April 2004

Well, the group of stand-up citizens that my sister worships suffered a tragedy at their latest party. Some guy tried to jump a burning car and fell through the windshield instead. They rushed him to the hospital where he was in stable condition, though on life support, for a few days before succumbing to his injuries. His lungs were just too charred to work anymore.

It reminds me of the story Lauren told my grandparents a few months ago about her trip to New Orleans, where this same group of people set a car on fire and drove around in it before jumping out at the last second. Though I chastized her in my head and laughed out loud at her stupidity, part of me thought she was exaggerating quite a bit. Now it seems that I was mistaken and these man-children really would do something so stupid.

On the other hand, it’s not so stupid when you stop to think about that this is what her skydiving crowd lives for — danger, life on the edge, thrills-a-minute. Otherwise there’s no point in leaping a flaming car in the first place. Live life, taste death, right? Unless you have a young daughter, which this guy did. I’ll be the last person to say that people should define themselves in terms of their children since the idea of existing solely to reproduce depresses me, but when you have a child you do have responsibilities. Something this fellow either failed to take this into consideration or chose to ignore. Not a very good role model, and not a very good person if you ask me. Shame on Lauren for not seeing that.

Ben and Dia skipped Quizo on Wednesday, and we still had 12 people show up — not that anyone would know it from our score. Even our team name sucked big time: “But Daddy, I don’t want to play for the San Diego Chargers”. The quizmaster smiled and it got a few chuckles besides, but it was no match for whatever name won that night. I disagree with the philosophy that sports team names will automatically win the hearts and minds of the bar crowd. If it’s funny, they will laugh.

We were able to eke out Bucharest as the capital of Romania despite Dia’s absence, but were less lucky with “What is the official name of the country of Serbia?”. It’s “Serbia and Montenegro”, but for some reason I couldn’t recall Dia saying that at the time. Whether I knew it or not is beside the point since there was no excuse for her not being there, unless you call grad school applications and essays an excuse. I know I don’t. Silly education. The rest of the missed questions can be split equally into the usual categories of “just plain old didn’t know” and “bickered over endlessly until picking the wrong one”.

I always feel bad for people who don’t show up early enough to get a seat. Tim takes a “tough shit” stance, which should be easy for me to adopt as well since we were both there at 8:30 p.m. and the rest of the core team trickled in shortly thereafter. However, knowing that Marc walked by our table only moments before Geof showed up with Nathan and another friend — and thus ended up spending the night alone at the bar — makes me sad. Also, since Nathan’s ID gave him trouble at the door (the Door Nazi claimed the birthdate appeared to be scratched off), he was left to hover at the table until he decided to walk home. And Don was expected to show up, he just happened to get there a little later than he should have; even if he had called, what could we have said to the people who were already standing around waiting? All of this could have been a moot point if we were seated in the basement, but we weren’t.

The phrase “get there early” seems to elude a lot of people and it’s a shame.

I still don’t feel like I got a tattoo. Since it has to be kept moist for the next two weeks I treat it as gingerly as if it were drawn on with marker. I look forward to being able to treat it like the rest of my body: with total lack of respect.

Thanks to Rudy, Ralph in the press room tried giving me the nickname “Coon”. Definitely not politically correct, but it sounds more creative than “Rat” which is just way too generic. I think I like it, and it makes sense regardless of what other people may think of its insensitive nature. Starting right now, call me Coon.

I’m still slowly losing weight after being setback by gorging myself this weekend. I weigh a lot less in the morning without any clothes on, but 210 is still respectable. I imagine that after a month or two when I settle back into healthy eating (i.e. no strange diet and no pigging out) I’ll hover attractively around 190. It’ll be easier to control things knowing that I only have to stay under a nice round number like 200 regardless of time of day or how much clothing I have on. Speaking of which, I’m currently wearing pants that I wore for my first co-op in college.

It is done; I have a beautiful raccoon on my shoulder that will last the rest of my life. It’s a major nuisance right now because I have to keep it moist with Neosporin for the next two weeks, but on the other hand it did motivate me to go to the gym today. I’ll eventually scan it so I have a comparison to the original drawing but for now I’ll just say that it’s right on the money — colorful and cute with a dash of homo-eroticism. I love my Rudy.

