“Give me your keys and nothing will happen.”
I had come from rehearsal. It was a little after nine, I had filled the tank, and these were not words I expected to hear at the well-lighted gas station.
“Excuse me?”
“Give me your keys and nothing will happen.”
Now he’d said it twice and there was no doubt: he was trying to steal my car. From me. At a gas station close to home. Surreal.
Stalling, I pretended I had not quite heard him and had not understood. I asked him to repeat the phrase a third time, which he did, while I looked him over and considered my options. He had his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and had not removed them, even as I stood playing dumb; I could not know, but I guessed that he did not have a gun. I looked at him and said sincerely “I am sorry, sir, but I don’t understand you.” Then I turned away from him and walked steadily to the convenience mart, mouthing “help” to the clerk in the store ahead of me and fearing sudden moves from the robber-to-be behind.
Entering the store, I repeated the phrase. The rest happened quickly. The night manager, who I knew to be a bit of a jokester in lighter situations, sprang into action. As soon as I cleared the entrance, the doors were locked behind me. As he called the police, I clicked my key fob to lock the car doors. None of us had seen where the robber had gone, but customers who continued to visit the pumps, unaware of the lockdown, came and went peacefully. When a rather impatient woman claimed, with a two-snaps-up-in-a-circle attitude, that she had seen him walk away, the doors were unlocked so that she could exit. As she did, it occurred to me that I might have locked my car too late: the sweat-shirted man might have climbed into it when I walked away. I decided not to test the theory and waited inside until the police arrived.
The wait was awkward and the store had resumed normal operation by the time the robber reappeared. Although I knew that the night manager had seen the guy – he’d given the police an accurate description -- I could not help blurting “that’s him!” upon his sudden appearance. The doors were quickly re-locked as he continued toward them. If he had been waiting in the shadows for me to come out, he had made the wrong decision. The police were right behind, and soon had him in custody.
When I stepped outside, I was surprised to find no less than eight police vehicles in the parking lot, lights flashing. Because nothing had actually been stolen and no one hurt, I thought it a bit excessive. I was soon informed, however, that they had been looking for this man for some time and he was wanted on several felony counts.
My mind turned morbidly to a recent shooting in the area. A shooting that had, in fact, taken place in an apartment complex directly behind that gas station. Whatever his crimes, my car, with its full tank of gas, would have made a nice getaway for him had I given it to him.
While the officer took my statement, I was surprised when she called my actions “smart.” I had expected a reprimand. I had expected her to tell me that one should always give a robber exactly what he asks for, and I told her so. She answered “criminals don’t expect you to say ‘no’.” If there was more to the thought, it was left unsaid.
I was asked to prosecute and I agreed. This morning I received a phone call: my subpoena. On Monday I will meet the D.A. and testify.
Between now and then, I can think of plenty of things to be thankful for.
Have a safe and happy holiday.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Several Hundred Years Ago and One Hundred Years Later, One Month and One Day from Today
Did somebody say 100 years' sleep? Sounds great, where do I sign up?
Oh right, I already did. As the queen, I fall asleep right along with everybody else in the castle until that noble (or not so noble) prince comes to wake the princess. Funny, she's already woken once this week and I don't feel the least bit rested.
Anyway, if you'd like to come see what's so untold about this age old tale:
Fri/Sat, December 16 and 17 at 7:30
Sun, December 18 at 2:30
Thurs/Fri, December 22 and 23 at 7:30
Darkhorse Theatre, 4610 Charlotte Ave., Nashville.
Tickets are $12 at the door, $10 in advance.
You can buy them through me or call 615-423-5304 for reservations.
A word of warning: parental guidance is suggested for children 13 and under due to implied sexual content. That's the legal disclaimer. Frankly, though, if your kid can cut through the implications, I'd like to meet him.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Mono-logue Dia-tribe
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started out from Nashville, sport,
Aboard this acting ship….
You may have heard about them, these hideous things that directors require actors to do to get a part. They are called monologues. And they are a most cruel and unusual punishment. Unnatural. Torture.
You see, usually, when an actor takes the stage he is acting WITH someone else. He is talking to another character who shares the stage and he is afforded the luxury of directing his comments TO someone and making eye contact. Not so with a monologue. Here he takes the stage alone and must find a way to be personable to the wall behind the auditors’ heads.
