The 5 Hour Energy LiveBlog

Don't get me wrong - I'm as accomplished a coffee drinker as anyone. But for the last several months, I've been trying to wean myself off of the stuff, the idea being that the less I consume, the greater the impact it will have when I do drink it.

Today I had my first 5 Hour Energy. I chose Pomegranate. What could go wrong?

4:06 p.m. Examining the bottle of 5 Hour Energy. Trying to decide if I really want to do this. Claims to be like coffee, but quicker. Comes with a warning label. Coffee doesn't come with a warning label, except when it's hot.

4:07 p.m. Reading about Niacin flush, a "natural warming sensation" that occurs when your body processes necessary minerals of which it was previously deficient. That's the 5 Hour Energy way of trying to convince you that the way you're about to feel is healthy.

4:08 p.m. What could go wrong? I love pomegranates.

4:09 p.m. Oh, gross.

4:13 p.m. Head upstairs feeling normal. Time to get to work and pound out some projects.

4:16 p.m. Notice a delightful jump in my typing WPM. That's if you count "pnusctuality" as a word. Unclear if this is due to 5 Hour Energy.

4:19 p.m. Niacin flush.

4:21 p.m. Toilet flush.

4:36 p.m. Working on a parent letter. You know how sometimes when you say a word too many times, it starts to sound funny? Every word is that word right now.

4:45 p.m. I literally cannot stop thinking about bridges - how they're made, who designs them. How do we really know they're safe? I can't focus on this letter right now. All I can think about is bridges.

4:47 p.m. Reading about bridges on Wikipedia.

4:50 p.m. Force myself to focus on the parent letter. Just spelled the word "contact" with a semicolon. And an umlaut.

4:57 p.m. Looking for Rick Keller's phone number. He's a structural engineer and I've got a lot of questions about bridges.

5:00 p.m. Saved from a very awkward conversation by the fact that I don't actually have his phone number.

5:10 p.m. Go downstairs to help with dinner. Hold the baby. Bounce the baby. I am not intentionally bouncing the baby.

5:15 p.m. I am literally yelling at a pot of green beans for what I suspect to be blatant malfeasance.

5:28 p.m. Drink a glass of water as an attempt to flush the 5 Hour Energy from my system.

5:29 p.m. I feel like I drank that glass of water awfully fast.

5:30 p.m. My shirt is soaking wet and there are ice cubes on the floor. Can't figure out why.

5:45 p.m. Eating dinner. Trying to hold it together.

6:00 p.m. Offer to clean up after dinner. Ask Lindsay to "time me." She declines.

6:02 p.m. Done. Wish she would have timed me.

6:05 p.m. Back to work. So excited AND so scared.

6:12 p.m. Just realized I'm not wearing a shirt. Not sure how long this has been.

6:44 p.m. Drooling. Thanks 5 Hour Energy.

7:00 p.m. 25 emails in 2 minutes. All to the same guy.

7:16 p.m. Less concerned about bridges than I am about asteroids all of a sudden.

7:40 p.m. Watching the 5 Hour Energy commercials online. That guy seems so happy at the office, but trust me, he's using every ounce of his willpower not to go outside, strangle a bunny, and eat it raw.

7:55 p.m. Well, this is the third time I've gone to the bathroom "just to be sure." And for what it's worth, I'm 0-for-3.

8:02 p.m. I'm Batman.

8:17 p.m. Parent letter finished nearly four hours after it started. Thanks 5 Hour Energy.

8:34 p.m. I wrote down "Great idea for sitcom." Post 5 Hour Energy, I have no idea what it was.

8:39 p.m. When did I take my pants off? I may have eaten dinner in my underwear.

8:45 p.m. What is the stuff made of? Chihuahua concentrate?

9:00 p.m. Is five hours over yet?

9:14 p.m. Struck by inexplicable urge to blog again.

9:16 p.m. Really just excited by all of the labels I get to use again.

