The Food Fascist

Hanging about with people who are obsessed with healthful eating may be bad for your health. I have noticed that whenever they interview centenarians about the secret to their long life they never seem to mention reducing trans fats in their diets nor eating more omega 3 fatty acids. Some have smoked at one point in their life, most drink daily or on occasion, and none talk about hitting the gym daily. But there is one thing they all have in common; a stress free happy outlook on life. It occurs to me that I am happiest when eating a vanilla/chocolate twist soft serve cone.

I believe it is time for a new study in the diet and longevity category. I would like to assign a lieutenant in the fascist food army (Michael Pollan being the self elected dictator for life) to follow around a hapless nutriphobe (I submit this new word into the American lexicon, although it did get a few hits in Google) as he proceeds to make all the wrong food choices at the ShopRite.

It shall be my hypothesis that the amount of cortisol that is released into the blood stream every time one obsesses over whether or not the chicken they are eating was allowed to run wild around the barnyard is far more detrimental to their vascular health than any perceived benefit derived from eating a well adjusted chicken. Every time the subject is about to buy some processed food item the organophilic foot soldier will poke him in the ribs and deliver a shrill lecture about antibiotics, nitrosamines, and the petroleum basis of our food chain. Our piteous lab rat will either be dead or chain smoking within 6 months.

In the interest of full disclosure I must admit I myself have engaged in such imperious behavior toward my fellow dinnermates. It's just that my branch of nutrient nazism has fallen into disfavor. Apparently it is okay to eat fat as long as it is not trans and as long as the steer ate grass, not corn and he never met the business end of a penicillin filled hypodermic needle. It is also permissible to eat Miracle Whip based salads as long as the ingredients are organic, though you may find yourself believing that Sarah Palin has some valid points.

Karma Chameleon

Well I am not one to believe in Karma or fate (I totally disagree when people say it was meant to be), but after my coincidence today I may become a convert. Two weeks ago Tammy and I met a couple, Troy and Anya, while hiking to Peekamoose Mountain. We had decided to summit the Catskill peaks over 3500 feet and as it turns out so did this couple. We got to talking to them in the trail head parking lot and we exchanged e-mails and promised to stay in touch. Of course we exchanged the obligatory notes vowing to hike together and then I proceeded to forget about the whole affair.

Two weeks later Jeremy (my nephew) and his girlfriend, Cindy, came up for a visit. We took a hike to Giant Ledge (which is quickly becoming my go to hike). There we are enjoying the view while eating our PB and J sandwiches and who should come around the bend but Troy and Anya! "I thought I recognized your hat" he says. What are the odds of meeting the same hikers twice, two weeks apart, in the 700,000 square acre Catskill Park? Way less than meeting up on the linear Appalachian Trail I am sure. Well if this is not a sign from some cosmic force that we were meant to hike with these people then I don't know what would be.

The universe only has to slap me in the face once and I will pay attention. In reality, all seemingly "too unbelievable to be a coincidence" events are indeed just coincidences. You know the saying, if you stick a monkey in front of a keyboard, he will eventually type out all of Shakespeare's works due to random chance and given, say, two billion years. So it is with fate. Given the 6 billion people on Earth and the 10,000 year history of modern society, something, somewhere, is bound to happen to someone, that seems too astonishing to be mere chance. Today it happened to me.

Uh oh, it might suck living in a tourist town!!!

The sound starts faintly. Your subconscious mind registers it as a possible approaching thunder storm. Was that thunder? Did you hear it? But the rumble is continuous. It soon percolates up from your incognizant mind into a fight or flight temper. The roar has become so deafeningly loud that you assume a crouched, hyper aware stance ready to flee the approaching intruder. And there, at the other end of the street, you see it; a parade of over the hill baby boomers high astride their Harley Electra Strides. Not two, not four, not even ten. But at least forty bikers, with their gray beards flapping, pot bellies jiggling , and their buxomous, bodacious brides clinging on for dear life. Blue jeans and leather were definitely meant for a svelter somatotype.

