Walking down the hallway to the Amazon Room no longer feels surreal–it feels like I’m walking to work. My room at the MGM feels like home…well, it at least feels familiar. I’ve settled into a nice little routine–up at 8am, futz around for an hour or so, press off a shirt, and then get ready in time to catch the shuttle at eleven. Work until midnight or so and then catch a cab back to MGM. In between I might have dinner with friends, sneak out to see the Pens’ games, or maybe have a beer. Don’t let this photo fool you–the idea of the permanently-soused poker scribe is highly overrated.

I haven’t stayed out late (well, past 2am) since I’ve been in Vegas. I get home, I get under the covers, and I get a good night’s sleep. Yeah, I know, it’s weird.

My sloth is due in part to the fact that, yep, I’m sick again. Just a head cold this time, the “casino flu” that pretty much everyone gets at some point during the Series. Stuffed up, sore throat, coughing…awesome. I had about 24 hours where I felt good…and then it all went to hell again. DayQuil and cough drops are keeping me functional, but it wears you down, wears you down. Saturday night I got back to the MGM and stopped at the little stand by the elevators that sells magazines and candy and whatnot. I grabbed a box of cough drops and a pretty girl who wore a dress that’d been sprayed on her was looking at the same shelf. “These work,” I said, sensing we shared a common burden, and in a hoarse voice she groaned, “I feel terrible”. Sunday night I got home around the same time and bought some more DayQuil. The same girl, wearing a dress even tighter and shorter than the night before, was picking over the cold meds. I grabbed what I wanted, she saw me, and we shared a sad, familiar smile. She looked great; she looked terrible. Can’t imagine going clubbing at midnight feeling like I did.

Today I allowed myself a little time off. I got up at the same time but after I showered I went down to the casino and wandered around a bit. I decided to eat at the MGM buffet, if the line wasn’t too long, and it wasn’t so I did. It’s called the “MGM Grand Buffet”, but I didn’t find it that grand, to be honest. The food was OK, nothing spectacular. It was hard to get around, people kept moving along the stations in both directions and getting to the grub was at times frustrating. But after 20 meals from the Poker Kitchen I was glad to get something a little different. I went back to my room…and promptly took a little nap. I planned on getting to work at 2pm, when the $10K Omaha/8 event started back up, but that was postponed to 3pm…and then four. By then I figured I’d better get my backside to the Rio and I ran down and found the shuttle waiting for me, and me alone. Almost feel like a VIP.

It’s different working on my own this year as opposed to the PokerNews team. On the one hand it’s nice being able to write about what I want and spend some time on the photos I take. And if I want to step away for a bit to grab a bit to eat or linger over a drink it’s no big deal. On the other hand I have to come up with new and interesting posts every day and that isn’t always easy. Every day it’s people sitting around playing poker, and while that can be very compelling when there’s a final table and people are playing for millions of dollars, it’s less so on Day 1 of an event with 3,000 people. I’m writing the blog for UB so naturally I’m focusing on our players and trying to write things that would be of interest to people who play on the site, but I’m also trying to write posts (and publish photos) that are just plain interesting, period. I’m trying to find that niche where I’m providing the content my overlords want and that poker fans will find interesting and unique. It’s a challenge, and some of the pics I’ve taken are, I think, pretty cool (you can see them here). Just gotta keep it up, try not to repeat myself too much, and do good work.

I’ve been working about 12 hours a day and feel like I’ve been slacking. Compared to the hours I worked last year for PokerNews (and the hours they’re working so far) I feel like a slouch. On the other hand I haven’t had a day off so far and the more I think about it, I don’t see me taking one. Chances are we’re gonna have SOMEONE playing in an event every day and it’d be just my luck to avoid the Rio the day something stupdendous happens. But we’ll see.

It’s 9pm here…should I maybe eat something? That probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. The Chicken BLT wrap has been my go-to meal this year–it’s quick, easy, tasty. Had my first In&Out Burger last week–good. Real good. Had some pulled pork at the BBQ place in the Rio, very good. Had a steak one night–outstanding. That about sums up the most exciting bits of my trip so far. I’m down about $100 playing video poker during the Pens games. Haven’t played a hand of poker or Pai Gow. Work, sleep, eat. I guess I really am getting old, because that’s been a pretty good combination so far.

