My life at McDonald's

McDonald's received another dose of great publicity this week when a Colorado woman revealed that a Happy Meal she left out for a year maintained the same shape and look for 12 months. It didn't age and, though she didn't try this, probably tasted the same as it did the day she walked it out of her local restaurant.

It brought up the normal criticisms of McDonald's and its preservatives, as people everywhere wondered what fries and a burger do to your body if they don't decompose when left out in the open (to me that's a good sign; maybe the ingredients preserve livers, kidneys and stomachs as well as they preserve dollar burgers). It could be a hoax but it seems believable, despite some obvious flaws in her methodology.

I read this news and shrugged, the same reaction to every documentary, book and article I read about the horrors of McDonald's. No doubt all of these - from the movie Super Size Me to the book Fast Food Nation - are full of startling truths and disgusting anecdotes. But like a smoker who knows that the Surgeon General isn't lying, I continue to enjoy everything that's offered under the Golden Arches (it is a bit different than smoking, since very few people have gotten sick from secondhand grease).

Yesterday I told some friends that the more negative news I read about McDonald's, the more I crave its food. It's not a rebellious move, simply conditioning. When I hear the word McDonald's - even if it's used in a sentence that includes words like "higher rates of cancer" or "clogged arteries" or "diabetes" - my brain pictures the crispy McNuggets, or even soggy ones. I remember the unique smell that emanates from any McDonald's. God I love that smell - I wish it could be bottled and put into cologne form.

My love for McDonald's started in childhood, sustained by weekend trips to my grandparents'. We'd leave on Friday after my parents got off of work and always stop to eat in Mankato. Sometimes it was at Hardee's, but often it was McDonald's. As a kid I ordered a simple cheeseburger and small fries. Eventually the order grew along with my body and the order turned into a quarter-pounder and medium fries, before ultimately giving way to a double quarter-pounder, large fries and, just occasionally, a nine-piece Nugget. I'd wash it down with a large drink and a chocolate shake, counting on my genes to keep me from spilling outside my jeans.

McDonald's asks for so little - maybe six bucks - and gives so much in return, including an increased risk of dropping dead while shooting hoops with a grandchild at the age of 57.

So many McDonald's, so many memories:

FAVORITE MCDONALD'S
There's one in Lakeville off of I35 that we always went to after trips to the metropolis, especially after Twins or Timberwolves games. Nothing perks up a depressed person who's just watched Brad Lohaus or Rich Becker like the aroma of McDonald's fries. If we didn't stop at this one, it was still another hour to Janesville and an hour of waiting for food. The food didn't taste any different, of course, but its location moves it to the top spot, despite the fact the bathrooms occasionally looked like they hadn't been cleaned since Ray Kroc was alive. The arches called us from the interstate and I'd start salivating the second we took the exit and then turned left for McDonald's.

MY BIG MAC BINGE
The only time I've ever ordered a Big Mac was during the brief time I worked at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport as a wheelchair attendant. For whatever reason, during my brief time in that position, I always bought a Big Mac during my short lunch break. I'd order one every day - a value meal was an hour's pay - and find a seat at an unoccupied gate. Occasionally a passenger would stare at me, as if offended by the idea airport peons take breaks. Perhaps I was subconsciously punishing myself for being unable to land a newspaper job out of college and I didn't think I deserved the old reliables: quarter-pounders and chicken sandwiches. When I got hired at a newspaper and quit the airport, I also quit Big Macs and haven't had one since. There's something psychological at work here, though I don't want to know what it is.

MIDWEST BIAS
Even after six years, I still don't quite trust New York City McDonald's. There seems to be something different about the taste compared to the ones back in Minnesota. Maybe I'm influenced too much by the hairnets worn by workers, something I'd never seen until moving out East. In theory this should be reassuring, but it makes me wonder: what follicle catastrophe happened that necessitated the move? How many hairs have to fall into shakes before a mid-level manager sends out a memo demanding hairnet use? And if the hairnets have stopped that problem, what other ones are lurking, waiting to be discovered by a hidden camera and an investigative reporter looking for a big scoop?

