April 2005 Archives

Yesterday was particularly crappy.

Currently, and ending in a couple weeks, I live a blocks north of the Loop. If you aren't from St. Louis, it's a strip of bars, overpriced furniture stores, and a coffee house catering to Washington University students and the occasional 16 year old West County type.

And I know what you're thinking: "Why is there a Washington University doing in St. Louis"? Look, George Washington was the father of the whole country. He belongs to all of us. So if someone in some fly-over burg wants to name a school after him, it's their right.

Anyway, my street is (often fairly) quiet. Usually the only disturbances have been some dirty hippies playing the accoustic guitar at 12:30 at night. Lately, though, I have noticed some odd traffic patterns on the other side of the street. Like lots of people walking over to one apartment building across the street at odd hours of the night. Or the one where one guy runs up, rings the bell, and disappears into the apartment building while another guy waits in the car. With the engine running.

So that's our mise en scène. The crime rate is way less than Soulard or South Grand (two other neighborhoods), but it's greater than zero, and most people (especially people with drug dealers living across the street) can expect to have their car broken into at some point.

I've never been broken into. The fact that I have a 1990 Toyota Camry ghetto-mobile is a huge crime deterrant. The thing is invisible.

Well, that all came to an end yesterday. Or technically two days ago, but I found out yesterday.

I go out to the car. The thing is unlocked, and there are the contents of the little center console on the driver's seat. And my ipod is gone.

Hang on. That sentence should have more exclaimation points. Or maybe bold face.

My iPod is gone! Marla! They took Marla!!!

Much better.

At first I was pissed off at myself. "How the hell," I thought, "did I leave the doors unlocked? It's a fluid motion. Open the door, lock the doors. I'm always locking passengers into the car, that's how natural the motion is."

It was raining yesterday, as it had been most of the week. So, as the drizzle came down, I heard what sounded like a window open. So I made sure the windows were rolled up. Still there. Then I opened and closed the passenger-side door that the dirtbag must have used at some point. Still there. Then I look back and realize, somehow, that the back passenger side window has been shattered. Like the far back window. The little tiny one that doesn't roll down.

So, while I had some bit of relief that it wasn't entirely my boneheadedness that caused the cruel theft of my beloved Marla, it just made the sense of violation that much more acute.

That and now I have to replace a window.

My esteemed coworker Dave from Highland, IL, rigged up a very nice patch for the window, involving a sheet of aluminum and packing tape. It'll probably take most of the paint off when I remove it, but that's all right. This isn't a car for picking up chicks or impressing people.

The Official "J's Car Gets Broken Into Story" FAQ

Q1: So, why the hell did you leave your iPod in the car in the first place? That was pretty dumb.

A1: Yeah, I know. But look, I've been violated here. Now is not the time to be giving me the whole "You were dressed slutty and asking for it" routine. Give me a day for the outrage to die down. Then call me a dumbass.

Q2: ...

A2: Is that it? No more questions?

Q3: Yeah, I guess so. Man, really sorry to hear it.

A3: Well, I appreciate that. I was so close to getting out of that neighborhood, moving to Shrewsbury, where the people are friendly and (usually) aren't trying to find stuff to pawn to buy meth or crack or whatever. But no. It's like they knew I was moving and hadn't been hit yet. So now was their chance.

Bastards.

***

I went to see Dave Barry last night. Mom had called me saying, "I got tickets. Real good seats. C'mon! You know you want to!"

I hadn't read much Dave Barry in the last, I dunno, 10 years or so, but I knew he was genius. And his Guide to Guys is one of the funniest things I'd ever read. So, while he was someone from the past, I figured A) I don't get out enough, and 2) I need some entertainment. Beats moving boxes, that's for dern sure.

Well, he was very good. Good crowd, although I was the youngest person I saw by about 20 years (seriously). Everyone got into it. Although when he started making fun of Bush, there was some woman a couple rows ahead of me who made a noise that sounded like what a masturbating spider monkey might sound like. I suspect it might have been her version of laughter, although she too might have been masturbating. That was kind of annoying in any case.

I mean, sure his stuff is hit or miss, and seemed to have been more miss than hit around the end. But he's been writing for 30 years. If I write this silly blog for 30 years, I'm sure I could probably pick out an hour's worth of wildly entertaining stuff to talk about. Infinite monkeys with typewriters and all that.

But this isn't to undersell him. Content is only half the deal. Delivery is the other half, and his delivery was marvelous.

I was glad I went in any case. And if Liz ends up reading this some day (highly unlikely), thanks!

So, I'm on my way to work. I'm at a light, waiting for my turn. The windows are cracked in an attempt to replace some of the second-hand smoke with fresh morning air. And in with the morning air wafts... wait, is that the B-52's? And there are three women's voices! There should be just two, Kate and what's-her-name. So, turned to the left, and there is a 50-something black woman in a Kia Sportage, just rockin' out. Singing, dancing (as well as you can really dance while sitting in a bucket seat).

I was trying not to be staring, or worse, laughing and pointing, so I put on my poker face and tried to keep my eyes forward, all the while stealing occasional glances. It was a very odd way to start out the day, and very amusing.

***

So, we've got Muslims in England in an uproar about the evils of democracy and threatening to murder anyone who commits the sin of voting. (Hmm... These kinds of threats seem to ring a bell. Where have I heard that before?)