I’m not a big fan of the Post-Gazette’s regular restaurant reviews, and here let me pause a moment. Last year I wrote a post about the P-G’s review of a place called Geno’s, a review I thought made both restaurant and reviewer look bad. The photo that showed a sample dish was worse than something I’d cook up, and after a middling report the reviewer gave Geno’s one star out of four–one star meaning it was “Good”. Which makes you wonder how many stars a real slopfactory would get–half a star? A third?

Anyway, about two months ago I went to Geno’s with a big group of friends before a night of bowling. I’d half-forgotten about that review and post and so I was curious to see how the food was. And it was pretty good. Had chicken Parmesan, something I was in the mood for, and it was good. Big portions, pasta was good, maybe the breading was a bit slippy but I was happy with it. Service was a tad slow but we had a big (and thirsty) group, and our waitress was prettty. It was Good–maybe even better than Good. I’d go back, sure.

My meal there didn’t do much to improve my impression of the Post-Gazette’s food criticism. Today, however, delivered a more serious affront to my discerning palate. Today Munch went to J.D’s Pub, which I’ve written about a lot because that’s where I play beach volleyball and where I spend a lot of the summer lounging out at their Cabana bar drinking and admiring the stars. We also used to go there every Thursday after our indoor pickup league to drink many a beer and eat many a wing. The place has no small place in my heart and it’s also responsible for a share of my bloated waistline.

So Munch goes to J.D.’s, writes a 700-word review…and I have some trouble believing he/she/it actually ate there. For one thing, most of the review is about…Scrubs. The TV show. Seriously, Munch spends more intellectual energy discussing the show than J.D.’s (the pub, not Zack Branff’s) grub. At a restaurant with dozens of offerings, Munch bases his entire review on two dishes–marinated mushrooms (kind of an odd choice for a pub, but OK) and a pulled-pork sandwich, which he didn’t like.

It’s a motif of the Munch reviews that he/she/it brings along a companion and gives them a funny acronymic name. It used to be Friend of Munch (FOM) and expanded from there. On this occasion Munch brought no wingman and so took the advice of the bartender at J.D.’s, whom he nicknamed Bonecrusher Barmaid of Munch (BBOM). The BBOM told him that he’d “missed the boat by not trying one of the pizzas.” I dunno, if I was going to review a joint I’d never been to, and I was only gonna eat two things, might I not ask, “Hey, what’s really good here?” If I place is known for a killer fish sandwich and you order the pad thai, you might walk away disappointed for more reasons than one.

The strange thing is, Munch inexplicably describes the pizza’s on J.D.’s menus and says they look good. Uh, what? They LOOK good? On the menu?  How do they frickin’ taste?Hell, if you’re too full to eat a pizza now order one and take it home. And eat it later! Don’t frickin’ tell me that the pictures on the menu look good! Jesus. How the hell does that help me?

In fact, how does anything in this review help me, besides clue me in that Scrubs was renewed? OK, maybe I know that the mushrooms there are too cheesy and the pulled-pork too bland. And Munch does mention the Cabana and the beach courts and that stuff. Still, is it really worth passing that sparse information on to the P-G’s readers?

I can’t say that I’ve eaten my way up and down J.D.’s menu but I’ve sampled a fair few of their offerings. Yes, the pizza there is pretty doggone good, there’s a solid choice right there. One odd thing is the pricing, at least of the thick-crust Sicilian pizza–an eight-cut is a prohibitive eleven bucks, a sixteen-cut is $16. Never understood that pricing decision, and oftentimes I’d argue that we should get the bigger pie and have someone take it home rather than get soaked on the smaller one.

If you go to J.D.’s, you get the wings. They give you the whole wing, drum and thigh still attached with that crispy little tail at the end. When they’re on, J.D.’s makes a fantastic wing. Crispy skin, plump drums, outstanding sauces. They had this run back in January or so, the Spicy Garlic Parmesan wings were just ridiculous. A truly legendary wing. Reporting THAT would’ve been doing the Post-Gazette’s readers a real favor.

