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Sunday, May 28, 2017

Macular Degeneration Missed in 25% of Eye Exams │ Brain-Threatening Perchlorate in Baby Food Packaging │ Most Elective Knee Surgeries Are Useless

Finding myself home alone last evening, I decided to sample a T.V. series (via our Android TV Box) that I had not heard of before: Hindsight.

We have probably all pondered how our lives might have worked out far differently if something crucial had changed in our pasts ─ maybe that road not taken...or taken, if instead we had chosen to follow a key avenue that probably was a mistake.

I was entirely unfamiliar with lead actress Laura Ramsey; and although she made her character cute enough, I actually felt a slightly stronger attraction to the character played by actress Sarah Goldberg ─ whom I also had no familiarity with, and was surprised to later read that she was born in Vancouver (as was I).

By the finish of that pilot episode, I wanted more, so I tuned in the second episode, and grew more attached to Laura Ramsay and her character.

I am disappointed that the series opened and finished in 2015, having been cancelled; but I will watch the episodes that are still ahead for me.

It was 11:10 p.m. when I retired last night, and I was awake an hour later ─ I don't know what is going on with me. Definitely it was hot. I even tried sleeping with my head at the opposite end of the bed on the chance that the gas and electric metres outside the house's ground floor below the head of my bed may be bringing interference.

It would probably be better to sleep in the opposite side of the house.

I had a night of very fractured sleep, taking advantage once to pay a visit to the bathroom and drink some water. It was 6:41 a.m. when at last I checked the time and decided to rise for the day.

Only my youngest stepson Poté was home; and he rose right after I was downstairs awaiting the boiling of water for my day's first mug of hot blended instant coffee / cocoa powder. He soon left for work ─ or so it stands to reason.

I had engaged absolutely no exercise yesterday, so I intended to try for some in the backyard tool shed before my younger brother Mark was home from having overnighted at his girlfriend Bev's home. First, though, I wanted to get roughly half the work done I had planned for today on the new post I am putting together at my Latin Impressions website.

I figured that taking a break around 9:00 a.m. would afford me plenty of time, and the shed would still be reasonably cool.

Well, Mark sure fooled me ─ he showed up just ahead of 8:30 a.m. I cannot remember when he last may have gotten home as early as that.

So when he entered his bedroom here upstairs ─ he usually has a shower immediately after getting home from a Saturday night at Bev's residence ─ I had no option but to ready myself and get on out to that shed.

I did drop the last two of the five exercises I have of late adopted as my regimen, but the most strenuous of that lot of five exercises are five sets of pull-ups ─ I performed those. But I am suffering tendinitis at the insides of my elbows, the right elbow suffering the worst.

I keep hoping to adjust to the strain. But if things just progressively worsen, then as much as I hate the notion, I won't have any choice but to lay off.

It seems that Mark decided to have a good nap before he had his shower ─ I needn't have dropped the two exercises that I skipped. And just as I said about him arriving home as early as he did, I cannot remember when last he sought a nap before having his shower.

When finally he did emerge from his bedroom and went downstairs to have his coffee and breakfast, before the forenoon was done he was back in his bedroom for a bit further rest.

I can only suppose that he must have badly abused himself with the drinking yesterday. Yet right around noon, he headed away again and won't be home until the late afternoon or early evening. At some point, he will hook up with his girlfriend Bev and his drinking buddies.

At his departure, I decided to seek my own nap, having finished my first meal of the day somewhat before.

Strangely, though, I found myself unable to sink towards slumber. I didn't waste too long trying. I recognized that I was indeed wasting time; and since I actually felt reasonably well, I decided to instead do some sunning on the backyard sundeck.

And so I did ─ a little over an hour. I began around 12:26 p.m., and called a halt at 1:31 p.m.

It is now 2:51 p.m., and I am still happily home alone.

And since there is nothing else to report thus far concerning my day, I wish to post this old photo that I scanned recently ─ the description beneath is from the Google album where I have the scan filed. Note that I just recently posted what appears to be another version of the same photo:

My mother Irene Dorosh.

I am unable to guess where the photo may have been taken, but I would estimate that it would have been taken sometime during the decade of the 1990s.
I think that her left eye may have been patched, for I do recall that for quite some while, she suffered from the breakage of a blood vessel in one of her eyes.

I may as well post this photo, too:

This photo from my mother Irene Dorosh's collection is just about impossible for me to conjecture as to location or date.

Speaking of eyes, I would very much like to have my eyes examined by someone skilled enough to unfailingly detect any signs of eye disease. Unfortunately, despite what we may hear, not all eye examiners have the expertise to pick up on the earliest signs of trouble.

Note these reports concerning a revisit of the eye exam records of 644 people who had been cleared of having any notable problems ─ in these cases, relating to age-related macular degeneration (AMD or AMRD):




My vision at the age of 67 is extremely bad, and I would love to have my eyes checked out by someone very skilled. However, I do not have the quality of life that leads me to care to consider any sort of eye surgery as an option.

Perhaps once I am well off? ─ if that big lottery win arrives soon, for instance.


Are you familiar with perchlorate?

You sure don't want to be eating it, but if's pretty much inescapable if you eat packaged foods. And since it "threatens fetal and infant brain development," those most precious versions of us should not be exposed simply because some stinking food manufacturer's packages have less static when this toxin is added to the material.

If you care, you can read about what's going on in these reports:




As usual where industry and government are concerned, "Them's the risks, folks!"

We have to understand that profit and Big Industry matter before all else.


Yet another study has come out declaring that people are better off taking a pass on elective knee surgery for conditions like arthritic pain or partial meniscus tears.

