EDDIE BRILL IS MY FAVORITE COMEDIAN

Without doubt, Eddie Brill, by far, is my all-time favorite comedian.

YEAR IN REVIEW 2011

Dear Friends & Cohorts,

Thanks so much for your patience while following my site. Due to ill health, my writing has been limited. I spent the majority of 2011 searching for a kidney donor. Over the last year, I've spent most time with my wife and family. Although losing a few friends over the last year, including the most awesome Butchie Ferrara, I am also happy to report that I performed on Boston comedy stages on three different occasions. I did this solely to further my reach to potential kidney donors. My blogging will be limited until better health. However, I will do my very best to further smash the ignorance of public ogling of the morbidly obese. Here is a year in review, enjoy, Michael Conway.

FRIED RICE, HOW I LOST OVER 300 LBS. AND WAFTED OVER BOSTON'S CHINATOWN, A MEMOIR, continued...

Ask me what I fear most? Pit bulls and rats. While the invalid sat in the van, I painstakingly dissembled his pain in the ass scooter as if an Erector Set. Yanking the heap up the steps, I opened the door and peered down a darkened hallway. At the end of that hallway? A small pit bull. I told the invalid of the dog and he quipped of his ownership. Yet, arriving at the doorway, he recanted. The dog was not his. See you later Worcester, your multitude of double and triple deckers, your spike addict minions, and your rat sized pit bulls. The Sunshine State beckoned me…

I confided my fear of flying to a friend. Not the fear of flying itself but the public gaze I would have to endure. I purchased a pair of tickets to play it safe regarding my girth and the cramping of seats. Ah that day, arriving at that counter only to hear, “I’m sorry Sir, but your seats are in two different rows.” F, my initial cognition.

As passengers boarded, I remained at the counter with my bags, four bills of girth, and humiliation. Great. Now, I would be last to board, and would have to endure the ogling of the entirety of the plane. Although this occurred in the early 90s, I still remember the 6x sweatpants and waves of perspiration dripping my backside.

“Sir, we would like to offer you a complimentary first class seat.” Awesome.

Another woman escorted me into the plane. The arm would not go down. Crap, I don’t fit. Want to piss people off? Delay their flight. A shuffling of people and I'm finally seated in coach.

“Sir, we are connecting in Dulles but your seats are together on that flight.” Whew. On the next aircraft I cherished my coupling of seats.

“That half of chair is yours,” I informed the polite woman in the third seat. As I worry, Will I fit in the restroom? Other passengers mumble something or another about not taking off. The stewardess walks down the aisle and stops at my row.

“We have one down here,” she states loudly to her twin up front. F, what now? And there smiles little Johnny Doe. The stewardess wants him to sit in my leftover spot. I look at the remainder of seat, the child, the seat. The kid never made it to Disney. Not on this flight.

I WANT YOUR KIDNEY TOUR, MY BELOVED BRUINS

Earlier this year, on three occasions I stepped on a Boston comedy stage to broaden my audience of potential kidney donors. I am dire need of a donor. If you, or someone you know are considering being my donor, please contact me at formerquartertonman@hotmail.com. Thanks so much. Additionally, I am grateful to have run into old comedy chums, Jim Lauletta, Chris Zito, and Dick Doherty. Now let's have some fun. With no further adieu, Me.

CAROLINE MANZO INVITED TO THE FORMERQUARTERTON YARD

Last night, my beautiful wife and I watched a repeat of Housewives of New Jersey reunion part 2. Wow, Caroline Manzo insinuating that her daughter was fat. Firstly, shame on you for bringing your daughter down whether in the media or behind closed doors. Additionally, I’d be embarrassed if my mother acted like you in this manner, or your passive/aggressive propensity to fighting. And your recent weight loss? Big deal.

Caroline Manzo, you are invited to the Formerquarterton Yard at www.formerquartertonman.com. Please explain your gross misconduct as a mother, or apologize to your daughter and others you may have tainted with your fat-racial slurs. Keep your weight loss trophy on a closet shelf. Often following weight loss, how soon we forget.

This invitation was sent to Caroline Manzo via her website and facebook.

SEEING ORANGE

Winter wind swirled down Rose Street with the occasional stench of pot. Its sour chestnuts roasting on an open fire stench reeks from way over there, or there, or there. Go tell it to the cop, or judge, or your public defender, for frankly it was none of my business. Day and night, body and mind entrenched in food, if not in my mouth then in my belly. Either thought of food, hunted for it, or shook off a binge like a junkie.

Winter cold did little to shake my hide so I sat on the stoop wearing shorts. Mere tee-shirts and jerseys warmed me. Passerby ogled me most likely thinking, What the fuck. Inside the house I roasted.

However, today is a new day. It’s about four in the afternoon. For a couple hours I’m volunteering with my wife at her church. We’re selling pumpkins, and pumpkins, and pumpkins. Meet and help people, and people, and people. Over there carloads of people pass at a slowing pace. They ogle the pumpkins, not me. I love it.

Make sure the door is locked, shut the light, “Goodnight Sweetie,” prop the pillow, shut my eyes, see orange, and smile.

F.Q.T.M. CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

Dear friends & cohorts,

F.Q.T.M. will be closed due to health. Will return at the earliest possible date.

Thanks so much my dear, dear fans,

Michael Conway

RESPONSE FROM ANIMAL PLANET STAR BRETT RAYMER

Yesterday, I emailed Brett Raymer, costar of Animal Planet's Tanked regarding fat jokes flung at his brother-in-law. I invited him to the Formerquarterton Yard. He responded,

No hard feelings towards anyone. I just like busting Wayde's balls. It is all in good fun. I hope you enjoy the show and season 2.

My very best to Brett. Best wishes to him in life and business successes. And thank you so very much for responding in such timely fashion.

And the battle goes on.

BRETT RAYMER FROM ANIMAL PLANET'S STELLAR SHOW TANKED, INVITED TO THE FORMERQUARTERTON YARD

Public ridicule of obese people does not only run through public streets, worksites, schoolyards, et al. Those who run Prime time television throw their hat in the ring as often as possible. Hence, inviting to the Formerquarterton Yard, Brett Raymer of Animal Planet’s stellar show, Tanked. I will post an update if Brett or his staff replies.

Dear Brett Raymer,

I am owner of the blog Former Quarter Ton Man. Recently, my wife and I fell for your new show Tanked. Congratulations to you on its success. However, I am inviting you to the Formerquarterton Yard to explain, and/or, eventually corral your issues with obesity. I am assuming you have issues with obesity since you take whatever chance you get at pokin’ fun at Wayde’s girth or the like. Or as it goes, just bustin' balls.

There are no hard feelings on my end for I’ve seen what a good majority of people deem fit when poking fun at obesity. I am only writing this hoping you will possibly change your thoughts or opinions to this matter. Please respond and I will post your reply at my site.

My best and future good wishes to you and yours,

Michael Conway
formerquartertonman@hotmail.com
http://www.formerquartertonman.com/.

THE BOARDWALK

Calm surrounds this place, this smidgen of earth, Newburyport, Massachusetts. A bridge far over there, cars transverse its cement encased green structure. My beautiful wife sits across the boardwalk soaking the sun as I write and read. Next to me, two yards of bench.

Boats pass, dead grass swirls, a dog on leash walks man. People shuffle by or sit on benches. Both. I look at the two empty yards beside me. I wait for an obese person to walk by, sit next to me, or both. On this magnificent day of summer, there is none. Cars over there, continuous and fluid, my wife soaking the sun, I reminisce then feel the breeze.

