Podcast Fatboy

Commercial sweetheart who's chewing the fat and trying to lose it.

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My Peloton

I’ve recently approached the ten-year anniversary of buying my Peloton bike. When I say “my Peloton,” I’m not talking about the exercise bike that comes with a touch screen mounted to the front, connecting you to live classes (as long as you pay the monthly membership). The one where you even get a live “happy birthday” greeting from the instructor, if you end up taking a class on your special day. I’m not talking about that Peloton.

My Peloton is really a Tempo Fitness. I think it’s technically obsolete. It has no touch screen. The little screen that it does have tries its best to keep track of my time, distance, calories and heart rate. Because I have an Apple Watch, I use that for all my heart monitoring.  I bought a drink holder from Dollarama that would normally be mounted to an outdoor bike and managed to clip it on. There are handlebar rips where my nails have dug into over the last decade. The seat? Well, it might as well be cement. I had to order a  specific gel seat to take some of the pressure off my taint. It still manages to numb my genitals from time to time.

There are other issues I have with my Tempo Fitness bike that would make it feel self-conscious to be meeting for brunch with a Peloton. Oh, I can just see that brunch. The Peloton is sitting there eating a poached egg with cottage cheese while my Tempo Fitness is getting greasy with a egg-bacon-sausage-pancake combo and moaning about how its pacemaker is faulty. (I have to take the batteries out of my little pedometer screen or it for some reason will drain them. I make sure the batteries nest in a little sack that dangles from its rod.)

Speaking of the pedometer, my mother-in-law ripped it right off with, let’s say, nine months of pent-up aggression. (Maybe we’ll expand on that another time.) It wobbles and flops like Meryl Streep’s broken neck in the movie Death Becomes Her. A mechanism inside where the belt is located likes to thump, sounding like a young teenage drummer practicing with pencils on his Five Star binder. It really is quite a piece of shit.

I’ve briefly entertained the idea of buying a Peloton.  Honestly, I’m way too cheap to spend $3000 on an exercise bike. I think I spent about $200 on my ol’ Tempy (okay, add another $3 for the water-bottle holder). If you want, you can just pay for the app apparently, have access to classes and engage on an iPad or smart phone. That is definitely more enticing, but you’d still be paying around $40 a month to access a gym from your own home. Discount gyms are like $10 a month. I would happily subscribe if it were a class full of my crappy exercise-bike compatriots, thumping and creaking over the instructor’s pleas to “bear down, here we go!”

I think I’d be too sad to leave my shitty bike. It’s gone months where it was more useful as a coat hanger. I left it at my parents’ place for years. But since we’ve been reunited, I really like that it’s always there, waiting, always willing to go at my pace. I’ve been using it a lot more since I got the Apple Watch, and now that we’re in the pandemic world, I’ve cancelled my gym membership yet again. Fun excuse this time! Usually I have to make up an excuse like “going to war” or “moving to Sudan.” Okay, I still said I was leaving the country, but I’m pretty sure they know that the pandemic is the root cause of all cancellations over the next while. Gyms are so fucked.

On the podcast, I’ve joked a lot about how all I want for the success of the show is for it to be burned to a CD and left somewhere for people to listen to during the Apocalypse. Like picture the Walking Dead, back when you still watched it. A survivor rummaging through an abandoned home, only to find an expired jar of olives and… a CD labelled “Podcast Fatboy”?  It’s dire out there. You’ll take it.

Even though we’ve been warned about a pandemic for years, I’m still amazed that it actually happened because I’m technically a Millennial and we’re so selfish and naïve. If this really is the end, if we’re funneling toward a world that requires you to be more self-sufficient, practical and less digitally connected, then Peloton just ain’t gonna make it. Strap an eye patch on my Tempo Fitness bike because it’s ready to go full Mad Max. Just stock up on AA batteries.

To Rent and to Own

Hi, I’m Matt. I’m a renter. I’ve been a renter for about 15 years. (Crowd breaks into applause or crowd sighs so fucking heavily that the lights turn off).

Just like an alcoholic who attends AA for the first time, most renters (like myself) feel a certain profound degree of shame. As we approach our mid-30s and 40s, those friends who got lucky with family help or spent their 20s living at home with their parents and saving, start to slightly judge your predicament. They also enjoy blowing like a geyser of relief every once in a while, politely reminding you that they’re so happy they don’t have to “throw their money away” any longer.

