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Friday, June 24, 2016

★ Lemon Juice and Baking Soda: A Cancer Cure? │ Cutting Risk of Death: What Is the Minimum Amount of Daily Activity Seniors Should Get? │ World Health Organization Finally Admits Coffee Is NOT Carcinogenic

Last night was self-destructive.  I sat up until nearly 1:30 a.m. in sheerest folly.

No doubt with a bruised conscience, this morning I peered at my clock-radio and deemed it to be just after 8:00 a.m., so I got up and dressed.  I had plans for the day ─ I wanted to make the four-mile round-trip beer hike to the government liquor store.

But before doing that, I wanted to complete the edit job I've been engaged on since Monday of a September 24, 2012, post at my Siam-Longings website.

I headed downstairs for my day's first hot beverage, and coincided with my youngest step-son Pote coming into the house ─ he must have nipped out to a nearby 7-Eleven.  His older brother Tho's car was gone, so Tho would have likely gone to work; and thus Pote would not have had access to it to go anywhere more remote.

As I was putting a kettle of water on the stove to boil, I noticed the stove's clock ─ it read something like 6:08 a.m.

Expecting that it must have begun to run slowly, I looked at a clock hanging on the wall...and it displayed roughly the same time.

It was two hours earlier than I had thought it was ─ I had only been in bed just over 4½ hours, and that included one bathroom break during the night.

In other words, I had not had too much sleep at all.

No wonder I felt so rundown.

Nevertheless, I wanted to finish that post, so I got at it and stuck with it, finally publishing the edit:  Chiang Mai Isaan.

Once that was finished with, there was no chance that I would be going anywhere feeling as rough as I did, so I fixed upon a return to bed ─ Pote already had done so.

I slept some more, and even had a fairly involved dream that now entirely escapes my recollection.

It was not yet quite 11:00 a.m. when I rose, soon to realize that Pote was not any longer home.

I set about getting myself ready for that hike over to the government liquor store at 108th Avenue & King George Boulevard here in Whalley, and at 11:57 a.m. I was on my way.

It was a far later start than I was happy with.

We'd had some rain overnight, and the morning had been overcast ─ it still was when I left.  But it was warmer out there than I expected or cared for ─ I was a little overdressed.

Regardless, I made the hike, toting home two dozen cans of strong (8% alcohol) beer and a mickey of white rum.

There was a lot of sunshine in that walk back.

These trips tend to take me about 1½ hours from start to finish, so it was approaching 1:30 p.m. at my return.  My eldest step-son Tho's car was in the open carport ─ he'd had a partial day of work, just as he did last Friday.

The outing took a lot out of me ─ it was more taxing than it really should have been, I think.  But maybe that was likely due to how ill-slept I had been overall, and the lateness of my start.

I had to go, though.  I had blown off any consideration of my usual brief bouts of exercising here at home ─ my reward to myself for undertaking this jaunt.  And it just was not in me today to tackle any of the exercising if I did not make the hike.

I don't do all that much by way of exercise, but there are five breaks over the course of the day that do involve some exertion ─ and a little of it is rather tough.


The American organization Mercy for Animals released a video on Wednesday of footage taken by an undercover investigator at an egg-production 'factory' called Eggland's Best ─ I couldn't watch it.

Here is one description (that is only an image just below, and not a video link):

Jeff, our brave undercover investigator, witnessed heartbreaking misery and neglect on a daily basis while working at this Eggland's Best supplier. He was often assigned to work in the manure pits scraping feces from underneath rows of battery cages. In these pits where the waste of thousands of animals piled up, Jeff often found hens who had somehow escaped from the cages and were struggling to survive.

One such hen, whom Jeff called Ellie and is pictured above, had half her body buried in manure. The more she struggled, the further she sank into the cesspool. She was clearly exhausted and had likely been trapped there for days without food or water. Jeff carefully lifted her out of the sludge.