The actual process took about three hours in my co-worker’s apartment near the Meadowlands. I apparently got a sweet discount as the design would have cost me well over $200 in a professional shop, but I didn’t have to sacrifice quality or safety to get it. Brian simply enjoys doing it (he admitted mine was one of the oddest he’d ever done and his absolute first raccoon), and he apprenticed at his uncle’s chain of stores in Virginia for years. I imagine it was more comfortable to sit in a living room watching television while having it done than it would have been in a dingy shop somewhere, and probably a hell of a lot cleaner, too. The only thing I didn’t like was all the build-up I got about how painful it was going to be. It didn’t hurt one bit, and this from a guy who grows faint at the mere mention of the word needle. What it was, was boring — extremely so. The result was well worth the wait, however. There isn’t a thing I would have changed about the entire experience.

Afterward, we hopped over to Brooklyn to have a few drins and catch a glimpse of the space that Tim’s brother is turning into a bar with around 20-30 arcade games (to be aptly titled Barcade).

Work sucks in the worst possible way, the way where I have no time to post, but I’m not doing anything terribly interesting either. I bop from one mundane task to the next and just to break the monotony I recently agreed to audit other departments. The only problem is that’s turned out to be even more work because I have to write up our findings and more pressure because I don’t have any time to do it. By the time I get home from the gym I want to catch up on posting so I postpone applying to jobs for it. And the wheels go round and round.

Our team name won for best at Quizo last Wednesday, surprising since he first butchered it then said he liked it better his way. We also missed third place by one lousy point even though we missed only six questions all night for a score of 44. It hurt a lot; we only flip-flopped on a few answers but it was enough to cost us the game.

Gee golly, Friday’s trip to the Borgatta was just swell.

I flew down NJ Rte. 539 almost all the way there and arrived before 7 p.m., with barely enough time to win $85 at Caribbean Stud thanks to a flush. Tim, Sean and Dia arrived just as I was finishing up and we bought a round or tow until everyone else arrived and was ready to eat. The buffet was made more spectacular by the fact that I hadn’t eaten most of the food in over two months, but it’s always good anyway.

After the 11 of us finished eating, we stood around deciding whether anyone was going to gamble or not. Thanks to prodding by Dave, I found myself sitting at the Caribbean Stud table again, only this time down $100. I flirted with the idea of standing up and cutting my losses as I borrowed chips from Matt, but I kept winning enough to pay Matt back and ante up for the next hand or so. Eventually I broke out another bill to see if I couldn’t win back the first hundred. After a dozen hands of merely breaking even, I had two piles of chips: that second hundred dollars (so I was still down the first bit) and one last $11 representing my only chance to win some of that first hundred back. Either way, I was standing up after that bet; if I had enough to cover my final ante I’d dip into the other pile to cover it, but if not I was walking away only slightly down for the night.

Since it was my last hand for a while, I tried to make it dramatic. I looked at each card slowly: Ace of spades, King of Spades, Jack of Spades, Queen of spades, and… Six of Spades. Any joy at getting my second flush of the night was overshadowed by the fact that I was one lousy card away from a Royal Flush and the jackpot worth over a hundred thousand dollars. After I got over my initial shock and disappointment, I was pleased to have ended on a high note. The flush paid 5:1 on my $20 plus another $50 from the jackpot. I immediately colored up, tipped the ante and it’s matching win to the dealer, cashed out and went home. I can’t complain about returning home with an extra $150 in my pocket after a night of eating, drinking, and gambling, but it kills me to know how close I came to striking it rich. Odds are I’ll never get that close to winning that much money again.

Here it is, at about half of the actual size it will be on my arm. The white parts of the racoon will blend a little better with my skin as a background, and the white of the milk carton is going to be mixed with a little bit of gray so it lasts longer. As far as edits are concerned, I might remove the word Milk from the carton and my calculated expiration date from deathclock.com, but otherwise it’s good to go. It’s undergone a few revisions over the past week, but final revision will be done on Saturday when it’s on my arm. Lisa’s getting hers done at the same time, and Chris and Sean are coming to watch.