If you are considering any such procedure, then pay heed to the following reports:






If you can read reports like these and still go ahead with the type of surgery being spoken about, then you only have yourself to blame. 

That last report claimed that there was to be a follow-up report on the topic later the same day. Well, it seems to have been pulled from the website, for there is no longer any trace of it. 

However, I did happen to have my own copy ─ can you see any reason that the website may have been forced to pull the article?
The knee shot you don't want
It's official. New guidelines admit the surgery pushed on MILLIONS of arthritis patients won't do a thing to ease your aching knees.

So, surgery's off the table.

But you've GOT to do SOMETHING, right?

Your doc will claim he's got just the ticket. He'll swear he's got a backup option to ease the agony, stop the damage, and give you that relief you've been looking for.

He'll offer to pump your knee so full of steroids it'll be the next home run champ.

Don't let him, my friend.

New research shows this treatment's about as effective as that surgery I told you about this morning.

It doesn't work!

In fact, over the long run, steroid shots can actually make your knees WORSE, not better.

In the new study, 140 patients were either injected with corticosteroids or a placebo every three months.

This isn't like an ordinary shot, either. It's not a quick prick into a meaty part of the body... but an injection directly into your knee.


It can hurt like heck, and some folks actually feel MORE PAIN for a couple of days afterward. It might be worth it, too, if that little surge in agony was followed by a dramatic drop in pain.

We'd all make that tradeoff, right?

But that's not what happened here.

There were no differences at all in pain levels in the folks who got the steroids vs. those who got the placebo injections, and not just after a few weeks or months.

This study went on and on and on for TWO FULL YEARS, with folks getting shot up every three months in hopes of getting a little pain relief.

They didn't get it. Even after two years, the pain levels in the two groups were the same.

And that's not all.

The folks given the steroid shots actually had MORE damage inside the knee, suffering from DOUBLE the drop in the thickness of the cartilage!

It might seem like you're running out of options here.

No surgery, no steroids, no hope, right?


Your knees don't WANT to fall apart. They just don't have the one ingredient they need to support the cartilage that's crumbling away in there.

Give it to them -- give them the collagen they can use to to protect, repair and even rebuild the crumbling cartilage so you have less pain and more movement.

The one "catch" here is that not all collagen supplements can be effectively absorbed by your body and used by your knees. Look for UC-II, which is so good for arthritis that studies show it works BETTER than the old standbys, glucosamine and chondroitin.

You'll find it available both on its own and as part of a quality joint support blend.

With a 'shot' of common sense....

And now it is time for me to close out with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. The house I was renting the small space in was located on Ninth Street, and a couple houses up from Third Avenue.

I had recently become employed on a full-time basis with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

In those early years, S.A.N.E. was located in an old building that used to be situated right where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now opens up onto Carnarvon Street.

I had previous experience with this organization, having worked for them on a part-time basis ─ usually just a day a week ─ for somewhere between one to two years. However, I had served as a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck; but in my new full-time capacity, I was not required on the truck.

In fact, I did not have much requirement at all, and time tended to be an enormous weight that I was often forced to bear.
FRIDAY, May 28, 1976

At last Friday!

It may have taken me past midnight to fall asleep, but I didn't rouse till 6:30 a.m., actually believing it to be Saturday momentarily.

This morning at work I did next to nothing; David dropped by for a lengthy visit. We only broke up shortly past 1:00 p.m. at Safeway where I bought an apple pie and some boysenberry yogurt for tonight. David wants Bill & I to pick him up around noon tomorrow or Sunday; he is going to phone Bill tonight to make sure, and learn what are our plans re Harry.

On my way to Safeway I was certain I saw Mark getting into a yellow car, the 2 girls in the back seat; he was getting out of the liquor store, apparently.

After lunch, I made the street just in time to see Mike Schutz; he was headed back to work with 2 others.

The day really dragged. Art phoned and invited me over, but I put him off. Then mom phoned; she definitely is going to Vernon with Alex on the weekend.

Our cheques didn't come in today.

After work I waited for Bill, all day dreaming of my pot roast dinner to be bought. Well, he came ─ well after 8:30 p.m., professing to have worked late.

Yeah. 10 minutes, I later learned.

He'd run around buying hamburgers for himself and his mother. Then he picked up a female hitchhiker and took her to Middlegate. And he'd even gone home to change, answering Harry's phone call.

I wanted to eat, but let him persuade me into going over to visit Cathy, he buying 2 bottles of wine (well, 1 Red Devil, and a 4-pak of Lonesome Charlie).

He went out later that eve to buy 3 hamburgers & chips orders, but I refused to eat, or drink much.

Wendy came over.

I phoned Harry; we're to fish tomorrow.

This is the last Friday I'll let [myself] depend on Bill.

Bed at 1:30 a.m.
It was my old friend Philip David Prince who came by S.A.N.E. for an extended visit with me. He had his own room in New Westminster, but we did not see much of one another ─ I tended to avoid him.

I usually went home for lunch, so it was during that break that I headed over to Safeway with David where we parted company, firmly believing that I saw my younger brother Mark climbing into a yellow car that also had his girlfriend Jeanette's two little girls in the back seat.

My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that mightn't have been much more than four blocks from my room. Bill had a nice car, so he was always our 'wheels.'

Bill also had a hooked-up telephone ─ a phone was a luxury I could not afford.

I had learned of a pot roast sale ─ I think I wrote that they were going for 69¢ a pound. Bill wanted in on the deal, so we had arranged that he would come by my room to pick me up and we would go shopping for them after we had both finished working that day.

I am unsure if Mike Schutz was working at S.A.N.E. or elsewhere. I liked the guy. He was  probably darned near 6½ feet tall, but was very lean.