Usually, when an actor takes the stage, he is performing before a friendly audience that expects to enjoy the diversion he presents them. Not so with a monologue. Here he is performing before a panel of judges looking for flaws. While he talks to a wall. Making no eye contact.
Most auditors know that this is a ridiculous system and a barometer of nothing. They are therefore, I believe, sadistic little creatures who love to watch us squirm.
Still, every so often one must poke the sharp stick into one’s eye for the privilege of telling one's personal Bea Arthur that one did, indeed, try to bullshit last week (it’s a History of the World reference, get over it). So, that’s what I did today.
Somebody shoot me.
Okay, this is the internet after all, so I feel the need to point out that I don’t mean that literally. However, if you have a tranquilizer gun, aim away.
With few days to prepare, I pulled the material I’d use for my two minutes of hell and began to memorize. No problems with that. Never any problems with that. I can memorize like nobody’s business. In fact, hand me a script and give me a day or two to learn lines and I’ll be a regular Kel-I-Am:
Except at the frickin’ audition.
Never in a performance, mind. It is only in auditions that I ever “go up,” becoming so nervous and involved in my own self-critique that I lose my place in the material. This looks unfocused, I need to look at somebody. I can't look at somebody, but this stinks, I need to look. Shit, I looked. Where was I? Like a deer in the headlights, my brain freezes, lost in the awkwardness of the situation. Much like Sam-I-Am convinces his rather Sneetch-like prey to love Green Eggs and Ham at the end of his story, I suffer a similar turnaround at the end of mine:
Now, of course, hating them the way that I do, I have a rather biased view of them, but, that said… I’ve never understood how putting someone in this unnatural acting position with a script that they’ve chosen as their own personal showcase proves anything. They could quite possibly have spent years in preparation with professional coaches to turn that scene into the one and only perfect performance they’ll ever give and be utterly incapable of creating one watch-able scene in the script the auditor is offering in the limited rehearsal time available to them, sans coach. How would you know?
Meanwhile, someone who might do a bang-up job with the actual script is sacrificed on the monologue altar.
Baah.
Today I died so that others might live. Then I went home and set about something at which I excel: cooking. Mmmm, good chili!
Despite the audition, my midday excursion was a good thing. I may not have produced chicken salad, but at least I wasn’t chicken shit – I went. And I enjoyed a pre-audition conversation with the Company Secretary. And best, I had the opportunity to make a welcome suggestion for a new class the company might offer: How to Do a Monologue.
Tomorrow I’ll start rehearsals for my next show with a theatre across town. Thank God for cold reading auditions!
A tale of a fateful trip,
That started out from Nashville, sport,
Aboard this acting ship….
You may have heard about them, these hideous things that directors require actors to do to get a part. They are called monologues. And they are a most cruel and unusual punishment. Unnatural. Torture.
You see, usually, when an actor takes the stage he is acting WITH someone else. He is talking to another character who shares the stage and he is afforded the luxury of directing his comments TO someone and making eye contact. Not so with a monologue. Here he takes the stage alone and must find a way to be personable to the wall behind the auditors’ heads.
Usually, when an actor takes the stage, he is performing before a friendly audience that expects to enjoy the diversion he presents them. Not so with a monologue. Here he is performing before a panel of judges looking for flaws. While he talks to a wall. Making no eye contact.
Most auditors know that this is a ridiculous system and a barometer of nothing. They are therefore, I believe, sadistic little creatures who love to watch us squirm.
Still, every so often one must poke the sharp stick into one’s eye for the privilege of telling one's personal Bea Arthur that one did, indeed, try to bullshit last week (it’s a History of the World reference, get over it). So, that’s what I did today.
Somebody shoot me.
Okay, this is the internet after all, so I feel the need to point out that I don’t mean that literally. However, if you have a tranquilizer gun, aim away.
With few days to prepare, I pulled the material I’d use for my two minutes of hell and began to memorize. No problems with that. Never any problems with that. I can memorize like nobody’s business. In fact, hand me a script and give me a day or two to learn lines and I’ll be a regular Kel-I-Am:
I do not flub them in the house
I do not flub them with a mouse
I do not flub them here or there
I do not flub them anywhere…
Except at the frickin’ audition.
