Art of the Chicken

H: We're going to Chili's on Friday night for margaritas.

T: Oh, I love the margaritas there. But the boneless buffalo wings are the absolute best! In fact, my (spouse) and I went there like every weekend last winter, and that's how I got this (points to a long-invisible spare tire on waistline).

H: Ew! I hate chicken wings, but I just love regular chicken.

T: These are good wings, though.

H: I hate the wings with the bones and the hair and everything. I never feel like I know what kind of meat I'm getting in them.

T: These are individual pieces of white meat with no bones or hair, and they're fried (said with a reverence usually reserved for Mets fans reminiscing about 1986).

This is a fair synopsis of an actual conversation yesterday between two of my friends. Their names were shortened to initials to protect the innocent, even though a chat at the gym about Chili's chicken wings is about as innocent as you can get.

Thing is, these two people are females. And their total combined body fat is like negative-64 percent, if there is such a measurement. And here they are, talking about their boozin' and their, well, wingin' and I'm like, When I think about the wrong food I might as well just switch to the next pants size. Or I would have to spend like 50 hours a week working out.

Wait! That's it! These two chicks do spend like 50 hours a week or so at the gym. Maybe there is something to this whole exercise thing. I am not sure what science tells us about it, but my guess is that judging by these two peeps of mine, that if you work out a lot, you have a little more liberty to eat and drink what you want and still be trim as a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

There is a lot more to the story, though. I am into this whole food-as-a-chemistry-experiment thing. Sure, you can work out a lot and get away with eating different stuff and looking good. But actually feeling good and being healthy is a totally different thing.

I read a book called Live Right for Your Type (by Dr. Peter D'Adamo). He is something called a naturopath (that is not someone who is crazy for nature, it is like a doctor of holistic medicine or something).

This book's theory is that your blood type has an awful lot to do with the foods you ought to be eating or those from which you should stay away. I have not followed this thing religiously, but there are many points in there that make a lot of sense, and he backs them up scientifically.

Then last night at happy hour (I had not a morsel of junk food and only two beers), I was speaking about these theories with my friend R. I was saying how things like wheat are supposed to be bad for me, as a blood type A person, and that when I eat some of the "forbidden" things, I usually wake up the next day with some kind of phlegm.

Since good friends can freely speak about their respective phlegm-ification, she revealed that she, too, had a similar phlegm issue on most mornings, leading me to speculate that she is blood type A. We had the same seemingly weird symptom: Phlegm when waking up, and no phlegm problem once the morning phlegm was gone.

*Official sidenote: I enjoy typing the word phlegm.

Anyway, I have noticed that the phlegm goes away when I am staying with the regimen Dr. D'Adamo recommends. While this book is not for everyone, those interested in health and nutrition should add it to their libraries. It's decent and powerful knowledge, and two of my sisters already are showing interest (I forced interest on one because I got her the book for her birthday).

Speaking of birthdays, happy 34th to one of our dedicated readers, former figure skating great Tonya Harding.

I'm out.

The Naked, Unemployed Writer

People are so opinionated.

I wrote my first blog last week and followed it with an email to a fair number of people (not just family members). Not only did they look, but they also flooded me with responses.

All I did was ask.

The quick lesson here is about expression. People express themselves in many different ways. They find comfort in it. The discomfort comes when their means of expression are stymied. What is more frustrating than not being able to get across your point?

I'm lucky (but you knew that, if you read the last entry here). I like to write. Writing is my avenue of expression. My expression expressway. But that's just an expression.

Wait. Huh?

There, I have done it! I have expressed my confusion by confusing the reader, thus putting us all on the same level. Now I am comfortable. As confusion abounds among the masses, I always think straight. You have a look on your face like you just lost your keys.

Now that I am thinking straight ... people are more interesting than things. Anything that happens in our own daily lives might become boring, but you need not look too far to find something to capture your interest or thoughts for the time you spend reading this blog.

