Detoxing like a pig

Delia, my other half, has revealed to me a new finding. According to her, research indicates that people who sweat are healthier, all other things being equal, than people who don't. It seems that sweaters like myself are naturally detoxifying our bodies through our pores. Delia doesn't sweat, which never bothered her before. Now she envies me for the way I sweat. Every day she drinks some kind of noxious shake that supposedly helps her body detoxify itself.

I am now self-satisfied that my sweating so easily is now an object of envy. Perhaps it will help me deal with the fact that I have to do a bunch of work around the outside of our building in the heat and humidity of south Florida and will be drenched within minutes. I think I'll get something to eat at McDonalds before I start. I'll be oozing hormones in no time.

What's next - running with scissors?

Now mothers all over the world are saying, "Don't eat your spinach!" Is this a sign of the apocalypse? Repent! The end is near!

The story unfolds, backwards

I was thinking about using a blog to post a fictional story in episodes, but then realized that the format doesn't really help with the reading. Then I thought maybe it would be more interesting, and probably way more challenging to write, if I wrote it starting from the ending. Each new posting would represent the next earlier chapter. Is this a first? Has anyone tried this before? Will anyone even find it to read it?

The next issue is what to write that lends itself to this kind of form. I think I'll begin with something I know about and a story I have contemplated for some time. Click on Ending First under Links on the right.

Supersize my snack, please

I rarely, rarely go to McDonalds. I think their food is mostly trash, but I have noticed their recent ads for the Snack Wrap, which is apparently a piece of chicken in a tortilla wrap. It sounded somewhat appealing, so I figured that someday I'd try it out.

That someday happened yesterday. I pulled into the drive-in service line. When the voice from the box asked for my order I said I wanted the Snack Wrap only. When I saw the order appear on the screen I said thanks and pulled forward to pick it up. While waiting for my turn to pick up, I noticed the woman in the car behind me speaking to the box and pointing toward my car. I wondered what that was about. Had I not followed procedure?

When I got to the pick-up window, the woman was concerned that she hadn't gotten my entire order. I said all I wanted was the snack wrap, thank you very much, and she seemed perplexed. "Are you sure?" she said. Yes, I assured her. I paid my $1.37 and took my snack wrap, which of course had too much mayo on it, as does all fast food.

I guess McDs isn't expecting you to snack on a snack wrap. You should want a basket of fries and a bucket of Coke to go with it.

I think I'll go back to my old practice of staying away from McDonalds.

Grog unveiled

Here is a picture of me relaxing at Disneyworld a couple years ago. Some dork in a white shirt sat down beside me for no reason at all.

Amusing myself

I can take a decent photo, but this one impressed me. I took it while in Rome this summer. We were kind of standing around aimlessly in St. Peter's Square, having abandoned our original intentions to go into the Vatican, since two of our family group were girls with bare shoulders who wouldn't be allowed in. Then, of course, there is the other one who had to wear the minishorts with Naughty stitched in large letters across her butt. They probably have a trap door to send her straight to hell.

I'd recently read Angels & Demons by Dan Brown which was set almost entirely in Rome, so I became especially focussed on this obelisk in the center of the square, taking in its details. I pointed my camera up at the obelisk and saw how the sun was blocked by it, creating an aura of sorts. Pointing the camera directly at the top of the obelisk caused the sun to overwhelm the camera's light meter, so I dropped my frame down a bit, partially clicked the shutter release to get the camera's brain to set itself on the light there, then moved my frame upward toward the top and depressed the release all the way. Even though it was bright sunshine in midafternoon, this is what I got.

Very cool photo. I am in no way a very spiritual person, but it sure came out with a neat spiritual effect. Don'tcha think?

Actually at this point I was probably lucky to still have my camera. We had been standing around in a group and started taking photos of each other in smaller groups. Two young men came over and offered to take a group picture. After I'd turned my camera over to one I became a little concerned that he'd take off with it, and I think Diana, Naughty girl, was similarly wary about hers. I was also concerned that if he did take off, I'd feel compelled to run after him, so I was kind of braced to get a good start. Anyway, he may have sensed our tension, took a couple shots and returned the cameras.

Later as we were walking out of the Square I saw him leaning against a post where the tourists were lined up to go into the Basilica, seemingly sizing up his prey, and I felt even more like I'd escaped the Artful Dodger (see Oliver Twist).

My inner caveman

When people ask me if I like sushi, I tell them a little story about my great, great, great...great, grandfather, Grog, who was a caveman. As the story goes, Grog was there when they discovered fire and its many uses. When asked what it meant to him, by a reporter for The Daily Hunt, Grog said, "No more raw fish!"

I named the blog after him, and I often try to see the world through his eyes. Much as we like to think that we're modern men, and women, the fact is that we're not too far removed from our cave dwelling ancestors.

