My older daughter, a high school junior, wants a car when she goes off to college. This is comical for two reasons: 1) she doesn’t even know where she’ll be going yet and thus whether a car would be appropriate, and 2) it’s not like you can just ask your parents for a car ... can you? Myself, I hate cars, so why would I give one to anybody?
When I was in college, I naturally rode my bike everywhere. (I didn’t get my first car until I’d been married for three years and my wife needed one.) At Berkeley, commuting by bike was (and is) serious business, with real traffic and real laws that are really enforced. But at UC Santa Barbara, where I spent my first two years of college, biking was just this big joke that everybody was in on. Just now I randomly stumbled across this article about biking at UCSB, which basically said, “Hey, kids, did you know you’re supposed to obey traffic laws?” The fact of this article attests to the lawlessness of the bike paths at UCSB. So does the following post, from my archives.
[You will note in the photo above, and others in this post, that nobody biking to class at UCSB wears a helmet. At least that was true when I was there. Wearing a helmet simply never occurred to us.]
The UCSB Bike Paths - March 6, 1989
Laugh all you want at the shocking tales you hear about the UCSB bike paths. Heck, I do too. But for those who lack eight years of bicycle racing experience, the daily traumas are no laughing matter, and the accident rate gets top billing in our campus newspapers. The other day, I rode along the bike path reading in the UCSB Generic that there were 212 bike accidents in the past year alone that required immediate medical attention. The article, which was incidentally one of the most poorly written I’ve ever read, began to offer a solution: “Lex Murray, bicycling instructor at UCSB, feels that common sense would...” There the article runs off the bottom of the page, and never picks up again. Dang.
I’ve found that one of the biggest hazards is the pedestrian contingent. If they wanted to be safe, they would never dare to use the crosswalks, but since they simply must cross over the bike path, they take their chances. The out-of-towners get it the worst, since in their complete ignorance of the bike situation they wander right into traffic and get hit. During my Freshman Orientation at UCSB, one of my group members was the victim of a high‑speed crash which wasn’t just entertaining, but also artistic, with the rider flying through the air like an acrobat.
Some pedestrians get so flustered at the crosswalks, they actually just close their eyes and walk across, praying to God that they don’t get hit. Perhaps more common are the people that look at an oncoming cyclist, check to see that he is paying attention, and arrogantly walk straight across his path, forcing the cyclist to slow down. (This is really stupid, since few bikes at UCSB have working brakes.) These boneheads are my favorite: whenever I detect that I’m being scanned like this, I accelerate and head straight for the guy, staring into his eyes like a lunatic. I have yet to lose my right‑of‑way (although when I finally do, it’ll be ugly).
I think the most dangerous bicycle commuting factor at UCSB is lack of confidence. Allow me to illustrate just what kind of confidence I’m talking about. While exchanging war stories with friends from the cycling team, I described a crash I had a few years ago. Towards the end of a fast criterium in Denver, there was a big pileup. I thought I could squeak by it, but a guy ahead of me cut over into my path and my brake lever went right into one of his haunches. Flipping over my handlebars, I watched, with a strange sense of peace, almost a calmness, as the ground flew towards my face. I took the impact on my chin, splitting it open. At this point in my rendition of the story, one of my teammates asked me why I didn’t let go of the handlebars to catch myself on my hands. Realizing this guy was obviously a novice, a pal explained, “He still thought he could ride it out!”
Simply, the attitude a rider must take on the UCSB bike path, is this: “Nothing can crash me; I am invincible.” If you firmly believe this, then nobody will mess with you because they will know. To keep the rubber side down, riding defensively isn’t enough—you must ride offensively. And when things get sketchy, you cannot panic. You must absolutely refuse to go down—once you submit to fate, you’re a goner.
Your typical UCSB student tends to be pretty self-assured, even cocky, about his bike safety. Perhaps part of it is that he believes his body is as indestructible as his 40+ pound beach cruiser. It’s just a big game to him—which is good. I’ve had some close calls but my fellow students seldom panic. The other guy might simply ignore that we’ve locked handlebars, or he’ll find amusement in our mutual fight for control. Occasionally, he’ll say something witty like, “Whoa, dude!”
I have identified two things that make the UCSB bike paths particularly tricky. One is that there are these roundabouts that nobody knows how to negotiate. Students here bike between classes pretty much on autopilot, which normally works fine, but then you reach a roundabout and are yanked out of your mental haze because it suddenly seems like bikes are coming at you from every direction.
The other problem is congestion. You don’t see too much of this between classes, or even right before a class starts, because nobody here worries much about getting to class on time. But as soon as a class period ends, everyone is out of that lecture hall like a shot, students pouring out of buildings and mounting their bikes. The next five or ten minutes are total gridlock, but without the reduction in speed or observance of safe distance motorists give one another. After all, we’re all on bikes so nobody can get hurt, right?
Just the other day I found myself in the midst of a bike path nightmare. Somehow, about ten of us got suddenly crammed into the space that only one or two bikes could safely occupy. To make matters worse, I was travelling about ten miles per hour faster than anybody else (and we were all cruising). Tapping into my mountain biking skills, I squeezed my bike handlebars, which are about 28 inches wide, through an opening about 18 inches wide by putting one half of the handlebar through at a time. Had anyone panicked, we all would have been history. Instead, there was a collective burst of laughter.
But not everyone is so sanguine. Some students recognize the danger; panic; and succumb. I will sometimes see two riders on a collision course panic five feet from impact, close their eyes, and scream, and my immediate reaction is, “What a cop‑out! They didn’t even try!” Once things get out of hand, these riders just submit. That probably causes most of their crashes.
Why, just today I was coming out of the Phelps Hall parking lot, and two girls coming in the other direction thought they were going to hit me and panicked. They shrieked and almost crashed into each other. Meanwhile, I calmly held my line and they missed me by a good ten inches. Not half a second later, as I turned onto the bike path, another biker cut the corner to the inside and we really were destined for collision. A natural instinct here would be to throw up your hands to protect your face, which would be carnage. But I resisted the impulse based on my special training. I hit the brakes hard. Mafac cantilevers in the front, coupled with a Shimano U‑brake in the rear, really carried the day and I averted disaster by stopping on a dime. The other rider, totally freaked out, flew off in a skew direction. (If I had been cutting the turn to the inside like that, I would have expected near disaster and not lost my cool like that.) As I pulled away, shaking my head, another guy gave me a knowing look, as if to say—what? I don’t know for sure. But something profound.
Now, all this being said, it’s possible to be too confident. And that’s exactly what led to what my friends and I now call “the Gump Incident.” My friend John was the perp/victim. He was riding along no-handed, reading the school paper, not a care in the world, minding his own business, not bothering anybody, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, for no apparent reason, with no provocation whatsoever (this is all a standard preamble when describing a bike accident), this fricking parked car appears out of nowhere! I mean, one second he’s just riding along, and the next second he’s plowing right into the back of this car! And it’s like, what was that car even doing there, other than sitting next to the curb being parked? The audacity!
