Eat that? Why don't you bite me!

I don't know about you, but nutritionists piss me off. They're always going on about bad food choices, yet the alternatives they offer suck. Case in point, Eat This, Not That has an article titled "The 20 Worst Foods In America". In it they have the nerve to slander some of the most tasty dishes one could imagine by listing nutritional information. How dare they offer facts and science when I'm ordering a meal! Seriously, I don't really care that a Colorado Omelette at IHOP is a calorie bomb. And, telling me I should eat a Garden Scramble For Me instead is just asinine. If this is what I want:

This is not an option:

That's not all. According to these nimrods, we should replace a huge, honkin' stack of French toast and bacon with a spinach, tomato, and mushroom omelette. Seriously, spinach? I've eaten spinach once in my life. When I was kid, I tried some because it's what gave Popeye his strength (yes, I'm that old). You'll notice I said I've eaten it once. That was all it took, because it was vile. And, don't give me that crap about 'it's all in the way it's cooked.' Everybody always says that, and, with rare exceptions, it's always crap. A turd is a still turd, no matter how you prepare it.

I will agree with them on one thing, though. The Domino's Chicken Carbonara Bread Bowl Pasta is a nutritional abomination. Another calorie bomb, this thing has almost 2300 mg of sodium and 188 grams of carbohydrates. Being diabetic, that last one is important to me. But, for all its faults, at least it's tasty. Their alternative is something that's always grossed me out. Ham and pineapple pizza. Let's get something straight: freakin' pineapple has absolutely NO place on a pizza. An upside down cake, yes. But, not on a pizza. It sounds like one of the nasty combinations my ex-wife used to conjure up on the rare occasions when she ventured into the kitchen. I'm sure, however, that Domino's execution is far superior to hers. They also mention P. F. Chang's in the article, but I can't bring myself to eat there since watching the "More Crap" episode of South Park. I'm not going to explain that, you'll just have to watch the show to see what I mean.


The Cheesecake Factory seems to come in for the most abuse here. Evidently, many of their entrees are loaded with calories, saturated fat, sodium, and all manner of yucky-bad-for-you stuff. But, and this is a big but, everyone is always telling me how great the Cheesecake Factory is. Which tells me something I already knew. While nutritionists may be experts on what's good for you, they don't know diddly about what's good to you.

Go Lightly? Not Hardly

I told you at the end of yesterday's entry that today I would talk about my colonscopy experiences.  I hesitated about this, because I didn't want anyone to skip what is a very important procedure on account of what they might read here.  After a few moments reflection, I realized that if anyone was chicken enough to forego one because of my description, they'd find another excuse if I didn't write this.  And, I feel I'm doing everyone who sucks it up and goes through with a service by telling them what to expect and lightening what can be a rather dismal mood.  If you've had one of these amazing invasions of privacy, nothing I say will be new to you.  But, hopefully, you'll get a chuckle out of it.

If you live under a rock and haven't heard of a colonscopy, according to the American Heritage Science Dictionary it's the "Inspection of the interior surface of the colon with a flexible endoscope that is equipped to obtain tissue samples and inserted through the rectum."  Another definition I saw mentioned that it was "minimally invasive".  Listen, someone sticking a long, lighted tube with a camera up your butt and displaying the take on a monitor for everyone in the room to see is anything but "minimally invasive".  However, to be honest, the procedure itself is a piece of cake.  You're asleep, what's hard about that?  No, it's all the stuff beforehand that makes you crazy. 

First, if they're going to see anything inside you're colon, it's got to be cleaned out.  There are two ways to do this.  Option number one: an enema, consisting of soap and water, will be administered.  This is generally done only when they're in a hurry.  Now, if you're unfamiliar with an enema, that's where the mixture described above is introduced into the intestinal tract.  Wikipedia says "The increasing volume of the liquid causes rapid expansion of the lower intestinal tract, often resulting in very uncomfortable bloating, cramping, powerful peristalsis, a feeling of extreme urgency and complete evacuation of the lower intestinal tract."  All I can say is yes...it...does.  And, yes, it's just as bad as it sounds.  But, it has advantages over the second option, because it's over relatively quickly.  Option number 2, and by far this is the more common method, is the administration of a laxative or whole bowel irrigation.  I've done both and they both suck.  The laxative is usually something like Fleet Phoso Soda or magnesium citrate, generally two bottles of either.  Drink these vile concoctions and, in about 6 hours, you'll get results.  Pretty good results, too.  If you've never understood the phrase "go through you like a dose of salts", you will after this.  But, these little jewels pale in comparision to "whole bowel irrigation".  This accomplishes the same thing as the laxative, but in a much more dramatic fashion.  In this fun big bag of fun, you get to drink what amounts to a gallon jug of a substance called GoLytely or CoLyte mixed with water.  My counsel is if either of these is mentioned, then in the words of the immortal Jerry Clower, "Gather your split tail gown around and go hide in the nearest swamp".  There is nothing good about what's going to happen.  When you take that first drink, make sure you have unrestricted access to the toilet.  Because, when this stuff kicks in, it kicks with a vengence.  Most likely, once it starts, you won't be getting up again.  And, it can last up to 4 hours to get the job done.  Four hours on the john?  No, thank you.  Unfortunately, I'm experienced with this abomination, too.  But, not in the normal fashion.  You know how I said I had colon cancer 3 years ago?  Well, when the tumor blocked me up, my colon got so distended that, after removing the bad section, they couldn't put the ends back together right away.  Until they could, I had a colostomy bag.  That's where they one end of your colon and run it out your abdominal wall and it terminates in a bag.  Talk about fun!  You just think it's nasty going to the toilet.  Try looking at it every time you empty and clean out the bag.  Anyway, I was having some more constipation problems and they wanted to do a colonoscopy to see what was going on in there.  I was dehydrated and in pretty rough shape, so they admitted me to the hospital.  The night before my procedure, a nurse walked in with big jug of what looked like water.  She set on my bed tray and said "This is GoLytely.  You need to drink 8 ounces of this, alternating with 8 ounces of water, every 15 minutes until it's gone."  Now, I knew what it was and what it did, but I wasn't prepared for what was coming.   It took a while for it to start working (I'd almost finished it, which is rare), but when it did, whoa!  It was so forceful, it filled up the bag, blew it off my stomach and dumped a bunch into the bed.  The nurses came in, cleaned me up, changed the bed and, in about 5 minutes, it did the same thing again.  And, yet again after that.  But, the third time was the charm and things settled down after that.  Now, I'm not saying your experience will be this extreme.  Probably not, but after reading this anything else should seem tame in comparison.

