To Know Us Is To Love Us

To Know Us Is To Love Us

I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then.

-Alice in Wonderland

I talk to myself constantly. That’s not to say I don’t find you interesting enough to converse with, I just find myself more fascinating.

-Kenneth Goorabian

Don’t take it personal. My wife doesn’t. Although she will let out a scream reminiscent of Jurassic Park’s main attraction if I repeat myself more than two (three is my average) times. But I understand. It’s sometimes difficult living with all of us.

According to her, I have more than a few personalities lurking within. Let’s not confuse this with crazy. I’m not stand-on-a-street-corner and yell at people crazy. Squirrely might be a better term.

Here’s a typical exchange.

Me: “That looks good. I think I’ll wear that. But, the color makes you look fat.”

Her: (From the other room) “Are you talking to me?”

Me: “No. Stop interrupting us.”

I believe her when she says it’s like living with mini- me’s.

The Musician Me

The ultra-cool (coulda been a contender) rock star me. Been slinging the ‘ol six-string since I was knee-high to a Vox AC30. That’s cool musician talk for “I’ve been playing guitar as long as most Congressmen have been in office, but unlike them, haven’t got rich or made an intern cry.”

The Fashionista Me

How do I love thee, oh, Heidi Klum? Let me count the ways.  Fashion and rock –n- roll go together like a Chinese spare rib. Brightly colored and slightly greasy. 

I’ve been experimenting with fashion since junior high, when on the first day of 7^th grade I wore a cow-hide (sorry, PETA) poncho, white skintight pants and knee-high boots. I was a hit for the first five minutes until they politely (ha, this was the ‘60s) told me to go home and change. Now I live vicariously through televisions shows like Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model. Pretty fly for a straight guy.

The Hypochondriac Me

After starting out my young life with a string of hospital stays, I’m sure it would come as no surprise I might occasionally self-diagnose my illnesses. So far, I have had cancer three times, two heart attacks, flesh-eating disease and a hundred or so runs-ins with Ebola, e coli, and the fish one, Salmonella. I attribute my miracle recoveries to prayer and fasting (gave up Del Taco bean and cheese burritos for a year). My wife gives the credit to eating unprocessed food, my therapist, and a lifetime prescription for anti-anxiety medication.

The Fitness Me

I adore working out. Okay, not true, but I do love my skinny jeans, so workout I must. I split my time between running and lifting. I have installed a 40-lb toilet seat cover so when I run to the bathroom 10 times in the middle of the night I work the biceps lifting the seat.  Just kidding. Really, I just run up and down the hills of Fullerton, which at my age is akin to taking the stairs to the top of the Empire State building three times a week with a backpack full of Jumbo Jack’s. I also lift weights for maximum moob control. For you lazy/busy guys, they now have men’s Manx shirts with built-in pecs and shoulder muscles.  Can you say, “Ahem, turn out the lights, Honey, while I slip into something more comfortable and chubby”?

I once used biking as my weight-control method.  The only problem with biking is I had to ride ten times as far to achieve the same results as running.  The upside was I had a much better chance of outdistancing the coyotes if they suddenly developed a taste for aged beefcake.

The Humorous Me

I believe he is my wife’s favorite.

You can shower a woman with love, attention and gifts, but if you can’t tickle her fancy, she will likely go looking for someone with a bigger feather.

-Kenneth Goorabian

Let’s Get Physical

Greetings cyber-space cowboys, it is I, Hot Grandpa back with more thought-provoking tidbits guaranteed to make you wonder just who is out there and do they really think we might taste like chicken.

Funny Fitness Anecdote:

Last week I purchased a tank top at a secondhand store with the name of a well-known swimsuit company printed on the front. At the grocery store today, the checkout clerk asked me if I was a “Speedo” model. My wife will miss work for the next few days. I believe she broke something while rolling around on the floor.

As one gets older, it becomes crystal clear that years and years of eating food distributed by happy clowns and little red-headed girls can begin to reshape the human body into something resembling a sumo wrestler. I wanted to say Fat Albert but I was afraid that would be misconstrued, so I will pick on the aliens instead.

I do some form of exercise every day:  walk, run or lift a few weights; anything to keep my waistline (and other manly parts) from turning into a wasteland of lumps, humps and jiggly bumps. Am I successful? Well, the jury is still out, but judging by my ability to run downhill without a sports bra and not get pummeled in the face, I’d say I’m making progress.

Anyway, all this working out got me thinking. If there is life on other planets, do they have the same problem? Do the little green men have little round beer bellies and sagging butts from sitting in their saucers for millions of miles? I realize they probably don’t have beer, but I’m sure they've found something to overindulge in, like an extra-large order of radioactive grubs from the planet Xazzabba, or perhaps a super-grande, Venusian tar-crab smoothie. I for one would not be surprised in the least.  Any intelligent civilization will have stumbled on dessert. I mean, without Twinkies we’d be nothing more than savages.

My point is, if they've been around a lot longer than us, then they have no doubt discovered the joy of stuffing the ‘ol pie hole with high-calorie krapolla, and are more than likely sporting some serious zero gravity moobs and alien love handles. So just maybe, if we were invaded, they would be at least as out of shape as we are and all we would have to do is out run them. Besides, we’re already used to the gravity here, so I think we would have a slight edge.

I am going for a walk now. I want to be ready. I for one am not going to get probed by a chubby alien.

K.G.