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Saturday, June 24, 2017

Regular Consumption of Any Kind of Fried Potatoes Lead to a Shorter Life Expectancy │ Another Analysis Finds Overdiagnoses Are Rife in Mammography

My inebriated younger brother Mark never showed up last evening until something like 10:45 p.m.

Initially I was annoyed because I was not interested in feeling compelled to sit up much longer ─ especially with the sort of company he would be providing.

He fussed around in the kitchen fixing himself a sandwich or some such, and ate it in the dark at the dining room table. I had the latest episode of American Ninja Warrior tuned in, and he made a couple of comments concerning the action.

Although he was out of sight from where I was seated in the living room, he had direct view of the T.V.

It had dawned upon me that when Mark is in this state, he is generally unable to retain consciousness once he has eaten anything. The show was in its late stages, and Mark encouragingly grew silent.

Then when the programme was done, I peeked to where he was seated. His position was turned so that he was facing directly to the T.V., but he was indeed unconscious, his head and shoulders slumped down and somewhat forward.

So I tuned in a news station, and headed on upstairs to start readying for bed. It was around 11:30 p.m., I would say.

As I readied for bed, I heard a considerable thump sound, and supposed that Mark likely took a dive to the floor.

I could hear movement after that, so I didn't feel much compunction to venture downstairs to see if all was well. Instead, I quickly finished readying for bed, and then shut myself up in my bedroom and sought to sleep, earplugs in place.

Although I had my usual broken sleep overnight, I never felt sufficiently awake until a little after 5:00 a.m. to bother paying a visit to the bathroom and drinking some water.

I was visited with a little further sleep, and believe that it was 6:21 a.m. when next I checked the time and decided to get myself up.

When I went downstairs to make my day's first hot beverage, I noticed that Mark was too damned drunk last night to bother locking the front door before he went to bed ─ whenever that may have been.

Neither of my stepsons were home overnight, so I knew neither of them was likely responsible.

I got busy adding the final bit of content to the post I have been working on for over 10 days at my Lawless Spirit website, finally publishing the post in the late morning: Holistic Vancouver II.

It was my intention to get in some early exercise in the backyard tool shed before Mark was up for the day, so just ahead of 8:00 a.m. I got busy making that happen.

I weighed myself afterward while entirely undressed ─ I was around 187 or 188 pounds. I am sure that was why the pull-ups were especially strenuous, as they have been the past recent sessions. My normal adult weight is in the low 180s.

Mark was not to rise until around 9:00 a.m. He bade me a "Good morning" as he passed by the room here upstairs where I keep my computer, and I responded in kind.

And that was the entirety of our conversation this day.

He had returned to bed late in the morning before I had quite finished the website post I was involved with. I made myself my first meal of the day, and then I also sought a nap.

I think it was 12:49 p.m. once I was in bed, lying upon my left side to facilitate digestion. I remained in bed for an hour, by which time Mark had risen and left for the day. If all goes well between him and his girlfriend Bev, he will spend tonight at her home.

My youngest stepson Poté had come home in the latter morning, and pretty much gone directly to bed. He was still there when I rose from my nap in the early afternoon, so I decided to take on a sunning session on the backyard sundeck.

I believe that I may have started it at 2:01 p.m., and was out there for well over an hour. It is getting hot hereabouts!

Poté had still not risen.

I had yet to go through the morning Vancouver Sun, so I did that while enjoying my day's second hot beverage.

And then I came upstairs and began work upon this blog post.

Poté rose while I was engaged with it, and his older brother Tho also showed up.

I want now to post the following scanned image ─ the description beneath is from the Google album where I have the scan saved:

The reverse of this photo is date-stamped as September 1983, so I imagine that was when the roll of film that this particular exposure was on was developed.

The photo is from the collection of my mother Irene Dorosh, and has this printed in ink on the back:

"DIVINE WHALES AT SEAWORLD AT THE SHAMU SHOW."
She and her husband Alex managed to get in a fair amount of traveling.

A dual question: Do you enjoy French fries? And if you do, how often do you have any?

The following report concerns a recent study, but there is considerable opinion also included in the report that is the authour's alone:

JacksDailyDose.com

I rarely eat potatoes anymore, let alone those that have been fried up as French fries.

Here are a couple of other far less jaundiced reports on the study:

CNN.com

MedicalNewsToday.com

Clearly it is not the potato itself that is the problem ─ the problem lies with how the potato is prepared for the table.