The afternoon phone call at S.A.N.E. from Art Smith was from a former co-worker who had worked there ─ Art was in his early 40s, and loved to drink. But I had other plans for my evening ─ a fabulous pot roast supper!

The call from my mother Irene Dorosh was to confirm to me that she and her husband were heading up to Vernon to check out property prices.

Anyway, I got home after work, and began the wait for Bill.

Of course he would have claimed to have had to work late, but he couldn't help talking and saying too much, so I was soon to learn the full truth.

Middlegate ─ where he took the female hitchhiker ─ was a shopping plaza or centre at 7155 Kingsway in Burnaby:

The previous weekend, we had been drinking in the main hotel in Cloverdale, and I recognized an old school chum from when I went to Surrey Centre Elementary School during the second half of the 1950s.

This is in fact my Grade II class photo at that school, which would have been the 1956-1957 school term:

Harry is the blonde kid wearing suspenders, and seated just to the right of the school sign. I am three rows up and directly above that sign ─ I am also wearing suspenders, and my hair looks brushed straight up. 

But I am becoming most sidetracked.

Bill wanted to go over and visit my younger brother Mark's girlfriend with some drinks ─ Catherine Jeanette Gunther and Mark were living in a rented home that they shared, located on Bentley Road in Whalley.

Mark was working an afternoon / evening shift, so he was not going to be present.

From the sound of it, I had become petulant where Bill was concerned, and wanted nothing to do with his fast food; nor was I in the mood for much convivial socializing via drink.

Wendy Halverson ─ my young maternal cousin ─ made an unannounced visit. 


One final thing. 

Yesterday in this blog I was whining how over the course of that and the two preceding days, my hours and hours of work on my websites and the blog only earned me a measly 1¢ in total in my AdSense account.

Well. when I logged into the account today just prior to starting today's post, my account had somehow generated $2.56 ─ how can there be such a swing in value?!

Saturday, May 27, 2017

The Latest on Health Dangers from Cellphones │ One in Three Medications Found to Be 'Risky' │ Common Pain Relievers Found to Increase Heart Attack Risk

My younger brother Mark passed out for a short while last evening as we watched T.V. Neither one of us gets a kick out of sitting up late anymore just to watch T.V., so at 11:00 p.m. he called it an evening and headed on upstairs to his bedroom.

This freed me up to also get to bed, and I believe that I was into it by 11:08 p.m.

A typical night of broken sleep. I remember at one break being reluctant to get up to use the bathroom and drink some water out of concern of disturbing Mark ─ and then it dawned upon me that we were into the weekend and he did not have to rise early for work.

I started my day this morning at 6:30 a.m., soon getting to work on the post I am putting together at my Latin Impressions website. Mark had risen before I had quite performed all of the allotted work I had intended on the post for today.

When I did complete that targeted amount of work, I had ─ as too often is usual ─ declined, and was keen on a return to bed for a nap. I believe that it was 10:16 a.m. once I was comfortably back in bed.

I napped and dreamed; and it may have been something like 11:24 a.m. when I rallied myself and rose. By then, Mark had apparently returned to bed for his own nap.

Finding myself to be distinctly hungry, I fixed myself up my first meal of the day, and I am still feeling rather filled by it as I type these words at 2:28 p.m. Mark has already left for the day, and had said that he was likely to be seeking out a relaxing setting to enjoy some sunshine for a time before he hooks up with his girlfriend Bev and his drinking buddies.

The day seems likely to be a throwaway where I am concerned. I won't be out lying upon the sundeck, and I certainly won't be trying for any exercise in the backyard tool shed ─ it will be too hot inside that shed, quite apart on how full I am feeling.

Both of my stepsons are home, and eldest stepson Tho had suggested that he might do some yard work ─ at a minimum, mow the lawn. There is a slim chance that I might yet seek to sit in the sunshine in the backyard for awhile, but I would prefer to do more than just sun my front.

It is strange, but after first rising early this morning, I felt rather able-bodied ─ I was desirous of my day's first mug of hot blended instant coffee / cocoa powder, but I was able to could conceive of having it in me to embark upon a goodly long walk.

However, even though there is so little reward for it, I had the duty of that website work. There would be no time in the afternoon for working at it ─ this blog sucks away all available afternoon time.

And I keep asking myself why I bother? I should forsake blogging, and become more physically active once again. AdSense certainly isn't sustaining me. In checking into my account balance just prior to commencing this post, I saw that one of my six hosted websites ─ My Retirement Dream ─ had generated 1¢ so far today, whereas I never accrued anything at all through my website nor this blog during the previous two entire days.

Why bother indeed ─ a cent in three days for the many hours I put in?

...Well, Tho has chosen mid-afternoon to get at that mowing. There is another project that will involve removal of some blackberry vines to facilitate accessing a wooden fence that has at least a couple of primary support posts that require replacing, but it will surprise me if he dares to tackle that job.

I have an old photo that I scanned and wish to post ─ the description beneath is from the Google album where I have the scan filed:

My mother Irene Dorosh.

I cannot guess where the photo was taken, but it certainly does not seem to be anywhere in British Columbia (Canada) ─ not with those apparent palms in the background. And is she not looking up into a citrus fruit tree?

The dating could be from the late 1960s to anytime during the decade of the 1970s.

Cellphone users certainly are reluctant to hear or read information identifying how harmful their phones really are ─ these devotees do not care to even learn about and employ recommended safeguards, so determined are they to know absolutely nothing of any of the potential harms.

Here are a couple of recent reports for the very few people who might actually look at the articles:



I am in no wise a nomophobe, but I at least understand how difficult it is for so many people to discover that they are no longer in possession of their phone ─ whether they have forgotten it somewhere, or however they are without it. Maybe their phone has been carelessly allowed to just run out of juice.