They make a really good burger at J.D.’s, all different ways. Fries aren’t the hand-cut sort but they arrive hot outta the fryer and crisp. They serve “Pub” sandwiches there, which is J.D.’s take on your classic Primanti’s-style–they come with fries and cole slaw piled between the slices. I had a Fish Sandwich Pub a year or so ago and, mercy. Two huge pieces of fish, two heaping piles of fries, two haystacks of slaw. All of it really, really good. Asked for both tartar and cocktail sauces, both were terrific and, I learned, both are home-made. Here’s the menu, by the way.

So that’s my slightly-more descriptive review of J.D.’s Pub. Go with the wings, pizza, burgers, fish sammich, you won’t go wrong. And my friends who have explored the menu more thoroughly have said just about everything they’ve had has been good. One thing to avoid–the nachos. I’ve always found it inexplicable that their nachos are so lousy, but they are. You get a bunch of store-bought chips around a low, long bowl of…well, it’s not salsa, it’s this thick, goopy tomato stew. Looks gross, is gross. You will choose elsewhere.

I was hoping to visit J.D.’s before I leave for Vegas, as the Cabana is open. But I’ve been too sick and totally without appetite. I’m slowly starting to get my feet underneath me, still haven’t felt truly hungry in over a week. But when I do, and if (God willing) that happens when I’m still in Pittsburgh, I’ll go to J.D.’s and have myself a Fish Pub. Or maybe Spicy Garlic Parm wings. Or, maybe, both.

Yeah, I forgot to load the card in the damn camera. And I just grabbed the camera and headed out the door without all my other gear. Brilliant. I removed the card last night to upload some pics from Thanksgiving, mostly of my nephew Justin:

Aww isn’t he adorable blah blah blah.

An amusing Thanksgiving story, or you’ll think it’s amusing. I showed up a bit late and everyone was in the living room talking. I toss my jacket aside and see a bowl of cheese dip sitting on the coffee table. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and a nibble would prime the pump, so to speak. I grabbed a cracker, scooped up a big dollop of cheese, and popped the morsel in my mouth.

You know the sound of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard? I had that sensation in my mouth. Here’s a transcript of my central nervous system’s log:

“Tongue to brain, we are transmitting cheesy taste…now.”
“Brain to tongue, uhh, you’re transmitting WHAT?”
“Tongue to brain, you should be receiving spicy cheese on cracker”
“Brain to tongue, that ain’t what we’re getting. You wanna fricking double-check your goddam reading on that shit?”
“Uhh…Uhh…tongue to brain…what the hell IS this stuff?”
“Brain to tongue, it’s your goddam job to figure that out”
“This is the stomach, figure this shit out later! Eject, eject!!”

I thought I was eating cheese dip on a cracker. It turned out I was eating some kind of pumpkin dip on a cinnamon cookie. I was caught completely flat-footed; my eyes bugged out and I made a noise like “MMMPHFFF”. Let’s just say that Justin wasn’t the only Bromberg who spit out his food that day. Deeesgusting.

Based on the turnout at this morning’s gathering the polls might be more crowded than usual this year. Pretty much a packed house, and with all due respect I don’t think it was because of the presence of Jason Altmire, my Congressperson. It looks like we’ll be sending Jason back to Washington and as I shook his hand I missed an opportunity to lobby him about the UIGEA. How often am I gonna have the chance to have a one-on-one chat with a member of the House of Representatives? Without security trying to break the door down?

Then again, how often am I gonna have the chance to eat some pancakes? I don’t come from pancake people–when Mom breaks out the griddle that means French toast is on the way. And, man, do I love me some French toast. When Mom tells me to come over for breakfast I bring my own loaf. On the few occasions I’ve made it myself it hasn’t been as good, I really need to interrogate her and get all the secrets. Occasionally she’d make pancakes (when we were bad, I guess) and they were OK. I guess. When I first started dating my ex-wife we woke early one morn and I was intrigued when she broke out…a waffle iron. With little fanfare she poured ingredients into a mixing bowl and started ladleing batter onto the sizzling plates. And as I scarfed down the crispy-on-the-outside, fluffy-on-the-inside bricks I thought to myself, “I must make this woman my wafflefrau!!” When I say that one of the things I miss most about married life was waking up Sunday mornings to find her in the kitchen getting down the box of Jiffy, I’m not selling things short. Waffles are good.