What a wonderful weekend this is going to be.

Healthy eating is going to be snap. I had a small bowl of cereal this morning instead of the diet drink and a bagel. I think I was building up the difficulty of a lifestyle change, but I’ve conditioned myself pretty well over the past month of absolute torture. Today is the potluck, and it’ll be my first test of will power since I’m not pigging out until Friday night. I am going to enjoy sampling a variety though.

As a side note, I find it interesting that most Christians have trouble giving up one type of food during Lent for their god, and I was able to give up a whole lot more, without cheating even once, just for me. Score one for the heathens. I’m not making sweeping judgements here, I just feel proud when I think of how much will power I have. I can mark it down in the “positive trait” tally I’ve got running in my head; and it can cancel out the “doesn’t believe in god” mark in other people’s tallies.

I salivate whenever I think of all the food I’ll be able to eat starting Friday. With the exception of the Borgatta buffet I won’t resume my former eating habits, but it’ll be nice to have a variety again instead of diet bars and shakes. And carrots; I won’t be eating another carrot for at least a month after this one I’m eating right now.

Dia and I baked cookies for my work potluck lunch tomorrow and I came pretty close to eating one in the interest of “seeing if they were cooked or not”, but I quickly came to my senses, spit it out, and rinsed my mouth out with water. Boy, did it taste good. I’m having a small amount of regular food at the potluck tomorrow, but the full-blown eat-stravaganza will be the first time in over two months that I have sweets of any kind.

Once that wall is broken down, I do have a small supply of food to catch up on. I will have one of my cookies when I get home Friday night, and on Saturday I’ll have some Easter dinner I’ve been saving up since… well, Easter. Then it’s continued workouts and eating in moderation for the rest of my life.

I’be been tanning this week. I only went twice and you can see a dab of color on my face and arms. My stomach is a little too red, but better that than pale for my “after” photo. Either way, tanning booths aren’t for me. I now have two extra sessions already paid for that I’m not going to use and the better part of a special (read: overpriced) tanning solution. I really should have started sooner if I wanted to be dark for the contest. At least I know what I never want to do again in a million years.

Tattoo. Now that I’m below 205 pounds, the time has come to make good on the promise I made to myself a long time ago. Rudy the Raccoon will become the second unnatural adornment on this beautiful canvas.

I’m fortunate enough to work with a guy who does tattoos on the side. He did some for other coworkers and they looked fantastic. Who better, then, to design and tattoo Rudy to my bicep? Lisa claims she’s been waiting for me so that we could get them together, and if she’s still serious about it then we’re taking a painful road trip to New Jersey in the near future.

I’d be interested to see what the International Paper Company has to say about me using their trademarked mascot as body art. I’d probably take the time to find out if Rudy was a current mascot instead of a reminder of simpler times. But alas, most of America’s school children had better things to do with their lunch period than become fascinated with all that Rudy had to teach, and he was evenutally replaced with other, more “with it” characters. I’ll always prefer Rudy.

I’m super pumped about this final [final for my weight loss challenge, not for healthy living] week. One more week of lunch bars instead of sandwiches, of measured chicken and rice instead of some variety, and carrots. No more goddamn carrots.

Friday night is going to be a pig-fest. I’m heading down to the Borgatta in Atlantic City right from work, and everyone’s going to be there. They’re packing into cars and driving down in droves. Since there will be so many people there’s bound to be some gambling afterwards as well. But that’s not important right now; I’ve got my eyes on the finish line and then the feast afterwards. I have all my papers in order: the photo release, the affidavit stating I complied with the rules, the “before” photos, and pretty soon the essay printed on the actual entry form.

I’m confident I can be the next Bally poster boy.

Yesterday sucked. I was bored at work all day, I somehow hurt my foot running (on a treadmill of all places), we lost by one point at Quizo and our team name sucked, and all I can focus on is this Bally essay that’s got me writing in circles.

