Lüc Carl's Blog, page 5

DRUNK DIET REVIEW

by hardrockinhomemaker.com

Dear Lüc Carl,

What can I say? When it comes to men, I have a type.

You are my soul mate.  I know we’ve never met, but I can see based on the cover of your book and the various pictures included therein that you are just my kind of hotness.  But this is more than a simple crush based on two sexy people being sexy.  No, my good sir, this is much more.

You see, I read your memoir, The Drunk Diet: How I Lost 40 Pounds… Wasted; indeed, I finished it, front cover to back, in less than 24 hours.  And this, during a time in which I am moving into a new house and renovating my old one, working almost non-stop from the moment I wake up until whenever I finally fall asleep on my couch reading/mind-racing.  (After the Cincuenta Sombras de Grey debacle, this was particularly appreciated.)  Like a school girl in lust, I just couldn’t stay away.

Doctor Quackers says, “Listen to MY diet advice! Chocolate has antioxidants! Eat up, kiddos!” … but I’m gonna go with Lüc instead.

Let me start by addressing the potential objections that this isn’t a “real” diet book written by some asshole with 20 letters after her/his last name (incidentally, none of which stand for “Medical Doctor”); or that there are too many fucking curse words and references to blow jobs; or that no, you really do need to lay off the booze to lose weight:

Suuuuuuuuck it!

Horns up.  That’s the only response needed.  This book is rock ‘n roll.  And it’s hilarious.  Which is why it won’t be right for everyone, but which is why it was perfect for me. (As evidenced, in part, by the beautiful drunken mural of horns throwing on my hallway wall, above.)

“The real problem here, when you’re dieting but you’re still drinking, is the ‘Drunk Munchies.’ …  If I’m wasted, my self-control is gone….  Pretty quickly, I realized that cutting out that extra meal right before bed was working….  I had lost weight, and all I had to do was cut out that fourth meal of the day.”  (p. 48-49)

Oh, Second Dinner, consumed at 4:00a.m., you are the bane of my existence.  As I’ve noted repeatedly, this terrible habit, more than anything else, is responsible for the bit of extra chub I’m carrying right now.  Obviously, this is not something that everyone is going to relate to.  And it’s exactly why The Drunk Diet is ideal for someone like yours truly, who wants to be fit and sexy but who is unwilling to give up drinking and going out in order to remain there.

I mean, heck, one chapter is subtitled “All-You-Can-Eat Is Not A Good Thing.  I Can’t Believe I Have To Fucking Explain This Shit” (hahaha), and it contains sections relating to eating with a hangover and not being a drunkorexic, as well as handling yourself at restaurants and over the holidays.

It’s not exclusively for us lushes, though.  There’s a lot in here that will be useful or entertaining (and typically both) for a wider audience.  It’s just presented in a no BS, no self-delusion allowed, tone of voice:

“Soon enough, the ball-busting turned to praise:  ‘Damn, bro, you’re looking good!  Have you been working out?’  Yes, dumbass.  Remember when you made fun of me for ordering broccoli? …  I stopped thinking of vegetables as ‘asparagus’ or ‘string beans’; I was thinking of them as ‘confidence’ and sex.’”  (p. 51)
“You’ve got to be very careful when you reach a plateau.  It’s too easy to just say, Fuck it.  I’ve lost as much as I’m going to lose, and then go back to eating shit.  This is a good way to wind up heavier than when you started.”  (p. 55)
“But whenever I started walking, I’d always press pause on my iPod, so I wouldn’t waste a high-energy song on the lazy part of my run.  I didn’t deserve to listen to the good stuff when I wasn’t actually running.  And when I’d caught my breath, I’d hit play and bask in the glory of metal.”  (p. 163)

The Drunk Diet isn’t just a collection of solid diet/fitness advice, though.  Indeed, that info is scattered throughout stories of the absurdity Lüc has engaged in over the years, many of which had me laughing out loud on my living room couch.  Again, tales of bravado and badassery (drunken or not) don’t comport with everyone’s sense of humor, but I thought they were hilarious.  There’s also a decent amount of introspection, now that Lüc has removed himself from the height of his past chaos and debauchery, about that fine line between having fun and toying with self-defeating (if not self-destructive) behaviors… and about how when one is a “partyholic” and when one’s default position is to want more, more, more of everything, there are benefits to obtaining some semblance of moderation in one’s vices and directing some of that excess energy toward something positive like running.  Gee, any wonder I loved this book so much?

