The forms of desecration known as stress and anger cling to each other like lovers at the very last moment of the universe. The two forces coil around each other and copulate incessantly, spawning fruits we know as disease. They devour the body in the form of cancer, swell the body in the form of heart disease. 

But make no mistake, folks. Whatever form they come in, they gonna getcha. If you live by the swords of stress and anger, they will destroy you. All the choice you have in that case is (a) how long it will take, and (b) what particular methods of destruction you will choose. 

My father chose two specific means of bodily desecration: alcohol and machismo. The casual desecration of the body by a particular kind of neglect born of toughness ought to have a word in the lexicon of machismo. (And it probably would, if machismo itself were not so averse to lexicons.) A Scotsman once said––I can't recall anymore whether it was to me directly or on film––that you weren't a man back home until you'd had your first heart attack. Here in the US, we have our own version of that heart attack culture. Men pollute our bodies daily with poisonous food, mostly in the form of hormone-soaked red meat. When we think about how our bodies are performing we measure them almost entirely via brute strength, rather than via our aerobic capacities or the suppleness of our musculatures.  

Yes, it's changing here in the 21st century. More men are doing yoga, more men are stepping away from the constant barrage of red meat that has clogged our arteries (and led to very manly heart attacks) that has characterized the macho man diet. But I most confess that I'm not fully a 21st century man. I fail to respect myself by failing to take care of my own body, and thus fall into the same patterns of desecration that I knew from growing up. 

I sure in hell can't blame my dad anymore, though. I'm developing my own means of bodily desecration. I'm not sure I even have names for them yet. I certainly have plenty of excuses, plenty of explanations for why I won't respect my physical being. We writers are experts at wriggling out of things like that. We get so good at baffling other people with bullshit that we baffle ourselves, too. 

1. MY ACHIN' BACK
2. NERVES ARE SHOT
3. TUB OF GUTS
4. ALL ABOUT THE SCAR BELT
5. ANGER, SLIDE FROM MY JAW