I find myself somewhat uncomfortable to find that I have left home without my functioning phone, but that is only because of concern of missing a call from my wife Jack. The only other three people I will answer a call from are my two stepsons and my younger brother Mark.

I have never used my phone to listen to music or watch videos ─ not even once. Nor do I have it linked up to Facebook, nor my E-mail account.

Apart from calls and texts with the aforementioned four people, the only other purpose I use my phone for is to read the time.

At night when my wife is staying in Vancouver, I leave my phone on the floor beside my bed, but I am wondering if maybe that is nearly as bad as having it on a bedside night-table? Maybe I will make an effort to leave it on the dresser after this, if I remember to think of it.


Just how dangerous are medications ─ overall, that is?

Well, it's bad. It's almost like playing Russian roulette with a gun that only has three bullet chambers in the cylinder.

Note these recent reports:





And now the FDA is looking to accelerate the approval of new medications?


I am so pleased that I am not on any sort of prescription.


Now expanding on medication risks, recent research has discovered that common painkillers like what you most likely have in your own home elevate the risk of initiating a heart attack.

Here are some reports about this:





Naturally there are plenty of physicians willing to step forth and minimize the threat ─ after all, they likely recommend or prescribe the painkillers to their own patients. One article stated this, based upon what one 'authority' not involved in the study said:
If risk was already low in a person, a 20% to 50% increased risk is not that much cause for concern.
How many of us know beyond any doubt that we have not reached a stage in life where we are at risk of a heart attack, but have just not yet discovered the fact? Heart attacks strike people every day who never had one before, and were sure not expecting to have one.

And remember, this is just the latest bad discovery about these medications. What else is ahead awaiting uncovering?


I saw that Tho made a stab at cutting out some of the blackberry vines, but he quickly abandoned the task and settled upon lawn-mowing.

I have spent the day inside, alas. But more sunny days are directly ahead, and ─ after all ─ I was not home alone. Had I been, I am confident that I would have had a different sort of day.

I am closing off now with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. My tiny suite was being rented in a house located on Ninth Street, and maybe two houses up from Third Avenue.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had been hired full-time ─ perhaps on a three- or even four-month contract ─ by a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Eds) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

I had previous history with the organization ─ for possibly close to two years, I had often worked for them on a part-time basis, usually just a day a week. I had been a swamper on their blue pick-up truck.

But in my new role, I did not have that assignment ─ there were already a couple of young fellows performing that duty. So I found myself with practically nothing to fill my time ─ it was often arduous trying to pass the hours.

The day prior to this entry, young Dwayne Johnston or Johnson ─ one of the actual swampers ─ took it upon himself to buy lots of beer and liquor midday, and he and I got carried away partying. We carried it over to the home of an older former S.A.N.E. co-worker, Art Smith, who was in his early 40s.

He and his family were living in the bottom portion of a house they were renting that was not too very far from S.A.N.E. And S.A.N.E. itself was then located in an old building now gone, but which used to be situated right where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station spreads out onto Carnarvon Street.
THURSDAY, May 27, 1976

What a trap I'm in; I need to be free!

I was up before 6:00 a.m., somewhat hungover but mostly tired. 

I can't sleep any more. I spent from 8:20 a.m. - 9:20 a.m. resting up abed.

I worked on the truck this morning, with Took who has been hired to replace Eugene for a couple weeks.

Dwayne didn't work today, though he came around and shared a joint with me.

This was my most weary afternoon at S.A.N.E. yet, though little work was done; I was so sleepy I decided to come straight home and bed.

I roused about 7:45 p.m., a little over 2 hours after retiring, I guess. I am leaving for mom's about 8:00 p.m.; my second day without torso exercise.

Anyway, I stopped at Bill's place to tell him to pick me up tomorrow after work and we'd go buy pot roasts; I barely aroused enough drive to leave his place.

I got to mom's about 9:40 p.m. There was no mail. She might drop in at S.A.N.E. tomorrow.

On the weekend she & Alex might go to Vernon, seeking property values.

My bedtime is about 11:35 p.m.
"Took" was a likable Indigenous Canadian I had known casually through S.A.N.E. for maybe a couple of years. He was several years older than I. "Eugene" is lost to memory.

My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that mightn't have been much more than four blocks from my room.

I truly marvel at my endurance, for it was no small matter to walk to my mother's home ─ which was my main mailing address. She and her husband Alex were living in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey ─ their little home is now gone, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue. 

A hike to get there from my room was about 1½ hours of rather rapid-paced walking. And since I say no differently, it would appear that I also walked back to my room afterward.

I have no idea how I was able to do this if I was as weary all day long as I described.

When I read about my younger self, it hurts me that I never got the breaks to get an early start at making something of my life. I had so much potential.

As I have often proclaimed, if the Internet had existed back then as it does today, my life would have been so different from what it is today that there could be no comparing the two.

But I was socially isolated, and knew very little of making my way in the world. I didn't have the social skills, and was also limited in that I never got my driver's licence. 

To this day, that has remained so.

And now I find myself feeling...sad.

Friday, May 26, 2017

Walking and Peripheral Artery Disease │ Resveratrol Found to Reduce Aortic Stiffness │ Bad Diets Cannot Be Burned off with Sufficient Exercise │ Alzheimer's Disease and Thinness

It took my younger brother Mark at least 45 minutes to finally bring himself into the house after arriving home from the bar last evening around 8:15 p.m.

I will not elaborate. To know of him is to understand.

When his bedtime rolled around ─ normally 10:30 p.m. or so, for he has to rise at 4:20 a.m. on workdays ─ he must have felt too rejuvenated to be heading on up to his bedroom quite so soon. And in fact, at 10:40 p.m., he cracked open a final can of beer.