The biggest irony is that George Freakin' Galloway, of all people gets caught up in it. (Read the story.)

Everyone knows the phrase in the Declaration of Independence, but I don't know that enough people have really thought about what it means:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

These ideas weren't really self-evident at all. In fact, they were phenomenally innovative. Well, maybe not the idea that people are endowed with unalienable rights. That's been around at least since the Greeks. But the "all men are created equal" part. And certainly the rights people were endowed seem fairly controversial

Especially when you hear about people vowing to behead other people for voting. For those people, there's nothing self-evident about it at all.

These are people for whom the term "innovation" in the philosophical sense is considered a Very Bad Thing. All Truth was revealed in its entirety, in the seventh century, after all.

So, how do you go about defending the principles of democracy to people like that? Or do you bother? And if you don't bother, then what? Do you just surrender?

Part of me wants to write the whole thing off by saying, "Woe to Britain, and best of luck with that." But does anyone in this country really know why we believe in democracy? Why we set up the government the way we did?

What would we do if one day we discovered that 10% of the country was not only opposed to self-government, but violently so?

Anyway, it's all got me thinking. What happened to Civics? I thought that was the whole point of public education was to make sure that people learned the ideas behind self-government, why we do the things we do, and how to keep this thing going. Like Sunday School, only instead of catechism, it's about the Republican form of government?

The point is, I think we've been coasting on the fact that the system we have works as well as it does. But if you don't know how or why the system works, there's no way you can defend it. And since I don't know that anyone could defend it any more (myself probably included), the only reason our system hasn't been seriously assaulted is because we've been lucky. So far.

So, first Iraq, now England. And there but for the grace of God go we.

I wish I had something else to say, but I don't. Other than to read The Federalist Papers and hope for the best.

So, this book arrived in the mail today. Freakonomics. I'm only on chapter 1, but already I can tell two things about this book.

#1: Everyone who knows me can expect to get asswhipped relentlessly with factoids from this book. Since it's just chock full of them. Again, I'm only on chapter 1, so I don't have any examples just yet, but brace yourselves.

#2: The introduction makes a persuasive case that Economics at the general level isn't about money. It's about incentives. What they are and how people deal with them. And incentives are what makes the world go round.

That being the case, I'd imagine I'll probably end up reading more about economics when I'm finished with this one. Granted, I already know considerably more than the average bear about economics. Between reading the Wall Street Journal, poking my head in to see what these guys are talking about, and just keeping my ears open at work, I think I've picked up the basics.

(Note: if you really want to know how business works, get a job at a seven person startup. And then pay attention to what the suits are talking about. You'll probably learn more in three months than you would getting a bachelors in management.)

Anyway, I'm going to get back to reading.

Did I mention what a pain in the ass moving is?

If there's any advice I might have to pass on to the youth of tomorrow concerning moving it's this: The first item to bring into a new place is a roll of toilet paper. Like before you move anything else at all.

And, no, there isn't a story behind that. It's just common sense.

Well, I take that back. There's not a story about that from today. I think that story is from a few moves ago. No, I learned my lesson that time, and unlike when I usually learn lessons, I didn't have to relearn it a few times before it really sank in.

So, I tried out the keys, opened the door to the place, and deposited the Charmin in the little boys room. And thus, the moving begins.

A quick aside: whose idea was it to have as a mascot for toilet paper bears in the woods, doing what the proverbial bear does there? They've been running those ads for a few years now, and I'm still not sure where I stand. I know they're cute and all, but whenever I see the cartoon bears, the word "shit" pops into my head. "Oh, look," I say, "it's a bear shitting in the woods."

Don't get me wrong, I use the word "shit" all the time. It's not that I'm a Puritan about these things. Just for some reason, having that word appear in my head in a commercial doesn't seem right.

So, once I get over that, they have the bear doing this really satisfied smile thing, while it's shaking its ass around. Highly disturbing.

Maybe I am a Puritan. I just think that toilet paper ads should have as little to do with the physical act of waste disposal as possible.

On the other hand, I did buy Charmin last time, so maybe they're doing something right. Well, no, I think I bought Charmin because it was on sale and unlike some possibly cheaper stuff, it seemed likely to actually remove waste products from the places where it, um, needed removing. If there were something cheaper that didn't look about the consistancy of newspaper, I probably would have gotten that instead.

Or maybe it's the residual goodwill from the Mr. Whipple ads. The stern enforcer, striking fear into the hearts of all who opposed him and his one edict: Don't squeeze the Charmin.

I remember as a kid, I used to make a point to squeeze the Charmin, Mr. Whipple be damned! Apparently I was always rebellious.

Anyway -- how the hell did I get to talking about Mr. Whipple? Right! Moving! -- I moved the toilet paper in, and a carload of boxes, and a few lawn chairs, in case someone needs to sit down somewhere.

Tomorrow, I think I'll take all the boxes from the top of my closet, the ones that never managed to get unpacked from the last time I moved. Then, once I'm moved in, I'll actually go through them, and will probably end up tossing the contents in toto.

And I know what you're thinking. "If you're just going to throw everything away, why don't you go through them before you move them?"

I don't know.

I'm still trying to come up with a name for the place. I've been calling the current apartment "Chez J", which has such a good ring to it, I might carry it over to the next place. Unless something better strikes my fancy. Or I give up. One or the other.