Okay, you've done your prep and you're at the G.I. doctor's office.  The nurse comes out and takes you to a room where you change into a lovely hospital gown.  You know, the one where you walk around with your bare ass shining for all the world to see.  After that, you're lead into a room that looks like mad scientist lab in a bad horror movie.  A table in the middle, all kinds of evil looking instruments hanging on the wall and a computer monitor that, in your mind, is about four times as large as it needs to be.  I mean, it looks like a big screen TV and you start wondering what they're really going to do while you're asleep.  Nothing good, you're sure.  But, against your better judgment, you climb up on the table and someone sticks a needle in your arm.  Normally, that would be a bad thing, but this time it's not.  Because, that's you're going to get the "happy juice".  And, believe me, you want the "happy juice".  You definitely don't want to be awake for this.  One the nurses tells you to relax and pushes the juice and the next thing you know, it's all done.  If you're awake enough, you'll remember what they tell you about how it went.  But, other than that, you're done.

Now, it's time for recovery.  They will wheel you to the recovery area where whoever brought you is waiting.  You won't even be upset if they're the ones that talked you into doing this, because the happy juice has just made you feel like you've had the best night's sleep of your entire life.  So, while you lay there, waiting for all the sedation effects to wear off, you may notice a touch of flatulence.  Which is a nice way of saying you may be farting like a pack mule.  This is because sometimes, they inject air into your colon so they can see better.  Like everything else in your colon, if it's there, it's got to come out.  Don't feel bad though, you won't be the only one.  And, if your friend/spouse/relative is any kind of decent person, they won't judge you.  If I took my brother, he'd probably join in with me.  Because, let's face it, you should never pass up the chance to fart acceptably.  After you're as close to normal as you're going to get in this life, they'll let you get dressed and go home.  When you get there, take full advantage of the situation.  You deserve it.  The Roto-rooter man was just messing around in your ass.  Don't be afraid to play that card.  Because you have get something decent out of this f--cked up situation.

I EFFING HATE CT SCANS!!!

Okay, this post starts out with a warning.  If you're squeamish and don't like hearing or talking about certain bodily functions, this blog may not be for you.  I'll pause for a minute while those with weak constitutions navigate away from here...., gone?  Good, time to get started.  Yesterday, I had to have my quarterly CT scan.  I suppose a little background is order after that statement.  In 2007, while I was recovering from knee surgery, I began to have a problem, how do I put this delicately..., eliminating waste.  That's a nice way of saying I hadn't taken a dump in several days.  The first couple of days weren't so bad, but that wore off quick.  After seven days without a bowel movement, I went to the Emergency Room.  That's a post all by itself, but the end result was a diagnosis of colon cancer, treated by surgery and two weeks in the hospital.  I followed that up with a 6 month chemotherapy regimen (that was fun).  And now, for the next 5 years starting from September 2007, I get to have a quarterly CT scan to make sure there's not a recurrence.

CT stands for Computed Tomography and what that means in regular folks language is that it's an x-ray that's been enhanced to 3D status by a computer.  I'm sure I left out something, but who cares.  If they're looking at your G.I. tract, like they do with me, you get to drink a lovely concoction of barium sulfate, water, thickeners, declumping agents, etc.  It's a lot better than it used to be, but it's still kinda nasty.  You have to do this 2 hours prior to the scan and you can't eat anything after that.  Then, when you get there, they lay you on a table and start an IV.  This is to administer a dye that will contrast with the barium (yum) in your system and show any problems.  Then, they send you through this big donut (it looks like a donut.  At least, I think it does.  I'm pretty hungry by then) a few times to make sure they've got you positioned properly.  When you're all situated, the tech will come and push the dye in.  In a second or two, you'll feel a flush start down your body, you'll get a metallic taste in your mouth and, all of sudden, you'll swear you just peed on yourself.  I'm not kidding, when the flush reaches your nether regions, it feels just like you peed in your pants.  After that, it's show time.  Stuff inside the donut starts spinning and it sounds like a jet spooling up, then you hear a disembodied voice say "Hold...your breath".  You start to move out of the donut, slowly.  Entirely too slowly, considering you're holding your breath and, oh yeah, the dye makes you feel like you need to pee even though you swear you just wet yourself.  Just when you think "I can't take it, I gotta take a breath!" the Voice says "Breathe".  If you're lucky, that's it.  If you're unlucky, and it didn't go right, you get to do it again.  So much fun you just can't stand it.  And, that's it.  You're done, you can go home. 

Except, you're really not done.  There are a couple of things you still have to do, like get the runs.  That's right, that barium sulfate you drank earlier?  Yeah, that's coming out.  You're not peeing it out either.  It's in your G.I. tract, friend.  It starts slowly, with a rumble or two.  Then, you think "Man, am I gassy".  Don't fall for it, you ain't gassy.  This is when the danger of a shart is most precarious.  Not familiar with the "shart"?  It's portmanteau of the words "sh-t" and "fart" and it means just what you think it does.  We've all experienced the shart, even if we didn't know what to call it.  You're sitting there and you feel what you think is a pretty hefty fart coming on.  You raise up (why?  It'll come out whether you do or not) and it begins to ease out and you realize it's not a fart.  If you're lucky, you catch it before you embarass yourself.  If not, you're changing underwear and possibly throwing the old pair away.  Gotta get rid of the evidence, that way you can deny, deny, deny.   So, yesterday, I'm sitting here at home and I feel it.  Fortunately, I felt the turtlehead start to poke out before it was too late and made a mad dash for the bathroom.  Even so, it wasn't pretty.  That's the other problem with this stage.  It can be messy.  Don't bother cleaning the toilet until tomorrow, though.  It's gonna take you the rest of the day to get through this. 

