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Friday, June 2, 2017

💀 ☠ "Avocado Hand" │ Two Meat-Eating Studies at Considerable Variance │ Full-Fat Dairy NOT Linked to Any Heart Disease

This banal cycle of fruitless isolation finds me feeling today like I cannot long keep living it. Each day is a repetition of such emptiness that it has struck me this afternoon that I am better off not continuing with it.

I am in decay here in my debtor's prison. I think there is naught of any worth remaining in me.

My younger brother Mark surrendered himself to the obliteration of drink last evening, passing out in his living room chair for awhile. I wondered if I would be leaving him alone with the television, but he awoke in time to have his normal bedtime.

He still has to work for a living, after all.

It seems to me that I never got to bed until something like 10:58 p.m.

It was a night of fractured sleep, and I could have risen well before 6:00 a.m. I resisted, though, and postponed rising until 6:09 a.m.

At first I was skeptical that my eldest stepson Tho had gone to work, but I soon enough perceived that he had. However, younger stepson Poté may not have had to work today. He remained in bed until quite late in the morning.

While he was showering, I went out to the backyard tool shed and forced myself to get some exercise in it. And when I returned to the house, I found that I was alone.

However, Poté was back again in four hours at most, so he must not have gone to work ─ I had thought that maybe he had an afternoon start.

We had some rain overnight, and even in the early morning. But by the latter morning, there was a mix of Sun and clouds; the Sun seemed to be coming on quite strong at times in the afternoon. Had I not this blog to deal with, I could have sat outside in the backyard soaking up some of the sunshine and warmth.

I finally finished and published this morning the post I had worked on for around 10 days at my Latin Impressions website: Medical Model II.

I should have sought a nap after Poté went off ─ it was planned, for I really did not have a very sustaining night's sleep.

Unfortunately, my stark paucity of human warmth and companionship, and my longing for nurturing physical contact, led me to the usual self-loathing resolution. I did seek some helpful rest, but could not escape self-knowledge; and Poté arrived home before I escaped from consciousness, so I gave it up and rose.

If I felt as I do this afternoon, but lived alone and with wilderness a short walk away, I would put an end to the disgusting creature I have become after better than 67 years of life. After all, there is scant reason to continue when it is clear that God Himself has washed His hands of me.

He would have only done so if there is no longer any potential in the man I have become.

Normally I would be feeling somewhat pleased that my AdSense account yesterday accrued $1.34, but it is hardly a life-changing thing, is it?

Too little, too late.

The following pair of scanned photos are of such bleeding colours and fading clarity that they make it just about impossible for me to recognize most of the subjects; but they are from sometime around the year 1975. My younger brother Mark is the person seated nearest to the camera:



Just supposing that the photos were from exactly the year 1975 and this very day, Mark would have been 21 years old. The only other people I have any certainty of are two of the children in that last photo. The girl nearest Mark is Michelle Lee Gunther; and her younger sister Pamela Lee Gunther is at the far end of the picnic table.

They were the beautiful young daughters of Mark's girlfriend of the time, Catherine Jeanette Gunther ─ who may well have been wielding the camera.

What a shame that photographs were printed with such careless craftsmanship back then, with no thought to their endurance of quality. They looked bright, glossy, and sharp at the time; but they were not designed to remain that way.

Neither were Mark and I.

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The following is from NewMarketHealth.com, and may well add a new term to your vocabulary:
Is there such a thing as an avenging avocado?

Because these days, there seems to be a sharp rise (no pun intended) in reports of people inflicting serious injuries on themselves while attempting to extract the wonderfully nutritious green fruit inside.

It's become so commonplace, in fact, that it's even been given a name in medical circles: "avocado hand," the term used to describe the kind of damage to nerves and tendons that all-too-often results from carelessly slicing one open.

And while avocados seem to have a starring role in this gory saga, they're not the only fruit that can result in a bloody wound.

Peaches, apples, pears -- almost anything you're attempting to skin or slice can have you slicing yourself in the process. Which is why many organic fruits are a better bet on several fronts.

First, since they're not drenched in toxic herbicides, fungicides and pesticides, you can enjoy many with simply a good wash without having to peel them. And second, as the most nutritious parts of many fruits (and veggies) are in the skin, you're getting more nutritional bang for your buck.

Apples, for example, pack more vitamins and other beneficial compounds in the skin than in the fruit itself.

So what's the best way to keep from slicing yourself open along with the fruit you're trying to eat? Well, the first rule of thumb is, don't place it in your hand to slice. I know that sounds like simplistic advice, but it turns out that, for a lot of us anyway, a "hands-on" approach seems to be the first one!

As for the notorious avocado, place it on a cutting board and gently slice across its length. And when you feel the pit, turn the fruit over and slice through the other side. Then, twist with your hands until it's in two halves. Tap the pit with your knife and twist gently until you've removed it, then scoop out the insides with a large spoon.

And enjoy -- without visiting the ER.
Here are a couple of more mainstream reports on the topic:

CBSnews.com

TheGuardian.com

Maybe for some people it is a good thing that avocados are now sometimes too expensive to buy.

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Although I frequently include references from the following website in my blog, it sometimes is annoying to me that the short articles at that website never include their own references for substantiation ─ note the following article on two meat studies:

JacksDailyDose.com

I looked around and found two referential mainstream articles ─ one reported on the 'meat is bad' study, and the other on the 'meat eating makes no difference to longevity' study:

NYtimes.com

NationalPost.com

I agree with Jack Harrison that it's the processed meat that's unhealthy, but he seems to have rushed his commentary ─ he published it on May 26, and used the claim that even Alzheimer's disease deaths were implicated in meat-eating.