So it’s hard for pancakes to muscle their way past French toast and waffles onto my breakfast table. And we haven’t even raised the subject of bacon and eggs. This morning’s event was held at my old junior high school (well, the building itself was brand new) and we were served by a platoon of eager freshpersons who ferried shots of orange juice and paper plates laden with scrambled eggs, sausage, and two hefty pancakes. I quickly disposed of the sausage and eggs (maple syrup+eggs=gross) and enjoyed those pancakes to the fullest.

While I was chowing down Melissa Hart, who lost her seat to Altmire two years ago and is running again this year, showed up and started making the rounds. Last year the two candidates were both in the room at the same time and didn’t speak to each other. Didn’t even make eye contact with each other. At one point the two were standing practically back-to-back and they were so intent on ignoring the other that it might’ve been less confrontational if they’d had a shouting match.

But their consitutients were far more laid back, both two years ago and today. Hard to be hyperpartisan while pouring maple syrup on a grilled cake. I made perhaps the most powerful political statement of the morning by wearing my Obama T-shirt. I’ll be glad when Tuesday rolls around and the campaign finally, finally comes to an end. Even if that means my pancake window of opportunity closes for another year.

Of course, I didn’t actually watch much of Penn State’s history victory over Pepperdine…really, the school is actually called "Pepperdine"? Wow. Anyway, whenever I watch Penn State play volleyball, they lose. Every time. And when you figure that they only lose 2 or 3 times a season, that’s a strong indicator that I’m a jinx. I watched the first game last night and PSU was killin’ ‘em, and I called my buddy Mark to remind him the game was on. That’s when Pepperdine reeled off like 11 points in a row and won. That was enough–I swtiched over to hockey and checked in from time to time. Same thing happened when the women beat Stanford, they lost the games I watched, won the games I didn’t. And I love my Nittany Lions so much that I’ll never, ever watch them again.

The MVP of the Final Four was Matt Anderson, who is eight or nine feet tall and has the vertical leap of a goddam kangaroo. He was hitting balls out of the back row and practically landing under the net. Some of the kills he had could not be blocked. COULD NOT BE BLOCKED. He was a yard or two above the block, hitting straight down. Look, getting hit with a volleyball doesn’t scare me and I play with some guys who can really turn on the ball, but before I’d take the court against Anderson I’d demand a goalie mask. And a cup.

Speaking of goalie masks, and speaking of jinxes, the Pens will hopefully put the Rangers away this afternoon. I knew they were going to lose on Thursday–I KNEW IT. Why? Because we deviated from our lucky routine. The last few times we went out to see the game we went to Marzoni’s, the brewpub by my house, and the Pens won. This time we joined some friends at a new Buffalo Wild Wings that opened recently just up the road. I hadn’t visited a BWW since the WSOP, when Craig and I would occasionally stop there when we needed a break from the Montana Meat Company joint near our condo. I didn’t think much of it. The food just wasn’t very good, and they serve everything in paper boats or plastic tubs lines with wax paper. I appreciate how that saves on dishwashing expense and helps the enviroment, but it’s a little off-putting.

Especially when, as I said, the food isn’t very good. The place is huge and that night the joint was jumping, packed to the rafters. Good atmosphere, lots of plasma TVs, I started to think this could work. We ordered a selection of boneless wings, and we were served these heavily-breaded knobs of meat in sauce. The sauces, not too bad. But the "chicken" was really dry and chewy and there was something in the seasoning that was borderline caustic. I wasn’t in the mood for a full meal so later I ordered nachos to share with the table. The chips were so heavily salted that my lips started to burn, and the chicken haphazardly strewn about the tub was so overcooked that it was inedible. I mean, even I can cook chicken so it tastes OK. Bah.