YESTERDAY, I KISSED MY WIFE IN THE PARK...

Yesterday, I drove to Portsmouth, N.H., my wife riding shotgun. We met her Mom, Sid, sister Dawn and Jason, at my new favorite restaurant Jumpin’ Jays, where I ate the best fish north of Boston, and our waiter Chin proved most excellent.

Yesterday, I took the men to board the USS Albacore while the women headed to a park for a dessert picnic. I weaseled through the submarine and asked Sid many questions about the Navy. He served in WW II on a gunner ship.

Yesterday, I watched a concert in Prescott Park, received a handmade quilt from Mom to ward off the arctic air of dialysis, watched lethargic people walk the park as if covered in honey, watched boats on the water, the gulls, pigeons, and sparrows, crooked necks for crumbs, and jets from the local air show flew thunderous above, hid in clouds like a game, and men on earth drove electric wheelchairs, and whining kids held hands with their honeycombed parents, and trees bent toward each other as if to kiss, and flower gardens posed for people taking shots, and the old naval prison over there, the shipyard, the squealing of boats and people.

Yesterday, I kissed my wife in the park, and the trees became jealous.

STAGE FIVE KIDNEY DISEASE, YOU LITTLE BASTID

Stage Five Kidney Disease, you little bastid, attempting to shorten this life and whittle my spirit. To you, a cliché, surely you jest. From your front row seats, have you not watched me these past decades? While progressing within me, have you learned nothing? The multitude of tests and doctors, the plethora of machination and folk, all patting your wormy back, egging you along to support their empirical data. Lives taken, not of your own hand but the secondary complication of heart attack. You snake.

Now, you try to take my job, my livelihood, my compass of thought and fruition, my relations. You want me alone in a room to perish. Again, have you not watched me these last decades? Stage five, you little bastid, you parasite, an unwanted gnome with fading paint; my battle with obesity has prepared me for you. Take my life if you must, but you can’t have my wife, my job, or my spirit. I’ve pitted you against obesity. You are chump change.

YESTERDAY, I SMILED AT THE PAIN IN THE ASS SUN.

Cooling wind whipped and wiped sweat from my back, brow, and beginning of man-boobs in the 93 degree oven named Earth. The small cruise boat conquered waves below us as if liquid cockroaches as the sun proved to be a cliché, “pain in the ass.” It beat down on my black Boston Bruins cap and shirt, for I stilled raved of their recent successes. The sky shone blue and the vague appearance of cloud gave teasing respites of shade. The sun did not care for me, my wife, or my hometown team.

Over there a long jutting of land lay horizontal like a dead branch or decrepit hockey stick of my youth. On forever then gone. Back where we departed Portsmouth, trees aligned the top rung of land to the east. To the west, an old naval prison stood massive and awesome. And beyond all of this earth the sun, live friends I’ve never met. As the public taunts and tears, they are shackled and imprisoned by obesity’s shame. As I beg the public to stop ogling the morbidly obese; Yesterday, I rode the glorious Atlantic, and smiled at the pain in the ass sun.

WHITE MOUNTAINS VACATION

Robin and I finally got away to our favorite place on the planet, White Mountains, N.H., and as always, a very wonderful weekend. We stayed over in Waterville Valley at our favorite place in that area, The Valley Inn. We ate breakfast at Styx and the Mad River Coffee House, ate lunch at The Muddy Moose, and dined at our favorite place in the White Mountain Region, The William Tell Restaurant. We ventured to Loon Mountain, hung with the Wolfman at Clark’s Trading Post, visited cute shops like Harman’s Cheese Shop and Sugar Hill Sampler, and of course spent much time along the Kancamagus River, and almost hit a Moose on the ride back to the hotel. Without doubt our favorite place on the planet, however, my wife is more beautiful.

ENGELBERT HUMPERDINCK LIVE AT THE WILBUR

Last night I saw one of my childhood idols. With no further ado,

MY CHILDHOOD JOHN WAYNE, BUTCHIE FERRARA

I’ve never known a man named John Ferrara Sr. If that’s the man you knew, my heart goes out to you. For, if you did not know “Butch,” or “Butchie,” you don’t know the man I’ve known.

“Hey Butchie,” I’d say whenever I ran into him.

“What is it?” he'd reply, and once again I’d be chatting with the greatest of neighbors.

Butchie, thanks for being overly kind and tough throughout the decades. You incredible family man, my dear old friend, my childhood John Wayne, Rest in Peace. Love Michael.

WITH NO FURTHER ADO, SPARKY DRAKONIS

Back in the late 1980s-early 90s, I did standup comedy in Boston. During this period, I met many nice people and some incredible, unique acts. To this day, these people stick in my mind and from time to time, I mention them in my writings. Happily, through Facebook I found Sparky Drakonis, an act stuck in my mind since those way-back days. Now, with no further ado, Sparky Drakonis.

AWAY IN MAINE

Fifteen months after fistula access surgery and nine months of dialysis, my Sweetie and me finally got away. As if each tree along I-95 waited for ponder, so did the constant gray which colored the sky, threatening to crush our mini-getaway and spirit. Yet, we smashed the gray with an excellent visit with Robin’s mom and her Sid, Robin’s sister Dawn and her husband.

Oh I-95 North, you little pain in the ass, miles upon miles of “we’re almost half way.” Hills and hills of cement running through the multitude of trees, and trees, and trees. Three years, I’m almost embarrassed to say, since we saw Carol and Sid. And Carol, thanks so much for the homemade reduced sugar apple pie that went awesome with Sunday dinner. And Sid, a whopping eighty-six years old, sparkling blue eyes like the Navy he once served, the same Navy that makes this place free, a true gentleman.

Best Western’s White House Inn in Bangor proved our home for two nights, whose staff treated my wife and I like royalty. And in the place I witnessed a couple in the early morning at breakfast. The couple, collectively, my guess, twelve-hundred pounds. And I found them to be perfect.



Special thanks to White House Inn's Carol Brodeur for treating us like King and Queen.

www.catholicscomehomeiwantyourkidney.org

I am utilizing my blog in search for a kidney. I will be telling a joke in the next weeks on a Boston comedy stage referring to to the title of this post. When Googled, it will redirect them here. Additionally, Catholicscomehomeiwantyourkidney.org., Catholics come home I want your kidney dot org., Sincere thanks, Michael Conway. www.catholicscomehomeiwantyourkidney.org/

MESSIN' WITH THE TROOPS AT COMEDY CLUB

WINTER 3 DAY VACATION

I WANT YOUR KIDNEY TOUR

Getting creative in the search for a kidney donor...

VALENTINES DAY, THE NO NAME RESTAURANT

We celebrated Valentines Day on Sunday due to my work schedule. Although lacking the atmospheric charm of Anthony's Pier 4, Boston's No Name Restaurant offers the best seafood around, served by an excellent staff including our courteous, professional, and funny waiter Patrick. The No Name Restaurant, a cliche', "to die for." However, it is hard to enjoy seafood when distracted by my wife's beautiful eyes. Happy Valentines Day Sweetie. You are the best.

ADVENTURES OF FORMERQUARTERTONMAN, REVERE BEACH 2011

Between the ocean and myself stood a mere fifty yards. My new body, now more than a decade old, stared at the ice and snow between us. The snow measured at least a foot deep, and a small path made by others, snaked out to Earth’s first mentioning of sand. The ocean pounded a mere fifty yards away. Glassy and all, it beckoned me.

