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Saturday, October 8, 2016

Increase Tetosterone Production and Libido with a Light Box │ Inhibit Coronary Artery Calcification by Drinking Tea │ Dangerous 'First Ever Cure for Baldness'

A bit too much alcohol last evening?  I know it was after midnight before I got myself into bed, but I cannot recall what preoccupied me here at my computer.

Usually it's because of tending to E-mails, but I don't remember doing that at all.

Incidents like that, and my inability to recall much of my dreams anymore, do inspire some wonder about the possibility of a deteriorating brain.

I recall arising around 5:15 a.m. to use the bathroom once my first block of sleep ended; and it was exactly 7:01 a.m. when I later checked the time and decided to rise.

It probably rained much of the night, and has been doing so for much of the day.  Yes, it may well be that I will not be sitting out in the backyard while I am dressed only in cut-offs any longer this year.

Neither of my step-sons slept at home last night, nor have either of them returned as I type these words at 3:08 p.m.  Excellent!

I had my younger brother Mark for company while watching T.V. last evening, although he was not always conscious.

Earlier in the week he mentioned to me that his girlfriend Bev suggested coming over and we would have a turkey Thanksgiving dinner here, but that possibility seems to have lapsed.  Thus, I likely will taste nothing of turkey the entire long-weekend.

Before I take a break here, I want to post a collage that Google put together two days ago of some photos I had taken on October 6, 2012, here in Whalley:


The top left and bottom right shots were taken in Holland Park ─ the first view is looking towards Surrey Place (Central City), while the latter view takes in the towers on the other side of King George Boulevard, and very close to the King George SkyTrain Station:



The top right shot was taken on King George Boulevard ─ my back was towards 108th Avenue, and I was facing the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet on the corner of 105-A Avenue.  Sharons Credit Union is on the same side of the King George, but on the other side of 105-A Avenue:


The final image at the bottom left of the collage was taken from a pathway ─ I was standing just about where it meets with University Drive, and I was facing towards Tom Binnie Park.  The building you can see there is on the other side of that park, and is the rear of the "BC Lions Training & Business Centre."  Of course, that is the elevated SkyTrain trestle stretching across the centre of the photo:


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A study has found that a genuine light box can increase the amount of testosterone being produced by men, effectively enhancing libido by as much as three times.

I am supposing that this would also help with erectile dysfunction.

Here are some reports on that study ─ for any of the guys who may be interested:

The Telegraph.co.uk

HuffingtonPost.co.uk

Independent.co.uk


Unfortunately, there are lots of fake light boxes out there that will do absolutely nothing of benefit.  This is something that a consumer needs to research well, although I did see a suggestion that one's doctor should know what the genuine article is and where to get one.

The MayoClinic.org has some very helpful advice (spread over two pages) about light boxes:  Seasonal affective disorder treatment: Choosing a light therapy box.

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Coronary artery calcium (CAC) is something we very much need to avoid accumulating.  The calcium builds up as specks in coronary artery walls ─ the condition is called calcification.

A study has found that tea-drinking appears to minimize this sort of unwanted build-up:


I am utterly unskilled at tea-making, so I will instead refer you to this related article at hsionline.comHeart benefits of tea drinking confirmed in new study.  It offers some tea-making tips.

I was on a tea 'kick' some years ago whereby I thought I was deriving maximum benefit by boiling a couple of tea bags for awhile in a quantity of water suitable to fill a mug, and then I would pur the entire concoction into it ─ tea bags included.

As I slowly consumed the tea, I would periodically use my spoon to compress the tea bags against the side of the mug to help extract as much value out of the tea bags as possible.

Back then, I had no idea that I was most probably consuming unhealthy levels of aluminum and lead.

It's a good thing that tea 'kick' faded away and I reverted to instant coffee! 

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I have been shaving my scalp bare for probably a couple of decades, so the following article about a hair-restoration drug called ruxolitinib doesn't excite me:

TheSun.co.uk
To arrive at their findings, the scientists tested the drug ruxolitinib on 12 patients with moderate to severe alopecia areata, suffering more than 30 per cent hair loss.

All the patients took the drug twice a day for three to six months.

Nine of the patients showed hair regrowth of 50 per cent or more.

And by the end of the treatment period 77 per cent of those who responded to the drug saw regrowth of more than 95 per cent.

One in three of the patients who responded to the treatment had significant hair loss in the follow-up period after medication was stopped.

But their hair loss did not reach pre-treatment levels.

The researchers said the drug was well-tolerated in all participants with no serious side-effects noted.