So, it's official. I'm a homeowner.

One of my co-workers had suggested I keep track of how many times I signed my name at closing. I kept losing track, but I think I finished somewhere in the 40's. I started getting really sloppy around the end. Then, after I had just done this particularly egregious signature where I think instead of crossing the 't', I crossed one arm of a 'u', the bank guy said, "And that was the form that actually transfers ownership to you." I was thinking "Crap! Can I sign that one again? That's way more important than the Lead Paint Advisory, which had a beautiful signature! Or the Survey Acknowledgement, or the Title Agreement, which, since they did the freakin' the title despite my not having signed for it, is apparently not that important either. Or the FHA, the IMHO, or the TPS Report."

But it was done, nobody seemed to mind how shoddy a signature it was, and I own the place now. Now comes the fun part: moving everything.

Moving is like software project management: however much time you budget, it's never enough. So, despite the fact that I'll be busier than a one-armed paper hanger with crabs, the big moving day will come along, and I still won't have nearly enough done, and I'll kinda just end up doing a half-assed job.

Fortunately, I'm only moving a few miles away.

But still.

So, I'm going to go to bed, and dream happy thoughts of living my little slice of the American dream, all moved in, all unpacked, and not a care in the world.

So, tomorrow is the big day. The day I join the ranks of homeowners. People keep asking, "So, J, are you excited?"

My highly unsatisfying answer is usually, "Oh, I dunno." It's all kind of surreal, and the scene is flying by very quickly. Much more quickly than any feelings about it could keep up. So at some point, they stopped trying, and I'm going to sign the 796 forms the mortgage company wants me to sign and the 633 forms the title company wants me to sign, and worry about the life-wrenching consequences of this and how I feel about it some other day.

Although I can't help but be excited about a couple things. First off, I'm getting a dog. Who will probably be known as "the eponymous dog", even though I hope he/she won't be a drooler.

I'm also excited about the fact that I'm getting a washer and dryer. In fact, I think I'll get those tomorrow, right after I finish signing the papers.

And I also can't help but feel whistful about the fact that I'm leaving the old apartment behind. Or what will probably be known in posterity as The Coolest Place I Ever Lived.

I'm sure I'll live in nicer places. In fact, I'm moving to one. And I'll also live in bigger places. (Okay, that place isn't really that much bigger than this place.) But I'll never live in a place that was this combination of location and style. My lifestyle will probably demand it.

Yeah, that's probably what I'll miss the most is the lifestyle. The whole renting thing. Where, if something breaks, I call someone else, and he (usually) takes care of it. I don't have as much as I might otherwise, but I don't have as much responsibility either.

Thus comes to a close this chapter in my life. The swinging, carefree 20's. Which, truth be told didn't involved much swinging, and did involve a considerable amount of care. But still...

I lost 2.5 lbs yesterday. I think the plan might be working. However, I've come up with about a dozen alternate explainations. Here are a few:

First off, the plan involves drinking two quarts of water. This is just for the plan. I think I end up drinking another two quarts throughout the day. And a quart of coffee, although that's a diuretic, so I don't know if that helps or hurts.

So, it's possible that it's the fact that I'm taking in more water that's causing the weight loss.

Or, another theory is that just the fact that I'm consuming calories over the course of an hour and a half to two hours. So it constitutes something like a jumbo-sized meal that tricks my body into thinking it's full.

Also possible. This would be easy to test. Just mix up a pitcher of Kool Aid and drink it over the course of a couple hours and see what happens.

I'll probably try that at some point.

Another theory is that I'm just thinking about what I eat, and as a consequence, I'm just shaming myself into staying away from eating all the garbage I usually feed myself.

There's probably something to this. I certainly think this has something to with the fact that I lost 5 lbs last week, before I'd technically even started doing anything. Although I think my weight and calorie intake started to stabilize at the end of last week, and dropped precipitously at the begining of this week. So I think it has something to do with the program.

It's also possible that this whole thing is psychosomatic. Like that I heard the Magic Potion lowers your appetite, so I'm expecting it.

While possible, I'm less inclined to believe this. Lately, I've noticed a very odd feeling. It's the feeling of my stomach being empty but I'm not hungry. I mean, usually when my stomach is empty, I also feel hungry, but the emptiness is coming unaccompanied.

Whatever the deal is, I think the program is working. And by "working", I mean that I'm eating way less than usual and I don't mind it at all. Sure, spending the afternoon drinking the Magic Potion is kind of a chore, but losing the spare tire should make it all worthwhile.

First, to matters spiritual:

Habemus papam!

I'm wondering if there's something pithy you say for the election of a new pope, like "God save the King", or some such. Like when you're drinking to his health. The closest I can come up with is the aforementioned "Habemus papam", which, as anyone who took first year Latin at Catholic school will tell you, simply means "We have a pope". Doesn't really say much about this particular person, though.

First impressions on Benedict XVI:

Several other people have made this comment, and allow me to be another one. I have a good feeling about this guy because all the right people are outraged. I'd be conerned if the wrong people were outraged, obvious, but I'd also be concerned if nobody was outraged.

I don't know that I've read enough to make much of a judgement myself, and I probably shouldn't trust too much in these outraged folks having done their homework. They're a pretty knee-jerk lot.

