There is a bakery restaurant near my house on the fancy side of town – what I think in Paris, they would call a Patisserie – it is a local’s hangout for all the wealthy folks who live in the area. I go there a lot because the atmosphere is very nice and the coffee is very good. Unfortunately for me, their pastries are also very good, and I’ve always had a weakness for pastries, so it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure.
It’s definitely a place that gets under ones skin though because I see the same people there all the time. The older guy who is slightly embarrassed by his much younger, free-spirited Chinese wife; the crossword lady with her giant dictionary; my mailman, who always downs about 10 cups of coffee before he goes to work, making me wonder about when he will go off the deep end and if it will be in my front yard.
There is a group of widows and widowers who gather there every day and shoot the shit over breakfast. They seem to have a lot of fun with each other, even when they are bemoaning the tribulations of old age, and I hope I can be part of a group like that when I am a senior. There is also a sprinkling of fastidious older bachelors that appear to give me the eye, as though they would like nothing more than for a fat, burly doofus to smack them around a bit. The key is to never meet their gaze.
The Jesus Men trickle in and take over a small room in the back. They are all somewhat grim looking middle aged men clutching dog-eared bibles who gather to have long free-wheeling conversations about the good book. They pore over every incident, debating what God or Jesus may have meant when they said this or did that and how they can apply these lessons to their own lives. As often as not, their discourses lead to some pretty bizarre conclusions, but they are trying to better themselves, so I give them props for that.
In the midst of all this, the ladies that run the show buzz around like bees, making cakes and cookies and pies. There is a beautiful Mexican girl who works behind the counter and takes my order every time I go there. She is always late for work, her boyfriend hurriedly dropping her off in his beat-up pickup truck, but her tardiness is tolerated, I think, because she is so god damn beautiful. She is one of those girls with no idea how lovely she is and that just makes her loveliness all the more striking. She is nice and friendly, even when the haughty society dames come in demanding immediate attention and asking to speak to the manager, and she doesn’t get mad when I slosh coffee all over the floor.
The stoic old German guy who owns the place stands in the open kitchen and stares grimly out into space. Even though he doesn’t say much and only moves to heat up the occasional quiche, he is the man who sets the mood in this place. He is responsible for the constant, quiet tinkle of classical music and the fussy but cozy atmosphere. He reminds me of my old art teacher – a European who manages to bring a sense of Europe with him wherever he goes.
I sit like a lump in the same spot every time I go there; right by the patio door where the morning breeze is chilly on my legs. I drink my coffee and eat my apple cinnamon roll and read my book and for a brief little period, I feel a sense of peace and contentment that is a kind of bliss. And even though I know that both the coffee and the cinnamon roll are bad for me, they can’t be so bad if they make me feel this good.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Hot to Trot
Summer has lingered too long this year. Out, out, damn summer, the dog days are over, the dogs are dead, their brains fried to a crisp by your monotonous and stultifying heat. Would that we had some weather; a tornado at least would be a change of pace.
Work continues to consume my every waking hour, leaving me dead in the head for anything else. Creative opportunities abound but I find that I am too sapped and only seem to have energy to watch idiotic TV programs. Recently, during a rare moment of commiseration with my fellow workers, I was comforted somewhat by the fact that they all feel the same way.
The people that run the show make a great fuss over telling us that the quality of our lives is important and that we should make time for personal endeavors. But then, again only recently, they’ve cut staff and continue to pile on the work. We were so busy this time; we didn’t even know cutbacks were coming until after the fact. But once again, I was thanking my lucky stars that it was someone else instead of me, and there I was, Winston Smith in the Ministry of Love with the rat cage strapped to my face, screaming ‘Do it to Her!’… Really is this any kind of life?
And of course I play the game because it is the only game in town. To know that the game is rigged and wrong and morally corrupt just makes one more miserable, I suspect, and so, since there appears to be no courage left to DO anything about it, I just continue to work on accepting my fate and building my little microcosm around myself as best I can.
I’ve written about this before, many times, and I don’t mean to drag it out again, because I don’t have anything illuminating or constructive to say about it. It just becomes an exercise to remind myself to suck it up and learn to cope. Relative happiness, at least, is achievable, but it takes effort to muster and I must learn to keep some energy in reserve.
And so I wait for the leaves to turn and the temperature to drop and the air to be filled with wood smoke once again. Fall needs to hurry up and fall, so say I. As the man says, when it’s hot I feel hot and when it’s not, I feel ambitious…
Work continues to consume my every waking hour, leaving me dead in the head for anything else. Creative opportunities abound but I find that I am too sapped and only seem to have energy to watch idiotic TV programs. Recently, during a rare moment of commiseration with my fellow workers, I was comforted somewhat by the fact that they all feel the same way.