Those that did occur were rare and included bacterial skin infections, skin allergy symptoms, and lower haemoglobin levels.
But would it work on someone who is bald but who doesn't have alopecia?  I suspect not.

Regardless, have a look at what ruxolitnib is capable of doing to a person taking it ─ even if the test subjects in the study never experienced anything as severe:


I am not risking any of that, even if the drug could work for me.  Remember, the study participants had to take the drug twice a day ─ and that's courting the potential for considerable harm.

I think I was 27 when I first knew for certain that my hair was dying off.  It was tough to handle.

But baldness doesn't kill ─ ruxolitinib just might.

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I am ready to close this post now with a 41-year-old journal entry from back when I was 25 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting the small unit in a house located on Ninth Street at Third Avenue.

On the day's agenda was a hike out to visit my father Hector in Burnaby ─ I think the building that the apartment was in (that he shared with his girlfriend Maria Fadden) had the address 5870 Sunset Street.  

It was my custom to walk both there, and back again to my room.  But the visit was always a gamble ─ I never knew if my father and Maria were going to be sober.

They had lived in the apartment three or four months after being evicted from their previous premises, and now they had been given notice to vacate this place by the end of the month.

My bedtime the evening before this journal entry had been 9:00 p.m.
WEDNESDAY, October 8, 1975

I awoke frequently, but slept adequately and did not arise till nearly 6:50 a.m.

Yesterday Bill certified that I am invited to join him & his mother at his place for Thanksgiving dinner; mom & Alex of course will be off to Reno.

I did all of my exercises this morning before heading for dad's.

This trip was nigh as futile as last week's, except today no one was home.

Coming home this mostly cloudy day, part of a class of young girls jogging past me impressed me with how fatty and unmuscled these specimens of today's womanhood are, a general state.

Yesterday my weight was 186 or 7, but I have hope this increase can be blamed on the previous day's smorgasbord fill which I still hadn't passed.

Anyway, today I left dad some more tissue, finding the windows open.

I lunched on slightly better than ½ cup's worth of pancakes with mom's strawberry jam.

I typed Terri a letter to be mailed this evening on my way to Bill's.

Just past 6:30 p.m. came some unorthodox knocking; then I heard kids, a vehicle door, and an idling truck, I guess.  

I may visit Art Saturday night.

Both directions of my trip to Bill's were in weather trying to rain; the lad wasn't home.  

Thus, bed for me is about 7:00 p.m. 
My mother Irene Dorosh and her husband Alex quite frequently would pay a visit to Reno ─ often via a charter bus.

When I visited my father the previous week, I had to sit with an inebriated Maria for about an hour because my father was absent.  It was only then that she indicated that he was visiting someone else in the building, and she would go and get him.

By then I had made up my mind to leave.  I was in the bathroom sprucing up for the hike back when they returned to the apartment with the other chap.

My father and Maria immediately believed that I had already gone, and began wailing and lamenting.

When I emerged from the bathroom, my reception was unbearably maudlin and cloying ─ I was not going to hang around to weather it.  I bade them farewell and headed away, but my father followed me out into the parking lot, beseeching me to stay.

I wouldn't, though.

It hurt me to read that account, for I miss the dear man ─ he was to die of a heart-attack in February 1983.

I see now that they had a ground-floor apartment.  The tissue I left for them was toilet tissue that my mother had brought home from her job as an evening office janitress at Scott Paper (now Kruger Inc.) in New Westminster.

She used to have access to culled products, and to others that had been taken into the offices for quality control inspection and then discarded.

What I meant about the quantity of pancakes was that I used about ½ cup of flour ─ I made my pancakes from scratch, and just grabbed any cup sitting in the cupboard.  This would have been a light meal ─ sometimes I used as many as three cups of flour!

The letter I typed up was to Terri Martin, an American pen-pal.

As for the knocking, I very rarely would answer my door if I did not know who was out there.  Those closest to me knew this and would use a special knock, and maybe even call to me. 

Art Smith was in his early 40s ─ a married man with three kids.  But he often came by to dragoon me into drinking with him late into the night.  His visits were those I did my best to avoid.

It was one thing to choose to go and be with him.  But it was quite another to have him drop in at any time of his choosing and exert the force of his will to beat me down and take control of the remainder of my day, dashing all plans I may have had.

So I would feign being absent.

My old friend William Alan Gill had a bachelor suite very nearby my room.  I had promised him the evening before that I would come and visit this evening.  It was likely somewhat of a relief that he was not home, since I wanted to get to bed early.

Well, it is 6:30 p.m. at this moment, and still neither of my step-sons has shown up today ─ lovely indeed!
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