So, there'll be more coming out about my feelings about him in the future. For right now, I'll talk about all the things the other people got wrong.

First off, a lot of the coverage seemed to show of great disappointment at how the church missed a historic opportunity to modernize itself. Instead, they voted in one of those troglodytes who actually believes the stuff the church teaches.

What did they expect? I mean, seriously?

All in all, I think this is a good thing. Look at the Anglicans. For the past 50, 100 years, however long, people have been drifting away, finding something better to do on Sunday morning. So the Anglicans have tried to accomodate the people who have left the church, trying to get them to come back. And every time they change things to appease those who have already left, they end up losing more people who are already there.

Another thing that's been brought up is Benedict's past among the Nazis.

Someone yesterday mentioned, "Wasn't he a member of the Hitler Youth?" This was the first I'd heard of that, so I glibly responded, "Who wasn't?", before following that up with one of my favorite Simpson's quotes: "Sure he made some mistakes in the past, but, that's why pencils have erasers."

Turns out, my first response was pretty close to the truth. Yes, he did join the Hitler Youth, but it was required of everyone. And he was 14. Cut the kid some slack.

And he was conscripted into the army, though as some kind of conscientious objector. When they posted him at an anti-aircraft gun, he deserted rather than shoot people, at the risk of summary execution should he be found.

So, look, the guy wasn't a Nazi.

I don't think it's happened yet, but soon enough, he'll be decried as being "divisive".

Can I make a suggestion? If some group of people has been teaching the same thing for the last 2000 years, and someone says "Let's keep doing it", that guy isn't "divisive". The people who want to overturn the applecart are divisive, because they're the ones who are picking the fight.

But somehow, "divisive" has gone from meaning "causing divisions among people" to mean "wants to stop me from changing things". It's like the old Soviet dictionary that described "imperialism" to mean "opposition to Communist expansionism".

In any case, this guy will probably be difficult to demonize. Everything I've read so far, he seems like a genuinely likeable guy. Modest, soft-spoken, with that gently bemused outlook on life. He's not a fire-breather.

But, somehow I suspect that won't stop people from trying to demonize him.

***

Now to matters more temporal:

Today was the 10th Anniversary of The Bombing.

I was going to school in Norman (about 30 miles south) at the time it happened.

I did my part and me and a couple of friends spent eight hours one night unloading trucks of supplies. Long, dull, sweaty work, but the time flew by.

When it came time to go home, I couldn't resist, and tried to sneak a peek. I had to see the place. The pictures on TV didn't do it any justice at all, the violence of the blast crater that blew out the front of the building.

It gave me new perspective. They say the images on TV bring world events into people's homes. This isn't true. They bring an approximation of events into people's homes. And if it looks horrible on TV, it's probably unspeakably horrible in real life.

I could probably write about this for two months straight and not cover everything, so I'll just leave it at that.

***

Now onto the wholly personal:

Famous J Plan Day 1 went considerably better than Famous J Plan Day 0. Which can easily be gleaned by the fact that, unlike yesterday, this post does not contain the phrase "white-hot jets of diarrhea". Well, other than that last sentence, that is.

Started with lunch of two of Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs. I decided yesterday that three is too many. (Before I started on this program, I'd usually eat four. Man, it's a wonder I'm not any bigger.)

Anyway, as I'd decided yesterday, I went with the same plan: six tablespoons, two quarts of water. Only this time, instead of the nauseating fructose, I used sucrose. Table sugar. Well, actually, I got the baker's sugar, for some reason. I guess because it's super refined.

I had some problems getting the stuff into the jug, and I think I ended up spilling about a tablespoon, but other than that, no problems. Although I didn't experience a total diminishing of hunger. In fact, when I got home from work, I really wanted something to eat.

Which ended up being a polish sausage. And, remembering from the hot dogs, I decided I'd have one of them, rather than two. After scarfing that down, (and I still eat way too fast) I felt kind of ill, like that was way more than I should have eaten.

I had a few strawberries about an hour ago, and that's all I've eaten. Grand total 1330 calories, with 70 grams of fat. And when you consider that I'm averaging about 2000 calories, this is something.

What's more, I don't really feel like I'm depriving myself of anything. I mean, I've found that I wander into the kitchen quite a bit, but this is more out of boredom than anything. Usually if I just get a drink of water, something to do while I'm in there, other than eat something, I'm fine.

Well, we'll see. Maybe I'll be a seriously hungry bear tomorrow, eat 3000 calories and put on 30 lbs. But for right now, it's encouraging.

So, it's Day 0 of the Famous J Plan. I can already tell one thing: this plan is not for the faint of heart. Here's how it went down:

I went buck wild with lunch, and had three of Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs, and washed it down with some Larry King-recommended grape juice. One too many hot dog. My tummy didn't care for what I'd done to it.

Then about an hour and a half after lunch, I gargled down two quarts of water with six tablespoons of crystaline fructose, thus commencing the Famous J Plan. You know, since that's apparently all there is to it. Drink the stuff once a day.

The first thing I noticed was that the sugar/water mix had no scent to it, which is another thing to consider with the "sweetness has no flavor" theory.

The taste was... not bad, really. It kind of reminded me of when I was a kid and my mom used to give me hot tea sweetened, which I sweetened with liberal doses of sugar. At least, that's what I thought through the first glass of the stuff.