Then today my boss sent the five people in out department an e-mail reminding us about the company’s Internet Usage Policy, presumably because that’s all I did yesterday when I was bored. My coworker was looking up boxing articles during his lunch break but I think I was the only person in violation. I don’t give a damn of course because I always get my work done. If I was a slacker then that would be one thing, but yesterday was the first day in over a month that I wasn’t running around exhausted. I have some choice words for my boss during my “one-on-one session to discuss any questions [I] might have”, all centering around the idea that if I’m getting my work done and I have no opportunity for a raise before April of 2005, then tough shit. My work is challenging but not in an exciting way, and I’m not terribly impressed with the opportunities I see for myself here. I plan on trying my best to stand firm on my record of hard work without promising anything about Internet usage. If that sounds childish, fine.

At least the Bally essay is all but finished. I still haven’t gotten any feedback from Dia about either part except approving the overall concept. It looks good but I’m still too nervous to concentrate.

I guess standing up and asking for an answer to my last question wouldn’t have helped either. Mike Allen of The Washington Post did just that and it got him nowhere. I really haven’t watched many presidential conferences since nothing new ever comes of them, and Rob’s right that dodging questions is Politics 101, but it still really irks me.

Allen: “Mr. President, why are you and the Vice President insisting on appearing together before the 9/11 commission…?”

President Bush: “… Because the 9/11 Commission wants to ask us questions, that’s why we’re meeting, and we look forward to meeting with them and answering their questions.”

Allen: “Mr. President, I was asking why you are appearing together rather than separately, which was their request.”

President Bush: “Because it’s a good chance for both of us to answer questions the 9/11 Commission is looking forward to asking us, and I’m looking forward to answering them.”

It drives me up a wall.

The president doesn’t handle questions well.

Question from David Gregory, NBC news: “One of the biggest criticisms of you is that whether it’s WMD in Iraq, post-war planning in Iraq, or even the question of whether this administration did enough to ward off 9/11, you never admit a mistake. Is that a fair criticism and do you believe that there were any errors in judgment that you made related to any of those topics I brought up?”

Answer: “Well I think that as I mentioned … the country wasn’t on war footing, and yet we’re at war. And that’s just a reality Dave … that was a situation existed prior to 9/11 because the truth of the matter is most of the country felt that we’d be vulnerable to an attack such as the one that Osama bin Laden unleashed on us. We knew he had designs on us, we knew he hated us, but there was nobody in our government at least and I don’t think the prior government could envision flying airplanes into buildings on such a massive scale. The people know where I stand … in terms of Iraq, I was very clear about what I believed. Of course I want to know why we haven’t found a weapon yet but I still know Saddam Hussein was a threat, and the world is better off without Saddam Hussein. … Maybe people can argue with that, I know the Iraqi people don’t believe that, that they’re better off with Saddam Hussein in power. I also know that there’s an historic opportunity here to change the world and it’s very important for the loved ones of our troops to understand that the mission is an important vital mission for the security of America and for the ability to change the world for the better.”

Both the question and response are word for word. The ellipses are used only to remove some minor stuttering and the usual amount of “ums” and “ahs” that can be found in any public speech. So, where the hell does this slickster address the question? Someone please tell me. I was extremely interested to see what the president of our country had to say about his penchant for mistakes, and I foolishly I expected him to answer. I forgot that he could bumble his way around it altogether. If I was in Mr. Gregory’s shoes I would be fuming. It would take every ounce of restraint to not stand up and shout, “Hey, how about answering the goddamn question?”

My problem with Bush is that any president could “rise to the challenges” generated by the attacks. It takes a better one to separate his obsession with Iraq and what our country went through, and now that we see he can’t, to admit he was wrong about these weapons of mass destruction. I feel like I was tricked and I want him to address that.

The Rudderows have never gotten along with their neighbors, a tradition that I’m upholding even today in the faraway land of Levittown.

We live in a community where the spots are few and car space is anything but far between. Even if every vehicle were no larger than a mid-size sedan and perfectly parked, everyone would still have a little trouble getting out of his car. However, in our jungle of whacked-out parkers there’s an art to staying far enough away from the jerk on your left without being that same jerk to the guy on your right. The spaces aren’t assigned, so every night is a game of Musical Chairs with the loser walking a fair distance, a real pain in the ass with all the crap I’m constantly schlepping to and from my car every day.