So, Mr. Carl, if you ever find yourself in Atlanta, you are cordially invited to come crank the Iron Maiden (swoon!!!) and go for a nice 7 mile run with me… and then we can get hammered on whiskey (or vodka soda, if you’d prefer).  Best Date Ever.

C’mon, Lüc. You know you’re thinking about it.

And on that note, that’s about enough for today.  I’m getting off my out-of-shape ass and heading to the gym.  I need it.  I’ve got a big drinking night ahead of me, and I’ve gotta keep this shit tight.

KISS LIVE ON HAIR NATION

KISS will be LIVE on Hair Nation this Thursday October 11th at Noon EST!

CLICK HERE to listen! 

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LOOK WHAT’S IN THE TOP 100!

In 3 different categories!

Not to mention 4.7 Stars!

CLICK HERE to buy your own copy! 

THE LAST POP CULTURE ROCK N ROLLER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was in a band. He wore a motorcycle jacket and actually rode a motorcycle. A ladies man yet a true gentleman.

Uncle Jessie was the last real rock n roller in pop culture.

WHO WANTS TO MEET KISS??

SiriusXM is giving away a chance to meet the hottest band in the world!!!!! KISS!!!!!! On October 11th in New York Fucking City!

Go to SiriusXM.com/HairNation for more details.

 

THE INAPPROPRIATE AGE OF ROCK N ROLL

Rock n roll has been given a fan appointed expiration date. It’s as if any given listener’s born on date doesn’t come before the creation of any given record, that listener is shunned from ever becoming a fan in the true sense of the word. Only to be intimidated by his older, self-proclaimed “wiser” predecessor, the new kid may give up on being a fan before he was ever given the chance.

Born in 1980, I was 10 years old when the Seattle grunge scene hit, and did it ever hit hard. While I was wearing Soundgarden t-shirts and becoming exposed to Metallica’s Black album for the first time at a very early age, I didn’t like what was going on around me. Having already started playing drums a few years prior I wasn’t just a fan, I was an apprentice. While others were simply latching on to what was on the radio in order to have something to discuss at the lunch room tables as it became popular, I was playing along to the records educating myself at what was to become the very last era of rock n roll.

I wasn’t satisfied. Pearl Jam and Nirvana just didn’t do it for me. They had electric guitars but even at a very early age I knew something was missing. I began doing research on Pearl Jam. Becoming what is known as a true “fan.” The more of a fan I became, the less interested I was. It quickly became apparent that Pearl Jam was not only taking inspiration from the Sonic Youth and Melvins generation before them, but also taking it from the deep well of yet an even older generation of Neil Youngs and the not quite as old Guns n Roses. I quickly became disheartened. I didn’t want a regurgitated version of this newfound love of mine; I wanted the real thing. While I continued to buy every record put on the shelves in the Rock section in the now defunct CD stores of the 90’s, I also ventured into the sections where I didn’t belong. The categories less populated. Although very tall for a 10 year old, I found myself trying to squeeze into the AC/DC tab and put Back n Black into my cart because, although it was made when I was 7 months old, I read somewhere that it was a great record. Intimidated by the full grown men next to me who wouldn’t be caught dead buying the Weezer records the kids my age were supposed to be listening to, I quickly learned that I was in their territory and that I’d better maintain a level of respect if I was at all interested in joining this fraternity of heavy metal rock n rollers.

Back n Black was the record that did it for me. I knew that this shit was far better, and frankly far more important than anything else going on in the modern world. I wanted more. I did more research.

With the invention of the dial up Internet connected to my parent’s very heavy, very expensive home computer, I was able to dig deep and find the meaning of all that is rock n roll. I subscribed to magazines; I joined Columbia House with multiple fake names and had CD’s shipped to my house by the dozens (which I never paid for). I built my own CD racks out of leftover wood in my fathers workshop and painted them black because I thought that’s what AC/DC would have done. I discovered my fathers record collection in the hall closet and spent afternoons listening to Black Sabbath Black Sabbath. Scared that someone might catch me and send me to my room for listening to something that didn’t belong to me in more ways than one. All the while playing along to these records that were made by guys far older than my old father. Plugging in my headphones to my 5-disc changer and turning up the volume all the way. Picking up a second paper route to justify my expensive rock n roll habit. I spent all of my hard earned money on what my parents considered a phase.

