For the record, I get dressed two legs at a time.

Well, I am 26 days in with 94 left.  Holy crap.  In these short few weeks, I have turned into a cross between Spartacus and Hank Moody.  Well, not really. Moody steals all my lines anyway.  I am feeling real good though.  By saying this I mean I just feel like I’m thinking things through; I’m spending some quality time with myself, feeling artistic again.  For example, Tuesday night, as I got out of the pool and dried off, I wrapped myself in my Bondi Beach hoody that I bought last year in Australia. As its warmth engulfed me I stood there for a minute and thought about the great times I had over there, and about my old roommate Big Joe who lives in OZ now and how I miss having that fucking giant around.

You can see, "big Joe" is not just a nickname

It was nice to just stand there, not rushing, enjoying the faint smell of chlorine and the last echoes of my class, alone with the warmth of my memories.  I thought that for all the bitching I do on my way to these classes, workouts etc… they have really been changing my life, making me feel like I am daily accomplishing things, helping me to seize the day, boys.

Reiko, my photography instructor, is not my friend!  This past Monday our first assignments were due and this guy was brutal.  First, over the weekend, as I was going over a picture idea with my wife, her response was less than favorable.

“Michael,” she said, looking all cute with toothpaste in her mouth, “I can’t believe you would even suggest that.  I am a teacher.  What if someone took a picture of your picture and” (this is where I tuned out.)  Someone took a picture of my pictures picture? What? Who the fuck did she think was in my class, ex- KGB personnel?  Shit, most of the blue hairs are dozing off by 8:30 and don’t even know how to turn on their cameras.  Anyway, I had to switch to plan B.

On Monday, I felt pretty confident going into class. I mean I didn’t think the class was going to shower me with praise, like in A Christmas Story when Ralphie writes the essay and gets cheered by all his classmates.  I think he even gets carried out on the shoulders of his mates.  That movie is classic.  Anyway, I was feeling confident that I had taken “decent” shots.  The class was instructed to pull up our first shots on the computer screens.  Reiko hovered around the room, swooping in and out like a Japanese kamikaze pilot.  We were all told to stand in the back of the room, leaving our pictures, our art, exposed, vulnerable.  Reiko started the attack.  Picture by picture was gunned down by a myriad of criticisms.  He hit the room with no mercy.  My first picture he briefly glanced at and said, “I don’t even know what is going on here,” and walked by.  My second and third showings got a little better.  Picture number two was labeled:  pretty girl, horrible picture.

Pic #2

And on picture # 3 good old Reiko came around and said he could live with it.  He wouldn’t buy it for his wall, but he could live with it.

Picture #3

I was a little embarrassed at first, but as he dished out equal insults to my classmates I took it on the chin with hopes to get better.  Everyone did as a matter of fact, except one girl.  Now this girl is about twenty-three and looks like she hasn’t had fun since Reagan was in office. Yes, I did the math; she would have been one.  She was wearing sweatpants with a leather jacket. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fashion guru but I knew that outfit was some bullshit.  I thought oh great, here is the tragic martyr of the group, the one we all can’t understand because her pain is a frontier and all that annoying emo crap.  Reiko on the other hand, was taking no prisoners, and as he came to her picture of a female foot in a sandal, he said, “What is this shit, someone have a foot fetish?”  I started giggling because after two weeks of knowing Reiko, it is apparent that he thinks about sex 97 percent of his waking hours.  Emo girl, not pleased,  responded defensively with some bullshit about her friend’s foot and how it was pretty.  Reiko, like a dead beat dad, left the conversation indifferently to move on but emo suddenly felt her theatrical calling.  She started mumbling about it was not for him, it was art and her eyes began to well up.  I stood in utter fucking shock.  This girl totally lost it over a little negative feedback on her shitty picture.  I immediately had a new-found respect for my wife and teachers across the country.  How can they stand there stoically and not just laugh and belittle students and the crap they turned in all day.  Emo got so emotional, pun intended, that she had to leave the room.  I daydreamnt that she would come rushing back with a pair of scissors, headed straight for good old Reiko.  I would act fast, grab my camera, jump off a desk into the air and snap a picture of her face as I karate-kicked the scissors out of her hand saving my jolly old professor.  I would be heralded, and carried out on the shoulders of my mates.

And now for some delicious healthy shit.  Now this breakfast is easy, delicious and very healthy.  My trainer Trent turned me on to this and I’ve been eating the hell out of it.  It is called John McCann’s Steel Cut Oatmeal. It is low in calories, no cholesterol, high in fiber and all that good stuff.  Trent gave me a good piece of advice when going over my daily meals.  He said, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a queen, and dinner like a pauper.”

The goodness, and Irish too.

What you need.

4 cups boiling water

1 Cup John McCann’s Steel Oatmeal


Some blueberries

Some pomegranates

Now I know some of you may be disappointed by this week’s recipe but wipe those little tears away.  This week is not so much about the delicious healthy food I’ve mentioned but rather the presentation.  This steel oatmeal takes about a half hour to cook so I usually cook a cup which will give me two to three servings.  But, on these cold, sixty-degree mornings, as I’m about to face the world I simply would be bored just eating a pile of sand-colored oatmeal.  You have to add a little love to the morning by adding some color, some fruit.  Here is how my final project usually looks when I’m ready to eat:

Getting ready to kill the day

Now you see what I did here right, little blueberries, some delicious pomegranates, and what do you get????  Old glory to start-up your morning.  Now I can hear it already, the questions, the disbelief, “Crowley, how do you have time to build little miniature American flags every morning?  Surely you are too busy?”  Friends, I am going to let you in on a little secret that has greatly benefited me these past few months.  Late in the 2010 baseball season the world-famous Philadelphia Phillies were facing some problems.  I know, I know, hard to believe.  Now due to these hardships, I was finding myself with a lot of unwanted aggression, yelling at homeless people, drinking beer upside down and the like.  I knew I had to find a better way.  That is when I bought one of those dickbags from Guantanamo Bay.  Now every time the world-famous Philadelphia Phillies struck out or lost or something I would just beat him senseless and not feel bad about it. Obviously it is the off-season now, so Mo has been tasked to make all my meals with a pro-American flare.  He’s getting to be a better cook everyday and, trust me, he was pretty damn excited we picked up Cliff Lee too.


1 Response to “For the record, I get dressed two legs at a time.”

  1. 1 James Clark
    January 27, 2011 at 8:53 am

    Fookin love ya bloggs matey.
    You will make a great writer “if not already” one day.
    Keep the awesome work up my friend

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