"I don't wear a suit, but yours is ugly."

Like many of you I watched the proceedings of the "diplomatic" beatdown that took place last Friday. Unlike most of you, I was watching while attired in a surgical gown and awaiting the time they would roll me out of pre-op stall #19 into the large operating room down the hall.

I was told to arrive at the surgical "factory" (where all outpatient procedures are conducted at 8 AM. From the comfort of my gurney I was able to follow the story and all its FUBAR glory.

And because my procedure kept getting delayed and delayed and delayed, like his mortal demise, I caught most of the childish antics before the scalpel was removed from its sanitary wrapping.

I had never seen anything like it. And perhaps because I was already apprehensive about having a bone cut out of my body and replaced with a Cobalt Chrome Titanium device that would follow me to my end, I shouldn't have watched any of it.

To the list of many things Trump has upended in our modern world, we can now add the proper way heads of sovereign states conduct talks with each other. With respect, dignity and a certain calmness that goes a long way to making diplomacy different than street brawling.

It's difficult for me to picture the famed Yalta Conference or even the Cuban Missile Crisis talks between Kennedy and Krushkev, being conducted in the same schoolyard bully fashion. Should we ever face a global face off, we can expect more of the same from the clown who is so unfamiliar with history, he now believes the former head of the KGB can be his best buddy. 

In the same way that the dictator of North Korea can be his bro. Or even his Lovaaaahh. See Sex In the City Season One, episode 6.

Even more disturbing is the rewriting of history, documented history, to make it appear Ukraine started this entire conflagration. 

They did not!

Think about it. Why would a non-nuclear nation, like Urkraine  (Only 604,000 square miles) start picking a fight with a nuclear behemoth, Russia that measures 6, 600,000 square miles, the largest country on the planet.

Nothing, nothing at all makes sense anymore. Thank god I have a myriad of post surgical drugs that can at least put me out of my cerebral misery.

Must. Ration. Pills.

Withering away

Prior to my surgery last Friday, I had to get cleared with a standard Pre-Op. There, I was coaxed into getting on the scale. It should be noted that the scale and I have not been friends. Not since day one when I entered this world at a whopping 10.1 lbs.

My mother, and my father, never let me forget this.  Later on my family life, he would refer to me as The Big One.

"Tell the Big One to take out the trash."

"I need the Big One to mow the yard."

"No more chocolate cake for the Big One."

He would usually say this in a jocular manner, but it did leave its mark. I suspect my extra poundage was an affront to his Post-Depression sensibilities, where he had to fight off his two brothers for a pat of butter for his bread. If they had bread. It also clashed with his self image as a young boy growing up on the tough streets of the Bronx.

He religiously lifted weights so he'd be prepared for any scuffles that could happen off the Grand Concourse.

Last week, for the first time in a long time, the scale was incredibly forgiving. I tipped in at 173 lbs. If I leaned to my left a bit, it actually dipped to 172.6. 

The last time I weighed that much...er, that little, was before I entered high school. This may not seem like blog worthy material, but then we crossed that threshold a long time ago.

At one point, in the not so distant past, I had ballooned up to 235 lbs. I was packing enough flesh for 2 Dad Bods. It was not pretty (not that I've ever been accused of that) but to this day I can't look at any of those photos. I couldn't even look at my old fat guy clothes, which have been dutifully donated to the Jewish Women's Council Thrift Shop.

It's quite surreal to go from a lifelong mindset to a completely new one. And as you might imagine I'm quite proud of the achievement. Mostly because I did it on my own. No Ozempic. No gastric sleeves. Just cut out red meats and processed foods and started eating more from the produce section. And a ton of salmon.

Over the past four years, close to a literal ton of salmon.

When my new hip is up to the task, I will resume my swimming, biking, walking and weightlifting with a vengeance. Because according to my smart digital scale which can calculate all kinds of data and even tells me my bank account balance, I should weigh 165 lbs.

Which means there's still some work to do. Also, you can never tell a former fat guy that he's too thin. It doesn't work that way. Ever.

Our 17th year

It's Monday (March 3rd) where you are, but it's Wednesday (February 26th) where I am right now, suffering unbearable pain in my right hip. 

Just to get graphic, it's as if I had stepped on rusted piece of rebar and the pointy end is scraping the inside of the ball and socket joint, the largest weight bearing joint in the entire human body. 

With any luck and with the skillful gifted hands of Dr. Sassoon, the rebar will replaced with a shiny new and well lubricated titanium femur ball that will breathe new life into my walk. Who knows it might even resurrect my one time dream of becoming an NFL kicker. 

I'm coming after you Harrison Butker, with your stupid SteamPunk attire and even stupider visions of living in a Handmaid's Tale world.

With any more luck I will leave the outpatient surgical center on Friday -- which is/was -- my birthday and wake up to a full jar of Oxycodone or Percoset, to ease my way back into the world of the walking. 

And maybe writing.

Ms. Muse had asked what I planned to do RoundSeventeen-wise when I come out of the Propofol-induced dreamworld. She half-heartedly suggested I get some crazy blogging done before the serious business of convalescence begins.

Lost in all this bionic rebuilding of Rich, is the fact that this blog is celebrating an important anniversary. I've told this story before and with any luck and the proper recovery, I'll tell it again. Besides, there are close to 4000 posts here, if you don't like this one, spin the wheel of torture and find another.

It was 16 years ago that my friend and former boss Mark Monteiro (one of the best people from the ad industry) sent me a text suggesting I follow him into this new thing called blogging. 

"You seem to have a lot on your mind Rich, why not give voice to it? You know, other than meaningless commercials and ads no one will ever see or remember?"

Not sure anything written here has risen beyond any of my ad work, but it has served the purpose of making people laugh (OK, some people). And more importantly, given me a platform which may or may not have improved my writing but has certainly saved me thousands of dollars in therapy sessions.

With that, and because I have to get another ice pack to wedge between my torso and this flaming rebar jabbing me in my hip, I just want to thank the 8 loyal readers who have been here through the ups and downs. As well as the newcomers who might have stumbled onto these digital pages and thought, "He's no George Tannenbaum."

Now if you'll excuse me, Dr. Sassoon (related to the hair styling empire, BTW) says I need to get one of those reachy/grabby things...

God, I'm old.