NYR#1v2 (going from an obese 120kg to a just ‘overweight’ 108kg)

At my weekly weigh-in today I found I’d lost another 0.8kg.  (You may have noticed I’m referring to my weight in kilos.  This is because it feels less shameful writing 118.5kg than it does 18st 9lb, even though, on the flip side, losing 0.8kg — or 800g — sounds quite pathetic.  Essentially I am a man of twenty-nine years and 6 feet 4 inches who feels embarrassed to be on a diet and be celebrating losing the equivalent weight of a large poo.)

I have an all-singing all-dancing spreadsheet, which actually neither dances nor sings but instead allows me to graph my weight loss against a linear ‘target’ line starting at 120.2kg on 04/01/10 and sloping down to 108kg on 09/04/10.  I am currently a gnat’s cock below (i.e. better than) my target.  When the graph starts to look slightly more impressive (e.g. some space opens up between the two lines, or the weight loss line starts to trend tragically and enivitably northwards) I might even let you have a gander.  Something to look forward to there, eh? 

I’ve decided this week that I need to introduce some kind of routine against which I can measure myself, inspired by but not wanting to imitate this page from FHM.com (well done to any men who manage to scroll past the image of Lucy Pinder to the actual text).  But anyway, I’m going to come up with a routine and try and stick to it.  If I can be arsed.  Then, I’ll, you know, blog about it when I fuck up.

Lucy Pinder: You could play with them all night long and never touch the same bit twice

NYR#2 (finishing my novel)

Nothing to report.  Well, I had an idea today, but I’ve not written anything and I’m not sure if it was a good idea or not.

Spangly new blog bits

A couple (well, OK, just the one) of people (person) have asked if they can subscribe to the blog so they get an e-mail informing them (him) that spacemonkeygaz.com has been updated with a blog and their day is about to get fractionally better (worse).  You may or may not at all want to click on the “subscribe by e-mail here” link in the top right hand corner of the blog, under the “Search the archives” box and above the “the world is your lobster” (a Peter Kay gag from Phoenix Nights, if you were wondering) box, and enter your e-mail address if you want.  Or don’t.  Whatever.

Peter Kay as Max the bouncer in Phoenix Nights

Now, I’m not very good at the technical aspects of blogging.  (You could of course argue that I’m not much good at the actual writing bit of it either.)  I have tried to add a little doobry that allows you to tick a box when making a comment at the bottom of a post, which notifies you if/when someone else comments after you.  This may or may not be of interest, but if anyone fancies leaving a comment then please let me know if it gives you an option to be notified.  I hope that all made sense because I really can’t be arsed to read it again.

Be good.

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On a completely unrelated topic I came into ownership of Warren Zevon’s (Born 24th Jan 1947 — died 7th Sep 2003) entire back catalogue at the weekend. Now Warren Zevon (pronounced Warren Zeeeeevon in an American drawl) was a proper rock star. I’m guessing you’ve never heard of him, which is not surprising. But you know that Kid Rock song from two summers ago? The piano riff that plays all the way through it (da-dah, da-dah, da-dah-da-dah — yeah, you know what I mean) is from Zevon’s most well-known song Werewolves of London (which I’m not actually that keen on), but I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Warren Zevon was a proper rock star. Marriage, divorce, alcoholism, finding out he’d been dropped by his record label from reading the Rolling Stone gossip column, drugs, rehab, collaborations with Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Bob Dylan. Songs with titles like Life’ll Kill Ya, and My Shit’s Fucked Up, songs with subtle, political subthemes. And, as far as I’m aware, he never minced around on stage under a giant lemon mirrorball demanding we cancel third world debt.

In 2002 — having not been to a doctor in twenty years — Zevon was diagnosed with a form of inoperable lung cancer. In his final interview on the Late Show With David Letterman he said “I guess I made sort of a tactical error by not going to the doctor’s in twenty years. Just one of those phobias that didn’t pay off.” When asked if he knew something more about life and death now, he offered, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

I’m sure Zevon would have ticked all the boxes comedian Bill Hicks (another killed by cancer) looked for in a rockstar:

“I want my rockstars dead! I want them to fucking play with one hand and put a gun in their other fucking hand and go, ‘I hope you enjoyed the show.’ Bang! Yes! Yes! Play from your fucking heart! I am available for children’s parties, by the way.”

Are you listening Paul Hewson? Kelly Jones? A little self-destruction never hurt anyone you know.

At the risk of sounding a bit fucked-up, my favourite Warren Zevon song is ‘Excitable Boy’. The song is four simple verses, each of two lines, each line ending “He’s just an excitable boy” in which Zevon tells the story of a juvenile sociopath who (literally) gets away with murder because all through his life people shrug and say he’s just an excitable boy whenever he does wrong. When I first heard the song I thought it was hilarious. You may think it’s crude, offensive and insensitive. Being dense at understanding song meanings, I searched the internet for other people’s opinions. A few examples:

“A not so subtle dig at all these politically-correct liberal wankers who try to explain away bad behaviour with trite comments such as “he’s just an excitable boy”. Frankly, when someone’s evil, there’s no excuse – he/she should be locked up forever!”

