One man's war on obesity

OK, New Jersey property taxes are the highest in the nation. The state’s unemployment rate is soaring. Urban decay is unprecedented. The gubernatorial race focuses on…the girth of the Republican candidate.

Democratic incumbent John Corzine, GOP candidate Chris Christie and independent Chris Daggett are scrambling to hit the 21 counties of this state in an effort to sway voters their way. Neither man seems up for making New Jersey a better place for all. They offer empty sound bites and little detail, and the press is not pressing them for more.

In fact, in the past few days, the focus has been on Christie’s fat. So let us go there for a sec.

Yep, the man is fat. He will not reveal his true weight – on the Don Imus Show this week, Christie joked that he weighed 550 pounds. He stands about 5-foot-10-inches tall. Images of Michael Meyers’ Fat Bastard come to mind.

However, this is not laughing matter. Christie would fall into the category of obese. He will not publicly tip a scale, but he appears to be more than 20 percent over his ideal weight. That ideal weight must take into account the person's height, age, sex, and build.

Christie is not alone: one-third of Americans are overweight; more than 20 percent of us are obese.

The reasons for this range from overeating to not exercising enough to antidepressants to corticosteroids to…just check out this link. Also, being overweight is liked to so many illnesses, including type 2 diabetes, heart disease, etc.

But there is no need to feel overwhelmed, my fellow Americans. We do not have to take this fat thing sitting down. We can fight back.

We can eat better, exercise re-evaluate our lifestyles and choices.

For some of us, there might be things in our background that are difficult to overcome. Still, we can reshape our bodies, health and destinies.

Back in March, I could hardly breathe because of cardiac and pulmonary sarcoidosis. Today, I can walk a few miles without feeling as if I am going to pass out. I want to be able to do more. Specifically, my goal is to get off every freaking medicine prescribed to me in this war against sarcoidosis.

So I am going to hit the gym. I have gone as far as I can with the makeshift gym in my basement. And while the trails of the Pine Barrens still call…I could use a little climate control. Some A/C.

My fellow Americans, I theater for my war will be inside. Rows of shiny dumbbells and barbells and Stairmasters, elliptical and treadmills will be my weapons.

The immediate goal is to get through the challenging holiday season. I plan to maintain my weight through the horrid holiday season of temptation and inflation - of the mid-section.

The ultimate goal? Lose….quite a bit.

I say 50 pound, but I need to weigh in and then set a goal. I’ll share with you after the weigh in. I will not be shy about the weight because it is a temporary condition as far as I am concerned.

Thank you for your ear, New Jersey, America. Good night. And God bless the United States of America.

Resisting the call to join the Rude Culture

No, @#$% you, buddy! And get out of my way!

I am on the verge of speaking like this all the time (and using the real F-word, not symbols). I am on the verge of being sucked into what I consider the New Jersey Rude Culture. I am trying to resist the Culture the way a good Jedi fights the pull of the Dark Side of the Force.

Rudeness plagues the nation. Just watch the news and what passes for health care reform debate. Nearly 70 percent of people questioned in a 2005 Associated Press-Ipsos poll said people are ruder than they were 20 or 30 years ago. The poll was referenced in a recent Chicago Tribune article about rude behavior in college classrooms and beyond.

I've been back in New Jersey, the place of my birth, for about six weeks. Here, rude has been elevated to an art form. The mix of foul language, hand gestures and obliviousness of fellow human beings - often fueled by hyper-caffinated drinks - is much more intense here. People who experience it for the first time are often left speechless.

I am experiencing 'Jersey rudeness for the first time in three years. I am often left speechless.

People here shout words that mean nothing into their cellphones, shattering the peace of all around them. Parkway motorists drive their cars up the ass of yours because you are driving 75-80 miles per hour in the slow lane...In the slow lane. People shout you down during conversations to make their point. Loudest and most obnixious wins. They are pains in the butt.

And, I admit with sadness, I can go there. I can definitely act like an asshole, but I try not to. Part of it has to do with getting control of my heart and lung sarcoidosis. I need to cool out and be chill. A calm, relaxed mind is essential to helping the body heal. there is no way around it.

I also think being decent, and respectful is the right thing to do. I see myself as a gentle giant because of nature and nurture. My mom and grandmom taught me to live by the Golden rule. I am a man who tends to keep to himself, minds his manners, keeps the peace and only lifts his hand in defense of the weak. The gentleness thrived to a degree in Greater Lansing, Michigan and Chicago.