One of my go-to places on the Upper West Side also commits the cardinal sin of refusing to put ketchup dispensers out in the open. They don't even have a box filled with the insulting ketchup packets. Instead you have to ask the cashier for some. The workers dole them out with brutal efficiency, as if they're docked 10 bucks from their paycheck for every one package they distribute. Ketchup wasn't rationed like this during the world wars, why start now? Two packets are not enough for a medium order of fries and three aren't enough for a large.

Sidebar. Here's Letterman manning the drive-thru at McDonald's.



BIGGEST DISAPPOINTMENT
How deflating is it to watch a worker grab an order of fries that have been sitting under those harsh lights for five minutes? No, please, no. I can see that the fresh ones will be done in the fryer in 30 seconds. Please, wait. The limp fries land on the tray with a thud and the meal's off to a bad start even before you've taken the first bite. Everything usually evens out and the next trip will include the hot, crisp fries that have become so famous.

OVERDOSE
I say this without pride or exaggeration. During my sophomore year of college, I ate at McDonald's every day, with the possible exception of maybe 10 days. That's nine months and about 270 days. So figure about 300 meals, since I'd often hit it for lunch and dinner and rarely - just rarely - breakfast. None of the five people in our house cooked, so we single-handedly kept the Worthington franchise alive for nine months. During basketball that season, we'd often eat there before and after games. Our coach warned us not to eat milkshakes before games, as they would weigh us down while running up the court. I often ignored this plea, one reason my feet never seemed to move the way I wanted them to on defense.

Before I moved to New York and got married, I ate at McDonald's probably four times a week. It wasn't like the college days, but wasn't much better. But then I discovered the beauty of home-cooked meals. Now I eat there a few times a month. About six months ago, Louise noticed I always got headaches after eating at McDonald's, either the same night or the following morning. She immediately diagnosed the problem with a certain amount of glee: too much sodium from McDonald's, along with not enough water. I scoffed at the idea. I'd been eating McDonald's for most of my 34 years and had never suffered a side effect, although as Louise points out, I have been suffering from headaches most of my life (I saw no correlation). Eventually I could no longer ignore the evidence. Now I make sure to drink plenty of water before a trip to McDonald's. I have to prepare my body before ingesting their food, which is humbling and vaguely humiliating.

But I still go there. If documentaries, best-selling books and bizarre experiments don't eliminate my love of McDonald's, a few headaches won't either.

My love of McDonald's will last forever, just like their food.

Now, and forever, I'm still a Pepper

In an effort to drum up more interest in its recently launched Dr Pepper Cherry, Dr Pepper Snapple Group Inc. has bought advertising time during Super Bowl XLIV. The purchase marks the first time in the company's 125-year history that Dr Pepper will advertise during the National Football League championship, which will be broadcast by CBS Corp. on Feb. 7.

Look at that, my little over-caffeinated baby's all grown up. On Super Bowl Sunday, I'll be crammed into a small seat on a large plane flying over the Atlantic. By kickoff we'll be about halfway through our torturous 22-hour flight. My legs will be numb, along with my sense of time and space. I'll be thinking about underwear bombers and worrying about Louise's worries that I'm developing blood clots in my long legs from sitting down for too long.

And I'll be missing the first paid ad in the Super Bowl from Dr Pepper, a drink I consume by the gallons on a yearly basis, a drink I consider to be the king of all sodas. Ahead of the so-smooth Mountain Dew. Ahead of Pepsi. Even ahead of the former heavyweight champ, Coke. Pepsi created headlines a few weeks ago by announcing it wouldn't advertise during the big game. Seems like a perfect time for the Doctor to start its quest for world domination.