Don't think that once you make it through the shart zone, you're in the clear, though.  You're not, because, unless you're in the hospital, you have wait for your results.  Sometimes as much as a week.  That's me; my appointment to see the doctor isn't until next week.  Now, you would think they could take the scan, look it over and tell you if there's anything worth worrying about right after they do it.  You'd be wrong, but you could think that.  No, it has to be reviewed by a radiologist who scribbles some notes which are then put into the form of a report by a medical transcriptionist which is sent over to your doctor so he read to you what the radiologist wrote.  Why is it that your doctor, who completed 8 years of school, at least a year of residency and been tested within an inch of their life, can't take the scan, which is much better than a standard x-ray, and tell you if there are anomalies present?  Because then, all the specialists couldn't rape your bank account and live like kings, that's why.   That, and you wouldn't be going crazy waiting. 

The CT scan does suck, but in my case it's less sucky than the alternative.  Which would be the colonoscopy.  If you think the CT was bad, wait till tomorrow when I describe my colonoscopy experience.

I gotta have a sunroof!!!

While on our recent trip to sunny Florida, Girlfriend and I were dicussing the possibility of replacing her car. It is getting a bit long in the tooth and her daughter will be needing something a bit more dependable than the '89 Buick she's currently driving, so this is a good time to start looking. Aside from an unreasonable infatuation with Japanese automobiles, her number one dealbreaker is, get this, a sunroof. A sunroof, now, not a convertible. A convertible I could understand, but a sunroof??? A freakin' hole in my roof isn't a benefit, it's a big frickin' leak. When I asked her why a sunroof, she said "I like to feel the sun on me". Okay, fine, I can understand that. But, should that really be a dealbreaker? For a guy, dealbreakers are things like performance, dependability and utility. For a woman, evidently, it's things like a sunroof. Because, feeling the sun is so much more important than the mechanical stuff.

This got me to thinking about how people in general view things like cars.  My dad, for instance, sees them as simply transportation.  Well, it seems he sees them that way for me.  The last few times I've bought a new ride, he's made the comment that I all I needed was a "dependable transportation" and recommended something like a Kia Sephia.  The Kia Sephia, if you're not familiar with it, is a Korean economy model that's little more than four tires and a steering wheel.  Very bare bones, it makes the old Ford Fiesta look like a luxury model.  Now, I say he sees automobiles as nothing more than a way to get from point A to point B for me and not necessarily himself because he never buys cars like that.  He's been driving Chevrolet Silveradoes for quite a few years now.  To be fair, he did drive more than his fair share of crap in the past.  A 1964 Chevy II that burned oil at an almost equal rate that it went through gas and had holes in the floorboard you see the road through; a '67 Catalina 4 door that was nothing if not dependable, but just no fun to drive at all;  and a 74 Chevy Kingswood station wagon that was only the second car my folks ever bought brand new.  Before that, we only had one car which Mama and Daddy shared.  The first one I remember was the coolest car we ever owned as a family: a 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air.  There's a bit of story here, also.  My parents started dating in high school and got married with neither of them ever having another serious date.  That marriage has lasted around 54 years.  Impressive, huh?  Anyway, when they got married, Daddy was in the Air Force and stationed in Canada.  Right before that assignment was up and he was coming home, he told Mama to go buy them a car so they'd have one when he got back.  Now, Mama was about 19 and had gotten her driver's license a few months before.  It's safe to say that she didn't know diddly about cars.  But, my mother, being a very smart and pragmatic woman, got a trusted family friend to help her find a car.  What she chose was a 1953 Chevrolet 210.  A nice, dependable affordable car.  Unfortunately, the '53 models only came with a 6 cylinder engine.  And, that wasn't enough for my gearhead father.  It wasn't long after he got home that he traded the '53 for the '55 mentioned above.  You see, in 1955 Chevrolet introduced it's first V-8, a 265 cubic inch model.  Now, you could also get that engine with the PowerPack which had high-flow heads and a four barrel carburator, making it one hot little number and that's what Daddy got.  And, it would immortally fly.  Then, when that engine wore out, he got a 283 with a four barrel and a Corvette cam.  He's always said the 265 had more top end, but the 283 would crank 90 mph in second gear (it was a 3 speed).  And, he thinks he has credibility telling me to drive a damn Kia.

Viewing an automobile as a mere conveyance is like judging a meal solely on its nutritional value.  Sure, both views are valid on their face, but there's so much more involved.  If there wasn't, we'd all be eating Tofurkey and driving soulless econoboxes with vaguely Asian names.  But, an automobile is as much about how it makes you feel as what it does for you.  Whenever you walk out the door and get that first look at your car, if your pulse doesn't quicken a bit, you don't feel that little catch in your throat and the idea of getting behind the wheel and flogging the hell out of it never occurs to you, you've got the wrong car.

The End of the Dream

Well, tomorrow we get up, pack the car and head back to reality.  I'm not really all that thrilled about the prospect either.  Think about it, I'm in a (almost) tropical paradise filled with sights, sounds and smells I've never experienced before.  Well, not in person; pictures, books and movies don't count.  I've spent the last week with a fabulous companion and we've lived (and eaten, boy have we eaten) like royalty.  No pressures, no responsibilities, no nothing.  Like I said before, a week of doing nothing.  So, why the hell would I want to come home? 