And the usual walkers of the beach, now hibernating like beers to our north. Kelly’s Roast Beef, way over there, as always, business open as if an Alaskan fishing boat. I witness only one other man, way over there toward Winthrop way. His dog free off the leash, then gone beyond the mist of the distance. Wind slapped my back from the Northwest as if to push or inspire me. The ocean pounded, still a mere fifty yards.

Over the first iced mound of snow, and I’m off on the path. Like a tightrope walker, I walk cautious so not to fall to a welcoming iced Earth. My wife, still in the car, reading a book, passing on my little adventure. Little steps at a time, I arrive at the sand. My adventuring, as if Columbus, now half over; I enjoy the new world, while the ocean slaps at my feet.

BIFURCATE ROAD (continued)

An old grey tree trunk, about the height of me, stood there splitting the roads. No signs or etchings gave direction. Left or right? I stared at both roads and stood frozen like the remainder of tree. As I waited for someone or something to make my decision, hawks flew above like flying rats awaiting my death. Professionals, loved ones, friends, coworkers, and cohorts began slinging their opinions as soon as I asked for it. Surprisingly, many told me to take the road to the left.

And the truth? Reality, no bullshit fiction, no overemphasis, no embellishment or the like, take the hawks and tree out of the story. No rainbows or hell. No heaven or Dostoyevsky-like Siberian prison, I stood at a bifurcated road, adult, and needing decision. And so I did.

The content or scenery at the ends of the roads matter not, simply I had to chose or remain victim to how others would live my life. I veered to the right, awoke from my fearful haze, and returned to work. Bifurcate behind me; I’m content. I’m hopeful. I’m smiling. The end.

BIFURCATE ROAD

I stood at a fork in the road, David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust sang "I'm an alligator," from within my orange/gold iPod. Chills chilled me in the place I thence currently lay supine, a dialysis clinic, Route 1 North, U.S.A., Earth. The regular crew of patients and the like filled this white gleaming place of beeps, gurgling machines, and televisions all about to pass the beepin’ time. Anonymous Richie slept again with the majority of his peers. A pair of white gowns hung from hooks on the wall, like waltzing ghosts, at my metaphorical road bifurcation. (to be continued)

F.Q.T.M. WILL RETURN JANUARY 17th, 2011

Dear Friends,

I will be returning from my challenged-health sabbatical on January 17th. Over the last months, I've missed writing my thoughts about the dreaded challenges of obesity and the oft public ridicule. Although the last half year has been challenging, my heart has remained with those suffering the physical and mental strifes commonly paired with obesity. Until the 17th, enjoy this video starring Nicki the Dog. My best, Michael ... and as always, thanks for your loving support over the last months.

A YEAR IN REVIEW, 2010

AS THE YEAR COMES TO AN END ...

Dear Friends,

As the year comes to an end, once again, I'd like to thank everyone for their support during these trying times. It's also been a challenging last half year for my wife's health. So, knowing humor helps the healing process, I made this little video on Christmas day. Enjoy. See you sometime in the upcoming year when health permits. Sincerely, Michael at Former Quarter Ton Man.

GETTING BETTER A LITTLE AT A TIME

Dear Friends & Cohorts,

I am inching upward to better health. Although, it is taking much longer than I expected, Former Quarter Ton Man will be up and running as soon as permitted. And though I remain grateful to the followers of my site, I much rather prefer to be writing my thoughts about obesity and the like, and look forward to the day that will happen once again. My thoughts remain with you. Last Saturday night I went to the Bruins game with my bud Eric. We had a great time. Check out the video and pics. My best, Michael.

THANK YOU ALL

I'd like to thank all my family, friends, and professionals who've been so very supportive over the last few months. Firstly, to the followers of my blog, I miss you dearly and will return as soon as permitted. To all who suffer from obesity, my heart is with you at all times. Secondly, to my family and friends, especially my incredible wife who supports me throughout, thank you so much. Truly, no man is an island. To all the folks at FMC North Suburban Dialysis Center , thank you for your professionalism and skilled care. Lastly, thanks so much to Senator Thomas McGee, a true gentleman, for stopping by one day and explaining how he and others are positively effecting the tranplant process in the Commonwealth. Additionally, I am still searching for a kidney donor. If you might be interested, please follow the kidney donor link in the right column. Thank you so much.

(photo: Senator Thomas McGee and me at North Suburban Dialysis Center, Saugus, Massachusetts. )

F.Q.T.M. WILL BE CLOSED

Hi Everyone,

Due to illness, my husband will not be posting to F.Q.T.M. over the upcoming weeks. He will return as soon as he feels well enough.

Thanks for your support,

Robin Conway

A MESSAGE FROM ROBIN CONWAY

Hi Everyone,

Michael has left me in charge of F.Q.T.M. over the next few weeks. As many of you know, today he is beginning dialysis due to stage 5 kidney disease. We are still in desperate need of a kidney donor. Please click on the kidney donor link in the right hand column if you are interested. Thanks so much for all who have been supportive during these difficult times.

In the last weeks we attended as many events as permitted, and Michael worked at FedEx as much as possible. In addition to family stuff, we attended a friend’s birthday party, took a stroll on the Boston Public Gardens, rode a Swan Boat, and pretended to be vegan one afternoon at the Red Lentil in Watertown. Thank you so very much to all who dropped by this past weekend to visit.

Although Michael knows he looks sickly, he wants the videos played. He tells even following weight-loss, “the body does not forget.” He might vlog his upcoming journey at M.G.H. Occasionally, I will be posting writings and photos for him here and at his Facebook account.

Thanks again,

Robin Conway

SUPPER WITH ADAM VLOG

Dear Followers of F.Q.T.M.,

Due to an illness, starting next week, my wife will periodically post samples of my writings and vlogs here and on my Facebook account. I will return to my normal routine as soon as possible to fight the dreaded affliction of obesity and its nemesis, the public stare. My best, have a great summer. Here is the vlog, Supper with Adam... Sincerely, Michael Conway.

THE MAN WAY OVER THERE

A man stood way over there with the sun to his back, and trees whipping around his head and gigantic girth toward the end of day. Rockets glared, roared and screeched about way over. People drank and gave tribute to the glorious day of Independence. They squatted their land, their plots, their own little piece of, “this is my home,” and laughed within ½ acre confines of backbreaking labor..

And the man stood still like a statue watching the sky. And I watched him like no other. Although 400 lbs. abound him, I did not see it. In him I saw myself. Strangely, we were brothers. The same. Exact equals. Exactly human. My mind felt free. Independent. Rockets glared. The man eclipsed by the lowering sun. Then darkness, and he was none.

VLOG FROM REVERE BEACH

THE BEST WAY TO SPEND A SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The best way to spend a Saturday afternoon in the Revere High School sun? Watching my stepson Justin DiChiara (catcher) chasing down the opponent for the out. Great goin' Justin. What a great way to return to the my old alma mater. Great goin' Justin. Watch out Jason Varitek.

A HEAVY JERSEY IN THE SWELTERING SUN

Recently, I witnessed a trio, a partial family so imagined, walking up the hill near my home. Mom, Sis, and Bro, trudging up the hill the in the midday sun. Bro, all the while, huffing and puffing in his little pudgy body, determined to become thin like his peers, a heavy jersey covering his shame, I remembered a childhood just the same.

