Cinemorphosis

Category: Health and Fitness

  • The PreSnackalithic Era

    The PreSnackalithic Era

    In the Before Snack Times of the early 70s, we didn’t have helicopter parents hovering over us, micromanaging our every move with a suffocating schedule of dance classes, gymnastics, karate, swim lessons, math tutors, writing coaches, soccer practices, chess clubs, computer coding, mindfulness meditation, and Ashtanga Yoga. We didn’t have smartphones tracking us like we were secret agents with microchips implanted in our necks. For the entire day, our parents had absolutely no clue where we were or what we were up to. We’d saunter off after breakfast, either on foot or aboard our trusty bicycles, and were expected to return only by dinner. During that endless stretch of freedom, we’d navigate through construction sites strewn with lumber, nails, electrical wires, and bottomless ditches, all of which screamed, “Adventure awaits!” We gravitated toward mud, streams, and rivers like moths to a flame, setting up wooden ramps to perform Evel Knievel-level stunts over bodies of water. The messier and more perilous the terrain, the more irresistible it became. These hazardous playgrounds were usually bordered by rusty barbed-wire fences and “Do Not Enter” signs, which not only failed to deter us but ignited our rebellious spirits to trespass with even more gusto. Inside these danger zones, we’d be chased by furious steers, territorial cows, and muscle-bound guard dogs. Occasionally, a disgruntled landowner would fire warning shots at us with a pellet gun, a token gesture that barely fazed us. In the ravines behind our homes, we crafted forts, swung from vines, ignited firecrackers, and leaped into piles of poison oak. We encountered black widows, rattlesnakes, bobcats, coyotes, and even the occasional mountain lion. After a day of flouting every conceivable health and safety code, we’d trudge home at night, our bodies caked in filth, bruises, and scratches. But our parents, bless their oblivious hearts, never inquired about our whereabouts or escapades. As long as we took a bath and cleaned up, they were content to feed us hearty helpings of turkey pot pies, meatloaf, chili, and tacos. They knew we needed the energy to wake up the next morning and dive headfirst into another day of mayhem. Back then, we had little time for snacking. Our days were filled with wilderness adventures, where our imaginations ran wild. This level of playfulness, chaos, and enchantment is as extinct as the dinosaurs in today’s Snack Age, where parents meticulously micromanage their children’s activities and pacify their appetites with chips, juice boxes, chocolate chip granola bars, fruit rolls, and Happy Meals.

    Before Snack Times is sometimes referred to as the PreSnackalithic Era–the rough-and-tumble epoch of the early 1970s when childhood ran on chaos, sunburns, and a single daily meal of meatloaf or tacos—long before the rise of the Snack Age. In the PreSnackalithic Era, children roamed unsupervised like feral philosophers, fueled not by organic apple slices or protein-packed squeeze pouches, but by sheer mischief and an occasional stolen sip from a warm garden hose. Helmets were for astronauts, schedules were a myth, and sustenance came only when the streetlights flickered on and the meatloaf hit the table. Snack culture had not yet risen from the primordial ooze, and the only “mindfulness” was making sure you didn’t get bitten by a rattlesnake while building a fort in a construction site. Parents parented with the laissez-faire wisdom of, “If he’s not home by dinner, we’ll worry.” And worry they rarely did.

