PITTSBURGH – This may come as a relatively bizarre posting but I am slowly starting to realize something about gym room etiquette.

There are certain unspoken rules so to speak, which perhaps have never been more clearly articulated then perhaps on one particular episode of Seinfeld when George was caught urinating on the men’s room communal shower floor of the local gym. He was called out as the “Urinator.” He broke the rules – the unspoken rules of gymnasium etiquette.

I am not sure what follows is similar.

I go to a small gym. It is a YMCA—with no shower facilities mind you (you get in and you get out). It does have a small men’s room, which serves as a de facto locker room.

The other day, someone dropped a major bomb in the men’s room. I mean this was a bunker buster. This was an IED floater too big to spiral down to China. Whoever was responsible, clearly created an olfactory Hurt Locker for the rest of us gym rats. Worse, they left it unattended for us unfortunate enough to happen into the men’s room while they presumably worked off the comets tail on the treadmill or stationery bike. I won’t say size is anything to talk about but the YMCA might have to skip the plumbers and call those Axe men dudes from the history channel. This was one myth-busting log.

There was only a handful of people in the gym so the culprit had to be close at hand – either on the stair master or using one of the machines. Was it the fat guy on the stair climber? (Wait – that is me looking in the mirror). Thankfully, no one was doing the ab cruncher — you never know about collateral damage when some “unexploded ordinance” might detonate.

How someone could be so full on the way to the gym? Yes, I give them credit for going to the gym — but man — what manner of man hog works out with a Thanksgiving feast composting in the belly before hand? Towards those ends, is there some unspoken protocol that is being violated here?

If so, what are the unspoken rules of gym room crop dusting, carpet bombing and the occasional bunker buster? I would imagine one should open the B-52 hatch before going to the gym.

I will not go so far as to label anyone a “Urinator” as it happened in Seinfeld. But, there clearly is a “Unabomber” on the loose.

I am wondering then what other unspoken rules of the gym exist. What are the things to do and not to do that you will not find spelled out on any “Club Rules” poster. Yes, you should wipe the machine down when done but what else? We all know you shouldn’t stand close to a naked man – good advice outside the gym too. I would love to post a list here on this site for further discussion so I encourage you to think of some things and post them here.

Finally, if it was YOU that did it. I implore you to do the right thing: get that thing checked and turn yourself into the YMCA authorities.

PITTSBURGH – Very odd, but go figure that the key word driving people to my humble site is “footballer’s diet.” That is interesting but probably no cause for drunken jubilation.

I am not a footballer? I am a football fan. I am a fan of American football and like most middle-aged American male fans of this violent and poetic sport – I got a huge beer gut as a result of my POV from the gladiatorial cheap seat of my game room potato patch. In particular, I am a fan of NFL action? I am a proud Art Rooney-fearing Steelers fan. Goddamn. Here we go Steelers, Here we go!

To be more (Mel) blunt: I am an old ex-high school footballer—eh, football player—from the heralded grounds of Western Pa. Unfortunately, I wasn’t heralded. I was “unheralded.” My name is not Harold. It really is Matt. Matt really is fat. Fat Matt sat on his hat? That is not to disparage ol’ Dr. Seuss. Rather it is an accurate description of my footballer—eh, football days—in Al Bundy heaven: that magical land of Friday night lights, the kingdom in western Pa. we call high school football. That is what I did: I sat on my hat (mostly).

Today, I love watching football. But, I must do something so I am not a fat slob watching football. That “something” is the footballers, eh—The Football Fan’s Freaking Diet! (Feel free to insert your own expletive)

I know diets suck. I know diets are wrong. I know that Kristie Alley might one day maul Oprah if another one of her diets fall. I know that Casey Hampton, a nose tackle for the Steelers, who goes by the name “Big Snack” is a whole lot of man. He is a big freaking snack to say the least – probably closer to 400 bills than his mythical roster weight would indicate.

I am not that big of a snack. Still, I need to get down to the “little appetizer.” To do that, I created the Footballers Diet – damn it, the Football Fan’s Diet. The diet for football loving fans everywhere – whether footballers or football fan’s.

I know all this may come as the machinations of a gluttonous mad man on a mission and not those “Mad Men” on AMC. I mean “Mad Men” as in I am pissed off at my looming large gut, which hangs over the tool like an over-sized shed roof. You see The Football Fan’s Diet is about one day looking down and seeing the tool for the tool box.

