One day before launching this blog exactly one week ago, I pulled something mildly (for me, at this point) Captain Insane-o on my other blog, McBeardo.
If you saw it, I hoped you enjoyed it. If not, you never will. Your loss.
Actually, the loss was all mine, and not in the form that I aim for here.
Your hero here is blessed/cursed with near lethally severe mind-body connection mechanics.
When I knowingly engage in behavior I know does not serve me right and proper, my system reacts in any one of a hundred horrificisms.
It’s like I’m all penis and my conscience functions as a built-in Lorena Bobbit.
I’d like to say that this is a post-sobriety development, but I was covered, scalp-to-toenails, in chronic cystic acne from age 14 until I first attempted to quit boozing at 24 in L.A.
An alleviation of suicidal self-loathing had much to do with that particular mass un-blemishing, although it certainly received a boost from my Beverly Hills dermatologist (when I saw Tori Spelling exiting the office on my way in, I knew I found the proper physician).
So last Saturday ended with an all-points intestinal clampdown and nothing loosened up until Monday afternoon. 
And then, upon that explosive gear reversal, I had to chug a half-bottle of cherry-flavored Smooth (Walgreen’s charmingly monikered Pepto-Bismol generic).
Still, the gut-based misery didn’t fully relent until Wednesday.
So all this is to own up to the fact that I didn’t hit the gym until Thursday and, even then, I took it easy.
It really was a simple, two-pronged fact of bound guts followed by volcanic diarrhea.
However, my food intake remained admirable and, at this moment, I’m continuing to sweat like a Beast of 1000 Faucets following a killer gym session just prior to typing this up.
The only stuff that counts as monkeying around for me is Breyer’s Carb Smart ice cream. It gets dished out in reasonable portions, but I know that’s got to go.
There’s still a bit in the freezer but let me now publicly add that, once that’s gone, I’ll consume no more ice cream variations until my Brooklyn trip in June.
In that, dairy dessert material joins pizza, which I have forsworn until I’m sitting at L&B Spumoni Gardens, bellying up for a couple of squares to be washed down with, fittingly, rainbow spumoni.
I’ve also come to realize that I need a personal trainer, and that will figure as priority one upon immediate return from Brooklyn. 
Cripes, he’s going to make me get on a scale.
I continue to soldier on free of Diet Coke.
Here’s the second round of me modeling the XL shirt I need to fit into comfortably by June 3.
Week 2: under the belt.
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