  • Kleptobite

    Kleptobite

    When I was six years old in 1968, I lived for a year with my grandparents in Belmont Shore. One day after school, a distraught neighbor, a 79-year-old widow named Mrs. Davis, said she locked herself out of her house. Could she borrow me to climb through her bedroom window and unlock the front door for her? With my grandmother’s approval, I did just that. I pretended to be a cat burglar, slithered through the ajar window, and walked through her house. With great curiosity, I examined the interior of the living room.  The floor was covered with a plush, floral-patterned rug. The centerpiece of the room was a large, floral-patterned couch. It was flanked by two wingback chairs, upholstered in a velvety red fabric. Each chair had a lace doily draped over the backrest. A coffee table with spindly legs sat in front of the couch, its surface crowded with an assortment of knickknacks: a porcelain figurine of a ballerina, a small crystal bowl filled with wrapped candies, and a couple of framed photos. The walls were adorned with family portraits, framed cross-stitch samplers, and a large, oval mirror with a gold frame. A grandfather clock ticked methodically in the background, its pendulum swinging with a steady rhythm that made me feel lost in time. Something came over me. Being alone, I felt possessed with a transgressive spirit, and I lifted the candy jar’s lid and, even though I disdained hard candy, I stuffed a butterscotch candy in my pocket before opening the front door for Mrs. Davis. I felt guilty for my act of theft because Mrs. Davis proclaimed me to be her newly-minted hero and handed me a crisp one-dollar bill, which I would later spend on Baby Ruth and Almond Joy Bars. I had difficulty sleeping that night. I worried that Mrs. Davis might feel inclined to take inventory of her candies and discover that one was missing, prompting her to demote me from hero to villain. My career as a thief had come to a quick end. On the other hand, I had a glimpse of what it was like to be a superhero entering houses and saving people in distress. I convinced myself that my career as Superman was just beginning. 

    My act of thievery points us to the lexicon term: Kleptobite–the act of stealing a food item not for its flavor or nutritional value, but purely for the electric thrill of transgression. A Kleptobite is less about appetite and more about theater—the petty larceny of a Werther’s Original lifted like a crown jewel, the pilfered peppermint filched under the nose of a trusting septuagenarian, not for the tongue, but for the adrenaline. Often committed in plush-carpeted living rooms with doilies and ticking clocks, this culinary crime wave is fueled by a cocktail of boredom, childhood hubris, and vague superhero delusions. Side effects include guilt-induced insomnia, paranoia about candy audits, and overcompensating acts of heroism.

  • Cerealphilia

    Cerealphilia

     Cereal is more than a grain; it’s an existential dream of happiness and the maternal embrace. As kids, we didn’t just eat cereal—we engaged in epic love affairs with cartoon mascots, played mind-bending board games on the back of the box, and embarked on treasure hunts for plastic trinkets buried deep within the sugary abyss. We sent box tops to claim submarines, shirts, hats, and other merchandise that, in hindsight, had all the utility of a chocolate teapot.

    My cereal obsession reached such dizzying heights that I fantasized about growing up to be a Major League baseball star who exclusively dined on cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In my dreams, I was a grocery store legend, cart packed to the brim with Cap’n Crunch, Franken Berry, Count Chocula, Froot Loops, and Lucky Charms. Cereal was my ticket to mindless self-gratification, whisking me away with Pinocchio to Paradise Island, where we’d lose our minds, sprout donkey ears, and bray like beasts in a symphony of sugary delirium.

    In the 1970s, cereal spun tales of the good life and ultimate success. We gorged on granola, wheat germ, Wheaties, and Special K, convinced we were one spoonful away from becoming paragons of health, fitness, and suburban nirvana. One of the era’s cereal prophets was Euell Gibbons, the outdoor enthusiast who, with a straight face, asked us in Grape-Nuts ads, “Ever eat a pine tree? Many parts are edible.” Gibbons spun a yarn about Grape-Nuts that promised to ground us in the Earth, bestow vitality, and arm us with survival skills fit for a post-apocalyptic rainforest escapade equipped with nothing but a buck knife and a loincloth. In reality, eating the gravel-like cereal resulted in thousands of dentist visits for chipped teeth and a crunch so deafening, it drowned out the morning radio.

    Despite all this, Grape-Nuts still haunt my cravings. The crunch and malty flavor have me hooked. I’ve read that Grape-Nuts are the only store-bought cereal that hasn’t been subjected to extrusion, that nefarious heating process that murders nutrients. Instead, Grape-Nuts are baked like a loaf of bread, ensuring that each bite is a dense, jaw-breaking tribute to my childhood.

    There was a time in my adult life when I raged against the societal norms that prevented me from consuming cereal for all three meals. I longed for cold store-bought cereal for breakfast, oatmeal for lunch, and buckwheat for dinner. I envisioned my cereals adorned with peanut butter, walnuts, chia seeds, hemp seeds, and berries to pack in nutrients and calories. But my plan was thwarted by my wife and twin daughters, who, in their maddeningly rational mindset, refused to partake. Clearly, I was on the brink of an eating disorder, or perhaps my subconscious was grasping for the lost comfort and convenience of my cereal-drenched youth.