Yesterday, my wife and I drove by a public pool. Amongst the cooling people in the water, a gargantuan man hovered above the rest. I clocked him in at 400 bills and imagined him Grizzly Adams. Like the boy Bro, Adams wore a heavy jersey in the sweltering sun. Gratefully, I remained in an average-sized body one more day.

WELCOMING THE NEWEST MEMBER OF THE FAMILY, BAILEY

Congratulations to my sister and the newest member of the family, the adorable Bailey.

REID'S RIDE, THE FIGHT AGAINST ADOLESCENT CANCER

Want to spend your money wisely? Check out this foundation. My good friend, Bob Misiano, is biking to help battle the rare form of cancer that overtook his nephew Reid Sacco in 2005. Bob will be participating Sunday, July 18, 2010, biking from Lynnfield High School to Stage Fort Park in Gloucester, MA. If you would like to support Bob, and the children stricken with these dreaded forms of cancer, just click here. On behalf of Reid's Ride, thank you for your support.

photo: Mike, Bob, & Jimmy

ADVENTURES OF FORMER QUARTER TON MAN, TONY SOPRANO'S DAUGHTER AND THE IRON ROD BANNISTER

While in my mid-20s, I spent a summer hanging with a woman whose father resembled Tony Soprano. Enough said? Enough said. My poundage somewhere in the fours, headed for the quarter-ton, this woman appeared like an angel in my life.

Barbershop seats confining, and nervous barber’s concerns of my girth, like the dentist’s office et al, my quarter-ton mind searched for anyone who would cut my hair. So when, let’s say “D,” came along with her twirling sheers and offered to cut my hair, it was a done deal.

D lived on a quiet street, in a quiet city, in a very quiet second floor apartment of her father’s home. I only met the father once, and like the geography, he proved quiet too. Blah blah, clip clip, and after a few haircuts, I think nothing else of her father. Then one day it all changed.

D somewhat chuckling, I asked her what was funny.

“Oh nothing,” her reply.

“Come on tell me.”

“Okay. My father is worried you’re going to fall in the house. He saw you walking and thought you might pull down the iron rod on the steps.”

I thought nothing much of it, having heard it all before, and like most friendships of these days it proved short, then over. Months later while watching a documentary on organized crime, there was D’s dad sitting at a table, all Tony Soprano-like. Then it made sense. Her father was not making fun of me. He simply wanted to divert any undue attention to his quiet quiet home, on the quiet quiet street. Enough said? Enough said.

THE EVOLUTION OF EATING

Want to see the history of food and eating from 9500 BC- present? Check out the Rudd Center For Food Policy & Obesity at Yale University's excellent exhibit, THE EVOLUTION OF EATING, AN INTERACTIVE FOOD TIMELINE.

VIDEO FOR BOSTON'S FUNNIEST MINUTE

This is a homemade video produced for the Boston Herald's Funniest Minute competition. Hopefully it will make it. Check out the vid and watch for it at Boston's Funniest Minute.

TODAY CHRIS GRADUATES HIGH SCHOOL

Dear Chris, We are so very proud of you. As always, you have arrived and conquered. Great job. Here are some random pics throughout the years. Have a great summer before college, and enjoy your latest achievement. Love Mom & Michael.

KIDNEY DONATION NEEDED

Yesterday, Robin and I were informed that she can not be my kidney donor. If you are interested in possibly being my donor, here is a link to the Mass General Hospital Kidney Transplant Clinic. Contact information can be found there. Thank you so much. Michael.

NOMADS OF THE ALLEY BOOK SIGNING SMASH

Thanks to all who attended the release book signing for Nomads of the Alley. Throughout the day, I often remembered how awesome it truly is to be in smaller body. The creation of Nomads began way back in the days of obesity, and finished with a wonderful day this Memorial Day weekend. Thank you to all who support my book. All but four copies sold.

JOIN ME AT MY VERY FIRST BOOK SIGNING THIS SATURDAY

Join local author Michael Conway this Memorial Day weekend at Borders, Burlington, MA, for a book signing of his debut, Nomads of the Alley a novella & two short stories. This work of fiction is a dark, seedy mystery occurring in Boston’s Combat Zone during the latter part of the twentieth century.

(From Nomads back cover)

Following his mother's death, Leonard
Turkleton ventures to Boston's Combat Zone, the hotel for
homeless, the daycare for addicts. On the coldest of nights,
winter '99, he again crosses the Tobin Bridge not knowing it a night of violence for some…

Eventually, some become nomads. And who is witness to
these dank streets and alleys? A pack of rats.

Michael credits having been inspired to pen this work while performing standup comedy on the outskirts of Boston’s Chinatown. Come meet the freelance journalist and founder of the successful blog Former Quarter Ton Man this Saturday, May 29, 2010, between 2-4 p.m. Copies of Nomads of the Alley will be available.

CONGRATS TO BIG DON'S HOME COOKING

It is always wonderful to see the successes of old school chums. Case in a cliche point, Big Don's Home Cooking. Congrats to Donald Spinelli on his succesful web based cooking show. Emeril look out. Congrats Don.

FRIED RICE; HOW I LOST OVER 300 LBS. AND WAFTED OVER BOSTON'S CHINATOWN, A MEMOIR, by Michael Conway

Shifts into weeks, into months, into… and the sauce continued riddling my chin, shirt, and mochas-like mind. Driving a chair van with a driver’s seat sporadically broken via girth, adventures slithered between my binges from time to time. A mafia grandmother I nearly dropped down a flight of stairs, the dialysis patient on oxygen who insisted on smoking, a rear-ender in the Sumner Tunnel, the elderly John Wayne exiting the beast of a car to have a chat with me, and me wondering if it were okay to swing back if need be.

Yet, this chair van would bring me to public phones along my route, and those calls to a celebrated food-rehab center in Tampa whom I’d beg and beg until the let me in. And once in their doors, the following year equaling something akin to heaven. However, before departing for Florida, adventures continued to amass. The pit-bull cornering me in Worcester, me the fat guy in blue, the fat guy riddled with sauce.

MOTHER'S DAY 2010

I know myself to be, as Uncle Jimmy predicted, a lucky bastid. After all these years, obesity and depression with their feeble attempts at snuffing me out like a retarding flame, I’ve prevailed with the love bestowed upon me as a child. Yesterday, being Mother’s Day and all; with Ma, Grandma, Auntie Dottie, Auntie Tish, and Dolly Gambale gone, the Heavens have never let me down. As we play a board game around the table, I look at my Aunt Ro, and know my mother’s spirit has never died, that I’ve been surrounded by great people my entire life. Happy Mother’s Day Auntie Ro, thanks for being wonderful my entire life.

THERE IS A MAN IN THE CITY I INHABIT

There is a man in the city I inhabit… during the midst of day, jogs along one of the main streets dually named Main Street. He is shorter than most and his barreled barrel chest causes the upper body to gravitate forward as if preparing to summersault. Awkwardly, he dresses in garb more famed three decades back. Simple shorts and shirt, tidy-white ankle socks run and his gait proves pained as the right hip seemingly rolls and pivots like machinery to a vessel. He sweats like a man with delirium tremors. Yet, he ambles along at a steady rate to somewhere or another to hopeful better health. And though I know some, or most, would find him not one of earth’s deemed beautiful people, to me this awkward man is a hero.

There is a man in the city I inhabit; he is a hero, for he cares not what I think.

ROBIN WINS AT ART FESTIVAL

I am delighted to report, my beautiful wife took second place in watercolor medium at the Winthrop Arts Festival. The festival itself proved a smash, and taking third myself in cyberart truly rocked, but, seeing my wife win her ribbon made me very happy, and extremely proud. Additionally, it was nice to see old friends drop by.

