"I like BJ's!"
You're never supposed to begin a story with a quote, but who cares, when we're talking about the BlogWorld, right?
The quote has nothing to do with porn. My little nephew, James (not Vanishing James), a few years ago. You see, my brother and sister-in-law are (were?) frequent shoppers at a place called BJ's Wholesale Club.
The wife and I went there this morning. A little low on water, we bought six cases of 2.5-liter thingies (2 per case, so 5 gallons x 6 cases = 30 gallons). That'll last us a few weeks, for sure. It's not like we're in the middle of the desert; we just like to remain hydrated.
We got some other crap there, like Skippy and canola oil.
Did you know the B and the J in BJ's stand, respectively, for Berkley and Jensen? (I don't give a sh!t, either.)
Speaking of sh!t, I always remember that time in kindergarten when David Isaac sh!t his pants. Mrs. Halpern was so diplomatic about it.
"David had a little accident, and he had to go home," she said after we wondered why he got to tip out after a potty stop.
After that, everyone wanted to sh!t their pants, if they wanted to go home. Not me, though. I had some great kindergarten friends, especially Keith Blumenstock. He was cool, and I think I had like a 5-year-old's crush on his sister, Karen, who was a year behind us.
The Blumenstocks lived right near the school -- much closer than me, in terms of a kindergartener's view of the world map -- and had the forest leading to the fields right behind their house. Back then, you were allowed to play in the woods, and I fondly recall going through their backyard gate, walking the path, and hanging out at the field and talking about how David Isaac sh!t his pants.
That was the one year of my life spent in public school. The next year, I was in Catholic grammar school, and I subsequently went to an all-boys Catholic high school and a Jesuit university. I still love Jesus to this day. He is (was) an extremely cool dude. We should forget about Berkley and Jensen and have BJ's stand for Big Jesus' or something. Actually, that might be a little over the top.
Oh yeah. So Keith Blumenstock remained in public school. As such, even in our small town, we rarely saw one another, although we always recognized each other. To my amazement, he appeared later in life, I think in college for a time. But I just checked the records and he did not graduate with me at any level post-kindergarten. Weird how the memory just does not seem to work as well after time passes. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing.
In checking said records, I took a few moments to check through my college yearbook. It was the total opposite of my high school yearbook in that there are next-to-no pictures of me. In the college yearbook, there is my graduation photo, of course, and only one other -- of the top of my graduation cap.
How, you are wondering, can I tell the top of my cap from everyone else's? Well, I used white tape and spelled "It's Done!" on the top of mine to be unique (sort of), stealing the idea from something contemporary to the times. I am pretty sure I still have that cap there.
"It's Done!" came from a saying that we had back in the day. The San Francisco Giants were storming the National League with the 3-4 combo of Will Clark and Kevin Mitchell. With the game at an important juncture, Mitchell would engage Clark before the later would head to the batter's box.
"Let's do it," Mitchell would say.
"It's done!" was Clark's response.
Being testosterone-driven, Strat-O-Matic-crazed 21-year-olds at the time, these words were like the gold standard for us. They might come up at any time, like when it was time to chug a pitcher at the Lantern or to approach a cute girl. If you needed that extra boost of confidence or adrenaline, you hoped one of the boys would give you a "Let's do it," so you could go into battle with an "It's done!"
The Bachelor of Arts in Communications, of course, was secondary.
Speaking of secondary, it recently was the Second of February, which is Groundhog's Day. That made it the 14-year anniversary of Jerry M's cockblock of my efforts to woo the H-Bomb, Heather Donlon.
I had the worst crush on this girl; maybe I was a little star-struck. She was on the basketball team but she was short, and if you saw her you would never mistake her for a baller. Well, Jerry used his Sports Information Department hook to get her and some of the other ballers, who happened to be an especially good-looking bunch for basketball players, to come to our Groundhog's Day bash.
There I am, sitting on our couch, and I have the H-Bomb as my captive audience. It's starting to go well. I am thinking this could be it. It continues to get better.
Then, out of nowhere, Jerry pops over, sits right between us, and just dominates the conversation.
Of course, he knew her very well. I knew her only a little, just from going to the games all the time and doing their radio broadcasts. See, although I am generally an outgoing person, I am shy when it comes to these things. My moment had passed. I was never able to get myself in the right position ever again. My life was changed.
I remind Jerry about it every year, although now I thank him for helping my life take this course.