However, the study said this:
The associations we observed for mortality due to Alzheimer’s disease seemed to be different from the other associations and sometimes in the opposite direction. Drawing a conclusion from these findings might be difficult, as the relation between diet and Alzheimer’s disease progression is very complex and is influenced by the changing dietary patterns in the early stages of the disease.
So the argument for Alzheimer's deaths where meat-eating was concerned could not be sustained, since sometimes people with the disease who were eating some kinds of meat actually had an enhanced lifespan.

And even the New York Times article had a disclaimer published two days before Jack Harrison's article, stating that they were at fault in an earlier May 16 piece for including Alzheimer's disease as being subject to deaths from meat-eating: "Eating red meat was not linked to dying from Alzheimer’s disease."

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I will include one further Jack Harrison report ─ this one concerning a study that has found that full-fat dairy products have no link whatsoever to heart diease:

JacksDailyDose.com

Here are some back-up reports on the study he's talking about:

TheGuardian.com

Independent.co.uk

USAtoday.com

Full-fat dairy won't make you fat, either ─ not if you're not plugging yourself up with loads of carbohydrates. Skip the fattening carbs, and stick to the full-fat foods.

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My poor eyes need to be done with computer work for the day, so here to close this post is a 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 the wee suite in a house located on Ninth Street, and maybe two houses up from Third Avenue.

I had been employed for a few weeks at this point on a full-time basis at a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society

Back then, S.A.N.E. (known familiarly by employees as "the store") was housed in an old building that doesn't exist anymore, but which was then located right where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station spreads out onto Carnarvon Street.

I had been hired with one or two other fellows with the understanding that we would be getting involved in the reupholstery of donated furniture, but the required on-the-job training had yet to be set up.

And life was absolutely boring at "the store" for us.

I had prior experience working at S.A.N.E. ─ I had worked one day a week for a year or more as a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck, so my present waste of time day after day was oppressive.
WEDNESDAY, June 2, 1976

Shortly before midnight I heard the old man outside calling to be let in. Damn, I seethed with fury within, but let him in and said nothing. He's never seemed so low.

I arose at 5:45 a.m. I felt so smothered by everyone here in town last night I was ready to erupt.

The old guy is certainly blind, and confused; he again professes he'll not bother me anymore.

I got my laundry done, but I'm running on a sleep deficit.

Poor dad. It's hard to show him any compassion cause he'll walk all over me while he's drinking; but I hate to see him so alone and confused. He claims this is the second rent in a row he has missed paying, and that Marie likely has the "Mafia" looking for him. 

He walked with me as far as S.A.N.E. I gave him $1, and I guess he headed off to the Dunsmuir, rather high on my wine. Only ¼ - 1/5 is left.

My morning didn't pass too slowly.

At lunch I shopped at Safeway, my groceries including a package of "moth" legumes, whatever they are.

Anyway, I told dad if he had to come back tonight, to do so around 11;00 p.m. as I won't be home earlier, but certainly not to wait till midnight again cause it is so difficult for me to properly sleep.

I got through the afternoon.

I am leaving for my trip afoot to mom's about 7:00 p.m.

It was the nicest weather of the day, and I arrived less than a minute before mom.

No mail. Bill phoned; he planned to visit Mark's.

I left for home about 9:30 p.m.

International Meats is again selling pot roasts at 69¢ lb. & chuck steaks at 79¢ lb.

In my boots I weighed about 195, so even though I subsist heavily on salad, I weigh 190 easily; I'll have to stop buying any vegetable not green, including fruit (except maybe oranges).

Bed about 11:05 p.m.
My father Hector had come by the previous morning before 6:30 a.m. after drinking somewhere all night ─ he had been beaten up, and seemed absolutely crushed. Normally, I couldn't stand having my drunken father around.    

I had let him sleep, and left him access to some change if he needed it. He ended up taking around $1.55 when he left, leaving me a note saying so, and also saying that he would not impose.

He would go on binges that could run for days when he drank ─ he usually had to go broke before he would be forced to stop.

He lived in Burnaby in an apartment with his girlfriend Maria Fadden, and they would usually just drink together in their area. However, they likely fell out, and he took off on her.

With him back again the previous night, he would likely not have soon allowed me to sleep ─ unless he was dead tired.

I expect that he was sleeping when I left for the laundromat in the morning ─ it was a little over three blocks away, up on Sixth Avenue near the public library. My father likely located my gallon of wine in my absence, or maybe I allowed him access to it after I got back from laundering.

If he walked with me because he was headed for the Dunsmuir Hotel and its beer parlour, S.A.N.E. was practically a building or two away along Carnarvon Street. We S.A.N.E. employees often would nip into "the Dunny" via its back door to have a few beers.

My father's talk of the Mafia being after him, and "wolf packs" (gangs of thugs) prowling the streets looking to assault him, used to be quite annoying.

Following my day at S.A.N.E., early that evening I made the 1½-hour hike out to visit my mother Irene Dorosh in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey. The little home that she shared there with her husband Alex was my main mailing address. And although it was just demolished a few years ago, back then its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue.  

Perhaps my old friend William Alan Gill ─ who rented a bachelor suite little more than four blocks from my room ─ had tried to visit me, and correctly figured out that I was probably off at my mother's home. So he gave a call. He had plans to go and visit my younger brother Mark and Mark's girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther who were then sharing a rented home on Bentley Road in Whalley.

Bill had a car, of course.

I have no idea now where International Meats was.

My normal adult weight has usually been in the lower 180-pound range, so I had accumulated a little more baggage than I was comfortable about.

However, I was to be hiking all the way back to my room ─ another 1½ hours.

And here I am today....
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