I live in suburbia, and there was a discussion going on about inner city living vs. the sticks.

“One of the things I love about suburbia,” I said, “is that I’m the only one that’s ever lived in that house.” I gestured over the fence. “I know no one has died in it.”

“Yeah,” inner-city woman who lives in a 98-year-old house said. “Thanks for making me consider that. Thanks for the nightmares I’m going to have tonight.”

“In fact, I know that nothing really bad has ever happened over there. There’s no bad joo-joo from goat sacrifices or shit like that. Just a lot of toxic-sludge-filled diapers and a bout or two or norovirus.”

“Wish I could say the same,” my female neighbor said. “I think some bad stuff might have happened with one of those renters.”

“Oh,” I said, “I don’t think some bad stuff might have happened with one of your renters. I know bad stuff happened here.” (Read this story.) Then my wife proceeded to tell the home surgery tale in the story at that link.

“Yeah, there were a lot of homegrown tattoos in that crowd.” Laughter.

And this was the beginning of the monologue. I need to protect someone’s identity, but my wife mentioned about a, well, let’s say a “friend,” who wanted to train to be a tattoo artist. “I told (friend),” my wife said, “that in the next few years the real money was going to be in tattoo removal.”

I’m fine with tattoos, by the way, as long as it’s not some drunken prison swastika on your face. I don’t have any, but I likely will get one if I can ever manage to swim almost 4km, then ride my bike 180km, then run a full marathon, all in under 17 hours. Yeah, then I’ll probably tattoo this somewhere. If I die after crossing the finish line, feel free to tattoo it on my corpse.

“Actually,” I said, “I think an even higher calling is to be the one who repairs those gigantic ear lobe holes people put in their heads. I hate those.”

“Yeah,” someone agreed. “Those are gross.” This is Canadian middle-aged suburbia after all. We’re an uptight lot. If you have those ear lobes I can put my fist through, I apologize for what I’m about to write. It’s nothing personal, it’s just my sheltered world view. Or something.

Here goes the monologue.

“I fucking hate those things so much, that if you have one, I can’t even look at you. I don’t want to be in the same room as you. They make me fucking sick.” The alcohol had kicked in at this point. If you were on my Facebook page last night, you saw this. Did I mention this was a keg party? It was a keg party, and I brought my keg drinking glass. How I obtained said glass is another story, but let’s just say while I may be in possession of stolen property, I did not in fact do the initial stealing. I’m not that worried about legal repercussions, however, as I don’t believe Canada has an extradition treaty with Germany over the theft of beer steins. Well, both countries take their beer pretty seriously, so you never know.

Anyway …

We were getting pretty hammered at this point, so the F-bombs were coming out. There were little kids running around the back yard, and my wife made a comment that I should watch my language.

“I can’t do this rant without swearing,” I said, “So I’ll just have to lower my voice.”

Commence wifely eye-rolling. “Rant. Great. Here we go …”

“I like to think of myself as a pretty easy-going guy,” I began. “I try to accept people for who they are. I don’t care what shape you are, how tall or short you are, how many rings you have through your septum, if you have a lazy eye, pink hair, black teeth, too much collagen injected, be wearing a Nickelback concert T-shirt … whatever. You could have a growth the size of a fucking baseball sticking out of your face. Something purple and mottled, with hair and even teeth, and I’d look you right in the eye and carry on a conversation with you. Everyone is different, and everyone looks different and has different tastes, and I try not to judge, but just accept.

“But those fucking big ear holes. I just can’t accept that shit. I hate them so much that they make me physically ill to look at it. I mean, if you grew up in a tribe where you earned your stretched-out ear lobes as part of a right of passage into adulthood, and you had to do something bad-ass like chew the testicles off a rabid ocelot to attain gigantic-ear-hole-status, then fine. I’ll accept that. But if it’s just some rebellion where you decided to do it because you thought it looked cool, or you figured it would piss your parents off, then I can’t look at you. Those things give me the willies.”

“When I see one,” one woman said, “I just want to stick my finger through it and rip it apart.”

“OOHHHH!” A bunch of us groaned, me included.

And I think that’s my issue with these things. When I see one, that’s exactly what goes through my mind: Sticking my finger in there and ripping. Commence heebie jeebies and feeling of sickness in stomach.

So I guess it’s my fault for being warped.

Anyway, I’m sorry that nothing really happened in this story. Well, later on someone broke out the absinthe, and I’d never had it before, so something might have happened, but I’ll be damned if I can remember.

All I know is my head hurts. At least I didn’t wake up with a swastika on my face or any gigantic ear holes.

 A Brutally Honest, 3-Stage Program to Lose Weight without Losing Your Mind

By James S. Fell, MBA

and

Margaret Yúfera-Leitch, PhD

In consultation with Lindy Kennedy, MSc., RD

Introduction

The first principle is that you must not fool yourself – and you are the easiest person to fool.

-Richard Feynman, Nobel laureate in physics

Here is part of a rejection letter for this book, sent to my agent from the editor of a major publishing house:

There’s so much I really like here, David. James has a brash and audacious voice, and a sensible and straightforward message. His column in the LA Times is great, and I like the way he approaches the material … But my main concern, I hate to admit, is the sensible, measured nature of his program. Despite his flashy prose, he actually writes like the informed journalist that he is … sane, levelheaded, with proven advice. And while that’s great journalism, I worry that it’s not as salable of a diet plan.

And people wonder why they can’t lose weight.

Empower this
I know how it goes: your boss is channeling Linda Blair to the point where you’re waiting for the green vomit to fly, your kids are whining they have so much homework it qualifies as a hate crime, the dog won’t stop peeing on the rug, your in-laws are coming for a visit, the toilet seat got left up and you fell in.

Life keeps serving up lemons someone fished out of a dumpster until you want to start main-lining Häagen Dazs and plowing through a bag of Doritos like the apocalypse is imminent.

The food environment programmed you to glue your butt to the couch and scarf pizza dipped in chocolate sauce because today sucked, but it doesn’t have to be this way. There are real, science-based approaches to behavior change, not fluff and nonsense spouted by some Oprah-endorsed “emotional eating guru” whose qualifications amount to been there, done that.

No amount of group hugging or “empowerment” is going to help change your eating behaviors. There is no quick and easy way to learn to control what you consume. Following a calorie-conscious and nutritious diet is not comfortable at first, especially since we’re surrounded with 24/7 access to hyper-yummy junk food. Resisting the sugarcoated grease blobs and making wise food choices is a skill that must be learned because we’re not evolutionarily programmed to instinctively know what’s best for us to eat. Being toilet trained isn’t a natural instinct either; I’d argue it’s worth the effort.

This is also worth the effort. You are worth the effort.

The cost-benefit analysis
It’s going to take effort.

Evolution programmed us to be fat storers. Most of the inherently skinny cavemen and women got naturally selected out of our bloodlines as tasty treats for carrion eaters millennia ago. For many, our brains are wired to crave pleasurable food. It’s also a common trait to not want to be active if it isn’t necessary in order to conserve hard-earned and much-needed fat stores. Even today, your body is planning for the next big famine.

(If evolution talk offends you, imagine they rode dinosaurs and it was only 6,000 years ago.)

This is what Stone Age people thought about diet and exercise:

SO HUNGRY MUST STUFF FOOD IN FACE HOLE! DON’T MOVE EXCEPT HUNT OR FLEE SABER-TOOTHED MURDER-BEAST!

The mentality today hasn’t changed much because it’s locked in our genes. But the problem is now we have much more than all the food we need – and it tastes so good – and there is even less motivation to get off our expanding butt cheeks because machines do our labor for us. Most people bitch if the drive-through window is closed and the only place they see a murder beast is on the National Geographic Channel.

In other words, circumstances used to watch our waistlines for us, and circumstances have changed.

Skepticism can make you strong
You must become skeptical of all things weight loss. It’s a dirty, dirty industry full of much male bovine droppings promising quick and easy results.

I am a shovel.

Who wants to lose weight slow? That’s lame. It’s got to be fast, dammit! Guess what happens when I Google “Lose weight fast”? I get almost 10 million results and ads that include words like “magic,” “miracle,” and “Dr. Oz” flogging octopus spleens to burn belly fat, or something. Then I Google “lose weight slow” and get only 13,000 results (and no ads), and most talk about things like “How to lose weight with a slow metabolism.” Or, “To lose weight, slow your eating.” Not the same thing.

Losing weight fast doesn’t happen except in cases of significant obesity, but everyone – even if they are only a little overweight – really wants it to be true. And the weight loss marketers take that desire and warp it, package it up all pretty, and ram it down your throat via a massive deluge of advertising/brainwashing that permeates our society via every possible media outlet, often using celebrities, because …

Sex sells slimness
If you have an Internet connection and poor impulse control, you know why Kim Kardashian is famous. One hint: It’s not for her knowledge of pharmacology. This is why I was surprised to see her on 20/20 talking about QuickTrim diet pills, which she and her sisters endorse. “We helped formulate this,” she said.

Really? And that’s a selling point?

And it wasn’t just diet pills. She also flogged Skechers Shape-Ups – the shoes that allegedly burn extra calories and tone your butt. That’s the same Skechers that agreed to pay $40 million to settle a class action lawsuit for false advertising.

If you want to know how to achieve “celebrity” by leaking a sex tape, Kim is the person to look to for such an education. When it comes to the intricacies of sustainable weight loss for the population at large, however, I am suspicious of her qualifications.

Capitalism run amok
Welcome to Weight Loss Inc., where serpent lubrication sells like hotcakes. It’s capitalism run amok, and it is not helping. It has perpetuated a myth of “quick and easy” when it comes to dropping fat from your frame. If you believe in quick-fix miracle cures for getting in shape, you’re not alone. In 2007 the Federal Trade Commission launched a massive survey of consumer fraud in the U.S. and found people were more likely to be taken in by a weight loss scam than any other type of fraud.¹ It’s not all “bank inspectors” and pyramid schemes; in 2006 fraudsters scammed millions of Americans wanting to lose weight by selling pills, powders, machines, wraps, creams and even “weight loss earrings.” Huh.

Are people who believe such things stupid? Not necessarily.