    Yuval Noah Harari has plenty to say about our destructive quest for comfort and convenience in Sapiens. He argues that as foragers, hunting animals and gathering fruits, we were sharp, alert, fit like Special-Ops fighters, and generally happy. But when we settled down to farm, convinced we were making life easier, we fell for history’s biggest con. Agriculture, which brought us mountains of grains and cereals, was the dawn of obesity, tooth decay, impotence, arthritis, hernias, scoliosis, rampant thievery, economic disparity, starvation, infectious disease, mass animal cruelty, and misogyny. We weren’t duped by people but by wheat, rice, and potatoes—plants that manipulated us into cultivating them, chaining us to the fickle rhythms of the harvest, and inflicting more misery than any human could.

    Maybe I was getting played by cereal. It wormed its way into my psyche, hijacked my thoughts, and turned me into a zombie who couldn’t watch TV without retreating to the kitchen for a bowl of cold cereal by 7 p.m., seeking the soothing crunch as I stared, glassy-eyed, at the screen.

    My excessive thoughts on cereal point to Cerealphilia–a condition in which love for cereal evolves from innocent childhood affection into a full-blown emotional dependency masquerading as nutritional strategy. Cerealphilia sufferers don’t just eat cereal—they commune with it, fantasize about it, and defend it with the fervor of a late-stage cult member. Symptoms include justifying cold cereal for dinner as “wholesome,” craving the cardboard crunch of Grape-Nuts like a Pavlovian hit, and resenting anyone who dares suggest you diversify your diet. At its core, Cerealphilia is comfort-seeking disguised as health enlightenment, a warm milky bath for the soul stirred with nostalgia, rebellion, and a sprinkle of dietary delusion.

    Diagnostic Checklist for Cerealphilia:

    1. Box-top Hoarding: You’ve considered raiding your attic for vintage box tops in case the Cap’n ever reopens the mail-order treasure vault.
    2. Cereal Monogamy: You’ve eaten Cap’n Crunch in more variations than you’ve had actual romantic partners.
    3. Midnight Communion: Your idea of unwinding involves a mixing bowl of cereal and a trance-like TV binge by 7 p.m.—without fail.
    4. Grape-Nuts Evangelism: You’ve told someone, without irony, that “many parts of a pine tree are edible” while crunching through Grape-Nuts like a woodland druid.
    5. Multi-Box Illusionism: You “rotate” between six cereal boxes to simulate dietary variety while consuming 99% corn and sugar in slightly different shapes.
    6. Mascot Emotional Investment: You’ve had an existential crisis over the retirement of Quake the Coal Miner.
    7. Snack Shame Evasion: You justify an evening bowl by claiming it’s your “light dinner” or “a superior protein vehicle.”
  • The Cerealverse Effect

    The Cerealverse Effect

    In middle school, I knew a guy whose mother worked for one of the big cereal companies. She’d haul home enough test brands to fill an entire aisle at the supermarket, and her son would gleefully showcase these cereal treasures to me. These were the sugary, hyperactive cousins of Count Chocula, Franken Berry, and King Vitamin, but with names and characters that felt like they’d been brainstormed in an alternate dimension. Sick to death of his mother’s never-ending cereal avalanche, the boy would generously offload as many boxes on me as I could carry. The cereals tasted just like the ones you could buy at the store, except they sported names like “Dracula Nuggets” and “Zombie Crunch,” with mascots that looked like they’d escaped from a fever dream. Having these cereals in my home was like living in a bizarro parallel universe where everything seemed the same but was deliciously and disturbingly off-kilter. It was like stepping into a cereal Twilight Zone, where my breakfast routine was governed by creatures that might have been conjured by a deranged cartoonist. That period of my life still feels like a surreal dream, one where I was bestowed with the magical ability to traverse a strange universe of off-brand cereals that was denied to mere mortals. I strutted through my kitchen each morning like a cereal demigod, clutching my spoon as if it were a scepter, lording over my kingdom of oddly named, bizarrely shaped breakfast delights.

