I’m allergic to Los Angeles.  Now before my friends back east let fly with a great big,

We told you so!

I mean allergic in the runny nose/requiring massive doses of antihistamines sense, not the “can’t get a decent bagel/self-help books are not literature sense.  It would seem that while life in New York prepared me for almost everything, it did nothing to aid my survival in this land of a thousand new allergens.  It would also seem that whatever plant, spore or mold that has me in its grip is virtually impervious to Claritin, Benadryl and Zyrtec.

Taking pity on me and my itchy-watery-snifflely-congested state, some of my more “holistic” friends have suggested that I employ a netty pot to clear the gunk from my head.  For the benefit of the uninitiated the netty pot in a small ceramic vessel with a spout like a teapot that one after filling it with salt water shoves up one’s nose and pours the contents into one’s sinuses.  While all these well-intentioned Whole Foods shoppers extol the virtues of this ritual, I remain dubious.  First off I come from a seafaring people and a head full of saltwater generally means that one has fallen into the Chesapeake Bay and the end is nigh, so there are cultural influences to consider.  Second, and even more important, is that the entire enterprise sounds across the board dis-gus-ting.  Some people love an exotic remedy even without an exotic malady to accompany it.

So I think I’ll eschew this self-inflicted organic water-boarding in favor of more traditional methods (read: stronger drugs) and wait for the wind to change directions.  An event which many long time Angelinos assure me is just days away.  Until then please pardon my puffy red eyes and nasal whine and pass the Sudafed.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

As I’m sure you’ve gleaned by now, I’m not really a workout kind of guy.

However, even a fitness neophyte like me understands the need for some kind of quasi-strenuous physical activity as a means to attaining my goal weight.  Having spent this year’s gym membership money on a cruise to Mexico (oh yes, I will be writing about it), I was forced to seek out an “at home” way to tone up and shed a few more pounds.

My inability to find an appropriate workout video being a matter of public record, I cast an eye towards resistance training. Nothing major mind you, just a couple of dumbbells and I’d be set.  Well, the dumbbells proved a problem from the very beginning.  First of all, they’re well… kind of heavy, so I wanted to buy them near the house or the office, but the only ones I could find near the office were pink.  I have always considered myself a guy secure in his sexuality, but working out with pink dumbbells was too scary even for me.  The only weights I could find close to the house weighed all of two pounds and while it is true that I have the upper body strength of a twelve-years-old girl, I didn’t think two pound weights were going to be much of a help in my quest for brawn.

The solution to my “problem” came not in iron or steel, but in rubber.  Yep, industrial rubber tubing of varying thicknesses with a handle on either end.  And they were already in the house.  My partner Jeffrey had picked up a set of these stretchy little fitness tools as an impulse buy a few months ago, and I commandeered the red one (the thickest and therefore most macho) to use for my lunchtime office workout.

I’m sure that serious (and not so serious) weightlifters out there are doing their very best to stifle laughter (at least, I hope you are) as you picture me standing behind my desk doing bicep curls with what is really nothing more than a giant rubber band, all while sweating like A-Rod waiting for the results of his most recent urinalysis.  If it’s any conciliation, I believe you, Alex.  You’re not the first jock I’ve known who has no idea what’s being put into his ass… in a locker room… at Yankee Stadium… immediately prior to the third game of the World Series.  But I digress.

As I’m typing this with sore arm and shoulder muscles, I can only guess that my rubber pumping workout is having some effect, and hopefully one day soon I’ll be able to incorporate other giant office supplies into my fitness oeuvre.  I’m sure that there must be someway to do wrist curls with a three-hole punch.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

So my weight loss has now progressed to the point (20 lbs) that people are starting to notice and in so much as most of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis are pretty nice they’re mentioning my ever shrinking mid-section.  Now for any normal person this would be a godsend, a validation that all one’s hard work and self control has started yielding dividends.  As I’m sure you’ve all deduced from my weekly ramblings, I’m not normal.  I, being the snarky but (hopefully) lovable curmudgeon that I am, can’t help but receive every compliment (no matter how well-intentioned) as a statement unfinished.  And of course the voice in my head must complete it.

Looking good…

Not like you usually do.

You’ve lost weight…

And not a minute too soon.

You’re looking skinny…

Not at all like the great lumbering land beast we’ve come to love.

When complimented by co-workers or casual acquaintances I manage a sincere, “Yeah? Thanks,” and head out of the room before they can see me blush.  With close friends I’m not so cordial.  After being told by a friend that my weight loss was really starting to show, I replied with a courteous,

Shut the fuck up.

Emily Post (and my mother) would be ever so proud.  One probably wouldn’t have to delve too deeply into my Protestant-American-work-ethic upbringing to understand why I can’t to this day take a compliment.  We don’t want to get too full of ourselves now do we?  Truth be told, I need and like ego strokes as much as the next guy and hope that my inability to take ‘em like a man doesn’t stop their flow in my direction.

