OK, good afternoon, folks. I say good afternoon because it is afternoon here in Thailand—Pattaya, Thailand, to be exact—and it’s probably very late at night all across the United States. But hey, it’s afternoon for me, and that’s what counts.

Anyway, I’m going to do three short stories today. The first one is about chicken cordon bleu, if you can wrap your minds around that, because I think it’s a little bit funny. It’ll be the lead-off.

The second story will be about something interesting that happened in my paleo experience, going way back to when I first got interested in our feet, you know—walking barefoot, or with minimal shoes, or hiking barefoot, or even running, and all that jazz. I’ve had something like an epiphany over the last couple of years, and I wanted to relay that to you.

The third story is another one about my Thai gal and how she enhances my life so much.

The funny thing about Chicken Cordon Bleu is that it’s a great-tasting dish, and for me, I’ve only had it twice in my entire life. The very first time—and I’d never even heard of it—was at the Navy Officers Club on the amphibious base in Coronado, California, back in early 1984, probably April or May. I loved it, but I never had it again for decades.

So, it’s a chicken thing: probably a breast pounded out thin, then you layer in some ham and cheese, roll it up, bread the whole deal, and fry it. It’s delicious. But why didn’t it become something I ordered at restaurants all the time? I don’t know. I think it’s probably because if I’m gonna indulge in breaded, fried chicken, it’s just gonna be straight-up fried chicken with mashed potatoes and country gravy. Otherwise, I don’t know—it just never stuck as a regular go-to. I love it, which is curious to me, but it’s just not something I eat.

The other day, some days back, I saw a guy order Chicken Cordon Bleu in a restaurant I was in. I looked at it and thought, man, that looks really good. It stuck in my mind, and then a few days ago, down here in Thailand—where this menu item is everywhere in spots geared toward foreigners—I finally ordered it. I’d seen it on menus all the time but just never pulled the trigger. So, that was the second Chicken Cordon Bleu of my life. I don’t know if you find that funny—it’s a bit funny to me because I loved it, absolutely loved it. But I have to ask myself: why don’t I order it more often? And I still can’t give you a good answer for that.

Part Deux

… I got into a discussion with a friend who knows a lot about feet. As for myself, a big part of the Paleo movement that got traction in the late 2010s, was the idea of barefoot walking, running, and hiking.

I’ve done it all. I bought Vibrams, those minimalist walking shoes where your toes are like in gloves, and I started doing a lot of barefoot walking—especially when walking the dogs. Over the space of a few years, I walked those dogs thousands of miles on sidewalks all around. I even attended a MovNat course at the invitation of Erwan Le Corre, and we did nothing but barefoot activities for a whole week. So yeah, I’m familiar with all levels of this barefoot shit, very much so.

That said, I fucking dislike all those products that cram your toes into little pouches, like the Vibrams. To me, it just doesn’t work. I don’t like ’em at all, even though I know lots of people swear by them. So what I’ve done instead is go with minimalist shoes and sandals where the sole is very thin. You can go fully barefoot or use those, and that’s been the best setup for me over the years.

Now fast-forward, and here’s where it gets weird. Six years ago, I moved to Thailand, and I’ve been here ever since. In my house, when I’m at home, it’s 100% barefoot, 100% of the time. When I go out, it’s flip-flops—99% of the time outside the door, I’m in flip-flops. If it’s more of a formal thing, I have some presentable minimalist shoes for that. But what happened to me a while back started with calf work in the gym. I’d always done seated calf raises—you sit on the bench, load up these plates, and lift your calves. They’re okay.

Then someone suggested to me, hey, use the hack squat machine. That’s where you’re standing up, you can load it much more, plus you’re using your own body weight. Going from a flat-footed position, you extend out and do calf raises like that. It was better—standing calf raises are way better than sitting ones. And then one day, someone says to me, have you tried the donkey calf raise machine? This is where you bend over and use the bottom of your back, you know, your rump—and you have a bar for the balls of your feet. You can go to a very deep extension and raise up high for your calves. But here’s the thing: that donkey machine can be loaded heavy. It has a stack of plates with cables, so you start there at maybe somewhere between 200 and 300 pounds maxed out, but then you stack more plates on top. I stack 25 kg plates, four or five of ’em, so in the end, you’re probably over 500 pounds of weight. I can do it easy—2 to 3 sets, going until it stings like needles in my calves, and that’s it. Usually 20-23 reps.

But here’s what happened: sure, my calves got very strong, they’re great. What I didn’t understand was how hugely it would transform my feet and my ankles. What I mean by that is, I’m 64 years old, and I can remember years ago, I’d have to sit down on a chair or the bed to put on my trousers. Now I live in Thailand, so I have these typical boxer shorts for sleep, house shorts that are basically gym shorts I wear around the house, and then the shorts I go out and about with. I have to change frequently. So now, at 64 years old—contrasting with five or ten years ago—I make a joke of putting on my pants one leg at a time, but in a full standing position. I alternate between whether the right leg goes in first or the left, then I hold up the other leg as I’m just standing there without any support. I see how long and how high I can hold that other leg before sliding it in. What I’m saying is, from the standpoint of barefoot walking and all this, I’ve gotten to a point where I have the strongest and most stable feet and ankles of my entire life—at the age of 64. Wrap your mind around that.

(In searching around for a proper image, can’t find one. A proper Donkey Raise has a cable stack (max) and a pole on top so you can load it to 500 pounds plus with max plates. That’s what I’m talking about. Huge weight, huge volume under repetitive load. No fucking excuses.)

Number Three

Far is the second gal in my life where I never want her to go away, and I always miss her when she’s away. This is not normal for me. I find all females annoying, so my standard is: is she annoying? Can’t shut her stupid cunt mouth? etc. I have no patience, and I don’t give a fuck about worried feelings.

The first one who set that standard for me was way back in college—1982, ’83, ’84, like that. And in that situation, she was ethnically Filipino. She’d been born in the Philippines, but her parents immigrated when she was only three years old. Then I encountered her at Oregon State University, and it was the same thing: she just never said stupid shit to me, never badgered, never did anything, never spoke down to me. And even if she was in disagreement with me about something, there was never this sort of chick-shit berating or shaming or anything like that. Never.

I’ve waited my whole damn life for that. That relationship didn’t work out in the end, but I’ve kind of waited my whole life to find another woman like that, and I have. I have. So my message kinda is: just don’t put up with that shit. Never. Never put up with that berating, demeaning, shaming, cunty bullshit from their fucking mouths. Never. Not one fucking word. Get the fuck out.

So now I have that, and it’s in Thailand. Now, I have to mention that most Thai gals aren’t like that anyway—so this was more about just finding the really right one. I’ve run the gamut, from the very young 20-somethings, you know. But what I’ve settled into is someone who is about 20 years my junior, which is where I’m at right now. She’s 45, I’m 64, and it is just wonderful to have a gal who takes care of the house. She’s absolutely in charge of the house, absolutely. She’s in charge of the food shopping. But she never talks shit to me. Never. Not one word. And not for two years—she never said a fucking cunty word to me one single time. Demand nothing less. At all. Ever.

Until next time.