Got Mashed Potatoes

To me, it's no question: The worst name for a major corporation has to be Trojan Brand Condoms. Never in the history of capitalism has an organization become so successful with such a blatant disregard for history.

OK, I get it: sex is like a war, and the Trojan condoms protect your army from disease and babies. Great. I get the lack of subtlety. My message to the senior management at TBC involves the actual choice of historic mascots:

HEY! Idiots! The Greeks broke through! They IMPREGNATED the Trojan defense and burned Troy to the ground! You not only chose the losing side, you associated your product -- an item valued for keeping something "inside" -- with the army responsible for the most infamous, ignominious military loss in the history of man!

I have never purchased Trojan condoms for this reason, and this reason alone. They could be the Consumer Reports choice for greatest rubber on the planet -- I don't care. I cannot patronize a company founded upon such idiocy. I mean, for Christ's sake: Would anyone in their right mind buy a Frigidaire space heater?

Because I'm convinced the Internet is void of a decent English translation for this song, this is the best I can make of it:

Panis et Circenses

I'd like to sing
The music lighted with the heat of the sun
I drove the flags high on the slip of the wind
I send the lions to my neighbor's backyard
But all the people having dinner inside
Are very busy with their food
Till they die

I told the man
To make of stainless steel a very sharp sword
To kill my girlfriend on the heart and I did
At 5 o'clock outside the crowded bus stop
But all the people having dinner inside
Are very busy with their food
Till they die

I told the man
To sow the seeds of dreaming my bedroom floor
The leaves will know their way to reach out the sun
And there roots keep just going down, going down
But all the people having dinner inside
That same old people having dinner inside
But all the people having dinner inside
That same old people having dinner inside
Are very busy with their food
Till they die

It's been about three weeks since my son, who will be two in January, learned my name is 'Will', and has been calling me by name. There's nothing like being repeatedly yelled at -- "Wio! Wio! Bla-jah-duh-de-pah-buh-buh-raisins!" -- by one's own toddler. He doesn't say my name, as much as he shouts it. And it's always about something extremely important to him, such as raisins or apples or Elmo or Bob the Builder. I try to get him to call my 'Daddy', like he used to, but that's just not happening. He knows what I instinctively respond to, and he, like everyone else, is looking for results. Quickly. Immediately. Now.

It was Monday the 12th of December, last year, when it happened. I knew the situation was bad, but I didn't know it had gotten that bad. I was, not atypically, running behind, trying to get ready for work. The weekend was finally ending for this second-shifter, and I was struggling to enter the work week. All I really needed was to get dressed, pack the kid up, and go.

Except none of my clothes fit.

I knew that I was out-"growing" my wardrobe as I had closed in on a select group of pants. I had already been bluntly told by a since-fired, ultra-gay, ultra-outspoken, and (perhaps coincidentally) idiot co-worker, that I had put on weight. But this lack of available wardrobe was pure, undeniable, unadulterated proof. So I did the only thing that came to mind: I called my wife to complain. "None of my clothes fit and I'm a great, big fat guy who can't get to work because I ate myself out of my wardrobe and I'm going to be late for work because I'm such a gi-normous, fat guy!" It was one of the few times I recall her sympathizing with me. I think she pointed me to her closet where she had stowed away a Christmas gift of work pants for me. Actually, there were two pairs. It didn't matter. Neither fit.

I had apparently become a size 36 waist. I don't recall how I got into any pants, but I did make it into work that day. Later that night after returning home, I did 15 minutes of abdominals and then ran four miles at 12:30 in the morning.

A friend and I have described the aforementioned story as a "piece of crap" moment. In short, this is when one looks at himself in the mirror, and says: "You piece of crap. Look at yourself. Just look at yourself. You are a piece of crap." I ran 26 days straight after this, thinking I was losing weight, and genuinely feeling better about myself. I almost immediately began to fit into clothes easier. I was turning the corner back to fitness. God, life was good as a runner.

And then I came to my second "piece of crap" moment in less than a month. We'd recently gotten new life insurance. So, of course, a nurse was summoned. She asked questions, took blood, and, yes, brought her scale. "Please be in the 180s," I thought, "please be no higher than 189."