I don't drink coffee, I have wine once a year, champagne maybe once every two years. When out with friends once or twice a month I'll enjoy a few beers. While I also drink plenty of milk and juice, soda is my beverage of choice. Water sustains life, but Dr Pepper makes life worth living. On an average day, I'll drink two or three cans of Dr Pepper a day at work and about a liter at home. I savor each drink and the mysterious taste. Part of me realizes I can't keep this pace up forever, though I'll give my best shot. Even now, at 34, it does affect me in ways it never did before. Some nights when I'm struggling to fall asleep, I'll blame the restlessness on anxiety or a mid-afternoon nap, until I remember the two glasses of Dr Pepper I drank at 11:30. Is caffeine finally taking a toll?

To this day my mom can drink coffee at 11 p.m and be asleep by 11:05, as if a doctor just gave her an IV filled with 10 ounces of liquefied Ambien. Medical journals should study her. I usually react in a similar way, but if it's starting to keep me awake at this age, there's no way I'll maintain her pace when I'm 60.

The truth is I don't really discriminate much when it comes to soda, which I called pop the first 28 years of my life. Each soda has its time and place, depending on the setting, the container and the available refrigeration. Dr Pepper's my favorite canned soda on an everyday basis in the office and the best in 2-liter form. But on a day when temperatures reach triple digits and the sun's broken through the planet's ozone defenses and I'm ignoring the advice of the medical community by shunning water, a cold can of Coke refreshes like nothing else. Don't know why, just know it's the truth. Early in the morning, when people are waking up with their freshly brewed coffee, I'm eating my morning donut and drinking a can of...Pepsi. It's the one time I get Pepsi from a can. Certainly it's psychological at this point, a conditioned response that's nearly impossible to break. Again, I don't know why the taste of Pepsi goes best with a white-glazed doughnut, but it does. Come 1 p.m. and lunch - and maybe again one more time around 4:30 - it'll be back to Dr Pepper.

For a long time at work, the company in charge of our vending machines taunted me, putting Dr Pepper some weeks but forgetting it others. Couldn't that company's pencil-pushers see the raw numbers, which must have shown how quickly Dr Pepper sold out whenever they stocked it? Finally one early morning, I cornered the worker. As he filled it with Coke and Diet Coke and Sprite, I implored him to always put Dr Pepper in.

"So many people here like it," I said, not knowing if that was just a lie or a dream. Something clicked, because today the slot holding the sacred red can is always full.

If I can only get a 20-ounce bottle of soda, I'll go with a Coke. Most Dr Pepper bottles I see are shaped differently, slightly stubbier. They always seem to be lukewarm.

Speaking of warm, most people have an aversion to ever drinking warm soda. I'm unafraid, though it's certainly not the ideal. But if there's nothing else available, Mountain Dew is the best soda to drink in that state. A cold Mountain Dew really isn't much more refreshing than a warm one, which is probably more an insult than a compliment. Yet in another form - in a glass with ice - I prefer Dew to all the rest, even the beloved Pepper.

With all of this, it must always be the real thing, the one that's bad for the nervous system, digestion, everything. The one that causes twitches because it's so loaded with caffeine. Never a cherry off-shoot, nothing with the word Free or Zero in the name. Diet? It's a four-letter word. I've never finished a complete can of diet soda, no matter how many times people push a brand, whispering how it's so much like the real thing I won't even notice. Those campaigns never work. Dr Pepper even makes that ridiculous claim part of its marketing plan, adding the words "Nothing diet about it," to the cans. But after my first sip I knew Diet Dr Pepper was like all the rest, a pale - if healthy - imitation of the original.

Surely this will catch up with me, perhaps sooner than I'd like. Severe stomach pains will lead to a visit to the clinic. When asked by the doctor how much soda I consume in a day, I'll start off by saying "a couple of cans," before he eventually pulls out the ugly truth. The doc will hold up an illustration showing what the inside of my stomach looks like now, and what it will look like in 10 years if the corrosion continues. Like Roy Hobbs, my stomach could explode if I continue.

Maybe then I'll make the switch.

