1. My highest weight that was recorded was 312 pounds in the summer of 2010. I probably weighed more before that, but I avoided the scale. Then, on October 2, 2010, I started working out at Serious Strength Gym. I weighed in at 302 pounds. I could barely move. I could barely do anything except hide out at home, watch TV, and eat.  I was eating my life away and not caring that I would soon be dead. Maybe I wanted to be dead. I don't know. But things were bad & getting worse each day. I saw no hope. Well, barely any hope. Above are come "fat guy" photos. I'm sure I looked worse, but these are the ones I didn't delete.
2. I weigh about 232 now. Miles to go, but a pretty good distance from WHERE I WAS.  
3. I just saw a blog from a guy named Dan. He went from 340 to 182. He didn't have to record his progress and share it. But he did. So I might as well too. I still got a long ways to go, but I now know that IT IS POSSIBLE. 
4. If I'm doing it, believe me, you can too.  

Tortoise and the Hare...

Being a bike messenger after high school was a helluva lot of fun until about somewhere between the 3rd and 4th major snowstorm of that winter. I don't remember the exact moment when I thought to myself; "I was always one of the smartest kids, so why am I the only person I know who didn't go to college?" -- but I was likely somewhere near Houston Street freezing my ass off on a 10 speed when the thought occurred... Fast forward about 8 years and I'm working in a pizzeria on Western Avenue in Albany, New York in the summer of my, like, 5th Senior year as a college student. All my old friends were graduated and gone. Even my new friends were graduated and gone. I was failing out of summer school -- again -- and I worked in the most depressingly empty pizza place in the history of pizza. I made like 3 pies a day and spent the rest of the time ignoring my textbooks and sitting on the counter thinking;  "I was always one of the smartest kids -- so why am I still in Albany"? ... A few years later and I'm living in New Mexico. All was well until suddenly I was the only one still there. Fran had left with his stripper girlfriend for Seattle 3 months before. Mark moved on to Guatemala.  My girlfriend moved back to Philly. Rod was in jail. Dana cut his hair and claimed his inheritance. I was working in a restaurant and living in a sober house where I was the non-sober mascot. My friends were Townies who drank and did blow. One night my friend Dustin talked about robbing a gas station. The fact that I thought it was a good idea got me to work a couple of extra double shifts and buy an Amtrak ticket back to New York. My sober friends were sorry to see me go. My fucked up friends probably still haven't realized that I've left. I would miss the mountains, the sky, and the Chimay Ale at Evangelo's,  but beyond that I was already late getting home... Back in New York, I continued my trend of being the late one: I was the last one to go to Acting School, Last to move out of my parents place, Last to get headshots,  Last to quit my day job, Last Actor ON THE PLANET to appear on Law and Order -- and so on. Thank God I've always had some successful friends to compare myself too, otherwise I might still be on a 10 speed delivering packages. And really, being last is not the problem -- and truthfully I'm not always last --  but the real problem is this: what happens when time catches up with you and you're no longer last, but rather -- not there at all? What happens when there's no more do-overs? What happens when the last bus pulls out the station and you're not on it -- and all you can think is; "I was always one of the smartest kids, so how come I'm not.....? 

When I was in L.A. recently, I spent a little time with my friend Gary. He was showing me pictures of his son, Gus, and he tried to explain to me the joy of being a dad. He said; "I was always the kind of kid who couldn't wait to try whatever they told me was great. I heard about pot -- couldn't wait to try it. I heard about getting laid -- I was dying to lose my virginity. They told me how incredible acid was -- I couldn't wait to trip. I wanted to be a rock and roller, couldn't wait to go on my first tour. And I had heard about how great it was to have a child too. Well, I went on to do all those things, man, and the only thing that was as truly amazing as they said it was gonna be was having a kid. Having a child is the only thing in my life that has exceeded my wildest expectations. It truly is the greatest thing in the world"...