After freeing Ellie, Jeff asked his supervisor what should be done with her. To Jeff’s horror, his supervisor quickly grabbed Ellie by the head and callously spun her around to break her neck. Then he instructed other workers to catch and kill any living hens they found in the manure pits. By the end of the day, dozens of birds were killed and thrown into trashcans.

The magnitude of abuse at this Eggland’s Best supplier and other egg farms is hard to fathom. We HAVE to help. There are millions of lives like Ellie’s at stake, and we must speak on the animals’ behalf.

This terrible suffering is all too common for hens. MFA is hard at work, day in and day out, to end the mistreatment.

We’re placing undercover investigators in farms to bring sickening abuse out of the shadows. We’re putting pressure on food corporations to get animals out of cages and to improve their lives. We’re making a difference in the lives of farmed animals!
I've said before that many of the people who gravitate into these jobs lack some essential humanitarian essence ─ why else choose such employment?

Yes, I know that there are people working in that environment who are only doing it because of the need to help support their families, and really have no other employment options; but there most certainly are the other types taking those jobs, too.

Abusers of the worst kind.

Here is another description for the video footage, with a link to the video if you think you care to watch it ─ just under three minutes in total:
A breaking Mercy For Animals undercover investigation of a supplier to Eggland’s Best—one of the largest egg producers in the country—shows thousands of birds packed into filthy wire cages, hardly able to move without crawling over other birds. Severely sick and injured birds are left to suffer and slowly die without proper veterinary care, and the bodies of dead animals are seen rotting in cages with live birds still laying eggs for human consumption. Workers violently rip birds out of cages by their wings or necks and throw them on top of each other in trash cans to be gassed to death. We can stop this animal abuse. Take action at http://www.mercyforanimals.org/

I read a rather interesting article this morning ─ another of those articles giving news concerning a potential commonplace means of eradicating cancer.

Could such a simple regiment truly be at all effective?

The finish of the article gives this once-a-day recipe:
One cup of purified water, combined with the juice of half a freshly squeezed lemon and one half teaspoon of baking soda a day is a great way to keep the fear of cancer away!
And that's it?

The article earlier ─ in discussing how difficult it is to maintain a strictly alkaline diet ─ said this:
The majority of the American diet is extremely acidic, so it takes a concerted effort to balance the effects of eating in this way for an extended period of time. Caffeine and alcohol also strongly acidify the body. And even if you abstain from all these acidifying substances, the experience of stress (which is nearly impossible to avoid in our crazed modern society) will drop your pH into the acidic range.
So by ending the article with that once-a-day recipe, is the article claiming that the simple lemon and baking soda combination negates the need to be worrying about the other acidifying influences, or is it still essential to try and eliminate them?

I have to admit that I'm unclear on this.

But I suppose that if I knew I had cancer, I would be willing to forgo my caffeine and alcohol until the cancer was beaten ─ provided that I saw evidence that this outcome was happening.


The following extremely encouraging report concerning exercise is from NewMarketHealth.com:
It's no secret that exercise is good for us.

In fact, you could say that exercise has been found to be as effective as drugs in treating numerous health conditions -- and you would have plenty of science to back that up.

But the big question is -- how much does it take to realize a benefit?

And the answer to that is, not as much as you think.

Actually, a new study has found that all it takes is a 15-minute brisk walk every day to substantially increase your odds of staying alive! And don't pull the age card as an excuse not to.

As Dr. David Hupin, the study author said, "Age is not an excuse to do no exercise."

The French researcher crunched the data on two groups: one with over a thousand people who were followed for 12 years after turning 65, and a much larger group of more than 122,000 subjects aged 60 who were tracked for 10 years.

And he found that even a low level of activity, just 15 minutes (which is half the usual recommended amount), "was associated with a 22 percent reduced risk of death in older adults compared with those who were inactive."

Now, if you have the time -- and energy -- to do more than that, all the better. But the biggest, life-promoting gain was found at that trusty 15 daily minutes.

"These two studies show that the more physical activity older adults do, the greater the health benefit," noted Dr. Hupin. But "the biggest jump in benefit was achieved at the low level of exercise," he said.

