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Better to be a Bitter Southerner


As Southerners, we get to choose what we keep and what we let go of. How you can love the South but hate the Flag.

Excuse me–and forgive me–for joining the bandwagon of people around our country who are demanding the removal of the Confederate flag from its official posts in South Carolina and elsewhere in the South.

I acknowledge it’s hardly a brave thing to say that the flag is overdue in its removal, particularly after none other than the likes of South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley and Senator Lindsey Graham have added their noteworthy voices to this chorus.

Indeed, much of Southern, conservative leadership has seemed to take on the cause of taking down the rebel Stars and Bars from the corner of the Capitol grounds in Columbia, SC. It is more than a little surprising, given how flaccid their opinions were only recently–but who am I to blame? It’s not like I’ve been standing on that soapbox myself as of late.

But before you pass too much judgment upon me and my desire to see the flag gone, allow me to share with you my story as a Southerner.

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What Happened When My Wife Blogged About Her Zero-Carb Life


Turns out, diet talk is hugely popular–and controversial.

Author’s update: This post originally appeared in my website’s forum; I’ve reposted it here, along with this exciting news: has now reached 1,000,000 page views

My wife, Kelly, has a pretty amazing story. A little more than ten years ago, she was overweight and miserable. When she went for an annual check-up with her doctor, he delivered sobering news: she needed to lose 100 pounds. Otherwise, she’d risk a lifetime of poor health. He had a simple but difficult suggestion: eating a very low-carbohydrate diet.

Sugars, which are the building blocks of most carbohydrates, are extraordinarily addictive. Science shows that eating sugar lights up the same neurons in your brain that blink on when you snort cocaine. If you’ve ever seen a kid wolf down a bowl of Sugar Smacks, this isn’t news to you.

Breaking addiction is extraordinarily difficult, and that’s the path my wife had to walk when it came to eating sugar. And, by God, she did it.

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This Sonnet of an Evening


The boy didn’t want to go to sleep.

He wanted Kel to read him his book–The Very Hungry Caterpillar for those of you playing along at home–and when he realized it was my turn to read to him before bed, his eyes welled up with tears. He drug out his little beanbag chair into the hall, pulling it up to Kel’s feet as if it were an offering, a way of begging into her arms for a nighttime story.

We compromised. (Julia, in her own way, let it be known she expected Mommy to read to her. I was chopped liver at that point, I guess.) Kel read Caterpillar to them both, one tucked on each side on their beanbag chairs, and I relaxed in the rocker in Thomas’s room, listening to their voices, to the cold rain drumming the rooftop.

T came back into the room afterward, still not entirely sure about letting me read to him, but soon enough we were finishing our third book (Scat Cat), and he still wanted another one.

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