    I had encountered the Cerealverse Effect – everything feels familiar, but faintly distorted, like a cereal déjà vu.

  • Déjà Chew 

    Déjà Chew 

    When I was a kid, my mother indulged my insatiable appetite for sugary cereal, Cap’n Crunch, in all its glorious variations: Cap’n Crunch plain, Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries, Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch, and the audaciously renamed versions that tasted exactly the same: Quisp, Quake, and King Vitamin. I felt a burning compulsion to taste-test all these varieties with the meticulousness of a sommelier sampling dozens of Zinfandels or a fromager savoring different types of Camembert, or a musicologist analyzing hundreds of versions of Rachmaninoff’s Second Symphony. Eating six versions of Cap’n Crunch was my way of embracing the illusion of variety while devouring the same cereal over and over again. I was a preadolescent boy, steadfast in my desire to believe I had choices, yet paradoxically terrified of making any. It’s like hearing about the man who’s on his sixth marriage, each wife a near-carbon copy of the last in appearance, temperament, and personality. The poor sap keeps circling back to the same woman, convincing himself he’s “found someone new” and pinning his hopes on a fresh start. That was me with Cap’n Crunch. I was stuck in a sugary Groundhog Day, endlessly looping through bowls of the same old cereal under different guises. Not only was I stagnant in my food choices, but I was also regressing into a sugar-coated stupor. My love for cereal, which persists to this day, was my way of vanishing into a chosen comfort zone. In that sugary sanctuary, I found both bliss and oblivion, content to float along in a sea of crunchy sameness, convinced I was exploring new culinary frontiers.

    This type of delusional behavior points us to Déjà Chew–the eerie sensation that every “new” cereal tastes exactly like the last one you swore was different. The uncanny sensation of culinary déjà vu happens when, despite the flashy new box, the novelty-shaped marshmallows, or the misleading “limited edition” label, your spoon hits the same old sugary slurry you’ve been eating since the Nixon administration. Déjà Chew convinces you you’re exploring new taste frontiers, when in fact you’re just riding a merry-go-round of processed nostalgia. It’s the foodie equivalent of dating your ex’s identical twin and calling it personal growth. One bite in, you know exactly where this is going—but you chew on, comforted by the illusion of variety and the soothing crunch of your own arrested development.

  • Crustodianism

    Crustodianism

    Many moons ago, my wife and I watched the 2006 HBO documentary Thin, which chronicles the tragic existence of girls in a Florida rehab clinic for eating disorders. These poor souls were ensnared in a vicious cycle of depression, self-loathing, and lies, their recovery rates abysmally low and fatality rates tragically high. After this emotional gut-punch, we desperately needed a palate cleanser, so we turned to a pie-baking contest featuring Midwestern women in Christmas sweaters, lovingly toiling over pie crusts. These wholesome warriors of the kitchen were a stark contrast to the aforementioned sufferers. It dawned on me that pie baking is the antithesis of anorexia—a condition of solipsism where one disappears into the self, whereas pie baking is a testament to community, love, and selfless devotion to butter and flour.

    Imagine, if you will, a world where the kitchen isn’t just a hub of culinary creation but a sacred temple of love, where pie-baking is the highest form of devotion. In this sanctified realm, every Midwestern woman in a Christmas sweater is a culinary high priestess, her rolling pin a scepter of affection, her pie crust a canvas for heartfelt artistry. The Pie Baking Contest is an epic battleground where these valiant women gather, their aprons fluttering like superhero capes, ready to channel pure, unadulterated love into their pies. The stakes are absurdly high, the competition fierce, but the atmosphere? Pure camaraderie and joy.

    Here, pie baking is not just a quaint pastime; it’s an epic saga of love, community, and unyielding devotion. These heroines approach their craft with the precision of neurosurgeons and the passion of Renaissance artists. Flour fills the air like enchanted snow, butter is blended into dough with the deftness of a master illusionist, and apples are peeled and sliced with the ferocity of a seasoned samurai. Each pie is a labor of love, a tangible expression of their deepest affections. As they sweat and toil over their creations, the kitchen morphs into a bustling hub of warmth and connection.