By the way, the H-Bomb earned her nickname because she was a great 3-point shooter. In her freshman season of 1989-90, she set the NCAA Division I single-season 3-point shooting percentage record (57.5). It still stands today.
As more than a PR stunt, Jerry, who was the SID for the women's team, got us to go to the games with pictures of bombs (the ones that look like bowling balls with a fuse attached) drawn up by Russ, the artist and future priest.
Everytime Heather hit a 3-pointer, the Bomb Squad would get up and raucously cheer, then hang a bomb for all to see. Considering there usually were a couple of hundred people attending the games, we stood out. It helped her get some local and even national exposure.
I, of course, wanted to do more, since I was smitten. I'm pretty sure he had a crush on her, too, but we always just laugh when we talk about it now. I never actually have asked him.
Like a little kid, I cannot let a Groundhog's Day pass without somehow bringing up the story to Jerry, the same way that when my nephew James is old enough to understand, he'll be reminded of his most famous quote everytime he passes BJ's.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Friday, February 18, 2005
For Richer or ... Muller?
What a shock. Another story that involves Vanishing James (VJ).
So there we were, at the Meadowlands Arena sometime in the early 1990s for a Devils-Canadiens game.
I had on my usual game attire, the Christmassy-style away Devils jersey of Kirk Muller, number 9. VJ came equipped with the Candiens No. 44 away jersey of Stephane Richer.
Well, just days before, in what was a pretty earth-shattering deal at that time, Muller and Richer were dealt for one another.
In the first period, VJ and I wore our own clothes. For the second period, we switched jerseys. We swapped back for the third period.
A few years later, when I was covering a Devils game, I was talking to Richer in the locker room. He was in a good mood after an easy New Jersey victory, and there was no one around. I told him the story about the jerseys and the swap. We actually got a good laugh out of the whole deal.
Umm, the end.
So there we were, at the Meadowlands Arena sometime in the early 1990s for a Devils-Canadiens game.
I had on my usual game attire, the Christmassy-style away Devils jersey of Kirk Muller, number 9. VJ came equipped with the Candiens No. 44 away jersey of Stephane Richer.
Well, just days before, in what was a pretty earth-shattering deal at that time, Muller and Richer were dealt for one another.
In the first period, VJ and I wore our own clothes. For the second period, we switched jerseys. We swapped back for the third period.
A few years later, when I was covering a Devils game, I was talking to Richer in the locker room. He was in a good mood after an easy New Jersey victory, and there was no one around. I told him the story about the jerseys and the swap. We actually got a good laugh out of the whole deal.
Umm, the end.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Fake Reporter Should Cover Wiffle Ball
It does not take politics or religion to make a great friend. It takes Wiffle Ball.
The Beltway buzz is about a so-called "fake" reporter in the White House. Somehow, this made me wonder how I have such a great friend who is on the opposite side of the political fence. Then I figured it out.
Many years ago, on a beautiful spring afternoon in Poughkeepsie, left-hander Vanishing James threw a meatball to yours truly. The rest is history.
A lifelong Yankees fan and right-handed hitter, on this day I happened to be imitating the swing of the Mets' biggest gun at the time, Darryl Strawberry. Straw had the look of one of the great left-handed sluggers of all time (and his 1988 Strat-O-Matic card was an absolute home-run monster).
There we were, Vanishing James and I, on the front lawn of his parents' house on Van Siclen Drive. I stood at the far end of the house in my lefty Straw stance, Van Siclen in front of me if I pointed the Wiffle bat toward the imagined right-handed batters box. My butt was pointing at his house.
About 30 feet away, in pitching position on the imaginary mound, was Vanishing James, a lefty throwing with his left hand, the trees lining Van Siclen at his back during delivery.
The hurler winds up and grooves the Wiffle Ball toward me; actually, in my mind I was Strawberry. I (Straw) have the left elbow up, and the right elbow pointing down and sitting just near my lowest rib.
As the pitch comes in, the left elbow cocks up, the right elbow thrusts down, and the bat instantly wags from its straight-up position toward the incoming ball and in front of my left ear.
Then the right knee kicks up to the belt line (which was significantly more visible back then).
As the ball sails closer, the right leg uncoils, the left leg stiffens and the left foot pivots; the right foot finds terra firma. Next, the hips begin to turn, but the right shoulder remains intact. The hands, gripping the plastic bat that looks like a super-duper-sized McDonald's french fry, begin their journey toward the hitting zone.
