give a hardy hello to Quinn Carpo (applause).


Okay, men, you all have been briefed on the rules: The three of you must engage in a conversation. No awkward silences trying not to stare at each other's "nether regions." The first player to utter five statements not concerning injuries, work, sports, glory days of old or heterosexual prowess will be the winner of today's contest and will return next week to face two new challengers. Remember, correct responses will be followed by a bell (dinging noise), and incorrect statements will result in this noise (buzzer sounds). Let's begin. Go ahead, guys.

Herb: Oh, my back! (buzzer sounds)

Chuck: Wow, that was quite a game. (buzzer sounds)

Quinn: Yeah. (bell dings)

Herb: I'll tell you guys, I'm not that all-conference point guard I was back in '78, but I can still hold my own out there. (buzzer sounds)

Chuck: Hey, Quinnster, help me peel off this back brace. Ahh, thanks, much better. (An awkward silences ensues as the Herb and Quinn try not to stare at Chuck's breasts). Looks like I've lost a few pounds, guys. Should make things even easier for me to sell some Grand Ams and Fieros to the classy single ladies. (buzzer sounds)

Quinn: Yeah. (bell dings)

Chuck: I hope I stop sweating before I get to the car. I just bought some new sheepskin seat covers for the Firebird. Those bastards at work are so jealous of my sweet ride that they laugh at me. (buzzer sounds)

Herb: Chuck, they're making fun of you because you look like a human midlife crisis driving that thing. You look like Jordan in a baseball uniform. (buzzer sounds)
 

Quinn: Yeah. (bell dings)

Herb: I'm sure you guys must've noticed my stats today: ten points, eight rebounds and six assists. I haven't pulled that off since February 18, 1977 against Kent Meridian High. If either of you are interested, I've got the newspaper clipping in my briefcase. (buzzer sounds)

Quinn: I am. (bell dings)

Chuck: Hey, do you guys think I should have this looked at? (awkward silence as the two men examine a mole on Herb's upper buttock.

Herb and Quinn, together: Yeah. (bell dings)

Quinn, it looks like that last statement put you over the top. Congratulations! Thanks for watching, everyone, and we'll see you next week as Quinn takes on two new challengers on..."Locker Room Lingo Lab."

My ego is bigger than yours

Once again, the male ego turns on its master.

Today, seven-time Cy Young Award winner and would-be Hall of Fame pitcher, Roger Clemens, will be arraigned in Federal Court. He allegedly lied to Congress regarding his abuse of steroids and performance enhancing drugs two years ago while testifying about drug use in Major League Baseball.

During his stay in Washington, Clemens, also known as "The Rocket," believed that his powerful mystique and public relations skill would suffice to clear him of any wrongdoing. He used the opportunity to meet several members of Congress prior to testifying, signing baseballs and posing for photographs.

Self opinion has never been a deficiency of Clemens', as his massive ego nearly matches the expansive black hole between his ears. His four sons, Kory, Koby, Kacy and Kody, were all christened with names beginning with "K", signifying a strikeout in baseball terminology. One of his more recent license plates read, "CY-MVP." Oh, and here's a picture of The Rocket and Mrs. The Rocket:

They seem nicely grounded.

I realize I'm going to extremes to illustrate the potential of the male ego. I'm sure Clemens believes that he truly has made the world a better place because he could throw a small white ball 95 miles per hour. And maybe Glenn Beck is convinced that he's helping America by inciting hatred and fear among us unfortunate, victimized white folks, on the anniversary and site of Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" address.

But I'd really like to talk about the average guys. We've all said and done some really ridiculous things in service to our egos. Men, I'm going to list some quotes—actual phrases I've uttered over the years (for the most part)— and if you can honestly say you've never said or thought anything similar, then you have truly transcended egotism.

(Speaking to the spouse while trying on some old jeans) "Honey, I think you dried my pants too long. I can't get them on, so they must've shrunk. Where's that bungee cord? And I think we need a new mirror. This one's all warped."

(A thought while standing next to another guy at a public restroom urinal) "Ha, I knew it. I can totally pee longer than this dude."

(Speaking to the spouse at 10:47 PM, dabbing my sweaty brow with a small towel) "I told you I could build a cat perch. I know it cost $450 and took three weeks. What's your point? This thing will still be around when after giant moths take over the world."

(To the teenage daughter) "No, I'm absolutely not afraid of playing you in one-on-one. I just don't want to. Even the Supreme Court can refuse to hear a case, and I'm invoking my Parental Supreme Court Option."

(To the family, in the back yard) "Of course it's not burned. It's called Cajun Blackened Chicken."

(To the younger, ten-year-old daughter) "Watch how fast Dad can serve a tennis ball. Ooh, sorry. Are you okay? Don't tell Mom."

(To the same child, as a four-year-old) "Listen, honey, go get yourself a juice box and some Teddy Grahams while Dad finishes the Lego structure. Don't put that one there. Only the blue ones go there."