The Football Fan’s Diet is more than a diet. It is about actually having to buy a new belt that is smaller thus conserving the cow population. It is about getting off your hat! It is about loving your footballer games and footballer lifestyle – damn it, am I using key words again – it is about playing the game of life like your favorite sports time does. One day Wang in his Chinese province will say “Hey, I have to make smaller pants now – what the fuh is going on over there in America?”.

What is “going on” Wang is the Footballers, eh, Football Fan’s Diet.

The Football Fan’s Diet is about management of your health as if it were some sort of professional football franchise.

The way I see it, it makes for a fun and frivolous metaphor. Although I am reminded of a Clint Eastwood film line: “People that speak in metaphors should wash my balls…” Don’t quote me on that – that is just a paraphrase. And if Clint didn’t say it, someone surely did; and if someone didn’t, I am saying it now.

Anyway, Coach lit a fire under my ass.

Coach’s scathing press conference (preceding blog post) blasted me and my lackadaisical footballer, eh, dammit, football fan’s diet effort I have been putting out as of late. I had spoke out to the media – being you – about the play calling earlier in the week. I blamed my head coach – which is really a metaphor for my brain (Okay, get that sponge away from my bag).

I was pissed at the head coach for his scathing attack on his Prima donna star player: me. I wallowed in the bad movie review for a day but yesterday, a switch flipped, or I flipped. Yesterday: I had the best damn day that I can remember in years in terms of both being healthy and kicking some major ass at the gym. I hit the hamster wheel for over an hour. I even did some weights. God forbid I do some weights.

Speaking of the Almighty: Is it written on a stone tablet that I can’t change my world view from that of a loser to a champion? Is it preordained somewhere that I can’t become a Super Bowl champion? Coach says in ain’t over until the Fat Matt sings. Fat Matt ain’t going to sing – not anymore. Not today. Not for anyone. Not for you footballers looking for a real diet.

In the end, I say “thank you coach.” You lit a fire under my ass and that is no small accomplishment, especially considering its enormous size. But, once size gets going – it is hard to stop. I think that was an Isaac Newton law or something: F=MA. Force equals mass times acceleration. In my book, that is merely a fancy pants way of saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

I am now going!

PITTSBURGH – I was reading a blog posting by ESPN.com’s Kevin Seifert about who is to blame in Green Bay’s recent loss to the Bret Favre-led Minnesota Vikings (as weird as that sounds). The Packers QB, Aaron Rodgers was sacked eight times in what has to be as painful a loss as they could possibly suffer; what with it coming at the hands of the old Green Bay legend himself, inestimable Bret Favre. Yes, the Minnesota Vicodins (a fitting name for a Bret Favre lead team—don’t you think?) looked as sharp as Wisconsin cheddar. But, as Seifert’s posting brings up, who is really to blame for all the sacks Rodgers endured?

Was it his inept offensive line? Or, was it the indecision-making of Rodgers? Did Rodgers hold onto the ball too long? Could he not make the proper read progressions? Was the play calling simply wrong for the defense? There can be a lot of culprits when it comes to stuff like this. Being a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, I am all too familiar with the debate.

Before Steelers running back Rashard Mendenhall busted loose against San Diego Sunday for two touchdowns and about a buck and half in yardage Sunday, there was ample debate about why the running game seemed to undergo an economic collapse. Is the reason the running game pretty much sucked because the running backs were generally being talentless, brainless, or lackadaisical? Or, was it a combination of all the above? Or, was it the stupidity of those front beasts of burden who simply couldn’t knock a hole open?

And so it goes when you fall off the health wagon, you have a personal blame game to play. Was it my stupidity, my lack of willpower, or was it my lack of desire? Maybe it was my inability to grasp the big picture? Maybe it was an increase in solar flare activity and had nothing to do with me? Or, did I have the wrong scheme called last week? Why did I blow it? Any of these reasons could be the one reason or it could be a little bit of them all. That, in a nutshell, is why losing weight and becoming healthy is always a difficult blame game.

There are a lot of factors that go into making one a fat beer guzzling slob. Likewise, it makes it difficult to identify the “one factor”—that one thing if changed could make you put it all together. And the hope is that there is such a factor and I am simply waiting to discover it.