Never in a performance, mind. It is only in auditions that I ever “go up,” becoming so nervous and involved in my own self-critique that I lose my place in the material. This looks unfocused, I need to look at somebody. I can't look at somebody, but this stinks, I need to look. Shit, I looked. Where was I? Like a deer in the headlights, my brain freezes, lost in the awkwardness of the situation. Much like Sam-I-Am convinces his rather Sneetch-like prey to love Green Eggs and Ham at the end of his story, I suffer a similar turnaround at the end of mine:
Auditor, if you will let me be,I hate monologues.
I will try one monologue and you will see…
I will flub them in a box
and I will flub them with a fox
and I will flub them in a house
and I will flub them with a mouse
and I will flub them here and there
Say! I will flub them anywhere!
Now, of course, hating them the way that I do, I have a rather biased view of them, but, that said… I’ve never understood how putting someone in this unnatural acting position with a script that they’ve chosen as their own personal showcase proves anything. They could quite possibly have spent years in preparation with professional coaches to turn that scene into the one and only perfect performance they’ll ever give and be utterly incapable of creating one watch-able scene in the script the auditor is offering in the limited rehearsal time available to them, sans coach. How would you know?
Meanwhile, someone who might do a bang-up job with the actual script is sacrificed on the monologue altar.
Baah.
Today I died so that others might live. Then I went home and set about something at which I excel: cooking. Mmmm, good chili!
Despite the audition, my midday excursion was a good thing. I may not have produced chicken salad, but at least I wasn’t chicken shit – I went. And I enjoyed a pre-audition conversation with the Company Secretary. And best, I had the opportunity to make a welcome suggestion for a new class the company might offer: How to Do a Monologue.
Tomorrow I’ll start rehearsals for my next show with a theatre across town. Thank God for cold reading auditions!
Saturday, November 12, 2005
To Whom It May Concern
To Anne-Geri and Beth: THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for visiting last night after the show. I've been at wits end with boredom and it was so good to see you! We must do that more often.
To Brian: Do you know yet whether your current contract will extend the extra week, bringing you home right at Christmas? Perhaps we can arrange for some sort of hologram to take your place for those final performances, so that you can get your insurance week and still get your butt here to see me before you ride off into the Bluegrass State for the holiday.
To Larry: For the thousandth time, no! Look, I love the Predators just as much as you do -- well, maybe not QUITE as much, because you're one sedative away from a 12-step program -- but I am not going to the game with you on Thanksgiving. I will be having my a$$ kicked in Trivial Pursuit at my mother's house, suffering my brother's tremendous store of knowledge and merciless will to use it.
To Mother: I expect to be suffering my brother's merciless will to trounce me at all things Trivial at your house this year. If the turkey is going to be at his house, somebody should send me a memo.
To Chris and Kenny: Hey, guys! How's it going? Just didn't want to leave you out.
To Anyone Else Who Cares: Nice to see you. Thanks for stopping by.
To Anyone Else Who Doesn't: Don't you have some work to do?
To Brian: Do you know yet whether your current contract will extend the extra week, bringing you home right at Christmas? Perhaps we can arrange for some sort of hologram to take your place for those final performances, so that you can get your insurance week and still get your butt here to see me before you ride off into the Bluegrass State for the holiday.
To Larry: For the thousandth time, no! Look, I love the Predators just as much as you do -- well, maybe not QUITE as much, because you're one sedative away from a 12-step program -- but I am not going to the game with you on Thanksgiving. I will be having my a$$ kicked in Trivial Pursuit at my mother's house, suffering my brother's tremendous store of knowledge and merciless will to use it.
To Mother: I expect to be suffering my brother's merciless will to trounce me at all things Trivial at your house this year. If the turkey is going to be at his house, somebody should send me a memo.
To Chris and Kenny: Hey, guys! How's it going? Just didn't want to leave you out.
To Anyone Else Who Cares: Nice to see you. Thanks for stopping by.
To Anyone Else Who Doesn't: Don't you have some work to do?
Friday, November 11, 2005
Nothing
Do you ever find yourself in a rut? You leave the same house at the same time every day, going to the same job to hear the same people complain about the same things day after day, as days become months with nothing new to mark them. What I’d give for a wild night of air hockey, an M&M Blizzard, and some horrible straight-to-video comedy worthy of my own MST3K treatment.