This delay on his part to retire of course delayed my own bedtime, and it was 10:58 p.m. before I was finally bedded down.

And the short blocks of sleep continue, the first terminating during the midnight hour for the second consecutive night. When I found myself awake enough to check the time around 12:45 a.m., I opted to use the opportunity for a bathroom break and a drink of water.

Thus progressed my night of fitful bouts of sleep. At least I was comfortable enough there in bed.

I think it may have been around 6:41 a.m. this morning when I made my last check of the time and decided to rise to continue work upon the post I am constructing at my Latin Impressions website.

I was to find that my eldest stepson Tho had gone to work; and my youngest stepson Poté rose while I was involved in preparing my day's first mug of hot blended instant coffee / cocoa powder. He was soon to also leave for work, leaving me alone in the house.

I felt myself to be a little haler than usual. However, by the time I had put in the day's expected amount of work on that post, I had declined. There must surely be something inimical about being seated here in front of my computer, staring back and forth from keyboard to monitor.

If I was to recover enough to tackle some exercise out in the backyard tool shed, then a rest back in my bed would be required. It was still comfortably in the forenoon.

I did revive adequately, and was soon able to have that exercise.

And then I got busy preparing for a sunning session on the backyard sundeck, for the day was sunny and cloudless. My session began at 12:11 p.m., and extended through to about 1:54 p.m.

I use a sort of mat to lie upon ─ the type of cover that would be used to protect items of cargo in the back of a big truck. It isn't padded too much. After about a half-hour, my pelvic joints begin to dramatically suffer. My femurs feel as if they have practically become dislodged from their sockets, and I have to use the utmost care to try and shift position when it becomes time to roll over ─ the painful discomfort makes me concerned that a dislocation could indeed occur in initiating the position change.

I nearly truncated my session out there due to the great discomfort. It is too unpleasant to keep enduring day after day. This was just my second such day, and as said, I almost called it short.

I had half-expected that Tho would show up early from work, but he never did.

With my sunning session finished, it was time to have my first meal of the day. Included was the third and final chicken foot ─ my wife Jack had inadvertently left the dish of three in the fridge when she left here on Wednesday to drive on back in to Vancouver. As I explained in yesterday's post, she had phoned me late on Wednesday, and asked that I try to eat them, for she was unsure when she might be back home.

Somehow, she deems chicken feet to be a delicious delicacy, but they give me the creeps.

I dutifully steeled myself yesterday and managed to munch down the toes, cartilage, and little bit of flesh attached to the two I confronted yesterday, but I had to leave the third one for today. Even thinking of chewing up the unpalatable morsels is making me involuntarily screw my face up into a wince.

I will impress upon Jack that she must not be so careless again as to leave such challenging fare for me to have to clean up.

She phoned me towards the mid-afternoon today, enquiring about a batch of bok choy or some such vegetable that she had set up to naturally ferment ─ Monday evening, I think. It had been left in an aluminum pot, and I had advised that it was likely better off being in a small plastic bucket that had once held honey.

She wondered to me if I had made the changeover, which I had. Satisfied, she then asked where it was: "Sitting on the counter."

So she asked me to place it into the fridge.    

She gave no indication that she planned on coming home at any point today, so I am not expecting her. But one never really knows.

I have been steadily sampling portions of a batch of fermenting purple cabbage and purple onions that I prepared ─ possibly over two weeks ago. It is still unrefrigerated, and so deliciously sour that I use it to top off my meals. It seems able to clean off any lingering morsels of the meal from my teeth, rendering my choppers squeaky clean.

But as soon as I finish the helping of fermented cabbage / onions, I have to rinse off my teeth with plenty of water. I seriously believe that the juice has become so acidic that it is probably dangerous for my teeth to leave any of the 'bath' remaining in my mouth.


My poor father Hector may have suffered from peripheral artery disease ─ I just never knew that it had a medical term. The skin around his ankles was purple and ulcerated, with much flaking of surface skin tissue.

He seemed to have had the condition as long as I knew him, but probably not as bad as in his later years. He died from a heart attack ("acute myocardial infarction") in Vancouver's Kingsgate Mall in 1983, 10 days after his 62nd birthday.

He also had "pulmonary oedema" and "generalized atherosclerosis."

Those are all quotes from his Registration of Death.

He had just come from a doctor's office where he had gone to try and get use of something like an oxygen tank because he was having such a hard time breathing, but the doctor had turned him away because my father had no appointment and the doctor preferred to believe there was some hypochondria in play.

Yeah, right.

I think my father may have at least been given a prescription for nitroglycerine. His new wife left him seated on a bench outside of a pharmacy while she went in to get the prescription filled, but his attack struck in the interim.

Emergency medical personnel were of course summoned, and he was lain upon the floor with his shirt torn open while they worked on him. His wide, terrified eyes were locked upon his new wife's where she stood with a gathering crowd of gawkers.

But I am digressing badly. I wanted to quote this piece concerning peripheral artery disease ─ a small study has found how certain stretching enabled sufferers to handle a return to walking as a therapeutic exercise. This is from NewMarketHealth.com:
You know that walking is really good for your health, but if you're one of the millions who suffer from peripheral artery disease, a simple walk around the block can be nearly impossible.

It's a vicious cycle -- that aching and burning in your muscles prevents you from staying active, yet, by not doing so, you're only making the problem worse.

A preliminary study presented at a recent meeting of the American Heart Association, however, may have found a solution!

The research team had 13 peripheral artery disease sufferers (whose average age was 71) do half-an-hour a day of leg stretching exercises with the help of a splint that improved flexibility in their ankles.