I have no illusions about either place. The Midwest has its share of nuts, bullies, bigots, misogynists, all the people we should despise. But Midwesterners are quite polite. They say 'thank you' and 'please' and allow people the right of way. They hold doors for each other, offer to carry this or reach for that. They are respectful of personal space. The smaller the town, the politer they are. In Chicago, I managed a group of reporters who exhibited Type A personality traits. Those reporters could dig for stories and were as relentless as any reporters I've ever worked with, but they were also nice, decent people. They would bare teeth and unsheath talons, but knew how to put them away after hours.

These days, here in New Jersey, the teeth and talons are bared and unsheathed 24-7. (The customer service at Barnes & Noble in Howell, N.J., is a refreshing respite. I give this store props because it is a cool place to write. I love the vibe. Folks there are pretty polite, especially the baristas). And I am assuming that New York and Connecticut are as rude as ever, too. Curiously, you can still find polite people in Manhattan – so many people living there are NOT from there, you know?

I am trying to maintain my public politeness, but the Rude Culture might be winning. Every time I try to get out, it pulls me back in. Warning: I can be a real asshole. My cousin Dwayne likes to say that some folks are not assholes. They are the cheeks, the pimples on the ass, the crack…The entire ass. Yeah, I can be that, I fear.

I just want to be a good guy. I really do. New Jersey, you could really help, you know? Be decent, for crying out loud.

I'll try harder, too.

'Suffering' to wellness

(''Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it’. – Ferris Bueller in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

John Hughes was one of my favorite storytellers. My favorite Hugh’s film is Ferris Buerller’s Day Off. Hughes dies of sudden cardiac arrest last week while out on his daily walk. He was 59. Hughes probably never saw it coming. The problem with sudden cardiac death is that half of the time the first symptom is a heart attack. Stay on top of your health. See your doc and ask about risk factors and tests to determine whether you are risk. And rest in peace, John.)

This one goes out to one that I love, my uncle Art. I am writing this on Saturday morning after learning he is back the hospital. He has been intubated. He cannot breathe on his own.

Long story short, Art has COPD, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Things are not looking good for him. He is on more than a dozen medications, has oxygen tanks and inhalers all over the house.

And he still smokes.

The nicotine in cigarettes is as addictive as heroin or cocaine. And in some people, the river of addiction runs deep.

My river flows deep. I smoked for 20 years knowing that cigarettes kill. I belong to the first generation to learn about the dangers of smoking in grade school. When my brother Todd and I attended Nicholas Murray Butler High School in Elizabeth, N.J., we attended an assembly at which a guest speaker told us about the dangers of smoking and nicotine and the horrors of living with respiratory disease.

We stared in horror at a pickled cancerous lung in a jar (That was disgusting and too much for kids. And whose lung was that anyway?).

When school let out, we ran home, cut up our mom’s cigarettes and flush them down the toilet. I imagine that she wanted to beat the hell out of us for doing that, and who could blame her? Those freaking cigarettes did not grown on trees. And this was in the 70s, the era before people thought anything and everything was child abuse, so there were no calls to the Department of Child of Family Services. In the ‘70s, if my brother and I had called DCFS, a Paul Mall-addicted social worker would have showed up at the door and would have said, “Those damn kids did what? I’ll help ya bury them!”

Anyway…addiction…I want a smoke right now and I am fighting lung and heart sarcoidosis (unfortunately, I cannot go to the hospital to visit Art because the key drugs treating my sarcoid, prednisone and methotrexate, also suppress my immune system leaving me especially vulnerable to all the nastiness lurking invisible in the air of medical units). Breathing can be a chore. I cannot remember the days when I did not think about breathing. I think I have to go back to spring 2006.

And still, I want a cigarette.

The last time I saw Uncle Art, he was smoking. He sneaks out of the house buys a pack of cigs and smokes in his car or on his terrace. My Aunt Lorraine knows, but what can she do? Addiction is overwhelming and the addicted are impossible to help unless they want to help themselves. Success rates for intervention – I do not give a damn how easy things wrap up on TV talk shows – are bad.

The only way to overcome addiction is suffering through it and knowing that the craving, sometimes very strong, will be with you for the rest of your life. I am taking Chantix to take the edge off my craving, but I still think about smoking every day. Sometimes it is overwhelming. For example, the more I write on this subject the more I want a Malboro(my brand, but I'll smoke anything).

