Keto Day 10

I promise I’ll actually discuss my diet this time, but first… that was a close one. I just Matrix-dodged the pseudoscientific writings that use the legitimate scientific study of epigenetics as a cloaking device for mysticism (I’m not gonna say his name because unpopular though this blog may be, I’d still like not to be sued). Funnily enough, I downloaded his audiobook and wrote him off as an eloquent quack, but a pretty lady Doctor of Nursing candidate recommended him to me, so I gave it another shot (I have since looked up her school, and it is for-profit… not sayin’, just sayin’, know what I’m sayin’?).

First red flag: he says he’s a neuroscientist, but he earned his “Doctor of Chiropractic from Life University in Atlanta.” Granted, he may have studied neuroscience in his postdoctoral work, but I found very little Google Scholar evidence that pointed to any peer reviewed articles, and his Wikipedia page is mysteriously nonexistent. I’ll even go so far as to say that MAYBE the things he’s saying are accurate in that I can’t directly disprove them (they operate on a lot of separate assumptions that taken individually accurately represent the current understandings of our world), but dude… You can’t just go around calling yourself a neuroscientist. It’s not cool to be misleading like that.

Who knows? Maybe he’s right, and I’m wrong, and thinking positively and imagining yourself as a doctoral candidate in neuroscience is really all you need, then you’ll change your DNA on a molecular level and collapse all potential realities into the singular reality in which you actually are a neuroscientist. Personally, I’m a fan of the more traditional route of finding the people actually doing the scientific research at reputable institutions of learning, and joining them in their efforts until I know enough to help advance the field ethically. Crazy, I know. Whatever. Maybe more people are meditating because of his books, and that’s positive. I just hope people don’t use this strategy to avoid taking actionable steps toward the future they want for themselves. It’s a decent read (gave me some great short story ideas), but I don’t think I’ll be finishing it. I have too many books to read by real neuroscientists and psychologists to entertain myself with that dude’s work for any longer than I already have.

Okay, rant over.

I hate not exercising. I’m taking my dog on long walks and running up the eight flights of stairs each time (four times today) and doing my stretches, but I have so much excess energy! Luckily my rib pain is rather noticable, so I’m pretty quickly reminded why I’m not lifting weights, but it’s frustrating. Also the left side of my rib cage is definitely at a different angle than my right side, but I’m wondering if it was always like that because I haven’t been motivated to notice that shit at any other time in my life.

My body seems to be adjusting really well to this diet. The frequent urination thing has subsided, so I’m either getting better or not drinking enough water. Not sure which it is, but I feel great. The meat-and-dairy-heavy part is hugely enjoyable, and I’m definitely more lean than I was when I started this thing. I’ve been wondering how much of that is attributable just to the fact that I’ve been very conscious of my food consumption, though. I got one of my highest fat percentages today, but it’s still only 70% and I didn’t even hit my protein goal (108.8 grams). Thank goodness I’m not exercising, amiright?! *crazy laugh*

Tonight is the Night of The Irish. Wish me luck!

The Desert in the Off Season

We were greeted at our camp site by a ten foot tall neon green penis that sprayed a light, refreshing mist during the day, and shot fire from its tip in the evenings. We piled out of the Lincoln Town Car I rented to shuttle us to, from, and around the desert, and set up a camp of tents, shoddy 2×4 supporting structures, and an old parachute. It was Black Rock Desert, but there was no organization okaying our presence, no expensive tickets, no large-scale art or upsettingly large stacks of speakers pumping out garbled untz noises at 5am, and no rules.

After being there a couple hours my friend asked, “Hey are you cool with me taking the trunk off of that Town Car so we can fit more people in it?”

“If you feel confident that you can get it back on, then yes, absolutely!” He was a mechanic, so I felt confident in his abilities, and I also loved the idea. We were now able to (somewhat) comfortably transport up to 13 people at a time, meaning we¬†were the party wherever we showed up.

When I wasn’t building or tinkering, I spent most of the daytime hours in the open desert teaching people how to do donuts in the Town Car, and lounging around at or near Frog Pond (ponds, really – it was a collection of small hot springs) in varying amounts of clothes. My particularly eccentric Ukrainian friend liked gathering the small fish or tadpoles inhabiting the pond into his mouth, then spitting them onto anybody who asked why his cheeks were puffed out. It was hilarious.

The evening rolled around, and my friend said, “Would you like any of the liquid acid I brought?” I feel like you can all guess what my answer was. “How many drops do you want?”

“I dunno. Three? Four? That sounds reasonable.”

“Okay, tilt your head back and open your mouth. One… Two… Thr- OOPS!”

“Throops?! How many is throops?!”

“Uh… Maybe like… Eight to ten?”

Great. Clearly it was time to load up into the Town Car and head out into the desert. There were thousands of people spread out over the vast expanse of public land (you were only legally allowed to have so many people at each campsite, which seemed to be the only rule people were interested in following), so you just had to drive toward the lights to find a group partying. For some reason, I was still elected to be the driver, and we may or may not have spent 30 minutes following around a car with a flashing light on it, and we must have visited upwards of ten different locations.

My friend that throopsed me and I stood watching a group burn a five-foot high wooden man, and they neglected to tell us that they filled it with fireworks. One of them zipped right between our heads; neither of us moved. We turned slowly to each other and I said, “Well that was close, huh?” Then we laughed until it was time to move on to the next place.

When we’d had our fill of nonsense, we headed back through the pitch black desert to our camp. I was still driving, but my passenger was dictating all of my wheel turns, as I could not see. “Okay, straight. Left… LEFT! MORE LEFT!” We narrowly avoided a large muddy patch that the car would have sunken into, and I finally decided I had had enough of the driving thing, stopped, and made my passenger drive, which he was basically already doing. When we got back, I did that cartoon thing Homer Simpson does where you spin around in circles on the ground saying, “WOOOOOP, WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP!” until I got tired and went to bed.

The finale of the event comes in the form of a 30-foot tall frog with vampire teeth and bat wings, made primarily from wood and propane tanks, constructed at the far end of the shooting range (there was a shooting range). I took my shotgun and lined up with about 40 to 50 other naked or nearly naked people with guns, then someone yelled, “Holy shit, it’s a Frog Bat!” And everyone opened fire.

The explosions reverberated through your bones, and the thing went up in a glorious mushroom cloud of smoke, fire, and Frog Bat bits. Having slain the beast, there was nothing to do but pack up, put the trunk back on, and head home – tired, hungover, sunburnt, and victorious.