Print Story In which the 70's big diet is soon to end.
By gzt (Tue Feb 02, 2010 at 01:03:16 PM EST) gzt, r s thomas, poems, melchior (all tags)
Lent is beginning soon, at which point I will have to stop eating profusely. The goal, then, becomes maintaining strength and lean body mass. I won't be quite strong enough, if things go on schedule my last workout before Lent will be squatting around 345#x3x5, but it's respectable. After that, well, I still have a ways to go before I'm even close to strong, but I'll likely be at the point where the return for eating huge will be minimal compared to eating sustainably.

That's the important part of 70's big: the massive junky caloric intake is a temporary measure to drive you through the initial strength and weight gains. Knowing when to stop is key. Well, continuing will still drive up your numbers, but there comes a time when you have to consider how important that rate is. When you're severely weak, it's important. You shouldn't need to do it for more than 3-6 months. Really, I shouldn't be stopping just yet, but the realities of the rest of my life intervene.

In other news: I noticed that the school where I'm taking some graduate stat class has a gym open to me only a few blocks from my class. Score! And it's right by a train stop. Score! And it's open until 11pm. Score! I thought that might open up the possibility of training after class or after using the computer labs in the evening for homework and all that. I walked by there last night to check it out. Quite unfortunately, it just doesn't work. I could see in from the street level: a few treadmills, giant plastic balls, a few machines, and some benches for dumbbells (there are no barbells that I saw). In a pinch, you can do something worthwhile there, but it's no substitute for my programming. I still might drop in and go inside on some other night to double-check that I did not miss anything. It's sad, for the price and footprint any of one of those machines you could get a power rack, a decent bar, and lots of iron weights (or enough bumper plates for most people).

Today is Candlemas. I skipped church this morning. I thought about going and set an alarm, but when it went off I decided that it just wasn't happening. Perhaps it's for the best, because it's quite obviously truly an Irish pagan fertility ritual of some sort. Like just about everything those Russians do.

My two meetings today got cancelled. Drat. I was hoping to use those to 1. take up some time 2. get something to do for the rest of the day. But a couple came by with stuff for me to do, so it all evens out.

My textbook is just slightly too large to shove in my coat pocket. I didn't take it with me today. Maybe I should have. There's something slightly non-intuitive about the formulations of some parts of statistics to me. Probability, that's fine. I just need to crack down with the book and build the mental model again. And make a review sheet of definitions and identities in matrix algebra and probability, because I'm a little rusty and we rely on them heavily.

What do you think of the name Balthasar? Or Caspar? I suppose the friendly ghost has ruined the latter and a donkey the former.

And with that, it's time for some poetry:

A Marriage.
by R. S. Thomas
We met
           under a shower
of bird-notes.
           Fifty years passed,
love's moment
           in a world in
servitude to time.
           She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
           closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
           `Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
            partner for
the last dance, And she,
            who in life
had done everything
            with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
            for the shedding
of one sigh no
            heavier than a feather.

There you have it.

I suppose we can do another:

The Country Clergy.
by R. S. Thomas

I see them working in old rectories
By the sun's light, by candle-light,
Venerable men, their black cloth
A little dusty, a little green
With holy mildew. And yet their skulls,
Ripening over so many prayers,
Toppled into the same grave
With oafs and yokels. They left no books,
Memorial to their lonely thought
In grey parishes: rather they wrote
On men's hearts and in the minds
Of young children sublime words
Too soon forgotten. God in his time
Or out of time will correct this.

And so it goes. Quite nice, eh?

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In which the 70's big diet is soon to end. | 3 comments (3 topical, 0 hidden) | Trackback
Oh yes? by ni (2.00 / 0) #1 Tue Feb 02, 2010 at 03:38:11 PM EST
There's something slightly non-intuitive about the formulations of some parts of statistics to me. Probability, that's fine.

How probably? With what margin of error?

"These days it seems like sometimes dreams of Italian hyper-gonadism are all a man's got to keep him going." -- CRwM

no no no. by gzt (2.00 / 0) #2 Tue Feb 02, 2010 at 03:43:12 PM EST
Probability is fine. I have an intuitive grasp on probability. Probably. Provably.

[ Parent ]
Brigid's Irish Pagan Fertility Rite by georgeha (2.00 / 0) #3 Tue Feb 02, 2010 at 03:44:44 PM EST
aha, that explains it, I'm not fertile anymore.

In which the 70's big diet is soon to end. | 3 comments (3 topical, 0 hidden) | Trackback