The results were extremely encouraging, reducing pain and improving blood flow to the point where participants could walk farther during a six minute test, as well as prolonging their ability to walk before having to stop.

Senior author Judy Muller-Delp, a professor of biomedical sciences at Florida State University College of Medicine, described the therapy as "a very safe, easy intervention that can be done at home and has the potential to really improve your tolerance for walking." The therapy is recommended for anyone whose ability to walk has been curtailed by peripheral artery disease.

If you've never used a splint to help you stretch, a physical therapist can show you how to wear and adjust one. The researchers believe this simple solution can restore your "comfort and confidence" in walking to the point where you could even participate in a walking exercise program.

And that sounds a whole lot better than being sidelined with pain that can make simply walking into the kitchen an ordeal!
Here are a couple of other reports about the study:



I miss my father.


This is something I just recently included mention about in my blog, but the study ought not to be neglected ─ it concerns a surprisingly beneficial effect that resveratrol had on severely hardened aortic arteries.

These two reports tell you about the study and resveratrol:



As I said when last I broached the resveratrol subject, I had to quit supplying myself with the supplement after I officially retired in early April 2011 ─ my monthly pension just couldn't handle the cost burden.

But perhaps the supplement has become more reasonable in pricing? I intend to give it a check the next time I stock up on other supplements I still keep myself supplied with.


When I was a younger man, I believed that sufficient exercise could compensate for a poor diet. I guess I had in mind old-time loggers, miners, railroad workers, and farmers who might eat like horses three times a day, but who also worked from sunup to sundown.

Well, there are not many people who can exercise to that degree.

And some researchers are espousing this fact ─ that is, that diet is far, far more important to weight loss than exercise could ever be.

Here is one commentary on this:


This was the research that commentary was referring to ─ and for a change in a research journal, it is a rather easy read:


Unfortunately, the 'myth' that a bad diet can just be burned off with sufficient activity will not easily be dispelled.


Recent research has concluded that although so many Alzheimer's disease sufferers are thin, being thin seems to have had no cause at all for having developed Alzheimer's disease.

Instead, it is likely that having Alzheimer's disease brings on weight loss.

Here are some reports on the study that arrived at this conclusion:




I am not quite sure if maybe part of the plot was lost in that last report.


I have lost the afternoon ─ I must close now.

I shall do so with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. The small affair I was renting was in a house on Ninth Street, and perhaps two houses up from Third Avenue.

I had quite recently been hired full-time by a charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society. I think that it was only a three- or four-month contract, but I was hating it ─ there was nothing for me to do, and time wore so darned heavily upon me.

I had worked for S.A.N.E. in the past ─ for many, many months on a part-time basis of just a day a week, usually. But I had swamped on their blue pick-up truck.

But this time, not only did I have practically nothing to do, I had a later start in the day, and thus also got off work later than I cared.

In those years, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building that used to be located where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now opens up onto Carnarvon Street.

Note that in the following journal entry, the handwriting becomes very sloppy after I start recounting my day at work ─ I clearly detailed it after getting drunk and coming home.
WEDNESDAY, May 26, 1976

I arose at 6:30 a.m., and am tired.

Bill is going to come for me tonight after work.

I did my laundry, and it's raining; I bought 2 comics and a "Little House on the Prairie" TV Guide.

Gee, did I ever get plastered today.

At noon Dwayne went wild for booze: a couple dozen and a few mickeys. Anyway, we even hit Art's.

What eventually resulted was we boozed at Art's (Dwayne must have blown $20; I'm committed to Tuesday's treat). Angie & I got in some kissing. Hell! I'm doubtless damned!

I'm writing after 7:30 p.m. And I'm obviously drunk; I'm heading to Bill's.

Well, I swam around at Bill's till well past 10:00 p.m., then came home.

I had a note from the landlady saying she wouldn't be home June 1, and to pay the gal upstairs.

Too, I had a "note of appreciation" from the Scotiabank for my account.

Jeepers, I feel like an idiot, discussing Evelyn with Dwayne, and owing him a drunk.

Not too long past 11:00 p.m. Anne Greenwood sneaked me off (Penthouse).

Bed at 11:10 p.m.
My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that may have been little more than about four blocks from my room.

I used a laundromat to do my laundry ─ I believe that it was up on Sixth Avenue, very near to the library. I have no memory anymore what store it was that I would have bought the two comics and the TV Guide at ─ this is the cover of someone's copy of that latter publication:

Dwayne Johnston or Johnson was one of the truck swampers ─ a good-looking young lad whose sister Evelyn and I were in the early throes of a relationship maybe a year earlier.

However, she was at least seven years younger than I was, so I was reluctant to get intimate with her. I had no doubt that she was a virgin.

I proved too good at keeping her at arm's length, and lost out. I would love to rehearse what actually happened, but the day has grown too late ─ my younger brother Mark will be showing up from the bar at any time now.

Young Dwayne and I must have headed over to the home of Art Smith ─ another former S.A.N.E. part-timer, and who was in his early 40s, married to Angelina (Angie), and with three kids.

Art loved to drink.

I don't recall this episode with Dwayne, but where concerns Art's wife Angie, suffice to say that she liked me a little too much ─ she was in her early 30s, and certainly an attractive enough woman.

As I said, though, I have no memory of what went on that day, so I can explain nothing. But it seems that I was supposed to treat Dwayne to a drunk on Tuesday the next week.

Despite my condition, after getting home and penning a few lines, I did wander over and visit my friend Bill ─ he must have been thrilled.

That "note of appreciation" from Scotiabank was for the bank account that I opened up the week before ─ my very first bank account. And I have no memory of it ─ I always thought that my first bank account was opened up at a credit union.