Now, there are a couple of things to keep in mind about the Gump Incident. First, it didn’t technically happen on the bike path; it was on Pardall Road, an Isla Vista street that the bike path empties onto, so perhaps a slight increase in caution would have been wise. Second, it could have happened to any of us, because sometimes you get engrossed in an article and don’t really realize that you’ve left the bike path and are in the street. So when my friends and I refer to the Gump Incident, it’s affectionately, not pejoratively.
Now I know just what you’re thinking. “That Dana, he’s a cocky one, and he’ll get his, just you wait.” Yeah, yeah, of course you’re right; deep down inside, I know there’s a Huffy or Schwinn out there with my name on it. And when I do go down, it’s gonna be incredible to behold. First there’ll be an ear-splitting squeal as I lock up my rear wheel and my Tioga City‑Slicker lays down a rubber road. Then you’ll hear something like “LOOK OUT, GEORGE!” (even though there’s no specific reason to suspect the other biker will think I’m named George). Then the screams of onlookers will almost drown out the krunking of mangled metal as Deore XT meets Schwinn-Approved in something like a bizarre ad hoc metallurgical experiment. You may hear my jeans or shorts rip as they’re dragged across a spiky bit of bike, but if bare flesh meets metal the carnage might be silent, like a carpenter’s rasp zipping up curls of soft pine. You may hear me yell, “You BASTARD!” just before riders and bikes alike are consumed in a six‑foot fireball that will send shards of molten metal and rubber flying for hundreds of yards. Jaws will drop, beautiful girls will sob, and an early dusk will come over Santa Barbara as the mushroom cloud slowly climbs and grows and smears out the sky.
Until then, I’ll continue to ride like a man possessed. After all, this is a way of life here at UCSB.
For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.
Please don’t read this aloud to a small child. And now that you’ve
stopped reading aloud, I can tell you why: I don’t want to spoil anybody’s
belief in Santa. In this post I describe the Christmas Eve doldrums, a way I tried
to deal with them, and my heart-to-heart with my teenage daughters about the
Christmas Eve doldrums
I mean doldrums in
both senses: the general idea of stagnation & depression, and also the equatorial
region of the Atlantic Ocean with calms, sudden storms, and light unpredictable
winds. What I mean is that the holiday season is kind of like monsoon season,
or what we might now call hurricane season. Going shopping for presents is, to
me, like deliberately heading into a storm. And though I enjoy the slowdown at
work that comes with the holidays, I also find myself feeling overwhelmed by
the socializing, the music, and (above all else) the retail cyclone we get
Of course Christmas Eve night is the hardest of all ... it’s
when I have to wrap the rest of the presents, including each and every item
that goes into each kid’s stocking. My wife thought I was crazy to do this when
we started doing Christmas stockings for our kids. My rationale was that my parents
always wrapped each stocking item, so I ought to continue the tradition. I now
realize that my wife was right: I am
crazy, and so were my parents. But I’m kind of stuck with the tradition.
Perhaps it was in anticipation of this onslaught that one
year my mom went off by herself on Christmas Eve and watched Billy the Kid, the 1938 ballet written
by Aaron Copeland, on TV. (This was our piece-of-crap black-and-white Panasonic.) To me this seemed an incomprehensible act. I was like, What does Billy the Kid have to do with Christmas?
And moreover, what does watching TV have to do with us kids, on the night before Christmas? I interrogated my
mom about this and she replied, “Sssh—just watch.” So I watched for like twenty
minutes, half-expecting Santa to burst out on the scene, and when it became
apparent he wasn’t going to show, I got bored and wandered off. Now I can
relate to my mom’s desire to do something normal, non-child-centric, and
non-holiday-themed with her Christmas Eve, before all the tumult of Christmas Day.
My wife and I are similarly stalling this evening. I’m
blogging, obviously, but even before that we were AWOL from holiday activities. My wife sought the
sanctuary of our bedroom (which, as a Christmas gift staging area, is off
limits to the kids this weekend) to read a P.G. Wodehouse novel. I took to my home office to research a mystery that
arrived in my e-mail earlier in the evening. The mystery is: what is the
meaning of this painting?
My friend’s e-mail read, “We’re stranded at a holiday inn in
silverthorne, co, because i70 is closed. This painting is in the lobby.”
Now, in case you don’t follow cycling, this painting has a
very strange characteristic: it features two (possibly three) Tour de France
champions in head-to-head competition despite the fact that they raced during
different eras. Bernard Hinault, the second rider from the left, raced his last
Tour in 1986. The rider in the lead, Lance Armstrong, didn’t wear the yellow
leader’s jersey (featured here) until 1999.
Clearly, the artist combined two photos from the Tour de
France: one from 1984 or 1985, and the other from 1999. Here they are.
The artist has replaced Fernando Escartin with Hinault, and
took that dude in the red jersey and white cap along with him. And he swapped out Laurent
Fignon for Miguel Indurain. (At least, I think the rider on the far right in
the painting is Indurain. This would still be anachronistic; Indurain did
overlap with Hinault by a couple of years, but didn’t finish either of those
Tours and certainly wouldn’t have been near the front during a mountain stage. It’s
also possible this rider is Alex Zülle, who made the podium with Lance in 1999.
The painting isn’t good enough to know for sure.)
Why would the artist juxtapose Lance with Hinault? Was he or
she making a statement about these being champions of similar caliber?
It could be. On the other hand, maybe this artist just had a
couple (or a pile) of photos to work from, knew and cared little about who else
(besides Lance) had raced a bike, and painted whatever he or she felt like. (It’s
surprising to me how careless people can be. I saw a bike catalog once where
the photographer had accidentally—or based on some aesthetic preference—flipped
the photo so it was a mirror image, and the bike’s drivetrain was on the wrong
It dawned on me that the artist might think he or she was
being funny. “Wouldn’t that be great if, like, Lance and Bernie had raced at
the same time?” This made me think of the silly painting—a takeoff on a more
famous one,“Nighthawks”—featuring a similar character substitution.
“Wow, wouldn’t that be awesome for Bogie, Marilyn, Elvis,
and James Dean to be, like, hanging out together?” Seems like a pretty thin
idea to base a serious artwork on, but there you have it. I wonder: did this
artist whose work graces the Holiday Inn in Silverthorne take himself or
herself seriously? And did the manager of the Holiday Inn? And are these one
and the same person?
Then I remembered this Miyata calendar I had back in like
1981 that featured paintings of riders on the Capri Sonne team, riding
Team Miyata bicycles. Each painting was
taken from some cool old photo, with the focal point of the photo (usually
somebody like Eddy Merckx) swapped out for a Capri Sonne rider. I started
researching this calendar, which led to the kind of pointless time suck the
Internet is famous for, and this dragged me ever farther in to the Christmas
Eve doldrums. I couldn’t keep with it.