I have seen some things that begged for comment.  Like the name of a restaurant in Clearwater that had the phrase "fire grill" in it.  I'm sorry, I didn't realize there was another type of grill.  Other than a car grille, of course.  Not only is that spelled different, it's out of context.  What the hell does that have to do with a Bar and Grill?  But, one of favorite signs all week has been the one at a Tarpon Springs Seafood Market and Restaurant.  Check this out:

Just in case you don't get the joke, here's a link to help you out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crab_louse.  Got it?  Good, now you have to wonder what they were thinking when they had this sign made up.  Was it a joke?  Did they not see the obvious reference?  Either way, it's not good.  If it's the former, they have very poor taste.  The latter, they're not real bright.  I don't plan on eating here in the foreseeable future, though.  Another sign on the same day, at the same place also brought some merriment.  This one was a misread:

Girlfriend caught a glance of this and thought it said "Sea Fart" cruise.  Replace the "sea" with "old" and you'd be on the money right.  We're both late 40's/early 50's and we were some of the youngest people on the boat.  It was a fun cruise though.  Even got to see a dolphin.  But, no manatees or alligators.  I'm a little disappointed by that.  Oh well, life goes on.

I've eaten some of the best food I ever put in my mouth.  A mahi mahi sandwich that was, without doubt, the absolute best fish sandwich that I've ever had.  And, Greek food, oh my God!  Tarpon Springs has a huge Greek community because of the sponge trade, so that influence is very heavy.  I've eaten gyro's (lamb on  pita with tzatziki sauce), chicken souvlaki (marinated chicken on a pita), soutzoukakia (Greek meatballs), Pastitsio (Greek lasagne) and for dessert: Ec Mec (?), strawberry kok, and of course, baklava.   And, every bit of it is delicious.  The price is right and the service excellent.  The Greeks are wonderful folks. 

There are a few things that are bringing me back home though.  Work (ugh), responsibility (barf), sleeping in my own bed (yay!!!),  and seeing my daughters (absence does make the heart grow fonder) are just a few.  The rest are personal, so mind your own business.  I'll also be back on a more normal schedule and remember what day it is without looking at my watch.  Well, maybe not that last bit.  I am getting older, and my memory was never that good to begin with.  So, be on the look out for more stuff here on your favorite blog.

The Week of Doing Nothing.

In case you don't get it, the title references a 1983 Mel Gibson movie called "The Year of Living Dangerously", set in 1965 Indonesia during the fall of President Sukarno.  The movie itself has absolutely nothing to do with this post, I just plagerized the title because I thought it sounded cool.  My title about the fact that I'm on vacation for a week in Florida and what I intend to do while I'm here.  Get it?  A week and doing nothing???  Ain't I smart?

As I write this, I'm sitting on the huge screened porch of the house my girlfriend's parents own. Here's the view:

 But, I haven't introduced my girlfriend to you, have I?  Since I haven't cleared using her name in this blog, I'm just going to call her Girlfriend (I stole that from another blog I read, Hyperbole and a Half.  Which is funny as hell.  Read it sometime).  She's smart, funny, hot and I haven't any idea how I wound up with her.  Anyway, earlier in the year, while it was cold and snowy and generally nasty outside, Girlfriend asked if I wanted to go to Florida during Spring Break while our respective children were otherwise occupied.  I couldn't say yes fast enough.  I've always wanted to go to Florida, and not for Disney and the other well-known touristy junk.  No, I want to see sugar-sand beaches, palm trees, mangrove swamps and all the other exotic things that exist in the U.S. only in Florida.  I include in that "exotic" catergory Florida's own peculiar style of touristy junk.  I'm talking about the more local variety.  The truly weird things that you only find here.  We'll see what I come up with.

Yesterday, we got up around 6 AM (ugh), packed up the car and headed out.  First stop was for breakfast at one of favorite places, the Cracker Barrel in Clayton NC.  Yeah, I know the store is full of junk that you find almost anywhere else at better prices.  But, that's not why I love it.  For me, it's the restaurant.  The food, especially breakfast, is so damn good.  Old fashioned country cooking.  And, unlike most places that do this style, not dumped out of a can and salted to the point it's almost mummified.  No, it's really seasoned the way your mama would do it.  If your mama's like mine, that is.  After a satisfying breakfast of ham, bacon, sausage, eggs, hashbrown casserole, grits and gravy, biscuits and fried apples, we were back on the road.  Yeah, I know that's a really big breakfast.  But, I needed the fuel, it's a long way from Knightdale to Florida.  Anyway, we were off.   I-40 to I-95 and straight on south.  The next stop of import came in Dillon SC.  That's right, South of the Border.  If you've ever driven I-95 in North or South Carolina, you've seen the billboards advertising it.  Saying stupid things like "Weather forecast: Hot today, Chili Tamale" or hawking various bits of absolute crap that children everywhere are totally convinced they can't live without.  If you aren't aware of this place, here's what you're missing:

Yes, it's just as tacky as it looks.  But, I have to say, it looks better than I remember.  I haven't even been by this place in at least 25 years.  And, you know what happens whenever you revisit places from your childhood.  They can never match the memory.  S.O.B. sure did, though.  When I was a kid, we passed by this joint a lot on the way to the beach.  And, my brother and I used to beg to stop because it looked so freakin' cool we couldn't stand it.  My parent's answer was always the same, "We're not stopping there.  They don't have anything but junk".   But, when you're a kid and your parents say stuff like that, it just makes you want it more.  Finally, my dad got fed up with the whining and stopped.  We were finally going to see all the magical stuff in the wonderworld called South of the Border and Brother and I were elated.  Until we actually saw it.  Mama was right, it was nothing but junk.  And, not parent junk, it was kid junk, too.  Shops filled with the sorriest crap imaginable.  Or fireworks, which were cool, but they wouldn't let us get any of that (which sucked).  A few crappy little rides, a sorry excuse for a miniature golf course and Mount Pedro.  Mount Pedro was a 30 foot high mound of dirt with some plants and a goat wandering it.  What a disappointment.   Another boyhood fantasy crushed.  