By the time I got through glass five or six, and had finished the two quarts, I was right sick of the stuff, and possibly starting to feel a bit ill.

By the time I was done, I felt about like I usually do after Thanksgiving dinner. I had no interest in eating anything else whatsoever. And I had that lethargy that people try to say is all turkey hormones, but I think is just simple overeating.

Well, then my tummy started making odd noises.

Allow me to digress for a moment. There is a condition known as Fructose Malabsorption. At this point, there hasn't been a ton of research on this, but basically it works like this: most people have no problem with fructose. You eat it, your liver performs some kind of voodoo magic on it (I didn't take organic chemistry. Sue me.) and it enters the bloodstream.

Alas, some people's bodies aren't quite as adept at digesting fructose. So, it passes, largely undigested, into the lower intestines, where it provides a delicious meal for all the bacteria there. Your lower intestines then fill up with whatever noxious byproducts occur when all these bacteria get a really good meal for once.

Allow me to suggest a test for Lactose Malabsorption: combine six tablespoons of fructose with two quarts of water, drink said concoction, and the stand back and see what kind of havoc it wrecks on your gastrointestinal system.

I didn't realize I was taking this test today, but not only was I, I passed with flying colors! I spent most of this evening with my intestines sounding like a first-year tuba player, like that guy who later played J. Jonah Jameson in The Ladykillers. The symptoms get more revolting from there, so I'll just say it was very bad.

So, the question is: am I daunted? Hell no, I'm not! Okay, maybe "Hell, no" isn't quite the phrase I'm looking for, since I'm not going back to the fructose for nobody.

Well, supposably, this program works with sucrose, so I think I'll try that tomorrow.

And whatever else I get out of this experience, I'll know that I have a problem with fructose. I don't think I have a huge problem with it. It would seem that the occasional coke doesn't cause me this kind of distress, although it's possible that, since it's corn syrup, it has just enough sucrose to jump-start the whatever-it-is process and get it digested. But just in case, I'll be sticking with iced tea, Fitz's, or Dublin Dr. Pepper.

So, tomorrow's the big day. The day I embark on the journey to a svelter version of Famous J. My baseline week is finished, and it's time to move onto the actual trial.

All-in-all, I lost a bit of weight, and I reacquainted myself with the feelings of deprivation and hunger. Since, as I mentioned, it was often a battle between my desire to eat, and my lack of desire to write down what it was I just ate. This is especially true when it's something egregious like my usual order of seven White Castles.

This thought (or something similar) passed through my head several times this last week:

Do I want to preserve for all posterity the fact that I ate this whole frozen pizza all by myself?

Being that I'm largely bereft of self-respect and am trying to perform real science on myself, I wrote it all down. But I can see this being a problem if I ever get other people to try it and try to get data from them.

Despite my aforementioned diligence, I have no information on what I ate this weekend. Yesterday I went to a chain Mexican place, thinking "Well, it's a chain, so they should have nutrition info online." Which is true. But they had their info on their "Skinless Guilt-Free Whole Wheat Chicken Quesedillas" and "Lo Fat Caesar Salad". For some reason, they did not have any information on the "Chicken and Lard Enchilladas" and the "Extremely Guilty Tamales", which is what I got.

Tonight was a barbeque. I had ribs, bratwurst, more ribs, potato salad, real salad, some more ribs, and another bratwurst. What a send-off!

Suffice it to say, I didn't bring my food scale with me, so none of that got written down, either. But I'd imagine it was a bloodbath.

Well, one last measurement, and it's off to bed, and onto a thinner tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the opening of the first McDonald's. Congratulations to them.

Between grades K through 4, we lived in a tiny town called Stanley, Kansas. It was one of those exurbs, right where the suburbs-proper met up with the middle of nowhere. In retrospect, it might have been as close to the perfect place to grow up as exists. We had four acres and two horses, the place had the feel of a small town, while still being close enough to commute to work. And, with the exception of the serial killer living next door, everyone was really nice.

I take it back. The serial killer was also really nice. And, I guess, technically, he hadn't started his killing spree while we lived there, so he wasn't even a serial killer yet.

But anyway...

As much as I was pleased as punch to be living there at the tim, there wasn't much going on. It was really quiet. Which didn't bother me at all at the time. I had the special kind of stoicism that only kids and really stupid people have, the stoicism based on the assumption that that's just how things work. There was nothing there because, well, there wasn't, and it didn't occur to me to think there ought to be anything else.

I remember in fourth grade, we got the call from On High to move to St. Louis, and I knew I'd be moving at the end of the school year. And then I hear on the playground, "They're putting in a McDonald's! Right down the street!"

I cursed the timing of it all. McDonald's, to me, was the pinnacle of Progress. If your town had a McDonald's, you were really Someplace. And we were moving away, and I was going to miss out on the fact that Stanley was going to be just that much cooler.

You have to remember that this was a very long time ago. So long, in fact, that they were still keeping track of how many billions of burgers they sold on the signs out front. It was always worth pointing out when they passed another milestone. "They're up to 60 billion!"

Part of me thinks I ought to be maudlin about the fact that McDonald's coming in changed the town. Made it less, I dunno, authentic than it was. But I still remember the excitement as we drove by the upended dirt that was its future site, thinking of how much more awesome the town was going to be now.

