Clothing options had dwindled to a dangerous one or two work shirts. I’ve never been a clothes horse, but it had gotten ridiculous. “Didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday?” had become a common question at work. Please note that I always washed shirts between wearings, so the answer was always, “No, it was… the day before yesterday… probably.”

I’d been on a hunt for new shirts for a long damn while, but it seems like most of humanity changed shape slightly over the years, making it impossible for me to find shirts that fit. (I assume it was everyone else who changed and not me, because there wasn’t a rash of shirtlessness on the streets as far as I could tell.) Nothing in the XL range fit me, and I refused to move up to XXL, even though my body has been swelling this past decade.

This body-swelling is why I’d been moving up in clothing sizes for a few years now, but a while back I declared no more! I would refuse to go up in any more sizes! I’d either have to get my manboobs under control or just wear old, worn out shirts; I’d either have to get my gut in check or wear too-tight jeans that hurt me physically as well as emotionally!

Last week it got critical when I bent my arms and tore holes in the elbows of one of my three “almost-fitting” shirts Hulk-style. Another shirt had had a similar fate not long ago. It was a near-panic moment, and a trip to the store was necessary. I’m not comfortable going topless at a beach, let alone at work.

So… shopping. It’s a nightmare for me. Everything is too expensive, even on the sales racks. The styles seem to have left me behind in the late 90s. And, as stated previously, nothing ever fits — at least in the size I’m willing to buy. I felt like Phillip Seymor Hoffman’s character trying on fine Italian shirts with Marky Mark and Dr. Steve Brule. (That depressing tug over the gut breaks my heart every time.) My long-suffering ladyfriend went with me to help me out, but her spirits were quickly crushed by my crushed spirits, as is often the case.

Though the shirt situation was dire, I declared shopping a waste of time and was about to leave when she insisted upon one more store…

And, would you believe it? Success! Right to the sales racks, and there were shirts she liked and I kinda liked, so I was willing to try them on. They were “vintage fit,” which in my day meant, “for skinny people,” but something has happened as the years ticked by! Apparently, vintage had gone from slender waifs to barrel-chested husky dudes! This is why no other shirts fit me! Vintage is the new normal, so now normal is vintage!

It was a happy time. My moobs and gut fit in the shirt well, and it was were cheap, so I got another in a different color, too. What a relief. No need to go skins to my coworkers’ shirts. XL vintage! Who’d a thunk it? Kinda felt okay.

Then, this morning, I cut the tag off of one of my new shirts and saw… XXL. Son of a bitch. How had I missed that? Here I was all excited that I fit into XL and amused that my fat size was now Vintage, and… the dreaded two X’s.

Did my ladyfriend see this and sneak it by me in desparation and fear I’d continue down this shirt-destroying path? Or will she be as surprised as me when I whine to her about it after work today? Yeah, the shirts fit, but I’d sworn to not go this route. This way lies me just eating more and more until all I can fit into are the pleated jeans and Cosby sweaters at the big ‘n tall stores! (Why, big ‘n tall? Why? We big fellas like cool clothes, too.)

So, all my theories about Vintage being the new normal and all that shit… probably not. I just accidentally went up in size. Like I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. It’s better than wearing post-Hulk-out shirts at work, but still… XXL. Dammit.

I guess that makes this morning’s breakfast burrito okay, though… gotta fill out that extra “X” now… XXXL, I’ll see you in a couple years!

Sometimes people leave little treats in the office kitchens. This morning I saw a box of interesting cake with “Please Eat Me” written on the box in Sharpie, and just now, hours later, there was three-fourths of a loaf of banana bread in another kitchen, just sitting there with a plastic knife by it, ready for me to take a slice. And eat it. With my mouth. Chewing it up. Getting all the flavors. Swallowing it down into mah belly.

It’s not always baked goods or pastries randomly in these kitchens, either. Sometimes there are whole meals, various fruits — all sorts of food. And I’m tempted. I’m always tempted, but… where did this food come from? Who put it there and, just as importantly, why?