Ticking me off even more was that I couldn’t log on to their WiFi. Craig turned the Vegas BWW into a second office because the WiFi in the condo didn’t work so good, and I figured I’d play some poker, maybe even do a little bit of work. No luck. While I could log in to their, uh, login page, it kept saying that I didn’t have a valid account. Nowhere on the page did it ASK for account information and when I asked how the (expletive) I signed up for an account no one in the place knew. Double bah.

On top of all this, I got a bad shock as I walked from my car to the bar. This is a huge new development near my flat, there’s a Lowe’s, a Target, a bank, a couple of restaurants, and a little mini-strip mall where the BWW is located. Two doors down from the bar I saw a neon sign that read "Rainbow Garden". Uh-oh. "There’s another Chinese place opening?" I asked my buddy Matt.

"Yeah. It’s a buffet."

Just what I need–ANOTHER all-you-can eat Chinese buffet within 3 minutes of my house. I’m starting to sense a conspiracy here. They keep opening brewpubs and Chinese buffets near my place–heck, there’s even another sports bar that just opened 50 yards away from Marzoni’s. Don’t these people want me to lose weight?

Speaking of which, since the start of the year I’ve lost about 10 pounds. Good boy, you might say…except that I think the main reason I’ve shed some pounds is that I’ve been pretty sick a couple of times. And, oddly enough, not playing volleyball has been good for my waistline. Because I haven’t been going out for beers afterwards. I’d like to lose a bit more before the World Series–I actually lost about 5 pounds last year during the WSOP. You wouldn’t think it, but typing is good aerobic exercise.

So is lifting and riding the exercise bike, so I think I’ll go do that right now. Come June I’ll be wishing I had access to a gym…unless the place I end up staying out there has one. Ooh, that’d be nice.

Speaking of nice, I finished second in Dr. Pauly’s event yesterday. Nice to finally cash in that blasted tournament after getting skunked so many times in a row. Ah, but you gotta love Pot-Limit Omaha. Twice I was all-in and stared at the board and my cards with my head swiveling back and forth saying, "Duh…which way did he go, which way did he go???" I have no idea how people play this game live. Must be crazy.

Let’s go Pens.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. They also say that when you sit down to a meal you take your first taste with the eyes. So I wonder what they would say about the photo that accompanies the review. Heck, what do YOU say:

Does this look appetizing to you? It doesn’t to me. Those brown disks are crab cakes, by the way, but that’s not what initially gave me pause. The potato looks like it was boiled. But then that wet mark on the skin got me to thinking that the potato hadn’t been washed…could it possibly have been thrown in the microwave? I imagined the two pats of butter plopped in the crevice melting into a runny, greasy puddle and that didn’t set my mouth to watering.

And the broccoli? It looks RAW. You know me, I loves me some broccoli. But I don’t like raw broccoli. And I prefer broccoli that’s a vibrant shade of dark green, not the mottled camouflage pattern we see above. Why stuff it in a little bowl like that? And getting back to the crab cakes, what’s with that lemon…I hesitate to call it a "wedge". A notch, perhaps? WTF?

Reading the review it would seem Geno’s does have a few things to recommend it. The bar stocks a selection of microbrews–good. During the day the restaurant operates under the name "The Big Belly Deli" and serves "subs, salads, pizza and wings". Hell, I’d like to see a picture of the wings. Geno’s fries and broils up the seafood and the review says that their big platter is "…large enough to feed a small family (our waitress was quite impressed by how much of it one of my guests managed to polish off)". I like the sound of that. I liked the sound of the fried calamari a bit less: it "consisted of whole fried bodies, rather than the more typical rings, and the breading tended to slip off." Yep, feel that wave of nausea just wash over you.

The P-G food critic, China Millman, gave Geno’s one star out of four. Not good, you might say, until you read what the rankings mean and find out that one star means exactly that–Good. In the rankings there’s no space for "Bad" or "Unacceptable" or "Salmonella Farm". Here’s what Millman had to say about the rating system:

[...W]e plan to do something different with our star ratings. We understand that such rankings are serious business — for the restaurants and for their prospective customers.