Much like Green Bay may come to realize if they get a good backside guard, the passing game will take off (hypothetical). Much like the Steelers will realize that Willie Parker is out of gas and that if Mendenhall gets the nod here on out, the running game will be back where it should be (theory with some proof based on the San Diego victory).

Perhaps then if I figure out how to change one damn thing about my lifestyle, which has frustratingly eluded me for years, then you are looking at a Football Fan’s Diet Super Bowl Dynasty in the making. However, it could be Rodgers doesn’t have any talent. Maybe I simply don’t have it in me to be really healthy. If that is the case, I have to simply work at getting better and hopefully I can play some decent football by the end of the year. Then again, it could be one thing I need to change. That is the hope and just maybe it started yesterday. That is what I will hang my hat on. I am sure they are doing the same thing in Green Bay.

Read the blog posting by ESPN.com’s Kevin Seifert…

PITTSBURGH – I watched the Pitt game yesterday as the Panthers traveled to N.C. State to nab what I surely thought would have been a rare fourth victory only four games into the season. I thought they were going to roll right over N.C. State. I had every reason to believe that was going to happen at the half. And, I was wrong.

Pitt’s star freshman tailback, Dion Lewis, tallied 2 TDs by halftime and was well on his way to the Heisman trophy race. Bill Stull was playing good enough to win. How could they lose?

Well, Pitt’s supposedly vaunted D, had a meltdown. They gave up 322 passing yards and 4 TDs to the Wolf Pack’s explosive reincarnation of Rodney Peete — a sneaky, darting QB by the name of Russel Wilson.

Wilson burned them every which way you could imagine in the second half. Man, it was enough for me to want to go stuff my fat face. However, I didn’t. Pitt had a meltdown, but I was surely not going to have a melt (as in a cheddar melt, turkey melt, you name it). I wanted to, but I didn’t.

Well, losses like this happen and you have to move on. However, my suspicion of why the D simply broke down in the second half: I have to say – they looked like out of shape slobs for crying out loud!

I mean, I haven’t seen this many guys that go a good three bills, with guts this big since—I don’t know—lady’s night in the South Side. These guys need to get on the FFD!

Okay, now that I ranted… Here is hoping my Steelers go Vick on the Bengals today.

Read all about Pitt’s Meltdown

Read more Big East Football on The BigEastClubHouse.com

PITTSBURGH – It is early morning and “time for me” time. Yes, I am having coffee, sitting in my command-center bunker-type thing in our game room, typing away at the Football Fan’s Diet. My Griswold-esque PJs are on and my writing mug is filled to the brim with Maxwell House coffee. No that wasn’t a product placement ad—or was it?

This “time for me” is a creative hour earmarked for frivolity, which is all about what my ego wants. This has a merit all to its own far outside the realm of health. After all, your ego is like a spouse. You have to cater to its needs sometimes, otherwise, it might want jewelry.

We all need time to do what only you want to do—your 9 to 5 be damned! Don’t worry. The slave ship won’t go in circles if you are away from your oar for an hour.

You can work around the clock, but if you ain’t working to cure the Big C or defeat Al Qaeda, you are likely working to make someone else a lot of money. I am tired of that…You should be too.

Yes, being healthy is more than what the scale says. Being healthy is more a state of mind combined with the right action to keep you in that state of mind. Okay, I am sounding too platitudinous (Merely seconds ago I thought this word meant to “sound like a platypus” but a quick Google showed I was wrong; though I would counter on some level I am right). The point is: I kicked some major flat possum tail yesterday.

Now, every morning it would seem the best time for me to work out is right after I drop my daughter off at her elementary school and abandon her to the public school system. Then, I have the best opportunity to swing by the Y and put in at least 30-minutes on the treadmill while watching and listening to Mike and Mike in the Morning. Or, I might have my headphones on, while I pick up the steps, occasionally noting the other fat people that have become regulars at this opportune hour and have seem to stuck with their own exercise plan.

I noticed a few of these regulars.

There is this big black guy who does the treadmill every day. Decked out in usually sweats, a black cap of some sort and a thick chain. He is beefy for sure, but looks like an Ex-football player, who like me, found solace in pizza and wants to get back. With his big weighty hands, thick shoulders and tree-ringed like corpulence, I imagine he was a guard at some point. You see being healthy is tough when you have nobody to block for but yourself.