Now I am not a pack animal. I am more leopard than hyena. I prefer to hang out high up in a tree looking down at the rest of the forest animals with great disdain. I have never felt the need to surround myself with more than one or two of my species at any given moment. Besides, when a herd of elephants comes charging through the forest doesn't everything in their path get destroyed? One or two elephants peacefully grazing on the tree canopy is a pastoral sight to behold. A herd of fifty, on the other hand, is a cause for serious alarm among the village folk.

It's funny; when I park my Subaru in front of the bar I don't sit in it revving the engine for ten minutes. Maybe the vibration feels good on their chaps clad crotch or something. Nor do I spend 85% of my down time discussing the merits of a fuel injected six cylinder Subaru versus the more green four cylinder model with my fellow Subaru owner parked next to me. And believe me, there are way more Subaru owners in the Catskill Park than Harley owners, yet we somehow manage to blend in with the forest.

Some of my friends, coworkers, and patients are bikers. Taken one or two at a time, they are all lovely and warm people. And charitable to boot, as evidenced by the many group rides organized as fund raising events. And I know why they like their pipes loud and why they ride in groups; for safety reasons. Fine. But I have needs too. Like enjoying my beer at a sidewalk table surrounded by the peace and quiet of the mountains and the soothing purr of the Esopus Creek. Let's hope Sturgis never comes to the Catskills.

If Only I was 5" 11" instead of 5" 7"

I was recently accused of living in "what if" world. This is much different than "only if" world. In "only if" world I went out for varsity track. I was nice instead of sarcastic to girls in high school and I dated a lot. I invested in Microsoft instead of Betamax. "If only" is a thought of regret.
The person who lives in "only if" world is a positive negative thinker. If only I would have done this instead of that, things would be great.

I, on the other hand, am a negative negative thinker, as in "oh my god, what if the fire had spread to the entire house instead of being confined to the microwave?" In my thought process, no disaster is so small that it does not have the potential to become a cataclysmic event. The "what if" syndrome. No matter that disaster was averted. It is the potential event that infects my brain. In fact, the Butterfly Effect informs all my decision making algorithms. I am painfully aware that the choices we made as young adults haunt us throughout our entire lives. Even as a young person I was conscious that my decisions would affect the rest of my life. Some people seem to bounce from crisis to crisis and it is most definitely due to some previous decision. What if is not a thought of regret it is a thought of "I had better plan some more".

That is why I am a what iffer, not an only iffer. All we have control over is our own decisions. "Only if" is the thought of a dreamer. "What if" is the thought of a planner. The problem is when these thoughts become pathologic and they begin to paralyze you. I have come perilously close to this edge. Luckily the person standing next to me slapped my face. If only I had slapped them back..... Oh my god, what if I had slapped them back?

Science Fair 101

I have not posted a blog for quite a while. That is clearly a sign (as opposed to a symptom, look up the difference) of my adult ADD. I do something for a while, usually get pretty good at it, then quit. Two or three people (not counting my parents) have commented that they have been semi amused by my writing so I say job well done and what's my next project? If you stay at something too long, you will eventually fail.

I have made it to the top of 47 of the 48 contiguous state high points and I kind of lost interest. I will do the last one one day I am sure. When I think back on all I have done it becomes painfully obvious that I am a 90 percenter. An A-, B+, person if I were to grade myself. Of course most people would consider me an over achiever but I am most definitely an under achiever. I usually quit or rush a project out of boredom. I also eventually beg off of many commitments if the hassle index gets too high. This is why I am a general dentist and not a specialist. My most competitive sport was triathlon (there is a change 3 times in one event), not marathon running. I am most definitely a jack of all trades yet master of none.

Luckily there is one arena in which I have had good staying power and that is my marriage. Tammy does often wonder how I have not gotten bored with her but she is an A plus person and she is definitely my anchor in life. The fact that she is a cougar doesn't hurt matters either.