Some 20 years later I’m still faced with the same dilemma. I make my living in rock n roll in a time and place when it is nearly impossible to make a living in such a lifestyle unless you’re hanging on to something amazing you created before the invention of the Internet; at which point the entire free world seemingly gave up on discovery and creation and just all around bad-assery. I live, breath, eat, piss, shit, and drink rock n roll, yet I still find myself trying to squeeze in between the bigger, older guys in the rock n roll section of life. (And believe me, they’re not getting any smaller). It’s as if I had to do more research and collect more records than guys nearly twice my age just to prove to them that even though I wasn’t there when it was actually happening, it in no way means that I don’t love it just as much as they do. In fact, if anything I’m jealous that I didn’t get to live through the concerts and the sex and the drugs.

Take a band like KISS for instance. A band that remains timeless and still makes regular late night television appearances and maintains relevance in the eye of the public who might otherwise only know Def Leppard as the band with the one-armed-drummer. Any given member of KISS, whether original or not, are nearly as recognizable world wide as McDonald’s golden arches. Yet by the time I was born they’d already taken their make-up off and replaced their first member. By the time I was old enough to know how to turn on a radio they’d already suffered through the death of a member. All the while, the fans that actually lived through the movement of KISS would never expect a 12-year-old kid to understand what they’d gone through as a fan an entire generation before me. Witnessing the band with all original members as 27 year olds hanging out with groupies and taking over the world. My question is, wouldn’t it make it easier to be a real fan having lived through all of those instances instead of having to live vicariously though space and time of a moment that once had been? It made me appreciate those moments even more due to the fact that I didn’t actually get to witness them as they were happening. I may not have been born yet but I’ve memorized the set list from Live at Cobo Hall 1977, and that, if you ask me my dear friend, is a hell of a lot more rock n roll than trying to score free tickets off the radio station because you thought you had a chance to get laid that Saturday night in Detroit Rock City.

While the generation that was luckily enough to actually live through rock n roll looks at me like they can’t figure out why I have long hair, I look at them and can’t figure out why they cut theirs, and I wish I was able to sit down and have a few beers with the hair they once had.

THE WHOPPER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU

Through the majesty of advertisement, the Whopper is famous. It’s been on TV countless times. You have not been on TV. Therefore in your brain the Whopper is more important than you. It’s better than you. It’s more popular than you. The entire world knows what a Whopper is. Only a your friends and co-workers know who you are.

Yet another reason to turn off your fucking TV and go for a run.

TALKING METAL FEATURING MIKE PORTNOY, JOHN KEVILL, AND RON LIPNICKI

Check out the latest episode of Talking Metal with my boys Mark & John!!!!

A REVIEW OF THE DRUNK DIET

By: metrotimes.com

 

A quick word of warning: Female readers may have limited interest in The Drunk Diet, given author Lüc Carl’s penchant for a little locker room talk — as well as casual comparisons of women to food. And, frankly, whatever your gender, you may shy away from this tome if you don’t want to hear some dude talk about good nutrition resulting in a satisfying shit. But are you an overweight, drunk metal dude? Well, here’s a “diet book” for you.

It’s no coincidence: A shaggy-haired devotee of Ozzy, Carl writes about how he was at first intimidated by diet books, with their covers featuring “airbrushed women with six-pack abs.” He writes of the reaction they give your typical rotund male, explaining, “This girl wouldnever go on a date with him anyway, so why the fuck would she care whether or not he’s fat? He’s not even going to pick that book up.”

So Carl set out to write a book that wouldn’t intimidate your typical overweight male slob, adopting a literary persona like the target reader’s cuss-mouthed best friend, that guy whose every third word is “fuck,” and sometimes calls you “dumbass” or “asshole” — but has a shitload of cool stories to tell. When it works, it demystifies fitness — and can be a refreshingly funny take on “dieting.” Take, for instance, Carl’s three things he learned about nutrition:

 

1) Anything labeled “diet” is terrible for you.

2) The FDA is full of shit.

3) The “experts” are no help at all.

 

Instead, Carl puts it in language most guys will understand. In the chapter, “Your Body is a Hot Rod,” he writes, “Once I understood that the performance of my machine (my body) depended on the quality of the gas I put in (the food), I was able to start making smarter decisions about what to eat.” See, guys? You too can become a muscle car!