Well, it’s all relative. You’re always gonna be throwing your money away in some way, whether it’s mortgage interest or condo fees or investing in renovations that don’t end up breaking even. The market also fluctuates, economies collapse and recessions are started, home valuations drop. Money will be thrown away by everyone.

If I put $12,000 away a year, which is pretty impossible for most people, it would still take me a decade just to get a down payment on some shitty, decrepit home on the outskirts of Acton, Ontario.

I currently am in a renters’ quandary that I’ve never experienced before. What we’ve known for years is finally coming into fruition; the house that we rent is for sale. My landlord died suddenly and tragically a few years ago, afflicted with the same condition that ended John Ritter, and also afflicted my abnormally resilient and invincible 88-year-old Irish grandfather.

At the time of my landlord’s death, his wife was back home in her native country building a home. It was apparent at that time that she was preparing to possibly move back there. So really, the selling of this house was inevitable. It was coming whether we liked it or not.

My landlord’s wife came back to Canada and was way over her head after my landlord died. She never had to deal with any of the tenants or properties, and now she was stuck with finding ways to sell all the properties and navigate life coping as a widow for the first time. I felt bad for her. It was overwhelming and she was pretty alone, even though she had a son who liked to store his tires in the garage (that’s about all he did). If we had any chance of keeping her from selling, I had to step up and help out.

That’s just what I did. I cut the lawn, I put out the garbage, I helped her sell some of her dead husband’s possessions and get his old, junker cars picked up and taken to the wrecker. When she needed a pallbearer at her husband’s sparsely attended funeral, I stepped up and slid his casket into the wall. I even bought his motorcycle that he got off the set of the television show CHiPs and gave it to my stepfather for Christmas. I’d say the ratio of me doing favours for our own benefit compared to doing it because I felt bad for her was about 75/25. The rental market in Toronto had gone completely mad and I was gonna do everything possible to avoid having to be thrust into it again.

My efforts got us an extra three years without her putting the house on the market. But something happened, something that is totally fair and expected and, well, fine: She met someone new. As soon as this new guy started lurking around, I knew it was only a matter of time before he started whispering in her ear, “You should sell this place, you’ll get a fortune.” I thought my landlord’s wife and I had built a rapport and even began to trust each other a bit. I was under the impression that she would tell me if she were planning on selling and not slew-footing me with the news after she already purchased a new home. Well, I guess you can tell that the latter happened.

The tenants across the hall from us decided they were ready, (with a lovely touch of family help), to buy their own home. I think this is what really kicked my landlord into gear making her ready to sell. Upon hearing my neighbours’ news that they were moving out, my partner and I became excited. Maybe we would move over there into the bigger unit or we had the opportunity to move in a friend. With my “great” relationship with the landlord’s wife, I could maybe even get her to keep the rent the same.

We decided to pass on moving over to the bigger unit, but had a friend who was living in a less-than-great one-bed. I could get him essentially the same price for the two-bed across the hall. The landlord’s wife was down with it, and I could hear in the tone of her voice that she was happy to do me a favour. We had a good thing going, after all. Then her “new man” got involved, and that’s when I started to notice something was off.

Our friend really got thrown through all the loops, and these loops came from this eager new guy in her life. Remember, at this time, I have been told nothing about her intentions to sell. Our friend had to show bank statements, give references, practically pass an interrogation. She was being so unusually thorough. I was a mix of annoyed and happy because, on one hand, I thought she trusted me a bit more than this, but on the other, she means business so she must want him as a long-term tenant.

During this time, my stepbrother was getting married. I was the best man and I had a lot on my mind relating to it, so I wanted to get our friend in, signed on a lease, so I could approach the second half of the summer with some peace of mind. I brought him up to meet the landlord’s wife, and what do you know, the new guy, a real buffoon, is sitting there in the corner. As my friend started to be interrogated by my landlord’s wife, dummy boy in the corner said something that was a complete tell: “Do you even want a lease?”

I squinted my eyes and stared at him, wondering, “What is he talking about? Why the fuck wouldn’t he wanna protect himself with a lease?” My friend got his goddamn lease, of course. Let me explain why this asshole asked such a stupid question. The landlord’s wife had already bought a new house. Two weeks after we signed our friend to a lease, she sat me down and told me. She had moving trucks there a day after that.