There are some coworkers that, well, I’m not sure I want to eat what they are making. (If you are a coworker and reading this, c’mon! Don’t be silly — I don’t mean you. You probably know who I talking about… Yep. That’s the one. … I know, right?)

Not eating is no problem of mine. I tend to eat most of what is offered to me, and, even if slightly worried in my paranoid brain, I often do partake in the random foods left in kitchens. I then also often run down the hall like the work crier, letting everyone know of the free delights, far more excited than my mostly better-paid coworkers about free scraps of food, but my excitement is such that no silly sense of pride is going to waver me from at least attempting to spread what little joy I occasionally feel.

Be that as it may, there is always a pause. It’s not just mysterious work foods. I feel this way sometimes at pot lucks. Even as a kid at church, with all these great roasts and hams and seventeen varieties of macaroni salad… I’d look around and wonder who made what. It was usually fine, but there were some folks that, to be honest, scared me. That shouldn’t be past tense. Some folks scare me, either because of the potential for inasanity we all have (me included — me ESPECIALLY), but also just general hygiene concerns and whatnot.

I don’t mean to sound like a dick here, but I’m obviously not trying to not sound like a dick, too. My thoughts aren’t particularly deep, but there are a lot of them in my big head, and they kind of roam freely. I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but I usually question it. I wonder why that horse mouth (or, in these cases, tasty food treats) are staring me in the face. Why weren’t they eaten by their creators? (The treats, not the mouth of a horse — that’s a terrible phrase.) Sure, most people are nice, but… is there an ulterior motive? What is the potential for poison? Or, worse, random hairs in food prepared by unwashed hands? I mean, I don’t know! There’s just no way for me to know, especially when I have no idea who left the food in the kitchen or brought it to the potluck or put it on the sidewalk or — um… uh…

Screw it. That piece of pie looks mighty yummy, and it’s cheaper than going out for lunch.

Normally I walk to work, but it was raining (well, drizzling) this morning, which required I get in my car in drive. Good thing I hadn’t had my morning bourbon yet! Did I type “bourbon”? I meant coffee. Coffee with bourbon.

Anyway, I got to work, and who should I see in the parking garage but my good buddy Christopher Lambert! (“Christopher Lambert” is not my friend’s real name, but I won’t presume it’s okay to just put his name on my widely read* blog without his permission… and I just don’t want to ask for his permission.)

He was sitting there with the car running, and my first thought was, “Oh crap… Christopher Lambert wants to go gently into the night, even though it’s the morning!”

I walked up to him and explained that the parking garage was way too large and ventilated for what he appeared to be doing to work. He explained that that was not what he was doing at all, but that he was instead getting an odometer reading for his car insurance since he moved and — oh shit, I need to change my address with MY insurance. Wait, where was I… ?

So, anyway, I tell him to hurry his ass up and get out of the car. How long does it take to write down a few numbers? And why did the car have to be on to do it? Christopher Lambert doesn’t make any sense half the time.

He gets out of the car to follow me to our awesome  day jobs, closing his door as — oh crap. “Did I really just do that?” Christopher Lambert asks, billy goat eyes wide, face full of terror.

I look at his car, headlights pointlessly on (really, why did he have those on to check his odometer?), engine humming. “Do you have a spare key?”

Christopher Lambert said he did… at his apartment… and his apartment keys were with his now trapped car key. I made some other dismissed suggestions as Dan Cortese (named, for the purposes of this story here, after the famed MTV SPORTS host in order to protect the real individual’s name à la Christopher Lambert) parked near us. I innocently asked Dan Cortese if he had “breaking into car skills,” which Christopher Lambert deemed racist. Whatever he was commenting on didn’t occur to me, as, to me, there is but one race: the human race. (And dolphins. So maybe two races.)