Another guy, who I am convinced I met at a local bar not too long ago, seems familiar. I want to say he was an ex-con, staying at a halfway house. Sinewy and devious, he looks like a pixel-generated character from Grand Theft Auto. I can’t remember our full conversation. Forgive me if the details are a bit foggy.

In any case, I am sure he is the one that demanded I take his own home-rolled cigar in exchange for the offensively cheap (to him at least) stinky Punch remnant I had walked into the bar with that evening. If I recall, he was telling me how if I really, really liked these cigars, he had some other “specially prepared” versions which I would like. No thank you.

The Y is not without a handful of ladies with fat butts. There is this one lady who has a really weird kind of butt that if you look at her sideways, it sort of looks normal. However, when she turns around she suddenly looks like a hammerhead shark hanging from the rafters by its tail. I know I am not one to talk, but this is what I see.

There is this posse of old farts that get there early and use the Y as a mini social club, upon which to discuss the news of the day or the terms of the Axis surrender; It is hard to say which. Don’t quote me on this but If I have followed their conversations accurately over the past month, I am convinced Hitler is about to go down.

One particular officious lady mans (okay, womans) the front desk. She is responsible for cranking up the volume on the Ellen show or the Food Channel, whichever suits her fancy. She is nice, but seems a little too convinced of her health knowledge—Hmm. Who does that sound like? This is magnified when she insists on eating her fried egg sandwich in the gym no less while the rest of us are trying to sweat ours off. She looses sight that most of us don’t want the food channel blaring about how to make the perfect Big Fat Italian Sunday Dinner!

Isn’t showing the food channel on the TV at the YMCA sort of like showing the classic film Animal House at an AA Meeting? “They took the bar… Thy took the whole f***ing bar…”

What about me you say? Well, I am the King of the Misshapen Toys.

Our Y is not unlike a dungeon with an ominous assortment of mechanical accouterments more reminiscent of the Spanish Inquisition than a spa. The front array of steppers, which if all worked fine, would put the far right stepper front-and-center of the ESPN2 TV. I have particular loathing for all these machines yet are drawn to them like a burnt finger back to the fire (apologies to Kipling). It is usually upon one of these devices which I self-flagellate.

Taken on a whole, I am used to this place now and have come to love it.

I like how there is little posturing. There is no grunting and overly-muscled testosterone freaks breaking the zits on their back when they curl dumb bells the size of George W. Bush. So this little brick edifice tucked in the middle of Bellevue’s main thoroughfare on Lincoln Avenue, is a bastion of concrete against the cold Pittsburgh winter and sloths. It has become old hat.

Occasionally, there is a hottie, but I will avoid describing any one particular hottie in detail because I am married. Plus, that sort of description would be better served on my porno site (just kidding). Be rest assured, these eyes notice the hotties. Mostly, however, we are a lot of misshapen overfed horses in need of serious steeplechase, something we aim to find on the never-ending whirls of man-made hamster wheels. I am speaking for these types because I am one of their brethren.

I should say, perhaps, the toughest challenge at this hour is what is typically showing on one of the three primary TVs. What is showing is usually Ellen, you know the show I am talking about. It is but impossible to escape this morning paean to motherhood.

Man, when I am trying to listen to my own music or listen to Mike and Mike, usually the TV that is on directly in front of me is showing Ellen. So, even with all the TV noise drowned out from my earphones, I still am forced to watch her do that goofy Ellen dance, where she goes gliding up the steps.

Here see what I am dealing with….

Picture watching this every day. Such are the challenges of a gym rat’s life.

I have nothing personal against Ellen’s show. In fact, she seems to know how to work a crowd of house moms really well, much like a cowboy could rouse a heard of steer in the old West days. I had to get some manly man’s reference in here because this is not the “House’s Mom Diet.”

No, sir. You can beat your fat ass on that. This is the Football Fan’s Diet.

Now, how, in the name of the great Almighty can I continue to embark on my delusion of grandeur, this macho egotistical fantasy I have embarked on while watching Ellen do her dance? It is nearly impossible. I draw better verve from Beyonce Knowles doing a little snippet of her Upgrade video for Direct TV or whoever she does that for. This commercial gets the ego going.

