October 2007

Weight

Somehow, something has clicked, and after several years of carrying around a belly I have, without actually following any diet in particular, in the past couple of months inexplicably lost fifteen pounds. Well, not totally inexplicably because I have trouble remembering to drink as much alcohol as my doctor prescribes, so I’ve been making a compensatory effort to please her by reducing my consumption of foods she doesn’t want me to eat, a list which by now has grown to include salt, fat, sugar, and starch. Which rules out about 90% of everything edible and 98% of everything good, so it’s not too surprising that I’ve lost 10% of my weight.

I have to say, it’s a wonderful feeling. This morning I’m Segwaying down to the Civic Center Farmers’ Market (officially called the “Heart of the City Farmers’ Market”) to pick up some raspberries and okra and Jalapeños and fresh peanuts and fresh cranberry beans and anything else healthy that catches my eye.

It’s a beautiful day, and as I glide down Market Street, I notice that with my long sleeve shirt open and flapping in the wind, my tee shirt is now pressed against my much flatter stomach, and I’m not looking as bad as I had been.

This feels so good that as I ride, I burst into song:

“I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay….”

Naw, just kidding.

It was “C’est moi, c’est moi….”

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An Act of Cruelty

OK, I admit it. While I am usually a reasonably nice person nowadays, every now and then I am possessed by the devil for just long enough to do something cruel.

Like today, on this gorgeous day with the whole city scrubbed squeaky clean by yesterday’s rain and the air crystalline and the streets filled with folks enjoying the Noe Valley Farmers’ Market and the Noe Valley Harvest Festival on 24th Street and the Boccalone salumi pickup day enlivening Church at 27th Street.

So I’m cruising around on the Segway taking pics, and on 26th Street there’s this Victorian.

victorian

What you don’t see is that on the ground floor the garage door is open and this young bodybuilder is strutting around in there doing this workout with these huge stacks of weights which he is tossing around seemingly effortlessly with his enormous, bulging muscles.

And a little voice in my head started whispering, “Louis, don’t do it! It would be cruel, unspeakably cruel.” But I couldn’t stop myself.

I confess: I rolled back and forth in the street in front of his garage door with my camera pointed high, taking pics of that luscious architectural detail on the upper parts of his house. Nothing below the second floor, of course. And then pocketed the camera and pointed at the upper floors and shouted as I sped away, “Nice paint job”!

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