    Baking pies, slinging spaghetti and garlic bread, or whipping up a dish of hot and sour Tom Yum Goong soup demands a healthy soul, one that’s plugged into the matrix of family and community. We therefore don’t journey solo but soar with a merry band of culinary adventurers, armed with spatulas and mixing bowls, ready to conquer the next great feast. So, skip the guilt and embrace the butter—life’s too short for bland food and empty kitchens.

    Baking pies points us to the valuable custom of Crustodianism–the sacred, soul-healing act of cooking not merely for sustenance, but as a devotional rite—an expression of love, fellowship, and culinary redemption. Born at the crossroads of Midwest Christmas sweater sincerity and battle-hardened pie crust tenacity, Crustodianism elevates the domestic act of baking into a communal liturgy. The Crustodian is no mere cook; she (or he, apron optional) is a caretaker of tradition, a therapist armed with a rolling pin, a high priest of carbs performing ritual alchemy with butter, flour, and tears of joy.

    In contrast to the solipsistic void of disordered eating, where nourishment is seen as the enemy, the Crustodian sees food as communion. A warm casserole becomes a life raft. A triple-layer coconut cream pie becomes a bridge to the lonely. A pot of stew bubbles with the echoes of ancestral affection. Cooking, in this frame, is the antidote to isolation—the proof that one has not given up on the world but doubled down on its delicious potential.

    Crustodianism isn’t just about the food. It’s about saying, “I made this for you,” and meaning it with your whole buttery soul. It’s about reclaiming joy, reclaiming appetite, and yes, reclaiming your place at the table—preferably next to someone you love, with a second helping on the way.

  • Longing to Return to the Syrupocene Era

    Longing to Return to the Syrupocene Era

    Back in the 60s and 70s, nutritional concerns were as relevant to us as an old vinyl record in a streaming world. We were blissfully unaware of things like sugar grams and carbohydrate counts. On weekend mornings, my parents would sometimes treat me to a local pancake house, where I indulged in my favorite dish: apple pancakes. Now, picture this: a stack of ten flapjacks, each one a marvel of culinary excess. To say the pile was monumental is like calling Mount Everest a hillock. As I sat next to it, I looked like a hapless Lilliputian standing beside a mountain of golden, buttery goodness. The age-old question had to be asked: Was I going to eat these pancakes, or were they going to consume me in a pancake avalanche? Spoiler alert: I ate them. Every last one. These pancakes were no ordinary breakfast fare. They were brimming with cinnamon-spiced apple compote, slathered in creamy butter, and drenched in what must have been a half-gallon of maple syrup. If I had spilled that syrup, it would have created a sugar tsunami. To wash down this syrupy mountain, I guzzled down several tall glasses of orange juice, which was basically just liquid sugar with a side of citrus. The sheer volume of insulin-spiking sugars and carbohydrates I ingested could have given a modern endocrinologist a cerebral hemorrhage. I was consuming enough sugar to make Willy Wonka look like a health food advocate. After these epic breakfasts, rather than running outside to join my friends in their energetic games, I would slump into bed in a state of what could only be described as a Carbohydrate Coma. I was so catatonic, my friends might as well have been playing a game of “Guess Where’s the Sleeping Kid?” The trauma inflicted on my pancreas was beyond imagination. It was like a small factory working overtime without a break, pumping out insulin at a rate that would have made any modern dietitian faint. In those days, gluttony was a virtue, and self-indulgence was a badge of honor. We reveled in our ignorance, blissfully ignoring the fact that our indulgences would make today’s health-obsessed populace break out in a cold sweat. So there I was, a child of the 60s and 70s, living in an era where pancakes and orange juice were not just meals but monumental feats of indulgence. Our motto was simple: “Why worry about nutritional concerns when you can have another stack of apple pancakes?” Our golden era of gluttony was truly a feast for the ages—literally and metaphorically.

    This memory points us to the Syrupocene Era–a mythic golden age spanning the 1960s and 70s when nutritional ignorance reigned supreme, and breakfast was less a meal and more a caloric Greek tragedy performed in maple-soaked acts. The Syrupocene was a time when food pyramids hadn’t been built, glycemic indexes hadn’t been discovered, and “carb-loading” wasn’t a fitness strategy—it was a lifestyle.