In his 1997 book Why People Believe Weird Things, Skeptics Society founder Michael Shermer asserted “smart people” could be more susceptible to believing outrageous claims than others, “because they are skilled at defending beliefs they arrived at for non-smart reasons.” These non-smart reasons can include peers, sibling and parental influences, life experiences, cultural pressure and even genetic predispositions. Shermer further explained: “More than any other, the reason people believe weird things is because they want to. It feels good. It is comforting. It is consoling.”²

I had a chat with Shermer to get weight loss specific details.

“Weight loss is so susceptible for fraud because it’s so hard to do and the signs of progress so slow,” Shermer told me. “The reward is not enough for most people. Anything that appeals to shortening the process is going to sell.”

Shermer, a competitive cyclist for 30 years, admits he’s struggled himself. “The cost in difficulty for weight loss is very high, and for the average person it seems impossible.” And so people spend money on weight loss “miracles” instead. “It’s called the optimism bias,” he said. “There are just enough success stories – either real or imagined – that people believe they will be the one who is successful.” And they buy again and again because they have a poor memory for failure.

Sensationalism sells. Just look at Oprah, Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz and the guests they have on their shows. Extolling sustained weight loss comes via a slow and steady approach with gradual integration of exercise and dietary restriction just isn’t sexy, but “six-second abs” and magical raspberry ketones are. We have authors saying it takes “Eight minutes in the morning,” you can get a “Four Hour Body,” or go on a “17-Day Diet” and these books and products become bestsellers. There is no shortage of profiteers taking advantage of the obesity epidemic by pushing gimmicks and scams on a desperate populace. This doesn’t mean there isn’t good stuff too. We will make recommendations.

We like to believe in the myth of the quick fix, because as Shermer says, it’s comforting.

Question: When has anything worthwhile in your life ever come about without serious and sustained effort?

Become a weight loss skeptic
A traveling cloak of healthy skepticism will protect you from believing there is an easy way. There is no easy way. If it sounds to good to be true, then it’s about as reliable as choosing Lindsay Lohan as your designated driver.

If you want to lose fat and be healthy – if you want to get and stay in shape, this is going to take effort from now until the day you dirt nap. There is NO quick fix. There are no miracle cures for being overweight. This will take both exercise (Ooh, scary!) and dietary control and you won’t transform into a bikini model in a month. Deep down, you know this is true.

I think that’s about enough doom and gloom for now. Sustained weight loss is feasible. Here is how to lose it right.

Nike is wrong
Know what you get when you try to turn into a fitness fanatic overnight? A “you-shaped” bag of pain who thinks exercise sucks.

Don’t “Just do it.” Instead: learn, prepare, then do it. Learn, Prepare, Do are the three stages we’ve broken this book down into, and within the “Do” stage there are three exercise and three eating levels to gradually transform your health, the way your body performs, and the way you look.

This program is a 3-stage approach, taking you through behavior change at a gradual pace you can tolerate. See those “MBA” letters after my name on the cover? I’m going to proactively synergize your core competencies towards an optimized fitness paradigm. Uh, I mean, this book is about designing a personal and comprehensive strategy for losing weight and getting fit, because some product you bought from an infomercial isn’t going to change your physique or your life in just a few weeks.

You don’t build a house by slapping a few boards together. You need a blueprint, you must lay a foundation and have the right skills, tools and building products. It takes teamwork. There are goals – both short and long-term – to be set, tactics to be devised, time to be managed and schedules to be adhered to.

When building a house it’s not a great idea to quit progressing half way through. Conversely, this is okay when it comes to getting in shape. In other words, don’t adopt the all-or-none mentality. If you think losing 50 pounds would make you fitness-model lean, but instead maintain 25 pounds of weight loss, is this not still awesome? You get leaner, healthier, have more energy and drive. You’ve adopted an improved lifestyle you can live with and sustain. Yes, still awesome.

You can hold firm part way through the process if you’re happy with your new lifestyle and the results you’ve achieved. We’re not cracking whips, but instead encouraging sustainable improvement.

But know going from a metaphorical doughnut-scarfing couch potato to diet-conscious workout warrior – or getting to the halfway point – is a serious undertaking. It’s a big project, and in the business world to complete big projects you break them down into manageable pieces and do them in a logical order.

The simple advice of “eat less, move more” is a crock. Both evolution and the current environment conspire against humans to make us fat. Two-thirds of the population is overweight or obese because it’s become too easy to gain weight, and too hard to get and stay slim. Saying “eat less, move more” to an overweight person is like saying “spend less, earn more” to someone living in crushing poverty. Granted, this strategy does require consuming fewer calories and adding physical activity, but learning how to integrate this into your life can’t be boiled down to a sound bite.

We’re going to make you somewhat uncomfortable one step at a time using our Virtuous Cycle exercise and eating plan. When each new step – each new behavior – becomes comfortable (or at least tolerable) and routine, it’s time to get a little uncomfortable again. These baby steps reinforce each other and add up faster than you think. The exercise makes changes in your brain so sticking to a healthier eating plan is more manageable and junk food loses its hold over you. From a weight loss perspective, burning calories pales in comparison to the cognitive benefits exercise bestows, transforming you into a better eater.

Love the journey
Slow and steady allows you to learn to love the journey so it doesn’t seem like you’ve sold yourself into weight loss slavery. This isn’t white-knuckle lifestyle change, where with every passing day you have an increased desire to stab a badger in the kidney with a salad fork; one where you can maybe power through for a few weeks or perhaps months but are doomed to backslide.

Starving yourself while suffering through sweat sessions to drop a few inches for a high school reunion, then beginning to regain weight the instant you hit the buffet line is not smart. That’s losing it wrong. By going slow and steady you’ll not be thinking about being on a diet or engaging in an exercise program; healthy eating and physical fitness will become part of who you are. No more yoyo weight loss.

Although we call this book Lose it Right, know it doesn’t have all the answers. You have an important role to play in adapting this to your life, personality and physiology. Overall, however, remember that it’s about following a tolerable pace.

Be a tortoise instead of a hare. You will reap benefits.

Be this
You must wrap your brain around this. This is not a weight loss book. This is not a “get in shape” book. This is a lifestyle overhaul book.

Deep down, most of us have an idea about what achieves lasting weight loss … that healthy eating and exercise thing. What most of us don’t know is how to become a person who lives that way. This is our focus.

You need to be motivated and the best way to do that is through understanding what you’re in for and how to change; not just your body, but your mind, your schedule and your reason for being. It’s not just about the exercises you engage in and the diet you consume, it’s about changing who you are.

It’s not a list of actions. It is someone you become.

Don’t just do this; be this.

Notes to the Introduction

1. Keith Anderson, Consumer Fraud in the United States: The Second FTC Survey, October, 2007, p. S-1.
2. Michael Shermer, Why People Believe Weird Things: Pseudoscience, Superstition, and other Confusions of Our Time (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2002), pp. 275, 283-4.

Retrain Your Brain for Sustainable Weight Loss

By James S. Fell, MBA

and

Margaret Yúfera-Leitch, PhD

Introduction

Here is part of a rejection letter for this book, sent to my agent from the editor of a major publishing house:

There’s so much I really like here, David. James has a brash and audacious voice, and a sensible and straightforward message. His column in the LA Times is great, and I like the way he approaches the material … But my main concern, I hate to admit, is the sensible, measured nature of his program. Despite his flashy prose, he actually writes like the informed journalist that he is … sane, levelheaded, with proven advice. And while that’s great journalism, I worry that it’s not as salable of a diet plan.

And people wonder why they can’t lose weight.

Truth hurts

“You’re not a real journalist until someone threatens to sue you.”

An editor said this to me. It was comforting, because the person doing the threatening is a famous “weight loss guru.” Our war of words made international news. And by “international” I mean they even covered it in the Ethiopian press.

That column led to much fan mail, moderate hate mail, and one threat to “cave your head in with a kettlebell.”

Although I’ve made enemies, there are also friends. World-renowned obesity researchers have sung my praises and shared my work, and I’ve lost count of how many medical doctors tell me they recommend my writing to their patients.

Permit me to tell you of my co-author, Margaret. She’s a respected professor with a real PhD in psychology from a real university with a focus on eating behavior and the link to body weight. We’ve come up with a step-by-step plan to transform your eating behaviors and your lifestyle to create a leaner, healthier and happier you. No miracles or magic; we rely on science and big-picture planning to help you achieve your goals.

If you are looking for another diet book to make outlandish weight loss promises or otherwise blow miracle fat-burning smoke up your ass, you’ve come to the wrong place. The information contained in these pages is going to hurt.

Okay. Now that all the pansies are gone, let’s do this.

Empower this

I know how it goes: your boss is channeling Linda Blair to the point where you’re waiting for the green vomit to fly, your kids are whining they have so much homework it qualifies as a hate crime, the dog won’t stop peeing on the rug, your in-laws are coming for a visit, the toilet seat got left up and you fell in.

Life keeps serving up lemons someone fished out of a dumpster until you want to start main-lining Häagen Dazs and plowing through a bag of Doritos like the apocalypse is imminent.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. There are alternatives to gluing your butt to the couch and scarfing pizza dipped in chocolate sauce because today sucked. Real, science-based alternatives instead of fluff and nonsense spouted by some Oprah-endorsed “emotional eating guru” whose qualifications amount to been there, done that.

No amount of group hugging or “empowerment” is going to help change your eating behaviors. There is no quick and easy way to learn to control what you consume. Following a calorie-conscious and nutritious diet is not comfortable at first, especially since we’re surrounded with 24/7 access to hyper-yummy junk food. Resisting the sugarcoated grease blobs and making wise food choices is a skill that must be learned because we’re not evolutionarily programmed to instinctively know what’s best for us to eat. Being toilet trained isn’t a natural instinct either; I’d argue it’s worth the effort.

This is also worth the effort. You are worth the effort.

The cost-benefit analysis

It’s going to take effort.

We live in what is known in researcher circles as an “obesigenic environment,” which is scientist speak for, “it makes you fat.” We’re moving a bit less, and we’re eating a lot more. Sedentary jobs, busy schedules and easy access to nutritionally compromised yet calorie-packed “food” we don’t have to cook is what modern life is about. The pounds pack on, and they don’t come off easily.