Years ago, Kenny and I sat in a theater picking The Fifth Element to shreds. Help me, Obi Wan. What’s my motivation? I’ll be in my trailer. God, we had fun. Today, I can’t remember the last time I went to the movies. Or rented one. And damn it, there’s even a Wallace & Gromit movie out there!
Where went the days of playing pool, bowling, swimming at the docks, perusing the bookstores, buying too many CDs, and driving aimlessly? When did getting out become going alone? When did it get so hard?
Nothing can fill your insides, and when it does you have nothing to lose and nothing to live for. Maybe you feel like you are good for nothing.
Amen, brother.
Years ago, Kenny and I sat in a theater picking The Fifth Element to shreds. Help me, Obi Wan. What’s my motivation? I’ll be in my trailer. God, we had fun. Today, I can’t remember the last time I went to the movies. Or rented one. And damn it, there’s even a Wallace & Gromit movie out there!
Where went the days of playing pool, bowling, swimming at the docks, perusing the bookstores, buying too many CDs, and driving aimlessly? When did getting out become going alone? When did it get so hard?
Nothing can fill your insides, and when it does you have nothing to lose and nothing to live for. Maybe you feel like you are good for nothing.
Amen, brother.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Leviticus
At this time every year, my good friend Chris becomes a bit of a Scrooge as the beginning of the Christmas shopping season creeps ever closer to the autumnal equinox. He grumbles that before the pumpkins have been carved or the turkeys craved, seasonal jingles and cutesy green elves are ushering in a good will toward men that will be evidenced by contusions as otherwise sane mothers fight over the last Cabbage Patch Furby Elmo. He has a valid point. On the third month of Christmas, my true love gave to me… oh who the hell cares? Is it over yet?
Most people I know roll their eyes and sigh when they see the lighted trees in the hardware store in October, but in the fourteen years I’ve known Chris, retailers have never eased his pain and he’s never tired of grumbling about it. One grumble in particular is starting to ring a bell. And ask for spare change.
Okay, actually, The Salvation Army has nothing to do with this particular gripe, but hey, I liked the segue. No, it’s Chris’ argument for the official beginning of the Christmas retail season that has caught my eye. You see, many years ago, after successfully begging for a weekly column, I chickened out and handed the assignment to Chris, becoming in the bargain his editor. And an editor never forgets.
In Chris’ blog this week he wrote:
It was the Leviticus. Without the Leviticus, I might never have noticed. But I did. In 1999, Chris wrote:
Yes, Virginia, I still have the originals. And I agree. Christmas should take the holiday spotlight on the day after Thanksgiving, as it was once, isn’t now, and ever should be. Amen. But I don't think that's in Leviticus.
Now, I’m not claiming to have read it. Heavens no! But it’s probably the book of the Bible I’m most familiar with. Thanks, of course, to The West Wing.
In Episode 25, President Jeb Bartlet dresses down radio personality Dr. Jenna Jacobs (a small-minded Dr. Laura-esque figure whose Ph.D. in English Literature grants her the title “doctor”) for her public declaration that homosexuality is an “abomination.” I reprint the speech that flows forth here with due reverence but without permission. Don’t bother suing me; I’m broke already.
What’s particularly fun about this scene is that the original argument, which quotes Leviticus far more extensively, came from a letter written by Kent Ashcraft to Dr. Laura Schlessinger in 2000, which was posted on the internet and circulated widely via e-mail. (Lorimar Productions compensated Ashcraft for the use of it on the show, by the way).
This is a man who has clearly read Leviticus. I’ve read this letter several times, looking for it, but I haven’t read (k) my local retailer hawks blinking lights and plastic trees before Santa appears at the Macy’s Parade, which is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 12:25. Am I allowed to shove eight tiny reindeer up his wazoo? I’m sorry, Chris, but I’m sure that if it were there, Mr. Ashcraft would have found it.
Try Deuteronomy.
Most people I know roll their eyes and sigh when they see the lighted trees in the hardware store in October, but in the fourteen years I’ve known Chris, retailers have never eased his pain and he’s never tired of grumbling about it. One grumble in particular is starting to ring a bell. And ask for spare change.