In a similarly no-bullshit style, Carl breaks down the tools of nutrition and fitness — such as carbs and cardio, egg whites and electrolytes — into readable “WTF” sidebars (a sample title: “What the fuck are Omega-3s?”) designed to hit important points for readers. In another sidebar, he counsels on what to drink and what to avoid, with a list titled “Drink This” (a vodka soda, for instance, is 100 calories and 0 carbs) and a list titled “Fuck That,” including mai tais (800-plus calories) and Long Islands (1,200-plus calories). And not only does he extol the virtues of fruit, fresh vegetables and limited carb-loads, he knows that a lot of guys don’t have mad kitchen skills and sensibly outlines simply prepared meals made with easily bought ingredients.

He’s at his most entertaining when he’s railing against things, whether it’s salt in shelf-stable food (“salt allows a product to sit on the shelf longer”), aspartame (“I’m not saying aspartame is the only reason people get diabetes, but it’s certainly not helping”) or high fructose corn syrup (“it took thirty years for the American public to figure out that HFCS might be bad for them”). He’s even funnier when he drifts off topic and starts heaping scorn on such targets as trust-funders (“rich kids from Connecticut have no concept of what it’s like to be broke”) and hipsters, who “tend to make lots of stupid decisions, like listening to crappy emo music.”

But at bottom, beyond the recipes and the how-to aspect of going from tubby drunk to shredded fitness geek, Drunk Diet is, at its heart, a memoir. It’s a sort of fitness love story: guy meets fitness and falls in love forever. As Carl starts hitting his “plateaus” — when he reaches a stable weight — he has to amp up his dedication and take that love affair to the next level. Depending on your love of vice, you may want to put the book down at a certain point. Not everybody who enjoys the practical advice in The Drunk Diet is necessarily going to end up doing a 300-mile charity bike ride, of course, and individual readers might bristle at the idea of giving up beer, whiskey, pizza and — eventually — cigarettes. By the end of the book, Carl is like all fanatics: addicted to his passion, and charismatic as hell about it — to the point of being slightly ridiculous. (The lovingly snapped photos of him demonstrating hawt workout poses atop a bar, wearing a black tank top and zebra-stripe leggings, will cause some eyes to roll, for instance.) But Carl insists that, despite his mania, he still loves to party. He says he loves wine now (twice the alcohol and half the calories of beer), but, by the end of the book, you’ll bet no matter how hard he’s partying, he’s really thinking of his next good run.

And it sort of leaves you guessing. Behind that self-satisfied tone, in back of all those dude-to-dude pep talks, you may wonder if Carl really did change his life around. Maybe he was never the carefree badass he intended to be, and instead is a guy who just finally embraced who he really was all along: a striving, success-driven self-promoter eager for celebrity via a new angle.

Whatever the truth, such quibbles will hardly matter to the intended reader of this book. In fact, it likely just adds to the rock-star charm. After all, if you don’t have a little cock-rock swagger, why go on stage in the first place?

Lüc’s Tuna Salad

Serves: Two people (two wraps or two sandwiches)

Ingredients:

 

2 cans tuna packed in water (“Ingredients: Tuna, water”; no salt, no oil, no additives)

1 very ripe avocado

3/4 tablespoon Omega-3 oil (available in the refrigerated section of your local health food store)

fresh cracked black pepper

Optional: Ezekiel 4:9 live-grain bread or tortilla

 

Empty the two cans of tuna into a bowl. Then, slice the avocado in half, get rid of the pit, and scoop out the meat with a spoon; add to the tuna. Squirt in a little Omega-3 oil (you could also use a little olive oil), grind some pepper on it, and mix that shit up.

If you’d prefer to eat your tuna salad in a wrap or as a sandwich, then use the live-grain bread. Throw the bread in a toaster first and you’ll feel like a fucking gourmet chef.

THANK YOU RUNNERS!

Thanks to you the Run To Drink was a huge success!!!!

50 crazy runners lined up in Brooklyn for 3 bridges and 8 miles on Monday night. 35 would actually finish.

1st: Ben Carter (South Brooklyn Running Club)

2nd: Chris Bloome (Team Drunk Diet)

3rd: Lüc Carl (Team Drunk Diet)

I hope you all agree that this must happen again in the near future. I’m thinking a Halloween Costume Run!

Next time I promise I won’t get too drunk and leave the finish times at the bar.

 

 

 

 

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