    During the Syrupocene, children guzzled orange juice like it was an IV drip from the gods, consumed pancakes in stacks that could double as insulation, and considered butter a vegetable. It was a utopia of food denialism, where a carbohydrate coma was mistaken for a nap and diabetic shock was just “a sleepy Sunday morning.” The only sugar tracker in town was your mother asking, “Do you want more syrup, honey?”

    The Syrupocene didn’t end with an apocalypse—just a quiet whimper as food labels, cholesterol, and science crept in like puritans at a Mardi Gras parade. But those who lived through it still carry the memory: a wistful ache for the era when gluttony was innocent, ignorance was delicious, and a pancake wasn’t a sin—it was a ten-layered sacrament.

  • Sundae Grailism

    Sundae Grailism

    When I was a kid growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1970s, there was an ice creamery called Farrell’s. In a child’s imagination, Farrell’s was the equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. You didn’t go to Farrell’s often, maybe once every two years or so. Entering Farrell’s, you were greeted by the cacophony of laughter and the clinking of spoons against glass. Servers in candy-striped uniforms dashed around with the energy of marathon runners, bearing trays laden with gargantuan sundaes. You sat down, your eyes wide with awe, and the menu was presented to you like a sacred scroll. You don’t need to read it, though. Your quest was clear: the legendary banana split. When the dessert finally arrived, it was nothing short of a spectacle. The banana split was monumental, an ice cream behemoth. I was as if the dessert gods themselves had conspired to create this masterpiece. Three scoops of ice cream, draped in velvety hot fudge and caramel, crowned with mountains of whipped cream and adorned with maraschino cherries, all nestled between perfectly ripe bananas. Sprinkles and nuts cascaded down the sides like the treasures of a sugar-coated El Dorado. As you took your first bite, you embarked on a journey as grand and transformative as any hero’s quest. The flavors exploded in your mouth, each spoonful a step deeper into the enchanted forest of dessert ecstasy. You were not just eating ice cream; you were battling dragons of indulgence and conquering kingdoms of sweetness. The sheer magnitude of the banana split demanded your full attention and stamina. Your small arms wielded the spoon like a warrior’s sword, and with each bite, you felt a mixture of triumph and fatigue. By the time you reached the bottom of the bowl, you were exhausted. Your muscles ached as if you’ve climbed a mountain, and you were certain that you’d expanded your stomach capacity to Herculean proportions. You briefly considered the possibility of needing an appendectomy. But oh, the glory of it all! Your Farrell’s sojourn was worth every ache and groan. You entered the ice creamery as an ordinary child and emerged as a hero. In this fairy-tale-like journey, you had undergone a metamorphosis. You were no longer just a kid from the Bay Area; you were now a Jedi of the dessert world, having mastered the art of indulgence and delight. As you returned home, the experience of Farrell’s left a lasting imprint on your soul. You regaled your friends with tales of your conquest, the banana split becoming a legendary feast in the annals of your childhood adventures. In your heart, you knew that this epic journey to Farrell’s, this magical pilgrimage, had elevated you to the ranks of dessert royalty, a memory that would forever glitter like a golden crown in the kingdom of your mind.

    These indulgences point to Sundae Grailism–the childhood phenomenon in which a dessert outing—particularly involving elaborate confections like banana splits—takes on the structure, stakes, and emotional intensity of an Arthurian quest. Sundae Grailism transforms a simple trip to an ice cream parlor into a mythic pilgrimage where sprinkles are sacred relics, whipped cream is a divine cloud cover, and the spoon is Excalibur.

    Children afflicted with Sundae Grailism don’t just want dessert—they are summoned to it. They enter Farrell’s or any suitably over-the-top ice creamery with the gravity of knights entering Camelot, guided by visions of the elusive Banana Split of Destiny. The menu is not read—it is interpreted like scripture. Every bite of caramel-drizzled glory is a chapter in the epic. By the end of the journey, they’re bloated but victorious, stained with fudge and swagger, ready to regale the kingdom (a.k.a. the school lunch table) with tales of conquest and near-digestive ruin.