Our neighbor lady has parking problems. She is notorious for flouting convention and placing her tires less than three inches from the line regardless of how it affects other cars. I think it’s almost always next to empty spots since she’d have trouble getting out otherwise, and there aren’t any other repeat offenders in our neighborhood for whom she might be trying to compensate. (You know, where someone parks too far to one side, then someone else parks to the side as well, then the first car leaves and the second car ends up looking like an idiot — this can’t possibly have happened as many times as this lady has botched a parking job.) The sad part is that this chronic mis-parker is one of the first to arrive home in the afternoon and more often than not gets the coveted “second closest to the front doors” spot — the one right next to the closest, which is reserved for the handicapped lady who lives underneath us. So the poor handicapped lady has to deal with the bitch’s shitty parking on a regular basis.

Monday night, Dia and I returned home to find the usual suspect parked a full foot and a half over the line in another spot. I tried letting Dia out of the car first and pulling in so close that the lady would have to get in through her passenger door, but teaching this dirtbag a lesson at the expense of a dent-free new car isn’t something I’m prepared to do yet. Instead, I crowded the car to my left a little. I also took to yelling about it. I employed the classic “yell real loudly to your companion so someone else overhears” strategy until I realized that the culprit might not even notice (even though it was midnight and I’m a pretty loud son of a bitch). I took a piece of junk mail from the pile inside our front door and printed on the back: “PLEASE learn to park. This is ridiculous. Next time I’m going to report this to the leasing office.” I signed the note with our address and left it under her windshield wiper. I then pounded up the stairs — unintentionally, but you can still hear it through the walls — and right down again with my digital camera to document the event lest she try to turn the tables and register a complaint against me.

Whether it was the yelling or the pounding, the neighbor took notice. I heard the window open behind me while I was taking pictures, and she yelled down something about what I was doing or if she could help me. I was still too flustered to formulate arguments so I shouted back, “I’m just taking pictures to make sure there aren’t any dents later on.” Her reply was, “Sir, I don’t mind moving. All you had to do is ask.” My second response was a little more relevant: “How the hell can you get out of the car and not notice that you’re taking up two spaces?!” Having said my piece, I just shook my head and continued to the back of our cars to get a better shot. I was finished by the time she came outside to rip up my note, put the pieces under my windshield wipers, and fix her parking.

I was fixated on the parking issue for the rest of the night; I guess I still am to some degree. I kept asking Dia what a person like that could be thinking. That parking lines are just guides not to be taken literally? That I should have known which of my neighbors drives that car and asked her to move it after midnight? Dia’s response was, “That’s just it, she wasn’t thinking.” I really am bothered by what goes through this lady’s head and what she thinks of me. To her, I am now that crazy neighbor that gets all worked up over nothing. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t shout back at her — even if we meet again — we’re living in a constant parking crisis and you took two, you dumb cow?

Hopefully now that I’ve vented I can put this issue to rest. And if any other people with frequent parking trouble can offer additional insight to the cow’s thought process, keep it to yourself. I’m trying to heal.

Dia asked me a while back how she could concisely sum up why Bush should not be reelected. I should have realized then, but Ben has reminded me now, that it can be summed up with two words: John Ashcroft. He’s a scumbag. This guy, who doesn’t drink, smoke, gamble, dance or even consume caffeine because of his religion, is now going after porn. It’s not likely anything will come of this renewed zeal for prosecuting personal freedoms, but it still gets my edible underwear in a bunch. This knuckle-dragger is so inbred that he hung $8,000 drapes to cover up a statue — a statue! — depicting the Spirit of Justice. Here’s a guy that would probably have a seizure if he were to step inside a museum, and he’s going to tell us what we should be allowed to watch? He obviously doesn’t understand that he won’t carry an ounce of credibility with a jury of anyone’s peers. There are enough of us pornography supporters out there that even if a trial does come down to indecency instead of personal freedoms, the government doesn’t stand a chance.