Evolution programmed us to be fat storers. Most of the inherently skinny cavemen and women got naturally selected out of our bloodlines as tasty treats for carrion eaters millennia ago. For many, our brains are wired to crave pleasurable food. It’s also a common trait to not want to be active if it isn’t necessary in order to conserve hard-earned and much-needed fat stores. Even today, your body is planning for the next big famine.

(If evolution talk offends you, imagine they rode dinosaurs and it was only 6,000 years ago.)

This is what Stone Age people thought about diet and exercise:

SO HUNGRY MUST STUFF FOOD IN FACE HOLE! DON’T MOVE EXCEPT HUNT OR FLEE SABER-TOOTHED MURDER-BEAST!

The mentality today hasn’t changed much because it’s locked in our genes. But the problem is now we have much more than all the food we need – and it tastes so good – and there is even less motivation to get off our expanding butt cheeks because machines do our labor for us. Most people bitch if the drive-through window is closed and the only place they see a murder beast is on the National Geographic Channel.

In other words, circumstances used to watch our waistlines for us, and circumstances have changed.

Capitalism run amok isn’t helping. The marketing machine I call Weight Loss Inc. has perpetuated a myth of “quick and easy” when it comes to dropping fat from your frame. If you believe in quick-fix miracle cures for getting in shape, you’re not alone. In 2007 the Federal Trade Commission launched a massive survey of consumer fraud in the U.S. and found people were more likely to be taken in by a weight loss scam than any other type of fraud.¹ It’s not all “bank inspectors” and pyramid schemes; in 2006 fraudsters scammed millions of Americans wanting to lose weight by selling pills, powders, machines, wraps, creams and even “weight loss earrings.” Huh.

Are people who believe such things stupid? Not necessarily.

In his 1997 book Why People Believe Weird Things, Skeptics Society founder Michael Shermer asserted “smart people” could be more susceptible to believing outrageous claims than others. He further explained: “More than any other, the reason people believe weird things is because they want to. It feels good. It is comforting. It is consoling.”²

I had a chat with Shermer to get weight loss specific details.

“Weight loss is so susceptible for fraud because it’s so hard to do and the signs of progress so slow,” Shermer told me. “The reward is not enough for most people. Anything that appeals to shortening the process is going to sell.”

Shermer, a competitive cyclist for 30 years, admits he’s struggled himself. “The cost in difficulty for weight loss is very high, and for the average person it seems impossible.” And so people spend money on weight loss “miracles” instead.

Sensationalism sells. Just look at Oprah, Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz and the guests they have on their shows. Extolling sustained weight loss comes via a slow and steady approach with gradual integration of exercise and dietary restriction just isn’t sexy, but “six-second abs” and magical raspberry ketones are. We have authors saying it takes “Eight minutes in the morning,” you can get a “Four hour Body,” or go on a “17-Day Diet” and these books and products become bestsellers. There is no shortage of profiteers taking advantage of the obesity epidemic by pushing gimmicks and scams on a desperate populace. This doesn’t mean there isn’t good stuff too. We will make recommendations.

We like to believe in the myth of the quick fix, because as Shermer says, it’s comforting.

Question: When has anything worthwhile in your life ever come about without serious and sustained effort?

If you want to lose fat and be healthy; if you want to get and stay in shape, this is going to take effort from now until the day you dirt nap. There is NO quick fix. There are no miracle cures for being overweight – not even liposuction, because the fat comes back.³ This will take both exercise (Ooh, scary!) and dietary control and you won’t transform into a bikini model in a month. Deep down, you know this is true.

I think that’s about enough doom and gloom for now. Let’s move on to explaining why all of the above can be good news if you adopt the right mentality.

Nike is wrong

Know what you get when you try to turn into a fitness fanatic overnight? A “you-shaped” bag of pain who thinks exercise sucks.

Don’t “Just do it.” Instead: learn, plan, prepare, then do it.

This program is a phased approach, taking you through behavior change at a gradual pace you can tolerate. See those “MBA” letters after my name on the cover? I’m going to proactively synergize your core competencies towards an optimized fitness paradigm. Uh, I mean, this book is about designing a personal and comprehensive strategy for losing weight and getting fit, because some product you bought from an infomercial isn’t going to change your physique or your life in just a few weeks.

You don’t build a house by slapping a few boards together. You need a blueprint, you must lay a foundation and have the right skills, tools and building products. It takes teamwork. There are goals – both short and long-term – to be set, tactics to be devised, time to be managed and schedules to be adhered to.

When building a house it’s not a great idea to quit progressing half way through. Conversely, this is okay when it comes to getting in shape. In other words, don’t adopt the all-or-none mentality. If you think losing 50 pounds would make you fitness-model lean, but instead maintain 25 pounds of weight loss, is this not still awesome? You get leaner, healthier, have more energy and drive. You’ve adopted an improved lifestyle you can live with and sustain. Yes, still awesome.

But know going from doughnut-scarfing couch potato to diet-conscious workout warrior – or getting to the halfway point – is a serious undertaking. It’s a big project, and in the business world to complete big projects you break them down into manageable pieces and do them in a logical order.

There are five phases; the first three are about gaining knowledge and preparing. No changing the way you eat, no sweating. Phases 4 and 5 put the plan into action; they are comprised of six alternating steps to progress through: three for integrating exercise, and three for changing your diet. Know you don’t have to complete all six steps if you don’t want. You can hold firm part way through the process if you’re happy with your new lifestyle and the results you’ve achieved. We’re not cracking whips, but instead encouraging sustainable improvement.

There is also a self-assessment questionnaire to determine at what pace to take these steps.

Why am I making this sound complex? Because the simple advice of “eat less, move more” is a crock. As you’ll learn, both evolution and the current environment conspire against humans to make us fat. Two-thirds of the population is overweight or obese because it’s become too easy to gain weight, and too hard to get and stay slim. Saying “eat less, move more” to an overweight person is like saying “spend less, earn more” to someone living in crushing poverty.

Granted, this strategy does require consuming fewer calories and adding physical activity, but learning how to integrate this into your life can’t be boiled down to a sound bite.

Again, big projects need to be broken down into manageable pieces.

We’re going to make you somewhat uncomfortable one step at a time using our Virtuous Cycle fitness and eating plan. When each new step – each new behavior – becomes comfortable (or at least tolerable) and routine, it’s time to get a little uncomfortable again. These baby steps reinforce each other and add up faster than you think. The result is you learn to love the journey so it doesn’t seem like you’ve sold yourself into weight loss slavery. This isn’t white-knuckle lifestyle change, where with every passing day you have an increased desire to stab a badger in the kidney with a salad fork; one where you can maybe power through for a few weeks or perhaps months but are doomed to backslide.

By going slow and steady you’ll not be thinking about being on a diet or engaging in an exercise program; healthy eating and physical fitness will become part of who you are. No more yoyo weight loss.

Be a tortoise instead of a hare. You will reap benefits.

Adding to your life résumé

If you’re overweight and don’t like being so, that’s a problem; one that is difficult to solve, but if you do it – if you work hard and persevere – it gives you tremendous experience as a problem solver. This is a useful skill that can be applied to myriad aspects of your life.

To elaborate, internationally-renowned behavioral psychologist and Stanford University researcher Dr. Albert Bandura examined this phenomenon with the development of his ground-breaking self-efficacy theory. Sustained weight loss is a “performance accomplishment.” He explained repeated success makes it easier to deal with occasional failures. And overcoming these failures “can strengthen self-motivated persistence if one finds through experience that even the most difficult obstacles can be mastered by sustained effort.”⁴

Am I the only one who said, “Hell, yeah!” after reading that?

“Self-motivated persistence.” Now we’re getting somewhere.

Are you experienced?

If you’re frightened about pursuing exercise and changing what you eat, know you’ve already built a list of performance accomplishments in your life that can be applied to getting in shape. Have you finished a challenging school program? Earned a big promotion? Raised a child or three? Built a house? Learned to cook? Fixed a car’s transmission? Any time in your past where you faced a challenge and persevered through planning, patience and persistence you’ve built a valuable life skill that can be applied to losing weight.

Those performance accomplishments build on one another. If your life could stand some improvement, getting in shape does WAY more than give you a healthier and hotter body to live inside. It gives you the mental discipline and willpower to kick more ass at the rest of life. It’s your return on investment.

It gets better.

The exercise connection

John Lennon was right. All you need is love. Feel the love for exercise.

I’ll get into details later, but for now know exercise is a key component as a tool to fight food cravings and change eating behaviors. When it comes to weight loss, burning calories is helpful, but it is a distant second to the psychological, hormonal and chemical changes it initiates that allow you to gain control over what you eat. (There are tremendous health and physical performance benefits as well, covered in Chapter 4.)

Are you an inactive couch potato? Do you hate the idea of sweating? I understand, because I used to be the same way. I was the high school spaz who made the geeks look good and always got picked last when teams were chosen. I sucked at every sport imaginable, yet now love exercising almost every day of the week. I have about 50 pounds less fat and 20 pounds more muscle than two decades ago.

This isn’t “If I can do it, so can you” motivational pablum. I hate that. I just want you to know I have some perspective of what you’re about to go through.

Forget that stuff about “Only minutes a day.” That word “only” implies exercise is a form of punishment to be endured to achieve a specific end. They’re saying, “We know you hate this, so we’ve come up with a miracle method that minimizes the time spent doing something you detest.”

And it’s a crock, not to mention a toxic mindset. Exercise is not punishment. It’s an awesome and righteous lifestyle to be embraced with passion and vigor until the end of your days.

I feel like I’m freaking you out. If the old me read the above two paragraphs he’d be rolling his eyes.

Just know exercise is critical, not so much as a calorie burner, but as a brain changer. We’re going to show you how exercise positively affects your neurological pathways to make resisting junk easier and healthier food choices more desirable. Getting physically active is the most powerful tool there is for controlling eating behavior.

