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though I’ve been avoiding it, and the longer I was away, the harder it was to get back, I DID go back this morning. To the gym. Excuses: I was sick, I was tired, I wasn’t getting enough sleep, I had an infection, I was at my girlfriend’s house, I had too much work to do. Blah, blah, blah.

the power went out. I had to reset my clocks, and when I woke up this morning, I found myself with an extra half hour. So, I put on those shorts, those sneakers, stuffed the work clothes in a bag, and WENT.

I was slow, I’d lost some of the cardio health I’d built up, and I was sweating inside 5 minutes. Yes, walking. Fat men sweat easily. Watching the monitors of the several different TV stations, though, I tuned more into my music, even with the missing cover for the earbud that somehow affected the dB levels going into my left ear.

Somewhere, I started gathering power from doing the damn thing, and though I was sweaty, though I’m out of shape, I grew proud that I was here, doing the necessary thing to go from amorphous mass to being chiseled from… modeling clay? Dough? Certainly not stone. Not yet.

Then a song came on the tune player, saying exactly what I was thinking, feeling. His voice was yell-singing through a megaphone, saying “I wanna get better,” and as he did, I looked up. Between the yellow and purple machines, and the diamond plate walls was a single word:


Years of reading history came back to me, just as years of bad eating and laziness had, and it all became so clear. There is no lightness in being, there is no unrestricted movement and growth, there is no success, no matter how small without work. My long-ago memory of studying a Teutonic tongue came back, and turned a genocidal slogan on its head without changing the wording at all: Arbeit macht frei.

But in this, there is no death. In these words, there is no genocide. There is no wall between me now and me later. No jelly donut talking head, Only the work to be done to free my body from the pain of weight, carried around far too long. Smiling, loving, “screaming at myself / HEY / I wanna get better!”

Little Shop of… Me going to a musical?

It’s true. Liz and I went to a musical, of my OWN volition. You might think it was only because the tickets were 5 bucks, or because the theater was only several blocks from my house, but no… I ACTUALLY wanted to see this production. Those other things just helped a lot.

So, Little Shop of Horrors at Bristol Riverside Theater was really good. I usually think musicals are corny and my eye-rolling muscles usually get a good workout, but the music was great. Mostly early rock and roll/girl group harmony-laden stuff, and the singer-actors were strong, likeable and mostly hit all their notes and marks. This was a final preview night with a talkback at the end, so they were still making final tune-ups, so last minute gaffes were to be expected. Even with that, I’m glad I saw this.

For those that don’t know, Little Shop follows nerdy man-child Seymour as he lives and works for his ostensible adopted father Mr. Mushnik in a run-down flower shop on Skid Row. He’s in love with the shop girl, Audrey, but can’t get it together to woo her, as she’s in love with an abusive dental professional. Seymour finds his solace in working with plants, until he finds a curious plant that he nurtures that seems to have a thing for blood. Remember, this is musical, and if you took the music out of it, this would be a very dark tale, which is just my sort of thing.

But hey, add that rock-n-roll soundtrack, and a torch/come-to-Jesus song like Suddenly Seymour, and it’s a cute, dark comedy that even a gruff curmudgeon will sit through. Don’t worry about Rick Moranis and Steve Martin. Go to Bristol Riverside and check out THEIR production.

You’ll be glad you did.

A bit of wist

a Monday night

with a diet pepsi and wine spodiodi

a neo-Kerouac, just as lonely and tired

sipping in front of an idiot box

with idiot thoughts

hoping the nasal young man

that could have been him at one time

keeps singing that song of his

as he strums his acoustic guitar

so hard

that one slip, one false downstroke

will rip open his finger-flesh

his heart-sores

and all souls listening

in a 20 year radius

thoughts of Could Have Been

seated in the booth with

Regrets I Didn’t Try Harder.

Order another,

but this time

leave the bottle.






URGENT! If you live near southern Philadelphia, Pennsylvania or anywhere near that area please keep a look out for this sister. She’s been missing for two weeks now. Keep Fatimah Rahman in your du’as. May Allah protect her wherever she is, and may she safely be returned to her parents. She’s one of the kindest sisters I know, this is still a shock to us all. Please contact the Southwest Detective Division if you see her: 215-686-3183 May Allah grant the family patience and ease soon. Ameen.

Someone handed me a flyer today (January 14, 2014) looking for her. Please, please, please boost this in case someone knows where she is.

Boost this no matter where you are

Hey Philadelphia, pass around!

Fuck it, why not




How to parent. [via]

How to Human.

“‘I’m bored’ is a useless thing to say. You live in a great, big, vast world that you’ve seen none percent of. And even the inside of your own mind is endless. It goes on forever inwardly, do you understand? Being the fact that you’re alive is amazing, so you don’t get to be bored”

^ my favorite

Had to reblog, because my after school kids say this to me a lot.

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