After seeing the sights at S.O.B., it was on the road again.  After numerous stops to pee (I've decided Girlfriend's bladder is the size of a BB), we finally crossed into Florida.  Want proof?  Here you go:

This is the welcome center at the FL/GA state line on I-95.  It's the only one I've ever been to where they have a counter serving fresh-squeezed orange juice.  That's one of those "peculiar" Florida things I was talking about.  No where else will you find that.  Now, it was around was getting late in the day and we'd left home at 7:30 in the morning.  I was ready to be where I was going, and we were looking at another 5 hours before that was gonna happen.  It was a little disheartening, but then I realized Hey, I'm in Florida and I've never been here before!  Re-energized, we took off again.  The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful.  Except for the billboards advising us that a couple of small towns on U.S. 301 were speed traps.  I'm not kidding, we were riding along and, all of sudden, there's a big black sign that says "Lawtey: Speed Trap" in great, big yellow letters.  Down the road a bit, there was another but I can't remember the name of the town.  I hope there are similar signs on the north bound side.  The last thing I want is to get a ticket in some crooked little Florida cracker town. 

We finally arrived about 8:30 PM and unloaded.  The house is magnificent and in a neighborhood I could only dream of living in.  Although, we did drive through some less-than-nice parts of Holiday (where we're at.  Just north of Tampa) to get here.  After unloading, I realized I didn't have some toiletry items and I was starving.  Girlfriend was so tired she just wanted a shower and the bed, so I left her to it and wandered out into the night on my quest.  I found the items needed with any trouble and then began to look for something to eat.  After waiting that long for dinner, I knew McDonald's or any other fast-food chain wouldn't make the grade, so I kept looking until I found Gyro King.  I love Mediterrean food and gyro's are the bomb.  But, they also had 1/2 lb char-grilled cheeseburgers and that was it.  A few minutes later, I was sitting in the living room with Girlfriend watching British comedies on PBS and eating the best burger I've had in a long time.  I don't know if it was really that good, I was that hungry or both.  I'm betting on both. 

Well, that's the end of Day one's story.  We survived 13 hours in the car together without a fight or ovelry irritating each other.  That's a good omen for the rest of the week, I think.  We'll see.  Tune in tomorrow, same Bat time, same Bat channel for more in the continuing saga of The Week of Doing Nothing!

This is ridiculous

Okay, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm so tired of Tiger Woods and his escapades, I could just sh..., well, you know what I could do.  I swore I wasn't going to write about it.  The media is doing it's best to run this story into the ground, I thought, and I'll be damned if I'm going to contribute.  But, after what I heard this morning, I just can't stand it.  I have to say something about this whole sordid mess.

This morning on the way to work, I heard an interview with Gloria Allred.  Ms Allred is the attorney for Veronica Siwik-Daniels, better known as porn star Joslyn James.  According to Ms Allred, the main thing James wants is an apology.  Because Tiger lied to her.  You see, he told she was the only woman, other than his wife, that he was doing the deed with.  Do you see where this is going?  She's mad because her boyfriend lied to her about how many women he was cheating on his wife with.  I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.  She's mad because he lied about how many women he cheated on his wife with.  Do you get this???  She's mad because a dishonest, cheating S.O.B. LIED about how many women he was doing!  Look, if he was cheating on his wife, what the hell makes you so special that he wouldn't lie to you too?  That's the dumbest thing I've heard in long time.  And, I hear a lot of dumb things.  Almost as dumb as the idea that she doesn't want any money and they have no plans of filing a lawsuit.  Oh really?  Then, why did you hire a lawyer?  Because you want a new friend?  Believe me, you could do better hiring a hooker for that.  And, save some money.

So far, fifteen women have come forward to say that they had an affair with Woods.  FIFTEEN!!!  When the hell did he have time to play golf?  I'm telling you, juggling two women takes a lot of time and effort.  But, fifteen women?  Of course, I know he wasn't juggling all fifteen at the same time, but still.  This dude hustled fifteen different women over five years.  All while maintaining a career as the best golfer in the world.  That's a pretty high profile position.  Which Tiger used it to maximum effect.  His caddy and fellow golfers are all claiming to be in the dark about his peccadilloes.  I doubt that.  Truth be told, more than a few of them are doing the same thing as Tiger, just not on the same scale.   Believe me on this one; being a guy, I know guys. And in any group of men with access to lots of indiscriminate sex, there are going to be some takers.  Not all, not even most.  But, some will and some of those who do will be married.  So, all those holier than thou fakers on the PGA who are piously saying that they had no idea that Tiger was doing what it turned out he was doing are full of crap.  Just step up and say you knew what was going on, but couldn't speak out because the Guy Code prohibits such actions.  It's bullshit, but it's more honest than the bullshit they're spouting now. 

Finally, there's Tiger's "apology" and his stint in rehab.  I'm so effing tired of celebrities who get busted for something socially unacceptable making a tearful public apology that alludes to some addiction, then going to a luxury rehab program and thinking that fixes everything.  It doesn't.  What it does is trivialize actual addictions and the people who suffer from them.  It would be a real breath of fresh air if, just once, one of these priveledged, pampered children would step up to the microphone and just say "I screwed up.  I don't have any excuses for what I did.  It was wrong, it was irresponsible and it was all my fault."  But, you'll need snowshoes at the equator before that happens.

It's My Story and I'll Tell it the Way I Want

There's new documentary premiering at the South by Southwest film festival called "The People vs George Lucas".  It's about the love/hate relationship between Lucas and fans of his "Star Wars" franchise.  First, I want to talk about what's being said about the documentary.  One reviewer said of this documentary "it is still a well-constructed documentary on the subject of our generation's most inspirational work of fiction."  Excuse me?  Did he say "our generation's most inspirational work of fiction"?  If that's true, it may be one of the saddest things I've ever heard.  There are some people out there who view the Star Wars movies as inspirational.  What most folks don't seem to realize is that these movies are the late 20th and early 21st century equivilent of a Buck Rogers serial.  And, they're about as deep, too.  Don't get me wrong, I love all the Star Wars movies.  But, let's not make them into something they're not.  Fun way to waste an afternoon?  Absolutely.  Inspirational work of fiction?  Not hardly.  If you want to be inspired, try reading the Bible. 