Start with Michelle (spelled with two Ls, so as not to confuse my friend and former charge with my sister).

Last week, Michelle was rushing home from the gym on a dark, rainy night. Like yours truly, she is addicted to the reality show Survivor, so she needed to reach the house by eight o'clock.

But something happened on the way.

The white van that was in front of Michelle suddenly stopped. On a dark road with no one around. In Fair Lawn, a town with which she is not familiar.

The driver -- a shadowy, imposing figure – exited the van with his hands up in the air, as if to signal her to stop.

Panicked, Michelle did not know what to do, save for trying to keep her heart from exploding all over the dashboard.

She saw the monster come out. He grabbed her and hauled her into the van. Then he explained how he was going to chop her into little pieces and that her face was going to be plastered on fliers and milk cartons all over New Jersey.

Then she got back her senses, realizing those were just a few of the million frights going through her head.

"YIKES!" she shrieked, slamming the transmission into reverse and backing up the car with the alacrity of a Colombian in search of the perfect coffee bean.

As Michelle guided herself to safety, another zillion thoughts replaced those thrust into her head by the panic. Mainly guilt.

"What if this person needed help," she thought. "Why did he stop so suddenly? Should I have been a good Samaritan?"

Hell no.

Hell no, I will not write a sewing column for the Big Dog. Hell no, I am not going on rants about fantasy sports in this space, Rubble.

Elevator etiquitte, Jerry G.? I mean, go watch Jerry S. rave about it better than I can write about it. Reverse discrimination, Kristin? Just deal, and get over it (although I, too, would like to know why so many students claim to be Democrats).

I am going back to my fox hole, now (oh, I did not expect to see you in there, Corrado, but it is nice to know you're there). You now know the thoughts of The Naked, Unemployed Writer. Nothing to hide but my hide.

The Kickstart

Ya do what ya gotta do, and ya don't worry about it.

Were more true words ever said? I cannot recall exactly how old I was when my father expounded that thought upon me in one of the many lectures that helped shape the person I have become. But with all the words that have been said from him to me, those are my favorite. Right now, it is time for me to start living by those words once again.

This year has not been banner in terms of my luck. Some of the less pleasant of life's challenges have come up. As we wind down 2004, the bad things must be put behind and in order to look ahead to the better things in life (like gainful employment).

There is so much for which to be thankful. The reminders are always thrown down at me. Sure, I was forced out of my job, but that is nothing compared to what happened to one of my best friends on my eighth wedding anniversary, when I got an early morning phone call and he explained that he suddenly lost his sister.

Talk about perspective.

When something like that happens, and you have to see someone you love break down in front of you, the mass of human emotions comes in tsunami form. But I think the thing I most felt was grateful.

I was grateful for what I had, grateful that my friend would call me and not be afraid to lean on me in his worst moments, grateful that six other guys with whom I went to college could be rounded up in a flash and be there for the one in need, even though we graduated almost 15 years ago.

Then you realize that being grateful is not enough. You have to take advantage of the good fortune and do right for yourself, your family, your friends and your fellow man. Part of that is not burying your talents. That's the part that drove me to Blogville, a Cyber "place" I guess.

I claim to be a writer. I used to get paid to write about sports, but I gave it up because the hours and the pay did not cut the muster. Then I went into Internet news content management, look-and-feel stuff. It was great to forge ahead in the frontier atmosphere of a start-up company, and I proudly remain in touch with my beloved charges. Then it was off to the unemployment line for longer than a while, before I became a production manager for this big, fat book with a lot of drug information.

Now I am supposed to be deciding how I am going to tie together all of this diverse experience into something worth while that will pay a lot. One of the things I need to do is to sharpen up on my writing, so I am soliciting critical comments from my audience. I take requests. Throw a subject at me and I'll give it a shot. If you don't, I'll just spout about my favorite subject: Sewing.

I always had a take. Now I have a forum.