Okay, actually, The Salvation Army has nothing to do with this particular gripe, but hey, I liked the segue. No, it’s Chris’ argument for the official beginning of the Christmas retail season that has caught my eye. You see, many years ago, after successfully begging for a weekly column, I chickened out and handed the assignment to Chris, becoming in the bargain his editor. And an editor never forgets.
In Chris’ blog this week he wrote:
It's very simple. God, in his infinite wisdom, has granted us a means to tell when Christmas has begun. In the beginning, God created the Macy's parade and it was good (especially the Snoopy balloon...). And lo, the Lord said "let there be Santa at the end" and there was and it was to be the beginning of Christmas. I think that's in Leviticus. No one ever reads Leviticus so that's bound to be where it's at.
It was the Leviticus. Without the Leviticus, I might never have noticed. But I did. In 1999, Chris wrote:
Let me spell it out for those of you who still don’t get it. We have been provided a sign of the beginning of the Christmas season. Christmas does not begin until Santa Claus appears on the televised Macy’s parade. I think that’s in the Bible somewhere. Leviticus probably. No one ever reads Leviticus. It goes something like this:
And the Lord spake
and he sayeth unto the assembled masses
let not there be hanging of the Christmas wreath
until the time of which I speak
being the time unto which Santa Claus
shall come unto you all
via the Macy’s Parade.
And there was much rejoicing (yay).
Yes, Virginia, I still have the originals. And I agree. Christmas should take the holiday spotlight on the day after Thanksgiving, as it was once, isn’t now, and ever should be. Amen. But I don't think that's in Leviticus.
Now, I’m not claiming to have read it. Heavens no! But it’s probably the book of the Bible I’m most familiar with. Thanks, of course, to The West Wing.
In Episode 25, President Jeb Bartlet dresses down radio personality Dr. Jenna Jacobs (a small-minded Dr. Laura-esque figure whose Ph.D. in English Literature grants her the title “doctor”) for her public declaration that homosexuality is an “abomination.” I reprint the speech that flows forth here with due reverence but without permission. Don’t bother suing me; I’m broke already.
JACOBS: I don’t say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr. President. The Bible does.
BARTLET: Yes it does. Leviticus!
JACOBS: 18:22.
BARTLET: Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. I wanted to sell my youngest daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She’s a Georgetown Sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be?
While thinking about that, can I ask another? My chief of staff, Leo McGary, insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself? Or is it okay to call the police?
Here’s one that’s really important, because we’ve got a lot of sports fans in this town. Touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you?
What’s particularly fun about this scene is that the original argument, which quotes Leviticus far more extensively, came from a letter written by Kent Ashcraft to Dr. Laura Schlessinger in 2000, which was posted on the internet and circulated widely via e-mail. (Lorimar Productions compensated Ashcraft for the use of it on the show, by the way).
an open letter to Dr. Laura
J. Kent Ashcraft
May 2000
Dear Dr. Laura,
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind him that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.
I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the specific laws and how to best follow them.
a) When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Leviticus 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
b) I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
c) I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Leviticus 15:19-24). The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
d) Leviticus 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?
e) I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?
f) A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an Abomination (Leviticus 11:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?
g) Leviticus 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?
h) Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 19:27. How should they die?
i) I know from Leviticus 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
j) My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? (Leviticus 24:10-16) Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Leviticus 20:14)
I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Your devoted disciple and adoring fan.
This is a man who has clearly read Leviticus. I’ve read this letter several times, looking for it, but I haven’t read (k) my local retailer hawks blinking lights and plastic trees before Santa appears at the Macy’s Parade, which is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 12:25. Am I allowed to shove eight tiny reindeer up his wazoo? I’m sorry, Chris, but I’m sure that if it were there, Mr. Ashcraft would have found it.
Try Deuteronomy.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Water Nazi
For nearly twenty years, I have been the poster child for Diet Coke. Wherever I go, I have a can of Diet Coke on hand. If you spy the signature silver can unhanded, you can be sure I am not far away. The Coca-Cola people should have me on retainer; I am a walking product placement. It’s the only thing I drink. Or, at least, until recently it was. Then I met the Water Nazi.
Before one of my co-workers caught wind of my recent medical difficulties, he was harmless enough. A nice guy, good for a couple of laughs every shift, and a friendly ear. But you’ve got to be careful what you tell to a friendly ear. Apparently, some information will turn Bartender Jekyll into Doctor Hydro.