212

Surely, this was folly. "Is that right? Is that not calibrated correctly?" And so the nurse offered to put the scale on our kitchen floor -- a hard surface. "Sometimes it doesn't work right on carpeting," she assured me. Surely, I thought, I'll end up around 198 when this thing works right. That's . . . somewhat more manageable -- there could be no way on God's green earth that I had wheeled past the two-bill realm. Could there? It's the carpeting. I mean, hell -- I've lost weight in the last month. I've run every day. I fit into my 34" pants again.

212

You piece of crap. Look at you. Just look at yourself. You are a piece of crap. The only question then became: How big had I been -- prior to the December weight loss? Had I been 215? 220? Who knows? I then spent a lot of time, thinking about when was last time I had been weighed. After a long time, I realized it was in January of 2004 -- my last session at the plasma clinic. It had been post-holidays and my weight had been going up for three or four donation sessions in a row. I remembered being embarrassed at weighing in at 177 for the plasma clerk, who joked that I needed to get off of the Burger King. I was now desperately wishing to be 177 again. 177 was like a fading ghost -- how could I ever again be that not-so-fat guy, who still thought he was getting fat? Worse: how could I ever get back to the 160s? Lose 10, maybe 20 pounds -- doable. But to lose 30, 40 pounds? That's crazy, I thought.

I then ran another 28 consecutive days. But this time, I did something I had never done before: I adjusted my eating. I didn't diet. I hated the idea of diets. I just did what I always thought I could not do, but had a dim sort of fondness for -- I ate healthy food. I watched what went in.

I eventually decided that because I had lost an inch in December that it wasn't unfair to say I had probably been about 215 pounds. With that assumption, I lost three pounds in December. January was better, as I dropped 14 pounds. That, to me, was no great improvement because that weight should never have been there in the first place. February was tougher, as I didn't run as many days. Only three pounds lost. March got better: seven pounds. It was at this point, 27 pounds down, in early April that people first noticed I had lost weight. I lost another six in April. My mileage started to pick up, and I lost seven in May, and another five in both June and July.

All in all, it came to 50 pounds even, coming in at 165 and about a 32" waist. I wanted to drop a little more to get back into post-college shape, but it was not to be. Not yet anyway . . . . there's always next year. I learned an awful lot from all this.

1.) Ten pounds isn't just ten pounds anymore. It's really not that much.
2.) America has gotten heavy. Especially Milwaukee. At my biggest, I think most people would have agreed I could lose a few . . . . but only a few. I would have been considered skinny next to many of my co-workers. To this day, most people don't believe me that I dropped 50. To me, I knew I was getting bad when I had trouble taking off my wedding ring at night -- my fingers had gained weight! Fingers!
3.) There are not a lot of restaurants that serve healthy food that doesn't taste like cardboard.
4.) It is always possible to correct a bad habit.

There were really just two main things I did to lose the weight:
1.) Running. Obviously. But the key to my running, this time (in comparison to previous streaks of training) is that I did not become consumed with a consecutive days streak. The streak ended, and I let it go, not getting upset about my training schedule being interrupted. This was the main idea I had to embrace. The other was the jogging stroller, which took some adjustment, but I got into it -- it beat the hell out of running alone at 12:30 in the morning.
2.) Eating habits. This became key, namely because I'd never adjusted it before. I was 29, after all -- my metabolism wasn't going to let me lose weight and eat a plate of nachos at three in the morning just because I had run that day. So much thought went into turning around my eating, but it was all common sense. No bullshit diet or fad.
- I cut out most of the Eeees: MickeyD's, Hardees, Wendy's, Burger King...eees.
- I made breakfast a fixed meal of cereal, water and a banana-milk-oatmeal shake.
- I added some vegetables to lunch and dinner.
- I planned my work meals around the Lean Cuisine dinners, which are good. I don't like most other brands, but I genuinely like this one. They cook better than I do.
- I tried to cut out all forms of Trans fat.
- I made an effort to add milk and water to my daily consumption.
- I stopped eating after getting home from work late at night -- this was the hardest, but a huge help, especially with my June and July weight loss.

The big revelation to me, with diet, was that I enjoyed eating better foods. My body felt better. I still enjoy a good ol' fast food meal, but I keep it to once a week. If I have two, I don't feel so well, and if for some reason I have three in a week, I feel sick for a while afterward. I much prefer the basic schedule of eating.

