Recently a coworker announced that she had purchased a few boxes of DQ Dilly Bars and placed them in the cafeteria freezer for anyone to partake. Just like I did when a DQ opened in my neighborhood when I was 12, I ran for the Dilly Bar.
I took it back to my cubicle, unwrapped the treat, and was just starting to nom nom nom when a different coworker shrieked.
“Hey! Aren’t you diabetic?”
I chuckled. “Yeah,” I told her, “eating this thing is liable to send me straight into a coma.”
But she was just expressing concern for my health. So I assured her that I have pretty tight control over my blood sugar, and the occasional treat was not going to bump up my blood glucose.
Because she works the next cubicle over, she can see the lunches I eat--lots of fresh spinach, lean meats, a banana every day. She can also see me head for the company health club about the same time each day.
This has been my life since May 2001, when my doctor diagnosed me with diabetes. At the time he told me I was diabetic, he started me on Amaryl, an oral blood glucose control drug. He also referred me to a nutritionist whose goal from the beginning was to get me off that drug.
She succeeded. By September 2001 I was controlling my diabetes with diet and exercise.
That simple phrase, “diet and exercise,” means walking, running, lifting weights, swimming or using an elliptical machine four to six times a week while watching my food intake very closely. I keep an eye on my calories and especially my carbohydrates, often by scrutinizing the nutrition labels on food.
Did you know a Dilly Bar has 220 calories and 25 grams of carbohydrate? I do. That’s why I wasn’t worried about slipping into a coma. I can handle 25 grams of carbs about any time.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Jon Stewart 2, Newsies 0
A lot of the media is making quite a stink over Jon Stewart’s recent appearance on FoxNews Sunday, where he was interviewed by Chris Wallace. The focus of the media’s reaction is the way that Stewart schooled Wallace.
What nobody in any media has mentioned is that this was the second time that Stewart, the host of Comedy Central’s The Daily Show, went toe-to-toe with a cable news face and won.
The previous time was October 2004, when Stewart appeared on the now-defunct CNN program Crossfire and traded shots with Paul Begala and Tucker Carlson. True to form, Carlson referred to an interview Stewart had done with Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry and accused Stewart of being Kerry’s “butt boy.”
It’s true. The CNN transcript is right here.
But the essence of the Stewart victory over the CNN hosts in 2004 and Wallace this past weekend was in the following comment:
STEWART: If you want to compare your show to a comedy show, you're more than welcome to.
CNN in 2004 was still calling itself “the most trusted name in news.” FoxNews in 2011 continues to maintain the pretense that it is a legitimate news organization. In both cases, smug hosts obviously thought they would be scrubbing the floor with Stewart’s head.
In both cases, the so-called journalists arrived at a gun fight armed with switchblades.
To both news channels, I pose the following question: Why do you invite a comedian to a serious discussion of the news media. Do you watch The Daily Show and mistake it for real news? Do you fail to understand that it’s a parody of what you do?
Or let me use the same short words that Stewart used in 2004: Why do you want to compare yourself to a comedy show? You lose before you even begin.
What nobody in any media has mentioned is that this was the second time that Stewart, the host of Comedy Central’s The Daily Show, went toe-to-toe with a cable news face and won.
The previous time was October 2004, when Stewart appeared on the now-defunct CNN program Crossfire and traded shots with Paul Begala and Tucker Carlson. True to form, Carlson referred to an interview Stewart had done with Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry and accused Stewart of being Kerry’s “butt boy.”
It’s true. The CNN transcript is right here.
But the essence of the Stewart victory over the CNN hosts in 2004 and Wallace this past weekend was in the following comment:
STEWART: If you want to compare your show to a comedy show, you're more than welcome to.
CNN in 2004 was still calling itself “the most trusted name in news.” FoxNews in 2011 continues to maintain the pretense that it is a legitimate news organization. In both cases, smug hosts obviously thought they would be scrubbing the floor with Stewart’s head.
In both cases, the so-called journalists arrived at a gun fight armed with switchblades.
To both news channels, I pose the following question: Why do you invite a comedian to a serious discussion of the news media. Do you watch The Daily Show and mistake it for real news? Do you fail to understand that it’s a parody of what you do?
Or let me use the same short words that Stewart used in 2004: Why do you want to compare yourself to a comedy show? You lose before you even begin.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Clarence Clemons and My Sense of Loss
I’m 54 years old, which means I’ve lived long enough to have lost a lot of people who were close to me.
Both of my parents are gone, as are aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and close friends. Each time death took someone from me, I wondered how life could go on without that person in my life. Often I had lost a person who was a physical presence in my life each week, if not each day.
Because I had that close relationship with each person, it’s completely understandable that I would feel a sense of deep loss when one would die.
But why do I feel almost the same sense of loss when someone dies who I never even met?
Clarence Clemons died last night at the age of 69, just one week after suffering a stroke. I never met him. In fact, I was in the same building as Clemons just one time in my life; that’s the closest I came to being physically connected to this man.