The Omnivore's Dilemma

I finished my third book of 2010, The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. He tells the story of how four very different meals arrive on our dinner tables. He explains the life of a McDonald's value meal and the life of an environmentally friendly* organic meal. He goes on to explain how at least one local farm works, then proceeds to exegete the history of an entirely locally-grown meal. Finally, he creates a meal out of food that he either grew, killed, or foraged for himself.

* And actually, this might not be true. In order to eat organic asparagus in November, the veggies have to be flown express from Argentina. Maybe not the environment-friendly scenario we've been led to believe.

I learned all sorts of interesting things. 97% of the calories in your McDonald's sack come directly from corn, and that might not be a good thing. Argentinians eat far more red meat than we do, but theirs being entirely grass-fed, the population suffers almost no heart disease.* Their only trade-off is that they are forced to eat a tastier beef, one that tastes like beef was intended to taste.

* Don't cry for beef, Argentina?

I learned about the highly secretive underground culture of mushroom collectors, and I can understand it. Pollan attaches himself to a group that pulls in more than 60 pounds of morels, and sells them to restaurateurs at $20/pound. Do the math.

Most interesting though was the ecological web of the small local farm. Poop is collected and used meticulously for the benefit of the farm, the animals, and the end-consumers. The texture of the eggs is different. The color of the yolks is different. In short, eggs, the way they are meant to be, are not the same thing as the eggs we eat today.* Of course, all of this makes me want to own chickens and collect poop. Lindsay is not too keen on this.

* If you are what you eat, then it makes sense. Mass-produced farm animals always eat things other than what they're supposed to eat and it changes them.

It's one of those books that you read and then have your greatest epiphanies afterward. You mean, 60 pounds of mushrooms could get me a used car?

Bemidji, MN

Last summer, I rode a bicycle from Chicago, IL to Devil's Lake, ND. Since I've never written about the adventure, and since it was a long December as far as temperatures went, I thought January might be a good time to talk about summer 2008. January is Bike Month at the Drawing Board.

--

Bemidji, Minnesota is perhaps most notable for being the fictitious home of legendary axe-man Paul Bunyan. It's also the home of the United States Curling Team, and a lovely downtown area that sits on the tamer parts of the Mississippi River.

I have no idea how we got into Bemidji, although I can guess our ride in was just boring enough that I can't remember it even a little bit. I believe we went to Target for a little bit, but that might be a fabrication. At some point we probably went to a laundromat, but I can neither confirm nor deny that.

We ate pasta and lounged on the river and made our way to a coffeeshop. I ate a muffin and drank coffee and enjoyed the free internet they offered. It was one of the greatest coffeeshops I've enjoyed, and that was before the owner of the place offered us a bed for the evening. She had a camper in her backyard and it had a TV and showers and everything and we were welcome to use it.

We spent the afternoon in bookstores and at pubs and finally we made our way back to the home. Our host was more than hospitable and handed us over to the camper. We made beds and switched on the Olympics and got ready to take showers. Paul hopped in first while I did everything in my power to not touch anything with my more stinky parts.*

* Which was basically all of me.

Then, it was my turn. I got in and I soaped myself up real good and that's about when the water ran out. In one of my more desparate moments, I completed the rinsing process with a few bottles of refrigerated Aquafina. Still, I was soon dry and warm, so no harm; no foul.

More alarming was the fact that there was no water running into the toilet. This would become an issue later.

I slept as soundly as I had in weeks. The same could not be said for Paul. I woke up to find that he had spent the night with GI problems; the worst second-hand illness I'd ever experienced. The kind lady delivered an exquisite breakfast of coffee, oatmeal, and peaches; oblivious to the destruction that Paul had earlier wrought. I hope she never asks herself where that wastebasket wound up, and I hope even more that she never finds it.

We left the place with boisterous thank-yous and silent apologies. We wouldn't be leaving Bemidji today. It was time for a rest.

Blackduck, MN

Last summer, I rode a bicycle from Chicago, IL to Devil's Lake, ND. Since I've never written about the adventure, and since it was a long December as far as temperatures went, I thought January might be a good time to talk about summer 2008. January is Bike Month at the Drawing Board.