The people that run the show make a great fuss over telling us that the quality of our lives is important and that we should make time for personal endeavors. But then, again only recently, they’ve cut staff and continue to pile on the work. We were so busy this time; we didn’t even know cutbacks were coming until after the fact. But once again, I was thanking my lucky stars that it was someone else instead of me, and there I was, Winston Smith in the Ministry of Love with the rat cage strapped to my face, screaming ‘Do it to Her!’… Really is this any kind of life?
And of course I play the game because it is the only game in town. To know that the game is rigged and wrong and morally corrupt just makes one more miserable, I suspect, and so, since there appears to be no courage left to DO anything about it, I just continue to work on accepting my fate and building my little microcosm around myself as best I can.
I’ve written about this before, many times, and I don’t mean to drag it out again, because I don’t have anything illuminating or constructive to say about it. It just becomes an exercise to remind myself to suck it up and learn to cope. Relative happiness, at least, is achievable, but it takes effort to muster and I must learn to keep some energy in reserve.
And so I wait for the leaves to turn and the temperature to drop and the air to be filled with wood smoke once again. Fall needs to hurry up and fall, so say I. As the man says, when it’s hot I feel hot and when it’s not, I feel ambitious…
A Little Cranky
Tonight I watched a movie called ‘Crank: High Voltage’ and I have to say it was really something. On paper, it is the sequel to ‘Crank’, a blitzkrieg remake of the Noir classic ‘D.O.A.’, but in execution, it is an utterly insane piece of celluloid.
From the get-go, and this flick wastes no time getting going, the sheer absurdity of the plot appears to be ample reason to construct a hyperkinetic, comic book flow to the narrative where anything can happen and usually does. One character suffers from ‘Full Body Turrets’ syndrome, where he is suddenly overwhelmed with violent, uncontrollable spasms and that is a perfect metaphor for the visual style of this movie. Just as I was saying ‘Oh my fucking God, that is the craziest thing I’ve ever fucking seen!’, I was assaulted with another scene even crazier.
What makes this movie work is that it is so gleefully self-aware that it becomes a wall-to-wall celebration of genre film making at the same time that it’s ratcheting everything up to extreme levels. There is even a scene where the characters become giant monsters and do battle Godzilla-style. It’s like a Godard film on Crystal Meth.
There’s definitely something that has been building for the last several years – from the crazy-ass world of Japanese cinema and that psychotic bastard Takashi Miike to the reverential Grindhouse work of directors like Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, it seems as if we are entering another golden age of Exploitation cinema. Movies like ‘Sukyaki Western Django’ and ‘Shoot ‘Em Up’ are both self referential and fiercely original takes on genre staples, the likes of which we haven’t see since the 60’s. It’s a grand time to be a film fan.
I think there is room for one more Crank movie to make up the inevitable trilogy and it can only be called ‘Crank 3: Crankenstein’, especially given the state of Chev at the end of this last movie. Maybe this time he can run around exposing himself to extreme cold or something. The only problem is that this movie would have to be so completely bug-nuts that it would probably throw people into seizures just watching it.
From the get-go, and this flick wastes no time getting going, the sheer absurdity of the plot appears to be ample reason to construct a hyperkinetic, comic book flow to the narrative where anything can happen and usually does. One character suffers from ‘Full Body Turrets’ syndrome, where he is suddenly overwhelmed with violent, uncontrollable spasms and that is a perfect metaphor for the visual style of this movie. Just as I was saying ‘Oh my fucking God, that is the craziest thing I’ve ever fucking seen!’, I was assaulted with another scene even crazier.
What makes this movie work is that it is so gleefully self-aware that it becomes a wall-to-wall celebration of genre film making at the same time that it’s ratcheting everything up to extreme levels. There is even a scene where the characters become giant monsters and do battle Godzilla-style. It’s like a Godard film on Crystal Meth.
There’s definitely something that has been building for the last several years – from the crazy-ass world of Japanese cinema and that psychotic bastard Takashi Miike to the reverential Grindhouse work of directors like Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, it seems as if we are entering another golden age of Exploitation cinema. Movies like ‘Sukyaki Western Django’ and ‘Shoot ‘Em Up’ are both self referential and fiercely original takes on genre staples, the likes of which we haven’t see since the 60’s. It’s a grand time to be a film fan.
I think there is room for one more Crank movie to make up the inevitable trilogy and it can only be called ‘Crank 3: Crankenstein’, especially given the state of Chev at the end of this last movie. Maybe this time he can run around exposing himself to extreme cold or something. The only problem is that this movie would have to be so completely bug-nuts that it would probably throw people into seizures just watching it.
Monday, September 07, 2009
A Day in the Life
I wonder sometimes, if I would write in this blog more if I concerned myself less with making grand expository statements and simply recorded whatever unfolds in a day, as so many other people do. Some people use their blogs to chart the progress of their lofty goals, none of which I seem to have at the moment, and others just natter on about life and living. To be honest, I don’t seem to do much of that either these days…
Yesterday, I cleaned the garage and found two dead rats. The first was plump and fresh and looked like he had just keeled over from a little rat heart attack. After disposing of him, I found the second, a foul smelling mass of fur and guts that had apparently been around long enough to disintegrate on me. I wondered if I had left it long enough, would it have finally turned to nothing; ashes to ashes and all that.