STARING AT MY WIFE

As Uncle Jimmy deemed me, one “lucky bastid,” not only have I been able to lose a few hundred pounds, I also got married. So, a cliché low and behold, my wife surprised me a while back when she announced, “I never catch you staring at me.” Blah blah, blah blah blah, we went around on the topic of checking each other out. In the end I know my truth.

This weekend both Robin and I will be participating in an art show. This is Robin’s first show and I am excited for her. And though there will be great art: from over there, between people, frames, canvas and easels, will be me eyeing my wife from across the room, as I do often when she is not looking.

(Robin and I will be at the Winthrop Arts Festival, Saturday May 1 from 2-4. The world is invited.)

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., MEATBALLS AT AUNTIE RO'S

Since my creation, inception, fetal-expulsion, and Ma’s post-Kegel recovery, I’ve weaved in and out of obesity’s gravitational pull. And though isolation became the norm, always available to me was and is, the most excellent of extended family. And though obesity stole these people from me time and a cliché again, today is much different.

Yesterday, driving around getting Robin and her art ready for an upcoming art show, and trying to get an estimate I recently found treasure hunting on Revere Beach, I rang my aunt while Robin ran into a store. Goods, Okays,How’ve ya beens, “Why don’t you come over for a meatball?” Next thing I know, we’re sitting in Auntie Ro’s comfortable home eating meatballs, playing a board game, and laughing.

The day comes to an end, Robin’s art is framed, and the sun has smothered another day, another day I’ve always craved, a normal Sunday, like Sunday’s as a happy child. And the meatballs have never tasted so good.

PHOTO: WANDA AND ME, CHRISTMAS 1966

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., WRESTLIN' RIM SHOTS

Recently, I had contact with retired Elite Wrestling Alliance, former Tag-team champion, “Nyghtmare” Kirk Roberts. He recounted a match nearing a decade ago, a match he proved true champion.

One show I was wrestling at had an extremely large man sitting in the front row. I gave him crap but I never made a comment about his weight. After the show he came up to me and he said, “How come you didn’t make fun of my weight? Everyone usually does, I’m used to it.” I said, Nah… I couldn’t do that.

Yet unlike Nyghtmare’s story, F.Q.T.M. was not always choir-like in behavior regarding girth, and far from the poster boy of my current blog. The chat with the former champion helped resurface a comedy gig way back in the cliché day.
A Gong Show type thing in the basement of a Chinese-plate joint, Route 1 South. Royal Garden, or Royal somethin’, or Garden somethin’, I took the stage to an undersold dozen people or so, one host, and a four or five piece band. Obese at the time, so were my jokes, fat, fat, and more fat jovialness thrown at the apostle-like table in the dark.

A female Judas yelled out, “Stop making fun of yourself.”

“Okay,” my reply. “I’ll make fun of you.”

And with each bombing joke, bombing me, jokes as dead as the chickens upstairs, the drummer would do a rim shot, bada boom. Ba-kishhh. I turned my attention to the obese drummer way over there, the man snidely grinning with each percussion. The man weighed at least 350 lbs. Now my fat jokes were aimed at him. In the darkness of that place, it became one big sweating, fat joke vs. fat rim shot moment. Surprisingly, I was voted into the next round, to go back later and collect my gift certificate.

Needless to cliché say, although I never knew the drummer’s name or his band, I am sincerely sorry for having turned my spite upon him. In closing, I am happy to report today my life and attitudes toward obesity are much different. My actions parallel what Nyghtmare recently reported to me about the man in the front row. The chair the gentleman had sat on collapsed… I still didn’t use the fat gimmicks. Infact, I asked him if he was okay, said the retired champion.

PHOTO: FORMER TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS NYGHTMARE, (RIGHT) KIRK ROBERTS

A LETTER TO THE BOSTON HERALD

Although a fan, and almost daily reader of the Boston Herald, I found their front page and coverage of a story offensive, so I let them know in this letter/ comment/ letter sent to the editor.

I found the editing of It's your fault, fatso, just as ignorant and offensive as some of the comments made by the health-care "heavies," who seemingly forget, there is no cure for obesity. Double dose of blame, by McConville begins, Bay State hospital and insurance heavies blamed fat-slob consumers... I can only speculate, it is the Herald using these demeaning words and not the Execs you write about. I find the front page, and the beginning of McConville's article bad journalism. The use of demeaning words to set up a story is second rate journalism. Then again, this is only one opinion, of one Former Quarter Ton Man. This letter is being sent to the editor and will be posted on my site formerquartertonman dot com.

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., G.I. JOE ON FLOUR MOUNTAIN

As a child, although Father proved a deadbeat, I was eventually surrounded by a bunch of nice older guys who made me feel safe when in their presence. One of these men was Ma’s boss, Louie LaRosa. Circa grade school, Sunday mornings between 430-5, Louie picked up Ma in an old station wagon full with racks of donuts. And lucky, little, pudgy, “baby fat,” me, got to ride along on a weekly adventure. Squeezed between racks of jelly donuts et.al, we drove through the Callahan Tunnel for our destination, Mister Donuts, Cambridge Street, Boston.

These were days when it was somewhat safe to let your kid walk further than a dog leash away from the parent, when scumbags seemingly seemed fewer. Yet, I always came back to Ma at the shop on Cambridge Street with the karate school above it. In the back of the shop, my G.I. Joes, always in tow, scaled mountains of 5 lbs. flour bags stacked on shelves. While Ma waited on people, G.I. Joe and donuts got me through the lazy Sunday days during this part of childhood. These days, my little adventures to the store on the corner, to the church way over there, to the store down the hill to buy comic books, I witnessed the homeless, beaten, happy, and thriving city people still etched in my mind today.

Additionally, these days, looking back in a cliché hindsight, I’ll always be grateful to the men surrounding me. Even if from a distance, these men made my environment seem safer and exciting. For Louie and Sal LaRosa, Murph, Butch Ferrara, Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Nelson, Uncle Joe, Angelo Belmonte, Larry Krassnoff, Angelo Morello, Johnny Gambale, Tony Vinciarelli, Donny Portalla, John Aiello, Bob Anderson, and the rest; thank you all for a childhood riddled with adventure.

ANOTHER PERSON'S PLIGHT

F.Q.T.M. is back. Firstly, thank you all who sent well wishes, thoughts, and prayers during the last few weeks. Now onward… Beside illness, and the limitation of using my left arm, I also suffered the promissory sickness of my medium, writer’s block. Often, I thought what to write but came up short a cliché time and again. However, in researching “fat discrimination” on the web, I found another person’s plight.

From a site named abund@nce, with a mission statement in part, We simply wish to provide a forum for people of size and their admirers to congregate, to socialize, to exchange ideas and beliefs, and to become familiar with what it is like on the other side of the fence... is a General Discussion Board dated December 8, 1999. A woman named Victoria tells her personal battle in, Fighting fat discrimination: How I fought back.

F.Q.T.M. ESTIMATED RETURN IS NOW APRIL 12TH

F.Q.T.M. WILL RETURN APRIL 5TH

(C) PHOTO BY MICHAEL CONWAY

FEDEX DOGTAG

F.Q.T.M. WILL RETURN APRIL 5

Dear followers, fans, friends, and cohorts, I have not been posting due to illness. However, I plan to be back in the saddle on April 5. Thanks for all your well-wishes, thoughts, and prayers. So to keep you entertained for the while, here is a pic of me in the Boston Herald, September, 1991, when I auditioned for the leading role to be an American Sumo Wrestler. When the casting agency told me I was too small for the role, I politely asked them, "When are you shooting?"