--

Even before we'd gone to bed on Thursday, we knew that Friday was going to be a rough day. Our map showed very little between Ranier and Bemidji, a city that was more than a hundred miles away. We knew we'd have to roll through Big Falls all over again, a corner of uncivilization I'd be happy to never ever see again. So we dreaded Friday, and that was before I woke up with a case of the Backside Blues.*

* Diarrhea.

We packed up our tent and wandered down to a restaurant called Grandma's Pantry for breakfast. Some of the more profane locals called by a similar sounding and far less appetizing name.* We ate wild rice pancakes that could have deliciously substituted as a footprint for our tent. We drank coffee. This amplified my GI problems. Then we rolled out.

* You're going to have to figure that out on your own.

We rolled back through International Falls, said goodbye to Smokey the Bear, and quickly found ourselves, once again, somewhere between a pair of nowheres. Along the way, I discovered proof of a loving God in a bottle of Pepto, and I took a nap on a picnic table in hell. By that I mean, I slept for an hour in Big Falls, Minnesota. We ate a lunch of peanut butter crackers. It was the best we could do.

We rode for the next six hours at a non-stop clip, stopping only for a mid-afternoon gas station snack. We had decided we were ready to be done for the night, and so we asked the gas station attendant where we might find a meal and quit. She recommended the town of Blackduck. They served pizza from the bowling alley and we could probably camp there too. Trouble was, Blackduck was still 25 miles away, but not to worry; she told us it was all downhill.

The gas station lady was a liar. We rode up and up and up, fighting each stroke; although the scenery was improving drastically. We skirted rich farmland on a firm shoulder, and everyone was feeling better about the day. We arrived as scheduled in Blackduck; which is to say we never had a schedule and neither did Blackduck, apparently.

We tracked down the first pedestrian we could find and enjoyed the following exchange.

ME: Is there any good place to eat in Blackduck?

HER: There's a little place right over there. I ate lunch there today.

ME: Is it any good?

HER: Depends who's cooking.

ME: Who's cooking?

HER: Well, there's no where else to go.

And so a one-armed chef, who may or may not have been the preferable purveyor, made us fried chicken while an overwhelmed waitress continuously refilled our shot glasses that were filled with water.

We moved from there to a bar, where we hoped to watch the Olympics. Instead, we were treated to a mediocre beer and a jukebox that was stuck on repeat, and of course, it was stuck on Discovery Channel* by the Bloodhound Gang. After the fifth iteration of the tune, we'd decided to vacate the place.

* "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals..."

That's when the bartender approached us carrying a cordless phone.

HIM: Phone call for you.

US: That seems unlikely.

HIM: Nope, it's for you.

US: That's actually impossible.

HIM: Are you the guys riding bikes from Canada to New Mexico?

US: Lucky guess.

Our interest was piqued and so Paul took the phone. Some dudes were camped out a softball diamond and wanted us to bring them beer. Even now it doesn't make much sense. Instead, we snuck into a mosquito-infested campground and left early the next morning without paying the required fee. In our defense, we weren't caught.

A Homage to a Great Man

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to volunteer at the Catalyst One Day event when it came to South Bend. Essentially, it featured a couple of famous pastors speaking about church strategy. The fantastic thing about things like this is that famous pastors are almost never famous by any real standard of fame,* although a number of people seem to mistake them for rock stars.

*As far as actually famous pastors go, I came up with this list: Joel Osteen, Rick Warren (maybe), Billy Graham, and then Jim Jones. So, it's really a toss-up about whether that's even a good thing to be.

Anyway, this post isn't about that, and it's certainly not a homage to Craig Groeschel or Andy Stanley.

--

Every once in a while, a man gets to live the dream. A few weeks ago, I had that opportunity. Unfortunately, it was someone else's dream.

I was given a special task. I had to go to Krispy Kreme at like 6:45 in the morning to pick up the conference order - 47 boxes of glazed donuts. I wish you could understand the aroma that they left in my car for about a week-and-a-half. I'm serious. The air in the car had the caloric content of a half-gallon of whole milk.