Besides, my kids were still up so I had to set a good
example. Watching a classic opera on PBS is one thing, but browsing Internet
photos is another entirely. So I decided to do something with my kids. We took
a walk through the neighborhood to look at the candle-aria. At least, that’s
what I thought it was called. My kids laughed in my face and corrected me: it’s
luminaria. You know, the votives inside paper bags that line the sidewalks in
some lucky neighborhoods (such as mine):
During the walk I decided, suddenly, it was time to have the
uncomfortable conversation with my kids about Santa. “Alexa,” I said, “you do know there’s no Santa ... right?” She
gasped in disbelief. “Dad!” she protested, “I’m sixteen years old!”
Ha! Once again my deadpan delivery fooled her. I love doing
this with my kid. She falls for my facetiousness—hook, line, and sinker—every time.
But I was curious to know: how long had she
believed in Santa?
“Well, I guess until I was about eight,” she said. “It just
seemed impossible to me that he could make it to every house in the world in so
short a time. So I started comparing notes with my friends, and we all kind of
concluded at the same time that Santa wasn’t real. Of course we played along to
keep getting the presents.”
I asked my younger daughter. “Well, I’m not sure I ever
really believed there was a Santa,” she said. “I guess I thought it went from
person to person, that anybody could be Santa who wanted to give you gifts.”
I replied, “So when you and your sister left cookies for
Santa, who did you think ate them? Me?” She said, “Well, no ... I guess I didn’t
really think it through.” This is probably a good thing. It might have been
troubling for her to think of some prowler sneaking into our home, eating these
cookies, and leaving a bunch of presents.
I’ve written before, in my holiday newsletter and in these pages, about how if you spill the beans about Santa, then the Tooth Fairy myth is
suddenly in great jeopardy, and we need that
myth in order to keep our kids’ spirits up when it comes to losing a tooth,
having blood in their mouths, and this weird tender hollow in their gums (often
with a shred or two of loose flesh). I asked Alexa how long she had believed in the
“I believed in the Tooth Fairy for about another year,” she admitted. “It
just didn’t seem possible that you could get that tooth out from under my
pillow without waking me. In fact, I did some tests where I put the tooth as
far from the outer edge of my bed as possible, in a place you’d never be able to
find, to see if I could catch you in the act.” I told her I remembered those
times very well. It had been a pain in the ass. But I’m glad the seeming impossibility of my efforts extended
the myth a bit longer.
(You may be wondering what Santa has to do with Lance
Armstrong. Well, a friend of mine did a bike fitting for Robin Williams around
the time Lance admitted to all his doping, and my friend asked Williams what he
thought about it. Williams—who was a good friend of Lance’s—replied, “I was
devastated. It was like when I was a kid and I learned there was no Santa.” This begs a question: did Williams really believe in Lance all that time, or was this a bit like Lindsay’s position on Santa: deciding not to think too hard about it? And how many others among us might have similarly suspended our skepticism?)
After the candle-aria—er, luminaria—walk, I felt the
Christmas Eve doldrums lifting somewhat. I’d found this candid conversation with
my kids heartening somehow; it’s nice to see that we can honor traditions like Christmas
stockings while acknowledging the fiction involved and having a chuckle
together. And it gives me hope that there will be a time, perhaps not too far
from now, when I can slack off a bit on the stockings without ruining anybody’s
childhood. But for now, I better post this little essay and get on with my
night ... I have a lot of gift wrapping ahead of me.
For a complete index of albertnet
In this follow-up to my last South Beach[-ish] post, I offer reports from the trenches (my brother’s and mine); some arcana about
glycemic index and glycemic load; the good news about the cool food you canstilleat with this approach; some responses to a commenter on my last
post; and the truth about alcohol. (I know that last bit implies that somebody has been
lying about alcohol, and really nobody has, but I had to throw that in to bait
you. Along those lines I will now include this phrase—what your doctor doesn’t want you to know about losing weight—because
that seems a popular way to draw people in as well. Also, this weird little trick that helps you lose half your body weight in 48
Gosh, what a totally irresponsible metaphor “the trenches”
is. Of course this is nothing like battle or real hardship of any kind. Feeling
like you ought to lose weight is a real luxury, when almost 800 million people
on this planet are malnourished. “I’m just not as svelte as I was in college!”
Do you hate me yet? Good, good. Anybody who is doing well on
a diet (or better yet, a new eating approach that is realistic for long-term
benefit) ought to be hated at least a little. I love this New Yorker cartoon
where two women are at the café at their tennis club and one announces, “I’ve
only been gluten-free for a week, but I’m already really annoying.” (No, I’m
not going to talk about gluten in this post. That’s a whole topic of its own.
Suffice to say I myself never met a glutenous mass I didn’t like.)
So far, in the eighteen days I’ve been on this diet, I’ve
lost nine pounds. That’s not so bad, especially because I’ve been cheating a
bit. If I did Phase 1 (see my previous post if you haven’t already), I’m sure
I’d see more results. My brother, in the same time span, has lost about six
pounds. He’s not doing Phase 1 either … and in fact, he’s cheating regularly because
one of his kids has discovered baking and is thrusting lemon bars, cream puffs,
banana bread, and cobbler at him. Believe me, I had a great time ribbing him
about that. At least he’s honest with his food log, and is trying to be good (“1.5 small blueberry cobbler pieces … two small
cookies … very thin slice fudge…”). Of course this is the time of year when
everybody becomes a glutton, but that’s no excuse for eating whatever junk
you’re offered. I e-mailed Bryan, “Do we need to get you a sign that says, ‘Please
do not feed the human ... when he is given people food, his nutrition is
impaired and he loses interest in hunting’?”
It is almost impossible to have dessert and be on a South
Beach(-esque) program at the same time. Not entirely impossible, though:
A plum can be nice and sweet, but still good for you. I think that’s mascarpone and mint leaves
My wife is doing well on quasi-South-Beach, especially in her
main goal of keeping me honest. Here is a sample of our joint food journal,
from the first day back on the plan:
The first thing you’ll notice is how messy this journal is. My
brother’s journal is neatly typed and available online for me to peek at
whenever I want, but I’ll bet it’s not quite as complete. A paper journal that
lives in the kitchen doesn’t miss a thing. The second thing you’ll notice in
the above snapshot is that my wife is using the “smiley face” technique of
reinforcing dietary (and exercise) principles. This is probably healthier than
my shame-and-fear-based system.
Another quick note: it can be helpful to monitor body fat if your scale supports it, but such measurements are probably not very accurate. That looks a bit like 16.8% above but it actually says 11.8%. Whatever my body fat percentage really is, I expect that number to go down as I continue my South Beach(-esque) effort.