The quick explanation as to why is twofold:

1. Physiologically, eating behavior and exercise share a neuro-cognitive link; it’s the same mental process. Regular physical activity is proven to dramatically improve “executive function” in the brain, which enhances your ability to control impulsiveness (a prevalent trait amongst overeaters) as well as improves decision-making and your ability to stick to a plan (such as a healthy diet plan). It works on the subconscious level as well, acting as a replacement reward that serves to decrease cravings for junk food.
2. Psychologically, when you become a regular exerciser, it makes you more mindful about food. You start to think about it as a source of healthy fuel rather than sweet or greasy pleasure. It’s a gateway behavior.

And no, we didn’t make that up. We’ll science the hell out of it in later chapters.

Exercise is critical

“Exercise is a critical component of weight loss and weight maintenance,” Dr. Miguel Alonso-Alonso, a Harvard neurologist and specialist in how exercise affects the brain, told me. “We know that. It’s a fact.”

Harvard doctor up there. He says it’s critical. Take heed.

I’ll be blunt. You’d be a fool to ignore exercise as part of your weight loss strategy, because it creates a suit of armor to protect you from the endless temptations of our toxic food environment.

Why am I harping on this? It’s because I’ve been to the bookstore. By my estimation 80% of weight loss books are either only about diet or pay the barest lip service to physical activity. They perpetuate a myth that exercise is torture and sweating is gross. Well, sweating is kind of gross, but you get used to it, and there are breathable fitness clothes that mitigate its ickyness.

Books promising a miracle diet that say “no exercise required” are telling people what they want to hear. Instead, my co-author and I tell people what they need to hear. What this will mean for book sales remains to be seen.

Exercise improves diet, which reinforces exercising, which creates a virtuous cycle. When it comes to health and fitness, would you be rather be in a virtuous cycle, or a death spiral?

Know your exercise soul mate doesn’t have to be the best calorie-burner or muscle builder, but it will come to define you as a person. Also, don’t feel the need to be monogamous to any one physical activity. In the fitness context, polyamory equals cross training.

Your brain on food and why we like what we like

Eating is either hedonically or homeostatically motivated, meaning it’s done for pleasure (hedonism baby, yeah) or to fulfill bodily energy requirements (homeostatic). Unfortunately, modern society switched to a condition where the majority of us eat to derive pleasure; we do this because the food supply programmed our brains to behave this way. And pleasure-focused eating results in over-consuming unhealthy food resulting in weight gain. Our goal is to switch you towards viewing food as a source of healthy fuel rather than just satisfying your taste buds. I’ll be honest up front and tell you it’s not going to taste as good, but your brain and body will adapt.

The three diet steps we have you progress through are all about gradual steps to reduce the amount of “reward value” in the food you eat. This is not a popular thing to write, I know, but the fact is the higher the reward value of the food (think fudge and bacon cheese burgers and ice cream and chicken wings), the heavier you will be.

I didn’t say your ultimate diet is going to taste bad, just not as good as the one that made you gain weight. Here is some perspective: Think of apples. Imagine taking a big bite. Even if you love apples you can’t eat that much because when the taste hits your tongue it’s not like your mouth just had an orgasm, is it?

Crème brûlée though? Or cookie dough ice cream? Or “Mmmm… I love Turtles”? Total mouthgasm.

Unlike a real orgasm however, there isn’t much afterglow from junk food. Plowing through half a pizza or a box of chocolates doesn’t make you feel good for the rest of the day. And while a sexual romp can keep you sated for a long time, junk food begets more junk food: you keep eating well beyond the point of bodily energy requirements, losing track of how much you ate – and you keep eating after you’re no longer hungry because the reward is outstanding. Something bordering on addiction grows, and you need ever more sugar, salt and fat to quench the desire for the next mouthgasm.

I’m going to stop writing that word now, okay?

The point is evolution programmed us to like certain flavors. If you put something sweet on a baby’s tongue, they smile. (Doctors will use sugar solution to relieve pain in infants undergoing minor procedures such as drawing blood.) Put something bitter on an infant tongue, however, and it elicits a wail akin to poop-up-the-back. I’m a dad. I have been there; I have done that.

One of the reasons why we like sweetness is it represents nutrition. A piece of fruit is at its peak of nutritional value while also at its sweetest. For millennia of human evolution seeking out sweetness was good, until technology started messing with things and making nutritionally vacant yet calorically dense hyper-flavored sugar-fat combination treats like hot fudge sundaes. Not only that, but such foods are soft rather than crunchy, allowing for a fast ingestion that generates an immediate sense of pleasure. It seems similar to the difference between smoking heroin and injecting it.

Have you ever had a perfectly ripe mango? It’s one of the most amazing tasting natural foods on the planet. One mango has about 130 calories. How many can you eat? Something shuts down so a second one doesn’t seem that appealing.

Compare that to a high-sugar / high-fat restaurant dessert such as The Keg Carrot Cake a la mode. It has 2,344 calories. That’s 18 times as many calories as a mango. I know I would eat the whole thing then lick the plate clean; the flavor is so overwhelming all appetite control is lost. Then I’d have to do a full marathon worth of running to burn it off. Think on that math.

Sugar, fat and salt all create a chemical cascade in your brain that is an intricate interaction of hormones, neurotransmitters, endorphins, satiety signals and reward sensations. And it’s tougher for some people than others. Some people are more “reward sensitive,” where they crave the fix drugs, alcohol or highly palatable (extra-yummy) food gives them more intensely. Others are what we call “super tasters,” experiencing greater taste intensities, both positive and negative. They’re more likely to love sweet foods and hate the bitterness of vegetables.

This is basic operant conditioning psychology based around the stimulus-response model of behavior change. If a stimulus, such as putting a Caramilk bar into your mouth, elicits a positive response, such as thinking, Whoa mama, that tastes good, this behavior gets reinforced and you seek out that rewarding feeling again and again. It works the other way as well, where a bad taste is seen as punishment and you avoid foods you don’t like.

Your life on food

Money talks.

I live in Canada, where food corporations influence government policy. We’re not taught calories on the Canada Food Guide and bills to have calorie labeling on restaurant menus are always struck down.

The situation in the U.S. is similar, where the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics (formerly the American Dietetic Association) is cozy with companies such as Coca-Cola, PepsiCo and Kellogg’s.⁵ It’s a fact that food corporations are powerful lobbyists; a recent example of which is restaurant lobbyists persuading state lawmakers in Florida and Arizona to prevent their governments from outlawing toy giveaways with high-calorie kid meals.⁶

Many countries’ governments don’t always do a great job of looking out for the health of its citizens when it comes to food, but corporations can be even more blatant in their nefarious deeds. I mentioned having an MBA and I know the #1 goal of any corporation is maximizing shareholder value. They don’t care about you, unless somehow caring about you translates into making them more money.

In most cases, not caring about you makes them money because they’re giving people what they want. We’ve voted with our wallets, partially because most don’t understand how our food supply is manipulated to promote over-consumption. This is why they spend millions lobbying governments to keep regulations lax, so they can offer their scrumptious substances to our yearning mouths, creating a society where only the well informed and strongest-willed can resist the call of the cookie. Or the Crispy Crunch. Or the Baconator. Or the … you get the idea.

This isn’t a conspiracy theory. I don’t believe moon-landings were faked or aliens abduct rednecks out of trailer parks and probe them or the Kardashian clan is the result of an unholy union between the Loch Ness Monster and a rabid Sasquatch. Actually, I’m on the fence about that last one.

Although I’m a skeptic, I accept this is the reality of our profit-driven economy, and when it comes to losing weight, it’s your enemy. In modern society you need to learn how to navigate the influence of food corporations and restaurants to control your appetite.

The food industry has an advertising budget second only to the automotive industry, and many companies will use every trick in the Advertiser’s Handbook of Manipulation and Misinformation to get you to consume and over-consume. Once we teach you these tricks and how to avoid the near brainwashing, you’ll be better armed against the high-calorie ploys, and learn how to navigate the grocery store.

And if they don’t already, grocery stores will play an important role in your life, because eating out is fraught with so much peril you’re better off avoiding doing so as much as possible.

Restaurants are in the business of making money. They do that via repeat business. One way they get repeat business is by making food taste extra good. They make food taste good by jamming it full of fat, sugar and salt (the first two of which are calorically dense) which all promote you to eat way more than you need. In most cases, eating out makes you gain weight. Such is the peril of pleasure-focused eating.

I’m not saying you can never eat out again, but once you understand the dilemma it poses, you’ll want to less frequently. We’re going to take some of the fun out it, which is going to reduce the reward sensations you feel, which is going to make this all a bit easier. Also, there are tips you can learn to ensure when you do eat out you don’t inhale more than a day’s worth of calories in one meal.

It’s good enough for Daniel Baldwin…

I mentioned some people are reward sensitive. They are more likely to be addicted to food, alcohol, drugs and even gambling. I spoke with actor Daniel Baldwin, who has been on both Celebrity Rehab for his drug and alcohol addiction and on Celebrity Fit Club for being obese.

“I’d just turned 50, weighed 285, and my doctor had read me the riot act about my health,” Baldwin told me. Then he started intense training with a kettlebell, which led to dietary improvements, which led to losing 50 pounds in six months.

“My doctor didn’t recognize me,” he said. “He thought I was Billy Baldwin.”

Daniel says he loves working out with kettlebells because it’s fun and allowed him to lose fat and build muscle. He also says the confidence boost that comes with his new physique has been good for battling his addiction demons.

“What this does for me emotionally, psychologically and spiritually … has been very important in not relapsing,” he told me.

In other words, Daniel started getting his fix from working out and you can too. If you have unhealthy eating behaviors because you love the reward sensation from highly palatable food, exercise can become your replacement reward and strengthen your ability to control your impulses and stick to a healthy eating plan.

Motivation to exercise requires a comparatively modest amount of time each week. Sticking to a healthy eating regimen, however, requires almost 24/7 dedication in the modern food environment. A few hours of exercise each week makes dealing with food temptation for the other 160+ hours in the week more manageable. It’s a wise division of motivational resources.

Getting control of your cravings

It’s much more than just exercise. That would be pretty lame if all we did was tell you to go work on getting a good case of athlete’s foot (they make a cream for that, by the way).

