Last night was the season finale of The Biggest Loser. Before I bitch and moan about Kai nationally televising her dipshittedness or 100 contestants racing to diet themselves out of existence–let me say that I admire every one of those people for their fitness achievements. The show generally promotes a healthier lifestyle, and each one of those folks are way better off than when they started.

I have been dabbling in fitness and nutrition for several years now. I have read everything I can get my hands on, and I have tried several programs. I have gone from 225 pounds at 30-something% bodyfat to 165 pounds at 8%. And, aside from some intentional weight gain while attempting to add lean mass (some fat gain is usually expected along with the muscle), I have kept the fat off.

So I am not speaking from complete ignorance when I say that I have no idea how anyone can healthily lose 20 pounds a week, several weeks in a row. Obviously, some of these guys did it, so it is possible. I just don’t get it. It goes against everything I have learned about exercise and nutrition. I suppose if you take people primed to lose lots of fat, isolate them on a ranch with two sadistic trainers, stress them out with lots of drama (like some of them needed any help with this) and aim the cameras, results are inevitable. Good for them. Great for theatrics and entertainment value. But for the viewer, I wonder if the benefit stops there.

First, there is that term that annoys me above all others: ‘weight loss’. Who the hell cares about weight loss anyway? I took a shit this morning, and guess what, I lost weight. This show just drills that term into your head. With no apparent thought given to lean body mass, the contestants eat extremely low caloric diets, and exercise their bodies into the ground. And this applies to their normal daily lives how? “Oh my gawd, I only lost three pounds this week! I want to stab my crying eyes with a fork!” And this coming from a 190-pound woman who probably shouldn’t be losing that quickly anyway. How twisted is this? That was probably the one week she did something right and didn’t lose two pounds of lean mass.

In the first season, at least bodyfat percentage was a factor in the final results. I wonder why they discontinued the bodyfat tests. Nah, not really. There are two reasons for this. One, because the guy with the best bodyfat percentage improvement will never win this contest. This year, Marty demonstrates this nicely. Two, it would require educating the audience to some small degree. This isn’t the Science Channel.

Most people don’t drastically transform their bodies and lives in three or six months. Lasting, meaningful change starts on the inside, and is cultivated through months and years of consistently applying good habits. Almost all people who lose weight, especially those who lose it quickly, gain it back–and then some. Look at last year’s winner, Matt. This guy won it all, and has had continuing social pressure to keep it off. He knew people would be watching him as an example, and he knew he would have the cameras on him again. Still, after it was all over, he resumed packing on the blubber. If it weren’t for his co-contestant wife whipping his ass, he would be back where he started…or worse.

And there is the key. It is never ‘all over’. It is not about a program, or a contest, or a weekly weigh-in. It is about fundamentally changing your life. Do some of the Biggest Loser contestants walk away with that understanding? Yes, some. Do the viewers actually learn anything meaningful from the show? I doubt it.

For the contestants who won the cash prizes and now look like starving children in a third world country, congratulations. And I mean that. You had the tenacity and work ethic to win a contest. You have accomplished something really spectacular; something that almost nobody else has done. That is very cool. Keep working hard, put some meat back on those bones, and stay healthy.

After all the trouble you go to, you get about as much actual “food” out of eating an artichoke as you would from licking 30 or 40 postage stamps. ~Miss Piggy
Whatever.

Here is something K shared with me the other day.

I should mention that Amelia must visit every dank putrid hole of a bathroom wherever she goes. Every restaurant, store, and shitstained gas station.

Anyway, K and Amelia went to Target. As is customary, Amelia insisted on inspecting the loo. K waited outside the stall.

Amelia: “Unnnnngh! Grunnnnnnnnnnngh! Arrrrgnnnnnnnnng!!!”

K, somewhat alarmed: “Why are you grunting so loud?”

Amelia: “I’m pushing out my poo-poo…it’s stuck.”

K, looking into the stall and noticing that Amelia’s contorted face is bright red: “Are you ok?”

Amelia: “I’m working really hard like Daddy!”

K, explaining for the benefit of the other ladies present: “OH, you mean when Daddy lifts weights in the garage?”

Amelia: “Uh-huh. Unnnnnnnngh!”

That’s it, kid. Learn that work ethic while you’re young.

We are apt to forget that children watch examples better than they listen to preaching.
Whatever.

I am eating cottage cheese.

“Do you eat that every day?”

“Pretty much.”

“Do you like it?”

“??”

I think they mean, “does it taste good?”. To which I might reply, “actually, I think it tastes like curdled donkey spooge. Looks like it, too.” Not that I would really know that, mind you. Just a hunch.