I am all too aware that often people merely glance through a review and make their dining decisions based solely on the number of stars posted at the bottom. And in the past, the Post-Gazette has relied primarily on a rating system in which a one-star restaurant was not really worth a visit, while a two-star meant it’s more of a miss than a hit.

While this system may appear to be user-friendly to readers, allowing them to save time and money they might have wasted on inferior restaurants, it also severely limits a critic’s — and consequently the public’s — ability to distinguish among different levels of quality.

The new star system will be founded upon the idea that any restaurant that receives a star rating has merit, whether it is good food, good service or pleasant ambience. Food, service, ambience and value will all be taken into account.

If your eyes haven’t already glazed over, let me say that this explanation doesn’t make sense to me. First of all, if it’s true that readers skip the review and just check to see how many stars a place gets, then fiddling with how those stars are awarded isn’t going to change things. If hungry readers aren’t going to read the review they’re not gonna click ANOTHER link to learn about the ratings system and learn that one star is "Good", not "Completely Disgusting".

If the star system "limits a critic’s–and consequently the public’s–ability to distinguish among different levels of quality" then the solution is to get rid of the star system, not subtly change what those stars mean and hope the reader catches on. Of course there’s a reason why chefs kill themselves (literally, in some cases) over Michelin and New York Times stars, and that’s because the status those publications convey can make or break a restaurant. I don’t think the Post-Gazette has that kind of clout, nor do I think PIttsburgh gourmands are so distracted by stars that they won’t actually read the review.

I also don’t understand why this system should be based on "the idea that any restaurant that receives a star rating has merit, whether it is good food, good service or pleasant ambience". What if she reviews a place that features the cuisine, service and ambiance of a pay toilet? In that case, Millman writes, "Occasionally I may visit a restaurant and determine that it necessitates review but cannot be awarded a star. Fully aware of the possible results of such a review, I fervently hope that such occasions will not arise." As a professional eater I can understand why she wouldn’t want to strap on the feed bag in a slophouse, but as a reporter and, especially, a critic, she shouldn’t be hoping, fervently or not. Go to the joint, eat the food, tell us how it is and whether it’s worth our time and money. If the place is awful, and your negative review is going to provide the final nail in the coffin, that’s too bad. So long as you’re being honest and, well, critical, that’s all your readers can ask for. After all, writing reviews of things that really suck is easy, and often lots and lots of fun.

Now I’m hungry. Not for fried calamari, good Lord no. Nor broccoli. But a nice broiled fisherman’s platter, yeah, that’d hit the spot. Maybe I’ll stop by Geno’s on Friday and check out the place for myself.

The receipe said to mix some sour cream with the dill and onion and spread it over the fillets. Pop it in the over for 15 minutes and, voila. Dinner. But what to have on the side? Broccoli, natch–I eat so much broccoli…sorry, there’s supposed to be a punch line there and I can’t think of one. Let’s just say I eat a lot of frickin’ broccoli and leave it at that. But I wanted more than fish and veggies. I’ve been trying to cut down on starches while I try to lose weight, and so I didn’t have any potatoes, rice or noodles in the house. Well, except for a box of Spanish Rice-a-Roni that I think expired eight months ago. And I wasn’t gonna make that.

I opened the fridge and, aha! I forgot that I bought some cheese tortellini while I was at the store, They were giving out samples and, damn, it was delicious. It was on sale and they gave me a coupon to boot, so I bought a package. And while I chopped the onion and dill I put some salted water to the boil. Put the fish in the over, the torellini in the water, and once the pillowy pasta bobbed to the surface I gave it a quite saute in a bit of butter. Nuked the broccoli as I plated the fish and sprinkled a little cheese over the pasta and when all was ready, this is what it looked like:

OK, the fish doesn’t look as appetizing as it tasted, but it was a hell of a lot better than yet another bowl of tuna fish or, gak, Long John Silvers. And I have enough left over for two more meals, at least. Don’t think it’s gonna last until next Friday.