There will be a number of strategies we’ll have you employ in the early stages, but what happens is, over time and with practice, highly palatable food loses its hold over you. I’m guessing it has its claws in deep. Junk food rewired your brain to crave it and we’re going to lead you through our Virtuous Cycle fitness and eating plan to break with that mental conditioning while teaching practical alternatives when it comes to eating. And it will get easier. Over time you will crave junk food less and want the healthy stuff instead.

Be good at math

The most important thing to remember with adopting an exercise regimen is to avoid the trap of the reward mentality. Some people will burn 300 calories on a treadmill and feel they earned a reward, so they eat 500 calories of cheesecake. That’s bad math.

Understand exercise is not about allowing you to reward yourself with junk food like many do, but about giving you the power to RESIST junk. You need to embrace the lifestyle rather than see it as a means to an end.

Whew. Thanks for not being a pansy.

Now we’re about to get all science-y on your behind – your eventually smaller and more muscular behind.

Notes to the Introduction

1. Keith Anderson, Consumer Fraud in the United States: The Second FTC Survey, October, 2007, p. S-1.
2. Michael Shermer, Why People Believe Weird Things: Pseudoscience, Superstition, and other Confusions of Our Time (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2002), p. 275.
3. Terri Hernandez et al., “Fat Redistribution Following Suction Lipectomy: Defense of Body Fat and Patterns of Restoration,” Obesity, April, 2011 – Advance online publication.
4. Albert Bandura, “Self Efficacy: Toward a Unifying Theory of Behavioral Change,” Psychological Review, 84, March 1977: 191-215.
5. American Dietetic Association 2010 Annual Report, p. 6.
6. Los Angeles Times, “Fast-food industry is quietly defeating Happy Meal bans,” May 18, 2011. Accessed online from health section.

I’ve seen that motivational poster all over Facebook, and I call bullshit, because I regretted the hell out of a recent bike ride.

It was a hot and sunny day and I was in the final stretch of a four-hour ride on my newish carbon-fiber road bike. With about half-an-hour left I had an unpleasant encounter with a pre-menstrual Mother Nature, who decided to smite me with one of her creatures for not cutting up plastic six-pack rings and thereby contributing to worldwide turtle asphyxiation. 

It wasn’t, as the title implies, a honey bee. It was a kamikaze death wasp the size of a hummingbird that flew at Mach 3 stinger first into my eye. Did I mention this happened at the worst possible time? Because it happened at the worst possible time.

The majority of my ride had been on paths, but there is one stretch where I have to ride through heavy traffic. I was skirting the left side of the line alongside an exit ramp that I did not want to take. I had cars whipping passed on my left, and a big-Jesus truck coming perilously close on my right. I was pedaling hard for this 100-yard stretch to reach the relative safety of the bridge ahead when the hell-spawned insect from the order Hymenoptera launched his murder-suicide mission at my face.

“Ah! Fuck-Fuck-Fuck-FUUCCKKK!!!”

The little bastard managed to get stuck between my sunglasses and the portion of skin between my eye and eyebrow. I started smacking wildly at my face while repeating that best of swearwords, all while desperately endeavoring not to slip under the tires of the truck and be instantly transformed into a human-bicycle hybrid road pizza.

I made it to the bridge and came to a stop, barely getting my shoes unlocked from the pedals in time to prevent falling over sideways while still attached to my bike (referred to as a “Captain’s Crash,” because you go down with the ship) which would have added further insulting injury to injury.

I pulled off my sunglasses and rubbed at my eye. The wasp was gone, probably on his way to insectoid Valhalla to collect his virgins, or something. Fucker.

Then the headache hit. It was less a creeping pain than it was a sledgehammer to the frontal cortex. Deciding there was nothing to do but go home, I started pedaling again.

The effort only served to make the headache worsen. My accelerated heart rate pumped stupid-fucking-death-wasp toxins faster into my blood stream, and as my temples pounded I kept quoting Schwarzenegger to maintain some perspective. It’s not a toomah.

But I made it home, and then the swelling started.

Hang on to your Happy Meals. This story is about to get gross.

When I get stung, I swell. I got stung on the pinkie of my left hand once and couldn’t wear my wedding ring for almost a week. If you know me, you’ll realize this was a big deal, as I like advertising to the world that there is at least one person out there other than my mom who loves me. I know guys who take their wedding band off for weightlifting, but I keep mine on and bash the shit out of it by gripping large dumbbells. That ring of gold is battle-hardened now, just like my marriage.

Another time I got stung on my index finger and I said to my dad on the phone, “My finger has swelled to the size of my dick.”

“It shrunk that much, did it?” He’s such a smart ass.

So, yes, when I get stung I swell. I got home and my wife said, “How was the ride?” Then I took my sunglasses off. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Fucking bee stung me.”

“That’s a dollar for the swear jar, Daddy,” my daughter said. That fucking swear jar is seriously cutting into my beer money.

“I think we’ll give Daddy a free pass on that one, Sweetie. Look at his face.”

Yes, look at my face.

It gets worse. So much worse.

My wife went into doctor mode and pumped me full of Reactine and Benadryl. I hate to think what things would have looked like had I not popped pills like an anaphylactic kid at a Reese’s peanut butter cup factory.

The next morning, depth perception had gone to shit.

Stereovision is not overrated.

Much as I would have liked to hide at home, I’d made a promise to my kids. It was going to be a scorcher day and while my wife was at work we had plans to hit an outdoor pool. My wife wasn’t keen on the idea, but I wanted to be a good dad, so I sucked it up and we went to the pool.

“Okay, kids. Here’s the deal. This drive is going to be a team effort.” I looked at my daughter. “Every time I change lanes you’ll be double-checking for cars.” Then I said to my son, “And you’ll be up front making sure I don’t misjudge the distance and rear-end anyone.”

Don’t rat me out to childhood services, okay? We made it one piece.

As we walked from the change rooms to stake claim to a piece of grass near the pool I noticed a few of the moms looking at me. Part of me imagined (hoped?) they would think I was an MMA fighter. I’m certainly built like one, minus all the douchey tattoos.

I set up towels and rummaged through my backpack to get scuba masks for my kids, and they jumped into the water to escape the heat. Judging by how many little kids were present, I hoped they chlorinated the hell out of that sucker. I also wished for a telescope to keep an eye on my daughter. My son is part fish, so no worries there, but I’m still in protective daddy mode over my little girl, and being down to one eye stressed me out.

The woman on the grass nearby kept looking at me.

Finally I said, “You should see the other guy.”

She chuckled; then I went too far. “The other guy is dead.”

Some color drained out of her face and I quickly added, “The other guy was a wasp.”

“Oh,” she said. Then, “A wasp did that?” I nodded and then she said, “I think I know you.”

No, I’m not that famous. It took me a moment to realize we’d gone to junior high and high school together decades earlier. When you think about it, it’s amazing she could recognize me with my messed up face, and that I could recognize her being able to see out of only one eye.

“Yeah, it’s Diane, right? We went to school together.”

Then we talked about boring stuff. Then I went in the pool with my kids – even went off the diving board a few times – and only had to worry about keeping one eye closed underwater.

For the drive home I didn’t have to rely on my seeing-eye kids. I’d gotten the hang of monocular driving.

The next day, I wished I had a Halloween party to go to. I would have made an excellent Joe Merrick.

I am not an animal!

Then I made the mistake of posting this photo on Facebook, and everyone started losing their shit, telling me to go to the hospital right away. I lost track of how many times I had to comment that I was fine, my physician wife said I would be fine, and that I was still taking lots of anti-histamines and wasn’t about to die. Unless it’s possible to die from ugliness.

That day I did hide. I wasn’t leaving the house for anything. I managed to get some writing done because I don’t actually look at the keyboard when I type. TV and reading was a bust though. My eye was driving me nuts because it had completely swallowed my eyelashes. It itched like a mother.

At one point the four-year-old little girl up the street came by to ask if my daughter could play. She ran away when she saw me.

Thankfully, beer will be your friend even when you’re ugly.

The next day I could see, but was somehow uglier. I looked like a stroke victim.

Bells called. He wants his palsy back.

But eventually, things went back to normal. I could shave again, which made my wife happy. I could also drink beer without having it drool out the side of my mouth, which made me happy.

And I don’t scare the neighbor kids anymore. Well, unless they let their dog piss on my lawn. Then I make them very afraid. 

By James S. Fell

There are those who would overcomplicate

All food groups that can be eaten and ate

Carbohydrates are bad, and fat is good

I’m afraid that’s wrong. No one ever should…

Consume something that has a mom or face

You must eat whole grains to run a fast race

Insulin and leptin and blood sugar

Do any diets say, “Eat a booger”?

There’s a doctor with a cookie diet

Can that be for real? I would not buy it

Weight loss comes from a magical berry

Brought to Earth by a mystical fairy

I saw it on a television show

A food that fights fat and makes your skin glow

Acai and Quinoa cleanse your pooper

Being hard to pronounce makes them super

Eat what you want and as much as you want

You won’t be fat. You’ll be lean! You’ll be gaunt!

Should we worry about HFCS?

What about BPA? I have a guess

Troglodytes never dreamt of a heaven

Offering pizza 24/7

Is fat genetic or gastronomic?

Environmental? Or subatomic?

Suess wrote, “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish”

All contain mercury; eat as you wish

I saw his ad for a new weight loss pill

He’s a real customer; he’s not a shill

Before and after pictures never stop

With switched around heads using Photoshop

She tried to get on The Biggest Loser

Application rejected. They didn’t choose her

She bought products by Jillian Michaels

A better idea is: ride bicycles

Only 20 minutes, three times a week

Is guaranteed to make you strong and sleek

Buy a Bowflex or get a Nordic Track

It will take up space as your new coat rack

We’ve got calorie-burning underpants

Will they help you lose weight? It’s a slim chance

Don’t go running – it will damage your knees

That’s not how to get in shape, hear our pleas

Just lift weights. It boosts metabolism

This is known as the exercise schism

Up a single tree there are barks and cries

They don’t see the forest of epic size

Weight loss is easy. Here’s the solution

It is all so much mental pollution

You just have to eat less and move around

If it’s so simple, then why have we found

That obesity rates are on the rise

Could it be Weight Loss, Inc. is full of lies?