However, I know that one more smoke is one more nail in my coffin and I refuse to go out that way. I am not carrying around a damned oxygen tank in the future I visualize for myself. I am lighter, stronger and kick boxing in the future I visualize for myself. So I suffer through the craving, the feeling of a little, hairy, foul-smelling personal demon impatiently tapping me on the shoulder, demanding I give in.

And I am praying and rooting for my Uncle Art and Aunt Lorraine.

'Quest for a lid' update

I now realize that my major malfunction was my inability or unwillingness to try on clothes. I hate shopping for clothes. I do not necessarily hate hats. I hated hats because I could not find one that fits. I could not find one that fits because I was in too much of a rush to try them on. I am changing my MO. I’ll take a moment to see if the stuff fits, which means I won’t be frustrated later when I get it home.

Now I have four new hats. All of them fit. If I do not lose them, I will be ready for next spring and summer.

Quest for the right 'lid'

(Note: A little thank-you to my mom, who copy-edited this piece. I need a copy editor. Everyone does!)

What did Oliver Hardy, Magilla Gorilla and I have in common until recent?

We all wore hats waaaa-ay too small for our heads.

But I solved my problem. The others are on their own.

I finally found some cool hats after going on The Quest for The Prefect Hat, or lid as we used to call them back in the day (When I was a kid, I picked up that slang term from old men so it must go back quite a ways). It was a quest I loathed because I have always had trouble finding hats that fit. I am just not good at it.

Also, I hate wearing hats during the summer. But I have no choice thanks to a couple of prescription drugs I am taking in my on-going war against sarcoidosis.

The main drugs employed in the battle are prednisone and methotrexate (I've got a good one coming Friday about prednisone-fueled rage. Anyone will be able to relate. Stay tuned).

I am also on a number of drugs that counter prednisone and methotrexate side effects. Prednisone causes blood pressure to soar and I am maxed out on several hypertension medications. One of the medicines, a diuretic, warns patients to “avoid prolonged or excessive exposure to direct sunlight and/or artificial sunlight while taking the medicine.”

What happens if you don’t follow the warning? Well, you could become overheated - it feels like being cooked alive in a broiling pan - and dizzy like I did while tooling around one day earlier this summer in my Volkswagen GTI with the moon roof open. After prolonged exposure to the blazing sun, you’ll also feel like you want to pull over and fight the feeling to vomit and pass out. That is what happened to me last month. So my quest for an acceptable hat began in earnest.

The first lame-assed hat I wore this summer was a beige ball cap with Chicago written on it. Got it from Jewell-Osco in Andersonville in Chicago, just a two-block walk from my apartment. The cap was nondescript, and that was how I was trying to roll. I didn't want a flashy hat, just something that would allow me to travel under social radar (to travel as low and light as a 300-pound man can, anyway). I wore the hat for a few weeks. On the streets, to stores and even to a big downtown block party. I finally asked how it looked. I ditched it after my friend Megan told me it "was a little small" and not working at all.

I wore that stupid hat for weeks! I Um, friends....next time I do something silly like that, JUST TELL ME! I promise to do the same for you.

Next, I bought a cheap tan, Army cap from an army-navy surplus store in Chicago's Uptown neighborhood (I miss Chicago. If you have never done so, visit. It is awesome). No one laughed at the hat, but you could tell it was only being tolerated. Ultimately, I tossed it because portions of the fiberous lining would stick to the sides of my sweaty head when I took it off, giving me what I refer to as the "George Jefferson half-fro." I can't have that, Weezie! "

Last week, the search continued in 'Jersey. I walked through racks of lids at Target and Wal-Mart in Howell. No luck. The hats were sized for shruken-headed, delicate-looking, lady-boy posers in ulta-ultra skilly jeans. You know those guys, the ones you see in funky coffee shops. Dirty clothes-wearing, greasy hair-having, sitting around and earnestly sharing deep thoughts about nothing... Not my style.

I’m not into ball caps, especially the ones with professional sports team logos. I am a fan of the New York Giants, but I am not a 14-year-old and I am not on the roster as a defensive tackle so I will not wear the hat. I attended Temple University and did have a beautiful cherry-and-white ball cap with a stylized "T."



But it was too small (bought it on-line without paying attention to size) so I gave it to my dad. Also gave my dad a pretty chill Yale ball cap (bought at the Yale bookstore without trying it on..pattern here). Both caps fit him well. He looks good in ball caps. And finding a hat that fits well is crucial right now because I am struggling with moon face and increased weight because of prednisone.

