Every single place in California that is not the coast or the mountains is Sacramento.  Fremont?  Sacramento.  Bakersfield?  Sacramento.  Riverside?  Sacramento.  I’ll give you Oakland and Berkeley but only just.

If I say you’re from Sacramento it’s because I think you’re lame.

See you in church.

I went to the clothes store this morning to get some clothes for my new job.  New job.  My new job.  I picked out a bunch of shirts (I have to wear black shirts at my new job.  Kind of a bummer but at least I can grow that Dan Haggerty beard back) and walked into the dressing room to try them on.  The dressing room with it’s big fucking mirror.  I’ve always thought that you look prettier if you don’t look in mirrors but here I was, shirtless, looking at myself in this big fucking mirror.  I knew that I had gained some weight but wasn’t really sure how much but here we were with some irrefutable evidence.  A fat ass (or belly, as it were) looking back at me.

Here’s the numbers:

In the spring of 2007 I was 275lbs (125kgs - for the Brazilians).  At 6′1″ (185.4cm).  That’s fat.  Obese.  No matter how you parse it.  I didn’t really care because I loved food and beer and the lord and didn’t really want to live forever.  So there.  Well, I cared sometimes and I would try to lose weight lamely and always fail.  And then, in the spring of 2007 I thought to myself, “Dude.  It’s super easy.  Light exercise and portion control.  You’re active so you don’t really have to do much there.  Just eat less.  Eat whatever you want, just eat less of it.  And do a cost benefit analysis of everything you eat.  Is this fucking worth it?”

Bricka bracka firecracker sis boom bah!

By spring 2008, after one year of the patented J. Beaman diet of “is this fucking worth it?”  I was down to 215lbs (98kgs).  A net loss of 60lbs (27kgs).  And it continued to be easy.  I spent some time in Brazil and hovered between 215lbs (98kgs) and 225lbs (102kgs).  No biggie.  Awesome.

But, fuck you, America.  I’ve been back for 2 1/2 months and I’m up to 245lbs (111kgs).  It’s been a hard 2 1/2 months, I know, but this is a huge bummer.  Or an opportunity, as Steve Blanton would say, for spiritual growth.  But, seriously, fuck you, America.  I’m blaming you with your sneaky bullshit and your delicious candy bars and your sour cream and guacamole and your braised meats and pizza and hamburgers.  Oh, hamburgers.  You’re so tasty but so fucking evil.  I will not be lured back into fatlandia.  I will not allow it.

I’m going to be back to 215lbs (98kgs) before I return to Brazil at the end of August.  Maybe I’ll go on a fast.  Fasts are like temporary anorexia but you don’t have to feel guilty about it because you learned about it in Yoga class.

All you people who constantly ask for me music are now required to listen to this for one week at least 2 hours per day and make a list of all the things you love and then I’ll help you out.

The rest of you should just listen to it all the time.

Left as Rain

http://abcnews.go.com/video/playerIndex?id=7786743

The Dirty Projectors?  ABC News?  Pitchfork?  I don’t get it.

Oh, and I got a job.

Oh, and zero side effects from Chantix.

All kinds of good news.

So, I went to the doctor today because I thought I might have the cancer in my pretty mouth. But it’s not the cancer, it’s Mucocele.  It’s gross but it might just go away on it’s own.  But it did light a fire under my ass about the whole quiting smoking thing.  I asked the doc about wrangling a script for Welbutrin (anti-depressant + smoking cessation aide = the best thing ever) but he made a face at me and said, “Um, I guess I can but you should really take Chantix”.  Um, Ok.  I asked about side effects and he said something about hyper vivid dreams.  I like dreams so I said sure.  I grabbed some at the pharmacy, rode home, read the instructions and popped my first pill.  Apparently, it works by blocking the nicotine receptors in the brain and, therefore, doesn’t allow the release of dopamine when you smoke.  So, basically, it takes away everything that’s awesome about smoking.

Now, there was a note about….well this is the note:

“Some patients have reported changes in behavior, agitation, depressed mood, suicidal thoughts or actions when attempting to quit smoking while taking CHANTIX or after stopping CHANTIX. If either you, your family, or caregiver notice agitation, depressed mood, or changes in behavior that are not typical for you, or if you develop suicidal thoughts or actions, stop taking CHANTIX and call your doctor right away. Also tell your doctor about any history of depression or other mental health problems before taking CHANTIX, as these symptoms may worsen while taking CHANTIX.”

All medicine is dangerous and I’m pretty adventurous and I want to quit smoking.  Plus, people are spazzes and something like 20% of people probably freak the fuck out on a goddamned sugar pill.  Big babies.  I felt that way.  Past tense.  Until I read this scary motherfucking shit:

“One afternoon, I was typing away at advertising copy, and as I did so, I began to wonder how I had succeeded in fooling myself that my life had any sort of value at all. Writing? Sure, it was what I’d wanted to do since I was 6—but at the end of the day, who cared? Maybe I should just go downstairs and leap in front of a tour bus. Or launch my head through the computer screen. All this seemed logical, but also weirdly funny, even at the time: I could see how crazy these impulses were, I could recognize them as suicidal clichés. But I couldn’t make them go away.

A few minutes later, they did, and I thought, Who was the depressed seventh-grade goth girl who had just muscled into my brain? I hadn’t thought of suicide in any serious way since I was a teenager, and that had just been adolescent posturing. I had no interest in killing myself—that’s why I wanted to quit smoking in the first place.”

And this:

A week into my Chantix usage, I started to feel as if the city landscape had imperceptibly shifted around me. Mundane details began to strike me as having deep, hidden significance. The neon arch above McDonald’s: The lights blinked on and off in some sort of pattern, and I needed to crack the code. One of my co-workers was messing with some papers: What is he trying to imply with all that damned crinkling? Sitting in the subway: A man hurries to get inside. His hand, holding a cup of coffee, gets stuck in the closing door. I watch the hand wriggle. The lid bursts open and steaming brown liquid hits the floor. Fingers twitch and splay. Coffee splashes in crisscrossing slats through the subway car. It was a sign—something bad was going to happen.

Oh, god, Oh, god, we’re all going to die.

I wrote my doc a nasty-ish email reminding him that I had asked about side effects and he responded with dreams.  Whoo-fucking-hoo.  Nothing about suicidal ideations or intense moodiness or hallucinations.  I’m a bit of a moody bitch anyway (I told the doctor this when I asked him about side effects) so things could go really bad.  But then again, something like 6 million motherfuckers have taken it and 27 have offed themselves.  I should be in good shape.  But if you see me staring at the lights outside the Lone Palm or sending undecipherable emails (more than usual) tell me to get off this shit.

Then again, if I off myself, I won’t have to look for a job anymore.  Always looking at the bright side.