But do I like it? Hell yeah, I like it. It is one of the best complete protein sources you will ever find, period. All your aminos are in there, baby. You can buy it in full, low, and non-fat. I usually stick with the non, which is particularly nasty. Because I am a massochist.

For building and maintaining lean mass, I don’t think you can beat cottage cheese. Sure, some of the bodybuilder types will whine because they think the lactose makes them all puffy and bloated. Yeah, fine. All I know is that no matter my current fitness goals, cottage cheese gets it done. And since I won’t be spray-painting my body brown and stepping out on stage in a banana sling anytime soon (sorry to disappoint), a little extra subcutaneous water isn’t going to kill me.

“Never eat more than you can lift” – Miss Piggy
Whatever.

Phone rings.

“Hey.”

K: “Hey!”

“How’s it going, babe?”

“It’s really slow. Nobody is here. You should come in and let me clean out your ears.”

“Right now?”

“We got this New Thing and I want to be the first to try it out. On you.”

“Well, uh, I sort of needed to practice some more……. Um, ok.”

As I am driving to the clinic, I see some unfortunate guy meandering down the sidewalk shouting jeezus-knows-what to nobody in particular. Maybe his problems started years ago when someone used a New Thing to scoop the wax from his ears.

Amelia and I walk into the clinic, and enter the urgent care facility through the side door. There’s Nurse K, looking all hot in her smocks.

“You’ll need to register and check in, babe.”

“I thought I could just walk in and have this done without having to go through a whole thing.” (In other words, “I thought I was Speshul.”)

K, smiling, anxious to start the digging: “Oh, it’ll just take a minute.”

Present insurance card. Fill out form. It’s illegible. Doesn’t matter. Place form in basket. Wait. Why am I waiting? There’s no one else here. I just saw at least two doctors and three nurses and no patients on the other side of that door. What are they doing back there? Team huddle? Prayer circle? World of Warcraft?

I had a minute to think. Somewhere in that minute, it dawned on me that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What exactly is this new device, anyway? My imagination conjured up a Matirx-esque brain tap entering my skull through my ear. Why don’t I think about these things before I agree to be the lab rat? Here I am, Mr. Skeptic, putting my ears on the line for the benefit of medical science without question. Bow my head and say ‘Yes’.

Sigh, The things I do to enable K’s penchant for picking stuff.

Fast forward to the examining room. This new, amazing device was basically a squirt bottle with a thin straw. A clear disk was fastened near the end of the tube, apparently designed to keep an exuberant operator from poking through the subject’s eardrum and into the brain. K started squirting stuff in my ears. It was mostly bearable. At times it felt like my eardrum was getting sandblasted. No big deal. I wondered if using a can of Dust-Off would be just as effective, though quite a bit colder.

Amelia: “What are you doing, mama?”

“Cleaning the butterfly poop out of daddy’s ears.”

Giggle, “Butterfly poop, butterfly poop, butterfly poop.”

The last time I had this done, the doc pulled out so much butterfly poop it affected the high frequencies of my hearing. Just great. Now all of my horns will sound too bright, which will trigger a new round of mouthpiece and reed searching. Maybe that’s what drove the dude crazy–he never found the right reed. I would believe it.

I got dizzy and felt like I might puke, and I eventually gave birth to two pea-sized butterfly turds.

Everyone was a winner. My hearing seems pretty much the same, so my mouthpiece drawer will remain untouched for now. K got her pick fix for now. And Amelia enjoyed a field trip to Mommy’s work and learned all about butterfly feces.

There is nothing in the caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly.
Whatever.

I have no idea what the hell I am doing with this whole blog thing.

Some of my friends and friends’ wives have uber-cool blogs with tons of readers, sponsors, and whatever. They know what they are doing (or at least seem to) and use all the cool tools. They know what the hell del.icio.us, Meebo, and Akismet means. Maybe someday I will be one of the Cool Kids too. But for now, I just want to keep track of stuff that happens to me before I forget it, and maybe practice some writing.

I mean, I have experienced some pretty cool shit. I can’t remember most of it, but I am pretty sure. I have basically been sitting here with my thumb up my ass, letting life go by, with no record about what I have been doing, who I know and who I don’t.

Blah blah bleh, something about the dullest pencil is better than the sharpest brain. Except I loathe pencils…in fact, I pretty much despise all writing implements. But that is just because I can’t read my own writing. Or maybe it was the time at Oakland Elementary when the snotty little girl sitting in front of me claimed I stabbed her with a pencil. Of course, the pencil was just sitting there in my hand; Princess Poo-poo was the one who turned around and elbowed it. But I digress.