If I had been a true artist, I suppose I should have taken pictures of the rats for future use, but death is not something I particularly enjoy or consider as a fertile field of artistic expression. I will say though that I got a terrific song title out of it – “Two Dead Rats but Only One is Decomposed”. So that is something.
Afterwards, I took a pile of trash to the dump. The man in the dark glass booth took my money and then started peppering me with questions about my car. He had wanted to buy a car like mine, but his wife had insisted on a Ford Escort. He didn’t like the Ford Escort because it was too fancy and not utilitarian enough. He went on and on, this disembodied voice behind the smoked glass. “Well maybe when you’re ready for your next car…” I politely tried to extricate myself. “Next car, hell…” he said, “My wife just left me and she took the Ford Escort with her. Now I can get whatever I want.”
He was still talking when I finally drove away. I assumed the wounds were still so fresh that he was pouring his heart out to anyone who would listen. People going to the dump tend to be a bit single minded though. You just want to drop your load and go. Still, the thought that the poor lonely man in the dark glass booth who weighs people’s garbage all day has problems of his own can make one appreciate how connected we all are.
I celebrated my successful trip to the dump by having a cheese burger and a root beer for lunch and then I went to one of those ‘International Import’ stores to find a few accessories. I’ve been slowly remodeling my living room and had recently found a great leather couch with a great funky leather smell that has me constantly craving a cigar and a glass of scotch. I thought I would purchase some kind of potpourri thing to cut the smell a bit, or at least make it more exotic.
There was a huge tower of incense, oils and candles in the middle of the store, surrounded by clutches of women and gay men. No matter how long I waited, the crowd never seemed to dissipate. I finally muscled my way into the throng, only to be overwhelmed by the choices before me. There were bottles of old shells to make ones house smell like a rotten beach, and packets of spiced fruit and endless combinations of dips and dies and delirium and it was all too much for my simple male brain to process.
I finally settled on a glass jar of beads and berries that was supposed to make my house smell like an Indonesian barn or something like that. It seems to be doing the trick, mellowing the funk of the leather enough that I no longer crave a cigar and glass of scotch so much as a pipe load of Opium and some nice Guava juice.
I ended my most productive day drinking a few beers and watching an excellent western by Delmer Daves, ‘The Last Wagon’, in which Richard Widmark plays ‘Comanche Todd’, an outlaw on the run who suddenly finds himself taking care of a group of pioneer youngsters who are being hunted by the Apaches. It’s one of those slow burning character movies that Delmer does so well.
After that, I fell asleep in my chair and had strange dreams of gay Indonesian rats arguing over what type of incense to buy and wondering if they had any that smelled like cheeseburgers.
And so my day was done…
Yesterday, I cleaned the garage and found two dead rats. The first was plump and fresh and looked like he had just keeled over from a little rat heart attack. After disposing of him, I found the second, a foul smelling mass of fur and guts that had apparently been around long enough to disintegrate on me. I wondered if I had left it long enough, would it have finally turned to nothing; ashes to ashes and all that.
If I had been a true artist, I suppose I should have taken pictures of the rats for future use, but death is not something I particularly enjoy or consider as a fertile field of artistic expression. I will say though that I got a terrific song title out of it – “Two Dead Rats but Only One is Decomposed”. So that is something.
Afterwards, I took a pile of trash to the dump. The man in the dark glass booth took my money and then started peppering me with questions about my car. He had wanted to buy a car like mine, but his wife had insisted on a Ford Escort. He didn’t like the Ford Escort because it was too fancy and not utilitarian enough. He went on and on, this disembodied voice behind the smoked glass. “Well maybe when you’re ready for your next car…” I politely tried to extricate myself. “Next car, hell…” he said, “My wife just left me and she took the Ford Escort with her. Now I can get whatever I want.”
He was still talking when I finally drove away. I assumed the wounds were still so fresh that he was pouring his heart out to anyone who would listen. People going to the dump tend to be a bit single minded though. You just want to drop your load and go. Still, the thought that the poor lonely man in the dark glass booth who weighs people’s garbage all day has problems of his own can make one appreciate how connected we all are.
I celebrated my successful trip to the dump by having a cheese burger and a root beer for lunch and then I went to one of those ‘International Import’ stores to find a few accessories. I’ve been slowly remodeling my living room and had recently found a great leather couch with a great funky leather smell that has me constantly craving a cigar and a glass of scotch. I thought I would purchase some kind of potpourri thing to cut the smell a bit, or at least make it more exotic.