If you're not in the habit of walking daily, the best way to start is by going out with friends or neighbors. Start slow -- it's not a marathon -- and work up to a 15-minute goal.

Another good way to make sure you keep on walking is to have a dog in your life.

Dogs will keep you moving every day -- even when the weather is less than perfect. And doing that may just be the key to a longer life.

Pups aren't called "man's best friend" for nothing you know!
Here are a couple of other short mainstream reports on the study:

As the Time reference cited, the study results were given as a presentation on June 14 at the 2016 EuroPRevent Meeting held June 14 - 15 at Sophia Antipolis, France.

This is their official press release published that very day for that specific study presentation:


Earlier I was wondering if the lemon juice and baking soda combination every day made it okay to continue to drink caffeine-containing beverages and alcohol.

Let's hope it does ─ or at least where coffee is concerned:

Coffee's bad for you.

No, wait... it's good for you.


Confused? Follow mainstream health advice, and you won't know up from down anymore -- and for the perfect case in point, just take a look at the latest news on coffee.

The World Health Organization's cancer agency, which basically exists to warn that EVERYTHING you love will give you cancer, is having second thoughts about coffee.

For years, the International Agency for Research on Cancer has claimed that coffee is a "possibly carcinogenic," a list that includes practically everything on the planet -- obvious stuff like huffing gas fumes, and bizarre things like pickled vegetables.

Yes... pickles, for crying out loud.

Coffee has been on the list for ages, and as a result, docs who obey the almighty guidelines have been urging patients not to touch the stuff.

Now, the IARC admits that their own advice is a possible carcinogen... because anyone who avoided coffee actually has a HIGHER risk of cancer and death.


I'd like to say we should give them credit for eventually coming around and admitting that they were wrong.

But they don't deserve credit on this.

They're decades late to the coffee party, because years of research prove a few cups of mud each day will cut the risk of cancers of the colon, prostate, breast, and more.

One study last year even found that coffee can cut your risk of melanoma, the deadly form of skin cancer, by as much as 20 percent.

That means the cancer agency wasn't just wrong. They've been so wrong for so long that they couldn't find right with a map... and even now, they're STILL getting it wrong.

The agency is now blaming ALL hot drinks, saying anything served "too hot" will increase the risk of esophageal cancer.

I won't argue with that; at the very least, a boiling cup is uncomfortable and foolishly dangerous.

But IARC's definition of "too hot" includes coffee served "just right" at about 150 degrees.

I say it's time to stop listening to these bozos. They just admitting to botching a major piece of health advice, so as far as I'm concerned they've lost the right to dish out any advice at all.

So follow mine instead: Treat yourself to some piping hot coffee each day. Along with giving you a burst of energy, coffee will fight major diseases including cancer, dementia, heart disease and more.

As for the temperature, just make sure you don't burn yourself and you'll have nothing to worry about.

Burning the IARC....
Here are a couple of further reports about that turnaround by WHO's International Agency for Research on Cancer:


Now one final health-related report that merits presentation ─ it concerns sleep:

Snoring isn’t just driving your spouse nuts. It’s absolutely KILLING you… especially if your snores are a warning sign of sleep apnea.

That’s the condition where you stop breathing in the night, and it’s been linked to serious heart problems such as deadly heart attacks.

Mainstream docs are pulling every trick in the book to try to cut the risk of heart problems in apnea patients, and they’ve come up empty every single time.

There IS one surefire trick that works close to 100 percent of the time, and I’ll share the secret in a moment. This one will even get you out of exile from the sofa and back in your comfy bed, where you belong, as those room-shaking snores vanish in a matter of weeks.

But first, a new study that reveals exactly how NOT to beat apnea, showing that artery-clearing angioplasty won’t cut the notorious heart risk linked to this condition.

Even if a doc makes your arteries as good as new, you’ll still face DOUBLE the risk of heart problems or more if you have apnea or if you’re a heavy snorer, according to the study in the Journal of the American Heart Association.

I can see why some simps think there’s a link: Folks with apnea have gummed-up arteries, so clear the pipes and the heart risk should drop.