It's moments like this that make me realize how much things have changed since I've been alive, and how long ago the mid-80's were. Since then, McDonanld's managed to put themselves in every burg that could support them and then some.

And then they peaked, sometime in the early 90's, I'd say. The competitors started arriving, offering something different, all while McDonald's started coasting on their name and reputation, two things which mean less and less each year in this country, especially compared to novelty and quality.

Even the kids, who should be their bread and butter, have moved on. I remember the Cub saying, "Man, McDonald's sucks. Let's go to Burger King. They give you way better toys."

But the place still has magic. I was present for the opening of the first McDonald's in Palermo, Italy. This was 1997. I didn't want to be the stereotypical American Who Goes to the Foreign Country and Eats at McDonald's. But I made exceptions, and this was one of them.

I was glad I went. The average age was about 10. They were handing out balloons, and every kid (and myself) had one. It was absolute bedlam. Apparently the Sicilians hadn't quite gotten the hang of the whole "Form Lines in Front of Open Cash Registers" protocol, so it had the look and feel of a stock exchange.

I still remember the look of bliss and excitement on the faces of all the kids I saw. And they were excited for the same reason I would have been excited, had we still been there when the McDonald's opened in Stanley. Their town was now just that much cooler. Although, as a sign of how much things had changed, we were excited because now Stanley was like a real part of America, and they were excited because Palermo was like a real part of the world.

I think it's been seven years since then, and I'd guess most of those kids who were there are probably now throwing rocks at the windows of that same McDonald's because it's a symbol of American corporate imperialism (or some such). And they have a half a point. McDonald's shows up and suddenly the town isn't quite what it used to be.

But you can't stop progress. McDonald's is going to open places because when they do, they'll make money. And the reason they'll make money is because people will eat there.

So, since hating them is about as pointless as hating the heat during the summertime, why not celebrate them? Since they did something right.

So, congratulations to McDonald's. And if you aren't still around in 50 years, here's hoping whatever replaced you is even better.

No updates the last two days. I spent yesterday writing a letter to the bank explaining just who I think I am, and how dare I ask them for money, and I don't care if you want a house or not, you've got some nerve.

And I spent this weekend preparing for a diet. A diet so revolutionary that it will shake the foundations of the nutrition industry. Assuming it works. Whatever "works" means.

I can hear you asking: "Famous J! What is this diet of which you speak?"

Excellent question! I'm glad you ask. I got the idea from here: http://repositories.cdlib.org/postprints/117/. I got that link from the always-interesting Marginal Revolution

If you don't want to wade through 50 some-odd pages of annotated psychology-speak and assorted scatter graphs, I'll give you the long and short of it.

Basically, this diet says that you can whittle your appetite down to zero by drinking a solution of unflavored sweetened water. Then, once you have your appetite under control, you can more easily do the one thing that's proven to cause weight loss: eat less.

This diet doesn't have a name yet, either. If I had a shred of decency, I'd call it the Seth Roberts Plan, since it's his idea. However, I not only don't have a shred of decency, but I have a jumbo-sized ego which, Audrey II-like, needs to be fed, Seymore! So I've been calling it the Famous J Plan to myself, and that's what I'll be calling it here.

So, that's the diet I'm going to be trying. And since this blog is dedicated to whatever's on my mind, it should come up quite a bit.

***

So, here's my thoughts from Day -7 and Day -6

This it the beginning of my "baseline" week. This week, I'm establishing a "before", and figuring out what my eating patterns are before I start the program. So that way I can compare the experience of eating "normally" with eating on the program.

What this entails in practice is weighing myself, taking some measurements, and -- the big one -- writing down everything I eat, along with the amount of calories and fat that represents.

The first thing I noticed is that the amount of food I eat has plummeted. I usually snack all the time. But when I have to weigh the benefit of eating something against the pain-in-the-ass of writing it down, I usually decide "Screw it. It's not worth it."

Well, it's totally different when you have to write something down. There are many things I'd rather not have all and sundry know about (like my typical order at White Castle, for instance). Knowing the fact that it's going to go in my logbook makes me think twice.

So, with all that, I ended up losing 4 lbs yesterday! I think I might have to start increasing the intake of calories. Or standardizing them. Might have to pick up some Beefcake 4000 or something, in case I go light on dinner.

Though, this is not without side effects. I've been really hungry all the time. Which, from the standpoint of science, is probably a good thing. I can compare calorie reduction on the Plan vs. calorie reduction not on the plan.

Well, time for bed. Should be easy sledding. Fatigue is another side effect.

I read this in Best of the Web today:

mr youse needn't be so spry... (XVIII) 
e.e. cummings

mr youse needn't be so spry
concernin questions arty

each has his tastes but as for i
i likes a certain party

gimme the he-man's solid bliss
for youse ideas i'll match youse

a pretty girl who naked is
is worth a million statues

That's it! That's what poetry should be about!

I suppose at this point I could perhaps go on for six pages, really disecting this to within an inch of its life. But would that make it any more enjoyable? Probably not.

And, even more importantly, I don't by necessity have to go on for six pages before it becomes enjoyable.

Why can't people treat poetry more like a joke? And I don't mean that metaphorically, I mean literally like one treats a joke.

A joke is either funny to the listener on the first listening or it's not funny. There's obviously a lot of information stuffed into the word "funny", but that's the basic criterum.

