Once in a while, you can get me to talk relationships. My Hungarian princess has been here a week and I’ve not asked her out. The reasoning is straightforward, that approach will not going to work in this situation. A 40-something woman is still looking for a 40-something man, probably the worst decision possible. Worded another way, a 40-ish man who settles for a 40-ish woman has given up on what he really wants. She will never know what it is like to be his number one and she will be divorced in 7 years. With kids, and no child support.
That’s not to say I have no chance. This is my gift to her tomorrow, a dusty bottle of methodé and the hint that she’s had time to grasp that I’m not a common masher. I want three children that I can’t possibly afford to raise at $235,000 each (to age 18). Read below about Anna Ball. First, what is methodé? It is a blending of wines, the idea is to get a more consistent flavor over a period of years. To me, all wines are dry or sweet, but I recognize the skill that must be involved to predict how a wine mixture from today will taste in the future. More medical, as I spent the morning in tests at the clinic, this time endurance and stress tests that require more than blood samples. My heart has stabilized but not improved in a year, so it has become a matter of diet. Everything has been tried except eliminating fat [from my diet]. (This can be done according to the American and Brit medical community.) All the fat required by humans the body can manufacture itself from proteins and carbs. So, I embarked on a six-hour study of fat.
Here is knowledge uncovered during the session. Granola is not health food. Hydrogenated fat (which I described in 2006 ) has another purpose besides flavor, it turns fats that are liquid at room temperature to fats that are solid at room temperature. And granola is full of hydrogenated fats. It’s what holds the bars together. I also learned in 1812, out on the prairies, the topsoil on the average farm was 21 inches deep. Today, it is 6 inches deep. The rest has eroded away because the native grasses were plowed under. Our grandchildren have, on that scale, another 80 years left to grow their food.
Another thing I learned is that I’m uneducated about fat. Not just the granola thing, but all the way to purchasing the wrong items. This is a function of time put in and since I already read the nutrition labels, I’ll now be counting fat, not calories. I’ll leave it as an exercise for the reader to guess what my average daily intake of calories is. Hint, based on calories and nothing else, the average person on my diet would probably have died three years ago.
Overall, my health is stable. But at a level that does not let me walk--my favorite exercise--work, or look great. And those events, if they haven’t happened by now, are not going to unless I make some changes.
The Honda Goldwing gets 40 mpg, or around half that of the scooter. The tank is five gallons, so $180 to Colorado. That’s my type of travel. I’ve got the price negotiated but it is still a few hundred more than I want to spend. The owner runs a bike shop and states the unit is in tip-top condition. He’s a bit the salesman but knows to keep his claims super-realistic.
I now have a video of an entire room watching me play country. Is that important? Imagine a musician “reading” a room, that ethereal topic where each musician in existence thinks they excel. The reality is most suck pretty badly at it. Their systems (if you call it that) seem based on allegedly secret knowledge and dark experience. By comparison, my system is brilliant, consisting of an actual headcount. Count the number of people in the room paying attention to the band as opposed to the number who turn back to their beer and pizza. I have rare difficulty explaining to Florida musicians how this works, mostly because, when I point out the facts, they go blind and start babbling. And they blame the audience, that bunch of old fogies with no taste.
Who is Anna Ball? It isn’t a person, but a dance. That kind of ball. And this one is Hungarian. Unless I’m in Colorado, that’s where I intend to be on July 28th. The opening dance is the Viennese waltz, formal dress is required. The program indicates they’ll permit bocskai, which I don’t own. (Bocskai is that elaborate military-like braided dress jacket you’ll spot at European weddings, although it was originally a stag-hunting outfit. See photo.)There will be a Queen of the Ball, who these days must be over 18 (it used to be 15 and, if the original requirements were enforced, would still have to be). The roast duck and liver pate aren’t on my diet, but the “Vietnamese” waltz was one of my specialties and I have zero qualms being the best dancer in a huge room full of doctors and lawyers. Don’t worry, I’m way too old to try anything fancy, I’m just letting the world know I could any time I pleased. (I was an International Silver level ballroom dance instructor by age 22.)
The tux I own doesn’t fit me any more. As Lewis Grizzard pointed out when he couldn’t button his high school sweater, over time all fabrics are subject to some shrinkage. My consolation is that at least I own a tux where 100% of the rubes who don’t like me have to rent. That’s fine, none of them will be there for three reasons I can think of. The dance qualification, the dress code, and the $50 cover charge.
Notwithstanding the above, I would cordially like to invite Wallace and Patsie. If they show, I will gladly pay their way in. I would like to see them at this type of social function. For reasons.
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