The tune seems to promote both my personal insanity as well as my efforts to “upgrade” my fat body. Okay. That wasn’t a nice thing to call my Inner Fat Slob. Maybe it wasn’t so nice to pick on the Ellen show either.

I should end this rather odd posting by stating I am out of Maxwell House coffee and it is Friday. We all know that Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays pose great challenges for the hop loving brotherhood. I am rather tired of repeating the same old pattern from Preseason and want to cruise through this weekend like an emotional eater with a bucket of KFC. I want to go through this weekend just like it was any other day of the week. In short, I want to upgrade!

PITTSBURGH – It was the best of times it was the worst of times. Okay, I should say we got our Dickens knocked in the dirt on Saturday. However, Friday was a different tale. In fact, on Friday Madame Defarge would be holding our Dickens up as a paragon – perhaps the greatest erection to be seen save the Eifel tower! Rim shot please. That my fine friends, should placate some of you English grads out there who actually have a sense of humor—and like football. Is that even possible?

Friday was very interesting. Wait! What the hell did I do Friday? Oh, I know. Instead of my usual happy hour attendance at a local dive, I decided to take the high road, well, the elliptical stepper high road. Yes, I went to the gym on a Friday evening then came home and read stories to my daughter. I did have a glass—make that two glasses of wine—that evening, but all in all it was a very healthy Friday night.

The problem was Saturday. I was frustrated and irritable as all hell because I think I am noticing something, which I should probably adjust: I am too damn healthy for days on end, to the point I am irritable like a Pope on free porn night (I really have no idea what I mean by that). Frankly, I just need some plain old good grub to get me by on these days. I may also be frustrated that since I am living the healthy life, I should wake up and all this blubbers and guts should be gone? Alas, it will take hard work to get to where we want to be, which is celebrating a Super Bowl Victory, both on The FFD and, with much hope, The Steelers Super Bowl victory of the Cardinals. A Tale of Two Super Bowls? However, before we start polishing each other’s Lombardi trophies, let’s talk a little bit about how I screwed up on Saturday.

My wife took our daughter to a friend’s Build-A-Bear party at Ross Park Mall, which is now home to all sorts of exclusives shops and services in this area. Anyhow, I was really on my nerves the whole day. Even though I woke up at my low point weight wise for the Season, I was like a grumpy grizzly bear. I was sick of my super low-carb outlook. I felt like I needed a burger.

So I was finally placated when we made a family pit stop on the way back from picking up the tribe at the Build-A-Bear party. Where did we go? Nothing says greasy grille food quite like Denny’s. So, we made a pit stop and there I ordered a Western Burger with fries. Now, my Western Burger was not complete. Even though it had onion rings on it, I ordered a onions rings as an appetizer too. Not only this, I sampled the dishes my wife and daughter were enjoying. Man, failing on The FFD never felt so good!

Not too get to far from the topic, but if there is a Western Burger at Denny’s, how come there is no other types of geospatial-oriented Burgers. Couldn’t they create a Middle Eastern Burger and serve burger with a napkin covering the top bun and all?

It seems to me that the Denny’s marketers fell asleep on that one. We could literally have all sorts of Burgers. Heck, if they serve you a cold one they could call it the Arctic Burger. They could say “We’re sorry, we thought you ordered the Arctic Burger.”

Another thing that really makes me wonder is the new Denny’s promo for their late night offerings. A sign proclaims “Who says good things don’t happen after Midnight?” or something to that effect. When I was in high school and in college, I would have to say hardly anything good happens at Denny’s after midnight. Usually, there are drunken brawls, of which I have been in one or two (now we are talking a long time ago), swearing, people shoving their pie holes with loads of unhealthy entrées all because the cheap bar they had been drinking at the whole night didn’t offer anything more than potato chips, popcorn and beer nuts. Alas, Denny’s after midnight may not be a magnet for all-good-things-nocturnal but it is a twenty-something right of passage. I should I lost that fight by the way.

So here I am now. It is Sunday morning. The Scale laughed at me. However, on the whole I am down for the week. All in all, it will be a victory no matter what happens on Sunday, which is today. Considering how I fare last week, I am very happy about where I am now. I may alter my plan a little bit.