You’ll find a recipe lurking in my entry, for Mexican(-ish)
rice. Here’s what you do: glug some olive oil in a pan, dice a whole onion and
simmer it a while, then add some cooked, cut-up meat. I used leftover turkey
white-meat from Thanksgiving because a) white meat, aka breast meat, is really
good for you, and b) I hate it. (My favorite part of the bird is the skin.) Frying
up the meat makes it way tastier—it’s worth the oil, I think. I shake a bunch
of Chef Paul Prudhomme’s Poultry Magic on there and a bunch of ground cumin, which is like magic. I sear that mixture on high
heat, then throw in a can of stewed tomatoes. I simmer that a bit, then throw
in cooked rice. I use brown rice because it’s better for you—it has almost six
times the fiber of white rice. (White rice is useless. Don’t eat it. I used it with this batch because it was all I could find.)
I have a burrito practically every day made with beans, this
rice, cheese (I don’t skimp on this, actually), and really good salsa. Pound
for pound I think the salsa I get is more expensive than heroin, but it’s much
better for you. These burritos rock. The deal is, when you put rice and beans
together, you get a complete protein. (Click here for details.) Also, the fiber in beans, helped out by the cheese and by the
bran in the brown rice, help that burrito burn slowly. That’s good because it
means you won’t snack.
Also, because a burrito is a modular food, you can control
the size and thus your intake. I either use a soft-taco size tortilla or half a
regular tortilla. That’s a big enough burrito even for a big guy like me who works
out a lot. Of course, the flour tortilla is complete crap, nutritionally. But
what good is a diet that makes you want to kill yourself? Whole wheat tortillas
should be banned.
Note, in the journal snapshot, my wife’s apple, raisins, and
blueberries, and the zucchini, peppers, and cherry tomatoes we both had with
dinner. Of course we should have had more vegetables (we were just easing into
this South Beach thing). Note also the peanut butter. Sure, it’s pretty caloric
(as a commenter on my last post pointed out) but it greatly helps with a
feeling of satiety. This is crucial. If you try to cut down on calories without
addressing satiety you’re going to be miserable. The point here is to reduce
calories while still feeling satisfied. Hard boiled eggs are also good for satiety.
I eat one of them then and I’m basically in no mood to eat for many hours.
How can we tell what
foods will burn slowly?
Foods burn slowly according to how hard they are to digest.
Obviously. Fiber slows down digestion, so it’s great. Meat also burns more
slowly. I think cheese does too (and I’m not going to fact-check that because
if there’s anything bad about cheese, I don’t want to know). What’s really cool
is that slow-burning foods can actually slow down digestion of fast-burning
foods consumed in the same meal. So the meat and beans in your burrito make the
tortilla burn more slowly. That’s why when you eat a big burrito at a taqueria
you don’t need to eat again for like four days. (Damn, I just drooled on my
Here is one of my typical burritos. You can see a bit of cilantro creeping out the front. This will keep me going all the way until dinner, even on days that I work out.
There’s a numeric scale that describes how slowly a
carbohydrate source will burn. It’s called the glycemic index (click here for details). It goes from 1 to 100. Anything over 50 is bad. Anything over
70 is really bad. You can download charts from the Internet. The digestive
process, it turns out, is actually pretty mechanical. Chewy stuff takes longer
and delivers its energy more gradually. (This is why I allow myself to eat
gristle even when I’m trying to lose weight.)
Interestingly, the glycemic index (GI) of spaghetti is 46
(not very good), but the GI of al dente fettuccine
is only 32. This isn’t too bad except that it’s impossible not to overeat with
pasta ... a bite or two in, your eyes roll up into the back of your head and you
abandon all pretense of self-control. You tell yourself things like “They’re
just love handles!” and “Fat people are funnier, like Seth Rogen and Jonah
Hill!” and “I would look great in a double-breasted suit!” and “I can do this,
I’m an athlete!” And that’s just your average joe. Pasta is especially
dangerous if you have “baggage” like I do, such as my teenage tradition of
eating all-you-can-eat pasta—usually 5 or 6 plates at a sitting—once a week for years.
But consistency isn’t everything. What makes food choices a
bit more complicated is that it can be hard to predict how caloric a food is.
Soba noodles, for example, are made of buckwheat flour, which is somehow
relatively lo-cal. Buckwheat is not really wheat ... it’s a grass. No, wait, I
just fact-checked and it’s not a grass. It’s a “pseudocereal,” related to
quinoa, sorrel, knotweed, and rhubarb. (What is knotweed? I don’t know, but
it’s probably like knothead, and you are what you eat, so be careful!) One
great thing about buckwheat soba noodles is that they have one calorie per gram, which makes
it easy to measure your intake, plus that’s 32% fewer calories than semolina
The other good news is that the Huffington Post calls
buckwheat “one of the healthiest foods you’re not eating.” This statement is arch and snotty, and Hufffpost is hip and modern, so you
can see buckwheat has all kinds of cred. The bad news is that buckwheat soba
noodles have a glycemic index of 59, which is on the not-so-good end of the
spectrum. (Still way better than a baked potato at 111.) You know those
so-called “glass” noodles? They’re made of sweet potatoes and have a GI of
39-45. And they confer the same groovy Asian-ness that soba do. So they’re a
So if glycemic index isn’t everything—due to variances in
how caloric one substance is over another—what else do we need to consider?
Well, for what it’s worth, there’s a separate scale called glycemic load. This scale,
based on some formula the food people have devised, factors in the number of
calories. These numbers don’t fall in such a nice range as GI, but suffice to
say anything over 20 is bad, and single-digit numbers are the best. (Again, you
can download charts online.)
For example, watermelon (as you might guess) has a high GI: 72,
to be precise. This would be a good food for somebody with no teeth left. But
we can have all we want, because it’s practically bereft of calories. Its glycemic
load is just 4. Have at it!
Prunes have a nice low GI (29) but they’re also pretty
sweet, so their load is 10 (which is still rather good). Carrots have a load of
3.5, which makes them a great “closer”—that food that is still sitting in a
bowl on the table after you’ve eaten your little portion of indulgent goodness
and are fantasizing about having seconds. After you munch down a few carrot
sticks you might decide you’re not actually that hungry, per se ... maybe you were going to eat out of boredom but now
you’re bored of the food itself. Congratulations! You’re going to dream about
food all night and wake up ready to go toe-to-toe with that bathroom scale!
Glycemic load isn’t everything, but it does help us put
certain foods in perspective. For example, the person who commented on my last post needs to be corrected. She said to avoid nuts because “they’re ‘healthy
fat’ but a handful of nuts has, like 800 calories.” I think she was
exaggerating for comic effect; it’s actually more like 170 calories. Still a
lot, but the glycemic load of peanuts is a mere 1. That’s fricking amazing. No
wonder they’re so satisfying. Last Saturday I rode my bike 70 miles, with 6,000
feet of climbing, but (after my modest glycogen window snack, a cup of honey-sweetened yogurt and a weird persimmon cookie), I just
wasn’t that hungry so my lunch was just two handfuls of peanuts and 4 or 5
prunes. (When your body isn’t all fouled up by lots of sugary calories, it can
burn fat like a motherfrockle. This is why distance athletes—whose bodies get
especially good at this—are so freaking thin.)
