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Wednesday, February 21, 2018

A Rebuttal of a Recent Multi-Study Review Claiming that Fish Oil Supplements Are Ineffective and a Waste of Money

It may have been as late as 11:14 p.m. before I was in bed last night ─ my younger brother Mark sat up later than I expected.

And now that his three two-packs of Can-C eye-drops have shown up, he's likely to be doing so with some regularity ─ he administers them in the living room before he goes on up to his bedroom for the night.

As I had posted about yesterday, there had been no trace of them beyond a tracking investigation I had done which revealed them to have left a New York USPS facility on January 25. After that, no further tracking was maintained.

And now they are here.

Mark had run out of his previous supply maybe a week or more ago, so this ritual of applying the eye-drops before he retired to his bedroom for the night had been curtailed.

He is using them to try and dissolve an early cataract.

I sure had a bad night's sleep.

By 2:00 a.m. my right nasal passageway ─ probably one of the sinuses ─ had blocked entirely, stopping any ability to breath through it whatsoever.

All I could do was turn upon my left side and just lay there, hoping the blockage would yield to gravity and migrate free.

It didn't, but I had some superficial sleep somehow, for I dreamed.

It was actually a wonderful dream, really. Details are almost lost now, but I think that it involved me being in a woodsy setting ─ there were dwellings about.

I cannot remember who may have been with me, but I have the impression that maybe I was going to relocate there or else stay with someone I knew.

At any rate, I encountered an unusually tall, attractive, and well-constituted young lass who displayed strong interest in me, as did I in her.

I think a tryst may have been arranged, but it was not to be. My impaired breathing must have resulted in me coming out of the dream.

When I realized what I might be missing out on ─ I felt myself to be as strongly affected by the lass as if the incident had been real ─ I sought a reintroduction to that dreamland to continue with the experience, but it was impossible.

At that point it was around 4:30 a.m. I knew my brother Mark would then be up and most likely already downstairs, so I lay upon my back and relaxed as best I could with just one nasal passageway functioning.

If I drifted into any further sleep, fine; but otherwise, I would just await Mark's departure to work and then I would get up.

Naturally, the latter scenario presented itself, and so when he headed out the front door at 5:03 a.m., I rose to turn on my computer.

And soon enough, I was at work adding yet more content to the post I am building at Lawless Spirit, one of my six hosted websites.

My eldest stepson Tho did not rise until well after 6:00 a.m., but I was not at all concerned whether or not he would potentially be skipping work, for I correctly presumed that his younger brother Poté would be having today off work.

What care I if one or both of them are home? The deprivation of my cherished weekday home-alone time would be the same.

My work on the Lawless Spirit post progressed extremely well, and by shortly after 7:00 a.m. I had pretty much completed what would otherwise have been an average morning's quota of content supply.

I felt myself inspired to perhaps try and add a full extra morning's content, thereby bringing the post that much nearer to its completion and publication.

Before saving the new material, however, I chose to preview it.

And lo! Just about midway through the new material, all text suddenly became bolded ─ even the right widget column!

How could that be? That column has absolutely nothing to do with the post I was working on ─ the post editor field should have no effect upon it.

I tried a few posited corrections, and of course did much searching ─ was there an errant < /b > hidden away somewhere beneath the post that would have caused text before it to have become bold all the way back to some initiating < b >?

I couldn't find one.

I even copied all of the new text and pasted it into a brand new post editor field just in case there was some peculiarity about the one I had been working in.

But the result was the same ─ even the text of the widget column remained bold.

Then I tried doing the same in one of my other websites ─ adding the content to a new post there; but that did not matter, either ─ it still happened. There was clearly something amiss about the content I had created that morning.

And then I noticed something unusual in that new post at the second website ─ something that I had failed to detect in the website that I had been working on.

Midway through the post were about eight or more bulleted items ─ some a couple of sentences in length ─ for which the initiating lead words had been deliberately bolded by me (with a lead < b >  and a closing < /b >).

But in one of the bulleted sentences, I noticed that several words after the closing < /b > that was to have ended the bolding of the lead text, there was for some reason an isolated < b >

Did that somehow force all text thereafter to become bold simply because there was no closing < /b > anywhere that I could find?

To test this, I deleted the unneeded bit of html coding, and then tried the preview again.

This time, all was as it should have been. That had been the mystery.

This solution took so darned long to effect that by then I had gotten my fill of working on the website post.

And by 9:15 a.m., I had returned to bed for a needed nap.

I got some sleep, and considered rising around 10:30 a.m. But it felt so good being in bed that I believed there was another block of napping still within me.

I was to find myself right about that.

Ultimately, I was to rise again at 11:45 a.m. or so.

I had dreamed again, but not about any lovely lassies.