There was a huge tower of incense, oils and candles in the middle of the store, surrounded by clutches of women and gay men. No matter how long I waited, the crowd never seemed to dissipate. I finally muscled my way into the throng, only to be overwhelmed by the choices before me. There were bottles of old shells to make ones house smell like a rotten beach, and packets of spiced fruit and endless combinations of dips and dies and delirium and it was all too much for my simple male brain to process.
I finally settled on a glass jar of beads and berries that was supposed to make my house smell like an Indonesian barn or something like that. It seems to be doing the trick, mellowing the funk of the leather enough that I no longer crave a cigar and glass of scotch so much as a pipe load of Opium and some nice Guava juice.
I ended my most productive day drinking a few beers and watching an excellent western by Delmer Daves, ‘The Last Wagon’, in which Richard Widmark plays ‘Comanche Todd’, an outlaw on the run who suddenly finds himself taking care of a group of pioneer youngsters who are being hunted by the Apaches. It’s one of those slow burning character movies that Delmer does so well.
After that, I fell asleep in my chair and had strange dreams of gay Indonesian rats arguing over what type of incense to buy and wondering if they had any that smelled like cheeseburgers.
And so my day was done…
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Dog Days
As usual, the end of summer finds me damned up creatively and dead above the neck in general. I even went so far as to try reading one of those ‘Creative Inspiration’ books, forgetting again how terrible those books are and how little they have to do with creativity.
Sure enough, this one was aimed at women, as they all are, and was all about learning to ‘cope’ through discovering your inner artistic spirit, and this inner artistic spirit is always brought forth by doing life-affirming exercises like making a list of all the animals you would like to be, if you could be an animal, and how those animals might deal with a deadbeat husband, a dead end job and the general emotional emptiness of life. I doubt seriously if Picasso ever took this course on his path to creative freedom.
The only good thing about the book was that included a quote from the diaries of Anais Nin. I remembered seeing copies of her diaries lying around my dad’s study when I was a kid and had read enough of her dirty stories to know she could really write, so I picked up the first volume of diaries and plunged right in.
I forget occasionally how extraordinarily enriching it can be to read good literature, and how it opens the mind to all manner of thoughts and ideas. I get so lazy with my internet and TV DV-R, idiot diversions all that simply suck me dry without giving anything back. Being fat and lazy by nature, these types of idylls do not help improve my situation one whit.
Anais Nin writes elegantly and eloquently about her inner and outer lives, living in Paris in the early 1930’s. Her primary companions, and the subjects of much of her writing, are Henry Miller and his lover, June. I read somewhere that it is good to read Miller’s Tropic of Cancer at the same time I am reading this first volume of Nin’s diaries because it covers roughly the same period. This has turned out to be an excellent suggestion.
Both Nin and Miller are obsessed with June, a voluptuous and flighty creature of love and drama and fantasy, and it is really interesting to see how they struggle to capture her in their writings. Miller wants to conquer her utterly and is exasperated by those parts of her that he cannot reach or even begin to understand. Nin says that she, like all women, is made up of a certain amount of chaos, and that this chaos must simply be accepted and not understood, but appreciated. The whole thing is very enlightening to me, especially given my bent for chaotic women and my ultimate doom in demanding to understand them.
In the Miller book, the guy who wrote the preface goes on about the concept of ‘Personal Democracy’ as perpetuated by a Psychiatrist Philosopher named Wilhelm Reich. Basically, it is okay not to pay attention to the news of the day or politics or any of that big society stuff because it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s all about adopting a personal philosophy of ethics, morality and democracy. This appeals to my own sense of personal responsibility and helps me to understand why, when I look out at the way the world works, it all seems so very mad to me.
And all of this rambling is just my way of reminding myself and celebrating how reading a few good books can get the old mind working and perking with ideas again. I convince myself that it is hard to make time to indulge in this most worthy exercise, but I do find time for all the more destructive things I like to do, so it can be managed and the benefit is obviously pretty great.
Happy Labor Day. End of Summer – R.I.P.
Sure enough, this one was aimed at women, as they all are, and was all about learning to ‘cope’ through discovering your inner artistic spirit, and this inner artistic spirit is always brought forth by doing life-affirming exercises like making a list of all the animals you would like to be, if you could be an animal, and how those animals might deal with a deadbeat husband, a dead end job and the general emotional emptiness of life. I doubt seriously if Picasso ever took this course on his path to creative freedom.
The only good thing about the book was that included a quote from the diaries of Anais Nin. I remembered seeing copies of her diaries lying around my dad’s study when I was a kid and had read enough of her dirty stories to know she could really write, so I picked up the first volume of diaries and plunged right in.
I forget occasionally how extraordinarily enriching it can be to read good literature, and how it opens the mind to all manner of thoughts and ideas. I get so lazy with my internet and TV DV-R, idiot diversions all that simply suck me dry without giving anything back. Being fat and lazy by nature, these types of idylls do not help improve my situation one whit.