(To the entire family, at the bowling alley) "You kids realize that I would've gotten a higher score than you if I had used the bumpers, right?"

Oh, sure, that just scratches the surface, and I could add a lot more to this list...if I felt like it. Right now, though, I need to show the kids my old trophies.

What women really want: Like I know

What do women look for in a man?

This question arises occasionally, and today it reared its head again as I watched an interview with Gene Simmons, leader of KISS, on The Joy Behar Show.

We all know that this guy is the poster boy for male rock-n-roll sluttiness. He's claimed to have biblically acquainted himself with over 4,600 women...and counting. I watched as Gene sat there, his dyed, jet black, spray-on hair and sunglasses portraying the appearance of a living police composite sketch. Perched next to him was his live-in girlfriend of 26 years, Shannon Tweed, nodding and smiling as Simmons elaborated on his scores of sexual exploits.

Naturally, I understand that a lot of females are attracted to wealthy, bad-boy rock stars—always have been and always will be. Am I envious? Sure.

However, even if this guy carnally sampled half of the women he claimed to have, he would officially qualify as the bacterial equivalent of a chewing gum-covered concrete wall the size of Orange County. With all the fame and riches stripped from his persona, he's at best nothing more than the Crown Prince of Chlamydia, Nasty McYuckerson. What is it about seemingly repulsive dudes that draws these women to them?

I decided to fire up the google mobile and found a site which lists the top ten traits women look for in men, at least according to one woman. Money, fame, power and rock stardom weren't on the list, which was refreshing, so I decided to assess how I might stack up:

1) Appreciation—I'd like to think I exhibit appreciative qualities, like when I lovingly say, "Thanks for finding the remote."

2) Organization—I'm more than willing to organize everything into a large, neat pile.

3) Observation—I'm quite adept at gauging a woman's moods and emotions, most notably her subtle irritation that occurs after I've demolished any kind of weight-bearing wall.

4) Drive—I definitely know what I want...and this time I want it with extra cheese.

5) Intelligence—I've utilized my intellectual tools to determine that deep within her soul, she yearns to discuss football. Say the word, my sweet.

6) Outlook—I realize that a positive outlook goes a long way, which is why, when I'm the driver, I'll never admit that we're lost.

7) Genuine Chivalry—I could have pitched the tent that dark, rainy night, but knew it would serve us much better as a blanket.

8) Spontaneity—Go ahead and get your coat. We're going for a beer.

9) Confidence—Of course I can eat all of that.

10) Self maintenance—If I can't take care of myself, how can I take care of her? That's why I bought us each a pair of sweat pants at Rite Aid.

Wow. Looks like Simmons has nothing on me after all.

Testosterone: you're soaking in it

For whatever reason, in this small world I inhabit, today will forever be known as "Testosterone Tuesday." A couple of things happened overnight in the arena of sporting news, which have contributed to this aura of intense, male energy.

First of all, in the world of football, which is already dripping with machismo, our local Seattle Seahawks fired their coach, and in the span of a few hours, replaced him with the former head of the highly successful Trojans of the University of Southern California, Pete Carroll.

I listened to a bit of his introductory press conference. According to Mr. Carroll, "If you know anything about me, you know I can't pass up this challenge. If someone challenged me to something, even right now, I'd probably take it on." Okay, here's a guy who will be collecting roughly $6 million per year, and he sounds like he's ready to choose up dodgeball teams at recess. I was expecting the his next utterance to be something like, "Who wants a piece of me?"

The other overnight development concerned Mark McGwire, former all-star baseball slugger and one of the all-time home run leaders. He's been retired for a few years, but back during his playing days, he resembled The Incredible Hulk. His body was so ribboned with muscle that his biceps had their own triceps; his forearms were five-arms.

Mr. McGwire had always been rumored to indulge in anabolic steroids, an allegation which he either steadfastly denied, or simply refused to comment upon. Well, he finally decided to fess up yesterday, that yes, he had, in fact, dabbled with performance-enhancing drugs during his tenure with the Oakland Athletics and St. Louis Cardinals. To me, this admission was similar to Burt Reynolds or Bill Shatner admitting that they've been wearing toupees all these years. Seriously, all a person needed to do was look at the guy. It would have been a difficult choice between El Capitan or Mark McGwire's chin as the most difficult sheer surface to scale without the aid of safety lines.

I understand that the public, especially the male public, yearns for all which is exceedingly manly. Why else would products exist like Speedstick, Powerade, or the Five-Dollar Footlong? Why else would we spend so much money on suped-up cars and stereos and super-caffeinated beverages?

One of my favorite movie lines was uttered by Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite. He constantly pined for his former high school athletic grandeur, and as his eyes focused off in the distance, he blurted out, "See those mountains over there. I'll bet I could throw a football over them."

I seriously doubt that he could. But I totally could.