As for the last item in my journal entry, I will just say that Anna Greenwood was one of the models in a Penthouse magazine I had.

Okay, I must proofread this post and then get it published.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Musing Upon Bread │ Overzealous Use of Antibiotics a Deadly Practice │ Sutherlandia Frutescens: A 'Secret Weapon' for Health and Longevity? │ Dietary Change...or Risky ADHD Drugs?

My younger brother Mark surprised me by actually remaining conscious throughout last evening after he came home from the bar ─ it was his second consecutive evening spent in that alert state.

He sat up until approximately 10:40 p.m. before heading on upstairs to his bedroom for the night ─ he still has to get up at 4:20 a.m. for work. This delayed my own bedtime by about 10 minutes, and so I was not in bed until 10:52 p.m.

I just cannot seem to generate any lengthy bouts of sleep. Upon finding myself sufficiently awake to decide I should take advantage of the opportunity to have a bathroom break and drink some water, I found that it was only into the midnight hour.

That is a pathetic first block of sleep ─ maybe an hour?

And so went my night, although I was comfortable enough in bed. And it was 6:14 a.m. when I checked the time this morning and decided to get up for the day.

Initially I suspected that my eldest stepson Tho had not gone to work, but after I went downstairs to make my day's first mug of hot blended instant coffee / cocoa powder, I saw the door to his sleeping area to be open ─ he closes it anytime he has gone to bed.

His younger brother Poté was still in bed, but he rose right after I had taken my beverage upstairs here to my computer, and he was also soon to leave for work. And I was alone.

I continued work over the morning on the new post I have in draft at my Latin Impressions website. It concerned me that I was not sparking up, though ─ I felt ill rested despite my night in bed. There seemed something more elementally amiss with me.

The day was sunny. I wanted to get in some sunbathing on the backyard sundeck, but I also wanted to engage some exercise in the backyard tool shed before the day grew too warm. Yet it did not seem possible ─ not the way I was feeling.

So I gambled that lying down would help, potentially even napping a little. It was still the forenoon.

I relaxed deeply; and soon enough I realized that it would be very easy for me to remain in that state for a long, long while. Did I dare yield myself up to bed-rest at the cost of the other things I should be doing with my time?

I looked at the clock, and saw that it was still not quite the noon-hour ─ perhaps 11:45 a.m. I recognized that it would most likely be folly to submit to the temptation to remain as I was.

And so I got myself up.

I underwent a hunt for some shorts or a pair of square-leg-style swim trunks; and when I located a pair and tried them on, I actually inspired myself by how I appeared ─ muscular and fit-looking.

And thus was resurrected that version of me that I never expected to find today.

I had a strong workout in the shed. And then at exactly 12:26 p.m., I lied down on the sundeck and commenced what was to prove to be better than 1½ hours of sunbathing. When I decided to stop and checked the time, it was 2:01 p.m.

But I knew that I was no longer home alone. Not 10 minutes into my sunbathing session I heard one of my stepsons home, and soon rampaging about in the kitchen fixing himself a lunch. I correctly presumed that it would be Tho, home again from work early for a second consecutive day.

And of course, the kitchen light had to go on ─ it matters not that the Sun is blazing forth gloriously. That ate at me as I continued my sunning session, not wishing to interrupt my time in the Sun by breaking from it to come into the house to turn off the infernal light.

Tho doesn't contribute a cent towards utilities, so why should electricity matter to him?

But I am just upsetting myself by rehearsing this ─ I must get off the topic.

Once my sunning was over with, it was time to finally have my first meal of the day. I had grown most hungry. And there was a purpose to it.

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, my wife Jack had left here that day to return to Vancouver after being home since late Monday afternoon (or possibly the early evening) ─ a rare two-day spread of her presence.

She was to later phone me and let me know that she had inadvertently left a dish in the fridge that she had meant to take with her ─ a dish of chicken feet, a 'delicacy' she has quite a taste for.

Well, she was concerned that she mightn't be back home for several days, so she invited me to try and eat them to avoid risking having to just throw them out. I could only offer to try, for as I said to her, the things give me the creeps.

I was going to have to be ravenous to dare try them.

So I rounded up a bowl of a couple of things she had prepared, and atop that I placed two of the three chicken feet that I located in a plastic container in the fridge. There were also a couple of pork chops, so I took one of those.

And so with a bit of pork, some chicken toes, and some of the mixed fare in the bowl, I began the grimaced task of chewing my slow way through my brunch.

It definitely took determination. And I only managed to endure two chicken feet as opposed to just one because I did not want to have more than one foot confronting me at a future meal ─ a meal that most certainly will not be later today.

Once I had finished my meal, I fixed up a third mug of hot blended instant coffee / cocoa powder ─ I only rarely have three of these beverages, but this was my reward...and a very good palate-cleanser.

Thank Heaven there were only three of these feet!

Incidentally, just in case you may be thinking that they were deep fried or something, they were not. They were merely stewed at best, or simply boiled at worst. And being cold right out of the fridge, they were doubly unpalatable.

Yesterday I meant to post three photos that were sent to me early in the morning, but I had actually forgotten about them.

They were sent by Elena, a Russian woman I first began E-mail correspondence with back in the year 2000.

Like many Russian women using the Web to reach out, she had hopes and dreams of making it to the West ─ by way of marriage, if possible.

She had a young son named Roman ─ for some reason, in the photo of the two of them together, she rather reminded me of actress Meg Ryan:

This is a photo of me from 2001 ─ a selfie I took by using a mirrored window one weekend on a floor (an outdoor patio) of the Vancouver office building I worked in:

Elena finally did make it to the West, ending up in California. But she didn't do it by marrying an American.