With all that stated, I didn't quite get to where I needed to get to. A few weeks before the marathon, I put on three or four pounds. Right now I'm at 170, 45 pounds less than the "piece of crap" weight. I've been here for a couple months, give or take a couple pounds of normal fluctuation. I would make more of an effort to drop weight, but we Midwesterners are at that tough time of year in which the weather prevents guys who run with jogging strollers to get out as much as they may like to (I just can't submit the kid to anything less than 30 degrees). Hopefully, El Nino will help me out, but if not, I know I can get in three to four days a week, and still eat well enough to maintain my current metabolism, so that come March or April, I can get back to pouring on miles, and hopefully get to the promised land.

Losing weight is a little like getting younger again....which is crazy, because that is impossible. But that's how it feels. It reminds me of a Batman comic I read a long time ago -- I think it was Detective Comics # 600, if memory serves correctly. Batman had to use the body of some out-of-shape guy to fight crime. He knew what he was supposed to feel like, but his body wouldn't let him do these things he was used to doing (you know, beating up bad guys, swinging around Gotham, sneaking away from Commissioner Gordon). So when he returned to his regular body (I know, it was kind of a far-fetched storyline... yet memorable), it must have been such a relief to move the way he used to move. He was himself again.

The most amazing thing my big sister Amy has accomplished in her life is that at approximately the age of nine, she peeled an entire orange, leaving the rind intact in one piece.

It's really difficult to do, and I challenge anyone to try this -- I bet no one can do it on their first try. We bought oranges last week, and I haven't been able to single-coat the rind yet. I know it can be done, but I don't know if I'll ever do it.

She's sung in front of thousands of people around the world, graduated college, taught hundreds of kindergarteners, gotten married, and had a child, but to me it all pales in comparison to the orange she took down in one peel that bright summer evening of 1985.

Sheesh! One little post on beer, and site traffic quadruples. Who knew?

I actually had more to say, but kind of petered out at the end there, thanks to the tasty chocolate brew I was enjoying at the time.

So to conclude . . . .

The first time I remember being able to distinguish between quality was freshman year at college when I received countless opportunities to compare Leinie's Red against Icehouse. And even back at this caveman-like stage in my beer-drinking, I knew to immediately turn down the house party standby: Busch Lite. Busch Lite became like a curse between my friends and I. "Huh. Look at that pussy drinking Busch Lite." It was only years later when I saw the other side of the coin. At a grungy bar on the East side of Milwaukee, a total stranger asked me: "So how do you drink that stuff?" It was so strange, the way he asked me that, as if he wanted a demonstration. I was holding a Guinness, and resisted the temptation for sarcasm (but I really wanted to tell him I took it orally like everyone else). He'd never even considered ordering a beer he couldn't see through. I think in the great beer-drinking debate, I side with "Nurture" playing a key role in opening minds to different tastes.

That, however, doesn't mean I'm entirely open-minded. I've come to accept that I just can't stand wheat beer. I remember my first one: the Samuel Adams wheat beer. It was awful. Skunky. Moldy. Ish. A friend of mine came over and I told him all about how terrible this beer was. He took a sip and agreed. Then he opened up his cooler he'd brought with him and had me try some Hacker-Pshorr, saying, "This is real wheat beer; you'll like this!" It was like cold urine. I've sense set the great Berghoff model as my standard, and even their wheat beer doesn't do it for me. I can make it through the bottle, but I can't pretend to like it.

I've recently gotten some questions and comments on beer:

"You think the Jacob's Best sounds bad -- you should try the Jacob's Best Lite."

Wow -- I'll try and not keep that in mind. Reminds me of High Life Lite -- how can a brewer make a "light" beer of an already watery product?

"I don't really drink beer for taste. I drink for the buzz."

Spoken like a true Milwaukeean, my friend.

"You say that your beer of choice is Huber Bock? Huh?"

I refuse to dignify your question with a response.

"So Miller has actually made a decent beer?"

Yeah, it surprised me too. Wonders never cease. Of course the Murphy's Law aspect of all this is that it's just a minimal release, and we'll probably never hear of it again.

"You stole one of Dad's beers?"

'Stole' is a little harsh, I think. Consumed and recycled, I prefer.

