Forks, fingers & sporks

(746 words)

I’ve in the last month added an exciting new element to my diet, one that could lead to dramatic weight loss without the sweaty grind of regular exercise. It is … 

The fork! 

See, because of my condition, I’ve let myself go a bit over the last 18 months.

Who wouldn’t? Women look at me with a pity they can not conceal. Men cross the street like they fear what’s afflicting me will jump to them.

My once vital life is irreparable diminished.

But, hey, that’s what living with male pattern baldness can do to a man.

I decided, eff it, I’ll eat what I want. Lots of pizza, subs, burgers and that omnibus staple of every unhealthy meal, bacon! Bacon! Bacon!

I consider bacon an essential component in every tasty meal. Describe any meal — any activity — with the word “bacon” and it automatically improves.

There’s bacon pizza, bacon burgers, bacon lasagna; and you can get creative with things like bacon commute, bacon Happy Hour, bacon church — “Come for the worship, stay for the bacon!” 

Or even bacon sex — “Come for the sex, stay for the bacon!”

See, I’d eaten healthy for most of my adult life and then was blindsided by news that it really hadn’t mattered. You’re still eligible for any number of nasty maladies that mock your motivations to maintain a sleek profile in tight jeans.

So for the past 18 month I’ve eaten like Elvis (see link below).

What’s interesting is the number of folks who now go out of their way to declare just how great I look. They seem sincere, but I wonder how many of them are just trying to make feel better without having to go to the expense of having to buy me liquor.

Well, there’s only one way to find out. Too bad it’s still a bit nippy to start showing up to the Tin Lizzy in the ol’ Speedo. 

But then I began to detect obvious flaws in the logic behind my damn-the-torpedos diet, one by my 19-year-old daughter instigated what we’ll call her “cookie intervention.”

“Dad, do you want to die of a massive heart attack?”

Yes, I said. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to do. A chest-clutching heart attack is a bucket list way to go. More like a kick-the-bucket list way to go, but you get the point.

But my heart is not yet so cushioned with fatty tissue that it cannot be moved by a daughter’s love — even when a cynic might confuse her sassy admonitions for  patricidal nagging.

So I told her I’d resume eating healthy fork foods.

Or would I?

Because as I was in the midst of reacquainting myself with the fork, a good buddy from my Nashville Banner days messaged me with an epiphany about innovative tableware. He was at a fast food chicken joint and felt compelled to rhapsodize

“It’s just just such a joy to hold and behold!”

I had to read it twice to ascertain he wasn’t talking about the birth of a new grandchild.

In fact, he was talking about …

The Spork! 

It’s the Swiss Army knife of knifeless utensils 

He was eager to learn the history of the hybrid utensil and because he was my first Alpha editor, I reflexively viewed his request as as assignment. So here goes …

The spork was in 1874 invented by Philonious T. Spork.

I jest. But I wanted to include at least one libel or falsehood in a story I knew my old editor would read just for old time’s sake. 

In fact, Samuel W. Francis was on Feb. 4, 1874, issued U.S. patent no. 147,119. So the spork’s been around for two years longer than the first internal combustion engine.

This is in contrast to the chop stick which is estimated to be between 4,000- and 5,000 years old and thrives despite the fact it is the least efficient/most potentially embarrassing way to convey food from plate or bowl to mouth.

It’s no wonder so many chop stick advocates are thin.

I think my friend is hoping that if I highlight the spork here on the blog I can boost its profile, maybe make it some dough. You know like I’ve been trying in vain to do for myself since 2008.

Either way it’s all just some Monday morning food for thought and now it’s done.

Stick a spork in it. 

Related ….

Long live the spork & me!

Deep-sixing heart attack plans

Long live the spork & me!

I can say without hyperbole I nearly died yesterday.

I lead a soft life bereft of danger. My health is good and exposure to threats minimal.

That meant Sunday in New York elevated all my risks. I’d be inebriated in an unfamiliar city, increasing the chances I’d stumble in front of a speeding taxi or get gunned down by any of the numerous homicidal maniacs who call the Big Apple home.

