Getting older. It’s inevitable. Each year I notice some new change in my behavior or attitude that I can attribute to nothing other than getting older.

Housing prices in Massachusetts being what they are, I find myself living in a pleasant condo unit. It’s a nice place. The entire building was gut-renovated prior to my moving in, and it still has that new building feeling. The building, originally a large Victorian, has now been converted into 9 condo units. When I originally moved in, I loved the idea of having so many close neighbors. If anything, it was considerably more private than the arrangements I had during college and much of medical school. Even during the several years prior to moving in, I occupied a unit in a large apartment complex.

And it was fine. At least for the first couple years. But now the movie noises that seep through the floor from the unit upstairs are getting old. Really old. I would say “like, John McCain old” but let’s keep politics out of this. Anyway, if it’s not the booming from what sounds like war movies upstairs, it’s the neighbor’s smoke alarm going off for the 15th time this month. Or the occasional party down the hall. I’m sure the feelings are mutual, too. The neighbors probably get tired of hearing me wail “Stop and Staaaare” while fumbling with guitar chords but I they can no more blame me for that than I can blame them. There’s a need for space that comes with age. And I need it. Soon.

It’s enough to drive me to the suburbs.

I remember seeing a guy on TV a couple years back who was complaining about noise from car stereos. He was a middle-aged, moderately overweight fellow and seemed to take himself too seriously. He was part of an organization called Noise Free America and provided my wife and I with a several good laughs.

But I’m not laughing now, no sireee. I’m filling out the membership form.

Growing up, I was occasionally drawn to the “deep dish” options in various pizzerias, only to find them relatively dull and not all that different from the traditional fare. At one point, Pizza Hut started advertising something called “Priazzo Italian Pie” which looked a lot more interesting, but at the time Pizza Huts were almost non-existant in Massachusetts. It looked so good on TV…one day I would have to try it. At last, on a family vacation, I convinced my parents to stop for lunch at the Hut. There it was, on the menu…at last the Priazzo would be mine. When the waitress arrived, I proudly declared my selection, only to have my hopes dashed when I was told it was no longer being offered.

Fast forward to early June, 2008 on a brief trip to Chicago. Having attended a wedding here 12 years earlier, I remembered watching the hotel information channel and hearing about a place called “Gino’s East” which served deep dish pizza that looked much like my beloved Priazzo. Somehow I managed to convince my wife to stop there for dinner. And by stop I mean wait for the nearly 45 minutes it took to prepare the deep dish classic. Note to self: never go to a place where you have to wait the better part of an hour for the food to be cooked when you’ve got a hungry, irritable 17-month old who is ready to terrorize the restaurant. Luckily there wasn’t a line when we arrived. The pizza looked impressive and was really served in a deep dish (or what looks like a small cake pan). We had ordered a medium but barely managed to devour half of it even after taking turns taking our son for walks to maintain some semblance of order at our table. My impression? If you like cheese, you’ll love this pizza. It must have taken mountains of mozzarella to to make this thing. The crust itself was quite thick and buttery - almost biscuit-like. Even though we had only managed to reduce the pizza to half its size, it was still followed by the requisite reclining on the hotel bed proclaiming “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!”

Yet only two days later I built up enough courage to try again. This time, I learned lessons from my prior mistakes: get take out, order a small. We hit up Giordano’s a local favorite many seemed to prefer to Gino’s. The take out made managing the little one a lot easier, but the pizza was also better. Unlike Gino’s which is basically a cylindrical bowl filled with cheese, sauce, and the occasional additional item (they’re not really “toppings”), Giordano’s covers the top of their pizza with a second crust, making it much more like a pie. The crust is a seems a bit thinner and lighter than Gino’s, so the net impression is about the same amount of bread. Still, there’s not the overwhelming mass of cheese that the Gino’s experience bring with it, and overall Giordano offers a better experience (yes, it is an experience). Despite ordering the size targeted at “1-2 people”, we weren’t able to do much better than we had with Gino’s. Still, it was worth it. Not something to eat every day, but definitely worth a taste if you are in the windy city.

I think I feel like some pizza tonight.