But that’s a symptom, not a cause.

As long as the apnea sticks around, the arteries will continue to choke — and Roto-Rootering them every now and again to clean them out will only do so much.

The REAL problem isn’t just that folks with sleep apnea have arteries with more junk in them than a candy store.

It’s that the apnea itself will take a toll on the heart.

When you stop breathing, you starve your heart of the oxygen it needs… and that means cutting its supply off will do some damage even if your arteries have been wiped clean.

Bottom line here is that when it comes to apnea, you can toss the shortcuts.

Running a pipe cleaner through the arteries won’t help, and neither will any of the other gimmicks including oxygen masks and surgeries to open up the airways.

As long as the apnea is still there, it’s going to win in the long run, as the new study so clearly shows.

Your best bet… your ONLY real bet… is to fight the condition head-on, and that means doing the one thing most folks dread more than paying taxes.

Lose some weight.

Sleep apnea is almost always caused by too much wiggle in the middle. Get rid of the extra pounds… drop that excess belly fat… and you’ll breathe easier, sleep better, and live longer, too.
Brother!  I CANNOT imagine ever voluntarily submitting to angioplasty!

As well, there are these reports on the study:

And here is the American Heart Association's own release concerning the study in their journal:


My day of blogging now finishes with this entry from my journal of 41 years ago when I was 25 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting my room in a house located on Ninth Street at Third Avenue.
TUESDAY, June 24, 1975

I arose at 5:00 a.m., perhaps reasonably rested, though I had frequent and lengthy wakeful periods.

I went to Woodward's, checked through their clothes, bought a $12.95 money order for my third FAX Howard book which I will  mail on my way to Army & Navy, and on my way to buy their peanut butter ($2.25), I am certain I may have seen my bank girl.

Note:  I saw and waved at Esther on my way to Woodward's, and also mailed my tithe and letter to Russ Jeffs.

I left a note for Bill the first outing; it wasn't touched, so I modified it and left it again.

All I bought at Army & Navy was a lousy shirt.

I looked fast through Field's, then went to Safeway where I blew $6.98.

At noon ─ too late for application at the cannery ─ just as I stepped outside to leave, Art hailed me.  This meant a 26er of Villa at my place.

After that, I bought a 40 of Slingers.

After that, I bought another and we took it to dad's.

I had planned to buy Mark a knife after Safeway, going into Vancouver.  But that effing booze maniac sucked me dry of all my plans, as usual.

After we got dad & Marie high, they wanted more; so Art took $1, and I 25¢ American, and I bought a third 40-ouncer of Slingers.

Art soon left after we returned.  I drank no further, but let Marie talk me into staying for supper.

I finally got to leave at 8:30 p.m., walking the far side of the lake home.

Just before Art and I left here for the final time, I noticed in the mail an envelope ─ from welfare, my form and a receipt, and a bloody letter saying I am rejected my dough till I see my social worker.  What a sneaking, greasy deal!

I won't be abed much afore midnight.  
Woodward's department store is long-gone now, but it did have great deals ─ even in its food section.  That's where I was buying a tin of their excellent brand of peanut butter, and was certain I saw the wonderful teller (Mary, I think) at the Royal Bank who always did her best to ensure she handled my cheque-cashing when I went to that branch down on Columbia Street.

I have no idea if Fields department store still has an outlet in New Westminster, but Army & Navy continues.

I did a lot of walking that day.

Woodward's was located where the Royal City Centre Mall is now up on Sixth Avenue.  Upon leaving to go there, I had left the note for my old friend William Alan Gill who had said that he would come by this day to take me to the Royal City Foods cannery where he worked so that I could apply for employment.  

It was Esther St. Jean driving the S.A.N.E. truck that I saw and waved to on my way to Woodward's.  I worked each Friday at S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) ─ a New Westminster charitable organization that today calls itself Fraserside Community Services Society ─ as a truck swamper, and Esther was usually my driver.  