None of this has anything to do with my post, but of course a symptom of ADD is a wandering mind. Today I am actually going to comment on a current event; the Deepwater oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Does it seem to anyone else that these guys are behaving like 14 year olds in eighth grade chemistry class? Oh let's stick a cork with a tube in it, on the Erlenmeyer flask and see what happens. Dang, it's still boiling over. Oh hey, let's try smothering it with a lid. Oops, it toppled over and has now spread over the entire lab table. It's not too bad. Only one fourth of the classroom is burned. Oh alright, three fourths. Thank goodness the principal is away today trying to get the school board to agree to not cut funding for the Junior Engineers of America Club.

I would also like to know why we have not heard a peep out of Sarah Palin since the disaster. How does "drill, baby, drill" sound now, miss PTA Mom on steroids?

Well, I feel better now.

Night of the Living Dead

Where have all the hippies gone, long time passing?
Where have all the hippies gone, long time ago?
Gone to Beemmers every one.
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the Beemmers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the Beemmers gone, long time ago?
Gone to Woodstock every one.
When will they ever learn?

Where has my old Woodstock gone, long time passing?
Where has my old Woodstock gone, long time ago?
Gone to little shoppes every one.
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the shoppes gone, long time passing?
Where have all the shoppes gone, long time ago?
Run by old fat hippies every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever move on?

If you think I am kidding, go to Woodstock (15 miles from our cabin). If you were a Vietnam War protesting, mushroom snorting, free love making hippie from the sixties then one of two things happened to you, both in keeping with the egocentric attitude of the time. You either became the person you once disdained and bought into the whole capitalism, conspicuous consumption thing (I submit Dick Hayne, the founder of Urban Outfitters as exhibit A) or you are in total denial about growing up, yet the hair on your head has disappeared (except for the gray pony tail), you still wear tie dye and macrame, and the chronic munchies has caused your once concave stomach to now block your view of the Birkenstocks on your feet. If you are a cultural anthropologist studying the maturation of the flower power generation then Woodstock is your Rift Valley (where the Leakys made their discoveries). The evolution of the hippie into the suit is not unlike the evolution of the dinosaurs into the birds. It's the same brain, only in a more socially acceptable package. Sure, the song and mien are pretty, but believe me, don't get between Mrs. Goldfinch and the prettiest birdhouse on the block. And if there is only one worm left in the lawn, Mrs Robin-son isn't going to split it with you, she is taking it all for herself and her chicks.

Woodstock is where the sixties went not to die. There are undead hippies walking around everywhere. In fact, a hippie in his or her sixties is exactly like a zombie. You look at them and they kind of look familiar. Look past the thin gray hair, the bilious yellow eyes, the receded gums, saggy tits, and the fungus brown toenails, and you can just about make out the body of the hot hippie chick with long hair, pert breasts, pearly white smile, and loose morals that the brain once inhabited.

The other branch on the flower child evolutionary tree is the yippie variant. These are the women walking around Woodstock wearing $750.00 hand crafted batik dresses and $500.00 Luis Vuitton sandals. They kind of look bohemian and free flowing until you see them pull away in a BMW M6 sportster. They traded in the flip flops and VW Minibus a long time ago. The men, too, have the cool breezy look in a $95.00 Tommy Bahama shirt and $300.00 Mephisto walking shoes. Their new motto is "don't trust any stockbroker under 30".

Let's face it, if it wasn't for the mandatory draft, how many of those college bound kids would have been out there protesting the war? Turn on, tune in and drop out does not a socialist revolution make. I think that is why kids today are interested in happiness first and working hard second. They were raised by us (hippie=baby boomer), and we want their lives to be as easy as possible and free from heartache. Yet we, ourselves, were raised by depression era parents so there was at least some institutional memory of working hard to get what you want. So let's not complain about how entitled today's youth behave. Their station in life is simply a stop further down the line from our station.

Click on the title of this post for a more scholarly treatment of my thesis if you don't agree with me.

Oh, and the picture above is of an actual Woodstock resident circa 2009.

This is Cabin Living

No words to write since a picture is worth a thousand words.