So, if we don’t want to deprive ourselves of the foods we
love, we just need to work on portion control, which is doable if for every
part starchy, yummy goodness you make yourself plow through two parts bulky,
low-glycemic-load vegetables. Cabbage is great for that. Yeah, it’s not the
tastiest stuff, but that’s kind of the point. After eating a bunch of it you’re
asking, “Could I be full?” rather than “Could I push past the pain and eat even
more?” (Raw cabbage, I’ll concede, is almost inedible, except perhaps on a fish
taco. Cabbage is better cooked, and the smell of cooking cabbage helps you lose
your appetite—a win/win!)
If we’re going to be realistic here, napa cabbage is more
charismatic than regular. It doesn’t have much flavor, but bulks foods out
nicely (instead of bulking us out not-nicely). A cup of nappa cabbage has just
13 calories. It’s like the perfect thing to stuff yourself with. Best of all,
you can spell it with either one “p” or two ... your choice! (I mixed and
matched here, just to be more Google-query-friendly.) I have actually put nappa
cabbage in a burrito, just to give it that realistic heft you get at taquerias.
You wanna know the glycemic load of cabbage? It’s an infinitesimal 0.58!
... what can I still eat while South-Beaching it?
The good news is, you can still eat anything with this approach, once you’re in phase 3 ... at least,
the way I do it (and it’s working pretty well). But you can’t eat everything. That is, you need to figure
out a few indulgent, non-South-Beach foods you just can’t live without, and keep eating them—but only
occasionally, as a treat, and in small quantities with gobs of vegetables on the side. Other starchy or sweet foods
will just have to go—you gotta choose your battles. So as much as I go on about
pasta being too irresistible to mess with, I know I can never totally give it up.
But if I’m going to occasionally submit to it, I better be pretty strict about
desserts, white bread (like sourdough and baguettes, which I adore), and pretty
much all baked goods. Oh, and I barely get to have pizza. Maybe this summer I’ll start riding Mount Diablo every weekend like I used to, and can cheat more.
But drinking ... that’s another matter.
What can I drink?
I’ll make this simple: don’t drink anything that isn’t a)
water, or b) a drug delivery mechanism. Juice is all the sugar from fruit and
none of the fiber so unless you’re actually trying
to get fat, just skip it. If you have a reasonably balanced diet (such as
South Beach) you’re getting plenty of vitamins without needing any juice. (“Vitamin water,” meanwhile, is
sugar-water for morons.) Soda should be banned, but with a special dispensation for endurance athletes.
A commenter on my last post advised that you can “add
splenda to all sorts of liquids and you can guzzle diet sodas.” I totally
disagree. Diet soda confuses your body and triggers an insulin response, meanwhile dulling our senses to naturally sweet food, leading to the abuse of other sweets,
according to this article and others. Splenda (sucralose) has long been thought safe, but recent
studies (click here) link it to changes in intestinal microbes, altered glucose and insulin
levels, and possibly cancer. Sure, we could debate the veracity of these studies, but why bother? Why defend chemicals designed to fool Mother Nature, just for the sake of justifying unsophisticated pleasures? If you have a constant craving for sweet drinks, you should try to
figure out why. Shouldn’t you have cast off that childish fixation long ago?
Coffee (without cream or sugar) is completely fine. Drink
up. Caffeine can even be an appetite suppressant, but be careful ... don’t be tempted
to skip meals (which confuses your body, fouls up your energy levels, and creates diet-jeopardizing cravings). I don’t consider coffee a food, because it’s
practically calorie-free. I think of it as a drug (and a very safe, useful
Alcohol is also, to my mind, also more of a drug than a food. But
it’s a whole different deal from coffee because alcoholic beverages are highly caloric, in
direct proportion to the amount of alcohol they contain (so don’t bother trying to count the
carbs in this or that beer). And calories are only part of the problem. Because
alcohol is a toxin, when you drink your body shuts down its normal metabolic processes (like
burning fat) until it’s dealt with the alcohol. Meanwhile, mixed drinks often
involve sugary mixers or Coke, and drinking lowers your inhibitions so you
might lose some of the discipline you’ve been trying to have about your eating.
(Click here and here for details.)
(You think it was possible to resist that fourth helping of
fries after drinking Belgian beer? It was not, nor was it possible to resist dipping the fries in mayo,
Euro-style. But that was a special occasion.)
It kills me that there’s a whole website, Get Drunk Not Fat, dedicated to worrying about the number of carbs or other fillers in
alcoholic beverages, when moderation alone is the way forward.
Does all this mean you shouldn’t drink at all when trying to
lose weight? I don’t think so. Statistically, moderate drinkers are less likely
to be overweight than teetotalers. Meanwhile, alcohol can be a great way to hide
from your problems. (That was a joke.) The question of whether or not to drink
should certainly involve not gaining weight, but weight is only one component of this bigger lifestyle choice. I think that where this South Beach[-esque] dietary approach is concerned, drinking should be treated like one of those carefully
selected indulgences you might decide to allow yourself from time to time. But
you better not allow too many of these indulgences, and you better indulge
sparingly, if you’re serious about losing weight.
The result so far
Today my wife said to me, “You’re starting to get gaunt. You’re
starting to look like a bike racer again.” This isn’t really a compliment. In
fact, it’s almost a warning. I think the subtext was something like, “Watch
yourself ... don’t do too good a job
with this South Beach thing.” I’m happy to report that if things continue on
this trend, I’ll be around or below 170 pounds for the hill climb bike race I have planned for January 1. Following that, I might just take my eating habits back in a more northerly direction,
secure in the knowledge that I’m not at risk of becoming the next Humpty Dumpty.
For a complete index of albertnet
This isn’t actually a post for morons. I thought the title
would be funny, and “[Learnable Skill] for Dummies” is copyrighted. This is a
shortcut to reading The South Beach Diet,
and also a memoir of my weight loss efforts, but mainly a humor piece (because
struggling with one’s weight is always funny, right?). Do not come here for an
accurate, responsible distillation of the actual South Beach approach (which
would be plagiarism and copyright infringement anyway). Call it Sloth Bleach
Eight years ago in these pages, I wrote about “secondhand dieting”—whereby you end up on your spouse’s diet
because he or she is doing the cooking. My goal when I wrote that was to get off the South Beach diet because I was actually
perfectly happy with my weight. Well, fast-forward to last July and you’ll see,
here, that as middle age has descended upon me, I am no longer happy with my
weight—or, more specifically, with my belly. Toward the end of my “Ode on a Belly – Mine” post I declared my intention to do South Beach(-ish) for real, and to blog about the
results. Well, here you go.