Looking more and more like a beach ball, the white Wiffle moves closer.
The wrists begin their turn; the hands dart toward the zone. The shoulders are square to the imaginary plate. Everything is perfect.
The Wiffle Ball arrives and is greeted by the smoothest, most powerful and balanced stroke possible without ruining the plastic bat. At the moment of impact, bat meets ball on the solid end -- a Wiffle Ball has air holes through one side.
A new journey begins.
Rocketing on a parabola that mocks a power alley in right-center field, the violent whack has changed the direction of the Wiffle Ball -- and our lives -- in a most spectacular way.
First, it finds its way through some of the branches that hang most near to the house, facing the sun and away from Van Siclen. Next, the ball makes its way further up and out of the shadows of the house. The two players' visual hammerlocks are set dead on the ball.
The next milestone to clear is the driveway, and that is done with ease. As the plastic missile continues its ascent, pitcher and batter realize they are witnesses to history, and their respective places in it.
Will it clear the roof gutter of the next-door-neighbors' house? Affirmative. And still rising. This is a plastic Wiffle Ball, for God's sake!
How about the break in the roof? Done.
There is little time for descent. The ball touches down just past the halfway point of the roof, pitcher and batter gawking in stunned disbelief.
"Was that the furthest shot ever," I asked Vanishing James, after a pregnant pause and large gulp.
His look told me that nothing remotely like this had ever happened in his many years of Wiffle Balling parallel to Van Siclen.
Our place in history was firmly secure, even if it was just the two of us bearing witness. We might as well have seen a UFO together, because if anyone saw the setup, they simply would not believe it was possible.
To this day, we still hark back to that magical moment. Whenever opinions about the world we live in and life in general go awry, we can always go back to that place, to that moment on Van Siclen, and it makes everything right.
"Can you believe this stuff about the fake reporter in the White House?" Vanishing James said. And, of course, two strongly opinionated blokes began to spew about their differences in philosophy.
But, like always, we found our way back to the happy place.
"Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck,"he said, to which I replied, "right there with the Darryl Strawberry Wiffle Ball."
The Beltway buzz is about a so-called "fake" reporter in the White House. Somehow, this made me wonder how I have such a great friend who is on the opposite side of the political fence. Then I figured it out.
Many years ago, on a beautiful spring afternoon in Poughkeepsie, left-hander Vanishing James threw a meatball to yours truly. The rest is history.
A lifelong Yankees fan and right-handed hitter, on this day I happened to be imitating the swing of the Mets' biggest gun at the time, Darryl Strawberry. Straw had the look of one of the great left-handed sluggers of all time (and his 1988 Strat-O-Matic card was an absolute home-run monster).
There we were, Vanishing James and I, on the front lawn of his parents' house on Van Siclen Drive. I stood at the far end of the house in my lefty Straw stance, Van Siclen in front of me if I pointed the Wiffle bat toward the imagined right-handed batters box. My butt was pointing at his house.
About 30 feet away, in pitching position on the imaginary mound, was Vanishing James, a lefty throwing with his left hand, the trees lining Van Siclen at his back during delivery.
The hurler winds up and grooves the Wiffle Ball toward me; actually, in my mind I was Strawberry. I (Straw) have the left elbow up, and the right elbow pointing down and sitting just near my lowest rib.
As the pitch comes in, the left elbow cocks up, the right elbow thrusts down, and the bat instantly wags from its straight-up position toward the incoming ball and in front of my left ear.
Then the right knee kicks up to the belt line (which was significantly more visible back then).
As the ball sails closer, the right leg uncoils, the left leg stiffens and the left foot pivots; the right foot finds terra firma. Next, the hips begin to turn, but the right shoulder remains intact. The hands, gripping the plastic bat that looks like a super-duper-sized McDonald's french fry, begin their journey toward the hitting zone.
Looking more and more like a beach ball, the white Wiffle moves closer.
The wrists begin their turn; the hands dart toward the zone. The shoulders are square to the imaginary plate. Everything is perfect.
The Wiffle Ball arrives and is greeted by the smoothest, most powerful and balanced stroke possible without ruining the plastic bat. At the moment of impact, bat meets ball on the solid end -- a Wiffle Ball has air holes through one side.
A new journey begins.