    Sundae Grailism is not just about sugar—it’s about transcendence, myth-making, and the belief that, under the right fluorescent lighting and with enough maraschino cherries, a kid can become legend.

  • Granarchism and the Curse of the Granola Belly

    Granarchism and the Curse of the Granola Belly

    When I was in my early teens in the 1970s, my family shopped at a San Francisco Bay Area grocery store that “was owned by the people.” It was called Co-Op. The workers were friendly; the men were often bearded and wearing survival gear from Co-Op’s “Wilderness Supply Store.” I would say the affable employees were all somewhere on the Hippy Spectrum. Co-op offered the first day care center for kids while the parents shopped and the first recycling center in town.  In addition to organic wholesome foods, the store had a modest book section featuring Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Peter Tompkins’ The Secret Life of Plants, Erich Von Daniken’s Chariots of the Gods, Laurence J. Peters’ The Peter Principle, and the store’s grand jewel and Vegetarian Bible–Frances Moore Lappe’s Diet for a Small Planet. The store had an ample supply of countercultural foods. You could buy carob honey ice cream, wheat germ, granola, alfalfa sprout home kits with mason jars, brown rice, Japanese yams, and tofu. With its book section of countercultural reading, organic ingredients, and wilderness store, Co-Op was more than just a store. It was a sanctuary for those rebelling against The Man. Eating heaping bowls of granola, wheat germ, and organic honey was not just a self-indulgence; it was a political statement. However, this self-righteous certitude also created a condition known as Granola Belly. Scarfing down calorie-dense granola, wheat germ, and honey throughout the day, these valiant warriors raged against corporate food tyranny, their bellies growing rounder with each virtuous bowl of granola and honey. As I shopped at Co-Op with my parents, I observed these granola-loving rotund revolutionaries as they waddled through the aisles, their expanding girth a testament to the blind spots that mar even the most well-intentioned pursuits.

    Granola lovers of the Co-Op era were, without question, the spiritual forebears of Mope-a-saurus Rex—a species defined by the contradictory cocktail of high ideals and self-defeating habits. These self-proclaimed countercultural warriors strutted through the aisles of their people-owned utopia, scooping granola by the pound as if it were the holy grail of rebellion, all while sporting survival gear that screamed I’m off to fight the establishment…right after I finish this bowl of carob ice cream. The granola bowl was more than breakfast; it was a badge of moral superiority, a defiant middle finger to The Man served with a side of organic honey. But like all Mope-a-saurus endeavors, their noble intentions were undone by their own indulgence. They railed against corporate tyranny with their mouths full, their burgeoning bellies proof that even the most righteous ideals can be upended by an inability to count calories. Their expanding waistlines were not just ironic; they were emblematic of the Mope-a-saurus tendency to cling to virtue while ignoring inconvenient truths—because nothing says rebellion like eating your way to Granola Belly while preaching the gospel of moderation.

    These rotund granola bellies introduce us to the lexicon term Granarchism–the performative fusion of political virtue and unchecked appetite, where one’s anti-establishment snacking habits are cloaked in ideological nobility. Granarchism is what happens when you rage against The Machine with a spoonful of organic cashew clusters, believing your overflowing bowl of hemp-seed muesli is a protest, not a calorie bomb.

    Granarchists don’t count calories—they count causes. Every bite of honey-drizzled, brown rice-sweetened, sprouted oat goodness is framed as a moral stand, even as their bellies grow like utopian communes with no fiscal oversight. The Co-Op aisle becomes a battlefield, and the granola scoop is their weapon—except instead of overthrowing The Man, they’re just slowly replacing their belt loops.

    In the land of Granarchism, tofu is resistance, wheat germ is policy, and every heaping portion of almond butter-stuffed dates is a political manifesto. The contradiction? The revolution isn’t televised—it’s metabolized.

  • Chewtality

    Chewtality

    Every morning during my teenage years, I’d stagger out of bed and make my daily plea to the heavens: “God, please grant me the confidence and self-assuredness to ask a woman on a date without suffering from a full-blown cerebral explosion.” And every morning, God’s response was as subtle as a sledgehammer to the forehead: “You’re essentially a walking emotional landfill, a neurotic mess doomed to wander the planet bereft of charm, romantic grace, and any semblance of healthy relationships. Get used to it, buddy.” And thus commenced my legendary odyssey in the land of perpetual non-dating.

