Fleekin Floygn

Like many of my bredrin (new term from the Young Portuguese; he's so street he could have his own streetcar line), I have maintained my fair share of body image issues, resulting in various diet and exercise regimens. As it stands right now, I'm probably the thinnest I've ever been (Thanks, Inexplicable Week-Long Illness/Being Drunk A Lot!) and I haven't had a steady work out schedule since the summer. Beginning anything right now would be so cliché I'm not even going to even reach over to my number pad and add the accent on that 'e'. Suck on that, Dictionnaire Robert-Collins. I am, however, intrigued by an article from last weekend's Globe & Mail that discussed Tabata, a 4-minute(!) work out developed for the Japanese Olympic speed skating team:

"The Tabata protocol is a high-intensity training regimen that produces remarkable results. A Tabata workout (also called a Tabata sequence) is an interval training cycle of 20 seconds of maximum intensity exercise, followed by 10 seconds of rest, repeated without pause 8 times for a total of four minutes."

Rumour on the street (according to postpartum moms, not the Young Portuguese) is that it's 'da bomb, [sic] yo'. So I think I'll that a go, cause, you know, my building's gym being ten feet from my apartment is way too much effort.

On the diet (in the sense of eating habits, not weight-loss regimen) front, I'm trying this new locavore/high fat/natural food thing shared with me by a big ol' Jew I'll affectionately term Me In Ten Year. Essentially you do away with refine sugars, refined carbs, all the typical bad boys and welcome into your home FAT. Turns out that our tongues are actually designed for three tastes: sweet, salty and fat. That's why you get that mouth feel whenever you have cheese or high fat milk. Have you tried homogenized milk?! It's like cum of the gods! But in the awesome way! I shan't bore you by listing the copious number of homosexually-composed blogs written by dimorphics with a diet exclusively comprised of steamed broccoli and browned chicken breasts. Well, this is kinda like that except that I make a whipping cream-based portabella sauce with that shiz! Honey is ubiquitous, whole milk is encouraged and cheese is king. I have to say, having tried this for about a week, that it's pretty freakin' fun. Yes, I can see buying 5 local, free-range chicken breasts and copious amounts of dairy becoming expensive, but in a mere 3 weeks I will be on a government contract and with Kensington Market a mere 10 minute walk away, it seems a shame not to take advantage of the local food about which Ontarians are always self-flagellating.

Lastly, and this is not for the faint of stomach, but I had the most revolting experience of being in a bathroom stall at work next to someone who clearly had a raccoon trying to crawl out of his colon. The sounds this man's bowels made combined with grunting, the length of time and effort necessary to expel whatever demon being was clawing it's way to daylight and the fact that I'd totally just rocked a flying Dutchman (first wipe comes back clean) makes me think that I'm on the right track, food-wise.

Well, this post wasn't particularly interesting, but fuck it. I'm gonna go drink 18% cream through a straw,