So just how much do you love your French fries and potato chips and so forth? As those reports on the study points out, having servings just two times a week can double your risk of an early death; and that risk elevates the more times a week that you help yourself to these darned things.

Do you love them enough to part with some of your life? I sure don't.

On an entirely different topic now, it seems that no matter how many studies ─ and overviews or assessments of such studies ─ get published which make conclusions that mammograms have an exaggerated value in terms of saving lives from breast cancer, there is little movement to effectively cut back on the procedure.

Note this recent report:

HSIonline.com

And this was the reference give at the finish of the article, but which was not linked to:

NPR.org

Naturally reports such as that at NPR.org can easily find specialist naysayers disputing the study conclusions, but who were not involved with the study. After all, they clearly do have a vested interest in the Cancer Industry.

I find little inclination to listen to such voices. They make their living in that industry, so there is scant motivation to halt lucrative screening procedures.

And with that stated, I am going to close out today's blog post 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 quarters were pretty darned small, and I was renting them in a house on Ninth Street, about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I was probably about a month into full-time employment on a three-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society.

I was a swamper on their blue pick-up truck.

This was nothing new for me ─ I had probably worked on a very part-time basis with S.A.N.E. all the way back to at least 1974.

In those early years, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building that has since been torn down long ago; but back then it was sited right where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now spreads out onto Carnarvon Street.

The driver of the truck was generally Esther St. Jean, a true sweetheart in her early 40s who was a pleasure to share company with.

I had reluctantly been out the previous evening, and never made it to bed until about 12:20 a.m.
THURSDAY, June 24, 1976

I got up shortly before 6:30 a.m.

I lied down for an hour (8:00 a.m. - 9:00 a.m.), reluctantly getting up after some REMs.

Last night could have been much worse, but Cathy only had $4, Bill $3, Don nothing, and I faked ownership of but $2 ─ I had $20 more.

There wasn't much bad work for me today, and I in fact acquired 2 pairs of footwear ─ a pair of stylish black boots and some tan loafers.

When I got home after an afternoon that found me barely able to stay awake, the landlady bugged me to mail my census form. I'll do it tonight, leaving for mom's just after 6:30 p.m.

Mom was there when I arrived.

My mail consisted of an Olympic & Western Lottery ticket from North Vancouver Canadian Big 4 Amateur Football Conference, a second notice of registration for a ticket in the Golden Sweepstakes, an offer from International Correspondence Schools, and a Worldwide Church of God letter.

I had a nutritious snack, thanks to mom, and I borrowed her June Let's Live.  

I thought strongly on my way home of how necessary a lottery win is to my existence.

Bed at 10:50 p.m.
I had gone out the evening before after my old friend William Alan Gill unexpectedly showed up with my younger brother Mark's girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther and her brother Don.

Bill was probably driving them, for Mark likely was working an afternoon / evening shift at the mill that employed him.

Jeanette wanted to celebrate her official divorce that was granted that day.

As I said earlier, I only went reluctantly, for I loved Jeanette. We hit one neighbourhood pub out in Surrey or Delta along Scott Road. I feigned being as broke as the others because I needed my $20 to live on, and nor was I interested in staying out late at my expence.

As it was, Bill had to pipe up and suggest touring both Crescent Beach and White Rock, effectively keeping me out late anyway ─ but at least I still had my $20.

That must have been annoying about my landlady. When she first left the census form with me by leaving it in a special receptacle in the basement for any mail that came for me, she also left a note saying that she would collect the form from me later. And so I filled out the portion relevant to me, and put it back in the receptacle.

And there it sat for two days.

Yet now she comes after me about not having yet mailed it?! Apparently it was due at Census by June 1st, yet she only left it for me on June 22nd. 

Anyway, after having put in my day at S.A.N.E., I set off on the 1½-hour hike early that evening to check for mail at the home of my mother Irene Dorosh off in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey.

That little house no longer exists, but its address used to be 12106 - 90th Avenue.

I would have only visited for a comparatively short while, for I still had the 1½-hour hike all the way back to New Westminster to get to my room again.

How many young people today have that sort of activity drive? No one walks anywhere anymore!

Lotteries were becoming a huge thing in my life ─ my sole hope of ever escaping the bare existence that was my lot.
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