Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Soylent Green is Kimchi! Kimchi!

I'm hungry.

This is not a rare occurence. The problem is that I'm never sated. I don't mean to say I'm an eating machine, I'm not. Nor am I overweight; rather, I'm criminally underweight according to most people whom I speak with on the subject of diet. No, what I mean to say is that I'm never genuinely fulfilled by what I eat, and it's starting to bug me.

First, some history:

My folks weren't exactly skilled in the culinary arts. For me, growing up, a trip to a relative's -- or, god forbid, McDonald's -- was a treat, an escape from poor cooking. That's not to say that they didn't try; they were just very uncreative with the dinner menu as I remember it. T-bone steak, meatloaf, spaghetti with chunks of ground beef in the sauce as a poor substitute for meatballs, mashed potatoes, frozen veggies, and lots of ketchup. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Have I whet your appetite yet?

Due to my formative years in such a totalitarian eating environment, I began to believe as a young lad that stuff such as Little Caesars Pizza and microwave-able chicken wings were the zenith of deliciousness, the apex of appetite. Tastebud nirvana.

I was an easy target, a surefire sell. Somewhere along the way they got me. You know who: the fast food and snack food industries. I couldn't get enough. I gorged myself with sweets. Doritos became an essential part of my diet. No meal was complete without something with either a lot of sugar or a lot of sauce.

I became an addict. The snacks were callin' me like the crack was callin' Pookie.

I became obese. I was one portly fellow for several years, let me tell you. Then, during my third year of high school, it hit me. I experienced my moment of clarity. Some people consider dieting because they want to look better or become healthier. I wanted the former, but only because, at that age, I wanted to achieve an end, which for me was to get laid. It worked (mercifully I won't go into details), and I've managed to keep the weight off, but one problem remains to this day:

I still eat obscene amounts of junk food.

Here's what I ate today for lunch, as an example:

- 8 or 9 chicken nuggets
- a pastry I bought last night from the local 7-11
- approximately 2 handfulls of Pringles Cheese-Ums potato chips
- 2 glasses of orange juice
- a Snickers bar I found in the back of the refrigerator

Part of this comes from laziness, I'll admit. I don't like to cook. Plus I'm poor at it. I can make a decent grilled cheese sandwich, but usually I can't be bothered to make even that. Even if I could, I'm busy every day and have little or no time to prepare a proper meal. The wife does her best, but she's busy also and, when she suggests making meals for me or leaves something in the fridge before heading off to work, has to compete with my preference for junkfood over her leafy, ruffage-laden concoctions.

So here we are. I love Korean food, almost as much as I love "flash food," as I call it; but unfortunately none of the restaurants in my 'hood deliver until at least 11 am, when I'm at my busiest; and, since I don't finish work until late most evenings, cup ramen and frozen pizza pockets are an easy alternative to cold leftovers.

Which is all to say that I need to start eating right. But the execution of that is going to be tougher than long division for first graders.

Monday, May 30, 2005

Last Night, Dwyane Wade Saved My Life

Can we talk about Dwyane Wade?

Can we talk about him without beating around the bush, and come out and say that, yes, he is the Second Coming?

Kobe? Naw. Kobe's Rich Little doing a poor MJ impersonation, adultery included. VC? Great second season; it's been downhill since. Plus no one likes a pussy who doesn't play his heart out even when no stakes are involved. Give Wince a season or two of losing (and losing some more, and some more) in Jerz before he reverts back to the guy we came to know as Air Can'tada. Schadenfreude will be sweet, I guarantee.

Lebron? I'm not ready for that one yet. I don't want to go there. Ask me in a year or two. Lebron right now is still more tentative than Wade. He shoots the 3-ball better, but his drive isn't as smooth as DW, his J not as pure. But he's 3 years younger. Perhaps if 'Bron played a year or two in college and they were closer in age we could critique them fairly. But we can't. The fact is that Wade, in his second season, is simply the better player. Barring an injury on either side, it's going to be fun watching them both and debating who's better.

But nowadays LBJ is making moves off the court, not on. Right here and now is Wade's moment, and he's showing the world what he's made of. That turnaround, fade-away jumper with 2:45 on the clock brought back memories.

I'll say this: I love b-ball with the very soul of my being. I'm an admirer of the finesse of the game first, a fan second. I've rooted for Penny, Kobe, Vince, T-Mac et al to step up and take the helm, because I love good basketball. Those guys (yes, even though I hate the guy and wish him heaps of ill will, VC included) are the elite players of the league.

But Dwyane's better. His decisions are better, his shot smoother; his demeanor is better and gives us fans a better idea of what his priorities are and what really matters (winning, not tearful interviews with Jim Gray, in case you haven't noticed); and, barring a serious injury, here's hoping the Savior keeps taking it to new heights. To new levels.

That's what MJ did, and what none of his once-believed-to-be successors have done.

Until now. Game on.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

Your spaghetti sucks now anyways!

Force choke! You have failed me for the last time, waitress!

Saturday, May 28, 2005

I love myself

I don't know about you, but, for me, nothing beats some solid self-affirmation.

Repeat after me:

"I'm handsome/beautiful, and even when I've just consumed a whole case of beer and a plate (or five) of chicken wings, the latter and the former of which is visibly stained upon my shirt and pants, I'm still the sexiest mo-fo in this room.

And who cares that I'm the sole person in said room?

Not I. That's for sure.