A good friend of mine ─ Larry Ernest Blue ─ died of cancer on (I think) January 21, 2011.

He was practically a son to my maternal Aunt Nell Halverson, and so had become just about like another of my cousins to me.

He had let me know that he had cancer and was receiving treatments, but I was not much in touch with him. After tearing my left leg's quadriceps tendon entirely off my kneecap (patella) on November 1, 2010, I required what amounted to emergency surgery the evening of November 5 to reattach it.

If this reattachment is not done almost tout de suite, the loose tendon will quite swiftly begin to contract in length, and then it will become impossible for a surgeon to stretch it back to contact it to the patella where it needs to become reattached.

And for the rest of one's life, it would be the fate of such a hapless accident victim to walk with a permanently straightened leg ─ much as if a board was strapped tightly along the leg.

The consequences of taking a step without the leg being rigidly straight ─ even if the knee was just slightly bent ─ would result in total collapse; for to all intents and purposes, there would no longer be any quadriceps muscles.

Without their attachment to the knee, they would have no further purpose, and they would just atrophy away within the flesh of the thigh ─ they would be absolutely useless tissues.

So I had the relatively serious surgery, and then had to endure the considerable post-surgical pain that was worse than what had been going on after I got over the immediate agony of the accident itself.

My knee needed to be immobilized so that my leg was perpetually straightened with a knee brace for three months...or was it four? I hope just three!

Poor Larry died without me even knowing he was in the hospital. For whatever reason, my Aunt Nell and at least one of her sons never let many of the rest of the family know that Larry was in a hospital dying.

We knew nothing until well after his death.

But what has this to do with my dream?

Well, I was visiting my Aunt Nell and her crew for some kind of turkey feast ─ was it Thanksgiving? I don't know.

Anyway, I entered the house and joined a group of the clan who were loitering about drinking, and I was making the social niceties ─ when I suddenly realized that Larry was there.

In the dream, it turned out that he had died of some other cause ─ or was claimed to have died, I should say.

Apparently he was somewhere rather remote, and we got word of a mishap or something. As a result, perhaps it was Nell who was in touch with some kid who was at a contact number ─ the kid mistakenly conveyed that Larry had been murdered.

As so we all believed that he had died.   

Until he suddenly showed up at Nell's home, to the great surprise of one and all. He was getting quite a kick out of the shock each person would display when they would discover him to be alive.

When I awoke from that dream, it seemed such a shame that it could not have been real. I really miss Larry.

Soon enough after my nap I was back here at my computer to catch up on any new E-mails, and I found two from my older maternal half-sister Phyllis ─ she lives out in the Chilliwack area, whereas I live here in Surrey.

The first message asked if I was fine with her dropping by early in the afternoon with some things that belonged to our late mother.

The second message stated that she had gotten impatient awaiting my response, and was leaving in about 10 minutes to do the drive.

And that was maybe 30 minutes before I had gotten up from my nap.

Incidentally, my youngest stepson Poté had risen at some point during my nap. But I could see his girlfriend's car parked out on the street-side, so it was apparent that she had shown up and the pair had gone off together in his car.

Phyllis showed up, true to her word.

I kept hoping that Poté would return while she was still visiting, but he did not. She left to make her long return drive, and then he got home maybe 20 minutes later ─ I could hear him come into the house with his girlfriend.

That was around 2;00 p.m.

Despite how long he had already been in bed overnight, the two immediately headed directly to his bed ─ and it is now 5:10 p.m., and the loafing ciphers are still there, with nary a word of conversation to be heard by me.

I really get sick of this.

I am also sick of the damned frigid weather.

It had snowed last Saturday night; and then the weather turned sunny each day ─ with clear, frigid nights ─ until last night.

While Phyllis was here, I noticed that very small flakes of snow had begun to fall. And it has been snowing ever since.

But it is so cold out there! Worse than it was on the sunny days. When I went out to the backyard tool shed to have some exercise there after Poté and his girlfriend had gone to bed, it was so cold that I had to exercise in my bomber-styled jacket.

It took everything I had to achieve normal totals in the four sets of pull-ups that I do out there.

And the metal bars were almost too cold to hold for any length of time ─ they have not been so cold thus far this new year!

What's going on here?! We went all of January without even a frosty night...and now this kind of weather in the second half of February when flowers had started blooming?

After that exercise, I came into the house to weigh myself exactly as I had been dressed for those pull-ups ─ I registered at least 195 pounds, and maybe even 196 pounds.

For most of my adult life I have averaged around 183 or 184 pounds at a height of about five feet and 10¾ inches.

I am 68 years old now ─ it is brutal trying to haul that kind of weight to maximum effect for four sets of pull-ups.

Well, around 5:30 p.m. I heard some life downstairs, and now at 5:39 p.m. Poté and girlfriend have gone out the front door.

