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6:05 p.m. - January 15, 2004
Keystrokes don't mimic human conversation close enough, but if I close my eyes and try real hard, I can almost hear it
It's about helping consumers make informed choices, says Burger King's Glad Markunas.

If the home of the Whopper, where everybody has it their way, was really concerned with informed choices rather than marketing gimmicks to capitalize on the low-carb phenomenon by people who associate low-carb with I'll-lose-weight-even-if-I-don't-try, they'd:

- label the origin and sources of their beef so I could choose a not-encouraging-the-burning-of-the-Brazilian-rain-forest patty over pureed mystery meat.

- make sure the advertised product matches the one in the paper bag. You know what's always galled me? That the burger I get never looks like the one on TV; mine's soggy, the tomato slides off, and the mustard and catsup have the consistency of Los Angeles water.

- buy McDonald's secret-recipe French fries because everybody knows theirs are better than BK's. Nota bene: I am not a French fry gourmand; I abhor the things, except for the occasional two or three filched from you.

I've never liked Burger King - go Wendy's! -because of the stink and I am very olfactory-attuned [editor's note: Roll your eyes now]. But this low-carb effort of a bun and toppings served in a bowl with a knife and fork takes the cake. And what sucks is that I can't bring the burger on board an airplane anyways. Damn cutlery.

Will it now become more acceptable to put your face in a bowl while eating like pigs in a trough? I mean after all, Americans are one step away from forgetting how to use cutlery as it is. Burger King's hastening the fall.

Run while ye can.


Did you watch the bit of Carol Mosley Braun throwing her support to Howard Dean? And see Dean (standing behind her) raise his hand to his mouth to cover the beginnings of a maniacal smile that he couldn't quite hide? At this point, the need for false modesty from Dean seems a silly gesture given his bombastic I'm the man! campaigning. Watching politicians when they're unaware they are being observed amuses me. The mayor of Oakland chews with his mouth open, President Bush rocks toes-heels, and Willie Brown - well, I've never had the chance to get too close to him.

I cannot wait for the caucuses to begin. Ideology, factions, everybody claiming to have the correct philosophy, the best plan, the high ground. I love messes.


Spent most of the afternoon reading in a cafe and eavesdropping. I went home when I'd had enough hot chocolate, noise, and conversation. Next step: Engaging in a conversation in which I'm a direct participant.


I am supposed - expected, as if I'm contractually-obligated - to inform Dr. Indy when I'm feeling down but when she asks I say I'm doing great, I'm fine. I am a little apprehensive about switching to Mean Therapist, whom I'm going to rechristen as Ferocious Bulge because - how wrong that I've noticed when I'm supposed to be thinking about trauma - either he stuffs not just socks but a damn rolled-up quilt, or he's hung enough that bulls are envious.

Why am I writing about this?

I thought therapy would make things better but it seems I'm sliding down the slope. How frustrating to be negative when not just Joel but others have pointed out that I've changed in media minora and majora. I've let people in my house - true, mostly for sex (a quantum leap, there) - and find it easier to be more open about the things in my head. The flip side, of course, are more frequent and volatile bad nights, days when I turn off the ringer on the phone and lay on the carpet watching clouds and shadows.

And days like this, when my head pounds and I can't express how I'm feeling.


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