AIDS and Spam.

Because I read the Onion every Wednesday (like you should), I thought I would highlight two articles.

What should we do about the AIDS crisis in Africa
and
How to stop spam

If only I could be this clever.

Tired, even in my dreams

One of the hallmarks of this blog is the weird, f-bombed up dreams I have. Last night, I had some doozies (all of them are escaping me now in the pitch black of 4:55am morning). But the one I do remember was that something at work was broken and I was being called into fix it (happened yesterday morning) but the kooky bits were that I was so tired to get out of bed and go work on this problem.

I guess I am even lazy in my fantasies.

Wad

One of the few semi-nicknames I have had has been "Wad." Kristen (mother of "Chunk") nicknamed me that when she saw my mini-turkey meatloaf from Fox and Obel. (Imagine you make a meat muffin in one of those jumbo muffin tins and you have the size and shape of this item.) And I ate the whole thing. (And you thought this blog post was going to be sexual, didn't you?)

That was just one of the freakishly large lumps of meat that I eat. I alternate between thinking it is normal to freaking myself out when I eat an entire package of cold-cuts or one of those pre-prepared meat packages designed for a family of four for lunch. Today was a roast beef (~100 grams of protein in the container). Freakish, I know.

The spookiest looking one was Jennie-O Turkey Breast Strips in Teriyaki Sauce -- I swear to got it was indistinguishable from a big plastic bag of Fancy Feast.

Conventional wisdom (if there is such a thing) in body building says that you should eat at least your weight in grams of protein a day. I weigh about 190, so that means 190 grams of protein. One egg has about 5 grams. One Subway-sandwich sized chicken breast has 25. Now you get the freakish amounts of meat need to go into my blow hole in order to get to the optimal muscle growth.

Every time I turn around I am stuffing protein into my mouth.

Just call me Wad.

(Ok, now you can use your dirty mind)

Where the pretty boys grow

This weekend, I went to my friend's 40th birthday party. It was a blast -- Neil is from Venezuela and cooked up a whole slew of dishes from the region. The company was also fun -- we had a good time hanging out. Tom managed to stay up later than 9:30 which is a major feat for him.

Afterwards, I got more or less dragged ("No, No.. Okay.") to a party in a very rich part of town. The house was amazing - and amazingly trashed. I was a gape with the idea that someone that had that nice of stuff (ex: the huge Persian rugs were squishy with liquor and soda) ruined. For the first 30 seconds, I had the rush of "Ooo. I am at a "in-the-know" party" (There was even a photographer taking pictures of the pretty crowd. But then my standard dislike of big crowds, excessively drunk people (A trashed guy petted my sideburns) and the overwhelming noise quickly surpassed any novelty feeling.

So I grabbed a candy cane in a basket at the door and headed home.

All of this makes me feel more and more like I am walking the line between geek and gym bunny and at times like that, it seems like the gulf isn't really spannable. At least by me.