Anais Nin writes elegantly and eloquently about her inner and outer lives, living in Paris in the early 1930’s. Her primary companions, and the subjects of much of her writing, are Henry Miller and his lover, June. I read somewhere that it is good to read Miller’s Tropic of Cancer at the same time I am reading this first volume of Nin’s diaries because it covers roughly the same period. This has turned out to be an excellent suggestion.
Both Nin and Miller are obsessed with June, a voluptuous and flighty creature of love and drama and fantasy, and it is really interesting to see how they struggle to capture her in their writings. Miller wants to conquer her utterly and is exasperated by those parts of her that he cannot reach or even begin to understand. Nin says that she, like all women, is made up of a certain amount of chaos, and that this chaos must simply be accepted and not understood, but appreciated. The whole thing is very enlightening to me, especially given my bent for chaotic women and my ultimate doom in demanding to understand them.
In the Miller book, the guy who wrote the preface goes on about the concept of ‘Personal Democracy’ as perpetuated by a Psychiatrist Philosopher named Wilhelm Reich. Basically, it is okay not to pay attention to the news of the day or politics or any of that big society stuff because it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s all about adopting a personal philosophy of ethics, morality and democracy. This appeals to my own sense of personal responsibility and helps me to understand why, when I look out at the way the world works, it all seems so very mad to me.
And all of this rambling is just my way of reminding myself and celebrating how reading a few good books can get the old mind working and perking with ideas again. I convince myself that it is hard to make time to indulge in this most worthy exercise, but I do find time for all the more destructive things I like to do, so it can be managed and the benefit is obviously pretty great.
Happy Labor Day. End of Summer – R.I.P.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Dietribe: Day One
One should be careful about entering into a new diet with a lot of fanfare. There is the tendency to want to build up to the event by taking a ‘Last Supper’ mentality and bingeing on all of the things that aren’t going to be allowed once the diet begins; the cheese burgers, the pizza, the ice cream – all those things that make life worth living.
Someone even wrote a whole book about the Last Supper effect, how it creates a mindset such that the dieter convinces themselves that they must maintain a level of utter perfection once they are firmly ensconced on the ‘diet express’ and if they don’t, the minute they fall off that wagon, they console themselves by indulging again in all those comforting, life-affirming foods and the Last Supper mentality perpetuates itself again and again.
And all of this is largely true but I still hate it when these diet authors categorize and co-opt our weaknesses and use them to exploit us, our hopes and dreams, in trying to convince us that they have all the answers and that theirs is the ultimate solution that will finally make us thin and beautiful with a modicum of effort. Remember that two thirds of every diet book is about why OTHER diets don’t work. It’s one of the biggest (and most successful) rackets around.
My attempts to get with the program have sort of sputtered along – I knew what I wanted to try and do and why I wanted to do it. The desire has been there for some time, not to be young and beautiful; I’m too old, fat and ugly for that dream anymore, but just to be healthy so that I could live my life with some sense of quality again. Finally, the desire grew strong enough so as to (at least initially) overcome my cravings and weaknesses, and so the bold experiment could begin again.
Yesterday was a perfect day, and that’s pretty much the key. I did everything I wanted to do, that I felt I NEEDED to do, and, more importantly, avoided all of the things that I knew I shouldn’t do. Yes, it was just one lousy day, but that’s the way the game is played. Conquer one day at a time, string enough days together, and perhaps I can reach my goal. If I don’t make a big deal out of it; if I don’t go around bragging to everyone that I’m ‘on a diet’, then it’s that much easier, when I inevitably do have those imperfect days, to just quietly get back on the program.
And I did choose to DO a diet. I can’t just alter my ‘lifestyle’ and hope that I will naturally lose the pounds. Drastic situations call for drastic measures – I need to lose some WEIGHT and so, for an extended period of time, I need to be hyper conscious of what I eat, get more exercise, etc. Hopefully, I can carry over these good practices into my every day life on a permanent basis, but I’m going to suffer a little for awhile and I shouldn’t try to convince myself that it’s going to be painless.
I’ve reached back to an old favorite, the ‘Diamond Diet’, also known as Fit for Life – it’s very regimented about what one can eat and when, but it seems to make sense and is something that I think I could use as a general way of living even after I’ve lost the weight. The diet itself consists mostly of eating a lot of fruits and vegetables and combining other foods in such a way that the body can digest them more easily. It’s been around since the 70’s and has served as the basis for a lot of the modern ‘prepared meal’ diets, such a Nutrisystem, etc. that are so gosh darn popular.
But it doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you do it. It is so easy these days to see nothing but an army of fat people everywhere you look. Being fat is becoming the norm. Even poor people are fat; spending their Sundays after church, gorging themselves at the All-You-Can-Eat buffet. Hell, we’ve become an All-You Can-Eat, swallow your stress culture. I feel like the world is catching up with me and I’ve never wanted to fit in as it is. When the whole world is getting fatter, it’s time for me to lose some damn weight just out of sheer orneriness.