Should you encounter me any time soon, please feel free to tell me how good I look and I promise I’ll do my very best not to swear at you.  I also promise not to have a tearful Lifetime Television for Women…and gay men breakdown declaring through sobs,

I’m pretty, Mamma.

I’m saving that for when I reach my goal weight.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

In my post a few weeks ago, I lamented my inability to see any real results from my six weeks of dieting.

I’m now very happy to report that thanks to strict adherence to my eating plan and minimal physical activity I can actually suck in my gut.  This is kind of a big deal seeing that for the last few years even the strongest contraction of my abdominal muscles produced no visible results.  While this “feat” is a little pathetic for a fitness blog, I’ll take what I can get.  It also has me wondering what long forgotten feats of physical prowess I may soon be able to undertake.  Touching my toes, climbing a flight of stairs without gasping for breath, or maybe even getting off the toilet without grabbing the towel rack and praying it won’t rip out of the wall.  The possibilities are endless.

The whole getting into shape thing is a very curious process of discovering hidden abilities.  It’s like those kids on Heroes, but entertaining.  Not being a “sporty” kind of guy, I don’t think I’m very likely to ever try rock climbing, parasailing or white water rafting, but should the mood (read: mental illness) ever strike, it’s nice to know that I will most likely meet my end by falling from a great distance onto craggy rocks and not stroking out on the walk from the car to wherever those rock thingies are.

Being able to “suck it in” also brings to light a myriad of fashion possibilities.  The very idea that one day soon I won’t have to dig to the bottom of every pile of pants at the GAP, or could maybe even walk into an H&M with my head held high is a little intoxicating.  I hold out no hope of ever being able to wear anything sold by American Apparel but since heroin addiction isn’t in my immediate future this doesn’t bother me too much.

Rest assured that any new physical abilities I discover will be reported forthwith, but for now it’s time for my afternoon low cal-high protein cereal bar with artificial cinnamon flavor and 3 ( yes, I counted them) raisins.

Mmmmmm, I’m fulfilled.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

The drive from L.A. to Las Vegas is a long one and there’s not much in the way of scenery, although I must admit that I never knew that there were so many different shades of brown.  Also the Mojave stinks, really.  This smell almost defies description.  Think of something that died a long time ago and has been baking in the desert sun since the day it gave up the ghost.  But this being my first trip to the famed land of excess, I was not going to let little things like 300 miles of high desert and an unidentifiable smell ruin my trip.

Now I’m not much of a gambler or a drinker but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my vices and Vegas was the perfect place to indulge in them.  I, of course, am talking about food and Cirque du Soleil.  We’ll save discussion of the Quebecois spectacles for another post, but if you are at all interested in the body beautiful, get thee to Las Vegas where whatever you are into is flying, swinging, diving or contorting in one of Cirque du Soleil’s six shows on the strip.

All regular readers of the blog ( I’m sure there must be a few of you) know that I started a diet on New Year’s Day and so of course the best way to keep on the caloric straight and narrow is to go the American city with the highest concentration of celebrity chefs.  If you’ve heard of them, the odds are good that they have one, if not more, restaurants in Vegas.  Long gone are the days of 99cent shrimp cocktails and $8.99 all-you-can-eat prime rib— although according to some roadside advertising both of these things are still available at a casino called “Terrible’s” in Primm, Nevada:

Oh Boy! Cheap seafood in the desert? Let’s all go!

So I have only to choose a Mario Batali or Wolfgang Puck restaurant in “fake Venice” in which to abandon my diet, the culinary equivalent of snorting heroin off a hooker’s ass.  I ate at both.  The rest of the weekend is nothing but a blur of aerialists and fine dining, both no less than 500 feet from a bank of slot machines.

As is usually the case, the drive home seemed much longer than our first desert crossing and so we made a stop along the way in the picturesque town of Baker, CA population 500.  Baker is not only home to the world’s largest thermometer but also boasts a Denny’s, a huge gyro stand and the somewhat obscene sounding “Bun Boy Motel.”

We ate at the Bob’s Big Boy adjacent to the Bun Boy and got the hell out of town stopping only to buy dried meat products at an alien themed jerky stand.  We also stopped long enough to notice a billboard imploring motorist not to dump their pets in the desert.  How many pets have to be dumped before they take out a billboard and what are the circumstances that would lead up to such an occurrence?

Sorry kids but daddy had a few bum hands of Texas Hold ‘Em so say goodbye to Sparky.

Maybe that why the desert smells?

By the time we reached home I was pretty scared but had to drag myself onto the bathroom scale to see just how much damage I’d done.  I hadn’t gained a pound.  Not one.  The wages of sin, indeed.  I wonder what the odds are of that happening again.  I bet there’s a bookmaker in Vegas who can tell me.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.