(Special thanks to Diane Parks Ref. Librarian, Boston Public Library, who helped in researching this photo.)

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., THE HOWARD YEZERSKI GALLERY

My novella, Nomads of the Alley, is a dark mystery occurring in Boston’s violent, seedy, Combat Zone. The alleys and streets of The Zone inspired the photos I took for the book’s covers and insert. Characters and ideas of violence are mental memories sketched in my mind while doing standup comedy in town in the early 90s. Therefore, I arrived titillated at the well-publicized exhibit, Boston: Combat Zone 1969 - 1978.

Part of the South End’s growing gallery scene, the Howard Yezerski Gallery is a pristine, white floored/ white walled meticulously lit place showing these works by a triad of celebrated photographic artists. Black & whites by Roswell Angier, John Goodman, and Jerry Berndt, depict some of the characters and scenes of the now defunct Combat Zone.

Howard Yezerski once again shows his brilliance in exhibiting these works. My wife and I arrived on the final day at the 10 a.m. opening. Twenty minutes later upward of seventy people filled the gallery.

For me, the show proved excellent. The triad of photographers precisely capture a subculture of a half dozen blocks, the same blocks of my Nomads of the Alley.

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., THE CLINIC SCALED THAT CHIMED

Recently, I found myself sitting in a pre-admission clinic of a famed Boston hospital where blending white walls are broken and saved by one wall colored a non-boring green. In this room sits ten people. Eight of the ten are obese. Two of the eight are employees. I judge them not, for these are my imagined kin, the non-introduced, the mirrors of my past and threatening future.

A futuristic patterned carpet, garbled blues, greens, and browns, leads to the other side of the petitioning door. The door separates the rooms as if they are kidneys. Once beyond, chatter and people abound like an El Salvadorian call-center. Set in a room with myself, and my boring cognitions, a Nurse Practitioner enters and speaks anesthetic-dialect. Medical jargon, Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah.“Sign here.” So I did.

Of course, I felt compelled to ask. “If I still weighed a quarter- ton, would it be a riskier surgery?” The kind woman pauses a mere moment. “Yeah,” her simple reply.

Later, in the lobby while in wait for valet’s retrieval, I search for my chum, Hospital Ambassador Kevin Currie. I’m informed he doesn’t start until twelve. Thinking of his laugh, I smile. And the highlight of this day? The clinic scale that chimed 203.

BEST WISHES TO LOCAL ATHLETE JEFF FIORE

After establishing new school swim records at St. John’s Prep and moving on to The University of Tampa, Jeff Fiore is currently competing in the Division 2 NCAA Swimming National Championships in Canton, Ohio.

Son of proud parents John and Ellen of Peabody, Fiore’s swimming prowess has local rags abuzz including the Boston Globe and Salem News.

F.Q.T.M. wishes the sensational Spartan the best in the upcoming days of events.

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY TO MY STEPSON CHRIS

Happy 18th Birthday to my stepson Chris DiChiara. As mentioned in a local newspaper headline, BORN TO LEAD.

THE LION KING & THE CIRCLE OF LIFE

Saturday night, Robin and I went to the theatre to have a good night out. However, during the show’s intermission she turned and asked what was wrong, something about the look on my face. As the crowd around us cheered, I felt sullen due to the man sitting in the row prior to ours. Due to the man’s girth barely making the confines of his seat, I skyrocketed backward to the mid 80s, New York City, a particular day with a show to attend that night.

My girth in the mid-three hundreds, I roamed the city alone while cousins shopped in the shops. The loneliness of isolation, post-pizza binge, I’m walking the Big Apple my ankles aflame. Would I fit in the seat? The crowd will be staring at me. I wish I were home. These thoughts and their kin swarming my head like the rush of people walking by. I then focused on the current moment, my current seat, my current mind and ass, and became grateful.

Post-intermission the show went much better. I laughed along with my beautiful wife at the antics of the characters on stage, marveled at the lighting, and enjoyed the detailed work of the Opera House. At the show’s finale, a cub is born, the circle of life, and I equate this to my own gastric bypass. Strange one might think, yet, I smiled knowing the fattest man at the show lived inside me.

Therefore, as foretold and predicted by media and friends, The Lion King “was great,” as F.Q.T.M. roamed the night amid the crowds.

(Currently, there is no cure for obesity. I feel no shame in begging the public to stop ridiculing the morbidly obese.)

THE ROGUE INFORMANT

Over there I saw my wife-to-be sitting delightful, an oasis gone reality show. I ambled over with my erratic gait and introduced myself. Entertaining was she in beauty, mind and spirit, until she turned rogue informant.

“I’m separated but in the process of divorce,” she said.

Having heard this line before from others, Bachelor-Mind knew our future bleak, over, trivial. Yet, Bachelor-Mind, turns out, didn’t know diddly. A mere blink’s time and I’m baking birthday cakes for stepsons-to-be.

Years later during one sprightly day, a day unlike the darkness found in the majority of my fiction, my wife turned to me.

“I would not have fallen for you if I met you when you were big,” she said.

“Yes you would have,” I countered. “Back then not only was I adorable, I used to be funny too.”

However, a cliché “all in all,” I’m grateful to have been thin when we met.

I HAD THIS DREAM...

These thoughts, dreams, premonitions or the like invade my synapses; a man stood over there, pointing from across a frozen river on a humid summer day, pointing his finger as if to accuse, summon, or single me out from the rest of humanity. His finger smooth and straight not crooked or jagged common to his elder years; the man, deity, between or beyond, smiled at me with blue glacier eyes.

“Come here,” he said.

Yet, I peered around my side of the river at my wife, sibling, stepchildren and friends, their black and white photographs hung from black and white trees. The other side of the river colorful.

“Come here,” he repeated. I grinned and the old man grinned back.

“I know,” he whispered. “Only some heard your message. Stay there and tell the rest.”

“Please God, tell these people to stop ogling the obese,” I pleaded.

“Tell them yourself,” he said.

“Why don’t you cure obesity?” I angrily demanded, and woke in an iced river of sweat.

FRIED RICE, HOW I LOST OVER 300 LBS. AND WAFTED OVER BOSTON'S CHINATOWN, A MEMOIR,

I think of these days, reminisce as Thesaurus would say, driving a chair van for Bay State Ambulance, now defunct I heard due to the President’s double dipping Medicare fraud or the like. These years, driving invalids around Boston and her surrounds to and fro appointments as they count down the days of their lives. Their appointments, mere jags disrupting my beloved binges, as if the love of a dead parent or child. And nothing at all stood in my way, not even the promissory fine for stopping in the Mass Turnpike breakdown lane for no reason at all, so said in technical terms, the words and promptings of the Commonwealth’s Bylaws found in any set of legal books aligning Northeastern University’s Law School shelves, so I would later discover. Ah, Discovery, a common word used in criminal and civil courts.

So back in the cliché day, a sub-shop/ candy-shack type place found its bearings in Needham or Natick, or one of the N. cities or towns squatting along Route 9 West and The Pike. And Mister So and So, Mr. S. for purposes of this brief tome, a patient in wheelchair with its appendage-like urine bag and the like, lived out in Wayland, a town aligning the cities of N. One sunny day after discarding Mr. S. at his luxurious home, I headed toward the sub-shack, retrieved a container of molten raviolis, soda and the rest.