Ah but it’s only been one day. A perfect day, but only one. Even with my sputtering and stuttering, I’ve lost four pounds and that’s encouraging. But, alas, such a long way to go and so many challenges ahead. I suppose, dear reader that you can expect a fair amount of whining in the entries ahead, but I’ve got to get through this somehow. This isn’t a blog so much as it is a coping mechanism.
Let the battle begin anew.
Someone even wrote a whole book about the Last Supper effect, how it creates a mindset such that the dieter convinces themselves that they must maintain a level of utter perfection once they are firmly ensconced on the ‘diet express’ and if they don’t, the minute they fall off that wagon, they console themselves by indulging again in all those comforting, life-affirming foods and the Last Supper mentality perpetuates itself again and again.
And all of this is largely true but I still hate it when these diet authors categorize and co-opt our weaknesses and use them to exploit us, our hopes and dreams, in trying to convince us that they have all the answers and that theirs is the ultimate solution that will finally make us thin and beautiful with a modicum of effort. Remember that two thirds of every diet book is about why OTHER diets don’t work. It’s one of the biggest (and most successful) rackets around.
My attempts to get with the program have sort of sputtered along – I knew what I wanted to try and do and why I wanted to do it. The desire has been there for some time, not to be young and beautiful; I’m too old, fat and ugly for that dream anymore, but just to be healthy so that I could live my life with some sense of quality again. Finally, the desire grew strong enough so as to (at least initially) overcome my cravings and weaknesses, and so the bold experiment could begin again.
Yesterday was a perfect day, and that’s pretty much the key. I did everything I wanted to do, that I felt I NEEDED to do, and, more importantly, avoided all of the things that I knew I shouldn’t do. Yes, it was just one lousy day, but that’s the way the game is played. Conquer one day at a time, string enough days together, and perhaps I can reach my goal. If I don’t make a big deal out of it; if I don’t go around bragging to everyone that I’m ‘on a diet’, then it’s that much easier, when I inevitably do have those imperfect days, to just quietly get back on the program.
And I did choose to DO a diet. I can’t just alter my ‘lifestyle’ and hope that I will naturally lose the pounds. Drastic situations call for drastic measures – I need to lose some WEIGHT and so, for an extended period of time, I need to be hyper conscious of what I eat, get more exercise, etc. Hopefully, I can carry over these good practices into my every day life on a permanent basis, but I’m going to suffer a little for awhile and I shouldn’t try to convince myself that it’s going to be painless.
I’ve reached back to an old favorite, the ‘Diamond Diet’, also known as Fit for Life – it’s very regimented about what one can eat and when, but it seems to make sense and is something that I think I could use as a general way of living even after I’ve lost the weight. The diet itself consists mostly of eating a lot of fruits and vegetables and combining other foods in such a way that the body can digest them more easily. It’s been around since the 70’s and has served as the basis for a lot of the modern ‘prepared meal’ diets, such a Nutrisystem, etc. that are so gosh darn popular.
But it doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you do it. It is so easy these days to see nothing but an army of fat people everywhere you look. Being fat is becoming the norm. Even poor people are fat; spending their Sundays after church, gorging themselves at the All-You-Can-Eat buffet. Hell, we’ve become an All-You Can-Eat, swallow your stress culture. I feel like the world is catching up with me and I’ve never wanted to fit in as it is. When the whole world is getting fatter, it’s time for me to lose some damn weight just out of sheer orneriness.
Ah but it’s only been one day. A perfect day, but only one. Even with my sputtering and stuttering, I’ve lost four pounds and that’s encouraging. But, alas, such a long way to go and so many challenges ahead. I suppose, dear reader that you can expect a fair amount of whining in the entries ahead, but I’ve got to get through this somehow. This isn’t a blog so much as it is a coping mechanism.
Let the battle begin anew.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
A Big Boys Life
Every year for the past 15 years, my friends and I gather in the mountains for a few days of swimming, eating, laughing and drinking. This has become a very important tradition for me, mostly because I have the most wonderful friends in the world - every single one of them is interesting, funny, intelligent, thoughful, honest, honorable and highly ethical. Not only is it pure joy simply to revel in their company, but having them as friends has made me a better person.I realized this year though that this tradition has become a serious mark in the passing of time. As each of my friends lives their lives to the fullest and takes on the ravages of old age with commitments to healthy living and exercise, I seem to show up each year even fatter and lazier than the last. This year, I could barely walk a quarter of a mile without feeling like I was going to die. I even spent the first few days anxiously hoping my one friend would bring my 'big boy' chair that I had forgotten on a previous trip because it was the only thing I could sit on that would support me.
I've written about how hard it is for the big man to camp in general and no one wants to hear someone whine about their maladies when they aren't actively doing something about them. I did come home full of resolve to finally DO something about all this weight I am carrying, that is making me so miserable. And I am finding out just how hard it is and how entrenched my bad habits are. I understand everything I need to do, but to remain consistently engaged in those activities is by far the hardest thing I've ever done and it just gets harder the older I get.