The money order I bought at Woodward's was for a Robert E. Howard book ─ part of the FAX Collector's Editions.  As Wikipedia says in its article on T.E. Dikty:
In the early 1970s Dikty and partners started a small press, FAX Collector's Editions, which reprinted selected pulp-era (and earlier) SF stories and novels, and had some commercial success with reprints of work by Robert E. Howard (creator of Conan the Barbarian).  
I likely mailed my letters at Woodward's:  the $5 tithe, and also a letter to my social worker, Russ Jeffs.  I had blown off a meeting with him the previous week, and was trying to update him on my situation without committing to a visit.  

Incidentally, I was doing so much shopping because I had won $50 in a lottery, although I was tithing $5 of the winnings.

After returning to my room from Woodward's, I then amended the note Bill had not yet taken, and I  headed on down to Columbia Street to those other two department stores, and then Safeway.

It was after I was back at my room again to drop off my purchases that ─ just as I was again about to head out (maybe to Vancouver to buy my younger brother Mark a knife for his coming birthday) ─ Art Smith had driven up and called out to me.

He was an older friend in his early 40s whom I had gotten to know as a co-worker at S.A.N.E.  I really liked the guy, but he was constantly trying to rook me into drinking with him ─ usually back at his home.

That would always obliterate not only my whole day, but make the following day a rough one, for I was expected to stay late drinking Villa-brand sherry and/or Alberta-brand vodka.

It was just my bad luck that he had the good fortune to roll up right when I had set foot outside my room.  His will just about always prevailed over me, no matter how much I detested being overridden like I was.

I perhaps voiced my other plans, and that is likely why he offered instead to take me to visit my father Hector ─ he was then living with his girlfriend Maria Fadden in an apartment building located on Sunset Street roughly between Boundary Road and the Burnaby Hospital as seen on this Google map.  

But first, Art had a 26-ounce bottle of Villa sherry that we drank in my room while he pressured and wheedled me.

As I reluctantly complied, it was then that I noticed the big envelope in my mailbox, so I likely left it unopened and went off with Art in his truck.

Since I had some lottery money, I bought that first 40-ounce bottle of Slingers wine.  I now have no idea if it was fortified like sherry or not.

I think Art and I drank that bottle, so I bought another to take with us to my father's apartment.  Maybe Art bought something, too.

My father and Maria were alcoholics, so it was no feat to get them carried away with drink.

By the time we drank things dry, Art probably felt that he had to get back home ─ he was married, after all, and had three kids.  But he at least took the dollar my father and Maria put towards a third bottle of Slingers wine, and he and I went to buy it.

Upon getting back to their apartment, he soon called it quits and left me there.

I was persuaded to remain for supper.

And then I left, walking all the way back to my room ─ anyone with no sense of that part of the country will have to refer to the Google map and scroll down and to the right until they locate New Westminster.

However, I wrote that I walked via "the far side of the lake" ─ but what lake?  

It is quite possible that I worked myself all the way over to Burnaby Lake, for I used to hike out to it from my room, circling right around it, and coming back home ─ that was approximately a three-hour hike from start to finish (and usually included some running).

Whatever the case, I eventually got back to my room, and probably only then opened that big envelope.

My employment with S.A.N.E. was through an employment incentives programme in place between S.A.N.E. and New Westminster social services.  I now don't recall just how it played out, but maybe S.A.N.E. would pay me a pittance for the day each week that I worked, and social services would also pay me the going welfare rate for a single person.  

But I had to submit a declaration each month to social services affirming my continued need for this support.  That was likely the form I mentioned, but I have no idea what receipt would have also been there ─ maybe my room rental receipt I might have included the last time I sent in my declaration?  

The punchline, though, was the letter informing me that I would no longer be extended any assistance until I had met with my social worker ─ Russ Jeffs.

That would have burned! 

In fact, when I first read about that surprise envelope ─ and I do not today recall that incident at all ─ it made me here in the present uneasy.  I can still remember how desperate it used to be for me, always on the verge of financial annihilation.

No wonder thoughts of suicide have plagued me throughout my life since my teen years.  It has always seemed a struggle.
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