My first beer was a Miller Genuine Draft can, enjoyed in my family's living room (at the time), when no one was home one warm summer evening many years ago. That was about near the end of my dad's MGD phase. As long as I have known him, there have been three phases to his beer-drinking:

Phase 1: The Early Years
My lasting memory is the action of opening the refrigerator and dully noticing a number of cans of Jacob's Best at the back of a lower shelf. There always seemed to be a healthy supply of ol' JB in the house. This was approximately from 1980-1985. Since I don't believe I've ever jumped on the JB train, I have found the following descriptions online:

"Jacob best is very inexpensive. Purchased at JR’s in Rochester. Nothing different from your typical pale yellow fizzy american beer. Cost was about 30 cents per 12 oz can. Drink it cold."

"We threw a rager and bought a case of this as a joke. It was watery at first, but then made me gag. Not good, but cheap. I’ll buy it for a party and let drunk people drink it."

"Abandoned in my fridge by a houseguest. Pours lemon yellow, very clear and very pale. Initially attractive white head is gone in under a minute. Dull aromas of sulphur and hot grass, sweet corn and maybe some Belgian spiciness? Hop aroma, perhaps? Flavor is lightly sweet, raw corn juice and steamed carrots, and softly carbonated Sprite. Actually, it reminds me of a sip of Zima I tried once. Body is round and light, but not watery. Semi-dry finish with grainy and sugary aftertaste. Far superior flavor to Budweiser. A beer for white Zinfandel drinkers."

Even though you may not have tried it...you get the idea. I think Jacob's Best is an accurate picture of the household during my younger years.

Phase 2: The MGD Years
A sea change arrived in 1986 with the Miller Genuine Draft "cold-filtered" ad campaign. Oh, how my pop loved to order an MGD at a restaurant! He first had to ask if they had it: "Do you carry the cold-filtered Miller Genuine Draft?" He had to give the complete description. We weren't dealing with any frickin High Life here. And he spoke it with such enthusiasm -- with absolutely no knowledge that this was soon to become Miller's flagship beer -- the new minimum wage standard for all beer-buyers smart enough to avoid Bud, but . . . that's it.

The MGD years were good to us. They marked my dad's move from cans to bottles (although he would insist on pouring it into a glass), and they saw us out of the 80s.

Phase 3: Dad Gets on the MicroBrew Wagon
I think this phase began in the mid-90s. My guess is about '95 or so. There was a little more income in the household than in previous years. He could splurge a bit. He began to notice Leinenkugels and New Glarus. Of course he went to school in Stevens Point, so I'm sure he was long aware of the joys of smaller breweries. Then again, Point's specialty beers are a bit . . . iffy, so I can understand why that didn't remain his constant from college, forward. (Nevertheless, one must note how curious it was for him to move from Point all the way down the quality ladder to Jacob's Best -- this I've never been able to figure out.) But it was his discovery of Lakefront Brewery that changed everything for him.

By God, they were local -- he could support the local brand! And they had variety! Not to mention, consistent quality from top-down!

So now when I go to the folks' house, there is always some offering of Lakefront in the fridge. And that's fine. I'm happy with the move forward from the early 80s. Lakefront is nothing to be ashamed of. Very good beer, indeed. I just wish he'd branch out a little bit. He gets so into certain beers, and he's just IMMOVABLE. I mean his mind is set on those beers. I can't for the life of me get the guy to purchase Leinie's Red or any of the amazing Berghoff varieties. I finally snuck my great beer of choice into his house several weeks ago, and I know that it's still sitting in his fridge. I know he hasn't touched it.

And I don't want to bring down Lakefront at all -- I really don't, because they do a great job. I actually love one of their beers which is not available in bottles -- the Fat Abbey. It's awesome. And I think they make a pretty good Pumpkin. I like their White Bier. But overall . . . it's not even the best beer made in southeastern Wisconsin.

But, what can I say? The guy won't be moved from his drink of choice. At this point, I would wager that phase 3 is it for my dad. I could be wrong, but if he moves into a phase 4, I think that would be like wine or brandy or something other than beer.

My first bar was at age 18 -- RC's on North Ave here in Mill City. I was also snuck into another bar that night full of punks with spikes in leather, but I don't remember much of that one, and it has long since closed down. I was also dragged to Steny's late in the night, and subsequently told: "Stay on this side of the street. The other side of the street is for left-handed hitters." Not bad for one's first night at the establishments: one bar for each year I was under the legal limit. All courtesy of my employment at one Antonio's Upper Crust Pizza, which was run by the greatest bunch of alcoholics I've ever met.