People don't understand why a fat man gets fat or stays fat, including the fat man himself. It just sort of sneaks up on you if you're predisposed to it and before you know it, it's a problem that is very hard to deal with. It takes a willpower and determination that can be very hard to muster, given that the condition of fatness itself is fighting against those very things and encouraging you to indulge and lay around. Fatness is like an invader and it doesn't want to leave, once it finds a home.
But I will not give up. I will not acquiesce and buy a hover chair or start wiping my ass with a towel on a stick. I would very much like to be a different person when I show up at the camp site next year. One who can engage with and enjoy his friends on every level and not just some giant blob in a groaning canvas chair wondering when my heart is finally going to explode.
There is nothing for me but to do it and daylight, most definitely, is burning...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Salsa Diaries: Stolen Apple Salsa
Since I'm technically on vacation this week and about to head into the woods, I figured I could get away with plucking something from the archives - my first 'Salsa Diaries' entry - a little bitter, but useful nonetheless...
A quick search on the Internet for ‘Apple Salsa’ yielded the following recipe: 4 Tart Apples
1/2 cup lime juice2 Jalapenos seeded
2 Anaheims seeded
1 medium onion
3 tbl cilantro
3 1/2 tbl ginger
1/2 tsp salt1 cup toasted walnuts
Since the goal was to create something relatively safe and tame for the God Damn Christmas party, I figured a nice, mellow fruit salsa would be the way to go. The very fact that I was worrying about what to bring to the God Damn Christmas party is a whole other subject because, with a few exceptions, the people I work with aren’t necessarily people I enjoy being around. Most of them don’t even talk to me unless they want something, and while I know part of this is my own paranoia, I also know that part of it isn’t. I don’t have a family, I don’t golf, I don’t watch football on TV, I don’t fit in, so straining to find something to talk about with these people besides work, which is the only thing we have in common, can be very taxing and I’d just as soon avoid the whole thing. But some of the gals that I do like kind of shamed me into going, so here I am, wondering what kind of salsa to bring.
I ended up following the recipe almost exactly and found the result to be pretty flat. I chose Granny Smith apples because they are known to be tart, but they really didn’t stand up to the onions and peppers very well. An apple salsa should taste like APPLES, after all. Using a purple Spanish onion was probably a bad choice also because it has such a strong flavor, but I had already made the concession of taking all of the seeds out of my peppers, something I never do, just so this damn salsa would be more palatable to these damn white people, so there was only so much farther that I was willing to go.
I decided that, if I ever tried to make this salsa again, I would use a crisp sweet apple like a Brae Burn or a Fuji, but here I was committed so I added another Granny Smith and another knuckle of ginger. I also had had the foresight to purchase some nice plump Tomatillos, just in case, and sure enough, they were just the thing to mellow the peppers and onions and add some much needed liquid. I’m just beginning my exploration of salsas, but it seems to me you have to have a fair amount of liquid in them or the ingredients don’t mingle properly. It’s like having a party where everyone is aloof and keeps to themselves; things tend to die out pretty quickly. You’ve got to start pouring shots and get everyone’s juices flowing.
Another nice touch was suggested by my roommate, who just happened to have a bottle of unfiltered apple juice sitting around. A splash of cider was just the perfect element to tie everything together and add that much needed element of sweetness.
Another thing I would change if I make this again though is to leave the walnuts out entirely. Walnuts can elevate a salad to grand heights of gastronomic goodness, but they muddied up the texture of my salsa something fierce , and that’s a big turn-off. I think a small handful of raisins and perhaps a sprinkling of Mexican cinnamon would have worked much better instead.
In spite of everything, the final result tasted pretty good and I deemed it acceptable for general consumption. I dutifully dropped it off at the God Damn Christmas party and the general response was ‘What is THAT?!?!’ I guess chips & salsa is not something that is served at a Christmas party, but the few people who did try it said they liked it, much the way they tell their children that their psychotic crayon drawings are ‘wonderful’. After the party, I was very matter-of-factly (and more than a little dismissively) handed back my container of salsa and encouraged to take it home immediately. Next year, I swear to God, I’m just going to buy a bag of dinner rolls, like the other guys did, if I even go at all.
I’ve since had the salsa with barbecued pork chops and mixed into a hot corn salad and it was pretty tasty. Not as spicy as I would have made it for myself, but I think with the following modifications, this would make a damn fine and versatile condiment:
Holer's Stolen Apple Salsa2-3 Sweet Apples (depending on how sweet you want it)
1/4 cup lime juice
1 good sized Jalapeno Pepper seeds and all (2 if you’re an absolute maniac)1 big Anaheim Pepper, again mit seeds(Leave the seeds in the peppers - Let the sweetness do battle with the heat; One of the great culinary struggles in my opinion.)