About 3 months after my son was born, I realized the degree to which my life had changed. One thing was clear: there was no more time for TV. Cable was soon cancelled and my TV watching was reduced to a bare minimum. Even though I was cable-less, I was able to occasionally tune in using my computer and downloading shows from iTunes. Still, I had to be frugal with my time, and there were only two shows which I made it a point to watch every week (albeit usually on my iPhone and often as audio only): 60 Minutes and Meet the Press.

Toward the end of Meet the Press. Tim Russert would say “we’ll be right back,” but the show was basically over. He’d just return briefly to close the show. It always seemed to come too soon and made me feel kind of cheated, but at least I could look forward to the next week.

Today, I feel kind of cheated, but I don’t think there’ll be any relief next Sunday.

Tim Russert, probably the best political journalist today, has died of a heart attack.

I’m an internet junkie, I admit it. Like a drug addict, I need a constant stream of internet flowing into my brain or I start to undergo withdrawal. It doesn’t even really matter what I’m reading, but that steady stream of new information keeps me going. I knew it was bad several years ago when my home internet connection, a cable model, stopped working one evening. After a couple hours of internal debate, I broke down and went back back to work just to get an hour of surfing in before returning home.

You think that’s bad? It’s gotten worse. Since I got my iPhone, the internet is basically sitting in my pocket, its siren song only an arms length away. I find myself almost unconsciously reaching into my pocket to pull out my phone whenever there is some downtime (an elevator ride, a walk down the hall, or even a lull in the coversation). It’s a bad habit and I know I have to stop, but at least I can admit the problem.

I normally hate traveling to hotels because inevitably there is some horrendous internet setup where the company tries to gouge addicts such as myself. Typical prices seem to be $10 a day, meaning that within the course of a typical stay I’ve spent as much on access as I spend in a typical month (and, of course, my home internet fees don’t magically disappear during this time). The worst I’ve seen was in Barcelona, where truly unlimited access from within the hotel cost 27 euros. Even I had to draw the line there…with the declining dollar, that’s just criminal.

I arrived in Chicago for a conference last night and was surprised to see the Holiday Inn advertising “Free Highspeed Wireless” access for all its guests. I was overjoyed, but as is typical with these offers, there’s always a catch. They say you get what you pay for, and that’s pretty much what I’ve been able to eke out of this service. The access point, ironically named “stayonline”, drops my connection every few minutes. When I manage to get a signal, the experience allows me to reminisce about the “good old days” of 2400-bps modems. Yes, it’s slow.

Maybe I’ll be forced to actually go out and explore the city.

With my iPhone close at hand, of course.

I remember seeing a spot on a news show in past years regarding the growing popularity of buyng in bulk. The focus was on the buying habits of those who frequented the warehouse stores like Costco or Sam’s Club. I remember chuckling to myself as I watched the customers pile the gallon-sized mayonnaise and ketchup jars, multipacks of frozen foods, and other oversized packages onto the conveyor belt at the checkout line, commenting to my wife how ridiculous the whole process was. The narrator agreed. According to the show, most people who go this route end up with one of two problems:

1. They end up throwing food because they can’t possibly eat it all.
2. They force themselves to eat it all and gain massive amounts of weight

I get some sense of satisfaction from watching people do this, knowing that I would never do the same myself. It’s the same sense of satisfaction I get from using a Mac. Or from driving a Prius. Some call it elitisim. I call it acceptance of my superiority. Or so I thought…

I discovered there were some people I respected who shopped at Costco who didn’t seem to fall into the common traps. Though I initially bristled at the thought of joining myself, I soon found myself in line for a membership. It would be a great way to save some money on non-perishable items like toilet paper, aluminum foil, or paper towels (never mind that I didn’t really consume these products at a particularly impressive rate). Soon I found more uses, but I’ve stayed on target, eschewing the 1 pound packages of smoked salmon for dried goods that can last for months. (Okay, in all fairness, I did buy the 1 pound of smoked salmon once…and yes, I had to throw some of it out).

More dangerous, however, has been my discovery that bulk goods are just a click of a button away. Fully aware of the convenient, albeit minor, health benefits of eating dark chocolate, I happened upon a 12-pack of a dark chocolate version of Toberone, complete with the requisite honey and almond nougat (maybe one of these days I’ll actually understand what “nougat” is). Inexpensive. Good for my health. Delicious. What more could I want?

