"Mmmmm, unprocessed hamburger."

I love these old style butcher infographics.

And have always wanted to use them as the basis of an ad campaign. If I were to get one dream client it would be a high end local steakhouse like Cut or Meat on Ocean, or STK, or even one of the bustling beef chains, like Ruth Chris.

It would be a magnificent merging of two of my passions.

"Where the elite meet to eat meat and make banner ads that never get clicked."

This is particularly so now, as I complete my first week of Keto. Warning: if you thought vegetarians, crossfitters and new non-smokers could drone on about their recently discovered lifestyles you might want to grab some bacon strips to munch on and take a seat. This could be a long haul.

I have yet been able to slip into my 33" waist dungarees that I saved from 1984. And again in 96. But I am already noticing a difference in how I feel.

As regular readers of R17 know, and perhaps because of my New York roots, I'm not big on airy-fairy or spiritual or metaphysical. Don't come near me with anything that smacks of astrology. I don't want to hear about planets in retrograde. And the only sage that gets burned at my house is when it's added to thick ribeye steaks that are searing in the cast iron pan at a Mercury-hot 550 degrees.

Nevertheless, I am feeling great.
Lighter. More energetic. Cleaner. And clear-headed.
It might help that I've also abstained from alcohol for the past seven days. If I were a betting man, and thankfully that is not one of my vices, I would say the dry period will end way before the Meat-and-Cheese-and High Fatty Food Period ends.

I know Big Data is all the rage these days, but I'm doing the Keto thing without looking at numbers. I don't like scales. I'll get the number when I visit my doctors office for my annual bend over and check up.

For me, the gauge of Keto's success will be when I can get down from my XXXXXL T shirts to a more manageable and svelte XXL. (Please note the Trumpian hyperbole in the last sentence.)

I also plan to lace up one of 15 pairs of ASICS running shoes in my closet and tempt the gods of Plantiar Fascitis. 

I was hampered by bone spurs (real bone spurs, in both feet) years ago and forced to give up my 3 mile a day habit. But I think with careful management, intermittent stoppage, new fangled orthotics and some edible THC gummies, I can revisit my days as a runner.

After all, these are amazing fantastic times we live in.

When a deferment-accumulating, draft dodging, unabashed con man, sitting amongst a table full of ex-warriors and Purple Heart recipients, and with a total straight face claim, "I could've been a general, a great general, but who knows." 

Anything is possible.