Anyway, Dan Cortese didn’t know about breaking into cars, and Christopher Lambert was freaking out. I felt guilty, as my talking to him had probably caused Christopher Lambert to stupidly close his locked door with his keys still in the ignition of his running car. It was all my fault, and soon Christopher Lambert would realize it and guilt me into having a terrible day. Just a terrible, awful day.

But then Christopher Lambert’s face changed from a look of despair to one of triumph! “I have a spare car key in my jacket in my cube upstairs!” This was a great moment and one deserving of a hi five even as Christopher Lambert needlessly elaborated that he was going to wear his hoodie but instead wore the jacket in which he always keeps a spare car key.

After he’d used his spare key to turn off his car, he came to the realization I knew he would: this whole fiasco was essentially my fault. Thinking fast, I lied that this had all been part of my plan. I came upon a man who looked broken and inept at suicide. Though this was not the case, I continued on as if it was, for to see the light, one must sometime travel to the depths of the dark… I knew he’d end up locking his key in his car! I knew it’d cause moments of panic and fear! BUT I ALSO KNEW that he had a spare key, which he’d realize hopefully before tears started welling up in his puppy dog eyes!

This day would now be the greatest day he’d ever known. A day that started with triumph out of adversity. And I’d insisted I’d knowingly given it to him.

Okay, now I have to call my car insurance company, a company I’ll call, oh, All State (not really, but I want to protect my insurance company’s name instead of asking it for permission to mention it here), to change my address.

*Untrue. Quite the opposite in fact. – Truth Police

I like to sometimes pretend I know karate. No, I don’t go doing karate moves or breaking bricks with a chop of my hand or kicking things. I just like to tell people I know karate.

Looking at me, one does not normally think, “Whoa. I am talking to a karate master. This big, doughy, pale yet red-nosed fellow is a master of karate. I should tread lightly.” The most common thought is more like, “This guy clearly enjoys fried foods and cheese. He should take better care of his insides.”

When that type of thinking, true as it may be, fills my brain, I decide I’d like to pretend I’m learning karate. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s a smaller kind of lie or, if I don’t blatantly say it aloud, gentle self-delusion.

Fooling myself into thinking I’m the kind of guy who is taking it upon himself to learn the ancient and understandably feared art of karate helps me walk a little taller. At 6’3″ walking taller might seem a bit excessive, but it helps my posture. And I look like a goon when I slouch, which is unfortunately often.

Yes, like millions (thousands?) of people on this earth, I could actually learn karate. The only thing stopping me from doing so is my own laziness. But that laziness makes me who I am. And who I am is a big lazy guy who thinks it’d be cool to know karate even if I’m too lazy to actually study karate and… try.

The ending doesn’t read as positive as I’d hoped.

Wow. It’s been a while, blog. I’ve been neglecting you, as I often do. I blame not only my usual laziness but also the likes of the Twitters and the Facebooks. They make getting bits of info and links out there so darn easy.

It’s gotten to the point that I have trouble holding a thought for more than 140 characters. On one hand, I feel very succinct of thought; on the other hand, this is a very pathetic turn of events.

It is worth noting that I have little to write about right now. Life is going along well enough, but as far as exciting tales to tell… I dunno. On the writing side of things, it’s a lot of pitches and waiting. Nothing to report since DO YOU BELIEVE IN NINJAS?, my book of ninja poetry with illustrations by Chris Moreno from Creative Guy Publishing. If you haven’t checked it out, it’s available on Amazon. I’ll also be bringing copies to the Anaheim Comic Con.

Oh, weird, that was some news, I suppose.

Also, if you’re in the LA-area, my favorite pancake place ever, THE GRIDDLE, has introduced a red velvet pancake! I mention this because I love red velvet cake, pancakes, and eating appallingly yet deliciously.

Is that it? Yeah, for now. But what a glorious image to end this on, despite the distressingly bad picture quality of my ancient camera phone.

Let’s see if I can manage to update again in less than two and 3/4 months!