I may shoot for more variety in my food selections and take the longer term approach to The FFD. I want to get into a rhythm that is permanent, not one in which I go well for a few days, but then turn into a mean old grizzly bear. Towards those ends, I may adjust upward my Daily Game Day Object, at least calorie wise. The idea is that staying under a little high caloric level might erase the crabbiness and promote sustainable every day healthy living. I have to remember, Rome wasn’t built in a Day and this Body by Bud wasn’t either. It will take some dome to undo what my mouth has done. So, the fine tuning continues on The FFD.

In Preseason, fine tuning our lifestyle the whole point and one key advantage to this part of the season: we can adjust and make changes to get us to where we need to be. Next week, I would like my H1 Header posting to read “A Tale of kicking ass every day.” Now have some fun with your own dieting French revolution—or should I say, French Toast Revolution!

PITTSBURGH – The past couple days have been really good and I have slowly recovered from the tailspin begun last Thursday, when I was rudely “Fat-jacked” by Polish cookies. It surely was not easy. However, I really believed I “leveled-up” to borrow a “gamer” term.

This means I feel I went around and picked all the “low-hanging fruit,” to pilfer yet another term that seems to occur mostly in computational scientific papers and which vaguely annoys me for some reason. Now, I will try not to fly off on a wild tangent, but doesn’t “Low-Hanging Fruit” sound like a good porn moniker?

Anyway, what does “leveling-up” mean for me?

It means I feel I fully recovered from last week’s unhealthy marathon but more importantly I feel like my gelatinous body has made a lasting metabolic adjustment. It seems to acknowledge that this new weight bracket, which is in a new 10 lb range, is something it can get comfortable with. It feels permanent whereas a week or so ago when I hit the low weight I had to struggle to do so. Now that I am back, I think my body gave up fighting me on this and said, “Okay, you fat pile of blubber and guts, let’s gown down ten and stay there…” To me, leveling-up, is when you feel the new weight is permanent. Still, I got more levels to go.

I suppose the true test will be when I no longer hit the upper 10 lb. bracket. Don’t you just love how I don’t specify exactly what numbers are in those brackets? The reason is the numbers are not important. The numbers are relative. For now, though, I feel better. That is what is important.

I am determined to hold onto the new level I attained. Towards those ends, being it is Thursday and last Thursday really jacked me up, I am in position to score well today. I want to really put the beat-down on my Fat Matt in that regards.

I have this new short term goal of tasting the next level, which is basically another 10 lb. bracket, by The Super Bowl. Yes, I know what you are thinking: this posting is curiously devoid of Super Bowl hoopla especially considering that my beloved Steelers are in it. Don’t worry we have time.

Now, to allude to the rest of the title of this posting: I should say that in light of the historic and elegant inauguration of our new President and having proclaimed myself to be “Damn proud to be an American” on my Facebook status, I saw an online article about what great shape Barrack Obama is in. It was either in Men’s Health or some GQ site or something. The freaking guy was in Hawaii not so long ago and he clearly got the six-pack going. This prompted me to assess my own physical stature and it was then I realized that this President could really beat the living tar out of me if it ever came down to it. Now, if that is not feeling old, or older, I don’t know what is.

Not to sound too much like Al Bundy, but I have always had this sense that as a young man and a former high school football player, I could easily whip any dumpy politician. But, Barrack Obama is no dumpy politician. Heck, he looked better than Denzel Washington at the Presidential Inauguration Ball.

The good news is I am relatively sure I can could kick the crap out of that pencil neck Putin if he ever happened to make a wrong turn chasing one of his Siberian Tigers across Sarah Palin’s last defense against Russia, which we call Alaska.

To be fair, I would have to say George Bush would be difficult to subdue if only because of his adroit shoe-dodging skills.

I am reasonably sure I could put the smack-down on Chinese President Hu Jintao, unless he was really good at Kung-Fu or could fly like those dudes in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Moreover, I would make short work of Hugo Chavez. In fact, to assuage his socialist bombast, I would even “share the beating” with him and whatever power mad socialists compatriots he rolled with.

I will light up Castro and his freaking CIA cigar for him – Pow! Look out. Here comes The Raging Capitalist! However, Barrack Obama? Look at that six-pack. You want me to step in the ring with him? Maybe if I can triple the level-ups and then some but for now – Fuhgetaboudit!