The Masta of Gynecomastia

fat boy

Me, last weekend

as opposed to


Me, lost weekend

So at 7:40 am this morning I went to see my doctor for my annual checkup.

She was very happy about the 30+ lb weight loss I was able to achieve in Gouna.

However, I have gained weight since arriving in Florida:  I am now, according to an official digital scale, 231 lbs.  My height (I was measured while there) is 6’3″, so my BMI is 28.9 — overweight, but not obese.

Still the 6 lbs increase since arriving in America is disheartening:  I am going to have to go back to how I ate in Gouna:  miniscule portions of mostly vegetarian food, and skipping meals often, sometimes for days at a time.

I am also going to amp up my exercise program — especially the weight work —  to ridiculous levels, as that seems to be the only way to firm up sagging, aging flesh, while burning massive amounts of fat calories.

Good thing I have time on my hands nowadays for this sort of thing.

After performing an examination, my doctor told me that on a preliminary basis, it appears that the moobs issue is probably due to soft fat tissue.

She thought things would continue to improve as I lost more weight, but did warn me that there is a relationship between Graves’ Disease and gynecomastia.

Tomorrow I am going to have blood work done to test for that (as well as the other stuff, like liver and kidney functions, PSA, and  T3, T3RU, T4, and TSH levels), and if warranted, she’ll be sending me to an endocrinologist for further treatment.

Having moobs is obviously a hateful condition for any guy to have to suffer through.

My wife tells me it’s much improved.  I believe her; especially after I looked at some of the pics of me with her in Nice 8 months ago. Not just embarrassing, but pitiful.

I am willing to resume the starvation diet and engage in a brutal exercise program for the next 6 months in order to look like myself again.

I do not ever wish to look like those obese old men with the thick, stiff joints that I saw shuffling around the doctor’s office earlier this morning, or those middle-aged guys you see on the beach in Florida who look like trannies on estrogen.

So later this week I shall know if my (much diminished) moob situation is hormonal.  If that’s the case, then it’s a whole other ballgame, involving possible surgery.

But before reaching any alarmist conclusions in that regard, there’s blood work to be done.

Graves Disease has devastated my life. It almost killed me during a thyroid storm in 2010, and the treatment prescribed was almost worse.  Methimazole caused me to gain 50 lbs over 3 years, and led to massive hair loss.

My advice to any guys who have GD is do yourself a favor and have a surgeon slit your throat and take out the thyroid right away.

It’ll save you a heap of heartache in the long run.

leaving america

He’s George Clooney, and you aren’t

9 months ago, my wife and I left Florida for Nice, France, where we stayed for 10 days at a small but pleasant Airbnb apt on Rue Rossini.  Sometimes we would stroll in the evening to the Promenade des Anglais, sit on the beach, and watch the unending stream of jets coming in from the East.

They would circle in low over Rabba Capeo, which is the promontory that separates Nice’s port from the main beach. We would sit for a long time watching these planes flying overhead, as they brought people from Turkey and Lebanon and who knows where else to a better life, even if just temporarily.

I loved sitting by the Mediterranean with my wife, because that is the sea where I spent my childhood, and remain deeply attracted to it to this day.  The problem is, so does half the planet, including otiose Arab playboys and dodgy Russian and Italian gangsters, as well as many other types of undesirables — as Noel Coward once said, the Côte d’Azur is nothing if not a sunny place for shady people.

Like many people around the world, I watched the Royal Wedding yesterday, and of course saw George Clooney looking dapper in his morning grey suit, with his Lebanese wife Amal as regal as the assembled members of the House of Windsor — whose numbers may soon be augmented by royal quadroons — in her goldenrod yellow Stella McCartney midi dress and bird cage fascinator.

My wife and I went to Windsor Castle in the late 90s, but despite this were not invited to the Royal Wedding, unlike all the beautiful and no so beautiful people in attendance, most of whom where probably taken aback at the ululations — known as zaghrata in Arabic — that filled this most English of air, on a postcard perfect day, as the golden couple emerged from St. George’s Chapel.

English Mews Houses

My wife favored the pink one

No worries: Ocean’s 11 is currently playing on cable in South Florida, but alas, there are no movies of my wife and I being broadcast on Comcast: there’s just the crappy MP4 Internet vid you see that I took on the stony beach in Nice almost a year ago.