Delivering it to the home seemed like a bad idea. My wife, already suspicious of my excesses, was sure to use this as evidence against me in the future, despite my confidence that I could rationalize the purchase. So I had it sent to work. I could have a piece or two each day in the office to give me a little boost. The 12-pack should last a long time. I clicked. 

Two days later (thanks to Amazon Prime’s free shipping), the goods arrived. I cleared out a privileged space in my desk drawer alongside some pens and a stapler and went back to work. 

I’ve never been one to hear voices per se, but there seemed to be an unknown force pulling me toward the drawer. Like a “spidey-sense,” but for chocolate. I opened the first package and tried to break off two pieces, but three ended up coming off. Close enough, I thought. It’s time for a morning snack, anyway. 

They seemed to disappear so quickly. I was still hungry, maybe even hungrier. A few more couldn’t hurt. 

The thing about this stuff is that it tricks you. The little triangles seem so small. They don’t fill you up right away. Soon, you end up eating the whole bar. Then, about 20 minutes or so later, the effects come over you like a tidal wave. You feel a little queazy. There is a distinct message from your brain saying, “stop whatever you’re doing…you’ve already done too much of it!” But it’s too late. The damage is done.

I realized the only solution was to get rid of this black magic. I tried parlaying some off on my office-mate, Carl. Usually, Carl will eagerly agree to consume anything I passed over the desk, but he happened to pick this month to start watching what he was eating a little more closely. I could get a few triangles a day rerouted to his workspace, but the rest remained close by. I felt my energy drained, as if it were kryptonite rather than chocolate. The only treatment for my fatigue, of course, was to give in to the impulse to bite into yet another bar.

After several weeks (fewer than I care to admit), I’m finally done with the stuff. Never again will I give in to such foolishness.

Unless, of course, it’s a really good deal on really good chocolate. 

In an attempt to find a simultaneously palatable and nutritious breakfast for my son, I intently scanned the frozen foods section of the local Whole Foods. Ah…organic whole grain waffles. All the right buzzwords. Organic…always a good thing, right? In truth I’ve never been much of an organomaniac. I’m fine loading my body with preservatives, but somehow it’s different when you are responsible for someone else’s nutrition. Whole grain? How can you go wrong with that? Grain is all American, and it’s certainly better to have the “whole” of something than only part of it, no?

Seriously, just adding the words “whole grain” to any food somehow justify its consumption. You could have whole grain egg nog with whipped cream and some how it would be okay (I hope you noggers realize that it’s basically eggs with cream). Waffles to me are the quintessential breakfast foods. They are to pancakes what espresso is to regular coffee. First, they add an element of class. I’m still not sure what makes Belgian waffles different from other waffles, but I would rather say I’m eating Belgian waffles. It’s more likely to elicit an “oooh!” Second, they require a (potentially) expensive piece of a equipment to make, which is always a plus in my book.

Well, that equipment is required when you make them yourself. Which isn’t what I was doing. I was just picking the pre-pressed variety off the shelf from the frozen goods aisle. I should have given Owen more credit. He saw right through the “feel good about your health” label and rejected the cardboard-tasting discus outright. Which of course left me with the burden of consuming the surprisingly large number of waffles contained in the box.

What to do with dry, uninspired waffles? Waffles…waffles…waffle cones, of course! My mind was racing and soon I was hastily scooping coffee-flavored ice cream onto a freshly toasted waffle. Surprisingly delicious. And nutritious, of course (whole wheat, you remember). We’ll see if I can keep this up and still fit into my pants. Two waffles to go.

Joe Lieberman: “I Personally Checked John McCain’s Bearings”: “I just want to report that this morning I personally checked John McCain’s bearings. He has not lost any of them. They are all in really great shape.”

I’m not even going to comment on this one.

Sen. Clinton and the Campaign - New York Times: “Yes, there is a pattern — a familiar and unpleasant one. It is up to Mrs. Clinton to change it if she hopes to have any shot at winning the nomination or preserving her integrity and her influence if she loses.”

It goes straight to a fundraising form. For reals.