The bad thing about discovering that you're not dying of cancer, or bird flu, or a gang-related gunshot wound to the chest, is that you start to stop living like you were dying.

There's a certain magic in noticing and appreciating the supposedly insignificant things you think you'll miss. The things you don't always notice when you're busy travelling at the speed of life.

Late last year when the doctor said my blood tests indicated I needed to see a hospital specialist to determine why my iron, liver and cholesterol results were “alarming”, I wasn't too concerned (even though one of the "possibilities" was cancer) because I knew that cartoons can't be killed.

But I did discover a new level of will power that I never knew I had, as I shunned alcohol, salt, sugar and butter, started doing Pilates every day, and generally slowed my pace of life down and appreciated it.

When I got to see the specialist last month and discovered that my original doctor was Full Of Shit, it was a great relief. But it also proved to me that I can't be killed by conventional methods and then much of that magical willpower was gone.

Which is a shame.

But the experience wasn't all bad.

I still don't consume added sugar, salt, or any butter.

But I do eat a shit load of food.
But I have kept off the weight that I lost from last year. But I've also gone down a couple of pants sizes, which sucks when you had just bought new clothes. But I haven't done Pilates since seeing the specialist. But then I have been busy consuming copious amounts of home renovation and gardening, both of which should really be classified as Olympic sports. But I have started drinking diuretics again with my meals. But I am starting to see my six pack returning.

What was I complaining about again?

Oh yeah. No butt.

(Picture removed by Government Censors).

I was planning to post the above picture on Braless Tuesday, but life has been getting in the way lately.

Life. Oh life. Oh liiiiifffee. oh life…

Anyway. Yes. That is 50% shaved, 50% hairy.

According to a survey, almost a quarter of Auckland male participants have shaved their legs.

I would never dream of doing something So Gay.

OK, so there were many bald patches on my legs last year, but that was my daughter's fault.

The survey also found that men from the sheep-shagging rural North Island province of Waikato were avid scrotum shavers. The survey did not seem to cover the topic of sheep-shagging, but they would have come tops for that as well, if they had.

I'm a SentiMental kind a guy.

I've started using my great-great maternal grandfather's razor.

It was presented to him in 1918 when he joined the Expeditionary Forces. He died a year later in the influenza pandemic.

It's an old-style single blade razor, so it's not really all that ideal for shaving your nutsack though.

But the safety blades it uses cost about ten times less than the Mac 3 razor I had been using. So, yay.

I like those old connections with the past.

I also carry around my dead maternal grandfather's old cigarette case.
It's too small to hold regular-sized business cards, so I custom-made some personal ones to fit. So it holds those and some guitar picks.

Yesterday I was lamenting the fact that I have no such keepsakes from my father's side.

Then realised.

I have their name…

I also like carrying around the shrunken, mummified heads of my enemies.

It rained real hard today.

I braved it cycling in this morning, but during the day things just got worse and built up to near-cyclone strength.

At Home Time, I considered asking a colleague for a lift home.

“Pussy,” I heard the voice inside my head say.

“Stupid fucking tough-guy idiot,” I heard the other voice inside my head say as I swallowed rain water and drowned on the wet and windy ride home.

Tomorrow I think I shall drive.

Fuck Al Gore, and fuck global warming.