The good news is, Sloth Bleach really works! When I started
it, after my nephew’s wedding (and associated festivities) in late June, I
weighed a whopping 193 pounds. I began recording everything I ate, and began
eating very carefully, and a month later—just in time for an epic bike ride with my friends —I had lost 12 pounds and was down to 181. Success! I got down to 175 by the
beginning of September and held this until the second week of October.
So, yeah … that’s the good news.
The bad news is, South Beach isn’t really a diet. If it
were, it wouldn’t work, because diets never do. Why not? Because they can’t.
It’s absurd to think that you could temporarily change your behavior and enjoy permanent
Let’s look at the logic, or lack thereof, that the dieting
Premise: I weigh x because
for years I have eaten y calories a
day, which is z more calories than I
need (hence the weight gain that has motivated me to diet).
Premise: If I eat, say, 0.7y instead of y, I will
turn z into a negative number—that
is, I will be consuming fewer calories than I need—thus my body will burn a
bunch of fat and I will lose weight.
Premise: Once I have achieved the lower weight that I
desired, I can go back to eating y calories
a day, which will still be z calories
more than I need, and yet I somehow won’t gain back any weight.
Conclusion: I am a moron.
Look, if you’re eating the way you always have, and yet you’re
gaining weight, something has
changed. Perhaps you’re not as active. Perhaps this is just part of getting
old. Perhaps it only seems like
you’re eating the way you always have, but you’re actually fighting the tribulations
of middle age, parenting, and/or the working grind by self-medicating with
extra booze, extra butter, or extra sloth. Whatever the case, it is impossible to implement a short-term fix
to lose the weight (i.e., go on a diet and expect lasting success).
South Beach is not a diet, it’s an approach. It’s a permanent change in the style of eating that you
do, that will yield permanent weight loss results if and only if you stick with
it for the rest of your life—which notion is, I’ll admit, depressing as hell.
But then, so is ongoing weight gain.
In case you’re hoping these caveats are theoretical, they’re
not. I fell off the South Beach wagon because I started taking trips to my
hometown to take care of my ailing father, then to help with his hospice,
and then to spread his ashes. In order to cope, I ate breathtaking amounts of
food, Beck’sted copiously, and allowed myself to eschew exercise entirely. The result is that
I gained back half the weight I’d lost through South Beach.
(What do I mean by breathtaking amounts of food? Well, for
one thing, my brothers and I would eat indulgent meals out such as all-u-can-eat
pasta, and for another, we tended—almost without fail—to eat a pint of ice
cream apiece, every night. Or to be precise, four quarter-pints.)
So, yeah—my South Beach effort had yielded weight loss results
only while I stuck with it. Recently I found myself back up to the mid-180s. Something
had to be done, so I resolved recently to sign up for the San Bruno Mountain Hill Climb bike race on January 1, to force me to adopt South Beach again. (Fear of
disgrace is a great motivator.)
By the way, you may be aware that for years I’ve professed
that the real key to staying skinny is to be a long-distance cyclist. I still
hold this to be true, but with two caveats: 1) I can’t exactly advocate that
for the lay reader because it takes a lot of time and it’s best to start young,
and 2) I myself, despite gobs of muscle memory, don’t have the time and/or
opportunity for that anymore.
I’ll bet you’re expecting me to say being overweight is
ugly. Well, I won’t. It’s being old that’s ugly. No it’s not—I’m just playing
with you. This whole thing isn’t about looks. It’s about health. Being healthy
and fit happens to look better than being unhealthy and overweight, but that’s
incidental. I used the heading “The ugly” above simply because The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I mean, duh!
The buddy system
It’s easier to change your behavior—especially in a way that
involves reducing creature comforts—when you have a buddy along. Here’s how the
logic of that works.
Premise: Misery loves company.
Premise: I love misery (obviously).
Conclusion: I love company. (This is according to the
Transitive Law, I believe.)
The argument isn’t perfect, because eating the South Beach
way isn’t a miserable experience, exactly, but I doubt anybody would deny that
having friends involved in your effort will help.
My wife, supportive as ever, agreed to do South Beach(-ish)
with me. So did my brother Bryan, who isn’t doing an all-uphill bike race on
January 1 but wants to lose weight anyway. This is only partly because I made
fun of his belly when we were in Boulder together. “OMG,” you’re thinking, “you
actually made fun of somebody because of his weight? What kind of monster are
you?” The answer is, a sibling. Bryan made fun of my weight too, decades ago
(when, at age 6 or 8, I had an oddly big belly). The chickens have come home to
roost! But again, that’s only part of it. Bryan wants to be heathier, and we’re
talking about doing a grueling 108-mile bike race, over giant Alpine passes, in
a summer or two, so he appreciates my encouragement (even when it takes the
form of taunts and jeers).
Where South Beach is concerned, the buddy system consists of
sharing snippets of your daily journal, where you record not only what you eat
but what you weigh each morning. So it’s not just a matter of providing
encouragement, but also holding one another (and yourself) accountable. If a
little bit of rivalry finds its way in there, well so be it. After all, that
can be motivational, too.
In the case of my brother, the buddy system also means
explaining how South Beach works—i.e., what you can and cannot eat. In case
you’re intrigued by this miracle weight
loss plan (which phrase I use here quite deliberately, to help Google direct
people to this blog), I’m going to share my quickie, just-the-gist South Beach(-ish)
wisdom with you as well.
How this thing works
South Beach is divided into phases. During Phase 1, you
can’t have any fun at all—no bread, no pasta, and in fact no starches at all
really, just lots of veggies and maybe some really unappealing whole grains
like quinoa or something. The point is to get some immediate results, so as to
motivate yourself. (Full disclosure: I don’t have the chutzpah to do Phase 1.
If you think you do, maybe you should get the actual South Beach book.)
After a couple weeks on Phase 1, the plan goes, you move to
Phase 2, which lets you have a few indulgences, but is still fairly austere.
You do that for—what, a couple more weeks?—and then move to the third, final,
permanent phase, which is—you guessed it!—phase 3. (Wow, you’re a quick study!)
This final phase lasts either forever, or until your resolve flags.
More important than these phases is the emphasis on filling
up on veggies instead of starches. The principle, as I understand it, is
simple: we didn’t evolve to eat refined stuff like flour and sugar. That stuff
is too calorically dense for us, especially since we’re not doing much physical
labor anymore. (If this sounds like the Paleo diet, that’s a coincidence, since
I know essentially nothing about it except that it’s probably annoying.)
Long story short, you essentially need to serve up all kinds
of bulky, low-caloric, simple foods like vegetables, and fill your gaping gut
with those instead of the tasty stuff. By “tasty” I mean “foodstuffs that have
been manipulated to be more tasty.” (Obviously if we’re talking about all things
that taste good, we should include fruit, vegetables, and other naturally tasty
things, but the fact is, most people have forever thrown those over for highly
manipulated crap like sugary cereal, “chicken” McNuggets, pasta, pizza, fries,
etc. and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.)