(I do have one ball cap I cherish. It is black and emblazoned with a Kalamazoo Football logo. It was given to me back in 1989 by a cool kid from Kalamazoo College in Kalamazoo, Mich. I wear it in the fall and people definitely notice it - one even offered me cash for it. Nope, reminds me of my good buddy. I ain't sellin').

Finally, I tried Kohl's on Route 9 in Howell, N.J. Eureka! Hats big enough for my head. And they were 1/2 off! I settled on three; a green army-style hat that gives great cover in rain, sleet or snow; a broad-brimmed straw hat perfect for protecting ones self while lounging on the beach. Big enough to have a hit of western flavor, but designed for city/suburban sensibilities.



My favorite is a simple, beige knit fedora. It's a classic hat that harkens back to the days when people cared about how they looked. Once upon a time in America people pressed their clothes did not wear pants that drooped off their asses or cut off their circulation.

It was great to find some cool lids. Finally.

Taking advantage of the home field

By the time you read this, I will have kissed the New Jersey Parkway. I will have walked a beach and stared across the Atlantic to the horizon. I will have eaten a handful of the best cranberries in the world.

I am home. New Jersey. The Garden State. ‘Jersey.

For the record, no one I know from here says the line made famous by "comedian" Joe Piscopo: “I’m from ‘Joisey. Are you from Joisey?" There’s more to the state than The Sopranos, the oil tanks and chemical refineries along the northern corridor of the Turnpike, the crook politicians (Illinois, you've got nothing on the Garden State in that department)...

If you’re an out-of-stater, believe what you will. New Jersey has enough people anyway. Stay wherever you are. The mob or the smell might get ya!

I’ve always loved New Jersey, but I have not lived here since the mid-1980s. However, in my fight against sarcoidosis, I have made a tactical decision. I need and want the home field advantage. In sports, the homies have followed their team for years and the crowd is always loyal. Even when they are booing you for doing bad they are waiting for you to do well – and then they cheer loud and hard.

The hometown crowd’s support can spur a team to victory. It can inspire a battered boxer to get off the ropes and dig deep into his reserves to knock out his opponent.

Right now, I need my biggest cheerleaders, my mom and dad. They were eager to have me close so they can monitor my progress and help me in anyway possible. I am grateful – no, I thank God – for my parents. Not everyone has a rewarding relationship with his or her parents. Some folks have no one at all.

I began thinking about this in March after a 10-day hospital stay to deal with flaring pulmonary and cardiac sarcoidosis. I flew home so my folks could see that I was OK.

Everything about my ‘Jersey stay felt right. More than right. It was invigorating, rejuvenating. For the first time in more than 20 years, home was more appealing to me than the open road and new places to live in and see.

I'm tough and have always been able to handle life's challenges. Isolation, illness, pondering career options. Handling each problem on its own? No sweat. Bundle any two together, Bring ‘em on.

The three together? No thanks. Too much. It took me a while to realize it, but there's no shame in needing help and letting folks know it. Especially when you have people who are waiting for you to say the word so they can get involved. Word!

Now, I am no more than an hour or two from my loved ones in the Tri-State area. I’m looking forward to reconnecting with everyone. New York City and Philadelphia are an hour north and south of me, respectively. Greater New Haven, a 2-1/2 drive along tree-lined highways (Take the Garden State Parkway, go across the Tappan Zee Bridge and grab the Hutch north. Don't take the New Jersey Turnpike-Interstate 95 if you can avoid it. Ugly).

I lived in Chicago for the past year. My friends there, especially Megan Cottrell, Felicia Yonter, Steve Barrett, Tyler Via, Tim Yager, Fernando Diaz, Adrian Uribarri, Peter Sachs, Alex Parker, Kim Barrett, Matt Schad, Patrick Boylan (there are others but I hate Academy-award style thanks-yous, so thanks to everyone!) helped me during the most challenging time of my life. I was terrified, confused and alone in March when my sarc went berserk. My friends in Chicago checked on me daily and kept buoyant my spirit. Some drove me around when I could not drive myself. Some made me laugh.

They encouraged me to walk when I wanted to sit and sulk. Especially Megan and Felicia. They made me walk my ass off. I am definitely better off because of that.

They inspired me to recommit to my fiction and this write this blog (but my mom had the idea first, I must say).

My Chicago peeps, I am forever indebted to you and I will be back to visit as often as I can. I want you to visit me, too. The door is always open. You'll always have a place to crash.

But I am excited to be home. I liked kissing the New Jersey Parkway. I like hearing, seeing my mother and father at ease.

I love being home. I feel 10 years younger.