Rocketing on a parabola that mocks a power alley in right-center field, the violent whack has changed the direction of the Wiffle Ball -- and our lives -- in a most spectacular way.
First, it finds its way through some of the branches that hang most near to the house, facing the sun and away from Van Siclen. Next, the ball makes its way further up and out of the shadows of the house. The two players' visual hammerlocks are set dead on the ball.
The next milestone to clear is the driveway, and that is done with ease. As the plastic missile continues its ascent, pitcher and batter realize they are witnesses to history, and their respective places in it.
Will it clear the roof gutter of the next-door-neighbors' house? Affirmative. And still rising. This is a plastic Wiffle Ball, for God's sake!
How about the break in the roof? Done.
There is little time for descent. The ball touches down just past the halfway point of the roof, pitcher and batter gawking in stunned disbelief.
"Was that the furthest shot ever," I asked Vanishing James, after a pregnant pause and large gulp.
His look told me that nothing remotely like this had ever happened in his many years of Wiffle Balling parallel to Van Siclen.
Our place in history was firmly secure, even if it was just the two of us bearing witness. We might as well have seen a UFO together, because if anyone saw the setup, they simply would not believe it was possible.
To this day, we still hark back to that magical moment. Whenever opinions about the world we live in and life in general go awry, we can always go back to that place, to that moment on Van Siclen, and it makes everything right.
"Can you believe this stuff about the fake reporter in the White House?" Vanishing James said. And, of course, two strongly opinionated blokes began to spew about their differences in philosophy.
But, like always, we found our way back to the happy place.
"Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck,"he said, to which I replied, "right there with the Darryl Strawberry Wiffle Ball."
Monday, December 20, 2004
Doing the Guy Thing
I'm doing a guy thing this year for Christmas.
Check the date, and you'll see that there are less than four shopping days left until Christmas. As of this moment, the number of people for whom I have to shop (as opposed to those for whom I shopped while with my wife) remains at four: my godson, my mother, my father, and the aforementioned wife.
Usually I take pride in doing the opposite of what is expected or taking the road less traveled. Some examples might be listening to rap as a white kid in 1984 (it was like me and the Beastie Boys back then, in terms of listening), or rocking to deep alternative music in the 80s. Yet at the same time, I did not have the wigger talk or clothes, nor did I shave my head, grow a mohawk or take on tattoos or piercings.
I still humor myself when I am in a riding in my car with a suit on and calmly listening to System of a Down or some other tremendously hard metal.
It goes a step further with taking the road less traveled. I simply do not like to take the popular route, thinking I have found some special treasure in a back road or a radio station like the deposed WLIR/WDRE (it was a big deal to be a cult follower of the Long Island station and being a New Jersey resident).
Let's circle back to the original point. I actually am going the popular route with regard to Christmas and waiting until the last second to shop. Yet at the same time, I love to go out and buy the gifts (not just leave it up to my wife) because I want to put some thought into it. I also like being able to shop quickly while the rest of the world struggles in the quest for expedience.
What appears to be a totally selfless act is, in reality, the exact opposite. It is an ego boost to unexpectedly give someone something they love and enjoy. Why not take the nice-guy credit if they're offering it? Sure, it's better to give than to receive.
It is most noble, however, to be able to accept a gift and find the appreciation in it. That is why I rarely fret when someone wants to pick up the tab; I'm flattered and honored to accept it when someone thinks I am worth it.
Then it becomes cool to pay it forward. A karma thing, I suppose.
At Christmastime, I am trying parlay the karma thing to set up the girl who cuts my hair with one of my former charges and friends. Someone was accusing me of playing matchmaker, and I do not see that as a negative. When you know two people you think might hit it off, it's just like a networking relationship -- hooking up people with common interests.
In this case, both are great sports fans, Irish and seem cut from the same cloth in terms of outlook. She says she hates to go to football games so early (meaning 1 o'clock kickoffs) because it does not give her enough recovery time from the late night out before. While he might not worry as much about popping open a beer at 9:46 a.m. in a frigid parking lot, I see their common ground as this: Why would you want to go to a football game without tailgating?
I like tailgating, but for me, the game is more important. I almost never imbibe when I am out there, certainly not to the inebriation point. Additionally, when my wife and I go to a sporting event, rarely do we tailgate. Thus is the basis for a wonderful relationship.
My better half also does a lot of other things to "complete" me, as Jerry Maguire would say. One came tonight, when she helped me put the (for now) finishing touches on my revamped resume. I need a resume to help me get more jobs, or at least a single job.
