Chile: The straw-shaped nation

Today’s a target-rich environment for bloggers too shallow to have developed a disciplined and thoughtful niche.

That’d be me.

First, we have the Steelers in the Super Bowl. Win or lose -- and the Steelers won’t lose -- the next 13 days will be for Pittsburghers like me the perfect holiday. You get all the holiday joy with none of the in-laws, the gift buying or any of that tedious churchy sobriety.

But if there’s one thing readers aren’t lacking in, it’s more Super Bowl jabber. I’m sure I’ll be contributing a few times so let’s shelve that for now.

I could write about SOTU and the new seating arrangement. Cynics are dismissive, but I think it’s a charming gesture of civility. Bravo.

But again, yawn. There’s plenty of that out there elsewhere.

How about the passing of Jack LaLanne? I’d love to write about him, but just did not too long ago. You can check it out here. 

So what does that leave us?

Chile!

Yes, the Republic of Chile, land of Andean Condors, Easter Island mysticisms and rescued miners always rarin’ to party.

I’ve become fascinated with Chile through the secret Stats page at www.EightDaysToAmish.com, over which I’ve been obsessing ever since it appeared in July.

Stats, in theory, tells me how many readers I have, their homelands and which posts are the most popular.

It’s a dizzying array of conflicting pseudo facts about the 10,151 people Stats says have been reading my blog since July.

Some of it fascinates: For instance, by far, the most widely read post was one about the top 25 songs as noted by my iPod play count feature. I'm dismissive of this because it's mostly a list that could have been constructed by a typing chimp.

Second is “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful,” which has some actual constructed thoughts. Yet, I’m sure the reason that one does well is because it’s about and features a picture of the lovely Ines Sainz.

Others in the top 10 include a recent one about forgiving Ben Roethlisberger, a salute to Bob Seger and a nifty one I like about why even stink bugs need love.

I’m most drawn to the page listing where people who read my blog live. Of course, USA swamps the medal count here. 

What is entirely unexpected is that Denmark is number two by a landslide. I have more regular readers in Denmark than in Canada, U.K. and Russia.

That’s very endearing. But it makes me wonder what the Danes get that, say, the amiable hoseheads in Canada do not.

And if things keep going as they do, I expect to be zooming over to the Netherlands on May 5 in time for the Dutch to fete me for Liberation Day parades.

For reasons I cannot fathom, readers in the Netherlands have in the past seven days gone crazy for my blog. In one week, readers in the Netherlands have leapfrogged more populace countries like Brazil, France and Germany to become no. 6 on countries with the most people who read my barely coherent musings.

That’s so cool. Thanks, my windmill-revering friends!

In total, I’ve scored multiple readers from 52 countries, including Moldova, Ghana,  and Bangladesh.

But this isn’t about the countries that do read my stuff. This is about one of the several hundreds that don’t.

This is about Chile.

See, Stats has given my geographic comprehension an unexpected boost. The countries with my readers are highlighted in green.

That’s how I became fascinated with Chile. I’d never really paid much attention to its shape before. It’s amazing.

Check it out. There is Argentina hogging nearly all of South America.

Then there hard on the left on what looks like just the beach is the Republic of Chile. It’s a country imprisoned by the formidable Andes Mountains and their average height of 13,000 feet. I remember reading the book, “Alive,” about a 1972 plane full of students and rugby mates who crashed in the mountains and resorted to cannibalism to survive.

Happily, the story of Chilean cuisine doesn’t end there.

I did a little research. It’s a remarkable and vibrant country.

Chile is 2,700 miles long, or about the distance from San Diego to Washington, D.C.

But the width is just a wee bit bigger than the interstate highways you’d drive to traverse the two.

On average, it is just 109 miles wide.

Incredible. Some of our western Pennsyvlania high school football teams have offensive lines who’d have to turn sideways to jog through parts of it.

How I missed for my entire life this geographic oddity about a prominent country with more than 17 million mostly Spanish speaking people is on its face surprising.

But for some perspective consider this: I’ve lived long stretches of my life right next door to people and all I’ve known about them is that they bang on the walls when they think the Rolling Stones are being played too loudly.

So my ignorance of distant lands is par for the course.

I vow it won’t last long.

I’m going to bone up on Chile and am optimistic I’ll learn it’s a land worth learning about and maybe one day visiting.

Yes, I think I’ll find the world’s only straw-shaped country does not suck.