Now, if my signature silver can is left unattended it will disappear. When I return, I’ll find in its place a glass of water. Water. Yee-uuck.
In my world, water is to be celebrated externally. Swim in it! Shower in it! Great stuff! Internally, though, I have a much more Wicked Witch of the West reaction to it. It burns! I’m melting! Aaaaaauuuuuggggggghhhhhhh. Keep it away from me, thank you very much.
Now I’ll grant you that my body’s extreme reaction to water is probably the proof of how sorely it needs it, but who wants logic at a time like this? I’m melting, for Pete’s sake! And Doctor Hydro over there is mincing his literary references and eyeing my pretty shoes. The bastard.
The problem is, my argument against water just isn’t strong enough to win this battle, and if I pour myself a new Diet Coke, he’ll just pour it out. So I drink the water. Ow! And I drink the water. Ouch! And I drink the water. Ooh! And I drink the water. Ah.
Ah? Crap. I think he’s winning.
When I finally get home to the Cape of Good Coke and eagerly pop the top, ready for The Real Thing, something is amiss. Suddenly, it doesn’t taste right. See, there’s all this… caramel… in it. When did that happen? And it’s all fizzy and stuff. What’s that about?
Damn you, Water Nazi.
I’m not giving up my Diet Coke anytime soon. But you can tell my agent that when the Coca-Cola people hang up on him this time, he doesn’t have to call back.
Before one of my co-workers caught wind of my recent medical difficulties, he was harmless enough. A nice guy, good for a couple of laughs every shift, and a friendly ear. But you’ve got to be careful what you tell to a friendly ear. Apparently, some information will turn Bartender Jekyll into Doctor Hydro.
Now, if my signature silver can is left unattended it will disappear. When I return, I’ll find in its place a glass of water. Water. Yee-uuck.
In my world, water is to be celebrated externally. Swim in it! Shower in it! Great stuff! Internally, though, I have a much more Wicked Witch of the West reaction to it. It burns! I’m melting! Aaaaaauuuuuggggggghhhhhhh. Keep it away from me, thank you very much.
Now I’ll grant you that my body’s extreme reaction to water is probably the proof of how sorely it needs it, but who wants logic at a time like this? I’m melting, for Pete’s sake! And Doctor Hydro over there is mincing his literary references and eyeing my pretty shoes. The bastard.
The problem is, my argument against water just isn’t strong enough to win this battle, and if I pour myself a new Diet Coke, he’ll just pour it out. So I drink the water. Ow! And I drink the water. Ouch! And I drink the water. Ooh! And I drink the water. Ah.
Ah? Crap. I think he’s winning.
When I finally get home to the Cape of Good Coke and eagerly pop the top, ready for The Real Thing, something is amiss. Suddenly, it doesn’t taste right. See, there’s all this… caramel… in it. When did that happen? And it’s all fizzy and stuff. What’s that about?
Damn you, Water Nazi.
I’m not giving up my Diet Coke anytime soon. But you can tell my agent that when the Coca-Cola people hang up on him this time, he doesn’t have to call back.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Define "Breakfast"
The author of the South Beach Diet noticed a "phenomenon" when dealing with overweight people. Many of them, he said, skip breakfast altogether. Especially women.
Now, as a woman who skips the traditional breakfast routine, I buy that. But I also question it. See, Dr. Agatston suggests that not having breakfast "allows blood sugar to drop and hunger to increase over the course of the morning, resulting in powerful cravings for a lunch that includes carbs of questionable value." Hmm. Let's think this through. Or more importantly, let's define "breakfast."
If a woman who works a regular 9 to 5 job wakes at 6 am, makes a pot of coffee, takes a shower, puts on her makeup, curls her hair, and then grabs a bagel, an omelet, or a yogurt cup at 8, no one is going to argue whether or not she had breakfast, because she ate at the ungodly hour of 8 am. Ugh. I shudder to think of it.
If, however, a woman who works nights wakes at 10 am, makes a pot of coffee, checks her e-mail, posts a blog and then grabs a bagel, an omelet, or a yogurt cup at noon, she is said to have "skipped breakfast" because she ate at an hour most others reserve for lunch. But has she not broken her fast, like the woman with the day job, within two hours of waking? Is there any significant chemical difference?