1/2 a medium purple Spanish onion (Strong flavor to hold up to the sweetness of the apple)
1 1/2 tbl CilantroSmall handful or raisins, currants or even dried cranberries - coarsely choppedSprinkle of cinnamon (Mexican cinnamon is best, but I'm biased)
2-3 plump ripe tomatillos (Add two, then taste – the tomatillos will help control the heat)
1 1/2 - 2 tbls ginger to tasteSplash of unfiltered apple juice (borrowed or stolen preferred, but not necessary)
Salt to taste
A quick search on the Internet for ‘Apple Salsa’ yielded the following recipe: 4 Tart Apples
1/2 cup lime juice2 Jalapenos seeded
2 Anaheims seeded
1 medium onion
3 tbl cilantro
3 1/2 tbl ginger
1/2 tsp salt1 cup toasted walnuts
Since the goal was to create something relatively safe and tame for the God Damn Christmas party, I figured a nice, mellow fruit salsa would be the way to go. The very fact that I was worrying about what to bring to the God Damn Christmas party is a whole other subject because, with a few exceptions, the people I work with aren’t necessarily people I enjoy being around. Most of them don’t even talk to me unless they want something, and while I know part of this is my own paranoia, I also know that part of it isn’t. I don’t have a family, I don’t golf, I don’t watch football on TV, I don’t fit in, so straining to find something to talk about with these people besides work, which is the only thing we have in common, can be very taxing and I’d just as soon avoid the whole thing. But some of the gals that I do like kind of shamed me into going, so here I am, wondering what kind of salsa to bring.
I ended up following the recipe almost exactly and found the result to be pretty flat. I chose Granny Smith apples because they are known to be tart, but they really didn’t stand up to the onions and peppers very well. An apple salsa should taste like APPLES, after all. Using a purple Spanish onion was probably a bad choice also because it has such a strong flavor, but I had already made the concession of taking all of the seeds out of my peppers, something I never do, just so this damn salsa would be more palatable to these damn white people, so there was only so much farther that I was willing to go.
I decided that, if I ever tried to make this salsa again, I would use a crisp sweet apple like a Brae Burn or a Fuji, but here I was committed so I added another Granny Smith and another knuckle of ginger. I also had had the foresight to purchase some nice plump Tomatillos, just in case, and sure enough, they were just the thing to mellow the peppers and onions and add some much needed liquid. I’m just beginning my exploration of salsas, but it seems to me you have to have a fair amount of liquid in them or the ingredients don’t mingle properly. It’s like having a party where everyone is aloof and keeps to themselves; things tend to die out pretty quickly. You’ve got to start pouring shots and get everyone’s juices flowing.
Another nice touch was suggested by my roommate, who just happened to have a bottle of unfiltered apple juice sitting around. A splash of cider was just the perfect element to tie everything together and add that much needed element of sweetness.
Another thing I would change if I make this again though is to leave the walnuts out entirely. Walnuts can elevate a salad to grand heights of gastronomic goodness, but they muddied up the texture of my salsa something fierce , and that’s a big turn-off. I think a small handful of raisins and perhaps a sprinkling of Mexican cinnamon would have worked much better instead.
In spite of everything, the final result tasted pretty good and I deemed it acceptable for general consumption. I dutifully dropped it off at the God Damn Christmas party and the general response was ‘What is THAT?!?!’ I guess chips & salsa is not something that is served at a Christmas party, but the few people who did try it said they liked it, much the way they tell their children that their psychotic crayon drawings are ‘wonderful’. After the party, I was very matter-of-factly (and more than a little dismissively) handed back my container of salsa and encouraged to take it home immediately. Next year, I swear to God, I’m just going to buy a bag of dinner rolls, like the other guys did, if I even go at all.
I’ve since had the salsa with barbecued pork chops and mixed into a hot corn salad and it was pretty tasty. Not as spicy as I would have made it for myself, but I think with the following modifications, this would make a damn fine and versatile condiment:
Holer's Stolen Apple Salsa2-3 Sweet Apples (depending on how sweet you want it)
1/4 cup lime juice
1 good sized Jalapeno Pepper seeds and all (2 if you’re an absolute maniac)1 big Anaheim Pepper, again mit seeds(Leave the seeds in the peppers - Let the sweetness do battle with the heat; One of the great culinary struggles in my opinion.)
1/2 a medium purple Spanish onion (Strong flavor to hold up to the sweetness of the apple)
1 1/2 tbl CilantroSmall handful or raisins, currants or even dried cranberries - coarsely choppedSprinkle of cinnamon (Mexican cinnamon is best, but I'm biased)
2-3 plump ripe tomatillos (Add two, then taste – the tomatillos will help control the heat)
1 1/2 - 2 tbls ginger to tasteSplash of unfiltered apple juice (borrowed or stolen preferred, but not necessary)
Salt to taste
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