Now Needham to Boston is a hike on The Pike, when one is in a state of ravenous. I pulled over to the breakdown lane, hit the lights warning hazard, and stared at my beloved raviolis. A state of madness overcame me like a junkie with junk a mere deal away. As the carbs settled in my massive expanding pouch, and the brain adjusting to the levels of sugar, calmness overcame me as the cars and trucks honked and screamed by. Such a state of obsess; I did not notice her, the State Trooper now pounding at my door.

“My engine cut out, but I think it’s okay now,” was my plea.

Given a break, a pardon or the like; I drove toward the city, my chin and shirt riddled with sauce.

MY APOCALYPSE

Civilization, a cliché “as we know it,” ended. Global Warming we surmised, as ashes red and gray snowed our beloved planet to leave behind a stench of rancid gases and the like. And what survived? Obesity.

Weeks after the initial shock, obesity thinned, and the already thin did not survive. Yet, somehow, I made it through. Judging of man and his immortal worldly things dissipated like the once bright sky. Although smaller, the others accepted me for they remembered my writings and pleas to stop the ogling of obesity.

We erected buildings in our now lone surviving place. Within a mere-year, our town near completed, we erected a bridge in hopes to reach the other side of the stench-riddled river, to the land way over there.

The community yearning out of this place, the crowd crazed as the last stone lay down, a man suddenly appeared as if walking on water. A Jesus, Gandhi, or Jedi, walked toward us. Alike me, deemed average-size of our former world, he walked toward us from the low mauve moon behind. The obese crowd laughed at the man they discerned different from themselves. I scowled at my community and begged them not to judge. The Apocalypse of my world did not play out as I had expected; I lay down in the red and gray ashes and wept alone.

F.Q.T.M. HALL OF FAME, DR. WALTER NALESNIK

Cnn Health ran an excellent article by Ginny Graves of Health.com., The surprising reason why being overweight isn't healthy.

(Health.com) -- It's shocking, but it's true: Being a woman who's more than 20 pounds overweight may actually hike your risk of getting poor medical treatment. In fact, weighing too much can have surprising -- and devastating -- health repercussions beyond the usual diabetes and heart-health concerns you've heard about for years.
Recent studies have found, if you are an overweight woman you:

In part, one highlight of the article educates the reader how; Fat discrimination keeps overweight people from getting optimum medical care…

Although I agree with the majority of the piece, and though I’ve run into many ignorant people, I am happy to report, over the years many in the health field treated me with dignity and respect, professionalism and kindness. And one stands above the rest. It gives great pleasure to give the highest rating to one Doc from way back.

Back in the quarter-ton days, Dr. Walter Nalesnik treated me not as a fat patient, fat person, or fat diagnosis. Always a pleasure, to enter his offices where he and his staff treated me with ultimate medical care and the highest regard for humanity. Today, I enter into the F.Q.T.M. Hall of Fame, Dr. “Wally” Nalesnik, a true role model for all health professionals. Sincere thanks to you Dr. Wally.

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., MEETING CUJO'S SPAWN

“Come on Ma, pleeeeeze,” I begged my mother so to let me have a dog. “I want a German Shepherd,” I pleaded, guffawed, drooled and wept on anything that would catch my spit and tears. Wasted energy on a cliché deaf ear. “Okay Ma. If I can’t have a dog then I want a stepbrother.” Survey remained no.

My mother’s boyfriend Murph took my mother and me for a ride one day. He lived in Southie, or Dorchester, or Mattapan, or somewhere way over there. We pulled into a dirt yard. He told us, “keep the windows rolled up and don’t get out of the car.” He went into the house then appeared in the doorway with a full-grown beautiful German Shepherd. The dawg stood at perfect attention at Murph’s feet. He whispered something to the dawg, and the dawg turned and gazed at us in the car. Murph then raised his voice commanded, “Nigga.”

The dawg bolted for the car and leapt for the window, his spit flying all about like a pseudo carwash. My mother and I frozen like rocks of the yard, said nothing at all as Cujo’s spawn made an attempt to kill the “Nigga.”

It was very confusing as a child; never did I hear Murph or my mother use that word. Turns out, Murph trained the dawg to attack on command with that word, and to protect his house while away at work. At times, Murph worked overnight security in empty truck lots and the like. Along with gun and holster, of which Murph only let me see once, the dawg was a police dog helping fight late night crime. Today, I am happy to report, never once has my dawg ever heard the command, “Nigga.”

Photo: Our dog Nicki as a pup.

WEIGHT WATCHERS SUES JENNY CRAIG FOR BERTINELLI AD

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Weight Watchers International Inc sued Jenny Craig Inc for allegedly lying in advertising about a supposedly superior weight-loss program to capitalize on consumers' New Year's resolutions to shed extra pounds.

According to the lawsuit filed on Tuesday in Manhattan federal court,

This is excellent news in the battle against obesity, one diet conglomerate telling another, The campaign "is clearly unsupported by fact or science," Weight Watchers Chief Executive David Kirchhoff said in a statement.

F.Q.T.M. clearly hopes the two will forgo the court system and let Bertinelli take on Weight Watcher Founder Jean Nidetch in the U.F.C. Octagon.

FRIED RICE, HOW I LOST OVER 300 LBS. & WAFTED OVER BOSTON'S CHINATOWN, A MEMOIR, cont...

Meanwhile, I worked 10-hour shifts driving a chair van for Bay State Ambulance during the day. Nights were spent at either comedy clubs yucking it up, or at an Overeaters Anonymous Meeting trying to lose my poundage. In the clubs, laughs came as sporadic events. Some nights good, some nights awesome, some nights a freakin’ funeral home funhouse, baby.

All the while, the poundage gave two craps as to my intentions with it. I flew to food addiction treatment centers in other parts of the country in hopes of fat salvation. Yet, like my successes in O.A. proved only a temporary reprieve from fat’s smothering blanket. Days driving the chair van picking up patients between binges, then open-mike nights at night. At times the numbness proved mind-boggling. Although I feared public ridicule, thoughts of stroke or heart attack did not smite me, or the knife wielding lunatics and pimps of Boston Combat Zone. Aside from public ogling, I feared little but waking from another binge with no food in the house.

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., DINNER WITH JUNKIES & VAMPIRES

Rain snowed the city I inhabited for a cliché days on end, and the plows pushed aside most to entomb old cars along their prospective perches, cracks, and driveways, and the sun, well the sun hid forever it seemed, and with it promoted a darkness of depression that jilted the highest of Bipolar Ones.

A week later, the snow rained again upon my 400 lbs. mind that contemplated Clown College and the like. A television hummed way over there on a perch, playing nothing to a mood of nothingness. Another round of pure white snow covered the gray muck for the while making for a prettier ride for those driving to work. The people like the hum of television, way over there.

Pictures of people and places no longer hung on walls, departed and memory, like the last time I slept laying down. Ankles and feet swelling readying to split, yet nothing swell. At night, the radio singing songs people hear in their last solemn hours.

All the while, the craving for carbs, beyond imaginable, rose this massive body and mind from its dented chair to ready for the night, when the majority of people couldn’t see me. Swollen feet into swollen Nikes, sockless, into the wet frigid night, and into a car like a glove. Slip Sliding Away two cities yonder to Carbville, a pizza joint where second-shifters picked up dinner, and third-shifters picked up lunch. Junkies, thieves, and vampire-types sat in booths questioning humanity; I paid for my fat-man crack cocaine and exited the loneliness of Lynn.