I’ll know what Jesus went through this holiday weekend, because I’m going to have two separate Easter dinners to sit through. I can resist the sweet aroma of turkey, ham, and side dishes no problem. It’s the constant “just one bite won’t hurt you” that infuriates me. If I used that logic over the past two months I’d have eaten over 50 “just one bites” and probably the other bites they led into as well. I’m setting my limit for those types of comments at one per dinner at which point I’ll issue a warning; after that, I’m out. It’s bad enough that I have to sit and watch everyone else eat, I’m not going to stand for any additional grief.

My grandparents television broke yesterday. They left a message on my voicemail telling me this, so I called the necessary people to get them a new one. My dad gave me a price limit (we didn’t want them paying for it because they’d skimp even though it’s pretty much all they do all day), Tim helped me pick it out and move the damn thing, and Dia later walked to Gillespie St. from Tacony Station to help us assemble the new hutch.

The old television, a 20-year-old console with a swivel stand, had only a 25-inch screen, but at the store I remembered it being a lot bigger — probably because the unit itself was so huge. Either way, we returned from Best Buy with a 36-inch Toshiba flat-tube that blew my grandparents away. After they fed us it took us a few hours to assemble the hutch (which matched their mahogany grandfather clock perfectly) and for Tim to reconnect the components.

We got started around 9:00 p.m. because getting the stuff took longer than expected. We first met at the store on Roosevelt Boulevard but both items were “blocked in by pallets” in the warehouse so we had to drive up to Oxford Valley to buy it there instead. It also took us 15 minutes to load everything into the Element. In retrospect, it would have fit nicely had I removed the seats first, put the television in sideways, and let the unassembled hutch stick out of the moon roof. We threw the television in with the seats merely folded up to the side instead, and had to cram the hutch on top of the television from the front doors. Despite the momentary scare and a slightly uncomfortable ride, R-LMNt was up to the task.

The hutch didn’t go off without a hitch, either. First, some of the cosmetic screws for the top weren’t long enough, and then we nicked the front pretty good while lifting the television in. Nothing a little magic marker and some new screws won’t fix but it was really frustrating after the trouble we went through to get the damn thing.

To get the job done I sacrificed my workout and Tim probably further injured the tendons in his knee, but it was challenge met head-on. It also means my grandparents won’t be without their television for another day, and it’s good to do nice things for the elderly.

I really should take my own before and after photos to post here. The shots I took for the Bally contest won’t do me justice because I was already a lot thinner than I was back in December, and even that was a year after I started working down from my all-time high of 265 lbs. Until I find comparable full-length photos, this gem of a picture — taken at Hager’s bachelor party Sept. 28, 2002 — will have to do.I’m awfully proud of myself.

I look in the mirror when I wake up in the morning and I can finally see my top four ab muscles. There’s a band of fat around my waist that’s keeping me from a six-pack, but it’s manageable enough and I’m confident I’ll have a ripped stomach within the year. I just have to be sure that after May 1st’s 5k run I don’t fall off the horse. I’ll never go back to eating fast food or drinking soda and juice, but I need to be conscious of my workout schedule and make time for it even when there’s not money or a race on the line.

Big hellos to Don and Jill, apparently new readers. Tim said they enjoyed reading some of my stuff and I was flattered. Even if they don’t give a shit one way or another, here’s a shout-out to two people who were absolutely critical to our Quizo team last Wednesday because they stayed the entire time. Nah, I understand that people have to leave early, it’s all good.

Al’s salsa party last Friday was an adventure in self-torture. Nathan made a bunch of salsas in addition to the awesome spread that everyone else provided and I think I may have cheated a little by trying them all. Technically it was nothing more than vegetables, but it was in addition to the salad I already ate. Tomas showed up and we gave him a cake for his birthday. In return, he gave us his homemade tortillas and a look at his wacky hair. Al was a gracious host except for his usual schedule of getting drunk, then game-belligerent, and finally passing out on the couch. I overstayed our welcome just long enough to finish a game of Five Straight with Ben and Kim, and gave Nathan a ride to his place before returning home at 2:30 a.m.