I think she started off with a study visa, taking English studies. She was an excellent swimmer, and had taught swimming over in Khabarovsk. So she got work as a swimming tutor while taking her lessons.

A few years passed, and she undertook trying for a real estate agent's licence, meantime obtaining her 'green card.'

And then just two days ago, she finally was granted her U.S. citizenship:

Anyway, congratulations to Elena!


When I was a young man, I believed that 100% whole grain bread was nearly an ideal food. I was very fortunate to have a mother who was a fantastic baker, so I had access to a lot of homemade bread.

She loved to experiment with her own version of multi-grain bread, even mixing in pea and soy flour, and adding other extras like seeds.

It seems like more and more people today have problems when they eat bread. Maybe we only need to look at the ingredients label to begin fathoming why that might be. How much of what a person finds listed is in any way 'food'?

This is a very good article:


Do Europeans still predominantly bake 'old-fashioned' bread?

The article claims that "local bakeries" may take up to three days to create their loaves of bread ─ I wish that was explained. Sure, my mother might sometimes leave her rising bread dough overnight if she had already punched it down a time or two in the evening, but however could a third day figure into the equation?

That could have been better explained.


Yet another study has found that physicians persist in prescribing antibiotics for conditions that do not involve bacteria ─ just a cold virus, for example.

This latest study is Canadian, but similar reports keep making the news ─ in just a quick Google search, I see such reports on just the first Google page of results that relate to the years 2016, 2014, and 2012.

But here are some reports concerning the latest Canadian findings:





The study involved seniors, as is clear. But do we really believe that only seniors get the antibiotics unnecessarily?

Get real.


I recently read an article on adaptogens ─ and specifically one known as Sutherlandia frutescens ─ that quite piqued my interest. It made me wonder about the possibility of growing the responsible South African plant.

The article is certainly interesting, but it's really a lead-in advertising a product. Still, have a look:


That article is actually a reprint. It was last previously published on August 31, 2016; and was originally published on February 23, 2016.

The Zulu account is undoubtedly a gripping effect ─ as I said, it made me wonder about growing my own plants if could ever get the seeds.

I linked to the Wikipedia article on Sutherlandia frutescens, but it may have been penned by a skeptic ─ at any rate, it was not authoured by someone extolling the plant.

A far better resource on the plant's value is this paper originally published in the Journal of Alternative and Complementary Medicine titled Sutherlandia frutescens: The Meeting of Science and Traditional Knowledge.

You may notice five other "similar articles" at that webpage that are listed in a column at the right.

I haven't the income to be adding Sutherlandia frutescens supplements to my regimen, but I most likely would if I wasn't financially limited as I am.


Any parent with a child diagnosed with ADHD should pay attention to the following reports if that parent is at all concerned about the ridiculously harmful medications that such unfortunate kids are exclusively prescribed to control their behaviour:



Why not give it a good try?


I am badly pressed for time, so I have to rush to closure now with this journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster ─ I was renting in a house located on Ninth Street, and maybe two houses up from Third Avenue.

For many, many months I had worked just a day a week for a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society. I swamped on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck.

Back then, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building that was located approximately where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station today opens up onto Carnarvon Street.

My tenure with S.A.N.E. had come to an end when a grant they had finally ran out.

And then one day I found a note on my door from my former truck driver (Esther St. Jean) that indicated that S.A.N.E. wanted to hire me full-time ─ possibly on a three- or four-month contract.

Well, to my great rue, I was not hired again to work as a swamper. The sorry truth was that there was nothing much there for me to do. My role just seemed to be to pass the tedious hours as best I was able.

It was discouraging, and I was feeling worthless, with no purpose.

The Victoria Day long weekend had just ended, and I was confronted with a return to the job after three welcome days off.
TUESDAY, May 25, 1976

Sleepy, but up at 6:10 a.m. 

I feel so much like just giving up and living off in the bush somewhere ─ if it were possible.

I spent about 40 minutes from 8:20 a.m. trying to nap, but failed.

I skipped lunch today, cause from about 1:00 p.m. on Mike & I handled the truck; Esther wasn't around and the swampers didn't show either.

I picked up an old "rough it" parka.

I took the last 35 minutes of the day off and sneaked off home.

I'm heading for mom's (I need the flab-dissolve) in a light rain just short of 7:00 p.m.

Bill was home when I went by; he said he'd likely visit Mark & Cathy tonight when I left him last night.

My only mail at mom's was a stamp notice.

She had a pair of pants ready for me.

I called to see if Bill was home, and failing an answer, I called Mark's (who is evening shifting this week) and had Bill answer. I told him I'd be coming over.

I discovered an ad for 69¢ lb. pot roasts. I also discovered Safeway in Whalley must be open till 10:00 p.m. week-days.

Shortly after arriving, as I was getting my pocket books boxed to take home, Bill took off and came back with a "quarter-pounder" hamburger for me.

Anyway, we didn't leave for home till after 11:30 p.m., and I won't be in bed till a few minutes beyond midnight.

I bought a West Indies Sweepstakes ticket from mom.
I think "Mike" may have been an older fellow who had been hired like I was, but I can no longer remember anything about him.

My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that mightn't have been much more than four blocks from my room. When I left that evening to go and visit my mother Irene Dorosh, I would have seen Bill's car parked ─ that is how I knew that he was home.

Now, as for my mother's home, she and her husband Alex lived in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey ─ to get there was a 1½-hour walk. 

My younger brother Mark and his girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther were sharing a rented home on Bentley Road in Whalley. Their home was about 4¼ miles from my mother's home ─ another fairly decent walk.

I sure had the spunk back then for walking great distances ─ I admire that about my younger self.

Well, I think my brother Mark is home ─ I have to proofread this and then get it published.