But when the joke is told, that's where the rubber hits the road, and there's an agreed upon definition of success: "Did the person I was telling it to think it was funny?"

And, sure, you can try to explain a joke. "See, that's funny because when I said 'twenty seven', you were supposed to think I was taking about the number twenty-seven. But actually, it was two words!" And then use that explanation to fine-tune the listener's sense of humor, so he'll know what to be listening for the next time.

But that's more a rearguard action. Whether because of the teller or the listener, the joke failed.

Somehow, though the reader of the poetry got lost, and it's degraded into an exercise in solipsitic navel-gazing. Poetry isn't about trying to convey anything (beauty, insight) to the reader or listener. It's now a form of therapy. The point of a poem, for the author, is to say what's on his mind with no consideration of whether it sounds good, or anyone gives a crap what he's saying, or even if the reader would be any better off if he had instead read "Peanuts". Who cares? It's all about me!

Then the point for the reader is to pore over the dreadful thing trying to figure out what the hell guy was talking about.

It's like trying to tell jokes under the assumption that someone is going to explain them afterwards.

This has all the hallmarks of a conspiracy between poets and English majors, where talentless hacks get totally unearned praise, and English majors have something to write theses about.

I'm not too all-fired familiar with e.e. cummings. Or E.E. Cummings as I often insist on writing it. Nor am I too familiar with poetry in general. (Although I do know enough to know that it gets way better than Cummings.) But when I stumble upon something I like, I always think I should read more of it.

Go to France soon! While you still can!

Despite the fact that at some point in the distant past, my people lived in France, I yield to no one for my loathing of the French. Or possibly because of it. You always hate in others the things you hate in yourself, and all that.

But despite all that, I don't wish any ill on the French. Or I don't to the extent that their feelings of self-worth aren't based on bringing America down a peg. If that's what they want to hang their hat on, I wish them all the misery in the world.

'Cuz when they're running down my country, hoss, they're walkin' on the fightin' side of me.

I should also distinguish between "The French" and "French People". I like French people. Some of them are assholes, of course, but no more or less than any other group. Overall, they seem like a fairly low-key, reflective lot.

It's just when you get those French people on their native soil in groups of, say, three or more, all hell starts breaking loose.

So, the French have got themselves in a bit of a pickle. First off, over the last few decades they stopped producing more Frenchmen. They did not accompany this development with any cuts to their old age pensions. (You think the U.S. has a problem with Social Security? Our situation is a peaceful walk in the park with a nice picnic beside a little pond with little ducks swimming by compared to those guys.)

So somehow, someone's going to have to pay for Pierre's rent and Marie's new hip, and it ain't gonna be Pierre or Marie. Well, fortunately, this problem was "solved" starting in the 70's. In a fit of post-colonial guilt (and if you know anything about the French handling of their colonies, they have plenty to be guilty about), they started inviting residents of the former colonies to take up residence among their former colonial masters.

Well, the problem being that while these people were drawn to a better life in France, some (certainly not all, possibly not even most, but some) viewed "the good life" not as "I'll work hard and make something of myself" so much as "Did you know that in France they just give you money? For doing nothing! No! I'm serious! You just show up, go down to this office, and they'll give you money!".

So, now there's this increasingly resentful underclass that refuses to assimilate and doesn't work, either because they refuse to (and since, as their thinking goes (the immigrants' and the natives', actually), France got big and mighty off the backs of the residents of the colonies, so really, don't the French owe it to the sons and daughters of the colonies to let them live the good life off the backs of the French?

Or else, with France's straight-outta-the-70's labor laws, they couldn't find a job even if they wanted one. Since said laws they have are great for people who already have a job, but not quite so great for people who are looking for one. (Just ask a recent French college graduate.)

Thus when unemployment is at 10% or more, and it's almost impossible to fire someone, you have to give someone a good reason to hire you. If you don't have an education and you don't speak the language well, there's probably someone out there who'll have a better reason to be hired than you.

(Seriously, say what you want about the immigrant problem in this country, but while the Latin Americans who show up here show a similar disinclination to assimilate, they do work.)

The questions are, "Will the French figure out a way out of the hole they've dug themselves in?" and "How messy will their solution be?" My guesses are "Probably not" and "Somewhere between very messy and extremely messy".

Thus the Moral of the Story: If you haven't visited France, you might want to consider doing it soon.

I'd been meaning to tackle the issue of the bathroom floor for a few weeks now. Well, tonight was the night. It has to be done eventually, what with our moving out in a couple weeks.

And it was also a form of penance. I had pledged that when the clocks sprung forward, I take advantage of the increased daylight to start riding the bike. Well, here it is Tuesday, and still the bike is unridden. And I have to stay late tomorrow, so it's not going to happen then, either.

The problem with these places built in the 20's is the dirt gets really deep in the crevices. So, since I wanted to do an atypically better-than-half-assed job, I ended up doing it Charles Dickens style: on the hands and knees, scrubbing with a hand-brush, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat and tears from my face.

So, after scrubbing the dickens out of the floor for about an hour, I stopped to bask in the glory of my hard work. And the floor looked... well, basically exactly like it did before. I know I removed a wheelbarrow-full of ground in dirt, dried whiz, stray pubes, etc. I know this, because I saw the damp puddles of filth that I rinsed off.