Last Wednesday’s Quizo was more difficult than usual since I wasn’t allowing myself any water (it was the night before the final weigh-in for my $150 bet) in addition to my already-stringent diet. Our team name, “There is no demand for the gas we’re producing”, got nothing — neither a nod from the announcer nor any crowd reaction. I had to leave early to shave my head and ensure I got as much sleep as possible for the following morning’s sweatathon, so the remaining four people on the team were left to fend for themselves. I even figured out one question they text-messaged to me (since we were technically still on the team and weren’t using any outside resources): What single word can be placed in front of the words Ground, House, Off, Thing, and Time to form new words. Unfortunately I wasn’t given the question right away and I solved the riddle for nothing. All told, one of the most frustrating Wednesday nights of my life.

Turned out to be a pretty relaxing weekend after all. I got a chance to see Hellboy with Rob after we put the new drive into my ReplayTV. I can now record over 200 hours of television without batting an eye.

I also saw Walking Tall and Jersey Girl with Dia before the Crystal Method concert Saturday. The show was fun even though I was thinking about my 4 oz. of chicken and 1 cup of rice the entire time. The crowd showed a little less enthusiasm than others I’ve seen, but at two shows my experience with electronic music concerts is limited. The one guy got a little weird with the keyboard at times but the playlist was good and I picked up their latest album on my way out. Afterward, I dented my rear bumper when I was pulling out of my parking space on Spring Garden Street. I was pissed to see that some douchebag tried to make a spot between me and a fire hydrant, so I smashed into him real nicely three times. I should have gotten out to see if he faired worse than I did since I got a barely-noticeable (to everyone but me at least) screw dent in my plastic bumper. I like to imagine that I chipped some paint. I figured I would take on some damage, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to rock back and forth 20 times just to get out of a tight squeeze created by some jackass.

Continuing backwards, Friday night was poker with Ross and his coworkers. I bowed out fourth in a 12-player game by foolishly calling Ross’ non-bluff, but stuck around to the end to see the outcome. The only part of the evening that isn’t any fun is walking away $25 poorer.

I really want to see Hellboy this weekend, though I don’t have any time between working out and the Crystal Method concert tomorrow night. Sunday I’m hopefully driving out to hang out with Rob while he helps format the new 200 gig hard drive for my Replay TV.

Even though I hear it’s only average I still want to see Ladykillers, and Walking Tall seems interesting enough to sneak into.

I did it. The $150 is in my pocket right now, the product of two months of training. Before the Bally contest overlap I was cutting back on food a little bit but mostly working out every day but the last 11 days of brutal dieting and more focused exercise pushed me into the lead.

On March 1, the starting weights were my co-workers George and Scott at 227 and 226.5 lbs, respectively, and me with 245. We all drank a lot of water the night before, weighed in on the pallet scale in the warehouse, and handed our money over to the Human Resources lady. George stuck strictly to Weight Watchers for about a month then fizzled out. Starting about a month ago, everyone was treating me like the underdog as Scott was visibly thinner. I felt I was in the running since everyone outside of work was complimenting me, but I guess the negative reinforcement started to get to me.

So last night I resolved to resort to every measure I could think of — within reason — to stay competitive. Once I heard Scott say that he was taking Ex-Lax I cast aside any worries I had that it might be considered cheating. I took his “anything goes” mentality to new lows last night: I cut off all food and water at 2 p.m. sharp, ran 2.5 miles after work, shaved my head and chose my lightest outfit, slept in sweatpants and a plastic trash bag under my sweatshirt (at least until 1:45 a.m. when I woke up in frustration for the last time), ran another 1.5 miles this morning, and finally sat in the sauna for 20 minutes.

The end result? I weighed in this morning at a svelt 210.5 lbs on the official scale — the same one on which I weighed 219.5 only the day before. If I hadn’t worked so hard at dehydrating myself, I would have lost the contest by one pound, as Scott dropped 26 to a final weight of 200 (three of his lost pounds were water weight). George came in third place at 218.

The scary thing is that we weighed ourselves after rehydrating and ingesting two meals’ worth of calories and nutrients, and I’m up to 216 and climbing. I’ve even had to pee a little….

This bodes well for my other contest. Everyone here knows now that I don’t mess around when it comes to a challenge, so they’ve stopped dangling donuts in front of me and joking about my absence from pizza parties. I’m no longer faced with temptation at work so this final push for the $25,000 should be a cinch.