The other day it was Christmas, and I was at my friend's house playing with his beautiful kids. My other friend had 4 kids there, and I talked to his 9 year old about movies and football. My other friend left early with his kid, and my other friend brought his daughter along, and my other friend doesn't have kids yet, but at least he has a long term girlfriend, and there was some other guy there that I didn't know, and he had kids too. Basically, there was only one other guy there besides me who didn't have a girlfriend or kids -- and he confided that he sees a therapist four times a week. I was left to ponder if the fact that I only see my therapist once a week was some kind of victory -- or if I ought to cook at home more and use the savings to invest in more therapy before my sperm count takes a nose dive and I end up having to try and adopt as a single father with no health insurance on the black market in Instanbul or the former Czech Republic...I don't mind being the last one to get married and have kids, or even to have a girlfriend and have kids, but I never thought I'd be someone who didn't have kids.  And I'm still not in a rush -- but maybe I should be. Or at the very least, maybe I should leave the fuckin' house more often... I used to think I was one of the smartest kids I knew. But being smart guarantees nothing but an aptitude for trivia and crossword puzzles. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that some of the smartest people I know are also some of the dumbest people I know and some of the dumbest, the smartest. I'd like to be a father some day. My need to be the smartest is becoming less important, as is my fear of being the dumbest. And what I want --what I need--can be found not in some troublesome past or in the fear of a more worrisome future, but right here and now in the Present. It is almost impossible to truly live in the Present for even 5 minutes and be able to deny the existence of God. Yesterday, I watched my worn out friend dance with his son in an effort to please him. He got down on the floor and spun around like a slow motion break dancer. His son laughed and clapped. God was pleased for him. I was too. My dad is 84 years old and waiting to die. And yet, it is still very easy for me to please him. The best moments in life are not remembered or anticipated -- but lived. I have more moments to live. And to share... The Present is everything...  

Not with a Bang, but with a frosted Whimper...

When I was a kid, I could handle an entire Entemanns Devil's Food Cake with a side of Yodels, a Pint of Ice Cream, a glass of milk, a 2-liter Coke, a french bread pepperoni pizza or two, and a couple of packs of  Marlboro Reds no problem -- and still look normal.  Those were the same days when I could also drop a hit of acid and go out and drink and get high all night, snort blow and pound 40's, do vandalism with the boys & sometimes make out with the girls,  sleep 2 hours on somebody's rooftop, and make it to work or school the next day without collapsing, and do it all again either that night or not long after... Those days were often ridiculously misspent and self-abusive, but they were good days. Those were the Sex, Drugs, Rock n Roll  McDonalds days. Those were the days when every morning was a forgiving one. And a forgetting one...  But those days are not these days no more... This afternoon, I popped a couple of over the counter pain killers and ate 3 candy bars and a glazed donut, and the result was as if  I had chugged a half a bottle of tequila while standing on my head  -- I thought I might die and  I had to crawl to bed quickly and hope that the Gods of Inevitable Physical Repercussions would be merciful. They were. I survived to go on and eat a plate of chili cheese fries... and start this blog -- my first.  I've done enough drugs and alcohol to place me solidly in the middle or back row of any AA meeting in any city in America.  I've done enough stupid things under the influence to be dead or in a cell. But this afternoon was nearly Death by Glazed Donut. And that is my truth. I could still conceivably go out with a bang.  But more likely, it will be with a whimper. With frosting.  I used to get wasted. Now I get frosted.  I used to wait for someone to save me. Now I know that nobody's coming.  Most of my friends got clean and sober in AA. But my home is down the block with the fat middle aged ladies, the body image obsessed gays, the un-categorize-able but firmly designated crazies, and the interchangeable faces of the endless sad parade of female 20-something bulemics and anorexics. Can you feel the love? Because I can't right now.  And yet, it appears that I have to go back to OA and embrace "my people" and a fuckin' Higher Power if I'm to be saved from my own personal speedball of choice: partially hydrogenized vegetable oil  infused with high fructose corn syrup on a double dipped chocolate flavored sesame seed bun.  I used to be a bike messenger. I could ride 14 hours a day. I used to be a guy who once earned 300 grand in a year with the promise of more. I used to be a success story. Now I'm 300 pounds and can't walk around the block. Would I rather be Iggy Pop?  Not really. I'd rather be me. But I got a lot of work to do. Someday will not be like this day. But for now, call me Glazed and Confused.