I decided that I don't really want to have to rely upon the library for my internet consumption. This was made a little more clear to me after an experience I had on Tuesday.

I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.

I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.

At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.

As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.

I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.

I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.


A quick path to self loathing

It is fairly difficult to describe the nearly insatiable self loathing that one feels upon consuming an entire loaf of bread and a large ice cream scoop worth of whipping cream. Not moderately low fat Cool Whip, mind you, but full on heavy cream based fatty sugary Carrabba made whipping cream. And, said cream having been consumed by dipping bread in it. Nothing makes a guy feel fatter, nor more pathetic than that. Especially when said creamy carb consumption occurred in the midst of a day of Jamba Juice, 2 bowls of cereal, 2 bowls of oatmeal, various Vanilla Wafers, a bowl of shrimp pasta, some calamari, a bunch of fajita steak and bell peppers, and a pack of Kazoozles. GET REAL.

The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.

I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.

I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.

Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.

I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.

I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.

Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.


The beginning of the end

I have been thinking a lot about dating lately. About the apparent futility of it, up to this point in my life. I think if I had back every dollar that I spent on every failed relationship or fruitless date that I have ever been on...let's just say I probably wouldn't have to be driving Javier with the absurdly loud muffler any more.

I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.

I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.

I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.

When stringy blonde hair just isn't enough

So I guess I sort of took a small break from blogging. I have been applying for a job (that I didn't get) and during the application process, I just didn't much feel like blogging. One of the things they asked me to do, was name the worst band in history. So I did. And it was OBVIOUSLY Nickelback. I'm a little worried that maybe whomever was reviewing what I wrote, was a big Nickelback fan, and for that reason I did't get the job. Or maybe it was just simply the fact that there were probably a hundred applicants, and with that many, at least a few are bound to be better than I am, albeit hard to believe. Anyways.

I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.

The WORST band in history.

Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.

Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.

You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.