There aren’t quick fixes or miracle cures

Facts don’t use gimmicks, promotions and lures

There are honest people who want to help

They don’t sell diets that are mostly kelp

Doctors, trainers, counselors and RDs

There are experts who earn their fitness fees

But there is still struggle; one thing rings true

It’s going to take some effort from you

Stay away from the hospital gurney

Prepare yourself for a fitness journey

Ignore the weight loss fads, the frauds and quacks

Find your fitness Zen and push to the max

But not too fast, go slow and go steady

This isn’t a race; advance when ready

When exercise is fun you’ll likely find

That eating healthier is less a grind

You’ll do what Jack LaLanne oft-repeated:

If it’s been processed, you should not eat it

You’ll see food as fuel, rather than pleasure

You’ll feel good and have lower blood pressure

Throw out the scale. That should not be your goal

Focus instead on things that feed your soul

Yoga, Pilates, running and swimming

Skiing, dancing, bicycling and gym-ing

Leave the computer; go out in the sun

Forget burning calories; just have fun

There is one message that I must repeat

When changing the things that you do and eat

To overcome your old lifestyle hurdle

Don’t be a hare, be more of a turtle

Or a tortoise

This article that I unbelievably got paid to write involved salmon, and this way TMI Stupid Story took place after ingesting tuna.

Now we’re back to salmon.

And dogs. There are also dogs in this story. Now before you go thinking I’m some dog hater, know that I love dogs very much. I have breathed in their essence.

What I hate are dumb asses who let their dogs attack me while I’m running. I’d like to pepper spray those dipshit owners.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. This stories starts off with fish. Tasty fish.

I have a simple yet yummy way of barbecuing salmon, and my picky eater kids even like it. It’s always a fine balancing act of eating an appropriate amount of dinner on karate nights, which starts at 6:30, so that I can be fuelled but not fudging myself mid-run. You know this story already.

So I ate my fish and I consumed more than I should because it tasted good, then I took the kids to karate and started running in my reflective gear with a blinking armband because it was already dark out.

Then the churning and bubbling of my gastrointestinal regions began and I made damn sure my route stayed close to known bathrooms, but nothing ever came of it. Things sloshed to and fro in my belly as I ran, but I never got that overwhelming need to dash into the World Health Club – where I am a member – to assert my paid-for privilege of defiling their toilets.

But things eventually settled down and it looked like I wasn’t actually going to have another story for my website. But here we are, aren’t we? We are here because of dogs.

I kept running and it got even darker; so dark that I didn’t see the two dogs charging out of the blackness at me until they were about fifteen feet away. I also hadn’t heard their barks and snarls because the tunes were blasting on my iPod; probably Rush.

The one coming straight at me was a pit bull and the one making a flanking maneuver was a bulldog. Two dogs with “bull” in their names decided I was the evening meal. The pit bull was headed straight for my nuts.

Being an aficionado of outdoor running, especially through locations such as the mostly off-leash Nose Hill Park, I have had many run-ins with dogs. Hell, the Chicken Soup for the Soul folks thought my canine misadventures were worth paying me $200 for.

I’ve had my ups and downs and learned how to deal with such situations via trial and error. I remember years ago getting a bit of PTSD from a dog encounter and then being nervous for a few months each time another dog came towards me. I then realized that being nervous made me a target. I do believe they can smell fear or in some other way tell that you are subservient and they can push you around. The more fearful I was, the more I got harassed.

After having this epiphany I completely changed my tack when dealing with aggressive dogs. Many owners must think I’m a jerk, but fuck them. “Off leash” does not mean “out of control.”

Now when I run, I’m the alpha dog. It’s MY path and YOU, quadrupedal annoyance, are the beta and will get the fuck out of my way. Note that I only do this with dogs that I think are coming after me. Ones that seem friendly yet determined to get tied up in my legs I swerve around. Hell, if a dog is really cute and friendly I’ll stop to pet him, especially if it’s a standard poodle.

Back to the bulls. You know that thing about your life flashing before your eyes? Total bullshit, but a lot of stuff did go through my head very quickly and it was all about how this was going to be bad.

I had a vision of this dog latching onto me and not letting go, and me vainly trying to fight and pry him off as his teeth ripped a series of deep and painful gashes through my arms while the other one harried my legs. My peripheral vision had picked up a nearby truck that I imagined smashing the dog’s body against to get him loose. I even had visions of recovering in the hospital after receiving hundreds of stitches. All this flashed through my brain in about two-tenths of a second.

And this next part I’m kind of proud of. I’m proud of not curling up into the fetal position and waiting to die.

When you’re scared shitless there are three things you can do. You’ve heard of the fight or flight response? There is a third option, and that’s “freeze.” I’ve done all three at various times in my life when faced with adversity.

During this encounter, perhaps because not enough time had yet passed for me to become pants-shittingly scared, I decided to fight.

The pit bull was now about six feet away and I went into a fighting crouch. “BACK!” I screamed as loud as I could at the pit bull. “Get back!”

This slowed him just enough for me to land a punch on his nose. Yes, I punched a dog in the nose because I was certain he wanted my balls for dinner. Fuck you if you don’t think this was justified.

It wasn’t a hard punch – not for lack of trying, but because when the dog saw the fist coming he skittered to a stop and I didn’t make nearly as hard a connection as intended. And the pit bull stayed stopped, deciding to just stand there from about four feet away, barking and giving me a menacing look, like he was trying to decipher who the alpha was and if he could take me.

The bulldog had paused for a moment then continued on towards my right leg. I kept my eyes on the pit bull and snapped a kick under the jaw of the bulldog, but he pulled back and I hit air.

All this while tunes were blasting.

Then, with me in mid stand off, the owner came running out of the darkness, yelling loud enough so I could here him through my iPod, “I swear they won’t bite! He’s not a pit bull – he’s a boxer!”

I punched a boxer. How oddly appropriate.

These dogs had scared the shit out of me – not literally. I need to clarify that because this story started off with talk of poo. How could the owner “swear” that they would not bite me after such behavior? Did they have a habit of charging at people and then stopping short at the last moment?

Nevertheless, the dogs were holding firm but not coming any closer. I was still in a crouch, ready to do damage. I wasn’t giving up my testicles without a fight.

The owner had said, “He’s not a pit bull” like he knew that was what I was thinking. The dog sure as hell looked like one. He must get that a lot, because I’ve seen boxers and this dog didn’t resemble one.

Note that I’m no fan of pit bulls. They make me nervous. Again, fuck you if you don’t believe this is justified.

The owner came up and grabbed both dogs by their collars and I yanked the headphones out of my ears. “What the fuck?” I yelled at him; surging with adrenaline and seriously pissed off. “Your dogs scared the shit out me!”

Then he basically started falling down apologizing. It was rather pathetic, actually. I was ready to read this guy the riot act but he was being so overwhelmingly remorseful that I just left, continuing on to finish the last mile back to the dojo.

Within a hundred yards of leaving the death farts started. I don’t believe this was a coincidence.

Remember, everything had settled in my guts before that. Then after the encounter with the dogs the adrenaline and whatever other physiological mechanisms that went berserk during that 30-second encounter turned the partially-digested fish into a methane factory.

They were bad. Fart game bad.

With each landing of a foot on the pavement I blasted out another diabolical death spray from my ass. Just like in the fart game story, even though I was outside and running away from the stench I could still smell it. I wonder how many people in that neighborhood called the gas company that night to complain of a leak.

I don’t consider myself a stupid man. Sure, I make mistakes, but I learn from them. Just as I learned to deal with dogs, I have learned to deal with children.

Not wishing a repeat of the fart game story times two, with pre-pubescent groceries blown all over the inside of the van, we drove home with all four windows open.

I’m amazed my wife didn’t make me sleep on the couch.

I got him when I was twelve and he truly was my best friend. We chose a poodle for hypoallergenic reasons, but it turns out the big guys make awesome pets. I’d have one today if it weren’t for the fact that my wife and kids are allergic to absolutely everything with more than two legs and hair. Yes, even poodles.

The reason for the name is because we did what today is considered by many unconscionable: we bought him from a breeder. He came from a family of show dogs and his doggie birth certificate proclaimed him as “VIP Fleetwood Mac.” I’m not shitting you on the VIP part.

We called him Woodie.

This dog had one helluva personality along with a penchant for crazy shit. He once got into an expensive jar of my mom’s cold cream, managing to twist the lid off somehow, and ate half the contents. Then he started leaving greasy ass splotches all over the carpet everywhere he sat because it was oozing out his pooper. I ended up sacrificing a pair of my underwear to put it on him backwards with his tail sticking out the fly to contain the mess.

My mom, for some bizarre reason, really didn’t want to throw away the rest of the cold cream. It’s not like we were poor, but she decided to salvage the rest of it by scraping off the top dog-slobbered layer and put it back on her vanity. Even though it had made him feel sick, Woodie got into it a second time a few days later and ate the rest and I had to sacrifice another pair of underwear.

I taught him to speak and jump through a hula hoop. He liked playing tug-o-war with his blanket. Every time he went for a car ride he completely lost his mind. He could windsurf. I loved him.

So did my sister’s dog.

When Woodie was three we bought another standard poodle. This one was black and female, and following the trend of retarded show dog names she was called Xanadu because Olivia Newton John was hot back then. We called her Zan. Or Xan. Or something like that. Whatever.

Zan (Xan?) worshipped Woodie. She followed him everywhere like, well, like a little puppy dog. He often saw her as an annoyance because she was so exuberant and he’d had his balls cut off and just wanted to be left the fuck alone for five fucking minutes.

He treated her like a slave sometimes. She would lick his shoulder – her version of petting him – and if she stopped he’d let out a low growl. “Don’t stop,” he would say in dog speak. “More.” And then Zan would go back to licking him.

Woodie died when he was ten. Doggie leukemia or something. James sad. James’ mom sad too.

Zan lived a lot longer. She made it to fourteen and in the intervening seven years (remember that Woodie was three years older than her) Woodie’s ashes were in an urn at my parent’s house.