My wife Jack is over in Thailand, and not scheduled until (I think) March 5 for a flight back here to Canada.

Tomorrow is her birthday.

I daily check her Facebook account to see if she has posted any new photos or even a video, and I did see some new selfie photos ─ I downloaded two.

It would appear that she has been doing some gardening in front of the family home back in Nong Soong, a large village perhaps a 15-minute drive from the city of Udon Thani:

I left her a message on Facebook, expressing that I hope she has a wonderful birthday ─ tomorrow is the day. Thailand is presently 15 hours ahead of me here in the Pacific Time Zone, so right around now it is well after 8:00 a.m. tomorrow ─ I hope she notices the Facebook message.

Google created a collage of five of her photos from a trip home that she made back in 2013. Google thinks that the photos are commemorating today, but Jack's digital camera still had our time setting. Consequently, the photos probably more correctly apply to the following day where Thailand is concerned.

Nevertheless, from my perspective here, would not it also be correct to say that the photos were taken this one day earlier ─ as well as a day later in Thailand time?

It's too confusing for me!

But here's the collage:

Here are the original photos, beginning with the top row ─ by the way, the chap in the plaid shirt is my wife Jack's old friend Daisha, a truly nice fellow:

And now the second row:

Okay, I now want to bring up the topic of fish oil supplementation. Maybe you heard or read something at the beginning of February about such supplementation having been proven to be of no serious effect, and thus a waste of money?

Here are three sample reports on that supposed study:




Well, at least one person took a closer look at that study ─ here is his commentary:


I wasn't swayed from my fish oil supplements by those earlier news reports; and now that I have seen Jack Harrison's rebuttal, I won't waste a calorie even trying to remember the useless meta-analysis that was doing its best to minimize fish oil supplements' value.

My evening is well upon me, so I am going to close now with this old journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 27 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street [Google map], and two houses up from Third Avenue.

The previous day's journal entry had ended early ─ I wrote that I was leaving my room at 11:20 a.m. to hike out to the duplex unit my younger brother Mark was renting in Surrey.

He was living a reasonably short distance down Semiahmoo Road [Google map] from where it detaches from Old Yale Road.

I probably spent the night at Mark's suite ─ I was doing that with frequency in the previous few months.
MONDAY, February 21, 1977

I guess last night's midnight or so was an anniversary for me: 1 year since the clean-up on my ruptured appendix.

I arrived home tonight about 11:35 p.m. thanks to a ride from Bill [my old friend William Alan Gill]; he must have passed me on his way home, then returned for me, catching me as I began the downhill of Old Yale [that would have been just to the left of the 128th Street intersection as shown on this Google map] (he saved me a windy hike; it also began raining soon after).

I couldn't find a [beef] heart yesterday, so I bought hamburger (39¢ lb.).

I spent the night at Mark's (he earlier went to Bellingham).

Early this morning I went to mom's with most of a 25 lb bag of flour (20 lbs. at least), finding a tiny hatchet along the way, and arriving just as Alex [Alex Dorosh, my mother's husband] was about to leave for work.

Mom had a lot to say about her ordeal in Reno with Greta [a Dutch friend of my mother's], her hostess.

No mail. [My mother's home was my main mailing address.]

I spent around 2⅓ hours or more in bed after mom went bowling (Bill came for his car Saturday night).

[My old friend Bill had let my mother use his car while he was in a hospital having gastric bypass surgery. He had quite newly been discharged.]

Mark was home when I went back to his place.

I watched TV from 7:00 p.m. - 11:00 p.m. after he went to work.


I hope to get into some regular weight training here again, spending a bit less time at Mark's and more profitably here.

I'd do anything for God if he'd turn over a small fortune to me and allow me to draw close and become a worthy heir.

I surely appreciate the ride Bill gave me tonight; I'd love to be a better person.

I suppose I'll retire around midnight.

Andy Devine, incidentally, died Thursday or Friday.
Wow! I had almost forgotten about actor Andy Devine. He was usually a pretty lovable character in the productions he acted in.

I had been walking back to room that evening when my friend Bill saw and picked me up.

My mother was living in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey ─ the house no longer exists, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue [Google map]. 

I would have had to carry that large bag of flour for something less than three miles. However, I think that I had previously carried it to Mark's duplex suite from my room in New Westminster ─ probably the week that my mother was away to Reno with her friend Greta, who had come down from Barriere where she was living then.

Mark worked at a plywood or similar mill, so he would alternate shifts each week or so. He must have gotten put onto an afternoon / evening shift that week.

I could have ridden into New Westminster with him, for he had to drive through it on his way to the mill. But I likely wanted to watch colour T.V., and then get in the exercise of some further walking that day.
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