TOYS AND GAMES: Dieting is a Bitch

Dieting is a bitch!

Either Abraham Lincoln first uttered those words while chasing vampires or William Howard Taft after he got stuck in a bathtub.

Regardless of attribution, it is one of life’s sad truths.

Though I once gravitated toward over-the-top fitness, that phase has long passed.  I’m now a flawed bulimic — I binge but I don’t purge, leaving me to seek another way.

Thus, I’ve been reunited with, a website where you enter what you eat, what you weigh, what your weight goals are, etc. and it spits back the ugly truth: Everything that doesn’t taste like a brick has way too many calories.

So I wake every morning feeling like I need to eat a tree, yes, bark included–no trans fats, lots of fiber–if I’m to meet my daily goals.  By the end of the day I feel like a squirrel.  Acorns, fine. Pastrami, taboo.

I’ve been hovering around 205 pounds for a while, and even though that’s all muscle–right!–my goal is to reach 190.  On most days I’ve pushed the button after my final meal and the message has been sweet, something along the lines of, “If you continue like this, you’ll weigh 189 pounds in six weeks.”

Alas, the human condition is flawed, which means setbacks.

A rude awakening came from a recent trip to Hooters where Patti and I split a Cuban sandwich, chicken wings (Patti has reminded me several times that she only had two), and French Fries.  I also drank three pints of Bud Light and finished the night with a trip to Dunkin’ Donuts.  All told, I consumed 2,373 calories at dinner, or enough food to feed Ethiopia for a week.  When I pushed the final button for the day, told me I would weigh 215 in six weeks if I kept it up.

Thus, today’s penance: a palm frond and pine cone salad with a bowl of air. Wahoo!

TOYS AND GAMES: Swearing Off Faulkner

I recently read the following excerpt of an interview with William Faulkner for The Paris Review in 1956:

Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.

Since I liked Faulkner’s sentiments, I decided to make one last attempt at reading one of his works even though I’d sworn him off after multiple attempts in the past.


William Faulkner, by by Carl Van Vechten

The Sound and the Fury just didn’t happen for me. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m just not getting the vibe from this renown Southern writer.  Perhaps I’m even more of a literary idiot than I previously thought. Suffice it to say, I’m not a Faulkner fan. I guess that means I’ll never have a seat at the erudite table.

Based on my decision to reject Faulkner, I’ll go ahead and express the following theory for his acclaim among the literary muckity-mucks: His works and his life play to the stereotypes of Southerners, who are drunken idiots and they sleep with their cousins.

You sleep with one lousy cousin!

Anyway, this time I’m really done trying to “get” Faulkner.  There are simply too many books I enjoy reading and want to read for me to fight my way through ones that I don’t.  Kind of reminds me of trying to watch movies that the Academy tell us are “important” movies. The last time I fell for that one I sat through “The Constant Gardener” and wanted to slash my wrists afterward.  Give me “Smokey and the Bandit” any day.  And while I’m at it, I prefer a “Diablo sandwich and a Dr. Pepper” to caviar and champagne.