Unfortunately, as I am neither a medical doctor nor am I related to one, I have here the beginnings of a hypothesis I cannot test. However, following each woman through the day might provide some food for thought.
If Traditional Working Woman A eats breakfast while Night Owl B is still sleeping and has lunch while NOB eats breakfast, then the hour TWWA sets aside for dinner should be the hour when NOB eats lunch. It's not. At six or seven p.m., maybe later, our NOB is, in fact, settling down for her second meal, but she's also expecting it to be her last. Chemically it's lunch, but practically it's dinner. At the end of the day, NOB is one meal shy. By not eating another meal around midnight, she's beginning her fast too early rather than breaking it too late in the morning. Our NOB has skipped DINNER, not breakfast.
And yet any diet worth its lack of salt is going to tell her not to eat after 8pm. That a midnight meal is madness. Sheer madness.
Now, if TWWA wakes at 6 a.m., having had, let's assume, a full 8-hour rest, she went to bed at 10 p.m. That would make the 8 p.m. food deadline reasonable -- two hours before bedtime. If our NOB wakes at 10 a.m. after an 8-hour rest, she went to bed at 2 a.m. Midnight, then, should be a resonable food deadline -- two hours before bedtime. Why, then, doesn't her diet tell her so?
We've made dieting too difficult in this country. It's really very simple: eat less, do more. But four words don't sell books -- and everyone is trying to get around the "do more" part by manipulating the "eat less" arena. So, while there's still big money to be made waiting for America to wise up and get off its collective duff, can we at least streamline the language?
My breakfast may come at noon, but it's still breakfast, damn it. When you want to start slamming me for skipping dinner, I'll read your book.
Now, as a woman who skips the traditional breakfast routine, I buy that. But I also question it. See, Dr. Agatston suggests that not having breakfast "allows blood sugar to drop and hunger to increase over the course of the morning, resulting in powerful cravings for a lunch that includes carbs of questionable value." Hmm. Let's think this through. Or more importantly, let's define "breakfast."
If a woman who works a regular 9 to 5 job wakes at 6 am, makes a pot of coffee, takes a shower, puts on her makeup, curls her hair, and then grabs a bagel, an omelet, or a yogurt cup at 8, no one is going to argue whether or not she had breakfast, because she ate at the ungodly hour of 8 am. Ugh. I shudder to think of it.
If, however, a woman who works nights wakes at 10 am, makes a pot of coffee, checks her e-mail, posts a blog and then grabs a bagel, an omelet, or a yogurt cup at noon, she is said to have "skipped breakfast" because she ate at an hour most others reserve for lunch. But has she not broken her fast, like the woman with the day job, within two hours of waking? Is there any significant chemical difference?
Unfortunately, as I am neither a medical doctor nor am I related to one, I have here the beginnings of a hypothesis I cannot test. However, following each woman through the day might provide some food for thought.
If Traditional Working Woman A eats breakfast while Night Owl B is still sleeping and has lunch while NOB eats breakfast, then the hour TWWA sets aside for dinner should be the hour when NOB eats lunch. It's not. At six or seven p.m., maybe later, our NOB is, in fact, settling down for her second meal, but she's also expecting it to be her last. Chemically it's lunch, but practically it's dinner. At the end of the day, NOB is one meal shy. By not eating another meal around midnight, she's beginning her fast too early rather than breaking it too late in the morning. Our NOB has skipped DINNER, not breakfast.
And yet any diet worth its lack of salt is going to tell her not to eat after 8pm. That a midnight meal is madness. Sheer madness.
Now, if TWWA wakes at 6 a.m., having had, let's assume, a full 8-hour rest, she went to bed at 10 p.m. That would make the 8 p.m. food deadline reasonable -- two hours before bedtime. If our NOB wakes at 10 a.m. after an 8-hour rest, she went to bed at 2 a.m. Midnight, then, should be a resonable food deadline -- two hours before bedtime. Why, then, doesn't her diet tell her so?
We've made dieting too difficult in this country. It's really very simple: eat less, do more. But four words don't sell books -- and everyone is trying to get around the "do more" part by manipulating the "eat less" arena. So, while there's still big money to be made waiting for America to wise up and get off its collective duff, can we at least streamline the language?
My breakfast may come at noon, but it's still breakfast, damn it. When you want to start slamming me for skipping dinner, I'll read your book.