Any of that would have at least made an interesting death story, and I’m all for that.

That’s why my near death experience would have been fatally embarrassing to my humble legacy, had I not survived it.

Blame it on a bacon-armored shrimp.

John and I were enjoying dim sum at the Golden Unicorn in Chinatown. Dim sum is a great exotic treat where the food is served on little carts pushed by waitresses offering trays of tiny feasts. The girls bring the carts past and you point with your chopsticks at what you want.

It’s wonderful.

And John, whom I’ve recently mentioned as my most corrupt and soulless friend, is great company. He’s witty, profane and so sacrilegious I imagine dining with him would be much like sharing dim sum with Satan.

Our bellies were full from an hour of rapacious over-eating. Yet, we pressed on.

I don’t remember how it happened. I may have been distracted by my eagerness to work the words “dimolition derby” into the conversation whenever the carts collided, but the blame goes to simple poor manners and gluttony.

I didn’t even realize I was choking.

All I remember was my body started shutting down. I remember reaching for a glass of water and my hand starting to shake violently.

I don’t remember feeling pain. Only bewildered alarm.

I remember ordering my body to behave. I didn’t want to make a scene, even as I was choking to death.

An unchewed golf ball-sized chunk of lightly fried shrimp wrapped in bacon was lodged in my throat.

Now, I know better than that. But as this was a Chinese restaurant, the custom is to use chopsticks, the most ridiculous dining utensil ever conceived to convey food into the mouth.

You can’t saw steak with chopsticks. It takes practice to skillfully pick up some General Tso chicken, let alone a slippery pork dumpling. They are inferior to even the spork, a really handy innovation that by all logic should reduce by a full third the space of every single silverware drawer in the world.

But after an hour of using the chopsticks I’d gotten careless. I didn’t want to bite the piece in half and risk having the remainder plummet into a puddle of soy and splash stains on my shirt.

So I just shoveled the whole chunk into my mouth.

John later said it lasted about a minute. He thought I was having a seizure.

Somehow, I got that sucker down. I restored to normal almost immediately and we began to piece together what had happened.

The incident, of course, dominated the conversation the rest of the day. I didn’t see my life pass before my eyes or anything like that and take away no great lessons other than the reinforcement of the ones my mother told me about proper table manners.

I haven’t had any foxhole conversion to lead a better life, change any of my habits or enjoy this precious life any more than I already dearly do.

We spent the rest of the day just as we’d planned. We hit the bars and whooped it up with unbridled revelry.

John, of course, is already spinning the story to his advantage. He said today he intends to compose an e-mail telling all our friends about my piggish behavior and the heroic steps he took save my life, a complete fabrication which I fear will somehow take hold in spite of the lies.

I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say I could have died right there. People choke to death all the time. And that’s not the way I want to go.

I have no fear of death as long as it doesn’t have to hurt. I argue the best way to go is to die peacefully in your sleep of multiple gun shot wounds, which isn’t nearly as contradictory as it sounds.

I can now say there isn’t much real pain involved in nearly choking to death. The body just seems to check out. I’m happy I’ll soon be home in the arms of my loved one who, despite all my jokes, need me around for many more productive decades.

John selfishly wondered what would have happened to him if I’d have died. Would he have been stuck with the whole bill? Could he have persuaded the manager to offer him and a guest a free meal to compensate for the unpleasantness he’d endured the day his old buddy died?

I asked John to describe how I looked as the death mask tried to descend on my face.

“Oh, it was awful,” he said. “Your face was turning bright red. Your eyes were bulging and you were shaking so badly I thought you might overturn the table. I thought you were a goner. It was very disturbing.”

I told him I was surprised by his humanity.

“Oh, I didn’t mean I was disturbed for you. I meant it was disturbing for any of us who had to see it.”

So I’m damn glad to be alive today. Every day, really. I hope you are, too.

And I hope when I do die it will be quick, neat, and far from my evil friend who’s disappointed he couldn’t use my untimely demise as a bargaining chip for a free meal.