About the actual documentary, this film has been made because a bunch of folks put a lot into a movie that it was never meant to hold (see above paragraph).  Here's a quote from the director, "George Lucas made Star Wars; but it was the fans who turned it into a seemingly undying worldwide phenomenon" 
While that much is true, the problem is these folks feel they own the franchise as much as Lucas does.  In this misconception, they need to be brought up short.  Unless you've sweat over blood over the story, gone without sleep to figure out characterizations and mortgaged everything you own to see it on the big screen, you don't own a damn thing about the story.  And, what is it that has these people so up in arms?  They don't like the direction the story has taken, there are characters they despise (Jar Jar Binks), tweaks he made in the original story and other things.  Here's my take: If you don't like it, don't freakin' watch it!  Quit lining up to see the movies, get rid of your Stormtrooper armor and sell all your action figures and space ships.  Going to see each episode 72 times doesn't qualify you for partial ownership of the story; it qualifies you for the "Get a Damn Life" award. 

When a writer sits down to a blank screen and begins to let his imagination run wild (which actually happens before you sit down), what comes out is uniquely his or hers.  They share it with others for various reasons. Sometimes out of vanity (almost always),  sometimes hoping to make some money out of it (if you're lucky), but mostly because they're unable to do anything else.  To see anyone, much less a bunch of pimply-faced nerds still living in they're mother's basement, try to take any credit at all for someone elses work pisses me off.  Here's an idea for all those who want to tell Mr. Lucas how his story should go: Instead of playing World of Warcraft until the wee hours, write your own story.  Do all the things that you believe Lucas should have and avoid all of his mistakes.  If (not when, it's not that easy) you come up with something worthy of public comsumption, wait for the very people you were hoping to entertain to rip it to shreds with a bunch of ridiculous ideas and inane criticisms.  Then, see how you feel about it.  I suspect you'll agree with me.  It's George's story and he can tell it the way he wants. 

Carrying "Natural" Too Far

I don't know if you've seen the commercials or not, but Wendy's is testing a new recipe for their french fries.  I can understand this, because anyone with half a brain will realize that Wendy's fries suck and McDonald's has the best fries of any fast food joint.  Five Guys and places like that don't count in this equation because they're not "fast".  That, and if I did count them, they'd blow my assumption because Five Guys french fries are freakin' fantastic.  Especially when you drizzle some malt vinegar on them.  But, that's beside the point.  The point is that all other fast food places need to step up their game on the french fry front.  Wendy's has tried to do this.  I don't know if they succeeded or not, because I haven't tried them yet.  And, frankly, that's not what I want to talk about right now.  No, tonight's subject is the commercial.

Let's start with what they're calling them.  The name, "Wendy's Natural-Cut French Fries with Sea Salt".  Okay, seems fine until you take a closer look at it.  The problem comes in the phrase "Natural-Cut".  In the commercial, they actually say, "We take a potato and naturally cut it".  I'm sorry, but I didn't know there was a way to unnaturally cut something.  I mean, you take something with a sharp edge and pass it through whatever it is you need to cut into smaller pieces.  Am I missing something?  Actually, I know what's going on with this.  It's a marketing ploy to to conjure up the image of a bunch of little old ladies standing around a table with kitchen knives slicing up potatoes.  Of course, we all know that's bullshhh..., well, we know what it is.  In reality, these fries are processed in a plant just like any other, the only difference being the skin is left on.  I like french fries with the skin still on, but don't try to b.s. me into thinking they're something they're not.  It won't work and you just sound incredibly stupid. 

Next comes the sea salt part.  There are folks who believe there's a difference between sea salt and table salt.  Gourmets contend that, because of the different mineral content, sea salt tastes better.  Others can't tell the difference.  Some folks believe that sea salt is better for you because it isn't as processed as table salt.  Here's the deal, both table salt and sea salt are mostly sodium and chloride.  Yes, sea salt has some trace minerals that table salt doesn't.  And, the level of iodine naturally occurring in sea salt is negligible, so now most sea salt has iodine added to it.  Which really disposes of the "better for you" argument.  But, the whole sea salt on Wendy's fries is as stupid as the "natural cut" thing.  Because both the reasons for using sea salt, even if you accept that crap, are ridiculous.  I mean, sea salt is a gourmet thing.  Really, on a french fry?  You want to go there?  Come on, that's just silly.  Next up is the "better for you" argument.  IT'S A FREAKIN' FRENCH FRY!  You can't make an argument about putting more "nutritious" salt on something that's cooked in a big vat of grease.  And, IT'S FREAKIN' SALT!!!  I don't think you're going to make a healthy choice either way on that one. 

Natural cut french fries.  With sea salt.  I love it when companies do stuff like that.  This entry practically wrote itself.  I wish they were all this easy.  Hey, maybe these fries will really take off and some other restaurants will come up with even more stupid to compete.  One can only hope.

P.S.  I know I used "freakin" a lot in this post, but I was trying my best not to drop any F bombs.  And, it was hard.  Really hard.

I Hate Spam

Email that is.  I love Spam, the canned meat.  I realize that sounds gross, but it really is tasty.  And, versatile; there are tons of recipes for it.  But, that's another post.  This one's about email and computer stuff.  I'm so freakin' tired of getting crap in my inbox that I do not want, need, care about, am interested in, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Have you ever looked at the spam folder in your email?  It's filled with junk like want ads, web page ads, product ads, etc.  And, every last bit of it is absolute garbage.  And, most of it carries lovely little hitchhikers like tracking cookies and other various bits of spyware.  That pisses me off because it's an invasion of my privacy.  No where but the internet can advertisers do this.  It's like they're putting a spy in your house to see what you're buying.  Bad as this is, though, there's something worse.  The...shall we say, male enhancement ads.  I'm insulted that these jerks who don't even know me presume that I need help in that arena.  As to whether I do or not, that's none of your business!