But I feel a sense of loss. And I don’t understand why.
The only connection I have with the man is the saxophone accompaniment he played as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band. I’ve got most of the Springsteen records, so I can revisit that connection any time I want. I can listen to Clemons’ music any time I want.
But my enjoyment of listening to the music is tempered by the knowledge that there won’t be any new music from Clarence Clemons. It’s tempered by the realization that a certain period of my life, a certain period in the things I enjoy, has ended. In fact, it’s a realization that should really never come as a surprise: I’m getting older, and I don’t like that fact.
Yes, I feel a sense of loss at the death of a musician whose work I enjoyed. But I think my real sense is that I’ve lost something of myself.
Both of my parents are gone, as are aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and close friends. Each time death took someone from me, I wondered how life could go on without that person in my life. Often I had lost a person who was a physical presence in my life each week, if not each day.
Because I had that close relationship with each person, it’s completely understandable that I would feel a sense of deep loss when one would die.
But why do I feel almost the same sense of loss when someone dies who I never even met?
Clarence Clemons died last night at the age of 69, just one week after suffering a stroke. I never met him. In fact, I was in the same building as Clemons just one time in my life; that’s the closest I came to being physically connected to this man.
But I feel a sense of loss. And I don’t understand why.
The only connection I have with the man is the saxophone accompaniment he played as a member of Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band. I’ve got most of the Springsteen records, so I can revisit that connection any time I want. I can listen to Clemons’ music any time I want.
But my enjoyment of listening to the music is tempered by the knowledge that there won’t be any new music from Clarence Clemons. It’s tempered by the realization that a certain period of my life, a certain period in the things I enjoy, has ended. In fact, it’s a realization that should really never come as a surprise: I’m getting older, and I don’t like that fact.
Yes, I feel a sense of loss at the death of a musician whose work I enjoyed. But I think my real sense is that I’ve lost something of myself.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Techno Love
A couple of months ago, reports of the manual typewriter's death were, as Mark Twain would have said, premature. A news story moved on the wire services reporting that the last manual typewriter factory had closed.
The story was later corrected, but not before dozens of writers wrote pieces waxing nostalgic about their favorite old manual typewriter. I read a couple and was moved.
That is to say, I was moved to gag. You really have warm memories of using a manual? (Back in the day, if you talked about manuals versus electrics, everyone knew you were talking typewriters.) I learned to type on a big, bulky Royal manual. I used an identical big, bulky Royal manual at my first paid writing job. I don't wax nostalgic about those days.
Instead, I remember changing ribbons on those things. I remember using carbon paper when I needed a duplicate on those things. I remember my hands cramping from pounding the keys on those things.
And I remember one more thing. I remember the day that a friend who sold Radio Shack computers stopped by the newspaper office where I worked and plopped a TRS-80 Model 100 on my desk. This was the first true laptop computer, and as I shifted my cramped, curled fingers from the keys of the Royal and dropped them onto the Model 100 keyboard, I fell in love.
I have preferred word processors over manual typewriters ever since.
Now, I know that technology ain't Nirvana. Computers fail. Software fails--I proved that today by spending a chunk of my work time trying to get Adobe Acrobat Professional to act like a professional. It refused.
But compared to banging away on a Royal manual typewriter, time spent writing on a computer is a little slice of heaven.
One day, the story of the last manual computer factory closing down will be true. When that day comes, I won't feel sad or wax nostalgic. I may write a brief post about it using my MacBook Pro. Or I may drag out my Model 100 for a spin.
The story was later corrected, but not before dozens of writers wrote pieces waxing nostalgic about their favorite old manual typewriter. I read a couple and was moved.
That is to say, I was moved to gag. You really have warm memories of using a manual? (Back in the day, if you talked about manuals versus electrics, everyone knew you were talking typewriters.) I learned to type on a big, bulky Royal manual. I used an identical big, bulky Royal manual at my first paid writing job. I don't wax nostalgic about those days.
Instead, I remember changing ribbons on those things. I remember using carbon paper when I needed a duplicate on those things. I remember my hands cramping from pounding the keys on those things.
And I remember one more thing. I remember the day that a friend who sold Radio Shack computers stopped by the newspaper office where I worked and plopped a TRS-80 Model 100 on my desk. This was the first true laptop computer, and as I shifted my cramped, curled fingers from the keys of the Royal and dropped them onto the Model 100 keyboard, I fell in love.
I have preferred word processors over manual typewriters ever since.
Now, I know that technology ain't Nirvana. Computers fail. Software fails--I proved that today by spending a chunk of my work time trying to get Adobe Acrobat Professional to act like a professional. It refused.
But compared to banging away on a Royal manual typewriter, time spent writing on a computer is a little slice of heaven.
One day, the story of the last manual computer factory closing down will be true. When that day comes, I won't feel sad or wax nostalgic. I may write a brief post about it using my MacBook Pro. Or I may drag out my Model 100 for a spin.
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