There's only been one time in my life when I felt close to overdosing on soda. During a six-week trip to Cape Town in 2007, I drank nothing but Coke. Louise's mom stocked up after being told it was my favorite. Rumors of a Coke shortage in the country also led to the hoarding. She filled the fridge with cans. Boxes of Coke spilled out of closets. No Dr Pepper, no Pepsi to offset the increasing bitter taste of Coke. I became a Coke fiend and just wanted to stop. Ever since then I've been somewhat reluctant to buy Coke in bulk. I was like the kid who gets caught smoking by his dad and is then forced to finish off an entire carton to learn a lesson. I did learn that there is a thing as too much Coke.

But there can never be too much Dr Pepper. I'll be saying that on my deathbed, even if the drink puts me there.

General Mills saves children, ruins cereals

GENERAL MILLS REDUCING SUGAR IN KIDS' CEREAL

That's the headline. Here's the story.

Here's the tragedy. General Mills announced it would reduce the amount of sugar in cereals that are primarily marketed to kids, ie., Lucky Charms, Trix and Cocoa Puffs. The story focuses on how this will affect children, as I guess it should, since it's the most vulnerable among us who will suffer - er, benefit - the most from this change.

But Minneapolis-based General Mills is also messing with my midnight snack. I've been a Lucky Charms consumer for 30 years. For a change this big and life-altering, I feel like General Mills should have polled its most ardent supporters, preferably those of legal drinking- and sugar-eating age. Tell children what's good for them, but can't adults who know what's bad for them have the chance to enjoy themselves?

Disclaimer: I'm extremely healthy and have been since childhood. Haven't had a sick day at work in three years, probably only a handful in 12 years of full-time employment. As a kid I rarely got sick, unless the Lakers lost. Is there a correlation between my good health and the massive amount of Lucky Charms I consume on a yearly basis? I'm not saying that. But I'm also not not saying that.

So with that out of the way, yes, I ate Lucky Charms a couple times a week as a kid. It wasn't the end of the world, or my teeth, though I realize that has pretty much everything to do with genes and metabolism. I continue to eat it today, usually two bowls sometime after 11 p.m. No, it's not always Lucky Charms. Often it will be something healthy, like Wheaties or Life. Cheerios sometimes get a run. But when it's Lucky Charms or Cap'n Crunch or another of the targeted "sugar cereals," all is right with the world.

I used to pity my friends who never got to enjoy a sugar cereal. Did their parents also deprive them of love? Those kids are just fortunate they didn't turn out like Todd Marinovich.

So, what's General Mills going to do for me? Our children will be skinnier and will fit into their clothes better and diabetes rates will plummet as our morbidly obese youth are slimmed if no longer shunned. But what about Lucky Charms-eating adults? Do we have any platform to protest?

I didn't see any specific numbers in the story for Lucky Charms, though it says 10 cereals will be reduced to single-digit grams of sugar per serving. Great. Wonderful PR move. And Cocoa Puffs could see a 25 percent drop. Will that be a 25-percent drop in deliciousness?

"The reduction ... doesn't represent perfection but it represents improvement," said Kelly Brownell, noted buzzkill and director of the Rudd Center for Food Policy and Obesity at Yale. Brownell later bragged, "The cereal companies have really been under a lot of pressure."

So now that Big Tobacco has been somewhat humbled and reduced to Medium Tobacco, I guess it's time to set our sights on the evils of Big Cereal, tempting our kids with their magically delicious products.

Maybe we do need to protect children from themselves and the marketing genius that is the leprechaun. Isn't there a way to do that without offending those of us who are old enough to decide how much sugar we eat during the day?

Give us an adult version, one loaded with insane amounts of sugar. Put warning labels on it, something with a skull, or a 450-pound man with no teeth. Slap an NC-17 rating on the flap. Wrap the inside bag in the stuff used on CD casing. Force nervous, pimply faced teens to show fake IDs as they buy their Lucky Charms before picking up the beer their 22-year-old sister bought them at the nearby liquor store. Make the eating of sugar cereals a shameful thing. Just don't deprive adults of the thing that's made us loyal General Mills consumers: sugar.