And so I come to the Drawing Board today to pay tribute* to the man whose dream I lived, while he merely dreams of living. May you be so fortunate one day, my friend.

* Check the labels, dude.

--

I've always wondered* how a person might be perceived as he was ordering such a quantity of donuts. How would people look at me? What would they think? Would I be judged? Would I be revered?

*Not really.

But most of all, I wondered what exactly the cashier would say to me. Then she said it.

"Can I get you anything else today?"

47 dozen donuts? That ought to do it.

I wish I would have had the foresight to have asked for about four gallons of milk, 12 rolls of toilet paper, an hour-and-a-half in the corner, and an insulin enema.

I Read Something Gross and Now You Have to Read It Too

People ask me a lot how I stay in shape. Actually, no one asks that. Instead, they ask, "How in the world are you so skinny?" The simple answer is that I do the complete opposite of this:

• "Once, while out with his brothers, [Mike Golic] ate eight Grand Slams from Denny's."
• "Another time, while once again out with his brothers, Golic says he ate 240 wings."

Good God. Did 120 chickens have to die to satisfy this man?

Let's All Go Play Dodgeball

Recently, I was reminded of a high school incident that's never been explored at the Drawing Board. Today, I explore that space.

I was a good student in gym. So good, that when I needed an extra elective as a senior, I took a class called "More Gym" or something equally ridiculous. We played dodgeball a lot. I loved it.

One day, during a particularly epic dodgeball match, I lost the handle on a ball as I was attempting to strike another fellow with it. The thing took off, bounced off of a basketball goal and skied into a balcony of the gym that had never been used, at least not that anyone knew of.

So I climbed up there to retrieve the ball. The place was a graveyard for gym equipment. There were old sections of bleachers, entirely flattened balls, a shredded volleyball net. I vaguely wondered if my poorly-thrown dodgeball had suffered a similar fate upon arrival. Maybe I would meet my end here as well.

I rifled around, searching for the ball, but to no avail. The thing had disappeared altogether. The call came from below, "Find that ball, meathead!"

Perhaps it had rolled behind the wrestling mats. I went in for a peek, and what I saw was not a dodgeball. Instead, I laid my eyes upon a tremendous pile of human feces. Someone (or someones) had saved their defecations for a significant amount of time and laid them to rest here, arranged with a particular and specific design.

Put plainly, they had written "1997" in poop.

It was a tremendous senior prank that lay entirely uncredited in the annals of history. Until now.

Lenten Sacrifices

For the past couple of years, I've given up something for Lent, but not this year. Not yet anyway. Ash Wednesday crept up on us pretty quickly, and the procrastinator in me emerged. Probably, after the weekend, I'll figure out what thing I didn't do all week, and then continue to not do that thing. I will not be giving up coffee for Lent.

Last year, I did. No coffee for the entirety of the 46 days. I yearned for the stuff. I craved it. But I held out. Then, on Easter Sunday, Lent was over, and I was able to get a release. I think I drank four cups of coffee at home. Then I stopped at Starbucks and got some more. I had missed the baristas and baristos so much.

I spent the entirety of Easter Sunday hyper like a four-year-old. I peed six times in four hours. I couldn't sit still. At about 3:30, I fell asleep at the kitchen table.

I Just Ate Ten Pancakes and Now I Feel Like I'm Going to Die

I know that this is off-topic, even for a blog that doesn't have a topic. But I ate something just shy of a dozen pancakes, and now I'm sitting at my desk and I feel like I'm going to die. It's not like I'm new to pancakes. But I did it just the same and I feel like I'm about 90 seconds away from being bloated into oblivion.

Back to the Drawing Board...

--
Updated: I added the "Kind of Gross" label.

Updated again: I added the "Reasons I Will Always Be Single" label.

The Best Medicine

Suppositories. These are the best medicines. This is a fact.

Shared this conversation with a doctor on Monday over the phone:

Me: I'm having trouble keeping food down.
Dr: I'll get you some suppositories.
Me: You know what? I'm feeling a lot better, I think.
Dr: Oh, really?
Me: Yeah, maybe I'll just watch the Price is Right or something.