Oh yeah…clarity. How’s this: WHATEVER.

So if you are one of the unfortunate individuals with whom I have shared the address for my blog, (as of this writing there are 3), enjoy. Stay tuned if you are wondering what I really think about this or that, and if you are interested in the daily menutia of a musician, fitness wank, wannabe frisbee dog trainer, former Mormon, dashing husband, and super dad.

How do I know what I think until I see what I say? –E. M. Forster
Whatever.

“What was that?”

K: “?”

“Sounds like they’re exploding stuff again.”

K: “Oh.”

“Sheesh, I wonder how long they will be doing this.”

K: “Well, they have been doing a lot of blowing over there.”

“???”

That’s Miles.

Last night I played BeBop Coffee House. It was an Andy Armer production, so there was plenty of creativity in the air. Or, maybe the bass player had hot dogs for dinner. I like playing with Andy, because he listens. We can take a standard tune that has been played thirty gazillion times, and turn it into something never heard before–and will never be heard again. Andy and I have been doing this for years, and it never gets old or tiresome. Here’s a shout out to Randy, a young tenor player in the area–thanks for your kind words last night. I have listened to many players that made me want to drop everything and run home to hit the shed. If my playing had that effect on you, I am honored.

Friday night was Slick Side Down at Vino Mercato. Usually we pack the place, but Friday was pretty quiet. Perhaps worthy of note–this was essentially our first gig to really hear what our new phallically-inspired sound system can do in a club setting. (I guess we did play a party with the systems last week, but it was in a basement and it wasn’t a very good test.)

It went surprisingly well. The main thing I am trying to get used to is the way I hear myself. I am going into my system dry without effects. It sounds great, but it exposes every nuance of my playing. It will take some getting used to.

Tonight I am playing alto in the infamous Betty Berger Big Band. Every once in a while, I get called to sub in Betty’s band. It is a rag-tag group of generally good-natured jazzers playing all the old school big band charts. I play this gig because it is always good for a laugh, and it is good practice trying to read the often indecipherable charts on the fly.

Experience enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again.
Whatever.

K: “Good morning!”
Yours truly: “Goo-bleiatchhhiaewpffthhhhhdmuethhhhepfwhaettchdl!”

Meet our 2 year-old border collie, EB.

Border collies are known for being very agile, smart, highly stressed, obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, and overly serious. It has been said that people resemble the dogs they choose. Whoever said that obviously has no clue.

She has been with us for about a year. When we first met her at the Humane Society, she had been turned in for typical problems associated with bored and stressed border collies. She was a chewer. In fact, rumor had it that EB had chewed up the seat on her owner’s Harley (probably serves him right for keeping her in the garage). Little did she know that her misdeed would result in the best thing that ever happened to her–a chance to live with us! She was so sweet at the shelter that we decided to give it a go. One test was to see how she acted with the girls, especially little Amelia. When we introduced EB to the girls, she got down on her belly and inched her way up to Amelia, just wanting to gently nuzzle her head up to a new little friend. K and I both melted, and that was that. It has been a lot of work, but she is just about the best dog imaginable.

As you can see, she has some serious hops. And she didn’t even do any of her really big jumps that day. I have always wanted a frisbee dog. It did not come naturally for her; I worked very hard for the first couple of months just to get her to track and retrieve a ball. But once she started to catch on, she just took off (no pun intended). I have had some inclinations to enter her in some competitions. The Skyhoundz regionals are usually held in Spokane, and I am considering taking her next year. She is still younger than most dogs who compete, but she is developing some major skills.

These dogs can be a lot of work. They need a job to do, and they need to be kept in check. I have worked hard training EB. The last couple weeks I haven’t been playing frisbee with her as much as I should. It started out with some bad weather, and I fell out of the daily routine. Time to get back into it.

Welcome to the family EB. You are one of us now, like it or not.

(Credits to my friend John for the photo. It isn’t the clearest, but it wasn’t a planned photo shoot or anything. We were just out at the park one day and he was snapping a few shots with the family camera.)

Work can wait another 30 minutes. There are more important things to do. Like throwing sticks.
Whatever.

I would normally make a big deal about starting something new like this. I might spend lots of time blathering on about this and that, and it might be really fun for a while. But soon my enthusiasm would probably dwindle as I become preoccupied with other things. So without fanfare, funny jokes, clever anecdotes, or dancing girls with lots of feathers, here is my blog. And it is actually even more disparaging than it sounds so far. You don’t know this, but this isn’t even a blog yet. I’m just typing in Microsoft Word, and I don’t have a registered domain name, and I don’t have any software. So there.

Better late than never, I guess.
Whatever.