My worst hangover was my fifth year in school. It wasn't because of liquor mixed with beer or anything stupid. It wasn't because of low tolerance, or sickness. I had about 25 dark beers -- all Guiness, Sprecher or Berghoff -- over the course of an evening, then woke up on about 6 hours of sleep to run a 12-miler (I think). I made it 5 miles before slumping to the side of the road and puking. After an incredibly long and progressively slower jog home, I subsequently puked about the same number of times as beers I drank the night before. I felt bad about it because I went on this run because it was to be the last time I would see a friend of mine for a long time, as he was moving out of state . . . but I couldn't even keep up during the run. Around 7PM that night I told myself that if there was still blood in my next puke I should take myself to the hospital. Luckily, that was the final trip to the bathroom -- it was all out of me.

It would take a few more years for me to learn, but eventually I got it all out of my system. Since 2003, I can think of only one bachelor party and a couple outings with a friend named Breezy in which I drank more than two beers at a sitting. It was key for me to be able to get a handle on quantity so that I could enjoy the quality again. And I have to admit, it's nice to have more than two in a sitting, but that's only for the great once in a while now. That's why it's key to have a friend like Breezy. I recommend everyone have a friend like Breezy, and I know that's hard to envision, seeing as most of my readers don't know him. But you know his name, and that's a big start. I think it's key for people to be able to sit down and not worry about social bullshit. To just enjoy beer, music and conversation. So often during my time in the establishments, there is a call for the group to hit a meat market. It's always been my thought that if one cannot appreciate the simple pleasures of drink, song and conversation because of a delirious need to get laid, the hell with 'em. The bars are no place to meet women anyway. Breezy can appreciate a fine brew and carry a conversation -- and you don't even have to agree with him all the time. That's a real point of contention for me. A lot of friends struggle with this -- they both have to agree on anything, or if there is disagreement, they have to fight out every last detail -- a real big dramatic extravaganza. Sometimes you just have to say "you're crazy", and call it even. No big explanation. No summarization. No meeting of the minds. Just a mutual understanding set to good music and maybe a decent boxing match on TV. Aside from that, if anyone is looking for a Breezy, I recommend they find someone very open-minded, as well as laid-back. Don't pressure him. He doesn't need your guilt trip about what to do with his life, and where he lives or when he's finishing school, or all that bullshit. He's there in a pinch when needed, which is more than can be said of a lot of overachievers. He has people skills. He's more than traffic and weather. That's what I recommend you look for. And once you've found him, I recommend an establishment with character and selection.

My current beer of choice is, surprisingly enough, is a Miller brew. It's seasonal, so I'll have to pick up a bunch of it when the season ends. It's tasty. Just the right flavor balance. A real fine night-capper, which is about where I'm at . . . .

He probably doesn't know that I know he plays the pronoun game. Or that I count how many times he says "Well, I know" before someone else can finish their thought. He talks about what is on television. He speaks of it like he is reading a menu in great detail, making comments at each item, shaking his head in distaste at most of them, his voice becoming still and deep with the few he enjoys.

And what I don't know is he probably is well aware that I have been fed up with him. He sometimes complains in quiet, knowing that I can listen to him. Or better -- he will address me directly with his claims, saying, "You see, don't you? You see what I mean." When I tell him he hasn't said anything, he blames everyone, throwing his hands up and pursing his lips.

He doesn't know that I wonder if there has ever been anyone who would do anything for him? Like the mysterious pronoun-person -- would they? Or are they also ashamed? Do they fight him also, or are they smarter than I? Do they already know it is not worth the effort?

He was distressed when they moved the television channels. I still picture him waddling toward me in his barrel-style pants, with his list of complaints, smelling like sweat and onions, demanding service, never looking me in the eye. And all the time, I could only wonder what his ideal day would be like: a clear, blue horizon, not too hot, not at all cold, and as quiet as the empty streets around his apartment tower shared with the pronoun-person. There would be a full listing of programs for the night ahead. But then there would be news, and thoughts of tomorrow, and that would inevitably bring back that familiar sour look to his mouth.