We know the dangers of sugar cereals. Cocoa Puffs turn your milk a putrid brown. At the bottom of a Cap'n Crunch box, you'll be forced to pour out the crushed pieces that are now in a yellow powder form and pollute the bowl. The marshmallows in Lucky Charms get soggy if the box is left open. These are very real dangers. Cavities and diabetes...meh.

I'm sure someday I'll be forced to consume a diet rich in fiber and other bland substances. And when that time comes I'll dutifully pour my Wheaties or Total, and I won't even add a few spoonfuls of sugar. But until I'm following doctor's orders, I need my sugar cereal, day or night. I need my Lucky Charms. And Lucky Charms with less sugar just ain't Lucky Charms.

Anyone for tennis, or a non-cliche tennis headline?

On Tuesday I ventured to Queens for the second day of the U.S. Open. A friend graciously provided the ticket, saving $54. It seems steep, but the day session lasts from 11 a.m. until past six, so it's a reasonable price, considering ticket costs for two-hour basketball games, three-hour football games, and two-hour Broadway shows.

What's not reasonable are the concession stand prices. They make Manhattan rent prices look like a bargain. I bought a burger, fries and small Pepsi for $16.50. To be fair to the Open's price-gougers, they were waffle fries. This is the view from the top of Arthur Ashe Stadium. I didn't have my camera so this isn't my picture. Plus, my view wasn't this good.

Arthur Ashe stadium holds 22,000 people. People often criticize it for being much too large for tennis, and it's hard to disagree when you're sitting near the top of the facility, where it seems the overhead planes are closer than the players down below. There is a great view of Citi Field, the Mets's new stadium, and even from high up and far away, it's almost possible to see the failure on that field.

I caught the end of the decisive third set between the top seed in the women's draw, Dinara Safina, against a wild-card entrant who was expected to offer little resistance before politely waving to the crowd and exiting the tournament. Instead that player, Australian Olivia Rogowska, won the first set and led 3-0 in the third. Even from my high-altitude seats, the physical differences between the players was striking. Taking one look at them, it was obvious who the higher seed was. Safina - who's the top seed only because Venus and Serena Williams choose to play about four times a year - is powerfully built, in the Williams sisters mode. Rogowska, meanwhile, looked like Tracy Austin, circa 1979.

Although the seats weren't the best for seeing the match, I had no trouble hearing it. Safina's grunts reverberated all the way up to the should-be-but-aren't-cheap seats. If Ashe Stadium was big enough to hold 82,000 people, everyone could have still heard Safina's war cries, which simultaneously conveyed sounds of agony and ecstasy. Safina took control later in the set, sending Rogowska packing, but not before the plucky underdog fulfilled her duties and politely waved to the crowd.

The coolest thing about attending the early sessions is wandering around the outer courts. Ashe is home to the tournament's big dogs, but the outer courts have compelling action, and superior seating. I sat in the front row for a match between two players I'd never heard of (a Frenchman and an American; the match brought out the patriot in me. Alas, the Yank lost, shaming his country). But being courtside provides a unique and highly entertaining perspective. Television doesn't do tennis justice. The camera angles ensure that it's impossible to see just how powerful the players serve and strike their ground strokes. Men and women both. When seated in the middle of the court, and being just a few feet off of the playing surface, the power is breathtaking.

In the same way watching professional golfers in action gives you a better idea of how accurate they are with every shot, and in the same way sitting courtside for an NBA game shows you why they're the best athletes in the world, and in the same way being on the sidelines of an NFL game provides an argument that the evolution of the human body is out of control, being courtside at a professional tennis match brings about a new appreciation of the sport.

The grunting, however, is that much more annoying.

I caught parts of four or five other singles matches - nearly all of them involving players I couldn't name even with a program - and the conclusion of a doubles match. But the anonymity of the players is ultimately meaningless. While watching Federer, Nadal or the Williams sisters is the ultimate, there are always other compelling alternatives. The up-close action often trumps big names.

But sneak in a snack lunch.