Another thing that drives me crazy are sites like Facebook and Twitter.  First of all, the arrogance involved in these sites is staggering.  People just assume that you're interested in every little detail of their life and they plaster it all over the internet.  Twitter is the worst.  It's a conglomeration of what people are doing or thinking from moment to moment.  The problem is that what most people think or do from moment to moment is crap.  Think about it for a minute.  Look back over the past couple of hours; see anything worth telling people about?  Maybe once in a while, but every day, all day?  I think not.  Facebook does this too, just not as obnoxiously.  They more than make up for it with all their notifications and invitations.  Let me state for the record that I do not care about what you're doing in Farmville/MafiaWars/CafeWorld etc.  The fact that you got an egg for your aquarium or a cow for farm means almost nothing to me.  I could live with that, but what really chaps me is all the invitations.  I don't play these silly games (I waste more than enough time as it is) and I don't want whatever it is that you're sending me and I am not going to send you anything back.  Don't... waste... your... time.  You can see by the little tirade above that I have a Facebook account.  I also have one on Twitter.  Not that I "tweet" (what a stupid term) a lot, I use it to advertise my blogs.  Yeah, I realize that's arrogant, too.  But, it's different.  Mostly because it's my arrogance. 

I know this is basically an extended rant.  But, there's a method to my madness.  I'm angling for curmudgeon status.  In case you're wondering, a curmudgeon is, the dictionary says it's "An ill-tempered (and frequently old) person full of stubborn ideas or opinions."  By that standard, some would say I'm already there.  But, that definition doesn't really cut it.  I like this quote by Jon Winkour:
"A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor. . . . . . They attack maudlinism because it devalues genuine sentiment. . . . . . Nature, having failed to equip them with a servicable denial mechanism, has endowed them with astute perception and sly wit. 

Curmudgeons are mockers and debunkers whose bitterness is a symptom rather than a disease. They can't compromise their standards and can't manage the suspension of disbelief necessary for feigned cheerfulness. Their awareness is a curse.


Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the messenger is blamed for the message: They have the temerity to comment on the human condition without apology. They not only refuse to applaud mediocrity, they howl it down with morose glee. Their versions of the truth unsettle us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften it with humor."

See, it's not so bad, is it?

The Cameron Village Subway (no, not the sandwich place)

Once upon a time, there was a...well, not really magical, place, 'cause in a lot of ways it sucked, but it had it's moments...anyway, this semi-magical land was called the Triangle.  What made it even a little magical was that even though the land was filled with politicians, businesses and money-grubbing yuppies, there was some magnificent music being played somewhere in the area almost every night.  There was the old Cat's Cradle (on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill), The Brewery on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh (where Corrosion of Conformity got their start) and others, but the coolest place in the entire area was the Cameron Village Subway.  Originally modeled on Underground Atlanta, it was supposed to consist of shops, restaurants and bars catering to young professionals.  From the beginning, the Subway was a music mecca.  The first place to bring in the crowds was The Frog and Nightgown, a jazz and folk club that opened when the Subway did in the early 70's.  Thelonius Monk played a ten day stand there once.  Dizzy Gillespie also showed up for a gig.  The Frog was the only place between D.C. and Atlanta that booked jazz acts.  After a while, the shops realized there wasn't enough daytime foot traffic to stay open and, one by one, closed.  In their place, clubs and bars like The Pier, The Bear's Den and Cafe Deja Vu opened.  In one of those weird confluences, an budding indie music scene took wing about the same time.  For a few years, you could hear live, original music all over the place.  R.E.M. played The Pier before they hit the big time.  The Connells were hometown boys and pulled in crowds wherever they played.  There were even some album compilations celebrating the scene.  Mondo Montage I and II and Return to Comboland.  Bands like Arrogance, Glass Moon, The Fabulous Knobs (my personal favorite) and others were featured on the records and in the clubs and it was great! 

Now, there's almost nothing left of those happy days.  The Brewery and the Cradle are still around.  Both are still pretty much the same, even if the Cradle did move to larger digs in Carrboro.  The best part about the move is they remodeled the inside of the new space to be just as much a hole as the old one was.  They even tried to make it look as much the same as possible.  The Brewery is going on 30 years old and,with a few minor cosmetic changes, looks the same as it did when I used to hang out there in 1982.  It was a dump then and it's a dump now.  But, looks were never what it was about.  Good music was.  If it wasn't for The Brewery, CoC may not be around these days.  Back when they were just starting out as fledging punk band, a lot of their fans were below drinking age.  The band talked the owners into having some shows during the day on Saturday and Sunday (sans alcohol) so these kids could see them.  It snowballed from there and now CoC is a nationally known heavy metal band.  But, aside from these two icons, there's not much left.  Maybe some bars that have bands on the weekend, but they're cover bands, with a few exceptions like Terry Anderson's OAKteam (remnants of the Woods and the Knobs).  It's kind of sad, really.  But, for a little while, it was rockin'.

The Root of All Evil?

While looking of something worthy of my time to write about (because, yes I am that good), I ran across an interesting statement.  On a blog called "For what it's worth", Alex Ho said "I still think Country music is a factor on low birth weights".  Like I said, interesting.  But, in my opinion, it doesn't go anywhere near far enough.  I believe Satan has abandoned his plan to corrupt our youth through rock and roll and opted for a much more insidious approach.  Realizing that rock & roll wasn't really effective anymore because kids can't rebel and listen to the same music their parents do, he switched to country music.  That's right, country.  And, he's not using sex, drugs and rock & roll anymore.  Now, here's where it the insidious part comes in.  He's trying to wear down people's resistance with crappy music, moronic lyrics and boring personalities.  In a genre that fostered drinkers like George Jones, pill heads like Johnny Cash and out-and-out white trash like David Allen Coe, we now have banal, white-bread acts like Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill and Taylor Swift.  Swift may be the worst of a bad lot, too.  For the longest time, every time I saw her, something just didn't sit right with me.  Then, it dawned on me: her eyes were too far apart.  When I mentioned it my daughter, she said the girl looked like a fish.  Since then, I've been looking for gills on her neck, a fin growing out of her back.  You know, something suitably aquatic.  When she first came out, my oldest daughter was a big fan and tried to sell me on the fact that she wrote her own songs.  It took me all of 30 seconds to realize that some folks need other people to write for them and she's one.  In the song "Love Story", she imagines she's in Romeo and Juliet and it's all romantic and stuff.  I'm not sure what version of the story she read, but it sure doesn't sound like the one I know.  Folks die and families are torn apart.  Ooh, that's romantic all right.