Moo! When wine trumps milk

I don’t know how the conversation about milk got started, but it sounded like it was being conducted in a cafeteria full of fourth graders.

“I hate milk!”

“Eww! My mommy made me drink it all the time. Never again!”

But these weren’t 9 year olds. We were old men in an old man’s bar.

Rather than little toddler cartons of milk, we were imbibing Scotch, bourbon, gin, rum and beer! Beer! Beer!

We weren’t drinking these spirits to strengthen our bones. We were drinking spirits to lift our own.

“Beer is living proof that God loves man!” is what sudsy sage Benjamin Franklin said.

You can agree with that philosophical nugget, and still be surprised, as I was, to hear my fellow inebriates expressing such visceral disdain for milk.

They talked about it the way they talk about the Taliban.

They want to see it banished from the face of the earth.

To me it was like hating Girl Scouts.

Milk, the ivory issue of the breast -- and I know these guys love breasts. We watch cooking shows most every afternoon and, guaranteed, it isn’t so we can learn how to expertly poach zucchini. Believe me, values voters wouldn’t want to want to know what’s going on in the minds of some of these guys when Giada de Laurentis starts pounding her chicken.

And please don’t mistake that example for deviant behavior. Culinary chicken pounding happens all the time in even Presbyterian kitchens.

Me, I’m perfectly at peace with milk. I feel about it the way I do the vast rainbow of my fellow man. This puts me at odds with the Montana GOP which this weekend declaring its intent to make all homosexual behavior criminal.

I don’t understand how some men and women are gay and others are not. But I know they face many situational obstacles that can, for some, lead to prolonged bouts of sadness over their lifestyles.

In that regard, they are not unlike Chicago Cub fans.

I adore bourbon, tequila, vodka, oaky cabernets and buttery chardonnays -- you name it.

Many years ago I had an unfortunate encounter with Southern Comfort and we’ve never made peace. But I don’t hate it. I simply try and avoid it because I know it’s likely to make me vomit.

Again the Cub fan analogy applies.

But there are many times when a big frosty glass of milk really hits the spot. I often have it over Lucky Charms and with other breakfast staples.

This might strike some as odd, but I love milk with pasta. I’ve had many spaghetti meals that involved beer, milk and water.

I admit it must have been awkward when the three of them got together in my stomach. It would be like a Jew, a Muslim and that Koran-burning Florida whack job getting stuck in the same elevator.

There are many studies that say milk is essential for strong bone growth.

Not surprisingly, these studies are funded and promoted by -- ta! da! -- our nation’s dairy interests!

I do know one person who is going to expire from a milk deficiency.

That would be my wife.

She’s admirably conscientious about her health and that of those around her.

But our oldest daughter absolutely detests milk and it drives Val crazy. I fear our efforts to infuse her with the daily recommended amount of calcium will backfire and that one day she’ll be like the guy three stools down.

“Yeah,” he said, “my mom used to make me drink it every day. I couldn’t stand it. Just hated it. I haven’t had a single glass of milk in 27 years since I left home. Won’t even have it my house.”

In maybe only this one regard, this flabby soon-to-be candidate for a liver transplant, is exactly like one of the most fanatically fit men in history.

He’s Jack LaLanne.

I interviewed him for a Men’s Health story about six years ago.

He turns 96 next week. Expect him to do something remarkable.

When he turned 70 in 1984, he fought strong winds and currents to swim 1.5 miles across Long Beach Bay. He did it while handcuffed and shackled.

It gets better.

He did it while towing 70 boats with 70 people on board.

Talking with him was one of the most amazing and euphoric conversations I’ve ever had. The man’s a marvel.

It was so amazing I said to him, ‘Hey, my wife’s right here. Will you mind telling her something inspirational?”

No problem.

They talked for 10 minutes. Then Val set the phone down, drove straight to Pittsburgh, dove into the Allegheny River and towed with her teeth a coal barge 15 miles upriver to New Kensington.

God bless him, the man’s that positive and uplifting.

In fact, I can only recall one negative comment.

And it was about milk.

“French people live the longest and they have wine with lunch and dinner every day. Americans drink milk instead. Milk is for a suckling calf. How many creatures still use milk after they’re weaned? Just one. Man. I’d rather see people drink a glass of wine then a glass of milk any time of the day.”

So if the world’s most fit man hates milk, there’s only one thing to do.

Wine for breakfast!

Any fitness advice that involves increasing our convivial alcohol consumption is something that simply must be milked.