So I’m tempted. The idea of a ludicrous flight over the Pacific of course fazes me, but with every flight I’m a more confident passenger. Professionally, I think this is a trip I simply HAVE to take. It’d be like a chess blogger visiting Russia–you can’t pass up an opportunity to see where all the players come from. Noreen had a blast on her trip last year, I’d be going with a big group of people (many of whom speak the language), I could bring the camera along….still, it’s a big trip. Think I’ll sleep on it. Anyone ever been? I’m a big fan of Anthony Bourdain and he’s a big fan of the place, which alone makes me think I gotta get there.

Actually…if I do go…I gotta learn how to use chopsticks. Fast. Wonder if Pitt or Duquesne offer classes.

Afterwards I came home and did busy work to get my mind off it. I washed the dishes, sorted some laundry, threatened the cat. I felt bad about that last one, there was no excuse for lashing out, but when you’re consumed with self-loathing you can get caught in a cycle of shameful acts. I took a deep breath, sat down, and realized that if I wanted to more forward with my life I had to forgive myself. "It’s OK," I said out loud. "Forget the past. Think to the future."

So this morning, I woke up and filled a bowl with Multi-Bran Chex. And then, God help me, I went to the fridge and confronted my demons.

I got out a quart of skim milk and poured it on my cereal.

Yes, I broke down and bought (expletive deleted) skim milk. Not so long ago if you’d asked me to name a dozen things I would never, ever do, "buy skim milk" would’ve been up there with "walk tightrope across Niagra Falls" and "launch invasion of Soviet Union in mid-summer". Wasn’t gonna happen. To my mind skim milk seemed something that the Devil conjured up. Milk…without the milk. Why not just run your cereal bowl under the tap?

But if I’m serious about losing weight I need to make "lifestyle changes", and skim milk is a means to that end. Now, it’s not like I’d crack open a pint of Half-N-Half on a hot summer day and go sit on the porch. When I partake, I usually drink 1%. But just as there’s allegedly only a 1% difference in the DNA between humans and chimpanzees, that 1% makes quite a difference.

So picking up that container with the white cap (instead of one with that crisp, confident blue cap) was tough. But, it was time to make that sacrifice. Especially if I keep drinking beer and eating wings after volleyball, as I did last night. And I ate my cereal and there were no complications. Sure, I’d rather have poured fresh cream over Apple Jacks…but I’d also like to look at myself in profile without bursting into tears. Thus, the trade-off. As we grow older we sometimes have to compromise our principles. This is just one in what will no doubt be a long list of personal betrayals.

But I did play volleyball twice last week, I did ride my exercise bike twice, and I did a lot of stretching. That’s one aspect of fitness that people don’t often think about–you get fatter and weaker, but you also get tighter. I used to be pretty flexible, and to a certain extent I still am, but some of my muscles are REALLY tight. I play VB tonight and I’ll be stretching out for at least a half-hour before I head out. And that doesn’t include some time on the bike to get myself warmed up and the blood flowing.

I did an OK job on the eating front this week…except for what I ate while watching Penn State and the Steelers play. Oh, and I broke down and went to the Chinese buffet for lunch one day. But in my defense that was the only meal I ate all day, I didn’t have any rice or noodles, and I only had two plates. And when I told my friend Ted that fact he said, "Two plates!", because Ted is the sort who can personally destroy a buffet’s Profit and Loss statement. Still, most sensible diet plans I’ve read haven’t included a section that says, "Be sure to incorporate all-you-can eat buffets into your eating schedule".

So if I had to give myself a grade for the week I’d say I’d earned a solid C-minus. A little more sweat, a little more discipline. I went grocery shopping last night and picked up more vegetables, a few Lean Cuisine pizzas for when that mood strikes me. Have I mentioned that there’s a brewpub within walking distance of my apartment that has a brick-oven pizza oven? And that there’s a McDonald’s being built just across the road. Temptation lurks around every corner.

Actually, there will be temptation tonight as well. It’s the last week of our one pickup league…and then I’ll join everyone at the bar to drink and eat and watch the football game. Last week I made myself earn those beers–between games I ran laps around the gym (or when I was rotated out). I had to do 15 laps or no brewski. I guess I did around 20. So, tonight, 25 laps or no suds. And I’m sure I’ll be thirsty tonight.