So South Beach is way to reconcile what our bodies really need
with what we feel like we need. We sorry
humans have this pathetic need to feel full, because we’re so used to this
feeling and because our souls are empty. And it’s actually okay to feel full,
but only if it’s because a lot of high-fiber, low-calorie stuff is pushing
against the inner wall of our bellies. We leave the table feeling sated, or at
least bored of eating, and our overall calorie intake goes down.
In response, our bodies relearn how to burn fat efficiently.
Meanwhile, our blood sugar becomes more stable. We snack less, eat better calories,
enjoy all the benefits of the vegetables and meats we evolved to draw
nourishment from, and become healthier. With our newfound health, we can cheat
here and there and enjoy pasta again—because without pasta, life simply isn’t
worth living. Obviously.
Some rules of thumb
Try to avoid refined starches
If you have bread, make sure it’s whole grain (my family
gets this Alvarado bead that has no flour, just wheat berries), and eat as
little as possible of it (i.e., open-faced sandwiches only, and go for that
really thin heel)
Sometimes I just have a big spoon of PB & J instead of a
Rule of thumb: if you have to butter it, you should just
stop eating it
No pasta, unfortunately, except as a treat ... it is the
hardest thing to eat in moderation
No pizza except as a treat (it’s a controlled substance in
No alcohol ... sorry! (Obviously you can cheat here, but alcohol is truly fattening, in all its forms including low-carb beer.)
If starchy stuff is served, try to eat a ton of vegetables
along with it, like spinach or broccoli
Try to have brown rice instead of white whenever possible
(it’s actually pretty good, not like whole wheat pasta, which is inedible)
The greener and more cruciferous your veggies, the better
Chard, broccoli, broccolini, and—yes—kale are all good
Cabbage is cheap and good and helps you lose your appetite
Eggplant is cool—slice it and put salt all over it for a
while to chase out the bad-tasting liquid
Squash, zucchini, green beans, asparagus, celery, peppers
are all great
Corn is barely a vegetable—almost more like a starch—so
don’t eat it often
I think peas aren’t actually much better than corn
Asian veggies like daikon and bok choy are good choices and
also make you super sophisticated
Fruit is okay, especially apples and other fiber-rich stuff
No juice ever, no soda ever, no freaking vitamin water for crying
out loud, just water and tea and coffee
Record all your snacks, if you must snack
Watch the condiments! Lots of calories
Maybe if it gets to be too much hassle writing everything
down you’ll snack less!
Smiley faces in the margins of your journal are a nice little
So how’s it working
My brother e-mailed me a few days into our SB effort and
said, “Thanks for the good tips! I'm inspired, truly. I started a food log of
my own, and you’re right, Dana, just writing down what I had for dinner last
night filled me with shame.” See? It’s working!
Just like I didn’t want to overwhelm my brother with arcane
nutritional lore in our first few days of Sloth Bleach, I think it’s time to
let you come up for air. Go watch a really dippy romantic comedy now, or wash
your hair, or drink a beer, or whatever it is you do to release the viselike grip my relentless text has surely
had on your poor head. And tune in next week for more inspiration; delicious,
gossip-like updates on my brother’s and my progress (or frustration); and more useful
information, including quick and easy lo-cal recipes like Mexican(-ish) rice
and roasted Ewok!
It’s a slow news day at albertnet so here’s another poem
from my archives, complete with all-new footnotes. This one goes way back to
spring 1988, after high school but during my year off before starting college.
I was working as a receptionist at a radio station in San Luis Obispo, which was
a really easy job ... most of the time.
Radio Poetry – Spring
I went to print a lame computer file,
A task that rarely causes any strain. 2
But this time it’s become a real trial
Because my finger has betrayed my brain.
I pushed the wrong damn key, or so it seems,
Which set disaster into motion quick. 6
Deleting files hurts my self-esteem;
And I’ve just done it, with one finger flick.
Of course a backup file isn’t there:
Erasing it, another of my feats. 10
And my mistake caught everybody’s glare;
I botched the job by trying to be neat.
I’m glad my job
seems still to be intact;
But that move
wasn’t helpful, that’s a fact! 14
Letterhead: Class FM
Yes, this radio station was actually called “Class FM.” As
you can see, the call letters were KLZZ, which was the manager’s second choice
because he couldn’t get KLAS. (Maybe KLAS breaks some arcane FCC rule.) As
receptionist I was required to answer the phone, “Good evening, you’ve got
Class!” The deejays gave me a hard time about that. In fact, one of them was
bored once and swooped by my desk to snatch up the ringing phone before I
could, and answered, “Good evening, you’ve got gas! I mean Class!”
The competing radio station in our moldy oldies genre, US 98,
had the slogan “Rocking the Central Coast with hits, we’re US 98!” There was a standing
dare among our deejays to actually say, on the air, “Hitting the Central Coast
with rocks, we’re Class FM!”
Line 1: went to print
Though this is obviously a pretty lousy poem, I like the
internal rhyme in the phrase “went to print.” I wish the rest of the poem
matched this strong start.
Line 1: lame computer
Of course a computer file can’t be lame, exactly, but I was a
teenager, so “lame” was naturally one of my favorite words. (I’ve just checked
in with one of my resident teenagers and she says “lame” isn’t used that often
nowadays ... it’s reserved for special cases because “it’s like the ultimate insult.”)
Computers weren’t quite so ubiquitous back then. I think
there were only one or two of them in the whole radio station. This was long
before most teenagers (outside of a few nerds) did anything on a computer, so the
station manager assumed I would be unable to operate ours. He was astonished to learn that I not only knew
WordStar, but could even type fast. I’m not saying he was impressed, exactly,
but I think he found my rare skills kind of cute.
Line 2: causes any
Word processors didn’t do a whole lot back then, so using
them was a breeze. The hard part of my job was keeping busy. The only reason I
even had the job is that this radio station was located inside a mall, and the
mall rules required that all businesses be open and staffed during mall hours,
which ended at 9:00 p.m. My shift therefore started when the daytime office
manager’s shift ended at 5 p.m. On those days that the main staff left on time,
I could relax, but when they were milling around I had to look busy. This was a
challenge because there was almost nothing for me to do there. There was barely
enough work for the office staff. It was a new station and just finding its
You know what didcause
strain? When the station president got drunk. He had a sizeable wine collection
in his office (which the deejays said was highly unusual, alcohol being
traditionally banned from radio stations for obvious reasons). This guy had
serious personal issues, and when he got drunk he got mean. His favorite drunken activity was
to chew my head off for “abusing the position” by “studying on the job.” My
standard defense—“Sir, I’m not even a student!”—fell on deaf ears. Once the deejay
rescued me by calling me into the broadcast room: “Dana, come in here, we’re
about to do a contest!” This ruse amazingly did work; the president failed to
grasp that I ran the contests (i.e., took the ninth caller) right from my desk.