An hour later, satiated, zoned, numb, craving dissipated for the while, and nodding off like a dope fiend. Black and white sparkles of nothingness, the power of pizza on my 400 lbs. body and mind.

ROBIN WINS T.V.

Congrats to my wife Robin for submitting the winning raffle ticket for a flat screen t.v. at Pearl Street Station Restaurant. Thanks so much to Sagat Guide recommended Pearl Street. We ate some of the areas best pizza, and watch excellent karaoke put on by Deb & Art Entertainment. It was a great night out with some friends from work.

CONGRATS TO MY STEPSON CHRIS DICHIARA

Congrats to my stepson Chris DiChiara for being voted Life of the Party by his peers at Saugus High School. Here is a pic of him in blue surrounded by his cousins Michael and Andrew 17 years ago, November 1992. Way to go Chris.

ADVENTURES OF F.Q.T.M., COFFEE WITH CHARLIE MANSON

Troubadours of food-madness surround me and ran amuck in the quasi-nuthouse mingling with a general population of those treated for maladies, addictions, and derelictions. And one man, a Charlie Manson clone, ironically donning the same name, announced to our group of food-madness and mistakes, “I hate people, but, say if an alcoholic were to need a cup of coffee, I’d invite him in.” Wow, I thought. Where’s the food.

And this group of derelicts and the like went for a walk around the spacious Medicare approved grounds, birds tweeting, leaves falling on the October sketch while a man convulsed in seizure due to a recent med-change. All the while, me, Anonymous Mo and Anonymous Larry, hung back enough to raid the kitchen. And so we did.

Later that day, the fat, thin and in between affirmed, sat in a circle where Anonymous Mo ratted us out. The group’s response, pardoning those habitually staring at the floor due to recent med-changes, as if there were a cure for this dreaded affliction of obesity, a response of, “deceived,” “lied to,” “betrayed.” My nearing four-bill response, a simple uncontrolled giggle. Others giggled along. Charlie stared at me with homicidal rage. I giggled at him too.

FRIED RICE, HOW I LOST OVER 300 LBS. AND WAFTED OVER BOSTON'S CHINATOWN, A MEMOIR, cont.

This first appearance at “Catch” went fantastic. From opening to closing punch line, absolutely fantastic, much better than I could have imagined. Yet, later I found that when a club manger says, “You have five minutes,” they don’t mean the eight that I took. Lessoned learned. Weeks later, I found open mike nights at Nick’s and the old Comedy Connection on Boston’s Warrenton Street. The surrounding environment remained in my brain; rodents, violence and hookers, later to reappear in my novella Nomads of the Alley.

Months later, I began doing eight-minute guest spots in some of these clubs. When I accrued a ten-minute act, I began opening at some clubs. In addition, along the way I met talented, interesting comics like D. J. Hazard, Eddie Brill, Billy Martin, Chris Zito, Larry Reppucci, and the upcoming Jim Lauletta. And no longer was I judged on my size, but on the amount of applause delivered with each punch line. Too bad, there were nights when I bombed. And I loved every minute.

F.Q.T.M. YEAR IN REVIEW

This has been a productive year for F.Q.T.M. Not only did I get to beg the public to stop ogling the morbidly obese, we had plenty of fun along the way. I'd like to give special thanks and gratitude to all the followers of my site, and especially those who voiced opinion. Whether I agree with the opinion or not does not matter, I've enjoyed the honesty, and a small dent has been put in the minds of those who judge obesity. Thanks for the wonderful year. Enjoy the slideshow.

POST CHRISTMAS GRATITUDE

Christmas gone, the month old tree now dumpster-ed, I’m happy to say the holidays rocked. However, our Italian Greyhound Nicki was sick yesterday. So, now knowing not to give a dog a hambone, I’m grateful to have the ability to get down on the floor, clean vomit, and comfort my dog. I could not do these things when a quarter-ton man. Moreover, I’m happy to report, Nicki is much better today, up to his old shenanigans, hoping for a crumb to drop, and the like.

MERRY XMAS, THE HUNT FOR ROBIN'S PEACOAT

Months ago, Robin pointed to a particular coat online, “That’s all I want for Christmas,” she said. There was only one problem; I don’t like ordering online. However, after perusing department stores, consulting with my sister and friends at work, and not finding an exact match of my wife’s only request, I had this brilliant thought, maybe that company has a store somewhere near me, and voila.

Therefore, in wishing everyone Happy Holiday’s, I’d especially like to thank Kyle and Mandy of Burlington Mall’s MARTIN + OSA. Thanks so much for treating me like royalty in your excellent store, and wrapping up The Hunt for Robin’s Pea Coat.

THE LOUDNESS OF ACORNS FALLING, by Michael Conway

The Loudness of Acorns Falling, by Michael Conway

The foundation to a Ranch-style home lay supine surrounded by century old Tudors and center-entrance Colonials in an upscale, up-nosed town. This home to be, lay an half mile from 128 S., an half mile from noise, an half mile from autos shuttling people to their dreaded places of work.

“A ranch?” Katz said to Vetroni. “You serious Al?”

“I am,” the Subaru and Benz near kissing mid-road.

“Who is he?” Katz inquired.

“Don’t know, some guy in the arts. A writer or some crap like that.”

“Fuck me, no fuck us. We might as well sell before the rest of the white trash moves in.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Vetroni somewhat agreed. “See ya Jerry.”

The autos drove in opposite directions, the Soob toward Boston’s Financial District, the Benz toward Vetroni Law Offices. Meanwhile, echoes echoed the woods and road as construction workers installed the final piece to the Ranch house, a bronze flag holder. And autos shimmied and careened one another for the following weeks way over there.

One eventually exited the highway ramp, to the snaking street, to the snaking road, to the 12-foot wide gravel driveway approaching the carport of 18 Blueberry Lane.
The family arrived three kids in tow and a wife excited to be, as told to her friends, “in the boonies.” Unloading the rental, they automated like factory workers taking piece by piece of “home” from the truck. The youngest, Lil Joey, played in the spacious back yard, the woods, where G.I. Joe battled ghost-like foes, as acorn bombs fell from the skies.

And daily Jack drove a beat up Mazda to and from the Boston Globe, way in the city, where he worked hard on the docks. On average, following ten-hour shifts, he watched hockey twice a week, and the others, played some type of ball with his boys. Carol continued mothering, and the word boonies flew often like blue jays in the backyard, G.I. Joe’s imaginary planes.

Saturday morning, Jack headed for Weston’s Library to be beaten once again by any member of the Weston King’s Chess Club.

Afterward, ordering coffee at the local java-joint, “Hey, you the new guy over on Blueberry?”

“Yeah, guess that’s me.”

“Al, Al Vetroni. I live down the way from you.”

“Jack Terrell,” and they shook hands.

“My brother-in-law lives on Blueberry too. Gossips about you. Says you’re white trash for building a Ranch in Weston, but I just assume lay’em out for marrying my sister. He’s a dink. Welcome to Weston, you’ll like it here. Nice and quiet.”

“Thanks.”

“Come by The Greens some Thursday afternoon and I’ll show you around, introduce you to some of the guys. You golf?” “Only miniature, mostly white trash stuff.” The two men laughed.

Weeks transpired and Terrell never visited The Greens, nor met Vetroni again. Another rental loaded, Terrell drove his family back to a home in the city, leaving behind, the loudness of acorns falling.