So after making our friend give notice at his previous apartment, getting him excited about his new home, the landlord’s wife’s new idiot wanted to try and trick him into not signing a lease, so the new owner could toss him out much easier.

I was seething. I was upset. The entire time that our friend lives at this place was going to involve countless open houses and showings put together by the landlord’s wife’s dopey real-estate agent. I have a long memory. I don’t forget and forgive easily. I wish I did. Now, I’m in survival mode, and I’m no longer feeling bad for my landlord’s wife. Well, 95/5.

Touche, though. It looks like we were both operating on the 75/25 ratio, which is pretty normal for strangers, I guess. She has every right to sell her home, whenever she wants for whatever she wants. It’s complicated to get tenants out, I know that. But she should have given me a heads up before our friend first requested to see the place and let me know that she had already purchased a house. He should have been able to make that choice if he still wanted to move in, and even prepare himself for the horrible storm that was coming.

Today, the house has been on the market for five months. It’s had one hidden price adjustment and still no buyers. The house is in bad shape, and being priced over two million with tenants on leases is a huge turn-off for the near-100 potential buyers who have peeked through the house. Squirrels live in the walls, the electricity isn’t grounded and the roofs and brick are a stone’s throw from probably collapsing. There’s also no air conditioning. I am writing this post in the “2nd bed” described in the listing which is actually a porch converted into an office, my feet freezing from the non-insulated walls and floor.

The house had been mocked on BlogTo as a “House of the week” back in September during the infancy of the listing, we’ve had one interested buyer who got a building inspection and then, upon its conclusion, DID NOT MAKE AN OFFER. That tells you something. Most people come in and treat it like they’re walking through a fun house at the Exhibition; half having fun looking at all the weird and different rooms, half terrified that it’s gonna collapse on their head and kill them.

I’ve never lived in a rental space where this has happened before. I’ve lived in five places over 15 years and have been at this one for almost seven. It really gets to you mentally. Because you know that the far majority either don’t want to keep you as a tenant or they want tenants to pay what the inflated market price is at now. I keep telling myself that the endless showings are the price you have to pay for fantastic and reasonable rent.

As soon as the landlord’s wife told me that she was selling, I got her to sign us to another year lease, which really benefits us both. If I wasn’t on a year-lease, I would feel the urge to look for a new place right now, pay the extra insane rent that we’re bound to pay in the near future, and leave her in the lurch with an empty apartment and a hit to her income. But it also hinders her, because she doesn’t want to offer us a buyout and neither do any of the potential buyers, so here we sit until September, at least.

It’s hard to be grateful, but I am. If this is the year where I have to engage in the long-honoured renters’ tradition of having to rent elsewhere, then I’m ready for it. I look forward to this chapter closing, to never having to see or hear from the landlord’s wife, her doofus boyfriend or her useless real-estate agent. I miss privacy. I hate being paranoid and having to hide valuables. But we live in a world now where people depend on making a profit on another person’s shelter, so this is the game you have to play sometimes. All I can do in the meantime is keep playing the game and leave you with this:

There are squirrels living in the walls.

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Fatboy Update: Hi, How Are ya?

Well, it has been a while since I last recorded, but that doesn’t mean my journey hasn’t continued. I am looking to revamp the podcast and bring on another host so we can consistently cover a wider array of topics, you know, more chewing the fat and trying to lose it at the same time. I’ll just say, at this point in time, like many of you can relate: I’m terrified of stepping on that scale and seeing where I’m at.

Some interesting changes have happened since Episode 35: Zombie Swamp Funk, attempts at dieting were made, my house was put on the market and the Charlie Bucket Studio (CBS) has become available for public viewing and purchase! Not an easy thing, that. Being a renter in a house for sale will make you inhale a tube of Pringles under a minute flat.

As we are now in fall, hockey starts again and I nervously prepare for fun and physical torment. I pulled my hamstring four weeks ago tomorrow, sustained a strained ligament and have been hesitant to get back to full velocity. I now understand how professional athletes are somehow hesitant themselves when returning from injury. And to re-injure yourself [or the fear of] in the same way right after returning is enough to give you PTSD.

I’m miss talking to you guys about my daily strife with exercise, food, and everything else. Soon I’ll be back, and to my loyal listeners who just take it when they can get it, you are true goddamn heroes. In the meantime, monitor your tongue patches and Subway diets and I’ll be back in a jiff.

Matt Duncan