The ashes thing always kind of creeped me out.

Anyway, Zan eventually died too; tickled to death by her own heart. And my mom got her ashes put in an urn as well and put them next to Woodie’s above the fireplace.

During a night of half-drunken dining at my parent’s place I said I’d had enough of this morbid ashes-on-mantels shit and demanded we spread them. My mom was reluctant but I was a pretty good salesman. I told her I had a good place in mind that they’d both frolicked about at and that I would spread them there and they’d both be free to dance and play happily forevermore in the doggie afterlife.

She said okay, and I fucked it up.

I put the two urns in the trunk of my Acura Integra hatchback and my wife drove us home because I’d been drinking. The next day I headed out of town to a place called Seebe.

Have you ever seen that movie Broke Back Mountain? I’ve watched about 30 seconds of it. It’s nothing homophobic, I’d just rather spend my time on movies that have sharp implements of pain and dismemberment wielded in lethal fashion by hyper-muscled and accented actors or shit getting blow’d up than Jarhead frenching the Joker.

Anyway, there is a scene where the two lovers jump naked from a high cliff into what I can attest is a heart-stoppingly cold river. That’s why it didn’t show them climbing out of the water, because their junk was surely somewhere in the vicinity of their small intestines at that point. I’d heard there was a Seebe cliff-jumping scene in the movie and when I saw it was going to be on TV I DVRed it and fast-forwarded to see which cliff they’d jumped off.

Yes, it was Seebe, and no, they didn’t jump off the biggest one.

They jumped off the biggest cliff on the car-accessible side. It’s about 35 feet high depending on water level (I’ve measured it). To get to the biggest-biggest one, which is roughly fifty feet high, you must swim the colder-than-penguin-shit river and climb up the other side. This is what it looks like. I’m on the left and my friend Stephan (the same Stephan as this LA Times column) is on the right. There’s a damn good reason for those wetsuits.

Shown: Junk protection

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Doggie ashes.

I’d been going to Seebe to jump off the cliffs since I was a teen, and had taken the dogs there a number of times. Woodie would bark his brains out for the first half of the ride, then hoarsely cough out an anaemic imitation of “arf”s and “ruff”s for the rest of the ride. Woodie didn’t hate being in the car. In fact, he loved it too much. His overwhelming joy at traveling faster than any other dog surely ever had run before could not be contained. Bark!

Zan was fairly quiet on the ride up, but always lost her shit when we jumped off the cliffs.

Well, she was okay with the jumping, but definitely not cool with the underwater part. She could watch you walk up to the edge of a big cliff, jump off and swim to shore and she was fine with all of it except when she couldn’t see you. For the entire time anyone she knew well was underwater she’d run back and forth along the edge of the cliff barking mad and thinking Where the fuck did he go? He just fucking disappeared! I must bark about this.

Good times.

The ride up to Seebe to spread Woodie and Zan’s ashes was not such a good time though.

It’s about a 45 minute drive from the edge of the city to Seebe, and at the halfway mark the car in front of me slammed on its brakes for a reason I can’t recall. I slammed mine on too.

There was no accident, but I should tell you something about this car. As I mentioned earlier, it was a hatchback.

You already have an idea where this is going, don’t you?

There was a press-board-type divider thing between the flip-down back seats and the trunk area to “seal it off” from the rest of the car. The clasps on the divider were busted and it always rattled around on the highway so I had taken it off and the trunk area was open to the car.

To avoid an accident I slammed on the brakes and the two ceramic urns smashed into each other. Both of them broke and the car exploded into a cloud of standard poodle ashes. I think I inhaled a little.

I pulled over immediately and popped the trunk. Fortunately, I had a garbage bag full of books that I was going to donate and was able to shovel most of Woodie and Zan into the reallocated bag. Some of their remains wafted out of the car and across the countryside.

I scooped up as much as I could by hand and drove the rest of the way to Seebe with the windows open. I went to the edge of the river and, figuring people didn’t actually want dead animal ashes in their river, spread them around some nearby trees the dogs had pissed on in days past.

When I got back to Calgary I hit the first gas station I could find that had a vacuum and sucked up what was left of my beloved pets.

My mom is going to kill me when she reads this.

I am not a fan of horror movies of any variety. Gory slasher or subtle Satan’s-gonna-eat-your-soul-mindfuck films. They just freak me out too much.

I’d make a shitty Ghostbuster.

Last August I was out for a kayak with my 10-year-old daughter in Pender Harbour. I was in the back providing the power and she was in the front providing little-girl company. She did paddle occasionally.

It was a warm and sunny day and we spoke of things that are important to young females. I had to keep telling her to speak up because she faced away from me. It’s the same drill with my wife; the word I utter with greatest frequency while paddling the two-seater is, “What?”

We saw seals and starfish, eagles and Evinrudes, sailing ships and power-boating dicks. (Really, guys; max harbour speed is 7 knots.)

Then we saw the gateway to Hell.  

As we rounded a corner there it was: a death boat. Sorry, make that a Death Boat. Anchored in the harbour and straight ahead was a decrepit corpse of a ship that I had no doubt was haunted. Its rusted frame was pocked with holes, chunks of rotting wood barely hung from the sides, there was a wide variety of indescribable shit scattered to and fro and I was certain that the only thing that kept it afloat was the wails of the tortured souls trapped inside.

Suddenly I knew that bad things had happened on that boat some time in the past. Many bad things. The memories of unspeakable horrors painted its decaying hull and chipped and flaked away in a desperate cry for an escape from the endless torment that refused to relinquish its hold.

I started to back-paddle.

“Cool!” my daughter said. “Let’s go check that boat out.”

Great. Now I have to act like not a pansy in front of my little girl. Being a dad sure is a tough job sometimes. “Uh, okay. Sure. Why not?” Why not? Why fucking not? Because that boat will murder you to death and rape your essence and your spirit will writhe in bodiless agony for all eternity. That’s why not.

People do stupid things when they don’t want to appear cowardly. I slowly paddled us towards the Death Boat and saw the name hastily painted on the side: “Kwatna.” I didn’t need to Google Kwatna to know that it stands for “drinker of souls.”

"Mmmm... Souls."

As we got closer I could hear the trapped spirits wailing in torment.

“What’s that sound, Daddy?”

Well, sweetie, that’s the sound of us about to die.

“Daddy?”

I couldn’t draw my eyes from our impending doom. I saw some whirring fan thingy at the top of Kwatna. “It’s that fan thing up top there.” Liar. That’s just how they suck you in. That’s not fan noise. That’s tormented soul sound for certain.

“Can we go on that boat, daddy?”

“What? You want to go ON that thing? Are you fucking nuts?”

“Daddy! Language!”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. My bad.” Seriously though, was she fucking nuts? “Uh, no sweetie. We can’t go on that boat.”

“Aw. Why not?”

Because daddy didn’t wear his Depend undergarments today. “Because that’s someone else’s boat.” SomeTHING else’s. “We’d be trespassing.” Onto a portal to the underworld.

Then. “Oh, hey. Look at the time. I’m hungry. Time for lunch. Mommy will be wondering where we are. Time to go. Gotta start paddling back now.” Bye, bye, Death Boat. Please don’t eat us.

We began to paddle around Kwatna and saw that attached to it on the other side was a second and equally soul-destroying Death Boat. Death Boat two-point-oh.

Seriously? A second Death Boat? Why is there as second fucking boat? Why in the name of Allah-Yaweh-Zenu-Oprah is there a second boat?

Fuck you. That's why.

About ten minutes later my daughter said, “You sure are paddling fast, Daddy.”

Can you see it? Is it following us?

“Snuh,” I said.

I will admit that sometimes my imagination runs wild. Maybe that’s why lunch tasted like a worm-eaten corpse.

Washed down with beer.

I left my interview with drumming legend Neil Peart scatter-brained, and with the intervention of iPhone’s autocorrect updated my Facebook status to “Holy duckbills.” I needed a drink.

——————————————————-

On the schoolyard field of battle known as gym class I made the geeks look good. I got picked last for teams – even behind the chess clubber with the colostomy bag – and the Napoleonic gym teacher seemed to hold me personally responsible for it taking him eight years to complete a Phys. Ed. degree.

Appropriately, I worshipped Rush.

After high school I obtained the freshman 15 factored by three, then in an effort to increase my frequency of fornication I lost some weight. Then I built some muscle. Then I quit my job and started writing about fitness. Then I met Neil Peart.

Holy duckbills.

Believing fortune favors the bold procrastinator, three days before the penultimate performance of Rush’s Time Machine Tour in Vancouver, Canada, I contacted Rush management and told them I wanted to interview Peart about his fitness regimen for my Los Angeles Times column. People need to know how he continues to top “World’s Greatest Drummer” lists while qualifying for a senior’s discount.

I didn’t know if Neil even had a fitness regimen. I just took a shot.

And it was a long shot because Neil isn’t known for cozying up to the media. He doesn’t engage in meet and greets and only occasionally gives interviews. Nevertheless, Meghan Symsyk from Rush management got back to me the day before the concert to say the interview was a go. Neil wanted to talk fitness; I was the one who asked. My stomach hurt.

The meeting was scheduled for 4:30 the next day and I took no chances being late, leaving my hometown of Calgary at 2:30am on minimal sleep and powered by diesel pretending to be coffee I picked up my best friend Craig McArthur and we blasted an all-Rush soundtrack on my Toyota minivan’s factory-installed stereo as loud as our middle-aged ears could tolerate.

Craig is a paramedic and deals with much highway carnage from people driving like dumb asses and this is why he doesn’t break the speed limit. It’s also why I wouldn’t let him drive during the 600-mile trip; I wasn’t going to miss the interview.

We stopped once to refuel, re-caffeinate, evacuate bladders and scrub the entomological holocaust off the windshield. Then it was back on the highway at a clip would have had my wife swearing at me from the passenger seat had she been along for the ride. Craig just gritted his teeth and gripped the holy shit handles. We made it to Vancouver in one piece.

“Bold move,” Craig said as I pulled onto East Hastings Street.

“Huh? What?”

“East Van. Canada’s lowest-income postal code. The scenic route.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know. It just looked direct on the map for getting to the hotel.”