We really aren't evolving much, in a good way, anymore either. In many ways, modern man, and women, are actually devolving. For example, think about how modern optics are making your natural vision immaterial from a survival standpoint. With a set of contact lenses, or laser correction, you can still find a suitable mate and pass on your defective genes to another generation, and another, and another, etc. Only a couple hundred years ago, you would have been viewed as less than ideal mate material, practically blind.

We've tamed a lot of science in recent decades so we're feeling pretty smug about our "evolution", but under the skin, and particularly in our heads we haven't come very far at all. Much of our instinctive behavior is still quite primitive. Men are still natural hunters. Women are still naturally nurturing mothers. Our intellects may be improving, but our natural responses to so many situations are based on those two perspectives.

Think about our mating habits, and I hope to talk about this more someday, and you'll see how it all works. There's a really good and amusing book on the subject called Why Men Don't Listen and Women Can't Read Maps: How We're Different and What to Do About It by Allan Pease and Barbara Pease. Get it. Read it. Give it to your kids to read. Another very recent book I just read is The Female Brain by Louann Md Brizendine. Both are fascinating revelations on what really controls our psychologies.

If you stop and evaluate situations from the point of view of your inner caveman (yeah, yeah and your inner cavewoman too), you will begin to see with a lot more clarity. We are not in control of our instincts. It was only about 6000 years ago that the Iron Age began. 6000 years! I can remember nearly 1% of that amount of time, so it really isn't that long ago, and I'm not all that old.

What I like to entertain my imagination with sometimes is considering the circumstance where one caveman, by some freak of nature, had a higher IQ than the rest. Maybe his IQ was no more than 60 or 70 by today's standards, but that might have been the equivalent of 150 today.

Now is this caveman content to stalk a wooly mammoth or collect berries, or is he or she more inclined to sit in the cave and figure out how to make a better knife? Or how to make a broom? Or a pacifier? Think of some of the basic tools of life and when and how they might have come about and you'll see how I view the world.

We know who invented such recent marvels as the radio (Marconi), the lightbulb (Edison) and who invented the toilet (Crapper), but do we know who invented the spear, the fishing hook or the anvil? Whoever he or she was, I'd like to acknowledge their (relative) genius. I'd build a monument to you but I don't know your name. So I built a blog.

Thanks, anyway.
Grog CD (the 400th)

Thanks a bunch, Steve Irwin

Speaking for 5 year old boys all over the world, as well as their older brethren, and some of their sisters as well, I'd like to thank Steve Irwin for screwing things up royally.

First, I'd like to say that I acknowledge that to his family and fans his death from that sting ray barb was a great tragedy. From what I've seen of him he was a very amusing bloke, and I probably would have enjoyed hanging out with him.

But did he have to go and die doing that dangerous stuff? Now every mother on the planet has a new favorite poster boy for danger. I can hear them already: "If you keep doing those (insert your favorite risky activity) stunts, you're going to end up like that Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin. Dead! And you won't be getting a big state funeral."

Thanks, Steve.

A new rule

This was originally written on March 2, 2006

This morning I was running a little early for once. Delia is away on business so I had jumped out of bed earlier than normal determined to get some work done. I took my shower and when I got to my closet to get dressed I spotted my new wetsuit. I’d bought it to wear on cold (by Miami standards) mornings so I could take my kayak out without getting too wet and cold. I hadn’t tried it on yet and decided that my current state of dress (none) was a good starting point.

It’s a one piece black and blue suit with a zipper up the chest, so you have to put it on like a jumpsuit. It is designed to be a little snug I guess, so ‘jumpsuit’ is a good term for the process of getting it on. It wasn’t too tough but it was a little challenging getting it over my broad shoulders. Once zipped up it was like a second skin. My first thought is that there’s not enough room left to fart. Maybe extra large isn’t large enough. I remembered that it came in XXL and XXXL too. At the time I thought maybe some people should just stay out of the water. Now I’m thinking maybe some people just like a looser fitting suit.

Okay, so now it’s time to take the suit off and get dressed for work. Uh oh! Try as I might I couldn’t manipulate both shoulders out of the top – only one. Not good enough. If I get one shoulder bare I still cannot get my arm out. Struggling more wasn’t doing much except getting my pulse up and making me sweat out of frustration.

Now I am struck with the realization that I am in this fix alone. Delia is in Vegas. Diana is in the Dominican Republic on Spring Break. Jaclyn is in New York, and Stefanie is at school. Meesh and Penny, my only companions, are cats and don’t take orders well. Besides they are puny and weak, not what I need.

My remaining options are unsatisfactory. Anyone else that I might get to help me get this suit off is not handy. Mom and Dad are nearby in Hollywood, but it’s early and I’d have to go over there in the suit. Going out dressed in a wetsuit is not really appealing to me. And I am not about to go to work to ask for help there. I’d never live it down.

My other thought is that I am going to have to cut this thing off. I dismissed this fairly quickly as I didn’t want to have a brand new two piece $65 wetsuit.