But, she's not the only one.  Between Kenny Chesney's questioned sexuality, Toby Keith's rabid nationalism, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill fawning all over each other in what some call a concert, country music has sunk to an incredible low.  Gone are the blues that were so integral to early country music.  So long soul, too.  You've been replaced with pop themes, bubble gum and sugar.  Hank Williams is spinning in his grave right about now. 

If country music has been taken over by Satan, who's hijacking NASCAR?  Because, the racing I remember as a boy is long gone.  Up north, kid's heroes were baseball and football players.  But, in southern Guilford County NC during the 1960's, every boy wanted to be Richard Petty.  Richard was a hometown boy to us, what with his shop just over the county line in Level Cross.  And, if Richard wasn't your man, it was Cale or Bobby or Donnie.  Guys with last names like Yarborough and Allison and accents like your dad.  Now, it's names like Keselowski, Busch and Montoya.  And, the stars are mealy-mouthed Yankee pretty-boys like Jeff Gordon.  There's no personality left in NASCAR.  People decry the loss of Dale Earnhardt and I miss him too, he was one last links to the real racing of the past.  But, what NASCAR really needs is another Tim Flock.  Flock was as much showman as driver and he excelled at both.  Why do I like Flock so much?  Simple, Jocko Flocko.  Jocko was Tim's mascot, a monkey dressed in a racing suit and a crash helmet,  Flock even took Jocko with him during races.  Well, he did until Jocko got hit with a rock, freaked out and fastened himself to Tim's face and 150 mph.   But, you know what?  Flock brought the car into the pits without hitting anyone or hurting Jocko.  What a hero.

The point I'm making is that I'm watching the South of my boyhood, my South, fade away and I don't like it.  Not...at...all.  I know change is good and all that crap.  But, do we have to dismantle all the good stuff just to have that change?  All the places I used to love to eat at in Greensboro, my hometown, are closing, being torn down or just changing more than I can stand.  I miss the Boar and Castle, the old Stamey's, Bill's Pizza and Beef Burger.  Well, Beef Burger is still around, but I never get to eat there anymore.  So, I'm counting it.  My children say I'm getting old.  I say they better watch out for ants and molasses in their beds.

Come on in

Welcome to my second blogging effort.  Why a second blog, you ask?  Well, the other one is about religious matters and there were things I wanted to write about that I didn't feel were appropriate there.  Plus, I'm hoping to draw readership for the other one.  You see, people that ordinarily wouldn't be caught dead reading something religious will read this and be so smitten by the quality of my writing that they'll have to switch over and read "But, not yet".  That's the plan anyway, we'll see what happens

Am I the only person tired of being strong armed by 8 year old girls selling cookies?  Today, as I was leaving the grocery store, I was accosted by some little thug holding a case of cookies.  I was coming out of the store, relieved to out because I hate shopping on Saturday morning when she jumped out at me and yelled "EXCUSE ME, WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME GIRL SCOUT COOKIES!!!"  It kind of took me surprise.  I mean, who expects some cute little girl to practically knock them down, rifle through their pockets for money and shove a box of cookies in their mouth?  But, I'd seen them on the way in, so I was prepared for her..., I thought.  "No thank you, I already bought some" (which I'm still waiting on) I responded.  Or tried to respond, because about the time I got out "No thank you", she yelled again "WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE A DONATION TO OUR TROOP?"  I just shook my head and kept on walking.  I kept on walking because I didn't have any cash to give and I wasn't about to trust this budding carnival barker with my credit card.  I didn't say anything because I couldn't believe her audacity.  Good Lord, somebody tell these girls that beating people over the head isn't going to help their sales.
 
Worse than that are the little ones whose parents know you and they know what a soft touch you are, whether for their kids or the cookies.  I mean, come on, who can say no to a little 5 or 6 year old who screwed up the courage to come over and ask if you want some of the most delectable treats known to man.  Nobody can resist that, it's not freakin' fair! But, worst of all, are the parents who come in with the order form and corner you in the break room.  "How many boxes of cookies can I put you down for?"  Like it's some forgone conclusion that I want some cookies.  Just because I have a donut in my hand and powdered sugar on my shirt doesn't mean I'm down for cookies.  And, thinking that because I'm not all slim and svetle is stereotyping and that's wrong.  My daughters are slowly but surely aging out of things like Scouting and such where high-pressure sales tactics seem to part and parcel of fundraising.  Which is good, but it also kind of sucks.  Good because it's one less headache to deal with.  Sucks because I don't have anything to irritate the break-room thug with anymore. 

The worst part about Girl Scout cookies is that they're so good I can't eat just a couple.  Oh no, once the box is open, it's just a matter of minutes before they're all gone.  Well, it used to be minutes.  The stupid Girl Scouts changed the recipe of the greatest culinary contribution of the Western World: The Samoa.  You remember the Samoa, a ring-shaped cookie, sprinkled with coconut and drizzled with caramel and dark chocolate.  A box of the original Samoa's might make it home from wherever I picked them up, but just barely.  Now, in all their wisdom, they quit using dark chocolate and switched to namby-pamby milk chocolate.  I'll still eat them, but it's under protest.  This is a double-edged sword, however.  I'm a diabetic (type II) and the last thing I need is box of Girl Scout cookies.  I keep telling myself, if I can't have them, at least I'm not missing out perfection. 

If I sound like a jerk, be assured that I'm not.  A bit curmudgeonly, yes.  But, not a jerk.  I'm just tired of being swarmed by kids selling stuff every time I go to the friggin' store.  Oh well, it won't last much longer.  Will it?