Speaking of strain, those contests really were pretty tricky. The deejay would announce the
contest, my phone would light up, and I’d have to blow off the first eight
callers very quickly to have the ninth caller queued up in time to transfer him
or her to the deejay’s phone, so this lucky winner could be on the air
receiving the prize. Sometimes I’d get flustered and accidently disconnect the
winner, meaning I’d have to take the next (i.e., tenth) caller to transfer in
to the deejay. In this case both the ninth and tenth callers would get the
prize, but the ninth caller would be furious about missing that little bit of radio
The other problem was if too few people called in, and I’d be anxiously willing the phone to
ring again so we’d actually have a winner. It’s embarrassing to recall how long
it took me to figure out that callers had no way of knowing where their call
actually fell in the onslaught, meaning I could say whatever I wanted. I could tell
the first caller, “Congratulations, you’re the ninth caller!” and transfer him
or her into the deejay, then get rid of all the other callers, perhaps telling
each and every one of them, “Sorry, you’re the eighth caller.”
Line 3: it’s become
Glaring verb tense mismatch here. Heaven will take note.
Line 4: my finger
I’m not sure which finger this would have been. To save and
exit from a WordStar document you typed Control-K and then X. To exit without
saving changes you typed Control-K and then Q. So really, two fingers betrayed
my brain: my ring finger that failed to type X, and my pinkie that typed Q. But
neither of these would actually delete the file unless I hadn’t saved it at
all. Who knows how I screwed this up. How lame is that: in a sprawling 14-line
poem I failed to properly document the failure mode so as to learn from my
Line 6: set disaster
into motion quick
It’s a good thing I was hired on as a receptionist, not a
poet. This line is just plain embarrassing. Deleting the file was almost
instantaneous. There was no disaster to “set into motion.” One second the file
existed, and the next it didn’t. And a “disaster”? Please. It’s not like I had
done a bunch of research or composed a precious manuscript. Whatever that file
was, it could just be retyped. Sure, this might take time, but as I said, I had
gobs of time. Nothing but time.
Line 7: self-esteem
Now this is just plain laziness. I needed a word that rhymed
with “seems,” and blithely landed on “self-esteem” without any concern for
accuracy. I was not some emo kid, let me assure you. Hell, emo hadn’t even been
invented yet. I cannot fathom why I
even bothered to write this sonnet if I wasn’t going to even try to make it
good. In fact, I’ll bet in the next ten seconds I could write a better line. “I
turned my day into a dreadful dream.” That’s better. Of course, the original
eighth line no longer follows so I’ll have to rewrite it, too: “I screwed the
pooch with just one finger flick.” There.
Line 10: Erasing it,
another of my feats
I half-wish I could say I made up this part solely to add a line or two to the
sonnet. But in fact, I actually had deleted
the backup file. Unless you’re an old guy like me, you probably won’t remember
a time when disk space was considered valuable and something worth conserving.
The 5¼-inch floppy disks we used back then held precious little data: 160 KB,
which is 1/25000th the capacity of the 4-GB micro-SD cards that I happen to have a
whole Ziploc baggie of. (Imagine a stack of 25,000 of those 5¼-inch floppies,
holding the same amount of data as a thumbnail-sized card!) I filled up more
than a dozen of those big-ass floppy disks during college, with nothing but
text. Saving file space in those days was as sacred an act as saving trees.
Line 11: caught
Okay, this part is just pure fiction. I doubt anyone in that
office paid any attention to anything I did. Well, okay, that’s not entirely
true. The bulk of my “work” was chatting with the deejay, to keep him or her
from being bored. Most of the time the deejay during my shift was Beverly Hayes
(her broadcast name), and we had these long, rambling conversations interrupted
periodically by her required on-air utterances (e.g., “That was Neil Diamond
with ‘Forever in Blue Jeans, and you’re listening to Class FM, 101.3”).
Occasionally we sang along with the music, really belting it out. Sometimes I
would have the strange experience of hearing two versions of Bev
simultaneously: one talking in real-time about, say, the La Brea tar pits, and the
other an on-air playback of an ad she’d recorded for the station: “Not elevator music,
not hard rock ... just smooth, easy-listening favorites from the ‘50s, ‘60s, ‘70s,
Needless to say, my file deletion wouldn’t have caught
the deejay’s glare. Who, then, was even watching? It could be that as a
teenager I felt so self-conscious, I naturally believed that everybody automatically noticed my blunder.
Perhaps the office manager did, if she was waiting for me to finish typing the
document. But she wouldn’t have cared. She was a pretty cool gal, in her
twenties, with a blond perm, a stick-thin figure, and a fondness for stiletto
heels. She drove me somewhere in her Jeep once (I can’t remember where or why)
and as soon as she turned the key in the ignition this MegaDeth song came on at
party volume. Shoot, what was her name? I remember her walking through the
station singing along to Peter, Paul, & Mary’s “Where have all the flowers gone?” but changing up the lyrics a bit: “We rolled them up and smoked them, every
Line 12: trying to be
Isn’t it odd how much the act of using a personal computer involves
aesthetics? Try turning down the screen resolution on your PC and you’ll
immediately find that something is seriously amiss. Back in 1988, of course,
all monitors were monochrome and every character was highly pixelated. (And mere characters were almost all there
was, graphics being a long way away for most applications.) About all we could
do to improve things aesthetically was to shorten the list of filenames that
would zoom by when you typed “dir” and hit Enter.
Line 13: job seems
still to be intact
Could I really have been worried about losing my job? Well,
perhaps, since it seemed too good to be true that they would pay me the
princely sum of $5.50 an hour just to sit around yakking with a dejay (and,
yes, occasionally putting up with a chaotic contest or a drunken tirade from
the big boss).
Now, $5.50 an hour might not seem like a lot to you, or to
Eminem, who rapped, “I’m tired of jobs startin’ off at five fifty an hour/ And then
this boss wonders why I’m smartin’ off/ I’m tired of being fired every time I
fart and cough.” But he wrote that in 1999. Adjusted for inflation, my pay in 1999 would have
been $7.73 an hour. Hmmm. That still seems like not very much. In today’s
dollars, though, it would be $11.59 an hour. That’s pretty good, actually. My
daughter says she’d take it. (How did I calculate all this? Click here!)
I was supporting myself on that receptionist job, plus my
day job as a bike mechanic, so I’d have hated to get fired for deleting a file,
farting, or coughing. I don’t recall ever farting or coughing at that job. I
did, once, sneeze spectacularly. This was far enough along in my receptionist
career that Bev had gotten tired of walking out to my desk from the broadcast room
every time she was done talking on-air and had started another song. So she
invited me to roll my chair into the broadcast room next to hers, and we’d just
keep the conversation running right up until the current song was ending. Then
she’d flip on the mike, the “ON AIR” light would go on, and I’d know to shut
up. But one time, a sneeze took me by surprise—in fact it took us both by
surprise—and was totally picked up by the mic. After a short, awkward silence
Bev said her bit, flipped off the mic, turned to me and said, “Congratulations,
you just sneezed all over the Central Coast.”
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