No doubt after partying with Elton et al. at some glittery upper crust peerage estate, the Clooneys are already in their Xanadu in Sonning, recharging post an exhausting weekend.  Funny, but my wife and I decided not to purchase digs in the English countryside this year, and instead contented ourselves with being trapped in a falling apart, poorly built CBS faux Mediterranean semi attached shithole, in a nasty little gated community that’s mostly full of geezer racists.

90 per cent of the world live the way my wife and I do, or much worse, while the rest lead a life that is filled with homes in the South of France, gold plated health insurance plans, ample bullet proof retirement funds, and kids who are already set up to be members of the permanent, indestructible global upper class.

And if you’re actually reading this post, you most likely don’t belong to that elite club, and never will. You are like me.  A zero.

Yet if you’re still young enough, you may still believe in the American dream, and — much more importantly — are willing to engage in the kind of ruthless backstabbing acts that (with a little luck) it takes to become someone important in this world.

But if you are my age, I hope for your sake that you have a nice little garden, no matter how small, that you can put put around like some doddering moron, before you shuffle off to church on Sundays, to pray at the altar of some supernatural being, petitioning Him that your coming demise shall be as painless as possible, and that you escape complete physical degradation, as your body and mind fall apart.

So, faced with the unappetizing prospect of grinding through a decade or more with the unpleasant reality that you were never smart or fortunate enough to make it to The Big Dance, you think: what is it that I can do to spare myself the humiliation of meaningless old age? Absent billions to idly give away, a la Gates, what do you do with yourself?  How does your life continue to have a point, other than taking up space?  And what happens when your mind begins to falter, as it surely will one day, and you no longer trust it to save you from the circling sharks?

Well, unless you are like George, who essentially is no longer an actor but a guy who made his Fuck You money off banking a Tequila company that parlayed his fame and glitzy image, you are pretty much doomed once you get to the retire/expire thing.

Like most, you will be condemned to a life of increasing solitude and irrelevance, the one where no one calls you any more, the one where the world passes you by, without really giving a fuck.

But isn’t there another way to close out your run?  Does retire always have to equal expire?

Because if you listened closely — as I did — to Bishop Curry’s inspiring sermon at Harry and Meghan’s wedding, you would have realized that it’s really all about the “redemptive power of love.”  Love power?  Where have I heard that before?  Oh I know.

So that’s the takeaway from this lovely and much anticipated wedding:  a highlight number from a Mel Brooks farce from half a century ago.

Now you can allow yourself the bitterly dismissive laugh of the Man who never became George Clooney.

But that would be small and unattractive.

Just look at the video up top once again, and remember, there’s a seat on a plane going somewhere that’s waiting just for you.

All you have to do is chuck your old meaningless life in the dustbin and book the damn ticket, come what may.

Yolo, man.

Yes, you can spend the rest of your existence feeling sorry for yourself in trigger-happy, insanely angry America, or you can chill like Clooney himself in, say, Thailand. and live in a Paradise on two grand American a month, or less — providing you don’t mind that 1 out of 10 dogs there have rabies; the junta; the impossibility of buying weed without risking the clinker; the long monsoon season; the monkeys that roam the island beaches; and of course the whole Muslim separatist thing going on in the South, complete with drive-by shootings.

The choice is yours!

leaving america


lavender plant

My lavender plant arrived yesterday afternoon in the rain in a box. It was in perfect condition. After drinking in the scent of its silvery green leaves, I put it in a pot and left it outside on the porch. It has been raining all week. Lavender does not like overly wet conditions, so I placed it in the covered area of the porch, to keep it protected from the constant rain we’ve been having. I will leave it there till next week; when this storm system moves away, I will place it in full sun. Florida during the summer is all about afternoon thunderstorms, so I will have to keep moving it back to the covered porch area every day, as you have to watch out for root rot with lavender. By October, the hot season will have stopped, and I will transplant it to its ultimate spot by the wall where parts of the hedge have died. Its scent will be a natural repellent for the fleas. flies and skeeters that lurk in my back yard, and it should attract bees and butterflies.

leaving america