And still the floor looks like it did before I got started. And instead of smelling like, well, dirt, dried whiz, and pubes, it smells like bleach. My hands, which have worked about a half-dozen days in their life, are sore, my scrubbin' shoulder is on fire, as is most of my right arm. And still the place looks the same.

Okies, and in this instance I count myself among them, are a fatalistic lot. They seem to accept suffering as a part of the human condition and just live with it. I think for them, it's the result of some kind of combination of Calvinism and the horrible weather there. In my case, being that I'm not exactly a Calvinist, I think it's just tempermental, although I'm sure I was influenced by the prevailing culture.

Anyway, I've never heared fatalism so clearly enunciated than with one word that only someone with serious Okie levels of fatalism can really say correctly. That word is "Shee-it". (This word has two distinct syllables, mind you.)

So, as I scanned the floor, still dabbing the sweat from my brow, seeing that things looked no better than when I started, that was all I could say. "Well... shee-it."

***

Okay, I just had another look. I think it actually looks a little bit better than when I started. Doesn't seem to be much reward for the amount of work. On the other hand, I think I might have jumpstarted the "getting in shape" process. I'm pretty sure I did as much cardio as I might have were I riding the bike.

I'd say that's penance.

So, I came across an article about fake meat. Or "In Vitro Meat". The long and short is that they're fast along the road to making beef in the laboratory. And it's a short jump from the laboratory to the factory.

The first thing that came to mind when I read this was, "Aw, cool!" By my reckoning, most people's first impressions to this development will be either of the "Aw, cool!" variety, and the [shudder] variety. I suspect if you fall into the latter category, the next 50 years might be rough for you.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The second thing that came to mind was, "I wonder what this is going to do to the vegetarians?" If you were a vegetarian, totally opposed to being a party to any suffering by animals, well, what if the only suffering was a needleprick on a cow's ass to extract a bit of muscle? Like no worse than urologists do to considerably more sensitive parts of humans every day?

I don't know. I don't quite get the vegetarian mindset and I certainly don't share it. I made my peace with the suffering of animals a while ago, because meat is delicious. But I guess it's up to everyone's conscience.

Somehow, I suspect they'll figure out a way to decry lab meat, or decide that it's okay to eat the in vitro stuff and find something else to get outraged about.

In any case, it's all exciting stuff, and I'll be first in line to give it a try. And if I were a gambling man, it'll be dreadful, and I'll go back to eating something with a face for the next ten years or so.

But eventually, they'll get the kinks out, and it'll be delicious.

Ioannes Paulus II, Requiescat In Pace

I haven't spent a lot of time around death. Death will always be with us in some form or another, but we've beaten back death to an extent unknown in human history. At my advanced age, say, 100 years ago, I'd imagine I'd have had dozens of people very close to me who had passed on due to sickness, malnutrition, war, a kick to the head by a mule, sleep gear that wasn't flame-retardant.

In this country, people just don't die in numbers they used to. Although people don't breed in numbers they used to. 100 years ago, my extended family would number in the high two digits, at least. So, I haven't had a lot of experience with death, and I'm not sure how to deal with it. And when I'm confronted with a situation I don't know how to deal with, I muddle through, and the results are predictably horrid.

So, I won't throw myself into that briar patch. Furthermore, there's little that I can say that someone else hasn't already said, and probably a lot better.

I'll just say that a giant who once walked the earth walks it no more, and we're all poorer without him.

This evening was perhaps the biggest spectacle of asininity I've been present for in a while. And I loved every minute of it.

(Is there such a word as asininity? If not, there should be. Anyway...)

As per usual, I wandered into my local coffee house this evening. Since the weather is nothing short of beautiful, I seated myself on the patio. This guy, Chris, was there, and he had, of all things, a jumbo-sized Wiffle ball bat he'd just picked up.

Once we'd dispensed with the obligatory Beastie Boys quote, someone said, "Let's give it a try."

You have to picture the scene. It's dark outside, and we're on Delmar Ave., which is a very busy street. Annie, the 6' tall, 20 year old barista is standing between tables at an outdoor cafe with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a cartoonishly sized bat in her hands. Like something you expect to see Itchy bludgeoning Scratchy with. And Chris's gentle overhand lob comes her way, she swings like Pujols, and the ball goes "clank" against one of the cars someone had foolishly parallel-parked on the street out front. And a couple of times, the ball went skittering between the parked cars, and out into the traffic, as the Acuras driving in from west county swerve to avoid... Jesus, was that a Wiffle ball?

Then Chris, in callous disregard for everything his mother had been telling him since he was four, makes a cursory glance both ways, and runs out into the street to retrieve the ball.

The fun was short-lived. Once it was Chris's turn, he took one swing, and the stress from his swing -- on top of Annie's Mark McGuire 'roided-up style of batting -- proved too much for the two dollars worth of Chinese plastic, and the bat snapped off at the handle. The top of the bat whizzed about a half inch from my face before slamming into the window with a terrifying din. Fortunately, nothing was broken except the bat, of course.

Ben gamely took a few swings, clutching the remnants of the bat, but it just wasn't the same. And just like that, the fun was over.

If there's any point to this story, other that the fact that it was wildly amusing to me, it's that Spring is here, and everyone's got da Fever.