    This was not the grand design I had envisioned. No, the blueprint was to be a suave bachelor, just like my childhood idol, Uncle Norman from The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. At the ripe age of eight, I watched in awe as Uncle Norman demonstrated his revolutionary kitchen hack: why bother with dishes when you can devour an entire head of lettuce while standing over the sink? He proclaimed, “This way, you avoid cleanup, dishes, and the pesky inconvenience of sitting at a table.” In that glorious moment, I was struck with a revelation so profound it reshaped my entire existence. The Uncle Norman Method, as I would grandiosely dub it, became my life’s guiding principle, my personal beacon of satisfaction, and the defining factor of my existence for decades.

    Channeling my inner Uncle Norman, I envisioned a life of unparalleled convenience. My bed would be perpetually unmade because who needs sheets when you have a trusty sleeping bag? I’d never waste time watering plants—plastic ones were far superior. Cooking? Please. Cereal, toast, bananas, and yogurt would sustain me in perpetuity. My job would be conveniently located within a five-mile radius of my house, and my romantic escapades would be strictly zip code-based. Laundry? My washing machine’s drum would double as my hamper, and I’d simply press Start when it reached capacity. Fashion coordination? Not a concern, as all my clothes would be in sleek, omnipresent black. My linen closet would be repurposed to stash protein bars, because who needs linens anyway?

    I’d execute my grocery shopping like a stealthy ninja, hitting Trader Joe’s at the crack of dawn to dodge crowds, while avoiding those colossal supermarkets that felt like traversing a grid of football fields. 

    Embracing the Uncle Norman Way wasn’t just a new approach to dining; it was a radical overhaul of my entire lifestyle. The world would bow before the sheer efficiency and unadulterated convenience of my new existence, and I would remain eternally satisfied, basking in the glory of my splendidly uncomplicated life.

    Of course, it didn’t take long for my delusion to expand into a literary empire—or at least, that was the plan. The world, I was convinced, desperately needed The Uncle Norman Way, my magnum opus on streamlining life’s most tedious inconveniences. It would be part manifesto, part self-help guide, and part fever dream of a man who had spent far too much time contemplating the finer points of lettuce consumption over a sink. Each chapter would tackle a crucial element of existence, from the philosophy of single-pot cooking (aka, eating directly from the saucepan) to the art of strategic sock re-wearing to extend laundry cycles. I even envisioned a deluxe edition featuring tear-out coupons for discounted plastic plants, a fold-out map of the most efficient grocery store layouts, and, for true devotees, a companion workbook to track their progress toward the ultimate goal: Maximum Laziness with Minimum Effort™.

    Naturally, I imagined its meteoric rise to cultural dominance. Talk show hosts would marvel at my ingenuity, college professors would weave my wisdom into philosophy courses, and minimalists would declare me their messiah. Young bachelors, overwhelmed by the burden of societal expectations, would turn to my book in their darkest hour, finding solace in the knowledge that they, too, could abandon the tyranny of dishware and lean fully into sink-based eating. The revolution would be televised, one head of lettuce at a time.

    Uncle Norman’s “system” introduced me to Chewtality–the ruthless prioritization of caloric input over culinary pleasure, a lifestyle doctrine where taste, ambiance, and social norms are discarded like expired salad dressing. It’s the stoic efficiency of consumption that transforms meals into mechanical refueling sessions, often while hunched over a sink, shirtless, chewing with the urgency of a man on parole from dignity.

    Rooted in the gospel of Uncle Norman, Chewtality celebrates the unsentimental art of eating for sustenance and speed. Why savor when you can shovel? Why sit when you can hover? Why use plates when God invented hands and the stainless steel basin? This isn’t just a meal strategy—it’s a worldview: one where the blender pitcher is a chalice, the saucepan is a throne, and the lettuce head is both entree and ideology.

    In its highest form, Chewtality produces a false sense of superiority—an unshakable belief that your Spartan choices signify enlightenment, when in reality, you’ve just spent dinner crouched over the sink eating raw spinach like a raccoon with a library card.