Right now I have forged back into sportswriting. You can catch me at Jets-Patriots this Sunday at the Meadowlands. My un-retirement came Dec. 4, when I covered a Nets-Hawks game. It was nice to get a taste of sports again, and the money will not hurt, either. I even have links to the stories on my resume and in this blog.
The next thing on which to work is a personal web site on which I can house live samples of my work and my resume. I just hope I am not pigeon-holing myself back into sports and scaring away those who think writing about other things is too boring that I would lose interest and not do a good job. (For more on pigeons, check out this and that)
Even the eternal optimist gains a modicum of pessimism after reaching 35. At least I have time to write a blog, no matter how long the layoff or how few fans will hit the page.
Just doing a guy thing. Is that a bad thing?
Check the date, and you'll see that there are less than four shopping days left until Christmas. As of this moment, the number of people for whom I have to shop (as opposed to those for whom I shopped while with my wife) remains at four: my godson, my mother, my father, and the aforementioned wife.
Usually I take pride in doing the opposite of what is expected or taking the road less traveled. Some examples might be listening to rap as a white kid in 1984 (it was like me and the Beastie Boys back then, in terms of listening), or rocking to deep alternative music in the 80s. Yet at the same time, I did not have the wigger talk or clothes, nor did I shave my head, grow a mohawk or take on tattoos or piercings.
I still humor myself when I am in a riding in my car with a suit on and calmly listening to System of a Down or some other tremendously hard metal.
It goes a step further with taking the road less traveled. I simply do not like to take the popular route, thinking I have found some special treasure in a back road or a radio station like the deposed WLIR/WDRE (it was a big deal to be a cult follower of the Long Island station and being a New Jersey resident).
Let's circle back to the original point. I actually am going the popular route with regard to Christmas and waiting until the last second to shop. Yet at the same time, I love to go out and buy the gifts (not just leave it up to my wife) because I want to put some thought into it. I also like being able to shop quickly while the rest of the world struggles in the quest for expedience.
What appears to be a totally selfless act is, in reality, the exact opposite. It is an ego boost to unexpectedly give someone something they love and enjoy. Why not take the nice-guy credit if they're offering it? Sure, it's better to give than to receive.
It is most noble, however, to be able to accept a gift and find the appreciation in it. That is why I rarely fret when someone wants to pick up the tab; I'm flattered and honored to accept it when someone thinks I am worth it.
Then it becomes cool to pay it forward. A karma thing, I suppose.
At Christmastime, I am trying parlay the karma thing to set up the girl who cuts my hair with one of my former charges and friends. Someone was accusing me of playing matchmaker, and I do not see that as a negative. When you know two people you think might hit it off, it's just like a networking relationship -- hooking up people with common interests.
In this case, both are great sports fans, Irish and seem cut from the same cloth in terms of outlook. She says she hates to go to football games so early (meaning 1 o'clock kickoffs) because it does not give her enough recovery time from the late night out before. While he might not worry as much about popping open a beer at 9:46 a.m. in a frigid parking lot, I see their common ground as this: Why would you want to go to a football game without tailgating?
I like tailgating, but for me, the game is more important. I almost never imbibe when I am out there, certainly not to the inebriation point. Additionally, when my wife and I go to a sporting event, rarely do we tailgate. Thus is the basis for a wonderful relationship.
My better half also does a lot of other things to "complete" me, as Jerry Maguire would say. One came tonight, when she helped me put the (for now) finishing touches on my revamped resume. I need a resume to help me get more jobs, or at least a single job.
Right now I have forged back into sportswriting. You can catch me at Jets-Patriots this Sunday at the Meadowlands. My un-retirement came Dec. 4, when I covered a Nets-Hawks game. It was nice to get a taste of sports again, and the money will not hurt, either. I even have links to the stories on my resume and in this blog.
The next thing on which to work is a personal web site on which I can house live samples of my work and my resume. I just hope I am not pigeon-holing myself back into sports and scaring away those who think writing about other things is too boring that I would lose interest and not do a good job. (For more on pigeons, check out this and that)
Even the eternal optimist gains a modicum of pessimism after reaching 35. At least I have time to write a blog, no matter how long the layoff or how few fans will hit the page.
Just doing a guy thing. Is that a bad thing?
Friday, November 12, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, November 05, 2004
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.
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.
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