MOLI VIEW™

It's a simple fact of life that when my girlfriend skips town, I eat less. No more Turkish dishes. No rich Westside restaurants. No more meals ripped from the headlines of glossy mags. Life sucks just a bit, but there's something austere and manly about washing down tuna with light beer and falling to sleep as Monday Night Football drones on.

But even before I whipped out the can opener, I'd developed a plan: I was gonna cheat. That way, the pounds would really come off.

Let me explain.

My main gym — and here no proper nouns will be used, although regular readers of this blog know where I work out — is slightly janky. This was clear from my first visit.
"Where are the towels?" I asked Loquisha (or whatever her name is) who works behind the main counter.
"There."
She said this and pointed toward the chain operation's in-store pseudo-7-Eleven as though I were some kind of bourgeois queer for even asking. Well, fuck her. And fuck that fat old lady who swims so slow that I can't even get a few labored laps in.
Fuck my gym. I know it's been good to me; I've lost a lot of weight there. The locker room talk is good and raunchy, in an uplifting kind of way. I've been with this chain, off and on, for over a decade. But it just can't give me everything I need. Sometimes I hang out at the California Pizza Kitchen around the way, just to avoid her.
And this new gym over on Sepulveda? She's got everything. Including her own towels.

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