“this song has something to do with the rise and fall of rock music as Zevon sees it.”

“This is him taking shots at those who try to make up excuses for what people do and try to excuse their behavior… cough terrorism cough”

“Excitable Boy seems more autobiographical than anything. No political stance on coddling the mentally disturbed. It strikes me more as a balance between wish-fulfilment and urge-denial.”

“like most of Zevon’s other songs: it’s just meant to be funny!”

“this song always spoke to me because i believe that there are people who should never be parents. it starts with the excuses made by the parents, and then society. when your child is a shit head, discipline him. when an adult man is a shit head, it may be a result of parenting, but it is not an excuse.”

“this song is just a witty ironic “joke” it has a catchy pop riff, the lyrics are goofy, and at the end he throws in the disturbing lyrics for their irony because you would not expect that in a catchy song. That is all, no liberal bashing, political commentary, or anything like that.”

A pot roast, the kind an Excitable Boy might rub all over his chest

In just eight lines he’s created something that people are still debating over 30 years after it was first released, and seven years after his death. I find this fascinating. Delving into his back catalogue I find that most of his songs are, on the face of it amusing and often crude ditties, but when you peel back the layers there are dark political, cultural and biblical references. Genius.

I’d be happy to think anyone would even remember me after I’m gone. If they give a fuck about anything I’ve ever written then great. But I need to write something first. This was New Year’s Resolution #2 (or NYR#2), you may remember. So far in 2010 I have added to my novel — drum roll please — zero words. But, I have done some ‘planning.’ Actually genuine planning. Not say-it-whilst-doing-that-wanky-inverted-comma-finger-thing ‘planning’ sense. I have actually done some quite crucial planning. Honest.

And I’ve lost 0.9kgs (NYR#1v2). That was Friday. Then I got pissed, twice, and ate a lot of food.

N.B. spacemonkeygaz.com lawyers have asked me to point out that I wouldn’t dream of downloading anything illegally. And if I do ever manage to write anything and get it published, you’d better not download it for free or I’ll tell Bono.

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But does anyone actually bother?  I get the impression that most people talk about new year’s resolutions, but few ever actually see them through to any kind of outcome.

I’m normally no different, but this year I’d decided I would be.  I’ve got this blog to motivate me.  I can blog about my resolutions — what I’m going to do/not do — and I can publicly shame myself if I fail.  Well one of my new year’s resolutions is fucked already.  And I’m not talking about in a “I decided I was going to give up alcohol but I forgot and had an Irish coffee” type of sense, I’m talking about in a “I decided I was going to start running again to train up for the kilomathon but my knee is still knackered” type of sense.

Yup, I’m going to have to officially pull out of the kilomathon, which is a genuine shame.  I’ve been resting the knee for the six (ish) weeks since I popped it, and I’d decided that in the first week of January I’d try a couple of not-too-strenuous walks to see how it’d hold up. 

January 1^st, whatshername and I went for a short little walk, so short as to not even register on the should-I/shouldn’t-I? register.  Afterwards: felt fine.  Next day: fuck, that doesn’t feel right.  It isn’t really painful, there’s just no strength in it, and I’ve felt a couple of little warning ‘pang’s.  I haven’t even been doing anything arduous when I’ve felt them: bending down to get a beer from the fridge, rolling over in bed, etc.  There’s no way I’ll be able to run 26km in ten weeks time.

So, resolution #1: failed.  I will, however, try to lose some weight (again).  But, without the ability to do even moderate exercise, I’m going to have to eat very healthily (which, I may have mentioned, I fucking hate).  Today I weighed myself and I’m a massive 18st 12lb (pretty much back where I started when I first blogged about losing weight).  So, resolution #1(version 2): To get down to a still-but-slightly-less-massive 17 stone by, let’s say, Friday 9^th April (nearly 14 weeks).

Resolution #2: finish writing my novel before my 30^th birthday.  Today is January 4^th — that gives me 343 days.  I don’t want to be the bloke who tried to write a novel (two novels and a sitcom, but who’s counting?) and didn’t fail: rather worse, he just didn’t finish it.  So, my thirtieth birthday seems like a momentous enough occasion.  For clarity, I don’t plan for it to be published by then, or to have been accepted by an agent, I just want to have finished writing it.  It doesn’t have to be the finished article — (i.e. a completely polished ‘final draft’ — it just has to be a story that ends.

So, have you got any new year’s resolutions?  And remember, keep them SMART.

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