“Yeah, right. You just want to see the smack whores.” Then he proceeded to point them out. It was depressing.

We crossed the metaphorical train tracks and barely into the safe zone located our hotel: a Ramada Limited. I interpreted “Limited” as, “Lower your expectations.” Our room had a view of a rundown building with an errant weed growing out the front of it three floors up, a Vietnamese restaurant and a “learn to bartend” school with a sign proclaiming “No alcohol on premises.”

We had four hours to kill. I could have let Craig drive some.

We went out for what I am sure was not “the best lasagna in town” then wandered about the city to work out the kinks of the road. We passed a number of stores that sold everything to do with marijuana except for the substance itself then we saw boobs.

At first we didn’t realize they were boobs. Craig and I were both certain it was a man walking towards us. “He” had a short-sleeved button shirt that was completely open and we saw a barrel chest and man-boobs. The face gave numerous indications of being male as well.

But it didn’t sit right. Underneath the masculine veneer was something oddly female. Butt-ugly-harshed-up female mind you, but still a visage that hinted at lacking a Y chromosome. We couldn’t pull our eyes away as we walked towards her and within ten feet finally realized that this was indeed a woman flapping her jugs to the west-coast wind like a pair of beached dolphins with cerebral palsy.

This would not have been worth reporting except for the fact that she caught us staring at her and gave us both a lascivious, penis-shriveling grin. Some teeth were missing.

“What…” I began.

“…the fucking fuck?” Craig finished.

“Toto,” I said, “I don’t think we’re in Calgary anymore.”

Craig sneered. “I need a drink.”  So did I, but there was no way in hell I was showing up for the interview with beer on my breath, so I watched Craig down a Guinness with envy in a pub that was trying and failing to be Irish. I had tap water.

Enough time killed we returned to the room and I commenced a grooming ritual reminiscent of the first date with my wife 22 years earlier. I thoroughly brushed my teeth, showered, shaved, trimmed errant nose and ear hairs and used a generous helping of lightly-scented antiperspirant.

I grabbed my voice recorder and notebook and turned to leave. “Wish me luck.”

“Don’t screw up,” he said.

It was a ten-minute walk to Roger’s Arena and I texted Meghan to let her know I had arrived at the security gate. A short time later I saw a tall and attractive young blonde woman walking towards me with a smile. She dress stylishly and sported sexy boots. We went through the requisite greeting ritual and Meghan led me down the back halls of the arena. Then she did a face plant.

Meghan smashed into the floor like she’d been pole-axed then bounced back up to her feet and laughed. “How the hell did that happen?” she said.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” I’m ashamed to admit I had been thinking more about myself. I worried that she’d broken something valuable and we’d have to call an ambulance and there would be no one to take me to my meeting with Neil.

“I’m fine. Weird though, I don’t even know what I tripped over.”

“Yeah.” I scanned for obstacles and saw none. “You just went down.”

She dusted herself off and we resumed walking and passed a paper sign on a door that read, “Unless your name is Neil, Geddy or Alex we have NO free passes left.” I chuckled and Meghan showed me to a spartan waiting room. There were no piles of food, tubs of beer or scantily-clad groupies. Drag.

Meghan told me she read my most recent column where I lamented how movie stars’ publicists act as gatekeepers against their clients being interviewed about their exercise routines because they want the actors known for their ability to rend Leer’s raiment rather than for washboard abs or bulging biceps.

“You read that and I’m still here?”

“I gave you the green light because of that one,” she said. Then, “What are your seats like for tonight?”

“I think they’re pretty good.” I reached into my wallet and pulled the tickets out to show her.

“Yeah, those are good.” A pause. “Do you want front row?”

I began to hyperventilate. Front row? Then panic. I didn’t study journalism. Was this an ethical violation? Is this a bribe to get me to write nice things about Neil? I already worship the guy aaannnndddd I need to write something about evaluating his performance from a physical fitness standpoint and I can do a better job of that from up close, soooo…

“Uh, yeah, front row might be neat.” Neat? Did I really just say that?

She passed over the tickets; I stammered gratitude and looked at them like they were a pair of Bar Refaeli’s underwear then carefully tucked them into my wallet. Meghan got a text and jumped to her feet. “I’ll be back.”

I was alone in the waiting room with the door left open. Every time someone walked by I looked to see if it was Alex or Geddy, but it was all little people. Like me. Fifteen minutes later Meghan returned. “You’re on.”

It was time to meet Neil Peart. I needed to pee.

As she led me down the hall I reminded myself of the need to behave in a professional manner. Besides the fact that Neil wrote the lyrics to “Limelight,” asserting that he “can’t pretend a stranger is a long-awaited friend,” the Rush documentary Beyond the Lighted Stage discussed how Peart doesn’t enjoy the hero worship associated with being a rock star.

Keeping my cool and staying focused was critical; I had a job to do. That job did not involve groveling at His feet, overwhelmed by the righteous rays of his utter awesomeness.

I entered Neil’s dressing room. Meghan introduced us to each other then left. I wobbled slightly but didn’t faint.

The man so many drummers refer to as “The Professor” is indeed larger than life. Seriously, he’s a big dude. He extended a massive, meaty drummer hand and I shook it in as un-pansy-like a fashion as I could manage.

He directed me to a leather chair and took a couch across from me, then began talking about the Brazilian-made shoes he uses for drumming. He spent about two minutes of the fifteen we had available discussing these shoes. If I was going to get my story I needed to interrupt him with direct questions, so I worked up my nerve and changed the subject.

And my heart managed to not explode.

We talked about his exercise routine; it’s intense and allows him to continue drumming like Vishnu possessed at 58-years-old. If you want the specifics it’s all in the July 25 issue of the LA Times. Google it.

He cracked the odd joke and I laughed too loud like a pimply-faced teen in the presence of his older sister’s amazingly hot and well-endowed friend (her name was Eva). I only got through half the questions because he seemed to know what I needed and pre-emptively answered my queries. At the 15-minute mark I had my story and Neil had rock star stuff to do. Something about a sound check.

As we wrapped it up he complemented my notebook – a gift from my wife. It has a pretty cover and Neil said it looked nice. Then he pulled his own much smaller notebook out of a breast pocket to show me, explaining that he liked it’s diminutive size because he can carry it with him everywhere and write down whatever comes to mind.

He laid it on the table next to mine and flipped through the pages and I saw the Neil Peart scrawl contained therein. This was the notebook of the man whose lyrics I used as my high school graduation quote. This was the notebook of the man who penned the songs that defined the period of my life when I was certain Ronald Reagan was going to get us all blown to radioactive hellfire and I would die a virgin.

I endeavored to contain my nerdgasm.

I found myself out in the hall again with Meghan, nattering about the great material I got for my column. No longer needing to urinate I thanked Meghan profusely for her help and left the arena. Then unused adrenaline kicked in and I commenced spazzing like a spider monkey on a meth bender. I’d been reading The Oatmeal the day before and the best I could come up with for a Facebook update was “Holy fuckballs,” but autocorrect took over.

Back at the hotel I entered our room where a number of fine brown ales were on ice and my immediate plans of freaking out were temporarily derailed. I grabbed a Newcastle and Craig tossed me an opener. “How’d it go?”

I pulled out the two tickets Meghan gave me and held them up. His eyebrows elevated. “Uh, sweet.”

I blurted out my tale, pausing only for gulps of beer.

Craig and I drank, then we went to a restaurant with large-breasted servers and ate and drank, then we went to the arena and found a good home for the tickets that were not front row.

Having some time to kill we wandered outside the stadium where people openly smoked weed and police openly ignored them. Fans hooted with, “Woo! Rush! Yeah!” and a hollow-eyed and desperate-looking tweaker tried to sell us a microbe-infested t-shirt from the “Moving Pictures” tour.

Then Armageddon struck.

Craig loses things. In 20 years of being his friend I’ve known him to lose numerous sets of keys, at least two wallets and occasionally his mind. Earlier I gave him his front row ticket, worrying if doing so was a wise decision, but I wanted to show I had faith in him to keep track of something so precious for a few short hours. Oops.

Upon reaching the gate Craig realized he misplaced the ticket. He went through all his pockets, but couldn’t find it.

Well, fuck.

“You go,” he said. “I’ll head back to the room and see if I left it there.”

“Screw that. Let’s stay together. We’ll both run back and search.” We dashed all of 50 fifty feet before I held up. “Wait. Before we do that, what is the last thing you remember doing with it?”

“I thought I put it in my wallet.”

“Hand it over.” He did without complaint and I sat down on a concrete bench and began to pull every single thing out of his wallet and meticulously go through it. It wasn’t looking good, but in the very last spot I found the ticket neatly folded in half almost invisibly tucked between a receipt for a butt plug and a membership card for a video store that specializes in transsexual midget porn. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s where I found it. 

“You do realize that I have to punch you.” Then I landed a good one on his shoulder.

“Can I have my ticket back?”

“Bite me.”

We got in. We got t-shirts. We got beer. We got to the front row. Our tickets earned us wrist bands proclaiming we were special. Not short-bus special, but for-real special. We discovered our seats, which we would never sit in, were dead center, equidistant between Alex and Geddy’s microphones. Life was good. Life was special.

I looked behind me to take in the middle-aged Caucasian sausage party that is typical of a modern Rush concert, then the lights went down and my idols took the stage blasting out my favorite song: “The Spirit of Radio.”

We screamed. We sang. We drank beer. We played air guitar. We second-hand toked. We drank more beer. We peed.

And after three short hours it was all over except for the hearing loss.

The next day was Canada Day. Hung over and in no hurry I let Craig do some of the driving so I could furiously scribble notes for the column; my friend helping me compile appropriate Rush lyrics to insert Where’s Waldo-style into the story.

And the story ended up being kind of a big deal. My editors liked it so much they made it a centerpiece feature; it took up three-quarters of the cover of the health section and half of the section’s back page. The web version was promoted on the Rush.com homepage, bloggers wrote favorably about it, Facebook “Likes” numbered in the thousands and my inbox flooded with fan mail.

They’re not my fans though; not really. They’re Neil’s.