I start looking around the room for something to assist my efforts. I find a good wooden hanger and think I might be able to pry my other shoulder out, but then second thoughts get me to consider the possibility that this could leave me with both arms pinned behind my back. Trying to imagine an even more impossible situation, I decide against it.

I am left with the realization that I have just not tried hard enough. A monumental struggle with one arm results in success and a highly elevated pulse, but I breathe easier. I look at the suit to verify the size (a little late for that!). Nothing confirms my suspicions. Nor do I find a label that gives the warning that I should have gotten.

I quickly resolve to make a new life rule: Never try on a new wetsuit without company.

Air ain't cheap

Yeah, I'm back. I missed you too.

Yesterday I decided that it was time again to try to
coax some conditioning into my aging and complaining body. I get a decent amount of exercise for my upper body by paddling my kayak up and down the intracoastal waterway, but the legs are just along for the ride when I do. A paraplegic could do it.

I decided to drag my bike out of the garage and go for a ride. In my brief pre-ride inspection I discovered that the tires were a bit soft. Not flat, but not up to anything close to the right pressure. I'd need some inflation.

My old air tank, a left over from my autocross days, was empty. And my portable air compressor had been lent to my stepdaughter a couple weeks before to keep her slowly deflating tire from giving her another excuse to stay the night with some boyfriend. She was probably asleep, hopefully alone, in her apartment over the garage, and it being morning, she was hours away from being awake enough for me to get the keys to her car and retrieving the compressor.

I tested the tires by sitting on the bike and determined that there was enough air to get me to the nearest filling station with an air pump. It's only about a mile away. Certainly even with the challenge of supporting my not inconsiderable weight, the bike should make it.

I even had the foresight to remember that this particular station had an air pump that required the seemingly ungodly amount of 50 cents to dispense the few breaths of air I needed. I had the presence of mind, this time, to stop by my change jar to take two quarters to feed the machine. Enough to fill the tires of two monster trucks let alone my puny little mountain bike.

Off I went huffing and puffing, certain that the lack of air in my tires was giving me an even better cardio workout.

Upon arriving at the station I was faced with an air pump machine that had only days before allowed me to pump up my van's low rear tire. But this time it had a sign taped to the face saying it was out of service.

Swell. Now what? My choices were many. I could turn around and go home where I could blame my stepdaughter for aborting my workout and shortening my lifespan. I could ride with impunity and figure the tires had gotten me this far, they could get me home. I could seek out solace in a bar somewhere, but it was 9am. I could find the next closest air pump. I chose the last.

Of course, instead of going south to the closest gas station I chose to go north to a station at Hallandale Blvd. and Federal Highway. This was in the general direction I had intended to follow on my ride, so it seemed logical to stick close to the program. It was only another mile.

When I got there, I was faced with an unexpected development. Their air pump had been marked up to 75 cents. I had my two quarters and in fact also had my wallet. Even though I couldn't make exact change, I could get the necessary change. I just didn't want to. I was already indignant from the start that I would have to pay 50 cents for the two breaths of air necessary to inflate my tires. Now being asked to pay 75 cents just irked me even more.

Surely the station across the street wouldn't be so greedy as to also be charging 75 freaking cents for air, that invisible substance that comes free to everyone that walks, crawls or lays in a coma (most of them at least).

But no! They too had the greedy air pump that demanded 75 cents. What the hell? I've never seen such greed. I know for a fact that there's a gas station on Young Circle in Hollywood that is free. But it's a good two miles south, which means a minimum of four miles home, more than I had set out to do. But I'm still not willing to pay 75 cents for a breath of air.

We must stand up for what we believe in. 75 cents for the 2 minutes or less of electricity that they give you to pump up your tires is just insane. By my crude calculations, the electricity is costing them pennies. The machine itself is probably paid for in a matter of days, so the 75 cents is mostly profit. Don't they make enough off the $3 gasoline they sell?

Okay, so now I set off for the next gas station, only 2 blocks away. There too, to my dismay, they also have a shiny new pump asking for 75 cents. At this point I should have given in. But I apparently have suffered from terminal stubbornness. I also don't know of another station close by, at least in the direction of home, and I don't trust any others to have not caved into this conspiracy to rob innocent travelers of their hard earned quarters.

So I turn for home, glad that so far my tire rim hasn't been hitting the pavement. My progress is slowed by a headwind that seems determined to stop me. Didn't I face a headwind when heading the opposite direction? Am I smelling a cosmic conspiracy here?

Later after collapsing in the family room, drenched in sweat, I stuck my hand in my pocket, not searching but nevertheless expecting to find my two quarters. Instead I came up empty with the sudden realization that I had on my favorite comfortable shorts, the ones that had been comfortable for so long that they had developed a hole in the pocket. Somewhere along the ride, I had lost my two quarters. I had paid 50 cents and didn't get even one puff of air in my tires.

My screams of anguish should have woken the dead. As it was, I kept it to myself. I was exhausted.

Grog